Orange Blush Zine │ Issue 4 / Jan '21

issue 4 / jan ‘21

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cover art image: Life Meaning by Chetan Vlad

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6 a little about orange blush zine

10 all of the art

48 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 four 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 fourth issue.

The work within this issue has stayed with us from the very first moment we laid our eyes upon them.

We hope they live within you forever, too.

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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renaissance2020portrait by Aimee Haldane This is a digital drawing which is a modern twist on renaissance paintings. I was considering what is considered aesthetic in our society nowadays but showcasing it in a past style.

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To love her is to by Tyler Turner bubblewrap the soft parts, cushioning the space between her ribs where a rubber heart stamps inky bruises onto bone. It is not to shrink wrap her entirely, forcing her to breathe inwards, lining her lungs with cellophane cobwebs, for you to prey on her unsaid words as if they are flies

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orange blush zine

On the Wire by Casey Cantrell she’s fervent like a hissing wire like a cut wire lashing its current

the birds sing too-weet too-weet perched in their rows like choirs how i wish i could grasp like they do conducting so sweetly their electric lines

Wildfire by Casey Cantrell You rise a dawn from the treetops Clutching the horizon like a caress And blazing the woods white and gold I could watch your light forever Engulf me, Wildfire And make me your fire, too

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black hole by Casey Cantrell I. condense creation to a point and time ceases like two voices trailing off in the dark II.

IV.

with enough mass physics turn abstract

and how could i sleep without telling you about this impossible music how it played at the thought of you

neutrons crack and collapse into each other

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and the universe follows

whispers slipping past

III. i remember one night i woke up overwhelmed

the event horizon

by a music that had no sound the notes collapsed into one like jazz keeping time when time has ceased 13

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Adult Fear by Karter Wood In this painting, I used a cool toned black background to set an ominous tone, juxtaposed by bright colors and geometric shapes to symbolize the importance of sprinkling in youthfulness to make adult life under capitalism more bearable. Off center is the subject of the painting, clearly disillusioned by the constant struggle that is life in a capitalist society.

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Grief is a Three-Way Street by Alexis Garcia She collapses into herself She crumbles Every minute that passes picks away At her already perforated chest Her parents return to their routines It’s a couple of hours until 5 and her stepdad Cracks open a 5th beer It’s by the 7th one that you start to feel numb Her mother goes over her to-do list For the day And delegates tasks Distractions to pass the time until There is no longer a need to run away They will grieve at their own pace But she is held up in her room Her agenda for the day: Cry Fall into a million pieces and Somehow regain the strength To retrieve them

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Good Times With Toxic People by Alexis Garcia We have gathered here today to reflect On the memories that refuse to leave And the people who did not hesitate to A toast to some of the best times With some of the worst people It’s a shame that we had to part On less than amicable terms We are left to reminisce and reflect On moments that we cannot Seem to part with No matter how much hatred still lingers Or hope that still manages to creep its way in Is it possible to fully move forward Even when you remember the laughter?

There was love, whether it was Real or imagined, reciprocated or one-sided Can we really fault another if We are the ones who choose blindy to See what is no longer there See what has never been there What matters is that We made it this far So here’s to those who Will remain in the past Will soon become the past And those who will claw their way out of it.

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by Peachy Batidos

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The Meritocratic Republic by Sena Chang "The Meritocratic Republic", which was taken at a well-known college. It was then edited to make it look as if the bell tower was toppling, symbolic of the rise of a meritocracy that I think is leading to a paradigm shift in modern society. In my thoughts, this meritocracy will eventually lead to a greater disparity between the rich and powerful, if it isn't already. Due to many high schoolers entering the college application season soon, I thought that this piece would be fitting for our times.

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Gold in the Sky by Shira Zur “My life is made up of a million stories, and you are just one of the million.”

The moment the words left his mouth, they arranged themselves in gold lettering across the black sky, shining among the stars. If she reached her hand out far enough, she could touch them, stir the words around the black pot. He didn’t turn over to meet her eyes when he spoke, but continued to stare up at the sky, arms folded behind his head, so his hair didn’t get wet from the grass. He hated when his hair was wet. She knew him so well; she liked to imagine that one day, he’d invite her inside of him, and she’d sit in a little pocket in his chest, right next to his heart. And then, when she couldn’t fall asleep, she’d stay very still and listen to his inhales and exhales, timing her breathing to the beat of his heart.

She looked back up at the sky and reread the gold words over and over again until they all blurred together into a bright, golden circle. Suddenly, a match of anger was ignited inside of her body, deep down in her stomach. The flames rose higher and higher up her chest, traveling through the rest of her body, the scorching tips twisting and turning inside her throat. She wanted to hurt him back. The flames climbed inside her mouth, ready to form into any word, the fireballs ready to be thrown, and they were hot inside her mouth, and they stung, and she was ready, and she was sweating, and she knew that soon it would be too late, that the flames would die, and she her mouth slightly, the light from the flames streaming out unevenly like a single flickering lightbulb in the darkness.

