Art 

Rhapsody of Roaring Riptides

by Claire Kroening

Claire Kroening is a writer an editor based in the Midwest. Their writing has been published in a multitude of magazines and journals worldwide, both online and in print. Their work has also appeared in anthologies by Indie Earth Publishing and Thoughts Hymn Publishers, among others. When they aren't browsing the latest zines, they enjoy visiting art museums and working on their latest endeavors at a local coffee shop. 

Mid-January

we walk the rumbling surf,

catching saltwater 

skies in the palm 

of our hands.

Like rippling seafoam

we sink into

rugged sands;

melancholy melodies 

whispered in the air

while we leave 

riptides

over unearthed seas. 

If God isn't Real

by Jillian Thomas

Jillian is a 17 year old poet from Pennsylvania who writes about outer space, mental health, and philosophy. She has been published or is forthcoming in Fruitslice, Zhagaram Lit, Footprints on Jupiter, Mollusk Lit, Clementine Zine, and Levitate, among others. In her free time, she runs a litmag and listens to the Hamilton soundtrack. 

a dripping universe // 

love cannot escape the hands of orion &

i lust for midnights

spent with my hair splayed 

out over the grass, my yellow  

sundress grazing the sunburnt 

skin below its fabric

i swear i can see

the moon’s magnet 

pushing and pulling the mercurial 

tides of the sea, lining my veins with

astral electrocution, jolting 

my thickening blood into motion

but one

by one the stars 

are jading and the night sky 

is no longer littered with light,

heavy with wishes made when 

they were sprinting above us 

the air is exponentially filling with flocks 

of butterflies with broken wings 

and doves with broken necks and

i can't help but wonder if maybe 

there is a god somewhere 

and they are sweeping away 

the eudaimonia choking the carbon

right out of our atmosphere,

taking with it amethyst and antidotes,

a jealous omnipotence 

exacting revenge on the people

they wish loved them back

because why else would 

rhapsodic august nights 

be overlaid with the 

symphony of irreparable 

sculptures? 

Body Exchange

by Jilian Thomas

Jillian is a 17 year old poet from Pennsylvania who writes about outer space, mental health, and philosophy. She has been published or is forthcoming in Fruitslice, Zhagaram Lit, Footprints on Jupiter, Mollusk Lit, Clementine Zine, and Levitate, among others. In her free time, she runs a litmag and listens to the Hamilton soundtrack.

do you remember where you were

the first time you hated your own silhouette?

sometimes i wish i could

cut open the dried out

blistering flesh covering my

knees and elbows and draw my joints out 

of their bloodied homes, crawfish corpses included

i would dust them in saffron and tangerine

and pat them dry and lend

them to someone who has

muscles aching from 

running through the mind

of their lover and 

across streets and sand and

lawns with reckless abandon

and instead of knives damning

my innocent flesh to the spotted lanternfly hordes,

a muggy august evening would witness my lungs

carrying my body to safety, exchanging it at a consignment shop

for a safer, newer model,

one with joints that don’t

ache and blood that will drip between

ribs and lungs, doing its real job, instead

of eking out of chasms and onto

tiles eternally inked with the tangible

version of my lowest point,

platelets cannonballing into checkered blue,

mourning the family they left behind in

my femoral artery // below my patella // the curve of my breast,

worn down into compliance with my decree, the first generation

of every bloodlined vein ends here,

my own puppeteer watching me

gasping for air and scrambling

away from the same thing day after day

my scarring knees and elbows will experience

a love conjured only in my maladaptive state

even if the love isn’t my own, 

i will live vicariously through my hearts adopted mother

but still i am ringed with doubt…

//

so let’s say i do get a new body.

maybe it will be worse

than the one i have now

and i will find a new way

to drench it in acid and turn

it inside out as it slowly melts away

and maybe it will be crueler 

to me than the first and i will be 

forced to arduously

scrape the inside of my eyelids

until purple veins burst into

red, blood pouring down my face

in a silent symphony born from

madness or maybe just desperation

but maybe it will have a heart

that doesn't wish to be strangled

by the deft hands of god 

with every bated breath

and it will have a soul that doesn’t

tear its own hair out every time

i fall asleep, leaving it to its own devices

[the first of many mistakes]. 

maybe, if i am lucky, 

it will grant me permission

to glaze it in increments of love,

a manufactured substitute for a mother,

until it can breathe on its own 

instead of being manually operated

by doctors with little faith. 

Orange

by Summer McGill

Summer McGill is a Varsity Speech and Debate competitor, a NIETOC qualifier, a Poetry Out Loud State qualifier, an actress, and a Brazilian Jiu-jitsu Martial Artist. Summer has always wanted to speak her mind and tell the most complex stories to others as a way of communication. 

