When people think of us, we want them to think inclusive, eclectic, bold, welcoming, experimental. More recently: romantic, dreamy. 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 four 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, Jack Joseph, Shekinah Louis, Honey Simatupang, Chelsea Akpan and Charlotte Todd at present.
Welcome to our fifth issue. We hope you love it. Thank you for stopping by. Will the last person to leave please turn out the lights?
sunshine baby by Jasmine Kapadia in june of 1979, when our edges run like mango juice down chins, she dunks me into the ocean and i come up with my nose dripping. on her tongue there is a paper crane, electric blue, like my favourite flavour of sour candy. she drips melted wax all over my feet, tips the can of soda into her mouth. i catch the tail end of a prayer, sneak glances as she slips out of her swimsuit. her collarbone is the most beautiful thing i have ever seen. the sun is bright in my eyes, god in the sharp intake of breath. i write poems about summer in november, having just found the words for the way the sky stuttered. like hey, i don’t know if you’ll ever see this but, and it shatters, rains chunks of blue on my shoulders. her teeth sink into the plump part of my lip.
by Lisa Fotios
my inner child by Sheng Hui Lim i. the first sign— fear of intimacy teen romance with my boy scout he gives me wake up calls on my telephone race to the phone! before daddy or mommy pick up heart in ears one day, he gives me a snickers bar with a love note attached i hide the note eat the chocolate and masticate our romance
ii. i went to a kindy housed in a temple with a wicked boy i go back in time sucker punch the boy put his name to sleep RIP monkey ears outside there is a pool made of cement murky water like this memory the girl’s bathroom still gross and smelly i walked corridors dark and deserted upstairs a giant buddha for special events like buddha’s birthday still remember me by a graduation photo my sombre expression lips way too red
iii. days years flew by my nose buried in books over family gatherings under school desks through the nights vampires magicians spies ninjas space people closeted kooky heroines saving the day! i imagined myself transcendent beautiful strong my internal landscape a burgeoning world of multiple parts the inexplicable pain of girlhood unpredictable adults and their canes uncanny teenage cults she folded into herself became my splintered double
iv. the second sign— unfurling encountering a plump flat faced beauty she had pungent laughter flaunted farts and never cared like wood-ear i stuck to her tree then i landed in a gentle no-place and found myself pudding among puddings first of bloomings found love consecrated queerness exchanged my shame for spice
v. the third sign— departing better selves & fellowship the splinter grew a limb then a heart lashed out in the house of hell with a man of many faces in a never ending acid trip
vi. the final sign— returning that night i convulsed in your embrace emptying my ghosts i return to myself through you a daisy chain of virtual hands i place a blue lotus in the cracks of me
by cottonbro
African People by Anoushka Ambrose
snegurochka by Stoly Manning heaven, for me is all the haven’ts between the two of us, it still lives in my heart, which I locked in a safe then hid in a hole in the east under ice so I don’t thaw, melt and die in this dream life I hallucinated then buried to preserve, we hold hands in public, we move to poltava. we have a sour dough starter, you feed stray dogs extra porridge and I adopt the apartment block cat I wash our clothes by hand until you use your fat American Dollars to buy all those hard-to-come-by amenities, living off the grid is so hard with only well water and no water heater I need to be cold anyway though it’s easy with each other with bread, oranges, and vodka and these moments, this heaven I dream of, the source of its power like a persimmon in winter like my heart made of snow won’t spoil in the cold weather nor in the line of your empty gaze
Hollow chests by Akash Ali I crave to drown in the hot pink neon lights. My body branded in with their compliments. Someone admitting that they’re proud of me on a cassette, so I can listen to it on repeat on rainy days. I know I’m just hiding from myself though. The high always ends: light bulbs blow up. The body will be buried underneath, and the cassette someday will be thrown into trash, like my poetry. Never looking in for self-acceptance, I’m always reaching out to strangers to tell me I mean something. I don’t know who or what will fill this repulsive desire, of wanting to be wanted. When I zip open my chest, my hand moves aimlessly in the dark, I find nothing.
by cottonbro
by Lisa Fotios
shoreditch high st. at closing time by Imogen Malpas long white boots, damn, moving like a dream, bus driver swerves to avoid the puddle at the side of the road, just for her sake, staring the whole time, she’s chewing gum, cuts her eyes at him and then almost winks, diamanté skittering from them long ass nails, cherries trail down the back of her jacket onto her skirt, she got them both off eBay for a tenner, fits her like a glove and they can see it, all the hungry eyes trickling out of bars, see how her thighs test the fabric until it’s taut, glistening, see how the eyes follow the drip of gold and shadows at her waist? she eats up their gaze like it’s pearls, greedy, testing their weight with her tongue first then crunching them between her teeth, rolling them under her tongue, all smooth, and swa llo wi ng .
