Future Histories Issue 5, Fall 2020

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Letter from the Co-Chairs: When Future Histories was first started in 2017, our goal was to amplify the voices and artistic expression of students across Tufts campus who have been excluded from traditional Western canon. Since then, FH has continued to grow and collaborate with the amazing creative students we are lucky to call our peers. We’ve come a long way from printing our issues from the Tisch library and stapling them in common rooms. As Tufts’ semi annual literary magazine, FH is proud to create a space that cultivates and showcases the art, poetry, and prose of Tufts students. Intrepid readers might notice a jump between the issues. Unfortunately, in the chaos of the COVID-19 pandemic, and the subsequent scattering of the FH team back to our hometowns, we decided to postpone the fifth issue of the magazine for a more stable semester. So here is Issue 5! Although this has been an unusual semester, it has been wonderful to find some solace through creativity, and we are excited to feature the dedicated artists and authors even in the most unusual of times. At its heart, FH is a collaborative effort from so many groups: the contributors, the content review team, and the e-board. What’s kept us involved from semester to semester has been the openness and enthusiasm of all of the people we are indebted to. We’re a small group (that’s ever-growing!) and it’s because of the quiet moments we have to connect with each other, walking back from Eaton at night or sticking around after a Zoom meeting is over, that we have been able to appreciate how FH is not just a publication but a way to bring people together. Finally, we would like to sincerely thank everyone who submitted, our readers, and everyone who worked in between and behind the scenes. Happy reading! If you leave this issue wanting more, never fear! All the past issues are on our website, futurehistoriesmag.org, and if you would like to get involved, our content review meetings are always open for everyone. With love, Dana and Nuha Co-Chairs

Future Histories Team

Co-Chairs: Dana Flynn Nuha Shaikh

Writer Liason: Juli Lin

Copy Editors: Ryan Minter Moumina Khan Design Team: Head: Kaitlyn Carril Alex Eliasen

Head of Publicity: Alex Eliasen

06 07

Podium by Zachary Mintz

Museum of Stolen Wishes by Nuha Shaikh

09 10

a biotic by Max Migdail

Fragment by Joseph Harmon

12 14

Soliloquy by Paula Gil-Ordonez Gomez

16 17

jump by Lauren Daukaus

18 20

情爱的你 by Nuha Shaikh

yellow news by Eli Sol Strich

22 24

discount silky conditioning lotion for oily skin

Portrait of butterflies in bloom by Isabella Urdahl

26 30

Double Yellow by Alex Eliasen

Futon by Matthew Mcgovern

31 33

Learning to Love an Accident of a Hometown

Ode to My Body Hair by Anonymous

34 35

Rainstorm by Paula Gil-Ordonez Gomez

Led Astray by Mathew Mcgovern

36 40

我的夜空 by Alex Eliasen

42 44

Pictures of Summer by Jonathan Ramirez

a demonstration by Megan Amero

Dào by Nasrin Lin

Catalogue of Searching by Isabella Urdahl

Amor Negado by Jon Adams

our house by the waterfall by Zack Mintz


by Nasrin Lin

by Juliette Wu

Featured Artists

Irina Wang Kaitlyn Carril Imaya Jeffries Juli Lin Angela Wei Siara Mukerjee Deena Bhanarai

art | Juli Lin

a demonstration by Megan Amero

this is the way i fall over into the ground and this is the way the earth wraps itself around me my blood turning green like envy with each chlorophyll-laden beat of my underground heart. this is the way the sky grabs me by my exposed ankles— a stray breeze bestowing upon my skin the thick cloak of frostbite. this is the way i fall moving with wingless flight; this is the way my body knows no end.



by Zachary Mintz Enough! those in whom we've sown our trust have caved, come to naught like stalactites, sharpened dangers set to pierce all passerby Left to coalesce lest someone Discover you Flaunt! I just can’t wait for the day your balls get caught in the zipper of your lies. God forbid They think you’re masturbating.

