Front cover photography

by Zainab Aziz

CONTRIBUTORS

arranged according to alphabetical order

Astri

Evelyn C.

Hafsa Musa

Izzy

Jade / j.y.

Keren Chelsea

R. Ortega-Rojas

Rachana Hegde

Saki / s.k.g.

Sia / s.g.

Stefani Tran

Zainab Aziz

Illustration by Astri

DIAMOND

by Astri

so carbon did not construct

the molecular composition

of a diamond to become you,

and according to the textbooks

you are a simple arrangement

of bone upon muscle

and veins interwoven with nerves

a pretty disappointing

physical existence in all honesty.

but look,

diamonds can shatter

a tree can snap and burn

and stars can wither into

the crumbling ether

that is the cosmic lottery

all matter indispensable

and renewable

celestial dust

reincarnated into people

and forest roots regrown

into urban jungles

so really, who knows

maybe the carbon binding

your calcium into bone

upon muscle, interwoven

with nerves and veins,

dissolved from gems.

you,

the carbon based descendent

of shattered diamond.

photography by Saki / s.k.g.

PLANT LIFE

by Hafsa Musa

a.

mycelium creeps

through

soiled underbrush

woolly heads true

face due north

& breathe for the first time

in twenty years.

push

at that heavy thing,

call it doubt.

turn your silent mouths on

as the sun implodes on

itself.

feel that coursing

gray matter.

lights go off in a scream,

stream down those

woolly roots

tangling fingers

flirt gently

coaxing the dirt to arousal,

to push up

through soil and dust

watch transitions

& learn

how to live

again.

b.

fertile responsibilities

bough to bear

adams fruit,

dragon-tongued & dirty

you watch them rot

on the stump

of a judas tree

with your fathers

smile.

sample them at

noon-time, when the

insect tide rolls low,

dip your little toes in.

remember how the

beetles crawl? recall

yourself into carapace.

reminiscent & detritivore minded.

regret, that ancient grain

budding in your throat

like sand beneath

the oysters tongue

fungi-soft &

glowing.

c.

bury your longing

in the yucca.

the desert is the only place

for a woman

so deeply

(un)rooted.

2015: THE YEAR OUR CHEST CONSTRICTS / CONCEALS / CAVES IN

by R. Ortega-Rojas

Spring: our chest is getting over the ache from last year. it ripens and lets the roots dig into our

bellies. we brush hands with friends and glow a daytime pink. we know things. we see the future.

our eyes are clear and shiny and for the new year, we wished for our lips to learn softness. we

watch friends bloom and our chest hurts with flowers. our lips quiver. our hands are so fragile

they might snap. we dont know what to make of this. our chest is nervous

Summer: our chest hibernates. we forget how to get out of bed. a slow trickle of exhaustion

hooks onto our body (and refuses to let go). our tongue thickens but we dont care, we dont,

why do we need a mouth anyways? (what do you say, when all your bones feel like husks? when

your throat is red and shut?) our mother writes it off as boredom. we get drunk for the first time

and trip and vomit and yet still, our sobs refuse to come out from behind our ribcage. there is

nothing good about this. there is nothing worthwhile to write about in this.

Fall: our chest is struggling. everything is sepia toned and melting at the edges. we wish we were

in a film so the reel would finally end. summer is over but the heat is sticky and unrelenting

against our skin and refuses to let us forget (we just want to forget. we just want to forget. we

want to go back. we want to go back to last year when our chest was just our chest and not a

metaphor.)

Winter: our chest finally cracks but when we dig our hands inside, there is sand and sour air and

no water; no water, none at all. our best friends hands become stained with pulp and grief (they

dont know what to say. we want to cry but cant.) we leave them behind and never come back

and when we see each other again our eyes avoid the others.

OF WHAT REMAINS

by Evelyn C.

the first thing to know about bones

is that you will never own them.

(do NOT steal them do NOT

go gravedigging do not do not)

you might find them in the curves of your riverbank

or wedged in between spiralling branches

but they can never be yours.

if theyre fresh and tender then leave

them in the dirt and let the crunch of soil

and wind melt away the flesh.

second thing: bones, being dead,

cause blooming. the beetles will come

and the plants will twist around the tendons.

third:

sometimes you come back and the soil is broken,

and the bones are gone. sometimes you find

a ribcage and it goes to dust in your hands.

but here is the anthem: redeem,

refresh, reset. rejoin.

remember.

you never recall what dies where

but you can smell the ghosts

and maybe that is enough:

to soak somebody elses memories in peroxide

and call them clean again.

FIRST TIMES

by Rachana Hegde

The first time I fall in love, I cry because

I cant stop thinking Im not good enough.