Description about writing work: I have always loved the symbolism people have put under certain colors. This symbolism has reached centuries back in clothing, royalty, love, and Religion. To turn something so modern, as this piece, to represent something so historic, that humans feel, is what made me write this. 

The orange walls bleed a yellow tint. The paint curls into cylindircal strips at the apex of wall and ceiling. Orange reaches so far down it dawns to touch the floor and scrape the boards of wood, to then sink into the cracks and infest it's way inbetween dust and cracked worn out caulking, that has dried it's way through years of use. The orange talons tear from the face as yellow peaks out reaching for me like tendons of orange are to claw at my eyes to save me from bright yellow. A ray of sun in the already burning atmosphere. Even something so bright as the color orange has to fade at some point; orange never loses it's colour, just reshapes itself; whereas, yellow is always there. Blindingly shaping itself into something great. Suddenyl, the walls crack. Orange cracks slide down the wall in a race, and more of the yellow seeps into my irises and bends theough white to reach the back of my eye, hitting wall, bouncing back. The richichet comes back harder and rips through tissue, to then imbed isteld into my brain. My mind seems to mend itself back into previous recollections as yellow takes over, dripping into brain matter. I am brought back to the yellow dripping from my walls; new, different, having been seen before for centuries upon centuries and yet knew to my tawny life. Yellow ochre has been derived from clay older than my skin, has been painted on cave paintings older than the crusted dry skin upon my lips, has been painted upon more knowledgeable minds than mine. Yellow is the natural world: the sun, the eternity, the new and unabashedly beautiful. For being so striking and apparent, my mind wanders again, letting yellow sink deeper until it bleeds into sand. A cart travels on the Darb el-Arbain, passing in it's wake the Kharga in the south and the Asyut in the north. From Nubia a man with eyes carrying bags of life; carries the bags of trade. To Egypt. From the Old Kingdom, to the new. The cart being headed by a venerable donkey, that's age rivals the bygon nature of its owner and navigator. Both headway the cart filled with the greatest wonders of ink on papyrus, and with hooves on dirt. A cascading chirp of foot hitting sand, while the left side of the horse and the man workers harder as the right slumps across partciles of grain, carrying the left. When the hot dirt of the ground clumps up and creates unweary obstacles of debris, matched for a catastrohe, the donkey is pierced within its hoof. The cart rocks as knowledge crashes into the side of wood and then falls to the ground. The old man crashes with his life experience and looks to the best of his abilities beneath him. It is diffucult to see theough old eyes, when the far more superior sun swells in vision. His mind wanders from eyes to the dryness of his neck, dirt settling in valleys of old. To his chest, hesrt beating so rapidly like a hand on a drum. To his arms, weights holding his bones down as sand scratches the skin. To his fingertips. Oh, his fingertips. Fire sets below his fingertips as the scorching flirt of the sun burns his palm, as the sun renewed burns atop his scarcely haired head. His wrinkled hands twist together as his elbows tuck into his ribs, and he pushes up. The suns foot pushes his back leaving his stomach to the sand. His visage twists in pain as the sun tugs at the loose skin. A push and a pull. A yellow sun and a red man. His body sways forward but he catches his footing and stamps his feet to the rustled ground. He hobbles over to his companion, his sight swaying with every footstep. A terrifying dance captures the old man as he tries to get away from the tango of heat. Only to see deep red crimson flow like a river from the donkeys hoof. That is when his vision stills. He looks the creature in it's eye and it stares back. Orange hazel eyes pierce into the old man's life, the materials of trade don't matter anymore. His life's work does not matter anymore. Neither does the sun, or the weight, or the time and its passing. All that's left between the two, is an understanding. The weak man stares at the donkey with a piercing gaze, no twitch of absence announced. He steps into the pool of blood, the sloshing and click of a tide beneath his sandal. Flowing over the arch and onto the souls of his feet. Onto the feet that may be abused by the sand, but untouched by the sun. The old man kneels down, his knees cracking on the departure torwards the crust of earth and liquid of life. The blue of his clothing, now black and soaked. His hand reaches the donkeys fiery eyes still alight with colour, but no longer with life. With one last look, his hands reach eyelids and then flutter down to close them. A door is closed, a lock is locked, and a key is lost. The old man understands, as once had the donkey. The old man does not cry or weep, he gets up. His back strains as he twists away from the scene; it's not grotesque. Red is inevitable. Red is not invited, yet it will always come knocking on the doorstep of yellow. The man turned not to look away, but to look forward. To his life's work. The dust and sand has already swept it away; the wind has done its job. He stares down a whirlwind of debris and sees not the papers flying in the wind, but himself staring back. Orange is not what I see anymore and yet I cannot help but look back upon it. Orange never was its own colour. Not too special to ever be. Orange was always yellow-red. The combination of fundamentals, yet both redacted. Orange, a color of what once was. Egyptian merchants traded oranges — the fruit — with Russia. Egypt-Russia. Unlike eachother yet trading fryits of labor. Old and new allies, but only because of tradition. Only because of need. Only because of yellow-red. 

