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THE LATTE PRESS is published quarterly and is produced by author and Editor-inChief Hannah Cao from wordsandlatte.com. 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 PRESS 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. Copyright © 2020 by THE LATTE PRESS Literary Magazine and its contributors Edited and designed by Hannah Cao

Art on cover: S lina Farzaei Cover design: Hannah Cao



POETRY Every Song Lyrics Was Written By Somebody – 5 Wednesday in Holland –7 I Smoke Cigarettes – 8 The Day You Met Me – 9 I Saw A Bird on DuPont St – 11 Whispers – 12 Undulation – 13 We are but memories – 15 Fight or Flight – 16 If You See The Devil – 17 This One Is Called Tears Of Sunset – 18 Empty Promises – 20 Brad – 22 The Silence of Winter – 25 Mind pulsing – 27 Them Shakin' Boots – 28 Shadows of Indifference – 29 Harvest – 31 Night shift – 32 Coat + Keys – 33 A Collection Of Letters To Grief, Nostalgia and Love – 34 Into The Woods – 37 Womanhood – 38 Foreign on the tongue – 40 Divine – 43 I Want To Watch Wisteria Grow Right Over My Bare Feet Because I Haven't Moved In

Years – 45

ART Sélina Farzaei – 47 to 50 Brecht Lanfossi – 54 to 58

Anna Jo – 59 to 61

I thought long and hard about how to start this project off but each time again, I remained with nothing but gratitude. Gratitude for my readers, Instagram followers, the writer community I'm so happy to be part of and mostly the wonderful poets that reached out to me and submitted their precious work to showcase it in this zine – our very irst issue of The Latte Edit! I feel honoured and excited that I was able to put this zine together with pieces written by talented poets you may not ind in bookstores but you can ind all over the Internet – and I hope this zine feels to you like a treasure, an easter egg, a one-of-a-lifetime- ind, a secret. Our irst issue, as well as all upcoming quarterly issues, will be created and shared to celebrate poetry in all its modern forms, written by indie writers all over the world, all coming together because we are all writing for one purpose – because we both want to be understood, and to understand. In any part of our lives, there will always be space and time to write. There is always time for art. 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. Please show our contributors the support online that they deserve (you can ind them under Contributors in this zine). We hope you enjoy reading through these pieces, as well as looking the art that was submitted, and ind beauty and joy. Remember: whatever happens – we will always have poetry. Hannah Cao Editor-in-Chief








4 f

Letter from the Editor

Every Song Lyric Was Written By Somebody (I Aspire To Be Somebody) BY EDEN FOUTS You know I hate to be Loved for the way I write. (Which, of course, makes being a writer an oxymoron for all artists wish to be worshipped in Their sphere for their sphere.) More because, To be shallow, I think I write better than I look, Or to be deep, I write better than I live; (or) I am the overdone type of girl Who would rather be Loved where I am, If I am to be Loved, (She still carries the fear you gave her of presumption) For the way I sit next to you Or the kindness that jumps from my candid hands into other innocent hands and back Than for the cursive notions That trickle sometimes, Sometimes pour, Through the channels irst Death drove deep Into the fresh ields that are fresh no longer. To be Graphic:




Like dripping ink. To be Mild: Like the ditches rain races green dragonflies in.

You know I long to be held for the ways I ind to speak.




