Art:

 Zeidan Naqeeb - Landscape of "the calm before the storm"

 Wulf Gooding - Moral Compass

 Ngoc Chieu My Tran - Butterflies in the stomach

 Luka Bueno Almagro - The Candle

Writing:

  Gargi Sidana - Hope is Translucent

  Chaïmae Laaouina - Her Forests

Elly Veritas - The Abyss

Justin Cadman - Delocatious Dawn/ Echoes of Solitude

Jedidiah Vinzon - flower.

Tulika - Forbidden love.

M.S. Blues - mi amor está aquí (esperándote)

Navya Modi - teenage; summer pool; wonderland of my own

Roxie - Letting Go 

Amelie Baskova - in between.

Calista Fathia - Her.

Gargi Sidana - Resemblance of OM

Olivia Carter-Stanley - you are , Heavy Worlds

Justin Cadman - Fatal Fissure

Florina Konwar - The Spring's deja vu

Bhoomi Lahoti - Rose Tinted 

Bruce Reisner - Sane People In Zanesville

Ritikaa Chakraborty - Heartsting Whisperer

Marie Cloutier - I Can Count

Josie Griffiths - With Devotion, Forever Yours

Dia - Poem

Ty-Rean Foster - The Beginning of the End,/My Drug/Not a Home

Ivan Ling - Fragmented/You, who manipulated weather

Raine Peh Tian Xin - MY LOVE FOR YOU IS NOT PLATONIC 

Zye Jimena - Close to numb/Box and Looking Back

Manakhi Sharma - A love's reflection/Endless patience

Nimra Khanum - We became what we feared the most.

Chhavi Kapoor - On making of a mother. 

Filipa Machado Gomes - Whispers of my heart

Emma Bidlen - Stay. 

S.K. Sanjana - Never enough 

Jordan Wortman - Fractured Psyche

Nellie - Are you still here

Blanka Pillár - Scenery/February

Hermes - Soul

Mallory - Glasses and all things nice

Raymond Trunk - mystique / On Fridays, the moon dances / an explanation for my father(s)

Laura Maria Felipe Araújo - Homage to my father/Lesser-than

Fable Khalil - Forest Fire/Truth/Mania or Joy?

Subhashree Pattnaik - Dear Sylvia, 

Elyshia Dawson - That Tree

Ananya Mohanty - Why i wish we never met: Mother's Day

Shambhavi Shukla - Born fish-being bird

Cassie Hartman - your secret lover

Talia Flanzraich - Virus

Kaidence Moss - Old Dog

Khadija Sehar Alam - On The Loneliness That Comes With Godhood; a Character Study Of Satoru Gojo

Wael Almahdi - Convo/Pills/The Work Groupchat

Iqra Waheed - Will There Be Happiness?

Jessamine Duverne - Sacrificial Lamb

Aubrey Quinn - Plastic

Erikha Lamartiniere - She Haunts Me

Julia May Barbante Bola - Surrounded Yet Lonely 

Iris - Requiem for a tyrant

Inaya Aly Khan - Tear/My Box of Freedom

By Chaïmae Laaouina

Chaïmae is a particularly passionate person, the world around her fascinates her more and more everyday, she expresses herself through poetry, dance , song writing and more, her dream is to create and to have an impact on people.

"This poem revolves around a parallel between my past, my present and my future, the carved quotes, initials and the savory fragrance symbolize pieces of my childhood, as for the unsent letters, the books, the collections and the unfinished poetry, comforting smell of coffee, represent my current situation which is why it happens in a cabin (symbolizes home), as for the wide window and the many separate roads represent my unknown yet to be discovered and experienced future."

Her forests 

As I walk down her forest,

I see flowers of all colors, of all shapes and scents

High trees, carved quotes and initials on their wood 

I see broken bottles of ink and torn paper

I see teddy bears laying around, posters and lipsticks,

Colorful disks of all kinds of music genre many, many unsent letters.

I smell a citrusy, peachy and savory fragrance over here and an oddly comforting caffeine aroma over there,

It's all so overwhelming, almost confusing 

As I go in further, I find a cabin 

As I open the oddly decorated door 

I find a valley of seemingly endless collected antiques

Old paintings, bizarre jewelry, books, a lot of books, cheap looking clocks and red ceramics...

In a dark hidden spot in the room, I notice unfinished poetry spread on the oaky flooring along with lyrics sheets,

Even further in the cabin, I face an astonishing view through a surprisingly immense window.

Despite the thick fog that covers everything beyond my eyesight I catch a glimpse of many separated roads.

Some of which blinding light shines through, others hidden by gigantic intimidating trees,

And I can't help but wonder, which route of mine am I about to enter next?

By Justin Cadman

18 year old who writes poetry as a hobby.

Tender silence preceding dawn

Momentary bliss surrounds

Hazy dew resolving upon the lawn

A harmonious day abounds 

Precipitation of yestereve ceases

Golden hues stream the horizon 

Feathery wisps pierce the atmospheric creases

Superficial is this beautiful phenomenon 

Wafts of daybreakers flock

Preparations for various destinations

Systemically achieved on the clock

The initiation of daily creations 

Precocious plants peer eagerly 

Prepared for a taste of bliss

Arranged as a melody

Avoidance of the missing the solar kiss 

Flesh coverings began to tear

For once were enclosed in slumber

Sounds of annoyance pierce and sullen the air

Yet now begins the time of encumber 

Eternal bliss never arrives

Delicatus dawn may seem

Peace is only one believes yet never achieves 

So for now we can only dream 

By Jedidiah Vinzon

Jedidiah Vinzon is studying physics at the University of Auckland. His works can be read in orangepeel, Tarot and Symposia, among others, with many more forthcoming. In his free time, he enjoys listening to and writing music, reading fantasy, and taking walks in the park. You can find him on Instagram @jayv.poetry

"This is a translation of an ekphrastic poem originally written in Tagalog."

bulaklak ng umaga

ipinagkaloob ng

hanging walang patawad

agad man ang paglipas

ng panahong mahinay

ang kariktan mong tunay

ay hindi kukupas sa

alaala ng aking

taimtim na isipan

kahit mabilis lamang

ang ating pagtatagpo.

– 

flower of the morning

granted by 

remorseless wind

though swift is the passing

of your gentle moment

your ineffable beauty

will not fade from

the memory of my

sincere devotion

even if our rendezvous

is serendipitous.