Never mind that him and I are total opposites

he never studies and Im the

girl hunched over textbooks in the library.

Never mind that hes crude, a painting half-finished

(why does he use fuck in every sentence?)

Never mind that this is probably not love

and I probably shouldnt be crying.

The first time my mother saw him,

she asked me to stay away from him.

Last summer, my friend asked a boy

what he wanted from her. He traced the

scar on her wrist and asked what she had to give.

This year I promise to fall in love with poetry instead.

I track words in and out of the house.

2016 is written on the walls of my bedroom.

Instead of painting over the numbers, I take photos.

I take a photo every day like a reminder:

Hi, hello. You have work to do this year. Dont forget!

First time I paint the walls white again,

Claire is there. She promises not to drip paint,

not to ruin anything important and I tell her

people have always tried to take my things.

(I was the kid you wanted to bully because I looked

too innocent for my own good.)

2016 reminds me that this is a new year,

new me, new walls. I should be celebrating

the fact that I am no longer that kid.

I say to my mother, I want you to know that I am trying.

AD FINEM

by Sia / s.g.

I couldnt stop thinking about your hands running through my hair, so I cut every last strand off. I

watched the white tiles turn black and did not shed a single tear. The weight on my shoulders

didnt decrease but at least it ceased to be visible.

I couldnt forget the way you pushed my glasses up with the tip of your finger, so I decided to

wear contact lenses instead. I snapped my old, scratched spectacles in half and threw them

away. My mother told me she was glad that I had decided to grow up.

I couldnt stop reaching for your sweatshirt on cold mornings, so I threw it in the fireplace and

warmed my hands over it. I pretended that the fire made me glow more than you ever could.

I sharpened my edges till I became more knife than girl. God, I just wanted somebody else to

hurt for once.

Look at what loving you did to me. Look at the monster you created. Look at my claws and my

pointed teeth.

Tell me, can you see my gleaming scales or just yourself reflected in them?

Tell me, do you like what you see?

PLOT TWIST: I LIVE

by Keren Chelsea

I am fragments of yesterdays clothes

and darkness trapped behind closed doors.

Someone told me this was the only way

to live; I believed them. I cant remember now

who this was, or what they wanted, but

I remember the darkness.

I remember the darkness, the only thing

that made sense through all these. I swore

to a God I used to believe in that I was sorry,

but I couldnt see him anymore. And could

he take a raincheck? I was sick, and I didnt

know what to do.

Died within myself, and died within two years

but plot twist: I live.

There is something greater than this, greater

than the death that has conquered me. I see

it now, now that my eyes have been relieved.

By the time New Years eve knocks on my door,

I am welcoming her with open arms and I am

wearing a pretty new smile to match.

The world is so used to the death of young

women, and the devil is so used to murder.

But, plot twist: I live. I live, I live, I live.

SHAPING HURT

by Rachana Hegde

Someone once told me time is a social construct.

When New Years eve arrives, Im sleeping fitfully,

trying to escape the numbness. This was the year I

fell in love and fell out love; the year I kept searching.

the year I refused to settle. An old friend asked me to

stay away from her I remember the texts. then,

my sugar-coated anger. then, my late-night tears.

The last time I saw her, I walked away, refused to engage.

toilet flushing itself empty after I screamed myself breathless.

I am hurting to say the least but

I carve up it up and give it shape.

there are only so many times

I can say goodbye

until I begin to ache.

this was the year I stopped craving validation.

Now all I want is to turn to that girl and say:

Look, look what I have become.

Im everything you, once, aspired to be.

Instead: I say sorry, Im so sorry. because old habits

die hard and I have always apologized first.

also, I am too scared to look

at the hate buried in my stomach,

taste the hollow in my mouth.

SERIES: ENDINGS

by Jade / j.y.

THINGS THAT DONT HURT ANYMORE

by Keren Chelsea

the pile of your text messages still sit on

my phone memory card, and though I

dont erase them, please know that

it doesnt hurt anymore.

(we are growing up and

growing out of

one another.)

sometimes, I think about the last two years

and how Ive changed so much in the time

that Ive known you,

and other times, I think about the years to come

and how I will change nonetheless with or

without you.

and then I think about how you will change

without me, and how you will love

someone else that is not me, and how you

will be someone I do not know.

but it doesnt hurt anymore.

sometimes, just a little bit.

sometimes, not at all.

there is no shame in this, and I wouldnt

blame you if the thought of me doesnt

hurt anymore either.

