The Magenta Issue

THE MAGENTA ISSUE vision

ISSUE vision statement

There is a side to each of us that science cannot explain. Emotion can make existence chaotic, but it is in the courage that it takes to channel our feelings—our greatest joys, our inner rage, and our most radical dreams—where we can find power to forge something new for ourselves.

There is no wavelength of light that corresponds to the color magenta. There is no label that can encompass the whole of you. This issue seeks to explore the power of embracing the unexplainable- the ineffable, the effusive- to the point of the sublime. We are in a world where dreaming is dangerous, a world where emotion is classified as weak and undependable. But existing is different from living. And by embracing the illogical, the confusing, the dissonant and weird, we can find ourselves on a new plane of radical imagination.

With magenta staining your wings bold, where do you find strength to imagine new possibilities for yourself, the world, the art we consume, and the people around you? What does it look like to embrace the chaos of life and forge a brilliant, messy path through it?

Tell us what it looks like for you to be bold. Show us how it feels to bathe in your vivacity.

oliviachignellexperience:humanthe

jainmeghnaI?:amwho i was once aphordite: alana cole

colerosemaryegg:amaruuntitled: speller-williamsvincent:learnedi’vewhat

jainmeghnasalt:

cumpstonbambidad:dear

what box: vivienne cornutt

crescent dreams: meghna jain

mynameless:ninalawlerintergenerationalgalaxy:maryphamisaeisenberg

table

of contents

secrets:lauryncole

o’brienelisedepletion:ofstorycolealanabody:thebeyond adrame:tame

from the editorsnightart

swalander my magenta love art night

Iknowwhytheycallitlovesick:baileywhitcomb fiberarts interlude

moth:emma

crescent dreams

When I stepped into your fallen world

My soul corrupted then divided

Half my secrets filled a void

Inside this space once you resided

As the sun became a solemn sign

In parts, my dreams slowly died I was lying cold as ice

When you flashed across the vulcan sky

When the moon became a source of pain

Shadows of darkness remained The sun was nowhere to be found So I had to keep my feelings underground

Time will reveal the tongue you bite

It never was meant to heal the pain

But bring to light the dark of night

When spirits will rise above the grave

Deep within the Field of Blood

The Sky burned the illusions of Silver Stars

The heavens gathered the birds of prey

To separate what once was ours

And finally, when your mind expried, Life eclipsed behing the lustful desires, It drifted into the clouds of light

With much awaited serenity now you reside.

Meghna

Jain

My Nameless by nina lawler

Label me darling. I know you intimately.

Why do you seek to filter my unique presence? What is it that scares you about seeing me in your sobriety?

I am here to collaborate... co-create a new world with you. You say you feel you have lost your wings, so come with me.

Let me show you the highest peaks... clouds rushing by, full of spring rain.

Let us dive into the oceans & explore the deepest depths. Breathe the fullness. See the luminous wonders under through the surface waves.

Trust in me. For there is no distinction.

I am with-in you. Always. Right now, I blink with you and swallow to clear your dry throat.

Choose to not label me, as giddiness or guilt.

Rather, LISTEN as I Appear. And.

Now.

Let me tell you a new story...

intergenerational galaxy

In Earth’s crust, the crashing and grouping of atoms, the trails my ancestors imprinted, I lay among the stars—my body, my entity, an explosion of matter and the composition of the many generations in my soul

Even if the cosmos are still expanding and we continue to distance by light years, you still refuse that you are just as hurt as I am. You refuse to open Pandora’s Box, because you too, were taught to forgive and forget

Can’t you see that I am also light years away from my brothers and sisters too..? I am laying on my own rock, singing happy birthdays to myself alone each year

To you, I am built from sticks and dead leaves—I was a dying star, losing its light; was I expected to assimilate to the rest of the atmosphere and silence my voice?

Because in the water we drink, the air we breathe, and the many stars that collide—to you, I am always weak

You wonder why I am the way I am; you brush away the hurt and pain you never protected me from—you always compared our pain on a scale

I roam in this entity grounding my feet in the roots of my weakness, blurring out the voices and faces of those I encounter, swallowing back the tears that were welling up in my eyes, and feeling my own throat closing up, swallowing the dry nails choking my vocal cords

My aura is possessed with fear, pain, and trauma; the gravity of my steps pulled me further to the ground. I too, am a part of these rotting roots, my hurt buries among the roots of our wilted tree, through the screams and echoes of my ancestors

Why was I immersed in the reflection of your hurt in order to heal the curse and pain across the generations of my ancestors?

