The Stories We Used to Tell

Poetry by Jacob Jing

Remember when there was a sad story
for every boy who got lost in the woods. When we cried
until there was a book laid open in front of us, smelling
of salt. Once, I could tell you the names of every child
without a mother. A stone passing from the belly into
the throat. How we only realize the weight
after it has left us. I keep carrying
so much more than myself. An invisible sadness. The way
living becomes more bearable
when we imagine it in diagrams. Exposition, we
are born with our mouths open. Conflict, someone
leaves us to die. Rising action, our stomachs
swell with stone. Climax, our lips are sutured
shut. Falling action—
Strange, how such weight translates to
such emptiness. Somewhere in between, we forgot
our own names. Our hands
collecting the tears before they can strike the ground.
We have nothing left except for these
wet palms. How they open and
close, releasing nothing but silence. How they mimic
the stories we used to tell.
How they are the last kind thing we have.

Clovers

Poem by Hailey Jiang

Bundle of clovers in my pocket,

Silver wrappers in the moonlight.

A candy gram enclosed in my fist,

“Love, take me home” and your

Cranberry scented hair flying, oh

Take me home, the clovers are poking

Holes in my pocket, in my heart

There is nothing left, save for

Chocolates and other sweets that

Leave my tongue stinging in

This world, oh take

Me home, i don’t belong here,

Your arms leave me hanging

And your scent choking, oh take me

Home, where I cannot touch your

Love, where you cannot pierce me 

With the lack of thorns on your

Clovers,

Oh, take me home. 

Love in the Apocolypse

Fiction by Lauren Purnell

Jonah bit into an apple. It was mushy, sweet, almost rotten. But he hadn’t had fruit in months, and Jonah would never pass up such an opportunity. And besides, Jonah deserved it after what happened last year. The secrets. The gunshots. The blood of his lover staining his hands. 

In the first month of The Plague, a group of former office workers from Queens took him in. They showed him how to shoot a rifle, ride a horse, and start a fire. And he needed that, being a sheltered graduate student at a university in the wealthy part of Manhattan. Jonah was tasked with finding food for the group, along with a man called Michael, who was an inch shorter than him and smelled like warm spices and smoke. They spent their nights talking by the fire, cuddled up to each other. It was easy, those days. Sure, the world was collapsing, but at least he had someone’s shoulder to rest on. 

Now, he couldn’t afford to rest his eyes. Not even for a moment. 

The only tech that worked was the kind before the age of the Internet. Jonah listened to his music on a portable cassette player. While he did his scouting from the Plateau, 90s hip hop and R&B records played softly in his ears. It was what his mother listened to, back when Jonah was young. On Fridays, the gangs collected their dues with violence and intimidation. It was best to lay low. Jonah had lost his group, and he was a rogue now—life for rogues in this city was tough. 

Right now, the horizon was clear. Jonah exhaled. He pulled at a curl, twirling it between his fingers. His hair needed a trim. He grabbed the shears from his utility pouch and got to work, finding the split ends by touch. 

Then, rustling from behind him. He dropped the shears, resting his hand on the gun’s grip. No one else knew about the Plateau but Michael. And he was dead. 

Whoever found Jonah and the Plateau was a clever fellow. But also, a severe threat to Jonah’s life. 

Jonah quieted his breathing, to make sure he was undetectable. More, louder rustling came from the bushes, and Jonah saw the heel of an olive green boot. Camouflage. This was no newcomer to these parts. 

He spun to face the bushes, keeping an eye on the rest of his surroundings. Jonah released the safety on his pistol. He sucked in a breath. 

When the other human finally revealed themself, Jonah positioned his gun right at their head, finger ready on the trigger. “Stop right there.” 

The person, still holding their rifle, held their hands up. “I mean no harm.” A warm, deep voice. A few shades lighter than Jonah, dark brown hair sticking to his face with sweat. Muscular. Without weapons, he could take down Jonah easily. 

“Drop the rifle and I’ll believe you.” Jonah did not waver; his voice did not shake. 

He placed the rifle on the ground, like parent putting their child to sleep. Then his hands went up above his head. 

Jonah lowered his pistol, shifting away from the man in front of him, for just a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, He swore he saw him pull out another long range weapon. On instinct, Jonah pulled the trigger. 

The man [name: Jesus. metaphor for a savior????] yelped. When Jonah took a closer look, the man didn’t have a weapon at all. He’d just shot someone unarmed. Jonah cursed under his breath, then walked to go help him. The bullet pierced his leg. Blood gushed from the wound. 

