Art

A Cyclic Journey and an Ephemeral Halt- Mayu Ishimoto

Untitled- Irina Tall

ভাই হারানোর জ্বালা - Ayesha Siddiqa Binta Khaiyam

Writing

Untitled- Jamie Galvin

empty subject line/eating crab- Audrey Wang

The Ocean I Never Wanted, Housewives- Rachel Chitofu

Divine- Esther Fisher

Heaven and Hell; Redacted; Close to Me- Claudia Wysocky 

miracles- M.S. Blues

A Feast For the Senses- Ocean P.C. Boudreau 

Canvas- Xanaria Jackman

Unrequited- Angel Herrera

Writer's Block- Jas Howson

Loved to Love You- Alexandra Stancu

All For Him- Mansi Kumbhare

Momentum- Paula Milian 

Love In The Air- Lulu Kalin Poernomo

Unfinished Exit- Claudia Wysocky 

Footsteps- Niru

Reeling Cat Slats, Happy Bowdain, Braided- Summer McGill

On And On- Jacinta Land

Why Adolescence?- Mashiyat Mahazabin Adhora

the asylum on corner hill road- Rachen Uon

Fear to speak up- Ione Vielma

Fast Fashion's Rise to Environmental Degration and Marketing Ploys- Clara P.

Out of mind, Out of space/That time again- Nana Yaa Abeyieh

queer desires.- Jedidiah Vinzon

august- Nabeeha Mudassar

What was i made for?- Eishal F.

tradegy comes in three- Jedidiah Vinzon

The Langfall Hall- Akanksha Ayantika Mohanty

Ever changing beach- Tobi Olanlokun

story of your favorite impressionist paintings- stella

crash/mundanity- Marilysse Torres

Green ray (7:59 pm)/metal earrings- Katherine Zhao 

October- Abby Hodge

Echoes of Thoughts- Mariam Bukia

Vividity- Maddie Young

Summer Sensory- Lucas Lui

dilemma of the damned- M.S. Blues

the dissonance within- Amélie Bašková

Between Two Rivers; Crafting the Mosaic of Identity- Simah Motlak

One Day- Manaal

Mirror in the Water- Yumna Juha

Footsteps- Nislikes

A guise: Friend or Fiend?- Tabassum Tayba

Nature vs Nurture: Born or Made?- Tabassum Tayba

A Song To A Star- Divena Upadhyae 

The Paper Cranes- Hope Ho 

By Audrey Wang

Audrey Wang is a writer and artist from central Oklahoma. She has been writing since early childhood, but only began to take up poetry in the past year. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Just Poetry, Hot Pot Magazine, and elsewhere. In her free time, she enjoys drawing, tending to animals, and reading.

"empty subject line"

to meet a permanent person 

under the temporary sky:

one that i am not even sure 

i have the capacity

to love back.

for you, life will continue 

to bicycle by. it

forever has. but

for me, my feet 

only began to squabble with the pedals

under the illuminance

of a paper crane sky.

you hung the universe in my bedroom,

then hung your keys on the coatrack.

there won’t ever exist

simpler goodbyes.

now,

under a microscope 

i will analyze how long

i can continue to breathe

without any air 

truly filling my lungs.

the clouds will

continue to amble, and

i will wait for them.

after all, i waited this long

for you.

"eating crab"

two fingers against oily sides 

of the front claw, tracing

the dull protrude of orange ridges.

other hand breathes down force

until cartilage flies from the shatter.

underneath the nail bed it

floods with shell and liquid. then,

coat tenderly meat of the likes of

a dainty feather duster 

or tip of a paintbrush

in butter or low-sodium soy sauce.

almost too whispy to eat; it

tickles the underbelly of your nostril

before imploding

a war upon tongue.

crab is repentance in the eyes of

little asian girls, because 

how could she unforgive her father 

with her fists around crustacean fingers

like this?

she can’t, like a ritual unspoken.

it works every single time. he is

out of luck once december

passes, because the crab 

will twitch a little less when prodded:

marking the end of its

season, and her lenience.

By Esther Fisher

Esther Fisher is a graduate of York University with a BA in English and Creative Writing. She loves ballroom dancing, tiaras, and is obsessed with the RMS Titanic and Anastasia Romanov. She has been published with Forget-Me-not Press, Poetry Undressed, Humana Obscura, Firefly Magazine, The Graveyard Zine and The Garden of Venus Zine. Her first novel Resurrection will be release in October 2024. She lives in Toronto.

Divine

He met a goddess

Once

Flowers wreathed her crown

White dress bright against her salted caramel skin

She glowed in his eyes

And her eyes

If he were to describe them

Shone like grey starlight

Words of affection poured from his heart

A glistening spring where nymphs danced in her shadow

She was proclaimed goddess of many things

But for him

She was his

In all divinity

By M.S. Blues

Mia Soto, better known as M.S. Blues, is an 18 year old writer, editor, mentor, stoner, and SBNR advocate. Through her work, her objective is to raise awareness to issues that society tends to neglect, as well as represent her Mexican, Polynesian, Indigenous, and Queer communities. She has been published over 100 times in the literary magazine world and currently serves as an editor to The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, Chromatic Stars Review, Low Hanging Fruit, and Sister Time. She’s also a poetry & prose reviewer for The Cawnpore Magazine. In addition, she’s the co Editor-in-Chief of The Beaulieu Gazette and Sorry! Zine. Lastly, she is the Founder & Editor-in-Chief of The Infinite Blues Review. You can interact with her on Instagram @m.s.blues_

for chris,

the man i never stopped loving

I. 

    (then)

INT. A DARK ROOM

(living room – my “room”)

    7:45 A.M. – 7/27/24

i awake

to the most frigid winds

the honeywell fan blows

against my bare thighs.

instinctively,

i retrieve my phone,

and there, with my melancholy eyes of feeble consciousness,

i see the messages you left.

you sent a link to a youtube video you uploaded,

a recording (27:57)

of a conversation between you and her –

talk about dismantling our assumptions.

a long message followed,

then a gif,

then my tears.

i thought i lost you.

-

II. 

    (then)

INT. A LIGHT ROOM

(living room – my “room”)

    10:44 P.M. – 7/27/24 (still)

thoughts of decay

roam through my mind –

like mice in the subway.

(TIE THE GODDAMN NOOSE

DRAG THAT BLADE –)

external forces

peeling off my armor,

like how a child

peels off scabs,

and infects the wound.

i thought my time was ticking.

i’d close my eyes,

and there the hourglass would be,

serving as the ominous reminder –

i was messaging

the people i loved,

which included you

in that group text.

truth be told,

i already forgot you were there.

your words earlier

were already causing

my memory and heart to decompose.

but then…

-

III. 

    (then)

INT. A LIGHT ROOM

(living room – my “room”)

    11:04 PM. – 7/27/24 (still)

I’ll be around in 10.

i didn’t even see you

enter the chat.

demons of mine

continued to fester,

the crave for death

and paradise

becoming stronger.

ticks in my mind –

i could already feel the penetration of the –

11:11 P.M.

I’m outside. Declining is an option. (edited)

9 minutes and 36 seconds.

i snapped my head

at the PING! of the notification.

the message –

my bewildered eyes

teared up.

What?

then,

the call.

i answer.

you repeat yourself.

…

mother reluctantly allows me to go

to where i didn’t know

i needed to be

in that precise moment.

-

IV. 

    (then)

EXT. THE BLACK EYE

(outside – under the stars)

    11:18 P.M. – 7/27/24 (still)

i leap over rocks

i scrape my foot on the sidewalk,

but i’m numb.

i open the door,

not knowing what to make of this.

do i stay,

or do i run away?

-

V. 

    (then)

INT. THE MUSTANG

(the apple of mi vato’s eye)

    11:20 P.M. – 7/27/24 (still)

the car

embraces me

like a grandmother’s hug.

[ warm

overwhelming     ]

i ask, “why?”

then,

a dialogue ensues.

the depths sinking in

when you park just before my complex.

emotions

vulnerability

confessions

apologies

eyes harboring tears

gentle chuckles,

my index finger on your heart

an embrace

your head on my shoulder

my hands running through your hair;

a breakthrough,

for you and i.

just hours ago,

i thought you were going to be a thing of the past,

a lesson that i’d tell my daughter about if she loved a boy like you.

so believe me,

i didn’t anticipate this to transpire

…

you needed that,

just as much as i did,

vato.

-

VI. 

    (then)

INT. THE MUSTANG

(the apple of mi vato’s eye)

    11:59 P.M. – 7/27/24 (still)

i didn’t want to leave

but under mother’s orders,

i did,

but not before

i engulfed you in the most infinite embrace,

breathing in,

absorbing this beautiful moment,

before it concludes

just as abrupt

as it started.

