APOTHECA TEEN Literary MAGAZINE march ‘25 growth
1. Cover (Ann Sproul) 2. Table of Contents 3. Editor's Note (featuring photography by Sania Shah) 4. Highlighted Artist: Jade Rothbaum -- Apothecary Posing Among Sea of Knights 6. Mid-Autumn Melody, Christina Zhang 7. Photography by Jade Pu 8. Wings, Mee 9. Peace, Itzel (featuring photography by Ruby R) 10. Photography by Sania Shah 11. The Silent Bloom: Photograph and Poem by Ruby R 12. Whispers from the Ripped Canvas of Junk: Photograph and Poem by Ruby R 13. Warmth, Niccolò Arcturus (featuring photography by Ruby R) 14. yesterday i lassoed the moon by Olivia Lois 15. Silent Adaptatation by Olivia Keraitė 16. Artwork by Nasta Martyn 17. What is Growth? by melancholydaisy 18. Still, I Grow by Pahal (featuring photography by Jade Pu) 19. Novel Excerpt from “Fatewoven” by Vivianne 25. Call for Submissions (featuring artwork by Nasta Martyn) TABLE OF CONTENTS
EDITOR’S Note ’ Dear Reader, A year ago, I could have never imagined the span this magazine would have taken. In fact, I could never have imagined that I would be the founder of a literary magazine, but the funny thing about life is that it takes us places we don’t expect to go. In this case, running Apotheca has been such a privilege, a fact that I have not neglected to notice as I stumble upon the sixth issue of our magazine. The greatest gift of this magazine, of course, has been being exposed to the immense talent of so many young writers and artists. I hope you as the reader can appreciate their craft just as much as I can. Here, the arts are alive and well. Thank you to everyone who was willing to trust us with their work. You never cease to amaze me with what you can do. Happy reading, and as always, keep creating. Sincerely, Ann Sproul Editor-in-Chief Sania Shah, Bangladesh
I love the spread of students, knights around the table. I love the oval tables— the track a paper runs, shuffling hands, so so close, way the last poem trickles over the finish line. Pops as the students lean, shuffling some joint or another. Muttering at the palace of letter standing proudly in front. My words don’t always stand so proud. My words— sometimes they want to shrink down. My words can barely be bothered to think about things in actual depth—that’s how it feels sometimes. Because I can use my -tonymy, synecdoche, all these little terms I learned diligently. Pathetic—isn’t it?— fallacy, irony. Straw man in the court -yard, herring in the jar. Sonics roll until we don’t know where we are. I love epics I could never write with their layers of meaning, symbolism, existential inquiry. I concede: subtlety is not my strongest suit. I cloak myself in robes of rhyme, meter, rhythm. None of that complex language for me. I'm too busy playing with words in the sandbox. I can take mandrake, belladonna, eu -phony, cacophony, mix a perfect love potion—use carefully—control, compress my cadence, watch the stress. But I stress. It can get a bitter bit daunting when I see my coterie and they’re using tools, writing themes I don’t even know the names of— they might not even be themes—yet amidst the chivalric oversight, combat training, entertainment and prestige, culture, ladies, social life, I love looking up Apothecary Posing Among Sea of Knights (Spoken Word) Highlighted Artist: Jade Rothbaum
I love looking up at the same time as another, roaring arena electrically lined up. Because we are not here to joust with lances. We are not here to fight crusades. They read my work, draw out their swords. We slice to bits together. Excavate, sift through, scrutinize the remains. Strip the dead of weapons, armor, any coin we can get. Analyze the battle. Advise the lord. Meld our spoils of war. Mingle. Feast. Maintain— for the next campaign. Post-battle recognition, negotiation. Judgement, resolution. Arsenal in our minds to build our kingdom on the page. Tomorrow, I know we’ll do it all again. After Stephen Dunn’s “Loves”
A mellifluous string of melody drifts, Through corridors, kitchens, and living rooms, Climbing stairs to where my friends dwell— A house of dreams, where stories bloom. Three notes, no more, and the song is known: "水调歌头," the moonlit tune, A Mid-Autumn ode to the skies above, A poem of longing, a silver boon. Drawn by the euphonious, nostalgic air, They descend the stairs, hearts in tow, To the dim-lit hall where the violinist stands, Her bow a brush, her strings aglow. Her fingers dance, her hands tremble slight, Each note a ripple, a trembling heart, The crescendo rises, the music swells, A cascade of silver, a work of art. Listeners hum, their bodies sway, In slow motion, they join the song, Rain taps the windows, stretching time, As shadows waltz where light belongs. A lavender candle sways in tune, Its scent a whisper, its glow a guide, While guitar and piano weave their threads, A tapestry of sound, a rising tide. "Men have sorrow and joy," they sing, "Part or meet, the moon will shine, Nothing’s perfect since ancient days, Yet beauty binds us, yours and mine." The final note hangs, a breath suspended, A silence profound, a world in pause— The clock ticks soft, a car rolls by, Hearts beat loud, in awe, because The music has moved them, deep and true, A moment eternal, a shared embrace, Though miles apart, the moon connects, A melody of love, a timeless space. Poem by Christina Zhang, China (@emaantabishh) Mid-Autumn Melody
Jade pu, (@tis_jade_pu) As We Go Isn’t It a Dream?
