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ANATOLIOS MAGAZINE Issue 3, January 2019


~ Issue 3, January 2019 ~

Editor-in-chief Aya Whitfield (@avolitorial) Literary Editors Kavi Kshiraj (@thermonous) Charle Liu (@streetsiding) Quinn Lui (@flowercryptid) Lianna Schreiber (@ragewrites)

Anatolios Magazine accepts submissions of poetry, prose, and visual art (including photography) during the open submission periods indicated on our site, anatoliosmagazine.wordpress.com. Cover ​Photo by S ​ tephen Hocking​ on U ​ nsplash


General Submissions Scene From A Eucharistic Adoration by Grace Yannotta………….………….…………….4 The Butcher by Rachel Bird……………………………………………………………...5 darkata data dardarika by Joshua Lipson………………………………………………………..6 Temple by Eva Skrande………………………………………………………………..7 Midnight Ghost by Hazel Griffiths…………………………………………………………….8 in church by Kate LaDew…………………………………………………………………..9 What is it about hostel bathrooms...? by Rachel Bird………………………………………..10 How to Devour Your Idolatry: God Made You a Wikihow by Alina Samoylenko………….11 Leilat al-Qadr by Joshua Lipson………………………………………………………...13 Indulgence by Delaney Hendrick…………………………………………………………….14 god by Kate LaDew…………………………………………………………………………..15 The Doves by Eva Skrande……………………………………………………………....16 Padlocks by Rachel Bird………………………………………………………………………17 ooo​ ​. .

Members Section Ancient Bleedings by Paige Pino………….………….………….…………………………..19 these hurts are hereditary ​by Lianna Schreiber………………………………………………20 Untitled by Riri M.…………………………………………………………………………….21 on sacraments i’ve taken kneeling ​by Lianna Schreiber……………………………………….22 .

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Scene from a Eucharistic Adoration Grace Yannotta the sloped ceilings of a chapel at night / she was haunted by candles and rattled by entities / my legs were crossed / on the cold floor / i did not know the songs / but the church was alit with the pleas / of her yearning compatriots oh they pleaded for forgiveness they threw their hands up towards the altar as tears ran down their faces yes they begged for Your love Your devotion they fell to their knees and i watched as my fingertips pressed little crescent moons into the program for the night i cannot rip my eyes from that golden shrine / why are they so prehistoric, so tribal / i am in the eye of the hurricane / i was never meant to be here / guttural murmurs / the vestment choked but i watched as they returned from their confessions, i watched as they tore out their throats. i watched as they offered up their souls to that middle-of-the-night god and i stood up, i locked myself in the bathroom to catch my breath, to beg my hands to stop shaking and the music, those quavering voices pulsated through the door reminding me that there was no escape no escape no VIRGO MATER CHRISTI VULTUS / oh, you cursed monstrance / you monstrous ostensory / you burned your gilded edges into the backs of my eyelids / and clenched my diaphragm / begging for repentance

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The Butcher Rachel Bird In the aftermath, I have skinned the beast and am here to do penance, climbing the altar—all his blood on my hands. I have the pelt around my shoulders, but the cold still cuts to the quick: my howling lips turn blue. I am consumed by a late November wanting, this impatient groveling regret. Oh, I’m always reaching for a noose. I unzip the carcass with buried hatchets, smearing the last of my softness across the cathedral floor. Hunting through myself for something tender, all I find is revenge. What is life for if not ruining? I have steel and needles buried between my ribs. Now I am crawling through viscera: can you tell me if I’m the roadkill—or the car? Oh, wake me when it's over, wake me when there’s nothing left but the holy.

