Literary Issue 2023

Table of Contents

Poetry

"Clean" by Zadie Wang p 17 1

Manifesting by Joshua Rogers p. 5

"Slid Past the Cemetery" 2

by Naveena Clark p 11

"Maplewood" by Aliza Proulx p. 34

"An Ode to Unended Notes" by Kent McNairn p. 35

"Artist's Hands" by Tania Hao p. 20

E

"Life is Good" by Caitlin Strong, Matilda Schrader, Liadan Flanagan, and Jupiter BradyMcCullogh p. 28

Visual Art 1

"Wealth Inequality" by Juju Crane p. 26

"My Tongue and I are Quarreling Again" by Ilah Jefferis p. 38

"The Day of Tears" by Ruby Zawel p 39

E E

"King of Kings" by Maggie Bonassar p 43

"Forgotten Family" by Joyce Spears p. 18 "Childhood Trauma" by Josie Leonard p. 44

E

"David and Goliath" by Ruby LaRocca p. 30

Short Story

"The Art of Staying Alive" by Zadie Wang p 40 1

"Ricky & Bri" by Jordyn Baker p. 25

"Untitled " 1 by Urban Hopkins p. 23 2

"A Composition for Maui" by Brenna Lucio-Belbase p. 46

"Thin Layer" by Siran Jay Jia p. 42 3

"Untitled 2" by Urban Hopkins p 47

"Red Button" by Laura Mead p 9 3 "Rainy Days in Oil Pastel" by Urban Hopkins p. 20 "Candy" by Chloe VanGaasbeck p. 24

"Overpopulation and Gender Inequality" by Juju Crane p. 37

"Nighttime" by Leo Elliot p 36 2

"No More than a Minute" by Caedmon Sethupathy p. 27

"White Butterfly" by Tania Hao p. 31

"Love and Hate" by Amaya Doolittle p. 46

"A Christmas Nightmare" by Joyce Spears p. 32

Thomson p. 7 "Red" by Anneke Ryan p. 8

"Anticipation" by Anneke Ryan p. 10 "Blueberry Sky" by Ruby Zawel p. 12

in Amsterdam" by Nathaniel Mimno p.

"Artifical Footpath" by Francis Liang p 13

"Building Blocks" by Ruby Zawel p 15 "Shaded" by Anneke Ryan p 16 "Untitled" by Nathaniel Mimno p 21 "Juxtaposition" by Anneke Ryan p 22 "Midnight Sky" by Anneke Ryan p. 22

"Chicago Architecture 2" by Marley Thomson p. 28 "Desert After Rain" by Josh Yoon p. 34 "Sunset Over 80" by Nathaniel Mimno p 35 "Hello" by Anneke Ryan p. 36 "Safflower" by Ruby Zawel p. 39

"Castle Picture of Ghent" by Nathaniel Mimno p. 40

"Regression" by Maura Kinast p 13

by David Riccio

Manifesting

by Joshua Rogers

“I am full of love, Belonging not in spite of it all but as a part of a whole. Every face I’ve laid eyes on, every hand I’ve held: they’re all a part of me. What am I if not a manifestation of my love for everything else? This cup of mine is overflowing with golden, liquid light and you’re all in the splash zone!”

All of this something of a prayer I repeat to myself each night In hope that the words will stick and become my armor for the next day And I will become a rose with love-tipped thorns

An Evening of Soliloquy

by Zak Kasian

Breath of Legends

by Maggie Bonassar

Halfway through a bard’s rendition of "Pickleflowers for Sireen", Maeryn’s eyes were drawn to the tavern’s low doorcase, where the light of the moon should have been shining through the cracks in the ill-fitting frame. Instead, it was blocked by a man of impressive stature, who stood tall and proud despite the rough and tattered clothes he wore Maeryn drew his hood back over his face at the sight of him; it was not hard to imagine that the High Masters had not heard of his disappearance by now, and they were certainly not above using blades-for-hire to do their dirty work.

The man entered without much fuss, sitting down at a table entirely too close for Maeryn’s liking. His hand slid over his bag, feeling the smooth edges of the stolen dragon egg below his fingers It was a safety and a weakness if he could not protect the egg, then he would need to destroy it.

He sat down and flagged over the barmaid, and soon after was nursing a mug of ale while watching the bard at his work Maeryn stayed in his seat, resisting the temptation to cast even a simple concealment spell; magic was often missed by commonfolk, but remained obvious to the trained eye.

The night continued for a blissfully short while.

It was when Maeryn made to leave that the man finally acknowledged him. He turned as Maeryn stood, and finally he could, at least partially, see what face was hidden beneath the hood salt-and-pepper stubble, a narrow chin. His shoulders seemed even broader now that Maeryn was staring him down face-to-face.

A silent standoff passed between them, a battle Maeryn knew he could not win.

“A cup for a weary traveler?” the man asked, waving a hand toward the seat that he had just left “To help a pilgrim along on his way ”

Pilgrims didn’t drink, not until they reached the base of Mount Oryll, yet a week’s journey north. They kept their faces uncovered before the gods, too, and Maeryn had seen many treated for exposure after not covering themselves properly at the summit

You are no pilgrim, he wanted to say The egg’s tiny pulse of life kept him quiet.

“Anything for a man of faith.” There was a false smile inside his words.

They ended up settling in a corner, far away from any other patrons or listening ears. Maeryn tried his best to not let his fear overcome him; sorcerers who let their emotions wander seldom lived to tell their tales

He tried to study the man as they listened to the lilting music still coming from the low stage A grey hood concealed most, if not all, of his face, leaving only a few wrinkles along his jaw and a long-since-faded scar that likely went across most of his face. Most of his features, from what could be seen, betrayed that he was at least somewhat aged his forties, Maeryn supposed, maybe older

It was when the bard finished for the evening that the drunks finally began to stumble home. By the time the second bell rang, Maeryn was left alone in the tavern with the man who was surely going to kill him.

