VOL. II : TALES OF THE RADIANT

Contributers Kaycee Smith Editor in Chief Olivia Kondraschow Intern Editor and Magazine Designer Tatiana Paguio Intern Editor and Magazine Designer Veronika Kim Intern Editor and Magazine Designer Yna Almandres Intern Editor and Magazine Designer

Art Contributers

Anna Polanowski Artwork — 5 to 6, 34 to 35 Beyza Yogurtcu Photography — 36 to 37, 42

Elizabeth Ashley, “New Flowers” - 5 Cassidy Briggs, “The Grass is Greener” - 6 Oh Fe Lia, “Orithyia” - 7 Yalda Valente, “Silent Tears of the Lamb” - 8 Oh Fe Lia, “Don’t turn off the television” - 9 Kristine Lara Angeles, “SCREAM - December” - 10 Zakia Arif, “Home” -11 Claudette Galgana, “White Butterfly” - 12 Sofía Razo, “Must not Forget: ” - 13 Cay Rei, “Trails of Love” - 14 Isabella Maffi, “A Recipe to Girlhood” - 15 to 17 K.J. Alpers, “Arkansas’ Call” - 18 Nalini Venugopal, “Coconut Oil” - 19 to 20 Ashtyn Massengale, “Magnolia Kisses: playing pretend” - 21 Orión Bentham, “Pomegranate Red Autumns” - 22 to 25 Corrine Kang, “A letter to Family” - 26 Ysabella Aguila, “Sol & Luna” - 27 Riye Sunel, “I thought of tenderness, and immediately, there was shame” -28 G. Lee, “The Contents of a 23-year-old Woman’s Bag” - 29 to 31 Rebecca Karenia, “Love as Greed” - 32 Andrea Fernandes, “A Dream That Always Was” - 33 Aarju Freedman, “Ode to Emilia” - 34 to 35 Kimmi Curcio, “Autobaptismus” -36 to 37 Pavelyn Rous, “That Khmer Smell” - 38 to 39 Madeline English, “Between Christian Billboards and Sunsets” - 40 to 41 Natalie Caudel, “Leaving on a Jet Plane” - 42 Shamziya Rahimi, “expressionists found comfort in using art to display their truth & to call the fuckers out” — 43 to 44 Nicole Araujo, “Silver Spoons and Cherry Trees” — 45 to 47

New Flowers

Written by Elizabeth Ashley

On my worst days, nostalgia hangs over my body like dead weight.

I carry it with me everywhere, close my eyes when it whispers in my ear and I think this must be what rotting feels like.

Nothing will ever feel like home the way that it did back then.

There are pieces of you buried in your childhood, things you did not- could not carry with you into adulthood. And you can't ever go back.

Sometimes I feel the first warm, unsteady breath of spring and I'm staring at the promise of new flowers through the eyes of a pre-teen girl who so easily forgets the bite of winter. Who can't fathom that there are entire years of frost ahead of her.

And I can't ever go back.

What is nostalgia, if not the quiet grieving over the loss of something you did not know you could lose?

Art by Anna Polanowski

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Art by Anna Polanowski

The Grass is Greener Written by Cassidy Briggs

I pack myself into little bags And drive until the road turns soft To pastures that are unknown to me To find something that feels far off From coast to coast I wander Fulfilling a childhood wish Of finding somewhere better Than the place I still seem to miss Growing older is growing apart From places and people I find I pick up all these parts of me and leave half of them behind The sweet green hills in Tennessee A never ending sky Childhood friends in Michigan, Chicago at Christmas time These memories swirl around me, images lingering inside They paint a picture of a girl just looking for some respite Hoping to find familiar, hoping to find a life But packing your stuff means packing yourself, you can’t leave you behind.

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Orithyia Written by Oh Fe Lia

You had already decided I was hideous before I could look in the mirror To pinpoint the spots that missed the mark

But I have my mother’s eyes The same contortion when she cries When she wails and unleashes the sadness she’s carried all her life

Is it my steely gaze, my brow bone like mountain ridges pinched in a scowl, You decided I was hideous and didn’t say why

It is what I am, and ever was The makeup of my bones, I was awash with grief the day I was born For my mother her mother before her And the women I didn’t know I grieve for the people we could be if you did not decide we were hideous before we could look in the mirror.

Instead of softening my frown I return a sneer of my own Cast my anger to those who don’t deserve it, I only see red when I am enraged.

In this way, I am my father’s daughter I have his face and his fury We rage in the same calamitous disaster His is a tidal wave, but I rage the way the earth did when it tears itself apart again and again

Raging women in the mountains They did not know the beauty they held For sewing scraps of love found from storms Their tears could cleanse the earth Erase the patters written on the sand the way the ocean could, when it visits the shore.

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Written by Yalda Valente You told me to sacrifice the lamb But I felt sad for the innocent being I couldn’t bring myself to do it How could I be so cruel to rape the lamb of its life?

I knew that all the guilt and shame would be pushed into my weary soul Instead, I shed my blood for you I sacrificed my soul and tried to come back to you And yet, you tell me that I belong in hell I gave everything to be perfect But I wasn’t enough You tell me I’m a sinner for being kind Isn’t that what I’m asked to do?

