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on the cover:
To Burn Sweetly by Edward Lee 'To Burn Sweetly' is part of another ongoing series titled 'The Cross We See'' which is concerned in how the Cross is such an recognisable image in life, no matter your religious persuasion, nor even if the image in question is even meant to be a cross.
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contents contents contents contents contents contents contents contents 4
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6-7 what we’re all about
10-75 all of the art
78-86 contributor glossary
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what we’re
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all about Orange Blush Zine — a zine for creatives. When people think of us, we want them to think inclusive, eclectic, bold, welcoming, experimental. We like art that makes us feel things, art that makes us glad to be alive, art that reminds us why we create.
We believe the word ‘artist’ is an umbrella term. If you make things—with your hands, your words, your surroundings— you’re an artist, and you’re more than welcome to consider this your home. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. Call your friends too. There is a light on for you here every night for as long as you need it. Orange Blush was created when artist Komal Keshran’s longing for an artistic sense of belonging led them to create an art space that dreamt of being all-inclusive, yet curated. Komal has been submitting their work to various journals and magazines for three years now, but they felt as though creating a new space, and inviting other people in would feel a lot more like home. (They were right.) They edit the Zine with Sophia William at present.
Welcome to our first issue. We hope you love it. Thank you for stopping by. Will the last person to leave please turn out the lights? 7
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welcome to the feature
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(Un)Fallen No. 4 by Edward Lee The '(Un)Fallen' images are part of an ongoing series which is concerned with how we, in all aspects of our life, internal and external, are forever rebuilding upon broken things, be it our emotions. Our beliefs, or the buildings we live and work in.
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Parwana Ya Dewana? by Fizza Abbas I saw a moth wandering around the window-pane, in search of her confidante: a stunning orange blob of light with a fair skin tone and a slender body her ravenous teardrop, as she fondly called him. Nearby Charrington Rd, a 52-ft tall, five-storey building was ablaze; The inferno had swept through the entire space, and there was no way to stop the music of death;
she instantly knew it was her dear rage. Folding her wings up over her back, she arrived at the destination saving mortals at each step. while her beloved was busy flaunting his strength like an old, white-bearded wizard who likes to raise his hands in the air to cast evil spells. As came closer to her lover to prevent this outrage, she received an elusive kiss that soothed the cracks of her lips but burnt her tiny self As she waved goodbye, I called the fire brigade.
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Wilted flower by Fizza Abbas He asks, What is your aim in life? I want to compete with birds, daddy their wings flutter: motion in a straight line they soar high: clouds get a reason to feel pride they lay eggs nest enjoys goodwill My skin alerts at a touch The box of a bony enamel cracks
These limbs enjoy a circus Tresses turn wild I know it’s customary for you to rub your legs against my thighs
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Untitled No.2 by Tisha Mavi The idea of my artwork is actually based on observation and selfrealisation about our lifestyle today, how we are all so caught up in this industrious way of life and have forgotten to live and appreciate the things we are blessed with, like nature and the sky which grant us a sense of joy and calm. So in my artwork, my main focus was to capture this feeling of rejoice through colours, shadow play and small things from our surroundings which we hardly pay any attention to. 13
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There is still hope... perhaps! by Fizza Abbas Mama, can you hold my eyes? I don’t want to see the colours Red, blue, pink, orange - all seem too white delusion dances around me. It’s too quaint. I can’t recall the days when I looked outside the window all day long.
My poems no longer talk about the jury that judges my performance every second. I think I have won the contest for I can see a rainbow parting along.
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The New World by Thomas M. McDade
Stained glass Ornaments This pizza joint A fair day Harbor scene Greets as warmly As a maître d Men relieve a boat of Its lobster and shrimp The sea’s insects elite A companion piece Features Columbus On a knee offering A pie to an Indian The server advises Pizzas are very large I bet the usual hype I win but no prize so
I award myself half A shaker of oregano Aware it’s medicinal The last slice reminds Me of a tomahawk At the ready in A native hand About to shatter The myth The sun abets
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Acatalepsy by Brecht Lanfossi (Noun. Incomprehensibility of things; the doctrine held by the ancient Skeptic philosophers, that human knowledge never amounts to certainty, but only to probability.) The binary code in this artwork is a visual representation of the search for the comprehensibility of things. It is peculiar to humanity searching for the certainty of knowledge while from my perspective it's more noble to try to live with the idea that human knowledge amounts only to probability. I think this way of seeing things will lead us to a better understanding of them. Thinking that human knowledge amounts to certainty is forceful while thinking that it amounts to probability is flowing.
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Meliorism by Brecht Lanfossi From the curator of 34gbexhibition.co.uk: “This work makes me think of the different ways society has developed to transmit and consume information. Is the title applauding the successes of human achievement? Or suggesting that this is the world that needs to be made better?�
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Bonded by Thomas M. McDade The nomads ignore A stooping willow It’s Bark oozing And steaming Sun glimmers the mud Whiplashes through Sultry reveries Oxen heave and halt To puddle drink Geese honk Tots play cat’s cradle Salvation ambles up The rocky trail Captures high noon In a compact mirror
And signals believers A young mother nipples Her baby before crying Out: who in hell here Reads Morse Code?
