Pluvia Issue IV

A LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL 

ISSUE IV FALL 2022 

POETRY | PROSE | ART 

www.pluvialitmag.com 

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Rising Upon by Nina Tsai 


By NAME 

BY EDISON CHEN

FALL 2022 

ISSUE IV 

PLUVIA 

EXECUTIVE + EDITORIAL 

Maggie Yang 

Joyce Huang 

Priscilla Raitza 

Emily Li 

Alyssa Xu 

CONTRIBUTORS 

EST. 2021 

Amy Park 

Angelina Liu 

Brian Yoo 

Brian You 

Chloe Lin 

Christ Keivom 

Cynthia Chen 

David Tang 

Edison Chen 

Jenny Eun 

Jenny Zou 

Jimena Yengle 

Jingjie Chen 

John Muro 

Khaliya Rajan 

Laura Ferries 

Louis Liu 

Lynn White 

Martine Rancarani 

Natasha Bredle 

Phobe Chen 

Priscilla Raitza 

Rachel Zhang 

Ralph Lam 

Richard Xu 

Ruby Zhang 

Sarah Lam 

Sunnie Qiu 

Tia Li 

Vicky Nguyen 

Viela Hu 

YanQing Shen 

Cover artwork: Revive Tomorrow (P.22) 

Magazine Designer: Maggie Yang 


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TABLE OF 

CONTENTS 

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Editor’s Letter 

6 - 15 

In the strawberry field by Vicky Nguyen 

Wish by Jenny Zou 

eye of the storm by Chloe Lin 

Untitled by Brian You 

Psychoanalysis: A Self-Portrait by Christ Keivom 

Lost in Translation by Sunnie Qiu 

Running Water by Tia Li 

A Cappella by Laura Ferries 

Untitled by Sarah Lam 

24 - 31 

Fortuity by John Muro 

Fine Bright Line by John Muro 

heaven by Cynthia Chen 

Untitled by Sunnie Qiu 

breadth by Phobe Chen 

Othering Fortune by Ralph Lam 

Untitled by Jenny Eun 

birds by Martine Rancarani 

as a child by Cynthia Chen 

Embarrassment by Christ Keivom 

Clarinet by Sarah Lam 

16 - 23 

Piece of life by Jimena Yengle 

Untitled by Jingjie Chen 

August Rain by Laura Ferries 

Untitled by Priscilla Raitza 

UP & DOWN: The Pathway of Life by Viela Hu 

Growth by Jenny Zou 

Revive Tomorrow by see p.38 

32 - 39 

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Breathless by Lynn White 

How We Miss Understanding by Natasha Bredle 

Lost in Translation by Sunnie Qiu 

Untitled by Richard Xu 

At The Beach by Khaliya Rajan 

Untitled by Richard Xu 

www.pluvialitmag.com

EDITOR’S 

LETTER 

REVIVE TOMORROW 

FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF 

As leaves fall to the rhythm of our footsteps in autumn and life lifts its curtains to let in the dawning 

light, the canvas holding our writing and art broadens as well, in hopes of a year gleaming with new 

colors and memories. In this particular issue of Pluvia, there are many pieces that resonate with daily 

aspects of our lives, whether it be personal memories or cultural traditions. From Vicky Nguyen’s 

poem echoing her memories of a strawberry field to Sunnie Qiu’s artwork shaped uniquely by her 

impressions of language, this issue is unequivocally evocative in that each piece has its own way of 

connecting and grounding the reader in experiences. When reading through and curating these pieces, 

my team and I noticed this common thread, and want to bring this to the forefront as you read 

through Issue IV of Pluvia. 

With an increased number of art submissions for this issue, I encourage you to take time to pause 

and dwell on the pieces as if each page was a wall in an art gallery—that behind the canvas or brushstrokes 

there are memorable and powerful emotions and experiences yet to be uncovered. I hope that 

through this issue you can discover a personal connection to these pieces, and possibly find inspiration 

or meaning in them. 

That being said, I am delighted to present to you Issue IV of Pluvia. 


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WISH 

In the strawberry 

field 

BY VICKY NGUYEN 

In the strawberry field, no one is worried. 

