In the Eye of the Storm — Anyssa Lin
The young woman sat down in her seat on the plane, eyes darting everywhere to focus on the leather seats, blinking lights, cold windows. This was her first time traveling alone, and she was not ready for it. Sure, she had been on planes before, but that was with her sister, with her parents. She wanted company, someone to sit next to.
But on the other hand. . . she looked to the left, noticing the two empty seats beside her. She had the window seat on the right, and a tiny blossom of hope began to grow inside her heart. Maybe she would unexpectedly get the whole row to herself, and she wouldn’t have to worry about her stupid social anxiety either.
The girl smiled to herself at the slightly comforting thought, looking down and using her long black hair to try to hide it. The sun had just set an hour ago, and the sky was quickly darkening. Stars were already blinking outside – or maybe they were airplane lights as they began their descent. Clouds dotted the sky like decoration, and the city lights of New York flashed and shone brightly, as if the city itself was saying goodbye to her.
“32B, 33B. . . ?”
A male voice made its way through the air towards the young woman’s ear, and she instantly tensed at the sound. No. Her seat was 35A, and if that guy’s seat was 35B or C. . . oh shoo-
“35B.”
Well. That was great. She looked up to see a young man standing in the aisle right in front of her row. Upon first glance, he seemed harmless. Brown hair that made his head look bigger than it actually was, bright green eyes, set of headphones dangling around his neck. But he also had a certain air among him that seemed to say, I don’t couldn't care less. That vibe he carried was the exact opposite of what the girl felt. She cared too much about everything. She cared too much about how she had to act around a new stranger now.
The boy looked at her, and she self-consciously glanced away, instantly taking a dislike to the way he was observing her. She could already imagine how she looked in his eyes. Rumpled hair from rushing through security, dark bags under her eyes from lack of sleep, and dry skin that hadn’t been taken care of in a long, long time.
“Hello,” he said politely.
“Hi,” she whispered back softly, smiling tightly and turning her head back to the window, looking outside for something else to think about. She was not going to think about interacting with strangers. She heard the boy putting his suitcase in the compartment above, then felt him shuffling between the seats and sitting down next to her.
She tensed, worried that he would attempt to engage in conversation with her. The girl often tried to hide it, but she had a terrible track record of overthinking everything and anything, especially interactions with other people. If the boy talked to her, then that would mean she had to act polite and nice, and she would start worrying that the boy was judging her ugly looks or her uncomfortable stammers.
But thank God, he merely stuffed his backpack underneath the seat in front of him and started scrolling on the mini-TV in front of him. Letting out a soft breath she didn't know she had been holding, the girl looked back outside.
Darkness had completely fallen, and the girl could see airport workers loading the last of the luggage onto the belly of the plane. A sort of calmness fell over her as she observed the scene – the flight might be okay. It might go well.
All of a sudden, a pre-flight announcement came over the speaker. Like every other trip she had taken, the safety video and demonstration passed speedily, and soon the plane was rumbling with anticipation of flight.
Forgetting the calmness of the night sky, the girl darted her gaze to the boy beside her. She wasn’t alone anymore. But now she had to worry about acting like a not crazy overthinking person. The girl took in a deep breath and stared at the dark screen in front of her. It had grown into a habit of hers, to take a deep breath whenever she needed calm.
The engine came to life, and the plane began making its way down the runway. The girl could feel the ginormous plane making its way down the road, its front wheels lifting off the ground, the body tilting up towards the sky. Minutes later, the plane had righted itself in midair and was gliding smoothly high in the sky.
A small smile came to the girl’s face as she peered out the window down at the rapidly shrinking lights of New York City. Every time she got on a plane, the girl’s wonder could never cease at how an object this large could defy gravity.
“Makes you realize how big the world really is, huh?”
Surprised, the girl jumped – she had nearly forgotten about the boy sitting next to her. Her smile was still on her face, though now it was slightly forced as she didn’t want to seem impolite.
“Y-yeah. It’s cool.”
The boy nodded and asked, “Whatcha goin’ to California for?”
“I’m going to visit some family for winter break.”
“Oh nice! I’m going to my sister’s wedding.”
Before the girl could say some sort of congratulation (because she should, right?), the boy continued, “And guess what, that also pulled me out of my finals. What I wouldn’t give to move the wedding just a month later.”
Despite her attempts to stop it, the girl laughed. Don’t be too happy, or you’ll seem creepy. She asked, “Aren’t you happy that you don’t have to take finals though?”
He shrugged, “Yeah, but that means I have to make them up when I come back, and no one wants to study for finals longer than they have to.”