Said man sighed, still gazing at Maeryn from below his hood “Guess this is as good a time as ever,” he muttered With no warning, he drew his hood from his face He was balding, with wisps of hair that still yet clung to his head. There was indeed a nasty scar that ran across his nose and up to just touch his brow. His eyes were a piercing green, and Maeryn felt like he’d seen them somewhere before “We have more in common than you know, Maeryn Spears ”

There was no point in hiding his face now. Maeryn drew his hood down sheepishly, hissing out, “How do you know my name?”

The man chuckled, and pushed the sleeve of his tunic up to his elbow. A harsh brand stood out against his fair skin, shaped like a roaring dragon, glowing only just “I was led to you, by magic more ancient and powerful than anything you could be taught in that bloody Tower.”

“The Dragonknights.”

“Aye.” The man nodded. “We protect our own.”

I am no Dragonknight, Maeryn thought.

He had a strange memory of this man’s eyes, one from when he was almost too young to remember Thinking of the Dragonknights had stirred it within him, and he saw in his mind’s eye the Dragonknight’s eyes staring down at him, heard the fine cadence of hoofbeats.

“Sir Wyott?”

“The very same, boy.” A small smile poked at the edges of Wyott’s lips

“Wh–why me? Why now?”

Wyott took another sip of his ale. “Promises I made a long time ago, to better and lesser men than you. You hold in your possession the legacy of countless generations, the ability to make sure the sacrifice of my brethren meant something. I can’t let a chance like that be lost so quickly.”

“What would you have me do, then?” Maeryn asked.

“Leave this damned city, for one. Make for Crestmount or Hulbreak Your friend sought me out, you know that Rhoyce girl She believes she can hatch it ” He eyed Maeryn’s bag dangerously.

“Araea,” he muttered. This was all so confusing; he felt as if his head would burst.

They continued nursing the ales until the barmaid forced them out, and he trudged up the stairs to his room in a daze, drink ringing in his head and tiredness nipping at his heels Sir Wyott trailed behind him, and they ended up in bunkrooms across the hall from one another.

“Rest well tonight, boy,” Wyott said in parting, “for terrors of all kinds await us come morning.”

Maeryn surely wasn’t ready to face whatever terrors of which Wyott had spoken, though he had faith in Araea, however short their meeting was That, he supposed, mind drifting closer and closer toward sleep, would have to suffice for now.

Chicago Architecture 1

by Marley Thomson

The Room

by Maura Kinast

I cried at your funeral

First it was all berries, ringing the door attracting mice no doubt

And then it was fall. I could see it in their eyes, how they were tired Nobody sat at home in the big chair; falling asleep although everyone wanted to.

Not watching the knitting needles so they slipped from the arms and onto the floor, prey to the cat

No Everyone in the room was walking and dreaming that they were someone else that you were someone else so they wouldn’t care, wouldn’t as much as they do.

Red

by Anneke Ryan

Red Button

by Laura Mead

The jack o’ lantern glows each morning Today stunning me Leading me A mischievous scheme of self indulgence 69 degrees of sunlight Warms my puffy face Hides the natural texture Smooth skin & mirror mixture

I look hot Wet hair curling my forehead Mascara shadows under honey eyelids I think maybe I look hot

And whispering I am it.

The yellow eyes of sun implore me Remember you’re hot Don’t forget it… …Capture it I'm on autopilot

Click click click Tap tap sexy back Lean and purse your lips there The gold hides all my body hair 69 of mini me My hands are now glittering bloody.

Purple sky is jealous As I fly down the dewy road Jealous cuz i’m hella gorgeous Autopilot opens my phone

The Devil’s number stares back at me Delete Delete Delete Delete Delete.

My back neck, my elbows bloody Why did I think I looked so pretty? The yellow filter betrayed a beauty A red button has cut and killed me (Why is it red? Is it the blood from my fingertips Or a subtle message of I shouldn’t do this)

repeat delete delete delete delete delete I’m left with a crop top Close up Cut away the gross stuff Just my eye and nose I love Is that it?

Somehow I love less What did I miss? About appreciating myself

I was tricked by the Jack O’ Lantern Put the on his shelf of Terrible treasures Teenage prisoners …

Maybe if I don’t try remembering Stop the perfect picture pattern I won’t bleed the crime of self hating Deleting, deleting and top heavy game playing

I’ll remember even better In my mind there’s a picture I looked perfect

And that’s it.

Anticipation

by Anneke Ryan

Slid Past the Cemetery

by Naveena Clark

I am my dad’s

child

My dad and I share a single dimple on our left cheek And dark–teardrop Dakota eyes. We share a similar smile And a slight gap in our front teeth. We share a favorite song And a love of all four seasons. We nearly shared our names but I was named something new.

I have his jeans which were sewn into a blue-black blanket just for me And some wonderful tangible things that I hold dear. I have his pictures & some letters he sent to my mom Everyone knows him more than his own child; all my stories of him are borrowed.

Did he know?

Did he know it was comin? Was he waiting for the blow?

In a terribly–beautiful way he got shot on my birthday 5 years to the day And survived That day sealed our fates; I was destined to be born and he was destined to die And after 2,546 days he did

Catharsis

by Elliott Salpekar

Blueberry Sky

by Ruby Zawel

Regression

by Maura Kinast

Knock

There’s somebody at the door! Don’t you leave them waiting now Take wing, leave slashes in the dome of the sky Letting the universe bleed in Let the stars trickle in, Steadily, to file to hover over your head to give us hope on the grayest nights that one day, our outline will be traced among them for fear of the wind blowing us away, we put a roof over our heads curtains on the window a knocking at the door oh, look who it is again.

