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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Art:
Divyana - Dreams
Writing:
Merryn Olivia Berner - Suffering for the Art: Isolation Within the Female Experience
Parvati Mehmi - I Want To Write Masterpieces In Your Name
Adrian Malik Smith - Turk of Samarkand
Loraine Valladolid - [ ]
Dixy - Bus driver
M.S. Blues - words for georgie boy/beautifully daunting
Prarthana Vijayakumar - paid the piper
Karishma Aniket - The Exquisite Wings
Sadie Wort - Cranberry juice
Hala Mousa - glitter
Leo Leetham - ‘dandelions’, ‘hemingbrough’ & ‘cayton bay’
Charli Hemmings - Seesaw
Isabelle Perret - Where Is My Love?
Yani Reyes - Warped specimen
Jedidiah Vinzon - my birthday grief.
Art
Art
Dreams
Dreams
By Divyana Chhabra
She is a voracious reader and music enthusiast who likes to unwind through her art and writing.
My piece is inspired by the poem “Dreams" by Langston Hughes. It depicts a performer reaching towards her dream represented by the dream catcher and how she turns her life from a broken winged bird to one who's wings are sown together through her music, her dance, her art. The birdcages symbolise our doubts which prevent us from pursuing our dreams. By reaching for the dreamcatcher, the ballerina defies these constraints and embraces her aspirations.
Writing
Writing
Suffering for the Art: Isolation Within the Female Experience
Suffering for the Art: Isolation Within the Female Experience
By Merryn Olivia Berner
By Merryn Olivia Berner
Merryn is a current sophomore with an interest in language, literature, and entomology. When she’s not reading or writing, she enjoys watching The Great British Bake-Off and spending time with family.
Merryn is a current sophomore with an interest in language, literature, and entomology. When she’s not reading or writing, she enjoys watching The Great British Bake-Off and spending time with family.
Following a period of intense depression and grief, I have learned to appreciate community more than ever before. While there is certainly comfort in sadness, I believe numbness robs the opportunity for one to feel truly alive. This essay analyzes the tendency, as a creative and a woman, to isolate oneself, and criticizes the modern ideology of "romanticizing" misery.
Following a period of intense depression and grief, I have learned to appreciate community more than ever before. While there is certainly comfort in sadness, I believe numbness robs the opportunity for one to feel truly alive. This essay analyzes the tendency, as a creative and a woman, to isolate oneself, and criticizes the modern ideology of "romanticizing" misery.
Suffering for the Art: Isolation Within the Female Experience
Suffering for the Art: Isolation Within the Female Experience
M. Olivia
M. Olivia
I:
I:
“There is a kind of loneliness that lodges itself in the psyche and never fully leaves, a loneliness most anguishing not in solitude but in companionship and amid the crowd. If solitude fertilizes the imagination, loneliness vacuums it of vitality and sands the baseboards of the spirit with the scratchy restlessness of longing — for connection, for communion, for escape. And yet it is out of this restlessness that so many great works of art are born.”
“There is a kind of loneliness that lodges itself in the psyche and never fully leaves, a loneliness most anguishing not in solitude but in companionship and amid the crowd. If solitude fertilizes the imagination, loneliness vacuums it of vitality and sands the baseboards of the spirit with the scratchy restlessness of longing — for connection, for communion, for escape. And yet it is out of this restlessness that so many great works of art are born.”
- Maria Popova, "Virginia Woolf on the Relationship Between Loneliness and Creativity"
- Maria Popova, "Virginia Woolf on the Relationship Between Loneliness and Creativity"
Published on Popova’s self-run publication, The Marginalian, this excerpt identifies the frequent exploration of loneliness within classic literature– specifically using context from Virginia Woolf’s "A Writer’s Diary." Melancholy famously permeates Woolf’s writing, and several of her works are mentioned in the article for doing so, including "Orlando" and "A Room of One’s Own." This introspective quality is not limited to Woolf, however, but is instead a rather common identifier of profound literature. Consider Sylvia Plath, for example– her unabridged journals and her most famous novel, "The Bell Jar," are both celebrated for their perennial pensiveness. The same can be said about the Brontё sisters, whose works are unified in their motifs of isolation and contemplation. In fact, such themes exist within the majority of famous female art. It is likely the conceptualization of such intangible concepts that draws us to them in the first place.
Published on Popova’s self-run publication, The Marginalian, this excerpt identifies the frequent exploration of loneliness within classic literature– specifically using context from Virginia Woolf’s "A Writer’s Diary." Melancholy famously permeates Woolf’s writing, and several of her works are mentioned in the article for doing so, including "Orlando" and "A Room of One’s Own." This introspective quality is not limited to Woolf, however, but is instead a rather common identifier of profound literature. Consider Sylvia Plath, for example– her unabridged journals and her most famous novel, "The Bell Jar," are both celebrated for their perennial pensiveness. The same can be said about the Brontё sisters, whose works are unified in their motifs of isolation and contemplation. In fact, such themes exist within the majority of famous female art. It is likely the conceptualization of such intangible concepts that draws us to them in the first place.