Wednesday in Holland BY ASHLEIGH The weather here is ickle as a pair of lovers, one caressing their other's thumb releases their grip to achoo untethered, then never rekindles the intimacy of entwining hands Chilly in the way that blankets fall from your form yanked away at midnight, when you choose to lay naked – exposed for the sake of another Warmth is found in the brighter noise, greeting chirps and bicycle bell ringings, the melodic cacophony of morning I would walk and walk, and I would experience the world through the spaces you have created for yourself I discover myself anew through the eyes of your home We each exist in our own spaces, but what a pleasure to experience these others' – if only for a while



I Smoke Cigarettes BY JARROD HOL I smoke cigarettes I smoke cigarettes I smoke cigarettes instead of saying I want to talk to you about something I smoke cigarettes instead of saying I don't want you to leave yet I smoke cigarettes instead of saying Hello I smoke cigarettes I smoke cigarettes



BY APARNA V (Pt. 1) The day you met me– You loved things that weren't the colour they were supposed to be. You loved pink lemonade, izzing on your tongue coloured cerulean– by blue raspberry. You loved my brown eyes when they flashed viridian green– with suspicion, just to test if a distraction is all I've ever been. And you loved us. Once. (Maybe twice.) Washed-out grey in a world of black and white. You loved things that didn't react the way they were supposed to. You loved Summer sorrow, battering on your skin, blistered blood soothed– by remorseful rain. You loved my bones when you broke them one by one– with apologies, just to see if I would bleed syrup or sap for you. And you loved us. Once. (Maybe twice.) Burnt-out phoenix in a world built on brimstone and bon ires. (Pt. 2) The day you left me– You loved things that should not have loved you. You loved my laugh that bubbled with constellations, as light as the same– hydrogen that lives in you, in me, in water waves that will eventually break. You loved my trust. Even as you pulled me under the surface, I never questioned– Why I would need mermaid lungs if you're only pulling me into shallow water, and why I would need a seaweed crown if you're not going to let me drown. You loved us. Once.




The Day You Met Me

lilac and orchid– a flowerbed in shades of viole(n)t blue, pulling me down to lie beside you. A grave that buried one, but was meant for two. You loved hellebore and aconite, as you intertwined ingers instead of lives, knowing it would be the last time. Four squeezes as a meteor burnt up in the atmosphere. You loved us. Twice. A binary star system that was blind to the kind of corpse it would leave behind. (Pt. 3) You loved a lot of things. But you never loved me. And I don't love you. I did, once. Maybe even twice. But I don't love you now. Not today– Now while I lean against this tree, my palms pressed into the bark– As I pretend that I still have an unbroken heart that doesn't want to set every love poem I have written on ire, and bury what's left of their memories in the ashes. Not today– As I pretend that this gasoline is just water, that I'm just trying to wash the traces of you away from these words so I can read them again. Charcoal pages burn to blaze in warm yellows in gold, even the tree of life feeds on death to grow.




You loved things that shouldn't have been loved by you. You loved lavender and

I Saw a Bird on DuPont St BY JARROD HOL A bird flies over the desert sky And I feel nothing But it’s not always about me I’m not meant to feel anything The bird doesn’t fly for me Just as I don’t walk for it But Her wings stretched staunchly The bird flies for herself I do not walk for myself I walk to satiate the holes in my stomach of hunger I walk to satiate the holes in my pockets for money I walk to satiate the holes in my judgment for alcohol I walk for the will of powers I do not love or intend to ever love The sidewalk is prison My feet accomplices The bird may fly for pleasure She may fly for pain I will never know Because I’ll never get a chance to stop walking To ask her


BY ANGIE Q. Last night you sat up in bed Maybe you were already sitting When I woke up, and you told me "This bed isn't big enough." There's not been a day Where we haven't fought About something stupid, Somehow upset each other, But this morning you held me And you told me, "I feel like I know you better when we ight, I feel like I love you better, Because I get to know you, and love who I know," And maybe this bed isn't big enough, but that's ine We can buy a new one, it's just good to know, You won't be replacing me too.