By M.S. Blues

M.S. Blues is an 18 year old multiracial, queer, and versatile writer who has been writing since the age of seven. Her work revolves around the darker pieces of humanity society tends to neglect. She has been published by many literary magazines and currently serves as an editor to The Amazine, Adolescence Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, Hyacinthus Zine, and Chromatic Stars Review. Her Instagram handle is @m.s.blues_

mi amor está aquí

para chris

siempre fui hipnotizado por ti, quierdo,

mucho antes de que te conviertes en hombre, te quiera.

cuando dejamos de hablar la primera vez, traté de olvidarte.

me entregué a las distracciones y al mal amor.

lo cual funcionó, porque durante años, mi mente estaba vacía de cualquier recuerdo tuyo.

luego vino el cine el 1 de noviembre mi cumpleaños –

habían pasado años desde que te vi,

sin embargo, viejos sentimientos regresaron a mi corazón,

y me di cuenta de que ahora eres un hombre, ya no solo el vato que me gustaba en aquel entonces –

tu voz se hizo más profunda,

tus ojos tenían un propósito,

y tu boca pronunció palabras reales,

no las tonterías y maldiciones que pronunciamos en aquel entonces.

después de estas observaciones, supe que mi amor se había encendido nuevamente, sólo la llama era mayor que antes.

continúe siguiendo esa llama,

... y comenzamos a hablar de nuevo,

olvidándonos de los años transcurridos entre nosotros. era como si volviéramos a ser jóvenes, salvajes, y libres.

a medida que pasaban los días, más me enamoraba de ti. se volvió demasiado difícil de soportar,

así que un día abrí la boca y te lo dije,

y tu amor mió, respondiste diciendo: “intentemoslo.”

no podría haber estado más feliz.

pero, como suele decirse, la felicidad no llega fácilmente,

me abandonaste, amor, antes de que pudiéramos dar el primer paso juntos como uno solo. no entendí, así que hice lo que sólo sabía. me fui de nuevo y tomamos caminos separados. pero eso no significa que no estuviera devastada.

durante meses, amor mió, eras todo lo que tenía en mente.

cerraría los ojos y tu rostro estaría allí, mientras tu voz resonaba en mis oídos.

supongo que realmente eres especial.

-

luego llegó febrero,

y volviste a la anarquía de mi vida.

me recogiste de hamilton y, con un amigo, nos aventuramos por la ciudad.

se intercambiaron palabras bajo los ojos de sol,

y hice lo mejor que pude para escuchar,

a pesar de la hipnosis de este maldito amor que me invade cada vez que hablas. solo desearía que supieras lo que me hiciste.

al final de la noche, declaramos hablar de nuevo, reavivar la llama.

y lo hicimos.

hablamos y esa llama en mi corazón se convirtió en un infierno de amor abrumador.

creo que finalmente reconociste mi amor por ti,

porque me expresaste una verdad que has albergado durante mucho tiempo.

crees que no eres lo suficientemente buena para mi. crees que me arrastraras hacia abajo.

amante, no podría estar más en contra de estos pensamientos que tienes.

déjame decirte, mi amor.

te mereces todo lo que hay en mi –

cada maldito pedazo de mi corazón, alma, mente, cuerpo y amor. te lo doy todo.

pero la elección es tuya, mi amor.

tienes que luchar contra tus demonios y cruzar el otro lado de la carretera – porque ahí es donde estoy, esperando.

mi amor y yo estamos aquí, esperándote.

ENGLISH TRANSLATION:

my love is here (waiting for you)

for chris

i was always hypnotized by you, darling, long before you became a man, i loved you.

when we stopped talking the first time, i tried to forget you.

i gave myself over to distractions and bad love.

which worked, because for years, my mind was empty of any memory of you.

then came the cinema on november 1st, my birthday –

it had been years since i saw you,

however, old feelings returned to my heart.

and i realized that now you are a man, not just the guy i liked back then – your voice became deeper,

your eyes had a purpose,

and your mouth spoke real words,

not the nonsense and curses we uttered back then.

after these observations, i knew that my love had been kindled again, only the flame was bigger than before.

i continued to follow that flame,

... and we start talking again,

forgetting the years that have passed between us. it was like we were young, wild, and free again.

as the days went by, the more i fell in love with you.

it became too much to bear,

so one day i opened my mouth and told you,

and you, my love, you responded by saying: “let’s try it.” i couldn’t have been happier.

but, as they say, happiness does not come easily.

you abandoned me, love, before we could take the first step together as one.

i didn’t understand, so i did what i only knew. i left again and we went our separate ways. but that doesn’t mean i wasn’t devastated.

for months, my love, you were all i had on my mind.

i would close my eyes and your face would be there, while your voice resonated in my ears. i guess you really are special.

–

then february came,

and you returned to the anarchy of my life.

you picked me up from hamilton and, with a friend, we ventured around the city. words were exchanged under the sun’s eyes,

and i did my best to listen,

despite the hypnosis of this damned love that invades me every time you speak. i just wish you knew what you did to me.

at the end of the night, we declare to speak again, to rekindle the flame.

and we did it.

we talked and that flame in my heart became an inferno of overwhelming love.

i think you finally recognized my love for you,

because you expressed to me a truth that you have harbored for a long time.

you think you’re not good enough for me. you think you’ll drag me down.

lover, i couldn’t be more against these thoughts you have.

let me tell you, my love.

you deserve everything that is in me –

every damn piece of my heart, soul, mind, body, and love. i give you everything.

but the choice is yours, my love.

you have to fight your demons and cross the other side of the road – because that’s where i am, waiting.

my love and i are here, waiting for you.

By Roxie

"Hello :) I have always had a passion for writing but as I got older I had a lot of distractions and drifted away from it. I got back into writing when I was in a very painful place in my life, things felt like they were falling apart and I didn’t know where to channel that pain and that’s when I got back into writing. I have so much passion for writing and it helps me center myself when I am in a bad place. I have recently started writing my first short stories and would love to write more stories and even venture into different things like film and scriptwriting."

"A poem about the painful process of letting go "

I looked around me and there was nothing left 

I kept holding onto the memories that were all around me in everyone i ever met 

How could they move on so easily while i was left 

In the space between starting fresh and an ending 

I didn’t know what my life looked like next 

I was scared of the unknown, I don’t want to start again 

I hold onto the memories for comfort but they make me more depressed 

I start to focus on myself and what do I really want 

I feel lost because I can’t choose one thing, I look all around me and people have there things 

I realise all i ever wanted was to be happy and live a life of peace 

Why is there so much pressure to be anything 

Maybe I am just me 

Or maybe there are so many parts of my mind filled with creativity that I can’t find one thing 

I’ve been trying to figure myself out for so long 

Letting go made me want to find myself even more 

To fill an empty hole

Maybe finding out who I am was never the problem 

Maybe the problem was this hole that I was so desperate to fill

The emptiness it bought me was like a darkness taking over my body 

It didn’t feel like it was a darkness that was mine 

More like a darkness that was placed onto me

I realised we are all trying to find who we are to fill this emptiness 

We have to be productive, we have to be doing something or else we will feel empty

But when you lie down on your bed at the end of the day and no one is there and you have no distractions 

Does that emptiness come back? 

Have you really filled the emptiness, or is it something inside of you that can’t be fixed with productivity 

Do we ever really let go? 

Do we ever heal? 

Or is life full of distractions and productivity to make us think we have 

How do we heal ourselves? From everything we’ve ever known 

Well that is something I am still trying to know 

So I can let go 

By Calista Fathia 

Calista Fathia, or often goes by Cállie, is an introverted girl who spends most her spare time writing poetry and prose. She dedicates most of her writings for her former and current lovers, former best friend/s, never-got-to-have crushes, and the cruel society. 

"It was a very cathartic experience to be able to be open about my feelings in this poetry I wrote after reminiscing about a huge friendship breakup I didn’t know would happen at that time. Perhaps it was more than just platonic between me and her, but I guess a one-sided situation never ends well, don’t you think?

