the minetta review spring 2025 issue
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.
Book Design and Layout by Samantha Esmé Williams and Ananya Chibber. All rights reserved to the contributors, whose authorization is required for reprints.
Contact: minettareviewmag@gmail.com
Cover art by Brynne
Janowski
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Letter from the Editor
PROSE
Armless
Eleana Morse
A Cry in the Wilderness
Huajin Li
POETRY
holes
Melanie Zhang
Darling Amadis Davis
unfit L Daniels
Putuo
Cecelia Hua
Forms of Water
Cecelia Hua
ART
Sienna, Italy
Melissa Vasquez
Manarola, Italy
Melissa Vasquez
Melissa Vasquez
Brynne Janowski
Letter
from the Editor
Dear Reader,
This issue marks the second full year since The Minetta Review’s relaunch. It’s the fourth issue I have worked on, and it’s one I’m very excited to share with you. The written pieces in this issue range widely in form, length, and subject, but they share a propensity for memorable language and distinct perspectives. This issue’s art is similarly wide-ranging in form, including photography, sculpture, and watercolor, and striking in its originality. Taken together, we trust that these pieces will leave as lasting an impression on you as they did on us.
I would like to thank our editors for all the work they put into this issue. It’s been such a joy to work on a magazine with such a dedicated and thoughtful group of editors. I couldn’t be more enthusiastic about our Copy Editor, Whitney Sederberg, assuming the role of Editorin-Chief next year—since joining Minetta in the Fall, Whitney has made invaluable contributions to both the content of the publication and the environment of the editorial board. I look forward to reading Minetta’s Fall 2025 issue under her editorship.
Working on Minetta has been one of the highlights of my college experience. Through the magazine, I have gotten to work with some of my closest friends, speak with writers whose work I have long admired, and consistently read new and inventive writing. Relaunching the magazine with last year’s Editor-in-Chief, Julia Mejia, was a difficult but endlessly rewarding project. I can’t wait to see the things that Minetta’s contributors, editors, and readers go on to accomplish.
Warmly,
Ananya Chibber
Armless Eleana Morse
It starts with a tingle down your middle finger. Forming under the base of your nail is, not quite an itch, and not quite a pain, but a persistent sensation that spreads down until it reaches your hand. You try to ignore it, but it makes your finger twitch any time you try to use it. You smack it, you ice it, you run it under cold water, you run it under hot water—and still, the feeling remains.
The next day, it has spread, now reaching across all five fingers on your right hand. You try to test if your fingers can bend; they do, albeit somewhat reluctantly. It’s now nearly impossible to grip anything with your right hand, and you start using your left hand to write. The next day, the feeling has spread down your palm and into the center of your wrist.
Your fingers have stopped being able to bend entirely. The middle finger is now violently twitching. You realize, now that you can’t move the fingers at all, the sensation that you are actually feeling. It is not a feeling at all, but a total lack of one.
The next day, the tingling numbness has spread down to your elbow. Your hand is now completely dead, flopping back and forth over your wrist as the twitching grows out of control. You try using your other hand to keep it still, but no matter how hard you squeeze, you can still feel the movement under your palm. You stay home all day, trying desperately to get feeling back into your hand.
That night, you are unable to sleep. You can feel the twitching spreading up your forearm, and the force of the twitching is causing your body to involuntarily shake across the mattress. The next day, you’re exhausted, feeling the force of sleep shutting your eyes against your will. It feels like your body is collapsing in on itself and
you have been stripped of the ability to put it back together. The numbness has now spread up to your shoulder, bringing with it a new level to the never-ending anguish. With dizzy desperation, you use your left hand to clumsily pull a small step ladder underneath a nearby window. You open the window, take out the screen, and force your twitching arm to hang outside. You bring the window down, hard, onto your right arm, over and over again. You feel no pain. Blood eventually starts falling down the side of the house, staining the white paint with streaks of reddish-brown. You can feel the window frame hitting bone, but you keep hacking away. It feels like hours have passed by the time your arm eventually falls off the shoulder, falling down the side of the house until it lands in the grass. You look up at the ceiling as your vision is clouded by white stars, and your body starts to fall backwards.
