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The Magazine
Radical Futurity
Issue Parent
How do we enact the kind of expansive futuring that can chart a path to an otherwise world?
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Editor’s Note
Editor's Note
For this issue, we are examining the building blocks that make up our society and considering how to dismantle them so that we might create anew.
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The Chicken for Dinner
Isabella Higgins
Poetry
In this implantation there is thick blood / so red it sings to black, so viscous it could be shaped / in the hands like clay.
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Love Letter to M
Aika Udagawa
Hybrid
It’s two in the morning, and I remember what my grandmother warned me about again and again: “It’s the hour of ‘ushimitsu doki.’”
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an atlas for winter
Alex Wong
Poetry
how can I love like this, / eating the bones of the sun, / its corpse of light, its flammable horizons—
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On Inheritance
brenda Lin
Nonfiction
,
Prose
What if, when you ran your fingers along the embroidery, you could hear the voices of your ancestors?
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API requests for present dystopia
Derek Yen
Poetry
Weather lights a mouth as vines drink sun in windowed rooms, / but I lied before.
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Porch Pull Up Ep. 204
Jeané D. Ridges
Audio
,
Drama
,
Prose
“Tinkering a Way, Together: An Interview with Plastivap Inventor Mirukosee Balan”
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Spell to Be Said Against Anxiety
Samantha Stevens
Poetry
Until the fodder of the fraught mind becomes the burnable legs of a useless table, / fuel only for compassion.
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Growing Cilantro
Seelai Karzai
Poetry
And after / one hundred twenty days, we / pinched at her stems.
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“Revolution” and Other Poems
Jake Rose
Poetry
you’re burning what does it taste / like when god makes mistakes
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Why Are We Spiraling Around the Campfire?
Jeff Joseph Katz
Hybrid
The snake bites its tail in a desperate attempt to live, does so, and dies. / But it lives again and again, the story told over and over.
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The Ones Who Walk Away
Lauren Peat
Nonfiction
,
Prose
The sinking feeling trailed me as I worked my way around the room: There’d been a precious opening, and I’d wasted it.
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“Bwah-ju-yoh.”
S. Isabel Choi
Nonfiction
,
Prose
In my writing, my father is ‘Dad,’ because I need this less intimate address as a buffer from what I have lost, left behind, or perhaps never even had.
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Protest Song in Six Verses
Tatiana Chaterji
Nonfiction
,
Prose
Blue ash of skin between the rubble, a child’s body buried beneath concrete, these images are stitched beneath my eyelids, stuck.
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