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The Minerva Press, named after the Roman goddess of wisdom, is an online California-based youth literary magazine dedicated to championing diversity and spreading awareness about social issues. Our team strives to publish stories from artists of different races, gender identities, and cultures.We hope to help teen creatives find their voice through our publication, as submissions from creators of any experience level are welcome.Young people interested in writing, art, and photography, are encouraged to submit, and we accept works that have previously been published.
| < | Our Team | > |
Camille Tai
Founder and Editor-in-Chief
“Hi, I’m Camille Tai, and I am a rising senior at San Marino High School. In my free time, I enjoy reading books and listening to music! As the founder and editor-in-chief of the Minerva Press, I strive to create an online community that embraces diverse writers. It is important that underrepresented voices are heard, but that is not always the case in the writing and art communities. As such, I hope to share these perspectives through this literary magazine, in which artists of all experience levels will have the opportunity to showcase their skills regardless of background.”
Ethan Bai
Editor
“My name is Ethan Bai. I’m a rising sophomore at the Harvard Westlake School in Los Angeles. I'm an member of my school's middle school symphony, having been since late 2022. Additionally, I'm involved in our school paper, ‘The Spectrum,’ where I participate in reporting and informing the student body and beyond. Outside of school, I'm a student on ModernBrain's national mock trial team, driven by my aspiration to pursue pre-law studies.”
Elliott Bai
Editor
“Hi! I'm Elliott, a rising senior and in my freetime I enjoy listening to music, hanging out with friends, and playing with my dog. I aspire to become a historian one day, and part of historical analysis is to be able to freely voice opinions which is why I have chosen to become a member of the Minerva Press!”
Submissions for Issue 2 are open now! Submit here
Deadline: August 10 at 12:00AM
Olivia
Oh, so blue!What about a hue?
Something, of a deep blue -
a precious shade.
Such an emotion,
one strong as a wave of an ocean!"You'll get better soon,”
a say which chose to stay.
Oh, so blue!
Will you still feel as you?
Or will you never feel new.Will it soon take over -
and turn you to darkness,
oh to feel less heavy.
Oh to feel a vibrance!
Why to never feel as again.Olivia is a 14-year old from England. She identifies as female and is part of the LGBTQ+ community. She is heavily inspired by Emily Dickinson and hopes you enjoy her work!
Astro K.M.G.
Fall from grace.Perhaps God was real.
Maybe he was watching us all along,
Seeing if we were worthy of his grace.
Maybe he grew disgusted.
Appalled by the creatures,
made in his own image.
Perhaps he has abandoned us,
In favor of restarting altogether.
Trying to perfectly capture his image,
We still try to be worthy of him.
Churches larger than homeless shelters,
Filled with praying people,
Repenting for sin.
Perhaps we are not worthy of God's grace,
Perhaps he is not worthy of mine.Astro K.M.G. is a black, AFAB, and autistic 15-year old from the capital of the United States.
Morgan Wright
A Hunger ArtistTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses eating disorders.Inspiration strikes as I’m walking out the door,
paused by my grandmother’s voice–
Hey, are you losing weight?
I tell her I don’t know,
but those five words
have triggered the hyper-awareness
years of therapy have tried to erase.
If I wasn’t before, I sure as hell
will be now.I’ll live off of rice cakes and unsalted almonds,
treating my clothes as cages, putting my body
on display while hiding its flaws behind bars.I’m addicted to a shrinking waist
even if it means soft teeth and coarse hair–
even if it means painting my skin yellow
with cracked hands and brittle nails.I’ll count calories until I revel in the feeling
of nausea so disorienting I couldn’t eat
even if I wanted to. Once you’ve gone
twelve hours, what’s twelve more?Morgan Wright is 22-year old poet from Delaware currently pursuing their MFA from Arcadia University. Her work often wrestles with themes of girlhood and their experiences as a closeted queer woman.
