Author: howleradviser

The peach’s core, far beyond the plaid picnic, had my eyes on its dagger-like hook. It reeled me in and away from the torturous hymm of a rose, tore its thorn, and lodged it in my ear’s drum. But it was bliss compared to the thousand poisons spat upon me daily, the cutting of tongue on teeth, choking back vocal cords until they felt sweet and tingly. 

He just didn’t realize that he’s an apple,

and I’m a peach. 

As we sat in a park just below a peach tree, I only saw a molding mush of Granny Smith in my passenger seat. He was too similar to his father, violently pulling and pushing you out to sea until you became dangerously seasick.

“Why are we here? This place is sticky and disgusting. I said to drive home. You aren’t allowed to…” 

Constant complaining from the moment our momentum came to a gradual halt in a parking space. The constant complaining from the moment we met. But how could I have known he was a Gala?

From a distance, he was kind… enough. He would open the doors for me, taught me the sidewalk rule, and gave me blood-red roses often. Though flowers would never release the expected honeydew scent for me. They only bloomed into snippets after each fight; smaller buds peeled back to reveal minor petals about whether we should have gone to my grandfather’s Italian restaurant for Valentine’s Day or Buffalo Wild Wings because there was a holiday special. Larger ones tore away into images where it wasn’t just the roses that were bloody. 

A typically loving Valentine’s Day gift went from saying “I love you” to “forgive and forget” overnight, speckled with leftover venom from the previous day. And as the years went on, doors were no longer an opening force and cars could easily hit me before him. But how could I have known he was a Fuji? 

His grandmother, with her witchy voice I’m sure gave his mother the same gut-wrenching feeling as me, was most definitely a sign. As she would pinch his cheek a tad too hard, white invading the red of his skin, she created such a smile that had to have been breaking her lips and sliced out, “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” and gave me a look flavored with worry. I wish she spoke outright– said he was a Pink Lady. Then I would have known.

I would have known that he was one step closer to morphing into two searing horns blistering their way out of his head, skin of crimson, and a suit of black to mask his lack of soul. I would have known that he wouldn’t stop his poisonous talk, one that shook my head in a vessel every second it got. I would have known he was a Honeycrisp, but would I have known that I’m a peach? 

I learned quickly that my smooth skin was easy to bruise. My mind could easily perish. My caged core was simply too quick to lean into someone’s cradle, illuminating its weakest links. Without him, I wouldn’t have known. 

“I’m done being your peach.”

“What are you talking about, woman?”

When I opened my permanently welded lips, a fly must have finally found his rotting heart as his thin, watery skin began to flake away. I explained how peaches roll and roll down so many bumpy paths until their skin thickens and they no longer bruise. Or, they continue to roll to a new tree on plush grass where their bruises eventually heal. Unlike apples, peaches can leave their tree in debris and forget about its root. Peaches seem to grow legs and run to a new place. A place where Granny Smiths, Galas, Fujis, Pink Ladies, and Honeycrisps aren’t welcome. A place of white roses and peaches where we’re meant to be. 

By Kaelynn Snyder

Dawn poisoned dusk as the sun rose hesitantly, its fearful golden light creeping along the shadows of another forgotten night. There was humming somewhere along the creek, its sound patient and delighted. A young woman knelt by the water, picking through the reeds and cattails as if looking for something. She smiled wide when she heard what she was looking for, the familiar croak of a bullfrog. Her slender, pale fingers wrapped around its rubbery belly the moment she saw the tall grass shuffle, and the frog creaked and cried to be let go. The woman simply smiled and continued her hum as she laid the small creature down atop a large plateaued rock, dried blood splattered over it, a warning come too late.

“Yes, yes, you’ll do nicely,” the woman giggled in a sing-songy voice. Out came her husband’s hunting knife from her apron pocket, the golden light of morning reflecting on the blade like a dangerous smile. She held the frog down with one hand, and with the other, she severed its legs with steady, practiced hands. She avoided the splash of blood with care and removed a square of stained bloody white cloth from her apron pocket, cleaned her knife, then tucked the frog legs into the center. She carefully folded the corners inward, smiled to herself, and reached for the wicker basket beside her. The cloth-wrapped frog legs were set carefully at the bottom, along with bound bat wings, a lizard’s tongue, and a rabbit’s foot, all given the same cloth treatment. Innocently, she placed an assortment of wildflowers she had picked earlier on top of her animal limbs, concealing the horrors she’d collected like trophies. 

The legless frog croaked no more, for it passed out from blood loss; the woman threw it into the creek. Sunfish swam greedily towards the body, picking apart the flesh as the muddy water became a dirty pink. The woman only watched for a moment before she stood, wiped her hands on her black skirt, picked up her basket, and trotted back home to her town, to the husband she so dearly loved.

