ISSUE 03 - REFLECTIONS.

REFLECTIONS.

JULY 2024

“An embodiment of yourself through life.”

Writers Magazine

Author Words . . .

AAAHHHH !!! First, I would like to thank everyone who is currently reading these words, it means the absolute world to me. It has been forever since I’ve released an issue but here I am and I’m ready for lots of fun memories with the writing community. As you probably know, this magazine is my pride and joy and I’m incredibly grateful for everything everyone has done for me whether it was reposting and sharing my account to submitting your amazing work that will now be showcased.

You are an artist and you always will be whether you believe it or not.

I appreciate and love you all and I’m excited to share this generation's next artists, poets, photographer, and so much more.

Isabella McCulloch

Excerpts from a Nightmare ( 1 of 3) Masroor Ahmad | Punjab, Pakistan “the poet dies, but not the muse......”

But you’re dead and I live still In lovelessness, Carved into the murals of your poems, An ignored entity Creeping into your writing, When under the raining sky, You showed the saddest parts of yourself To everyone but me, And you wrote your heart out on sand With the needles pricked From my wounds To a stranger passing by your graveyard Over to masjid.

The prophets of the dead moon Prophesied to the crickets humming Inside the valley mountains Of my descent into this nightmare In which the cannabis from your garden Would eat out my lungs, Exasperating into a lonely melody, Escaping into scars brandishing your stomach.

In my breathlessness, The cuticle of my nails bitten off, From the habit of mine To devour myself whole, I’d fail to screech my fingers

Excerpts from a Nightmare ( 2 of 3) Masroor Ahmad | Punjab, Pakistan Against your guts.

Taking the shards from the murals, To open up the inflamed womb, You would disembowel the cursed fetus, Gushing out color of pomegranates, Taking the remains in your hands, To bury somewhere in the sky.

Cupping them as if you’re wooden statue Of gods praying to their creators To be burned, So their carcasses can talk Inside the flesh of the rotten And return to their inanimate solitude.

You sit facing the mirror now, Words gilded on it, Searing gaze of yours unable to penetrate their skins, Indecipherable words teared into immutable syllables, Seeking meaning from you, Urging you to speak them into existence, As if you were Muhammad.

Watching your reflection grow old Into a molded cocoon Decaying your bones, Perplexed, your waxen lips Kiss your own, Melting them into collages of blood, That sickens the soul of all your lovers, Like a cigarette half-smoked, A desire half-fulfilled.

You still visit me in my dreams

Excerpts from a Nightmare ( 3 of 3) Masroor Ahmad | Punjab, Pakistan I do not remember.

Yet your image of wooden gods Pierce through my eyes, And I feel their hands Crutching inside my spine Opening it into wings of Cotton angels Dipped in blood of goats.

Loving you is an ailment, The cure is to love you even more, To forget this sickness once again, And sleep into the loveless absence Of yours.

Storage Brooklyn P | BC I use too much of my storage My phone is just full of videos, photos, apps and all I was going through my camera roll 1:04 pm You're there I press the trash bin, the red option pops up Gone Just like you I'm okay now You really weren't what I thought you were Its alright I'll get over it If my heart's my phone, you're the case A phone doesn't need it, it already has all the wiring of love from other souls gracious enough to give it.

The case is just an add on You were my everything now you're just storage in my phone

Me - The Dog ( 1 of 2) Claudia Wysocky | New York , USA The typical things: When everyone left, I screamed, —Does anyone care?

I moped.

—Stuck inside my room, alone, Nobody coming to see me.

Everybody left, —But I want to feel like them again.

Moving on, Moving on from Me. Adrift, Just trying to live, Ignoring everything.

Sit by the bowl— Play a game for two!

Nothing better, —than just being, Food’s on the counter, Waiting Waiting

Me - The Dog ( 2 of 2) Claudia Wysocky | New York , USA W a i t i n g, For my faithful owner.

The Love Letter ( 1 of 2) Claudia Wysocky | New York , USA 'Tis myself —wife of David Parry, —a few words here and there— I write to her, To say that in truth, I do love.

For I desire, That my heart may never split Sarah, I cannot cease from loving you— Each time I'm near you, I need words just to explain.

Hold me to the ground tight, like a drowning man.

Drowning in your eyes.

When I wake up, my gaze falls close to yours.

If we only get a little closer...I'm afraid I'll die.

My desire is so very strong...there is no escape...Sarah in my arms.

My pulse is quickening with passion...and the blood runs through my veins fast. There's never room for love like this; No one could ever have felt this way before .