OF MEN

by Hafsa Musa

A man walks across the intersection of 5th and 8th with a pocketful of darkness. It is a wild

darkness, warm and bushy and prone to nipping his fingers if they stray too close. The cold

autumn air cuts straights through his overcoat, pressing ice cubes into the cuts on his back. He

aches as he walks. The wild darkness laps fatty blood drips from his wrists.

His father used to tell him, A man who carries his darkness like a friend can never be betrayed,

before swinging his black like a sledgehammer into the crumbling white wall of his wifes face.

At twelve he hadnt wanted to believe in a black so absolute it could turn love into hate. At

fourteen he prayed it couldnt. But at sixteen his fathers darkness was insatiable and taking its

teeth to him as well, and by eighteen he was wiping away tears and snot with his jacket sleeves,

crawling into his bedroom closet, unlocking the rusting crate and staring warily into the eight

gold eyes assessing him from deep within.

A man who holds his darkness will never be betrayed, hed said and it had come, inching, into

his palms, small and toothy and already attempting to smile. At twenty the darkness was a

glutton, at twenty-two tight stomached and fat, twenty-four blood wild and giddy, and now, at

twenty six, fourteen years later, it slumbers heavily, comatose and needing to purge, black fur

matted and weighty with odor in the pits of his pocket.

His eyes look like plum pits. He licks his lips, his teeth mossy to the touch. Here, the darkness

feels comfortable about the hips and hands, a well-worn scarf grown warm with constant use.

A man humming on 4th thinks of music. At night he listens to the sound of its wheezing breath,

shrill whistle notes drilling holes in the studio glass of his apartment. His darkness keeps him up

at night, Thinking, now the man crosses 5th at a hurried pace. He slaps the crosswalk signal too

late and keeps his head down, brim of his hat blacking out the angry honks and neon lights. The

man counts each breath as he goes, listening to the sound of oxfords on pavement and rain in

the clouds, ignoring the mewls and coughs of the darkness raising its stalky head out of from his

pocket and onto his skin. He thinks about the gunpowder smell of Fourth of July two months

ago, the taste of burnt meat and nationalism redolent of American pastimes, the way Susan

McKinneys brassy curls withered and shrunk into miniature roses in the bonfires heart.

He remembers his darkness, the way it had stood on two feet on the other side of the pire, how

it had stretched its arms and cracked its mouth into a howl. How, pressed between pine trees

and flame, it had almost looked like a man. He remembers the crooked jags in its cavernous

mouth, the teeth like spilling bone shards as it smiled into the pit he had dug for her dearly

dismembered corpse. He remembers the ill growl, how it had almost sounded like a good night,

the creaking laugh of hidden horror.

A man running along 4th thinks many things and now he thinks the weight of his coat is too

heavy in the palm of his hands, too great, the blood in his pockets too thick for any river to wash

clean. He thinks the night too deep and dark these days for his tastes and the fur between his

toes too coarse and above all too many teeth pushing through the gums for the world to sustain

his appetite.

A man crying on 6th thinks all of this and none of this as he paces the bridge sidewalk, looks into

the city lights for a reflection of something that isnt his father, and jumps.

THE EATER

by Hafsa Musa

TO THE EATER:

we hide our filthiness behind

ill-pronounced three-dollar wines,

diy candelabras, & paper mache mirrors;

we know what we wont say.

mistakes ink our skins.

you take the table with too much grace

for a common dog;

youve always been so good at pretending.

you smoke cigarettes, put them out in

babied plates of filet mignon, give me

that cauterized smile: all raw.

your mouth has no teeth.

your lips, wide for the eating:

you sop up saliva trails with gold-embroidered

napkins & laugh without eyes.

i tuck napkins beneath my chin to stop the bleeding.

those red-tipped hands spread against lacquered mahogany

with the patience of tres lobos

you suck marrow from bone after bone, never blinking.

for a wild thing, you are rather fond of cages.

i do not know what you think of.

i imagine you think of wet grass,

the smell of my wild frenzy,

the stop-start stutter of my mortal soul.

i am thinking of orion, of woods running breathless into

nothing, of bloodied mouths & coarse hide, of the

uptilt of your cantarella lips in the candlelight,

how much easier it would be to kill with a kiss

than subsist in this sick domestic intimacy.

i tuck napkins beneath my chin to stop the bleeding.

(the rugs relish in the excess.)

TO THE EATEN:

i eat you like a man starved:

tearing through salt-skin,

snapping against you with

the roar of rocks,

cracking crab ribs

i suck down that

soft white meat.

i devour with intensity

i gobble you up

pausing only

for an after meal

mint.

the gullet is where

i glorify;

each slurp as wealthy

as hymn.

you asked me once

if i knew how to be holy

see figure I:

your image crucified

with knife & salad fork.

i have never known how to eat

unlike a man

home training had

no place for me;

etiquette set for me

no place at its table.

