curtain sleeves
by Melody Chen
the light sprinkles through the gridded web
like a star caught up
in the constellations of time
(9.22.19)
an elephant breathes into the soft linen
gentle into the breeze.
soft, soft it retraces its steps
(9.8.19)
like a star caught up
in the constellations of time
(9.22.19)
an elephant breathes into the soft linen
gentle into the breeze.
soft, soft it retraces its steps
(9.8.19)
Moonbags
by Melody Chen
I can’t relate to the body bags thrown under the moonlight
in nightly successions, the world dims.
We flow through different fabrics of time, each
making its way in parallel lines. Never crossing
the other side of the limelight.
Their ghostly limbs were adorned in the wrong areas
strewn in sets of two. Looking down,
all I could make of it was a crumbled lotus,
stripped of light and day. Once again, we will never hear
from the dead body in the moonbag.
It’s a bit young for me to have real-world
Aspirations. There’s no way to put my feet
one step over the other without recreating
the colors in my head. All I can ever cling on
is the stories we tell in the unforgiving light.
in nightly successions, the world dims.
We flow through different fabrics of time, each
making its way in parallel lines. Never crossing
the other side of the limelight.
Their ghostly limbs were adorned in the wrong areas
strewn in sets of two. Looking down,
all I could make of it was a crumbled lotus,
stripped of light and day. Once again, we will never hear
from the dead body in the moonbag.
It’s a bit young for me to have real-world
Aspirations. There’s no way to put my feet
one step over the other without recreating
the colors in my head. All I can ever cling on
is the stories we tell in the unforgiving light.
A New World
by Matthew Yu
sunshine and smiles
blue skies and a gentle breeze
the sound of laughter and mirth
the trees a deep green
the smell of flowers and fragrant wind
feelings of freedom and friendship
red and gold and crisp
chilly air and melancholy skies
a world of color
tired trees and orange leaves
the faint scent of rain and change
introspection
a still world
gentle crystals drifting down
a soft white blanket
slumbering boughs
a breath of cold and the sound of silence
a timeless dream
the shy morning sun
green and glittering dew
the sounds of new life and new beginnings
leaves of light green
the sweet aroma of earth and growing things
a world revived
blue skies and a gentle breeze
the sound of laughter and mirth
the trees a deep green
the smell of flowers and fragrant wind
feelings of freedom and friendship
red and gold and crisp
chilly air and melancholy skies
a world of color
tired trees and orange leaves
the faint scent of rain and change
introspection
a still world
gentle crystals drifting down
a soft white blanket
slumbering boughs
a breath of cold and the sound of silence
a timeless dream
the shy morning sun
green and glittering dew
the sounds of new life and new beginnings
leaves of light green
the sweet aroma of earth and growing things
a world revived
Untitled
by Roshni Sudhakar
Every little girl, boy or somewhat between, have a dream.
Words of inspirational leaders have rung in their heads with an unnoticed weight of pain.
They strive to be like them, so they follow the rules of society, yet it’s changing every
moment in their lives. Look at the different countries around the globe; one may not think
about what happens there, but I do.
One area contains families running for their lives to escape turmoil, yet we still sit here in
front of a device, just watching their fate be crushed by terrorists within seconds. Another
place contains poverty, a problem that surrounds them since they thought they became
free. Is it wrong then to seek asylum in a place where they are certainly guaranteed their
freedom? That’s not for me to answer, neither for you to question in today’s complex
society of billions.
We have billions in our planet, but do we ever think about somebody across the road or
an ocean? Some won’t bother, waiting for others to take the rein as they now feel the
weight of the past lingering around their minds. It’s become nearly impossible to stick
with a dream, as I find myself laughing at how I wanted to be a writer when I was
younger.
They all say creativity leads to a brilliant writer, so perhaps my past now makes me a
better person as I realized that I am living my dream. A dream that I am living for others
around me and myself. Everyday I think about the change I can bring from my writing
because everyone has a dream to change the world into a better place.
Words of inspirational leaders have rung in their heads with an unnoticed weight of pain.
They strive to be like them, so they follow the rules of society, yet it’s changing every
moment in their lives. Look at the different countries around the globe; one may not think
about what happens there, but I do.
One area contains families running for their lives to escape turmoil, yet we still sit here in
front of a device, just watching their fate be crushed by terrorists within seconds. Another
place contains poverty, a problem that surrounds them since they thought they became
free. Is it wrong then to seek asylum in a place where they are certainly guaranteed their
freedom? That’s not for me to answer, neither for you to question in today’s complex
society of billions.