The next day, you wake up in a hospital bed. Somebody must have seen the arm in the backyard and called the police. Looking at your right shoulder, you can see that there is no longer an arm attached to it, only a nub that has been covered in gauze and bandages. The numbness hasn’t spread. You cry out in relief, a strangled sound that comes from deep in your chest and bursts out of your throat.
And then, you feel a tickle crawl through your right middle finger.
A Cry in the Wilderness
Huajin
Li
Trees are running backwards.
I try to find the sun outside the window. It is so bright that I cannot look directly into the source. But I see my own face, like an afterimage burned onto the retina, flickering on top of the forest—a face of fatigue, of time’s burden. Silver mustache, silver sideburns.
Today is the first day at Dhamma Mahavana, which I learned means “Great Forest of Dhamma.” It is located in North Fork, “the center of California,” close to Yosemite.
Pete gives me a rideshare from downtown San Francisco. Years of single life have stripped me of most material needs, including my old car that finally gave out last spring. I found the ride online and contacted Pete, who was heading the same way. We are of similar age, though we don’t know much about each other beyond what little conversation the road trip allowed.
He keeps talking about why he is attending the Vipassana meditation retreat—a farewell to his alcoholic past—though I have no genuine interest in his history. I nod occasionally, thinking of my own reasons.
A temporary escape, maybe. Another year alone in the city, marking time in an apartment that feels both like a sanctuary and a prison. I used to count days without knowing I was waiting, but one day, I stopped.
The teachers and assistants greet us at the entrance, their smiles serene, the kind that aspires to the highest state of peace—Buddhahood itself. But their tranquility feels almost comical against a backdrop of rhythmic pecking. Nearby, a family of woodpeckers takes turns drumming against an oak tree, their red-crowned heads tilting with precise intent. Their knocks fall in sync with my footsteps, a steady pulse in the quiet air. For the first time in a long while, something stirs in me—a small
flicker of ease, the promise of something new. The sound reminds me of summer afternoons in our first home, that tiny cabin we built near the lake. Mei would tap her pen against the desk while working, a gentle percussion I could follow from room to room.
I have sought new beginnings since she left, but the more urgently I run, the deeper I sink into the marsh of the past.
Pete and I are assigned to separate rooms in the same cottage near the central Pagoda. The rooftop carries some patches of white snow, glowing silver reflections under the sun. The rooms are kept to simplicity. One singlesize bed, one sheet, one blanket, a digital clock. 5:04 pm. Is a clock necessary in a place no longer occupied with working time? The bathroom is simple too. Two urinals, two sinks, two mirrors, one shared shower for four people. A sign-up sheet is taped to the wall.
An assistant debriefs us on the schedule and rules: no electronic devices, no talking, minimal interaction, no writing or reading, no running—only walking. Vegetarian meals. Meditation from 6 a.m. Night assemblies, individual teacher meetings... Fifteen days of silence. Finally, the assistant announces in an all-knowing tone, “It’s normal to feel frustrated, especially when the impurities come up.”
I wake up at midnight. I am not used to sleeping on a strange bed. The mattress feels too soft and the pillow absorbs me into a deep but lucid dream. I saw woodpeckers standing on my aging limbs. Their pecks ripped my flesh bit by bit. Was I a tree? I remember woodpeckers love decaying trees. My neck hurts.
The single window frame captures the view outside. It’s dawn. I step outside, chilly winter air immediately fills the gap under my North Face jacket. I smell the damp earth. A narrow path guides my steps toward the pagoda. On my way, a field stretches in endless waves of yellow
and amber. The wind stirs the field only slightly, setting off a faint rustling. Frost clings to the edges of the straws, as if freezing the last bit of summer remnants. My jeans stick to my calf, moist, as I walk through them. Far away, a thin mist reveals the silhouettes of some other students, while the top of the pagoda shines with golden hues. Everyone is with me, I think, regaining some comfort.