The sky is crisp azure, as if nothing could stop it from being so. 

The stretching beds embrace the horizons 

with their sweet kisses of tender strawberries 

Their after-kiss fragrance lingers in the air, 

filled the chickadee’s jubilant songs 

to harken the advent of summer. 


Little kids run around barefoot, their plump fingers clutched 

with a bucketful of crimson sweetness 

while their parents, tucked in crisp denim and flowing floral dresses, 

gaze adoringly at their exuberant enfants. 

The flashes from cameras overshine the sun, 

glittering the sparks of asphalt on the country road. 


Alas, I wish I could be so! 

Summer has come, yet my thoughts do not have wings 

to soar out of the reality entrenched 

deep into my soul, about what the future may hold 

beyond the strawberry field. 

BY JENNY ZOU 

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eye of the storm 

BY CHLOE LIN 

our friend said she was like a tornado 

but thinking about it now 

you were the tornado 

i stumbled blindly into your whirlwind 

and kept spinning so fast in it 

that i couldn’t stop and was powerless to leave 

and even if i begged you to let me go 

you wouldn’t have heard me 

but every so often 

i was suddenly released 

into the eye of the storm 

where everything was calm and 

our friendship was good 

but before i could even savour it 

you threw me back into your tornado 

and it was the same thing again 

because you pinched me 

when i asked you not to 

you lightly punched me 

in the stomach only to realize 

(in awe) 

that i had a flat-ish stomach 

you didn’t always give me 

space just to talk 

and ignored me utterly and completely 

you sometimes said hurtful things 

ignoring my reaction and then my existence 

but you also sat with me 

at recess and lunch 

our backs pressed together 

as you drew and i wrote 

you loved some of my story ideas 

and the way certain words 

looked in my cursive 

do it again you’d say 

write it on the inside cover of my sketchbook 

and then you’d admire it 

like you had never seen cursive writing before 

and i was always admiring you 

for your courage and your intelligence 

how you were so incessantly impatient 

making things right when they were wrong 

when i was too scared to do anything 

yet simultaneously soft-spoken with 

the special needs student in our class 

the way your art looked and the fire 

that burned constantly in you 

how you were always honest 

and didn’t care about other people’s opinions 

i haven’t seen you or talked to you 

in so long that i’ve almost forgotten 

what our friendship was like 

and whether it was good or bad 

or somewhere inbetween 

in the grey area that defined 

almost all of my elementary school friendships 

and i’ve forgotten how much you’ve hurt me 

and if you even did at all 

because my memory is quite good 

at concealing the things i don’t want to remember 

and hiding the details so i forget 

but if you squint hard enough 

you’ll see the cracks and fractures you left me 

i’ve escaped your tornado now 

your whirlwind of anger and uncertainty 

your calm eye of the storm 

that never seemed to last long enough 

but knowing me 

i could be caught up in it 

just as fast as i fell the first time 

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PHOTOGRAPHY 

BY BRIAN YOU 

By Maggie Yang 


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LOST IN TRA 

Psychoanalysis: 

BY CHRIST KEIVOM 

A Self-Portrait 

Forgive me, again, that I write you an elegy where a love poem should be- Brian Tierney 

They say it would hurt. And it does. 

I know not who said it and to whom. 

It’s true I can no longer remember the memory 

Or lack of memory for the way things were. 

It’s been a long time since the time- 

When we first met and the day you left 

Which never came to end. 

You walked in. As an event marked on the calendar. 

Your face- a wide palm leaf that 

Blocks the sun and briefly shadows the eye, 

Blurring close distinction, which did say to me 

“Memory makes for such an unreliable witness” 

Now, so long after that 

I kept the sound of it throbbing still 

Like a heartbeat of some years ago, 

The way music still lingers in the room 

In this circle of time which like a hand 

Guides you nowhere. I don’t think 

I’d recognise you or be recognised 

If I met you on the street, though in 

By Jingjie Chen 

The early part of my life. I thought 

The later part would always be you. 

How much longer I’ve lived and must 

Continue to live without you and not with. 

