Strawberry Zine Issue One: Lost and Found

Strawberry Zine

Welcome to

Strawberry Zine

The Lost and Found Issue

Cover art by Petra N. (@hiketchup + @tiredpetra)

a letter from the Editor

Hello!

Welcome to the debut issue of Strawberry Zine!

Thank you for being here, I'm glad you found this little publication. It means the world to me that you wanted to be part of it. Without your contributions, Strawberry Zine would not have come to life. I hope that this is the first of many more issues, stories and encounters.

Your time and effort that went into every single submission is not lost on me. I cannot thank you enough for sharing your work and for expressing what 'Lost and Found' means to you. I hope you find what you're looking for.

All my love, Maya Barter

Contents Vasehead Chun Sheng On the Shelf Gratia Serpento Naptime & Fleeing the Scene of a Flower Connor Howlett Orpheus Anna Frances Djarum Cherry Red Ahu I am Lost and Cannot be Found Ethan Riddle And Just Like That, It Was Gone Jordan Coen Losing Myself Julie Ann Stooping Culture Caley Crafts LaLa-Oopsy Anacia The Artist

Contents Lost and Found; The Beauty of Home Carlye Mahler Focus & Phosphenes Alex Jay The Picture Frame & Dreaming in Adulthood Jessica King Making Art out of the unlikely things.

MR. OMAR KING My Red Tights Charlotte Wood The Midnight Writer Tanvi Bachipale In between Fernanda Armada MY SUMMARY AT THE AGE OF THIRTY-THREE Ruchi Acharya

Vasehead

by Chun Sheng, @chunsh3ng

by Gratia Serpento (she/her)

On the Shelf

I lost you And not by any fault of yours I put you on a shelf Promising to return But I began to focus on everything else but you Out of sight out of mind You were a speck in my peripheral Dust on the mantle I kept winning Everything but you You sat alone on the shelf Watching me from afar You cheered for me when I was too far away to hear You sent me smiles I couldn't see You sat for so long on the shelf Before you started to dull A shade falling over you I shone so bright that I blinded those around me And you were cast in the shadows I promised to return You knew that But it took me far too long I gave no indication of coming close But only of leaving And that hurt you You couldn't play second fiddle anymore Slowly you fell off the shelf and slunk onto the ground The abyss I couldn't find you in You were long gone before I came back My smiles quickly dispersing My wins didn't feel like wins anymore Without you You left I lost you And it's no fault of yours It was my undoing I'm sorry for hurting you I'm sorry for forgetting I'm sorry for losing you.

Naptime

by Connor Howlett

Fleeing the Scene of a Flower

by Connor Howlett

Cigarette butts collect like moss Growing a second life on the front lawn Culminate conversations, stress, The break, the trying to fit in, the Solidarity of it all My lighter is your lighter The phrase rings through my body Pulling clothes over myself, shedding

Orpheus by Anna Frances (she/her)

A second skin, Up and over My elbow bent, breaking itself In two for sobriety White snowflakes fall inside Making me cold.

Making me lash out.

It’s only two feet, Two and a half, three if you Can’t put one foot in front of the other My lift sitting, confused Grateful for my warning

I’m not brave, Waking up, Spraying water on my face Missing calls; hearing the roars of the tagalongs Beckon me Little devils in a drunken inferno They think the night is young Watching it dissolve into anxious days Being normal feels like A fever dream to me now If I look back now I’ll give in To the struggle If you Could call it that, the Searing unrest that seems to last Forever Crisp on my skin Cracking like an eggshell A hard-boiled consciousness Never changing

Djarum Cherry Red

by Ahu (she/her)

Yasemin always carried cherry flavored cigarettes and the mint gum she chewed to hide its scent. The cigarettes - Djarum cherry - had a red filter; a rotten strawberry red. The kind of color that would make anything- even cigarettes - look cute. The intense scent of cherry that spread when you opened the lid wasn’t really felt when you smoked it. Still, it was the cigarette I bummed the most and if I were to run into one today, I would bum it again.

I was a cloud, when Djarum Cherry was around. A single sunset would get me wrapped in scarlet. I would become a whisper when the winds were strong. Sometimes, when night fell, I’d stretch out to conceal the stars.

Never the same, always carrying remnants. I was light like nothing.

The girls were all talking about the English quiz. We had only just started high school, only just met, only just begun learning English.