Nevertheless, besides all the gut-wrenching experiences I’ve experienced, I always embrace my melancholic side and turn it into my writing style instead. It is a blessing to feel everything so deeply—and it is also okay to feel too much at a time because that’s usually when the ideas will come to light."

The starlight shone its beam on your doe-eyed face 

I could’ve sworn it was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen—

for as long as I could remember

Your long, curly hair fell smoothly down your back like silk 

and I could’ve caressed it 

yet how foolish of me that I remained still

You looked at me like I was more to you

I looked at you like we had a chance

We didn’t break it to each other 

but we knew 

we had undeniable tension we always avoided to admit

We were just kids thinking our friendship stayed forever

Little did we know 

we barely know each other now 

and all that left is just a picture of us 

I once promised to frame but never did

By Olivia Carter-Stanley

Olivia (Liv) is a 14 year old young poet who posts on Instagram and Tiktok her journey and hopes to inspire many one day and really loves writing and reading poetry!

Now you feel -

and all you are.

A whist of shame.

One to feel different ;

one to feel unworthy,

but one to ponder.

Why am I different?

————————————

This world, 

contained of musts.

However just cripple to dust.

Just to see how it looks.

Discards lay around,

all heavy laying down - while on a ground.

Creating a hefty crow.

Do they shout out loud?

Should you trust?

Should you must?

Should this world be as this?

Or is it too heavily discarded.

By Florina Konwar

She is an undergraduate student and loves to write short stories and seldomly poetries too. 

"This poetry is my first ever work in social platform, it's about spring manifestation and nostalgic memories from yesteryears. Hope you love it."

Title - *The Spring's deja vu*

Behold! The majestic arrival; 

The fragrance of fresh air, 

Soft whispers of chroma 

From nature's palette paints:

The azure sky,

Trees adorned with blossoms; 

Frosty shroud shedding, 

Flourishing with warm zephyrs;

Ah, the springtime energy!

In it's gentle breeze,

Swept up in the ecstasy,

Infusing rejuvenating aroma.

Ah, the spring breeze!

Whispers in our ears:

Does your memory stir?

The fragrance of memories,

Symphony of yesterspring,

Serenade tender melodies

From day of yore;

Nostalgic, isn't it!

Where echoes of time's embrace

Linger evermore.

By Bruce Reisner

Bruce Reisner is a senior citizen artist/writer living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  His poems, essays and fiction have appeared in many online lit mags.

Sane People in Zanesville

My beloved Fifi has been bioengineered to breed only with small dogs in what I (and Fifi) believe is our social class.  She is a Toy Beach Haze Poodle, and has been bred for an exceptional and specialized libido, set permanently on level 2 out of 10.  The dogs don’t hump anything.  They make love after a lunch date with dog owners.  Small gifts are exchanged.  Both sides say sweet nothings in both dog’s ears. People exchange recipes.   Lasting friendships by snail mail.  Shown photos of the dogs she sired, Fifi  says, “Thank you for this opportunity to be part of the eugenics program you have been working in the back of your ‘87 conversion van. “

Gratitude can be bred in, or out, of doggie gene pools.  If my skill exceeds that of some sinful institution, and people don’t care, Fifi is an egalitarian capable of love.  Ffi has a normal lust for life.  I don’t have to explain myself to a dog, beyond an obligation to be humane, and that’s not much next to true love, and that’s the case with me and Fifi. No shit about love.  But a dog has to be bred for our tragic short term planning.  Were we all not packed like sardines in shitty little micro apartments, we might be breeding large dogs with lovely dispositions.  I’m sorry, Fifi.  I meant nothing with that comment about size.  Your’re fine the way you are.  You’re better than a Great Dane.  Size has nothing to do with it.

By Marie Cloutier

Marie Cloutier (she/her) is a writer and poet. Her work has been published in Scribes Micro,  Bare Back Literary, and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Connect with her on her website, www.mariecloutier.com.

I Can Count

The cat's plastic face says I Can Count.

I bought the calculator with a bracelet of fake pearls

from a yard sale, traded for it the third grade,

with another little girl.

just white numbers on a red plastic case.

nothing anyone but me needed.

but it doesn't matter if I needed

it or not. I was good at math; I could count

on my own. I carried around in case

I wanted to show it off, like my pearls,

but better. Many of us little girls

didn't care about the kind of grades

on report cards, just the grades

we gave each other. We needed

things for our third grade girl

pride. You weren't going to count

with old shoes and tacky pearls,

or an out of style pencil case.

it stayed with me for years, in any case,

that calculator I got back in third grade.

I still have it today, alongside real pearls,

other things to bring joy I need,

and now that collection, too large to count,

includes some thing definitely not meant for girls.

but people judge you. "That's for little girls"-

your plushes, pencils, toaster, even the pink CD case

with your favorite cat on the front, counting

all the ways you've failed to make the grade

as a woman, failed to do what they think you need,

be the grownup in a twinset and wedding pearls.

now I know better which pearls

of wisdom to accept, better than the girl

who let someone else tell her what she needs

to be happy. Now I keep it to make the case

that joy is its own reward, that nobody gives out grades

or the right to say "I can count."

By Dia

child's put to rest when sick

While an adult's sickness is just ignored 

An adult feels it all

While child plays a joke 

Not till it's seen 

One hears the scream 

Till the sickness turns to rage 

and he is told an irate cage 

Till the jokes laughed about 

Is a goodbye on page 

              ~Dia

By Ivan Ling

Ivan Ling is currently residing in Malaysia. He is also an Editor for Sunway University Press and has published poems under Particle Magazine (Issue 18 and 20), book reviews (in SARE: Southeast Asian Review of English and MMOJ: Men Matters Online Journal) and recently a journal article under Creative Flight.

Fragmented (Title)

Under this table lamp, a dewdrop 

dangles from the underside

of a donkey’s ear; memories 

made it heavier, harder to cling onto, 

and drops— 

plunges into the pool, 

ripples scatter upon its surface; 

each of fragmented memory.

Noises still as a quintuplet 

of fuchsia petals bathed ankle-deep

within the shallow embrace of rain water.

Broken-off leaves drizzled

in spring air— 

in the arms of autumn colours, 

warm under a basking sun. 

The Asian Koel perched

on the acacia branch, cooed 

for the sunrise, a call

for a listener, as his heart 

sang sorrow.

You, who manipulated weather (Title)

What if I told you

rain became snow

whenever I was with you?

It was always 

snowflake drizzle

as we sat across each other.

It was cold but beautiful,

a scene etched behind my eyes

even when we said our goodbyes.

That one time, 

even when all ended

did I tell you? 

How the sky kept crying

but every teardrop 

became a snowflake

waltzing slowly to the pavement,

turning into a puddle on contact.

Would you believe me,

even if I told you

rain still turned to snow,

when you are no longer here.