*

Five needles slithered through fabric pulled tight by tambour frames. A group of women sat quietly together in the main room of a house only a little bit larger than most in Salem. A cluster of wildflowers sat in a vase on the dining room table across from the group. The young woman, Madeleine, hummed to herself as she continued her embroidering, the other four women choosing to remain silent. Perhaps they were still in mourning, for it had only been a couple of days since their group had shrunk from six to five. When her friends made no move to start a conversation with her, Madeleine sighed and put down her needle and thread.

“Friends, what has made you all so grim and somber?” she asked, the naivete in her sweet voice something she had mastered long ago.

“We miss Elizabeth,” one of the women, Rachel, finally answered, unable to meet the young woman’s eyes. “Her trial is but only three days past. And she was innocent, the poor thing…” she shook her head. 

Madeleine calculated her response and suppressed a smile. “Yes, our poor, sweet, Elizabeth…may God rest her soul.” The woman all murmured in agreement.

“Shall we pray for her-” one of the other women was about to propose, but was cut off by the sound of Madeleine’s sudden distress. 

Madeleine shot up. “Hold that thought, my dear, for our tea is about ready!” She carefully set down her embroidery and hurried off to the kitchen, her giddy smile on full display once she was out of sight. Her delicate hands shook with excitement as she retrieved five teacups and set them down on the table with quiet clinks. She poured the hot water into each cup, leaving one significantly less filled than the others. Madeleine’s sweet smile turned more hysterical as she reached into a hidden compartment and pulled out a potion. Clear, almost syrupy liquid fell like molasses tears into the half-filled cup, and once everything was mixed together, it looked just like the other cups. But Madeleine knew which was which.

After sprinkling in the tea leaves, the cups were carefully moved to a tray and escorted to the four women in the parlor. Madeleine handed them each their tea, smiling as she tried to keep her eyes from turning sinister as Mary took a sip of the spiked tea. Madeleine hid her smirk behind hand-painted porcelain, focus glued to an unsuspecting Mary as she talked quietly to Rachel.

The effects of the potion took only a little bit longer to set in than Madeleine first predicted, but once she saw Mary’s chest begin to rise and fall with more weight, she knew she and her girls were in for a show. 

“Y-es, my-” Mary’s light-hearted conversation with Edith ended abruptly as she gripped her teacup with almost enough force to shatter it.

“Mary? Is something the matter?” Rachel, ever the worrying type, reached out with a gentleness that cannot be taught to touch Mary, who reacted with a screech that seemed to ring out through the whole village. Mary flew backward in her chair and began convulsing on the ground, limbs flailing as she continued to scream. The other four women stood up in shock, Madeleine put her hand over her mouth to feign surprise. 

“Speak to us, Mary! What’s wrong?!” the other woman, Margret, tried so desperately to understand, but all Mary could do was cry and shout,

“Demons! Witches!! HELL IS OPENING BENEATH OUR FEET TO SWALLOW US WHOLE!!! They’re here, they’re all around, we’re all hell bound!! Salem is in the claws of Satan!!!” Mary clawed at her face and pulled her hair, spraying spit as she continued to spout her nonsense. 

“She’s gone mad,” Rachel sobbed. “Madeleine, call your husband, please! She is suffering!”

“She is a witch!” Edith corrected, “A witch!!” Rachel whined and looked away from Mary writhing on the floor like a barn animal. 

Madeleine nodded and ran out of the house in a hurry. She felt elated; she always loved this part of her little spells. She ran to the church as if the wind had lifted her off of her feet and carried her there itself. She threw open the doors and loudly exclaimed, “John! My love, come quickly!”

A kindly priest with eyes worn by sleepless nights stumbled out of his office, awkwardly clutching a bible to his chest with arms just a little too long and spindly for his body. Madeleine held back a swooning sigh when she saw him and instead ran up to tug on his elbow. 

“John, my love, Mary has turned mad! You must come at once and save her soul lest she be turned into the Devil’s own familiar!” she sniffled, eyes wide and pleading. John tensed, conflict flashing somewhere behind hazel eyes. He lightly drummed the pads of his fingers against the hard leather binding of his bible, then nodded slightly. 

“Alright,” he murmured in a quiet, distant tone that Madeleine either didn’t notice or chose to ignore. “Lead the way, dear.”

**

“STOP THIS AT ONCE!! I am no witch!!!” Mary kicked, screamed, and growled as she was forced in front of a rickety wooden ladder. 

“C-come now, you know the law, Mary…” John affirmed, hands shaking as he held his open bible. Madeleine watched with her remaining three friends at the front of the crowd, hands folded in front of her, faux sorrow painted on her lovely face. Mary thrashed against the rope that bound her hands behind her back; the guard pushed her forwards in response.

“NO!!!” Mary struggled all she could as she was forced to climb the ladder, blubbering gibberish about how she wasn’t a witch and how everyone who convicted and executed her would pay for this. Madeleine thought it funny that Mary threatened them, for it surely didn’t help her case. John flipped the page in his bible and raised his head to speak.

“M-Mary Booker, you- you stand here on trial for indecency and accusations of witchcraft. To prove your innocence you have been- been brought to these here gallows. If you, if your neck does not snap, then you are no witch. If it does, then…” John straightened himself and darted his eyes to his wife, “…you are a witch.”

