time
by Khushi Lalwani
time
doesn't slow down
it doesn't give me some time
to soak in the happiness
so i can remember some light
in between all this darkness.
maybe time
will make me forget
all this darkness
and make me remember
the hopeful joy
when i give it some time.
time
heals all wounds.
but it's been hours,
weeks,
months.
maybe time
passes
and keeps passing.
while the healing takes place
slowly
in minuscule amounts.
maybe in months,
weeks,
hours,
everything will be just fine.
doesn't slow down
it doesn't give me some time
to soak in the happiness
so i can remember some light
in between all this darkness.
maybe time
will make me forget
all this darkness
and make me remember
the hopeful joy
when i give it some time.
time
heals all wounds.
but it's been hours,
weeks,
months.
maybe time
passes
and keeps passing.
while the healing takes place
slowly
in minuscule amounts.
maybe in months,
weeks,
hours,
everything will be just fine.
Silver threads
by Melody Chen
“Here, I have something to show you,” Dad said.
Following him, I was struck by my dad’s nervous lip-biting. He constantly glanced over his shoulders as he battled piles of clothes, belts, and lone pairs of socks. He tripped over a pair of jeans but caught my arm for support. He looked into my eyes and gestured his fingers over his lips. He smiled. My dad was usually a boisterous person who would often give away his actions with a thump on his knees or an obvious hurrah.
A mixture of cologne and leather wandered under my nose as I waited for my dad to come out of the closet. Perhaps it was a new toy that he was concealing from Mom.
At last, he popped out with a black box and a cheeky grin.
“What is it?” I demanded. “It’s just a box.”
He was silent.
A cascade of light poured out from the top-floored windowsill. The box changed into a deep chestnut hue. My dad carefully unlocked the three-locked portal one by one and lifted the lid up. A warm glow enveloped the room.
Rows of silver hands and scales streamed through a pulsating river of light. The river struck a chord of roman numerals as each tick echoed across the soft breeze that had simultaneously penetrated our window. Watches of every shape and size weaved their reflections amongst each other. The case ticked in sedate bursts of minutes in seconds.
Patches of light and dust were suspended in the air, and the universe held its breath. The synchronized rhythms created an infinite chain of encircling snakes. Chasing their tails in a never ending loop. A vicious cycle.
The snake, unable to catch its tail, began to dart backwards and forwards. A network of illusion confused the light, and the room grew dark.
I realized that time was moving its unabating cadence while the planets hovered in mid orbit. I was not at all changed.
The box stopped ticking. The glow of the watches had reduced to a dull, numb collection. The case then transformed into a black hue, as brooding shadows crawled in to seize the power of time. The watches returned to their steady tick. The planets caved in.
Following him, I was struck by my dad’s nervous lip-biting. He constantly glanced over his shoulders as he battled piles of clothes, belts, and lone pairs of socks. He tripped over a pair of jeans but caught my arm for support. He looked into my eyes and gestured his fingers over his lips. He smiled. My dad was usually a boisterous person who would often give away his actions with a thump on his knees or an obvious hurrah.
A mixture of cologne and leather wandered under my nose as I waited for my dad to come out of the closet. Perhaps it was a new toy that he was concealing from Mom.
At last, he popped out with a black box and a cheeky grin.
“What is it?” I demanded. “It’s just a box.”
He was silent.
A cascade of light poured out from the top-floored windowsill. The box changed into a deep chestnut hue. My dad carefully unlocked the three-locked portal one by one and lifted the lid up. A warm glow enveloped the room.
Rows of silver hands and scales streamed through a pulsating river of light. The river struck a chord of roman numerals as each tick echoed across the soft breeze that had simultaneously penetrated our window. Watches of every shape and size weaved their reflections amongst each other. The case ticked in sedate bursts of minutes in seconds.
Patches of light and dust were suspended in the air, and the universe held its breath. The synchronized rhythms created an infinite chain of encircling snakes. Chasing their tails in a never ending loop. A vicious cycle.
The snake, unable to catch its tail, began to dart backwards and forwards. A network of illusion confused the light, and the room grew dark.
I realized that time was moving its unabating cadence while the planets hovered in mid orbit. I was not at all changed.
The box stopped ticking. The glow of the watches had reduced to a dull, numb collection. The case then transformed into a black hue, as brooding shadows crawled in to seize the power of time. The watches returned to their steady tick. The planets caved in.
As Time and Death Pass By Each Other
by Cassandra Phan
A force of fury was drawing near, that she knew. The old woman rested in a stiff, wooden chair and tucked a strand of caramel hair into her bun. He was not far off, that raging force, and the whole cabin knew. His rage seeped into the air, and to anyone else it would have been suffocating. Such a storm of hate and anger stood outside of the door in which the floor trembled and the walls held their breath. Yet the woman, engrossed in the words of George Orwell, was not afraid. A boy burst into the cabin. His red hair was disheveled, and his fists were clenched. The woman barely looked up.
