Sirens Zine Issue #4

sirens zine issue 4 cover by step ngo

from Proyecto Discapacidad by Daniela Marin Platero

stoop[k]id by fin S. Just call me stoop kid Left out of the loop kid I never knew shit Now look what I done did Didn’t understand the forces I was dealing with Got to close to the cage and I got bit It’s a wonder to us both how I got this far Life’s a test to figure out just who we really are Look to you for what we need, give us the proper tools Keep us to speed so we ain out here like fucking fools But I can’t help but feel like you dropped the ball I’ll confess I’m mess, yeah, but fuck it all I never knew if how I felt was wrong or right But my problems weren’t yours so why put up a fight I said it so many times and you straight up ignored me Dote on how you adored me even though I abhorred me But I was never allowed to really explore me I was a composite a puppet I didn’t want to be your me And I know it’s not fair to put it all on you But what else could I do There’s so much I never knew And I know you don’t care for my miraculous breakthrough But I was so confused At conclusions I never drew And how do we even move on from here?

Knowing that you raised a goddamn queer And how do we even know that we’re on the same page or even near The only thing I know is I don’t want to be here I’m a stoop kid Never flew the coop kid Thought I was the shit Chicken noodle soup kid Hit a rough patch tried to turn into the skid Now I’m sitting here on my stoop looking stupid

Paintings by Marinna ‘Mahrinnart’ Shareef top left- The God of Mania, 56” x 64”, Acrylic Paint, Acrylic Fluid, Ink, Glitter top right- The Lull in the Party , 56” x 46”, Acrylic Paint, Acrylic Fluid, Ink, Glitter bottom- Weather or Not, 54” x 49”, Acrylic Paint, Acrylic Fluid, Ink, Glitter

artwork by Cindy Vasquez

When Love Became an Obstable by endlessrebel I remember telling my boyfriend about her, and he immediately sensed that the feelings I shared with him were only the surface of what I carried deep in my heart. He knew that I was in love with her before I did. He never said these words specifically, but he implied what they meant to him: ‘You must be fucking her!’ It wasn’t a romantic situation until we grew closer, spending quality time after class and on school breaks. He would get angry and call me a hoe, accusing me of sleeping with guys who weren’t even allowed on our hall. That was an automatic expulsion.

He didn’t care whether he made sense or not.

Maybe he was more comfortable with boiling over inside about my nonexistent heterosexual affairs at that time. But now when I look back at it, I think he was just envious of the relationships I shared with loved ones in general. We were in a long-distance relationship that we maintained over the phone and online, and his insecurity remained at an

all-time high.

She became a lover I never approached with words directly from my mouth, and we only ever committed the ‘act’ in my head.

We became friends after I watched her interact across social circles. She seemed cool as fuck from the first time I saw her talking to classmates in the halls. I was just hoping that she was nice, too. It turned out that she was so much more. We became inseparable.

I often thought about what could be on her mind and how perfect she seemed. Her soft, deep-textured laugh kept me warm. Her accent was cute. Her smile was the light. Her hair fell just below her shoulders. The colors she dyed it were made for her. I loved watching her put it in a high ponytail. The more we spoke, the more I just needed to be next to her. We were remotely intimate. That’s all I ever needed from her.

Her hugs welcomed me back home where we spent time in her room. We watched movies after walking to the store for snacks.

When we got back, she’d turn off the lights, and we’d snuggle under her comforter on her twin bed. Her laughs and gasps made me want to hold her just to be closer to her body’s vibrations. She shared playlists with me filled with music she knew I would love.

She told me stories about her upbringing which inspired my admiration for steps she’s taken along her journey.

further between me and her would further complicate my life.

I’d known who I was for a long time, but the world didn’t. Only she did at the moment.

I became very protective of her when she was in relationships with dudes who didn’t deserve her, which for the most part was all of them. I wanted to hurt those who took advantage of her body and her money. I could not imagine anyone wanting to treat her like this. I hated witnessing her pain, especially On a class trip, we were assigned to the when we went off to college. I only had my same hotel room with two other girls. We de- words to give her at that point. cided to sleep on the same bed. I felt the tension and just wanted to text her to prevent One of her exes called me up from her phone a friend on the other side of the room from right before I headed to the dining hall with hearing what I had to say. I just wanted to my roommate one evening during my first setouch her face, kiss her lips. My fear stopped mester of sophomore year. I thought it was me even as the girls on the other queen mat- her so I happily answered. He immediately tress slumbered. The commercials on tv felt asked me if I wanted to have a threesome like missed opportunities as they passed by. with them. She and I had not spoken in a We fell asleep. I awoke to the realization that while. She snatched the phone from him and I needed to just talk to her when we got back apologized. Soon I would hang up and talk to on campus. my roommate about the situation, minus the fact that I had feelings for this woman. I was We texted about it. Look...That was the best shaken up by what she continued to allow I could do then. I paused and shook, rearrang- in this relationship. It still enrages me. But I ing the words of the initial message. I poured had to realize that I could not control what my feelings onto that screen with each tap she experienced or how she chose to react. just to find out that she felt the same. I felt relief though I was still antsy. She wondered When you love someone, you hurt for why I never said a word until then. I texted them, too. I just wanted for us to be able to back saying that I didn’t know if she would be heal together like we used to, but it seemed comfortable or if she ever thought of me in impossible as the years went on. that way. She said that I should’ve kissed her and that she loved me. I thought it would be I hesitantly decided to stick to my role as awkward during our next encounter. a best friend because that’s who we became to each other. We became so much to each The next time I saw her, shit was pretty other. Our contact remained at a distance. It normal. We carried on like usual. I was just still does to this day. scared that she would tell some of our mutual friends. I decided to fall back and not But our love is constant. act on our conversation because I was in a relationship though it was awful. Anything

