art cannot be defined
 by a few lines of words or a few strokes of a brush. art can be self-expression, art can be communication, art can be an attempt to change the world. this zine will dedicate itself to the art that the youth creates; the people whose inspirations shine a light on the darkness of the world, who are determined to change the world or themselves - both of which are hard tasks to conquer; this zine will dedicate itself to art with meaning made by people who create meaning through art. this zine is the product of what we, as a powerful force, create, no matter what our own definitions of art may be.
“
i feel as though t h e re m u s t a l w a y s b e c h a n g e .
”
there has been a lot going on in the past weeks. it feels like a roller coaster, almost, but one where you’re blindfolded. you feel the vehicle slowing down, and there is already this uneasy feeling in your chest, predicting what is about to come— and for a second, you regret having agreed to join this ride in the first place. you imagine how relaxed you would have been if you had just decided to watch it all from below. but then — then, you feel the wind against your face, and you can hear the joyous screams from behind, and your friend is laughing, and you feel yourself laugh, and it’s wonderful. and you have never felt more alive. with love, ayna founder and editor
f i n d. m e : instagram & tumblr: libraerie
issue.
content.
TWO // december 2018 “december's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, o b s c u r i n g s u m m e r ' s m e m o r y. . . �
i. glow page six to thirteen artist interview - ester
— john geddes, a familiar rain
ii. haunting page thirty-one to forty-one
contact.
script - says the corpse to the coroner by addison
libraerie@yahoo.com libraerie.tumblr.com
contributors. TWO // december 2018 addison t: kibberswrites, twitter: addisonrizer
emma ig: emvine25
ester ig & t: mielgal
izzy fitz t: citruswisdom
jana t: 04ngel
julia t: privateldaho, ig: juul.wes
kayla bethke t: kaylasphotographs
kristina madoc t: katabasiss, ig: kat.abasiss
morgan alexis t: meloqrama, ig: morganislaaame
morgan jarrett
iii. silence page forty-seven to sixty-seven artist interview - theo cook iv. tomorrow page eighty-one to one hundred one f i c t o b e r s
b y
r a n i
t: roneybunches
rani t: amwordism
remi t: mindintowords
libraerie.
sydney noelle ig & t: sydnova
special thanks to theo cook ig: acrylictheo & floralhomo
hollie cohen ig: uhhhollie
danae
the libraerie magazine offers a platform for young artists to raise their voices about their identity, their thoughts and their hopes in their
ig: hk_throughthelens
respective ways of creating.
ig: tfxcam
the simple format aims to enable the reader to fully engage with the work.
open up the moon. let the
g l o w
pour out.
honey-cold, shimmering pale gold like your cheekbones under lamplight. warm-like. i’m with you, slippery roads and maybe not so comforting, but i’m with you when you want me. y o u
m a y b e
e v e n
w h e n
d o n ’ t . september 26, 2018. 10:38 pm b y j a n a
london is family. it’s hours spent hashing out the machination of the past and forming a new present. it’s being so close to familiarity while also being just far enough away from swampy heat and southern twang that you feel removed, like you’re on the moon. london is straightforward, not holding your punches. it’s the feeling that, maybe it’ll work out this time, and then you hold on to that hope like you’re hanging off a cliff, but as soon as you step out of hartsfield-jackson, you plummet. ecuador is easier, i think. it’s more like being with friends than family, less pressure, more pauses. it’s muscle memory, knowing it’ll be okay, no matter what happens. it’s defying expectations and independence and loving the little things. it’s the tight feeling in your chest when you’re trying to hold it together, and the world’s trying its hardest to rip you apart.
l o n d o n a n d e c u a d o r, b y m o r g a n a l e x i s
b y
sun, j u l i a
set me down, sunshine sweet
settle, my love you wild thing, you. fall into my arms and let our racing hearts fall beat to beat. sing to me softly, sweet: the birds will stop to listen, too. hear as they call the calm tik-tok of summer’s cool embrace. lazy heart, my wild thing! sing summer sunshine soft, and sweet. fall in my arms, and let my time fall into yours tik-tok, and beat to beat.
b y
i z z y
f i t z
she’s got a halo like third place, like muted bronze and all the disappointment to coordinate. like working your way up and getting stuck somewhere along the way, rusting under storm clouds and rain. maybe i’d like to polish it a bit, give her a smile and and a glow worth sticking around, but i’m not entirely sure how i’d go about that. i am so sure, however, of the fact that thinking about it sends my pulse into a frenzy and my heart all stuttering. being around her is like a fire hazard, i’m so sure of it, and i’m so sure i’ve never felt that with anyone else. i’m so sure. fix the ornament. or don’t. make it pretty, like it isn’t already pretty enough. just have her to hold. plead for her to stay. b r e a t h e b e c a u s e s h e w i l l .
an excerpt, b y j a n a
“ s h e p u ff s a b r e a t h o f s t a r s a n d g a l a x i e s uncontrolled and untamed, with heavy brimstone on her lips and secrets on her tongue; exhaling a sigh for adventure as she wraps her hand around yours and feels only the anchor in your palm and sees naught but the chains in your eyes” b y
k r i s t i n a
“ur surrounded by angels day in n day out but there's just this one girl with a halo worth pitying n she always seems to catch ur eye ? makes ur heart flutter a bit” b y
angels, crywolf antichrist, the 1975 restless, cold war kids bound 2, kanye redbone, childish gambino LOVE, kendrick lamar & zacari pink + white, frank ocean robbers, the 1975 broken clocks, SZA see you again, tyler, the creator while we’re young, jhene aiko ivy, frank ocean all your yeahs, beach house nikes, frank ocean i got you, HONNE easily, bruno major a change of heart - live from the O2, the 1975
j a n a
it felt sort of weird. like this vague silhouette of an emotion, not exactly bad but definitely not recognizable. and it hit at the most random of times. like that morning, when i woke up but you weren’t in bed, so i dragged myself downstairs in my sweatpants and your sweatshirt and found you leaning against the island, one mug in your hand and the other sitting in front of you. “i went ahead and made your coffee,” you’d said. “just the way you like it.” or later in the day, sitting on the couch all curled up with your arm around me. we were picking a film to watch and i remember you said something like, “oh, awesome, this one has subtitles.” and when i asked why that was a good thing - “because you prefer having the subtitles on, don’t you?” i almost felt queasy. and when it was late at night, and my head was screaming and i could feel the salt behind my eyes - you made me my favorite tea and tucked me under blankets, letting me throw my legs over your lap and shout and whine and cry and i know i was being difficult but you held out, you took care of me. and it washed over me. i never knew what to do with myself when it did that. how was i supposed to act? what did i respond with? i couldn’t say thanks when i didn’t know what i was thankful for, and there’s never any use in apologizing when i haven’t done something wrong. i just knew it had something to do with the little things, like coffee and subtitles and tangled limbs, things that no one else took into consideration but you and i. i think i asked you why why do you consider them? you laughed like it was obvious. i stared, because it wasn’t. “because i care about you? that’s what you do when you love someone, do what it takes to make them happy.” that feeling, yeah? b y j a n a
and then i got it. that feeling, yeah? be i ng
lov ed
w asn’t
s o m e t h i n g
i ’ d
be e n
to.
u sed
e v e r
interview by ayna
ďŹ nd her on tumblr, instagram & redbubble as @mielgal
photo by @tfxcam
brief psychoanalysis things that characterize my psyche
• • • • • • •
• • • •
regret of every minuscule missed opportunity of love and loss sudden switches between emotionlessness and overwhelm underlying, lurking fear of decay an obsession with manifesting my personality in the physical counterproductive perfectionism only understanding myself once it is written viewing others by the vibe they give me or how they interact with me rather than who they actually are an endless search for cohesion fear of confrontation for what i already know, as showing weakness in front of others is never wise complete lack of diligence except out of feeling — whether spite or fear or satisfaction always longing for something vague
by ester
photo by @tfxcam
it feels like everything i do is just a distraction. instant gratification provides nothing in the long run. depression is not defeated with organic soup and boba tea with friends. depression is defeated through self examination and reflection, through personal change and growth. i am weak, and between my platform shoes and my polaroids, you will find that weakness, trembling. my achilles heel — moments of disengagement. moments of boredom. moments when i realize that life is just one thing shot at you after another, and it’s your job (not anyone else’s) to find a point in the void. i am always tired now. always aching but with some laughter as a veil. why do i exist? why do i do homework, why do i paint? what do i even contribute? do i have creativity, or is it just an artistic manifestation of my following list on instagram? do i know how to love, if i’m so apathetic, or do i just want things from people? what am i looking for? just satisfaction? is that even attainable, in a world of narcissism and dependence on the instantaneous? i worry that i have no depth to me. i feel like i’m in the sidelines of my own game. i feel nothing unless i write it down, i remember nothing unless it is recorded. my thoughts are little, and are dominated with hyperfixations on the unattainable. once something is within reach, after such strong yearn for it it’s been completely engorged in longing, i lose interest. it’s like the golden touch of midas — once i have it, it is beautiful but serves little purpose besides a decoration to my ego. abundance kills. more than that. abundance takes willpower by the throat, and traces it with a dagger until it is pomegranate red, choking. the everyday routine is just a way to avoid my problems. i am addicted to what the world can give me, w h i l e
i
g i v e
i t
n o t h i n g .
weird existential rant while i was pmsing b y
e s t e r
vampire fairy from space
b y
e s t e r
photo by @tfxcam
loneliness stemming from ego, by ester


EGO by ester
photo by @tfxcam
p h o t o b y @ h k _ t h ro u g h t h e l e n s


longingforintimacy, by ester
p h o t o b y @ h k _ t h ro u g h t h e l e n s
i am seeking a
h a u n t i n g
.
a creak-soft floorboard, a window pried and gaping. all
my prayers cut in half upon my cutting board and left hanging from the weeping tree. make out
of me, out of the nothing inside me. give
that all
terror of me, i beg,
me something to call myself
doesn’t sound like emptiness.
a haunting has ever been: a way to fill gaps. b y
a d d i d s o n
catalyst b y
m o r g a n
j .
