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by Paula Ibieta For many years, my favorite space in our house was my mother’s closet. In truth, it belonged to both of my parents, but my father’s clothing, always encased in plastic from the dry cleaner’s, never registered in my internal inventory. On the other hand, my mother’s side was a wonderland of different fabrics, styles, and textures. I knew every item by heart, and I could envelop myself in the pieces that clothed her. Each object was precious, especially selected to be amongst other treasures of its caliber. My mother had a routine for getting dressed, which I observed entranced, curled up on the loveseat at the foot of the bed. She would peruse her own wardrobe as if she were in a boutique. She built her outfits one step at a time and would change out pieces until the combination was perfect. Then, she would step out to the front of the room where she had a full-length mirror. She looked at herself from the front and then turned to the back, checking for stains and smoothing out her clothes. Finally, she would examine her body from a profile view. She always placed her right hand over her lower belly and stood up straight, sucking in her tiny stomach to make it perfectly flat. When she was satisfied, she'd give herself a smile and then walk out the door, into the rest of her day. This inspired me to play dress up whenever she’d allow me to, even though it made her nervous. She would watch me with a vigilant eye and remind me to be careful. The only thing she forbade me from wearing was a silk blouse with pearl beading. It was too delicate, she said; they were real pearls. My father had gotten it for her on a trip before I was born. The silk was a dusky robin’s egg blue. Rows of small pearl beads flowed across the neckline, and then cascaded down like little raindrops, dribbling down from the bounty of pearls at the top. I longed to wear that blouse. I would run my fingers across the pearl beads whenever I was in the closet. “Maybe when you’re older,” she said. The day I stole the blue silk blouse was one of the worst days of my early life. I was in the eighth grade. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. My father and two older brothers were out at a soccer game, and my mother was gardening. I was bored, flipping through the channels, when I heard a knock at the front door. It was my next-door neighbor, Josh. He was one grade above me, but we had been neighborhood friends since we were kids, riding our bikes together with my brothers. With Josh was with his friend Angel, whom I happened to have a massive crush on. He had floppy blond hair and blue eyes. I liked that Angel was quiet and shy and that, unlike Josh, he didn’t talk very much. “We’re going to the park. Wanna come?” Josh asked. They both had their bikes. “Sure,” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, while my heart was thumping under my t-shirt. “Just let me ask my mom real quick.” I ran to the sliding glass door that opened onto the backyard and shoved it open as hard as I could. “Hey Mom, can I go to the park with Josh?” She didn’t look up from pruning her lavender. “Okay, honey, just please wear your helmet. And don’t take too long. I’m about to make lunch.” “Okay, Mom.” I slammed the door. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I had never hung out with Angel outside of school.  On my way to get my bike, I had an idea. I looked back at my mom; she was deeply entranced in trimming. Even though I knew she couldn’t hear me, I tiptoed all the way up the stairs to her room and gingerly rolled open her closet door. I took off my t-shirt, grabbed the the blue silk blouse from its hanger, and slipped it over my head. It hung loosely on my shoulders, but as I stepped in front of the the mirror to admire it, I thought I looked beautiful. I met the boys outside with my bike. Josh smirked when he saw me. “That’s a weird shirt.”  “It’s silk, dummy” I said.  “Still weird.”  I rolled my eyes and looked at Angel, as if to say, What does he know?  Angel just smiled and shrugged.  We rode to our neighborhood park, which featured a pond encircled by a tree-lined paved trail. We zoomed around the trail, seeing how fast we could go. Josh was in the lead, then Angel, then me.  After a few laps, Josh rode over to the parking lot on the far side of the park, and we followed. He stopped near the tall hedges lining the far end of the lot. “Jeez, you guys were going fast,” I said.  “We just wanted to see if you could keep up,” Josh teased.  “I always keep up,” I retorted.  I saw Josh look over at Angel. They exchanged a look, and Josh grinned.  Josh turned to me. “So, um. Do you like, have boobs now?” “What?” “Do you have boobs yet?” “Ew, what are you talking about?” My face burned.  “Well, I noticed the other day at school. Angel did too.”  I was speechless at this point. Josh stared at me, waiting for an answer. I looked to Angel, hoping to find an ally. His gaze was lowered, but when he looked up, I saw curiosity in his eyes. “You guys are gross,” I finally sputtered.  “Well, if you’re not, prove it, then.” “What?” “Prove that you’re not growing boobs.” I just stared. “Lift up your shirt.” “Ew. No way.” Josh clicked his tongue. “See, I told you she’d be too chicken.” “I’m not chicken.” “Well, then, do it.” I stared at them. Josh’s eyes were taunting. Angel broke the silence, saying, “We didn’t think you’d be mad.” He looked genuinely surprised.  I had never let myself be held back by being the only girl. I started to lift the hem of the blue silk, telling myself it would be over soon. They wouldn’t let me live it down if I couldn’t handle a dare.  But at the last second, I changed my mind. I yanked my shirt down before I revealed my chest. At the same time, Josh reached out to grab my blouse. His hand caught on some of the beading, and as he pulled, threads came loose, and beads began to fall.  “Josh!” I screamed as I watch the destruction happen, as if in slow motion. Josh could see what he’d done, and dropped his hand. I looked down and saw that the blouse was ruined.   Tears filling my eyes, I got back on my bike and sped away as fast as I could. I thought the boys might call after me, but I heard nothing. I stared straight ahead until I got to my front yard, where I threw my bike down, thrust open the front door, and rushed to the backyard. As soon as I saw my mom’s face, my sobs erupted. “Mom.” She turned to look at me, confused. I watched her eyes lower to I was wearing. The concern in her face began to turn into anger. I rushed over to her and threw my arms around her. She stepped back from me to look at the blouse and fingered the loose threads. “Why in God’s name are you wearing that? You’ve ruined it!” Through my sobs, I tried to get the story out. She must have understood half of what I was saying. Josh…Angel. Park. Torn.  My mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hands on her temples. “Elena, you need to collect yourself and tell me happened.” I could hear the anger, barely contained, beneath her steady tone.  On my second try, I got it out. That we had gone to the park and that the boys had asked me to lift my shirt up, and that Josh had ripped it. My mom’s hands dropped as she sighed. “Elena. What were you thinking?” I opened my mouth to protest. “But Josh…”  “Don’t. You were the one who stole that shirt out of my closet. You shouldn’t be hanging around with those boys, either.”  She grabbed me by both shoulders and looked me square in the eye. Her voice sharpened. “Elena, you’re not a little girl anymore. Do you understand what that means? These things are going to keep happening if you keep hanging around with those boys.” Now, I was speechless. I stared at her. “Elena. Do you understand? You can’t play with them like that anymore.” I nodded. We stared at each other. I wanted her to hug her, but I was too frightened. As my mother spoke, I could tell her rage had broken and washed up as disappointment. “Go change your clothes. I’m going to make some lunch in a few minutes. And don’t tell your father or brothers what happened when they get home.”  I walked up the stairs and into my mother’s room. I slipped into the closet and slid the door shut behind me, cracked open just enough to see a small sliver of light. Pushing through my mother’s skirts and pants, I crouched down in the far corner of the closet, my favorite hiding spot since I was little.  My head was pounding, and I could still feel the pit in my stomach that appeared when my mom saw her ruined blouse. I started picking off the remaining pearl beads one by one. Every so often, I’d hit on a bead and a whole length of thread would come loose and multiple beads would fall off at once. I liked the way they echoed in that quiet space, the soft ping of the beads hitting the floor like raindrops, while the fabric of my mother’s clothes softly pressed against my legs. Paula Ibieta is a writer based in New Orleans. In addition to writing, she enjoys sewing, taking her dog to the park, and spending time with her husband.

