ISSUE 4: CATHARSIS

CATHARSIS

the clarity after popping a bubble. the relief of telling a secret. the feeling of kissing someone for the first time. walking alone after a rainstorm. swimming on a sweltering day. when you cry so hard your body feels like it’s on fire. listening to music and dancing while cleaning. yelling. picking the hair out of your doll’s head. the exhale when a storm ends. a chemical reaction. picking a scab. screaming before taking a big leap. uttering the words you were too afraid to say. relief. peace. release. explosion.

Cover by: Callie Wohlgemuth

Alight

It was past midnight. Light streamed from a single window, tall and arched, illuminating the courtyard with a muted yellow. A faculty member’s room, perhaps, or a security guard’s post. Rong was hidden from sight by her old friend, a stone eagle perched on the gated wall, its wings folded in such a way that she could never find purchase on its surface.

Aged beyond its years from corralling students, the wall was still rough to the touch above eye level, stubbornly contrasting the smooth expanse below her dangling feet. Whenever she climbed over it, she liked to rub the divots on the wall, slowly marking her place in history.

Sometimes she heard others as they whirled around in the darkened field behind the school. She was always so certain they would be hungover from bliss in the morning, but no matter how hard she tried to find her co-conspirators, their expressions revealed nothing. She ground her heel against a cigarette butt and picked it up before anyone saw. She plunged her hands into the river until her fingers turned purple and blue. She buried her head in her arms, raising her sleep-hooded eyes to watch strangers passing by.

It was morning when she dropped to the other side, returning as the sun kissed the horizon line. As the whole courtyard glowed with the possibility of a new day, she thought about how, not for the first time, she wished to feel an expectant gaze waiting for her in the light, warm and gentle on her face.

by Xiang Jun

View from the NY Ferry

Andrew Muller

View from the NY Ferry

Andrew Muller

Another Way Home

Iris Xie

by Kally Hall

Will was scared. He was scared of living. He was scared of living wrong and so he asked God for a sign: Cardinals. The bird, red and pristine; red like certainty.

The first day he had asked God for the sign, relief washed over him. He could look for the birds, and so he did. He looked for them everywhere, in street corners and on signs, on buildings and at bus stops, in bodegas and on advertisements. He listened for their calls as cars passed, but heard only people and saw only noise.

At a barbeque he stood, solo cup in hand, watching the trees in case one might stop by chirping to offer him its greetings. He smiled at the thought. It could happen he knew and so he waited. He drank as the gathering unfurled around him: sound and people alive with sincerity. At different times Will felt a tugging on his sleeve or felt hands on his shoulders as others asked what he was looking at. He could offer no reply and could only smile at them.

When he took the sidewalk home that night he saw only the autumn leaves and heard only wind. It was beautiful and it was nothing. Will wasn’t discouraged. Waiting wasn’t new to him and he could wait a little longer. What was a little more time?

After his first week without seeing cardinals, his spirit fluttered and began to beat against the bars of its enclosure. He went to work, and went home every day all while feeling ants crawl on the back of his neck. He should know. There should be knowing. Lying in bed he would stare at the missed calls and the unanswered messages he couldn’t reply to. He could answer them, and he would, in time. He was tired and they wouldn’t understand. Waiting wasn’t new to them. There would be time.

In the second week without seeing the little red birds, the possibility dawned on Will. He might not see them. He might not ever know. Maybe that was its own certainty, but he couldn’t help but keep looking for them. He spent his nights dreaming of anything except the little red birds. On phone calls with his family he fell asleep. He spent his days at work with his head in his hands.

In the third week there was nothing and it no longer hurt. One night Will walked barefoot out into the snow. He didn’t expect the cold to be as painful as it was, but he was resigned not to move. He stood in his doorway, one foot in the snow, the other a telephone line to oblivion. He could only wait. He walked a mile this way. It was a starless night but the street lights shone down onto him, yellow and perfect. When his feet began to bleed he walked home. Pain was an object. So was time. He could live with one but not the other. He slept that night and dreamt of nothing.

He awoke in the night with a peculiar feeling. Maybe he had asked for the wrong thing. It wasn’t impossible to see a cardinal in the city, but it was highly unlikely. He could’ve asked for anything. He could ask God for another sign: Pigeons.

That morning when he took the subway to work they were everywhere. On street corners, on signs, and on park benches. He couldn’t escape the sound of their cooing. When Will walked home from work he felt a large SPLAT on his shoulder and saw a bird had pooped on him. Looking above him in the trees he saw the culprit had been a pigeon no less. He laughed until he nearly cried, walking lightly through the thawing snow. There would be pigeons, and there would be tomorrow.

The End

Vecinos Alia Reyna

In Her House Jules

Recognition in Words

Creative Director: Allysia vd

Photographer: Goldiie

Makeup: Piper Klappe

Hair: Aida Meijer

“Sometimes I dream about standing on the top of a hill and just screaming—to release everything. Screaming out all the built-up frustration from dealing with rigid institutions and living in an increasingly hostile political world. I think it would bring a real sense of relief.

...

The models look like statues—posed, curated, holding fragile wooden headpieces in their hands. Their posture feels controlled, restrained, socially acceptable, as though they are expected to remain still, to behave.

That tension—the buildup before the release— is what I want to emphasize with this selection.

The wooden headpieces are inspired by the tradition of wooden craftsmanship from my Afro-Surinamese heritage. As a second-generation migrant born in the Netherlands, I wanted to reflect that connection to traditional craft while also experimenting in more innovative ways and bringing in my own vision. I designed the wooden pieces digitally and lasercut them—blending traditional materials with modern tools.”

Models:

(left): Alejandra K. (right): Vroni Martina

Photos by Charlotte Schweiger

Plato’s Cave (Digitized)

I’ve been part of too many rooms. I don’t remember much, except versions of myself I didn’t quite like. I am always changing, hurtling towards something that would make me better. Some people chase money or love but I chase self-improvement that only exists in uncomfortable spaces. Liminal spaces, internet archives, moodboards that make me sit back and stare, written communication that helps form relationships that are black and white, because I can read and understand and not misunderstand. This is a senseless experience; my senses are dampened, there are no touches on my skin aside from the bedroom light, no speech but the tongue in my teeth (I need my cavities fixed), no noise outside of the keyboard, and I touch and scroll, touch and type, inputting pieces of information outside of me, in the web, marvelling at connections based on languages that can never truly express me. I hope I leave a mark before I die; it’s the mark of the human condition to think about legacies, to wish to leave a mark, to hope someone cries when you die. And so my favorite room is a climate-controlled Plato’s Room where the fire plays on the ceiling and my body floats over water.

But if I were to talk about the room I am in now, I cannot see it outside of how it connects to the bigger universe. I see trees from a bedroom window, stunted trees with short branches and think about the forests we killed to develop these lands. A dog barks and I remember about some connection between higher cost of living and lack of affordable childcare contributing to a more childless

society. .The water mug at my desk is from my alma mater and I hope the girls I graduated with are doing well, I hope they find all they want in life, even if the odds are stacked against them. There are oatmeal banana chocolate chip cookies in a green container on my desk; half of which I gave to my gluten-free friend, a previous roommate, so maybe it’s not about the rooms but the connections you make in the rooms. Maybe I’m over-thinking this and just the act of living helps makes these connections, these little acts we do for each other, the cooking and the caring, the going to exercise classes together, reminding each other to stretch, asking your friend to download a fitness app so you both don’t just rot in bed during a global pandemic, (I need to move my neck or else it’s going to tense up my shoulders), to talk about what the world means to you, to vent about going through a healthcare system designed for you to fail, to see your grandmother die a week after your engagement party and know your friend hears you howling in her basement.

So I write and obsessively archive in the hopes of screaming into the void and connecting with the person who reads it. (My eyelids are droopy at the end of the day). In the space between dreaming and wakefulness, I see all the disembodied rooms in a giant space above me, leaching color as the people in them move, create, love and kiss. Threads form around them, blinking synapses connecting them, and I let myself sleep as past and present roll by me.

by R.K. Sandhu

Do you want to give a quick intro and your pronouns?

My name is Evie. I use she/her pronouns and I’m a fashion designer, currently a student at FIT.

What does the word catharsis mean to you?

To me, catharsis means release in the sense that you have a lot bundled up beforehand and you can finally let go. You can unapologetically be yourself.

Describe a time where you’ve felt catharsis.

Growing up, I had a pretty traditional upbringing. I always got good grades, I went to a good business school, and then got a traditional corporate job out of college. I did all of those things because it was the path I was told [to follow], but I knew deep down that I’m a creative person. I wasn’t doing what I ultimately wanted to do.

Could you describe your art to us?