We have billions in our planet, but do we ever think about somebody across the road or
an ocean? Some won’t bother, waiting for others to take the rein as they now feel the
weight of the past lingering around their minds. It’s become nearly impossible to stick
with a dream, as I find myself laughing at how I wanted to be a writer when I was
younger.
They all say creativity leads to a brilliant writer, so perhaps my past now makes me a
better person as I realized that I am living my dream. A dream that I am living for others
around me and myself. Everyday I think about the change I can bring from my writing
because everyone has a dream to change the world into a better place.
Theatre in America
with a line from Duncan Sheik
by Arya Vishin
I was 10 when I was Alice in
Wonderland, we know this story,
girl, rabbit hole, trial by jury. I
know this story, too - I hear it
over and over:
I learn performative. I learn actor
as a compliment but also an insult.
I learn feeling. I learn plastic girl.
I learn to walk on my heels because
apparently I walk on my toes and
boys don’t walk like that, says the
director. And so I learn real boy. I
learn growing up. I learn the state
of not dreaming. But even so it
seems that every playwright has
their own story, and so I say that
I feel. I evolve. For every vestigial
trait I keep as proof of concept I
lose something I didn’t like about
myself anyway. I promise. I realize
the space in between where I go &
when I go there. I think we carry
things on our backs when they’re
too heavy to drag along -
but sometimes I am still Alice,
drowsy and covered in glitter, oh
Lewis I must have fallen asleep
again.
Wonderland, we know this story,
girl, rabbit hole, trial by jury. I
know this story, too - I hear it
over and over:
I learn performative. I learn actor
as a compliment but also an insult.
I learn feeling. I learn plastic girl.
I learn to walk on my heels because
apparently I walk on my toes and
boys don’t walk like that, says the
director. And so I learn real boy. I
learn growing up. I learn the state
of not dreaming. But even so it
seems that every playwright has
their own story, and so I say that
I feel. I evolve. For every vestigial
trait I keep as proof of concept I
lose something I didn’t like about
myself anyway. I promise. I realize
the space in between where I go &
when I go there. I think we carry
things on our backs when they’re
too heavy to drag along -
but sometimes I am still Alice,
drowsy and covered in glitter, oh
Lewis I must have fallen asleep
again.
man with a gun rotates 270 degrees
by Clarrisa Gao
change me
i wanna be someone else
i wanna feel like
the stranger that you see everyday
i wanna live
up to my letters and my saunter and my heavy heav y lidded gaze so unbothered
i wanna feel
your smile brand my face scalding hot, and feel like i deserve it
o change me please
into what i was supposed to be all along
change me into what i really am
oh no no i dont mean to be so needy
:its just who i dont mean to be
change me and i swear
and i promise
and i pinky promise
and i will never
ever ever ever ever ever ever
ever
ask anything from you ever
ever
again
ever
i wanna be someone else
i wanna feel like
the stranger that you see everyday
i wanna live
up to my letters and my saunter and my heavy heav y lidded gaze so unbothered
i wanna feel
your smile brand my face scalding hot, and feel like i deserve it
o change me please
into what i was supposed to be all along
change me into what i really am
oh no no i dont mean to be so needy
:its just who i dont mean to be
change me and i swear
and i promise
and i pinky promise
and i will never
ever ever ever ever ever ever
ever
ask anything from you ever
ever
again
ever
metamorphosis
by Paul Liu
tree branches
weathered fingers reaching towards the light
how they lean and groan and sometimes grin
do you know of the distance
to the sun?
morning fog
a sea of dreams that come… and go
O, boy, how you drown so beautifully
do you know of the place;
the nomad’s home?
ocean waves
we crash against the broken shore
rough and rigid upon my lips
then wash away
like pieces of shells
madam, princess
who are you that wades
black slime clutching at her heels
O, the clam-diggers beckon anger
and now we see green-blue
drowning
vermillion dusk
the seasons demand of us what we do not have
perfect scarlet damask gem by wintertime
why do you bloom?
where do we go?
O, Hughes,
a dream unremembered
festering
death honeyed by
all we leave behind
reality&a certain hue
and now we see a dark blushing crimson
eve unto night
weathered fingers reaching towards the light
how they lean and groan and sometimes grin
do you know of the distance
to the sun?
morning fog
a sea of dreams that come… and go
O, boy, how you drown so beautifully
do you know of the place;
the nomad’s home?
ocean waves
we crash against the broken shore
rough and rigid upon my lips
then wash away
like pieces of shells
madam, princess
who are you that wades
black slime clutching at her heels
O, the clam-diggers beckon anger
and now we see green-blue
drowning
vermillion dusk
the seasons demand of us what we do not have
perfect scarlet damask gem by wintertime
why do you bloom?
where do we go?