Kori McLane
All My LoveAll the love I give you is yours to keep.It is humid and my hair sticks to my skin with a lingering habit I hoped your eyes would copy, but you are quiet as ever.I had hoped the blistering sun would loosen your lips enough for me to pry a whisper from their melted wax, but we are sixteen, and sixteen-year-olds are not candlesticks nor thieves.Honey-dipped words do not seduce you, nor do my taffy-wrapped promises, and you care not for sentences draped in broken shells of crumbling chocolate or paragraphs dusted with entrails of sugar.I fear you do not like sweets much.I am sweet, wrapped in cotton candy lipstick and dunked in caramel gloss – sweets to make myself an easier pill to swallow.I fear you do not like me much.Graves cannot talk, but if they could, yours would whoop and holler into the snow-peaked mountains.It shakes birds from their perches and wakes bears early from their naps, but you lie sleeping.Caskets have no lips to speak, nor a tongue, yet yours whispers promises like bitter cherry wine.It swallows sweet and easy with a sharp slice of grieving aftertaste, of ginger denial and cinnamon regrets.Headstones have no hands, yet yours snatches life from my unsteady feet and grass-stained knees.Even prostrate at your plot, you do not wake for me.Your chiseled rock screams shrillest and most of all the weathered stones in the lot, yet I, Odysseus, peel wax from my ears and walk toward your siren song.So all of this sappy love that clings to the undersides of your nails and the bottoms of your shoes is yours to keep until it is scrubbed off next winter anyways as ice packs onto the lips of your boot and pries away my last few touches.17-year old Kori McLane hails from the Midwest United States and is a proud queer and transgender student.
Ema Helltax
DistanceThe clouds watched the mountains,
Strong.
Regal.
Infallible.
The clouds longed to join the mountains,
To be together.
But they knew their rain would erode The tall cliffs they so admired.
And so, the clouds kept their distance.The moon watched the ocean,
Gentle.
Beautiful.
Important.
The moon longed to approach the ocean,
To be close.
But it knew it would pull the ocean's calm shore Into violent waves.
And so, the moon kept its distance.But,The clouds did not know that
Without their rain,
There would be no life on the mountains.The moon did not know that
Without its pull,
There would be no tide in the ocean.Nevertheless, they kept their distance.Lex Leatham, whose pen name Ema Helltax is an anagram, is a 16-year old from Great Falls, Montana. They are a writer, artist, musician, and actor. They are genderfluid (they/them) and bisexual, which can make navigating the world a little bit difficult, but they have found their home in the arts.
Ashfirah Faizah
how to be a snail1. be small, and let the big-ness of the world surround you from all sides.
[the world is an atlas that stretches out for miles and miles before me, begging to be discovered, yet i can’t even find a home, so how am i going to explore the unknown? my mother used to tell me to be brave and always take the challenge, but for so long, i chose the opposite of that and let the world eat me whole. i was always too scared and now all my plans are but empty lists. i have no one willing to help me (they have better things to worry about). now i am stuck in a place i am not sure of, and i will never get the chance to tour the globe. they always told me i wasn’t worth the time anyway, so no—i’m not sad and sulking. it’s only nostalgic to think that 5 years ago today, i was still dreaming.]2. move slowly as you leave your mark on the ground, no matter where you go.
[i wade through time as if i am a child wading through the waters. my movements cannot speed up no matter how much faster i try to move. and everything around me is a blur; it is all filtered in blue and tears. i cannot tell my left from my right, dream from reality, and all the people i love seem to always be running away from me. no matter how fast i run, i can never catch up. i seem to always be too slow, and even if i tried changing my shoes, they only make me walk slower. all i leave behind are footprints and dreams but it doesn’t change a thing. it doesn’t stop the world from turning. it will never stop things from changing. it will never stop time from slipping out of my hands and disappearing.]3. blend into nature—also known as camouflage.
[i have always blended in with the world around me, up to the point where no one really sees me. i am a shadow on the walls, a lurking whisper of all the people i once was. if you’ve ever wondered, even i am not sure how i got here. and while it is nice sometimes to not be seen, it hurts when you turn into a ghost that no one listens to or looks out for. you seep into the shadows–but at what cost? some say it’s inevitable, that it’s a part of nature that everyone will face at some point or another. if we are all so good at camouflage, then why give it a name? why call it a phase? why push me out when i’m just looking to stay?]4. carry your shell with you. it is your home, always heavy on your back.
[i was always taught to forgive but never to forget (is it bad that they were the best at teaching me what a grudge is?), so i carry the weight of the world on my shoulders no matter where i go. i heave the world on my back. everything that shapes my heart and mind stays on, and even the heaviest of rains won’t wash them off. moments may come and go but i bring home everywhere i may be, every pain and memory i have sticking onto a part of me i can’t quite see, one i can’t quite ever get rid of. i am a soul, seemingly cursed to remember every tragedy that has befallen itself. i bring a piece of my heart wherever i am. i wear my heart like a badge full of cracks stained with blood, tears and time.]5. stay strong. people will walk all over you, but that’s what you’ve always been through.
