Aorta Literary Magazine Issue 1

AORTALITERARYMAGAZINEWhat does it mean to be human?ISSUE1011 0

TABLE OF CONTENTSIssue 1 00Julie PattenAlxeandra Cipriani01 Editor’s NoteAlexis WuAlexandra Cipriani0203-040506 When the Sea CeasesSouvenirs From HomeThanksgiving Dinneri don’t know how to swim07 this is whatlove tastes likeGracie Yao08-09 In debtJunaid Shabir10 Our True Selves?Ayyub ShaminOleg DaugovishMatthew SpenceClaudia Wysocky101314-15 Color codes in TNRThe Language of DreamsDisruption16 AmbrosiaKevin Scheepers17 Everything is a lot ofthingsQ. Imagine18-19 The Envelope Arrives onTuesdaySean EwingMichael Theroux11-12 Sunflowers

TABLE OF CONTENTSIssue 1 00Hannah NjokiMastheadAmanda Vogel20-2122-2425Life in MirrorsA Letter to My DeadGrandfather26The End.Edited and Designed ByClaire YouLauren YouAbigail An

Issue 1 AORTA LITERARY MAGAZINE01A magazineexploring whatit meansto be human; celebratingartthatfeels alive“Aroom without booksis like a bodywithout asoul.”―Marcus TulliusCiceroEDITOR’SNOTEWhat does it mean to be human?Aorta Literary Magazine was established August 2025,in hopes of exploring this singular question throughthe perspective of hundreds and thousands of people.Through Issue 1,the inception ofthis journey begins.In less than a month of beginning this literarymagazine, we have reached over a hundredsubmissions from five different continents. We havereached voices in Kenya, Finland,the Philippines, andmany more. We hope to continue giving lightto thevoices from different communities. Reading thesecountless submissions, we are both honored andalways learning a new lens of humanity from them.Huge thanks to Lauren You (co-editor) and Abigail An(Editor) as well as the literary magazine communitythat gave so much supportto Aorta Literary Magazine.Claire YouFounder, Editor-in-Chief of Aorta Literary Magazine

so i guess we’re all just children / drowning /in midwestern soliloquies / begging to beunderstood / by someone other than ourselves / our lungs full of lakewater / and cicadaschirping halfto death / pretending we know how to swim / my promises starttosound like weather reports /i didn’t mean to lie but somehow i always do / maybe that’swhy i always end up alone / even as i waitfor someone to love me / no one ever does /the sky bruises in slow motion /the grain silos turn to silhouettes /the night hums intoa tired lullaby / nothing changes / and i am still drowning / beneath a blanket of emptystars / still waiting /for someone / anyone /to love me back.Aboutthe author: Alexis Wu is a 13-year-old Chinese-American poetfrom Long Island, New York. She co-authored Under the Deep, a poetrycollection that explores society, selfhood, and truth. She is also amember ofthe Write Cause newsletter team. She should probably stopromanticizing her life and startliving it—but where's the fun in that?Find her on Instagram @a.w.underthedeep.poetry.Issue 1 02alexis wui don’t know how to swim

The ones who couldn’tfeed themselves always ate in the sunroom. They were wheelchairbound and pushed up to the round tables as far as the unwieldy contraptions would allow.I entered the familiar room and her eyes were closed, her head leaning back on a teddybear pillow. I walked over to her and touched her hand and said,“Hi, B.” She opened hereyes and made eye contact with me.An aide was feeding the lady nearby and I asked if my sister had eaten yet.“No, her traywill be here soon. Would you like to feed her today?”“Sure,” I answered.“Is there anything I should know that’s any different?”“Just give her little bites and take it slowly.”“Okay, I’m happy to do that.”Her tray arrived. They pushed her chair closer to the table and placed her napkin on herchest.I perused the menu.“B – wow – it’s Thanksgiving dinner!“What have we here? Turkey, mashed potatoes, butternut squash and cranberry jelly.”The mashed potatoes with gravy looked fine as did the butternut squash, butthe pureedturkey looked pretty disgusting.“Let’s start with the mash potatoes. Those were always your favorite.” She opened hermouth readily as I approached her lips slowly with each spoonful. I couldn’t even stomachlooking atthe pureed turkey, so I didn’t attemptto feed all ofthatto her. At variousintervals, I would hold the glass of cranberry juice to her lips, and she’d take a sip.Issue 1 03Julie pattenThanksgiving Dinner

