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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Art:
Dreams white - Irina Tall
Writing:
Beautiful Oddity - Alecia Lewis
In This World - James T.
Armour & Affection/Teething/Teeth - Tahsin Taaha
The whisper/One with nature/For my sister Shadia - Munyai Tshifhiwa Hellen
Snakes and Coffee - Gert Petrus Coetzee
Butterflies Drop Like Wan Clouds - Rituparna Mukherjee
Los Cempasúchiles - M.S. Blues
Powder - Craig Lowe
Broken Shimmering Debris and Curative Elixir - Alecia Lewis
The Wall (sin)/Envious - Munyai Tshifhiwa Hellen
Yelling the words I never could - Udaya Tushara Sudanagunta
Why the World Owes Taylor Swift an Apology (and Why I Judge People Based on Their Opinion of Her) - Ekam Bedi
Has The Need To Look Good Led to Everyone Looking Alike? - Ekam Bedi
Metamorphosis - Rayya Nasir
Bubbles - Pamela Seth L. Roazul
To The One I Feel at Home - Florina Konwar
Time is what we make of it - Jeny Samuel
Consequence of the Divine - Deepti Aksharra
hunger is wrong, i think - Amy Lu
Art
Art
Dreams white
Dreams white
By Irina Tall
Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.
The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter".
Writing
Writing
Beautiful Oddity
Beautiful Oddity
By Alecia Lewis
Alecia has worked her magic on stage, and behind the scenes, for various local theater groups including City Park Players, The Unusual Suspects, Spectral Sisters, and LSUA’s Empty Space Players. She has participated in open mic nights throughout Louisiana. She is also a published poet with her works being featured online on LSUA’s 2023 and 2025 Verbatim websites and in print on the pages of Mythulu Magazine, and the Bayou Blues and Red Clay Poetry Anthology. She was January 2025’s featured poet in 318 Central digital magazine. She was crowned Poet Laureate in Poetry AEX’s 2025 scavenger hunt. She is grateful and blessed for all the inspiration, guidance, and support that she receives.
An electric diamond with a pristine spirit,
Born to create gasps and wows with
The seductive and exquisite combination of
Kindness, weirdness, and ferocity.
Adorned in the watercolors of uniqueness,
Covered in the lingerie of authenticity,
Enthralling and noble,
This sensitive eccentric possesses,
An uplifting and unbreakable aura of
Savory, sugar, sour, and spice.
Vulnerable but strong enough
To care and love passionately,
Or not at all.
A captivating force of nature,
Electrifying and glittering crown jewel,
With an incorruptible soul,
Radiant light and immaculate heart.
Refuses to be contained and
Broken into submission.
This sunshine hurricane
Knows and understands that,
Being boxed and packed
Into fitted conformity,
Is for sardines.
In This World
In This World
By James T.
James is a 13-year-old, year 10 student from Australia. He adores the romanticism of suffering and can never be bothered to edit any of his pieces. Enjoy!
In this world we do not speak,
The vines do twist and shadows creep
In this world we do not know,
Companion to be friend or foe.
Here we stand, all the same,
All in order, none to blame.
Here we stand, here we stay,
Without a light to guide the way.
A palate of grey, white, and black,
A silhouette lingers behind my back,
It whispers “hidden under stone and bricks,
A truth that time still contradicts.”
So I go soaring amongst the stars,
Beyond the earth, beyond it’s bare,
Up so high, I see so clear,
A world in hues I’d never feared.
Suddenly, the ground comes nearer,
I see my face, the lake a mirror.
My head hits rock, my breaths falter,
As blood forms blossoms in the water.
And as my memories slip through my hands,
My corpse lays, but my heart understands.
The truth can be a poisoned drink,
It pulls you under, until you sink.
In this world, we do not speak,
Our silence echoes, cold and weak.
Here we stand, all the same,
Afraid to speak, for truth’s a flame.
Armour & Affection/Teething/Teeth
Armour & Affection/Teething/Teeth
By Tahsin Taaha
Tahsin is a poet and artist whose work explores softness, anger, and memory through surreal, reflective language. They write from the intersections of vulnerability and resistance. When not writing, Sayed tends to their plants and dreams of revolution. Find them on instagram @tahsin.taaha1.0
Armour & Affection
man brings us the invention of plastic in 1907,
but doesn't revolutionize it until World War II
when they use it for military weapons: when the sky clears,
we're left packaging our leftover dinners into our
newly invented tupperware containers and
smiling across the table like nothing is wrong anymore.
our body armour was made from the same material
as the coffee cups we now buy and share kisses over,
sometimes i think we never escaped our war,
just recycled something malleable to convince ourselves otherwise,
living on the remains of weapons, now in the shape of a smile pliable,
we have always been: fitting both our meals into one tupperware container,
fitting our fingers together like they were meant to be manmade, always –
how do we keep ourselves together when what built us broke us too?
Teething
I find god in a grape (three and a half kcal),
swallow her whole.
she sits on the edge of my bed while i tell her
about my dreams desires too,
she already knows
but decides to bite tongues.
she nods, she understands, speaks -
says serpents live in duality
much like you are newborn teething on the idea of transmutations,
lessons have to be learned.
you have been here before but not quite like this
and that is why it hurts.
it dawns upon me.
not completely but enough for time to slow down
or stop entirely like it does on late february nights.
i break all my bones just for them find to grow
back differently,
i make a fist and symbolism hiding in plain sight,
i'll find as long as i keep seeking.
