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by Devon Webb If there is a calmness in the centre of the storm it would be here with you where the world revolves loudly around us but the only sound that matters is that of your words tripping over each other the same way mine do. If there is a light in the darkness after dusk it would be bright blue like a planet like a star like your eyes cutting lines through the silence & straight into my heart where the truth burns bright like a beacon and any chance of keeping my feelings a secret withers up in the overwhelming heat. If there is a way to communicate my intentions effectively it would take the form of a poem where I could write the words down so very carefully instead of having them all rush out of my mouth and make a mess of themselves although if they did you'd clean it up without complaint, sorting through the stupid shit I say & making it all make sense. If there is a test to determine how badly I want you & how brave I have become this would be it & now would be my moment to accidentally brush against you & accidentally let you catch me staring & accidentally let my guard down & accidentally let you know that none of this is an accident & I've been waiting for you all along. Devon Webb is a 25-year-old writer & editor based in Aotearoa New Zealand. She writes full-time, exploring themes of femininity, vulnerability, anti-capitalism & neurodivergence. She shares her poetry online, through live performance, & has been widely published worldwide. She is an in-house writer for Erato Magazine, an editor for Prismatica Press & Naked Cat Publishing, & is currently working on the final edits of her debut novel, The Acid Mile. She can be found on Instagram, Twitter, TikTok & Bluesky at @devonwebbnz.

by Sadaf Pauls so thin in this land I have become a vine rooted in a crust of a rock. without a shadow an alien streak in your botanical realm I have not the leaves to hide in. I am tall so tall I could become a tree  looking out to the sea, over a frozen porch, where icicles tickle my mango skin. I am naked enough trip me on a rimed beach, my silk/your icy beads collide a revolutionary relic. It’s not painful I am not bruised or bent or broken. Where I am time tiptoes around my dreams tangerines sprout morning glory myths grow on my branches, now strong. Where you are is home as sweet? Based in Hamburg Germany, Sadaf Pauls is a polyglot writer and literary enthusiast. Graduating in 2024 with a BA in Creative Writing from SNHU, her creative journey includes writing poetry and book reviews, creating content for a Berlin sustainable fashion blogzine, and freelancing as a bilingual interpreter for trauma therapy. Her work explores themes of diaspora, identity, and loss. She shares her upcoming publications on her website and Instagram. https://www.sadafpauls.com @sadaf_pauls

by Arabella McClendon Arabella is a college student studying creative writing and computer science, and a lifelong student of the beautiful universe. Her life's mission is to express herself and leave it where other weird girls might find it.

by Ruth Towne I come by my disorder honestly. Nothing appears to be wrong. My father loved me. So he keeps my teeth in a jar on his windowsill, those white scales glare in the pale daylight. They are what I was meant to lose. And nothing appears to be wrong, but there’s two of me, a stupid duality. One of me wanders free on seashores and beaches. If ever she reaches water, her life will begin, that hatchling sea turtle of a girl. Until then, she patiently waits for her egg tooth to sprout. She only wants to get out of her leather shell. I hope she lives. The other of me? She’s kept secret on a Mediterranean isle, in her stone Roman prison cell. She wears a jade green mask. She basks in shadow. She asks for blue sky, a spyglass, and to view nine dead butterflies arranged in a tray. This is what it means to make peace with oneself, to live with the person who wants to destroy you. Nothing appears to be wrong. But I multiply. She and she and I might have one body, might be one body, who is to say? My mother offers me my own teeth as though they are hers to return.  Then a sparrow casts itself into a glass pane. I throw the eggshell delicate   girl into a full-length mirror’s enameled plane. The mirror works both ways, the face of the other woman in jade is splayed across the cursed surface. We three bleed together in looking glass debris, in those pieces sharp as teeth. Devouring woman, devouring woman– I know soon she will consume me. We were predisposed. So it’s no one’s fault exactly. I am her sister intrauterine, she is an animal cannibal, she is a reef shark with embryonic teeth. This disease belongs to she and she and me. Maybe once I knew, but now I’ve lost track of who’s who, of the teeth I keep, of the teeth I lose. Ruth Towne is an emerging poet. Other poems from her project Resurrection of the Mannequins have been published by the Decadent Review, New Feathers Anthology, Coffin Bell Journal, New Note Poetry, In Parentheses, and the Stonecoast Review’s Staff Spotlight.

