BELLA MELARDI

The new tattoo burns, 

not pain, exactly, 

just heat 

 lingering. 

My skin: dirt. 

The ink: rainwater 

already ruined, 

seeping inward. 

I mark myself 

to forget. 

Still, 

I am ruled by absence, 

a swelling thing

under the ribs, 

tender to touch. 

I know I will die. 

I don’t know 

how to make that gentle, 

but sometimes 

it shrinks everything else, 

the frantic lists, 

the cramped handwriting, 

expectations collapsing 

like wet paper, 

teeth pressed to skin, 

suddenly 

quieter. 

I sit in my parents’ living room, 

heat gathering 

in the same old corners. 

The fireplace forgives nothing. 

Light flakes in my hands, 

gold, or something like it, 

and disappears. 

I am fire 

trying to learn rain. 

But rain doesn’t bite the ground, 

doesn’t tighten its grip 

around what it touches, 

doesn’t mistake holding 

for staying. 

Control is the shape 

I return to.

Absence. 

Anything I hold 

remembers me 

in scars. 

Above me, 

clouds thicken, 

water practicing 

the act of falling. 

Anything I hold 

remembers. 

And I am afraid 

of the moment 

something touches me 

and does not burn. 

I'm beginning to forget
the little things about my childhood home —
where the fridge used to be,
the nightly sound of the shutters
from the coffeeshop opposite
being dragged down.

It's strange, because I still visit every week:
the pitter-patter of my children's feet
on the raised wooden platform
where I used to lie
watching clouds drift by,
dreaming of a world
outside these walls.

The other day Mummy said
they're looking to move
into a smaller place,
one easier to upkeep.
She paused between her words,
letting her eyes wander
across the walls
that had watched us grow.

It was inevitable, of course,
and I should be glad
they have a sound retirement plan.

Still, I cannot help but wonder
which part of it will leave first —
the house,
or the shape it still holds
inside my memory.

is a Singapore-based writer whose work explores memory, love, and the quiet transformations that shape a life. Her poetry often reflects on the intersections between desire, loss, and endurance, drawing from personal experience to examine how meaning shifts over time. She is particularly interested in the emotional landscapes of womanhood, relationships, and home. Her work has been featured in various literary platforms. When she is not writing, she teaches Literature. You can find more of her work on Instagram at @wordsbydianajohar.

     A humble melody swings its way through the abandoned cobblestone streets of the bombed city. Its mere existence contradicts the reality of its tortured world. The shells of once lived homes lined the dislodged street this same melody now walks upon. To an amateur ear, it would simply combine the “noise” with the empty gusts of wind crowding the city. Such feeble ears were the ones who missed the melody, sauntering the remains of its creator’s home; its stride matched a patrolling company’s footsteps. Between each step both parties took, there was a hidden delay. Anytime a horrendous sight was spotted, the steps became slower and heavier, not with weight but regret. However, the soldiers did not recognize the tune. Instead, the choral ear of their curmudgeonly captain was graced with the melody. 

     As the point men continued their eternal march, one of them felt a ridge in front of him. In his mindless dedication, he had bumped into his stagnant captain. When the point man realized the wrong he had committed, he immediately positioned himself with his knees cemented to the street. He procured apology after apology, demeaning his own image in the attempt to save it. However, after the fifth apology, he realized that he had not heard the voice of the captain. With a shy glance, he saw the old man stationed in the middle of the street with his men similarly behind him. Despite the nervous posture of his company, the captain did not seem stressed nor present. He appeared to be meditating in the ruins of this foreign yet familiar country. At this moment, the company could not hear the melody tip-toeing from apartment to apartment. 

     With the stern captain meditating upon the lively melody, his company grew anxious. Their captain never exhibited such lenient behavior. During their training, every morning, between moonlight and sunlight, the company would run around the circuit at the field for twenty miles. Even a second long decrease in their speed would increase the count of their miles by one for the entire company. To witness the harsh captain now as still as the broken lampposts, save for an outcast that would flicker desperately, was unprecedented. 

      Nevertheless, the captain remained firm, stronger than the crumbled walls. He had forfeited his duty to give attention to the melody, oscillating from the canopy to the detritus of the city. It had the figure of a youth, naive but untethered to any location. 