The stairs were haphazardly placed against the chipped wall as if they were an afterthought. They fell too close to the entrance; the first thing spotted when you walk in the front door of the apartment. There was another wall connected to the left side of the narrow stairway, the rail simply a thin rod of wood supported by three golden brackets. It was hard to tell the original color of the carpet, likely once a cool beige but now far closer to a muddy slate. It looked like it could cave in with the weight of a child, even— yet it must have been there for decades or more. I was six years old, about as useful as the toy telephones I played with and barely heavier. The scratchy material of my dress slipped over one of my small shoulders while my eyes fell to the stair in front of me, a drastic feat for a clumsy child like myself. Before my foot moved an inch, my jaw clenched in anticipation of the battle to come. I took a deep breath before placing some of my weight on the lowest step, wobbling as I began my ascent. In my eldest sister’s haste to guide me up the stairs, I was pulled along while my lanky legs knocked my knees together. Like an alien attempting to replicate the walk of a human being, my limbs did not belong to me and every step was a negotiation rather than an order. I walked as lightly as an acrobat and as uncoordinated as a baby deer. My sister moved up the stairs, impatient but still attempting to lead the way. I struggled to keep up, as she was a full three years older than me. I
quickened my pace, only to trip on the hem of my dress. Her grasp on my hand was too tight, and while I slipped she did not let go. I was suspended in the air, my only connection to the earth being my sister’s hand wrapped around my own. My muscles tensed, but the knowledge of what was coming did not soften the blow. My shoulder locked, punished with the sickening pop of hard bone past ligaments. Time stopped, and I lied frozen on the middle of the stairs for a minute before anyone mobilized to help. White light flashed before my eyes. My vision returned blotched with violent colors that moved and merged without pattern or design, contouring the sides of my eyes. I could feel my complexion become ashen, my natural color sunken to something corpse-like. The light flowed through a window somewhere above my body, and the dress, flat against my ghostly skin, was ripped at the bottom where I had tripped on it. A calm enveloped me. I could only hold still and breathe, slow and deep, to keep myself from passing out. At first the ache was dull, as if some lazy torturer was standing right behind me, only applying enough pressure to be little more than an annoyance. It sat there, too far up, pried away from my collar bone. Then the pressure began to swirl without mercy, penetrating the skin that should have been squishy but lied taught and wrong as though the living cells had been replaced by aging rubber bands, thick and twisted. There was no blood anywhere, but it felt like my skin was being torn open, bone where there shouldn’t be bone. The pain took me deep inside myself to the primitive place that knows how to cope with this kind of feeling. Something felt so very wrong but I couldn’t articulate what it was with
my limited vocabulary. I tried to pinpoint the cause of this sudden pain, tried to reason the unbearable pressure. The hurt had an unpleasant warmth to it, eating away at me. With each second, the heavy weight on my shoulder amplified, the muscle quivered, my consciousness ebbed. As I grew older, the accident continued to leave an impact on me. The pain ebbed and intensified on unpredictable intervals, following a schedule no one understood. T o d a y , t h e p a i n c o m m a n d s m y a t t e n t i o n . It does not sit quietly in the background as it once did. It frightens my brain into meek submission, demanding a solution that I cannot provide. I used to think that the intermittent pains were the worst because they were random, chaotic. Now I know that this constant ache is far more debilitating. I am left without break, unable to formulate more than three separate thoughts before I wish for an end to the pain yet again. It is there when I eat, when I sleep, when I move in any way. It owns me, controlling every action. I’ve never been one cohesive machine of blood and bone. My body is the enemy, decaying and angry.
stories by kayla
maybe i wasn’t made for you, and you weren’t made for me. maybe one day the words i write will be happy. meant to be, by morgan j.
heart to my hands
love fills me from my heart and to my hands it seeps from all four chambers and i can feel it sing. up and out, up and out: arterial course from ventricle to claw: i flick my wrists and from each valley of my finger-prints it pours, liquid, retch, i catch it in my palms; breathe it out and watch the fog start beading on my fingertips. state change in progress, i fling my arms agape and let myself be crucified. i wonder if all that streams from twixt my knuckles will twist round the atrium to someone else’s heart; fill them top to toe and drip from fingertip to throat.
b y
i z z y
f i t z
You are naught but flesh and bone Gnarled at grey fingertips Yellowed at tongue Curled at lip A prime example of Death’s throne (cigarette smoke bellows from your rotten corpse You are naught but flesh and bone)
An ode to the pestilence we cry! Breathless whispers as a call to cease The white flag of youth hung bloodied Your coffin odoured and adorned with decays garment Through fogged up windows a mare is visible (your mouth is Wars Revolver; worn down spewing nothing but ricochet) You are naught but flesh and bone sentenced in whiskey soaked smoke
an ode to the pestilence
b y
k r i s t i n a
for the witches; for the burning in your veins, the smoke in your lungs, the beat in your chest and the fire flickering at your feet. for the pine on the forest floor and the blood on your smile and the dirt on your hands 
hatchet, crywolf
seven devils, beach house
bedroom hymns, the 1975
no rest for the wicked, frank
thanatos, cold war kids
ocean
blood red sea, kanye
muddy waters, HONNE
which witch - demo, childish
kingdom come, bruno major
gambino
make a shadow, the 1975
pretty little head, kendrick
railroad track, willy moon
lamar & zacari
smoke, daughter
river, frank ocean
crow, sasha siem
world gone mad, the 1975
scars, boy epic
bones, SZA
the draw, bastille
did you hear the rain?, tyler,
blood
the creator
brothers bright
what the water gave me, jhene
survivor, 2wei
aiko
you should see me in a crown,
bottom of the river, frank
billie eilish
on
my
name,
the
ocean
b y
k r i s t i n a
katabasis.
chapter 1 extract b y
k r i s t i n a
“And so under the guidance of the sorceress Circe, Odysseus made the descent into Haides – with the intent of having the fate of his voyage revealed through communication with the deceased.”. A girl of seemingly around 19, glanced up towards the pacing lecturer as he spoke in lulled tones; twirling her pen in her fingers absent-mindedly as she glanced around. The room was entrenched in the scent of musk, with thin bans of light peaking out of the squirming curtains to reveal the continuous waves of dust. To the simple eye, it would seem as though the room was 50 feet in square metres. However, anyone with a plausible belief that they have a brain, would glance around the room and see the impractical architecture expanding and shrinking the room. They’d see the round cornered ceiling juxtaposing the windows that jut in, or perhaps they’d focus solely on the desks haphazardly nailed down with little to no care. The girl of 19, Isabella she was called, looked down at her own desk – noticing the rusted nails chaining any escape the desk, if aminated, might be encouraged to make. “Odysseus sort out the blind prophet Tiersias upon entering the Underworld, with the hopes that they would offer the guidance he so desperately craved in order to make his way home.” The teacher continued – unfortunately Isabella decreed. Considering Isabella clearly wasn’t paying attention – she took the time to try and make eye contact with the girl a few rows across – Alessia. Of course, not that simply staring at the back of her friend’s head with intent did anything, but Isabella liked to hope. Alessia was dark-skinned and in Isabella’s opinion, the prettiest of their ragtag gang of friends – not that Isabella was bitter or anything with her, in comparison, gremlin, goblin-under-the-bridge look neatly tied up with a jacket throw on.
Isabella fiddled with her grey cotton over coat covering the restrictive black turtleneck slowly chocking the life out of her. However, Isabella was of the opinion that no matter how tight the collar was, she would inevitably die of boredom first. Comparatively she noticed the clothes of those around her – Alessia with her classy red pantsuit, the boy a seat across in his frankly ugly green muscle shirt revealing all that was there – or in other words nothing. And the girl in front, where disappointedly, all Isabella could see was a bundle of blonde hair over spilling the chair. “Within Homer’s Odyssey, there are a multitude of necromantic rituals – ranging from animal scarification, a pit of fire at nocturnal hours or simply praying.” the teacher dragged. The lanky boy in the ugly shirt to Isabella’s left made eye contact, rising his eyebrows in mutual boredom. He took awhile to look at her, with Isabella making equally as long eye contact before he turned away decidedly and scribbled frantically on his paper at his desk. Isabella looked towards the caving ceiling under the belief their exchange had finished until she felt a hurried kick on her chair leg and looked down to find a piece of crumped paper and the boy’s impatient eyes on her. Upon the paper was a simple message – “Dustin” with an arrow pointing towards the boy and under that the sentence, “Would you ever raise the dead?”. Isabella looked at Dustin – would she ever raise the dead? What sort of question was that? She squinted, trying to recall any interaction they’d had before where the dead would come up before realisation settled in. The lecture. The lecture currently on. The lecture she wasn’t paying attention to. The lecture about Odysseus essentially raising and communicating with the dead. Wow, she thought to herself, I am shockingly thick.