With fashion design, I like to approach it in terms of play. I make my clothes very modular and multipurposeful, so some pieces can be reversible or matched with other garments to make new outfits. Because of that, the wearer can decide who they want to be and how they want to express themselves. All of this comes from a sense of play: I view designing itself as a fun activity, and at the same time, people get to play dress up with my clothes and experiment while deciding what they want to wear that day.

After I had been working my corporate job for around two years, I was at a point where I felt really burnt out. It forced me to reevaluate what I wanted to do in life. The whole process of discovering that I actually wanted to do fashion design was really cathartic to me. Once I made that decision and applied to fashion school… I felt like something clicked in my mind. I was doing what I was always meant to do.

Models: Andrea Valeriano, Oliver Canosa, Susie Wang

Do you have a piece of work that has felt cathartic to make?

I have this top that I recently made using this technique called slashing. I stacked four layers of fabric together, sewed organic lines throughout it, and cut through all the layers with scissors, leaving the bottom [layer]. It created this really interesting texture and effect that I think looks very cathartic.

When you were younger and playing dress up, what would you dress up as?

When I was younger, I always wanted to dress up as if I was older. As a child, I wanted to dress up like a teenage girl. For me, the way I dress is how I express myself. I wouldn’t say I’m shy, but I generally don’t talk that much. Clothing was a way for me to assert myself and be present in spaces without having to verbalize a lot.

Who inspired you when you were playing dress up?

In regards to clothing and fashion as a form of expression, I know I wanted to be an “it girl,” a star. When I’m walking on the street, I want people to think, “oh what is she wearing? That’s so cool.” I don’t think there’s a specific person I’m trying to be or emulate.

Which mediums do you usually gravitate to and why?

As of now, I mainly gravitate to fashion design, photography, and filmmaking. I like making small, short films on the side.

Throughout my life, I’ve been interested in pretty distinct creative mediums. My main one growing up was dance, I was an avid dancer. Everyday after school, I would go to the studio and eventually joined a competitive dance team. I strongly gravitate to music. I like to sing and play instruments, not that I’m great at it, but there’s something so healing about singing songs that you like.

What’s your go-to karaoke song?

Karaoke is different from what I like to sing on my own. When I’m on my own, my favorite song to sing is “Stoned at the Nail Salon” by Lorde. It’s too sad for karaoke. My go-to for karaoke is “The One That Got Away” by Katy Perry, which is also pretty sad but just upbeat enough.

Justice for karaoke ballads. I think that they need to make a comeback...

What are some themes that you find yourself revisiting a lot in your work?

Right now, I am interested in imbalance and juxtaposition. I don’t prefer when things look too perfect because it doesn’t feel real to me. It’s not as interesting or dynamic to look at. I try to have some sort of imbalance in all of my designs. Other themes I revisit a lot are nostalgia and modern femininity. I’ve always been aesthetically drawn to a girlish motif, but I’m trying to think of a way to modernize it within my designs.

“With fashion design, I like to approach it in terms of play.”

Which aspect of your creative process is cathartic to you?

My favorite part of the creative process is sewing. A lot of fashion designers don’t like to sew due to how tedious and painful it can be. But to me, hearing the machine go as I’m sewing and being able to see the garment clean and finished when I’m done is cathartic. After you sew, you can cut the garments and the seam allowance down too, which results in a bunch of the fringe going away. The whole process is very satisfying to me, it’s like ASMR.

A lot of your pieces vary in texture, color, intention, etc. What is your process with bringing an idea to life?

It really depends on if I’m sitting down to make a collection versus making something one off. If it’s the former, it’s a more traditional process. I start with a concept or theme, create a moodboard of images around it, pick out fabrics, do a lot of sketches, and then edit it down to the ones that I think should fit the collection. If I’m doing a one off piece, those usually come to me when I’m in the shower or on a walk. I’ll have this random idea or technique that I want to try, and then just implement it in a garment when I get the chance.

When you get an idea, how do you usually note it down?

I write it down immediately in my notes app so I don’t forget it. It’s really important because a lot of ideas come to me when

I’m trying to fall asleep. Sometimes I debate whether I want to write it down because I’m already in bed, but whenever that happens, I always forget the idea. I need to write it down in my notes as soon as possible.

What are your thoughts on clothing, fashion, and material in relation to the time we’re living in now? Why is it relevant and why does it need to stay relevant?

The aspect I like about fashion is that it’s really universal. Everybody wears clothes. Whether someone is into fashion or doesn’t care as much about style and trends, we still have to make a deliberate choice about what we’re wearing every single day. A lot of people use fashion as a form of self expression, myself included. In that sense, fashion will always be important.

Regarding the modern day, what comes to mind is the wide scale implementation of AI in the creative arts field, which is sad. However, areas such as couture rely on beading and embroidery techniques that demand a level of skill and craft that AI simply can’t match. Fashion is an area where humanity and craftsmanship can still shine through despite this current AI craze.

What’s your favorite color & what is your favorite color to work with?

My favorite color to work with right now is black, which might be considered boring,

but it’s because I’m currently interested in experimenting with silhouettes and textures. Working with black is a way to draw more attention to that instead of the color and the design.

My favorite color [in general] changes, but right now, it’s light pink or lavender.

What do you love about Brooklyn and Austin? How does each place inspire you?

Brooklyn inspires me because there are a lot of people around me that are making big moves and trying to get somewhere. It motivates me to grow as a person and do more things in life.

With Austin, I think I will always love it because it’s where I grew up. I love the nature there too. There are a lot of swimming holes and lakes that me and my friends would just spend days in. It’s much quieter compared to New York, so I have more time to think and reflect on myself and my life.

What food do you miss from Austin?

Chuy’s! It’s Tex Mex.

Do you believe in astrology? What is your star sign?

I do believe in astrology, to an extent. I’m a Capricorn. Capricorns are hard workers, type A… they know what they want and they will take steps to make

that happen. I think my personality does embody those characteristics so in that sense, I do believe in it.

Have you had any strange dreams lately? What do you think it was trying to tell you?

I had this dream recently where I was a contestant on a show similar to that KATSEYE documentary, Pop Star Academy. It was set right before the last round. The public had no knowledge of this, but this last round was considered life or death. If you won, you would go on to be part of the main group. If you did not win (trigger warning), you would be forced to go kill yourself. It was quite morbid. And so, I was one of the contestants trying to deduce how much of a chance I had to win, and whether I should bet my life on it. In the end, I did stake my life on it because I thought I had a good shot. I did well in the last round, but just before the results were announced, everyone rebelled and ran away! So nothing deadly happened to the group anyways. Why did I dream this? I think it was definitely a mix of watching Pop Star Academy and Squid Games.

What was your favorite cartoon growing up?

Avatar: The Last Airbender. I have a tattoo!

Did you have a favorite character? And why?

I was really obsessed with Mai, Ty Lee,

and Azula. Even though they were kind of evil, they were multidimensional – they still had a kinder, empathetic side. I think my favorite out of those three was Ty Lee because she was flexible and stuff.

Today on set, we built a world crafted for you. How would you describe the tones of the environment? How does it make you feel and what does it remind you of?

This set is very whimsical, fun, and colorful. I loved it! It really reminded me of my [childhood] backyard. I grew up in a suburb of Austin, Texas. Whenever my friends would come over, the most fun part would be hanging out in the backyard. I mentioned before that I used to be a dancer. Me and my friends would do cartwheels, try to get our aerials outside, and make silly jump cut videos before they were even popular on TikTok. We would just have fun in the backyard. Today’s set reminded me of that nostalgia.

What’s your favorite textile or material to work with?

My favorite material to work with right now is organza. In general, I

like anything sheer because I grew up surrounded by a lot of fabrics like tulle. My parents are in the bridal accessories business so they would use it frequently for veils. I’ve always been drawn to lightweight, flowy, translucent fabrics because it gives off a very ethereal vibe.

How do you see your designs evolving over time?

Because I’m in school, I’m doing a lot of experimentation. I’ve been exploring and engaging with a variety of techniques, while also learning new aspects of design in class. Right now, I’m not too focused on what my specific aesthetic is or should be. As I understand myself more as a designer, I want to hone in on that and make all of my pieces feel more cohesive.

“I have a goal... but I prefer not to say it before it happens because I’m superstitious.”

In Another Universe

Lily Leonard

by Sunshine Caseñas

The city bus goes hungry as people spill from its doors, its insides emptying as it retches out mothers and their strollers, old men and their canes, students and their backpacks. We become the bile, snow slush blanketing our feet as we wait for the next bus.

Fresh snowflakes fall from the sky like spilt rice flour. I consider opening my mouth to try and catch one on my tongue, but even straight from the sky, it’s already dirty. Instead, I feel the flakes melt against my cheeks, dripping down my chin like saltless tears.

Stowe Snow

Where do you hold your grief?