No. 73: oil on canvas: Mark Rothko, 1952 by Sanjyokta 'Yukta' Deshmukh beach / where ocean became pool of light / sitting on cliffside / legs dripping over / toes skimming tide / me / giant toddler / sandwich in hand / jam smeared on face / armbands / inflatable wings / to set flight / and join seagull / diving in cloud / like pod of dolphin/ sun / gradient / paint deposit streaked / with baby hands / tangerine / raspberry / smoothie / dribbled between / gummy lips / exuberant sparkle / matted / shiny coves / leaked purple / on sand / slipped/ when night came / I was on my back / heels stained / flipped tortoise in crib / heavens / an eternal ocean / that gleamed brightest / just before sunset.
Untitled, No. 73: oil on canvas by Mark Rothko
by Whicdhemein
Vaulting by Tryn Brown
(first appeared in Pulp Poets Press, 2021)
I will do anything to avoid being caught up in the thin of the thick of things just last year I was rife by the river bed spreading poison oak all over hoping my skin might erupt in rubicund blooms fit for good luck or a bearing of extremes how do you keep your teeth in a row with so many cracks to slip through like a suspended drawbridge one faulty step and so begins the almighty fall inward could you imagine my father escaped war like a homophone a name that was not a name one letter away from the frontlines such that the ink executes the spelling spells out the execution for the appropriate order of induction I sustained parties by folding myself into shelves next to canned peaches bergamot and aloe vera ginger to ease my feverishness the stench of hunger covering everything as a perfume to advertise what’s not inside us do you have an eye for detail particularly the two versions of your voice that diverge at this second moving ever apart thousands of their offspring screaming in unison I cradle my head drag my greedy fists through the air to possess them pack them in a glass jar water through cupped palms the final sentence would be reverberation but that’s the thing about one occupies a state
desire and impulse the other impels
A Possibility by Tryn Brown It’s possible I close my eyes in horror scenes not because I don’t want to know but because I don’t want to know up close. Only the sharks have eyelids underwater.
crimson polo on a Sunday. In the orchards, unquiet and resentful of glare, I would kick around used condoms and point fingers. How can you have seen the moon? The dark protects its crown gem
Two layers mirrored crystal, one black obsidian. Is that why I stare at my feet? Concealed merit is everywhere except where needed.
with such integrity while the rest of us kneel in pews, bowing to glory but really making sure hell is still there. I look down to find coarse roots
My mother watched me play with light shapes under the table, the clear blocks projecting in varicolored streaks. How perfectly acceptable it was back then to witness all or nothing. A fine tendril pushes through a crack in the wall. Acacia. Mandrake. Hyssop. Shame is the fear of disrepute.
have grown through both my feet. An anchor made of veins. Where do mistakes go post-mortem? Somewhere below my organs are suspended in sediment—they inhale, fungus attached to lung, liver, spleen, expanding in the cavity like a pupil. No steps may be taken without the stern tug of undergrowth. The sky deepens in waves, enabling
A man I knew shoved a child in the dirt for a fouled signal, flesh rotted from the inside out,
trees to pulsate in its rusty glow. An echo rises from the soil. A voice.
by cottonbro
Encounter by S. M. Colgan Eyes glancing across a train, flicker of recognition. Blue meets green, quirk of a brow. (Where had it been, the library? JHL2? The Nest after three pints and a poor cocktail?) A slight widening, twist of a lip. (Memory of that lip, those lips, beneath the stars, amongst the trees, fumbling of hands and muffled gasps, webbing branches above stark and safe.) Half a heartbeat, world suspended. Pulling to a halt, doors opening, press of bodies spilling out. Brush of a hand against yours, note pressed tight, flash and flicker and bodies gone. Call me? The crumpled paper falls to the floor, trampled underfoot.
by cottonbro
Her Rose-Colored Glasses by Chloe Harnett-Hargrove A stand-alone issue from comic zine entitled Her Rose-Colored Glasses, focused on the relationship between three femmes set against a reality-bending road trip.
