Middleground - Issue 8

ISSUE 8 | WINTER 2024

Meet the team

Editorial PAULINE JEREMIE Founder and Chief Editor

SUMAYA KASSIM Prose Editor

SEAN WAI KEUNG Poetry Editor

JESSICA WOOD Art Editor

Design PHOEBE CAYLAYA-NEFF Illustrator

Community NATALIE CHARLES Content Manager

Editors’ Note Dear Reader, When we published our last issue, in December 2023, we were witnessing the horrors of genocides around the world and feeling that publishing writing and artwork in times of such human suffering was almost futile.

One year on, heartbreakingly, these situations have worsened and we increasingly struggle to find sense in the things we do. Our hearts are heavy for the people of Palestine, the Congo, Sudan, Syria, Lebanon and any other communities currently suffering unimaginable hardships — be they brought on by nature or mankind. We encourage all to inform themselves, protest and donate if possible.

Art provides space to imagine alternatives, to embrace complexity and nuance over propaganda and monoliths. To embrace pluralism over purity. In this issue, we offer you stories of plurality, of being offered different paths, of characters who have as many facets as there are patterns in a kaleidoscope. Will a return to sea bring out a woman’s tail? What versions of yourself can you picture? Are you a plum, an apricot, or something inbetween? What happens when you choose forgiveness over hatred? Who do you become when multiple languages live within you? Can you see your reflection in a leaf?

Real life can be incredibly dark and painful, so let yourself be carried away by the opportunities that art and writing offer you.

There lies pain, still, but there also lies beauty, there lies hope, there lies peace.

In solidarity, The Middleground Team

Contents VERSIONS OF ME Dean Atta pretty names Sophia Eve AT SEA Nadine Brito SUN AND LEAVES 1 & 2 Moyses Gomes BAHAY KUBO Rina Malagayo Alluri THE SACRIFICE Chloe Panta HAJI HAMMAM 1 & 2 Nadia Malekian PLUOT Courtney Moore

4

SILENCE IN A DAY LIKE THIS

6

MIS-TYPING IN COSTA

10 16 18 19 22 24

Ehsan Ahmed Mehedi

25

Kirsty Kerr

26

“MUNGU (DIVINE)”, “FAITH” & BERLIN Janet Wallace

28

UNTETHER Quinn Miller Murphy

31

Shirley Hottier

34

CONTRIBUTORS

35

MOTHER AND SON

Versions of Me DEAN ATTA

A version of me is a monk who lives in a monastery.

A version of me loves tattoos and didn’t stop at three.

He’s inked from head to toe.

It suits him. You can’t necessarily see his personality or his sexuality when you look at him.

He’s a work of art that defies definition.

A version of me has a dad bod.

He still has dreadlocks.

His hair defines him. His crown gives him an air of majesty that he’s confidently grown into.

As he approaches his forties, he provides strong uncle vibes.

Of course, he is an uncle, but he also has something of the elder statesmen about him.

He rocks his dreadlocks with suits and gowns alike.

He does what he likes when it comes to fashion.

A version of me has a personal trainer.

He has a slim gym-toned body with a six-pack. You’ll see him in gym clothes and cycling gear.

He’s a mountain climber, skydiver, thrill-seeker, and cold-water-swimmer.

He surfs, skis and snowboards.

He roller-skates and skateboards.

A version of me drives a car.

He takes his nieces near and far.

4

He helps friends and family when they need to move house or collect things from IKEA. He shares the driving with his boyfriend on camper van holidays and road trips around Europe and the Americas.

A version of me goes by the pronouns they/them/theirs.

They’re unapologetically non-binary.

They have a fluidity to their gender and an ease in their body.

They celebrate gender nonconformity and feel part of the trans community.

Everyone around them just gets it.

There isn’t a big coming out.

They slowly emerge as they become more and more comfortable with their body, how to talk about it, how to write about it, how to dress and honour it.

A version of me is a black flamingo: one of kind.

A version of me is a flaming dragon: in the minds of many.

They could all be me.

They could all be happy.

5

pretty names SOPHIA EVE

“What a pretty name,” the bank teller says meditatively as she hands back Alba’s license.

“Dunst, like the actress — are you related to her?” mOf course not, Alba wants to say, but she sees by the way the teller eyes her dark clothes, her dark hair, her dark eyes, that she has already drawn her own conclusion about the likelihood of their connection. Alba Dunst, Dunst like the actress, has a Chinese grandmother, and a Chinese mother, and the shadow of a Chinese self, and no, they’re not related. m“Absolutely,” Alba says instead. “She’s my third cousin, on my dad’s side.” mIt’s visible how much the teller relaxes. Alba tucks away her license and watches the loud process of thinking on the other side of the counter: so this woman in front of me is white after all — she didn’t mind the question — and it’s not like I asked anything rude — she’s just really tan, I guess. mShe didn’t really ask something Alba wouldn’t answer, but Alba hears the echo in her voice anyway. m“We gave you a perfectly good name,” her father reminds her the next week, when Alba’s at the family home and sitting down to dinner.

It’s roast parsnips and roast potatoes and roast beef. She’s just told the table about her conversation with the bank teller, who had not 6

conversation with the bank teller, who had not commented on the names of the customers in front of or behind Alba. It did not escape her notice that both these customers were blonde and perfectly European, but it does escape her father, also blond, also perfectly European. The parsnips were his idea. m“People always ask,” rejoins Alba, “because they think my name doesn’t reflect me. Because I’m not like them enough to be named Alba.”

Her brother, who of the pair of them looks most like their mother, eats his parsnips in silence. m“You could’ve given us Cantonese names,” Alba persists to her disinterested parents. “Even middle names. They wouldn’t ask me then, or at least they’d ask what language it is, and that’s really not as bad as them pretending that they want to know about my surname when really they want to ask whether I’ve married into it, or if I’m adopted. Is it?” mHer own middle name is Michelle. her mother’s name is Barbara, and Barbara pretends to the best of her ability that she’s not really Changyi Barbara Dunst. Unlike Alba, she married into it. But her name, the real first name that she hesitates over before writing on doctor’s office forms, is the name of a lunar deity. Alba learned of Changyi and the moon from the old stories her grandmother used to whisper to her grandchildren behind the cover of her hands,

grandchildren behind the cover of her hands, because in Barbara’s house there are no old stories of China. mAlba can grasp the pain of the schoolyard taunts and the childhood bullying of 1960s Toronto – she sees the bones of it still, ni hao! ni hao!, how couldn’t she? — but Barbara refuses to give a Chinese name to her daughter who doesn’t look Chinese or European, only something else. m“That’s a gift,” Barbara had told her late one night, and Alba hadn’t said anything at all. m“Your name’s fine,” Alba’s brother says to her after dinner, when they’re both washing dishes.

