The Latte Edit Issue 3 – Spring 2021

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THE LATTE EDIT ISSUE 3

Spring 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 © 2021 by THE LATTE EDIT Literary Magazine and its contributors Edited and designed by Hannah Cao

Photo on cover: Neha Yadav

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Cover design: Hannah Cao


POETRY Trapped Bird ___________________________________________________________________6 Untitled ________________________________________________________________________8 Asphyxia _______________________________________________________________________9 October _______________________________________________________________________10 An alternate universe in which I don't know what to look for in the Rorschach Test: _____11 Augsburg, 13.07.2012____________________________________________________________13 IN THE MYTHICAL GARDEN ___________________________________________________15 Nocturne 2021__________________________________________________________________17 Take this glitch out of my brain ___________________________________________________19 When Franz Ka a said, “Please, consider me a dream” _____________________________20 Paradox _______________________________________________________________________22 Berlin, 25.08.2016 ______________________________________________________________24 Bone-Coloured Wristband ______________________________________________________25 The exact middle _______________________________________________________________26 Choking and Other Fears _______________________________________________________28 Berlin, 24.-29.01.19 _____________________________________________________________29 Fashion _______________________________________________________________________32 Isn’t hope a funny thing? ________________________________________________________34 Like a ower ___________________________________________________________________37 An inevitable Monday ___________________________________________________________38 [inspired by monday (2020) dir. argyris papadimitropoulos] ________________________38 Untitled ________________________________________________________________________41

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ANNOUNCEMENT ____________________________________________________________60


ART / PHOTOGRAPHY Iktara Nur Risqika Daria Ma Vanshika Randev Anna GC Hanna Jaglarz

Neha Yadav


Trapped Bird GEORGE CARDY I heard her irst, From my desk in the corner, Claws scratching, Wings barely beating, Against the breast. Sometimes, in bad weather, The corner of the ceiling wept, And circular spores formed, in black. I spent time alone, although I didn’t really like to, and Tried not to look upwards. We hung your children’s stockings Upon the mantle of that boarded-up chimney. That was before the crow, Before beast almost buried herself alive. By then these rented rooms Where already illed With the ghosts of other lovers We could not shake; No space was sacred. You unscrewed the boards, Flung open the windows,

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Held up a white sheet


In an effort to guide her, But she, too terri ied to move, Stuck fast to her nailed-down deathbed. It took all your efforts to coax her Your patient imitations, cooing, Before she would inally flinch, And fly to freedom.

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That great big, hulking, awkward bird.


BY AMIRAH SHAHARI I’m in Big Sur, California, Knees on the seabed, Wishing it were a rocket, Take me to where you are. I can feel you in every grain of sand, Death to detail. Hair on my skin. Every other senses tingling, You loved your stone brick buildings, Wherever it was; with or without me. I watch the waves as it plummets into the sand. Hitting the shore like an upper hand, Silly how it’s all a cycle. You’re already in Jungle City. And I’m still stuck on the beach where you fell in love with me.

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– I lost count the miles it took to get to you without traf ic in California.

Untitled


Asphyxia BY MALU CARHER I wish I was a sky so that when I cried the whole town knew. My tears would turn the Grey into green. They'd fall from cheeks, to the kids' faces. The exhibition, though common, worthy of spectators sitting by windows none shaming my bawl. Grief would burst to the ground and lovers would merge in burrows to the sound of my sadness. I wish my anger was wind so that people feared it, Me. Branches violently shaking their claws, I'd drive all bells to insanity. And as I passed, I'd take with me whatever weakness I'd ind. I'd be heard. Releasing the colossal exhalation retained to the verge of suffocation, I'd let it do as it pleased.

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Wilder than me, no one.


October BY SARAH BUBENHEIMER October In my world it’s still October; We breathe identical hope into one another, Reciting old musings we whisper in our sleep. You’re not a stranger, and we cry into each other’s hands. Images of your face are hidden Between dense fog and roses. I once awaited falling in love, Like it was a summit to step upon, To swallow the sun and exude its rays. But it’s godless and sweet, It makes the world hazy and turbulent. A visceral reaction to bleed dry. A shade of red that I only see in my dreams. I could drink all the rain spilled from gloomy highs, But it won’t wash away the sugar and grit That coats the backs of my eyelids,

Won’t bring stories back to life.


