THE LUNA COLLECTIVE x SPRING ZINE

spring.

wanted to try something a lil different. so thanks for submitting your work and supporting whatever we get up to. i think it’s important to not feel like you have to create the same thing. it can be so easy to get in the mindset of “i did this before, and people liked it, so that’s what i should do again.” create whatever comes to mind and don’t feel held accountable for making what’s expected. don’t be limited to a box others create for you. i love spring. so much so, i wanted to make a zine as an ode to spring in a sense. though it’s difficult to capture the way spring air makes you feel via words and photos, some of the pieces in this zine come pretty damn close. so take the time to take in all of the words, graphics & photos that have created this zine. then go outside and lie in the sun or something.

xox, sophie

Claire Richards

Limbs like plastic, Wings like bone, Lips like tender soft crooning, Sade blaring over radio static, Wide eyes repelling light, Giving life out a rogue pucker & a sprout of courage from a unproven place.

Make way for a kiss!

That kind that breaks porcelain, Cracks skies, turns corners, weighs sand, But is sexless.

It’s only mandate coming from the Sun, A new being bestowed to the virgin peoples embattled by winter’s fury.

It is warm now and love is to be made.

Finally dust can be free, To settle down in a good home, With tikes on each knee watching the cycle...

Lips meeting & retreating, Greeting plastic material, Breathing life into a breathless item.

Emerge from your sleepless hour into new life.

-Charles Frempong-Longdon Jr.

Kayleigh B.

Fanny Magot

Paola Murillo

I’m learning to be alone with my thoughts because my mind is a creaky door you just can’t push shut.

Self-sabotage is a knife to your own back when all it’s done is cradled your spine Your heart keeps shooting arrows at your mind but your mind keeps holding up the white flag Trying to end a war it never should have started.

I know that I should be braver.

That I should learn to jump from heights I’m scared of and have faith in that backup parachute .

But I have been wilted before.

I have been crushed to the point of thinness.

And I’ve searched for myself left behind on coffee stained tables and cold bed sheets.

I forgot the worth of the body I make rise every morning .

I forgot the original muse is myself.

I have lost memories in empty museums full of artwork embedded in my bones Lost art in the form of flower petals on my cheeks.

Petals that dried up because the weather was too harsh within myself.

Art on my skin, in my eyes.

I have a soul much older than the stories in my eyes.

It has taken me years to see a painting out of the colors on my skin.

It has taken me longer to learn to see a painting out of the colorful thoughts that shake me to sleep.

Half my heart is beating.

The other is still learning to water itself.

I’m realizing there is no growth when you water dead memories. so I’m sprouting words that have twisted bitter and numbed my tongue for so long. Words like trust and authenticity.

But they’re tasting sweeter every night I’m covered by the moons dust and rinsed by the oceans tide.

I rise in the morning with new words, more sprouting, more blooming... oh wow. I’m blooming.

Kat Janivar

Manuela Guillen

Cassie Corridoni

Elizabeth Cowan

Ursula Bowling

Photo By Melisa Ulkumen

Steps to the Capital Drunk[in]’ awe schlepped itself over the cobblestones Sinking[in] the scenery folding the path of each cherry blossom Ghost in your layers delicate in the air are the liberties which are promised here

-L.E.H.

Nadav Brumer

“Solstice Rituals As Assigned By Auntie Vivian” Auntie assigned us a prayer to say before we went to bed.

Not for the sake of religion, but for meditation and to elevate anxiety Which every black child carries with them like a stuffed animal or blanket.

To begin your healing you must remember the past as it was.

Hellscapes conquered over marble counter tops, Shade rooms, basking in the light that shone and was let shine by my Mama, Sister, Auntie, and Grandmother back three summers before the last.

Recall oneself sifted through thin cotton sheets, making for certain that God was watching you give thanks to the souls threaded through the fabric.

Make haste when you humble yourself around home.

It is not fashioned for such practice.

Although you are something for sore eyes you must be seen, YOU ARE VISIBLE, YOU ARE MAGNIFICENT, YOU ARE that ultralight beam held so tenderly amongst black women- How has change met you after three summer’s and another?

Are you vigilant?

Are you fed?

Have you met God on your travels and thanked her for each day above ground as well as asked for the safety and security of the niggas living in the subterranean?