Her scrubbing of the parsnip pot turns vicious. m“Why don’t you care about it, Lincoln?” she asks instead of an answer. He is named after the only Lincoln who comes to mind, but their parents aren’t even American; there is no Lincoln who affects them except their son. m“I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s worth making a big deal about,” he says, shaking his hands full of soapy suds all over Alba. “Who cares if people ask about your name?” m“They’re never just asking about a name,” she tells him. She has a degree in anthropology and sociology, and surely this makes her an expert on the topic. “They want to know if I’m exotic enough, or too exotic, to have it. It’s always the word ‘exotic.’ And it’s always people who don’t really need to know the answer.” m“Can’t you just ignore them? If it’s that annoying to you.”

She hardly has the words to tell him that it’s not just annoying, it’s exhausting, it’s draining, it pricks at her heart when she says I’m mixed, actually, and they reply, is Alba a name from your other culture, then? m“You haven’t got a Chinese name,” Lincoln continues, “so they don’t really know what you are, they’re probably just confused.” m“Who we are,” Alba corrects, but she’s wondering why this is a confusion she needs to resolve. m“You know, if I had a baby tomorrow, I’d name her Alba too,” Christina says the next day at work. “If I wanted her to have a life-long crisis, anyway.” mAlba laughs. Christina’s family brought her to Toronto as an infant, and she doesn’t remember her own Vietnamese name anymore. She doesn’t have a Chinese mother and a two-

doesn’t have a Chinese mother and a twogenerations-ago German father, but Christina does have two dads who are both some mix of English-Irish-Scottish-Welsh that neither of them seem to have perfect clarity about. She’s the only person who didn’t spend Alba’s first month in the museum constantly staring at the new junior assistant curator from the corner of her eye. m“I can’t imagine what my parents were thinking,” Alba tells her as they work through their daily checklists. “Alba? And Lincoln? They knew they weren’t having white kids, why give us names that are white people question magnets? We could’ve been, I don’t know, Ellen and Michael. No one would look twice.” mChristina, who was given a coveted normal name and who is always looked at twice anyway, shrugs. “They’ve never experienced being more than one thing in a society that wants you to be a perfect little quantifiable person. Your dad was the ‘norm’ and your mom was the ‘other,’ and that was it to them.” mShe says it so casually, but they both know there’s no acceptance of this norm, this othering.

She says it as though they don’t both chafe under their pretty names when their Swedish boss compliments them on their English like he’s giving them a reward. m“Then tell me how I’m still an other,” Alba demands, as though they haven’t had this conversation every week of their lives together. “I was born here, my mother won’t teach me any Cantonese, and my dad thinks it’s cute that I look like his family. How can I be what a ‘mainstream multiethnic society’ wants me to be and still be considered foreign? Why is the justification of my identity based on theirs?” mChristina only says, “They’d ask you the same questions even if you had another name.”

Alba doesn’t have a response to this. m“You’ve got a cool name,” David from the dating app informs her over dinner. “Very unique. Did you know it’s Spanish?” m“Yes,” Alba says blankly, because no one’s tried to tell her about her own name before, but of course it’s a mediocre white dude who’s into vinyl and, in some of his first words to her, ‘offbeat partners’. She doesn’t really want to admit that she doesn’t exactly know what ‘off-beat partners’ means, or that she doesn’t care because 7

because she’s already decided she’s leaving before dessert, but he seems proud of it. m“You’re kind of exotic, you know,” is the meaning, as it turns out. m“Educate yourself, read some Said,” Alba snaps in parting. This is after David has finished listing his exes’ various backgrounds. He’s also been so kind as to mention that she’s hardly his normal type, that she’s whiter and more conforming than most of the girls he’s been with before.

Performative wokeness: she shouldn’t be surprised. She found him online, after all.

“I mean, neither of us have super Cantonese names, but it’s not like you live in Hong Kong or anything,” her cousin Haley says when she comes to visit Canada during her summer break. mHaley is nineteen and in training to become a midwife. She has forever been smug about living in Asia even though she was born in Toronto too, to Alba’s Chinese uncle and her mostly-French ex-aunt. Haley has dual citizenship and is pretty sure she’s more Chinese than Alba and Lincoln, who of course don’t have Chinese names, can you imagine that? m“So?” counters Alba, feeling horribly like Lincoln as she says it. “Mom and Grandma live here, that doesn’t make them less Chinese. Your dad is as Chinese as my mom, Haley, they’re siblings, so what do you think that makes you and me?”

“I just think that until you’ve lived in your truth and your homeland, you’re not really, like, Chinese-Chinese,” Haley sniffs, and that’s the end of the conversation because Alba can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t end up in a ghastly wail. It’s particularly humiliating to be told by her cousin, as half-white as herself, that she’s in fact too Caucasian to fit into her own family. It’s a new kind of low, and not one she finds herself experiencing very often outside of her own head. mHaley finally leaves Toronto a month later, but only after she’s waded through the particularly muddy swamp of random clubgoers asking if she’ll cure their yellow fever once they learn she’s Asian, even half. Alba feels bad for her cousin, and as disgusted as she usually does, but it’s interesting to see how quickly Haley backtracks about being a Chinese dual citizen after this. She waves Haley off at the airport, and wishes shame wasn’t their first shared emotion 8

wishes shame wasn’t their first shared emotion when the man at the baggage drop reads Chau, Haley Huiyin on the Canadian passport and asks when Haley changed her legal name to Haley, whether she added it before or after her citizenship test. mShame changes to rage later, and Alba feels far more comfortable wrapped in her robe of wrath. m“I wanted to give you different names, good Chinese names,” her grandmother grumbles when Alba and Lincoln go to visit her in her assisted living unit. “But Changyi wouldn’t listen to me, her own mother. My daughter, she doesn’t know about proper names, not like your uncle.”

