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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Art
Nestled - Raymond Usechek
Myths of legends in Summer - Nafisa Tafannum
Writing
Most Dangerous/Every day my anxiety is higher, every day the grief more mortal - Deep Dey
Blue Parlours - Gabriella Garofalo
NOVICE - Michell Williams
A dandelion's Adventure - Martina/Nina Morales Quintanal
Dear Ellie: A Collection (A Play) - Arielle Waterfield
Irony of art - Theo Charlie Goldammer
In Memory of Love — Fes, 1933 - Manar Dahr
stolen seconds - Theo Charlie Goldammer
My favorite train - Kyle Kono
Popular - Georgiana Green
To My First White Hair - Mariam Aly
miles away - Ivy Sinclair
Still we rise - Aashi J.
In losing you I found myself - Ammara Gul
Cigarette smoke - Grace C. Sun
Cherry and the Summer Abroad - Lois Perry
As blacksmith melts - Shay Tamanna
Art
Art
Nestled
Nestled
By Raymond Usechek
Ray is 16 and lives in Boston with his parents and brother. He enjoys drawing, cooking, and playing sports. Along with pencil drawings, he also likes watercolors, charcoal and pastels.
Myths of legends in Summer
Myths of legends in Summer
By Nafisa Tafannum
Nafisa Tafannum is a Bangladeshi student, photographer, and visual artist whose work explores the quiet beauty of everyday life through observation and emotion. Beginning her artistic journey at the age of nine, she has developed an interest in drawing, sketching, painting, and photography.
Inspired by nature, light, changing weather, architecture, and the poetry of Rumi, her work often reflects themes of transformation, stillness, memory, and human connection. She enjoys capturing moments that encourage viewers to pause and see the extraordinary within the ordinary.
Her creative efforts have been recognized through photography awards and art exhibitions, reflecting her dedication to visual storytelling and artistic growth. As she continues to learn and experiment, Nafisa aims to create work that evokes thought, emotion, and a deeper appreciation for the world around us.
"Myths and Legends in Summer
This artwork is created using red and black gel pens. It portrays a Bangla Sultan seated on an elephant, accompanied by two loyal soldiers. Inspired by the theme of summer, I imagined a historical scene that blends the grandeur of the Bengal Sultanate with the timeless spirit of myths and legends. The limited color palette emphasizes strength, dignity, and tradition, while the composition invites viewers to reflect on the rich heritage and legendary stories that continue to inspire across generations."
Writing
Writing
Most Dangerous/Everyday my anxiety is higher, everyday the grief more mortal
Most Dangerous/Everyday my anxiety is higher, everyday the grief more mortal
By Deep Day
Deep Kumar Day is a Ph.D. Research scholar in the University Department of English and Modern European Language, Lucknow University, Lucknow. He completed his postgraduate in English from Banaras Hindu University. His post- graduate specialization is in American Literature. His research interests include theology, post-war European Literature, refugee literature, films and politics, with a particular focus on Italian post-fascist literature. His doctoral research, titled “The Negative Theology of Pier Paolo Pasolini: Select Writings and Films in Post -War Italy”, explores the new “linguistic turn” in literature and language.
He recently won second best article award from Karnataka State Open University for The Aesthetic of Silence in Literature and Cinema in A Two-Day International Conference on “The Confluence of Cinema, Literature & Culture”. One of my poems was shortlisted for Rabindra Nath Prize.
Currently, Deep is teaching(ad-hoc) in BBDNIIT College, Lucknow and working with Janwadi Lekhak Sangh (Democratic Writers’ Association).
Most Dangerous.
When a poor man forgets his lifetime in poverty
-forever
and they’re not aware of it!
And they listen folk lore of kings and queens in their asbestos home,
(and the earth moves and sun comes) and
This is the first day and first night - for forever,
Poor will live forever poor!
But it’s not the most dangerous thing!
When a young man looks old without food and security before his time,
When young women are forced by morality police and intern them in prison
to live under veil,
When young men are shortlisted for persecution to death,
When a man alone is responsible for their disappearance and death!
When the government hatches on the citizens of state with fascist mysticism,
But it’s not the most dangerous thing!
A vicenarian man swats a mosquito in the night may be trivial thing,
When a feral puppy gets flat by a Tata -Motors before their legitimate time is not may be the grave matter for parliament.
When there’s no place to sit in a home and to sit by the road and smolder a cigarette is perhaps not much painful!
When a young man gets hallucinated with the repetition of mechanical life in evening by the road, it may be the doggone disease!
When a lovesick urchin dies without mad Shelley'
Philosophy of Love, perhaps, it could be the affair of public shame!
But it’s not the most dangerous thing.
The most dangerous thing is -
When the purport of life drains in brain
and nobody can see it!
The most dangerous thing is -
when a father remains sit
alone by the edge of wall in a yellow – oil light!
The most dangerous thing is -
to sleep with the requiem of dogs in night
and not to forget anything in morning,
forever …!
...................................................................................................................................................
Every day my anxiety is higher, every day the grief more mortal.
My body, mind and soul have called me,
and now I am not in confusion; for this life’s
reason and imagination are diseased:
the things which are pure and good are dead
with the rising sun,
now everything is placed for the order of confusion
by the society, state and nation.
I don’t have hope for anything; I know what is life between
Monday to Saturday?
Sunday is day of preparation for the order of confusion
which you have to live, until the last Sunday of life!
Life grows on the bud of tendering,
and it ends with the flames of woods.
...................................................................................................................................
Refugee Colony of 1970’s
They’d left me alone
in the country, alone
in the misty rain.
The naked poplars, mute
and amazed,
watched me, suffered
my pain, this pain
of not knowing clearly.
-Sandro Penna
***
My grandfather has come from East:
A refugee from Jessore;
A land of ancient Buddhists and
The rebel poet Michel Madhusudan,
Everything has broken like the Tower of Babel!
My grandfather was a doctor and had an ancient name,
The scent of Greek on his face:
With a long white beard,
A column of ancient flesh and blood had grown
from the white cloud of rivers - Jessore.
My grandmother is a double-outcast-refugee
from the land of rivers,
like Behula, she crossed the river with Lakhinder
and took shelter into the exiled forest of King Virat,
and lived her un-known recognitions in harmony with nature:
In the land of Mahadev, near Gola Gokarannath;
where ancient Buddhists temples of terracotta were situated on the high moulds!
And the fragile river UL like my grander mother used to flow- dried
and my grandmother also died
in the swarm land:
A refugee colony of nineteen-seventies;
a village without name!
Blue Parlours
Blue Parlours
By Gabriella Garofalo
To P.
Tears riding fast, poetry in the blue hour-
And women, stained by time,
Blue, it was always blue then
Even God wore blue, the shade
Of bruised twilights hanging
Over that summer and the high-wire act
Of her harsh adolescence-
It all feels like a joke, the sky a blue so absurd,
So much sky, so much pressure
To be open, vast, available for viewing,
It’s just like staring at the cover of a self-help book
And mothers, mothers’galore everywhere,
Their hands, stained with the weighty dusk of days,
Their eyes a sky you never pierce
While a blue God and mothers’ redemption wait,
But you can’t realise they are a distant,
Mentally unstable star-
Sure, of course, go on calling sky this endless,
Exhausting blue, go on calling demise this door
Swung wide with the bruised blue of mothers,
The trees will never forgive riots, nor earth absorb
The years of silence, as adolescence is a blue
They never understood from day one,
The electric shock of blue, pouring down too loud,
A plea against the backdrop of a teenage sky,
My adolescence, yes, a redemption draped
In hoodies and blue angst, a search for the meaning of blue
In a maze spun of dewdrops and defiance
Where mothers too sang a redemption dazed
In the slivers of dusk, and my teen mind
On the edge of loss was treading softly
On the shards of time, yet in this blue
She feels the fog breathing agaisnt woods,
They are accomplices, and smell dirty,
A forest worn away by shadows-
Or is it me?
*******
To Y.
Is there a bit of light, you are starving for it-
No, only scrambled, messy words all over lawns
When spring goes mental, grass and trees step back,
And the scent of lies in the air sneaks up on you,
It reminds you of lemon groves after the rain-
Drop kites and rainbows, soul, even up your game,
See, high talks of the moon cut no ice with the sky,
He knows her shady deals made her an outcast
‘Round here, that and her painting wrath in blue
To better hide it, so stars go all oohs and aahs,
They swoon as she’s so nice-
Fair enough, now go rest for a bit,
While days stand sour and green on the edge of your mind, They hang between the taste of lime, the blue,
Dispersed across a sky that saw too many plays to care,
So he blows up into shards of lime green, not light,
But a warning shot, even the gods choose shades
Of decay for souls that ever taste the bite of lime
When snatching new births from edgy skies shaking
With hope, that daring leap to grace,
A green that’s always more word than shade-
But when limbs meet the earth no wild joy there,
Only an uneasy mayhem, your prayers
To a redemption lost on the horizon,
A shard of light that never gets to the ground,
Sometimes a tale told between breaths
To lead souls to dance with shadows,
And learn their names while fear sheds like winter trees,
Somewhere further than days, maybe a life-
Here’s the ticket, wait.