BY BEE I dream of a world where I do not see your face in the Rorschach Test. Where I do not look for it at all. I'll look for sprawling hills and beetles

and bugs

and birds

and am reminded of a time in my life where that's all I could remember. I'll go people watching and stargazing and tell you how they're all too similar – how we sit and stare at the tiny objects in the beyond and wish we could be them, how we do not know them but love them anyway, we take a part of their identity and forge it into ourselves. so ethereal, so beautiful, so perfect from this far away – We will move out of the way to let time through. we will love her all the same if she stays. I dream of a world where I know exactly who I am and exactly who I want to be. Where I do not have to cross the bridge or burn it. I will become the creature that haunts (graces) the river, with all my in inite lack of wisdom. I dream of a world in which time will take my hand and tell me that I am gentle enough, that I am strong enough, that if she can bee both, I can too. I dream of a world where I make patterns out of the stars, where I'll spill pigment and call it perfect in all of its undeciphered glory. I'll speak to the birds and they'll speak back.

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I'll remember that I'm made of stardust and admires myself from a distance.

An alternate universe in which I don't know what to look for in the Rorschach Test:


I will look at the photo, of discombobulated limbs / ghosting wings / outstretched hands, And tell you that it looks exactly the way you want it to exactly like time,

exactly like stardust,

exactly like love.

That I am time and time is me, more than anybody could ever expect to be.

I'll remember that I built the bridge and will help people cross it, too.


Augsburg, 13.07.2012 BY DARIA MA Here are too many sounds too many tongues There are too few dreams and so many strange words It’s cold here, hollow here here is no home but mere roof. As if at a resort – So when do we go home? no time alone to pray And where does it go? Big sales and special offers So how would you deny yourself? … and I’m sold on. It’s too quiet in Fuggerei As if people have been washed off Perhaps it’s even dull (and even not only there) Girls smell of soap Among them there’s no my beloved one. Maybe a tree doesn't want it either, but further rings do embrace it to make new leaves grow it needs to have

all the snow melted


It will perhaps get warmer outside And in one’s heart If only the ring ‘round the inger won’t lock ‘round the neck of the bride. I don't like, how the water from here smells from the skin, And the milk is not milk, but the whitening instead Living fast but barely feeling a thing As if long ago got fed up with each other good thing there are two blankets in bed. The very same music every day One might as well go climb up the wall Just you know I'm waiting for you so, like no one’s ever waited Messiah before Come o’er to me, my love,

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Come o’er.


BY MALU CARHER Nymph in the mythical garden, a heavenly scene for the spy eye while she's absent, full of thoughts in lonely greenness. The pleasure to be a memory in the stranger's mind ills her with more peace than it should. "Am I a beautiful thing to remember?" she wonders, with no lament behind, but curiosity. Nymph in the mythical garden, all the spiders spying on her too, she should remain hidden. But why would one hold wipers at home? It's her spirit that keeps the past alive as she knits the casualties with the needles of time. Her love, fond and deep, has not made anyone stronger but weaker, for all she knows. Nymph in the mythical garden

questioning what's true and what's not.

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IN THE MYTHICAL GARDEN


The sight of dark green hair fades through the foliage as the leafy doors retract. You've taken your memory with you, intruder, and all your nostalgias have died, too. Now, isn't she a frightening thing

to remember?


Nocturne 2021 GEORGE CARDY We cannot travel So, we escape in dreams. First in daydreams, Spun like spiders Webs in dusty corners, Part memory - some dull Distracted afternoon Ebbs, like the Thames: A shattered sapphire, Dark and vast, we Stood still and watched it Rippling past, Cold, but for the warmth of Your hand rested In the small of my back. But when in deeper sleep I turn towards your face, I realise it isn’t you at all, But someone else entirely, Another time and place. Should I spin upon my heel? Break away and run Cross curb stones

Slick with April rain?


Make my escape, once more? Or stay - fall again Into the familiar arms Of another similar, sad, Stranger. No matter, I wake alone Once more,

At home.


