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by Afra Ahmad A man without limbs grapples with negativity to function properly. She is not just my mother. The voracious nooks and crannies of this house have been nudging me: who will tend to us, now? whose smile will warm us up? In response to their plea, I holler: who will lull my insecurities to sleep? who will wipe my profuse tears? An obsession with a mother is different than that with a lover - you wouldn't have arrived here without a mother, you have dwelled near her heart before entering this realm of murkiness and exhaustion. Without her every magical thing that encompasses me becomes meaningless, without her the synonym of everything is nothing. She is akin to my limbs. In her absence, I resemble a man without limbs; In her absence, I resemble a boat adrift on the sea. Afra Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist and calligrapher. Based in Taiwan, she holds a Bachelor's degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of the society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines including Iman collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Olney Magazine.

by Ben Nardolilli As above, then so below, I build my defenses in the way that the gods builds theirs with kilometers and foggy mountains so that the gods may hide themselves from mortals. From living below with them, I cannot blame the divine for taking precautions though their paranoia may extend to me, because I also have no wings, halo, or thunderbolts. So by mirroring their indifference, they will see how I understand their apathy to us and why I never made a sacrifice, because I did not think it would reach their door and why I was never a supplicant, because I assumed the request would get lost perhaps it will grant me a bump in the waiting line snaking around the afterlife. For now, I ignore ring and buzz, leave my messages unread, my smile a rare gift covering my abode with a cloud I weave from poems I keep burning in disgust. Ben Nardolilli is a theoretical MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Door Is a Jar, The Delmarva Review, Red Fez, The Oklahoma Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and Slab. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

by Lucy Rattner August allows me to take a deep breath before stepping off the diving board, into the blue, into the gentle waves that float me along their current. I am lazy and alive, sucking on strawberries and spitting in the sink. I dance, no, sway, under the hot sun that holds me, rapt, in awe, in sweet shock. Lucy Rattner is a 20-year-old poet from Rockland, New York. She adores the sublime, the surreal, and the sentimental. Her work has appeared in Midsummer Magazine, Scribere, and Pinky Thinker Press, and has been featured on the Viewless Wings podcast. She has been nominated for the 2025 Pushcart Prize.

by Geetanjali Kapre “I am limitless, if only in my agony!” My eyes traced the mud she had tracked into my apartment. Talia. Oh, Talia, Talia, Talia. My beautiful, foolish sister. She lurched forward, grasping my hand. I stayed silent. She leaned again, taking my other hand, pulling them both down to her knees, her jeans. Using my hands to comfort her, just like when we were kids. Her grip tightened. My eyes shut. ✧ Talia was three years younger than me. When she was four, Mom told us we’d be staying with my grandmother– for a bit. When she was five, I spoke to Mom for the last time ever. When she was nine, I got my first period at dance class. When I was fourteen, Talia got her first period at dance class. When I was twenty, Mom emailed Talia. When I was twenty, Mom emailed only Talia. I was twenty-four now, watching tears and snot drip down Talia’s face, way past her cheeks and into her mouth and down her neck and onto her sweater. My hands helped calm her, I think. Her cheeks stopped trembling and her chest regained its confident rhythm. She dropped my hands, and I took them back. The sniffles stopped. Oh no. Time to say something. I had to say something, or she would think I resented her for coming here. Say something. Anything. No, not anything. Something light, easy, genuine. You’ve known her since she was born. You surely have something to say. She's your sister. This is awful. Your window is closing. Tick-tick-tick-tick– “Water-proof mascara really pulled through, huh?” I spitballed. Damn it. Our eyes met. The mascara was great. So pretty. Talia nodded. “I used the one you gave me for my birthday. Thanks for that, by the way. I messaged you, but I don’t think you saw.” I looked down at my hands. Cold, unheld hands. Of course I saw. Talia knew I saw. I looked up to see her lips part, the words almost there. I wanted to reach across and grab her jaw and slam it back up. Physically stop words, time, everything. But no. “I’ve just been having a tough time,” Talia sniffled. I stared. “I feel like all those people in Romeo and Juliet,” she continued. “Which ones?” “All of them, all at once.” The poets would love her. “Talia, can you please not speak cryptically–” “Sorry. I just mean, I know there’s happiness out there. For me. I know it’s there. I can see it, but I can’t reach it. Because of things happening in my own head. I’m sharing my head with all these people. And–” “What are you even saying?” And so– she stopped