By Elizabeth Day

Elizabeth Day is an author, poet, blogger, and playwright from Las Vegas, Nevada. Her work has been featured in The Just Girl Project, Empyrean Literary Magazine, Contemporary Jo, Hey Young Writer, and Fterota Logia. She is a student at Southern Utah University studying English education with a creative writing emphasis and double minors in theater and film. You can find her on Instagram @itsanadventur.

The summer of 2022 was my first year as a counselor for my church’s youth conference, for teenagers thirteen to eighteen to get to know like-minded youth, learn more about God, and have fun together in a wholesome environment. There were multiple sessions across the country every week of the summer, and my job was to travel to different sessions and be a mentor for the kids and lead them in their activities. It was my dream job; I was studying English education at my university, and I had been a lifelong God girl. I’d always had an unbreakable faith, a belief that God was there and He was loving, even when I didn’t feel like it was true. I was raised in a Christian home and was still a strong believer after twenty-three years. Many people were waiting for me to lose my faith, but I couldn’t. There were days my belief in God was the only part of me that felt real, certainly the only part of me that I cared to stay alive for. When life wasn’t real, God was. When love wasn’t real, God was. All my confidence was there, and there alone.

My first working week of the summer was late in June, during a heat wave in St. George, Utah, the temperatures rivaling those in my hometown of Las Vegas. Our session of the conference was severely understaffed, so the groups all of the counselors were in charge of were much larger than normal. I had a group of nearly fifty teenagers, averaging at fourteen years old, with a couple seventeen-year-old boy outliers. Our group’s meet-up spot was in a large grassy area (in fairness, any grassy area is large to me) surrounded by a few trees, big enough to hold all of the kids for various activities and allowing plenty of room for shade in the hot weather as well.

Alongside me were two co-counselors, Dallen and Kylie. Most groups only had two counselors, one male and one female, but there were three of us given how big our group was. When I found out I would be in a group of three counselors, I was overwhelmingly relieved. I was terrified of working alone with a man, not sure I would be able to do it, even. I knew if I had Kylie with me this week, I would be able to learn the ropes of being a counselor, and working one-on-one with a man wouldn’t be too bad during the sessions that followed. It also helped that Dallen was genuinely kind. Apparently we both went to the same university, too, less than an hour drive away from where we were working that week.

Twice a day we had to do an official head count with our group and send in confirmation that we had all our kids to our supervisors. Due to the size of our group, we assigned a number to each of our kids and had them count themselves off. They weren’t very good at this. It would either take an insanely long time, or they would get lost along the way and we’d have to start over; usually both. We made a deal with them that if they could do their head count in thirty seconds or less, we would owe them something. All they had to do was decide on something and get our approval.

I don’t remember how they decided or exactly where I was when I was told. I imagine I was in the cafeteria eating with the kids, as a lot of gossip came up that way, and it was free time for us to talk to the kids without having to worry about anything else. If our kids could do their head count to our liking, they wanted Dallen and Kylie to go on a date.

This wasn’t that weird. A lot of kids wanted their counselors to date, week after week, year after year. The weird thing was that there were three of us, and thus wondering which two of us the kids would want to date each other.

Dallen and Kylie decided they were okay with it, as it was only one date. Our kids were sure it would be more than that.

It took them a few tries, but our group wanted it badly. I think they got the head count perfect in less than twenty-four hours once their reward had been named. They counted quickly, encouraging each other to pay attention before they began, careful to listen to each other so their number wouldn’t be missed. Upon their success, they cheered, the midday sun celebrating loudly with them, a party on a grassy field that mentally woke me up from whatever I had been zoning out about.

“Did they do it?” I asked Kylie.

She shook her head, a reluctant smile on her face. “Yep.”

I instinctively gave her a congratulatory hug, which was weird, because neither of them actually wanted to go out with the other; there was nothing to celebrate but our kids’ success.. Dallen turned to Kylie, said, “Kylie, will you go on a date with me?” She accepted.

The kids lost their minds.

To describe the feeling as melancholic for me is embarrassing, but not inaccurate. Sure, in theory there was a question of which of the counselors the kids would ship with each other, but there wasn’t, not really. If there was one thing I knew about myself, especially in any context where men were involved, it was that I was not dateable. I knew our kids would never look at me and think, “Wow, she and *insert literally any name here* would be great together.” I wasn’t the image of a perfect Christian girlfriend. My makeup was louder. My way of talking was more strange. I wasn’t as friendly or likable as everyone else. In general, I was too weird. Everything about me was too much, over-the-top.

This was a problem I knew I had. I wanted to believe in love, but I didn’t. I wanted to believe in good things, in dreams coming true. But I didn’t. To be more specific, I didn’t believe in love for me, good things for me. Dreams didn’t come true. Not for me. Something about me made me undeserving.

In the winter of the previous year, I had finally admitted the issue to my therapist, Claire, despite my best efforts to avoid it. I had been suffering a heartbreak over a man I loved who increasingly showed that he didn’t care about me. The situation brought into alarmingly clear focus some trust issues with men that had been a part of me forever, but I was determined to never bring it up, no matter how relevant it seemed to my anxiety session after session. In a world where female worth is so dependent on male approval, male approval is also so rare, and a woman can’t admit that she wants it, because a woman being strong means being a woman who doesn’t care about anything. Name something worse than having to admit that “there was this guy.” It can’t be done.

But there was finally no supplementary truth to hide behind. All I could think about was this man who was destroying my life without his knowledge, and it all came out–including my general disdain for men.

“I’ve always been this way,” I tell her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve just never trusted them and it gets worse year after year. And it doesn’t even make sense, because I have an amazing dad and brothers; I have only grown up with wonderful men in my family.”

All of my sessions were teletherapy since I didn’t have a car. I’d found an empty room in my university’s student center, across from the AV office where I worked, sitting on the carpeted floor that only seemed to exist in schools. My white earbuds were twisted near my chin, Claire on the other side of the screen. She had a voice that was honey sweet but not harsh in any way; her way of speaking was soft, gentle, so unlike my previous therapist, loud in every beautiful way.

“Well, there’s a reason for that too,” she said. “I had the same experience when I was young, actually. Girls raised with positive male figures in their homes are used to being around men who are kind. Out in the real world, when men don’t match that expectation, it can be disappointing.”

Everyone always said I was my dad’s favorite kid. He said all the time just how much he liked me. That was all—he just liked me. He’d validate my feelings when everyone else treated me like I was crazy. He was an educator and as a result always busy, but he still talked to me every day. He came to all of my choir and color guard performances. The last thing he said to me before I moved out was that he was proud of me. Once at a youth church activity, all of us girls were told to choose walking through two doors, one labeled beautiful and the other average. I chose the beautiful door, and when asked why I said that I had walked by it with my dad earlier and he said I better make sure I would choose the beautiful door, and I told him I would. I didn’t think much of the interaction at all until everyone around me gave a big “aww” in unison.

As a teenager, the boys I called my friends (who sometimes acted like more than my friends,) were kind until they weren’t—kind when it was convenient for them. They said they liked hanging out with me, but they also called me crazy. I was a girl just discovering the anxiety that had been present all her life, and they didn’t believe such a thing was real. They called me beautiful, then went out of their way to talk to everyone in the room but me. They were always too busy with school to hang out with me, but had enough time for all of our other friends. They supported me in what I did if they happened to also need to be there.  They set an expectation that I took as a promise, which they never kept. There was so much to not trust.

When Claire said that, my initial shock turned to anger. I have a good dad! Wasn’t that supposed to make me exempt from deep-rooted trauma? Was she really telling me that I had daddy issues because my dad was a good man?

I had seen so much joy, so much more than most people get to see, and that is what killed my hope. I believed in love because I had been shown it all throughout my childhood, but outside of my home, I learned my beliefs had been false. Instead of never having faith, I had to watch mine be smothered to a slow and aching death.

It hardly seemed fair, but it did explain a lot.

There’s a verse in Taylor Swift’s “Nothing New” describing “the kind of radiance you only have at seventeen,” and I know exactly what she meant. I remember that feeling, remember being aware of it even at the time, knowing that it was magical and nothing like it would ever happen to me again. As a teenage girl, I would take walks in the sun and stop near the park in my neighborhood to write down some notes or song lyrics or whatever else was inspiring me during the day. Night walks were for music, my preferred genres being Taylor Swift and girl bands. A bold red lipstick was less scary than a natural pink. I twirled in cinema lobbies after seeing a screening of my favorite play, the employees telling me my dress was gorgeous, ma’am, basking in the hundred-plus Instagram likes I had earned. I was a singer and dancer at the local high school, and I owned the stage in bright colors. I was the star of the show, and no one needed to tell me as much, but they did. Life was glamorous because I made it that way. My dreams were alive because I was, and future dreams coming true was not only possible but inevitable.

I didn’t always want to be a teacher. In fact, as a teenager I watched my teachers work and thought, “Wow, that could never be me. Their job is way too hard.” But I did always know that teenagers had the world against them. People believe they are uncaring, foolish, screw-ups who can never do anything right, and then hate them for being the monsters they prophesied into existence. I never wanted to lose that knowledge. How could we believe in ourselves when no one else believed in us? I determined that I would be an adult who was there for teenagers. As I’ve grown up and discovered my love for teaching, that has only become more true.

