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Connemara, Ireland

by Kylie Marden

_Connemara, Ireland_ by Kylie Marden


by Nikhil Krishnamurthy

Glass. That’s what the man felt like. He carried a pot on his back. The world around him was solid; a barren expanse of grass. He walked with his burden across the land, towards a city in the distance. He did not seem to be getting any closer. He looked to his right and saw a small cottage with a chimney shaft spewing smoke. He made his way to it. By the time he arrived, his burden was too great and would have collapsed, if not for a robed person who caught him. The man looked into the robed person’s face. He did not see a face, as it was covered by a mask. He was brought inside to a small yet warm setting. A fire blazed in a fireplace. In front of it sat a couch. The robed person sat the man down on the couch, taking the pot off of his back. The man took the pot in his arms as he sat, clutching it with both arms like a mother would clutch her child. The robed person brought a chair in front of the couch, facing the man. “What is in the pot?” The robed person asked. The man said nothing. The robed person asked, “Why do you carry it?” The man responded, “It is a part of me. I can not let go of it.” The robed person asked him to open it, and the man obliged cautiously. He lifted the cap off and inside were tiny floating flames of different colors. “Let me help you carry these fires,” the robed person said. “It will be easier with my help.” The man said, “I can not ask you to do that. It would be selfish of me.” The robed person reached into the pot and took out half of the fires, looking into them. “Let me keep these for it will lessen your burden.” The man said nothing, but stood and strapped the pot to his back. It felt lighter. The robed person sat watching him. The man left the cottage and continued his trek alone.

Media Monster

by Dana Dykiel

_Media Monster_ by Dana Dykiel


Red Line

by Sayoni Barari


A woman leans against a tall bony man

The kind of guy you’d see everywhere here

Button up and black jeans

She’s beautiful though

Wearing a black dress with a wide brim hat

A pleasant red bow across her neck

The lab sits quiet along her feet

She cranes her neck and looks across the ash-colored Cambridge buildings


She’s lived in the city her whole life

Knows red bricks lining undrivable streets

A breath of city air, liberating country lungs

A sip of cold coffee

On green grass, in a blistering city

Reveling in its power before an icy fall


The train car rattles

My skull bounces hard against the glass

And if I push my head hard enough against it

I’d melt


In my dreams

She has long black hair, and dark brown eyes

She walks her sandy dog along the side of the river

Watching the waves ebb and flow

Thinking about being in love

Photograph by David Tsitrin

_Untitled_ (Kraken) by Yuying Fan

The Kraken

by Joshua Pak

They call me every synonym of malicious.

In truth, I only want to make friends.

Yet my success has been anything but auspicious,

Indeed I have been slain in every way:

Medusa’s head, a pegacorn’s grace, some pirate’s lead.

I’ve always extended a hug in camaraderie,

However receive blows and hurt instead.

When I squeeze back in small retribution,

They say they are the ones that bled.

Look at everyone else around me.

It’s not like I’m similar to the Wyrm,

Who doesn’t take his allergy meds.

Or the beautiful Gumiho,

That rips gentle hearts to shreds.

I’m actually nice to those at sea.

Pushing them to their destinations,

And even giving them much needed lee.

I guess I’ll always be misunderstood.

People fear me too much to stop and listen,

Even if I try to do good.



by Meera Singh


Silver and Gold

by Srija Nagireddy


In History, we learned that monks used to illuminate

Their manuscripts.

How aging hands lovingly embellished the words

Of their hearts.


You now laugh and say that you are getting old,

And show me the crest of white upon your head,

How it fades into an ebony that deft fingers

Twist every morning.


You only shine when no one looks,

And I watch from behind the kitchen door,

Because there is something holy about the way your

Ordinary smile disappears, and I can only see faith.


Faith in the world and Religion

That changes with every breath I take and flows through

Sacred books and whispered words, and reluctant wishes,

With you as the only constant.


And you act so much like a child, with inside jokes and

Fanciful whims, that I sometimes wonder if you are trying

To keep us young. Out of reach of pained smiles and

Remnants of corrupted memories.


You are forever illuminating your manuscript,

And behind eyes that never shed tears, and laughs

That ring in my ears every night, I see you painting the story

Of your heart in silver and gold.