“You can still give us Chinese names, Pópó,” Alba suggests, but her grandmother bats a cantankerous hand at her like it’s already too late, it’s no good to even try. She turns up the volume of the news. mAlba sulks on the way home, and Lincoln claims he doesn’t care, but he does admit he “thinks it’s weird that both Grandma’s kids are so non-traditional that neither of them will care for her at home like Haley’s stepmom does.” mAlba turns this over and over in her mind for days and weeks and eventually comes to the conclusion that maybe she and Lincoln and Haley were always doomed to never please anyone, even their pópó.

“Your name, it’s nice,” the receptionist at the dentist’s office comments after he’s finished registering Alba as a new patient. “Very charming.”

“Thank you,” Alba replies automatically and insincerely, “it means white.” Then, sincerely, she scrutinizes his face for any flinch or gasp of surprise. There is none. m“Ah, I thought you might be,” he says sagely, nodding and tapping away at his keyboard, and she freezes in case it’s a joke, in case he chooses to look up and finds that she’s not. It’s not for several heartbeats that she realises he’s combined her presumed heritage and the meaningless meaning of her name into one. I thought you might be. He sounds very sure of it.

Alba hopes it’s a nice feeling, being that certain, because there’s only one of them in the tiny waiting room who’s experiencing it. mShe goes outside and emits a single disbelieving cackle once the door is mostly c

disbelieving cackle once the door is mostly closed behind her, because she expects now that the guesses will be wrong but it’s not every day she’s accepted as one single thing and not an in-between. Lincoln sends her a message that says something like are you totally crazy when she texts him about it that evening, but Alba looks at his message and decides that she is one single thing, and she always has been, and that one single thing is only herself. mObviously? Lincoln texts back. She doesn’t reply. m“You have a really pretty name,” a small boy says to Alba when she’s introducing herself to her new tour group. She’s filling in for the regular docent, and there’s talk of giving her a permanent public speaking role for events and fundraisers, even though junior assistant curators don’t typically speak to anyone but the assistant curator and the senior curators. There’s been a diversity push by the board of directors, apparently, and she’s palatable enough to become a new public face but only once a week, isn’t she so excited? Doesn’t it mean a huge step forward for the museum and for the art world as a whole? mShe doesn’t remind the board that the art world encompasses the whole world, actually, and therefore there’s already diversity because, honestly, this is a pay bump and if they’re going to insist on raising her salary so they can be louder about all the same things they’re already saying and doing, she’s not going to make a point about it. Maybe she should. She’s just so busy, she’ll get around to it; and anyway it’s nothing Christina hasn’t already explored in her slam poetry competitions, something she knows the board’s aware of. The diversity push came from somewhere, after all. There’s no nametag for her in the breakroom, so she has to repeat her name three times before her group catches it.

The boy is there with his parents, holding both their hands, and Alba looks at this group of three and sees her own little self with them. His mother’s reddish hair is cut above her shoulders, but her son’s dark eyes beam like his father’s when they both smile at Alba.

He has a nametag on his shirt, unlike her, maybe from a daycare or a classroom: he’s Hugo J. Wong, future palaeontologist, and he’s looking at her with an earnestness that makes her think

at her with an earnestness that makes her think that he doesn’t care about the similarities of their faces, he’s happy to be here and he just thinks Alba’s a pretty name. mIt’s been such a long time since anyone looked at her and said sincerely: I like your name, I have no opinions on what it means or why you have it. m“Yes,” she says quietly, just for this little boy’s ears. “I do.”

9

At Sea NADINE BRITO

The smell of salt… it bites. mAva breathes in the air as she gazes at the sea.

Her mind wanders as Señora Marmorsa speaks.

She should be paying attention — no doubt it’s important — but she can’t help but be distracted. Finally, she’s here. The sea is exactly as her books described. mUnder the bright sun, the waves of mighty Triton are calm. A light breeze pushes them to the shore, a faint clapping sound as they brush the pebbles. She smiles; the sea is in a good mood. The salt prickles her nose as she inhales again. Funny. She never considered that sea salt would smell. For all the tales, research, and dreams, why hadn’t she ever thought about that? No matter — her land-dweller body would acclimate quickly. Why wouldn’t it, she’s a — m“Marfoca? Ava Marfoca?” mAva jolts out of her musings as Señora Marmorsa calls her name. Her face is red as her hand shoots up. m“Yes, that’s me.” mShe feels the rest of the classes’ eyes on her, certain they’re all thinking the same thing.

Yes, I’m a Marfoca, and no I can’t swim. I wasn’t taught and have never been to the sea before.

It’s her usual disclaimer, the one she prepares to reel off as she glances at her four classmates.

Three men and one other woman. They all look to be inner-land dwellers. They’ve likely never u 10

to be inner-land dwellers. They’ve likely never been here either, judging from the sheen of their slick black wetsuits. The golden logos embossed on the breast glimmer in the sunlight. The leather shoes they’d carefully removed and wrapped in linen scarves before setting down in the sand. And did that one man really need to bring an entire cooler of appetizers for one simple swim lesson? He’d even boasted about having a bottle of wine in there. Pairing all of this with their pale, unmarked skin, Ava would be very surprised if anyone else shared a name like hers. She crosses her arms over the bathing suit she’d bought from a second-hand store. m“Ava? You heard everything I was saying about how I teach these lessons? What I expect from you?” Señora Marmorsa’s dark eyes bore into hers. It’s obvious that she hasn’t been paying attention. m“Yes, Señora Marmorsa, I heard,” she lies, “I’m really excited to be here, it’s my first time coming to the sea.” At least this part is true. m“I’m glad you get to experience it.” Sofia’s tone is kind but firm. “As I mentioned at the start of class, please call me Sofia. I don’t like formalities.” m“Yes, Sofia. Sorry.” Ava stands up straighter; she’s here for a reason. No more daydreaming. m“Thank you.” Sofia stares at her a moment longer, and Ava is sure that she’ll ask the question. Instead, she moves on to the next n

question. Instead, she moves on to the next name. “Tercebra, Hugo?” mOne of the men waves his hand, a gaudy emerald ring adorning his thick index finger. Ava frowns, curious that Sofia didn’t ask about it. It’s not often she doesn’t need to explain herself in some way. It’s relieving, but also leaves her feeling anxious. Land-dwellers always have something to say — but then, Sofia’s a shoredweller. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Sofia finishes taking attendance. Ava notes that her assumptions about the rest of her classmates are correct — they all have ‘Ter’ names. m“Now, let’s go. I only want you to wade today.

