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THE LATTE EDIT ISSUE 2




Winter 2021


THE LATTE EDIT is published quarterly and is edited by author and Editor-inChief Hannah Cao. Fellow indie authors and poets all over the world are invited to submit their work throughout the year for consideration. We accept original poetry, creative non- iction, literary criticism, opinion pieces, art on a rolling basis. Submissions and questions may be directed to lattepressteam@gmail.com. Please see the last page of this zine for more information about submissions. The views expressed in THE LATTE EDIT are not necessarily those of its editors or staff! No portion of the contents may be reprinted without written permission of the editors or originators. All rights reserved. All pieces of work belong to their rightful owner as mentioned with their respective work and in the Contributors section of this zine. Copyright Š 2021 by THE LATTE EDIT Literary Magazine and its contributors Edited and designed by Hannah Cao

Art on cover: S lina Farzaei

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Cover design: Hannah Cao


POETRY Six thirty in New York City – 6 The sea of nightly dreams – 7 Act one to four – 8 Why wolves howl – 9 Undoing Into Me – 10 to 12 Cigarette Talks – 13 The Lady In Black – 14 Hold on, my January darlings –15 The Long Way Home – 16 to 17 Minerva's Daughter – 18 Shooting stars – 19 Death in the hands of poetry – 20 to 21 Untitled – 22 After Caitlin Con's Linguistics – 23 to 25 When – 26 to 27 The beauty of Athens and Paris – 28 After 'The Beatrice Letters' – 29 Scream no steam! – 30 Where the Evergreens Grow –31 to 32 Sweet Escape – 33 to 34 Mirror service – 35 to 36

ART / PHOTOGRAPHY Sélina Farzaei

Vanshika Randev


Letter from the Editor What a year that just passed us like a slow sticky train, am I right? We ind ourselves drained and tired and maybe slightly hopeful in the new year, 2021, in January. Time slowed down, or it has been this slow for a lot of us for a long time already. And we wait for things to pick up again. Because of the time spent holed up in our rooms, I've seen a massive influx of creative pieces made by readers of this zine, followers and bigger and smaller gems of the writing community. It is wonderful to see, and you and your pieces are all so valid and important. Of course some wrote about the current situation. Others wrote about completely different topics. But feelings stay the same. And feelings were explored this time around, in this very issue. It's a mix match of everything: Shorter and longer pieces, tales from personal lives or ictional stories. I'm so happy to be including new but also "old" contributors and that so many submissions have reached me this time around again. The Latte Edit was off to a great start and I'm hoping with our second issue, it will reach even more of a new audience. So spread the news around! There is a place for every voice. If you, as a reader, or even fellow writer, feel like you can relate to our pieces speci ically, feel free to screenshot and share your favourite pieces. All contributors are included in the Contributors section in this zine again. Remember: whatever happens – we will always have poetry. Hannah Cao

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Editor-in-Chief


BY AMIRAH SHAHARI Steps on concrete This is what it means to be free With you Hands moving around Like cranes in the sky Holding me You always look like summer In the city when there’s nothing better to do We wait for the rain to pour Then take a walk outdoors Just to feel the cold Against our skin Close, yet not enough to be touching I could feel the heat radiating From your cheeks This is how it feels to be in love At eighteen

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Six thirty in New York City


BY LILLY LINDNER Moon beams coalesce with city lights, they Shimmer like gemstones in the deep blue sea whose  Tender waves wash over the pavement cliffs while  Fairies on clams float O sweet fairies, who frolic to enchanted  Sounds of lively winds, liquid falling stars and  Ocean harps, protect the newspaper boat of  Tranquil midnight dreams Peaceful rests the traveller bedded under Paper blankets from letter down while spellbound by  Queen Amphitrite’s magic chant. She fuses Earthly dreams with sea Sinuously streams of warm gold embrace the  Moon-lit water, silvery stars as light foam  Forming mystic beings who move through lucent  Habitats nimbly Only for a night lasts the dreamy play as  Fires turn the blue into ruby satin While the beings, shapeless now, vaporise to  Billows for daybreak