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Chahat Soneja | “Despair� | Charcoal | 23.4 x 33.1 inches | 2020
Despair by Chahat Soneja While walking around the streets of old Delhi early morning, I saw these two men sitting silently in front of a shutter. It seemed as if they were waiting for something good to arrive but had lost all hope. It may not be the same situation. But I instantly captured it and then finally drew it.
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THIRD WORLD PLAYGROUND by Abel Francesco Gregory 20
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REFUGEES by Abel Francesco Gregory
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Spring Break Mission Trip by Niles Reddick Our learning community in the high rise on the university campus needed a break from calculus, writing, Spanish, and chemistry, but none of us could afford a spring break trip. We’d cobbled together a little Pell, since we were middle class, and combined with some scholarship money, and a hefty Stafford loan, and paid tuition, books, and room and board, but our parents still sent funds. None of us dared ask them for more for a spring break trip. We decided service learning would be our best choice. “Build a house for spring break?” Tim asked. “Are you crazy?” “No,” Peter said. “There’s a lot of need in the Gulf area since the hurricane and Habitat for Humanity needs volunteers. People love to donate for stuff like that. Plus, most folks like Habitat’s spokesperson Jimmy Carter now.” “Don’t you think people would rather give to their churches or give to local projects in Richmond? After all, there’s more poverty here and more of a need than a rural coastal village on the Gulf” I asked. “People are tired of giving to big churches to pay preachers for cars, jets, vacations, and girlfriends. Can’t rely on the government, so we need grassroots movements like this,” Peter preached. “But, Peter, is the motivation to help or to go on a spring break vacation? Lots of churches are doing mission trips to other countries, so they can get a vacation on some exotic island. It helps them feel less guilty about having money and being a self-centered American,” Tim said. “Well,” Peter said. “That’s not my intent. It’s doing good first and if we do enough good, it won’t be like a vacation. We will have down time for some good seafood and beach time.” We all came to a consensus, and though I had misgivings, by midnight, it was too late. Peter had pushed our gofundme on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, and by noon the next day, we had raised enough money for food, gas, and lodging. We even had some left over for tshirts, beer, and a Florida souvenir made in China. The three of us had a blast in Florida. We drove Peter’s BMW convertible and showed up at the Habitat work site. The project manager was rude and constantly referred to us as smart aleck college boys, just because we didn’t know anything about house construction. After a day of being gofers, hauling lumber, shingles, and insulation, we decided we’d volunteered enough and spent the rest of spring break on the beach. We combed the beach for shells, built sand castles, drank beer, got sun burned, and met some girls from an Alabama university who were on a mission trip, too. The three of us hated to leave on Sunday and make the long trek back to Richmond, and we agreed to stick to the same story that we’d been sun burned from roofing the Habitat house.
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Forgotten — from the collection Somewhere by Shea Donovan Somewhere between San Francisco and New York. We traveled by train for days and one view gradually blurred into the next— an indiscernible landscape of rural Americana.
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THE COOL SILVER DROPS by Tonmoi Das Kashyap The cool silver drops hit me gently from heaven as I walk through the forest. My footsteps mark way for the bypassers a scar left earmarked that the forest shall carry forever. Rain water clog
in my footprints forming micro ponds. The trees wave at me as I pass each of them bending in the direction of the wind. Water drops falling from leaves flows along my ears into my blouse along my waist seduce me like a lover of spring. And I know it will have a lasting impact on my memory.
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AUTUMN LEAF by Tonmoi Das Kashyap I saw the clouds hiding the moon -pearl in the dark sky. I swing with the wind in a direction unknown. Spineless it feels; after bidding adieu to my mother. Autumn made her loose former glory -with a promise -spring would reinstate. I am lost in the turmoil,
destination unknown, as more of my kind join me in the journey, some even my brothers.
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Long Way by Chahat Soneja I saw this leaf while I was capturing nature and suddenly noticed an ant on it and thought about how long it takes for the ant to cross the leaf and realized how privileged I am to be a human and not an ant. Hence I tried portraying the same.
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RIDE ALONG THE ROAD by Tonmoi Das Kashyap A car ride along the road disturb the sleep of the willows gently bending in the wind. The leaves now separated sings along a song in their way a story untold reflected in each of them. A butterfly joins the chorus showing the direction. They rest on the road, each of them silent as snow taking a break in the long tiresome journey
waiting to catch the next ride.
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Winter’s Witches by Linda Imbler When a woman of some age appears, magick stirs the air around her aura. She finds her inner wisdom, and as the forward movement of time proceeds, within her, solitude takes first place and tranquility leads the parade. She grows her soul,
while letting the weeds of excess dry up. She, passing the torch of an honorable mind and heart. Feelings, knowledge, spiritual truths, all purified and purifying, living right with a fearless heart. These graceful agers of our world are praised. They long have been the banner bearers of life’s truths. The eyes of a woman of many winters will reflect all you need to know, and her sorcery will show you how to love.
