©2026 Virginia Commonwealth University Student Media Center, PO Box 842010, Virginia Commonwealth University, Richmond, VA 23284-1010. Printed locally at Worth Higgins & Associates, Inc. The Cover is 100# Lynx, White, Ultra Smooth cover. The interior pages are 70# Royal Sundance Natural White Linen. Titles are set in Boecklins Universe. Body text is set in EB Garamond. Images used in end pages and staff pages are sourced from the MET’s public domain archive.
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A fictitious French province created by James Branch Cabell that serves as the setting of several of his fantasy novels
Virginia Commonwealth University’s anthology of literature and art
Editor-in-Chief
Melody Vang
Art Director
Ashley Gabales
Secretary
Mack Blair
Social Media Manager
Esther Schneider
Cover Artist
Ashley Gabales
Designer
Ashley Gabales
Editors
Melody Vang
Gorochanaa Boburri
Julian Piccone
Elina Perera
Candace Collins
Mollie Donovan
Eliza Young
Emma Pizzillo
Mack Blair
Esther Schneider
Illustrators
Eliza Young
Imani Tigney
Sophia Chabo
Ashley Gabales
Melody Vang
Brooke Fox
Dylan Medley
It’s been such an adventure being part of Pwatem for four years now! I had no idea that one editor’s meeting as a freshman would lead to eventually becoming the Editor-In-Chief my senior year. Though I never expected to be in this position, I hold this publication very dear to me. I’ve met so many lovely individuals filled with passion and humor, and it warms my heart to see that our team has grown closer over the course of this year. I truly don’t know who I would be without the Student Media Center and Pwatem.
College is oftentimes a period of personal growth for many. I find that stories and art depicting student experiences can shed light on avenues for others to navigate their own troubles. Especially as we enter tumultuous times, these pieces are what bring people together. Whether it’s a silly poem or an incredible artwork, sharing these experiences through printed media is incredibly important. Uplifting these authors and artists has truly been an honor, and I hope that this book can offer a sense of hope and solidarity to our readers.
Huge thanks as always to Jessica Clary and Mark Jeffries; you both are indispensable to the SMC and I wholeheartedly appreciate all that you do for Pwatem. I will miss popping into your offices for little chats and questions. I would also like to thank my incredible team of editors and illustrators; without their weekly commitments, this publication would not be possible.
To my art director, Ashley; thank you for your never-ending patience and understanding throughout this year. You are such a kind and hard-working individual whose passion and skills do not go unnoticed. Your presence has brought more light-hearted and fun vibes to Pwatem, and I’m proud to have chosen you as my art director.
To my secretary, Mack; thank you for sticking with me since our first time as editors way back then. You’ve seen how much Pwatem has changed over the years, and you have played a significant role in that. I’m always grateful for the whimsy you bring to meetings, and the unseen work you do that keeps us afloat.
And to Esther, my social media manager and incoming editor-in-chief; I entrust Pwatem to you. You are unbelievably organized and always on top of things. I was so excited when you first joined the inner staff team since your smile lights up the room and you always have silly stories to share. I have no doubt in my mind that your confidence and compassion will lead Pwatem to new heights!
Finally, thank you to our students for submitting your incredible work to us. It has been such a privilege to review your submissions, and we wouldn’t be here without you. And of course, to our dear readers, thank you for your unwavering support from afar.
I leave Pwatem with a myriad of fond memories. I’ve had so much fun with you all, and I truly wish you the best!
Bye-bye!
Melody Vang (Editor-In-Chief)
Bobburi
Love from him is not a pleasant thing. It is locking eyes with a rabbit and watching it freeze, hearing a staccato—thump-thump-thump in his chest, knowing the promise of blood when you close in. Love from him is a sweet scent downwind, sparking saliva on your tongue, and the assuredness of your stance when you sink down to pounce. It is the sharp, primal satisfaction when your lunge strikes true. Love from him is bones crunching under your teeth. It is the marrow sucked away and the sinew pricking your black gums and the tendons, tough and gamey, in your mouth. It is a promise that you are exactly as dangerous as you say you are, and he is exactly as weak as he wants to be.
illustrated by Eliza Young
Esther Schneider
Go take a walk down the block. Before you’ve even left your apartment, it is rolling down the hallway towards you. Perhaps the human is leading it, or perhaps the person is led by that sputtering mechanical beast. Either way, they are disgustingly entangled with each other. Sinew and plastic tubing rooted deep in metal and flesh bind their systems together.
Outside, you have only just made it onto the sidewalk when you are confronted with another. Carelessly discarded, it blocks the path. You step over it, but your ankle catches on the outstretched handlebars. It stings. A string of foul words is torn from your mouth.
Whatever. You continue forward towards your destination. Your mind wanders. There was a time before those machines were corrupted into their current form. The nostalgia envelops you. The razor scooter was once your mom’s, now gifted down to you and your brother. It has red handlebars and wheels, and if you lose focus it’ll smack into your ankle. The two of you liked to take turns riding it down the hill and around the cul-de-sac.
Someone zips past you at 30 miles per hour, shocking you out of your reverie. You jump, heart rabbiting in your chest. The irritation pools in your mouth, your hands. You want to kick a scooter over. You want to press your fleshy hands to its metal casing and crack it open, then tear out the innards.