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The sea of nightly dreams


Act one to four BY AMIRAH SHAHARI If I were the leading lady, You’ll meet me in the library. Amongst the words I would borrow when I couldn’t ind a source to express my sorrow. If this was a movie, the plot would string you towards me. Step by step, Maybe we will miss each other when I get on the irst train and you were still running late, Or sit behind you in a diner. Death in detail. You are a name I haven’t heard of yet. If this was a plotted story, fate would exist pretty much for everyone except for you and me. Because our names were written to ind each other somewhere along the lines.  Maybe we would each take a walk in the rain. I’ll bump into you and leave a tea stain on your sweater. All because we both forgot to check the weather. If only then, I’d prefer for us to go back to the moment where we met for a split second.  To see you smile at me like we’ve known each other, Like you have slid into the corners of my heart and earned your place there.  As the camera pans out, I’d like the screen to fade to black. Because we don’t deserve tactical plots and pretty stars, For two beings that are too far off to ever cross paths.

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BY JW LYNN I am a passionate creature / there is a wild woman deep in my core / she runs through the winter forests alone but always seems to answer the call for combat in the fall of the ire / she watches everything and knows / I must tap into her spirit and trust her as my guide / my intuition is there waiting for me I have nothing worth hiding

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Why wolves howl


Undoing Into Me BY LIZ MERCEDES Wreathed in darkness, clothed in ebony velvet, there I exist.  I am lost, I am found. I ight, tooth and nail; I surrender, fallen to my knees. I know it is necessary but the waiting is torture; time is a cruel master. Is it truly necessary, this metamorphosis? Worth the suffering, the isolation? Will I really be different... Will I really be new? I cannot tell if the night is lifting, or if my mind has created a new reality. My body is bound and I can scarcely draw breath. My strength

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is waning and my heart is so weak. I hear the whispers of the stars, nudging me to stretch, to expand, to ight for more. And as I do, I see pinpricks of light and life seep into my world. Colors rush in and flood my bones with fresh strength. My eyes are blind, in disbelief, but I keep reaching, tearing my cof in away. As I rise into the heavens, dripping and triumphant, I notice that the light does not surround meit beams from within,

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around me. The covering I thought I was to be buried in is actually a cocoon, made especially for me to transform into whole, and new. From darkness to darkness, in death and in rebirth, I will bring forth my light.

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illuminating the evening


BY TATIANA KHALYAKO Discussions in the morning Are too damn serious Drunk cigarette talks at night Is all we are And all we ever will be Our real selves Do not exist beyond them

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Cigarette Talks


The Lady In Black BY RABEIAH KHAN I stare blandly at the painting of the lady in black, Admiring her every nook, Ivory passion scattering all over her sacred face, Sheathing herself in the dress of dark glory for all those lost within her sight, Whilst I, A silhouette of grey-scale melancholy in this museum of masterpieces cries to be loved. "Be as you may" she whispered to me, as though I was a shiny pearl and her the epitome of dead and lost women, She looks away from those who admire her, She remains unnamed and stuck, her eyes blazing of miserable eternity, She had never swayed as I, to the melodies of Gustav Mahler, Lest Romeo claims to be her lover and Hamlet screams all her loveless crimes,                                                            And                    And                        And                                                                                                                                             slowly, Rust covers her, and dust lls her frame,                                                                                                     But I longingly love her fate. As I know the wicked truths of this cruel world,                       I wait and wait, for my long-last lover to meet me again, in the bare corners of The Louvre, But my darling, the only symphonies I've known have bruised and drowned my once desire aching heart.  It is miserably tragic of me to admire the lady in utter misery,                               But they all exhibit her lonely glances, and throw hasty looks upon my mere existence, How must I not adore the fate of a lady beloved in silent halls and empty nights?