Well, now Jonah felt bad. He yanked his medical emergency kit from his pack, and approached the man. “I’m sorry. I thought you had a gun.” 

He smiled—why would he smile after being shot by a stranger?—and said, “I understand. I’ve made that mistake before.”

Jonah didn’t know what to say. He figured the man would attack, and Jonah would have to flee across the city again, watching his back at every moment. Instead, Jonah was about to fix his bullet wound. 

He stumbled over to the man, who was now slumped against a tree, panting. Jonah learned how to take care of injuries only a month ago. The steady gush of red liquid still freaked him out, and being near to another person—especially a stranger—made his heart pound. 

Jonah did exactly what his former crew taught him, and what he’d read in the old medical manuals. 

“You must come here often,” the man said. “You guard this place like it’s your palace.” 

Jonah grunted in response, yanking out the last piece of bullet shrapnel he could find. The man winced. Jonah could feel the man’s eyes on him, curious and waiting. 

“What?” asked Jonah. 

The man’s lips quirked up. “You haven’t told me your name.” 

He debated lying, giving the man a false identity to protect himself. Instead, he said, “Jonah.” 

The man didn’t wait for Jonah to ask before responding. “My name is Jesús.” 

“Nice to meet you,” muttered Jonah, because he didn’t know what else to say. He rinsed off the wound, wrapping the largest bandage he could find around Jesús’s thick, muscular legs. 

Something about his presence drew him in. He wanted to talk to him, ask questions. Jesús seemed like the listening type. Someone who wouldn’t shy away from the mess that Jonah was, in the aftermath of last year’s incident. 

Jonah stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “I’ll help you down from here.” 

Jesús laughed. “Can’t I rest for the night?” 

Jonah blinked. He hadn’t considered that. “Oh. Sure.” Hesitantly, he sat back down, avoiding Jesús’s eyes and staring at the setting sun. It was purple and pink, like wild berries. “Where are you from?” 

“Born and raised in the Bronx, but I moved to Massachusetts for work. Then my mother became ill, and I moved back to take care of her.” 

Jonah nodded. It was dark now, and he turned to face Jesús. “Is that your real name?” He knew some people who changed their names after The Plague. 

“You’re looking for a reason to distrust me,” said Jesús. Was he in Jonah’s head? 

Jonah pulled at a loose thread in his jeans. “I just don’t know you, that’s all.” 

“If it helps,” said Jesús, adjusting his sitting position, “I don’t have a group.” 

It did help. He was a rogue, like Jonah. No alliances, no affiliations, no shield from a cold, loveless city. For a moment, hope swelled in Jonah’s chest.

Jonah swallowed hard. “Would you like something to eat?” 

Jesús’s warmth came nearer. Grass tickled Jonah’s ankle as he reached into his pack for the deer jerky he’d stolen from a stand at the market. Wordlessly, he offered it to Jesús. While he chewed, Jonah got to work on trimming his hair. He glanced over at Jesús every five minutes, just to make sure he hadn’t stolen any of his belongings. 

At around midnight, he found Jesús, leaning against his pack and snoring softly. Jonah felt a strange urge to drape his winter jacket over the sleeping man. He pushed it down. 

Jonah used to feel the same about Michael. They would lay awake after the rest of the group dozed off, and then they would sneak away to the Plateau. Michael would shower him with kisses some nights, and others he would sob on his shoulder. On the best days, he did both. 

A member of their crew must’ve feared the worst, because she followed them to the Plateau one night. He and Michael were so lovestruck that they didn’t hear the soft crunching of leaves behind them. They didn’t hear Alycia cock her gun. 

Alycia, like the rest of the office workers, never got past their hatred for gay people. Jonah and Michael knew that. They took the risk to love each other anyway. 

As Jonah grabbed his gun, three bullets tore through Michael. Heart, leg, head. Alycia was smart enough to run. 

And then it was just him and Michael, whose blood seeped through Jonah’s clothes and stained his hands. Even after his last breath, Jonah couldn’t move for hours. His wails were heard across New York City. 

Eventually, Jonah settled down next to Jesús. Despite the fact that a stranger lay next to him, Jonah succumbed to sleep almost instantly. 

###

Jesús was gone the next morning. Bleary-eyed and yawning, Jonah reached for his pack. He dug through each pocket individually. Nothing was out place. Jonah exhaled. 

It was fine. Jesús was a stranger anyway. He should’ve feel glee now that he didn’t have to gauge another man’s trustworthiness, just to be let down. Instead, Jonah missed the company. 

Jonah shrugged his backpack on and ventured back toward the city. 

