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Worked on 58 assignments, created 26, named on 33 bylines for The Montclarion.
By Kaitlin Swift (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 1 min read
Nothing New Under The Sun
There is nothing new under the sun Everything once old is new again Like the tides of the ocean Drawing the old shells ashore, Until they make their voyage home. The story isn’t a new one The fight for light, bright, what’s right The dark eclipsing, veiling the truth Yet a new hope returns, and the sun rises again. The...
By Olivia Yayla + 5 others for The Montclarion - 5 min read
The Rat is Back!
Montclair State University has been known as a “dry campus” for a long time, making the pub a hard concept to grasp for current students. But has it always been dry? Montclair State University recently (and surprisingly) opened the 1908 Pub, formerly known as the “Ratskeller,” located on the first floor of the Student Center. It officially opened on Sept....
By Gavin O'Melia (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 4 min read
A Christmas Story – For My Dad
It was late one November Night, and I asked my Dad if he would watch “A Christmas Story” with me. Every year he’d throw it on at the holidays, and most years I’d sit and wait through it. I never hated watching it; A Christmas story is one for the books. It’s about a kid who wants nothing more for...
By Olivia Yayla (Olivia as desk editor) + 5 others for The Montclarion - 3 min read
Resurrection – A Collaborative Story
Nico met Jesus on the first day of his Perceptual Drawing class during his first week of Junior year. He bears almost no resemblance to Christ, yet his weed is known to send you to Heaven. But as the Montclair State police officer with the exceptionally shiny skull pulled his wrists behind his back, cuffed him, and laid him against...
By Peter Guziejewski (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 2 min read
Between Sunsets and Dawn
As I travel down the road, I glance back from time to time. Following me, the faint whispers of what I left behind. The past; it's a interesting tale, a bumpy path of twists and turns. Its pages are filledand its words are set in stone. But there’s comfort in looking back; After all, it’s easier to read a book...
By Peter Guziejewski (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 1 min read
The Storm
In the wake of chaos, the ground lies cracked, roots torn from their grasp, and silence fills the air. Why does the burden rest here, when the storm that brought it is nowhere to be found? Are there regrets for what was lost, as eyes meet the aftermath and trace the scars left behind. But soon, the damage will fade....
By Peter Guziejewski (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 1 min read
A Poem About Hugs
I hate hugs, because they mean letting someone get close. And when they're that close, they learn your secrets, your inner thoughts. When their arms wrap around you, what are their true intentions? Because their hands are behind your back, and there's so much they can do behind your backwhen you think they care, when you feel safe. Because in...
By Kaitlin Swift (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 2 min read
Hero, Town Crier, Writer
The hero fights with optimism and courage,People call her naive,Caring for others, despite their cruelty,Laughing so loud the whole world can hear,Opening her heart to the world,Wounded, but still beating on,Through words that have the power to get throughEven the harshest of storms. The king may be a fool. He may cut down the trees, Harm the soil,Make the conditions...
By Bailey Dunn (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 1 min read
repose
I’ll just rot maggot earscollect sinew songrasp buzz beetles ravage from toe to the last words forgotten on my tongueall the withering unkempt roots reach preach to upturned eyessockets stealing solace in the shatter of my skull and when my box is lost to loam and all nail rust dust haloes my head I’ll just rot some moreI’ll just rot...
By Bailey Dunn (Olivia as desk editor) + 4 others for The Montclarion - 1 min read
paleosols
I want to pound your words to poultice, catch their shapeless hum as I set them to steep. I want to trace your temptations across ginger tea leaves. Where is your rabid, the sultry curl of your spite? I miss it, I miss you in lightning bug night. In the canopy call give meyour knuckles knocked words. The ones silent...