Of course, she wasn’t eating enough to sustain her body weight. She was down to 101 lbs.But she ate enough, in my estimation. It’s notlike she was in a body building competition.And I knew that was the progression ofthe disease. They sleep more and more and eatless and less.“Oh, B – look your favorite Thanksgiving dessert – pumpkin pie! With a dollop of whippedcream on top. Yay!!” It was pumpkin pie filling due to her dietary restrictions, buthopefully the taste would be thrilling for her.I looked around the room and allthe other Alzheimer’s patients were opening theirmouths as the aides fed them. I wondered why they continued to eat, why they evenopened their mouths. Was it an automatic response, or were they anticipating the taste ofsomething satisfying? If only she could tell me.I always had believed thatthe sense of hearing is the lastto go, so I adhered to that withher. Itold her about where our family was gathering for Thanksgiving,the cold and rainyday, and our new puppy. Itold her how happy I was to be with her during herThanksgiving dinner.“I’m going to go now, B. Happy Thanksgiving. I love you.”I kissed her on the forehead. And then I left, wondering what she had tasted – a meal or amemory, or anything at all.Aboutthe author:There’s nothing Julie likes more than spending timewith her barn animals on the Maine farm she shares with her husband.She always has a rescue beagle or two in her shadow, and her recentadoptee, Emma from Tennessee, led her to write a children’s seriesdepicting the beloved dog’s antics. Julie ruminates about possibletopics for her writing as she takes Emma for leisurely walks throughthe woods. Julie has had her work published in Persimmon Tree andSuddenly and Without Warning.Issue 1 04

Have you ever spread wet sandin the palm of your hand like a salve?Itisn’t smooth,and itisn’t pristine.The granules are prominent.Little pebbles, particles ofgrime and dirt and sea scumcome togetherto make this not-paste.This dry thing now weepingin drops between the gapsof your fingers.I spread the sand from my jar,butitfails to stick.It’s lack of moisture clearnow thatit’s containeda million miles from home.Itoo long to be wherethe waves made sense, and theocean unfurled meas if I were a whole being,too,even when away from the water.Aboutthe author: Alexandra Cipriani is a 21-year-old Filipina-Italianwriter currently based in Colorado with plans to build a career inpublishing now that she has graduated from New York University'sSummer Publishing Institute. She recently completed her bachelor'sdegree where she studied English atthe University of Colorado Denver,and she continues to work for her institution’s literary magazine,Copper Nickel, as well as the publication October Hill Magazine. Herwork can be found in Chainmail Poetry as well as forthcoming in KRNT,Still Here, and Vermillion Lit.Issue 1 05Alexandra ciprianiSouvenirs From Home

Cerulean, sapphire, cyanreflected down belowin those serene waves. Easing backand forth—gentle—as if ababy’s cradle.Buttruly, her wavesare erratic. Azure shardswhisk toand fro,strident aqua streaksslash the frothy viscera.Evocation ofthose times,thatturmoil,pays tribute tothe strifeof a busy life.From the land, crashes and roarsappear placid.In the thick of it,the sedatedseaturnssavage,and thoughthe savagery appears wicked,I miss its havoc.Aboutthe author: Alexandra Cipriani is a 21-year-old Filipina-Italianwriter currently based in Colorado with plans to build a career inpublishing now that she has graduated from New York University'sSummer Publishing Institute. She recently completed her bachelor'sdegree where she studied English atthe University of Colorado Denver,and she continues to work for her institution’s literary magazine,Copper Nickel, as well as the publication October Hill Magazine. Herwork can be found in Chainmail Poetry as well as forthcoming in KRNT,Still Here, and Vermillion Lit.Issue 1 06Alexandra ciprianiWhen the Sea Ceases

