Minetta Spring 2026 by The Minetta Review

the minetta review

spring 2026 issue 06

Established in 1974, The Minetta Review is a literary and arts publication managed by undergraduate students at New York University. After a brief hiatus, Minetta was relaunched in 2023 by Julia E. Mejia and Ananya Chibber.

Contact: minettareviewmag@gmail.com

“Spring

“they

say i will find the stairway to heaven 23 in the back of a nyc club”

Tess McLafferty

Letter

from the Editor

Dear Reader,

I am honored that you have chosen to engage with this dynamic collection, marking The Minetta Review’s sixth edition.

In an increasingly digitalized and fast-paced world, it isn’t easy to sit down with a magazine and enjoy small windows into other lives—real or fictional. But surely, if you are leafing through these pages, you believe that there is more to reading than logging another book on a Goodreads yearly challenge. Literature aids in understanding and connecting with another person; and understanding others, even to the smallest degree, is crucial to being human. Elaine Scarry elaborates that “the human capacity to injure other people is very great precisely because our capacity to imagine other people is very small.” Imaginative works then become crucial in expanding the human consciousness, as explained by Viet Thanh Nguyen. So I thank you for being here and immersing yourself in these new worlds.

This issue’s prose, poetry, and art take a darker turn. Some of these pieces balance the darkness with humor, some with hope, but some choose neither. Whether that is ripping and tearing at another dog in Coleman Hicks’ piece, embodying death itself in Lihi Shoshani’s “The Gift of Life,” living within a government that is in “freefall” as Anthony Albright observes, or swimming in the depths of a “nyc club” in Tess McLafferty’s poem. We hope that you will enjoy interacting with these works and embrace the process of slowing down to appreciate them.

I send my heart and gratitude to Minetta’s dedicated editorial team. They read over a hundred submissions with care. Managing Editor Tyson Pope has especially been crucial to the execution of the issues which I have overseen. Whether that is organizing the poetry team, managing our social media, or watching Bridgerton together, Tyson has been with me through it all.

Additionally, I would like to thank our contributors; I recognize the hard work it takes to both create a piece and find a home for it. Minetta is certainly lucky to be a home for the art in these pages.

The Spring 2026 issue begins the 52nd year of Minetta’s existence. It has been an honor to contribute to this legacy and a pleasure to serve as the Editor-in-Chief.

Sincerely,

Whitney Sederberg Editor-in-Chief of The Minetta Review

The Dogs

Coleman Hicks

Down the dirt path and past the old men smoking on the shed house porches. Watches the boy as he waves to Benny who owns the shop and junkyard. Him passing into the alley where they are shooting dice. Vagabonds in the shadows in the lee of walls. The grisly cats and creatures. Glances at the boy as he ducks through the side door. Past the kitchen and down the trash rooms through the low pipe-strewn hall and into the belly of the Earth. Into the subterranean bastion where beneath neon bulbs bare and cruel there waits a crowd. Walks along the edge and slides beneath elbows among the stink of sweat and whiskey to a spot above where he can sit and see the fight. The other boys had told him but only he knew Benny and only he was big enough to shave their doubt. Some other cretin comes to see the bloodsport. He looks out over their heads shaved and scarred. The ex-cons and the hillbillies and the midnight riders in their rapt attention to the cordoned pit of sand where shown in spotlight is the first contender and his handler. Small mutt. Rottweiler surely or Doberman. Steel muzzle and the man who holds him lurching into the ring with the dog between his legs. Howling and whooping as he rounds the perimeter. Canine and jockey.

Watches with a boy’s wide eyed stare the next dog coming in. Fit for snatching men from horses. Mastiff of some wicked proportion. Barely contained and thrashing with commotion like a hogwild steer. Gripped tightly by the master. The dogs meet their stares as the multitudes grow quiet and the muzzles are pried and each is held fast by the collar. Hold them cocked for a moment. Count is made and at three let go. The masters throw themselves over the fence. The hounds shoot like guns.

Carnage. Rip and tear at one another. Screaming cries of abominable hatred. The two in this immortal fury. Bigger grabs the smaller’s neck where skin tears and blood flies and he yanks free degloved and comes back with a scorned rapacity. Slips in like a knife and grabs the jugular. Larger yelping and stumbling back with the other on his throat like a hawk. Jaws catch an ear which comes off and lies in the pit.

