by Nazuna Teraoka, an 18-year-old writer from Japan, 

"I am a Japanese girl, but not really. Moving around countries from the age of 9, I’ve lived in Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. Brought up by a fully Japanese family, I have the values of an average Japanese, with tons of influences from Western cultures and many more. I partially blame this for the reason why I am a major overthinker and an over feeler. I think and feel too much of the things I experience. But at the same time thankful for being able to do that, because that’s what makes me motivated to write."

"I wrote this piece as a legacy to my grandma. She would tell stories about her life to me and tell them to keep a secret. I could never bring myself to yell at anyone around me, especially knowing that my mother hadn’t heard of them. But at the same time, I wanted her story to be heard, I felt a selfish sense of mission to not let her story die. So it needed to be somewhere where my family would never"

In between two tall, brand-new apartment buildings stands an old raggedy house. Paints falling off, walls occasionally covered with mud, vines, and mold. Its doors are made out of foggy antique glass. Some may call it classic and vintage, but most would see it as a run-down house. Deserted, even.

 Behind the doors awaits a whole new level of commotion. You are first welcomed with the endless pool of papers originating from a single work desk placed in the office. Then, you come across some random work tools, such as hammers and screwdrivers, forgotten on the drawing-room sofa. You may notice the ceiling tile falling off or the obvious creaking of the floorboard as well. 

 However, when I open the door, I don’t see those things. I see a loving home filled with my childhood memories. Home to my favorite person in the entire world: my grandma.

 Originally, the house was my grandpa’s. He’s been living there for his entire life. My grandma, on the other hand, came from a place far down east, somewhere known as the Kanto region in Japan. There she led a life one couldn’t possibly connect to the ramshackle house she lives in right now.

 My grandma was born as the eldest of an upper-middle-class family. Growing up, she was taught to become the perfect daughter who would be the face of the family. Since she was a little child, she had lessons in classic ballet because it was considered a criterion for elegant ladies back in the day. She quickly became devoted to the art. Her love for it attracted scouts from ballet schools. However, her father who was a very old-fashioned man didn’t allow such a future for her daughter and instead expected her to lead a “normal” life.

 “Soon, you will realize the importance and happiness of being able to live a normal life,” he said to young grandma.

 It was the same when she bloomed her talent in gymnastics. Her coach insisted on her becoming a professional gymnast. 

 “My daughter will not make a living by opening her legs wide in front of audiences like she is some kind of a stripper.” He fumed at her coach and shooed him out of the house. In his traditional mind, there were no differences between a stripper and a gymnast.

 Like so, every ambition she had during her youth, was crushed in front of her by the harsh strict words of her own father. However, that wasn’t enough to stop her from trying. She quit her job which her father chose for her, and found herself a new job. All in while going to two different night schools. My grandma lived her life as if it were an amusement park: she did everything that interested her even the slightest. 

 Because freedom was something she never had during her childhood, she used it to its fullest once she was allowed it. And it suited her very well. 

 My grandma was a bird, a beautiful bird who once was kept under the care of some rich man, now free to fly as much as she desires.

 Every day I visited her,  I would sit down on the brown fuzzy carpet picturing that bird. Her voice danced out in the air to describe the tiniest detail to her life story. Little by little, she told, handpicking only the words, handling them with the greatest care like they were a family heirloom. 

 Recently, the story finally caught up with the present. It took thirteen years to complete, but I finally saw the finished picture. And it was not what I was expecting it to be.

  I used to imagine Grandma as the once-freed bird, only to be caught by the hand of another man. Chaining her down to a battered cage, all in the name of “love.” I imagined her story’s ending was a sad one. One of those endings that you just can’t figure out, ones that get stuck to your heart even after some time.

 Instead revealed that the beautiful bird was opening the gate to the cage. I was mistaken. The bird never was trapped inside. How could it be with that soft glowing smile? No, the cage was its chosen resting place.

Remnants of a lost horizon

By Itse Daibo, a short story writer and illustrator in France

The Gateman, an extract from Arguing Over Little Things by Itse Daibo

THE GATEMAN

Abuja, 1998.

Goodluck sat inside the tiny hut attached to the gate fanning himself. His Oga had given him a new phone, but it was so complicated to use, that he didn’t know what to do with it. He wondered whether he could sell it at the market. He punched a few buttons on the phone and frowned, then tossed it to the side. There wasn’t much to do today.

He turned on the tiny television in the tiny room, rapped it on the head a few times with his fist, and adjusted the antenna to get a clearer picture, flicking from channel to channel, and frowning with each blink in disappointment until he shrugged his shoulders and turned the television off. There was nothing to watch, he thought. No ‘Basi and Company,’ a popular Nigerian comedy, no ‘The Rich Also Cry,’ a Mexican television series that had bizarrely made its way onto Nigerian television screens in the original Spanish language. There was nothing to watch. The only thing that was showing on TV these days were these big men in big suits speaking big, big, grammar. He switched on the radio and sat down, eyes glazing over. Bored.