She quickly closed her mouth. What could she say? That her life was the opposite, made up of a million stories about him, and only one of the million was about her? That she liked it that way?

She swallowed, the flames slowly dying, hissing inside of her throat and then her chest and then her stomach until they found the match they came from and turned black.

The night was still young. She could tell him anything. She wanted to say everything but was afraid she’d say nothing. She let the silence take over as it always did. They continued lying on the wet grass. She imagined herself turning the doorknob that stuck out of her chest and opening the door and letting herself out of her own body, her soul floating upwards, into the air. Up from the night sky, she’d watch her opened-up body, lying there, motionless, next to him.

Is that what other people see? She thought, and nodded to herself, answering her own question. That’s what other people see. A boy and a girl, lying in silence on the wet grass, watching their gold words painted across the black sky.

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The Deliverer by Shira Zur It is during times like these – in your hot, beat-up red 2006 Subaru, whose airconditioning has been broken for almost three weeks but you haven’t gone to get it fixed yet, on the way to a random desert in Nevada, where you intend to meet someone you have never spoken to before, a complete stranger, to drop off a box, whose contents you don’t know and were told not to find out – that you try to recall back to every single event that you have experienced since birth to see what led you to this life.

And it’s not that you dislike your job (you actually enjoy it very much, more than you care to admit to yourself) and it’s not that you don’t live comfortably; you mainly became a “deliverer” for the money, let’s be honest. It’s just that there’s this small, nagging voice, buried deep underneath your layers of brick walls and barriers, and even though you try to tune it out, it’s always there. It whispers in its high-pitched, raspy voice, which travels up your spine and into your ears and seeps into your thoughts when you least expect it, like right now, on your way to the random desert in Nevada.

Was this what you wanted your life to look like right now? The voice asks. You shrug, and once your shoulders are up and by your ears, you realize the ridiculousness of it all, how this little voice now controls your movements, too, and you throw your shoulders down in a harsh motion and grip onto the steering wheel a little tighter. The voice isn’t done, though.

You firmly believe that people are influenced by the other people that surround them: nurture over nature. You ask yourself if it had to do with your parents, and feel that morally, you can’t really answer that question, but yes, it did have to do with your parents. Your father was more of an acquaintance, coming in and out of the house whenever he pleased. Your mother was the one who raised you. She was the type of person that was never supposed to be a mother, didn’t carry the ability to care for another person besides herself, let alone a child. She tried, though, and you reason that you can give her credit for trying.

She was the first person who taught you to steal. You remember the exact day. It was one of the hottest days of July, so humid that once you step outside your t-shirt soaks in sweat and the thin fabric sticks onto your body, becoming one with your skin. Your mother said she needed to run some errands and grabbed your arm and you were off, walking on the street in the heat, your worn-out blue flip flops flicking the pavement with every step. You both enter the corner store at the end of the street, refreshed by the cool mist of the air conditioners, and your mother leaves you, heading towards the clearance aisle, pretending as though you are a complete stranger and not her kid whom she entered the store with just mere seconds before.

You aren’t phased by this, though, and mindlessly head to the candy aisle, tracing your hand along the plastic wrappers until you find the chocolate bars section. Your flip flops stop in their place and you look up, staring at the Milky Way bars in awe, and they stare back, calling out to you. Your stomach growls right on cue. You look down at your dirty feet and slowly lift your head up. You think about the unthinkable. You could do it, if you wanted. No one would suspect a little kid. You would flash a sugary smile at the cashier when you exit. They wouldn’t miss one chocolate bar, would they? But something stops you. It’s the voice; it was whispering to you, even back then. It tells you that you aren’t this type of person. That you are better than this. And back then you didn’t loathe yourself, so you believe this, believe that you are worth more. You groan, stomp your flip flops dramatically, but secretly you are smiling. It was a test, and you passed.

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Your mother suddenly rushes into the aisle. “Where the hell were you?” She growls, grabbing you tightly by your wrist. You stare at the Milky Way bars one last time, and she notices and stops. “Oh, I get it,” she smiles bitterly, showing her rotting yellow teeth, and the sight makes you wince, so you look away. “You think you are so smart, huh?” You keep your eyes down on the floor. “Well, come on now, don’t be a coward. See, you just take one,” she reaches out, grabbing one bar, “and then put it in your pocket.” She forcefully stuffs it into your right pocket, and then grabs your wrist, and you are out of the store, and under the sunlight again, and you melt in the furnace, and your mother laughs loudly, her awful, raspy laugh echoing in the street, which you absolutely hate, and the bar is melting in your pocket, so you take it out and rip the wrapper, taking a bite into the gooey chocolate. And you hate the taste, and now your stomach is hurting, maybe from the syrupy-sweet chocolate or maybe from the guilt, and you don’t look up from the ground the entire way home, just staring down at your flip flops, and when you get home you throw away the uneaten stolen bar in the trash.