Dog of war begins to slow and whine as the knife of a creature holds true and sinks his teeth deeper into the meat of his neck. The great beast falls with one leg tripping. The body hits the floor and the little one is still locked on. Shaking in a senile motion of ripping and tearing. Growling in guttural victory. Nearly beheading the one who lay now motionless. Handler comes from behind him and grabs the collar. Tears him away. He who thrashes in protest with skin loose from muscle and earless among the grime. With great effort the master gets the muzzle on and the dog begins to still as he is led away and out of the round. The crowd of derelicts hails his victory with a wailing triumph of halfdrunk hollars. Fit for such a waste the boy thinks. But the image still haunts his brain. Of the victor so intoxicated with gore to be torn of like a leach. Writhing and thirsty.

The boy slides down and past the men as they exchange swigs and folded bills and brandish deadly stares. Failed bets and the sore eye the lucky with familiar hate. Smog of cigarette smoke and iron sting of blood and the boy rushes out and up the way. A feeling welling up within him. Something he had not known. Up the stairs and past the pipes and the fading light of the alley where a silent and boiling analog incubates in his heart. Lust for a test of fate. Some proof of life in death. Seen there in the night as they brutalized each other in the scum of the denizen freakshow. There a cold wreaking anger. A lust to be the dog.

The Gift of Life

Lihi Shoshani

Rather than evoking a comforting ambience, the orange flame flickering beside the fortune teller only added to the heaviness in the room. The cinnamon scent wrapped itself around Chava, intermingling with the dank stench permeating the basement walls. So overwhelmed by the malodor, she focused on breathing through her nose instead of listening to the psychic.

“Okay,” the teller exclaimed, unnecessarily dragging out the last syllable to draw Chava’s attention back to the tarot deck. Two cards lay on a worn wooden table, marred by scratches and staggered rings of condensation. She should really invest in coasters. The teller gasped dramatically as she drew the last card.

“I see great pain in your future,” she emphasized, waving her hands wildly above the table, fingers intensely clutching the Death card. The chilling eyes of the Grim Reaper, cloaked in a rather unflattering black, leered at Chava. (I find this representation of me to be wholly inaccurate. Death is really quite beautiful, my reader. You should not fear it, but wholly embrace it). The candle sputtered eerily.

“You must avoid anything dangerous; Death is waiting for you, eager to whisk you away the second you let your guard down.”

Unsettled by the sudden seriousness in the teller’s countenance, Chava’s ugly mouth formed a frown, marring her already unfortunate features. “Wait, what? So what am I supposed to do? How long is Death” —she curled her fingers in disbelieving air quotes— “going to wait for me?”

Foreseeing Chava’s irritation, the grandiose psychic attempted to soothe her client. “Not too long, my dear,” she cooed, raising a wrinkled hand to caress the 5

shriveled Sphynx cat sprawled across her lap. I wonder if the fortune teller had another cat, one responsible for the ungodly amount of fur coating the furniture. She continued: “Isolate yourself for the next week.” The psychic gave a nod of assurance, pleased with her sudden bout of inspirational advice.

Relieved to have been given a definitive time frame, Chava began to imagine the next seven days locked in the small basement she subleased, one not unlike the room she was in presently. She lived below a rather loud family of six, the thin popcorn ceiling letting through their eightmonth-old’s constant stream of crying and screaming. She knew to expect the walls’ reverberation every Tuesday at 8:30 p.m. as the parents knocked the headboard against the wall in a well-established rhythm. Their scheduled fuck—how romantic.

It would be a long week. But she would do it, Chava resolved.

Let me set the rather unfortunate scene.

The room boasted two pieces of furniture: a loveseat she had found rejected on the side of the road, and a cot so thin, Chava was essentially sleeping on the floor. A sole window slanted upwards towards D Ave., displaying a rather pleasing view up the skirts of women walking by. She greatly took advantage of the intimate scenery, but who wouldn’t?

The sunlight illuminated dust swirling in the muggy air. Thick with humidity and body odor, the basement was a wretched place to live. But poor Chava had no other options. That’s what happens when you don’t have a job, family, or any friends. Of course, I don’t expect you to be able to relate to Chava; I know I don’t—thank God.