UNTITLED

by Zainab Aziz

I cant remember if your casket lay

first in the pews of a rundown church

or in our living room when the doctors

wheeled you in and proudly exclaimed

you had so much more time

you wore your hair in flower crowns

because you thought it complemented

your hospital gown.

would you be happy knowing that it was

the last thing you ever wore?

I hope you say yes or Ill feel

unreasonably guilty.

I was left alone for two hours with your

rotting body and battleworn smile

and contemplated whether you would

prefer my lips to your forehead

or my hands around your neck.

you didnt pray growing up so

I wasnt sure if you wanted me to

so I just pretended to cry

and hoped someone was watching

your hair fell out so you cant

wear it in flower crowns anymore

and they changed you out of

your hospital gown for the funeral

tell me, would that make you happy?

would I make you happy?

did I make you happy?

were you scared to die?

I was scared to become

UNTITLED SERIES

by Zainab Aziz

GODHEAD

by Hafsa Musa

they sit surrounded by blood.

old blood: thick and maroon, sluggish and congealing in the trough cuts inlaid into the cedar

wood grain. new blood: pumping and onerous, piping hot as it hisses beneath the foyer windows

and sinks into the sitting room carpet.

sitting there across from one another, will watches arturos face tip back, full lips slow in their

spread towards wantonness, acute angles of that dark and weathered mask coming together into

beaten lines and burnished metal work, neck guilded by steady vein and clenching tendon and

swelling throat. his face is an arthurian goblet, wide and tempting, as honey colored as the eyes

that part through veils of firelight to pierce wills breast-bone, every faint gesture and tilt of the

neck an invitation to drink deeply.

(as if he knows the blood will sees and opens himself up to the sick fantasies cooked up by wills

sick little brain.)

his is a cup for holding. a glass so full of himself will feels a bit punch-drunk just at the thought of

partaking. and arturo, full and ripe with wills want, knows it. knows that will wants him, knows

that will hates him for knowing that.

they sit surrounded by blood and smoke, sipping cherry wine without ever taking their eyes off

one another. they loose the tigers from their cages and listen to them pace through the slick-wet.

the room stiffens in anticipation; will can feel it cementing in his thighs, settling him into a state

of when? a sudden fear, a reaction as natural as the sheep rolling its eyes at the wolfs scent. he

must be calm, relaxed, when facing this man. wills eyes close. just to prove to arturo to himself

that he can.

when the police come to the door stinking of diesel and cheap coffee, he is quiet.

the older officer takes off his hat, midwestern polite to the bone, and wonders if he has seen the

Du Mott sisters prior to their disappearance last week. he tells them he has not. they nod, smile,

encouraged by his messy brown hair, soft shaven face, crooked glasses held together by a

weathered piece of masking tape. he knows how he looks: a sad, wide-eyed writerly sort,

vaguely unassuming in his swath of hand-me-down jeans and ugly thrift store sweaters.

the second officer hands him a hotline number and asks him to call if he hears anything and, of

course, to lock his doors at night. they both tip their hats and shake his hand, then disappear in a

cough of gravel and sand.

they believe him.

and the monster thrills at that.

you would love paris at night, arturo purrs from his seat. flame licks the angular ridge of his

unshaven jaw. pricks of light catch on his stubble like cats fur on briar burrs.

will wonders if arturo started with animals before moving his way up the food chain.

you would love paris at night, william, arturo repeats, lips wet and cherry-sweet, because it has

the makings of a modern fairytale. everything is tall and otherly in the dark. the people are

pathetic, washed out and helpless behind their artificial bravado and neon lights. everyone

watches the time and pretends not to. they fear their own impermanence and reject it with

ignorance, pretending their way to immortality. they visit the louvre shrouded by pretense as if

by looking back on beauty they can anticipate the ugliness theyve unwittingly summoned from

the deep. it smells of metal and liquor and people and artifice, will, and you would love it because

you would see how ugly people are, and how small, and you would revel with them in their

pettiness.

will finishes a glass, pours another. downs it just as quickly. the wine fuzzes the corners of his

eyes where the tigers circle, rendering them into swatches of burnished orange and ash. he can

feel them breathe as they move, sway backed and lithesome, sensual in their evaluation of one

another. waiting to see who dares to strike first curious, even. as if this were a game of chess

and not life and death.

he knows better.

arturos lip twitches as if he knows what will is thinking. this is a game will, he seems to say, this

is chess, this is chinese checkers, this is ro sham bo and it is your turn, make your move, show me

how you arrange the game, make up the rules and try and twist them, show me how you know

me on this battlefield of wits, make my mind your board. show me how you play the game.