“The Ogoni people are seeking justice from General Sani Abacha over the hanging of anti-Shell activist Ken Saro-Wiwa in 1995. They won’t...”

Goodluck suddenly shot up like a rocket and turned off the radio with shaky fingers, his left eye twitched rapidly. Then he looked around slowly as if searching for hidden cameras. One could never be too careful these days. People caught in the vicinity of bad talk about his boss’ father, Abacha, turned up dead somewhere, either fished out of the Lagos lagoon or stretched out and bloating under the sun on an expressway. Only a few months before, the military had made a fresh wave of arrests over a coup plot against the General. Even Abacha's deputy had been involved, including a number of generals and colonels.

"So if a person, 'with a gun' cannot trust the people he put inside his house and decides to punish them severely, imagine how he would treat others who are outside the house? And on top, that person has pawaaaah? Every day, there are stories of round-ups, arrests, abductions, neighbours becoming spies, friends becoming foes. No one to trust. In the morning, you are sitting in your house eating Indomine noodles and by nightfall, suppressing your hunger with termites in KiriKiri prison," said Goodluck aloud. He often talked quietly to himself.

Goodluck sat back down, wary of the weight of his heavy thoughts. He nervously opened a packet of Okin biscuits. He had a few boxes of the national biscuit piled up in his hut and had taken to eating a few packets a day. His name wasn’t Goodluck for nothing, and he had a reputation of good luck to uphold. He did not want to have his ears and his future tainted by the misfortune of this unfortunate Ken Saro-Wiwa man. He resolved not to listen to any more radio or TV for the rest of the day. Ironically, he was unaware that Basi and Company, his favorite TV show, was written by the same Ken Saro-Wiwa whose execution, Abacha had sanctioned.

Goodluck was not always meant to be named Goodluck. When he was born, his parents had quarreled over what to call him. His mother preferred Iheanacho, but his father did not want everyone to seek him out, which was what the name meant, and preferred to call him Amaechi, 'who knows tomorrow?' or Afamefuna, 'never be lost.' Goodluck's mother did not think these names boded well for their son's future and adamantly refused. The rain came down on them heavily as they left the maternity hospital. The large weighty drops fell down like machine gun firing from the sky as if beating the drum of their quarrel. As soon as they arrived home, NEPA, the national electricity company restored the city's power.

"Up Nepa!" They cried out in joy. The power cut had lasted more than a week and their mini generator had all but given up the ghost. They could store meat in the freezer again, enough for a party to celebrate their newborn’s homecoming. Shortly after the power returned, they received an unexpected visit from Mr. Chuks, who handed Goodluck's father a vulcanizing machine, and said, "You would like to start your own business, right? Here you go. You will no longer work for me or anyone else. You can now open your own workshop." Goodluck's father prostrated on the floor in a mark of respect, thanking Mr. Chuks and blessing him in every language he could think of. But even before Mr. Chuks could respond, a neighbor came by with a gift of baby clothes, and another person brought a basket of giant yams. A stream of gifts poured in, from baby formula to home-cooked meals. A friend of Goodluck's mother handed her an envelope filled with cash, and said, "With your baby, you won't be able to sell fruit in the market for some time. This should cover you for the next two weeks." And as she left, a neighbor handed them a brand-new mini generator. They had never experienced so much fortune in their lives. The next day, to their astonishment, they woke up to find that the rainstorm had flooded and snatched off the rooftops of every home on their street except for theirs. It was on that day his father suggested the name Goodluck and without hesitation, his mother said yes.

Yet it wasn't clear whether his luck came in spite of or as a result of his name. Goodluck had no special talent. He couldn't sing, dance, write, or as he'd been told on several occasions, think properly. He wasn't handsome or charming. He barely had much going for him, but what he did have was a penchant to blend in, mind his own business, and attract good luck. Money came to him easily, not in spades but he never did without. Although he never went to school, he knew that if he wanted to, he could. He also never got married but knew that if he wanted to, he could. He also didn't have many friends but knew that if he really wanted to have people around bothering him and disturbing his peace, he could. Would his parents have thought calling him Goodluck had paid off? He wasn't sure, but if they could only see him now, he was sure they would be happy to see he was working for a powerful man, the son of the leader of the country.

He was sitting down on the side of the road one day, minding his business, and trying to figure out ways to supplement the income he made from the fruit and vulcanizer businesses he had inherited from his parents when a BMW rolled up beside him. He couldn't see who was inside it because the windows were darkened, and made a quick move to back away, in case it was a body snatcher, people who kidnapped passers-by and used their body parts for rituals. The window of the passenger seat slid down and a man in a dark suit and dark glasses stuck his head out.

“Hello...?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Afternoon. Are you looking for work?"

Goodluck knew he was lucky but at that moment, he could barely believe his ears. He assessed the vehicle again and reconsidered his fears about being kidnapped. Kidnappers wouldn't drive such a nice car, he thought.