My last working week of the summer was a session at Western Oregon University, a small, green campus also experiencing a heat wave, which was made harder by the lack of air conditioning typical of towns close to the ocean. There were many more trees to shade my kids with here, though, and the nights were at least cool enough to balance things out. My group that week was much smaller than the ones I’d had in Utah, but very high maintenance, which was good for me. No one would be surprised to hear me say it wasn’t an easy job. (Okay, not true–I’ve had one super lame guy on a dating app tell me he was sure it’s not that hard, but he doesn’t really count.) As my summer came to an end, I felt like I had nothing left to give, but I had to give for this group, these girls in particular. Almost all of them had special health needs, came from bad and even abusive homes, and had difficulty focusing. My stress toys and breathing exercises came in handy that week, not for myself, but for them. Whenever my anxiety was getting to me, they would have a need that was more urgent than mine, and suddenly I couldn’t feel my anxiety anymore, not when my girls needed me.

I had a girl named Julianna join my group last minute. She was quiet and shy and always wore a wide-brimmed hat that tied under her neck. Most of the other girls were much more talkative than her and had an easier time connecting with each other. Many of them even knew each other already, but Julianna didn’t, and I knew I’d have to find a way to help her feel like she belonged.

One morning we were sitting and waiting for a devotional to start. I sat by Julianna, in silence for a moment, wondering what I could do to connect with her. I noticed her drawing in a notebook, small illustrations that were powerful in spite of their simplicity.

“Wow, you’re really good at drawing,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said. “I like to write comics.”

There it was. I knew I had landed on something.

“No way!” I said. “I’m a writer too!” I didn’t have the talent to be my own illustrator, though. I wanted to know more about her process.

She started describing the methods with which she developed characters, which eventually turned into stories. We talked about getting inspiration from other art sources and how those characters still end up entirely their own. It was the sort of back-and-forth that easily comes when two creative minds are at work together. Eventually she was talking to me with hardly any prompting.

From that moment on, Julianna was a natural part of the group. She even ended up singing and playing guitar in the variety show later that week.

On the final night of the conference was a dance. It was one of my favorite parts of the week; by this time the kids felt comfortable with each other and with themselves, so they just had fun and danced without thinking too much about it. We had a space outside the venue for the kids with sensory or social issues that made the dance less accessible. I sat outside on the concrete steps in the cool evening air, the sun setting behind the surrounding trees on the university campus, playing card games and coloring with the kids who didn’t want to be part of the dance. Many of the kids in my group were among them, including Julianna.

Every few minutes, she would tell me that she wanted to let me know how much I meant to her. How loved I made her feel. “When I first met you,” she said, “I just thought, ‘Wow, she is beautiful.’”

I remembered that day: knocking on her door, telling her I was happy to see her. I was wearing our bright blue staff t-shirt, the kind of color no person in their right mind would wear unless they were trying to be easily identifiable to a dozen teenagers who had never met them before. My hair was in a bun, and the highlight of my makeup was a glowing pink lip gloss. I could see how closed-off Julianna felt in her face, and I knew I had to find a way to reach her. There at the end of the week, being able to connect with her about it, made the moment feel even more beautiful to me.

Another time that night, she said, “Have you ever been on a date?”

“Yes I have, but not in a long time,” I said.

“We need to find you someone,” she said.

“What?! Are you trying to get rid of me?” If I got married, I couldn’t be a counselor anymore. Not that dating leads to marriage in every case, but I loved my job, wasn’t about to talk about romantic affairs with my kids, and would  use that fact to my advantage until the end of time.

“No, but you’re just so amazing. You deserve to be with the best guy in the world.”

She had only known me for a week and was only fourteen, but she believed that I could—should have the future that I wanted when I had all but given up on the idea.

She’s not the only one of my girls who has told me I deserve an amazing man. Most of my kids tried setting me up with another counselor while I worked there. Sometimes when we’re having genuine conversations, I hint that I’m not sure that will ever happen for me. In more personal relationships, I talk to teenage girls I’ve met in the writing community openly about how hopeless I feel every time I meet a man, especially one I like, because the ground always falls out from under my feet. Sometimes teenage girls ask if I’m getting married and I tell them definitely not anytime soon.

Their answers are always the same. “Don’t worry. Your time will come.”

My dreams are not only a possibility to teenage girls, they are inevitable.

But what if they’re not? What if my time never comes? I want to be loved, but I have so many reasons to believe that will never happen. It is strange being a girl of faith, a girl whose life revolves around believing in God and knowing He is real even when things are bad, but having no faith in yourself. It is strange believing in a God who created love and hope and joy and also believing none of those things were meant for you.

These fears always live in the back of my mind when I talk to these girls about our hopes and dreams. But for even half a second, I believe them. I see what they see: I am beautiful and amazing and deserve to be loved, and that’s enough.

I understand that it’s a naive perspective, and that so much more is required for me to have the happiness that I want for myself. But there is beauty in that naivete. Because don’t I deserve it? And absolutely why not? Why shouldn’t it be possible?

Taylor Swift’s “august” is a song about a teenage girl recently heartbroken after finishing a summer fling with a boy she loved who didn’t love her. In one of the most popular parts of the song, she sings, “For me, it was enough to live for the hope of it all.” That is the most teenage girl thing I have ever heard. To teenage girls, hope isn’t waiting for tomorrow. Hope is just enough.

On days when I don’t feel pretty, I ought to remember all the teenage girls who have said otherwise (“it’s giving Euphoria,” they’d say when I wore glitter makeup). I ought to remember that if I don’t believe I’m beautiful, they might lose faith in their own beauty, which would be the world’s greatest crime because they are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

When I can’t believe in love, I believe in them, and that makes me believe in love, makes me believe it can belong to me, even in moments when that shouldn’t be plausible, even in moments when I know it is not. I believe in love because they believe in it. They believe in me.

Teenage girls are hopeful, not because something’s going to happen—but because it might. That is enough for them to live life like they’re the main character of the movie, the princess of the fairy tale. Teenage girls own the world because, well, who’s to say they can’t?

I still feel like I’m in the part of the fairy tale where it seems like there’s no way the heroine is making it out of her situation. Most days, I’m pretty sure my story is a tragedy and nothing more. But when I look at teenage girls, I see a lust for life that is stronger than the fiercest hate in the world, a passion that can build an impossible dream and make it a reality in seconds. That gives me enough strength to just for a moment live for the hope of it all.

By Ali-Reza Asadollahi

"Nothing special about him."

هرسو شب‌ست، اما پدیدارم

در دست خورشیدست افسارم

دل: شبزده، دل: سست‌رگ، دل: هیچ

هم، دل گنه‌کارست پندارم

با این‌همه، چشمم به سوی اوست

چون نیست با جز او سر و کارم

بی‌دست و پا تا بارگاه اوج

ناچارم و لغزیدنی دارم

زندانیِ تکرارم، اما داد:

جوش سحر، عمرِ دگربارم

By Rehan Ahmad Khan

Rehan is 16 years old and lives in the UAE, he is interested in Sufism, linguistics, History, Politics and Philosophy.

"Be free, liberate yourself from these shackles,

How many glances will you pierce your heart with?

For this “love” is but a mirage,

You effortlessly flee from one gaol fleeing to another,

You fantasize absurdities,

Separation is inundating but be patient,

For, reunion is soon to come."

By Zarang Rahimi

Zarang loves to write and read poetry, his poetry covers mainly love and religious-inspired themes. 

They have found their beloved in the unknown, but me. 

Why is the sweet beloved, who’s everywhere, not shown to me? 

My heretic mind has thrown its worries and doubts from me. 

Is the only saviour my touching the black stone, for me? 

Is the beloved not everywhere, like a neighbour to me? 

Then, why does this loud silence still feel so alone, to me? 

Even the false hermit has seen his sweet beloved, but me. 

Will his forgotten grave be like his shiny throne, to me? 

How am I so lost, how has my clear path parted from me? 

Whose path ought I to follow, except my own, to me?

Do I not bow to my beloved, is it not like the sun to me?

When will my beloved bless my heart and make it known to me?

By Lydia Pearson

Lydia is a Dyspraxic 20-year-old Lancaster University student. They are a cashier, tutor and volunteer as well as a writer. They’ve been published by Masque and Spectacle, Literary Yard, CafeLit, Scarlet Dragonfly Journal, Ardent Lies Journal, and Quail Bell Magazine. They’ve had poetry published in Because Mental Health’s Magazine and Queer Yoga North’s Freedom Booklet. They've written social media posts for Mental Health Notebook and Because Mental Health.

They have been writing on AO3 for five years. They’ve performed their poetry at several Open Mic Nights. They are an auntie, daughter, partner and sister. They aspire to be a professionally published writer, foster carer, parent and qualified English tutor one day. They like to listen to music, read, learn new things and spend time in nature in their spare time. They also have their own radio show at Bailrigg FM, called Wired Different. 

Just because the photo was a blur, 

it doesn't mean it was never taken. 

Just because I couldn't see the full picture, 

it doesn't mean my heart was yours for breaking.

Being trapped in a dusty dark room  

is the closest I've been to lying in a coffin. 

Being trapped in the floundering tomb

of the relationship that suffocated me so often.

Developing those polaroids, devoid of love,

drove me up one the walls slowly closing me in.

Developing those polaroids, I saw after long enough,

beneath an angel's mask, sat a sneering devil's grin. 