“Don’t bang the door like that Peter. I’m trying to read,” the woman said. Peter narrow eyes flared. He picked up a book next to him and flung it at the wall with such a brilliant force that a small painting of the skies crashed to the floor. The woman sighed. It was another bad day. She looked at him and said nothing, which drove Peter mad. He had too much inside him. His emotions grappled with each other and he thought he would implode. He waited for the woman to ask, to say anything really, but she wasn’t. She just sighed.
“Time is a thief!” Peter finally cried, unable to contain himself. Ah, so now Time is a thief, the woman thought, he is running out of villains. The time before was the principal that had made his family leave late. Before that was his teacher for catching him with his phone. Before that was the road detour, and before that was the drunk driver.
“I know how you feel,” the woman admitted, “Time is too short and you cannot be everyone you want to be and do everything you want to do before you must part from Time. I thought it too, when I did not have the gray in my hair.”
The boy smiled, triumphant. “So you agree?”
“I never said that,” the woman replied, “I said I understood. But when I was young, I was a fool and therefore I was wrong.”
“You’re supposed to agree with me,” Peter sputtered, “you’re supposed to say I am right.”
“That would be nice and easy,” the woman nodded, “unfortunately I have free thought which can often result in differing opinions.”
Peter felt his confused rage thumping inside his chest. This was not how he had rehearsed the conversation.
“Time is no thief, my dear,” the woman said from behind her book. The boy’s face became flushed, and he scrunched his nose. He could not believe that, of all people, she disagreed with him.
“Yes it is,” he quivered, then drawing himself up he yelled out to the universe, “Time took everything from me! And it will never stop stealing from me!”
The woman sighed again. The boy was young and naive, thus Time was a mighty foe. Time threatened his youth to the point where, like all the other young, beautiful people, he longed for nothing less than immortality.
“Now I am old,” the woman said, “so you better listen when I tell you that Time is a gift. We don’t deserve any of it.” She then laid out some very reasonable arguments in favor of Time. How maddening.
Peter refused to listen. He had to blame Time. It was better to blame his losses on the big things, the universal things. It was better to think the universe was punishing you than to understand that the world does not actually give a damn.
“But you,” Peter said, “Time will end you. How can it be a gift?”
“I’m lucky,” the woman corrects him, “that I have been allowed the time to grow old. How selfish are we to whine about Time? Some have none of it at all.”
No, Peter thought, no I will not be convinced otherwise. I deserve Time. My family deserved Time. Is that not why we have all of those vaccines and surgeries and medications and diet pills? Peter fell to his knees and let out a savage howl. He thrashed and wailed until he collapsed on the floor.
The woman returned to her reading. She saw the war in his eyes. Despite all of her efforts, they had not soothed. She knew she would not be able to soften them. It was understood that the boy was young and naive, so Time was still a thief.
“Don’t bang the door like that Peter. I’m trying to read,” the woman said. Peter narrow eyes flared. He picked up a book next to him and flung it at the wall with such a brilliant force that a small painting of the skies crashed to the floor. The woman sighed. It was another bad day. She looked at him and said nothing, which drove Peter mad. He had too much inside him. His emotions grappled with each other and he thought he would implode. He waited for the woman to ask, to say anything really, but she wasn’t. She just sighed.
“Time is a thief!” Peter finally cried, unable to contain himself. Ah, so now Time is a thief, the woman thought, he is running out of villains. The time before was the principal that had made his family leave late. Before that was his teacher for catching him with his phone. Before that was the road detour, and before that was the drunk driver.
“I know how you feel,” the woman admitted, “Time is too short and you cannot be everyone you want to be and do everything you want to do before you must part from Time. I thought it too, when I did not have the gray in my hair.”
The boy smiled, triumphant. “So you agree?”
“I never said that,” the woman replied, “I said I understood. But when I was young, I was a fool and therefore I was wrong.”
“You’re supposed to agree with me,” Peter sputtered, “you’re supposed to say I am right.”
“That would be nice and easy,” the woman nodded, “unfortunately I have free thought which can often result in differing opinions.”
Peter felt his confused rage thumping inside his chest. This was not how he had rehearsed the conversation.
“Time is no thief, my dear,” the woman said from behind her book. The boy’s face became flushed, and he scrunched his nose. He could not believe that, of all people, she disagreed with him.
“Yes it is,” he quivered, then drawing himself up he yelled out to the universe, “Time took everything from me! And it will never stop stealing from me!”
The woman sighed again. The boy was young and naive, thus Time was a mighty foe. Time threatened his youth to the point where, like all the other young, beautiful people, he longed for nothing less than immortality.
“Now I am old,” the woman said, “so you better listen when I tell you that Time is a gift. We don’t deserve any of it.” She then laid out some very reasonable arguments in favor of Time. How maddening.
Peter refused to listen. He had to blame Time. It was better to blame his losses on the big things, the universal things. It was better to think the universe was punishing you than to understand that the world does not actually give a damn.
