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A tome worthy of those seers and sages whose thoughts are the substance of it’s pages.


HELLO JUPITER No 01 CONTRIBUTORS 10&43 13 13 & 38-39 14-15 32-33 34-37 40-41

M. Lugo Seyran Dalipovski Mark Portillo THEN Stefan Decarlo Mat Terwilliger Bianca Secre 18-29 “In The Cards” by










yellow snow it was cold that night. a sobbing phone message was vague enough to confirm. I still wasn’t ready. the beer went down quick. my arrival was delayed. overbooked planes and rush hour traffic. surrounded by assholes who could care less. a car ride in a green mustang with a man I never met before. he must have been parked under a tree. bird shit covered the car. awkward silence. he turned on the radio. country music. I caught a glimpse of a peach stand. a fat women playing with her child, red faced and sweating. a church or a liquor store on every corner. abandoned buildings were popular. the ride was a blur. the house was packed. unfamiliar faces full of tears and anger. awkward hugs, handshakes and kisses. more prayers to makeup for the prayers that went unanswered. I just wanted to hide. I walked into her bedroom. it was uncomfortably cold. the stench of sadness and death filled the air. no television, no radio. the soothing sound of a breathing machine. I wanted to lie in the bed with her and go to sleep. a plastic jesus medallion and a rosary blessed by a pedophile sat on the nightstand. medical supplies were scattered throughout the room. I attempted to control my mourning. I was overwhelmed by her appearance. yellow skin and sunken eyes. labored breathing. her lips fluttered. her spontaneous laughter was silenced. it looked like she was already dead. i guess she was waiting for me to say goodbye. small, confused footsteps in the early morning hours. a slap of the light switch. the last gasps of air. short and rapid. he began to moan and sob, begging for her to come back. this must have been a mistake. a pain shot through my back and shattered my heart. the sick tree was finally gone. they showed up much quicker than I expected. two men in a hearse. one fat with a full head of hair; the other short with an awful toupee. their appearance made me angry. even when surrounded by death I was being superficial. my aunt cleaned her body. i heard the zipper being pulled up. i came out to watch. her face was exposed. i asked them to close it completely. it was cold out. the first snowfall in ten years. and then my mother was gone. - M. Lugo









s d r a c e h t in PHOTOGRAPHED BY Samer


Fouad Serrano & Jaye Anna Mize


Ocot & Gina Marr


Bustamante, Erin Serrano, Jaye Anna Mize, Rosemary Gonzalez & Wilmarie Sena /18

























a father’s gift it was a burning seed that led to self destruction, inherited from a man who didn’t catch on until she died. it transformed into an obsession with the devil, with death. I developed into a frustrated soul gasping for clean air. lacking the empathy which makes us human. my nights occupied by mindless drifting, boozing and fucking. hangovers and sickness, sleeping in train stations and on bathroom floors. finding myself alone to deal with this dull pain and unsatisfying numbness. periodic bouts of sobbing, surrounded by books and dust. tears streaming onto a pillowcase caked with sweat, tattered with bite marks. shadows of telescopes and framed photos, seen by the light of a bright moon. drowning in an ocean of fear, strangled by the misery of regret. my nightmares were full of the deaths of those who loved me. painful and slow. too young to be old, too old to be young. stuck in the middle when all i wanted was to die. a stomach full of gin and prescription pills, doing my best to drown out the demons. soaking in a bathtub full of my own filth. piss and shit floating to the top. haunted by the thought of unfulfilled promises, i needed it to end. mother is too far away to mother me, unable to show me the good in any of this. I realized there was nothing left to do but cry and die. I’m ready to become nobody. standing on the yellow edge of a subway platform, reaching out for a touch of the speeding train. waiting for my father to come push me. -M. Lugo


Gina Marr Seyran Dalipovski Sheena Ocot Stefan Decarlo

Then Samer Fraud Rosemary Gonzalez Mark Portillo

for information on contributers not listed here please email:



contribute to our next issue: “To draw, you must close your eyes and sing.” — Pablo Picasso



Hello Jupiter Zine Number 1  

Local New Jersey creatives. Independent publishing. Issue Number 01 : Occult

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