Get a feel for its strength. Don’t let the water go above your waist, or let your feet leave the ground.” Sofia is stern. “This is Triton’s domain, and he can be a fickle ruler for even the most experienced. One minute the waves are calm, the next they are carrying you far away. As you are learning, I won’t let you float freely until I am confident you understand the basics.” mSeeing the apprehension on their faces, she gives them a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I tell you this so you meet the sea with respect. It is my hope that you master what I teach and go on to discover all the beauty and possibility of our surroundings.” m“Will we see any mermaids?” Hugo’s blunt voice reminds Ava of the seagulls she saw earlier.

Of course — that’s why he has that atrocious ring. Ava stops herself from rolling her eyes. m“The merpeople are deeper, I’m afraid,” Sofia says with a polite smile. “You must be quite experienced to visit them. I’d remove that ring if I were you. It’s a myth that they like jewels.

Wouldn’t want you to lose something so nice.”

Ava is certain they’re thinking the same thing.

Like any merwoman would want to drag him into the deep with her. “Shall we?”

Sofia leads them forward towards the water. A stab of excitement runs through Ava as they get closer, the beach warm on her feet.

“Bit hot today, don’t you think?” Hugo walks beside her. He is still wearing the ring.

“I suppose,” she mutters. Of course it’s hot. It’s the edge of the world, what do you expect?

“I’m Hugo,” he announces, as if there’s no other Hugo in the world.

“Ava. Nice to meet you.” She prays that her cool tone makes him go away.

tone makes him go away. m“Yeah, you’re the Mar, uh, Marfinca, um, Mar something person here,” he continues. “I noticed because it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” mAnd here we go. m“Why don’t you know how to swim?” mWhy don’t YOU know how to swim?! Ava wants to shoot back. Wipe that entitled, selfassured grin off his face. Instead, she shrugs. m“I never learned. My father didn’t teach me.” m“I’m surprised. Don't merpeople generally keep it with their own? I’ve been to the edge of the world many times and I once met a merman who said that —” mAh, so an expert now, are we? mAva picks up her pace, moving ahead. The pebbles are bumpy on her feet, but not uncomfortable. A hermit crab scuttles by. Her mouth falls open. She’s never seen a live one up close. Before she can follow it, the smoothness of the cool water flows over her feet. She gasps as it climbs to her ankles. Is it always this chilly? m“Take a few moments to get used to the temperature,” Sofia calls out. “Your body will acclimate. It’ll be another month before the tides change with the warm season.” mAva wades in further, the water to her thighs now. Once the initial shock of the cold passes, she stares at her feet in the clear water, wiped clean of sand. There are small bursts of seaweed, pieces of driftwood. Little fish swim around her feet, their silver tails flicking. She wonders what colour her tail would be, if she had one. Gold?

Sapphire? Likely emerald. Her father’s was. She stares back at her feet, for any sign of change.

Rationally, it’s not possible — but wait. mHas she always had that mark? mThat green one, there, on the side of her big toe. mShe bends down, heart racing, reaching her hand into the water to feel it. It dissolves as she touches it. mNot a scale. Just a clump of seaweed. How silly of her. She rolls her eyes, trying to forget the pang of excitement.

“Once you’re comfortable, try to submerge yourself as much as possible. Keep your eyes closed. Unlike inland water, saltwater stings.” mIt’s time. Sofia doesn’t need to tell her twice.

Taking a breath, Ava leans back into the water. It flows over her, wetting her poofy black hair so 11

flows over her, wetting her poofy black hair so that it floats out in thin strands, away from her head. Taking one last glance at the sun, she closes her eyes and immerses her head. mBeneath the waves, everything is dark. Quiet.

The only sound she hears is the beat of her heart.

She can’t recall if she’s ever really listened to it.

Has it ever been quiet enough to hear on land?

As she listens to its rhythm, she feels alert. Alive.

She shouldn’t open her eyes, but — There’s this strange world only centimetres away from her home world. Bracing herself for the sting, she flicks her eyes open. mEverything is blue. Like the blue of the sky in the early morning before the sun begins its ascent, with the inky blackness of night still woven in. The sunrays beam through the water, letting her see everything clearly. There is nothing. Only the water that stretches on, darkening in colour as she looks further into the distance. There’s a thrill in the pit of her stomach.

What is out there? What could she find? mThe air escapes her. Time to return to the surface. mLater. You aren’t ready. She reminds herself of this before rising to the world above. Sound rushes at her, the calm breeze now blaring, the splashes of her classmates crashing against her ears. m“My eyes hurt!” Hugo wails, fists rubbing at them. m“Don’t touch them. With salt on your hands, you’ll make it worse.” Sofia’s patient tone bellows in her ears. Ava notices the rest of her classmates rubbing their eyes, spitting salt out of their mouths. “The sting will subside in a moment.

Make sure you don’t swallow any water.” mFrowning, Ava blinks her eyes rapidly. They’re wet, yes — but there’s no sting. They feel as they always do. She licks her lips, no salt taste either.

How strange. She smells it, but why isn’t it affecting her? m“Everything okay?” Sofia wades over. “You look confused.” m“No. Just taking it in. I thought the salt would be stronger.” m“It’s different for everyone,” Sofia explains.

“Generally, shore-dwellers have an easier time, being near the sea. The salt-miners from inland also have more of a tolerance. Sometimes you might have an ancestor somewhere in your 12

might have an ancestor somewhere in your bloodline. Or all three. It isn’t easy to say.” She gives Ava a wistful smile. “We don’t get many studies out here, I’m sure you understand.” mNo money. Not worth it. Her father’s disapproving voice fills her head. It’d probably upset him to know she inherited a tolerance. But she’s already upset him often enough. Like it’d make a difference. He had his ideas and she had hers. m“There hasn’t been any government funding?” m“Not for years. Too many people are leaving.”