by Cait Jones For much of these youthful years, waning now, I have been half fancied by false redemption Of sacred cells, Mocking with their “promises” To embroider me a new Psyche. A fresh behaviour, if you will, But I’d still call it a straitjacket. They’ll wrap it up with paper they know I can’t write on That will catch on my ten rings, Giving papercuts to the ivory I used to like calling my skin, When I try to break through this cursed old “gift” They’ve forced upon my collarbones. Use the language they use, Sit up straight and speak when you’re addressed; No one likes a girl who gambles words too much, And perhaps more importantly, When she knows exactly how to use them. When they see what I have penned, They’re bound to come after me, yes? Pitchforks, blank pieces of paper And quills with which they will cut my lip. But I am not afraid. For the words I choose to matchmake are not only pondered on— Very often, they make sense to no one, but their seamstress. They are the army with which I retaliate. Cait Roddam Jones is a seventeen-year-old actor, writer and musician. She became a member of the National Youth Theatre at 14, performing her poetry and monologues at their various open mic platforms before going on to train and work with Shakespeare’s Globe in London for nearly 2 years. In August 2023, Cait professionally debuted her acting and writing in a one-woman play titled “The Girl With The Glass Heart” at the Camden People’s Theatre. Cait writes extensively about topics and themes close to her heart, such as feminist issues, mental health and human relationships. Her poem “Onto A Piece Of Paper…” is due to be published in an anthology by Everything Poetry early in 2024.

by Carson Wolfe Two years after the security footage replayed my footsteps from the bar, off along that dark wooded route. The news died down, my face faded on missing posters, but you never stopped searching. I heard your boots crunch the frozen layer of November, she will turn up eventually, you said. I was right under your nose. Your dog never picked up a scent as he paddled through the weeds of my hair. You looked for me behind trees, but not the fold of your spaniel’s ears, the wet carpet from muddy paws in the trunk of your car. Carson Wolfe is a Mancunian poet and winner of New Writing North’s Debut Poetry Prize (2023). Their work has appeared in Rattle, The North, New Welsh Review, Evergreen Review, and The Penn Review. They live in Manchester UK with their wife and three daughters.

by Lyn Seo 한해가 끝나면서 나는 색종이처럼 접혀지고있다 on one side, i am red. i have spent so much time running tirelessly, ripping through my hardest times with nothing but raw effort and spite as if it was the only way to live. but on the other side, i was blue. i accepted the hard moments, i protected my peace and kept my composure. 해가 지날수록, 해가 질수록, i am getting folded up. in some moments, i show my redness like a weapon, like i am scared. even when i just wanted to be loved or hugged tightly, the red origami paper folded me into a lion with its claws bared. and even if i become unfolded, the indents from the folds remain forever, lines forever etched into my shape. but fold me back up from the other side, follow my old indents, and i will take a new shape entirely. then, i may become a crane, observing the scene silently. 해가 지나가고, 해가 점점 수평선 아래로 지면서, 다시 색종이인 나를 또다시 펴본다. as people persevere through life, they get folded, cut up, made into their selves, and shaped into who they really are. 해가 뜨면서 해가 시작한다. let me follow the lines left on me from my past to find my new shape. Lyn Seo is 16-year-old writer currently living in Vancouver, Canada. When she isn’t writing, you can find them blasting music in her room or hoarding sticker sheets.

