hihihiiii!! happy summer and thx for reading issue 7. also thanks to our wonderful contributors, for sending in your work (=^・ェ・^=))ノ彡☆...
View here Inside contains: by László Aranyi: Lust by Erin Mullens: Questions For My Ex Nothing by Gabriella Brandom: Jasmine by Grace Sinkins: Keepsake Kisses by Ron Riekki: I Pet His Cat I write nonstop in this deep hope that I can connect with someone I hope God lets me into Heaven I'm listening to Stacey Kent's "Les Eaux De Mars by Shamik Banerjee: Morning Bird To Sonia Written For Edgar On His Mother's Behalf Written After A Careful Watch Of My Cat by Irina Novikova: Untitled artworks by Syd M.: Mental Madness Leo
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by Shamik Banerjee If deep within the mind, and deep within the soul, Like you, I too could be, to shut this human-role, And apparate from here, to a dreamworld afar- A coloured nebula, or a new-founded star. How do you stay moveless, for hours and hours? I wake instantly to, even light rainshowers; You must have a trove where, Rest is nontransient- The more which increases, the more if it is spent. To your concentration, great yogis will forfeit, To your state's profluence, rivers will face defeat, More rhythmic than a child's, is your gut's fall and rise, Simply a glance at you, brings quick sleep to my eyes. In evolution you, to human rank below, Though he is literate, and of great wisdom know, But slave he is to thoughts, that his psyche upset, He mastered all but Peace- the art of ending Fret. Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness. IG: @where_tales_end
by Marc Isaac Potter … My wife, Harrison, and I were elated that our 5 year old would share what she calls her Disney stories with us. We told her not to call them Disney stories because the Disney Corporation would sue us for using their name So that was forbidden and we started calling it her dream life which is something that my therapist suggested. What can I say? The window shades are whispering to me that I need to tell you about my family which I already wanted to do but I don't know whether to tell you about Harrison first or tell you about our lovely daughter We cannot decide if we are We cannot decide if we're adopting again or not. Surprisingly Juliana our daughter does not want a little brother or sister which is affecting our decision greatly we think that she will change her mind as she gets older and maybe we can adopt but we don't want to adopt if she doesn't want a little brother and sister which is very strange He is a very intelligent girl I wouldn't say she is a genius but very intelligent in her class and she is very precocious I wish I were a writer and if I were a writer I could tell you more about my family that would make sense Harrison and I fell in love as teenagers at a time when being gay or queer or homosexual or whatever work is being used at the time was forbidden we both have stories of being beaten by the football team members both together and alone I should have said this in the beginning but my name is Garrison. It legally is Garrison I had it changed my name was Gary but since Harrison and I have been together well since probably our sophomore year in high school I thought it would be cute for it to be Garrison and Harrison. I'm not a writer Harrison is the writer but he's asked me to write something about our family like some kind of a memoir which I don't think this is some kind of a memoir I think it's just stop . I don't like writing this and the fact is I'm writing it somewhat against my will but Harrison is my wife and if he wants it then I'll do it and by the way yes pronouns are he him which I abhor we don't get along about some things but we love each other my pronouns are they them I know it doesn't make any sense it throws itself against the wall like cow s*** I know The only way I'm going to get through this as if I can talk about things that I care about to which Harrison said was just fine I just feel like I'm doing this because he wants me to do it well hey you know I am hating it because he wants me to do it. Marc Isaac Potter (we/they/them) … is a differently-abled writer living in the SF Bay Area. Marc’s interests include blogging by email and Zen. They have been published in Fiery Scribe Review, Feral A Journal of Poetry and Art, Poetic Sun Poetry, and Provenance Journal. Twitter is @marcisaacpotter.