O, Hughes,
a dream unremembered
festering
death honeyed by
all we leave behind
reality&a certain hue
and now we see a dark blushing crimson
eve unto night
Notebook Poems
by Helen Li
6.4.19
Summer Thoughts
What if I fall into the deep deep hole of the absence of my
existence in your memory
I’ve imagined these scenarios so many times they’ve become
part of my experience, false memories that are false promises,
falsities
What if I haven’t seen you in three weeks and I don’t remember
how to walk and talk like a normal human being, what if I’ve
been laying on my bed waiting and waiting but there’s nothing to
wait for, maybe I’ll wait some more
What if you don’t recognize my face, what then?
I used to kiss those eyebrows, you know
Not your eyebrows, not really
The eyebrows of the person I dragged into my mind to keep
me company because my feet went numb first, and then my hands,
and then my face
I have not made a sound in three weeks
I am an inanimate object in my room, gathering dust, gathering
dust, let me decay until I blend into the sheets, and
the only way you’d know I’d ever existed was the bowl of cereal in soy milk, soaked and soggy on the windowsill
― Helen Li
6.4.19
I buried my childhood
I buried my childhood out by the baseball fields
Under the gaze of the setting sun
And the hushed breath of the empty bleachers
5,440 sunsets and sunrises and counting
Today the moon rose of the wrong side of the sky
I think it has lost its memory
It looks so out of place
I’ve become so scared of the linear passage of time
Time, slipping away through my fingers like sand in a sieve
I’m so scared that I’ll forget when I was happy
I’m so scared that I’ll forget who I used to be
― Helen Li
Summer Thoughts
What if I fall into the deep deep hole of the absence of my
existence in your memory
I’ve imagined these scenarios so many times they’ve become
part of my experience, false memories that are false promises,
falsities
What if I haven’t seen you in three weeks and I don’t remember
how to walk and talk like a normal human being, what if I’ve
been laying on my bed waiting and waiting but there’s nothing to
wait for, maybe I’ll wait some more
What if you don’t recognize my face, what then?
I used to kiss those eyebrows, you know
Not your eyebrows, not really
The eyebrows of the person I dragged into my mind to keep
me company because my feet went numb first, and then my hands,
and then my face
I have not made a sound in three weeks
I am an inanimate object in my room, gathering dust, gathering
dust, let me decay until I blend into the sheets, and
the only way you’d know I’d ever existed was the bowl of cereal in soy milk, soaked and soggy on the windowsill
― Helen Li
6.4.19
I buried my childhood
I buried my childhood out by the baseball fields
Under the gaze of the setting sun
And the hushed breath of the empty bleachers
5,440 sunsets and sunrises and counting
Today the moon rose of the wrong side of the sky
I think it has lost its memory
It looks so out of place
I’ve become so scared of the linear passage of time
Time, slipping away through my fingers like sand in a sieve
I’m so scared that I’ll forget when I was happy
I’m so scared that I’ll forget who I used to be
― Helen Li
On texting: A Series of Haiku
by oswale
Typo
Happy when you send
Four words and five syllables:
You guava me love
This Morning
Be on my way soon.
That was ten minutes ago.
Sorry running late.
Last Night
Let’s go food shopping.
You wanna see my food list?
I got a club card.
In My Dreams
Wait I’m not stupid.
Hold on. What are you typing?
Why’d you stop typing??
Happy when you send
Four words and five syllables:
You guava me love
This Morning
Be on my way soon.
That was ten minutes ago.
Sorry running late.
Last Night
Let’s go food shopping.
You wanna see my food list?
I got a club card.
In My Dreams
Wait I’m not stupid.
Hold on. What are you typing?
Why’d you stop typing??
The Boy Who Remembered Why He'd Decided to be Born
by Hunter McDivitt
The dawn broke, but little changed. The sun set the next day, and little changed. Leaves turned orange and red and brown, snow fell upon the world and froze it sleeping, and little changed. Such was the life of Sylvester Scotts. He awoke in the morning, went to school, survived through classes, went home, did homework, spent a little time listening to music or watching vines, and fell asleep.
As far as highschoolers went, he wasn’t particularly unusual. Just unique enough no one thought of him as too normal. No one knew why. No one much cared. No one paid attention enough to care.