There’s never enough to writing after all that’s 

Been written. There’s never enough to saying 

After all that’s been said and left unsaid. 

And there’s no point in forgetting if it’s 

Not followed by dying. So how am I, to 

Abandon those little things I know about you 

When I know so little? 

After it has faded. As if to remind us: 

“Though there will always be new music 

Again, none will ever be as deep and 

Wide as this”. 

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BY SUNNIE QIU 

NSLATION 


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RUNNING WA 

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TER 

BY TIA LI 


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BY LAURA FERRIES 

A Cappella 

I piece together these jigsaw words 

thread them together in broken verse 

spaghetti sentences 

spun around my tongue 

tangled elegantly 

tagliatelle 

a language not so much spoken but sung 

staccato 

I season my accent, 

pepper my punctuation; 

marinate slowly the sentence formation. 

Meanwhile his English is crystal clear, 

distilled 

but still 

A capella 

I learn the lyrics 

I wing the words 

still songless birds 

raw in the word 

down to the bone 

unusual dictionary 

devouring the words, I nurture them known. 

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BY SARAH LAM 


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BY JINGJIE CHEN 

By Amelia Lim 

HANDS 

Piece of life 

BY JIMENA YENGLE 

I’ve lost a stream of light 

The enchanted chorus of a song 

My piano key, G string 

a piece of truth 

Not the cup, not the thirst 

I have lost the heap of sugar that I kept in my heart 

My confessions, a comic face 

Every bristly actor’s dream 

His commitment, and my question 

I have lost a world of roses 

The sky that my little “me” painted 

Who guides Lady Liberty 

Who moves so many signs in the sea 

I have lost the prince of my carousel 

Who flies and forgets, the child of the good 

My essence of thunder, my ray of sunshine 

Who remembers the story of the rain? 

I have missed a part of this story. 

I only have to write again. 

BY PRISCILLA RAIT 

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A Cappella 

August 

BY PRISCILLA RAITZA 

Rain 

BY LAURA FERRIES 

High July sun submits 

to August rain, 

summer soundtrack 

of water on glass 

and your beautiful name, 

in summer- and sugar rain 

crystals trickle down the window pane. 

Suspended time 

morning coffee to midnight wine 

intertwined 

night then day 

then day then night then day again. 

Skin on skin 

touch on touch 

I’m treading water, gilded, 

in a silver shiver, a river rush 

a dream awake, here we are awash 

in summer rain. 

It cleanses old sin, 

lets the freshwater in. 

We let go then we go again. 

ZA 

BY PRISCILLA RAITZA 


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UP and DOWN: The Pathway of 

Life is a mixed media sculpture 

that combines traditional Chinese 

ink painting with fabric 

painting and technology, creating 

a moving loop of people 

falling to explore — as the 

name suggests — the ups and 

downs of life. The work focuses 

on the experience of living and 

how it is the same for anyone. 

UP and DOWN: 

The Pathway 

of Life 

BY VIELA HU 

By Vanessa Chan 


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GROWTH 

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BY JENNY ZOU 


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REVIVE TO 

By: Viela Hu, David Tang, Brian Yoo, YanQing Shen (Eric), Ruby Zhang, Rachel Zhang, 

Angelina Liu, Richard Xu, Louis Liu, Amy Park 

“Our ideas are expressed through symbolism of colour and shape where red strips equate to natural elements and strips of 

purple represent life itself. Blue strips stand for the essential elements of life, such as water. Land points to exploited earth. 

The ball is the key or button needed to recover our world. Why is it floating upon the ocean? The first sign of life came 

from the ocean. These uses of natural forms symbolize human attempts to dominate and exploit nature. The mountain 

refers to the Old Testament because humans desired to be on an equal footing as God, but were condemned. Colours and 

violent brushstrokes communicate a sense of frustration due to the destroyed land and the resulting atmosphere of despair. 

The structural impression of nature in harmony yields an idea of the organic sphere, so suggesting that the elements are 

key to reviving the future in our cycle of life. The audience can scan the artwork and thus symbolically revive the future.” 

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MORROW 

Inspirations: 

- James Jean (art composition). 

