the minerva press
est. april 2024
About
The Minerva Press, named after the Roman goddess of wisdom, is an online California-based youth literary magazine dedicated to championing diversity and spreading awareness about social issues. Our team strives to publish stories from artists of different races, gender identities, and cultures.We hope to help teen creatives find their voice through our publication, as submissions from creators of any experience level are welcome.Young people interested in writing, art, and photography, are encouraged to submit, and we accept works that have previously been published. See our submission form for more guidelines.
events
A Bánh Mì for Two Writing Workshop
On June 18, 2024, we welcomed Vietnamese American author Trinity Nguyen to discuss her sapphic young adult romance novel, A Bánh Mì for Two, and hold a writing workshop. Nguyen outlined her writing process, shared writing tips, and discussed the publishing industry.
staff
Camille Tai
Founder and Editor-in-Chief
“Hi, I’m Camille Tai, and I am a rising senior at San Marino High School where I serve as the yearbook copy editor-in-chief. In my free time, I enjoy reading books and listening to music! As the founder and editor-in-chief of the Minerva Press, I strive to create an online community that embraces diverse writers. It is important that underrepresented voices are heard, but that is not always the case in the writing and art communities. As such, I hope to share these perspectives through this literary magazine, in which artists of all experience levels will have the opportunity to showcase their skills regardless of background.”
Ethan Bai
Editor
“My name is Ethan Bai. I’m a rising sophomore at the Harvard Westlake School in Los Angeles. I'm an member of my school's middle school symphony, having been since late 2022. Additionally, I'm involved in our school paper, ‘The Spectrum,’ where I participate in reporting and informing the student body and beyond. Outside of school, I'm a student on ModernBrain's national mock trial team, driven by my aspiration to pursue pre-law studies.”
Elliott Bai
Editor
“Hi! I'm Elliott, a rising senior and in my freetime I enjoy listening to music, hanging out with friends, and playing with my dog. I aspire to become a historian one day, and part of historical analysis is to be able to freely voice opinions which is why I have chosen to become a member of the Minerva Press!”
Caitlin Barber
Outreach Director
“Hi, I'm Caitlin, a Year 12 student (sophomore) obsessed with all things fiction! My life mainly revolves around my latest read, a wide — and sometimes weird — range of music, painful hours of revision, and my absolute angel of a dog: Milo. I think it's really important that young people are able to have access to not only literature, but also literature that represents them and who they are, and that's something which you can always see in Minerva Press.”
Joy Yin
Social Media Manager
“I’m Joy Yin, a 14-year-old writer, poet, and artist from Wuhan, China. Currently, I’m based in Mexico City. I have always had a love for reading and writing. I have works either forthcoming or already published in Skipping Stones Magazine, Scfaikuest, Triya, Star*Line, and more. I volunteer for IgniteHER, Competify Hub, PinkGap, Eden Mabel LitMag, Chromatic Scars Review, etc. In my free time, I like to curl up and read a good book (however, I don’t quite like rereading). Find me on Instagram at @joyyinm88.”
To apply to be part of our team, click here.
issues
mini issues coming soon!
issue 1
poetry
Olivia
Oh, so blue!What about a hue?
Something, of a deep blue -
a precious shade.
Such an emotion,
one strong as a wave of an ocean!"You'll get better soon,”
a say which chose to stay.
Oh, so blue!
Will you still feel as you?
Or will you never feel new.Will it soon take over -
and turn you to darkness,
oh to feel less heavy.
Oh to feel a vibrance!
Why to never feel as again.Olivia is a 14-year old from England. She identifies as female and is part of the LGBTQ+ community. She is heavily inspired by Emily Dickinson and hopes you enjoy her work!Astro K.M.G.
Fall from grace.Perhaps God was real.
Maybe he was watching us all along,
Seeing if we were worthy of his grace.
Maybe he grew disgusted.
Appalled by the creatures,
made in his own image.
Perhaps he has abandoned us,
In favor of restarting altogether.
Trying to perfectly capture his image,
We still try to be worthy of him.
Churches larger than homeless shelters,
Filled with praying people,
Repenting for sin.
Perhaps we are not worthy of God's grace,
Perhaps he is not worthy of mine.Astro K.M.G. is a black, AFAB, and autistic 15-year old from the capital of the United States.Morgan Wright
A Hunger ArtistTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses eating disorders.Inspiration strikes as I’m walking out the door,
paused by my grandmother’s voice–
Hey, are you losing weight?
I tell her I don’t know,
but those five words
have triggered the hyper-awareness
years of therapy have tried to erase.
If I wasn’t before, I sure as hell
will be now.I’ll live off of rice cakes and unsalted almonds,
treating my clothes as cages, putting my body
on display while hiding its flaws behind bars.I’m addicted to a shrinking waist
even if it means soft teeth and coarse hair–
even if it means painting my skin yellow
with cracked hands and brittle nails.I’ll count calories until I revel in the feeling
of nausea so disorienting I couldn’t eat
even if I wanted to. Once you’ve gone
twelve hours, what’s twelve more?Morgan Wright is 22-year old poet from Delaware currently pursuing their MFA from Arcadia University. Her work often wrestles with themes of girlhood and their experiences as a closeted queer woman.Kori McLane
All My LoveAll the love I give you is yours to keep.It is humid and my hair sticks to my skin with a lingering habit I hoped your eyes would copy, but you are quiet as ever.I had hoped the blistering sun would loosen your lips enough for me to pry a whisper from their melted wax, but we are sixteen, and sixteen-year-olds are not candlesticks nor thieves.Honey-dipped words do not seduce you, nor do my taffy-wrapped promises, and you care not for sentences draped in broken shells of crumbling chocolate or paragraphs dusted with entrails of sugar.I fear you do not like sweets much.I am sweet, wrapped in cotton candy lipstick and dunked in caramel gloss – sweets to make myself an easier pill to swallow.I fear you do not like me much.Graves cannot talk, but if they could, yours would whoop and holler into the snow-peaked mountains.It shakes birds from their perches and wakes bears early from their naps, but you lie sleeping.Caskets have no lips to speak, nor a tongue, yet yours whispers promises like bitter cherry wine.It swallows sweet and easy with a sharp slice of grieving aftertaste, of ginger denial and cinnamon regrets.Headstones have no hands, yet yours snatches life from my unsteady feet and grass-stained knees.Even prostrate at your plot, you do not wake for me.Your chiseled rock screams shrillest and most of all the weathered stones in the lot, yet I, Odysseus, peel wax from my ears and walk toward your siren song.So all of this sappy love that clings to the undersides of your nails and the bottoms of your shoes is yours to keep until it is scrubbed off next winter anyways as ice packs onto the lips of your boot and pries away my last few touches.17-year old Kori McLane hails from the Midwest United States and is a proud queer and transgender student.Ema Helltax
DistanceThe clouds watched the mountains,
Strong.
Regal.
Infallible.
The clouds longed to join the mountains,
To be together.
But they knew their rain would erode The tall cliffs they so admired.
And so, the clouds kept their distance.The moon watched the ocean,
Gentle.
Beautiful.
Important.
The moon longed to approach the ocean,
To be close.
But it knew it would pull the ocean's calm shore Into violent waves.
And so, the moon kept its distance.
But,The clouds did not know that
Without their rain,
There would be no life on the mountains.The moon did not know that
Without its pull,
There would be no tide in the ocean.Nevertheless, they kept their distance.Lex Leatham, whose pen name Ema Helltax is an anagram, is a 16-year old from Great Falls, Montana. They are a writer, artist, musician, and actor. They are genderfluid (they/them) and bisexual, which can make navigating the world a little bit difficult, but they have found their home in the arts.Ashfirah Faizah
how to be a snail1. be small, and let the big-ness of the world surround you from all sides.
[the world is an atlas that stretches out for miles and miles before me, begging to be discovered, yet i can’t even find a home, so how am i going to explore the unknown? my mother used to tell me to be brave and always take the challenge, but for so long, i chose the opposite of that and let the world eat me whole. i was always too scared and now all my plans are but empty lists. i have no one willing to help me (they have better things to worry about). now i am stuck in a place i am not sure of, and i will never get the chance to tour the globe. they always told me i wasn’t worth the time anyway, so no—i’m not sad and sulking. it’s only nostalgic to think that 5 years ago today, i was still dreaming.]2. move slowly as you leave your mark on the ground, no matter where you go.
[i wade through time as if i am a child wading through the waters. my movements cannot speed up no matter how much faster i try to move. and everything around me is a blur; it is all filtered in blue and tears. i cannot tell my left from my right, dream from reality, and all the people i love seem to always be running away from me. no matter how fast i run, i can never catch up. i seem to always be too slow, and even if i tried changing my shoes, they only make me walk slower. all i leave behind are footprints and dreams but it doesn’t change a thing. it doesn’t stop the world from turning. it will never stop things from changing. it will never stop time from slipping out of my hands and disappearing.]3. blend into nature—also known as camouflage.
[i have always blended in with the world around me, up to the point where no one really sees me. i am a shadow on the walls, a lurking whisper of all the people i once was. if you’ve ever wondered, even i am not sure how i got here. and while it is nice sometimes to not be seen, it hurts when you turn into a ghost that no one listens to or looks out for. you seep into the shadows–but at what cost? some say it’s inevitable, that it’s a part of nature that everyone will face at some point or another. if we are all so good at camouflage, then why give it a name? why call it a phase? why push me out when i’m just looking to stay?]4. carry your shell with you. it is your home, always heavy on your back.
[i was always taught to forgive but never to forget (is it bad that they were the best at teaching me what a grudge is?), so i carry the weight of the world on my shoulders no matter where i go. i heave the world on my back. everything that shapes my heart and mind stays on, and even the heaviest of rains won’t wash them off. moments may come and go but i bring home everywhere i may be, every pain and memory i have sticking onto a part of me i can’t quite see, one i can’t quite ever get rid of. i am a soul, seemingly cursed to remember every tragedy that has befallen itself. i bring a piece of my heart wherever i am. i wear my heart like a badge full of cracks stained with blood, tears and time.]5. stay strong. people will walk all over you, but that’s what you’ve always been through.
[i let people step all over me, no matter how much it hurts. because i never seem to learn how to protect myself. i only watch as they leave yet another scar, another crack on my skin, yet there is no blood that seeps through those cracks. there is nothing that they can see, no sign that anyone could make it hurt so bad. so they leave me broken, every time, without even knowing it. isn’t there such bliss in ignorance?]6. live your life to its fullest. don’t worry, no one will ask you to move mountains or to climb them.
[societal pressure kills you. it seeps into the blood like poison, unseen and quiet, yet threatening to take your life along the way. they will tell you to live your life your way, and to always enjoy yourself. yet they turn the hand they offer into a knife that stabs you in the back that never quite goes away. the wound never heals and the blood never stops running. i was always told i could move mountains even though they all knew i very much couldn’t. i couldn’t even change my heart no matter how hard i wanted to, and worst of all, i couldn’t make them stay. so how can i soar high and reach the sky? how can i reach the heights that i’ve always dreamt of? how do i live my life knowing that no matter how much i try, it won’t change a single thing that leaves their lips, when people only remember you when you're gone?]7. keep on going until you make it to the next day.
[in life, you will face problems much bigger than yourself. they will take up so much of your time, so much of your life trying to overcome them that it seems almost that an eternity will pass before you can make it to the next day. but as long as you can still breath, i say you keep walking till your legs give way, keep crawling until your knees break, keep reaching further and further and maybe you will get there someday. even when you are out of breath, not ready to let another second pass, know that the next day will come regardless and you will make it out till then. some will say you’re running away from your problems when you begin to go slower, but who cares? some things are best to leave for tomorrow’s you to handle.]Ashfirah Faizah is an 18-year old student from Singapore who loves literature and learning. When she is not too busy with school, she enjoys dabbling in realistic fiction and poetry. She has written her own poetry collection titled “This Journey Never Ends” and is currently working on many never-ending writing projects.Phoenix J. Sprole
Bane of SkyI love storms.
Thunderstorms are my first love.
The bellows of the downpour, the blinding light cutting through the cold air- it holds a beauty no mere human could obtain.
When I hear the droplets start to fall I run outside, wanting to share in the skies gift.
It's almost ritual by now.
I am not a religious person, but the goliath's piercing cries do call to me in the sense a god would.
I wait in anticipation for his hand to reach down and touch the earth in the all-destructive way only he can do.
