RHETORIC MAGAZINE is a community of writers, artists, photographers and editors who create a biannual non-profit creative magazine dedicated to art, music, and creative writing.
creative writing
The Television & The Forest

The Television & The Forest

Art by Luis Miguel Munoz Written by Nelly Matorina I went to bed at sunrise, breaaaaaaaathing through the past seven hours of almost quiet, almost quiet if I shut my doors and the sun rises from the curtain tops. When I went downstairs, it had started. The reality box was on full blast, beaming through...
Fragile Thing Part II

Fragile Thing Part II

Photo by Aguss Ballester Written by Malashree Suvedi Fragile Thing: Part 2 It is you whom I love. Every cell in your body has an agenda, each has a revolution in mind. They fight you for the freedom that you cannot give them. You mumble prayers to some god as you toss and turn in...
We are never ever ever getting back together.

We are never ever ever getting back together.

Photo by Matt Fielding Written by Malashree Suvedi Infinity eats into infinity, hungry with chaos and death, the eternal footman snickers, and even the bald gods bicker. Darkness always repeats itself, as light laughs alone, Death annexes frigid stars, as lighthouses lay awake. We’ve walked with winners, talked to tattling tools too, Been between bulging...
orphan-tear-blue

orphan-tear-blue

  Art by Mark Dizon Written by Emily Harris orphan-tear blue   by the time i was 8, i’d made myself near-sighted from holding flashlights under covers, reading books when i should’ve been sleeping. so what if i’d slept? maybe then i’d know more about dreams, & less about facts – more about rest, &...
Insomniac

Insomniac

Photo by Diane Landro Written by Ali Sutherland Amnesiac, Aphrodisiac, Insomniac. It all sounded so romantic and mysterious. A disease of writers too impassioned by their words, Kept up at night by sporadic inspiration that would spur them from their sheets Like evidence of angst and rumination or reflection. But her insomnia was no enigmatic...
Circular Apathy

Circular Apathy

Photo by Matt Fielding Written by Ailsa Anderson With such kindness, such theory takes on redundancy Shattered in the face of those creases Melted in all of the jargon they cannot understand But the pain alleviates with simplicity, to help the one or the many The dilemma instilled from those words discussed years ago Among...
While you were wanting me

While you were wanting me

Photo by Hannah Ustun Written by Emily Harris I think that perhaps I waited in Someplace before the rain and songs while the sun taught me how to travel – how to reach from Someplace to Yourplace (with the sun, I lingered and watched). I waited for your patient longing to be a strong enough...
A wedding more beautiful was never seen

A wedding more beautiful was never seen

Art by Sereana Lindsay Written by Maia Taylor A wedding more beautiful was never seen Than that of Martin Haywood and Penelope Green. Her mother, crying, walked her down the aisle, While chubby flower girls shuffled behind in single file. It was her mother who reluctantly gave her away On the loveliest, sunniest morning in...
Forged innovation

Forged innovation

Well, I guess in a way, that’s a new beginning. But what were you really looking for all this time? To improve yourself? The paper is crunchy, untouched, waiting there right in front of you. A glass of wine always angles from your hand, and the busted streetlight is the single source of luminosity shining...
Words are Like Healing Drugs

Words are Like Healing Drugs

A star’s death is very symbolic. It burns out all of its own fuel and collapses on top of itself. That’s how I feel sometimes: like all my expectations, dreams and hopes are going to collapse on top of my tiny body. The only way to stop myself from being completely crushed by the debris...
A Technicolour Beginning

A Technicolour Beginning

”I need a coin,” you say, your voice suddenly carrying the authoritative undertone that it has always lacked. She raises an eyebrow at you. “It’s the least you can give me,” you insist stubbornly, and she sighs, a soft, indulgent exhale, and manages to dig out a grimy coin from the pocket of her shorts....
Resurgence

Resurgence

When I play artist, and I picture something I want on a canvas, I can never fully transfer the vague impression I glimpse in my head unless I have something to draw from. I need a hard copy – a photograph, something my mind can grasp the essence of so that I can proceed to...