*******
To P.
Good for ‘em, they are going astray,
Well, words and heaven, a lonely tangled blue,
Yours, maybe amidst warring tales
When myths yield to starving dreams,
And ask the mind never to think, the fire never to burn
Into hard souls, rooms that never taste the breeze,
While dreamy eyes lose sight of grass,
Wildflowers whistling by, unconcerned-
It haunts the soul this maze of happy failures, silence,
Strange births from distress and desire, as you dwell
On a blooming choice that keeps you awake at night,
Swaying in a time made of shadows, of restless limbs in bed, At 13 degrees north of biting cold or sadness-
You know, sometimes the mind is like a Hopper landscape,
Shades set in cold strength, shapes iced
In a moment that stands still, when coppers storm in
To raid shelters of words just as she’s falling down
While trying to grab the sun, her love, the past-
Yes, there was love aplenty at home, it froze and crushed
Her words just dying to dance-
Yes, isn't it nice to love parents, picnics, bloody meals?
But you kidding or what, she was so in love only
With boho words, bit skewed-
Look, we're running late now, care for some sort of light?
Sure, and what are clouds if not the strays you gather,
The rebels who shout ‘Hope, love, always at bay, not for her
The scent of roses and wine, thank you so much’,
Just give her salty waves, or the unstable blue
Of a cloud, the harsh tang of hopes dazed by words,
Long story short, those fruits from unreliable trees,
And a dispersal easy to see, her lithe fingers whirling,
Your slightly joking demise.
NOVICE
NOVICE
By Michell Williams
Michell was once a military spouse, and during her travels she matriculated in the educational system, that is established by the military to receive a Master of Science degree in Public Administration from Central Michigan University. Her educational endeavors are complemented by her career field. Michell has continuously worked in the areas of state and local government; however, she has also created her own path by working as a consultant and freelance writer. Her most notable articles were with R&B singing group “Sisters With Voices” (SWV) and comedian “Sinbad” at the Soul 70’s Music Festival that was held in Aruba. Recently, Michell received second place honors in the Authors Roundtable of Florida Haiku contest. Michell is a member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority; which is an international organization with over 100,000 member.
Horse Sense
Who's the pilgrim sayin' 'bout yesterday,
when tomorrow ain't even dawned?
Every soul needs a bit o' hope,
just to lift the burden o' misery.
Nobody wants to be the odd one out.
It's the sweetness of honey that draws the bees,
‘specially when joy's a-flowin'.
In the tales o' friends, memories linger.
Enemies? They're just fiends waitin'
to feast on your misfortune.
If wisdom's our destination, why is there plight?
Why doth the world spin in madness?
Treat others as they’ve treated you, at darkest realm,
As they have dealt, let the woes begin.
Hunger and loneliness
There’s no means to an end.
More problems there be than stars above,
Like trees, for peace, where crowding stand.
To breathe is wood's divinest love,
Not beauty's boast, at its command.
Forgive the past, let sorrow shed,
Whose turn is to shine, with radiant glance?
Spring's fleeting touch, a yearly lease,
'Fore summer's heat, a seasonal change.
Quiet dwells where souls are lone,
Mind your ways, or meet with a deadly blow.
With pen, your name be firmly known,
Lest pencil's mark or scale the highest plateau.
Tomorrow is already here. It’s just blind to
man’s inhumanity to man. Peace to all people.
“Territorial Rights”
Feral cats are everywhere. They multiply like rats. When you’ve seen one, four others are usually right behind it. Breeding against reason: underneath trees, brushes and cars. But at least they’re unpaid scavengers who keep pests down. Just don’t feed them, or they’ll make your house a refuge, to the point that friends will become enemies. The HOA once asked, "Who’s feeding those cats?" Only a benevolent soul would fall for that trap. A true soldier wouldn’t be so timid. They would stand firm in the face of the enemy and let nature take its course. At minimum, an outdoor cat has nine lives, but in reality, only a decade to forge. I caught an orange kitten once. It was using my front stoop as its home. I could hear it begging with a constant meow: MEOW, MEOW, MEOW. It was so bad that I was a prisoner in my own home. Animal control wanted to do the deed: catch, spay, and release the cat. But I told the woman, “Don’t you bring that kitten back. We have enough cats and pushin’ P out here.” Minors must be accompanied by an adult. While in the cage, it was frazzled, and the mama cat was reeling and circling endlessly as if to say, “Let it out.” Marching around the cage like her frustration alone was enough to set it free. Apparently, she lost the battle, but I won the war. The cat was kept and placed for adoption or, was one less burden to bear. Since that day, I’ve reclaimed my turf. The number of feral cats at my doorway has lessened. Now I’m taunted by the smell of geese droplets. There’s always something that I must endure, to replace one nuisance with another. Nature has its problems. But if I could just get my neighbors to turn down the bowl, the problem would be like the unknown and they might simply go away.
The Endangered
crystal is not the same as glass.
the difference, it’s held in high regard.
take the latter and it will shatter.
crack the egg and it will splatter
D'ye glimpse the edge o' sense?
two winks, means the bird will fly away.
ne’er to return unless thorns are severed.
to steal doesn’t require a dress-rehearsal.
only a sinful nature.
D'ye glimpse the edge o' sense?
Living is brokenness.
Living is fragile.
Living is momentary.
Yet purity bellows like crystal,
it only splatters once.
But who’s ready to say?
To the naked eye, it’s in pieces.
Only the bird will know the difference
A Dandelion's Adventure
A Dandelion's Adventure
By Martina/Nina Morales Quintanal
She is called Martina/Nina and she is 12 years old. She was born in Madrid but shortly after, she moved to London and has lived 11 years of her life there, She then moved back to Spain, joined an international school, but is joining a new school next year. So she has a bit of an idea of what new beginnings are like.
A Dandelion’s Adventure
It sleeps under the soil
But after all the noise and turmoil
It grows
And there it learns all it knows
But then the wind blows
And off it goes
Commencing another adventure
Creating memories to remember
And growing to be a dandelion of its own
And creating a home.
Dear Ellie: A Collection
Dear Ellie: A Collection
By Arielle Waterfield
Arielle Waterfield is a young writer from Fort Wayne, Indiana, with a passion for poetry, fiction, and literary exploration. Her work has appeared in the Ninth Annual Girls Right the World anthology, and she has been recognized with a Gold Key in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and an Honorable Mention in the Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest. Outside of writing, she enjoys studying literature and the humanities, leading book discussions for younger readers, and exploring how literature can provoke societal change. Her work is influenced by her interest in the relationship between storytelling and social change, and often explores themes of memory, resilience, and identity.
Dear Ellie: A Collection
Written and Adapted by Arielle Waterfield
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 3
PRODUCTION NOTES --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 5
ACT ONE -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 6
SCENE ONE ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 6
SCENE TWO ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 9
SCENE THREE --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 11
SCENE FOUR PT.1 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 13
SCENE FOUR PT.2 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 15
ACT TWO ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 16
SCENE ONE ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 16
---------------------------- INTERMISSION ----------------------------
SCENE TWO ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 19
SCENE THREE ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 21
SCENE FOUR ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 23
SCENE FIVE ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 24
ACT THREE ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 25
SCENE ONE ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 25
SCENE TWO ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 27
SCENE THREE ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 28
CHARACTERS
(in order of appearance)
Anna
Ages 11-17 throughout the play.
A girl caught between memory and delusion.
The narrator. Unreliable, but the emotional center of the story.
Very protective of her younger sister, feels responsible for her.
Ellie
Forever age 5.
Anna’s younger sister, dead from the opening scene (a mental hallucination).
Wears a ripped cotton dress and is increasingly distorted throughout the play.
Only interacts with Anna.
Mom
Emotionally shut down after Ellie’s death, but begins to heal when she remarries.
Represents the reality that Anna has to face.
Desperately wants Anna to move on.
Dad
Withdrawn, both emotionally and (eventually) physically absent.
Symbolizes the collapse of family as a result of grief.
Stepfather
Well-meaning but lacks connection.
Wants to force Anna to “move on.”
Represents her mother moving on.
Evan
New stepbrother, 14.
A reminder of what Ellie will never grow up to be.
The Therapist
Old woman with wrinkled, kind eyes.
Presents Anna with help, which she rejects.
PRODUCTION NOTES
CASTING
Ellie must be small and capable of expressive movement.
Her circling Anna should feel unsettling (similar to the movements in The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman).
GENERAL STAGING
Ellie should never be acknowledged physically by any character other than Anna. Characters must pass Ellie without reacting.
MAKEUP & COSTUME PROGRESSION
Anna
Increasingly pale, tense, and drawn.
Darker colors and a gaunter face as play progresses.
Ellie
Clothes are increasingly torn up and sullied throughout the play.
Dark and gaunt, with shadows under her eyes.
Mother
Opposite progression to Anna and Ellie.
Tense and drawn at the beginning of the play, increasingly lighter and happier (especially when Stepfather enters the play).