Sofia turns her attention back to the class.

Everyone seems to have recovered. “We’re going to work on breath holding and submerging. For those of you who are more comfortable in your abilities, you may try floating. I want you to get a feel for the buoyancy, of how the waves push you. This is what you’ll eventually be swimming against.” mAva could float, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to disappear into the other world. See the home that could’ve been. Inhaling, she submerges herself again. Opens her eyes. mIt’s the same blue, and she is warm as she takes it in. This time her gaze falls to the ocean floor, and she notices an orange starfish a little way forward. It’s only a few steps. Shouldn’t be a problem. mShe shifts forward to get a closer look. The starfish’s smooth scales glisten in the water.

Strange that she didn’t see it before. Maybe it was covered by the sand. She crouches next to it, taking in its strange beauty, unsure of the species. It’s much smaller than the ones she’s seen in the museums back home. Nor does it look like any of the illustrations in her books. mDefinitely dead. mAva is certain about this. All her books say starfish only drift with the currents to the shore when they’ve passed. Difficult to catch them otherwise. They reside really far out and move too swiftly. All the specimens they have on land were found like this. She reaches for it, wanting to examine it. Grasping one of its slender arms, it’s in front of her only for a moment. mThen everything turns upside down. mWater shoots up her nose as the starfish shoots out into the blue, dragging her with it.

Her feet leave the ground. Suddenly all she knows is terror as she becomes aware of her

knows is terror as she becomes aware of her dwindling air supply. mMy hand! Let go! mShe tries yanking her hand from the starfish, but it’s as though her hand has been welded to it. The starfish is a horse and she’s the carriage it pulls down to her death in the ocean depths.

She kicks behind, flailing, trying to ignore the panic in her chest. Or is that the lack of air? The creature falters, and she realizes it’s speedy, but not strong. Fight it. She kicks, trying to use her free arm to pull the wrist of the stuck one back.

She’s careful, afraid of what might happen if the free hand brushes the creature. She can’t fight it using just her legs. mThey thrash together in the water, sending a whirl of bubbles upwards. Ava’s lungs cling to what little air is left, an overwhelming thirst taking over her for the surface world. One that she’s never felt before. mThis can’t be it. No, not now. mDespite trying to convince herself of this, it’s harder to kick. To focus. The water in her peripheral vision seems to be getting darker.

She’s still being pulled forward. mNo. NO. mShe kicks again. It’s slower, as though her leg moves through molasses. But she feels warm.

Perhaps this isn’t so bad. The thought drifts through her mind as her body drifts through the slippery abyss. The last thing she remembers before everything goes to an inky black is a hand on her waist.

Gagging, water spills from her mouth. She gasps for air. The most precious substance in the world. m“Everyone, clear away! Give her room! Wait over there!” mSofia’s voice is the only sound that cuts through the buzzing in Ava’s ears. It still sounds like she’s underwater. And her chest — it feels like a weight has been fastened to every organ inside. Every incoming breath is precious, but it hurts. mAnd her hand is on fire. Her hand — Ava turns her head, expecting to see that wretched sea creature still attached.

“Don’t worry, I had a stinger on me.” Sofia’s voice again. Where is she? She turns her head to the other side and Sofia’s round face comes into view. “They don’t like when you stab them with

view. “They don’t like when you stab them with ray venom.” m“Huh.” m“Your hand is going to hurt like hell for the next few days. You won’t feel well in general.”

Sofia’s tone is kind. She hesitates before adding, “I did say not to touch anything when class started.” mAnd she hadn’t been listening. Ava wants to apologize and explain. m“I’m… sorry.” Why is it taking so long to form words? “The library books say the starfish here are dead. Near the sand.” No, that’s not what needs to be explained. Her brain is foggy, like when she’s drunk too much. m“There are many sea creatures that haven’t been studied or written about. It’s likely you don’t have the entire picture in your landdweller books.” mThe entire picture. What she’s always wanted — and it could’ve been easy. So easy. Sometimes it makes her so angry at how easy it could’ve been.

“He should’ve taught me!” It comes out in a rush, like the water she’d just expelled from her lungs. “Why didn’t he? He’s from here and I could’ve known this! I wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. I wouldn’t have to be here learning this now with all these land-dwellers who only want to see merpeople!” She knows she doesn’t make sense. That it’s all coming out to a stranger who doesn’t know anything about her or her history. Just a crazy young woman who nearly got herself killed is what Sofia would go home and say to whoever she lives with at the end of the day. But Sofia only listens, with dark brown eyes that seem to understand everything Ava spews. After Ava finishes her tirade, they are both quiet as they listen to the roll of the waves. m“You know, more and more merpeople become land-dwellers every year.” Sofia sighs, pulling a stray hair around her ear. “I’m glad you’re here, Ava. It’s proof that their attempts to turn us into a myth aren’t working. You aren’t the only person I’ve taught who had to come back to the sea of their ancestors to learn to swim.” m“But it’ll never be possible to have a tail. I wasn’t born with one.”

13

mAll Sofia does is look at Ava and smile. m“I don’t know anything about that. I’d say no, but I’m no expert. All I can say is that it’s good you’re here. I hope you keep swimming, whether it comes easy or not.” mShe rises and holds her hand out to Ava. Ava groans as she stands. Everything hurts. “Get some rest. The sea will always be waiting for you.” mAva hears her. Smiling, she feels the warmth of the sun on her face. The aroma of the briny water biting at her with a welcoming affection.

The sea embraces her.