I reach my hand up in return- praying the goliath blesses me with his malevolent, all consuming caress.
“Strike me, O bane of sky! Make me yours, if only for a moment! Connect me to you in your vastness. In your wholeness! As above, so below!”
I wail.
“As above, so below!”
And as I see the sun emerge my wailing ceases.
My love, my goliath- his hand grows distant.
But he will come again and block the lights brash rays in his all covering blanket.
After all, as above, so below.Phoenix is a 17-year old writer from Las Vegas, Nevada. Its pronouns are preferably it/its, but any pronouns work. Besides writing short stories and poetry, it loves caring for its houseplants, reading, listening to music, and watching horror movies! This is its first time putting its writing out there, so it thanks you truly for reading.B.C.
Summers FlightThe heron preys with soft steps.
Under its sword,
Eyes watched wearily.
Stubborn as it be,
The water fell fitful beneath him.Starlings would bring water-colored nights.
Crowding in moon-kissed pelts.
Over the branches, they swooned
For the Trumpets of angels
That sang in the night.Beneath the ash, wings once spread.
Roots faltered beneath the fire,
Burning small whispers.
Leaving the thrush
to sing their tales of
Ancient springs.B.C. (they/them) is a 17-year old from Virginia, USA. They focus a lot of my writing off of nature and their love for birds. They spend a lot of their time reading, writing, and drawing!vervein
fadedThe face of the man in a damp, faded photograph haunts me,
maybe as much as my father’s hand ghosts my cheek.His arm, tenderly wrapped around my mother’s shoulder
With protection–
With warmth–
Tender.I thought of my mother,
In university; absolutely carefree
Within the arms of a man, a smile on her lips
And his love in her heart.I thought of my mother,
With her shoulders held high,
Her paint-smeared hands
Holding his
On hers
At ease in love.I think of my mother
And I look at the faded paper of the photograph, 1994.I held it in my hand,
Maybe as much as she held it in her heart,
And try to push the thoughts off my core.
It eats at me.I try not to think of my mother
With someone to bring back her smile,
To tell her,
Her mistakes are small,
Her decisions are right.
She is going to be fine,With someone worthier;But alas,
Instead,
She met my father.Vervein is a romance loving writer from the Philippines, taking inspiration from the three most important things in her life: her mom, her friends and her pets: Loki the sock eating dog and Val the duvet scratching nightmare. She is currently taking a gap year from college to widen her scope of experiences and to simply live life without the pressure of points and credits for the first time in her life.Michelle Y.
Three Weeks of EnvyCan you hear the grasshoppers?
that croak along the dusk horizon, mumbling ballads and humorous verses from behind a holey silk bedsheet?Their stories are seeds spread by the breeze from behind my lacy cocoon
that provides me warm comfort
while their words plant in my abdomen.Can you hear the withering mums?
that speak only to the young but wise,
for a flower’s wisdom may not suffice for the wanderers, the explorers never lost, though still looking.The eclipse of moths have been waiting centuries
for me to outgrow my chrysalis
they are crushed by the burden of their unpleasant past but now their beauty is rage—
and their rage is beauty—
that fills up my ugly caterpillar body with roaring envy, for my change is incomplete.And still with these sounds
that forces my tiny heart to beat louder,
I can feel the tips of my transformation,
the edges of a feverish dream that is soon to unfurl.Michelle Yeboah is a student from the United States with a deep passion for writing, art, and music. She loves to share her stories with the world and is excited to publish a few YA novels. Yeboah is a writer and cartoonist for her school newspaper.Grace Sinkins
Moving behindI’ll dance with you if you wish me to—
But I’ll only be following her moves—
Tracing her steps and holding out for her return—
I’ll let you lead me but she’s the only person i’ll ever follow—
To forests and fields—
To dead ends and ditches—
Until I’m leaving white roses at her grave in the harshest of winters—
She always was a traditionalist.
I’ll tell you lies of love—
But she’s the only one who will ever feel the true warmth of my gentle touch—
You have my attention for now—
She had the faux domestic morning kisses—
The postcards of our futures—
Promises that circumstances could never fulfill—
I’ll be your lover for the hour—
After that I’m not to be perceived—
I’ll leave you in the way she left me—
Leaving no trace of the person I told you I could be.
Grace Sinkins is an 18-year old poet from Virginia, USA. Sinkins has been previously published in numerous magazines such as The Expressionist Lit, Malu Zine, and Corporeal Lit Mag. You can find her on Substack and Instagram @gracexlizzie.
Jessica Lakay
SilhouetteI’ve seen you in my dreams many times before
Behind a shadow casted by lust and pure desire.
All the times I’ve called out to you,
You came to me.
As far as this path goes,
I’ll go with you.
As we breathe and capture our magnetic emotions,
This road goes further in elevation.
I would say you are my weakness.
The warmth of your body gives me strength.
The gift of knowing you in this way is my pleasure.
I’m sure you’re glad you know me in this way as well.
There are no secrets where we lay our heads.
I’ve seen and felt every crevice of your warm embrace.
When you rest your worries onto me,
It as if two roses have bloomed on my shoulders.
May this ritual of push, pull, love, and explosive gratification between us be practice forever.
Jessica Lakay (lah-kay), 18, is a Jamaican American writer hailing from South Florida. Lakay has written various poems and short stories centered around sensuality, childhood, love, and spirituality. They hope to give the unheard a voice in their poetry, as well as offer a space to have conversations about queer love.Ajiboye Senami
Trapped on Shore
“Dive in! Dive in!”
The gentle waves of the water are calling,
Pining for the tickles of mine in sweeps
As I stand by the rippling sea.
“Jump in! Jump in!”
The beach tides are calling,
Begging the little girl to lay on its surface,
Longing for the warmth of her soft skin
Upon its light waves.
“It’s not me anymore.”
How do I explain to the wailing sea?
I’m not that little girl anymore;
I can’t help!
If I jump in,
The weight of my shoulders,
The burden of my mind,
The flood of my teary eye,
will anger waves to storm.
Senami is an 18-year old writer from Nigeria. She is a young and emerging poet who loves to write pieces that appreciate love and nature.M.S. Blues
dear youthful selffor me,
i’m sorry i allowed you to endure so much pain.i’m so sorry. i failed you in multiple ways. i should’ve protected you, guarded you, put you in armor, and placed a force field around you. maybe then you wouldn’t have spent all those nights crying yourself to sleep, sometimes throwing up the things you eat, or wishing god struck you down due to your desire for defeat. if only i could go back in time... but i cannot. all i can do is torment myself as i remember what you’ve endured.violation, their hands on you tarnished your innocence and safety. they smiled each time they did it, knowing you’d never say a word.
bullying, how those people tarnished your worth and confidence. they stole it, then threw it somewhere you’d never find it.
pearls, how she tarnished your ability to discern fantasy from reality. she promised you a new world without monsters, but yet she made you become your biggest one.those voices of your demons, how they tarnished your motivation. they obstruct you from moving on, tightening the ropes as time proceeds.
him, your biggest demon, how he tarnished your sanity. he leads everything, gagging you when you try to protest against his remarks.
those nightmares, how they tarnished your mind from deleting the past. they kept driving you around in your memory, and had that seatbelt fastened.
depression, how it continues to tarnish your resilience. it physically holds you by the ankle, dragging you back down no matter how many times you swim to the top.i’m so sorry. you’re in a better place now. i’m doing fine, still on my feet. you’re not broken now, because the glass has been swept and replaced with i. so despite the roaring flames of anguish that burned you before, you are no longer experiencing that inferno. you now flourish in ashes of optimism.dear youthful self, you are one with purpose.M.S. Blues (United States) is an 18 year old multiracial, queer, and versatile writer who has been writing since the age of seven. Her work revolves around the darker pieces of humanity that society tends to neglect. She has been published by many literary magazines and currently serves as an editor for The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, and Chromatic Stars Review. Her Instagram handle is @m.s.blues_.Kate Abrielle McCormick
Dear Government, Get Out of My WombMy body aches from the bomb shoved into my womb.
I have been part of this fight since the moment I was born,
My sex on full display and labeled “Property,”
Everyone so divided over something so simple.● Do you have male sex organs?
○ Then spread your opinion on what’s best for those who don’t.
● Do you have female sex organs?
○ You will have no say in what happens to you.Women made men, yet men are trying to unmake women,
To paint them in a different hue
Until there is nothing for women to do
But serve and sit still.My throat aches from the pepper spray blasted against my face.
I have been part of the protest since the moment I first cried,
My voice screaming to be heard above all the egos,
Everyone divided over something so simple.● Are you Christian?
○ You probably agree with the government.
● Are you anything else?
○ You will learn to accept the Christian way.There should not be any conversation with one religion as the defense.
The world is, after all, formed by many.
They act as if there aren’t any
religions, ethnicities, and personalities
Other than one.We are tired of fighting
Tired of weaving together reasons of why
Wombs are not separate from the people that have them
Why aren’t they allowed to be free?
Free to be,
Free to see
A future?Instead, children are forced to have babies.
Miscarriages are killing.
All of this over-billing
Of Anti-abortion laws,
A deadly eagle capturing us in claws Forced instead of Free,
Continuing to plea,
Dying slowly
In AmericaKate Abrielle McCormick is a 22-year old Bachelor's student studying English with Creative Writing at Queen Mary University of London. She will be continuing her education following the summer, pursuing a Master's in Creative Writing. Her works, which often revolve around LGBTQ+ and feminist ideas, can be found on Amazon and in select stores in PA.Nepthys
Death of A ChildPeople call it growing up.
I call it death of a child, who lived in me.
The child
Whose trauma remains unsolved.
Forget about it being unsolved;
It's not even addressed in all these years,
For I'm a grown up now,
supposed to understand what the children in children's bodies nowadays want
But how could I
When I don't even know what it was I desired as a child?
Now that I think about it,
Maybe all I want is validation from others that I'm a good child,
Or someone ruffling my hairs with a warm smile on their lips,
Or to laugh out loud without a care in this world.
How embarrassing the voice is, stern inside in curt tones.
However much I run away,
This voice always manages to slay the smithereen of hope I find for myself.
“Mother when will you leave me alone?”Nepthys is a normal human being, or at least they try to decieve other into believing that they are normal. They are a book nerd through and through, just discovering that they like psychological thriller and fluffy romances as well.Ann H. Smith
three wordsTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses a suicide attempt.each evening,
i perch on the rail of the deck
and sit there in solitude,
silently grieving.will this be the night,
the night it all ends?
i prepared my note,
the one for my friends.it stays on the kitchen table,
forever a reminder of who i have become
i can’t bring myself to see my therapist;
she knows i am unstable.
my pretty little life has come undone.tears brush across my cheeks and slide down,
the most human touch i have had in months.
in the dark, i hear only one sound:
the soft cries of a woman shunned.the next moment i know too well;
my mind was in the gutter.
i was ready to go.
but someone uttered,
“what’re you doing?”
three words,
and my life changed for the better.Ann H. Smith is a teenager from the United States. She primarily writes heartbreaking poems, as she is a firm believer in sharing her and other people’s stories.Claudia Wysocky
HerAll these lines.
All these words.
All these thoughts, scribbled across paper for a girl I do not see.
(Not know.)
Scribbled in ink, staining the paper,
Staining my soul.
But she is—
…she is beautiful.
She is the way.On the composition notebooks pages before me:
Dig deep.
Dig deep to the bottom—
and think of her,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
How do I love thee? ―My Shakespeare's not bad.And since this is a letter, there are no right answers.
Merely opinions… opinions… opinions.
(Love me.)—I wish she would do this for me.
Done.
Looking.
—Through the pages of a notebook, written across its lines.I am looking for the girl who stole my thoughts and my heart.
—I couldn't help it, so I love her, with all my soul.
