Company
︎︎︎ Cynthia Chen
︎ Apr 24, 2025
Our mode of transportation in a foreign nation
is trying
And pretending to be acquainted with the curbside gardens.
We travel to study inventive ways of drinking water,
of turning
the ordinary into the memorized.
There are small changes in the vessel, carbonation with citronella,
manipulating
the way our bodies process routines festively.
Time is killed not by plans but
happenings
endured through adjacent ankles and intersecting breaths like in a car crash.
To skillfully merge into the city we strategize,
walking
to the ice rink where shrieks carry ecstasy in fear.
Instead of landing we jump up to produce styles
of falling
fallen as a stylistic moment between us.
We contaminate the city
by singing
tunes like rupturing mountains.
Our fascination with landscapes is determined by their amorphousness,
not resembling
any named objects or feelings.
The kitchen is our resort for amusement and risk,
mislabeling
bottles and cans to reserve unasked pleasures for necessary times.
You convinced me our reception of smell is conditional, that
inhaling
is an act of learning, like remembering a speech from a dream.
But for now, seal your mouth while
keeping
my head in between your knees as I wonder—
How much novelty is a novel for us? How many events before
we reach
the eventual?
we stay faithfully still only to
let
us find the alien figure on our upside-down faces.
is trying
And pretending to be acquainted with the curbside gardens.
We travel to study inventive ways of drinking water,
of turning
the ordinary into the memorized.
There are small changes in the vessel, carbonation with citronella,
manipulating
the way our bodies process routines festively.
Time is killed not by plans but
happenings
endured through adjacent ankles and intersecting breaths like in a car crash.
To skillfully merge into the city we strategize,
walking
to the ice rink where shrieks carry ecstasy in fear.
Instead of landing we jump up to produce styles
of falling
fallen as a stylistic moment between us.
We contaminate the city
by singing
tunes like rupturing mountains.
Our fascination with landscapes is determined by their amorphousness,
not resembling
any named objects or feelings.
The kitchen is our resort for amusement and risk,
mislabeling
bottles and cans to reserve unasked pleasures for necessary times.
You convinced me our reception of smell is conditional, that
inhaling
is an act of learning, like remembering a speech from a dream.
But for now, seal your mouth while
keeping
my head in between your knees as I wonder—
How much novelty is a novel for us? How many events before
we reach
the eventual?
we stay faithfully still only to
let
us find the alien figure on our upside-down faces.
Cynthia Chen is a writer and editor based in New York City, originally from Shanghai.
Knight of Wands
︎︎︎ Drew Mosman
︎ Apr 23, 2025
These four dogs fighting on a beach somewhere in Goa or maybe Shiroda and you and I standing there watching in silence this frenzied battle and you turn to me and say, they look like horses, so I look back and I see four bloody horses pulling each other into the water turning it red and later that night we’re back at the beach and the water is warm and we’re falling in love and I think of those horses with stained manes and scared eyes and I look back up at where we stood earlier with bloodlust and curiosity and after the horses had drifted far down the beach out of sight I heard you say, this is what I have been searching for my whole life.
PERSONALITY
︎︎︎ Chloe Aiko Stark
︎ Apr 22, 2025
I am liable to hit the man
So he tells me to kiss him
I have liked since I was a kid to bleed
To write lines in a bikini that I had
When I was five
I could hide in the closet until they rotate the dials
I run to the sink to do what I can
He is not mean
But I am
It is not what I try to do
I was led into rooms
And I have told him that he cannot stay with me
A woman that was only five
I am who I cannot be like what I choose
I do what I can
So he tells me to kiss him
I have liked since I was a kid to bleed
To write lines in a bikini that I had
When I was five
I could hide in the closet until they rotate the dials
I run to the sink to do what I can
He is not mean
But I am
It is not what I try to do
I was led into rooms
And I have told him that he cannot stay with me
A woman that was only five
I am who I cannot be like what I choose
I do what I can
Chloe Aiko Stark is a writer and student.
Girlhood, or maybe not
︎︎︎ Tazha Chen
︎ Apr 19, 2025
Girl and I had locks that hung long.
We braided our hair into each others.
Melange-d chesnut and chocolate brown tendrils entangled into each twist and pull, from the little bathroom of a restaurant in Paris, through laughter that was like the ugly sister of a giggle.
The night before, Girl cries over a boy and I comb her locks as she sits shivering in the empty bathtub.
No sister is ugly after this.
The hot water lasts anytime from nowhere to never
So Girl opts for empty not cold while her hot tears retort irony onto her chest-hugged thighs, in the name of “it’s better to have loved and lost”
My locks are tied behind my back where I can’t see them anymore so as to not get in the way of my service.
My hair will find itself back there more and more often soon.
Girl’s hair is chocolate like mine, but only when damp and there’s a metaphor there, but I won’t indulge myself this time.
The strands stick to her back as I peel off each bundle.
It tangles and tugs like little strings of rubber, rejecting each pass through; I persist.
As the weeks go on, Girl combs her own hair and she makes me dinner with a grin but really she’s making herself dinner.
I express gratitude but come to feel that if Girl didn’t see her reflection in these plates, they’d remain empty
and somehow I can still feel her damp hair in my fingers
We braided our hair into each others.
Melange-d chesnut and chocolate brown tendrils entangled into each twist and pull, from the little bathroom of a restaurant in Paris, through laughter that was like the ugly sister of a giggle.
The night before, Girl cries over a boy and I comb her locks as she sits shivering in the empty bathtub.
No sister is ugly after this.
The hot water lasts anytime from nowhere to never
So Girl opts for empty not cold while her hot tears retort irony onto her chest-hugged thighs, in the name of “it’s better to have loved and lost”
My locks are tied behind my back where I can’t see them anymore so as to not get in the way of my service.
My hair will find itself back there more and more often soon.
Girl’s hair is chocolate like mine, but only when damp and there’s a metaphor there, but I won’t indulge myself this time.
The strands stick to her back as I peel off each bundle.
It tangles and tugs like little strings of rubber, rejecting each pass through; I persist.
As the weeks go on, Girl combs her own hair and she makes me dinner with a grin but really she’s making herself dinner.
I express gratitude but come to feel that if Girl didn’t see her reflection in these plates, they’d remain empty
and somehow I can still feel her damp hair in my fingers
Tazha Chen is from New York City.
Future departments
︎︎︎ Marshall Peace
︎ Apr 18, 2025
They’re giving back everything you’ve ever lost now
And I heard if you lose anything going forward,
they’ll give that back to you too.
They’re making new words
I heard they will be spoken next year.
All the time in the world
Has been begun again
And I heard they extended it indefinitely
And they made a new direction
Besides West,
North, East,
South –
Listen –
The wind is coming
in from it right now
And I heard if you lose anything going forward,
they’ll give that back to you too.
They’re making new words
I heard they will be spoken next year.
All the time in the world
Has been begun again
And I heard they extended it indefinitely
And they made a new direction
Besides West,
North, East,
South –
Listen –
The wind is coming
in from it right now
Marshall Peace is a writer and butcher in Greenville, South Carolina. His Substack is called Wounded Veteran Chicken BBQ.