Sarah—I love you... And if I please you well today, I beg for any gift you will grant me— Then tomorrow we shall fly away together!

By starlight!

The Love Letter ( 2 of 2) Claudia Wysocky | New York , USA By moonlight!

In secret places!

And all the world will know my bliss alone!

The better man is me...

My glance is golden; A masterful smile to disarm the most hardened heart.

I am handsome, And that I fancy...

You cannot resist me so— I know you cannot.

I can turn to stone, bones of my own desire, Alight...to warm your heart. And ignite your blood (in flames).

These hands are welcomed upon you; none other can embody your whole body as I do. And when I speak your name, The very air seems crackling with power.

My Words Claudia Wysocky | New York , USA I never really thought about it, but I'm glad I did.

Most people find out, eventually, that they're not that special.

But now I see my writing, and without you, it would be a blank slate—just a bunch of letters that could've been anything.

I take pride in knowing you're the one person who understands me.

And so...

Try to do the best you can for a change— Because it makes my heart smile, And I can feel you breathing even when you're far away.

You may never know, but I love hearing it—.

Love may make me weird, and yet, I cannot imagine my life where I'm not.

That's why I love you—.

And I feel a tear drop—I too have seen hope, in your eyes.

At least you’re not weird.

Eggs Timsal Fatima | Lahore , Pakistan We turn out as wobbly as eggs, easily breakable when we fall from the kitchen slab.

But rough at the rinds.

Our hearts are liquid amber; dissolved when stirred.

Letting our hearts slide through the muted white cracks, we get ourselves eaten up with salt.

Beneath a California Sky ( 1 of 2 ) Macy Zierman | CA , USA Beneath a California sky, they fall for each other. Right outside the local library, there’s a brick wall that houses a garden, with just enough space to sit on top of it. On these Thursdays, when everyone else has driven home, and the sun slowly sets behind the cornstalk colored hills of California, the boy and the girl sit there.

They’re both still in their uniform. The girl wears her navy blue polo and plaid skirt while the boy wears his khaki dress slacks and black dress shoes. On these days, the girl pulls her phone out of her skirt pocket and searches for truth or dare generators. They only play truth. The girl doesn’t trust the boy not to do anything stupid. They hop onto the wall and use their backpacks as pillows, situated beneath the nape of their necks. They start off light. When did you last sneak outta the house? Last night. Sneak out all the time. You do? When? Like, y’know, three in the morning. What? What do you even do? Just—Just walk around. Then the girl taps the blue button again to generate something new. She pauses when she sees it and tells the boy he doesn’t have to answer. But the boy is who he is, he will answer it no matter what. Just say it, silly. Well, what do you most regret? His eyes are far off to the weedy hillside that blocks the last bit of sun. He mumbles something beneath his breath. She tilts her head. What did you say?...I made my best friend kill himself.

And even though he is sitting right next to her, the boy’s eyes get lost in that hillside, lost in a movie of memories he wishes he could forget.

Beneath a California Sky ( 2 of 2 ) Macy Zierman | CA , USA The girl blinks and shifts away from him, folding her hands into her lap. She opens her mouth to say something then closes it. I’m sure it wasn’t you…It was. The girl tries to meet his eyes. He trusts her with this secret. She vows to keep it.

Later, beneath a California sky, they start to hate one another. The boy and the girl are at their school, sitting at the same rickety, wooden picnic table.. They hold hands now and his legs will brush against hers sometimes. She is looking down at her food, not touching it. The free Mac N’ Cheese makes the air smell like heavy plastic.The clouds hang overhead: dark, gray, and gloomy. The girl clutches her stomach as it rumbles, tearing her hand from the boy’s.

Her eyebrows are clenched together and she’s hunching over. She wants to disappear inside herself. The girl’s friends sit with them, excitedly chatting and waving their hands like magicians.Well, didn’t you see the prom tickets? Oh, yes, you saw that blue dress, didn’t you? The one in the window display? The younger friend tugs at the girl and tells her just how pretty she looked. The girl pinches her stomach and the friends all agree she’s beautiful. The boy leans his head back and laughs and says, “She wishes.” There’s humor in his tone, but the girl looks away from him and scoots farther away, using her pointer finger and her thumb to circle her other wrist. Her stomach rumbles again.

Puddle (1 of 2) C.E. Patiu | Metro Manila, Philippines I took the short route home today. When I walked on the road, my derbies stuck to the ground. Each step meant a dozen more, and my backpack sagged more and more with my weight. Ahead of me, there were dead leaves—the only sign of autumn in the tropics.

I sat under a nearby tree, and the wind howled at the lack of passersby.