- Francis Bacon (brushstrokes/ 

colour) 

- Salvador Dali (expression, composition). 

To enjoy the AR (augmented reality) implementation on 

this work, please download the Artivive app 


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Fortuity 

Fine Bright 

BY JOHN MURO 

Now, just as the world 

wears out and night leaks 

into day, shadows sliding 

in silent trespass across a 

desolate landscape and a 

meager wind – day’s final 

wingbeat – settles under 

the eaves, hold close those 

bright astonishments that 

still beguile and bewilder 

and are sprinkled like rare 

tokens of hope throughout 

the world. Draw a certain 

comfort from those exquisite 

endearments and illusory fragments 

of dream-stuff that help to 

make our rush to ruin bearable; 

and then, for all that, tell me 

again, beneath the haze of 

woodsmoke and smudge of 

star light, how life will once 

again come to greenness and 

what form forgiveness takes. 

Line 

BY JOHN MURO 

Certainly, the far horizon 

dividing sea from sky 

with a sliver of silver light, 

or a falling star’s trail 

of tinseled filament at night; 

to the human eye, 

a slender wire strung, 

separating cloud from sail. 

But, no, I’m thinking 

of those imperceptible 

lines that separate 

the very makings of a life; 

those that, say, Fate creates, 

both strange and intangible, 

others of our own making: 

blindness and sight. 

heaven 

BY CYNTHIA CHEN 

comes in sips 

through rays of sunlight 

and patters of rain 

it comes in layers 

chocolate cake and turtlenecks 

feelings of certainty and self doubt 

swirled into the frostings 

it comes in whispers 

sweet nothings and mirrored promises 

forever is too short 

we’ll meet again in hums. 

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BY SUNNIE QIU 


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BREA 

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DTHBY VANESSA 

CHAN 

BY PHOBE CHEN 


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BY RALPH LAM 

Othering Fortune 

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Auw: 

Door handle far too small. Weary from immigration 

lines, stale coffee, and silver-lined tongues; the doorbell 

feels heavy. Digital rendition für elise pricks earlobes— 

stubborn attempt to keep past in the present. He swore 

he’d never live anywhere that has rain again, or anywhere 

that has enough humidity to embrace him. Light drizzle 

begins to pour down. 

Mom dressed in work attire; longer hours mean 

darker bags. No affectionate greeting; he’s come and gone 

so much that his return has lost all significance. He offers 

his luggage to Mom. She accepts and carries it through 

the doorway: narrow enough to keep you out, but also to 

lock you in. Air freshener seeps into his nostrils: the scent 

of shame, manufactured delight. She doesn’t say much, 

knowing he detests small talk. Three steps into the house 

and his eyes are already looking out the window. 

Windows: eyes to the soul. 

His eyes: two shades lighter than when he left. 

His soul: four grams heavier than the last time he 

checked. 

“Are grades out yet?” She asks, feigning sincerity. 

“Next Wednesday,” he grunts. His eyes twitch. 

Whether from fatigue or irritation, she could never tell. 

He was always an imbalanced mixture of both, an adulteration 

in perpetuum. 

“Oh.” She knew to stop prodding. He didn’t need 

to say any more: she shouldn’t say any more. 

Clambering, he seeks his room. Stairs covered 

with rough fabric, false promises of comfort. Welts of 

twine dig into soles—atonement for wrongdoings he hasn’t 

committed yet.The room is a blighted meadow, a Marie 

Kondo thought experiment taken five steps too far. Holding 

onto objects for too long, they lose their joy. He keeps 

his distance, living in impermanence. 

Bed sheets are striking azure. His body wants to 

say bye-bye: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

Thus, he falls. 

Mee: 

Awake now. Six nights since he was last gripped 

by sleep paralysis. He doesn’t know who to thank for that 

privilege. Slits of sunlight seep through the blinds. Marigold 

slashes across his skin; he has slept in again. 

Kitchen, mom’s detested sacrosanct. Doesn’t let 

anyone in. Doesn’t seem to enjoy being in there either. She 

preheats the oven, listening to the click click click of the dials 

instead of reading the temperature. She is, however, trying 

to read some packaging. 