Teeth
i let an ai tell me my horoscope
and i watch the news, and,
some billionaire does not know
the price of the bread i steal, and,
a big cooperation makes money off of insecurities they create, and
children are covered in blood,
the world is burning
so i let the fire ignite something inside my gut
and decide to fight back.
after frequent use the knife tends to get duller
or sharper
i forget which,
i don't think it matters.
i remember i forgot to water my plants,
i think it matters.
I carry it with me always
i will not glue my mouth shut.
i am no longer profit model,
i am anger,
i am teeth,
i am bad dog i bite back
and leave no trace.
The Whisper/One with nature/For my sister Shadia
The Whisper/One with nature/For my sister Shadia
By Munyai Tshifhiwa Hellen
Munyai Tshifhiwa Hellen is a 19 year old female currently residing in South Africa, Eastern Cape. She's doing her first year at Rhode University. She enjoys reading, writing, romance movies and music, especially Aurora.
The Whisper
I hear a whisper, a soft whisper
It creeps into my ears
The grass I am standing on withers
The air is polluted
It smells awfully of doubt
The wind is pointing in the direction of drought
The water is to contaminated to baptize
Their hands are stained with blood
Yet they are always ready to criticize
I do not perceived anything good
Gradually it is all coming to an end
When the actual time arrives we'll all be astounded
The clock is ticking
The whisper continues
One With Nature
Take me to the trees
Let their roots run though my veins
Teach me to live each season fully
To welcome the cold
As I bloom
And to never complain
Take me to the stars
Let me revolve around the source of energy
Let me learn
That not every path is shared
Not every arrival is together
But still the orbits are divine
Take me to the mountains
Where every stone carries a story
Where stillness is strength
And the silence hold me steady
Teaching me to stand solid,rooted and unshaken
I want to hear the wind
Whispering to the birds
A perfect duet of the sky and spirit
I want to feel the holy air
Where my breath meets the breath of the creator
Walk me though the caves
So that I can hear the echoes of those who existed before me
And their truths still carved in the dark
If I could locate time
I would ask it how it keeps on moving
And does not listen to anything that wishes for it to stop
How to carry on through difficult times
For My Sister Shadia
I never experienced true love until you came into my world
Your love is true and real
It feels and heals
Without signs of articulation it speaks with me
Like the sun shares its own light with the whole universe
You share your whole with me to make me whole
Like the sun rays try to reach even the deepest depth of earth
You reach out to me and warm me up
Giving me hope, strength and motivation
I never experienced true love until I held you into my tiny hands
Your love is like loam soil
It absorb all of my flaws
Teaching me to love, to be patient and kind
Loving me on a strong foundation
You bring peace to my chaotic mind
I thank God daily for your presence
Snakes and Coffee
Snakes and Coffee
By Gert Petrus Coetzee
Gert Petrus Coetzee (or just Petri) is a South African writer. He has a passion for cooking and mostly, writing. Often you'll see him on the hockey field, but in his free time he'll spend it on hours of writing, from essays to poetry.
why take beauty
and turn it into snakes?
are you so selfless
indulged, cultivated,
to see no trouble
in doing harm
to oneself?
why take coffee
and pour it
on silk smooth skin?
your'e sacred
and sculpted
to worldly perfection
yet demise
is calculated
for own revenge
for your sake
for heavens sake
kill the snake
and drink the coffee
Butterflies Drop Like Wan Clouds
Butterflies Drop Like Wan Clouds
By Rituparna Mukherjee
An English Language English in an undergraduate college at Kolkata by day, Rituparna moonlights as an editor, writer and translator. She enjoys writing short fiction and flashes. A multilingual translator of Bengali and Hindi fiction into English, her original work and translations have been published in many international journals. Her debut translation, The One-Legged, translated from Sakyajit Bhattacharya’s Ekanore, has been shortlisted for JCB Prize in Literature 2024 and won the KALA Literature Awards 2025. She is the fiction reader for USAWA Literary Review.
Rituparna writes and translates flash fiction that she believes creates beautiful and thoughtful vignettes within a tight space. It is something that although read fats, has the power to leave a strong aftertaste.
The Butterflies Drop like Wan Clouds
Mojaffor Hossain
Translated from Bengali by Rituparna Mukherjee
‘The butterflies drop like wan clouds’- Himel copies this sentence in his notebook from the paper bag with puffed rice and sticks it to his table. Hira sits right beside. A little melancholy. Wondering whether to tell Ma about the incident.
“What have you written today?”, asks Hira.
“Read it yourself”, Himel responds. “You won’t understand. Guaranteed!”
Hira sits on the bed, her face to the window. Keeping her posture intact, she just cranes her neck and has a look.
“You have written well. It describes my mental state accurately.” Hira says staring at the vacuum.
“You understand? Aapu? Seriously?” Himel asks, wonder stuck to his face.
“No.”
“Then why did you say that it was what you felt?”
“Can one understand everything that passes through one’s mind?” Hira resumes after being silent for some time, “Dhyat! There is no point in telling you this stuff. You won’t understand.”
“Choto Chacha entered your room in the afternoon, I know that. He asked me about you. I told him that you were on the first floor.” Himel stops after saying this. Hira is about to say something but decides against it and sits quietly. Himel doesn’t take it further either. The two siblings sit with their backs to each other, one on the chair and the other on the bed. The doors and windows on both sides are open, a gust of wind, inflamed by the burning sun, suddenly pierces the length and breadth of the house. Droplets of sweat gather at the point where the flesh on Hira’s chest rises like a wave—they look like water droplets that sit transiently on grass blades after a fine rain.
“Did Choto Chacha want to wipe off your sweat?” Himel asks.
“How did you know?” Hira looks at her chest once and asks him.
“I watched; standing at the door.”