art | Juli Lin



photography | Irina Wang

Museum of Stolen Wishes by Nuha Shaikh

There are no more sacred places, Just land where gold once hid, Just shards of history that I now use to pick through my memories. What do we collect when we eat? Does the type of consumption matter More than what is being consumed? I wonder if the winners are always The ones who are eaten, We all lose in the end, And their lives are the sweetest to taste. I’ve never tried it but I’ve heard That you taste like silk-silver, Like molten metal made soft again By digestion. Is that not what success is? A delicacy, to be sure. In our jealousy and shame, We watched you devour him, And it seemed like enough Until you turned to us and said: Silk-silver or jade-water, I take what I can get, And I can taste everything, For the world is made for Creatures like me, Bone-machine efficiency. And isn’t this fair?


bats and butterflies floating gloaters never done justice birds too

a biotic

by Max Migdail

swoop and swerve and melt and mingle and m.c. escher into one layers and plains become a fantasy off glossed paper white and grey are purple and green and red and blue and orange and god alive to parallel expansion an exploration in corpuscularianism better to develop forever on a two dimensional plane or exist confined within a third frequently birds capture more of what it means to be human raptors and ravens prey my only acceptable murder acted in aid to scare a weakened swallow into the arms of an eagle or let the bats end or collapse the butterflies into a single frame were apes able to fly they would never touch the earth again and would become confined to cages of branches and coat hangers shutting down tokyo a biotic abiotic theory of truth :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: life ends when it stops being imagined as something with an end would fade to nothing and no one would notice not a thing what makes a bat a bat


art | Juli Lin



by Joseph Harmon

I’m out with the dog, which isn’t my dog. I keep forgetting his name, but I appreciate the company. He’s throwing this eager look back at me, like I’ve got a direction in mind. I don’t. He knows the woods better, and we’ll just have to live with that. Ah, dog, what are you doing? Crunching through the frozen creek bed, is what. Now he looks a little startled. Buddy, what did you expect? Earlier that morning, I said yes. Yes to all of it. I’m going to apply to new jobs, I'll tidy up the weird little tchotchkes Paul has lying around, I’ll give Sarah a call and say exactly what I mean. Then, as I was brushing my teeth and looking through Paul’s medicine cabinet, something about the light outside changed. I don’t know why, but any possibility of those things happening shut down. So I thought to myself, Uh, why don’t we take a little break? I went online and lost myself in a spiral of news, funny videos, and old emails that reminded me what I meant to people. The day went down the drain, and here I was walking this dog.

photography | Irina Wang

My brother, Paul, part of him had to be loving this. An ego boost. He’s not the runt anymore; I’m the one camped out in his guest room. I won’t mention it unless he gives me a reason to lash out, but he’s being too cautious for that. In passing, he sometimes rests a hand on my shoulder like a sensitive kindergarten teacher—which he is, actually, and a pretty good one from what I’ve heard. He’s patient and he listens. He tells me that the kids surprise him every day. When we were kids, we were wild. In the third grade he bit my ear, latched on like a pit bull and didn’t let up. In high school we called him Pall Mall because he’d always be smoking them in the senior parking lot, a big scowl on his face. Maybe it’s my fault. I was a bad role model. I’ve made some wrong turns, sure, I’ll be the first one to admit that. But all through it, Paul’s gentleness was there. If he hurt someone, you could trust him to set it right. Me, I’m not so sure. We keep going anyway. I’d like to think the surprises are buried in us. Sarah doesn’t think so. She says I’m stuck, and she wants me to shape up. I tell her I’m trying. I see what needs to happen, but I can’t seem to cross that gap. The other day, in our kitchen, I gave up in a good way. I said to her, Hey, do you want this omelette? It was a work of art. Despite how stoned I was, I had caramelized the onions and everything. “No thanks,” she said, but I scooped it onto a plate anyway. She was wearing a kind of bitter confused smile, the new way she looked at me. I still liked it. She knew all my tricks, but that meant that she knew me. 12

“Honey, you’re a mess,” she said. I grinned as wide as I could.

“Can I get some constructive criticism?” I asked.

Now the dog is completely still, rigid, staring off into the pines. The sun has already disappeared, but it’s hanging around just enough to see. I should have brought a headlamp.

“What is it?” I say to the dog. “No more walk?”