With all of my soul, in every word I speak,
—Thoughts of her burning a hole through my words until they're blurred.Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. Her writing is powered by her belief in art's potential to inspire positive change. Claudia also shares her personal journey and love for writing on her own blog, and she expresses her literary talent as an immigrant raised in post-communism Poland.Ana Achata
the haunting of men
i am the prayer that you learned at six,
that you speak to an empty room
when you are afraid of the night—
something heavy and constant.you will think of the poems i showed you
and feel as if something is missing
when you hear them read
in your own voice.you will be searching for me
in the faces of your lovers
for the rest of your life—
and i will know it.Ana Achata is a 19-year old artist currently based near Chattanooga, Tennessee, in the United States. Ana’s work has been featured in The Diamond Gazette, as well as hidden in various public places for others to find.
prose
Montather Al-Zubeidy
Old ScarsTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses domestic abuse.“You let it have you all over again.”Adam’s fingers brushed over bloody knuckles, burst and stained red. “I tried to stop myself.” He mumbled after a moment.“Then why didn’t you stop?”Adam’s hand stopped. A fist flashed through his memory, one not belonging to him, but one that had left marks.“I couldn’t.”“You’re like him.” The words make his breath pause in his throat.“I’m trying not to be.”“What does it matter if you try?” The voice was bitter, cold. “You never follow through. You take your pain, and put it in other people!”“Where am I supposed to put my anger?” Adam murmured back. “You tell me to put it down, but you don’t tell me how to stop curling my fingers around it.”“You put it anywhere but other people, even if it kills you! Especially if it kills you!” They took a deep, calming breath. Their voice sounded strained. “Adam. You need to learn to forget.”“You say to forget like it’s easy.” His voice is rough, low. “Did you forget what he did to us? To me?”“Of course I didn’t-”“Let me remind you.” Adam pulls up the bottom of his shirt. Below, his body was a mass of scars. They fell silent. “I can’t forget. When I close my eyes, I see his face. When I close my fist, I see his.” A silence. “He butchered you. Nearly killed you. I learned to protect you.”“And to stop protecting everyone else?”Adam’s anger flared up. “Who did you protect? Last I remember, you were too busy having Dad beat the living shit out of you to protect anyone.” Immediately he could feel the hurt radiating off of them- he looked away. “You were killed. Carved up. I saved what I could.” His words sounded weaker now, his neck aching as if a rock had settled in his throat. “I did.” Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself?He could feel that pitying gaze on him. And then, they disappeared- leaving Adam alone. Alone, the way he liked it.Montather, also known as Monty, is a senior at Southeast High School. He has been reading since he was six, and writing since he was close to ten years old. He is an Iraqi boy, and his sexual orientation is simply queer.Leslie Hernandez
A Colorless EndAmalthea feels the soft silk of her dress tickle her bare legs and her hair sway softly with the cold breeze. She stands still, admiring the beauty of the stars twinkling above her. She lets out a small giggle as tears well up in the corner of her eyes. Reality was finally setting in on her; she had been tricked. The tears burn her soft cheeks, and she tries to wipe them away. But they just keep coming. She falls to her knees and holds her face, the star-shaped tears only serving to remind her that Deimos would never love her back, that he never intended to do so. The twinkling that accompanies each tear drives her insane, but she still continues to cry. She knows each tear drains her ability to see color and that if she continues, she will be colorblind. But she still continues to cry.She cries for a man who tricked her into loving him.
She cries for a chance to make everything go back to the way it was.
She cries because as her world dulls, so does her heart.
She cries for a lost love, one she naively believed in.
She cries for all the other girls that have fallen into his trap.
She cries for all the girls that he will trick after her.
She cries for herself, because she knows she did not deserve this punishment.
She cries because she knows that this will cause her to be distrustful of love.
She cries because all her tears will be used up, and they will all be for Deimos.Amalthea stares up once more at the sky, willing herself to memorize the beautiful starry night because this will be the last one she will ever see. She closes her eyes, painting the beautiful and vibrant sky onto her eyelids. When she opens them again, her world is black, white, and gray. The world is no longer alive, just like her heart. She lays on the grass, the faint twinkling of her dried up tears haunting her as she falls asleep. Her dreams are now her escape from the constant reminder that her heart is now forever broken. She should have known that the hero and the man were not one and the same. The hero saved her and lifted her up while the man broke her and let her fall. Loving a hero was the worst mistake of her life.Leslie A. Hernandez Cruz is a 22-year old English major from Puerto Rico. She is a bisexual woman who uses she/they pronouns. They like writing, both creatively and in an academic setting setting, and reading fictions books.A. Deshmane
Se Videt in SpeculoTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses gender dysphoria and self-harm.Sometimes she thought that maybe she was not like Lucy, that she was different. They were the same in the eyes of Mama, most of the time. Wrapped in Mama’s arms that smelled of soap and talcum, nothing mattered. And they were the same in the mirror in the upstairs bathroom. It surprised her to see herself staring back, eyes wide, palms pressed up against the glass. Sometimes she thought that the mirror was broken, but there were no cracks in it, and Mama looked at her strange when she said that the face looking back couldn’t be hers.Her face always puzzled her, too. Sometimes when she was feeling bad, she even whispered that she hated it: her hair and the dresses Mama swore she looked so pretty in, too. She only said things like that at night, when Lucy was asleep and no one else could hear her. That made her feel good, and evil too. But then she would realize that no one was listening, and she would feel bad all over again. Being evil, she found out, was only fun when you had someone to do it with.And it was Lucy’s face, too. That was the only thing that stopped her totally hating it. Lucy was the one they all bent down to nod at when she and Lucy and Mama went out. Maybe Mama’d told them things, or maybe it was the scowl on her face when they looked at Lucy and didn’t hear her say “nice to meet you” right when Lucy did. She didn’t care, really, if Lucy felt good. She wasn’t even scowling at them. It was the powder and the ribbons and the dress she’d have on that made her feel so, so wrong.Sometimes she wanted to scratch at her skin until she didn’t even look like a girl anymore. But she thought that that would probably hurt, so she never tried to see if it would work or not.Once she tried telling Mama about her face and the ribbons that were all so wrong, but Mama scowled right back at her, confused, not angry, really, until she felt so, so bad and cried. Mama didn’t look up over dinner that night, and neither did she. They ate their chicken in silence.The next time she and Lucy and Mama went out, she tried not to scowl when her dress bunched up or the powder got sticky on her hands. She didn't say “nice to meet you” anymore, because if they pinched her cheeks and said, “what a nice young lady,” like they did sometimes to Lucy, she thought she would die. She knew that something inside her would shrivel up and she would melt in a puddle of whatever it was that she was and just die. She knew that Lucy was a girl, and she hated that Lucy was so sure and didn't have to wonder sometimes. Because when she was wondering and whispering when no one was listening about her not-right face and wanting to rip at her hair like Mama ripped open envelopes, that was what scared her the most. That she was different from Lucy, because if she wasn’t Lucy's twin sister, one and the same, then who even was she anymore?It was dark when she and Lucy and Mama left for home. They’d been out for hours, and she clung to Mama’s side as they walked up the road. Lucy was breathing softly, her foot falling outside the nest Mama’s arms made when they held her or Lucy. Mama tousled her hair the way she’d seen other mamas do to their boys. She finally felt good, like she did when she held her hair behind her head so it looked short in the mirror.“‘I’m not a girl, Mama,” she said, smiling sleepily. Her nose found the soft hem of Mama’s coat and nuzzled, and she felt so, so right. The walk home after that was quiet again, and when she was lying next to Lucy in the bed upstairs at home, she thought she maybe shouldn’t have said that, even though Mama made her feel good just then.She walked to the bathroom, eyes down so she wouldn’t see her face in the mirror. Mama was sitting on the toilet with the lid down, shaving off leg hair she couldn’t even see. Mama called shaving “womanly maintenance,” which were words that she pretended to not know once, just to make Lucy laugh. She always felt really good when Lucy laughed at something she said. Mama told her to go back to bed in a voice that made her feel bad in a different way, so she did. But she tried her hardest not to go to sleep until she heard the click of the bathroom light and the sounds of Mama going down the stairs.With a click, she turned the light in the bathroom back on. She opened up the cupboard under the vanity. She sifted past the ribbons that she and Lucy had worn earlier that night, and Mama’s earrings that were too big for her or Lucy’s ears, and even the cotton balls and extra boxes of powder that Mama had, for when the box that was open right now ran out.She held Mama’s razor up in the dim light of the bathroom. The glint of the slanting blades made her feel good, and evil in a new way. In the mirror, she saw her face that was just the same as Lucy’s, and the smudge of powder that was still on the edge of her cheek. She pressed her hands up against the mirror that wasn’t broken, and took a long hard look at the face that never wore the fact that she was a girl very well. Like the shoes that Mama had returned to the shop, it simply didn’t fit.She looked at the face that never felt right and the razor that might make it better. She sliced.A. Deshmane (they/them) is a queer poet from scorching Arizona. Their other work has been published by or is forthcoming in Stone of Madness Press, engendered lit, Catheartic Magazine, and Corporeal Lit. In their spare time, they can be found wandering the desert on local hikes or wishing they owned a cat. Find them @aar.deshm on Instagram.Atheena Alonzo
DisconnectionI ran around in flip flops all day, drinking C2 from the sari sari store and eating the freshly delivered pandesal every morning, wondering if this was the happiest I had ever been— nothing compares to the scorching Philippines’ sun.I smiled at my cousins, amused at how we got along when it was hard for us to communicate, when we hadn’t really met face to face until now.In a few days, I’d have to leave this place I’m supposed to call home.“I’m going back home to the Philippines!” “I can’t wait to go back home.” Was it really home if I visited once every seven years? Was it really home if I couldn’t speak the mother tongue? Was it really home… at all?I am proud to be Filipino and to represent my country, but was it proud of me?I live a different life back in England where I was raised. I learnt to talk and walk there; all my friends are over there. There is no denying this is my home — the smell of fish and chips every Friday in the school canteen, playing with a football, and the British weather of rain, sunshine, clouds, and hailstone all in one day. Of course, this was my physical home, but I didn’t feel too accepted here either, where people both envy and hate your tanned skin or cringe at the smell of your packed lunch.I’ll watch Filipino films, feeling ashamed to have the subtitles on, and I’ll feel embarrassed, not understanding the customs here; I’ll always feel different.A disconnection from two cultures, two languages, two cuisines, and two people I could have been.I’ll have to wait until my next three-week trip to the Philippines to feel at “home” once again. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep trying to fit into my other “home” over here.Atheena Alonzo is a 17-year old Filipino girl, born and raised in Britain with a passion for writing with aspirations of studying journalism. She hopes to spread relatable pieces of writing that strike chords in the hearts of everyone, especially people of colour who don't feel heard.
art
Irina Tall Novikova
Untitled
Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, and illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art and also has a bachelor's degree in design. In her works, she discusses themes of ecology, draws on anti-war topics, and depicts various fantastic creatures.
Irina Tall Novikova
Dreams girl
In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines such as Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room, and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories,” and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter.”
Miranda Wise
Spring Joy
Miranda Wise is a 14-year old artist from the United States. To improve her skills, she has been taking weekly art lessons for almost two years now. After finishing a drawing, she feels a bit closer to having peace. When she’s older, she hopes to have a job where she can create.
photography
Gia Riley
Parking Lot Sunsets
Gia Riley is a 14-year old genderqueer mixed race POC lesbian from the United States.
Kori McLane
Suitably Distressed Lion
17-year old Kori McLane hails from the Midwest United States and is a proud queer and transgender student.
Hailey Paulson
True Peace
Hailey Paulson has been writing ever since she picked up her first notebook and jotted down a half-baked story. When she is not typing away, she is curled up with a good book, performing under the stage lights, or staring into space.
Kaidence Moss
Cherub’s eternal slumber
Kaidence Moss is a 14-year old writer and artist from North Carolina.
issue 2
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The Minerva Press
poetry
Hallie Kunen
Argon SunThis is our world
where we put a rose on the head of a decapitated human
to pretentiously capture the strife
of an unimaginable iniquity
for which there are no words.This is our world
where eight months after an incomparable genocide,
we repost an AI image,
a tawdry acrylic over massacre,
cupronickel from the bullet to make it irradiant
while white people
learn extra
to sit in silence
with Tibetan flags
claiming the whole color spectrum,
but only in a way that suits them.They say we all have the same sky
but how can we?