The only option, as you see it now, is to burrow deeper into your humanity. Tilt your head back to stare at the sky as you walk through the park. Take in the warm, hazy light emanating gently from streetlights and stars. Lay sprawled in the grass and run your fingers through it. Feel the oxygen in your lungs. In doing this, you tear out any parts of the machine that have sneakily attempted to integrate with you. Good. Let them lie rotting on the ground.
elina
In the diner, I sat across from an angel. He appeared to me like a dream; a weird sort of dream, a semiconscious thought extended by the effort of thinking it. I sat awake with my eyes closed and felt my head constrict around the image.
He was a weird sort of angel, too. When my eyes were open, I couldn’t see that he was there, except around the edges, where he pulled at the mmmmmmouths and eyesssssssssss of the people sitting in the booths around him. He stretched them into thin knife cuts. They were red like infection, like crushed bug bodies.
The dream was drawn and halved in two directions: one part of my focus on the wooden shelf in the corner of the diner, vinyl records flickering with firelight against the fluorescence, and the rest on the angel. He wore dark, mirrored sunglasses, gunmetal blue, so that looking at him was looking at myself. It was my face that spoke to me, too, and my face that was pulled by the mouth and eyes.
“What happens now?” We asked. “Is this all it is forever?”
In his glasses, past my eyes, I saw a thousand little lights. They crawled over each other, tangling on an invisible path.
“What did you imagine?”
I looked at it all from above, from the eleventh floor of a twelve-story building. I wanted the lights to reach up to me, to be saying hello as I waved down. It didn’t seem like they knew I was there.
“I kind of thought I’d be closer.”
“Closer how?”
“Like the story where I’m one room over and the party’s right outside. The one where I can hear everyone talking, and they’re all waiting for me to come back.”
“Well, it is like that,” we said, “only you’re just a little bit further away. They’re still waiting for you. They’re going to do their own thing in the meantime. Did you want it to stop while you were gone?”
The angel waved his hand and, in his glasses, the little lights stopped. We watched it together for a while. It was a new nothing, one I’d never seen before. Even the stars moved throughout the night.
“Stop it, please! I don’t want to see that anymore,” we cried in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” the angel replied, sincere in our shock. “It’s longer for you than it is for me.”
“What is?”
“All of it. I just don’t feel it the same.”
“Well, what about what I’m feeling?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do with it all?”
The angel pointed to the corner of the diner by way of explanation. The shelf shifted into a table and back again.
“It’s this, forever,” said the angel, “in different directions and in different ways. Your body won’t remember it, except for when you see me here again.”
“Will it be in this place next time?”
“No, I don’t think so. This was sort of unique to your circumstances.”
The angel pointed towards the windows, reflected in the mirrored wall of the diner. I tore my gaze away from his glasses and looked outside. My motorcycle burned in the parking lot, gunmetal blue and supplicate on the ground. My body burned beside it and of it, one leg trapped underneath.
“I don’t want to die right now,” I said.
“Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?” The angel replied, “I don’t have any other way to tell you what’s going to happen.” He pointed at the shelf again, and it twisted back into a table. “This is all there is. You, in different bodies, forever. It’s not death. There is no death.”
“But you just said it feels different for you than it does for me.”
“It does,” said the angel, “but you feel so much more than I get to.”
“Do you want to feel this too?”
“No, not really. It’s a lot of pain most of the time. It’s more to hold than I’ll ever understand.” He fell silent for a moment, twisting his lower lip between his teeth. “You
get the better side of the deal in the end, I think. You get all of this.”
I didn’t have time to wonder what he meant. I was in the room then, the one with the party next door, and the low buzz of conversation. The light was dim. It flickered with the growing fire right outside the window, surrounding my body and my bike. Inside the room, the table had become a shelf again, stacked high with vinyl records.
The angel stood beside me as I stared at my bike lying uselessly outside. He wasn’t wearing his glasses anymore, but his eyes were the same shade of gunmetal blue. He placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“What happens now?” He asked. “Is this all it is forever?”
“I think it goes like this,” I replied. The angel disappeared. From the party in the other room, a knock came on the door.
“Hey, man!” Someone shouted. “Are you going to put the music back on or not?”
I picked a record from the shelf and placed it on the player by the door. The needle dropped, and the song began to spin.
Onyx Wolfe
rotting and mangled babies rise from the grave eyes still intact with hearts on strings
puppeteers born from excess writing lies as new truths modeling complacency as compassion
silence in the middle of the night not of safety, but of war
children starving, shot to death in moldy schools, disparaged adults stuck on streets, sworn to your glory, dying like all men do
mothers dying in back alleys yet the elderly pay for funerals with blood money?
bite the hand that refuses to feed but finds money for wars, for rocket ships, for playing face
making your legacy lost history
escaping the Earth they’ve burned leaving humanity behind moving from one person to another, genocide as self defense
maw the hands, take the fingers first, try and try again
I want everything and nothing at all
I want everything you stole all the dreams that died when futures turned into maybes instead of plans
hand shakers, baby killers drinking power like cheap wine
when your capital falls, and the poor find their way to your door
Who will be hungry enough to feast?
All That We Are
Jena Salem
In an unassuming, derelict shed, which stood in the heart of Salem’s dense woods, five girls were huddled together over a miracle. Cradled atop of little Pauline’s palms was an obsidian sphere filled with an inky, blue liquid. If the beholder tilted it just right and peered through the window, a geometric shape with many sides and corners would drift into view. Written on its surfaces was the word of God, or perhaps, another supernatural deity. Pauline moved away from the center, parting the circle, and then turned to face the others. She furrowed her brow, casting her eyes back down at the sphere.