I feel that I carry mine deep in the pit of my stomach, some awful ache caught in the center of me. I sit with it on the bus home, letting it eat away at me as I watch the snow swirl outside the window.

And it hurts. It hurts so much, this never-ending gnawing. But that’s the thing about grief, isn’t it?

The more you feed it, the deeper the hunger gets. Once you have given grief a place in your belly, you will never feel full again.

I shiver, and pull my coat tight around me. A gust of heat exits the bus with me as I step out the door into another snowdrift.

Photos by Jonathan Santarelli

Rain Talk Red Moth

Garden of the Mind Red Moth

Photos by:

Krysa Weitzman,

Callie Wohlgemuth

Merry Go Round

digitally printed chiffon, 18x24”

Michaela Shuster

Vacuum Sealed digitally printed chiffon, 18x24” Michaela Shuster

In the kitchen, steam from an iron, steam from a kettle, teamed up against a pitcher of ice. Her neopolitan lips kissing a microphone attached to a neighboring machine, attached to a magnet in the bathroom. She sings operatically over an itchy

beat. Eyes close. Now, naked in an elevator. Dancing till she reaches the carpet, rubbing her pinky on a tiny frog that lives in her belly button, as it eats vintage cheese.

They begin talking cos she was always alone and the tiny frog was always with someone else. First, professional mice, then a French cat, then a billionaire who wouldn’t stop biting his nails.

She opens her eyes. Tears from a broken fever. APPLAUSE signs face away from the living room. Her mittens are fucking eels, as seen on a squareframed 8mm film, though not photographed.

Blinking down the fire escape, up the highway, signs for 7th century ideology, signs for 21st century technology. Her tongue becomes a crooked explanation point for everyone’s unchecked narcissism. What a helluva way to say someone else’s words. Strumming a confessional guitar, self-aware stardust.

by Franklin Dandridge

CuCuCumbia Joffre Contreras

TQM

Rae West

El Mártir / The Martyr charcoal and white pencil on red paper 14x20’’

Juliette Espinoza-JAEJ

AzeliA, Alain Gr-Polanco

Models:

Judas Kaveh, Neo Ng

Now... Kiss!

If I could think with my heart and feel with my brain

Finn Jackson

intimacy

intimacy has long forgotten my name, im intimidated by hearts who know how to intertwine their veins with another no hesitation to interrupt the beating fear of isolation how i wish to interweave myself inside another body to interlace my scrawny fingers filling the space between five others to eat away at the inches between us until we are none apart interfere with the music of my pulse and tug on the strings that connect our hearts interconnect flesh and bone cutting deeply past the torn skin shown im afraid to admit that what i fear more than solitude is the thought of remembering you but every night through gritted teeth i’ll whisper your name in my sleep in hopes that intimacy and you will one day return to me. interchange thoughts as entertainment until our boring is our most interesting

by Lucy Hwang

Self Portrait (created 2025)

Christopher

Ender Coryat

“Catharsis, for me, began in a fluorescent lit hospital room, Christmas 2022. Newly diagnosed with epilepsy, I was tethered to machines, my identity suddenly rewritten by a diagnosis I could neither escape nor understand. I asked a nurse to take my photograph at that nadir, not out of vanity, but necessity. I needed proof of the moment everything fractured.

The only sanctuary was the bathroom, the extension cord for my monitors just long enough to let me close the door. That cramped space became my crucible, a site where sorrow, memory, and fleeting joy collided in the mirror’s reflection. Years later, I returned to that image, no longer as a patient, but as an artist. I ground my old epilepsy medication into pigment and painted a self-portrait, transforming the very pills that once embodied uncertainty into a new visual language.

In painting, I confronted the person I was then, not with fear, but with clarity and compassion. The act was not just reclamation, but transmutation: suffering rendered into color, vulnerability into agency. I realized, standing before that portrait, that I had survived. I was no longer the person in that hospital bed. I had become someone new, someone whole.

This is catharsis: not a soft release, but a deliberate act. I took what nearly broke me and made it visible, undeniable. The portrait is proof—I was there, I endured, and I am not the same. My suffering isn’t erased, but it’s no longer in control. I own it now. That’s the power of art: to confront what haunts us and leave it, finally, on our own terms.”

february 10. 23:13

my nostalgia has parasitized me. made a cave-in of my chest. the horror of youth is not caramelized so easily, turned into cotton candy and funhouse mirrors so smoothly. no, no, the horror is horror. it sticks to the roof of the mouth less like candy, more like hunger. less the presence than the absence.

the electric sunrise that haunts me just behind my eyes will never leave me. it is buried in my chest and in all the dead end synapses of half finished friendships, near-not loves and hates too. i do not want to go back so much as i wish i had lingered just a bit longer when i was there, and oh, to think that time has moved on and on. to think that the spaces i am absent from now have only ever aged without so much as a second glance in my direction. nobody asked me how i felt about the cataclysm of growing up. about the strength of my spine and the fissures i pressed into my knobbled joints sleeping on hard stone and trashed couches.

i was there. in the little cave that bled into the forest floor until the quick of its nails were white. in the big field that felt like magic, one of those places that you know you’ll miss when you’ve only just seen it. one of those moments in time that when you walk into for the first time, it is already a memory. imprinted on your heart like the alchemy of photography, silvered liquid and red light leaking over your fingers like the greed of spring’s first fruit.

i was there. scraped dead skin cells into the crevice of limestone rock etched with thousand year old imprints made by someone an awful lot like me. they were there, and there i stood, and we were for a moment overlapping. overflowing the cup of shared space into the vast ocean of time. almost touching, had we just turned around we would have seen the other like a haunting, would have become a tale, an omen, interpreted across a traced lifeline like a red string connecting two styrofoam cups.

i am there. crack open the cicada husks hidden under the pine needles. see how saltwater fills this absence too. peer into the empty body and see the other side like a keyhole window between me and you. see me. i am reaching out to you, my pomegranate heart clutched in my hand, offered out as a token or a sacrifice. see me. i am here. i am here. i am here. like a spell or ritual, a summoning of twigs and the ending of the season. take my hand, i have a world to show you. one where you are alive simply because i am.

when i was eleven, i slid down a big shale rock that a river ran over, and at the base of the rock it jutted at an odd angle into the next rock, and this created a cut-out absence between the two planes that made itself into a hole that was just my height and about as wide as i was then. i fit into it like a willing body to the casket, the river my pallbearer and my soil. for a moment, through the veneer of river water that ran crackled over my eyes, i saw it; i promise. the sun, so wide and bright, i saw the past and the future as sparkling champagne bubbles, as cold winters and hot, hot summers. i saw the last cicada die. i saw a fish climb out of the ocean and cry in relief at the notion of freedom. i saw us, each running a hand over that limestone. you with your chisel and me with only my skin.

and before my lungs turned to hot air balloons that burst under the fire i felt at that moment deep within myself, i bobbed out from beneath this riverfall. i pulled myself out of this absence too, for it was not my grave.

on the bottom of my foot, a little leech suckled on and so was pulled from the cascade with the rest of my body. without mercy or second thought, i pulled it from the lifeblood and cast its corpse to the race of the river.

by Nistarot

honey

Honey pouring from your eyes

The same name you used to call me.

Rest on freckled cheeks

Do you still call me your pride?

Love is a transaction.

Quick to trade as the ships that dock at Hong Kong’s harbor. One form for another

Do you still harbor the burdens of our past?

Paranoia, Flames licking at my sanity.

I am bound to you the way you promised to be for me.

The child within me lives and dies in every moment.

Dark honey eyes that stare back at me

Reflect the pair that my lover will see

Years from now.

I don’t want a separate fate

But words don’t come easy

How can I honor you

And honor myself too?

by Karina Wu Fung

Wohlgemuth

Photos by: Callie

Models: Isaac Reyes, Luna Cortesi, Ashley Wilde, Danie

Vanessa Nguyen

there’s something about the weight of eyes, the heat of bodies colliding under bright lights. the crowd leans in, hungry. bodies sliding, losing control in the most freeing way. cheers erupting, voices blending into something wild and completely unhinged.

queerness isn’t always soft and gentle—sometimes it’s this. raw and loud. skin on skin, sweat mixing. women aren’t always tender, quiet, careful. sometimes we’re ferocious and messy and alive. two bodies wrestling while others like us watch and cheer, a safe space to be exactly who we are without apology. there’s catharsis in being witnessed this way, in refusing to be tame for anyone. the kind that leaves you breathless, slick under your fingernails and someone else’s sweat on your skin.

Was I ever?

It woke up. It felt bones and blood and tendons and nerves. There was acid roiling in its stomach and teeth in its mouth and fluid in its eyes! Then came the sensations! Its gums itched, drool leaving its newly made mouth and soaking into the earth surrounding it. It flexed its tongue, feeling something grimy, tasting something earthy.