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BY HANNAH CAO Come to rest, you're damaged goods at best but there is past the surface, past the blue and grey. Where the reflection of the willow tree in the pond below looks brighter, softer, dizzy. You spiral with love and want everything to be evergreen, not be remembered for the person that you were. You make your way home solo and the grief of years remains heavy in your steps. Shame is a shadow that slams the door open in your January feelings. Well, there is also the time when you stare at the sky and you let go of someone and they also don’t come back. You live in memories but you haven't forgotten how to dream. Yearning, desire, need, don't they all look the same? You're a bug, destined to sit on a leaf.

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Hold on, my January darlings


The Long Way Home BY TATIANA KHALYAKO Let’s take the long way home And delay our parting Just for a moment. Soon you’ll move to the seaside And I to the city. Or it might be The other way around. We will commute to work In featureless wagons and roaring busses, Guarding our secrets From indifferent strangers. We will chase dreams At the risk of coming away Empty-handed. I don’t know if we’ll be great But we can always try and be okay. Someday, maybe, We will brush shoulders in a busy street. And you will smile, remembering… And invite me for lunch – or coffee.  Maybe I will wait for you to call Until too much time has passed; So when the screen inally blinks With your name, I won’t pick up.  We will grow old Having forgotten to grow up.

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We’ll haunt each other’s memories. Or maybe we’ve always been Just minor characters, Soon to be forgotten. That happens, too, you know? So tonight, let’s take the long way home. 

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Spectres of lives forever changed,


BY KATLYN FERRERA I can't help but laugh At the people who, Without prompt, Tell me what my body Is supposed to look like.  As if they have any clue  What a real woman looks like. Oh, don't you see? My body was handcrafted  By the goddess Minerva.  Where else could I  Have found such strength.  How could you even attempt  To correct such a marvel.

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Minerva’s Daughter


BY TATIANA KHALYAKO We are no such stuff As dreams are made on Barely scratching at the surface of existence Our dazzling lights Are muted by the void Before they could have even caused a ripple No bard will sing about us Unknowable to all We comprehend each other Down to the skeletons of our souls And in this familiarity We glow eternally

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Shooting Stars


BY RABEIAH KHAN I must die as a poet for all the stone souls, I sculpted with the sanctity of my word, would worry that I had gone, The statue of Lacrimosa, hiding its pearl beauty, would be saddened if my liberating poetry were not there to drown her sorrow, I must die as a poet, for where you see simplicity, I bury deep within the pits of burning fury just to comprehend what they said to me,                                 Inferno may be raised, after all I know the devil’s way, I must die as a poet, because long after I have died, there would be hearts shattered in feathers of ivory and wings of caged mentality, that only with the power of my word could seek morality, I must die as a poet, for when the sun’s burning light, scorches and mellows the eyes dipped in a sea of blues, could inally reach a shore with the melodies of my quivering ode. I must die as a poet, for the mourning that de ines one’s life, the obscure pain none can fathom, Is brought into light, is no longer hidden by the ripped chord your beloved tore out, is shaken, and heard by the loudness of my poetry and countless others’ So, peel your parts out of my poems, bleed dry every verse I ever wrote,  mold, mold, mold,  the clay holding you together. I must die as a poet, for I’ve lived long enough as one, and my dying wish, O my

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Death in the hands of poetry


by the age of time. I must die as a poet, because the suffering that brews within me, is boiling and my craving, my thirst for the void of normalcy, Is, Is, Is sneaking its way in, sweeping into my indigo veins, so erase this ache within my bones and love my poetry as your own.