Artificial Footpath

by Francis Liang

by Leo Elliott

Eight“Who are you, then?” He asked them, willing the shaky feelings taking him by storm not to seep into his voice. “If you aren’t the ones who wrote the letters?” On one hand, his fingers drummed against his thigh, and with the other, he folded and crinkled a paper he kept in his pocket.

A tall, bald man with a scraggly white beard and small, round glasses stepped forward from the wall and squinted down at him, frowning. “We are the Seven,” he replied simply. Then he took a step backward so that his shoulders again met with the wall. He tugged on the cuff of his jacket sleeve and resumed staring blankly at the wall across from him as if pretending the visitor had never existed

The room was dimly lit and windowless, the only real light coming from an electric light bulb that struggled overhead, humming as it worked Even in the relative darkness, though, the boy was sure he had counted correctly as his eyes scanned the people lined up against the wall.

Twelve black shoes on the polished white tile. Six torsos. Four heads blanketed in varying lengths and styles of hair, one shiny, clean scalp, one black top hat with wisps of grey hair curling out from underneath. “There aren’t seven of you.”

“Aren’t there?” said a girl with dark brown hair in two braids resting neatly on either shoulder. She stood at the end of the line, next to an empty space between herself and the wall. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old, and something about the room made her seem infinitely small and isolated, even though she easily stood close enough to touch the woman next to her.

She spoke softly, refusing to meet his eyes, instead occupying herself with something concealed in the pocket of her pale green dress. A ghost of a smile was painted across her face.

“Come stand with us,” the girl suggested, momentarily retrieving a hand from her pocket to gently pat the wall next to her three times, her gaze never leaving the floor. She shuffled closer to her neighbor to ensure there would be enough room for him to join.

He glanced back at the tall man with the round glasses and the beard, accidentally meeting the blank blue eyes frozen behind the glass. The boy quickly dropped his line of sight, now staring at his own shoes, becoming increasingly aware of the contrast between his own red sneakers and their black dress shoes, of the mud on his soles against the clean white floor

A hand, his own hand, reached for the door that still stood cracked open behind him, and pulled it shut with a soft click

He continued to watch his sneakers as they began to pull him forward, inch by inch by inch. He rolled and unrolled the corner of the folded paper in his pocket, an effort to ground himself in something he knew to be real. All the while, without his input, his feet kept moving, painfully slowly, and then a little bit faster, until they stopped, his toes now near the wall.

He pivoted and inched back.

He straightened, and his shoulders pressed up against the cold wall behind him, and now he stood next to the little girl with the green dress.

The Seven watched the opposite wall in unison, listening to the steady song of the strained light above, waiting patiently to call themselves Eight.

Building Blocks

by Ruby Zawel

Learning

by Taran Knutson

by Anneke Ryan

Clean

by Zadie Wang

Lock yourself in the bathroom

Take off your shirt. Gaze into the mirror and stare at your disgusting self. Unclasp your bra, and let your sweatpants fall down your legs. Throw the dirty things into the laundry basket and wish it was big enough to hold you, too

Turn on the water for your shower. It must be scalding hot, a taste of hell, as if your body hasn’t been through it enough today. Touch it with your hands and let it melt your fingers like candlewax.

Turn up the heat

Step into the tub. Wince at the bullets of water hitting your sensitive skin. Tell yourself it will be worth it when you are clean again.

Rub the bar of soap in your hands and let the bubbles pop on your palms Scrub your skin until it looks like raw salmon, determined to rinse away today, and all of the bad that will follow. Maybe now you won’t feel so dirty.

Don’t bother washing your hair It is parched and lifeless already

Stand in the shower for as long as you can endure the pain. Ignore the wrinkles on your fingertips and your red skin. Clench your fists and release.

Shut off the water Stand in the tub until there is no more water surrounding your bare feet. Step out of the shower and wrap yourself in an off-white towel, eyes welling and lips quivering. Look in the mirror. Turn to the side Look over your shoulder, at the sloppy wet footprints you have made.

Laugh as if you were insane and sob like the victim of a heinous crime.

Drop the towel. Sink to the floor Your body is clean But.

You are still dirty.

Forgotten Family

by Joyce Spears

As reality and fantasy crash into one I drown in the memories of a boy once loved

Where a happy family once stood proud In the mind of this child no darkness was found

Now sorrow and sadness are all that remain The light of the innocent forever drained

After tragedy and tragedy his soul became crushed The voice in his head, no longer hushed

It told him of all the horrors in his mind Drove him insane, to the edge of a knife

With a slip of the blade his blood hit the floor And next went his body, then his life, no more

Another tragedy to the list

Their family won’t be missed And all that remains is a blood soaked abyss

u n s e t i n t h e C i t y

Artist's Hands

by Tania Hao

You can always tell an artist’s hands from those of someone who hasn’t spent days on months on years scooping paint, smoothing pastels, carefully shading until Their fingertips are tinged with faded color They move deftly, never shaky, Never stop searching for dreams.

Even a woman whose dreams lie in piles in a spidery basement or precariously clipped on clothesline will never lose firm control of a stroke that blossoms into a new dream. Once a week we spend an afternoon in the room of discarded dreams Squinting at plaster casts and glass vases while She tells us about the art school she went to, the feeling of creating dreams, but that was before She got married, had kids, and settled down.

At night when the world falls silent, she sits under a single kitchen light and plants swirling seeds that will never bloom into dreams that only she will ever see.

Rainy Days in Oil Pastel

by Urban Hopkins

Untitled

by Nathaniel Mimno

Vignette

by Julia O'Donoghue

She is standing there watching the sun dip below the horizon It is balmy out and the lack of wind leaves an unbearable silence

I can see her now She’s adjusting her hair, pulling it up into a ponytail No, that ponytail is too tight I flit around her, making her ponytail tug. She winces. Yes, that ponytail is too tight. She takes it out and lets her hair fall. It is long. Longer than I thought it was. A small strand falls over her eyes. I dash by her, moving it out of her face, revealing beautiful brown eyes and a small nose that slightly turns up at the end. She thanks me with a smile.