"Yes, I am."

"My Oga is looking for a mayguard urgently. Are you available?"

"Yes, yes, yes..." Goodluck responded, nodding vigorously.

"Have you done this type of work before?"

"Eh..."

"Never mind. Can you mind your business well, well?"

"Yes, yes, yes..." Goodluck replied, beating his chest.

"Okay. You know that big house over there? The one past those traffic lights. Come around 6 o'clock this evening. Okay?"

"Yes, yes, yes..." Goodluck said again, his body quivering from a rush of excitement.

With that, the car sped off in the direction of the big house and Goodluck could be seen from the car's rearview mirror jumping joyfully on the spot. He had already started counting the many ways he would spend the additional income, even though he was yet to know exactly how much that would be. There was Tola, his neighbor's wedding coming up, he could buy a new suit for that. He never went to weddings or bought suits but it was good to know that that could be an option. Goodluck had never worked as a may guard, the Nigerian term for gateman, but he was soon to learn that his principal task was to open the gate to let "papers" in and close it again until the papers were taken out again. He was meant to be on duty at every waking hour because sometimes, the papers arrived in the middle of the night, and other times, they arrived in the middle of the day. He lived in absolute ignorance about what these papers were and why they needed a mayguard. When the papers were not going in and out, the big house stood empty for days on end.

On some days, his Oga, Mohktar came to see to the papers himself often accompanied by what seemed to be either childhood friends, business partners, bodyguards, and men in military attire. Those days were unpredictable. These were the days when it dawned on Goodluck that he had a dangerous job. On those days, Goodluck would approach Mohktar with as much respect, caution, and courage as he could muster, greeting him with grand words.

"Oga kpata kpata!" which meant, “Oga of all the Ogas!" or "Baba!" meaning, father as a mark of respect. Even though, technically Goodluck appeared to look more like he could be Mohktar's father, than the other way around. But Goodluck was wise enough to offer his boss all the endearments expected for such a powerful man while staying just out of reach to protect his own neck. Not that he was a coward, but a year into the job had taught him to see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, and heap praise on his boss whenever possible. He grew to understand that his ability to mind his own business and not ask too many questions was what kept him alive. Mohktar's temper often shot off in several directions like fireworks gone awry, and one never knew where the explosion would hit. Recently, his visits had become more frequent, bringing with every visit, more trucks full of papers, and more temper storms. This made Goodluck nervous. He had no interest in becoming the next 'scapegoat.' Even though Mohktar would dash him money and old Gucci and Armani designer clothes, Goodluck could never relax. Mohktar had shot the last driver at point-blank range to the head for sleeping on the job. Goodluck was aware that any day could be dee day, and these days, the tension was palpable. Women had stopped joining the Oga in the mansion, and the bodyguards spoke in whispers. Everybody was tense. It was around this time that it occurred to Goodluck that perhaps the papers were not papers after all but dead bodies. Perhaps they brought people in, killed them in the house, and took their bodies out again. If not, why would they bring them in trucks? Why were they heavily guarded by military men? Why were there so many secrets? At the back of his mind, he wondered whether all this time he thought he had been guarding an empty house when he was in fact guarding spirits. He took a sip of Maltina to calm his nerves. Something had touched him the other night, he was sure of it. He had turned around and there was nothing there, but he wasn't going crazy. He knew that there was something there. He had increasing thoughts of handing in his resignation.

"Dirty business!" he said, under his breath. "These people are up to no good. Why would Oga hire me as a security guard, not give me a gun, but have armed guards for trucks full of papers?" Better safe than sorry, he thought. But how was he going to tell a man with a gun that he was going to quit? Maybe he could just walk away and never come back again. He would go where no one would think to find him. He thought of money. Perhaps he could sell off the vulcanizer, and the market business. He had already spoken to Mrs. Okoro about clearing space in the market for her. But to really make a clean break he would need money, a lot of it. His left eye twitched nervously as he contemplated these plans, twitched as he slept, and twitched again when he was abruptly woken up at 3 am by furious honking at the gate. He hurriedly threw on his kaftan over his singlet and dashed to the gate's peephole. He only opened the gate to let in a gleaming Land Cruiser when he recognized Mohktar at the back of the car. Mohktar opened the door but did not get out of the car.

"Oga, sah! Good evening.” Goodluck said,  pronouncing “sir,” as

"sah." His eyes were alight with anxiety as he came face to face with Mohktar. Goodluck immediately noticed that Mohktar wasn't looking like his usual polished self. Instead, he was disheveled and had grown a two-day beard. His agbada was torn on one side as if he had been in a fight. An unsympathetic thought ran through Goodluck's mind at that moment, "The rich also cry!"

"Stay in the car!" Mohktar ordered, as one of his bodyguards opened the car door and stepped onto the tarmac.

"Yes, sah," he said, bowing his head and promptly sitting back into the passenger's seat.

