By Ruchi Acharya

Ruchi Acharya is an electrical and electronics engineer, a business analyst, and a poet residing on the 17th floor in Mumbai. She savors Shakespeare's sonnets like fine wine and delves into medieval Renaissance literature for fun. She also has a fascination with old British buildings.

"The poem titled "The Silver Lining of Betrayal" is one of the poet's the most prized possessions. It not only showcases a rich blend of poetic devices, rhymes, and rhythm but also captures the profound emotion of betrayal. As readers delve into the poem, they will be able to contemplate, grasp, and engage with the depths of sadness and the numbness that follows the pain of being betrayed. The lingering impact and the extent of the damage it causes are unmistakable and unforgettable. The poet, Ruchi Acharya is trying to evoke such feelings among the readers out of grey web pages and surrender themselves completely to the meaning hidden behind these thought-provoking and soul caressing poetic stanzas."

The Silver Lining of Betrayal

The diagonal message from extraterrestrial space,  

Signaling to fall in love with those pseudo lips.  

Euphoric sentiments like grey clouds are floating  

Above my head like trapped remorse in the abyss.

The heavy heart holds the hollowed vessel down  

And makes the silver lining of the grey clouds my foes.  

Bones are melting into his battling eyelashes  

As the sunlight seeps into his skin.

My world glows like positive ions  

Filling up the atmosphere wholeheartedly.  

In enchanting autumn, I was a child of the forest,  

Singing white noises and few dancing steps left unseen.

We synchronized our heartbeats unidirectionally.  

The mind boggles; they don’t believe in dreams.  

It's not the distortion of reality or a soulmate’s death,  

But a sincere, unconventional truth still breathing.

The soul has been betrayed one, two, many times sordidly.  

Seen this road leading to catastrophe a thousand times,  

My heart started beating abruptly.  

I was never made to be chained to the ground so hoarsely.

Can you stop glittering with those hurtful eyes?  

Can you stop exuding positivity so dwindling?  

Are you the Lucifer Morningstar or another god in disguise?  

Let me cry for the stones and rivers forever.

Meet me at midnight and reveal what's hidden beneath the cloak.  

You bloom like a golden lotus the world has never seen.  

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.  

Hues of your dark hair—you can't see, but I can see crystal clearly.

How can a human clay be unadulterated and untouched?  

I say thank you for this year in my life.  

I want to see you from your endings to your new beginnings.  

I want to feel alive with you by living in you.

By Ruchi Acharya

Ruchi Acharya is an electrical and electronics engineer, a business analyst, and a poet residing on the 17th floor in Mumbai. She savors Shakespeare's sonnets like fine wine and delves into medieval Renaissance literature for fun. She also has a fascination with old British buildings.

"All worries are less with wine"

1. HIBISCUS SEEDS

In the calloused sap of hibiscus  

lie the dead seeds of tomorrow  

to be hatched, caressed, or kissed  

even by the shards of broken glass  

watching me from across the floor.

The dark abyss of dismal truth  

keeps breaking the bridge of light  

I am standing on the edge of descending  

morning that echoes the screams of  

nightmares harvested overnight.

Death be not proud, I smile, I smile  

with unfeeling eyes, that icy gaze  

ponders upon the branches of trees  

growing towards the moon and clouds  

cascading hope for the poor hibiscus seeds.

By M.S. Blues

Mia Soto, better known as M.S. Blues, is an 18 year old writer, editor, stoner, and SBNR advocate. Through her work, her objective is to raise awareness to issues that society tends to neglect, as well as represent her communities – Queer, Mexican, Polynesian, and Indigenous. She has been published 100+ times by many literary magazines and currently serves as an editor to The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, Chromatic Stars Review, and Low Hanging Fruit. She also serves as a poetry & prose reviewer for The Cawnpore Magazine. In addition, she’s the Co-Editor-in-Chief of The Beaulieu Gazette and the Editor-in-Chief & Founder of The Infinite Blues Review. You can interact with her on Instagram @m.s.blues_

"Quiero Tú Amor, Aunque Haga Frío" (I want your love, even if it's cold)

For C.M. –

The Leather to My Lace

-

June 6th, 2024 – 5:30 P.M.

I tried to have a good day.

I really did, despite how doleful my spirit felt from the moment I reluctantly opened my eyes this afternoon.

However, my efforts never mattered – not at my job, not with my family, not even with my friends… And because of that, I didn’t see a purpose in putting effort towards having a good day. It was pointless and stupid. Good days didn’t exist. If anything, they were just one of the many illusions in life that people were beguiled by.

Yet, I promised her. Not verbally, of course, because I’m a coward. One big coward. Instead, I promised her, wrapping my pinky around the cold air of the night instead of hers. I murmured the promise, signing my soul with the bit of my heart that was left.

Today was the final day I tried in life, but my efforts weren’t enough.

And by God, I did my best to try fulfilling it. But, it’s like I just said – my efforts never meant shit. I couldn’t even keep a basic promise to her, and she wondered why I never accepted her love. I didn’t deserve it, one bit.

I hope she knows, though, that I did try my hardest for her, and that I did love her.

I just could never admit it.

(Because I always wondered,

How could a beautiful soul like hers,

Ever love a man like me?)

-

June 8th, 2024 – 10:45 P.M.

I died a few days ago.

Not literally, of course.

My body is here, but my spirit is gonna.

Now, I’m just a spirit residing in a human body.

That’s what death does to you. It doesn’t destroy you, so to speak. It owns you. It becomes you. It freezes your heart and all that’s left is a hollow organ of black ice. You’re frostbitten. You’re just another vacant wind in summer. You’re just another raindrop in spring. You’re just another snowflake in the winter. You’re just another falling leaf in autumn. You are next to nothing.

I haven’t figured out the lifestyle yet, if I’m being honest. I haven’t coped with decaying one bit, nor have I made the step to try.

I’ve accepted my fate, the same way he did.

-

June 5th, 2024 – 9:50 P.M.

I never got cold, despite how skinny I was. Some called it privilege, I called it a shitshow. I say that because whenever I got overheated, it was difficult to find a way to cool down. My skin would be as hot as an apartment without air conditioning. My mind would be so clouded by thick heat that I felt ready to explode. It sucked.

“And just how are you not cold?” She shivered, her teeth beginning to clatter.

“I’m just not,” I shrugged, before removing my leather jacket and putting it over her trembling shoulders. “Here, you need it more than I do.”

She looked at me, an eyebrow raised. “Are you s-sure?”

“Never been more sure.” I looked away after, hiding behind my aviators like the coward I was. Something about her eyes, man… I couldn’t look into them for more than a few seconds at a time. They were… I don’t know. I’m not that great of a writer. She would know the perfect word for it, though, because she is a writer. A damn good one.

I felt her eyes still glancing upon my face and I sighed. She looked away after that and there we both were, shoulder to shoulder staring at the landscape before us – Communication Hills. A nice ol’ spot, I’ll say. A lot of people came here for pictures, especially during prom season. But that’s not why we were here.

I don’t even know why we’re here, actually, and I doubt she’s aware either. She just called me and I picked her up, and now…

I take a careful glance at her, my eyeballs concealed by my aviators and the dark sky, and it’s then I notice the single tear drop that rolls down her cheek.

My first instinct is to ignore it, like how I always did. This girl has cried in front of me a few times now, and that’s what I’ve always done. I let her get it out of her system, then change the subject to get her mind off of what made her so upset.

But this time was different, because I didn’t want to ignore her.

A few more tears rolled down her cheeks and she bit her lip, not releasing a sob or a sniffle. She was as silent as the dead.

I turned to her, slowly, but she quickly caught drift of what I was doing and looked away, sheepish of the tears that continued to rain from her beautiful eyes.

I sighed again and set my hand on her back. I didn’t say a word.

I felt her chest rise up and down for a few moments, until she seemed to settle down a little bit. Her long hair curtained her face, which obscured most of my view, but I was still able to see her wiping her eyes. She exhaled after, then finally looked at me.

Though it was dark, the moonlight illuminated her face for me. Her fragile eyes were moist and I could see just how emotional she really was. Her lips were emphasis too, trembling every second. The last thing I observed was her nose. The tip of it was red. She’d probably get pissed at me for saying this, but she looked like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I felt sorry for her, I truly did. It was clear something was festering inside of her.

“Wanna talk about it?” I asked, trying not to sound as apathetic and monotone as I always did. And before you judge me, it’s not that I never cared about human emotion. I, myself, was numb to it, but I did care about others. Well, a selective few. But still, that’s gotta count for something, right? I wasn’t as stone cold as I presented myself to be.

She shook her head, muted by her own sadness. Then she cried more.

I can’t tell you what exactly her tears did to me. It’s not like I can describe my psyche or what evokes the little bit of heart that I have left.

All I can tell you is what I did.

-

June 5th, 2024 – 10:00 P.M.

I hate him.

I love him.

I hate him.

I love him.

I hate him.

I love him.

-

June 5th, 2024 – 10:00 P.M.