talking. There it was again, that yucky radio silence. That intimate disconnect, like two mute ghosts at a sober sorority convention. I can’t stand these things. So to fill space I offered her a sandwich, which she accepted, if only without cheese, because she had just started her new diet and didn’t want to break it already. I walked to the kitchen as quietly as I could. I had wanted to say that if she was on a diet, she should have said no to the sandwich and left my apartment. Gone elsewhere. She could go to Mom’s house. She could go to her boyfriend’s dorm. She could go to her sweet-tempered pretty girlfriends. She was free, she was loved, she could go anywhere. Why was she here? I had nothing to offer. We hadn’t spoken in months. I sliced the bread and turned on the toaster. “Tomatoes??” I yelled. “Yeah!” she called back. I heard her nails clacking against her phone. She was texting her boyfriend, probably. I’d never met him, but I’d seen pictures. She posted a lot of pictures of him. He seemed nice. The bread slotted into the toaster. Lightly toasted, I decided. Then, I heard a giggle. A stifled giggle. Like she didn’t want me to know what was making her happy, lest it made me happy. Her boyfriend was making her giggle, her boyfriend had cheered her up, whatever her problem was in the first place. Stupid idiot, why didn’t she just go to him? I’ve often thought that Talia fakes these sad situations to see how I’d react. Like a lamb leading the way to its slaughter. I still remember, we must have been, like, 9 and 12, and Talia let her finger get caught in the door, turning immediately to see if I was watching. Like I’ve ever not been. The toaster went off. I now knew, indubitably, that Talia was lying to me. She pitied me. She thought I was lonely. She was looking for an excuse to come find me, to make herself feel better about me. I rubbed too much butter onto the bread. So much for her diet. Did Talia ever even ask Mom to talk to me, or was that a happiness reserved just for her, too? What if Talia died, would Mom email me then? The sandwich was ready. Would you, Mom? If you had no one else to love, would you love me? I was standing in the kitchen, so silent, holding, gripping, the sandwich knife. Would a sandwich knife be sharp enough to kill someone? I switched knives. I remember killing Talia with exhilarating clarity. How her eyes widened, how she screamed and whimpered, how she took my hand for comfort as she died. How I held her hand for some time after she died. Talia, Talia, Talia. I had cleaned it all up then, throwing my sister into the garbage chute. Non-recyclables, I remember rationalising. ✧ That evening, for dinner, I ate the cold sandwich I had made Talia. No cheese. I was on the same diet as her. I decided to reply you’re welcome to her mascara text. Geet (she/her) is a 19 year old studying psychology at university. Typically an essayist, Geet is now looking to expand into fiction-writing. Other things you should know about her– one, Moby Dick enthusiast, two, SNL fanatic, and three, cannot cook! At all! She burnt instant ramen once.

by Saoirse Palmer 1 My words are all that’s good for me, but they slur themselves like the insides of gelatin. I’m a spent match so flicker it, love, & watch it go. 2 Stuck there, drinking down the December rain, I considered the train tracks a bathroom mirror, a kitchen sink, a school cubicle, so there, I drank the silent fireworks & swallowed down the wishbone. I can’t say I sprouted wings like someone who breathes in the ashes of a dying home: more like a deer, who watches death’s condensation & rests its antlers on the glass so that when the car revs its engine the headlights look like burning stars. There, was my internal revolution. 3 The body is such a warm & full place; we stuff it to the pulp with frigidness, course & heavy words with cement for syllables & then tear it away. This cave I formed inside my chest is spacious enough for us to fit — so sip some tea & giggle like a languid brain your infection is here to stay. Like a running lyric, like a lodged bullet, just like yourself you made a home inside my chest painted its walls with crescent lullabies tucked it in & said goodnight so inward, your words would echo through to me. 4 Cycle it over the permanent journey that crawls in our bodies it’s saying something new something powerful— yells thrash like crows in eruption, like bodies that find themselves when they touch another; drums beat down into soil & send its song to the dead; streetlights are shaking the hands of the air & greeting the earth— breaking down, even violently, is a celebration. Here, I am breathing recklessly into saline, gasping for broken air & surviving so live through pain, gather the words, & in your chest, you’ll feel the fireworks. Saoirse Palmer (who prefers the name Ashton) is a sixteen-year-old, transgender writer from Northern Ireland. He has been previously published in issue 2 of Catheartic Magazine, Adolescence Magazine's issue 1.5, Gypsophila Zine's volume 3 issue 1, Ink and Marrow's issue 4, Issue 5 of Spiritus Mundi Review and issue 3 of The Elyisian Chronicles. You can find him on Instagram under the username @ash_t0nes His experiences with gender dysphoria has been a major influence in his writing - seeping into the cracks of his poetry, as it does in his daily life.