L.I. Reinoso

Secrets of Unimportance by mankos tw: eating disorder dear mom, i have a lot of secrets, most of which you know. they’re mostly about boys- the tall ones with the cute hair. the short, stocky ones with the beautiful tan skin. the lean ones that are just my height. i never remember the color of his eyes, but we settled on somewhere between green and hazel. my only secrets are the girls. the cute tall ones that are innocent and sparkly against the dull dark of the school walls. the feisty short ones that act mean but just want somebody to listen to them speak their minds. the ones just a bit shorter than me. her eyes are a shade of soul i’ve never seen before and her name is as long as the time i’ve had a crush on her. i asked you one time what you would think iif i brought home a girlfriend. i assured you i didn’t have one, i’m just curious to know what your reaction is. you sat there, your phone suspended in your hands as your eyes began to wander the room- all over and anywhere but me. “that’s... weird,” you said. that’s one secret i can’t mark off yet, then. dear mom, i love to eat. i want to know what the world can offer my mouth in it’s strange array of flavors upon my tongue. i chew. i swallow. i’m happy until it settles in my stomach uncomfortably, bulging with the anger of resentment for my damned mouth that can’t stay shut. i laugh off the rest of my dinner, the bathroom toilet my next pit stop. my whole

life i’ve been ‘la gordita’, the little fattie. is this a term of endearment or a sign that my habits must change? i cannot continue to pretend that being call fat is fun for my body or my mind. it hurts, mom, please stop calling me chubby, or fat, or thick, or saying i look nice when i’m full. because i don’t wanna be your fat girl anymore. did you know that green tea is negative calories? did you know that 1200 is the average amount of caloric intake for normal people trying to lose weight and i only eat 600? did you know that i am twenty pounds clinically overweight? i am not ‘healthy’, or big-boned- i’m fat. this secret steadily adds it’s weight to this list of secrets i dare not to tell you yet.

dear mom, my biggest irrational fear in life is falling off a swing. it beats the spiders, the monsters that keep hiding under my bed, an early death. you know what it doesn’t beat is my fear that one day i will be replaced. i escape to the internet to listen to sad music, to read books, to talk to people that i don’t know in real life. even then, the one good friend i made online doesn’t want to chat with me anymore. she was my escape from my life and i somehow pushed her away. maybe it’s my fear of being replaced by someone who can tell her their own opinions instead of my being polite and agreeing. maybe my fear of being replaced is already taking over because maybe she already talks to someone else that is five thousand times better at conversation than i am and maybe i’m afraid of being replaced because it happens with everybody i ever talk to like the cute boy, mom. the cute one that’s just taller than me with his weird eyes and stupid smile, his freckles, his brown hair, his stupid eyes i wish i could stop thinking about because seriously what color are his eyes? should i text him now? should i find out now even though he replaced me with a girl who weighs less than me? her hair is blonde so i think i dyed my hair to stand out more than her but thinking back on it, i dyed my hair to give myself a new experience but maybe i’m remembering wrong, mom, and maybe i just wanted to turn myself into her because she’s who he replaced me with, mom. it hurts so much, it creates a hole deep within my chest that i can’t seem to get rid of so i fill it with water and my bad habits of not eating then eating too much because maybe i like it want you call me your ‘gordita’ with your motherly affection. maybe i’m just really stupid and i don’t want to be replaced again. you already have a successful son so maybe you don’t want an unsuccessful, messed up daughter who only seems to be good at repeating the same

self destructive habits over and over again. i couldn’t even be a proper daughter like you wanted me to be because i don’t like the color pink, dresses make me feel fat and gross and i only wear heels for fancy occasions. and i fear i am only now being replaced by daughters who are younger, skinnier and much more girly than i ever will be. so this is my secret, mom. that i know that once i leave this house, i’ll be out on the street god knows where because i’m talent-less and dumb as a brick. i can’t even guarantee my spot in a good college after i graduate. this is my secret because i already know that once i leave this house and all of my stuff is gone, you’ll repaint the walls and get rid of the stained carpet. you’ll throw away any of my things that i’ve left behind and soon, i’ll just be a memory to you. even though you say you’ll always be just a phone call away, that phone call is going to be too expensive for me to pay. and i know i need help, mom, but how am i going to afford that? i’m so busy worrying about my replacement that sometimes i forget to breathe. that’s another secret for you to know. you probably know i’m mentally sick and i need so much help. but you haven’t told me that yet, so that’s your secret to keep. sincerely, your second child.

white women so basic by Justine Frost

Unconditional by Rae Ilorin

they. she? who is she? that bitch can’t be fuckin me still trapped inside a prison that I can’t even see she? she’s not me and really she could never be your comfort is more valuable than my identity please, let me free to know who I’m meant to be to know inner peace that’s my release not your facsimile she? allegedly.. and if you took the time to see you can’t profess to know me best if all you know is she

poem by fin S.

photos by Step Ngo

THE RESLING-BOWE MANOR IS HAUNTED

By Yah Yah Scholfield A haunting is like girlhood is like godhood — a begging to be believed. If the spirits that haunted the Resling-Bowe Manor were insulted by the lack of belief, they did not impress their disappointments on the general public. The frustrations of being unknown, uncared for were given entirely to Clio, the owner and keeper of the house. As if she were to blame for the raised eyebrows and the dubious looks given. As if she caused the house to fall into disrepair, and brought on the years and years of disdainful glances set in the direction of the manor.