By Zye Jimena

"it's about grieving some loved ones from your past or not being able to move on"

05-04-24

Title: Looking Back

You can never really speak

If it doesn't touch your beak, 

Only roll back your eyes

Go round as if it were a dice 

Dwelling on your loss

Won't make a coin flip or toss

The world won't end for your past

But the present dictates the time you'll last 

There's no vehicle for going back

Only a mattress to all that we lack

Matters that shouldn't crash you into sand 

You tightly hold the piece of wand 

-

11-01-23

Title: Box

a look at your lengthy box

pull my excruciating thoughts

i buried with not-so-happy songs

to heal my body's entire wounds

a glimpse at your pic

reminds me of a tragic

coz when I'm ecstatic

You show me tricks of magic

a flower bouquet beside

extrude my tear to drop or slide

not because of being happy

but by reminiscing your memory

hope to find the key

to the exit of your memory

and not remember this as a tragedy

but as a brand new chapter for me

-

10-31-23

Title: Close to Numb

While overlooking, out of the hue

There's inside throbbing; it felt rough.

My eyes are watery.

Everything seems dizzy.

Had gash on a razor-sharped knife by you

By Manakhi Sharma

In the depths of my heart, a love so true,

Patiently waiting, just for you.

Through moments of jealousy and doubt,

I choose to stay, for love's what it's about.

Insecurities may cloud my mind,

But in my heart, you I'll always find.

I'll wait for you, through thick and thin,

Hoping one day, your heart I'll win.

My love for you, pure and sincere,

Eternal and constant, year after year.

I'll show you through actions, not just words,

My devotion to you, like singing birds.

So take your time, I'll be here,

To hold you close, to wipe your tear.

For in this waiting, my love grows strong,

Hoping one day, you'll come along.

I'll wait for you, my love so deep,

In my heart, forever you'll keep.

Know that my love for you will never part,

Patiently waiting for your accepting heart.

By Chhavi Kapoor

Chhavi is a writer who shares a piece of her heart in everything she writes. Her words are straight out of her life and linked to her personal experience on paper. She loves poetry because there is no correct way to read or write it. One can just be themselves. 

Of all the moments I have spent with my mother

I still remember my 8 y/o self on the rooftop

astonished, when she told me

those airplanes in the night sky were shooting stars. 

Indeed, mothers always excel at crafting perfection

subtly concealed beneath their intricately embellished 𝘥𝘶𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘴. 

A mother speaks like a musical cuckoo on a

chilly morning with spring flowers

complimenting her ornaments. 

Except she stutters talking about the 

silent echo stitched at the boundary of her heart. 

A mother works like a passionate gardener who

caresses the flowers as her own child. 

Except she stops at the part about sowing her

dreams as seeds in the roily soil. 

A mother writes like the love letters—

from the moon— to his beloved lovers on earth. 

Except she loses the glowing letters 

somewhere in the books of obligation she 

gets as gift for marrying. 

A mother sounds like the anklet that chimes

around the ankles of honey-coloured sunsets. 

Except she wraps her 𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 with the crammed noises draped around her. 

A mother feels like the petite grainy sunlight

squinting from the crystal window 

in our bedrooms. 

Except she is incapable of distinguishing 

the 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 on her forehead 

from the spattered droplets of blood, when touched upon. 

A mother is born every time 

a woman walks through fire or flame, 

every time a warrior kisses 

the gentle hands of his wife after the war, 

Every time a pain soothes away from a child's eye, 

Every time a heart buries upon

a warm hug in a woman's arms, 

Every time a person sees hope in twinkling stars. 

every time.... every time... every time... 

By Emma Bidlen 

Emma Bidlen is a 9th grade student who has been writing poetry for three years now. She has won 1st in her district for the Young Georgia Authors writing competition and 2nd place in the state of Georgia in the Junior BETA poetry competition. Emma loves to read and write and often bases her work on events in her life. 

Stay. By Emma Kay 

For as long as I can remember, 

I’ve stood here in the footnotes of your life, 

Prominent enough for a mention, 

But never enough for a chapter in your story. 

Here I am today, 

Thinking I’ll finally mean something to you, 

Knowing deep down I’ll have to say goodbye again.

I drown out the thought with laughter and smiles, 

But eventually, in the deep of the night, 

My own twisted mind sends me spiraling. 

The days ticking down like minutes on a clock, 

This overwhelming pit in my stomach is

 A lasting reminder that you aren’t here to stay. 

And I want to break down. 

I want to scream and cry and beg, 

Wish on every star you’ve hung 

And every dandelion you’ve planted, 

Anything to make you stay.

To make me enough for you. 

But at the end of the day,

I know that not even my bleeding heart 

Spilling at your feet and begging for your attention

Will change your mind. 

So I’ll stay here, 

Wasting away inside, 

Laughing vacantly on the outside, 

Fooling you over and over, 

Awaiting the day you walk out again. 

When will I be enough for you to stay? 

By Jordan Wortman

Jordan is a 15 year old girl from Branson, MO. She enjoys writing, reading, and participating in Speech and Debate tournaments; she broke the record of the youngest student to become President of her team as a Freshman Novice. She hopes to attend the University of Washington when she graduates to become a forensic psychologist.

"This short story started out as a free write in a middle school English class years ago, and honestly I wasn't really thinking about what I was putting down. I just had a small spark of an idea, and my fingers did the rest. I never intended for it to be "all that" but after I finished I read through and realized it was probably one of my favorite pieces I had written up until that point. Since then I've cherished it, and shared it whenever possible."

It was my first year attending the summer kickoff bash at the FHS "party house". I’ve never been popular, and only the school's elite get invited. I just got lucky because I happened to be the reason Alexis Wright aced her finals. I may have helped her out a bit. Of course, once I got there, Alexis abandoned me, but that was to be expected. So I just sat there on the couch, sipping on the spiked punch, pretending not to notice the harsh taste. At that point, I simply didn’t care. The loud music was rattling my brain, and I couldn’t focus, let alone enjoy myself. Maybe if I had brought some earplugs, I wouldn’t have left early that night. 

My feet are sore, and I can barely stand up straight. My only light source is the moon, as I’m attempting to stumble my way home. My soiled Converse are in one hand, ruined by my own stomach contents, and my phone is in the other. It died hours ago, so its basically useless. As I turn the corner by the gas station, I hear a scuffle of feet on the pavement behind me. I whip around, and find no one. I’ve always been superstitious, but this is just my head getting to me…

Evan..

The wind whispers my name, and I stop dead in my tracks. My blood runs cold. I turn around once again, slowly this time, and see a shadowy figure duck behind a bush. I run over to try and catch the juvenile culprit. I expected to find one of the annoying neighbor kids, but again I found nothing. This can’t be just me…  I risk straying away from the street lamp and turn back to continue my trek. I attempt to walk at a faster pace, which wasn’t the easiest thing task considering the state that my feet are in. Honestly, just forget it. I start to run. It hurts, but not as bad as whatever might happen if I don’t. I feel an icy hand on my shoulder, and a harsh cold breeze blow behind me. I keep going, forcing myself to shut my eyes.

“Evan, Evan, Evan, Evan, Evan, Evan, open your eyes Evan, you know you want to”

The wind is taunting me now, I can’t think straight, I have to get home. All of a sudden, I feel a harsh yank on my lopsided ponytail, and I fall straight on my back. The figure looms over my body, and it’s the last thing I see before I black out.

