By Juana Christene

Juana Christene, (@secretlyscrawling) 14, has been writing since she could remember. She dabbles in what feels like every form of the art; poetry, long or short fiction, music, essays and more!

When she’s not writing, Juana thoroughly enjoys learning. She’s especially a fan of science and philosophy implementing what she learns into her writing. 

Currently she’s working on her debut novel, “Con-grad-ulations” hopeful to self-publish this year. 

On the glorious podium she stands,

Her platform slightly lower than the winner, 

She never seems to get even a glance, 

All because of her ruthless silver, 

Jack of all trades, master of none? 

Turns out she’s the joker, 

Because she could’ve never have won, 

What could she have done to be better? 

Desiring to be the best, 

She gives it all that is left, 

She keeps her focus on her grades, 

She may be no.2  but no.1, 

She’s whom you call a jack of all trades, 

But a master of none. 

Praised for being a good player, 

But never chosen to be captain, 

Her they may admire, 

But she’s not the one in action. 

Sings and writes melodiously, 

But it’s all half written, 

She plays her keys acrimoniously,

How’d she get in this position? 

She’s tired of the encouragement, 

She’s good enough to be acknowledged, 

But not great enough to be the finest, 

She hates that she can never be the best :( 

The fate of the jack, 

She wants to win,

But there’s no going back,

If only she started then, 

Worked hard on one and became unparalleled,

Would it be worth it to be renounced?

Everything close to her heart shes held? 

Embracing second and its lack of pressure, 

Fills her with this endless pleasure, 

If being runner-up up is up to their standards,

Then why shouldn’t it be good enough for her? 

By Alya Alharbi

Alya is a young writer that uses writing as an escape from reality. She loves reading different kinds of books like fantasy, literature or romance regularly. Alya has a deep love for old music and cinema. 

I sat on the cold bench alone, reminiscing of the feeling,

That I first felt when you first held me in his arms,

The feeling that I felt when his fingers lightly grazed over mine,

The rush I felt when he pulled me closer to him,

Although we aren’t meant to be together, 

I can’t help but gravitate towards you, 

Like two magnets drawn together.

Since the day I met you, 

I saw something in you that most don't notice,

Like the way your head tilts slightly down

Whenever you laugh because you hate your smile, 

Like the way you fiddle

With your ring on your index finger

When you’re nervous, 

Like the way your eyes were able

To undress every emotion

That lingered in my facial expressions.

But it was all an illusion, 

The laughs we’ve shared, 

The smiles we’ve exchanged, 

The late-night conversations we’ve had—

You saw it as nothing but just another phase, 

Until you met the next one, 

Using me as an escape from your solitary, 

Blaming me for your mistakes, 

Never truly finding the patience to understand how I feel, 

And still, after everything you did, 

I still can’t help but miss you.

By Sashreek.I

Sashreek is an enigmatic literary enthusiast who loves to write poems. His inspiration lies within Lemony Snicket and wishes to follow his footsteps. His favorite hobbies include, writing random stories or reading mystery novels while eating a variety of dishes that include potatoes. His most treasured books include, A Good Girl's Guide To Murder, Truly Devious and The HP series. He aspires to create a new element named after him.

The Thunderbird 

In the daunting woods of the mind

With the start of a cherry spring

A creature so fierce yet so kind

A godly being the blossoms bring

Its presence wherever shall mark

The nostalgic end of a dead start

The sky bringer, its peculiar name

The wings no man, child nor woman can tame

A miracle of life, it beckons all

A symbol of unity, not always true

A fatal cry of death, towers shall fall

Destruction follows, a blood-red hue

It soars the evening mauve skies, inching ever so near

Let the carnival of light begin, The Thunderbird is here

BEYOND

BY SASHREEK.I

Everest clutched the wet and battered newspaper in his hands. His eyes were stinging and blurry from the rain but he still tried to read the headlines. He stole the paper from someone’s mailbox and was trying to be quiet as possible.

‘HEY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TRYIN’ TO DO?!!’ 

Everest looked up; he had been caught. It was just a newspaper, nobody cares. A big and burly man came out of the house.

“WHO IN THE WORLD ARE YOU?!” he screamed as he picked up a shotgun from the door. 

Everest’s time was up, he took off at full speed from there and hid inside a storm shelter nearby. It was a shabby place that seemed to be abandoned but this would do for now.

The rain poured heavier and heavier and he could hear the droplets hitting the rotten wood door which was about to break. He laid the newspaper down and flattened it out. He searched for the headlines in the wet paper mess and finally found it.

The page was plastered in mugshots of the three escapees. Everest saw his own face staring back at him. The other 2 were of his friends Nile and Sahara.

He slumped down onto the cold hard floor and buried himself in his hands. His head hurt and his clothes were singed. His eyes burned as tears came flowing down. The last five hours had been the worst, but was nothing compared to what was about to come next.

5 Hours Ago

The plan was set in motion. There was no going back now, one way or an-other they had to escape this wretched place. 

Everest held on to his improvised communicator device. He was patrolling his usual spot to ensure that there were no guard-bots, but this was his last time. A low static rang on the device.

‘Plan-0 is starting, move on to the 14th Barrier’ 

This was the last step; the 14th barrier was the courtyard and the coast was clear. He ran through the metal corridor and could finally see the light of the sun in the other end. He came out to feel the freshly purified air.

It was a dystopian universe; Earth was becoming colder and was moving farther from the sun. Overpopulation was a beast which woke from its slumber. The Earth was dying. The rich and famous made plans and conquered the moon wielding its power to move to a different star while the poor were left to rot.

The only humans left were in a purge and had to fight for everything and the ones who were left without an identity were put into Alcatrazle where the government leeched whatever labor they could salvage.

Everest had been in Alcatrazle ever since he first started to walk. He did not even know if Everest was actually his name. His data card contained a tag that said that he was brought into the prison when he was 3 days old and that the government gave him an auto-generated name. He had read about the Mt. Everest from a book in the library.

The only good thing about the prison was that it had a Library that contained the Archives about the Old World. The Old World was the time when everything was at peace, the earth was thriving and humanity lived together. It was a period where the planet had not yet been tarnished by the dreadful acts of man.

He had read about the other species that coexisted with humans back then. He was lucky to ever see a housefly in his lifetime let alone elephants and giraffes. There was freshly cooked food and water which was better than the nutrition brick which was Everest’s meal each day. It tasted like a mix of hay and dust but it gave him his daily intake of nutrients.

His daily work there comprised of sorting through the scraps of the city. Huge buildings and monuments were crushed down into pieces and cleaned for their metal. Everest stashed whatever electronics he found and made gizmos. The communicator was his finest invention, it was based on a device from the Old World which was apparently called the ‘Phone’. 

He looked ahead; he was finally going to escape. He thought of his life after leaving here. They had planned to ambush the final spaceship which left for the moon. It was their one-way ticket to freedom.

The courtyard was barren and there was nothing except a glass dome covering their heads and 2 other metal archways which lead to different parts of the prison. Everest heard someone running down the corridor because of the metal. A boy of about the same age as Everest came out cautiously. He stopped and looked at Everest and smiled.

‘Finally, you are late Nile’ Everest said smiling back.

The plan was half complete, the only other person missing was Sahara.

Suddenly someone sprang up from the archways and flung himself toward Everest. It was Sahara.

‘This is so awesome!’ the other boy screamed as he used the grappling hook which Everest made.

‘Get down now we still have not escaped this place’

Soon they were ready for their breakout. The weakest point of the prison was of course the glass dome that covered the courtyard. Though made of strong tempered glass, it still had its drawbacks. After they broke it, a Black Alarm would be sounded and the Guard-bots would chase after them. This was the most dangerous part as the prison was set in the sky. Luckily because of Everest’s immense knowledge they had parachutes.

Nile and Sahara held onto a hydraulic piston which was salvaged from a mech. They got on top of the arch and held it there. Everest fired it and with a loud bang the glass cracked. He shot his grappling hook at the crack and opened the dome up.

The Black Alarm was sounded and it filled the entire prison in a high-pitched noise. Everest was the last one out and he noticed guard-bots coming out to the courtyard.

‘Go NOW!’ he screamed

They jumped from atop the dome with an army of guards on their tail. They were using jetpacks and flare guns to attack. 

‘Deploy your CHUTES!!’ 

A bright orange parachute opened before Everest and he looked down, this was his first time ever looking at the real world. He was stuck inside for so long but all of that was about to change now.

‘NOOOOOO!!!’ Everest heard a cream from his right. It was Nile, he looked horror struck and his face showed fear. He pointed at the ground where in the jumbled mess of the Old World was a bright blue parachute. Sahara’s parachute was blue.

Not wanting to waste time, he glided down quickly. 

‘You can’t die now, no way’ he cried 

Sahara opened his eyes looked at his friends and smiled. 

‘Go on now before the guards find you, my legs are crushed.’

‘These few days were the best times in my life, together with you two.’ He said slowly before closing his eyes.

‘NOOO!!’ Nile screamed again and Everest had to pull him away. 

‘We have to go now’ 

They ran through the remnants of New York and tried to find a landmark which could lead them to the launch site. They stopped at a store to get a change of clothes. 

Suddenly a guard-bot appeared before them and fired a flare at Everest, he quickly dodged it and got on top of the building where Nile was trying to find their location.

I jumped onto the next building and urged Nile to follow me. The guard-bot called for more help and chased us. Everest never looked back, the only thing on his mind was to get to safety and he had forgotten about Nile for a few seconds.

‘WAIT FOR MEE!’ Nile cried. 

Everest looked back and screamed, horror struck, a guard bot was behind him holding a flare up to Nile’s head. The event played out in Slow-Mo as Everest tried to run back screaming at Nile but it was too late.

A loud bang was heard and the guard pushed Nile down the building. Everest looked down; Nile was also dead. He had no one now. Without thinking he used his grappling and hit the guard with it, using all his fury. The robot staggered in its path and aimed the flare gun but Everest jumped down the building. As he was about the hit the ground, he used his grappling hook to escape. The guard-bot had marked him dead.