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dying wish, is for the dried ink on my decaying bones to never be washed away


BY TANVI JAIN Nobody will be there when the coldest winds blow Nobody will hush you to sleep when the nightmares come and go Nobody has the time or patience or love That's why it's important that you become that someone for yourself Sing yourself to sleep Hug yourself when the day turns blue Love yourself for making it on your own Even if somebody decides to do all that You should remember you still have yourself to fall back on You will always have yourself That is of utmost importance You not losing faith in your own being In your own mind and your own heart It carries love that far exceeds what you give to others And if we could all just be there for ourselves a tiny bit more We'd realize We don't really need anyone else

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Untitled


A er Caitlin Con’s Linguistics BY VANSHIKA RANDEV

in a language that doesn’t have the word love, i say let’s be anything we want to be- screaming and bright and neon and confetti everywhere the day after, soft as pastel or sand slipping through ngers, honey silk sunlight, skies painted in shades of blue or the sea painted in longing; magical and detached like oating underwater, grass against bare feet, warm and hazy like reliving a long forgotten dream, embers of light against the dark of the night, and any other ridiculous cliché you can think of.

i say i want to call this something. i say, don’t all these di erent things all feel built on the same foundation.  

(a distant, parallel world echoes the word love and i don’t hear it)

i say this feels like a house that went up in ames but with owers blooming where scorched earth used to be. i say this is as much wonder as kids elaborately building sandcastles only for them to wash away, as permanent as stories carved into oak. It is in the caves by the coast and mirrors held up to the sea, up in the trees, perched precariously on branches and hidden in tree houses amongst all the green, it is in vines growing in summertime and hanging from windowsills like wind chimes, along cobblestones in cities we haven’t visited yet, in bedsheets hanging on clotheslines, billowing in the wind. It is in polaroids taped to walls and notes in the margin of your best friend’s school textbook, in postcards and letters and the handmade card you made when you were six, thinking drawing the perfect heart was the same as saying how you felt. It is in freshly cut fruit and a warm cup of tea in cold hands. It is a thing wanting to scream from rooftops, only to be reminded it is a little shy when given the chance. It resigns instead to notes on corners of exchanged paper, to

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stolen glances, to reading in the quiet aisle of a crowded bookstore, to standing by my favourite tree in that little square and feeling perfectly contained, to the corner couch of a cafe on a busy winter day, like coming home to forgotten places, lingering in a comfortable silence we grew into together.

i say you can see it in how our shoulders press, just slightly, while in conversations with di erent people, i catch your eye as we dance with our friends, i save you a seat, i leave you post it notes in every book of yours i borrow, and save every word you write for me, we write poetry and wonder what to call this thing, you walk me home and i walk you right back, we have tired eyes but never stop laughing, we hold hands while making our way through crowded rooms  but don’t let go once we’re through  

in a language that doesn’t have the word love, i say you make me feel known, i say all i ever want is to see you and understand you, i say whatever this is is golden and soft and glowing and growing; the sun ltering through the break in the trees, the sound of the sea gently crashing into the shore, the feeling of nding old recipes and antique maps tucked away into dusty drawers and notebooks you had scribbled into from when you were fteen and aspired to be everything. i say you make me feel like its okay to want to be everything.

in a language that doesn’t have the word love, i can’t tell you what this feeling is, but i do know that it is enough, that labelling it takes something away from these moments, leaves it bathed in a tinged nostalgic sadness i don’t need right now. i say i will never stop chasing what wants to be found. i say let’s make up our own secret

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in a language that doesn’t have the word love, i say the sky hangs low in wait of you. i say it feels like everything around us pauses. the air is slower here. time feels less ckle. this feels almost heavy but not burdensome; the weight of possibilities gently balancing on our shoulders without ever heaving us down. the grass and the trees swaying around us, gently, forthcoming. i say this thing we have lingers, like best friends when the party’s over, like regret once it settles in, hanging in the aftermath.

i say what we have feels untouched, like a well kept secret we never tried to hide. like hushed whispers and giggles, like childlike silliness, like the way that book always had me looking around forgotten corners as a kid, in hopes of nding my own secret garden so i could have my own four corners of sunshine and green fading away into autumn’s orange, just for me. what i mean to say is, it feels dreamy but just as real.

