// Letter from the editor
// Meet the artists
// Olivia Hu’s Rules of Being
// Ana Lind’s Eight Conversations
// Heidi McCulloch’s In this world the rocks are made of colours
// Heidi McCulloch’s I thought I was in love
// Kimberly Morales’ Creeper Girl Writes a Love Letter
// Kimberly Morales’ Destroy
// Lita Poliakova’s Short and Acidic (Haiku Collection)
// Myriam Tillson’s Listen
// Myriam Tillson’s Glow
// Stephanie Watson’s The Mean December Reds
// Stephanie Watson’s The Clarity of January
// About the next issue
2016 was a stressful, no, downright painful year for many communities all over the world, and you wouldn’t be alone if you had been waiting months to see the back of it. The new year doesn’t re-write those awful times, nor does it promise a perfect incoming year, but what it does promise is change.
Last year, 2017 was the bright future we all desperately wanted to meet, now it’s the present, and both great and awful things have occurred mere days into the year already. Maybe in a few months, or even weeks, we’ll be begging for 2018, but I hope not. I hope this year will be the year we want never to end, and I hope that is the trend that will continue for the future.
The future, it’s the one thing we all have coming to us, and the one thing we work hard to mould to our standards. As social justice activists it’s the main reason we fight – other than for the present – because we can’t continue to live with all this bigotry, murder, and environmental damage.
The following art reflects this urge to move on, and the idealization of what the future will look like. So here’s to the future we’ll one day build, and the past we’ll leave behind.
~ Stephanie Watson
EIC of Fembot Magazine and Cyberrriot
Heidi Bird is a University graduate from Melbourne, who is deeply invested in art of a morbid or tacky nature. She enjoys long walks on the bach, white wine and healing internal wounds left by embarassing mistakes. She is also desperate for employment and thinks she looks pretty good in this picture. You can find Heidi on Instagram right here. Olivia Hu is a rising sophomore in high school. When she isn’t harvesting her infatuation over writing, she is wandering the café-scented streets of downtown or finding solace in old book stores. Currently, she is a blog and magazine writer for HerCulture. She also actively writers and edits for her school newspaper, and was awarded first place for prose in a national Canadian writing competition Ana Lind is a Photoshop fiend. She recently graduated from the University of Oregon with a degree in Art and Technology, and she is currently starving in Chicago. Her work revolves around growing up, relationships, and vulnerability. She is a feminist who is slowly teaching herself to not be startled by the volume of her own voice Created from restless remains, void-originated, Lita Poliakova is an intrusive person, yes, she cares! She prettifies her carnal residence by digestion and contemplations. Trances daily and composes, carves, paints, and tears to shreds. Recklessly destroys order, desperately creates meanings, and painfully broadens the track. Lives afield. Ecstatically respects alive! You can find out more at www.litapoliakova.comKim Morales is a student poet born, raised and struggling in Brooklyn. Her goal as a writer is to dismantle historically unjust narratives and create new and absurd ones. You can follow her at poeta-hoe.tumblr.com
Myriam Tillson is a french-english painter based in London, UK. She works traditionally and specialises in gouache, inks, and watercolour, and paints pieces with a surreal and fantastical feel to them. She aims for quiet empowerment and to represent the subtleties of humanity and more specifically femininity in a colourful non obtrusive manner. You can find more of her work on instagram @myriamtillson, or on deviantart @hedgesloth
Stephanie Watson, co-founder of Fembot and creator of Cyberrriot, joined the site in 2010, and since then has gotten an honors degree in Psychology, and an HNC in Professional Writing. She also contributes to HelloGiggles, XoJane, TYCI, Bitch Media, and hopes to make her way further in the journalistic world. As well as her love for opinionated journalism and social media, she also writes romantic prose and cryptic poetry, dabbling in minimalist painting too. Stephanie’s goals are of a personal creative kind, however through her articles and poetry she hopes to provoke change and discussion of social justice issues.
by Olivia Hu
never sat by.