“That’s true,” she conceded. Then the boy tilted his head and looked at her. She immediately looked away, feeling like he was trying to decipher her deepest darkest fears.
“So, you look about college age and you weren’t confused about finals in December. Where do you go?”
“I go to NYU,” she said, relieved it wasn’t a ‘deep feelings’ question. Then she deemed it polite to return the question. “What about you?”
“Columbia.”
Again, the girl’s reaction shot out of her before she could stop it. Her eyes widened, and she gasped, “Damnnnn! Ivy League, huh?”
The boy gave a humble laugh and shrugged. He didn’t respond to her comment, and silence seemed to fall over them like an uncomfortable blanket. At least, that’s what the girl thought. She looked at the boy from the side of her eye and began to wonder whether she had said something wrong. Then she reprimanded herself for overthinking her actions. There’s definitely something wrong with me.
Before the girl could dive deeper into her thoughts and spiral, the boy asked, “This your first time on a plane?”
His eyes wandered around and weren’t fully focused on the girl, causing him to miss the slight tensing of her shoulders and clenched fingers.
“No,” the girl said. Good, my voice sounds calm. She forced herself to look back at the boy, trying to push all worries away from her brain. It would be embarrassing to admit that this was her first time alone, especially when she was almost twenty and many teenagers younger than her had already traveled alone before. And not to mention they didn’t have mini anxiety chants running through their heads that sounded like you’re gonna embarrass yourself on the plane you’re gonna have a breakdown you’re gonna cry like a baby you look so ugly you’re gonna forget your suitcase you’re gonna. . .
“Oh,” said the boy, but that one word sent warning signs flashing in the girl’s head.
“W-what?”
“Hm?”
“W-what was with that ‘oh’?”
“I was just surprised.”
“W-why?!”
“‘Cuz it seemed like it was your first time on a plane judging by how you reacted to the plane lifting off.”
“O-oh,” the girl said in return, her doubts settling down like sand in a jar of water. He had misinterpreted her reaction. Her deep breathing was in response to flying alone for the first time. And also having to sit next to this actually nice stranger of a boy. . . I guess you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. She wasn’t actually scared of flying.
The boy smiled wryly, “Now it’s your turn to say ‘oh’. What was with that one?”
The girl turned red but smiled. She said, “It was an ‘oh’ that expressed relief that I at least look like a competent adult.”
The boy laughed, and the girl felt a little better. At least she could joke a little bit about her doubts. But he had no idea how badly she needed that joke to be true. . .
*****
With a jerk, the girl stumbled out of her short nap, a confused animal in the dark forest. Everything around her was pitch-black. The sound of a whirring engine entered her ear, and it took her several seconds to place where she was. The plane. Right. But how did I even wake up? It was riding so smoothly-
The plane jerked again, and the girl sucked in a breath.
“Oh-” An embarrassing squeak escaped her lips, and she clutched the arms of the airplane chair tight. The plane jostled up and down, forwards and backwards, like a refugee running through crossfire, like vegetables being tossed in a hot sizzling pan. The girl had experienced turbulence before. But it had never been this bad. And it had been with my sister, my parents. It had been several seconds of a shake, then gone. This was longer, shakier, bumpier. . . lonelier.
The girl swore under her breath and shut her eyes tight. What if she accidentally cried in front of everyone? What if she screamed and scared everyone? What if, what if, what if. . .
BUMP!
The plane bounced up, and the girl nearly fell out of her seat. She might've shot out like a bullet had she not been buckled in. God, I wish my sister were here. This is scary. I wish my dad were here. She lifted her head up to try to focus on something else, to try to distract herself from the damning thoughts that were running around in her head like sugar-high children.
Turning her head to her left, the girl saw something astonishing. The boy, the cool and confident young man from take off, had his eyes closed and was muttering something unintelligible underneath his breath.
To the girl’s own surprise, she let out a soft laugh at the irony. The boy’s eyes flew open, and he looked directly at her. Shoot, did he hear me? Is he angry at me. . . The thoughts quickly silenced themselves as the girl observed not anger but hints of panic in his green irises. She could almost imagine the same panic mirrored in her own black ones.
The boy’s mouth opened, but the plane gave another shake, startling their attention away from each other. His eyes fluttered close in a flash, and the girl grasped the arms of the airplane chair tighter and tighter, until her knuckles began to turn white.
She sucked in a forced breath, held it, then let it back out. Nope. Square breathing is not going to work today. She looked back over at the boy, who had returned to muttering and clenching his teeth tight.