I swear in the West,
our corporations weld it,
an extra cyan,
while ignoring science
while the rest of the world’s
is infused with arsine
warnings a nescient opal
masquerading as a colony of gulls.Emma Lazarus said,
“None of us are free ‘til all of us are free,”
but no one listened—
violence begets violence
and the people who claim to be the most free
are the most defended
I wish I could incise through a soul
as easily as a plane blade slices through the air
but now I just wish the earth would tear
and guzzle us all in
except for the Palestinians.Hallie Kunen is a 26-year-old psychology-interested poet whose work explores relationships, grief, and social action. She first started writing poetry frequently and taking it seriously as a craft when she joined Stain’d Arts—a nonprofit in Denver whose focus is decentralization, in their open mics and publications—and has been writing regularly ever since then. She currently works for a thrift store nonprofit that raises money for homelessness.Jade Amancio
make me clearAnd when the time comes
that i go blind completely,
you will still make it clear.
you will bring a looking glass;
a magnifying glass, even, so
i may see the littlest of things.
we will take a walk by the bay area,
again and again, just to observe
the sky, the sun, the sand;
stuck over and under our shoes.
you will reach out my hand, and
offer me a teeny tiny dust of
an old memory of you and me.
we will finally see each other, eye to eye,
and you will sketch me
in the back of your lips
to let me know that i can still see —
i can still see
you.Fresh high school graduate from the east, 18-year-old Jade Amancio crosses her fingers and hopes for the best for her college life where she will be majoring in BA Communication Arts in the University of the Philippines Tacloban. Surrounded by a loving family and a tight-knit circle of friends, she is entirely grateful for everything and couldn't ask for more.Jack Otterberg
A Quiet PoemWouldn’t you like to understand the heart
of a woman you love
who doesn’t you? There is more
outside of her,
the evening preaches this:
a dog barks by a door, power lines
blend in;the houses stand so still
you can only fill your soul
with stoicism
when studying their roofs;
all jutting, jagged, yet smooth
in the shingles,
such that a boy and girl
can sit on it
and not watch stars
but drop words into the grass
far below them;you move closer to God
the more you let go of Him.
Maybe He was never here.I’d like to ask cicadas about that,
but they’re at play,
and I don’t want to disturb
their chronic songs. Maybe,
a long time from now,I will learn
what it means to be a streetlight
lit at once with my friends,
whom I can only see in distances
too large to forget them;for now, cicadas step their breaths
into the air,
hot and thick, no one stopping
to listen.Jack Otterberg is a 21 year old poet from Omaha, Nebraska.umama
The Cycle.the maiden; a woman so pure, and so untouched. "be aware" they whisper, for once she's tainted, never will she return. men lay at her feet, ignorant of their wives.the mother; a woman in distress, and ignored. once was she a maiden, and now a woman claimed. her husband turns from her and lies at the feet of the maiden. her eyes widen with terror as the crone approaches.the crone; a woman undesired, and untouchable. her eyes that widened with fear now close in comfort. perhaps, all her life, she'd been waiting to be forgotten.Umama is 17, from Dhaka in Bangladesh. They have been writing since 15, and they are currently working on a book. They love poetry that is dark, passionate, and a little terrifying. The poem they’ve submitted is the result of them trying something a little different and writing abut social issues for change.Willow
A mirror
As she looks at her reflection
She takes notice of everything
As they are flaws in her perception She cries as though a new born
For she knows she will not change
But regardless of this fact
She stands in front of the mirror anyways
Finally she realises her cries were in vain
And the solution to her sadness
Was only through pain
Maddened and angered by her
unfortunate luck
She finally raised her hand and struck
The mirror shattered into multiple pieces
Her hand bled giving her multiple creases
But in her triumph her most formidable foe
With its broken pieces still turned to show
For her reflection will never goWillow is a 16-year old who has just gotten into poetry and wanted to try something new.Lily S.
Screen TimeTime is slippery, it spills like salt through your fists, no matter
how hard you clench. you spend your day checking the
clock and working your way through an endless
algorithm. outside, movement. you will
open your fists to pour the salt
freely until your palms
are emptied. days
cross past your
door. you
stay sat
there.When she’s not nerding out over languages or rewatching her favourite horror film, Lily can usually be found writing about the sea, blood, shame, the precious curse of creating art, or something equally silly. Come find her on ChillSubs @ch0re0man1ac— or don’t, it’s a free country.Riddhima Das
The BooksShelves lined with spines, a rainbow of literary treasures,
each volume a gateway to worlds beyond measure.
Pages crisp or worn, holding stories yet untold,
characters waiting to come alive, adventures to unfold.
From ancient tomes to modern paperbacks, knowledge abounds,
whispers of history, science, and fantasy resound.
Poets' verses dance, philosophers' thoughts provoke deep reflection,
novelists weave tales of love, loss, and introspection.
In libraries and bookshops, readers browse with care,
seeking that perfect book, a companion beyond compare.
The scent of ink and paper, a perfume so sweet,
transports us to distant lands where imagination and reality meet.
Some prefer e-books, others the tactile sensation,
of turning pages, feeling the weight of creation.
Books teach, inspire, comfort, and challenge our minds,
opening doors to empathy, growth, and new paradigms.
From childhood bedtime stories to scholarly pursuits,
books remain faithful friends, bearing intellectual fruits.
In their pages, we find solace, excitement, and more,
books: humanity's greatest treasure, forever to explore.Seattle-area based poet Riddhima Das explores themes of connection through her works. Beyond poetry, she has a passion for music that extends to singing, playing instruments, and soaking in the energy of live concerts; Riddhima also translates various educational content into Bengali, Hindi, and Kazakh. She is an avid sports fan and loves the sports of softball & badminton (but gets injured playing them).Elizabeth Butler
#RelevantLife’s funny that way,
Shielding us from fear,
Like a bandage,
We rip it off quickly,
It’s over and done,
Pains not happening anymore.
Fads & trends,
War’s all the rage.
You’re display picture,
Is their livelihood,
The hashtags you post,
But they’re just trying to live.
Injustice always remains,
Yet you have forgotten.
Not like the rain,
That disappears one day,
Replaced by sunny weather.
Change is not so easily won.
Like outfits, you swap,
Their trauma’s used to play.
Living people,
Human beings,
Not discarded with the trash.
Like chip wrappings,
They’re yesterday’s news,
Their attention,
Now focused,
On a disaster brand new.
Like trends,
They never last,
Your opinions still matter,
Hold your head high,
And step out from the mould,
For when it’s time to fight,
You have them in your sights.Elizabeth Butler (she/her) 30 years is a disabled writer using a wheelchair. She has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing and has featured in a poetry anthology and has a collection of children's stories published online. She has self-published several books of poetry and achieved recognition in her local area and has performed at local events.MK Zariel
allism shuts upautism speaks has a puzzle piece for its
poorly designed logo, blue like my emotional state
after losing you—to ableism, to the constrained
normalcy of the passive. to the silence of your eyes
glazed over and obedient. you probably support them
probably think control is simply normal. and after
a year in your dominion
i will never mask for anyone againor maybe they should have a fellow nonprofit,
"allism shuts up," for heartbreakers & self-restrainers
like you—how did i think it was a good idea
to date someone so capable of small talk
small-minded ideas yet nothing as boundless
as the queer love i felt for you? i want to be
broken into feeling without you, to come alive
for the first time in eternities and minutesand you still only see people Behaving
when we could be living—
and without you, i can.MK Zariel (it/they) is a BashBack influenced transmasculine neuroqueer lesbian anarchist. it organizes trans liberationist spaces across the Great Lakes region, performs spoken-word and theater, does graphic design for social movements, and vibes to classic queercore. It also hosts the podcast “THE CHILD AND ITS ENEMIES,” writes for the Anarchist Review of Books, and writes the blog “DEBATE ME BRO.” Hang out with MK on the big gay internet: https://linktr.ee/mkzarielIoana Bosneaga
Final Girlin a field, meteors land one by one.
a girl sits in the midst of it,
covered in cut grass, in cosmic scars.
nausea drips down her chin.
she cannot look away. vows are pressed
to her lips like wax seals.in a bedroom, a
girl watches another girl
sleep—
the rise and fall of her breathing like molten gold beneath her cold fingertips.
she is happy. eyes flicker, smiles meld together,
she is volatile. she is the running without turning back,
the misstep when balancing on a railing.
she does not look down, only up.in a field, a girl is lying face-up.
the meteor above
flashes like a star. a warning, wrapped in white-knuckled fire.
she does not move, or breathe, or say anything at all— it is peaceful.
the sky opens up and she does not worry about being swallowed up whole.Ioana Bosneaga is a 16 year old writer from Ireland. Her passions include theatre and coding. She has been featured in places such as Vellichor Literary, and is the Editor-In-Chief of Morning Star Literary. When not writing, you can find her making bracelets or drinking tea.Ben Ramakrishnan
vengeanceyou run with such a purpose
like you have done it all before
daughter, if only you knewthere are games that we play when we lie to our bodies
things that we say that leech off our corpses
ink – or blood – stabbing into pages
of unfinished speeches of lies and ragesmy feet have run wars and bolted the aftermath
these calluses ache rivers of bloodonce pain has become ingrained into your tendons
coursed through your varicose veins
it is no longer a companion – but a part of your person
the beast that lurks in my heart and grows with the night turninglike a moth to a flame, burned by the fire
i live to obey to your titanium fist
execute me
(i pray)
and no scream shall part from my lipsphantoms dance on my tongue
of the pain that i wish
to inflict, to inject, to subduct
the whole of your beingfor i was a child
until you took that awayfor i am a child
and have long tired of this gamethe gallows are haunted by one bloodcurdling scream
but, reader, i warned
it would not come from meBen is a high school sophomore from The United States who is passionate about music, literature, and theater. In his free time, you can find him making music. writing into the dim hours of night, baking up a storm, reading piles of books, or drinking iced coffees. He is also the founder and editor-in-chief of Vellichor Literary. You can find him on Instagram @beniskindaweird or @vellichor_lit!Fatima Gondal
Curious Incident of RainYou, we'll walk. Two windmills in
a slippery city, rain color-arrests
your pupils. Across K. bridge
Zeus wrestles with the clouds,
she tugs at her lover's arm. See
the effigies fall to every syllable!
You'd know how flesh worships
the musical of blues and blizzards—
each wrinkle kissed by the tenderness
of your shirt is not salvage washed
up; returns on mother nature's
fleeting grievances. The final drop of life
topples over the pipe: a possibility
of love born! Loiter to see, see to loiter.
You, we'll walk
over God's stunted ocean.This is a poem by Fatima Gondal.Chahat Brar
choke on my namei regret being so okay with it
the way people said my name
“oh, i’m sorry, i don’t know how to say that”
i told you how to say it
more times than i can count
“i think i’m just gonna call you-“
“it’s easier for me to say it like-“
“can i call you something else-“
did I not learn your language?
did I not spend my days
twisting and turning my tongue
changing the air in my throat
listening to your voices, reading your words
did I not learn how you speak?
i was too afraid to falter
because if my “accent” slipped out
i needed to go back and learn
spend another hundred days
moving my lips in a manner my family was never
familiar with
i panicked every time i had to say your words
because if i faltered, if i stuttered
it would confirm that I didn’t belong in the same
conversation as you
did I not learn to change my accent?
to change my voice, to change my mouth
every time I speak to you?
i regret being so okay with you
calling me by a name i did not know
all so you didn’t have to learn
all so you could be comfortable
because i was the one who was supposed to learn
my family, my parents, my brothers and aunties
and uncles and sisters and grandparents and me
we had to learn your language
your accent
your words
we were the ones who had to forget our own voice
all of that
just for you to call me by a name I don’t recognize
i regret being so okay with it
being okay with you being lazy
with you ridiculing the name my parents gave me
the name my language gave me
just so it could fit into your mouth
just so you could swallow it down your throat
but you don’t see the scars on my grandfather's tongue
trying desperately to say your name right
so he could confirm that he belonged
in your conversations
i regret being so okay with it
because if we are forced to learn how to speak
in your language, your words, your accent
you should feel ashamed
for not learning how to say my name right
and i regret
letting you call me by a name I don’t recognize
just so it could fit in your mouth
because now
I’d rather have you choke on my name
choke on my accent, choke on my language
than call me by a name i don’t recognizeChahat Brar has been writing poetry since she was nine years old, and aspires to one day be a professional journalist and writer that makes contributions to the world of literature. She can often be found looking for new jazz music, trying to complete her Goodreads reading goal, and stressing over perfecting her latest school history essay.Rowan Tate
23i love through it all, until i emerge
into believing the world is made for doing good
and for resting. the years teach me
earth-talk and recipes for dinner and
all the names of god. i will walk on
and the way will become clear, i have
learned to sing along to the sound of my steps
moving away from what is not meant for me.
i have taken the landscape out to the very edge
of what is possible, the way god loves things
by becoming them. i love the girl looking back at me
in the mirror: i loved her so fiercely
i became her.Rowan Tate is a creative and curator of beauty. She reads nonfiction nature books, the backs of shampoo bottles, and sometimes minds.