slowly I unwind from the chrysalis of my own making tangled threads of doubt and fear pierced through and unraveling the weight of my wings, a vanished enigma once weighed down with doubt, now tender with hope as I stretch, as I unfurl the world’s beauty shines through, where will it take me? I am no longer crawling, blind in the darkness of my own skin but soaring, free, a masterpiece but this time i am the creator Mee, India (@mees.quill.pen) wings
When was the last time You listened to the sound of your footsteps The rhythm of you heartbeat The singing of the wind When was the last time You sat with yourself Unclouded by endless noise A cycle of tasks mindless to what today is When was the last time You longed You ached You loved You felt peace Peace poem by Itzel photograph by Ruby R, Rhode Island (@rawrphotographyco)
’ Sania Shah “October” Bangladesh
Time is my captor, an invisible prison designed to architect memories, But not moments, a monochromatic outfit, not my style, Maybe it will be when I turn 18, when I dedicate my time to work, money, Never pockets of bliss, will I still be me when I turn 18? Forcefully focused on change, relentlessly caring, crying, tearing. My lifetime biography, pages folded, creased, ripped with age. To exile myself from growth, tears and pain. Inside voice dissipated, will she ever come back? She left down a cracked stone path and never came back. Poem and Photograph by Ruby R. @rawr_writes The Silent Bloom
A crumpled fluorescent orange hot cheetos bag, On the germ probed floor, hawning to be thrown into the abyss, Of a black buckled glad garbage bag. One busted open bag of sour patch watermelon, Just one solitary watermelon guy drifting the bottom. A uniformly placed “depression room” aforementioned, Sequential to the rending pile of papers on the sticky tile floor. Poem and Photograph by Ruby R. @rawr_writes Whipsers from the Ripped Canvas of Junk
I remember being in elementary school and telling my mom I didn’t need a coat, I did this not out of honesty but out of insecurity it would make me look weird. As I grew older, I acclimated to the chilled temperatures, but not in the way most people would. I got used to my calls going to voicemail and my texts being unanswered for days, My voice leaving in the middle of a conversation because it wasn’t a necessity became a common thing. I grew to like the cold. I like the ache it leaves in my bones, the way it invades my body and stiffens my joints, the way I stopped reaching to turn on the heater because I couldn’t feel a difference. I have learned that my specific type of yearning comes in the form of runny noses, trembling, and chattering teeth. Will I become sick? Maybe. Maybe my desire for the cold is a sickness in itself. My mother stopped warning me about my wet hair against the harsh winter winds. It came as a surprise to me as well when I was handed a jacket by the sun and I didn’t deny it. “You’ll get cold, my love.” The simple words spoken by soft lips that had previously met mine. And for once, I remembered what warmth was. Poem by Niccolò Arcturus, Kansas (@arcturusarcana) Photograph by Ruby R. (@rawrphotographyco) warmth
yesterday i lassoed the moon i brought her down close to meet my only friend face to face we sat on the clouds and watched the stars i asked her how it felt to be a light in the midst of the darkness she responded “how does it feel to be such a real thing living in such a false world” yesterday i lassoed the moon Olivia Lois (_.oliviascreations._)
The deep drowsy summery state, When with you, it doesn’t feel late. The laughter that flourishes in youth, Slowly lifts up and soothes. No longer feeling dismal, Inside me ignites that hidden fizzle. Next to a bleak tree, seven seeds scattered, When it grew, the elder plant mattered. The mature tree shielded the weakling, By doing so, both were healing. Edging closer together, branches intertwined. Relieved when they could bind. While others grew, they stayed the same, Roots absorbing every shame. Growing with every lie, Engrossing with no try. The two were not as grand as could be, Not satisfying to look at yet free. Seeing the world through each other’s eyes, Above the earth and beyond their cries. Silent Adaptation Olivia Keraitė, Lithuania @thegreenpoem
Artwork by Nasta Martyn
What is Growth? meloncholydaisy, India, @imnothingnew_poetry In the garden of life, With carnations all around me I wandered aimlessly - Searching for an answer to the question “What is growth?” The bumblebee whispered - Losing is growth - loving is growth - To leave the past behind is growth - To move forward is growth - To learn from the mistakes, we make is growth - To apologize is growth - To stand up for yourself is growth - And to live life to its fullest is growth