The street rained day by day. At school, I enjoyed the rain under the comfort of a window. But here, on my commute home, I felt the ickiness of the monsoons. The rain is no embrace when you’re outside.

I wished for a friend’s car to pick me up. But the road was still—nothing turned in my direction. I huffed. I reached behind for my water bottle, yet I lacked any thirst. I gazed at my shoes. There were tiny droplets.

My irritation grew. I looked up and saw the clouds—a dark gray with no sun. Broken lines of water fell. At first, the drizzle hardly made any sound. Until it grew. It dropped, and dropped, until it gathered into a large orchestra of droplets. My pixie dampened into a soupy mess, and I shivered under the rainy cold. God, I thought, I should’ve gone home sooner.

The rain did not stop once. The few seconds spanned like hours. The more I sat, the colder I got. Yet I closed my eyes, imagining those times when I loved the rain—where I read with it or fell asleep to it. I opened my eyes and saw it patter on the floor, and it was like home. It wet my skin, but I didn't mind it anymore.

Then, it was over.

I gathered myself, my bottom sticky and my shoulders hunched by my bag.

The sun looked like a fluorescent lightbulb. And the clouds, they were no longer gray—they were white.

Puddle (2 of 2) C.E. Patiu | Metro Manila, Philippines I didn’t move for a while. The rain was still there, right? I waited for the chill wind or the sign of a drizzle—I was motionless. But already, the road was dried. Everywhere I looked for it. The smell of petrichor and damp grass, or something to remind me of it.

Somehow, I missed it.

In front of me, lay a puddle. A dark puddle covered by a tree’s shadow.

I crouched down, only my toes supporting me. I looked inside it for something. Often I didn’t know what it was. A memory? A friend?

Myself? When I gazed into it, I couldn’t see myself. The image was blurry, and a few leaves fell, covering the puddle.

Rippled by the wind, the water ruffled like a skirt. The leaves blew away. But nothing had changed. I was still unsure of my reflection.

I rose from my feet and stepped forward, the puddle disappearing into a chaotic blob.

Gazing up, I asked the rain: Will this ever end?

It won’t. The rain said.

N/A Isa Z | BC

N/A Isa Z | BC

Biography

Masroor Ahmad ( @masroorahmad01 ) Masroor Ahmad is a 19 year old Pakistani writer. His writings deal mainly with the lack in being human, illusion of memories and emotions, and the nature of reality. Masroor's writings have the sense of constant despair over the incapacity to devour himself whole. His time is spent on thinking, reading and writing in order to understand himself, the people around him and the world better, so that he can find escape his agnosticism that pervades his being.

Brooklyn P Brooklyn is a writer, poet, and artist. Located on the west coast, she enjoys hanging out with her friends, writing her novel, creating things for her room, and swimming. She aspires to one day publish her novel and mostly writes poems about her love, heartbreak, and insecurities.

Claudia Wysocky Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. Her poems, such as "Stargazing Love" and "Heaven and Hell," reflect her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions. Besides poetry, she authored "All Up in Smoke," published by "Anxiety Press." With over five years of writing experience, Claudia's work has been featured in local newspapers, magazines, and even literary journals like WordCityLit and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Her writing is powered by her belief in art's potential to inspire positive change. Claudia also shares her personal journey and love for writing on her own blog, and she expresses her literary talent as an immigrant raised in post-communism Poland.

Timsal Fatima ( Insta : @_timsally ) Timsal Fatima is a literature student, residing in Lahore. Her poetry focuses on introspective manifestation of the cruel paradoxes of life. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the magazines such as: “Beneath the Mask” “Pandemonium Journal” “House of Poetry” “Pureception magazine” “Bread Fruit magazine” and in many others.

Macy Zierman Macy Zierman is a sixteen year old writer from Sacramento, California. She won the George Washington Youth Award in 2022 for her essays and received a scholarship to study Creative Writing at Lady Margaret Hall in Oxford through Immerse Education in 2023. Her poem "Angel of Death" was published in the anthology "Quilted: Thoughts" this summer. When she is not writing, she is probably studying, drinking coffee, reading, or performing in a play.

Isa Z ( @selzartlikethedrink ) Isa is an artist from B.C Their hobbies include art, badminton, and petting their rag doll cat. ( Lilith )

C.E. Patiu ( Insta: @unsin.ce.re ) Being an avid reader, C.E. Patiu started writing to participate more in literature. She is 16 years old and goes by she/they pronouns. Aside from writing and reading, she enjoys drinking chai, oversleeping, and playing Minecraft.

Fin.