Issue 27

this is the autumn I learned to tie my hair
into a twisted bun with a brass hairpin
I learned to accept the drizzling rain that
slipped under my skin and combed through my blood.

this is the autumn I learned to let words
linger on my tongue and taste their flavor.
I folded my stories into paper cranes
and sealed my poems in a mason jar.

this is the autumn I dipped my sorrow in lemon tea
and watched it swirl and curl into bitterness.
I took off the pearls of laughter
and put on a gold chain of silence.

this is the autumn I became a different me

 

 

Allison Xu is a teen writer from Rockville, Maryland. Her work has been published in Unbroken, The Daphne Review, Germ Magazine, Secret Attic, Spillwords, Bourgeon Magazine, The Weight Journal, and others.

 

I’m sorry I looked at you,
And that you caught me.
Sorry if I’m already
Destroying the little we have.
But changing isn’t bad, we do it
Everyday before practice.
Your friends scare me, and you do
In a better way.
This fear is toothsome,
Can I have seconds?
Sure, I can keep a secret.
But shame tastes like mud,
Like turf after a tackle, and
I want you to hold whatever parts
Of me you want. I can love you
Any way you’ll let me.
I can stomp on this thing
Before it grows.

Sarah Madeline is a young French Oregonian who enjoys pink flowers, reading by the pool, and cookie dough ice cream.

So much lurks beyond an innocent smile,
To hold back the truth, the hostile:
“Hey!”
“How are you?”
“Excellent.”
“Really? Me Too!”
“We need to get together again.”
“I totally agree.”
“Gotta go, but nice talking to you!”
“Same— byeeeeee!”

As we separate, Mom mumbles, “Ugh, I can’t stand her.”
Is it just she who completely lacks candor
Or are all adults fluent in passive aggressive slander?
If so, adult-ing seems childish from a child bystander.

 

Kyle Gerstel is a writer, theatre director, and student from Seattle. He constantly ponders if he is actually just living in The Truman Show, and the person filming his life made that movie to show what an idiot he is that even after seeing a movie about what is happening to him, he still believes his environment is real.

Pretend for a moment that you are on the sun. Pretend
for a moment that gravity is a pulse. Pretend that
it squeezes you, (look at your lover’s eye, morphing)

Pretend that you yearn for flatness, for compression beyond closure.

Pretend time is an orbit around your finger around your eye
like a sunspot is an afterthought–let it collapse on you,
let it scorch & evaporate.
Pretend you can feel the synapse underneath your lover’s eye
pulsing across your eye:
now look at the moon looking at you lapsing into fission–
pretend this is sound & sing for love &
maybe the photons will sing you to dust,
arms stretched out, feet
half molten, lungs punctured into corneas &
eyes detonated,

Pretend the embers hold you & your bones
(not to scorch, but to hold) &

this gravity is peace.

 

Annika Gangopadhyay is a student and aspiring writer from California. She enjoys morning walks, music, and vintage postcards.