top of page

Search Results.

172 items found for ""

  • Speculative Lotus

    by Lucas Lui You should have seen me When I was on my bed of navy-blue star flowers Lying. I was picking petals of you – tossing them like the Conflictions I had from the he loves me; he loves me not. Forget-me-nots fill my desperate cup. Maybe if you had spoken the Truth, even if the vase shook, we would still be intact without artificiality. Maybe if the wind had told me To let you go by the first gale, I wouldn’t have started this Fox Hunt – I’m getting tired. Your comfortability means touch-starved From the sun, to be lost in closed roots. The weather brought me up wrong, I shouldn’t have Nurtured diamonds. Yet in the mud, the nature’s clear – we were nipped in the bud long before. Lucas Lui is a junior attending Monsignor Farrell, developing his poetry in his high school’s Writing Studio. Lucas has been awarded the Scholastic Art and Writing Silver Key in Poetry and has been featured on Brooklyn Poets’ Poem of the Day. In addition, Lucas has gained “Poet Laureate status” at his high school, writing a tribute poem each year that introduces the pages of the senior class’s annually published Memory Book. In his free time, Lucas enjoys dabbling in the fiber arts, spending time at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and interacting with animals.

  • Windows from Perspectives

    by Val Maerz Val is a multimedia artist, curator, and educator. They graduated with a Masters of Arts in Teaching for Childhood Education and is currently experiencing a career change from the U.S. Primary Education school system to becoming a full-time artist and aspiring veterinarian.

  • No Rain/Warmth

    by Maria Pianelli Blair Maria Pianelli Blair is a multidisciplinary artist based in Eatontown, New Jersey. A public relations director by day, Maria spends her nights dabbling in ceramics, printmaking, embroidery, and analog collage. Her collages, fashioned on everything from cardboard to playing cards, marry contemporary imagery, found vintage materials, and magical realism. Maria's work can be found on Instagram (@sunset_sews) and Etsy. She has been published in several art magazines, and featured both galleries and virtual exhibitions.

  • Lineage

    Connected to a familial empire, Prince is the heart of my soul, &  ruler of my life The last name echoed by the passer-byes. Respected by the prestigious makes us  easy to recognize Our round face fills the room, Intellectual rants keep us afloat, & the uncontrollable help to others increases our favor. The cracks shown through them are missing. It is shielded by nature. But My cracks are salvageable. We hold ourselves afloat by fighting Goliaths to attain our undefeatable streak of faith, grace, and strength. They are not a perfect empire but The love and acceptance make me want to stay longer Am I like them? Francois illuminates the streets of Antigua. The big brown eyes looking at the new world order, accepting the hurts of others but always forgiving. Our strong resilience increases favor within. The helpful pockets of roses lower us to bee stings but our hearts fill with ever-glowing mission of hope From birth, my lineage was not perfect The struggle to connect overshadowed our true potential and the unfortunate abandonment of their beloved left them astray. But their good faith through rejection, hurt, and struggle Helps to shine in any challenge put in front of us Seen as fortunate by the townsmen Seen as strong by relatives but The cracks of mine and theirs are not hidden. Solved through familial reunion and laughter in the moonlight Their love and acceptance make me want to stay longer. The unity of Prince and Francois reminds me of love. Tivonna, the one of one child to both families created. The division of the two hierarchies causes an unseeable crack to their child wondering who to represent. The large empire strengthened by their favor or the lineage traced by their selflessness. Both gave their child the choice to choose which to embrace until death. I am a Prince, I am a  Francois, As a reminder that my lineage and self is traced to their love. Tivonna Prince is a twenty-one year old Neuroscience student attending Florida Atlantic University. A creative writing course in her senior year fostered her inspiration and creativity to write poetry. Tivonna hopes her poems can provide solace and comfort to readers. In her free time, you can find her watching K-dramas, crocheting, or at your nearest movie theater.