“I got you a Cornish pay-stee.” Her mouth chews 

on a mess of vowels and consonants: cacophonous breakfast. 

His instinctual wince. 

“They say pass-tee here.” His eyes sink to cold marble 

tiles: she could at least try to adapt. 

Correction ignored. 

“They like to eat a lot of frozen food.” Tongue 

tethered to Sham Shui Po. 

She cuts into the packaging. Pop! Ssss… He remembers, 

clutching his forearm: temptation, regret. In 

this body, he bleeds blue. 

An oven-treated pasty pastry, unappetizing in 

a 3-Star Yelp review kind of way. Knife puzzles around 

reluctant knots. He never told her how little he ate: how 

much of a picky eater he became. His stomach grew to 

growl four octaves deeper. 

Bite. It’s cold, so cold—frigid, even. His breakfast 

is a freezing blanket on a bleak New England morning. All 

plane tickets lead to shivering destination weddings. He 

doesn’t say anything, opening his mouth is too much of an 

inconvenience at this point. The plate is returned half-finished. 

He lusts after some mouthwash. 

Later, purple spat into the sink. He sees a cat near 

the window and wishes he had one: Siamese or Maine 

Coon. He’d name it Juno, Zephyr, or Chelsea, something 

that you would find eight scrolls down the Unique Cat Names 

list. Never Whiskey, Brandy, Mochi, Boba, Franklin, or 

other names that you would find leading the Cute Names to 

Call Your Cat list. 

He remembers the stray cats lining the streets back 

home, faces planted on moldy pavement; they seemed 

closer to the city than he ever was, than he ever could be. 

Taw: 

It’s raining heavier today. 

Arachnid in the corner, strange eight-legged fellow. 

Legs in excess: he hates it. Tests its durability with a 

chopstick—found wanting. Appendages curl fast; it didn’t 

have the chance to mourn itself. He couldn’t do it justice 

anyways. 

Mom hears the ruckus and rushes up. On dropped 

knees and folded hands, digit origami. 

“Auw mee taw faw… auw mee taw faw… auw 

mee taw faw.” She prays for peace from Buddha. He’s never 

heard her use that phrase back home. 

Everything is a karmic apology. 

She hands him another pendant. The current one 

is rusty from oxidation and sweat, carrying his burdens. 

For (more) protection, for (more) luck, for (more) good 

health; in her eyes, he will never have enough. This new 

burden is silver, twisting patterns, serpentine; it bites into 

him.

His soul: another gram. 

“Buddha will give you more strength now.” Her 

words are pleading. 

Palms towards the sky. Knees to the floor: perfect 

equilibrium. Giving and taking in a single form. 

The shield granted is another shackle, another weight; 

humbling, really. They say Buddha has many faces; 

Mom says they’re all for his safety and wellbeing, just 

like her many faces. 

Wind whispering with the window. Branches 

mourn their lost flowers, sad soiree in January. Swaying 

creates negative space, enough to fill voids. 

Faw: 

“Just something simple mom.” 

Dinner was not simple. Plates line a plastic-wrapped 

table set for three; she’ll be eating the same 

flavor for the next couple days. The flight leaves tomorrow 

morning. She knew he couldn’t stomach much beforehand. 

She knew he would feel too heavy. She knew. 

Whenever the plane leaves tarmac, his stomach, always 

out of tune, plays leapfrog with his lungs. There’s 

always children entertainment-hunting in the seat-pocket. 

His mind returns to the food, daunting, taunting—each 

bite a promise, a covenant, a debt: payment 

has had many forms. 

“Have you packed yet?” She asks tentatively. 

Clicking chopsticks, in his mind, are an acceptable 

response to anything; however, he relented. 

“Yeah.” 

“I made the fish just the way you like it.” She 

apologizes with food. 

“I can see that.” 

“Eat. You’ve lost weight.” 

Incorrect. Since he arrived, his steps have felt 

slower, his legs have become heavier, he’s gained too 

much. 