I shook the photo, yet you only lost your appeal. 

Light through the dark blinded me to what was real.

I shook the photo, yet could only see piercing eyes,

of an icy, soul-sucking vampire purely peddling lies.

The photos morphed in front of me, showing you 

as the Queen and King of an endless chess game.

The photos morphed in front of me, showing the true

colours of us, red splattered across frame by frame.

I tried to blossom into a flower you'd pick, vying,

but you had a field of flowers in your garden, dying.

I tried to give you a love like the sea in moonlight,

but a pond can't transform into an ocean overnight.

These picturesque beauties could never be captured

by a camera, dissolving into nothing, breaking up. 

Photographs of a xerox of a person enraptured, 

just as much as they were trapped undercut 

it all-and if I should fall-a hole, very dark, yes, 

a click-one I've dug for myself-that blue dress-

-a blinding flash-your cold blooded hand in mine-

times I won't miss, yes-stepping away was divine. 

A ghost lingers over the old moments,

time crinkling like paper. I'm mourning who I was. 

Grieving for you, this funeral poem is not meant;

I'm mourning the part of me that died. Pause.

Let's rewind to a better time before you came, 

take a video tape, not a camera, reel the film back.

Your footsteps taint my map; I'll never be the same.

Good, there's no beach pics-home. Can't take that.

I try to throw the photos but they writhe in wrath,

return every time. You spread your fire more easily,

as is to be expected. Mine depict the honest truth.

Not edited like yours, re framed in the wrong light. 

Despite the glaring snapshots, I'll keep on living 

while you're dead and buried, worm meat in my mind.

I believe that there's a name for people of your kind. 

A flashback-I remember now. Such shame, regret.

They're called abusers. Don't you ever forget.

By Cassie Makaela

Cassie is a kind and dedicated young writer whose writing has a focus on teen relationships and mental health. She is working towards potentially starting a blog and/or publishing her first poetry book within the next year or two. You can find more of her poetry @cassie.m.poetry on Instagram.

i've always known i was half empty.

call me a pessimist,

i was raised on a lack of love.

little did i know,

you were more empty than i.

like a jar that's been sitting empty for weeks,

you were so empty your dust

tickled my cheeks,

each time you leaned in 

to try and take a little from me.

i thought love was romantic,

well isn't that dramatic.

it is romantic.

but not with you.

see, 

i wanted to fill your mind with affirmation, 

i planned to fill your heart with my love.

but you were so empty you didn't even remember

what it was to be filled.

so as you reached for my thigh, 

you just wanted skin.

you never wanted to love me,

hell, 

you didn't even know what love was anymore.

now i sit emptier than before, 

feeling a little like a whore.

because i gave my body, 

to someone who wanted just that.

all along though, 

i was giving my body, 

to someone who i thought loved me for my mind.

i sat in false hope, 

that it was just a 'honeymoon phase'

that one day, 

you would fill my cup,

and allowing you to drain it would all be worth it.

but now I know, 

it was never going to end like that.

after all, how could you pour from a bone-dry glass?

By Olivia Carter-Stanley

Olivia is a 14 year old young poet, writing whatever thought comes to mind and is very heavily inspired by Emily Dickinson. She wishes to inspire people with her work.

Good for a soul - life a beam.

Good for a smile. An end of a dream!

Not anymore, a need to scream.

Turn a way, esteem.

Where once a light - now curved as bight.

Or good for some hope?

Is night better than light?

Good for, good for your heart.

By Elizabeth M.M.L. Ku

Elizabeth M.M.L. Ku is a songwriter, poet, and creative fiction author who is working on obtaining a Bachelor's in Mechanical Engineering and a Minor in Creative Writing. The Nevada native has earned accolades from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, L. Ron Hubbard's WOTF, Little Infinite, and the Letters to Home Collection. Currently, she is the Head of Marketing for Peiskos Literary Magazine, a Poetry Judge for TLHC, and a member of her university's off-road racing team.

Unpublished Secrets

Take these stories to my grave

Idealistic heroes couldn't save

my musky pages drowning in the flood

A coward’s sealed lips aren't brave

Grudges stay alive, but I forgave

murderers who's stabbed me in cold blood

Shrunken hearts echo volumes

Sunken stomachs, shrinking vacuums

Acid rain pitter patters from my throat

Buskin masks, chromatic costumes

Secrets buried in my theater’s classroom

Told in drunken slurs and foul breaths

When my lungs exhale one last time

Everyone will hear the poet’s rhymes

Published to expose all their crimes

Morning Cravings

Your chiffon fingers weave around my waist,

clenching like a corset to support my frame

Your name tastes like honeydew, leaving my lips 

stained blue, oxygen-deprived, hungry for you

Morning birds crave your raspy symphonies to

fuel their cacophonous coos, you are the view

I awaken to every dusk: a hazel cowlick bathed

in the window’s kaleidoscopes, but your pearls

blaze brighter. Your skin’s like fire against mine,

wafting last night's sandalwood incense. Hoarse

utters, like scraping wood, beg for five minutes

Cherry hued cheeks and starry eyes; I surrender

By Cooper Brumfield

Cooper Brumfield is a 17 year old writer from MS, he is in his junior year at the Mississippi School of the Arts where he is a part of their literary arts department. He is a triple gold key award winning writer who specializes in playwriting and poetry.

The piece “sincerely yours” is used as a muse through the eyes of introspective ordinance and attempts to help explain suffering through the eyes of those who do not wish to understand it, only be rid of it. It is a second person short story formatted in a chronological format both artistically and stylistically.

you’ll be 9 when you first notice him, that guy who every girl says they have a crush on, not because they actually do, but because “that’s what girls are supposed to do.” and you’ll start to play football with him because that’s what boys are supposed to do, you’ll tell yourself that you don’t like him, instead you just really want to be his friend, be near him, be like him. “boys can’t like boys” you’ll tell yourself, and you will keep playing football every day, even though you realized you hated it a long time ago. 

you’ll be 17 when you meet him, that guy that makes your stomach churn when he says your name, the guy that makes you feel nervous when he asks to hang out. it will be with him where you hear that word again, the one your dad used when you said you didn’t want to get a haircut the summer after freshman year. that one you heard your friend say in the fifth grade after his mom let it slip one night, she’ll tell him never to repeat it, yet all it will do is give him an incentive for him to use it more. you will have thought about saying it, but you never do, not because you didn’t want to offend anyone, but you’ll be scared that once it leaves the confines of your mind it will become more than just a thought. “please check for monsters” almost as if once it crawls out of your lips it will wrap its arms around you and sink its teeth into your back.

you’ll be 18 when he kisses you for the first time, you’ll feel a shock go down your body, it’ll resonate at your feet but it won’t leave you. and you’ll fall in love then and there, and none of it matters. you’ll get out of his shitty 2004  corolla that you’ve spent countless hours in. you’ll walk up your front lawn in silence, and he’ll follow you, not because he feels like he has to, but because you know he now loves you too. 

it will be that night when you leave him on your patio, 

it will be that night when you slam the door in his face as you force down muffled sobs, 

and it will be that night where you say that word for the first time.

you’ll be 23 when you finish your fifth year and graduate college, “a victory lap” your parents will say at their dinner parties and at their church luncheons. you’ll sit alone in your room after each of these events and stare at the business bachelors hanging neatly on your wall, each word neatly printed in ink and signed hastily by a dean that wouldn’t know your name until he signed it on a degree. you’ll come back home from college and start a job you never feel the need to mention. “did i get to be a fireman?” you will sit alone at your cubicle one evening, hours after you were allowed to leave, the woman to your left will ask you out for drinks on a whim, you will agree and have a night like any other, not quite good, but not quite bad. you will marry her six months later.

you’ll be 24 when you start taking pills. you’ll hate taking them the first time, you’ll hate it the second, the third, and the fourth. you’ll do it time after time and you’ll hate it more than the last, yet nothing will feel worse than the feeling of not having them. 

you’ll be 29 when you get a divorce, most people will know you’re different by then, know that you are sick. you will go to a bar one night and think about why you married her in the first place, you will realize after your fifth drink that she was just proof. proof that you were normal, and you will realize after your sixth drink that it wasn’t proof for your parents, or your coworkers, but proof for you. because you realize after your eighth drink you realize in the end, that’s all you care about.

you’ll be 31 when you realize your parents are like the pills you take, not just in the fact that you hate them, but in the fact that you’d rather spend the rest of your life with them than have to imagine a day when they are no longer there, so you’ll go to the dinner parties, the picnics, and to church every sunday. one morning after church you’ll take a few pills in a bathroom stall and sit against the wall and stare at your hands. you’ll run the tips of your dried out fingertips across the indentions in your palms and realize that the pills aren’t working. and you will stay in that stall for the next hour, it will be in that very bathroom where you put your head in your hands and you realize that it’s too late for you, far earlier than it actually was.

you’ll be 39 when dad dies, you’ll take the day off from work, you’ll drive to the church and sit in the back of the chapel. your mom will text you after the funeral in hysterics asking you where you were, and you will apologize to her, time after time, you will explain that work kept you later than you thought and that you would see her soon.“happy fathers day,” that night you will put on dad’s old jacket, you’ll strip off your shirt and the bandages,and you’ll navigate it gently over your arms that’s poked full of holes,”I always hated bees,” you'll look in the mirror and you will begin to weep, even though that isn’t what boys do.

you’ll be 42 when you stop answering calls, your phone will begin to collect dust the same way your diploma did, “I don’t like to clean my room” once hanging up on your  wall in your old room at moms house, now sits at the bottom of a halfway unpacked box in the corner of your apartment, by the time you’re 43 you will have had your own place for almost 5 years, and still that box will sit in the corner, halfway unpacked.

you’ll be 51 when mom dies, “she lost a great battle” the lawyer at the reading will tell you, “don’t be a sore loser” as if the acknowledgment of a prolonged struggle would serve as enough substance to convey any kind of remorse, especially since the remorse was not one of genuine nature. however it will prove that mom won’t be the only casualty, a bank account once filled by life insurance from the passing of your father will have been left to crumbs as hands of medical greed swipe it away. Radiation, hospital stays, chemotherapy, you will feel annoyance followed by a stab of guilt, the cheap carpet rubbing at your shoes as you bite your lip in frustration at the miniscule amount left in your name. however your interest will peak when he hands you over a small cardboard box. you will look into it, walking out of the office that evening you will have wished you never did. getting home you will open the small box your mother left you, and you will grab the unlabeled empty pill bottle from inside. you’ll learn to hate her for it, for ignoring, for leaving you to bask in the filth of the life that was laid out for you. 