  • the lost cause

    by Sashi Tandon tried antidepressants. his ex-father-in-law said “you gotta get on with life, mate”. the lost cause is a liar and a bastard and a cheater. he’s probably better off by himself.  he lost cause isn’t a naturally happy person – he’s a barrage of ails and laments. to be honest, he’s not a very nice man to be around. that’s just the way he is. Sashi Tandon is a young creative from Perth, Western Australia. Working across the mediums of poetry, film and photography, she aspires to provide a refreshing and humorous view of ordinary life. She aims to make poetry accessible, absurd and entertaining, revealing the beauty and horror in the everyday. She has also written multiple finalist and award-winning films.

  • It’s the Worst in the Summer

    by Destiny Herbert There is a dog. She is lying down, lethargic, being fried by the summer sun and pavement like a lump of meat in a pan that is most definitely not non-stick. She is too starved and thirsted to even pant against the heat. You see her, the poor, stupid thing, and approach her. She looks to you pleadingly, thumping his tail at the thought of having finally obtained empathy; it probably would have satiated her just as much as a generous bowl of kibble, if not more. But you do not have either and do not offer either. You have a much better idea. This will help her, you think. You get a kick in your step and begin jogging toward him. The drum of his tail quickens, matching the pace of your strides. She almost thinks she has enough energy to rise and address you properly, but can only manage to tilt up her head. You meet her halfway, stooping—how kind of you! She greedily accepts your pats and scritches. This is almost enough, almost, she thinks with his little doggie brain. That little doggie brain needs some enlightenment, you then think, and you take her fat, wrinkled cheeks in your palms and stifle a laugh because he is just so silly and so funny looking with his cheeks squished together like that. Does she know how silly she looks? Finally, she finds the strength to peel open his mouth and breathe. You stink of onions and beef. You’re just straight-up pungent. Your stench is ten times more offensive on her tongue than in her nose, but her face is still turned up in that oblivious, permanent smile that doggie muzzles make. You can’t help but give her a little smooch before gifting him your cruel, apathetic wisdom. “Silly baby. Don’t you know? Food will find you if you stop wanting it, if you stop looking for it,” you say, and her doggie smile falls, no longer so permanent, and by the grace of God she gets the gumption to make a meal out of your cheeks and nose and a little bit of your lower lip, too, and she is filled doubly by your flesh, marinated in decades of obliviousness and garnished with hot air, and the sweet satisfaction that comes with shutting you up. I have never understood those who claim that my simple desire to be loved is precisely what makes me undeserving of it, that desire is the root of all suffering. Really? All of it? Has anyone ever achieved success by not wanting it? “In time, it will come. You are young.” “In time, if it is meant for you, it will come.” And I lie in bed, suffocated by my own body heat, wondering if I am meant for it. But you insist that a brief conversation with a cashier and my dog—my fucking dog—should be enough for me. Does that same logic apply to her? Could she have remained in her frying pan, a fire lit under her and above her and inside of her, sustained by daydreams of companionship that she has never known tacked onto passerby? Passerby like you? My favorite food cannot marry me. A new pair of shoes bought on credit at 2 a.m. cannot be my maid of honor. My appreciation for the little things cannot attend my funeral. The nature walks and crafting and journaling and scented candles and bubble baths and naps and retail therapy and animals and positive affirmations and keeping busy can only do so much for me before my stomach collapses in on itself and my bones grow brittle. So, please, if you see me on the sidewalk with glazed-over eyes and me and my cardboard box cold and dampened by the rain, unless you are going to pick me up and take me home, please just keep walking. Destiny Herbert is a writer of short fiction and poetry; her work exists within the sphere of the nostalgic and the macabre and the intersection of queerness and black womanhood. She is pursuing her Master of Arts in creative writing at the University of West Florida and hopes to either gain footing in the publishing industry or establish a solid reputation as a professional editor upon graduation. She appreciates a good horror novel, JRPGs, and nature walks with her puppy, Nova.