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PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN by Abel Francesco Gregory
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Two pieces by Tisha Mavi
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Ten poems from The Woman in an Imaginary Painting by Tom Montag What does she ask of morning? She asks nothing. The sun has spun its
Sometimes we think what
hundred thousand times and she is the same
we think is
now as she was
what is.
yesterday. Time has
The woman
a different meaning
in the painting
for the woman in
knows better.
the painting than it does for us. Light is what light is and darkness carries the soul at night. She must wait another dawn to come.
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The math of art is beyond her understanding.
She could be
She doesn’t know
a bowl of fruit,
the golden ratio
color and shape
from the Fibonacci
and texture,
sequence. She doesn’t
the light on
know angle from
peaches as
parallel, from
on her breasts.
the universe
She could be
bending back on
an arrangement
itself so that
of lines in space.
what doesn’t touch
Love would be
touches. She does
a ripening
know light from
sweetness, and yet
darkness. She knows
she cannot think
color, and silence,
beyond the touch
the algebra of
of sun on her
her emptiness,
imagined hair.
more than the artist imagines.
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Do not try to say what it means if in the painting the woman herself does not know. Even the artist Words are
would fail explaining.
not the things they point to. Paint is not the thing painted. We make assumptions for the sake of convenience but that doesn’t mean philosophy means any more than
silence.
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issue 1 / july 2020 What you believe is so much less than what is true, which is so much less than what is
beautiful. The woman
The smolder of her about to burst
in the painting knows this, but she
into flame. She hides it well, the heat
cannot say it. She can only
of the moment
in the blush at
pose. Duty is to truth as breathing
her throat, in the light of her eyes.
is to life. We do what we must,
We are all like this, luminous,
and she goes on
holding to hope,
though few of us notice. Let go,
the only wisdom.
she says. What you think you control is illusion, she says. True love comes galloping.
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The woman in the painting knows nakedness is no sin. There is no afterlife here. Take salvation someplace else.
Oh, yes, stillness where the darkness meets her flesh.
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Kalopsia by Brecht Lanfossi (Noun. The delusion of things being more beautiful than they are.) The artwork depicts a female character in the foreground of the frame. One could say she is dancing in a seemingly careless way and living in a delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are. One may wonder if she really lives in a delusion or if she is just in harmony with herself and her surroundings as angels are looking over her shoulders and evil creatures are heading home. The creation could also be suggesting that she is a sort of heavenly personification of oneness.
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trans is beautiful by Linda M. Crate merenda, if i could give you any advice it would be stop making yourself so small; you’re a star born to shine and full of hope and dreams your compassion is a strong aura that is fiercely ornamented by the gaze of even strangers because
you are a soul authentic and pure a rare find in a world so synthetic and fake— i was angry when my then boyfriend told me your family had rejected you because you were so kind and welcoming to me when we first met, and you didn’t have to bestow such kindness upon a stranger and yet you did; being a woman is tough and i understand but know that some people will always be pricks about things they don’t understand but some of us will always love you— you always complimented me when i wasn’t even sure what i was doing with my fashion choices, you have and always be a queen; dust off that crown—
you may be trans, but trans is beautiful;
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burning the things obscuring my view by Linda M. Crate sometimes when you are taken for granted time after time it is hard to see your own beauty there are times i look in the mirror, and see beauty; yet there are others that i look in the mirror and i want to cry at what i see because there are times i feel like an ogre— when you know you are the daughter
of a monster, sometimes you want to swallow yourself down make yourself so small that no one notices you exist because then these people cannot hurt you because whenever someone promises me forever all i here is never because one day they’ll fade away they always do— which is why i am always stoking my own light when i see the embers going down so the sparks can ignite into flames once more because i am always rising from the ashes i am beautiful always but sometimes it is only when i burn away everything that was obscuring my vision that i see that.
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won’t anchor my soul by Linda M. Crate i am a rainbow they’re always trying to take my light, but they don’t know the power of my darkness; ought not tempt my monsters because they bite and won’t apologize for all the harm they cause— i am always keeping them at bay,
but one day i might just let them attack; i am sick of half-hearted apologies and being ignored and tolerated i want to be celebrated and loved but no one seems to speak my language or understand the mythology of my bones— i am exhausted deep down into my soul of the people here because they all take me for granted don’t think that one day i might just walk away from them and never come back, i won’t let my loyalty become the knife in my back; have done my share of bleeding for people who didn’t deserve my compassion
i won’t anchor my soul in those who won’t invest in me.
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Holding on With All I Have by Laura Harper Lake Created in Procreate, this digital painting represents how even when heading towards a great future, it can be scary when you don't have full control of the situation. I wanted to illustrate my fears, emotions, and excitement when facing a large change in life. Aside from the woman hanging on, the rest of the painting is based on a photo I took over the Atlantic Ocean, flying to Iceland to elope.