It is getting late, and she must be expected at home. I watch her pack up her things: an easel, canvas, and paint. She is an artist and I’ve been watching her work for a while now. She’s painting me dance. I love to dance. I dance with the leaves and I dance with the grass. However, I love dancing with her, annoying her when I dance too close to her sketchbook making her pages flap and turn over, and entertaining her when I dance with her hair. She always laughs and lets me carry her cries with me. She is my artist and I love her.

k e R y a n

b

y A n n e k e R y a n

u x t a p o s i t i o n

by Urban Hopkins

Ricky & Bri

by Jordyn Baker

My boyfriend, Ricky, and I were always getting into trouble but what some called trouble, I called freedom. The trouble we got into involved him helping me spread my murals around the block. They were murals of the people that are left out of classrooms in schools, so hopefully kids would learn from the vibrant colors spraypainted on random buildings While my murals did no harm to anyone, Ricky and his friends’ “business” did a whole lot of harm. I saw all of it and it was real bloody business. Ricky was a few years older than my seventeenyear-old self, making me automatically infatuated. We said we were each others’ ride or dies, but it almost never came to that the dying part

The neighborhood we lived in was the personification of depressing. People were dropping like flies left and right, house windows shattered daily, and there were more people on streets than in homes. The sound of police sirens was the alarm clock for everyone and it was like our neighborhood's theme song It was everyone for themselves, but I didn’t picture it would be like that with Ricky. When we sat in the backseat of his car, he would comb his fingers through my curls and tell me, “It’s you and me for infinity, Bri. You got my word.”

“You got my word.” He always said that like it meant something to him I watched Ricky go back on his word, more times than I can count, but I thought it would be different with me

The sun was setting, but the whole block either had their fans blasting or they sat out on a stoop or fire escape. To entertain myself as I worked the counter at my dad’s corner store, I drew a two-headed snake around my wrist. Everyone had bought their cold drink and frozen treats at the first drop of sweat, so the store was filled with the lone sound of the fan blowing. I set down my pen, leaned back, and rested my elbows on the counter. Short, purple strands of hair laid on the glass counter as I tilted my head back. I closed my eyes and sighed. It was one of those moments when I truly felt joy. No blaring sirens, no loud customers, just pure quiet and tranquility

That’s when Ricky strolled in With a simple nod of his head, a smile grew on my face and I instantly began

closing up. Before I walked out, I noticed him take two glass bottles of bright colored soda out of the fridge. Ricky and I leaned against the wall, drinking the cold soda, in our usual empty alleyway. I turned and looked ahead at the bare brick walls. Ricky smiled at me and followed the spot I was fixated on He threw his arm around my shoulders “What’s on your mind? You got that look,” he said

“I’m thinking about how lifeless this alley is. It’s just trash and…I want to paint all around us,” I explained, “This neighborhood needs more beauty, even in the more hidden places.”

“You already know I’ll help You got my word ”

It’s both a little scary how fast everything happened and a little funny how I didn’t see it coming. My history-loving momma used to say I had the sight of Argus, but a single moment proved that I wasn’t some all-knowing, powerful Titan…I was just me.

Three of Ricky’s friends approached him and accused him of sleeping with their girlfriends Their words didn’t register in my mind; I didn’t get to process anything I screamed before they fired the shots, I screamed even though they weren’t aiming at me, I screamed when Ricky grabbed my shoulders. Ricky was in front of me, but he, without hesitation, used me as his human shield. I didn’t count how many shots went off, but I knew that every bullet hit my chest The pain was nothing compared to the pure pain I felt when Ricky released my shoulders and I could hear him and his former friends’ footsteps running away. I wasn’t as hurt as his words that echoed through my ears. The hollowed feelings, the meaningless promises, the sweet turned bitter kisses. All of it was nothing. Our supposed love meant nothing I meant nothing

As my dying body lay in that bare alleyway, ragged breaths were released from my twitching lips. I let out a whimper as I stared up at the rising moon that now seemed closer than ever. My glassy eyes gently closed as I stopped fighting my inevitable eternal rest. Dirty water soaked my spread hair and scattered shards from our soda bottles rested under my arm I remembered him going back on his word with a bloodstain on my shirt

Wealth Inequality

by Juju Crane

No More than a Minute

The sky darkened as the torrents of rain poured down on a barren wasteland cracked like clay The rumble of the ferocious storm could be heard from miles away The dry ground turned to mud within an instant Any remaining plant life was swallowed by the waves and all manner of small creatures were swept away in a vicious swirling hurricane.

Louis lay shivering on the cold damp floor and cried. His world was toppling around him and his plight seemed impossibly difficult It was finally happening The end of times. He prayed it was all a joke and that they would come back for him, but he was smart enough to know a lie when he heard one. In their grand experiment, people like him were not considered worth the effort of keeping alive. So, as the water rose higher and higher Louis simply waited to die He knew that no one was watching Why would they? They had already put him on earth, and that was a death sentence so complete that no checkup was required.

Louis could not remember the number of times he had begged to have had something more than human blood running through his veins But his genetic sequence was as unchangeable as the current situation and there was nothing to be done. Louis looked up at the sky through the cracks in his hut’s roof. Somewhere out there was the planet Hueron. And on it were whatever remained of humanity, if they could even be called that. Generations of crossover between the intergalactic species had led to an almost entirely new race of beings, who were quicker, more intelligent, and better adapted to their environment than any pure human would ever have been.

Humanity was considered a liability. No human could perform a task as quickly and accurately as their mixed

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species progeny. Over the past several hundred years, every genetically pure human on Hueron was captured and shipped to the Earth, their original homeland But the Earth was no haven of life and beauty anymore Millennia of violence and shortsightedness had led to the wasteland in which Louis now sat; a world warmed by climate change and deserted by its destroyers.

