Byline: Rachel Stone

@TriciaLockwood

Separating a poet’s work from her tweets.

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Peer Review

Since the beginning of time, editors at The Nassau Weekly have taken their pens to each other’s Common Application Essays. And yes, The Nassau Weekly has been around since the beginning of time. Here, in the billionth incarnation of this … Read More

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Eyes on the Skies

To telescope is to slide concentric components within themselves, to shrink sequentially, to densen. It is also a means of interstellar discovery, of flooding, of applying pressure. In the succeeding entries, we telescope the weather by precipitating and saturating our memories. Each succeeding memory of a series is composed in exactly half the number of words of the previous. Condense with us.

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A Short and False History of Bowling

The wind in the west blows across the Sioux prairieland, bending the wheat stalks at their waists. Nelson Elling lies beneath the swaying stalks, and from where he’s sprawled the wheat fields are dusted in a purpling haze.

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Carpe Campus

Any place that is affectionately known as the “Best Damn Place of All” cannot continue to be when bad things happen behind the FitzRandolph gates, and it gets even more difficult when the buildings themselves start yelling back.

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The Trials of Princeton

It was the first night without my parents in some hotel on US Route 1. I was alone and somewhere near East Pyne, brimming with the feeling of being lost and alone in a new city, juggling the oversized, color-coded freshman orientation specialty map that a volunteer organizer had gravely slipped into my purse.

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Seashell with a Void in the Middle  

Shall hold a life like a cupped palm, lash in the ocean. It knows   the best exoskeletons   protect the glass self sleeping inside.  How to define oneself as a self  that is only itself without the self it … Read More

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How To Write an Academic Paper

No one is too busy to not have time to think about how they are lonely

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Hymn

They undressed

The Poet down

to his skivvies

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Competitive Lit

When I was in eighth grade, a girl two grades up from me was writing a novel. I didn’t know much about her aside from her name, the fact that she was my classmate’s older sister, and that she was in the finishing stages of creating a work of fiction, but I wanted to become her, cut my hair short and type importantly on my laptop in my small school’s even smaller library.

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FUSE

It is an afternoon in early October and the grass on the south lawn of Frist is thick and soft as moss.

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Aubade for a Night Twitter

All these voids

meeting in the middle feels

like an answer, so I keep
writing. For a night

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