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I’m listening with my eyes closed I won’t miss the 3 o’clock prayer or the noontime show Insects will sing hymns at the altar on our front lawn, jackfruits hanging like light bulbs The knocks on the gate and hum of car engines Sweat-stained shirts plastered on backs of weary children, Casualties and doll dresses littered on the concrete sidewalk.

We went to war and returned at dusk, knees bloodied Sun-perfumed skin painted with soot and dirt Like a badge of victory, homecoming Back to my castle of bare hollow blocks and chicken wire fence, red painted door.

I still have faith in miracles But much less now. Unlike before—

The threshold of unbelief uncrossed, my fingers crossed For the charcoal lines drawn on the road To remain untouched by the morrow, to be eight years old With a mind full of dreams and pining for neighborhood kids.

Please don’t turn off the television I’m still listening, I was braver when I did not know what I had to lose, Relearning what courage truly means It’s like watching little girls play house on the street.

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SCREAM — December Written by Kristine Lara Angeles

And again, a year would've passed before me. A light that blinks, a firefly in bliss. The calendar beside stands above the rest—not that it's colorful that it doesn't match the wall; it wasn't huge at all. It's just that, I keep staring at it; Thinking, when could it stop from changing. I wonder why there's no other cross other than my birthday: September's frost.

Was it like this before?

It's December, coming of His birth, my stomach still feels barren. I thought the river would fill it, I even brought a glass with me before I head out to slumber. Even my phrases are exhausted, as my stark isolation. My forest and the deforestation.

Indeed, no man is an island. I wonder if they will come back. For how long they've left abhorred—Oh, I was the reason, I've killed them before; My happiness and the rest. I was in a flush of a false conviction; I was told it was just a fiction. I regret not standing before my solace, it was all tangled like my shoelace.

Now, I'm barefooted—walking ahead.

Alone, and no one would condone.

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Home

Written by Zakia Arif

Taking the first step out of the airport back in the homeland, being hit by the humid air causing rosy cheeks. The whole village awaits.

Everyone starts speaking at once in the mother tongue, as questions are being rapidly fired; the air bubbling with excitement. Bags are taken by the appointed driver as the people in the car all gush over the following stay back home. When we arrive at the house everyone goes into their rooms as we are given space to unpack our bags and settle in. In the evening everyone gathers for dinner. Loud noises are heard from the dining room and outside as the city is filled with a different type of rush unlike the places most immigrants move to, to start a better life. I look on to all my cousins and family as they chatter their hearts away, I realize I’m home.

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Written by Claudette Galgana

I am again submerged in a memory— The sun is up, you drive me to school, And insist I kiss you goodbye.

You watch me as I walk into the gates; Ponytail loose, blouse wrinkled, innocent mind.

Thud. It’s six years later.

I wake up and you’ve fallen to the ground.

You’ve lost control over your body.

Every day, with fear in my eyes, I no longer become the child you kept safe and sound.

The hospital room is bonechilling cold, with a calm, peaceful, city view.

I have not slept nor let go of your hand, For I cannot waste a single second of the very few moments I have left with you.

“Thy will be done,” we pray, as your breathing slows down, As I hold onto your cold hand even tighter, as I cry so many tears, I might drown.

A death-defying illness is a death sentence to an innocent man.

A silent killer, an unimaginable mystery of how it all began.

Questions left unasked; words left untold— Your bed is now empty.

But you’re not in pain anymore.

You made me promise I’ll be strong.

Now I leave before sunrise,

And I kiss you, your new marble home, goodbye.

Watching me from beyond the skies— ‘Till I see you again, my white butterfly.

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Duane Michals' The Dream of Flowers

Must not forget list for when I´m back home: 20 year old plushie. After two years away, she still misses home.

Stories and gossip about your exfriends. Only mom can make the pain go away.

How you feel about your body.

Back home you feel more beautiful.

Everything that happened in the last two years. You´ll bury it in the backyard next to the lemon tree that you planted with your dad.

China that your mom gave you. So you can let go of feeling like a grownup.

The little girl. She still misses bear hugs with her dad.

Shampoo. So mom can wash your hair like in the old days.

A photo of you. So they can see that you made it.

Cami via Pinterest

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Trails of Love You used to scare me with beetles, but the truth is, I actually adore them and have never told you.

I adore the way you sneakily place a beetle on my back and wait for my terrified reaction.

The tingling sensation of the beetle crawling on my back reminds me of how I feel about you whenever I see you.

Yet I still wish that those beetle trails around my back were the touch of your gentle hands.

I love beetles, and I love you as well.

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A Recipe to Girlhood written by Isabella Maffi

"Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you” Critic Chuck Klosteman, quoted in San Diego CityBeat.

issue 03 “Tales of The Radiant” © The Fig Tree Magazine est.2023 June 2024.