MCZ <3s u. Happy Valentine's Day! 'Through A Night Of Flowers' is our special Valentine's Day gift to you. Here is a bit about the issue: This edition of Meditating Cat Zine opens with "The Birth Of Hope" from Jessica King. "The Birth Of Hope" is a piece about overcoming self-doubt and embracing your own uniqueness, a reminder that we, too, deserve love from ourselves. Jessica has worked on this piece since her senior year of high school. Up next is five art pieces from Karla Kazzari, who was also featured in last year's Valentine's Day issue. After Erin Mullen's piece, 'Questions For My Ex', comes Lavínia Vianini's poetry, a throwback to issue 6. In the interlude is Janvi Bhardwaj's photo essay, titled 'Nani Maa', alongside a personal note from Janvi. Closing this issue is 'The Unfortunate Teller' from Michael Menendian, the first written play to be published by Meditating Cat Zine. More about 'The Birth Of Hope': Originally called "Hope and Doubt," the short story was Jessica's beloved project from AP Literature during her senior year. After spending an all-nighter on a spontaneous idea, she printed the story at three editing stages, each draft with slightly less red ink. She displayed all three drafts as a demonstration of growth for her final presentation: she is Hope, bravely overcoming Doubt and pursuing her dream career in creative writing. In her sophomore year of college, she enrolled in a workshop course and returned to the piece as her final project. After many more months of revising, rewriting, and proofreading, "The Birth of Hope" was published in Cypress College's Sole Image Creative Arts Journal three years after its initial development. Download link: click Contributors:
Jessica King Karla Kazzari Erin Mullens Lavínia Vianini Angie Yeung Shamik Banerjee R.S Janvi Bhardwaj Willow Kang Michael Menendian Hello! Thank you for viewing issue 6 here. Issue 6 marks the coming of Spring for Meditating Cat Zine, heralding more verdant sights and hopefully warmer weather. Issue 6 opens with The Chocolate Tabby by Nayana Rodriguez, a piece detailing her experience rescuing a tabby cat, which reminds us of how Curios first entered a home. Next are five poems by Lavínia Vianini, skillfully written with unique language. Before the interlude comes Gratia Serpento's My Brother Doesn't Remember Me. Gratia was also a featured writer in Issue 3 of Meditating Cat Zine. Issue 6's interlude is comprised of Young Greg by Alayn Kirk and Wolpertinger Waffles by Noll Griffin, each fantastical art pieces that are sure to pique curiosity. Finally, issue 6 ends with Gloomy Sandbag Baby, Gone To Seed, and In Black by Sophia Lucia Menendian . Enjoy your read! Link to download: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1JeZiDHR9FD7HvxRBCcYQOej02nXkj-T1/view?usp=sharing Best, Curios & the Meditating Cat Zine team Contributors: Nayana Rodriguez Lavínia Vianini Liew Chooi Chin Marjan Safiyari Holden Flosi Gratia Serpento Alayn Kirk Noll Griffin Sophia Lucia Menendian by Daniel Moreschi Although the sea is pulled by lunar reins, Its servile ebbs conceal the subtle strides Of a fateful force, once nature’s patience wanes, That tests its tether with unruly tides. Where frozen hills are stoked by metal fumes, It brings a rhythmic ruse of turbulent grace, As thriving swirls are topped by sprightly spumes That lead a charge, when growing flows retrace. And while humanity ignores the signs Of ominous plights, as billows belch and roar, A steep caress erodes the coastal lines And razes borders, like a siege of war. Uprisings of tsunamis stirs the straits Once swells attain the sways of ancient scales And wayward spans cascade at mankind’s gates Where a ceaseless song of simmered spite prevails. When swept-up crowds are pleading for an ark And lands are swallowed by the famished surge, The moonlit sanctuaries turn to dark To undulate the chains of Gaia’s purge. Daniel Moreschi is a poet from Neath, South Wales, UK. After life was turned upside down by his ongoing battle with severe M.E., he rediscovered his passion for poetry that had been dormant since his teenage years. Writing has served as a distraction from his struggles ever since. Daniel has been acclaimed by many poetry competitions, including the annual ones hosted by the Oliver Goldsmith Literature Festival, Wine Country Writers Festival, Short Stories Unlimited, Michigan Poetry Society, Westmoreland Arts & Heritage Festival, Ohio Poetry Day, and Inchicore Ledwidge Society. Daniel has also had poetry published by The Society of Classical Poets, and The Black Cat Poetry Press.