“LIARS!! The lot of you!! I am sentenced to die either way!! Curse you, ALL OF YOU!! Go to hell, go to HELL!!” she jabbed the guard in the jaw with her tied hands and almost fell backward had she not caught herself. The guard muttered a swear and pushed her forwards as his buddy took hold of the noose. Mary’s eyes widened and she shrieked, “NO!! NO!! Get that wretched thing AWAY FROM ME!! 

They forced the noose around her neck and prepared to push her off the ladder. Mary screamed for the final time, “I AM NO WITCH!!!” before powerful hands on her shoulders lifted her off of the ladder and let her dangle in the air. Mary thrashed and scraped her nails against the thick rope tightening around her throat, writhing similarly to how she did at Madeleine’s house. As her face turned a deathly purple-blue, Rachel clung to Madeleine’s arm and wept into her shoulder. Madeleine gently petted her bonnet-covered hair and looked deep into the light fading from Mary’s eyes. When Madeleine let a malignant smile slip, Mary’s eyes widened for a final time before she stopped moving and hung limply suspended in the air, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Rachel shivered against Madeleine, tears staining her cotton dress. Madeleine looked down at the girl with a thoughtful expression, then leaned down to kiss the top of her head, if only to hide her smile. Yes, yes, she would do nicely.

***

Dusk fled the earth in a panic the moment it saw a sliver of golden yellow slither past the horizon, for it had learned its lesson several suns ago. There was humming somewhere along the creek, its sound patient and delighted. A young woman knelt by the water, watching the ripples as if waiting for something. A school of sunfish swims over, wiggling through the water, traveling peacefully along. Madeleine smiled pleasantly and readies the hunting knife she “borrowed” from her husband, drew her hand back, and plunged it into the midsection of the largest sunfish she saw. When she swiftly yanked the impaled fish out of the water, it squirmed only a little bit before giving in to its fate.

She laid it down atop her favorite plateaued rock and withdrew the hunting knife from the sunfish. Then, with trained precision, Madeleine carved out its wide golden-green eyes, then deposited them into a jar full of similar-looking organs. She screwed the top of the jar back on, then moved to dispose of the sunfish in the river, then paused. Oh, why let this perfectly good sunfish go to waste when she could cook it up for her dear John? She giggled at her almost careless waste, wrapped the dead fish in some spare cloth before putting it and the jar of fish eyes into her basket. She began to sing to herself, a simple tune from her childhood she always loved, and skipped back to her home, to the husband she so dearly loved.

…except that husband she so dearly loved was not at home. He was hiding behind a tree and had been watching his wife work for some time now. His nerves were shot, as they usually were when he witnessed Madeleine perform these cruel, gruesome acts. John fidgeted with his shirt cuffs, and oh god, why was she doing this? Elizabeth, Mary, their deaths were both so recent, surely she didn’t have to do this again so soon? But he knew that nothing would satiate her lust for violence, for blood, for he has seen it first hand. Ever since John first saw Madeleine dancing alone in the woods around a fire, tossing torn-out pages of the bible into the flames, he was afraid of her.

John had been counting down the days until it was his turn to become stricken with her power, his turn to see demons and hellfire and be hanged for witchcraft, but that day never came. Madeleine never slipped him anything unsavory in his supper, never put him under a hex, never forced him to write his name in the devil’s book. She never even raised her voice at him, and he didn’t understand why. If she loved him, then why did she torture him this way? Why was she doing these terrible things, framing these poor, innocent women for witchcraft and leaving him to point the finger and sentence them to hang?
A cold tear slid down John’s cheek, his breath faltered. Even after everything, Madeleine’s warm smile every time he came home from his work at the church, the way her eyes lit up at the sound of his voice, her desire to take care of and tend to him whenever she could, all of it still made his heart flutter. She still managed to be the center of his universe, no matter how terrifying she was, and John simply could not understand. 

He began to cry behind the tree, sank down the trunk and sat in the grass damp with morning dew. His wife, his dear, lovely wife, the woman he promised his very life to, was a monster. And he loved her still. And he sobbed for this, cried out in the woods, for no one except the comforting embrace of a wife who did not frame innocent village girls for crimes they did not commit, who did not mangle forest creatures for her own twisted desires, who did not smile in the face of death. A wife who was kind, a wife who loved him, a wife who was Madeleine.

By Julz Dreyer

so many feelings, struggling to leave my mouth
and it’s not that rare for me to let myself down 

(it’s not the same anymore – rex orange county)

I. I have two memories of my kindergarten orientation. In one, I am getting a snack from the woman who will be my assistant principal for the next five years, and she says weird words that I, as a child raised by parents who are unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of America, will not understand. My other memory of that day is not a true memory at all, but instead a blurry view of the first chair that I sat in at school. It is blurry because my eyes are filled with tears, tears that exist because there are people everywhere, and I cannot talk to them, because I am afraid they will not respond. 