You continued stealing ever since, because you became very good at it, and what else was there to do?

And now you are in your car, on the way to a random desert in Nevada. You try to shake away the memory you recalled, and distract yourself by turning on the radio, which does work, but barely, and it sounds too static-like and you still can’t block out the thoughts. You look into the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the brown box in the backseat. A small part of you wants to know what’s inside, but you don’t care, not really. You’re simply the deliverer, that’s what you tell yourself, and you can feel the guilt burying itself down a little further.

At last, you spot another car, coming from the other direction, and it switches lanes so it is driving right towards you, and you wonder what will happen if you stomp on the gas pedal as hard as you can and let go of the wheel. Will you finally feel something? But you don’t get the chance to answer that question. The black car slows down until it stops about five meters in front of you. You let yourself roll to a stop. You reach into the backseat and grab the box and put it on your lap, and then open the glove compartment, the loaded gun sinking into your palm, weighing it down.

You open the car door and step outside. They haven’t gotten out of their car yet. You walk forward until you are right in between your car and theirs, and place down the box on the road.

They still don’t get out, so instead you go back to your car, the engine slowly sputtering into motion, and then you’re off. And as your drive past the black car, you swear you could see that the passenger is smiling wildly, revealing a set of rotting, yellow teeth, but your vision isn’t that good, and you probably didn’t see it right.

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OUR CAT HAMLET, THE MOVIE STAR by Shawn Berman It’s Hamlet’s third birthday and we’re trying to take his picture so we can celebrate his existence on social media. You tell me that you think Hamlet is sad since my iPhone's portrait mode doesn’t recognize his little kitty face, saying he just wants beautiful headshots like the rest of us so he can use them for his future acting portfolio. You’re convinced that once agents see his gorgeous blue eyes, no one will be able turn him down.

After ten minutes, Hamlet runs away from this impromptu photoshoot and we’re forced to pick one of the pictures of him that we already have. Scrolling through the pics, I ask you what movie roles this nearly 20 pound cat who sleeps all day would be suitable for. As of right now, I go, he’s not in tip-top shape to be taking any jobs away from The Rock. Perhaps, I say, if we got him on a strict workout regimen where he did like a buncha pushups and ran around the apartment for a bit, then we could get him an audition for Jumanji 3. But, I doubt Hamlet will be game for that idea and I can’t say I blame ‘em.

We continue to think of films that Hamlet could excel at, rattling off the obvious cat-led ones.

You tell me, that under no circumstances, would Hamlet be in any future Lion King movies as the Lion King is the worst Disney Film of all-time. I have heard this rant from you before, how the Lion King is unrealistic, that the lions shouldn’t be friends with other animals, and if the animators had any integrity, Simba would just eat everyone. Even though I’m a bit tired of this rant, I tell you I agree because that’s what a good boyfriend is supposed to do.

In my opinion Hamlet would excel in a rebooted version of Terminator. I run this idea by you and we can’t stop giggling, as the thought of a feline cyborg assassin just lighting up the silver screen is freaking badass. Because this role would optimize lots of CGI, you think Hamlet would be a naturally good fit. After a successful trilogy, I imagine that the Catinator would get tons of merchandising opportunities: toys, shirts, video games, lunchboxes, maybe even Catinatorbranded litter boxes. Honestly, the possibilities are endless...and also dangerous.

We realize that the last thing Hamlet needs is a bigger ego. We imagine the fame would go to his head quite quickly. I tell you that I fear he would be that one actor nobody wants to work with, bossing poor assistants around, demanding salmon smoothies, meowing for his cat bed to be fluffed, shit-talking directors on late shows. Tabloids would run stories that Hamlet is a real ahole and they would say that he only cares about partying with other celebs. Soon, he would be blackballed and he would be crawling back home, apologizing for his behavior and that would be the end of his short-lived movie career. How embarrassing.

Hamlet waddles back over, manipulatively purring, just being cute to get a treat. Then, outta nowhere, he barfs up the biggest hairball we’ve ever seen. Yeah, this cat’s got no shot to be the next Air Bud, I say. None at all. There goes our dream of being rich cat parents. Maybe we can get him to go viral on Tiktok instead. We’ll see.

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issue 4 / jan ‘21

by Rhian Bolton

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beneath by Alice Rose beneath my duvet there is water ponds below my pillows tsunamis in the springs clouds of melancholy pass to bring rivers to my starved sea my adriatic heart suffocates inside a dirt body echoed sobs ripple the sheets like whale songs the mattress floats but I let go salt in every pore

I sink into a silent abyss softly

I am between the teeth

of a trench

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dreams by Aimee Haldane This is a diary entry. It was a response to not having such intense or any dreams, and considering this as a sign of happiness / the brain doesn’t have any emotions that need processing. The black and white image of me was taken by my girlfriend Niki Fitzpatrick - @nikifitzp and the background I took.

