The Fig Tree Magazine
Reminiscent of the Season
is Jane Birkin by Patrick Litchfield, 1971
The Fig Tree Magazine Issue 1 | Winter 2024
Editor in Chief Kaycee Smith Writers Adele Gerry Alaska Young Ameera Chithra Anijah Trowell-Miller Arlyn Martinez Christabel Pangetsu Ellen Alfredson Ekta Saaj Hannah Ali Huda Faraz Isabelle Tan Zeinab Fakih
Photo by Marianna Lupina
Table of Table of Contents Contents
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4 - 6 | Ekta Saaj, Through the Window Lorem Ipsum dolor 7 sit..........................## - 9 | Hannah Ali, Sweet Reveries Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................## 10dolor - 11 | Isabelle Tan, A World of Man & The Lorem Ipsum sit..........................## Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................## Sun and Her Flowers Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................## 12 | Arlyn Martinez, Intimacy Found Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................## Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................## 13 | Alaska Young, Bloom Again Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................## 14 | Zeinab Fakih, Hear My Sorrow Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................## 15 sit..........................## - 16 | Huda Faraz, At Last its Autumn Lorem Ipsum dolor 17 | Anijah-Trowell Miller, Autumn Breeze 18 | Christabel Pangetsu, Tight-Lipped Hysteria 19 | Ameera Chithra, Oh, What is Love? 20 - 21 | Ellen Alfredson, I Crave Solitude & Recently I’ve Been Getting the Urge to Scream 22 | Sneha Pal, Memories 23 -24 | Adele Gerry, A Love Letter to Sonance and Harmonies Lorem Ipsum dolor sit..........................##
Through the Window
I am at the bus stop again, the one on Fourth Street and Burlington, the one opposite the stretch houses that seem to loom overhead, intimidating you, where each inhabitant is much too rich to care about people ogling them. ‘Of course you can look at us,’ they cheer, with their blindingly white teeth, 'we exist to be viewed.’ So I watch them. I watch and notice all the little things I can as I sit on the bench, grown icy next to the tuft of grass that has turned a soft hue of silver, crystalled over, fracturing only further with every gust of wind.
Photo by Jonathan Glover
The lights from the bay windows spill onto the pavement and warbles across the puddle turned black from the night sky, the colours so warm I almost feel it heat up my nose. My heart filled with sonder, wonders what it must be like to be in there, to be warm. I wonder how it must feel to be anybody else but me. I continue to watch them, the family of three. The father walks into the room carrying something and disappears once more through the door frame, hiding himself from me, the mother and son at the table giggling over a book. The boy contorts his head to face his mother, beaming with pride, before spurring his legs and forcefully bouncing himself on her lap. His tousled hair falls up and down with each bounce, moving in waves that I find myself mimicking with my head.
On the mantle are photos, its subjects blurry, pieces of paper and trinkets strewn across the dining table all meaning something to someone. A porcelain china plate is trophied up on a shelf, the windowsill has a small figurine, a trio, two big, one small, the ear of a chair slightly discoloured. They sit down at the table, clasping each other’s hands in a circle. They must be saying grace. They finish their wordless uttering, extend a look of love to each other before clashing knives and forks ceremoniously onto ceramic flatware. I turn the other cheek, having seen all I needed to have seen. Waiting for the telltale headlights of the bus to come crusading down the street. I’ve spent too long looking in through their window, the guilt of it all has grown bitterly sticky in my mouth. The cold has gotten colder.
Written by Ekta Saaj
Sweet Reveries
Settling in the breeze is something akin to grief and the beginning of a month where I rot away in my room. So here it is to August. It has not been kind. I shall still act surprised every-time when I find my fingernails teared away when I cling onto my faith for so long. This summer I am reduced to a thing that wants and I confide this to no one but God. So tonight I am grieving the ugly kind: where I am raw and unforgiving, where I am loud and overbearing. The only tangible thing left behind at the end of the month will be bruises upon bruises. Unnoticeable. Unless you care to look so closely.
Photo by Sina
Lorem Ipsum dolor sit I’ve gotten so good at not flinching at the sound of your name, so good at not lingering around after dark on the streets. Looking for you in some alleyway where you are stumbling, laughing, crying out because the stars are visible tonight. How long will you use the night as a cover for your sins when you know there is no hiding from God. So please. Join me in prayer, recite after me and bring your hands together. Palms outwards, flat against each other to make dua. Kneel before God and repent.