The pagoda is half empty. Most people are probably still asleep. Under the wooden triangular structure are blue cushions placed in perfect grid, the left side for men, the right side for women, altogether around 100. I push myself to sit in a standard lotus, but soon fail to remain still. I have never been able to maintain any spiritual practices, or routined exercises. The wetness expands from my calf to my knees, making them ache and cry with resistance.
I change through a few other even more uncomfortable gestures, noticing that more people are joining, and the teachers have entered the hall. They still use cassette players as a respect to teaching traditions. The Burmese master’s voice soon fills the hall, hypnotically–it was probably recorded twenty years ago. I was still a working man then. But looking back I was more like a child, not knowing real life but pretending I did.
I was an urban planner, once. I spent my days shaping cities, drawing lines on maps that would dictate where people lived, where they worked, where they met and parted ways. I optimized transit routes, designed green spaces, calculated the best places for roads to bend and skylines to rise.
You spend all day planning places for people to meet, but you never meet anyone yourself. Mei used to tease me. She wasn’t wrong. When did all of it fade into dread? When did the act of creating turn into nothing more than routine?
Feel the area beneath your nostrils. The warmth or tingling as they are within that tiny area of your skin. The Burmese master instructs.
My breaths slowly settle. In and out from my nose the subtle air feels like nothing. I try a few more obvious breaths which sound loud in this quiet hall. The hall is quiet until somebody suddenly coughs, like a firecracker that cannot resist the burning of the fuse, whose sparks eventually create a serial explosion.
Annoyed by the burst of coughs and sneezes, I open my eyes. I stretch my legs under dim lights, but the ache doesn’t go away. That is when I notice my mismatched socks. One blue, one black. A careless mistake.
Pete is sitting a few rows behind me on the right, his legs crossed in deep concentration. He seems better at feeling that nostril area than I am. The others around me appear like him, but I sense the agitation beneath.
Across the room, a woman sits with her back straight, perfectly still. She is peaceful unlike the others. Weirdly my eyes can’t get off her. Something about her face—her profile, the sharpness of her nose—makes my stomach tighten. I imagine her voice to be silky and gentle with some gravels at specific consonants. Black turtleneck, hazel hair, thick eyebrows, perfect ear shape (I cannot discern clearly as she is far from me). All these feel familiar. I cannot breathe.
I know her. Or I almost do.
She looks like Mei. Not as I last saw her—older, tired, finished with us both. I feel my breath again, but this time because the nostril area is wet with tears.
I don’t cry. At least, not like that. Not over something as simple as a face in the dim hall. But the tear was there,
cooling on my cheek before I could wipe it away.
After hours of anxious breathing practice, I run to the male teacher’s one-on-one meeting session. I have to talk to someone.
“There is something wrong with this place,” I say. My voice sounds strange after two days of silence—the vibration of my lungs unnatural, my tongue twists. I tell him I cried this morning. But I avoid mentioning that woman.
The old wise man smiles and gazes downward at me, in compassion, but not condescending. “That is very common here. More things will come up. Be gentle to your fears. And just go for a walk in nature. Be patient.”
The dining hall is simple. Wooden tables, metal trays, the faint aroma of steamed vegetables and lentils wafting through the air. The line moves in silence, each of us taking our portions without exchange. The absence of words thickens the air, making every movement feel intentional, weighted.
I sit near the window, where the light pools onto the wooden surface. Outside, the trees sway gently, their branches brushing against the sky. The meal is plain— rice, tofu, a side of sautéed greens. Seasoning is provided but I prefer the natural taste of the food. I chew slowly, watching the steam rise, dissolving into the air.
Across the room, she sits alone, her hands moving with quiet precision as she lifts her spoon to her lips. She does not rush. This time I am sitting closer. There is a woodpecker tattoo on her right wrist.
I look down at my tray. A single grain of rice has strayed from the pile, resting alone near the edge. I press it against the spoon and place it back with the others.
After lunch, I walk.