He sat alone at lunch. Was it because he preferred being alone? Or was he just scared of talking to people? No one knew these things either. No one knew him well enough to wonder. He didn’t talk much.
His eyes were dark, and bright, and one could see, if one looked, that there was pain in them, and feeling--oh, the feeling!--but no one looked. And so no one saw.
When no one looked, the boy couldn’t bring himself to tell them, as they surely had better things to do with themselves, and so, little by little, he retreated into himself, until he stopped talking altogether. Except with his family, of course.
Ah, his family. Here was the beast of beasts. His mother was kind and loving, but she was not brave. His father had stolen what little bravery she’d once owned. He was cold and drunk and cruel. Here, perhaps, lay the reason for the silence of the boy.
One night, the boy came home, as he always did. He heard raised voices, his parents in another room, and went to ensure his mother’s safety. He noticed his older sister, Rey, was home. With the guarantee of Rey watching over his parents, he was eased, and helped himself to dinner before shutting himself away in his room.
He spent several hours doing homework, then listened to some music. Nightcore. Ah how he loved nightcore. He watched vines, and looked at memes, keeping up with the social norms of his day despite that no one would know. Soon enough, he fell asleep, and it was here he felt most at home.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A shimmering boy walked through a dark-skinned desert. Or perhaps it was the other way ‘round. Who could say? The boy, at length, saw a speck of green on the horizon. It was distant, nearly eternally so, but time is longer still, and so the boy eventually came to his destination.
There was a place, filled with palms and bushes, and there was a river there. The boy stopped and took a drink, and thought I know what happiness is. But no sooner had the boy filled his water skin than he realized his happiness had left him.
“Where did you go, my joy?” he cried into the empty sands.
Saddened though he had become, the boy chose to continue onwards to the palace where his cargo--salt from across the desert--had to be delivered. He hoped that perhaps his joy--which was being rather fickle today--would return to him when he had finished his errand.
He reached the palace, by and by. That is to say, By And By. This was the name of the palace. It was cold in By And By, contrasting the scorching desert which surrounded it. A penguin or two had taken refuge from the heat, the boy noticed. He liked the penguins. They liked him back. “Thank you, Penguins!” he hollered to them. What for exactly? Because he appreciated them for the fact they existed.
Now, the boy thought, moving on through the palace as he grew sober and remembered his mission, I must keep moving to give the king his salt and find my joy. He headed to the king.
“Hello there, boy!” the king shouted. “Give me my salt!” The boy noticed that the king was a polar bear. He grew afraid. “Now, don’t take all day! I want my salt!” The king opened his massive mouth and pointed to it with his claw.
The boy recoil in terror at the sudden movement.
Gleaming white teeth erupted from pink, gummy flesh. The breath the bear huffed was warm, and the boy could feel the exhale and the fishy scent it carried from the other end of the throne room.
Give the king his salt. Find my happiness.
The boy hesitated only a moment more, then walked to the bear.
Gingerly, with infinite care, he put his hand into the bear’s gaping mouth and then--
Bam!
The bear’s muzzle shot closed, his teeth gleaming.
The boy glared at the bear, having barely saved his hand from the gleaming teeth.
“What on earth was that for?”
The bear laughed, an ugly, disquieting noise.
“Give me my salt!” he mocked.
The boy stared.
“I haven’t got all day.”
The boy reached his hand to give the bear his salt, then snatched it back, quick as a whip, as the bear’s jaws smashed closed again.
“Cut it out!”
“Make me.”
“I have better things to do with my life than cater to you, you rotten wannabe dog!”
The words were out of his mouth before he could think.
“I hate you! I really do!”
The bear looked at the boy again.
“Hmm. You really do, don’t you.”
The boy said other things then, which are for him alone to know.
“Go. Get. Shoo. Take the salt with you, rotten kid. Don’t come back.”
The boy turned and prepared to leave, but remembered his unhappiness just in time.
“Wait. Do you know how I can become happy?”
The bear looked at him again.
“There is no happiness. Not now, not ever. Get lost.”
The boy was disheartened by what the bear king had said, but only for a moment. Then he headed off again, realizing the bear was just a mean old creature, and also, that the boy wasn’t a bear and perhaps it was different for different creatures. That mean old thing couldn’t know my mind if it wanted to.
He set off again into the desert.
He did not walk in any particular direction; he had nowhere to go. He simply walked, and let the desert take him where it would.
He came to a cottage, the kind a priestess would live in, standing in the vast, empty desert.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
“Yes.”
The boy waited for someone to appear or for whoever had spoken to continue.
No one spoke.