[i let people step all over me, no matter how much it hurts. because i never seem to learn how to protect myself. i only watch as they leave yet another scar, another crack on my skin, yet there is no blood that seeps through those cracks. there is nothing that they can see, no sign that anyone could make it hurt so bad. so they leave me broken, every time, without even knowing it. isn’t there such bliss in ignorance?]6. live your life to its fullest. don’t worry, no one will ask you to move mountains or to climb them.
[societal pressure kills you. it seeps into the blood like poison, unseen and quiet, yet threatening to take your life along the way. they will tell you to live your life your way, and to always enjoy yourself. yet they turn the hand they offer into a knife that stabs you in the back that never quite goes away. the wound never heals and the blood never stops running. i was always told i could move mountains even though they all knew i very much couldn’t. i couldn’t even change my heart no matter how hard i wanted to, and worst of all, i couldn’t make them stay. so how can i soar high and reach the sky? how can i reach the heights that i’ve always dreamt of? how do i live my life knowing that no matter how much i try, it won’t change a single thing that leaves their lips, when people only remember you when you're gone?]7. keep on going until you make it to the next day.
[in life, you will face problems much bigger than yourself. they will take up so much of your time, so much of your life trying to overcome them that it seems almost that an eternity will pass before you can make it to the next day. but as long as you can still breath, i say you keep walking till your legs give way, keep crawling until your knees break, keep reaching further and further and maybe you will get there someday. even when you are out of breath, not ready to let another second pass, know that the next day will come regardless and you will make it out till then. some will say you’re running away from your problems when you begin to go slower, but who cares? some things are best to leave for tomorrow’s you to handle.*]Ashfirah Faizah is an 18-year old student from Singapore who loves literature and learning. When she is not too busy with school, she enjoys dabbling in realistic fiction and poetry. She has written her own poetry collection titled ‘This Journey Never Ends’ and is currently working on many never-ending writing projects.
Phoenix J. Sprole
Bane of SkyI love storms.
Thunderstorms are my first love.
The bellows of the downpour, the blinding light cutting through the cold air- it holds a beauty no mere human could obtain.
When I hear the droplets start to fall I run outside, wanting to share in the skies gift.
It's almost ritual by now.
I am not a religious person, but the goliath's piercing cries do call to me in the sense a god would.
I wait in anticipation for his hand to reach down and touch the earth in the all-destructive way only he can do.
I reach my hand up in return- praying the goliath blesses me with his malevolent, all consuming caress.
“Strike me, O bane of sky! Make me yours, if only for a moment! Connect me to you in your vastness. In your wholeness! As above, so below!”
I wail.
“As above, so below!”
And as I see the sun emerge my wailing ceases.
My love, my goliath- his hand grows distant.
But he will come again and block the lights brash rays in his all covering blanket.
After all, as above, so below.Phoenix is a 17-year old writer from Las Vegas, Nevada. Its pronouns are preferably it/its, but any pronouns work. Besides writing short stories and poetry, it loves caring for its houseplants, reading, listening to music, and watching horror movies! This is its first time putting its writing out there, so it thanks you truly for reading.
B.C.
Summers FlightThe heron preys with soft steps.
Under its sword,
Eyes watched wearily.
Stubborn as it be,
The water fell fitful beneath him.Starlings would bring water-colored nights.
Crowding in moon-kissed pelts.
Over the branches, they swooned
For the Trumpets of angels
That sang in the night.Beneath the ash, wings once spread.
Roots faltered beneath the fire,
Burning small whispers.
Leaving the thrush
to sing their tales of
Ancient springs.B.C. (they/them) is a 17-year old from Virginia, USA. They focus a lot of my writing off of nature and their love for birds. They spend a lot of their time reading, writing, and drawing!
vervain
fadedThe face of the man in a damp, faded photograph haunts me,
maybe as much as my father’s hand ghosts my cheek.His arm, tenderly wrapped around my mother’s shoulder
With protection–
With warmth–
Tender.I thought of my mother,
In university; absolutely carefree
Within the arms of a man, a smile on her lips
And his love in her heart.I thought of my mother,
With her shoulders held high,
Her paint-smeared hands
Holding his
On hers
At ease in love.I think of my mother
And I look at the faded paper of the photograph, 1994.I held it in my hand,
Maybe as much as she held it in her heart,
And try to push the thoughts off my core.
It eats at me.I try not to think of my mother
With someone to bring back her smile,
To tell her,
Her mistakes are small,
Her decisions are right.