I look up, But to no avail. I could never see over The tops of their heads. The sun spills gold, But never reaches me. Their shadows stand tall, Rooted deep within. Still, I grow— Threadbare and reaching. I drink the rain they don’t notice, And to the earth I whisper another promise. “Mother, I might not be your best, Or even your strongest. But I shall stand still, I too shall face the harvest.” “Mother, let me linger Just a little more. Let me feel the wind, Let me stretch my core.” “I know I am small, But I am not forlorn. Mother, I might be fleeting, Yet I yearn to be born.” Still, I grow Pahal, India (pahalwrites_) “It Has Been a Struggle” Photograph by Jade Pu (@tis_jade_pu)
The first thing Caspian saw when he opened his eyes was a grinning face. A face he could hardly make out amid the fog of sparkling lights and dark colours and the occasional blur of movement, but strangely, it looked familiar. Too familiar. The incessant, infuriating twirl of his dagger. The unkempt dark hair and the countless knives sheathed by his hips. The gait with which he walked, swaggering and– “What are you doing here?” Caspian snarled. He moved to sit up, but barely managed to move his torso an inch before agony ripped through him, white-hot and blinding. It was as if a hundred sharp knives dipped in molten lava had plunged deep into his flesh, twisting and knotting his blood in searing coils. He gritted his teeth and let his body slump back on the ground, withering beneath the fire surging through his veins. Kaelen snorted. “Those are the first words that come out of your mouth when we meet again? No thank you, no joyful, friendly greeting, no ‘Good to see you again’?” He clutched his chest and pulled the corners of his lips down a little too excessively. “I feel terribly wounded.” “And I hope you stay that way,” Caspian bit back. He squeezed his eyes shut as the pain seared up his jaw and through the back of his head. Even uttering a few words sent a chorus of explosions ricocheting down the length of his body, the debris finding themselves trapped and lodged deep into his flesh. He let out a strangled breath, forcing himself to swallow the rest of his words and keep them tethered elsewhere to use in another time. “Not so confident now, are we?” Kaelen chuckled. Caspian could only scowl and hurl silent profanities in his direction. He still found it difficult to sleep at night. Minutes, sometimes hours would be spent tossing and turning around on the inn’s bed, the sweat rolling like a torrent of rain past his eyebrows and down his nose into an expanding wet puddle on the sheets. Often, he’d end up bleary-eyed and sluggish the next morning, but over time it became something he learned to conceal whenever someone so much as batted an eyelid in his direction. But now, as he felt the heat of the male standing before him, another surge of irritation flooded through his bones at the thought of how even several extra minutes of sleep would be able to catch up to him. He wished his joints could mend and his bones would shift back in place so he could knock that smirk off the other male’s face with his fist 1 Novel Excerpt from “Fatewoven” Vivianne, Indonesia (@vivianneki_)
until it was cracked and distorted, letting the smile sear into his knuckles as a constant reminder of what he’d accomplished. He wasn’t sure where the burning feeling of dislike stemmed from–maybe it was because there was something off about Kaelen, something he couldn’t displace. He didn’t trust him, hated the way he insisted on getting under their skins even though they were practically strangers. But there was something else, something simmering beneath the surface, curling at the edges of his thoughts like smoke from an ember he refused to acknowledge–so he let the fire burn hotter instead. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed a little longer and opened them again, Kaelen would disappear, a figment of his imagination wiped from his mind in an instant as if it had never existed. “Cut it out, dagger-boy,” Another voice drawled into his ears, but this one was feminine. “The guy literally broke his leg barely an hour ago, and you’re already pushing his buttons. Why don’t you save that for when he doesn’t feel like shit?” “The look in his eyes told me a lot of things, and one of them was violence. Pure, interminable violence. And I don’t want my pretty face to be destroyed now, do I?” He cracked an eye open. Someone–Lysia–was wringing her hands up in the air, her face a mixture of contorted fury and something almost like resignation. “Whatever. Now can we please focus on the problem here?” She gestured towards him. Kaelen shrugged and grinned. “Relax. I was only keeping him entertained.” Caspian couldn’t stand the smug look on his face, especially not when he was lying on the ground, helpless and frail and feeling as weak as a newborn babe. If only he had the strength to stand up, use all his power to throw him into the core of the sun– “You should stop moving so much,” Kaelen interrupted his dark musings. He jabbed the hilt of his dagger into Caspian’s shoulder. “Have you never been hurt?” His vision cleared, the hazy pinpricks of colours gradually morphing into coherence. He could make out the gaunt branches now, extending far above