Yasemin interrupted our discussion of school: “I’m not exaggerating, I counted yesterday, I’m currently following thirty TV shows," “Wait what? Thirty!”

“I’m serious. Mom’s gonna kick me out soon.”

She took her backpack on her lap and checked her phone, keeping it in the front pocket; careful that the teachers don’t see. The cherry flavored cigarettes and gum she chewed to conceal their scent winked at me from inside. Yasemin looked up from her phone: “Brooklyn after school?”

Nowadays I’ve landed on the ground. Or perhaps I’m about to. I became more solid as I descended; my particles came closer together. My colors don’t change as much anymore; I don’t reflect the rays nearly as much as I did. I fly in the wind now- don’t spread out. I still carry the sunsets I’ve known, but I am cotton now. No longer afloat.

Brooklyn was a bar on the roof of a building in Taksim. The Brooklyn we were used to hearing from the TV shows would have changed its name out of embarrassment if they knew of this place. They sometimes called themselves a rooftop bar, but I don’t think you can be called that if you share the building with a sex shop and make your patrons climb up the fire escape. Men sold condoms hidden in walnuts across the street. I remember when Yasemin bought a few. For me, it was the funniest thing that had ever happened in human history; I was laughing until my belly hurt.

Brooklyn was pretty far from our school (took a bus across the bridge then a metro), but everyone was there on Fridays. Yasemin was there every single Friday- no exceptions. We all had our first sip of alcohol, smoked our first cigarettes there that year. Djarum cherry, Djarum black (clove flavored), and - if there were any left in the tobacco shop on the other side of Istiklal Djarum Vanilla. Though the latter were normally all sold out to kids who went to nearby schools by the time we arrived. Even if Vanilla was available, Yasemin always smoked Djarum cherry.

Some colors faded away as I got closer to the ground, some became more prominent. I didn’t get to choose. Sometimes I did, but not as much as I had believed I could. I look for the rotten strawberry red of Djarum cherry. I can’t find it anymore. It’s difficult now. They want me to make away my packets of air, to crush me into a cotton pad. I resist, as best I can. This preoccupies me, I forget to search for the colors I am losing. Perhaps they are already lost. How could I lose Djarum cherry red.

“I’m at Taksim station. Its past midnight so the fucking train comes every 20 minutes.”

“What are you doing at Taksim station past midnight Yasemin? Are you trying to die?”

“No it was fine, it was only me there. Then I hear this tak tak tak: a woman is walking towards the platform in these high heeled shoes. I swear 20 cm.”

“That’s impossible...”

“Aaaa, something like that. Anyways, she has this hair- platinum blonde, to the point where it’s almost white, burnt probably a million times. And her hair was very long.”

“How old was she?”

“Old, probably like our parents' age. Which is why it’s weird, because old people don’t usually have long hair. Anyways she comes up to me, she’s wearing this long coat. She asks, ‘Are you a student?’

I say ‘yes,’ she says ‘good. Stay in school’. I’m like OK, lady, wasn’t planning on leaving...

Then she goes 'or else you’ll end up like me.' And girls, I shit you not, she lifts the ends of her coat,” Yasemin looked around our faces, holding in a laugh. “...And she’s completely naked,” Yasemin shrieked and then started laughing. We all followed; though I remember I was secretly horrified. Yasemin was cackling so hard she almost fell off the bench.

“When you say completely naked...”

“Nothing,” yelled Yasemin, “nothing at all.”

One day I will become a rock. My particles will collapse into the centre, closer and closer, until there is no room for them to breathe. I will roll down if I meet a hill, I will crack if I fall off great heights. But for the most part, I will sit sunken in the mud, carrying the colors that once decorated the skies. And when I become a rock one day- no doubt much sooner than I think I hope to have found my Djarum cherry red and hid it in my core.

I am Lost and Cannot be Found

by Ethan Riddle (he/him)

And Just Like That, It Was Gone

by Jordan Coen (she/her/they/them)

Happiness is hard to find, but harder to keep It comes in waves, as if it were the ocean, sneaking up on you It’s a wish that you hold onto and when you finally capture it, you hold it ever so close to your heart Trying your very hardest to let it not escape as if it were a frog ready to jump at any moment Happiness is hard to find, but harder to keep I captured it in my hands Barely, but it’s whispers came and I pounced on it as if I were a cat, ready to catch a mouse A smile burned on my face My feet went round and round A squeal escaped from my lips And thenit was gone Just like that My burning smile fell, leaving ashes My feet went still as if they were stone My squeal had been silenced And just like that it was gone

Losing Myself

by Julie Ann (she/her)

Was even harder than losing him.

