By Aida Delano

Aida is an 18-year old poet from Massachusetts, currently a freshman in college. 

heaven

sometimes at night that summer we’d

find open fields we’d watch the fireflies glow and we would

escape the slurs in the high school parking lot we 

wouldn’t touch a cigarette then 

but just like a drag

i would whisper in her ear about things forbidden

about

the reasons why fearing yourself is a dangerous game

especially in the countryside here where 

our hearts and our 

souls, even one at a time, are weapons 

and our love is an inextinguishable fire-

the combination makes them scared

i said you have to understand this

and we have to remember why we have been rafts in

unending oceans for so long here where in reality

the highways stretch out, and the towns are small

their words are wild storms we float through

she said, maybe heaven is this without that

By Sourima Rana

Sourima Rana is an aspiring poetess with a postgraduate degree in English Literature. An avid reader, she loves reviewing books, analyzing films and paintings, and writing poems and songs. Her poems have been published by The Write Order and Gabby & Min publications and are forthcoming in the Katherine Mansfield Yearbook in 2024. She loves caring for animals in her spare time.

"A 10-line rhymed verse, using synesthesia, the autumnal imagery to convey the heartbreak of lost love!"

Leaves

Strewn daintily on the ground, they lie,

Little colorful pieces of autumn, and I

With my heart equally brittle and broken,

Wait for the breeze to echo the words spoken –

Whispered to you on the verge of leaving,

The wind singing in symphony to my grieving

Heart’s chaos. You left without a sound

Except for your feet crushing my heart down;

Yet I kept waiting, tearfully watching the sky

Turn sad as all the sunset colors faded from my eyes.

By Ray Castellos

"Hello, my name is Ray. I thought poetry was stupid a couple of years ago, and now I don't think I could live without it."

Down it goes

The tears

The sad

The "you're not good enough"

The "you shouldn't be here"

All down the drain

Drowning everyone

Everything

Anything out

Numbing it all 

Making you feel

Free

Like you can breathe again

Like you were never hurt

Like it never happened

But it did

That drink

Will never be enough 

To make it go away

By Maryama Hussein,

a 17-year-old writer who wishes to give the world small marvels.

IS IT,

MOM BRINGS UP A PLATE OF CUT PINEAPPLE AFTER A FIGHT,

OR MAYBE CUBED MANGOES OR WATERMELON,

THAT CHOKES YOU UP MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE?

MAYBE FRUIT WAS INVENTED FOR THIS, 

FOR UNSAID WORDS & SETTLING THE DUST AFTER RAGE BLOWS THROUGH,

saying HERE, I’M SORRY, LET ME FEED YOU, LET ME WORK FOR YOU.

AFTER ALL THIS LIFE, AGAIN THE REVELATION, 

OF JUST HOW MUCH WE CLUTCH AT EACH OTHER,

WE’RE ALL OUTSTRETCHED HANDS,

THESE VITAL HANDS.

By Maxmilian Koudelka

 Is an eighteen-year-old Czech and Australian author who enjoys all things spooky and mysterious. If you search hard enough, you may find him lurking in the shadowy corners of Instagram at @maxmilian_koudelka. 

The house on Charles Square,

Is quiet. Dark.

And through the burnt holes in the ceiling,

I see straight into Heaven.

And as I see,

I think;

Isn’t it all

A careful sequence of bargains?

Freedom for knowledge,

A box in your mind.

Pain for birth,

One of a kind.

Death for peace

On the battlefield.

And tears of remorse,

That the rich never feel. 

A penny for bread,

My soul for love.

Why must we pay

To stay alive?

So please,

Is it not enough

To simply exist,

My dear Mephistopheles?

It is the bitter irony of life,

And it is hard to chew.

So I retch,

And I spit it out.

It is so very strange.

I cannot help but think,

My life has been

A Faustian Exchange. 

By Mariam Bukia

Mariam Bukia is a 15-year-old student from Georgia. She is active and open to challenges because she thinks the world is a playground of unlimited possibilities. She works as a general manager, project manager, PR manager, young teacher, head of the personnel department, book club leader, and speaker in educational organizations. She writes poems, stories, and sketches because, in this way, she feeds the garden of her thoughts and ideas with sunlight. She thinks that writing is the harmony of her life and loves the time when she can stay with the pen. She is inspired by traveling by bus and observing people and events. She loves reading, playing the guitar, literature, the old, magical spirit of the library, herbarium, and originality.

The story -  "Lemon-colored Shards of Sunshine" -  skillfully penetrates the labyrinth of the reader's heart and fills it with a pleasant, pearly fog. It is as beautiful as the flowers of early spring on the soft snow, the life-green grass underfoot, and the sound of distant stars on summer nights.

"Lemon-colored shards of sunshine" 

She wore beautiful velvet dresses. I was always fascinated by her calm, harmonious swing on the always calmly waiting wooden terrace of the sunny house, and all this reminded me of the scale of life. And she was the only person who could be on one side of life sometimes, and sometimes on another; she was the only person who was far from time and who was not wearing a wristwatch... By the way, she taught me how to tell time on a watch; I was listening attentively, and when, filled with enthusiasm, I proudly told her and myself that I had recognized the arrangement of the clock hands at half past six, she asked me in an unusually calm voice never to use watch... No, this was unusually quiet for me, and she lived with this brilliant beacon all her life. Even now, I see myself clearly, even now I feel my little eyes widen, but I smiled. She smiled at me, too. I remember this moment as a ray of sunshine and a unique example of sincerity.  