-

VII. 

    (then)

INT. A LIGHT ROOM

(living room – my “room”)

    1:30 A.M. – 7/28/24

two black holes,

two hearts of darkness

– boy, how those two

blossomed,

even if it was for a hasty moment.

i vividly replay every second

(like an editor

replaying footage

trying to piece everything together

in order to produce a compelling film)

in my head –

trying to process it all,

from our dialogue

to the last embrace we shared.

it’s profound, mi vato.

you know it as well as i do.

-

VIII. 

    (now)

INT. A LIGHT ROOM

(living room – my “room”)

    4:30 P.M. – 7/29/24 (still)

thrown down –

my barriers and armor,

down,

as i think about everything.

when you came for me,

when i opened up to you,

when you did the same –

man i love,

optimism is a hard thing to hold onto,

but after yesterday,

i will tighten my grip

and continue to pray.

you’ve seen me look pretty rough,

you’ve seen me when life’s beaten me down,

but now you can say

you’ve seen me at my worst –

and now, i suppose i can say the same –

the ice around your heart

became puddles

that i stepped over…

i saw you, for once, be an open book –

visibility.

i saw you for what you are

and you saw me for what i am.

[ EPILOGUE ]

and i still love you, vato.

i affirmed it

so i hope now you

and those demons of yours

know,

because you heard it from me.

nothing,

no mistake

no sin

no fuck up

could ever

disarm my love.

i mean every word i say.

i’m a woman of my word.

i love you.

my friends wonder what is wrong with me,

my mother admonishes me every chance she gets,

my own sense judges me,

i’m sure the ancestors shake their heads at me,

and i know

mother earth is disappointed in me.

but,

i’m willing to ensure every form of reprimanding or adversity, vato,

because i know

this force we share

is too beautiful and rare

to release in the air.

i love you.

By Xanaria Jackman

Xanaria is a long-time advocate for youth voices, creativity, and progression. She has been recognized for her artistic talents, views on social reconstruction, and care for the community around her. She believes in addressing critical matters that revolve around urban minority communities. 

"Throughout our lives, we all feel the need to belong. Whether it's following the latest trends or seeking approval from those we look up to, there's a strong temptation to conform. However, it's important to recognize when this desire starts to overshadow our values and beliefs. When making decisions, it's crucial to reflect on our authentic selves: Is this something I want to add to me?"

The Canvas

You dip their colors on your easel,

painting yourself with it.

The canvas of what you think will be a masterpiece.

“Add more red.”

“Add more yellow.”

“Add more purple,” they say.

You dip it and add.

“You should make it bolder!”

“No, make it softer.”

“I don’t like the green.”

You add.

You change.

You forget.

Are you now satisfied with the portrait?

A portrait of what was thought to be a masterpiece.

You’ve worked so hard on it.

Yet, 

No one admires it.

No one notices,

No one cares.

Because it’s not the original. 

“If anything, it’s unoriginal.”

Show me something else.

By Jas Howson

Jas Howson is a non-binary writer of poetry and short fiction. Within their work they explore the queer experience, themes of mental health, neurodiversity, fantasy and magic realism. They are currently writing their first novel, for now untitled, which is a cozy queer fantasy about a nervous journalist tasked with writing an article on a town of magic folk.

"Writer's Block is a short story for writers, and those who feel like a constant muck up. The protagonist is daft, hopeless and above all else loveable. I wrote him to shine a bit of comedic light on the ever unpredictable life of the writer."

Writer’s Block

About a month ago Rory Dunson made a terrible mistake. He’d agreed to meet with a publisher about a novel he’d been working on – the one he’d mentioned once or twice to his boss Charlie. The one he’d sent the first – and only – chapter to stop his pestering. The one that didn’t exist.

Two minutes after this mistake was made he ran from one end of the office to the other and poked his head over the cubicle of the only person that seemed able to tolerate him. Probably because he was the only other gay bloke on the editing team.

‘That’s not so bad is it?’ Patrick turned back to his computer with a sigh and started typing. His perfect hair was slicked back with the perfect amount of gel, his skin was glossy and eyebrows carefully shaped.

‘One month,’ Rory nodded slowly, ‘That’s all they’ve given me – one month,’

‘You can do that babe,’

‘What? Write a fucking novel?’

Patrick cracked his delicate fingers one by one and examined his manicured nails, ‘Well if it’s only a first draft. Doesn’t have to be set in stone –‘

‘No but it does have to get written,’ he hung his head over the cubicle wall. 

‘So, Charlie puts in a good word for you, recommends your work, you get the opportunity of a fucking lifetime, and it’s all a mistake?’ Patrick folded his arms and leant back. His limp colleague nodded. ‘He never says anything about my writing.’ He spun back to his work. 

Rory looked up. He eyed his workmate’s tailored suit, his freshly trimmed moustache, his polished loafers and became very aware of his own ill-fitted pinstripe, his five o clock shadow and his scrappy converse he’d started wearing because the tenth doctor made them look so good. 

‘Do you like Doctor Who?’

Patrick took a deep breath, as a vein in his neck began to twitch, and closed his eyes.

‘I’m taking my lunch,’ he rose and started towards the breakroom, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

***

He did not.

What Rory did do every few days for the next month was sit at his desk and think of nothing for a while, then reward himself with a few episodes of Tom Baker’s Doctor. Was it the scarf that made him everyone’s favourite? With a scarf as cool as that Rory wouldn’t even have to try, publishers would be so in awe of his scarf they’d pay no attention to his terrible writing – only brilliant people wear scarves like that.

Classic Who turned into a fixation of worldbuilding, turned into a Tolkien rabbit hole, turned into bingeing all The Lord of The Rings films for the millionth time. The Hobbit too – all in the name of research. Worldbuilding is the bread and butter of writing a fantasy novel, which meant he was being productive. Bloody good work as far as Rory was concerned.

The evening before his meeting with Mr Berkley of Berkley Publishing Co, he opened up his temperamental laptop. Perhaps something had written itself while he’d been at work? But staring at the word document he’d been working on vigorously for the last four weeks, three lines read: ‘Space Wizards. They’re wizards but they’re in space. That’s Star Wars you twat.’

He slammed his laptop shut and pushed it onto the floor, smushed his face into his hands, and muffled several swears. The meeting was at five O’clock tomorrow. Five O’fucking clock and he had nothing. Nothing but a word document proposing the main concept for one of the biggest franchises in the world. He groaned.

Too late to cancel the meeting. Too difficult to fake his own death. What else could he do?

***

‘Another Guinness please,’ Rory more or less hung from the bar from his arms, knees buckling and ankles bending beneath him. ‘Please,’ he repeated in a voice like that of a whining child. The bartender grunted and stared hard into his drunken eyes.

He was shown to the door. And as he tumbled out of the pub with the utmost grace, a tingling started at his crotch. He was busting for a piss. The gravel beneath his feet crackled as he pivoted round to go back inside. No wait, he’d just been escorted out. No problem. He’d show them.

He turned a corner to the alley where they put the bins, fell twice against the wall before opening his trousers and relieving himself – arms outstretched – against the dark brick wall.

‘Your phone and your wallet,’ said a gruff voice.

Perhaps if he did nothing the voice would go away. He waited.

‘Your phone,’ a hefty arm yanked him by the shoulder and spun him round, ‘And your wallet.’ 

‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ he said between belches.

‘I’ll give you something to feel bad ab – ‘

But before he finished that sentence he froze. Quite literally. His face turned white, and his eyes went cold and glassy.

Staring in horror with his trousers still half down, Rory recoiled as the large man’s teetered forward, like a tree about to be cut down. He had the impulsive urge to shout ‘TIMBER’ as the body keeled over with a heavy thunk in front of him. 

Behind where the brute had stood, was a dark figure armed with a large staff. He looked down at the unconscious assailant and gave him two good kicks, cocked his head to one side, then lifted the staff above them both. Rory fell back on the brick wall, and watched in frightened awe as the streetlamps began humming around them, growing brighter until all was cast in white. 

‘Magic man.’ He whispered.

The staff came down with a great crack. Red sparks flew out from beneath it and the streetlamps returned to their usual piss-yellow glow. 

The man on the floor had vanished – all that remained of him was a sooty sort of scorch mark. Rory let out a rather delayed half laugh, half yelp then threw a hand over his mouth, eyes darting about the passage. He was disappeared as well. He was a wizard! A magus! A necromancer! He might as well have been God– he… he still had his cock out.

Rory pulled his trousers up and fastened his belt, which was behaving fiddlier than it had been this morning, then took a few paces out into the street. The buildings and parked cars spun and for some reason there was two of everything. He had to scrunch and peer through the slits of his eyes to see straight. And there he was, staff and all, less than a block away. 