“Umm, who are you?”
“Me.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“It means what it meant when I said it.”
“Won’t you come out?”
A head popped out, bald and tan. Warm brown eyes and a large smile greeted the boy.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Thalia. What are you doing out here?”
“I’m looking for my joy. I’m afraid it left me.”
The woman looked hard and long at the boy.
She took him to a garden of wind chimes, behind her cottage. The music bounced and echoed playfully. “I always love this place. It reminds me of why I decided to be born.”
“Why’s that?”
“For the experience, of course! Why else?”
The boy frowned. “My experience doesn’t seem so great.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Dunno. I imagine that’s part of the issue.”
“You know precisely what ought to be done.”
“I don’t!”
“Yes, you do.”
She gazed at him, and it seemed she saw into his soul.
“You’re just afraid of it.”
“What?”
“You’re afraid of what it will take for you to be happy.”
“Oh come on, lady! Enough nonsense!”
“It is a terrible thing to be held back by your fear. I should know.”
As if her words had brought some dark reality crushing back into their lives, snow began to fall from the sky.
“The Bear King approaches. Go! He mustn’t learn you’re here! Run! Run away, now!”
The boy hesitated for three seconds. Then he ran, and ran, and ran until he had left behind his pursuers.
Now, the boy was no longer in a desert. A forest stretched about him, littered with dead logs and blackened wood. A crow cawed a mile off.
“Hullo?”
The sun began to set.
“Hullo? Anyone out there?”
“Hi,” a voice whispered.
The boy turned about in confusion.
“Over here,” the voice said, light and bubbly.
“Nope, a little further this way--yes!--now look down!”
The boy did as he was told, and saw that it was the river who spoke to him.
“Hullo.”
“Whatever is it you need, poor dear?”
“I--um--I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know either.”
“I’m looking for my joy. I lost it somewhere.”
“Well now that’s not much sense,” the river admonished gently.
“What?”
“You’re much too busy thinking about being happy to be happy, it seems.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m a river. I haven’t a mind or a brain. But then, I’m only a figment of your imagination.”
The boy stared blankly.
“Never mind.”
“No, explain.”
“Well, this is a dream. I’m just a part of your dream. So everything I say is really something you’re saying to yourself.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s alright. It’s not important. The point is, I’m not telling you these things. Or I am, but see I’m really just you…”
The boy continued to stare, mouth agape.
“You’re telling yourself to stop thinking so much, not me. Everything that’s happened to you is just you talking to yourself. Because this is a dream. And everything in it is just your imagination. Understand?”
“Ummm… wait, so you’re saying you asking me if I understood you was really just me asking if I understood myself?”
“Yep.”
“Well, okay, so what’s this got to do with me being happy?”
“Umm… well, you know as much as I do! And anyway, I imagine you’ll figure it out when you wake up… right about now!”
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
The dawn broke, and a boy awoke. He thought, for a moment, a precious moment, about his odd dream… then he forgot about it. He went about his day, going to school, surviving his classes, doing his homework... then remembered about the dance!
For a moment, a wild idea crossed his mind. Then he looked around, heard his mother cursing, and discounted it. But… the priestess in his dream had said not to be afraid. Maybe… maybe he’d go. He sat there, deliberating, trying to break through the thick wall of fear his life had built around him. Yes, he thought. Maybe I’ll go after all. He hauled himself to his feet, grabbing a key and walking out the door. The voice of his father could be heard now, shouting and burned and angry. Rey was yelling, talking back against him, getting in his face. His mother, weak, hunched and trying to make herself look small behind her daughter. Her eyes darted across to Silvester, taking in everything. She saw not only her son, going to a dance with his bag. She saw also the food stashed away there, the stolen savings crammed into a side pocket. Go, she seemed to mouth.
The boy walked out of the house, slowly, carefully.
He did not shut the door behind him.
As far as highschoolers went, he wasn’t particularly unusual. Just unique enough no one thought of him as too normal. No one knew why. No one much cared. No one paid attention enough to care.
He sat alone at lunch. Was it because he preferred being alone? Or was he just scared of talking to people? No one knew these things either. No one knew him well enough to wonder. He didn’t talk much.
His eyes were dark, and bright, and one could see, if one looked, that there was pain in them, and feeling--oh, the feeling!--but no one looked. And so no one saw.
When no one looked, the boy couldn’t bring himself to tell them, as they surely had better things to do with themselves, and so, little by little, he retreated into himself, until he stopped talking altogether. Except with his family, of course.