The dog ignores me, and I know it must be afraid. Its instincts are kicking in, but I’m too big and dumb to sense the danger. I squint off into the distance, but see nothing. If there’s some danger out there, I just want to see it. I want to know what I’m dealing with. It’s worse to wait. I tell myself that I’m ready but know that I’m not. The dog and I just stand there, our breath condensing in the cold. If this is it, we go out together, not knowing each other’s names. Maybe there’s something beautiful in that. Paul has a book on the coffee table that I’ve looked through. I’ve looked through everything—my days are full of hours I didn’t know we had. It’s a book of poetry, which is not at all Paul’s thing. He got it as a white elephant gift last December. What I like about it is that it’s poetry fragments. They’re from Ancient Greece, Rome. Just a tiny piece of the author’s work stands for all they were. I’ve been wondering if this is my fragment. If this moment will define me. My choices have led me here, so probably yes. But who’s to say that it’s a low, that there hasn’t been lower. Why is it high or low, like on some graph? Screw it, I’m out. Don’t show me the danger. I’ll just go home. I tug the dog back. He’s still transfixed, but I make him leave. It’s Paul’s home, not mine. He built it for himself and I’m resting there before I rebuild my own. This is all temporary. I have these thoughts, and even though they’re simple, I feel like they explain everything. Then, right as I’m about to understand, they slip away. As I open the door I remember that I made a dish in the crockpot earlier. It was stewing during the walk, waiting for me, becoming something better. The smell is warm and good and strong. It welcomes me back. That’s all I want: to be welcomed back with nobody home. I unclip the dog and he rushes to his water bowl as if dying of thirst, slosh ing it over the sides. While he does I find the coffee table, find the book. I settle down on a quilt that Paul claims our grandmother sewed but I know for a fact he bought at Kmart. Everything is laughter and unthinkable dust, my favorite fragment says. Is that true? They don’t know who said it.



by Paula Gil-Ordonez Gomez my footsteps feel heavy in my childhood backyard tonight as i relight i feel my nose touch flame and i burn up it’s a subtle touch and i’m grateful for my lips pressed against a warm nurturing burn i feel go through my throat it hurts but it’s kind as well sometimes i feel really beautiful when my cheeks are flushed and my hair is golden but i envy the girls who never get cold built with frail frames that don’t hide under swarms of jacket and scarf


i don’t even want the second cig anymore but i finish everything i start for the most part the last ash falls into a bruised plant and i collect it back into my empty can so my parents don’t recognize this vice the burn feels good on my skin and i slightly wish there was more to pick up i want to douse my fingers in lemon and cover the ugly stench if i could i’d carve myself with blunt edges out of firewood reeking pungent overtones that stick and tuck me back inside


art |Imaya Jeffries

DĂ o

by Nasrin Lin

Think about / the allure in being vulgar this walking banyan freak flooded to the brim / a barbiturate-assemblage self-tentacled / goddess of the swamp call me NĂźwa / so I can sing myself a song and mold a choir out of recurring dreams / a pillar from the five elements / in my own image transmembering into a song this procreant urge of the world / out of order, right order / breathe into me a composition not pensĂŠes but processes / revisited via turning pages in and out and in between / then call me Hart Crane and meet me at the bottom of the sea / the cruel and the free





by L



Da uk you are not safe au and I am not safe. s you may, however, be tempted to believe otherwise, as many fools before you have done, and as many fools after you will do. you may be so inclined to fall subject to promises of the forever, the certain, the damned. and you may find yourself wishing that the existentialist within you dies as you crawl into bed with a naive smile and a mind shut so tight it forgets how to inhale. I, of course, do not wish you this fate. I pray that you live knowing every step you take may lead you off a cliff, that you understand this impossible, fragile, random existence. and that you use this knowledge to be grateful, brave, loving every chance you get. we fleeting humans tend to long for security. and with that dream we discard our sacred vitality. if you’d like, we can hold hands and just freefall, tumbling into uncertainty. please, darling, please leap before you look.