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darkata data dardarika Joshua Lipson scratching in the cleft between evidence and tinted lens it is wild measureless glory and the chasm of speech betrays nothing and the cacti of sensibility totally devoid form a stolen guess make nothing of the telltale signs assuming doctrine-proofand-wonder in the firmament he buds dimensions — none ripen —

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Temple Eva Skrande While the wind gave birth to the rosary, You and I made a temple Out of honey, emeralds, and pears. We laid scarves at the feet of the unbelievers. I went on a pilgrimage to the heights of your hair. You made me all apple and lilac. Our services consisted of lilies and knees. Our altar blessed evil into sky. The leaves of you, my prayer book, made me want to cry.

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Midnight Ghost Hazel Griffiths we met somewhere in the twilight between the echo of his holiness and the storm of my fury, upturned tables and torn fabric our coming together to form a prayer hearing hymns I could never sing as a melody of saccharine and silver. passionate promises, burning ichor ink and honey on his lambent lips writing post-midnight in euphoria trying to find his soul beneath my skin yearning for the down of his wings sunrise, the shadow of my 3am pleas ​holy, holy, holy is he! I traced old road maps, sepia, salvaged and with fingertips covered in wax he told me to kneel at the altar instead divinity is known amidst blank pages aching shoulders and wrists, our returning to unfinished pieces adoration and worship often laconic.

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in church Kate LaDew I stare up at all the beautiful whiteness the crystal blue eyes blue like eternity, blue like heaven raise my thin, delicate hands, a mirror, young and pale, as if I were normally kept in a box underground, and that’s when I hear it, my own voice breathing my name as if I’ve been holding one breath my whole life a hard spark of a voice, I​ am not echoing Martin Luther from a thousand years ago I am not​, all these dead statues this dead room, these dead pews so empty inside, full of absence their eyes pull mine up, up, up, up, clear blue, the color of heaven I have nothing to reach it with, I’m so heavy, I could never lift myself that high, that far but there is light everywhere and dust hangs like diamonds I am not I am not I am alone with white statues they hear nothing they see nothing they say nothing and I try to speak but they’ve stolen all the words

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What is it about hostel bathrooms and hair dye that lead me to bad decisions? Rachel Bird My friend once said—while drinking plastic bottle whiskey out of a chipped coffee mug, and giving herself bangs in the dorm bathroom at 2am— life is just cutting your hair and then waiting for it to grow again,​ and— she’s right, and as the red dye swirls around my ankles it’s like washing the stains off after battle or maybe like menstruation, but in my daydreams, Medusa gets an updo for her wedding to a blind woman, see— I have my mother's hair, all wild and forests with moss and elves and spirals and swirls like steam out of coffee: it is the hair of the centuries of daughters before me and sometimes I feel that weight too much: (religious Jewish women cover their hair with scarves and wigs and sanctity because they see their hair as the source of their sexuality and power and sometimes that feels like too much, like I’m too much Medusa or maybe not enough), so— now my fingers are stained like I dipped them in a carcass, and the dye stings but I drag it through my tangled curls like turpentine: the Venetians used to bleach their hair to a Scandinavian blonde with urine and as the water swirls around my ankles I bow at the burning altar of womanhood.