by Roukia Ali Art lingers like a spectre longing for the moment it’s going to possess me—drifting down Darkened hallways in the morning, bemoaning the careful way my routine is all necessity And no writing, watching me as I watch TV and do not spare her a glance, eyes entranced by The show that should be inspiring me, static subtly flickering in my throat, reminding me of The words lodged under the phlegm of stress and doubt plugging up all my creative sense That could be dispensed into notebooks, pages fresh as the sunlight retreats off of them, Another day wasted because I lingered like a sitting corpse in survival mode. Why is it not today? Art sighs out disappointment instead of ideas, never allowing me to sleep as the bedsheets Snare me to be her listening prisoner who begs for her to mercifully drop the golden answer For writer’s block onto my lap like gold coins, something to drop into the wishing well abyss Of my mind, hoping to find something still living and accepting inside. But Art steals away, a Bandit in the night, gagging inspiration that thrashes in her tightened arms, fleeing through The window so I cannot visualise this part of myself that was extracted in insomnia, the burn Of forgetting my idea in the closing of my eyes. Why is it not enough? I threaten to leave too. I sit Art down while she still has potential, while she is still everything I believe in and is still the only thing I find in the world to be truly, endlessly beautiful, and Tell her: “If you are not good enough, I’m going to leave you.” I stifle her voice that always sings risky notes by backtracking on the keyboard, reviving her Only to bind her in folders snapping closed, like slamming a monster into a coffin. I bury her In the earth while she is still warm and hope roots weave through her gaps, and worms eat up All the rot of her breaking body, and flowers burst up from the cracks where things are not Working. I always find out in the end that she haunts me as a nice idea, and only died when Passion greyed on her cheeks like ashen dust settling on decaying stone. “Why do I keep killing my spirit?” Those who don’t get it witness me holding my pencil like a shovel and standing it up on Art’s Grave like a cross, my muse lost to me, and come to the conclusion that I am gripped by Insanity. Not for distressing over my creations, but for settling on the conclusion that when I Make a mess of them and get frowned on by rejection, that I’m simply cursed: brimming with Promise and tenacity, well-educated, and all it gets me is a destiny of fading into talentless Indifference, brilliance burning out like a quivering candle I refused to blow out myself out of Fear of bracing reality’s shocking cold. Art and I freeze, on the outside looking in, left to Wonder why my version of being creative isn’t warming my hands over the passionate pieces Written by fiery writers to learn from and admire, but instead despairingly noting that the Prodigies keep getting younger and younger. “When will I be enough? Why am I not enough?” I introduce Art to my friends, colleagues, teachers and family, adorned with my feelings like A dress that is falling apart at the seams, hoping to satiate wonders of where I’m going, and What it is I plan on doing, and why at points my mind halts at mental stop signs instead of Assigning meaning in redirection. I’m confused as to why no one else has imagined Art the Way I have: “What is your opinion of my creation if not your opinion of me?” Criticisms feel like every successful opportunity was just me getting lucky, and that I am not Enough and speak in tongues no one wishes to see untangled. Art and I go home with the Same exhausted shadows darkened by remarks that we are meant to be easy, that there is no Difficulty or cause for celebration in surpassing your old self, and that we’re not contributing Anything to society, yet it’s still expected we produce results or I’m wasting my time. Hours flit by in seconds, taunting me by tapping my shoulders. I look over and in their leers Comprehend that I just sit and watch everything pass me by, a movie scrolling on without a Pause button. “Well, you’re just not for them,” I tell Art sullenly, and in absence of compliments I ask then, “Who am I for?” Art holds my younger self by the hand. For her, I was enough. Art watches my passion in alternating flashes of disdain and fear, awe and apprehension, as I Sit before a computer, selling my soul on a line to whatever ingenious figurative language Device intercepts it like a fish, attracted to the worm in my mind that deletes entire Paragraphs, and curses, curling frustration in fists slamming on desk surfaces. Productivity Shrivels like dead skin as I recline in my seat, envy gently handling my favourite books Reverently by their spines. What is the anatomy of good writing? Why is good writing never Mine? “Just get the line right.” “Why can’t I write?” “Why do I hate this so much?” “Why am I not winning?” “This piece isn’t listening!” “I’m literally going to quit!” Art tears open a void in my stasis, pulling me down to the bottom of failure to touch. I kick And I kick and I kick madly, and defiantly, and fearfully against it even as the inky pool Swallows me, latching onto my pen and my arms, sticky and invasive and unshakable—break Through the surface, find it. Whatever meaning I always seem to lose along the way like a Child in a play place. Whatever keeps the jowls of perfection at bay from puncturing my skin. But I always give in, presenting to Art my wounds meant to justify to her why I always Need to satisfy every passing chance to win, why she needs to comply. Art holds out flowers of praise, as I am panting on my knees at the end of the footrace. I toss them on the track, let the petals rust in the chalky blues and reds. Don’t even bother to Thank her, because I’m not done running. Endless hurdles lie ahead to clear, the crack of the Starting gun is still whistling in my ears, tangled in the peace of the wind. I’m not out of Breath. Even with the medal I crave dangling around my neck, its cloying clinking sound Remains so tantalising. But what if this is your best? Art yells, eyes wide and panicked. Can’t you see this is your best? Won’t you water your flowers? I dust myself off, want spreading like wildfire through my legs, my body, my soul. Art cries as I walk to appease her, looks away so she won’t have to watch me Inevitably break into a sprint. When will it be enough for you? Roukia Ali (Kia, she/her) is a Canadian-Comorian writer based in Toronto. Pursuing an Honours Bachelor of Arts double major in English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Toronto Scarborough, she has dedicated her life to professional pursuits in writing since the age of four. Roukia is a first-place winner in Scarborough Fair, and has current and forthcoming publications in Visionary Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Sontag Magazine, and many more. Other than writing, Roukia can be found reading manga, flexing her French, quoting Shakespeare, and attempting unsuccessfully to tear herself away from bookstores. You can follow her on Instagram @roukiaa9140