     Amidst his blissful meditation, the melody ceased without warning. No more sweet words fluttered through the streets. Instead, an eerie silence permeated the now colossal buildings. The captain was no longer in the field; he was in the narrow. 

     An abruption within the melody caused a similar reaction to the captain. He gasped for air as his eyes became wide-open akin to his ears. His cold demeanor shattered as he sank to the stones. The once silent and obedient company began to exchange whispers between themselves. They wondered about the sudden change in the captain. After their battle, all they wished was to return back to camp, to rest on steel which might as well have been wool. 

     Then, a ghastly cry was heard. It pierced the silence and the ignorance of the company, dispelling all the monotony with it. Unlike the melody, the cry was ice compared to the rushing stream of the melody. It trudged along the streets, producing an almost real streak of crimson residue. As the horrid aged figure wrestled its way past the company, a second grizzly cry was sounded. It was instantaneously followed by a third grizzly cry. As more cries erupted from its origin, ghosts began to flood the streets, all oblivious to the company, except the experienced captain. However, the cries were too much for him. Against the pain and to the astonishment of the shocked soldiers, he rose from the chipped stones and commanded his company to pursue the source of the deathly cries. As the captain darted from street to street in pursuit of the creation of the cries but more importantly, the explanation of the melody’s death, his company stared at each other in disbelief at the recent events that had transpired. Some whispered that the captain had become insane, that the cries were merely from sheep who had met the fate of a fox, but to avoid the wrath of their captain, the company joined his marathon. 

     Amidst his eccentric sprint, followed by hesitant footfalls akin to a waterfall of stones, the streets faded from existence. The captain was no longer in the bombarded city. He was oblivious to the confinement that he had run headfirst into: his mind. Past memories blazed fiercely like the flames consuming a nearby café’s trellis, haunted cadavers of fallen soldiers walked through his thoughts like the ghosts among the once tangible streets of the bombed city, and at the hypocenter of his mind, laid one cadaver: barely born, quickly dead, and engulfed in the thickest red resin, despite any attempt to fragment. The resin then melted into a residue, poured effortlessly from the infant’s eyes into the now soaken hands of the captain, a cadaver once more. 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf, 

     Der Vater hüt die Schaf, 

     Die Mutter schüttelts Bäumelein, 

     Da fällt herab ein Träumelein, 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf! 

     At the revival of the melody, though feeble like a single pinky elongated from Death’s tombstone, the accompanying lyrics planted themselves within the scarlett saturated void of the captain's mind, drawing the vile liquid from the trenches of his thoughts. 

     Released from a vicious daymare, the captain arose to only stumble. When the captain attempted his rise again, a chief officer finally appeared from the faceless company and outstretched his hand. As the captain leaned on his trusted chief officer, he stared at the unshackled yet bombed city. He was at the outskirts of a plaza. Any evidence of life had been crumbled in the wake of a bomb. With lifeless corpses lining a fountain spewing blood, in a perfect circle, the captain noticed an anomaly among the man-made ring of destruction, a twitching charcoal tuxedo, ignited by a song, a lullaby if it could soothe. 

     The cough forming within the captain’s throat dissipated at the first sign of life within this city, maybe the world. As the lyrics flew from the baritone like sparrows disrupted from a gunshot, they rested as the soul of the baritone met the eyes of the captain. A glance was shared: hard at its inception, soft at its conclusion.

     Suddenly, a gust of wind propelled the pair. Their mouths rounded into small circles, man-mades ones of creation, and an “ooo” sounded. Their revolution sparked the company. No more could their compliance to the silent order of the city control them, an “ooo” arose from them as well. Collected, life rushed from the fountain; the blood once staining the land of its impurity was transformed into an euphony of hope. The cadavers no longer seemed lifeless, a spark lit their sealed eyes. The homeless homes returned to their homes. The melody erupted in joyous praise, it cascaded from street corner to the next, from home to home, from soldier to captain to baritone. As the hopeful crowd witnessed the melody in its run, they felt a verse bubble up. 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf, 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf, 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf! 

     Out of respect, the company gave their attention to the traumatized pair in the tortured city. 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf, 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf… 

     The captain then paused. He gazed upon his newfound friend, between trauma and freedom, despair and hope, death and life. 

     Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf, 

     Schlaf, Kindlein… schlaf, 

     Schlaf…

is a high school student from California. In school, he is involved with the literary arts club as the Secretary and the journalism program as a Managing Editor. He also has been published in The Reprise Magazine. At a young age, he developed a passion for reading and writing that continues to this day. His dream is to become an author. He also hopes that one day he will obtain a PhD in English and Journalism and have the opportunity to teach abroad as a professor.

It is the country of sons. 

-Ocean Vuong, “Künstlerroman” 

<>

it is a summer day, sky dripping in 

tangerine shades. like a good son 

does, i play baseball with my tired 

father, the result of father-son 

bonding spent in the park field. 

he wanted me to be the son 

he never was, so i wear this sage 

colored camo, sweaty from a son’s 

hard work. my hair glimmered of a 

graphite hue with dirt of a careless son 

tumbling along the infield. we drive 

back, aquamarine bag in a son’s 

sticky hands & sneakers soaked 

like rustic ebony. at home, as a son, 

i observe my sister & mother in the 

bathroom, counters piled with her son’s 

yearnings—beauty products & cheap hair 

accessories. maroon bows of her son’s 

imagined childhood, lavender-colored 

hairbrushes waiting to be used. a son 

will never get to use dandelion berets 

with the short hair of a typical son. 

through the beige keyhole, i watch

my sister’s hair weaved like a son’s 

fraying noose. my mother braids 

through the mahogany knots her son 

will never have. i long to be my 

younger sister, not the son 

entwined in hypermasculinity. 

& still, i am my father’s son.

is an award-winning multidisciplinary youth poet and literary innovator based in Long Beach, California. Lee has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, YoungArts, Bennington Young Writers Awards and received a 2026 Best of the Net Nomination. Their work has been featured/forthcoming in The Kenyon Review, The Poetry Society, and elsewhere.

     A lank-haired man is snoring in a pit on the cobblestone drive up to the Grand Mosque. By his state of undress, a fakir from the shrines.

     It’s near dusk. Oxen carts loaded with cardamom and cloves, horse-riding traders laden with jaggery, and beggars in rags squeeze around the pit. They curse the emperor for not fixing the roads.

     My jaw clenches. I pull the hood of my satin cape deeper over my gray brows. Standing at the pit’s rim, I kick a pebble at the man’s skull with my bejeweled slipper.

     He doesn’t stir. A loincloth of coarse linen wraps around his waist, and leaves from fragrant orange trees lining the avenue are his blanket. A plain calico-spun bindle rests at his blackened feet.

     Behind me, the rasp of steel on leather. My guard in chain mail grips the hilt of his curved sword. I gesture for him to hold steady.

     “I am a royal inspector,” I say to the fakir. “Leave, lest you wish to lose your head.”

     His hand gropes about in the dirt, and he flings a rock at me without looking.

     I catch it in midair. “This is your last chance.”

     The man groans and sits up in the pit. Then he throws his head back and laughs.

     “Oh, great inspector,” he says. “Gray hair on a young man is hard to hide. There is but one in the land to suffer that curse.”

     The clomping of buffalo-hide boots on stone. A teen bearing the royal seal lights up the linseed-soaked torch overlooking the pit.

     I sigh and draw back my hood. “You refuse to profess the faith properly, and you desecrate royal roads. What punishment do you merit?”

     He points to the thin, misshapen sapphire ring on my little finger. “Does it honor the victor to steal from the slaughtered?”

     I flinch. Steel sighs on leather again. My guard unsheathes his sword.

     “Order me, sire, to end his sorry life,” he says in a hushed tone.

     The fakir brushes away the blanket of leaves and emerges from the pit with his bindle. He sits on the cobblestones in the lotus pose.

     “There is a hole in your heart, Aurangzeb,” he says. “What you seek cannot be found in the dye of blood nor the farthest reaches of India.”

     My fingernails scrape at my beard. “What do you have there? The tools with which you ruin my capital?”

     His eyes tighten at the corners. “Even I cannot be so cruel as to reveal my burden.”

     “What? Do as you are commanded, knave,” I thunder, gripping the jade handle of my Damascene dagger.

     He gives a sad smile. “Ah, you have forgotten.”