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PERSEPHONE JUMPS INTO A PILE OF LEAVES by Nymphish Do you think Hades will invite Persephone for dinner this autumn? How often is his offer declined & how often does she find herself there anyway? i hear she is out racking up leaves she once birthed; that she really thought they’d stay green this year. Perhaps it is that she is holding on to a dying season that brings her to him moreover. Or perhaps it’s the morbid realization that the dying season is pretty. i see trails of ash, i don’t follow. Make a trap that is yellow, red, orange. Make it fragile & crunch on impact. i want to jump. i want to be with a god that makes my love more beautiful than me, even by means of killing it. i want to go to dinner.
PARALLEL UNIVERSE WHERE I AM MEETING MYSELF FOR THE FIRST TIME by Nymphish And in a parallel universe, I see myself in a large house with open windows, green plants. And I beg to myself, save him, won’t you please be the one to save him? And I watch myself as she looks around aimlessly she says If you knew what you were asking, you would want to save yourself instead. I am the version of myself
making homes in apartments I’m moving out of.
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THE COERCION by Nymphish The greatest ability you can give to your self in this moment is memorization of the popcorn ceiling I can trace these kernels into small trees happy pumpkins I heard once that masters can even find abstract feelings up there things like love and desire and want
I can see words in there sometimes but I can’t read them I tell myself that perhaps they spell out
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IS IT GOD OR IS IT ME by Nico Loving someone you know you cannot be with. This could be due to religious differences or a not the right time scenario. It’s loving someone but not being ready to adapt for them.
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YOU GREAT, THING OF LEGENDS by Nymphish
based on the painting Hylas and the Nymphs by John William Waterhouse you are bigger than yourself. do you think of me as saintly too? when you picture my hands, do they grow lily, or lotus? i opened my palm to you once and from it, emerged a bee. do you pray onto infatuation at night, begging for the girl draped in green, with her honeycomb hands grasping you— all for infatuation to clench your back and whisper, Hylas, you silly thing, worshipping nymphs will only wash you away. . .
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untitled #5 by Syaf feet drowned in the mud, along the path i strut, the surroundings seemed eerily familiar, a minute passed and everything seemed clearer, stood there was a figure, i’ve been waiting for so long, she whispered, hugged with a thin cloth, her body shivered, features turned sadder and her cries could defeat even the sharpest dagger, heart shattered and blood splattered, i fell down, down down down the melody of leaves rustling
and the birds chirping remind me that i’m alive, i’m alive and i will find her again. syaf // 2129
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(Un)Fallen No. 6 by Edward Lee
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To The Powers Of Twelve by Bruce McRae Two-faced January, frigid February,
a baneful March. Falling through the numbers, April vindictive, May the animal we’ve long suspected. A sudden June has befallen us, planets in regression. A heated July. An argumentative August, its fugs and thunders. September made of wax. Luscious October, posed provocatively in a cold shower. November undressed. The bastard-child they coined December. A blow to the sternum. A lowly servant to reason’s master.
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The Mystery Man by Bruce McRae His atoms were formed inside exploding stars. He’s not at home on any planet. Grace. Élan. Savoir faire. Attributes beyond his ken and reckoning. He stands outside in the heaving rain. And how else does one capture lightning? I’m going to sleep like baby Jesus tonight. This statement typifies his on-going inner dialogue. All things are not possible to all men. Which is why he reconnoiters the impossible. Behind his mask is another mask, and so on. At the core of his being is a little blue sun. “It was so dark I could not find myself.” Thus ends the master of illusion.
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Uprising by Bruce McRae A bee in your bonnet, they used to say. A minor cause or concern. A niggling worry. A sliver in the lion’s paw, little mouse, putting voice to ire, and there is much to rail against; the revolution, brethren, is far from over. And that buzzing you hear? That pretty bonnet?
It’s all for burning.
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Iridescent by Brecht Lanfossi (Adjective. Showing luminous colors that seem to change when seen from different angles.) A way to interpret this work is to consider it as a scene in a sort of vague state of mental functioning where symbolism dominates the whole experience itself.
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Define Yourself by Anne Spencer When I created this painting, I chose colors that made me deeply happy, without worrying about if anyone else thought they complemented each other. As for the design, I usually find that the less I think about it, the more true and expressive it is. There is a certain level of flow that happens. When creating the design, my mind kept going back to how my thoughts and ideas swirl around constantly in my head. So, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment, and let my hand paint it for me. Additionally, despite the apparent chaotic-looking swirls, there is a definite organization of design and color. This represents the mixture and tension of organization versus chaos in my soul. These forces are always at play in me. They are polarizing and frustrating at times; but they combine in their own special way to create beauty within me, as a unique person like no one else.
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PAPERBAGPEOPLE by Abel Francesco Gregory
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awaken by Mark Cunningham Hush dawn is waking shrugging night off its shoulders crisp shadows of blinders straighten the walls smell of breakfast awakening my loves I kiss them alive tumbling out of bed they agree tis the only way to live
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The Wounded Soul by Edward Lee 55
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Journey—from the collection Somewhere by Shea Donovan Waking up on the train somewhere in Illinois and discovering Chicago in the distance.