The Resling-Bowe Manor was haunted, but so too was Clio. This detail went overlooked when she sought help for her troubles. It was seen, first, that the house was coming to pieces, and then that this small, crumbling mess of a woman was in charge of it. Her past was considered, her long stays at various mental facilities, and then, finally, almost as an afterthought, her claims. Though she came to each psychic, each investigator, each priest and spiritualist with mountains of proof (some videotapes, mostly diaries filled with her harried chicken-scratch scrawl), nearly everything was dismissed.

The proof, metaphysical or physical or otherwise, was thrown away. Every person she went to for help could agree on this — Clio Resling-Bowe was a madwoman, a hysteric, and there was nothing wrong with the house save for her. Yes, there was that strange smell that filled every room, but surely that was due to Clio’s lack of cleaning prowess. Yes, the house shuddered and broke off chunks of itself, but that could be fixed easily if Clio was married. A husband and a child were the cure to her issues. If only she had less time on her hands, if only she were settled, then there would be no haunting.

Fools, Clio thought. They did not live in the house with her so they did not know the nature of it.

She never claimed there were ghosts living there, save for the disgruntled spirits of her parents. She told them, plainly and without embellishment, the things she witnessed. How the floorboards protested to her walking upon them, whipping up, throwing their nails into the soles of her shoes. How the walls bled, and how the ceiling sank and sang beneath the weight of invisible feet, plaster and vile substances drip-drip-dripping down onto the floors

below. She told them how the attic overflowed with maggots and flies, and the cellar, stacked and stocked with decades of preserves which have never once gone bad, suddenly spoiled, everything rotted away within a matter of days. And Clio told them of her migraines, the pain she felt throughout her body like knives being inserted under the skin. Her nightmares, always vivid, worsening day by day, her mind cursed with visions of blood and water.

But only Clio saw them, faced these things headon. It was frustrating — just as she reached out for help, the house righted itself, everything twisted gone straight again. The floorboards behaved themselves at the mere mention of a priest, and the water sank back into the pipes once Clio threatened with spirit boxes. At the sight of planchettes and ouija boards, the house became shy, bashful of its own evil, and recovered.

(There was one person who believed her — Selene, sensitive and gentle. Even without proof, she trusted Clio and took her words at face value. Selene told Clio once that she believed her entirely, and the house reared back and bared its teeth. Later, when Clio bore burn marks on her arms from the fireplace’s rage, Selene wrapped the wounds with gauze. No doubt in her eyes, Clio noted.)

The haunting of Resling-Bowe Manor was relatively new. Clio lived in the house as a young girl with her mother and father. They were a charming family — a handsome father, a glowing homemaker of a mother and then, embarrassingly, a repugnant and slump-shouldered daughter. Her hair and features were dark, and there was none of that pixie-like glow to her that radiated off of her parents.

She was the opposite of them, a brooding smudge of a girl who lacked the charm that came semi-naturally to most other girls. Even as a small child, boys unnerved her, and she was bothered by the idea of being around girls. She looked at them with their bows and frills, and felt a strange tugging at her heart. As a child, Clio wasn’t sure if she wanted to be like them or be with them the way that boys were allowed to be. As a teenager, she was more understanding of her feelings towards women, but scared of what it meant to express them. She reacted the only way she knew how, her repression sandpaper grating at her skin — she turned to boys.

Boys, boys, constantly boys hanging around her

or off of her or on her. Petting her or teasing her, making her feel wanted in a way that was frowned upon but accepted by the public. It was all an act, an elaborate game to prove to herself that she could be “normal”. The game was a painful one, and she was the only one to get hurt from it. Even when she was young, she wondered how much she could do her body before she finally exploded? How much damage could she do unto herself until she considered herself a complete woman, full up and pristine as her mother, honorable in her pain?

Not enough, Clio learned. Never enough. For every kind Johnny that held her hand, there was a vicious Todd who made a mockery of her offerings. She quit her games after a breathless, heart-wrenching run through the forest ended with her nearly being drowned. It was over, officially, once she stabbed the boy who held her down in his side with a sharpened, jagged piece of rock. It hung there, straight as an arrow, and he was too shocked to remove it himself. Clio returned to her parents’ cheery pink Victorian smeared with blood, soaked through to the bone. The boy returned to his parents’ Tudor on a stretcher with a deep puncture wound. Luckily, her Papa was rich enough to smooth the whole thing over. It helped that he called Clio hysterical and foolish, a wild young girl with not much sense. To punish her, she spent the next five years cycling between boarding schools and institutions, hopeless but never hopeless enough to warrant a lobotomy, though the threat remained over her head.

But boarding school was expensive, and it didn’t look well on the family to have their daughter disappeared most of the time. Her Papa was bored of the cycle, and reasoned that it made more sense to keep Clio at home, where he and Mama could watch her closely. She lived in the house, and only in the house. For a while, she flirted with the idea of becoming a secretary, but the idea was shot down.