"Take out the documents from the boot," said Mohktar pointing at Goodluck, who though confused, went along to the back of the car to see what he meant. The boot opened automatically and Goodluck, expecting to find something gruesome, found to his relief six dusty-looking paper boxes. He pulled them out one after the other and placed them gently onto the tarmac.

"Take care of the papers...Take them inside. You have the keys."

"Oga?..." Good luck asked, but Mohktar interrupted him and said, "We'll discuss when I return. Do not let anyone enter the compound before my return."

"Yes, Oga. Yes, sah."

The car reversed in the dark and sped out of the gate. Perspiration poured down Goodluck's face. This was above his job description. He didn't want to get involved in this business of "papers", but as Mohktar had instructed, he dutifully carried the sealed cartons into the house. The boxes were heavy but they didn't look like they had any human remains in them, he thought, as he sniffed one of the boxes. A sense of relief washed over him. One after the other, he left each box on the floor of the foyer, not daring to venture further into the house. He rarely entered the mansion and whenever he did, he was never alone. He watched nervously for spirits, expecting to find something macabre, but the place was eerily quiet, the white marble floor pristine, even though Mrs. Alade had stopped coming by to clean.

Weeks went by, but Mohktar did not return. Good luck had a bad feeling. One afternoon, as he was considering switching off his tiny television in disgust because as usual there was nothing to watch, a sullen-looking news reporter popped onto the screen.

"We are interrupting this program to announce the sudden death of General Sani Abacha at age 54..."

"Eh?" said Goodluck, dropping his half-eaten agbalumo onto the ground. The sticky orange fruit lay at the bottom of the security desk, until Goodluck recovered his senses, picked it up, and tossed it into the bin.

"After taking power in a 1993 coup, General Abacha..."

The television blasted on, while Goodluck got up to switch it off, muttering angrily under his breath about "big, big, grammar" before turning on the radio and tuning it to a local station with "amebo" or gossip news.

"Abacha die with Indian prostitute!" said one commentator.

"Oti O!" Goodluck exclaimed in disbelief and turned up the volume of the radio.

"No, no! I hear he die because of poisoning. His fellow officers. They kill him!" responded another commentator in the local pidgin English.

"No, no, no, no! They say nah the Americans. You know? CIA. They pay prostitutes to give 'am poisoned apple. I am telling you. Nah America!" insisted yet another commentator.

Good luck spent the rest of the day with his ears glued to the radio. His heart was filled with sympathy for his boss's family, his body filled with relief for the country, but his mind was filled with worry about what to do next and whether to leave sooner than he had planned. For days afterward, he sat listening to debate after debate about the ex-dictator in the hope of hearing some news of his Oga, only interrupting to watch the World Cup. The football match momentarily distracted him from making a decision about his future. But when the Super Eagles, Nigeria's national football team lost to Spain by 2 to 1, he felt the dryness of the Okin biscuit he was eating choking him and his anxiety returning. He took a quick sip of Maltina but didn't feel better. He was going to lose his job, the Super Eagles lost. What could get worse? He thought.

Goodluck pondered what to do for many days, until one day, as he was sitting in the mayguard hut, placing a Chocomilo cube carefully onto the thin slice of a crispy Okin biscuit, he heard something drop to the ground. He quietly tiptoed towards where the voices were coming from, right outside of the gate, and recognized the voices right away. They were the voices of Mohktar's two bodyguards, Mustafa and Moshood, the ones he had seen the other night. They never spoke to him but he had heard them speak among themselves and to his Oga.

"Shhh....," whispered one, "You will wake Goodluck up."

Goodluck's ears perked when he heard his name. He tiptoed closer to the gate and pressed his ear on the cool metal frame to hear better.

"We'll have to kill him."

"Do you have a silencer on that gun?"

"No."

“Ode!" said Moshood, which meant stupid in the Yoruba language, "You want the whole world to come and witness us killing a gateman?"

"Can you think of a better idea?"

"We just knock and ask for the papers."

"I sent Sehu to do that last week and the gateman refused

to give it to him..."

"Oh! Ah...We must get a silencer then."

"Can you get one fast?"

"From the barracks. I have a friend."

"Okay, let's aim for Thursday?"

"That's fine. I hope this works out."

"My brother! Don't worry, everything will work out. Perfect, perfection!"

Goodluck held his neck with both hands. His assassination was perfect, perfection? God forbid bad thing! He tiptoed back to the hut, every part of his body shaking like a leaf.

"Today is Monday," he said to himself. "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday…." he added, counting on his fingers, and repeating over and over again, sweat pouring down his face and neck. Driven by curiosity mingled with fear he matched straight to the big house to find out what these papers really were and why his life was on the line.

"Spirits!" he muttered as he approached the mansion. "I'm guarding spirits." 