She is going to be fine,With someone worthier;But alas,
Instead,
She met my father.Vervein is a romance loving writer from the Philippines, taking inspiration from the three most important things in her life: her mom, her friends and her pets: Loki the sock eating dog and Val the duvet scratching nightmare. She is currently taking a gap year from college to widen her scope of experiences and to simply live life without the pressure of points and credits for the first time in her life.
Michelle Y.
Three Weeks of EnvyCan you hear the grasshoppers?
that croak along the dusk horizon, mumbling ballads and humorous verses from behind a holey silk bedsheet?Their stories are seeds spread by the breeze from behind my lacy cocoon
that provides me warm comfort
while their words plant in my abdomen.Can you hear the withering mums?
that speak only to the young but wise,
for a flower’s wisdom may not suffice for the wanderers, the explorers never lost, though still looking.The eclipse of moths have been waiting centuries
for me to outgrow my chrysalis
they are crushed by the burden of their unpleasant past but now their beauty is rage—
and their rage is beauty—
that fills up my ugly caterpillar body with roaring envy, for my change is incomplete.And still with these sounds
that forces my tiny heart to beat louder,
I can feel the tips of my transformation,
the edges of a feverish dream that is soon to unfurl.Michelle Yeboah is a student from the United States with a deep passion for writing, art, and music. She loves to share her stories with the world and is excited to publish a few YA novels. Yeboah is a writer and cartoonist for her school newspaper.
Grace Sinkins
Moving behindI’ll dance with you if you wish me to—
But I’ll only be following her moves—
Tracing her steps and holding out for her return—
I’ll let you lead me but she’s the only person i’ll ever follow—
To forests and fields—
To dead ends and ditches—
Until I’m leaving white roses at her grave in the harshest of winters—
She always was a traditionalist.
I’ll tell you lies of love—
But she’s the only one who will ever feel the true warmth of my gentle touch—
You have my attention for now—
She had the faux domestic morning kisses—
The postcards of our futures—
Promises that circumstances could never fulfill—
I’ll be your lover for the hour—
After that I’m not to be perceived—
I’ll leave you in the way she left me—
Leaving no trace of the person I told you I could be.Grace Sinkins is an 18-year old poet from Virginia, USA. Sinkins has been previously published in numerous magazines such as The Expressionist Lit, Malu Zine, and Corporeal Lit Mag. You can find her on Substack and Instagram @gracexlizzie.
Jessica Lakay
SilhouetteI’ve seen you in my dreams many times before
Behind a shadow casted by lust and pure desire.
All the times I’ve called out to you,
You came to me.
As far as this path goes,
I’ll go with you.
As we breathe and capture our magnetic emotions,
This road goes further in elevation.
I would say you are my weakness.
The warmth of your body gives me strength.
The gift of knowing you in this way is my pleasure.
I’m sure you’re glad you know me in this way as well.
There are no secrets where we lay our heads.
I’ve seen and felt every crevice of your warm embrace.
When you rest your worries onto me,
It as if two roses have bloomed on my shoulders.
May this ritual of push, pull, love, and explosive gratification between us be practice forever.Jessica Lakay (lah-kay),18, is a Jamaican American writer hailing from South Florida. Lakay has written various poems and short stories centered around sensuality, childhood, love, and spirituality. They hope to give the unheard a voice in their poetry, as well as offer a space to have conversations about queer love.
Ajiboye Senami
Trapped on Shore“Dive in! Dive in!”
The gentle waves of the water are calling,
Pining for the tickles of mine in sweeps
As I stand by the rippling sea.“Jump in! Jump in!”
The beach tides are calling,
Begging the little girl to lay on its surface,
Longing for the warmth of her soft skin
Upon its light waves.“It’s not me anymore.”
How do I explain to the wailing sea?
I’m not that little girl anymore;
I can’t help!If I jump in,
The weight of my shoulders,
The burden of my mind,
The flood of my teary eye,
will anger waves to storm.Senami is an 18-year old writer from Nigeria. She is a young and emerging poet who loves to write pieces that appreciate love and nature.
M.S. Blues
a night in san antoniobright, bright lights,
on wild, wild nights!
those skies,
singing ballads
to those beholding eyes!
the warm, tired vivacity
illuminates like a raindrop
over my restless eye!
(does this city ever sleep?
does this city ever breathe?
does this city ever awake from its dream?)
a girl from california wouldn’t be aware.
surely, i’m equipped to handle the life of the party,
but i wonder if my skills are adequate enough to survive this night...i suppose we shall see!M.S. Blues (United States) is an 18 year old multiracial, queer, and versatile writer who has been writing since the age of seven. Her work revolves around the darker pieces of humanity that society tends to neglect. She has been published by many literary magazines and currently serves as an editor for The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, and Chromatic Stars Review. Her Instagram handle is @m.s.blues_.