“Father Abbey never spoke of such a relic during his sermons,” said Pauline. “What do you believe we’re meant to do with it? Could it truly be sacred?”
The rest of the group remained silent as they considered her question. Agnes spoke up first. “I believe the answer is quite clear. We must present it to the church and seek their guidance.”
Regina, the eldest one, shook her head slowly.
“That is a horrendous idea.”
Agnes narrowed her eyes, confused. “How so? The best thing to do is wash our hands of this before it comes back to bite us. Do you understand what they may do if we’re caught?”
“And that’s precisely it! Think for just a moment, Agnes. Suppose we were to go before the church. They will inquire about how we came across it,” Regina pointed a finger at Pauline. “If we tell the officials that it was Pauline who discovered it by the brook, they will take her away.”
“So we shall claim it rolled over from mean old Mrs. Brown’s yard,” Winnifred suggested. “She already witnessed us with the sphere, and I fear that she will accuse us first otherwise.”
“And no one will take her word over ours,” Pauline added. “That wench’s ugly reputation precedes her.”
Agnes’s face wrinkled with disgust. “You both are content with lying under the Lord’s roof?”
Winnifred opened her mouth to respond but was swiftly cut off by Regina. “They will see through our fabrication regardless,” she reasoned. “You forget that they’ve been taught to compel the truth from one’s soul.”
Joan scoffed loudly. Until now, she had been listening quietly from the far end of the shed.
Regina frowned in her direction. “Well, then! What resolution do you propose, O’ Wise Joan?” Paying no mind to her friend, Joan pushed off of the wall she was leaning on and approached.
“If I may, do you think it possible for it to be a holy messenger rather than a work of the Dark One?” The room fell silent again as the girls looked at one another. Without waiting for an answer, Joan stepped closer and scooped the sphere from Pauline’s hands. Everyone surrounded her instead, watching with anticipation. Joan cleared her throat.
“Do you come in peace?” She lifted the window to her eye and looked into it. The shape was nowhere in sight.
“Alas, the shape has disappeared. It has nothing to tell us.” Joan declared. Regina rolled her eyes.
“You are to shake it before questioning. That is how Pauline communicated with it before.” Pauline hummed in agreement. Joan asked again and shook it vigorously. The group drew tighter together and waited for the oracle to appear. It tumbled around the casing for a moment and then settled in front of the looking glass. As the tiny, indigo bubbles dissipated, the girls were able to read their fortune:
YOU MAY RELY ON IT.
“My turn!” Pauline chirped, snatching it back. “Shall I marry before any of the others?” Regina clicked her tongue disapprovingly, which was met with a mischievous grin from Pauline.
“We’re to handle the oracle with prudence. ‘Tis not a toy.”
“Marriage is very serious!” Pauline pouted. “What is a lady without potential suitors?”
“Well, we know the answer to be me anyway,” said Agnes. “I am to be betrothed to Samuel in two springtimes. It has been promised.”
Pauline smiled coquettishly. “Let us see.” She gave the sphere three hard shakes and turned it face-up.
Disbelief took over Agnes as she grabbed the oracle to confirm the truth for herself. Pauline bursted into a fit of giggles.
“Your beloved Samuel shall flee from thee at the altar!” she gloated.
A furious Agnes chased her around the space. Pauline squealed when she seized the hem of her dress and attempted to trip her.
“Enough!” Regina separated the two and confiscated the sphere. “This is no time to quarrel amongst each other.” She glared at Winnifred, who was stifling her laughter. The youngest smiled apologetically.
Agnes moved next to Regina. “I would like to ask the next question.”
Regina held up the sphere. “Speak.”
“Are you heaven-sent?” She jostled it around. The oracle bounced from wall to wall until it came to a halt.
CANNOT PREDICT NOW.
An uncertain hand covered the window. It belonged to Agnes.
“Perhaps we should cease any conversation with it,” she said. “If it cannot tell us of its origin, surely these messages do not come from God.”
“How can you be so certain, pray tell?” Joan protested. “Who is to say that the Lord is not testing our faith?”
“And who is to say that engaging with this relic is not witchcraft?” Agnes retorted. “We will be in such trouble if the church deems it so!”
“Be still! Do recall our patron saints, the very saints we learned about in Sunday school,” said Joan. “They, too, faced assertions of heresy when spreading the Gospel. Shall you cower from your mission in fear of public scrutiny? Quite pitiful.”
“Sinner! Bite your tongue at once.”
“You cannot silence an anointed soldier. ‘Tis against His will,” Joan shrugged. “I march to His rhythm, and when the day of reckoning arrives, the angels shall carry me to Paradise on my shield.”
Joan stole the sphere from Regina. “What are we meant to do with you?” The liquid inside sloshed around, sweeping the oracle back and forth.
OUTLOOK NOT GOOD.
Agnes timidly peeked over Joan’s shoulder. She postulated what everyone else refused to confront. “Are you of the devil?”
BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW.
The entire shed erupted into chaos as the girls gasped and clamored over the oracle’s words. All, save for Winnifred, who observed them anxiously from the outskirts. She hastily squeezed through the group and took center stage. Realizing no one else would diffuse the situation, Winnifred cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “QUIET!” as loud as she could. The cacophony of overlapping voices and arguing came to an abrupt stop. Every girl turned their head, startled. It was uncharacteristic of Winnifried to yell, given that she normally spoke softly with a sweet lilt.