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A Recipe to Girlhood - 1 cup of cacao - 2 tablespoons of chile - 1/2 teaspoon of maple syrup - Dash of saffron They say that the kitchen is the heart of the house, the most important place a home can have. My kitchen was adorned with yellow tiles, blossoming flowers on the walls, a big fridge full of food, and a long table where we all gathered. But above all, my kitchen was graced with women: my mother, grandmother, aunts, and friends. Their laughter mingled with the scent of freshly baked cookies, filling the house with warmth.

"Add a cup of cacao," my mother instructed, deftly sifting flour into a snowy cloud. "To make her wise." My mother, the smartest person I ever knew, had a methodical approach to cooking – measuring ingredients meticulously on the table to make sure everything was perfect. "Her eyes shall be brown as chocolate, so she can see the path ahead and know the way back home”.

“Mmm, but add some chile to make her spicy,” my aunt interrupted. If my mother were the moon, my aunt would be the sun; where my mother's words flowed gently, my aunt's voice resounded like thunder.

Seizing a small, yet vibrant chile, she said, “She will need to be feisty, passionate, so she can dance to mariachi until sunrise.” With a smile on her face and tears in her eyes (perhaps from the spiciness) she finely chopped the chile and added it to the mix.

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Isabella Maffi "But don't forget to add some maple," my grandmother chimed in, pouring a glass vial of amber liquid. Her long, delicate hands spoke of experience, lessons no book can teach you. With every graceful movement, she commanded the attention of the room."So she will be sweet, and her smile– contagious."

The kitchen gathered around their creation, conversations filling the air about what to add next to achieve perfection. Ideas about ingredients from Venezuela or Mexico flew around the kitchen, perhaps something from Canada or Italy to make her truly special. As they prepared to finish the recipe by opening the oven, my sister entered the kitchen, wearing our mom’s dress and dad’s chunky glasses — a testament to her stories and those who came before her. "Add a bit of saffron," she suggested, "so she will be unique and shake us all to our core”.

As I looked at them, I realized that each woman was more than just an ingredient; they were a tapestry woven from the threads of those who came before. They were once just girls experiencing life for the first time, much like myself. Despite our different paths, we all found ourselves gathered around the same table. I inherited my mother's gaze, my aunt's spirit, and my grandmother's strength. My identity is not only my own, but a collage crafted from those who sit at the table, and those whose absence now leaves an empty chair. Each woman has contributed a pinch and a teaspoon of themselves to the person I am today.

From the snow-covered streets of distant cities to the crystal-clear waters of the Caribbean, I have lived many lives, each leaving an indelible mark on my soul. And still, I always find my way back to that kitchen, cooking and thinking how I’ll add a teaspoon of coffee to those younger than me so they can stay up all night dreaming about what they will become when they grow up, crafting my own recipe to girlhood.

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Arkansas’ Call

Written by: K.J. Alpers

Photo by: Kelsey Wickwire

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Red dirt, Barefoot, Running down a gravel road.

Deep breath, Add some lemon zest, Something sizzling on the stove.

State line, Ease my mind, This feels like my own.

Something deep, Inside of me, Remembers.

My ancestors call me home.

Coconut Oil My feet begin to dry on the tiles where the towel soon falls to the ground I open a jar and the smell of home wafts out

Coconut Oil Nalini Venugopal

I scoop out a handful, melting it with my human fire and begin to rub It glistens on top of my shoulders beneath my collarbones my hands push it along the ins and outs of the gentle curves and bumps the hills and valleys that build my frame

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In one fluid motion, I grab more and anoint each arm curving them before me graceful, light reaching to cover the dips in my back lengthening my legs to soften them with the oil now coating my hands the same oil that coated the hands of all the mothers of my mothers before me the shine in my grandfather's hair the softness in the strong hands that rubbed it through my hair on warm summer evenings and on my back when I was covered in pain the same oil that laid on the hands that drew buckets of water to bathe me as a babe, sometimes from a spout and sometimes from a well the hands that bathed my father and my aunt and made them coffee my favorite coffee that wove silent love in the scent of the jasmine flowers we tied together I dress and the smell of coconut oil settles into my fingers and palms, the same fingers and palms that have written words upon words upon words for the school, they couldn't attend and the feelings I couldn't tell them the hands that will clasp my love close that could caress my daughter someday humming with the strength of generations

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magnolia kisses : playing pretend

written by Ashtyn Massengale

S

he found joy sifting through her mother’s drawers, begging her sister to play cards, And ritualistically opening each window and door.

She would pretend her small world was a Shakespearean courtyard, She picked flowers for hours and trailed them through indoor floors.

Whilstfully she played scenes from her favorite stories, avant-garde.

A dreamer then, and a dreamer she will forever be, Lying beneath her friends, the old magnolia trees.

Reading and skipping, that spring was carefree.

For a moment, she could forget the looming unease.

Why could she not just be friends with the trees, For them, she would never have to appease.

Magnolia branches, and free-falling seeds, They were so understanding with their warm, fervent leaves.

She wakes from her dreams, of living for simple things, “Oh silly little dreamer, girls are taught how to please.”

She looks through the pane towards the trees and listens to the bluebird as she sings.

