Letter from the editor Page II Untitled By Dahlia “Fallen Leaves” By Anna Stratton Page III “Aborted” By Kris Strasbaugh “January10,2006” By Kim Sparling

Letter from the Editor As the editor of this zine, I would like to explain why we chose this name “Salve”. It means “Welcome” in Latin. We would like everyone to feel that way when they are either reading an issue or submitting to us. The purpose of this zine is to give local authors and artists an outlet for their creativity. Our first short term goal is to print issues with just the writing to distribute. Our second short term goal is to publish on-line with both local authors and artists. We ultimately want to publish a colored zine that can be bought at a cheap price featuring only local artists and authors. We would need and enjoy as many peopleʼs help as possible with our goals. You can submit any artwork and writing to our e-mail: [email protected] We want to remind anyone who submits work of a few criteria. We will only accept writings and art that are not vulgar or nude. We will send people notice if the staff agrees that their submittal contains one of these things. The staff and I would like to ensure that if a submittal is made to us it will not be given to any other group. We will notify you if we are or are not using a submittal. Adequate notice will be given about the issue if a submittal is used in the zine. If you are a long-distance away and we use your work, please send an address to our e-mail so we can mail you a copy of the issue. The last issue to be covered in this introduction is about copy-rights. We will mail every issue to ourselves in case a problem occurs. If we receive submissions, we will assume the right to publish them. If any submissions are made that are personally copyrighted by th author/artist, then please let the staff know at the time the submission is made. We will label any copy-righted material in the zine. The zine itself is not copy-righted. We hope that people will join us in our endeavor. Editor-in-Chief, Laurel Cote

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Blow, blow, blow, Sideways like snow, Rushing, round, All the leaves blow. Freezing, cold, When wind withhold, The cold surround, Creeping so bold. Springing upon, The supple lawn, A quiet bound, Dry at the dawn. For fall has come, Summer succumbed, Fall has found, And overcome. By Dahlia

Fallen Leaves I stood in a field full of flowers That danced and shimmered in the sun, And I whiled away the immortal hours Thinking of things already gone, The red and gold leaves began to fall From their birthing place among the trees, And the wind stirred the grass, ever tall, Revealing the fallen leaves. And like a ghost brought by the wind, You came behind me and touched my heart; You, my lover, my life, my friend, The only one that has helped me from the start. The sun went down on that field of ours And the moon showed her lovely face And together we whiled away the immortal hours In that beautiful field of grace. By Anna Stratton

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Aborted Benevolent blossoming Alarming Azalias, wind chimes torn and tossin’ through a breeze of treacherous dreams springing life from coffins, springing life from winter death for youth to finally flourish, though not untold the truth of old which haunts the young and wounded, experience survives the cold, the naive, they simple perish, they simply cease to fight disease and fall before they’ve started. Aborted, becomes the blessing of life when rain shower energy evolves over night, when the marshes, the deserts, the temperate, the caverns they fall to the power of Tundran disasters, and the youth ill-equipped for hardship to come, cling close to their elders when the snow has begun, but they are conditioned, survival the fittest, the old won’t provide for their young, instead the short lives of their offspring is done until the next cycle, when the careless recycle, the cold-hearted elders have won. By Kris Strosbaugh

January 10, 2006 An urge is burning like a flame I must find a cure, left to my own devices powerless to improve this bore. Time drags on and on, the sharp hands are in control, the pitch of this silence is harsh, running out of endeavors and goals. I return again to imagine what's standing behind this veil, avoiding truth in poetry that goes stale. By Kimberly Sparling

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