Arms flailing behind him, he ran – and stumbled twice – towards the Magic Man.

‘What did you do?’ he said a few paces behind and out of breath.

‘Do? Oh, nothing.’

‘But you,’ Rory scoffed, ‘But you clearly made that – that thing happen. Because that man,’ his voice rose in pitch, ‘He was there and then POW,’ he flung up his arms and gawped. 

The man said nothing.

‘And it all went white. Everything! And you– ‘ 

‘I think you should probably drink some water,’

‘And your staff–’

‘What staff?’ he said and stopped so abruptly Rory nearly crashed into him. He turned and held up both of his arms. He was tall, had thick dark hair that fell across his eyes, strong but careful looking hands, and a devilish smirk. 

And absolutely no staff. 

The colour drained from Rory’s face. He stood stiff and upright, eyes bulging and flicking between each outstretched arm, and drew both his shaking hands close to his chest – gesturing to the impossible man before him.

‘Only joking,’ and he pulled the staff from out of thin air. ‘The kids like that one,’ he grinned. 

Rory’s jaw hung open. He stood there, limp as a deflated balloon, opening and closing his mouth, but nothing coming out. The man sighed.

‘Let me walk you home,’ he said, leaning on his staff. 

Rory gave a faint nod, mouth drawing into a little ‘O’ shape. 

The man placed a hesitant arm around his shoulder and awkwardly cleared his throat before they turned to walk into the night. 

***

Rory said nothing for the entire journey. He stared out ahead of him, eyes glazed over and not really looking at anything. He was woven around streetlamps and over dips in the pavement.

All at once he came to a standstill. 

‘Here.’ He bobbed his head towards a dark block of flats.

‘Ah. Would you like me to?’ he gestured to the building.

Rory shrugged.

The man took a deep breath then, again, guided him along. They went through the squeaky doors and up a rusted staircase that echoed up and all around them with each inharmonious step they took.

When they reached the third floor Rory broke off from his guide, trudging down a corridor with a sort of drunken certainty then leant heavily against a door. At the same time, he reached into a trouser pocket. The man’s brow furrowed as he watched the contorted drunk in front of him struggle and pant. 

He swung his torso up and wobbled, holding a set of keys with a Millenium Falcon keychain about an inch from his face. His eyes squinted as he jangled through the set, one by one. When he found the right key he lost it again, and again and then posted them through the letter slot.

‘Rory’s in there he can let us in.’

His chaperone rocked back and forth on his heels, face crinkling with concern, ‘What’s was your name?’

‘Rory.’

‘Mm.’ He held up his staff and touched its warm glowing end to the door. There was a clicking sound and a low rumbling before it creaked open. 

Rory grunted in response. He meant to say ‘Thanks.’

‘Not at all,’ said the man. He turned and began walking back along the corridor, leaving Rory to linger in his own doorway. 

‘Did you kill him?’ 

‘No,’ he stopped walking, ‘No, of course not.’ 

‘Because he was just gone…’ 

‘Safe and sound in his own bed,’ he spun around and met Rory’s wide eyes. ‘Though he’ll wake up tomorrow with a bitch of a headache,’ he nodded, ‘As will you I expect,’ they both chuckled. ‘It was very nice to meet you.’

‘Very nice to meet you too,’ he smiled. 

The two looked down and Rory sighed. He nodded to himself, then looked back up at the empty corridor.

‘Magic man,’ he whispered, and went into his flat.

***

He woke in a cold sweat, shirtless and with his jeans pulled down to his knees. The sun blazed through the open blinds and Rory groaned, holding up heavy arms across his face. His head pounded and his eyes felt as if they would shoot out of his face. He pushed his fists into the two pulsating spheres in his skull and rolled, after a bout of wriggling, onto his side. His teeth felt furry and there was an acidic tang at the back of his throat, and his mouth began to fill with saliva. 

As he crawled across the living room floor, he felt his stomach twist and his throat cramp, and he gagged with each insectile movement. His jeans made their way down to his ankles making the whole wriggling ordeal even harder and his legs were becoming numb and tingly. He dragged himself into the bathroom onto the hard floor – cold and almost pleasant against his clammy skin – and with the little energy he had left, he hoisted his thrumming head over the toilet bowl and vomited. It was a tangy, gritty substance that burned the back of his throat and made his eyes water.

He retched for a further five minutes gagging at bitter stomach bile until nothing else came out, then reached a quivering hand up to flush. Water splattered across his shiny face, and he inhaled the freshness of the toilet bowl, watching as his vomit cocktail was flushed away.

He slumped back against the wall, shivering and taking in gulps of air every few moments. Should probably drink some water. And he rose slowly from his crumpled position on the floor. Isn’t that what he said? He held himself against the door frame. What who said? He flicked over his wrist.

‘Oh fuck,’ he took a much too hasty step forwards, tripped over his jeans and doubled over. ‘Fuck,’ as if the first fuck hadn’t expressed his distress enough. ‘Five O’clock!’ he spoke into the floor, nose pressed against his face. Writhing on the floor, ‘Five O’fucking clock,’ he struggled to his feet, jeans now only around one ankle. ‘Oh,’ he looked down and kicked them off as if playing a maddened game of hopscotch, ‘Fuck.’ He said for good measure. 

***

It was 12:17 when Rory sat down, or rather flung himself, at his desk. He cracked open his laptop and pressed the on button. A blank screen. He pressed the button again, knee starting to jitter up and down. Nowt. He sighed – the type someone does when you’re in Costa taking too long to order a latte with just a half pump of vanilla syrup, because a full pump is too sweet and soy milk because regular milk gives you the shits – and hammered the button three more times. Bugger all. 

He swung his head down, knocking it on the edge of the desk – ‘Christ,’ – and examined the stack of papers beneath his chair. Examined might be putting it mildly. He plunged his hands in and tossed anything that didn’t feel like what he was looking for behind him. And it was not so much of a stack as it was an impossible accumulation of God knows what. Think Smaug’s hoard but instead of gold, jewels, and riches there’s bills, receipts, and crumpled up drafts; instead of a Dragon there’s a two-week-old slice of Domino’s extra cheesy pizza; and instead of a Hobbit, there was a sweating, aching and cursing Rory. 

He thrust himself back in his seat – 12:25 – and in his hands, The Arkenstone (an empty notebook). He spread it out on the desk and began writing with a pen that didn’t work. Into the hoard it goes. Then he grabbed a pen that did work and started scribbling down the most vivid and peculiar of dreams. There was a frightening hooligan, a dashing and heroic Sorcerer, flashes of light, unexpected journeys, endless quests, romance, and celebrations for the hero, and twists and turns, and a cliff hanger that left Rory himself on the edge of his spinny seat.

It was the roughest, most rambly and looks-like-it-was-written-by-a-four-year-old first draft he’d ever written. But it was the first first draft he’d managed in months.

Everything had flooded out of him – every background character, every clever line he’d tapped into the notes app on his phone, every minor crush he’d ever had, all spooled into this chaotic and unkempt mass of squiggles, dashes, and symbols that could’ve been an alien language. And in record time! 

Where had it come from? He pushed back from the desk. Hadn’t it all been in his head?

That man. That magic man. He could see him so clearly; hear the honey in his voice, remember the glint in his eyes, picture the delicate coils of his auburn hued hair. He stretched back over the chair, cracking each vertebra along his ever hunched over spine. He had brought Rory home, surely he hadn’t imagined that.

Impossible. He drew his brows together and stared at the ceiling. It’s impossible. He reached his arms in front of his face and caught the glint of his watch face.

‘Fu– ‘ 

***

By the time Rory arrived at the publishers he had sweat through his only white shirt and sodden the pits of his suitiest suit – one might commend him for his perspiration abilities. He felt the pits of his shirt, cold and damp against his skin, as he walked – scrambled – to the front desk. 

‘Hello – ah – Rory Dunson,’

‘You have an appointment?’ the receptionist didn’t look up. She was painting her nails a deep shade of maroon.

‘Yes, I’m just a few minutes –‘ he peered at the clock on the wall behind her: 5:22. ‘A lot of minutes late.’

‘Who are you here to see?’ she blew on her sticky nails. Their sharp chemical smell wafted up Rory’s nostrils and his head whirled. 

‘I think a Mr Berkley?’ 

The receptionist clacked some keys. She sighed and leaned back as she scrolled through the screen. 

What if last night was a stupidly vivid drunken dream? There was no mugger. No magic. No man. Not even a Mr Berkley. He was still dreaming. If he looked down and found himself to be naked it wouldn’t be surprising.

‘You’re fine to go up, looks like his last meeting ran over,’ her lip curled up and she spoke with a glint of sarcasm. 