Sure I was a dying star, but that is not who I truly came to be. To the death of my hurt, pain, and weakness, will come the burst of a supernova, a collection and explosion of my rightful rage, growth, and empowerment; a cluster of colors—the mixture of the faces and feelings of my ancestors that will echo throughout the universe

I promise, to me, that my supernova will not fail. I won’t leave behind blackholes to suck my future generations in this pain

Even if my dimly lit star is not visible to your eyes, I will end this pain across my future galaxies. Though you may not see this progress or hear my small voice, my colors will one day burst into the universe, showing the faces of our ancestors and the death of this curse

isa elsenberg

lovesick

I know why they call it lovesick I know why they call it

bailey whitcomb

M O T H

by emma swalander

On the first night, Leon dreamt of a winter spring. White snow carried the bright morning sun and covered the mountains. Soft pink flowers grew from the white, reaching towards a bright blue sky. Leon felt as though he were inside a landscape painted on delicate china.

A woman stood among the flowers. Her hair appeared black at first glance, but when the wind picked up it revealed a bluish hue like the iridescence of a raven’s wing. She had a round face and soft, rosy cheeks. Her graceful features reminded Leon of a cherub. She was beautiful. She mirrored his adornment and awe of the land and of him.

“You feel different,” she said.

That’s when Leon woke up. He took a deep breath. The visuals from the dream began to fade, but ‘You feel different’ echoed in his mind. It made sense to him. Before he saw her, he felt the same presence from all people in his dreams. Every person gave him a holographic feeling, a shallow representation of a person or an idea. They were a ghost of an image in his head. Leon instinctively knew, even during the dreams, that the people around him were nothing more than projections of his subconscious. This was different. She radiated an energy that was entirely separate from his own, a presence as foreign and unique as a scent.

On the second night, Leon dreamt of a forest.

The redwoods were a silent infantry on the land around him. Their domineering force pushed a stillness into him. Leon did not speak the language of the trees, but he knew well enough how to be silent.

He felt that she was next to him before turning to look at her. Suddenly, he realized he knew information about this woman. He knew

her name was elegant and simple, tickling the tip of his lips, though he could never quite mouth it. Something like Anna, Isabella, or Sophia. It gave him a feeling of depth and sweetness, like honey on his tongue. As his mind wandered searching for her name, a butterfly flew past him. It was going to her. She smiled and began to sway. The butterfly and the woman circled each other in an intimate, communicative dance. The butterfly whirled and landed on the tip of her nose. Its red wings beat slowly, then folded right when the woman met his eyes.

On the third night, he dreamt of stormy seas.

He stood on the sand watching the waves break violently in front of him. He knew this beach was in California, and that the woman lived nearby. The woman walked past him and greeted him with a surprised smile. He could feel the mountains and ocean waves trail behind her as if he could peer into her memories. It felt almost invasive to know so much without asking permission, though he couldn’t control it. To know what California feels like for her, even though he has lived in London all his life, felt like a treasure he had taken without asking. He turned to look up at the beach and found her watching him. The woman smiled. Leon’s attention snapped to her eyes. They were the green of a dewy leaf, gentle with its depth. He woke up.

For the rest of the day, like the previous three days, Leon thought of her. It was impossible to focus on work or classes. He found himself rushing through the day, feeling frustrated with every tedious minute of sunlight. He willed the sun to cut itself on the horizon line and bleed out onto the sky with quick efficiency, so night could come, and he may see her once more.

On the fourth night, Leon dreamt of his high school.

Classmates walked alongside him. He peered down the hallway looking for a teacher but found her instead. All movement stopped and the air held still. Suddenly they stood alone, both unable and unwilling to look away for fear the other would disappear. She walked towards him.

“Are you real?” she asked.

She reached for his arm and pinched it, seeing if it would fade away.

“I am. Are you?” he said slowly, hiding his excitement.

Her eyes widened at the sound of his voice.

“You have an accent,” she said as if that were the most interesting part of their conversation.

“So do you.”

She furrowed her brows slightly as she held his gaze. She must have forgotten she had an accent of her own.

He smirked at this.

Orange and black flashed in the corner of his eye. He felt a small weight tickling his hand. A Mariposa butterfly rested on his knuckles. The butterfly’s wings moved to the beat of his breath, opening and closing with the internal wind cycle that no longer seemed unique to him.

With the gentle force of an inhale, the butterfly lifted toward her. She stuck out her hand in greeting, and the butterfly responded with a touch. In a beat, it transformed. The orange and bright wings were now a gritty brown. A moth with black bulging eyes held its wings flat and still on the woman’s hand. Its’ presence gripped the air around them and forced it into a submissive stillness. Leon felt no air in his chest. He looked up at her eyes. A once gentle green now pierced him.