Catalogue of Searching by Isabella Urdahl

modeled after Rebecca Lindenberg’s Catalogue of Ephemera

I've been given soft maple lighting threaded with pieces of piano. I've been given un coup de foudre, bouleverser, and tu me manques. I've been given caramels of his language to coat my tongue with. I've been given her playlists that stick like gum in my brain. I've been given a stress ball made of shards of broken glass. I used to like that photo. I've been given sound bites on Tokyo, PhDs, Arcadia, and Paradise Lost. I've been given little electric text bubbles on the best way to drown in knowledge. I've been given a needle full of serotonin. I've been given the pages of Possession and the melody of Honeybee. I've been given lyrics of Luck Pusher and I've been given bad odds. I've been given a heavy sweater that swallows me whole in defenseless cashmere. I've been given soft folds of pleading, delicate cream cotton. I've been given the souls of Europe’s lonely, hopeful cobblestone streets, New York’s ambitious hum, and a forest lake dripping in sunshine. I've been given midnight November runs. I’ve been given ice-cube ears, snowflaked hair, a face full of moonlight and cheeks of poppy petals. I've been given humid August nights, shirts kissing skin, clinging tight through sweat and a heartbeat. I've been given gasping for air. I’ve been given hands faltering over a keyboard, stumbling syllables. I’ve been given awkward teenager poems. I’ve been given a cramp in my cardiac muscle, a corkscrew exploding open a pomegranate into pebbles. I’ve been given the plum slosh of mellow red merlot. I’ve been given an absinthe-burned tongue. 18

art | Deena Bhanarai

I’ve been given the dehydrating warm beige of the Sahara. I’ve been given the fresh laundry and dried basil aroma of a well-loved studio in a city held together by aching plaster stones and cracking plywood wishes. I’ve been given a bookshelf to hold the overflowing pile on my bedside table. I've been given Christmas decorations in May. I've been given About Time and melting bronze clocks that stain my hands sunset. I've been given a pulled tooth and the raw, fleshy gap that it leaves behind. One I can’t help but touch, despite the blood. I've been given Murakami’s On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning and I’ve been given wondering if 75% Perfect means a best friend or a glass ¼ empty. I've been given the amnesia of Iceland’s Northern Lights. I’ve been given accidentally blue fingers. I’ve been given the thing that feathers. I’ve been given a fresh page and the first drop of ink. 19

情爱的你 by Nuha Shaikh 情爱的你 -Fall is the season of goodbyes, of turning over new leaves and pressing the most brightly colored memories in between the pages of the few books I brought with me to college. I’ve been compulsively picking up the leaves that catch my eye, I feel guilty otherwise. There’s a stack of at least eleven of them now. I don’t want to forget any of these days.

O Allah, there is nothing made easy except what you make easy, and You make difficulty easy, if You wish َّ ‫ َو َأن َْت ت َْج َع ُل الْ َحز َْن َس ْه ًل ِإ َذا ِش ْئ َت‬،‫الل ُهَّم َل َس ْه َل ِإَّل َما َج َعلْ َت ُه َس ْه ًل‬

It’s 2020, I’m now 20, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so clearly. How desperately I wish my reflexes were right, so that I could hold on to you forever, curled fingers around your own, and we could be young and eternal, friendship and love perfectly balanced as we found a home in each other, growing up together. Find, find, find a friend, I found a good friend, salute to them and hold their hand, You are my good friend, Goodbye! 找啊找啊找朋友, 找到一个好朋友, 敬个礼啊握握手, 你是我的好朋友, 再见! I left home, finally, after dreaming about it for years, escape was such a tantalizing flight, as I headed East into the Sunrise. I left a space for you, honored who we used to be, and gave us room to grow. But giving you room and board only left me lonely and alone, dusty beds and cracked mirrors, open windows restless in the wind. I don’t think anything will happen but I still hope, God willing. ‫إن شاء اهلل‬. I’ve now latched the windows and closed the doors. You still have the key but the path to me is quite different than when you left me, and then I left you. If you make your way back to me, I welcome you with open hands, as always. And if you don’t, that’s okay too. I’ve said my goodbyes and made my peace with the ghost of you that lingers in me. Please take care of yourself. 请多保重。 w/love, N


art |Deena Bhanarai


yellow news by Elli Sol Strich

When she called the sky was a yellow-cold static spewing over the line hollow voice cracking I held my breath and traced thin wavering pavement cracks slender summer rain that started slowly was now thunder crying a heaving silenceI tried listening to her sliver voice words plunging into my ear, nestling into crevasses, throbbing, itching Tried explaining to the worms writhing past the too-clean-sky morning, her once bursting laugh that marinated words in saffronno longer listening now only watching. empty shadows on sun-stained cement, frail dandelions wilting; their heads bowing, bowing as if praying, that metallic after-taste of sour yellow, swallowing the bitterness.