We live in a world where textual communication is essential to the success of our interpersonal relationships. After my ex-partner and I broke up, I found myself looking through old text messages we sent over the course of our relationship. There were several months where we lived in different countries, and I was struck by how our correspondence from that time resembled the conversations we had leading up to the end of our relationship. When I presented this work to my mentor and peers, I was moved by how many of them saw their own current and past relationships represented in this work. The words I wrote in moments of intense vulnerability are fixed points of data in my life, tied to a specific time, place, and person.However, when taken out of context they point to a larger trend of how people react to a relationship falling apart.
My side of the conversation, the left-hand side, is depicted with selfies I took when I was crying. We tend to represent ourselves on social media with images of us looking happy and confident. I decided to use images of me when I was upset to supplement the pain and vulnerability expressed in my words. On the right, my ex-partner’s side is portrayed with faded images of the two of us together. During these conversations I mostly relied on our relationship to combat my fear of being alone, forgetting that I should’ve been invested in experiencing the richness of my partner. In each conversation I am reaching for the feeling of togetherness, but I’ve lost the depth of what that means.
by Heidi McCulloch
by Heidi McCulloch
by Kimberly Morales
i want to get weird and despondent with you
i wait three hours before returning your calls
so i can mimic what a life might be like
ill sit at the kitchen table — still —
waiting for the clock to tell me
when the right time is to love you
i eat your breakfast when you’re not looking
— the dripping dark grapes and the warm bread —
and spit in your drinks —
all the blended fruit and fine chocolate powder —
in some aleyo-ass attempt to conjure some affection
my leaving hair rests in your room
so you can remember me
my clumsy mouth sucks on the film of resin on your red walls
let me live under the floorboards of your uncertain apartment
and let me hold your bathtub still
i will jerkily crawl into bed with you
on a december night
after licking bar stools
and making out with plaid clad hipsters from astoria —
this is the kind of woman i have become–
i give out buck 50s to all the women
who laugh at your jokes —
this is the kind of of bitch i have always been —
they should enjoy a lifetime of tears too
slash my own heart with your dusty fingernails and
i force your worn and calloused hand on my face over and over
let me sneak velvet under your arms
and wear panties with your name on them
tattoo your words on the inside of my eyelids
i try to possess you over and over to awaken you
from the slumber of memory
of better women of better times and better places
and clearer skies with talking clouds in different phases
i know you miss the voices on the street that you know
instead of the gutter punk outside your door
let me live on your old windowsill
and attach my pussy to the crust of your ceiling
like a spider trapping the flies on your wall
by Kimberly Morales
the story has been
i am the fat greed
that’s killing me
the thief who guts herself
and snatches her own gold chain
the chubby welfare debutante
with my crown of acrylic nails
my coors light baby beer belly
poking out underneath my
badly stitched crop top,
“boriqua” emblazoned on
my ever sagging legacies
i am the food stamp collector
i am the world star hip hop historian
i am the famine goddess
i am sex and disease
nd better when I’m on my knees
i am the uss maine sinker
i am the hilltop seeker
i am the lazy drowning Carib
the gold wearing savage still
the rumor is
i am dulce de leche witch
sweet and light and heavy cream
swirling in a hot cauldron
my cackling glazes like burnt sugar
i am agua de rosa de Jamaica
tart but better than
my bitter black root
i spread myself
like the hibiscus flower
when it’s boiling
i am sugar cane fool
are like machetes
and i always
make other people rich
i am habichuela con pollo ghost
i haunt houses with
my overseasoned smell
i fill your house
with boleros and reggaeton
and when I moan of misery
rice spills out of my mouth
the gross rumor is
that I am
big bosomed and baked bread
my very singular
and temporary truth
i am the young mother and the viejecita
en la misa
loving and loving relentlessly
catholic guilt laid on me
violated, used me
killed me for christ
and has only succeeded in
i am the love child
of ruined moon goddesses
squatting in space
i am the raised brown hairs
of every slobbering conquistador,
my european fathers
rest on my upper lip
i am the indebted isla del encanto,
i mean puto rico i mean puerto roto
i am the rich fecund beauty
who slashed her own veins over and over
searching for an imperialist to love her
love me mama España, love me daddy Sam
take all my gold, take the food out my mouth
and spit your gendered language in return
i can sustain myself on that instead
whiteness is an absence of a consciousness
white is nothing
that is the only true lie
and everything else is just a rumor
a hastened whisper in your ear
a dirty trick
a sneaky fetishized untruth
an overheard half conversation
with no one in particular
i do not belong to myself
my blood is not my own i think
open my veins and see me america
again and again
stealing your menial work
anchoring my children to your stolen land
dancing on your tv
with my trilling tongue
i am here to slobber on white dick
and squirt hot sauce
i am here to wet nurse your fantasies
i am here to slice myself
on the thin slivers of your consonants
do not stop to look
my families are encased in ice
their bones buried in deserts
struck down strung up
strung out hung up and hungry
while i feed your children
clean your homes
commit your crimes
scare you and comfort you
our hands are not our own
every fiber of my temporary self
is screaming softly
I am tit-deep in la paz del hambre
y bien emputada
by Lita Poliakova
Burgundy polo, medieval belly underneath.
