Am I too old to start?

August 28, 2024July 17, 2024 the.amazine1 Comment

by Rossana Segovia

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The only thing I could see was the little flames dancing in between my mom’s hands.

In a living room full of darkness, the loud voices of my family were the main focus, singing an uncoordinated attempt of “Happy Birthday” while my mom, with a sweet smile, placed the big white cake in front of me, I stared at it for a long minute while my aunts filled their camera rolls with blurry pictures of my lost eyes, counting the number of candles firmly fixed on the cream, an amount big enough to make me worry about my achievements in life.

A Home With No Eggshells

August 16, 2024July 12, 2024 the.amazineLeave a comment

by Alma Ariaz

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Your mother doodles

when she talks on the phone.

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(You call it doodling, she calls it

scribbling. Both acts serve the same

purpose, but you sense the subtext

behind the distinction.

It isn’t quite clear.

It could not be clearer.)

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Sobriety is a marathon, not a sprint

August 14, 2024July 12, 2024 the.amazineLeave a comment

by Lindsey Goodrow

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The last day I drank was in no way remarkable. There was no epiphanous moment, nor atrocious circumstance that forced me to make the decision. It was a day like any other, when I wondered if this would be the time it finally stuck. The last day I drank had been one of many last days, another notch in a trailing belt of failed attempts.

Let me cut my finger: Understanding the complex love of a mother

August 6, 2024July 12, 2024 the.amazineLeave a comment

by Rossana Segovia

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“You’re going to hurt yourself, let me do it.”

My mother snatched the kitchen knife from my hand and pressed the vegetables gently against the wooden board, raising the knife edge to create thin, uniform cuts, forming perfect circles and cubes for the soup she had cooked but would present to the family as my original dish.

A Wing-stroked Spectacle

August 2, 2024June 17, 2024 the.amazineLeave a comment

by Daniel Moreschi

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Segmented sets of starlings sharply elevate

towards candescent skies, suspend, then circulate

in sync. Their wingspans whisper sunset symphonies

while manifesting silhouetted symmetries.

Clay figures

July 29, 2024June 17, 2024 the.amazineLeave a comment

by Kyla-Yến Huỳnh Giffin

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The snow falls, but it doesn’t land.

The roads scream when I drive over them.

Birds waltz over power lines and take dust baths in the ground-up concrete.

I grow a plant indoors that knows nothing of how much of the earth is no longer alive.

This world so rarely makes sense.

Surely we’re all just pretending to understand it?

Surely we’re all just acting as if we’ve got it under control?

My Little Demon

July 27, 2024June 14, 2024 the.amazineLeave a comment

by Rowan Moskowitz

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I have a little demon on my shoulder. Not the type who whispers in my ear encouraging me to do bad things to others like in a stereotypical cartoon setting, but more so one that whispers insults and lies to me. It’s my own personal bully, following me wherever I go and reminding me of all the things that could go wrong. Then? It tells me how I deserve it, claiming that I ruin everything and just bother people with my presence. It makes me feel as if I’m back in middle school sometimes, memories of childish insults being thrown my way all coming back in one quick swift like a gust of wind that’s never ending.