art |Imaya Jeffries


art |Imaya Jeffries


discount silky conditioning lotion for oily skin by Nasrin Lin *TW Queer Slurs golden immigrant child watches the Sunday football game plays pong with his friends in letters and track pants drops a “faggot� at each plop a prepackaged narrative arc golden immigrant child lands jobs at fancy acronyms a bona fide entrepreneur seeks a bitch that cooks and free reign on the n-word using the friend card that doubles as business card coded handshake golden immigrant child aims for that penthouse with three pools and immigrant maids collectively known as the ah-yis because one saves too little face and two is just the Congratulations paper cutout on the cake three is the cake you stick your dick into after everybody leaves golden immigrant child gets a wedding invitation from his disowned sister the estranged daughter that dirty dyke cancerous rot in this great family name golden immigrant child pure golden bred reminiscing on brighter days 25

Portrait of butterflies in bloom by Isabella Urdahl

“Tous les amoureux ont-ils l’impression d’inventer quelque chose?” Portrait de la jeune fille en feu In my chest there bloom butterflies with flower petal wings. They need air so I give them the memory of the breath leaving my lungs, quand tes lèvres turned up at the corners, une intrigue, a soft lighthouse from across the room. They take all my oxygen and I surrender it like the body surrenders to a song, to the touch of tes doigts qui jouent on my skin. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t need more oxygen, but you leave me so breathless my body might have just found itself again – Je voudrais courir et fling my watercolor limbs off this cliff and plummet. Wingless, bouleversée, and wanton.


Who knew le coup de foudre could make you feel so electric.

Take it all and breathe it back into me with your tongue, which is ta question et ma réponse in one. Take these butterflies. My ribcage a mere canvas house for their explosion of hues and les-mots-ne-peuvent-pas-rendre-justice

that your eyes painted into me like a rayon de lune pirouetting off glass and into a room that was waiting for le soleil.

I knew nothing of music until your color-bathed fingers traveled the trembling paper of my chest. Flower petal wings string a symphony in my stomach, orchestrated by the brushstrokes your lips coat onto mine. Would Camus think me in love? “. . . tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour” Perhaps, although I think Madame Desbordes-Valmore’s powdered nose would turn at the way


je laisse tes paroles danser dans mes artères. And your words honey-stick to me but I’d make a welcome sign for bee stings. And I’d carry all les crèves-coeur, for one mouthful of your syllables ambering my vision. I think Balzac knew what he was saying when he named Love — poetry of the senses. Que tu es belle. The shape of your laugh is my favorite line break.

The life raft of your smile hidden behind your hand, la syllabe qui interrompt mon mètre.

The curve where ta joue rencontre ton cou, a liaison more imaginative than tout ce que la langue française pourrait rêver. And I a — , en train de prier, pour tu, que tu complètes la phrase, la peinture that you began in my body.


art |Deena Bhanarai


art | Angela Wei

Double Yellow by Alex Eliasen

Circles glistening Inebriated cobalt Asphalt under rain Legs begin twitching Another sanguine victim Motionless in vain Glass still shattering Sheet metal drips pale silence Sirens slowly wane



by Matt McGovern I see a deep forest in the evergreen futon whose wrinkles are brimming with landscapes, little hills written through wavering folds shapes resembling eyes just closed a brow arching in and a large crooked nose indiscript visages won’t deign to define themselves Perhaps these fissures ressemble glaciers stacked, full and monumental or veins and patches of flesh splayed out on this awe-inspiring canvas, laudable yet floppy futon content in the corner of the room the sag of whose own weight makes a low wide smile.