The trail winds past the cottages, through the grove, then opens into a stretch of field where the pond reflects the pale blue sky. I follow the path into the woods, where oaks, pines, cedars, and manzanita greet me one by one. Like the teacher suggested, gentle breeze to some degree eases the confusion at my heart.
I let my feet carry me without thought, following the path others have tread. Some students walk ahead of me, their backs familiar yet impersonal. Some move in the opposite direction. We converge, we diverge.
I fix my eyes downward, tracing the textures beneath me. Uneven surface of packed dirt, the dry cracks in the earth, the way footprints fade at the edges. Without conversation, I have grown familiar with people’s shoes. I think I am following Pete now. He walks in his plain dark green hiking shoes, steady pace.
I start naming the trees, like I did with Mei during our hikes. I call the single dead tree on the hilltop One. One as its shape is a straight line and a satisfactory simplicity of its pronunciation. The woodpeckers are on One today. Duk, duk, duk…
I walk closer to One. Its bark is decayed. Hollow spots here and there reveal the eaten core. The knocks continue. Duk, duk, duk.
I watch the woodpeckers pecking into the bark of One, rhythmic and deliberate, a steady pulse in the vast quiet of the retreat. Their movements are mechanical, precise. They ignore my presence, fully focused on their task.
At first, I take comfort in it. A beat to follow, a routine within chaos.
But then, something shifts.
The rhythm doesn’t stop when the birds pause. It continues. A fraction of a second delayed, as if the sound is echoing from elsewhere.
I stand still, listening. The trees hum with absence, as if waiting.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the knocking ceases.
The silence that follows is heavier than before.
The pond is empty. No footsteps in the distance. No figures in the mist. Just me. When did everyone leave? I exhale. The air feels heavier. I turn back.
The next day I fix the mismatched socks. I avoid looking in the direction of the woman as I enter the hall.
To reach equanimity, you need to face the three poisons of human life craving, aversion, delusion. Sit still.
Am I craving her? No, I don’t think the attraction is a sexual one. She is a beautiful young woman, young compared to my age. But she pulls me back to a time I had almost forgotten.
And facing the bodily sensations those poisons create, do not respond.
Instead of sensations I rather feel numb. The aching knees and neck have grown worse in a day. It’s like broken satellites in the universe, losing all connections with ground control. Hunger has hollowed me out. My breathing is so light I cannot feel it anymore. I do not know if I am inhaling or exhaling, only that time keeps folding in on itself, circling back to the same breath, the same moment. Did I know her before?
Equanimity. Equanimity. Just observe. Don’t let your
thoughts distract you from facing the present moment. The present moments are a privilege of youth. For ages I have only experienced memories. Time no longer makes sense.
Duk. Duk. Duk. Duk.
A chill goes through my body. Was the sound coming from the cassette? I look around but no one seems to bother. No one else reacts. No one else hears it.
She is wearing a black turtleneck, the same as yesterday. Her posture remains unshaken, hands resting lightly on her knees. I watch the slow rise and fall of her breath, steady, measured, untouched by the flickering candlelight that casts shifting shadows on the walls. But something is different.
Her eyes. They should be closed, like everyone else’s. But from the angle I’m sitting, I catch the barest sliver of white between her lashes.
She is looking. Not directly at me. Just past me. Or through me.
She does not move. I blink.
When I look again, her eyes are closed.
I had been sleeping well. No alarms, no disturbances. My body adjusted to the rhythm of the retreat, waking naturally at 5 a.m. each morning. But today, when I glance at the clock, the numbers glare back—5:50.
I sit up. My body feels heavy.
I rush to the toilet and nearly collide with Pete in the narrow hallway. He’s already dressed, his posture calm, composed. He takes one look at me, then at my hands. His brows knit together. I follow his gaze.
My hands are bleeding.
Not just bleeding—coated in dirt, caked beneath my
nails, smeared across my palms. Scratches line the backs of my hands, faint but stinging when I flex my fingers. I don’t remember anything.
The words form soundlessly on my lips. Pete watches me, his expression unreadable.
“Tell the assistant I’m sick.” I say quickly in the lowest voice possible.