Then, a familiar rustling of leaves. Olive green boots smeared with dirt. Jonah rested his palm on his gun’s hilt, but he knew it wasn’t necessary. 

Jesús emerged, panting, sweat glistening on his forehead. “I found us some breakfast.” He walked past Jonah and sat, opening the small brown bag. Inside were two pieces of smoked duck and four pieces of hardtack. 

“We’re not a team,” Jonah blurted. 

“I know,” said Jesús, with a soft smile. “I was getting breakfast for myself, and I figured I’d bring some for you.” 

Jonah didn’t know what to say. So he grumbled, grabbed his share of breakfast, and ate. 

Jesús tapped his foot, humming a melody familiar to Jonah. He couldn’t recall where he heard it first. Maybe his mother, who sang him to sleep every night. Maybe from church, which he attended every Sunday with his grandmother. Or maybe something from the radio, from a simpler time before New York fell to chaos. 

Jonah hummed along, letting himself share this forgotten part of his past with Jesús—even if it only lasted until sunset. It was worth it. 

The Stories We Used to Tell

Poem by Jacob Jing

Remember when there was a sad story
for every boy who got lost in the woods. When we cried
until there was a book laid open in front of us, smelling
of salt. Once, I could tell you the names of every child
without a mother. A stone passing from the belly into
the throat. How we only realize the weight
after it has left us. I keep carrying
so much more than myself. An invisible sadness. The way
living becomes more bearable
when we imagine it in diagrams. Exposition, we
are born with our mouths open. Conflict, someone
leaves us to die. Rising action, our stomachs
swell with stone. Climax, our lips are sutured
shut. Falling action—
Strange, how such weight translates to
such emptiness. Somewhere in between, we forgot
our own names. Our hands
collecting the tears before they can strike the ground.
We have nothing left except for these
wet palms. How they open and
close, releasing nothing but silence. How they mimic
the stories we used to tell.
How they are the last kind thing we have.

Pine Blossoms

Poem by Hailey Jiang

O, how we ran like the stars

That one lonely summer night.

And on my knee still is the scar

And in my chest, the light.

Your hand brushed past by me

And for a second I swore you were mine.

But your hand reached for the tree

The ancient infinity, formidable pine.

Darling, find me in the blossoms,

darling, find me in the leaves.

Do not look past the blossoms,

do not look for the grieves.

I shall never again look up at the sky,

Nor shall my legs be sore 

From running, chasing forever shy

Of being yours.

Alone in the dead wilted moor

I am not entirely sure

Of who I am looking for.

Shall I ever see you once more?

Born from the land’s cradle: books on women, community, and the global climate crisis


A review collection from Zo Navarro

A climate crisis is becoming more apparent as the year goes on. Multiple reports worldwide
showcase increasing heat temperatures, rising water levels for our seas and oceans, or melting
ice caps and glaciers at the North and South regions of the Earth. Carbon emissions, pollution,
smog, less green spaces, endangerment of flora and fauna species are also some of the other
effects of abusing natural resources. As reported by the United Nations Chronicle (2007), these
concerns were raised as early as the 1940s during the Industrial Revolution. In 1988, it was
observed that global warming demanded more attention and resolution as its effects became
more prominent in society.


Grassroots and administrative efforts, local or international, have since been made to minimize,
and therefore eventually resolve, the environmental crisis. It bears to make individuals think to
care for their surroundings more, to be mindful of their actions and consumption, and that
Earth’s resources, despite being vast, are not limitless. Resolving the climate crisis requires joint
effort and inspires community among people. It also centers women as the protagonist inspired
to take charge of changing their lives and of others.


Here are three books about community, the environment, and women who voice their
advocacies.

1. “All Over Creation,” by Ruth Ozeki


A story of environmental activism centers on aging farmers and their community visited by their
estranged daughter, Yumi Fuller, who has to fulfill her parents’ business. Fuller, with a different
life, work, and family since she ran away in her teens, now must understand the sentiments of
her parents regarding their farm, and how it connects to a controversy about genetically
modified food. Told through interchanging characters, events and viewpoints, it nurtures readers
the way crops are planted: with patience and trust.

    2. “When the Hibiscus Falls,” by M. Evelina Galang


    A collection connected through various narrators, their generations past and present, and the
    echoes of their family ties, it confronts an ever-changing picture of blood relations and their
    history, extending beyond that from ancestral houses, summer vacations in provinces, and an
    intimate exploration of Filipino culture and the diaspora. The daughters, mothers, aunts, grandmothers and cousins come to a unison about their hurricanes and typhoons, their roots, and the trauma that shaped its growth, and leaving lessons for future generations to bear fruit and be blessed with.