She continues piling food into his bowl. Stomach 

and heart: inverse proportions. One fills. One 

drains. He thinks it’s an atonement for growing up, 

growing away. The apple rolls farther and farther from 

the tree; its luscious red coat caked in dirt, attractive to 

worms, but it eats away at itself from the inside first. 

Self-destruction is an ephemeral blessing. 

He sighs and digs into the bowl, deeper… deeper. 

His chopsticks groan, thinking about his stomach 

tomorrow morning before the flight. He’ll be gripping 

the side of a toilet bowl, tossing out his mother’s heart, 

feeling four grams lighter. 

Outside, light breeze envelops drizzling droplets, 

waltzing. 

BY JENNY EUN 

BIRDS BY MARTINE RANCARANI 


29

as a child 

Embarrassme 

BY CYNTHIA CHEN 

have you ever wanted to walk 

on the ceiling upright or 

crawl on all fours 

it doesn’t matter because you just wanted to 

be up there among the 

lights and grooves along the edges 

feel the popcorn texture on your bare feet 

bare knees 

and you had no trouble baring yourself to the world 

but naked dreams are mere naked dreams and i’m 

too scared to actually show any parts of myself 

metaphorical or not 

i’m just a little too long now to fit my bed 

my feet dangle and so does my heart 

my back hurts often and my posture is nearly unfixable 

but i still find myself crouching, making 

myself small to fit into the impossibly miniscule 

closet underneath the stairs, a safe haven 

maybe i can be even smaller 

maybe i can still fit 

maybe i never have to move out. 

BY CHRIST KEIVOM 

I 

You smile and they come into effect: 

We call these eyes. They capture what 

We call moments, which defy the perpetuity of time— 

Where inconsequent is the effect of death. 

We call these fingertips. They feel what the eyes 

Cannot touch and excite the nerves like musical 

Strings. Where there is silence— 

They make the heart strum a new hymn. 

II 

You smile and I’m put on the spot; 

Embarrassed by the crowd, as if you’ve 

Found my poems and read each one of them 

Aloud. Think of Prufrock, shy and daunted 

To talk with women (should the women 

Reject his advance) “And should I then presume? 

And how should I begin?” with this feeling, 

Ubiquitous as the sky, that joins me from here 

To wherever you are. As I turn my face to 

Your turning face. You smile. I look away. 

*The poem borrows lines from T.S. Elliot’s 

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. 

CLARINE 

Two rabbits by Irina Novikova 

BY SARAH LAM 

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nt 

T 


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Breathless How We Miss 

BY LYNN WHITE 

In this new society 

of masks and miasmas 

we are being suffocated 

with pillows of power 

and prejudice, 

hardly hidden, 

in the institutions 

we were told would protect 

us all. 

Some of us 

believed it. 

But the old masks are off now, 

forced off the face by lies. 

All they hid is exposed. 

We know it now. 

So in these new times 

we will put on our masks 

carefully 

to protect 

ourselves. 

We know now 

that we are all 

George Floyd 

potentially 

later or sooner. 

And we know 

we are all his killers 

potentially 

later or sooner 

unless we look behind the masks. 

Understanding 

BY NATASHA BREDLE 

love, i heard 

you were trying to fit the world 

through a funnel, again. funny 

how the spout 

grows narrower and narrower 

the more you learn. i promise, 

it gets easier 

once you accept that the trees 

are statutory and do not want to speak, 

but neither 

are they complicit in destruction. no, 

they grow and give and give as they 

were meant to, as you 

will do what you were meant to, 

love. be the first to hear the change 

in the wind. 

be the first to ascend before 

cascading to relieve the land like rain. 

patience is 

a virtue for a reason. come morning 

you will identify with the birds 

returning 

to an empty feeder, the fox reeling 

from a forgotten landmine, the slaughtered 

tree, lying peacefully 

on its deathbed: the earth, a part of its own self 

or, itself a part of the earth. unaccustomed, unbeholden 

to it, 

these creatures can only know, intrinsically, 

that the world was never obliged to answer their questions. 

32 


LOST IN TRANSLATION BY SUNNIE QIU 


33

RICHARD XU 

At The Beach 

BY KHALIYA RAJAN 

The sound of waves 

rippling, 

and splashing, 

is covered by, 

the sound of kids playing, 

and laughing, 

and screaming. 