what can i say? god loves ugly, says will, and reaches for the bottle again. his palm sticks to the

chilled glass. arturos chuckle is omniscient and amicable. the tigers dance and the flames move

with them.

that he does. do you fancy yourself god, will?

do you?

such a rebuttal is disappointingly elementary, will. try again.

fine. i fancy myself only as what i am.

and that is?

that is, his hands, tanned and well-worn from hours laboring beneath the sun, finger the sleeve

of his dirty coat, picking at loose threads, pulling them long and loose into his palm. a bad habit

retained from his first life. when he was still small, and quiet, and nervous. before he had

materialized. before he had realized. before he had been awakened.

he hates the hesitancy that leaks into his voice like an accident. that isnt who he is anymore. hes

different now. he sips more wine, eyes momentarily fluttering closed at the silent

encouragement, and steels his voice, ripping the last few strands and dropping them into the

rising stink, watching them slip away on an imaginary current. that is, i re-invent. i am i make

things people new. i guess.

then you are a creator. The Creator. a heavenly force guiding humanitys lost back unto the path

of perfection.

your words, not mine.

i am not afraid to call it as i see it. you are a god, will. beautiful and sublime. divine and terrible.

awesome in your wrath.

wills eyes close again. despite everything else between them he still cant bear to see arturo like

this: raw and excited, pupils dilated to the point that only a thin sliver of gold iris remains, lips

parted faintly, lean torso leaning ever so slightly forward.

he cant bear to see him look so goddamn proud. proud, because he knows that if will is the

creator then he is the augmenter, the alterer of human psyches, the unlocker of doors and finder

of keys, the one who opened will up to his true nature and loosed him upon the world.

shut eyes do nothing to distort the image. he knows how arturo looks. right now his long body

has abandoned its uptight comportment. he sits, legs crossed and fingers steepled, relaxed yet

professional, the barely restrained glee glittering behind the surface of those golden eyes the

only distinction between this strained moment and an upscale business meeting. he looks at will

like a longing lover, like a proud mother, like an anxious father

i know something you might like. the wine hums love songs in the pit of wills stomach. he can

smell the blood coursing into the room. its up to their ankles now, soaking his generic white

socks and arturos silken cuffs. part of him wants to slip away and languish here, nearly drunk

and buzzing in every limb, as the water level rises until it pushes him out of his seat and he is

floating like a child in floatie or a corpse in a salt sea. but arturo has him now. his eyes flash as he

rises from his seat. his long legs cut silent swaths through the blood.

do you now?

a story. would you like that?

arturo smiles. id love it.

the officers dont love it when he tells them the story in an abandoned warehouse.

or maybe they did. he couldnt discern one scream from the next.

they had had trouble communicating around all that thread.

once upon a time, when i was young, i took a boat out on my familys private lake. it was my

fathers cabin cruiser and it was an absolute piece of shit. the mast was well beyond safely rusted

and the cabin smelled permanently of cigarettes, whiskey and cheap perfume. my father would

take it out for days at a time, up to a week, leaving my mother and i alone in the house. because i

was trying to understand why my father always suddenly left and somehow be brave for her, i

would call her princess and she would call me her little prince and together we called the old

haunted house our castle by sea. i was angry with my father for always leaving because i knew it

hurt her to see him take off without warning like that. in my diary i called him a monster.

i was always trying to protect her from monsters. i drew countless pictures of myself slaying

dragons, or minotaurs, or whatever, and she would tack up every sketch on the front of the

fridge with pride.

when we walked down by the beach at night i collected pearly white seashells and brought them

home to her by the bucketful. they were always soft and white, broken and oddly shaped,

smooth bits of the ocean washing onto the lake shore. some were as small as my pinky nail and

almost as clear, color stripped away by the decalcifying effects of sand and sun. i loved

pretending that they were the bones of dragons and sea monsters. no, maybe not pretended.

that isnt the right word. monsters have always been very real to me.

anyways, she always kept them, every single one, and when i was gone at school she would glue

and sew and mold them together into the giant shapes of the creatures i said they were. i

remember an entire menagerie down there in her studio, coiled and propped up against walls and

looming down at me from the high ceiling.