My teacher is a sweet middle-aged woman, and she crouches down to my height to ask me what my name is. I cannot respond; I don’t know what my name is. I only know it in the accent of my family, the accent of a culture that does not fit into this small town in Missouri. She waits a few more seconds, and when it seems clear that I won’t respond, she looks at my name tag instead. 

She does not say my name the way my mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, aunts, or uncles do. But when she looks at me for confirmation, eager to change the way she pronounces it so that it is correct, I do not tell her anything. I can’t tell her anything. My head nods, and I lose myself in that rhythmic shake. 

When the girl who stood next to me in the lunch line on the first day of kindergarten asks me my name, I say it in the same way that my teacher said it. 

And somehow I am not myself anymore.

will you still love me when i’m no longer
young and beautiful?

(young and beautiful – lana del rey)

II. When I come home with no trophy, my mother says that it is because my father and I had chosen a project that she didn’t like. She is half joking, and if I asked her about this moment now, she would deny it, telling me that I had simply imagined it. 

I know I didn’t, though. I know because it was this moment that I relived in my head as I cried myself to sleep that night, because for possibly the first time in my life I had lost. Lost in a way that was so much worse than losing to someone else for first, because then I had been important, good enough for something, at least. 

The girl who won first, will be the first person who understands me, understands the need I feel to delve into books and experience someone else’s world. She understands my fears of not being someone who makes everyone else proud, because even though I am in third grade, the pressures of my life are already making me crack. She will understand because it is what she feels too, and because of this understanding I will love her with a fierceness that I will never, ever, show someone else. 

Then I was gone, floating away in the wind, picked up by aspirations of a better life, the urge to make things better for everyone else. She was left there, and because the wind takes me far away from my only home, I cannot talk to her; I never find her again.  

Last Thanksgiving, I got her number from my mother, who got it from hers. I asked how she was. She responded. 

I wanted to ask her whether a wind had picked her up and moved her away too; I wanted to know how she was, who she was, now that I had changed so much from when we had known each other. 

I never asked her anything. Our conversation was limited to those few words we had typed on Thanksgiving, and now we are an abyss of words that neither of us can say. 

Maybe that means she is different now. 

i don’t want to play this part
but i do all for you

(softcore – the neighbourhood)

III. Where I’m from, parents don’t find out the gender of their child before they’re born. Girls are commodities, more expensive to care for, what with the elaborate marriages that their families will have to pay, and every other little thing that has made so many get rid of their daughters before they ever get a chance to see the world. 

My mother’s favorite story to tell me is that even though they didn’t know my gender until after I was born, both she and my father had known that I would be, to them, a girl. She tells me how everyone thought my father was crazy for buying all of my baby things in pink, but they didn’t care. 

I love the color pink. 

I don’t know if I feel like a girl. 

When my mom asks me about the pronouns in my social media bio, when my dad asks me to explain why people at his work add their pronouns to their emails, when they ask me to explain what it means when someone is non-binary, I don’t say anything about me. 

I don’t know how to explain to them that sometimes I don’t feel like a girl, that sometimes I don’t want to exist in my gender and be tied to all the expectations that come with being a woman, a girl. I don’t know how to tell them how I really feel without biting back words in the fear that they’ll take it wrong, and then suddenly they won’t love me the same. 

My parents know nothing about who I really am, but maybe that’s my fault too.

നമുക്ക് ചായ കുടിക്കാം

IV. I asked my mom, once, to teach me how to make my comfort food, the food that I ask her to make whenever she can, just because I like to eat it. She blows me off most times; to her I don’t need to know how to make these foods because she can. 

When my grandmother asks me if I can make any of the foods that she makes everyday, the foods that she ate her entire life, the foods she made for my mother and my uncle and my grandfather and everyone else who ever came to her house, I say no. I tell her my mom, her daughter, never taught me. She asks me if I know how to make tea. I tell her no again; I don’t drink tea. Learning how to feels like a waste of time. 

But when one of my friends tells me she knows how to make tea, it’s like a punch in the gut. Because tea, even though I don’t drink it, is so important. Tea is the first thing we bring to guests. Tea is what people drink as they talk and laugh and connect with each other. 

She was born here. She’s lived here her whole life. 

I was born there. I’ve lived here for only most of my life. 

And somehow, she can make tea, can do something so easy and inconsequential but somehow not being able to do it makes another strike against me, and my identity and culture. 

I spent years foregoing my identity. I spent years tired of looking different, tired of being different, that when I’m reminded how different I am, I have no one to blame but myself.