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Sunlit Room by Isaiah Dent 26

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In setting suns by Alice Rose Her name was sweet like toast and jam. She bore a bruise like a kiss from a goddess. She held her secrets close like new-borns at the breast.

In setting suns, she watched her wishes fade like a cat chasing a fat fly. She swallowed the hard truths like fists and knew the horizon would always stay at the horizon.

Waiting for freedom was pinning hope on a late bus.

In the creases of your face by Alice Rose In the creases of your face there is a colour. The colour of years spent in separate rooms. A certain silence that resonates longer than it should. I forget the colour exists every other month or so.

It is the colour of an empty womb and empty arms. A missed call and a misjudged question. A conversation that does not follow a linear pattern. Two people just hearing but never listening.

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13:36 to Southampton by Alice Rose Sat alone on the train I was struck with it.

An overwhelming sense of confusion

sadness loss.

For a moment of immense joy that I fear I will never feel again.

Trains always remind me of you

just not in the same ways anymore.

Yet here I am and Ben Howard seeps through my headphones trickling you into my brain and it all flashed before me like locations on a departure board.

And when rooftops meet sky I stare out over brown and blue and hindsight feels like everything.

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issue 4 / jan ‘21

by Rhian Bolton

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Peach Pit by Grace Copeland-Tucker Let me drape myself in the softened crest of your Cupid’s bow, there where the sweat glistens and dips over the trench of our top lip; dripping like a peach sprayed with water at the Sunday market where we could stroll contentedly, without a care.

Held in its curves, suspended on a hot summers’ day, sprawled upon crunching grass, whose dew long gone; the freshness of morning now lost to the rhythm of the midday sun and his breathless air.

Give me water, but not the sweltering rain.

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Let me swim, be washed away in the juice of the nectarine whose skin you just bit through – it collects in the hillocks of your gums, top lip, dribbles down your chin as you snigger and slurp.

I listen, laying on the crisp grass, tickled by the ants that bridge my ankles, wrists, breasts, tug at the upright hairs of my skin.

Meanwhile, head tilted upward, looking at the huge nothing above me, the lead of the air pushing our chests further down into the ground to be swallowed, ingested, transformed by the heat of the Earth.

issue 4 / jan ‘21

Movement by Isaiah Dent Life is always in a constant go and flow. Things move without or knowledge both intentionally and unintentionally, but what we can control is the decisions we make and the path that we choose to create for ourselves. This piece follows the idea of inner movement, and the various direction in which life seems to to grab and pull us towards.

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Untitled Surfboard #1 by Mitchell Danford The creation of paintings on old surfboards began with the desire to repurpose something old into something of value. This board carried a lot of memories for me, but it had reached the end of its useful life. It now has a new life living in someone’s home where it can bring some beauty to the room and motivate the viewer to get out surfing.

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Untitled Surfboard #2 by Mitchell Danford I began work on this second surfboard before I had even completed the first.

Working with such a new and challenging surface was exciting, and I needed to keep doing it. I had more ideas than there was boards, but luckily I owned one more old broken board that was ready to find new life. This time I was hoping to transfer the watercolor and pen style I had developed onto a very different surface, using different mediums, and at a much larger scale. Facing the challenges that new artwork poses can be addictive. There is always a new solution to the problem, and there is never one right answer.