M.S. Blues
dear youthful selffor me,
i’m sorry i allowed you to endure so much pain.i’m so sorry. i failed you in multiple ways. i should’ve protected you, guarded you, put you in armor, and placed a force field around you. maybe then you wouldn’t have spent all those nights crying yourself to sleep, sometimes throwing up the things you eat, or wishing god struck you down due to your desire for defeat. if only i could go back in time... but i cannot. all i can do is torment myself as i remember what you’ve endured.violation, their hands on you tarnished your innocence and safety. they smiled each time they did it, knowing you’d never say a word.
bullying, how those people tarnished your worth and confidence. they stole it, then threw it somewhere you’d never find it.
pearls, how she tarnished your ability to discern fantasy from reality. she promised you a new world without monsters, but yet she made you become your biggest one.
those voices of your demons, how they tarnished your motivation. they obstruct you from moving on, tightening the ropes as time proceeds.
him, your biggest demon, how he tarnished your sanity. he leads everything, gagging you when you try to protest against his remarks.
those nightmares, how they tarnished your mind from deleting the past. they kept driving you around in your memory, and had that seatbelt fastened.
depression, how it continues to tarnish your resilience. it physically holds you by the ankle, dragging you back down no matter how many times you swim to the top.i’m so sorry. you’re in a better place now. i’m doing fine, still on my feet. you’re not broken now, because the glass has been swept and replaced with i. so despite the roaring flames of anguish that burned you before, you are no longer experiencing that inferno. you now flourish in ashes of optimism.dear youthful self, you are one with purpose.M.S. Blues (United States) is an 18 year old multiracial, queer, and versatile writer who has been writing since the age of seven. Her work revolves around the darker pieces of humanity that society tends to neglect. She has been published by many literary magazines and currently serves as an editor for The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, and Chromatic Stars Review. Her Instagram handle is @m.s.blues_.
Kate Abrielle McCormick
Dear Government, Get Out of My WombMy body aches from the bomb shoved into my womb.
I have been part of this fight since the moment I was born,
My sex on full display and labeled “Property,”
Everyone so divided over something so simple.● Do you have male sex organs?
○ Then spread your opinion on what’s best for those who don’t.
● Do you have female sex organs?
○ You will have no say in what happens to you.Women made men, yet men are trying to unmake women,
To paint them in a different hue
Until there is nothing for women to do
But serve and sit still.My throat aches from the pepper spray blasted against my face.I have been part of the protest since the moment I first cried,
My voice screaming to be heard above all the egos,
Everyone divided over something so simple.● Are you Christian?
○ You probably agree with the government.
● Are you anything else?
○ You will learn to accept the Christian way.There should not be any conversation with one religion as the defense.
The world is, after all, formed by many.
They act as if there aren’t any
religions, ethnicities, and personalities
Other than one.We are tired of fighting
Tired of weaving together reasons of why
Wombs are not separate from the people that have them
Why aren’t they allowed to be free?
Free to be,
Free to see
A future?Instead, children are forced to have babies.
Miscarriages are killing.
All of this over-billing
Of Anti-abortion laws,
A deadly eagle capturing us in claws Forced instead of Free,
Continuing to plea,
Dying slowly
In AmericaKate Abrielle McCormick is a 22-year old Bachelor's student studying English with Creative Writing at Queen Mary University of London. She will be continuing her education following the summer, pursuing a Master's in Creative Writing. Her works, which often revolve around LGBTQ+ and feminist ideas, can be found on Amazon and in select stores in PA.
Nepthys
Death of A ChildPeople call it growing up.
I call it death of a child, who lived in me.
The child
Whose trauma remains unsolved.
Forget about it being unsolved;
It's not even addressed in all these years,
For I'm a grown up now,
supposed to understand what the children in children's bodies nowadays want
But how could I
When I don't even know what it was I desired as a child?
Now that I think about it,
Maybe all I want is validation from others that I'm a good child,
Or someone ruffling my hairs with a warm smile on their lips,
Or to laugh out loud without a care in this world.
How embarrassing the voice is, stern inside in curt tones.
However much I run away,
This voice always manages to slay the smithereen of hope I find for myself.
“Mother when will you leave me alone?”Nepthys is a normal human being, or at least they try to decieve other into believing that they are normal. They are a book nerd through and through, just discovering that they like psychological thriller and fluffy romances as well.