By Aishani Komath

I. Roller skating, gliding effortlessly (or maybe clumsily) over the wooden floor. There’s no thought, no questions. All you really need to know is right, left, right, left. Possibly how to stop, but crashing into a wall will do just as nicely. As with all things, the skating has special categories. They’re announced by some faceless, merciless god, known only as DJ. Backwards skate; glow in the dark skate; Girl’s skate. That one is dreaded the most. It goes against skating as a whole; with it comes the questioning, the pondering, the thinking. You’re not supposed to think when skating. Yet there the thoughts are, gnawing at your wheels. Do I go out because I look like a girl? Even though deep down I know I’m not anywhere close? A standstill, a pause, waiting for an answer. Your wheels lacking the spin needed to glide like the rest of them. Your laces are chained to the floor, tangled together in a mesh of confusion. You go girlfriend, a mother’s words pushing you, chains and all, onto the floor. You’re no longer able to glide, scraping your skates against trees.

II. A caterpillar’s short lifespan is spent throughout 4 stages. All stages are ones of growth and development and change; the caterpillar is working hard to reach their end goal. They start out as an egg, become a larva, then a pupa. After that they become butterflies, beautiful winged insects. Stating it so plainly makes it seem like a simple process, but it’s not. It sometimes takes up to a year to finish, a surely tiring process for the bug. However, it should be worth it, right? Beauty is supposedly pain, so a grueling journey must be worth the charm waiting with open arms at the end. The caterpillar－I’ve known them as a caterpillar my whole life, saying “butterfly” is difficult－has to know what they signed up for. It’s their fault they’re in pain, so why don’t they just stay a caterpillar? Just grin and bear the discomfort so you won’t have to go through the pain. It sounds much easier, much more pleasant.

III. There are at least 2 types of binders, but they both serve the same purpose; they keep things in place, tucked away from the naked eye. Both are holders, helpers. Except one binder doesn’t crush your lungs in the process. It doesn’t have you heaving, wheezing, gasping for any air. One you can’t ignore, forced to know it’s there. Take it, take it off and be free of yet another layer of chains. Breathe the air, take a gulp of its sweetness. Except maybe you could learn to bear the chains. Maybe you could find out they only wanted to help you in their own twisted ways. They didn’t mean any harm; they’re just misunderstood. You’re overreacting as usual, making a big mess out of a small spill. C’mon, put the binder back on; we both know you want to. Ears perked up, listening attentively to the quiet voice. Yes, I’ll put you back on. I’ll embrace you, your claws digging into my skin. The scars aren’t visible, but they’re there. You just have to know where to probe, to look.

IV. Clownfish. The name evokes a little chuckle; clown fish. Just silly little orange jokers swimming around in the great ocean blue. However, did you know they can change their sex? Female clownfish rule over all, the queen of their kingdom. If the female dies, a male will become female just to take her place at the top. They carry both reproductive organs, ensuring survival (or at least making it easier to). They’ve found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the treasure trove hidden in the cave. Everyone accepts them as they are, too. Not a single question; no asking, wait wasn’t she a he? No reverting back to old pronouns and old names. No latching onto something that no longer exists, something that should be forgotten. The clownfish don’t need to see a doctor. The waiting process, the consultations, etc. They don’t exist. Clownfish don’t have to get permission from their parents or raise money. They’re just different now, neither more nor less. Still the same just with slight changes. When my organs fail and my bones collapse in on themselves, maybe I’ll be reborn, reincarnated as a clownfish.

V. Always a mirror. Always a reflection for me to analyze. Who is that, looking back at me? That can’t possibly be me. No, I don’t look like that. No no no, I refuse to look. Just surrounded by so many Xs. Everything is wrong. Where am I? I shouldn’t be here, it’s all too much. Any longer and I’ll sink into the murky, disgusting water of pipes. Dragging my feet, I kick water at the walls. They’re soaked and peeling, revealing their innards, their guts. The doors are all gone, playing a sick game of hide and seek with me; where do I go? Should I dare shove my way through the walls? What’s in there might kill me as well, making it more painful. Thinking too much and sinking too deep, my hips below the surface as the water rises to swallow me whole. It’s angry and fast, swirling around me. It glares at me, knowing I shouldn’t be here either. Except it aims to drown me, keeping me as its prisoner until it finds a new plaything. I aim to escape this place I despise, to be free. The water is up to my neck now, rubbing against my chin. It’s only as I take my final breath do I realize that the water was my tears all along.

VI. Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, repeat. Over and over and over, a never ending cycle. Effortlessly switching, the seasons fade into each other. They welcome one another, ushering them in and allowing them to make themself at home. The crisp fiery leaves morph into cold white snow, landing softly on your tongue. The seasons change, allowing each other to rest and relax until it’s their turn again. Not quite effortless, but much easier than a human. It’s inevitable that Summer will welcome in Fall, only for Fall to usher a path for Winter, then for Winter to guide in the Spring. Their change is expected, accepted. It’s not like humans can question nature, the unstoppable force, as sure as the sun will rise. A constant relay race, uninterrupted by man. There’s no stopping the inescapable. There’s no one to judge nature, no one to make nature doubt its flow. You can’t ask nature if it’s really supposed to be Winter when it’s actually Spring. Nature takes no demands; you can tell it to be Fall as loudly and harshly as you want, yet it still remains Summer.

