Art

A universe of the mind - Mahnoor Fatima

Cold and Flame - Minahil Tariq

A new beginning - Khaula Farooq 

Writing

Your Voice, My Atlas - Petra Vann

It Refuses to Leave - Tanisha Amar Ahuja

Time - Stepan Kopeykin

Survival of the Fittest - Sachin Sivakumar 

In Front of the Mirror - Ali Mohammadi

She Didn't Fear the Flame, She Became the Fire - Meerub Tariq

Panem et Cicerens - Om Patel

Echoing Ember - Meerub Tariq

New Years - Emilija Paleckytė

Untouched - Shukti Sharma 

The Curious Case of the Strange €2 Coin and The Mad Child - Joshua King

I Stand Strong - Fiona JY Luan

By Petra Vann

Petra is an aspiring Sri-Lankan-Kiwi writer navigating identity, language, emotion, and the chaos of her own imagination. Somewhere between deadlines, daydreams, and cups of tea, she's chasing the hope that one day the words will behave. 

How did this happen? 

God, forgive me. 

Your voice. 

When you speak, I can't help but listen. 

Love at first sight? No. 

Love at first speech, though? Perhaps. 

One minute you're Sangakkara, 

the cricketer - 

poised, dignified. 

The next, your vowels turn you into 

a bloke having a snag.

Suddenly Indian, Malaysian, somehow… British. 

It shouldn’t make sense, but it does - 

every place you’ve lived has left a melody in your voice,  

a map my heart cannot help but follow.  

And that’s just in English, mate: 

an amalgamation of cultures - intriguing,

a mosaic of places - endearing. 

If the world were an audio book, 

your accent would be the perfect narrator. 

But then your ‘Marma side’ surfaces. 

I mean, you’re not old, 

but your diction is ancient - 

and it’s the funniest thing. 

You always have a bone to pick with my generation: 

first it’s this ChatGPT ruining young brains, 

then you’re asking if anyone’s fallen in love. 

Is that an awkward conversation? 

You’re an idiot for that. 

And somehow, I’m smiling. 

I look at your photo, books in hand. 

You’re actually the cutest, the sweetest. 

I swear, all I want is to wrap my arms around you

and hear your thoughts.  

And I know you have them. 

You care deeply - for your people, your country.

You hold the world with a fierce compassion 

most never will, 

a love borrowed from deep within the Ramayana, 

smiled upon by Rama and Sita themselves.

But the world I’m drawn to - 

the one I’ve fallen for - 

is yours. 

You answer every thought, comment, word 

with intention, with heart,  

and that’s beautiful. 

At least to me. 

I remember what you said about intimacy - 

if anyone is lucky enough to have it. 

A piece of me broke with you that day. 

You think you’re not the easiest on the eyes. 

But when I look at you, I see soft, kind eyes. 

And while you can’t smile for a photo to save your life, 

the real thing is something special to behold. 

Like your mother’s, actually. 

I wish I saw it more. 

And your laugh - 

oh my days, your laugh. 

A soft chuckle, a symphony for my heart. 

Precious. 

Of course you meet the lover’s criteria -  

intelligent, funny, kind, caring…

I could list every virtue and mean every word,

but at the end of the day, it’s simpler than that: 

when you’re me, loving you is inevitable. 

Does that make any sense?

Sometimes even I don't understand it. 

I just don’t know how not to love you.

By Stepan Kopeykin

Stepan Kopeykin (he/him) is a writer who was born in Russia and grew up in Moscow and Los Angeles. He has lived in four states and visited over thirty and is currently based out of Pennsylvania. A current staff writer at the University of Pittsburgh's school paper, he hopes to graduate with a degree in neuroscience. He runs a personal Substack page.

   runs out fear in time

                        without type shit

                        without the cyber future

                                        without your stupid games

                        i see it all as something foreign

                        in eighteenth century words

                                        which no one has the 

                        fucking capacity

                        to live

                        to die

                        we float in oceans of pure 

                        sublime 

                        sublime

                                        fake

                                                                          the neuroscience of it all

                        isnt it all a fad

                        or is the future

                        within the willpower to live

                        a life

                        so full of wonder

                        that death

                        seems to float in

                        the space above

                        the sun's supposed limits

                                                                          i lost something so dear

                                                                          which most dont do might will never have

By Ali Mohammadi

Ali Mohammadi is 22 years old and a medical student at Qazvin University of Medical Sciences in Iran. In the mornings, he lives among people; at night, he spends time with a cup of tea and a bit of solitude, lost in his own world. He is amazed at how he himself is also an actor on this cinematic stage and in this scenario—a show called Modern Civilization. This performance aims to eliminate philosophy, thought, needs, love, and sacrifice. To put it simply, he lives and seeks simplicity, yet he loves everything complex—even a twisted piece of pasta. That is why his poetry is intricate and convoluted, tangled with various themes.

In front of the mirror,  

I see myself once again.  

This time after twenty-two years,  

After twenty-two hours,  

I forget about the minutes,  

After twenty-two seconds,  

But just a little before twenty-two centuries.  

I run a comb of fatigue  

over the gray ash of my youthful hair,  

amid the dust rising from them.  

I see the destiny of this youth—  

loneliness,  

the death of loved ones,  

the extinction and destruction of this existence.  

This existence,  

that makes futile efforts to survive.  

I see the decline of modern human civilization,  

I see the destruction of faith,  

the worth of a human being,  

the spears of love and sacrifice.  

I see the eventual fate  

of the migrating birds,  

in an image captured in the last half-century,  

from the wetlands.  