I buy watermelons as one should in the summer and pineapple. Never tangerines because you aren’t here to peel them for me. So I settle for larger fruit to hack away at.
Every part of me is screaming I want you back, I want you at my feet begging for me to take you back. I taste the memory of you on my tongue alongside the sweetness of pineapple and the seeds of watermelon. If I focus hard enough I can almost hear the sound of your voice in my head and it bears the weight of my selfishness. In my head you kiss me even and I cry.
Written by Hannah Ali
A World of Man Written by Isabelle Tan
Being a woman, born with implications already at your feet- and with gentleness sewn to your fingertips. Born with rage locked away in your chest, and pain stricken in your womb. Those who are apart, other, a man- will never understand an unspoken vow kept between us, nor understand the gaze that finds beauty in all that is. Despite all this we find ourselves ruled by it, ruled by anger worn on fists, and a freedom that surpasses the duties of this world. It is feeble to think they can identify with the sentiment like femininity, when they do not face life and stumble upon it. But we are still girls with a want to be understood, so we gladly accept the wave of dismay that comes when a man proves that he in fact, is simply just a man.
The Sun and Her Flowers Written by Isabelle Tan
They say to live life tender and gentle, To live swaying in continuous breeze. They say be flower, turn to the sun, Turn to its rays and revel in the sky. But I was not meant for a life in soil, A life planted firm, and feeble to urgeWhy shall I live and become a flower? For I myself- I alone, am the sun!
Intimacy found in cumshots. oral. the hard on pressed on my leg when i wake up. his tongue on my neck. the tip of his nose sits by my philtrum. choking. scratching. biting. his quiet snores as i hold him at 1 AM. shared orders. deodorant. shaving cream. in the aisles of the grocery. spoliarium. mung beans. you smile at my face when the food burns my tongue. mouth over tits. found in the backseat of grab bookings. and the worn out soles of my shoes. the first and last of i love you. blackout curtains. my index tracing your brows. my dishes are in your sink. peanut butter. thrift stores. condoms. used tissues. the conversations in a chinese restaurant. shared futures we won’t get to live together. in makati, laguna, cancun, new york, eastern italy. netflix history. google calendars. I have not been anything but myself around you. fingers curling. g-spot. flavored lube. in ending a relationship before it even started. and the intimacy ends in a next time that might not even exist. and i’ll probably live my life with another lover. we sat at a long dinner table. he won’t be there to bring his expensive wine. the guests remain the same, and I'll try to forget that this was originally our life before it was mine. intimacy found in wishing someone will remember to invite you to his funeral or hoping he will be there to see yours.
Written by Arlyn Martinez
Bloom Again
And so swiftly, the moment has come to close the eyes and snap shut the heart's lock, forgetting its key. But fear not, I shall bloom anew when the graceful rhododendrons have lungs filled to the brim once more, when the sky ceases to weep sharp tears, when the sun resumes its warm embrace on the frost-kissed skin of little men who no longer recall what freedom is. I shall bloom again, like a delicate night bellflower, we shall resume our dance beneath the gaze of watchful stars, guided by the notes of salty sea waves and supported by tiny remnants of ancient rocks too unimaginable to fathom.
Written by Alaska Young
Photo by Jake Messenger
Hear My Sorrow
A wasp, I live in treacherous flowers.
My last words, a solemn prayer. Let dear Icarus cry as he falls from grace. Resuscitate, our love with make. Not from him born, but the pomegranate blood still drips between cracked lips.
Let my knees grow black from submission unknown to an angel sent from hell. The apple rots between teeth grown sharp. Our apple dies of rest. Let Icarus rise into rainy skies, my nails grip at his legs. I will follow his trail of blood to any land he commands.
I shall sop up his leaks, his blood, tears, and cries. Dear, let me fly through his ears. I shall rest in his mind and happily pray. Allow him to be the flower, and I, a wasp, in love, an eternal resting place.
