Issue 30

august
stretches
out before me
like dirty kitchen tiles under my feet

hope
is whistling
from the mouth
of a ceramic teapot

the scrape of chair legs against tile:
foreshadowing
i sit down
and

my name fades
like phosphenes
behind
rising eyes

i hope
that the moon
tugs at my
feet

and i pray
until
the trees outside tremble
with heat

august braids my hair
with paper crane
hands

i anticipate the collapse
inward;
the lions

gaping jaws
but i am only met with
silence

and then
cicada avalanche

Althea Downing-Sherer is a high school junior from Iowa. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writer’s Studio, and reads for Polyphony Lit and The Dawn Review. She is forthcoming in The Origami Review ,and Coexist Lit. She has also been recognized by the Scholastic Writing Awards. When she’s not writing, she can be found creating elaborate Pinterest boards, listening to Taylor Swift, or preparing for Mock Trial competitions.

dear abba,
enclosed find two weeks pay.
i’d rather you didn’t ask how i got it.
please don’t be mad.
dear abba,
it’s raining today. do you like the rain?
i like the rain. sometimes the sound
reminds me of you. cht. cht. cht.
dear abba,
i saw a car drive off a bridge and
got jealous of the passengers. have you
ever wanted to be an emergency?
dear abba,
enclosed find two weeks pay.
thank you for not asking how i got it.
i appreciate that. really.
dear abba,
i was playing poker half asleep.
i gambled myself on a straight flush
and lost. unlucky, i guess.
dear abba,
i’m sorry if my handwriting’s been messy.
my wrists are just a little sore.
i wish antiseptic didn’t sting so much.
dear abba,
enclosed find two weeks pay.
i think you know how i got it now
but still, don’t ask. please.
dear abba,
i still like to exhale gray clouds
on park benches at night
and watch them rise with the embers.
dear abba,
i just want you to know i’ve been trying
to forgive myself for what you did.
is that okay? i hope so.
dear abba,
enclosed find two weeks pay.
i think this will be the last one because
i just can’t do this anymore. sorry.
dear abba,
can you call me sweetheart again?
you only did it once, but i still
remember. you meant it, right?
dear abba,
it still hurts, just not in the way it used to.
was it really for my own good? you can say
no. i won’t be mad.
dear abba,
enclosed find everything.
i love you, by the way. always.
you don’t need to respond

Mikul Adaval Wyer (he/him) is an Indian-American writer born in Hong Kong and currently living in Cincinnati, Ohio. He edits for Abstract Magazine TV and Mollusk Literary Magazine, and is working on a play, a novel, and a poetry chapbook. On the rare occasions he is blessed with free time, he regresses into his inner theatre kid and begins singing extremely loudly and without care. You can find him on Instagram at @mikulwyer.

Connor Donovan is a student from Southeast Pennsylvania attending Ursinus College. He is a Healthline Zine Ekphrasis Contest poetry winner and his work can be found or is forthcoming in The Blue Route, and Free the Verse, among others.

This morning, after the rain, as I ran
along the sidewalk, I fell in love with a small snail
crawling along the just-wet concrete, and later in the day,
with a young green onion sprouting in my garden.

And after I transported the snail to safer earth,
away from the drying path and giant steps, and
weeded the glazed dirt, nose filled with petrichor,
I had a fresh tangerine,
electric orange and dripping with juice.
I could feel myself falling again
as I held its weight in my hands.

I don’t need much, just
the love of butterfly stickers, of
warm freshly-laundered socks, of
steamy evening showers, of winter sunrises, of
late night rides blasting Cigarettes After Sex.

That’s the best kind of love:
without suspicions or unbearable expectations,
without knife-like words or heavy silences,
without tears or slamming doors.
Just peace and beauty.
I am glad to exist.

Sophia Zhang is a high schooler from the Bay Area whose been awarded by Scholastic, Youngarts, and Women on Writing for her work. Apart from writing, Sophia is also passionate about Taylor Swift and pickles!

in this dream
I live in
all I know
are the lives
of the dying
another one
hundred people
were shot today
and all I can
remember is
being four
and already
knowing how
to listen for
death
learning that
nothing but
violence is
certain
before I knew
how to
tie my shoes
I watch the
politicians
fabricate
their solemn
condolences
thoughts and
prayers
and remember when
I was eight
and buried
a sparrow in
our backyard
how she careened into
our home like an
arrow piercing
a heart
mistaking
plexiglass
for freedom
how the night
suffocated her
cries like silence
stifles injustice
how my wandering
fingers latched
onto her quivering
broken body
and tucked her
into the concrete
like a rose
as yet another round
of bloodstained
legislature
sweeps the floor
I close my eyes to
mourn the sparrow of
my eight-year old self
still hoping for the day
she can be eighty
and unafraid
palm unwrinkled
by tragedy
still marveling
at the feel of
death in her hands

Yuyuan Huang (she/her) is a poet, dreamer, artist, nerd, and everything in between. Her work has previously been published in the Ice Lolly Review and Chinchilla Lit. Yuyuan has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards for poetry since 2020. When she is not writing, she can be found rambling about her newest obsession or listening to Taylor Swift. Yuyuan lives in Boston, MA.

It hasn’t always been like this.

Once, this home flourished like a bush of sunflower. You know what I mean,

Each room held a ray of love like a glass mug. Clear.

But now, mother is a labyrinth of thoughts, haunted by the beauty of her past.

And, I am what remains of a crippled union.

I am what is left to hurt on the shards of a broken home.

It is not my fault that I am the souvenir of my father’s desertion.

Or that my smile bruises the scars of my mother’s hard buried sorrow, because it reminds her of his face.

But I have taken it upon myself to share in her sorrow as much as I can. I hope it wears off.

And you don’t know what it feels like. I mean torment. I do. I have tasted first hand of what torment is.

I see mother in pain everyday. A pain she feels I am the blame.

Being the propitiation for my father’s actions,

I am the prey,

And my mother Her tongue, an arrow poisoned with my father’s name.

Eliongema is an eighteen year old from Ika in Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. He schools at Christian Standard Science College, a school in his hometown. His works have been published or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, Eboquills, Salamander ink, The Muse UNN, Afritondo and elsewhere. You can connect with through his Facebook account @Eliongema Udofia.