The next sensation was suffocation.

It suddenly felt the dirt surrounding them, touching them on all sides. It was completely submerged! Worms wriggled against it and roots gently caressed it. Its eyes snapped open, nothing but searing pain greeting it as soil coated its delicate, damp membranes. The irritation made it jolt, the dirt holding it in place hardly moving. It began to struggle in earnest, muscles flooding with blood, cortisol and adrenaline, the feeling of burning seeping into every newborn fiber it had. It dug with sharp talons and kicked with strong legs until the dirt gave an inch, and then it fought even harder. It felt like it was fading into the soil, slipping further and further away the longer it was underground, and it knew if it didn’t escape soon it would stay there in the dirt, buried and trapped forever. With one more desperate push it broke out. Its hand felt no resistance, a cold breeze caressing its wretched skin. It wanted more, greedy for the freedom that danced between every line of its palm. Its legs strained and shook, its free limb beating against the grass in desperation.

It’s head broke out, grass falling to the side as it writhed and shook.

It paused in its struggle to choke and gag, thick mud and bile spattering against the forest floor as it gasped for breath in between each heave.

Once the dirt had left its throat and air had entered, it continued its escape from its soil prison. It kicked and pushed and writhed until slowly, oh so torturously slowly, it managed to get its other arm out. Then it pushed and dragged. Soon it had fully left the hole it was drowned in, laying on the grass, panting with new lungs. Its stomach gurgled, its thighs burned, its thick skin rubbed raw. It sat up, looking around for anything, everything. There wasn’t much around it. Just disturbed earth, the tree trunks of a forest, and a tombstone reading “Kathy. Beautiful Daughter. Smart as a Whip. Gone too Soon”. The gravestone was polished and well taken care of, and in its reflection the thing saw what it was.

A body so warped, a shape so foreign. It had never seen anything more beautiful.

Steps sounded behind it, and an old man’s voice croaked out with disbelief.

“You aren’t Kathy”

The thing turned back, too many teeth shining in the dappled sunlight.

“Was I ever?”

by Elm

Turbulent Ire & Guish

Zach Kemp

Split Flesh Grummage

Zach Kemp

roadkill

I am at the fountain and you are at the grave don’t let the subtle kiss of strangers fool you or fuel you there are antlers coming out of my sternum and I can’t feel you anymore and that is what I prefer.

When I left I said reach out when you’re ready but I don’t feel that way anymore. Don’t even reach out to me when you’re dead, making a ouija board do your dirty work.

I don’t like your crooked words with their soft lies and ugly truths keep your grief to yourself and I’ll swallow mine beak and all it didn’t have to be this way but you looked at me and said “I think it did” so I took a baseball bat to your flat screen and laughed all the way to the bank where I cashed your check but it was void.

I drove your car on empty all the way down the highway you pinned your hopes and dreams to it’s full of potholes and roadkill

I’ll gather up the bones and pin them to my breasts let the antlers come bursting out of my sternum, let the animal find rest in my body.

by Abigail Ray

by Sar

Dani stepped onto Main Street at the same second Kate Bush’s “Hounds of Love” began playing through her headphones, her Walkman tucked comfortably in her left pocket.

-When I was a child, running in the night Afraid of what might be Hiding in the dark, hiding in the street-

She nodded her head along to the beat as she walked underneath yellow street lights, the stuttering bulbs surrounded by fat moths. Neon flashing signs urged late summer crowds inside, warning customers that the remaining days of August were their last chance at melting citrus sherbert or twisted soft serve. Over the music, Dani heard boisterous conversations and drunk laughter spilling out of open restaurant windows- the sounds of a downtown Saturday night getting started. The early evening air was muggy with a lingering stickiness after days of intense storms. Humidity settled on the surface of her unshaven thighs, in the gap between her skin and denim shorts, under her jawline. The entire season was usually unbearable- weeks of unforgiving southern sunshine without a cloud in the cerulean sky. Thankfully, the rain offered a much needed reprieve. While waiting at the crosswalk, she closed her eyes, allowing strands of brown hair to tickle her cheek in a rare soft breeze.

Dani pictured her smiling self standing on the asphalt of her driveway. She loved to be directly under the thunder- the thrill of the one in who-knows-howmany odds of being struck by lightning. Basking in the idea of her parents coming home to find her fried waterlogged body in the middle of the street, crisped derma steaming in patches across the pavement. She blinked the disturbing image away, refocusing on lazily sidestepping cracks in the concrete as she moved on to the next block. She often fantasized about her parents discovering her dead upon their return from one of their long, intentionally undetailed, vacations. When young Dani proved herself to be self-sufficient enough- and too odd for their “perfect all-American family” sensibilitiesthey shirked their parental responsibilities to travel the world. To her, that was preferable to being forced into an ideal “all-American little girl” mold. They mainly chose neglect, and the more Dani grasped the consequences of visibility… she was content to remain unseen.

Dani was finally a few months away from her long awaited eighteenth birthday. She was eager for a future without parents who wished to erase her entire lifetime- or maybe just the parts of herself they deemed undesirable, improper, unlovable. Their abandonment was also morphing into something more sinister. She noticed the way they observed her, like a bug scuttling along their polished marble countertops. A spider they were waiting for the perfect moment to crush. Dani needed to leave and never ever look back.

As she continued down the crowded street, Dani replaced thoughts of her parents finding her mangled dead body with a fantasy of the day she might find them dead at home- bodies beaten, bloody, bruised. Tendons torn apart and insides out. They would resemble the descriptions of the corpse police found weeks ago under the bridge leading out of town. The rumor spreading through school was that the lacrosse team caught a boy slathering on lipstick through the window of his bedroom. Classmates said the boy “got what he deserved.”

Why the team was spying on him inside his own home, no one seemed to question besides Dani. One of the players was the son of a cop, so it was easy to deduce why that investigation went nowhere. The event terrified Dani, especially since everyone in town knew she was different. So, she kept her head down, allowing their quiet judgements and slight sneers, their whispered slurs and averted eyes. Images of Dani’s brutalized parents quickly bled into pure, concealed rage toward the killers, her entire school, her entire shit town.

She turned down Maple Avenue, a quieter sidestreet. Dani shook off her emotions and peeked into the local thrift store. Pat- the eclectic, brash cashier- always made conversation with Dani when she visited. Pat also secretly sold dirty magazines behind the counter. One day, she caught Dani peeking at a title: On Our Backs. The cover presented leather-wearing women holding each other. Pat’s face was sympathetic as she said, “You want it?”

Dani felt her ears turn bright red as she stuttered out, “O-oh I- um- sorry I didn’t mean-”

“Please, kid. It’s my personal copy. A bit too dangerous to sell stuff like this here… even for me,” her wink was followed by a frown of introspection.

Dani’s continued state of silent

embarrassment prompted the woman to continue, “You seem smart, so you probably already know thisthings are real bad. People are dying. Those in charge are letting it happen, and reveling in our deaths. Our community’s deaths.”

Dani’s face flushed even more and the woman quietly chuckled, “Kid, I can smell another dyke from a mile away. Don’t freak out, you’re unassuming to the heterosexual eye but,” she looked Dani up and down, and smirked, “I think you’d enjoy this magazine.”

Pat extended the glossy pages. Somehow Dani broke her paralyzed stance and gently grabbed the magazine. Although she was mortified, she was also intrigued. And for the first time in her entire life, she felt… seen.

Every visit after that, Pat gifted Dani a different issue. She enjoyed those trips, and enjoyed the hell out of those magazines. That is, until Dani’s mom discovered her stash under her bed.

Dani looked away from the store window, drank in warm stuffy air, and recalled the first time her mom confirmed her own worst fears. When it was solidified that Dani- her only daughter- was truly, sinfully… different.

Dani understood her mother’s shock at uncovering dirty magazines under her bed. Any kind of magazine like that would make a mother sweat, but especially one with solely women- lots of women- kissing each other. Everywhere. Down thighs and throats, in places covered by mounds of hair and painful looking piercings. That was the first time Dani’s mother put her hands on her child. Dani felt phantom tenderness in the spots where the bruises lasted longest. She resisted the olfactory memory of chemical smoke as her mother burned each copy.

Dani kicked pebbles on the sidewalk, pushing away thoughts of that night. Instead, she centered on the intimacy and arousal she experienced while losing herself in those pages- how they almost captured the feeling of kissing her best friend, Sherry Hunter, behind the cafeteria. It was a soft sort of tension, anticipation, excitement, delirium. It was a sacred moment abruptly shattered when their teacher, Sherry’s mother, turned the corner to find the two girls breaking apart. Mrs. Hunter locked narrow eyes with Dani in that moment, but never confronted her as to why she was entangled with her daughter that day. A week or so later, Sherry stopped showing up to school.

