Orange Blush Zine │ Issue 2 / Sep '20

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cover art image: Person’s Hand on Water by Hansskuy from Pexels

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6 what is orange blush zine?

8 all of the art

100 contributor glossary & obz team

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When people think of us, we want them to think inclusive, eclectic, bold, welcoming, experimental.

We like art that makes us feel things, art that makes us glad to be alive, art that reminds us why we create.

We believe the word ‘artist’ is an umbrella term. If you make things — with your hands, your words, your surroundings — you’re an artist, and you’re more than welcome to consider this your home. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.

Call your friends too. There is a light on for you here every night for as long as you need it.

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Orange Blush was created when artist Komal Keshran’s longing for an artistic sense of belonging led them to create an art space that dreamt of being all-inclusive, yet curated.

Komal has been submitting their work to various journals and magazines for three years now, but they felt as though creating a new space, and inviting other people in would feel a lot more like home.

(They were right.)

They edit the Zine with Sophia William, Sangeetha Nyanasegeran and Jack Joseph at present.

Welcome to our second issue.

There’s something for everyone in here.

We hope you find what’s for you.

We hope you love it.

Thank you for stopping by.

Will the last person to leave please turn out the lights?

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welcome to the issue.

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Punhos erguidos (raised fists) by Affar Oppip

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achromatically colourful by Syaf i get uncomfortable when people describe me as gentle and soft – a flower you would water everyday instead of plucking it or seven coloured hues clinging onto the sky when the rain subsides. i want to be described as fierce and determined – a storm blowing away the roofs of houses only to be cradled by a soft wind after or a landslide crashing onto cars when there are not enough roots in the soil. i can be the rays of sunlight and the shadows in the darkest crevices, the rings of laughter and the resonating thunder. i am every shade of colour in the wheel and every pitch of sound in the world.

syaf // 2328

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it wasn’t you by Syaf there are times when i am convinced that i love you, other times i am not sure myself. i do not know whether i have ever felt love. is it real – your hand holding tight onto mine as if your life depended on it, or is it made up – a figment of my imagination from visualizing how divine your love would feel? how do you distinguish between infatuation and love? people say if you think of someone for more than three months, it is love; but how does a period of time confirm it? how do you look at somebody and immediately think that they are the one? does your heart skip eight beats at once or do you feel an overwhelming happiness wash through your being when you see them? will they walk away when you tell them your secrets or will they love you for your past that made you who you are? is it true that you need to love yourself first before loving anybody else? if i can’t find love within myself, does that mean i am not worthy of anybody’s love? no matter how hard i try to stand on the tip of my toes, love seems too far away for me to grasp. i do not know much about love but one thing is for sure: love is bound to break the other.

syaf // 23--

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your warmth (drives me back to sleep) by Syaf you embraced me in my dream last night. our contented sighs were loud enough to wake up even the sleepiest toddler as if we were deprived of each other for so long. i could not comprehend anything you were saying, for the words that escape your lips became music that lull me to sleep once again and i could feel you getting farther and farther away from me and i was getting colder and colder as i watch you fade into the horizon. your eyes full of horror made me realise that you knew about it as well; we were drifting apart but so powerless to do anything about it. the sadness dug and caved in our hearts, leaving us with an endless ache. my eyelids flutter to a wake and i remember nothing but your warmth, a reminder that i was forced to part with the one that i love. i have not came home since that night.

syaf // 1046

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Anxiety Attack Before Dawn by Brecht Lanfossi This artwork is a visual representation of my personal experiences with panic attacks during the most lonely moments at night. The often returning man in the framework illustrates the subconscious mind while the little kid in bed illustrates the fragile human body during those periods of mental suffering. The complex construction of blocks is the imaginary wall where one can run into in the heat of a panic attack. It symbolises the difficulty of seeing things clearly any longer while being in such a situation.

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a blackout poem by Komal Keshran 14

Cidade poluĂ­da, terra arrasada (polluted city, scorched earth)

by Affar Oppip

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BEGINNING, MIDDLE AND END by Amy Guilfoyle Rough as unpolished walls.

Sitting silently on the edge of life.

Curves, casting a shadow.

I face death, I stare it down.

As all do, I will smile into the sands of the ocean, and be caressed by the sea air.

For you have moulded me, You breath air into my lungs.

I melt for you into what you desire of me, I am nothing more than what I believe to be, Your beginning, middle and end.

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SHARDS by Amy Guilfoyle I am cold as ice, chilled to the bone.

Drawn in to your light, as a bee is drawn to flowers But not as beautiful, for frost resides within me.

Your breath warm against my chest.

Rising and falling Like a rhythm, Slow.

My lips pressed against yours.

Body’s intertwining softly, as hands of silk, Rising and falling To the beat of a heart.

Time is ours

Bottle it, keep it.

Alone, You slip away like water, dripping from my fingertips.

You are gone.

But your touch remains.

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WHEN OUR EYES MEET by Amy Guilfoyle You float like a bottled memory Beneath a starless night sky, on top of waves that drag other beneath.

Your kiss soft as butterfly wings, escaping into the music that is life.

I write these words under the moons watchful eye and by daylight you shall read them.

The truth of them shall caress you softly.

As my eyes meets yours, Time frozen.

Moments bottled, The reality of life melts away Like ice and snow.

For you are warm, All that remains is a beating heart.

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Hollow Casanova by Brecht Lanfossi It's best to sort of describe this work with a quote only. “The ladies usually go for the biggest damn fool they can find; that's why humanity stands where it does today: we have bred the clever and lasting Casanovas, all hollow inside, like the chocolate Easter bunnies we foster upon our poor children.� - Charles Bukowski

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Hair by Jacy Zhang

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Joppa Flats by Meg Smith I know you'll make peace with the shore birds.

You gave me bright stones and the claw marks of the bear.

Here, on the silent lake, we make a great net.

Here, we have made more than the bear could walk.

Seeing Through the Gauze by Meg Smith She puts her jacket on backward

with the hood pulled up.

Her street goes rough, and the lights, mute.

The leaves, the cat, the laughter, footfall -all serve her compass.

She knows it's time to find morning, if only a blur through broken threads.

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Notes in a Blizzard by Meg Smith From your nest of stones, you build a bridge through a black pool.

This, after demanding an island, and having this, and more -an arrowhead of geese, an owl's cry, an unsigned warrant.

Take them, all, and move, as your pool turns to ice, but snow will not swallow your tracks.

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Emmetropia by Brecht Lanfossi (Derived from Greek emmetros "well-proportioned") This work could be a sort of surreal dream image of how I think being and living together in a relationship should look like. So one could say that from my perspective it's a well-proportioned dream image of how I want my love life to be. Fun fact, I already have two black cats so I guess that's a really good start of the surreal dream image that I aspire.

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Almost Home by Mickie Kennedy The dip of breaded chicken legs into hot bacon grease, conjures the very name of God. A flightless bird plays in the game of endangered species on the other side of the world.