Several seconds passed before she realized that she was staring at him. Should I help him? The girl had thousands of thoughts rushing through her head at lightning speed, but that one was the loudest one by far – even blocking out all the insistent ones that said she was alone, alone, alone.
The plane rocked yet again, and a choked gasp and whimper sounded at the same time. The gasp had come from the girl, she knew that the second the sound escaped her mouth. But the whimper. . . ? She whipped her head to look at the boy, and she found that he was already looking at her, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“I-I. . . ” stammered the boy, his face steadily turning redder and redder like a tomato.
The girl let out a shaky breath, and she nodded her head down towards her hands.
“It’s okay.”
His eyes darted down and dilated when he noticed how tightly she had been gripping the airplane chair’s arms. The girl gave the boy a forced smile, wondering if she should’ve said something more, something else, anything else. The boy didn’t respond.
Then suddenly, the plane shook again, and the girl’s head dissolved back into worrying. I don’t like this I don’t like this I don’t like this, holy crap, I need something to hold, a stuffy, a book, a hand, I need I need I need. . .
“Um-” she whispered, her voice barely sounding from her fear. She looked up at the boy and could see her fear reflected on his face.
“Can I. . . can we hold. . . I just need something. . . ” Her voice quickly died out into a low croak as the plane rumbled again and stumbled like a newborn foal. She wasn’t sure she could make her voice work again. Hoping that the boy would understand her, worrying that he wouldn’t, she merely gave a slight nod to her stiff hands. But it turned out that she needn’t worry at all, for the boy slowly reached out and pried her left hand off the arm of the chair.
“Me too.”
With his raised eyebrow of permission, the girl nodded. He slipped his hand into hers, their warm palms and intertwined fingers fitting together like building blocks. Faintly, the girl registered that her hands were way too sweaty, too small, too gross, and that the boy’s hands were calloused, bigger than hers. Amidst the panic, she wondered, I wonder if he plays guitar. . .
She gave his hand a light squeeze and felt him squeeze back. Somehow, that sent a current of peace shooting through her body, and she felt her right hand relax slightly on the chair’s arm. She dared a quick look back at the boy and noticed that his eyes were closed.
But. . . it was a different type of closed eyes than mere minutes earlier. His forehead was no longer tight with tension, he wasn’t muttering under his breath, and his eyes were closed placidly, unlike the strained way she had noticed earlier. The girl smiled slightly. Whatever she had found in their interlaced hands, he seemed to have found as well.
The plane wavered again, but the girl didn’t worry about being alone again. Instead, she closed her eyes and saw nothing, thought nothing, felt nothing, except the warmth of the boy’s hand holding hers and her hand holding his.
Warmth, peace, not alone.
The realization hit her several minutes later. I’m not overthinking. About being alone, about interacting with the boy, about how I look. The sudden comprehension of this new knowledge sent a spark-like jolt through her, and her face burst into sunlight, a smile lighting up her face. Despite this new revelation, she managed to sit in one place and not jump up and down for joy.
She turned towards the boy, wanting to share the good news, before realizing that the boy was still essentially a stranger to her. . . and he had fallen asleep.
The girl paused, observing the boy in sleep. His eyelids were no longer forced closed, rather they covered his eyes peacefully. His mouth hung slightly open, and his head tilted back at an angle that made the girl cringe. He would be suffering with cramps when he woke up for sure.
She smiled at his position and closed her eyes. The plane hadn’t shaken for over ten minutes now. We’re okay. I’m okay. . .
*****
“Welcome to California, y’all. We’ve landed safely, please wait for the seatbelt light to turn off before getting up and unloading your luggage. This is your captain speaking, thank you for flying with us today, we hope you have a great day.”
The voice of the captain floated into the girl’s ear, and she slowly blinked her eyes open. With a start, she realized that her and the boy’s hands were still together and that she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. She sat upright and leaned away from him, not wanting to accidentally scare him with her presence or have him wake up with a stranger on him. She felt a tiny bit of her doubts return, worrying that her head had been too heavy or that her breath stank.
The girl peered up at the boy, nearly spiraling into her own thoughts again. But then the boy woke up and slowly opened his eyes, turning his head to glance at the girl. He smiled at her. It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m okay. She smiled back.
As the seatbelt light flashed off and people around them began to stand up and grab all their luggage, it seemed like the girl and the boy were still in their own little peaceful world.
The girl knew that she might never see the boy again, or maybe on the contrary, this could be the start of something new. But she took one step that she wouldn’t have dared to do at the beginning of the flight. And like the hands still intertwined between them, the reaction that the boy gave sent hope shivering through her body.
“Hi, I’m Olive.”
“And I’m Ethan.”