She isn’t quite sure when her dreams led others towards unease.

Oh, how getting older pulls on younger heartstrings.

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Pomegranate Red Autumns It is late April of 2005 in a small Argentinian town, and autumn has been making its way smoothly into my daily life. I'm five years old, and it's one of the first times I'm conscious of this fact: Autumn is my favorite season, even in these early memories of mine.

My friends used to call me a bore for that. How could I enjoy having to stay inside instead of going out with them to play, to chase each other down the alleyways empty of cars and full of dreamlike

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cobblestone streets? Summers in my town were colorful; an abundance of blue in the sky and greens in the handful of parks that surrounded our house. Pools may have been absent, but my siblings and I had friends all over the neighborhood and hoses to soak each other while laughing.

Summers were nice; I'll admit that, but nowhere near as nice as autumns. April, May, and June, when the air is crisp in the south and each step is followed by the sound of a leaf

photo via @venustula

crunching under the soles of your shoes. My family had been infused with music for generations, so it was as natural as breathing for my brother and me to play rhythm games jumping on the leaves on our way to the market, crashing against each other in between jumps and fighting over who created the sweetest melody with the sound of the still life at our feet. Sometimes we would go on our own, since he was older than me and supposedly responsible (even though he had no sense of location at all, and we used to get lost even in the most mundane of paths); the rest of times we would walk behind one of our parents.

Now I'm walking behind my brother and father, head down

I'm not so sure what I expect to find, maybe coins (still relevant and usable at that time) or a crumpled bill on the sidewalk. I'm not searching for what I end up finding, that's for sure.

Muted red, round and plump. I stop walking and crouch, unsure if I should touch it or if I'd get scolded for doing so. I often get scolded when my father is around, which is why I try to be slow and wary when I put the fruit in my heartshaped purse. I fail to realize that my brother is watching me as I do it, curiosity leaking through his pores, but somehow understanding that we shall not tell our father about this treasure. He stays silent, for once, and I feel that complicity tying a knot in the

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string that dignifies our friendship. We go to the market and buy some fruits, none of them looking like the one that's beating with mystery and allure under the strap on my shoulder. I slide the zipper from time to time, taking a peek inside as if wanting to be caught in this illicit act, somehow worried that it may have disappeared.

It was a usual fear of mine when I couldn't have my eyes on my stuff, to think that it would vanish as punishment for my neglect. It doesn't happen, not this time.

When we get home and run to the backyard's wooden playhouse,

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the fruit is still there. I haven't seen one like that before, and I'm fascinated by the crown of spikes it has on top, by its fullness and soft reddish color.

My brother looks content but unimpressed, as older siblings usually do. I can tell, even in my ignorance, that my finding is not that special for him.

“You know what this is.” A question or an accusation, I'm not sure.

“We eat this every fall; it's from the neighbor's tree.” Even as bored as he seems, he sits next to me and takes the fruit, digs a hole on its skin with his thumb. I suppose he's about to peel it, but I'm as wrong as it's expected for my age.

He rips it open, tearing it into two halves and giving me the smallest one. The inside of the fruit looks like something out of a movie or the illustrations of my favorite books, creamcolored with an intricate design of little red seeds.

Going to the backyard and ripping open a fruit to share with my brother (my best friend at that time and until this day) is one of my fondest memories, soaked and painted with pomegranate red, sunset orange, and leaf yellow.

“This is called a pomegranate, but Dad says we can't steal them from the neighbors since they got mad at me last time I did.” I'm mesmerized by the way you can take the seeds one by one and put them in your mouth, surprised by the sour but sweet aftertaste. “This one's an exception because you found it on the ground.”

I may be a bore, but that doesn't take away from the fact that autumn has always been the warmest season for me.

I learned to enjoy exceptions and started looking for them in

photo via @dabeholder

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Written by Corrine Kang

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W

e were girls together, soulmates in femininity, the sun and the moon, if only they shared the same sky.

Both beaming with light – one softer than the other, reflecting on the smooth surface of heart-shaped lockets, each half worn where the collarbone meets the chest, encapsulating the beauty of found sisterhood.

Sol & Luna written by Ysabella Aguila Holding ice cream cones during the warmth of summertime.

Chocolate and strawberry; bitter and sour flavors decorate our palates under the heat of the morning sun.

Our arms linked together like schoolgirls on a field trip.

Your laughter is my solace – an unspoken agreement between two souls.

The Sol to my Luna, may you shine brighter than the sun.

image : still from “Mustang” dir. by Deniz Gamze Ergüven

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I thought of tenderness, and immediately, there was shame There is a moment, a certain standstill, when the greatest betrayal I can commit is to bite the hand that taught me cruelty.

I no longer want to know love the way I know regret, holding it with open palms to allow space for it to leave even before I learn to hold on tightly.

Wear me down to my bones, watch them rattle with the brazen, desperate truth that I want to be bathed in sunlight, warmth, and laughter.

Pull the splinters out of my chest, wash my hands off of its blood — the violence it knows so well.

There is shame in my love, grief in my rage, both scratching and clawing their way out of this skin.