At the beach. 

The grains of sand 

shifting between my toes, 

the feel of the sun’s rays, 

burning on my skin, 

the gentle sway of a light breeze 

giving a moment of coolness, 

and relief. 

At the beach. 

The sight of the beautiful ocean waves, 

hitting the sand, 

one 

after 

the other, 

combined with the sight of kids running, 

couples walking, 

and others lying under umbrellas. 

At the beach. 

The briny, 

salty, 

crisp smell of the ocean, 

wafting, 

towards me. 

At the beach. 

The taste of the ice-cold lemonade, 

the fresh fruit, 

all the snacks, 

that I am 

devouring. 

At the beach. 

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PLUVIA ISSUE III 

SUMMER 2022 


35

@PLUVIALITMAG 

SOCIAL 

MEDIA 

@PLUVIALITMAG 

INSTAGRAM + FACEBOOK 

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BRIAN YOU 

C O N T R I B U T O R S 

CHLOE LIN 

Chloe Jiatong Lin is a Chinese-Canadian high school student from Lord Byng Secondary School. From scribbles on construction 

paper to thought-provoking poems on Google Docs, she has loved writing from the very beginning. When she isn’t 

writing poems, you can find her laughing with her parents and two siblings, immersed in a novel, or playing the viola. You can 

find more of her work on her Instagram account @cordiallychloe. 

CHRIST KEIVOM 

Christ Keivom (he/him) is currently pursuing his master’s in English Literature at Delhi University. His work has previously 

appeared in Novus Literary Arts Journal, Mulberry Literary, Monograph Mag, Farside Review, Spotlong Review, The Chakkar, 

and Write now lit to name a few. You can reach out to him on Instagram at @passmethecigarettes. 

CYNTHIA CHEN 

Cynthia Chen is an incoming freshman at Northeastern University. She enjoys writing about anything and everything, from 

shower thoughts to 2 AM ideas, confused feelings and old memories, little bits and pieces of her life. Her poetry has previously 

been published by Pluvia Literary Magazine. 

EDISON CHEN 

JENNY EUN 

JENNY ZOU 

Jenny Zou is a junior at York House School. She enjoys acrylic, oil, and watercolour painting and suffers from existential crises 

about her artistic career. Jenny appreciates greek column orders and can be found cooking up bizarre recipes in her spare 

time. Jenny also loves cats and hopes to own one after she leaves for college. 

JIMENA YENGLE 

Jimena Yengle (she/her) is a multidisciplinary artist, known for her book Roma Enamorada and her lyrical work. She is the 

director of two virtual spaces: Roma Enamorada (aimed at young people) and Magic Maneuvers (aimed at children). Her writing 

and visual art works have been published by various international magazines. She directed the play “Life of August” for 

the Juvenis Festival in Kingston, and published her second book on May 1, 2022. 

JINGJIE CHEN 

Jingjie Chen is an interactive media artist currently based in San Francisco. Graduated from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, her works 

often explore how human memory, sentiments and consciousness can exist and evolve in the virtual world, through mediums 

like AR/VR experiences, narrative games and photography. 

JOHN MURO 

Twice nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize, John is a resident of Connecticut and a lover of all things chocolate. His first 

book of poems, In the Lilac Hour, was published in 2020 by Antrim House, and it is available on Amazon. Since then, John’s 

poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous journals and anthologies, including Acumen, Barnstorm, Euphony, 

Grey Sparrow, River Heron and Sky Island. His most recent volume of poems, Pastoral Suite, was released in June and it, 

too, is available on Amazon. Instagram: @johntmuro. 

KHALIYA RAJAN 

Khaliya is a conscientious and hardworking girl. She gives every task 100% effort and always tries her best. She is quiet and 

shy but when she does speak up she can be very insightful. Khaliya loves to read and write short stories, poems and more. She 

has had her work featured in other publications. 