    I remember her colorful blanket delicately woven with threads of happiness, smile, gold, lavender, and dandelions. I also remember when she showed me a photo of her youth and regretfully noted that it was black and white, but I could see her cotton-candy-colored cheeks and blue eyes like the absorbing stream of eternity... I also remember that she stopped my grandfather, who was mowing the lawn, when he managed to pluck the only poppy,  then I saw that she kept it in a small box with a bilious expression and put it on the top of the closet, at the farthest point, so that I have not seen it since. I have always believed that life is one open book with a thousand characters... Many are similar to each other, but she is a nightingale, always different and like a fairy who carries magic dust with her and is loved by everyone. ...I don't know about everyone, but I loved her so much. It was she who taught me that when you need a dress for a sophisticated meeting, and you have to choose between black and white, you should always choose yellow! I was always mesmerized by her hair bows, that was tucked away in drawers, glimmering gracefully from a curious but forgotten drawer... As soon as her fingers were touching them, both sides were falling into the past at the same time and the pearls attached to a bracelet and those two, beautiful eyes were starting shining; this had amazing, charming power. ...But the whole glory lay in the fact that this grace was revealing in absolutely natural details and not in firmly written scenarios, in familiar stories, often played out in front of little girls, like the scene of buying ice cream for the child. I never liked people who bought me ice cream, because, among the delicious eye-catching ones in the transparent glass refrigerator, they always chose the most expensive one. Among them, I loved vanilla ice cream, and I always equated chocolate with fakeness, and with people in general, because it is impossible to determine its exact taste, sometimes it is bitter, and sometimes it is the opposite. Here's vanilla- it's always the same, it's irreplaceable, and it leaves the tase of summer syrup and winter snow on the tongue. At this time, I close my eyes and imagine myself unfurling the milky sails with both hands and looking at a flock of seagulls in the sky blue like an eternity. They bought chocolate ice cream. We both loved vanilla.The most delicious were our desserts made together, which had been collected in a notebook with already unrolled pages full of recipes diligently collected a thousand years ago; and then, I was marveling at the deliciousness that would come from bringing these drops of ink to life. At such times, we never regretted an accidentally broken egg and a disproportionate amount of sugar, because too much sweetness in life doesn't hurt anything. ....And I liked my grandfather's crescent moon smile towards me, which, I know for fact, was brighter than any celestial body, even though I had never been to the moon before. Both of my grandparents are like the sun scattered in lemon-colored fragments in my mind - they are simple, special and unique. They are like grass dew, in the morning, when you touch them with your feet, you feel an inimitable, mystical power, and it seems that just passing through them once is enough to live with this light for the rest of your life.

Grandma didn't like memories. She lived in the present. Or, no _ she loved her beautiful past so much, that she did not even try to recall them, she tried to revive them; and at this time, she looked like a pretty little girl, dressed in sunlight dress that carelessly was chasing the butterflies scattered on the meadow.

I saw her youth. I fitted the equipment and together we have dived into the wonderful vortex of wonder. Her life was like a firefly - it may be small, but inimitably brilliant. Besides, fireflies also shine at night.

Every morning with them was special and varied. No, we didn't hike the mountains every day and spend the days in a pyramid-shaped tent, but we could sit comfortably in a time machine, and travel in past and forth. All this was so wonderful that we could even ignore the ear-splitting hum of the engine. Yes, we were travelling to the future, and we were talking a lot about reality and inevitability, but I never imagined that in the glorious garden of life that little, sloppy child would be walking that was carelessly picking colorful, most unique flowers. 

   My fairy turned grey, rested quietly on the meadow green as eternity, and as the flattering wind faded, she scattered like a dandelion in the light-filled, rose-scented space.

     I think of her often, and it always brings a smile to my lips. At this time, I go to the garden - I water my poppies.

By Cairo Evans

Cairo Evans is a student from Utah. She enjoys making short films, skateboarding, and creating poetry. She is the founder of Abducted Cow magazine. You can find her work in various magazines 

I hold her

She is the brittle leaf, 

bundled underneath my scarves, coat, and careful

December crunches instead of pats,

wind is sprinting, splintering

Each snap is a snap of suspense, 

she is so deep beneath the layers

I’m half expecting her to be withered away 

Only miles left two go, a journey and a half

until I may free her and let her soar

Each twig that breaks shatters my heart

I could not save them this time

I could never save her anytime

By Aru Shukla

Aru Shukla is a nineteen-year-old writer from Bengaluru, India. She is a student of History, Economics and Political Science and hence, her favorite genres to read and write in are historical and fantasy fiction. In poetry, she tends towards naturalist themes. Her book "On an Empty Stomach," which is a collection of 21 poems, was recently published in December 2023. 

The ships depart like the sun 

And ride the sea into the moon 

The loudness of their being 

Like the blinding farewell of day 

Hulls, sails and large ebbing melancholy

Pink, tangerine and you, the savior 

Of caramel horizons 

From the fast reaching invaders 

Carrying forward in blue and gray 

And we must spectate the going-away 

Our backs turned to you 

Till we are impossible to name 

With all our shadows soaked into sand 

Traveling in pencil on a no man’s land 

Till you render not us to us but to the 

Future - Germans watching the moonrise

Over the sea 

We knew you were there 

But we never saw you for ourselves 

Transfixed by the ships - specks of brown 

And the seagulls that to their homes flew 

Flesh on canvas, we shook out our hollow

Skirts - salted hair, evening’s spectacle 

Swimming in eyes

And still hunched, a few feet away

Beyond the rocks, the sea louder in your ears

Than in ours - you wondered 

If we ever spoke about you.