“And what else did you see?”
“Choto Chacha licked the sweat from your forehead. And because you didn’t resist, I didn’t enter the room.”
“He had a knife in his left hand. He would have plunged it in me had I resisted. He warned me.”
“I had a knife with me as well. You could have just tried resisting once.”
“How can I trust someone who can’t even kill a rat?”
“You should trust the one who doesn’t kill a harmless rat without reason.”
“Will you give me the knife?” Hira says.
“It was right under your bed. This is elder Aapu’s.” Saying this, Himel takes out the knife from his pocket and puts it on the table.
Los Cempasuchiles
Los Cempasuchiles
By M.S. Blues
Mia Soto | M.S. Blues is one of the most decorated figures in the literary magazine community. She currently serves on 21 magazine boards and has over 260 publications. She’s the Editor-in-Chief of DICED Online and the Founder & Editor-in-Chief of The Infinite Blues Review. In addition to her many literary endeavors, she is a college student, the host of an upcoming podcast called expresiones melancólicas, and the Founder & Director of Melancholic Ignition. She resides in the Bay Area, California. Her debut book, Collected Works: Poetry & Short Stories can be purchased online through Amazon or Barnes & Noble—as well as in store at Caspian Books located in Tracy, California.
the ancestors always pass down
gifts—just open your hand
and trust the natural world.
-
“You’re here… again?”
“If you ain’t realized by now, we don’t always get what we want.” remarks Esa, the self-proclaimed leader. “Has Momma taught you anything, chica?”
Yeah, they have. The real question is–
“What do you want now?”
“Your acknowledgement would be a great start.”
I roll my eyes. I can’t acknowledge you… you are a goddamn–
“People already judge me for what I am, I don’t need them thinking that I’m some looney too.” I hiss through a whisper, my eyes narrowing at the translucent vase of marigolds sitting idly on Nana’s chisme table—the headquarters of gossip between the women of my family. Ironic setting for a thing so beautiful.
Esa rolls her eyes right back at me. She’s the abrasive one of the marigolds, along with the tallest. I’d also like to tell you that she’s the most vivid, although Lunita may be offended by that. “You still find yourself caring what people think?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Lunita says, her leaves crossing themselves.
“Es importante que intentemos comprenderla. Mierda, Esa, no es como si no fueras un complaciente de la gente en su día.” Marisol says. She’s normally bashful when it comes to Esa starting in on me, but maybe the sun got to her today.
Or maybe you’ve just lost your damn mind.
I offer her a thin smile. She reminds me of a few ancestors that still blossom in my memory, despite their entrance in the Spirit World long ago. Vivid manifestation, Spanish tongue—a reincarnation of the past, cultivation of everything that created me.
Lunita grins. She thinks she’s slick.
Esa never likes being challenged by the other marigolds, but this time she concedes with an eye roll.
A few moments pass by under the Valley sunset. The three marigolds talk among themselves while I stare off into the abyss of summer. Mosquito hawks begin peopling the front lawn, while the trees groove to the rhythm of the breeze. These are the kind of evenings that have sustained me, even during the most daunting periods when everything felt like one big shitshow.
Mami emerges from our casita, Little Pauly in pursuit behind her. His small, chunky lugs move with haste, his pucheros painting his lips. “¡Mami, no me dejes! ¡No me dejes!”
“Ay mijo, necesito ir a la tienda. Mete tu culito en la ducha,” she waves him off, before turning to me. “Mija, asegúrate de que se bañe. Voy a la tienda a comprar ingredientes para la cena. Estaré en casa en un rato. Cierra la puerta, ¿vale?”
I nod.
Little Pauly continues to whine, but relents once Mami raises her voice. I’m zoned out when that happens—I tend to disconnect when voices raise. It reminds me of things I’d rather not dwell on. Once I hear the ignition start, I look up at Little Pauly. His lips are still pouty and the rims of his eyes are moist.
“Mami is going away!”
“No she ain’t,” I stand up. “She’s going to the store. Now go and shower.”
Little Pauly is reluctant to listen, yet he does anyway. Thank God.
When he’s back inside, I glance at the marigolds. Observant eyes, they have, just as advanced as their manifestation. The sun sets upon them now, radiating them like candles we pray to every Sunday. La luz para guiar a nuestros antepasados.
Lunita is too busy enthralled by her Secret, Marisol is whispering her evening prayers, and Esa is staring off into oblivion. I shake my head and proceed to our casita, shutting the door behind me. I AM NOT CRAZY, I SWEAR TO GOD!
After I close the door behind me, I hear the shower turning on. I sigh in relief, grateful that I don’t have to be the typical big sister and give my brother hell. Mami does enough of that. Good reason or not, I know what it's like to be nagged at—and I wish that I had someone growing up who could’ve reduced the nagging for me. Oh, don’t I wish for many things.
While my brother showers, I head into the room Mami and I share. I take my phone from my back pocket and set it on the charger. My initial intention is to then lay down for a few moments, put my brain on a well-deserved pause. But rather, I find myself entering a vortex.
A DON’T YOU DENY, YOU LITTLE GODDAMN-
“¿Cuánto tiempo planeas vivir una mentira?”
You’re just hearing things, you big fool. You’re already on edge, what the hell do you REALLY expect at this point, chica?
“Ay chavalla, sé que puedes escucharme.”
I gingerly raise my head and see nothing. Delusions, delusions, delusions. I take a seat on my bed and rest my hands in my lap.
“What do you want?”
You always ask questions, even when answers seem far, far away.
“El secreto, Chiquita. ¿Qué pasa con eso?”
“También puedes hablar conmigo en inglés, ¿sabes?”