  • Insect Incarnation

    by Arianna Kanji The first time it happened, they ripped out my spine. Or perhaps ripped isn’t the best word choice in this scenario. Gently slipped their fingers through the meat of my back and tugged it out like a loose thread would be a more accurate description. There’s not really any way to explain the feeling, except maybe the chills that you get when sandpaper runs against a chalkboard as your mouth is being smashed into gravel. But I haven’t experienced that, so I wouldn’t know. I know it was my spine because I saw it. The smooth curve of the bone, slick with blood and flakes of skin. It was clutched between their forefinger and index, balanced precariously like a pencil of sorts. As they set it down, it gleamed in the light, every arch and dig accentuated by the glow. I have to admit, I didn’t really panic. And maybe that’s a character flaw of sorts. But then again, isn’t everything just another imperfection carved onto our priceless statues, slowly picking away at their worth, like chips on smooth marble or rust on curved hips? Maybe because, in moments like these, panic is as unneeded as pain. Neither would solve anything, in the end. Then they poisoned me. Some might say drugged, but I don’t think this was it. My consciousness never slipped away, only my gaze blurring in and of focus with every unceremonious twist of my neck. At some point, I could almost make out the elusive figures whose spindle-topped fingers were fiddling with the skin around my wrist like it was a flimsy friendship bracelet, but then it vanished. Julian used to tell me I was better off wearing one so people knew I was loved even in my last dying moments, but he was definitely drugged while saying so. There’s no point in trusting those who cannot even understand the words they say. The poison was sweet, but bitter, stinging the insides of my mouth. Something moved. Me? No, not me. No, wait, yes. My head slumped against my shoulder, but still nothing occurred. Nothing except the slow sensation of numbness stretching along my body like the cocoon of a butterfly or the glass around the model ships my grandfather used to make. It tasted vaguely like blood, but in the way cracks in the sidewalk vaguely resemble remnants of a mark left long ago. I like bugs. This was why the cool sensation of thousands of wings against my skin didn’t spike panic in my heart. I assume some drew blood, or else the crimson color leaking into my palms existed for an entirely different reason. When I was younger, when my fingers were less brittle and I hadn’t yet tasted pools of vinegar, I would sketch hollow skulls with sunken eyes into the edges of notebook paper. Characters with peeling skin and teeth rotting away to orange near the tips and black mold peppering their smashed noses. More body parts than necessary - three heads joined together in a twisting pattern, a girl with seven arms and a coal black gaze, creatures with three wings and hands curved backwards and bodies contorted until basically indescribable. The idea comforted me, in some strange way. Like being mangled and distorted was better than being nothing at all. Maybe this is why the maggots didn’t scare me. Even as they festered near my forearm, slowly eating away at the surface of the flesh. Or at least they felt like maggots. They could have been thousands of phantom hands for all I know. Little shovels digging away at a soft graveyard, one that beat in time with the rise and fall of a distant heartbeat. Distant being literal. It was collecting dust and grime a few centimeters away from the spine. I believe they brought out the needle next. It was long, and thin, and resembled a pinched up version of the bones they’d extracted not a few minutes earlier. The maggots were being peeled off, hung on the walls with bits of my skin still caught in their mouths. Something strong and firm shivered against me like a moth shifting towards an open flame. Or perhaps it was another insect, maybe one with thousands of miniscule eyes. The string tugged once, twice, three times. Then they twisted parts of my face inside out and dug the needle into my cheeks. Once, twice, three times. Until there was nothing left but my own shallow breath against shadowy skin. Smooth scales grew along my features. A few extra eyes embedded themselves into my forehead. Once the sewing was complete, they left me, skin sagging and peeling away in parts, bones exposed and body inside-out. It didn’t feel half bad, actually. The light breeze shifting through my torn muscles felt almost exhilarating. The first time it happened, I didn’t scream. Julian had told me once that fear was the only barrier between living and existing. But he’d read that off of a motivational poster stuck onto the door of the place we never visit anymore, so there’s no use trusting the words of something with only two eyes and no scales. Congratulations, child, they said eventually, long after the rest of my features had crumbled away. You are ready to be born anew. Maybe I’ll come back as a worm next time. That would be nice. Arianna Kanji (they/them) is a young writer from Toronto, Canada. You can find them on Instagram at @ari.kanji