When Dani built up the nerve to ask Mrs.

Hunter where her daughter was, the teacher scowled and coldly stated, “Sherry went to a special camp. She is a problem but will be fixed. I might recommend the same place to your parents. I have a feeling you need it too.”

Dani didn’t fully understand what Mrs. Hunter was talking about, but this camp sounded more like a threat than a fun vacation. When Sherry came back months later, she’d changed. Her deep blue eyes weighed down her sockets, her hair was thin, her clothes looser and her bones sharper underneath her skin. She stopped talking to Dani. She began spreading rumors about Dani’s “perversions” and how she could infect other girls with her “disease.” Dani’s heart shattered, and she further disappeared into herself. Better to become invisible than to become like the boy under the bridge, right?

Dani was disappointed her positive memories were clouded by pain and heartbreak. She refocused on the physical sensation of her hair stuck to the back of her neck, poking her in the gap between her shirt collar and the first lump of spinal cord. She brushed the uncomfortable strands away, lowered the volume on her Walkman, and finally entered Flicks- her local video rental store. She strolled through the aisles, her body adjusting to the air conditioned space. When she arrived in the horror section, Dani was the only one there. The chatter from other parts of the store combined with the raucous outside and the constant ding of the register. The white noise allowed Dani to find herself in her own little world, scouring the shelves for a movie she hadn’t seen.

Dani cherished Saturday outings when her parents were gone- ambling through downtown, browsing the video store, becoming engrossed in a freakish new horror film. After watching a slasher last weekend, she was in the mood for something more fantastical. She picked up plastic cases, summaries blending together, nothing catching her interest. After what felt like forever, Dani thought she might have to concede and take home a film she’d seen a million times before. Then, bright purple on stark white caught her eye.

She paused to stare at the image of a giant squid-like creature wrapped around a screaming, naked woman. Its tentacles shielded her in a similar fashion to The Birth of Venus, but Dani’s eyes couldn’t help tracing the curve of cleavage and the stretched V-shape of the woman’s lower abdomen. Dani tilted

her head, fascinated by the tangibility of the slime on pale shoulders, the three dimensionality of the creature’s single bulging yellow eye, the way its monstrous body seemed to flex and tighten- like it was breathing

Dani’s body jerked as a couple entered the horror section, maintaining their conversation while giving her puzzled glances. She blushed as she realized she was holding the case a few centimeters away from her nose, trying to get a better look. She lowered it, and when she looked again, the cover image was still. Just an artist’s rendition of a scene from the film. Nothing moving. Nothing peculiar about it. She contemplated setting it back on the shelf to grab something familiar, but before Dani knew it, she was at the register. And a moment later, out the door.

By the time Dani made it home, the night was deep. The light from her porch battled with shadows behind her house- inky black held at bay between tall trees lining the edge of the woods. No matter how many horror movies she consumed alone in her living room, no matter how desensitized she was to the dark- to isolation, to the pain of being perceived as degenerate, debauchedthose midnight shadows still ran a chill up her spine. Made her arm hairs stand on end. Made her skip the few steps up to the front door a little quicker than necessary. Once inside, she released a sigh, throwing her keys on the small shelf by the entrance. She made a massive bowl of popcorn and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Dani enjoyed the sour taste, the way it sat in her throat the same way the forest in her backyard coated her nostrils when an animal was decomposing into the soil. Tonight, remaining sweet petrichor mixed with the smell of salty butter. Dani was alone, as always. She was content. She popped the movie in the VHS player and positioned herself cozily on the ugly patterned couch.

The first hour of the movie was uneventful. Dani splayed across the cushions, disappointed that the closest she came to being truly spooked that night was due to her own silly imagination in the video store. The clock above the television chimed midnight as a giant squid creature climbed its way up a dock to attack screaming tourists. It looked comically fake, but the way it curled around its victims was somehow eerily sensual. The monster

knew the soft spots of a leg to twist and snap apart, how to caress a cheek before swallowing its prey whole. Dani’s interest dissolved once more to lazy boredom as the scene changed. She eventually dozed off, the quiet conversation of scientists discussing the possibilities of monster mutilation lulling her to sleep.

Dani awoke to a gray-black static screen and the popcorn bowl knocked to the floor, kernels spilled across the hardwood.

“Shit,” she mumbled, leaning over the armrest to scoop up the mess.

She checked the time as she lifted a handful, and froze. Midnight. There’s no fucking way… she thought. The clock must have randomly broken at that exact time, just a strange coincidence. She was only spooked because she’d been watching a mediocre horror movie. Yet, a subtle uneasy feeling crowded her stomach, sweat breaking out along her hairline.

As a confused Dani turned to leave the room, the television flashed. She became motionless once more, eyes wide. Something glistened along the edge of the fuzzy screen, pearlescent liquid oozing out of the buttons. A briny stench filled the air and Dani scowled, dropping the items in her hands to cover her nose. The clatter made her jump, and upon landing, her socks squelched in the goop now pouring in a waterfall down the television stand. Her breathing was becoming shallow and rapid. She looked up from the spreading wet layer to witness a single, veiny, purple tentacle slowly emerge from the static. It rippled through the air, tentative and curious. It was coated in the same mixture of mucus and seawater rising between her toes. Dani was numb with fear, holding her breath as hundreds of emerging suction cups puckered, seeking something to latch onto. More bulging tentacles sprouted from the screen, until eight of them writhed around. Some stuck to picture frames, tearing them from the wall, others slapped wildly on the floor and against furniture. Dani was too glued to the madness unfolding to notice one tentacle snaking forward below her. It snatched her ankle and yanked forward, her tailbone slamming the wood, sure to bruise. She was dragged toward the television in a state of panic, desperately attempting

to detach the juicy appendage. Her heels couldn’t find purchase on the slippery floor. She felt a scream rise up her esophagus when suddenly, everything stopped. Dani bolted upright, surrounded by throbbing limbs, each trailing her movements. She was now close enough to see that in the center of the screen, tucked inside pulsating purple flesh, sat a single golden eye with a catlike slit pupil. Its gaze was locked onto hers.

Dani pressed her palms hard into her eye sockets, “This has to be a dream. Oh my fucking-” Her sentence was cut off by a coarse laugh. The echoing sound reminded her of crashing waves under gusts of wind.

A voice in that same endless, scratchy tone spoke, “You- child- are very much awake. Very much alive.”

She ignored the buzzing feeling of alarm in her ribcage and spoke to herself, “Wake the fuck up, and everything will go back to normal.”

The sea monster laughed louder.

“Norrrmaaaal,” it elongated the word like it was taste-testing the syllables, repulsed as the sound settled on its tongue- one Dani couldn’t see, but imagined was surrounded by thousands of rotating rows of jagged teeth. Perfect for ripping flesh to shreds.

The creature continued, “What does that mean? To return to normal? I can smell your desperation to inhabit this space of normal. An existence where you remain invisible. Unseen. Terrified. Mistreated. Abused. You wish to be hidden away in your own… sweet skin?”

A cold tentacle brushed the back of her thigh, and Dani shuddered.

She stumbled over her next words, incredulous as to why she would actually engage with this dream beast, “I- I’m f- fine to hide, to let people say andand do what they want to me, as long as I make it out. Avoid the camp that Sherry was sent to. Avoid an even worse fate… like the boy- the boy under the bridge.”

“You are capable of more than cowardice, Danielle.”

Dani locked up at both the insult and the sound of her full name, “Don’t call me that. Only my parents call me that.”

“Ah, yes! There is a scrap of the fight I know bubbles under the surface. Tell me then, Dani, what if you did not feel the need to hide? If you were safe

and protected enough to act on your…” the creature paused as it slid its limbs underneath the hem of Dani’s shirt and softly up her spine, “debased desires?”

Dani felt unexpectedly calm with the touch, a tingling beginning below her navel. Her temperature increased as soft suction left faint pink rings on her wrists, behind her knees. The tentacles were encircling closer, but she didn’t feel claustrophobic. She relaxed, twisting her arms in offering, inviting more of the twitching slick appendages to explore her hot skin.

“I’ve never thought about what it would be like to fully embrace those facets of myself,” she swallowed a lump forming in her throat. “When everyone calls the intimate parts of your soul a perversion… I don’t know, I guess you start to believe them.”

The air grew still as the creature absorbed the heaviness of her words, the defeat in Dani’s voice.

A tentacle tilted her chin, forcing her to focus on its single, shining, sunstone eye. “They act on their own fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the desires they suppress. Fear of the monster they assume lives inside you, and will come for them next.”

“But I’m not a monster,” Dani whispered, “Am I?”