14

“Sun and Leaves 1 and 4” MOYSES GOMES

16

17

Bahay Kubo RINA MALAGAYO ALLURI

So many mountains and forests were moved to accommodate their arrival. Settling. Stealing. Our bahay kubo, huts made from bamboo and nipa, emptied of love, no longer massaging our bare feet with their texture. High walls hung rosaries, housing men wearing white collars, dragging long robes on earth where we used to gather. How we missed our sacred fires, where we listened to the wisdom of our babayan. Singing to the crescent moon, while volcanoes sang spitfire in vengeance of their violence. Weaving pain onto colourful fabrics, dreaming animal stories who warned us of the cunning. Their stones would teach us to thieve from each other, to climb the high ladders of hegemon. Squeezed into orderly pews, we could no longer face our sins. When we looked into our black eyes, we saw loss and how we were turning against each other. Watching the spilling of blood, not worthy of sipping from silver goblets displayed on marble mantels. Our questions of justice lost in the streams of sorrow flowing through rice paddies, collecting sticky remains of well-sucked mango seeds along the way. Witnessing echoes of our love float away with dignity, as our sore fingers bruised from clutching splintered sticks as weapons, no longer allowed to dance tinikling with joy and grief. The boundaries between anger and longing blurred. We accepted invitations into empire, sealed with greed to have a small taste of the power and agency they taunted us with. Built upon the brittle bones of our doom like a thunderclap telling us to run back to our homes for shelter, only to find they had been razed to the ground and we were left to get soaked in the rage of our Goddesses.

The Sacrifice CHLOE PANTA

Mala sat at the kitchen table, staring at the cup of herbal tea in front of her. The steam had long dissipated, leaving only the faint scent of chamomile in the air. Outside, the autumn leaves swirled in the wind, the sky a muted gray.

It was the kind of day that Krish would have loved — a day for cozying up with a book or taking a long walk through the fields that stretched out behind their house. But he wasn’t here to enjoy it. And the emptiness of the house pressed on her, a suffocating weight. mShe rested a hand on her belly, a small, unconscious gesture. Her sweater, loose and soft, did little to conceal the gentle swell beneath. Sixteen weeks. The touch was tender, protective. She hadn’t told anyone. It was a secret she held close, a fragile, precious thing.

There was safety in keeping it to herself, a small rebellion against a world that had taken so much from her. mThe phone on the table buzzed, rattling against the wood. She glanced at the screen and her chest tightened. Tara. Krish’s twenty-year-old sister. Her only ally from Krish’s family. Her name had appeared frequently over the past few weeks, messages filled with concern and care, her voice echoing across miles whenever they spoke. Tara’s gentle texts and thoughtful gestures stood in stark contrast to the cold, perfunctory calls Mala received from the others.

perfunctory calls Mala received from the others.

Yet even Tara’s words were carefully chosen, like someone tiptoeing around a broken vase. Her concern was shadowed by a loyalty that kept her tethered to the same silence that had excluded Mala all these years. mShe let the call go to voicemail. The lilies on the table caught her eye, their delicate petals gleaming white against the dark wood. A recent delivery, sent by Tara just yesterday. A kind gesture, but the sight of them filled her with a hollow ache. She traced a fingertip over the velvety surface of a petal, the scent sweet and cloying. m“They were his favorite,” she murmured, her voice barely audible in the quiet room. But now they felt like an intrusion, a reminder of a life she could no longer hold on to. mMala pushed herself up from the table and moved to the window, wrapping her arms around herself. The view was still and familiar.

The vast Iowa fields stretched out endlessly. The wind rustled through the tall grass. Krish had loved this place. He had loved this life they had built together here. Far from the prying eyes and judgemental looks that came with their marriage. He was Indian and she was Black, and the world always seemed to have something to say about that. Even strangers felt entitled to their opinions, t 19

their opinions, their stares lingering too long.

Here, this was supposed to be their sanctuary, a place where love could grow without boundaries. A place where they could just be. mThe first time she met his parents, she had felt the sting of their scrutiny. His mother had looked at her with that polite, strained smile that never quite reached her eyes. m“So, you’re a professor?” she’d asked, her tone light but loaded with an undercurrent of disbelief, as if Mala’s presence, her very existence in Krish’s life, was a puzzle she couldn’t quite piece together. m“Yes, I teach literature,” Mala replied, her smile warm but measured.. “At the university.” m“Oh.” His mother paused, her lips tightening briefly before curling into a smile. “That must be… nice. For now…” mHer gaze flickered over Mala’s curls and lingered for a fraction too long. Her words carried an edge too faint to grasp outright, but sharp enough to sting. mMala had swallowed her pride that day, for Krish’s sake, and many times after that. She had endured their thinly veiled comments, the way they had excluded her from conversations, speaking in rapid Hindi while she sat beside them, not understanding a word. She had borne it all because Krish had loved them, and he had loved her, and she had thought that was enough. mBut now Krish was gone. There was no one to shield her. Their disapproval hung over her, heavy and unrelenting. Quiet judgment. Words exchanged in Hindi, deliberate and sharp, designed to exclude. They had always seen her as an outsider, someone who didn’t quite belong. And without him, she was completely alone. mHer hand drifted back to her stomach, cradling the life growing within her. She imagined their reactions if they knew. The questions, the demands. Krish’s mother would want to take over, to be involved, to dictate how things should be done. She could already hear the disapproving tone, see the way they would try to erase her, to make her an afterthought. m“No,” Mala whispered, shaking her head. “This is ours.” mA soft kick against her palm made her smile despite herself. It was a small, fleeting moment of connection, a reminder that she wasn’t 20

of connection, a reminder that she wasn’t entirely unseen. She had someone to fight for, someone to protect. Already, she could imagine the quiet murmurs, the lessons spoken in a language she didn’t understand. They would claim her baby, weaving her child into a world where she would always be kept on the outside. mThe phone buzzed again, a text this time. Mala glanced at it, her heart sinking. mCall me when you can. We need to talk. mThere was no escaping it. She knew Tara meant well, that she was worried, but she couldn’t bring herself to answer. She wasn’t ready to face their questions, their demands to know what would happen now. Are you going to keep the house? Are you going to move back east to be closer to us? We’re your family too, Mala. Let us help. mShe thought of the funeral, how they had swept in, taking over every detail. They called it tradition, but to her, it felt like erasure. Decisions made without her. Her grief buried beneath the weight of their authority. The thought of them doing the same to her child twisted her stomach in knots. mShe squeezed her eyes shut, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window.

She could see it all unfolding — the wellmeaning intrusions, the insistence on being involved, on having a say. And when they found out about the baby… mNo. She couldn’t let them in. Not yet. Maybe not ever. This was her child, her last link to Krish, and she wouldn’t let anyone take that away from her. mShe turned away from the window and walked back to the kitchen, opening the cabinet to pull down a cardboard box. She had been thinking about it for weeks now, the idea slowly solidifying in her mind. She began to fill the box — a framed photo of her and Krish at their wedding, his favorite coffee mug, a soft blanket he had bought her when they had first moved in. A fresh start. Somewhere far from here.