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Far Off by Chahat Soneja The view of ladder shows the goal is far off. It was a part of a big collectively made installation, but to me each had its own meaning separately. The ladder in this position shows that the something up there from top is pleasing and one must reach it. But standing below one feels that it is very far off and hard to reach.
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Smoke, baby by Rushmila Khan Smoke: definition Suspension of carbon or other particles in air, typically one emitted from a burning substance. Smoke - bloody knuckles on the wall Smoke - light headedness Smoke - a punch to the gut Smoke - a drunk father Smoke - fuck I’m missing classes Smoke - I think I’m slowly dying Smoke began at home When mother’s body slowly burnt Over the span of 18 long years
Sometimes in the kitchen but Mostly in the living room Where she used to sip ginger and lemon tea And watch father burn Every evening At 7 o’clock, sharp Because we’re very punctual in this household It’s first evidence was bits off newspaper Orange sparks at the edges Flying up into the air and hitting my brother in the face I realized - smoke was here to hurt my family I poured a glass of water on it And it frowned at me like it’s disappointed I said - fuck smoke
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But smoke was back again that evening, Smiling at me from my father’s lungs Smoke sneered, and smirked And laughed at me Smoke made me feel tiny At 16, smoke slowly walked towards me like The new shy kid in school and shook my hand It took me by surprise, but we turned out to be good friends Smoke used to sneak out at night with me And sometimes his body disintegrated into the back of my calculator cover Some nights he died between my fingers and I flushed his ashes down the toilet But somehow, smoke always came back Smoke took me to the school dance And told me that even though he was the remnants of my mother And my father He would keep me good company At 19, I watched my father’s body burn This time, his flesh to his bones, And as his organs crumbled under the fire Smoke approached with his pretty face and a black suit He kissed my mother on the cheek but she didn’t notice I cried on his shoulder all night and we talked about my father When I woke up in the morning, smoke had disappeared. He left bits of burnt newspapers for me to remember him And a few whispers hanging from the clothes-line
He wrote on my wall his last words It’s just motherfucking smoke
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Kosher Poetry – Disintegration by Rushmila Khan I’m imagining tiny white ghosts on whiter paper. I’m imagining flakes of salt On a sleeping city with yellow lights. I’m imagining the vines tying your hair in a thick braid And my hands brushing through those weaves
Singing the songs of whatever we could be. I’m imagining the monuments build From you face, Ones those look more real than you yourself, And my concrete hand holding yours In a yellowing polaroid I’m imagining lips curling upwards And tongues getting twisted in a wave of words Grazing the hours of moonlight. I’m imagining dug out graves, And bougainvillea growing through the creases, Pieces of meat buried in boxes forever, Calmly playing in an orchestra
With instruments of love And a safekeep for everything, forever.
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OFFICE VIEW by Abel Francesco Gregory
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New River by Garrett Knobl The New River, being one of the oldest rivers in the world, and being one of only a handful of rivers that run north, has carved so many gorgeous curves into the Appalachians. The river paired with the winding railroads and highways that follow it make for a stunning frame.
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(Un)Fallen No. 2 by Edward Lee
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Four poems by Sister Chapman This longing in my muscles The feel of your hand on the small of my back Winter air seems less cold An unexpected intensity Your eyes, so dark, seeing me, rendering me vulnerable I had to turn away, like trying to stare into the sun Feeling you look at me as I’m looking at myself in the mirror in my bedroom Pink walls, pink sheets, pink light Your glasses on my desk
The wallpaper in my bedroom is starting to peel Francesca Woodman lived in this house before me That’s a lie Photographs of her are swirling around my brain The way she reveals and conceals herself simultaneously
That’s how I usually feel when I’m with a man for the first time My body naked while I pull the wallpaper over my eyes I want to crawl into the wall through the crease in the wallpaper A cocoon I don’t feel that way with you. I want to pull you into the wallpaper with me Press my lips against your eyelids Put your hand in my mouth and feel the insides of my cheeks with your fingertips Stay here behind the wallpaper with me
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Oh to be in a glass box with you In some lush forest in the Pacific Northwest
Perennial rainfall drowning out all other noises A hazy green around us Holding you in my arms Your face pressed into my breast Steady breathing My heart a hummingbird Yours is the bass line in our composition
I’m browsing sunflower printed dresses online Thinking about you undressing me
Letting it fall to the floor Our bodies tangled on top of the discarded fabric A homemade sunflower field
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REALITY’S LYRE by Iwuagwu Ikechukwu In centripetal quest Our essence is borne Are we so blest? This - my cargo every morn Round and round the spin In painful pleasant play Our fate a movie screen This and every day I pray, see with your eyes The dehydrating pains
And conceive with your mind
I bear in silent screams
How queer a picture, vies
Strife - a thousand lanes
to make mess of futility’s rind
I ply even in dreams This breath perhaps a trifle Substantial robes of apparition A tiny tricky trickle From puddle to ocean The rituals I must say A boring blooming flower Life what more so, may I ask, do you have to offer?