In fact, it was much much worse.

For a while, I feared I might have lost Myself forever.

After a time, it had been so long I worried I might not even recognise Myself any more.

I looked back at the place where I'd last seen her But Myself wasn't there any more.

I don't think I'll find her in that place again I don't think she can fit back in there She's not the same shape any more I can sense she's not completely lost though Just in a different place Not better Not worse But different.

I think I'm getting closer to finding Myself you know Just need to keep searching And never give up.

Stooping Culture

by Caley Crafts (they/she), @caleycrafts

LaLa-Oopsy

by Anacia The Artist (she/her)

Lost and Found; The Beauty of Home

by Carlye Mahler (she/her)

Early on it’s easy to feel trapped in your hometown and dream about leaving. Looking at people teaching at their old high schools, they seem like the worst case-scenario. So you drive, you fly, far away as soon as you can.

You make exciting friends, they have experiences that you’ve never had and you grow as a person just by knowing them. You cut your hair, eat new foods, and pretend to know what Foucault was talking about. Peers accept you as a unique equal.

You find yourself playfully defending your hometown grocery store in conversation. “Obviously Publix is better than Kroger.” You think back to the cartoonish dinosaur and the free cookies you politely asked the bakery workers for.

“We don’t have sweet iced tea, I can bring unsweet tea and you can use the sugar packets on the table.” How dumb is that? When I’m at home there’s sweet tea everywhere. I realize now that none of my friends even think to order sweet tea; it sets me apart.

The sugar won’t mix into the iced tea, it settles into a layer of sugar on the bottom. The sweet flavor rushes immediately through the straw only to be substituted for the watery tea flavor. The sugar comes in an immediate wave before fading.

How did you become the ambassador for the world that you ran from? A new burden on your shoulders. You never were the sweetest iced tea in your hometown, but you’re the only sweet iced tea your friends have tasted. You desperately swirl more sugar packets in to mimic the real thing.

Focus

by Alex Jay (he/him), @alexjayphoto

Phosphenes

by Alex Jay (he/him), @alexjayphoto

The Picture Frame

by Jessica King (she/her)

The picture frame rests on the table, where love letters are spread across the large wood, written in faded ink and decorated with yellow corners. Stiff rose petals were spilled across the pages, the brown stems snapped in half and clinging together with strings of white ribbons. Strips of portraits from distant photo booths have been taped to the papers, the dates on the white spaces discolored and missing numbers. A tarnished ring glistens by the picture frame, the diamond withstanding the tests of time.

The wedding dress lies across the sofa like a forgotten jacket, the divine white color fading to vintage yellow. The bag suffers holes and tears from long moves and playful cats and prying children. The veil with the adorning tiara has half-disappeared by now, the thin fabric shredded from improper storage, but too precious to part with.

An elf crown like Arwen’s, you had claimed after reading Lord of the Rings, your most recent obsession at the time. The blue gem, the color of your eyes, angrily tore through the veil as well, glimmering and glistening with the memories now beyond our reach. All of this aged artistry reflects in the picture frame’s glass, casting a light shine that mars my groomed face.

Eight years ago, you cried to the minister “I do,” to a fulgurant future filled with fierce fervor and life’s fulfillment. For four long years before that, I had held those frail fingers like a prayer, my mind perverted with the day when I could finally claim you as my companion, my soulmate, my forever. In your elven dress, you radiated divine grandeur like a fairy goddess, beaming with delight of our long-awaited union.

The dustily-disguised photo of our fairytale wedding day is the lingering proof of your brilliant smile. Not even the crystals embellishing the picture frame can dare compare to the intensity of your intelligent eyes. We clung to each other like magnets, our cheeks imprinting into each other as your cheekbone bore into my own. Rosy pink lipstick stained my jawbone, your favorite spot to kiss me because it tickles. A loose strand of brown hair had curled around your flushed nose; you insisted that it ruined the perfect picture, but to me, it proved that no imperfections could blemish the beauty of your countenance.

In our marriage bed, with your hair tussled with passion and exertion, you dreamed of the two children and three dogs we’ll have.