ACT ONE
A small bedroom in the home of an 11-year-old girl, ANNA. April 3, 2013. Stage left is ANNA’s bedroom, with a small desk with a notebook being the main focal point. Stage right is a grassy clearing with dirt leading up to a cliff. On the very edge of the cliff is a bundle of berry bushes with bright red berries.
As the curtain rises, ANNA is seen sitting at her desk, pen lifted, poised to write something in her notebook.
This play is set in the early 2010s, in a contemporary American household. At the beginning, everything seems normal. This play supplies an environment where grief is not confronted directly, but rather redirected without being fully acknowledged. Anna lives in such an environment. Her world is marked by an absence of confrontation and healthy resolutions. The adults around her (Mother and Father) attempt to maintain a normal facade, but fail to draw Anna into it.
Scene One (4/3/2013)
A soft wind sound is heard.
ANNA VOICEOVER [ominous]: Hey, Ellie. I see you, toes twisting in the dirt, nose scrunched in the sun.
[From Stage Right, ELLIE appears, twirling. ELLIE should look ethereal and angelic, moving with lightness and ease. In this scene, the stage light is on her, bright and glowing. She is impulsive, energetic, and unafraid of crossing boundaries she does not understand. YOUNG ANNA enters behind her. ANNA continues to write Stage Left. ANNA is a girl who watches the world closely and feels particularly responsible for and bound to her younger sister. At this moment, she is existing entirely in the present, feeling all emotions in the scene as they come.]
ANNA VOICEOVER: You’ve got that determined look in your eyes, the look you always wear when the shelf is just out of reach, the lid squeezed on just a little too tight—
ELLIE: Race me, Anna, race me, race me!
YOUNG ANNA [scoffing, smirking in a light-hearted manner]: You never win these things, Ellie.
[YOUNG ANNA and ELLIE begin circling the stage, faster and faster, ominous music playing and lights flickering. YOUNG ANNA’S face looks dark, ELLIE looks unhappy, scared. Wind sounds increase]
YOUNG ANNA: You’re faster than I remember.
ANNA VOICEOVER[quietly and ominously]: You never win these things. Closer, closer, rain from last night slickening—
[YOUNG ANNA stops moving suddenly, horror on her face, arms reaching out towards Ellie. ELLIE moves quickly, backing away from their circling, approaching the berry bush at the edge of the stage]
ANNA VOICEOVER: A lurch forward, a shout to stop, to look ahead—
[YOUNG ANNA lurches forward and silently shouts, reaching towards ELLIE in horror as she stumbles, gasping, about to fall off the edge of the cliff. Before she completely falls, the lights snap off. Stage left is still lit. ANNA looks up from her desk, horror in her eyes.]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Two (4/3/2013)
Lights rise. The scene is a kitchen, with a chair and a low table placed Center Stage. ELLIE sits in the chair, her left side to the audience and her face slightly turned away, towards the back of the stage. Her knees and legs are scraped and streaked with red. YOUNG ANNA kneels in front of her with bandages and a rag. Muted arguing can be heard from offstage.
MOTHER [offstage, muffled]: They shouldn’t have been out there—
[MOTHER is a woman who believes relentlessly moving forward, whether or not anything has truly been resolved, is always the best choice. Her grief is present but carefully contained.]
FATHER [offstage, muffled]: They’re just kids—
YOUNG ANNA [softly]: Hold still.
[YOUNG ANNA dabs ELLIE’s knee. ELLIE flinches, turning even further away from the audience. ELLIE appears as ANNA remembers her, but her movements are slower, her mannerisms more controlled. Her presence is shaped by ANNA’s memory and guilt, and becomes less stable as the play progresses. To reflect this, she should become increasingly eerie throughout the scene.]
YOUNG ANNA [with a small smile]: You beat me, you know. Mom didn’t believe me.
[ ELLIE tilts her head slightly, slowly.]
YOUNG ANNA [softly]: You were fast. Faster than I thought.
[MOTHER and FATHER’s arguing resumes again, growing louder before fading. YOUNG ANNA begins brushing ELLIE’s hair, pulling out twigs slowly.]
YOUNG ANNA: You always whine when I do this.
[ELLIE makes no sign that she has heard her, head still turned away from the audience.]
YOUNG ANNA [sharper]: Ellie?
[ELLIE slowly turns toward YOUNG ANNA, the audience can see that the middle of her face is streaked with blood.]
YOUNG ANNA: Only a couple months until school. Kindergarten—you’ll love it. [A pause]. You’ll be fine in the morning. The blood will scab.
[YOUNG ANNA keeps brushing ELLIE’s hair slowly, methodically.]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Three (10/7/2013)
Lights rise. Stage Left - ANNA is at her desk writing. ELLIE circles Stage Right slowly, mumbling. Stage Right is dimly lit.
ANNA [continuing to write]: Hey, kid. You hate it when I call you that.
[ELLIE’s mumbling grows more coherent.]
ELLIE [mumbling, overlapping]: Kid…kid. Hate… hate.
ANNA: Tell me about school, your new friends.
[ELLIE begins to circle closer to Stage Left, gazing at ANNA. MOTHER and FATHER appear in dim light at the corner of Stage Left, turned towards each other.]
MOTHER [hushed]: She keeps talking to her. It’s been months—
FATHER [hushed]: She won’t stop—tell her to stop. That’s your job.
ANNA [writing faster, not having heard MOTHER and FATHER]: I used to want to be a doctor. Not now, though—blood makes my head hurt.
[ELLIE stops circling, facing ANNA and staring directly at her.]
ANNA [softly, looking up at ELLIE]: You remember, right?
[ELLIE tilts her head, then resumes circling faster.]
ELLIE [mumbling, overlapping]: Remember… remember… closer… closer… AHEAD—
[As ELLIE mumbles, ANNA presses her pen harder into the paper, visibly distressed, still looking at ELLIE. She then turns her gaze back to her paper and sinks her head into her hands.]
ANNA [softly, desperately]: You can ask me anything. Ask me anything, Ellie. Please.
[ELLIE crosses into Stage Left, standing directly behind ANNA. ANNA sobs into her hands. ELLIE reaches to touch her shoulder—]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Four Pt.1 (10/14/2014)
Lights return, flickering slightly for a moment. Stage Left is a brick rooftop with a raised brick platform around it. Stage Right is the cliff. YOUNG ELLIE stands on the raised brick platform, holding a snow globe out over the edge. YOUNG ANNA stands below, panicked.
YOUNG ANNA: Ellie, get down from there!
YOUNG ELLIE [laughing]: Catch me!
YOUNG ANNA: Ellie, I’m serious!
[YOUNG ELLIE steps along the edge, arms out. Lights flicker. ANNA appears at the edge of Stage Right, writing with her notebook in her hand.]
ANNA [looking down at her paper, circling the rooftop scene but never looking up]: You loved this game—the chase and catch. I hated it. You were always taking everything too far.
[YOUNG ELLIE continues to dance along the edge, laughing, as YOUNG ANNA screams at her silently. YOUNG ELLIE leans dangerously over the edge of the cliff, teetering.]
YOUNG ANNA [frantically]: Drop it! Get down!
ANNA [quietly, pained]: I told you to drop it.
[YOUNG ELLIE freezes. A beat, then ELLIE (slightly older version in ripped clothes, actor present in Scene One) appears from Stage Left, crossing over to circle YOUNG ANNA slowly. YOUNG ANNA is frozen and doesn’t appear to see her.]
ELLIE [menacingly, halting behind YOUNG ANNA]: You never win these things.
[YOUNG ANNA whips around—]
LIGHTS BLACKOUT
Scene Four Pt.2 (10/14/2014)
Lights slowly rise, ANNA stands center stage. ELLIE circles her slowly.
ANNA [quietly, to ELLIE]: I won’t let anything happen to you.
[ELLIE continues circling.]
ANNA [stronger, defiant]: I’ll protect you. Always.
[ELLIE pauses behind her. Leans in.]
ELLIE [whispering]: Forever?
ANNA [closing her eyes]: Forever.
[ELLIE resumes circling, smiling. The sound of wind returns.]
LIGHTS SLOWLY FADE
ACT TWO
Stage Left continues to represent ANNA’s reality, shifting throughout the act from a store to a therapist’s office to a dining room. Stage Right remains a grassy clearing leading up to a cliff. A small white fence appears half-built along the edge.
Scene One (1/18/2015)
The lights are harsh and artificial. A low hum can be heard. Stage Left: ANNA stands with a shopping basket and her notebook. She is writing while walking, distracted. Stage Right/Center: A small child who looks somewhat like ELLIE stands under a spotlight. ELLIE sits Stage Right, legs crossed, watching. She is still.
ANNA [muttering as she writes]: I miss you. It’s been so long. Almost two years…
[ANNA looks up and stops mid-step as she sees the child.]
ANNA [barely breathing]: Ellie?
[ANNA drops the basket, running towards the child. She halts behind her, slowly reaching towards her.]
ANNA [soft, trembling]: You came back.