by William Falo My sister Chloe stood before me, as real as any person, but after a car accident, she was in a coma and not expected to survive. She touched my arm and said to not worry and then vanished. How could it be her unless she was already dead? Now I worried more, and I had to find her. I lived near a funeral home. It was the one they would use for my sister when she died, and I snuck into it while the mortician was in another room. He didn’t seem to hear me as I walked around. I saw some papers on a desk, and in the darkness, I swore I saw my name on a paper. Hannah. It was a plan for a funeral. Why would they plan my funeral? They had to have mixed up my name with my sisters; still, it scared me. I backed up, and a face appeared in the window. I started to panic, then recognized it as Kyle, a kid I knew in high school. His brother died in a car accident, so maybe he was going through what I was with my sister. I waved to him. “Hannah, you’re a ghost,” he yelled and ran away. I needed more answers, and I knew where to go. The Witches Well. There was a story long ago that when some children got sick, they blamed a witch and threw her in a well behind a farm with a red silo. Supposedly, she cursed it, and whoever fell into it would live forever as a ghost. The red silo loomed over me like a haunted castle. I saw a girl who committed suicide at the well a few years ago. Her name was Melody. “How are you here?” I asked. “I left a note for my ashes to be dropped in the well. I heard the story about the witch and hoped it was true.” “And it is, I see.” “Yes, but I am so lonely. I am so sorry for what I did. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t jump; I would find a way to live. My parents were so sad.” Melody wiped her eyes. “They were crushed and blamed themselves.” She looked down. “It wasn’t their fault, but they will never forgive themselves.” “I’m sorry.” I reached out for her but stopped right before I touched her. “Wait, how do I see you?” “I don’t know, but maybe it's because you are in shock. Anyway, I’m happy you can.” I was in shock and not feeling good. My knees buckled, and I grasped onto the side of the well to steady myself. I blacked out. ### I woke up and saw Chloe looking down at me. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I wish I saw that car coming.” It all rushed back to me so fast that I felt nauseous. I was in the car; I saw one coming toward me, and a bright flash filled my eyes. Chloe was leaning over me. She was crying. “Please make them cremate me, bring the ashes to the Croft Farm, and drop them into the well behind the red silo. Promise me.” It took all my strength to say it. “Please.” She nodded. “I will.” I heard crying, then darkness. ### I woke up at the well and saw Melody looking at me. “Hello,” she said. “Welcome to the afterlife.” I looked into the well and strained to see my ashes. “They’re in there. I saw your sister come here and drop them into the well. She was crying. It was sad, and I think she blames herself.” “How did I come here before?” “Before I died, I read about people in a coma who traveled to other places in their minds and actually appeared to a few people while in the coma. That must have happened to you and enabled you to see me. You were in a place between life and death.” “I have to go see my sister. Will she see me?” I asked. “I think so. I think love enables us to see those who passed away for a short time.” “Come with me.” “Okay.” We passed kids playing in a yard with a dog. I stopped. I would never have a dog; I always wanted to get one when I had my own house. It hurt even in the afterlife. I would never have kids, or a husband, go on a trip across the country or world, or even read a book or write one. I lost everything. I cried ghost tears. Melody stood in front of me. “I know,” she said. “Well, maybe I can save my sister from such pain.” “Did you ever go see your parents?” “Yes, but it's really sad.” I touched Chloe’s arm, and she jumped up in a panic and then rubbed her eyes. She saw me. “Hannah?” “Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault.” “I’m so sorry.” “Stop. I’m happy, I’m not alone, and you can come to the well when you want to see me.” I kissed her head, and she closed her eyes. “Take care of mom, too,” I said. She nodded then her eyes closed. Back at the well, the crows were cawing. “There seems to be more of them.” “They are the souls of the dead that are lonely, the ones that aren’t missed, so they gather here and in other places, so they are not alone.” A few cats approached us, and when I reached out, one of them threatened to scratch me before it rubbed against my hand and purred. “It can see and feel us,” I said. “Yes, cats can see ghosts.” “I always knew they were otherwordly,” I said. “Mysterious.” “I agree.” Molly petted one of the cats too.” “I name this one Spooky. It seems to like me.” The ferals stayed nearby, and that made me happy. Melody pointed down the trail. “Here comes that boy you like.” “Kyle?” “Yep, he’s lonely. Maybe he is going to jump into the well.” “Or I might push him in, and he could be with me forever.” “You wouldn’t do that, would you?” “No, of course not, but I might scare him.” For the first time, I saw a smile on Melody’s face. William Falo lives with his family, including a papillon named Dax. His stories have been published or are forthcoming in various literary journals. He can be found on Twitter @williamfalo and Instagram @william.falo