A spider monkey is unable to weave a web of its own.

When my suitcase hits the airport carousel, the exposed bottom of the bag reads, Asshole, in Sharpie, which explains the empty apartment when I return home.

A new town, a new school, a new stepmother to escape in the middle of the night.

An unzipping of the fire ladder against the backside of the house.

The soft belly of regret, forever spilling its guts onto the floor.

Excusez-moi, and try not to make a habit of the repetitive days, separating at the perforated edges of fast food game pieces.

Hanging tree in front of the courthouse solicits necks.

Its branches in the wind. The half open safe in the next room has eclipsed the pessimist within me.

Proxy to the groom and open line to the far east.

Uncomfortable silence when the magistrate says, Marriage must be consummated within seven days to be valid.

Groom or proxy, either one, or both, then static reconvenes.

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On the wall of Stalin’s office, a picture of George Washington crossing the Delaware, in which he says, The colors go with the room.

At a dinner party, with any three people, living or dead.

Mother Theresa’s flicking cigarettes across the table at Helen Keller.

Lincoln repeatedly looking over his shoulder.

The radioactive half-life of my elemental makeup wakes up in a third-grade puddle of urine.

What nurse doesn’t keep extra underwear and pants?

my grandmother chides at the office.

IBM in the jungle. A canopy of punch cards.

The morning all Jews called in sick to work.

We haven’t the time for such trolls and jigsaw recollections.

The sign of the cross in a mortar and steel.

In one hand waving a small plastic US flag, in the other hand, scrolling news feeds on a smartphone.

If God lived up to her potential, then we’d have no need to raise the minimum wage, or pay interest on the national debt.

Fat and happy, the greatest nation on earth.

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600 count Egyptian cotton sheets and towels so thick, firemen lay them on sidewalks during high rise infernos.

Free will is what theologians call it when God sits home, collecting disability checks and no one at the office to give a self damn.

My sister’s eggs. So old, I tell her, it will take the sperm of a 20-year-old man to stand a chance.

Homeowners who have not missed a payment in five years are in for a surprise. The interest is front-loaded on a thirty-year note so it’s like you never put the car in drive, except for property taxes, a dead furnace, and a cracked foundation.

Each time a heavy rain, a prayer to the god of asphalt shingles.

An invitation to the ticker tape parade of pardons, only to find out it’s an outstanding warrant for child support payments on children you deem lackluster and underwhelming.

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While their DNA may not lie, your honor, I maintain my genes have grown recessive, and downtrodden by her tyranny.

As such, I request the right to reinstate custody should one of the children make it big.

When the judge says, You are a failure as a father, I nod and agree.

Yes, your honor, I say, That bitch has ruined me good.

Headstrong and hookworm, I am scheduled six visits with a licensed social worker.

A smile so wide traffic jumps 20 miles an hour.

Just as I am your window, you are the hammer in motion.

A fever of chicken noodle soup warms in the microwave.

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Two untitled pieces by Tisha Mavi

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So in my artworks, I try to capture the basic human emotions which we all might have experienced in our life at some point of time, the chaotic conflict of mind and soul; where for moment we lose our sense of reality and create our own realm.

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Close Before Striking by Mickie Kennedy The way music is always a spiral staircase, the way hunger fully baked resembles stale bread.

The balloon of guilt is always a drooping pillow, your name in my honor scratched out and replaced, a cardboard floor in a neighborhood of chip board mansions.

After the first child, the heart sharpens at the end for throwing.

The point at which a girl after 16 weeks of testosterone patches begins to shave her face.

My world is a cup of sugar at the door, a ration of loose socks, and an up-turned coffee mug.

My fear taps its foot against the floor.

A towel is to thread as notebook on the kitchen table is to a stack of unsent ransom notes.

My cup is filled with blueberries and milk, the cream on the grocery list begins to curdle.

The neighbor’s dog returns home, an elegy for a rabbit and a genealogy of wire traced back to copper rocks in stone.

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The month is a river’s mouth opened too long for the dental hygienist.

The sting at the spinning wheel gathers venom.

The sick cow chews a clarinet of stinkweed.

The mathematician makes the sign of the plus.

A Tennessee walking horse begins to run, the slight pause between ground strike and clap.

I stare for long stretches at the kitchen clock,

square in the double A’s of its eyes.

The pilot’s union sponsors a section of the road.

All the sunlight ever written and I forget to bring the sun block.

The newspaper shakes with a dirty hand; a dish of coarse soap

at the sink readies for a lather.

The bed announces it is tired.

The saxophone of a swan’s throat begins to play.

A father puts down his foot and unhinges a shoe.

The oyster warns the world it is your tombstone.

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Eyes are the heart’s stepping stones, a place to linger and count tadpoles aging out of water.

A sliver of silver and scales hovers over river bed.

The bright jostle of women after work migrate their way back to men.

Red-faced, she cries at home to her mother, while outside the unguarded collapse of earth and sky beneath a self-actualizing cloud.

The parts of the rain that remain dry.

The drunk green flesh of an olive retrieved from the bottom of a glass.

A mule on holiday rides a burro down a mountain.

The weak pulse of death adjusts her watch across time zones.

Renounce the disassembled parts we arrange in mirrors and snapshots.

A bird in a wire cage places bets.

Family is the revelation we suffer as one.

An empty house on its knees longs for punches to its walls, a slamming of doors when after a fight,

the smell of ozone and fresh cut anger.

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A forgotten apple exists in the back corner of a fridge.

A smell concerns the bothersome fruit fly.

Stubborn rooftops stumble across the night sky, a block of not-caring and who-gives-a-damn.

Two stores are out of matches and lighters. The sign out front reads: cigarettes sold at the lowest price allowed by law.

Boy Scouts on the corner rub sticks together as a hawk checks the alleys for slow moving cats.

Lying down requires a folding of clothes, the part of her that awakens with touch and the part of her that does not wake, but remains a child on an oversized white wicker chair.

Empty applause mocks a stage full of first graders.

Firecracker possibility when a lit fuse lingers.

She picks where glue holds together a small coffee cup.

Along her chest an interstate of scars with no exits.

A clover leaf presses itself between covers of a borrowed textbook, two years unreturned. One concludes a lack of ambition,

The world caught off guard adds another dust mote to the mantle, a plastic ball smiles from the bottom of the stairs.

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Bitumen by Jacy Zhang

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Out the Subway Tunnel by Jacy Zhang First published in Laurel Moon

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Doubling Down by Mickie Kennedy My mother believed standing too close to the microwave gave you cancer.

She smoked a pack of cigarettes every day.

A remembrance of Christmas past in a found package of construction paper.

The keys to the shed discovered when the guy from Sears replaced the fan in the refrigerator.

My mother bought on credit, every purchase turned into the higher math of a monthly payment:

the stove, four years at $18 a month; a $40 sweater poured into 12 monthly payments at a 19.8% interest rate.

She never understood the carrying cost of breakfast at McDonald’s.