Battle Sweat

by Francis Hulbert-Powell

He is is a British published writer, poet, artist and musician who lives in France. He has been a teacher for a long time. 

Description about writing work: This poem was in response to a poetry prompt and inspired by recent problems my family has experienced with irrational, crazy, unprofessional teachers 

The battle sweat lost 

from fighting with teachers

who don't know their jobs

and are happy to make 

good children's lives a misery, 

Pig headed but foolish

stupid unwise

they collect their

pay cheques at the end 

of the month 

and salivate with bulging eyes  

then back to work the next week

to inflict their poison on children

who they feel susceptible

to their wicked ways 

while believing

they are the Gods

of the classroom 

with a band of

followers

who will follow them

down the path 

like sheep being herded up;

They don't allow children

to find their true voice

or to run free

And then following

their time at school 

the chains of jobs

hang round their necks

until  they have

no time left

and another life

has passed swiftly by 

A Lonely Girl Swallows Smoke

by Ava Devenitch

Ava Devenitch (she/her) is a student at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts studying English and Art History. She is a lover of great books, cats and museums, and finds the greatest inspiration in new adventures. 

It was the branch that shaped itself and appeared to me as a deer –

The innocence as it reckoned with its own name 

in the rust -

      water falling –

The sighs of a million gods.

Here the air is the 

old brag about

love 

(it is sunshine, drugs),

But I feel existence as a void,

without tragedy

to accompany.

And when a shroud of a girl 

flys her magic broomstick

through my window,

And into

my sleeping heart 

I wince at strands 

of her hair

licking –

Each a flame 

at open wounds

nipping – 

And talk in her neck 

with numb cheeks

about nothing –

And the sweetest apologies crawl

from my body –

And slip

in between her teeth –

When her skin 

feels like flesh

and blood

flickering.

Would you hate me

if I swallowed your life -

and took it with me?

(grow a gum tree set aflame to warm my belly.)

The leaves are glittering,

and the smell of smoke hangs over me.

It was the ease 

of an angel’s breath

in ribbons –

twirling.

"a poem about love."

by Lorhii Nelson

lorhii likes to think of herself as someone who tries to feel all of her emotions as deeply as possible and embrace them as if they will never return. that’s where her poetry comes from. the human experience. 

coming up on 17. still in the same place that i was                          4 years ago. 

still comfortable in my sorrow. still believing that i will know when it is true love like in the movies. 

like in the books about the beautiful girls with the beautiful lovers. 

like in the children’s bedtime stories.

like in the fairytales.

still believing that my first kiss will warrant fireworks and that the first time i give my body away will be the last. 

still stuck w the idea that no one ever actually means any harm and that 

“i can change him.” 

stagnant in this concept that it is possible for boys to love. 

always giving my whole heart when i was only given a quarter of theirs.

remaining willingly naïve.

telling myself that if i wait to make love, i will find the right person.

the person who has loved in the same way as me their entire life. 

at heart i am still 13.

i am still the little girl with the big dreams and wide eyes.

i am still the little girl who believed in fairytales.

i am still the girl who thinks flowers mean he loves you.

the one who thinks kisses fill in the gaps in between “i love you.”

the one who thinks sex means he is only for you and you are only for him.

she is me and me her.

the only difference is that she doesn’t know the truth.

                in 12 days i am 17. 

1 month ago i gave away my first kiss.

to a boy that i                                                                      love.

a boy who has the potential to be my everything.

but there is a notion that continues to creep.

leaving me doubtful.

leaving me open to wondering.

wondering if he wants to be everything. 

wondering if he feels the same.

wondering if he will allow me to unbreak his heart.

countless phone calls.

6 poems written with him in mind.

21 “i love yous”

11 kisses from him and only him.

3 meals shared with him.

1 beautiful moment at my house.

and all of the love in the world.

because this is my final attempt at love. 

so i told myself i would give it my all.

i said i would make sure to give him a fair chance.

i wouldn’t give up on him.

but then again come the suppressed whispers.

the voices telling me it’s all futile.

the urge to let him go and tell him it is for the best.

tell him that he can find someone who he loves as much as they love him.

but for now i will continue to give him all of my heart.

i will continue to fill my kiss jar with him.

i will continue to believe in fairytales because in the end,

this heart is mine for the rest of my life. 

and why have a heart 

if you are incapable                                      of love? 