Cross the distance. Don't come too close.

I ached too much. I am still aching.

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written by Riye Sunel still from “The Tree of life” dir. by Terrence Malick

The Contents of a

23-Year-Old Woman’s Bag

Written by: G. Lee Photo by wrapped.nil

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The Contents Order #23 Monday 20/02/2001 12:23:03 AM

The bag: Black nylon crossbody, hilariously oversized.

Stolen from sibling.

The contents: 1. A crumpled H-Mart receipt-when I go there with my mother and sister, we become giddy like little girls at the sight of familiar foods.

2. Black claw clip.

3. A bag of nabat from an Iranian friend to melt gently into tea.

I did not like sweets, but this changed my mind.

4. A Valentine's Day card from someone who did not want to understand me.

Kept in a plastic sheet.

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5. Painkillers in a crumpled box.

6. A red lighter, even though I do not smoke.

7. A small wooden dharma, a gift to me during my last finals before graduating college.

8. Tangled earphones that barely work.

9. A notebook of half-finished drawings and poems.

They reflect my shifting obsessions; in the last three months all the drawings have been of manta rays.

10. An empty mint tin holding a prayer card, Egyptian pound coins from an old friend, and a half-pack of bubblegum.

11. A bottle of bubbles, hopeful for sunny days.

12. A tiny vial of perfume (for special occasions)

13. A blue fidget cube.

14. A white pocket mirror-in there, I see my grandmother's eyes.

15. A black pen, extra fine tip.

16. Three more half-working pens because I forgot that the ones before existed.

17. A beat-up blue wallet that still holds my old school ID and a wrinkled museum ticket from the summer.

18. Bag of dark chocolate-good to surprise people with.

19. Crumpled yellow sticky notes from sharing languages with a friend at the public library.

They have Arabic and Korean written on them in both left and right-handed scripts.

20. Lip balm.

21. Lipstick.

Items Purchased: 21 Thank you for reading! Have a good day!

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Love as Greed Written by Rebecca Karenia

In the altar beneath The Holy God I present myself to you; body and soul, on a silver platter.

Except there is no altar here, no Holy God. And there is certainly no silver platter for me to serve myself on.

Here I am, stripped bare in front of you.

Laid with no cloth to guard this tender flesh of mine.

The rib cage keeps my heart fresh for you to feast upon.

The stream of blood running in my veins for you to drink on.

With a knife in hand, I present to you my throbbing heart and a yarn of veins On the other, two beating lungs and strains of hair Giving away myself, piece by piece A prize for you to keep.

Or maybe rid, do what you will with it.

With the thread of my own blood strings I will try to keep you at arm's length.

For you are my flesh and bones, the rotten apple of my eyes The vulture to my carcass, the maggot to my corpse And the crow to my leftover dinner I am nothing but a lingering soul.

So quick, tear the limbs off of me. But remember to do it tenderly.

Make it easy for me.

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Written by Andrea Fernandes everything is possible with love my grandmother's words always ring in me when i need it most stepping into her house always felt like a fever dream; each waking moment spent more ethereal than the last waking up just as the first rays of the sun hit the windows watching my grandmother as she grates jaggery in her chai sitting on the porch feeling the morning breeze with the trees "eat more, there's always more" when having lunch poking the wood around in the fire getting scolded for running behind the cat scaring it with sticks playing with marbles and stones walking to my relatives house making paper boats in the rain, but also closing all the doors before six so the mosquitoes don't enter

making a makeshift swing with her scarf sleeping next to her on her bed stamping on centipedes plucking flowers from her garden watching her skillful hands work stringing the soft delicate petals of jasmine flowers burning candles for when the light goes out slamming out of frustration against the tv a gazillion times to make it work having our evening hot cup of chai with a packet of rusk the cracking of firecrackers and the shooting of rockets up . the night sky

I reminisce, this is forever. She is . eternal. The very existence of her . grave haunts me. every memory with her seems almost whimsical now.

the smell of her house, the trees, the garden, withered away with her. their liveliness lives only in my . mind. They say, when a loved one . dies, they live in our hearts. my . heart was too heavy with grief to . ever feel her presence in it. instead . I search for her in everything and everyone i love. i remind my mind nothing ever lasts forever

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Background Art by Anna Polanowski

Sleepover Emila and I only met in our early teenage years, yet it feels as if we've known each other our whole lives. Although she is resemblant of an older sister, she keeps me young. College looms around the corner; even so, Emila exudes an unmarred sanguinity. A rare quality, which will always belong to her. Our sleepovers have always been sacred; a space for growth and youthfulness.

No matter how much time passes, we inevitably fall back into our normal cadence. We alternate saying “goodnight, I love you,” both knowing that within a minute, one of us will say “one last thing” because the thrashing of our thoughts never quiets down. Her words are heavy with sleep yet she patiently waits as I attempt to express the inexpressible. Our bodies lazily unfurl towards each other, her umber ringlets splay out across the pillow, our foreheads lightly press together, and our breathing is synchronous. In the placid darkness, I whisper a prayer to no one in particular: Please allow me to cherish these memories forever. May my stomach never forget the ache of wild laughter. May my eyes never forget her vivacity. May the solace of simply existing alongside her never slip away. Sleep washes over us like the tide returning to the shore after a long day of ebbing and flowing.