                                     . . .

 My head is absolutely pounding, and I try to put my hand to my forehead but something is holding me back. I look down at my arms, and they’re held down by restraints at both of my sides. The room smells like harsh chemicals, and the walls are painted a blinding white. I sit up as much as I can, and look around. The tile on the floor looks unusually clean and cold. On the wall opposite to me, there is a canvas picture of a field covered in flowers; and above the door is a clock with a metal caging over it. A singular lonely chair sits in the corner, made of maroon faux leather, the kind you see in hotels. I take a closer look and see that the legs of the chair are bolted to the ground. I hear the door handle jiggle, a key being inserted into the lock. I hold my breath. The creaky door slowly opens, and in walks a pretty lady in powder blue scrubs.

“Oh, Ms. Barlowe, you’re awake. It’s time for your meds and lunch”

“My what?” I’m confused, and I shrink away from her as she walks towards me. 

“Your meds, of course. It's noon.” I take note of the food cart in the hallway behind her, tray lunches stacked and labeled. She places a tray at the foot of my bed, and unlatches my wrist restraints. They’re red and sore from my struggle to be free of them. I cautiously reach down and open the lid. Salisbury steak, potatoes, and mushy carrots and peas. Looks like something I would get at school, slop. And next to my food, is a small cup with multiple pills in it. Two small white ones, a blue one, and an orange one. 

“What are these?” I shake the cup to get a better look.

“Chlorpromazine, Vilazodone, and Lamotrigine. Same as always. Now go on, take them.” She hands me a plastic cup with room-temperature water. I shakily raise the cup to my lips, and swallow. “Good job, now eat up” She turns to walk out of the room. 

“Wait. Where am I exactly?” The nurse furrows her brow

“Greenway Behavioral Health unit. Ms. Barlowe, did you take your morning meds?” I don’t remember waking up here earlier this morning, much less do I remember taking any kind of medication. But I just nod my head anyways. “Hm..I’m going to go ahead and schedule an early appointment with Dr. Crost.” She says with a furrowed brow as she closes the heavy door behind her. A click of a latch tells me that she locked it too. I take my plastic silverware in hand and stir my dry mashed potatoes, trying to build up the courage to take a bite. The meat is gray, and cold in the middle. But I can’t ask for much I suppose. I push the tray back to the end of the bed and stand up. The tile is freezing on my bare feet. I look around once again, and notice a pair of socks draped over my headboard. They’re the kind that have the grippy rubber pieces on the bottom to keep you from slipping. I’ve officially made it to the nuthouse.

“So, Evangeline, how’ve you been feeling?” Dr. Crost asks, in a monotone voice. 

“Evan, please. And I suppose I can’t exactly say I’ve been good, considering where I’m at.” I look down at my hands, and start picking at my nails. 

“Would you like to tell me what’s been going on? How do you think your treatments have been going.” He fixes his square glasses, pushing them up on his large nose. He has a clipboard in his lap, with a hospital-issued pen in hand.

“The thing is, I’m not sure. I think I’ve just gone insane…” Dr. Crost lets out a sinister, hollow laugh; For a moment his face seems to contort. But just as soon as the expression came, it left

“Well, maybe. But that’s alright, we’re going to make you all better.” I get a gut feeling that is not what is going to happen while I'm here, but I simply nod.

By Blanka Pillár

Blanka Pillár is a seventeen-year-old writer from Budapest, Hungary. She has a never-ending love for creating and an ever-lasting passion for learning. She has won several national competitions and has been an editor-in-chief of her high school’s prestigious newspaper, Eötvös Diák. Today, she is not throwing away her shot.

Scenery 

I forgive him for the little lies. The little fibs that slip away and the broken promises that go unkept. He always tells the same lies, and sometimes I believe him because the story paints

itself like a vivid oil portrait; first, the figures are painted, then the background, then the

corners, edges, contours, and finally, it becomes as if it were a real scene on the canvas of life, but only the immensity of human imagination has made what could never be real. It tells me what I most desire, so I reach for it with all my heart, stretching out my soul's arms to preserve all his lips whisper and hold it within me for eternity. I love him with all my heart, but when my reality is keen-eyed, it sometimes smells like the scratch of jagged-edged infidelities in the dawning light or the wistful night. The cold realization slips into bed

beside me or touches me as I walk.

Today we take it into our heads to walk around the riverbank. We get caught in the cool

January breeze, and he starts coughing. I take off my thin pink cotton scarf and wrap it

around his neck with careful movements. He gives me a weak half-smile and walks on. My chest gets hot, even though my whole body is shivering from the winter's minus temperatures.

Sometimes we stop. We look at the broken-legged seagulls on the slippery waterfront stones,

the sloppy sidewalk ahead, and the footprints of giddy pedestrians. He rubs his hand as we spy on one of the old buildings covered in melted snow. His fingertips are almost purple, so I tug

off my black fabric gloves and slip them on his frosty palms. He thanks me quietly. His silent

words creep into my consciousness like angelically soft notes, wrapping my trembling body in a gentle embrace.

Barely perceptible, the milky-white sky opens, and it drizzles, but we are unperturbed. We sit on a stinging bench and stare silently at the glistening toes of our wet boots as they tread the snowy ground before us. Somewhere in the distance, expensive hand-painted plates clink, light pages of newspapers crinkle in the city breeze, the iron bells of a dilapidated church jingle, and a delicious golden-skinned duck in a warm oven is being prepared. I feel him move beside me, and I put my head down. He sways back and forth with folded arms while tiny particles of dripping snowfall on his knitted flame-red Angora sweater. I slip my thin arms out of my expensive loden-lined coat and place them on his back. He looks me in the eye. My tongue curls and confesses at seeing his delicately delineated perfect face. It humbly admits the truth it has admitted so many times before and hopes. It hopes that, for once, its love's answer will not be a lie. But once again, he replies, I love you too. I-love-you. He utters this gracious lie delicately. The first syllable is trust, the second is passion, and the third is loyalty. He feels none of these, yet he testifies to them. He savors the shape of the voice. First bitter, then sour, then finally swallowed. After all, it's only one word. But for me, it's so much more: I put myself in his hands.

Maybe that's not how it all happened. I've been sick for a while now; my lungs are weak from

the January freeze. Every time I close my eyes, I try to remember our last story. Embellish it,

add to it, rearrange it, change it. Maybe one day I'll grind it to perfection, and that word won't

ring so false. Or the memory will turn yellow, like old letterhead, and no longer matter. Or maybe ‘‘I love you’’ will become just another fluffy word to be whispered in the harsh winter, bored, picked up by the wind, carried far away, across the world, to where it means nothing.

Far from the eager, greedy arms of my soul.

February

Somewhere there was a crossroads near the border, in a smoky child's face with round eyes. Low blue and yellow brick houses and dark green pine trees surrounded it, and in summer, the purple statices opened in the garden, in spring, the hot sunlight stretched across the forest canopy. The first memory of round eyes was of this landscape, where years of warm embraces and happy barks were repeated over and over again. They called this place Life; it was as they imagined the world of fairy tales. Until now. 