This is where people get found, he says, with our knees swelling and no direction out of this starvation. We walk through a museum of the dead, all their parts rotting, and I hear a rustling everywhere. Can the gone make noise, and why would they want to when no one is listening properly? I do not speak the language of graves. I whittle my tongue. I speak, and speak nothing. I cry, and cry empty air. I wave flashlights in the dark and become invisible. This is where people get found, he says, but none of the people are me. t h e w o r d f o u n d d o e s n ’t q u i t e fit on my tongue,
b y
a d d i s o n
 
already on my knees, by morgan j.
what she asked of me, i did.
who she asked of me, i became.
masochism by kayla


SAYS THE CORPSE TO THE CORONER by addison
[At Rise: CORONER sits above JOHN DOE lying face up on the metal table. The room is dark. He talks aloud overtop the body. JOHN DOE talks back, but CORONER can’t hear him.] CORONER Okay, John. Let’s get started. Tell me your story. I’m trying to help. We’re friends, get it? Take your time, but, please, tell me everything you can. JOHN DOE What would you like to know? There are so many things that’ll die with me unless you listen. CORONER What about your hair, huh? What can that tell me? (CORONER takes a hair sample.) JOHN DOE Don’t cut it too short. My mother never liked my hair short. My ears always stuck out, she said. They’d call me Dumbo, she said. My mother always had an opinion about what the kids would call me. Nobody ever called me anything but my name. What was my name again? Maybe I’ll remember it. My mother, though, she loved me. Can’t you see it coroner? Can’t you see she only wanted me to be happy while I was here? CORONER No blood. No dirt. Maybe toxicology will find something worthwhile. (CORONER puts the hair sample in a plastic bag. He rolls to the side on his chair, picks up JOHN DOE’S hand.) CORONER
Short nails. Rough skin. Probably worked with his hands. Not dirty, though. (CORONER clips JOHN DOE’S fingernails and zips them in a bag too.) JOHN DOE When I was eight, my father took me to the ocean to fish. All day, he kept casting out his line. All day, I sat bored, staring at the water as it sloshed against our boat. It looked so strong, that water. Felt like it could swallow me. When he was re-doing his bait, I leaned over the side and reached my hands out. My tiny, tiny hands. I scooped up that water in my little hands. I held all that water and all that power. My father panicked, seeing me over the side like that and yanked me back by my waistband. Said I could’ve died. I grinned at him, staring at my hands. I didn’t know I could hold all that strength, I said to him. I’ve never forgotten how it felt to hold the ocean in my palms. Can’t you see how strong these hands are? Can’t you see they held the ocean and touched the sky and rested on the back of the woman I love? I forgot about all the things those hands have touched. I forgot about so many things I wanted to say. CORONER What else can you tell me, John? JOHN DOE I’m trying to tell you. Everything. All of it. Look at my arms. Look at my throat. Cut my heart out. You’ll see. CORONER
Wound on the left elbow. Discoloration and placement make me think it’s not the cause of death. Anything to say for yourself John? JOHN DOE Sometimes things hurt. What else is there to say? CORONER Bruise on right elbow. Few days old. JOHN DOE Another’s waiting for you on my left knee. I’ve got a scar on my ankle from breaking it last year. Few screws in there too, though I don’t know if you look for that sort of thing. You’ll find a surgery scar on my right foot, too. Between the toes. Got a nasty tumor on the nerves in there. Now, it’s all numbness. I suppose that’s all of me now. CORONER Bruise on left knee. Scar on ankle. Scar on right foot between third and fourth toe. All old wounds. JOHN DOE Is that all you see? A list of things that happened to me? CORONER What happened, huh? What happened? I still don’t know what happened. JOHN DOE Look inside. Dig deeper. I’m trying. CORONER Time to cut.
(CORONER goes through process of cleaning, weighing the body, and measuring his parts. He lists the general description aloud while he does this.) CORONER John Doe. Fifty to sixty-year-old male, brown hair, brown eyes. Scar on right ankle and right foot between third and fourth toes. Mole on left temple. Tattoo of Saturn on his back between his shoulder blades… (CORONER still listing, but it fades as JOHN DOE begins to speak.) JOHN DOE Got that Saturn tattoo in college a few months before I met my husband. At the time, I was taking astronomy. My professor was something special. He cried the day the Cubs won the world series. Once, he ducked beneath his desk and came up with a rainbow clown wig on. Anyway, he told us one day out of the blue, he said Saturn would float if there were a swimming pool big enough for it. Float. Can you imagine? A planet so large and the thing would float. I thought about it all day. I couldn’t help but marvel at the idea of something so grand, but light inside. Saturn became something of a symbol for me. Learn to be light. Learn to float no matter how heavy everything looks. It kept me alive. But, you don’t see that. It’s all just lines on my skin to you. CORONER What’ll we find inside, John? Help me find out who you are. JOHN DOE
Even if I told you my whole story, you’d never hear a word. I loved, can’t you see? I lost. I hurt. I ache. I used to, anyway. I held oranges in my hand and devoured them. I laughed at the sky and the sky laughed back. I made fists and learned how to put them away. I never told anyone I wanted to die all those years ago. Never mentioned that I loved the color of red wine the most. I’m trying to tell you my story, coroner. Trying to tell someone so they know all the things I didn’t say. Can’t you hear me? JOHN DOE (desperate and yelling) Can’t you hear me? (CORONER pauses singing mid-word, frowning down at JOHN DOE. He shakes his head and keeps singing, working. JOHN DOE goes quiet until he is emptied and put back together.) CORONER (muttering) Who were you? JOHN DOE All anyone will ever know is me in parts. (CORONER continues to work and mutter. JOHN DOE begins to weep.) THE END
i have filled
s i l e n c e
with nonsense,
with worthless words, convincing those around me that listening to me is useless.
words & phrases by morgan j.


torture by kayla
aching on the asphalt b y a d d i s o n My husband is an architect and by that I mean he plans things so often he forgets about what is supposed to happen next. He leaves me all the blueprints and blisters. The deck on the back patio. Every date we’ve ever gone on. He is so fond of tracing lines, I wonder if he even knows what he’s connecting anymore. He sits, bent over his table, and I only ever see the side of him. This side of him. In those moments, he is a stranger to me. Soft lamplight and darkness blurring his background. There is nothing in that harshness that reminds me of the soft man with sailor hands that I fell in love with. When he is working, I am gone. I do not want to see what he is, erased by whatever it is that erases the soft bits when I can only see half of him. On his way out the door, I kiss him and then keep my eyes closed until I hear the car door shut. My mother always said never to watch someone you love leave. It makes it easier to imagine them gone. I never want to imagine him gone. It would make it real, I know it. Real to me. Real to the world. What is the difference? Then, there was a Monday. I was late. The shirt I ironed the night before found a stain that I hadn’t. “Adam,” my husband called from the door. “I’ve got to go.” I hurried out to kiss him goodbye, buttoning my wrinkled shirt as I did and found, instead, the sidewalk and the front door swinging closed and his back. His back. I expected a shattering, somewhere, but I didn’t feel it. But, something filled me. The soft press of dread against my chest. I would be married to that for then on. Till death did us part. Me and dread were wed. I wrenched open the door to call him back. To get a do-over. But folktales never got a do-over, and my husband was gone before I could even try to write one into the margins. Then, still, I was late. I forgot why breathing hurt. I gulped coffee and it was easier to let it go. My office was a short walk away, and so I ran. I was close enough to eight that no one said anything. It was fine, wasn’t it? Everything was fine. No one even noticed the way my chest stopped moving so much.
The day passed. Melted. Did the thing it always does where it drags until, suddenly, it’s five and you get to turn all the lights off. That’s always been my favorite part. The flick of the switch. There is no arguing with the darkness. It is time to go home, it says, and so we do. I do. That night, my husband goes out for a run while I head to the store to grab the yogurt packages my husband loves so much, and chocolate milk for myself. We had run out of both, somehow. Our consumption, even, aligned. On the way back home, I pull up to a scene just after it happened. A car. A crosswalk. A man. The pedestrian is face-down against the asphalt, his profile to the sky. I hesitate. There is someone already there, I figure. And, tugging, there is someone else waiting for me at home. But, the man’s hand moves, reaching, and something in me says he is reaching for me, somehow. Longing for me. I kneel nearby, not quite touching the man as I listen to the driver sitting dazed on the sidewalk talking to the operator on the other line. The man in front of me is twisted. Skewed wrong. But, not in a way that tells me he is injured. Just in a way that he is made. All his edges are sharp and don’t quite fit together. Puzzle pieces forced together. Dark. His profile is unknown to me. When he lifts his hand, I grab it in my own, eyeing the other guy still stuttering into the phone. The man beneath me groans. There is no blood that I can see. No wound I can press. I am just here to hold this sharp thing’s hand and hope and hope and hope. I have become a witness, suddenly. Proof that we are both still alive because I can think it and so it must remain true. Flashing lights arrive after I begin to talk to the man. Whisper to him things I’d want said to me if I were aching on a street, alone and breaking somewhere unseen. When footsteps approach, my mouth says, “I love you.” I don’t know why. I frown at myself. At my hands. What had pulled that out of me? Then, they turn the man over and I am seeing my husband for the first time all over again. My husband in the road, his body skewed in a way that is clearly injured
now his whole body is there. My husband’s softness pressed against by things broken inside. My husband’s pulse being felt for. My husband’s eyes turned skyward. His sailor hands scrapped and twisted and soft, so very soft where they should have been fighting, just this once, against this. All of this. I held my husband’s hand as he died and whispered all the things I’d want said to me if I were dying and all the while I thought him a stranger. His profile had always been a stranger to me. And now. Now. I am the one left aching on the asphalt, alone and breaking somewhere unseen.