II:
II:
“Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind.”
“Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind.”
- Elana Dykewomon, "Sinister Wisdom 36: Surviving Psychiatric Assault & Creating Emotional Well-Being in Our Communities"
- Elana Dykewomon, "Sinister Wisdom 36: Surviving Psychiatric Assault & Creating Emotional Well-Being in Our Communities"
Despite the passage of time and an ever-evolving society, classic literature still resonates with contemporary women. Unfortunately, the gendered standard to conceal “unladylike” behaviors is not as extinct as progressive initiatives might suggest. While a woman living in the 21st century is in a considerably better social standing than a woman from the 19th, the ugly fact remains that there is much work left to be done to build a truly representative society.
Despite the passage of time and an ever-evolving society, classic literature still resonates with contemporary women. Unfortunately, the gendered standard to conceal “unladylike” behaviors is not as extinct as progressive initiatives might suggest. While a woman living in the 21st century is in a considerably better social standing than a woman from the 19th, the ugly fact remains that there is much work left to be done to build a truly representative society.
The “deep, crazy part” within, as Dykewomon describes, lingers still in the female psyche. It is especially intense in creative women, for there is a particular element of madness required to tempt one to escape reality. Plath and Woolf can verify: there is a timelessness in female eccentricity.
The “deep, crazy part” within, as Dykewomon describes, lingers still in the female psyche. It is especially intense in creative women, for there is a particular element of madness required to tempt one to escape reality. Plath and Woolf can verify: there is a timelessness in female eccentricity.
Gone are the days of “sick” women sent seaward to be cured of mental illness and stigma surrounding spinsterhood. The implication that gender-based discrimination rarely occurs in the current day, however, is statistically untrue. Consider the misrepresentation of autism in females, explained in a study published in the National Library of Medicine. Due to bias, 80% remain undiagnosed until they’re 18, and have to continually “prove” their diagnosis to doctors after the fact. An acknowledgment of such bias was weaponized in Frida Kahlo’s "Self Portrait with Cropped Hair," was implemented in Louisa May Alcott’s "Little Women," was analyzed in detail by the brilliant female authors before our time. The same understanding is demonstrated by every strange woman who feels there is no place for her and knows she is right: society doesn’t know what to do with women who don’t fit its cookie-cutter standard.
Gone are the days of “sick” women sent seaward to be cured of mental illness and stigma surrounding spinsterhood. The implication that gender-based discrimination rarely occurs in the current day, however, is statistically untrue. Consider the misrepresentation of autism in females, explained in a study published in the National Library of Medicine. Due to bias, 80% remain undiagnosed until they’re 18, and have to continually “prove” their diagnosis to doctors after the fact. An acknowledgment of such bias was weaponized in Frida Kahlo’s "Self Portrait with Cropped Hair," was implemented in Louisa May Alcott’s "Little Women," was analyzed in detail by the brilliant female authors before our time. The same understanding is demonstrated by every strange woman who feels there is no place for her and knows she is right: society doesn’t know what to do with women who don’t fit its cookie-cutter standard.
III:
III:
“There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.”
“There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
If solitude truly “fertilizes the imagination” like Popova previously suggests, then it stands to reason that the introduction of art into one’s life is likely inspired by an initial loneliness. Whether it be from neurodivergence, familial divide, disconnection from one’s peers, or any number of factors, this would explain the common belief that art’s function is to “comfort the disturbed.” Following this line of reasoning, it becomes clear how seeking satisfaction solely in one’s craft could quickly become obsessive. Hyperfixation, if not in moderation, morphs into isolation. This is especially true for those with ”singular” passions, such as sketching or writing.
If solitude truly “fertilizes the imagination” like Popova previously suggests, then it stands to reason that the introduction of art into one’s life is likely inspired by an initial loneliness. Whether it be from neurodivergence, familial divide, disconnection from one’s peers, or any number of factors, this would explain the common belief that art’s function is to “comfort the disturbed.” Following this line of reasoning, it becomes clear how seeking satisfaction solely in one’s craft could quickly become obsessive. Hyperfixation, if not in moderation, morphs into isolation. This is especially true for those with ”singular” passions, such as sketching or writing.
Feelings of isolation have only worsened with the spread of social media. Carefully curated presentations of oneself, heightened standards, and constant comparisons often manifest as insecurity. For perfectionists, it is common to begin associating one’s personal value to the quality of work produced. To a minimal degree, negative effects of being online could cause reluctance to share work, or even reluctance to pursue one's craft at all. To the extreme, it could mean death; a study by the CDC describes that, in recent years, women have become 3 times more likely to attempt suicide than men. Woolf and Plath’s respective suicides are plenty demonstrative of pressure-induced mania, with or without the influence of social media.
Feelings of isolation have only worsened with the spread of social media. Carefully curated presentations of oneself, heightened standards, and constant comparisons often manifest as insecurity. For perfectionists, it is common to begin associating one’s personal value to the quality of work produced. To a minimal degree, negative effects of being online could cause reluctance to share work, or even reluctance to pursue one's craft at all. To the extreme, it could mean death; a study by the CDC describes that, in recent years, women have become 3 times more likely to attempt suicide than men. Woolf and Plath’s respective suicides are plenty demonstrative of pressure-induced mania, with or without the influence of social media.