[ANNA grabs the child’s shoulders, turns her—the child recoils. ANNA sees that she is not ELLIE. Lights flicker.]
ANNA [whisper]: No…no…
[ELLIE, still cross-legged Stage Right, tilts her head slightly, watching. ANNA backs away slowly, shaking, as the child turns back around.]
ANNA [frantically]: They said you were gone, but you’re not—you’re not—I see you, Ellie, I see you—
[ANNA drops the notebook and looks at her arms, panic in her eyes as she backs into Stage Right. She slowly traces her pen along her arms before digging it into her skin, blood dripping down her lower arm. She begins to etch words on her forearm.]
ANNA [whispering as she writes, frantic]: I won’t forget you. I won’t forget you. I promise—
MOTHER [offstage, sharply]: Anna!
[Lights brighten slightly as MOTHER rushes in from Stage Left.]
MOTHER [horrified]: What are you doing?
[MOTHER grabs ANNA’s arm.]
MOTHER: Stop—ANNA, stop!
ANNA [pulling away, panicked]: Don’t touch me—I have to write—I have to remember—
[ELLIE slowly rises.]
MOTHER [voice breaking]: She’s gone.
[Silence.]
ANNA: No.
MOTHER: Anna—
ANNA: NO!
[ELLIE takes one step forward, towards ANNA.]
ANNA [whispering]: She’s right there.
[As ANNA points at ELLIE, she is plunged into darkness. MOTHER looks, pain on her face. A pause.]
MOTHER [quiet]: There’s no one there.
[MOTHER turns back towards ANNA. Lights brighten slightly on ELLIE as she smiles faintly.]
LIGHTS BLACKOUT
CURTAIN FALLS
------------------------------------- INTERMISSION -------------------------------------
Scene Two (11/21/2015)
Soft, sterile lighting. Two chairs Stage Left. ANNA sits rigidly in one, her left side facing the audience. THERAPIST sits across from her. ELLIE stands directly behind ANNA’s chair.
THERAPIST [quietly]: Anna, can you tell me about that day?
[A pause.]
ANNA: No.
THERAPIST: You don’t have to say everything. Just what you remember.
ANNA [monotone]: I don’t remember anything.
[ELLIE puts her hands on ANNA’s shoulders. ANNA stiffens slightly, but doesn’t turn around.]
THERAPIST: Your parents said you were there when it happened.
ANNA: I wasn’t.
THERAPIST: Anna—
ANNA: She’s at a friend’s house. Katie’s. She goes there all the time.
[ELLIE leans closer, bringing her mouth to ANNA’s ear.]
ELLIE [quietly]: Tell her.
THERAPIST: It’s important to remember these things—
ANNA: Stop.
[ANNA stands abruptly, moving away from her chair and pacing back and forth.]
ANNA: There’s nothing to talk about. She just hasn’t come home yet. That’s not something you need to fix.
THERAPIST [softly]: I’m not trying to fix it. I’m trying to help you understand—
ANNA [laughing hollowly]: Understand? Understand what?
[Agitated, ANNA stops pacing and runs her hands through her hair.]
ANNA [hollow, desperate]: That people leave?
[ELLIE moves from her spot behind ANNA’s chair, coming to stand slightly behind ANNA.]
THERAPIST [softly, pityingly]: Do you feel responsible?
[ANNA doesn’t move. ELLIE tilts her head, looking straight at ANNA. THERAPIST looks pityingly at ANNA, giving no sign that she can see ELLIE.]
ELLIE [soft]: You were right there.
ANNA [harshly]: NO.
THERAPIST: It’s okay—you can say anything you need to.
ANNA [voice shaking]: I said no.
[ANNA sits back down, rigid.]
ANNA [quietly]: She’s coming back.
[THERAPIST watches ANNA as ELLIE returns to her spot behind ANNA’s chair, smiling and returning her hands to ANNA’s shoulders.]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Three (7/24/2016)
Warm lighting. A dining table, Stage Left/Center Stage, with a small pile of beads in the center of the table. ANNA sits in a chair next to the table. A broken bracelet is in ANNA’s hands. MOTHER and FATHER are offstage initially, arguing quietly. As the scene progresses, MOTHER and FATHER appear on the edge of Stage Left, arguing with increased force.
ANNA VOICEOVER [despondent]: Ellie—they’re fighting. Again. Always. Come back, we need you. Why do you never come when I need you?
ANNA [softly, focused on the bracelet]: We’ll fix it. It’s fine.
[ANNA threads a bead with shaking hands, fumbling as the bead slips from her fingers, hitting the ground. Other beads are similarly scattered around her. ANNA freezes for a moment before resuming.]
ANNA [quietly]: It’s fine. I’m 16 now. I know what I’m doing.
MOTHER [offstage]: We can’t keep doing this—why are you not helping? Why are you not fixing this?
[MOTHER and FATHER enter Stage Left, both visibly distressed.]
FATHER: She needs to move on—you need to make her move on.
MOTHER [indigant]: Me? You. All those years ago, we followed your lead. Where are we now?
FATHER: You fell apart. You showed her how to fall apart. There was no other way—one of us had to be strong, has to be strong.
[ANNA peers harder at her bracelet, a crease forming between her eyebrows.]
ANNA : We’ll have a party. Just the two of us. It’ll be perfect.
[MOTHER walks to Center Stage Left and FATHER exits.]
MOTHER [softly]: Anna.
[ANNA ignores her.]
MOTHER [more firmly]: Anna. Give it to me. [sternly] Give. It. To. Me.
ANNA: No.
[MOTHER steps closer to ANNA, reaching for the bracelet.]
ANNA: Stop! It’s not yours—she needs it.
[MOTHER falters, pain flickering across her face, before grabbing the bracelet. ANNA yanks it back towards her.]
ANNA: Don’t—
[They struggle briefly. The bracelet snaps, beads scattering across the floor. ANNA and MOTHER freeze. ELLIE slowly bends down, picking up one bead. She peers at it, then looks towards ANNA, who watches her with fear in her eyes. ELLIE drops the bead. It hits the ground, lights flicker.]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Four (5/9/2017)
ANNA sits on her bed, head in her hands. The broken bracelet rests in her lap. Offstage, faintly, MOTHER can be heard laughing, talking to a man (STEPFATHER). Footsteps smack against the ground.
ANNA [rocking back and forth]: Stop—stop—
[The footsteps get louder, faster, resounding with booms offstage. ANNA presses her hands over her ears, curling into herself.]
ANNA [desperately]: Stop—
[ELLIE appears from Stage Right, half in shadow. ANNA looks up at her. The footsteps grow quiet again.]
ANNA [breathlessly, smiling]: Ellie.
[ELLIE doesn’t move. She continues to watch ANNA eerily.]
ANNA [softly]: I’ll fix everything. Don’t worry—I’ll fix it.
[The footsteps continue, growing louder. ELLIE takes a step backward, retreating further into shadow.]
ANNA: Wait, Ellie—
[ELLIE steps back again. ANNA stands, staring after her.]
ANNA: Please, don’t go. I can help you—I can help you with whatever you need.
[ELLIE continues backing up. As she disappears Stage Right, the footsteps stop abruptly.
ANNA [voice breaking]: Please.
[ANNA takes one step Stage Right.]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Five (4/3/2018)
Downstage Right is the cliff. A small, worn-down fence circles it. Wind can be heard. ELLIE stands inside the fence, right at the edge of the cliff. ANNA enters slowly from Stage Left. She looks out at the cliff, the sound of the wind rising slightly. ANNA stops for a moment, then steps closer to the edge. She freezes when she sees ELLIE.
ANNA [quietly]: Ellie?
[ELLIE smiles.]
ELLIE: You came back.
[ANNA takes a small step forward.]
ANNA: I thought—
[She stops. ELLIE tilts her head. Her smile grows menacing.]
ELLIE: You’re late.
[The wind grows louder, lights flicker.]
ANNA [voice shaking]: I tried—
[ELLIE takes a step backward, towards the drop.]
ANNA: Don’t.
[ELLIE pauses.]
ANNA: I know you’re here.
ELLIE: Come find me.
[Lights slowly dim as ELLIE backs up again, teetering on the edge.]
LIGHTS DIM
ACT THREE
Center Stage is Anna’s bedroom, her bed being the main focal point. Stage Right is the cliff. A worn white fence circles the edge. As the curtain rises, ANNA is seen lying in bed.
Scene One (4/4/2018)
Dim lighting. ANNA is lying under the covers of her bed, sleeping soundly. Footsteps resound from offstage. ANNA jerks awake, sitting upright.
ANNA: Hello?
[The footsteps continue. Slightly closer now.]
ANNA: Mom?
[The footsteps stop. ANNA looks around. She exhales shakily, beginning to lower herself back down when the footsteps resume, sounding closer and closer. ELLIE (the source of the footsteps) enters slowly from Stage Right. She walks towards the bed and begins to walk in slow circles around it, her gaze focusing on ANNA.]
ANNA: Ellie?
[ELLIE continues circling. ANNA pulls the covers tighter around herself, watching her.]
ANNA: I hear you. I know you’re here. I can feel you.