Anyssa Lin is a junior in high school who loves to read and write fiction, primarily fantasy, romance, and adventure. She's published two adventure books in middle school and hopes to publish many more (not only adventure) in the near future. She dreams of writing a book that will one day be famous not only nationally but perhaps internationally. Anyssa currently spends her days fighting her way through high school, creating beautiful music with the piano and flute, and writing stories about teens like her when time permits.
amy j. — Manasvi Nalasani
teeter-tottering over the bridge
dark blue waters rush beneath
screaming, shouting, calling
her pink tennis shoes
she laughs
the sound ripples like the current
on a tightrope
arms outstretched,
reaching
I call out
“what if you fall in”
but she doesn’t turn —
only wobbles, steadies,
and keeps walking.
the river hums its warning.
the sky holds its breath.
there was once a time
she’d answer
once a time
i’d reach her
before the water did.
couldn’t help her now
the birds chirp,
keep singing
as if the water never splashed
just a rock in the ocean
but now she is a snowglobe
on my mantle,
the pictures of people forgotten
as the snow swirls around
Manasvi Nalasani is a poet from Texas whose work explores loss and the strangeness of growing up. When she isn't writing, she’s probably painting landscapes that look nothing like the real thing and listening to music.
The Quiet Way Things End — Sumedha Motilall
Not with shattering,
or orchestras of pain,
but in the very small ways
no one warns you to watch for.
A shorter laugh.
A delayed reply.
Milk bought for one.
The sudden realization
that you are speaking to be remembered,
not responded to.
Endings are shy like that—
they leave their shoes at the door,
they speak in softened vowels,
they tuck their devastation
under borrowed coats.
By the time you name it loss,
it has already packed—
not dramatically,
but efficiently,
like someone who knew
they would not be staying.
Nothing falls.
Nothing breaks.
It simply becomes smaller,
until one day you reach for it
and touch air
trying its best to feel solid.
Sumedha Motilall writes about the delicate, ordinary moments that make life feel unexpectedly full. Her work centres on stillness, reflection, and the small truths that surface in between.
Red Ropes — Isabella Burns
The alkali was white, covering the western land like a promise of purity. This wasn’t snow, though–this wasn’t pure or soft. This was rock. Rough, hard, waiting to be stained. It covered the landscape, like a long-dry sea. Fish bones, cattle bones, human bones. You couldn’t walk two feet without the reminders. Here and there, a scorpion would jut out from under a cactus, only to scutter back in when it saw the sun had not yet fully set. Its rays lit up the evening in gold. That was the only gold around here. Two more steps, crunching in the mineral. More bones. More false promises.
Two men faced each other now. Their dark figures cut the sea of white and gold, standing out like thieves in a confessional.
“You came,” José called out.
“I said I would. I’m no coward,” James responded.
“Never said ya were.”
They held each other's gazes, only standing a few steps away from each other now.
“You was thinkin’ it,” he finally spoke, jerking his head at him, “You don’t hide it well.”
“Maybe you just read me well, hermano,” José replied. He was taller, with dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. His hair was pulled back, his white vest buttoned up. He was sweaty and dusty nonetheless, shining in the evening sun.
The second man, the scraggly one, huffed out a laugh. “Bastard.” He said it caught between sweet and cruel, like steel coated in sugar or blood licked from a lover.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” the words rolled off of his tongue with a slight smile, his eyes narrowing.
They were both bastards. Both abandoned to be free, both sons of the sagebrush and fathers of the new world. They had matching scars, his on his left eye, and his on his right. They stared each other down. The Mexican noticed how James’ hair hadn’t been washed in days, the way his shoulders hunched forward, like a little lynx waiting to pounce; he noticed the dirt and dust on his oversized boots. The American noticed the little smile that played on José’s lips; something was always funny around him, always better than it should have been.
“I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch,” James spat.
José laughed, crossing his arms and shaking his head, “Yeah? That why you invited me out here? To kill me? You gonna?” He teased, leaning in, letting the words spill out, rough as rock and smooth as smoke. “At least I got my mother.”
“At least I’ve earned my lot,” he gritted through his teeth, like an upset toddler dressed up in bloody denim and a cartridge belt.
He laughed, throwing his head back to the sky and pointing at him. “You ain’t earned shit, pendejo.”
“Is stealing not earning?”
To him, it was. To crawl so deeply into something, to crack its ribs so gently that it didn’t stir and to burrow so quietly into its chest, to sneak into its very essence… that was a learned skill. Or was it instinct? It was the same way a fox stealthily dug into a farmer’s land; it didn’t know what it was doing, but that didn’t make it any less impressive or invasive.
