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the way home

SERIN HWANG

The woods behind my old high school burned down the winter after my senior year.
They were gone within a day, leaving behind only the ash that settled on my car and the smoke that dimmed the sky, turning the sun a blazing orange. I was home from college at the time, abandoning crisp New England autumn for a dull West Coast winter, snowless but mildly chilly, until it wasn’t. California was still burning when I got back on the plane….Continue Reading the way home

The Buyer

EDWYN CHOI
“Incredible,” the buyer answered, still looking up. If the plot of trees were a painting, he resembled a smear on the finished canvas, a sharp, dark smear. The wind was not blowing anymore. He felt a little warmer. …Continue Reading The Buyer

New Eyes

BEA AGBI
the hospital’s radiology and imaging floor / I took a look at my bones
and the x-ray confirmed what I already knew – / that these branches are palms,
this skin bark, no difference between breath / and chlorophyll save the distinctions / of time. When I’m no longer standing / Still waiting for a word from the old gods / When I’ve given up on keeping my lips clenched…Continue Reading New Eyes

Self-Portrait Axed & Open

GABBY AVENA
A child is a fruit, I am told. Time carves / my center: two bodies twine inside / like aphids around bark. Harvested / fruit, your flesh emerges peach-soft & fuzzy, / sweetness suckling upon release. I shudder: / the taste is fear, or relief. A child is a fruit: from which / a new world is born. A child is a fruit: dropped & bruised / & poisoned….Continue Reading Self-Portrait Axed & Open

Ode on a Warm Sea

VENUMI GAMAGE
My fingers trace the smooth blue tile on the wall as we walk in together, catching on jagged line after line of grout. This is how I would map your body, catching on and pausing at every next new tile of you. We swing our balmy limbs onto the benches, like synchronised divers; in this moment we are perfect score, perfect twins. …Continue Reading Ode on a Warm Sea

Forever Green

RIS PAULINO
I scale the cracked shingles, the roof warm beneath my palms, / each grip a reminder that not all heights can be measured in feet. / The sun slips sideways, brushing against the window panes, / and I stand there, taller than the house that never grew with me. / I look off toward the sunset, / and see a treeline—…Continue Reading Forever Green

The Pimple

OLIVIA TENANT
I’m getting ready for another night out, painting my face thick with concealer and foundation, over-powdering my face, and dousing my cheeks in golden glitter and pink blush. I’m using one of those mirrors with the perfect lighting which is supposed to help me apply my makeup perfectly, but it distracts me instead….Continue Reading The Pimple

Rotted

MERRICK LAWSON
Drew sits in a forest. There was a time that they were here before, but that is gone and it is impossible for them to recollect it. Recollect — re-collect — collected on their phone; they scroll through their photos until they prove that they were here five months ago, that they wore their flannel-lined jeans that may have been stained, or maybe not.
…Continue Reading Rotted

Omphalos

LUCHIK BELAU-LORBERG
The flavors, one after another: you, mouthing off in tongues; then breakfast for lunch and vice versa, meaning maple all around; slicked salt beneath my boots; a stretch of teething road with chalkboard clouds; the cashier and her disinterested brows, bad coffee at the cinema beside a lady smiling at a map and her breath is like eucalyptus. The rain goes on, though only…Continue Reading Omphalos

Evergreen: The Voices That Do Not Wilt

green plants in background

SOFIA AHMED SEID

It was a peaceful morn at the foot of the mountains. The sun looked coyly radiant, slowly rising from behind the hill. I must have been sitting on the cement steps because my derriere was going numb from the cold despite the warm embrace of the morning, filled with the chirping of birds and the delicate ringing of tiny bells at the fascia of the church—bells that danced with the gentlest rustling of the wind….Continue Reading Evergreen: The Voices That Do Not Wilt

Untitled

GABRIELA WEAVER
We hadn’t spoken a word – well, discernable word – for an hour. My fingertips filled the void of silence, grazing your skin, circling your collarbones. I rested in the crook of your neck, forehead pressed to your cheek. My eyes followed the lines I drew on your skin. I lifted my chin to trail kisses up your neck before meeting your gaze with my own. …Continue Reading Untitled

Snapshots of Dust

BRADY KIM
I visited my father’s house last week.  I straightened the picture frames on his nightstand, the glass caked with so much grime and filth that you couldn’t even make out the picture.  I swept the dust from the lonely halls, the wallpaper cracking and peeling at the top so it cast a shadow across the wall when you turned on the buzzing yellowish lights….Continue Reading Snapshots of Dust