Not thirty minutes had passed before Chava began pacing the length of the 10 by 12 foot room. She reached the opposite wall in seven paces, her bare feet nimbly

avoiding the glittering rat droppings, camouflaged by sardine gray mold, which lined the cracked floors and replaced any need for grout.

She crawled up and down the stairs like a monkey child, hopping up two at a time and then descending with both feet occupying the same step—first the right on the highest step, then the left. Switching the order for some additional excitement, she placed her left foot on the thirteenth step, then her right. She completed the series with her left foot on the last step, the right joining it subsequently.

The scuttling of overgrown rats softly roused Chava from a light slumber, a cacophony of scratches emanating from their strange, pudgy feet. She liked to imagine the mundane conversations happening in the walls; today, Mary the Rat was complaining to Caroline the Rat Mother about the rude New York City children who squeaked in terror whenever she ventured outside.

“But Mom,” Mary cried pathetically, “I feel so ugly! How can I feel good about myself when people scream at the sight of my face?”

“You’re fine,” Caroline would respond unsympathetically, distracted by her other children fighting over a crumb dragged in off the street.

Chava’s heart ached for the rat and she envisioned how she would comfort Mary and convince her of her beauty and value.

I’m sorry to recount these boring events; I hope you’re still reading. But, unfortunately folks, this is the most interesting thing that occupies Chava’s mind these days. Maybe I should find a different victim.

Settling into the sad loveseat, Chava prepared for her people-watching segment. Every Sunday afternoon, she would stare out of the window, observing the 7

extravagantly clad New Yorkers and eavesdropping on their not-so-private conversations.

She was immediately transfixed by a group of beautiful women passing by, a hearty mix of silver and gold jewelry adorning their tanned arms and giraffe necks. Chava imagined they were on their way to brunch, where they would drink bottomless mimosas and complain about misogynistic bosses and amateur coworkers. They would exchange hugs and European cheek kisses before going their separate ways, later complaining to their sleazy boyfriends about one another.

She saw herself amidst their circle, indiscernible from the crowd in a long polka-dotted Reformation dress and ivory kitten heels. Chava couldn’t walk in heels, so even in a utopian version of this world, where she had enough money to buy anything from Reformation or had beautiful friends, this would never happen.

Chava tucked herself below the window, staring up at just the right angle so that she had a direct view of their underwear. (She was extremely practiced in joining the shadows to creep on unsuspecting passersby). A shiver of pleasure ran through her at the sight of their unshaved vaginas. She fantasized about rubbing her face on the soft silk of their clothes and skin, burrowing so deep into them that they would become one. If only it were that easy.

Sprawled across her cot, Chava waited for the telltale thumping that indicated the start of Tuesday night’s festivities. At exactly 8:30 p.m., groans seeped through the floor. The husband’s coarse voice was the louder of the two, whimpering perfectly in time with his irregular thrusts.

Chava had immediately noted the downfall of their relationship a few years back, when the wife’s moans shifted from soft sighs to pornographic howls that were too performative to be genuine. Now, when she listened to

their fucking, she pictured herself responsible for eliciting those sounds from Mrs. Waters’ mouth.

Chava only masturbated when listening to people who were unaware of their enraptured audience. She liked creeping on others; she imagined walking in on them, her face a mask of shock and disbelief as they rushed to cover themselves.

Reaching for her tub of expired lube that really should have been thrown out years ago, Chava lulled herself into a satiated state. The container lay discarded on the ground, the lid mixing with excrement to create an entirely new product. It really was a wonder that Chava hasn’t suffered from any infections thus far.

At this rate, she would die young.

Having misjudged the amount of canned soup and corned beef she had stocked in her kitchen, Chava found herself down to the final can on her sixth day of isolation. Her stomach revolted against the cold soup. Who knew soup could go stale? But I guess eating from a can that’s been left open and uncovered for two days will do that.