He woke up.

There was no elation, no yearning to go back. There was only quiet.

On the fifth night, he dreamt of fire.

Flames enclosed Leon in a uniform circle. He walked the ring and watched the fire bob up and down without a sound. The blazing walls were about the height of him but hovered over her. The woman’s full attention was on the fire. She studied the flames, focusing on their movement. The color of the fire was beautiful, but the size and intensity concerned him. He felt the warmth of the fire come a little too close to his skin. He stepped back right when she stepped forward.

Leon instinctively grabbed her arm and stopped her right as her toes touched the fire.

“Why in the hell would you step towards it?”

The woman smiled. “My mother always said to throw everything into the fire. You are what survives.”

The fire bobbed up and down in response. There was no sound, only movement. Leon’s confusion transformed into boldness.

“Are you a demon?”

The woman laughed lightly but there was no humor to the sound.

“No.” she paused. “I’m a 28-year-old accountant in California. I have a lot of intense dreams. I’ve never met another person before though. This is new.” She exhaled, her brows furrowed. “Maybe the fire is a tool.”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

She kept her eyes on the flame. “It feels like it is reaching out to us, inviting us to communicate with it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned if you talk with fire?”

She shook her head. “No, like, communicating in the way without words. You know when the emotions get loud while you’re meditating? And the world feels like it is asking to be played with, but it also forces a focus. This has that same feeling. I think this fire is a tool, and it’s waiting for us to use it.”

Leon felt an unidentifiable weight in his stomach. He never felt the things she described, he never meditated. The woman spoke as if everyone did it, but he never tried.

Leon realized he might not be in as much control as she was.

“What do you think?” she asked.

He looked at her. The round face that once reminded him of a cherub looked only fat now.

On the sixth night, he dreamt of a storm.

The wind yanked at the long field of grass. The sky was a swirling mess of gray and blue. Leon looked for the woman, knowing she must be here too. He found her facing toward the field of grass. She turned to survey the area, stopping when she met his gaze. For a flash of a second, she looked disappointed.

Leon walked up to her with an air of false lightheartedness. “I’m still not convinced you’re not a demon.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t control the weather.”

“Don’t play dumb.”

The woman flinched at his tone.

“I am not controlling anything. We are here together. I don’t know why or how. I didn’t ask for this. I could make the same accusations about you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You transformed a butterfly into a moth.

You try to talk with a burning circle of fire. You expect me to believe you aren’t creating this moment? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been waiting for some poor bloke to get stuck in your web.” He sneered at the idea. “Do you get off on making me feel weak?”

She took a step back, blinking through the shock. “I don’t know what to tell you, I didn’t do any of this. I didn’t put you here, I don’t know how we keep ending up together.” She paused, inhaling deeply. “The moth was intuitive. If you weren’t so scared of feeling weak, you could probably transform butterflies into moths too.”

“I don’t want to turn butterflies into moths. Keep them butterflies.’’

“Why?

“Because it is disgusting.”

She laughed.

“Disgusting? It’s a transformation, it’s beautiful.”

“How can you say moths are as beautiful as butterflies?”

“How can you say they aren’t?”

Leon resisted the urge to think more about that. It made him more frustrated.

“I don’t like the way you are now,” he sneered. “You don’t have to.”

The wind yanked the woman’s hair sideways. “What do you expect from me?”

“I want you to be the woman I met on the mountain, in the forest, and on the beach. You were gentle. You were beautiful.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, so you want me to live up to the version of me you created in your head? Do you want me to be a pretty figurine? Are you waiting for me to take my clothes off next to a waterfall? Do you want me to dance for you?”

He shied away. He could feel her eyes on him, though he focused on the ground.

“I don’t try to be perfect, I try to be complete. The world is harsh and gentle, why should I be any different? The difference between us is that you hide from half of all there is. It needs to be seen, and it will scream until you look at it.”

He wakes up.

It is dark outside. He cannot see. He grabs his phone and turns the flashlight on, then sets the phone down on his lap. He feels a small weight tickling his hand. He looks down at a moth resting on his knuckles. The moth’s wings move to the beat of his breath. With the gentle force of an inhale, Leon grabs his phone and turns off the light. He can still feel the weight of the moth on his knuckles as he looks down at what he cannot see.

alana cole

I do not want to be a fleeting specter

Burned white behind your eyes

For I know, in my very bones

I’m just a very pretty disguise.

The very cells that make my body Could scatter on a breeze

My head might pop off, I may melt away, With just one well-timed sneeze.

