Iris Youth Magazine - Issue 3

IRIS YOUTH MAGAZINE ISSUE3

EDITORS'NOTE

When we founded Iris Youth Magazine last October, we would never have expected it to receive such overwhelming love. Hundreds of submissions and three issues later, we have learned so much about what art means to us, how it transcends time andspacetobringpeopletogether.

The pieces featured in Issue 3 connect youth creativesacrossfourcontinents,acrossthedisciplines of visual art, poetry, and prose, to unite individuals throughtheuniversallanguageofart.

We thank you for supporting us for a year of upliftingyoungartists here’stomanymore!

Taylor&CameronCalonzo

LISTOF CONTRIBUTORS

Nicoly Bitencourt / Matthew Esarte / Erica Galera / Sophia

Lang / Emily Levine / Zoe MacRae / Bella Majam / Erin

Nuttle / Sunakshi Singla / Fe Toledo / Sonny Walker / Paige

Warmington

CoverArt: SistersintheWind,2022.

byEmilyLevine

Staff:

CameronCalonzo

TaylorCalonzo

TABLE OF CONTENTS

sea,devourme

themagician’sassistantveneratesafalsedeity burnt

Dissociation

SwimmingLessons

Crowningadolescence

SummerSplash SistersintheWind,2022.

OppositesinPath.ConeyIsland,2022. Mackenzie,2022.

Clementine

youbetheboy

electricitydisguisedasalovepoem

MosaicofFeelings:TheLanguageofPhotography

…1 …2 …3 …6 …7 …10 …11 …13 …15 …16 …17 …22 …23 …25

sea,devourme

sweet,sweetself-induceddaydreamsofdrowning; imissthesilenceunderwater,thatfaintsoundof bubblingblueishdarknessrisingbetweenthe meltingmoonlightmergingwithmybody.now therainreturns,&iremainalone&aboveit.

i'mturningpurple,myheartisworm-eaten,my eyeshavegottenfaintdarkspotsallaroundit,my mouthisraw&bleeding,myhairwon'tstopfalling. thisiswhatunlivinessdoes.isayunliviness,yes;i'm notexactlydead,yousee i'monlywornout.

tellme,doesthesheepstillcountitsdayslefttolive? doesthechurchstillsinkbelowthewavesofthemud? takemedownwhenit'sdone takemedownwhen icanfinallytastethesheep'sbone takemedown whenthechurch'sfeethavefinallyangledmoonward.

nicolybitencourt(20),brazil

the magician’s assistant venerates afalsedeity

ikeepyouinatriptych abovethebookshelf &paintoveryoulittle bylittle coatyou insmallblushes ofmintgreen&turquoise thesameslowwayyourot everytimeibring yourbodytome

thecloudedmoondoesn’t seehowiwantherto notatall goawaymoongowherei don’tglowunderyou myskin’slightnessisunbearable asitsdarkness&itspresence& itsheft&itscut&itsbleedoh wrenchtheoathfrommythroat iwon’tgo,youwill,iwon’t soisuturetheopenwindowwith curtainsbeforeyoukneel&pretend toprayintoclaspedhands.letthe almostwordsgolike

amiraculousdovefromthegrasp ofamagician

iambedridden&softened bynoparticulardisease thepowerofmanifestation isinrepetition letme sayitformyself

it’sallinmy head hearit beingsilent it’sallinmy head hearitnotatall it’s somewhereinside&fixed innotime

it’sthistangleofheatthatkeepsmeup ifeel itpulsebeneathmymattress &wander mypillowcase neverhaveibeen anignorantsleeper onlytooreadytotwitch &snapoutofit

brandmyneck&wrists withyourpeculiar signet iwatchedyouwarmthering intheshapeofaram’shead reclined kingwiseonyourcouch&welcomed theburnlikedawn theembarrassmentofbeingthe possesseddoesnothauntme how

itonce didmybrandiscold aprotrusion ofthefourthfinger’staperedknuckle just apartofthebody youinvert&spell lawsdowntothespacebetweenwords heatisnowtepidbone &deathchokesonhiseveningmilk whilepreeningmyhair withthecurveofhisscythe

matthewesarte(21),usa

Dissociation

SwimmingLessons

What do you do when the other girls hold your head beneath the water? You are eightyearsoldinapublicpool,andtheirfingernailsarediggingintothebackofyour neck.Thinkcarefully thereisacorrectanswer.

Doyouthrash,doyoutearattheirhairwhiletheytearatyours?Doyougulpdown thefoul-tastingliquidinyourpanic?