ELISE A. This is an itch that stings the bitch a snitch a pinch that little switch I flinch I cringe, a wound I stitch the glitch an itch a doubtful twitch Carnage baggage I stay unhinged bewitch the fringe let's hide the itch damage this bridge a glitch a singe Bandage this twinge, I am wreckage These cuts to ix, a bloody leakage Let vultures come here to salvage. Village porridge, IV bag Dreams of syringe as hostage Orange voltage lighting bolts, Ravage dosage my privilege, These pill cartridges red and blue. Richt white niche in a ditch lab coat needles in a pitch cut that glitch and pull the itch there's a spillage there's a zilch pallets tinge I hitch – a dead ostrich on this table a Lynch, aa grinch No longer a human glitch (stings like a bitch)

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an itch a glich from toxic midge

Take this glitch out of my brain


When Franz Ka a said, “Please, consider me a dream” BY VANSHIKA RANDEV An ambiguous concept, a series of actions and words against obscure backdrops; a velvety haze, almost seemingly disconnected, something you feverishly want to make sense of (read: box, read: bottle up). Please, consider me a thing you can never make sense of, but always yearn to. Not con ined to constraints or constructions. I see blurred lines everywhere. But when I try to trace them, my hands are shaking. Lost in water and forests, travelling on trains, bending space and time, twirling through the unknown. Amidst drifting clouds and forgotten secrets, soft and distant and at bay all at once. Sunlight through a prism. A house with no mirrors, but reflecting your heart all the same. Floating through, a hazy vision, an almost lifelike thing. Clouds all around, endless. A liminal space to pour your thoughts into. Not quite discernible or visceral yet, but almost. Would seeing me more give you greater clarity or confusion? A series of shapes and colours and sounds drifting, down a void in slow motion. There’s no need to break down the complexity into digestible, recognizable parts. I’d rather you not. I’d rather you not call out things as black or white when so much of it falls into the grey, into the colour, into the spaces in between. You

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can be more than two things at once.


Do these things exist, outside of your perception? Outside of how you think of them? Take away the feeling but not the thought. You are in a place you instinctively know to be -your house- but it’s entirely different. It’s not your house. It's in an existence almost parallel to this one. but it makes sense. You know it's warm and safe here, even if you don’t know much else.

Please, consider me a dream. I’m a little hazy on the details.


Paradox BY MALU CARHER I'm not an ocean type of person, but I love the waves and their magnetic seduction, giving and retreating guiding you into treacherous depths. Last night in bed I craved for the salty kisses of the sea's perfume, something I never do. I thought about the eternal breathing pace of the Ocean. And my body standing while the water's tongue licked my calves. There, lucid under a moonless night, the Ghost passed through me and I was ecstatically possessed for a second. I am not an ocean person, but how vast is the water, I hold inside, waiting for the right moment to flood. It sounds harmless

and let the body float,

to give in


surrender to something bigger.

But for how long?


Berlin, 25.08.2016 DARIA MA Today is the day of your wedding. I won’t see your dress, Or at best in somebody’s instagram. To think that we’re both getting married with less than a week difference, just you are 4 years later than I am. Back then I wished I could catch time with my hands – only hoping it won’t be gone, only inding a way so that we’d be together, – And today I am telling myself: I’d thank God that it’s happening to you now and not to us – At your wedding there’s place for only one bride. I’ll just let myself tell you: After all, a marriage is not a one-way ticket – the same can't be said about our ill way. Forgive me, if need be, Okay? I inish as before with “Kisses”. I hope that dress of yours –

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this is something that won‘t disappoint me.


Bone-Coloured Wristband BY SARAH BUBENHEIMER In my nightmares I am looking for you/a sick metaphorical play written by my mind/a heartache that ills my throat with seas of mauve/your name is punched in bold typeface on a bone coloured wristband/your slender legs hang over the edge of a hospital bed/your hollowed eyes pour feverish love into mine/it looks like cigarette smoke floating in front of the sun/like crushing clementines between my palms/a vision of how the sky would look if all the stars burnt out/ my plate is a circular ivory void and you wash you bloody teeth in the bathroom/ I paint circles around your bruises/I don’t know where to put my open hands/ staring in wonder at how yo could be so small/wincing at the thought of watching you fall/I wish you wouldn’t cry so hard/my voice is eaten by the open mouth of the sun/you stare as I kneel and cry at your knees/I pray to an open doorway that we can go back home/where we are drizzled with honey and there

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is no homesickness for you.


