This month we offer tea that tasted like song, late-nite bleeps with the middle note hollowed out.
Next month we
MIRROR
Submission guidelines can be found here.
Quiet
Our first date was quiet. The way that water tends to be. I had just met him and the silence was immediately comfortable. I thought: I found my person. My soul has finally landed into rest. This happened after twenty-seven winters of searching, of meaningless sex, of old drunken chatter.
Our one-year anniversary was quiet. The way that debt bleeds into you. I had just confessed to him what used to burden me as a child, and he said nothing at all. I thought: We’re not compatible. I might as well be speaking to a wall. This happened after twelve months of trying to break this invisible shadow between us. I love him as well as can be, as capable as I’ve ever been of loving, but there’s a whole person inside of him I’ve yet to meet.
The day he moved in with me was quiet. The way that candles flicker. Now he stops to kiss me every time on his way to the kitchen or bathroom. He holds me till I fall asleep before turning to the other side. I stopped trying to change him and learned to listen to the wordless ways with which he spoke. Once, I told him, “I want to give you so much joy in this lifetime.” And he brushed my back, kissed my hair. Then smiling, he made me tea that tasted like song.
Our last night together was quiet. The way that preludes and epilogues tend to be. I had just told him what I’d been denying this whole time, and he started retching in the bathroom. This happened after I’d hugged him for the last time the day before, held him as tightly as I could. It was in that morning light I quietly decided, and in that morning light, he spoke the most. Hearts are such a delicate thing. I thought: For what it’s worth—and it’s worth plenty and so much—we loved each other for most of that quiet.
Magdi Hazaa is an artist, writer, and spoken word poet based in Minneapolis, Minnesota. An alumnus of Minneapolis College of Art and Design, his work blends elements of visual art, poetry, narrative, sound, and web development. His writing and artwork have appeared in Apricity Magazine, Apparition Literary Magazine, and MCAD’s NEXT Magazine. His work can also be seen at magdihazaa.art and instagra
DISCORD(ANT)
if I was gonna learn how to do this for anyone it would be for YOU bc I’ve never even been blindfolded as in the beginning I post & tell no one my plans (are mine) but then come running to the watering hole in my defense all I said was I liked your words you dragged me into this fever yeah I write fanfiction but in a far deeper & more intellectual way than you ever will god why do you have to be so close & so far [BEAT] “I want to go home” [channel fills with laughter] thanks, stop. is there sweeter unmusic than late-nite bleeps with the middle note hollowed out? but jesus christ it’s manic in here I need a formula: gc microdose + dm overdose → let simmer picture two dozen dark ships passing in the night born on the cusp if I asked you [what’s my generation] you might slap me across the face & I might come or die or both nobody checks their kinks at the door I’m such an Actor but some shows are unsustainable when I typed [lol] I meant [do u want to run away together] note to self: learn how to take a fucking compliment here & on the main server forever & ever amen try to shore yourself up you’re still lost before you’ve begun no beta we die like I do when your icon goes blank taking breaks b/w revelations of our intersections mapping your gorgeous sprawl on my hardwood floor the truth is we’re an army of workers in service of a queen we can’t see but we cluster up & rub antennae as if we can anything else I’m just pretending to do anymore stay put in my armchair → snag the sleeve of your attention your stories reminded me of my softness for a *yelp* the YouTubers say the Beatles were basically this??? there are three green eyes on this monster & they form an ellipsis it’s just a lil crush I tell every friend I can think of it’s not like I— oops there goes another “day” of “bettering” “myself”
C. M. Gigliotti is a zillennial multi-hyphenate artist with an MA in English from Central Connecticut State University and a BA in Creative Writing from the Writers Institute at Susquehanna University. Her work has appeared recently in Vernacular, CommuterLit, MEMEZINE, Songs of Eretz, and Prose Poems and is forthcoming in Vernacular, Blue Unicorn, and two fantasy anthologies. She lives in Berlin.