Pete doesn’t respond. Maybe he nods, maybe he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. I step outside. The air is damp, thick with the scent of pine and cold earth. The meditation hall looms to my right, a slow procession of students filing in with lowered heads, hands clasped in quiet reverence. But my feet don’t turn in that direction.
My legs carry me forward. I don’t know where I’m going, but my body does. The trees thin out, and then, ahead of me, One. The dead tree stands as it always has, skeletal and silent. But beside it—a structure. A house, or the beginning of one. Stones stacked unevenly at the base. Branches crisscrossed in a rough frame, leaves tangled between them. A structure that is neither complete nor unfinished.
I stare at it for a long time. The house does not move. But something about it feels alive. I kneel. My fingers brush the stones. The dirt is damp, freshly turned. I don’t remember stacking these stones. I don’t remember placing these branches. But I must have. Duk duk duk. The woodpeckers knock. I build. I carry. I don’t think.
Duk duk duk duk.
I build. I carry. I don’t think.
Another week in, I made progress on the house. My meditation, too... In the stillness of the hall, I began to perceive subtle sensations coursing through my
body, a gentle tingling that seemed to connect each part of me. Time softens when I focus on the building and feeling, during breaks, before sleep. Memory drifts in. The feeling of those summer days—gathering stones from the creek, her hands guiding mine as we laid the foundation, the stubborn joy of creating something from nothing. Why did I dismantle it? The nights I reached for a bottle instead of her hand, the way alcohol turned silence into comfort, then into habit. The illusion that a drink could smooth out the fractures, that temporary warmth could make everything feel whole again. Until, one day, there was nothing left to fix.
Suddenly I realize I haven’t spoken to Pete in days. Not that I could speak, but still—no exchanged glances, no passing footsteps on the trail, no presence in the dining hall. It occurs to me that I don’t remember when I last saw him. Was it breakfast? Was it before I built the house?
At dinner, I scan the rows of silent students, but his shaved head isn’t among them. When I leave, I check outside our cottage. His boots are gone. The blankets on his bed are folded neatly, as if he had never touched them. The next morning, I ask an assistant— just a simple nod and gesture toward Pete’s former seat.
Who? he mouths.
I shake my head. Never mind. I guess Pete found the practice too hard and went back home.
I look for the woman that evening. Her seat remains empty too.
I wake up at midnight again on the last night. This time, there is no dream. Just silence. Not even the sound of wind or distant birds. I lie still, staring at the wooden beams above me. The air falls heavy on me,
almost foreshadowing a thunderstorm.
My hands tighten around the blanket. Wide awake.
Duk.
It starts softly, a single knock rippling through the dark. Then another.
Duk. Duk.
I swing my legs over the bed, socked feet pressing into the cold floor. My knees protest, but I don’t notice. The sound is outside the window.
Duk. Duk. Duk.
I push the door open.
The night stretches vast and endless. The pagoda’s golden tip catches the moon’s glow, and beyond it, the forest yawns open. But I am not looking at the trees.
I am looking at the house.
It is done.
I don’t know how or when, but it stands there— complete, waiting. The walls of branches and packed earth rising solid and sure. A roof of woven leaves and sticks. A door, slightly ajar, like it is expecting me.
My breath is slow. My pulse is not.
I place my hand against the door. Wood, smooth and familiar beneath my fingers. The house is here, and I am at its threshold. My body knows this moment before my mind does. I push. The door swings open.
And she is inside.
She is sitting in the center of the room, cross-legged, her hands resting on her knees. She does not look up at me.
The candle beside her flickers. The walls cast shifting patterns.
Her black turtleneck, her hazel hair, the stillness of her form—it is exactly as I saw her in the hall. Exactly as I have seen her before.
She speaks.
The sound is neither loud nor soft. It is simply there.
Like it has always been there. “You were always building this.”
I take a step forward, the floor creaking under my weight. The house smells of damp earth and wood, of something ancient settling into place.
I look around—stones, branches, a space that is both foreign and familiar. “How?” I say. My own voice is rough, scraped from silence. She does not answer.