“i think i’m lost”

you took the wrong path, but how could you not, it was so well worn. a path worn from your father, your father’s father, and the father of his father, a path taken so many times that there was no way it couldn’t have been the way you were supposed to go.

you’ll have just turned 52 when you check into rehab, you won’t remember why you did, you will only be able to feel the walls collapse on you as you beg for a freedom which could never be achieved by walking out of the facility doors. you will sit alone in a room for two days, yet it was there that you will realize you had been alone for a lot longer.

you will begin to eat again, sleep in longer increments than you thought was possible. you'll begin to read again, you will find your favorite spot under a sycamore tree in the courtyard where you will spend most of your time reading. you will sit at every support group and do every exercise they give you, you won’t remember why you started but you will remember why you finished. you meet eyes with him a few months in from across the cafeteria during dinner, his shoulder length graying hair and his goatee that hugs his chin and leaves it glimmering like silver will be what you notice first. he’ll have round glasses that make his eyes appear larger than they actually are and a stature so skinny it looks as if he is about to snap in half. he will approach you and say his name is arlo. you will sit in bed that night and look at the cracks in the ceiling, you will realize at that moment that you can not sit and stare at your wounds forever. the next morning you’ll take Arlo to read with you under the sycamore tree. 

you will be 71 when you decide to wake up early and watch the sun rise, your footsteps will be drowned out by the sound of arlo’s snores as you leave the room. you will sit on the front steps of your patio, the morning wind brushing against your aged skin. the first rays of morning sunlight will begin to touch down on the winding hills that sit in front of you. you will grab the notebook at your side and uncap the pen that’s tucked inside it, you will take a moment and begin to write a letter, you won’t address it to anyone, the person who it’s for will already know everything that happens.

By Ahmad Morid

Ahmad Morid is a 17 year old self taught poet and artist, his hobbies include writing, drawing, reading, watching movies etc. his work can be found in, malu zine, moobow etc.

"I have challenged myself to write more in my native language (Persian/dari). And this is one of the pieces I'm proud of"

بیابان که از قلب های خالی ساخته شده است، خانه من است.

هر ریگ آن تاریکی سیاه چل را دارد و هیچ چاره گریز نیست

موزه هایم پر از دروغ های خشک است و من مریض هستم

چشم هایم حوصله باز ماندن را ندارد

دهن من آخرین اخباری حالت من را ارایه میکند

و من آهسته و آهسته غرق میشم

ضد این جال های عنکبوت نمیجنگم‌

همرای مرگ خود صلح پیدا کردم

هر کشش نفس من را خوش میسازد 

اولین بار من که این عاطفه را احساس کردم 

میگم کشش استاد می شود

 و من در بین برزخ آویزان شدم

امتحان خداوند متاسفانه ادامه دارد

و فکر من هر کلمه را مطالعه می‌کند که راه خلاصی یافت کند

Translation:

Barzakh: between life and death 

The desert made from empty hearts is my home 

Every grain of its sand, the darkness of black holes and there is no way to escape 

My boots are filled with dry lies and I'm sick 

My eyes don't have the patience to stay open 

My mouth is relaying the latest news from my condition 

And I'm slowly drowning 

I won't fight back against these spiderwebs 

I have found peace with my death 

Each pull makes my soul happy 

The first time I've felt this emotion 

But the pulling stops

And I'm being hung from the barzakh 

The test of god is continuing unfortunately 

And my thoughts will the study every word to find a way to end this 

By Kaelynn Gray

kaelynn is an incoming student at boston university (and hopeful english minor) who has rediscovered the art of writing as a better pastime than preparing for ib exams.

you walk on a land older than your own 

generations of carob trees hug 

your fragility in remembrance 

you think in memory 

of when you lost a star

in your sorrowful eye 

but it is still shining through you 

the rain falls to cool where you ache 

the soil softens to consume your naivety 

mountains will shield you from this 

heat in a world past the calypso deep 

you’ll stay on this cliff until 

your body turns to stone 

a recollection of

when you knew nothing in a forest 

of fig though you are a wishful sapling

surrounded by dreams you mourn 

your vibrancy is a reminder

i will nurture your path 

 in your foreign solace 

i lose myself to something reflective

at the thought of your absence 

in your reluctant starlight 

By Sage Goldman

Sage is a new writer from South Africa, she is 17 and has been writing for years but has only recently started displaying her writing to the public. While she hopes to one day be a published author, she is currently stuck to the confines of the English classroom to develop stories. Overall, Sage wants to write a novel one day and possibly even be a screenwriter.

There were once two trees in a forest, each had grown from separate seeds blown in the wind.

The one tree had lush green leaves but multiple marks on its trunk showing great torment, the bark was soft with certain rough edges mimicking human skin of self-inflicted pain. 

This tree was blown through a storm when it was a seed.

The other tree had broken branches from supporting so many nests of birds who came and went, it had an opening where a blue-jay once resided. This blue-jay caused much harm to the tree only to realize it wasn’t the tree the blue-jay was looking for.

This tree was blown through a soft wind which occasionally had stormy weather when it was a seed.

The seeds were placed next to each other by the wind and the seeds each wished for different things. 

The one seed had hoped for less lightning while being carried before it sprouted; the other seed had hoped for more caring rain while being carried before it sprouted.

As they began to flower and grow, they continued to wish for different things.

The one sapling had hoped for more care and compassion, the other sapling had hoped for longer love. 

When each was a mature tree, not yet developing into the large maples they would become, they each wished for things, but the wishes became similar.

The one tree had hoped it wouldn't become a wide tree that could not be hugged by passers by and wouldn't grow old enough to develop more than thirteen rings in its core, the other tree had hoped it wouldn't have anymore birds sitting on its still developing branches and take leaves it worked hard on growing and wouldn't grow old enough to develop more than thirteen rings in its core.

While growing each tree had met one another due to rains and harsh winds, having years of being next to each other as they both fought different sides of the storms that would pass without knowing it. At this stage they had each developed sixteen rings. Each tree had parallel wishes.

The one tree hoped to be cared for and grow with the other tree, the other tree hoped to be loved and grow with the one tree. 

As the years passed, the trees each grew into each other to become one. They no longer fought the winds and rough storms on their own, they each had each other to stop the fear of falling because their roots weren’t sewn into the ground how they were now.

They wanted to live and grow many rings, not just alone but together. 

While birds still rested in nests among the branches and harsh weather came and went the trees knew one thing, they were certain of, they had the same wish.

The one tree wished they would spend eternity as one large maple tree merged with the other tree and the other tree wished the same. 

They had suffered long enough, they wanted to give each other the peace they deserved.

They grew together and had many rings in their cores.

By Damaris Estelí

Damaris Estelí is a 15 year old first generation Hispanic teen from Springfield, Illinois. When she's not reading or writing, she's watching cartoons, playing her four instruments, making art, listening to music, or playing with her two dogs: Bobo and Dandelion. 

There's a sort of eerie comfort

To be found in a graveyard.

These are people.

These are stories already told.

These are stardust returned to the sky.

These are lives waiting to be forgotten.

These are the remnants 

Of a merciless robbery.

These are the ones

That made the others the survivors.

These are delicate, porcelain artistry

Broken too swiftly.

These are baby bluebirds

Who never got the chance to sing.

These are singing bluebirds

Who never got the chance to be heard.

These are coins and loose change,

Dropped under the counter,

To some not worth the effort

Of reaching down to pick back up,

To others their entire livelihood,

Lost and gone and dead and buried.

These are waiters,

With an empty headstone beside them.

This was a best friend. 

That one was a mother.

This one is soon to be forgotten.

That one felt invisible.

This was a fully lived life.

That one didn't live up

To the expectations put on them.

This one felt it grew far too much,

That one never got the chance.

These are stories

Never written down,

Now with only me here

To witness them.

I like to read their names.

I like to feel the crisp morning air,

As I walk in between overgrown weeds,

And sit

And watch.

Slow down

As stories are being begun, ended,

And written in the universe

I'm confined to.

I sit with those already told,

With the evidence

Of just how cruel the world

Has the capacity to be. 