His only other friend was gone, there was nobody left for him. He was left all alone in this reality. He though of his grave life and wished that he could also join them. But he could not since it was up to him to fulfil his friend’s legacy and aim for the moon.

After a while finally he reached a settlement where he tried to steal a newspaper and now escaped to a storm shelter.

He tidied up and used his grappling hook to go to the final destination.

‘Cape Canaveral’ was a launch site from the Old World. It was where the final batch of ships would go and reach the moon. Everest just had to reach it before sunset and all would be well. The sun was setting soon and time was ticking up.

He stopped for a rest on top of a building and looked at the horizon, he wished his friends were with him to see this amazing sight and a tear fell down. He continued and finally reached Cape Canaveral.

Not much activity was there except a row of about 20 small shuttles neatly arranged in order. He just had to enter one. He chose the smallest one and went inside. The interior was huge and he could see that it was a mansion. He heard loud music from a room and went in, it was a party there of nearly 300 people all dancing and talking. His hopes were soaring high, this was the perfect chance to hide.

The timer counted on a screen where all the party members looked in awe. As it counted to zero Everest looked up and thought of his friends. Their life would pass on through him. He went close to a window and looked out; the entire ship was flying in the air gaining momentum to leave Earth’s orbit. It was a beautiful sight as Everest stood there. Finally, he was Beyond the Earth’s horizons.

Whatever was to come next but for now, ‘All was Well’

THE END

By Kaidence Moss

Kaidence Moss is a young writer from North Carolina. She loves classics and Greek Mythology. 

Piece 1: Glow In The Dark Plastic Stars

I lay in my bed eyes locked on 

the glow in the dark plastic stars

They don’t glow anymore. 

They haven’t in years. 

Still, they know all of my fears. 

And as I rot in my bed

Looking at them 

I find comfort in the fact

That they’ve been there all these years

They stuck there through all my tears.

Piece 2: Parasitic lover 

You latched on to my heart

Like a mosquito and sipped

I thought of you as if you were in

one of those vampire movies 

A charming bloodsucker.

I should have realized it then,

Vampires are parasites too!

I confused your sycophantic ways 

With romantic displays 

I shouldn’t have fallen 

for your memorized movie lines

Piece 3: A bumblebees love

Honey is the most extraordinary thing

A thing our kind loves to steal

From the delicate limbs of the creatures who craft it

A thing our kind loves to devour and

Dip

Our pastries in 

But, it is also another thing

It is love 

It is carefully,

Slowly,

crafted

By Alya Alharbi

Alya is a young writer that finds comfort in her writing and books. She loves all genres of literature and has a deep appreciation for old music and cinema.

 I feel my feet lift from the rough surface

As the ride begins.

I sit on the cold seat beside my brother,

Slightly trembling.

I cling to my brother's arm,

Gripping it as if it's some sort of shield,

From the chaos unfolding in the world beneath me.

I hear my brother's laughter,

At the fear painted across my sister's face.

I love his laugh more than anything.

But I never imagined

That one day I would hear

My brother's screams—

Not from the thrill of the ride,

But from the terror of the car that struck him.

I sit in my brother's room,

Watching my mother struggle to find the words

To tell me about the tragedy between the boy I grew up with.

As a child, I never thought of death.

But now that I'm older, the thought of it

Lingers in my mind repeatedly.

In the stillness of my thoughts,

I find a flicker of solace.

His laughter echoes in my heart,

A melody that eases the pain.

Reminding me that always in memories, he remains,

No matter how many years pass by,

His soul will always be connected to mine.

By Emma Oswald

Emma O. is a writer from Oregon, USA. They started from the young age of 12, writing fanfics about their favorite book franchises. Today, at the age of 18, they are working intensively on what will be, someday, her first poetry book.

"This poem is about being so in love with a person you start hating them for not keeping up with all the expectations you put on them."

some blood on a glove

your pixels are really,

really, really, really

starting to annoy me.

I stare at the text for long enough to realize that,

if a tree fell between the length of your chest and mine,

there wouldn’t be anyone besides myself to hear it crashing against the ground.

the cold floor comforts me.

at least, ours is the song I’m impersonating now.

none of your cool friends would’ve done this.

none of my cool friends stopped me from doing this.

I lay before the throne.

your stolen stirrup burns my skin with rust.

my shoulder carries the weight, the look on your face doesn’t disagree.

my hell is made of mud, smoke and gasoline,

with two chairs in the middle where no one,

absolutely no one besides the two of us could sit,

and no one, absolutely no one besides myself

ever sat.

By Emma Bidlen

Emma Bidlen is a 15 year old sophomore at Long County High School. She enjoys reading, writing poetry, and spending quality time with her family. She dreams of being a published author one day and wishes to attend Yale in the future. 

You promised me forever, 

A lifetime of memories laid out in front of us. 

So why is it 2 am, 

And we haven’t spoken in months, 

And I’m watering the flowers we grew with tears. 

And everyone says you're a standup guy,

Praise your innocent soul. 

I’m locked up in my own head, 

Serving time for your crimes, 

I pleaded guilty to get away,

But I can’t outrun the demons that live in my mind. 

You promised you’d never leave me, 

Painted out our life together.

Broken promises led to broken hearts, 

Shattered dreams cut deep, 

And my love for you bled out.

I wonder if a piece of me still resides in you, 

That missing piece that keeps me feeling 

Empty inside. 

I want to take it back, 

Cut open your chest and tear through your heart, 

Like you did to mine. 

I want you to feel half the hurt I feel, 

Take half the burden off my shoulders. 

But you always were the selfish one, 

Taking away my voice and my dignity, 

Leaving craters ocean deep in my spirit.  

You promised me forever,

What happened to forever? 

By Ellen Kramer

Ellen is a young writer, artist and musician located in NY. She loves anything by Chekhov, Tolstoy, or Thomas Mann, and enjoys critical theory and philosophy. She hopes one day to be a published author and English professor.

Rebecca’s Body

Henry had an odd sense of justice. It was because when he was four, his mother had tripped over the hose and landed on the garden rake and then there had been three small holes in her neck and the grass around her grew a dark, wet shade of red. Henry had stood up and timidly stepped closer but didn’t understand why she was lying like that so he looked into her eyes which were open just like they’d been a moment before. He’d never seen a dead person, and at the time, he hadn't realized she was dead, until his father noticed the toast was burning and his wife was in the grass outside. 

Then Henry had known what it meant, the way she was lying, but he didn’t understand that she wasn’t coming back and that he’d be the kid whose mother had died and that his father’s best option was to quit drinking and fix himself up a bit and find another woman to make his toast in the morning. 

When his father saw her in the yard, he was wrenched into a period of heavy drinking and despair, because she had been his wife, and because he’d always been one for heavy drinking and despair and the neighbors’ pity and funny way of hushing whenever he walked by gave him the perfect opportunity to indulge. 

Henry had an odd sense of life, too. He didn’t quite consider it something to be had, merely something to be within -- like a state of being. Death, to Henry’s imagination, was like a quick, fleeting instant: a before and after. For a second, he assumed, it was a thing that occurred and could be felt, then it would be gone and nothing except the state of being would be changed.

At 13, Henry went fishing with his uncle, the morning air feeling tight and chilly and the steel of the rowboat cold and hard. Henry didn’t catch anything, but his uncle hooked a brown bullhead, a type of catfish, and pulled it out of the water as it struggled, then held its flopping body on the metal bench in the rowboat and gave it one quick whack to its head and killed it. Henry wondered if his mother would have rathered to have gone like that.

“Just putting it out of its misery,” his uncle said.

Henry hadn’t thought it was miserable in the lake, but then the fish’s eyes were looking at him and they were yellow and sad like small water chestnuts, and Henry understood. 

Now Henry was 26. He walked on the sidewalk of a street lined on one side by houses and on the other by barren shrubs. It was early spring and the air was chilly and humid and he looked at the ground as he walked because he always found small things he liked which he would take back to his apartment and put on the beige dresser under his mirror. 

Henry focused on something, then stopped and picked it up. It was a small green caterpillar, and though it was limp and frozen, Henry knew the durability of insects and he held it, in the warmth of his palm, thinking that it would come back to life and then he could watch it move. 

He was heading nowhere. It was Sunday and Henry had nothing to do so he’d left for a walk thinking it would make him want to do something instead of waiting. Henry had been waiting ever since the day with the fish. He’d realized what had happened to his mother when the fish looked at him, because its eyes were the same before and after it died. It was then that he decided his mother’s death had been unfair, because she wasn’t prepared for it. The day she’d died had been an entirely ordinary day, and Henry hated that she hadn’t died on the best day of her life. Henry hoped this was the way he would die: at an instant of elation, so that there would be no parting with life, just a transfer from happiness to nothingness and he wouldn't have to worry or fear for anything. So he waited, and what he hated most was that his mother hadn't been given the kind of dignity an animated face would have as it slipped from happiness to inanimacy. Death had had no effect on her eyes because they hadn't put up a fight, they had faded from ordinary to ordinary, not from bliss to tragedy and the state of her lifeless face remained the same.

The caterpillar was stirring softly in his palm and he decided to bring it inside somewhere. By the time Henry and the caterpillar had made it to his apartment, the tiny organism’s sticky legs had begun to move. Henry put his caterpillar on the small wooden table at the center of his dingy kitchen and lowered his head so that his face was level with the wide, reflective discs of the larvae’s eyes. It stretched upwards, forelegs in the air, then lunged forward and inched toward Henry. Henry didn’t move. He wanted to see if the caterpillar would come right up to his own eyes, he wanted to know what the caterpillar saw, if every image was refracted thousands of times, if Henry's eyes were too far away and blurry to see. 