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Peter and Paul locked in a usury tug-o-war where credit card bills go unopened in a kitchen drawer.

Phone calls are screened by caller ID. Lottery tickets never held with such earnestness and prayer.

JCPenney, the patron saint of revolving lines of credit.

Not even enough credit left to advance the lawyer his retainer, so she bargains a bankruptcy layaway.

Each month a little closer to financial freedom.

She pays the Macy’s card in full each month.

A girl’s got to have her options, she said, looking through the Sunday circulars.

Her heart races at the swipe of her remaining card: $84 saved and just $23 a month for 6 months.

The bankruptcy can wait; Momma needs a new pair of shoes.

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Art School Back-Up Plans by Amy Brereton A comic created as a satirical response to the criticism often experienced as a university student in a creative major.

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Of What to Wear by Sarah Gorban That morning, my mother asked what I will be wearing today yesterday it was nostalgia on the shoulder

fingerprints melted from strangers along with daydreams written as outlines to trace on the palm, today I gently plucked an orange and lemon to insert lemon drops behind eyes and squeeze the juice until it melts as casting rays to dim the shadow that creeps with each step with the orange crushed into powder to wear as orange blush

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Burnt Toast and Sweet Pills by Sarah Gorban “They make me happy,” she said Glancing away, with the tilt of the throat And liquid for a smooth journey

She preceded to slip on a matching pair of pajamas A crawl to cocoon on a safe and soft haven

Only to be reminded, once more It was noon, and the toast was probably burnt With frozen butter now melted on the counter

A sigh of removal, followed by a stubborn refusal to exist I gently remove the blanket, a shield with dents and bruises

“The toast is burnt,” I remind her, once more Trying not to taste the iron in my mouth A holding of the tongue a bit too strong

“You can put it in the fridge, save it for later,” she says, closing the blinds I silently nod as my feet rhythmically move to the kitchen

I reach the fridge to remove the stale milk, to make room For another piece of burnt toast

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A tattoo by Sarah Gorban I once went to a tattoo parlor In search for meaning Of Buddhist symbols

Snakes with flowered eyes A symbol of something I was not sure of, yet.

As I sat Motionless Barely a breath With a needle inching I paused Slightly Noticing those words “Love, Loved” Cast upon the tattoo man

I thought of a permanent “Love” on my skin A broadcast on loop

And decided to tattoo Those words in my mind

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To outline in the clouds To whisper to myself To cast upon passing cars, Trains, unicycles

A tattoo impermanent on the skin A permanence once known

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opening time by Paul Tanner they come crashing into the shop like a tsunami of angry fish angry little fish in an even smaller foggy pond, locally sourced, like.

they spill forth like a re-opened wound – “like”?: my sister died last week, they say, so I should have a refund!

I got the cancer, they say, so give me money off! peeling scabs real and imagined.

they charge through them automatic doors like bulls to red rags – there’s a reason this shop’s colour scheme is red,

red is passion, it’s hunger and anger and the Karen Army remembers it craves meat and revenge as it looks around at all these here targets: red sale posters, red offer stickers on the shelves, red polos on the workers:

the workers be red rags and the Karen bulls are always on the rag. yes, I know bulls are male, but the males are Karens, too –

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Dereks? yeah, let’s say Dereks: whatever’s between their stampeding legs, Karens and Dereks are always on the rag. every day of the month is the time of the month for Derek and those who serve him in red polos.

they gush down the first aisle like puke, “like”?: no:

simply just puking, they are. seriously. go into a shop and see. see how many people come in just to throw up. you are probably there to puke, aren’t you? the speakers, they go: ding dong, “clean up in every aisle!”

they spit themselves into the store: spitters spit the spit of themselves into and through here, gobbing the same statement over and over: “I’m in a shop

and you work in it now go get the mop” (if you’re done with all that puke)

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and then there’s a pandemic (for some reason) and their spits are weaponised, they’re spitting is warfare:

they bomb down disease at us, with their throats of unlimited ammo, they spit and sneeze and cough bombs across the counter, and the technology may be more advanced but it’s still the same old message: “you are the enemy” apparently even though they still can’t make up their minds why: the (literal) price of fish? the price of anything? the refund policy? because we looked at them funny? just because?

BOMBS AWAY

but hey don’t worry, we got some medicine in aisle 9 for that – the privatisation of health, the class structuring of health: what’s your tax bracket, squire? will you be buying established brand’s neon sweets, or store’s own basic pill, sir or madam? Karen or Derek? how much you wanna be cured? all the way?

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oooh, ssst (dries teeth) shoulda made more money of your life, then, shouldn’t you? then: BOMBS AWAY and splat! right on your cheek, a snot bomb trickling into the juice of your eye. woah, whatsamatter, valued customer, you on your rag or summat? and: no, I don’t know if that cough syrup will interfere with your antidepressants. but while we’re here in aisle 9, you got any antidepressants for sale, Karen?

I been getting bluer just talking to you, Derek and we negotiate a price IT’S COMMERCE INNIT and the bull bombs fishy spit right into the shopworker’s mouth: pukes foggy small pond water like a bird of hate

feeding hunger to its young. that worm of disaffection wriggling between you like that spaghetti scene in Lady and the Tramp

… I’d like to take my break now. what you mean no? everyone else called in sick and depressed?

what else is news, boss? and anyway, don’t they know HERE in the shop is the place to be? when you’re in that state?

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this state? the 51 st , that’s Blighty. ha. shrinking ickle post-empire is lucky to have the Yankees bomb it with Walfart: people need a place to go to be angry and vengeful and sick: COMMERCE

they fart their way in: pfft! automatic doors? the buttocks parting for their walking gas attacks. they fart to the beep of the beeping machines, spitting in their undies – beep, pfft, beep, pfft – as I scan their medicine and inhale, as I breathe and scan, as I “live” and breathe and scan I breath them in. should’ve worn a mask long ago.

valued customer, put your head on the scanner and get scanned – beep, pfft – ok, now, let’s negotiate a price on that Karen-shaped tumour. what’s my tax bracket, squire? well, I’ll pay YOU, Derek, to take yourself away. (commerce?)

in the end you don’t buy a single one but they throw a million billion of themselves in for free:

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it’s called the opening time rush

and it’s LESS than free: the red rag worker pays tax for the privilege of being here

… and they’d like to take their break now.

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stills from La La Land

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Forget Me Not by Natalia Lopes In Forget Me Not, I was taken by the color of the flowers of the same name (Latin name myosotis sylvatica), as they reminded me of the blue of surgical face masks. I felt compelled by their unassuming smallness, and wished to use them as a means to shed light on an important vulnerability. Our healthcare workers and all those on the front lines in the fight against COVID-19 are in desperate need of protective and life-saving equipment that is in woefully short supply. They also need us to protect ourselves through social distancing, proper hygiene and wearing protective masks of our own. Forget them not when you leave the house. Forget them not when you social distance from essential workers, neighbors, friends, family, and loved ones. Forget them not as you do your part to prevent further lives from being lost. Forget me not.