I brush my hand

Along the blackened stones,

And wonder how much time has passed,

How much time has to pass

Before some is fully and finally forgotten.

Before their monument 

Of such prominence

Is left to rot 

Alongside the corpse beneath it.

Before all that's left of them,

Their struggles, their successes,

Their hatred and their love,

Is nothing

But a slab of rock

So caked with dirt,

That their names are barely legible,

Some already reclaimed by nature,

Not able to be read at all. 

How long will it take

Before that happens to me? 

How long before the granite

Becomes all that is left,

The final remembrance of me?

If all that I am,

The only remains of my existence

In a hundred years from now,

Is a plot of dirt

Payed for, then left untended,

Was it even worth existing?

If not even my own name is left behind,

Did I ever exist at all?

So I read the names

(At least those which I still can).

I give the rot

A bit of themselves back.

I address the dirt

As the life that was given

To allow it to keep giving life.

I'm telling that soul

I see you,

I see the hole in the world

You left behind,

The gaping cavity you opened up

In someone else's heart

The day yours stopped beating.

That is the power names hold.

I'm a poet, you see,

And an author.

Names are in my realm of business,

And I use an awful lot of them.

Sure,

I could look up a list,

And carefully pluck a name

From among its empty options.

They pool up and overflow in my hands,

Leaving me with nothing

But the lingering whisper of a sensation 

Saying something was once here. 

Or I could go to the graveyard.

Pick a name

That has a life lived behind it,

A story written under it,

A name that means something to someone.

A name that won't evaporate

Once the final sentence is written.

Instead of weaving fresh yarn

Into a half-finished tapestry,

I find another half-finished tapestry,

And weave the two into a greater whole.

I hope someone reads it one day,

And is reminded

Of that one person they once knew,

And that alone

Will make it all worth it to me.

They'll point to a specific sloppy stitch

And laugh,

Saying I remember that. 

You know,

I hope one day

Some young poet comes

And visits my graveyard,

And sees my name engraved there,

And weaves my tapestry into theirs,

To be found by the ones I leave behind.

I want to be among the graveyard names.

I don’t want to die,

But I accept I'm going to,

And if I must,

That's what I wish to be.

Stardust returned to the sky.

The final piece of a breathtaking tapestry.

Chosen from among the graveyard names.

By Desmond Distel

Desmond Distel is a multimedia artist from Cincinnati, Ohio. His work has been published in Tellus zine and WYRD and showcased at the Contemporary Arts Center, Kennedy Heights Arts Center and Queen City Clay. You can find him on Instagram @Pkskll19.

We both felt that mutual spark

It set the forest of my life on fire

It burned away my depression

Made me happy

But you turned it all to smoke

All my dreams

They’re just gone

I actually liked you

But I guess you just saw me as a time in a schedule

Not a person

Not an artist

Not a boyfriend

Just a date on a calendar

I told my friends about you

They were so excited to meet you tomorrow 

Because they’ve seen me get beat up trying to find someone

And now I have to tell them that you're gone

I thought we had something

Maybe we didn’t

Maybe I just needed to tell myself that I had someone

And I did

But not anymore.

By Jude Slater

Jude is a high school artist who’s interested in an array of mediums, both art and writing. She is aspiring to study art in college and enter the animation field someday!

little girl, what are you running from?

your feet batter the ground

leaving a deep yellow bruise

but you never get any farther away

please, just listen to me-

your face is turned outwards

the walls of this wretched town

are a cage of distrust.

if you spared me a glance 

i could promise you the sky.

little girl, turn your face to the sun

he is the blood that illuminates my veins

i bled for him and he tore me open

hold out your palm, it bleeds also

a deep, grief-stricken red

lift your face, child

and he will bleed for you

and wash your grief a fool’s shade of gold

By Rutendo Shadaya

Rutendo Shadaya is a teen writer based in New Zealand. She was born to Zimbabwean parents and is proud of her both cultures. Rutendo started writing at the age of 9 and since then she hasn’t looked back. She has accomplished many achievements such as self-publishing two books at ages 12 & 14, being published by ToiToi (A New Zealand publishing company that publishes young writers and artists' pieces), being interviewed live on the TV channel ZTNprime in Zimbabwe and many more. When Rutendo isn’t busy writing, she reads fantasy books or binge-watch shows on Netflix.

A sudden shaking woke me up. It felt so surreal, was it a dream?

My eyes opened up; it wasn’t a dream but it was my mum trying to wake me up.

‘Delise, get up! Our house is flooded! Go to the garage to check the damage!’ demanded Mum.

I rose up and rolled over to the edge of the bed to check. Mum was right. There was a pool of water on the ground. I had never seen anything like this. Mum splashed out of my room. I put on my muddy gumboots. My gumboots splashed through the water and I arrived at the garage after surviving the strong gusts. The garage door swung open; I waddled inside and my twin brothers burst through. Darren held a water dispenser and Ezra held a bag and lighter.

Ezra handed me the bag and said ‘Morning little sis, can you go and get water from the well, we're out of filtered water. When you are done go look for Quentin,’

I rolled my eyes and opened the bag. Inside there were candles, a raincoat, and Quentin's favourite toy. I snatched the lighter, lit the candles, and placed it around the garage. It lit up the room. All we needed was heat now.

Before Darran and Ezra left the room, I yelled ‘Bring a bunch of wood. We need a heat source!"

The twins nodded and left as I in my huddled raincoat, and stared at the pouring rain through the cracked window. I groaned and stepped gingerly outside of the garage. The flood water level had now reached my ankles, but my gumboots blocked the water out. I sloshed through the water, annoyed.

The weather had worsened, but there was no way of going back now. The garage was nowhere to be seen, behind me was just fog, grey clouds, and leaves flying around. To top it off, Quentin’s rubber duck was squeaking non-stop inside my pocket during the journey while I was being soaked through my rain jacket because it didn't have a hood.

When I spotted the well, a smile rose on my face. I walked through the run-off channel and opened the lid. The well was protected and not affected by the flooding. After a small nudge on the bucket, it tipped into the well.

Splash!

The bucket had reached the water. I waited and called for Quentin--no answer from him.

Whoosh! went the wind. I tripped into the floodwater and my hand clutched on the wall. The wind tried to blow me away, but I held tightly onto the wall and pulled the bucket out from the well. My heart beat rapidly and I panted. I poured the water into a container and threw the bucket back into the well. I called for Quentin again. Still no response. I couldn’t afford to be drenched even more, so I gave up.

I raised the container of water on my head. My arm held the container making it secure. I walked from the well, and a strong gust of wind blew me off my feet. I crashed into the floodwater again and lightning flashed. My heart dropped. The water level grew. I held the container onto my chest and rushed home, dripping water everywhere. 

Drip drip! Splashed the water. 

On my way back, a small fluffy figure was following me. Was it Quentin?

Quentin!’ I turned around and shouted.

Woof Woof! barked Quentin. Quentin was almost submerged underwater; he was paddling to catch up to me. He wagged his tail happily.

Bang! Went the lighting.

Quentin whimpered and lowered his tail between his legs. I picked him up and placed him on top of the container. Countless twigs scratched my face as I rushed home. Fortunately, I arrived back at the garage before the bad weather escalated.

I squeezed my drenched clothes and placed the container by the door.

Darren & Ezra were inside together working using sandbags around the garage. I grabbed Quentin and sat near the firewood. After Mum poured the water into a dispenser, she placed a fluffy blanket around me and gave me a hot chocolate.

As I slurped my hot chocolate, I was grateful that I survived a hell of a cyclone outside and managed to rescue my dog, Quentin.

By Toby Davies

Toby Davies is a high school junior from New Orleans who always ends up writing a lot about family and grief. When they're not writing and reading, you can find them riding their bike, practicing karate, and playing Minecraft.

Toby Davies

Battlefield Poppies

Atticus’s spine dug into the hard earth as his boots scrabbled at the grass, one end of his blade digging into the palm of his hand as he pushed back his opponent's sword. 

“C’mon, Primvale scum,” the man spat, pressing down harder. Atticus grit his teeth and groaned, his arms burning as he held the weight away from him. “Just give up already.” The Essdal soldier cackled, his sword reflecting the merciless glint in his eyes. 

        Atticus shouted out and squeezed his eyes shut, his sword slicing into his soft skin as he forced the man away from him. /This is it/, he thought, desperately trying and failing to kick the enemy’s legs out from under him. He cried out again, this time something younger, more afraid. His panicked heartbeat rang in his ears, blocking out the sounds of others fighting around him. /I thought I’d have more time. I need time. I need a miracle. Please, please, I’m not ready to die, I’m not—/

        Suddenly, the familiar sound of a sword swishing through the air cut through his prayers, and the next thing Atticus knew, the weight against his sword lifted and his opponent’s body slumped to the ground right next to him. Atticus opened his eyes, pushing past his exhaustion to ready his blade again, breaths coming in short gasps and—

        “Oh my god, /Clem/.” Atticus’s voice cracked in relief, and he allowed himself to drop his sword against his chest and suck in a big gulp of air. “/You/ are my miracle, oh my god, oh my…”

        The girl spun the tip of her blade in the patchy grass, wiping the soldier’s blood off. “No need to get all dramatic, dude. You owe me though.” She looked at him and gave an unsteady smile, dimples deepening slightly, and she stuck her hand out. Atticus held the hilt of his sword in his bad hand, wincing, and accepted his sister’s help with his good one.

