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KayceeSmith
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OliviaKondraschow
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Elizabeth
CassidyBriggs,“TheGrassisGreener”-6
OhFeLia,“Orithyia”-7
YaldaValente,“SilentTearsoftheLamb”-8
OhFeLia,“Don’tturnoffthetelevision”-9
KristineLaraAngeles,“SCREAM-December”-10
ZakiaArif,“Home”-11
ClaudetteGalgana,“WhiteButterfly”-12 SofíaRazo,“MustnotForget:”-13
CayRei,“TrailsofLove”-14
IsabellaMaffi,“ARecipetoGirlhood”-15to17
K.J.Alpers,“Arkansas’Call”-18
NaliniVenugopal,“CoconutOil”-19to20
AshtynMassengale,“MagnoliaKisses:playingpretend”-21 OriónBentham,“PomegranateRedAutumns”-22to25
CorrineKang,“AlettertoFamily”-26
YsabellaAguila,“Sol&Luna”-27 RiyeSunel,“Ithoughtoftenderness,andimmediately,therewasshame”-28
G Lee,“TheContentsofa23-year-oldWoman’sBag”-29to31
RebeccaKarenia,“LoveasGreed”-32
AndreaFernandes,“ADreamThatAlwaysWas”-33
AarjuFreedman,“OdetoEmilia”-34to35
KimmiCurcio,“Autobaptismus”-36to37
PavelynRous,“ThatKhmerSmell”-38to39
MadelineEnglish,“BetweenChristianBillboardsandSunsets”-40to41
NatalieCaudel,“LeavingonaJetPlane”-42
ShamziyaRahimi,“expressionistsfoundcomfortinusingarttodisplay theirtruth&tocallthefuckersout” 43to44
NicoleAraujo,“SilverSpoonsandCherryTrees” 45to47
NewFlowers
W itt b Eli bthAhl
Onmyworstdays,nostalgiahangsovermybodylikedeadweight. Icarryitwithmeeverywhere,closemyeyeswhenitwhispersinmy earandIthinkthismustbewhatrottingfeelslike.
Nothingwilleverfeellikehomethewaythatitdidbackthen. Therearepiecesofyouburiedinyourchildhood,thingsyoudid not-couldnotcarrywithyouintoadulthood.Andyoucan'tevergo back.
SometimesIfeelthefirstwarm,unsteadybreathofspringandI'm staringatthepromiseofnewflowersthroughtheeyesofapre-teen girlwhosoeasilyforgetsthebiteofwinter.Whocan'tfathomthat thereareentireyearsoffrostaheadofher. AndIcan'tevergoback.
Whatisnostalgia,ifnotthequietgrievingoverthelossof somethingyoudidnotknowyoucouldlose?
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.
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
y g
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
03 “Tales of The Radiant”
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.
"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.
Arkansas’ Call
Written by: KJ Alpers
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.
Photo by: Kelsey Wickwire
CoconutOil
Myfeetbegintodryonthetiles wherethetowelsoonfallstotheground Iopenajar andthesmellofhomewaftsout
Coconut Oil
Nalini Venugopal
Iscoopoutahandful,meltingitwithmyhumanfire andbegintorub
Itglistensontopofmyshoulders beneathmycollarbones myhandspushitalongtheinsandoutsofthegentlecurvesand bumps thehillsandvalleys thatbuildmyframe
magnolia kisses : playing pretend
written by Ashtyn Massengale
She 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.
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
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
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
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,
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.
“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 learned to enjoy exceptions and started looking for them in
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.
I may be a bore, but that doesn't take away from the fact that autumn has always been the warmest season for me.
Written by Corrine Kang
We 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.
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.
writtenbyRiyeSunel
23-Year-Old
The Contents of a Woman’s Bag
Written by: G. Lee
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.
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!
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.