Ah, his family. Here was the beast of beasts. His mother was kind and loving, but she was not brave. His father had stolen what little bravery she’d once owned. He was cold and drunk and cruel. Here, perhaps, lay the reason for the silence of the boy.
One night, the boy came home, as he always did. He heard raised voices, his parents in another room, and went to ensure his mother’s safety. He noticed his older sister, Rey, was home. With the guarantee of Rey watching over his parents, he was eased, and helped himself to dinner before shutting himself away in his room.
He spent several hours doing homework, then listened to some music. Nightcore. Ah how he loved nightcore. He watched vines, and looked at memes, keeping up with the social norms of his day despite that no one would know. Soon enough, he fell asleep, and it was here he felt most at home.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
A shimmering boy walked through a dark-skinned desert. Or perhaps it was the other way ‘round. Who could say? The boy, at length, saw a speck of green on the horizon. It was distant, nearly eternally so, but time is longer still, and so the boy eventually came to his destination.
There was a place, filled with palms and bushes, and there was a river there. The boy stopped and took a drink, and thought I know what happiness is. But no sooner had the boy filled his water skin than he realized his happiness had left him.
“Where did you go, my joy?” he cried into the empty sands.
Saddened though he had become, the boy chose to continue onwards to the palace where his cargo--salt from across the desert--had to be delivered. He hoped that perhaps his joy--which was being rather fickle today--would return to him when he had finished his errand.
He reached the palace, by and by. That is to say, By And By. This was the name of the palace. It was cold in By And By, contrasting the scorching desert which surrounded it. A penguin or two had taken refuge from the heat, the boy noticed. He liked the penguins. They liked him back. “Thank you, Penguins!” he hollered to them. What for exactly? Because he appreciated them for the fact they existed.
Now, the boy thought, moving on through the palace as he grew sober and remembered his mission, I must keep moving to give the king his salt and find my joy. He headed to the king.
“Hello there, boy!” the king shouted. “Give me my salt!” The boy noticed that the king was a polar bear. He grew afraid. “Now, don’t take all day! I want my salt!” The king opened his massive mouth and pointed to it with his claw.
The boy recoil in terror at the sudden movement.
Gleaming white teeth erupted from pink, gummy flesh. The breath the bear huffed was warm, and the boy could feel the exhale and the fishy scent it carried from the other end of the throne room.
Give the king his salt. Find my happiness.
The boy hesitated only a moment more, then walked to the bear.
Gingerly, with infinite care, he put his hand into the bear’s gaping mouth and then--
Bam!
The bear’s muzzle shot closed, his teeth gleaming.
The boy glared at the bear, having barely saved his hand from the gleaming teeth.
“What on earth was that for?”
The bear laughed, an ugly, disquieting noise.
“Give me my salt!” he mocked.
The boy stared.
“I haven’t got all day.”
The boy reached his hand to give the bear his salt, then snatched it back, quick as a whip, as the bear’s jaws smashed closed again.
“Cut it out!”
“Make me.”
“I have better things to do with my life than cater to you, you rotten wannabe dog!”
The words were out of his mouth before he could think.
“I hate you! I really do!”
The bear looked at the boy again.
“Hmm. You really do, don’t you.”
The boy said other things then, which are for him alone to know.
“Go. Get. Shoo. Take the salt with you, rotten kid. Don’t come back.”
The boy turned and prepared to leave, but remembered his unhappiness just in time.
“Wait. Do you know how I can become happy?”
The bear looked at him again.
“There is no happiness. Not now, not ever. Get lost.”
The boy was disheartened by what the bear king had said, but only for a moment. Then he headed off again, realizing the bear was just a mean old creature, and also, that the boy wasn’t a bear and perhaps it was different for different creatures. That mean old thing couldn’t know my mind if it wanted to.
He set off again into the desert.
He did not walk in any particular direction; he had nowhere to go. He simply walked, and let the desert take him where it would.
He came to a cottage, the kind a priestess would live in, standing in the vast, empty desert.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
“Yes.”
The boy waited for someone to appear or for whoever had spoken to continue.
No one spoke.
“Umm, who are you?”
“Me.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“It means what it meant when I said it.”
“Won’t you come out?”
A head popped out, bald and tan. Warm brown eyes and a large smile greeted the boy.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Thalia. What are you doing out here?”
“I’m looking for my joy. I’m afraid it left me.”
The woman looked hard and long at the boy.
She took him to a garden of wind chimes, behind her cottage. The music bounced and echoed playfully. “I always love this place. It reminds me of why I decided to be born.”
“Why’s that?”