Too unstable, Papa said, and she was confined to her bedroom, to garden parties and tense dinners around the ancient dining table. Inside the house, inside herself. Outside, there were the judgmental neighbors, the boys and girls of her youth grown up and heading off to college or into marriages. She remained stagnant. They moved on; she, at twenty-six, watched the world through her window.

(There was a brief, abortive attempt to have Clio

married off. Her father had business friends, and her mother had friends who had sons. A parade of men were marched in front of her, dangled like carrots. Her mother and father pressed the boys forward, smiling tightly and promising peace and quiet, a life outside of the house, yes? The scheme was dropped after the Meechum boy — top of his class at Yale, a professor, how nice! — got a little handsy during their semi-supervised date. He believed, still, the old rumors that Clio put out for anyone and anybody, and she proved him wrong by jamming a pen knife into his hand. His family was giving a decent sum of money and several letters of apology. No more mentions of marriage for Clio, though there was a new cocktail of opiates. Her father laid out brochures for lobotomies.)

Her parents’ couldn’t live forever. Though they tried, it wasn’t possible, and they went at their respective times, leaving Clio on her own for the first time in her life. The house became hers. Her father’s will left Clio the crushed remains of his Oldsmobile and a signet ring, a nervous plea that she calm her spirits so that his spirit may rest. Clio left her still mourning mother with the signet and sold the scrap pieces of the Oldsmobile. She couldn’t drive (wasn’t allowed to), and her father’s charred body did not entice her onto the road. Her mother’s will was less dramatic, though it offered more. She gave Clio the deed to the house, her jewelry box and all that waited inside and a small fortune. These, stated her mother via a lawyer, would be more than enough for Clio to begin her life with.

At the time of her mother’s slow, cancerous passing, Clio was in her late thirties. By many standards she was a shrew. Clio read through the will with her mother’s tinny voice ringing in her ear. Begging, pleading, that Clio marry and have children, anything to soothe her spirit.

“Give me peace,” said her dead mother. “Let the Resling-Bowe legacy continue on.”

Though the letter was addressed to her, it felt as if it were speaking past her. Past her skin and bones and into her womb. It enraged her. Spiteful, desperate for some control over her body, she took her father’s old medical journals and a kitchen knife and made children a non-issue. The stabs weren’t deep, but they were efficient. The doctors at the hospital looked down at her with disgust. The nurses

pursed their lips, and cleared their throats pointedly. The neighbors had a field day, but Clio was in control if not entirely happy.

Soon after, the haunting began. Clio upended her parents’ plans for her life, and the house upended itself. The nightmares, which she hadn’t suffered from since her teenage years, were back in full force. Nightly, she dreamed of a woman dressed in black, a veil covering her face. She walked into Clio’s bedroom and slipped beneath her covers. She held the woman, stroked her and allowed herself to be kissed by her and then, just before she reached release, the woman transformed into the face of the boy, bleeding from his side. He held the jagged rock in hand, tauntingly, and then both were gone. In the place of the man and woman were a baby, a pink shriveled rat of a thing that screamed for her attention. Always, she woke mid-scream, her throat aching and her stomach pulled in both directions. Her stitches burned, and Clio moved to the master bedroom.

Because of the haunting, because of the nightmares and the memories, Clio had no one. A shroud of misery hung over her, a discontentment so thick it was nearly tangible, tastable. The few people that came into contact with her daily — the milkman, the mailman, the nosy women from her late mother’s bridge club, the straggling remains of her father’s war buddies — swore that she went unwashed and unkempt. That wasn’t unnecessarily untrue. Water unnerved her, and if she stood too long under the spray of the shower, she felt like she was drowning. Tubs were worse; half her body submerged, face peering out. Better to wash quickly, cloth barely wet, at the sink and pray nobody smelled her beneath the colognes. (Missus Pullman, an evangelist and a confirmed busybody sent a care package once that was filled up with fishshaped soaps and perfumes and several vials of oils with aggravatingly feminine smells; she threw away the soaps, kept the perfumes and saved the oils that reminded her most of woods.) She was cleanish, neat-ish, though anyone who ever knew or knew of Clio could confirm that she rarely combed her hair and that she had a funny scent to her, not unlike rotting eggs or sulfur.

She was strange, unplaceable, and so Clio was lonely. Well, not just lonely, but alone; isolated.

There was a difference between the two, a subtle line that separated the temporarily heartbroken from the hermits. Loneliness was curable. Anyone could rid themselves of loneliness by conversing with neighbors, or by walking the streets or by opening the windows and letting the noise of the city flow in. In a throng of people, in the deafening thrum of a nightclub or the companionable silence of a library, lonely wasn’t relevant. It was a distant feeling, and whatever sad soul who was by themselves was, for that small moment, surrounded, accompanied by hundreds of thousands of strangers.

Clio was alone. No one, alive or dead, really knew her, nor was she all that willing to be known.

Though times were different from when her parents could lock her way for so much as dreaming about women, Clio feared. She built walls around herself that matched the walls of the house, and she fell deeper into the act of being haunted. Even if she was without fear, without memory, she worried that she’d speak and her voice would be too gruff, her spirit not soft enough to be considered entirely feminine. Clio worried that her deepest self, her truest version would go misunderstood.

She wore her hair long, and the dresses that fit her the wrong ways, and learned to keep her voice light. Inside, she rotted away, and the house, mockingly or just to match, rotted with her.