There is certainly comfort in sadness, as Sylvia Plath’s quote suggests. Melancholy is familiar, predictable. By closing oneself from the world, one becomes immune to its horrors: judgment, hate, critique. This concept has been popularized by the current epidemic of “romanticization:” a cultural phenomenon in which dissociation from reality is encouraged. Similar sentiments are promoted via pop culture influences, through Phoebe Bridgers’ “darkly confessional” lyrics and Mitski’s “numbness.” Creating beauty in misery allows one to cope with their situation, rather than ameliorate it. Thus, the allure of the “tortured artist” caricature.
There is certainly comfort in sadness, as Sylvia Plath’s quote suggests. Melancholy is familiar, predictable. By closing oneself from the world, one becomes immune to its horrors: judgment, hate, critique. This concept has been popularized by the current epidemic of “romanticization:” a cultural phenomenon in which dissociation from reality is encouraged. Similar sentiments are promoted via pop culture influences, through Phoebe Bridgers’ “darkly confessional” lyrics and Mitski’s “numbness.” Creating beauty in misery allows one to cope with their situation, rather than ameliorate it. Thus, the allure of the “tortured artist” caricature.
But this fanciful approach to reality has its fair share of dangers, many of which are expressed in an essay published on Medium, aptly titled "Dangers of Romanticising Sadness: A Reflection on Art, Empathy, and Life’s Complexities." The author describes the misconception that all struggles lead to eventual reward, as well as the harmfulness associated with thinking this way. “While there’s value in feeling and expressing sadness, there’s also merit in taking a step back,” she claims, in reference to the increasingly popular mentality of intentionally choosing misery. “Not every sad narrative requires our resonance and empathy. Subjectivity plays a role in finding beauty in sad things, but romanticizing the notion that enduring hardship will lead to a fruitful outcome is a trap.”
But this fanciful approach to reality has its fair share of dangers, many of which are expressed in an essay published on Medium, aptly titled "Dangers of Romanticising Sadness: A Reflection on Art, Empathy, and Life’s Complexities." The author describes the misconception that all struggles lead to eventual reward, as well as the harmfulness associated with thinking this way. “While there’s value in feeling and expressing sadness, there’s also merit in taking a step back,” she claims, in reference to the increasingly popular mentality of intentionally choosing misery. “Not every sad narrative requires our resonance and empathy. Subjectivity plays a role in finding beauty in sad things, but romanticizing the notion that enduring hardship will lead to a fruitful outcome is a trap.”
It is our duty to each other, as women and artists and the future of the world, to break out of this cyclic sadness. It is with intentionality and care that we must venture from the familiarity of melancholy. The female insatiability– the passion, the yearning, the rage, the obsession, the loneliness– we must acknowledge it, all of it, understand from where it derives, accept it wholly as a part of ourselves, and begin to unlearn self-destructive behavior on which we depend. It is our sole responsibility to find meaning, to create it whenever possible. To forge connections. To support women and be supported by women.
It is our duty to each other, as women and artists and the future of the world, to break out of this cyclic sadness. It is with intentionality and care that we must venture from the familiarity of melancholy. The female insatiability– the passion, the yearning, the rage, the obsession, the loneliness– we must acknowledge it, all of it, understand from where it derives, accept it wholly as a part of ourselves, and begin to unlearn self-destructive behavior on which we depend. It is our sole responsibility to find meaning, to create it whenever possible. To forge connections. To support women and be supported by women.
So: must you suffer in order to create good art? No. But that doesn’t undermine the value of considering the origin in which classic art derives; personal accounts of isolation help us gain insight into historical context. Female art is undeniably marked by oppression and mistreatment.
So: must you suffer in order to create good art? No. But that doesn’t undermine the value of considering the origin in which classic art derives; personal accounts of isolation help us gain insight into historical context. Female art is undeniably marked by oppression and mistreatment.
In the present day, however, we must understand that suffering is a catalyst of creativity, not the destination. No longer do women have to silently endure, as is our tendency. Solitude does exist as the antithesis of solidarity.
In the present day, however, we must understand that suffering is a catalyst of creativity, not the destination. No longer do women have to silently endure, as is our tendency. Solitude does exist as the antithesis of solidarity.
I Want To Write Masterpieces In Your Name
I Want To Write Masterpieces In Your Name
By Parvati Mehmi
By Parvati Mehmi
Parvati The Art Pixie is the artist name of Parvati Mehmi, a transgender and disabled multidisciplinary artist from Brampton, Ontario Canada.
Parvati The Art Pixie is the artist name of Parvati Mehmi, a transgender and disabled multidisciplinary artist from Brampton, Ontario Canada.
"A poem about love through memory loss."
In the landscape of my mind, where time has slipped loose from its moorings and memory sometimes fails to anchor in the sands of reality, you remain. For I have tethered you to the constellations of my creative spirit.