He opened the door quietly as if there really were spirits roaming around who could bite him. The boxes were on the ground where he had left them, collecting dust. He knelt down and opened the closest one with a pen knife. As he flipped the carton open, his eyes widened in disbelief. He knew he had just seen something he shouldn't have, and he now understood why those men were prepared to kill him. He shut the box and made the sign of the cross, then opened the second, then the third, then the fourth box, then the fifth, and suddenly laughed out loud. He remained on his knees and quietly said a thank you prayer to his parents for naming him Goodluck. He had been lucky all of his life, but what he was witnessing was beyond luck. He regarded the open boxes again with utter disbelief, with the realization that he was staring at his retirement package in wads of crisp clean dollar bills. In his mind, he mentally calculated how he would buy a bus, load the boxes onto the bus, and get as far away from the mansion as possible. He bought the bus the next day, and from that day on, Goodluck was never seen or heard from in those parts again.

By Joy Yin

Joy Yin is a writer from Wuhan, China, though she has lived in California for 5 years. She is fluent in Mandarin Chinese and English but also learning Mexican Spanish. Joy has always loved reading and writing. As of now, she has works either forthcoming or already published in Skipping Stones Magazine, Scfaikuest, the new Drabbun Anthology by Hiraeth Books, Cold Moon Journal, and Star*Line. She's currently 13 years old and attending an international school in Mexico City. Find her on Instagram at @joyyinm88.

Trapped

I am trapped

Behind these bars of iron

Cold to the touch

My imprisonment

Light as a butterfly

My soul enclosed

In this living hell. 

I suffer and plead

A zoo animal

Facing all those stares

On the street. 

Pacing in my enclosure

Please the curious looks.

I fall to the floor

Rigid cage

Escape?

Never.

By Mahika Bagri

"I am a 17 year old Asian, currently residing in California. 

I enjoy reading, writing, and analyzing songs in my free time."

"This piece is supposed to be about the underdog of birds: the crow. The poem utilizes the crow as a metaphor for misrepresented and unrepresented populations."

If it flies,

If it soars, 

That’s a bad omen;

Tipping off the fine scales, of

Society's balance.

If it speaks, 

If it caws, 

People shut their ears…

Cause the right of speech is reserved 

For the sweet-sounding birds.

Birds that sing to us what we want to hear.

Not the painful reality from which we wish to disappear.

Misunderstood 

Stands the underdog of birds.

Unseen, Unheard, 

Yet, undeterred.

By Saorise Palmer, 

Saoirse Palmer (who prefers the name Ashton) is a sixteen-year-old, transgender writer from Northern Ireland. His favorite poets include Ocean Vuong, Richard Siken and Fiona Benson. He mainly writes poetry, and has been previously published in issue 2 of 'Cathartic Magazine' and has two upcoming publications in issue one of 'The Encephalon Journal' and 'Adolescence Magazine's' autumn mini-mag. His experiences with gender dysphoria has been a major influence in his writing - seeping into the cracks of his poetry, as it does in his daily life.

Saoirse Palmer often uses enjambment to separate the lines of his poetry, often to make it sound as if he himself is saying it. His inspiration is strongly tied to modern poets such as Danez Smith or Fiona Benson. His main technique in his writing is often strongly used metaphor.

Beauty As The World’s Circulation: Without Him.

He’ll wring his hands  around the wounds 

                      of powdered beatings -

“Turn here.”

                     They are rough hands; the callouses 

cement rivers in his skin that 

                       trail down his fists like 

poison; when you lock your palms,

                  you feel childhood: abandoned

wood house with the dead dog - cage him, bash his skull

in. Here, or tomorrow, definitely now, lulling music 

breaks through our cartilage: “It looks like a spaceship, with the rays coming down,

doesn’t it?” 

          beauty as the world's circulation. We talk about how

seatbelts aren’t designed for women; tear it down, rip his eyes out -

then throw them to the sight

                              of gums, bird feeders, bird eaters, rotting wood,

corsets, black cats, appendixes, clementines, honeybees, keening children,

                         turn his head to humans; earths circulation; rotating it’s 

blood &

               Lingering,                                  staying, 

                                                    being, 

                                           smiling & dying                    without him. 

    Lingering bodies kill

I see God in her features; uncapitalised. 

                       Crooked, winged creatures plant 

sycamore seeds into her nostrils: I look to your nose bridge,

“I like the way it’s shaped.” 

            Tremors crawl through my stomach, there’s 

something evil about not knowing where the 

wet words will soak; splattering & caustic in my breastbone. My wounds quiver raw 

when the man looks down at me; leeches squeal when the woman stares at eye level -

                                  I feel alone in my fight for internal flesh: the clinging human body. 

This womb is permanent, 

                                              constant, 

somehow unchangeable, even while squishing gums & tying ropes 

                                                               around the chest (the neck) 

                                                 I am rotting in fixation. Thin are my ties

                 to a lingering; 

                                              the webs hold still around me, lightly even, gentle -

                                                                          but still cradling.