Both Clio and the house were green. Physically, sometimes, but mostly it was a malaise around them. A thick fog rose up and weaved through the halls. Hovered by the doors. The smell that attached to Clio was mirrored in the master bedroom, the cellar. It was that sulfurous smell mixed with plant clippings, soured milk, and it followed Clio throughout all the rooms. Into the bathroom where she tried and failed to soak herself in Missus Pullman’s oils. Down in the kitchen where she cooked and burned meals in the hopes that the sweet, feminine smells would drown out the eggy scent. Even up to the attic where she performed private seances to appease the spirits of her parents with words if not with actions.

They wouldn’t be mollified. Clio had destroyed the house, and it was nothing like what it was when they were living. She couldn’t get rid of the

fiddly bits, the aggressive scrollwork, but she could toss the furniture, melt down the gilded photo frames. She hired a man to cover the hardwood floors with lush carpeting. Almost immediately after it was installed, a well of ink fell and stained it, muddy prints dragged throughout the house. To retaliate against her father (because surely it was her father who destroyed the carpet, when he hated the flooring so), she cut away her mother’s rose bushes. The neighbors watched in horror as she snipped their heads off. A week later, the thorns of the roses appeared in her bed, embedded in her skin. Clio picked them out, and made plans to tear down a turret.

Only Selene kept Clio from falling under entirely.

The woman was a change from the usual sort of person who lived in the cul-de-sac. She was kindfaced and aggressively sweet, a relief after years of receiving nothing but sideways glances and scoffs. Her first act after moving into the neighborhood was to visit Clio. It surprised her to see the woman standing on her front porch, a basket of bread on her arm and a smile upon her face. She asked to come in, but Clio denied her, a little embarrassed at the idea of someone gentle bearing witness to her house.

They sat on the porch, and Selene told Clio about herself. She, like Clio, was never married and childless. When asked why, she did not flush like Clio would’ve. She laughed, a hand on her chest, and said simply, that she didn’t have the time or heart for it. Still, she showed Clio photographs of her nieces and nephews, cherubic little girls and boys who she doted on from afar.

“I couldn’t be a mother,” she said, tucking the pictures back into her wallet. “I adore children, but there’s not enough time. Let someone else do the washing, eh?”

Clio nodded her head solemnly. Selene left, but she returned day after day with new gifts. Sometimes a pie, sometimes a book she dug out of a box. Once, she told Clio she had the sense that she was a lover of the arts, a sensitive soul. Clio wasn’t, or at least she didn’t think she was. For Selene, she pretended, absorbing the books and teaching herself the proper things to say about a well-made pie, a dense but overall delicious fruitcake. She gave Selene her compliments each time

she came by, and in turn, the woman gave her more of her attention.

Strange but at age fifty-three, Clio had her first and only friend. A best friend, she realized, and she thrilled at the idea of having someone like her. Clio began to reciprocate Selene’s kindness.

Though she would never let the woman in (too embarrassed, still), she made a point of bringing out drinks whenever the woman walked by with her dogs. She learned to make dog treats. She learned to balance that aching tug in her heart with the joy of seeing Selene’s face light up at the sight of the tea tray, her china cup already prepared with sugar and cream.

Ah, but there was still the house. The manor, sensing that burgeoning affection in Clio, punished her by shredding itself. The wallpaper came off in strips, first, and then the shingles dropped off the roof. One by one they fell, crashing into the yard and sidewalk. She told these things to Selene, almost as to mock herself, and the woman looked at very seriously, very solemnly and said she would help if she could.

They started with the roof first, both aged women quickly teaching themselves how to repair the shingles and then getting on with it. A male neighbor saw them up on the roof, and offered to take the job over, but Selene declined for the both of them. The man asked if they were sure, and the women glanced at each other, smirkingly, and let him go about his way. Clio knew that in another time, she would’ve cursed the man and his family, and would’ve punished the house by pulling up a patch of garden. It was better this way, she and Selene considering cleaning the gutters while they were up there.

Emboldened by that day on the roof, Clio invited Selene inside. It would be, she knew, the first person to be inside her house since the carpeting man and then, even further back, the mortician to take away her mother. Nervously, she allowed Selene to cross the threshold. She expected some disgust, a note of shock to her voice, but there was nothing. Selene stood in the foyer and admired the Victorian runners, the ceiling height windows. She touched her fingers to the wallpaper, and promised she’d help her with this too. When she left that day, she left with a bag of treats for her dogs and

Clio’s phone number. She squeezed her shoulders by way of goodbye, and kissed her cheek, soft and chaste.

That night, alone in her room, she was freed from her nightmares. Usually, there was the dream of the bloody rock, but she closed her eyes and there was Selene. Selene in the house, peeling away the wallpaper to reveal smooth, yellow paint beneath it. Selene opening all the doors and windows of the house, letting in fresh air and forcing the bad air out. She dreamed of Selene submerged in pink water, not drowning but breathing in the water as if she had gills. Clio smiled in her sleep, and woke with the sensation of hands on her shoulders, lips against her cheek.

A thought came to Clio — maybe the problems of the house could be solved with two people, instead of just one. She was an easy target on her own. Her parents’ spirits were free to lash out and destroy, and she was free to lash out at them too.

If there was someone between she and the house, a body that was not deterred by ghosts, a body that believed in the nature of the house and could fight against it ... Clio took a step away from Selene and made plans to see her once she made up her mind.