“¿Por qué? ¿Eres una chica de No Sabo?”
“Soy Chicana.” I’m prouder than I intend to be. “I was raised Chicana, not on some traditional bullshit.”
The voice chortles, “There’s been some dysfunction since I left, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, it’s a shame that I’m not interested in the Dysfunction—my chicas already have me up to decent speed-”
I look around the room again, this time with even more scrutiny. I will find the culprit of this voice. I will find the–
“What are you?”
“Hm?”
I stare into the empty hallway, my eyes vigorous with a brewing apprehension. I hope it isn’t as apparent as I anticipate, but Mami has always said I’m strong with emotional projection, especially in my face.
I sigh and repeat, “What. Are. You.”
I come off strong, which I suppose surprises The Voice.
It releases a nervous laugh, then states, “I am only what you wish to be.”
SHEISFREE. SHEISFREE. SHEISFREE.
I’m trippin’ out, I’m trippin’ out, I’M TRIPPIN-
“What are you talking about?”
“Look outside.”
I can’t explain the movement I’m doing now—it’s a contrast between a leap and sprint. In a matter of moments I’m before those marigolds again. I don’t even remember pulling myself from the bed, but I’m here. There’s no time for questions or concerns. I need to find out what this is and what is happening.
I grab fistfuls of my abundant hair and look down at the marigolds.
Esa is still eyeing the sunset. Lunita is looking at Her still, with pensive eyes of admiration and desire. Marisol acknowledges me.
“Estás de vuelta rápidamente.”
This gathers the attention of the other two.
“I just got Pauly settled, that’s all.”
Esa glances at me, raises her observing eye, and winks. “Did you hear It?”
My jaw clenches. “Hear what?”
Marisol suddenly looks uneasy. “Esa-”
“¡Cállate!” She shakes. “Marisol, I will handle this.”
As if talking marigolds ain’t the craziest shit I’ve seen…
Lunita is still remaining silent, but the glint in her eye is vacant. She looks at the ground, gulping. This can’t be good.
I feel the vortex thickening—so many things spinning fast, coherence diminishing. I can’t put it into words or articulate a thing. I am…
“The truth,” Esa stands tall among the three marigolds, confident. She looks like a jefa. “Or did you not get there yet?”
“I-”
“It takes one crazy thing to know another, chavalla.”
A tear rolls down my cheek.
“What is going on?”
“You are what you fear…”
“E-Esa-”
“Take hold of me, please.”
“E-Esa, p-por favor-”
“Marisol!”
My hand obeys and I take that marigold in my trembling hand.
-
Many years later
“And that’s how I knew I was… Well, different.”
My granddaughter holds the dried marigolds and offers me a sympathetic look.
Maritza must’ve told her already that I’m looney. Shit.
“Do you think they’ll do the same for me?”
Oh?
“The same?”
“Tell me the truth, that is,” my mija wonders, twirling her curly brown hair. “Do you think it’ll tell me if I”m different, too?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
She grabs ahold of the marigolds.
Then, the ancestors deliberate in the Spirit World.
Powder
Powder
By Craig Lowe
Craig Lowe is a creative writer from Greater Manchester. He graduated from Edge Hill University in 2021, having studied creative writing, and has worked voluntarily as a script Reader for a year.
He directed the comedy short film, Six Places I Go On A Walk, and overall loves to write what comes from his heart.
POWDER
By Craig Lowe.
It was really awkward when I walked into the meeting room and saw my twenty-year-old son. This wasn't because he was messing anything up, it was more because there were five other people in the room, who were pointing towards a buttoned up shirt filled with powder, yelling "what the hell just happened to Derrick?!"
It was weird seeing my son as a pile of powder. I mean, I remember holding him as a baby. I was so connected to him in that moment; his eyes were transfixed on what must have been a giant to him.
Looking at the pile of powder now, among the panic, I still felt it was him…My son.
"What the hell?!" Yelled at a copywriter my son knows. "What the hell just happened to him?! Is he… alive?!".
I walked up to the powder and put my ear to it. It alarmed me when I heard a strong heartbeat.
I was curious if he could do anything a human could while powdered. From my pocket I pulled out a serviette, and I asked him to write his name on it.
A few grains of powder moved…. but nothing really came of it.
In the corner of the room sat a plate of danishes. Normally, they'd be gone after half an hour, but they were still. Maybe he was hungry?
“Do you want an apricot one?” I asked my son.
Normally he'd jump at this. He loved Costo cakes so much he wrote Kirkland on his signature, but today there was no reply.
I picked it up anyway and wrapped it in a serviette, putting it in my pocket for if he changed his mind later.
“Hmmm”, I thought to myself. “I need something different. What else could I….
An idea shot up. What if this happened because my son was thirsty? All he ever drank was fizzy drinks, and apart from that he just drank coffee. I always told him to drink more water, but he never liked it.
He'd call it poison, like a bottle of still or sparking was James Bond level torture.
There was always a pitcher in the meeting room and, well, you never know. I poured him a glass, then poured a little over the pile.
“What the hell?!” said a woman wearing a beige dress shirt.
She let out a scream.
“You'll melt him!”
I imagine that when Beth entered the meeting room today, and she saw my son: handsome as ever and ready to work, she assumed it would be a normal day. Finish at five and on the motorway soon enough.
“He's my son! I'll see to him!”
I poured a small amount of water, only a few drops, and…he started to change!
“Stop doing that!” The woman yelled out once again.
“Why?!”
“He might die, you idiot!” The woman said, her voice tangled with fear and anger.
I hesitated and put the water down.
“What would you lot do?” I asked the room.
