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by Adia Reynolds Usually, for Father’s Day We Suffice it down To One Tart Raspberry Pie But I’d recently grasped The value of minimum wage The Car Savings Fund  Went a little dry that week Matching Zelda Keychains To remind him Even when I take that car 307 miles away Mentally I’m sitting in the living room playing Breath of the Wild My side Pressed into His Adia (she/her) is an honors student at Fort Hays State University studying English with a writing concentration. As of writing this she is twelve-times published across various magazines, but her real dream is to publish all the novels that sit in her head. She has served as an editor for Silvercoats Magazine, Petrichor Literary Magazine, Subtext Magazine, and now Vial of Bones Zine! She also freelances as a fiction editor when the opportunity arises. She is founder of The Rejection Club, created to encourage writers to submit to magazines and eliminate that rejection sensitivity by celebrating the failures we make along the path to success.You can find writing tips and follow along with her creative process @cryptic.cryptid.writes on Instagram. Furor Scribendi! :)

This issue took us more time than usual to create because of the wave of submissions/love we have been receiving. We wanted to make sure all submissions were getting the attention they deserved while taking the time to create a nice, whole collection for our ninth issue. Before anything, I would like to start by thanking everyone who made this issue possible—starting from our website manager, editors, and contributors to everyone who submitted their precious gems to our magazine. Though we couldn't display all the gems on this issue, we saw all submissions shine bright like the evening night from the edge of the world. There is beauty in the word edge---the edge of crying, the edge of laughing, the edge of screaming. The word leaves some ambiguity for us to search and complete. The Edge of the World. What does the edge of the world look like for you? Is it a complete disaster? Or a peaceful harmony? For me, it's neither. The edge of the world will be nothing different from the world we already are living in because in some ways we are always living on the edge of the world. Living in between life and death. But we always choose to live and create. And our resilience is truly beautiful. So don't stop creating those luminous gems of yours because those gems are what remind you that you are a strong and beautiful person who always chooses to breathe. Sincerely, Seohyun Ryu Founder and Editor-in-Chief The Malu Zine

by Chiara Stark I had a dream that my mother was hungry. The earth was covered in red skin, hiding the tender, glowing white inside. She peeled off the coat and parted the world into slices with her hands. She swallowed our moon whole, like a frozen red grape from the fruit basket, except this grape had craters. The solar system was her earthly banquet, planets floating above plates. The stars were her breakfast and she finished the comets off like desserts.  I woke up hungry. It must’ve been a day in August. She always made it feel like August. When I look back, I see morning dew kissing and embracing the leaves of our local marigolds. I remember flowers blooming and bathing in the singing sun. I may have gotten the dew confused with my sweat, and I hadn’t met the sun yet.  I think I was skipping along the empty summer streets, until I found a fish-eye traffic mirror, lifted up by a red and white striped pole. I would’ve looked so small. I was so small. My hair was still recovering from an impulsive pixie cut. My ears might have hurt, carrying not the hair, but my heavy sunglasses.   I initially left the house because I’d run out of groceries. Sitting outside the store, perhaps guarding it, was Ginger. I was glad to have left the bed, the room, the house that day, for the cat. Until we were formerly introduced, I called her Ginger, because she had white fur interrupted by a ginger tail and ears. I’m lucky that Stella is more creative with names. But on that August day I didn’t call her anything, because she was not yet mine to call.  When I came back outside, my mission complete, the cat was still sitting there. I snuck a blurry picture. She made eye contact. I stopped. She moved swiftly to the end of the car park, in the direction of what turned out to be a narrow path. I watched, until she turned her body halfway to face me. She raised her right paw - seemingly to point at the path – and, with it, raised her voice, in what felt like an imperative meow. I stood still. Again, after a few steps, she turned and looked at me. The car park was empty. There was not a soul in sight except the overworked cashier. Maybe it was a Sunday. Whether to humour the cat, or myself, I followed her. I tried to catch up with her pace along the downhill path, but she was gliding over the burning concrete as if she were walking on water. We encountered some stairs, and she skipped a step with each jump. I imitated her. The stairs led to a crossroads, where we took a turn. I wanted to follow the shaded footpath, for the sake of the ice cream in my bag, but she insisted that we walk in the middle of the street. Her shining paws traced the broken white lines, occasionally letting the colours collide. I kept looking out for cars, which began to feel useless after a while. She kept looking back at me, which began to feel strange after a while.  