To begin issue 1, an anonymous valentine.

Because I was never good at staying sober, / I chase highs in laundromats, the things I do / for heavy brass soil horn need hot wash, lavender / lemonade

see me, Black as I am and call me beautiful

One enters a Hellmouth like a snack but exits like a bullet.

A comic by Tiffany Babb.

I hate the sound of Judy Jetson singing melodically in an elevator. I once cursed on the elevator in a parking structure on the Fourth of July, said they were scary as fuck, and my mother banished me from her sight long enough to find femininity in a neon garden.

A comic by Caroline Dinh.

A fact, or a circumstance, of abuse, depending on which way the glass cuts your vision: if a child experiences a significant amount of trauma, early and consistent enough, the images that make up their experiences, dreams, visions, fantasies, abuse, and nightmares become a kind of kaleidoscopic mosaic.

the last to leave were redwings. / Forests turned into harpsichords.

A hybrid piece by Kwan-Ann Tan.

184 miles on a full tank, snow on the ground, muddied as third act makeup, seventy miles an hour, headlight out, books at my side like wallflowers

Two poems by Michael Chang.

2 poems by I.S. Jones.

I am seven when the world turned incomprehensible for the first time.

A hybrid piece by Özgecan Kesici.

I’m not sure about the white spaces (louder line breaks, perhaps?), but the fragments are often a result of my thriftiness.

From the wombs / of true believers, / I came out faithless

The idea of one person owning every single bird of a specific species within any territory was wild to me, but I was far from home, and racing against the rain as we made our way to Buckingham Palace.