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Editorial   Editorial​   Editorial​   Editorial   Editorial

Editorial   Editorial​   Editorial​   Editorial   Editorial


Honk if you're Lonely

I buy bumper stickers online to pretend I’ve been places. Let the 

newspapers pile on the front porch for two weeks each year; lock 

the doors and refuse to turn on the lights 

so the neighbours believe I’ve gone on vacation;  

pay $3.99 plus shipping for “Aloha State” and twice that for fake tan. 


I keep my stick-figure family in my glove compartment 

for when I go to Costco the next town over. 

I pull into the carpool parking lot near the highway, 

decal them on the rear window, 

then drive to waste money on food in bulk. 

I browse Baby’s-R-Us to see the tiny clothes, 

trash talk with other mothers about the terrible twos, 

feigning gratitude that Grandma’s at home with the little 

one. I joke I should really remove “Baby on Board,” 

my baby isn’t a baby —  

anymore, I add.

Drive-In Theatre Time Machine

I built a time machine in my backyard. 



- a white sheet clipped on the clothesline to hang like a drive-in movie screen 

- a cracked telescope looted from the planetarium dumpster 

- an overhead projector from my mother’s days as a primary school teacher 

- a junk-drawer worth of drained batteries, old cellphones, and miscellaneous wires 

- a Mercury Comet convertible frame 

- a vintage popcorn popper (for aesthetic purposes) 

How I did it: 

I replaced the lens of the overhead projector  

with that of the planetarium telescope, 

and modified the plane mirror 

to reflect the nightglow, 

amped the hardware  

with silver substances  

and metal organs  

harvested from the graveyard 

of electronics from the junk-drawer, 

then flipped the switch, 

angled the scope toward the stars, 

projected the cosmos on  

the bedsheet screen. 


With butter-soaked popcorn in a red-white striped bag, 

I settled behind the wheel of the decommissioned Mercury 

Comet, the projector propped beside me in the passenger’s seat. 

Static on the bedsheet screen transformed 

from stagnant stars to features fleshed out in the cosmos.

— Isla McLaughlin


By: Zahra Onsori


Raising a Heterosexual
By: Darragh Clayton


Why I'm Still Addicted to Animal Crossing
By: Helayna Raffaele


The Death

By: Anika Kapoor



By: Joseph Donato

Sometimes I talk in my own language  

even I don’t understand.  

It’s only sounds,  

grating consonants  

and tongue flicking  

that launch spit from teeth,  

earn knocks to the head from  

my mother’s broom handle.  

I like making zs bump elbows with ks  

when they’d otherwise be strangers,  

that qs warm in my mouth  

more than any other.  

I like that there are no verb conjugations  

my teachers have me memorize  

with ruler-smacks to my wrists.  

I like that tripping over my words  

creates new ones.  

I like that there’s a phrase  

for every feeling imaginable,  

even the ones that other language-speakers  are too afraid to name  

(skftr zucqin, pronounced however,  

is to peek at tabloid covers  

in the pharmacy check-out line  

with the men from Jersey Shore  

while hopping the cashier won’t notice  

and tell your father).  

I like that nobody can translate my secrets  

because there are infinite equivalents  for 

each English word  

and one is never spoken twice  

I like to sit crosslegged in the living room  

with my mother knitting in the armchair,  

my father thumbing the remote buttons,  

and say as loud as I’d like  

with as many butterflies in my stomach  

qiptk clck svekor ke!

— Joseph Donato

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