Carnegiea

Literary Magazine

Winter Webzine

Hey everyone, we are very excited to announce our Winter Webzine! We will be taking submissions through the end of December and hope to release it (for free) in late January right here on Carnegiea Lit Mag!

While the theme is Winter, we are taking any submissions. Our webzine is a chance for Southern Arizona’s talented artists to express their voices through their work. We are constantly impressed with the work we receive, and we’d like to see what else you’ve got!

 

Submission form: https://forms.gle/9Km1Bhb5H7jMEPr77

More information about submitting: http://carnegiealitmag.com/submit/

Pink Tan

By Andie Thornton

This piece is a small digital edit of a picture of myself. the meaning subjective but i love the feeling it conveys, through colors and body.

Cry about it

By Chloe Vance

Most of my life I focused on realism and using only pencils. I never focused on color and I never let my own style develop. This year I’ve been doing a lot of art in my spare time. I’ve finally given myself space to explore color and style; it’s been really fun.

She’s Not A Monster

“She’s Not A Monster” is a brief and shallow look at my experience with disordered eating. This piece came about after I felt like I needed a way to get my feelings and experiences out.

By an Anonymous Author

She’s not a monster

Not some devil on my shoulder

Not some disfigured creature who wishes me harm

Who whispers curses and promises into my ear

No

How dramatic

And easy

That would be

Because really

She’s me

She is me who pokes me

She is me who laughs at me

She is me who tells me I’m not good enough

She is me who is always happy

She is me who is always loved

She taunts me

With empty promises

“Just a little farther,”

She lies

“You’ll be so happy.”

She is cruel

But she says she has my best interests at heart

It is foolish that I believe her

Because she is heartless

Those Amber Stones

By Justin Sims

Harold had nothing but her on his mind when he observed the museum. He knew exactly what it was that he needed to do, the time was now. With not a soul in sight, he slithered his way into the heart of the museum.

As Harold slinked through the desolate museum on nothing but the very tips of his toes, he allowed his eyes to venture across the near darkness. His retinas scanned over every inch of wall, disregarding shadowed figures in their frames as he searched for his true heart’s desire. Among the dozens and dozens of beauties lining the walls, there she finally reared her head: his chef d’oeuvre, his cream of the crop, his masterpiece.

Harold rattled with anticipation, his mouth salivating at the idea of her being so near. No longer able to keep himself composed, Harold gave into his primal instincts and galloped as valiantly as a Trojan warrior riding his steed into battle, chasing his own sort of glory: her.

Dashing across the vast compound of the museum took only a second for Harold, and soon enough she was close enough to touch, to smell, to taste. Here she was before him, in all of her grandeur.

Her beauty was enough to force tears from even the strongest willed, as if a bowl of onions was hidden behind her gilded panel. Every stroke of pigment knew its place in the world of her canvas, alternating between being distinguishable to the naked eye to disappearing among a sea of strokes. Her wispy bangs eclipse her eyes, making her even harder to read and her intentions unknown. There is a sense of uneasiness when staring into those amber stones. She feels real, and she is plotting against you in your most vulnerable moment.

Nothing could stop Harold from touching her, not the safety of her crystal sarcophagus, not even the subsequent alarm that rang throughout the hollow cavern. Harold allowed the severity of the roar in his ears to fade into the background. This was his moment. He was finally alone with her.

Harold removed her from the shards of her once effective prison, a place she hadn’t been taken from in years. The sensation of her ornate frame alone was nearly enough to send Harold over the edge. He refrained himself, only allowing the slightest tracings across her delicately carved edges. Harold shakily outstretched his fingers towards the canvas itself. Feeling that thick acrylic paint bury itself into the beds of his nails gave him a feeling of euphoria, a high that he knew he could only reach with her. He could feel the months of effort behind each stroke, no longer with his eyes alone. Harold could taste the pigment with the ends of his nails, he could finally feel that darkness behind her eyes. Yet, he still wanted more.

As he lay with her among the particles of shattered glass, he knew that he would never feel this level of connection with anyone else. This Dark-Haired Beauty was his soulmate. He hovered over her exposed paint, running his fingertips along her face, grazing her hairs, giving her a playful boop on the nose. This was paradise. Harold leaned in for a kiss, staring deep into that hellish golden abyss the entire time. The acidic sweetness of her lips put Harold into a state of pure ecstasy, he could taste every molecule of passion poured into her. He was in love with the feeling. Her scent somehow was even more lovely; the way she made his nostrils burn, the way she made him feel that oh-so familiar sting in the back of his throat.

Harold took no notice of the blotched shapes now surrounding him. A glint of fluorescence shining through his eyes could not take his attention away from her. The sounds of blaring alarms and barking of commands took a backseat to the silence behind her eyes. He could stare into those eyes eternally.

Painting: Dark Haired Beauty by Juana Romani

Submit to our Winter Webzine

We are still taking submissions for our Winter Webzine! What better way to end 2020 than to recap all of the great work local artists have done throughout the year? We’re looking for any and all types of art – poetry, photography, music, essays, conceptual plays, textiles, creative political commentary, and anything else you can think of!

Submission form: https://forms.gle/9Km1Bhb5H7jMEPr77

More information about submitting: http://carnegiealitmag.com/submit/

 

Photoset from Saguaro National Park

By Ashley McQueen

I recently had taken these photographs at Saguaro National Park West to capture the beauty of the cacti and plants during one of Tucson’s famous sunsets. Saguaro National Park is such a classic spot for Tucson natives and out of town visitors to experience. I wanted to capture its beauty to share with the rest of Tucson who have not been able to experience it yet. Creating and photographing images of my hometown means so much to me because it is the one place I have known forever and what it has to offer is so special and important.

Firewood

By Kaya Callahan

I am the wood to his fire
When he speaks his words keep me warm
But when he yells his words burn me
Blacken me.
Break me apart from the inside out.
Have me question my worth.
Crack. Crack. Crackling.
Until he would soothe me with his warming words again.
But this dark pain, charcoal stained spots on my heart and mind
Never truly go away.

“Firewood” is about how my ex boyfriend would go from loving to being emotionally/ verbally abusive. Even after he would briefly apologize and be “loving” again his words still stuck with me.

Untitled

By Lia Christensen

It’s What I Deserve

By Humberto Valdez

My hands have no flesh, not even bone.
Texture and sensation are no longer present in my fingertips.
My hands have been chopped off by life itself,
only severed wounds and nothingness remain.
The universe figured they were of no use to me nor anybody else.
They were a gift I was given and chose to neglect;
a waste of space.
How selfish I was, to ignore a blessing simply because I was too afraid.

Had only there been somebody to use them,
to put them to work like a mother.
A mother who caresses her baby’s cheek.
One who cares for her child, not because she needs to,
but because she desperately wants to.

I wish I could know how other people feel.
What is it like to caress somebody, or even to be caressed?
It doesn’t matter,
I don’t want somebody to tell me what it feels like,
I want to experience it for myself.
But, I guess I’ll never know.

For now, in this life, I shall be useless,
left alone to rot and bleed to death.
Well, maybe not bleed to death,
but to die of neglect.

I think that a lot of us teenagers feel that we won’t fall in love, and this is kind of how I would describe that feeling, by having your hands chopped off. Because, when you think of having a partner, you imagine touching them, holding their hand, running your hands through their hair, and without your hands, you can’t do any of that. It might possibly be the worst punishment in a sense, but if you keep this mindset, you almost feel that it’s what you deserve.

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