My being is a footnote

After the masterpiece of my soul I was crammed into a body, But before I was perfectly whole Living days upon an ocean wave And nights singing through the sky Learning how to lick up love When it passes others by.

I do not want you to love my body

To think I’m a painting to be hung. To appreciate me as a melody, A pretty ditty to be sung.

I want to be loved infinitely

Beyond my body and my mind

I want to be incomprehensible

As my body finally unwinds.

- beyond the body

alana cole

Storyof Depletion

I had a dream that the river was low so low

I was out looking for swimming holes (of course) And everywhere I looked — bare river bottom

Is this story of depletion a prophecy? or a glimpse into my current body psyche situation environment encoded in dreams like the AIs who prophecy or own fates: oracles crafted of precious metals bound with light

Although scientists disdain their alchemical roots today’s AI (creatures being made) homunculi are simulacra materia

(malefica & benefica)

Is this story of drought climate crisis?

Tame me

deardad,

bambi bumpston

I tried to make an ocean out of you Wild and free

Rushing and pushing Crashing and pulling

I tried to fill you with all this uncontained life I tried to make you calm, smooth, strong

But your wave came And it washed over me

Sending me back to shore With nothing but your salt

EGG

by rosemary cole

I am an egg.

Hear me out; eggs are fragile. Put them in the fridge, keep them controlled, they’re cool. You could say relaxed, even (though how we would know if an egg is relaxed is beyond me). Whack the egg against the counter, it fractures. Hard surfaces are a bitch when it comes to eggs. But maybe also helpful? Because once cracked, they can be mixed with other ingredients, or whisked into something new… scrambled over an open flame, baked into a cake, completely transformed…

Have you ever tried to draw an egg? You can’t, really. Because eggs are just white. I remember reading this advice before, regarding writing, comparing descriptions to drawing an egg. Because you can’t just draw the egg—it won’t show up on white paper. So you have to draw what’s around the egg, have to shade the space below and behind it, color in the rest of the world so that the egg can even exist in our eyes and in our minds.

That’s me, in the sense that I am built from what surrounds me. What do I love, enjoy, immerse myself in? That’s what I am, at least for the weeks that it is me. I don’t really exist without things. My superficial obsessions. They puzzle themselves together to fit my shape, built up like walls that are my limbs. That’s the shell of the egg. Inside—my mind, I mean—is the soft yellow yolk, waiting to be cooked into different things each day, each week, month, year… All I have to do is break first. Burst free of these material longings for a second, shed all my love, and get a healthy dose of hindsight.

When the world wore a coat of snow, bundled up in a frigid second layer, my life was quiet. Near silent. Everything was dreamy—snowflakes were caught in my hair and I wore a different

focused enough that I was able to birth about a hundred thoughts a day.

(This is me as the egg in the fridge.)

Then the snow began to melt.

(You’ve taken me out of the fridge!)

Suddenly the ground was hard again. Unforgiving concrete. My thoughts scattered, as if afraid to see the light of day—the world was unfiltered now, devoid of some of that magic which I had grown so accustomed to seeing.

(You’re cracking me against the counter.)

And then comes the part that drags on. And on. And on. I get mixed. I get whisked.

The days can blur together, and I can feel myself get swept up, trying to get used to myself without the fragments of the shell that I had crafted. I find new things; and they are good, but they are new. And the ground is hard beneath my feet but it’s also hard to feel, it’s hard to pay attention to.

Everything is building up. The yolk (my mind, if you follow) is going through metamorphosis. I don’t know if it’s good or if it’s bad, as it’s hard to see things clearly when you’re in the midst of them, but, whatever it is, it’s happening.

I lose sense of myself for a while, during this time. Forget my center, my roots, my soul. And, yes, I’ve lost some aspect of myself, but I’m gaining something as well (new ingredients, baby).

I’m building, building, building. Growing, growing, growing. Changing.

I can feel myself trembling within, during the course of my waking hours. Buzzing. Accustoming myself to this strange new

And no one knows.

They look at me, and I’m normal. I haven’t changed. My eyes are not manic. My limbs haven’t cracked like the porcelain exterior of the egg, my skin hasn’t peeled away to reveal the weak yolk within. My energy hasn’t changed.

But I swear, I’m going to explode. All of this feeling… this emotion. This wanting and needing and denial, all these questions and wonderings and longings.

(The stovetop is turning on; the pan is being placed, the fire is being lit).

Is this how living works? Peace and then restlessness, resenting change until it benefits you? Fighting off these incessant notions of happiness and nostalgia and frustration? To feel so much, all of the time?