by Ian Robertson Death is a significant but inevitable occurrence in everyone’s life. Tis strange all right, lookin’ at him there, laid out on the table, a lifeless body, a corpse. ‘Tis hard to credit it. One day buryin’ people, the next bein’ buried yourself. It’s up to me now to give him a decent burial. He taught me well, though. I’ll grant ye that. “You have to respect the dead, Christy boy.” He called me ‘boy’ to the last, even though I’m headin’ on for sixty now. Did I respect him in life? Can I respect him dead? “The dead can’t speak back, you see, Christy boy.” I sometimes wish they could, for I’m sure, if they could, they’d dispense with all the pomp and ceremony and sombre marches to the graveside. “Come on, lads,” they’d say. “Let’s get it over with. Who’s goin’ to remember me in a hundred year anyway? Just throw me into an ould ditch and be done with it.” But then, of course, John Joe Patterson and Associates would be without a job. Would John Joe Patterson want all that? Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t. It’s hard to respect a dead body, a carcass, a piece of rottin’ flesh. You have to respect the man that was. Who the hell was John Joe Patterson, anyway? Did I love him or did I hate him? I don’t know. Probably somewhere in between. I came into his funeral parlour one day. Oh, sure I wasn’t more than sixteen at the time, as dumb as hell, and with no prospects, barrin’ takin’ the boat from Rosslare to Fishguard. But I went in to John Joe Patterson and Associates Funereal Services, anyway. I’d seen himself struttin’ along the Main Street a good many times and he’d always struck me as a decent sort of a man, if a little high and mighty lookin’. I had nothin’ to lose. So, I went in and headed for the desk opposite the door. I stood there for a while, gawkin’, head bent, without a word in me mouth, lookin’ at him writin’ in a ledger. It was strange seein’ him there behind the desk. It didn’t seem right somehow that a man like that should be workin’. Anyway, he raises his head, gives me a long look and says in that lah-dih-dah accent of his, “Is there anything I can do for you, young man?” “Well, I was wonderin’, Sir,” says I, “if ye have ayr an ould job now.” “Ayr an ould job?” says he, with a hint of amusement in his voice. “What’s your name, anyway?” “Christy, Sir. Christy McDermot.” “Would you be any relation of Fergus McDermot that used to work at Pearse’s Iron Foundry?” “That’d be my father, Sir.” “Oh, it would, would it? Now, I happened to like Fergus McDermot. He was a great craftsman. Made many handles for my coffins. Works of art, in fact. Is he still going strong?” “He is, Sir, though he’s a bit shook of late. He have the shakes these past couple of years.” “He have the shakes, do he? I’m sorry to hear that, but I suppose he must be getting on a bit now. Well, give him my regards. So, have you ever come across a dead body, Christy?” “I have not, Sir.” “Well, I suppose you have nothing against dead bodies?” “I do not, Sir.” “That’s good. They’re fairly harmless, by and large, though they can surprise you sometimes. It’s the gas, you see, that accumulates in the bowels and stomach. You might be inclined to put it down to spite, if you weren’t in the know, but I assure you it is merely malodour. You know what that is, Christy boy?” “Oh, I think so, Sir. The ould man do have it somethin’ terrible. Stinks the place out.” “No doubt. Well, as I was saying, the dead are harmless enough, barring certain malodorous exhalations. You don’t believe in ghosts, I suppose.” “Well, I do and I don’t.” “Now, that’s a very interesting perspective on the matter, though I have to admit, somewhat paradoxical.” “Now, I don’t happen to know what that word means, Sir.” “Ah, you don’t, Christy. Well, you should. It’s a very important word, because it sums up life. It’s something like a contradiction. I suppose you know what that means.” “I think so, Sir.” “So, when can you start?” “Whenever you like, Sir.” “Good. In that case you can start straight away. There’s a couple of stiffs, as the Yanks say, in the back room that need washing and shaving and stitching up and that waster of an assistant of mine has let me down yet again. The drink, Christy. It is the scourge of our nation.” “Oh, it is all right, Sir.” “I’m glad you agree with me. But I have to tell you, Christy, I am not in the habit of getting my hands dirty. I simply apply the artistic refinements. Do ye mind getting your hands dirty, Christy?” “Oh, begob, Sir, I do not.” “Well, I can see by the look of ye ye wouldn’t last a week on a construction site in London. So, I have a white coat there in the cupboard. Put it on and let’s get scrubbing.” And that was it. I’ve been workin’ for John Joe Patterson and Associates Funereal Services ever since. Ian Douglas Robertson is a graduate of Trinity College Dublin. He lives and works in Athens, Greece, as a teacher, actor and translator. He has had a number of poems and short stories published in online and print magazines as well as three books of non-fiction in collaboration with his wife Katerina. He has also recently published several novels, available on Amazon, including Break, Break, Break, Under the Olive Tree, The Frankenstein Legacy, On the Side of the Angels, The Reluctant Messiah and The Adventures of Jackie and Jovie. He was chosen as Poet of the month of May 2023 by The Poet. He also published to novels in 2011, entitled Fo’s Baby and Turtle Hawks.