        Clementine glanced around for a second before tugging him away from the fighting and  stopping behind a towering oak decorated with dying moss and stray slash marks. She sheathed her sword and immediately pulled the young man into a fierce hug. 

        “That scared me, Addy, you can’t— I— /fuck/. Fuck you.” She buried her face into Atticus’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her head, just like they always had. The two stayed like that for a little while, safe, tuning out the sounds of screams coming from nearby. They’d have to go back soon, lest they be ambushed. But for just a few seconds longer, Atticus ignored that and focused on the air in his lungs and his little sister safe in his arms.

        “Sorry, Clem. Man, what would I do without you?” Atticus laughed, running his good hand over what was left of her hair; just a few weeks ago, she had shaved almost all of it off after she had been tackled to the ground because her ponytail had been yanked out from behind her. With shaking hands, she had asked Atticus to cut it for her. Atticus still missed her long hair, grown out since they were small, but he understood: war stole the remnants of childhood that used to sit in long hair and naive freedom. Growing up was unwanted but inevitable.

        “You’d die, obviously,” Clementine said, pulling away from the hug and running her hands down her face. The deep shadows underneath her eyes matched his own, and Atticus couldn’t help but feel the longing for home ache deep in his rib cage.

        Thinking too hard about home—and how long it had been since they’d been there—always made Atticus sick with sorrow; though sometimes he liked to stir up old memories, the nostalgia bringing him comfort and hope. /Mourning doves sang out to the cloudless sky, flying over the two young children chasing each other in circles. Their knees were covered in grass stains, their shirts spotted with mud.

        /“I’m Primvale’s strongest warrior!” the younger of the two cried, pointing her branch to the sky. “Cower before my might!” The older, smirking as his little sister repeated words he had shouted many times before, dropped to the ground, trembling in pretend fear.

The little girl started whacking her brother with her branch, to which the boy retaliated with an attack of full-body tickles. The two landed in a heap on the ground, their high-pitched giggles sweetening the air around them. They laughed until their stomachs ached, innocent in all the temporary ways.

        They were and would be together, always. Everyone knew them as Atticus-and-Clementine, each a half of the other. Holding onto each other as they celebrated the good moments, joy intertwined; holding onto each other as they pushed past the bad moments, because if the ocean swallowed them whole, at least their last drowning breaths would be shared./

        “C’mon, we gotta head back out.” Clementine interrupted Atticus’s thoughts. “Fulfill our duty and whatnot.”

        Atticus clenched his injured hand, grateful for the fact his sister hadn’t noticed the wound. He pulled his own sword out, and with a weary sigh, he said, “Yeah, yeah. Nighttime swapping’s all that’s keeping me going.”

        “And let’s stay alive until then, shall we?” Clementine elbowed Atticus playfully, and he rolled his eyes at her before leaving the brief safety of the oak.

        Individually, the two were both strong and stubborn, muscles toned and trained for exactly this. But together—together they were the most intimidating force on the battlefield. They fought back to back, covering each other’s blind spots. They ducked and weaved, almost graceful in the way they fought, wordlessly understanding every little thing the other did. The sounds of metallic clashing of swords, the grunts and yells, the enemies dropping to their feet: all of it was the melody the siblings had grown into since the war started years ago. They danced to the gruesome song like it was second nature.

        That evening, they limped back to their shared sleep tent, nodding to the soldiers who would replace them, hoping they’d still be there in the morning. 

        “Addy and Clem! Nice fightin’ out there,” one of their nighttime replacements called out in passing.

        “Don’t call me that,” the siblings said at the same time, unamused. The soldier snickered at their response.

        They collapsed on their cots in unison, wary of the blade marks that littered their skin. It was routine now, how their chests heaved unevenly and they shut their eyes against the hurricane of ruin all around them.

        The war was always going to happen. The siblings were just unlucky enough for it to start when they were old enough to be recruited. Primvale and Essdal’s rivalry was centuries long; the shared river dividing the two kingdoms ensured loyal citizens had enemies from the day they were born. 

        /“Essdal kids are rude and improper,”/ Atticus’s mother used to tell him and his sister. /“Make sure you don't end up like them. You never want to be mistaken for one of their kind.”/ These words stuck with both of them their whole lives. It wasn’t truly until the war started that Atticus realized that Essdal kids—now young adults, soldiers far from home and frightened every day, just like them—must have been fed the same words about /his/ people, about /him/. 

        Sometimes Atticus had a hard time telling the difference between his allies and his enemies. If it weren’t for the uniforms, he didn’t think he would have laid his blade against a single person, worried he’d hurt his own. Past the grudges and devoted desperation, every person on that battlefield was one in the same.

        “Addy, look,” Clementine said after a few minutes of rest. Atticus sighed lightheartedly and turned onto his side to face his sister, holding his injured fist to his chest. She reached into her pant pocket and pulled out a scarlet-colored flower, its thick petals wrinkled and stem slightly crushed.

        “It’s a poppy, I think.” Clementine twirled it in her fingers, smoothing out the petals. “I found it this morning. Isn’t it so pretty?”

        Atticus hummed in agreement, a gentle smile creeping onto his face as he watched his little sister indulge in something easy, something meaningless.

        “Let’s make a garden of them when we get back home. Red would look nice in the yard.” Her voice was soft and wistful, peace amidst destruction.

        “Of course,” Atticus said, recognizing the hidden message: /We have to endure this. We have to go home./

        Clementine reached her arm out to her brother. “Take it.”

        Atticus huffed and took the flower from her. “You sap,” he said, tucking the stem into his shirt pocket. 

        “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome. Now get some sleep or else I won’t hear the end of it in the morning.”

——

        Atticus woke up in the morning only to find Clementine already lacing up her boots—she’d always had a knack for getting up early enough to watch the gold of the sunrise spill over Primvale’s young hills.

        “Another day,” she said as Atticus rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

        “Another day indeed.” He yawned, bringing his hand to his mouth and yelping when the gash in his palm widened at the movement. He balled his hand into a fist again, trying to cover the injury, but Clementine was by his side in seconds, carefully unfolding his hand and running her finger along it.

        “You idiot,” she said, rolling his fingers back over the wound. “Why didn’t you get this checked out yesterday?”

        “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at her face.

        “Okay, I don’t care. This still needs stitches and you know it.” She stepped away from him and picked her sword up from underneath her cot, fingers wrapping around the leather-bound hilt instinctively. “You go to the med tent and fix your hand up, Ad. I gotta go. Sun up, sword out, you know?”  

        Atticus shook his head. “No way, Clem. If you fight, I fight, remember?”

        Clementine’s playful look fell. “Well if you’re hurt you get fixed, /remember/?”

        “That only counts for you.” Atticus immediately winced at his words when his sister’s face morphed into a scowl.

        “Only me? Why? You think I’m weak, Addy? Can’t fend for myself?”

Atticus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not doing this right now. You know that’s not what I mean.”

        “So what do you mean?” Atticus watched Clementine’s knuckles turn white as she gripped her sword tighter. “Because you better not be saying that you’re /stronger/ than me, especially not after the stunt you pulled yesterday—”

        “No, /no/, I— God, Clem, I know I’m not stronger than you, I just…”

        “Just what?”

        Atticus sighed and hung his head. “I just want to protect you. That’s my /job./”

        Clementine scoffed and cracked her knuckles, an anxious habit she’d picked up from him. “Well I’m not a little girl anymore, /Atticus/. I can handle myself just fine.”

        “But you’ll always be my little sister. Can’t you get that?”

        “I get it just fine!” she snapped. “You think I don’t feel /terrified/ every time we go out there because I’m worried it’ll be the last time I see you? When you went off on your own yesterday, you could have /died./” Her voice wavered, raw and vulnerable, and Atticus felt a lump form in his throat. “I know the fear of loss just as well as you do.”

        Atticus flexed his hand gently, soaking in his little sister’s words. /When did she get so mature?/ he thought hazily, some indescribable ache weighing down his chest. “…Okay, fine. Fine. I’m sorry. I’ll go to the med tent. But expect me back with you in, like, ten minutes, yeah?”  

        “Whatever. See you.”

        The siblings left their tent and parted ways, an air of tension still lingering behind them. He sped to the med tent as his sister swapped positions with a night soldier, face hardening into her typical battle-ready mask.

        Atticus hated the med tent; he fixed all his own wounds as much as possible. The med tent was dull and lifeless, literally; it always had that persistent smell of death, the stench of rotting flesh seeping into every crevice. Doctors flitted around, attending all the bloody soldiers piled up on cots. 

        “Atticus!” one of them called out to him as he walked in, still focused on a different patient. “You alright today?”

        “Yeah, just hurt my hand. Clementine made me come get it stitched up.”

        “Of course, of course. I’ll get to you in a few minutes then.”

        Atticus nodded and seated himself on one of the uncomfortable cots, leg bouncing up and down as he bit too hard on his lip. He hated being away from Clementine, especially for something so pointless.

        As promised, after a few minutes of restless waiting, Atticus was attended to, wincing against the familiar stinging pain of being sewn up. His palm was wrapped in thin white bandages, and he was up and leaving as soon as the doctor had finished. 

        “Nice flower, soldier,” the doctor teased as Atticus made his way out.