I gingerly reached out and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, holding her against my chest. She flinched at first, obviously taken aback by what I was doing. Even I was even a bit surprised with my movements, but I was too compelled now to try and stop. She was where she needed to be, and I was where I needed to be. 

She trembled in my arms and a few moments later, I could feel her tears leaking through my shirt. I brought my left hand up and rested it against the back of her head, my fingertips running through her hair, trying to calm her down.

She sniffled again and I gave her a small squeeze, trying to nonverbally reassure her that she’s not alone. That I’m right here.

Call me an asshole for being subtle, if you will. I called myself one every time I looked at my reflection in the mirror, while nursing a glass of Tennessee Whiskey.

A few more silent moments ensued, until she pulled away and stood before me. My jacket was still secure around her shoulders, and I tell you, she looked great. I’d never admit this to a soul, but one of the most attractive things a woman can do is wear my clothes.

“I’m sorry.”

I looked at her, perplexed. “For what?”

She wiped her tears away and sniffled. “I’m sorry I… You know,”

It clicked then. I knew, alright. I just didn’t understand why she was sorry. If anything, I should’ve been the one that was sorry.

I sighed, before making the very bold choice of removing my aviators. If her way of being vulnerable with me was by breaking down, then mine was allowing her to see my pathetic eyes. My sleepy eyes. My bloodshot eyes. My sagging eyes. I wanted her to see the truth, or at least the truth I saw in myself, and that was: I am and will always be a shitty guy. I’m a stone cold killer (not literally, but you catch the drift). I’m the kind of guy that doesn’t deserve a fucking thing, especially a woman like her, and she needs to know that.

I tucked my aviators in my shirt collar and allowed her to absorb my eyes, the same way I absorbed hers moments ago.

A fresh tear rolled down her cheek. “I need you to make me a promise, because I just…”

She stammered and I nodded, exhaling.

It took her a few more moments to gather the proper words. She kept sniffling and wiping her eyes every few seconds, until she finally accepted that there was no way she’d ease whatever emotion was coming at her full throttle. More tears rolled down her cheeks and even through the indefinite glow of the moonlight, I could see how red her face truly was. She wasn’t Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer anymore. Now, she was like a bouquet of the freshest roses I’d buy her if we were together.

I almost lost control right there, a desperate feeling roaring across my body to just hold her again, and maybe…

Fuck.

She blinked through her tears, her beautiful eyes staring straight through me. I prayed that this was the moment she saw the truth I’ve been trying to convey to her, and that she had the epiphany she should’ve had back in November: I deserve nothing good in life, especially her.

Yet, that was opposite of what struck her.

Her warm hands gently reached for mine. She threaded our fingers together and gave my hands a squeeze.

I tell you, this woman –

(Jesus)

“Sw-Swear to me you’ll k-keep yo-your promise,”

Her voice was like my sanity, about to shatter.

I gave her hands a squeeze in response. “I’ll try.”

“No…” She sniffled. “That’s not e-enough. I need you to p-promise me.”

I sighed. “What is it?”

She blinked again, more tears escaping her eyes. “P-Please… Please just b-be ki-kinder to yourself, okay? T-Try your b-best to l-let yo-yourself have a go-good day.”

(Well, fuck)

She wants me to be kinder to myself and have a good day – double mission impossible.

I couldn’t fib so easily. “I can’t promise you that.”

“Please...” Her voice cracked. She pulled her hands away from mine, cupping my face instead. I must’ve been cold at that moment, because all I felt was her warmth brush against my body, filling me with this emotion that I found so riveting. It took everything in me to not crack and embrace her love.

“And how do you know that?” I asked her, my own voice on the verge of cracking. I cleared my throat after, pulling myself together.

“I just do!” She sniffled. Her grip became tighter. “I know you aren’t a bad person.”

(Fuck me

She…

She has no idea)

“Unless you’ve fucking murdered someone or-”

“I almost did.”

Her mouth shut as fast as it opened, her eyes bewildered.

“Exactly.” I said, hoping this would be the nail in the coffin. “I’m a monster.”

She shook her head, still persisting. “You are not a monster. If you’re referring to-”

“I am.”

“But he deserves it. He was an abusive-”

“I’m a product of my environment.” I cut her off. “Therefore, I’m a monster.”

“You’re not-”

“I am. And I can’t…” I slowly guided her hands off of me, sighing. “I’m not, nor will ever be the man you deserve. I’m fucked up and I can’t… I’ll hurt you, M-”

“You wouldn’t, no-”

“I would. It’s inevitable. I’m a monster, and I can’t allow you or anyone else to be burdened by my heart of darkness. That’s why I need to play it safe and not be with you. I know it’s a selfish thing to say, but it’s all I got for myself. I don’t deserve anything, let alone someone like you.”

(Fuck)

I swear, I broke her at that precise moment.

More tears fell and her lip quivered faster. “W-Why?”

“Why what?”

“Wh-Why is your h-heart so c-cold?” She slowly began to sob, hyperventilating. “You don’t n-need to b-be this w-way… It’s n-not true. You d-deserve s-so m-much.”

“I really don’t, and my heart is cold because I stopped caring a long time ago.”

“No… You de-deserve it a-all-”

“I don’t and that’s final.” I felt my voice beginning to raise, and I hated that. It made me feel like him, the prick I came close to shooting dead with the pistol I had in my glove box. Two fucking bullets is all it would’ve taken. Hell, maybe even one. Blood splatters on the walls, as I breath and he dies, hopefully in the same agony he left me and my–

(Fuck)

I took a few deep breaths and shook my head, slowly continuing, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but I need you to understand. I… I am not a good man.”

She didn’t speak, but her eyes manifested every ounce of devastation my words were bringing to her.

-

June 5th, 2024 – 10:08 P.M.

“I’m sorry… I’m just sorry,”

I wish he’d just shut up already.

“I’m sorry that you fell in love with me. I’m sorry for being in your life, and I’m sorry for not being enough.” He then cupped my face, holding me firmly. His rich eyes emphasized the tone he spoke in, and he used his thumbs to wipe away my waterfall of tears. “Stop crying and stand proud, M. You’ll find greater than me. Another man, one who actually deserves you and doesn’t have a cold heart, will come along and sweep you off your feet.”

I shook my head, nearly blinded by my tears.“I don’t want a perfect man. That’s just artificial to me. I… I love you for you. I… Quiero tú amor, aunque haga frío.”

I could feel the fragments of my already broken heart spreading across my soul, severing every piece of whatever optimism I had left.

I knew that he was aware of the magnitude of this situation.

Another sigh escaped his lips. He didn’t respond to me, verbally. Instead, he pulled me to his chest, again, and there I sobbed. I sobbed until everything felt like a lucid dream.

-

June 5th, 2024 – 10:25 P.M.

“Quiero tú amor, aunque haga frío.”

I want your love, even if it’s cold – is what she murmured.

I knew that. It wasn’t her first time saying such; and the last time she expressed herself in Spanish, I told myself I’d dedicate time to learn a few words. Even though my father is Mexican, he never taught me more than two words; therefore, I grew up more Americanized than anything. It wasn’t terrible, but it was a hindrance when it came to this. I wanted to understand what she was saying to me. Those passionate words of hers didn’t deserve to live in the voids of my mind or the bubble of confusion I felt when they were uttered. They deserved to be properly acknowledged.

After she sobbed on my chest, we both agreed it was time to go. The pressure between us was too suffocating.

The drive to her apartment never felt so prolonged. I didn’t understand the universe sometimes, seriously. Why did God or whoever lives up there have to torment us like this? Why make us… Why make her…

When I finally pulled in front of the apartment complex she resided in, a frown developed on her lips and she slowly reached for the door handle. Her back was to me while she uttered the most hushed thank you I’d ever heard.

That chipped a piece of my heart away.

“Wait.”

She looked over her shoulder, her bloodshot eyes meeting me.

“Look, don’t cry.” I said, reaching for her left hand. I grabbed it with ease, as she looked too exhausted to protest. I stroked my thumb across it, then went on, “I need you to understand… I’m only doing this to protect you.”

That set a fire in her, indeed. She just shook her head and opened the door, letting the cold air inside my car. She attempted to leave, but stopped when she realized that I didn’t release her hand yet.

She looked at me, not even pissed off, just… Exhausted.

“What?”

“I’m serious.” I affirmed. “I’m just trying to protect you. You… You’re a good woman, M. You’re going to do great things, and-”

“Just stop, please.” She interjected, a fresh tear dripping onto her shirt. “Just stop now.”

“Fine.” I released her hand. Then for the last time, I brushed her long dark chocolate waves behind her ear, taking in the image of her beautiful, broken face. I wanted to remember it forever. “For what it’s worth, though, you are… Never forget how beautiful you are. I’ve never seen a girl who still looks beautiful after she’s cried her eyes out.”

That didn’t resonate with her the way I hoped it did. She just shook her head and before she was out of my car, I could see a new batch of tears falling from her eyes.

I knew then what needed to be done.

-

June 8th, 2024 – 11:00 P.M.