I have lived on this planetfor thirteen-plus years & I have attained enough knowledge toset myself free & destroy myself, simultaneously. Each year of my too-short yettoo-longlife has been no better than hell & no worse than heaven. & I could just die, exceptfor thefactthatif I did, I would no longer be able to live, & the fact ofthatis too easy to hold butimpossible to grasp. I have enough secrets to cripple a man so I keep them to myself,except when the words fill my mouth with glue & hot oil so I spitthem outlike the anger Ihaven’t been able to ejectfrom my body. My guiltis a hunter with a blade to my throat,drawing blood. If I handed him my heart, who would I be then? Thatis the question thatIswear will go unanswered because I cannot—will not—face whatI fear. So I guess I wasborn to rot, fester, & decay, growing up to become the monster of my father & the sheep ofmy mother. Their weightis passed down to me. & I fall, screaming my child’s name,because she will live to carry the sin on my hands that we’ll all call love. My hunter comesfor me, Death near, & with my last gasping breath, blood on my lips, my mouth will beaflame with the words thatI never gotto say. And with my mother’s, father’s, daughter’sblood on my lips, I will die.Aboutthe author: Gracie Yao is a pseudonym for a writerbased in New York.Issue 1 07Gracieyaothis is what love tastes like

‘Tell me how I should send back the money I owe you?’In response to a long letter that he sent,months after she vowed never to cross his path.‘I don’t wantto be in debt.’Debt! All its letters letloose likeinterfering waves against his face.It spoke vehemently to him,Rather, roared into his earsuntil ‘debt’turned him deaf.‘Debt,’ an invention of finance–those men with wallets in their breast.It sucks all sense of softness out of us.I listened to this man sitting beside meon a metallic bench in Bentwood Park.His tittle-tattle reminded me ofThe debts I know of:The unspoken bills of WartawBride and groom in Kashmir receiveafter guests relish the Wazwan ;Ofthe suicides, farmers in the Indian plainschoose upon failing topay offthis wretched thing to the lenders.Of allthose destitute, itforbids a comfortable lifestyle to.Of small nations being hegemonized by the powerful onesIn its name.Issue 1 08JunaidShabirIn Debt12

An abominable word ‘debt’ with the loathsomebaggage thatit comes with,Its commodification of our expressionsOf gifting and kindness.Makes me wonder,Iftomorrow mothers demandthe reimbursement oftheir service,Wouldn’tittake foreverfor mankindto pay off its debt?!Aboutthe author: Junaid Shah Shabir is a fiction writerwho sometimes strays into poetry—most often in theembrace ofthe English Ghazal. His current work-inprogress is an extensive novel set across imaginedlandscapes,tracing the fate oftwo lovers who struggle tocling to their bond amid political conflict, repression, andjudicial betrayal. Alongside his creative work, his projectinvolves a critical reading of Asian fiction throughmedical, humanistic, and psychoanalytic perspectives.Issue 1 091: Wartaw is the customary gifting of cash orother items by the natives of Kashmir to thebride and bridegroom on attending theirweddings and enjoying Wazwan. It is expected tobe returned with a slight increment when thegiver has a similar celebration.2: Kashmiri cuisine, based mostly on meat.

Disruptionmatthew spenceWhere can we find our true selves,Our lives spent dictating and being dictated,Over things we have and don’t have to the rightto do so,Does something like a “true self” even exist?Our True Selves?ayyub ShaminAbout the author: Ayyub Shamin writes poetry thatdissects love’s illusions and the void beneathconsciousness. Their work—infused with thephilosophical brevity and the raw nerve of Plath—hascaptivated 103 followers on social media, where they postdaily fragments of their debut series,\"You, A HeavenlyDelusion\" and \"Me, Spiraling Into the Abyss\". Ayyub livesin Canada, in a room papered with just poetry andunanswered questions.Issue 1 10The calls are fewer and further between, the conversations more brief than before.They come at different hours than the normal times.Words are exchanged, brief messages of hope and encouragement.You know-you hope-that you’ll hear from them again soon.The talks may be brief, but they provide comfort.You know that they’re still there, and that’s good…Someday, you hope, the disruption will end and things will get back to normalBut these days, you don’t know what that isYou just wait for another call, hoping it will come.About the author: Matthew was born in ClevelandOhio. His work has most recently appeared inSkummel Magazine.

