Welcome back to the third edition of Capulet Mag. We’re continually impressed with the growth of this community. It’s hard to believe we’ve crossed the one-year mark. Honestly, we thought we’d give up by now, but Capulet is only getting stronger. We can’t thank you enough for your continued support.
In the last edition, our design featured Victorian women inspired by our failed trip to Paris. This edition, it’s your work that shines through. In this day and age, we need women to shout louder and louder. This edition is all of us shouting in unison, a cacophony of feminine creativity. We hear you loud and clear. We hope you hear us too.
The biggest of thank yous to our talented contributors. We are humbled by your trust. In the words of the biggest icon of our generation, “Hey now, hey now, this is what dreams are made of.”
Sam & Isabelle
Sunday’s work links the absolute subjectiveness of art to the purity of mathematics. Every piece has a mathematical equation enclosed within it played out through inflection and dramatization of landscape becoming her realism. By taking these two completely different worlds and combining their ideals, she opens up infinite possibilities for the viewer.
"I harvested the universe’s secrets from the days of digging in my backyard soil
I sat on plastic swings too long to keep from thinking of how the earth keeps turning"
Everything Happens for a Reason
"Everything happens for a reason,
my mother says over and over.
God has a sense of humor."
Caitlin Reed is an independent editor, a graduate of the University of Virginia, and a native of Virginia Beach. She currently writes and resides in the Pacific Northwest.
I Will Not Let Your Grimy Hands Touch
"my favorite book
unless you demonstrate a raging
need for the validations I need"
"If you wanted me to stay dead you should have buried me deeper.
Scared, broken, damaged and chained I crawled my way out
Through mud, blood, and ash."
Aarushi Bhardwaj is a school student from India and has been previously published in Blue Marble Review, Teen Ink and The Hindustan Times. She loves literature and burnt cookies, and she is biased towards caustic dialogue.
Tired and True
"Marcus had an impossibly messy, barely legible “Who the fucking fuck are you?” scrawled permanently between his shoulder blades since the day he was born. It takes him twenty-two years until he hears those words spoken out loud, and it takes an additional five, ten, twenty seconds for him to realize they are even directed at him. That they’re meant for him."
Girl, 16, Self-Immolates
"Last September, my sister set herself on fire.
I was the first to find her, burning merrily in our front lawn right next to the sunflowers I planted only a week ago. My sister blazed brightly against the rising sun, her body flowering into a violent shock of flame and smoke. She had never looked more brilliant, more terrible. I had never loved her more."
"After Mom and Dad left, Nan started talking to the dust.
At first it wasn’t too concerning. Nan was eighty-four after all; she was bound to lose it eventually. She sat in her rocking chair in front of the television like she had every other day for the past few years, watching the cooking channel, Antiques Roadshow, and the occasional rerun of Frasier and Everybody Loves Raymond. But instead of knitting or crocheting or working a crossword puzzle while she watched, Nan nervously clasped and unclasped her hands and looked around the dim living room with suspicion."
The House on Drexel
"At age twenty-one and a half, car rides on family vacations have dominated a sizable portion of my young life. I am curled up in the passenger’s seat with my forehead pressed and sliding against the warm glass, jostling as we cross the uneven pavement of a highway. My dad is seated beside me, his mouth a perfectly straight and disappearing line. In the backseat, my grandma Betty goes on about how beautiful Minnesota is this time of year and how lovely the houses still look and how wonderful it would be to go for a ride on the lakes. All the while, I’m left to my own tugging worry."
"I decided this was my last night when I was shoveling ice with my bare hands. My fingers scraped down into the depths of a beverage cart, as they had been doing for a solid five minutes. Despite the cold of the metal, my limbs felt like burning bricks, heavier and heavier by the minute."
Samantha Tetrault is a Capulet Mag editor who takes advantage of her position to sneak her creative nonfiction into the publication. She’s a full-time writer who finds inspiration in her mistakes, warm mugs of coffee, and travels. Her writing has also been featured in Goliad Review, the American Book Review, and Foundr Magazine.