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I PREPARE by John Grey These are my mantras: winter rye, buckwheat, ryegrass, millet, soybean.

Plus some others that go to make decay.

Supposedly, this generates soil aeration, water-storing capacity and gets the underground microbes talking to one another.

I’m all about growth.

And the land needs my assistance.

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Beyond, the woods celebrate their wild abandonment.

Rain and sun is all they need.

I’d never be mistaken for their God.

A grackle sits on the fence, eyes my work for sign of any leftovers.

A crow caws from a high branch, waits for what the forest provides.

I make a difference on my patch.

But there’s no hankering for the rest of the world to share me.

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Road travelled by Teri Anderson

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Self portrait by Teri Anderson

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Simple by Allison Grayhurst The darkness crashed on a sapling morality, cracked pretensions and then hope.

It was two-fold, folding the young visionary and the tired warrior – into one power, depleted, elapsed.

It weakened a once flourishing joy, skillful in its demise, necessary for what was born after – compassion in harvest, a home well built on any hard or soft shore.

Raise the clock, break its hands, snatch immortality from the arms of culture.

Tiny dreams are gold. Trust in those dream, even more golden.

Fast, faster in the circle – run of linear time, gleam fastest at the summit at the nadir, and commit to only love.

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Take This by Shea Donovan I was struck by this street art in Athens, Greece. We are conditioned to be so careful with our hearts, but here we see someone freely offering theirs up to others.

An act of selflessness or surrender?

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Glacial by DARKRECONSTRUCTION Glacial is near and dear to my heart. I painted it when I was very ill with a sudden cold, and I was very uncertain for a while whether it would come out good. I think all artists feel this way at some point when trying something new and different. At that time I had been mainly using darkrer colors for my paintings, so Glacial was an attempt to create something outside my usual palette - something light and airy and free. I used a lot of metallic paints for the blues, greens, and golds; I mixed iridescent medium into the white paint. In some spots there is a layer of shimmery, fine holographic dust. It is a very freeing piece, meant to evoke the feeling of staring out the window at a massive snowstorm. We haven't had one in a while here in NYC, as the temperatures have been rising higher and higher in the winter. I miss snow days and the freedom and relief that they bring!

When I look at Glacial, I remember that feeling all over again.

When I finished Glacial, I was so pleased with how it had come out! It was just as soft and light as I intended it to be. So the most important lesson I can take away from creating this painting, is to keep going with your vision even if during the process the painting isn't quite how you thought it would be. A lot of the time, if you trust yourself and your skills, it will come out just how you wanted it to - or even better!

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Dopamine Digger by Brecht Lanfossi It's best to sort of describe this work with a quote only.

“A fuckboy isn't interested in what's beneath your boobs. A hoe won't be able to see through your Armani suit.” - Dino

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Centro (downtown) by Affar Oppip

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The two-legged termites come by Waqas Rabbani My son grow your roots deep in the soil take seed after my shade is gone for the two-legged termites come

It pains me to hide you from the sun It pains me that you can’t grow tall and stout beside your old man it’s for your own good for the two-legged termites come

for a thousand years I have stood, watchful in this wilderness I had no fear of beast or fiend but my heart trembles now for the two-legged termites come

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Come, my child, cover your eyes do not take root

until my shade is no more hear the sounds of our falling brethren let it be your caution for the two-legged termites come

their wretched metal teeth and their iron hearts know no mercy but fear not my child I will shield you from their harm the two-legged termites come

A sproutling awakens to a red sky in a field of carnage with murmurs of an old voice faintly remembered looking up at the sun

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A droplet of rain falls on a leaf trickling down like a tear full of forgotten pain

uttered in a hushed breath through the winds of past a voice echoes “beware the two-legged termites come”

Finding Fairies collection by Shea Donovan This series was shot on the grounds of Derrynane House in County Kerry- the ancestral home of 19th Century Irish Political Leader, Daniel O'Connell.

a haon Adorned with seashells and nestled in the bluebells. a dó Door slightly ajar, be back soon. a trí Accepting offerings.

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stills from La La Land

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After Our dreams found solace in God’s name by Tope Ashaolu Days didn’t pass without lots knocking on our golden door, Hours won’t bow for another, before we see the foot of our lamp, Minutes won’t go into oblivion before we found every of our over-runneth cups, & seconds won’t die before the return of our transfixed on what we burn to have.

We once live on a mountain of flat tales, Path of dry heart, Forest of many sick medals, & the cemeteries we always lay our dead voice.

And again with the wide route on father’s head, You will know that our days once walk astray, But when the thorns hit the last bridge, Names meet Name.

Now today our heartbeat is not the beat we recite the sour anthem to again, But the beat we listen to, and remember the tales of our then days in abyss.

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Oasis Moonlight by Haimon Franklin Blood was shed on the day of our birth, Our cries of life, as our mothers’ tears, Born to be free, to wander the earth, Freedom has a price, as we listen at our ears.

The journey begun, visions were laid, The road was rough, made friends along the way, The limelight rises, the lesser the aid, Friends of trust, they gave dismay.

Life was struck, devastating moments, Tears of joy turned to sorrow, Whispers of people, we bored the torments, Poisons of minds, the hearts gone hollow.

The sea of horror ravaged the hamlets, Smaller it was, the cities were next, Lonely it became, losing the pallets, Floated away, drowned in perplex.

Hope was lost, washed by the tides,

Is it because of the restless times?

Beyond worry, anxiety strides, Thrown away, like worthless dimes.

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Reached a shore, all seems empty, Onto our knees, tears fall out, The oasis awaits afar, water was plenty, Doubts arise, it is not a drought.

“Seek rest,” the oasis proclaimed, “Every ocean has it’s end.”

“Gaze the moonlight, no sorrows shall be claimed.”

“Remember yourself, that is your scend.”

Fear struck with no bases, Will it repeat? No answers indeed, Walk away, we are no aces, It is not the end, we are no greed.

Free your mind, free the disparage, The air is clean, as cool as the breeze, Let it go, your heavy carriage, In fidelity, time shall not cease.

Many doors were closed, many more opened, The journey was set, now anew, The moonlight falls, hope is wakened, The sunshine we are, there will be no few.

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Get In by Shea Donovan I felt her gaze and turned to find her staring out at me from a side street in Athens, Greece. I wished I could crawl into the wall and look out from her perspective.

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Lady of El Miro by Shea Donovan One of the many faces standing guard over the ruins of a palatial mansion in Jaco, Costa Rica. I caught her right before sunset and asked her how long she'd been there and what she'd seen. She did not reply.

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Heartbreaker by Jackie Chou You eye me like I'm candy Want to unwrap me with your gaze Soft caramel chew I melt in the lamplight Give in to your charm Till I have nothing left I am now skin and bones Paper for you to discard Remnant of my sweetness Still on your tongue

Worming its way Into another woman's heart

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Shattered by Jackie Chou Once,

I opened the door for you, only to let in the storm, the flood, which tousled my mind, muddied my pure white heart.