Somewhere new, where no one knew her or Krish, where she could build a life for herself and the baby free from the expectations and judgments of his family. She would find a place where they belonged. mThe phone buzzed again, but she ignored it.

She wrapped fragile items in paper, sealing them safely away.

them safely away. Each item she packed felt like a farewell, a painful acknowledgment that this chapter of her life was closing. She would go west, she decided. mWhen the box was full, she sat back on her heels and glanced around the room. It still looked like their home, but it no longer felt like it belonged to her. mShe stood up slowly, her hands resting on her belly. m“We’re going to be okay,” she whispered, her voice firm despite the tremor in her heart. “We’ll find our own way.” mThe baby kicked again, as if in agreement. A sense of calm washed over her. She had a future to build, a life to protect. And she would do it on her own terms, no matter what. mWith a deep breath, she picked up the box and carried it to the living room, setting it beside the door. It was just the beginning, the first step towards a new life. A life where she and her child could be free. mMala glanced at the phone one last time, and then turned away. There would be time to deal with Tara later. For now, she needed to focus on what mattered — on the future she was determined to create. And, as she stood there, feeling the quiet strength of the life growing inside her, she knew she could do it.

7

“Haji Hammam 1 and 2” NADIA MALEKIAN

22

23

pluot

COURTNEY MOORE

it is a plum, no it is an apricot take a bite enjoy the sweetness as it overthrows your tastebuds take another bite to see the vibrant color changes closer to its seed it is a plum, no it is an apricot the color is closer to a plum the taste is closer to an apricot you take a few more bites solving the mystery posed between what your eyes see and your tongue tastes it is a plum, no it is an apricot forget what you sense just ask the fruit how it knows itself and accept the meaning: pluot

24

5

Silence in a Day Like This EHSAN AHMED MEHEDI

Silence on a day like this and its slow and harmless progression gently invokes in me an empty sense of contentment.

Today's morning meal is all vegetables: mashed boiled tomatoes with sliced onions, chilies, and salt; soft white rice; mother's inquisitive murmurs.

A goose sits over the yard observes me as I finish my breakfast.

I am not unknown here.

Today's sense of productivity has relieved me.

I sit down on a mossy wall softer than everything I touched lately.

The leaves fall slowly.

The presence of air rattles the dried banana leaves.

Often a mahogany

26

fruit falls making the sound of a fired canon.

But there is no suspicion no alarm.

27

Mis-typing in Costa (with tabs open somewhere else) KIRSTY KERR

and forward left of me two men speak Tagalog with the softness of caregivers or baptisms like those rhythmic ‘a’s and ‘o’s are blues notes falling in an ocean with white birds overhead —

and forward right of me two women speak Cantonese with the urgency of you have to see this you can’t afford to miss this like when the daybeam’s out and you have to be in it —

at the back of the shop I’m forward-facing laptop-open dissecting Eurocentric terminologies orienting new acronyms for East and Southeast not understanding any of it —

but Alt+Space finds me in sea-dots and sun-dashes:

on a precipice between two bays with you

and white birds overhead and a blue so warm that we have to be in it we can’t afford to miss this

28

“Mungu (Divine)”, “Faith” & “Berlin” JANET WALLACE

29

Untether QUINN MILLER MURPHY

At fifteen, I got in the car with my mom and made the three-hour drive to visit her hometown in central Washington. We drove down rainy roads past cities I’d never heard of and made a stop at the bakery of a small town where the main street smelled like warm bread.

My mom’s white, racist hometown (still white, probably still racist, with a few more stoplights) was quiet and calm. We drove past her childhood home, a river with sour memories, and a high school she’d never talked about. Most everything was unrecognizable to her and new to me, so with no “good old days” to talk about, she suggested we pop into the antique shops. I drank my first chocolate egg cream at a newmade-to-look-old soda shop. mBefore heading home, we stopped at the cemetery where her parents and brother, an aunt, and some uncles were buried. I lingered over one headstone with no body below. I had a piece of paper folded inside my jacket pocket, a letter to my grandmother, Annabell Miller. mMy grandmother was never involved with me.

You might say she didn’t have the chance, since I was just barely a one-year-old when she died, but she wasn’t involved with my older sister either. By the time I came around, it had been many years since she had even played a part in my mom’s life. As I grew, I learned about this woman through ing a cruel mother. I forgave

woman through truncated stories, just long enough to sketch the edges of her form but never long enough to color in the lines. I learned most about her through the moments that were absent from these stories. My mom’s childhood reminiscing didn’t include her mother getting ready with a hot curler in the mornings, donning a scarf to join her family in fresh snow, or anything that would even remotely suggest that my grandmother ever smiled. It seemed that any moment of joy my mom may have had with her own mother was so eclipsed by hate that, as memories faded, all that was left to share with me was the pain she had caused. mIn my teenage years, I started to put together a picture of a mean, hardened woman, who I had come to understand was cut from my mom’s life because of a devout commitment to racist beliefs. To have raised a white daughter (my mom) who would go on to marry a Black man (my dad) would have been one of her greatest shames, and I can only imagine what she would think of the product of that marriage.

Would the lightness of my skin have forgiven the sin of my ancestry? Sure, I’d pass a paper bag test, but I bet she’d follow the one drop rule.

My growing complex mixed identity tethered itself to my grandmother who, because of her title alone, had a claim to me. That hate she had for me s 31

for me simmered, encouraged by my hate for her, until I was sure one day I would hate myself, too. mIn the letter, I told my grandmother how I had grown to hate her. I detailed the abuse my mom had only occasionally discussed with me — not that she had yet called it abuse. And I forgave my grandmother. I forgave her so I could stop hating her. I forgave her for being a cruel mother. I forgave her for lying and tearing apart my mom’s relationship with her brother, for the obscenities she endured in college for having a Black roommate. I forgave her for never growing into a person who could love my dad, or my sister, or me, her only granddaughters. And I thanked her. I thanked her for somehow raising two girls who were nothing like her. I thanked her for having a daughter so much older than my mom, one with compassion and care who stepped in and countered the hate that filled their home. I thanked her for dying before I knew she’d lived, and for leaving my mom to raise her family in the peace of a world without her. mThe gesture was planned, quick (dramatic — I was fifteen). I tucked the lined paper, ripped from a school journal, under the grass growing over the side of her headstone.