VII. The sweet taste of slumber is always on the tip of my tongue, making me long for more. How badly I want another piece, another spoonful of the delicious cake. When I go for another bite, the cake rearranges itself. It’s not cake anymore, no, but a mouth. Would it still taste just as savory as the cake had been? I grab out for it, only for it to bite my hand. It starts whispering in my ears as the red fills my skin. The mouth’s words are not sweet, instead pricking me like needles. Poison contained in the needle is injected into my skin, into my head, into my heart. Lies lie in bed with me, snuggling close, their cold touch like ice in my veins. You’re not who you wish to be, edging closer. Getting colder, like I’m wearing a swimsuit in the snow. I reach up to cover my ears but they have my arms locked against their bodies. It’s the chains again, keeping me stuck in place as they devour me in one bite. It seems I’m the cake, sweet, delicious, defenseless.

VIII. Instagram, Discord, more. All of the above using your profile picture as a representation of you (or just having it be you). You get a choice, a decision. You can pick how others see you, what their eyes tell them when they look at you. There’ll come a time when maybe the picture doesn’t fit you anymore, so you change it. Maybe there’ll come a time when your username no longer fits you anymore either, so you change it as well. You’ve found something new to represent you, your ever changing identity and person. So that’s what it becomes; it becomes you. Or so you wish. That profile picture, username, maybe it’s just idealization? Maybe it’s the stars wishing they were the moon, the moon wishing it were the sun. Everything wishing it were something else, anything else. Making their profile picture someone else, their username someone else. Faking it until the faking doesn’t help them anymore. The fantasy loses its appeal, the exciting becomes mundane. The picture disappears, along with its owner, into a void of their own creation.

IX. Who? Who? An owl’s call from a human’s lips. You have a name tag, the name written in erasable marker. Kay, King, Kade. Which one are you? Experimenting, science just in words. It’s a puzzle, but none of the pieces quite fit. Too round, not square enough, too many connectors, not enough connectors. How is one supposed to complete a puzzle if some of the pieces are gone? Maybe the box swallowed them whole, opening up its chasm mouth for a delicious treat. You feel selfish for wishing that the box left the pieces to you. You are selfish for wanting more than you are. You’re a thief; you steal names, identities, personalities in order to fulfill your puzzle. It’s all about you. You, you, you. Why don’t you think of other people? Eyes too blinded by questions to acknowledge something other than Kade. Someone other than King or Kay. God, you’re so self-absorbed, and you don’t even like yourself. Drawing your sword and backstabbing your enemy, only to realize that the enemy is just you. A pool of your own failures puddling around your limp corpse as your lungs sputter and crumble; your eyes looking at the one world in your final moments.

By Kade Booker

December 4th, flurries outside your window, coating the ground. It’s the first snowfall of the year, but this snow is different than last year’s. The small sparkles of snow that used to melt at the touch of your palm and the tip of your nose are different. You feel the pull of that snow drawing you in, you hate the snow. It leaves you alone with your thoughts. It locks you in your house with your greatest enemy, that little voice in your head that torments your daily thoughts. But this snow is different, this snow is calling, and for the first time, you are willing to pick up the phone. Without grabbing a coat you run outside. The once light snowfall that was running through the sky laid its blanket along the floor below you and now you are consumed by wind and the unique flakes. Spinning round and round, trying to appreciate the delicacy and pure innocence before you. You wish life was this innocent, you wish you could experience the good in life, you wish you could be white, loved, and appreciated. White is different. White is not a color; it’s a shade. White brightens everyone’s world, white is angels and clarity. You want to be white. The small white sparkles of snow that used to melt at the touch of your palm and the tip of your nose are different, they want to make you different. 

There is one sparkle that catches your eye. You race towards her, leaving the view of your home behind, leaving the old you behind, or so you hope. She isn’t far, but you have to be fast enough, you have to hear what she wants to tell you, you have to grab the sparkle that glows above the rest. You run, the snow piles becoming deeper and deeper, your breath stinging stronger as you gasp for warmth in the cold environment you now cannot escape. Footprint after footprint, you’re gonna make it, even if your ankles turn the shade of blue that you admire in your best friend’s eyes, eyes that you are slowly beginning to forget. The snowflake takes the form. It becomes the beautiful art that you thought you created in second grade. You reach your trembling naked arm out, leap off of your numb feet, and grab for the first thing that has caught your attention in so long. Just as your fingertips skim the corner of the flake, she is gone. You have to understand she’s gone, but why? Why did you leave me? Why? I tried so hard to save you? It should have been me? It was supposed to have been me? I let you die? A new snowflake falls from the sky. You raise your palm, one that is now filled with salty tears, and let it fall upon you. With the touch, you hear her voice, the first time in years. You didn’t lose me. You couldn’t have saved me when I didn’t want to be saved. You are white, you are my white. 

Winner: J.J. Caryme

1. When you stare at the blank line underneath the question, “what is your favorite food?” and decide to write pizza, because even though you don’t love it as much as *biryani, you still like it. And my classmates know what it is. I won’t have to explain why I love it so much and how I can eat it day after day or the fact that I like mine with potatoes when others don’t and why potatoes and no potatoes is a major debate that actually exists. 