He was the last. The very final human. The last relic of a species which had mutated beyond recognition, so much so that they hated their very ancestors The water was now several feet high. He was barely staying afloat and although he could not think of any good reason to survive, the primal instinct overwhelmed him. He kicked and thrashed but it was no use. When he died, the universe would finally be rid of the creatures that built the pyramids, that conquered the galaxy, and that destroyed their own planet Louis fell silent and submerged He couldn’t fight anymore. Months of starvation in a land he had never known had taken their toll. He had nothing left in him.

The hut fell apart and with his final breath he wondered whether his life had meant anything at all; just a blip in history And all of a sudden he laughed He might die now but all things end. And just as humanity was closing its eyes for the final time, so would their progeny would do the very same someday soon. It did not matter if it was in one hundred years, or a billion. Either way, their existence would be a single page in the great book of life, which began many ages ago, and would continue until there was no one left to remember it With that thought Louis relaxed. He let go. He died. The end of humanity was quick, no more than a minute.

Population Project

Life is Good

by Caitlin Strong, Matilda Schrader, Liadan Flanagan, and Jupiter Brady-McCullogh

I’d hate it if my jaw bone broke or tried to none-the-less I’m sorry if I hurt you, I take it back I’m not

The darkness descends in an instant Standing at a crossroads

To wish among the snagged fingernails and broken teeth

Vibrant colors dance across the page

This life is so precious and humbling

I observe from afar

Grains spill over the cliff

It’s a strange world

You wish you could stay, but you have to go

The most beautiful stars

As if I’d love another song, my dear, as if I’d love another tune

I am not dead

Dark, twisting, mysterious, inviting

Further and further down you go

It all seems endless, infinite

Pieces shift to become whole

To wish among the raindrops opposed to the sun

Tiny blue elephants dance on my head

Everything swirls around you

As much gravel available, collect that sun and bring it here

Embers long to keep the fire hot Roses are red

The pathway unclear

As if the pounding in my head ever cared to stop Life is good

Chicago Architecture 2

by Marley Thomson

Casa Oaxaca, Oaxaca, Mexico

by Laura Mead

Malt Milkshakes

by Nora Coch

i d a n d G o l i a t h

White Butterfly

by Tania Hao

There’s a recurring dream that you have: You’re in one room of the house, talking to one of your parents Most often, it’s your mother, and most of the time, she’s asking you about school or some mundane thing like if you turned the oven off. You finish up your conversation and happily leave the room. When you arrive in the next room, your mother stands in front of you, even though you just left her in the previous one. There’s no way she could have walked past you without you noticing You say, “Weren’t you just in the other room?” Then there’s the same dread that something bad is about to happen, the same feeling every time you have this dream. The woman who stands in front of you now is silent. The pit in your stomach splits and not-your-mother lunges at you.

You wake up running from the woman with your mother’s face Blue-gray light of morning escapes into your room despite the curtains’ best efforts You slip out of bed and into the heaviest clothes you can find, to weigh you down and to avoid the tendrils of cold winter snaking through the air. Like every morning, the water rushing from the tap takes too long to get warm, but you splash your face with it anyway

Downstairs, you can barely move through the thick, syrupy air. There’s no in-between: piercing clear cold or muffled warmth. Your mother pushes a peachy pink travel mug into your hands and asks about tomorrow’s appointment. You tell her you’ve scheduled it. She tells you to have a good day, sounding and moving like she’s underwater, and you retrieve the leftovers she packed into neat little containers the night before and put on another coat and a hat and an extra pair of gloves.

The outside finds some balance. Frosted blades of winter cut into you and threaten to blow you away, but you are weighed down by the layers and the heat from the drink that your mother got up early to make just for you, filled with honey and spice You don’t drink it, though Your lips are frozen over You feel its mist over your face, thawing the cracks for a tiny moment before they freeze again.

There’s a collection of stories your mother used to tell you. You don’t remember the details anymore, but in the sharpness of the cold you can recall pieces that struck you the most Gray wisps of women who lurk in the deepest fog, always beyond reach but always watching, waiting for the right moment to appear and snatch naughty children away. Puppets that take the forms of people, only distinguishable by their lack of blood. A white butterfly that appears before tragedy strikes. A lonely woman with

yellow eyes who stalks the coastline and sings with the stars You believed these stories with your entire heart, too young to know better It was always the people, or the vaguely humanoid entities, that resonated with you the most. And now, even having forgotten what else happened in the stories, you still remember the magical, deeply disturbing beings as if they were actually alive. You still remember wishing they were real.

The clarity of the cold has fizzled away, replaced by thick fog You keep your head down, images of the gray ladies still spiraling through your mind, and breathe in cinnamon spice and listen to the crunch of your shoes on pavement until you reach the bus stop with the metal sign. Your eyes trace the route numbers and the arrival times, refusing to look anywhere else until the bus arrives.

The entire ride, the bus is engulfed in the fog that makes the entire world silent and vague The normally crisp outlines of the houses you pass are blurry. When you lean your head against the frosted window, you can hear whispers in the wind. You stare outside as if you can see through the fog.

When the bus is close to the school, it makes an unexpected turn, ending up on a street corner you’ve never seen before, illuminated by a single rusty lamp. A woman stands alone at the stop, clutching a scarf and waiting, her hair whipping around her face. She boards the bus slowly, one step at a time, heels clicking down the aisle. Your eyes inexplicably flit up to scan her face when she nears your seat

The woman stops and meets your gaze Her eyes are golden yellow.

She moves past you. Slowly floating to the ground where she stepped is a white butterfly, dead.

You drift through the day, barely anchored to the ground. The fog outside does not dissipate and reaches in through the cracks The yellow-eyed woman does not appear on the bus ride home You trace your steps back, clutching the pink travel mug.