“Cease this bickering! It is unbecoming,” she scolded. “Are we not fair ladies? Must we not take care to resolve this matter civilly?” Winnifred waited for a rebuttal, but none came. Her friends nodded or muttered sheepishly, all looking ashamed. The youngest relaxed her posture, drawing another breath. “Now, if you are willing to listen, I’ve hatched an idea.” Winnifred waved over Joan, who reluctantly passed her the sphere. “We know not of where this entity hails from. Heavens, we hardly know if it is divine,” Winnifried glanced warily at it. “Before we alert any official, we must establish if the sphere is truly conscious. I shall pose several queries, and if it responds with candor, we may learn the truth.”
Winnifred pondered her first question as her eyes landed on Pauline. She let them slide shut.
“O’ Divine Messenger, hear our prayer. I beg of you to forgive our audaciousness, as we must quell the doubt which agitates our spirits. If you dwell within this case, do enlighten us,” A beat passed as Winnifried opened her eyes. “Is Pauline the friend most dear to my heart?” She lightly shook the sphere. The oracle swished about until the ink stilled.
YES.
A warm feeling bloomed in Pauline’s chest.
“Gracious! How sweet.” Winnifred smiled. Tilting her head in thought, she spoke again. “Is it true that we reside in Salem, Massachusetts?” The oracle swirled. YES, DEFINITELY.
Winnifried’s fingers tingled beneath the sphere.
She felt uneasy. “I see. One final question, if you please.” She wanted to make this one trickier, so as to confirm if it really can see them. It came to her when she caught sight of Agnes’s cream-colored blouse. “Is Agnes’s blouse a lovely rose color?” Winnifred shook it one last time.
Her breath hitched. She rotated the sphere to show the others. Agnes paled at what it said.
“Lord above, may you protect us from the forces of evil,” she whispered. “I rebuke any impish creature that might lie in Winnie’s hands. Have mercy. She knows not what she does.”
Winnifred set the sphere down and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Agnes, please k-” Agnes jerked away.
“Unhand me! Stay back!” She tucked herself into a corner, gripping the cross pendant dangling from her necklace, and continued praying.
Joan scowled at Agnes, stalking over and grabbing the sides of her face.
“Get a hold of yourself! You have no reason to worry!” Agnes looked wildly about the room until Joan forced her to make eye contact. “The Lord is with us. He rests in our friend’s hands.” Her voice lost its usual edge. She took both of Agnes’s hands, pulling her onto her feet.
“Soon, you all shall see. Whether we choose the path of God’s oracle will be a testament of our faith. This is our opportunity to become canonized.… Have you ever wondered what it is to be a saint? To live by the sword and be willing to die by it? And, if necessary…spill the blood of swine?”
“Nonsense! You quit that sort of talk, Joan!” demanded Regina.
“You dare deny Him?”
“Nay, we merely deny you.” Pauline said, arms crossed.
Joan spun around. She stepped closer until they were inches apart. “Is that so? How rich.”
“Oh?”
“T’was you who brought about this foreign item, yes? Foolish girl, you think He didn’t appoint you to be his vessel?” Joan stared at Pauline. She was silent, only offering a bewildered expression. An epiphany washed over Joan as she looked the other girl up and down. “Unless…you’re possessed by something else.”
Pauline stiffened. “What is it you’re implying, Joan?”
“Thou hadst been participating in witchcraft.”
Not a sound could be heard in the shed. Regina studied the two carefully. “That is a grave accusation, I hope you know.”
“I’m very aware. It appears we have a doxy who must be punished righteously. ” Joan shifted her attention to Agnes. “What say you?”
Agnes swallowed, eyes wandering to the floor. “We must not make allegations so hastily. If we are to do anything, we shall leave it in the hands of the church.” Her fist closed around her pendant.
“Agnes, there is no Bishop nor judge in our wake. We know all too well how her inquisition would end. If thou wishes to live lasciviously, then I shall assist in reuniting the girl with her maker who stirs below the earth.”
Sensing the building tension, Regina positioned herself between Pauline and Joan. “Let us take a moment to cool our tempers, shall we?”
“I will do no such thing.” Joan brushed past Regina as if she wasn’t there. She jabbed her finger sharply into Pauline’s sternum. “Confess at once, Pauline. Admit thou hadst danced loosely with Lucifer himself!”
Pauline blinked owlishly at her, then cackled. “Have you partaken in too many communions, my dear? I never took you to be a bumbling drunkard.”
Joan’s mouth twitched. Before anyone could react, she lunged at Pauline and tackled her to the ground. Her hands clamped around her throat.
“Harlot! Out with it!” she screamed. Regina and Winnifred rushed to break up the fight. Agnes was frozen. She couldn’t bring herself to intervene. After the girls managed to pry Joan off of her, Pauline sat up, coughing and sputtering.
“You are a mad woman, Joan Anderson!” she croaked.
“Silence, heretic! I shall put an end to this right now!” Joan picked up the sphere. Its shell pulsed under the pads of her fingers, breathing, surging with what could only be the sublime. Never in Joan’s life had she ever harbored so much power. She craved it more than anything, although she would rather die than admit that. Now, God had rewarded her for being his perfect mortal spirit. One chance to act on the unsavory urge she had always suppressed. A single opening that grants her permission to draw blood if it protects the sanctity of Salem.