Once she was sure of herself, Clio ventured outside of her house. She had a schedule before; thrice monthly trips into town to stock up on necessities, but she decided to go a little bit earlier just as a small change. She asked Selene to meet her in Paisley, the town nearest to the neighborhood, though she wouldn’t tell the woman why she wanted to see her. All her way there, she bolstered herself with mantras. She couldn’t live entirely inside of herself.

The deed was just a deed, and even if she was attached the plot of land by blood and brick, she was her own person. She was allowed to want. She was allowed to want Selene.

The problem was (and Clio forgot this as she was packing her bag, muttering encouragements to herself) that the townspeople weren’t the same as the people who lived in her parents’ gated neighborhood. It was a greater variety of people, a greater variety of prejudices. In the little town of Paisley, she was more likely to be openly mocked for her appearance than in the cul-de-sac. Her unkemptness, her smell, would draw a crowd. The memory of her violences, both big and small, would be held over

her, used against her. Remembering this, Clio drew up her shoulders, already defensive of the accusations that were to come. She passed through the gate. Breathed short, nervous breaths.

The town of Paisley wasn’t poor, but it wasn’t rich either. It was one of those in-between sort of towns where the hand of the rich benefactors was swayed by the votes of the less fortunate townspeople. There was no litter on the streets, but there were smooth, black benches and colorfully tacky trash cans to promote recycling. The shops from the old days were still there, but their facades had been updated, the brick painted over and garish signs replacing the simple handwork from the days before. Paisley had a distinct smell — vanilla ice cream and grease, dying hydrangeas even at the height of spring. Old men sat out on their porches dabbing their foreheads with grease stained rags and smoking their pipes. Thin rods of women walked in groups, gossiping, flitting in and out of the shops.

Younger women stood on sidewalks and smoked cigarettes with their roughnecked boyfriends, a sore spot in the still conservative town, bare legs flashing whitely in the sunlight. A few of them looked her way. Snickered.

Large enough to have a bowling alley. Small enough for everyone to know her name and face, what she did when she was a young woman.

She walked the main street for a while, dipping into shop after shop with no intention of buying anything. Clio fingered a beaded scarf, asked the baker for a sample of the bread. In both places, she was watched carefully until she left, the shops bursting into twitters as soon as the bell signaled her departure. In the haberdashery, the old man at the counter refused to meet her eyes or acknowledge her questions, so Clio took the thread she needed, the wool (green, black, chocolate brown and a delicious shade of blue) and a few extra bobbins for her loom. She approached the man for a second time, watched as he glanced at her and then turned away. Clio huffed through her nose, dumped her items into her basket (she always brought her own), and walked two doors down to the general store without another word.

The general store was a plain wooden box with windows, unchanging and incapable of change.

Flickering lights shone on wood racks stocked with

flattened boxes of goods, crushed cans. The nauseating scent of rotted fruit wafted over from the produce section. Fruit flies, fat off mushy tomatoes and overripe heads of lettuce, buzzed in the faces of cashiers and patrons alike, the beat of the tiny wings a whir combined with the whizz and buzz of swatting hands. The doorbell chimed as Clio entered. A smattering of pink women glanced at her, paused their conversations, and then resumed them at a lower pitch. Skirts, Clio thought. They sounded like skirts. Big tulle skirts, swishing and whispering, speaking too pointedly to be secretive. Clio cleared her throat to get the cluster of women out of her way, thanked them just to see their brows knit.

It would be one thing if Clio was smaller. If she was sweeter and quieter, if she wasn’t so solid and formidable, if she didn’t tower over the other women. As a child, as a tall teenager, she was conscious of how much space she took up and how her voice travelled. There was a lot of her. Too much of her.

If she was smart, if she listened to anything her mother taught her, Clio would pull in her shoulders, slump, lower her voice and melt into a wall. Be less invasive, learn to hide sometimes, and for God’s sake, stop staring.

A small bottle of milk, coffee grounds, a pound of sugar and a dozen eggs was all that Clio brought to the register. A scrawny welp of a girl checked her out, snapping her gum and sharing knowing looks with the folks in line behind Clio. She moved far too fast to be careful, and in her haste, she crushed a few of the eggs. Clio frowned at the sight of the dented cardboard, but when she was handed the wet bag, she reached for her coin purse.

A hand stopped her from putting down her money. She turned towards the stranger, and there was Selene, dressed in a printed dress and glowing from her regular walks in the sun.

“Do you think you could get her another carton of eggs?”

The girl snapped her gum, rolled her eyes, but she did disappear into the dairy aisle. Selene muttered something about the terrible service, low enough so only Clio could hear. She flushed. They were scandalously close, and Selene made no effort to lean away even as the girl returned. Clio paid for her groceries (whole eggs now, un-cracked), and walked home with Selene. The woman stayed at her

side, unwavering even as they were stared at.

They were well into the cul-de-sac before Selene started to tilt away from Clio, but the damage had been done. People saw them walking nearly hand in hand. Clio wondered what the house would have for her, what punishment the ghosts would think up to punish her. She glanced at Selene, considering finally if she should ask the woman her question. Just as she opened her mouth, Selene began to speak.

“I was wondering if you were alone in that house of yours.”

“Alone?” Clio repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I mean ... I’m usually ever over there to eat or to help you fix something, but it seems so big. So lonely. It wouldn’t hurt, you know, to have someone there with you. Someone to keep you company.”

“Like who?” Her heart pressed against her chest.

Her knuckles were white against the handle of her bag of groceries.