The caterpillar had been immobile and cold half an hour ago on the sidewalk but now it moved like a smooth machine, each operation of its legs synchronized and fluid. Henry got up from the table because he remembered he’d been growing a small basil plant on the windowsill above his sink, and he plucked a leaf and brought it back to the caterpillar, whom he’d named Rebecca, after his mother. 

Rebecca had disappeared, though, and Henry panicked for a moment, then began to make his way slowly around the wooden table, watching his step as he went, and found her climbing headfirst down one of the table legs. Carefully, he pulled her from the wood and brought her back to the top of the table and placed the basil leaf in front of her. Henry had never fed a larvae before and hadn't expected Rebecca to eat the leaf. He just assumed it would be the polite thing to do for a formerly-frozen caterpillar. To Henry’s surprise, Rebecca lunged at the leaf and chewed contentedly and Henry sat on a stool and leaned in, watching and silently laughing. He loved Rebecca, Henry decided, and Rebecca was happy and so was he, and he considered keeping Rebecca in a glass mason jar with basil and wood chips and anything a caterpillar could want, but then Henry decided it would be best not to keep her. He’d thawed her out today, brought her to his apartment and given her basil and watched her move. Henry had given her the best day of her life. Rebecca was happy now.

And Henry desperately wanted her to die.

She was halfway done with the leaf, and Henry took a deep breath and rose from his stool, walked silently to a drawer, and pulled out the largest kitchen knife. He walked up behind her, so that she wouldn't see, although Henry knew it was absurd to think that if she could see she could do anything about it. 

She still chewed, and with one hand he gently repositioned the back half of her body so that it didn't curl but so that it was extended straight behind her. He could feel how full the small organism was, how her body was like a balloon taut and pulsing with a filling that both resisted pressure, and gave way to it. She had a receptive, vulnerable texture, and Henry grimaced and covered his mouth and his eyes stung. Then he took the knife and positioned it perpendicular to Rebecca, balancing it on its very tip at a 30-degree angle, and then drove it down, hard, and cut her in half. 

The body reacted, instantly warping and curling, but it was dead, the movement was just a final rebellious fight against the surrender of death.

Henry was done. Rebecca, too, was done. The leaf was almost gone, but that was as much as it would ever be eaten, and Henry took the knife to the sink, wiped it clean, and sat back on the hard stool at the wooden table looking down at her body. He didn't wonder what Rebecca’s eyes saw anymore.

By Claudia Wysocky

Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. Her poems, such as "Stargazing Love" and "Heaven and Hell," reflect her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions. Besides poetry, she authored "All Up in Smoke," published by "Anxiety Press." With over five years of writing experience, Claudia's work has been featured in local newspapers, magazines, and even literary journals like WordCityLit and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Her writing is powered by her belief in art's potential to inspire positive change. Claudia also shares her personal journey and love for writing on her own blog, and she expresses her literary talent as an immigrant raised in post-communism Poland.

“A Love Buried”

He was shorter than average,

but his eyes,

larger than life,

more intense than most,

beautiful with the fullness of brown.

I envied it, the way he stared,

so lackadaisical,

but with a fierceness to it,

the burning force of his gaze.

As often as I say have seen him,

it hardly ever happens,

but I always find my eyes drawn to him,

that peculiar look in his eyes,

the mystery behind their wavy depths,

that draws me in again and again,

Inexplicably.

He tells me nothing,

he says everything,

with a single brush of his hand,

a feather-light touch,

a smile,

his warmth.

And I am lost,

mesmerized by his charm,

filled with longing and desire,

what I can't have, can never have.

But he was shorter than average,

and yet I still remember,

the scent of his skin,

of hope and longing,

the way he looked at me,

and the thrill,

strange and sweet,

that he never knew he gave me.

“Can’t Afford”

Do

 you ever feel less than, unable to escape?

   It's just the way I feel, and I don't know what to do.

   Because Pain is inescapable,

And I can't afford to be scared--I intend this as a promise.

   I won't let myself be lost in something else

        ...in you. There's no way out of my head;

   My mind is strained to breaking, it can't bend any more.

Out on the street in front of me—there is nothing but night—

Someone stands before me who seems like they can see right through me—

  ...How did you come here? You're in my thoughts--not close by and yet you've been here all along.

  We might not even remember anymore...   so why do I think that we once met?  

Mindful of the dream I caught, a stranger walked into the world—away from another.

   I feel like a fool when we look at each other, a stranger!   And yet… may dream of love's path.   Why should such joyfulness bring us rage, rage?   Do you not care––to sate and be free--- for if there is not

tomorrow, savor tonight?

“Voices”

When I speak it is not so much I do as say

 "No, I did not" a thousand times; rather,

   And each time that I utter "Yes it is," in cold intent,

 The truth with its desire always seems to betray me—

 In the middle of space, the words go "Hatches".

   I am glad you do not know how to listen, nor care.

Think only how we were two lovers who fell in love;

   Desiring the same thing, but unwilling to be one.

    How we fool our minds and make us believe it's real.

Forget this, forget everything. Nothing I have said—

   Is true. You have spoken earnestly to me of what you fear my heart will feel,

 Of its tensing and shivering, of its loss and of pain. 

    Yet your touch has not drawn blood from these wounds.

    It does not appear as though it might be so—     But if last night was indeed not you crying out in your sleep—

    then where did you go? Where is your voice? Was it—real?

By Jordan Wibberley

Jordan Wibberley is a writer from Yorkshire, who started writing in August 2023. Having been a bookworm for most of his life (some of his favorite books include Normal People by Sally Rooney), he decided to start to try and create something of his own.

Along with pursuing his passion for writing, he’s currently studying a degree in Computer Science at the University of Huddersfield.

always and forever

I tried to forget for a long time

you always said my memory was good

the love, loss and short shared time we had

every part of my life that i enjoyed

that you embroidered into me

took a hammer and chisel, and etched yourself 

deep into my skin, my soul, my bone

leaving cracks, tears, and the sweet smell of pears

you always said my memory was good

but you never knew the truth

my memory was impressive, but only when it came to you

but now, i find that it’s starting to fail

and now i can’t find what our relationship would entail

your voice is still audible, oddly distant

like someone whispering straight into my ear, but the sound never reaches my brain

I deleted all of our texts and talks, 

but now, ironically,  I want to know how we wiled away our days

and despite this, i see that you are everywhere. the sound of you is in everything. 

and despite this hurt, you needn’t worry

because I said I’d love you, always and forever

and always and forever includes the past too

By Cailey Tin

Cailey Tin, hailing from the Philippines, is a columnist, poetry editor, and/or podcast host for publications such as Incandescent Review, Paper Crane Journal, and Spiritus Mundi. She can be found (imagining) chipping away at pieces, whether it's in piano, journalism articles, or debate speeches. Notably, at 13, she received a Pushcart nomination and won recognition from Ice Lolly Review, Fairfield Scribes, and more. Follow her teenage endeavors//shenanigans on Instagram @itscaileynotkylie.

The Birdsong and the Ballet

If only I could silence the radio blaring yet another nursery rhyme—seriously, can't we switch to

something more age-appropriate? My mind drifts, thinking back to the days when I could tune

out everything except what was right in front of me.

I look down on the muted, uneven hue on the table 妈妈 owned since I was a baby.

Sheets of documents litter its surface, begging for release beneath my fingertips. Numbers like

origami cranes, waiting to take flight, dancing with the rhythm of my fingers. I envelope them in

my arms, uttering a prayer that no matter how huge they may be, like cryptic poetry, we’d find

the means to grace the final stanza of this financial symphony.

“Why are you hugging paper like it’s some teddy bear?” 妹妹's voice cuts through the

room in her high-pitched, singsong tone. “You look like a baby.”

“You’re the one jamming to a nursery rhyme!” I retort, keeping my attention on the

papers.

But I can't find any pride in the numbers on these pages and how easily they look like

soldiers to me. It's like counting backward, a methodical procession where everything lines up

perfectly, a strategy to follow. It's a plan I lay out in a flash, like a seasoned general or maybe a

strategic mastermind. The numbers stand together like warriors, hiding in the midst of a battle,

desperately avoiding being seen, as if they can't afford another defeat.

Stay small, I tell the fetus of whatever problem will be born from our taxes. Treat the

inflation like a distraction and stay hidden—we can’t afford to lose anymore.

“Tell me, 姐姐, what were you listening to at my age?” 妹妹 snaps back, pulling me out

of my reverie.

What is she talking about again? My mental soldiers disband, and she takes the stage. She

goes on her tallest tiptoes and spins around, thinking she’s so good—it’s a feeling I’ve missed.

“Were you tuning into a podcast about geometry?” I cringe at her words, taking in the unspoken

judgment behind them, and what did you ever do with it?

I recall my childhood, where our home was constantly filled with the timeless melodies

of Mozart, Clementi, Bach, and the like. 妈妈 believed the ancient CDs passed down from our

ancestors would cast a musical spell on my unsuspecting soul, shaping me into a virtuoso of

melodies. She envisioned my nimble fingers turning stacked dollar bills into birds with fortunes

in their outstretched wings, buried beneath each gleaming feather.

Now the bird’s nest is empty, and the piano’s long been sold. On our makeshift

tables—cardboard boxes pressed into service—妹妹 leaps again, and I imagine her feet crossing

a bridge between tap and ballet.

Not because we could afford lessons for either, but because when the time comes, I’d like

to witness her making a choice. See how her mind works through that.

“I’m going to be a classical dancer one day,” she proclaims, lifting her entire right leg

with her spine spiraling out. The free, outstretched wings.

“That music isn’t classical, though.”

“Well, if I’m not, then why was I good enough to audition for the Rising Swan

competition?”

I remember seeing the flier for that competition about a month ago and snatching it away

as I dropped her off at school. Something about it made me uneasy, because too good an

opportunity could bring more harm than good.

“There’s a tryout fee. How’d you audition?” I ask, voice laced with worry.

