All posts tagged: writing

But Hate is What Gives Us Our Strength

(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 …

Kyla Jonas: melancholia

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 …

Sarah Hunter’s Tits & Other Bits

Sarah Hunter, 20-year-old illustrator based in Brighton, UK is an incredible example of a woman who is all about body appreciation. Her series ‘Tits & Other Bits’ exemplifies the notion that not all women have the “perfect” bodies. Sarah describes her work as simple, yet effective. Her illustrations humorously take on real life situations and personal experiences, basing a lot of it on the fact that “you cannot take life at face value as it can get very depressing, so why not spice it up a bit.” Hunter is currently working on a cartoon series of the times things “didn’t quite go according to plan”. “I try to produce work I would enjoy or find funny, I am that person who laughs (to myself) when I do a funny drawing…” When Hunter creates her illustrations she tends to start with simple drawings, then scanning to manipulate them on Photoshop. Of her materials, Sarah says “even though I enjoy using paint, I prefer my illustrations to be clean cut which is quite hard to do with that particular medium.”   Although, …

my toes say i’ll get into college

ABOUT THE ARTIST: A.A. Reinecke is Tunnel’s newest diarist. She is a writer and poet from Westchester, NY. Her work has most recently appeared in the Claremont Review, and Pulchritude Press. She resides in Northern California where she writes every morning at 5 AM, opposite a print of “View of the World from 9th Avenue” and often beside a glass of Thai iced coffee. In adulthood she plans to write books and live in the woods. Photo from Perah Ralin

Jelly Bean Memories

A few weeks ago, I was going through old photos at my grandma’s house. Each drawer I opened seemed to be hiding sheafs of memories, like a flock of paper cranes ready to take flight. Even in the middle of boring suburban New Jersey, I could find fifty years plus worth of history and stories and emotions. It makes me wonder where else old histories might be hiding. What other memories lie forgotten in the drawers of our minds? _________________________________________________________________ home           summer is the taste of watermelons. i grew up in the warm sepia glow of lamplight at night, the vague sound of distant fire trucks that somehow tell me everything is alright. the air conditioning is too cold, the fan’s face rotates its gaze around the room, protecting me, reminding me that i am where i belong. outside, the cicadas join a sound that is already in my head. (i translate every touch from japanese, i try my best). summer means long, hot nights where i lie flopped on …

semantic satiation

Words by Amelia Anthony Photography by Pablo Gaeta PRUFOCK’S PERVIGILIUM a partial case study of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot i hadn’t seen Michealango yet and i hadn’t seen god. sure i miss the way i used to write now and I think i have seen both In the past week. funny how Things like this work out “that’s a thing people say but it has NO meaning. neither do i tell myself. suddenly this month heaven sounds delicious. spiritual people live differently and i am so optimistic about death and am confused about the tears on deaths. i can’t cry about anything but myself. no sign from God to confirm. am i ever going to change the world? why does it matter when i can go to Washington. a body of mine is a body of yours Michael- angelo. ON SPACE (IN SPACE) Is feeling cold an emotion? Sometimes, it’s so much more than a temperature. Or a lack of heat I know that space is cold I am …

An Inheritance: words and pictures

Images courtesy of Ashley Jimenez Six Things You Will Learn About Being American-Born Chinese by Rona Wang When you are seven and the kids at school pull up the outer corners of their eyes, call you chink or gook, you will not get it. You will not understand why they sneer at your lunches and your clothes and your punctured speech. At eight your favorite after-school television cartoon will feature a Mandarin-speaking character but the voice-actor only speaks gibberish, with the subtitle “Speaking Chinese” in bold underneath, as if that’s good enough to fool you. You learn this is how your language is perceived: a string of nonsense. You are nine and your mother still stumbles over vowels, cannot spit out her words without dipping them first in foreign tones, and you are embarrassed. Don’t be. Be proud of the courage it took for her to cross an ocean into a foreign land which told her she didn’t belong, which told her to go home. Be proud of the tenacity it took to survive the winters of …

Magnificat

  RAIN by Alice Xu The sun burns cold in October & the cloth curved between my thighs catches rain. Beneath my palm: Rosalie’s cross. Bible once beneath. My body, spread out on sapped autumn oak. The cusp of middle-aged rust, rusting like last year’s sycamore leaves. I dream of Louis rubbing his neck & churchyards emptying their stomachs as the sun waits for a funeral.     ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Alice Xu is a high school senior who adores Jane Austen and her novels. She currently serves as a Co-Editor in Chief for her high school’s literary magazine, a Genre Editor for Polyphony H.S., and an Editorial Intern for The Blueshift Journal. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Textploit, Phosphene Literary Journal, The Riveter Review, and elsewhere. Photographs by Hana Tyszka Illustration by Eric Anaya