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
Sleepover
EmilaandIonlymetinourearlyteenageyears,yetitfeelsasifwe've knowneachotherourwholelives.Althoughsheisresemblantofanolder sister,shekeepsmeyoung.Collegeloomsaroundthecorner;evenso,Emila exudesanunmarredsanguinity.Ararequality,whichwillalwaysbelongto her.Oursleepovershavealwaysbeensacred;aspaceforgrowthand youthfulness.
Nomatterhowmuchtimepasses,weinevitablyfallbackintoournormal cadence.Wealternatesaying“goodnight,Iloveyou,”bothknowingthat withinaminute,oneofuswillsay“onelastthing”becausethethrashingof ourthoughtsneverquietsdown.Herwordsareheavywithsleepyetshe patientlywaitsasIattempttoexpresstheinexpressible.Ourbodieslazily unfurltowardseachother,herumberringletssplayoutacrossthepillow, ourforeheadslightlypresstogether,andourbreathingissynchronous.In theplaciddarkness,Iwhisperaprayertonooneinparticular:Pleaseallow metocherishthesememoriesforever.Maymystomachneverforgetthe acheofwildlaughter.Maymyeyesneverforgethervivacity.Maythesolace ofsimplyexistingalongsideherneverslipaway.Sleepwashesoveruslike thetidereturningtotheshoreafteralongdayofebbingandflowing.
WrittenbyAarjuFreedman
Wanderers
EmilaandIleisurelymeanderalongthestreetsofMidtown.Tonight’sstrollistinged withanunfamiliarsenseofmelancholy,perhapsbecausewearenotfindingourwayor gettinglost,asperusual,forwehavenodestinationatpresent.Emila’sstridesarelong andpurposeful,juxtaposingmysedatesteps.Witheachpaceforward,thebreadthof theconcretepavementbetweenusgrowsandsodoesthegnawingfeelinginthebackof mymindthatinayearfromnow,everythingwillbedifferent.
DespitehavingonlylivedinNewYorkCityfor3years,Emilahasakeensenseof navigationandspatialawareness,bothofwhichI'veneverpossessed.Aswewalkhandin handthroughthecrowdoftourists,itsstimulidissipateintomyperipheryandthe cacophonyofrushhourtrafficmorphsintoambientnoise.Werushpasttaxibikes adornedwithfestivelightsandstreetperformersblaringChristmascarolsandpop songs;shecan’thelpsingingalong.Hervoicemelodicallyliltsabovethechaoslikethe chimingofbells.
WearebothunderdressedforthebriskNovemberweather,cladinbaggyjeans,tank tops,andlightweightcoats.Wechosestyleoverpracticality;ahabitwecanneverseem tooutgrow.Nonetheless,thenightisstillyoungandneitherofuswanttoleave.We interlockarmsandEmilaallowsmyhandaplaceinhercoatpocket.Wetalkincessantly aboutanythingandeverything,sharingeachtiny,seeminglyinsignificantdetail, implicitlyagreeingthatthesespecificsmeanthemost.Weruminateoutloudaboutour futures,myselfwithpalpableuncertainty,andherwithfeignedconfidence.Iknowshe isjustasanxiousasIam,undoubtedlyevenmoresobecausesheisinthemidstof collegeapplications.Despitethis,shealleviatesmyconcernsmerelywithherpresence. Emila,thebestliarI'veencountered,andyetIcan'thelpbelievingineverywordsheis sayingasshereassuresmethatnothingbetweenuswilleverchange.
IkissedmykneesasthoughIwasmylover. Gentlybathingmyself. Iwouldneverletsomeonecleanme,andmanyatimeIhaddeclineda kissontheknee.
Itappedmyfingersagainstthewater,smiling. Thewaterbegantopoolbetweenmylegs,andIopenedandclosed themtowatchitfloodanddrain. Itwasnicetobetenagain.ButthenIwasyoungerstill.
IbecamesixwhenInoticedmyfingershadbeguntowrinkle,the palmsofmyhandsshrivelinglikeaprimate’swithitsdeepcrevices. Theskinwaspaleandwaterlogged,andIwonderedhowlongIhad satstaringatmyskin.