In the landscape of my mind, where time has slipped loose from its moorings and memory sometimes fails to anchor in the sands of reality, you remain. For I have tethered you to the constellations of my creative spirit.
My memories are sailboats, fragile and whimsical, drifting on a sea of forgetting, cradled by the tides of uncertainty. The salt spray of longing coats each recollection, making them slippery. Yet, I refuse to let go.
My memories are sailboats, fragile and whimsical, drifting on a sea of forgetting, cradled by the tides of uncertainty. The salt spray of longing coats each recollection, making them slippery. Yet, I refuse to let go.
I want to write masterpieces in your name, to breathe life into stillborn thoughts, frozen in the womb of forgetfulness. I want to create symphonies of hues and words, a cacophony of abstract realities, a kaleidoscope of emotions, all because of you.
I want to write masterpieces in your name, to breathe life into stillborn thoughts, frozen in the womb of forgetfulness. I want to create symphonies of hues and words, a cacophony of abstract realities, a kaleidoscope of emotions, all because of you.
In the twisting labyrinth of my mind where days and nights lose their significance, your love is my thread, guiding me out of the maze of confusion, leading me back to myself.
In the twisting labyrinth of my mind where days and nights lose their significance, your love is my thread, guiding me out of the maze of confusion, leading me back to myself.
I write you, each syllable, proof of your existence, each line, validation of my experience. The story of us spills from my pen, not neatly ordered in the linear progression of time, but as a cosmic dance of words, a ballet of emotions, leaping, twirling, and pirouetting across the stage of my consciousness.
I write you, each syllable, proof of your existence, each line, validation of my experience. The story of us spills from my pen, not neatly ordered in the linear progression of time, but as a cosmic dance of words, a ballet of emotions, leaping, twirling, and pirouetting across the stage of my consciousness.
I become an architect of time, building bridges of art across the chasm of forgetting, each brick named for you. You, the cornerstone of my creation. You, the foundation of my remembrance. You, the compass guiding me through the fog of fading thoughts.
I become an architect of time, building bridges of art across the chasm of forgetting, each brick named for you. You, the cornerstone of my creation. You, the foundation of my remembrance. You, the compass guiding me through the fog of fading thoughts.
Because, even when I can't remember, I can create. And in my creation, I remember. I reclaim what was lost, recapture the ephemeral, reconstruct the forgotten.
Because, even when I can't remember, I can create. And in my creation, I remember. I reclaim what was lost, recapture the ephemeral, reconstruct the forgotten.
I want to write masterpieces in your name, so that no wave of forgetting can wash you away, no tide of oblivion can erase you. Because in the end, love is stronger than forgetting, and my love for you is my masterpiece.
I want to write masterpieces in your name, so that no wave of forgetting can wash you away, no tide of oblivion can erase you. Because in the end, love is stronger than forgetting, and my love for you is my masterpiece.
Turk of Samarkand
Turk of Samarkand
By Adrian Malik Smith
Adrian Malik, employing the pen name Piri, is a university student and poet of mixed Uzbek-English heritage. Immersed in the rich culture, traditions, and history of Uzbekistan while spending his time between Uzbekistan and Canada, Adrian Malik finds this to be a major inspiration for writing English-language poetry. He draws on the meters and rich literary traditions of Uzbek, Persian, and Arabic, infusing imagery that reflects his personal love and spiritual journey.
"Turk of Samarkand" is written in the meter of the Rubaiyat, popularized by poets such as the Persian poet Omar Khayyam. The poem infuses the emotions of desperation and infatuation in a woman with the love of the divine, all while being set against the backdrop of the ancient Silk Road city of Samarkand. Employing Mashriqī English, a novel poetic form of English inspired by the poetic registers of languages from the Islamicate world, the poem is enriched by the infusion of Persian, Turkic, and Arabic vocabulary into the English language. Furthermore, it draws on and references poetic themes such as Majnun and Layla. The poem invites the reader to immerse themselves in the rich and vibrant literary culture of Central Asia, while contemplating and experiencing both divine and human love.
Turk of Samarkand
Oh Turk of Samarkand, as I pass through the rolling fields of amber browns and vivid greens, I pray that I have you to gain.
As I drew near to her ancient gates, a Faqir cried, “Oh Majnun, she shall be your bane!”
Oh Turk of Samarkand, radiant girl, I am now Qays and you’ve become my Layla.
I have reached the state in which my mind will not work, and all medicines and cures, except for you, shall be in vain!
Oh Turk of Samarkand, for you I shall march and conquer all of the sharif Bukhara.
How the eyes of my heart cry out, begging for me to tear down the veil and view you through the Pardah!
Oh Turk of Samarkand, within the tears leaving your eyes, I’ve seen the love you hold for our master, the wronged who was slain.
Forever shall Piri, like a beggar-fool, call out searching for you from the Bibi Khanym down to Fergana.
[ ]
[ ]
By Loraine Valladolid
Loraine Valladolid is a 16-year-old from the Philippines. Although she doesn’t consider herself a writer, she views herself more as an observer. She is currently a campus journalist and radio broadcaster for her school publication. As of this writing, she is alive and well!