11 Issue 1MichaelTherouxSunflowersThe fervor of youth the grand chaoswhen the Moment was allwhen Life was ImmediateThe Taste the Scent the Touchto Sense was the very reasonthe thing the Cosmos can only accordduring the time we inhabit this FormBreaks and spills tears and acres of laughterGreat blooming laughter bright as the sunbright as head-high sunflowerscresting a meadowA taste of togetherness never securea starter sample of the bliss attainableThe necessity of Spontaneitywhen anything could and usually didand nothing ever was for very longThe taste the very hint of Foreverin the touch of lips to parted lipsthe warm wet scent of HumanityThese then are the precursorsthe fore-shadowings of Life Fulfilled(without the price tag showing)The Golden Ring without thoughtof the ultimate unavoidable costFor who would risk that tariffif it were known indeed aforehand

Issue 1 12Best to give in to the madnessto grasp for the Grand Dreamwhile ignoring the fine printThis this is the thing with Youth!Youth sees the Promise dismisses damageas acceptable collateral and therefore not pertinentto the business of Daily Blissmade in the glory of Sunand sunflowersAbout the author: Michael Theroux entered the literarypublication field in his seventh decade. His career hasspanned field botanist, environmental health specialist,green energy developer and resource recovery web siteeditor. He has shifted from the scientific and technicalenvironmental field to placing his cache of creative writingonly three years ago. He have now had 75 poems and shortstories published, some may be found in Cerasus, City Key,Wild Word, Ariel Chart, CafeLit, and elsewhere; his novel,chapbooks and collections still seek homes.

Look here.This is the languageof dreams. It speaks in tongues,in symbols, in signs. And it whispersto us of things unseen— of secrets lostbeneath the waves.We are but vessels for its message,a conduit between worlds. Listen closely.Hear the truth in its riddles,the clarity in its confusion.For this is the language of dreams,and you must learn to speak it.Issue 1 13Claudia wysockyThe Language of DreamsAbout the author: Claudia Wysocky is a Polish poet and photographer basedin New York, celebrated for her evocative creations that capture life'sessence through emotional depth and rich imagery. With over five years ofexperience in fiction writing, her poetry has appeared in various localnewspapers and literary magazines. Wysocky believes in the transformativepower of art and views writing as a vital force that inspires her daily. Herworks blend personal reflections with universal themes, making themrelatable to a broad audience. Actively engaging with her community onsocial media, she fosters a shared passion for poetry and creativeexpression.

As a straight white guy, I don’t get enough discrimination. I’lltry to generate some today.Taking after John Dalton, I see colors differently than ninety percent ofthe people. Such agentle disability, it calls for challenge and heart-felt ridicule.“How colorblind are you?” People ask.I shrug.“Can you see traffic lights?” The test continues.“The red one is always on top, right?” I act serious.“Exceptin western Nebraska.” I pauseto gauge their concern.“It’s on the leftthere. The lights are attached sideways, so thattornadoes don’t break them off.’”The medics gave up on finding cure for the colorblindness and I cherish it.The strawberries I picked in the forest as a kid were blushing white.Excused.Similar colors I placed into a laundry load produced a debatable result.Banned.My wife’s blouse always matches her shoe color, in my opinion.“Looks great!”“Ahh…never mind.” She dismisses my honestfeedback.Serving in the police force or flying a jet were never on my list of careers.On Sunday morning, my ten-year-old Sofie accompanies me to the botanical gardenwhere we check out colorblindness-correcting glasses. An attendanttakes my credit cardand drivers’ license in exchange for the magic shades. Can’ttrustthem daltonics.Sofie puts the glasses on first and frowns: “Nothing changed!” She passes them to me.A customer quote I read online pokes like a splinter in my head: “I feelthe gift of color iswasted on many. They don’t appreciate the vibrancy ofthe world they have.”Whatif I like the color-correct world, how will I go back? Would I stay in the Emerald City,scared to take offthe lenses?I put on the glasses.“Son of a b…bicycle!” I exclaim.“Tricycle!” Sofie responds.Issue 1 14Oleg DaugovishColor codes in TNR