i am lonely, i am sad, i am miserable and blue. it’s no surprise that these feelings are all because of you.
my love by morgan j.
hollow
you used to have colours dancing around your mind, dear. so much to see, so much to learn. the vastness of the world amazed you. you couldn’t wait to explore, to find new things that would satiate curiosity. but now, only a few sparkles are there, barely shimmering. your mind is vacant, creativity drained. the desire is hiding and even though you know it’s there, motivation is just out of reach. the colours have crawled into a small box tucked away in the dark.
b y
r e m i
is this the part where i thank you for being the start to my life? it’s not coming, won’t arrive, hasn’t even left the
station
-
not
happening,
sweetheart. you brought crescents to my eyes and filled my smile with the sort of light every star wants, and i’ll thank you for that. i’ll thank mindless words spilled without inspiration, rambles without thought. there’s no meaning. who’s sweetheart? who are half the people i write to? ghosts, maybe, and i’m listening to an echo and there is no meaning. i’ve got dreams in my ears, yeah? and you hate not knowing what to scrawl so you do it anyway, pulling syllables out of a magician’s hat. or do i do that? i hate not knowing? i can’t tell the difference between you and i anymore, we’re nearly one in the same - anyway.
entry 60
b y
i think you like these speech bubbles best when they’re half-assed.
j a n a


writing by kayla
to the friend i have b y loved and lost
m o r g a n
j
They say to give and not expect to receive, for friendship is love and love cannot be a transaction or a trade. All I ever wanted to do was give you love and bring you happiness, to heal where you were hurt. I loved you with all my heart; however, there comes a time to protect the self, end the hurting. What I gave, I gave freely from my soul, yet you thought yourself entitled to all I ever had and more, and in return showed only the most superficial of understanding. What you felt isn't love in the least; I'm sorry that I failed to teach you, yet it was also your duty to learn. I should have seen the signs: you were cold, never taking the initiative for connecting with touching words or physical love. I wish you had learned kindness, but what you showed me was indifference to my pains, refusing my emotional needs. Everything you ever gave me was a debt, every conversation a subtle competition you were never prepared to lose, for even the smallest of infractions could bring on your anger. You’d set out for victory, portraying yourself as the victim, showing no empathy. Words flew bruisedheart by kayla
from your mouth that I never thought you’d even think, let alone say out loud. After your tantrums, you made me work for your affection all over again, taking my self esteem and burning it to ashes. You took my pain as an opportunity to make yourself look better, to stand on my heart even as you pretended to lend a hand. In the end, I’m only sorry I hadn't defended myself sooner. The worst day of my life was the day you took power over me, the day I handed you the keys to my soul. From then on you grew entitled and bitter, and without challenge you became a tyrant to others and a prisoner to your own warped beliefs. Had I stood up to you, maybe I could’ve snapped you out of it. I could have told you to stop being so selfish and think of others, grow your empathy instead of your lust for dominance and cowardly need to keep yourself safe at any cost. I think that's all I'm sorry for. Everything else I did was to defend myself and those who depend on me. It's been forever since we last spoke. In this time, we have become new people. Perhaps our eyes need to be cleansed by tears once in a while, so that we can see life with a clear view again. It is time for me to walk alone, yet a part of my light stays with you. Somewhere out there is a match for you, one who burns with a flame that will bring you health. It might not be the same as yours, but instead compliment. The kindest thing I can do for you is walk away and never look back. I hope you find your way, that you learn how to love instead of hiding behind a mask.
i absolutely hate it. when the urge to reinvent myself sneaks up on me in the late evening hours. it whispers that something is off, a puzzle piece is turned to the wrong side and even though it might look alright, it isn’t. it’s overwhelming and pushes me to frantically open my laptop and type numerous words into the search bar. a chase for instructions and tips that should make me feel like me. alas, nothing fits. labels are too constricting or too vague. a new hairstyle is too noticeable or too different. and i know the routine. “you’re just a teenager, you’ll figure yourself out!” “don’t worry about that, it will come naturally.” that might be true and sure, identity is complicated but i expected this to be a period when i expand from the basics. instead it’s often frustration and the vast abyss of questions closing in on me at my desk just before midnight.
tilted puzzle piece
b y
r e m i
I’m good, I’m fine, No really, I don’t mind. The way you watch The way you stare As I make my way Totally unprepared. “What would you know About life, You’re only a teen.” Well quite a lot Actually. Yes. I have been there. My friends are a mess Their brain’s teach them wrong As I simply have to watch on. I’m good, I’m fine, No really, I don’t mind. “You must be lazy You’re only a teen.” Until it gets too much and The work takes hold Becomes a race against the clock Keep working. Never stop. I’m good, I’m fine, No really, I don’t mind. “Stress doesn’t affect you You’re only a teen.”
I’m good, I’m fine, No really, I don’t mind. “You don’t do enough work You’re only a teen.” So all-nighters are not enough Days on end studying What even is a social life? When Life is flashing by I. Must. Work. Otherwise they “worry” or have some “Concern” “She isn’t on the right flight path” “She’ll only get a 9.” Is that not enough? I try my best. I’m not a robot I can’t do it all By expectations overrule, And forget the human inside. I’m good, I’m fine, No really, I don’t mind. But someone might one day When they see me on the floor Sobbing, crying, gasping, Not wanting to do this anymore.
b y
e m m a
perception b y
m o r g a n
j
I open my eyes and the bright sparks of fireworks illuminate the night sky. I can smell the dusky scent of my uncle’s favorite cigars, see the burning heat of the bonfire in front of me, taste the bitter tinge of strawberry lemonade vodka on my lips. I almost flinch from the memories that rush to the front of my mind. It’s not quite night yet; there’s still sun in the sky, although it’s quickly lowering. The warmth disappears as the sun disappears, the hint of cold to come. A panic attack is triggered by a thought.
I don’t remember getting here. The panic starts out as thin cellophane, something my fingers can pierce breathing holes in. I rack my brain for something, anything. And yet, nothing. All I see is a black screen, a blank canvas in a fish-eye lens, an eternity passing in no time at all. Ice runs through my veins. I try taking a deep breath, but my breaths become sharp and shallow. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears and my stomach feels as if it is about to fall through the floor. The world is falling down and crushing me under its thick fingers. Yet, while I want to run for my life, I can’t. I’m stranded here, alone in a crowd of faceless people. My heart thuds in my chest. My hands shake. My constricted throat becomes cottony and desperate for water despite the discomfort in my stomach, as if even thinking of consuming or drinking would make me hurl. Without warning everything around me is looking at me, feeling me, sucking the air out of me, pulling the ground from beneath me. The things I’ve forced myself to forget climb up my insides and slide back down, settling
in a heavy weight just behind my ribcage. Unseen creatures surround me, pushing, shoving, grabbing. They touch me like they’re next to me, flowing like rivers, never stopping for others that pass but swirling around them. An invisible hand clasps over my mouth; a ghostly syringe of adrenaline pierces my heart, unloading in an instant. My ribs heave as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate my lungs. My mind is a carousel of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing my mind into darkness. I want to run; I need to freeze. Sounds that were near seem far away, distant and muffled, like I'm no longer in the body that sits paralyzed on the wet grass. Thoughts like planes, landing and taking off again seconds later. You’re dying, a voice in my head said. This is what death feels like, and you’re going to die alone. I don’t notice when I stand and walk to the bathroom. I pass a mirror and my eyes aren’t my own. My face is naked and tear stained, eyes utterly bloodshot and glazed. I recognize the look in horses' eyes when they bolt from a movement that startles them; wild, not even knowing where they are. Every space becomes the wrong space to be in and every second the need to escape but not knowing where to escape to only worsens. In another minute, a flood of ice water is surrounding every limb, creeping higher until it passes my mouth and nose. I'm underwater with no way of coming up for air. That's when it becomes absolute, shutting my body down as fast as punching a biochemical reset button. There’s a tightness in my chest so pronounced it feels like choking, a dizziness like I've been hanging upside down for hours, tingling legs and numb hands. I’m deep inside an abandoned demon infested factory and I know there isn’t a chance that anyone could hear my screams and run to my rescue. The air is scarce and I’m completely
exposed, as if I’m stripped of any and all control, as if the world is spinning out from under me and there’s nothing to hold me down. Everything gets colder. I watch myself getting trapped here as if it’s not myself. When I sit on the cold tile floor I start rocking, rocking, rocking. I can’t stand up, I can’t speak. My words are crowded together and some are missing, my sentences fragmented. My voice is scratchy and broken from a mix of disuse and a heavy need to cry. My heart belongs to a rabbit running from a coyote. I need to run and keep running and just get out of the wide open space surrounding me before I’m caught and can’t escape. I’m stripped of all securities and I’ve been left bare with nothing but a primal fear and hopelessness. Heavy fabric is bunched in my clenched hands; my chewed nails digging into the cloth, marring it with drops of blood. A faint whine, tired and old, escapes my throat. All my fears are tumbling out unchecked by my brain. I’m in some kind of mental free-fall, unable to analyze things or assess risk. I sit on the tile shaking, stuttering, hands uneven. Tears are streaking down my cheeks, staining, mournful, persistent. The only light is coming from the round vanity bulbs that line the top of the mirror. Any minute the lights will turn off and I’ll be gone, wiped off the face of the earth. I’ve hit rock bottom. When I open my eyes the feeling surrounds me, takes me, consumes me until I can’t feel anything else. I don’t think I’ll ever feel another emotion again. Through the open window of my cramped solitude, I can smell the smoke, see the flames growing. Beyond me the sky is black. No clouds, no stars, no moon. I slip into nothingness.
abuse by kayla
U n b o d y d o
n o t
t a k e
m e : m e
h o m e .