Not a dream. Not naked. But absolutely and unfortunately real. The burning in his stomach from when he woke up returned and swallowing began to feel like drinking sand. He very much wanted to pass out, to run away, to dig a hole in the ground and hide. But he was frozen stiff, unable to move anything but a single nerve in his left eye. It twitched and twitched and then met the quizzical eyes of the receptionist. 

‘Hello?’ she blinked at him.

‘Hello,’ said the fucking moron to the receptionist.

She snorted. 

‘Third floor,’ she glanced at the lift a few paces behind him. He nodded and shuffled away.

He could feel her mocking glare on his back as he waited for the lift. After a millennium, the door slid open with a metallic screech and a clank.

***

The third floor was garish. There was a strong chemical tang in the air and all the surfaces were white, gleaming and spotless. It all felt very institutionalised. Like Rory had opened the doors to an asylum, which was probably where he belonged. 

The only furniture he could see was a desk – much like the one downstairs, but was it taller? Was he beginning to shrink? Were the walls closing in? Had the air always been so thin? 

A short woman stepped out of an office just as he steadied himself against the desk. She was flushed, bright eyed with a messy bun and beads of sweat speckling her forehead. She adjusted her skirt before walking over and wiggling into her seat. Meeting ran over indeed. 

She told him to ‘wait a tick’ as she smoothed her dark hair back and slid a thin pair of glasses up to the bridge of her nose. 

‘Ah, Rory is it?’ she smiled and looked him up and down, ‘Nice suit – Ralph Lauren?’

‘Oxfam.’ 

She raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly. 

‘Rory the racing car,’ came a pretentious voice, ‘Thanks Cynthia,’ Mr Berkley adjusted his belt and winked to his assistant, then beckoned Rory into his office. 

‘We’ll have to keep this short I’m afraid,’ he said as the two of them sat down ‘last meeting ran over.’ 

Rory nodded. Cheeky cunt. 

‘So, what’ve you got for me?’

He handed over the notebook his fingers had been gripping, cheeks burning ‘It’s handwritten – my laptop broke,’

Berkley looked at the notebook, then at Rory, then at the notebook, and began to read. 

‘Just for some context – ‘ but he held up a hand.

His quick fingers rustled through the pages and mindlessly stroked at the stubble on his chin. There was a chuckle every now and then. That’s a good sign. Or not. It might be a good sign. Or maybe it’s not. He drew in a long breath and cleared his throat.

‘Well –’ 

Fuck.

The publisher raised an eyebrow. 

Oh. God he’d said that out loud.

‘For a start it’s practically illegible,’

‘Ah.’

‘I mean did you write this last night?’

‘Well,’ 

A lamp in the corner of the room flickered on and off, there was a red tint to it, and then it stopped. Berkely’s shoulders relaxed, his thick brows softened, and he looked at Rory as if he were an old friend. 

‘However, there is promise here. I’m willing to give you a chance,’ he slid a business card across the desk.

The pale room they were in became tinged with a tangerine glow. Outside the sun was resting on the horizon, only visible from where Rory was sitting. It glimmered in his eyes from between two high rise buildings and a lemon streak crept towards his notebook.

He edged a hand across the desk and let the tips of his fingers brush the pages that were bathed in the citrine light. It was warm and tingly, and he sat with large confused but thankful eyes, nodding and nodding as Berkley explained the legalities, editors and all the other boring bits.

‘But get me a real draft – a typed draft.’ he stood, and Rory with him. 

He thanked him and thanked him and thanked him some more before striding out of the office. Chest puffed out, head held high, one converse in front of the other with all the swagger of a Timelord. Past flirty Cynthia and back into the lift where he did a little celebratory jig. There’d better not be any CCTV in here.

He hopped out onto the ground floor, strode past the Magic Man at the desk and out the door. The air was sweet, the sky clear and the world more vivid somehow. He nodded to a driver who’d stopped to let him cross a road but then he skidded to a halt. There’s something he’d forgotten. He hung his head, staring at the concrete and then his eyes widened. Still in the middle of the road he raised his head, whipped around and headed back to the publishers – car horns blaring after him.

The corners of his mouth curved upwards. He burst through the doors and cantered back to the desk as all around him echoed of his squeaking footsteps. Then his grin fell flat. The piss-taking receptionist was leant back in her seat, legs crossed on top of the desk and admiring her pretty nails. She glared at him as if he were something she’d just scraped off her shoe. Rory shook his head, mumbled his apologies and turned.

He pressed his notebook to his chest and trudged back the way he’d came, staring at his sad converse. He didn’t deserve to wear these shoes. The door opened before he got to it, a chill wind jutting up his neck and making him huddle further into himself. A tall gentleman was holding it open – he had soft hands, and they grasped at a decorated walking stick with a sort of orb welded to the top. 

Rory craned his aching neck and fluttered his tired eyes, trying to bring the man into view. He bowed his head and beamed handsomely, dark locks whipped about gently in the breeze and when the two locked eyes he chuckled. 

‘Magic Man.’

END

By Mansi Kumbhare

Mansi Kumbhare is a high school student and a passionate poet, whose work delves into themes of identity, nature, and emotion. Though not yet published, Mansi has written a significant collection of poems, earning praise and respect in school and community competitions. Actively involved in the school’s literary club, Mansi continues to refine her craft, sharing her unique voice. With a deep love for the written word, Mansi dreams of one day becoming a published poet, touching hearts and minds with their evocative verses.

"Crafted in profound grief, the poems intricately capture the labyrinth of emotions experienced during vulnerable times. Each verse delicately portrays the complexities of sorrow, love, and resilience, offering a poignant glimpse into the heart's journey through loss and healing."

1. Does My Ceiling Stare Back?

i muster up the strength and lay,

i lay where a home was made,

does my ceiling stare back?

im terrified but i close my eyes and oh there i am again,

we're on the beach tossing our heads back with laughter, whilst an upcoming hurricane,

does my ceiling stare back?

oh i cant reminisce it anymore and i lay awake, now eyes wide open,

i find comfort in the blankness of my ceiling broken,

does my ceiling stare back?

its been ages since i found comfort in my own eyes enclosed,

now i lay in silence with my ceiling contact and your forbidden ghost.

i hope my ceiling stares back,

otherwise who am i to resonate with?

because the ceilings just as broken and nihilistic as i am from within.

2. Poison me.

poison me,

poison me for you have shattered my soul,

poison me for i find it pathetic to live anymore.

oh how foolish i had been to trust a man like you,

a hoax, waiting patiently to demolish me in a queue.

you had no need to captivate me,

for in those warm, sultry eyes i found mine in glee.

you had no need to bluff me,

for in those stone-cold hands of yours i once found mine steady.

oh, now you may go to find yourself a clone,

oh, poison me, for i wish my fate to be my own.

3. Remnants Of You

called your phone and let it ring, never knowing i was feigning hope,

how could that not cross my mind?

remnants of you haunt me in the middle of the night.

lay in the sun and basking in it, never knowing it was draining you alive,

how could your life not flash in front of my eyes?

remnants of you haunt me in the middle of the night.

walked through the door and gone again, never knowing it was forever this time,

how could i not keep what was undoubtedly mine?

remnants of you haunt me in the middle of the night.

three months flew by like a kite in the spring air, only now not as auspicious as last while,

how could i not savour the highlights in our cojoined lives?

remnants of you still haunt me in the middle of the night.

By Lulu Kalin Poernomo

Lulu Kalin Poernomo is a 14 year old living in Indonesia. She loves writing poetry, reading novels, and binge watching netflix. She's either doing these things, or struggling with math.

We both were in the same room

Just you, me, and the love in the air

It's merely impossible to ignore

That fluorescent aura of yours 

Made me want to hug you tight

And never let my arms free

But the thrill of doing such thing

Makes me feel sick to my stomach 

The mystery of it all

Would you do the same

Or would you feel disgust

For I know you're much better than me 

I pulled the trigger, hugged you tight

Never letting you go

But you did let me go

The second I put my heart out for you 

The second you let me go

I fell to this cliff

That made my head bleed

Making me think about you and only you 

All that's past was lost

But is it?

I am writing about us, in the same room

Just you, me, and the love in the air.

By Niru

Niru enjoys figuring out life through her writing. She’s a corporate girl by day and writer for the rest of the time.

Walking through the water

Clear, the kind you can see the bed in

Wading into the deeper end

Murkying up the water as you move

But it settles down with the ticking of hour hand

The sand and earth erasing your footsteps from memory

How are we going to live on

If not in memories of those who live

But they too slowly fade away

Erased from this universe’s being 

Like the footsteps in water.

By Jacinta Land

Jacinta Land is an aspiring author in Australia who loves writing poetry centered around the human experience. Her forever muse is her beautiful girlfriend, 'L'. 