My friends, yellow, white and blue stay true to me, butthe traitors, green and tealturninto pink and orange. The gentle brown stems ofthe shrubs become psychotic carrots,thegrey round rocks along the trailtransform into flamboyant red beets. The intoxicatingcolors hurt my brain as if someone splashed spicy sauces into my eyes and they burn myreceptors.Itake offthe glasses.The saturated landscape of Matisse returns to the familiar soft shades of Monet.The jungle of screaming monkey-flowers and red columbines fades to mimic the desertaround them. The colors camouflage back into the world where I belong.“Drab landscape” is whatthe lens manufacturers call it.Sofies’ allergy to dust prompts us to return to the gardens’ office.“Did you like the glasses?” The attendant expects gratitude for fixing a defect.“He hated them!” Sofie exclaims with a sneeze before I come up with response.“Hate is a strong word,” I remind her.Would you offer a black person white skin for a “more wholesome life experience”?Instead, I reply: “Would you offer people glasses to see the world the way colorblind folksdo? It’s notinferior, it’s different.”The attendant shakes his head with a sour smile and returns my cards.As we drive home, Sofie challenges me to quiz her aboutthe U.S. states and their capitals.She makes no mistakes.“I’d like to go on a road trip to see them all,” she hints.“It would take too much time;the distances are too long,” I reply.Sofie pauses for a moment.“You know who I’ll be when I grow up?”“Who?” I glance in to her brown eyes in a rear-view mirror.“I’ll be a pilot.”Issue 1 15About the author: Oleg Daugovish researches the delicate lives of Californiastrawberries. He rushes to tell growers about his discoveries and documentsthem in peer-reviewed journals. Aside from writing about plants, Olegcompleted a humorous 61,000-word memoir about growing up in Latviaduring Soviet times and sixteen ten-minute stories of creative non-fictionhe’d love to share. Six of them found home in lit mags in 2025 and one wonan award for best prose.

Ebullient debates around cramped dinner tablesabout who made the richest bibimbap,textured, unctuous and intoxicatingly aromatic—egg yolk and gochujang bleeding artfullyinto the steamed rice like a wounded sun.Most mouthwateringly flavourful and fragrant egusi stew,coaxed the oxtail until it surrendered and fell offthe boneinto the pounded yam's welcoming grasp—nutty, well-seasoned base with soulful depthsonly reached through generational consilience.Could temper spice and umamiin their signature paneer tikka masala with consummate easeor plant chillies in the vindaloo like capsaicin landminesto awaken the palate—the accompanying naan a soft cloudto provide mercy for saucy indulgences.The engrossing seduction of dishes thatlive onone's tongue endlessly, sneak into the mindlike a mesmeric dream, lingeron the edges where mercurial memory and impermanence meet—a fanciful dialogue between cultures.The delightful ambience of convivial kitchens,where pellucid floral notes harmonise,ambrosia is served with a delicate finish,aprons are burnt with love,and candles flicker with laughter.Issue 1 16KevinscheepersAmbrosiaAbout the author: Kevin Daniel Scheepers is a 28-year oldman from Pretoria, South Africa. He completed an MSc inBiotechnology in 2023, but always maintained a personalinterest in the written arts, particularly poetry. His workhas previously been published in Brittle Paper, AudienceAskew, Harrow House Journal, and elsewhere.

Everything is a lot ofthings,The ties that bond with lots of strings.Each strand all placed; bound infinitely,Plucked and prodded like a symphony.To create a oneness sound we hear,whenever we wantto hold something dear.A know-it-all pretends to encompass that beat,that strike of a rhythm that sounds too sweet.A derelict pretends to know nothing at all,a choice since anyone can hear that call.That reach for the sky and stars of knowledge,it expands with learning outside of college.It has to be a passion to know everything,if it’s plausible to know all and hear that ring.Would your mind explode with what knowledge brings?Since everything is a lot ofthings.Things could be anything under the sun,It could be many things, even things that you won.Not places or people since titles hold true,But whatis everything without you?An answer to a question that we hold insidesince fear of being wrong doesn’t run or hide.It comes out and tries to shine away,until it shades for another day.Why knowledge is power and with it, you createa meaning, a movement awaits.When you use what your brain can hold,even when the knowledge feels like it’s old.Even when you meetthe ones with wings,you acceptthat everything is a lot ofthings.Issue 1 17q.imagineEverything is a lot of thingsAbout the author: Q. Imagine is a 32 years old, Long Islandbased writer and book reviewer of The Scene (thescene.life).She writes short stories, novels, screenplays, poems andmusicals. Her screenplay Angel Of Light is ranked Top 20%on Coverfly and her book, Eeala And The Water Dragons wasnominated for the 2021 Reader’s Choice Awards.