“Do you, divine or cursed messenger, find Pauline Dupont guilty of witchcraft?” She rattled it so hard that liquid leaked down her arm.
WITHOUT A DOUBT.
With a satisfied grin, she threw it at her feet. The sphere split in two. Dark blue splattered all over Pauline’s apron. “Then it is decided! In the name of God, I will cast you out of his world, foul beast!”
A look of fear flickered across her face. She tipped her head up to meet Joan’s eyes. “You have it wrong. Please believe me. I am no witch.”
Joan laughed bitterly. “Believe me. I take no pleasure in what I am about to do.” She reached for the letter opener lying on a woodworking table. Pauline immediately understood and scrambled to hide behind the other girls.
Winnifred let out a shriek, catching Joan’s wrists to hold her in place. “Joan, stop it!” she cried. “This is not the way!” Her pupils were so dilated that she looked rabid. “Let go, Winnie. Do not stand in the way of justice.”
“I refuse! ‘Tis not ‘justice,’ but murder!” Winnifred was sobbing now, tears staining her pink cheeks.
Joan freed herself from her grasp. “If you wish to align yourself with the likes of her, then you leave me no choice!” She raised the letter opener and plunged it deep into Winnifred’s chest. A wet, guttural noise bubbled up from her throat as she slid down the wall. Winnifred clutched desperately at the blade. More blood spilled from her wound after she dislodged it and feebly dropped to the floor. While the other girls remained
rooted to their spots, Pauline darted to her side. She wailed and howled and pleaded for her to stay awake. Winnifred ran a limp hand through Pauline’s hair as her last display of affection. When her eyes glazed over, that’s when Winnifred’s breathing stopped. Pauline’s best friend was gone.
For half of a second, Joan looked remorseful. Like the eye of a storm, the shed descended into a whirlwind of frenzied panic. Pauline curled up into a ball as she watched the others collapse in on themselves. Taking advantage of the mayhem, she surreptitiously made way toward the door and slipped out. She had only taken a few paces before two men blocked her path. There stood Father Abbey and the town sheriff, both gaping at the girl’s bloodsoaked dress.
Cassidy Larson
A shark and a rabbit
Convene on the shore
With the ease of old friends They exchange stories of land and sea Their worlds separated by a sea shelf
The shark tells of all it has conquered The rabbit tells of all it has fled They compare dandelions to coral And seaweed to orange trees
Years whirl by Their conversation persists
They find comfort in one another and shimmering evening mists Poachers will come by barge Wolves will stalk the forest floor Passerby will stare in wonder at the unusual friendship that graces this shore
As tides ebb and flow the two will shift together their bond will not yield to distance nor to force for the beach remains a sacred place and their connection is the source.
illustrated by Eliza Young
The thing in the mirror has my eyes
Fiya Tasnim
Or what I assume to be my eyes. The Shape is the same, the lashes haven’t moved, Still curled outwards and clumped together Of no volition of their own. But Something is wrong about the way they sit. They don’t fit the frame of that face properly.
Bulbous and curious and Like someone tried to build me from Their memory in my sleep and had only Forgotten to replace my eyes.
My hair is Longer than I remember
how much time Has passed since the world came to a Shrieking halt? The world is a dark, dark Place and in that darkness comes the Shrivelling cries of lightning that crash Into the hull of boat after boat setting the Passengers abroad afloat and tearing Everything else asunder. I cling onto the Tattered remains of my past self as if the Time won’t move on without me.
WINTER:
It’s over isn’t it? This is the end, I saw Satan fall like
Lightning from heaven–
This grief is never endin’, black blood Bleeds blue but we’re so convinced we Bleed black–oil and gold, jewels which ordain Foreheads made of stolen valour
From the womb, which shatters, I pray, a voice found in a tomb
Stifled under water wondering when I can bloom, Black blood bleeds gold but We’re convinced we’re not gods, One drop of blood enough to bear
Generations of pain and hate, Kālō kindred souls my skin bleeds gold
But my soul is still alight on the inside, a Diamond forming in my liver;
Greedy with hunger, filled with spite, before the dove is set aflight–vultures bite
And the flag is red, again,
This despair leaves me in
With grief, my blood bleeds blue but my mom
Told me it bleeds wrong.
AUTUMN:
I take my skull off its altar lay it to rest
Next to yours; There are neurons In our brains With
greedy hands
disrepair, strong Nothing is meant to last long,
Desperate to climb To each other
They know We are whole They want nothing But to devour.
Greedily drinking water
Of lands we do not Belong, what would It change? Would it change anything if Atlas’ hands Were interlocked?
If the worlds on my Shoulder melded and our frames became blurry. Does anything Matter much?
Our foreheads
Are pressed against one Another; the Spring of death Comes strollin’
In like a routine guest The rot of Deep moss
And the ripeness of Fruit, there are Petals littering The ground.
Once, I was found, In a field of flowers And sunlight Cascaded through
My hair but there Is nothing
Left of the summer
And it is autumn now; The monsters had Shape and form And bled me dry, Painted a picture With my organs, Made me art;
I am still now, There is nothing Left to move me.
But the warmth of your Eyes leave me with ephemeral hope.
SUMMER:
The page is empty, Ink spilled over my desk. Your hand over my own.