by Blanka Pillár Somewhere there was a crossroads near the border, in a smoky child's face with round eyes. Low blue and yellow brick houses and dark green pine trees surrounded it, and in summer, the purple statices opened in the garden, in spring, the hot sunlight stretched across the forest canopy. The first memory of round eyes was of this landscape, where years of warm embraces and happy barks were repeated over and over again. They called this place Life; it was as they imagined the world of fairy tales. Until now.  Something shook the earth. It shuddered, deep and angry, as if the grey sky had fallen. Morning dew covers the blades of grass, and a thick mist has descended on the cool ground; even the air is swirling backwards, and the birds are flying far away. They run out of the brick house and stare at the Thursday shadows. The button eyes watch as all the spring, summer, autumn, and winter gather in two grey canvas bags, as the faltering zipper is pulled on the resin-scented warm wool sweaters and the smiling stuffed elephants, as the Mother and Father pray in whispers, as they lock the door of Life without a key. Lacking a vehicle, they walk away from the crossroads, the low blue and yellow brick houses, the dark green pines, the purple statices, and the memory of warm embraces and happy barks. The round child's face fills with hot tears, with the helpless sorrow of incomprehension and lack. She doesn't know where the touch of silky grey dog-tails and the fresh scent of the short-cut lawn has gone; before her and behind her lies an endless sea of concrete surrounded by barren trees. All around her, words she had never heard before, harder-sounding names of unfamiliar places are repeated with terrified powerlessness in their voices.  Meanwhile, the time's arrow marches on, the wind picks up, and the horizon bends to dark blue. The Mother takes a brown bun from her canvas bag, caresses the child's cold face, and then holds the tiny body close to her, cradling it and humming the song she used to sing when the family was ill. The melody rings sweetly, filling the lonely night and drowning out the deafening noise of strangeness.  Twilight and dawn meet; the dust is heavier on the feet, and the eyes look wearily into the bare winter. Farther lies Life than the round eyes and the darkening child's face could possibly look back.  They can only guess where they are going as they leave fading footprints on the edge of towns, hoping to cross something larger soon. They dare only believe that the sun will come out the next day, that there will be night, and that the clear sky stars will shine with the same piercing light. Blanka Pillár is a seventeen-year-old writer from Budapest, Hungary. She has a never-ending love for creating and an ever-lasting passion for learning. She has won several national competitions and has been an editor-in-chief of her high school’s prestigious newspaper, Eötvös Diák. Today, she is not throwing away her shot.