You Fold Yourself Into Tiny Spaces by F. C. Malby You fold yourself into tiny spaces, words come at you like rain. You tuck in your arms and feet — soles digging into your calves — so that the words don’t slice your limbs, the ones that fly unseen towards you, cutting you down. You clip your words, your sentences, so they are not called overinflated or too much, and you hide your competition win, tuck it into another tiny space, in case it’s seen as an indulgence, like the kind of cakes you get in a West End hotel for afternoon tea, where they make tiny, crustless cucumber sandwiches and miniature cakes and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Saliva lines your lips as you imagine this. You squeeze your words in to shorter sentences and single words, in case there are too many. Your arms sting with the folding and the tucking, and your head hurts. The tiny spaces make her feel bigger, less threatened; more. You listen hard and speak less, reaching a point where the bird flying overhead beyond the skylights provides the distraction you need. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, but you know you can’t give a proper answer.
“I forgot,” you say, and take a swig of hot tea, the mug leaving a ring on the mat. This will be noticed. “It sounds interesting. I’d like to read it sometime.” But the word ‘interesting’ sounds forced, and the ‘sometime’ is also not now, later, never. You won’t know. You will be kept hanging. The words sound good, unless you can see the undertones — the seagull ripping flesh from a carcass on the edge of the shore, as it pecks and devours, turning occasionally to see if anyone is watching, picking up each foot as the tide comes in, pecks again, preens its feathers. The carcass lies motionless, ribs exposed, flesh torn away, immobilised. It is not a pretty sight and no one sees. A passer by may find bones and bits of tendon, or the odd organ or part of a limb, but it will be paralysed.
“More tea?” she asks. “No, thank you,” you say, but she is already making the next cup. You sew yourself back up, so that nothing is exposed and it all looks pristine. The seagull flies away, but your insides still feel the rips and tears. Passers by look at your feathers and smile. You tuck your wings in and stand up tall.
A Cat Named Star by Meg Smith Everything for me runs to silver. I regarded it as the moon, unloving, but sure. This was a place for you, and me -- a back porch, a secret in shade -and this, too, distant but giving at least, of glimmer. And that was childhood’s time, and this is now -- anima, familiar, sure of backbone, in its sacred arch. Let us move as one. Let us leave the air for a true place, a true night.
The Winter Crossing by Meg Smith Where we go the moon splinters; light falls from light, and there is no sound. Light is all we gather in this long night. To close, in warmth, we will lose all, bleed all, give all to the ragged birth of spring.
Swept Away by Kim Payne It was a night like no other. The wind blew my hair; sent your scarf flying around your face like kite strings. You know, the ones that hang from the kite and whip in a frenzied state as altitude is reached. Just nonessential pieces hanging on to the main star of the show: playing its backup role to perfection, until the force becomes too strong and they fall off one by one.
by Whicdhemein
Blue Earth County by Zach Murphy In Blue Earth County, the winters are bitter, but the summers that yield bad crops are even harder to reconcile with. Mary Anne has the broadest shoulders in all of Southern Minnesota. She wakes up and begins work before dawn even has a chance to introduce itself to the sky. After feeding the chickens, milking the cows, and making sure the tractors are ready to go for the day, she comes back with enough time to make breakfast for her son Rudy. There’s still some sticky spots of raspberry jam on the white kitchen cupboards leftover from the same day that Mary Anne’s husband Don got swept away in the big tornado. Don leaving jam on the cupboards when having his morning toast was always her biggest pet peeve. Now she just wishes he was here to do it again. Rudy rushes down the creaky stairs, rubbing the morning out of his eyes. “Hi mom,” he says. Mary Anne sets a frying pan on the stove. “Hey sleepy.” “I want chocolate for breakfast,” Rudy says. “Eggs it is,” Mary Anne says. After scarfing down his eggs, Rudy washes his plate in the sink and attempts to wipe off the jam spots from the cupboard with a wet rag. “Wait,” Mary Anne says. “I’ll take care of that.” “I can do it,” says Rudy. “You need to get ready for school,” Mary Anne says. “I’m not letting you miss the bus again.” “Fine,” Rudy says as he darts up the stairs.