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Sadness Drives my Brainship and all our Feelings are Aliens by Asia Raine And when I say this ship has taken off / launched a thousand arguments / written a thousand letters to no one / I tell you Sadness is the captain, / or the commander / or whatever the highest chain of command is on a spaceship / but the rocket is my brain / it’s a brainship / it’s a metaphor / it’s sinking / or gone up in flames / or lost all communication with ground control / and all my feelings are the aliens / observing me on my tiny blue dot / how small and trivial are my problems / how inconsequential their existence / when I have a brainship full of feelings / somewhere out in the universe / exploring undiscovered galaxies / what good is it to bother over ants when my feelings are bigger than the stars? / and when I say my feelings are giant balls of gas and fire / I mean I am constantly pre-explosion / I contain the birth of a new solar system / or maybe just a planet / or maybe just a poem / or maybe just a need to verbally process how I feel / before this flame scorches the back of my teeth / emotions so big they turn these bones to ashes / but my feelings aren’t the flame they’re the aliens / they speak a different language / they chew with their mouths open and aren’t considered rude / they talk first and ask questions later / go on and on and never listen / trying to reason with them is just yelling into a vacuum / and isn’t that familiar / homegrown / isn’t that what it is to be a local / to our own emotions / to become so intimate with our suffering / we let it write the poem / or control the narrative / isn’t that like home / to know all the tourist traps / to know which streets are dead ends / and where the shortcuts are / except these shortcuts don’t actually take you where you’re going / they’re just sad songs when we’re sad / they’re just a glass of wine or two at home / or a night or two with a stranger / they’re just trying to fill the void / they’re just stalling / until we decide to take the side streets back home / and try again / when we are ready / we know the way back home / we know when the ship is running out of fuel / doesn’t mean we will stop for gas / just means we know when we are burning out / when we are black hole / can’t get out of bed / or feed the cat / call in sick / gotta make it to the gas station but just can’t / can’t make it home / can’t pull over when you’re floating in this space / just can’t get out of this Sadness / the brainship needs a jump / just needs a little push / needs a new tire or an oil change / do rocket ships need an oil change / or do I just need to go back to therapy / or do I just need to hand over the steering wheel / Sadness can’t drive a manual anyway / do submarines use a stick shift / or do they just keep diving / until the rocks at the bottom start to look like home / if I launch this ship will it know when to come back down / or can I just leave it there / in a loose and shapeless orbit / can it write itself a way back home / or does it need to go back to therapy / does it need a nudge in the right direction / do these aliens even know what the right direction is / or will they wander the galaxy / aimless and nomadic / directionless and drifting / will this brainship ever find its way back home / or will it always be searching for the path back to joy / stuck in orbit / waiting for someone else to take the wheel

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thirty / goodbye by Asia Raine I never really said goodbye Just I’m sorry and no response and this has happened before.

I apologize to everyone who leaves.

Sometimes it’s me and sometimes it’s them And both options are a house on fire I am the house and I am on fire I am the thing that is burning and the place that needs escaped And maybe that is why they leave It’s too hot Too hard to breathe I love these people so hard I combust Leave no room for oxygen just ashen affection So goodbye always sounds like sorry Like no response Like the only closure I get is the read receipts And a head nod every once in a while out in public There is no emergency ladder There is no smoke detector There is no plan there’s just a fire and a girl and a house And I’m saying they always look the same.

A girl is a house on fire and apologies are a drop unto the flames So goodbye Boy from Minnesota Goodbye girl with the basement tattoo Goodbye poet and poet and musician and poet Goodbye to all those I did not know I could smother I am both sorry and not Not over it Or anything How can I move on with feet in the basement?

The foundation that never burns down When all that’s left is an empty threshold And a head nod And sorry

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Closed Until Further Notice by Patricia Walsh The watered-down favour, cause for applause, No aggressive poison can stop you now, Not yet hit by lightning in a perfect silence Kicking-out time braces the indigent signs.

Salt and roses, nourished by a set-up design, Wrong tasks forever paving the perfect path, No call for confusion, the bilateral ringing true Opposite disenfranchised, coming for seconds Reconstructive surgery laughed at, clockwork.

A clarion call that fared badly, blaring Wasting time on profession at the going rate, The token food betrays nothing too good Broken apart transgressions rising through type.

Exacting credit gone into remission, Mending the unnecessary silent slog, Silenced drink eaten like a crosshatched bullet Plain, yet pretty, the stranglehold righted, Print layout view knowing where defeated.

Hardwired prices, clamouring for appointments The supervised education not bilateral after all, Training for the right door to bleed it through Ingrained mistakes at a price, expressed.

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issue 4 / jan ‘21

by Rhian Bolton

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Regret, a memoir by Jessica Wang She didn’t like paint. She didn’t like how the colored pigments stuck to her skin and dried on her ripped jeans in sticky hard lumps. It’s like another layer of skin, she would say to me and I would agree cringing at the thought. The last thing I needed was another shell suffocating me.

Perhaps it was our mutual hatred for colored resin that brought us together, or maybe the fact that both of us needed a partner to navigate the stormy waters of freshman year. Whichever it was, it didn’t matter. What mattered was she was like me.

She had a ponytail like me, talked softly like me, and had the same look in her eyes I had seen in the mirror far too many times.

The day she spilled a bottle of pink lemonade over the art table should have been the first warning sign. I remember how she burst into tears and apologized profusely to our teacher who stood flabbergasted and not quite believing that a student was bawling hysterically over a cup of lemonade.

I later found her in the girls bathroom with sticky pink hands and red eyes. She mumbled about how hopeless and stupid she was and how she deserved to be punished. But lemonade had nothing to do with it, and I should have known.

She was too much like me.

On Halloween night she refused to eat. She refused to touch the glossy caramel apples I had made or the chocolate bars wrapped in red crinkly foil. I’ll get fat, she had said and gave me a thin sickly smile that scared me more than ghosts or bloodthirsty vampires.