by Erika Marlenne Velasco Godinez My body remembers In the nooks of my skin My pores bristled. They come like flashbacks the painful moments of my life. pieces of lead embedded in my mind they remember other times another person who is no longer me. A gust runs through my spine flashes of unpleasant sensations, the crystals show the reflection of thorns that have molded my flesh. they reopen wounds on newly healed scars, damage my skin like ripe fruit. The signs traveled through my mind the grooves of my veins reopen, where everything comes at once. Where the circular circuits resurface the physical grooves of my being. Erika Marlenne Velasco Godinez (Mexico City, 1998) is a mexican writer with a Bahelor's Degree in Hispanic Language and Literature. Since last year, some of her works has been published in different media,both in Spanish and English, such as GOOOYA!,  Revista de la Universidad, Universo de Letras, Letralia, House of Poetry, among others. She is an avid believer that writing as a woman has positioned her in the writing and in perspective of the world.

by Elizabeth Butler Am I worthless?  Because I don’t play by the rules?  Caring every second of every day, Draining me completely.  Exhausted and shattered.  From this thing I call my life Growing into a person I really don’t want to be.  Hungry for power Isolation takes its toll.  Jail inside my thoughts crawling to be free.  Keeping one eye firmly stuck.  Learning to blend into this crowd of dullness.  Managing a way to focus on what’s real.  Not a sound spoken but my brain knows.  Other than power nothing is a priority.  Performance within my own life.  Quitting everything I know to be true,  Rummaging for a reason I should turn it around.  Somewhere in the depths of my mind,  Trailing off into the distance  Unusual circumstances arrive.  Visually I’m of sound mind.  Why do I pander to these rules of life?  Xanax, the only drug that can forgo this pain.  Yelling at myself intently, forcing myself to cry, Zillion and one voices won’t shut the hell up! Elizabeth Butler is a disabled writer using a wheelchair. She has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing and has featured in a poetry anthology and has a collection of children's stories published online. She has self-published several books of poetry and achieved recognition in her local area and has performed at local events.

by Ophelia M onet when i am inundated with faded, watercolor memories of you,  i find that while i am sad,  the more overwhelming feeling is the need to feel close to you  and so i go to the forest,  where we spent much of our time, and close my eyes—  i allow myself to embrace  the gentle kisses from  the sun, the breeze  and the memories slowly  become darker, more bold,  until they are acrylic  then i paint your face clearly  on the canvas behind my  closed eyes Ophelia lives in Fort Wright, Kentucky with her husband and their son. She is a special education teacher with a focus on autism intervention, and spends much of her free time reading fantasy novels and wandering forests. She also storm chases on the side (yes, really). She started writing a few years ago, after learning that her mother, who had passed ten years ago, was a published writer. She began sharing her writing public under a pseudonym (Ophelia Monet) in early 2024.