I take another step. The candle flickers. The house exhales around me.
To reach equanimity, you need to face the three poisons of human life craving, aversion, delusion. Sit still.
She lifts her arm, tilting her wrist in the candlelight. The woodpecker tattoo shifts with her movement, the inked wings frozen mid-flight.
Then the walls collapse. Not all at once, but in pieces, peeling away like bark from a dying tree.
I turn—
Pete is standing in the doorway. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
I feel it now, the pull of something folding inward. The past bleeding into the present, the house built from memories I don’t remember making.
I look back at her.
She is still there. But her face shifts—younger, then older, then settling somewhere in between. Not quite Mei. Not quite a stranger.
I can do nothing but watch the house fall.
The candle dies.
Duk. Duk. Duk.
Pete wakes me up on the departure day. His expression does not show any trace of last night.
I take a final look at the Californian scenery. The sky is burning today—red bleeding into pink, pink dissolving into orange, orange swallowed by violet streaks. The forested mountains are soaked in the sun’s last breath, their jagged silhouettes melting into gold-edged shadows. Crickets sing in a scattered spiccato, their rhythm disjointed. The woodpecker’s beats are absent today.
I should feel something—a sense of completion, of closure. But all I register is absence. Something is missing, or something has shifted.
I blink up at the sky, and for a fleeting second, I swear I see two moons. One pale and full, the other thinner, a crescent hanging just above it—almost overlapping, almost real. But when I look again, there is only one.
I exhale, long and slow.
I miss my apartment in the city. The warm-lit room where I could turn on the lamp and bathe everything in a familiar glow. The hum of distant traffic below my window, the quiet tap of rain on the glass. The predictable weight of furniture, the certainty of walls. Pete starts the car. The engine hums. The headlights cut through the dusk, illuminating the narrow road winding down the hillside. I settle into the seat, feeling the vibration through my spine as we start moving.
Through the window, I watch the landscape blur. Pete’s face flickers in the glass, overlaying mine, until I see only one of us.
Trees are running forwards.
Melanie Zhang
ten weeks, and now the craters in my ears form lumps when rubbed between my fingers. still unhealed, it seems. the sting is now long gone but wounds will never disappear without a shadow. silver lines across my hips form stages for a troupe of ghosts to dance a once familiar choreography— nostalgic steps still resonate. and you still smart like twenty weeks have not gone by, as if i do not wince each time i glance at oak and fir and elm (you’ve kept the names of those you introduced me to). as if i did not reinvent this human shell, punch unhealed holes in me to bleed you out.
Darling Amadis Davis
come back to the persimmon tree perch on the waterline move towards relief so far off the axis disagree eight saturated
Saint Louis gateway drug amtrak over Prerequisites for turning on the light: the kingdom, the power, lay me a baby who Put
you gave me your two sense yesterday nose to ear, got all shimmery. I bought new shaped like bows. If I tilt towards Gnats and moths hurl towards on the corner. I can’t
disagree saturated fingers wifi pulpit on the front lawn for me? against me. the glory. who sears a good steak Put an orange spotlight on a dinner plate. new earrings towards the light, I just might catch it. towards the streetlamp, cartwheeling can’t see the moon, but, darling, I figure it’s close to you.
unfit L Daniels
the unbalanced piano like a gong struck at its corner. cut, unable cord hollowed into faulty excess, its tensile beginnings, revolving attempts to sound out its disfigurement. strain giving way so quickly. its mistaken nature alone could open a way for song to belie distortion. where was there time to process a basis? or did you take too long to love, your born strange parts, scrubbed out on the playground. the bars are like children, who shuttle on and rock themselves and can let open their mimicry. they still know to make grace from felt lambs and their mothers, the air burst from empty bottles of paint.
Putuo Cecelia Hua
When I was eleven, her lover gave me a jade. A classic one, in the shape of a dewdrop green, and so green that the greenness is dripping no impurities.
He’s married was in Burma, on a business trip. He said she deserves the best things in the world. And she loved to hear.