She made me promise I wouldn’t tell. She made me promise that I wouldn’t speak of the halfdigested carrots floating in the girls toilet or her tirade rants about hating herself and her life. It was disgusting, not the floating carrots, but the fact that I never told anyone.

And there were days when she cried and cried, leaving salty tears and clear sticky snot all over my woolen sweater. She cried because she didn’t know why she was sad, and she didn’t know why she woke up each day to the same world that beat her down. But instead of comforting her I gave a cracked lollipop and told her to cheer up.

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I should have known that cracked lollipops could not fix the hatred inside her. The hatred she had for herself that fed off the addicting taste of pain and misery. The same hatred I had once felt.

The year passed and we grew apart. The stormy waters of high school grew larger, and both of us were torn away, each in separate boats headed in different directions. We could no longer hold onto each other for support and were carried away by the thundering waves. I still saw her in the hallway each day, wearing baggy clothing and makeup covering all her imperfections. She smiled at me each day, and it was like looking into a mirror, a broken one.

One day she wasn’t there, and she wasn’t there for seven long days, but the worst part was that I didn’t even know. I found out through hushed whispers and cupped hands that she was at the nearby hospital. Broken bone, fistfight, car accident, they had murmured but I knew better. She was just like me.

The next time I saw her was through a window in the door of the counselor’s office. She was holding her mother’s hand and sobbing hysterically. Her hair was down as she mumbled something to a woman holding a clipboard while asking her questions that I should have asked long ago. When she walked out of the office I had reached out to her, asked if she was alright.

The torrent of high schoolers had drowned out her response, pushing her away in swarms of foamy waves, but it didn’t matter, I already knew the answer.

In reality, I was selfish and afraid. In my fear, I had flushed away the carrots and thrown away the tear-stained sweater. I was afraid if I told someone, I would lose a friend. So I covered her cries with yet another coat of paint, in efforts to hide the truth and keep a friend. But in the end, it didn’t matter, I lost her anyway.

My mother told me it wasn’t my fault. That these people couldn’t be helped and I couldn’t have done anything. She didn’t know about the floating carrots, the spilled lemonade, and the dried paint on her jeans. But I did.

I knew she hated paint because it hid the paper underneath, hiding the plain white truth. She hated paint because it reminded her of layers, the thick layers that she built around herself every day and how it choked the happiness out of her. I wish I had broken through those sickly colored layers and rescued the girl underneath. I wish I did, but I didn’t.

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when the dragons come to shore by auvrea “sometimes we’re just here to watch instead of step between the tides we’re meant to walk an inch above the sea and watch the waves crash water turning Prussian and turquoise and teal and blue and be content.” i think the icebergs will wake up one day and yawn out cavemen who don’t know how to swim with seals the dragons beneath snow and ice their bellies like caverns full of frost and sleeping lilies in the sea the tides will raise as the dragons make their way to shore they’ll sing to their mothers and fathers in the deep those of them with bluey skin and honey hair ichor eyes pale and fair

sea mountains on their spines coral forests on their neck a crown of moray eels that sing while they make their way to shore: “yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!” “wrong song.” the dragon ladies and draco lords in their antlers ospreys rest dolphins follow along their tail whale sharks humming great whites singing and the world turning blue and red and yellow as the dragons come to shore oh! the cavemen will look at polar bears and penguins second cousins in ponchos and parkas treat them to dinner with an invitation letter 2 million years old they’ll eat fish and shrimp definitely not each other we will stare and stare gathering our children close by not knowing for the first time in a while what to do

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do we engage with hostility? do we run away from them and hide? do we stand our ground with our spears and face paint made of catnip? the beaches will be full of us like mice, like ants, parishioners in congregation in the face of a myth the question will pass around through gossip, the snake’s tongue cowering before actual serpents: “if dragons are real, is god?” now who are dragons to answer that? they swim to shore on scaly limb neck and tail shimmery scales gargantuan mermaids in the distance creatures ten times larger than blue whales their whistling loud and clear “ooo-weee-ooo-wee-!” a chorus of sea mammals singing in response to their old friends welcoming cheering laughing while the mammals on shore tremble as their beaches begin to disappear when the dragons come to shore i think the icebergs will rise one day out from the sea in crowns of white their eyes like glass and breath like mist staring down at invisible landmines in the crowd of land mammals in their chests fires burning the colour of a fish’s stomach tossing on a fisherman’s line i think i’ll look in their eyes with irises the size of a truck roses hidden beneath like puzzle pieces falling into place (twig, leaf, blossom) i will step forward onto the sand with my fathers and mothers behind me as the dragons come to shore

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Tunes of Glory by Bernard Pearson When lullabys drown out the march to war, and harpists unman the guns, So Generals forget the score.

When songs break out across old battle grounds, and the shout and shriek of shells no longer sounds.

Then not one more whited sepulchre of waisted life, will stand, dumb before one more grief-tombed wife.