BY ZULA ALEXANDRA KLEISS as a child, i used to believe in its existence. An utopian vision where the compulsion to hide one part of myself over the other gave out and i was left with a version of identity encompassing every bit of me at once. i spent hours enveloped in the dark hoping to strike match after match of the perfect balance —that the tipped scales of which my shoulders reflect would right themselves in an instant and i would no longer be the half this half that but both, or nothing at all. i remember the feeling of an agonisingly slow knife twisting in my gut whenever someone asked me where i was from or who i liked or how school was going or where i saw myself in the future or whether i was “doing okay” because i knew that either way, my answer would teeter one edge of the world when i knew my mouth would be spewing out a lie. years and years and years have passed since then. i realise now that while it may exist for some, people like me are not afforded such opulence. but what makes it so, really? is it the feeling of waking up in the morning knowing that whatever happens, my identities, my habits, my thoughts, my lusts and my loves, my words, my colours, will be there when i fall asleep? is it not having to hold myself within the binary of things but understanding that i, like so many of my blood before me, am a complex creature? that i can be coloniser, and colonised— virgin, and whore studious, and indolent sea foam, and snake

hetero-, and homo-

The exact middle


that i can hold the power of my life in my own hands at the break of day and cradle it to sleep whichever way i please because i am—if not now, then someday —free. perhaps the exact middle never needed my belief. perhaps it lives on within other, less restricting parts of me like the center of a tattoo or the split of hair before braids. perhaps the hope of its signi icance was the thing that held me

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back, and kept me going.


Choking and Other Fears BY GEORGE CARDY I always reckoned I’d make a good divorcee/Blood nails/Red lips/Martini glasses/Dry with an olive not a twist/Even the dark circles around my eyes/which I usually hate/try in vain to conceal/would be an honour badge/Promise of misspent nights/No good sleep. I met a divorcee at the hairdressers/She was seated in the Perspex booth next to me/She was beautiful in the way only women in their 60’s can be/She said that after thirty- ive ine years spent together/she and her husband had left each other for different men/She seem so sad/Obviously they’d had to sell the house/ Not that it was about the money/Though it was a lovely house/Four children/ now grown/scraped knees on scooters in the back garden/their names calligraphed into the air/by sparklers in the dark. Of course, this got me fantasising my own escape/reclined across the chester ield/Bakelite handset resting above my satin clad collar bone/as I talk my lover into the night/I slurp oil-and-pepper soaked spaghetti from the pan that sits in the sink/I answer to no one/ Aside from the practical considerations/ (I have no idea how to work a central heating thermostat) /I’d actually hate to have to pick-up the landline/Not to mention the standard drawbacks of living alone/Choking and other fears. The hairdresser cut my fringe too short/Not that I minded/What with the weather so much warmer/the possibilities for change seem endless/I thought I look a bit like a Betty Page-type model/The kind that gets her picture taken in rubber stockings/I did this a few times/Once/back in my early twenties/when I

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had just the igure for it/But it wasn’t for the money/As a favour for a friend.


Berlin, 24.-29.01.19 DARIA MA I wonder what it will be today I will write a verse without rhyme which I lost long time ago in the white nights in the Summer garden with the rotten pasty in Alexander park, on the escalator while riding the metro from Zvezdnaya to Moskovskaya. Citramonium pill in the morning instead of coffee pretty much same caffeine just takes less time cooking Dasha, why don’t we meet and hang out on the weekend, and have you ever had to get up for work at three in the morning? has it ever happened to you that you bought a beer and had no time to drink? let's drink it on our way home in the car and inally I drink almost under the shower it’s almost midnight and I wonder how should I dry my hair I remember you drying yours with a blowdryer bending over tilting your head this was so quick with short hair well then it got seven times longer why out of seven billion people

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I got to love you


"hey come visit me but only please don't kiss me" no, you said don't try to kiss me on the lips and you carry me in your arms "I guess in this way I will soon fall in love with you for real” "what, now you don't want to hug me" standing on the escalator and it’s impossible to bear this happiness or I don't know what how is something like this even called? if only half an hour ago your teeth pulled apart and I kissed you standing on my knees. why then do I still remember that, hair smelling of berry, some potatoes in the kitchen smell of washing powder then blackout Germany again blackout again Germany again blackout

again you


you have such a headache that you can’t get up it hurts me so strong to leave that I vomit in the bus toilet. Your blowdryer would be of use to me now to dry my hair

I sometimes forget that I forgot nothing


Fashion BY SARAH BUBENHEIMER I wear you like an oversized tee That I stain with drops of cold coffee; Or an ornate ball gown, Hugging my hips with the Untouchable sunlight of infatuation. You’re mending the soles of Tired, ageing loafers In a cycle of push and pull; I do not know how to raise The mauve bruises form your sleeves, I do not know how to pull you From the thick smog inside your brain. I need you like gloves And a bulky, itted parka, But your teeth unravel The threads from my skin, And I emerge from our bed Tearing the sheets that We label as home. You hang from my waist And cover the skin around my thighs. You're the hood of my raincoat Deflecting the sky’s sorrow.