by Mickey Redant Again, I find myself scrying our river orange streetlamp halo shielding me from the night so black. Where was it that we sprang from? To what source does ‘us’ go back? In this fluid dark, I want to find you, but the shadow of my own damned tears is all I can track. Mickey Redant is a writer from Belgium, who earns a living working as a heritage librarian. He can be found on Instagram @m.d.redant.

by Nidha Khan I hated Mother's day. The floral cards, the balloons with My mother is the best!  Written on them in bright pink paint. I stare at the instagram posts on my phone, Little girls with their mothers hugging them, Mocking me with their love. I cry on my couch with the lights off, Imagining my head on my mothers lap, I wonder how it felt, to have her heart to myself. I asked myself what I did wrong, Why I had to beg to be loved, when everyone else just had to be born. I break my bones; bend them to make a new girl, Maybe now she’ll love me? I walk up to my old house; I’ll only stay for a few days mom, I promise. When the girls around me say, “I told my mother, she truly loves me” I stare at them with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. So when some woman somewhere asks me why it matters so much that she loves me, I tell her i don't know, I tell her it’s complicated, Just that my mother never loved me very much, So it matters that everyone else does, Even if they only love the version of me that exists when the lights come on, And the director whispers “Action” in my ears. Nidha is a teenage writer from India who truly believes that the best things to come out of humanity is literature and Taylor Swift. She dedicates most of her time to writing unhinged poetry and watching video essays about society. When she isn't stressing out about her college resume or binging Gilmore Girls, you'll find her organizing her Pinterest boards. She runs the Petrichor Gazette and is currently preparing to take her PSAT'S.

Meet Claudia Wysocky, The Malu Zine’s issue 05 contributor and writer of “A Fish’s Thoughts.” SR: Could you give us a quick introduction to yourself? My name is Claudia Wysocky and I hail from Poland. Currently, I reside in the bustling city of New York and my primary focus is on school. However, writing poetry and novels is my favourite pastime, which brought me to getting published by The Malu Zine and many others (I even have a book in the works with Anxiety Press!) SR: Who inspired you to become a writer? My father. While he is not a writer, he has always been the backbone of our family. He was responsible for bringing us to America and instilling in me the belief that I should follow my own path and pursue my passions, including writing. His support for my writing has been unwavering. SR: What is a word you often use in your writings? I. This singular letter is usually a staple for my poetry, and prose because it allows me to connect with the reader on a more personal level. It makes the writing feel more intimate and honest, as if I am speaking directly to them. SR: What is a song that takes you back in time? "Careless Whisper" by George Michael. My mother used to play it every time she had free time from her busy schedule. The smooth saxophone and Michael's soulful voice and the fact that my mother didn't understand when he sang "Please stay," when she heard it for the first time makes it even more memorable. SR: What advice do you have for young writers who’ve just started their publication journey? As a young poet by age myself, be persistent. Even if you face rejection and criticism, keep writing and honing your craft. I spent an entire year facing rejection before I finally got my first publication, and it was all worth it. Also, don't be afraid to take risks with your writing. Write about what you're passionate about, even if it's unconventional. SR: What are your future plans as a writer? When it comes to my writing, I plan to keep submitting my poetry to various publications and my novels to different publishers. My motto has always been that even if one publisher isn't interested in my work, there will be another who is. That's how I got onto The Malu Zine actually! Persistence :)