Written by Zeinab Fakih
Photo
At Last its Autumn
Trees start to drop their leaves Leaves change from green to profoundly beautiful hues of red and orange Nothing can describe the feeling as i witness this Days get shorter, weather gets colder And I get older and older Witnessing a beautiful sight in a world that won’t last forever Indeed a moment worth living for Autumn is painting my canvas with vibrant colours. Taking pictures just to capture the beautiful moments of the season, all those things which reflect the season. Autumn always delivers joy to me, even in these hard situations those tiny details evoke happy memories. As if the leaves speak to me. I have to say, this past autumn was the biggest reset of my life. Getting a new haircut, finding music that sounds exactly like autumn, finding confidence in myself, binge-watching harry potter and studio ghibli films felt like a huge fever dream. Did this all even happen? Walking through those yellow orange leaves, inhaling that sweet fragrance of plants. And our days go by And I never needed you - days by the drums
These are the lyrics from one of my favourite songs, this represents as my days go by in autumn, I realised that I never really needed most of the people in my life who were hanging on by a loose thread. The moments I spent with my family in this season going to this mountain area with tons of trees and cats roaming around, connecting with nature made most of my memorable moments. Autumn felt like a warm cozy hug. This season was the rise of my hobbies, immersing myself in baking, crocheting, photography, sketching, painting, and listening to music. Baking fresh cinnamon buns and cookies, the smell! The beauty of autumn is undeniable. Leaves change from green to profoundly beautiful hues of red and orange — this season is just a magical time of the year. As I am reminiscing, I see myself walking through an empty park with a bunch of giant trees, focusing on my surroundings and the evening sky, trees, flowers, leaves etc. With my ears plugged in, all I could hear was “Freaking Out The Neighbourhood” by Mac Demarco. The music is exactly how autumn sounds to me. Autumn is the season of love and poetry. Taking in this season's melancholy as an opportunity to think positively about life and yourself, and remember how rich it is every day.
Written by Huda Faraz
Autumn Breeze
The warmth of summer past The cheers of erratic sunshine The feeling of bliss Young and free in the humid night The commencement of August The come down of the high Breeze of innocence Teenage white lies The autumn breeze has an air An air of closing An air worth breathing My wild mind is dozing Dedicated to education It’s the time of working The autumn breeze will sway me I’ll soon hear early birds chirping
Written by Anijah-Trowell Miller
Tight-Lipped Hysteria
It feels like I don’t deserve to get any amusement in my life. The efforts that I have put in is just a funny joke to the world and those with the upper hand. Starved myself to kill 2 birds in one stone, but it actually killed me. The pseudos keep on babbling and the brown-nosers nod their heads, cosplaying solar dashboard toys getting enlightenment. Mr know-it-all thought he was the solution, in fact he was the trigger. With the detonator in his right hand, he chose to do wrong. The brains stayed tight-lipped on the surface, but they were exploding inside. The fools kept on supporting him while the others thought like hermits, spooning ignorances and eating it up as their full course meal. It’s the only thing that can keep them alive and the only thing they can afford. Written By Christabel Pangetsu
Oh, what is love? Love is something I never really understood. Not exactly because I’ve never felt loved, but because I’ve never truly loved somebody else. You tell me you love me, but what is love? What defines it? It's quite remarkable how the landscape of modern romance has evolved. Once upon a time, courtship was characterized by tender gestures such as gifting flowers, bestowing forehead kisses, or exchanging heartfelt handwritten letters. However, in today's fast-paced world, it seems that the traditional approach to dating and intimacy has undergone a profound shift. Now, it's not uncommon to witness a direct route to the bedroom before even the first date has taken place, or to witness the clinking of whiskey-filled glasses as an initial meeting ritual. The atmosphere has shifted to one where boys in locker rooms engage in a crude game of one-upmanship, comparing conquests as though it were a strategic maneuver in a game of chess, while girls all too often find themselves relegated to the role of pawns rather than being honoured as the queens they truly are. Amidst this shifting paradigm, one can't help but ponder the state of love and connection in today's world. It's not that belief in love is diminished; rather, it's a reflection on the current dating culture and the disillusionment that may emerge as a result. As of right now, it's a time for reflection, a time to contemplate the authenticity and depth we seek in our connections amidst this ever-changing landscape of modern romance.