by Jillian Stacia If the flowers had an eldest sister,  it would be the daffodil. Shooting through the earth with squeaky wheel grease  and buttercup grit. Over  eager and overzealous,  Daffodil digs her roots  into the dark dirt, claws her way to the top  soil, and unfurls at the slightest hint of sun – the most gorgeous overachiever. When the frost  comes – and always, the frost does come – she bends at the stem,  folds forward, serenades the soil with songs of spring. She is weathered but refuses to wilt, the hardiest of petals. After all, someone has to go first. Like any good sister, she regrets nothing. Jillian wants to live in a world where the coffee is bottomless and the sweatpants are mandatory. She spends her days crafting creative copy for clients in numerous industries and is known for her work in Children's Programming. Her poetry and creative nonfiction essays have been featured in Remington Review, Coffee & Crumbs, The Raven's Muse, and Gypsophila Zine. When she's not writing, Jillian can be found snuggling with her two adorable children and cheering on the Baltimore Ravens.

by Huesque Foster I tap the knife hanging out of my chest. I've warmed the length of the blade with my body. I feel an odd satisfaction seeing it fit perfectly in its cavity. I feel a lot more satisfaction from places, I never usually would. I like the pool  of blood I lay in and its impressively vast expanse. My routine audits now seem impactful now that I've been noticed.  I can prompt a man to go out of his way and stab me centred between the ribs. I'm a lot more proud of the things I did  Even my standard edition grades Because they brought me here To a scenic death, surrounded by my bed and walls. It's cosy on the floor. The liquid keeps me warm. The floor is a decent place to sleep. I thought the opposite, a short while back I loathed the mother who sold my bed; Tears don't teach gratitude like blood. My life wasn't bad judging from where I am Even the sharp pains in my chest stopped. The man stopped staring so I could finally rest; All things have a happy end.  Huesque is a swimmer, artist, and writer. Huesque is a horror and comedy novelist

by Noor Beliën The sun rose higher in my memory. Its golden streaks of blinding light make it all a bit hazy now. It’s like a transitory veil, sewn with the threads of the naivety and foolish hopes of a vestige little girl, that covers my eyes. All I know is that peace was there, and the birds sang songs like that for a reason.   In my mind time is frozen and I am still chasing a summer from years ago, yet the months pass all the same. Now it is march again, and I am no longer a kid, but the pink blossoms of a cherry tree burn me in the grass where my feet once struck the earth nimbly, the place where a new religion was born.  They say that place is haunted now, but I know peace still hides there. So I look over my shoulder, but what I detect there is merely a silhouette of what once was such a clear image in my mind. Still I try to reach for it, but there is some invisible force that’s got hold of me, and it’s dragging me away. A sardonic voice tells me that the melody of the birds was only an echo, and even that echo is now breaking asunder. I live in an illusion.  Childhood is the alter I keep coming back to and to which I pray, begging it to have me, spare a place for me in the cup of its hands, but this is a worthless invocation, for I am nothing more than a tall child with a crooked spine, and this is not where I belong anymore. Noor Beliën is an emerging writer living in Belgium. She is a seventeen year old high school student who spends most of her time reading and writing. After graduating high school, she aspires to study english literature at Ghent university. Aside from devouring books, she enjoys spending time in nature and baking. You can find her @writtenbynoorr on instagram.