by Avril Shakira Villar Wandering down a corridor adorned with pictorial tales And you think of yourself “How I’ve changed” You used to have a normal heartbeat But now it runs double the speed You became wielder of the tides Debris took you somewhere more Your flooded mind melded into a pen The sky smiled in pink, the clouds in orange Wind tickled you to sleep As your steps disrupt the dust below, Celestial patterns emerge and glow At last you whispered to yourself Butterflies bleed when they leave their chrysalises So too will you when you outgrow the things that tether your wings Soar as you were meant to. Avril Shakira Villar is a 16-year-old poet hailing from the Philippines. She is an active member of WriteGirl LA, a prestigious writing organization. Avril, a Grade 11 ABM student, has already made a mark in the literary world with her notable contributions. Her poems and songs have found a home in WriteGirl Issue 3 Lines & Breaks, and one of her poems has been featured in the esteemed Under the Madness Magazine. With a passion for poetry, Avril has participated in numerous poetry and writing competitions, showcasing her talent and dedication to the craft.

by Grace Sinkins Your earliest memories, Consist of turning the yellowing pages of fashion magazines, In the hair salon your mom owned in the early twenty tens. Back when there was space for the locals down town. Pretty woman with thick bangs and dangling earrings, The epitome of the standards held by women in Katy Perry’s United States; Taught us about global politics in a suburban setting. Exchanging silly bands in crowded laundromats, While our parents fought over quarters. Never learning the names of the best friends you met at impromptu play- dates. Going to school to learn how to count to twenty, Unbelievable that the numbers can get that much bigger. Time seems to move at the pace of a tortoise. Paper cuts from university pamphlets, You give out to incoming freshman in a town across the continent. Only learning childhood stories told by artificial intelligence on the internet. Biggest worry now for the next generation is where to hide in the classroom. The battle is in our backyards. Wounded kids on the front porches, We used to drink sweet tea on. Childhood is a tainted memory. Our kids won’t have an option of growing up. Apartments are empty because the people don’t have enough money for a roof and four walls. Moving away to afford rental space. My generation had no idea that we would die out by our own doing; Way before we could become grandparents. Grace Sinkins is an eighteen years old poet who loves vintage cowboy boots and thrifting oversized sweaters that once belonged to a grandfather. Grace has been published in numerous magazines such as Corporeal lit, Meditating cat Zine, and Meadow mouse Zine. Grace hopes that her words can somehow make an impact on your day. You can find her in your local coffee shop or on Instagram @gracexlizzie.

by Claudia Wysocky When no one answers me, I find my secrets in the dark, In the shape of an outline that is always with me; I listen to its tikki tikki tikkiing and see— a moving image; a kiss of fire, Its hands are cold, its voice is tempered steel, Its laughter a riddle—it seems to me— like glass— If you have any regrets, remember them —they are nothing to us— But light a candle and wish to lie down alone. Make it so that I smell fresh bread or sweet roses, If you must cry, then let it happen like this, alone. You've been afraid, that's clear to me. Don't hide the world away, you have to show it— And I have been afraid, that's clear to me. So let's not be frightened. Don't hide the world away, you have to show it— And I have been afraid, that's clear to me. So keep on swimming. Keep on drifting… Claudia Wysocky, a Polish poet based now in New York, is known for her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions in her writing. She firmly believes that art has the potential to inspire positive change. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, Claudia has had her poems published in local newspapers and magazines. For her, writing is an endless journey and a powerful source of motivation.