You didn’t care if your holy palace bore sons or daughters, just as long as we taught them to “be gentle with all fur-babies... especially ours.”

In the dawn, when the sunlight blessed my world with the glow of your eyes, you fantasized about the futures we were building for our children. You didn’t care who they loved or what they pursued, just as long as they were safe and happy. “Maybe we’ll name them Angel and Riley, in case they’ll need a new identity. Their nursery walls should be yellow, bright and joyful like the love I have for them.”

Five months ago, I grasped your small hand as you slept, your somber-sweet eyes slipping away from this sliver of heaven, the machine beeping to the slow and steady speed of your beat as your soft voice bid your final farewell. Then silence. Than the machine proclaiming the absence of your soul. Then the coldness settling into your skin. The cracked cries finally releasing themselves from the cage in my throat as I clung to your fingers like my last hope of salvation.

Soft whimpers in the night.

Our beautiful, wonderful wedding day was hauntingly followed by our first-month anniversary, the day we found out you had lung cancer.

Dreaming in Adulthood

by Jessica King (she/her)

The metallic dragon roared a newfound wrath and spat scalding water on my hands, flushed flesh like speckled coral.

The leviathan hissed from the dark depths and summoned seafoam in furious whirlpools, its void mouth swallowing seas.

My fingers danced hastily between the beasts, wielding a sword and shield, my only line of defense in the raging tempest–

Reality crashes into my body like a ship sailing into rocks, blood cascading down the planks.

My hands surrender the scrubber in the soapy abyss to bandage the wound on my calloused palm; a stray fang found my searing skin.

Oh! to be alive in this crazy world where dragons and leviathans reign behind clumsy mistakes inside my head

Making Art out of the unlikely things.

by MR. OMAR KING (he/him)

My Red Tights

by Charlotte Wood (she/her) Blood red, ruby red, the red at a stoplight.

These hidden red tights, hidden from sight.

Red of a rainbow curve, red of Rudolph’s nose.

Those forgotten red tights, oh how I wish they would just arose.

Arose from that corner, the one where they lurk, lingering, sniggering.

Those taunting red tights.

I’m lost without them, so are my boots.

Unable to match, a plant without roots.

Those sequin ones emblazoned with a heart.

The red tights are needed to look the part.

That particular shade of red, a hue that reminds me of that festive little label, the one I love to see.

Cinnamon and apple, a fireplace crackle A Christmas scent the Yankee candle has to tackle.

What if she’s eaten them? My cat that is.

Snagged the loose cotton and disappeared in a whizz.

Taken them to her bed and snuggled up close.

Wrapped round like a scarf, in need of a warming dose.

How selfish would that be, when she knows those red tights belong just to me?

They were supposed to be orange, the website said so.

They arrived in their packaging, all tied in a bow.

I expected orange like Rosie’ freckles.

Instead I got red like Rosie’s cheeks, I’d been mislead.

The tights are gone now, to where I do not know.

Maybe they’ve travelled off to Lake Como.

Batted around from person to person, lost in the haze of a confusion.

Catapulted from case to case to case, they truly had been misplaced.

Or maybe Kai had them, or Lily or Rosie.

Maybe they were feeling the benefits of being cosy.

My special red tights, gone was the day.

I hope that one day, they find their way.

The Midnight Writer

by Tanvi Bachipale (she/her)

The sky was dark and moon was high. It was nearly midnight or maybe half past midnight. She was sitting in front of a table which was close to the window. Scribbling something that seemed like nothing - just words and words written in handwriting which didn't made any sense to anyone except her. Bhuma seemed to be in hurry, occasionally she looked at her cat who was sleeping in her lap and threw glances at moon. The stars were bright but the vibe was spooky. No one was outside except the lamp lighters who lightened the streets in 18th century Britain.

She kept writing until the bells rang. The sound of bells made her stop, she looked out from the window. The sun was up.

'Again' she thought, 'Again no sleep.'

The cat jumped on the floor and stretched.

"Snowbell, you had a good sleep. Lucky you," Bhuma smiled and hurriedly hid her book and quill under the carpet.

It wasn't easy - working all day and writing all night but when else could she write? She never went to school but somehow; learnt to read and write. Her whole family, including her and her younger brother, worked in an iron mine. The work was harsh and wages low.

Well and on top of that the work was seasonal too. When the snow had covered the land, the mines closed and workers were left unemployed.