Noticing what doesn’t matter is consequentially insignificant

Your 20/20 vision doesn’t matter when the view is of the ground,

Your ground, your feet,

Unable to step closer,

You have so much to say but keep it suffocated

I deny your thoughts and feelings when they smother mine, 

Is that a crime? 

Heightened anxiety suffocates my air when you speak, 

Totalitarianism kitsch in your breath and your lips 

Your character is a detriment to mine 

No wonder I’ll leave 

By Rachel Uon

Rachel Uon is a senior from Somerset Berkley Regional High School. She is the editor of her school's literary arts magazine and hopes to pursue a career in neuroscience. Her favorite place to buy bread is Stop & Shop.

lucy with the pink dress went first,

hissing and screaming, clawing out her dad’s eyes

and biting her mother’s hands the whole ride there.

they dropped her off in her signature dress

and she was not seen again,

except for flashes of color in the upmost window.

then went green-eyed joelle,

with pansies in her pockets and buttons made of stories.

she went for a swim behind the grove

and was dragged out by a stranger who called it drowning.

he tugged joelle to corner hill

and her parents made not a sound when she was submerged.

they took seventeen girls and two boys to corner hill,

at least one each year,

and it was rumored that lucy never got older,

joelle never got taller,

and the rest could not speak without coughing up blood.

when they came to take me, fists to my door,

i fled and did not leave so much as a poem behind.

they would use anything against me and i would not let them,

else i drown in the water, kill myself behind the grove.

By Clara P

Clara is an aspiring writer with a passion for fashion. She believes that sustainable fashion is our future and the best alternative for the planet.

About a year ago my favorite shirt ripped. Having only been $3  from an online website I threw it into the garbage.

At that moment, I was unaware of the cycle of fast fashion of which I had just become a part.

During the 1960s in Europe, fast fashion became a popular concept among the average middle class person. The clothing  imported from factories in southeast  Asia to the bustling cities of western Europe marked the first time ethical consumers said, “clothes were made for quantity and profit rather than quality.”

           Around the late 1980s, the first fast fashion brands such as Zara and H&M expanded to the United States, opening locations all over the country in large cities and malls, but it wasn't until online shopping when fast fashion hit its peak. 

Customers worldwide can today order clothing with one click on a screen and have unlimited shopping opportunities. While it may seem appealing at first, the cheap prices pale in comparison to the heavy price online shopping has on our environment and society.

 Companies such as Shein and Temu target younger demographics through social media. Statista.com features graphs that show Shein specifically paid over $34 million just for digital ads on social media in 2021. With 74.7 million shoppers worldwide Shein is currently dominating the fast fashion industry because of their online marketing strategy. Not only does Shein use online ads to advertise, they use influencers popular among  Gen Z to gain shoppers. The influencers get invited to exclusive events as well, allowing for them to collaborate with Shein and make their own exclusive lines. The influencers gain 10-20% of the profits from their videos making it an easy way to earn money.  

The pandemic in 2020, caused the largest spike in fast fashion when clothes were difficult to buy in person. A downside of shopping online was buying the wrong size and having to return it. However, most returns went  into landfills because it’s cheaper for fast fashion companies to get rid of clothing rather than to ship it and sell it again. Logistics company Optory claims that roughly 16 million tons of carbon dioxide emissions were created by clothing returns in 2020 alone. 

 Because of the poor quality of the clothes consumers throw away pieces of clothing after only seven to 10 wears, according to Earth.org. In America alone, 11.3 million tons of clothing end up in landfills yearly, and as fast fashion grows, so does that number.

 Not only does fast fashion affect the environment, it creates unfair labor practices. The U.S Congress recently put Temu under scrutiny for heavy evidence of underpaying their employees. Both companies, Temu and Shein, get by selling to Americans through the de minimis loophole in U.S. import rules allowing them to send the packages directly to consumers and not through customs. The companies can then skip paying  import taxes. 

Thrift stores are a cheap, sustainable option to fast fashion, however due to the time they were closed during the pandemic, a majority of thrift stores have raised their prices. Thrifting has also become a more popular market because of online reselling websites causing resellers to compete for the best pieces. 

 Sustainable.com teaches a way to combat fast fashion and expensive thrift store prices is to create a capsule wardrobe filled with basic pieces that can easily be paired together.

  A new concept called minimalistic fashion seems to encompass the capsule wardrobe values as well as being environmentally and socially conscious. Another way to avoid throwing away clothes is to only buy two to three pieces of clothing a year that are sustainably made and that will last a long time. 

Still, minimalistic fashion isn't for everyone, an alternative is an interesting idea proposed by college students across the country called, “Thrift Club.” Every once in a while, it’s members meet up and have clothing swaps allowing them to gain new clothing while also getting rid of old clothing without being wasteful or unethical. 

This solution allows for cheap clothing to be distributed allowing for bulk clothing to be gained sustainably rather than through fast fashion. University of Florida Thrift club member Debra Garcia notes, “Through the thrift club you get rid of old stuff you won't wear and get cute new stuff for free and nothing ends up in a landfill.”

 Overall the thrift club poses a sustainable, cheap option rather than fast fashion and all its negative effects.

By Jedidiah Vinzon

Jedidiah Vinzon (he/him) is studying physics at the University of Auckland. His research focuses on detecting gravitational microlensing in astronomical images using deep machine learning. His poetry can be read in evanescent, orangepeel and Fleeting Daze, among many other literary journals, with many more forthcoming. @jayv.poetry

i want to lay me down

and let the ocean sweep

the sands off my shore.

they will not clean me, love.

i want to lay me down

and let the earth bury

the skin of my body.

they will not find me, love.

i want to lay me down

and let the rain hide

the shape of your lips.

i will not erase you, love.

i want to lay me down

and let the sun bake

the taste of your kiss.

i will not forget you, love.

i want to lay me down

and let the axes pierce

the length of our trunks.

they will not hurt us, love.

i want to lay us down

and let their fingers pluck

the stalks of our flowers.

they will not kill us, love.

i want to lay you down

and let the moon flood

the bowl of your eyes.

i will not empty you, love.

By Eishal F.

eishal is a writer, an enigma of sorts with the way her brain works if you might. she dreams of the unknown and aspires to convulse into that. she plans on creating a legacy by taking short steps. 

WHAT WAS I MADE FOR?

my mind is a maze of question marks and full stops, none aligned,

none consigned. you and i, my dear reader, both know what i lack.

The execution, the enactment, the right mindset to achieve

something.

i live in spaces between the dreams of others. waiting for my turn.

my ears buzz when i listen to ‘gilded lily’. i wonder why i listen to it

on repeat. what benefit does it hold for me? why do I feel alone all

the time? why i don’t feel enough? why don’t i feel good? i do good

in life and yet the gaping hole in me makes a babel to remind me of

my powerlessness.

i’m the host and the victim of invasion.

i’m the embodiment of ‘afterglow’. i’m bad at love, at trust, at

commitment, at everything. my heart feels what Ivan the terrible

must have felt when he killed his son.

you love, you consume. you kill what you love. i once loved myself.

i feel like Lady Mary Jane, getting executed; it’s as if i thought the

world would end at 17 and it did.

my mind already gave me the death penalty, what’s more left to life

i am the forever weeping statue of Madonna,

a peita where i’m the corpse and i’m the mourner

i was once the Joan of Arc of my own body and soul

what a shame, my mind burned all my ambitions at stake

i’m Ivan the terrible, my eyes droop with the essence of regret

body of my dead inner child in my sinful arms

i am the last words of a writer

the vowels, the consonants, weaved by my bony fingers

the last chance at sanity, the call of the void

i break both my legs in two

i heard it’s not safe out there

i lay gently under the forest soil

i wait for the hungry wolves, scared of hungry men

my casket was open

my soul was tortured

to see those faces that put me to my death

the irony is not lost on me or you, dear reader

ants move along my palm lines

spiders trace my veins

my blood is venous yet...and yet

i can’t leave the world behind

was i a girl or a monster?

was i a human being or something abominable?

something raised by the voices in their head

something that stings you tenderly

something pale, bony, questionable

something you’d never pick up

my heart is divided inside my body

the four chambers, intricately buried in me

i try i try i try i try

i can’t find it, i can’t kill it

my untouched hands feel the heartache

the forehead my lover kisses feels cold

my heels are scarred like my heart

but

my guts are as heartless as I thought

i pray i have killed some part of it

By Akanksha Ayantika Mohanty 

Akanksha is a high-schooler from India who enjoys writing short stories and flash fiction whenever her schedule is free. She equally enjoys reading mysteries and listening to chamber core music. 