i remember my favorite sculpture being a giant sea snake mother had suspended with silk cord

from the ceiling, a roiling mass of body that terminated in its giant open mouth suspended at

shoulder level. once, while i was looking at it, my mother turned around to pick up her needles

and thread and i stuck my head in its mouth. it was dry and cool in there, like the inside of a sea

cave, and when i breathed i could smell the salt of the ocean and the diesel of the cruiser and it

felt like my father was the one holding me, not those thick bony fangs. i would have stayed there

forever if my mother hadnt caught me and pulled me out. she smacked my hands and told me to

be careful, that these werent toys, but there wasnt an ounce of anger in her. she looked

proud. like my foray into the belly of the beast was the first step of my very own bildungsroman.

i was never allowed in there unless she was with me, but every sunday she took me downstairs

into the basement to show me and ask if i liked them, and when i said yes her eyes lit up and she

squeezed my hand and made me macaroni and cheese for lunch. it was our ritual.

when i turned fourteen my father decided it was time for a ritual of our own. he started taking

me out in the cruiser.

sometimes it would be just us and wed fish and sip beer and swim in the ocean. other times the

women would join us. they were all hookers and all different in that same strung out, hazy way

except for one, molly, who had two monroe dimples and one eye. later i found out that she was

their pimp. i was in love with molly and i think in her own way she was in love with me. when my

father and the other two went below deck molly always stayed above and split a cigarette with

me while we fished. we never did anything but sit quietly, sharing smoke and belching and

throwing back most of what we hooked. she taught me how to play cards and how to ash a

cigarette in my palm and how to talk to women.

once, though. once she turned to me, ground out her cigarette and said, are you really okay with

what your parents are doing? i said that my dad shouldnt be out here with these women, that

id tried to bring it up with my mother but had always been too afraid of divorce to do it, but that

my mother was doing nothing wrong. she was the victim here. she asked if i knew what it was he

did down there. i wanted to look smart and mature in front of her and i said yeah, duh, im

fourteen not stupid. i still remember how she looked at me: sharp, disturbed but not surprised,

and then sad and defeated, the way my father always looked every time he stepped back onto

dry land. she lit another cigarette and didnt look at me.

that night as we were tying up anchor at the port several miles from our house i heard her below

deck screaming at my father i always went below deck into the side cabin when he dropped

the women off, my cabin at the opposite end of the boat from his, as if he was afraid that if i ever

saw them too long id finally get the nerves to tell my mother, and it was so late that i was always

half asleep anyways and he just screamed at her to mind her own business, to not make his life

any more difficult by confusing the boy with questions. two weeks later molly stopped showing

up and there were no more girls for a while.

my mother and i stopped our night walks by the beach. she became quiet, furious, and would

lash out randomly at me. she stayed in the house more and more. then dad met more girls and

took me back out on the kipper, and my mother made her animals and started smiling again.

after two years of this, the police came to my house and arrested my father and mother in broad

daylight. now, i ask you: what had i been picking up by the bucketful for all those years?

the genealogy of a killer, arturo says softly. the wine is long gone but will is still warm,

thoroughly buzzed between the press of alcohol, the tigers purr, arturos large hands resting at

the base of his neck. the touch is electrifying; he cannot help but lean infinitesimally into it,

relaxing his shoulders into the dark hands that hold him. arturos lips are a kiss away as he

whispers, does your family history repulse you? or excite you?

neither. he wishes there was more wine. at least then there was an excuse for how good he felt

in this mans presence, how thoroughly he enjoyed the soft silken touch of fresh blood against

his thighs. he could almost imagine arturos hands there, swaying and sensuous in a current of

lust, guided by wills want and a desire to claim this body. he likes the way arturo makes him feel:

evil, marvelous, beautiful. an angel remarkable in its decadence despite its torn and tattered

wings. it depresses me. killing is in my blood. i had no choice, no agency. im merely following

someone elses plan. he glances upwards at the thought, another bad habit retained from a past

life when foster parents had made catholic schooling a constant. arturos quarters bear no

crosses but the ceiling is adorned in mosaic homage to a dark and hermeneutic god. will thinks it

a tad masturbatory. after all, isnt that what arturo already was? a revenant of the old gods, last

of an ageless pantheon, forced to take the sacrifices humanity owes him?

i kill because i have to. you kill because you choose. theres a powerful difference between us.

only if you allow one, arturo hums. hands trail the length of wills shoulder as he stands before

him, bringing himself to his full height, dark and terrible against the gold and mahogany hues of

the sitting room. he does not know where the tigers have gone; the blood pumps louder, in time

to his racing heartbeat. you and i, will. we are so much more than our beginnings. it is the nature

of mortals to be. but it is the nature of gods

to become, finishes will. arturos smile is a creeping crescent. will wonders how many have

died in the light of this wan moon.