[ELLIE stops behind her.]
ANNA: Say something.
[ELLIE takes one step back, then begins backing up quickly and disappears Stage Right. ANNA whips around, face faltering as she sees that ELLIE is gone. She opens her mouth, screaming silently, rocking back and forth. Footsteps resound again from Stage Left, louder and more sure than ELLIE’s footsteps. STEPFATHER bursts in.]
STEPFATHER: Anna? Are you okay? What’s wrong?
[ANNA doesn’t answer, rocking slightly back and forth, staring forward. STEPFATHER sits on the edge of the bed.]
STEPFATHER [quietly]: Hey—hey, talk to me.
[ANNA buries her head in her hands.]
ANNA [muffled, desperate]: We have to find her. She needs us.
[STEPFATHER stiffens. A pause.]
STEPFATHER [slowly]: Anna…
ANNA [quietly, voice breaking]: She needs us.
STEP-FATHER [firmly]: Anna—
ANNA: We have to.
[ANNA breaks into sobs, the room is still. STEPFATHER looks on, helpless. A faint wind sound returns.]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Two (6/2/2018)
Soft light. ANNA’s bedroom is Stage Left, the cliff is Stage Right. A pair of running shoes sits on the floor. A long pause. ANNA enters Stage Left and kneels, picking up the running shoes slowly.
ANNA [quietly]: I don’t know why she got these.
[ANNA brushes dust off them carefully, sitting down on her bed and slipping them on. She stands, carefully, wavering slightly. Wind sound slowly begins as ANNA walks towards Stage Right. The fixed bracelet is wrapped around her wrist. She snaps it lightly against her skin. ELLIE appears behind her, walking, matching her pace. Wind sounds increase as ANNA reaches the edge of the cliff. She stops, breathing in sharply.]
ANNA [to herself, quietly]: It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
[ANNA looks down slowly, over the edge of the cliff, as the wind sound grows stronger. ELLIE lifts her hand, lightly pressing it against ANNA’s back. ANNA freezes. A slight pause, then ANNA collapses forward, catching herself on the very edge of the cliff with her hands. She retches violently.]
ANNA [gasping]: I can’t—
[ANNA clutches her stomach, shaking. ELLIE watches, looming over her.]
ANNA [quietly]: I can’t do it.
[The wind fades slightly. ELLIE steps back. ANNA stays on the ground, breathing, shaking, eyes on the ground. She peers up, looking over the cliff.]
LIGHTS DIM
Scene Three (10/14/2018)
Soft light. ANNA’s bedroom is Stage Left, the cliff is Stage Right. ANNA sits on the edge of her bed, running shoes on her feet. She breathes slowly, staring off into the distance. A young boy (STEPBROTHER) sits beside her quietly.
ANNA [quietly]: I’m trying.
[STEPBROTHER nods slightly. ANNA pauses, then slowly stands. She looks at the bracelet in her hand. She wraps it once around her wrist, then begins to walk towards Stage Right. ANNA approaches the edge of the cliff, wind sound faintly resonating through the space. She stops, snapping her bracelet. Once, twice, harder. ELLIE walks in Stage Left, crossing ANNA’s bedroom and coming to stand behind her.]
ANNA [quietly]: I remember you. I feel you.
[ANNA snaps the bracelet again, and it breaks. Beads scatter, falling to the ground and rolling off the edge of the cliff. ANNA inhales sharply, collapsing to the ground and reaching out over the cliff, desperately trying to catch the beads before they fall.]
ANNA: NO!
[ELLIE comes to stand behind her. ANNA is frozen, arm still outstretched, breathing heavily. She looks over the edge of the cliff, leaning forward, teetering on the edge—]
LIGHTS BLACKOUT
CURTAIN FALLS
Irony of art
Irony of art
By Theo Charlie Goldammer
Lying in the sun.
Should I write about this spring?
My pen is inside.
In Memory of Love -- Fes, 1933
In Memory of Love -- Fes, 1933
By Manar Dahr
Manar Dahr writes about women who love in secret and carry the weight of that silence for a lifetime. Her fiction is rooted in North African history, memory, and the quiet devastation of lives lived between worlds. She is at work on her first collection.
Kenza was very much aware that she was losing her mind. She had been aware of it for quite some time now, aware of that slow, agonizing process towards complete mental unraveling. She had been losing her mind for decades, silently, quietly, demurely, in a way no one had noticed. The insidious fraying did not scare her, however; she had already lost herself many times and was ready to lose it again, to let it slip from between her fingers into the total abyss of derangement and insanity. She was losing herself, but also her mind, and well, that microscopic cage with small fogged window panes and its own heart which was constantly thrumming at the memory of him was gradually falling apart as an old, dilapidated building. It had a small door, a threshold that had been closed for too long; locked from inside. It had a miniature bed, as well; she often lay awake in it devouring the endless images of him hung on every wall of her cabin.
Similarly, Kenza laid in the hospice bed, contemplating the ceiling. She imagined that she was being painted by Etienne. She hoped the two blue dots on the flaking paint of the wall were his deep, enthralling eyes. The line underneath was his enamored, tender smile. He was in the room, everywhere, yet Alia did not know. The nurses did not know. Salwa and Nadia did not seem to know either, as they were perched on the window frame, surveying strangers outside in the garden of Clinique Saint-Jean. Dounia was smoking in the hallway. Tariq died not knowing, and everyone else, too. But she recalled what Etienne would tell her, in that slow, velvety tone of voice: “Pas tout le monde mérite de savoir.”
All of a sudden, she was swimming in the Fes River, shrouded in the murk of the night and plunged into the frigid water while he held her hand, his buttery laugh echoing in the tiny, minuscule corners of her mind. She was out of place, out of time, never searching for an escape. She glanced at their clothes shrugged-off on the bank and felt a tinge of grief deep inside her heart. Which heart? She wondered. Both had always carried that undetectable languor, but then it felt larger and bigger than her entire world. Gazing back at Etienne, whose dripped blond curls were tumbling on his forehead, cheeks flushed from smiling, she whispered, “My father would drown me in this same river if he ever finds out.”
“No, he won’t,” replied Etienne decisively.
“How do you know? You consulted a shawafa (a fortune-teller) ?”
He laughed anew, pulling her closer, “I consulted my heart. It told me I will never, ever leave you. You’re not alone anymore, Kenza, alright?.”
“You’re speaking as if you’ll never leave, but you will… eventually,” she retorted, swimming away from his arms, covering her naked breasts with the palms of her hands, “everyone does.”
“I’m not everyone,” he said, his enthusiasm slightly crushed by her cynicism. “And, besides, even if I leave, which will not happen, I will always find you. Always. There always will be a piece of me with you, in you, for eternity, for the ether, my love!”
Kenza tried to caress the water with her hand, but instead, she felt the coarse, gritty sheet of the hospital bed. Instead of listening to Etienne’s melodious chuckle, she heard the indistinct chatter of the nurses. Instead of sensing his arms on her, Kenza felt death gripping her wrenchingly, and she felt as if she were gasping for air under the river. Instead of being in her warm, familiar cabin, Kenza was truly, authentically, progressively dying. She had been dying for so long she began yearning for life. The thought of lingering in unending nothingness was uncomfortable for her. Kenza wanted to remain in the memory of her love, for eternity, letting that love consume her the way fire consumes a pack of hay.
“Maman,” repeated Alia, pinching her arms, “maman, maman!”
Kenza finally looked at her. She let out a sigh of relief. “Maman, you really scared us.”
“Who are you?” responded Kenza, almost startled, “leave me alone, lady. I don’t speak to strangers.”
Her mother would tell her the same, although she was not a child anymore at the time. She was sixteen, nonetheless, her mother ordered her over and over again, until her voice had become a vortex reverberating across the courtyard, a token for her own deeply buried fears and desires, while Kenza was brushing her hair, getting dressed up for secondary school, “Do not talk to strangers. Do you hear me?”
Kenza nodded accordingly, but she knew her mother did not refer to the desultory, jobless people wandering off the neighborhood. She was talking about the French. The French and their Villes Nouvelles governed every aspect of life in the country. In fact, the French were ruling the country, not with an iron grip but with a gold one, devastating both the economy and the local communities who were still adapting to this swift, radical, and unprecedented shift. The King was exiled to Madagascar, after all, and the nation was hopeless and distressed, brutalized and conquered, yet it had to remain silent. The colonial French administration yanked off the heart of the country and expected it to keep beating.
At eight in the morning, enveloped by the crisp and lucent morning air, the distant babble of the passersby, and the sallow and weather-worn buildings which were slowly losing their colors, Kenza was picking at a small pastry. Her fingers trembled from the cold and her pestering thoughts and her heavy sac-à-dos weighed on her mind. She knew she did not have the right, or rather the privilege, to notice him. But it was him, wasn’t it? He came out of his Peugeot 601, held up a cigarette, and lit a match. His penetrating gaze followed her all along the street. He was tall, blond, and absurdly arrogant-looking. Huge dilated eyes, Roman nose, plump red lips, naturally-flushed face. Admittedly, Kenza found his superabundant beauty overwhelming.