Is it the umbilical quest?
Or the stomach’s endless lures? The never ending rest? Or the steady visiting cures?
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Two pieces by Duna Dias These collages appeared after a few weeks in social isolation. It was one of the ways I found to flow the energies that invaded me. My collages always bring the figure of the woman who can be myself or other women. As if we look at those who watch us even when they try to close our eyes.
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CREATOR by Anu Ahuja This painting was made when I was researching different artists, and in that I was inspired by many artists; it's an interior of a washroom.
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Untitled No. 1 by Tisha Mavi
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VICTIMS by Iwuagwu Ikechukwu I am the little girl next door play-embracing the floor My innocence was forcefully pilfered, while everyone was away
I am the newest Mrs, having barely explored conjugal mysteries My breath was halted permanently, by thoughtless fists fuming with anger I am the latest graduate tossed into the field of fate I couldn’t fill merited vacancies because I am bereft of sabi-ficate* I am the traveller Unexplored destinations in my quiver I failed to reach my destination, because the spineless asphalt was blood thirsty I am the innocent thief Condemned by a righteous mob metals laugh into my rouge rind, as smoke resurrects impatiently I am George Floyd, Trayvon Martin, Sandra bland I was jabbed into the world beyond
Because the color of my skin Was perceived as God’s costliest mistake
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I am a son of the soil Ahiajoku* knows my toil But I couldn’t reap my proceeds stray nomadic bullets explored my body too soon
I am an activist My lips throw sharp jabs like Tyson’s fist Eerie biceps of intimidation, Yokes me to a tryst with unmade morrows I am a religious leader Picked by our maker I dictate your every move, because your brain is invalid I am an officer of the law protecting all without an atom of flaw Fat brown envelopes rep your innocence That or behind the bars
_____________________________ *A term used by west Africans to depict one having connections to higher places *god of yam and agriculture in igbo pantheon (west Africa)
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Dreamscape by Anu Ahuja It’s a Dream, it’s a psychology that's how I experience the dream as well as the binary of reality and the psychological space. This space is very confined, personal, definite embodied a melancholy which related to my own objects, living beings. It’s full of me, being myself. In this work, I explore a range of possible interpretations and embrace the specific qualities of its medium also how difficult to take in, as it competes with the natural grandeur of its surroundings which offers multiple readings of the visual elements. 72
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SCAMMED by Iwuagwu Ikechukwu Persephone stepped in Possessed: the nib prepped for a furious dance Fuming - boiling - thunderous marching of the heart Questions questions questions que... Standing askance; a million answers - perhaps A star clad in sparkless grief - I A product in the making; life’s intricacies now slither into my nest - typhoon awaits... This scape’s sojourn enfeebles my essence with gusto
Vapid verbs sting my curiousity; but it is the phoenix Born anew in this ash of intricate clutter A myriad question marks of sharp gleams adorning my minds fluffy firmament Tears halted; bemoaned Gazing - The NOOSE, The SCALPEL, The SNIPER Sitting on the fence - I just can’t... The urge boils to draw the curtain Why? Its a tale dwarfing Sisyphus’ boulder The lad, now a man; false lores, worn off like the adder’s skin I am the waif in the uterus of a lonely jungle I seem to be conversing with my ears
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Do you feel loved? by Nico This is a digital collage made to represent the complexity of human attraction. Making sure that the relationship is healthy and that both parties are putting in the effort they deserve.
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Celanese Building by Garrett Knobl The vantage point, coupled with the angle I was able to snap these photographs at, was granted by a 1,500 feet high, difficult hike up to a beautiful overlook. I used my max 250mm lens zoom to capture the beautiful geometry of the building. This picture is actually a cropped version of the entire chemical plant! 75
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that’s all of the art. 77
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contributor glossary Abel Francesco Gregory (20, 21, 29, 53, 61) The photos submitted are works of amateur photographer Abel. He would like to think of himself as an art enthusiast, however photography is what he personally excels in. He primarily draws inspiration from 1920s film noir, 50s Americana and gothic architecture. Unlike a lot of photographers Abel doesn't own a camera but chooses to use his phone, mostly of necessity because he’s broke, or should he say economically challenged.
Anne Spencer (52) By day, Anne is a medical speech-language pathologist who helps her patients to regain their ability to speak, think, and swallow again after traumatic medical events. She is a self-taught artist native to Oklahoma and her main focus is abstract art using mediums of acrylic and watercolor. For her, art is an escape from the heaviness of her daily work. Her artistic goal is simple: to add beauty to the world. In her spare time Anne enjoys brewing kombucha and water kefir, camping, hiking, reading, and hammocking with her husband, Jordan, and rescue dog, Lollie.