*** Mary Anne and Rudy stroll down the long dirt road toward the bus stop. At the end sits a rusty mailbox where good news doesn’t usually arrive. Mary Anne kisses Rudy on the cheek. “No spitballs or fights today,” Mary Anne says. “Mom?” Rudy asks. “When are you going to clean the kitchen cupboards?” “I’ll clean them whenever my work is done,” she says.
by Lisa Fotios
Three Hundred Years by Andrew Davis I used to be an ice cap, three hundred years ago. Floating above the ocean, until the sun got hotter and drop by tiny droplet I became one with the salt and brine. Carried along currents, I divided across the world split apart where I was once whole, and saw continents reshaped, earth covered by water as fire blazed in the sky above. Cities were swept aside: people came to speak of London as the new Atlantis, nothing more than a rumour. “Mum, did London really exist?” “No, my child, it’s just a story.” A fish swims through me and swallows a plastic wrapper, which crinkles in its throat. It struggles, retches, chokes, before floating to the surface, head bobbing above the water. I sink down into the depths, dragged, unseeing and unseen, into inky darkness. And I remember when, Three hundred years ago, I used to be an ice cap.
Fish by Andrew Davis The fish on my plate starts to writhe, tail waggling, fins flapping as a new head bursts from the severed body and scales, shimmering an oceanic grey-blue push their way out of its flesh. Its mouth curls into a dead half-smile, dead, until gills open up around its neck and they start to open and close, open and close, as it starts to breathe the same air as me. Tilting its head at an angle, knocking chips off the plate as it does so,
it fixes its beady eye on mine and speaks. “Are you hungry?”
by cottonbro
Unexpected by Michelle Hussey History lives amongst us and breathes as though the ruins were its lungs And our minds are its air. I took you there And you smiled. Eventually, although it took a while The past gave way to the present The indent of your birth Is your print on this world And I can’t help but wonder what the stars were doing when you arrived.
(fleeing) by Heidi Miranda I sit in a new room thinking to the backdrop of my lies—how I couldn’t hold up because being holed up was actual torture and the ocean five miles away sounds like a breath that comes and goes, a slightly fed up sigh sneaking up on me because every decision I make looks impulsive on the outside but I promise myself it’s not because I thought things through over and over and I lost sleep and my appetite until I decided to leave my home and venture out into the unknown. This is a lesson I learn again and again that the redwood trees will always shroud me from danger and the hum of a radiator will always sound more reassuring than gospel
because nothing is certain now, but it’s better to be free and lost than to stay confined under another’s rules. And the succulent gardens bring me more reassurance than scripture did. And when deer of all sizes graze outside my window I think of how rewarding my life is to be able to share a fragile space with a fragile creature. And when the sun hits my mirror at sundown, I look into it and see that I am also a fragile creature a deer afraid of human noise, a succulent garden self sustainable, the sea always persisting, the sun never failing to show, the redwood trees still standing in burning land and resisting its heat.
Noah by Heidi Miranda my dad asks if I’m off my painkillers yet I say yes he laughs and says good. my daughter is made of Cypress. Do you know where Cypress is found? I stay silent. Cypress? Is that the tree Cypress? it's from the Middle East, he says, Noah's Ark was made from Cypress. You are strong like that too.
by Inga Seliverstova
an episode of loneliness by Heidi Miranda This morning I woke up and didn’t know where I was. The temperature was comfortable, birds were chirping And all the noise outside my window reminded me of Mexico. I almost rolled over in bed and expected to hear my aunt Outside my room tending clothes to dry in the morning sun. I thought about getting out of bed and going down the concrete stairs To see if my cousin had made pancakes and coffee Or if there was bread on the table waiting for me to eat it. I rolled over in bed and my illusion was broken as I realized That the summer is gone and Mexico is never possible in the fall. Am I back home in Georgia, I thought to myself. I swore I heard my mother’s voice laughing the way she does When it's early in the morning and dad isn’t home so she Decides to make a phone call home. I thought about getting up to look outside the window. This is my first fall in Georgia in a while and I miss Seeing the forest transform for the season. But then I realize that Georgia is not possible in the fall either. I am in California. I am in my dorm again. The noise outside my window isn’t mine to cherish The noise outside my window disappears and I am left alone again. The noise outside my window disappears And I am all alone again.