“Call a doctor!” they all screamed, mostly in unison.
I pulled out my phone and called him. He took forever to reply, and seemed worried when he answered.
“Hello?... John? How did you get my personal…nevermind, is everything ok? ”
“Oh yeah, everything is fine Dr Hall. Weird question, have you ever treated someone who turned into powder?”
The doctor started to cough hard, choking over the phone.
“What! No! John… are you ok?”
“I’m perfectly fine, but my son, well he’s turned into powder”.
Dr Hall was quiet for a few moments. He took a deep breath, muttered the words “God, give me strength”, and then asked me something.
“Erm…right…can you email me some photos, please?”
“Alright…just give me a few minutes”.
I hung up the call and pulled up my camera app. I took a few photos and sent them off.
“John…are you having a laugh? That looks like bloody cleaning powder”.
“It does, and the good stuff also, but no, it’s my son”.
“How in all that is good and holy am I to believe you?”.
Suddenly, the sound of screaming filled the room.
“It's his bloody son!” said one person.
Another screamed “I swear it’s his bloody son…. He just fucking changed!”.
“I tell you what, if I come down there and it's not your son, don’t ever ask me for help again!”
“What If this happens to him again?”, I asked.
“Oh my sweet god” he muttered. “I’ll be there in half an hour”.
I put the phone down.
For the time I had to wait, I sat down beside my son. Before I did sit, I noticed a bit of powder on my seat. I picked it up and placed it gently on the pile. I pulled out the Danish and ripped it in half, giving him a bit but he didn't seem to care.
A short time later and as I held my hand over the bin, dropping the crumbs from the Danish in, Dr Hall’s voice jumped up.
“Oh sweet fuck…. John…. what is going on?!”
I went over to the doctor and shook his hand.
“Just an average day at work…. and my son is powder”.
The doctor looked at the pile in disbelief.
“What do you want me to do here?!”
“Can you check if he’s ok?” I asked.
Dr Hall looked at the people in the room, hoping for common sense to reside with someone. They were all nodding, eyes filled with fear.
He sighed, and pulled out a stethoscope and placed it on the pile. Shock shot through his face; his eyes wide and mouth wide open…he pulled the stethoscope away quickly.
“John, I don’t appreciate pranks”.
“It's no prank”, I said.
Dr Hall was a respected medical professional of 25 years but in all his time he’d never seen something like this.
“Derrick, are you in there?”, the doctor asked.
A strange noise came from the powder, close to a hum. A few seconds later, the doctor noticed something else.
On the floor, spots of red were multiplying. they were dripping from the powder, at an alarmingly fast rate.
“Doctor!” I yelled. “What’s going on?!”
“How would I know?!”
The doctor pulled a tissue from his pocket. He placed it over the bleeding area, and soon the tissue was completely red.
I felt the floor open up under me as I saw him bleed. I couldn't recognise his face, but he was my son, and he was getting worse!
“Doctor! What can we do for him?!”
Dr Hall pulled out a plastic container from his doctors’ bag and scooped up the part that was bleeding.
“I have an idea”, the doctor said. “I know someone; a scientist…. He worked in a research lab. We can take him to her”.
“Let’s get him out of here!”
******
An hour passed, and Dr Hall and I sat on the train. Me and the doctor took turns holding a box full of my son.
“How long until we get there?”, I asked.
“Not that long”, he replied. “Maybe ten minutes”.
I looked inside the bag and saw bloodless powder and this eased my worries.
As we rode the train, I thought about when my son was younger. I remember that he used to love to draw. He’d bring drawings to me, and I’d marvel at them the way any parent does. He made me smile like no other.
When the train stopped, Dr Hall guided me in the right direction. Soon enough I was banging at the door.
“Stop banging!” the woman said.
“Hello, Judy”, said Dr Hall.
We explained the sitch, entered her lab and after we revived her, she instructed me to put him on a nearby table.
Judy opened the box
“What is this?”, Judy asked.
“It’s my son”. My voice was painted with concern.
Her face searched for an expression to use. Eventually, she turned to Dr Hall.
“It’s…. it’s real. It was bleeding”, he said.
Judy looked at me and asked if she could perform an exam.
“As long as you don’t hurt him”.
Dr Judy grabbed a glass slide, and with a tiny scoop she placed a few bits of my son on top.
“There’s….there's a face!”
I pushed my head in. My Christ…. I could see my son. He was fine. He looked well. He was all there, two eyes, a nose, but his frowned something fierce.
I wanted to reach my fingers onto the glass slide, pinch the powder, and pull my son out… but I was terrified.
“What the fuck is this?!” said Judy.
Dr Hall shrugged his shoulders.
Judy grabbed her phone. She moved to a computer and opened up a video call with 8 people. From a large screen on the wall I could see a collection of people, all mid 50s and wearing white lab coats.
A basket full of voices spoke to Judy. They all asked one question. “What is this?”
“It’s a powder, but when I examined it, It had a human face”.
The people on the call spoke to each other, probably trying to determine if what Judy was talking about could've been something they had seen previously. It was a short talk.
I burst in and spoke.
“It’s my son”.
One of the group spoke to me.
“What do you mean it’s your son?!” he asked.
“It was my boy earlier today”.
The group broke into raucous laughter.
“Wait a minute!” Dr Hall shouted. “It’s true, I didn’t believe it at first, but it’s a real person. I’m Dr Hall and I run my own medical practice. This powder bled, and I…I saw signs of life.
The group continued to laugh, and after a few seconds they all said goodbye and hung up.
“Well I guess that’s it”, said Dr Hall.