I ironed the creases from my voicebefore I wrote. Typed,then tore.Tried fountain pen. Too sincere.Tried blue ink. Too academic.Settled on pencil. The smudgingseemed honest.I said allthe rightthingsthatI wasn’t angrythatforgiveness had taken rootlike some quiet mosson rocks in the forest.ThatI only wonderedif your dreamsever came true.That was safe, wasn’tit?Only asking about dreamsnotthe doornever left open.Weeks spilledlike sugar on tilesilentevery grain a waiting.Then the envelopeWritten in cursiveas if afraid to be found.Issue 1 18seanewingThe Envelope Arrives on Tuesday

She wrote:“I never told him. Please don’t start now.”no greetingno good bye.Just a faded photographa girl with holes in her jeansknees peeking outand bangs hacked bluntas ifthe scissors flinched.She holds a kittenwith both handsnotlike she loves itbutlike it might breakor flee.Her smile is wrong.Too many teethor not enough joy.I couldn’t decide.I stared until my own facestarted to slip behind hersuntil I understoodsome stories aren'tmine to tell.Itried to fold myselfinto the envelopeThere wasn’t roomfor the questionsI buriedor the silence that woremy face like a mask.Issue 1 19About the author:Sean’s poetry weaves striking imagerywith honest emotion, illuminating the deep connectionbetween the natural world and the human soul. Through hisverses, he explores the struggles and triumphs that shapeour lives, drawing readers into quiet moments of reflection,endurance, and grace.

Issue 1 20AmandavogelA Letter to My Dead GrandfatherMy grandfather died in 2022. He was 93 years old. The last year of his life he was slowly, thenall at once reverting to toddler, then newborn, and finally a mere mystery – no physical entity butstill a figment of our lives.The biggest difference is that we weren’t going to meet him; he’d already lived his life. It’sdependent on belief if I’ll ever get to see him again or if the serving size vessel carrying ash is all Ihave left.In theory, cremation sounds like a good idea. It’s cheaper than the funeral services, the plot, theheadstone, and the lowering of the box that your family was convinced that you wanted – certaincircumstances allow for the living to do some afterlife shopping while they’re still here.You died in 2022, and six feet doesn’t seem that far; but that’s not where you are.I can’t visit a stone in some random ground somewhere. With my social anxiety maybe it’s agood thing that I’m not forced to show weakness in front of strangers. I have a serving sizevessel. You don’t move often. I keep you in front of my television. You watch whatever I’mhyper fixated on and never once have I received a complaint from watching The Office for thethird time in a year.In 2022, you died at home. Your death was the first I experienced. In 2022, I saw my first corpse. Ikissed your forehead when I walked into the house. I kissed your forehead goodbye before you weretaken out of the house. In 2022, I walked away knowing my grandfather wasn’t coming back.I got to know you for the first time, seemingly, a decade prior. I was in a history class where Ihad been given an assignment to write about a moment in time. I had to be able to obtain at least oneprimary source to give my assignment any amount of credibility.A few weeks later, I was given the opportunity that none of your children or other grandchildren had.I didn’t say much. I listened to you for an hour recounting every detail of life in Newfoundland andLabrador, Canada somewhere in-between 1950 and 1953. The Korean War was the topic ofconversation – but more than that, you communicated what life was like, what a built-in-squadronbest friend named Super Jew was like.

Your memory was that of a steeltrap – everything flowed in, nothing left.You began taking pictures. As I flipped through the pages of a leather-bound photo albumwith the word,‘photography,’ etched on the front, I noticed that you weren’tin many ofthe black-and-white stills of 1950’s Canada. I was able to see what you saw.You were the best damn primary source I could have asked for.After I closed the album, I never saw it again. I wrote my paper. My research on JohnMcLean and the Korean War was over; but my research on John McLean and what he didafter wasn’t. You never stopped and I didn’t either.A token of pride, ego, embarrassment, and sadness I carry with me is the factthat no oneelse has ever asked you what your life was like.My grandfather learned to fly a Cessna 172.My grandfather foughtfor our country.My grandfather drove a Ford Granada.My grandfather would get his hair cut at a barber shop by a man named Frank.My grandfather worked hard.My grandfather would leave the house every morning when I came to visit and wouldcome back with that morning’s paper and bagels from Manhattan Bagel. The bagels wouldhave a faint smell of newsprint.My grandfather loved tomatoes sliced up with mayonnaise and pepper.My grandfather had Stouffer’s stuffed peppers and a Larry’s mashed potato more nightsthan I can count.My grandfather loved John Wayne movies and crossword puzzles.My grandfather was my biggest supporter.My grandfather died in 2022.I now own a Cessna Flight Training Center jacket, a sweater with your name sewn into it,an unwavering love for tomato slices with mayonnaise and pepper, and a leather-boundphoto album with the word,‘photography,’ etched on the front, all because I asked youwhat your life was like.21 Issue 1About the author: Amanda Rae Vogel is a writer, a dog momto her rescue, Harry, a daughter, and a self-proclaimedmatcha enthusiast. She was 27 at the time of writing thisletter to her dead grandfather. Amanda lives in New Jerseywith her family and her soul dog, Harry P. Gilmore.Amanda's previous writing experience includes TiltMagazine where she's published three pieces - she's mostproud of \"Burning Brightly: Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451.\"