i say it feels like rereading my favourite childhood series all weekend, holed up in my room, the world at a distance, but also at bay. like my worries are sillier and smaller. like knowing the world will wait for me. like a reminder etched into my skin , telling me i don’t need to catch up with the world to nd myself. it is what is left of hope when the world is busy disintegrating. i say it leaves a glittering trail in its wake (or makes me romanticise dust, either way).

i say I wish I had a word for it, but that I’m ne not trying to de ne this. i say, do i really even need all these words when i’ve got this loud, tell-tale heart? i say there is something about this that is di erent, like it wasn’t meant to make sense. in a language that doesn’t have the word love, I still nd myself asking, ‘do you feel it too?’

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language. i say this feels like a fever dream i couldn’t do without.


BY SHIVI DIXIT "A dragon in the clouds!" I remember the days when I would travel to the skies and draw on the clouds. When the little sparrow created ripples in the tiny bottle cap kept in the balcony. When the trail of pearls falling from the sky was stopped in its tracks  on my hands to form a pool, reflecting the sparkle of my eyes. When the fallen Gulmohar leaves  adorned my hair and became my long nails for the play. When hope mingled with excitement as empty socks were hung on the window  on 25th, and my mother's lap defeated the cold outside. When there was half moon 

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scribbled on my hands

When


painted on my walls. When paper boats and precariously folded swans were placed proudly on the shelf, too precious to be given away to the stream. When hiding behind the shadows  to not get caught  used to be fun. When I knew  and recognised the person I saw in the mirror. When the only elephant in the room  was the one  swinging on my keychain.

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and fragments of my dreams amongst the stars


The beauty of Athens and Paris BY RABEIAH KHAN The voices of a past playing, in the sky of my future,                                                                    Immersed in places of culture, history, and art Strolling in a garden of Athens,                                                                           A myriad of oras and doves, I nd contrasting personas,                                                                                   As the Socrates in me grows deeply, And In the heart of Acropolis, the city breathes in the uniqueness of an antique time. I soon relive the beauty of Paris,                                                                            A land of utter love, artistry, and the faint smells of cocoa beans, rich oh so rich in the wonders of Vincent Van Gogh,                                                                                                     I glance at the Ei el Tower, shining in the starry night,                                                                                            Oh so lost in its dazzling e ect.                                                                           And The magni cent statues, aunting the rare chronicles of France,                                                                                                                 by the fate of life, I move closer to a blossoming soul,                                                         Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t'aime

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BY VANSHIKA RANDEV I will love you as guilt loves innocent victims, as pain favours the Weak, as the world loves its black and white boxes. As apathy loves the broken, as fate loves its bleeding heroes and as the grey loves everything in between. I will love you as regret runs from those who did wrong, into the arms of those who are hurting. I will love you as sorrows follow those who have already met with tragedy, as hope evades the unlucky, as often as it rains on the bad days and the sun shines on the good ones. I will love you as misery simultaneously breeds company and isolation, as freedom and fairness sometimes show up a little too late, as change so often creeps upon the stable constant. I will love you as uncertainty loves the anxious, as often as misunderstandings ind their way into relationships, and as infrequently as the right words grace these pages. I will love you as grief loves romanticising the past, as consequences often meet the well-intentioned, and in all the ways nostalgia remembers the mundane. I will love you as success favours the con ident and bold, as history often rewards the undeserving, as real love loves bad timing, as doubts encompass happiness, and as often as we wish retrospect were a more helpful friend. I will love you as much as heartbreak befalls the heartbreakers, as long as the goodbyes get harder, and as surely as the sun setting in the west. I will love you as often as history repeats itself- even in the smallest of ways. I will love you when the sun sets, and when it rises the following day. Again, and again, and again.