her fingers saunter across the ledge by Phoebe Anson her fingers saunter across the ledge before dragging themselves back again roses look up at her as she looks down at them are they judging her ? is she judging them ? she’s perched on the edge of the bed silently watching | observing | seeing blossoms litter the street below
dying
their fifteen minutes of fame over silent she sits watching feeling thinking her emotions the sky on a dimmer switch she sees it darken through the cracks in the branches when she opens the window she hears the whistling of the evening gust whistling to her | speaking to her | appreciating her as she appreciates them there’s pleasure in isolation she thinks: a self-gratification in solitude she embraces absence and its emptiness and ponders existence and its exhaustiveness
the river by Phoebe Anson the river keeps gushing
endlessly
obnoxiously gushing
it infuriates me I try obstructing it by hurling in sticks and twigs but it merely picks them up and carries them away I switch to stones rocks as big as I can carry to end that incessant gushing but they just sink cascading to unknown depths this river is unyielding it smirks as it surges past me I need to end it I grasp at it claw at it but it trickles between my fingers and continues its perpetual gushing it thinks it’s so godlike impossible to be conquered it mocks me but I won’t let it win. my feet cut through the surface and I step further it must be stopped I lie down and let the ripples fold over me my body a makeshift dam water pours into my nose my throat my lungs it whispers into my ears warns me I won’t win
and further in
I can’t ever win.
the last sounds I hear before the river consumes me are the insufferable strains of the relentless gushing river.
The Bride Of Monoceros by Jaya Sudhakar Heaven is weeping She has pearls for teeth and marbles for eyes She spits kerosene and wears bottle green As she hides, she hides She has chapped lips and acid for hair In the morning when she wakes up, She is a puppet with her strings tangled and bare She sings of flame coloured skies and Artemis, She watches the jailbirds with her steel-tinted eyes And looks up at the turtle doves with fury and spite She doesn’t shine like gold, but she shines like gun metal The last fragments of life are stolen from her, and her clobbered mind starts to settle Heaven is weeping, Heaven is weeping
by Serj Tyaglovsky
SMILE by Thomas Stockley
VOID by Antonia Kleopa It feels... silent. The silent pain, the silent words we never say, the silent love we wish to reach to another but never do, so we hide it all with a smile, a polite “Thank you”. It knocks on my door, I let it in as always. A recurring nightmare and I want more. I’m hunting, searching for something outside of me. {Inside I feel this VOID. This rotten root} It shatters and breaks. I’m steady in a high stake Of this prison of a place I call “Home”. Wrapped up in a protective bed of cotton wool, away from the smoke. But I relish it, swim in it, move in it in this cold ecstasy. Back to this vacant mentality, vacant insanity which brings me further away from Freedom. Maybe it’s something we carry within us, dormant within us. Anything outside feels almost foreign to me. But I need to get out. {If only I knew how}
Landlocked by Andi Talbot I’ve been thinking about you again You, chasing nameless children around our would-be home and I thought that you should know It’s often where my mind goes Or should that be went. We’d live on the coast go for early morning drives the sun begins to rise and I am captivated completely spellbound by your tired waking eyes Am I dreaming? Because these days the passenger seat is mostly empty and I can relate and I wonder if you ever came to terms with settling
I wonder if you can live with yourself knowing you need more deserve more had more right within your grasp if only you’d held a little tighter
We both know you need the water be that crashing waves or steady stream we both know that all he ever gave to you was sand and all you can do now is feed it to the hourglass and watch the seconds slowly slowly slowly pass by these days I try not to think about you.... Or about those children and their names resigned to the fact I’ll never know what they are, or why you chose them
Absence Procedure by Andi Talbot Step one Thank me for coming as if I had a choice
I like to think you take this time to play noughts and crosses together or something else along those lines Step five
Step two
Explain to me why we’re here despite the fact we know why we’re here you sent a letter it’s the same as the other letters you sent filled out from a template this is my third and so far only the dates have changed Step 3a Give me the dates and reasons for absence Step 3b Have me explain the dates and reasons for absence We can skip this step We already know the answer. Step four Politely ask me to leave the room for a couple of minutes while you ponder a decision we both know you’ve already made
Invite me back into the room thank me for waiting thank me again for coming ask me to sign the form you printed off before this meeting began to say I agree with the decision that I don’t agree with but you have made your choice and we all know this was always the outcome because this is the procedure
by cottonbro
(untitled) by Phoebe Anson that evening i left her as she stood on the step illuminated by the glare of the lantern above the porch half her face shone the other half remained in shadow until a golden glare washed over her and her body glistened her bare legs glowed on her plinth she stood a venus de milo in perfect condition unaffected by the elements and the destructiveness of human touch the sheet draped across her body wavered gently in the crisp evening breeze but she remained still motionless frozen that evening i left her on the cold, damp step her eyes pierced through me as I slowly disappeared into the night
Akash Ali Akash is a 21 year old Muslim Pakistani poet from the UK with poetry published/ forthcoming in Doghouse Press, Dryland LA, The Bitchin' Kitsch, and elsewhere. Instagram: @__akashha
Andrew Davis Andrew Davis is a writer based in Cardiff. He writes a mix of prose and poetry, which has been published in anthologies and online journals by independent publishers including Black Pear Press, Arcbeatle Press and Abergavenny Small Press. Full publications listed at https://linktr.ee/andrewphillipdavis.
