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by Isabella Burns They tell me that I am a woman now… Really?  Was I not a woman before?  If I was just a girl  Touched  Judged  Hurt  What will I be now as a woman?  Cast aside, because no man wants a woman, Only seeking a quiet girl  (I am anything but)  Judged for my solitude  When I try so hard to be loved  (It’s what I was born to do)  Then one day,  A truly selfless man will take me in, Promise me “love”  At the low price of myself  Until I either die or am cast aside Either way becoming useless  Looking down the line,  I’d hate to be a woman  Looking back,  I’d hate to be a girl Isabella Burns is a junior at Amador Valley High School. On her days off from being a hostess and tutor, she can be found reading E.M. Forster or watching trashy TV. Her inspirations range from Greek mythology to Sylvia Plath, although she particularly enjoys British literature. She lives with her parents, sister, and pug-chihuahua mix, Brie.

by Claudia Wysocky I keep thinking  about the time in high school  when you drew  me  a map of the city,  I still have it somewhere.  It was so easy  to get lost  in a place where all the trees  look the same.  And now  every time I see  a missing person's poster  stapled to a pole,  all I can think is  that could have been me .  Missing,  disappeared.  But there are no   p osters for people   who just never came back   from vacation, from college,   from life.   You haven't killed yourself   b ecause you'd have to commit to a   single exit.   What you wouldn't give to be your cousin Catherine,   who you watched   twice in one weekend get strangled nude   in a bathtub onstage   b y the actor who once   filled your mouth with quarters at   your mother's funeral.   The curtains closed and opened again.   We applauded until   our hands were sore.   But you couldn't shake the image of   her lifeless body,   the way she hung there like a   marionette with cut strings.   And now every time you try to write a poem,   it feels like a eulogy.   A desperate attempt to   capture something that's already   gone.   But maybe that's why we keep writing,   keep searching for   the right words,   b ecause in this world where everything is   temporary,   p oetry is our only chance at   immortality.   So even though you haven't   found the perfect ending yet,   you keep writing.   For Catherine, for yourself, for all the lost   souls   who never got their own   missing person's poster.   Because as long as there are words on a page,   there is still hope for an unfinished exit   to find its proper   ending. 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.

by Avril Shakira Villar The light that flickers in her eyes is a mere hint of the beauty within. My beloved folk, she is the steady hand when the world begins to spin. She’s the laughter breaking through heavy rain. The voice I turn into when I can’t handle the pain Quiet nights and whispers are shared. Secrets are kept hidden til' we open Where it lies, safely bound A spark of trust is profound.   When I become a caged spirit searching for flight When the world feels heavy and my thoughts start to sink,  My friend unexpectedly has turned into my shrink. Listening without passing judgment. Nevertheless, she managed to drive the storm away with her silence. Time stands still, fleeting moments seizing tight. A bittersweet taste flows through my tongue. Now a part of me is etched within   She complemented what I lacked as an imperfect being. For she always has our best interests in mind. When I find myself at my lowest point, I know that no obstacles are too great for me to overcome. This person knows me like the back of her hand. Understanding exactly how much sugar I prefer in my coffee. Just enough to reduce the bitterness and balance the dark with sweetness. She knows exactly the warmth I crave. Like the warmth of her words that always find me when I need them most. She has experienced the flavor of my quietness. The way I space out while deep in my thoughts, as usual. But never so deep into my thoughts do I realize her coming. It reminds me of my favorite things, such as, The sound rain makes when it pours against a window. Or the rhythm of an old song that can be heard in the distance.   Loving her is a lifetime course and a gift of responsibility. She drew curves on my lips that lingered. And so many 'first times' of my life occurred with my great buddy. When I first realized what it meant to be seen, Not in the form I was required to wear, However, as I am unpolished and raw, She also didn't turn her head away. She stayed after seeing my soul. This is not a love to be romanticized, Not one of passion or heat, But one that is steady and true The kind of love that doesn’t burn you out but fills you up, Over and over, In the small, subtle ways That only real friends understand.   In the midst of chaos, this love is the silent power.  In a world that is constantly changing  The kind of love that doesn't require extravagant displays  Since the unspoken forms its foundation The little deeds that accumulate over time A knowing smile, a glance exchanged,  Touches that speak louder than words could ever express.   We don't need to be anything other than who we are in this love.  There's no need to hide the imperfections we worry are too noticeable or to seem fake.  Because she already knows them,  She continues to stand with me.  My safe haven, my sanctuary  A place where I can rest and breathe,  Where I can just be me Avril Shakira Villar is a writer and youth leader hailing from the Philippines. She is a mentee of the esteemed international organization WriteGirl LA and has been elected as the City Youth Vice Mayor of Zamboanga City. She has 5 published poems, 1 published song, and 1 published essay in various international literary magazines. She was the 2nd placer in the National Poetry Competition conducted by Under the Madness Magazine and applies her writing to her life and leadership journey.