Eventually she stopped and sat back down, facing me. This must be our destination. A bookshop. The copper sign read ‘Eden’. Its entrance was narrow enough to miss it, were it not for the bright yellow paint of the door. Some parts had chipped off, but the pigment was still highly saturated where it had survived. It must be cleaned frequently and thoroughly. Paradise may not have been hiding behind this yellow door, but the sun was. I was surprised to find that the door actually pushed open. Maybe it wasn’t a Sunday after all.  I entered with the cat now following behind. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with bursting bookshelves. The ceiling was high enough to require a ladder, rested against the shelves in the middle, parting the room into two aisles.  Although the door was a roaring yellow, the inside was coloured by rustic browns and dark greens. The wood of the floor and shelves and counter was from the trees, but so was the paper in the books. There was a forest growing from beyond the yellow door.  The bookstore was decorated with memorabilia from other worlds. Souvenirs from distant lands. Portraits of unknown people. Antiques from the past. The books fit right in. Many were a little worn out, touched by the hands of generations. Stories that told stories through the paper they were printed on, the covers they were clothed by, the annotations they were laid in.  I wasn’t sure what to look at. A typewriter that rested on a wide armchair to my right, covered in an olive green velvet blanket. Pearl and shell jewellery that accessorised the register. An inscription over the arch that hovered further along the left-hand aisle. ‘Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers, Lest They be Demons in Disguise’.  While I was exploring and discovering, the cat had advanced to a low window sill next to the entrance. She settled into a plaid pillow with little tassels on each corner. Her mission was complete.  A gentle voice rose from amidst the books. “Can I help you?” For a second I thought it was the books themselves. If my story had a voice, it would surely be hers.  In between two high towers of book piles, there was a girl, sat with a paperback sprawled across her lap, her knees bent for her body to rest on. A princess from the tower. She looked up at me with curiosity. There was another world opening up in her eyes, contained only by her round glasses. A forest dipped in gold and brown behind the glass. Behind the window. Those glasses sat on a long nose bridge that culminated in a stud on her left nostril. Her loose black hair fell onto a pair of yellow overalls. I always knew warmer colours stood out best against darker skin tones. I wondered whether she made the colour shine, or whether the colour made her shine. This girl in the forest behind the yellow door taught me new colours.  She repeated herself, “Is there any way I can help? I work here, so, if you need something, I’m the person to ask.” Her question felt genuine. When she spoke, the gleam of her white teeth glanced at me, like her mouth was blinking. I thought of the white cat again.  “Oh, thank you! I live nearby, but I’ve never seen this store before, so I just wanted to take a peak. I ended up following your cat and she led me here.” “That’s where she went! Well, thank you for bringing her home safe.” “Is she yours?”  “Yeah. My dad owns this shop, so the three of us work downstairs and live upstairs.”  “You get to see this every day? It’s so nicely decorated!” “Thank you! My dad’s a hoarder, or, a collector, as he calls it, but here it all has some sort of use.” My mother was a hoarder too.  “It all looks so cosy. Makes me feel at home too.”  “Well, you’re welcome to come back home anytime if you tell me your name.” “Oh, right. Clara. Lovely to meet you”  “I’m Stella. Nice to-” Stella’s introduction was interrupted by a monstrous grumbling from my stomach. I must’ve gone red.  Her lips pressed into a playful smile. “I’ve got something you might like. Could you help me up?” Her hand was warm.   She approached the register and pulled out a pack of oranges from underneath it.  “Take one, I’ve got loads.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah, please go ahead,” she handed me one. She was warm.  “Thank you,” I wanted to tell her that there was no need. I had just bought groceries. That’s when I remembered. My groceries. My ice cream. It must have melted after all this time in the sun. I searched desperately for a clock.  “Stella, do you know what time it is?”  “Oh yeah,” she checked her watch. The wristband was wooden, but I think there were a few red and orange accents. I got distracted and forgot to listen to her answer.  “I keep telling my dad we should put up some nice vintage clocks. They’re functional and they’d look nice too. He just says he doesn’t believe in clocks.”  “He doesn’t- Like- He rejects time?” “I suppose, but that doesn’t mean that everybody else does. Anyway, I won’t take any more of yours. You should know we’re only open Sundays for the next few weeks. So I’ll expect you here next Sunday.” I guess it was in fact a Sunday.  I never found that picture of Ginger, but I did find out later that her name was Bianca. My guess had a fifty-fifty chance.  When I got back to the house, the ice cream had melted, and the orange been eaten.  I think it might’ve been September. I learned to wear sunglasses all year ‘round. The light is just too loud most days. Regardless, it felt like August.  On another day in August, Bianca was soaking in the sunlight from the window, in that same spot. That was her spot. I was resting against the register. My spot. Stella was leaning behind the wooden counter. Her spot.  “She kinda looks like you, you know,” Stella suggested.  “What, the cat?” “Yeah. Ginger on top, white coat. Put a tail on you and even I couldn’t tell the difference.”  “Please don’t,” I pleaded. She gave a little chuckle. “I’m not sure if you’re joking.” Another chuckle.  “You’ve got her sharp fangs as well.” “And you’ve got a sharp tongue,” I retaliated.  “It’s not a bad thing! You just resemble her. At least you’ve finally got an older sister.” “Older? Isn’t Bianca like ten?”  “Ten and three quarters. She’s in her late fifties,” followed by a pause. “In cat years.”   We had both been focused on Bianca. Her left ear flinched when I said her name. Maybe she was dreaming. Memories of my own dreams suddenly flashed before me. I was hungry again. My eyes fluttered from Bianca to Stella, and immediately back to Bianca.  “I didn’t know my canines were that prominent.” “Oh don’t worry,” she tried to reassure me, “I’m sure they’re not. Your mouth is just rarely shut when you’re here.” “That’s not true at all! You talk much more than I do.” “That’s right. But your mouth is usually at least slightly open. Like a child, gaping in wonder at the world. It’s like you never learned how to breathe out of your nose.” “I bet you can’t even breathe out of your mouth-”  “‘Cause I talk so much?” She interjected.  “Yeah,” I admitted, a little dejected.  When I looked over again, she had already turned to me. I wondered how long she had been staring at me. At my mouth. At my lips. Her gaze was penetrating. I felt painfully perceived. She didn’t see me, she read me. She didn’t look at me, she deciphered me. Stella was an effortless translator. I didn’t realise she knew the language I was written in.  It wasn’t August, but Stella always made it feel like August.  “You make the days feel starry. Like a daytime star.” “So, the sun?” “Yeah, exactly! The sun!”  We both blushed.  I once read that the Early Modern Period believed that stars were a remnant of a world before the Fall. The idea is that the earth, its laws and its inhabitants, were altered by the forbidden fruit, but the rest of the cosmos wasn’t. The starry sky is a window into Eden. Stella was my window.  She was singular to me. I had one orange the same way the solar system had one sun. The first story God wrote was that of the sun. That was the only story I read in those days, when the sun wore yellow overalls. Turns out the orange was one of a dozen, only one from the overflowing fruit basket.   One day in August, probably a Sunday, I stayed until she had to close shop. Stella invited me upstairs for the first time. She might’ve wanted to show me the soft carpet in her room that she’d mentioned before. Or insisted that I stay for dinner. A child could climb up a tree, but I would climb up her stairs. Since I hadn’t met the father yet, that’s how I thought of this world, as hers. I only ever saw her commanding it. The furniture, the yellow door, the souvenirs, the typewriter, the cat, the oranges, the books. Anything that stepped foot inside was hers. We all belonged to her.  I don’t remember the kitchen, but I remember the fruit basket. I call it a basket, but it was most likely a bowl, a wooden bowl, like everything in Stella’s little hidden forest. I didn’t understand why I should eat the fruit when I could paint it. I remember a pink lady, staring at me, mocking me, calling me. Her fingers were running around me and I was sitting in her palm, but Stella stopped her, took her, flung her upwards and sideways, ready to dissect her.  She must’ve been turned to the counter, away from me. “Do you have a favourite fruit?”  “I find it difficult to pick favourites sometimes,” I shouldn’t be honest if that was going to make me difficult. Instead I remembered who always liked oranges, “I suppose I only ever eat oranges.” “You don’t try other fruit once in a while?” “I don’t try new things if I can avoid it.” “But you’ve had an apple before, right?”  “Well, we have to. Imagine what people would say if you avoided apples without trying them.”  “It shouldn’t matter what people would say.” A beat. “But it does, it shouldn’t, but, to me, it does.” I’m not sure which one of us that was. I returned to the original question. “How about you?” Stella tossed one half of the dead lady to me, the other she buried in her hand. “Changes all the time. Every day even. I’ll try any fruit, but I think it always depends more on the specific fruit, than its type.” “What do you mean?”  “I think I mean that, this pink lady,” she held the subject up for spectating, “tastes and feels completely different from,” she paused to think, “like a Granny Smith for example. They’re both apples, but sometimes a grapefruit and a blood orange will be more similar than two fruits of the same species.”  “Right, right. I think I get it now.” “So, I like any and all fruit really. It’s not about the type, it’s about each individual fruit.” I understood.  “What about now? What fruit do you like?” I hoped she would understand too.  She had taken a bite and used the time to chew to also think. Suddenly the apple looked delicious. In her hands the freckled skin disappeared, and chunks of white flesh were torn from the seed like muscles from the bone.  An apple to her lips. The world between her teeth. Its core on her tongue. This was a star my mother could not eat. This was a star I wanted to eat.  “Is it alright if I steal your answer? Oranges fit so well with the warm August days,” said the warm August girl. She might’ve also blushed, there was no way of telling, I had broken eye contact.  Those days in August kept coming, again and again. We were spinning in orbit, me around the sun, she around an orange. But the sun will burn, and oranges are bitter. Time was a sphere, yet August wasn’t. Monday must come. Chiara is a young queer woman studying English Literature at Oxford University, who enjoys writing in her free time. She was born in Germany to an Italian father and German mother, and moved to the UK when she was twelve. Some of her current interests include Jeanette Winterson, Adventure Time, God, bears, friends, and water.

by Maria Belik Maria Belik, an international painter and 2D animator based in London, UK, brings visions of dreams, love, everyday sadness, and unique life experiences to life through her use of experimental mixed media and traditional and digital materials. Her inspiring and emotive works of art aspire to bring emotion to the hearts and minds of people around the world, reminding us all of the beauty and complexity of the human experience.

by Ashley Hong Ashley Hong (they/she) a writer residing in Southern California. Her works have been published or forthcoming in iO Literary Journal, Persimmon Lit, Catheartic Magazine, Cerasus Magazine, The B'K, and Fleeting Daze Magazine, among others. In their free time, they like snacking on popcorn and getting lost in the abyss of Youtube.

by Paula Ibieta For many years, my favorite space in our house was my mother’s closet. In truth, it belonged to both of my parents, but my father’s clothing, always encased in plastic from the dry cleaner’s, never registered in my internal inventory. On the other hand, my mother’s side was a wonderland of different fabrics, styles, and textures. I knew every item by heart, and I could envelop myself in the pieces that clothed her. Each object was precious, especially selected to be amongst other treasures of its caliber. My mother had a routine for getting dressed, which I observed entranced, curled up on the loveseat at the foot of the bed. She would peruse her own wardrobe as if she were in a boutique. She built her outfits one step at a time and would change out pieces until the combination was perfect. Then, she would step out to the front of the room where she had a full-length mirror. She looked at herself from the front and then turned to the back, checking for stains and smoothing out her clothes. Finally, she would examine her body from a profile view. She always placed her right hand over her lower belly and stood up straight, sucking in her tiny stomach to make it perfectly flat. When she was satisfied, she'd give herself a smile and then walk out the door, into the rest of her day. This inspired me to play dress up whenever she’d allow me to, even though it made her nervous. She would watch me with a vigilant eye and remind me to be careful. The only thing she forbade me from wearing was a silk blouse with pearl beading. It was too delicate, she said; they were real pearls. My father had gotten it for her on a trip before I was born. The silk was a dusky robin’s egg blue. Rows of small pearl beads flowed across the neckline, and then cascaded down like little raindrops, dribbling down from the bounty of pearls at the top. I longed to wear that blouse. I would run my fingers across the pearl beads whenever I was in the closet. “Maybe when you’re older,” she said. The day I stole the blue silk blouse was one of the worst days of my early life. I was in the eighth grade. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. My father and two older brothers were out at a soccer game, and my mother was gardening. I was bored, flipping through the channels, when I heard a knock at the front door. It was my next-door neighbor, Josh. He was one grade above me, but we had been neighborhood friends since we were kids, riding our bikes together with my brothers. With Josh was with his friend Angel, whom I happened to have a massive crush on. He had floppy blond hair and blue eyes. I liked that Angel was quiet and shy and that, unlike Josh, he didn’t talk very much. “We’re going to the park. Wanna come?” Josh asked. They both had their bikes. “Sure,” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, while my heart was thumping under my t-shirt. “Just let me ask my mom real quick.” I ran to the sliding glass door that opened onto the backyard and shoved it open as hard as I could. “Hey Mom, can I go to the park with Josh?” She didn’t look up from pruning her lavender. “Okay, honey, just please wear your helmet. And don’t take too long. I’m about to make lunch.” “Okay, Mom.” I slammed the door. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I had never hung out with Angel outside of school.  On my way to get my bike, I had an idea. I looked back at my mom; she was deeply entranced in trimming. Even though I knew she couldn’t hear me, I tiptoed all the way up the stairs to her room and gingerly rolled open her closet door. I took off my t-shirt, grabbed the the blue silk blouse from its hanger, and slipped it over my head. It hung loosely on my shoulders, but as I stepped in front of the the mirror to admire it, I thought I looked beautiful. I met the boys outside with my bike. Josh smirked when he saw me. “That’s a weird shirt.”  “It’s silk, dummy” I said.  “Still weird.”  I rolled my eyes and looked at Angel, as if to say, What does he know?  Angel just smiled and shrugged.  We rode to our neighborhood park, which featured a pond encircled by a tree-lined paved trail. We zoomed around the trail, seeing how fast we could go. Josh was in the lead, then Angel, then me.  After a few laps, Josh rode over to the parking lot on the far side of the park, and we followed. He stopped near the tall hedges lining the far end of the lot. “Jeez, you guys were going fast,” I said.  “We just wanted to see if you could keep up,” Josh teased.  “I always keep up,” I retorted.  I saw Josh look over at Angel. They exchanged a look, and Josh grinned.  Josh turned to me. “So, um. Do you like, have boobs now?” “What?” “Do you have boobs yet?” “Ew, what are you talking about?” My face burned.  “Well, I noticed the other day at school. Angel did too.”  I was speechless at this point. Josh stared at me, waiting for an answer. I looked to Angel, hoping to find an ally. His gaze was lowered, but when he looked up, I saw curiosity in his eyes. “You guys are gross,” I finally sputtered.  “Well, if you’re not, prove it, then.” “What?” “Prove that you’re not growing boobs.” I just stared. “Lift up your shirt.” “Ew. No way.” Josh clicked his tongue. “See, I told you she’d be too chicken.” “I’m not chicken.” “Well, then, do it.” I stared at them. Josh’s eyes were taunting. Angel broke the silence, saying, “We didn’t think you’d be mad.” He looked genuinely surprised.  I had never let myself be held back by being the only girl. I started to lift the hem of the blue silk, telling myself it would be over soon. They wouldn’t let me live it down if I couldn’t handle a dare.  But at the last second, I changed my mind. I yanked my shirt down before I revealed my chest. At the same time, Josh reached out to grab my blouse. His hand caught on some of the beading, and as he pulled, threads came loose, and beads began to fall.  “Josh!” I screamed as I watch the destruction happen, as if in slow motion. Josh could see what he’d done, and dropped his hand. I looked down and saw that the blouse was ruined.   Tears filling my eyes, I got back on my bike and sped away as fast as I could. I thought the boys might call after me, but I heard nothing. I stared straight ahead until I got to my front yard, where I threw my bike down, thrust open the front door, and rushed to the backyard. As soon as I saw my mom’s face, my sobs erupted. “Mom.” She turned to look at me, confused. I watched her eyes lower to I was wearing. The concern in her face began to turn into anger. I rushed over to her and threw my arms around her. She stepped back from me to look at the blouse and fingered the loose threads. “Why in God’s name are you wearing that? You’ve ruined it!” Through my sobs, I tried to get the story out. She must have understood half of what I was saying. Josh…Angel. Park. Torn.  My mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hands on her temples. “Elena, you need to collect yourself and tell me happened.” I could hear the anger, barely contained, beneath her steady tone.  