Vision impairment, standards pith.
The Snow queen crying upon a loyal candy,
Trained to please brained-brandy.
Half of candles burned by shoulder tenderness,
Rest are left to melt in caress.
Sweat heart ala carte.
Hate stronger every mist
From swan traffic falling behind
Pitch takeoff by undiscovered orders.
Rewrite, but don’t erase. Correct, replace,
Mistake the honest,
Count my bad
With dad in bed.
Lust inside heary sweat.
Spread over press.
Right button that is suppressed.
by Myriam Tillson
by Myriam Tillson
By Stephanie Watson
I’m saving my clear-out till the new year,
mentally and physically.
I can’t tidy this room, or my mind, till this year is over.
But I know your gifts still remain in this room,
The perfume that has gone stale lingers in the drawer,
This a isn’t poetic lie; it literally went rancid due to age,
But it’s funny because so did we.
The necklace you gave me lies in an old jewelery box, scuffed and dusty.
I know exactly where it is, it lies at the bottom, tangled and hardly worn.
It suited my style when we were teens, but now it’s bulky, tacky, and childish looking.
But even when you were still here and my style changed, I couldn’t wear it,
maybe because we had changed too.
These verses are so on the nose that it makes me cringe, but I need these clichés,
as a form of ventilation, as a way of forcing all of the hurt into these inanimate objects.
So I can burn them all in the new year.
By Stephanie Watson
5 days into the new year and I’ve burned nothing but candles;
a pink one to celebrate all the fun we had,
a green one to mourn the jaded feelings you’ve given me,
a black one to take solace in the silence,
one that smells of figs, helps me to forget,
the one that smells like apples, reminds me that Summer is coming
not soon, but it’s coming.
I’ve cleared out my jewelery, and I gave away the necklace you gave me,
with ease, it’s a nice necklace, someone else will like it more than I got the chance to.
But I found another,
A split necklace, a circle with a missing half,
I have the key, and you had the lock.
I don’t know if you still have yours, but I’ll keep mine, hidden in that dusty drawer.
I’ll keep it ecause it’s a memory of a nicer time, the necklace did nothing wrong,
it’s all on us.
I’ve cleared out this room, the perfume is down the drain, but the drawer still smells of it.
So I’ll burn the fig candle, along with the black.
Because I’ve accepted that you’re gone, and it’s okay that you’re not coming back.
We encourage you to submit your creative writing for consideration to be digitally published in our seasonal arts zine, Cyberrriot!
What we’d love to see from you:
– Written Art (e.g. poetry, short stories, flash fiction, vignettes, fictional and non-fiction monologues, fictional and non-fiction letters, scripts, extracts from novel etc.)
– Visual Still Art (e.g photography, posters, drawings, collages, digital and traditional paintings, sketches, printing, clothing and technology design etc.)
– Mixed media (e.g. vlogs, Instagram pictures, gifs, music, Vimeo/YouTube videos, etc.)
– Conversations & Social Media (e.g. text message, Twitter replies, Tumblr blog posts, etc.)
The theme for our 2017 Spring issue is DREAMS
The submission deadline is March 30th and the zine will be published digitally on our site April 5th.
If you wish to submit a piece of art to Fembot’s Cyberrriot, then email them to us, along with a third person bio and a picture of yourself to firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll get back to you within 3-4 business days. You can find more information about rules and regulations here.