“Unbody me!” – Let me split myself out from within this shell this body this vessel as though it were a cicada skin. Let me be reduced to more than just a body, to just myself, to more – to less. Let me pull myself out with the roots of my hair, in shining threads, and weave them back together. Let me wrap this form in a cloth of my own first incarnation and keep her warm. I am proud of this body, but I cannot hold it tight enough. Unbody me, unbody me. Let me be reborn; oh! that I could exhale myself and leave this flesh and bone behind: take leave of hands, of eyes, of tongues, of day, of night. Please – lay me back and boneless but do not bury me, breath, chest and beating heart below the ground. I do not wish to ascend. I simply wish to rest, to take my whole self and tuck her in. U n b o d y a n d
t a k e
m e
m e
h o m e
t o
vessel
b y
i z z y
f i t z
r e s t .
 
you reached out to me the other day. please, just let me run away from you. i am far too young to have been through the things i have been through.
leave me be by morgan j.
pills by kayla
the face of kiwi tourism: how green are we really?
b y
i z z y
f i t z
Haere mai!* Welcome to Aotearoa, New Zealand: Land of the Long White Cloud and home to some of the world’s most unique flora and fauna. As a New Zealander, I’ve grown up surrounded by the idea that our environmental sustainability is something to be proud of, and that my country is clean and green, pure, plain and simple. This is the image we sell to the world, and this is the image we are supposed to believe. However, as it becomes clear that key players in the international political game have no regard for the wellbeing of our planet (See: 2017 – trump withdraws from the Paris Agreement), should we re-evaluate the way we market and preserve New Zealand’s unique environment?
100% Pure Aotearoa* relies a great deal on portraying our country as clean and green. “100% Pure” is a tagline our tourism industry would not survive without, but the idea of “Pure New Zealand” relies on several assumptions about our country. First, that it is unpolluted; second, that our endemic flora is lush and our environments preserved in their natural state; and third, that it has remained untouched since human colonisation. Isolated and uniquely Kiwi, we are 100% New Zealand. The “pure” brand and reputation is capitalised upon by many branches of our national industries, because marketing our country as clean, green and pure as the driven snow at Tūroa* is highly profitable: New Zealand’s tourism industry contributes around five billion dollars to our economy every year, and as of 2001, this multi-billion dollar industry contributed 4.9% of New Zealand’s GDP.* “New Zealand Pure” is a massive drawcard for our country: in the 2014-15 financial year international tourism spending topped 11.8 billion dollars.
But is this honest money? It is clear that “tourists are attracted to New Zealand because of the “real nature experience” and have high expectations of the scenery and landscape.” Unfortunately enough, those who reside here are not quite so impressed. In a survey conducted by company HRV in early 2017, it was found that 27% of New Zealanders do not agree that their country is clean and green – while a further 30% were unable or unwilling to give an answer. Essentially, well over half of our residents are still not sold on the idea of a “100% Pure” New Zealand. The Aotearoa marketed to international tourists is not the same one we see in our own back yards.
No land of Milk and Honey
photo by hollie cohen
Ads for New Zealand tourism feature panoramic images of mist-twined native bush, people enjoying the countryside and the isolation. Hikers stroll through pristine alpine areas, motorcyclists cruise deserted highways lined with lush forest, gliders soar over chiselled green valleys, three men on a beach the only people in sight. Life is simple here, we say: kids play footy in the paddocks under the shadow of snow-
capped Ruapehu and visitors cycle past honesty boxes selling apples. We frame our country as though it has been spared defacement and environmental destruction, and it works: Searching the Instagram hashtag #nzmustdo brings up hundreds of tourist photos showing New Zealand as a clean, green and untouched paradise, and since 2003, Tourism New Zealand been able to successfully capitalise on the spotlight that fell on New Zealand’s landscapes following the success of the Lord of the Rings films with “100% Middle Earth”. The Manager of Western marketing with Tourism New Zealand at the time stated: “[tourists would] be able to walk through the natural countryside and take in those scenic panoramas …. In New Zealand, a percentage of what you see on screen you can see in real life.” That year, film tourism brought in $33 million. But in 2016, LOTR actor and tour guide operator Bruce Hopkins (actor of Gamling) told Fairfax he was honest with tourists, telling them “we aint no land of milk and honey.” Hopkins is right. An international study by journal PLoS One in 2012 showed New Zealand to be 18 worst out of almost 190 nations in terms of conserving our natural th
environment. In only 150 years of colonisation, almost 90% of our country’s natural wetlands have been drained; those lushly forested areas are rarer than we would like to admit. Between 2008 and 2012, our clean, green country crashed from first to fourteenth among 146 countries ranked on the quality of their environmental policies. Summer 2016: 97% of surveyed river spots in the Manawatu Region test too unsafe to enter; late 2017, sixteen of Auckland’s beaches are too filthy for swimming due to fecal contamination. In 2012, over half of recreational sources of fresh water were unswimmable, and exposure to these water sources results in tens of thousands of waterborne disease cases every single year. For a country selling tourism based on the environment, these numbers make for sober reading: New Zealand may be the “youngest” on earth, but it is certainly not the best preserved we truly are not a land of milk and honey.
To Improve is to Change Unfortunately, this country is little exception to the global pollution problem. In “The Myth Of Pure New Zealand,” blogger MarufHofsMaps picks apart the message we send to international tourists: “Although NZ features some of the most amazing natural phenomenon I’ve seen, farming, consumerism and tourism continue to blight it’s natural beauty. While NZ boasts many of the world’s remaining clean rivers, they’re getting increasingly polluted. It seemed like the media seldom covered this, but the Kiwis I met were fully aware of it.” Essentially, MarufHofsMaps got it in one: our outgoing media relies heavily on the 100% Pure image, but this image is the not one real-life New Zealanders know. The way in which we represent our country’s environmental purity is appealing on an international stage, but doesn’t stand up under scrutiny, and while the “100% Pure” image proves incredibly profitable to Aotearoa’s economy, if our country cannot effectively manage the pressures we place on our unique environment, we may not be able to sustain the brand we promote. As our international audience becomes more wise to the wiles of our promotional material, we must drastically alter our stance on our own environmental proactivity – or else change our sales pitch.
Glossary: Haere mai – Welcome/enter in Te Reo Maori Tūroa – New Zealand’s longest ski area GDP – Gross domestic product (measure of a country’s economic growth)
interview by izzy ďŹ tz
how would you describe your art?
evolving, incomplete in the sense that it is in its infancy. it changes a lot, which is a good thing. i think i have a somewhat unique view on things. people mostly, since that’s mainly what i draw.
new zealand is a pretty unique place. how does where you live influence your art? coming from a small town in new zealand i feel like nz art tends to have a very black-and-white cultural focus: it’s either all white people or all maori people. while the latter is important of course it’s not fully representative of the country. not to sound like a middle-aged woman but it really is kind of a melting pot here, and a lot of art you see in galleries doesn’t reflect that. it’s not as culturally diverse as the actual new zealand, which i think is a shame. when i go to the supermarket or the mall, even in such a small place i see more diversity than i would in an art gallery. i think there’s a somewhat narrow and selective view in art, which i don’t think is right: nowhere is really comprised of one or two races or one or two faces. that’s a whole other issue in terms of representation in art, but i do think its dishonest to only show selected kinds of people in art, if you happen to focus on painting people.
what inspires you? people! and other artists, and nature, and emotions.
and what do you use to make art? where do you work? acrylic paint baby! faber castell pencils and whatever other bits and bobs i can find for cheap. i’m only a snob when it comes to coloured pencils and white paint — that’s all i’ll really spend money on. i do my art in bed, or at my desk, and i get crumbs everywhere.
who are your favourite artists — and why? i hate this question because the answer is every artist ever. i’ll be obsessed with one artist or style a week, or two paintings by one artist for years. it’s a mess of a question. but i like klimt, frida kahlo, van gogh, elly smallwood, william bouguereau. i think they all have a distinctive style and are innovative in their own ways which i also appreciate. i also like self-portraiture and art featuring people.
people have said a lot of things about art. what’s your favourite? tracey emin, who does these very vulnerable confessional pieces said “i need art like i need god” and i really like that. i find the comparison between art and religion very interesting. religion strikes me as a way humans grapple with their own existence, and art is a very similar thing. they’re both ways people process the world around them in different ways.
when did you decide you wanted to pursue art?
at the sage old age of eleven i said to myself, okay theo, time to stop printing off anime characters kissing and drawing them: it’s time to buckle down, you’re a grown up now, gotta take it seriously. study hard, this is it etcetera etcetera.
originally i wanted to be an animator, then i learned how hard that was, but i still wanted to be an artist and that’s the important thing.
what do you wish someone had told you about art when you were younger? to be a little bit more proud of it, and a little less secretive. i wish someone had told me that there’s a lot of joy in sharing art rather than just making it then hoarding it all to yourself out of insecurity.
so what are you working on at the moment? what’s next for you as an artist?
what aren’t i working on — no, kidding. right as we speak i’m working on a page in my sketchbook of a whole bunch of trans people. the painting i’m doing now is taking me 25 years and i think i hate it, but that’s how it is sometimes. i’ll still finish it. i really like portrait studies of different kinds of people. i miss doing bigger, “proper” paintings too — so i hope to do some of those in a wee while. i’ve been doing a lot of illustrative stuff which i really enjoy, but i have a bunch [of big paintings] that i’ve half done and just forgot about for a few months. i think i have more range than what i play with a lot of the time — i’m building up a real portfolio.
where can we find you and your work?
you can find me on my storenvy (HomemadeHomo), where i sell handmade pins and things, as well as on patreon (@theocook), redbubble (@plntboy), as well as on tumblr (@homoidiotic), @acrylictheo and @floralhomo on instagram if you want to see my art and what i’m up to in general respectively.