This month we offer tea that tasted like song, late-nite bleeps with the middle note hollowed out.
Next month we
GLASS
Submission guidelines can be found here.
Quiet
Our first date was quiet. The way that water tends to be. I had just met him and the silence was immediately comfortable. I thought: I found my person. My soul has finally landed into rest. This happened after twenty-seven winters of searching, of meaningless sex, of old drunken chatter.
Our one-year anniversary was quiet. The way that debt bleeds into you. I had just confessed to him what used to burden me as a child, and he said nothing at all. I thought: We’re not compatible. I might as well be speaking to a wall. This happened after twelve months of trying to break this invisible shadow between us. I love him as well as can be, as capable as I’ve ever been of loving, but there’s a whole person inside of him I’ve yet to meet.
The day he moved in with me was quiet. The way that candles flicker. Now he stops to kiss me every time on his way to the kitchen or bathroom. He holds me till I fall asleep before turning to the other side. I stopped trying to change him and learned to listen to the wordless ways with which he spoke. Once, I told him, “I want to give you so much joy in this lifetime.” And he brushed my back, kissed my hair. Then smiling, he made me tea that tasted like song.
Our last night together was quiet. The way that preludes and epilogues tend to be. I had just told him what I’d been denying this whole time, and he started retching in the bathroom. This happened after I’d hugged him for the last time the day before, held him as tightly as I could. It was in that morning light I quietly decided, and in that morning light, he spoke the most. Hearts are such a delicate thing. I thought: For what it’s worth—and it’s worth plenty and so much—we loved each other for most of that quiet.
Magdi Hazaa is an artist, writer, and spoken word poet based in Minneapolis, Minnesota. An alumnus of Minneapolis College of Art and Design, his work blends elements of visual art, poetry, narrative, sound, and web development. His writing and artwork have appeared in Apricity Magazine, Apparition Literary Magazine, and MCAD’s NEXT Magazine. His work can also be seen at magdihazaa.art and instagra
DISCORD(ANT)
if I was gonna learn how to do this for anyone it would be for YOU bc I’ve never even been blindfolded as in the beginning I post & tell no one my plans (are mine) but then come running to the watering hole in my defense all I said was I liked your words you dragged me into this fever yeah I write fanfiction but in a far deeper & more intellectual way than you ever will god why do you have to be so close & so far [BEAT] “I want to go home” [channel fills with laughter] thanks, stop. is there sweeter unmusic than late-nite bleeps with the middle note hollowed out? but jesus christ it’s manic in here I need a formula: gc microdose + dm overdose → let simmer picture two dozen dark ships passing in the night born on the cusp if I asked you [what’s my generation] you might slap me across the face & I might come or die or both nobody checks their kinks at the door I’m such an Actor but some shows are unsustainable when I typed [lol] I meant [do u want to run away together] note to self: learn how to take a fucking compliment here & on the main server forever & ever amen try to shore yourself up you’re still lost before you’ve begun no beta we die like I do when your icon goes blank taking breaks b/w revelations of our intersections mapping your gorgeous sprawl on my hardwood floor the truth is we’re an army of workers in service of a queen we can’t see but we cluster up & rub antennae as if we can anything else I’m just pretending to do anymore stay put in my armchair → snag the sleeve of your attention your stories reminded me of my softness for a *yelp* the YouTubers say the Beatles were basically this??? there are three green eyes on this monster & they form an ellipsis it’s just a lil crush I tell every friend I can think of it’s not like I— oops there goes another “day” of “bettering” “myself”
C. M. Gigliotti is a zillennial multi-hyphenate artist with an MA in English from Central Connecticut State University and a BA in Creative Writing from the Writers Institute at Susquehanna University. Her work has appeared recently in Vernacular, CommuterLit, MEMEZINE, Songs of Eretz, and Prose Poems and is forthcoming in Vernacular, Blue Unicorn, and two fantasy anthologies. She lives in Berlin.
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