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A er ‘The Beatrice Letters,’ by Lemony Snicket


BY JNC MAUVE The sky never screams, But it’s full of esteem, When an eagle flies across the sky, Sheer silence, A gleam of victory and longevity, Just like the Moldova flag, Eagle is the beam, The sky puts on a theme, Silence is the weather, That makes the universe Believe in itself

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Scream no steam!!!


Where the Evergreens Grow BY NICOLE MILLER I want to live on the outskirts of town, where the evergreens grow. In a cabin right down the road from a little shop, where I will spend my days pouring cups of comfort and ease. My evenings will be used to discover new ways to describe your eyes and this feeling in my chest. You will tinker and build and explore the world inside your head, and in the evenings you will place lightheaded kisses on every inch of me, as you share of the new knowledge you have gained, with an undeniable spark in your hazy evergreen eyes (just like the trees). Those eyes, again. And when the weather turns, we will make baked apples and tea, wrap ourselves up in cardigans and wool scarves and your embrace, and enjoy the simple pleasures of life that come in the form of simmered soups on the stove top and kitchen conversations. And when tensions arise, we will use our energy to split wood instead of splitting hairs.

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instead of stoking the coals of skewed assumptions. And when we ind weaknesses in the frame of this cabin, we will fortify and tend to them with care— letting go of old patterns and fears and creating a stronger foundation, adding rooms as we go. And there will be a bassinet in the corner. Or maybe a pet bed. Or maybe a globe— we can spin it to see where we will travel to next, and away we go. And at the end of each day, we will release a loving, breathless sigh at the home we created. Me. You. Those cloudy emerald eyes (those eyes). This cabin. And whatever is in the corner. On the outskirts of town, where the evergreens grow.

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In the ireplace, we will feed the flames of understanding,


Sweet Escape BY DANYA VOLLENWEIDER As I lie here, on the cold, hard floor – totally entranced in the quietness – my breathing is the only noise that echoes from the white walls. Upon closing my eyes, I can feel my body become heavier until my breathing stops. They did not mean to harm me. They wanted the best for me. They were doing the best they could. But I suffered, and they knew. For one, there were my two friends who stayed with me despite the cancelling of plans all the time, understanding of the fact I wasn't allowed to leave the house if it weren’t for school or other necessities that had nothing fun about them. They built my personality outside of school, and “home”, and hugged me tight when the summer holidays came around, unable to see each other again for months on end. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. If it weren’t for them, I would’ve never met Cleo. If it weren’t for Cleo, who helped me learn the basics – how to cook a nice dinner, how to vacuum a floor, how to do laundry – by letting me sleep over when I told my parents we would be “studying for an exam”, I wouldn't be here. She, who did not treat me like a child or a victim, but rather a pitiful person with a sheltered upbringing who did not and was not allowed to live like a child, teenager and adult, and who saw that, despite what I was – or rather, what I wasn’t - taught, still believed in me and pushed me to my limits. If it weren’t for my aunt, who did not learn about my existence until a few months ago, I wouldn't be here. She, who was so similar to my parents, yet so

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painted apartment and made me sign the contract, who helped me get my irst job at a local diner in the kitchen. She, who helped me realize how happy it makes me to be able to decide what I want to do. And say.

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kind and understand and caring. She, who helped me ind this cold, oddly


BY JW LYNN sometimes my house is very quiet – when the busy street outside calms down because no one is in a hurry. (it is a very loud street when people are in a hurry.) I sit and eat in stillness with the occasional sound of paws on the floor as  my dog lazily moves from one place to the next to sleep. (he is always sleeping.) almost two years I have been here now – trying to resolve past mistakes and reframe old patterns.  (and conjure up new memories.) I have journeyed and will lick my wounds clean to the bone. I pull away the cobwebs from my former self – those corners gone undisturbed from lack of care or sel ishly avoiding them. (they are too high, too hard to reach.) I faintly recall having dreams. the train horn wails loudly –  disturbs the dog. (he barks for a minute and then falls back to sleep.)  the furnace clicks on. my bowl is almost empty –

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Mirror service


(my throat is hot from the chilis.) I wonder what it feels like to be fearless. I faintly recall I used to wish on stars – I faintly recall your brown eyes in awe of me,  (but I am yet still in awe of you.) all the things left unsaid, wandering  in silence now

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my spoon scrapes the bottom.