 
t o m o r r o w
there is a darkness in the world this girl is not ready for. if you want her to survive: tell her the good days will end, remind her that the light in her eyes will fade, make sure she knows there is not and never will be a chance for anyone. why would you let her have hope?
dark days ahead
b y
m o r g a n
j .
do you remember when we first met? we were only six and you asked if i wanted to play. a simple yes opened a whole new world we carefully stitched together we explored the paths, fought villains like heroes we had our own rules and everything seemed possible. but life pushed us forward, we left the world behind tucked away in the shade during a bright summer day. years later and all we’re left with is fear, the nervous pounding of our hearts as we enter new ground but i know one thing i’m not letting you go and even if you are the one to forget me i know you’ll find someone you can laugh with again i hope you manage to break down your walls and i wish everything goes right this time.
i’m sorry life moves on, childhood friend
b y
r e m i
i’d go so far as to say it wouldn’t be any different. if i didn’t know what it looked like to hold hands and kiss with a feeling that’s more than just feeling, would i know it to exist at all? what would touches mean to a world without labels stitched on every heart? would i pet your hair and feel your breath on my cheek and know why my pulse is picking up, or would it be my bad navigation skills at a busy intersection? would my eyelashes tangle with yours and mean something to me? the flatness of relationships with nothing to be compared to. or maybe the absolute chaos of it all. maybe i’d see you and feel my words caught so tenderly in my throat, and maybe i’d know it’s because you’re more. or maybe i’d just think you’re a special type of friend. or maybe those mean the same thing. maybe it doesn’t really matter at all - and maybe that’s not maybe, because maybe it’s certainly. certainly i shouldn’t care. certainly the stars don’t flicker at our muddle of emotions and certainly the moon won’t go out for our sake. certainly it should mean nothing, because as long as you feel the same, it’s something.
where tv romances and more-thanr e l a t i o n s h i p s d o n ’t e x i s t b y
j a n a
i remember the world we stitched from a few loose threads. i remember the laughter years ago. what do we have now? we left our world behind. now we tell jokes with self depricating undertones. we’re terrified of the future and we feel oh so lonely. i can’t help but wonder “what happened to us?”. from young, cheerful kids to sad, numb teens. from iridescent creativity to desaturated emotions.
what happened to us?
b y
r e m i
capable by julia
my favorite feeling is coming home from my aunt’s house. she piles our arms with food for the days after and after and after. there’s a resigned feeling in my stomach, not wanting to leave but ready for my own home, or maybe that’s just the feeling of being full. this house is warm, from all the bodies lounging inside, relaxed, laden, with laughter. there’s the quiet walk back to our car, with shouts from behind of “get home safe!”, and then i’m waving bye and xavier’s shuffling his feet, and mom’s searching for the keys, and then we’re in the car, seated comfortably, eyelids already heavy. it’s one of my favorite places to be, with no expectations of action, only the calm movement of the vehicle navigating bumps and turns tirelessly. i wish i was tireless. there are some jokes shared, memories from the night, but soon enough the backseat goes quiet and my head has found its home against the car door window and my eyes shut, sealed by the monotonous jostling of my mother’s range rover. then, like magic, my eyes open, and we’ve turned right into our driveway in front of our house that stands impossibly tall, like a beacon, and it’s like a resolution: the idea that, for now, this is over, but will start up again in the future.
a kind of familiar
b y
m o r g a n
a l e x i s
how to vote by morgan j.
The midterm election is Tuesday, November 6, 2018. This will be the most consequential election of our lifetime, and yet only 26% of young people ages 18 to 29 say they will certainly vote in the midterms. That number is unacceptable, especially given we have the most to lose; our future and every social issue you claim to care about is at stake. Those certain to vote in 2018, based on a late-September Gallup poll, are 82% of those ages 65 and older, 69% of those 50 to 64, 55% of those 30 to 49, and 26% of those 18 to 29. Do you really want the people whose lives will not be affected by the vote to make your decisions for you? First, register to vote and confirm or change your registration using the website www.USA.gov/register-to-vote. You may need to re-register or update your information if you have recently changed your address. Your state website should have information about how to change your party affiliation if you want to update it; party affiliation will determine how you can vote in primary elections. Make sure you have the proper ID to vote in your state by using the website www.ncsl.org/research/elections-and-campaigns/ voter-id.aspx. If you do not have the required ID, you may need to get a birth certificate or other documentation. This can take months, so check as soon as possible. This information should be available on your state website. Double check that you are registered to vote using the website www.vote.org/am-i-registered-to-vote. You may be an “inactive voter” if you have not responded to a recent census or if you haven’t voted in several years. Some states will remove you from the voter polls if you are an inactive voter. The Supreme Court just issued a ruling allowing Ohio and other states to purge voters from their election registration rolls due to their failure to cast a ballot in
previous federal elections within a two-year period; this is being challenged in the Supreme Court, but currently stands. What this means is you cannot assume that you are registered for the 2018 elections, just because you should be. Check if your state has any similar laws, and make sure you are registered. Look up all relevant voter registration deadlines for your state and district, circle them on your calendar, and check your registration status again right before those deadlines pass, so you can be sure of it before it’s too late to do anything about it til the next voting cycle. Fill out your local census. If you or someone in your household does not fill out your census for two years in a row, you may not be allowed to vote even if you were previously registered. This is absolutely targeted at marginalized communities, low income voters, disabled voters, and anyone who simply can’t always afford to keep on top of every federal election and show up to vote in every senate race. Secondly, plan ahead. Find your polling place and the hours during which you can vote using the website www.eac.gov/voters/election-day-contact-information. Check to see if you can vote early or absentee if you can’t make the polls on election day. View your ballot and find out what questions will be there ahead of time using the website www.vote411.org/ballot, which will give you a sample ballot for your location. These questions can be very important. Questions in 2018 will include important topics like Medicaid expansion and legalization of marijuana. Learn about early voting options using the website www.vote.org/early-voting-calendar. Make carpooling arrangements, either to get a ride or to drive people to the poles using the website http:// carpoolvote.com. LYFT is providing free and discounted rides to the polls. Set a reminder so you don’t forget to vote. Volunteer on a local campaign by knocking on doors or making calls. Sister District organizes volunteers to get out to swing districts to
win state elections for Democrats. Get out the vote by: reminding your family, friends, and neighbors to vote; hosting a fundraising party for a local candidate; and posting on social media to raise awareness, especially about local elections. Thirdly, research. Brush on your political knowledge with this 4-minute read: https://medium.com/@lifewithinterest/2018-mid-terms-let-the-party-begind00fe22c0f17. Watch https://www.voanews.com/a/explainer-what-are-midtermelections/4338632.html. Check out the voter resources at Rock the Vote, a nonpartisan nonprofit aimed at engaging young voters. Find candidates to support. You can follow 2018 primaries and general elections with Ballotpedia. Emily’s List is helping to elect pro-choice women. She Should Run is a nonpartisan organization supporting women running for office. Let America Vote endorses candidates who support voting rights and voter protection. Latino Victory is working on increasing Latino representation in politics. Forward Majority is focused on winning back state legislatures. Find progressive candidates under 35 with Run For Something. Find organizational tools. Take back the House with SwingLeft, targeting swing districts. Check out Indivisible Guide. MoveOn.org will help create petitions. DoSomething.org. If you are a noncitizen who is unable to vote, check out United We Dream, a youth-led immigrant network, to find other ways to take action and organize. Finally, vote. Here, https://866ourvote.org/, are nonpartisan election protection hotlines where you can reach a trained operator or an attorney to ask questions about your voting rights and more on election day. Call 866-OUR-VOTE for English, 888VE-Y-VOTA for Spanish, or 888-API-VOTE for English, Mandarin, Cantonese, Korean, Vietnamese, Tagalog, Urdu, Hindi, and Bengali. Learn more about deceptive practices, voter intimidation, and more. If you’re in line to vote and stay in line, you are
allowed to stay as long as it takes to get to the front of the line and vote. No one can turn you away from the polls if you got on line within polling hours. But not everyone in this country has access to the right to vote. If you have difficulty getting a voter ID, here are some thoughts: Contact a church. I wish I could say contact any church, but to be honest, if you look unconventional and you don’t know which churches in your town are the progressive ones, look for a Unitarian church. I suspect most synagogues would be more helpful than most evangelical churches, but I don’t know that from personal experience. Contact the local Democratic Party office. Contact a YMCA or a YWCA. Did you know that fighting racism is actually part of the Y’s charter? Pretty sure somebody in that office will be able to help you get the ID you need to register. Go to your town’s website and look for a prodiversity organization – a Multicultural Awareness Center, something like that. Give them a call. Call your library reference desk and ask if they know of anyone who could help. Voting is fundamental to our democracy. There’s quite a few young people who are going to be eligible to vote in America during this election, so in light of the fact that we are currently thrumming with political interest I’d just like to remind them that abstaining from voting is not useful or radical; it’s playing right into the hands of the people who want this country to progress backwards. I can guarantee you that there will be an enormous conservative turn out, and if the younger generation doesn’t match it, it will be a disaster.