Everything written can be all erased, right? For instance, a drenched bridge in mist, footsteps, white cake, tides Or, frigidity beneath the Putuo Mountain 1, secrets.
I pulled it out from my chest green, and so green that the greenness is dripping no impurities. A classic one. Warm.
I want to give it a name.
Forms of Water
Cecelia Hua
The morning I reflect the unbearable of living: my body lives in the city and mind dwells in the other.
The body says goodnight to the mind.
Now it is around sunset I put on my brown jacket and hiking shoes: breeze is less freezing than expected.
I want to trace her path –a red bird floats up from the ground, yet have to be concentrated when trampling on the snow.
Sometimes thinking has to be silenced. Through nostrils, I breathe, and follow a man and his dog up to a mound.
There, I look downhill, and see my own footsteps and theirs. Lake freezes, the layers beneath creak, squeaking, only reminds one of history and so many other particles.
Inside the channel of crevices, eternity coagulated.
It slowly marches, though you can’t see There, a song accompanies, warm, glowing
and awakes loneliness from the deepest, deepest. * Snow has melted.
Siena, Italy
Melissa Vasquez
Melissa Vasquez
Manarola, Italy
Athens, Greece
Melissa Vasquez
Overgrowth
Brynne Janowski
West of Eden Brings Fire on Everest
Adeline Jackson
The Space Man and the Painter
Adeline Jackson
Ratification
Poppy Thomas
Contributors’ Notes
Eleana Morse is a Junior studying English at CAS, specializing in Creative Writing. She is also minoring in Hellenistic Studies.
Huaijin Li is an artist-writer working across fiction, digital art, film, and installation. She is currently studying Studio Art and Creative Writing at New York University. Her practice is guided by the manifesto: “To sabotage is to transform. To be conscious is to be reborn.”
Melanie Zhang is a junior at NYU majoring in History and English. She would not fare well in Elizabethan England, and is thankful for modern disinfectants.
Amadis Davis is a fourth-year student at the University of Chicago pursuing a triple major in English Language and Literature, East Asian Languages and Civilizations, and Creative Writing. She is from Radcliff, Kentucky. She intends to pursue a career in law, and enjoys flower arrangements. Outside of UChicago, Amadis can be found on all platforms @amadislegit.
L Daniel is a writer based in the East Village. Having grown up as the child of Ethiopian immigrants, L channels anomalous experiences into poetry concerning absence and displacement, with much of her written work overturning conventions of essentialism and form. Their work has also appeared in the Greene Street Review and the literary journal West 10th.
Cecelia Hua is an undergraduate student majoring in Film & TV at NYU Tisch.
Melissa Vazquez is a junior at NYU studying Media,
Culture, and Communication with a minor in Dance.
Brynne Janowski is a double major in Studio Art at Steinhardt and Urban Design & Architectural Studies at CAS. She creates comics, and is interested in writing and urban policy.
Adeline Jackson is a 22-year-old painter and writer from Southern California. A fourth-generation Angeleno, she creates to understand the echoes of her city and the weight of inheritance. Her work explores the tension between lineage and self-definition, identity and contradiction. Art has always been the undercurrent of her life—the only form expansive enough to hold her multiplicities. Through painting and writing, she studies the quiet poetry of survival, reinvention, and remembering. Rooted in personal history and collective memory, her practice is both a reckoning and a release, a way of honoring where she comes from and imagining where she’s going.
Poppy Thomas is a London-born, New York-based artist whose practice examines the rules and histories which govern our behavior. Using painting, ceramics, and textiles, she examines the origins of social conventions to discover what drives today’s values and belief systems and how they contradict instinct. By digging into factual research, Poppy hopes to broaden our understanding of the past and thus expand our ideas of the future.
MASTHEAD
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
MANAGING EDITOR
PROSE EDITORS
POETRY EDITORS
ART EDITOR
COPY EDITOR
Ananya Chibber
Kathy Ngo
Lola Bosa
Madison Li
Amaya Jones
Kaamya Krishnan
Shaan Monacha
Samantha Esmé Williams
Whitney Sederberg