Something shook the earth. It shuddered, deep and angry, as if the grey sky had fallen. Morning dew covers the blades of grass, and a thick mist has descended on the cool ground; even the air is swirling backward, and the birds are flying far away. They run out of the brick house and stare at the Thursday shadows. The button eyes watch as all the spring, summer, autumn, and winter gather in two grey canvas bags, as the faltering zipper is pulled on the resin-scented warm wool sweaters and the smiling stuffed elephants, as the Mother and Father pray in whispers, as they lock the door of Life without a key. Lacking a vehicle, they walk away from the crossroads, the low blue and yellow brick houses, the dark green pines, the purple statices, and the memory of warm embraces and happy barks. The round child's face fills with hot tears, with the helpless sorrow of incomprehension and lack. She doesn't know where the touch of silky grey dog-tails and the fresh scent of the short-cut lawn has gone; before her and behind her lies an endless sea of concrete surrounded by barren trees. All around her, words she had never heard before, harder-sounding names of unfamiliar places are repeated with terrified powerlessness in their voices. 

Meanwhile, the time's arrow marches on, the wind picks up, and the horizon bends to dark blue. The Mother takes a brown bun from her canvas bag, caresses the child's cold face, and then holds the tiny body close to her, cradling it and humming the song she used to sing when the family was ill. The melody rings sweetly, filling the lonely night and drowning out the deafening noise of strangeness. 

Twilight and dawn meet; the dust is heavier on the feet, and the eyes look wearily into the bare winter. Farther lies Life than the round eyes and the darkening child's face could possibly look back. 

They can only guess where they are going as they leave fading footprints on the edge of towns, hoping to cross something larger soon. They dare only believe that the sun will come out the next day, that there will be night, and that the clear sky stars will shine with the same piercing light.

By Mallory

Mallory is a soldier. Undoubtedly misfortuned. Severely fond of the rain.

"I'm certain that glasses are a divine creation."

It's that sort of happiness you only feel when you eat something your mother used to cook for you as a child or when you have a rain shower.

It's hard to explain. It's just that when I take off my glasses and put them back on and I can compare what I saw before with what I can see now, it's like I'm a kid again -- for now I can see the world like I did when I was eight and light-hearted, before myopia and many other things equally concerning appeared.

And I may seem silly and mental to most people, but when I put on these lovely glasses for the first time and was able to perfectly, effortlessly read what was written on the television inside the optics, I laughed like I was a little girl with bruised knees and missing teeth again.

I can see the grains of litter in my cat's litter box and I can see the features of people's faces and I can see numbers above doors or engraved on construction equipment and I can read transit plates and I can watch the mountains through my kitchen window and I understand the words on the board and I can see the lights on top of the graves in the cemetery and sometimes being alive isn't so bad, after all. I can see the deep green in these trees so clearly that, if I concentrate hard enough, I can see the thick forest I had near my childhood home. It's all so magical and new and yet so real and familiar. 

By Laura Maria Felipe Araújo

Laura is an eighteen-year-old bilingual writer from Brazil. Writing poetry and, occasionally, prose, which feature introspection, heartfeltness and a distinctive style, in both English and Portuguese, she has an account on Instagram dedicated to sharing her craft – which spans over half the years of her life. Now, as she's reached adulthood, her goals are to keep on honing her skills and to propagate her works even more. With themes such as familial relationships, love, understanding of the self, and solitude, estrangement from the world/pursuit of belonging, she hopes to reach an audience with the same interests and perspectives.

The olden glimmer in your eyes tells me

that you feel sad, too

and all those ired fits of your humor

were the withering carcass of a love

long expired, long forgotten. 

The luster in these sclerae, 

you sport it when you talk or just before you cry.

Because I looked at the skin of your bust without pretension, 

I saw the tints with which time has tarnished and engraved you,

they are white and brown,

and I felt as if they were each a day that passed you by roughly.

At eight,

the ages of trees abounding by the backyard,

brothers and sisters and unknown men and 

women stepping about the grounds of the only land you knew 

Before life washed away the youthful hope from your heart

that makeshift forest of grandfather's house,

you traded mornings and afternoons for a freedom 

one that never came,

Later on, when I met you,

                                                [five years 

I noticed your spot next to me was vacant

and you, seditious. 

Urging for a scandalous apport of blissful joy,

you and me,

I understood the seamless, unrelenting pursuit of yours

caged you, a circus gorilla being fed a food it had never savored, all its years. All of yours. 

The labor ended when Death came to visit,

but it hadn't yet,

and such was a burden you chose to bear,

without perceiving the malice and the cunning 

until they caught up to you.

The wrinkled skin about where your smile and your eyes meet looked like fruitful rivers

and brought tears to any man's face.

Not yours, you resisted

Like the Chinese Wall, strong, imponent

fragile in the face of ivy. 

The men told you glistening lies of coins and indifference,

a lore of a house big enough to contain and tame 

The crippled lonesomeness, the brute affection 

handed out to you, 

and you believed them.

A boy, by God! A boy

and a boy still, 

frightened, trembling with rage,

but I knew you, father,

You did not want a loan or to fulfill an expectant dream of another

You did not want a wife or a couple of lovers before her,

You did not want to deserve anything,

You did not want to prove your valor,

You wanted a deep love.

I fear, and so do you,

you've lost it in the maddened search for something

no one ever saw. 

– Grandma's eyes were so sweet,

but so small,

hiding a violence.

... 

Hope is a sunken ship 

in one of my visitation’s city seafronts.

And visitation, yes, but no home;

home is neither the town where I sunk my feet deep in the gray tiles

of my family’s gardened front yard;

home is nowhere to be found.

And within myself, I recognize nothing

– there is a darkness, and no noise at all

or a cacophony.

I see glass in the eyes of the ones I should love,

engulfing bigness in mine.

Hope is a rock that perched its wings too high and too wide;

it’s a thing that fell from the highest sky

and made the earth tremble in excitement.

Hope is a token of goodwill from God that I swallowed,

and it killed me.

Now I roam and I wither for no good reason at all 

other than to pace and to rot, as I do.

Hope is a sunken ship in one of my visitation’s city seafronts

and it is a tear my skin couldn’t untwine from,

so it was the last good, missing move from my routine of counterfeit callousness

which will never come to light.

I am now something I never foresaw becoming.

By Subhashree Pattnaik 

Subhashree, From Bhubaneswar, Odisha, India is a literature student. And like any other writer she wishes to bring change with her words. She thinks that Plath and Kafka would have been her best friends had they been here. She has previously been published in Orange Peel Mag, The Indian Review, Live Wire.in, Xinsai Mag And The Blahcksheep. 

"So, this poem is kind of a letter to the late poet Sylvia Plath. Writing this poem was just another way of getting closer to her. It talks about feminine rage and sadness. Weaving women together into what it feels like to be broken woman, let down by society and patriarchy."

Dear Sylvia (Plath)

- (The poet who killed herself after several attempts by sticking her head into the oven.)

If you were here now, alive and breathing                                                                                                                  Our grief would have found a collective home.                                                                                                        Yours trembling in me, mine shivering in you. 