You’ve stopped me right in my tracks
From my umpteenth poem about misery And love and regret and rot— And told me the sun was still alive
And the breeze folded tender flowers And smelt like syrup; Who took whose hand? It doesn’t matter. Our hands are cradled. The creek runs it raw
And somehow I find the blood Sweet
Fiya Tasnim
Tragedy tastes like my homeland
A large beast, with its maws around my neck
Ready at any moment to bite–
This tiger will know nothing of pity
You cannot reason with animals. It must eat, it must eat
And who am I to deny one of God’s creatures?
You cannot befriend the beast with its jaws
But you’ve grown around your suffering
And what kind of tragedy would that be?
Dance
It’s quite simple
Dance with the beast and maybe He lets out some soft chortle
And you can run, run
Around your neck
You cannot kill the tiger without killing yourself
You are deformed and no one
Can see you the same. You go back to the Devil you know, let the tiger rest his teeth
Against your neck. He loves you
Because you are weak to his charm. Maybe this beast will pity you and Let you go. Maybe he will Lick you clean down to your bones.
You have two choices:
And if you cannot dance, make yourself a fool
So that in his heaving guffaw he does not Notice that you are gone When he does, he will demand servitude
You see the tiger for what he is. Know what sweet song he sings.
You know no one will see you the same.
But there’s more to you than mutilation. Hunted for the rest of your life. You will feel him behind every step. But the wind will brush your nape. And you will know that you are free.
Katie Rasmussen
I have always thought my fingers to be hallowed, divine channels between my thoughts and the page, instruments to sanctify my emotions and make them something other, something pure.
The problem with thinking myself holy is that when the flesh (distanced, even now) fails, I am the only God to blame.
There are days when I cannot write, when I hope my aching joints at least got their thirty silver, and I drown in the lustral water of my thoughts.
If this is a baptism by fire, tell me, what sin I am atoning for? I have ever so many.
Clear water below
A reflection shimmers
Flowing cloth touches water
Is it the end of a dress?
Or the end of a dupatta?
Rain sends ripples
One reflection becomes a million
Echoes of women
Who walked before me
They are long gone
But why
Do I look like them
Olive skin
Between
Big Hazel eyes
An even Bigger nose
Long unruly hair
But why
Do I dance like them
Bare feet grasping earth
Flowing cloth that touched the ground but never dirtied
Bells that echo theirs
Wrap around my ankles
But why
Do I celebrate like them
Fragrant flowers
Colors strewn into air
Mountains of delicacies
But why
Do I tell the same stories
Of anger, lust, envy, revenge, injustice
Of justice, devotion, redemption
Of Love
Beautifully woven
Threads tightened with each voice
How could Narcissus look back
To one
Echo How could Narcissus not fall
When staring at a face
That held a million Echos
A brief breath of air and suddenly I’m nine again
Standing at the edge of the pool waiting to dive in
Already practiced for more than half my life
Ingrained in my muscle and morphing my bone to fit
The shape of what best cuts through the water
Chlorine and sunscreen
A wet ham sandwich abandoned to get to my event on time
Feet slapping the wet concrete and tile
I was still a girl
A boy pretending to be one
With the mixed competition I hardly ever noticed
And no puberty had made me different from the other boys yet
I never looked in the crowd because my family never came
But it was never for them that I did it
And then the memory is gone
Sitting in my room eleven years later
The poolside five years abandoned yet my suit waits for me
Still at twenty half my life I had swam
A five year gap making my bones ache from disuse
What I was born to be
Chest flat and proper puberty gone through
New goggles and suit await me to open
The pool will be empty and I’ll be inside
My family will never be in the crowd
But the water will feel the same
My hair ties will still stink and my hair will turn green
And the little boy hiding at the edge of the pool a decade ago
Stands beside me
Let’s Do It!
Aya Zejjari
Esther Schneider
The outside is all sharp. Needle-like wind seeks out my exposed flesh. Sheets and hills of ice have shattered and cracked. Now the edges are wickedly jagged too. Culminated in sharp pointy corners.
In response, penguin-like me can only go softer. The black and white puffer coat lumped ‘round my arms mimicking penguin patterns. Skin made sleek and cold like penguin feathers.
My hair spilling out of my hood to form a fluffy halo. Even my face, half hidden in my collar, feels rounder somehow.
Though I can feel the cold, I do not shiver and shake.
I’ve recently gulped down a yummy morsel. Practically whole, just like my feathered brethren. It sits hot in my tummy, warming me from within.
I have a goal, a destination that I am seeking. Home is waiting for me across this frozen wasteland.
illustrated
by Brooke Fox
Hannah Perlow
Conner Snider
I cried when I learned about it. 507 years, the oldest known animal in the world.
Just to be killed by being put in a freezer. The scientists didn’t even know how old it was until they could count the rings on its shell, like a redwood tree felled to just become someone’s deck. The mightiest of flora demoted to hosting bbqs.
How could they do this, I thought! All humans do is destroy. I got really emo about it.
I thought about happy little Háfrun filtering away for 507 years.
Did it realize it was dying? How ironic that it lived in Iceland and then was frozen to death.
A little funny, too.
And then I remembered that it was a clam. Which is not to diminish it.
Clams are perfectly respectable things to be. But clams don’t have brains.
This clam had no sense of self. It had a central nervous system, a foot, gills, hell, even teeth. But this clam did not have clam friends. It didn’t have a clam wife—or husband, it died before the scientists could politely inquire about its sexual and gender identities. This clam never despaired over the suddenly dropping temperature after it was put into the freezer to die so the scientists could carbon date its shell to learn about the climate patterns about the world. It never thought, Alas, if only they knew my venerable age! Then they would surely regret snuffing out the long candle of my years!