by Ivan Ling is in transition.   Cinnamons and red maples are being deconstructed,  having their colours paled by monochromatic colonialism. Recoloured and synthesised, what was once blooming rust, now ceases to exist in the path of white glory. Ivan Ling currently works as a full-time editor but is also an avid book reviewer and poet. His works have been published in several journals and magazines, such as Eksentrika, Southeast Asian Review of English and Men Matters Online.

by Ben Ramakrishnan i lay the fallen remnants of my flesh on the corinthian columns  just like you laid me to dry, a windswept french exit on the balcony i still peel the exocarp of fruit in that superstitious way you taught me like a prayer because everything was religion to you–everything, except me   i remember your body embalmed in myrrh and the balsamic smell of the mortuary the nothingness i felt when i saw the nothingness in your eyes  i said it smelled like the salad you’d make when you said i should stop eating and mom said it smelled like the grace of jesus  i left the darkness from which you birthed me and have become a ravenous creature eating at my own insides and carving epitaphs into my skin  life sucked out of the folds of my eyes and my skin greying like your bergamot tea sometimes i think this must be hell–perhaps i was the one who died  i thought when you were gone, then it would finally be enough contorting myself into the entrails of my intestines  making myself smaller, smaller until i was innards and nothing at all to earth i have returned but what earth can make four walls a home?  to earth i have returned but what earth can mend a shattered soul Ben Ramakrishnan is a high school student who loves music, theater, and literature. When he isn't holed up writing poetry in his bedroom, he can be found sipping iced coffee, baking up a storm, or performing onstage. He is also the founder and editor-in-chief of Vellichor Literary.

by Errano Erroneous With every ounce of my blood, I despise this certain duty;     but if I give up this power, malevolent forces shall take it from me. Life is a branching experience, so occasional encounters are unavoidable;     and no matter how fast I flee, a means of escape is impossible. Like vengeful wraiths that ravenously chase their prey     to the ends of Earth 'till the end of time they wait and stay. Some take eons before they make their disastrous return;     others only need mere seconds to leave their burn. A few hold too much - those who stand at the top of the world;     and many hold too little, for the weight it carries is too much to hold. People have speculated if I am amongst the few blessed from below,     but only true power I possess is the strength to let it go. Lurking behind their pen name, Errano Erroneous are a 20-year old aspiring writer who dreams of sharing their works and leave mark in the annals of literature. Inspired to weave their pen by the literary titans such as Edgar Allan Poe, Guy de Maupassant, and Robert Louis Stevenson, the voice they omit through the pages of their writing can be haunting at times, questioning reality and the state of our psyche by blending the naturalistic qualities of human nature and the limitless potential of dreams.