his head and disappearing into the ceiling of leaves. Light oozed through the miniscule cracks in the canopy, decorating his face with splashes of silver. It burst like bubbles on his skin. He blinked, extending an arm to claw feebly at the grass as he struggled to sit up, trying to quench the blossoming pain. “What…happened?” The sound that erupted from his larynx was groggy, scratchy. “The last thing I remember was falling down a slope, and then, well, here I am.” “Kaelen happened,” Lysia replied, her voice dripping with resentment–though not at him. She knelt down gingerly beside his head. “The guards–they caught up to us. Then they were about to ki–” She cleared her throat, her voice lowering slightly. “Then he appeared out of nowhere and slaughtered them all. So now here we are, in yet another secluded part of the forest. Again. As if the last time hadn’t been ridiculous enough.” 2
“Oh,” Caspian didn’t know how to respond. He shifted uncomfortably, as much as his body allowed him to. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Kaelen was innocent and he had nothing to do with their predicament. He refused to look at the other male. Kaelen hummed. “You know, I’m still waiting for that thank you.” He said, his eyes glinting in the dim light. Caspian opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. “Enough of that,” Lysia glowered at him. “We are still trapped in this forest with no way of escape. And if what they said was true, there will be guards waiting for us on the edge of Brackenfell, with more on their way to hunt us down. Especially after that little stunt you pulled back there.” She frowned. “And…we still need to find Emmeline and Lefara. Heaven knows where they might be. They could have been captured, for all we know; we can’t just leave them behind.” A slow smile touched Kaelen’s lips. “Who ever said anything about no way of escape?” Her face pinched. “I’m sorry?” “I know Brackenfell Forest better than all the High Lady’s guards combined. If there’s anyone who can get us out of here, it’s me.” He looked infuriatingly pleased with himself. Caspian’s gaze flickered over him, scrutinizing his outfit–at the worn leather, the dark boots, the sleek design of his daggers–likely the same one he had worn the first time they’d met. His brow arched. “You don’t look like you’re from Nalthir.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended. He knew he was pressing, pushing for cracks he knew weren’t there, but he didn’t bother softening them. “How can we trust that you’re not lying?” “Come now, Cas. Don’t be like that,” Kaelen gave him a reproachful look. All exaggerated offense; Caspian knew better than to fall for it. His tone was light, but his eyes gleamed with something he couldn’t decipher. “This isn’t a question of trust. It’s about whether or not you want to survive–or be left behind.” “Left behind,” Caspian snickered, his voice flat. He glanced down at his left leg for the first time since regaining consciousness. It was still bent at an unnatural angle, his foot twisted too far to the side, dried blood crusting like wilted roses over the cuts and bruises tainting the torn skin. He tried not to wince at the sight. “That’s funny. Considering my leg is broken and I can barely move.” Kaelen grinned. “Actually, I was about to deal with that before you suddenly woke up.” He began rubbing his hands together, flexing his fingers, his eyes fixed on his leg as if it were an experiment he could tinker with. Caspian shot a wary look in Lysia’s direction, 3
but she had risen up and was leaning against one of the trees with her arms folded across her chest, staring at them without a word. He didn’t notice it then–not with how the shadows had thickened considerably–but now, he could see the blood on her figure, a glistening coppery stem that branched out from the crown of her dark brown tresses down to the soles of her boots. Yet her expression was calm, placid, the instantaneous aftermath of a raging storm. He knew there was more to the recollection of events than she let on, something shielded from view beneath the weight of her words, and he couldn’t help wondering just how soon that storm would begin to brew again. Caspian tore his gaze back to Kaelen. The male’s fingers were hovering directly above his ankle, his face twisted in concentration. “What do you think you are doing?” “That’s one way to speak to someone who just saved your ass.” Kaelen snorted. He looked over his shoulder and his blue eyes met Caspian’s in the dark, cerulean waves crashing over one another with amusement. “By the way, this will hurt a little. You might want to brace yourself.” A pause. Then he tilted his head and added thoughtfully, “Or not.” “What? Wait, I–” The tips of Kaelen’s fingers suddenly shimmered, a soft white gleam that grew brighter and brighter the longer Caspian watched. His breath hitched. He tried to wriggle his leg away, tried to dismiss the bullets of pain that almost fired almost immediately up his muscles, but Kaelen’s other