The Guest

It was the night of a merciless pour. I had left my room at The Mirage in the afternoon, hoping to reach town by nine but it was already a quarter to nine and the town was thirty miles away. I was forced by the rain to stop and was waiting for the last twenty minutes. I leaned forward on the dashboard and looked up towards the sky which was invisible. I thought, "I can't reach town tonight."

I extended my hand to the backseat and got hold of the umbrella. I kicked open the door and the night broke down upon me. With the umbrella over my head, I battled against the wind to reach the door of Langfell Hall. I pressed on the bell and thumped on the door. Seconds later, a graceful young woman opened the door. Behind her was an equally dashing man standing.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you at this hour", said I, "I was going into town but it is impossible to drive in this storm. Do you think you can accommodate me for a night?”

Both of them looked startled. I hoped they heard me right because it was difficult to know your own voice under the whistling winds and hammering rain. The young man recovered first to speak but I interrupted him.

"You must be Augustus", I said to him. "And you, Janet", I said to the woman. "Allow me to elaborate. I know your grandfather, Sir Harry Sacherville. We were together at Winchester and then briefly met at Oxford. He was a senior, of course. He would have mentioned me in some way. See if you can recall a Mr. Morris Buckley.”

The young man who had stopped dead a few moments before came forward. "Mr.Buckley, I think we can make arrangements for you."

 Augustus come with me to my car and we carried my bags inside the house. I was given a glass of brandy by Janet immediately as I entered the main hall. She further asked me to wait on the sofa as Augustus looked for a place to put my luggage. She was a brunette. She was wearing navy blue trousers and a pale blouse. Dark hair and green eyes were a ridiculous combination but, somehow, it looked good on her.

"It is very kind of you to help me, my dear. I'm so very grateful", I said.

"We feel grateful to be able to help you, Mr. Buckley. It's a stroke of luck that we're here this year", she replied earnestly.

"Not luck completely", I reported. "Your grandfather wrote to me that you'll be in the house when I told him I would be coming to the countryside. I had made up my mind that if he was not corning, I wouldn't bother the two of you. But when the rain started, it is the only thing i could think of."

"I'm glad you thought of us", she said.

Augustus entered the room at this moment and declared, "Your bags are in your room, let me take you there."

I raised from my seat, humbled by their hospitality. He handed me an electric lamp and I took it

"Dinner is in ten minutes. If you lose your way, we'll come and fetch you", joked Janet.

I followed Augustus to the room I would be spending the night in. He was also a brunette. He was slightly taller than Janet and had a moustache not very unlike his forefathers whose portraits hung from the walls which we passed. The walls were high in a very Georgion fashion and decorated with lamps which were not lit. The ceiling was invisible in the darkness. As we quietly walked, he in front and I behind, we could hear the sound of rain that sounded not like what one would hear inside a mud cottage, it wasn't gently tapping, it was violently rapping against the strong walls.

We reached it and he held the door open for me. "Keep the lamp", he said, "We can't introduce electricity here, so that's how we manage. Our rooms are the first two from the first left if you need anything."

I thanked him and he left, shutting the door. I was cold. I lunged for my bags and changed into fresh clothes. The room was large and unused. Many parts of the house must be unused. I took my lamp and strolled to the window to part its curtains. It was raining just as I had last seen. The outside was a pit of unending darkness. There was no moon. I noticed the window sill was made of black ceramic and in the pattern of vines. It reminded me of a dead tree. It was time for me to go to dinner.

I found Janet in the main hall who led me into the dinning hall. A fire lamp was lit at the centre of the table. I saw a plate placed next to where Augustus was sitting. "Is that my place?", I asked.

"Yes", confirmed Janet who was sitting opposite it. "It's not like we are expecting of this hour

She smirked.

"There are things one hears about this place,” I said and smirked, too. They looked at one another.

As everyone had started eating, I asked politely, "Which one of you is older?"

"We are twins, Mr. Buckley”, said Augustus.

"Ah! Fraternal, I see. How often do you come here?"

"Well, the whole family usually is here during the holidays."

"Do you have any specific tradition?”

"What do you mean?", asked Janet.

"Oh, you know. I have heard so many things, read so much about Langfell Hall. It's intriguing to be here really."

"I'm sure everything you have-

"What have you heard?", asked Augustus, brutally.

"They say everyone who dies here comes back", said I.

They stared at me wide eyed. Janet's eyes glistened in the light if the lamp as they focused on me. Augustus looked dead, his eyeballs black and his face gaunt. We sat in silence and the only noise to be heard was the storm screaming above us.

"There is a history of this hall unlike the others", I continued. "The untimely meetings, unexplained absences, unknown visitors, everything under locks for years. Many believe it was the seat of the dark arts. So much mystery around this place."

"I'm sure, Mr. Buckley, all that is mere speculation. Meaningless myths", said Janet affirmatively. Her brother continued to look dead and gount.

"I wouldn't like them to be that."

Augustus moved. I cracked a smile and proceeded to finish my meal. Later that night, I turned off the electric lamp in my room before going to sleep. As I lay on the old bed, I found myself staring into darkness. Complete darkness. I could even be lying outside on the grass and staring at the sky. The rain was pouring restlessly and dangerously. The sound of it grew louder with each passing second. It grew more and more real. I could feel the rain. Soon, the rain whispered into my ear.

The Host

I bade Janet goodnight and entered my room. While I changed into my night garments after placing the lamp on the end table, I found myself thinking about the man. I had never heard the name Morris Buckley before. I could not tell him to leave on his face and all that he said about my grandfather was true. He told Janet that grandfather had written to him about our stay and that explained how he knew the house was occupied. Langfell Hall looked like an abandoned museum from the outside. Then there were the things that he said. None of it was true, of course. The stories about the hall were created two hundred years ago when speculate was all people did for living. Dad had said that it was searched many times but never anything related to Dark Arts was found. The servants who went missing were all found later. And there was no history of people dying suddenly in the house. There was only one incident of Sir Anthony Sacherville who had a mystery around his death. No one knew what he died of. He was found dead in the hall with wet clothes on stormy night as this one. 

I told myself to not worry about him because he would be going the next day. I hoped that the rain would have stopped by then. The last touch of any human sense I felt before falling asleep was that of the rain. I woke up the next morning to relief that the rain had ceased. Our guest, I saw, was already awake and sitting in the hall.

"Good morning", he said, not enthusiastically but cleverly. That's the thing about him. Everything about him feels clever. It isn't always impressive.

"Good morning", I repeated, "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes", he said and nodded. His small eyes were down, looking into his cup of tea. It confirmed that Janet was awake. I continued to look at him. His hair used to be blonde which had turned grey, he was dressed in a stripped shirt and suspenders. He wore thin gold-rimmed spectacles. He must have noticed my in depth inspection of him because he quite unexpected and awkwardly spoke.

"I was just looking at the chandelier before you came out."

"It hasn't been lit for more than a century,” I replied in an equally awkward way but it didn't resonate in my voice.

"I know", said he. I didn't feel comfortable.

"Where is Janet?"

"She went into the kitchen", he answered, without looking up.

"It's not really the kitchen. We don't use the actual kitchen. It's the scullery that we have renovated enough to be used."

I slowly went to sit on the sofa and saw Jonet coming with two cups of tea. Mr. Buckley looked up at me from across and asked, "Didn't you have a goodnight's sleep, Augustus? Your eyes look tired."

I took the cup Janet handed me and said, "I woke up a few times thinking I was hearing metal. It was just the rain.”

"I didn't hear anything like that", said Janet.

"You're a sound sleeper, my dear", I remarked.

She laughed and took a sip from har cup. I had taken my fourth sip when I put out the question. "When will you depart, Mr. Buckley?"

"At eleven. I think the sky will clear out by then."

As he said it, I turned to the window behind me and saw dark clouds outside. I could have sworn that they were not there when I had looked out of my bedroom window. It was a strange weather.

"I hope they do", said I.

We waited for the sky to clear as we drank our morning tea and started our day. Janet cooked breakfast for the three of us which was slightly more expensive than what we usually had. He ate with us in the dining hall. Afterwards, I went into my study to pick up the accounts where I had left them and Janet stayed in the hall reading a magazine. We hoped and we waited but instead of seeing a clear sky when I looked outside the window, I saw the storm was upon us again. It was not eleven in the morning yet and the sky was dark. The winds were whistling again and there was thundering. Hopeless, I drew the curtains and went back to the filling of my accounts. The next time I looked up was when a dazzling bolt of lightning struck and the entire house seemed to be moved by it. For a split second, I thought something outside had lighted up. I sprinted to the window, threw open the curtains and unbolted the latch. I saw no blazes of fire or gusts of smoke. I closed the window and the world seemed to be muted for a second. Nothing was visible through the glass. It never rained this much during this time of the year. It was the worst storm I had seen in my twenty odd years of life. My hand was placed on the black window sill, I realised that I was tracing its pattern with my finger. It was an odd pattern.