Trails of slime crisscrossed Dani’s shins, chest, shoulders. One tentacle drew a reassuring circular motion behind her ear, although the creature’s next words were harsh, “Despite your best efforts to hide it Dani, yes. They see you- your sinning flesh, your rotten insides, your infectious disease- as a monster. Your sorry attempts at invisibility cannot guard you from their ravenous hunger. From their hunt. They will tear you apart. Destroy your existence as a threat to their secure society, before you have the chance to step one foot out of this town. No matter how hard you try to ignore this, you can feel it. Their snarls growing louder. Their hatred growing stronger. Their watchful eyes following your every move. They are circling you before the kill, child.”

Dani recalled the recent taunts in class. The disgusting leers of the lacrosse boys as she passed the fields. Her mother’s intense loathing. Her father’s murderous gaze. The slurs under her neighbors’ breaths. The feeling of eyes tracking her journey home alone.

“I’m just a seventeen-year-old girl!” Dani yelled as tears fell down her cheeks, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Let me show you.”

The monster’s tentacles were poised to strike, waiting for Dani’s consent. She searched the creature’s glowing eye- for intention? Malice? Sympathy? She wasn’t sure. Dani inhaled deeply and nodded. The beast’s eye seemed to… smile Tentacles darted forward, binding her arms and legs into starfish position. The rest of the throbbing extremities wrapped around her torso, her neck. They parted her lips, wriggled through her insides. Her entire body quivered and spasmed, wrapped and filled in its entirety by the monster. She pictured Sherry kissing her, heard Pat’s cigarette cackle, felt the tightening of her core- the convulsing before seeing stars. Her whimpers were muffledmouth gagged, flesh stretched. She toggled the line between pain and pleasure, suffering and satisfaction, human life and something beyond death. Her tears turned to seawater. Her soaked hair split. There was no telling where Dani ended and the creature began. Her organs shifted, her bones dislocated. Chromatophores appeared, or maybe just transformed Dani couldn’t take the agonizing ecstasy any longer. She would explode, her parents finding little chunks of muscle and meat splattered across beige walls. Her trembling moans begged for an end to the unbearable, exquisite anticipation.

“Let go, Dani,” the creature said. “Become.”

Margaret and Steven Johnson returned home from a trip to Italy on a cloudy Sunday afternoon. They were silent, but Margaret’s displeasure toward entering a household with a disturbed daughter was palpable. Steven rubbed soothing circles in his wife’s back before they trudged up the steps. As Steven turned the knob, they sniffed a rancid odor seeping through the door frame. Grimaces distorted their faces as they witnessed viscous iridescent liquid drench the welcome mat. They shoved through the entrance, and in a deafening pitch that broke the borders of a small southern town, Margaret and Steven Johnson screamed.

Unfurl Sara-Cayen

Photo by Jonathan Santarelli

Facets (self-portrait)

Anita Tension

I’m Mean

Liv Lennon

Eat

Don’t think.

Eat

You sleep peaceful in the sweetest heat It will be a needle seeing you seeing me Witnessing Witnesses to the something nothing brings And I’ve been thinking about the nothing And I’ve been thinking I should eat by

rgn

Hey Echoz, I’m Halima. I’m a recording artist, a performing artist, singer/ songwriter and producer from London, Lagos, and now, New York.

Hi Halima! Let’s jump right in. What does the word, catharsis, mean to you?

Hmm.. the word catharsis, to me, means making an album. Honestly, that’s been the most cathartic experience I’ve had to date. So yeah, I’d say it’s tied up and embodied in making an album.

Describe a time where you felt catharsis.

A time I’ve felt catharsis has been the recording process. There’s something about working on a project that’s really reflective, intuitive and a huge form of release. When you’re in the studio and working collaboratively with someone, it requires a lot of vulnerability and trust. That experience really brings a lot of catharsis for me. Yeah, I

“I don't think that you should be bound by genre... Emotion dictates expression.”

How would you describe your art and your process?

I would describe my art as raw, as intimate, maybe distilling feeling. If I were to describe my process, I would say it’s scattered, propulsive, impulsive but also kind of structured chaos, if that makes sense.

Can you elaborate on the scattered, impulsive or chaotic elements?

I would relate that a lot to my Gemini moon. I think emotions before I feel them. When I write music, it gives me the chance to actually feel my emotions. Before then, it’s just scattered thoughts I have to channel in some form. I’m very lucky that I can sit down, bring out my journal, my song book, and just write these thoughts out. By transforming something that’s chaotic to something that’s more structured, I can trace it and see “oh okay, that’s what im feeling.”

What is your big three and do you resonate with them?

I’m a Gemini moon, Scorpio sun, and Capricorn rising. I feel like the way I present to the world is considered by some to be structured or together. The way that I move is like molasses and deep. I think that my internal world is very... scattered, in a sense. If you were to visualize it, it’s like a lot of particles that move through some sort of molasses before they end up in this earth. I’m constantly experiencing that everyday. So the placements? They be doing their thing.

Which emotion do you find yourself drawing inspiration from or tapping into for your art?

That’s a good question... I don’t think there’s just one. I think it’s literally whatever I’m feeling in the given moment that will dictate what kind of sound, what kind of expression is required. So if I’m feeling angry, chances are there’s going to be a lot of angst in the music. It’s not going to feel as sweet, you know, I may play some power chords, then maybe some soaring vocals over the sound. I don’t think that you should be bound by genre. I think that emotion dictates genre. Emotion dictates expression. So, to answer your question in short, I think that feelings of love, feelings of longing, for sure, definitely guide my expression. Yeah, but really anything I’m feeling I’ll write about.

You just released your debut album, so exciting, we love it.

Is there an aspect of the album or a song that feels cathartic for you?

Totally, there are multiple aspects of the album that feel cathartic, if not the whole album. I would say “Sweet Tooth,” the title track, is the most cathartic. It also took me the longest to record and the longest to finish, and I think that that was possibly the reason

why. It just has a lot of chapters, shall I say. I think that when a song presents that sort of challenge, you really have to go through those motions and let the journey of the song teach you the lesson. In the end, it ended up being the most cathartic because it was the most rigorous process. I’m really grateful for that. I’m always grateful for the most dynamic journey.

Is there a song by another artist that makes you feel cathartic?

Yes, there are multiple songs by other artists that make me feel cathartic. The first that springs to mind is “Nothing Time” by Susumu Yokota on this album called “Sound of Sky.” It’s such a beautiful record. It came out in 2001 and it’s the most euphoric, cathartic, elevated music. I just put that on when I get home from a long day... in the mornings... on Sundays... or if I have friends over, and you want to cleanse the palette of your soul. It’s so beautiful to just take time with that record and listen to it. That definitely instigates catharsis for me.

What mediums, sounds, or genres do you usually gravitate to, and why?

A medium I would say I gravitate to the most, I mean, music! That’s definitely my number one artistic expression. I would say that an extension of that has always been the visual world that I’m building. With [the album] “Sweet Tooth,” the music was the blueprint for the whole visual world. The thing that I love most about music is that it’s ephemeral – you’re creating something that literally sounds like how you feel. When it comes to creating something visual that marries it, there’s this synergy that happens. I’ve been so lucky to work with certain people who understand that, and move in that way. They hear something and they’re like, “oh that feels like that painting or this frame.” And then we can create that. When the two live together, it’s so magical, it’s literally magic. I call them magicians because of it. So yeah, I would say sound and visual motifs or mediums are my real anchors.

I was always going to come back to that little girl, and this is for her, to honor her... We’re all just trying to make the younger versions of ourselves proud.

What are some themes you find yourself revisiting a lot in your work?

Some themes I find myself revisiting a lot would be love, for one. I talk about that and my friends talk about that too. I can’t help it. I’m a lover girl. I talk about love and it’s not just romantic love, it’s familial love, friendship, the absence of love, your relationship to love, which I feel like is the core of so many things. It’s pretty simple, I write love songs!

We love your love songs!

What is your process for making a song?

My process with songwriting is quite nonlinear. When I was studying in school, it was very much like “write a song everyday,” it was about practicing your craft. After that, it became far more about spiritual practice. My relationship to [songwriting] is that I come back to it as a daily practice. It’s something that I would do regardless of if I’m going to release it or not. It’s why I carry this song book around with me, because it’s more about grounding myself. It’s the best way that I know how. It’s just a habit now, in a non-sexy way. You know, some people wake up, have coffee. I wake up, jot down some lyrics. It’s just what gets you through the day, it’s a practice. I’m very lucky that this practice or habit is also something that I can share with people, and love in doing so.

Is there a lyric from the album that resonates with you or is most linked to your cathartic/creative process?