  • These Days

    by Joy Myers Spring is here and I am dizzy with April’s loneliness. These days I live outside of love, sneaking peaks at its softness from behind corners. I write each night in bed: barbed lines about boys who left me for the ocean and girls who don’t remember my name when I call. I wonder if they bend with the weight of Spring, too, or if they’ve learned to carry it better than I do. Joy Myers is an editor and social media writer employed in Springfield, MO. She graduated college in December 2023 with a BA in English. Joy spends most of her free time playing piano, writing, and decorating her new apartment.

  • Leave Nothing Behind

    by Hannah Cochrane Olive Enver hit the ground running, forced from her comfortable position in her favourite oak tree by a striking vision of impending doom. After years of foresight, Olive could trust what she’d seen — or rather, what she’d felt. Olive had to tell her sister. Wet auburn leaves slipped underfoot as Olive wove through the arching trees of the forest, staying to the left of the wide, unforgiving river at all times. After all, those who cross the river encounter Death’s shiver. Her beaten satchel of woodland samples, destined for her apothecary, bounced against Olive’s hip as she paced down a hill section, then climbed again. She cursed the endlessly rolling hills, though she loved her home regardless. In this stretch of countryside, the hills rose steadily as if eased along by the salty sea breeze. The hills seemed to emulate waves, tumbling into valleys, before sharpening to mountains further north. Olive’s home was nestled in the bosom of a valley, sheltered by a huddle of pines and freshened by the river. The river dutifully ran its course from mountains to seas, feeding the source from which the hills summoned their zephyrs. Ever ambivalent, the river gave as easily as it took. Its constant water supply was essential, providing life for the inhabitants of the countryside and cities alike. As Olive entered Avondale, a delicate, unplanned collection of cottages and a few local shops, governed by a single road which wound through the moorland from seas to sierras, she slowed to a walk. It wouldn’t do to be spotted running. Avonvale was one of those dreadfully intimate villages, in which everyone knows one another too well, and with any mishap, you’d quickly become subjected to the cruelties of village gossip. Biting her tongue as she passed through the main section of the village, Olive followed the slim snicket leading to that one faulty fence panel in the Enver sisters’ back garden. She slipped through, unnoticed except by one inquisitive tabby cat. Lily, Olive’s twin sister, would be home — it was a Sunday, the religious day of rest the older twin respected as though she were truly devout. “At least one of us has to keep up appearances,” Lily told Olive several years ago when the latter questioned why she was so lazy on the last day of the weekend. “Though I can’t exactly cover for you.” The twins, though alike in the hazel shade of their eyes, scarcely had much else in common. Lily’s honey-blonde hair made her a dead-ringer for their dead mother, while Olive’s golden-bronze locks were more reminiscent of their dead father. Not that they had many references to go by except grainy photographs and faint memories from their earliest days on Earth. Their grandparents, having raised the two practically from birth, had filled the girls’ heads with fantastical images of their parents — painting them as living receptacles of joy. Though Olive felt that was one whole big lie the first time she visited their adjacent graves. *** Olive burst through the backdoor, kicking off her hiking boots which were heavy with mud. “Lily!” She shouted but was met by Gatsby, their russet mongrel. He wagged his tail, tongue lolling, knowing his presence would bring showers of adoration. “Not right now, Gatz.” Olive hung her satchel on a coat hook, keeping her gathered goods away from the dog’s curious nose. She’d sort out her finds later — when the protective cloak of dusk drew around the village. “Lil! Lily?” “What’s wrong?” Lily wandered through to the hallway, totally unconcerned by her sister’s frantic tone of voice. “I had a vision, while I was out in the woods.” Lips pursed, Lily’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead. Doubt clouded her eyes, as it always did. “It’s something to do with the river,” Olive hesitated. She watched as Lily set the copper kettle on the Aga hob to boil. “Go on.” She busied herself with mugs, filling one with coffee and the other with herbal tea. Olive tried her best to ignore her sister’s scepticism and let her eyes drop shut, transporting her back to the woods. The whispers of spirits in the trees had beckoned her attention as she’d tried to relax into the boughs of that oak tree. The