    3. “Olga Dies Dreaming” by Xochitl Gonzalez


    A story of gentrified neighborhoods, marginalized identities, the weight of family versus the fight
    for a greater environmental and community cause. These are seen through the eyes of Olga
    Acevedo, an in-demand wedding planner, and her politician brother, Prieto Acevedo. As a
    devastated past with hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico barrels along with their mother’s returning
    presence, they learn to find their true calling, identities, truths, and a genuineness to recognize
    their history while ensuring futures, families and communities are not erased. The narration
    goes back-and-forth between past, present, future, through the utilization of letters. With a
    contemporary understanding of a changing world, it finds itself grounded in what it means to
    protect and defend what lies close to one’s heart.

      I Eat the Fish, Eyes First Because

      Poem by Joanna Deng

      I am ten when Xiaorui
      hands me a fish by the tail,
      raw,
      and pokes its glassed eyes into my mouth.


      I am ten when she teaches me how to gum it,
      palm its intestines into a jar,
      shave its scales clean of sin,
      and feed its gall bladder to the dog.


      I am ten and burying fish flesh in my backyard when Xiaorui
      first jokes about how her husband is so sure about time
      just like how she is so sure that waste doesn’t exist, especially after death and that
      We as one


      will kill everything in front of us


      for something,
      anything,
      that resembles the human experience.


      She says this is the same as saying
      we scrape off our own skin

      to feel new because we become obsessed with contamination;
      like how I de-wing carp rot on old books instead of cutting boards
      or like how she was born in Seoul and grew up in Beijing,
      only to meet her husband after she was sold to America by her father at twelve.

      At night, she tells me we are always searching for something
      more than ourselves
      to keep us beating
      because

      to breathe in the dead means to live vicariously
      and that is what we are taught to do,
      primal,

      carnal,


      When we devour things
      starting from their souls.

      I talk about food, you and everything in between.

      Poem by Zo Navarro

      “There’s so much talk about love and food!”
      That’s what I complain to you
      over the phone, while I prepare a meal
      good for two.


      I am also a victim of this farce, I guess.
      Eating alone is a lonely practice.
      I think, with you here,
      love remains warm, your presence blessed.


      And would you mind ignoring my morsels?
      I know you love meat that’s sauced and tender.
      I set aside a piece, maybe three,
      cooked to your liking. Say, could you tell?


      Here we are, intimate, almost vulnerable and scared.
      The pad of your thumb brushed against my cheek,
      removing a few grains of cooked rice.
      Here, your dinner is side by side my heart bared.


      I won’t request for a next time,
      but I will hem and haw asking for your favorite recipe.
      I’ll make a mess of the kitchen, and might ruin it a little.
      But, hey. Is cooking for love a crime?


      I hope you rise to the smell of a hearty breakfast,
      and sleep sweetly after a quick midnight snack.
      I want to know all your preferred flavors,
      and nostalgia from your childhood’s past.


      Here, I am free on this date, on this time, this place.
      I’ll be in my best-dressed, running my mouth again.
      I know you’ll call my insistence to cook as endearing,
      but I’ll stutter. I won’t admit to the rosy bloom upon my face.

      I see an apple

      Poem by Jacob Jing

      sunday: the apples I bought for us 

      have rotted. in apology, I chop them into squashy

      halves, leave them where the light can smooth over

      their soft skins. in the glisten of the fruit’s 

      sandy, slick-softened muscle, I imagine a field of roses

      erupting over where the knife ran it through. the apple

      emptying itself through that tender wound.

      if I make rose a synonym of blood, will you finally

      stanch the flow? If I make apple a synonym of

      us, will you finally recognize the rot? we are

      spilling out of our skins, separating 

      around a stream of flowers. we become what

      the knife has made of us, unwanted and unmoored.

      when the petals begin to wither us open, I take the apple

      and toss it outside—our lives as the force 

      with which it strikes the ground, our bodies as

      the halves tumbling away from each other, and our love

      as the bees flitting to the rotten fruit, 

      drinking themselves to death on the sweetness.

      What Does Poetry Give You?

      Dylan Thomas, 20th century Welsh poet and writer, remarked, “A good poem is a contribution to reality.” 

      What do you think poetry gives you, dear reader? I would say it could be anything except money. Yeah, that’s the harsh reality of a career in creative writing. The art of writing poetry is a career which you can’t make a living out of, sadly. But at the same time, I also think that just as novelists can make sufficient money out of selling novels and their respective movie adaptations subsequently, poetry should sell in a similar way. The price of poetry books should be placed higher in order to support poets. Afterall poets work hard too. People should look at the singular quality of the work, not the quantity of pages in a poetry collection. They should commend the fragile, slim art-piece made of words which cost the poet a lot of time to build. Readers are invited by the poet to enter the bewitching world of words and spot the truths that the poet wants them to decipher.