hand reached out and caught hold of his wrist, gripping him firmly in place. Caspian wanted to pry his fingers away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. “God, stop moving.” Kaelen rolled his eyes, his warm breath fanning his ears. “Unless you want to stay crippled. I mean, I wouldn’t complain. It’ll save me a lot of energy.” “What are you doing?” He repeated, the intensity of his voice climbing shakily up the ladder. “What was that? What did you just do?” He didn’t wait for a response before he shot a look at Lysia. Her eyes were still fixed on his leg, her face a blank canvas, carefully void of any emotion. “Lysia, what–?” There was a loud crack, and Caspian gave a cry as something shifted between the marrows in his ankle. It was an odd sensation, unlike anything he’d ever felt before– something like a piece of the sun’s core materializing for a split second within his bones, a burst of glaring brightness that he could sense without having to see for himself. The pain subsided as quickly as it emerged, but he still found himself breathing heavily, taking in shallow, rapid draws of air as if his body couldn’t bear to do so otherwise. “You can do magic?” He choked out. Seeing creatures manifest out of thin air had been one thing, but this–this was an entirely different matter. 4
Perhaps he should add it to the list of things he disliked about Kaelen. About the fact that the male could perform some kind of sorcery and wield it as if it were merely an extension of himself rather than something deemed unnatural and impossible. Kaelen shrugged, another irritating smirk stretching across his angled features. “I suppose that adds another ‘thank you’ I’ve yet to hear from you, sunshine.” He scowled. “Don’t call me that.” “Stormcloud?” The smirk didn’t leave his face. “You know, you’re awfully grumpy for someone I’d saved–twice. How will you ever get a girlfriend like that? Unless…” Caspian glowered at him. He tried to rise again, but he barely made it to his knees before Kaelen tugged him back down. “Not so fast, Hartwell. I never said that I was done.” He clenched his jaw. The searing pain in his leg had already begun to dwindle, leaving only a dull ache behind–a smoky splint where the fire had once been. “You aren’t done?” He echoed. “What could you possibly–” “Oh my god. People are dead, and you two are still bantering like the world is all sunshine and rainbows? That everything isn’t falling apart right now?” Lysia was suddenly standing before them. There was something purposeful in her step, the way the emotions swimming hazily beneath burst above the surface and wrote themselves in bold letters across her face; a cracked puzzle waiting for the last missing piece to slot itself within to reveal the final picture. “Every minute, every second spent dawdling and not making a move brings us closer to this High Lady’s awaiting hands. Do you really think we have any more time to waste? No, let me rephrase that–do you really think this is the life we want to continue living? To crouch in the shadows and cower under their rule, let them step all over us like we’re dirt under the soles of their feet?” The last time he’d seen her this agitated, they had been in the inn, calculating the next step in their virtually nonexistent escape plan. It felt like another diagram now, distant and tattered as if it had occurred months ago instead of just the day before yesterday. Then something fell within the folds of his memories, and he remembered. “The inn,” Caspian said softly. “We need to get back there.” “Yes, the inn, Caspian,” Lysia snapped. Her temper was restraining against its shackles, crawling towards the edge. “Except we're still stuck here in this forest, and unless dagger boy here presents us with his genius idea, then we won't be returning in a good while.” “Wynspar.” 5
“And if you don’t s–what?” “Wynspar,” Kaelen repeated slowly, stretching the syllables deliberately as if he were talking to a child. “Surely you can’t have forgotten the leshy that nearly gutted you and your friend to death that miraculous day in another part of Brackenfell Forest?” “And what about it?” The fire in her eyes waned for a moment. He smiled. Caspian was highly aware that Kaelen’s hand was still resting directly above his knee, but the dark-haired male made no motion to remove it. “The forest is their sanctuary–the place where they draw most of their power from,” He explained. “So if we play our cards right, we might just be able to convince our friend to teleport us to safety.” 6
Theme: Night Deadline: April 15 We invite ALL young artists and writers to submit to our next issue! We’e looking forward to seeing your submissions! Submit here: https://forms.gle/n4SC9gPD MABqUYzE6 or email us at apotheca.submissions@gmail. com. Submit here: https://forms.gle/CquKjNCGG5VBLsZ28 Alternatively, you can email any submissions to apotheca.submissions@gmail. com, or DM us on our Instagram @apotheca.journal Artwork by Nasta Martyn Want to be a part of our next issue? Submit today!