Ann H. Smith
three wordsTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses a suicide attempt.each evening,
i perch on the rail of the deck
and sit there in solitude,
silently grieving.will this be the night,
the night it all ends?
i prepared my note,
the one for my friends.it stays on the kitchen table,
forever a reminder of who i have become
i can’t bring myself to see my therapist;
she knows i am unstable.
my pretty little life has come undone.tears brush across my cheeks and slide down,
the most human touch i have had in months.
in the dark, i hear only one sound:
the soft cries of a woman shunned.the next moment i know too well;
my mind was in the gutter.
i was ready to go.
but someone uttered,
“what’re you doing?”
three words,
and my life changed for the better.Ann H. Smith is a teenager from the United States. She primarily writes heartbreaking poems, as she is a firm believer in sharing her and other people’s stories.
Claudia Wysocky
HerAll these lines.
All these words.
All these thoughts, scribbled across paper for a girl I do not see.
(Not know.)
Scribbled in ink, staining the paper,
Staining my soul.
But she is—
…she is beautiful.
She is the way.On the composition notebooks pages before me:
Dig deep.
Dig deep to the bottom—
and think of her,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
How do I love thee? ―My Shakespeare's not bad.And since this is a letter, there are no right answers.
Merely opinions… opinions… opinions.
(Love me.)—I wish she would do this for me.
Done.
Looking.
—Through the pages of a notebook, written across its lines.I am looking for the girl who stole my thoughts and my heart.
—I couldn't help it, so I love her, with all my soul.
With all of my soul, in every word I speak,
—Thoughts of her burning a hole through my words until they're blurred.Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. 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.
Ana Achata
the haunting of meni am the prayer that you learned at six,
that you speak to an empty room
when you are afraid of the night—
something heavy and constant.you will think of the poems i showed you
and feel as if something is missing
when you hear them read
in your own voice.you will be searching for me
in the faces of your lovers
for the rest of your life—
and i will know it.Ana Achata is a 19-year old artist currently based near Chattanooga, Tennessee in the United States. Ana’s work has been featured in The Diamond Gazette, as well as hidden in various public places for others to find.
Montather Al-Zubeidy
Old ScarsTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses domestic abuse.“You let it have you all over again.”Adam’s fingers brushed over bloody knuckles, burst and stained red. “I tried to stop myself.” He mumbled after a moment.“Then why didn’t you stop?”Adam’s hand stopped. A fist flashed through his memory, one not belonging to him, but one that had left marks.“I couldn’t.”“You’re like him.” The words make his breath pause in his throat.“I’m trying not to be.”“What does it matter if you try?” The voice was bitter, cold. “You never follow through. You take your pain, and put it in other people!”“Where am I supposed to put my anger?” Adam murmured back. “You tell me to put it down, but you don’t tell me how to stop curling my fingers around it.”“You put it anywhere but other people, even if it kills you! Especially if it kills you!” They took a deep, calming breath. Their voice sounded strained. “Adam. You need to learn to forget.”“You say to forget like it’s easy.” His voice is rough, low. “Did you forget what he did to us? To me?”“Of course I didn’t-”“Let me remind you.” Adam pulls up the bottom of his shirt. Below, his body was a mass of scars. They fell silent. “I can’t forget. When I close my eyes, I see his face. When I close my fist, I see his.” A silence. “He butchered you. Nearly killed you. I learned to protect you.”“And to stop protecting everyone else?”Adam’s anger flared up. “Who did you protect? Last I remember, you were too busy having dad beat the living shit out of you to protect anyone.” Immediately he could feel the hurt radiating off of them- he looked away.“You were killed. Carved up. I saved what I could.” His words sounded weaker now, his neck aching as if a rock had settled in his throat. “I did.” Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself?He could feel that pitying gaze on him. And then, they disappeared- leaving Adam alone. Alone, the way he liked it.Montather, also known as Monty, is a senior at Southeast High School. He has been reading since he was six, and writing since he was close to ten years old. He is an Iraqi boy, and his sexual orientation is simply queer.
Leslie Hernandez
A Colorless EndAmalthea feels the soft silk of her dress tickle her bare legs and her hair sway softly with the cold breeze. She stands still, admiring the beauty of the stars twinkling above her. She lets out a small giggle as tears well up in the corner of her eyes. Reality was finally setting in on her; she had been tricked. The tears burn her soft cheeks, and she tries to wipe them away. But they just keep coming. She falls to her knees and holds her face, the star-shaped tears only serving to remind her that Deimos would never love her back, that he never intended to do so. The twinkling that accompanies each tear drives her insane, but she still continues to cry. She knows each tear drains her ability to see color and that if she continues, she will be colorblind. But she still continues to cry.She cries for a man who tricked her into loving him.