He was a Renaissance painting coming to life and she profusely despised how much power it had over her. It was the same irritating feeling of surveying a gold or diamond jewel behind glass. You were aware it cost millions yet could not bring yourself to look away. You hated that you couldn’t afford it, and so you watched with even more intent, with even more hatred, with even more anguish. Yet, despite everything, you wanted it badly, and this desire could never truly be muffled.
She gazed away swiftly, pretending his existence was a mere mirage of her imagination. Attracted by her fascination, he took a few steps ahead, his fingers nervously scraping the surface of his lustrous, gleaming hair. He then looked right and left, scanning for any bystanders or secret members of Le Service des Affaires Nationales.
The main nurse, Céline, came to keep an eye on Kenza at three in the morning. The room was engulfed in absolute obscurity and a peculiar smell she was not able to detect. “ça va, bien, Kenza?” Céline inquired, sliding her hands in the lower pockets of her scrub.
Alia and her daughters were gone, and she was alone again. “My name is not Kenza,” she responded, “and where is Etienne?”
“Etienne?”
“He was on the brink of speaking to me. He was standing at the corner of the neighborhood alley, and I was going to the lycée and…,” Kenza spoke breathlessly, relentlessly, almost as if she could speak a limited number of words. “Where is Etienne?” she reiterated. “Where is Etienne?”
“I believe you need PRN analgesia,” Célinee uttered firmly, though she was quietly unsettled by Kenza’s outlandish fantasies, “and your anti-psychosis meds as well, m’am.”
But Kenza was already gone. She was back in her cabin, again.
Like a bolt from the blue, she was transported back to the summer of the year 1933. She was with Etienne in the middle of a vast, verdant orchard, under the wide blue sky and the soothing chirping of birds. The sun shone a bit too brightly, but Kenza remained silent. He was holding both her hands, speaking softly to her. She couldn’t, no matter how much she tried, pull away from him. They had kissed, embraced, perhaps one, perhaps twice, perhaps thrice. It was difficult to keep score. The Mekhzen, the invigilators, her father, and his father, the Resident-General of France in Morocco could discern her in any instant.
She was constantly on the verge of an imaginary ledge, waiting patiently for the ideal moment to jump. She was killing herself, progressively, quietly, softly, romantically, yet she loved it. His lips tasted of Chateau Haut-Brion, La Fougasse, danger, and smoldering passion. Etienne helped her undress, removing her linen brasserie, and tossing it on the chartreuse-colored grass, all while covering her entire body in kisses: her neck, her eyelids, her temples, her knees, her forehead, her stomach, her cheeks, her mouth, all of her, even the parts she hated most.
They took cover behind a gnarled tree, as he continued to run his lips all over her blistering skin. Kenza retreated to her mind anew, her narrow yet vast cabin, letting the old flame traveling through her, burning her the same way her heart burns and yearns for something which no longer exists. “I love you so much,” he murmured, as his face rested on her lap, but Kenza could hear the tears in his voice, “I love you so much, Kenza, so much I swear I forgot to breathe sometimes because… all I can think about is you. I want to protect you. All of you. And love you so profoundly you forget all of your wounds. And I know we ought not to do this but I could not care less because my love for you transcends every existing boundary.”
Inside the private enclave of the Resident-General, Kenza was looking through the Azure- stained window lites at the Elysian groves, the variegated, well-trimmed hedges, and the boundless green piscine positioned at the heart of the courtyard. She sat silently in the kitchen, listening attentively to the news bulletin, which was more of an emergency broadcast rather than a commentary. Etienne vowed to paint a portrait of her only if she had been willing to accompany him home, while his father was away to the north of Morocco, in the Rif regions where Ait Ouriaghel was brutally wrestling with the Spaniards to get hold of the Sahara and the Rif mountains of the shamal. Orchestrated by Abd Al Karim Al Khattabi, the Riffians were yearning not only for similar developmental changes in the area but for the complete obliteration of Spanish rule, this time not through peaceful chanting but through brute, hideous force. At home, listening to the radio had turned into a sanctified ritual. Her father would lounge on the armchair, repeatedly telling her and her mother about how the Riffians had more nefs (dignity) and rojla (manhood) than the Fassis, the Meknassis, or even the Casablancis. He would refer to the latter as kawana (traitors) for attempting to escape imprisonment by machinating with the French. “If it were not for Al Khattabi or Al Hiba, we would all be in an oubliette until the end of times or on the brink of lying under La guillotine,” he said with a tangible amalgamation of frustration and contempt, “Shame be upon the Casablancis, for trying to silence our country for money. They turned out even worse than al yahoud (the Jews).”
Although she never directly raised the question, Kenza frequently wondered why he would refer to all non-Muslims as Jews, even Christians. How did that minority become both a prototype of all faiths and a symbol for moral and religious dishonesty? She feared her father would smell the khyana (betrayal) of the Jews in her skin. She feared Etienne’s scent would linger, or rather reside, in her, to the extent it would overflow from her at every instant. Etienne was not like the Jews her father constantly debased, but she would still be beheaded in the courtyard as a sheep in Eid Al-Adha. They would burn her head and eat it, subsequently, over several days, sharing some of it with the neighbors, friends, relatives, acquaintances, and passersby who could not afford to purchase one. The women of the quartier would spend the morning scraping and mopping off her blood from the floor while chanting in unison.
Kenza opened her eyes once again. At seven in the morning, she was jarred by the silence which haunted the room, a cavernous silence in which even Céline's voice vanished. Etienne was in the armchair at the corner, near the window where Alia would sit. She felt slightly startled, as Etienne had remained so youthful-looking whereas she was covered in wrinkles. He asked how she was, but Kenza asked about how he was, living in the other world for decades. “How is life there?” she questioned, her tone thick with curiosity. “How has life been there for you?”
But Etienne offered no response, not until a couple of minutes had passed. “Not peaceful,” he replied calmly, “not peaceful without you, Kenza.”
He smiled tenderly at her again, making her heart both flutter and break under the weight of the crushing silence she had become accustomed to. She wanted to recount everything to him: the solitude, the loveless marriage with Tariq, the daughters towards whom she never felt authentic motherly affection, the cancer which had spread to her bones and brain, the Alzheimer which had been devouring her and her quiet cabin over the years. Yet, her lips, now wrinkled and tight, were sealed as if by force. She could only fervently grab Etienne’s hand, feeling the mellowness and coldness of his skin, gazing into the abyss, taking an enduring, profound but soft breath.
This time, they were both back in the cabin, holding each other's hands into the abysmal darkness. They were back in the river, the orchard, the hallway of the estate, the kitchen, and the decrepit streets of Al Medina. This time, Etienne was telling the truth: he would never leave her again.
“Etienne,” she whispered at last.
Etienne.
stolen seconds
stolen seconds
By Theo Charlie Goldammer
This early, the street belongs to the pigeons. Unbothered by the time, they spend their morning picking away at soggy fries, or being spooked by a lose plastic bag, blowing in the wind. In the distance, the sun is only just starting to peak over the horizon, spilling its golden rays over the sleeping city.
She sits with her legs dangling over the edge. The city beneath her is grey and dirty, as is the abandoned factory she’s currently residing. Only the cracked concrete wall behind her stands out, an explosion of vibrance amidst the grey. Giant purple swirls, complex shapes of acid green, and a spattering of silver stars to top it off. Her own little galaxy.
It had taken her the whole night. Only now, at sunrise, she is finally happy with her creation. The chemical tang of spray paint hangs heavy in the air, coating her throat and tongue, mixing there with the cold sweetness of her knock-off coke. The exhaustion and chill of a sleepless night are weighing on her, but unable to chase away the contentment of a summer night unwisely spent.
But it doesn’t last – it never can.
With a sigh, she checks her broken phone screen: “5:21”.
She stretches, yawns, shakes the exhaustion off as best as she can.
Following some random impulse, she balances on the edge, arms stretched wide, a tightrope walker in a circus. For just one moment, the shitty old rooftop of a decrepit factory becomes the top of the world.
In a few minutes, she’ll be down there, on the street with the all the other unlucky bastards that are dragging themselves to work. She’ll be rushing to the shitty little apartment she can barely afford, hurrying to scrub the paint off her skin before heading to her dead-end job.
But now, during these precious few seconds she has managed to steal for herself, she feels truly alive.
My favorite train
My favorite train
By Kyle Kono
Kyle is a 14 year old boy who enjoys writing, watching anime, and listening to music. In his free time, he DJs parties and tutors his younger brother. Kyle currently goes to Harvard Westlake.
A women,
Beautiful and tall,
Types away on her computer,
Laser focused.
Her vision is
A tunnel vision, and
She is a train hurtling towards
Her destination,
Crushing obstacles,
And unrelenting in her determination.
A non profit is born.
A company is guided.
Two boys are raised.
Still, the train continues
Its journey.
Her fingers tapping, clicking, typing,
Always moving.
Her eyes never waver or wander.
Her drive and grit are fuel for the train,
And I am simply one of the cars being
Pulled along.