Anu Ahuja (68, 72)
Anu Ahuja a student of visual arts is interested in exploring the varieties and possibilities of water colour, oil colour, acrylic and other kind of materials and medium. She comes with long list of original ideas theories and fascinating abstract portraits and an ability to use wood and produce 3D works across various medium. 78
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Brecht Lanfossi (16, 17, 37, 51) Brecht Lanfossi (alter ego: nozem) is a Belgian surrealist collagist/ digital painter inspired by dream-like and psychotic consciousness free of reason and convention. He is a Royal Academy of Fine Arts (KASK Ghent) drop out who never gave up the idea of making some “art” one day. A way to interpret Lanfossi's work is to consider each work as a scene in a sort of vague state of mental functioning where symbolism dominates the whole experience itself. On the other hand, he believes that it would be complete nonsense trying to answer the conundrum concerning his aesthetic creations. He also doesn't like to use the word “art” for his works because of the grotesque sounding connotation it carries with it. For the artist himself doing what he does is just one of the many existing desperate ways of escaping the global enslaved mind we are all currently living in. He thinks doing that sounds a lot better than the superficial, rat race driven, chaos that has become our norm.
Bruce McRae (48, 49, 50) Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,600 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’; (Cawing Crow Press); ‘Like As If’ (Pski’s Porch); ‘Hearsay’ (The Poet’s Haven).
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Chahat Soneja (19, 26, 57) Chahat Soneja has worked across quite a few mediums and materials, drawing and painting portraits of women and other daily life experiences that she has on a day-to-day basis. In the current body of works, she came across the beauty of portraying what is already around and is often ignored or not considered beautiful or paid less attention towards. There is so much more beautiful outside the things called beautiful. She has been looking for this “outside”. It is not necessary to find beauty within the laid out margins for it. Aesthetics, according to her, deals not only with the nature and value of the arts but also with those responses to natural or manmade objects that find expression in the language of the beautiful and the ugly. A problem is encountered that terms such as ‘beautiful’ and ‘ugly’ seem too juxtaposed, not with meaning but with use. The idea here is to use both together or to use either of them and realize both their potentials as individual entities. She has tried doing justice to the above while drawing.
Duna Dias (67) Duna Dias is a Brazilian artist. Founder of Grupo Contemporâneo de Dança Livre in Brazil. A student of the Degree in Dance (UFMG) has a constant flow in his body a degree in Physical Education, a technical training in Theater and many years of dedication to the multiple possibilities of dance, visual arts and vídeo. She is currently a multitasking artist at the Grupo Contemporâneo de Dança Livre and Cia Ananda, working on stages, on the streets and in videos. In addition, she is a Physical Education teacher in Basic Education. In his artistic wanderings, he has already exchanged experiences, sweat and energy in festivals, residences and projects in Brazil and in Israel, Poland, Germany, England, Scotland, Argentina, Portugal, France, Belgium, Colombia, Panama, Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica and Peru.
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Edward Lee (3, 10, 47, 55, 63) Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, non-fiction have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com
Fizza Abbas (11, 12, 14) Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published on quite a few platforms including Poetry Village and Poetry Pacific.
Garrett Knobl (62, 75)
Garrett Knobl was born and raised in the United States of America, in the state of Virginia. Although he was interested in art (specifically graphite and charcoal) from a young age, photography never struck as an interest to him. Until early 2019, his only exposure to an actual camera was during the summer after his first year in high school. Almost the entirety of that summer was spent on a road trip out to the American midwest with his family. Luckily, his grandmother had a Canon Powershot SX50 HS, which she let him borrow from time to time during the trip. This is what first began his interest in photography. However, for the majority of that time between that summer of 2017 and 2019, he was fully satisfied with his smartphone for photography. It was only at the end of 2018 that he seriously gained 81
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interest for more professional equipment. That spring of 2019 he received a Canon EOS Rebel T6 for his birthday, and since then has self-taught (with the exception of one semester of photography class) his photographing and editing abilities.
Iwuagwu Ikechukwu (66, 70-71, 73) Iwuagwu Ikechukwu is an African poet, a graduate of English and Literary studies. His poems won the Poetry Nook weekly contest and got an honourable mention respectively, which are now in the fifth volume paperback edition of the Poetry Nook anthology, available on amazon. His works have been published in The Shallow Tales Review (Nigeria), Black Boy Review (Nigeria), About Place Journal (USA), Flora Fiction (USA) and Dissonance Magazine (UK).
Laura Harper Lake (41) Laura Harper Lake of Artful Harper Studios is an interdisciplinary artist who is passionate about being a creative. This thirst for creativity has been with Laura since she was a youngster and that grew into a viable future after attending and graduating from the charming Chester College of New England. Laura began her official business as an artist under the name Artful Harper Studios in 2016, has displayed her work in various galleries throughout New England, and is a permanent artist represented at the Art Up Front Street Gallery in Exeter, NH. Laura also co-hosts a podcast, Creative Guts, that interviews other creatives from all disciplines and explores what we’re all striving to communicate through our craft. Laura resides in a quaint little town on the darling New Hampshire seacoast, filled to the brim with natural beauty, with her dashing husband, a plucky pup with boundless energy, and an omniscient feline who truly runs the show.