And bells will ring out, where once they tolled, For the heat for battle will finally, finally run cold.

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Sketch of Beard Flowers by Mitchell Danford This drawing marks a transition towards working in a more distinct style that focuses on hatching and crosshatching with ink pens. I was creating a lot of portrait sketches at the time, and this piece felt like a success, as it seems to capture the character of the subject. This served as motivation to continue working on further developing my style around linework portraits.

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Hazy Jane V by Helen Dring she tells me driving towards the river my feet are curled against the dashboard my toes clutching at the last of the summer light the hair on them golden last night she told me she was leaving her hands traced it down my back like once she traced I Love You and now I think maybe I’ll never hear anything like it again she tells me while we’re driving with her hands at ten and two and her eyes forwards like she is looking out to twenty years away and my eyes close her words are in my ear hairs the air is thick and the river black orange sky folding in on us and the next two minutes are timeless.

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How to Compose Music by In-Kyung Hwang (Cecily Hwang) Music box is poetry of my mind.

It turns on the prosodic sound in my mind.

My mind gets rid of the otiose thought in the music box.

The music on manuscript paper follows the butterfly’s navigation.

Each the treble clef and the base clef finds out the key board I feel evening breeze in the summer following Andante’s tune.

I feel like loving Weber who composed Der Freischuts ‘Hunters Choir.'

Absorbing into the soul of marcato’s performance on the stage.

The splendid hunters' marching The soft hunters' chorus They all make me awake literary And feel sad, However, I cry out, do I weep out To make a wonderful rhythm For the pearl's trial life On recognizing the birth of the pearl.

The pearl's ordeal has a precious twinkle.

My songs twinkle And spread out into the deep ocean.

The musician’s soul gets rid of impurity When the musician’s fingers begin the gentle touch on the key board, one by one, or simultaneously, For the philharmonic orchestra, The composer who is trembling the note sheet which pictures the sound's images tremendously flowing into the music box.

My mind fills with decorating rhythm and melody.

The philharmonic orchestra forces to write down my poems.

My poems spontaneously fly away to the reader’s heart in Which are my hopes and dreams Composing the music is the procedure of figuring metafiction's melody. . .

Just because we enjoy appreciating it.

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that’s all of the art.

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here’s all of the artists.

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Aimee Haldane Aimee Haldane (@okdokiee) is a Scotland based artist who's work surrounds escapism fantasies. She translates the worlds in our minds in to reality through installations, and more currently digital based media. By using a dreamy, sunset colour scheme, she signifies the unconscious mind at the end of the day. Aimee hopes to shed light on the peacefulness and processing within to help others achieve a sense of clarity in the chaos that is the world.

Alexis Garcia Alexis Garcia is a Queer Hispanic writer from New York, NY. She graduated from Manhattanville College in 2017 with a Bachelor of Arts in English. Currently, she works as a paralegal for a personal injury law firm in Midtown and uses her free time to continue to work on her writing. She has had a few of her poems published in UNITED: Volume RED and UNITED: Volume HONEY with Beautiful Minds LLC and Upon Arrival: Threshold with Eber & Wein Publishing. Most recently, she had some poems accepted for publication in Ariel Chart, CC&D magazine and Academy of the Heart and Mind.

Alice Rose Alice Rose (she/her) holds an MA from the University of Hertfordshire. Shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award (Feb 2017), Rose has also been published at Crêpe & Penn, Fiction Kitchen Berlin, Prismatica and others. Rose writes from her small, St Albans flat, feeding other people’s cats and attempting to keep her plants alive. You can find her at alicerwrites.wordpress.com or on Twitter @a1ice_r0se

Asia Raine Asia (she/her) is a Kansas City resident, a bucket full of feelings, and graduate of UMKC with her bachelor’s degree in sociology. She is a host at the Poetic Underground’s open mic night, a member of Kansas City Poetry Slam’s 2018 National Poetry Slam team, Kansas City Poetry Slam’s 2019 Rustbelt team, and competed in WOWPS 2020 and was a semi-finalist at Texas Grand Slam 2018. Her work has been featured on Button Poetry and Write About Now, and she has previously been published in the What Are Birds? online journal’s debut issue and From Whispers to Roars: Quarantine Tales edition.

auvrea auvrea draws, writes, and collects feathers. she wants to travel anywhere and sleep under the stars. she currently lives in a house where starlings nest under the roof. you can find her as @shroomgumbo on Instagram.

Bernard Pearson BERNARD PEARSON: His work appears in many publications, including; Aesthetica Magazine , The Edinburgh Review, Crossways, The Gentian, Nymphs The Poetry Village, Beneath The Fever, The Beach Hut Little stone In 2017 a selection of his poetry ‘In Free Fall’ was published by Leaf by Leaf Press. In 2019 he won second prize in The Aurora Prize for Writing for his poem 'Manor Farm'

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Casey Cantrell Casey Cantrell is a writer, editor, journalist, and podcaster based in Los Angeles, California. He loves Star Trek: The Next Generation too much for his own good.