by Maryam Majid The home had withered walls with vines running over it like in the fairy tales. The walls were made of clay, and they were poor solace from the shadowy cold of the wasteland night. They let in the darkest part of the enchanted and kept the embers within burning scarlet warm. The house’s roof had tiles that fell in patterns unknown to sanity. The rain made music on them in winter and formed icicles, like hanging jewels, at their edge. Its windows were little holes in the haven, letting in light that passed through not tempered by cold glass, and storms that fell in and froze hearts alike. In other words, it was a poor little haven. The only way a beloved home can be. * She was beneath a sky upon which danced fractals of rose gold. The clouds had turned beautifully, painfully bright in the early morning light – a sky that was alive with colour. Her heart was small, then. Too small to contain all that wanted to pour out of it, too small to admit all that wanted to be let in. “Come back inside.” Mother said the words harshly against the day that was still being born, shrouded in the darkness of yesterday’s night yet. The girl thought the sky with its brazen colours seemed so far away from where Mother’s harsh words turned to tortured fog, drowning in the wintry morning. The last of the night lining the gauntness in her face, the lines of time etched deep into her skin. She felt she did not want to go. Here there was the promise of a distant but certain spring in the pleasant chill in her toes; here there was a circus of colour over her head; and, here, she was not exhausted or bored or scared. Here she felt alive. For inside she was trapped by the walls. Walls that did nothing to keep out the biting frost that crept into her bones and did everything to cram the mad cacophony of too many voices too close together deeper into her head. At least here the light could get in as well. But all the same Mother waited for her, so she picked up herself from the threshold, brought herself down from the faraway wonder she had marvelled at, and followed her mother back inside their dilapidated home. But there, also, was a hearth with warm embers; brothers who grew tall on boyish stubbornness alone; laughter that echoed far and away throughout the surrounding fields of weeds and sleepily growing crops to return to their abode and liven it with the mysteries of faraway dreams carried to them on the velvet night air. * The girl was older in the hours that followed. She stood beside her mother, drying the plates her callused hands washed under ice cold water. The day passed that way, even though she did not have to be anchored there always. But there were ravens that lived out among the windy rain, their feathers sheened with glistening colourless droplets. The cold had no bearing over them. They flew and wandered in coal-grey skies, their ruckus echoing out over the abandoned field, like the knell of another, bleaker world. The girl saw them through her perch from within her house. There were so many of them, a mass of feathers and talons, clawing at each other. A mass, in all, which overtook and blended in at once. And yet there never seemed any togetherness in the many. They never seemed a flock who were with each other because it was the way of birds of a feather. They flitted about beneath the dead, twisted thing of a tree behind the old roof, like little specs of darkness on the dead garden. They stood and hopped and ruffled wings – omens of something ill to come. The unkindness separated into lone birds, and each seemed always waiting, for the aura of loneliness around them. There never seemed more than one. It was so black at night that this tree outside her window looked like it was made of ink. It was a towering, twisted knotted thing whose branches hissed at the sky in its laughing wind. And in the winter her window fogged up with cold and the tree looked hazy – like it didn’t have boundaries anymore, or a distinct shape. It looked more than ever like ink running into everywhere around it and fading. Its leaves shook so that they looked something like quills and something like feathers. There was fear and ice in all this madness that surrounded them. But there were fond memories besides. They lived far and away in a time before she could remember. A time when, as her brothers joked now, Mother had been so much younger than she was now. But the woman told them of it, as she braided the hair of her youngest with loving, gentle hands into neat, winding braids of deep onyx. Making beautiful order of what normally fell into cruel tangles and twistedness. When their father was with them, and they were less tired for more people to bear the load. When their mother’s youth had lasted for cruel, thieving widowhood not tearing through it. When the fire was larger for being longer burned. When there was the peace and ease of people who work and work hard and see their virtue rewarded. Who do not fight over who shall go to bed hungry – over who’s stomach shall be a little fuller the following sunrise, whose heart heavier. It did not exist, that time. But it