by Tehreem Zahra My writing style is changing  I was thinking about evolution the other day  It's weird, it's really strange, I can rhyme everything I won't say  Like I'd like eggs for breakfast tomorrow and that I'd love to see your face And I have started to be a little more honest with myself and that's concerning  I'd like to delete the previous text but then living is about learning  To be cool while be yearning  Okay! I regret writing all that I just did, If only I could go back to when I was a kid  Because monsters under the bed must be quieter than the voices inside my head  And these voices, they're so friendly, I can't help but oblige Only for remorse and revulsion to be my  prize Tehreem is a creative soul with a passion for writing, art, and music. As the founder of a feminist nonprofit teen literary magazine, Tukhm e Umeed, she advocates for change through words. With a love for autumn, cozy atmospheres, and aesthetics blending dark academia, whimsical and cottagecore, her personal style reflects her introspective and artistic nature. She has a deep love for poetry, art, Taylor Swift, and cats.

by Adia Reynolds Usually, for Father’s Day We Suffice it down To One Tart Raspberry Pie But I’d recently grasped The value of minimum wage The Car Savings Fund  Went a little dry that week Matching Zelda Keychains To remind him Even when I take that car 307 miles away Mentally I’m sitting in the living room playing Breath of the Wild My side Pressed into His Adia (she/her) is an honors student at Fort Hays State University studying English with a writing concentration. As of writing this she is twelve-times published across various magazines, but her real dream is to publish all the novels that sit in her head. She has served as an editor for Silvercoats Magazine, Petrichor Literary Magazine, Subtext Magazine, and now Vial of Bones Zine! She also freelances as a fiction editor when the opportunity arises. She is founder of The Rejection Club, created to encourage writers to submit to magazines and eliminate that rejection sensitivity by celebrating the failures we make along the path to success.You can find writing tips and follow along with her creative process @cryptic.cryptid.writes on Instagram. Furor Scribendi! :)

This issue took us more time than usual to create because of the wave of submissions/love we have been receiving. We wanted to make sure all submissions were getting the attention they deserved while taking the time to create a nice, whole collection for our ninth issue. Before anything, I would like to start by thanking everyone who made this issue possible—starting from our website manager, editors, and contributors to everyone who submitted their precious gems to our magazine. Though we couldn't display all the gems on this issue, we saw all submissions shine bright like the evening night from the edge of the world. There is beauty in the word edge---the edge of crying, the edge of laughing, the edge of screaming. The word leaves some ambiguity for us to search and complete. The Edge of the World. What does the edge of the world look like for you? Is it a complete disaster? Or a peaceful harmony? For me, it's neither. The edge of the world will be nothing different from the world we already are living in because in some ways we are always living on the edge of the world. Living in between life and death. But we always choose to live and create. And our resilience is truly beautiful. So don't stop creating those luminous gems of yours because those gems are what remind you that you are a strong and beautiful person who always chooses to breathe. Sincerely, Seohyun Ryu Founder and Editor-in-Chief The Malu Zine

