Tag Archives: Miranda Phillips

Dreams under the Red Eye of a Hotel Television

Avocado Toast

You’ve made a bold move. It’s scary and everyone is asking you why. 

Trust yourself. Worst comes to worst, you can always cover it up.

Yellow Light

Gun it, baby. Life’s too short.

Elephant Ears 

You wish for something soft and colorful in your life—consider buying a parakeet. 

But don’t teach it swear words.

Gold Eagle 

You will finally be published by an up-and-coming publishing house. 

If sitting, you should skip town. Things aren’t going to end well.

Flat Tire 

Double check before leaving: passport, wallet, toothbrush, underwear, date. 

Lightning

You dream of power. The thoughts in your head ram into one another, creating static,

bubbling energy—unharnessed capacity for greatness.

Raindrops

The scent of a man fresh from the shower is intoxicating. 

Moose

A man’s head may look pretty on the wall, but if his heart is still in shedding season

leave him in the wild. There’s no reason to pay the hauling fee. 

Needle

You seek a form of correction in your appearance. Quit eating so many cookies.  

Railroad

You will leave in the dark without saying goodbye. The early morning moon will guide

you down the mountain pass and onto the plains before he even wakes.    

Firetruck

Your love life isn’t meant to be explosive, but rather a steady burning log in a stone

hearth. Children will snuggle down by your side to warm themselves. Embrace them

gently. 

Starbucks

Your next job will start at 7:00 a.m. You’ve been warned. 

VW Bug

Your goals need a mechanic, not a junkyard. Pick up a quart of oil, a new toolbox, spare

tire, and a few flares. The Redwoods are waiting.  

 

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Miranda Phillips is a junior creative writing major at SUNY Oswego. When she’s not writing, she can be found hiking with her rescue dog, riding horses, or dreaming of her life as a novelist in beautiful Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

In a World Gone Shallow

 

I see him across the parking lot,

a rutted expanse flattened by a dodgy paving company,

his wide eyes darting

above an orange bandana

as he scurries toward the main entrance.

A family of four explodes

onto the sidewalk, laughing. Grabbing hands.

He jumps, diverting paths

like schools of sardines rippling

away from the shark’s open jaws.

Shiny black hands pull on steel handles,

ducking inside.

Soon he sits across from me,

body like a board.

His gray eyes sinking.

Ten feet apart, maybe twelve.

I wave and point to the slender paper bag

next to my chair.

He holds his up too, dropping the bandana inside

as the nurse’s violet hands fit a light blue mask

over his face. It’s only the two of us for now

with our eyes closed and our plastic bags

that should be clear and filled with fish,

not neon yellow that drips poison into our chests.

But more people trickle in

and paper bags are creased,

sagging closer to the floor each hour.

One young woman coughs quietly. Ten pairs of shifty eyes

and hidden faces jerk to glare. And suddenly, I realize

we’ve all turned into bank robbers.

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Miranda Phillips is a junior creative writing major at SUNY Oswego. When she’s not writing, she can be found hiking with her rescue dog, riding horses, or dreaming of her life as a novelist in beautiful Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

Into the West

Alberta is a blank sketchpad

to the eyes trained for neon lights and mishaps

labeled modern art, unable to see past

their tawny smog and blue lights—this is a private gallery.

A winter’s sunrise stroked pastel lavender

by the blackbird’s feather drifting above a cerulean lake

dusted with glitter. Strands of shredded cotton balls

curl upwards from the silent surface.

The ridge of mountains sprayed

deep forest green. The graffitist’s thumb slipped on

the nozzle as he turned to call back to his friend. Changing cans,

spritzes of sunshine fall gently on scarlet leaves.

The roads etched in charcoal,

long and straight. Halfway through, the child’s hand

grew weary of gripping the two yellow crayons

and he wandered home for a snack.

A herd of cows blotted cream and chocolate in oil pastels,

trembling in gnarled fingers on a nursing home porch.

Just a smear as they graze high in the hills.

The crimson orb dips into black soil, tugged by the flick

of a rainbow tail under the ice, stars poking through

the thickening cloth of night until the moon

is our only spotlight.

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Miranda Phillips is a creative writing major at SUNY Oswego. When she isn’t working on her novel series, Miranda spends her time discovering new scenic routes, watching hockey (#mapleleafsforever), and loving on her rescue horse during breaks in her home state of Maryland.