Now you blame me,

for slamming it against your face, so I can pick up these scraps of my lifeunfinished poems scattered inside a drawer.

I glue my disjointed life

back together, one verse at a time.

The life you always hated but never told me so.

It was never yours.

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Going to Be Fine by Shea Donovan Documentation of a day out with friends in Downtown Los Angeles. It was a hot day filled with vegan mac and cheese, cold brewed tea, and the simple joys of summer-the the kind of day when you can see a sign like this and really believe it.

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Floral Silence by Natalia Lopes Much of my work tries to make something meaningful and beautiful out of harmful and traumatic situations. The goal is to create a visual catharsis that I hope will lead to some form of healing or reflection for the viewer. In Floral Silence, it can be seen as an illustration trying to deal with abuse.

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ON BEING AWAY FROM HOME by Julie Uszpolewicz To be lost in a foreign city, to wander its streets aimlessly, to wake up and fall asleep in an unknown place. In this feeling of floating through new spaces, I have found my inner peace. Only distant from your home, you can find yourself because you can reinvent yourself, be who you really are, be alone with your feelings. The beauty of another city strikes you and you can immerse yourself in the flickering lights, conversations in a language you don’t speak, in the surprising craftsmanship of the architecture, you see for the first time. In a place away from home, you can simply be — without any particular reason.

There was this one time in East Berlin when I allowed myself to lose the google maps and just walk into whichever street appealed to me. I ended up sitting in a cafe, which I wouldn’t be able to put on a map today. I would just read and watch the people go about their lives only imagining what they could be possibly talking about. At that moment, which was a few weeks before getting into the university, I felt a sense of calmness come over me, inexplicable certainty that I will be okay. At that moment, I couldn’t be more distant from normal life being lost in a foreign city, and yet I never felt so in tune with who I am and what I feel.

There was also this time when I would be wondering streets of Milan alone astounded by the beautiful villas of the Porta Venezia. Somewhere there I realized that I have left my thoughts in my hometown and I would just float from one corner to another being at ease. Under the overly hot Italian sun I, finally, was not thinking about the direction my life is taking, the way I come off to other people or anything else I normally wouldn’t be able to get out of my mind. There, I just allowed myself to experience the feeling of being lost and let it come over me.

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There were many other times: coming from a bar Vienna, sitting on a porch of the cabin of someone I barely knew in the middle of the night, or listening to the hum of cicadas by the Aegean sea.

The beauty of it is that when I don’t know where I am on the map, I finally have time to get to know where I am with my thoughts. It’s a new place, one that you will doubtfully find again in the same way you did now. So you don’t have to be there in any particular way. This detached reality, the knowledge that you are away from home with all its relationships or plans — only then I can give my heart a little break.

We all go through some shit sometimes, but when we are in this unknown space the gentle indifference of the world opens upon us. This is why I had this sudden sense of calmness wash over me even in the weirdest of times because I knew that eventually, I will end up being okay. Not because I stopped feeling anxious or melancholic, but because I let myself be with the strangest of feelings and affirmed them.

This comfort with regards to one’s future we often associate with familiar spaces, with home, but, for me, home is something we carry within us.

Home is this feeling of calmness in which we can seek refugee in the most uncertain moments, it is the moment when you are in tune with your feelings. As far as I go, I feel the most at home when I am away from it.

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In Flight by Thais Lopes Massive wings like thick umbrellas, heaving, pounding, lit by dusk.

Muscles dance rhythmically under sleek, scarlet scales, as if listening to a barely audible beat by the Muses.

Mysterious, hulking power pulsates opulent pleasures

through the air.

Morose, clear eyes track every motion, foreseeing all and welcoming their fate.

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Majestic ivories gleam and glint like royal gems, unchanged by centuries of constant use.

Monsters of firmament; such are dragons.

Making their way through the mundane, like a stealthy caravan of kings, basking in the glory of their ways.

Magnificent in their flight,

all beware their might!

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Mirror by Thais Lopes Surface smooth and depthless, long has it stood in its rounded shape.

Resplendent but frigid, it stares out, like a single eye, judging your lavish, vermilion bedroom groaning in the hushed night.

Pungent taste of mortality, striking, resolute, proclaiming fact.

Lustrous elegant gold-leaf chandeliers grope frozen thoughts with icicle fingers.

Mahogany furniture sighing mournful disillusionment, the music of wizened wood.

Your atrocities disgust, reflecting repulsive age and penetrating into your infected soul, they smother you.

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Unflinching, the pupil witnesses the expulsion from the human shell you called life.

You cannot sell the image contained in the mirror.

The terror of your face as you realize your sins are being watched, you shrink from yourself.

“Foul, rapacious fiend!” the mirror screams, “What have you become?”

Swiftly, a blur, truth now lies detached.

Broken shards on velvet carpet.

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Colour Trip by Erica Dionora Colour Trip is an experimental piece working with an array of colours and abstractions of the mind. Compiling elements that exist in the real, natural world and putting them together into an unnatural blend of scenery is meant to take one out of their current headspace and into a trip.

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First love by S. Rupsha Mitra When, it came – the bells ringed, my ears filled with a sweet, dulcet melody My inner voice, chuckling cried, ‘you are drowning, you are drowning.’

But superego was stern and coy.

It wouldn’t agree love can travel, it believed it’s non-existent!

I begged superego to believe it’s love but it labelled it infatuation.

When it came, it rained, it drizzled, then in torrents, made me wet.

I convinced, convinced super-ego, its love – finally I’d overpowered – Then it was about the moon glinting, a dreaming skin – Then its smell filling my breath, like honeysuckle – It came, it came from the farthest land, and spoke in a dialect unknown to me, Like Antarctic winds sending chills down my spine – freezing, then melted like ice,

It came with bouquets of roses pink, until the thorns pricked – I did not realize, It was a figment yet so real it seems, First love, oh first love – Like fairy-dust dreams.

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Alabaster… and New Jersey by Derek Maine Two ships in the distance. I am exaggerating, or imagining I suppose. Two sets of lights in the distance is certain.

I am walking over craggily rocks, an unsafe beach. I see two sets of lights in the distance. I turn behind me, to where Stephen would be hiking with me and whispered the name of the ships.

The first ship is called Alabaster. It was built in a shipyard in Croatia. Purchased by a wealthy American from New Jersey. Tom? Thomas? Thomas.

Thomas purchased a ship, custom-made for his wish to sail around the world, from a shipyard in Croatia where the ships are well-made. Thomas will christen this ship Alabaster, breaking a bottle of champagne over her bow or stern (someone will tell him which word means back and which word means front and where it is he is supposed to break the expensive bottle) on a Tuesday, as best he can recall.

I have no name nor provenance on the second ship. I could invent one, as I invented Alabaster, Thomas, Croatia, and New Jersey. These are just two sets of lights in the distance. I don’t feel like inventing.