LAURA FERRIES 

Laura Ferries is a high school English teacher and writer who explores life, love, place, and space in her poetry. She runs a 

travel blog at www.lauraferries.com and has self-published two collections of her poems. Laura has a love of languages, and 

speaks Spanish and Italian. Laura performs regularly at spoken word events in Liverpool and she hosted her own bilingual 

English-Spanish poetry night in October 2021. 


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LYNN WHITE 

Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has 

known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted 

in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a 

Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/. 

MARTINE RANCARANI 

Martine Rancarani teaches Arts, and she practices every day all its different techniques. She examines, tries, explores, experiments, 

and starts over again, in order to express her commitments through stills or animated images. She most often produces 

series. She leaves a lot to chance, and observes what happens. As an actress and a spectator of her visual Art, she puts in 

perspective the image and the technique used to produce it. Ecology, body language, the image and the position of women in 

society, clothing, and nature vs. culture are the major issues she considers through her work. 

NATASHA BREDLE 

Natasha Bredle is an emerging writer based in Ohio. She likes sunsets and the quiet, and is the caretaker of several exotic pets. 

You can find her work in Peach Mag, Full House Lit, and Anti-Heroin Chic, to name a few. 

PHOBE CHEN 

PRISCILLA RAITZA 

Priscilla Raitza is a bookworm, musician, debater and tennis-player. She is 16 years old and lives in Baden-Württemberg, 

Germany. Priscilla is intrigued by realistic fiction and hopes to amplify the voices of today’s generation. She loves to travel and 

capture moments of beauty. Her favorite school subjects are German, English and Ethics. 

RALPH LAM 

Ralph Lam is a junior at Phillips Academy Andover from Hong Kong. Ralph enjoys writing about family, culture, and the impact 

they have on identity; he likes to read his work in front of his plants, as they make for a quiet and respectful audience. He 

also tends to look far too closely into every scene of a movie. Ralph’s work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing 

Awards and published in various literary journals. When Ralph isn’t sitting at his desk, he is traveling across Hong Kong 

to encourage younger generations to pick up a pencil and write; he believes that everyone should have access to a platform to 

express their creative agency. 

RICHARD XU 

SARAH LAM 

SUNNIE QIU 

TIA LI 

Tia Li is an art student at Crofton House School. She enjoys animation and concept design and wishes to enter the field of 

animation. She believes animation is an essential visual influence that delivers animators’ messages to all people, all classes, 

and nations. 

VICKY NGUYEN 

Vicky (Vy) Nguyen grew up in Saigon and lives in BC, but often finds herself jet-lagged anywhere in between. She is a rising 

senior interested in history, politics, and life sciences. Vicky enjoys chuckling at history memes, unsuccessfully quoting 

Frost, not learning the subjunctive mood, and sipping cold matcha latte. Her writings can be found on her blog Rants and 

Rambles at talesoftwocountries.blogspot.com, where she overuses the past tense. 

VIELA HU 

Viela Hu is an artist based in Vancouver, BC, Canada. Her works range a variety from ink illustration to large scale installations 

while exploring the relationships between herself, the people around her, and the world in which she lives in. Her 

website is www.vielahu.com. 

ARTISTS FROM REVIVE TOMORROW (p.22) 

Viela Hu, David Tang, Brian Yoo, YanQing Shen (Eric), Ruby Zhang, Rachel Zhang, Angelina Liu, Richard Xu, 

Louis Liu, Amy Park 

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BY RICHARD XU 

ABOUT 

PLUVIA 

A LITERARY 

ARTS JOURNAL 

Pluvia is an international non-profit literary arts journal 

that publishes online 3-4 times a year. We accept creative 

art forms, whether it be poetry, prose, or visual arts. 

We seek to amplify both emerging and established 

voices, with a particular emphasis on BIPOC and underrepresented 

writers and artists. Inspired by rain’s 

beauty and by how often it is overlooked, our mission 

is to utilize the creative arts as a path for societal 

change and expression of the inner self. We hope 

to publish works that are raw and honest; works 

that excavate and uncover the beauty in the small. 

We are not looking for a particular theme or aesthetic 

so we welcome all works, whether they 

be lost in the tumultuous waves of existence, or 

basking under the emerging sun of a rainstorm. 

 


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Pluvia Issue IV

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