Written By Ameera Chithra
I Crave Solitude
I’m not made for this world. I don’t belong and I crave solitude. It’s like I think my ribs might be broken, and I can’t breathe. It’s like it’s like my heart might beat so fast it falls in two pieces. It’s like my lungs might explode, and disappear into nothing, leaving an empty aching hole behind. It’s like It’s like it’s like my bones keep tingling strangely and It’s like I can feel my blood pulsate. It’s like it’s like there’s this waterfall inside of me and I might suffocate If I stay. It’s like it’s like it’s like I HAVE to get away. It’s too much andAm I breathing the right way? Moving the right way? Do I look okay? Am i being too loud? Too quiet? It’s like the words that come out of my mouth are always the wrong ones. It’s like it’s like it’s like I am too soft, too sensitive, too fragile for this world. It’s like it’s like it’s like I don’t belong, and I crave solitude. It’s like it’s like it’s like I can’t be who you want me to be.
Written By Ellen Alfredson
Recently I’ve Been Getting the Urge to Scream
Recently I’ve been getting the urge to scream To scream for everything that’s good and everything that’s wrong For everything that's right and exciting and everything that's scary and the overwhelming feeling of LIVING just CONSUMES me. I feel too much. I am too soft for this world. Written By Ellen Alfredson
Memories I am stuck in a never- ending nightmare the more I run away from them the closer they are I run till my legs hurt till I can't breathe till my body aches till I break. I wish they'd stop haunting me I wish I would forget them I wish they never happened I wish and I wish and I wish I pause, I wait and I hope I hope they would not ruin me I hope and I hope and I hope but they had already done that so I let them consume me I let them eat me away they seep in through my ears & eyes they travel through my throat they rip out my intestines I breathe them in they burn my lungs they're in my veins they're in my fingertips they're in my bones till all I see is them.
Written By Sneha Pal
A Love Letter to Sonance and Harmonies A love letter to sonances and harmony
Today I am thinking about things that I love. Things that stir within me.Things of all consuming passion.Things that have become one within my soul. Notice I've cited things for human love that have existed as nothing but rocky terrain throughout my life. But I'll imagine and I'll desire that true love can pose even the slightest sliver of feelings, of thrill, of the burning sensations that come with my more inner fervors. So, we must begin with my first love. I have forever thought that no one can understand the extent of passion that brews from inside my heart and mind when I experience my favorite music and I truly believe I've yet to meet another who does. It is my religion and I will do anything within me to prevent our estrangement. Even when I find myself struggling to find time to devote to her in my ever busy and struggle ridden state, I remember that they say true love goes in cycles, that separation can bring two closer, and I find that this remains true. When, after long periods of the mundane, of only ordinary earthly sounds, I return to her and the thrill is even deeper and more appreciated than that of ever before. As if I'm meeting her for the first time. I'm forever learning new things about my love of course, whether that be the many styles and moods she can personify, her many histories, or, navigating our emotional interrelation. Seeing her in the flesh, uniting with others in her beauty, has created a feeling beyond any high I could ever feel in this lifetime. It brings me pure and utter joy. It brings me to tears, and to share this effervescence is of my uttermost priority. I was quite literally birthed to and from her, and will forever devote my life, my work, my existence to showcasing and sharing her beauty in its most vulnerable of forms. It only feels right.
I went to a concert this past week. Let me add that this wasn't just any concert. I had been waiting over half my life for this very concert. I had years of personal build up, indescribable emotions and experiences tied to each of the performed songs. Infatuation with each performer in every sense of the word. The come down following this was an emptiness so nondescript, yet it has tugged at me for all of the days to follow that I am confident that this stirring has a much larger and deeper meaning than I will ever be able to address. One that reaches much further than just the trivial existence of these certain performers in my life. I fear that this feeling may be a sign of the times. Telling me that I must continue to chase these feelings of euphoria for some undisclosed periods. Where will it be, and where is it leading me I must ask? I can only imagine it is a place of comfort, of self-discovery, of purpose, of content. I believe that it is a place where my first love will reside most closely to me. Selfishly, a place that serves to benefit me and the rest of my pleasures. But unfortunately, that place is still unbeknownst to me. So, I am writing this to you my love. Where is it that you want me to go?
Written By Adele Gerry
The Fig Tree Magazine