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HOW TO DEVOUR YOUR IDOLATRY: GOD MADE YOU A WIKIHOW Alina Samoylenko STEP ONE: WHAT YOU LOVE* IS YOUR IDOL. TAKE YOUR GAS MONEY AND BUY SOME MATCHSTICKS AND BURN IT. BETTER ROASTED, THAN RAW. HERE’S OUR RECIPE: http:www.whyeverythingyoulustforisevil.edu/Usdu18ms o2014/ *Things that you may love may include: That day when you saw a girl in a sundress and pretty lipstick with her mouth upturned wide and crooked, and you felt your knees go weak. That one time you couldn’t afford the black coffee you needed for school, but someone paid for you and you wanted to cry, you were so thankful. That musical number that made you rise from bed and dance with your socks on. That time the sun rose with enough colors trailing it you wanted to paint it, but you took a photo instead. All of these make you forget what you’re here for. That girl had too-short hair. That thankfulness belongs to GOD. That music had cuss words in it. That sunset is not as pretty as GOD. STEP TWO: IDOLATERS LIE THE MOST WHEN THEY SING*. SEW YOUR MOUTH SHUT. BUY A SEWING KIT FOR 49.99 WITH THE CODE: GA3R1EL *When an idolater sings, they ultimately forget that what they are singing for is not right. This leads to joy of things that we cannot sell or supply, therefore we cannot make sure your stay at HEAVEN will be the best one we can offer. For your sake, heed the warning labels that come with unprescribed and non-recommended products. Yes, that includes the time you cried on someone’s shoulder as they rubbed your back. We don’t have that in stock. Get rid of it. We even have discounts this season! STEP THREE: AFTER YOU’VE SEWN YOUR MOUTH SHUT, MAKE SURE TO CUT OFF YOUR LIMBS. GOD SAID TO DO IT. DO IT, RIGHT NOW. YOU CAN USE OUR SPECIAL SAWS, JUST FOR 472.78 WITH THE CODE: V1RG1N* *This specific coupon can only apply to people who have been loyal to the company since our humble beginnings. An example could be: when you look into the mirror and realize how your makeup could make someone uncomfortable because the colors of your eyelids are too bright, and you decide not to go? So you stay home, and read this article. That’s the kind of people this coupon applies to. You can’t be selfish here for this one. You can’t be greedy. STEP FOUR: HIRE ONE OF US, YOUR 24/7 ONLINE CARE PROGRAM, AND A LOCAL GUARDIAN ANGEL* WILL BE HAPPY TO ASSIST YOU IN FEEDING YOUR IDOLATRY STRAIGHT INTO YOUR STOMACH. 1-413-777-7777. *Guardian Angels do care about you. They know all of your information you’ve willingly given us, and they’ve decided to personalize your experience with HEAVEN with this information. 11


The procedure is simple. Lie on your bed, realize you can’t sleep, and a Guardian Angel will come at that time. It may feel frightening at first, but don’t worry. All the whispers your Guardian Angel will plant into your mind at night helps the incision proceed much smoother. Call at any-time, or text us. Our voice-mail is always open if our website is down. STEP FIVE: WHENEVER YOUR STITCHES FALL AND FINGERNAILS BEGIN TO GROW, REPEAT STEPS ONE THROUGH FOUR. REMEMBER, WE ARE HERE FOR YOU.* *As long as you be a faithful customer, of course! We unfortunately cannot extend our services to non-paying citizens. ___

STEP SIX: oh, you’re still here?

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Leilat al-Qadr Joshua Lipson And what do you know about Leilat al-Qadr? cleanest when ravenous spilled too much and now am waterlogged with surahs 1,000 months I sought you in the floorboards and I sought you on Mount Nur radiant with recitation refused to sleep I sought you on the balcony hair tumbles with exceptions to the law and I am now a thicket of black I sought you on the green terrible as banners and now your hosts have come undone muwashah tread lightly: the God is in the details: my hands are seized by dawn

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Indulgence Delaney Hendrick I am on my knees, cranberry juice pooled around my feet because God knows, I've ran out of blood to shed. My bones protrude. My skin is embalmed and my will decays. The downpour provides a semblance of peace. In a cacophony, it plays alongside my inner turmoil. Tainted crosses and forsaken chants make up the dirt under me. What was previously a cloud above me has been carelessly swallowed and I cannot pluck the s​ orry from my throat because I swallowed that too. In my fit of devouring all that was presented in front of me, I left this world lousy. ​The same way I found it. In the blunt traces of my ceremony I haven't only lost myself but also my life. The slate is cleansed with water and wine and I am soaking in their residue. Where am I? Where is my mind? Where is my God? Where are his Gods? What if all my worship is to thin air? My belief is nothing but a bout of visible breath in the winter. I may be a stirred pot of craziness. I may be lost in a place I have never been before. But I can feel the everpresent hum of somebody watching over me. The flap of wings in my ears and the extra set of bodies when I cross my eyes. There is a guardian. Angelic? Demonic? Something? Catatonic or neurotic, as long as I am not alone in my mess, I will be contented. These bruises across my back will soon heal. This marrow seeping from me will soon cease. Guardians, if they are supposed and all-seeing, I wonder if they've seen me at my best. Because I haven't. Though I do have a heap of gold coins with me, and with this archaic currency, I offer thee, One gold coin for my head, Two for my words unsaid, Three for a heart that will stay, Four for a better day, Five so I can pardon all those with wrong did to me, i​ ncluding myself​. And six for an indulgence to excuse my blasphemy.