arturo extends his hand and will takes it, lacing their fingers together, sighing at the rough slide

of arturos calloused hands, the knowledge that these fingers would glow blue with the remnants

of a million ghosts beneath a black light, that he doesnt care, that he is in love and loved and his

is the body electric when arturo calls his name.

will, arturo breathes, his breath tinged with wine. theirs is a love demented and fermented,

every mouthful intoxicating and poisonous. he was a good man before he met arturo. come with

me. let us leave now before the agents pick up on your trail. let me make you who you have

always meant to be. we can go anywhere in the world. we could be happy and entertained, in

paris.

entertained how?

will. now is not the time for jest, though i certainly love your black humor.

arise. arise. arise.

arturo says,

do you dare to come out of your cage?

wills eyes flutter closed again. the image of his mother, gleeful and unapologetic followed by the

teary mournful cry of his father as they were led away at gunpoint, the way her teeth had

flashed in wills direction as shed called now you know how to make monsters, my son. now

you know true beauty. mollys helpless expression. the memory of clutching his pillows around

his ears at night below deck to block something but what? from his ears, praying for the

oceans waves to take him quickly into the night. the motley of white scales littering the floor of

his mothers studio. the red paint she kept in the freezer. all flashed before him. hed known. hed

always known. and hed done nothing. killing was not in his blood. it was his choice. even then.

i am already who i am meant to be, will says. i am becoming all the time.

the kiss is soft, chaste, dry, but beneath their skins is a promise that hums michaels song.

will was a good man before he met arturo.

now he is a god.

SERIES: BEGINNINGS

by Jade / j.y.

UNTITLED

by Izzy

i ask myself,

WHERE WILL I GO WHEN I DIE?

i have ripped myself

apart & collapsed in on myself

to make like the big bang.

& i softly remind myself,

BACK TO THE BEGINNING.

i have died little deaths,

but always woke up the

next morning, so listen,

does that make me immortal?

what is there to say surviving

the repeated image of all

my little endings?

AD INITIUM

by Sia / s.g.

I thought I was metal: tempered, shining, lethal.

I know now that Im a piece of glass that shattered because of a well-placed blow.

I reflect what you dont want to see sometimes, as well as countless rainbows when the light is

just right. Im a thousand people and you cant catch a single one. I cut you when you try to step

on me and still look good when Im crushed, nothing more than dust.

You can see right through me, but it isnt always that easy. I can be stained all over with brilliant

colors, I can be a masterpiece you can only dream of. Im worthy of a sacred place, worthy of

hearing prayers.

I can be melted by fire but Ill just take a new form.

Im ready to be reborn, but lets make this crystal clear, I will not be your bulletproof glass.

FIRST DREAMS OF THE NEW YEAR

by Stefani Tran

a dream journal poetic sequence

January 2, 2016

I am sitting in a crowded campus student lounge with Danielle, and I accidentally left my

backpack on a chair where a half-lion, half-man is now sitting. I am a little bit in love with the lion

man. I squeeze past the other tables and apologize as I reach behind the lion man for my

backpack, and when I face him again, he has cracked open in his paws a single perfect

mango. Where did you get a mango in the winter? I gasp, and he smiles at me, white teeth in a dark

golden face, and says, I grow them, as he pushes it gently into my hands. My hands are shaking. I

take the mango back to Danielle and tell her to eat it, that I cant bear to have it. Danielle just

says, No, its for you too. Hell know if you dont eat it. He knows everything, and takes out two metal

cafeteria spoons, one of them slightly bent. I look down at the two halves of the mango. One half

has become overripe. The other still has traces of green.

January 4, 2016

Nine of the popular girls from school are living in my house. They rifle carelessly through my

closets and lounge on the top bunk. In the morning, I am the last person to wake up, and when I

go to check on them, theyre all dressed and about to go out. Wheres everyone going? I ask, and

one of the girls replies lazily, Were going to church. I am surprised. Then another girl hands me a

flyer, and I see its for one of those inspirational youth groups, with singing and trust falls instead

of praying, and I think, Ah, thats more like it.

January 7, 2016

My family lives in a giant black birdcage in a room where the walls are painted like a midnight

sky. We live on the second floor of the birdcage and our little black dog lives in a cave on the

floor below us. I find our dog and pick her up and carry her in my arms, because I know her cave

is dirty and I dont want her to go back in there. One time I peered in at the entrance of the cave

and saw the straw on the floor and the deep tunnel leading away into the blackness and the owl-

holes in the walls and I got scared and that is why I am holding my dog now. No, we cleaned it up,

the cave is nice now, my mom says, come look, and I tell her I already did even though I didnt

because I am still scared of the cave no matter how clean it is.

January 9, 2016

I am running up the down escalator in a mall. The down escalator is in the middle of a waterfall.