Ivan Ling
CrimeStars have died
in their fall,
burning the edges
of what used to be;hearts once bound
by red silk bled
in a pool of deceit,circled by sharks,
patrolled by vultures,
relished by hyenas,yet all that is left,
emptied out in black,
a mere outline made
by white chalk.Ivan Ling is a 24-year-old currently working as a full-time editor in Malaysia. While being an avid book reviewer and poet, his works have been published in several journals and magazines, such as Men Matters Online, Southeast Asian Review of English, Creative Flight and Mosaic Lit Magazine.Kashf Ghazi
rhapsody of lifethe flower of first love showered me in
sakura petals at Spring
and saw me an angel boy
one with a halo and sapphire wingsthe bud of growth bloomed
into a voluptuous marigold
as dreams and the real collided
and fell upon me like bottles of sunlight and ageing moulddreams are little things on clouds
a castle for children and something that lifts you off the ground
i had a dream, and i have more
i have clusters of dreams spread out like stars on my sky’s floorA house opens a cloaked door
but it is dreams that make your heart roar and soar
nay, home needn’t be something stable
it could be a caravan or a ship or a folding tableroses littered my ground
from red to wall-white
aye, i have seen every chess move
played by lifestill,
day-dream cassettes
play on repeat in my head
i am here, an evergrowing bud
blooming even amidst chocolate mud.This is a poem by Kashf Ghazi.Oscar Mateo
Abecedarian for the 17 year old so close to shatteringaugust syrup-sun shines over his face, his
body, the things he felt so very prometheus about, his
clay a hodge podge of slow becomings and some kitchen scissors.
dark circles shine on his face ‘cause
everything he wants to do can’t possibly
fit in a single day, and he’ll shove his
grand plans to the backseat of his mind and let his
head and heart take the lead for a bit.
inbox full of college bullshit, but his car’s
just pulled out the driveway and he’s takin’ this whole
know thyself thing pretty seriously so just
let him have this, he hasn’t quite seen his own reflection yet.
maybe his haircut is shitty and he’s a little too
naive, but he spent so long turned into himself that
opening up ain’t exactly a skill for him the way solving calc
problems is. his face hasn’t
quite settled onto his grown-up bones, and the
result is all awkward glances and fucked-up
spines. he knows what’s gonna come next,
the chill that will inevitably fill his bones and
upturn his carefully crafted life, it’s inevitable like the
violet of a sunset before it all goes dark, like lead
weights covered in golden honey. it’s an
x-ray with nothing wrong, but there’s still an ache.
yearning for something, he doesn’t know what yet, he’s
zombie-tired and his smile makes the sunlight look paleOscar Mateo (he/him) is a queer Latino poet from Indiana. He is currently a senior in high school. His poetry often delves into themes of math/science, queerness, disability, and the immigrant experience. Outside of writing, he studies mathematics, paints, and hangs out with his dogs.Rachel Uon
museum of fine artsexhibition a: painting of a naked woman
with a bird cupped between her palms
and a crown of leaves on her brow.exhibition b: a child in a plaid dress
with braided hair and clay eyes.
she stands on the edge of her bed by the wall,
her hands the same pink
as the fresh coat of paint.at the entrance:
an old woman with a thrifted cane.
she wasn’t going to buy it because she’s scared of lice
but her sister’s initials were engraved at the bottom
and it’s been so long since they went to the lake.behind her:
a mother of three who did not mean
to become a mother of any.
she does not like art but she’s going to try
for the girls on her couch at home.exhibition c: a deer
under the spotlight of an old theater,
with a ribbon around its throat
and a rock in its mouth.Rachel Uon is a 17-year old from East Taunton, Massachusetts. She is a captain for her school's Show Choirs and an editor for her school's literary arts magazine. She aspires to pursue a career in neuroscience, and she loves bagels!Nick Antonello
Too Little Too LateTRIGGER WARNING: This piece contains themes of suicide.The sand between my toes. Inhaling a fulfilling breath of salty air. Waves crash and dance over and over. Such a liminal space not a soul in sight except those closest to me, the one closest to me.Adrenaline rushing over me as we charge into the towering waves, hand in hand like charging forth into battle. Except this was done with a smile, a smile I can rarely achieve except with her. An inexplicable joy rushing over in those few minutes— something I yearn for everyday, knowing I can never experience it again.These memories, the feeling of the euphoria and bliss they bring to me. Were they not that for her? Did they not spark hope— hope that there is good, hope to hold on, to fight, to see me again? There was the possibility for so much more, and yet you did not believe. You could not see the light.I stand here being the match to your wick, and yet, I cannot make a flame for you. Did I fail as a match? Did my flame not burn bright enough? Even when you stood by me, did you feel alone? Even when we spoke, laughed, cried, screamed, was I still not there? Your frontier of inspiration and resilience gave me hope; it sparked that lacking flame in me even though you never had it to begin with.Your plans for the future, the dreams you had within your grasp. You slapped them away as if they meant nothing. Those tears when you failed: were they fake, were those hour long conversations about our futures fake, were the conversations about who you were convinced you were gonna marry fake, were the conversations where you said we would stay friends forever no matter how far apart fake? Was it all fake? Did you not value me at all? Was I a pawn, a piece to you, something you could disregard?Was your life something to disregard?Nick Antonello is a 15-year old from Victoria, Australia. After recently losing his best friend to suicide and overcoming the troubles many LGBTQ+ youth face, he found that the best outlet for his emotions was poetry. Along with being a competitive swimmer, he loves listening to music and looking after his houseplants.Claire Wandstrat
Prey, Predator, Folktale ForeverPrey,
The sacrificial lamb
Bite at the hand
For which my land takes freely
A bow in my hair, they can see it
My desire to be hunted, they feel it
Wanted in terms I've already outgrown
The precious precocity of youth
A deer who is bloody and holding my soul
Words can’t encapsulate it
I wish to feel anything less than whole
Take it away
The curtain goes up in velvet red ruffles
My skin on display, ignoring their age
Take me for all I am and wish to be
Pretty baby, she’s lit up on the screen.Predator,
A sylph she was meant to be
Alone in my conservatory
I miss her with grace
With the curls falling in front of her face
Delicate balance between her and me
But it was all so unequal don't you see?
So I search and I search for a new match
And the one I've found has started to hatch
She pushes away and fights me off
And slips away from what she's taught
Our story met a dreadful end
“I'll die if you touch me,” was my only defense
And so I see her waving goodbye
Is it my fault? An eye for an eye.Folktale forever,
A sylph and a satyr
Galloping through moss
Afraid of the waning moon
The celestial bounds are not for naught
Forgive me this time, I beg you
I didn’t mean to leave you behind
The stars ripped me from the mountain
Your chiton lays ruined, obliged through time
Figs and olives grow
Where you once laid your soul
You’d say you'll miss me but we both know you won’t
Who could miss someone,
Who buries their very own?Claire Wandstrat is a 16-year old poet from St. Petersburg, Florida. When Claire isn't writing, she is an avid reader. Literature is a pertinent aspect to her life and her art. Girlhood, melancholy, and vivid, lush imagery are themes Claire hopes to convey with every poem she writes.walker watson.
My Infernal MechanismTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses suicidal thoughts.'Tis like the gears that ceaseless turn,
Inciting the churn,
Within my soul does burn.
As I pull and twist,
The infernal switch,
With a flick and pull of my bloody wrist.22-year old Walker Watson has embraced a passionate pursuit of writing. Writing has become more than a passion for Watson, who will continue to look forward to the opportunities ahead.L.R.
Echoes of LiberationFor one to sink in perils
Will never be your fault.
Be not mournful for your sugar,
Because others had the salt.Their demons aren't yours
As the angels are theirs to keep;
You need not to continue watering the plant
If the fruit's not yours to reap.And running others' routes
Is a thing you shall refrain,
Never once a far-floating cloud
Poured another's rain.So, do it for your own;
Carve yourself a lane.
If suffering is perpetual still,
It must be worth the pain.End it all at once!
Throw back all the garbage!
Thou are not a cart—
To carry each person's baggage!See, the world is full of villains
And heroes are loved the most,
Because they bear all the burden...
While the devils raise a toast.Lady Raine Fermano, otherwise known as L. R., started writing when she was 11 years old, and now that she has turned 19, she wishes to broaden her horizon and share her voice from the Philippines to the world.Claire Bianca
Watermelon seedsIn Gaza's shadowed streets, crowded by despair, where hope lies slain,
Echoes of anguish rise along with living torches
And a chaotic mosaic of crimson-red leaves stains the porches.
The children’s angelical laughter, a war-torn symphony,
Was gruesomely silenced at midnight’s delay, torn apart day by day,
The innocence forever shattered in a galloping cascade of bloody tears
Flooding the canopy of darkness,
Breaking every heart corrupted by the impenetrable sadness…Mother Earth is intoxicated by the crimson-red blood
Erupting from the volcano of dreams,
In hallowed homes, now engulfed in the Underworld’s malice,
Where joy once dared to tread,
Solemn grief lays its heavy, burdening hand on every decapitated head.The reverberating echoes of the bombs bury the fragile hope –
While the purifying howl cries tornados of fire,
Perhaps envisioning peace and honesty…
Each shattered life, marked by their cruelty remains
A frivolous testament etched in burgundy ink, splashing with otherworldly fear,
A silent, ostracizing scream that no one can fail to hear,
Forever plastered on their empty shell, embracing the restless sea—
Condemning humanity.In Gaza's failing heart, where nightmares breathe and live so well,
A plea for peace amid the ceaseless strife
Reverberates against the trenches of death
Through every stolen breath, every muffled scream, and every stolen life…
Never permit the politicians to remain unaware,
As in every single drop of blood that was spilled,
A magnifying story lies bare, a final call to act before innocents metamorphose
Or die in scrutiny.The children’s eyes, an opaque mirror of our own,
Reflect the gut-wrenching pain of watermelon seeds
That the devil’s hatred has sown.
Oh, may the dawn bring solace and end the reigning night,
Let us stand up in a unanimous act of revolutionary protest,
Healing Gaza’s families with a lasting ray of miraculous light—
angels taking one final flight...Claire is a high school teenager from Romania who recently turned 16. She loves spending time creating poetry, practicing horse riding, and playing tennis during summer vacation. Besides that, she adores listening to rock music, specifically Nirvana. Her main goal is to encourage and inspire others through her daily work. This year, she is extremely proud of her achievements, one of them being the extraordinary number of submissions, specifically poems, to numerous literary magazines worldwide.Grey Ballarini
Love me back to lifeYou existed in the corners of my life,
In peripheral glances and elegies of inadequacy.
One touch to break me, two to make me whole again, three to leave me hollow.Let me curl up in your mind, let me eat away the darkness.
Moth to poisoned silk. Let me burn.Tell me you see me with a kindness,
More than blemishes and atrocities. Tell me I don’t repulse you.
Let me love you, as is the kindest gift of God.
Mama taught me that love is blind,
But I see you so clearly. All the beauty of this world. All the stardust.Tangle your hands in my hair and leave them there forever.
I’m selfish, I’m sorry, I’ll hold you close.
(At least then you couldn’t see my face.)
I was taught that I would break you, break me.
But here we are. I’ve never been so whole.Can I believe myself to be enough for God’s angel?
Your eyes are born of his tears, and when I meet them, they meet mine.
I can’t fathom oakwood irises to be enough to entertain you.
Close my lids like a corpse in the bathtub.Can you see me, every part of me?
You peel back your layers and each one is gilded in stardom and sorrow, Human in a manner more beautiful than divinity, transcendently mortal.Am I the wrong kind of human?Do my imperfections make you love me firmer?
Or do you notice that my face isn’t quite proportional, that the hair on my thighs is too thick for desire?I want to be more than this,
More than fight and flight and need.
Love me like I’m worth it,
Love me like I’m every heartbreak and every yearning, Every actor, every poet, every deadbeat drowning in booze by 29.Love me like I’m everything and nothing,
Something worth staying alive for.Kiss me like I’m alive.Grey Ballarini is a creative writer, poet, and figure skater from Arizona who delves into the gorgeous and grotesque nature of the human experience in his work. He is co-founder of the literary magazine Rabbit’s Foot, co-editor of The Hiraeth Review, and was a finalist for an ASU Gammage Award.Glydel Go
The Philosophy of HomeAt the cusp of midnight
I sneak into the kitchen—
a bandit in my home,
reaching on my tiptoes
with cracked knuckles, dry hands.
