Abigail Munson

YAC is…

YAC is a group of slightly crazy teenagers, and I use that word fondly.

Laughter colors the walls of the room that we meet in, and I doubt that color will ever fully go away.

Every person brings their own skillsets, and somehow those skills create a conglomeration of incredible stories.

We are crazy, and nerdy and if you were a fly on the wall it might scare you a little bit, but we are YAC, and laughter fills our lungs. by Aiyana Spear

 

YAC is..
Blooming humanity
Refractured through
Rose-tinted prisms

YAC is…
Escaping
(the cave)
Chewing the shadows
Cutting open words
And seeing
(the sun)

YAC is…
Cubed laughter
As building blocks
For your soul

YAC is…
Creating. the
world
From scratch.
by Abigail Munson 

 

YAC Young Authors Collective Spring 2017YAC is low-key a bunch of crazy high school students that get together on Wednesdays and talk about a lot of stuff, mostly writing, but sometimes weird stuff, like Adam’s irrational fear of a pea, or Lucy’s hue of purple or how Katy can’t spell, but none of us can spell, really, or form a complete sentence (like this one – it’s gone on way too long) but we still call ourselves writers, and that’s good and all because we’re all really good writers, but we all write different stuff, like Abigail who writes like a ton of poetry with all those really clever biblical allusions, and Madison who writes all this fantasy stuff that’s really cool, and always gets confused with Madeline, for some reason who always writes like way too much and can’t even finish this damn sentence, and Cassidy, who has like, a pretty weird sense of humor , but that’s cool and all, and Ellen usually writes about herself, but sometimes it’s about Hello Kitty instead  (and maybe Hello Kitty should be considered a member of YAC) and Aiyana writes descriptive essays, and Sierra writes a little bit of everything, and Thalia dresses like all darkly, which is weird because her writing is so bright, and I think that’s everyone, except for Jesaka, who has to be included, of course, and I’m not sure what she writes, but I’m sure it’s as good as the prompts she gives us, and that’s YAC,  🙂  by Madeline Dean

 

YAC is…
A place where I thought new things and mastered new thought. A room where lives were created. A group of great people I will carry with me forever. A space where anything is possible and magic can happen. A mindset where kindness and friendship are born. A home where new worlds are traveled and explored together. by Katy C McDonald

 

YAC is somewhere I’m understood 
YAC is splendiferous
YAC is where writers can be themselves
YAC is where friendships begin and creativity never has to end
YAC is like a convening of Powerful sorcerers
YAC is home
by Madison Hart

 

YAC is…
Land of misfit toys. But hey, we’re writers, what do you expect. Oddly enough, there’s very little writing involved, just a lot of inside jokes about writing. Or about the snack table. Or about each other. Mostly about each other.  by Thalia Medrano

There are two types of people in YAC… those who like linked stories and Cassidy. by Cassidy Nicks

YAC is…
A concept, a feeling.
It is not merely our group name,
It is green carpets, plush chairs.
It is laughter about nothing,
Laughter about everything.
It is Wednesdays and plot
holes and inside jokes.


We are YAC; YAC is within us
I know that sounds kinda
sappy, but the thing that
YAC is most, is the people.
Each year it changes,
because this people change.


At heart it is an
idea – and an idea
can go anywhere.
by Sierra Karas

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[Book Review: Ramona Blue]

by Abigail Munson

In Ramona Blue, Julie Murphy plunges the reader straight into an engrossing story. A story that feels more like a summer memory from years ago than reading a book. While main character Ramona is not by any means generic, rather a six-foot-tall blue-haired enigma, she creates a deep nostalgia within the reader, like she was your best friend in another life. Ramona Blue by Julie Murphy I am quote

Murphy’s descriptive language is languid and beautiful and melancholy and entirely blue. Every few pages, there is one sentence that takes my breath away and I have to read it over a few times and let it resonate within me.

I instantly fell in love with Freddie, his character was sweet and charming and almost too good to be true. Freddie felt like a silver-lining in a muddy, wet town.

Ramona Blue was overall very well written. I adored the language, the characters, the story and would definitely recommend it to my friends and I will definitely read it again.

[Time]

By Abigail Munson

Time got on the bus
Wearing brown snow pants
He stretched his arms out
Wide, fingers pointing and
Reaching and collecting the
Flowing end of his explanation
The bus driver–
A known time waster,
A money collecting
Paid by the hour
Time-keeping time-waster
Smacked on graying gum
With jagged canyon teeth
While bubbly spit
Situated itself on his chin
“You gotta pay”
He crowed
Squeaky and rhythmic

“You gotta pay”

Time curled his arms
In like two C’s and
Pointed to the chain
Around his neck
It was heavy and industrial
Even heavier holding
A Gold padlock
It seemed an anchor
Keeping his nikes on
The crumby ground
He licked his lips
And sing-songed
Shakespearean reason:

“The raging rocks
And shivering shocks
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates.”

The bus driver unperturbed
With midsummer sweat stains
And a fairy circle of white hair
Like a laurel wreath decorating
An angry pimply dome
Regurgitated his predestined line:

“You gotta pay”

Time laughed, big and sweet
“Oh we all gotta pay man, but time passes for free, no amount of coin will change that”

 

[YAC Responds: Abigail & Lucy on What is the Purpose of Art in a Time of Crisis?]