妹妹’s chin quirks, like when she recognizes my disapproving tone and how it’s the kind

that will immediately shut anything down. One day, I hope she understands that I don’t mean to

be like that; it’s just that with our current situation, we have to fear the unknown. There’s a loss

that comes with every tempting opportunity, and I know that too well…

“Too late. Tried out after school a week ago.” She sticks her tongue out slyly. “I got the

money from selling those eraser sets from the 10-yuan store. I told everyone it was special

edition stationery. They were a big hit in my class!”

“But we’re not going back to China until... anytime soon! You could’ve saved that money

for school supplies or food.”

“姐姐, I already have plenty of erasers! Don’t tell me what to do with my earnings.” She

makes a face, a gentle reminder that I have work to do. I go through the documents, ensuring that

the most relevant ones are separated from newspaper ads and other non-essentials.

Focus, girl. Taxes have, by tradition, always provided me with a peculiar sense of

comfort. They're my passive way of helping 妈妈 when she comes home—a way to ease the

lines on her tired face. But something lively and fun keeps invading my mind, forming a

sidetracked, grayish stratosphere. I can't shake the song, mainly because 妹妹 has cranked up the

volume, and now it's blaring through the speakers. If our landlord wasn't already planning to kick

us out, she probably is now.

Every number I stare at transforms into music—not just London Bridge, but notes from

sheet music etched permanently in the back of my brain, long after our garage sale claimed every

instrument I owned.

My brain is like a kaleidoscope; every note—the highs and the lows—translates into

every spectrum of color and every digit of a rational number. I can’t visualize each number

without its unique color, and in the center, like every kaleidoscope, there is supposedly a blank

space.

The vacancy contains all the missing, mismatched pieces that I can’t perfectly capture

with precision. It’s what I thought I’d see after studying the nature of kaleidoscopes, adding it to

the pile of information I never needed to know because everything always fits perfectly together,

with every color having an equal counterpart.

“Hey! Cut out of it!” 妹妹 breaks my thoughts. Her dance ended, and she’s back to bug

me again. “You rarely do that.”

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to get back on track.

She bit her lip, scanning her limited vocabulary to find something big. “You’re normally

incredibly focused.”

“You used two adverbs in one go,” I tease, allowing a smirk to crack through.

The song continues to take up space. London Bridge is falling down, falling she strikes a pose with her leg, leaning forward as if to show off, as if to say, At least I’m

good at this, and it’s such a solid dream nobody can take it away. She wears the gradually

pissing-me-off expression, but something else catches my eye: the scars and bruises etched like a

tapestry on her leg.

-down, falling down, a London analogy sinks into me: “When you jump over those boxes—I mean, on our coffee

table—do you sometimes think of it as a bridge? ”

“Huh?”

“It’s connecting you from our sitting room to... our second sitting room.”

“You mean our bedroom?”

“Yeah. Sometimes you cross, otherwise you fall.”

“Duh! That’s common sense.” 妹妹 looks at me with concern. “I thought you were

supposed to be smart.”

“What I mean is, don’t you feel similarly about wanting to be a ballerina?”

“Ballerina slash tap dancer.” She lifts her head proudly.

“That then. Doesn’t it feel like there’s a bridge connecting you and other little girls with

the same dream, except that some can’t cross?” I could go on, but then my words would turn into

a ramble, and I can’t stand talking like that.

Lately, I’ve grown more self-conscious of my words, as if afraid to say something useless

and disappointing, but this was the first I’ve felt about it with my little sister. It also came with

the urge to string together metaphorical connections, as if pining for an electric feeling to buzz in

me again, like a eureka moment that could lead somewhere. Anywhere. I’m starting to think the

other end of the bridge will always bring me no luck.

妹妹 puts a hand on her hips, almost pouting. “Why won’t I cross, hmm? I’m going to

practice every day. I’m going to be super good—no, I am super good; then once I get into the

contest, I’ll wow the judges..."

I sigh. Now seems like the right time to bring this up. I get up—I wasn’t focusing

anyway—to turn down the music. “Look, you and some other little girl could share the same

dream, but those who successfully get the other way are... think of it like this: effectively

conveyed.”

“Thinking of it like that doesn’t make me get it better.”

“Whatever they worked for is what they got. Recognition, money. When someone

becomes successful, all their hardships become praiseworthy—it's part of a complete story.

There’s no gap in other things they’re lacking in, because it’s all contributed to their victory.”

She scoffs. “You think I lack talent?"

“No, no, but… other things.” I walk through our cracked walls to get back to my chair.

“Like something I can’t understand?”

That was actually quite close. I nod. “Some bridges connect you with a particular dream,

but while some can cross, others fall into a chasm of... un-traceability! What I mean is: be

practical. When you fall off, it’s not necessarily because you didn’t strut forward with both feet.

Some people just get lost. Like sucked into a hole. There are things you can’t see.”

“A black hole?” She jokes. Her posture, usually classical-dancer-in-training perfect, sags

a bit.

“Why do you look relieved?”

She walks away, but not without a mini-twirl. “Because you’re acting like yourself again.

When you looked lost in thought when there was Math to do, I thought you got broken or

something.”

“Or something.” My cheeks flush, usually not called out for not concentrating.

Focus, I remind myself again. This time, the moment I thought of how to apply

deductions and credits, the childish music was blocked out like a gentle gust of autumn wind

dispersing the remnants of a summer melody.

Once I finish completing an older chunk of documents, I shuffle through the newer mail.

One of them catches my eye. Normally, I don’t double-check documents, but this one is odd. As

I peer closer, my concern builds up. It’s because of something I’m not usually intimidated by: the

largeness of numbers.

“Income from 妈妈’s jobs, royalties from the patents... that can’t be right,” I mutter,

squinting deep into the paper.

If there was a fire in my eyes, it’d burn a hole through them. The digits swim as I

cross-check. The list of expenses was the usual: supplies for school projects, and house bills; there

couldn’t be any missing receipts or overlooked expenses. How could there be?

My hands tremble, not because I can’t calculate it, but because I can’t calculate it. Why

won’t it add up?

I rummage through older documents and take another sheet of paper so hastily that it

slices my cheek, leaving a razor-like paper cut. I rub it to realize it’s wet. Wiping away the tears,

I make no sound, but suddenly I can hear a half note burning a hole into a piano key, and all I

want is to let it make noise—loud, loud noise—without burning down this damn house.

Oh shoot. It suddenly hit me like a bolt. I wanted to feel electric, but this was close

enough. We haven’t paid rent in months. Four months. How did I let it slip between my fingers?

We were given half a year to pay for last year’s, and it was already an incredibly generous offer

because our landlord is a fellow Asian immigrant.

Suddenly, I’m pulled out of my focused bubble and back to reality as the beats of the

music wrap around me. 妹妹 has cranked it up again. Oddly, the familiar rhythm becomes a kind

of comfort, weaving a unique pattern. 妹妹’s eyes are shut tight, and I don’t know if it’s for

dramatic flair or if she’s seriously into the music.

What’s so captivating about London Bridge? But the more I observe her, the more I

discern the sequence of her moves. The song plays the same tone, but each line, though with

nearly identical lyrics, feels portrayed differently somehow by the way she moves. Her feet go

from ballet to tap to something strangely in between, creating a symphony of motion.

How does she infuse a lighthearted melody with such raw depth? It’s like she’s grown up

in an instant. Something about this moment strikes a chord with me, watching her graceful

moves and infectious enthusiasm. Perhaps stopping school and struggling to work towards any

other path had made me oblivious to other types of ambitions, overlooking the sheer dedication

妹妹 put into carving her own little world of dreams.

As the music fades into another obnoxious tune, “Baa Baa Black Sheep,” 妹妹 snaps

back to reality, a cloud lifting from her eyes. She’s not a fan of the song, either.

She catches my alarmed expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I-”

To my horror, her short legs scurry over before I can finish. She takes a keen look at our

beautiful, majestic table and snatches a piece of paper off. Does she know our taxes are higher

than expected—my fault entirely? She doesn’t know how to check that, I quickly remind myself.

“Ooh, I get why you’re so emotional!” 妹妹 exclaims. Wearing a grin so wide, her

dimples parted. She props herself down—hard—on my lap and wraps me in an embrace. Or a

neck-squeezing hug.

“What-What do you mean?” I wheeze. “Stop choking me!”

“Stop pretending to be such a grouch!” 妹妹 says wryly. She waves a flier at my face.

“Check out this mail! I got into the Rising Swan competition! It's the national one; I don't know

what that means, but there were thousands of other little girls and boys, and it's super hard to get

in!”

“Wait, really?” I choke out. “Oh my gosh! Is that the one that offers a full-ride

scholarship to—”

“The Gifted Girls Dance Academy! It’s kind of far, though. I can take the train.”

“You can’t go alone; you're eleven!” I blurt out, “I’ll take you.”

“Wait, really? You’re quitting the jobs that make you miserable to be my personal

assistant?” She says, half joking.

I give her a scornful look. “Of course not. But you’re going to that school.”

She lets out a noise and squeezes my neck again. “Yes! I’ll get in, promise. Hey, looks

like I'm gifted, too!”

I roll my eyes and give her a hug, ignoring the millions of questions tugging at my mind.

The weight of the exorbitant bills weighs down on my body, heavier than 妹妹’s energetic

puppy-like skin on top of mine. I don't know what to tell her, but as she rests her chin on my

chest, head facing upwards like a baby seal, I realize it doesn't matter.

How many moments like this did we have to celebrate? 妹妹's dreams are pure, and she's

just achieved something remarkable. The weight of our financial worries, though lost in the

numbers, can wait. If I ever doubted my knowledge, there’s one thing I know for sure: 妹妹 has

proven that her dreams are worth pursuing, and I'll make sure she has every opportunity to chase

them.

She’ll cross that darn bridge, even if it means I have to take on different tutor jobs,

crossing various roads to make ends meet. I'll find a way, and I'm not taking a black hole for an

answer.