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god Kate LaDew you’re a shadow in the dark I strain my eyes, pupils black as you, feel you clawing at my feet, a rug waiting to be pulled. you’re meant to love me, I’m meant to love you, but from my parents mouths you ask obedience, dull-eyed faith, for a shadow in the dark. whose hands do you use? the preacher looking down, my mother’s frown, the clucks of the tongues that follow me everywhere in this timid town. I don’t believe it for a second. if I close my eyes I can see you just as well, you’re nowhere at all, I say to the air wishing you were there

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The Doves Eva Skrande Each day I am grateful for my house of doves. We break bread together, Say prayers for tree limbs and the souls of animals. When the winds of life get too strong, They hold down my skirts. They are history’s birds. They are the doves of destiny. O doves of history, I want to be thankful for what I have been, my suitcases Of burdens, and all. O doves of destiny, I want to learn what I’ll be in the next world What scarves to bring with me, What will keep me warm Between worlds.

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Padlocks Rachel Bird A chain, a chain like your necklace around my throat like captivity and love and love is captivity and vice versa and I love you like a supermax prison with no chance of parole but why can't I stop turning everything into love poems? Why can't I stop crying Bible verses like gospel hymns like chains straight to god like checking my mailbox on a Sunday like emptiness. So tell me, did it hurt? Tell me, do you love me? You, all chains around you like snakes like Medusa in the hair salon like Adam and Eve like I'm naked and unashamed standing before you like an altar like drunk out of my mind on a Saturday night, like the way I keep asking do you love me do you love me? Like the way I know I will never remember how to say it back. 17


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Ancient Bleedings Paige Pino there is a rot in my bones that i cannot scrape out // it builds with every false worship that i offer // i took communion under the guise of the devout // wondered if the flesh of Christ in my mouth could feel the hellfire waiting for me // wondered if the wine-blood in my cup ran as warm in His veins as mine across the altar // you see, i drowned God a long time ago // but He keeps coming back // keeps petitioning psalms for all the souls He could not save // but these ancient bleedings offer no salvation // and even He is not immune to these sharp oaths // which spill blood and holy water over forsaken tongues // i am sin in the way that i breathe // the way that i love // angels burn at the sight of me // a girl made of prayers that He cannot hear // over the clamour of my damnation //

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these hurts are hereditary Lianna Schreiber in this forest I am wolfskinned, less girl than I am fir-wrought pyre — my god is given to me tooth by tooth, fume-first, no honey as sweet as the carnage torn free from the deep of his ribcage, all cherry, all plum, veal hunt sunken in a bath of lowplain herbs — I do my worship the only way I know how: the hunger of my hands nursing on the achings of his spine, until all that is left is a misplaced longing for once-was, may-never-again-be, and my blood is howling from where my grandmother buried it under a walnut root; I carry the carcass of a dead world, and when I sing, it is never alleluia.

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Untitled Riri M. i clasp my hands together and pray. why? i do not know, only that we do. i wander around the temples, wondering if today is the day i will get lost and my prayers will come true. the guidance i receive under my family’s tutelage, the life my family wants of me— is it the same as the one my ancestors want? but even still, what do i want? (all i want is to please, to make them happy, and isn’t that the most girlish thing you’ve heard) i clasp my hands together and pray, knowing that whatever i do, nothing will change, only myself, and that perhaps my prayers will never be answered, but what else is new?