*Biryani- a (very delicious) rice dish with spices, meat, and sometimes (it should be always) potatoes. 

2. When your teacher asks you a riddle and the answer is waves, and you know it is, but you pronounce words starting with the letter w with a v sound and it comes out as vaves making her think you said vase. I said waves but your w’s are w’s while mine are v’s and I can’t really tell you why because  I don’t really understand and if even I did you probably wouldn’t understand. 

3. When someone stares at you for a second too long because you just told them that you’ve never played the game Life. But they’ve never played *ludo either, not during the middle of nights when they could just as easily have been watching movies like everyone else. It’s not a part of their childhood like it is of mine, a game that helps me remember those little moments that I would otherwise forget.

*Ludo- a board game to play with 2-4 people where each person rolls 2 dice and moves their ‘token’ according to the numbers they get. If other players’ tokens land on the same spot as your token you have to move back to the beginning (caution: may lead to tears and feelings of frustration). 

4. When, in 3rd grade,  your aunt asks if you want her to put on *henna, but you say no I don’t feel like it. You watch your sister air drying the henna on her hand and just wish that you could be a little more like her. But I’m not, not when I constantly pull down my sleeves to hide what is on my hand, because I don’t want to answer any more questions that begin with what or why. 

*Henna- a temporary dye, made from a plant, that is put on through a cone to create designs on someone’s hand. Looks sort of like a tattoo.

5. When you read an article in english class about asian parents and the rules they have for their children and some of your classmates start saying things like ‘that’s sort of mean.’ No, it’s not, I would know, because my parents do some of the same things. Yes, they push me to get A’s and B’s and C’s are better if they are also B’s but sometimes C’s can be C’s. 

6. When quarantine hits and people spend their days laying in bed, scrolling away on TikTok. Slowly through all the scrolling 2020 becomes 2021 and your for you page fills with videos of people saying things like *‘the desi urge to’ and ‘things every Asian has in their house.’ You like one after another because I know what they mean by having a basket full or oranges on the counter a day after your Dad hears you say that they taste nice. Or the urge to drink chai even though you don’t like it very much because it’s just so very desi. 

*Desi urge- an urge to do something just because a person has a South Asian culture. 

*Chai- tea that you make by boiling black tea and milk together and later on adding sugar. 

7. When, in 6th grade, you walk up to your locker and immediately tell the girl next to you not to ask what is on your hand but she gives one glance at your hand and simply says ‘its henna.’ I stand there in shock while she compliments on how pretty it looks and then she just walks away like what she said wasn’t really important because it really shouldn’t be because past teachers( especially females) have complimented my henna before but she isn’t a teacher, she’s a girl. Just like me. 

8. When you meet a girl in your freshman year gym class who knows why your mom gives you herbal tea when you are sick and instead of asking, why? like most people would she nods her head and says how it tastes so good and how her mom gives it to her too. She asks if you like mangos and when you say no, she instantly says what? Because that’s totally a felony where you come from. She reacted just like *Ami & Baba when I told them I don’t like mangos. She doesn’t think that drinking herbal tea once in a while makes me kind of weird. 

*Ami & Baba- Mom & Dad

9. When you’re put in a group of people in English class to come up with songs and one of the girls comments on how most of the songs she listens to are in Russian while another says most of the one’s she listens to are in Chinese so it’s sort of hard to come up with songs to do the assignment. Exactly, if I’m asked what songs I listen to people won’t care why listening to bollywood songs immediately makes someone want to dance or sing at the top of their lungs. But I didn’t know that Russian and Chinese people also have to think long and hard about what their favorite (english) song is. 

10. When you come home from school to tell your sister you are working on a personal narrative in creative writing and ask her what moments make her think that she isn’t ‘american american’ but …. she is American, by definition. Still she lists things that you think of too and maybe so do other people.

By Maha Adnan

i.

It’s easy to fall into the rhythm of the cards. Slide, press, slide press, moving Aces and Kings across the board. The 1s and 0s running binary code in the background don’t matter when I can move the 2 of Spades onto the Ace, securing another 10 points to be wiped away by a reset. Slide, press, slide, press. Accidental 2 of Clubs, press undo and move along. The only sounds in the Career Center are the heating coursing through the school and occasional conversation through the walls. But the walls muffle, so it’s easy to slide, press, slide, press. Peace at last after a long day. 

ii. 

Another red circle with a line floating in the center. Another uncrossed assignment. Another empty Kami file, another paper untouched in the folder. It’s okay, I’ll do it later. I have time tonight, nothing to do.

But what’s another round of Bedwars gonna hurt. I’ll do it at 5:00.

I’ll do it at 6:00.

I’m getting sleepy. I guess I’ll do it tomorrow.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

iii. 

It’s a complicated rhythm, switching between comfort and discomfort. Back tense, monitoring each pencil tap and foot position. It’s a necessary precaution to make sure I don’t miss a cue. If I make one mistake, they’ll all notice.