妹妹 squirms with enthusiasm into an awkward position on my lap, rambling about the

friends she'll make at the academy, and it feels like a spark plug connected to me. Ideas buzz

within me. I feel lit up for the first time in years, as if she's electrified me with her unwavering

confidence. At this moment, I can’t imagine bringing her back to reality and reminding her that

she hasn't been admitted to the school yet.

Right now, it's all about celebrating her success.

“... and once I win, we're going to get so much money, and we might get to go to China,

then I can buy plenty of eraser sets, then that will get even more money! Then afterward…” 妹

妹 trails off, but I can't help but believe every word she says.

The room's atmosphere shifts. It's still filled with echoes of unpaid bills and stacks of

documents that don't add up, but it also plays the melodies of a new beginning. My clearer head

actually gives me an idea of what might have gone wrong with our taxes, but I'll check on that

later.

I take a deep breath, inhaling 妹妹's scent of freshly bloomed daisies, a hint of sweetness

lingering in the surrounding air as if the weather has wrapped itself around her. Shifting all my

focus from the table's contents, I gaze at my sister's round, almost pale face. My little bird is

about to take flight, and despite the strong winds along the way, I'm determined to help her soar.

妹妹 - younger sister

姐姐 - older sister

妈妈 - mom/mama

In case you’re gone for good

She might walk out & leave; any-

way it’s fine, on Google Calendar I 

had blocked out time for processing

terrible decisions. She didn’t go

immediately; she tapped her foot

& waited. I didn’t grab onto her 

freshly razored, tanned legs be-

cause I just finished processing. & I 

decide this time I won’t behave like a child-

beggar. So I let her linger in the gap 

between murky cold & newly bought 

heater until she lets go of the strands of 

chewed-up hair. Bad habits. It’s a shame, 

the way the glossy waves that cascaded her 

face like a halo of spun silk is now all

wet on the sides. How something beau-

tiful can be put into one’s mouth & come 

out drenched. Remnant strands of nervous

anticipation fell through her fingertips like

opportunities slipping from her grasp. Too

bad. As she turned to go, silhouette framed 

by the dim light filtering through the

mahogany door, I think of how I won’t let

the weight of her absences press against me 

like an unwelcome guest. Before it haunts me, 

I’ll remember this poem as the only space 

where her warmth once lingered. 

By Grisha Gautam

Grisha Gautam is a talented 10th-grade student from India, known for her multifaceted skills and passions. She excels at Kathak, the dance of storytellers. Alongside her dedication to dance, Grisha is a gifted poet, weaving words into evocative and expressive verses. A true literary geek, she immerses herself in the world of books and literature, with a particular admiration for the works of Emily Dickinson. Her philanthropic spirit shines through in her involvement in various charitable activities, always eager to make a positive impact in her community. Balancing academics, art, and creativity with remarkable poise, Grisha's diverse interests and talents make her a standout individual.

Why, oh why, does the finish line retreat,

Just out of reach of my feet?

I run and stumble, leave pieces of desperation

But the winning banner forever hangs just beyond me.

Am I Sisyphus, eternally condemned to climb,

To watch my trials fall, lost with the sands of time?

The weight of failure, a crushing load,

A heavy chain that binds me to this dusty lonely road.

They soar, those blessed, on wings I cannot find,

A mocking grace, a satisfaction they signed

Is there a curse upon my weary soul,

A weak faith that forever leaves me cold?

Blood carves rivers through the grime on my face,

Each lunge on the table demands a rifting chase

Did every ounce of effort twist and turn in vain?

Was giving all I had a foolish, twisted game?

They'll never see the once-soaring fire

Now turned to weak ashes, and a note in prior

They'll never feel the sting of defeat, raw and deep,

The soul-crushing weight of promises I couldn't keep.

This endless run, a thief that steals my breath,

Hiding behind a monument destined to death.

No glory awaits, no sweet release,

Only the bitter knowledge of a version that has lost its peace.

Left forever one step behind, forever whispering the same name:

Lost. Defeated. Blamed.

By Malcolm Wernestrom

Malcolm Wernestrom (he/they/she) is a young Canadian writer from Tiohtià:ke/Montreal and a 2024 FutureVerser with Poetry in Voice. In 2021, he was shortlisted for the Youth Short Story Category of the Amazon Canada First Novel Award. Currently studying to become a social service worker, he enjoys writing about mental health, LGBTQ+ themes, and his boyfriend in his free time.

The neighbor is painting

her fence this Saturday morning.

It's the second time this month;

she's muttering under her breath as the bristles of

her paintbrush hide black Sharpie and

illegible aerosol bubble letters

under Sahara desert sand beige.

Soap bubbles float between

the cars stopped at the red light

as a toddler in a tutu holding her father's hand

walks upon painted white lines on the pavement;

shakes her wand in the breeze.

A rainbow of plant pots sits outside the market,

leaves and petals dancing in the wind.

The hose has been leaking since yesterday

making a puddle for a seven-year-old to step in;

his mom scolds him and drags him along.

Customers take refuge

from the scorching 24°C sun

under the shade of the stands,

in their colorful drinks,

and just like that, May turns into June.

By Bharti Bansal

Bharti is a student from India.

The doctor has called me a frog in a well. I laugh again. He says my medicine is not working after I tell him about my daily struggles of not getting too much into my mind. "Classic OCD symptoms," he says. He is an old Sikh man wearing a perfect suit and a matching tie that complements his turban, always. Something my father likes too. His cabin is a spacious one, but on a video call, everything seems small enough to not get amused by the enormity of it all. Frog in a well. A new phrase for my obsessive mind. A new compulsion I need to take care of. Today the brown of his cabin is matching the brown of his perfectly ironed suit. Almost like the bark of a not-so-old tree, the kind which is well respected by the forest too, the kind which has survived storms by spreading its roots out of the ground and onto the surface as if giving out a sly warning, "nobody harms my children," for all the little plants that grow under its shadow now. 

Frog in a well. He insinuates that I need to go out more without acknowledging the financial restraints of my family. We were rich, I believed my entire childhood, but as I reach my late twenties, I have realized that parenthood survives mainly on kids' desires to achieve more. In a way, a good childhood is an investment for a better adulthood, fostering self-sufficient adults who can send money with one click of GPay. I have one hundred rupee and a burden of shame that doesn't go away. The frog is trying to cover the height of the well, taking advantage of its slimy skin. It keeps sliding down. 

Tonight, words have receded into the crevices of my memory, and only tears accompany me home. I have lost a lot. But a frog trying its entire life to jump out of the well is still a frog in the well. Nobody looks at it otherwise. I am a body of compulsions and obsessions. It is ironic in a way that I don't want to let go of my depression, OCD, and BPD, my new identities that help me navigate this world majorly dependent on therapeutic quotes. 

I jump into the ocean of my mind and find that nothing can escape the ocean at night. The dark reaches its depths, something akin to a festering universe. I try to dip my feet into it. Nothing but cold engulfs me in its warm embrace, and I am obliged to respect its wishes. I turn around to see the fluorescent childhood dreams slowly floating toward me like dying fireflies. A chemical reaction with oxygen, I breathe through my mouth, and the entire room lights up. 

I want to drown, but not in a way that demands lungs to be filled with water, bronchi to swell with liquids, and exchange of carbon dioxide with shriveling life, only to lose the final breath like a failed soccer goal. I submerge my body into it even though I know nothing about keeping my body afloat. I count the number of antidepressants one should not take and find myself looking for an easy escape. My medical kit, full of pills that I take to keep my mind from expanding and exploding, shrinking and imploding, the permutations so vast, everything becomes mathematical in the end. It is cold, the water grips my body like a mother grips her newborn's body, clutching to another life, as if everything that can come out of birthing a baby is what will dictate the rest of her life. Amniotic fluid and postpartum depression that nobody talks about. 

I latch onto the childhood dreams and find myself smiling. A goodbye of a sort. A happy ending. An astronaut floating without a tether, losing himself to Earth's gravity, only to burn at the end of it. I am my parents' failed dream, a reminder that a good childhood is not a measure for good adults who survive through life with a cheerful gut that dictates the bacteria of the body to strive for happiness. Endorphins in my body are already lacking against the tides of my mind, dwindling, reaching the depths of low vitamin D3 and B12, as my doctor likes to put it. 

"Try multivitamins; I don't want to increase your medicine," he says after prescribing six pills a day. Frog in a well wailing. My vision blurs with tears, and my throat chokes with suppressed crying sounds because it's night and good daughters cry to the dark of the night, hoping that God will listen. God doesn't work that way. God screams back until two of you are weeping against each other's shoulders. Nobody helps, just listens. Nobody says a word, memory now reaching the shore where your body lies awake, looking at the childhood sky filled with stars and possibilities of wishes. Frog in a well still sees the open sky, still dreams of a world that is outside its grasp. Isn't it hope then? Frog in a well is never really in the well. There is a world within the circumference of its eyes, a world bigger than the curvature of the well. 

The sweet breeze of nostalgia has begun its descent, and I can feel that I am ready to let go. How much pain is too little pain? What is the tolerance level for life? Who will cry when I die? Have I impressed blood other than mine to care for my being? All these questions are birds today. Tomorrow they will be vultures hovering above, demanding answers. The heaviness of it all suffocates my chest. Frog in a well decides against the well and jumps into thin air, believing it is trying its best. Stupid frog. 

As I hold onto my dear life, hoping to survive the tumultuous tides of my mind, I feel my stomach growl with its lonesome but empty presence. I decide to feast on the mangoes in my refrigerator, manifesting to be eaten and not rot only to be mocked by time. Everything rots eventually. The doctor says I should keep my anger inside. "Not good to act upon your anger," he advises. I am not raging against the world but myself, I say to myself. Frogs don't know the presence of other frogs in other wells, but language transcends walls. I feel dismissed at this point. So do my sister, a friend I recently ended my friendship with, my mother, and my lover at the hands of me. How can a person fail so many people at once? 