"wonderful thing"

by E.J.M.

E.J.M. is a poet/writer who loves putting her soul into poems. What inspired her to share her work with the world was the hope that her words could help people as much as they helped her. She has always loved reading since she was young. Now, she is writing various books and is excited to have people read them. 

i was a scribe for our love

but now

as i write down these poems

that eulogize what we had

my words speak from more of a memory

rather than a current feeling

it's comforting writing about my heartbreak

because that's all i knew for so long

but now as i sit here gripping my pen

other words come to my mind instead

manuscripts tell of my own unique features

instead of your vivid sky blue eyes

soliloquies of who i am

rather than who i should have been for you

appear of my paper

scripts of my own struggles and accomplishments

start blossoming from the ink

and through all these words

i find who i am meant to be

maybe i am only able to

find who i am now

because i lost who i was

through heartbreak

you were all that consumed my mind 

so much so that i forgot to pay attention

to the very soul that i occupy

of course

through all this literature about me

i won't forget you

how could i?

for you have been immortalized through my writing

yet now

i can also make sure

that i won't forget myself

for i can finally write about who i truly am

rather than who i was when i was attached to you

and what a wonderful thing that is 

Mumbling Glasses 

by: Mehek Tripathy 

Mehek is someone who thrives on books and fiction. She loves classic literature and is quite fond of metaphors and rhyme poems. When not procrastinating, she can be either found writing a short poem or humming her favourite song.

he said he fell in love

with a wild man's daughter 

he says he loves her so much

it's all true laughter. 

they start life together

all by fixing up her room //

she looks at him with a smile

like he kick started her doom. 

he cherishes his glass

she cherishes none so much at all

like a thinning branch

forever doomed to fall. 

they live life together

with too loud TV 

and books on floor // 

silent goodnights hindered

through locked bedroom doors. 

their footsteps tiptoe 

avoiding the presence of a clock //

the neighbours whisper 

but no one dares knock.  

they end life together 

as much as separate rooms can //

with cracked glass mirroring their eyes

the worst medicine known to man.  

Cathedral Ruins

by: Tatum Bunker

Tatum Bunker attends Utah Valley University. She loves thrifting and has a major sweet tooth. She runs The Letters Home Collection and Funky Monkey Zine, as of writing this, has about twenty publications. She is on the staff of about five other literary magazines as well. She can be found on Instagram with the users @tatumtypewriter, @thelettershomecollection, and/or @funkymonkeyzine. 

With the church bells falling silent and crashing down into the building

Shattering the stained angels 

Tearing the bible

and fulfilling the prophecy 

Little sisters and puppy dogs cough blood

Soldiers stay at war, refusing to turn home

Housewives start the oven to climb inside

  People get tattoos and loot and drink and kiss

  They howl at the moon

Even the birds knew something was wrong, flying uselessly about

Governments are over, rendered useless

Nothing compared to the tide

Of the raging waters

Set to sink the ship and spirit

Going up in flames and ice, the Earth sinks

Deep down dark into the eternal abyss of the universe 

universe 

universe 

It’s the end

Of 

It all

Are you scared? Will you die in agony? Will you go to heaven? Is there heaven? Will I be there?

The scientists kill themselves

With acid and arsenic

They blame themselves, of course

So does the government

Why else would they be on their little helicopters, clutching wads of cash?

Their trophy wives have rusted anyways

Drink and be merry! For even the devil has mercy, stringing a golden fiddle to play a tune for us.

It’s chaos, our last minutes. Seconds. Hours? Days, maybe months.

Take a bottle and set it ablaze, burn your legacy to the ground

No one will be here to remember you 

      Wake up, wake up! 

The sun will explode as the angels trumpet across the shattered glass, staining the ground red. 

someone always knows the truth

say it

yes officer, he is my boyfriend

no, i was out with my friends

haven’t seen him since yesterday

we always got along, never fought

two birds, one stone

yeah, actually. his ex is a psycho. it’s her you should be interviewing, not me

you know where she is

there should be records of us reporting her

fine. she constantly broke into our house and stole my car and cash and whatever she could find. tore up my clothes too.

we both have restraining orders against her

what? she’s missing?

bottom of the river

thank everything, she was a menace

snitches get shot

why would i know where she is? 

my boyfriend might, she harassed him the most. ask him.

no, i don’t make eye contact

…he’s dead?

say it

it was probably her! that crazy-

i don’t know what happened

like i said, i was out with friends

haven’t seen him since yesterday, thought he was with his friends

say it

you found what in the river?