Literary Journal for Young Writers
Le Wang is a student, writer, and artist from New York. Le’s poetry is forthcoming in the Eunoia Review and the Fleeting Daze Magazine. Her art is also forthcoming in the borderline magazine. Her work has been recognized by Scholastic Arts and Writing. When Le isn’t busy with school, she can be found reading, enjoying a matcha latte, or drawing.
In the museum of lost things, I trace
the outline of your departure. Here,
a glass case houses the echo of your laugh,
preserved in amber and forgetfulness.
There’s an art to curating emptiness—
each void carefully labeled, catalogued
by the weight of its silence. I’ve become
an expert in the taxonomy of gone.
In the gift shop, I purchase a postcard
of the space you used to occupy. It’s blank,
of course. I write Dear on the back,
but can’t remember how to spell your name.
The docent leads a tour through the wing
of almosts and not-quites. We pause
before an exhibit of near-misses,
their almost-touches frozen in time.
I donate my collection of your maybes
to the archive. They file it away
under “Potential Energy, Unrealized”—
a whole universe of what-ifs, gathering dust.
At night, the museum comes alive
with the rustling of phantom limbs.
Amputated futures stretch and yawn,
staging a rebellion against absence.
I volunteer as night watchman,
guardian of all we’ve misplaced.
In the dark, I polish the display cases
of regret until they shine like new moons.
Sometimes, I swear I can hear you
whispering from inside the walls.
But it’s just the building settling,
adjusting to the weight of what’s not there.
In the morning, I’ll open the doors
to another day of careful preservation.
Visitors will come to gawk at the relics
of lives unlived, loves unkindled.
And I’ll be here, cartographer
of the negative space you left behind,
mapping the contours of your non-existence
with the precision of a heart that won’t forget.
Ari is a writer born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee. Their work can be found in Eunoia Review, Gigantic Sequins, and Blue Marble Review, among others. They have been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and more. In their free time, they enjoy playing pickleball and badminton.
See me as me not as she
View my personality
On what am I today, how far I’ll succeed
Not all my yesterdays , not on my ethnicity
See me as me not as she
You don’t have to stare
What if I am dark or fair
I can be whatever I want to be, You be equal to me
See me as me not as she
If only we change our perspective
I don’t need hackney’d adjectives
If only we change and overthrow our beliefs
See me as me not as she
Don’t put me in a corner
Plant me where I grow
Not suppressed, but where I express, for you’ll only reap what you sow
See me as me not as she
Let me be me, flying with spirited wings
Like day and night, him and her, let the twain co-exist
No alchemy needed, if you willingly change, if you willingly change
See me as me not as she
When decisions are made, ask me! T’s not just about you or me
I’ve potential, everything can be us
Together more we can achieve
No barriers to tell what each can be
See me as me not as she
See me as me not as she
Deelisha Trikha is a passionate teen from India who loves literature. She loves reading books and creating things, absorbs a lot and feels that there is a lot she can give to the world.
Edie May is a seventeen- year-old artist and high school student from Massachusetts.
lambs racing through split bushes,
khakis and grown-in splinters burrowed under
goose-bump covered skin; us three girls, wiry legs and
knobby knees, hidden under unicorn bandaids and smiley-face
stickers from the dollar store.
we told ourselves to look for ghosts, an emblem
of a 3am bloody mary ritual in a china-tiled bathroom;
dirt caressed our fingernails, growing flowers from our
own nutrients and hope.
we brushed each others’ hands, leaving
carcasses of dreams amidst the blossoming of
once-dead pine trees and snail shells; we were
infinite, unstoppable by none other than a ringing
dinner bell.
our grey hair would never grow in, wrinkles unknown,
unfazed by lost teeth and trickles of blood; not even
the spreading bruise of an impending tornado in the wheat fields
could stop us from clutching each other under the shadows
of sickly branches.
ghosts disappeared, threatened by home-made EMF readers
and pink Disney walkie-talkies; floating home from a fruitless
vacation: the corpse of a possum, blackened lungs choking
on freedom summers and boiling skin, arms wide-open,
waiting for the final haunt.
Ema Bekic is a student at Interlochen Arts Academy, majoring in Creative Writing. Using her roots in both Canada and Serbia, she writes bilingually, drawing upon the voices of her heritage and the thrills of youth. When she isn’t writing, you can find her travelling with her camera or collecting scraps of literature.
And, we’re back.
Junction Blvd., a train
stop, the neighbor’s mop,
the rhythm’s pop, where
leaves, even those of
the smallest twigs, emit
a beautiful green shine.
If only younger me appreciated
the Boulevard as much as
Wordsworth praised the
beauty of nature. Those walks
to Queens Mall would have
felt like saunters across the
Red Carpet, though simpler
in thought and purer in joy.
Those train rides to Flushing,
taking the ‘R’ and the ‘7’,
comfortably nested in the train’s
prismatic orange seat, then
lent an aroma by the hair
of the woman across from me.
The Man on the Microphone
bids us farewell. And, farewell
it was, having ended up an hour
away in Long Island.
From NYC to Long Island to NYC, Dylan Fei enjoys all things creative, especially the way Allen Ginsberg reads his poems.