I feel the singularity plotting against me. The tides becoming time machines to where nostalgia resides. I send a WhatsApp status, "how to undo birth," and nobody replies but one friend. "Time travel," he texts back. Indents in the time have already been made. The laundromat tries to smoothen it. Nothing works. After all, I must live with the tragedy of my birth. I decide against drowning. I would rather cut mango into pieces and have the juice of it trace the elbow of my arm as I try to lick it. No sweetness should ever be wasted. The frog in the well hasn't accepted its fate to drown in the muddy waters of the well. The frog has decided to keep jumping to reach the stars. Maybe one day it will. 

I eat the mango since I skipped dinner. My growling stomach finds some peace. I cheated death into believing that I almost loved it. As everything comes rushing into my mind like an avalanche waiting for the disturbance by skis, I remind myself that I am flawed to the point of desperation to escape myself. But I am hungry, a good reminder that I am here by reason and not by choice. But as the dice keeps rolling on its edges, I must remember that God loves probabilities more than my doomed self wanting to stop existing. I am here. Tonight. Frog in the well, helped by none, survives by the sheer audacity of its own will. 

Mangoes stay true to their taste. Nothing changes the ripples of night. Tomorrow morning awaits hopefully like a kid ready to miss school because her parents were in a good mood, a rare occurrence. Take chances, interact with people, travel, my doctor suggests. I laugh at the irony. I am still a frog inside the well.

By Serena Mair

Serena is an incoming freshman at the Farquhar Honors College of Nova Southeastern University, majoring in Public Health and pursuing minors in Writing, Experiential Leadership, and Honors Transdisciplinary Studies. Recently published by the America Library of Poetry’s National Student Contest in the years 2022 and 2023, she is eager to gain experience in bioethics, literature, and the gender bias in biomedical research and technology. She has aspirations to utilize her writing skills to advance cultural competency in the healthcare system and advocate to improve black maternal health to lower mortality rates. In the near future, Serena anticipates her further involvement with academic research relating to women’s health with the simultaneous pursuit of creative writing at the collegiate level.

Do celebrate of the heart in which you have been gifted

For it has loved so much

Do celebrate of the heart in which guides your morality

For it has brought you back through unaccountable ruins

Do track the mind of your heart to your brain

For perhaps you may remain weary of the heart in which you have been gifted

For thoughts are merely implementations in the mind

Do good in the perspective of the heart

For your gaze may fall short on your path

Do focus on the goals that meet at the heart and mind

Perhaps celebration is no longer necessary

Perhaps skill blurred in your vision

Perhaps a weary heart has been tracked,

tracked back to unaccountable ruins

Perhaps avoidance will implement your mind

And you shall lose your desire to do good

Do keep your eyes in the glare of dreams

For dreams can be sourced, unlikeable, likable nuances lost

By Khadeeja

Khadeeja is a passionate creative writer and a freelancer. Often, you find her raw pieces of 3 am write-ups expressing the true emotions of the human. Penning down poetry is her solace and gives her strength on the face of any obstacles or suffering.

"This poetry expresses the rare raw emotions of a girl who want to be the priority and not a use-and-throw tissue paper of people's life. Also, she aspires to live the life as per her rules and not forced upon by others."

For once, I want to be the moon

The only moon in one's sky. 

Full of life, showering a melodious silence

A pure silvery sight, one could peacefully die.

For once, I want to be the pearl

The pearl in the core of sea-shell's heart.

Full of shine, dancing beneath the ocean

An epitome of elegance, a rare moment in motion

For once, I want to be the Rose

The rose in Jack's story

Full of colors, sprinkling fragrance

Delicate petals iceberg, indeed a defeated victory

For once, I want to be the name 

The name echoes in one's universe

That could make heart skip beats 

A saga of passion, or blessed curse

For once, I want to be the poem

The poem in unsent handwritten letters

Where each verse is an invisible enigma

A tragedy of forbidden love, does it matter?

For once, I want to be myself 

The only central character in my book

Where I'm unabashedly me, 

Unmasking all fears, indeed a rare look

By Alana Rodrigues-Birch

Alana is a university student living in Auckland, New Zealand. She has only recently picked up writing as a serious pursuit. She writes short stories in a variety of genres and is currently working on a long-form fantasy story about a doctor at odds with magic. Her other work can be seen on Instagram, at @wrybill_writes.

"I wrote this after organizing a toga party for a university club and having nobody show up except my partner and two friends. In years prior, as a younger university student, I had spent some of the most memorable nights of my life at these classic club parties. For the first time, I stood in that near-empty room, despairing, reminiscing, the ghosts of drunken maenads fading into the walls. Unlike the old king in the piece, my courtiers (my partner and friends, bless them) made me feel better about no one showing up, and we went to get late-night boba and fried chicken in our togas and wreaths."

"We had such grand parties in my youth," said the old king, waving his hand over the empty ballroom. The stage he stood on had once housed a band that played songs so rousing, even the dead had risen to dance. He remembered, as a prince, swimming through the crowd as though it were a lake on a summer day. The sun of his youth had shone down upon him, and many a face smiled on his as he offered his hand, his voice, another drink.

"We remember, my lord," whispered one of his courtiers. There were so few of them now. The years had taken what they pleased. 

He swept by a curtain obscuring a window shut for decades. On warm nights, the smell of jasmine from the garden below seeped through the mind so sweetly that one could not help but wonder what it might be like to kiss one's most loyal friends. And he had, many times. His heart remembered nights soaked with perfume more keenly than his body. How it ached at the memory of their lips. His beautiful friends. How sad it was, that time had taken them too. How cruel it is that good, beautiful things must die. He spoke again, his tongue limp. "I was beautiful, once."

"You are still, my lord," whispered another courtier. They hung around him like ghosts, he thought.

"Why is it that all parties must end?" He spun into the vast gap of the dance floor. His body recalled the steps of the dances with more clarity than his mind. Each motion brought him closer. He could hear them now, the clinking of their rings and their cups, their laughter, their joy, their sorrow. "Why is it that they have moved on, and I have not? Why must I inherit their empire of dust? Why is it that my kingdom is broken stone and rotting wood, while they sleep cradled within the earth?"

"Time presses on," said a courtier. 

"And for what?" The old king raised his hands to the chandelier. Had he witnessed the last day of its lighting? If he had known that day would be its last, would he have treated it differently?

"Who knows?" said one.

"Who cares?" said another.

"You're no help," said the king. 

"One more dance, my lord?" said the last.

The king considered his steps. How many more dances were left in him after this one? He woke every day alone in his castle. There was nobody left to dance but him. The hunger of the ballroom swallowed his every footfall. And still he danced. He spun with his arms held out from his shoulders, like a hurricane, like a whirlpool, like scattering leaves on an autumn day. He tumbled into the release of movement after so many years lying stagnant in the dark. He spent himself completely, filling the air to the rafters with joy enough to rival a thousand voices. When he finally fell, like a ripe fruit from a tree, like a bird from the sky, he fell with a smile. The ballroom swallowed once more and was satisfied. The chandelier rang with the last of his footfalls. Faces of guests many years gone greeted him now, the voices of his friends reaching out to him like open hands. How little it takes to be happy, he thought. 

By Jaimee Edang

Jaime Edang is a teenage author who is passionate about exploring profound emotions and human relationships through poetry and prose. Her work more often than not delves into the themes of unshakable love, discovering identity, and perseverance through hardships. Meaningful melodies, lyrics, and personal experiences inspire her to create pieces that hopefully resonate with the hearts of others.

A strange feeling encompasses me

When the sky is blue but the moon lingers

Winter days have long since been gone

But spring has not yet bloomed 

The oath unmet from many years past

Calling my name.

I first met you in the spring 

When the songbirds hummed a serene melody

Flowers gracefully dancing to the subtle breeze

The morning sun painting your face a beauteous gold 

I’ve loved you since then—and I always will

Your words from years past echo

“I hate spring”

It was the bothersome chirping of the birds

Bees buzzing on vibrant flowers

Waking up to a bright blinding light

How could I associate you with something you hate?

We once thought that our love was eternal

Enduring time’s relentless grasp

As young lovers often believe

Until the cruel hands of fate tore the thread of your soul

I begged and pleaded until my voice could no longer be heard

And with a heavy heart I wished

For your hatred to be forgotten in your next life

Winter is the sole eternal being

Long, lonely nights

Dark skies, an infinite void

The harsh touch of an glacial flake

Unable to break a stone-cold heart

Your memory of me is now faded

Even when I see a glimpse of us in your smile

Or the knowing glint in your forest-green eyes

You will never remember your love for me

No matter how much I yearn

My prayers have already been answered

Nevertheless, I wait for you

Admiring your sprightly spirit from afar

The fleeting memory of a promise unfulfilled

“When spring blooms

I’ll come back to you.”

By Angelina Tang

Angelina Tang is a writer from Western New York. Her work has previously appeared in Polyphony Lit Mag, Madwomen in the Attic, and more. She likes jellyfish and lilacs.

you have been quiet like

a dog who paces by an empty bedside

you have been away like a murmur

and I have been left to slowly forget

there is a hollow space widening

a meaningless rift beneath our feet

as I reach across and grasp your cold hands

a song and a kiss lighting up your voice

hazard lights flash in my eyes

as i watch you drive away and do nothing

but stand still and wave; ironic, that i will learn

to drive before you do

that the spaceless coffee will dry up

to sand under your heels

and i think i will reach you only

when it is too late

are you over it? a diagnostic checkbox on a

starched sheet of doctor’s paper

over what? over your bedsheets crimped like

tissue or your red sunlight?

i have been over the walls

that create a glass divide between you and me

i have been over the stars that offered

false tellings of fairy tales

fate ordained that we will have a happy ending

and i care not much for anything but that.

By Samuel Teoh

Samuel Teoh is a homeschooled high school sophomore living in Taiwan. He loves to drink bubble tea, listen to K-pop, and read/write stories in his free time.