All things considered remember to be considerate to yourself.

As you leave that weight behind it is still essential to anchor yourself to something earthbound Lest you journey all the way back home.

-Charles Frempong-Longdon Jr.

Paula Dominguez

Victoria Brown

“The Flowers” They are small and full of light.

They are pure and yet to be tainted by the world. They are soft, delicate, in need of protection.

You are hard, rough, weathered by society, religion, and bad decisions Right and wrong already solid concepts in your mind You are a force to be reckoned with, they are flowers in a garden, you are a storm, they are easily broken Their minds so easily molded. Be careful what you say. Don’t push too hard.

You push them too hard. Let them enjoy life while everything is so new.

He will not end up like you. I will not let him end up like you.

Misogyny and homophobia like grape cough syrup you push it with a spoon down their throats.

They aren’t old enough to form their own beliefs yet. I will wait Affection towards each other is something foreign Don’t cry Don’t kiss his cheek Don’t hug Don’t cry Are you a girl? Don’t be so soft.

Being gay isn’t something contagious, it isn’t something they can catch like the flu or chicken pox. Displaying emotion doesn’t make you gay, being sensitive doesn’t make you gay, expressing love doesn’t make you gay. You are protecting them in the wrong ways from the wrong things.

It isn’t your fault.

You were raised this way. Religion pushed down your throat like cough syrup. Religion used as a coping method. used to promise better days that never came . used as an excuse for things gone wrong. Days being chased with electric cords and switches, discipline used as an excuse for abuse. The cycle of abuse normalized not only in you but in hundreds of those that look like you.

Hyper masculinity like a pill you take every morning, one that your father started you off with as a child, one that you give them with their eggs.

It isn’t your fault You are a force to be reckoned with, they are flowers during springtime in a garden, you are a storm, they are easily broken Please don’t break them -Lauren Wedderburn

Anna Gorden

Spring is feeling the perfect amount of sun on your skin but then also having humidity cling to you while watching the rain make everything prettier: the dew drops glossing the grass, the sun seeing its reflection in the puddles, the soil becoming dotted with flowers Spring is starting over but thinking the same thoughts through longer days and shorter nights A nostalgic renewal.

-Aarohi Sheth

Isa Katsuragi

Where this flower blooms I begin again.

This is my vernal equinox.

I will rise as the sun To live better and brighter days.

No longer do I hibernate in this sea of depression Where this cherry blossoms I will be born again.

My resurrection shall overshadow even the second coming of Jesus.

I will be reincarnated from this here Midas’ touch And these golden showers I pray may flower my rebirth.

Rebirth.

-Nofeezaht Ladejobi

Alexandra Hillman

Jesse Todd x Bersabeh

spring anthem there’s a dreamy, sweet delirium to spring that I can’t help but adore. it’s a syrup so sweet we can almost drink the air. there is a renewal of activities, we see people with new eyes, we spend more time outside: time that feels both relaxed and limitless, and pressing, urgent to be spent well— a counting of hours that we hold even more dear. we are lovely, the hours long—our bodies start to darken with sun and the air is always newly washed by some spring storm or light rainfall. it tricks you, feels like a perpetual state. we could boat on the days and each end feels like a surprise. the sun shouldn’t set, the day shouldn’t close, our time together shouldn’t end. surely the hour isn’t over? surely the season never ends? everything grows, everything moves, everything sings, the birds on their wires are happy; our friends are here, and while we know eventually they have to go, for a while they are staying. we can spend our afternoons and evenings dancing together, and not worry over how it will end or when it will be over. we are alive with memories: sometimes they threaten to crowd out the present, but they are instructive: remember when it was almost too good to be alive? remember when you wanted to go everywhere because it was all so new to you? remember all the people you’ve loved and who have traveled with you in the springtime? remember all the long walks you’ve taken together with no where in mind, just because it was lovely outside? it’s something almost too dear to grasp on to, too beautiful to touch or to feel, fully. but we’ve got to grasp on, to let it take hold. one more run, one more lap, one more song, until we have to go home because we can no longer keep our eyes open.

Alex Free

Amy Megan Day

Gina Laverone x Jennie Kan

Photos by Jonathan Bodo | Design by Olivia Boryczewski

THE LUNA COLLECTIVE â„¢ 2019