“If this is a prank, I'm going to kill you” said Judy, with a look that could kill.
“Judy…I’m sorr-”
Out of nowhere, the powder started to move.
“Son! What are you doing?”
It sped off, going like an Olympian.
Five hours later I found him. I'd run all through town, through a business park, past a bingo hall, and when I saw him again he was sitting in a pile…with a picture of my wife.
‘I…I miss her dad”, said the pile.
My heart skipped a beat.
“Son! You can speak!” I said with a smile.
I gave him a loving pat on the back, well on the pile…and a smile formed.
“I've not been the same since she went”.
It’s smile was more alive than I'd felt in a long time. He was here again, a white smile so real looking that it looked like he was simply hiding. Stuck in a mess but still there.
“I nearly fell to pieces too, son”.
The sand formed into a hard clump, heart shaped.
“Will it get better, Dad?”
“I…in time, Son. I…I don't act the same way anymore. I don't laugh the same, I don't enjoy things much at all… but we're getting there…aren't we?”
The clump of powder smiled again.
“I don't feel real”.
“You're still here”.
I put my son in a plastic bin bag, and as I took him outside I heard a rustle.
“You okay, son?”
His hand, five fingers made of powder, burst through the bag…and I smiled.
Broken Shimmering Debris and Curative Elixir
Broken Shimmering Debris and Curative Elixir
By Alecia Lewis
Alecia is a poet who has worked her magic on stage, and behind the scenes, for various local theater groups. She has taken part in open mic nights both in person and virtually. Her works have been published in LSUA’s 2023 and 2025 Verbatim, Mythulu Magazine, The Underland Review and the Bayou Blues and Red Clay Poetry Anthology. She was January 2025’s featured poet in 318 Central digital magazine. She was crowned Poet Laureate in Poetry AEX’s 2025 scavenger hunt. She is grateful and blessed for all the inspiration, guidance, and support that she receives.
Curative Elixir
The prescription is
Allowing time to pass.
Weathering fierce months
By floating as a ghost
Through weeks of dismantled survival.
Screaming and wailing,
Along with lamented hysteria,
A heralded comeback is found within
The sealed scratching of wounds.
Then one day,
Draped in the armor of
Blazing splendor,
With transparent eyes,
Open heart and focused mind,
Leaning into the epiphany:
The divine magic and power are within.
The Wall (sin)/Envious
The Wall (sin)/Envious
By Munyai Tshifhiwa Hellen
Munyai Tshifhiwa Hellen is a 19 year old girl who is currently doing her first year in Journalism at Rhodes university is South Africa. She enjoys reading books and she's curious about history and lots of things. She enjoys watching romance movies and listening to music (current favourite artist is AURORA) .
THE WALL (SIN)
There is a will within me
There is a wall between me and the creator
I lay bricks every two weeks
Then try to break them down, like a bulldozer
It's easy to build the wall
But difficult to make them fall
The desire in me battles to be free
They say an apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I inherited their stubbornness
Then become lifeless
I hear his soft voice
I am reckless with my choices
Everyday I move further and further
As this wall gets higher and wider
My faith light as a feather
The truth I seek
The love I need
The empty hole that is black
All the things I lack
Exist beside the wall
But I can't seem to get there
Because I continue to lay the bricks
ENVIOUS
If you called me envious
I would tell you you're being ridiculous
I am surely virtuous
I am a good person I could never have such feelings and thoughts
But I am also a human being
I am envious
I am envious
Of those who have both parents
I am envious
Of those who have a present father
I am envious
Of those who have full support
I am envious
Of those who have made it
I am envious
Of those who have a perfect body even though I know very well it doesn't exist
I am envious
Of people who have it all together even though I know it is not always like that
I am envious
Of a home,a perfect family
I am envious
Of a household who is rich filthy
I am envious
Of those who are multi talented
I am envious
Of those who had great opportunities
I am envious
You are envious
Though I am virtuous
I feel envious towards those things
I am guilty of enviousness
Yelling the words I never could
Yelling the words I never could
By Udaya Tushara Sudanagunta
She’s made of poems, plot twists, and panic attacks. Runs on coffee, sarcasm, and dramatic overthinking. Turns life’s chaos into art. Armed with a pen, wit, and a suspicious number of notebooks, she writes poems from life’s messes—mostly after 1 a.m., when her mysterious alter ego takes over.
Dim yellow lights,
Dusky quiet.
Hardened paint spills,
Half-finished faces,
Painters lost in their strokes—
Not minding the visitors.
The air was still,
Thick with the scent of charcoal
And oil pastels.
Bundles of canvas in a corner,
Easels lined along the walls.
A small stage—
For a nude model to lie down.
Floors polished,
Walls sooty.
My eyes wandered—
Bright ones, dull ones,
Colorful splashes.
But there—afar—she looked at me.
A girl of eight.
Maybe nine.
Perhaps ten.
No sound—
Just her.
I looked around.
No one beside me.
She was there,
Calling me.
I stood, unsure of what I’d seen
And what was happening—
I walked closer.
Her chin—
That small, trembling chin—
Moved me.
It cracked something open.
A buried part of me stirred.
My childhood surfaced.
My difference returned.
I screamed inside,
Yelling the words I never could
As a child.
I yelled,
Yelled,
And yelled.
I cried—
On the verge of collapse within.
Then my cousin’s voice
Cut through—
Calling my name,
Urging me to hurry.
And I realized:
I was at the art gallery.
The adult me.
I gathered myself,
Gave one last glance at her.
The portrait ended at her chest,
But I knew.
She was disabled.
Just like me.
I walked home.
Slept.
But 2 a.m. cracked me open again.