Undulation BY JACQUELINE WU I was waiting for dawn’s stately tresses at the intersection,  For I hail from another time, trapped in its steady undulation And oh was I waiting! My feet were sore, my blisters festering, Night was not day, day was not yet dark, Yet I have to leave my mark. I had come from another place, A dream by a child's sweet lips identi ied a myth “Tis divinity! A nymph, a fairy, a god!” She exclaimed.  A heinous sprite- two faced, a damnation common to us all Or perhaps a iend professing truth? What truth betrays the de inition? “Tis beauty in misty eyes and smiling mouth!” Insatiable hunger, oh tyrant in peacetime, all for despairing hope  Is evading the truth, this cowardice, tempest worth? Or is Death himself, devil crying mercy, with the promise of salvation worth?  Dare to hope or hope to dream? Lady of the night, oh envious, cunning moon Lend your gloved hand who stole velvet from the king of Chaos And starlight for the silk caressing skin The hand that brought broken dreams And hated remembrance and brassy love And lifeless eyes-





And let in the glorious sun For I see her tresses at the intersection At the intersection between night and day And old and new.



Give me the gilded key

BY SUSA swirls of jasmine cling to rusty pipes flooding them in a wash of white tipped fury dripping petals on an abandoned stone mortar tread lightly, there are stories here on the moon soaked porch with its army of ire ants under the weary banana tree near the crumbling wall the dining table stained from years of knocked over chai the attic with albums spilling with photos, an old violin and a wooden box illed with shells my mother had been a young girl here and here, I had once been one too an old reel of ilm runs between us, crackling and well worn two smiling young faces, flowers in our messy wavy hair and circles of gold swishes of skirts and bright laughter this old house and I, we are dusty with memories it settles in my hair and on the floorboards the past is no longer ours to clutch onto hold our breaths as we creak back to life






We are but memories

Fight or ight BY ANGIE Q. She didn't kill them I say you say you just think it's strange how they died the one two times I've been away yes strange convenient right before the trip please don't plant seeds in my head I was always afraid of seeds planting themselves inside of me seeds, they're too little for seeds, they eat cat food I say we wet it down, I've seen her feed them maybe she doesn't you say I say I know I stay I know there is nothing maternal in her but shut up I say it's not your place these are my thoughts not yours keep them out of your mouth they are getting stronger, I say, the big one can fly, just about, he flaps tiny wings and she doesn't stop him, when you're around, you say and I check my phone and the third one has died and we are free for our trip and the little bird is dead like the little egg I saved from the ground and kept in granny's boiler cupboard until it smelt of rot inside of it and the little bird me and holly rescued from her cat until she went away one day and left it in the oven until it was roasted and like its little brothers scrabbling inside my cupboard like rats I was too afraid to look at I was too afraid but I was glad I looked because they were little birds, too little for flight or ight and now they'll never be any bigger.





If You See The Devil BY JARROD HOL If you see the devil Don’t blink Don’t run Don’t plead Don’t think Don’t move Don’t attack Don’t pull out your fucking iddle and challenge him Don’t defend Don’t cry Don’t flinch Don’t nod Don’t agree Don’t speak Don’t listen Don’t breathe Don’t doubt Don’t compromise Don’t do anything at all Except Smile If you see the devil You will ind god




This One Is Called Tears Of Sunset BY HANNAH CAO This one is called tears of sunset because the writer spent a day in the garden in a foreign town and the end of the day ills her with dread as she feels she's not ahead, not enough that is and a glass of ink-red wine in she thinks what does that even mean, how can you tell how far ahead someone is, someone could cough blood and tears and they'll tell their mothers that they're ok over the phone She wants to write about love but she texts him instead, she goes do you ever want to feel the energy of the Universe? she asks him, do you ever want to be a star, a light, feel warm? This flesh, this blood means nothing, he says and she's



not sure if he understood, or whether this was his way of denying He then writes, look at how the heaven cries and he's speaking of home but she's gone backside and into the bed, she says, the light's 'bout to die and she falls asleep alone