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Written by Aarju Freedman

Wanderers Emila and I leisurely meander along the streets of Midtown. Tonight’s stroll is tinged with an unfamiliar sense of melancholy, perhaps because we are not finding our way or getting lost, as per usual, for we have no destination at present. Emila’s strides are long and purposeful, juxtaposing my sedate steps. With each pace forward, the breadth of the concrete pavement between us grows and so does the gnawing feeling in the back of my mind that in a year from now, everything will be different.

Despite having only lived in New York City for 3 years, Emila has a keen sense of navigation and spatial awareness, both of which I've never possessed. As we walk hand in hand through the crowd of tourists, its stimuli dissipate into my periphery and the cacophony of rush hour traffic morphs into ambient noise. We rush past taxi bikes adorned with festive lights and street performers blaring Christmas carols and pop songs; she can’t help singing along. Her voice melodically lilts above the chaos like the chiming of bells.

We are both underdressed for the brisk November weather, clad in baggy jeans, tank tops, and lightweight coats. We chose style over practicality; a habit we can never seem to outgrow. Nonetheless, the night is still young and neither of us want to leave. We interlock arms and Emila allows my hand a place in her coat pocket. We talk incessantly about anything and everything, sharing each tiny, seemingly insignificant detail, implicitly agreeing that these specifics mean the most. We ruminate out loud about our futures, myself with palpable uncertainty, and her with feigned confidence. I know she is just as anxious as I am, undoubtedly even more so because she is in the midst of college applications. Despite this, she alleviates my concerns merely with her presence.

Emila, the best liar I've encountered, and yet I can't help believing in every word she is saying as she reassures me that nothing between us will ever change.

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Autobaptismus written by Kimmi Curcio I baptized myself tonight.

I showered, letting the hot water hail against my skin.

I lathered myself in eucalyptus and jasmine, washing my hair three times as I watched what was left of the blue dye pour down the drain.

I was suddenly weak in the knees, my eyes burning.

I could only shut them as I lowered myself down to sit.

The water was now lukewarm as I sat, so I let my eyes flutter open.

When I opened them, I felt ten years younger.

Suddenly the hairs sticking out all over were new and strange.

The way the water felt on my skin was nice. It didn’t burn like usual.

It didn’t beat my skin red and raw.

There was a large wooden brush in my hand, and I began to brush all over.

I brushed gently, as though my skin was that of a child’s.

I felt my feet, touching the bottom of them and noticing where it tickled.

I brushed my legs until my skin was soft, then I brushed my arms until they were pink.

Photo by Beyza Yogurtcu

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I kissed my knees as though I was my lover.

Gently bathing myself.

I would never let someone clean me, and many a time I had declined a kiss on the knee.

I tapped my fingers against the water, smiling.

The water began to pool between my legs, and I opened and closed them to watch it flood and drain.

It was nice to be ten again. But then I was younger still.

I became six when I noticed my fingers had begun to wrinkle, the palms of my hands shriveling like a primate’s with its deep crevices.

The skin was pale and water logged, and I wondered how long I had sat staring at my skin.

Because it was skin I had been staring at, for once, not bones and where and at what angle they jutted out.

I paid little notice to the way my hair stuck to my neck and the sides of my face, and I watched as stripes of water trickled down my chest and stomach.

I watched the streams race each other.

Before I knew it, I was kneeling, sitting gently against my heels.

Looking up, I noticed how the light looked like a halo, its white LED ring surrounded by steam that so resembled fog.

Water beat gently against my back, and my hands were prunier still.

I smiled, and opened my mouth to catch the water.

Then, I was in the Jordan river. I almost thanked God for making me.

To be two was nice. When I was two I remembered the sound of my mother’s voice telling me it was time to get out of the tub, but only one voice came: Move a little to the left, I did.

Smile.

Shutter. Click. Flash.

Photo by Beyza Yogurtcu

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That Khmer Smell

Written by Pavelyn Rous That Khmer smell

Intertwines with the fresh, icy breeze of Thames winters Cold and hot, sweet and sour, spicy and yet not I breathe it in deeply, so strongly, trying very hard not to miss,

That Khmer smell It sends me back to my childhood, a fleeting moment that I try to catch Only, my childhood is the sand which slips quickly through my fingers I can smell it, I can feel it, but I can never return to it For the sand which slips through my fingers, will never be the same sand I grasp again That Khmer smell Mixes with the air of New Zealand opportunity I can become president of the world A fairy princess My mother's favourite girl Hot, sour, spicy

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Photo via Sominea Nguyen

Photo via @redmrmcid

That Khmer smell Burns something in my heart As it comes and goes it reminds me that I am what my mother could’ve been I am the illusion of her perfect future And I think she can smell it too What does it feel like mama To see your spirit and realise she is not in you That Khmer smell Makes me wish I could rewrite our stories Hold fate hostage and demand my mother's life be freed from man Her freedom for my ceasing to exist It is a balanced destiny The only way to succeed is for one of us to have conceded To the unfair rules of a man ruled world Be free, be free, be free That Khmer smell.

