— Teaser coming soon —

A once-promising model (played by Hadley Holdorf) loses her fight with clinical depression. 

• Producer:  ?
• Director: Mariusz Zubrowski
• Writer(s): Dominic Serendip & Mariusz Zubrowski
• Director of Photography: ?
• Composer(s): 5th Element & Alcohol&Ecstasy 
• Editor:  ?

Drinking redrum in blood shots,

Sinking in black scotch.

With past’s flashbacks,

Dark and sharp,

Like broken glass.

A hypochondriac with malice,

Getting high from my emotions.

Known only by his first name, Mario was born in Greece. He lived there until he was 16-years-old, before moving to Detroit, Michigan. Inspired by pain, his writing chronicles his experiences with suicide, betrayal, and drug abuse. He continues to find peace in paper.

A mind mechanized and humanized.

Words capable of carnage, drop like cinder blocks.

Truthful, terrifying as a reflection or pistol to the face.

Yet humble, pleasing, to the ears blissful.

Connection of the soul, seeking liberation.

Understanding the metaphors and left bewildered;

Capturing the meaning, we are marveled.

Geniuses united, lyrics remain undecoded,

Considered not a failure for the music bring us together.

Standing to the dominate, bring him to his knees.

Future generations looking back,

A revolution has occurred in the Hip-Hop world.

The power of music, don’t ever underestimate it,

Fitting for a slave, even an empire.

History to our present, a relatable comparison,

Since each teach us that love always shines.

Where as if you die, you’re not buried but reincarnated as a star.

Decide whether you support the food or liquor.

Not to entertain, think twice before making your first move.

We only fear God,

Not any corporation.

For in the direction of the light,

The world ends now.

David Rivera lives in Canada. He plans on becoming a social worker to help out youths. While not pursuing his altruistic goals, he enjoys reading about history and culture—specifically poetry.

I’d been gone for too long.

 Chasing tales, not memories.

A bag filled with worn-out jeans and old notebooks,

With no one willing to listen,

It’s just me and my stories.

Love Carlshamre is an aspiring poet who has lived in Stockholm, Paris and Montreal.  

The branches of my heart sway against the wind
as we look towards the sky.
The sunset of our love has come
and leaves have fallen to the ground.
Until the dawn arrives we can only hold each other
and wait for the rain,
trailing our tears into a river
that flows towards a lonely ocean.
Under the dark night sky we pray
for the morning to come to our eyes.
Without the light our love cannot
bloom its lovely soft blossoms.

My digits glide across the keys, feeling out the words
soon to be created out of lyrical musings;
they sum up much of what makes me –  
a boy, a son, a friend, and sometimes child.

Creating stories of my better world: love-struck teens,
all the girls who the world plucked in and out of my life,
bright stories, and others of strife stricken lands, stricken from the record,
renamed and rebranded to be retold to new readers.

I am nothing but framework, a stepping stone
glad to be stepped on.  Tending to a garden of words,
planting seeds of inspiration and plucking weeds of cliché interactions,
doing the work no one wants to do, nothing but a servant to the masses,
to generations yet to come,
to my friends, and to you –  
I serve myself up on a platter.

The poet must approach the page as a discipline, a practice, and wait for the wandering poem to find her, fill her, spill out of her and into the notebook like breaking, leaking waves.  

The poet is a canyon, an empty lot – a receptacle for God, Iris the rainbow and messenger, a part of the Earth, gathering pieces of debris and light to construct castles in the mud.

The collector of wishful thinking and seeds of revolution bursting through crinkled, grey minds.

The one who shouts out amongst the silence and knows that when inspiration strikes, she’ll grab the pen and run to let it spill out, come out, gush out – reveal itself, and there is no seeking because in seeking, there is interference, there is you and the world building up and reconfiguring your identity as “the poet,” but you are NOT a poet, you are just you, you are one and you are everything.

So you have to wait. 

Through the Summer and Autumn and nights when you can’t sleep and your body suffers, when your lover begs you to come to bed, but you can’t because you hear the call of it coming, you hear it coming, falling on your typewriter keys, skating past your journals and loose leaf, caressing your pens and chalk and crayons like a mistress in the night.

*Lucy Tan is a high school senior. She has been writing poetry for as long as she can remember.