By Asma Jamil,

a 16 year old writer from Texas

"I'm a high school student that expresses myself through creative writing. I love art, all forms of it and I dream of publishing novels one day."

You do not know me. You notice me. 

I know you notice things about me I don't want anyone to see but that is the only way you can know me. Things I can't do anything about, things that you're supposed to know me through. You have glanced at me and you know my hair is a bleach-damaged, dying shade of brown. My eyes are brown but rude and black when we look at each other. You know my nose isn't straight and my lips are small, one of my ears being elf-like. 

There are other things you know about me. You know I am engulfed in black fabric always and wear silver jewelry sickening to the eyes. You notice my rings slipping off my slender fingers and my shoes too big for my feet. 

Do you notice the bump on my finger? I want you to know me. 

When you hold my hand and carress the cold, brittle skin, do you feel my finger fall in and come back to life? Perhaps my ring distracts you from what I want you to see. 

You don't know me when I struggle to wrap my body into my chair when I write, hoping these cold words don't make me shiver. You don't see my brows furrow when I hate my words on paper nor do you notice my lipstick smudged because of my frustrated hands. Right there, when I'm gone to a world you don't want to see, my pen is wrapped in my hand, grip firm and unsure at once. 

It hurts, but I don't notice though I want you to notice- I want you to remove my hands and hold them, kiss where the pen has tried to feel at home. "Tell me I'm talented," I want to say, but I'm too busy letting you see something you don't want to see. I will regret it later on, when I'm done loving you. 

You notice my body when I show you but do you see me when I am splayed across my dresser, letting my skin earn splinters from the dark wood. When my eyes are on the mirror, scanning every corner of where you have touched and where I am yet to discover something new to despise. You don't see me scratching over my red, disgusting birthmark, wishing it was identical to the one on the opposite side, calm and brown, not hurting my skin this one does. how I've hated my body all my life, the way I peel at the skin on my thighs and shoulders, wishing I was tinier and fit in your arms better. I don't notice when I'm eating your favorite flavor of ice cream, or your favorite drink; I feel safe with you on my tongue, because you love me. Do you notice how much I hate the skin I am trapped in? I trace my skin hoping you don't do.

"I'm not so easy to love," I say to you and you tell me I am because you love me but you don't know how I love and how difficult it is to love a human like myself. "Just look at me" but you don't look at my eyes or my lips or my hands scared to tell you what I want to.

Spread me out like a picnic blanket but not like you do, like I want you to. Spread out all my flaws and imperfections and my beauty and the reasons I cry, understand them and then wrap me back into your arms. 

Understand me. 

I am not simple the way you like me, you don't like to see farther than that. You aren't around when my kitchen is a sickly scent of chocolate, when I'm knees to chin in front of my oven, silently excited to eat the cupcakes my mom helped me make when I was little. You aren't around when i'm laying on the kitchen island with a sticky, sugary energy drink spilt on my neck because I cried thinking of you. You don't know why I cry then, either. 

Are you there holding me when I stop myself from crying while doing my makeup? Pulling on my eyes and pressing onto my nose, trying to make my lips bigger. When I make plans to save money to change myself but not for college or an apartmnent like I've always wanted. Or do you like what you've carved of me? A girl with red under her eyes from too much crying and pink lips bruised from your love which feels like too much. 

Do you listen to me when I ask you about my love for you? Do you flinch when I put my hands on you, not because they're cold but because I've never touched you like you want me to. Do you frown at me when you read my work because it's too much for you and maybe I'm just crazy or weird, something I don't notice myself. Do you think of me when you're alone at night not naked but maybe what I like to eat and watch or how I'd like us to hold hands? 

Do you like the shoes Iwear? What color do you think looks good on me? Do I have a pretty voice and do I make you feel alright?  Is my love overwhelming? Tell me, I don't want to suffocate you. Talk to me and listen to me but make sure you're still thinking of me under you. Don't leave me but make sure to pretend you're listening to me. 

Tell me I mean something to you, before I beg for your love again. 

By Shamik Banerjee,

a 27 year old poet from India

October counterfeits December's clime.

A chill skims past me as I ramble down

The cobbled pathway of this once-dear place,

Remembering that long-lost cherished year

When life had given me the nicest time

Of love and all its blessings in this town

Through Sufia. Alas! her lovely face

Now only generates a lonely tear.

I'm standing by the crowded metro line.

The rapid trains evoke those hopeful eves

When I had only one schedule: from home

To my workplace, later to that café

Where we would sit for hours, chat, and dine,

Then amble at a parklet full of leaves

With fingers softly twined beneath the dome

Of Autumn's pleasant, mildly-starred array.

Bright market squares and young love couples there—

How strongly emulate those happy nights

Of Fridays when we'd browse through fancy dresses;

By coyly smiling, she'd convey to me

A Kurti or perhaps some formalwear

That she would want. From flats, the dangling lights

Transport me to those times when worldly stresses

Didn't burden me and life went merrily.