“You don’t steal fair.”
“Since when was you a moral man?” James grumbled, his voice laced with the skepticism that could only come from intimacy. He saw the scar on his back.
“There’s a difference between being moral and being stupid, cabrón,” he spat, like a snake shelling out venom. Light caught on his white teeth, reflecting off the sharp incisors. They had bit James before, many a time. He sunk them into his shoulders, pressing down until his lips were sucking on the dirty skin. One day, the teeth on skin wasn’t enough. José began to paw at his chest, whining, begging, as claw met rib. James ripped easily. The fox took his prize, running off with it between his teeth, his head proudly pointed up to the western sky, wagging his tail as he ran off. He left the other man empty with scars like train tracks and fear like a schoolboy.
“Whaddya want me to do about it? It’s my goddamn life, it's my goddamn life, if I’m a stupid bastard or a cay-bron or whatever the Hell you’re always callin’ me. What’s it to you? Leave it, you goddamn–leave it. I ain’t that stupid. Am I? Am I?” He stepped closer and heard the crunch of the mineral beneath his heavy boot. The air was thick and dry, suffocating him and pushing him back.
“Always have been.” José smiled, not wide, but not hidden, either. It was his turn to taste the paradox, the steel and the sugar, the lover’s blood.
The American took a breath and shook his head. He wanted his turn to tear into skin, and the other man wanted to be devoured, licked dry, his tender flesh pulled from every bone, falling off just for him to take and scarf down. He wasn’t a lamb or a rabbit. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t running. He was as holy as communion wafers. He was laying himself bare in the hellscape, letting the sweat coat his skin and his ascot hang too low on his neck. He was giving the other man the chance to return the favor, to get his own prize.
They locked gazes, caught between predator and predator. They were too similar. Neither man would back down. Neither man would ask what the hell they were doing. They were filling their boots; they were digging their graves. Flowers would grow there, unbothered by the tread of spurs, growing in the freedom of the alkali that would normally nurture only death, never life.
The American spit on the ground, saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth, his hand slowly raising toward his belt.
José raised his eyes, looking at him from below his dark lashes.
And what was this? Some cruel trick of fate? Linking two souls, they couldn’t escape. In the vast plains of white and yellow, dust and bones, James felt claustrophobic, like he got that little red string tied so tight around him that he couldn’t breathe. He writhed like a fish caught in a net, like a cow caught in a lasso. He spun in circles until he fell on his ass and sunk deeper into Hell.
He wasn’t supposed to get twisted with his own weapon. He was supposed to wield it, to bear the cross and be the symbol. He was supposed to do, supposed to be, a lot of things. He tried to push the rope down, to tear it off, dancing with the divine and stepping on his own feet. It clung to his ankles. Of course it did.
Meanwhile, the other man’s hand came to his own belt.
They hesitated. You weren’t supposed to hesitate. James shot.
He had tried to kill a part of himself, and in doing so, he had tried to kill someone else. He had killed someone else, and he had killed himself. He tried to rid himself of the rot on his heart, tried to tear apart the decaying flesh. When he reached inside, nothing was left. His heart wasn’t his own, it was still in his goddamn teeth. It belonged to him. The man lying under the setting sun, red flowers blooming through his chest.
He hovered over the body, giving it a gentle kick. “Tell God not to worry about saving me… brother.”
Isabella Burns is a senior at Amador Valley High School. Her prior publications include The Malu Zine, The Weight Journal, and The Lighthouse Literary Magazine. She has edited two issues of The Lighthouse, and this year, she will serve as editor-in-chief. Greek mythology and Metallica are just two of her many inspirations. When she isn’t writing, she volunteers as an English tutor or carves soap.
you fell for the ordinary — Mariya Williams
i.
Your plump chocolate body is melting like syrup in his rough brown sugar hands. The bed sheets are musky and yellow like the streetlight outside his apartment showing its face through the old dingy lace curtains resting on his bedroom window. His long dreads tap tiny melodies on your damp face as he shifts on top of you. He doesn’t close his eyes as he migrates into you; he just stares at the wetness of your curly lashes and matted afro as you quiver. You tilt your head back slightly and imagine that this is what making love looks like; that this intimacy doesn’t feel like a game. You don’t close your eyes either; you just stare at his cheap black bedframe, your eyes as wet as your body, and let the dusky weed-scented room swirl into an illusion as he continues to bash himself into you with every stroke.
ii.
He’s finally finished. The game is finally over. He lays right next to you as he pants softly, his hand on your thigh. You hold your stomach to steady your breathing; to feel the emptiness of your limbs. Every time this happens, you feel as if you're dissipating; as if your body is chipping away like dust, and he’s the reason why.