A tad delirious with hunger, Chava schemed to steal crumbs of food from the neighboring family of rats. Caroline had immediately jumped to her children’s rescue, menacingly gnashing her sharpened, edgy teeth to shoo Chava’s grubby hands away. But the rats were no match for the hangry girl, and Chava came out victorious. Her prize was a slice of cheese, which she had sniffed and deduced to be American. It was a suspicious color, the green-tinted edges and teeth marks urging her to throw it away. Alas, Chava ignored good sense and quickly swallowed, gagging slightly as the cheese cleared her esophagus.

We have finally reached the end of Chava’s story A rather boring one at that, but whose fault is that? I applaud 9

you, beloved reader, for making it this far. Now allow me to wrap this life up with a pretty bow so we can all be on our merry way.

Chava vibrated with anticipation all throughout her last night of isolation, eager to rejoin the world of the living. She had faithfully obeyed the fortune teller’s words of caution and was happy to leave any possibility of danger in the past.

The fateful morning arrived, announcing itself with the steady stream of New York drivers obnoxiously honking at one another and blocking the shrieking ambulances whizzing about the city.

Enjoying the fresh air she had previously been deprived of, Chava slowly made her way to Washington Square Park, took out her guitar, and propped the case open. The second-hand instrument was colored an unfortunate brown and damaged with scratches, but appearances could not detract from its intrinsic beauty. She began to strum the worn strings affectionately, as if the guitar were her own lover.

Preparing to make my dramatic entrance—to cut Chava’s notes short and see the way her hand would fall limp, her head lolling to the side as her strength gave out—I noticed the people reclining on neighboring benches slightly incline their heads, tuning into her music.

Since this is the most interesting Chava has been, I let her conclude her final performance. This is my gift to you, a token of my appreciation for listening to this poor girl’s tale.

Passersby were surprisingly entranced by her playing, congregating around her to form a halo. A modest family, the first of her audience, urged the youngest child to place two dollars in Chava’s guitar case. He approached her meekly, looking back at his parents for approval before depositing the money. Chava gratefully bowed her head as her last note rang out, the decently-sized crowd

applauding heartily before dispersing. Finally, our epilogue.

As I reached out towards Chava, her light just beyond the tip of my fingertips, she was suddenly enveloped by the passing herd. I lost sight of her in their midst, her unassuming figure blending in among the cluster. When the dust finally settled, she was nowhere to be seen.

Seething, I keenly surveyed the park for my victim. Chava, it seemed, had vanished out of existence. The only indication of her ever being there were the lingering notes of music still hanging in the air.

But music does not linger. Not after the instrument has gone silent, after the loving hands that coaxed it into being have stilled. Sound dissipates. Life ends. These are rules—my rules. And yet.

I remained there longer than I care to admit, the last of her melody curling through the air like smoke that refused to disperse. I reached for it once, experimentally, as one might test the heat of a flame. It slipped cleanly through my fingers.

Dear reader, you must understand—I do not miss. Not for girls like Chava, not for kings or beggars or the nameless things rotting in basements. I arrive precisely when I mean to. I take what is owed.

So where, then, had she gone?

The battered guitar still lay in its open case, a twodollar bill fluttering weakly in the breeze. I turned my attention to the crowd, to the pathways, to the city itself, stretching outward in all its grime and noise and stubborn, writhing life. No flicker. No trace. No thread left for me to follow.

I lingered until the sun dipped low, until the city swallowed the day whole. Even then, I stayed, listening. Nothing. At last, I straightened, smoothing the invisible creases of my cloak. There are, after all, others to attend to. Always others.

Still, I find myself glancing, now and then, at the spaces between people. At the edges of crowds. At the quiet moments when someone somewhere plays a note just slightly out of tune. Just in case. After all, if a girl like Chava can slip through my grasp once— Well. Let’s hope, for your sake, that she cannot do it again.

Amelie Ellena Lourens

The Highlands Scotland

Thom Sheils

Sufi Dancer on Fire

Shayana Foroutan

Islam and I did not always get along, my prayers whispered into what seemed like empty hands focused instead, on cupping and dipping themselves in water for wudu, purification, of mind, body, of soul, bismillah, in the name of God, a God that I wasn’t sure I trusted. But still it seemed to me at the Sufi ceremony, to be so true, the way the dancer spun in the center of the floor, his body whirling into stillness, the flute somehow thumping in my ears, his hands reaching, reaching, reaching, so the cupping didn’t seem so banal.