I came out of my room. I could not find Janet in the hall. I went into the scullery where she was preparing lunch.

"Cooking for him, too?", I asked. 

“He can't leave now. And I can't ask him to starve."

She poured a can of split peas into the pot heating on the stove. On another burner was a pan with its lid on. I noticed that she was wearing a frock. A neat, yellow, collared frock. Janet was huge on female liberation and never wore a frock if she could avoid it. The exception being when there were guests and we had to be formal with them. We were treating him like a guest. An uninvited guest.

"You really didn't hear anything last night?", I asked her.

"No. What was it?"

"I'm not sure. I thought I'd go and check but then it stopped and I didn't."

"Well, let's hope it does not happen again."

I agreed silently. We didn't talk anymore about it. Instead she said, "He seems quite prejudiced. Knows an awful lot of background on Langfell Hall."

"I don't like him", I declared.

The Hostess

I didn't like the man. There was something wicked about him. The way he smirked from time to time was unnatural. I wanted him to leave us. But the weather had plans of its own. It poured down continuously. Unlike my brother, I had never been afraid of lightning. Though, what had happened earlier that day was frightening. It was dangerous. There was something dangerous about the rain, the way it never stopped. It was like walking down an ill fated path, once you are on it, you cannot stop bad things from coming your way. The rain had always been a symbol of purity and novelty to me. But, for the first time, I considered thinking that it was confining and doomed.

The sky had been dark since the afternoon. Augustus and I were in the great hall. I had suggested playing Scrabble, thinking it would be a distraction and lighten our moods. I was seriously misguided. The game was terribly boring. We stopped mid game and then sat in silence. The silence was not devoid of the raging of the storm. Augustus had suggested that spending late summer in the countryside would be nice for a change. Mainly because he had paid leaves. He forgot that typists don't get leaves. 

Mr. Buckley went to his room just as we had started Scrabble. He asked for the telephone earlier today and informed me minutes later that the line was not working. Even though we had no electricity there, we had managed to install a telephone line. While Augustus was locked up in his mom, I was sitting with Mr. Buckley for the entirety of the morning. He was quiet through the whole stretch of it except for the time I asked him what the model of his car was. 

He politely looked up, adjusted his spectacles and said, "Morris Six"

His reply was so laborious that I could not make myself ask him a second question. Ideally, I would have made the connection between his name and his car and asked him if I could take it for a drive when the weather cleared. But I did not. He was a strange man. As I made dinner that evening, I found myself pondering over the conversation at the previous night's dinner. He knew a good deal about Langfell Hall. I didn't know why this house was built in a gothic fashion but perhaps, that is what compelled people to relate it to Dark Arts. No one in our family knew Dark Arts. That I was sure of.  

I had just finished brazing the chicken when the window suddenly flung open. The outside

was in uproar. I dashed to bolt it. 

"The windows could do with newer locks", said Mr. Buckdey from behind me. I gasped when I heard his heavy voice in the kitchen. "I didn't see you standing there", said I. 

"I know. I just came to personally thank you for your services. You have excellent hand at

cooking, my dear."

He went away. I knew I was not good at cooking. I had never paid attention to learning to cook. I cultivated it as a survival skill. It was very strange of him to come and thank me in that way. That dark rainy night during dinner, he did not speak. Neither did the two of us. We went to our separate rooms afterwards. The window in my room was right in front of my bed. The rain splashing across its gloss was the lost sight I saw before falling asleep.

I was awakened in the middle of the night. A noise was distinguishably audible over the sound of the rain. It was that of metal clanking. Or that of glass rubbed against each other. It came from outside the room but not the outside. The noise was coming from inside the house. I had not yet switched on the lamp. The noise continued for a few seconds after I was awake and stopped. There was no sound at all. I sat in the stillness. I could see nothing, feel nothing, hear nothing. From the darkness came a deafening high-pitched howl that rattled my bones. It was like the screams of a thousand human souls combined and I thought the floor beneath me had shattered. Glass was shattering and it went on. The sound would have awakened even the dead. I felt everything all at once. I was cold. Then a lightning bolt struck the top of Langfell Hall. I turned on the electric lamp and dashed downstairs. Augustus was running in a frenzy in front of me. We chased through the stairs like two preys fighting to escape and reached the great hall. The sight in front of me was ghastly. The floor of the great hall was covered with a million broken shards of glass. The chandelier was destroyed. I looked up to where the chandelier used to be and I saw the body of Mr. Morris Buckley hanging from a metal chain. The chain was attached to the invisible ceiling. It looked as if the body was hanging from the sky.

My eyes slowly fell onto the array of human skulls at the centre of the hall. There were fresh drops of blood on them. I looked at Augustus in the light of our lamps and his face was white. I found myself recalling one sentence.

Everyone who dies here comes back.

The clothes on his body were wet. His body hanged at the centre of Langfell Hall, thirty feet high, as it rained outside mercilessly. We did not even notice when our lamps had turned off. 

By stella

stella is an extremely sensitive girl who loves to read and write because that is her form of escapism from real life (she loves to live inside her head) 

"this poem is an extremely personal poem which I wrote one night on a tissue paper with my eyeliner while mascara rolled down my cheeks :)"

"i would go to war for you"

"but you brought war between us"

"all is fair in love and war", they said 

yet no one mentioned the line between love and war is blurred with powdered white lies.

your favourite shade of white, the one which you used to chase the temporary high and i watched,

i watched while sipping my white wine too helpless to stop you

yet I was the one labelled a functioning alcoholic,

while you bedded girls younger than me with sunlight in their eyes

because stars were nothing but dust to you.

i put on masks when i leave my room

my kajal became darker, my lipstick burgundy

to bury the little girl inside me who wouldn't wear anything but her lipbalm lest she stains your white shirt.

and i see your pictures where your collarbone always has a stain of red lips, each day a different shade but never burgundy.

does burgundy remind you of my instagram feed or my blood that you claimed was "more black than red"?

and i still remember the last day I saw you

you left me bleeding on my parents' marriage bed

a broken bed, a broken marriage, a bleeding girl,

destroying my mind wasn't enough, you had to go for my cellotaped heart too

the scars from that leather belt that you left on my body, claiming they were your favourite impressionist paintings of heaven matched the scars on my wrist that you watched me create,

a 'powerless' voyeur.

but who am I to blame you, you were always good at darts

and your bullseye was my mosaic of a heart.

By Abby Hodge

abby is a teenager from north carolina. she enjoys writing and listening to music. her favoriting subject is english.

you got married in october,

over twenty years ago

three kids later and married no more

your anniversary is still my password

the wedding photos are packed away

i haven’t seen the rings in a while

but i see you both everyday

By Maddie Young

Maddie is a 17 year old from LA. She has been writing for years in all genres, and is currently working on a stage play script titled Compostable. She loves the beach and hopes to live along the California coast later in life.

you smell like summer evenings

where the sky

is crisp

gold ringlets caress your face

your hair or the sun 

I don’t know

it doesn’t matter

they are the same

wind chimes clank together

I bury my face in your chest

so I can

listen to your

heartbeat instead

there is a certain warmth here

in remembering

it squeezes my heart

and I cannot

remember 

where my love ended

and my longing began

it is 2 am

you sleep delicately in my bed

like you want me to forget

you are there

By M.S. Blues

Mia Soto (AKA M.S. Blues) is an 18 year old writer, editor, and advocate from San Jose, California. She’s one of the most decorated figures in the literary magazine community, having been published over 150 times and serving on multiple staff boards; The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, Chromatic Stars Review, Low Hanging Fruit, Sister Time, DICED Online Magazine, The Mixtape Review, The Mirrorball Magazine, My Dearest Aphrodite, Tyche Lit, The Cawnpore Magazine, The Beaulieu Gazette, Sorry! Zine, and Voices of Asylum. She’s also the Founder & Editor-in-Chief of The Infinite Blues Review. Her Instagram is @m.s.blues_

she was raised to be a warrior – madre taught her mija well,

she didn’t let hide behind the

veil of fear. she made her mija remain a virgin to the emotion, and it worked. mija was never fearful of la vida – she welcomed the challenges with outstretched arms, until she could not anymore.

mija stares at the ceiling –

the creme colored ceiling, splashed with optic white circles that fail at their jobs of being concealers

to the holes, the stains, the wear and tear

old ceilings normally sustain.

she traces eyes, lips, noses...

she draws a face over the complex skin of the wall with her nger,

the air being the nest ink.

millions of pounding, relentless thoughts roam through her head like ants.

grieving my dearest love is harder than i expected – being ambitious is only for the toughest,

and–

did you forget, dearest darling?

makua kāne is back home. I’LLBESODAMNEDANDFUCKEDAND slow it down.

she wishes they sold internal bug spray,

 so she could kill those hellbound things.

as time goes on, she rolls over, her eyes hovering over the couch arm rest.

the elds of brown fabric never looked so intricate –

is it the weed?

the insanity?

the need to just breath?

she tended to focus on the little, forgettable things

when she was losing it.