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Linda Imbler (28) Linda Imbler has six published poetry collections and one hybrid ebook of short fiction and poetry. She lives in Wichita, Kansas, USA. Linda is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee. More information can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.
Linda M. Crate (38, 39, 40) Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019). She's also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). Recently she has published two full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020) and The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020).
Mark Cunningham (54) Mark Cunningham, a retired punk, lives in Washington DC the crapitol of the USA and likes the works of Bukowski and Kerouac. He is also a collector of permanent art and wives. He is pretty much a boring person and doesn't have much of a biography so far.
Nico (44, 74) Nico is an 18-year-old artist, they are a student at CSU and study art. They use they/them pronouns and their work focuses on showcasing emotions that are usually overlooked. Check out their other work @mochinico
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Niles Reddick (22) Niles Reddick is author of the novel Drifting too far from the Shore, two collections Reading the Coffee Grounds and Road Kill Art and Other Oddities, and a novella Lead Me Home. His work has been featured in thirteen anthologies and in over three hundred publications including The Saturday Evening Post, PIF, New Reader Magazine, Forth Magazine, Cheap Pop, Flash Fiction Magazine, With Painted Words, among many others.
Nymphish (42, 43, 45) Nymphish is a contemporary poet from Phoenix, AZ. She received her first publication from Creative Communications when she was sixteen, and has since completed her debut poetry collection, "Seventh Street Sad". She is currently very active in the art, music, and poetry scenes surrounding Phoenix. Nymphish has two cats, Coraline and Arrietty, and they both look the same.
Rushmila Khan (58-59, 60)
Rushmila has an affinity for indie films and books. She recently founded her own non-profit publication. Her book reviews have appeared on The Bookshelf.
Shea Donovan (23, 56) Shea is a performer, artistic director, occasional playwright/poet and photographer and mixed media artist with a passion for the interdisciplinary. She strives to create work at the intersection of art, scholarship and activism for theatres, galleries and alternative spaces. Shea's methodology focuses on the journey to the finished 84
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product, and she enjoys integrating her passion for history and travel into her work. When she's not creating she can be found collecting degrees, directing youth education programs, galavanting around the world and reading classical literature to her cat, Dinah Louise.
Sister Chapman (64, 65)
Sister Chapman (b. 1995) is a Southern California-based artist who investigates notions of self as subject/object. Drawing from personal and cultural archives, her practice contemplates intimacy, desire, and relations of power through writing and filmmaking. Chapman holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Southern Methodist University, and a Master of Fine Arts from the University of California, San Diego.
Syaf (46) The writer goes by the name Syaf, aged 20. She is currently a student in a local university, learning about things she isn’t passionate about. Her pieces have always revolved around self-discovery, heartbreak and death in the past six years when she first started writing in her second year of high school. Sometimes you’d find her dancing or drawing although she doesn’t consider herself skilled in those particular realms, but hey, you only live once and she hopes you’re living your days to the fullest, too.
Thomas M. McDade (15, 18) Thomas M. McDade is a 74-year-old resident of Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI. He is a 1973 graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck, Virginia Beach, VA and at sea, aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller 85
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(DE/FF-1091). His poetry has most recently been published by Flora Fiction and As It Ought To Be Magazine.
Tisha Mavi (13, 30, 31, 69) TISHA MAVI has completed her bachelor’s in painting specialisation from Amity school of fine art’s, AMITY UNIVERSITY, NOIDA in 2019. Her work is a constant search for the best way to interpret the ideas she has about herself and the World. She likes to experiment with colours and explore mediums. Her inspiration comes from daily life which she sees and observes.
Tom Montag (32-36) Tom Montag's books of poetry include: Making Hay & Other Poems; Middle Ground; The Big Book of Ben Zen; In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013; This Wrecked World; The Miles No One Wants; Imagination's Place; Love Poems; and Seventy at Seventy. His poem 'Lecturing My Daughter in Her First Fall Rain' has been permanently incorporated into the design of the Milwaukee Convention Center. He blogs at The Middlewesterner. With David Graham, he recently co-edited Local News: Poetry About Small Towns.
Tonmoi Das Kashyap (24, 25, 27) Tonmoi Das Kashyap is an emerging poet and short story writer. His work has been published in 29 Anthology, Literary Garland, The Daily Drunk, Trouvaille Review, Litehouse, Burgundy Balloon, Haikuniverse and several other national and international journals. He lives in Assam, India with his parents and brother.
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and that’s all of the artists. 87
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This issue wouldn't be here without all 26 of the wonderful contributors who trusted us enough to give us their art for our first issue.
Here’s to art — may there always be way too much of it in the world.
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Interested in helping our next issue become a reality? You could us send your art, send us a tip, or support us on social media.
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Thank you for choosing to support a small online publication. To our readers:
We hope that you’ll stick around to read more issues and support us. Tell your friends? To our contributors: We hope that you will continue to submit your work to us in the future, as well as encourage your creative friends to do the same. Thank you endlessly for your love, your art and your trust. 89
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