by Chiara Stark I had a dream that my mother was hungry. The earth was covered in red skin, hiding the tender, glowing white inside. She peeled off the coat and parted the world into slices with her hands. She swallowed our moon whole, like a frozen red grape from the fruit basket, except this grape had craters. The solar system was her earthly banquet, planets floating above plates. The stars were her breakfast and she finished the comets off like desserts.  I woke up hungry. It must’ve been a day in August. She always made it feel like August. When I look back, I see morning dew kissing and embracing the leaves of our local marigolds. I remember flowers blooming and bathing in the singing sun. I may have gotten the dew confused with my sweat, and I hadn’t met the sun yet.  I think I was skipping along the empty summer streets, until I found a fish-eye traffic mirror, lifted up by a red and white striped pole. I would’ve looked so small. I was so small. My hair was still recovering from an impulsive pixie cut. My ears might have hurt, carrying not the hair, but my heavy sunglasses.   I initially left the house because I’d run out of groceries. Sitting outside the store, perhaps guarding it, was Ginger. I was glad to have left the bed, the room, the house that day, for the cat. Until we were formerly introduced, I called her Ginger, because she had white fur interrupted by a ginger tail and ears. I’m lucky that Stella is more creative with names. But on that August day I didn’t call her anything, because she was not yet mine to call.  When I came back outside, my mission complete, the cat was still sitting there. I snuck a blurry picture. She made eye contact. I stopped. She moved swiftly to the end of the car park, in the direction of what turned out to be a narrow path. I watched, until she turned her body halfway to face me. She raised her right paw - seemingly to point at the path – and, with it, raised her voice, in what felt like an imperative meow. I stood still. Again, after a few steps, she turned and looked at me. The car park was empty. There was not a soul in sight except the overworked cashier. Maybe it was a Sunday. Whether to humour the cat, or myself, I followed her. I tried to catch up with her pace along the downhill path, but she was gliding over the burning concrete as if she were walking on water. We encountered some stairs, and she skipped a step with each jump. I imitated her. The stairs led to a crossroads, where we took a turn. I wanted to follow the shaded footpath, for the sake of the ice cream in my bag, but she insisted that we walk in the middle of the street. Her shining paws traced the broken white lines, occasionally letting the colours collide. I kept looking out for cars, which began to feel useless after a while. She kept looking back at me, which began to feel strange after a while.  Eventually she stopped and sat back down, facing me. This must be our destination. A bookshop. The copper sign read ‘Eden’. Its entrance was narrow enough to miss it, were it not for the bright yellow paint of the door. Some parts had chipped off, but the pigment was still highly saturated where it had survived. It must be cleaned frequently and thoroughly. Paradise may not have been hiding behind this yellow door, but the sun was. I was surprised to find that the door actually pushed open. Maybe it wasn’t a Sunday after all.  I entered with the cat now following behind. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with bursting bookshelves. The ceiling was high enough to require a ladder, rested against the shelves in the middle, parting the room into two aisles.  Although the door was a roaring yellow, the inside was coloured by rustic browns and dark greens. The wood of the floor and shelves and counter was from the trees, but so was the paper in the books. There was a forest growing from beyond the yellow door.  The bookstore was decorated with memorabilia from other worlds. Souvenirs from distant lands. Portraits of unknown people. Antiques from the past. The books fit right in. Many were a little worn out, touched by the hands of generations. Stories that told stories through the paper they were printed on, the covers they were clothed by, the annotations they were laid in.  I wasn’t sure what to look at. A typewriter that rested on a wide armchair to my right, covered in an olive green velvet blanket. Pearl and shell jewellery that accessorised the register. An inscription over the arch that hovered further along the left-hand aisle. ‘Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers, Lest They be Demons in Disguise’.  While I was exploring and discovering, the cat had advanced to a low window sill next to the entrance. She settled into a plaid pillow with little tassels on each corner. Her mission was complete.  A gentle voice rose from amidst the books. “Can I help you?” For a second I thought it was the books themselves. If my story had a voice, it would surely be hers.  