The moment I got confirmation that my mother and stepfather were in the deepest slumber, I tiptoed to my closet. There, I carefully slid the door open and retrieved what I needed most right now – the letter that got delivered to my house two nights ago. The one I found taped to the front door after taking an evening walk.

I removed the folded sheet of binder paper from the envelope and almost immediately, my eyes watered. A tear fell once I unfolded the paper and saw all those words.

M -

I (somewhat) kept my promise. I tried to have a good fucking day, for you, but its apparent that God would rather burn in hell than bless me with one.

I really don’t want to waste your time here, M, so I’m going to keep this brief:

I’m done.

I gave up.

I’m sorry I was such a prick to you and came off harsh at times, but… I still mean every word I said. I’m a miserable person, a sorry excuse of a man, and I don’t deserve you or anything else great in life. I never did from the moment my mother birthed me in a car. A conclusion to this thing called life is the only thing I deserve.

Anyways, before I go, I just need you to know, M… I did love you. You were one of the few people I loved in this life and I hope you can feel my love once I’m gone. It’ll be a liberated love, a healthy love, a peaceful love… A love that ain’t corrupted by my misery or my shitty ways. A love that comes from a genuine place.

I love you.

I would say see you later, but… I’m probably going to Hell after I take my final breath.

With that said, again, I love you.

Goodbye.

Yours,

C.M.

PS: Remember me.

I set the letter aside, then reached into the envelope again, where his aviators were. I opened them up and immediately, vivid memories of him flashed before my eyes. I started to sob. I’d never forget him.

I folded them back up shortly after and held them against my heart, my tears drowning me at this point. I rocked back and forth a bit, before finally catching my breath and sniffling.

“I will always love you, C.M.”

I mean every word, every goddamn word.

I just hope he hears me from the other side.

By August Kacy

August is a writer from the United States who loves persuasive writing and her cats. 

if we were liars,

i would trace my fingertips across 

the roughness of your palms and 

tell you that you are handsome when we are not wrapped 

in the thick heat of this bedroom. you would tell me 

that you love it when my mouth opens and 

all my canaries fly out: opinions and 

dreams, theology and philosophy 

and poetry. 

if we were liars you would tell me 

you love my poetry and i would tell you

that none of it is about you. you would 

thumb through each of my pages 

and kiss the ink dry, black smearing on 

rosy lips, and tell me i am more than the 

pain that feeds into my art and i would 

let you. you would not tell me 

at two in the morning while i sit in 

your embrace that i remind you of cheap liquor: 

it burns on the way down but the feeling 

is worth it, i am easy to obtain and 

easier to replace. 

if we were liars 

maybe i could love you,

instead of what you 

pretend to be.

but we are not liars and we 

have nothing to say to each other. 

so we sit in the darkness 

and i weave incomplete 

stories into your shoulders – 

waiting. 

By Prisha Goyal

Prisha Goyal thinks, therefore she is. She is a high-schooler from India and an avid reader of magical realism and low fantasy. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, and her work has been published in the Incandescent Summer Studio Anthology and the Spiritus Mundi Review. In her free time she bakes, engages in art, and does yoga.

The Beans That Led to the Story of Jack and the Beanstalk

They were mine, in case you were wondering. Hmm, what’s that? Oh, you’ve forgotten all about the funny-looking man who gave Jack the beans in exchange for his cow? Well, hopefully now you remember. I have a name too, so please do use it instead of calling me ‘the funny-looking man.’ It’s Maddox. And I’m not sure yet if I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. 

Anyway, the day the young man went out to sell his cow, I was staring into my crystal orb, which told me to get rid of my burden and help someone, and showed me the kitchen of a widow, where she was telling her son to go sell their cow for money. Since that’s obviously the way you’re supposed to get rid of your burden of five beans, out I went, carrying my crystal orb spectacles that help me fortune-tell and gaze somewhere else while on the move. 

I walked up the main road, and saw the boy walk up with his cow in his hand. So I marched straight up to him and said, “Good morning, Jack.”

Oops. I wasn’t supposed to know anything about him. I cursed inwardly at my own forgetfulness, and moved on, hoping he hadn’t noticed. I saw his eyes narrow. He had definitely noticed.

“Good morning to you too,” he replied.

“Well, Jack.” No sense in hiding that I knew his name since I’d already let it slip. “Where are you off to, today?”

“I’m going to the market to sell dear old Milky-White.”

“Hmm, she seems like a nice cow. I wonder if I could have her.”

“For how much?” 

“Before that, tell me, how many beans make five?”

“Two in each hand and one in your mouth,” he replied straight away.

He certainly doesn’t lack wits or confidence.

Then I held out my hand, with my beans of burden. Beans of Burden would make a great name for a rock band, but since rock bands weren’t going to get invented for another two centuries, no one was going to understand me.

“And here they are!” I said. “Five beans!”

I do pride myself on confusing people in the strangest way, and I am glad to say Jack didn’t disappoint me. The look on his face was confusion in the purest form, and even his cow cocked her head to one side.

“And what am I going to do with them?” said Jack, still politely, but firmly.

I could see he was going to leave if I didn’t reveal the truth about them soon, so I said, “These are no ordinary beans! These are the Beans of Maddox! Plant them overnight, and in the morning you’ll get a beanstalk that goes up to the sky!”

“Really?” The boy contemplated the thought, eyes widening.

“Yes! And if you aren’t satisfied, you can give them back!”

“Okay, I’ll take them.” 

I felt sorry for the boy because of what I was going to do. But it was only for tonight, I consoled myself.

I handed over the beans, and took over the halters of Milky-White. The boy raced back to his home, and I raced back to mine to see the scene that was going to unfold. As soon as I seated myself around the orb, I saw the boy fling open the door and run into the house.

“Back already, Jack? How much did you get for her?”

“You’ll never guess, Mother!”

“Oh god! 10? 15? Oh, 20? It can’t be!” The widow’s eyes were shining brightly.

“I got these beans, they’re magical! Plant them overnight and they’ll…”

All light went out of the woman’s eyes. I cringed, well aware of what was going to come. “What? You sold our COW for a few useless BEANS?!”

She spanked him thrice, and then threw the beans out the window. I sighed in relief. I still felt sorry for the boy, but at least that part of the plan had worked. 

“Up! Up to your room, and you’re having no supper today! And get Milky-White back from whichever person you sold her to tomorrow!”

“But, they are magic —”

“Did you not hear me, perhaps? I said, ‘go up to your room’. There is no such thing as magical beans!”

I watched Jack trudge up the stairs to his room in the attic. Calling it a room, though, was quite a bit of a stretch. There was exactly enough space for a small bed that looked like it was going to break when you sat on it, and a small chest of drawers.

He flopped onto his bed, and tossed and turned for some time. I got up from my chair because the beans weren’t going to do anything for some time, and made my own supper, feeling a little guilty that the boy couldn’t have any because of my beans. He’ll have a lot more after tomorrow, a soothing voice in my head said. 

Of course. I knew the boy would do it. He’d bring back riches for his poor mother, and they’d be happy. Oh, am I not supposed to tell you the ending right now? My bad, but once you’ve done something, you can’t take it back.

The next morning, I woke up and consulted the crystal orb again. Outside Jack’s window was what I knew would have grown. Jack was slowly stirring, so I sat down and waited.

Finally,  Jack opened his eyes and blinked. Then he looked around the room and then outside the window. His eyes widened comically, and I wished I could’ve recorded it, but since phones wouldn’t be invented for a looong time, I didn’t have one. 

He ran towards his window, and unlatched it with fumbling fingers. Finally prying it open, he leaped onto a branch. 

I exhaled slowly. The boy was doing it! He just had to get the three things, and then he’d be done with it and I’d be done with making sure my burden beans had done what they were supposed to. If he could just be careful…

I watched as he climbed and climbed, ever higher, all the way to the sky, until he came to the clouds and saw a road. He walked along it for some time until he came across a huge house, in front of which was standing the giant ogress. I’ve met her, of course. Very nice and kind. Too bad I can’t say the same about that husband of hers. 

“Good morning, ma’am,” said Jack.

“Oh, hello, dear! I didn’t see you coming, you’re so small!”

Indeed, the ogress must’ve been five times as tall as Jack was.

“Well, ma’am, could you be so kind as to give me breakfast? I haven’t had a morsel since yesterday morning.”

I knew that the ogress was kind-hearted, but also extremely cautious. “Dear, I’d love to, but I’m afraid you’ll end up becoming breakfast for my husband. Steamed boys are his favorite! And he hasn’t had any in a long time. I’ll try to give you what I can, but if my husband comes…well, let’s leave it at that and hope he doesn’t find you.”

The ogress led him inside the house. I saw a huge kitchen, fit for ogres, but not really for humans. Pots and pans lined the walls, and a huge table was set up for breakfast. The ogress gave him bread and cheese along with a glass of milk. He had just about finished them when a loud THUMP sounded. 

“Good gracious, it’s him. Quick, hide!” 