BecauseitwasskinIhadbeenstaringat,foronce,notbonesand whereandatwhatangletheyjuttedout. Ipaidlittlenoticetothewaymyhairstucktomyneckandthesides ofmyface,andIwatchedasstripesofwatertrickleddownmychest andstomach. Iwatchedthestreamsraceeachother.
BeforeIknewit,Iwaskneeling,sittinggentlyagainstmyheels. Lookingup,Inoticedhowthelightlookedlikeahalo,itswhite LEDringsurroundedbysteamthatsoresembledfog.
Waterbeatgentlyagainstmyback,andmyhandswereprunierstill. Ismiled,andopenedmymouthtocatchthewater.
Then,IwasintheJordanriver.IalmostthankedGodformaking me.
Tobetwowasnice.WhenIwastwoIrememberedthesoundofmy mother’svoicetellingmeitwastimetogetoutofthetub,butonly onevoicecame:
Movealittletotheleft, Idid. Smile. Shutter.Click.Flash.
ThatKhmerSmell
WrittenbyPavelynRous
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
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.
e t w e e n C h r i s t i a n
Bi l l b o a r d s a n d s u n s e t s
written by Madeline English
ereadthewordsoutloudinheavySouthernaccentswhenwe passthem.“AreyourightwiththeLord?”Youaskedmeasthewindblew 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 twangseepsintoourvocabularyonwordslikewildflower.I’mdrivingyou tocollege,ourfirstcross-countryroadtripwithoutourparents.Wetake turnscrossingstatelinesandstoppingforgas.Whenthesunstartstogo down,wefindthenearestCrackerBarrelandsitacrossfromeachother, playingthepeggamethesamewaywedidwhenwewerelittle.Andinthat moment, I look up from the colored sticks and I expect to see the little eight-year-oldwithroundglassesandbuckteeth,butIdon’t.Iseeayoung woman with enough knowledge, empathy, and work ethic to change the world.Iseethelastnineteenyearsofoursharedlivesplayoutacrossthe hazelinyoureyes.Iseemybabysister.Iseeyou.
Andinthatmoment,ataCrackerBarrelsomewherebetweentheKentucky andTennesseeborder,withEvangelicalbillboardsjustacrossthehighway fromwherewe’reseated,IwonderifEvestillwould’vedamnedherselfif Godhadgivenherasisterinsteadofahusband.IwonderifEvehavinga little sister would’ve pushed her to keep going in the way that you have pushedme.Iwonderifthingswould’vebeendifferent,moreholy.Iwonder iftherewouldn’thavebeensomuchheartbreakandsin.Butthenagain,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 posterswiththefacesborninthesameyearasyou.Hewouldn’tendowus withtheburdenofkeepingeachothersafe.
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 mealoverasunsetsobrilliantitcouldmakeeventhemostevilsinnersweep.
WrittenbyNatalieCaudel
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.
I left that town
Prancing on checkered linolium, Hugging my textbooks; Numbers and love notes, I need to save some money.
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.
photoviaTamaraLichtenstein
PhotobyBeyzaYogurtcu
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
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.
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.
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.
ber my grandmother for her fig trees and her Italian cassette member my grandfather for old western films, and cheating at My mother, I will remember for her books and long walks. My guitar and his camera. My sister for her mind, her talent and 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
Thankyouforreading
TheFigTreeMagazine “Tales of the Radiant”
issue03
June2024 est.2023
TheFigTreeisanonlinemagazinefosteringaspaceforyoung female writers to share their most creative insights on culture andtheintricaciesoftheirlivedexperiences.Manyyoungfemale authorsbelievetheirwritinghasnoplacetoexist;thattheirideas arejuvenileorinsignificant Ourmagazineservestocombatthis notion and promote authentically raw and equally beautiful storiesfromauthorsthathavelessofachancetobepublished due to their background We aim to create cohesive and engaging issues focused on a central theme that will inspire, provoke,andresonatewithouraudience.
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