I whisper “Alabaster,” and point to one of the sets of lights.

Stephen does not answer. He stayed home with his famous fear of flying. He was killed by a swarm of beetles. I killed him with my bare hands. Well, I killed him with a gun, but I held the gun in a bare hand at least. He does not exist. He never existed? He too is invented like Alabaster, Thomas, Croatia, and New Jersey. I have no Stephen, perhaps.

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“What is the name of the second ship?” Stephen asks.

We take our shirts off once we step off the rocks. Our feet are bleeding. (We were barefoot. We didn’t know there would be rocks to traverse). Stephen is just a little fatter than me, which is nice. I remember this when he takes his shirt off and I smile. I tell him I heard what he asked back there, back there on the rocks, about the second ship.

He says, “I thought you couldn’t hear me because of the wind.”

I couldn’t hear you, Stephen, because you do not exist. I invented you and your question (to say nothing of Alabaster…and New Jersey).

“Why would you have me ask about the name of the second ship?” Stephen is upset at having not existed.

It seemed like the kind of thing someone would ask. I would tell you the story of the first ship and, naturally, your curiosity would shift to the details of the second.

“But why something so trivial if you could have me ask anything,” Stephen is asking a great many questions now.

You imagine, I suppose, I would use you to confer meaning? You take me as a manipulator. Someone dastardly who would have you ask a stupid question so I could communicate…something? What would I possibly have to offer this world it has not already heard, read, seen or imagined and then so thoughtlessly spit out?

“Why bring me along at all then,” Stephen: obstinate.

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I am lonely, of course. And going insane. I am terribly lonely. And so, I will tell you, reader (and thank you for it!), the truth:

There is more invented besides Alabaster, Thomas, Croatia, and New Jersey.

Stephen, you know. The rocks were not rocks but sand. The sand was not sand but wood. The beach was not a beach but a room. The room had hardwood floors. My feet are fine. There was no sea. There was the memory of a sea, but that too has now passed. There was a room with hardwood floors and no sea. There were two little lights. A red light that stays blinking even after the television has been turned off and a white light that stays blinking to assure me that Carbon Monoxide levels are where they are supposed to be.

It has been terribly lonely in this room now for a great many days, my reader. My reader won’t you come, sit with me and have a tea? You will not! Of course, I understand. This consciousness has slipped through time and as you gaze upon these words and ponder Alabaster‌and New Jersey the white light is now red, as it should be. As it should be. As it is. Noise too, presumably.

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Car photo by Marnie Horton A lonesome country drive to a waterfall during winter, becoming a favourite day spent with myself.

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Untitled piece by Shekinah Louis "What's it like to live in her head?"

They ask in curiosity So I tell them, it's like a tennis match where every player is me.

The crowd goes wild as I enter "What will the outcome be?

Will she set aside her ego and pride or take a loss reluctantly?"

That's all that matters when I enter the place meant to set me free: The squash court, the tennis court, where my cards now play the emcee.

Along around half-time, I think, "Oh God, where is the referee?"

I slam my racquet, shamelessly bowed, on my shaky bended knee.

And in the pool of sweat below, in blurry hues I see:

A squash court, A tennis court, with four walls closing in on me.

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I sigh and take another swing "Just one more. That's all you need" But the ball leaps from my hand into the booing, reddened sea As the whistle blows I know my mistake cost the largest ever fee, In this squash court, this tennis court, where every serve I hit keeps coming back to me.

"What's it like to live in her head?"

They ask in curiosity.

So I tell them it's like a squash court A tennis court

Where one bad throw of mine stays a whole eternity.

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The Conversation by Zach Murphy “How do you want to die?“ “Is that a threat?”

“I mean, like. . . If you could choose, which way would you prefer to die?”

“Thank God. I was worried for a second.”

“And you can’t say in your sleep. That’s a copout. And a cliché.”

“Aren’t conversations about death a cliché?”

“Just answer the question.“ “Hmm. . . Skydiving.”

“Skydiving?”

“Think about it. You get that insane adrenaline rush as you’re jumping out of the plane, and if something happens to go wrong, you’ll hit the ground so fast that you probably won’t even feel it.“ “That sounds awful.“ “You asked, and I answered. What would you pick?”

“I’d like to die up in space. It’d be so quiet and peaceful. Just floating out there surrounded by stars that have already experienced the same fate. . .

Gazing at a magnificent view of the moon. . . It’d be the perfect way to go.”

“That actually does sound pretty good.”

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“I have something to tell you.”

“Should I be sitting down?”

“You are sitting down.”

“Is it something that will freak me out?”

“I have terminal cancer.”

“What?”

“It’s on my spine. I just found out last week.”

“Fuck. Can’t the doctors do anything?”

“Nope. It wouldn’t do any good.”

“This only means one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“It means we have to start figuring out how to get up to space.”

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Beyond Ones Depth by Brecht Lanfossi The artwork turned out illustrating the superficial ways of attraction/ repulsion in romantic affairs. It's a sort of visual argumentation about how money, power and status can have a negative or even a positive decisive effect in people's perception of love. The creation itself is suggesting that this sort of mechanism destroys the sincerity of what love and romance should be all about. How can we love straight from the heart and with both feet on the ground with those mechanisms?

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Calcination by Brecht Lanfossi (Noun. The stage in our lives when we start seeing the tricks, illusions, misleading beliefs and harmful habits of our egos and put them aside so that we can finally explore what lies underneath.) The artwork focuses on higher consciousness and spirituality in general. It came into being as a response to personal experiences with seeing the tricks, illusions, misleading beliefs and harmful habits of my ego. I use the statement “it came into being� consciously because the making of the work came naturally. The whole process felt very intuitive, fulfilling and noble at the same time. I strongly believe that everyone has particular stages in live where they experience true calcination.

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Burning Rubber by Tim Kahl Burning rubber at Taco Bell Driver didn’t pay much for brains.

The old peel out doesn’t impress.

In days of yore Mustangs were beasts.

Lo the Volt! Its gas mileage makes it king.

It’s a new age of thin wire.

Haircut by Tim Kahl Haircut. Haircut. Make old dogs new.

A gleam in their eye and fang.

Bounce in the step means they beg well.

They don’t pant like they used to.

Mark their barks. They mean what they say: That squirrel is history.

Happy Place by Tim Kahl My brother in his happy place looks like a wild and beaten dog.

Rabid too, but he’ll never tell.

How he barks at the empty crowd.

One man can’t put Humpty together again.

But he makes a mean taco.

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***The Korean Sijo is an antiquated form in Korean poetry that was prominent in the late fourteenth to early fifteenth century. It was typically sung (each line containing four metric segments —what are called hemistichs—with a minor pause at the end of the second segment and a major one at the end of the fourth).

The syllable count proceeds as such: 3/4 4 3/4 4 3/4 4 3/4 4 3 5-8 4 3/4 a logical “leap is employed at the beginning of the third line. Or sometimes this gap/caesura takes shape as a developmental shift. Not unlike the Italian volta in the last two lines of a sonnet, it is considered the crux of the poem. Often there are interjections at the beginning of the third line which address a particular person.

