with november scraped skin, subdued starlight

blew our features away, wind pulling our 

sleepy 

eyelids 

apart

until flimsy tears flooded from our weary eyes 

under the pomegranate moon

the sun

  the earth

     the moon

their gazes met

in a passionate affair

that candied copper blush 

illuminated our young faces

pennies glinting in fountain water

wishes wandering, waiting

rusted and pink like soft raw flesh

like infant love

dreary dreams, disappearing

metal oxidized—green

tired, rusted

but we were no fleeting fling 

we were denser than the flowing water

we sank to the bottom

and did not move

our color stained the concrete we stood on

or so we believed

but i loved the taste of that pomegranate

in the sky—sugary

it would crumble, fade deliciously 

in my mouth

while we watched, firmly 

planted

in the soil below

Zuha Jaffar

In my solitude, I am never truly alone. Not-so-subtle cameras line the walls of my cage.  Figures armed with syringes peer at their specimen through thick glass, draped in white, masquerading as innocent. Alongside the red blinking lights, the incessant itch at the back of my skull is always watching. The itch whispers to me, scoffing at my cowardice, mocking me with unspeakable schemes.  

When it laughs, the horrible, grating noise echoes in the chasm of my skull. Warm blood trickles into my hands, their vice-like grip futilely clasped over my ears, while the red eye above does nothing but blink.  

The doctors tell me I’m sick, that I’m locked away for my own good, that I need to be a good girl and endure, that I mustn’t infect my saviors in white. But I’ve been thinking. The cell door is locked from the outside, and everyone has a key but me. How safe am I in my cage, if my greatest threats can walk right in and rattle the bars?  

My condition is deteriorating, and the itch in the back of my brain is demanding me to act. I can’t tell from these thoughts which are my own, and which are not. My eyes are swimming in blood, and the world’s reflection is crimson red. My head is crowded past capacity and it hurts.  

 The voice hisses warnings. It claims they’re slowly poisoning me, eliminating the threat to mankind and giving in to public outrage, after so many months, hours, minutes of involuntary research. For, who really cares about ethics when the lives of your children are at stake?  

If humanity won’t save me, I will save myself. If I’m going to suffer death, it will not be  in chains. The itch mutters fervently, dazzled with the prospect of escape. It tells me that we are one, that it would never abandon me or discard me like trash as the rest of mankind has. It tells me we’re special, that we’re the catalyst for the future. And I’ve always wanted to be special, I think.  

Soon, we will leave this facility and finally breathe fresh air. The sun’s warmth will seep into our skin once again. We were born in the dark, cloaked in shadows. But in our impending freedom, I will ensure that we die in the light.

Isabella Kaufman

1.  Rub your eyes just enough to show that you’ve been crying, but not enough to smudge the makeup. 
2. Walk in to the beat of your favorite Dolly Parton song. 
3. Look around the room as if you are lost. Make eye contact with everybody in the room other than the one that left you. Do your very best to convince him that your entire life will derail without him, that you’ll be spinning around in the center of that café for an eternity. Then when the barista calls out “Helen,” run to grab her coffee. Make him wonder if that’s still even you in there. But don’t give him a chance to see. 
4. Become Helen. 
5. Use the kids, use the house, hell, use the dog (that he never walked) if you have to. 
6. Look directly into his eyes and tell him that you want to push reset. 
7. Thirty five years ago… Before the Mercedes Benz, and the hotel rooms, and the sirens. Before all the pictures. Before you had to type into Google search…

Nico Mestre

I had time on my hands (you in my arms)—

O how lovely then were those carefree nights

Of stolen glances and killing kisses,

Of vanquishing vamps and whispered tempests,

Of Love’s sweat flowing forth like marmalade.

Let those whose youthful lives are meaningless

Savor in that most blesséd luxury

Before the world forces meaning on them;

Let them give their heart, not to know wisdom,

And to know vexing madness and folly;

Rather let them get their education

From sweet nothings and pretty dalliance.

Josh Rubin

I folded the red one by tossing the arms back and then flipping it in half, making sure to keep the middle part together just like you taught me the day before you leaned past your mom and waved back at me from the passenger’s seat, looking through the green to see if I was still smiling or had turned to walk home (we thought it out) because I needed time to process.

Nico Mestre

My father & I found a campsite overrun by pomp

& sanctioned squarely. The extended families

Must’ve taken their time in the afternoon to bolster 15-

Pronged tents, or one father did it all in the fifteen

Before we got there. In any case the lot was substantial

So we backed in sideways, our feet facing the lake.

49. My father. Fifty-six. Adjacent others keeping

The kids busy while numbers kept them warm. We kept

Trying, blowing like furious men into our kind of structure,

Wondering why nothing caught. Not long after

I clambered back into the camper & made a to-do list:

Pack for Atlanta

Get computer fixed

Find husband

Stay happy—

I opened to rips of merigold over the water.

Henry Koskoff