She returned—
That silent pull.
Her faint skin,
Chin,
Cheeks,
Eyes,
Hair,
Neck.
A mirror of me.
I had to see her again.
Why the World Owes Taylor Swift an Apology (And Why I Judge People Based on Their Opinion of Her)
Why the World Owes Taylor Swift an Apology (And Why I Judge People Based on Their Opinion of Her)
By Ekam Bedi
Ekam Bedi is a teenage writer, poet and artist. She first got into poetry at age 10 by reading William Wordsworth and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, she now writes herself. Ekam is also a coffee and a public speaking enthusiast.
It's not every day that a 14-year-old girl from a Christian family in Reading, Pennsylvania, becomes a sensation in the music industry, even more so when that little girl grows up to be both a country and a pop star.
Taylor Swift’s success may have been rapid, but the reason behind her highly impressive 15-year-old career lies strictly in the fact that she has pure talent and a genuine love for fans. Clever marketing techniques, a good public image, a soulful voice, and a gift of storytelling landed Miss Swift her long-term success. However, she isn’t always praised.
Critiques of her music are rather reasonable people, those for whom her music doesn’t speak to, but hating her simply based off of her sheer popularity and a deeply protective fan base is utterly wrong.
When teenage boys, unaware of her true and good personality, her charity work, her humbleness, and her raw songwriting talent, dismiss her to seem cool, it doesn’t quite sit right with me. Same for the popular girls who poke fun at the 35-year-old billionaire simply to seem cool and fit in.
I’d like to tell them that hating a successful woman doesn’t make you any cooler than you already are. However, this is just my opinion.
Reasons are what they are—for, well, a reason! Disliking her music or not connecting with her or simply not having an opinion on her is absolutely fine. It’s the hurtful jabs and sneers of people—that’s the real problem.
Grievanced hate does not affect her, no, but it affects those young girls who sing her songs in their bedroom. It belittles those teenagers (girls or boys) who got into writing or music or poetry because of her. It hurts the creatives, it hurts the artists, but mostly, it hurts those for whom her music was a lifeline in difficult times.
So the next time you want to, without reason, belittle or make fun of Taylor Swift or her music, remember that it’s not the confident adult woman you’re affecting, but people (just like you) that you are hurting.
Has The Need to Look Good Led to Everyone Looking Alike?
Has The Need to Look Good Led to Everyone Looking Alike?
By Ekam Bedi
Ekam Bedi is a teenage writer, poet and artist. She first got into poetry at age 10 by reading William Wordsworth and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, she now writes herself. Ekam is also a coffee and a public speaking enthusiast.
Aesthetic sense and objects have overtaken our social media feeds for the past few years, and now they have reached into our lives too. They grabbed onto the devastating trend of consumerism in the 21st century and pulled themselves into even our simple daily lives. Whether it’s an attention-grabbing claw clip in the shape of a magnolia flower (you know the exact one that I’m talking about), or the trend of delicate Pinterest-worthy gold jewelry, bows on anything and everything, and the audacious amount of the same furniture that I’ve seen in almost a thousand influencers’ bedrooms.
Trends sure have their moments, but now, due to the high and impressive usage of social media apps such as Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, etc., things have escalated to the point where they have gotten out of control.
I fear the soon-coming day when everyone is going to have the same exact accessories and items. The same baggy jeans that I’ve seen all the girls (and the guys!) wear, those Hailey Bieber triple-hooped gold earrings, those greige straight-fitting pants that everyone seems to have, and do not get me started on every single girl ever having the same lip products!
Whether I’m sitting in class at school, going to a café, traveling abroad, or being at the airport, I swear I’ve seen girls and women alike take out and apply either their Rhode or Laneige lip glosses.
Now, dear reader, it is a little painful for me to admit that I, too, am one of those girls with those exact same lip glosses. In fact, I own three. I apologize for my hypocrisy, for I strongly believe that following a trend or buying something that is popular and reliable isn’t bad. It’s simply the fact that…
Everyone’s now more alike—the same clothes, the exact same makeup, the same hairstyles, and even similar-looking houses. I guess I miss the ravenous individuality that people used to have. But there is still hope, I believe.
For each Sephora kid, there exists a woman using French skincare (whose names she can actually pronounce). For every Shein girl, there are people who shop at thrift stores and have the most personality-filled wardrobes. I give my wholehearted respect to those people—you have to know that I deeply admire you.
Me, however—well, right now I’m happy with paint-stained blue-green tees and my sweaters from Zara.
Metamorphosis
Metamorphosis
By Rayya Nasir
Rayya Nasir is a literary enthusiast in her last year of highschool. At the ripe age of eleven, she found solace in expressing herself through poetry and prose, and she hasn't looked back since.
Ghosts of adolescence plague my present, stain my past, and imperil my future; this haunting is welcome.
all I was, made me what I am
As my features hardened and locs went dark, my tastes were not exempt from this metamorphosis.
The wings I adorn now, salvaged from the frame I once called mine. I escape from the solace of melodies and affinities that sheltered me at my weakest. They reside within me still; no longer the mainstay of my identity.
All the music I loved at 16 I've grown out of, but if you ventured into my heart, you'd find it in a little box decorated with the remenants of who I was.
Bubbles
Bubbles
By Pamela Seth L. Roazul
Pamela Seth L. Roazul, also known as June, is an incoming first-year STEM student/writer who is still trying to figure out life one step at a time. Some of her aspirations include becoming a published author, researcher, and a recognized environmental conservationist. To know more about her, she is incredibly fond of Avatar and Whale Sharks. Furthermore, she has a great liking for novels that tackle the nuances of being human, as she believes these human experiences shape who we are today. The authors she loves very much are the following: Nicholas Sparks, R.F. Kuang, and David Nicholls. She is incredibly thankful to God for the gifts He’s given her (although it causes her an existential crisis sometimes) and would love to give credit to Him for all her achievements. Don’t ask her to tell a joke, though. She’s bad at that.