On my second try, I got it out. That we had gone to the park and that the boys had asked me to lift my shirt up, and that Josh had ripped it. My mom’s hands dropped as she sighed. “Elena. What were you thinking?” I opened my mouth to protest. “But Josh…”  “Don’t. You were the one who stole that shirt out of my closet. You shouldn’t be hanging around with those boys, either.”  She grabbed me by both shoulders and looked me square in the eye. Her voice sharpened. “Elena, you’re not a little girl anymore. Do you understand what that means? These things are going to keep happening if you keep hanging around with those boys.” Now, I was speechless. I stared at her. “Elena. Do you understand? You can’t play with them like that anymore.” I nodded. We stared at each other. I wanted her to hug her, but I was too frightened. As my mother spoke, I could tell her rage had broken and washed up as disappointment. “Go change your clothes. I’m going to make some lunch in a few minutes. And don’t tell your father or brothers what happened when they get home.”  I walked up the stairs and into my mother’s room. I slipped into the closet and slid the door shut behind me, cracked open just enough to see a small sliver of light. Pushing through my mother’s skirts and pants, I crouched down in the far corner of the closet, my favorite hiding spot since I was little.  My head was pounding, and I could still feel the pit in my stomach that appeared when my mom saw her ruined blouse. I started picking off the remaining pearl beads one by one. Every so often, I’d hit on a bead and a whole length of thread would come loose and multiple beads would fall off at once. I liked the way they echoed in that quiet space, the soft ping of the beads hitting the floor like raindrops, while the fabric of my mother’s clothes softly pressed against my legs. Paula Ibieta is a writer based in New Orleans. In addition to writing, she enjoys sewing, taking her dog to the park, and spending time with her husband.

by Blanka Pillár Somewhere there was a crossroads near the border, in a smoky child's face with round eyes. Low blue and yellow brick houses and dark green pine trees surrounded it, and in summer, the purple statices opened in the garden, in spring, the hot sunlight stretched across the forest canopy. The first memory of round eyes was of this landscape, where years of warm embraces and happy barks were repeated over and over again. They called this place Life; it was as they imagined the world of fairy tales. Until now.  Something shook the earth. It shuddered, deep and angry, as if the grey sky had fallen. Morning dew covers the blades of grass, and a thick mist has descended on the cool ground; even the air is swirling backwards, and the birds are flying far away. They run out of the brick house and stare at the Thursday shadows. The button eyes watch as all the spring, summer, autumn, and winter gather in two grey canvas bags, as the faltering zipper is pulled on the resin-scented warm wool sweaters and the smiling stuffed elephants, as the Mother and Father pray in whispers, as they lock the door of Life without a key. Lacking a vehicle, they walk away from the crossroads, the low blue and yellow brick houses, the dark green pines, the purple statices, and the memory of warm embraces and happy barks. The round child's face fills with hot tears, with the helpless sorrow of incomprehension and lack. She doesn't know where the touch of silky grey dog-tails and the fresh scent of the short-cut lawn has gone; before her and behind her lies an endless sea of concrete surrounded by barren trees. All around her, words she had never heard before, harder-sounding names of unfamiliar places are repeated with terrified powerlessness in their voices.  Meanwhile, the time's arrow marches on, the wind picks up, and the horizon bends to dark blue. The Mother takes a brown bun from her canvas bag, caresses the child's cold face, and then holds the tiny body close to her, cradling it and humming the song she used to sing when the family was ill. The melody rings sweetly, filling the lonely night and drowning out the deafening noise of strangeness.  Twilight and dawn meet; the dust is heavier on the feet, and the eyes look wearily into the bare winter. Farther lies Life than the round eyes and the darkening child's face could possibly look back.  They can only guess where they are going as they leave fading footprints on the edge of towns, hoping to cross something larger soon. They dare only believe that the sun will come out the next day, that there will be night, and that the clear sky stars will shine with the same piercing light. Blanka Pillár is a seventeen-year-old writer from Budapest, Hungary. She has a never-ending love for creating and an ever-lasting passion for learning. She has won several national competitions and has been an editor-in-chief of her high school’s prestigious newspaper, Eötvös Diák. Today, she is not throwing away her shot.