I take the pharmacy bag, 14 out of 15 pills
of lorazepam, and outside,
wildfires descend from the heavens
and Father Almighty scolds me
with His hand, and despite it,
I bring it with me: home.We pray tonight for the last time in a while.
Correction: I just mean me;
it’s empty when I promise her I’ll talk to God.
I have no plans to visit his home.
Every inhale shakes my safety pins.
The grenade inside my chest loosens and tightens—I fear
my roommates will return
to a college dorm left decimated.
An incinerated home.Where is home? I ask.
And why am I afraid of them all?
I turn to the preacher and he tells me it’s God
and I turn to my mother and she tells me it’s here
and I turn to my friends and they tell me it’s there
and I turn to myself and still I ask,
“where?”The first week. I prepare for a trial.
If home is where the heart is,
every panic attack has left it in rubble.
Our priest imagines our last seconds of life
to be bombarded with our memories.
That it’s awfully close to purgatory.
I scour mine with a flashlight
and even then, nothing is clean.
Even in my sleep, I am searching.
I second guess the lorazepam.
Even doing so feels like a betrayal
of its purpose and the way I fought for it.
Instead of pills, I’m holding matches,
setting fire to what’s already ablaze.It is then,
I realize home is not a matter of “where?” but“when?”Glydel Go, a 19-year-old Filipino American poet and spoken word artist based in New York, writes to explore mental health, identity, and our desire for connection. When not in college pursuing her Digital Media Production degree, she hosts and performs her poetry at the local bookstore she helped pioneer open mics at. If they aren't writing, you can find them indulging in another creative outlet like art or sharing their stories elsewhere.
Melina K
Sea Rocksi connect to the beach
through rocks lining the water,
constantly inflicted with the sea’s passion.
from shining gold to muted stone,
rushing waves bang against their core;
they lose bits of themselves to the raveging water,
parts only appealing once coddled,
great opportunities submerge in
overflowing hesitation.
i envy children examining
rocks on the sea’s shore;
picking up my dreams in their palms,
forgone and stolen and
embedded within the sand, able to make them their reality.the rocks are fixed, and can only
weep for what they have lost.
saline drops pouring down their faces
until the sea calms again,
they have no choice but to disintegrate into fragments.
but i am not fixed,
not necessarily.
so i stroll the shoreline, searching for rocks,
and reclaiming them from the sand and sea.Melina K is a teenage writer based in North America. When she is not writing, she can be found drawing, painting, baking, or singing!
Izabella Sobiecki
what i tell my motherduring my first week alone,
i call my motheri tell her about my classes
and the friends i’ve madei tell her things are going welli leave out that day in the lab
and the smell of isopropanol
that took me back to the hospitali don’t tell her
when i take a sip of water
sometimes all i taste is benadryl
and my throat closingi don’t tell her
that i sat in my dorm
trying to rip an iv out of my arm
that wasn’t therei don’t tell her
that i walked to campus health
knowing they cant fix crazyi tell my mother
when i was being poked and prodded
i thought it may never stopi don’t tell her
that i don’t think it hasi don’t tell her
maybe i’m allergic to remembering
not just iron sucroseIzabella Sobiecki is a teenager from Washington, DC. Her goal is to raise awareness to the unique challenges that disabled teens face.
prose
Blanka Pillár
SceneryI forgive him for the little lies. The little fibs that slip away and the broken promises that go unkept. He always tells the same lies, and sometimes I believe him because the story paints itself like a vivid oil portrait; first, the figures are painted, then the background, then the corners, edges, contours, and finally, it becomes as if it were a real scene on the canvas of life, but only the immensity of human imagination has made what could never be real. It tells me what I most desire, so I reach for it with all my heart, stretching out my soul's arms to preserve all his lips whisper and hold it within me for eternity. I love him with all my heart, but when my reality is keen-eyed, it sometimes smells like the scratch of jagged-edged infidelities in the dawning light or the wistful night. The cold realization slips into bed beside me or touches me as I walk.Today we take it into our heads to walk around the riverbank. We get caught in the cool January breeze, and he starts coughing. I take off my thin pink cotton scarf and wrap it around his neck with careful movements. He gives me a weak half-smile and walks on. My chest gets hot, even though my whole body is shivering from the winter's minus temperatures.Sometimes we stop. We look at the broken-legged seagulls on the slippery waterfront stones, the sloppy sidewalk ahead, and the footprints of giddy pedestrians. He rubs his hand as we spy on one of the old buildings covered in melted snow. His fingertips are almost purple, so I tug
off my black fabric gloves and slip them on his frosty palms. He thanks me quietly. His silent words creep into my consciousness like angelically soft notes, wrapping my trembling body in a gentle embrace.Barely perceptible, the milky-white sky opens, and it drizzles, but we are unperturbed. We sit on a stinging bench and stare silently at the glistening toes of our wet boots as they tread the snowy ground before us. Somewhere in the distance, expensive hand-painted plates clink, light pages of newspapers crinkle in the city breeze, the iron bells of a dilapidated church jingle, and a delicious golden-skinned duck in a warm oven is being prepared. I feel him move beside me, and I put my head down. He sways back and forth with folded arms while tiny particles of dripping snow fall on his knitted flame-red Angora sweater. I slip my thin arms out of my expensive loden-lined coat and place them on his back. He looks me in the eye. My tongue curls and confesses at seeing his delicately delineated perfect face. It humbly admits the truth it has admitted so many times before and hopes. It hopes that, for once, its love's answer will not be a lie. But once again, he replies, I love you too. I-love-you. He utters this gracious lie delicately. The first syllable is trust, the second is passion, and the third is loyalty. He feels none of these, yet he testifies to them. He savours the shape of the voice. First bitter, then sour, then finally swallowed. After all, it's only one word. But for me, it's so much more: I put myself in his hands.Maybe that's not how it all happened. I've been sick for a while now; my lungs are weak from the January freeze. Every time I close my eyes, I try to remember our last story. Embellish it, add to it, rearrange it, change it. Maybe one day I'll grind it to perfection, and that word won't ring so false. Or the memory will turn yellow, like old letterhead, and no longer matter. Or maybe ‘‘I love you’’ will become just another fluffy word to be whispered in the harsh winter, bored, picked up by the wind, carried far away, across the world, to where it means nothing. Far from the eager, greedy arms of my soul.Blanka Pillár is an eighteen-year-old writer from Budapest, Hungary. She has a never-ending love for creating and an ever-lasting passion for learning. She has won several national competitions and has been an editor-in-chief of her high school’s prestigious newspaper, Eötvös Diák. Today, she is not throwing away her shot.Aurora Burke
"Make it pink! No, make it blue!"Of all the many things society has chosen to gender, why color? I mean, it seems simple to just keep them the way they are. Many colors have even scraped by without being assigned to girls or boys, like red, orange, yellow, green, and black and white. But, other colors like pink, and blue didn’t meet the same fate. For as long as I can remember, pink has been feminine and blue has been masculine. This is puzzling- especially for me, since in a lot of art you see women in blue, and men in pink's sister color, red.Pink for girls and blue for boys has been widely accepted in most European societies- except, not until relatively recently. An article from June 1918 from the trade publication Earnshaw's Infants' Department said, “The generally accepted rule is pink for the boys, and blue for the girls. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl.”Another interesting concept to think about, on how pink gained its status as masculine prior to the 1940s- is that it resembles dried blood on white or cream linen. When men would come back from war- their red uniforms would probably fade into pinks, and any blood that dried on their white uniforms and shirts would fade into pink. It's possible that as people began associating this “light red” with war, it also buddied up with masculine identity. As for blue being feminine, it’s possible that the royalness— the dainty, delicate nature of things like blue flowers and china plates, as well as the ability to dye plain white cloth blue quickly rubbed off on having a more feminine identity, because it was easy to make plain clothes more fashionable.As for figuring out why there was a sudden shift to pink for girls and blue for boys, there really isn’t much information. My leading theory is that corporations figured out they could completely redirect consumer consumption by creating new stereotypes about color and gender identity.Works Cited: Source 1Aurora is a high school student in America, who dreams of being published. She works under the pen name Aurora (Character from her favorite movie, Sleeping Beauty) Burke (old family name) on Tumblr at @therealsleepingbeauty, the owner of Spindle & Quill Publishing and hopes to gain an audience by posting thought pieces, personal anecdotes, articles, and reviews.Apollo
the ocean and his sonHe swore he could hear his father’s voice in the sand the night he went down to the rocks again. The wind slid over the shore like a ship treading water, and the acrid smell of salt and fish hung lifeless in the air. Gracefully, the moon had lulled the people of Staffield to sleep, and yet the earth was still wide awake. Elijah could still hear the waves as they rolled onto the coastline, stealing pieces of the beach just to spit them back up seconds later. Some days, he’d throw pebbles and wait for the waves to spit his father back up, too.Once, when he could only count to ten, Elijah had asked his mother if he had a father. “He left to find the best toy in the world for you,” she had said. The words tasted bitter as they left her mouth, but the feeling was cleansed when her son giggled. A cold breeze had brushed her hair into her eyes, and she briefly let go of her son’s hand to clear her vision. When her hand reached out for his again, she squeezed it. “Maybe that gust was him,” she told Elijah. Bows formed at the corners of her mouth as she smiled, but the vivid flecks of green and gold in her eyes were long gone. They had been replaced with a dull, dark brown. Elijah didn’t notice it, though. He was picturing his father standing tall, chest puffed as the roaring ocean struck the research vessel. His feet left the floor when the boat dropped from the wave’s crest, only to crash back down a moment later. It was everywhere — attacking from all sides, a relentless monster hungry for its next meal.A streak of lightning tore the dusky, cloud-covered sky in half. A clap of thunder rang out, shouting for Donovan to take cover. He didn’t listen. Instead, he shouted back, an animalistic noise that rivaled the harshness of the waters below. Donovan knew that beast was out there, but the ocean was already a strong foe. Once more he cried, but now he formed words: “Where are you?” he said, squinting. Maybe if he narrowed his eyes enough, he’d finally see Donovan’s ship sailing home.Elijah visited the beach as often as he could, sometimes right after the last bell rang at school. “There goes Poseidon’s boy,” the adults would say ruefully, and more often than not, the kids would too. When those words passed through his mother’s ears, she swelled triumphantly, her eyes beaming with pride and her cheeks throbbing from smiling too much. She found a sorrowful joy in the nickname — maybe Elijah would stop looking for someone who wasn’t there anymore. Perhaps he’d forget the man who didn’t know his own son.It wasn’t long before the town forgot Elijah’s father. Like flotsam, memories of him floated away. He left in May when Elijah was barely three; by the time the trees were bare, his name was sparse on their tongues. Any mention of Donovan was jarring. “Quiet down,” they’d whisper surreptitiously. “We don’t want Olive in tears, now, do we?”But Olive Harris didn’t cry. She didn’t cross his mind until he was thrown over the railing, his hand barely grasping the metal.And then he slipped. He was under.An eerie quiet filled Donovan’s ears; the only sound he could hear was the muted rage of the waves above him. He opened his eyes to see nothing but a feeble light. Quickly, he swam to the surface, gasping for air. His hair stuck to his face like a barnacle on a whale, and she’d always fix it for him, pushing it from his eyes with the grace of an angel. That was what she had been to Donovan, to everyone. Always open, always ready, always smiling.Then she became a widow. Always silent, always empty, always looking through and not looking at.That cold summer, his wife routinely went down to the rocks with her child in her arms, staring out into the vast ocean. In the far reaches of her mind, she imagined it swallowing her whole. The beach’s gravelly hands reaching for her ankles and pulling her in. But day after day, she went back home with Donovan’s son. Day after day, she would wake up and whisper her husband’s name, only to rediscover his disappearance. Her eyes would scream in agony, for she would not let herself cry.Lightning.
For eight years a storm tore her insides apart.
Eyes closed.
Elijah never noticed the crestfallen eyes, the snail-slow walk.
Sink.
He was her unassuming lighthouse, making sure she didn’t hit the rocks.
Sink.
“Eli!” she said, raising her voice. “Come on, now, it’s getting dark.”