You would have stood in front of the mirror                                                                                                              With contemplations of how such prettiness                                                                                                           Came to exist with the extents of pain.                                                                                                                   Because I do every time I cry                                                                                                                                 Perhaps the only intense femininity I carry.                                                                                                                                               Was it what you carried too?  

We would have made great friends, you and I.                                                                                                            I run here and there trying to search for places,                                                                                                        Strong as the walls of a lighthouse, to store my sorrow                                                                                         For that is as acute as an oceanic storm.                                                                                                              Despite all my laborious endeavors I miserably fail.                                                                                                  And soon I start searching for knives. 

I would have told you that I know                                                              What it’s like to have a man who doesn’t love you                                                                            As much, who doesn’t look at you                                                         Rather rolls his peculiar eyes                                                                         And who forces his idiotic dominance over you.                                                                      Part of it you could blame on my dramatic childhood                                                          And the other on trying to find love in this                                                Dire loveless world guided by the unreasonable force                                             Of terrible manhood and miserable misogyny                                               Oh, if you were here you would have certainly learnt,                                                                   And found the courage in me to show him his place.                                                                  Ted didn’t deserve you and yet I too try to                                             Wound myself the same way.

What is girlhood if not consistent failings and disintegrating?                                                                                    If not washed up mascara and broken nails?

But we would have come off as a tough connection                                                                                                    For we would have swayed with our high heels                                                                                                     Walking on the back of prejudices,                                                                                                                           Our skirts showing skin of fire, our lips red,                                                                                                                  Red enough to call out their disgust at our womanhood.                                                                                   Our walk would have been named as                                                                                                                          “the temptation to freedom in so called feminism”

On most days I only live to break through, bleeding.                                                                                      Most sad girls do that. Or must I say,                                                                                                                                 Most of the feminists are just incredibly sad

Girlhood is abusing the obscurity of society                                                                                                                    In ways they forbid. Its about killing, fighting, questioning                                                                                      And most importantly surviving.                                                                                                                             Girlhood is an outcry. It never ceases to exist,                                                                                                               In shared compliments, lipstick stained wine glasses                                                                                                 And tough hands to protect each other. 

There are emotions in me that knock me down.                                                                                               In my whimsical anger and gathering feminine rage.                                                                                            I turn down to an abysmal spiral. Did you go there too?                                                                                                    I have heard there were many like us.                                                                                                                       They say there will be others too.

Dear Sylvia, you talked about death                                                                                                                                     And sometimes I see it dancing on my window sill.                                                                                                          I have tried to go with it several times                                                                                                                           But this stubborn girlhood holds me back every time.                                                                                               Dear Sylvia, if you were here                                                                                                                                                  I would have saved you.

By Ananya Mohanty 

The lowest phase of someone's life makes them a writer. Ananya Mohanty, a published writer from Odisha, often delves into the pond of loneliness and writes her heart out. Being a very young college student she has gained recognition as a writer.

To the lady I met at an early age. 

The warmth of your hands may felt very welcoming

But even my closed eyes could see the disaffection.

The urge which you had to pour some love

But the societal expectations didn't let you.

They asked you to be a mother

Perhaps they forgot to teach you how to be one

Or maybe I wasn't the one you were expecting.

While I stand with my winnings, I see you expressionless 

In the room full of proud and cheering parents.

My eyes sticking to your face, just to see one smile,

My every win and happiness was only for you.

But my desperation was growing as fast as bamboo

So was my urge of getting your attention.

I started to lose, I lost what I could've won.

Even your harsh words could've made my day

But you remain pale like nothing happened.

Surprisingly, same isn't with your son.

I see you smiling at him during his moments.

His tears are yours, his happiness is yours.

All the things I ever wanted and craved for,

That's exclusively for him.

What did I just want, love and care.

My cravings have turned into hatred now

I have tried to replace it with love outside

But my innocence was broken.

I do not intend to hate you or blame you,

But the child inside me, is.

For what you could've saved,

Is now fully destroyed.

Did I fail as a daughter or did you fail as a mother?

I wish we never met, Maa.

By Cassie Hartman

Cassie is a 17 year old writer from Canada. Her writing has a focus on teen relationships and mental health. Find more of her work @cassie.m.poetry on Instagram.

it's not who you think.

it's not the girl that 'jokingly' flirts

each time you two speak.

it's not the girl who avoids you

because she is too scared of what you'll think.

it's not the friend

that makes every effort to be your girlfriend.

it's not who you think.

it's the girl you've seen naked,

the 'casual hookup'.

it's the one who knows your body,

yet wishes she knew your heart.

moreso; she wishes you wanted

to know her heart also.

it's not who you think;

because your secret lover is me.

By Kaidence Moss

Kaidence Moss is a young writer and artist. She enjoys classic literature and rock music.

You say it’s not that you don’t love me anymore,

I’m like a sick old dog you can’t afford.

You must be right because I’m so loyal to you.

I bite and bark at anyone new.

I used to find ways to escape,

But now I lack the energy 

I wouldn’t leave if you opened the gate.

By Wael Almahdi

Wael Almahdi is a poet, translator, and healthcare professional from Bahrain. In 2023, he won a High Commendation from the Stephen Spender Poetry Translation Prize. His Arabic translations include work by Hanan Issa (National Poet of Wales), Lewis Carroll (‘Jabberwocky’), and the 2024 Diriyah Biennale. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in ArabLit Quarterly, The Inquisitive Eater: New School Food, Copihue, Bear Review, Light Poetry, Asymptote, Snakeskin, the Knight Letter, the RavensPerch, Ekstasis, Blue Minaret, and the Ravi Magazine. 

Convo

Two neighbors are kindling a conversation 

all hands and wrists – poking, plucking.

I see their mouths moving air, their fingers prefiguring 

plastic phrases and automatic ahs.

A bit of oil on the social rack, or blood

seemingly, almost certainly, in good faith. 

Pills

The pills flatten the anxiety like a sharp-bowed iron. The gut remembers decades of discomfort

in school, work, and social claustrophobia. Sharp flotsam to a bristling soul

the cores rage. The face remains motionless

The Work Group Chat 

On her way to second year

business admin Adhra’s daughter 

bled out

on sizzling asphalt.

The font was too subdued

To offer proper condolences.

By Jessamine Duverne

Jessamine Duverne is a rising first-year college student who will be attending the University of Massachusetts, Amherst for a major in business and minors in political science and journalism. She is originally from Queens, New York. In her free time, Jessamine enjoys writing, reading short stories, and listening to music. 

Sacrificial Lamb

Sunlight creeps through the window and bathes the chair where my dress hangs. I lay bare-chested in bed, covered only by the floral print comforter that tore at the seams from years of constant use. The sun provides an uncomfortable warmth against my chest– it is the weather where summer and winter toe the line and create an uncomfortable stickiness and heat, accompanied by an unfortunate breeze. I rub the gunk that had built in the conjunctiva of my eyes. Most days I let it remain, but today I feel I have the time to care.

Anaica has come back from her three-week Mediterranean cruise. When she left, I bitterly mentioned that the typical cruise was only a week’s length. Once, I had spent time on a two-week cruise, and by the second week, I became hyper-aware of the ship’s movements as we rocked along the Pacific. The crashing of the waves against the hull of the ship is akin to the tumultuous sloshing in my stomach when I’ve consumed far too much water. Not only that, but the quality of the food worsens after the first week. I could scarcely keep anything down, especially since after a time every item of sustenance began to adopt the same, brown hue. I doubt Anaica enjoyed the feeling either, but it was a necessary discomfort in exchange for freedom.