Jack was too startled to do anything, so the ogress pushed him into the oven, which had thankfully not been used recently.

The ogre was just as big as I remembered, and twice as hideous. He was holding three deer in his hand (dead, might I add) along with a huge knife covered in blood.

“Wife, boil up a couple of these things for my break—what’s that smell?”

“It’s nothing, dear.”

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,

I smell the blood of an Englishman,

Be he alive, or be he dead,

I'll have his bones to grind my bread!”

The ogress looked nervous, but said, “Oh, nonsense, dear! You must be dreaming. There’s nothing here. Go have a bath. That’ll snap you out of this. I’ll get breakfast ready till then.”

The ogress waited until the ogre had gone upstairs, and then opened the oven door. 

“Should I go now?” Jack said.

No, no, no! The boy had to get the things first! If he didn’t, my burden would never go away!

“Wait,” said the ogress, to my immense relief. “Let the ogre go to sleep. It’ll be safe for you to sneak out then.”

“Okay,” Jack replied, and was pushed back into the oven. The ogress put on a pot of water on the stove, and then raised a knife (ginormous by human standards) to cut the deer. I looked away for a few seconds and then looked back…just in time to see her flip the chopped up deer into the pan, which was the most disgusting thing I ever saw; it would give a vegetarian nightmares. And since I was a vegetarian…well, goodbye, happy dreams.

Then I heard the sound of the ogre’s feet stomping down the stairs, and he entered the kitchen. 

This time I didn’t look at all while the ogre ate his breakfast. I kept my head firmly turned away until I heard the clink of coins. I immediately turned my neck around and then groaned, because I’d just given myself a neck sprain. 

The ogre had opened a huge chest, and was taking out a few bags of gold. He began counting the coins, and counted until he drifted off to sleep on the table. Yes! This was it! Now I just had to hope that Jack was smart enough to get the first item.

The ogress waited for some time before opening the oven door and taking Jack out. She motioned for him to go out, and put a finger to her lips.

Jack turned to go out, and I thought-screamed, Get the bag!

I doubted it was any good though, since he obviously couldn’t hear me.

But then! Jack, the smart-lad he was, crept silently towards the bags of gold, and took one from it. 

He waved to the ogress, who didn’t try to stop him.

Jack ran down the road, and threw the bag of gold down the beanstalk. Then he shimmied down the beanstalk until he was back in his garden, where his mother was staring up at it in awe from the back. Jack jumped down and retrieved the bag he had thrown, and showed it to his mother. “Mother! Look, I got us a bag of gold! It’s from the magic beanstalk, I told you it was magical!” he shouted, jumping up and down in excitement.

His mother’s eyes shone like the gold that was in the bag, and she hugged her son. They danced around the garden. 

“What else is up there?” Jack’s mother asked.

So Jack explained.

Aaaand…his mum didn’t believe a word of it. I did expect that. I mean, who’d believe that? No one who hadn’t been up there.

“Good story, son, but I don’t believe it.”

I watched until it became apparent that they were going inside to have supper and then sleep, so I left my place at the orb, made my own supper and crashed down on my bed. Crystal gazing all day is hard, you know.

The next day, I sat back in front of the orb to see Jack climbing the beanstalk again to the big house. 

Good, I thought, now he can get the second item.

The ogress was standing outside, picking flowers.

“Why, aren’t you the same lad who came here yesterday?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Could you be so kind as to give me something to eat?”

“What does your mother give you? Nothing, I should expect, given that you’ve started coming up here to beg for food. And for stealing,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

Jack started moaning and groaning and clutching his stomach as if he were about to faint from hunger. The boy did act nicely. Perhaps he had a future as an actor. 

“Oh, come on in,” the ogress relented.

Once again, the same food was served, the ogre came, Jack was pushed into the oven, the ogre chanted fee-fi-fo-fum, the ogress told him he was dreaming, he had his breakfast, etc, etc.

But instead of taking out the chest again, he roared, “Hen! Hen! Come to me!”

I heard a crash somewhere outside the house, and then the sound of heavy footsteps. And a few seconds later, came the hen. It was about twice the size of a normal hen, but that wasn’t the thing that was weird about it. What was weird was that it was golden. 

I suddenly remembered. The second item!

The ogre picked up the hen as if it weighed nothing, and set it on the table.

“Lay!” he ordered. The hen immediately laid an egg of pure gold.

“Lay!” he said again. Another egg appeared.

This went on for perhaps five seconds before the ogre slumped and fell onto his table again, the hen barely escaping being crushed by the ogre’s head.

Once again, Jack was taken out of the oven, but this time, the ogress did him a favor by taking the hen and giving it to Jack.

Whew. I had been worrying if Jack would have been able to climb to the table and jump off again with the hen without breaking his legs. 

Then Jack ran. He ran like the wind, and the only thing that gave him away was the hen yelling, “Let go of me, you —” The hen might or might not have called Jack a few names.

“Hen? HEN? Where are you?” came the ogre’s voice. 

“I put it back outside, dear, though you’ll have to build the coop again, the hen’s broken it,” said the ogress.

So that’s where the crashing sound had come from.

I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, since now Jack had placed the hen on his head (which was no doubt uncomfortable, but I didn’t think the hen would appreciate being thrown down) and was climbing down as fast as his legs could take him.

Finally, out of breath, Jack jumped down the last branch of the beanstalk, and ran inside, presenting the golden hen to his mother.

“Mother! It lays golden eggs!” Jack exclaimed.

His mother looked at him suspiciously, but placed the hen on the table and ordered it to lay. The hen obeyed, though it gave Jack the stink eye.

“Wow, Jack, this place you’re describing might just be real!” said his mother.

“It is, it is! I’ll bring one more thing back for you!” 

And so, Jack went up the beanstalk for what I hoped was the last time, because I was getting a headache from staring at this orb for so long.

The ogress wasn’t in sight when Jack got to the house again, so he hid behind a bush and waited until the ogress came into sight. He revealed himself, and then shrank, no doubt wondering if he should have shown himself again.

Obviously not. Amateur mistake. The ogress was kind, but not that kind.

“It’s you again, then. I suppose you’re begging for some supper now, even after stealing the coins and the hen? Don’t look like that dearie, I let you take them because I can see you’re poor and lots of money never did anyone good. But this is it, you hear? My husband is going to eat you for his next meal unless you scram right back to where you came from, or prove that you can hide well enough that he can’t find you. Understood? Go now, you have five minutes.”

“Yes ma’am.” Jack trembled.

Aah, the proving yourself part. It had to come sooner or later.

Jack ran inside to the kitchen, and then looked around. He finally decided to hide in one of the copper pots. He pushed up the lid, went inside and closed the lid, keeping the slightest bit open so that he could see what was going on.

The ogre came in and sniffed the air loudly. “Wife, I’m sure there’s an Englishman here.”

“Really? Let’s look for him, then.”

I hoped they wouldn’t look very hard.

Pans were banged, pots opened, but Jack was not found, because the ogre and his wife gave up just as they were going to go to the copper.

I did a small victory dance, and then sat back down.

“I’ll have a look around later, after breakfast,” the ogre grunted.

After breakfast, the ogre asked his wife to bring his harp, which she dutifully did. She set it on the floor, and I knew why. Jack had passed his challenge.

“Sing!” the ogre ordered the harp. So it sang, a beautiful song that was a lullaby for the ogre, who soon fell asleep, and so did his wife. 

Jack came out of the copper pot and grabbed the harp, which shrieked loudly. “MASTER! MISTRESS! HELP ME! THIS THING IS TAKING ME AWAAAAAAY!”

At once the couple woke up, just in time to see Jack run away. The ogress gave Jack one final glance which said, ‘you’re on your own.’

The ogre ran after Jack, but Jack, desperate not to be caught, ran and ran, down and down he climbed, the ogre thundering after him. Carrying the harp was slowing him down, and Jack knew it too. He broke off a vine and tied the harp to his waist with it and continued his descent. The harp, now somewhat subdued, moaned at being treated like this. 

At long last, he reached the cottage, but this time he ran inside and brought out the ax. Just as the ogre was about to come down, he chopped and chopped, with all his strength, until the beanstalk snapped and the ogre disappeared with a wail in the woods at the edge of the town, his body hitting the ground with a thud. Quietness. Then Jack’s mother announced that she had bought a shop. 

And finally, bliss.

By Caitlyn Mylechreest

Caitlyn is a teenage writer who enjoys writing as much as possible and hoping that it is sometimes good. She has a never ending need to know, and spends a lot of her free time educating herself to contribute to both fiction and, more recently, non-fiction writing.

Imagine escaping busy, everyday life in favor of some sort of quiet, peaceful life, probably in some remote picturesque setting. You have little responsibilities apart from the slow-paced ones associated with this lifestyle - maybe picking fruit or sweeping the kitchen floor. Unfortunately, this lifestyle, although simple, is only realistically attainable as a luxury.