For weeks after, I waited to feel my prayers land in those outstretched hands, pointed toward God, spinning in place, derobed of ego, simply true. I waited. Quietly, and patiently, and hoping for all the good things. Nothing came.

I tried to cleanse myself of sin—my immodesty, my long brown hair, my questions for God. I kneeled on carpet, joints cracking at the sound of my desperation, ankles popping with each Bismillahir-RahmaanirRaheem:

Please-Please-Please. The dancer spun. He continued to spin. Across the world, God struck down all the sinners, fired shotguns at the women whose hair curiously peeked out from their hijabs, wanting to witness His graciousness in the mosques scattered around their city centers

Security forces, God’s angels, waited behind the haft-rang tiles, painted by the blood of those protesters, those forty thousand men and women, who dared defy His authority, his benevolent oppression. Tehran was painted by the tears of the unsaved; and I, virtuous, just kept kneeling.

the barn falls down and no one remembers who bought the wood to build it Ella Bowman

tonight, look for me mowing my childhood lawn. the grass is itching my ankles, and the grasshoppers whisper excuse me, with their soft wings against my kneecaps.

my grandfather is alive and i am scooping algae out of the pond. we are all so dirty all of the time.

i will laugh when the rotted barn falls to pieces because i have not yet learned that to exist here is to rust.

dad is still writing music on the front porch, and i am still waiting for the shower, taunting mosquitos from inside the screen door.

edmund and lucy are boarding the dawn treader, and i am convinced that if i catch the coat closet at just the right time i can surprise it into becoming a portal to another dimension, where this little world keeps shaping itself around me forever.

tonight, the kitchen floors never got fixed. the bark of my favorite beech is softer on the side we climb, and no one has seeded over the patch of dirt the dog tore up before his body forgot how to run.

“Smooth Sailing”

Anushka Chakrabarti

Republic in Freefall

Anthony Albright

The floorboards of the state are thin. Each step resounds with cracking grain. We feel the tremor in our skin, the warning pulse of coming strain. The laws are bent like winter reeds. The courts grow quiet, slow to speak. A hunger rises in the streets— for truth, for courage, for the weak. The air is tight. The hour’s late. The windows rattle in their frames. A fever grips the trembling state that once held steady under flames. We march because the roof is split. We shout because the beams decay. We know the cost of letting it collapse without a fight today. The future leans on what we do. The timbers groan. The rafters sway. A nation waits to see if we will brace the house or look away.

Spring in New York Bailey Sytsma

right after, the streets smelt of warm piss with heat so thick you could taste it on your top lip by noon and the rats ran wild across the tops of your feet bolting into restaurants searching for a breeze cooler than 90 you’ll spend August sitting on bags of ice that will soon become water dripping off the fire escape, onto the sidewalk below. Using your finger you’ll point and you judge everyone below with your roommate, at four in the afternoon smoking cigarettes and talking about cancer wondering how the hell that one person you follow is parading themselves around Central Park on a bike, and how this weather is fucking criminal but yet we stick around and stare below at the homeless man who dances in the street switching between screaming at anyone who looks him in the eyes and singing i likey likey ohhhh you i likey likey ohhhh you i likey likey ohhhh you to the person who isn’t there

but right before, you went on one, two, three dates in one month because you’re twenty-six because you don’t want to end up alone like your father do you?

because what else is there to do while this weather is so piercing making your knuckles bleed and your toes numb and maybe it’s better to wake up next to a warm body than a cold one and by next year you’ll be more equipped for this snow, this slush, this rain, this cold but not this year, for now you’re out late wandering up and down the streets looking for a restaurant as warm as a New York summer you’ll hear the silence and you’ll listen for the sound of your heels clacking on the cement and

the rats at night humming, whispering inside trashbags that lie in heaps on sidewalks, keeping to themselves you’ll drink red wine at a jazz club at 8 pm and let a man put his hand on your thigh because it’s so chilly tonight but we’re all fucking cold and what you don’t know is by the time all of this piss and shit and trash that’s covered in snow thaws and the flowers finally begin to bloom

he’ll be dead

they say i will find the stairway to heaven in the back of a nyc club

Tess McLafferty

there’s a cool dampness to desire. to the things they tell me to want. ash filled rooms brimming filling with machine-made-fog,

soot stained bricks line the alley of this place. the goings and gettings

what makes a body a corpse? i ask him, leaning on red brick turned leaden,

cigarette perched in the gap of plaque tongue laced with metallic vodka, they tell me to want it here.