You must know, however,
That even trains have their limit.
A boulder in the way will damage
Her, no matter how
Strong she is.
So please, respect the train.
Popular
Popular
By Georgiana Green
Georgiana Green is a passionate eighth-grade writer. Outside of writing, enjoys volleyball, biking, and playing with her dog, Biscuit. Georgiana finds the most challenging part of writing to be creating a neat and tidy ending once she feels a story is finished. However, she loves the moment when an idea strikes -- it feels similar to meeting a new friend. She wants to immediately learn everything about them! When Georgiana gets older, she hopes to be a full-time young adult novelist (in addition to her goal of writing a book before age 18!).
They have a silent kind of power. They strut down the halls with their perfectly curled blonde hair and Lululemon shorts, giggling and whispering like they could talk forever. You try to avoid them, stick with your safe, secure nerdy friend group. It’s predictable there - everyone understands you, knows you. You stay with them until eighth grade. Surprisingly, you make the volleyball team. Just for exercise, you say. Smile when people congratulate you. Silently dance around in your room for hours once you’re alone. Passionate isn’t cool. Your friends are happy for you. They come to all your games. It starts off awkwardly. Your coach puts you in the game for two minutes and then subs you out, shaking her head. Your friends high five you after, but you know you didn’t do well. You practice. At recess, after school, before school. You put in the extra hours. And finally, on your third game, you get put in for ten minutes. You score four points. Your coach pulls you out for a five-minute break, then puts you back in for the rest of the game. Your team wins. They fuss over you, smiling and giggling like you’re one of them. Your coach nods. Your friends congratulate you too, but it’s just not the same. You start practicing with them. You get better. You’re in the starting lineup every time. You start eating lunch with them. You tell your friends you’re just discussing game strategy, but you’re really obsessing over the latest TikTok trends. You wake up at 5am to get in two hours of practice before school, and practice consumes every afternoon and evening. After most practices come a party, so you don’t get home till ten. You stay up another two hours researching trends. It’s hard work, but it’s so worth it. You quit chess club and Mathletes. Your friends say it’s okay, that they understand. Whatever. You fall asleep doing homework. Your grades start slipping. You shrug it off, tell yourself it’s normal for a little up-and-down. Your friends still call, but you hardly pick up anymore. When you do, you tell them you’re at practice and promise to call them later. You don’t. Your life is practice and parties. One misstep could land you right back in chess club. You start wearing makeup. A dot of concealer quickly turns into a thirty-minute makeup routine at 4:30 in the morning. You curse when you get mascara on your eyelid. Your parents remind you to spend time with the nerds. You groan and slam the door, yelling that you don’t have time anymore. You rarely complete homework assignments. Your grades are just below a C. You start stealing your mom’s credit card. It starts as buying brand volleyball shoes, since she won’t get you the Lululemon ones. You wake up at 4am now to fit in half an hour of online shopping. It’s high school now. Your old friends still text. They try to include you in plans, but you don’t respond. When you do, you say you’re busy. Parties run late. You get four hours of sleep on a good day. You pull all-nighters every other night to research trends. You get on social media and rapidly gain followers. They demand more. You post as much as you can. Sleep is rare. Four hours turns into three. You film at one in the morning. One day, someone comments on one of your videos. They ask if you’re okay. You hide the comment. Try not to think about it. You do your makeup and go to practice. Buy a new dress for the Spring Fling. You get a boyfriend, but you break up after a week. You don’t have the time. Practice goes from three hours to four. Your free day disintegrates. Your grades sink to Ds. Your coach warns you that you can’t play on the team if you fail. You promise you won’t. Start studying harder. Sophomore year. SATs are coming up. Your grades are hanging on by a thread. Your coach suggests taking a week off to catch up on work. You decline, but your grades slip to 60s. Fs. Your parents order you to get tutoring. You scream at them and slam your door. Goodbye, volleyball. Your teammates lose touch. You’re not the star player anymore. They don’t care. You can’t score points if you’re on the sidelines. Your social status plummets. You lose followers. You get a 820 on the SAT. You text your ex-friends. They don’t respond for weeks. Finally, one of them does. They offer to tutor you. You start waking up later. 7am at the earliest. No point in researching trends if you don’t need to know them anymore, right? You retake the SAT. 920. A small smile from your parents. Your grades rise to a D. Your coach advises you to wait until you have a B or C to resume playing. You listen. You stop wearing makeup. The nerds offer you their concealer, but you decline. It doesn’t matter. Almost a third of the volleyball team has to repeat sophomore year. You don’t. You return to volleyball in junior year. Your grades are at a B minus. You retake the SAT. 1090. Your parents pat you on the back. You keep tutoring. You join Mathletes. You don’t research trends anymore. You wonder why you ever did. Your teammates start following your example. You introduce them to your other friends. It’s awkward, but it’s worth it. Senior year rolls around. You’re the top scorer yet again. Your friend group’s different now. They notice when you miss practice or Mathletes. You get a volleyball scholarship at UC Berkeley. You take the SAT one more time. 1350. It’s so worth it.
To My First White Hair
To My First White Hair
By Mariam Aly
A youth activist and writer passionate about culture, identity, heritage, languages, and community resilience. She explores the world through the lenses of sociocultural and linguistic anthropology, using her work to examine collective memory, displacement, cultural preservation, belonging, and the ways people and communities shape—and are shaped by—their cultural roots in the face of change and adversity.
I was gently brushing my hair
when I found a single strand of white.
The first one.
I smiled.
I felt a quiet awe.
a new aura settling over me,
a new version of myself
trying to show me
that I was getting somewhere in life.
Then another appeared.
And another.
One became a few,
and now it feels like a countdown.
I looked at them with melancholy.
How painful it is
to grow older by years
without living up to them.
But the ones that haunt me most
are neither the black nor the white.
It's the strands
half black,
half white,
caught between becoming
and remaining.
They remind me of myself.
Stuck in the middle,
changing without arriving,
growing without becoming,
existing somewhere between
who I was
and who I thought I'd be.
I look at them,
and they fill me with ache,
with sadness,
with yearning
for unlived days,
for unfulfilled dreams.
By now,
I should have lived a hundred lives.
I should have collected
cities,
laughter,
mistakes,
friends who became strangers,
strangers who became home.
I should have stories
woven into every silver thread.
Instead, I count the years
in strands of white.
Yet perhaps
that is what they ask of me.
Perhaps these white hairs
are not mourning what I have missed,
but reminding me
of what is still mine to claim.
I owe it to every strand of white
to live a life
worthy of growing old.
miles away
miles away
By Ivy Sinclair
Ivy Sinclair is a teen based in Canada who has been stuck in an endless loop of bruises and scars from her life. yet, her favourite part of that process is to write them out. she wishes to leave her hometown to search for more, because she absolutely knows there is more out there for her.
i can’t help but wonder what would’ve changed if i hadn’t said what i had said
if my ground fell beneath me when i told you i could not attend
and how you didn’t speak to me for a month
or didn’t speak up about that one time that we don’t have to talk about
it doesn't matter to me most days
because frankly, you wouldn’t care
or count your mistakes
your quiet, masochistic blows that you’ve shot me
with no backup besides the fact i would never hold it against you
and your odd obsessions with being a good friend
when it has never been that way
--
i went on a trip with my family when i was sixteen
you were at the lake with our old friends
miles away
my mother asked how you were
i didn’t have the heart to tell her that it’s been weeks
since i’ve spoken to you
she will never know how you hurt me
no broken bones or bruises
a scar, instead
--
five years have passed now
it’s summer
i’m living in nova scotia
you’re in calgary
miles away
i volunteer at the local museum between classes
you are going through pre-med exam practice questions
i find it almost comedic how we laughed about our futures as one
we’d live in the same apartment building in the city
under a pasta shop
fall in love at the same time
do you feel ashamed when you hear my name ?
how i could never imagined a life where we never spoke until today ?
you probably have a boyfriend by now
a steady job at a gaming store for the time being
i work as an editor in a magazine
that also yearns to still be a medical lawyer
i wish you were here with me
you’d be proud, i hope
i hope you are happy as well, truly
in a couple of years
you’ll be a nurse
i’ll be a social worker
miles away
and we’d never know
Still we rise
Still we rise
By Aashi J.
Aashyy is a writer, editor, and literary curator with a deep passion for literature and storytelling. She enjoys working with literary magazines and contributing to spaces that celebrate meaningful writing and diverse voices. Her work often explores themes of resilience, hardship, healing, and the complexities of the human experience.