Having the choice to exchange a lavish or even "typical" lifestyle for a "simpler" one is, in fact, a privilege. Why? Because it signals that you have access to a safety net - a backup reserve of wealth to sustain this idyllic lifestyle without a huge amount of work. To the majority of people who do not fall into the ultra-rich, work is what is needed to sustain even less-than-ideal lives, in fact, especially so. Picking fruit is nice, but it doesn't exactly pay the bills. Survival is the priority, and in a capitalist society, survival is only attainable by perpetuating capitalism.

Many people yearn to "live simply". This is because, ironically enough, it is not simple to live this way without enormously hoarded wealth. If you're the ultra-rich, if a problem arises in your quaint remote cottage, you can always pay your way to a solution: return to your lavish lifestyle or pay someone else to find a solution. If you're anyone else, you're trapped in a remote cottage and you have to work hard in some way to sustain survival. That's not to say that hard work shouldn't be expected - if you want to pick fruit, you must first plant the fruit and nurture the plant - but it is a bleak reflection of the life you sought to escape. The life that told you that "work" - or more accurately, accumulating wealth - is the only real way of life.

And that's the thing. Capitalist ideals and messages will follow you wherever you go if you've never had the privilege of being immune to them. Perhaps the ability to escape the "busy every day" capitalist society only signals that you have benefitted from your position on the capitalist ladder.

I have often thought to myself,  as I'm sure countless others have, "If I ever have enough money, I will abandon this money-driven society and live simply." It's paradoxical, isn't it? But that's how it works- my dream life is only a dream until I can buy it into reality. I do not dream of wealth, but wealth is seemingly the only vehicle to every other dream (or so I've been told, anyway.)

What I'm trying to say is that simplicity should not be another privilege for those who can afford luxury. I am angry about this, yes, but maybe anger has stopped being defiant, and instead an expected reaction that will be promptly ignored. I am no expert, however. What I do know is this: individual anger about this anger-inducing reality does not make it any less real. Listen well: love has always been the defiant solution.

We cannot replace the love of money with love for each other if we do not love each other.

By Chiara Stark

Chiara is a young queer woman studying English Literature at Oxford University, who enjoys writing in her free time. She was born in Germany to an Italian father and German mother, and moved to the UK when she was twelve. Some of her current interests include Jeanette Winterson, Adventure Time, God, bears, friends, and the sea. 

Spoiled 

There are women I’d like to call mum, and then there’s her. Mother is only half-girl – we tend to forget that. 

Don’t worry, she can’t hear me, there’s milk stuck between her ears. She doesn’t know, don’t spoil this for her. 

Don’t cry over spoiled milk. At least it’s not clogging up the sink, only my throat. Empty chairs and a full stomach. My milky weight thrown up onto the kitchen table. We would’ve preferred cesarean for dinner. All hollowed out, the roofless tower, the wingless bird, the homeless snail. 

Don’t let the milk spill. Milk is the only way. Cupped hands and I’m slurping out of them. I’ll lick them dry for her. I’d never sip water – I crave woman too much.

I’ve got milk on my mind, under my skin, in my blood. She’s got me in her milk, spoiling the cup. Only one of us is drinking milk, but both of our bras are empty now, maybe she can slip me one of hers.

I heard the Milky Way waits in her breasts. I unzip her empty stomach. No cosmos, just milk. Spoiled, like us. 

Spilled 

I wish she only broke the dishes. 

Are you hurt?

Don’t worry, it happens, I might’ve done the same – we passed clumsiness down better than the plate. 

No, I’m not, I swear I’m not. 

I really don’t, if I thought you were a child I wouldn’t let you help clean up. 

No, I really wouldn’t, you taught me not to lie. 

Please, really don’t worry, it’s all okay, we can replace them any time. 

I’m sorry, you’re right, I forgot they were grandma’s. 

Is there anything I can do to help? 

Right, I’m sorry mum, I’ll go, it’s my bedtime anyway. 

The dishes wish she only broke me. 

Left-Handed

Let me describe to you my favorite hand, maybe it’ll touch you too. 

My first love was a girl I once peeled smooth-skinned fruits for. Maybe not just once. I left them at your bedside. I thought you liked sweet things. Point me in the right direction, and I’ll turn left right away. Sticky hands-on stickier fingers. 

Your hand was my first love, always the left, never right. You only knew left or right. You forgot that your left was my right.

You didn’t have a green thumb. I learned that we could paint any finger, but only green. When you see my green hands, suddenly you’re colorblind. To you, they’re mature for my age. I bet green is still your favorite color – the only color, the right color. 

You didn’t need a ring finger. You must be right – we shouldn’t have things we don’t need. Except the plastic Christmas tree maybe.

Your left hand only needed one finger. Your right had two, fingered so tight they were almost sewn into one, down from one. Your left hand was a pinky, made for promises. Truth passed right through your thin skin. 

I’m sure you needed to slip out of that skin. My nails can peel too. Your left hand is trembling, all clammy. I know hands are for wiping, not holding. Your nails are overgrown, your wrinkles branching out, sprouting grey hairs. Get the cream. I wonder if your left hand still likes that bottled tropical fruit scent. Sticky fingers in stickier hands. 

I need the hand that feeds. I have a hand that plants. I have no right to your hand. Just because I need it doesn’t mean I can have it. I suppose we all have things we don’t need – right, mother? 

By Nadine Cruz

Nadine Cruz is an undergraduate student from the Philippines. She aspires to write stories that capture the feeling of being alive and trying to figure out exactly what that means. When not writing or thinking about writing, she likes watching Youtube videos about books.

2:15 am. The fluorescent lights glower.

The cash register screen glares. The countertop sneers. The air conditioning grumbles its distaste—whether toward the world in general or toward the woman, it is hard to tell. The cashier scans the barcode on the back of the beer can. Twenty-nine pesos. The other can. Fifty-eight pesos.

Silvie hands a hundred-peso bill to the cashier. Had the sun been up, he would have been scrambling to punch in her cash, gather her change, bag her purchase; she would have worried about holding up the line, putting her money in her wallet, not leaving her purchase on the counter. But it is 2:15 am. He takes his time pulling her change out from the cash box and counting it on the counter.

The faces on the coins seem to grimace at Silvie. They look disappointed, dismayed, criticizing her for being awake at this hour.

She should be asleep right now. If not, she should be doing something for work, right?

The cashier places the two beer cans and the receipt in a paper bag. Silvie takes her time putting the coins in her wallet. By the time she takes the paper bag off the counter, the cashier is already gone.

The dome mirror behind the counter watches her. Silvie is not sure whether it pities her for planning to drink alone in her apartment, or for being here at all.

For her, she finds one just as pitiful as the other.

This isn’t the first time she’s done this. The last time she had done this, she fell asleep on her living room floor dangling a can of half-drunk beer from her fingertips. ‘This will be the last time,’ she had promised herself. ‘I will never do this again.’ She said it like she had every other night she spent with two cans of beer at three in the morning, and meant it the same dwindling way as she did the more times it happened. Another promise to add to her pile of beer cans in the trash. When the sun goes up, she would put them away for the garbage collectors to take. When the sun goes down, she would find their remnants in corners and beneath her bed.

She would buy two beers and bring them up to her apartment. She would put on a movie to pretend she has company. Otherwise, she would drink in silence. She would promise herself it would be the last time. Then, she would find herself at the welcome mat of the store some other night, buying two beers again like an endless loop.

She does not remember how it started.

She knows that she used to stay up this late to finish things up for work, and other times to finish movies she’d start the moment before going to bed. She’d drink coffee or tea, or an occasional alcoholic beverage on a Friday night just after pay day. She’d go to the convenience store to buy chips or instant noodles. Once, she even came down to buy herself breakfast to heat in the morning.

But one early morning, she guesses she bought a beer. And then another. And then another. Then the early mornings piled up like beer cans. Then she became a two AM regular at the convenience store, and a three AM regular staring up at her ceiling wondering where things went wrong. If things were ever not wrong at all.

Through the glass door of the convenience store, a face stares at her. She thinks it might be her own—youthful, alive, bright with passion as it had been three or so years ago. The specter of her youth haunting her at a quarter past two in the morning, coming to ask her ‘what happened?’ What happened? She has no answers. She has every answer. She has a fist curling around a paper bag and nails that want to dig into her skin. What happened? She is a failure, is what happened. Why else would she be in a convenience store at two in the morning buying two cans of beer?

But the face looks nothing like her. She takes a step back and the glass door flings open—not to a specter or a ghost, but a human being.

The human stares at her in awe. Surprise. Shock.

“Silvie?”

The human is a woman, right around Silvie’s age. She looks familiar, but Silvie can’t quite place how or why.

“Silvie, is that you?”

Silvie can only nod. Last week, at her friend’s house, they had watched a movie on an old DVD that her friend had brought back from the province. The video quality was nothing like the streaming services these days, with their crisp colors and high definition. It was a little too saturated and a little pixelated at times—but well-preserved from a time long gone. The woman standing in front of her is no different.

The woman beams. “It’s me, Leo.”

Silvie blinks. Then blinks again. Her mind whirs with the effort to read her memories like a DVD player reading a DVD. Leo. Leonor. A classmate she had years and years ago.