Absolutely relaxed. Leaning back in the seat, casual conversation with friends, lighthearted groaning at the assignment. Comfortable, casual, right where I need to be.

Don’t cross the invisible boundary dividing the table or he will notice. He’ll think I’m too comfortable and I don’t care about his space. I do, but if I slide my chair silently enough to the left he won’t be annoyed, It’ll be fine.

Banter with the teacher, leaning over the desks to converse. Chromebook open, ready to receive my thoughts. It’s perfect. Even the hoagie I strip the disgusting lettuce off is completing the scene. There were apple slices as an option today. It’s a good day.

It’s an okay day, I guess.

It’s another day.

iv. 

I don’t mean for it to happen. It just bubbles out without me wanting it to, suppressed emotions flooding the dark room. It hurts. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to feel this way. Why did she have to bring it up again? I just wanted to go to bed. Just ride it out. Just ride it out. Just ride it out. Just

I bottle up myself! It happens again and again, destroying my emotions into a tiny vial, only to be smashed with the hammer of inopportune timing, shattering my sense of balance into shards of glass and droplets of thought.

Hopefully, one day, I’ll be able to pour my emotions into the sea and let them mix with the salt of my tears. I want the marine life to appreciate it.

v. 

“Since my last report, this employee has reached rock bottom and shows signs of starting to dig”

-Unknown, Quotes From Actual Performance Evaluations

vi.

My skin is crawling. Every word out of his mouth makes my neck itch and throat dry. If he speaks to me again I’ll snap, rubber band firing off from God’s fingers. But, I can’t. They’ll all watch with their cold eyes and stare into my downfall, phones below their desks to report to the editor-in-chief of their cliques, each Snapchat message becoming a fine-tuned line in the Google Doc, sent to the editing program, sent to the printer to condemn my social life in the media; yet the media is their Snapchat stories and their reporters are those who dislike me. 

It’s a metaphor planned out in the cosmos, mirroring my life in the Playwickian in their whispers of my “life”. Nothing feels better than having your story thrown back at you, plagiarism in the second degree.

vii. 

“Solitaire is the lonely man’s game,” my mother quips, watching my screen from across the room.

“But I’m having fun, at least,” I respond, continuing to place a 10 of Hearts onto the Jack, moving a 9 across the board.

She exits, forgetting to close the door again. 

I click undo again.

viii.

I can transfer my feelings into forms of art.

I can project my deeper emotions into my characters. They’re allowed to be traumatized, allowed to be assholes, allowed to be a problem. Logan Quinn, Narcissus, Leon, that one Kenku Cleric I have yet to name can be my alternate selves, delving into my fears and emotions. I can pour my soul into Logan’s guilt and stare into my own reflection like Narcissus. Not my character of course, for her eyes are set on success and callous victory. Every character I create I pour a bit of my soul into. Am I lessening myself, or am I expanding wider?

ix. 

“also be sure to do your late work before class tomorrow”

“late”

“they only do assignments they deem to be ‘important’”

“missing some and late”

“lacks effort”

“a pleasure to have in class”

“can not take constructive criticism”

“did you put them in the right class?”

“needs work”

“interesting! i’m excited to see where you go with this!”

-A collection of comments by my teachers regarding me

x.

I feel like a metaphor to God to show them what their humans have become. I don’t believe in them, but sometimes I feel like a demonstration to a science board. A chemical chain reaction. I feel like a test in nature versus nurture, a puppet in a show, a “person” on a reality show, a novelist’s rejected character. 

Sometimes it feels like God is trying to test me, giving me hard battles. But I don’t believe in that. So, I must be self-aggrandizing again. I could never be that important.

I’m not religious. Yet, it seems that I half believe. It’s that Catholic guilt kicking in again. I don’t think they exist, but if I don’t believe, I’ll go to Hell.

Who cares! I’ll be fine. I’ve already sinned enough.

Yeah, no, I’m scared. Even if there is no Heaven, no Hell, I hate playing Limbo. Especially at the roller rink. I can never glide under that bar.

By Nath Hoff

when your after dinner voices bleed through thin walls 

i press my ear against the door and listen and

wonder what conversations you’re having for dessert

i pick apart your words with the prongs of my fork

smear apple pie filling across my plate

but you always told me not to play with my food

there is a moment where i consider taking a bite

to chew on dialogue and push words around with my tongue

but chit-chat is not so sweet

so instead i rest my fork on the ledge of my plate

push it away

and tell you i’m full

By Julz Dreyer

My mother,

cleaning the kitchen, 

plastic covered couches

untouched in an unused living room

We won’t stay here,

but she scrubs until the floors are

clean of the blood and sweat 

until every inch of my father is gone 

And when we get to America,

She’ll bleach the counters like she’s

Cleaning up a crime scene

Until every inch of immigrant is gone

And we will survive this

and I might forget this

but she will never stop cleaning.

Her couches will always stay covered.

By Anonymous