Amidst all challenges faced daily still we rise. When we come up with the act of pure defiance the movers and shakers, kingpin and controllers try to silence and divide but who's here to understand that our resistance is formed on the foundation of never surrendering, giving up with closed eyes and at last building up our endurance to prejudice, inequality and a society that feeds off on condescension. The fight is against the system and the surrounding. Growing up and coming across riots in the town, watching the news hit like a punch straight to the gut. To the pain of fear of being attacked any day, to the fire burning inside the heart demanding for a change, towards the storm building up in the soul while we lie between all wars and swords is all what this constant protest and rage is dedicated for. Be it the land we come from, the colour our skin has, the accent we hold or the last name we carry we are persistently meeting different perspectives and opinions on why we can't and shouldn't be allowed to enter certain gateaways, why we're not qualified to win and go down certain roads that will lead us to success. It’s a daily battle, a fight that never ends and at times it feels like being a warrior whose weapons have been seized and a knight whose armour has been battered. Battling racism talks about every form of prejudice that we come across on a daily basis, every rude glance in a restaurant that felt more like a glare, every flood of vituperation thrown towards people of colour amounts to crude violence, or any degrading comment and demeaning question at a dinner party that made you lose your entire appetite are all a part of extreme mortification that makes me want to question the very basis of humanity, humility and social values, but these examples are not the end, there’s a whole bigger picture to racism that is highly concerning, for instance children of colour face preconception at schools by their peers and teachers and multiple forms of biasiness that they face that serves as a big obstacle and hindrance in their education such as stricter grading comparatively to other kids, and facing racial slurs by their peers, another instance is regarding the healthcare system, medical patients who are people of colour face laxly check ups and cursorial examinations because their health issues are simply never deemed important enough to be assessed properly. The impact of racism goes very deep and extreme and it needs to be seriously looked at and changed. Can anyone speak up pragmatically and explain to us why the opinions that have formed have formed in such a way? why aren't there answers but only loud noises when we ask to be laid down facts? Why do the same people turn their backs when requested to talk factually? The simple answer to all these questions is that none of these people highlight actual strength because actual power lies in being given justice and freedom. There isn’t just one form of equality that we as people are seeking, we are seeking equality in every form such as social equality, civil equality, economic and natural equity because only a society abiding by equality can be a developed and progressive.. We need to get rid of bigotry and discrimination in order to build solidarity that will make the world a better place to live in and a healthy environment in which the young children would want to grow up in.
In losing you I found myself
In losing you I found myself
By Ammara Gul
IN LOSING YOU I FOUND MYSELF_ (Aphorist)
The night bled rain
Not the gentle kind
The kind that washes cities clean and
Breaks people open.
Through that storm, I saw you
A moon.
Scarred, silent and impossibly far
Flawed in every way that make you
Unforgettable.
I never counted your cracks
I was too busy worshipping the light that
Leaked through them
With empty hands and a heart too full,
I offered you everything I was.
I knew the sky would never let me hold you
But love has never cared about gravity.
I called it destiny.
I called it the most beautiful ache
I built my entire worlds in my heads with you,
Until one day I woke up and realized_
In reaching for you,
I have been letting go of myself.
Then the morning came without warning
And you were gone
As if the sky had never known your name
The moon vanished.
And all that remains were stars.
At first, I cursed them
Tiny, distant, ordinary
What use is a sky full of light
When the one I wanted has left?
But grief is a patient teacher
Time doesn’t rush. It reveals
Slowly, I learned their language
I sat with stars
I grew with them
And in their quiet glow,
I stopped searching the sky
And started searching myself.
I still feel the pull of moon sometimes
Some love leaves echoes
I blamed myself once_
For not climbing higher,
For not loving harder,
For not being enough to keep a moon.
But here is what the silence taught me:
The night you left
Was the morning I arrived
The universe leaned in and whispered, “look down”
So, I did
And there I was
Not shattered. Not empty
Unbecoming everything I pretended to be
So, I could become everything I was.
The real me
The rooted me
The version of me that doesn’t beg the sky
to stay.
Maybe the moon was never meant to be mine
Maybe it was meant to pull the tide,
To teach me how to rise,
And then recede_
So, I would finally turn around
And see the galaxy that had been waiting in me
All along.
I became the muse I was chasing
I became the masterpiece I was begging for
I became the home I was looking for
In you_
“In losing you I found myself”
And I have never been more found.
Cigarette smoke
Cigarette smoke
By Grace C. Sun
“I don’t smoke.” You say, the first time I mention the smell in your car.
It was where we spent most of our days, the AC on full blast as we watched summer play out through rose-tinted glass—the sunshine just bright enough to penetrate our eyes but not our souls.
You put your feet on the dashboard, and as an answer, dangle an imaginary cigarette between your lips. “Can you still smell it now?” You ask, bringing your finger to my nose.
I marvel at the way you make-believe, maybe because I fell for them so easily.
Your voice, an echo, just distant enough to be memory, replays in my mind. I still have screenshots of the text messages you sent me, that summer we were sixteen going on seventeen. I have them not in a creepy-stalker-ish way, but because I had been planning your birthday present and wanted to be reminded of the things you love.
One of them was the sea. “I’ve seen the sea before,” I say once, and you ask me to describe it to you. I tell you about the wind and how it makes the wisps of your hair dance. I tell you about the couples sunbathing, and how even from far away you can tell they were in love. I even tell you about the uncomfortable bits, the sand, prickling and hot, that seeps into your slippers and the crevices of your toes. Then I tell you my favourite part, the waves that never stop coming and going by their own unyielding rhythm. When I was little, I used to run to the water when one receded and before another came, my hands, a fistful of wet sand and treasures to keep. I still do this with my memories, picking the shiniest shells and letting the sea swallow the rest.
Even if you didn’t smoke, I know that everything leaves a trace. That summer it was the smoke after a fire, a rush of heat Icarus must have felt when he flew towards the sun. As stupid as him I chase it too.
Then there is a falling, of course, as the tale goes. But the before is what I wish to remember.
Cherry and the Summer Abroad
Cherry and the Summer Abroad
By Lois Perry
Lois Perry is a new writer and full time student attending UC Riverside. You can find her essays on personal growth and music opinion pieces on Substack @theshynessclinic
I’ve been the same girl my whole life. I’ve been quiet, bookish, subservient…the perfect seen-not-heard child that parents and teachers alike could parade happily. I spent my time balling up praise to shove into the growing pit within myself, replacing genuine personality with this pure, old-soul image that had been cast upon me. This could make me content, couldn’t it? Doesn’t everyone aspire to be liked?? Isn’t that the whole point???
During my everlasting gap year, a few months in the summer that felt like lifetimes, I felt lost. There was nothing to excel at, no papers to write to gain praise and give me back my self image. I started to wonder if there was more to myself than living for others. Of course, I didn’t act upon this and stayed displayed in my mother’s dollhouse, smile painted and ready to be whatever character I needed to be.
I think I gave myself some sort of disease, which I likened to a tumor (spoiler alert: there is no tumor. You’re just anxious). I named her Cherry, and I took comfort in the idea that she would almost certainly take my life within the coming months. She was determined and, most importantly, she thought the way I was living was a waste. I broke down in early August after a season of never ending dreams of running away. However, despite this psychotic break, I didn’t consider changing anything about my life or agency and instead spent most of the night rummaging through the medicine cabinet. I could’ve died just from the sad spread I had: some old 5 Hour Energies, diet pills, and some Tylenol…I regretfully put everything back in its rightful place and decided to just call it a night.
Cherry comes back the following summer, but this time she’s not a tumor. I’ve fallen in love, and these overwhelming emotions make me wish the tumor story was true. There’s something about this hopeless infatuation that makes me restless. I look down into that pit within myself, quite empty given that professors aren’t jumping at the chance to compliment me, and see a bit of light deep down.
The next few months are a whirlwind of self discovery, a rush of firsts and bucket list items being crossed off. Suddenly it’s almost August, and I’m dropped off as a new person. Being authentic seems to mean that I’m now my mother’s mortal enemy and a stain on one of my grandmother’s many precious decorative pillows, but their obvious disapproval doesn’t outweigh the miracle of finally being able to breathe deeply.
Some nights I do feel like that previous girl again and I cry out for my mother to love me like she once did. I can shut myself up for her sake, and I would- I have! But I know that the damage has already been done and that growing pains are inevitable. I look down at the cherry tattoo on my ankle and find peace in my rebirth.
As blacksmith melts
As blacksmith melts
By Shay Tamanna
As her writing journey evolved, she realized that poetry itself guided her way to becoming someone whose poems choose their own words. Shay is a writer from Kolkata, India, who enjoys exploring the themes of grief, tragedy and romance within human connections through her art.
Theres no route to you, I write like a blacksmith, examining the words like molten metal, I immediately pour the moment, the ending is thought just as the temperature thaws.
But to you, I find no route, you are yearning only. I yearn and hover over the beginning like the bluntness of a knife brushing my fingers through it- aggressively once a while, hoping for a cut, a spill of a blood, a clarity on an ending.
I write like a blacksmith, drafting the ending first like charging a sum before the fix, there's no finality to you. You are a dream only. I dream and hover over the possibilities of a magical ending but foolishly I crave for it to be something real, there's no non-fictional ending to you, I don't want to consume magic, I don't want to have to cast a spell, call the past, drive to the future or any time travel to reach to you;
Reality,
I wish for a reality, an uncanny reality.
Tomato, salt and bread, no mayonnaise reality.
There's no route to you.
I can't put you in between a beginning and an ending,
I can't put you in a story.
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