Empty Promises BY JACQUELINE WU Moonbeams illuminate the cedar wood floors of the tiny antique shop, The only source of light in the darkest hour of the night, When dreamers dream, with only the bitter cold seeping into fatigued bones‌. Until the horizon turns orange and gold, and the moon hides its face yet again. A small girl with red cheeks and raven black hair opens the door, Holding the weathered hand of father, their breaths forming fog in the wintry air, For in the depths of the tiny shop lay a lone black violin case, Out of place like a brick among colourful feathers in stark contrast. Once, it was apprized by many, carefully handcrafted with the utmost love and care, And not a speck of dust dared touch its polished varnish then. Its warm, rich melodies had sung in many acclaimed concert halls, Its timeless, haunting beauty connecting the souls of strangers for that one moment, Allowing breaths to catch and tears to inevitably fall, ful illing its selfless promise. Now, after many long years trapped in the steady undulation of the glorious past, The violin had forgotten its promise, its concert days only a fading dream of youth. And the small desperate flicker of hope had simmered to a dying flame in its fragile shell,



Until the girl with the raven black hair, straight like the de inition, became its owner. Yes, I bought the violin that day, For it was a joyous freedom for the girl and the violin With its warm, rich melodies still ringing in acclaimed concert halls, Its timeless, haunting beauty connecting the souls of strangers for that one moment, Allowing breaths to catch and tears to inevitably fall, ful illing its selfless promise.  




Brad BY JARROD HOL Brad was the kind of guy who thought everything he had to say was of the utmost importance Always this way I’d listen And listen And nod And smile And tune out Think about my life my love my disdain And then Brad would look at me And say “Well what do you think?” And I’d say “Sounds good Brad.” And then it was back to listening nodding smiling tuning life love disdain


“Sounds good Brad.” Now, I am sure you know Brad And if you don’t You’ll meet Brad He is everywhere In Kansas In Kentucky In Rhode Island In Chicago In China In Spain In McDonalds In Dubai In your bed? In LA In Alaska In Walmart In Johannesburg And of course At work And when you do Just like I You’ll listen nod smile tune


life love disdain “Sounds good Brad.” And Brad will do the rest


BY JACQUELINE WU A long time ago, my grandmother told me, That there was nothing more important than love you can see She told me That in the beginning of the world, As the autumn leaves curled, the days grew shorter and the nights longer She told me that the night animals prowled, grabbing many good men who were led astray It’s not my fault, they would say Yes, evil ruled now, Chaos on a throne  A throne of deception and lies  A promise to both sides, made too long ago to remember The good now diminished to a last dying ember No one could change their destinies For the world was ending As the moonbeams shone and the snow fell thick My grandmother lay on her bed sick She shone through, her rays lighting the way,  illuminating an imaginary path for anyone who listened Her name was hope Hope for change Hope for the better


The Silence of Winter

ago For even if they had fallen in the ight for good, their love lives on You see, the good and the light had won If you listen carefully, you can still hear the moans of the lost in the creak of the ice and the whoosh of the wind The sigh of the plants settling in their roots, and the last cry of the mockingbird As my shoes crunch in the snow, it falls, slowly covering the ground. The winter wonderland bathes the world in a blanket of quietness The chittering of birds stop, and you can no longer hear the squirrels. The air, the river, the mountains  An empty silence remains, the calm before a storm I hear the dying cries of my ancestors begging me A strong blizzard churns inside me, threatening to pull me apart A battle between good and evil, a battle between jealousy and love  The night sky twinkles with many stars, their light leading the way Peace settles inside me, and I suddenly hear the twinkle of bells, the music of the world. The song of the night jay joins in a strange harmony, the song of old The ice crystals sparkle, and the bitter gale moans in agony  This is the song of goodness This is the song of winter, a time of choice and remembrance I am one with nature, and I feel my soul being carried away with the wind. The merry sounds of Christmas ills my ears, my mind, and my heart My worries drain away and I am a new person My grandmother was right Winter always turns into spring 




As we sit, we can still hear the last forgotten memories of the people of seasons

BY STEPHANIE LUKA Perhaps all of this is a singular, endless monologue – an elegy already being born. Perhaps I am the beginning of the End; & all is fading, All is departing with me. Perhaps Nothingness is the sublimity I am growing towards, perhaps that is my destiny; to fade into the time and space and become but a negation. In the raging absolute, I become a metaphor.