felt so real, just then, when they spent the effort to bring it alive so. * It was black the girl passed upon. Worse: that of dark ashes left from a blazing inferno. The aftermath of death and carnage that stole the blue and the rose and gold and red, even blood-red. And left nothing but empty souls. The empty of so much space, of gaps to fall through. It appeared like someone had taken the coals that burned pitifully to exhaustion in their tired hearth and scraped them with jagged claws across the sky. The darkness was a cage, and perhaps it was all the better to contain the tragedy. Though it surely sent storms halfway around the world more absolutely than the flaps of any butterfly’s wing. Upon this scene visited the rages of war. Of men never satisfied, of those flailing the only way they knew how – with swords and fire. They turned rivers red with the blood they spilt. They turned them black for the way the sky cried ink upon their crimes, and streaked and smudged them in shadowy lines to the horizon for all to mourn, the way rain washes pain away for the good. They raided her village, the place where war killed her father. That had been an easier war though: of too many mouths to feed and health slowly depleting. More tragic perhaps, far less decorated. It lived in the hearts of the family longer, but it was less cruel. Far less evil. They came one night, to steal everything – these bandits of souls. They torched and they shattered, before anyone could stir to stop them. Eventually, they woke a great many people to their evil, for so many fewer to ever wake again in the aftermath. They found themselves in a ring of flames – breaking stone and breaking lives. They were reckless with their conquest; they would have had more spoils if they hadn’t been so set on destruction. But it was the way, is always the way, for the hunger in their eyes and bestial sharpness of their teeth and their laughter at the terror of their victims. Wooden swords cast singed and cracked in the blazing grass, the beloved toys of boys when still alive with splendour and the ideals of virtue. The dolls a woman had so lovingly woven for her daughter, swallowed by flames. A home of pain and sorrow that was yet held so dear for the laughter and love that a family had shared within it, less than ruins now. It had nothing left of those stories. They had flown, with the burning air, to the smoky heavens. They took her, the girl of stardust and slight build, who wondered at the sunset and cried of her nightmares to her mother. Perhaps they did not kill her, at first – such fiends seldom do with the girls they capture. But she was dead all the same. *** The ghost of a girl wandered in a place that crumbling time brought with it to ruin. But where she walked memories did not die because they were not real; crumbling time did not exist to wound or heal. Where she walked the sky was blue. Not the blue the girl of stardust and sunlight had cried and joyed under. That blue was weighted with all the grey and dark of sorrow; the striking, blinding joy of rain that tastes like sunlight; the scent of a hearth that is warm without coal. This blue was crystal clear, with no dancing clouds in queer shapes and no history and no colour. It was the blue of diamonds forced upon hands, the blue of a still, shallow ocean. There was a stump where she walked. So singularly chopped, so suddenly sliced open, like memories cut short by time. The stump was nothing like the tree with hazy boundaries and running ink leaves, blackness and shifting weight. It was a light, oak thing. So smooth, one could have run a finger across it and come away with no hint of a splinter. No hint of pain or blood-red veins. She sat down upon the stump and stared out at the open field of caricature-green grass. There were little blackbirds dotted over it, dozens upon dozens. They did not have the beaks that warred like iron; the feathers of a slick void in the rain; or eyes that seemed the center of loneliness. These little birds had a pleasant song and brown stick legs with tiny beaks, feet, eyes. They separated in the field into little groups, together. The blackbirds held themselves polite and still in the stagnant light of an ever-waning day. It had seemed too terrible when she left it… There was no strength in her to brave the terrors and magnificence of the true world. So, she held together this cursed illusion of perfect nothing together and faded and faded from the weight of the world, never fading completing. And the ghost that was not a ghost was there forever, with her broken wages of false memories. Maryam is an up and coming teen author who loves writing prose that is as purple as the lavender haze in her veins. You can find her short stories in the Blue Things Zine, the Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine, the Expressionist Literary Magazine, Teen Ink and (soon) in the Encephalon Journal. She is also a prose reader for the Expressionist Literary Magazine and would encourage everyone to submit! One day, she hopes her writing lines someone's bookshelves with comfort the way others' has for her.