Yes, there is a lyric that most relates to catharsis from the album. It’s from the title track, “Sweet Tooth,” and it’s the chorus line, “color correct me im blue.” I feel very close to that [line] because it comes with the lesson that I don’t need to fix my emotion. Before then, I thought that it was wrong to feel so deeply. Subconsciously, I was like, it’s not right to have all these feelings, something needs to be solved. As opposed to: this is how you just experience life. After writing that [lyric], I realized that there’s no correction that needs to be made. The only way to honor whatever life experience I have is to feel it, to live through it. I hope that when other people listen to the song, it brings them that sort of resonance.

Speaking of things that resonate with you, take us through a little tour of items that mean a lot to you.

In my hands is my songbook, that I carry around with me everywhere. It was an album release gift from my girlfriend, who goes by Honey Bun (ifykyk). I really love it, it’s this hand sketched drawing of flowers. I’ve always had songbooks that somehow are sketches of things, like a ladybird or butterfly. Those are my tattoos as well, so they’re close to my heart.

I have my purse, also gifted to me by my girlfriend from Bali, which I just think is so fab. This purse speaks for itself, [it’s perfect for when] you want to run to the deli or want to go to the club. It’s just so versatile and it fits a lot more than it seems.

Then, I have these sunglasses that I thrifted. I couldn’t believe it because they were $30 and they’re Prada and I was like… um YES. And it doesn’t matter if it’s 2AM in the club, I have these ON.

Last but not least, I have my AIAIAI headphones, and I love them because they are so quick and portable. They’re really cute and modular, so I can just get a new set of ears, which is so cool.

Time for some rapid fire questions about some of your favorite things.

Favorite food?

Jollof rice.

Favorite color?

Red, right now.

Favorite sound?

A siren. Not like a police siren, I mean like a drone in music.

Favorite childhood memory?

One that comes to mind is being in my grandmother’s house with my uncle playing the piano and singing Nigerian gospel songs.

I have my guitar, this is my baby, ordained by Friday Lynton FBF Metal Atelier. That’s all the chainmail. Over the years, I’ve added little things [to it], like right here, is a little photo of Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama. Because, yeah. I have a masking tape cut out and it says “let go,” so every time I go on stage I’m reminded to let go. To get really nerdy with it, this is a 1984 Japanese Fender Stratocaster, and I love it. It sounds like Christmas, and it smells like my grandma’s house. I don’t know what gets better than that.

Earlier you said that you were an artist based in London, Lagos, and now, New York. How do you think these different places have shaped you and your music?

Everywhere I’ve lived has shaped me completely. I don’t think I would be who I am or have the perspective I have without these places. I think for a while, I was fighting them or trying to package them, instead of letting them guide me and tell my story. Growing up in Lagos gave me the color to my voice. Growing up in London gave me context. Living in New York has given me a canvas. I’m just throwing a bunch of things that I’m feeling out here [in New York], and I really have permission to do that by being here. They’ve all played such a pivotal role in my journey as an artist.

What are your favorite aspects from each place?

If you’ve never been to London, go to London, watch a sunset in the park. It sounds very basic, but the sunsets in London are so beautiful, really unassuming. There aren’t that many skyscrapers in the greater London area, so you just see through the skyline. I recommend going to a park, getting a blanket, and watching the sunset. That’s beautiful.

In Lagos, I would recommend going out, where? I mean, it depends on if you know where the parties are on the island. It’s a crazy, electric city. If you’re there with the right people, who know the lay of the land, I think it’s one of the most exciting experiences.

And then in New York, like... everything? I’m biased because I live here, but New York food, going out, sunsets too. The

culture, the scene, yeah I love it here. I won’t hold you! If I picked one thing in New York that you had to do... gosh, that’s like impossible... I would say live here.

What are some aesthetics that you gravitate to?

The biggest development that I saw, quite recently actually, was the color red. My very first performance experience was a dance recital in Lagos. I wore this red two-piece traditional dress and I had red beads in my hair. I had bells on my ankles and performed a traditional dance. I found that photo again recently and I realized, oh my god, I really came back to myself in a way that was so true. It makes me emotional to think about it because it just meant that going to these different places and taking these different departures was never taking me away from who I am. I was always going to come back to that little girl, and this is for her, to honor her. That experience I feel is really universal. We’re all just trying to make the younger versions of ourselves proud.

What is a message that you would say to your inner child?

The first thing that I thought of, that sprung to mind, was “slow down. It’s all going to happen in due time. So, take a second.” Then I would say, “you’re beautiful and you need to tell yourself that, so I’m telling you.” And then, I would sit her down, make her some tea, give her a tour of her apartment, introduce her to her friends and be like, “look at how amazing! So, slow down. And when you get here, oof relish in it.”

Woo! That was good because I’m here, she’s here.

A Blooming Corpse Dominick D’Altilio

a message sent jokingly to a chat about a text based TTRPG game

Chava Ramirez

Denzel Ezeoke

Photographer:

Nate DiDomizio

Morgan Boals

Videographer:

Creative director:

Model:

Everett Gilpin

Chance

TAILSPIN

I did not look at the figs. They were shining, gleaming with the afterglow of a mouth where it shouldn’t be. Or so you say. I warned you our honeyed limbs would be thieves in the night.

Juice dripped from our eager chins. Imagine the fig tree, its trunk as round as you are tall. Now picture a machete digging in until it meets blood. Call that poetry.

Believe me?

I once spurted gold from my arteries before I finally patched myself up. It was a good run & necessary, above all else— muse full and filled like a vase, too unlike love to be extraordinary & predictable enough to spew deceit. I could ask you a lot.

Something like: Is there any talent in weaponry if a writer uses it to deface themselves? Or: Is a poet’s sword sharp if it’s only used in self-mutilation?

My tongue learns its silence in the cleanup of cherry blossoms, which is to say I don’t ask you a thing. Instead, I lick my lips. Find the answer in an animal. It’s me.

I was the animal.

My jaw hung wide, enough to chew myself to sleep. So what if I ate myself. Someone had to do it: devour the sacrificial lamb & swallow it whole. Its weakness was a woman on her knees— the cadence of reddening kneecaps flush against linoleum. Larger scale, think larger still: left alone, I leisured myself to waste / — sucked guilt off my parchment tongue / — watched dreams dizzy themselves in a tailspin / — let the fruit dry a slow death / — found a way to write around you.

by H. R. Thorn

Gaze Aaric Liu

I see you...

...seeing me

Photos by: Karina Wu Fung, Alain Gr-Polanco, Callie Wohlgemuth, AzeliA

Models: Grace Geng, Amy Liang

the lure of the peaks

Jewels Newkirk

i’ve been longing Jewels Newkirk

Uñiao

Kamryn

twenty four

i remember being twenty three only a year ago but it feels so far from me

believed to be born with arms too weak and legs too skinny to carry me to where i wanted to be for my heart was carved out of my chest a gaping hole left where it clawed, i’m not sure so i’ll have to scavenge the earth to search for the missing beat

i believed i was born incomplete running and gasping and scouring and always chasing what i needed to flee i mistook the elusive high as being free that was how i was taught to feel, taking on the form they needed me to be you poor girl, oh how you don’t know a thing funny how you lose the trust in yourself how you stop knowing me oh i was so lost at twenty three is it better being twenty four? does your body feel like home more? do you recognize the part that you once tore? did you find the missing beat to your core? do my wounds at twenty three bear sores? is the blood you bleed finally enough for your pour?

yes, i finally feel enough for myself at twenty four.

by Lucy Hwang

all grass, no brakes. Ameerah Alazae

Trilogy

Judas Kaveh

ARTIST STATEMENTS

Xiang Jun (any pronouns)

Brooklyn, NYC

Social Media: @xiangjun.bsky.social XJ is a horror-loving lesbian originally from the Midwest.

Andrew Muller (he/him)

Brooklyn, NY

Instagram: @andrewmullerr

Andrew Muller lives in Brooklyn, New York with his wife. He is currently working in film photography.

Iris Xie / hǔ huā studio (she/her)

Brooklyn, NY / Quincy, MA

Instagram: @hu.hua.studio / @pi.xien

Iris Xie is a Chinese-American artist whose practice functions under the name “hŭ hūa studio”. She holds a BFA in Graphic Design from RISD, works as a professional designer, and creates posters and zines on the side.

Black artists and researching Black liberatory wellness, Black European identity, and Black women’s migration. As an artist, Allysia draws from traditional Surinamese woodcraftmanship to create laser-cut wooden corsets and headpieces, merging traditional techniques with contemporary design. Their practice reflects a deep engagement with Black studies and a commitment to cultural preservation, innovation, and care.