It was like, and then not.
Isabella Wagner
time is wearing away your resolutions with a heavy heart of regret a tapestry unwoven each day a strand more in vain with no nest
you can move you can scurry you can lurch like the creature you are bounding through the world on an endeavor I can no longer support your most coveted becoming victims of your carnage
you swear you saw what was precious the only thing that makes you doubt not even your progeny What am I to believe?
I am no saint. I am no charity.
you can crawl you can beg but I will haunt you every step of the way
deserted in the necropolis of your ambitions your loved ones wait in mausoleums built by worn hands now mimicking your own
do not come to me for pity nor comfort i have neither to spare it is seldom to have my sympathy especially in the wake of your rage
you can run all you want but the past will persevere and years from now when you grow old and withered when your spine curves and contorts with the breeze when your limbs narrow with their frailness and when you can only remember by the rings of your soul
the certainty of what you sowed will be reaped the path of redemption will be worn over by the thorns you planted and that is revenge enough.
Kalakriti Pillai
“aficionado artiste” “compassionate creative” “enlightened erudite” “siren singer” these pearls that spill from your lips… of course they do, clam that you are. haven’t you seen Me? a poised performer, strung pearls over every joint My neck, My wrists, My ankles, My waist— all the places where bones settle and dust gathers “heavy is the head that wears the crown,” but Mine is wrapped in threaded pearl heavy is the body in the brocade robes, but Mine floats in tangled pearl
would I swallow pearl, I would sink and drown but in this pearled net, I cascade in the wake, pulled along
“forgiving friend” “irreplaceable idealist” “reinvigorating rarity” “enigmatic exemplar” these pearls that fall from your fingers… of course they do, shuck that you are. haven’t you seen Me? I glisten, adorned and tangled in pearls. I must be the most glimmering thing your piteous eyes can witness with your mangled flesh and shattered shell!
my flesh? i have no flesh. I became pearl long ago, but the memory of flesh ensnares me. i cultivated every single pearl with my own flesh. i forced them into your mouths, hoping you would swallow them for me praying you would sink for me watching you drown for Me— oh, won’t you drown with me? swallow my pearls and sink to me, and pull me back to the surface? (caught in a net of pearl like this, how can i swim?) (that body drowned long ago)
if you don’t drown in these lonely depths, wind these threads around a hook and pull this empty, pearl-embedded net through the wake. my flesh is long sunken, but I can still make your boat beautiful
Summer Seebold
It all softens into clay, wild dirt, the rock deposits, the bubbling mud suspended and then sunk–it’s freshwater rivulets where feet sink into tender body, soaking. It’s a grandmother–leaving her door open for a visit singing to the rolling hum of the cicada while she washes on a washboard in the boil of the current and then cooks the crayfish from her blue bucket. It’s an area unmarked, It’s the game lands, it’s state property taking my body down to the swirling eddy after the cold, shallow spot, where hours turn to birds flitting from tree to tree, pine and then oak and water laps up mud, swallowing time. I think of the grandmother and her body softening into clay–the body feels so light after being heavy for so long.
Emma Huysman
Katherine Rice
Leaves titter as wind reverberates a slouching spine
An off-putting cool ambiance rings out
Blinks indicate through the silence
An SOS, a crosswalk, a car’s headlights
You are up in the sky now
Lighting a fire for us down here
But feather clouds whisper all sharp and heavy
They tell me nothing is the same
The man takes off his shirt
Starts to skateboard, laughs a little
I want to punch him so badly
I want to punch all the happiness out
Grief is a bird
And today it shat on everyone’s head
“We are two wings on the same bird”
And I’m sorry you went into the sky before me
illustrated by Sophia Chabo
Cassidy Larson
When you despise the place you grew up, it’s hard to look forward to going back. I hate the smell of the swamp and the sight of the too-many subpar pizza places. I hate seeing the trees fall in favor of construction. I hate the sidelong glances and muffled snickers of old classmates who I’ve known since we were ten years old, and who have decided to linger in this town that was my own personal hell on earth.
I learned a long time ago that it’s the little things you have to hold onto to keep you sane. The familiar curve of the road I take during late night drives. The lookout at the end of the street where you could see the faintest dusting of stars through the skyline’s light pollution. The vivid, contrasting colors of the sugary drinks you introduced me to in local drive-thrus and convenience stores. In the dark of my dorm room, I find myself reminiscing on the hours we would spend talking in my car and lingering in bookshops as a form of escape. If I close my eyes, I can almost put myself back onto the playground near my old high school, where we would monopolize a gazebo and take shelter from the oppressive heat and boredom of our summers. I can still feel the way my clothes weighed me down as we trudged through the neighborhood after being caught unprepared in a sudden July downpour, the discomfort of my waterlogged cargo shorts being forgotten as we laughed our way through the empty streets and back to your house.
We’ve never been so far apart. I hope you know you wash my memory of that town in a roseate tint. Though the thought of returning to our home town sickens me on the best of days, I adore the time we get to spend together, and I am more aware than ever that as we grow, opportunities to see one another will be few and far between. You’ve done the impossible in repainting my outlook on a place that I swore up and down hated me growing up. Though I will not forget what this town has done to me, nor will I forgive it, the addition of you softens the edges of an experience I wasn’t sure I would be able to survive. I hope as life goes on, my memories with you will weed out the bad things- that they’ll flourish and bloom and, eventually, leave me with a garden of only fond things to look back on. Thank you.