[Abigail Munson]
Dip
The world
In
Honey
Everything slows
To a tangible
Stumble
The billboards
Stuck in the sky
Bleeding like
Crucified martyrs
Grabbing your attention
Proclaiming–
Emotional, economic, egotistical
DEVASTATION
This honeycombs inside
Your head
Growing like cluster crystals
On your skull
Manifesting a temple
In flashing renaissance gold
And dirty green
You learn to worship this
To create the divine
From signs, and shows
And endless streams of
Fluorescent words
Halo-ed and hollowed
Eternalized icons
Your HOME-MADE GOD
Lives in technicolor
And watches this EDEN-REALITY
On Repeat.

[Lucy Earl]
Oxford Commas
You know what art is?
The oxford comma.
Never have I seen such a beautiful symbol
Except perhaps the interrobang (look it up)
But that’s not the point.
Oxford commas are empowering.
Look at how long they’ve survived.
That oxford comma has endured hatred and debates,
And yet some loyal people have understood the importance of the good old oxford comma
So there it stands.
A beautiful disruption
Yet it manages to pull everything together as one.
Let’s all be oxford commas.
Let’s disrupt this crazy world as beautifully as we can.
And we’ll pull each other up along the way.
Because this is art
And it’s saving us all.

[MMXVI RESIDUE DISPOSAL]

by Abigail Munson

  1. Denver is crying, and tangled goodbyes stick to the street like dusty black gum.
  2. You still wear the same army boots your Dad bought you in ninth grade the day you said you wanted to be just like him. Then you decided that camouflage wasn’t for you. You would rather be seen. You would rather be heard. What happened to you toy soldier? You’re so hollow now, I hear the wind in your bones.
  3. My dog died and I didn’t cry until 3 weeks later.
  4. I met a God defined by disaster and I loved him. He lent me his favorite books and left poems and dirty jokes tucked in the saddest parts.
  5. BIG MAN WALKS ON TINY FEET
    HIS SHADOW BOMBS EVERY STREET
    NOWHERE TO GO
    NOWHERE TO HIDE
    BIG MAN’S SHADOW STRETCHES NATIONWIDE
  6. You grew mushrooms in your basement like you were some wacky moribund Ray Bradbury character. You spent weeks in the dark “finding yourself” you never left your house, you rotted away living through the veil of creation. You danced and licked at the heel of being erratic and played into it like sick puppy needing a fix. Maybe Bukowski will send you a gorge of red wine and some audacity. Keep drawing your spirals and huge eyes honey, keeping loving your bathroom floor and the way you mother just walks past your door knowing she can’t save you. On August 12th you called me from the hospital for the 14th time this year. (more…)

[Abigail Munson, 2016-17]

Abigail Munson, YAC 2016-17

Abigail Munson, YAC 2016-17

Abigail Munson is a seventeen-year-old who likes to write poetry, personal narratives, and anything that decides to dislodge itself from that sticky gum brain of hers. One time, she high-fived Eugene Hütz from Gogol Bordello while he was crowd surfing on a huge drum and she thought it was pretty cool.

She over-uses commas to a narcotic extreme and has never heard of a period, she also thinks run-on sentences have an unrecognized beauty to them. She also can’t write on the bus, she’s tried, so every week she spends two hours on the bus watching the world through smudged plexiglass wondering how many sticky-fingered babies have left their mark indefinitely on the window of the 44 bus. Abigail loves to ramble and go nowhere in as many words as possible.

I write for a haven
I write for a heaven
I write for chunky, (heavenly) sentences
that rupture and fracture
I write for words you eat at
the dining room table
I write for a constellation
prize that sweats into the creases
of my palm
I write to appreciate reading the works
Of Karl Marx on the toilet
I write for holiness
I write for hollowness
I write for my mother’s warm
hand on my lower back
I write for remembering that
absolute slaughter of familiarity
I write for breaking all the
dishes
I write for distance
I write for never being able
to dislodge the boulder
that lives in my throat— It doesn’t pay rent.
I write to understand why Percy Shelley’s heart
Didn’t burn
I write to love my ego
I write to remember his eyes like God,
The Radio, and his electric brain makeup
I write to respect what
dissolves, that you can never get back.
I write to long and never stop
longing.

[Untitled]

by Abigail Munson

About Lucy Earl

 

Grown from toe,

To crown

In a house divided

By a titanic orange wall

Like a Clifford Still painting

A garring bloodline shot

Through white

Pink Martini’s booming trumpets

Stick to the wall,

(A welcome stain)

California’s famous sun

Never touched it

The sun was saved for

The elementary school

Across the street

Not her school, just a

Location

A memory-landmark

One summer they redid

The asphalt on the

Playground

A lonely red ball marooned

Between the faded

Swings and

Sticky picnic table

Maybe no one cared,

Maybe no one saw,

But black swallowed

Red and a lumpy grave

Was made beneath,

Sometimes the girl

Would sit on top of

The tomb,

(sun kissing

Her hairline ember-red)

And think about the

World

Could she find

Happiness here?

How long would she

Have to search?

The blessing-curse

Is that life

Is the search