        “Mhm,” he responded impatiently, absentmindedly fiddling with its bright red petals.

        Atticus pulled his sword out of his sheath before he even left the med tent, ignoring the tenderness of his wound. He ran towards the battlefield and instinctively scanned the messy crowd, seeking the familiarity of his sister’s shaved head and determined shouts. When he spotted her, eyes ablaze as she staved off an enemy’s attacks, he sighed in relief.

        He spun his sword in his hand and found himself making his way to her before he even realized it, drawn to her side without a thought. He parted his way through the fighting as quickly as he could.

        Atticus had almost reached Clementine when he saw the soldier opposite her slam his sword hard into hers, causing her to fumble it. In the single moment it took for her to recover, Atticus watched in helpless horror as the other soldier reared his blade back and shoved it forward—

        Plunging it straight through Clementine’s stomach. 

        Atticus knew he’d never be able to forget it. That the image of the metal blade ripping through her whole body, the tip appearing again as it tore the skin of her back apart—it would be seared into his brain, haunting him even in death. 

        Atticus’s mouth opened in a scream before his sister even hit the ground. The battlefield shook with the strength of his anguish. Clementine stumbled back, eyes blown wide, sword abandoned in favor of pressing her hands against her stomach. Atticus ran forward, unmatched rage in every footstep. Without sparing a second to think about it, he rushed the enemy, bringing his sword up and slicing hard against the man’s throat. He relished the way the man’s blood bubbled around the wound before he collapsed.

        Atticus turned to Clementine, who was still standing in shock, eyes trained on the blood slowly spreading across her uniform. He dropped his sword to the ground and reached out for her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

        /“Clem,”/ he breathed, horror seeping into his voice.

        Her foggy eyes focused on him, and a grimace spread across her face. “Hi, Addy.”

        “Shit, you—I /told/ you I should’ve stayed with you, oh my—oh my /god./”

        “Always have to be right, don’t you?” she quipped weakly before leaning heavily against Atticus, letting her eyes flutter shut. 

        Atticus’s throat was tightening more and more every second, a nauseous panic overtaking his veins. His jaw hurt from clenching it so tight, and his whole body was a black hole of /fear/, fear that consumed every inch of him, fear deeper than anything he’d ever known. 

        “Hold on, I’m gonna… hold on, just hold on, Clem-bug, I’ve got you.” Atticus wrapped one arm behind her shoulders and lifted her legs with the other, clutching her tight to his chest. She cried out, agony potent in her screams as Atticus jostled her injury, and he bit down a whimper as he felt her pain in his own gut.

        Clementine’s head lolled against Atticus’s collarbones, and he cradled her close as he pushed his way through the endless sea of soldiers, running towards the med tent. 

        “Addy, please,” his sister whined, sounding all too young; as Clementine’s blood pooled a deep crimson against Atticus’s arms, suddenly he was a little boy again, rocking a big-eyed, pink-faced infant to sleep. /Stay awake/, he prayed to the war-torn sky, prayed to his baby sister. /Stay awake this time./

        When Atticus barreled into the med tent, half of the heads whipped up at his entrance, eyebrows raising at the crazed look in his eyes.

        One of the doctors rushed to them with a clear air of urgency. “Atticus,” the doctor said. “/Shit/, that— Put her right over here, quick.”

        The man gently laid Clementine down on a nearby cot and grit his teeth hard when she let out small gasps of pain. As the doctor rushed to get medical supplies, Atticus pressed his hands against her wound, and she groaned at the pressure, head tilting back against the pillow.

        “Addy,” she whispered, voice rough. Atticus bit his lip and shook his head fiercely. He knew every piece of her, knew her as the waves knew its own ocean, and he /knew/ what she was going to say.

        “Stop. Don’t.” His nostrils flared as he held back the tears pricking at his eyes.

        “You asshole. /Addy/,” Clementine said again. She raised her head to look straight at him; her face held a mix of pain and hardened determination that he wished he didn’t understand so well. “Atticus, listen to me.”

        “No.”

        “Addy, I’m /sorry/,” she choked out, face draining of color. Her voice was almost as broken as Atticus felt. “I’m sorry.”

        “Clem, please, /please/ don’t—” He cut himself off, not allowing the words to leave his mouth. 

        “Can… Will you hug me, Addy? Just one last—”

        “Don’t say that. I’m serious.”

        “You know neither of us can run from the truth right now. Let’s— let’s face it, okay? Now give me a hug, Ad, please.”

        Atticus hesitated. For one horrible moment, he stared his little sister in the eyes, hands soaking up her blood, and considered refusing. Denying her her chance for rest because he wanted her to /fight./

        But when the two of them packed their bags and left home to come fight in this war, Atticus promised himself that he would do anything for Clementine. Even more than he had all their lives—he’d give up his whole being, all for her.

        So, with early grief clogging up his lungs, he sat next to her on the cot and pulled her into his arms, rearranging them into a more comfortable position. This time as he jostled her, she just sighed. She buried her face into Atticus’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her head, just like they always had. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks and into Clementine’s hair as the heat of her bloody injury rested against his own stomach.

        Everything was quiet.

        He squeezed her tighter when he felt her breaths slow. He clutched the back of her head when she began to grow limp. He heard the doctor’s hurried footsteps approach and then halt; the doctor said nothing as Atticus started to rock back and forth, praying that they were still little and he could wake her up by blowing cold air in her face. His fingers grasped at her back, her neck, anything, desperation laced in every move.

        He tried to whisper her name but found his voice wouldn’t let him, so instead he started screaming. Nobody said a word to him as he screamed and screamed, screamed himself hoarse, clinging onto the last bits of warmth he found in Clementine’s body.

        Her body. Atticus was holding his baby sister’s /body./ A guttural sob forced its way out of his throat. Every part of him felt unreal. This wasn’t /real./

        In that moment, his world came crashing to an end.

        In that moment, Atticus lost himself.

        In that moment, he realized that there was no longer anything worth fighting for.

        Eventually, his rocking slowed and his screaming quieted. He ever so gently laid Clementine back down on the cot, eyes resolutely screwed shut. He ran his palm over her hair and pressed a soft kiss to her cool forehead, never looking at her.

        And then he walked out.

        Atticus didn’t remember going to the armory and grabbing a spare sword, but he must have, because he now held one in his hand, one shorter than his was, shorter like Clementine’s. He felt outside of himself when he stormed out, vaguely aware of every nerve under his skin alight with fury. 

        Eyes flitted his way as he approached the fighting crowd, and he watched as his navy-clad allies pinched their lips together and his green-clad enemies narrowed their eyes at him. Atticus tried to imagine how he looked to them: drying blood coated his arms and uniform, his strides were long and purposeful, and his deep brown eyes blazed gold with the power of his grief.

        Once he reached the battlefield, Atticus was a wildfire. Any mercy he had once felt for the Essdal soldiers in their shared humanity was long gone. All he could see in every face he met was the face of the one soldier, the one with the slit throat and his little sister’s blood on his blade. 

        Atticus swung his sword like a madman. Every green uniform he passed became soaked in crimson, every stomach impaled in a familiar way that only fueled his rampage. He never used to be this ruthless—neither he nor his sister had ever liked to kill if they could help it, only incapacitating their enemies. But Atticus needed one more fight, some final /revenge/ to try and quell the raw anger he felt amidst the loss he hadn’t allowed himself to fully grasp. 

        So this time, he left a path of destruction in his wake, enemy blood mixing with his sister’s on his hands. Every slash on his skin was numb and was then met with the collapse of an Essdal soldier. 

        Eventually, he was struck down. He was ready for it, had accepted it as soon as he picked up his sword, accepted it in the same way Clementine had accepted her death.

        /Death/. Atticus choked on his own breath as a soldier kept him pressed to the ground by pointing her sword at his neck. She said something to him, maybe, but he wasn’t listening. He was waiting. Waiting for—

        She stabbed her sword through his gut, leaving him stuck to the battlefield like a butterfly pinned to its grave. His stomach /burned/, pain he hadn’t thought possible spreading through his whole body in an instantaneous flash.

        /Huh/, he thought dimly, black spots dancing in the corner of his vision. /What a perfect way to go./

        Weakly, Atticus lifted his hand to his chest and fumbled around until he reached what he was searching for: the poppy. 

        He pulled it out of his front pocket and laughed as he twirled the stem in his bloodied fingers. Its petals, despite falling apart, really were beautiful.

        Suddenly, Atticus felt as if a wave of cold water was washing over him, and he looked up at the midday sky as he gasped out his final breaths.

        Right before he let his eyelids close over his eyes one last time, he clutched the poppy close. /We’ll make that garden, Clem/, he thought, a small smile spreading across his lips. /We’re going home, and we’ll make your garden./

By Yisingfa Konwar

Yisingfa Konwar is a 17 year old young aspiring Indian writer. She is a student and she mostly writes poetry in free verse.

My manuscript,

An eternal mirror of ink and paper;

A vessel of my ardent desires,

Within its pages I'm a paradox;

I reveal and yet conceal my words.

To frame my tales neither a prologue

Nor do I have an epilogue,

I carve pieces of me with pen

With heart and eyes of children;

A Sculpture of skin and bones of ashes.

Wildflowers conspire to bloom

At the edges of my antique room;

A testament of days of toil,

Of my colossal treasure,unspoiled.

By Shanti Samnotra 

Shanti Samnotra is 15 year old aspiring writer.