Silvie takes a deep breath. She is aware she is nothing like the Silvie from those old days. She pretends she is anyway.

“Oh, Leo! Hi, hi.”

The glass door falls close behind Leo. Under the glare of the fluorescent lights, she looks like a sprite on an old, boxy desktop monitor.

“How have you been?”

The tips of Leo’s hair now rests on her shoulders, and her cheeks look more hollow than they used to. She is wearing a hoodie and gray jogging pants, in contrast to the usual pink cardigan and school uniform that Silvie was used to seeing.

“Good. Okay. You?”

When Silvie was in high school, she used to have shorter hair, a rounder face, and a bigger build. She used to swim for the school. They used to call her a teddy bear, especially back when she was still one of the taller kids.

“Good.” Leo smiles. Something is missing from it. It is a little less bright than Silvie remembers. It is a little less vibrant than it used to be. “So, what have you been up to these days?”

Silvie doesn’t tell her much. She doesn’t say how she’s been buying beers at 2 AM and drinking them alone in her apartment. She says instead how she has an office job, working in finance, taking a bus every day to get to work and back. She follows Leo through the convenience store aisles like a beacon. Leo doesn’t ask her much more than that. Leo picks cans off the shelves in silence; she takes a can of Spam and a can of cat food.

The fluorescent lights flare up, like a scanner for a barcode. Silvie wants to run and hide from them, but follows Leo anyway.

“Can you hold these?” Leo asks.

She hands Silvie the cans she had picked off the shelves. They stand in the light of the aisle of refrigerators keeping drinks cool. Just a few minutes ago, Silvie went straight for one of these doors to buy two cans of beer. She watches Leo shoulder the glass door of the fridge shut—two cans of coffee in her hands. 

When Leo goes to the counter, Silvie follows her.

In the reflection off the glass windows, Silvie is reminded of the blank screen of an old TV. All the lights in the room turned off, only the light in the kitchen turned on, the popcorn bowl sitting on the table with just the unpopped kernels at the bottom. The movie just ended and the DVD just ejected from the player. There is a stillness: the reflection in grayscale, unmoving, in stark contrast with the bright, rapidly moving colors while the movie was still on. For the better part of a couple of hours, she had been the protagonist, the heroine, the leading character in an adventure of epic proportions. She was the main character, in her school uniform, with medals and trophies and all the awards. But the movie is over. It has been years since people played movies on DVD players on boxy television sets. There is nothing left but a dull reflection, stagnant on the gray screen.

Silvie’s face is sharper now, more angular. She is less vibrant than she used to be.

She hears the rustle of a paper bag and turns to see Leo smiling up at her. The lights are a little too bright, and Leo looks like an oversaturated version of herself to make up for any other flaws Silvie has yet to notice. Leo seems to have been standing there for a while now. If she has, Leo does not mention it.

“Wanna drink?” Leo asks.

Silvie nods. “Sure.” When Leo passes her, she notices a pack of something in the paper bag. Pink. Familiar.

Silvie takes a seat at a table by the entrance. In the reflection off the window, she watches Leo take a seat beside her. She imagines this could be another version of their high school days: one where they had managed to hang out together, even if they were on different sides of the classroom. 

She takes out her can of beer, and Leo takes out a can of iced coffee from her paper bag. They both pull on the tab, the sound of fizz foaming over the grumble of the air conditioning for a moment. When Leo turns to her, Silvie imagines a DVD spinning into place before clicking ‘Play’.

“So, how’s the office job?” Leo asks.

They are two old friends, who haven’t seen each other in a while after getting busy with life. They happened to both be awake and around the area, and one had asked the other for a drink.

“It’s fine.” Silvie says. “What you’d expect from corporate.”

This is how it would happen: they would laugh, talk, drink, catch each other up with what they’ve been doing until the sky begins to lighten and the streets begin to fill, and the convenience store is no longer a liminal space between then and now. Their chit-chat and laughter would be intercut with scenes from the past: bright, colorful, over-saturated scenes from another time. It would be the kind of film they would print on postcards. It would be timeless; a cult classic; beloved for its nostalgia and returned to for its wistfulness.

Silvie takes a swig of beer. The white tabletop glares up at her. She averts her gaze from it, looking instead at Leo.

“Your boss isn’t too bad, I hope.”

“Not bad, but not good either.” Silvie says. Over Leo’s shoulder, the cashier counter seems to scowl at Silvie. Silvie thinks of high school, of youth, of innocence. She thinks of herself as she had been the last time Leo had seen her. “We’re overworked and underpaid and can’t do a thing about it.”

Leo smirks at her. “Last time I was in corporate, I had a horrible boss.” Leo says. “All of my coworkers were just as bad, and I couldn’t stand it. It was so frustrating. So I left.”

“Where do you work now?”

“I'm opening a bakeshop, actually.” Leo drinks. “Just near here. Ground floor, the building after the one on the corner.”

Silvie raises her brows. “I didn’t know you baked.”

Leo shrugs. “Started as a gift for my sister’s birthday two years ago. Haven't looked back since.”

Silvie raises her can to Leo. Leo laughs, and clinks her can with Silvie’s. Silvie can’t help but smile.

“To unexpected things.” Silvie says.

Leo echoes it and they both drink. If this was a movie, they would be in a bar catching up on a Friday night. The lighting would not be as glaring as it is here; the bar would be lit with orange lights, dim and soft. The bar counter would be a deep mahogany, waxy and smooth with paperboard coasters beneath their drinks in glasses.

She thinks it might be like those drama films people love so much: the ones with lonely protagonists and mundane settings.

Beside Silvie, Leo puts her hand into her paper bag. She pulls something out—the pink serrated edges are enough to clue Silvie in on what it might be, and the print on the plastic packaging proves her right.

“You used to like these, didn’t you?”

Leo sets the pack of strawberry cream gummy candies on the table.

“I did.” Silvie says.

Back in elementary and high school, Silvie had rarely mentioned her preference for sugar-coated, strawberry cream gummy candies in class, and she is not sure her own friends even know she liked it. Likes it. And yet, Leo sits in front of her now after setting the pack of gummy candies down, chin resting on the back of her hand, a smile on her lips and her eyes glued to the expression on Silvie’s face.

Silvie wants to ask how Leo knows. Leo looks like she would answer if asked. 

Leo picks up her coffee and drinks.

“My treat. Something to eat with the alcohol and the coffee.” When Leo smiles, it is almost as bright as when they were in high school.

Almost.

Silvie reaches over and opens the pack. Inside, the gummy candies are individually packed, the way they always were when they were given out as prizes during a kid’s birthday party, or during recitation back in elementary school. Silvie takes a piece, rips open the wrapper, and puts a piece of gummy candy in her mouth. It is as sweet as she remembers; she is seven years old again, small and young and innocent, chasing after strawberry cream gummy candies after shouting the correct answer in a first grade classroom.

She could ask Leo if she remembers those earlier days, when they were younger and classmates in small classrooms. Silvie opens her mouth, but not to speak. She takes a sip of beer. The sugar on her tongue from the candy mixes with the fizz of the beer. It masks the bitter taste of the beer; with the fizz, it almost tastes like drinking soda.

“Do you remember when we got these as prizes?” Leo picks one individually-packed gummy candy up and turns it between her fingers. “Our teachers used to give them to us when we got the right answer.”

Silvie smiles. “People used to brag about having lots. I never had more than five. But I think the most anyone got in a day was sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” Leo squeals. “The most I got was fourteen! And that was after I volunteered to be a cleaner at the end of the day.”

Silvie laughs. “My brother would come home and show off stamps all over his arms. I’d come home with pockets full of candies.”

“I think those days were the longest I went without eating candy when I had them. Now, as soon as I have a pack, I’d just go at them, full force.”

“Like this?” Silvie rips open into another pack and tosses it into her mouth.

“Exactly. Like that.” Leo says. Her smile is only there for a moment before it gets hidden behind the can of coffee. When she puts the can down, her smile is gone and only its shadow is left. “Things used to be so simple back then.”

Silvie takes a swig of her beer. The bitter taste is more noticeable now without the sugar from the gummy candies.

“You know, everyone used to think I'd go to law school abroad and be a lawyer.” Leo says. “I used to think I’d go to law school abroad and be a lawyer.”

Silvie shrugs. “Some things don’t go to plan.”

“Yeah,” Leo says, “and some things drain you so much that you think better of following through with the plan. Then you don’t follow through with the plan, then you’re like, what am I doing? I could’ve had all the credentials in the world!” Leo laughs, or tries to; she bows her head and her hair obscures her face, and Silvie sees just enough to see Leo’s fingers tightening around the can of coffee.

“Everyone made me think I'd be some successful CEO someday.” Silvie looks down into her beer. It is almost empty now. She is glad she bought two.

She drinks until there is nothing left in the can. She pulls on the tab of the other can and opens it with a pop.

“If only it was as simple as collecting a bunch of gummy candies.” Leo says.

