Literary Magazine

Category: February


by Elsa Kaufman 

The Life I Love

By Joseph Uchi

Privileges have been abundant in my favor since the day i was born. A caring mother and father. Sweethearts full of love for each other and me. Family that laughed and cried together. Family that drifted further and further while staying close as if they never left each other’s arms. Two sides of my life. Indescribable feelings that i was unaware of. I never had problems to speak of even if i were to point out some things they were just very minor. People around me had problems and struggles. I never struggled much. I enjoyed my backyard and toys while the people around me wanted to play but helped with other things. I was spoiled. They weren’t. God bless their souls. I never knew how hard their life was until I put myself in their shoes. How different my life was. I was a stranger to my family yet i loved them. I thought I could relate. Childish thinking yes. My parents grew up with little. I grew up worrying about my next present. My “friends” never related or cared much for me. I was just there, not apart of the group. My mother tired of my talking and father tired of me all around. I love them. I was just a job for them. My cousins connected while i tried so hard to be one of them. They were better in experience and in general. My uncles and aunts were the same. My grandparents the same. I love them but they differ. I’m alone yet surrounded by people who don’t really care about me but some people would kill for what i have. I don’t care much because i feel loved at the same time i don’t. My god loves me as i was told. Am i loved though? My country loves me as i was told. No i don’t think so. My brother, my dear brother looks up to someone else as a brother and not me. I love him, he loves others. I hug him. He stands there. I cry at night knowing I’m alone with myself to depend on though my body doesn’t care either. Who am I then? Do i exist? I pretend I’m sick to see if my mother would care for me. Drink some medicine. She sleeps. My whole life she slept. I play instruments and sports to see if my dad notices. Shh. He goes to the room and watches videos. My whole life he’s been in that room. I learn how to play games good to see if my cousins want to play. They talk with others. Everyone’s the same. My acquaintances are foreign. I learn how to draw and design to see if i can impress myself. Too bad i give up. I pray on my knees to see if god answers. He doesn’t. He’s been quiet my whole life.
Years and years go by as that feeling goes numb.
I fight myself literally to see i can feel it. I feel good because i know i can do something right. My grades slam that feeling away. My future points the gun at my head. My loneliness pulls the trigger. Too bad its metaphorical. I love life though, my privilege tells me. I’ll keep living. They’re people who would kill for the life i have. I’m grateful yet resentful for my privileges. Some people are grateful for the little they have. I’m here FEELING. There are kids who make their family happy and accomplishing many things while I disappoint and regress my state of being. I waste money on things i want but it kid my mom inside. She would prefer to have another son who is actually a somebody. My father would prefer a SON. My brother would prefer a BROTHER. Too bad I cannot meet their expectations. I cannot meet any. Some people would kill for a life like mine. I’d rather help them than switch places because they’d feel nothing. My teeth rotting and my skin drying. My eyes sinking and body inflates. God laughs at me. The devil beckons me. I lie to myself that people care but they care if I’m doing something. Some people would kill for my privileges. Goodnight.

This is my life story. My thoughts. Some of it exaggerated but necessary. I’m not good at literature and i wrote this in 5 minutes. These are my thoughts. I love you to whomever reads my stuff because I love my life and the people who take part in the world I live in.

Road to Gold

By Taylor Nicole

This was originally created during a summer program. I fell in love with how it came out, as it involved a lot of my personality, belongings, and what I hope to achieve later in my life. Aspects of it remind me of my home town, Tucson and allows me to remember how beautiful home is.


By Evelyn Wyman

I Love You’s
Everywhere he looked;
They splattered the walls
and oozed under doors
They dripped from faucets
and bled from books
They swept her hair away from her face,
as his fingers were often want to do
She looked around, seeing only in black
and white
While he saw in uncontained color

When she shattered
He snatched up the broken pieces
Crunched her under his teeth
Slurped her down his throat
Licked the remnants of her from his lips

I wanted to write a poem about someone who is going to break someone. That’s what happens in the end. But before that you know that he’s the one obsessing over the three little words. Yeah, it confuses me too. Maybe the I Love You’s were some of the colors he was seeing, which were the emotions he was feeling. But there was also sadness and pain. So he tried to see the world like she did…stop feeling so much. But he did it too well, ended up not caring at all. I don’t really know, I’m just the person who wrote it.

“Mono” and “Perspective”

By Mayagovinda Islas

The cactus was just so perfect looking. It was almost begging to be shot in a photo.
I had gone on a hike and wanted to try taking photos of nature from different perspectives. I played around with this log quite a lot before I was happy with the shot.

Not Here

By Will Kleiner

Long Gone

I am saying goodbye now.
Tomorrow, when you come to my house
When you pass the empty driveway
When you ask me from the doorbell
And only the voice of doubt returns your plea
You will not find me behind the door.

Tomorrow, when you go up the stairs
The empty, creaking stairs,
You will not find me waiting at the top of those stairs.
I will not be eating breakfast in the kitchen
Not cleaning the bathroom

When you search my office
When you open that silent door
There will be no singing keyboard,
No slaving computer.
When you come to me in the office,
You will not find me.

When you find me not in the hallway,
Not in the kitchen,
Not in the the bathroom or office,
When you find the old ghosts sitting there instead,
The voice of doubt will breeze up from the doorbell and murmur in your ear.

Tomorrow, when you walk into my bedroom
The sound of your feet will be strangled in hungry carpet
The potted plants will cry chlorophyll tears begging for water
The previous day’s clothes strewn across the floor
You will look to the bed.

And in the bed you will see.
You will see a friend’s wish,
A final laugh.
A cold hand,
A pale lip.
But you will not find me there.

When you flee the quiet,
The all-devouring screams of silence,
You will try to put my house behind you.
The voice of doubt will shackle you to that house.
The sorrow, the hunger, the quiet

Some time from now,
You will search for me
When you walk through the soil
When you wander into the forest
But you will not find me

In many years,
When you look for me
You will look up to the sky
And then down to the stone
With my name on it.
But you will not find me there.
I am not here.
You will not find me in this world.

I will not be in that earth with the bones of a friend
I will not be in the sky with the wings of a bird
You will not find me there,
That is not your friend
That is not me.

I am long gone.

I have written since I could spell, and drawn since I could hold a marker

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