Sélina Farzaei


Sélina Farzaei


Sélina Farzaei


Sélina Farzaei


Sélina Farzaei


Sélina Farzaei


Vanshika Randev


Vanshika Randev


– Poetry Amirah Shahari

Amirah Shahari is 18 years old, from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Amirah has been writing for as long as she can remember. In fact, one of the prominent things she recalls from childhood if not illustrated books or classical Malay music was notebooks illed with short stories and sentences that would soon turn into poetry. Amirah writes about fragments from a still of her own life, music, or a ilm, all in hopes of it inding you in love, heartache, happiness, or even in the numbest of feelings. Blog: amirahshahari.blogspot.com Instagram: @amirahshahari

Danya Vollenweider

Danya is a 22 year old Russian writer living in Germany. Throughout her life she has consumed various media amongst many genres – shifting her own writing from Fantasy to Dystopian to Comedy and ending up writing about identity issues. She uses both real life and ictional experiences to express her ongoing confusion with life and everything surrounding it. She hopes to make someone feel seen or heard with her work. Instagram: @crabgoat

Hannah Cao

I'm Hannah, the founder and Editor-in-Chief, and I also write my own novels. A year ago, I self-published my poetry collection 'Seashore'. I recently published a dialogue short story on Wattpad and Inkitt and as an ebook called 'Zero

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O'Clock'. My debut novel will be out later this year, called 'Cafe At 46 Old Street'.

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Contributors


fellow indie writers get their work out there – and celebrate it. Instagram: @capuletsbirdie Website: hannahcao.co.uk

JNC MAUVE

JNC MAUVE is a created persona for their readers. JNC has been writing poetry for the past ive years. Her lifetime dream is to be known as a poet and a language practitioner. They are also the creator of 365 Emotions e-magazine. They wish that when they die, they leave a prodigious amount of love for poetry. Instagram: jnc__mauve (two underscores)

JW Lynn

JW is a collector of old books and a protector of stories. Believing that storytelling is good medicine, she writes mostly in authentic irst person stream of consciousness, many times allowing the energy to go from heart to brain through arm to ink in subconscious release. Inspired by both breath and water, she dives deep into the narrative; tapping into the source of creative purity and becoming a mere witness to its messaging. She records the raw and un iltered just as the victorious and cherishing, in such a way that words and thoughts become lyrics and songs within themselves. Her relatable character-driven perspectives often express the struggles of inner mental and emotional conflict, yielding opportunities for recovery, empowerment, or even continued defeat. JW has had previous poetry and short prose published in independent literary magazines. It is her childhood dream to be a published book author and she is currently working toward completing her irst novel in late 2021. Instagram: @even_in_silence

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Website: eveninsilence.com




With my quarterly digital poetry zine The Latte Edit, I'm motivated to help


Katlyn Ferrera

Growing up, poetry has always been a habit of Katlyn's. Whether she's happy, upset, or angry, she turns to poetry. After years of writing, she igured it was about time she started writing for others to see. Instagram: @raejean.poetry

Lilly Lindner

Lilly (19) is a future teacher of English and German currently enrolled at Leipzig University. Writing and reading have been her coping with reality since 7th grade, both in English and her mother tongue German. Having a special love for poetry, she hopes to help her future students ind their inner little Goethe and Shakespeare and to convince them poetry’s not dead. Instagram: @lilllnd

Liz Mercedes

Liz Mercedes is a 26 year old, central Louisiana poet who focuses on themes of light, hope, and love in her work and takes inspiration from the life around her. She shares her pieces on social media while she works on her debut poetry book. Instagram: @liz.mercedes_poetry