mutterings of the trees’ weakening leaves had mimicked the river, brushing against one another to imitate the brook’s insistent babbling. Olive turned her attention to the river. She thought of the rain pelting the river every autumn, filling the river to the brink of overflowing. The water rushing against the banks — those constructed by man as a defence to the river’s power often useless against the overflows. She couldn’t find an answer. “Did you check the river?” Lily asked, betraying her assumed position of doubt with a slight tone of curiosity. Olive, eyes now open wide, shook her head. She swallowed. “I… I didn’t think to. It’s always there, after all. I just knew I needed to get home.” “What for?” “To warn you.” “Warn me of what?” No matter how much the older sister wished Olive would stop this nonsense, she couldn’t deny her twin’s uncanny gift. “All I know is that you’re in some sort of danger.” She rubbed her forehead. Lily forced a laugh and turned to pour the water. “You’re the one with the dangerous job, Ol. You know how people talk.” Olive opened her mouth to retort, only to be interrupted by a bird crashing into the kitchen windowpane, startling both sisters. With matching frowns, they rushed out, remembering to leave Gatsby locked inside. Olive cradled her hands around the outspread wings of the ink-black crow who lay motionless on their patio.  Lily crouched beside her, and the two shared a look of fear. The crow wasn’t breathing and, pressing her fingers against its breast, she felt the still void. Olive looked across to her sister and shook her head softly, unable to conceal her shock. “Let’s bury him,” Lily suggested. They carried him over to the flowerbed, where dead flowers left damp earth exposed. Olive held the bird while Lily parted the soil to create a grave, protecting him from preying cats. An echoing of dull thuds demanded the sisters’ attention. They stood, matching frowns etched into their foreheads, to watch countless more birds plummeting to their graves. So many they wouldn’t have the garden space to bury them all. A murder of crows. Olive almost could’ve laughed at the irony. *** With quaking fingers, Olive unwrapped her previously gathered specimens, before decanting them into old jam jars. Anticipation hadn’t stopped brewing in her stomach since the demise of the birds earlier that evening. Her apothecary, set up in the drafty garden shed at the bottom of the sisters’ garden, was the only man-made place where Olive felt grounded. Shelves lined the walls, home to jars and dried plants and pestles and mortars. The dark blue paint, illuminated by the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, was cracked, though Olive hadn’t the time nor the energy to repaint the shed. A workbench was set up against one of the walls and was constructed of the same worn oak as the two chairs Olive kept in there — one for herself when she didn’t fancy standing as she worked, and the other for any visitors. Despite modern advancements in medicine, there were always those who preferred older forms of healing. While Lily’s official position as the village pharmacist was greatly revered, Olive still received a steady stream of customers clamouring for eases to their ailments. Even as children, the Enver sisters had differed in their interests — with Lily insisting she play nurse at home for her grandmother, and Olive joining her grandfather and their old red setter on hunts and scavenging trips deep into the forest. The whispers about Olive had only begun once her grandfather had passed on, no longer there to shield the girl from her neighbours’ subtle accusations. Many villagers saw Olive as possessing a talent darker than healing, and though Olive had some form of insight, her actions were never malevolent. People still went to her apothecary, nonetheless. Though did so in private, in dusky hours of near darkness to conceal the fact they visited the village healer. It was only in daylight that hearsay travelled the grapevines of Avonvale prattle. Lies and dread weighed on Olive, though she was defenceless against them. *** The next day, Avonvale was rife with uproar, teeming with people in the streets. Typically, most villagers kept to themselves, with only a few busybody gossipmongers. Yet when an unanticipated occurrence disrupted Avonvale’s way of life, chaos erupted like a fresh spring bursting from the earth. Olive awoke at the break of dawn, with dread clenching and unclenching her heart with every beat. She’d felt an acute yet indecipherable sense of change in the air. Telling her sister over breakfast, Lily dismissed Olive’s suspicion as sleep deprivation. It was true Olive hadn’t been sleeping well for the last week, though she couldn’t ignore the anticipation numbing her limbs. After Lily had gone to work, Olive positioned herself next to the