“The dogs won’t get in the way,” Selene said.

“They’re house-trained, and they’re very well behaved. They like you, anyways, and that’s more than they’ve given anyone else in this neighborhood.”

“Are you asking to move in with me?”

Selene stopped walking and Clio stopped too.

They stood across from each other, eyes meeting and departing from one another. Never did Selene ever look out of place or unnerved, but there was a rash of red across her nose and cheeks.

“You cut your rose bushes. I can grow them back.”

A few steps ahead was Clio’s house, the Resling-Bowe Manor. Next to it was Selene’s house, cozy and warm-looking if not as expensive as Clio’s.

The places were the turrets used to be were patched over by wood. The porch sloped downwards, almost entirely tilted. The roof, though, was smooth and freshly remodeled, the one mismatched tile from when Selene misplaced the correct set standing out on the otherwise perfect job. Clio looked at her strange, haunted home, and then at the place were her mother’s flowers used to be. Ruined soil, the destroyed husks of rose bushes — she turned to Selene.

That spring, they grew tulips. Shingles fell from the roof, but for once, the house smelled like flowers.

Cindy Vasquez

the quiet by fin S. I tried to do it But I can’t so screw it I’ve been gone all this time and I never even knew it Been lying all this time and now I fucking blew it All those nights I spent crying I just lied my way through it And the seconds become minutes become hours become days And I’m sitting by myself in the same fucking haze Thinking and wishing and plotting the ways Done tricked my mind into not being fazed I can’t want I can’t need I can’t have but you Try to convince me my thoughts are untrue Try not to tell me what not to do Yet another failed attempt curtail the abuse Fuck it fuck it fuck it I’m out I don’t even know what this shit is about All I know is that I’m trying to shout And the only thing that comes out Are whispers To my sisters I can’t even say that I don’t fuckin miss her I’m better Even if I didn’t care I could never forget her I’ve tried to Like I’m the only person that I’ve ever lied to It’s easy Look me dead in the eye and say you believe me But You think I’m here to tell you you’re wrong I’m Not even here bruh I’ve been fucking gone It’s Just a matter of patience to me Cuz when I ask you to stay I really want you to leave I’m Not too good at telling the truth It’s Not a personal affront against you I Keep trying to say it but you don’t hear me though So lightly politely I rephrase the word no I’m the quiet Quiet’s how I live in breathe Quiet Silence when you speak to me Quiet Quiet’s all I really need But you and I communicate on different frequencies

declaration of youth by mankos we, the youth, are the monsters hiding under your bed gnawing at the bone you call our childhood telling us it’ll be over soon and crying over the darkness your bed has provided. the frame squeaks when you turn and the blankets fly of your body as we wait for the time to latch on to your arm and become adults, masters of negotiation, wielders of confidence, seducers of wealth. we, the youth, have been lied to for we only see the dead bodiesblood stained skin and yellowing teethconsumed by greed and insecurities plagued by broken hearts and infected with dreams that never came true. we, the youth, are tired of being looked down upon, lied to and scolded for wanting to flee from a torturous future we don’t want. i, the youth, am a monster hiding in your closet waiting to snap.

we, the youth, are the stars you see in the sky twinkling with passion burning so bright you can’t tear your eyes away. we, the youth, are a conglomerate of heavenly beings moving slowly across the universe that is always expanding you stare at us in awe and with such warmth, asking us questions, wishing for new lives using our positions as guidance on your journeys and adventures. we, the youth, shine forever like a twinkling diamond or a rippling river moving towards the sea. waves burning in your nose and salt flooding your eyes until the only thing you care about is the water on your skin. we, the youth, give so much love, warmth and lightenergy stretching upon a millennia of light years. i, the youth, am the star you see shining so bright you can’t tear your eyes away

“be kind to this land” by Shavonne Crystal Ann

from Proyecto Discapacidad by Daniela Marin Platero

from Proyecto Discapacidad by Daniela Marin Platero

To All the Straight Girls I’ve Befriended Before

I’m not saying all gay girls are perfect. we’re still learning with few examples to learn from cause few of us have the experience or advice to choose from.

I, am a woman-loving-women of color. colloquially, I mean that I’m bisexual and I’m not going to make my sexuality conventional. no, I’m not half gay half straight sure, some guys are cute, some I’d date, but I’m hear to talk to you girls.

that’s why I think girls that love girls are so brave. our love is brave, our love is bold and I know that ya’ll are thinking I’m radical because I’m going on and on about how much I love but remember this: straight folks have movies upon books, songs upon stories, novels upon norms and we have mere scraps, footnotes and reaching inferences, for us to find ourselves.

by Karen L.

