Issue 33

The painted lady on the tiled floor
was stuck in half wet speckled paint, and dead
in two more minutes, but for now it writhes
and coats its sunset wings as its own clan
flies on, to north and warmth, which shift too soon
these dying days, as Fahrenheit stays up
and up and Mercury will go become
a god, and change this earth to match its burning
home. I watch wind and sun touch lips
to spray a halo soft across these hills,
these specks of gold and black will dance in light
and hide in newborn leaves from turbid night.
My brush is lifted, canvas browned like bread.
I think that Turner would have been aghast,
his paintings warned of solar wrath, but we
still ate the sky and tore the ozone shield,
and with our bellies full, laid back and watched
the fire in distant lands with hooded eyes.

 

 

Melodie Qian (they/them) is interested in exploring gender-nonconforming identity and ecology through their writing. In their spare time, they love to play looter-shooter games and watch birds.

 

 

I sit in silence
Instead of speaking
I tap my foot
Against the floor
Like morse code

Hoping one day
Someone will understand
The look in my eyes
When my lungs refuse
To exhale the words inside

Sometimes I want to scream
But it never leaves my brain
Only tears fall down my face
But they’re lost in the noise
Of millions of tapping feet

 

 

Shawna Pugh is an eighteen-year-old writer new to publication. Her poetry varies from dark and emotional, to light and romantic pieces. In addition to writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and her three loving cats.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I told everyone
I was moving overseas

when really, I was just
going back to Texas

and the graveyard of
cascarones in my

backyard, my white
skateboard rattling down

the driveway

no longer my father’s
hijita linda

I remember the moon like
I remember burying

my face in the fur of the
stray dog I used to meet

on the corner by the bus
stop when I was a child

My first and last visit
home before spinning out

among the hydrogen stars

 

 

Translation note: cascarones is the name for dyed egg shells filled with confetti, used (read: cracked on the heads of others) on festive occasions. Hijita linda translates to precious little daughter

 

 

Sofia Eun-Young Guerra is a writer from Tacoma, Washington. Her work has previously appeared and is forthcoming in JMWW, Neologism Poetry Journal, The Inflectionist Review, fifth wheel press, and Eunoia Review. Outside of writing, she spends her time folding origami butterflies and reading about sharks.

What a waste it is, to make yourself a prisoner
of moments, to live here and still
there, to wish for an eternity, to cry and
dream of going back to that place in time. And i know,

you never asked to get older, to
change, to be here,
but you are here.

How futile it is to live half written stories, to breath in and
only allow your lungs to fill up to the middle, to let
the unfinished love letters wither, because

 it is not what it used to be

 But,
Your heart is still beating, and
Your legs are still working,
Aren’t they?

You are not a half-formed thing, alienated from
all that you once knew.
You are here. You are present. You are still human.

So please go ahead with it,
with the world, and your life.
You survived this far, and you are still here, so
do tell me, what could happen if you decided
to live some more, to love some more?

 

 

Noor Beliën is an emerging writer living in Belgium. She is a seventeen-year-old high school student who spends most of her time reading and writing. After graduating high school, she aspires to study English literature at Ghent university. Aside from devouring books, she enjoys spending time in nature and baking. You can find her on instagram @writtenbynoorr

 

 

 

I want to be in love.
The kind of love where you can sit in silence together for hours and be entirely content.
The kind of love where you just like to be around each other.
Not doing anything in particular
Just existing together.
The kind of love where you don’t even need to speak to communicate.
You just know.

I want to love in the way I love my favorite book
Or the weight of the keys on the piano.
I want to love in the way that I love to dance
Even though I swear I am allergic to all things beat or rhythm.
I want to love the way I love to sing off key in the shower.
I want to love the way I love the rug on my bedroom floor
Or the blankets on my bed.
I want to love in the way that I love the smell of bookstores and libraries.

I want to be in love with someone the same way I am in love with somethings.

 

 

 

Ollie is a student at Shaker Heights High School and has written for their school newspaper, The Shakerite. They’ve had a love for writing for their entire life and are glad to be getting their work published. They’d like to thank Mom, Dad, Kaity, Jr, Daniel, Ruthie, and Sophia for making them the best author they could ever be and for always supporting them no matter what.

Here’s our town in case you have forgotten
that in the winter there are two
blue hours when even the trees
look to be shivering without their sweaters.
There are no clouds, not right now,
but I’m sure in the morning
our fog will roll in.
I hope it will rain, but I know you
fear the branches will breach the roof
of our Yukon XL(2004).
The one that took us on all those trips
Dead silent, arid hills till NorCal(In 2019)
It did rain last week,
Or the one before
The redwoods stand tall and strong
despite being snapped in half
from the lightning before.
It cracked their bark,
made a vein down the highway,
from 17 to 9.
I’m out on the porch
to watch the turkeys pass, and to see
the pale blue light fading.
The old school house fallen to sea.
Here’s one last lesson before it’s never been ours.
I mean ours
as in mine and that old owl’s
who sits up in the tree,
or mine and the sharks;
the clenched jaws of the sea.
In case your abhorrence is bubbling
that I didn’t leave the house today,
you should know I don’t feel well.
Sunsick and afraid
like the dog down the street;
he’s barking as I type;
Sunsick from missing
it’s just behind the fog till morning,
but he still sees headlights pass.

 

Finn Maxwell is a sophomore in high school. He writes short stories and poems, often taking inspiration from his mountainous hometown in California. Finn’s work is present in The Malu Zine. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys exploring his local state park, painting, and listening to music.