home landline. If she went out to her apothecary, she’d miss the phone ringing, and she knew her sister too well to underestimate how desperate Lily would be to flaunt any new-garnered insight. Olive picked up on the second shrill, impatience prickling her limbs. “Lily?” She dialled down the radio, silencing Queen’s latest hit. God knows I want to break free— “Olive. You won’t believe how busy everybody in the village is. I’ve only just got a chance to call you.” “What’s happening?” She chewed her lip, knowing she’d snapped at her sister. “The harvest, from the surrounding farms and fields… Olive, it’s—” “Failed,” the younger twin finished. She swallowed, hard. It did nothing to displace the lump in her throat. “I’ll speak to you later…” Lily was distracted, already greeting another customer while hanging up. Olive’s hands shook. She had to get out of the house. Hoping to dispel her sickening fear, Olive laced up her walking boots, then located her father’s old hunting jacket and her satchel, before escaping through the back door. She slipped out through the ever-handy broken slat, squeezing past her apothecary, ignoring her promise to dedicate her day to healing. Whispers followed her, so she veered out of the village and found another way into the woods, away from prying eyes. Following a path lesser known, though well-trodden by Olive, she felt the woods open to her. The trees appeared to curve around her, their crispening leaves letting fractions of sunlight fall upon her hair, warming her bones. Her peace didn’t last long. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the river. The river was drought-depleted, devoid of the usual seasonal torrent. The river had dwindled to a meagre trickle, more of a stream than a river. In the wide basin of the riverbed, the water was a child playing dress-up in her father’s, or perhaps her grandfather’s coat. Sun-baked silt and a dusting of leaves did nothing to forgive the dreadful sight of depletion. Olive sucked a breath in her through her teeth. This was what she’d felt was wrong — the lack of rainfall had gone largely unnoticed by the others enjoying the unprecedented Indian summer, yet in nature, every action has an equal reaction. There hadn’t been a day in Olive’s twenty-six-and-a-half years of life that the river had run dry — the thought itself was hardly plausible. As terrible as the dry river was, she couldn’t help but feel there was worse to come — further damage her village would have to suffer. *** A vicious wind chased Olive home, sending leaves scattering around the woods. As opposed to calming her, the woods had further worried Olive. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she’d been unsuccessful in gathering anything for her apothecary. Mushrooms were corrupted with black speckles, tree bark was ridden with woodlouse, and nettles had wilted to useless green crisps. Some of that could be explained, or at least excused, by the drought. But even the plants resistant to changes in rainfall were damaged almost beyond recognition. Though the night was coming on quickly, Olive convinced Lily to walk Gatsby in the woods with her. It was Lily’s turn to walk him, and she was grateful for Olive’s company. Olive tugged at her turtleneck sweater, holding the ends as she slipped her coat on, though not fast enough to avoid Lily’s gaze. “What did you do to your arm?” She reached for her sister, though Olive was already rushing out the back door, Gatsby clipped onto a lead. “It’s fine, Lil. I only burnt it on the stove.” Olive omitted the fact the pain had torn through her, even though it was only a light scald. They left their garden through the broken fence pane, much to Lily’s annoyance. She kept meaning to get it fixed but didn’t want to risk upsetting Olive. A dark figure at the end of the path between the backs of neighbouring cottages caught their attention. Lily smacked her flashlight to life and swung it towards the shape. Pearlescent twin moons shone back at them, the eerie eyes of the black wolf-like creature chilling the girls. Gatsby let out a half-hearted bark, though didn’t tug at his lead. “Come on,” Olive spoke first, pushing down the rising nausea as she took her sister’s arm and pulled her away. “It’s probably just a stray dog.” Neither believed her words. They hurried towards the woods with wits sharpened. Above, the sky hung heavy, bruised with the threat of storms — hurrying the girls faster through the trees, hardly letting Gatsby stop to mark a tree trunk. Lily led the way for a change, and Olive was pulled along absently. In a moment of forgetfulness, they missed the turn which would take them across a field and loop back home. Uneasiness rocketed through Olive as she found herself face-to-face with the pumping station’s valve house. An ugly grey square wedged between carpeted green mounds of