Today was the last day of work for this year. Snow was already covering the land the winter had began. From tomorrow no work. No wages. No food, until the found some alternative source of income till next summer.

After working hard for the whole day, Bhuma rushed back to her room- which was nothing but just a cramp corner of poor labor shelter.

She opened the window and resumed writing, without having dinner.

For her writing was so addictive that food hardly mattered.

This night she didn't keep writing until the sun rose, at midnight she tore the papers on which she had scribbled her writing, made paper birds out of them and and threw them out of the window. It was her hope someone who would value her work would find those papers.

But this was possibly never going to happen.

Each night she kept writing and kept writing and those little birds kept flying out of her window, often landing in drains and garbage. But on night of December 25th, Santa seemed to have helped her. This night the bird landed on the Prince's bed.

The next morning, the Prince saw the bird and it crossed his mind to untangle the folds and invest his time understanding what was scribbled in unrecognizable handwriting. He smiled once he had finished reading and went on with his daily works. A few days past and then one night another bird came to the Prince. The same happened for a few months.

The Prince was taken by the stories of the unknown Midnight Writer, he loved the stories and hoped that he would get a new story every night. The stories often improved his mood on bad days and motivated him. He was really thankful to the Midnight Writer.

To thank the Midnight Writer he decided to print a book out of those stories so that more people can read those amazing stories which made words seem alive. For next month, he waited for more birds but none arrived. Finally, he decided to print a book out of 20 birds or 20 stories which he had received so far.

The book was printed under the name 'Stories of Midnight by Midnight Writer' and was widely read throughout Great Britain.

Soon the summer came.

One fine day the Prince happened to walk near the labor shelter. Two men were chatting outside and their conversation caught the Prince's attention.

"Well, this winter was harsh," said one of the men.

"Ya, ya... really harsh... hey, do you remember Bhuma?"

"Well? Jack's daughter?"

"Yes, whose whole family died of starving this winter."

"What about her?"

"Nothing, I just often saw her throwing bits of paper out of the window at odd hours of night... poor child, I guess she was trying to find happiness by doing so."

At this moment the Prince looked up he saw that the castle window of his room was facing the labor shelter. Now he finally knew who the brilliant Midnight Writer was. A tear creeped down his cheek in the memory of talented writer, who despite living a harsh life managed to bring words and imagination to life.

The Prince thought 'Today for them this girl, Bhuma, may have died materialistically, but her soul will be alive for ever, in her brilliant stories, as THE MIDNIGHT WRITER'.

In between

by Fernanda Armada (she/her)

MY SUMMARY AT THE AGE OF THIRTY-THREE

by Ruchi Acharya (she/her)

The cerulean sky knows so, The tales of gloomy days I spent non-living, sweating under the shadowless tree in the red sun with bruised knees.

Stubborn but at my liberty They called me a poor little thing Who she wanna be?

I plummeted green notes like a delicate French Brie Young, round breasted I did it all at thirty-three As I look over my shoulders No friends by my side just business allies, losers, lovers, their love has all died I shrugged and moved ahead like a boulder Suppressed the untold sacrifices and midnight battle cries.

I ran and I won, The never-ending marathon I, the Elephant in the room make it obvious, the power holder.

Hoarding winning streaks, singling Dancing alone and having more belongings I hired a nanny, she raised my only daughter.

It makes me giggle to look back and imagine this haunted house was once filled with laughter.

I remembered reading a bedtime story to Lee about Midas, his golden touch, and greediness And the fate he had seen without confetti so will I for I was a nincompoop who thought the water in her glass was still half-empty.

I lose it once, I lost it all.

Time persuaded my close ones Money drives me The houseplants are dying,

The bedtime books settle in the dust.

I lose it once, I lost it all.

Just when I thought all the rays of hope are gone A laser light drawn from the uprising dawn My Lee returns to me and set me free from the old age home centre Every day I closely listen to her real-life stories She had forgiven me for my ignorance and became my mentor She'll never be me as we blow striped candles on her birthday, turning thirty-three.

Acknowledgements Thank you to everyone who sent in submissions.

Thank you for taking the time to write, sketch, photograph, model and create. Thank you for being part of Strawberry Zine's debut issue.

Thank you to Petra N., for creating the incredible cover art for this issue (@hiketchup + @tiredpetra).

Strawberry Zine 2022

Strawberry Zine Issue One