     #

     Years ago, my father’s cheeks had not turned sallow from alcohol, and my hair was auburn. Back then, my brothers still laughed with the lightness of youth, and I smiled easily.

     The fakir’s bare hut was deep in the brooding forest outside the royal capital. He served us lassi and battered chickpeas on bamboo mats while langurs howled in his backyard. His hard gaze wandered to me often.

     Our father finally set down his cup. “Pir sahib,” he said. “I want you to bless my sons with a gift that will lessen their hardships.”

     The fakir looked away. Then he reached behind him to produce a bindle and untied its top knot. He offered a thin, misshapen sapphire ring to my elder brother.

     “God is the decider of all fates,” he said darkly.

     To my younger brother, he passed a jade-hilted dagger. “God is the governor of all lives.”

     My breath hastened in anticipation, but suddenly he turned to my father. “I hope you have a safe trip back, your majesty.”

     My fingertips turned cold.

     “Huh? What about Aurangzeb?” my father asked.

     The faqir hesitated. “My gift cannot bless him. He alone can.”

     My elder brother pointed at my wispy beard. “You’ve already got a gray hair,” he said, grinning.

     #

     The fakir unfurls his bindle with a flourish, and three human skulls clatter on the bricks.

I gasp, my grip slackening around the dagger.

     He points at each skull in turn. “Your elder brother, your younger brother, and the elder's son who dared woo the slave girl you coveted.” 

     The smallest skull bears the deepest axe wound. My fingernails dig into my palms.

     "You lie," I say.

     He rises and peers at the flame-red sky. “I dig pits to hide your shame, emperor. Not mine.”

     The skulls are grinning. The thousand cuts in my heart throb, but I cannot pull my eyes away.

     “How dare you,” I whisper.

     The scuffing of leather on stones—my guard’s knees are flexed; his chain mail clinks urgently.

     “Order me,” he shouts.

     I say nothing. I never do.

     A glint of steel, then a sword sings through the air.

     A crimson slash appears on the fakir’s throat. Soon, a swell of blood soaks his loincloth.

He sputters out the profession of faith and then goes silent. This time, he recites it completely.

     My limbs are frozen.

     Inch by inch his head tips over, and finally the last sinew is severed. It drops to his feet with a dull thud.

     Wind blows down from the Grand Mosque and throws dust in my face. My guard sheathes his sword and kneels before me.

     “Punish me as you wish. I could not control myself,” he says.

     I nod but say nothing.  

     The headless fakir does not fall. His lifeless eyes stare at me from the cobblestones; his haunting smile remains.

     I sit on my haunches and close his eyes. Then I exhale until my lungs ache.

     I collect the skulls in his bindle. My sapphire ring too I place inside and knot it tightly.

     “Have the undertaker bury them together,” I say.

     The guard squints. “Why the ring, sire?”

     Nightingales flutter overhead, bound for the coppices behind the mosque’s red-stone courtyard.

     I pull the hood back over my face. “It is not yet mine.”

moonlights as a mediocre communications professional by day and crafts short fiction laced with social/magic realism at the crack of dusk. His stories have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Fiction on the Web, SORTES, Litbop, Does It Have Pockets?, WayWords, The SCOP, and elsewhere. Find him on Instagram @smobynoor.

Autumn’s blustering baton conducts 

its final crimson symphony,

leaves drifting down to become

sheet music on the forest floor.

As the cold drills ever deeper,

the idea of a nice fire kindles. 

What is a tree in winter if not warmth 

for the house, wood for the stove?

My neighbor has built a bonfire, throwing 

everything on it—logs and leaves, 

newspapers and magazines, and those 

ubiquitous cardboard cartons. 

I think maybe I’d like to burn 

something too, so I survey the forest 

to determine which of its members

would be willing to volunteer. 

What a difference in perspective 

the winter makes. I see the trees now, 

with their covers stripped away—starved 

fingers clawing at the sky, reaching 

for that pale, unattainable 

eye of gold.

is a writer, photographer, and former diplomat who spent most of his professional life in Latin America and Europe. Raised in Virginia, he turned to poetry at some point in junior high school as a shorter alternative to meet his English teachers’ weekly writing requirements, and grew to love it. Wes rediscovered his passion for poetry during the pandemic, and since then has been trying to develop his craft and share his poems with a (hopefully) wider audience.