This piece is a performance task for my Earth and Life Science subject for the first semester.
–
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Here, the end of Venus’ birth
As I lie in bare land with bare feet and swollen eyes
I found that my cries mean nothing in a rock where the air reigns in a voiceless bound
–My cries mean nothing in a rock where every part of my being is the Earth itself, resound
I.
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Rumble, tumble, crumple, stumble, crumble
I clung to my lungs as the minuscule particles start to dwindle
I reached for my nostrils and felt the spills of aeolian thrills
I opened my mouth and tasted the brittle sand from a forsaken land
II.
Here, the end of Venus’ birth
My love, disintegrating, shattering in robust fragility
Fluvial murky patterns, ruining steps of vitality
Disintegrating, shattering in quiet intensity
Tides formulate the next city of Venus’ death
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At last, I lie in bare land with bare feet and sunken eyes
There will never be a winning fight against the inexorable decay of time
In the name of violent rage and anger –I gnashed my teeth
Until my jaws begin to fracture,
Teeth,
Falling apart,
There was never a fight to begin with
Bus driver
Bus driver
By Dixy
Dixy is trying her best to live a life that she thinks she deserves. She's living with her family and she's in love with all her friends. She's currently discovering her emotions and side effects of that is, sadly, poetry.
Bus driver
When all of this ends I would like to live in a small village with only one bus
And be the bus driver
Going always in the same direction, on the well known route
Knowing every turn, every stone on the street by heart
Every day, over and over and over again
Until I erode the road with my presence
Preparing my grave slowly in time
words for georgie boy/beautifully daunting
words for georgie boy/beautifully daunting
By M.S. Blues
M.S. Blues is a writer, editor, and advocate from San Jose, California. Her objective is to raise awareness to issues that society tends to neglect, as well as represent her communities. She’s one of the most decorated figures in the literary magazine community, having been published over 170 times and extensively volunteering her services to magazines internationally and locally. She’s an editor for The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, Sister Time, DICED Online Magazine, The Mixtape Review, The Mirrorball Magazine, Tyche Lit, and Kokomo Diaries. She is a reviewer of prose and poetry for The Cawnpore Magazine. In addition, she is on the executive board for Chromatic Scars Review (Prose Manager), Low Hanging Fruit (Senior Editor), My Dearest Aphrodite (Head of Editing), Voices of Asylum (Assistant Editor-in-Chief), The Beaulieu Gazette (Co Editor-in-Chief), and Sorry! Zine (Co Editor-in-Chief). Lastly, she is the Founder & Editor-in-Chief of The Infinite Blues Review. You can interact with her on Instagram @m.s.blues_
PIECE ONE: "words for georgie boy"
for an arrogant man i dealt with
georgie boy, dear pal,
why must thou be so arrogant?
you ain’t no eliot, no whitman,
no yeats, no frost, no shakespeare,
no keats, no shelley, no byron, no
hughes (langston or ted), no poe,
no emerson, no longfellow – not
a damn one.
you have no right to harbor the ego
that you do, ol’ georgie boy.
your pen ain’t superior to my fervid one.
your male privilege cannot override my
female passions and ambitions.
i’ve been on television, like you.
i run a company, like you.
i write like i’m running out of time, unlike you.
call me bitter, salty, angry,
but it vexed me when you tried
mansplaining me, implying that
i will never be at whatever level
you believe you’re at –
(and they say sexism still doesn’t
exist – crazy work)
so, georgie boy,
respectfully, i need you to get a grip –
because your ego is inflated beyond measure.
los que menosprecian a otros ya perdidos
PIECE TWO: "beautifully daunting"
sometimes,
when adversity wears the golden medal around its neck,
i get overwhelmed by a fit of pique –
bitter, red pique.
i curse damn near everything in sight!
i fight even when i don’t have the mental capacity to fight!
i do everything that’s wrong, regardless if it feels right!
madness is the anesthesia
that makes everything i know
become vacant, splashing away
as if my mind is just a pebble
that was thrown in the ocean
by a vile, impetuous demon!
–
but then a fearless diver optimism, i’d like to think appears,
and perseveres against the currents, winds, and monsters,
rescuing the pebble (me).
-
when i awake again,
i feel human. i feel
not liberated, not free,
but… what’s the word?
alive. real. that suffices,
i believe.
i open my eyes at the new dawn
and my god, it is daunting,
beautifully daunting.
paid the piper
paid the piper
By Prarthana Vijayakumar
Prarthana Vijayakumar writes whenever she isn't preparing for her Chartered Accountancy course. You can find her work in about 25 places online and scrabbled in countless sticky notes with who knows who.
paid the piper
you dragged fire to the forefront of the cloud-eating mountains and made an entire town swear their tongues to it.
the medallions of the sky hung low onto their eyes and picked at their necks as the crows dove headfirst into their shacks and drowned their kitchens in linoleum and children's porridge.
the sun rose raggedly over the silhouettes of the empty nests of the birds displaced to the city. and you banished the moles and the mice to the horizon where the songs always sound too distant.
white noise was putrefied upon the walls of their mouths, and plastered into their ear canals. While you watched a single strand of hair from every listener's scalp rise up in unison and wrap themselves into the biggest knot, travelers of the night mistook it for the moon hanging low and followed the pale light to their life's ends.
an army whiplash of hair eyes on the edge of town feet running backwards
The hero of this story is a pipe. swinging between the gaps of your lips and chipping your teeth with every note. It takes at least a few bones and a bonfire in each house to get the entire town dancing.