These sijo are designed to not be reflective of the traditional content of the fifteenth century form which reflected largely on nature. Rather, they comment on the texture of contemporary life.

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that’s all of the art.

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here’s all of the artists.

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Affar Oppip Born in 1996, living in São Paulo, Brazil, since 1999. Doing digital art since 2010, but only in 2013~2014, after the beginning of the Brazilian political crisis, started doing glitch art to represent the contradiction, feelings and fears of the life in Latin America. The main themes of the artworks are escapist landscapes, tropical nature and political critics of Brazilian society and the social contrasts of Brazil: contrasts between the skyscrapers and slums, bourgeoise and working-class, big cities and countryside, left and right and many other that got even more evident after 2013.

Allison Grayhurst Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017/2018, she has over 1250 poems published in over 485 international journals. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Amy Brereton Amy Brereton's illustrations present the world's tender duality - a harmonious balance of luminescence and sorrow. Thematically, her work focuses on dark surrealism and often has a sarcastic sense of humor. She believes in the de-stigmatization of mental illness. She aims to educate with her practice and emphasizes that the act of creating is a therapeutic experience.

Aesthetically, Amy's work is inspired by low-brow comics, anime, and tattoo flash. In 2019 Amy graduated from Emily Carr University in Vancouver, Canada with a bachelors in illustration. She currently resides in Tokyo, Japan and works as both an instructor and illustrator.

Amy Guilfoyle Amy is a full-time Artist, emerging Poet and Fiction writer, living and working in Bantry, Cork, Ireland. Amy’s poetry reflects themes of love, infatuation and possession. She mainly becomes inspired to write her poetry, while she is painting in her Art studio. Amy always had a love for poetry and for meeting new people, experiencing the ups and downs of life and love and she does her best to express this throughout her poetry.

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Brecht Lanfossi Brecht Lanfossi (alter ego: nozem) is a Belgian surrealist collagist/digital painter inspired by dream-like and psychotic consciousness free of reason and convention. He is a Royal Academy of Fine Arts (KASK Ghent) drop out who never gave up the idea of making some “art” one day.

A way to interpret Lanfossi's work is to consider each work as a scene in a sort of vague state of mental functioning where symbolism dominates the whole experience itself. On the other hand, he believes that it would be complete nonsense trying to answer the conundrum concerning his aesthetic creations.

He also doesn't like to use the word “art” for his works because of the grotesque sounding connotation it carries with it. For the artist himself doing what he does is just one of the many existing desperate ways of escaping the global enslaved mind we are all currently living in. He thinks doing that sounds a lot better than the superficial, rat race driven, chaos that has become our norm.

DARKRECONSTRUCTION DARKRECONSTRUCTION is a nonbinary queer painter from Queens, NY. They create abstract expressionist paintings inspired by organic textures and geometric shapes. The philosophy behind their work centers around the meeting point of nature and urban life. Their paintings capture the ephemeral moments of living in New York City - moss-covered train tracks, stalagmites growing on ceilings of subway stations in disrepair, glossy rainbowcolored pollution in Red Hook canal, cobblestones peeking through where the asphalt has worn away. Humans have been persistent in building New York City out of the marshes and swamps. Nature has been working hard to take back what is hers. DARKRECONSTRUCTION is an avid thrifter; when possible they try to use materials, tools, and frames which are secondhand or were about to be disposed of, to promote more upcycling, reusing, and re -purposing. More of their work can be seen on their Instagram, @darkreconstruction or on their website, www.darkreconstructionart.com.

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Derek Maine Derek Maine lives in North Carolina with his wife, two kids, and dog (Gidget). He also has a cat, Lily, but she is an outdoors cat so it wouldn't be fair to say she lives with him. It wouldn't seem right to not include her either. Derek loves translated literature, so much that he reviews it on YouTube, which is a weird thing to do. He tweets about that and other things @derekmainereads.

Erica Dionora Erica is a Publishing graduate with an interest in a variety of artistic mediums including writing, sculpting, painting, drawing, and mixed media. Although she spends a lot of her time venturing onto new creative endeavours, she also likes plants, reading, and learning about astrology. Erica is currently working on completing a collection of poetry.

Haimon Franklin Haimon Franklin is a young creative hailing from Selangor, Malaysia. He is a college graduate in Biology. His work has appeared in Majalah Futuris and Orange Blush Zine.

Jackie Chou Jackie Chou is a poet residing in sunny Southern California who writes free verses and short form poetry. Her work has been published in Poetry Super Highway, Lummox, Altadena Literary Review, Dreamwell One Hundred Memories Anthology, and others.

Jacy Zhang Jacy Zhang (@JacyLZhang) studies English at the University of Maryland and interns at MoreWithUs - Everyday Jobs, a job search website. Her photography is published or forthcoming in Riggwelter, The Lumiere Review, the winnow magazine, and elsewhere. Besides school, she practices wushu martial arts and worships Jesus with her campus fellowship.

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John Grey John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

Julie Uszpolewicz Julie Uszpolewicz: an aspiring intellectual. A sunlit terrace somewhere in the Middle East, an existential book, a scented candle, a glass of champagne, and a jazz vinyl — her favourite things in the world. In her work, she focuses on exploring the feeling of being lost in the surrounding reality, which we all know so well. She strongly believes that the road we take is more important than the aim and tries to evoke that through her writing. Instagram: @uszpolewicz.

Marnie Horton Marnie Horton is an Australia based photographer who grew up and currently resides in Tasmania. She focuses primarily on using 35mm film for her work, as it forces an approach to photograph each scene meticulously along with a love of experimenting with different films to create desired colour and tone. Capturing and creating images from streets and cities, to natural landscapes while hiking Tasmania - she invites viewers to think deeply about the emotion behind her images and find ways to relate personally to them.

Meg Smith Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. Her poetry and fiction have recently appeared in The Cafe Review, Poetry Bay, Dark Dossier, Raven Cage, The Horror Zine, and many more.

Her recent poetry books, Dear Deepest Ghost, This Scarlet Dancing, Night's Island and Pretty Green Thorns, are available on Amazon. She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.

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Mickie Kennedy Mickie Kennedy is an American poet who resides in Baltimore County, Maryland with his family and two feuding cats. He enjoys British science fiction and the idea of long hikes in nature. His work has appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Artword Magazine, Conduit, Portland Review, Rockhurst Review, and Wisconsin Review. He earned an MFA from George Mason University.

Natalia Lopes Natalia is an illustrator and indie comics artist whose work deals with the eerie and nightmarish. She successfully crowdfunded her first Kickstarter in late 2019 with a horror anthology called Paroxysm. Since then she has collaborated on various horror and eerie-related projects, including a poetry and art zine titled The Chilling Wind of Rage Rattles my Bones, and is working on releasing some new short horror comics.