I’m sorry I can’t be your peppy little girl anymore

I’m sorry I’m always tired and grumpy

I’m sorry my friends don’t feel like my friends anymore

I’m sorry I can’t say this to your face

I’m sorry I’m always on my phone

I’m sorry we argue

I’m sorry I’ve changed

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m so sorry

By Samriddhi Kafle 

"Normally, I like to write sad poetry. I get the inspiration from some poetic songwriters or classic writers. Or also from people on the internet who share their amazing writings!"

She reads books and she writes poems, especially when she’s feeling very sad or when her mind is filled with anger uncertainty. She’s also very tired all day but is joyous when she gets to talk to someone close to her. 

My eyes burn

As i look at the portrait.

My thoughts drift

To the weakest of conclusions.

Does it matter if i try

If I’m damned to be in vain.

I feel inferior 

When you question 

My love.

I feel the sensation 

Of a sudden chill

When i get the blame.

I hear a thundering rift

And as i search for it,

I realize my heart is breaking.

Your comfort is 

What i needed.

But you die in your sleep

Knowing you can’t give me 

The best version of it. 

And i scream as i 

Grab the roses’ thorns. 

Does it matter if i try

If I’m damned to be in vain.

You run to me seeking 

For warmth,

Without realizing that 

I’m drifting apart.

I twist and turn

The lines i see 

In my greatest of nightmares.

Never finding a clue, 

I die beneath it.

Looking for the solace,

I find your arms.

Yet i feel empty

All in one.

Because you gave it all away 

To someone 

You went to the extreme for. 

You die in your sleep

Knowing you can never give me that.

And I’ve been dying

In my sweetest dreams 

Questioning if it’s all i want.

My mind’s become a 

Rotten flesh

As i seek for the awareness

Of his mind’s eye. 

What have i become?

All the hints you gave vanished

As i sought for the name

I shouldn’t.

But i couldn’t,

I couldn’t.

Does it matter if i try

If I’m damned to be in vain.

By Shu J. Liu

Shu J. Liu (they/them) is a teen writer from Canada who loves poetic storytelling, dystopia, and science fiction. When they're not writing, they can be found doodling eyes, listening to music, or watching video essays. Their work has appeared in multiple literary magazines, such as Rewrite the Stars Review and Bottled Dreams Literary Magazine. They're on Instagram @wlvshuu.

faded beliefs, faded distances

whispery autumn days so far behind,

we had comfort long ago;

hands clasped together, running

through fields of bountiful joy

and youthful laughter.

if you must leave me and go,

why does my heart ache so?

no warnings, no goodbyes,

a sudden disappearance in my life.

tell me, what’s the truth?

should you be gone far away,

how must i cope during the days

where i’d find you and cry on

your shoulder, soft and sweet.

belief is feeble, so i’ve found, but

should you return, i do believe i’d

never risk turning myself around;

for if you’ve taken off one before,

how must i know you won’t fade

away into the distance once more?

we could almost never

modernity was never

meant to be perfect.

perhaps that is the

truly beautiful thing

about its devastating

strikes and hits and blows.

maybe we were never

designed to live in a

peaceful world. perhaps

destruction is all there is

for us, the doomed of the

living and past and future.

we may possibly never

step on a gas giant nor

frolic among aliens in

unknown regions. but in

the end, perhaps it was

not in our destiny to do

so. perhaps we were

meant to live in simple

modernity, encased in

our quiet loudness that

we call our home and

planet earth. perhaps

life was almost as basic

as we almost made it be.

By Emily Kim

Emily Kim is a junior in high school studying Creative Writing. She enjoys poetry and screenwriting, and she is always eager to explore new genres. Her poetry has been published in two online magazines, and she also founded a literary magazine, Persimmon Review, in 2023. Outside of writing, she likes to watch Korean dramas and try different food. 

“The Neighbor” 

tends to her grand garden for hours at a time

letting the flies thump against her skin

that is exposed to the blistering heat

a red patch infests the nape of her neck 

where her thin ponytail sits

oozing sweat at the follicles 

it drips, drips, drips

down her rough back 

and into her prized silk shirt

she seizes a shovel and stomps in leather boots

poking at the tightly packed dirt

where caterpillars sit making leaves into holey cheese

she uncovers a family 

that squirms deeper into the darkness 

at the repulsive sight of her 

she cradles a bottle of pesticide like a dear baby 

aiming the spout toward the ground with a sly smirk

before pulling the trigger 

they’re too young to spread their wings

and fly off

into the smoky sky…

By Celine Mammadova

Celine is a 16-year-old student and poet based in Baku, Azerbaijan. Some of the main ideas she is deeply interested in and explores in her poems include the wonders and horrors of girlhood, suppressed desires, and the paradox of the human condition. In her spare time, she enjoys reading books sprawled in a sunny patch of grass

and pondering over philosophical questions with her cat. Occasionally, you can find her gushing about art in her little pocket of the internet @worthlesswonderings.

I sit on my dingy old ottoman as the light flows into the room through the frilly lace curtain. My legs are pulled up, and I’m hugging my knees - not because I’m afraid of any monsters under the bed, mind you. We’ve actually become good friends ever since I moved in, or so I’d like to think - there are warm, amiable feelings on at least one side of the relationship. Naza is in the kitchen giving instructions to Tetya Khanum (enter new character: the cook and an old family friend) since, according to her, nothing ever goes right with the food unless she’s there to watch over the process. I’m not sure how they both manage to maneuver in that tiny square they call the kitchen, and I am willing to bet five manats (although I might be out of cash) that, in a few minutes, I will hear the chilling sound of a frying pan getting knocked off  the stove and landing smack dab on someone’s foot. I’m almost certain it will then be followed by an “Ay, Allah” in that grating, dreadfully nagging voice that Naza does so well, with a long emphasis on the second “a” in “Allah” so that the sound lingers, echoing through the narrow corridors of the apartment. 

 Strangely enough, their sarcastic back and forth, sprinkled with the faint sound of the TV in the living room is exactly what I need to clear my thoughts. After staying with Naza for almost two months, I have come to learn that this is the apartment’s peculiar version of silence. I’ve grown used to the incessant, albeit slightly comforting hum of the yellowed fridge, the muffled voice of the news reporter on Channel One Russia talking about yet another “special military operation”, and the hoarse laughter of the neighborhood’s smokers that gather beneath my window exactly two minutes after I go to bed. They must have a radar or something, I truly don’t know how they always get the timing right, no matter when I choose to go to sleep. All of the things listed above have slowly, but surely become second nature to me, and the habits I’ve acquired back at home have, in turn, started to slip away. I suppose it’s the mind’s way of adapting to a new environment, like staying up all night to watch it slowly turn to dawn, and, finally, let morning take its place.

Sometimes when I sit on the old, dingy ottoman in what is now known as “Celine’s room”, I’ll try to detach from anything on my mind that’s bothering me (or reality, if you will) and simply let my eyes wander. There are so many objects to marvel at - as much as Mama likes to say the place is a mess and is full of trinkets that needed to be thrown out long ago, that is precisely what fascinates my little teenage girl brain. The sheer amount of things that can be looked at, examined, and dissected for hours on end tickles my consciousness and makes me giddy in a very I’m-just-a-kid-and-the world-is-so-unbelievably-fascinating-and-big kind of way. The CD player sitting on one of the bookshelves is the same player that has been used almost 50 years ago and by different members of my family, some of whom are long gone. I like to imagine my mom and my aunts on one particularly hot summer night of ‘97, jamming to 2Pac or Spice Girls while the parents were out. Or my grandfather putting on classical music as he worked in his office, irritated by anyone who so much as knocks on the closed door. Maybe, on days when he would be in a particularly good mood,  he would put on old Soviet songs or even The Beatles, and insert educational comments about the origin of the song here and there. I never got the chance to meet him, but something deep inside me tells me that he was an incredibly intelligent man, one who appreciated good music no matter the time period or the genre.

It is now almost three in the afternoon and I have been sitting on this ottoman with my legs crossed for almost an hour as I wrote myself into oblivion. My right one is most definitely asleep and, being an absolute child, I can’t bring myself to stand up because I’m scared to death of the tickly feeling that sets your whole body on fire. Tetya Khanum is done with cooking and is now transferring the food into a myriad of containers, some plastic, some glass - you never know what you’ll end up with in Naza’s kitchen. The sun is gently caressing my skin, and I think I might just follow my leg’s lead and slowly drift into an afternoon nap. It’s quiet moments like these that make me aware of  life not as a concept, but as a tangible thing that lives deep inside my body and scratches its way closer to the surface each day. And I’m not sure whether I’m always doing the right thing or if how I’m doing it is right, but I know that I’m doing what I love, and that’s the beauty of it. 

Forever yours (then again, nothing lasts forever, does it?),

Celine

By Hallee Wells

Hallee is an aspiring writer/poet who takes her inspiration from the ethereal and the macabre, turning her ills into something beautiful. She also takes an interest in writing music, (mostly lyric writing) and hopes to write some songs one day.

Speak too loud, too proud,

You envy the angels that cut you,

Pull the teeth from my mouth,

You can murder me too

Bleeding from tear ducts,

And pulling my hair,

I wish I was subtle,

I wish I was fair

Enough muttering now,

The vultures come to eat,

Your dead body on the ground,

Pick at vile meat