Category: Issue #5

i’ve always thought that the month of november receives an unfair amount of criticism. 

I used to cry a lot when I was younger, whether it was to vent sadness, anger, or frustration. Despite that, I never understood people who seemed to get teary-eyed over everything; minor inconveniences, major successes, movie scenes, music. None seemed to be particularly emotionally provocative.  Growing up, I was always told that boys don’t…

imagine, if you will, a town. in this town, high on a hill, is a structure so menacing that children write folk tales about it. it has become a monster of its own. it eats up the town crazies and never lets them out.

Please note. I wrote this article before Lydia Night announced she and Dylan Minnette had split romantically, and this piece was in no way influenced by said events– I have not added to it, and these remain my original thoughts, untainted by this news. It is crucial to respect the privacy of both Dylan Minnette…

The cedar-coloured bed belongs against the northern wall. The bed is low, so a strip of white paint is visible between the bamboo mattress and the double windows. Upon examination, one may notice tiny pinpricks dotting the wall, proof of nails once wedged there.

Author’s Note: this is possibly the most vulnerable thing I have ever written on the internet, and I think that’s saying a lot—especially for me. My near-death experiences, relationship drama, and connection with my culture have all been aired for the public to see. But this, this feels scarier. This feels different.

I’ve never been straight, at least in the eyes of others. It feels like my sexuality has never been free. I am just another person unable to break out of the assumptions of sexuality. But I know that my sexuality has changed and I can recognize that for myself. Even if no one else can…

By: A Hobbyist I asked 20 people to describe me as thoroughly as possible, and the responses resounded near-unanimously: They’re a musician. An athlete. An artist, writer, programmer, mathematician. An eccentric with a drive to create. These flattering and complimentary responses left a lopsided grin on my face, tainted by persistent feelings of emptiness and…

Oh, how I love the soundthat waves make in winter.A deep breath—a quiet roar,frozen in the depths of emotion. Blue with veins of black,and a heart that isblacker still.The beat of the sea is a songfull of sorrow from the soul of the Earth. In summer,the sea is angry.Vicious,it storms and it sinks,swallowing pills of…

Amongst the vast sea,we provide contrastin the most undesirable manner. We are called people of colour.We are sweet-toothed tamarinds bathed in irresistible pink salt.We are sugared in unsolicited oppositionas cloying torment is supplied in packaged goodsto cover up the fact thatwe are the minority. Beloved home travelling on the distant compassand we remain where familiarity…

By: Monica Lin I am a romantic.A hopeless, stupid, romantic.Consuming media like it ismy second heartbeat;A piggyback heart.An octopus. Eight arms devouring romance in the form of hearts;tearing the tissues apart to slurp the blood all up.Noodle soup, a warm homely meal. Romantics are set up for failure.Romantics will lie to themselves.Romantics are in the…

By: Monica Lin If you stare into my eyes, you can almost notice a faint pink tint hiding underneath my hazelnut tones. I say “almost” because you cannot tell whether it’s my eyes or yours playing tricks. As you’ll breathe in and wonder about it, I’ll flush in the shades of a sunset; muddy pink,…

The Gravers arrived every November.  When the vibrant mosaics of October turned into stale and scattered browns; when the sweet-smelling October air turned into a cold so sharp it stung as you inhaled; when sleepy sunsets of October turned into darkness so abrupt that you found yourself forgetting how to long for the sun; when…

The first book that made me cry was We’ll Fly Away by Bryan Bliss. Unimaginably depressing, it recounts the story of Toby and Luke, two best friends from similarly neglectful families who dreamed since childhood that they would repair the old, two-seater plane that crashed deep within the woods near their town and run away.…

He reeked of sadness. It was an aura that pervaded him—coiling and spiraling around him in thick, dense clouds. We watched him through transparent layers of cotton candy as he walked around the carnival’s games. His back was hunched with age, and his long, sinewy arms hung like branches. Motionlessly, we stared at him, terrified…