by Samantha Esquibel I write to someone That I don’t know But I feel like I do Deep in my soul I’m haunted by Your eyes I hear whispers of affection Are they lies? I see you But never your face You are perfect in every way Sculpted with grace Your eyes, your eyes It’s always them I can never picture them correctly But ideas stem They are always warm and gentle They are the sun rising behind the clouds With a pain underneath Then dark clouds enshroud Your smile, your smile I see a constellation But they deceive, deceive I want an explanation There are whispers, whispers Of sweet, sweet nothings Repeated in my head Are those things, the things Phantom touches, echoing giggles I sense your presence Your name is on the tip of my tongue In my mind, I recognize your essence Your soul, your soul I feel connected You’re always with me Your love reflected Dear stranger, oh stranger I’ll find you one day Our souls are connected You're never away. Samantha is a high school student in Canada. Reading has always been her escape from reality, while writing was her outlet. Her other notable hobbies include playing herr bass guitar with a group of friends in a small girl band, obsessing over the dark academia aesthetic, and sharing hundreds of memes with friends who can't find enough time to respond to all of them (haha). She has her sights set on starting a blog and literary/art magazine with friends in the future, and hopes that by improving her writing skills through lit. magazines, she would feel more qualified to lead one.

SR: Could you give us a quick introduction to yourself? My name is Soumik Srabony, and I hail from Rajshahi, Bangladesh. Currently a student at Varendra University, I've successfully completed my BA and am currently pursuing my MA in the Department of English Literature and Language. Alongside my academic pursuits, I have a deep passion for poetry creation and avid reading. 1. "Spirits Magazine" at Indiana University Northwest 2. Raw Lit Magazine (Photography) 3. Smacked Zine: - Issue VIII: Sun - Issue XI: Music - Issue XIV: Creep 4. Rainbug Poetry Review - Issue II 5. The Malu Zine - Issue IV Being an ardent nature lover, I find joy in appreciating every facet of creation. I approach life with a unique perspective, valuing kindness and the ability to bring happiness to others. SR: What does poetry mean to you? Poetry is the shadow of a person's memories and imaginations. We can see shadows, chase them, measure their size, define them, but we cannot touch them. In a poem, mostly, we find the pastness of the present or even the future. A poem obviously contains color, taste, smell, and other senses as well. Mainly, our eyes and delusion make a poem. When you are reading a poem, you are reading a person—through another person—moments, chaos, love, hatred, and many more. Poetry is created through our senses, and it also plays with our senses. Poetry is a reflection of the self, containing timelessness. SR: What is a word you often use in your poems? And why? Actually, I don't have any 'specific' words that I use often in my poems. However, I follow some of T.S. Eliot's writing patterns as they are deeply rooted in my mind. I mainly focus on what I feel and how I want to portray it. SR: Are there any authors or poets who inspired you to write? Till now, there are two waves that pushed me into the ocean of poetry. The first one: The journey of writing my poems started when I was in 4th grade. Back then, I didn’t know what poetry was or how to write poems. My respected teacher assigned us the task one day to write a poem, and my journey began from that day.The second one: Things happened, and I completely stopped writing poems. Due to the long gap and my lack of willingness, I wasn’t able to write a single line. Then one day, I was attending a poetry class in the second semester during my BA program. Mr. Hisham M Nazer was teaching that class, and he's like a real magician. I really can't properly express my realization and feeling for my Captain and how he opened my mind's eye. He's one of my greatest inspirations. Along with him, I personally like and follow T.S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf, Sufia Kamal, Jalaluddin Muhammad Balkhi (Rumi), Jibanananda Das, Rabindranath Tagore, W.B Yeats, and Shakespeare. They are some of my inspirational figures. SR: What advice do you have for young poets who’ve just started their publication journey? My advice for young poets embarking on their publication journey is to earnestly steer clear of any form of fear, particularly the fear of criticism. Embrace the positive aspects and dismiss negativity. Avoid being a blind fan of anyone; instead, be real and true to yourself. SR: What are your future plans as a writer? To be honest, I don't have specific plans at the moment, but I dream that one day my books will be published. I plan to continue writing until the day all my senses are active.