Sometimes, he writes poetry.

Grace Copeland-Tucker Grace is a 25 year-old poet interested in the intersectionality of text, design and the material space of the word, ie. the text itself as a finite, printed object. Alongside her own poetry manuscript, Grace is a translator of French and Spanish literature, and has recently started a zine (@illagryphopress) which accepts rolling submissions of experimental works. When she isn’t writing, Grace can be found with her dog Barry, strolling around London! For more of Grace’s work, head to @grace_tckr on Instagram.

Helen Dring Helen Dring lives near Manchester, UK and is completing a PhD in education. She writes poetry and fiction and has an MA in Creative Writing from Manchester Metropolitan University. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram at @dringpoems.

In-kyung Hwang (Cecily Hwang) In-kyung Hwang, also known as Cecily Hwang, hails from Seoul. She studied English Linguistics and Literature in Seoul Woman’s Univ and got her MA. of English Language Education in Yonsei,, in Seoul. Ph. D of English Literature in Sungkyunkwan University, Seoul. Now she is a Research Professor at Humanities Research Institute. She was awarded the Bronze Prize for the Korean Traditional Painting Women’s Competition in 2003.

Isaiah Dent Jessica Wang Jessica Wang is a 16-year-old girl who has pieces forthcoming or in The Weight Journal, The Telling Room, Clumsy Spider, and Declarasion etc. She is the editor of the literary magazine Ice Lolly Review and her school literary magazine.

Karter Wood Karter Wood is a 19 year old painter who focuses on themes of mental illness, trauma, and feelings of fear. They have a long history of mental illness that heavily influences their work, and they’re vocal about mental illness of social media. Karter aims to call attention to the “unacceptable” forms of mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder and PTSD. It is their belief that anxiety and depression are the only forms of mental illness that have truly been destigmatized, and that there needs to be more work done to destigmatize all mental illness.

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Mitchell Danford Mitchell Danford is a portrait artist with a background in teaching. After getting his BA in Art Education, Mitchell worked in education for four years in his hometown of San Diego before moving to Portland to pursue his art career further. Mitchell’s work is characterized by the use of playful atmospheric backgrounds with bold hatching and crosshatching linework. He brings a technique commonly restricted only to sketchbooks to a much larger scale with the use of acrylic pens. His portraits are emotive, intriguing, and tell a story through each line and wrinkle. His childhood living near the ocean is a big influence on the settings built within his work. The people Mitchell paints and draws are often semi-translucent, giving the feeling that these characters come from his imagination. The quirky, rambling stories that accompany some of his works are humorous and definitely worth the read.

Patricia Walsh Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Burnfort, Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International; Trouvaille Review; Strukturrus; Seventh Quarry; Vox Galvia; The Quarryman; Brickplight, The Literatus, and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014. A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.

Peachy Batidos Rhian Bolton Rhian is a multi-disciplinary Welsh artist concentrating on the experience of the everyday. With an inclination towards drapery and it's expressive nature, the beauty of the banal is explored through bedsheets, laundry and rituals of washing.

Sena Chang Sena Chang is a musician, poet, and artist. In addition to writing poetry related mainly to her Asian heritage and Kafkaesque scenarios, Chang is the founder of The Global Youth Review. There, she seeks to give a voice to marginalized youth through creative writing and other mediums of art. Her most recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Raised Brow Press and The International Educator, amongst others.

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Shawn Berman Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. His work is featured or forthcoming in Hobart, Rejection Letters, and (mac) ro (mic). Follow him on Twitter @sbb_writer.

Shira Zur Shira Zur is a senior in high school. She has loved to read and write ever since she can remember and hopes to pursue studying writing in the future. Her work has been published in several online literary magazines, which include The WEIGHT Journal, Teen Belle Mag, and All Ears Mag.

Tyler Turner Tyler Turner (she/her) is a writer and MA Creative Writing student based in Sheffield, UK. When she isn't writing, she can be found either cuddling her rat babies or arguing with her tarot cards. Find her most recent work in Perhappened, The Daily Drunk and Serotonin. Twitter: @cartilagexfluid and @TETurner96.

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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. Read their work online at malandthemoon.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 21 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.

Thank you for choosing to support a small online publication, and thank you for experiencing this issue with us.

Consider sharing it with a loved one, or even a stranger.

If you’d like to further support us, you could send some submissions to our inbox, subscribe to our newsletter, send us a small tip on Ko-fi, or engage with us on social media.

We hope to see you soon.

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orangeblushzine.wixsite.com/home ko-fi.com/orangeblushzine @orangeblushzine orangeblushzine@gmail.com

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