Ordoyouopenyoureyeswide?Letthechlorinebluryourvision,letthesmallfingers clutchyouintheirdeath-grip.Stare.

Watch the light, its strange refractions on the pool floor. Watch the way it bounces offthelegsofthegirls,yourfriends,yourexecutioners.Imagineyourselfsisters.Then imagineyourselfdrowned.Thetruth?

Somewhereinthemiddle.

Ontheground,thereisadiscardedwristwatch.Nowimaginetheyoungwoman,her bonywristbereftandtan-lined.Agiftfromhergirlfriend nowswallowyourshame. Noticethatittastesmorelikelove.Thisistheworld

Shimmeringblueandstreakedwithlight.

Sisterssqueezingtheairfromeachother’slungs,loversleavingtrailsforeachotherto find.Makeyourpeacewiththat.Thisishowtheworldhasalwaysbeen.

You have gone limp in the girls’ arms. When they wrench you back, back up to the clamour of the public pool and the cloying smell of chemical sweat, do you look around?Doyoubreatheindeep,drinkitdown?

Doyousayittoyourself?Iamveryyoung.ItisalrightthatIamstilllearninghowto swim.

Thinkcarefully.Thereisacorrectanswer.

sophia lang is a teen writer from the uk. she currently works as an editor for the afterpast review, and is enthusiastic about uplifting underrepresented voices in writing. her other interests include ancient greek literature, terrible british tv, and absolutely everythingannecarsonwrites.

C r o w n i n g a d o l e s c e n c e

S u m m e r Sp l a s h

S i s t e r s i n t h e W i n d, 2 0 2 2 .

Op p o s i t e s i n P a t h . C o n e y I s l a n d, 2 0 2 2 .

.

2 0 2 2

M a c k e n z ie,

emilylevine(she/her)isastudentatwellesleycollegeinherfinalyear.sheisabornand raised new yorker. emily spends her summers harvesting local produce and can be foundinthedarkroomduringtheschoolyear.youcanaddmenucuratingandnature gazing to her list of hobbies as well. additional works can be found on instagram @photoesbyem.

clementine

ThisisalettertoRobin.

Robin,Idon’tknowifyou’rereal.

I spent a dream with you once; back when I was in eighth grade and you were a juniorinhighschool,doyouremember?

Did you also wake up with pale pithy strings under your fingernails? Did the sweet citrussmellclingtoyourhandsthewayitdidtomine,likemaplesyrup?Istillthinkof you, when I pass fuchsia lipstick in Target or someone eats an orange next to my desk.

Youhadfallenasleepinaclementineorchard,withonlyarattysleepingbag,because you were running away from the people who didn’t understand you. And usually, I wouldfallasleepandhaveconfusingvisionsoffallingintothearmsofmybestfriend.

But that night, when I reached my arms out, I found them parting the twiggy branches of a tree, my head bumping against yellow-orange fruit. I stepped into a lantern-litclearingwiththetasteofspearminttoothpastestillfreshonmytongue.

We never tried to leave that clearing, and I wonder why. I think it was because we had no curiosity for what lay beyond it; I imagine if I had walked back out, I would’ve stepped off the edge of the earth into a void of static and fog. In that clearing, there was a lantern, and there were clementines, and there was us, and that wasenough.

I saw you, and this “dream” was immediately different, in the sense that I knew you werenotpartofme,yet.

After we introduced ourselves, I remember saying something about how there were worseplacestomeet,whatwiththeenchantmentofthelittlefruitsandtheclarityof

the moon and stars. I didn’t know how we’d both gotten there, but I said that if we were dead, we could’ve been shepherded straight into a crowded auditorium for orientation,butthiswasnice.

You looked away and smiled an ironic smile, the camping lantern between us throwing shadows across your face. I noticed there were fuchsia highlights in your hair.

Therewerecertainlyworsepeopletomeet.

You told me a bit about how you were running away. I kept thinking that your life felt so much more real than mine. I wanted to ask about it, but I didn’t want you to beupset.

“Whatkindoffruitisthat?”Iaskedinstead.

Youreyesflickeduptotheglowinglittlethings.“Theylooklikeoranges.”

“Abittoosmall.Tangerines,maybe?”

Youstoodupandpluckedonefromthebranches,thensatagain,peelingitslightly.I reachedovertotakeoneoftheslices,citrusyperfumesproutingthroughtheair.