–

at night,

her eyes focused

on the distinguishable and the illusion —in the darkness—

the spots that oated around,

like the bubbles kids made

on a blithe summer day.

she blinked a few times, the spots only swelling with each movement.

she sighed.

you bastard.

the thought rolled over,

 spilling like a glass of wine, an easy clean up

but not an easy aftermath – wine stains.

–

she was ready to die by the following morning, the spots and hellbound things

becoming more intolerant,

more angry, more–

it is not the weed

i am not INSANE

i am breathing normally,

much against my damned

will. DOISTAYORDOIGO?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

she yanked o the blankets from her perspiring legs.

the valiant air blowing from the honeywell fan rushed to her like troops in the army,

ghting the stubborn heat

that radiated from her poor soul.

she sighed.

dilemmas of the damned delusions of the daunting, tomato, tomato

what the fuck.

she knows she should stay alive

because if decided to pursue her own death,

 she’d solidify the truths she harbored – there’d be no more running.

i am a disgrace

to every soul, thing, and–

but is there still room to run now? i think the fuck not.

the girl replays the options, many times –

establishing validity, establishing absurdity, until she retrieves the damned notice

when she shuts her eyes that night. –

dilemmas are temporary, after all, for the damned or not.

the girl,

in her melancholic glory spoke, calmly, to the angry walls that tried to save her.

she reassured them – everything will be okay, telling them, she was just experienced a dilemma that’s intended for the damned.

By Simah Motlak

I have been writing my thought streams for ages and love to share it to the world

Growing up between two cultures is like gathering the pieces of a mosaic, each fragment with its own colour and history, each telling a part of the story. On one side are the ancient, vibrant tiles of my Iraqi heritage—rich with the echoes of Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilization. On the other, the ever-changing patterns of the West—dynamic, progressive, with an emphasis on individuality and reinvention. Together, these pieces lie before me, waiting to be arranged into something that reflects the duality of my existence.

For years, I tried to arrange these fragments into a pattern that would fit neatly into the design of Western ideals, sometimes placing the vibrant pieces of my heritage in the background, their colours muted to blend in. In doing so, I silenced the ancient voice that whispered stories of Sumer and Babylon, of Al-Mutanabbi’s verses and the epic of Gilgamesh. The world around me urged me to craft something recognisable, something that conformed, and in my effort to blend in, I nearly lost the complex beauty that defined my roots.

But as time moved on, I could no longer ignore the dissonance in the mosaic I was creating. The words of Badr Shakir al-Sayyab resonated within me: “As if time itself were water in my hands.” I realised that by neglecting my roots, I was letting something vital slip through my fingers—something that anchored me and gave depth to the image I was trying to create. My heritage, I discovered, was not a burden but a source of profound strength—a collection of tiles that, when placed with care, could form something enduring and beautiful.

Reclaiming my roots was like rediscovering forgotten pieces of the mosaic, carefully rearranging them to create a more harmonious design. As I delved deeper into the history of Iraq, I uncovered the vast legacy of my ancestors—the birthplace of civilization, where the first laws were inscribed, where the stars were mapped, where humanity first learned to leave its mark. In these roots, I found pride, but I also found complexity. The words of Al-Mutanabbi tickled my soul: “The noble soul has no rest.” For in embracing my heritage, I also had to confront the imperfections in the tiles—parts that I could not simply polish away.

Being connected to my roots doesn’t mean romanticising the past. It means arranging it with both love and a discerning eye, selecting the pieces that align with my values and leaving behind those that don’t. Our generation, in particular, doesn’t just accept the opinions and experiences passed down from our parents and previous generations. We honour them, we respect them, but we also examine them closely, fitting them into our own mosaic in a way that reflects our own journeys.

In crafting my identity, I’ve come to understand that it’s not about choosing one design over another, but about blending the best of both worlds into a creation that is uniquely mine. As Badr Shakir al-Sayyab so beautifully expressed, “In every drop of rain, a red flower grows, a wounded palm, and the pulse of life returns.” I’ve learned to stand confidently in the space where these two cultures meet, knowing that the richness of my heritage and the flexibility of my present are not in conflict, but in harmony.

This realisation has brought me a sense of peace, a wholeness I never knew before. No longer do I feel the need to fit into a single pattern. Instead, I embrace the complexity of being both and neither, of belonging everywhere and nowhere. The words of Al-Sayyab ring true: “My homeland, you are like my soul—beautiful and elusive.” This is the beauty that I now carry with me, the elusive yet profound essence of my identity.

Through this journey, I have learned that identity is not a fixed design but an evolving mosaic—a piece of art shaped by every experience, every influence, every choice. It is in the crafting of this mosaic, with care and intention, that I have found my true self. And as I continue to shape this image, I do so with the knowledge that I am not just the product of two cultures, but the artist of a new one—one that honours the wisdom of my ancestors while embracing the possibilities of the future. In doing so, I seek not only to understand the world but to leave my own mark upon it.

By Yumna Juha

Yumna is a rising junior who loves to write. She has published several pieces of poetry and hope to publish a book one day.

The expanse is foggy, almost crystalline mosaic in its depiction of reality.

I have never been very good at clearing the mist from my eyes.

My limbs shake, I have my father’s volcanic voice and my mother’s hurricane eyes.

It isn’t easy to take the first step.

Not when you’ve spent your life in a box, no, an orb.

Like a fish in a fishbowl, on display with a life span about as long as the next person’s attention.

The funny thing about the horizon, is it seems so straight cut, but the closer you get to its edge,

The more you find it curve inwards.

And you learn that the farther you journey through the muddling waves, the closer you get back to the start.

You are the ocean, the dangerous mystic myth.

The horizon is not a thing to be crossed but a mirror.

The seagulls screech and squawk and you realize,

The only way you step beyond the horizon is by learning to forgive the waves you’ve weaponised.

By learning to forgive yourself.

By Tabassum Tayba

Tabassum is a Muslim girl balancing her deen while preparing for boards. When she isn't immersed in her coursework, she can be found scrolling through Instagram for inspiration, writing poetry, or reading and reviewing books as a beta reader. She recently discovered her passion for poetry, following in her brother's footsteps.

"Just my personal experience and hoping to cheer young women with similar experiences to rise above their struggles like a phoenix."

They all talk about getting friend-zoned,

No one speaks of the terrors of being f*ck-zoned;

Or when they proclaim to love you, whilst also implying ‘you aren't

pretty enough’.

“Your figure’s 'nice'; consider showing off more.

Why not send me pictures of you in those tight clothes?"

"Too bad, they'd suit you," he'd coax,

"You smell nice," he'd text.

"Your hair is too wild,

Your dreams too grand,

Your aspirations too vast.

All too much for someone like you," they mock.

They praise your curves, only to forget you have a mind;

They say they want you whole, only to forget your soul behind.

In broad daylight, they see you as something to mend;

While in the nighttime, they see just a body, not a friend

Claiming they desire to hold you close, only pushing you afar.

The unwanted opinions that feel like chains,

Compliments that turn into shame.

All under the guise of friendship, a scheming game.

Oft trapped in a web of sweet words spun by liars,

For you are more than a flame that ignites their fickle desire.

You are more than the chains they attempt to cast

A young phoenix, leaving those shadows behind in the past.

By Divena Upadhyae

Divena Upadhyae is a writer from the Himalayas, who writes in English and in her mother tongue, Kullui. She likes to sing and learn new languages in her free time. Her essay 'The Earth Does Not Belong To Us, We Belong To The Earth' was awarded with the 9th position in all of India out of 60,000 entries by the Ramakrishna Mission. Three of her poems were published in The Tribune. When she isn't watching a Chinese television drama, she is working on her upcoming novel 'Phuladeyi'. She is currently stu(dying) Psychology, Economics and French language as undergraduate subjects.

Like a rogue planet

Seeking a star

To reach this moment

I'd set sail from afar

Years spent roaming

Out of orbit,

Looking in your eyes,

Like flowers, they wilt.

Never ending was the journey

Or so it seemed,

Until I came face to face with

Someone like I'd dreamed.

You have pulled me in,

Now I only revolve around you,

Not astray anymore,

The path is renewed.

What I couldn't say,

Is to be expressed in memoirs.

For an awry being like myself,

You're the brightest of all stars.