Charlotte Schweiger (she/they)

Instagram: @charlotteschweiger

Charlotte Schweiger is a New York bornand-raised artist. Having spent nearly all of their life as an actor, they are interested in pushing the boundaries of perspective. To them, photography serves as a window into alternative realities and an outlet to explore the fluidity of

R. K. Sandhu (she/her)

Chandigarh, India / Philadelphia @ravneet_recommends

R. K. Sandhu currently lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband. Her short stories have been published in The Offing, Gordon Square Review, Roots Quarterly, and Vagabond City Lit. Find her on Instagram at Ravneet_recommends.

@b.brios.s / TikTok: @squeeasy.o

If Bri was to be compared to an object, she would be a pink Posca marker. Bri loves bold, ‘in-yourface’ chaos and she incorporates that into her work. She is hoping to float around and work with other artists and musicians to make something new!

Sara-Cayen (she/they)

@saracayen

Sara-Cayen Abubo is a Filipino-American artist and student of life. When not doodling or dancing, she can be found researching and writing about the threads that connect us and that hold life together: food, love, land, and the body. She writes to preserve memories, to explore curiosities, and to find peace and healing.

Lily Leonard (she/her)

Riverside, Rhode Island

Lily’s day job is a Project Manager for the Taunton Housing Authority. Her passion is photography, it gives her an outlet to be creative. To try and see the world differently and to capture the magical moments within it.

Sunshine Caseñas (he/they)

Sunshine is a Kentucky-born writer and poet living in Providence, Rhode Island. Their work intwines

itself with the spiritual and surreal as a way to explore feelings and experiences difficult to describe in conventional manners.

Jonathan Santarelli / three4thsmedia (he/him)

@three_4ths_media

Puerto Rican born, Massachusetts raised. Started being a shutterbug at the age of 14 and continued on taking photos on and off for most of his life. Not until the past several years did Jonathan start to take it more seriously to feed his

Red Moth (she/her)

@redmothart

Red Moth is a self-taught artist based in the greater Austin area. Naively still believing that art and color is a better method of communication than speaking. She is known for her handmade/painted kimonos, bold paintings, and short form

Michaela Shuster (she/her/hers)

raew1347.wixsite.com/portfolio

Rae often uses her art to come to terms with emotions too vast for her to control. Like many others, she studies the people she loves, eventually putting them on a pedestal and wishing for that adoration to be reciprocal. When it’s not, she’s found catharsis in projecting their traits onto characters in the stories she tells. It feels like putting entrails in a pillowcase; taking out the stillbeating parts of a living thing, and inserting them into an object incapable of harm. An object that she can hold close to her heart without

Juliette Espinoza-JAEJ

(she/they)

Juliette Espinoza (JAEJ) is a mixed-media artist originally from Nicaragua, Latin America, currently based in Boston, Massachusetts. They are pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Illustration at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design (MassArt). Working across both digital and traditional media, their work often explores themes related to pop culture and portraiture, filtered through a deeply personal and subconscious lens.

@strange_stains_art

Finn Jackson is a 16 year old painter whose work often reflects her experience with anxiety and exploration of her identity, along with her

feel most alive. Right now that’s videography, working in culinary spaces, and building community through events and nightlife. She’s drawn to these spaces because that’s where she finds the realest human connections happening. For her, art is about documenting the raw, unfiltered energy of people coming together. She just loves capturing it all.

Elm (they/it/dog)

Instagram: @elm.branch.art

Elm is an artist that uses its deep rooted issues and love of laughing at things to make stuff.

Abigail Ray is a writer from Portland, Oregon, and has been published in Same Faces Collective, Maudlin House, and Call Me Brackets, among others. She recently graduated with her Bachelor’s in English and writing from Portland State University. She primarily writes poetry, lyrical essays, and experimental fiction about losercore women that are definitely not poorly disguised projections of herself, no matter what people are

Sar (ey/they/she/he)

Springfield, Virginia

Sar is an artist, writer and indie bookseller from Northern Virginia. They completed undergrad at Vanderbilt University, and will soon begin their MA in English at NYU. Eir poem, “Grief in the Piedmont”, was recently published in guava literary magazine. Both eir studio art and creative writing often revolve around a desire for the disturbing, themes of body horror, processing of religious trauma, and representations of monstrous queerness.

Anita Tension (she/her)

@helloanitatension

Anita Tension is a multimedia performance artist - go-go dancer, burlesquer, model and drag artist. Beyond the stage she creates costumes, practices photography, and dabbles in digital editing. Anita seeks liberation through the catharsis of performance art. Being the architect of her art allows Anita unapologetic bodily autonomy, an antidote for the pressure to be smaller, more palatable and to take up less space.

Liv Lennon (she/they)

@livlennon1 / TikTok: @quietfarter

Lennon’s work aims to illustrate the messy and confusing transition from child to adult. She is a mixed media artist and writer that works primarily with garbage, pens, tape and memory-unpacking and remaining curious about shame’s twisted clutch.

rgn (any pronouns)

Instagram: @re.ag.an / TikTok: @reaganofearth

This is a poem Reagan wrote when they were going through a difficult time in a relationship. A lot of her poetry seeks to symbolize the beauty of the pain of being with someone at the wrong time. Reagan seeks to make their art about his lived queer experiences.

Dominick D’Altilio

@domdrawn

Dominick D’Altilio is a multidisciplinary artist whose work addresses themes of inner turmoil, sin, and salvation.

Chava Ramirez (he/him) San Benito, TX

@chavaarts

Chava is a digital artist from San Benito, TX. Been working on his craft for about five years. Chava’s artwork has different themes from isolation to digital escapism.

Arick from Chance (he/him) Brooklyn, NY

@badchancebad

Born and raised in Baltimore, MD, collegedropout and community advocate. Arick from Chance continues to pave the way for the people. He often says ‘put the people first, without them, you have nothing!’ After living in Brooklyn for the past six years, he has proven just that! Chance has reached almost every state, as well as many other countries! Operating a lean, self-run, endeavor requires the utmost determination and he’s ready to show you that you can do it too!

H. R. Thorn (she/her)

@hrthorn hrthorncontinued.com

H.R. Thorn is a poet, editor, and current student at Emerson College pursuing a B.F.A. in creative writing in pursuit of her life passion of poetry. She seeks to unravel all of the raw edges of the human experience through her writing—the moments that propel visceral change. Other works of hers can be read in Dreamworldgirl zine, Dollheart zine, Flowermouth Press, and Dulcet Literary

Aaric Liu (he/him)

@weiskei.bos @xtrix.art

Aaric Liu is an engineer/scientist-turned-dark fantasy illustrator of Mongolian and Chinese heritage. His work seeks to highlight queer and minority experience, particularly through a fantastical, imaginative realism lens. Liu is

heavily influenced by his upbringing in Norway and his (over)consumption of Japanese and Cantonese media as a child. Currently, he is working on expanding his brand Weiskei and opening his first retail location.

Jewels Newkirk (they/them)

Instagram: @mothmothermakes

Jewels Newkirk is a multidisciplinary artist and owner of mothmothermakes, a Brooklyn based art and accessory brand. Working in ceramics, collage, and film photography, they explore themes of memory and individuality, and the ways time, places, and relationships combine to affect the human experience. Their tagline, “follow your own light,” resonates throughout each of their practices and emphasizes a deep dedication to individuality and nod to their connection to nature. Jewels invites viewers to take from their work what resonates and to leave the rest; to follow our own light with intention, without fear, and while giving ourselves grace.

Kamryn (she/her)

Instagram: @offbeatscore Kamryn goes by the offbeat score. She illustrates, mostly with pen, centering surrealism and femininity. In addition, Kamryn photographs (exclusively) using film, collage, and design.

Ameerah Alazae (she/her)

Los Angeles, CA / Lebanon, OR Instagram: @ameerah_thayer

Ameerah is a mixed media artist with a heavy focus on collage. Her goal is to always create a whole experience and environment within her pieces. Each with their own fingerprints but tied together by her unique chaotic, organic, and cohesive energy. Ameerah is a perfectionist through and through; collaging has allowed her to break free from that straining part of herself.

Judas Kaveh (they/he)

Mount Lavinia, Sri Lanka

Instagram: @holdurbreathncount212 Website: pinkbluewhitesquarewebsite.org Judas explores the limitless representations of their body, working with sculptural materials like wood, metals, and glass, alongside time-based media such as video, photography, and performance. He activates his sculptures in performance, documenting them to create short films that allow the work to exist across multiple iterations, evolving with time.

THE TEAM

AzeliA (they/them)

we are ech(o)z. we are a group of creatives whose mission is to uplift and collaborate with the voices of the unseen and unheard. our collective experiences echo through multimedia creation. we hope you join us on our journey.

(she/they)

Wohlgemuth (they/he/she)

Aydin Hayat (he/they)

Karina Wu Fung

Callie

Gaby Lahera Vázquez (she/they)

Reagan (she/they/he)

Krysa Weitzman (she/her/it/its)

Production Partner: Artificial Creations