“Cheers.”Youbumpedasliceofyourownagainstmineandsettheunwrappedfruit between us. I took a bite and my mouth echoed with bittersweet ringing. You poppedyoursbetweenfuchsialipsthesamecolorasyourhair,andsmiled.

“They’re clementines.” I said. You asked me if I was some sort of fruit expert. I said yes,becausewhatelsewasIsupposedtosay?

I am sure that you danced. It seems odd, but I cannot conceive of that evening withouttheideathatyoudanced.Theorangelighthighlightedtheorangefruitofthe trees around us, a tunnel of larger stars leading up to a field of tiny ones, and you danced. I think you invited me to join you. It was a kind of wild dance, not a formal one,thekindofdancewhereyouarejustmarvelingattheworld.Wedancedlikewe

were trying to show each other something about ourselves. I’m sure of it, but then again,therewouldn’thavebeenanymusic.

HereIam,writingthis,askingmyself;whywouldwehavedanced?

I think it just seemed like the thing to do, if your world was ending and you might, afterall,havedied.AndI’mstillnotsurethatyouwereeverreal,thoughyouseemed convincedenough.

“Haveyoueverhadacrush?”Iasked,becauseIthoughtIwasdevelopingone.

Andthenyoutoldmeaboutthegirlfriendyouhad,Jazz.Yousaidshemadeyoufeel different, which I understood better than I wanted to admit. You said she would catch your attention without meaning to- make little expressions, wear the cutest earrings, say something just slightly too outrageous for you to keep a straight face. You said, “I could never not notice her. And there was so much to notice. Watching herwasaddictive.”

Ithoughtshereallyhadtobesomething.Ithoughtshewaslucky.

Iasked,“Whydidyoubreakup,then?”

Yousaid,“Ihadtogetoutofthere,butshecouldn’t.Itwasdifferentforher,withher littlesiblings.”Yousaid,“Itwasn’tanythingpersonal.”

I told you all I’d ever known was being lonely, and I couldn’t imagine choosing to leavesomeonelikehertogobacktothatemptyache.

Irememberwhatyousaidinresponseveryclearly.“Youhaven’tmetmyparents.”

At the time I had a best friend. Her name was Sarah. She was a lot like your Jazz. I told you about her. How the sun on her forehead was like jewelry, how you could piecetogetherwhoshewasfromthebooksshelentyousoonerthanjustaskingher.

You said, “I see what you’re getting at. You want to know whether or not to tell her thatshe’syoureverything.”

But I worried that what I thought was a choice actually wasn’t one, that whether or not I told her about the sun on her face or the books, I would end up alone either way.Andbesides,weremyfeelingsevenreal?

You snorted, and said, “Oh, they’re real. If she’s not mature enough to take it, she wasn’tworthit.Beingaloneisn’tsobad.”

I still don’t know what to make of that. I think when you said it, I knew you were real,becausenopartofmysubconsciouswouldeverhaveimaginedthosewords.

Andthenyouaskedme,“Doyoueverthinkabouthowsharingthingsiskindoflike givingthemup?”

You said, “It’s risky, and it’s riskier the more you love the person. Because even if theygiveitback,it’sforeverdifferentforyou.”

AndIsaid,“Theyleavefingerprints.”

And you nodded you said, “If you share a song with someone, it never goes back tobeingjustyoursong.Ifyoushareaplaceorajacketoratraditionwithsomeone,it nevergoesbacktobeingjustyours.”

Ididn’taskyoufordetails.Icouldfeelasortofraspberry-sweetlongingwaftingfrom your little fuchsia shadow of a figure. I stood up and harvested another clementine, setting it down beside the empty peel of the first. I don’t remember if that was before orafterwedanced.

It’sfunnythatwetalkedaboutthat,becausetheotherdayIwasinthestoreandthey hadclementines.Idon’tusuallybuyfreshfruit--Iforgetit’sthereanditgoesbad--but Iboughtafewclementines,andIthoughtofyou.

You know, I don’t think I said this, but it’s not that the shared thing is lost to you. You actually sort of gain it, you gain it in a new perspective. The world gets richer, thatway.Morevibrant.Yougetmorecolorsinyourlife.

Likefuchsia.Andyellow-orange.

Iamtellingyou,youweremyeverythingthatnight.