Mind Pulsing

Them Shakin' Boots BY ASHLEIGH I want to slip on my shakin' boots Those short ones with thick heels that Keep you grounded as you reach for air Arms swinging in tune with the music In your head rhythm is lost to the Click clack of my feet tapping, Head hanging in a lull as the Corners of your lips betray That sudden sideways smile I want to groove until I'm shakin' Right outta my skin. Crocodile boots Carry me 'cross the floor, this cace Is a cave no more, because it's bright As hell where I'm dancing and I'm happy As fuck when I'm wearing these boots Trust me there's nothing stopping me From shakin' any warm-bodied blues away



BY JACQUELINE WU A night, midnight blue, one with no stars An eye peering through the opening, clouds reflected in gaze And blank stares, pearly white- drenched in tears The pendulum’s swinging, completing its endless cycle Hushed whispers ripple the surface, then back again An unfathomable abyss and death’s glare upon us with wings of black silk shadowing A mirror with many faces, broken shards blemishing beauty A girl, no two. Nameless, shamelessly looking. DreamingAs the sweet, soul sucking vortex redeems her again Walls encroach upon the silent dreamer as she remembers Transparent glass walls that cuts us with its sharp frame and protectsUnshackled but made captive, the dragon’s strength wanes from toil- where did dragon from As two wrongs aren’t made right with Chaos king and darkness spilling It isn’t tempest from which I hide, or ire that chars my flesh Nor is it chilled autumn morns, or even emotion in flashing thunder and wet torrents  Or love or hate, illusions conceived by the human mind No, it’s indifference, rather ignorance in all its sel ish forms





Shadows of Indi erence

tasteless Silent as despair, undiscerning as the raven veers towards temporary paradise Poison dripping from the black tongue that blots and burns   For the fair rose with its delicate shades of pink-  Is nothing but deceit.


Colourless with grey hued skies and shapeless mist delusions to cold eyes;

Harvest BY KATE GOUGH For those of whom are still in it– In the thickest punch of lonely sick, In the basket, the world gets irst pick, Wheezing over the harvest. Please pick a piece of poetry from the tree, a little morsel Just for you to taste and to hold, For you to feel safe To bite into an intimacy lost, let the juice run down your chin. /It will not return to normal for us. Not for a while at least./ So taste what you have, and savour it. Thanksgiving might be a lonely one. But it will never be fruitless.



BY JARROD HOL I like the drive there It’s late It’s dark The kind of late and dark that feels like it’s only for you The road buckles beneath your mighty tires Stop signs are optional Other cars don’t dare cross your path, as you cut through the stillness Red lights don’t last Green lights wave you through the silence It’s beautiful It’s freeing It’s peaceful And then I get to work



Night Shi

Coat + Keys BY EMILY STODDARD Gone with the breeze I forgot how cold it could get You've got your coat and the keys They're always ready for you to leave Quick, before anyone sees This is a practiced routine How you slip away with ease I doubt anyone will notice anyway Will you take me with you, please? I think it's what we need