SR: Could you give us a quick introduction to yourself? Hello, lovely individuals! My full name is Mahnissa Maneerut. Might sound like a tongue-twister, but Mandi is the name that resonates with me, and I'm delighted to have you join me in the world of words and creations. Being a creator is more than just a label—it's a profound passion that ignites my every artistic pursuit. Whether I'm immersing myself in the kaleidoscope of colors on a canvas or sculpting narratives with the grace of words, the act of self-expression through art is a journey that constantly thrills and fulfills me. Writing, in particular, holds a special place in my heart, as it allows me to distill the very essence of life into words, weaving tales that resonate and sharing the intricate layers of my experiences with all of you. Connecting with kindred spirits who share similar passions is a true delight. You can catch a front-row seat to my creative endeavors on my Facebook page, MAOIs (www.facebook.com/queenbxoxoxo). It's not just a virtual canvas; it's a vibrant space where I pour my heart into sharing my creations, engaging with a diverse audience, and embracing the invaluable feedback that shapes and refines my art. Building a community around my work has been an incredibly enriching experience, creating bonds with fellow creators and art enthusiasts from all walks of life. You can also catch glimpses of my creative snapshots on Instagram at @mahnissa :) SR: What does poetry mean to you? TJ, a friend I unexpectedly met through work, holds a significant place in my heart as one of the most cherished individuals in my life. Initially, I perceived our connection as casual, thinking she was just a fellow colleague passing through the same company. However, as time unfolded, our bond deepened, revealing a friendship that, despite its complexities, involved mutual support. TJ's artistic talents captured my admiration, and her life story, filled with hardship, became apparent through the sadness in her eyes. As we grew closer, I observed a certain emotional distance on her part. Nevertheless, our unwavering support for each other persisted. Unfortunately, this bond was severed abruptly when TJ chose to end our friendship without explaining. In this message to TJ, though our communication has ceased, I express my gratitude for the lessons learned during our time together. The experiences we shared, both positive and painful, have played a crucial role in shaping the person I am today. I blend light and darkness, flawed but still deserving of love. My story, like yours, TJ, is one of survival. Despite our separation, you, TJ, remain a favorite chapter in my life, a masterpiece akin to 'Starry Night,' an eternal artwork. In closing, I wish you well, TJ. May life bring you the peace and happiness that we all deserve. I'll always be grateful to you for being my first long-term friend. All I have left now are the unforgettable memories. Writing these vulnerable experiences is poetry to me, and I am grateful to have had a friend to teach me this. SR: Are there any authors or poets who inspired you to write? To be honest, I don't really have a favorite poet or author. My writing is often driven by the desire to convey my thoughts, emotions, or seek solace. However, there is one poet, "โรแมนติกร้าย" or "Win Nimman," a Thai poet whom I deeply admire. His words possess a delicate beauty, simultaneously bittersweet and soft. Win Nimman has been a significant inspiration for me to venture into the world of poetry, a departure from my usual focus on fiction, content, or casual writing. If you're interested in exploring his work, you can find him at https://www.facebook.com/romanticraipoet and on Instagram @romanticraipoet (feel free to tag him, haha!). He is super nice and speaks English fluently! SR: What advice do you have for young poets who’ve just started their publication journey? Don't get discouraged if you face initial rejections submitting your work - that's a normal part of the process, even for successful poets. Use constructive feedback to keep improving your craft. Keep reading widely in your chosen genres too for inspiration. Find local open mics and writing circles or workshops to get comfortable sharing your poems. The in-person feedback can help you refine pieces before submitting more formally. You may also make connections that lead to future opportunities. Networking is so valuable in the arts. Consider publishing your work on smaller lit magazines or blogs first to start building a portfolio. Some online journals specialize in showcasing new poets. Submit to places that seem like a good match for your style. Above all, keep writing regularly and make it a lifelong journey of learning. Poetry skills develop slowly over years of dedicated practice. Nourish your creativity and let your love for words be the driving force as you navigate the publishing process. Stay passionate and you'll go far! SR: What are your future plans as a writer? At this point, I have a few books published and can support myself full-time as an author, which is a dream come true. My work has also been adapted into other mediums like film and TV, which has been so exciting to witness. However, I still feel I have more stories to tell and genres to experiment with. In the near future, I plan to write a new novel series that delves into social/political themes in a way I haven't yet. Taking on such an ambitious project will push me creatively. I also want to connect with more grassroots causes through benefit anthologies and talks. Long term, I see myself teaching creative writing seminars or developing a writing program. Giving back to inspire the next generation of storytellers feels important. Producing work under a pen name in another genre is intriguing too. I've also considered moving abroad for a while as a writing retreat and source of inspiration. No matter how "established" I become, I'll always be a student of the craft. There are legendary authors I still hope to meet someday too! Overall, I don't feel I'll ever stop challenging or surprising myself. As long as I have more tales to share, I hope to keep cultivating my voice and using it to spread joy, wisdom and social impact. The journey is its own reward for this storyteller!