art | Juli Lin


art | Angela Wei


art |Deena Bhanarai

Learning to Love an Accident of a Hometown by Juliette Wu

Modern Shenzhen, modern in a post-Deng, Post-technological boom sense, is only a Few years my elder. Growing up, I watched The evisceration of a “fishing village” and its Infantile self-sufficiency a Transcendentalist Would think bucolic or picturesque, you know, Despite the detritus of wars and wrongs and all that And I watched not a snake shed its skin but A caterpillar deliquesce in its rancid cocoon (Death as a prerequisite for rebirth.) Perhaps the butterfly that emerged was iridescent But these are violent foreign colors, haphazardly Treated with the corporate-cosmopolitan odors And that globalist aesthetic of a concessioned Canton. But the self-assured westernized snob in me objects, Why eulogize? What does it matter? You misguided Faux-nationalist, you’ve reaped your benefits, spoken The kind of accentless (allow me to be anti-descriptivist) Lingua franca English of the international pastiche, When otherwise you’d have been a myopic rustic girl Taxidermied, stuck performing for the ogling orientalist… Now subsume this grotesque tableau—this Adidas bike Propped against steamed bun stall, this large glowing Transnational fast food sign, this local toddler nudging Mother asking about that gweilo and the ensuing offense Of the man who overhears, this Asian-faced customer base For this Western shopping mall, these great dilapidated Amalgamated throngs of part-Cantonese | part-American Part-Hakka | Part-British | part-Communist | All Chinese City of a fumbling postmodern accident.


An Ode to My Body Hair by Anonymous Zach started wearing shorts Fabric cutting off nine inches below the waist Matted rivers of glistening soldiers Stood erect on his ankles, shins, and thighs Bent knees traversed my forests of envy Desire overtook my fingers and they crept Closer towards his displays of masculinity With realization comes clambering to the bathroom My thick traitorous fingers poking At the mass of naked flesh covering my vital organs I sat hairless, defeated, yet empowered Plans forming with revolutions of hope and the end of PE Walking home, I prodded the protruding lump Which resided above my hips Its smoothness recalled the pure power held By Zach’s happy trail of fur Outside my house I kindled a fire Teeming with jealousy and follicle fascination Crossing myself, I prayed for growth She arrived, smirking, agreeable, auspicious Floating, her eyes bulging with instability “What is your desire?” A hairy demeanor or a flash of Zach’s abdomen How can one choose whether A body of thick layering masculinity Fairs better than the brief glimpse At an apologetically full manhood Sitting here with hair contaminating my vision Spilling over my brow bone, I begin to rethink my decision The hair I’m covered in replaces the man I’ll never be 34


by Paula Gil OrdoĂąez Gomez

Toes tapping to the rhythm Of thunder shouting Pushing neighboring trees To crack and crumble Sometimes I understand Those branches laying Defeated on my doorstep Fractured and fragile Snapped into twigs Crushed under careless feet But tonight I feel whole Like the trunk two doors down Refusing the wind’s shoves

art |Imaya Jeffries


Led Astray

by Matthew McGovern

I stepped down from the rattling bus into a foot of slush. From there, I hopped the brown snow embankment onto the lumpy, icy sidewalk, where I trudged along. After about forty paces, I sensed some figures following me from a short distance, close enough that I could hear their chatter. As I brushed snow from my shoulder, I looked back to see who they were: jackals in leather jackets, whom I had seen on the bus in the back row, snickering. I had observed them eyeing me back there, hungry and sleep-deprived. I was a big piece of prey, too slow to outrun them. I resorted to other means of getting the jackals off my trail, I veered from the sidewalk into a field of thick snow. After a few long strides, I was well away from the icy path. I turned back to see them hesitate, and paw at the ground nervously in their tattered, low-top shoes. To my surprise and delight, they started leaping in the imprints my boots had left, with a grace unbecoming of predators like them. On the pads of their feet they leaped, and I decided to lead them in a dance through the white, unblemished snow. Something in these hyenas’ movements made me forget my fear and revel in the chase. I accented my steps with curving arcs and swings. A long bound, ten rapid steps (which called for light feet,) interspersed with one-foot hopping, then a twirl. But as I looped all the way back to the sidewalk, I realized they had strayed from the steps I had been leading them in. Underneath a leafless tree, one jackal produced a crisp, moving tune for the other two, who pranced and pirouetted in tandem, ignoring my imprints in the deep snow. One of them hoisted the other onto his shoulders, like figure skaters, and held the position as the song subsided. On the hard sidewalk, I clomped the snow from my boots and observed my former pursuants, engrossed. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t contain my applause. The three heads snapped towards me, self-conscious and irate at having been led on. They began inching towards me, with hunger in their eyes, so I turned and bolted away on the uneven sidewalk. 36