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You’re the shirts that hang in my closet,


And I’m indecisive, enthralled

With your reckless range of colour and elegance.


Isn’t hope a funny thing? BY VANSHIKA RANDEV “Isn’t hope a funny thing?," he asks, blue from all the times he stood on hilltops and cliff sides, trying to hold on to the numbness that came before the ache of friendships that drifted away, of people no longer known. Hope, that light you imagine at the end of a tunnel when all it ever was was an exit. And on the bad days: hope, the thing that often sounds like loss. Like glass shattering, but muffled. Like hammer to metal to wood. A ringing sound. Like a bee buzzing around you as you try to sleep, zipping past your ear the moment you begin to drift off. Like a constant hum; oscillating between calm and unsettled. Like rain pouring over the lake. Overflowing. Like the bubbling of a hot spring on a summer day. Like the sound of birds singing in the morning, but only after a night of tossing and turning and not having been able to fall asleep. Hope, a slippery thing; water but also grainy like sand against your open palms. He asks, “When is a monster not a monster?” and you think, isn’t it when you look at them with the hope that they'll change? How do you tell a beating heart from a bleeding one? Does holding onto the darkness, pulling it in closer in the dark of the night, make it go away? Don’t all these things reek and scream of hope? Hope is to the future what nostalgia is to the past. A fallacy. Things that can rewrite stories. Some people say you can’t change a memory- but really, isn’t that all we ever do? We can’t go back in time and change the moment. But the

second we remember it, it is tainted. Altered. Memory is a fragile thing, as is


hope. Hope can have a funny way of painting your fears into dreams and things you think you want. Hope is believing. Hope, an elegy to memory, trying to give you what the past was unable to hold onto. Hope, a requiem for a dream. Hope simmers in a teacup. Isn’t it funny, how you can love a thing for what it can hold? What you ill into the ambiguity, the silence, the unknown makes of you a mirror and a well, all at once. Isn’t that what hope is? Staring down the barrel of a gun and refusing to give into the hollowness. Someday, you will look into the vessel (hope), and see what is at the bottom, instead of trying to cover it up. You will see what brush you paint hope with. After all, isn’t hope what paints all the silver linings of the stories you wish you never lived? Hope, a thing stranger than iction. Because really, isn’t it iction that hasn’t even been written yet? A guide, a map for places that may never exist. Hope, green and growing, like spring. Hope, denting the skies; glints of yellow streaking across the blue and black. Hope, knowing the sky is everywhere. Hope, the feeling of driving around cliff sides with the windows down, knowing home is around the corner. Hope, a thing that keeps you warm before the sun comes out. Hope, a fool in love, a distant, purple-tinged dream. (is that really a bad thing?) Hope, a place where monsters come to rest. Hope, a thing to make holy of the damned. Hope, a thing swallowing you whole, but also preparing you for the inevitable flood. Hope, the thing in you that inds puzzle pieces and tries to it

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them into a whole; making constellations out of speckles and ink stains.


Hope, the thing Charles Bukowski must have been talking about when he said, ‘there is a place in the heart that will never be illed.’ An endless longing. Desire. The dream of forgotten but also imaginary, secret worlds. An eternal sense of waiting. A silver glowing light that so often looks like moonlight. Hope, an excavation of the past. Hope, a daydream to not get lost in; a thing you need to wake up from to move closer to. Hope, made of aftertaste and anticipation. Hope, a thing just passing through. You look up, already nodding, a strange look of recollection on your face. “Huh,

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I never thought of it like that.”


Like a ower BY KATE GOUGH Like a flower, You said. Like the scars were a shield Under petal freedom. The written word's Edge wounds both ways, How deep it marks As you romanticise. Poet be damned, The words you twist to suit a narrative; They cut back. The wicked way You deny the power of the pen. Like a flower, You say, and you mean it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't smell as clean as the birds or paradise, A double meaning

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Of flowery language and freedom of flight.