Ben wears his usual gray sweatshirt and jeans. His hair is blond and his eyes blue. Even though we are siblings, we look nothing alike. He wears his usual expression that makes people trust him; one that says, “I’ve got everything under control, trust me.” And I do.

I follow his gaze and look around the departure wing. “Sad place, huh?” Ben says. He smiles. “How about let’s break the tradition, Katie? No sad farewells, okay?”

“Sure,” I say. Tears blur my vision.

He leans down to crush me in a hug. He smells like mint and home. I don’t know whether home will be home without Ben. 

“I won’t be gone for long, sis, don’t miss me too much,” he says. Four years, I think, four years.

“Stay strong, Katie Cat,” he says. Only Ben calls me Katie Cat.

“Don’t give up, Katie,” he says, “don’t give up.” Then he’s gone. Off to California to get a bachelor’s degree in art. I stay there long after he leaves, staring at where he disappeared. I didn’t even tell him I love him. Don’t give up what? I want to scream, but he’s already gone.

Trying not to cry, I turn and start my walk back home. It’s a lonely one.

I tie my hair into a bun to make it look halfway decent and stare at myself in the mirror. Ben looks like Dad, I look like Mom. I have dark eyes and dark hair. I am skinny, but not tall enough to be slim. I am sixteen but I could be mistaken for thirteen. They tease me.

Hey, it’s Katie the Kid, they laugh. I bite my lower lip and ignore them; at least I try to. Their voices ring in my ears when I’m alone. Their laughter makes me want to cry. But I hold them in until I get home.

I go to Glen High, a top-ranking private school. The school handed out scholarships sparingly and I was lucky enough to get one; for my art. That’s why I am perfect for pushing around; I can’t do anything about it. Their parents are rich so nobody wants to mess with them, or their kids. But for me, one misstep and I’m kicked out faster than I can blink.

My mom used to say that my getting into Glen was the luckiest thing that happened to us after the divorce. We moved halfway across the States for me. But Glen is not a lifeboat on the Titanic, it’s another sinking ship. Then again, we’re all on sinking ships, you just have to pick the one that sinks the slowest.

Glen is eleven miles from my apartment so I have to walk two miles to the bus station and then take the bus the rest of the way. But I don’t mind. I like walking.

I pull my hood up to keep my ears from freezing off and stuff my hands into my pockets. Snow lies around the sidewalks. Yesterday it was white, but today it is brown; with dirt and snow.

How short the life of pureness lives.

When the bus stops at Glen, I get off. Glen is made up of eight buildings surrounding a courtyard, habitually occupied by students who lie around finishing homework. The school is beautifully designed, and sometimes it’s all worth it just to attend a school that looks like this.

My first-period class is math. The desks are arranged into six hexagons and there are twenty students. A whiteboard is in front filled with equations no one understands. It’s the teacher’s way of saying that there’s always more to learn, no matter who you are.

When I sit down, I look across the table and find Simon Hubermann. Simon is tall, with green eyes and curly brown hair. His eyelashes are long, touching his cheeks when he blinks. I realize I have been staring for far too long and look down hurriedly, warmth flooding my face.

All of the girls in the school like him, and I know that me hoping someone like him could ever like someone like me is a fantasy. There are so many girls who are smarter, prettier, and better than me in every aspect. But Ben says that you have to hope no matter what. Because if you don’t hope you have nothing. So I hope.

Classes turn into a blur and soon the bell rings for lunch. I join the stream of students in the hallway towards the cafeteria. The cafeteria is ginormous, with circular tables and an extravagant buffet. They serve a different main dish every day; today, lasagna. The deli is in the opposite corner with a variety of sandwiches. The pizzeria is the most popular. There are lines of kids waiting to get a greasy slice of pepperoni pizza. I don’t care much for pizza or the long wait, so I take a tray of lasagna.

I stand in the middle of the cafeteria, trying to decide where I should sit. A gaggle of girls crowd the far left tables, maundering about these clothes, those boys. One of them catches me staring and calls out, “Hey, Katie Girl, come sit with us!” Laughter ripples across the cafeteria and I try to smile. I turn away and see Simon with a group of boys who are mostly on their phones. I long to sit down next to him and ask what he’s doing, but I don’t. Instead, I walk out of the cafeteria and into the school garden.

The garden is my favorite place in Glen. It is not the most pleasant place here; it’s probably the ugliest. Bits of snow are shoveled into disgraceful piles. Desiccated plants lie in the cold sun. But I love it here because no one else does. No obnoxious laughter, no mocking, no scathing looks that make me want to die.

And after getting used to the plants, it’s not so bad.

My mom gets home late.

She’s an accountant and comes back, drunk and tired. She usually collapses on the living room couch and falls asleep there. Sometimes she’s with one of her boyfriends. I come downstairs after, helped her to bed, and watch her sleep, trying to remember who she was.

Before the divorce, we had this tradition every weekend to bring a knife to the bridge and carve one word into the wooden balustrades. On one of the last days, we stood together on the bridge.

“Do you know what word I chose, Katie?” My mom asked.

I hum.

“I chose hope,” she said. “Hope stands for, ‘hold on, pain ends.’”

We stared down the river that stretched towards the sun as it slid beneath the waves. “The sun is setting, but it always rises again, you know? Like hope.”

I am silent.

“Hold on, pain ends, Mom.”

“Hold on, pain ends, Katie.”

My mom’s maiden name was Alexandra Davis and I know she was pretty, which was why my dad married her. Then in no time, my dad was gone, with a new wife, new children, and his old life left behind.

I know my mom still loves my dad. Every day, she tries to forget her heartbreak and dissolves herself in alcohol. I still love my dad too, but sometimes I get the feeling he wants nothing to do with us. We’re the reminiscence of a life he tried to leave behind. I understand. But there's always a voice inside that screams at him to try and be more understanding.

When I stare at my mom as she sleeps, I can see the beauty that she once had. But a deeper beauty that my dad didn’t see shines through when she sleeps. A hope for the world that says that this isn’t what life is supposed to be and that life will get better and you only have to wait for it.

My room is a mess.

Paper is strewn over the floor and crumpled-up drawings are in the corner. Stacks of paintbrushes are stacked precariously on shelves that are nailed to the walls. The walls are painted with drawings of whatever came to my mind that day. But it still looks empty compared to my room in Kansas.

I remember when my dad and I were lying on my bed staring up at the dolphin after it was done. The room smelled of paint so the windows were open.

“Good job, Katie, it looks amazing,” my dad said. My chest filled with pride and a grin spread across my face. Only my dad could make me smile like that. “Do you know why I chose a dolphin to paint together?”

I shook my head, staring up at it.

“Because dolphins are more than beautiful,” my dad stroked my hair. “Even if they go down underwater, they jump back up. Like hope. Because even when it seems like everything is dark, hope is always there, as long as you look for it.”

A deep desire to call my dad overcomes me. My dad would understand, wouldn’t he? Talk to me about Mom, about Ben going to college. I pull my phone, dial the numbers and press call.

It rings for ten seconds, “buzz, buzz.” I wait impatiently, every second a second of agony. Finally, he picks up. “Hello? Who is this?” He doesn’t know it’s me. He doesn’t have me on his contacts list. Hurt rises in my chest but I push it down. He must have accidentally deleted me. Of course, that must be it. I exhale.

“Hey Dad, it’s me,” I say.

“Oh.” Is it only me, or does he sound a little disgruntled? “Hi honey, what do you want?” What do I want? I swallow. I want you to come back, I want to say, I want you to say you love me and come back. But I don’t say that because I know it will never happen.

“I-I wanted to talk to you.”

He sighs. “Listen, Katie, I’m mini-golfing with, you know, Helen and the twins-” Someone runs up to him and he gets sidetracked. A cold fist tightens around my heart.

“It’s alright, Dad,” I say, “Go…do whatever you have to do.” I hang up without hearing his reply because I know it will make it hurt more. Tears are coming fast and I angrily wipe them away. Of course, he’s busy. Why am I feeling like this?

He doesn’t care about you, a voice inside of me says, He hates you. He hates his past life. I close my eyes and tell it to go away. Sometimes people mess up, they don’t do the right things. My dad is like that, everyone’s like that, and I can’t blame him for it.

Don’t give up, Katie, I hear Ben’s voice, don’t give up. “I’m trying,” I try to tell him, but he’s gone and I’m alone.

When I wake up on Saturday morning, I can’t go back to sleep. After a few minutes, I throw off my blanket and drag myself from bed. The smell of eggs and bacon meets me as I open the door. “Mom?”

She glances up as I enter the kitchen and smiles. “Good morning, Katie.”

“What-what are you doing here?” Mom’s hair is tied into a ponytail and she wears a dress I haven’t seen her take out since Dad left. Makeup is on her face. Full red lips and blush on her cheeks.

“Johnny and I are going to the mall today,” she says. I take it Johnny is her latest boyfriend. “I quit being an accountant - that job was so suffocating anyway. I decided to turn a new leaf and got an internship at one of those news companies. The motto is; forget the past, forge towards the new future. What do you think?”

I try to smile. “Sure, Mom.” I sit down and pull the plate of eggs and bacon to me.

“Do you want to come with us?” She asks. I know she doesn’t want me to come but she asks anyway, to be polite. I shake my head.

“No, I have other plans,” I say. My plans today: walk outside and waste time.

I hear honking outside and Mom stands up. “That’s my cue.” She smooths down her dress and picks up a purse I’ve never seen before. She wraps an arm around my shoulders, kissing my head. “Don’t get into any trouble, love.” 

Walking through the doorway, she turns to wink at me, and she’s gone.

I push away from the table, not bothering to finish the rest of my breakfast. Opening the back door, I step outside. The sky looks beautiful despite its grayness and the snow has melted. I pull my coat around me and walk towards downtown.