Wherever I set foot, a road or gully,

It bears her apparition through and through,

Filling me with her intermittent voice

Like thunderbolts wake up a dormant room.

Once, fall was sweet, but now it passes dully,

Transforming everything before my view

Into a realm bereft of lasting joys

Where I'm a phantom lurking in its gloom.

October counterfeits December's air.

Its weather heralds joy to every soul,

But not to mine. I stretch a broken smile

And wander as an unsought stranger here.

The wind still wafts the fragrance of her hair

But this is all it does. All seems unwhole,

Though I am sauntering mile after mile

With nothing but a face devoid of cheer.

O heart of mine, how can I salve your grief?

I'm just as fragile as a one-winged fowl

That's tenuous and cannot fix its aim

Against a violent gale. So let us rest

Upon our bed of tears and find relief

From this unpleasing truth, so love can't howl

Day after day with this deceptive claim

That I am still alive within her chest.

By: Shamik Banerjee a poet from India. 

I see the boy kin smiling! He's bought the festive lights.

Throughout this gay November, he'll decorate the nights.

He takes the firecrackers and sees them as if gold

Has escaped its deposit and plunged upon his hold.

He lays them on a table, under the sun bright sky

So that all moistness goes off and their centers are dry.

The sun session is done now; he picks each up to keep

Within its paper casings as if a child's asleep.

He firmly tapes the bundles that hold his treasure tight,

Then crams them in his armpits and thinks they're safe and right.

I asked him, "May I see those Ground Spinners for a while?",

I dove into the countenance of his refulgent smile.

By Seerat Fatima, a 17 year old writer from Pakistan

Seerat is a poetess of sorts. She likes to spend evenings sipping coffee while watching the trees sway from her window. Her mom thinks Seerat is losing her mind, edging into madness, which Seerat wishes is the case because the alternatives don't look too good.  

What if I told you I want to be maltreated?

Mocked, trounced, maimed- utterly annihilated but never killed.

What if I told you I want the wounds, the scars, the aches?

What if I told you I think I deserve agony, the hurt, the excruciation?

What if, in some ineffable, absurd, maddening- twisted way I think it will make me worthy of your love?

What if I told you my sins are too big?

What if I told you I dared to apostate?

What if I told you atonement, for me is impossible?

What if I am too sordid to ever be respectable again?

               Would I still be your angel, your doll?

               Would you still look at me the same?

               Treat me with kindness and affection, like a being too fragile.

               Would you still swear to the world?

               Swear on your life of my purity?

               Would you fight Gods for me?

Darling, oh darling!

Tell me, are my crimes too much for your pristine reputation?

Will your gentle heart survive the world knowing of my immoral transgressions?

Would you be the first to throw rocks at me?

Or would you be my shield and adore me through it all?

                 Love, oh love!

                 This is eating me alive.

                 My guilt, my shame.

                My expectancies over you choosing me.

                Despite the impairment. Despite the aspersions.

                Even though I will burn you with me.

                In the face of maledicent speech.

Would you want me still?

Would you love me most?

Would you still think I deserve the pure heavens we talked about, with me in your lap as the moon faded into the lavender morning skies?

By Riya Khandelwal,

A 15 year old writer from India

Riya is a fifteen year old girl who has never known a standstill in her life. She has traveled different towns throughout her childhood, and looked at different people's lives through her young eyes. Growing up, she has realized her love for literature, poetry, and her pen, and spends her school nights drawing up universes for her poems to talk about all she's seen through her life.

I sit, quiet and lifeless, in the blue balcony

I am seven, heavy hearted, torn, and ripped.

I touch the cold of my skin through the shreds of my clothes,

And get a bite on the places that he knew to be his

My mind feels fuzzy, a hot flushing red,

My body feels worn and frost bitten,

I manage a blanket from inside the room, anyway, 

And I look up, up at the heavens

"Eyes never up, sweetheart,"  he always said, but this time, they look

As the million jewels and clouds run, in the brilliant, wondrous night sky

Beauty and devastation all at once,

a graveyard and a nursery of stars racing across, alive and free, like they have created their own lifekind 

And then, 

A sharp, dazzling shooting star.

"Make a wish,"  he had said, when he had first come to play with me, that night;

And I had wished, and I wished hard

As I obeyed all that he had said,

I stared at the ceiling fan as he did what he pleased, 

And looked at the diamonds, 

And clandestinely, I wished for death.

The morning after, I touched my raw knees,

Bruised and bloody from what he had called devotion

And my chest and my thighs and all the places he'd ripped and seen 

Like a ragdoll — discarded, used 

God's abandoned, worthless, sensitive creation

And so with years it happened again, and again, and again

A million times, 

The same way as before.

The stars in the sky fall,

As my limbs grow loose and malleable

And cotton fills my thoughts more and more.

