HORIZON STAFF BLOG
A Condemned House For Sale
By Sabrina McGuire
Published March 31, 2025
i am an empty house at the
top of a cul-de-sac, with
big broken windows and a
dead rotting lawn.
you came and stood at my door
and said i looked quite nice
for a house with no lights turned on.
​
i asked you what your favorite colors were,
black, white, and red,
and i spent all night painting my
ceilings and shutters,
so that you could live inside me,
walk on my hardwood floors and
breathe in my dust and clutter.
​
you opened all my blinds
and turned on all my lights,
tore down my peeling wallpaper
until i was naked and new.
you stripped me of my wood and plaster,
covering your hands in my splinters
and laughing like it didn’t bother you.
​
you asked me if i could love you
and i said i already did,
it was cemented into my bones
and built into my foundation.
you lit a fire in my neglected hearth
and promised to love me
even with my condemnation.
A Conversation Between Christ and Leda
By Leia Gemignani
Published March 31, 2025
cw: allusion to sexual assault
They repeat it like a mantra:
Omnipresent Omnipotent Omniscient.
Beat it into your brain to convince themselves —
Convinced of their own sacred paladin; both sublime yet bound.
​
His hands were the side of a matchbox,
rough ignition and slow suffocation.
No concern for what singes your soul,
and the valley of seared skin as fingers dip.
There is no utterance if it brings him warmth.
House of the Lord but Fathers always turn
their back on daughters once developed.
Never saved since miracles are reserved
for those who bring resounding acclaim.
Christ asks Leda to let go
of the sins done against her.
She does not respond.
She knows the detriment
of those deemed divine.
Hope, My Love
By Francesca Hendricks
Published March 11, 2025
I used to dream of skies painted with splashes of color. Instead of fantastical worlds, I saw sunsets that looked like an artist had flicked the paint off their palette onto an ever-changing canvas. My daydreams were full of skies with colors that lit the clouds on fire and made eyes glow with happiness. Now, whenever I looked up, I had to squint from the burn of the low- hanging smog over the skyscrapers. I had once painted my dreams in class, but my teacher had ripped up my paper, complaining it was ‘too hopeful’ in a world ridden with corruption. Since then, that’s what dreaming meant: hope hidden in the joy I found in writing and in the way dust glowed in the rare rays of the setting sun.
Hamburg Inn No. 2
By Janessa Wilson
Published March 11, 2025
Hamburg Inn, a restaurant providing a respite for weary travelers. Weary doesn’t begin to describe my mental state. It's December 29th, and I have driven for over 12 hours in the past five days, with seven more hours remaining. My sister is returning to Florida, which requires a three and a half hour drive to Chicago O’Hare for her flight. She sits across from me, my other half and my mirror.
Living Room Sleepovers Live on Forever
By Chasity Clark
Published March 5, 2025
​At first glance, the room doesn’t look like anything special. It’s a plain living room with
brown, scratchy carpet and old furniture. There’s no TV, but an old radio looking thing sits atop
a chest next to the corner shelves filled with family photos from the early 2000s. The new ones
are in the dining room. You were just a baby in the living room photos, but you still like to go
over and look at them occasionally. It’s cool to see your mom when she was young, your aunt
too. Even grandpa was pretty spiffy back then (now he just takes a finger to your birthday cake
and ruins the frosting in the aforementioned dining room).
The Normality of Uncomfortability
By Joey Pickel
Published March 5, 2025
David sat on the L-shaped couch in his parent’s living room, he was uncomfortable the entire time but refused to do anything about it. The dark gray cushions gave off an illusion of comfort, almost like one would sink right in and relax as soon as they sat. The illusion was false. The padding was nothing but for show. An extra inch layer of cotton was given to the bottoms over the hard boards that made up the couch’s base. The single inch did not do enough. Hitting the boards were inevitable. The back of the couch was the same way.
Record-Breaker
By Maddie Zell
Published February 18, 2025
The seasons are turning in false sequence—
our sun should not glisten so glaringly
in the twin month. Our lack of obsequence
to our earth takes its toll despairingly.
Persephone must laugh hysterically
as her mother casts drought and heat instead
of spreading spring bounty plentifully—
withered flowers lay dead in their made bed.
Did we not listen to what science said?
Faith in fact? Long forgotten. In its place
stands stubborn, unchanging mindsets instead.
Our planet is one we cannot replace—
why do we disregard its well-being
in pursuit of fights and disagreeing?
Dressing Telemachus
By Ben Ahlrichs
Published February 18th, 2025
The morning after with a soft guy
is great. I'm up first. The bed dressed
with us. Marks of oil from the night
before's oiled back and hand. Oiled foot
and lip on foot. When Telemachus
wakes I dress him with the sheets and my lips
again. It's great but he's far away
in Ithaca. Yes, dad is gone
and it's morning where wound is wound,
again. And winter is warm here.
It's all confusing, I think. He is thinking
about the ocean. About sailing
to nothing but birds. And red cows. I only
know the island I am. I only
like him because he doesn't
want to choke me while we kiss. When
I lie beneath him, I'm the ocean
and he crosses gentle
as an old boat. No motors. Only
wind. He stretches over me and
he is all the sun's dappled waves. He is all
the cypress and the rain. He is a whole ocean
and all the night's quiet
watching falls down his chest
like shade. And I tell him. I'm sorry
for dreaming you here. Then I'm at the stove
making the bread. Cooking down
the berries to blood. I am dreaming
of a softness I've never had. He is dreaming
of an ocean that sends back his dad.
Snowball Fight
By Ellie Maranda
Published March 24th, 2024
It’s a blistery Tuesday afternoon and I’m sitting in my freshman dorm room, curled up in a cocoon of blankets. My body feels like it’s attacking itself again; familiar constant pain that seems to never cease despite regiments of medication, sleep, and tea. The curtains are open, sunlight spilling lazily over my cluttered desk, pile of dirty laundry, overflowing trash, un-vacuumed rug.
Guarded Alarms
By Joey Pickel
Published March 3rd, 2024
Me and Eve’s trips to the library at first felt pretty weird. When we started dating, she would get really pissed when I couldn’t think of anything other to do when we hung out except watch movies. There was always something it seemed like she wanted to get out and do, and my not knowing that thing used to get her upset. So, when she said one day, let’s go to the library and get shit done, I wasn’t sure if it was a good sign or not.
Retirement
By Lauren Downs
Published February 25th, 2024
Her days typically consisted of lounging around outside on the veranda, listening to orchestral music and sipping wine. His days consisted of listening to her, to her incessant, whining voice, droning on and on in what he called “country club gossip”, which was anything pertaining to fancy white linens, flower arrangements, or top shelf spirits.