Andi Talbot Andi Talbot is a writer and performance poet from Newcastle, England. Their second chapbook, "Old Wounds // New Skin" is available now via Analog Submission Press. They are an avid Raiders, San Jose Sharks and Newcastle United fan.
Anoushka Ambrose
Antonia Kleopa Antonia Kleopa is a creative actress, writer, poet and all things creative. She has a passion for travelling, loves to be on the move and her experiences through life inform her creative content. She is a true Aquarius at heart and likes to let her creativity lead her in whichever direction it chooses.
Chloe Harnett-Hargrove Chloe's background is in drawing comix, producing zines, and graphic design. Professionally, her clients include Broken Pencil Magazine, Cilla Vee Life Arts and The Center for Connection + Collaboration in Asheville, NC. Occasionally (as in when she gets up the nerve), Chloe enters art shows with her comic work. Most recently, she was a semi-finalist in Broken Pencil's Indie Illustrator's Death-Match.
F. C. Malby F.C. Malby’s work has been widely published online and in print. Her stories have won several competitions and she was nominated for Non Poetry Publication of the Year in the Spillwords Press 2021 Awards.
Heidi Miranda Heidi Miranda is a Mexican poet working towards her B.A. in English. She has published poems in both online and in-print journals and is active on Instagram (@weepingblueberry) where she can be found posting landscape photography and quoting from her favorite poets.
Imogen Malpas Imogen Malpas is EIC of queer female-led resistance zine HOW 2 B BAD. She never feels as alive as when she is wearing a long, second-hand coat and traipsing. Her work has been published by Uneven Earth, Aligned Magazine, Common Ground and The Mind Map.
Jasmine Kapadia Jasmine Kapadia is a 16-year-old poet from the Bay Area. She has work featured or forthcoming in Same Faces, The Daphne Review, Malala Fund’s Assembly, Cathartic Literary, and The Rising Phoenix Review, among others. Find her on Instagram @jazzymoons
Jaya Sudhakar Jaya Sudhakar (she/her) is a writer and student from the U.K, who submits poems, articles & prose to digital publications. When she isn’t writing or procrastinating her course work, she spends her time learning languages and researching etymology. Her poem, ‘The Bride Of Monoceros’ attempts to explore the grey area between freedom and confinement, as well as conveying the importance of perspective.
Kim Payne Kim Payne is a mother first, poet second. She loves mochas, the color red, and believing that you are never too old to dream. Kim has been published in Vaughan Street Doubles and Nightingale & Sparrow.
Meg Smith Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass., U.S.A. In addition to Orange Blush Zine, her work has recently appeared in The Cafe Review, Tiger Shark Publishing, Muddy River Poetry Review, Raven Cage, and many more. She is the author of five poetry books and a short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor. She welcomes visits at megsmithwriter.com, at Twitter @MegSmith_Writer, and Facebook.com/megsmithwriter.
Michelle Hussey Michelle has been writing poetry and stories since she was a child and for many years lacked the confidence to share outside of close friends & family. During 2020 with the loving encouragement of those close Michelle has found a new energy and purpose in her writing. Joining the Orton Manchester Writers Circle during lockdown gave her the push to finally start sharing her work. Her debut poetry collection Edges is now available worldwide with Orton Publishing Ltd and she is in the early stages of a novel that she has been developing for some years now which embodies new poetry work.