Gone.Elijah climbed up the boulders — “Don’t get yourself hurt, now,” she’d always say — and ran towards the house, leaving her behind.The ocean’s son turned his back to the water, but she didn’t. Not yet.Olive peered into the depths, wanting but not expecting. The depths peered into her, mocking but understanding. With a sigh, the dam broke. The wrinkles of distress that lined her face and the gloom that clouded her eyes poured out. All the emotion, all the hatred that piled up high in her mind toppled over. Donovan’s laugh no longer filled her mouth with lead. The thought of his eyes no longer left a pit in her core.She’d given up.With a swiftness she hadn’t felt in years and a smile worn crooked on her face, Olive turned around and walked away.She didn’t look back.This is a prose piece by Apollo.Xandra
Why?Pollution plagues the air we breathe, the beaches we swim at, the ground we walk on and the Earth on which we live. Climate change, pollution, melting glaciers, greenhouse gases, natural resources, climbing temperatures, and Pokemon. What do they all have in common? Well for one, seven-year-olds could tell you the meaning of every single one, but also that they’ve had global impacts and influence younger generations. But I bet you, a select few of politicians that represent our world leaders wouldn’t know a single thing.Why can’t those pretentious politicians act on the climate crisis like they do when their golf course closes? Why can’t they commit to renewable sources instead of stripping away funding for our future? Why can’t world leaders own up like how a seven-year-old takes the blame for spilling spoiled milk? They say it’s complicated, that it’s not a matter for children, but that’s the problem. It is our matter.It is our future. It is our planet. It is ours to preserve. Sustainability is taking what you need and nothing more to preserve the world of future generations. Why can’t they get that in their heads like how seven-year-olds do with their times tables?Seven-year-olds never stop asking why? Why can’t I get the new Pokémon game? Why can’t I have a piece of candy? Or those are the questions they should be asking. Instead, they’re asking why do we have to move countries, mum? Why is our home flooded? Why are they taking more oil? Why are they taking away our future? So, who’s going to tell them why?Author’s Reflection:
This piece was born out of my opinions on the change of government in my country - New Zealand - in October last year. It was written with the aim of encompassing all the anger I had for their policies and how it ruined our gorgeous environment and to display the passion I had for the environment and social justice from the ripe age of 7 when sustainability was a new topic to me (and Pokemon cards were all the rage). Plenty of people don’t really take the time to consider the effects of today's actions on the future generations as evident in several crises worldwide and I wanted to highlight that, especially as those same people downplay it.Xandra Zubiri is an avid high school freshman writer born in Singapore, from the Philippines, and raised in New Zealand. Xandra is a a social justice and human rights enthusiast with an appreciation for all things art and the complexities of STEM. She finds herself reading, writing or learning in her free time and found a passion for writing after encouragement from her Year 4 teacher to pursue her creativity. She has hopes to become a worthy advocate for people who don't have voices and have her work be a place of comfort for other readers.Prarthana Vijayakumar
where what isn’tI will be young again, and I will write poems to a universe where I don’t exist this way. Where I’m not your perfect taxidermy subject, stuffed up with buttons and lacquer and apologies. Where I’m the greatest messiah of our time, the synthetic jesus, the violent saint, the headless god. Where three serpents sprout out of my mouth and I remember my name still. And the skies are no longer falling and the sea does not turn into blood every time I step in. Where the bridges to our homes are still intact and fire doesn’t eat me whole but laps at my feet like a gentle dog. Where I can write better ghazals and have not written a single elegy yet. Where I’m a part of the moon and the moon isn’t a face in my balcony looking straight with angry red eyes. Where I sleep inside poems and poems aren’t pills you have for breakfast and breakfast isn’t a ritual yet with seven goats sacrificed everyday and a goat isn’t a metaphor but the fulcrum of existence at a deserted temple and in the temple, you can still hear my mother’s bangles while she’s cooking and her food hasn’t begun to taste like guilt and guilt isn’t the spear you aim at his heart unknowingly and it is still a softer world and you both are still children and nothing bad has happened to you yet and you don’t know the taste of blueberries or loneliness for now.Blessed be the mirror that refuses to hold me, blessed be the fire used to light my pyre.Prarthana Vijayakumar writes. She has been published or is upcoming in The Daphne Review, The Curie Review, an AIFEST Anthology, and elsewhere.
Halah Fathima
what does it mean to be godly?To sculpt a plague, the assumption is you ought to be above it, far out of reach from its venomous grasp. Who’d want to create a plague they cannot escape?Yet, the humans went ahead and created the atomic bomb anyway.They can be excused, the devil’s advocate would say, the purpose of humanity is to build a prosperous house of cards only to watch it all collapse of their own accord anyway.But then there’s God, the devil’s advocate would continue.“What about God?”God—, the devil’s advocate enunciates, sculpting a cheeky interlude to drum up anticipation. God— sculpted a world measured in perimeters that perturbed his own.“How so?”God manufactured a world where they can count from the start and count till the end;Humans live in ornate rooms, pierced with windows that teased an adventure ahead, and doors that once crossed- either exceeded or understated these expectations;The principle here is “the thrill of the moment”— the full-fledged knowledge that beyond one of these of doors lies a dead-end to their transient and fleeting journey;A prophesied end to the wealth they will raise, the riches they will gather, and the souls they will encounter - no price tag can make these possessions permanent, and that in itself makes them priceless;“What does this have to do with anything?”Simply put, the devil’s advocate said impishly, God has created a conceptual labyrinth where stakes are established, by which the awareness of having something to lose encourages the resolve of having something to gain.“And are you suggesting that because of this, God has something to lose?”Dear stupid little child, the devil’s advocate taunts, that’s the whole point! He has nothing to lose. If a race can’t be truly “lost”, can winning it really mean anything?“I suppose not.”Tell me, the devil’s advocate teased, his cadence testing the waters by slowly slipping out of its poker face, and morphing into something— someone, that possessed actual emotions. Tell me, would love be as sweet when it revives you if it was never consumed bitterly when it deprived you?“I’ve had neither.”Neither has he. He created this whole enigmatic web of trial and error, I suppose he doesn’t need these keys to survive if he’s procured the control room. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want them. There’s a reason he created each trap and each reward the way he did. Besides, humanity’s biggest downfall is that it wants more than it needs - an offspring emulating its creator.(It had been easy to take the devil’s advocate’s words with a grain of salt. I’ve been warned, by weary travellers, of his questions that he’ll never take an answer for, or his answers he’ll never let anyone question. He neither attacks or defends any particular point, he simply prods the prey till it pushes past the perimeters of their patience, pushing them beyond the edge of the cliff they’ve been cornered into.)(No one told me how to deal with his words when they weighed meaning. Maybe pretending it did was one of his last resort tricks, if the other refused to budge. Either way, it worked. It’s all downhill from here, as my firmly grounded feet from seconds ago are flying unsuspended, as the summit of the cliff flashes past me like nostalgia.)The ground threatens to swallow me whole, as the sky threatens to tear itself apart. A voice from above, timidly echoes my thoughts:What does it mean to be godly?Author’s Note
The exploration of godliness is not meant as an insult or substantial commentary to any god from any organised religion, but rather a vague exploration of the word itself and its connotations in society.Halah Fathima is a 17-year-old high school student with her head perpetually in the clouds, and hopes that this piece reaches those that she can meet on cloud 9. Since a young age, she’s been interested in literature, and what it means to pack a plethora of meanings in a single word. She hopes this piece of work is no different; and that every person who reads it takes from it an understanding that develops the way they think positively!Ria Raj
Mother TongueMy mother and I take two buses to the temple. We are carrying containers of stenchy food and I am salivating. I eye people on the bus covering their noses, using each stop as an opportunity to move further away from me and my mother. I am sorry for them, sorry that they do not have a mother like mine, one who has kept me full, one who has hand-fed me, drenched herself in jeera-infused steam to keep me alive. We reach our stop and make our way to the mandir.After we’ve finished serving food, mamma begins her English lesson. Today she is explaining that English is not phonetic the way Hindi is, that there are hidden sounds, covert silences in the English language.My mother gifted me my love for language, my obsession with fiddling my tongue like an instrument, phonemes for strings. And for this, I love her insurmountably, I love her as if she is my own child. I say this not to infantilize her, but to signify how much space she takes up in my body, her Punjabi and Hindi and Urdu and Bhojpuri sewn into my arteries. I start to think about how parents grow up concurrently with their children, about how she grew up with me; I begin to hope that we have raised each other, that maybe I am her parent and she is my child. And I am in love with this thought, with the idea that I could provide for my mother the very same way she has crafted my world with her bare hands.I watch as she teaches others a language that she hates, teaching them out of their necessity no matter how often it leaves her disembodied. And I begin to imagine another life, a life in which she does not follow a man to this country, a life in which she does not give in to English. In another life she is born with everything, drowning in lehengas and Hindi and happiness. In another life I was her mother and she was my chutku and I kept her brimming brown body satiated.Ria Raj is a queer, South-Asian-American writer. She is deeply interested in the intersectional constructions of brownness, queerness, and womanhood in the literary archive, and how her work might fit into this constellation. She has upcoming poetry publications in Eunoia Review and Zhagaram Literary Magazine, and an upcoming prose publication in Fleeting Daze Magazine.julieta
miss u.summer feels like it’s over.
it’s that you’re not here.you told me on saturday—horrible day—, that you were leaving the day next. three, you said.
“en la madrugada?” he asked: tall, respectful, boyish; imagining you waking in the dark, or not sleeping at all.
“no, idiota,” you laughed in response (you’d already clarified), “in the afternoon.”i spent the morning of sunday in flux. i didn't know what, how, where to feel.
i’d miss you, i knew. i could see you, if i pushed. but i wouldn’t push. i would miss you later. i would miss you later, when i stared at your old locker for too long, or when someone mentioned you airily (because grief doesn’t bind them, mute them); when i wrote something that reminded me of you; when i stared too long at the picture of us in my room—the baby one, i mean.instead, i began missing you promptly at 2:17 pm.
my mom offered a distraction, and i, desperate (damn you), took it. we were in the car for half an hour, and i looked for you, not knowing for sure whether you were in your jeep or not. i found two, both quite a shock to my heart, which near leapt out my throat; both far too late to be you or your mother, but still.
i had dalloway in hand (the pink virginia woolf on my nightstand), as further distraction and excuse. distraction from the mourning, and excuse because the grief had damn near muted me. i couldn’t speak past the knot in my throat. and when i opened the book, the words swam in front of me. it took me 25 minutes to get past 5 pages.
you’ve ruined her for me. dalloway, i mean. (i’m only kidding, but i don’t really remember what i read yesterday only how i felt, and i read a respectable chunk.)i do miss you; curse and damn at the pain of it, etc.darling, call whenever you’d like. i’ll answer every time i can.
darling, do you mind these long ramblings?
i won’t send them if you’d prefer me not to.
darling, what’s your address?
darling, let me know what your new phone number is, when you get it (you’re bound to, surely).anyways, the missing-you peaked at around 3:30, and i can’t really explain why. it got sharp and the space around my heart went cold.
i (unable, not unwilling, to speak) did all the domestic duties i normally hate to do. i did the dishes. i did my laundry.
i priced three bags worth of product, and didn’t touch my laptop (ie, didn’t write).
i only sat and read and thought pro tip: don’t listen to sad music. pro tip: don’t listen to sad music.
as it turns out, it can’t even be sad music with a happy beat.the hurt: “like a little warm coal in my heart burns” or “it is painful, but also rather pleasant, if you know what i mean.”