I see  

a man,  

a woman,  

hand in hand,  

lovingly standing on wooden bridges,  

on bridges of antiquity and lack of technology.  

In a world where,  

a red flower’s value is just a red flower,  

a phone was made to feel and listen to feelings,  

not for domination.  

I see cars,  

for enjoying the journey,  

for reaching,  

not for flying,  

not for luxury,  

not for pride.  

I see  

beyond the mirror,  

a little farther ahead,  

a future that could have been but  

was not.  

A world where  

there is no poverty.  

True justice is a balance,  

not built for entertainment,  

or for sculptors and engravers to earn.  

Yes.  

My ashes fall onto the pot before me,  

O young seed,  

rise slowly.  

Here, the destiny of every  

green—is autumn.  

I shake off depression,  

under the ashtray of existential matters.  

I sit indifferently,  

watching my self-made world,  

born from the greed of these thoughtful two-legged creatures.  

Sometimes I also cough.  

It’s no problem.  

Death is more beautiful to me than  

being alive, where every moment,  

a dove chick dies somewhere in the world.  

The oxygen share of the ants  

has been eaten by termites.  

An old, poor man  

breaks beside his wife’s photograph.  

But Ms. X,  

still  

thinks about her aristocratic red fox scarf.

By Om Patel

Om Patel is a Canadian satirist.

Panem et Circenses

We call them fake, then beg them to be real

Cried at their breakup though we never met

I track their lives to escape my own ordeal

I follow their accounts with religious zeal

Bread and circuses? Latte and Coachella now appeal

We call them fake, then beg them to be real

An infatuation with a group of pixels- so surreal

Years of wasted time, nothing but regret

I track their lives to escape my own ordeal

I binged their mom’s grief, while mine fought for breath- concealed

I couldn’t say goodbye to her- my phone updated

We call them fake, then beg them to be real

No urn for my mom, the yeezys had a better feel

I lost custody- what’s his name? She feels like my kid, North West

I track their lives to escape my own ordeal

I watched their lives until mine disappeared

My personality was just a copy, a silhouette 

We call them fake, then beg them to be real

I track their lives to escape my own ordeal 

By Emilija Paleckytė

Emilija Elena Paleckytė (Emilija Elena as referred on the internet ) is a multitalented, innovative creative blending art, culture, writing and bold self-expression to craft a global legacy. Her journey began with pure self-expression through early art - and evolved into a life devoted to pushing creative boundaries and shaping a new wave of never-seen-before originality.

Over the years, she has grown into a fearless experimenter, constantly exploring new creative outlets and reinventing herself with each chapter. By the age of 21, Emilija had already made her mark across multiple industries, proving that passion and vision know no limits. She is a powerhouse creator committed to leaving a mark that lasts beyond a lifetime.

Her mission is to create something eternal - something others can use, be inspired by, and build upon for generations to come. Emilija is here to change the world through the power of creativity - and she’s just getting started.

Droplets quiet,

Little steps,

I'm growing,

I'm not mess,

Full of pride – 

I can't hide,

Full & beautiful –

Inside.

I am power,

I am patience,

What comes with me,

Takes on big heights,

It is cold,

But I'm still blooming –

Stop a second,

I'll be booming.

New waves coming,

Splash of colors,

We're going like no other.

Starting quiet,

Little steps –

I am all,

& Nothing less.

By Joshua King

Joshua King is a writer from Dundalk, Ireland. His poetry explores the quiet, everyday moments that shape the world around him, drawing on old towns, passing faces, and Irish cultural life. His work has found a wide readership on social media, where he shares new poems regularly, and he is now seeking to expand his presence in print and other media as his voice continues to develop.

He draws inspiration equally from lived experience and from the writers who first taught him to love language. His influences include Paul Durcan, Gareth Owen, Francis Ledwidge, Paula Meehan and Wendy Cope, as well as local voices such as Micheal McDermott and Sydney Bernard Smith.

The Curious Case of the Strange €2 Coin

I’ve seen the common harp, the crest,

even flower, and the odd face,

all from the noughties until now—but still,

none struck me quite as much as how out of place

that one seemed.

That one—yes, that one—mingled among my change

from the canteen lady, in the purchase of a scone

at lunchtime. Which we then both unmingled

from the rattling lot, as she made her curiosity known.

While in silence and intrigue, we quietly singled

her out.

That little, well-travelled lady from that old Ottoman land,

the mother of the Chalcolithic age—the Idol of Pomos—

who had come all this way by great fate to end up in my hand

on this strange €2 coin from 2008.

And in bilingual relief, the amazing name

of her prominent country of origin,

with the trail she had been blazing in flame:

ΚΥΠΡΟΣ — Kıbrıs.

We had both been staring into her now

for God knows how long, so perhaps tomorrow

I’ll go buy another scone with this very coin,

and recount the lore from this very poem

of the woman who became Cyprus’ own.

                                                                   ***

The Mad Child

after Manchán Magan

“I was a misfit, I was an oddball.

I was a deliciously happy child.”

— Manchán Magan

He is not that often seen among the coalition parties of the classroom,

for he is not like those playing chequers; he is instead playing chess.

Unlike the rest — all wearing belts — he wears braces.

And like a Neolithic bohemian,

in his paint-stained shirt, coming directly from art class —

a true king of the corridors.

He stumbles into the canteen,

showing everyone his approach to the query: Are you crazy?

An age-old question, answered in two parts—each with its own formula.

Mad, yes. Crazy, no.

M² + A² = D², and X = “No.”

Perhaps old Samuel was right —

“We are all born mad; some remain so.”