Pepper

MOLLY ZHU

On the glossy webpage, I watch my body become a slot machine.

For each way that I am hunted, there are stiff, cold dollars to be made

and may this be a survival story,

I think as I find a weapon for my hips and my breasts

and the skin I can never shed. I place a bulk order.

Weeks later, I bring my security clenched in coiled fists

for my girlfriends at a dinner in a trendy rooftop bar

where the couches are pastel and velvet like oversized gumdrops

and we are living breathing young women

walking in a treacherous world. I forget

this sometimes because it’s simpler not to remember. We giggle

when I pull them out because they are hot pink

like a plastic lawn flamingo or a summer nail polish and

obvious in a way we hope that we are not,

when riding the train late at night, walking on the uneven, shifting

streets, when a man we don’t know sidles up to us

on the corner like a concrete wall, when we feel eyes pouncing on our

shoulder blades (but we pretend we don’t)

and walk faster, more directly, clutch our keys, grit our jaws,

stare defiantly ahead, make ourselves invisible, switch

to the next subway car, stay always indelibly colored

in fatality.

NINA SIKANDAR

Glittering

EMMA SWEENEY

Like glitter through the leaves, 

The sun dancing down,  

The wind tickling the branches,  

The blue sky peeking unbound.  

We cycled through the forest once 

On this long trip North, 

Through tens of miniature villages. 

The smell of the pines pulling us forth.  

The crunch of the tyres  

Demolishing the silence of the trees.  

The pine needles flattened  

In the stiff, hot breeze… 

And now I miss how things

Used to be.

Before the moon cast away

The spirits of our play.

clementine

MIA GALAN

She peels you apart like a ripened tangerine. 

She takes you between her teeth, pulls your flesh apart beneath her canines. 

Her fingers run across the ladders of your scars like she’s testing guitar strings, easily and void of apprehension.

Her eyes chart out the freckles on your spine, and she makes a map of their constellations.

Her mouth grazes your ear, and bathed in the yellow half-light, she whispers,

I chase absolution by burning things down with my hands.

You feel her palms press into the desiccated cavern of your chest. 

Your lungs swell with the air she pushes into your mouth. 

She is ambrosia gifted to the dying man.

Perhaps death by flame is something you don’t quite mind.

Ignite me, dear. I would burn forever for you.

did you deserve my heart?

TARYN MULLINS

if i was too much to handle, like it was half-implied,

then i am happy to point you in the direction

of much easier people to build a life with.

but remember when i whisper in your ear

that they will not ever be half the person i am.

i want that to respectfully haunt you for the rest of time

when you constantly realize what an ethereal soul you lost.

May 23rd

PAMELA MARINO

4:57 pm. Washing off my pan, I start to make dinner. It’s just me, but I still make enough for two. Some nights I grab your plate and set it next to mine. I still buy your coffee creamer, your favorite sodas, even those little soups you’d bring to work. They collect dust on the shelf and I force myself to drink them before they expire, but I don’t want to drink them. I bought them for you. 

I still make your favorite meal on your birthday. Every year, May 23rd, 5 pm hits and I start breading the chicken. I preheat the oven to 450, and I use name-brand cheese and sauce because today is a special day. While the pasta is boiling and the chicken is baking, I watch the door. I hear the click of the turning knob, I see you stumbling in, exhausted. You’re taking off your shoes, letting your hair down. Your eyes light up as you realize I remembered, your forehead creases, and your eyebrows raise. I watch the dead air in front of me and you make it feel so alive. 

Every year, May 23rd, I serve myself your favorite meal and I can feel every piece of you that was left behind for me. Your warm winter hats, your perfume, and your lipstick, your Nona’s cookie recipe (of which I was sworn to secrecy), your emerald ring, the pebble you picked out of the dirt because you liked the way it sparkled, everything. I remember you and I imagine the person you would be today, everything you could have taught me, where would the world have taken us?

I know you’re not coming back, but I will always love you, and it feels right to remember the way we loved each other.

My Big Thighs

Pants never fucking last. 

These ripe thighs 

are fuzzy friction peaches,

juicy with grief

and worn away crotch. 

Without dutiful reinforcements,

powder and 6 inch briefs,

my beautiful skin

will spark 

like a bottomed out car.

I won’t ever have

to worry about being 

stranded on an island… 

Getting fire would be

the easiest thing;

wedge some dry grass and a few

twigs between my legs

and walk

walk 

walk.

POEMS BY HUNTER HODKINSON

No Beauty Left And Yet I Strive For It

why is my value centered 

upon my wide opened hand,

dust penniless and 

void of validation? 

why do I know longer write

to convey 

but to curate

moments like museum

artifacts polished 

for dumbed down 

eyes to gawk? 

how, so young,

have I been stifled 

by the industry,

like a fruit fly

to an apple-less core,

picking and searching 

for nothing, 

no sweetness

left to suck,

pretty to pillage? 

all that remains 

is an odorous pointlessness,

stinking in omnipresent haze,

a misty mysticism 

missing culture and craft.