The Exquisite Wings
The Exquisite Wings
By Karishma Aniket
Karishma is a teenager who is passionate about books and music, her favorite artists being- Taylor Swift, Sabrina Carpenter, The Weekend and Chase Atlantic.
"This is a flash fiction about a bird who was believed to be mighty because of her wings which aided her to soar high in the sky but in reality, it was her powerful mind which enabled her to fly, her strength to not give up even in the worst of situations. This flash fiction can also be related to our lives as well, because no matter how much potential lies within us, we can overcome any obstacle just by the power of our mindset."
The Exquisite Wings
Erstwhile, she soared high in the firmament. Once, it used to be her homestead, her serene haven. Her exquisite wings, which aided her to see it all.
But now, as she lay wretchedly, her exquisite wings, shattered by them all.
Always to love, never to be loved. Always to understand, but never to be understood was she.
She looked up at the sky and dreamt of her momentous flying days.
They tied up every inch of her body, glued her to the ground. But little did they know that she was no less than The Roc.
She broke free, untying herself from those vacuous chains, as she soared high again.
The glint of nobility in her eyes, as she soared higher and higher.
They couldn't believe their eyes to see her soar that high and as she cried, " I may have exquisite wings but not an exquisite mind."
That was when they understood, it wasn't her exquisite wings which molded her to fly, but her obstinate mindset.
Cranberry juice
Cranberry juice
By Sadie Wort
Sadie is a writer of prose and poetry and a literature student from northern England who likes to explore her messy relationships with gender, neurodivergence, and the spaces she surrounds herself with. She enjoys fishkeeping, piano, chess, and painting.
Cranberry juice
Something dizzying,
something mechanical,
a magic bubbling, a cherry hue
grooving through me and spilling out —
if I wasn’t leaking on the linoleum,
did the night even happen?
A red light, an intoxication in me
and nobody can see it,
so I dance…
Flash! Holding shoulders under strobes and glowing from every pore.
Strike a pose, drag queen, you look like an idol! — flash!
Shrieking like death from the diaphragm,
a glitter ball above an omen of
bending, choking, begging.
Then, clutching jewels and hurtling towards concrete,
an iron singsong in my head,
my feet stamp, sweet traces of blood on my hands! — flash!
In the party I saw a sparkling light,
in the night sky I see something bigger.
glitter
glitter
By Hala Mousa
Hala loves the ocean, seashells, and crystals. Her passion for writing started when she was out in nature at the age of 14. She is now 16. She likes to write whenever she feels deeply. Hala hopes you resonate with her poetry!
glitter
I lay on my rose tinted carpet
and bathe myself in glitter
pink glitter
just like my bedsheets
my vanity
and even my chandelier
I pour it on my thighs
sprinkle it on my arms
and smooth it down my hair
it’s everywhere
I get up and look at myself in mirror
and I think
‘maybe I need more’
I bring the jar
and drown myself in glitter
till my eyes itch
and my mouth is sticky
I wipe my face
and look again
this time
I see the truth
‘too much glitter,
yet never enough sparkle’
and it is only then that I realize
my trials are forced
but sparkle is given
and that is why I don’t have any
no one has gifted me the chance to shine
the chance to sparkle
and that is alright
that is okay
until you glance in the mirror
and you are covered in glitter
looking duller than if you weren’t
with a mess to clean
and a shower to take
you lay on your pink carpet once more
and cry
for as of right now
it is crying
only crying
that is left for you
dandelions/hemingbrough/cayton bay
dandelions/hemingbrough/cayton bay
By Leo Leetham
Leo is a writer and poet from a small village south of York who is currently studying in Lancaster. Despite venturing into other genres, she always ends up coming back to writing about her hometown and the people and nature she connected with there. In a recent anthology, which the poems ‘dandelions’, ‘hemingbrough’ and ‘cayton bay’ are from, they chose to go back to everything they knew about their hometown, about being sixteen, and about sunsets.