The house is no longer stifling, the air no longer syrupy. Your mother is waiting for you in the kitchen. She asks you about school and if you liked the tea she made. You smile and nod to show her your relationship can be different now, that you can make an effort, that things can change When she’s satisfied, you leave her and go to your bedroom.

Your mother stands with her back to you, facing the window. You say, “Weren’t you just in the kitchen?”

A Christmas Nightmare

by Joyce Spears Content warning: gore

It was December 20th and I was counting down the days before Christmas finally arrived I absolutely loved the holidays and the cheer that came with them Papa had been acting strange lately and I had hoped that the gift I had made him would lift his spirits. I was lost in thought when dad walked into the room. “Ready to decorate the tree?” he asked me. Suddenly, I forgot my worries and smiled. “Yeah!” I responded. Of course, that didn’t last very long. I turned away from the bare tree in the corner of the family room and asked: “But where is Papa?” Dad frowned and gave a halfhearted smile, “He’s in his office right now but he’ll be out soon. Don’t worry, pumpkin.” It was obvious he was lying. I managed to swallow the lump in my throat and began stringing lights on the tree while dad sipped his coffee…

About an hour later Papa came into the room with a red box in his hands and a nervous smile on his face. “Here, I made these, especially for you sweetheart” he set down the box and began pulling out ornaments Each one was beautifully handcrafted and when the light hit them just right you could see images inside, although I wasn’t quite sure what they were of I was ecstatic “Wow, Papa! These are wonderful!” I beamed The three of us smiled as we finished decorating the tree Four days later, I went to bed with a smile on my face anticipating the merry Christmas I would wake up to.

The next morning, my eyes flew open at exactly six a.m. and I jumped out of bed so fast I almost knocked over the Optimus Prime toy I had received the previous year. Ignoring the action figure, I ran downstairs and got the gift I made for Papa from its hiding place behind the lounge chair and waited for my parents to wake up.

As I waited I gazed at the ornaments Papa made and saw something strange. The fuzzy pictures I couldn’t make out before now became perfectly clear. Inside each and every one of Papa’s carefully crafted ornaments was a human eyeball. I was horrified. Not only were they clearly real eyes, but no matter where I stepped their gaze always followed They were watching me Feeling confused and terrified, I ran to the closest room I could find; Papa’s study

Still fighting the urge to throw up, I walked toward the trash bin in the far corner of the room As I walked,

I tripped over a red box. This box was very similar to the one that held the ornaments and I felt that I needed to know what was in there. Unable to control my curiosity, slowly I lifted the lid and peered inside. It was absolutely terrifying. So terrifying, in fact, that I forgot to hold back the bloodcurdling scream that had escaped my lips. Sitting in a red box full of shiny wrapping paper was a severed head. It was blueish and rotten and the dead skin was flaking all over.

I was practically screaming bloody murder when I heard a small voice telling me to quiet down. I froze. I don’t even think I was breathing at that point for fear of discovering something even more horrifying. Tears falling from my eyes I heard the voice again, “I need you to listen, Rocco,” the voice echoed. I wanted to run, to scream, to do anything! But still, I was frozen I tried to speak but not a single word came out What’s going on? Why can’t I speak? Who is that and how do they know my name?! All these thoughts were rushing through my head but my lips were sealed “Good,” the voice said My gaze slowly drifted down and then I knew: It was the head IT WAS THE HEAD! I was about to panic once more but the head spoke again. “I understand you are scared but you need to go,” it interrupted. Feeling a rush of bravery I responded, “Wh-what are you talking about?” I was losing it. I was standing there like an idiot talking to a severed head with no eyes instead of running for help. I heard footsteps clamoring from upstairs and my heart dropped. Before I could stop myself the most unimaginable thing popped into my head: What if Papa kills me too? The footsteps were drawing nearer and the head began screaming, “HIDE! HIDE UNDER THE DESK NOW!” Not knowing why, I listened to the decapitated head and hid underneath the desk. I heard the door creak open and I stopped breathing. What will happen if they find me? Someone walked into the room and I heard dad curse. He never cursed “What is it?” I heard Papa ask After an agonizing moment of silence, dad uttered something that still sends chills down my spine: “You weren’t supposed to see that, pumpkin ”

From an outside point of view, it wouldn't have seemed that terrifying You had to be there to hear the cold, threatening tone he spoke with Like he knew I was in the room. And I'm pretty sure he did. I don’t

know how long it took me to find the strength to crawl out from under that desk. A day? A week? An hour? Either way, nobody came looking for me, and when I stepped out from Papa’s study no one was even surprised to see me. Papa and Dad just smiled and sipped their coffee as if waiting for me to grin and open the first Christmas present

*

I laughed and asked my sister if this was her version of the “Santa isn’t real” story Before she could respond Papa shouted to us from downstairs, “Girls, come decorate the tree! Your dad made cookies!” I turned to my sister and beamed, “Come on!” She just smiled and patted me on the head, “I haven’t put up ornaments in ten years but you go ahead.” Disappointed and annoyed I walked out of her room and into the hallway. I turned around one last time hoping to convince Rocco to join us but she already had her headphones in and I knew she wouldn’t hear me.

Before she went into her room she smirked and said, “You kinda look like that ugly corpse.” And with that, she shut her door.

After we finished I sat back on the couch and helped myself to a nice warm sugar cookie. I stared at the tree feeling accomplished and couldn’t help but laugh. All of the ornaments were staring at me with the most realistic eyes I figured Rocco had done this to scare me so I stood up and started dancing around the tree I watched the ornaments as I danced and after a moment I stopped dead in my tracks “Hah They really do watch you,” I laughed Still feeling slightly amused at Rocco’s little prank, I ran into the bathroom I bet she drew on my face to make me look like that dead head from her story, I thought. After preparing myself for a sharpie catastrophe I peered into the mirror and screamed.