The spray hits my face, soaking my sleeves as I run. The LED billboard above my head

announces, THE CONGREGATION IS FREE.Still running, I look down at my own feet. I am wearing

plastic slippers, and my toenails are painted red.

January 11, 2016

There is a man who is a shapeshifter, and he has traveled far and wide taking on different forms.

He is searching for something, but he doesnt know what. The key to the mans shapeshifting is

blood. If the man stands next to a source of water and a drop of blood falls into the water, he will

begin to change. Now the man is walking in a courtyard of stone fountains with the girl he

loves. I used to be a little afraid of you, the girl says. I felt as though you were always so far away,

even when you were here. The man says, I didnt know. The girl stands over one fountain, takes out

a needle, and pricks her finger, letting a tiny drop of her blood fall into the water. Its not

enough, the man says. Its okay. So the two of them sit on the rim of the fountain instead,

dabbling their feet in the water. I was thinking about moving to Brazil, the girl tells him. Oh, the

man says. Then the girl looks at him. But Im not anymore, she says. At this point, it is obvious

something bad is about to happen. The enemys arrow strikes the girl directly in the center of her

back, and she falls forward into the fountain, her blood spreading in clouds in the water. The man

howls in rage and grief, but already he can feel his true power awakening for the first time. He is

still howling as he rears up and becomes a towering pillar of storm and smoke.

January 11, 2016

I am growing plants inside a rice cooker. There is a light inside of the lid. I press down hard on

the lid with my two hands to turn the light on, pushing light into the greenness of the leaves.

January 6, 2016

I am telling Sol I still havent finished the new Tomb Raider game, and he offers to co-op it with

me. So I pull back my hair, put on my gloves, and become Lara Croft. No matter where I turn,

Sols voice is there to guide me through the dark. Together, we swing on jungle vines across

impossible gorges. We set off the bombs and sail away on the plumes of fire they make when

they explode. See, that wasnt so hard, Sol says in my ear, at the end. I wonder why I need Sols

help to be Lara Croft. I am still wondering when I wake up.

January 15, 2016

We are having our family Christmas party, and it is my job to take videos of everybody, but I

cant figure out how to work the iPad. I take one long video of everyone waving at the camera, of

the presents under the tree, my goddaughter playing on the floor, but when I press the button

that is supposed to save the video, it deletes it instead.

January 14, 2016

I find out Darra is secretly a drug addict, and that my mom is friends with her dealer. My mom

and I run into the dealer when were out doing errands, and the two of them start talking,

laughing and remembering old times. Sugar is the word they use. Its your fault Darra loves

sugar, my mom tells him, chuckling. The dealer shrugs, but he is still smiling. Then my mom asks

him if theres anything he needs. Two cans of Spam? she asks. The dealer thinks about it for a

minute. Three cans, he says finally, his hands in his pockets. And a bottle of Kikkoman.

January 5, 2016

A brown girl meets a black boy in a church of mirrors. The black boy is the newest member of

One Direction. They take a mirror selfie. They are happy.

January 2, 2016

The girl from next door and her brother have come over to our house to swim. I change my

clothes in my dads room with the door open, listening for footsteps in the hallway outside. I time

it so that I am pulling my shirt down just as the brother is passing by.

2016: THE YEAR MY CHEST WIDENS / REVEALS / BLOOMS

by R. Ortega-Rojas

Spring: my chest to tie itself to the moon. to relearn how to use my mouth. pick up my tired body

and let it stand on its own. paint my nails. something outrageous. to let the sadness seep out

eventually. soon.

Summer: my chest to melt into a puddle on the sidewalk, from the heat. for the dog to lick it

clean and ask to go on a walk. for my heart to grow brown with love and sunlight. for the months

i fall in love with my body.

Fall: my chest to split into two, not crack, not splinter. to turn robin egg blue. or persimmon

orange. or sweet apple red. to watch the rain fall and no more have it sound like a hollow drum

against your breastbone.

Winter: my chest to stay home and sleep. my bones to be half thawed. to have no thought in

breathing. to look at my hands and see no shaking. to stick my tongue out and laugh in surprise,

with my head thrown back, with my chest hurting with all these good things. all this good hurt.

CARBON

by Astri

a molecular connect the dots

someone up there takes a pencil

and bridges them together

a roll of dice

and youre the dirt

a draw of the card

and youre the ocean

a blindfold game

of pictionary

except the cosmos

is the only player

the outcome

cannot promise

to be fair

the result may be grand

or microscopic

it only guarantees

a particular structure,

a particular purpose,

a rebirth.

Illustration by Astri