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on sacraments i’ve taken kneeling Lianna Schreiber my mother’s living God strips off my skin, claws His way inside by means of pleas and empty platitudes — says He can make me holy, says He can save me from the trappings of my mortal coil; had I been still seventeen, perhaps I would let Him hollow a home out of me, hallow a church from the char of my fire-forged fingers; but I am twenty now, and I have outgrown the need for a father, for someone to hold back my hair and tell me I am worth salvation— if I let Him have my flesh, then it is only because I believe in mutual devouring, in the mystique of forbidden and the power preying on He who has walked with death underfoot may confer this body I’ve set loose on the hunt for a new, darker Heaven.

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Author Biographies GRACE YANNOTTA is currently in her senior year of high school in North Carolina. She's an aspiring author and an aspiring historian and an aspiring a lot of things. She has work published or forthcoming in Dream Noir, Angry Old Man, Zin Daily, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others, as well as an upcoming astrology column in Dark Wood Magazine. RACHEL BIRD is a recent college graduate living in Boston, MA. Her first chapbook, Some Strange Savageness, was released on a limited scale in spring 2018. In addition to writing, Rachel is also a visual artist working in block printmaking, textile, and mixed-media. JOSH LIPSON is a student of history, language, and the mind based in Virginia by way of New Jersey, Cambridge, Jerusalem, Istanbul, and San Francisco. His work has been featured in Harbinger Asylum, Obra/Artifact, Three Line Poetry, Angel City Review, Homonym Journal, The Meadow, Briars Lit, and Burning House Press. Most recently, EVA SKRANDE has poems appearing or forthcoming in Agni, Visions International, The Texas Review, The Cortland Review, among others. She is the author of My Mother's Cuba (River City Poetry Series) and a chapbook, The Gates of the Somnambulist (Jeanne Duvall Editions). HAZEL GRIFFITHS is a writer and photographer currently undergoing a career change. Originally from the UK but now based in Australia, she is often lost in cafes or libraries. She has published several scientific articles in the past but has now moved into the realm of science fiction and fantasy. KATE LADEW is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art. She resides in Graham, NC with her cats Charlie Chaplin and Janis Joplin. ALINA SAMOYLENKO is an Ukrainian-American girl, who has recently been exploring the literary field. Currently living in Western Massachusetts, she studies extensively and hopes to eventually obtain a doctorate in creative writing. This would be her first official work that has been published in a non-fan-based area.o DELANEY E. HENDRICK is a fourteen year old writer who has been writing for eight years and usually aims towards prose, poetry, and short stories. You can contact her at delaneyhendrick@gmail.com for business inquires. PAIGE PINO is a young and queer individual born and raised in Arizona. She enjoys avoiding her responsibilities and being very inconsistent with her writing schedule. In her spare time, she can often be found asleep or cuddling with her cat/son, Orion. 23


LIANNA SCHREIBER is a Romanian author. A self-described “New Romantic”, her work mostly concerns itself with gods, monsters, and human nature as it is caught between the sacred and the profane — all wrapped up in an overabundance of floral imagery. She can be found @ ragewrites on tumblr. RIRI M. is a Chinese poet living in California. They enjoy playing gacha games and crying over cute girls they never roll while also crying over the boys they do roll. Their work can be found @verilies on Tumblr.

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Profile for Anatolios Magazine

Anatolios Magazine: Issue #3  

The third issue of Anatolios Magazine, featuring seventeen works by eleven authors. Find us at anatoliosmagazine.wordpress.com

Anatolios Magazine: Issue #3  

The third issue of Anatolios Magazine, featuring seventeen works by eleven authors. Find us at anatoliosmagazine.wordpress.com

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