He steadies his breath as he pushes himself up, puts on his socks, drawers, and baggy jeans that were laying on his dark wooden floor, and heads to his slim closet. Where you goin’? You ask softly as you sit up in his bed, holding your breasts up and covering them with the old white cover that was splayed across your legs. He slightly turns to look at you with a straight face—his Pierce The Veil Selfish Machines graphic t-shirt resting in his right hand, the light from the window displaying itself in a streak across his muscular body—and says nothing. You frown at his silence towards you. He must’ve thought your frown was cute, because he began to smile like he did when he first met you, first let you into his arms and on top of his body. He walked up to you and whispered in your ear, It’s a surprise, kissed your cheek, and left the room; left your naked body to lay in his bed desolate.
iii.
Croissants? You stare into the greasy paper bag of French pastries from La Boulangerie & Co. resting on the stained marble countertop next to last night’s Chinese takeout. Surprise! He exclaims, his cheeks slightly lifting towards the dingy kitchen light, his stubble twinkling in its glow. Hope you like ‘em. Then and there, it hits you that he deserted you in those musty sheets, letting you drown in the stench of the undesirable sex you just had, confirming every thought in your mind that you are nothing but a toy to him and you’re dissipating because of that, to gift you with a bag of greasy croissants. You close the mouth of the stained contraption and try to smile, but you end up looking like a dead fish—your lips reminiscent of an old Raggedy Ann doll—turn around, and plainly say Thanks, I will.
You hate croissants. When you were in fifth grade, your father used to get them for you before taking you to school in LA. But that’s when they were good; that’s when your father was alive. They were filled with a cloudy whipped cream and tangy bleeding strawberries that shot your tongue when you bit into them, and topped off with powdered sugar. Your father was just like them: sweet, sophisticated, and hilarious. He used to blast the radio as you chomped into the delicacy in the backseat of his Cream of Wheat colored Beetle, your head bopping and your feet kicking to the beat. He used to laugh when he looked back at you dancing with a face covered in powdered sugar. He used to squeeze your cheeks and say Buh-bye pooh bear! and then unbuckle you from your tiny pink carseat to walk you to the front of your school’s large brick building. But ever since he took his life and you moved to Chicago with your mom, the soft pastry transformed into empty stale bricks that pinch your intestines when you swallow them.
iv.
The first time he entered your body, you were under the influence. You were at a club your friend invited you to, your black sparkled dress sticking onto your thighs like parchment paper. You noticed his face in the thick cloud of smoke the building was filled with; he saw your body in the same strange wave. The same-old-same-old happened: he came up to you, non-chalant and charming, hexed you into his presence, cursed you into undergoing kalopsia, bought you a drink, lit your blunt, led you to his car, and inserted your body.
The second time he entered your body, you were inhuman. You were more than drunk; you were caliginous. You were callow. It was the tenth anniversary of your father’s death, and you were trying to take yourself out the same way he did: through the glutting of over-the-counter drugs and cheap alcohol. You wanted to feel what he must’ve felt when he decided that living was inadequate for him that day to make sense of why he chose to abandon you in such a way; to make sense of all those days where life felt good with him, and how he made every moment with you feel special, like he lived for you; to make sense of why your father would kill himself even though your mom said you had nothing to do with it, and that people tend to ease their suffering in different ways, and that just so happened to be his way; to make sense of his suffering. Your body laid limp on your cold wooden apartment floor as you called him on the phone, your voice distorted with tears and vodka. Your world spiraled into a solar eclipse of bricks from the apartment’s rusted wall turning into spheres, burning lights from your various pumpkin spice and warm vanilla candles turning into puddles of water, and the splotched image of his body bursting through your black door, retrieving you from the ground, throwing you into the backseat of his car, carrying you to his bathroom to throw up, laying you on his couch to cry with you, and crashing into you to warm your frigid body.
The third time he entered your body, you were bored, and he was just as high and alone as you were.
This time, you don’t understand what led you here. Maybe you don’t need to.
v.
You stare at his eyes as he comes closer to you, his right hand grazing your face softly. You watch his eyelashes glisten in the damp kitchen light like tiny constellations, his pupils widen like two moons, and his irises shimmer like polished wood. You see a warmth in them that you haven’t seen since your father’s death and you close your eyes to capture it: the warmth of someone trying to love you. It may be a small flame, but it’s more than enough to make you smile and let him kiss you, pick you up, and place you on the counter. You let him run his fingers through your hair and in your shirt. You let him feel your body because you know there isn’t much else for him to feel. But you latch onto his lips, trying hard to bask in this profound acceptance that he’s doing all he can to love you, just like your father did all he could to stay alive for you.