Hopefully, the end of her respite is the start of mine. Lourdes-Jean’s disposition has begun to deteriorate during Anaica’s jaunt around the Mediterranean. Not only had she gone through a hypertensive crisis, sporting a blood pressure of 190/120, but her harsh temperament was exacerbated by the notable absence of her beloved daughter. Conversely, when I had taken a not-so-similar jaunt to New Jersey a few months ago, Anaica had little to report about Lourdes-Jean’s condition but her fine fettle. Now that Anaica is back, I am confident in knowing her health will return to normal.

Yet the rapt and incessant shudder of the door brings me back to the reality that while respite is widely sought after, it is scarcely won and few and far between. I struggle to my feet, hand clutching my back for support as I sift through the piles of clothes and abandoned hobbies– my dreams of being a skilled seamstress manifested in unfurled yarn and scattered needles that I jump over to avoid puncturing my feet. There was also a time, maybe a week ago, when I had sought to hone my skills in literature– loose-leaf paper and broken pencils were now the only obstacles I had to cross to get to my door. I slip my dress from the last night over my head, my nipples uncomfortably bulging against the rough fabric. The knocking on the door only continues.

Anaica’s papery cheeks, her overgrown bantu knots, and her Tory Burch wedges are the last thing I want to see in my doorframe. She barely fills it out, her bodycon sundress loose on her twig-like frame. 

“Anaica,” I greet, blocking the door frame on my end. I don’t want her to see my scattered belongings– she’s always been critical of my tidiness, or lack thereof. “How was the Mediterranean?”

Anaica’s papery cheeks spread unnaturally wide, or perhaps it looked that way because they were filled with Botox. “Baptise took me on a beautiful cruise across the Mediterranean. Lake Como was magnificent, the bread, the wine.” I scarcely listen as she rambles about her various jaunts across the Mediterranean– only stopping to comment on the new Birkin she bought while in Milan. 

“Are you heading to Lourdes’ after this?”

“Mom, you mean?” 

“Yes, are you heading there?”

Anaica waves her bony hand in dismissal, the cuticles of her nails are slightly wet, probably from a previous nail appointment. “I was hoping you would visit mom. I have to take Carter to SAT prep, then Maree to tennis.”

“I’ve been going to her house for the past three weeks.” And all the weeks before that.

“Yes, but you have no children.” Anaica points out. I was the childless aunt, whether by fate or by design by Lourdes. Being her caretaker meant scarce time for such frivolous things as other children. Anaica and I were twins, both forty-five years of age and yet at two completely different stages of life.

“Can’t Baptise do it?” 

            “He’ll be in Chicago for a summit.”

Words couldn’t make me so angry, yet equally as envious. I longed for the life Anaica had– a three-story colonial home in Jamaica Estates with a porch that wrapped around and washed-white rocking chairs. The garden bloomed with lilac zinnias, flowers that Baptise had produced for Anaica solely because they were her favorite. The dog was a cockapoo, her fur hypoallergenic because Anaica couldn’t stand mess, much less a shedding dog. Maree went to tennis every day after school– hopefully, she would be recruited by UPenn, Anaica’s alma mater. Carter went to SAT prep because he wasn’t as ‘athletically gifted.’ I never went to college, and I wonder if Anaica ever used my story as an anecdote or rather a cautionary tale.

I wonder if, on the way to SAT prep in their Land Rover, Anaica has ever said to Carter, ‘1600 is imperative unless you want to end up like your aunt.’

I sigh– I can feel the weight of my next decision on my body, my muscles suddenly tensed and my mind heavy like a storm-laden cloud, ready to burst. “Next time, alright?”Next time.” She gives a noncommittal promise. The chance of there being a next time is incredibly rare.

“She needs you, you know,” I say. “When her pain is crippling, she calls out to you, not me.”

“You carry the burden well,” Anaica says. 

“The sacrificial lamb,” I reply. I can only imagine what my life would be like if I was equally as selfish as Anaica. While I worked to take care of Lourdes throughout high school, missing the regents and tests and ACTs and SATs, she worked on acing all those vapid tests. She was the star of the tennis team also, which got her to Penn. I wonder if that’s how you build generational prosperity and wealth– being selfish. Where did it get her? Being Lourdes’ favorite and the most successful of the family. Anaica is the future Lourdes imagined when she made the diligent choice to embark on a 2,000-mile journey from Haiti to the Texas border.

Anaica gently caresses my shoulder, the soft leather of her palm contrasting with my rough, unkempt skin. “It’ll all be over soon.”

I can only wonder if Anaica is referring to the prospect of Lourdes’ impending death.

By Erikha Lamartiniere

Erikha Lamartiniere is currently a Junior at Herron High School; she has a passion for creative storytelling and poetry. Her favorite book at the moment is "The Sun and Her Flowers" by Rupi Kaur.

"She Haunts Me" is a brief narrative, exploring the rationale behind insecure and self-conscious individuals. In this poetic piece, the speaker - notably, anonymous - compares her physical shortcomings to an entity that isn't physical in nature. This entity is later revealed to be the transfigured version of the speaker, herself. "

It physically pains me to look up in the mirror 

Because my appearance doesn’t align with the girl, I want to look like in my head... 

She’s not me, but she looks like she could pass as my sister 

She has the same copperish-brown complexion, I do 

Only, she looks so much more beautiful. 

Long, course hair. Bug eyes. A pear body. 

Why does she torment me? 

Hopelessness mixed with despair,  

As that guy shot me a look of disgust. 

I understand that he isn't pleased with what he sees  

I know it’s because I’m ugly – or that, 

I simply don't look like her.  

She’s not real, but she seems so vivid to me.  

She seems within reach - but in reality,  

She’s simply a fragment of my own desires. 

No one understands when I say my life would be so much simpler,  

If she and I swapped places.  

By Inaya Aly Khan

Inaya is a 15 year old British-Pakistani student living in Pakistan. She loves writing and has had an article named "Unseen Scars" published in a newspaper. She enjoys writing on topics surrounding mental health, teenage angst and stark contrast in everyday life. In her free time, Inaya loves listening to movie soundtracks (especially La La Land) and music from The Beatles to One Direction.

The bead tracks its way down my cheek

Over the apple and the hollow

It rests as it descends along the length of my neck

A drop of salt

Saline water of my own being

Yet foreign on the surface of my skin

The tear, an involuntary reaction

To the sorrows that sit upon my shoulders

And force my head down

My eyes shut

And snuff my spirit 

As the flame of a dying candle flickers in the wind

An external expression

Of the guilt I carry

Weighing down on me

Not letting me speak

And so I do not speak

And I do not tell anyone of my pain

Of the suffering

And instead I watch myself in the cracked glass of the muddy mirror

As the bead caresses my face

Leaving behind a line of moisture

The only indicator of my heart

Of what lies

So close to the surface yet

Invisible to the untrained eye