Withallthekindnessyousharedwithme, YourClementine

zoe macrae (she/her), is an eighteen year old queer writer, reader and artist living in massachusetts. she spends her summers writing fiction, when she isn't identifying plants or constellations. her art is nourished by the time she spends reading, painting andresearchingthingslikemythology,philosophyandpsychology.

youbetheboy

whenshemarries,youwillgiveherasetofgold-encrustedwineglassesandwatchherwalk downtheaisle,herhair,oncewaist-length,nowpinnedwithpearls.herhusband twice yourage,awallstreetmogulwiththreeteens wantsherneat.attheafterpartydrenched in champagne and 90s pop, underneath the candle lanterns, she plants a kiss on your cheek, all smiles and thank you for arriving, nevermind you haven’t spoken in years, nevermindyouwillnotspeakagainwhenthisweddingends.you’llbefacebookfriends whenshemovestochicago,opensadaycare,birthsason,hashersisterpassfromstage four breast cancer. you will send her a curt email offering your condolences. she never answers.alone,atthehotel,tipsyfromtwoshotsofvodka,youfallasleepwithfionaapple crooninginyourheadphones,andforthefirsttime,insomethingthatislessadreamand moreahaunting,yousmellthescentofhercherryshampoo,seetheshineofhersparkly blushasyoukneeltogether,mouthsnottouching.herlegs,pomegranate-redfromawax you two are too young for, and yours, scabbed by cuts and mosquito bites. you kneel together,mouthsnotmoving,butyourhandstracethehardnessofeachother’shipbone, thecurvewherearmpitmeetschest,andneitherofyouwillrememberwhosaidyoubethe boy,orifitwassaidatall.onaborrowedradio,anewscasterreportstheendoftheworld atthestartofanewmillennia,andlater,yearslater whenyou’vesoakedinthebathtub andscrubbedthealcoholoutofyourbreath,returnedtothecul-de-sacyouusedtobike, feetaching you’llwriteaboutthat,howeverybeginningfeelslikeanend.

bella majam is a writer from manila, philippines. she serves as an editor for diamond gazette,haluhalojournal,andtheafterpastreview.sheisalsoastudentatthePhilippine highschoolforthearts.youcanfindherpostingcatpicturesorsharingwritingupdates @beelaurroninstagram.

asalovepoem

M o s a i c o f F e e l i n g s : T h e L a n g u a g e o f P h o t o g r a hp y

Time

H a t c h i n g

fe toledo (she/her) is a multi-disciplinary visual artist based in makati city, philippines. she is currently a fine arts, visual communication student from the university of the east. her work tackles the relational narratives of women and labor workers. her art revolves around art for socialchange,examinesgenderdisparityandisfocusedcreatingspacefordiscourseonsocial issues. you can find her on instagram @fe toledo and on her website https://toledokristafe.wixsite.com/fe-toledo.

afistisalway

igotmydad'savoidance&mymum's wildness

theybirthaskittishanimal

i'msorry

towhoevershowsmetheirknuckles& bitten

violentorfriendly,afistisafist

Gen

er done (you always st like you, a bright becomingmyfather,

ON HAVING EYES ONME ed how person cause i figured i'd neverbecomeone

CW:suicide

i was going to kill myself before i reached adulthood and now i'm coasting on the philosophiesiabsorbfrompoetry.neverlearnedhowtobeaperson'causeifigured i'd never become one. my loved ones write words that remind me tenderness exists, calm the frenzied animal in my body like an aggressive dog leaning into a warm palm. stray cats stretch out in front of me like summer. my island has a view of the ocean,whichisbeautiful,eventhoughican'tswimorseethehorizon.

IMETGOD,ITUSES NEOPRONOUNS

BythewayImetGodtoday

It'sinthewaysweshowloveforeachother

ImetGodintheviolincaseofabuskerinSpring

ImetGodinawaterfountain

ImetGodintheintersectionof Mineandmylover'ssexes

ImetGodinanorangesegmentsharedbetween Twowomen

ImetGod

Itlivesinsmallactsofhumanity

ImetGod

InthefleshIcarry

HEBREW; LITTLE LAMB. EWE (ONE WITHPURITY)

IFMYDEADNAMEMEANS LAMB CALLME BUTCHER

sonnywalker(they/them)isatwenty-three-year-oldpoetandnovelistfromnewquay, cornwall. their work draws inspiration from personal experiences with queerness, sexuality and the body, using violence, gore and occasionally explicit language as a meanstoexpressandcelebratetheimperfect,theugly,theshamefulandthedirty.they write in the hopes of helping to establish a literary environment that rewards raw and unfilteredwritingwithkindness,understandingandsolidarity. theirworkcanbefoundonInstagram@homoerotten.