“For the experience, of course! Why else?”
The boy frowned. “My experience doesn’t seem so great.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Dunno. I imagine that’s part of the issue.”
“You know precisely what ought to be done.”
“I don’t!”
“Yes, you do.”
She gazed at him, and it seemed she saw into his soul.
“You’re just afraid of it.”
“What?”
“You’re afraid of what it will take for you to be happy.”
“Oh come on, lady! Enough nonsense!”
“It is a terrible thing to be held back by your fear. I should know.”
As if her words had brought some dark reality crushing back into their lives, snow began to fall from the sky.
“The Bear King approaches. Go! He mustn’t learn you’re here! Run! Run away, now!”
The boy hesitated for three seconds. Then he ran, and ran, and ran until he had left behind his pursuers.
Now, the boy was no longer in a desert. A forest stretched about him, littered with dead logs and blackened wood. A crow cawed a mile off.
“Hullo?”
The sun began to set.
“Hullo? Anyone out there?”
“Hi,” a voice whispered.
The boy turned about in confusion.
“Over here,” the voice said, light and bubbly.
“Nope, a little further this way--yes!--now look down!”
The boy did as he was told, and saw that it was the river who spoke to him.
“Hullo.”
“Whatever is it you need, poor dear?”
“I--um--I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know either.”
“I’m looking for my joy. I lost it somewhere.”
“Well now that’s not much sense,” the river admonished gently.
“What?”
“You’re much too busy thinking about being happy to be happy, it seems.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m a river. I haven’t a mind or a brain. But then, I’m only a figment of your imagination.”
The boy stared blankly.
“Never mind.”
“No, explain.”
“Well, this is a dream. I’m just a part of your dream. So everything I say is really something you’re saying to yourself.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s alright. It’s not important. The point is, I’m not telling you these things. Or I am, but see I’m really just you…”
The boy continued to stare, mouth agape.
“You’re telling yourself to stop thinking so much, not me. Everything that’s happened to you is just you talking to yourself. Because this is a dream. And everything in it is just your imagination. Understand?”
“Ummm… wait, so you’re saying you asking me if I understood you was really just me asking if I understood myself?”
“Yep.”
“Well, okay, so what’s this got to do with me being happy?”
“Umm… well, you know as much as I do! And anyway, I imagine you’ll figure it out when you wake up… right about now!”
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
The dawn broke, and a boy awoke. He thought, for a moment, a precious moment, about his odd dream… then he forgot about it. He went about his day, going to school, surviving his classes, doing his homework... then remembered about the dance!
For a moment, a wild idea crossed his mind. Then he looked around, heard his mother cursing, and discounted it. But… the priestess in his dream had said not to be afraid. Maybe… maybe he’d go. He sat there, deliberating, trying to break through the thick wall of fear his life had built around him. Yes, he thought. Maybe I’ll go after all. He hauled himself to his feet, grabbing a key and walking out the door. The voice of his father could be heard now, shouting and burned and angry. Rey was yelling, talking back against him, getting in his face. His mother, weak, hunched and trying to make herself look small behind her daughter. Her eyes darted across to Silvester, taking in everything. She saw not only her son, going to a dance with his bag. She saw also the food stashed away there, the stolen savings crammed into a side pocket. Go, she seemed to mouth.
The boy walked out of the house, slowly, carefully.
He did not shut the door behind him.
The Moth
by Calliope
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.
O! Poor wretch!
See how poorly his family treats him.
See how they ignore and abuse him.
See how he ultimately starves himself.
See how they only notice his sister in the end!
O, poor, poor, poor Samsa!
Ugh, what a horrid beast.
I’d crush it ‘neath my shoe.
It’s better off dead.
I wouldn’t stand the thing for a second.
Would you?
I’m the reporter here, ma’am.
Ah, but it’s a metaphor.
He is a parasite, a burden to society.
Victim to his own degeneration, alas.
His family cannot support him--
look and see how they try.
Thank you, but the question was about politics.
Hm, I had an insect once.
Kept it in a jar.
Fed it lots of dead flesh.
Asked it about God.
Never could understand what it said.
Made up the answers myself.
Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,
rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.
Gregor? Gregor is poor man.
He used to be rich man--
his family liked him then.
But then he lost his manhood.
Do you know what it’s like?
To wake up a monstrosity?
To see vermin in the mirror?
Thankfully I got better,
though I don’t have a sister--
I’m sorry, that’s all the time we have.
[INTERVIEWEES exit]
[YOU exit]
[GRETE exits]
O! Poor wretch!