i don’t know what i expected from a spring afternoon, when the sunshine is spilling through the cobblestone streets. but the sight of dust sparkles floating around while vintage music is playing for no one paints a perfect nostalgia picture. a lonely, empty, abandoned cafÊ b y
r e m i
i never stepped inside. why should i care? i never knew this part of the town well anyway. but it makes me wonder: will this
happen
to
our
neighbourhood as well? will the places i know by heart turn to misty silhouettes of what once was?
the one i’m waiting for
i know it’s time to let go, know it’s time to start again. if it only were that easy, maybe you’d still be my friend. now you call me by my real name, which you’ve never done before. i’ve never felt so lonely, ever since you slammed the door.
b y
m o r g a n
j .
oh it’s always the same - words on cosmic lace and soft hearts, something or other snaking through my ribcage. warm lips and crescent eyes. silk over saturn. the word obliterate. always, always the same. but i’ve got this idea, yeah? because i don’t know what love’s like i mean, you could teach me, show me what a stuttering heartbeat really feels like, but you’ve never even considered it, and it’s not your job to do that, resumés aren’t meant for that shit - but anyways, i’ve got this idea, yeah, alright, an idea i made up because i don’t have anything tangible to base it off, and that idea can only go so far as descriptions of faces under lamplight and grins pulled taught. a love i see in movies and in published poems. but god, you’re gorgeous? you’re ethereal? you’re the one this idea centers on, baby, do you know that? funny how i’m writing fake words for a very, very real affection. funny how you read these sentences over and don’t even know. funny how you don’t exist, because i’m the writer and i make the rules. sometimes i proofread and even i don’t know what i’m saying - so there’s that. it’s all a guessing game. i meant what i said about always being the same, though, so don’t get that mixed up.
funny how
b y
j a n a
love, unlove
b y
s y d n e y
Home; it tastes of bittersweet sadness, memories good and bad blocking the doors like a dragon. I can wonder and wander, but I know why they won’t let me in. My heart swings in circles, creating rays of colours that are darkened by the black and white my family gives off. The door is open, but it is not welcoming. My legs feel full of spiders, my battered suitcase rattling like a bunch of crows. How can I stay strong when she’s smiling, sadly, solemnly, regretful, like I’m not the one she wants to see. No, the one she wants to see stopped being the one when she was thirteen and discovered girls made her heart flutter more than a boy ever would. When she discovered that girls are sweet like cherry cola and boys like lemonade, both appealing but their own different factor. She was hoping I would come with a man on my arm instead of a tattoo. But she still invites me in.
Mountains out of molehills Are the most common of all. Everyone pushes the dirt Producing a spectacle Within the confines of a hill. The gift- if a gift it is, Are the molehills made of mountains. The compression Depression, Made by making something Important very small.
mountains
b y
e m m a
spiderwebs
spiderwebs. one for every human one thread is one connection every connection is a collection of memories people influence you, you influence them everything shapes you, your surroundings mold you chains of reactions and conversations cherish the good, heal from the bad and continue to build your spiderweb no matter what, you mean something good to someone you’re a thread in so many webs don’t break yours.
b y
r e m i
fictobers
by rani
ONE It’s with a start that Moxie is jolted back into consciousness. She hadn’t even realised she’d drifted off, but that was just another occupational hazard of trying to survive in a world that no longer valued those who were deemed to be imperfect, even if the standards of perfection were harmonious with idyllic impossibility. “Rise and shine, Moxie,” Enzo murmurs from above her, his eyes the same colour as the sunlit leaves behind him as she meets his gaze. “Why?” She asks, dragging out the last phoneme with a tired frown on her face. Enzo takes her hand and places it on his wrist, letting her listen to his sprinting pulse before pointedly raising an eyebrow. “Can you feel this?” he asks, “It means we’re going to have company if we don’t start moving soon.” With a groan, Moxie pulls herself up – using Enzo as a ballast, of course – and shakes away the aching stubbornness in her limbs, then taking the apple-flavoured breakfast bar from Enzo and breaking into it. It doesn’t take them long to fall into their routine of erasing their tracks as best as possible and becoming mobile, their backpacks softly rustling as they walk. Although, they only travel about half a mile before there’s an alarming thud a couple metres in front of them. “Was that a bear?” Enzo asks, bewildered. Moxie shakes her head in amusement. “Nah, more like a deer or something.” Before he can reply, an exasperated scoffing echoes from up ahead, followed by a reasonably condescending: “People like you have no imagination…” Enzo frowns at that, taking a step forward as realisation dawns on his face. “Xnij?” he inquires, his voice gentle but firm enough to elicit a clear reply. Rather than a verbal one, though, the two of them are met with a familiar sheepish smile, accompanied by Xnij engulfing them both in an embrace. Moxie stumbles, throwing her hands out to steady herself as the three of them find their balance again. She shares an amused look with Enzo, who pulls back from their hug with a fond grin aimed at the third and final member of their group.
Xnij matches his grin as they brush the leaves from their shoulders and their expression turns a little more serious. “You’re better off going the other way, trust me.” “How can I trust you,” Moxie fires back immediately, “when you look like you just crawled out of a glittery black hole?” She has a point. Xnij looks like someone threw them into the deepest abyss space had to offer and then let a happy-go-lucky toddler who’d just been introduced to sparkles have at it with them. She’s met with a classic eye-roll, followed by: “You can trust me because I’ve just outrun the soldiers rapidly approaching from behind me and unless you want to start a fight, you’d better listen to me and run!” “They’re right, we need to go,” Enzo mutters breathlessly, grabbing her wrist and giving her the momentum she needs to start running. And they run. Heavens, do they run. They run and run and let the wind howl beside them as they run and only stop when they reach a small, crumbling café that seems to be more or less functional judging by the smoke curling out of the chimney. Ducking inside, Xnij grabs themself what looks like a croissant and places it in front of the counter, where a small, elderly lady raises an eyebrow. “Will that be all?” she asks sceptically. Xnij shrugs awkwardly, pulling out a single gold coin and placing it flat on the counter. “I think that’s all I can afford, right?” The lady’s expression softens and she shakes her head, much like a mother at her troubled child. Gesturing to the basket of freshly-baked goodies, she says: “Take what you need.” Enzo’s stomach grumbles at that exact moment and his face flushes a rich pink, an obvious contrast to the colour of hot chocolate that his skin resembles - although that particular connection may only exist in Moxie’s mind. “That applies to all three of you,” the lady adds, nodding her head to the tantalising pile that really shouldn’t be able to exist in such a decrepit place. The three of them shyly seat themselves at the counter and take their fill - or rather, half of it because travelling on a full stomach is a fool’s errand - without directly acknowledging the lady openly looking over them. Only once they’ve silenced their hunger do they stand, Moxie turning to the lady with a grateful smile. “Thank you, we really appreciate your kindness. If there’s anything we can do for you in return…?”
The lady waves a hand at them dismissively, her fingers curling around the gold coin for a second before she closes her eyes and opens her fist again, three coins now resting on her palm as her hands glow ever so slightly. Enzo’s jaw drops but he’s quick to grin widely, then frown sadly. “Thank you but you can’t help us, haven’t you heard that it’s illegal to give aid to outlaws?” Her eyes flash with what looks like carelessly controlled rage. “I heard enough.” Her voice is all but a hiss, making even their blood freeze for a moment. “This ends now.” “This?” Moxie echoes hesitantly. “This… This whole idea that we cannot provide for those who belong to us, those who so desperately need our help and are only denied it because of a selfish greed that controls the hearts of our corrupted so-called superiors.”
TWO They lose track of time. Of course they do, they’re only teenagers after all and even the strongest of warriors can be distracted by the enchantment of good food. And it is exceptionally good food, as they don’t stop telling her, never having been more grateful for bakers who genuinely put both effort and love into their work. Well, that, and magic. “You really think I make good pies?” The lady asks them after a while, a hesitant look on her face. “I know you do!” Moxie smiles instantly, then turns to Enzo for confirmation, only to find him looking considerably paler than before, breathing heavily. “Hey, what’s wrong?” She asks, putting a hand on his arm as he looks up, alarm flashing in his summer eyes. But before he can reply, the door is violently flung to the floor, landing with an alarming thud, sending soft explosions of plainly glittering dust all over them. The lady is between them and the door within seconds, a faint glow surrounding her. That might deter most people but the leader - or the one who seems to be, judging by the gold epaulettes - just smirks, standing fast, a hand on the hilt of his sword. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she hisses, glaring at the unreasonably tall soldier.