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Between Christian Billboards and sunsets

written Madeline English

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Photo via Paul Murphy

by

Issue 003 “Tales of The Radiant” © The Fig Tree Magazine est.2023 June 2024.

W e read the words out loud in heavy Southern accents when we

pass them. “Are you right with the Lord?” You asked me as the wind blew our hair around our faces and Shania Twain blasted from your stereo.

Despite our initial hatred of our home state, we can’t deny the way the twang seeps into our vocabulary on words like wildflower. I’m driving you to college, our first cross-country road trip without our parents. We take turns crossing state lines and stopping for gas. When the sun starts to go down, we find the nearest Cracker Barrel and sit across from each other, playing the peg game the same way we did when we were little. And in that moment, I look up from the colored sticks and I expect to see the little eight-year-old with round glasses and buckteeth, but I don’t. I see a young woman with enough knowledge, empathy, and work ethic to change the world. I see the last nineteen years of our shared lives play out across the hazel in your eyes. I see my baby sister. I see you.

And in that moment, at a Cracker Barrel somewhere between the Kentucky and Tennessee border, with Evangelical billboards just across the highway from where we’re seated, I wonder if Eve still would’ve damned herself if God had given her a sister instead of a husband. I wonder if Eve having a little sister would’ve pushed her to keep going in the way that you have pushed me. I wonder if things would’ve been different, more holy. I wonder if there wouldn’t have been so much heartbreak and sin. But then again, if God knew about the love between sisters, he wouldn’t send so many of them to die at the hands of wretched men. He wouldn’t plaster missing posters with the faces born in the same year as you. He wouldn’t endow us with the burden of keeping each other safe.

No, if God knew anything about the love of sisters, he would make the whole world feel like a ridiculously cheap Southern breakfast for dinner meal over a sunset so brilliant it could make even the most evil sinners weep.

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Photo by Beyza Yogurtcu

Written by Natalie Caudel Flickerings come in and out, of my french braided mind; worrying about whispers Weaving through school.

What do I look like?

Hiding behind a choker.

Gwen Stacey pony, swinging to physics.

Prancing on checkered linolium, Hugging my textbooks; Numbers and love notes, I need to save some money.

I left that town With starry-eyed dreams; What is it about men?

That’s what Amy said.

Cigarette on State Street Ash is falling in Santa Barbara today.

No smoking allowed.

Searched for a higher altitude Landed in Zion.

Evangelism cracked my windshield Splattering boxelder bugs.

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via @romneyellen

photo via Tamara Lichtenstein

issue 03

tales of the radiant

43 June

2024

There are two kinds of people in humanity – sweet and beautiful… in nature – weathered and disloyal… in the wilderness, and I am neither one of them. Neither saint nor sinner.

I am a nobody, and who loves a nobody? (nobody) This summer reminded me of the blues and loneliness that have been murdered with lethal brews, but i was informed that resurrection cannot suffice to tailor in this reality.

Yet the impossible has occurred! Now will the truth come out?

Thousands upon…thousands…of reasonings just left me be, as attachment leads to suffering.

I wanted it to be you & me against the world.

Too badly, too much that it's suffocating.

It's like you're strangling my neck. tempting but hurtful.

You left me… of course.

I'm unhinged during these circumstances.

Where's my love? Where's my opportunity?

Where's this certainty of my ability to succeed, to love my empire?

Was I just a mere placeholder now that you possess more than one person?

Serenity had no place amidst your thunder.

You don’t love me to appeal to the masses, or that’s what I've conveyed in my poetry.

I don't even know you, truly… but I am an expressionist, not a realist.

written by Shamziya Rahimi 44

Nicole Araujo

When I was a child, Sundays were for family. I grew up knowing that 5 o'clock on a Sunday evening always meant I would be sitting at my grandmother's kitchen table alongside my aunts, uncles, and their children. On summer nights my grandma would open the screen door to let the cool air inside as the room filled up with the heat of fresh tomato sauce on the stove.

Sunday’s, in our Catholic home, were the day of prayer and unity with one another. I always felt that the act of gathering together was a form of worship in itself.

The laughter that filled the room could be heard from down the street, and there was always a stack of empty plates on the counter by 6 o'clock. We would often spend the rest of the evening sitting in the living room together. The family room. I can still recall dozing off in my mothers lap as a sitcom played on the television. I could feel the movement of her chest as she laughed along to an episode of Three’s Company, and I would almost always fall asleep before the sun went down.

Sometimes after the episode had ended, the television show “Cheers” would follow.