Issue 1 22hannahnjung’eLife in MirrorsFar in a village called Ndigu-ini, lived a young girl named Anna. In her home was a huge mirror by thedoor that she would look into and admire herself. Every morning before she left, she would twirl infront of the mirror, and every evening after school, she would do the same.The mirror was magical; it would show her the life she lived. How her day was and how her nightswere. Anytime she wanted to know something about her life, she would look into this mirror.Anna grew into a fine young lady and started noticing changes in her body; she was becoming a biggirl who could wash her own clothes, clean her room, and cook for herself. She had big aspirations tobecome an actress and start a business someday.And the universe was kind to her; she attended university, got a job at a small startup company ininformation technology, and started doing social media influencing.Every day, the mirror would show her the progress she had made in life, and she would smile at it,happy at what she had accomplished.Being a big girl, she was finally able to move out of her home, and as she loved the mirror, shebrought it to her new small apartment with her. It was her daily affirmation, her best friend.And as fate would have it, Anna fell in love with a young man from her company. He treated her well,and he loved her very much. But the mirror seemed to disagree.Every day she came back home from work, the mirror would show her the things that her young manwould do, but like most of us, Anna chose to ignore them, saying that no man was perfect.But as Anna and Mark got closer, the mirror grew more concerned. It showed her the women Markwould hang out with, the lies he would tell her, and Anna started fighting with her mirror.\"Why are you so against my relationship? Why do you want to start problems with Mark and me? Ithought you cared for me?\" She yelled at her mirror, but the mirror said nothing back and onlyreplayed her life for her.As the days went by, Anna and the mirror grew further apart. Anna hated that the mirror did notapprove of her and Mark, and therefore she started looking less in the mirror until one day shecovered the mirror up, refusing to acknowledge its presence. But like was the norm, the mirror stillplayed out Anna's life, even when she was not looking, it still showed her life.

Issue 1 23A year went by, and Mark and Anna were now married, with Anna expecting. Mark had started goingout with other ladies, leaving Anna to tend for herself. Most times, he would not return home for afew days, and when he was gone, he would leave Anna no money. She would spend her days angry andtired, deprived of love. In the year they had been married, Mark had convinced her to stop working,promising to take care of her and asking her to create a joint account they would use as a family. Shehad agreed, but once she had relinquished her finances, Mark had become controlling andmanipulative.One fateful night, Mark came home drunk and rowdy. This was after Anna had delivered a beautifulbaby girl. With the child sleeping, Mark had put his hands on Anna, insulting her for being lazy andnot putting enough effort into their relationship.\"You do not please me like you used to; you don't take care of yourself anymore. You look old andunattractive,\" he yelled as he slammed the bedroom door, commanding Anna to sleep in the livingroom, covering herself with nothing but the thoughts in her head and her pajamas.The night was long and cold, and she couldn't sleep; she tossed and turned until she lay on her sidestaring at the door. Beside it was a white sheet covering the mirror Anna had forgotten. And as shestared at it, something in her tempted Anna to get up and walk to the mirror. But she couldn't bringherself to uncover it, for the fear of what she would uncover, of what image lay awaiting her in themirror.So she walked back to the couch and tossed and turned until she finally fell asleep. However, everyday after that, she would look to the white sheet, unable to shake off the strong sense of curiosity.One night after shhad takenok a beating and Mark had gone to bed, Anna sat in front of the mirrorcrying her eyes out, calling out to the mirror.\"Why didn't you warn me? Why did you let me fall into this trap? Why is the universe so cruel to me?Is loving a crime?\" She whimpered, tears rolling down her face, but no one answered. Not the mirror,not the wind, not the universe, no one. And in her anger, Anna yanked the cloth off the mirror,standing to her feet ready to yell at it for ignoring her, but the reflection of herself in the mirrorstopped her in her tracks. Her jaw dropped to the floor as she stared at herself in the mirror.She had gone from a young woman full of life, to a ghost-like figure. She was pale, whiter than salt.Slim, her legs looked like they struggled to support her own weight.\"How did I get here?\" She asked, but the mirror said nothing, displaying only one button on it, areplay or rewind button.And so Anna pressed it. She didn't know what she would find, but all of her was ready to find out. Andshe watched as her life played out in front of her. The abuse, emotional, physical, and financial, thecues and signs she ignored, she watched it all as it replayed for her. And for hours she could donothing but cry, for the little girl she wronged, for the young woman she robbed, all for the attentionof one person.