by Erica Dionora The aloe vera plants have been watching  droplets of rain race down the windowpane, sticking tongues out towards the glass  silently begging for a sip.  The old woman paces the wooden floorboards of her eldest daughter’s apartment,  a crumpled sepia-stained photograph of a woman— year 1953—alongside a hawk-eyed carpenter,  with calloused palms and two-toned skin,  clutched in a trembling hand  spotted and curled inwards,  like a dried leaf, lying on a sidewalk  shivering at the lightest sigh of the wind,  threatening to crumble at any moment.  “Oh Dear,” she croaks, pacing,  steps now shortened, hips creaking, knees cracking louder than the floorboards  “How will you get home in this rain?”  Her small voice is ash dry  words worn with worry from years of waiting. Her face is filled with streamlines of grievances  and submerged truths from her youth,  waiting for a hawk-eyed man, with calloused palms and two-toned skin, to come home still, 55 years later.  Even after the tiny wooden homes  jutting from the streets of Sampaloc City  have fallen like decaying teeth,  even after the floods of monsoon season  have bathed the bones of her ancestors,  even after her children’s children  have scattered the sky like dandelion seeds in an unending quest to find a land that  does not hide them from their roots or consider them a blemish—the old woman waits, still.  In the static of the rain,  the aloe vera are shivering, green but greying. The drooping stalks ache at the weight of their own leaves, contemplating why one must endure feeling  in the process of withering away. Erica Dionora is a Filipino writer, editor, and artist who was born in Saipan and is based in Ontario, Canada. She has a background in publishing and creative writing, with a focus on poetry.

by Sonia Chang possession of water’s colour / and sound / it is endless / it is breathless / cold light seeps / through summer and / the surface of water / cutting a / path to a sun / never in reach / breaths and / sentences scarce / a handful of / siren song / yet no kiss of oxygen / and chlorine / to fill his liquid eyes / he gives himself / to a liminal transcendence / nothing human or worldly / the sleepy hum of / opalescent shells / almost a cacophony / his skin translucent / almost opalescent / as coarse / as sand / as fleeting as seafoam / heartbeats drowning out / alveoli and irises / erupt / in climax / blooming / catching light / burning in grace / then stasis / collects on / his skin in stellate beads / the sea traces his / flowing form / softly / with the tenderness of waves / he sinks with / the heaviness of being / no one’s grief / sleeping eternally in / dense silence / thoughtless darkness / and the tide / still rolls backwards / green over blue / spilling the / names and bodies / he will / never know Sonia is a 16 year-old aspiring writer from Singapore who adores film, music and Wikipedia. She spends her time getting overwhelmed by wanderlust, listening to The Beatles, and maintaining her two-year long Duolingo streak for French. Her inspirations include Sylvia Plath, Nabokov, Big Thief, Bob Dylan and many more.

by Nina Staderman in your dreams I explode off the tops of rockets, detonate like a falling star. I've always wanted to fill your sky and  cover your ground. but my corpse is just the comet shooting over your distant horizon. when  I'm out of sight, call me  search & rescue. although your hands shake and the voice  doesn't make it through the  phone. although I'm most  probably dead. I might be on the roof  and you can't look away. somewhere there my body, on fire, lights up a clearing. it's the somewhere-ness about it which seems so haunting. because in your dreams I am everywhere. call me search & rescue although I've always been dead. it's the sort of thing you keep alive by thinking of it. you think of me in pieces. tell them that  I'm on the roof... Nina Stadermann is a Bay Area-based junior. She is a strong believer in experimental, abstract writing, and draws inspiration from mid-20th-century satirists and Contemporary novelists. She works as a comic artist, graphic designer, and staff writer for her school's newspaper. Nina's talents include opening oranges in a single peel and thinking too hard. She plays cello for volunteer orchestras in her free time.

by Nitika Sathiya i used to be mispronounced as Cerberus  sickly saliva foaming at the mouth for your arrival with  bloodthirsty eyes sunken deep  deep enough  i could see my heart  beating against me  the waves wrecking my perception  i thought i was enough to be loved  but i was greedy  no, i was asking for too much  to come alive for more than one night in your presence  you called me Cerberus  as i caught fire in the middle of an ocean  bringing hellfire to your ignorance  i am dripping with blood  of cherries, rubies, and red velvet cake  i have become a monster of the flower you planted  a queen of death—  you have made me nothing  but starved for more than attention  i want to love. nothing  is enough for you  until i bloom  glow white with serenity  i have made myself a constellation  cut myself a piece of the sky  i am a night-blooming cereus  asleep for many suns  but still, you are not there when i bloom  not when i bleed  not even when i become a galaxy  *night-blooming cereus: white cactus flower that blooms once a year at night Nitika Sathiya is currently a senior in high school. She is an Alameda County (CA) Co-Youth Poet Laureate (2022-2023), second-degree black belt, and runner, and she volunteers and advocates for the arts in her community. Her poetry varies from love, feminism, family, and whatever she feels like exploring. Nitika plans to pursue Civil Engineering in the fall.