I never watched it much but I can still recall the lyrics to the theme song,“where everybody knows your name.” I always loved that line because that was how my town felt back then. Smaller, and like everybody knew everybody else. It felt as though nearly every neighbor, like my grandparents, had immigrated from Italy several decades back. This meant that the Italian hall was always booked on Saturday nights for dances, summer parties and weddings. I spent more nights there than I can remember; interlocking hands as Italian folk songs played, and watching bottle after bottle of wine being emptied into big, round, glasses. I had a dress for every occasion, and shoes for every season. Each new birthday or religious milestone meant gifts in the form of jewels, pearls and bracelets of gold and silver. Though I tried to disguise myself behind fancy clothes or jewels, I didn’t always look the part. Oftentimes I’d find myself staining my dress, or wearing nylons to hide my scraped knees, or pulling my shirt down to cover the grass stains on my skirt.

It often felt like I was tightrope walking between two different sides of myself.

Somedays I felt like a soon to be young debutante, making her way into the Italian social circle. The other part of me was a free spirit being called to the wild. It confused me to understand that these things could exist simultaneously. I still think about how thankful I am to my parents for never making me feel like I had to choose.

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I grew up the youngest of 7 cousins, which for me, meant that I always tried to stand a little taller, or run a little faster to keep up with everyone else. It was easy growing up to be a good person because I had 6 role models for me who I could always look up to: my sister, and my 5 cousins. Having an older sister was like having a best friend who never went home after a sleepover. I have always thought that without Laur, I never would have become the woman I am today. Having a companion such as this allowed my memory to run wild in my youth. With her, anything was possible. Our fenced in backyard could be turned into anything we wanted it to. The treehouse our father built could become a castle in the sky, and the swing hanging from the old maple tree could be a portal to a secret land. When I felt lost or out of place as a child, I could always turn to my sister.

I’ve grown up in the same house all my life, surrounded by orchards of peaches and cherries. When I was around 12, I would often sneak between the trees and steal a peach for myself, resting to eat it in the grass.

My grandmother helped me plant my own garden in my backyard when I was 13. She said that they used to grow almost everything themselves when they lived in Italy and I had always wanted to try doing the same. Though by summer's end I only had 2 cucumbers and a few rotten tomatoes, I cherished my memory of that garden forever. Watching my grandmother teach me about the things she had learned in her life always felt like the passing of a torch. I could see the hard work in her hands as she picked plums from the tree in her yard, or sewed me a dress on her old machine. She had always loved teaching me everything she knew, and I was always happy to learn. It was in moments like those that I learned what the true meaning of life was to me. Passing on the lessons we have learned onto those that we love. The greatest gift my grandmother ever gave me was the opportunity to step into her mind.

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I went to my first funeral when I was 14 years old after my best friend died of Cancer in the 8th grade. I remember watching as they buried her into the ground and feeling so detached from what I saw. I was comforted by those around me who reminded me not to be afraid, because her body was all that was left on Earth. Her soul had gone somewhere else entirely. It was then that I understood my life fully for the first time. As I walked away from her grave that day, letting the hot summer sun fall on my shoulders, I felt differently about the world than I had before. It felt much smaller now, and death felt both more real, and less terrifying to me. I was once again astonished by two things such as this could exist at once. I looked at the sky above me before my mother led me to our car, and whispered to myself, “I’ll see you on the other side”. The whole drive home I closed my eyes and imagined her face, the way I wanted to remember it, full of life, and joy. My promise that year was that I would live not only for me but for her as well. I would live the life she never could.

A life in my eyes is not over when someone dies. Rather, it continues on in the lives they have touched. Everyone I have known will live on through me, and one day my life will be passed on as well. In the Catholic faith, one of the virtues is Character. I have always believed this to be the most important of the virtues, because it is what we will be remembered by after we have died. Our character and our spirit are what live on when souls are no longer on earth. Everyone I have known will live on in my memory for the person that they were, and for the love and kindness they have shown me. As I continue on in my early adulthood, I hold memories of everyone I have known in my heart. I promise myself to always honor and remember all the small details about those I have loved, so they are never forgotten.

I will remember my grandmother for her fig trees and her Italian cassette tapes. I will remember my grandfather for old western films, and cheating at card games. My mother, I will remember for her books and long walks. My father for his guitar and his camera. My sister for her mind, her talent and her beauty. I hope I will be remembered for many things. My collection of antique boxes, the songs I play on the piano after everyone has gone to sleep, or the stack of VHS tapes by my bed. Most of all, when I recall the memories of the life that made me, I hope I will look back and remember it for the brilliant life that it was. I hope I will look back and remember not just the grand things, like the love, friendship and laughter but also I hope I will remember the little things. Things that we often don’t appreciate enough. I hope when I have grown older and look back upon my life I will still remember things like the silver spoons and the cherry trees.

Photo by lauramakabresku

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Thank you for reading

The Fig Tree Magazine “Tales of issue 03

the

June 2024

Radiant” est. 2023

The Fig Tree is an online magazine fostering a space for young female writers to share their most creative insights on culture and the intricacies of their lived experiences. Many young female authors believe their writing has no place to exist; that their ideas are juvenile or insignificant. Our magazine serves to combat this notion and promote authentically raw and equally beautiful stories from authors that have less of a chance to be published due to their background. We aim to create cohesive and engaging issues focused on a central theme that will inspire, provoke, and resonate with our audience.

The End