Fourteen years of Washington rain has certainly allowed enough time for the grass and earth to swallow up the paper, decomposing my anger, forgiveness, and thanks, into the space where her casket would lay had she not instead been burned to ashes. My grandmother was a person whose actions and beliefs were unconscionable, and I did not forgive her to absolve her. In an act of self-preservation, I did it to untether myself.

32

“Mother and Son” SHIRLEY HOTTIER

34

Contributors Rina Malagayo Alluri (she/her) has been rooted, uprooted and replanted in various soils. She was born in Mumbai to Indian and Filipina parents and her childhood was divided between Nigeria and Canada. She is a peace scholar, yoga practitioner and mother to two headstrong children. Her poetry weaves together experiences of (de)coloniality, diasporic identities and relationships that form/unform. You can find some of her recent work in: Breadfruit mag, The Hemlock, Carnation Zine and Yellow Arrow Publishing.

Dean Atta is an award-winning Black British author and poet of Greek Cypriot and Jamaican heritage. He is the author of I Am Nobody’s Nigger, The Black Flamingo, Only On The Weekends, There is (still) love here, Confetti, and Person Unlimited. Dean lives in London.

Nadine Brito is a Canadian writer and editor of Mexican, Scottish, and English descent who is presently based in Edinburgh. She writes fiction, short stories, and screenplays that are usually found within the genres of magic realism, gothic, and horror. A featured writer for both FEM Script Lab and Firecracker Department’s Script Reading Series, she has placed in competitions put on by the International Screenwriters’ Association (ISA) and WIFT Vancouver. Her prose has been featured in Forest Publishing’s Origin Stories, From Arthur’s Seat, and Short Fiction Break. She holds a Master of Science in Creative Writing from the University of Edinburgh and a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in Cinema and Media Studies from York University. She is currently adapting one of her feature scripts into a novel.

Sophia Eve is a writer with Chinese-European heritage. An MLitt graduate from the University of St Andrews, her creative work focuses on women’s lived experiences and mixed-race, mixed-cultural identities. Sophia's earlier CNF writing on these topics can be found in JADEN magazine. She has previously lived in Scotland and England, currently resides in Canada, and is always searching for the next adventure.

always searching for the next adventure.

Born in Brazil, Moyses Gomes is a Black Brazilian-British artist with a degree in painting.

His early work laid the foundation for his exploration of natural materials in photography.

By using the chlorophyll in leaves and sunlight, Moyses developed a technique that mirrors the complexities of human relationships, particularly between parents and children. Now based in Edinburgh, Moyses works as an international artist. With a background in painting and videography, he blends these forms to explore deep questions of identity and representation.

His work invites reflection on how our heritage, family connections, and personal experiences shape who we are. Through his multidisciplinary approach, Moyses continues to push the boundaries of storytelling and artistic expression.

Shirley Hottier is a French award-winning Edinburgh-based illustrator of mixed heritage.

She has a passion for promoting diversity as a way to celebrate her multiple cultures, spanning from France to Madagascar/La Réunion, through the warm, lively scenes and characters she crafts.

She likes to design her illustrations as captures of the small moments that make life beautiful.

Kirsty Kerr is an artist, curator and sometimeswriter, currently based in Glasgow via London and Luzon. Her practice holds together points of tension and contradiction, drawing on experiences of living in/between mixed spaces and identities, such as race, class, culture and religion. Kirsty has worked with gal-dem, V&A East, UK New Artists, Create London and Culture&, where she is part of their New Museum School, a programme bringing more diverse voices to the Arts and Heritage sector.

Nadia Malekian (she/her) is an artist of dual Persian and Scottish heritage, which, along with her interest in the disciplines of architecture and textile design, is naturally reflected in her work.

After graduating from the Glasgow School of Art, she undertook screenprinting courses in an effort to continue explor 35

studies. These courses inspired her love of printmaking, which she has been balancing alongside her career as an architect ever since.

She has exhibited at the RGI Kelly Gallery, The Alchemy Experiment, and as a solo artist at the Glasgow Print Studio. Nadia is currently based in Copenhagen, and has been exploring other mediums such as collage and hand drawing in addition to screenprint.

Ehsan Ahmed Mehedi is an English graduate from the University of Dhaka, Bangladesh. He is interested in poetry, photography, and design, and is currently involved in teaching. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Quarter(ly), Barzakh Magazine, Stonecoast Review, Peatsmoke Journal, and elsewhere. In his free time, he enjoys narrating audiobooks for Librivox.

Quinn Miller Murphy holds a Master of Science degree in Education, and currently works as a proofreader and children’s book author. Her professional background and personal experiences deeply influence her writing, and she has only recently started a journey analyzing and deconstructing identity in community with other mixed-race individuals.

Courtney Moore (she/her) is based in California (United States), and is mixed with Black and White ancestry. She earned her B.A. in Communication and Studio Art, and her M.S. in Higher Education Counseling and Student Affairs. Courtney currently works in higher education supporting student parents.

Courtney's poetry explores several social identities, but mostly what it means to grow up and exist as a multiracial person in a binary society. Her poems have been featured in The Green Light literary journal.

Chloe Panta is the author of the creative nonfiction title Untapped Magic (New World Library). She teaches creative nonfiction at The Newberry Chicago. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.

Janet Wallace, an acclaimed abstract artist of Jamaican-Irish descent from the UK, crafts striking and vivid artworks that delve into the human experience. Her approach, deeply embedded in abstract expressionism, treats painting as an introspective journey that channels the complex rhythms of nature and the

36

osmos into expressive visual forms. Janet's art is a vibrant clash of color and emotion, where each brushstroke embodies her introspections and feelings. Committed to transforming spaces and minds, her bold, uninhibited use of color not only captivates but also challenges viewers, encouraging them to engage with the world anew and sparking their imaginations with lasting intensity.

Middleground Magazine | 2024 enquiries.middleground@gmail.com