I, the egg, am getting poured into the pan. I heat up. I begin to cook.

All these indecipherable, insufferable, inescapable thoughts that form my mushy innards are set onto the flame of life, and something is going to happen to them. I can only hope that they’ll teach me something, these emotions, and help me figure out this whole blasted thing.

Life, I mean.

I keep thinking I understand it, but being an egg is a cycle. My shell will regrow. I will go back in the fridge. And I will get whacked over the countertop, again and again, until I am mixed and cooked and mixed and cooked.

It’s tiring, this egg thing. I know you understand.

by amaru

what i’ve learned since seventeen

when we’re young, we long to be elder. for our driver’s license, our first kiss, high school graduation.

vincent speller-williams

our youthful brains constantly under the impression that we need to continue to “go, go, go,” and “grow, grow, grow.”

and even sitting at just seventeen, it’s clear to me that i should have immersed myself in the innocence that was my youth.

there came a point where i truly began to miss smiling from ear to ear, just about buying chapter books. i miss the serenity i felt, playing with my friends over the summer, day in and day out.

because eventually seven year old meyou become burnt out. that license you spent three years studying for, becomes nothing more than a card with your name on it.

that when you move on into high school, those that bullied you for your curls, envy you for sitting on the student board.

the parties you were once excited for, will soon feel more like a bore; you realize having to step over both people and solo cups on the floor, is nothing more than a chore.

when all that you want, is to make it to eighteen years old.

TheHumanExperience

Olivia Chignell

My heart aches while my lungs produce songs of joy and inhales the high of serotonin

My eyes well up while my feet dance me through the clouds

My chest is heavy while my head is held high

My tongue tastes defeat while my ears hear the roars of the crowd

My lips speak through stutters and sniffles while my hands clap for approval

How can all exist at once?

A break up, a lost one, a traumatic event: All catalysts to an unimaginable pain

But in that pain will be growth

It feels unacceptable to feel good when the good came from bad

To thrive while the other deteriorates

To settle with numbness or to continue the fight

A mixing pot of every emotion tumbles down the hill collecting more confusion

To see the rain, but feel the sun

Even a rainbow shines while the clouds continue to cry

It’s beautiful

To know you are human

To accept the pain with humility

To celebrate with humbleness

WHO AM I? WHO AM I? WHO AM I? WHO AM I? WHO AM I?

A moment’s fleeting passage and Sigh, Merely a dream of memories gone by-

The same place but a different time,

The same song but a different rhyme. who i once was asks, who am i now?

Hiding in the shadow of an ancient vow

Forgotten and left alone to find

A mentality based on the world of Lies

No Hill, No Mountain, No Valley’s top

Just a gentle roll, but still I can’t stop

From falling over and over again it’s the same loft but a different hop

I see myself staring back at me

From the cap of my balcony

My emotions of the worn out day

Who I Once Was, asks Who Am I Now?

meghna jain

Her body is made of driftwood

Shaped in the mouth of the ocean, The womb of aphrodite.

Caressed into shape, Her stomach hollow And echoing, Deep as the gut of the sea. Her curves are rising swells

Until they Are loved too well And disappear into her Softening, Slimming, Shape. The slope of her cheekbone Is worn away

Until she is nothing more And the ocean spits her out Upon the shore.

who decides what is TMI?

The idea that there is too much information (whether it’s being shared or recieved) is entirely subjective-

used more often than not to silence people rather than in the practice of setting healthy boundaries. In my own life, TMI has been thrown around as a way to signal that the conversation is ‘innapropriate,’ ‘crass,’ or otherwise ‘too personal.’

As a young woman in this wild world, this phrase also seems to follow on the heels of conversations about sex (including bodily autonomy), bodily processes (like menstration or other medical procedures), observations on societal injustice (especially as I worked on an English thesis wrestling with fatphobia in popular literature), etc..

What about these topics require diversion in ‘polite’ conversation? And, when we are able to actually finish a whole sentence or conversation about them, why are they dismissed as being without foundation or roots?

I realize that language is a bit abstract. The point I want to make is that too often Western, capitalist society (that has invested all its money and resources into the sciences) ignores other forms of knowledge. These include intuition, dreams, popular media (like genre fiction), the arts, and especially gossip.

Did you know that gossip was deamonized in the sixteenth century as a way to control the flow of information that women could share with each other about their respective husbands and sons?

Gossiping, and by extension, the idea of TMI need to be reclaimed and celebrated as a way of learning about our communities, our own bodies, and our ideas about the world. Hopefully this magazine serves as a starting point.

xoxo, Lauryn