An inevitable Monday [inspired by monday (2020) dir. argyris papadimitropoulos] BY ZULA ALEXANDRA KLEISS Παρασκευή / friday there are worlds untold within those eyes, dark and brooding in the pale of the night introduced by strange voices thrust onto familiar lips. they compel me to move, to reveal the innermost parts of myself not even the mirror in the corner of my bedroom has seen of my naked body; they are enticing and unflinching and i am nervous but i keep dancing. foregin arms wrap around mine as we jump and kiss and laugh in time to the sound of lighter flints jostling through the screams of others in our ears, the bounding crowds circling us and what they want and crave most like vultures. the seconds are suspended in air; the breeze reminiscent of the pause after the seatbelt sign is switched off and all are free to roam around, as if my arms aren’t holding tight around your waist as hair wisps through a waking city in embarrassment but it’s okay, because this is something different. this is new, this is contemporary; a fresh breath after pounding feet on

dancefloor, music being ripped apart by worlds


has invested in. this is welcome, this is pain relieved from the past—a means to erase the mistakes with other strangers turned permanence and lay tangled skin with skin for an hour, or seventy two. Δευτέρα / monday and just like that we’re laying in the dark but the streetlights are missing and your ist is curled around the sheets in fear. you’re only happy when you’re failing doesn’t feel like its true but i don’t know who the voice of reason belongs to anymore—our lives are intermingled in this web of foregin fantasy, a regression into the literature of children on summer vacation. there’s a feeling of decimation that lingers in the back of my throat but i ight it, because we love each other, we know each other, we… used each other to igure whatever fucked up messes out, but it doesn’t… it doesn’t matter now that we’re okay. you say these things like biology understands, like it doesn’t care for the natural order of the world, like i didn’t just put myself through hell for two lives to come out okay. you hold me as if i am not the one who came before but someone unexpected, a cure all for a broken spine whose tears fall in the same place as they did back then,

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six seven eight years ago in a world so different

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and worlds of differences, all that the universe


from the one you claim now. is this contemporary, or is it just what’s been handed over to you before? this is burning lungs from wasted energy, wincing from open stitches from wounds never cleared, this is the bland imprisonment of stark light, a jail cell of crystal perception, betrayal; empty loss from the world below,

an unexpected curtain closing.


Untitled BY HANNAH CAO in June a few years back I hoped we could pretend that nothing has changed and nothing’s been lost and that we could be us again we’d make it to December in Paris, in Stockholm, in Budapest, maybe stay for your birthday in September or lounge in bed, get some well-deserved rest (we’d pass the sights that would remind you of me and listen to your tracks through the hotel’s ancient TV) I’d write you a silly letter with overpriced feathers and ink and you wouldn't ind anyone better for your utopian Skyscanner links we’d ixate on each other with flags in our eyes reds and greens and pleading whites, and we’d swear the inest pleasures won’t end but then we'd be done for and all would be different and we’d have to part ways again

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in June this year the air is crisp because we didn't pretend


Daria Ma


Iktara Nur Risqika


"Spring Day"

Anna GC


Iktara Nur Risqika


Iktara Nur Risqika


Vanshika Randev


Hanna Jaglarz


Hanna Jaglarz


Neha Yadav


Neha Yadav


Neha Yadav


Neha Yadav


– 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 Bee Bee is a poet who lives in Australia, and loves to write. She mostly participates in monthly prompt challenges, and enjoys reading and writing work for #Escapril! She is 16 and has always loved poetry, and is so honoured to be included in the Latte Edit zine! If you enjoy her work, she publishes it all on her Instagram, @beespoetry. Daria Ma Daria Ma is a poet and an author of short stories, born in Leningrad (now St.Petersburg, Russia) in 1991, based in Berlin, Germany, since 2014, an amateur musician, feminist, student, university media library worker, language lover, bisexual woman and a dreamer. Her queer poetry was once a way to let the unspeakable be pronounced, now is a timid manifesto to the visibility of the

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otherness which is not always so much different. Daria is working mostly in

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Contributors


Russian. Works in the present issue of The Latte Edit are her own literary translations of her poems. Some of her works (with translations to German provided) can be found in „Нам есть что сказать – NAM EST 4TO SKAZAT – Wir haben was zu sagen” (2018), compilation of stories by LGBTIQ migrants and refugees from post-Soviet countries. Russian original works also appear in the literature magazine Berlin. Berega, online in the magazine Wernicke and Brocá and on the online platform Feminist Translocalities. Watercolour painting is her modest sporadic hobby. Instagram: @mein_hardis (check IGTV for readings in Russian)