Issue 1 24And when the film was over, Anna stood up, every feeling she could feel, anger, desperation, sadness, it allhit her at once, overwhelming her. And she walked to her daughter's room, watching as that beautiful girllay in her crib, peaceful, unaware of what awaited her as she grew older.\"Is this the life I want for her?\" Anna asked herself as she moved to a seat in a rocking chair nestledagainst the wall in a corner. And in the dead of the night, when the darkness covered the shame,heartbreak, and broken dreams, Anna decided she would leave. She would not wait another day, notanother day.And when Mark left for work the next morning, Anna packed her belongings and got her daughters'belongings. And with her, she took one thing and one thing only, the mirror. And she waddled her way outof that home, out of Mark's life, out of her misery. And walked, miles upon miles, with no other option,her child in her arms and her luggage on her back, and she walked back home to her parents.They were heartbroken for her; they had not raised her to settle for less than she was worth, but that's apath she had chosen for herself. But because she had chosen to walk away from it too, they embraced her,unburdening her of all she carried.Their warm embrace woke the little child she held in her arms, a young baby girl, who smiled at them. Shedidn't know them, but she felt their warmth, much like that of her mother.And as they cuddled her, Anna took a mmuch-neededrest, and in her sleep she dreamt. She dreamt of alife better than that, a life of rebuilding, of healing, of growing.And as the years went by, Anna healed. She placed her mirror beside her mother's door, where it hadstayed nestled for years on end when she was a child. And for many months, when she walked past it, shedidn't like what she saw. But she looked anyway, she looked at the struggles she faced every day, shelooked at the progress she made, she watched as she healed and regained her smile.And one day, she had rebuilt her life enough to be independent again. To be the mother to her child. Ithadn't taken her a day, or a month, or a year. No! It had taken three, not to fully heal, not to be happyagain, but to finally see the light.And she moved out of her parents' house. With her three-year-old in hand and her mirror in the other,she went into her small house, which she had built for herself. And every day, she would look at thatmirror with her daughter, telling her.\"Always keep your eyes on that mirror; it may not talk, but it will forever show you all you need to know.Let that mirror be the guide in your life,\" she would whisper to her child every night as she did her hair,her small house of two filled with nothing but echoes of laughter. She had finally regained control of herlife.About the author: Hannah Njung'e is from Kenya and waspublished in Writers Space Africa and Punk Monk Magazine.She is is a Kenyan writer who uses her works to express herviews of society. Some of her works can be found onInstagram @njungehannah

Founder, Editor in Chief25Claire is a high school sophomore in NJ, USA.As an avid writer, Claire enjoys writing poetryand personal memoirs. She is a national goldmedalistfor poetry through Scholastic Artand Writing and has been featured inmultiple publications. Other than writing,Claire enjoys photography and digital design.In her free time, she enjoys traveling andlistening to artists like Isiah Rashad andDean.MASTHEADLauren is a college freshman in NJ, USA.She enjoys writing as well as reading.Some of her favorite authors includeDonna Tart and R. F. Kuang. As a hobby,Lauren likes to go to art exhibitions andexplore NYC.Co-editorClaire YouLauren youAbigail is currently a high school sophomore inNew Jersey. She has a strong interest in true crime,often spending her time listening to podcasts andresearching cases that capture her interests.Abigail has won multiple awards for her artworkand enjoyed doodling in her free time. Her hobbiesinclude traveling, drawing, journaling, andlistening to artists like george.EditorAbigail an

AORTA LITERARY MAGAZINEISSUE 1 26Dedicated to bringing writing to life