Selkie

KAY

When we emerge from the sea we are completely dry. As if we had been up on the rocks the entire time, staring down at the ocean, instead of rolling along with the waves that froth and bubble on the shore.

There are a dozen of us or so, and although we are all different shapes, sizes and colours, we are all beautiful. With our matching pearl eyes, that glimmer rose pink in the sunlight, and whitest-of-white smiles. There isn’t the slightest possibility we could be mistaken for humans, not when our hair is as thick as seaweed, our laughter like the gentle melody of a pan flute. We are every bit encapsulating. 

We are every human’s wildest dream.

My sisters and I crunch our toes in the lukewarm sand, amongst the torn-up shells that are as old as they are singing under our feet. We make our way to the rocks that hold the secrets, keeping our coats as close as possible. Dana knows what might happen if we drop them, and although this is my first trip above the water, my sister’s warnings have frightened me enough to know that it’s not good. 

A mass of coal-grey rocks stands firm and tall, full of cracks given by the tides that crash against them. We start searching for the crevices, the nooks-and-crannies that hold what we are looking for, until my sister Marta pulls out a purple shirt. Flurries of vermillion, cobalt and lemon begin to fly out, and I am bombarded with soft cottons and velvets that feel foreign against my bronze skin. I take a moment to run my fingers - actual fingers - along the hemlines of the clothes, until one of my sister’s snatches it right out of my hands.

‘Don’t just stand there, Bride’ she snaps, as harsh as a bite of her sharp teeth, red hair blowing around her grimacing face. 

I reply with a scowl, then look at the material that is left in my hands: a pink, summer dress, covered in ruby-red fruits. It seems too wide, too open and airy for the bitter winds that caress my body. But we have been living amongst the cold all our lives, down past the crags and deep beneath the spruce sea, learning the art of being human. Slowly, carefully, I lift the material over my head and let it fall down over my body, allowing the skirts to puff up then flutter down against my legs.

‘Bride,’ Marta calls me over her voice as smooth as a seashell. She is our leader, but also the closest thing we have to a mother. Her face, although wizened with age lines, holds knowledge that my sisters and I can only dream of uncovering. ‘Remember what I have told you.’

‘Yes, Marta,’ I reply, hearing the voice that Dana has given me for the first time. I sound as lyrical as my other sisters, syrupy sweet like a melody. It’s disorientating to hear such a voice come from my own mouth, not when I am so used to the yelps and cries of my more familiar form. And despite the way my mouth knows exactly what to say, I am uncomfortable with this sudden change. I want to grab my coat and return to the waters, but I know Marta would never forgive me for letting her down.

‘Repeat it to me,’ she commands me, ‘now.’

‘Do not let any human give me my coat,’ I respond.

‘No,’ she says, crossing her arms. ‘Do not be foolish enough to lose your coat in the first place.’

And with that final warning, Marta turns away from me.

* * *

Inside of the pub, the stench of ale mixed with salty sweat is so pungent it makes me ponder as to why any human would enjoy their time here, nevertheless why they would choose such a hideous place to spend that time. The walls are covered in a deep, rich scarlet velvet, pictures of sepia-coloured fishermen and their tin-boats lining them with patches of unknown stains dotted around. Thick, oaken planks and glass lanterns filled with cream-coloured candles hang low from the ceiling, and the matching chairs and tables are cluttered together, filled by old men with salt-and-pepper beards that laugh far too loudly. Behind the dark oak counter stands a man with a head full of red, curly hair, and further beyond lay dozens upon dozens of multicoloured glass bottles, the blues and greens sparkling from the sunlight that is seeping through the open windows. From a jukebox that stands awkwardly in the corner quietly plays a song, featuring a voice so smooth and passionate that I cannot help but wonder if it belongs to one of our kind.

At the table across from me, Marta is holding hands with a man who is gazing deep into her eyes; her husband, the man who comes to feed us fresh fish in the summer whilst we lounge upon the rock bed, too lazy to go in search of our own meal. He seems like such a lonely man when he comes to visit, but now, sat here with Marta, it looks like those lonely days have been worth it - like he would never want to be anywhere else. Perhaps that is the result of our pheromones – or maybe it is just love.

Love. I wonder what it must be like to love? My sisters tell me that it is nothing but a binding trap, just like the net’s humans use to catch our fish; nothing good ever comes out of it. Love isn’t worth the desperation you feel when you lose a coat, they tell me.

But I see the small smile on Marta’s face, the warmth in her rose eyes. Marta, the wisest of us all, our makeshift mother, who caresses his hand with her dark-brown thumb and whispers into his ear another one of her secrets – a secret between only them.