earth, it seemed to loom up in front of them. “They’re playing god with that place.” Lily shook her head, voicing Olive’s thoughts. “It’s wrong having it so close to our village.” Halfway through nodding in agreement, Olive froze solid, limbs rigid. A bright flash blinded her vision as if Zeus himself had hurled a thunderbolt in front of her — right onto the valve house. Wordless, Olive took off. Then she was running through the woods and forgetting about her sister and dog. Lily shouted after her, though Olive’s ears were deaf to anything apart from the metallic roars ricocheting around her head. The trees blurred past as she stayed true to her course: straight to the village. She rushed through, grabbing passers-by and insisting on words they didn’t want to hear. “The pumping valve house is in danger,” she claimed as she shook a startled woman, before crossing the street and repeating her words to a wide-eyed young couple. “Disaster. Danger. Please listen.” No one listened, disturbed by her and brushing her off as they would a moth. She finally made her way to Avonvale Church, skirting past the village hall’s sewing group. Surely the priest would listen. Olive entered, panting, frenzied from rushing around and from being dismissed. She tried to calm her shaky breath but to no avail. “What is the matter, child?” Father Jude called out as he passed the empty pews to greet her in the centre of the aisle, distilling the stifling air of the high-ceilinged space. “Something is going to happen at the pumping station — at the valve house, Father.” She forced out the paternal name, though it felt foreign and heavy. “I was just out in the woods with my sister and… I feel like something terrible is going to happen there. I don’t know what exactly, and I don’t know when, but you must listen to me.” The priest nodded as if listening, though his words indicated otherwise. “I understand your fear, child, but the pumping station is good for this community, and for every other community in this area. Before the station, failed harvests like this year were common. For the most part, the station and the weir have supplied Avonvale and our surrounding farms with more than enough water.” “Father, I don’t have a problem with the station, or any of that.” Olive shook her head insistently. “It’s not about me, or about the station — it’s about what will happen there. Something horrible.” Disregarding her, he continued, “There’s a visit happening at the valve house tomorrow, the water company are demonstrating the workings to some locals. There’s nothing to fear, Olive.” He took on the tone as if speaking to a petulant child. “The people in control of the station know what they’re doing. They’re very capable and very qualified. You mustn’t worry — or get anyone else worried, for that matter.” “No, you must listen to me,” she implored even as the priest put an arm around her shoulder and led her towards the church’s doors. “I’ve seen it. I know something will happen… You don’t want people to get hurt, do you?” “Olive Enver, you would do well to respect this institution and not talk of such dark forces.” His tone was now stern and disciplinary. Mouth open, ready to retort, Olive turned to him only to have the heavy oak doors closed in her face. *** Having found the time of arrival for the visit to the pump house, Olive walked out through the woods the following morning. She had no intention of being near the valve house, though she followed the river down in that direction. She’d ignored Lily’s interrogations and left Gatsby at home, where they’d be safe. There was no point in trying to explain things to her; no one else had listened to Olive, so why would her sister? A sudden tremor quaked through the earth, forcing Olive to the ground. Her fingers dug into the pine needles and leaf litter, bracing herself as she looked across the river. The valve house was obscured by trees, though Olive knew the earth well — that was where the tremor had originated from. Another shockwave shuddered the ground beneath her, and the roar of an explosion reached her ears — accompanied by screeched cries as if helpless creatures were trapped under a fallen tree. Nature cried too; birds alighting from their nests and leaves raining from the sturdiest of branches. Olive closed her eyes and felt the hurt of the people, of the woods. Hannah Cochrane is a 20-year-old English Literature & Creative Writing student, based in the north of England. She mostly writes prose, though occasionally dabbles in poetry too. Her favourite genre to write is YA, with supernatural twists - though she loves exploring a whole range of genres. While she’s mostly focusing on her degree, she dreams of one day publishing her longer works and pursuing a career in journalism. She has had work published in Swim Press, Midsummer Mag and Seasonal Fruits Mag.