She cries for a chance to make everything go back to the way it was.
She cries because as her world dulls, so does her heart.
She cries for a lost love, one she naively believed in.
She cries for all the other girls that have fallen into his trap.
She cries for all the girls that he will trick after her.
She cries for herself, because she knows she did not deserve this punishment.
She cries because she knows that this will cause her to be distrustful of love.
She cries because all her tears will be used up, and they will all be for Deimos.Amalthea stares up once more at the sky, willing herself to memorize the beautiful starry night because this will be the last one she will ever see. She closes her eyes, painting the beautiful and vibrant sky onto her eyelids. When she opens them again, her world is black, white, and gray. The world is no longer alive, just like her heart. She lays on the grass, the faint twinkling of her dried up tears haunting her as she falls asleep. Her dreams are now her escape from the constant reminder that her heart is now forever broken. She should have known that the hero and the man were not one in the same. The hero saved her and lifted her up while the man broke her and let her fall. Loving a hero was the worst mistake of her life.Leslie A. Hernandez Cruz is a 22-year old English major from Puerto Rico. She is a bisexual woman who uses she/they pronouns. They like writing, both creatively and in an academic setting setting, and reading fictions books.
A. Deshmane
Se Videt in SpeculoTRIGGER WARNING: This piece discusses gender dysphoria and self-harm.Sometimes she thought that maybe she was not like Lucy, that she was different. They were the same in the eyes of Mama, most of the time. Wrapped in Mama’s arms that smelled of soap and talcum, nothing mattered. And they were the same in the mirror in the upstairs bathroom. It surprised her to see herself staring back, eyes wide, palms pressed up against the glass. Sometimes she thought that the mirror was broken, but there were no cracks in it, and Mama looked at her strange when she said that the face looking back couldn’t be hers.Her face always puzzled her, too. Sometimes when she was feeling bad, she even whispered that she hated it: her hair and the dresses Mama swore she looked so pretty in, too. She only said things like that at night, when Lucy was asleep and no one else could hear her. That made her feel good, and evil too. But then she would realize that no one was listening, and she would feel bad all over again. Being evil, she found out, was only fun when you had someone to do it with.And it was Lucy’s face, too. That was the only thing that stopped her totally hating it. Lucy was the one they all bent down to nod at when she and Lucy and Mama went out. Maybe Mama’d told them things, or maybe it was the scowl on her face when they looked at Lucy and didn’t hear her say “nice to meet you” right when Lucy did. She didn’t care, really, if Lucy felt good. She wasn’t even scowling at them. It was the powder and the ribbons and the dress she’d have on that made her feel so, so wrong.Sometimes she wanted to scratch at her skin until she didn’t even look like a girl anymore. But she thought that that would probably hurt, so she never tried to see if it would work or not.Once she tried telling Mama about her face and the ribbons that were all so wrong, but Mama scowled right back at her, confused, not angry, really, until she felt so, so bad and cried. Mama didn’t look up over dinner that night, and neither did she. They ate their chicken in silence.The next time she and Lucy and Mama went out, she tried not to scowl when her dress bunched up or the powder got sticky on her hands. She didn't say “nice to meet you” anymore, because if they pinched her cheeks and said, “what a nice young lady,” like they did sometimes to Lucy, she thought she would die. She knew that something inside her would shrivel up and she would melt in a puddle of whatever it was that she was and just die. She knew that Lucy was a girl, and she hated that Lucy was so sure and didn't have to wonder sometimes. Because when she was wondering and whispering when no one was listening about her not-right face and wanting to rip at her hair like Mama ripped open envelopes, that was what scared her the most. That she was different from Lucy, because if she wasn’t Lucy's twin sister, one and the same, then who even was she anymore?It was dark when she and Lucy and Mama left for home. They’d been out for hours, and she clung to Mama’s side as they walked up the road. Lucy was breathing softly, her foot falling outside the nest Mama’s arms made when they held her or Lucy. Mama tousled her hair the way she’d seen other mamas do to their boys. She finally felt good, like she did when she held her hair behind her head so it looked short in the mirror.