And so the brilliant poet, the dazzling talent,

The top of the school, radiant young girl

Gets buried deeper and deeper in a grave of dissociation and disconnect

And begged him every night for mercy, giving away her love and passion for survival in the world 

The years pass into decades, the attention fades,

The girl had turned stupid, she had drowned and died,

Another girl had come and replaced her eventually, 

and the little girl stayed lost, forever, in her ocean of a mind 

And then.

The fateful day, it comes.

I scream and shout. 

And eventually, 

It slips.

I am once again on my knees, a little girl, 

Begging for mercy and care from the adults,

That she craves

And then mum and dad—

They stare, and stare, and for a moment, I think they're about to say something kind—

And oh—

"You are overreacting."

They stand up, roll their eyes, and leave me, a rotting corpse, behind.

"Eyes never up,"  he had always said, but this time again, they look

Look at the million jewels and clouds in the brilliant, wonderful blue sky,

Beauty and devastation all at once, a graveyard and nursery of stars running across 

Like they have created their own lifekind 

And then, 

A sharp, dazzling shooting star.

"Make a wish," he had said, when he had first come to play with me, that fateful night,

I had wished, and I wished hard

As I had obeyed all he had said,

And stared at the ceiling fan as he had done what he pleased, 

And looked at the diamonds, 

And clandestinely, once again, I wished for death

And so it ended.

With them, all the hope my young heart had sought to keep.

My parents, my creators, my first lovers, my blood,

Had taken me by the neck and drowned me down until I ceased to breathe

And left my body abandoned, in the deep blue ocean.

To be true, though —

I drowned for years

Decades, and vicennials, and lives

Until I woke up, after the storm,

On a clear winter morning,

On an empty beach 

With a new life

The ocean gently splashed against the sand

And light fog hung in the air,

The drops of water swayed from the tips on the plants, 

And the monster wasn't around anywhere

I sat down on the edge of my dorm bed,

And looked back at the palm of my hands,

And another girl sat in front of me, unpacking her bags,

And smiled, as she lend out a hand to help me stand

And slowly as I picked the pieces of shattered glass and put them together

And felt my lungs start to breathe again

I looked at the the reflection in the ocean my parents had drowned me in

And found the very person little me would've found peace in

The grief never went away, and neither did the girl

But I learnt a new idea of healing 

Growing — it is not forgetting the grief

But building a world around the black hole

With new, fantastic experiences 

So, I took the girl to Belgium, 

And California, and France 

And Greece and Rome

And all the places of my past, 

And in the end, to India, in the balcony at night

Wrapped around her arms and watched the stars burn bright

I told her about the monster, 

And the things that he did

And cried for hours

About the past they forbid

And she cried with me, 

As she stroked my hair

And wrapped me around her chest

And kissed away my tears

And as we looked at the million jewels and clouds in the brilliant, wonderful blue sky,

Beauty and devastation all at once, a graveyard and nursery of stars running across 

Like they have created their own lifekind 

I finally remembered what they meant by innocent, honest, childish bliss,

And wished, perhaps, 

For the first time in my life, 

Clandestinely

To live

And then, 

A sharp, dazzling shooting star.

By Kanmanee Fagerlien, an 18 year old writer from Norway

"I, Kanmanee Fagerlien, pen name Kanna, am a poet by nature and by heart-- quite literally. I write of love, desperation, the transformation from girlhood to early womanhood, loneliness and the desired to be loved."

"a little personal poem for the undedicated <3"

when your name pops up on my keyboard suggestion after I wrote mine / when my mother still asks of you / when the radio suddenly plays your favorite song / when I keep a list of things I wanted to tell you if you ever come back / when my facebook search bar still bares your name / when my last name sounds perfect with your first / when I still make room for you in my bed / when I brought you a ring / when your birthday is exactly 7 weeks before mine / when I still remember our first phone conversation / when you said I looked pretty in red / now I only wear red nail polish / when I started reading about Ryde / when I muted your notifications for so long I got tired of waiting / when I turned your notifications back on / when the train tickets to your hometown are still on hold in my payment / when I got the job you said I would / when I don’t know what I did wrong / how do I forget all of you when I’m still the poet and you are the poem.

By Audrey Lee, a 15 year old writer from New Jersey

Audrey is a high school student. She loves to read and write and despises math with all her heart. She hopes to continue to learn and grow in her writing and is looking forward to experimenting in style.

bitterly cold in mid-november

a monday evening (or was it morning?)

reached out, longing, but you weren’t there

        why aren’t you here?

now the house feels cold in your absence

no longer here to crank up the thermostat

68 degrees and dropping

chilling to the bone (and deeper below)

now the house smells of nothing and melancholy

your smell lingers in memory

in the single shirt you left behind

suffocating in its existence

now the house feels empty without you here 

all the furniture shoved into the corner

dust patterns on the floor

ghosts of what used to be

next time when you go

can you please turn off the lights when you leave?

wipe the kitchen counter, mop the floors

leave me alone to grieve