I think you straight girls assume we want to take advantage of you that our friendships are shallow and our love perverted. that we prey on innocent, straight girls - no no no NO we are not predators, and you are not our prey. if anything, we’re scared of you. i’m too scared, to sit too close to a new friend i’m scared to lost their trust and friendship i’m too scared that my compliments will sound like flirts cause I know, when a guy is too nice just cause he likes you, it hurts. it’s not just rejection from someone you like, it’s not just broken hearts and crushes crushed. we lose friendships, we get ostracized from the very friends we trust we get rumors spread around warnings to stay away, talking of our love in disgust. we don’t love girls like boys do. we don’t build friendships with other gay girls by sexualizing girls, catcalling girls, harassing girls we KNOW what it’s like to be a girl to be harassed by a guy that think you owe him your time. now, I’m not saying no gay girls do that,

to find our trans sisters among the forgotten names of black trans women and pioneers murdered by transmisogynists and police, to find our queer sisters of color who must choose between unaccepting families or racism in the LGBTQ community to find love and solidarity between lesbians and bi girls. here’s what I would do, as a bi girl: I want to impress her, I want to make her cry laughing I want to listen to her corny puns and impossible dreams I want her body imperfections and her flaws I want the fat in her stomach and the kinks in her hair I want her with her acne and body hair that’s too much I want her to love herself as much as I love her. most of you may have a hard time relating. you don’t like girls romantically, so why should you care?

but look: you don’t have to be gay to love girls. you don’t have to be afraid of being called gay you don’t have to be afraid of being gay to love your best friend as a friend to love your sister as a sister to love your role models as role models to love your teammates as teammates to love other girls. there are so many kinds of love, and I think we should cherish all of them. so I leave you with the message: to all of you girls, straight or gay or bi or else the girl that deserves your love the most is yourself.

Cindy Vasquez

Rae Ilorin

nautilus by mankos waves cutting at my throat, heart beating like the tides on the shore. i am alone with my thoughts. the world is my oyster and i am the pearl in the theater precious and priceless to many coral pink polyps pressing into my back stabbing quick and deep blood staining the teal blue waters turning me into a helpless snack pinching me with their claws of fear wrestling me under until i can’t breathe water flooding my lungs and pushing out all the air am i a pearl or a merciless egg? soft on the inside easy to crush and break a baby bird waiting to be reborn as an eagle or a raptor a vulture claws sharp and my beak a knife feathers an artillery on my back nothing more than a predator preying on the weak.

Teochew and Pansexual by Silent

A lost tongue A waylaid sense of culture as my parents stop speaking it to me because I can’t differentiate between Teochew, Mandarin, Cantonese, Vietnamese, and English while at my American school Sitting out at family dinners silent as the younger generation that was lucky enough to learn Teochew happily chatters with the older generation in Teochew Scrolling through Facebook, skipping groups like subtle viet traits because there’s another meme about a language thing I missed out on or can’t read since my parents prioritized “our” culture over the one dad risked his life on the Pacific with and mom flew out to Australia with it tucked in her luggage both thinking they were going to go home eventually Only being able to say gaginang nui nui jie hao nui nui zhang et bang pui bang sai mi gai aaaaaaah ba ma di di Explaining to someone that asked THE QUESTION I am not Vietnamese or Chinese I am a specific ethnic minority of Chinese derived from the Han Chinese with diasporas in Vietnam France China Germany Russia Wisconsin Taiwan and more *cue friend cheering about the Han Chinese/Vietnamese dominating* *cue me giving that one awkward smile because once again, colonizers win* *cue the reminder that colonized can still colonize* Getting outed as some friends, a new person, and I walk by a bar called queer and remembering that as much as I want to keep communication with my parents open I can’t tell them how I love and am attracted to not just men and women but people all over the color wheel called sexuality and gender orientation because disownment is pretty much immediate as indicated by boycotts of 24 hour fitness since someone not cisgendered used the bathroom and rants about how lesbians are sick for promoting their lifestyle and I’m already “passing” by dating a cisgendered man so there is no need for me to come out to them yet Googling Teochew and looking for it on spaces like deviantArt but only finding educational pages/articles and audio clips on the history/culture/famous people no art at all not even notes on what the culture is like no manual on what it means to be Teochew much less Teochew and pansexual

YOKAI FICTION

Debbie Sajnani

Step Ngo

contributing artists photography by Step Ngo from Proyecto Discapacidad by Daniela Marin Platero stoop[k]id by fin S. paintings by Marinna ‘Mahrinnart’ Shareef artwork by Cindy Vasquez “When Love Became an Obstable” by endlessrebel “Solo la muerte” by L.I. Reinoso “Pop-Art Portrait” by mankos “Secrets of Unimportance” by mankos “White women so basic” by Justine Frost “Unconditional” by Rae Ilorin “they” by fin S. photography by Step Ngo “The Resling-Bowe Manor is Haunted” by Yah Yah Scholfield art by Cindy Vasquez “the quiet” by fin S. “declaration of youth” by mankos “be kind to this land” by Shavonne Crystal Ann from Proyecto Discapacidad by Daniela Marin Platero “To All the Straight Girls I’ve Befriended Before” by Karen L. art by Cindy Vasquez art by Rae Ilorin “nautilus” by mankos “Teochew and Pansexual” by Silent “Executive Dysfunction” by YOKAI FICTION art by Debbie Sajnani photography by Step Ngo

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Sirens Zine is an annual online publication created by Meilani Mandery, a queer Asian American woman. This magazine exists because of the generosity of QTPOC (queer and trans people of color) creatives who donate their time and energy to submit their art to Sirens. Thank you to all of our contributors and supporters.

Sirens Zine showcases queer creatives of color.

Art spaces are so white and heteronormative, Sirens creates a space for QTPOC creatives to be celebrated without tokenization and fetishization.

In this issue, QTPOC creatives share their stories through poems, essays, and various forms of visual art.

sirens zine issue 4

Meilani Mandery is a queer Chinese American artist, curator, and community organizer. Based in Seattle, WA/ Coast Salish lands, Meilani questions the meaning of home and motherland through visual art and poetry, adding to the growing collection of Asian American Diaspora art. photo by Cameron Coates