Mariya Williams is a Black writer, musician, and singer/songwriter born and raised in Missouri. As a junior in high school, she currently studies creative writing at the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts and her poetry can be found in UMBRA. She is also the semi-finalist for the 2025 Patty Friedmann High School Writing Competition, and was awarded a Silver Key from the Scholastic Young Art and Writing Competition. She loves playing guitar, sketching, binge watching anime, and playing with her crazy siblings.
The Weaver and Other Hundreds — Avah Dodson
In the clearing, the shadow nymph eyes the girl, its gangly, knobby limbs splayed. Crooked teeth protrude from its lips. Brambleberry juice stains its maw.
The girl’s face is stained with blood. Her father has been on another drunken rampage, bruising her body with his fists. On such days, she flees into the thicket, though never past dusk, lest her absence reignite her father’s wrath.
Light fades as dusk passes. The shadow nymph smiles malevolently. Are you lost?
But this girl knows malevolence, and she is not lost. The blood on her face is not her own.
She smiles back.
_____
I’m sorry, was all she said, after she threw the wine glass that scarred Hannah’s legs. And after she was hospitalized a second time for overdosing. And the night she left us forever.
Hannah always resented Dad for not being able to pick up the pieces. I’m sorry, he’d say, when his best wasn’t enough, his voice echoing our small-town desperation.
Before Hannah boards her plane for NYU, she unclasps the pendant Mom gave her and folds it into my hand. I rub my thumb over it the way she would, then look up to her. I’m sorry, she says.
_____
The florist asks where I take the six dollars of peonies every Saturday. I smile without my eyes, explain that I give them to you, to be close, to breathe in deep. She says you’re lucky to get flowers every week. I nod, but not in agreement. You are lost to them. Six dollars from my wallet every Saturday, then a six-minute walk to the cemetery, where the flowers wither six feet over your heart. Sometimes, what hurts the most is remembering the way you breathed—as if every inhale was a bouquet of peonies, sweet and soft and whole.
_____
The Tesla whirs to a stop. She strides into the Goodwill with a designer bag slung over her shoulder. The bag contains a cashmere sweater, still tagged.
She does not notice the one in ragged sweats shuffling inside with constrained despair, a castaway caught in the waves, searching for solid land or golden sails.
Their eyes meet. She suddenly feels out of place. The cashmere spills out onto the counter, and she reaches to secure it. Next to her, hollowed eyes glimpse the weave and long to feel its softness.
Manicured nails and weathered, grimy fingertips briefly touch, then part.
_____
She notices how he always polishes his plate, not a smear or crumb left behind. He says something about not wanting to waste food.
He looks at the pristine porcelain and remembers being too full to finish dinner, his uncle’s red rage, the shattered plate, white shards mixed with bits of food. He sees one last grain of rice sticking to the plate’s edge, horribly out of place, and quickly pries it free with a wave of relief. He feels her gaze and looks up, suddenly ashamed.
But she had an uncle too. She touches his hand, sad and knowing.
_____
They sit next to me at the sewing table, unspooling colored threads with their hands—hands bloodied, hands abandoned, hands holding flowers, hands immaculate, hands reaching out to touch other hands.
Most of these threads I have held before. But, today, my hands are empty. Today, I am here for them.
I grab the old man’s thread: thin and pale and frayed. Then the girl’s: thick and red and resilient. Then the uptowner’s: plush and silver and gauzy. Then the others. I roll them between my fingers to remember their coarse softness. I tug. I twist. I tie.
I weave.
Avah Dodson’s works have won recognition in the Adroit Prize for Prose, YoungArts Competition, Scholastic Writing Awards (National Gold Medalist), Sacramento Literary Review Short Story Contest, Patty Friedman Writing Competition, Bluefire 1,000 Words Contest, Royal Nonesuch Humor Contest, Storytellers of Tomorrow Contest, WOW! Short Story Contest, and Kay Snow Contest, among others, and have appeared in The Louisville Review, Press Pause, Sacramento Literary Review, Blue Marble Review, Incandescent Review, Echo Lit, Parallax, The Milking Cat, Voices de la Luna, Apprentice Writer, Stone Soup Magazine, Skipping Stones Magazine, DePaul’s Blue Book: Best American High School Writing, and others. She is a graduate of the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop and is currently Director of the Creative Writing Team for Incandescent Review. She lives in California.