Elise A. A digital product designer in broad daylight and occasional, frustrated writer at night, Elise is a lover of words, books and cinema. Drawn to prose and iction short stories, she sometimes dabbles in poetry writing when the mood calls for it (even when she bears con idence the size of a rotten pea). Most days she's more of a storyteller who dives deep into logical pieces such as reviews, articles and essays but there have been times where she feels proud of her free-verse creations that she ends up sharing some for the internet people to see. Blog: intosolarium.com Instagram: solhortus (bookstagram, writing), sorariumu (personal) George Cardy George is from London, UK. She started writing and sharing her poetry on social media last year. Her poetry focuses on human relationships and is based upon her personal experiences. She has been published in Sunday Morning at the River 2020 Winter Anthology. George has also worked in theatre and television. She is delighted to be included in Issue 3 of the Latte Edit.

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Instagram @george.verses


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'. My debut novel will be out November 1st 2021, called 'Cafe At 46 Old Street'. With my quarterly digital poetry zine The Latte Edit, I'm motivated to help fellow indie writers get their work out there – and celebrate it. Instagram: @capuletsbirdie Twitter: @capuletsbirdie Website: hannahcao.co.uk Kate Gough Kate is a Calgary based poet and a member of the online poetry community. Her work modernises romantic literary sensibilities and explores recovery from chronic illness and trauma. She wrote several collections of poetry for Emotional Alchemy Magazine until its conclusion. She has participated in a community poetry event “Escapril”, releasing narrated poetry every day for a month on Youtube. She has been published in several online journals, including shegotwonder.com and wordgathering.com, as well as in her local community on disabilitypridealberta.com, and in the YYC Portraits of People project. She continues to push herself with creative challenges, through the creation of two chapbooks about her experiences with mental and physical health Check her work at @chamomilde https://www.instagram.com/chamomilde/ https://www.poetrybykateg.com/

Malu Carher Malu Carher is a Venezuelan-Spanish writer living in London. She spends her

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days romanticising life to come home to write poetry or plan her future iction


projects. She inds inspiration in mythology, nature, luxurious characters, and the human need of inding meaning. You can read more of her work on her instagram page @malucarher, or on her blog malucarher.wordpress.com. Sarah Bubenheimer Sarah Bubenheimer is a university student based in Montreal who dabbles in art and writing in her free time. She was born and raised in Michigan, and is passionate about philosophy, lipstick, and soy lattes. You can ind her work at @preppermintt on Instagram! 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 Zula Alexandra Kleiss Zula Alexandra (she/they) is a Pinay photographer and poet whose work largely draws from their own experience as a mixed and queer young adult in the twenty- irst century. Having grown up around the world and inally settled in their native Philippines, Zula inds that there is nothing that doesn't inspire them: from the size of the craters on the Moon that are visible to the human eye to the power of generation upon generation of storytellers—there is strength and power to be marvelled everywhere. You can ind more of their prose and

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articles on their blog (medium.com/@zulaalexandra) as well as poetry and


photography on their Instagram, @zulaalexandra, as they prepare to publish their irst poetry collection, "Layover," in late 2021.

– Art / Photography Anna GC Anna is a 24-year-old translator, proofreader, and artist currently living in Barcelona, Spain. She also writes about books and music for a couple of online magazines. She has always loved drawing and painting because it allows her to be creative in a completely different way. That's why last year she decided to start sharing her art online. She loves drawing fan art as much as creating pieces inspired by mood boards, songs or feelings. Her other interests include travelling, reading, photography, and learning new languages. Instagram:@annagcart Hanna Jaglarz Hanna Jaglarz is a printmaker still learning her craft. Drawing inspiration from nature and architecture, she brings her experiences to paper through linocut prints and stamps. Instagram: @thefrogprints_ Iktara Nur Risqika from East Java, Indonesia Neha Yadav Neha Yadav likes to gush about dead languages, philosophers, and the Romantic poets. They are fascinated by light and romanticise their life a whole lot. They

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hope their photographs reflect the softness and dreaminess of both.


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


ANNOUNCEMENT

I am taking a break from The Latte Edit because of my preparations for the release of my debut novel in November! I will resume with the zine in 2022 and will keep posting content on Instagram: @thelattepress Thank you for understanding, and thank you for reading these zines and giving its contributors a chance. In love,

Hannah Cao