Silvie rewinds to being sixteen.

She would be in family reunions getting asked what she wanted to do after high school. She would spend afternoons in the classroom, when their teachers asked them about their plans for the future as college entrance test season began. ‘You’ll be a CEO in no time,’ they would say, ‘You’re smart and capable enough for that.’ The praise often made her bubbly, like fizz in a glass of soda, or foam floating over a glass of beer. She thought that was what it felt like to want something: to feel so giddy about it that it burned through her nostrils the more she drank of it. But eventually, all the bubbles floated to the surface and fizzled out. The foam dissipated after the air touched it. Then the praise was gone, and so was the desire, leaving nothing but a drink with no spirit, too sweet or too bitter to really savor.

Silvie stares at her eyes in the glass window—fizzled out, brightness dissipated.

“I keep wanting to see Harvard lawyers in the neighborhood at this time of the night.” Leo says. “I never do, so I drink coffee instead. Did you know I’m hyperacidic?”

“No.” Silvie says.

“Me neither,” Leo says, “until my last year of college. Funny how these things stay hidden for years before they wreck your life.”

Silvie drinks. Leo does too.

“What would you have done, in another version of your life?” Leo asks.

“Maybe a film director.” Silvie says. “Or a pathetic excuse for one.”

Leo smiles sadly at the glass. She looks like she is watching a film that only she can see.

“I would've been an actor.” Leo says. She rests her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her palm. “I used to do theater when we were in high school, remember?”

Silvie doesn’t remember. The Leo she remembers was tenacious in the classroom, truly someone who could have been a top-class lawyer. Silvie used to agree with everyone else: Leo was going to be a great lawyer someday.

Silvie takes a piece of gummy candy from the bag.

“You could’ve acted in my film.”

She rips the wrapper open and brings the gummy candy to her mouth. She chews. She looks down at the pad of her fingers where grains of sugar have lodged into the grooves of her skin.

“We could’ve done a whole project together and walked red carpets.” Leo says, playing along. Her voice is a whisper. The lights of the convenience store seem to glare and the grumble of the air conditioning seems to grow impatient. “If it became a blockbuster hit, we could’ve made more movies together.”

Silvie swallows the gummy candy down her throat. How childish of them, to be awake at this hour just to play pretend and eat gummy candies.

Silvie drinks. She could have been something. She had wanted to be something. If someone were to get her so drunk that she started being delusional, she would admit that she still wants to be something. Something. Isn’t that it? The deadend, the roadblock, the edge of the cliff. The final scene of the movie before the tray of the DVD player pops back out with the disc still spinning in its slot. Something. It doesn’t matter what she became. If it would fill the gaping void in her ribcage, it would be enough.

“Do you ever wonder…” Leo begins to say. She looks down, past the aluminum of her can and into the void inside of it. “How did we end up here?”

The light glares at them as if to ask them to leave.

Silvie bows her head. She downs her beer, crushing the can in her hands when it’s been emptied.

In their reflection, Silvie finds Leo setting down an empty can, too.

“You should come by my bakery some time.” Leo says. Silvie turns to her. Leo’s eyes seem frosted over. “It'll be nice to see a familiar face while I'm still getting my feet on the ground.”

They would look like old friends. They could share everyday troubles and stories from work. Silvie could skip the part where she tells someone about the mundane parts about her life or what she was like when she was younger. They would have a friend in the neighborhood, someone to trust in the city. They would have somewhere to go when things hit the ground running.

“Sure.”

Silvie says it. She is not sure if she means it.

“Do you buy things often at this hour?” Silvie asks Leo.

Leo shrugs. She is already getting up, gathering her paper bag off the table. “Sometimes.” She takes a step toward the door. “I should probably go.”

“Sure.” Silvie says. “Take care.”

For a moment, it seems like Leo wants to say something more. Like she wants to sit back down and talk more with Silvie. Silvie imagines the two of them staying here until dawn, buying more cans of coffee and beer until the cashier begins to give them odd looks and changes shifts with someone new. They could be like old friends. They could pretend.

Instead, Leo just gives her one last smile.

“You too.” Leo says.

The glass door swings behind her and Leo gets swallowed up by the night. There is no one else in the convenience store save for Silvie, and there is no other sound save for the grumble of the air conditioning. The lights glare down at her. She shivers. Still, she spends a moment more in place, staring out through the glass door where Leo came and left. No one and nothing else passes by.

Silvie checks the time.

3:15 am.

By Gunakkshi Garg

Gunakkshi is an Indian girl who grew up trying to breathe life into the stories and poems she called home. When she found out that she could do things to words that made them trap life within them, she never stopped. She loves writing things that make people aware of the gaps inside of them- the hollow of their mouth, the emptiness of their stomach, the abyss of their mind; she believes that her writing is of little use if it does not resemble a mirror of some kind. Other than literature, her interests are movies, fashion, pop culture, politics, and taking pictures of the sky. She adores it when the sun peeks through hefty, fluffy clouds on dark mornings, and she doesn't have a favorite ice-cream flavor (they’re all excellent, she says). Gunakkshi is currently a student in high school, pursuing the humanities stream. 

"This is the first poem I ever wrote in Hindi, my mother-tongue. I never liked creative writing in Hindi, it was always a burden in school. But as soon as I no longer had to study it as a subject, I started missing it dearly. This poem was very random because the first few lines kept looping themselves in my head for around a week before I finally decided to pen it down, and I'm beyond glad I did."

धुंधली सी बारिश बन जाती गुज़ारिश यूँही गुज़रते तेरे दर।

रेशम सी मिट्टी और कागज़ के काटें बेझिझक बुलाएँ तुझे घर।

चम्पा की चहक जुनून में, 

कोयल कि कुूहू तेरी रूह में।

साँझ का आँगन तेरी हसी, 

अवाक घोषित हर किस्म के कवि।

अम्बर का यही रोज़ क गाना, 

तेरी नज़रों में आके खुदको बसाना,

और मेरा उन में खोए चुप चाप मुस्कुराना-

तेरा प्रेम की रेखा के इस पार न आना,

मेरा दर्द की रेख के उस पार न जाना।

है सावन की खुशबू और गुलबी आस्मान,

पर तेरी आँखों के पर्दों से है देखना नज़ारा;

जैसे मैं खामोशी में लिप्टा कोइ ख्वाब, जो तेरी हवा ने मचल्ते सवारा॥

(foggy rains become

prayers as they

pass your threshold.

silk-like soil and paper-like thorns

claim only you as home.

the flowers fragrant in

your passion,

the birds bickering in

your blood.

rendering every poet speechless,

your laugh is 

the sunset's abode.

and the sky sings of only one thing:

its desire to stay in your eyes,

and my desire to smile to myself 

as I stay lost in them;

it sings of you not crossing over

the lines of love and

me not crossing over the borders of pain.

petrichor stains the rosy sky,

but the view is only worth looking at

through the curtains of your eyes:

like I'm some dream wrapped in silence,

wafted away, dancing in your air.)

By Jedidiah Vinzon

Jedidiah Vinzon is studying physics at the University of Auckland. His works can be read in orangepeel, SeaGlass Literary, where he is also a reviewer, and Evanescent Magazine, among others, with many more forthcoming. In his spare time, he is currently researching You can find him on Instagram @jayv.poetry

when you wake up with chainsaws at your head

it is an omen - it means that the morning is cruel

with the leftover rage stowed from last night.

it is a chainsaw - it is the jagged teeth

of the words he chooses. incessantly cycling 

through your skin. relentless batteries like

a hail mary without confession or penance.

because it happens so often you'd think

he'd sinned. but yes. but no.

for it is his pattern to be

your father. so wake up.

wake up.

wake up.

By Stan Mara-Andreea

Mara Stan is a 15-year-old aspiring writer with a passion for storytelling that has been a significant part of her life since childhood. With a notebook always within reach and a head full of ideas, Mara spends much of her free time crafting short stories and brainstorming ideas for novels. She has a keen interest in fantasy and psychology, combining these two genres into a realistic fantasy manuscript she wishes to publish.

Mara's writing reflects a rich imagination and a thoughtful exploration of themes such as identity and the complexity of human emotions. Despite being unpublished, she has a growing collection of works, including several short stories and a nearly completed manuscript for a young adult fantasy novel. 

Beyond writing, Mara is an avid reader, often spending hours at the local library, as well as participating as a press member in numerous extracurricular activities she is passionate about. 

Mara's ultimate dream is to become a published author and share her stories with the world. She understands the challenges of the publishing industry and is prepared for the long road ahead, believing that every experience is a step closer to achieving her goal.

