“It’s dirty and sad. That was something that’s so vivid and that has changed Los Angeles for me.”
Photos from Tunnel’s fall 2017 open mic.
A story from Alan Xu.
A summary of our time at Pasadena’s LitFest 2017, plus PDFs of our spring zine.
A collection of words and pictures shared with Tunnel in the past couple of months,
Curated by Amelia Anthony, created by individual artists.
Long-ago memories, ones that last from generation to generation. Glimpses of a childhood past. Sorrows of the estranged ancestral motherland, China. Cindy Song finds herself somewhere in between.
Drawings and scratches from Brandon Yung.
Tunnel’s third open mic was hosted in the Foley backyard. It was a celebration of the “harvest”: reaping what was sown, and the gratefulness that follows.
(A Love Story) Words by Jasminne Morataya Images by Brandon Yung She (the giant loser) possessed dumb vindictive horse eyes. They were incredibly round and emitted a faint, possibly supernatural light. In life she (the pathetic child nihilist) was vivacious and bright like a fresh cabbage and always quite hopeful. This woman (this stunted brainless goblin) did not realize that she (the worst person to ever live) was condemned to lose forever and ever in a series of increasingly painful circumstances, a fact made more merciless because it was all the result of a single decision that could have easily been avoided. Each loss compounded the subterranean self-hatred in her bloodless beating heart, a feeling she (the shit smeared on the walls of a poorly maintained high school restroom) would never be able to express in any sort of language except the secret vestigial one where she (a flaccid micropenis) went to the grocery store and cried automatically every single time the misting system cooled the produce. At the end of the day it didn’t even …
Words by Kyla Jonas Photographs by Brandon Yung Benevolence I am trying to embroider all of my apologies onto the fleshy parts of my fingers. I am hungry for more kisses from angels on my cheeks and more soft lullabies sung to my stale elbows. I wish to feel less like the chair that the morning fog steps off of in an attempt to hang itself over me. I pray for days that won’t always end with me staring at the floor and whispering about the heavenly body of earth to the light behind my dead moss eyes. I have the outline of butterfly wings carved across the bare covering of my ribs. I am wrapping my heart in Irish wool to grow into a sweater with every beat and warm my antarctic essence. I will one day hold fondness and humility in my rough hands and bestow it upon myself. I will be covered in shadows of babies breath flowers whenever I am immersed in sunlight. I will absorb tenderness. Vacant Small Talk My mind is …