‘dandelions’, ‘hemingbrough’ & ‘cayton bay’
dandelions
wishing was made for grass fields in summer
dandelion clocks springing fairies up through dirt
the power of the universe is in your breath, dear
close your eyes tight – what do you ask for
in return from the life you just created ?
maybe those clocks are able to turn back time
so you can be thirteen and free again
so you get a chance to say a proper goodbye
lie back in the dew as the night seeps overhead
summer cleared the sky for you – the world’s
bedtime stories are glinting constellations
a shooting star passes through the northern hemisphere
the magic of aurora borealis just out of reach
do you ask it to make you pretty ? to make you tall ?
to stop mum and dad becoming old and tired ?
to stop your little sister growing up when you move away from home ?
each august eighth brings birthday cake
on paper plates with lemonade filled cups
on shooting stars and dandelions
and thirteen, fourteen, fifteen candles
i wished to be sixteen – i wished to be sixteen
on seventeen, eighteen, nineteen candles too
i used to hear wise women say there are no people
like the people you loved at sixteen
but on the contrary, my love
there are only people like the people
you loved at sixteen – that was my wish after all
hemingbrough
soon the sun will dry up the ground
winter’s footprints – ash and dust
and there’ll be nothing wrong with my hometown
there’s no time for fighting in the summer
only the churning of pedals – the picking
of petals – coming home warm and happy and tired
in the strawberry fields i turn strawberry blonde –
drink strawberry wine – i know we all share
this place, but for the summer it’s mine
cayton bay
the height of summer – truck bed overflowing
friends & drinks & a guitar or two
the metal burnt the back of our legs – we didn’t care
quick and quiet enough to be left alone
by the village curmudgeon – a tangle of limbs
& sandy shoes & beach towels
to and from the shoreline each day –
we bonfired & midnight-swam & wine-drank
our way through the decade’s warmest june
truth-or-dared & kiss-and-told & burnt
through july’s summer job paycheck
on booze rather than bus tickets for the 13
late august – things became quieter
picking up shifts to save a little money –
slack on deadlines, fast approaching –
holidaying on beaches much nicer than our own
summer drew back like the shore – many nights
just the two of us, sat upfront, the air con blasting loud
– the music blasting louder – i tapped the wheel
in time to you humming noah kahan
driving faster than the law allowed – the truck
bed rattling over sand, making wine and spirits clink –
you winced as bottles collided with the body
of your guitar – i laughed at you
Seesaw
Seesaw
By Charli Hemmings
A 17 year old aspiring writer and English Literature student who mainly focuses on poetry.
Seesaw
i sit down and am immediately propelled into the air
i feel the rapid breeze fly through my hair
the chill kisses my skin, and allows me to feel somehow warmed by its low climate
in this position, i am above anything else i can imagine.
but naturally, a child’s weight is never a match for a seesaw.
i’m uplifted.
when i look down, the ground draws me in
it is dull and dreary
black marks run through it, concrete and stone haphazardly stuck together
made to look real
this illusion fools me. i remain happy
because unfortunately, the carefully draining hue of the sun blinds me from reality
when i grow, i am no longer elevated.
i am on the ground.
with the shattered tracks and dull cracks
because the seesaw cannot hold me anymore.
my memories drag me down
i sit on the end of the rusted seesaw, gazing at the blackened ground below me with smoke coursing through my lungs.
now, years later, i’m fully aware i can never achieve the height i once did.
but i still question the logic of this strange situation.
how can i be dragged down by my heavy mind when it still feels so empty?
i look up. the other end of the board is deserted.
permanently cursed to hang in the air whilst i alone weigh it down.
i am the last scrap of life left.
i am the last hope of joy returning to this desolate place.
but i breathe the fumes of the past. i close my eyes and still grasp the last flicker of the only remaining streetlight before the area goes dark.
as much as i want to defy the odds i received,
i am helpless.
so i drop my head and bathe in the dreams of a perfect balance
blinded by the depth of my troubles, i don’t notice the silhouette that passes the gate to the park. as she does so, the smoke around her begins to clear.
her small frame strolls over the cracked ground and stands next to the seesaw.
i become aware of the presence when the seesaw gives one final screeching cry as the apparition pulls it down and takes a seat.
and as she does so, i feel myself rise at a graceful and comfortable speed.
the rust is withdrawn from the metal, and the smoke dissipates before it reaches my lungs.
although this isn’t the highest i’ve been, i feel elevated beyond anything i’ve felt before.
i look up. i breathe the fresh air of the present, and disconnect myself from the smoke of the past.
she somehow makes herself solid, and i gaze at her in awe.
she smiles.
a silence sits between us. but it’s one of understanding.
i don’t have any questions. why would i? the emptiness i once felt has been replaced by warmth and the joy i thought i’d lost.
and by looking at her smile, i know she feels the same way.
we finally reached our balance.
Where Is My Love?
Where Is My Love?
By Isabelle Perret
Isabelle has been writing since she was little and finds comfort in creating stories with complex characters. She has published a book called You Showed Me Love on Amazon and has works published in other Lit Magazines. Isabelle also loves to read, currently her favourite book is Song Of Achilles.
Where Is My Love?
October 24th was the accident. I don’t remember much, only how scared I felt; the possibly of losing the one person I truly love. As the truck collided with the driver’s side, I leaped out of my seat to save her. I hugged her so tight that my arms felt numb. I held on until I felt someone pulling me away from her.
“No!” I screamed as they removed me from the damaged vehicle.
“She’s in there too!” I yelled.
It is now November 5th. I haven’t left our apartment, neither has she. My dad comes to visit everyday.