“But you,” Peter said, “Time will end you. How can it be a gift?”
“I’m lucky,” the woman corrects him, “that I have been allowed the time to grow old. How selfish are we to whine about Time? Some have none of it at all.”
No, Peter thought, no I will not be convinced otherwise. I deserve Time. My family deserved Time. Is that not why we have all of those vaccines and surgeries and medications and diet pills? Peter fell to his knees and let out a savage howl. He thrashed and wailed until he collapsed on the floor.
The woman returned to her reading. She saw the war in his eyes. Despite all of her efforts, they had not soothed. She knew she would not be able to soften them. It was understood that the boy was young and naive, so Time was still a thief.
airplane.
by hz
when you’re in the air, it’s like you lose sense of time. it doesn’t exist.
when you’re on an airplane, the times change with the regions. you watch the day go by too fast and the hours jump ahead. time is easily manipulated. the 24 hour clock is according to the sky, the sun and moon.
but what if time wasn’t just seen as a clock? if time did not have a schedule, what could we do with our lives? what could we do with it?
maybe we would stop worrying about the past and the future, and find the nontoxic middle ground of the present that many so often strive for. maybe we would spend hours at a time doing things we love, things that truly matter to us, making us forget what “should” come next. maybe we would live now and here rather than before and later and elsewhere.
but maybe we would waste time even more than we do. those who won’t realize its value or trick their minds into being ignorant towards it will ultimately choose to waste it. we’re all guilty of it, whether or not it is admitted or intended to begin with.
that’s where we have to catch our mistake. time is abundant, but it also could not be. two could argue that the supposed abundance of time should be spent either with or without plan.
if there is a schedule of time, if there isn’t a schedule of time- use it with balance. with ease and value and affection.
because it will slip away.
but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
when you’re on an airplane, the times change with the regions. you watch the day go by too fast and the hours jump ahead. time is easily manipulated. the 24 hour clock is according to the sky, the sun and moon.
but what if time wasn’t just seen as a clock? if time did not have a schedule, what could we do with our lives? what could we do with it?
maybe we would stop worrying about the past and the future, and find the nontoxic middle ground of the present that many so often strive for. maybe we would spend hours at a time doing things we love, things that truly matter to us, making us forget what “should” come next. maybe we would live now and here rather than before and later and elsewhere.
but maybe we would waste time even more than we do. those who won’t realize its value or trick their minds into being ignorant towards it will ultimately choose to waste it. we’re all guilty of it, whether or not it is admitted or intended to begin with.
that’s where we have to catch our mistake. time is abundant, but it also could not be. two could argue that the supposed abundance of time should be spent either with or without plan.
if there is a schedule of time, if there isn’t a schedule of time- use it with balance. with ease and value and affection.
because it will slip away.
but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
The silent note
by Melody Chen
The music trickles down a seamless river. Drizzling down like a lingering, unwelcome tear. Like tumbling tea cups. Floating downstream into a nearing cul-de-sac. Until the notes seem to slowly… slowly lift up from the surface. Half an inch shy from the rubbing waters. Gradually, it floats upward and upward like a free red balloon. It sneaks a sip of freedom, and contented, slips away into the boundless sky.
Shimmers of water capture reflections of nostalgic parades and serenades, spoken in the language of music. Peals of laughter. Cackles of revenge. Redemption.
...Redemption. How wonderfully mellow it feels in your mouth when you say it! Like chocolate chip cookies immersed in milk as the melted chocolate slowly revolves in a snail-like swirl.
The silent note in music tells a story. Of the epic wars that end all wars. To the unfinished revenge of a lost soul. And to the mother caring for her baby. It weaves snapshots of life in history that are unable to be put to ink. Lost in the labyrinth of uncertainty.
As the symphony rolls out its final note, the world gasps. Frozen underneath the glint of the melody, time temporarily clutches its breath. Flashbacks of the roaring thunders of the timpani and the graceful swans of the violins are restored in its final moments. But then, as soon as it resurfaced, the snapshots grew dim and opaque as it slowly and slowly slips away, like silken ribbons. Into the night sky.
Shimmers of water capture reflections of nostalgic parades and serenades, spoken in the language of music. Peals of laughter. Cackles of revenge. Redemption.
...Redemption. How wonderfully mellow it feels in your mouth when you say it! Like chocolate chip cookies immersed in milk as the melted chocolate slowly revolves in a snail-like swirl.
The silent note in music tells a story. Of the epic wars that end all wars. To the unfinished revenge of a lost soul. And to the mother caring for her baby. It weaves snapshots of life in history that are unable to be put to ink. Lost in the labyrinth of uncertainty.
As the symphony rolls out its final note, the world gasps. Frozen underneath the glint of the melody, time temporarily clutches its breath. Flashbacks of the roaring thunders of the timpani and the graceful swans of the violins are restored in its final moments. But then, as soon as it resurfaced, the snapshots grew dim and opaque as it slowly and slowly slips away, like silken ribbons. Into the night sky.