Is that what love is? Sharing secrets that you wouldn’t normally share? Casual touches between one another? I glance to my right, where a full-length mirror is propped up against the wall. In it, a girl with caramel curls and freckled skin is holding her own hand, clasped together like an oyster protecting a precious pearl. Her thick eyebrows are furrowed, her plump lips slightly pouted – her blush dress flowing over her curvy body. I recognise her dress to be the same one I am wearing.

It takes me a moment to realise that this girl is my own reflection. No soft pink blubber or wiry whiskers or beady black eyes stare back at me, like I would suspect to see in the reflection of the water, but instead an alluring young girl. She looks like the type of girl who could fall in love. A smile breaks across her – my – face.

‘You seem happy.’

Marta speaks to me from across the table, her voice mixing with the melody of the song that is faintly playing.

‘I am thinking about love,’ I tell her.

‘Love?’ Marta scoffs. ‘Don’t be so foolish, Bride.’

At this, her husband’s face droops like the petals of a dying flower. He takes a swig of beer with his free hand, refusing to look at Marta. I feel myself feeling sorry for him.

‘What is so bad about love?’ I ask her, pouting slightly.

‘Nothing,’ Marta responds. I blink. ‘And yet, everything about it holds danger. That is why it is best you do not make the equally dangerous mistake of dropping your coat.’

Boldly, I say, ‘but you are in love, Marta.’

Marta is silent for a moment. ‘Yes. But I did not drop my coat; I left it for him to pick up.’

 There is something about the way she says this, with an air of finality, that makes me want to cower and curl up into a ball. A Marta secret, spilled over stained carpets and warm beer, something precious to be treasured used against me like a slap in the face. My sisters, who have been left to their own devices within this seaside town, would be jealous of my position… but I cannot help but feel as if I though I’ve just been told off.

I stand up, chair scraping against the knotted rug, and head over to the bar. A girl with skin as beautiful as Marta’s is sat there, playing with a camera, half a glass of Coca-Cola in front of her. Her full, pink lips are pursed, thick eyebrows furrowed, as if her camera is a mysterious puzzle that she is trying to solve. Her hands move delicately over the camera as if not to break it, half covered by her cream-coloured sweater, and her golden afro that looks as soft as a cloud gently bounces with each movement of her head.

I feel clumsy, uncertain words begin to form at the back of my throat, but I catch them before they spill over and make me look like a fool in front of this beautiful girl. I know Marta is watching me, her pink eyes identical to my own boring into the back of my soul. It makes me breathe that little bit heavier, clench my fist that little bit tighter, until -

‘Are you wearing contacts?’

I almost fall out of my chair at how mesmerising her voice sounds. She doesn’t have the same heavy accent that the people in this pub seem to have, the same accent that I seem to have acquired. It shocks me out of my thoughts, pulling me from my own mind back into the heat and warmth of the pub. I turn to her, and she’s staring at me, an eyebrow raised and a light smile on her face.

‘Sorry, it’s just…your eyes look amazing,’ she tells me, her smile growing wider. ‘They have to be contacts, right?’

‘They’re real,’ I respond, a surge of fervour passing through my body, encircling my bones and making me puff-out my chest.

The girl’s jaw drops, and all of a sudden, she leans forward, so close that our noses almost touch. I can feel the heat that was caressing my bones shoot up towards my cheeks, and for some curious reason, my eyes dart towards her lips.

‘That’s incredible,’ the girl whispers, then flings back and gestures towards her camera. ‘Mind if I take a couple shots of you? I’ll be quick.’

I’m saying yes before I truly understand what’s being asked of me. In a swift second, the girl grabs my hand and pulls me out of the pub. My eyes find Marta’s, who sits rigidly in her seat. I feel bad for displeasing her, but then I turn to look at the girl and all my guilt washes away, like a wave breaking the shore.

We stand a couple of feet apart on the brick pathway, the beach an equal distance away from the pub, the bitter wind blowing our hair into our faces. Strange humans walk around us, and I catch little titbits of their conversations, adding up to one big story in my head. The girl shivers, and I have the urge to wrap my arms around her.

She positions me just behind the paled sun, and although she is talking to me, her words turn into a faerie’s song, a gentle melody like the soft chiming of bells. I hardly notice when she gets close to me, only focusing on her creamy vanilla scent, her amber eyes that glisten not from the light, but from the pure excitement that is driving her.

‘Bride!’

Marta’s stern voice cuts me out of my daydream, snapping me back into reality. She’s standing there, her husband at her heels like a lost puppy, and she doesn’t look pleased.

‘We’re going,’ she demands, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the beach, where the salty water beckons. I was so caught up in my own fantasies that I didn’t realise the beautiful girl had gone from my view. Panic floods my system, and I pull away from Marta.

‘No! I’m staying here!’ I cry out.

‘Oh, you’re leaving?’

Hearing the girl’s voice makes my stomach turn acrobatic and the blood rush around my body like dancers’ twirling silk strings. It takes me a second, and the sound of Marta’s defeated sigh, to realise what the girl has in her hand.

‘Don’t forget this,’ she smiles innocently, holding out-

-my coat.