Phoebe Anson Phoebe Anson is a third year English Literature Student. She writes poetry as part of her course and also in her spare time. She hopes to do a creative writing MA when she graduates. She has recently been published in the August issue of Streetcake Magazine and the second issue of Quince Magazine, with a few more publications coming soon.
Sanjyokta ‘Yukta’ Deshmukh Sanjyokta 'Yukta' Deshmukh is a Welsh-Indian poet currently in university. She has previously been published in both print and online in the likes of The Skinny Poetry Journal, The Everyday Magazine, Eclectica Magazine, Ayaskala, Ghost Heart Literary, Street Cake Magazine and more. You can follow her here: @sanjdeshk.
Sheng Hui Lim Sheng is an artist with an existential crisis. She writes when she can’t breathe, or when she needs to breathe. Her background is in drama, but she hasn’t performed in more than a year. During the pandemic, she transformed her home into a very unofficial cat shelter and found herself becoming a full-time struggling cat rescuer/ parent. You can find her on Instagram as senisme_
SM Colgan SM Colgan (she/her) is a bi writer living somewhere in Ireland. Her work focuses on emotion, history, sexuality, and relationships, romantic and otherwise. She writes to understand people who are and have been, and to ease the yearning in her heart. She has recently had stories published with October Hill Magazine and The Lumiere Review. Twitter: @burnpyregorse
Stoly Manning Stoly Manning graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in Communication, and has since lived in Ukraine and California. Her interests include very long walks and crying, and she has been previously published in Off Menu Press. Twitter @stoliest
Thomas Stockley Tom Stockley is a queer artist, poet and activist known on stage and page as T.S. IDIOT. They write about mental health, identity politics and the sadness and small joys we find in the cracks of every day life. They cut their teeth in the DIY punk and queer communities of the UK, and over the last decade have performed, published and exhibited their work everywhere from national museums to toilet cubicles.
Tryn Brown Tryn Brown is a marketing and writing professional at Berrett-Koehler Publishers in Oakland, CA, where she works on nonfiction titles with topics spanning from business to self help to current affairs. She completed her undergraduate in 2018, where she earned degrees in English and environmental studies, and she has a poem forthcoming in Sidereal Magazine.
Zach Murphy Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Boston Literary Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Ghost City Review, Spelk, Door = Jar, Levitate, Yellow Medicine Review, Ellipsis Zine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Drunk Monkeys, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.
Komal Keshran Komal Keshran is a young artist from Malaysia. Their work has appeared in APIARY Magazine, The Write Launch and Apeiron Review among others. They are also the creator and editor of Orange Blush Zine. Read their work online at malandthemoon.tumblr.com/poetry.
Jack Joseph Jack Joseph is a fine art student at Plymouth College of Art, England. His work often references his experience with dysphoria and societal expectations of masculinity and femininity, beauty and the ugly, developing distinct aesthetics through unique techniques. His work is created through a multifaceted process of photography, illustration, animation and other digital mediums; forming imagery which appears to be in some liminal space and often grotesque, unsettling or peculiar.
Sophia William Sophia William is a psychology student and executive team member at Orange Blush Zine. She's here for the vibes.
Shekinah Louis Shekinah Louis has always been fascinated by how words can possess such a powerful hold on someone's life, let alone their moods. Words have had a humongous impact in her life since her early teens, especially in the form of poetry and prose. Shekinah hopes to embody that in their own work, and wishes to write pieces that invoke strong emotions, and deals with the feelings that one would normally wish— or hope— to avoid.
Charlotte Todd Charlotte Todd is a seventeen-year-old writer currently based in London, England. She is hugely fascinated by both people and the human experience, a concept which she attempts to decipher in her writing. Charlotte’s work is playful and eccentric yet still retains eloquence speaking from both personal experience and curiosity. Visit her portfolio here.
Honey Simatupang Honey Simatupang is an illustrator from Indonesia currently based in Rotterdam, the Netherlands. She feels most like herself in the dark of the cinema, watching life appear in front of her; and in the first light of day, talking to her houseplant Maurice.
Chelsea Akpan Chelsea Akpan is a Nigerian-born cartoonist that focuses on bringing bold colors and exaggerative shapes together to create distinct and playful illustrative work. Her work speaks to her personal experiences and portrays it in a humorous and whimsical way.
Orange Blush Zine Issue 5 / Mar ‘21