A Family of Cats and Men We are a family of cats and men. Some are wide, some are short, or tall. We amount to fourteen when counted but not different at all. We pass the days by running and playing, behind each other or in groups. If not, you'll find us simply laying, like battle-weary troops. Upon the hard floor, like witches we run-- very often we trip and dab. Our hustle starts with the rise of sun from the stair unto the slab. The minor squabbles will bewilder you: we are sour and we are sweet. Each cat has a name and a byname too, to be addressed while we greet. I shall minstrel to you about them first and then I will turn to human; you might feel tingles of laughter burst and will welter all you can. The foremost of them is the long black chief; little delegates he has three. One is white as snow; one green as leaf, and one like a broad brown tree. 'Kutumunu', a male— the headman star; 'Chiku' and 'Chanu'— each female; their shapes and sizes resemblant are; and white 'Chalu' is a male. 'Chiku' is frantic, she demurs all-where; who fiercely ambushes on food; 'Chalu' is lurksome with a fixed stare, 'Chanu' is composed as wood. Of two more parties I shall tale about- much separate than the others; at daylight, they mostly maunder out; their captains are two mothers. The mother of all is the oldest cat: she is black upon pewter grey. Her belly is always full and fat; she wanders the house all day. She kits, she always, birthed in our house- she never birthed any less. Their tutelage starts with a feast of a mouse-- O' Lord, you her methods bless! Her place is the wooden shoebox's top, with many a drabby jute bags. Her friends are the flax-broom, the shrunk mop, and the unwashed, clarty rags. She has mothered again three new kittens; one is 'Teddy', one is 'Niku'. They're tiny as to fit hand mittens; the other's name is 'Julu'. 'Teddy' is likewise the name that she bears, while 'Niku' does seem like a toy; 'Julu', the blackest of all appears-- he is brash and other's, coy. 'Chiku' is a mother with three new-borns; their fur is as dense as mutton their form is pebbly but which adorns, a silky lay like cotton. One is a mix of ochre and swallow; one is somewhat gravel-like black; one is silv'ry but not so shallow; each shape seems a fluffy sack. Their dwelling is beside the heap of socks where all the newspapers are piled. They settle inside a carton-box on the landing stair, untiled. They o'erlay on each other while lapping, and they look like a lump of sponge. So calm it is when they are napping; so violent when they lunge! Their necks are like hackle on a necklace, they present us colourful hues; and so are endearing of the face, and innocent of the views. One so gazes as if a guileless being, stands morally before the fish; my vigilance when seeing a shift they all turn leprechaunish! As I am the only guard of my house, my parents go to duty's line; I role the maidservant and the mouse, their carer too, I define. All the time, I chase them; all day and night; I observe every step and move; I stay audient; flinch at not a sight-- I cannot prove incompetence. These actions go on till the come of noon- from collation for lunch till eve. Then, past that, at a time opportune, from their ruckus, they take leave. My father nantles them when he arrives, we all love to snoozle them much; around them, a worn-out life revives-- comes happiness with a touch. That there can be sadness, that life be short, of all sufferings and sorrow; we forget all as the cats import hope's light of new to-morrow. So, if you visit us, full loads of bliss and delight you must expect then. Nowhere in Earth you will find like this, family of cats and men. The Queen Cat The Queen Cat vaults from drain to drain-- by the buffer, narrow and tall; to find a refuge when the rain will with the grating thunders, fall. Her paunch is swollen at both the ends: sheltering unborn kittlings. From where the bolting traffic bends, she skelters towards a corner The folks who witnessed months ago, tell- she had birthed younglets three. Now too, her belly stripes show- no