New York City is beautiful. The thing about something beautiful is that it doesn’t have to be perfect. The imperfections of the city make it more beautiful. It is bright and loud whether it’s day or night. People always joke about New York traffic being the worst, and they’re not wrong. So many people, so many cars.

I look up and see that there are only a few seconds left on the pedestrian crossing light. Breaking into a run, I step onto the street and I’m smack in the middle when I hear honking. Looking up, I see a blue pick-up barreling across the intersection towards me. I freeze and for a moment, I can see the driver. He is blonde and wears a Yankees cap and his eyes are as wide as mine as he scrambles to swerve.

I fall to the ground and cover my head with my arms and the truck veers past, skipping over the sidewalk and slamming into a building. People are screaming, a hundred phones dialing 9-1-1 to 100 Wadsworth Avenue.

In a moment, they reach me and a woman turns me around by my shoulders and the only thing I can register is how much her eyes look like what the sea looks like in movies. I only notice she’s asked me a question after she’s asked it multiple times.

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say automatically after years of being asked the same question. People don’t want to know if you’re not okay. Yes is what they want to hear. I stand up and when I’m on my feet, I wobble. I wave the woman off when she tries to help me. 

“I’m okay,” I say, “I’m okay.”

I push past the people who are crowding in to see the crash. I block them all out and walk across the street where I am mostly alone. I can still feel the woman’s eyes on my back, so I turn down another street, towards the Hudson.

I think of going home but I know Mom will not be back yet. She’s out with Johnny, breaking up with him, kissing him. And even if she were home, she would hug me. Comfort me. But tomorrow she will expect me to be better; to forget, as she does about everything she regrets. But even the horrible things are part of who you are.

I think about calling Dad. Dad would sympathize. He would tell me he understood. Or would he? Does he even care about me? Care about anyone except for his new family? He wants to forget, like Mom. Not with drugs, but with distractions. I bite my lower lip so hard that it starts to bleed. But I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything.

Ben would know what to do. He would tell me the right things. Understand and help me. His arms would be around me, his voice soft in my ear as he tells me what I should do. But he is not here. I am by myself.

Alone.

I find myself in Battery Park, the one several blocks away from Glen. Have I already walked this far? I hear a child. “Mommy, look, a dolphin!” I turn and see a child with her mother. With her small hand, the child points out across the river. The mother doesn’t look at the dolphin but at her child, with a smile on her face. Her hand wraps tighter around the hand in hers. Pain sears through my chest. I hear my mother on the bridge next to me.

“Hold on, pain ends, Katie.”

I watch the dolphin fly across the water. The sun reflects on its skin and it slides back into the water. But a second later it comes up again, farther away. Tears stream down my cheeks.

“Even when it seems like everything is dark, hope is always there, as long as you look for it.”

I stare across at the sun which is now setting. But it’ll rise again tomorrow. It always rises again.

“Don’t give up, Katie,” he said, “don’t give up.”

The dolphin leaps towards the setting sun and disappears.

I won’t.

I promise.

By Samuel Teoh 

Samuel Teoh is a homeschooled high school sophomore living in Taiwan. He loves to drink bubble tea, listen to K-pop, and read/write stories in his free time.

If you walked down the streets of Japan, past the glowing digital billboards, past the swarming intersections, into the winding streets of Kita City, among its tumbling houses, you would see an old woman.

She walked down the green pedestrian walkway along the side of the narrow road, her cane clicking against the concrete. Yellow and green box houses stood in wavy columns on both sides as she walked past. An outskirt wind breezed by, showering cherry blossoms across the road and pulling a strand of the old woman’s graying hair from her loose bun.

“Katie!”

The old woman turned and watched as a girl – Katie – and a boy streaked past, pigtails and lunchboxes flying behind them. They chased each other down the road, a whirlwind of blue coats and black randoseru, filling the street with their laughter. The girl stumbled, pulling the boy with her, and they fell in a heap.

Stray strands of black hair stuck to Katie’s forehead, shining with sweat. Her pudgy cheeks flushed with heat and glee. She leaned against the boy as they panted for breath, heaving as one. Katie’s brown eyes brightened as she saw their mothers hurry around the corner. They laughed with relief when they found their children sitting back-to-back in the middle of the road.

“Mama!” Katie pulled herself to her feet and stumbled towards her mother, pulling the straps of her randoseru over her shoulders. The four fell into a laughter-filled, lighthearted repartee as they walked toward the train station and the old woman turned away, smiling.

She saved the picture in her mind, of the girl and the boy leaning against each other, sitting in the middle of the street among the falling cherry blossoms, surrounded by yellow and blue houses. As their laughter faded away, the old woman wondered if perhaps what composed her heart was not atriums and ventricles but the people she loved.

If you walked down the streets of Japan, past the bright, underground shops, into the bustling train stations, onto one of the orange and yellow trains, sitting among the purple seats along the walls, you would find an old woman.

She sat still, her hands folded across her lap. The doors beeped close and the train left the station, at first slowly and quietly, then whirring and clicking over the train tracks as the rolling hills and cherry blossoms blurred into green and yellow, green and yellow.

“The next station is Ofuna. Ofuna. JO9. The doors on the left side will open.” The automated voice, muffled and crackling, sounded on the speakers above. The train slowed to a stop at the station and the old woman watched columns of people waiting to board slip by. With a rhythmic beeping, the doors opened.

The old woman watched as a group of students rushed onto the train seconds before the doors closed. They wore blue-buttoned suits and shined shoes, with black briefcases and long, ragged haircuts. A girl breezed into the train, holding hands with a boy, her hair dyed light brown, her eyes bright.

They entered the train, laughing and gasping for air. The train whirred along, clicking over the train tracks. There was a bang as an adjacent train burst past and the roar of the train’s wheels echoed against the tunnel walls. The boy and the girl stood in the corner, leaning against the walls. He whispered something into her ear and she laughed, her laughter filling the train with a joyous sound, accompanying the electronic whirring and the hum of passengers murmuring.

The old woman stood when it was her stop, joining the flow of the crowd moving up the stairs, leaving the train behind, saving the picture of the girl and the boy in her mind, leaning against each other, laughing and smiling, as the humming of the train and the onboard automated announcements faded away.

If you walked down the streets of Japan, past the towering skyscrapers, past the thronging streets, into one of the yellow, faded restaurants along the side of an alley, you would find an old woman.

She sat along a pub table, staring at a wall where the faces of beautiful women and beer advertisements peeling from the wood stared back at her. Above, the neon lights of television screens and the mellow glow from hanging paper lanterns illuminated her skin. A blend of musical beats and unintelligible Japanese calls created both a cacophony and symphony in the old woman’s ears. 

A woman sat on the far end of the pub table, slumped against the wall. She wore a black kimono and her hair, streaked with blonde highlights, was tied back into a bun. Shoulders shaking, the woman collapsed against the wall and, if the old woman looked closer, she would have seen tears streaming from the woman’s eyes, shining on her cheeks. But she did not need to look closer because she already knew.

The old woman turned away and left the restaurant, the calls of “arigato-gozeimas” and the pounding music fading behind her. She did not need to save a picture in her mind because she remembered it all too well. A picture of a woman leaning against a wall because the one she leaned on was no longer there.

If you walk down the streets of Japan, past the rural countryside with rolling houses, past the train station with whirring trains, past the lonely restaurants with neon lights, up several dozen flights of stone steps, onto a mountain overlooking the sea, you would find an old woman.

She stands there, her graying hair a tangle in the wind, her hands wrapped together tightly, her cheeks wet with salty tears, her eyes staring over the sea. And if you asked her if she was okay, she would tell you that there was no greater hurt than to live in a world with a hole in your heart.

By Jedidiah Vinzon

Jedidiah Vinzon is studying physics at the University of Auckland. In his free time, he enjoys listening to jazz and painting. His works can be read in Tarot, Symposia, and OrangePeel, among others, with many more forthcoming. You can find him on Instagram @jayv.poetry

we stole from the crowd

into the park; the netted swing

I had often passed – in the 

purple skies it almost looks like

a bed we left unmade, we let the

clouds blanket us, the winds have

whispered a song between us; but

your hair was rain on my summer

fields, like a harp – ah, the symphony

when we touch – and you are conducting

the rhythm of my heart, in three

fourth time; I am waltzing among

the swaying autumn leaves, tainting

the pink with its golden tears

(I heard the trees crying winter

away, but it is spring now in June)

Jupiter has joined us, the Moon is 

following behind, but it is only

us, beneath – within – this universe

and I will name the stars with you

until this second passes.

By Talia Flanzraich

Talia Flanzraich is a Canadian poet, artist, recreation programmer, and a soon-to-be entrepreneur. Talia has been a passionate writer since she was as young as 8 years old. In 2016, Talia started pursuing the art of poetry, and joined the AllPoetry community in 2019. When the pandemic hit, she joined Vocal Media, so she could pursue writing as a side hustle. In 2022, Talia published her first poetry anthology called Up and Down the Ladder. In 2023, Talia published her second poetry anthology called Scrapbook. Both poetry anthologies can be found and purchased from Amazon. In her free time, she enjoys reading, listening to music, cooking, walking, playing games, spending time with family and friends, and studying foreign languages. 

To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.

-Oscar Wilde

Three months went by, and Xaawo has learned a heap about herself, her obstacles, and her new home. Her English language skills are becoming a crowd-pleaser, she's been getting straight A's, and she's developing a strong bond with Samara, an American-Russian girl who attends the same school as her. Since she immigrated from Mogadishu to Minnesota, Samara hasn't left her side; she's walked every step of a dark, scary, and lengthy trek every single day. If it weren't for Samara, Xaawo would be a martian walking mindlessly and fearfully in the complex world.

On one April morning, Xaawo told herself something key. She reminded herself, "I'm worth being an integral part of American society, even if my clothes, my skin colour, my accent, and my religious/cultural beliefs don't align with American values".

Those were her final words before she quietly and nonchalantly walked out of her ivory-painted bungalow for a productive and positive day at school.