BY AMIRAH SHAHARI Dear Grief, Imagine me as porcelain plates. One that comes with all the shapes and sizes. The shapes and sizes you won’t snicker and complain about. The ones you keep in a tall glass shelf; admiring, avoiding them to break. Would you admire me? Look at me like I’m the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?  Come to think of it, I had never known love from you as something so warm. It has always been cold, abrupt, the ‘k’ of a text message reply. You never cry at movies, books or even music. Fiction is a hoax. Watching people who get paid for crying isn’t real. Music is just a melody. Nothing moves you. Eludes you. Angers you. Nothing but me. Then again, I have mistaken so many given things as love; you for one may not be it.  I envy things that you know of. The things that you acknowledge and see. I just sometimes wished that one of those said things could be me. But I am just a presence, a mere daydream, a place you passed by once or a random face on the street. There is no such thing as an attachment. If I could get anything in the world; it wouldn’t be something that strings me back to you.  Grief, think of me as your precious set of porcelain. Would you willingly drop me to break? Would you still be put-off, statue-like seeing my little pieces strewn all over the floor? Would you inally believe that the only thing we share isn’t the same look but loss and damage?  Dear Grief,  How much more should I endure until you remember my name? 



A collection of letters to Grief, Nostalgia and Love

Dear Nostalgia, I am feeling a tad nostalgic tonight. My mind is starting to remember things; replaying memories like an old cassette tape. Here, here... remember this? I am now recollecting the texture of a dead flower given to me by a friend when I was 5. He was grinning, eyes full of excitement and light as he led me to the school kitchen and stopping abruptly in front of a trash can. It was empty, except for the two flowers inside smiling back at us. 'Here' he said. It was the irst flower anyone had ever given me. Dead. But still  Hands are a wonderful thing. I've been seeing my grandmother's hands moving about, telling me stories about how she spent months collecting money for a watch. Time now moves slowly but I keep seeing her still, in my dreams, hands combing through my hair. I thought of her as a young girl with dreams, dwelling on possibilities and the world at her feet.  You are a feeling that you have to unwrap, put it back to where it was and let it go. But right now I'm basking within all that it is. I don't want to let go. Not yet.  Dear Nostalgia,  I might be floating around memories tonight. And I have no idea why am I writing a letter in my notes that will never see the light of day. But I hope that the boy who gave me the dead flower is okay.  Dear Love,  I don’t know what you look like on a Tuesday morning on your day off. How your hair looks when it’s wet or how your laugh sounds like, if your head falls back while doing so. I don’t even know what type of jokes you’d like. Your appearance is at loss to me. An empty picture frame on my bedside table waiting to be illed. 




I don’t know if you truly are warm. The ilms, the books, every other literary escapade would describe you as warm yet cold. Refreshing like a summer air breeze. How would that even feel like? Do they really wear their hearts out? Will I ever carry you around like my next best thing? Though underneath all the curiosity, I also don’t know if you’ll ever reach me. If I’ll ever reread any of my poems to have my words inding me completely infatuated by you. Weirdly, I don’t even believe that you’re real. Your act of explicable kindness; accepting one for who they really are, voluntarily, bold and brave sounds like a little scam to me. The same kind as the pamphlets covering the sidewalk in the city.  You break things, you know? You build a person brick by brick only to have it crumble right in front of them. Love is a dream, cruel yet inexplicably beautiful. You mask behind every single word used to describe feelings and I do not trust that. How can one look like various other things and still be true? How can I believe that Joy and Grief could be you? Love, you are as real as you are nonexistent.  Dear Love,  I will spend my life writing about you. I’ll write about you before, I’ll write about you if I ind you and then again if I don’t; always until my hands aren’t mine anymore. Although, I don’t think I’ll search for you. How would I ind something so absolute? Some kind of mist without a face or a name. I’ll make do with what I have. At least I couldn’t wake up one day and not want me anymore. This is the only way, after all, the only way for you to not reach me. This is the only way to not believe in you and be scared of you but still live.






Into The Woods BY ANGIE Q. Plant trees around yourself, Tall trees, Trees that speak with soft words, that say They can't hurt you here, Build yourself a forest, become Untouchable. Never let a man bring his axe to your timber Ever again. Plant trees around yourself, Reaching to the sky, kissing the stars, But loving you. Plant trees to shelter you from wind, To keep you safe. Raise them from seed, fed on lobe Brought forth from yourself, And life yourself among them, No one can hurt you here. Plant trees that lift you in their arms (climb those strong safe boughs), That never put you on a pedestal, Just raise you higher to heaven And all of her stars. No one can hurt you again.