lesser would the travail be. Her soppy eyes- timid and red, like bordered has a chunk of rheum; and, constant is the look of dread, as if the night will lead her doom. For provender, when, she once had gone, the household where her cat-kin slept, was taken 'fore the coming dawn- slaughtered and on the dustheap, swept. When she hunches under the bough, from ducts, drinks the sewage water. I see it in her trembling now: which goes not far, but rather shrinks. As now the throat of cloudform soars, and lengthy downpour rams the earth, she roams the steps of many doors, securely to her younglings birth. The Door My Door is strong. I know him- no sore flakes fly from him; decay could never befall him; yet why does my dear Door aches? It aches for the spent foretime: My Lucia, when she, to his doorcase achime would come and peer for me. Old time, ah! merry; old time, ah! sweet-- joydom was in the knocks, when from the stairs he heard her feet-- would stunt all hearts and clocks; would agog muchly be my eyes, for full a-greeting that she came; I oped the Door-- a great surprise! near to his bright doorframe. My Door's still strong. I trust him- though now he greets not her light heels; sorrow and pain now rust him, fly all the fleaks with brazen squeals. With each footstep now ascents fast, my Door frenzies, a-baiting me; but that was someone else who passed; not Lucia, awaiting me. A Christmas Eve The mission-home is full of sound, the world appears a blinding light, this year-end month, the Lord was crowned, and merriness of Christmas night. Big stars hang from lintels of doors, the spence has dinner set for all, the nan relates the holy lores, to children thereinto the hall. Behind a glass, a glowing peep,-- a hovel and figures of clay, the hay-pile and each mounted sheep, look keenly at the parents gay; in unison, the chimney smoke whistles and rises to the sky, the clock's on twelve; the time's awoke a flying sled will soon be nigh! The wishful stockings will be full, the happy morning is not far, so invest in your warming wool, invite the others where they are. I've heard you hover to all parts, O' mystic old man clad in red, with boxed-gifts for their longing hearts and harness where great boons are led. But one sweet child, without a lamp, who's studying on his carrel chair; one worn, lurching and famished tramp who's hardened by the freezing air; And one cat-mother on the way with three kittens, half-ceased in cold, to them, will you not take your sleigh, and your benign cloth on them fold? And to me if you come O' Lord, I'd say if enquired for the wish: that for the tramp, vittle's reward, a lampad the child can afford, and for the cats, shelter and fish. Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with solitude meshes well with peace, and poetry provides him an ageless harbourage of happiness. He has recently founded a poetry journal and aims to contribute immensely towards its future.
Once again, thank you for your continued support of the Meditating Cat Zine! As promised, here is a free phone wallpaper for you, brought to you by the Meditating Cat Zine and Garden Of Venus Zine. Download the wallpaper by following this link. Happy holidays! We hope your 2022 has been okay so far. It has been a wild ride for us! Thanks to your support, the Meditating Cat Zine has reached its 1st anniversary. To broaden the zine's appeal, we have altered many aspects and technical details of the zine over the past year. As we past this 1-year milestone, we continue to reflect on what the zine means to us, and its purpose in this unstable, volatile climate. While Google defines 'magazine' as "a periodical publication containing articles and illustrations, often on a particular subject or aimed at a particular readership", we think that a literary journal, such as the Meditating Cat Zine, has so much more potential. We strive to be a collective of ideals from people of all backgrounds, to collect and pass on memories and emotional imprints, for the next generation of young hopefuls. Through our unthemed issues, mixed-media, literature, and visual art coalesce to form a messy ecosystem of society. In 2022, our most memorable event was this collaboration with Garden Of Venus Zine. We were able to learn many valuable lessons from them, and we hope to be able to put those lessons into concrete improvements. At the same time, we would like to express our gratefulness to the Garden Of Venus Zine for the opportunity for this collaboration. 2022's Christmas would not have been as magical as it has without their efforts. The Meditating Cat Zine promises to accompany you through 2023.
-your favorite feline editor, Curios |
Photos used under Creative Commons from France1978, JarleR, Raed Mansour, Ruben Holthuijsen, L a r a -