“‘I’m not a girl, Mama,” she said, smiling sleepily. Her nose found the soft hem of Mama’s coat and nuzzled, and she felt so, so right. The walk home after that was quiet again, and when she was lying next to Lucy in the bed upstairs at home, she thought she maybe shouldn’t have said that, even though Mama made her feel good just then.She walked to the bathroom, eyes down so she wouldn’t see her face in the mirror. Mama was sitting on the toilet with the lid down, shaving off leg hair she couldn’t even see. Mama called shaving “womanly maintenance,” which were words that she pretended to not know once, just to make Lucy laugh. She always felt really good when Lucy laughed at something she said. Mama told her to go back to bed in a voice that made her feel bad in a different way, so she did. But she tried her hardest not to go to sleep until she heard the click of the bathroom light and the sounds of Mama going down the stairs.With a click, she turned the light in the bathroom back on. She opened up the cupboard under the vanity. She sifted past the ribbons that she and Lucy had worn earlier that night, and Mama’s earrings that were too big for her or Lucy’s ears, and even the cotton balls and extra boxes of powder that Mama had, for when the box that was open right now ran out.She held Mama’s razor up in the dim light of the bathroom. The glint of the slanting blades made her feel good, and evil in a new way. In the mirror, she saw her face that was just the same as Lucy’s, and the smudge of powder that was still on the edge of her cheek. She pressed her hands up against the mirror that wasn’t broken, and took a long hard look at the face that never wore the fact that she was a girl very well. Like the shoes that Mama had returned to the shop, it simply didn’t fit.She looked at the face that never felt right and the razor that might make it better. She sliced.A. Deshmane (they/them) is a queer poet from scorching Arizona. Their other work has been published by or is forthcoming in Stone of Madness Press, engendered lit, Catheartic Magazine, and Corporeal Lit. In their spare time, they can be found wandering the desert on local hikes or wishing they owned a cat. Find them @aar.deshm on Instagram.*
Atheena Alonzo
DisconnectionI ran around in flip flops all day, drinking C2 from the sari sari store and eating the freshly delivered pandesal every morning, wondering if this was the happiest I had ever been— nothing compares to the scorching Philippines’ sun.I smiled at my cousins, amused at how we got along when it was hard for us to communicate, when we hadn’t really met face to face until now.In a few days, I’d have to leave this place I’m supposed to call home.“I’m going back home to the Philippines!” “I can’t wait to go back home.” Was it really home if I visited once every seven years? Was it really home if I couldn’t speak the mother tongue? Was it really home… at all?I am proud to be Filipino and to represent my country, but was it proud of me?I live a different life back in England where I was raised. I learnt to talk and walk there; all my friends are over there. There is no denying this is my home — the smell of fish and chips every Friday in the school canteen, playing with a football, and the British weather of rain, sunshine, clouds, and hailstone all in one day. Of course, this was my physical home, but I didn’t feel too accepted here either, where people both envy and hate your tanned skin or cringe at the smell of your packed lunch.I’ll watch Filipino films, feeling ashamed to have the subtitles on, and I’ll feel embarrassed, not understanding the customs here; I’ll always feel different.A disconnection from two cultures, two languages, two cuisines, and two people I could have been.I’ll have to wait until my next three-week trip to the Philippines to feel at “home” once again. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep trying to fit into my other “home” over here.Atheena Alonzo is a 17-year old Filipino girl, born and raised in Britain with a passion for writing with aspirations of studying journalism. She hopes to spread relatable pieces of writing that strike chords in the hearts of everyone, especially people of colour who don't feel heard.
Irina Tall Novikova
UntitledIrina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, and illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art and also has a bachelor's degree in design. In her works, she discusses themes of ecology, draws on anti-war topics, and depicts various fantastic creatures.
Irina Tall Novikova
Dreams girlIn 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines such as Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room, and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories,” and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter.”
Miranda Wise
Spring JoyMiranda Wise is a 14-year old artist from the United States. To improve her skills, she has been taking weekly art lessons for almost two years now. After finishing a drawing, she feels a bit closer to having peace. When shes older, she hopes to have a job where she can create.
Gia Riley
Parking Lot SunsetsGia Riley is a 14-year old genderqueer mixed race POC lesbian from the United States.
Kori McLane
Suitably Distressed Lion17-year old Kori McLane hails from the Midwest United States and is a proud queer and transgender student.
Hailey Paulson
True PeaceHailey Paulson has been writing ever since she picked up her first notebook and jotted down a half-baked story. When she is not typing away, she is curled up with a good book, performing under the stage lights, or staring into space.
Kaidence Moss
Cherub’s eternal slumberKaidence Moss is a 14-year old writer and artist from North Carolina.