In between two high towers of book piles, there was a girl, sat with a paperback sprawled across her lap, her knees bent for her body to rest on. A princess from the tower. She looked up at me with curiosity. There was another world opening up in her eyes, contained only by her round glasses. A forest dipped in gold and brown behind the glass. Behind the window. Those glasses sat on a long nose bridge that culminated in a stud on her left nostril. Her loose black hair fell onto a pair of yellow overalls. I always knew warmer colours stood out best against darker skin tones. I wondered whether she made the colour shine, or whether the colour made her shine. This girl in the forest behind the yellow door taught me new colours.  She repeated herself, “Is there any way I can help? I work here, so, if you need something, I’m the person to ask.” Her question felt genuine. When she spoke, the gleam of her white teeth glanced at me, like her mouth was blinking. I thought of the white cat again.  “Oh, thank you! I live nearby, but I’ve never seen this store before, so I just wanted to take a peak. I ended up following your cat and she led me here.” “That’s where she went! Well, thank you for bringing her home safe.” “Is she yours?”  “Yeah. My dad owns this shop, so the three of us work downstairs and live upstairs.”  “You get to see this every day? It’s so nicely decorated!” “Thank you! My dad’s a hoarder, or, a collector, as he calls it, but here it all has some sort of use.” My mother was a hoarder too.  “It all looks so cosy. Makes me feel at home too.”  “Well, you’re welcome to come back home anytime if you tell me your name.” “Oh, right. Clara. Lovely to meet you”  “I’m Stella. Nice to-” Stella’s introduction was interrupted by a monstrous grumbling from my stomach. I must’ve gone red.  Her lips pressed into a playful smile. “I’ve got something you might like. Could you help me up?” Her hand was warm.   She approached the register and pulled out a pack of oranges from underneath it.  “Take one, I’ve got loads.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah, please go ahead,” she handed me one. She was warm.  “Thank you,” I wanted to tell her that there was no need. I had just bought groceries. That’s when I remembered. My groceries. My ice cream. It must have melted after all this time in the sun. I searched desperately for a clock.  “Stella, do you know what time it is?”  “Oh yeah,” she checked her watch. The wristband was wooden, but I think there were a few red and orange accents. I got distracted and forgot to listen to her answer.  “I keep telling my dad we should put up some nice vintage clocks. They’re functional and they’d look nice too. He just says he doesn’t believe in clocks.”  “He doesn’t- Like- He rejects time?” “I suppose, but that doesn’t mean that everybody else does. Anyway, I won’t take any more of yours. You should know we’re only open Sundays for the next few weeks. So I’ll expect you here next Sunday.” I guess it was in fact a Sunday.  I never found that picture of Ginger, but I did find out later that her name was Bianca. My guess had a fifty-fifty chance.  When I got back to the house, the ice cream had melted, and the orange been eaten.  I think it might’ve been September. I learned to wear sunglasses all year ‘round. The light is just too loud most days. Regardless, it felt like August.  On another day in August, Bianca was soaking in the sunlight from the window, in that same spot. That was her spot. I was resting against the register. My spot. Stella was leaning behind the wooden counter. Her spot.  “She kinda looks like you, you know,” Stella suggested.  “What, the cat?” “Yeah. Ginger on top, white coat. Put a tail on you and even I couldn’t tell the difference.”  “Please don’t,” I pleaded. She gave a little chuckle. “I’m not sure if you’re joking.” Another chuckle.  “You’ve got her sharp fangs as well.” “And you’ve got a sharp tongue,” I retaliated.  “It’s not a bad thing! You just resemble her. At least you’ve finally got an older sister.” “Older? Isn’t Bianca like ten?”  “Ten and three quarters. She’s in her late fifties,” followed by a pause. “In cat years.”   We had both been focused on Bianca. Her left ear flinched when I said her name. Maybe she was dreaming. Memories of my own dreams suddenly flashed before me. I was hungry again. My eyes fluttered from Bianca to Stella, and immediately back to Bianca.  “I didn’t know my canines were that prominent.” “Oh don’t worry,” she tried to reassure me, “I’m sure they’re not. Your mouth is just rarely shut when you’re here.” “That’s not true at all! You talk much more than I do.” “That’s right. But your mouth is usually at least slightly open. Like a child, gaping in wonder at the world. It’s like you never learned how to breathe out of your nose.” “I bet you can’t even breathe out of your mouth-”  “‘Cause I talk so much?” She interjected.  “Yeah,” I admitted, a little dejected.  When I looked over again, she had already turned to me. I wondered how long she had been staring at me. At my mouth. At my lips. Her gaze was penetrating. I felt painfully perceived. She didn’t see me, she read me. She didn’t look at me, she deciphered me. Stella was an effortless translator. I didn’t realise she knew the language I was written in.  It wasn’t August, but Stella always made it feel like August.  “You make the days feel starry. Like a daytime star.” “So, the sun?” “Yeah, exactly! The sun!”  We both blushed.  I once read that the Early Modern Period believed that stars were a remnant of a world before the Fall. The idea is that the earth, its laws and its inhabitants, were altered by the forbidden fruit, but the rest of the cosmos wasn’t. The starry sky is a window into Eden. Stella was my window.  She was singular to me. I had one orange the same way the solar system had one sun. The first story God wrote was that of the sun. That was the only story I read in those days, when the sun wore yellow overalls. Turns out the orange was one of a dozen, only one from the overflowing fruit basket.   One day in August, probably a Sunday, I stayed until she had to close shop. Stella invited me upstairs for the first time. She might’ve wanted to show me the soft carpet in her room that she’d mentioned before. Or insisted that I stay for dinner. A child could climb up a tree, but I would climb up her stairs. Since I hadn’t met the father yet, that’s how I thought of this world, as hers. I only ever saw her commanding it. The furniture, the yellow door, the souvenirs, the typewriter, the cat, the oranges, the books. Anything that stepped foot inside was hers. We all belonged to her.  I don’t remember the kitchen, but I remember the fruit basket. I call it a basket, but it was most likely a bowl, a wooden bowl, like everything in Stella’s little hidden forest. I didn’t understand why I should eat the fruit when I could paint it. I remember a pink lady, staring at me, mocking me, calling me. Her fingers were running around me and I was sitting in her palm, but Stella stopped her, took her, flung her upwards and sideways, ready to dissect her.  She must’ve been turned to the counter, away from me. “Do you have a favourite fruit?”  “I find it difficult to pick favourites sometimes,” I shouldn’t be honest if that was going to make me difficult. Instead I remembered who always liked oranges, “I suppose I only ever eat oranges.” “You don’t try other fruit once in a while?” “I don’t try new things if I can avoid it.” “But you’ve had an apple before, right?”  “Well, we have to. Imagine what people would say if you avoided apples without trying them.”  “It shouldn’t matter what people would say.” A beat. “But it does, it shouldn’t, but, to me, it does.” I’m not sure which one of us that was. I returned to the original question. “How about you?” Stella tossed one half of the dead lady to me, the other she buried in her hand. “Changes all the time. Every day even. I’ll try any fruit, but I think it always depends more on the specific fruit, than its type.” “What do you mean?”  “I think I mean that, this pink lady,” she held the subject up for spectating, “tastes and feels completely different from,” she paused to think, “like a Granny Smith for example. They’re both apples, but sometimes a grapefruit and a blood orange will be more similar than two fruits of the same species.”  “Right, right. I think I get it now.” “So, I like any and all fruit really. It’s not about the type, it’s about each individual fruit.” I understood.  “What about now? What fruit do you like?” I hoped she would understand too.  She had taken a bite and used the time to chew to also think. Suddenly the apple looked delicious. In her hands the freckled skin disappeared, and chunks of white flesh were torn from the seed like muscles from the bone.  An apple to her lips. The world between her teeth. Its core on her tongue. This was a star my mother could not eat. This was a star I wanted to eat.  “Is it alright if I steal your answer? Oranges fit so well with the warm August days,” said the warm August girl. She might’ve also blushed, there was no way of telling, I had broken eye contact.  Those days in August kept coming, again and again. We were spinning in orbit, me around the sun, she around an orange. But the sun will burn, and oranges are bitter. Time was a sphere, yet August wasn’t. Monday must come. Chiara is a young queer woman studying English Literature at Oxford University, who enjoys writing in her free time. She was born in Germany to an Italian father and German mother, and moved to the UK when she was twelve. Some of her current interests include Jeanette Winterson, Adventure Time, God, bears, friends, and water.

by Maria Belik Maria Belik, an international painter and 2D animator based in London, UK, brings visions of dreams, love, everyday sadness, and unique life experiences to life through her use of experimental mixed media and traditional and digital materials. Her inspiring and emotive works of art aspire to bring emotion to the hearts and minds of people around the world, reminding us all of the beauty and complexity of the human experience.

by Ashley Hong Ashley Hong (they/she) a writer residing in Southern California. Her works have been published or forthcoming in iO Literary Journal, Persimmon Lit, Catheartic Magazine, Cerasus Magazine, The B'K, and Fleeting Daze Magazine, among others. In their free time, they like snacking on popcorn and getting lost in the abyss of Youtube.