January 2024

and she has discovered the lost city of Atlantis, a treasure chest
babbling with jewels and dry grains of rice. She
coaxes open its teeth better than any
dentist could and her hand dives in,
each finger a careless wanderer,
flirting with every
glimpse of the journey but
having no destination nonetheless.
In reverie her wrist of rainbow hair ties
jumps in after those fingers, green
kiwi hunters and yellow yogurt slurpers,
lugging back out again a slippery
metal container. Like spooking pigeons, her
nails sneak up on the lid, slide under,
open wide a toothless mouth and
plume the scent of prancing meatless
quorn nuggets and candy apple colored ketchup,
ravioli pockets of ricotta
stitched to bursting, grapes green
tumbling after one another, catching
umbrella-like in the doorway of her mouth, their
veins severed of sugarcane syrup, and
when she is licking the last of the labneh from her spoon,
xanthan gum in happy marriage with
yesterday’s bowl of muesli in her belly, she
zips her lunch kit closed again.

 

 

Sofia Fontenot is a senior at the High School for Performing and Visual Arts. She is a self-described observationalist, spending most of her time people-watching and eavesdropping on conversations. Her writing has been published in Cathartic and Agapanthus Collective literary magazines and in the 2024 YoungArts Winners Anthology.

 

There are days where I remember
everything. Even your sheets. Miss you. So sick
of ghost stories. Fire every day. Angie
with the hot pink cardigan leans closer;
a full body mirror for my cold hands.
There’s lots to say and never the time. Who am I
kidding. Ignore this. Miss you. Would like to see
the lights with you again. Green, pink.
So fluorescent. So homecoming. Miss you looking
across the dead field. The desk. Hands so
steady. Pencil so pointed. Laughing. More than I
bargained for. The forest fire. Wish you
would come home for Christmas; call. It could
be so simple. Disregard this. Miss you
desperately. The way we laugh teeth. Miss you
upside down. Would like to stand in the water
with you. We wouldn’t have to talk.

 

Julia (she/her) is a reader and poet from New York. Drawing inspiration from artists such as Ocean Vuong, Victoria Chang, Tim O’Brien, and many others, her work can be found in/upcoming in the Eunoia Review, the Persimmon Review, Scribere, and a few other corners of the internet. She has attended multiple young writers workshops, the most recent one being the Sewanee Young Writers Conference, and has also had her work recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards numerous times. When free, you can find her baking lemon scones, playing bass, spending time with her cat, or watching murder mysteries.