photography | Irina Wang


art |Saira Mukherjee


art |Kaitlyn Carril



by Alex Eliasen

整日白天变成黄昏 在天空你俯视着我 你是我的夜空 暗面,明星眼睛 当微笑请月回来 星座拼成你的姿体 树林和我试图碰你 我怀念一起感受黑夜


photography | Kaitlyn Carril

photography | Irina Wang

My Night Sky (English Translation)

Each night, day surrenders to a golden dusk And you begin looking after me from above You are my night sky Face like midnight, shining star-like eyes Your smile inspires the moon’s return Constellations form your body The trees and I reach to try grasping you I miss experiencing the black night together


Amor Negado by Jon Adams

Cuando pienso en nosotros No me siento vacío Ni enojado De verdad, me siento fatigado. Cansado De esperar un cambio En el panteón de tu vida Soy un dios pequeño Menor Sin la gravedad de Júpiter Ni la sabiduría de Minerva Mi altar sólo tiene una vela Que se ha quemado Hasta al final de su mecha Y algún incienso viejo y apagado Ofrecidos por una tierra y un pueblo Cuyos nombres el tiempo ha olvidado Mi día festivo es un asunto sencillo Sin carne ni vino Solo pescado y leche Una combinación que en una época Tenía sentido. Hoy en día ninguna recuerda el origen Y francamente yo tampoco. Pero se sigue observando Se continúa practicando Con la esperanza de que Algún día todo volverá a memoria.


Love Denied

(English Translation)

When I think of us I don't feel empty Or angry Truthfully, I feel fatigued. Tired Waiting for a change In the pantheon of your life I'm a little god Minor Without the gravity of Jupiter Nor the wisdom of Minerva My altar has only a single candle That has been burned To the end of its wick And some old, extinguished incense Offered by a land and a people Whose names time has forgotten My feast day is a simple affair With neither meat nor wine Only fish and milk A combination that at one time Made sense. Nowadays no one remembers the origin And frankly neither do I. But it is still observed Still practiced In the hope that Someday it will all come back.


Pictures of Summer by Jonathan Ramirez

My mother, she paints me a navy blue sky with stars to guide me through the dark of night she takes my hand and whispers into my ear todo estara bien and I believe every word that comes out of her mouth. My mother, she loves to be a mother so much she never lets me go says there are peligros out in the world too intense for me to handle on my own and I believe her and dread the times I stand alone. Now, my mother has grown old, and I’m no longer a little kid she still wants to hold my hand but I shake my head and tell her camina detrás de mí instead , solo dime que estarás ahí si me caigo, eso es todo lo que quiero saber. With each season that fades, my mother recites stories untold, chanting the secret each one of them holds, a lesson deep within the words engraved in her tongue. My mother, she paints me pictures of summer perfectly where we are right now and tells me anything else esta mal so wrong like a cold winter in the middle of July. I’ve learned gritos don’t fix anything and silence only makes things worse so now I whisper softly in her ear, créeme cuando digo que estoy listo para tomar tus palabras y añadir las mías y así crear mi propia historia. I hope one day I find the words to build my own world and she learns to love me even when I'm not home, even if it hurts.


photography | Irina Wang


our house by the waterfall

by Zack Mintz inspired by “our house by the waterfall” by Dahm.

Our house by the waterfall was the dream we rebuilt, and we shared the lines in the ceilings, these wonderful feelings the kind you can't fathom to be there. When your breath hit the windows it sauntered and mellowed it had nowhere to go but the rafters above. It clung to them dearly like pearls on necks dreary or diamonds strung zig-zagged across streams that flow bleary. These storms we kept the times the creeks wept they bind us to earth, the places leaves slept. The mystical whirling the drops' slated swirling Though I stand vigorous and tall I haven’t forgotten it all.


art |Saira Mukherjee