Woman Hood BY SABRINA MICALLEF She's dating a boy He shut her up because of all her 'noise' In his eyes she's only a toy Her body is owed to him Con idence shot, her soul is dimmed. Another girl walks down an alley She just wants to see her family A man walks up to her obscured Every woman's nightmare is what she fears she could have to endure. A girl can barely pay rent But companies think she'll have a cent For a tampon or even a pad I wonder if they feel bad Something a woman would need But a condom for a man is free. A man and a woman sign up for a job Equality they will say But behind doors they don't get paid the same He makes a hundred dollars more than she would make And the man in the suit will pacify her saying It's a 'mistake'. And people will say This is just womanhood



All this became normalised And newer generations are left questioning why.

39 f


Having to be a man's de inition of Good

Foreign on the tongue BY CLEO I am The Isle of my own mouth, The variety Of sea kept land That distils Words of a Puritan And places The constructions of legends At the tip Of my tongue I am every word That has ever been said to me And every word that hasn't And so I remember 'cow' As if I was one, And I'd heard them Herding me Across the rushes I remember 'sensitive' Because it's how My teeth feel


When I forget My retainer at night I remember 'troubling' Because it's how I viewed maths At school And I remember 'love' Because it's a monosyllabic Only 4 letters And yet, It's the hardest word To say So it's as foreign as France felt When I didn't know how to ask For bread And jumbled my words up Like a juggler And so Remember What you say, And visit me On your little boat In the winter My isle is waiting,


To chat It doesn't have to be About 'love' I know it's a tricky one



And I would so love

Divine BY ANGIE Q. I found god In the aeroplane bathroom Hanging her head above the sink Red-rimmed eyes burning With a new-found independence. I found god In the dusty wooden frame mirror Of the bedroom I inhabited on the island With its Juliet balcony and scratchy sheets The kind of place he never would've taken me That's ine – I had taken myself I found god In those crystal clear waters, Shifting and swimming With a hundred tiny ish; Descendants of the star I was born under. I found god In the square room I returned to Dismantling thee altars I had Dedicated to him in my heart. Alone, the white floor-length mirror




Reminding me That I was still here And I would never lose myself again.



I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet because I haven't moved in years BY ALICJA Running and running Tearing through paper people Killing them with ink, engraving into my head – instead There is music coming from the other room And I cannot tell you how many times I have tried to pry that door open – it will not give The deafening sobs come from my own throat I've ripped my heart to shreds Trying to chase an impossible dream – a home I want to run through ancient ruins Find a place in the divine femininity of Aphrodite I want to be Sappho – writing poems about beautiful women I want to sit by the creek with my feet in the water Overgrown, moss covering my cheeks My words in resin – will become amber I wish to cry in all the beautiful places Satin sunsets, glowing garden paths Just because I am made up from the same ash – a poet is a beautiful sight Take me to the place where all the poets go to die


After cities break my dragonfly heart in half Let me feed nature with my words – a inal goodbye



Sélina Farzaei



Sélina Farzaei


Sélina Farzaei


Sélina Farzaei

Colours Of Daily Life Jacqueline Wu


Jacqueline Wu


Light and Shadow

Re ection of Humanity Jacqueline Wu



Gold Digger

Brecht Lanfossi


Hollow Casanova Brecht Lanfossi



Brecht Lanfossi



Brecht Lanfossi



Brecht Lanfossi


Anna Jo, oil pastel

59 ff

Daydreaming of café moments while staying home Co ee chats

Cake and co ee Anna Jo, oil pastel

60 ff

Daydreaming of café moments while staying home

Anna Jo, oil pastel


Daydreaming of café moments while staying home A slice of Mango cheesecake

– Poetry Alicja

Alicja writes modern free verse poetry based on her life experiences, whether that be heartbreak, self-discovery or relationship. Instagram: @alicja.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 her 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

