In this episode, Zeinab is talking about films! She discussing costuming and the villanization of the girly-girl. Why do films demonize what’s feminine? Ultra-feminine women and fashion are often associated associated with death. In this episode, she analyzes “You,” “Black Swan,” “Fresh,” and “X” and how they portray femininity. Sources referenced: https://youtu.be/W6aDNutZoB0

Our author recently read Emma Cline's "The Girls" and discusses her thoughts and our fascination with cults and true crime.

Our writer discusses her recent read: Boy Parts by Eliza Clark. Before you begin we would like to give spoiler warnings along with trigger warnings regarding ED, SA, SH, narcissism, death.

Our writer reviews Megan Nolan’s debut novel “Acts of Desperation.” Before you begin, we would like to give trigger warnings regarding toxic relationships, sexual abuse, and self harm that are present in this book and mentioned in Fakih’s review.

To blame her is the way of a stark summer rain. Resist the cheer of thunder behind your head. A mischievous glint in the eye of the team captain. A foolish girl beckons me atop the hill. Together we drop into the lake. Charm and provoke is the character I love the most, how could I not cheer for the villain. I’m furious, you’re loud, yet we couldn’t make a sound in our twelve foot hole in the dirt. Pray for the burning souls of Montague. I fit perfectly in your freezing palms So hold me in front of the garden gates and steal my fate. A deep slumber is all you have been. Say farewell to the calls you miss as you reach out with your nihilistic whims just to play the victim you made me out to be. Tuck yourself into a dreadful rest for a nightmare is all we’ve ever been. xx zjf

Peter Pan, Wendy, Tinker-bell which is the way to Neverland? Stumbled into the rabbits trap to Oz Who would’ve dreamed of a city so blood red. Infidelity punished by a chopped head courtesy of the Queen of Love She baked you a cake on this illicit day. 23, 24, begin again at 22 Don’t allow the numbers to rise you wouldn’t want to be the last prize. Every line must be filled to the brim, soft plastic. Save the toddler elastic. Half a life, might as well die. Lock me in a tower, the tallest, darkest tower. The prince cannot see me before facial protocol. Let the dragon burn me taut. Break my ribs, how could I not fit in Dorothy’s basket. I see a twister coming along the edge give the wicked witch my sincerest apologies. Bury my head in the sand. There is no mister who would date or confer anything  older than a lamb. Diamonds are a girls best friend, no. They’re her worst enemy the looking glass, what she cannot be. Shiny. Pretty. Slender. New. Shiny. Damages. Cracked. Pseudo. So she paints herself thin and takes scissors to her skin. Cut off the strap under her arms around her hips, they must go what doesn’t fit. Hair, a blanket around her feet. Nails, a white cast against her skin. More red, she smiles blood her eyes are sunken she calls it haute You can eat her with no guilt. Take a bit of her lips, don’t mind the roughness she tossed away her skin replaced it with a hit. She memorized the posters the doctor prescribed rip her thighs three sizes too short a gnome to stick on a pretty green lawn next to the head of the mistress of Oz. xx zjf

Our poet shares her goals for 2022 and reflects on her previous year. She ends with a poem from her second book “Sweet Tea and Ketamine”

As the holidays approach us, our poet gives a list of gift ideas for the creatives in your life.

Orion By Mary Oliver I love Orion, his fiery body, his ten stars, his flaring points of reference, his shining dogs.
 “It is winter,” he says. “We must eat,” he says. Our gloomy
 and passionate teacher.

                                     Miles below
 in the cold woods, with the mouse and the owl, 
 with the clearness of water sheeted and hidden,
 with the reason for the wind forever a secret, 
he descends and sits with me, his voice 
like the snapping of bones.

                                     Behind him
 everything is so black and unclassical; behind him I don’t know anything, not even
 my own mind. xx zf

I wrote in my journal how much I missed you. I wrote in my diary how grateful I am for you. I wrote you a letter asking what was wrong. You said “oh nothing. Just some uni stuff.” I asked the stars what had happened, I asked the signals in the air if they were planning. Is that why all my messages go unanswered? Is that why I’m hit with a brick wall when I asked what’s the matter? All those gifts turned out to be loans. I forget where I signed. Was there a contact I did not know about? Where were the terms and condition to a mutual account? I reached out but you froze up and now my fire placement is left to burn out. I made friends with your voicemails and the picture that I took when you snuck out we said it was finaly your turn to live your life for you, you agreed. Now, you send me messages of busy lines and that’s just maybe. Now I’m left in the pouring rain we once danced in, but this time you sent it to drown me. People say don’t mix friendship with business suits but we said offices are no place for a present. So, I sent all eyes to you. Because you were the forgotten child. You made a bathtub of fantasies because you were never understood but now you drop porcelain on my grave and tell me I misunderstood. So, now I skip journal entries and my diary is empty. Why should I remember what we were? I know I should wish I never knew you but I can’t because friends don’t treat each other like that. Because friends don’t lie to each other like that. xx zf