Creepy Clown

by Chiara Miller-Out

Maplewood

by Aliza Proulx

I am lifeless, empty, a bottomless pit of a dream left behind The fire extinguished, the tears dry This silence is worse than the raging storm But your potential gives me purpose

Unwelcome thoughts screaming, too loud for sensibility A cacophony of hatred that drives me to the floor Unable to escape this endless tunnel I created But your consistency grounds my thrashing mind

Running alone, invisible, melting through walls Racing away from what can’t be deserted Life goes on, my absence unnoticed But you confirm my presence

Fluid yet unwavering, imperfect yet beautiful Your vibrations take me far far away Some might use you to express, But not me I use you to escape

Desert After Rain

by Josh Yoon

Sunset Over 80

by Nathaniel Mimno

An Ode to Unended Notes

by Kent McNairn

Three stanzas. That’s what I promise myself I’ll write three stanzas, 3-4-5, real nice and poetic, filled with that classic writing and figurative writing that has people callin’ me smart. And then turn it in to get published.

I think I can do it.

Thoughts cloud me, forming thick barriers of mist, Usually music helps but when you can’t find a beat and the lyrics only impose their wills onto you, and you promote these revenge songs, the iron only goes hotter and the knife deeper

So I sit. Riding out the storm. This is the third poem tonight. ‘Poem’. What makes this shit poetry? I have no great tales to sing, no notes to write, no great metaphor for the plague that prevents the expression of anything

The face stays on The mask up The act live Come and watch it, every Sunday Night at 10:00pm, or 22:00 for all those who use that.

Hoping that crying out to the universe will do something, neglecting to believe that the biggest lie in many’s lives is that cry out to the universe, and it cries back.

Nighttime

by Leo Elliot

The train’s wheels are rusty now, the luster of its once shiny metal walls dulled by years of the constant wind pushing against them The brakes scream in protest as it approaches the bridge, slowing but not stopping The bridge sways slightly, and the water churns, dark and angry, below The whistle sounds with what must be one of its last breaths, exhausted and always closer to broken

In the city, the windows are dark, all at once. The doors are shut, and the curtains are drawn; now the rain begins to fall, the heavy clouds suffocating the sky, turning its greyish hue to black.

All around them, they hear the familiar faint groan of the dome as it turns, slowly, slowly, slowly, in perfect mechanical increments of sound and silence, then closes in on the city and the sky around it. Closes away the world with the train and the bridge and the water, just like it does every night

The clouds are pulled in under the dome, and the rain changes to a thick fog that mixes with the city air, gray and smoky and damp and silent as it swirls in the dusk.

The train whistle blows in the distance, once, twice, three times. The wheels turn at an anxious pace, their sound drowned out by the water and the quiet and the dome.

There are eyes between the buildings, concealing themselves next to the windows and under the shadows, few and far between. They move, quickly, without making a sound. Their bodies are shapeless, invisible in the smog.

The water rises higher, crashing and churning just under the bridge now It hits the supports and sends sprays into the air, tiny stars that glisten in the dim lights of the train before they fall back to the dark

The eyes can see reflections in the puddles that form on the streets of the city.

They walk, uniform and alone, between buildings and parks without aim, past parked cars and empty bus stops, ignoring the boundaries of the chipped sidewalks that line the streets.

The train slows further; stops in the middle of the bridge.

Eyes meet across the road

One set nods to another, wordless

The water is too high.

The eyes disappear, crawling back under the shadowy blankets where they sleep. The water rushes onto the bridge, seasick and aching for the solidity of land.

The bridge and the train are nowhere in sight. There’s no proof that they ever existed, no whisper of their names in the calm, lazy river that flows through the empty.

The dome is raised, and the sky lightens, a bright daytime gray full of the sounds of the city

They find a wheel just outside the border

By Anneke Ryan

by Anneke Ryan

v e r p o p u l a t i o n a n d G e n d e r I n e q u a l i t y

My Tongue and I Are Quarreling Again

by Ilah Jefferis

lousy tongue fossilized affection negotiate sentences hesitate consequences remain prospective chapped lips zipped delay instinct how can we portray the occult laughter waddles off tongue hazardous courage wandered away a cautionary lamentation sung swallowed spit out mischievous tongue

Tau and Pi

by Juju Crane

The Day of Tears

by Ruby Zawel

1 wailed

2 trembled and shook 3 asked for no help 4 gave a tired look 5 stared down at her dinner plate

1 was out for all to see 2 spoke up then gave up easily 3 pressed on 4 thought she was in the wrong 5 was a tidal wave, exhausted and irate

1 has short hair, good friends, and a nice laugh

2 is sweet and darling

3 is unafraid, unrelenting, and powerful 4 is sleep-deprived and falling

5 uses poetry to calm her heart rate

This Song is Named Steve.

by Elliott Salpekar

Safflower

by Ruby Zawel

EUntitled

by Emily Bellman

The Art of Staying Alive

by Zadie Wang

Content warning: death, needles

There seems to be more than you thought there was in your system.

The doctor says your liver could have failed. Without a working liver, they say, you can’t live for more than a day or two. And getting a transplant, according to Google, would mean a three-in-ten chance of not making it to your eighteenth birthday Your parents could spend 50,000 dollars on just a few more years with you–you know they would empty their pockets for precious seconds, but you feel guilty

It’s funny how you’ve never thought about your liver until now.

The sticky pads placed on your belly, hips, and arms tug at your tiny body hairs. They are cold like ice cubes scattered around your abdomen. Your IV needle pokes you with every move you make, and your throat burns like your palms on the hot stove.

What time is it now? Five in the morning? Eleven at night? You can’t be sure All you know is that you got here just in time to stay alive a little longer

As you think of death, you hear rapid beeping coming from the heart monitor You’re sitting up on a bed, nearly motionless, and your pulse is 160 beats per minute. Calm down, you think to yourself. Don’t let the doctors think it’s an emergency. You take deep breaths and lie back down, placing your entwined hands on your belly. Then you set them at your sides, fearing that you looked too much like a dead body.