  • Huama Conditio

    by Maria Santos words on surviving we, flesh and bone creatures, seek for blood in the veins we, intense spirits, build the scenarios we, passionate idiots, frolic on the grass when the sun is settling down and all our thoughts are washed out we, real nature’s proofs, had become the nemesis of our own kind we, blind lovers, pick the darkest wine and heartbreaks to resign from when the sun hides and the moon is shimmering we are all running gasping for breath not air searching for agreements not answers begging for forgiveness not politeness loving for life not happiness is there a purpose? there is no flame, but I can see the candles burning and melting in soft layers of red, like that hope we have for ourselves we are told the objectification of affection will meet us right in the end of the line we call a complex life the ports full of movement, but there is not a single boat. so we stay afloat and wait for the next wave to take us somewhere. if we rely on world’s instruments, are we really the owners of our future plot? can we expect something so authentic and brutal that we created under our reality of consequence? so we ask, still afloat, is there a purpose? efemero overseers of passion, we’re the secretaries, sitting behind the desks of loud and heavy expectation our chins rest on the palm of our unsteady hands, the ones who hug each other when there’s nothing else to hold the bittersweet taste of life itself is what we put on our lips before opening them breathing is like feeling the acid of the fruits we picked, fresh or rotten growing is thinking your clothes are inside out, and eventually realizing you’re wearing them the right way learning is precisely loving to know something, without ever needing it after all, since the time when angels dreamt of us, we are these ethereal sculptures, made of curves, scars, intensity, craving, softness and loss so let your chest rise and fall, like the leaves let go of the tree branches, like the sunlight looks for an entrance, like the dreams invade our sleep, because time is not one of condescendence Maria Santos, also known as Mils, is a student, who finds comfort in creative writing, reading and deepening their knowledge about what surrounds them. Their dream is to study medicine, but writing whenever they please is truly essential on their daily basis.

  • Peace

    by Ayyub Hassain Was I someone that was always wrecking your peace? Did I have to be an unavoidable casualty? Do you not think of me every time you breathe? You needed a future without me Now you have peace We haven’t texted in a couple weeks I actually believed you’d keep up with me You’re having fun with your homies I’m in the blacked-out sections of all your stories I can only see you through your saturated pictures But you haven’t posted since you pulled the trigger Now I’m in a dark tunnel waiting for the light to flicker My hand you touched now feels like a blister You never knew that you brought a heart back to life You never knew that I wanted you to be mine Now you’ve become a star in the sky While you become another cause to my strife Is it fun out there living close to the ocean sea? Is the tropical air better to breathe? You never needed a future without me Because I was someone that always wrecked your peace Ayyub Hussain is a Pakistani-Canadian writer. His work has been previously published in Justice for Society magazine, Surge Ontario, and the Poetry Institute of Canada. When Ayyub's not writing, he is either listening to music or spending time with his loved ones.

  • Expanse

    by Afra Ahmad Afra Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist and calligrapher. Based in Taiwan, she holds a Bachelor's degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of the society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines including Iman collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Ice Floe Press, Olney Magazine, The Malu Zine, The Sophon Lit, Blue Minaret, Melbourne Culture Corner, Her Hearth Magazine, The Hot Pot Magazine, Ghudsavar magazine, Eunoia Review, Alternate Route, Ink In Thirds, Porch Lit, Zhagaram Literary Magazine, Broken Spine Collective, Duck Duck Mongoose Magazine, Afterpast Review, Unlikely Stories, Rewrite the Stars, Spillwords Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety Magazine.

bottom of page