He just laughs at her, three more soldiers entering the broken doorway and standing parallel to the three outlaws. As soon as they’re inside too, he steps forward. “You think this troubles me?” he scoffs, “I’ve seen better displays of magic done by mice!” The lady’s fists clench but Xnij beats her to it, throwing a brick at the tallest of them, knocking him to the floor, then folding their arms with a smirk on their face. “Everyone said that I would forget how to do that,” they say quite proudly, “but I will never forget!” Enzo chuckles, moving to stand behind Xnij, a determined shine in his eyes as he addresses the soldiers. “It’s not like we haven’t seen the likes of you around here before!” “Oh, really?” The shortest soldier asks, steadying himself as if preparing to charge. All but growling, their favourite magical baker shakes her head. “You’re just another pawn like the rest of them, thinking you’re important when you’re actually just the same as each other, all of you making the same foolish mistakes.” “Who could do this?” The one with blonde hair asks smugly, deftly unsheathing his sword and moving to attack the lady - then promptly failing when she snaps her fingers, immobilising him mid-swing. “Just about anyone,” Moxie mutters, joining the others so they’re stood like a more or less human wall. The lady sends the conscious three stumbling back, a thin sheen of glitter appearing in the air in front of them. “Try harder next time,” she says, but her voice is sharper than a fresh sword, full of a kind venom that not even the soldiers’ cockiness can argue with. The leader shakes his head, muttering to the soldier next to him, who glances at their fallen comrade and pales, pulling the most uncertain face any of them have ever seen. Apparently choosing to give up on his order, the leader glares at the lady again. “We won’t let this defeat be the end of it.” “It’s probably better that you do,” Enzo mutters, squinting at the unconscious man to check if he’s actually breathing. Still, the leader grips the handle of his sword, a determined glint in his otherwise dull eyes. “We will be victorious, this is just a minor setback,” he declares, sounding far more confident than his team appears to be. Moxie scoffs, attracting the attention of everyone in the room, then consequently blushes but clears her throat nonetheless. “Some people would call this-” she gestures to the broken door and the retreating soldiers- “wisdom.”
She’s not sure she got her meaning across but they must have understood something because, with one last, malice-filled look, the leader and his two henchmen, leaving behind the one Xnij had knocked out, march out of the empty doorway, their boots echoing on the unrelenting ground as they go. An entire, agonisingly slow minute of silence later, Moxie speaks up once more: “So, what do we plan to do with the unconscious soldier?” “Oh, don’t you worry, dears!” The lady replies, already tracing something in the air with her hands - probably to fix the door if the repairing cracks are anything to go by - and smiling widely. “I’ve had enough experience with amateurs like him!” Xnij seems to be utterly transfixed by the way her fingers are sparking. “Can you teach me to do that next time we stop for a visit?” they ask softly. As the lady nods, Enzo coughs awkwardly and picks up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder. “Sorry to be that person but we do have a handful of broken laws to outrun…” Surprisingly, the lady just laughs at them, the door having now travelled back to its rightful place as if nothing had ever happened. “I thought you had forgotten!” she grins, then holds up a hand, letting out a small ‘oh’ and rushing behind the counter, pulling out a small box from behind the pointless till. “Here, take these with you,” she kindly orders, handing Xnij the box of what look like miniature pies, then winking at him. “And don’t forget to come back so you can return my box!” Moxie smiles fondly at the way Xnij’s entire face lights up and picks up her own bag too, taking Enzo’s hand to stop it from shaking so much. “Our gratitude is ineffable, really.” Once Xnij is done trading subtle promises with the magical baker, the three of them set off once more, this time with a dash of confidence in their hearts, a box of mysterious pies in their inventory, and their faith in the world’s mysterious methods of kindness restored. “This is gonna be so much fun!” Xnij exclaims optimistically, already scouting ahead for them, beaming as if this were a casual afternoon adventure rather than a potentially catastrophic escape but, for once, neither Moxie nor Enzo wanting to change their mindset, simply following with matching smiles.
THREE
Night falls by the time the teens reach the river where they’d planned to meet with an ally who’d told them they had a way of crossing the unofficial territory border without being detected. Night falls, and so does Enzo. He stumbles and tilts with a soft exhale, landing on the unyielding forest floor with the mutest thump known to the history of sound. If Moxie hadn’t been holding his hand, she might not even have noticed him falling in the first place, but since she is, she wobbles and barely avoids joining him. “What happened?” Xnij asks, concern as clear as day in their voice. Enzo just shakes his head, glances behind them, and mutters: “Go forward...” “...do not stray,” a cool voice finishes, Ren then stepping out of the shadows with a relieved smile on their face, offering a hand to Enzo, who gratefully takes it and pulls himself back upright. Moxie automatically tightens her grip on his hand, then glances over to Ren sadly, knowing they're more or less broken up with their partner and this must be a painful reminder for them right now. Ren just smiles. “I'm pretty sure they still have love for me…” they say rather sadly. “But if you cannot see it, is it really there?” Xnij asks, sounding both pained and sympathetic. Saving Ren from awkwardly answering, Enzo stumbles again, crashing into Moxie with a frown, pulling his hand from her grip and using his right one to grasp his left wrist. The other three look to him immediately, Ren putting a hand on his shoulder. “Who is it?” “Back… a month ago- I can’t…” Enzo looks up at Moxie with doubt and guilt in his eyes. She knows how hard this is for him so she only smiles reassuringly, wishing she could help. “Remember?” she offers, then whispers: “You have to remember.” Subtly standing as close to Enzo as possible, Xnij takes his left hand and closes their eyes, humming softly, rocking side to side before sharing a look with Moxie and nodding firmly. “I see it.”
Ren raises a questioning eyebrow, probably asking how on earth Xnij saw something in Enzo’s pulse, especially when they had their eyes closed. They’re good at magic, but magic can’t suddenly alter the foundations of common sense, no matter what anyone says. Somehow understanding the unspoken inquisition, Xnij says: “I felt it… you know what I mean!” and waves a hand as if everything in the world is now irrelevant, the frequency of Enzo’s pulse taking priority over all else. “It’s the captain of the soldier troop from the bakery,” Xnij clarifies, causing both Moxie and Ren to groan in annoyance, Moxie then fiddling with her nails as she considers this. It means they have an incredibly limited number of options; they can’t go back if they’re being tracked and they can’t take any of the safe routes since the captain being involved means guards stationed at every bridge and gate and known entrance to the next territory. “We can always swim?” Moxie suggests, then blushes under the scepticism in Ren’s gaze. “Wet clothes will drip and leave a trail that we won’t have the forest to cover up with,” Enzo breathes, still a little out of it but obviously having recovered enough to think straight. Ren’s eyebrows furrow as they seem to recall something. “You can use the tunnels, nobody else knows about those yet…” It doesn’t take the three of them long to agree with that plan, already mentally preparing themselves for the trek. Xnij grins at them once it’s wordlessly settled. “At least it can’t get any worse!” Snap. Snap. Branches, frozen leaves, and acorn shells start to snap in a steady rhythm behind them, almost as if a herd of horses had suddenly been released after being kept immobile for a year. Within seconds, Ren has tensed, looking around, scanning the area, Enzo now, due to the warnings sparking in his blood, half-leaning on Moxie, who worriedly wraps an arm around his middle, sighing. They hope they’re wrong and their suspicions are actually based on mere coincidence for once but the snappings continue, only getting louder as they go on, meaning that they have to either figure out how to vanish from thin air or they’ll have to face another confrontation. Moxie bites her lip, flinching as the distinct echo of a horse neighing from somewhere far too close hits their ears. “Do we really have to do this again?”
“They just don’t give up,” Xnij mutters as they step in front of the other two protectively, ready to pull up a shield or settle into their familiar pattern of battle once more if necessary. “We need to go,” Enzo says, clearing his throat and taking a breath before turning to Ren also known as their geographical encyclopedia - and asking: “Where’s the nearest tunnel entrance?” After exactly a couple of second, Ren nods their head to the left, their hair flying up from the intensity of the action before settling over their eye once more. “About fifty yards that way. But you still won’t make it if they have their steeds with them… Unless…” “No.” Xnij and Moxie reply simultaneously, already having clocked the nature of their terribly risky plan. “We all know that playing the distraction card is the only way you three will cross the border,” Ren tells them as if they’re talking about simple addition, sending them all pointed looks. Enzo exhales audibly, reaching out and finding Ren’s hand. “Are you sure you want to do this?” “Are you kidding?” Ren replies, giving Enzo’s hand a small squeeze before pulling out a small piece of paper and handing it to Moxie, who nods at him thankfully, respectfully. There’s a moment where the four of them share a tense silence, knowing their reunion is about as certain as determining which side a forty-sided dice will land on when flipped a second time. The interruption follows a moment later, yet another succession of snapping noises that causes them to take a deep breath and place their trust in the universe. Winking, Ren declares: “I’ve waited so long for this,” before practically melting into the shadows, leaving the three outlaws to leave them behind without any further doubts. With no other option, they go, Enzo more or less fully supported only by the other two, Moxie following the tiny map Ren had given her to locate the correct entrance, all of them glancing back to nowhere in particular and whispering their shared gratitude to the ever-listening air before vanishing into the tunnels, the sound of breaking nature replaced by a heavy blanket of silence and wistful courage.
