Issue Eleven

A Photo

By Sam Smits

Green trees – A yellow

jacket – A waterfall – My

father clutching my arm. I

used to ask my parents to tell me that

everything was going to

be okay, but you can never be

100% sure of these things – So

we settled on 99.9%. I used to be afraid of

pain – Afraid that I would slip

and fall into the river – and

the water would fill my

lungs – the way it fills the

space between 99.9 and 100

Sam is currently a student at Colorado State University. He is interested in screenwriting, short fiction, and poetry.

the melting

By Kaitlyn Von Behren

my wisconsin toes barefoot in january:
the snow shedding tears, but sparkling.
trickling streams divide houses –

a puddle slumbers atop asphalt, rain
pellets sprinkle divots, and padded
rodent paws scamper across grass.

the wind’s rasping breath blows
my hair and the strands melt
into my face in spidering lines.

  even the shingles drip and i am dizzy.
    leaning on my house, i leave a hand
  print in the brick – soon, a fossil –

roofs become sinkholes,
collapsing into living rooms
intruding into basements.

shingles – black, blue, and slippery
again – convince ravens to swoop
over houses and disappear as they dip.

i step into what’s left of the snow and my toes go numb.

Kaitlyn Von Behren is an eighteen-year-old poet from Wisconsin. Her poetry has been honored by Teen Ink, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and Button Poetry. When not writing, she can often be found talking politics, annoying her cat, and eating sushi.

The Duck

By Faith Quist

There once was a duck sitting all alone,
Out in the rain, alone in the cold.
Crying and shaking all through the night,
Left on a doorstep when dust covered the light.

Sitting, crying, sad.
Sitting, crying, no mom, no dad.
All alone left to fight.
But how do you fight when you have no might?

Little did the duck know,
Far from this land,
There was a mom and dad on the other side of the sea, Searching and searching, searching for me.

Then one day the duck got to play,
In a large room with three other ducklings who were: Sad, alone, crying.

But in came moms and dads.
I couldn’t believe, that I had a mom,
A mom who was there, there for for me.

I cried and cried because I was scared.
Not knowing that someone could love and care. Love and care for me.

The mom took the duck back home across the seas.
Back to a state with nothing but lakes and snow.
The mom took the duck back to a place that the duck didn’t know. The duck was surprised to see a home,
A home where there was a mom and a dad, two other girls too. The family saw how the duck was covered in dirt,
So they cleansed and cleansed and cleansed and cleansed,
Until the duck was finally clean.

Free from the past that held her back. Free from the pain and she has gained. Free from the hurt that made her cry. Free from the demons that hid inside. And for once no one gave up on the duck.

Other than reading and writing, junior student Faith Quist also enjoys band, sailing, skiing, running, biking, and watching movies.

In Nanjing

By Julia Zhou

In Nanjing the summer weeps,

from joy or heat I cannot tell.

In Nanjing my apo jokes

about frying eggs on sidewalks

to sell from bike pedaled carts.

We’d join illustrious street marts,

holler ‘lai mai, lai mai’,

swat in customers with mosquitoes,

hum and smolder

under fragrant smog.

In Nanjing we sit on bamboo cushions

until the ridges grate our butts.

We’d peel open sticky rice sachets,

and munch the aches away.

Julia Zhou is a seventeen year old from Herndon, Virginia. She is a rising senior at the Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology, where her favorite classes are Biology and English. Her writings have been featured in Typishly and the Silver Needle Press. Besides reading and writing, Julia also enjoys baking, playing trivia, and listening to soft rain.

Baozi

By Julia Zhou

Minced meat marinated in

beef broth

memories

free flowing

as a drop of oil umami

I lick off the side of a

well-shaped bun.

Four Entry Wounds

By Brittany Adames

ONE.
In the rusted pan, stew simmers like skin. Mami stirs an array of meats and rooted

vegetables with a wooden spoon—circular, slow motion. “You are not depressed, just

confused,” she, or maybe myself, says. Like a match to the mouth.

TWO.
Outside, a man crushes the butt of his cigarette beneath his feet. His teeth, milk-grey and

fractured, clip every word that rolls out his mouth. Beer coats the sparse hairs on his

upper lip. He lifts his fingers in mimicry of a handgun. “Pew, pew,” he says.

THREE.
At night, I make enough room for the soft memory of a boy cradling a joint between his

lips. My hands, like his mouth, fumble for a body that isn’t there. You know, like

scrambling for a breath that can’t pave its way out of your throat. It is familiar, whole.

FOUR.
My therapist once told me I think too much about the future. You know, how I need to

remain present and shit. I tell her I have weaponized my own pain. She asks why. I say to

make myself beautiful again.

Brittany Adames is a Dominican-American writer. Her work has been previously published in CALAMITY Magazine, Bombus Press, Rumble Fish Quarterly, TRACK//FOUR, and Rust+Moth, among others. She currently serves as the poetry editor for Ascend Magazine. She has been regionally and nationally recognized by the Scholastic Writing Awards and was a Pushcart Prize nominee.