Your mom is lightly sleeping on the uncomfortable chair next to you. Her knuckles are digging into her cheekbones, the sagging skin drooping down towards her palms She does not look at peace at all; in fact, she seems to be shivering Her unsteady snores are a reminder that yes, you’re going through hell, but you’re dragging her along with you. She’s fighting harder for your life than you are.

This could be it, kid. You could really be dying, any minute now. Get ready to think your final thoughts, and send out your last wishes to the universe in the hopes that someone will hear. Watch that heart monitor drop like a jaw to the floor until you’re not conscious enough to make out the numbers. Be so still that your mom will get to sleep for a few hours more before finding you, and by that time, rigor mortis will have set in–you will be as cold as the early March air outside This wasn’t the death you imagined, but it seems it is the one you will face You close your eyes, hoping to die in your sleep

Castle Picture of Ghent

by Nathaniel Mimno

Alleyway in Ghent

by Nathaniel Mimno

a y e r

King of Kings

by Maggie Bonassar

Weep, ye who wander, Through hill and glen and desert, Who see me, my creations, Standing alone in ruin, Testament to the futility of time,

I was a mortal man, once, For many years I did rule, 'Twas for centuries that great prosperity, Taken from the hand of the Goddess herself, Was awarded to me on bended knee

I sit alone, now, forgotten by Time, By my children, and their children after them, They leave me and my cities to rot and decay, And find them after centuries, My statues stand, steely as they are, Though no one dares approach them

They are artistry of a forgotten era, My own name lost to history, Once written in every book, Sworn by in every tongue, Feared by all who dare oppose me

Weep, ye who read of my sorrows, Weep, for lost empire, for lost kings and bloody crowns, For stories and songs and dances, For battles lost and won

I weep, for my name is Ozymandias, And nothing beside remains

If Not for the Turning Point I Fear I May Not Be Here

by Matilda Schrader

But what if what shattered was more than just the glassy hue over my eyes Rather my lips, or my skin all together As touching as it seems, I am subdued to my own body's shadow Calling as much off as I can, true to the fact that I refuse to tell the story If it weren’t for the separation of my deadly sins, I fear I would not be here I may have let my emotions consume my sensibility more than once, but I have nothing to take away from that;

To the point where I have stopped feeling all together No matter how much I let my silhouette be forced to contend with Or not contend with for the matter She will always perceive a greater fervor than my deafening shadow wishes to For when my body makes the turn from seeing to noticing, my eyes will fog up They’ll drown and whimper as I let my guard down and make the skin I wish I had tell the story

Any misdeed I have done was nipped in the bud before I got a chance to fix them

Only if what I said was swayed by noticing rather than seeing The turning point from crying to suffering Utterly circumspect (directed at the broken glass over my eyes)

Childhood Trauma

by Josie Leonard

Content warning: violence

I have never had the healthiest relationship with my mama Growing up i always thought she hated me, And i in turned seemed to hate her, I didn't hate her in the way christians hated the devil, Nor in the way racists hated africans I hated the way i was her child, I hated her in the way i loved her Though we had fun moments, Traveling across the world and seeing new places I could never get over the moments where she was screaming Calling me names and taking out all of her disordered anger against me, I always knew my sister would have the relationship with my mother i had always wanted And I also knew I never would The mother who was never fully my mother, A woman cloaked in generational trauma who took it out on me, Because i was the piece of her that made it out, That somehow managed to escape the torture

I found out what borderline personality disorder was when I was 12

I will never be the child my mother wanted I will forever be a reminder of what she couldn't have The realization hits and it feels as though the bandaids i put over my scars have been violently ripped off, The cuts made deeper than before My mother didn't have parents around She was raised by wolves She lost her innocence at 5 years old Surrounded by hard drugs that nearly ruined her life No father No mother

A sister whos half dead She wanted to protect me But from what, if not herself? She wasn't protecting me against the monster i feared to wake Walking on eggshells Who called me names And hurt me, mentally grabbing and hitting and bruising

My father hid from it all too Maybe out of fear for the monster Or just pure absence I do not know.

I am living proof that my mother made it out of death alive In school we learn about sexism

The way women NEED to act The way women NEED to be and dress Men seem to hate women and femininity if anything I think they are just jealous honestly

For thousands of years men have ruled the world and given us no piece of it We've been expected to cook and clean and only worthy of child-bearing And now we have finally tried to make a name for ourselves In a world of hate and disgust

My mother is like a man She raised me to be too much like her and when i finally stood up And talked back She suddenly realized she raised me to be like that That i was really just her, In disguise,

But one thing is different, I am not my mother I am better than her I learned to let go of my family and my past and keep going With the thought someday, That it would all end I had to leave my mother and father and sister behind in order to do so But i broke the cycle, Finally

And now it's all over I became mine and their dreams Healed myself before helping them I'm all put back together now no thanks to them So i rest my case

Canal in Amsterdam

by Nathaniel Mimno

A Composition for Maui

by Brenna Lucio-Belbase

If I ever composed a piece for you, it’d have four sharps; in E, Why? Because you’re very bright, sharp, and not at all low-key,

If I ever composed a piece for you, the time signature would be 17/16, Why? Because you were born in difficult times and I want this to be seen,

If I ever composed a piece for you, it’d have quarter note equal 283.3, Why? Because you want to be precise, and whizz around like a bee,

If I ever composed a piece for you, I’d mark it “cantando”- singing, Why? Because you always howl your snout off when I play, grinning, But also, if a composition for you ever came from me, I’d mark in it “Mi querido, perrito, esto es para ti ”

Love and Hate

by Amaya Doolittle

A Villain's Story

by Skylor Ford

Untitled 2

by Urban Hopkins

Cover Photo by Ruby Zawel