but my lungs are coughing wondering how to expel this place from my dreams best years!

i am trying to fit into my mouth, gorge myself

feasting now so i have something to chew on when i’m now: a soft life i am trying to crack

brimming with darkness, machine-made-fog, pulsing at the seams of stage doors. and returnings and leavings have bled into the foundation.

plaque stained teeth, vodka, he answers: the rotting, i guess. (yours, really) of the myself until i am satiated with my youth. i’m hibernating 60 years from to squeeze the fog in.

Presley Sytsma is a designer and illustrator from Olympia, Washington. Currently wroking out of Brooklyn, NY, her digital illustrations are a reflection on her own internal dialogue as she navigates living in the city, exploring new connections, processing grief, and blooming late.

Coleman Hicks is a Junior studying Philosophy at New York University. In his free time he enjoys low-bar squatting and playing songs on the guitar, badly.

Lihi Shoshani studied English and economics at NYU. Her short story is inspired in part by Clarice Lispector’s The Hour of the Star. She appreciates New York City wildlife and incorporates said fauna into her stories. Her oeuvre, both academically and creatively, delves into the grime of humanity.

Elléna Lourens, a South African artist, began working on personal and collaborative creative projects while in school. Since then she has further pursued illustration, street art, painting, and embroidery. Her style lends itself to the past in its representation of ancient symbols, patterns and colour schemes, while voicing an intuitively current aesthetic that resonates and seeks to redefine emotional iconography. She has immersed herself in the creative world, working alongside established artists, as well as furthering her own practice, taking part in shows and creating murals in both South Africa and internationally.

Thom Sheils is a New York-based creative born in South Korea, working across fashion/footwear design and film photography. While rooted in design, his photographic practice focuses on medium format film and vintage equipment, embracing a slower and more intentional process. Sheils views photography as both a time capsule and a form of performance art, where each frame is deliberate and meaningful, capturing moments with a sense of permanence. His work is grounded in the belief that photography serves as a timeless record, preserving memories with clarity, discipline, and purpose.

Shayana Foroutan is a senior at NYU studying English on a Creative Writing Track.

Ella Bowman is an undergraduate writer from Southwest Ohio. This May, she will graduate from The Ohio State University with a bachelor’s degree in English Creative Writing and Public Policy. Her work centers the warmth and decay of rural, rust belt towns, like the ones she grew up around. When she’s not writing poems, you can find her spending time outdoors or playing music with her band, Strawberry Jam.

Anushka Chakrabarti is a recent graduate of the University of Maryland and an upcoming information analyst at SMBC based in New York City. She spent her most recent fall abroad in Barcelona where she spent time photographing local monuments and murals.

Anthony Albright is a Choctaw Poet and Playwright living on the shores of the Mississippi River. He explores themes of cultural memory, political collapse, and the intersection of personal narrative with broader historical forces. He is looking forward to seeing his work in The Minetta Review.

Bailey Sytsma is a writer from Olympia, Washington with a BA degree in Creative Writing and Journalism News Editorial. After working as an environmental journalist in Bellingham, WA she now submites work to zines and literary magazines within her community. Bailey’s work plays with time and perception; to perpetuate how memories can change through emotion and through seasons of life.

Tess McLafferty is a rising senior at NYU studying Sociology, Creative Writing, and Art History. Her storytelling work– from poetry to photography to scribbled recipes– aims to highlight the humanity of the mundane. When she’s not making granola, hiking mountains, or finding just one more place to study abroad, she can be found writing and photographing for various magazines, as well as her personal substack @travelsoftess.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MASTHEAD

MANAGING EDITOR

PROSE EDITORS

POETRY EDITORS

COPY EDITOR

Whitney Sederberg

Tyson Pope

Madison Li

Oscar Chan

Taylor Morgan

Kaamya Krishnan

Leigh Wolberger

Moully Oshmi Ghosh

Noor Alli