silence

i have filled silence 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 by addison

My husband is an architect and by that I mean he plans things so often heforgets about what is supposed to happen next. He leaves me all the blueprints andblisters. The deck on the back patio. Every date we’ve ever gone on. He is so fond oftracing lines, I wonder if he even knows what he’s connecting anymore. He sits, bentover 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 isnothing in that harshness that reminds me of the soft man with sailor hands that I fell inlove with. When he is working, I am gone. I do not want to see what he is, erased bywhatever 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 hearthe car door shut. My mother always said never to watch someone you love leave. Itmakes it easier to imagine them gone. I never want to imagine him gone. It would makeit 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 founda 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 andfound, 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. Thesoft press of dread against my chest. I would be married to that for then on. Till deathdid us part. Me and dread were wed.

I wrenched open the door to call him back. To get a do-over. But folktales nevergot a do-over, and my husband was gone before I could even try to write one into themargins.

Then, still, I was late. I forgot why breathing hurt. I gulped coffee and it waseasier to let it go. My office was a short walk away, and so I ran. I was close enough toeight that no one said anything. It was fine, wasn’t it? Everything was fine. No one evennoticed 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.”

me?

I don’t know why. I frown at myself. At my hands. What had pulled that out of

Then, they turn the man over and I am seeing my husband for the first time allover 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.

by remi

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’renearly one in the same - anyway.

i think you like these speech bubbles best when they’re half-assed.

entry 60 by jana

writing by kayla

to the friend i have loved and lost by morgan j

They say to give and not expect to receive, for friendship is love and lovecannot be a transaction or a trade. All I ever wanted to do was give you love and bringyou 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 frommy soul, yet you thought yourself entitled to all I ever had and more, and in returnshowed 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 laptopand type numerous words into the search bar. a chase forinstructions and tips that should make me feel like me.

alas, nothing fits. labels are too constricting or too vague. a newhairstyle 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 by remi

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.

by emma

perception by morgan 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

Unbody me:

do not take me home.

“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.

Unbody me

and take me home to rest.

vessel by izzy fitz


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? by izzy fitz

Haere mai!* Welcome to Aotearoa, New Zealand: Land of the Long WhiteCloud and home to some of the world’s most unique flora and fauna. As a NewZealander, I’ve grown up surrounded by the idea that our environmentalsustainability 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 imagewe are supposed to believe. However, as it becomes clear that key players in theinternational political game have no regard for the wellbeing of our planet (See:2017 – trump withdraws from the Paris Agreement), should we re-evaluate the waywe 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.

photo by hollie cohen

No land of Milk and Honey

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)