I love you.
See you soon.
Henry Blaine
Fiya Tasnim
I SAW A DEER, TREMBLING BY THE CURB
Listen—
Look me in the eyes right now.
I saw a deer trembling with life by the side of the road, limbs shaking as it listened to the soft drawl of the moon, undulating against the pattern of stars in the sky, making my vision White.
Is this what you wanted?
Our rainwater is permanently tainted, freshwater more plastic than fresh. There is a unique form of destruction, wherein all our needs of life are commercialized, small rights that can be taken Away.
I’ll be the first deer of your season. The red lights dye your vision and you can’t seem to notice me bleeding out, would you stop for me? Would you search the horizon for the graceful bend of my neck, or would you Forget.
Would you, would you?
Or would you, like a hunter, aim, fire, miss upon sight. Some could tell me being missed is a privilege, but they forget to hear the whispers of the trees, who grow around their own pain every Winter.
I’m tired of seeing my corpse repeating, like an oscillating pattern, I’m not meant to live long. Young child of God, ancient trees which smells like running water. I’ll die in the end, but do I deserve to die in pain? My skin is holding back a torrent.
Unlike you,
I do not hold cruelty on a pedestal. I sympathize with the mice that scurry along the streets edge, I stop to birds. I have the power to kill. I will never use it. Even when I begin rotting, I will only bring joy.
The end,
Right? Wasn’t it so clean and simple, something you could hum among the trush of wildlife. But, unfortunately, this cycle will never end, the soft watch of humanity is ticking faster everyday like a bomb.
I SAW A DEER, TREMBLING BY THE CURB
This isn’t
natural is it. This death and resurrection, the way that we are not built to live past Fate. Medical magic can only work so hard when your body begins to self destruct for more reasons than one.
And
It’s all your fault. The poison in our veins are not of our own making when our only crime is living. Isn’t it funny how you can live and we care, but when I die I’m just another
Tragedy?
It’s the world’s last hunting season. And I am your deer. You have the power to bring destruction. You need not use it.
Do You See a Woman or a Wolf?
Isabella Millen
Summer Seebold
I’m going out to see the fallen doe who lays on the side of US-11 & 15 right next to the soft serve shop and Mckee’s Half Falls on the Susquehanna river.
She died three days ago and each time that I come back to her a little more of her body is gone.
On the first day I laid down beside her and wrapped her cloven hooves around me. She breathed her last breaths quietly in my ear and let out a long sigh before her eyes went blank and a piece of broken lung fell from her mouth.
I have never seen a heart sprawled out on the hot asphalt.
I’ve become used to the smell of scorched engine oil that sticks to her coarse hair, and every evening I watch the pale white horse circle through the thinning woods behind the bent guard rail.
On the second day I scrubbed the oil from her hair to make her fit for a funeral.
Today I brought spikes to line her body to keep the buzzards from eating away at her wounds.
Tomorrow I will bring repellent to keep the maggots from taking away her insides.
On the fifth day I can only hope that I will be strong enough to pick up her limp body and move her into the back of my car so I can take her to an open spot along the river and give her a proper burial.
I’ll make her a crown of sticks and line it with bluebells and fox gloves so she can look beautiful one last time.
Someone is following you, always, and no matter how much you are hidden they can see you and they are coming and they will hurt you. Get out. Run. Get out. Leave.
The colors are different. It’s all grey and too saturated and you can’t see in the dark but the light is in your eyes so blinding you can smell your cornea burning, burning, something is on fire and you have to put it out.
You know you’re dreaming, but that doesn’t shake the terror. You can’t wake up, you still have to experience all the hell you know you’re about to witness. You can’t wake up. Is this really a dream? What if this time it’s not? You can’t wake up. That man just got shot in the face and turned into a swarm of bats. They’re after you. Run. You can’t wake up.
Everything is familiar. You have never seen this place before and know exactly where you’re going. It’s your apartment, next to the lawn of the white house and a store that doesn’t exist. You can buy babies there. You enter the stairs and you can’t leave. It’s Hogwarts. Run, tranny, Rowling will find you.
Nobody has faces. You crane your neck to try and look closer, squinting your eyes and trying and trying. Your vision clouds over with red and black, still no face within view. You will never see their faces. They tell you they have them and they can see yours. They’re lying.
You’re in danger. You’re pushed out of an airplane and before you splatter against the street you bounce like rubber. You’re diving off a bridge and before you drown you breathe water with gills you remember always having. The water feels nice on your lungs. You wonder if you could try it while awake, it feels normal. You need to escape your mom’s house, and she’s rounding the corner. She’s coming for you. Get out. You can’t wake up. You can fly. You jump out the window and you fly away. She watches and chases you down the street. You can’t fly high enough. You’re ten feet off the ground. She’s following you. Get higher. You aren’t safe. You hit the ground, the flight in your body pulled into the clouds. You’re in a new place. She’s still with you. Run, tranny, she screams at you. You run, and that’s how you know it’s a dream. You can’t run in real life.
Under the sea
Crabby Patty for me
A group of friends drink tea
Extra pickle! Salty!
Cross the bridge, you gotta pay the fee
FI FO FUM
The pickle dries out in the sun
Put the pickle on the bun
Mmm yum yum yum
Now that pickle is in my tum
illustrated by Ashley Gabales