"This writing is called ”An actor isn't sad, nor happy” and it's my first psychological horror written confession I've ever made. My inspiration came from the movie ”Black Swan” (2010), directed by Darren Aronofsky. Nina is a talented but unstable ballerina on the verge of stardom. Pushed to the breaking point by her artistic director and a seductive rival, Nina's grip on reality slips, plunging her into a waking nightmare. Black Swan weaponizes ballet performances to deconstruct the link between identity and artistry, and it was so disturbing that it actually made me write this. I think the true meaning it's deeper and darker than I can comprehend right now, but it surely made me think about my duality as a human being, and as writer as well. While reading, you probably observed phrases such as: ”I listen to my own heartbeat”, ”I feel crazy/confused”, ”My hands are shaking”, ”My world is spinning”. They actually describe my state as I was writing this, and I think those details make it even more personal. Writing is not only about enhancing skills but mainly about feelings and how you mirror them into words."

English:

My life is spinning. Not like a circle, like a sphere, like a ring on a finacée’s still unmarried finger. I see my life spinning like a ball on the basket’s ring, twirling and swinging everybody with it, dizzying and circling until it falls. 

I feel confused. I feel a presence behind me, but I am afraid to look over my shoulder to see it. Am I crazy? I expect to see myself - evil. How would I look mad? How I am now? I'm waiting because I find it interesting and because masochism is a form of adrenaline. I’m waiting because I don't want to be crazy, I don’t want to be all in my mind, as I fear this thought. 

I have to see my evil side so I know I'm not dreaming. 

My heart's beating, my hands are shacking, I’m gasping for air. I look over the words written before and they seem big, they look good, they seem true. I'm spinning. My life is spinning. I don't know who I am, but I know what the character I play would think. I don't know what I'd do, but I know what she'd think. Is it bad?

I can’t think without her, I do not know who I am without all the persona I've been before. My body is tired, I want to stop, but I can't, it's okay, I don't want to. I'm taking a break from writing.

I listen to my own heartbeat. I’m still gasping. I wonder why I like the sunset. Why I am not afraid of the dark. Why I always read the last page of a book before I even start it. Why I don't like red fruits. Why I enjoy walking on the streets, listening to the relaxing sounds of rain. I wonder. I'm thinking. I'm waiting for an answer. And it's not coming. 

Well, it comes, of course it comes, I don't even have to finish the thought in my mind for it to appear, but it's not a normal answer. I like the way it soothes my mind, but it's not the one I'm looking for. It’s not the one that's expected of me. But I'm crazy. I'm always listening to the voices in my head. And they sound like all the characters I've played. No voice is mine alone. 

I see my life spinning around and I swing too, like a black moon on the white sky, like the dying sun, like an eye in orbit, looking, searching.

I'm spinning. And I'm not dizzy. The voices guide me.

Romanian:

Imi vad viata invartindu-se. Nu invartindu-se ca un cerc, ca o sfera, ca un inel pe degetul inca nemaritat al unui logodnice. Imi vad viata invartindu-se ca o minge de basket pe inelul cosului, invartindu-se si invartind pe toata lumea cu el, ametind si incercuind pana cade. 

Ma simt confuza. Ma cred dubla, dar imi e frica sa ma uit peste umar sa imi vad geamana. Sunt nebuna? Ma astept sa ma vad pe mine  - rea. Cum as arata rea? Cum arat si acum? – uitandu-se peste umarul meu, dupa aceea la gat, dupa aceea la mine. Ma astept pentru ca mi se pare interesant si pentru ca masochismul este o forma de adrenalina. Ma astept pentru ca imi doresc sa nu fiu nebuna, sa nu fie doar imaginatia mea, ma astept pentru ca imi e teama sa stiu ca sunt nebuna. Vreau sa imi vad raul pentru ca sa stiu ca nu visez. 

Inima imi bate tare, gafai. Ma uit peste cuvintele scrise dinainte si par mari, par bune, par adevarate. Ma invart. Viata mea se invarte. Nu stiu cine sunt eu, dar stiu ce ar gandi personajul pe care il joc. Nu stiu ce as face, dar stiu la ce s-ar gandi ea. E de rau?

Nu stiu ce sa gandesc fara ea, nu stiu cine sunt fara toti pe cei pe care i-am purtat. Corpul meu e oboist, vrea sa ma opresc, dar nu pot, e bine asa, nu vreau. Iau o pauza de la foaie.

Imi ascult bataile inimii. Inca gafai. Ma intreb de ce imi place apusul. De ce nu imi este frica de intuneric. De ce citesc mereu ultima pagina de la o carte inainte de a incepe volumul. De ce nu imi plac fructele rosii. De ce imi place sa ma plimb pe strazi si sa ascult sunetul ploii. Ma intreb. Ma gandesc. Astept un raspuns. Si el nu vine. Ei bine, vine, bineinteles, nici nu trebuie sa termin intrebarea ca sa vina, dar nu e un raspuns normal. Imi place cum imi gadila mintea, dar nu e cel pe care il caut. Nu e cel care este asteptat de la mine. Dar sunt nebuna. Eu ascult doar de vocile mele din cap. Iar ele suna ca toate personajele pe care le-am jucat. Nicio voce nu este a mea. 

Imi vad viata invartindu-se si ma invart si eu, ca o luna neagra pe cerul alb, ca un soare murind, ca un ochi in orbita, cautand.

Ma invart. Si nu ametesc. Vocile ma ghideaza.

By Prarthana Vijayakumar

Prarthana Vijayakumar has been writing as long as she can remember. She has been published or is upcoming in The Daphne Review, The Curie Review, an AIFEST Anthology and elsewhere. You can find her singing or writing or laughing too hard at her own jokes.

this one life

There are 17 different lives, in each chamber of my heart.

That totals 68 times one could have lived.

I hold my polysyllabic name in bruised palms,

There is a lifetime where it isn't mine

Would I be called yours at least there?

You told me stars tasted like vanilla that stung,

But now I’d say they taste like you.

I remember the day my mum taught me about the shift key

I needn’t press the caps lock key so many times

For a long time, that was the greatest moment of my life

UnTiL yOu CaMe AlOnG (I used the caps lock for this)

How you didn't come hurtling, but stepped into

The thresholds of mine, so gently, naturally like you knew the way

Now every wall of this house, the window panes, the wooden beams

All of it call you home.

I try to be self-aware sometimes

It’s been a while since I got back that rejection email

And that’s exactly why I’m sending this in

‘Unfortunately’, ‘not the best fit for this issue’,’look forward to more from you’,

There’s not a better alarm than a delicious rejection.

So far, this seems to be playing as some sort of meta joke folding onto itself

But the question comes up, how self-aware is enough self-aware?

Should I be self-aware of how my heart forgets to maintain its rhythm when I see you?

How it skips beats, 1..2..1...2…1…1……1…1…2…2..1…2

Or when I notice how you think I haven’t seen you in a week, when it’s been a fortnight

Or how the blood doesn’t course in nine different parts of my body, 

The most notable being my lungs 

And flowers have started to bloom in the empty spaces

It’s suffocating, but I bet it's beautiful when you pull me apart

And see every crevice filled with drooping sunflowers, they turn towards you

And bloom at your wake.

By Seth Kronick

Seth Kronick is a poet and journalist from Southern California. He currently studies as an MFA student at CSU, Long Beach. He is also a member of the Haiku Society of America. Seth's poetry has appeared in journals such as Trash Panda, Frogpond, Poetry Pea, IAMB, Hearth and Coffin, and Same Faces Collective among other publications.

More of his poetry can be found at https://www.sethkronick.com/.

"I love experimenting with poetic line and form. If there is one thing I always look to do in poetry, however, is to allow for nuance (or depth) to add to the overall idea of the piece. This allows the lines the chance to really speak to the truths of the universe but also to add to an overall conversation that is poetry."

Shivers

The way you shake, shake,

shake, when you're cold

or at the gentle breath

of a lover's whisper

conducting an orchestra

of chills rising from within

and above

scale-like erections protrude

from skin like chain mail

encasing your insides.

As your gut burns,

the chills travel down your spine

splitting you,

your perception

in half.

10:00 p.m.

We felt alone in silence.

Both of us sat frozen on the curb at the end of your grandparents’ driveway, stuck in a hopeless dread; I broke the silence that held our peace with the maleficent din of my voice, “Not even the stars with all their light are bright enough to shine through our cloudy sky.” If only you were a constellation I could trace, something to look [forward] to . . .

gut feeling

you don’t love me anymore—

looming overcast

Stuck in Place

Sometimes I wonder

what you are doing

as I sit awake at night

refusing to lay myself,

and my phone, down.

Maybe I’m working.

Maybe I’m listening to music.

Maybe I’m watching something

seemingly unimportant,

and for some reason,

divine or otherwise,

you’re on my jaded mind.

I’ve thought of you

so many times,

and so many times

it’s brought me nothing,

nothing but heartache?

—Cliché.

Nonetheless,

I still think of you.

Do you 

still think of me?

—Cliché.

Don’t answer that; plus,

you wouldn’t anyway.

Loving You

“loving you is 

a long river running.”

—Sonia Sanchez

Loving you is to entertain

ambitions made of smiles.

Loving you is two:

life and death.

In loving you,

two worlds are broken,

then built anew

two in one flesh.

Carefully entwined

like a braided cord

living and loving

loving and letting

letting and leading

leading and living

living and loving you

is two: you and me.