2026 Contributor
Poetry
December 29th
Your name still lives
in the quiet parts of my day,
David
like a song that doesn’t end
even after the radio goes silent.
Ten years
of on and off,
like headlights blinking down a back road,
like two stubborn hearts
that always found their way
back home
We were dirt roads and engine grease,
laughing with windburned cheeks,
racing sunsets on dirt bikes
like we had nowhere to be
and forever to get there.
You’d cast a fishing line
into still water,
patient and steady,
while I watched the reflection
of the sky in your eyes,
Endless and sure.
We learned life
through stick shift gears,
stalling, grinding, trying again,
your hand over mine saying,
Easy. Feel it.
And I did.
The Durango smelled like gas and summer,
windows down,
country songs half-sung,
your arm resting behind my seat
like you were holding the whole world together.
You were handsome
in a way that didn’t need mirrors.
Smart in a quiet way
the kind that fixed things
without being asked,
the kind that knew
how to make me feel safe.
Lung cancer
is such an ugly phrase
for someone who loved fresh air
and open roads.
December 29th, 2021
a date that split my life
into before
and after.
There are days
I’d trade everything
for one more drive,
one more cast of the line,
one more laugh echoing
across a lake at dusk.
I would give anything
for one more day
to sit beside you,
to hear you say my name
like it was something worth keeping.
But love like ours
doesn’t disappear.
It settles in the bones,
rides shotgun in memory,
waits at the edge of every sunset.
And sometimes,
when the air smells like gasoline
and the sky turns that soft gold
I swear
I can still feel you
reaching for the next gear.
Fiction
Stiched Together
People think being made of scraps means you’re fragile. They look at my seams and assume I’ll fall apart at the slightest pull. But they don’t understand that being stitched together is what makes me strong.
From the moment Dr. Finkelstein brought me to life, I felt different. Not just because I was sewn from pieces of fabric and filled with leaves, but because I could feel things deeply. I could feel the chill in Halloween Town’s air. I could feel the way the moonlight stretched across the crooked rooftops. And most of all, I could feel when something wasn’t right. Jack Skellington has always been the heart of Halloween Town. Everyone admires him, and I do too. He makes my leaves flutter. He’s brilliant and passionate, always searching for something more.
But sometimes I think that’s what makes him restless. The night he found Christmas Town, I saw a spark in him I hadn’t seen before. It was excitement—yes, but also obsession.
And obsession can unravel even the strongest thread. I tried to warn him. I mixed potions and had visions of what would happen if he went through with his plan. My hands trembled as I saw flashes of frightened children and chaos instead of joy. But Jack—caught up in the glitter and glow of Christmas lights—couldn’t see the danger. He thought he could reshape something beautiful into his own image without damaging it. I wanted to believe in him, but my instincts told me otherwise.
Sometimes loving someone means standing quietly in the background, hoping they’ll see what’s in front of them. Other times, it means taking risks. Locking Santa in the tower wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I knew it was necessary. I may be stitched together, but I am not powerless. Every loose thread on my body reminds me that I can always pull myself back together again.
When everything began to fall apart, literally and figuratively, I felt both fear and sadness. Watching Jack realize his mistake was painful. Not because he failed, but because I knew how much it hurt him to admit it. Yet in that moment, as he lay in the snow and finally understood himself, I saw something different. Not the Pumpkin King. Not the dreamer chasing someone else’s holiday. Just Jack.
And maybe he saw me too. I’ve always lived in the shadows of crooked buildings and laboratory walls, but I’ve learned that quiet strength matters.
I may not command attention like Jack, but I see clearly. I feel deeply. And I choose compassion even when I’m scared.
Being stitched together doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means I was made carefully, piece by piece. And maybe that’s what love is too, not something you steal or redesign, but something you build slowly, with patience and care.
In the end, Jack came back, not just to Halloween Town, but to himself. And when he finally reached for my hand, I felt something steady, something real. For the first time, I wasn’t just the rag doll creation hiding behind a locked door. I was Sally. And I was enough.