      Work of poets should simply garner more appreciation just as that of novelists do. Read this micro-tale which highlights how often poetry is underrated. The sale of poetry books could climb up only if there is an upward shift in the graph of readership of poetry. Now how to augment the readership of poetry is another problem that needs pondering upon.

      Many magazines do not pay their contributors and staff writers and make writing freely available to read on the internet. Also, many writers themselves publish their work on Instagram and other places to be read for free. It is just like rendering your services free of charge. In my view if you are not paying for a poet or writer’s labour, then it would be an exploitation of their talent.

      If you can pay for other kinds of art (paintings, photographs, pottery, music) and genres of entertainment (movies, series, novels, sports, etc.), then you should probably pay to read poetry too. Fame is not the only thing desired by poets. Money is a necessity of life that no one can deny. Maybe it is time that literary magazines, presses, publishers, and society give poets not only suitable recognition but also monetary compensation that they truly deserve.

      I guess I have wandered away from my initial question. Maybe I got carried away, channelling the inner perturbations of a poet. The question again was, ‘What does poetry give you?’ If we try to answer this question, then maybe a list of poetry’s pros will encourage more people to pick it up often and to dust the masterpiece that is poetry, out of the webs and into the limelight. So, think about what have you got out of poetry.

      To me as a poet, poetry has given a lot of things. Writing poetry is therapeutic. I feel relieved from my woes and get absorbed in the world of poetry. Writing poems captivates my full attention, drawing me away from all the other things picking on my mind. Poetry brings a smile my face, is a cauldron of serotonin. All vague thoughts leave my mind as I focus on playing with the words. Writing, in general, is an uplifting activity to employ oneself in.

      Also, poetry has served as a medium for expressing my views in a condensed form on various topics. I think we (introverts and reticent people) can best express ourselves through the written word, be it prose or poetry. Whatever ideas or opinions are brimming in my mind, I am lucky enough to be able to spill them out on paper and also share them with the whole world. The written word carries my voice far and wide.

      Writing poetry serves fresh perspectives on life, nature, things, situations, etc., when you think with a poet’s mind. Monotonous/regular things can appear aesthetic from the lens of poetry. When you become contemplative as a poet, you search in the outside world for metaphors for life. In other words, you perhaps get a deeper understanding of life.

      As a reader, poetry has given me entertainment and new, pocket stories of people living in different parts of the world just as novels, movies, and series have. Works of poets and the unusual combinations of words have surprised me and sometimes given me ideas that I had never thought of before. Poems have transported me to places that I’ve never been to in person. I’ve enjoyed delectable visualisations emerging out of the imagery employed by the poets. Sometimes the antithetical placement of images in a poem has given me immense joy. Just as I digest novels, I have savoured poetry as a dessert. 

      Reading great poetry gives me a climactic moment of either elation or lament (if it’s a sad poem) and I carry that satisfaction with me and am reminded of that emotion when I happen to recall that particular poem. More importantly, meaningful poetry shows me a truth, carries a message, and calls me to action. It is through poetry that some people register their resistance. Quoting Wu Sheng— “And all I can do is write a poem.”

      Poetry holds those unspoken truths, emotions, and experiences (blissful or painful), which the poet conveys in a subtle way, carried beneath the mantle of the words of a poem. The poet, thus, invites me to ruminate upon those realities of life. Poetry, thus, mirrors reality. Hence, poetry delights and teaches. Also, when I resonate with the subject matter of the poems that I read, I no longer feel lonely in my experiences. I feel content in the realisation that it is a shared experience. 

      Some people dismiss poetry as unapproachable but for them, I would say, there are those lucid, resplendent poems which are as pleasing as the more subtle ones.

      So, I hope this discourse in the defence of poetry will do some justice to what I wanted to convey through this piece in the first place and will also convince you to believe in the value and power of poetry as those before me (the likes of Aristotle and Philip Sidney) have tried to do. 

      Poetry means a lot more to a lot of people out there and that’s why I ask you, dear reader, to ponder upon what poetry means to you, so that more people who are not yet advocates of poetry can be urged to visit a bookstore and hold a book of verse in their hands. I will now stop my train of thought here and let yours leave the station as you contemplate the role of poetry in your life. Parting with this thought below:

      “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” — T. S. Eliot