Paul Tanner Been earning minimum wage, and writing about it, for 15 years now. No, really. Got a Novel on Amazon called “Jobseeker”. Was shortlisted for the Erbacce 2020 Poetry Prize. Latest collection “Shop Talk: Poems for Shop Workers” is published by Penniless Press.

S. Rupsha Mitra S. Rupsha Mitra is a student from India with a penchant for writing. She is a student of Psychology and is interested in writing about emotions and motivations. Her works can be found in Harbinger Asylum, Hebe Poetry and Indian Periodical.

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Sarah Gorban Sarah Gorban is a recent college graduate with a focus in Neuroscience and is pursuing a pharmacy education in North Carolina. She has been previously published through Trinity University, Dissonance Magazine and Global Poemic. Sarah presently resides in Pennsylvania, among the greenery and farmland. She can be found usually on adventure walks, making oatmeal bowls and searching to experience moments more subjectively.

She’s also an enthusiastic adventurer, passionate about health and wellness, and a poet in the making.

Shea Donovan Shea is a performer, artistic director, occasional playwright/poet and photographer and mixed media artist with a passion for the interdisciplinary.

She strives to create work at the intersection of art, scholarship and activism for theatres, galleries and alternative spaces. Shea's methodology focuses on the journey to the finished product, and she enjoys integrating her passion for history and travel into her work. When she's not creating she can be found collecting degrees, directing youth education programs, galavanting around the world and reading classical literature to her cat, Dinah Louise.

Shekinah Louis Shekinah Louis found free therapy through the words of various poets in 2015, including the works of Lang Leav and Edgar Allan Poe. Since then, she's experimented with different forms of poetry writing (usually mimicking the writing styles of her favourite poets) whilst adding her own personal experiences to it. Although she thinks most of her poems are rather depressing, she believes that the art of poetry brought her joy throughout her angsty, teenage years and allowed her to bring an artistic spin to life's miseries.

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Syaf The writer goes by the name Syaf, aged 20. She is currently a student in a local university, learning about things she isn’t passionate about. Her pieces have always revolved around self-discovery, heartbreak and death in the past six years when she first started writing in her second year of high school. Sometimes you’d find her dancing or drawing although she doesn’t consider herself skilled in those particular realms, but hey, you only live once and she hopes you’re living your days to the fullest, too.

Teri Anderson Teri Anderson creates work that looks into the idea of craft in art, textiles, installation and sculpture to create a linear or surreal environment which the audience have to inhabit. The work links to her heritage and how textiles were key in their family history including sample machinists and pattern cutters. Building on this Teri proposes an art practise which incorporates a craft based techniques into the art based discipline of installation.

Thais Lopes Thais Lopes is an artist, storyteller and poet. She loves her cats (Nancy and Ian) and her wife Jocelyn. While enjoying mostly cute things, she has been able to tap into her dark side for the poem she contributed to Paroxysm, a horror zine her sister Natalia Lopes started. Since then, she has written poetry for a nightmare-themed zine and is once again writing for the second volume of Paroxysm. She is currently working on a script for an alternative reimagining of Beauty and the Beast, and hopes you will also check out her adorable cat zine at mystopress.com.

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Tim Kahl Tim Kahl [ http://www.timkahl.com] is the author of Possessing Yourself (CW Books, 2009), The Century of Travel (CW Books, 2012) and The String of Islands (Dink, 2015). His work has been published in Prairie Schooner, Drunken Boat, Mad Hatters' Review, Indiana Review, Metazen, Ninth Letter, Sein und Werden, Notre Dame Review, The Really System, Konundrum Engine Literary Magazine, The Journal, The Volta, Parthenon West Review, Caliban and many other journals in the U.S. He is also editor of Clade Song [http:// www.cladesong.com]. He is the vice president and events coordinator of The Sacramento Poetry Center. He also has a public installation in Sacramento {In Scarcity We Bare The Teeth}. He plays flutes, guitars, ukuleles, charangos and cavaquinhos. He currently teaches at California State University, Sacramento, where he sings lieder while walking on campus between classes.

Tisha Mavi TISHA MAVI has completed her bachelor’s in painting specialisation from Amity school of fine art’s, AMITY UNIVERSITY, NOIDA in 2019. Her work is a constant search for the best way to interpret the ideas she has about herself and the World. She likes to experiment with colours and explore mediums.

Her inspiration comes from daily life which she sees and observes.

Tope Ashaolu Tope Ashaolu is a Yoruba born poet, he was raised in Kwara state, where he earned his primary education and secondary aspect certificate. He has been featured in some most standard poetry challenge, in the likes of 2017 Chrysolite Wordwar, coming out as 2nd runners-up and some other competitions. His poems have been published in some online journals such as Praxis Magazine, PAROUSIA magazine, EroGospel and other magazines. He is currently studying English and Literary Studies at Federal University, Oye Ekiti.

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Waqas Rabbani Waqas Rabbani has been writing for many years and has written for many platforms such as New London Writers, Nation, Eye On Life Magazine, NayaDaur and Brandsynario.

Zach Murphy Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Ghost City Review, Spelk Fiction, Door = Jar, Levitate, Yellow Medicine Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Crêpe & Penn, Ellipsis Zine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Drunk Monkeys, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.

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Komal Keshran Komal Keshran is a young artist from Malaysia. Their work has appeared in APIARY Magazine, The Write Launch and Apeiron Review among others.

They are also the creator and editor of Orange Blush Zine. Find them online at malandherwords.tumblr.com/poetry.

Jack Joseph Jack Joseph is a fine art student at Plymouth College of Art, England. His work often references his experience with dysphoria and societal expectations of masculinity and femininity, beauty and the ugly, developing distinct aesthetics through unique techniques. His work is created through a multifaceted process of photography, illustration, animation and other digital mediums; forming imagery which appears to be in some liminal space and often grotesque, unsettling or peculiar.

Sophia William Sophia William gives emotional support to the other editors.

Sangeetha Nyanasegeran Sangeetha Nyanasegeran has always been fascinated by any form of art, whether it be poetry, music or even a simple sketch. In something that many people have taken for granted, she needs these things to be and feel alive. They help her articulate or visualise what she is feeling, they help her experience things without physically doing anything and they make her feel less alone. Unfortunately, she does not have an artistic bone in her body, or maybe she has, who knows? Only time will tell. She is incredibly grateful for her dearest friend, Komal Keshran for creating such an amazing platform for people to showcase their art and grateful that they have allowed her to part of it.

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To the 30 artists who contributed their incredible art to this issue — thank you.

For believing in a small independent publication, for living for the arts, for your trust and support.

Here’s to art — may there always be way too much of it in the world.

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To our readers:

We hope that you’ll stick around to read more issues and support us. Tell your friends?

To our contributors: We hope that you will continue to submit your work to us in the future, as well as encourage your creative friends to do the same.

Thank you endlessly for your love, your art and your trust.

Thank you for reading the issue.

Here’s how else you can support us: send us your art send us a tip or engage with us on social media.

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