If I became a sinless, perfect, unflawed being,
And perhaps, the heavens would take pity on me,
Allow me to be reborn into someone, something else,
I would wake up iridescent, slippery, slimy, only existing by chance because a human kid decided to open up a plastic container, an eyesore from the meshing of a variety of colors, labelled “Bubbles”.
Then, I would be pretty;
I’d reflect the golden rays of the sun, the blue hues of the sky, a smidge of green mixed in from grass, and the funny reflection of the kid staring up at me with awe because my beauty is one that they'd be willing to see again and again and again — until it's time to go home from the park.
What a foolish little thing.
But then, I'd also have the ability to make others happy without even trying.
That my small fragile form could make little ones happy because I existed, and not because I served them on my knees, similar to how humans would their masters —
If I was a bubble, they wouldn't be my masters, and I wouldn’t be their servant. We would only be souls mingling with one another briefly, without reason, without meaning.
And then, I also won't have to live another excruciating life. Decades full of suffering and pain that took away all the life out of me, that I lived as an empty vessel, alive yet ceasing to exist at the same time. If I became a bubble, I would be pretty for a few seconds, make kids happy for that little while, and without even lasting a minute on Earth, I would be gone.
Therefore, to the heavens I plead, if in this life I am a sinner, unforgivable; imagine all the tears I've shed, the burdens I have had to carry this lifetime as compensation, free me of my suffering,
And in my next life let me live as a bubble. Lovely, graceful, delightful, and fleeting.
To The One I Feel at Home
To The One I Feel at Home
By Florina Konwar
She loves to write. Sometimes to figure out what she is thinking and sometimes to create something fabulous that inspires others.
"It is a love poem for the "One" as gift. The poem expresses how his eyes, smile, voice and strength brings soothing, warmth and sense of comfort. It captures serenity and emotional refuge found in love. "
Eyes so pretty that make my heart ache
So deep that scars to be lost forever,
Mending every mars in me.
A gaze so mild, the pair of eyes
A rare elixir to mine.
His smile,
The morning sunlight to my skin,
Oust away the chills.
Soothes my heart, the smile
feels like a warm hug.
The enchanting hunky voice
makes me forget every scar,
every dent in me.
Serene as breeze, euphonious
As the waves on midnight shore.
He stands strong in hazard.
Presences of him feels home,
Where every worries dispel into his arm.
A cozy meadow, sun-dappled,
Where I can ease in solace.
Time is what we make of it
Time is what we make of it
By Jeny Samuel
Jeny is a 17-year-old college student with a passion for learning. She has a lot of opinions, but is not a pushover. She loves reading, writing and is a foodie. She also enjoys watching movies and cultural think pieces based on them. She is an organised mess and loves animals, especially dogs.
"This concept of this poem came to me while I was researching the lesser-known definition of golden hour. The well-known meaning aside, the golden hour can be used to define the period of time immediately after an injury, during which first-aid can basically save a life.
My poem imagines us, those who waste and use time according to our whims, thinking Time works at our beck and call, and we watch as the main character realises the cost of this arrogance."
Time Is What We Make Of It
4:03 AM
Time is what we make of it, I say, unaware of who I have angered.
Time is mine to squander, mine to waste, mine to ruin.
The irony is not lost on me, trying to reach for my phone.
No blood, no sign of anything amiss.
Just a piece of food stuck in my throat.
Time is not on my side.
Its beauty visible through the half-drawn curtains,
The sun in hues of orange like spilt ink.
A lopsided view, buildings poking out of the ground like needles.
I called my friends, none picked up.
Called the ambulance, and dared to hope.
There was a rogue traffic jam, ruining people’s days and others’ lives.
Time is a powerful enemy.
The clock seems to laugh, displaying 5:03 AM
It was such an untimely death, the neighbour cries.
We are what time makes us.
Consequence of the Divine
Consequence of the Divine
By Deepti Aksharra
Deepti Aksharra is a sophomore in Genetics and English Literature and enjoys debate and meticulously curated playlists.
I tell mom god isn’t real, or alive
Mom frowns. “Apologize!” she yells. “Oh, fine!”—
in another life, as friends, we would live—
I am ten years old, while the god is nine.
Angel, a hellbent comet, makes maize bud;
soft flesh painfully curl into their spines.
The farmer sighs and cleans kernel and blood,
says, it’s a consequence of the divine.
White milk pours and flows down her clay breast
into the mouths of children by her feet.
A hundred silent goats trapped in wool nests;
the first black goat kneels and makes its last bleat.
A witness to them, although they are dead,
scapegoat god, she devours them as they bled.
hunger is wrong, i think
hunger is wrong, i think
By Amy Lu
Amy Lu is a 16-year-old from Vancouver, British Columbia. She enjoys reading fiction of the classical or dystopian genre, writing poetry and calligraphy. Her own writing draws inspiration from the likes of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the Bronte sisters and Maya Angelou. Outside of writing, Amy is most likely found hanging out with her friends or watching too much television.
the word for hunger
in my mother tongue
is the same as evil
do people become
hungry because they are evil
or are they evil because they hunger?
they sound the same
coming from my
mother’s tongue
is it wrong to hunger
To want for more
than i have now?
or is it just a phase
all young women have
until they settle with a ring and babies?
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