Nicole Miller

Nicole (she/her) is a creative writer and poet from Portland, Oregon. When she is not engaging in nonpro it communications work, she can be found writing, reading, knitting, baking, hiking, and trying her hand at nature photography. With a BA in creative writing, Nicole has been crafting stories, prose, and poetry since a young age. She is a tea, wildlife, and nerd-culture enthusiast, and is equal parts homebody and adventurer. Her writings explore small moments in daily

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life, hope/encouragement, relationships, personal growth, inner healing, and


existential questions – often inspired by personal experiences and the natural world. More of her work can be found in Honey ire Literary Magazine (linktr.ee/ honey irelit), and her personal Instagram account. Instagram: @nicoleannyse

Tatiana Khalyako

Tatiana was born in Russia, grew up in Germany, and her love for literature eventually brought her to Ireland. She has been studying English and Irish literature for the past seven years and her studies inspired her to try and write her own poetry. With her poems, she always tries to capture a snapshot of emotions, an experience that is unique and yet familiar to all. Instagram: @instapoetrybytati

Rabeiah Khan

Rabeiah Khan is a young poet from Pakistan, the land most known for its culture and rich history, she inds writing using imagery and memoirs amusing. She has also recently been published in the nightshiningmag and Blue Things Zine and hopes to release a poetry collection this year of her most renowned and inspirational work. Instagram: @poetryby_rabz

Shivi Dixit

Shivi Dixit is a high school student, currently preparing for medical entrance exam. She writes short horror stories and poems as a hobby, as of now. Using the power of words, she aspires to create something that makes people feel every emotion, one at a time.

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Instagram: @shivi____dixit


Tanvi Jain

Tanvi Jain is a writer from Delhi, India. She likes to observe the world around her, and tries to make sense of it through her words. Through her poems, she tries to wake people up from slumber, and urges them to think. Instagram: @rustpad Facebook: RustPad by Tanvi Jain

Vanshika Randev

Vanshika is a 21-year old Indian writer and recent Psychology graduate. She has always been drawn to storytelling and capturing the human condition and smaller, everyday nuances of life that make it more meaningful and complex. Writing (often from different perspectives and stories out of her imagination), compiling endless lists in her Notes (from beautiful, thought-provoking lines she has read and concepts she wishes to explore to things her friends have said that stuck with her) and photography are some of her creative outlets. Instagram: @letters.to.nostalgia

– Art/Photography Sélina Farzaei

Sélina is an emerging artist from the suburbs of Montréal Island who inds inspiration in dried flowers, torn fabrics, shattered glass and light; reflections & shadows. Her work, which was featured in local and online exhibitions, is mostly made of recycled, thrifted and cheap materials as she believes in creating without breaking the bank. Both her classroom & self studies focus on visual communication; whether it be through graphic layouts, photographs, linoleum prints, and much more.

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Instagram: @wackography


Vanshika Randev

Vanshika is a 21-year old Indian writer and recent Psychology graduate. She has always been drawn to storytelling and capturing the human condition and smaller, everyday nuances of life that make it more meaningful and complex. Writing (often from different perspectives and stories out of her imagination), compiling endless lists in her Notes (from beautiful, thought-provoking lines she has read and concepts she wishes to explore to things her friends have said that stuck with her) and photography are some of her creative outlets. Instagram: @letters.to.nostalgia

 

Cabin illustration picked by Nicole Miller from Canva.


Submissions for Spring Issue 2021 open! Art submissions: In digital form Via E-Mail lattepressteam@gmail.com

Written submissions:

Max 3 poems per author per quarter Creative Fiction Creative Non- iction Opinion pieces etc. .docs .pages .pdf Via E-Mail

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lattepressteam@gmail.com

Profile for lattepress

The Latte Edit – Issue 2  

The Winter 2021 issue of THE LATTE EDIT.

The Latte Edit – Issue 2  

The Winter 2021 issue of THE LATTE EDIT.

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