“She’s gone, she’s not here” he repeats. Clearly his mind is going because she’s always right beside me. I make her tea, watch our favourite movies, and cuddle at night. We both survived, and now we both suffer the trauma; too scared to leave the apartment.
I scream myself awake from the nightmare of her passing in the accident but she’s always next to me to comfort me. I lie on her stomach as I fall back asleep, she’s here and she’s not going anywhere.
We eventually go outside and walk around the park near our apartment like we’ve always done. We don’t talk much, just enjoying the silence between us. We sit at the bench where we had our first kiss, it was at night, and we were both so scared of what our parents would think of us dating. She held me as she reassured me, it’s not a crime to be gay. We were fifteen, I smile at the thought.
It’s now December 3rd. I’m getting ready for bed as she lays in our bed waiting for me. I finish brushing my hair before climbing in beside her.
“I love you” I whisper as I fall asleep.
Around 3:30, I’m startled awake by the sound of my voice, screaming. I had the same nightmare I’ve had since the accident. I reach over for her but feel nothing but sheets. Confused, I get up and look around the apartment, nothing. I go in and out of every room looking for my love. I call her name hoping for a response. I look for a note that could’ve been left, but nothing. I start to panic, where is she? Where is my love? I call her phone number.
“Hello?” a man answers.
“Who are you and where is my girlfriend?”
“I just got this number, maybe your girlfriend got a ne-” I hang up. She didn’t get a new number, what is going on. I feel myself falling to the ground as I try to figure out what’s going on. That’s when I start to remember the accident more vividly.
“No, no, no, no, no” I feel tears falling down my face.
“No!” I yell as I throw my phone across the room. She’s gone, she didn’t make it. My love, my love is gone. I’m alone. I crumple into a ball and just cry, I can’t live without her. I need her. Where is my love?
Warped specimen
Warped specimen
By Yani Reyes
Yani she’s such a strange girl, she dreams of love and happiness but writes stories with the tune of solitude, she loves the sea but hates getting wet. She loves what’s spontaneous but hates when it’s announced. She’s strange that’s for sure. But she’s lovely. For head to toe. From body to soul. She’s a strange but lovely girl because all she does is love what she sees and loves what she needs.
"The poem I wrote can be interpreted anyway but I initially created it as a story of a young girl she meets this man and this man ruins her by twisting her into this disgusting creature that relies on other people for feeling emotions. That part of her was ripped away and taken away from her and we see that as she becomes a zombie and feeds on others for feel anything and survive. It’s a story of what abuse does to people it numbs them so that their only choice is to go else where to find something that makes them feel alive. It tortures the person."
Warped specimen
I was great. I was like an extinguishable star. That shone in the twinkling abyss that filled the night sky. I got good grades and was top of the class. My hand always rose in a straight line at every question brought about. I wrote great poems.
Like a skilled architect, I sculpted buildings from scraps of my imagination. Bringing my art to life in the secret wrinkled pages of my notebook. My naive little pink brain thought that life would keep its simplicity forever. But then almost abruptly he came into my life like a storm bringing fog and thunder to my light blue sky. Disrupting my orderly function and scrambling my senses into mushed counterparts. Shutting my record book, pulling at my skin, and turning me into cut-up string. From a grand lake, I turned into a puddle of water. He prodded and prodded, dissecting, taking my liver then my heart out over and over and over again. Til I was left an undead. From a human to a zombie. Zombies don’t think. They act. They cannot make rational decisions. He turned me into that, a zombie. Pumping my veins with poisonous words and my brain with incredulous actions. He turned me into a zombie who chased after fresh flesh and thrived on blood. Day and night I ripped flesh, gnawing at its crimson hue. Blood splattered through the walls and tainted the musty-colored floors. He turned me into a monster. Expanding my lungs and thrashing my insides. Gouging out my eyes and ripping out my ears. Screams erupted out of my mouth as I pleaded with him to stop. But he never did. With that sickeningly distorted face his lips stretch, smiling finding glee in my pain. He continued to tear me apart. Molding me into something that was brand new. He turned me into the very monsters I used to think lay under my bed. Waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Where my feet would dangle down. So it could drag me under and cut me to pieces, dismembering me before devouring my skin and spitting out my bones. With his hands, he traced my zombified body, and with his lips, he opened and whispered. “It’s you” You’re the monster you’ve been running from all this time. And for as long as you live . And you’ll always be.
my birthday grief.
my birthday grief.
By Jedidiah Vinzon
Jedidiah Vinzon is studying physics at the University of Auckland. His research project focusses on detecting astronomical transient sources using deep machine learning. His poem 'how great are nuclear bombs?' published by orangepeel was recently nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. @jayv.poetry
my birthday grief.
if i could mold the tears
i spent in front of the picture frame
i’d make another you
to keep until this house has passed.
so on the days i’d spend
alone before the candlelight
you’d be around the corner
wishing silently for me.
but it is only me who wishes
and me who only waits –
i’m sitting by the corner
weeping, wishing only you.
if only i could hold the tears
i’ve spent in solitude
it’d only make an ocean
where we’d drown –
where we’d drown.
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