Angie Q

Clementine is a 22-year-old English Literature graduate turned professional proofreader living in the North East of England. She writes under the pen name "Angie Q", taken from her late-poet-aunt's irst name, Angela, and the name given to her ictionalised counterpart in a short story written by a friend, Quest. She will be bringing out a book of verse accompanied by illustrations by her brilliantly talented friend, Ximena, hopefully by the end of the year, but until then you can ind her work (in both English and occasionally French) on






Instagram: @aqpoetry



Aparna V

Aparna V is a 22-year-old medical student and poet. As a storyteller, perspectives are to her as lenses are to a photographer, and she aims to channel that through her writing. Shortly after collaborating with her friend on a companion book for his self-produced album, she began sharing her poetry online. Her other interests include theatre, sketching, playing the keyboard, and travelling. Instagram: @weathered_storms.hidden_stars

Ashleigh / Ash

Ashleigh, or Ash, works in Integrated Media but she has always been passionate about words. In her poems, she writes about the self, sex and intimacy, relationships and various observations that inspire her as she wanders the world. Instagram: @themeltedmind Instagram for prose: @darkmatter.melt


Cleo is a 19 year English student, currently studying at Exeter University. Her poetry began when she realised she struggled to inish stories but could pack everything she wanted to say about the world into a single poem (or more). She struggles to go a day without writing a poem now and intends to write them for the rest of her life. Instagram: @bee_and_hibiscus

Eden Fouts

Every Song Lyric was Written by Somebody (I Aspire to be Somebody) is a piece


from her unpublished chapbook of poetry, Here We Fall.

Emily Stoddard

Emily has loved writing as long as she can remember, whether it be poetry or prose. She inds it a great creative outlet and can't wait to share more of it with everyone. Instagram: @em.stoddard.writes

Hannah Cao

I'm Hannah, the founder and Editor-in-Chief, and I also write my own novels. In February 2020 I self-published my poetry collection 'Seashore' and my debut novel will be out next year, 2021. 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

Jacqueline Wu

Jacqueline Wu (16) is a writer and artist from Long Island, New York. She is a writer and editor for her acclaimed school magazine, Cinnabar. She has also won several writing and art competitions and awards, such as the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She is forthcoming in Teenmind, ReadThis, and other magazines. Jacqueline enjoys painting, drawing, writing, and playing the viola, and she hopes to continue to inspire and empower through her words. Instagram: @jacquelinewu96

Jarrod Hol

J. Hol is a shoestring traveling writer and artist from Providence, Rhode Island. His work primarily focuses on modern transient lifestyle, struggles with mental illness, and the humour of directionless depravity. He also likes cats a lot.


Instagram: @soxsuxpolkfunk

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 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. Instagram: @chamomilde

Sabrina Micallef

Sabrina is 17 years old living in NY. She's been writing poetry since 15 years old, as well as short stories. Helping people is considered her biggest goal in life so it's only in her path that she will be going to college to become a psychologist. Instagram: @diedcfthirst

Stephanie Luka

Stephanie's art originates from the fact that besides a girl, a God and a writer, she is also an elusive and constantly transforming secret. Her art is an attempt at revealing her purest self "and possibly an eternal failure". Instagram: @stephanieluka


Instagram: @write_wilde

Brecht Lanfossi

Belgian surrealist collagist / digital painter Instagram: nozem.art artstation.com/nozem-art

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. Instagram: @wackography

Anna Jo

Anna blogs at http://helloannajo.blogspot.com/ about her passions, art and prose and her trips. Her inclination towards understanding and making sense of life experiences is what drives her fondness for storytelling and connecting with other kindred souls.


Instagram: @helloannajo

– Art/Photography

Submissions for Winter Issue 2020 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 lattepressteam@gmail.com Or – DM us your post on Instagram



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