i’m glad you’ve gone. i’m glad you’ve gone, but i’ll miss you dreadfully, as it turns out. more than i thought i would, and i thought i’d miss you like i’d miss a sister.Julieta (17, from a small town in Honduras) is a writer based in the moments in-between moments. She is completely enamored by the concepts of hope and gore. (Recently, she's been thinking about how her heart pumps in time with yours, whether you're miles apart or just next door.) She’s finally getting around to writing her book.Aisha Naushahi Hasan
THE FIRE WE ALL BURN INThe UK is burning with the fires of racism, but despite this, the true words that fan these flames are completely disregarded by the politicians and mainstream media.No, forget fires, these are small sparks. Barely noticeable.According to the mainstream media, they are ‘protestors’, they are causing ‘disorder’, they are ‘pro-British’ ‘patriots’ and simply ‘anti-immigration.’Let me be very clear: these are riots. They are Islamophobic pogroms, they are hate-marches, they are lynch mobs.You cannot call a man chasing a Muslim couple with a chainsaw a protestor.That is attempted murder.And yet, these are the words better left unsaid. Because, according to the unsurprisingly laid-back response of the British government, you can set fire to hotels and cars, destroy and vandalise homes and businesses, attack the police and innocent people and still be called a protestor if you are white enough.The sad reality is, the UK is no stranger to race riots and hate crimes. From the 1960-90’s especially, the term ‘p*ki-bashing’ was commonplace and Brown and Black people were regularly stabbed, attacked and discriminated against. Groups like the National Front and now the EDL have made it their lives’ mission to stir hatred between communities and make the lives of people of colour a living hell, or not living at all.As a Pakistani Muslim whose parents immigrated to the UK, I grew up with stories of how my father and his siblings were attacked by the racists when they first came here. I listened to the accounts of how the police never cared, learned of the harrowing incidents which were never solved, never given justice, the true horror behind the plight of immigrants in the UK.These stories were primarily of the 1980’s, when rioting against people of colour had been common.Now, once again, it seems we are trapped in the same loop, of the same riots by the same racists.With the same slogans, the same words, and the same dismissals from people of power.It seems that the Labour government is allergic to the word ‘Islamophobia’ when describing the riots, despite the mobs clearly targeting Muslims and Mosques. They did not seem allergic to words like ‘illegal immigrant’, though, in the weeks and years leading up to the fires.For years, the UK has so very clearly been scapegoating refugees— in fact, most governments have— demonising and villainising these innocent people who flee some of the worst situations in the world to blame for the issues plaguing the country. The reality is, it is not the fault of refugees that the welfare state is collapsing. It is not the fault of refugees that the infrastructure is crumbling. It is not the fault of refugees that the cost of living is going up.Do you know who’s fault it really is?That of the super-rich politicans and their donors.The ones who hoard their wealth and give off contracts to their super rich friends and family rather than do anything for their country.That has a name: corruption.But no, we British don’t seem to accept the word ‘corruption’ – we’d much rather blame immigrants and Muslims for all of our problems.I say we, but am I really British?I was born in a country that does not, and never will accept me. A country which colonised mine so many years ago and still hasn’t returned what they stole. A country which has committed some of the worst human rights abuses in history against people who look just like me.The reality is, people who look like me, are not human according to the British government and media.The same British government and media who labelled peaceful pro-Palestine demonstrations as ’hate-marches’, who villainised refugees and Muslims and stoked racial hatred, who sat and watched while their own people burned the country alive.The EDL set a hotel with refugees and families and workers in it on fire. They tried to burn an entire hotel alive because of what? The colour of our skin? The religion we believe in? The countries we are from?Where was the police, you ask? Probably arresting peaceful pro-Palestine activists, who, by the way, haven’t set any Citizen Advice Bureau’s on fire or thrown acid on hijabi women.Climate activists have gotten jail sentences for over 4-5 years for simply joining a zoom call, but the EDL can set cars on fire, loot shops and beat up men of colour and walk away with a few months.If I sound angry, it is because I am. I am very, very angry.For the bus driver who works tirelessly everyday just to get spat at and screamed at by a racist, for the care worker who works 12-hour shifts to get his car burned, for the boy who had his head stomped on by airport police and his mother beaten.Even graveyards have been vandalised and destroyed.Sometimes I wonder, between the calls for help and the news alerts of another riot; how much are we actually hated? How many people do I walk past on my way to school want me and my people dead? How deep does the hate go if you are willing to desecrate graves.Today the UK is on fire. It has always been on fire. It will always be on fire.These are the words better left unsaid: we have always been too dark skinned, too foreign, too savage for human rights.Aisha NH is a 17-year old student who writes and preforms spoken word poetry at various demonstrations and protests across the country. She is involved in various forms of activism and spends her free time writing, reading and applying mehndi/henna designs.
elaine chung
abandoned homei have been forgotten, but i still remember much. i have been forgotten, but i still dream of what i once had.i remember the voices flowing through my sidewalks, the hum of mopeds, laughing children and sizzling vegetables and droning TV shows resonating from within my cheap concrete walls. the music that came with life. the music that came with use.now i am no longer a home. now i am antiquated, and it is quiet. this forsaken town has grown old and silent with me. my face is weathered and muddy, the wind shakes plaster from my bones. i swathe myself in a shroud of dust and ivy and i wait. waiting, waiting. always waiting. there was no money to give us a quick and decisive death. we die slowly here. i am left always waiting.i guess that’s just how life is. we are our most glorious— most valuable in our youth, but we are all destined to eventually fall. my time presses near with the squalling storms and pelting rain.nature swallows me slowly, and soon i will be unrecognizable. no longer a home. how the years have passed. like swallows leaving their nest, all too soon did the children flutter away into the city. and where the young go, there is little left to remember the old.i have no place nor purpose in this world; i am no longer a home. what am i but a shell? a reminder of the people who loved, who lived, who left?i could be more. as long my foundations last, i could still be more.so i hope. and i hope. and i wait. and i wait.and i stand steadfast— as always, as always— watching through my weary, rain-streaked windows.Elaine Chung is a sophomore in college with a fiery enthusiasm for writing poetry and short fiction (always with a dollop of visceral descriptions). She dwells in the sleepy suburbs of Colorado, where she spends her time crawling through an unending stream of homework—which can only be expected with a Pre-Med major and two minors. When she has time, she can be found doing Taekwondo, agonizing over the meaning of her existence, playing piano, and practicing Chinese.Raquel Frescia
BLUR #1TRIGGER WARNING: This piece describes rape against a minor.I hear a voice but I don’t know what it says and all I can focus on is where his hands are and I’m starting to think that we’re not alone but I don’t understand why or when he would have invited someone else and as I think this he or they put something in my mouth and it makes me gag and I can’t breathe but I can’t move and it won’t stop and I hear another voice but I’m not sure what it says and someone pulls my hair and I’m no longer sure it’s him and I he or another he pushes me and I fall and the floor is cold and I am kicked or pushed with a shoe or something that feels like a show and I suddenly start to understand the words and someone tells me to spread my legs and I’m not sure what they mean and I’m not sure I’m moving but I am moving in my head and they kick me or push me or whatever they did again and I can feel it rain on my face and I can barely breathe and I wonder if I’ll die and I decide I’m okay with that and someone lifts my head and someone slaps me and I suddenly feel like I have a chance at knowing how many they are and something starts to pour on my skin and I don’t know what it is but I hate the smell and it feels like beer and pee or so I think because I cannot remember those smells or anything else right now and I’m not even sure I ever really paid attention to the smell of beer or pee or anything else in my life and everything feels quiet and I hear a door open and I hear laughs and someone drags me from my hair and it hurts and my skin burns against the floor and then we stop and I feel as if buckets of water poured on me but I’m sure that’s not it and I realise I have a t-shirt or a cloth or something like that on my face and wonder what it is and whose it is and what colour it is and I feel like I’ll die and my wrists start to burn and the rest of my skin starts to burn and I can breathe and I can probably see if I open my eyes but I don’t open my eyes and I feel him squeezing my breast one last time or at least I hope it’s the last time and he slaps it and I want it to hurt but it doesn’t and I want to be cold but I’m not and water is still pouring on my face and he moves my face and I don’t feel like I’ll die anymore and I hear the shower curtain close and he closes the door and I’m not sure he’s still in there so I stay still and I fall asleep.Again, I feel like I’ve teleported. I’m not sure how long it’s been. I try to remember, but I can only remember sitting on the sofa when everything went blank. I remember my thoughts some moments after that. But I don’t remember anything else. I wonder if I’ve made it all up. I open my eyes, and I see blue tiles with white flowers, and I wonder where they bought them. I stand up, which turns out to be harder than I thought it’d be. I am dizzy, but I can stand. My skin is wrinkly. It feels like I’ve been lying here for hours. But I couldn’t have. That’d be weird. Everything was weird. I found some shampoo— Johnson & Johnson— and I suddenly feel like a baby in a strange, comforting way. I wash my hair three times. I apply conditioner and leave it in. I look down at my body, and I feel shame. And I don’t know why.With soap in my hand, I stood there for a long time. It felt weirdly uncomfortable to touch my body. But I did. I scrubbed myself with my nails. My skin burnt but I couldn’t stop. And I scrubbed myself again. And again. And I washed away the soap and the conditioner. But I still felt dirty.I don’t know why I felt this way. I don’t know why I still feel this way. I don’t know why this affects me at all. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t know why I want to stop thinking about it. (Almost) Everyone does it at some point. That’s how we’ve evolved. Then, why do I feel so broken since? Why can’t I say the words?My skin burnt. But I was okay with that. I pulled the curtain open and saw my clothes folded on a stool underneath a towel. My favourite trousers were stained with blood on the crotch. Was I on my period? Maybe I was.I’ve had about twenty periods before today, and none came when they were supposed to. ‘Twenty-eight days’ – that never worked for me. My periods were often late. But this one seemed to be early – very early. Maybe it was a thing that happened when you did what I did. Maybe when he touched me, when he put his finger(s) in me, I started to bleed.I put on my pants and went out. He handed me my check without saying a word. I walked
through the pain as normally as I could down the stairs and out the door. Lorenzo arrived in his car
with his family. I smiled. I waved. And before his wife could ask me how I was, I left.…I remember taking a cab only a block away instead of walking home like I usually did. I remember rushing through the door as soon as I got home, afraid my mom could see the rape through me. I remember running to the bathroom, taking off my trousers, and washing them vigorously over the sink. I remember blow-drying them and putting them in the wash. I remember running to my bedroom and putting on a skirt that wouldn’t hurt touching my skin.I remember being terrified of my mom finding out. I remember hoping for her to find out. But I wasn’t sure what she could find out. I wasn’t sure what had happened. I wasn’t sure what I had done. I wasn’t sure I hadn’t done anything wrong.I remember leaving the house again without saying goodbye and taking a cab to a park I’d never been to. I remember sitting there. I remember crying and writing.Raquel is a 25-year-old born and raised in Ica, Peru, and currently based in Stockholm, Sweden. They are an avid reader and a passionate yet inconsistent writer. Their writing has appeared in a few places, but they hope to publish a full-length work someday.
art
Jacelyn Yap
Odd BloomJacelyn (26) is a self-taught visual artist from Singapore who ditched engineering to make art because of a comic she read. Her artworks and photography have been published by the Commonwealth Foundation's adda, Chestnut Review, The Lumiere Review, and more. She can be found at https://jacelyn.myportfolio.com/ and on Instagram at @jacelyn.makes.stuff.
Timea Azar
Medusa’s RageTimea is a 18-year old Lebanese artist; she is deeply invested in important fights such as feminism and ecology, which she uses her art to convey! She especially loves Greek mythology and cried when she visited the Acropolis.
Mytxe
Rose in handsFiza Siddiqui, known as Mytxe/Mytzex online, is a high school student and self-taught artist who takes references from Pinterest.
Esther Lim
The PuppetEsther Lim is a Health Science student at Marianopolis somewhere in her late 10s. She lives in Canada and reluctantly ponders the meaning of life. Drawing and writing weird stuff distracts her from the terrifyingly never-ending march of time.
Prahi
A Minute PlacePrahi Rajput lives in India. Their work has appeared in Muse India, Roi Faineant Press, Feminism In India, and Voidspace Zine.
Michelle Zhang
Day in the life of a Pastry ChefMichelle Zhang is a passionate high school artist from the United States who focuses on combining original digital illustrations with graphic design principles. In her free time, Michelle is constantly exploring new design softwares and ways to express her creativity.
Edward Michael Supranowicz
OverbearingEdward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.
f.fitrihani
i'm sure there are many of us, we just didn't have a name for it yetHani is a 28-year old Indonesian artist who is determined to create her own comics and is currently still trying to do so. She mainly goes by @drawhanidraw across online platforms. This particular illustration is about aromanticism and asexuality.
photography
Aleena Bacorro
Now and the FutureAleena Bacorro is a 17-year-old from Massachusetts, USA and the Philippines. She loves to write but is also very passionate about social justice, journalism (including photojournalism!), and medicine. Writing is a tool for her to express her passions beyond literal forms and use her voice in unconventional ways. Connect with her @a1eee.na on Instagram!
iVision
BEMOREARTThis is a photo by iVision.
Samantha Denny
Pillars of LightSamantha Denny is a graduate of San José State University's MFA in Creative Writing in her 20s, and an avid fiction lover. When she's not writing, you can find her taking walks around her neighborhood or playing some Pokémon on her Nintendo Switch.
JT
A Street in MexicoThis is a photo by JT