by Erika Marlenne Velasco Godinez My body remembers In the nooks of my skin My pores bristled. They come like flashbacks the painful moments of my life. pieces of lead embedded in my mind they remember other times another person who is no longer me. A gust runs through my spine flashes of unpleasant sensations, the crystals show the reflection of thorns that have molded my flesh. they reopen wounds on newly healed scars, damage my skin like ripe fruit. The signs traveled through my mind the grooves of my veins reopen, where everything comes at once. Where the circular circuits resurface the physical grooves of my being. Erika Marlenne Velasco Godinez (Mexico City, 1998) is a mexican writer with a Bahelor's Degree in Hispanic Language and Literature. Since last year, some of her works has been published in different media,both in Spanish and English, such as GOOOYA!,  Revista de la Universidad, Universo de Letras, Letralia, House of Poetry, among others. She is an avid believer that writing as a woman has positioned her in the writing and in perspective of the world.

by Elizabeth Butler Am I worthless?  Because I don’t play by the rules?  Caring every second of every day, Draining me completely.  Exhausted and shattered.  From this thing I call my life Growing into a person I really don’t want to be.  Hungry for power Isolation takes its toll.  Jail inside my thoughts crawling to be free.  Keeping one eye firmly stuck.  Learning to blend into this crowd of dullness.  Managing a way to focus on what’s real.  Not a sound spoken but my brain knows.  Other than power nothing is a priority.  Performance within my own life.  Quitting everything I know to be true,  Rummaging for a reason I should turn it around.  Somewhere in the depths of my mind,  Trailing off into the distance  Unusual circumstances arrive.  Visually I’m of sound mind.  Why do I pander to these rules of life?  Xanax, the only drug that can forgo this pain.  Yelling at myself intently, forcing myself to cry, Zillion and one voices won’t shut the hell up! Elizabeth Butler is a disabled writer using a wheelchair. She has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing and has featured in a poetry anthology and has a collection of children's stories published online. She has self-published several books of poetry and achieved recognition in her local area and has performed at local events.

by Ophelia M onet when i am inundated with faded, watercolor memories of you,  i find that while i am sad,  the more overwhelming feeling is the need to feel close to you  and so i go to the forest,  where we spent much of our time, and close my eyes—  i allow myself to embrace  the gentle kisses from  the sun, the breeze  and the memories slowly  become darker, more bold,  until they are acrylic  then i paint your face clearly  on the canvas behind my  closed eyes Ophelia lives in Fort Wright, Kentucky with her husband and their son. She is a special education teacher with a focus on autism intervention, and spends much of her free time reading fantasy novels and wandering forests. She also storm chases on the side (yes, really). She started writing a few years ago, after learning that her mother, who had passed ten years ago, was a published writer. She began sharing her writing public under a pseudonym (Ophelia Monet) in early 2024.

by Jillian Stacia If the flowers had an eldest sister,  it would be the daffodil. Shooting through the earth with squeaky wheel grease  and buttercup grit. Over  eager and overzealous,  Daffodil digs her roots  into the dark dirt, claws her way to the top  soil, and unfurls at the slightest hint of sun – the most gorgeous overachiever. When the frost  comes – and always, the frost does come – she bends at the stem,  folds forward, serenades the soil with songs of spring. She is weathered but refuses to wilt, the hardiest of petals. After all, someone has to go first. Like any good sister, she regrets nothing. Jillian wants to live in a world where the coffee is bottomless and the sweatpants are mandatory. She spends her days crafting creative copy for clients in numerous industries and is known for her work in Children's Programming. Her poetry and creative nonfiction essays have been featured in Remington Review, Coffee & Crumbs, The Raven's Muse, and Gypsophila Zine. When she's not writing, Jillian can be found snuggling with her two adorable children and cheering on the Baltimore Ravens.

by Huesque Foster I tap the knife hanging out of my chest. I've warmed the length of the blade with my body. I feel an odd satisfaction seeing it fit perfectly in its cavity. I feel a lot more satisfaction from places, I never usually would. I like the pool  of blood I lay in and its impressively vast expanse. My routine audits now seem impactful now that I've been noticed.  I can prompt a man to go out of his way and stab me centred between the ribs. I'm a lot more proud of the things I did  Even my standard edition grades Because they brought me here To a scenic death, surrounded by my bed and walls. It's cosy on the floor. The liquid keeps me warm. The floor is a decent place to sleep. I thought the opposite, a short while back I loathed the mother who sold my bed; Tears don't teach gratitude like blood. My life wasn't bad judging from where I am Even the sharp pains in my chest stopped. The man stopped staring so I could finally rest; All things have a happy end.  Huesque is a swimmer, artist, and writer. Huesque is a horror and comedy novelist