See how poorly his family treats him.
See how they ignore and abuse him.
See how he ultimately starves himself.
See how they only notice his sister in the end!
O, poor, poor, poor Samsa!
Ugh, what a horrid beast.
I’d crush it ‘neath my shoe.
It’s better off dead.
I wouldn’t stand the thing for a second.
Would you?
I’m the reporter here, ma’am.
Ah, but it’s a metaphor.
He is a parasite, a burden to society.
Victim to his own degeneration, alas.
His family cannot support him--
look and see how they try.
Thank you, but the question was about politics.
Hm, I had an insect once.
Kept it in a jar.
Fed it lots of dead flesh.
Asked it about God.
Never could understand what it said.
Made up the answers myself.
Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,
rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.
Gregor? Gregor is poor man.
He used to be rich man--
his family liked him then.
But then he lost his manhood.
Do you know what it’s like?
To wake up a monstrosity?
To see vermin in the mirror?
Thankfully I got better,
though I don’t have a sister--
I’m sorry, that’s all the time we have.
[INTERVIEWEES exit]
[YOU exit]
[GRETE exits]
Tried and True Designs
by Sergio Solorio
I arose one morning as the cheerful sun rays beamed across my
face; Time to fulfill a mindful contribution to the human race. Lively
figures of the past who carved the path, leave behind inscripted
epitaphs Fires still burning today are heedful not to burn their graves.
“Before we embark to the game Allow me to mark my memorandums and
powder a favorable shade; There are fading moral boundaries, and
unprecedented obstacles as you play, For your personal safety, never diverge
onto paths rarely displayed - Trust me, your destiny aligns with the
tried-and-true designs.”
So I ventured along to the portal chamberway, Eager to start my
assigned operation. Pistons revved, and mechanically turned was
my station By undetermined means I knew I soon owed to this life
some pay.
And so the hectic race of the human race initiates with no signs of stopping; Some
who are paranoid scatter the pathways in indecision, careless ones forego in
head-bopping; Bobbing my head in a frenzy of scattered locations Losing all signs
of purpose may emerge among the slightest deviations.
As I stumble upon the jagged warning rocks, and tiptoe on the promising crannies I
find that the rest of the gamblers have trudged light years ahead of me The sun
slowly descends and I begin to grow desperate and anxious A squint of my tired
eyes shows a hazy mirage of happy dancing hearts in merriment, But still I stand
here, crippled by the taxing game, Wondering if anyone will remember my name.
Perhaps this is a less-than-ideal place to lay my grave, For no comforting
hand will caress my face or reassure my aims Forever left entrenched and
drowning in the footsteps of fighters who sprawled ahead of me Under the
soil, I slowly die as I cannot breathe. But perhaps if I had not struggled
through the trails of humanized erosion, Encumbering my feet through the
tried-and-true path like an aimless Trojan Taking the path rarely taken
would have made my voice spoken.
face; Time to fulfill a mindful contribution to the human race. Lively
figures of the past who carved the path, leave behind inscripted
epitaphs Fires still burning today are heedful not to burn their graves.
“Before we embark to the game Allow me to mark my memorandums and
powder a favorable shade; There are fading moral boundaries, and
unprecedented obstacles as you play, For your personal safety, never diverge
onto paths rarely displayed - Trust me, your destiny aligns with the
tried-and-true designs.”
So I ventured along to the portal chamberway, Eager to start my
assigned operation. Pistons revved, and mechanically turned was
my station By undetermined means I knew I soon owed to this life
some pay.
And so the hectic race of the human race initiates with no signs of stopping; Some
who are paranoid scatter the pathways in indecision, careless ones forego in
head-bopping; Bobbing my head in a frenzy of scattered locations Losing all signs
of purpose may emerge among the slightest deviations.
As I stumble upon the jagged warning rocks, and tiptoe on the promising crannies I
find that the rest of the gamblers have trudged light years ahead of me The sun
slowly descends and I begin to grow desperate and anxious A squint of my tired
eyes shows a hazy mirage of happy dancing hearts in merriment, But still I stand
here, crippled by the taxing game, Wondering if anyone will remember my name.
Perhaps this is a less-than-ideal place to lay my grave, For no comforting
hand will caress my face or reassure my aims Forever left entrenched and
drowning in the footsteps of fighters who sprawled ahead of me Under the
soil, I slowly die as I cannot breathe. But perhaps if I had not struggled
through the trails of humanized erosion, Encumbering my feet through the
tried-and-true path like an aimless Trojan Taking the path rarely taken
would have made my voice spoken.