I Read that Pigs Scream Like People — Zoe Younessian
It happened after Bill’s farmhand went missing for the last time. Ma suggested that Palmer take his place, and Palmer didn’t hesitate to agree. He hated pigs but he hated the boy who came before him even more: a fool he’d watched stumble through his neighbor’s fields, who got lost periodically and wore a cherry-red flannel that marked him like a searchlight. Now he’d wandered off for good. Palmer smiled at the thought. On his first day at the job, when Bill handed him two buckets of scraps and a key to the pigsty, he’d felt his heart flutter in his throat with something like satisfaction, though Bill had only rolled his eyes.
“Don’t get lost,” Bill had said. Palmer cheerily assured him that he wouldn’t. Yet now, standing at the pigsty doors, he almost wished he had. The room smelled worse than he could’ve imagined, and mountains of hay piled against the wall prevented any light from trickling through. Dozens of pigs erupted from the darkness at his entrance. Palmer met their beady gazes and shuddered. He pulled the doors closed behind him.
In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t make sense that Palmer disliked pigs this much. Some of his earliest memories were of Bill’s pork: the smell of his bacon on Ma’s stove, the plate of ribs on their kitchen table, Palmer and his brothers descending on it, ripping into it, unstringing the dripping crimson sinews from the flesh. What a shame the animals themselves were so vile, Palmer thought. He loved the taste.
It was this taste that Palmer tried to recall as he trudged deeper into the filth of the pigsty. In the blackness, the boy could only guess where the trough was. As Palmer walked forward, the bodies of the pigs cloaked his feet, prodding him at every step he took. He raised a leg to kick them away.
Then all at once Palmer found himself at his knees. He retched. He felt nudges from every direction, scraps puddling around his feet. His fingers curled into something soft. When he raised it to his face, and the pigs parted for a moment from his hands, and his eyes had finished adjusting to the dark, he caught a glimpse of cherry red.
That fool. That stupid boy. Palmer didn’t understand how such a small person could even get past the pigs to leave his flannel there. They crowded all around him now, filthy masses that moved and seemed to talk, ramming their faces against the soft of his body until he yelped. No one would be able to hear him over the squeals of the animals. Palmer groaned. How could they be so desperate for food so disgusting? It reminded him of something he’d read once: that pigs were smart creatures, that they could adapt to eat anything. That they learn to love the taste.
Zoe Younessian is a writer from Connecticut. She hopes you have a great day.
Inside the Branch of an Apricot Tree — Mrittika Majumder
In front of the island there was the long beach. A little way up the long beach was the sheltered cove. Behind the cove was a cliff. Up on the cliff was the lighthouse. Up, up, inside the lighthouse, on the topmost floor, a boy was lying down, clothed in sleep.
He watered the plants and kept glancing at his friend from time to time. The leaves, stalks and petals around him pulsated with life, a deep heavy breathing. Evening crept up from the horizon in stealthy steps. He didn’t notice it until he looked up at the sky, washed with inexplicable colours. It felt like a sudden sting in his stomach—and he wanted to scream. A deep, deep scream that would drown out the sound of waves and wake up his friend.
The fishes came out from the water, slowly leisurely. He watched them shedding off the deep blue, like an exoskeleton and emerging, dyed in the colours of evening. Some flew over the lighthouse, others passed directly in front of the balcony. He could touch them if he wanted to. He thought about how ridiculously balloon-like they looked and laughed a quiet laugh within himself.
He watched them all pass.
It was about time for the blue boat to anchor in front of the cove. It was never late, never early and as regular as clockwork. He liked the boatman with his gruff moustache and frail fingers. He was the sole thread of connection between the wider world and the island. Tonight, however, a portly little man stepped out from the boat and started making his way towards the lighthouse.
The boy ran down the stairs. The little man was knocking a brisk little knock on the driftwood door. Before he knew it, the portly man was beside him, up, up, inside the lighthouse, on the topmost floor. The boy felt entitled to say something.
So he said, “Um, who’re you?”
The portly man took off his plump hat and replied in a grave voice, “I am an entomologist, young sir.” The boy noticed a jade brooch, the shape of a beetle, pinned to the portly gentleman’s chest.
The entomologist wiped his nose and murmured in a sad voice, “Is the lighthouse keeper here?”
“Yes”, said the boy, “he’s sleeping.”
The entomologist sounded distressed, “Oh! You see, I’ll have to feed your friend to the fishes, please.”
“No, he’s sleeping”, said the boy. “He’s sleeping and he will wake up soon. Really soon. You cannot feed him to the fishes yet.” The beetle-like man sounded more distressed than ever. “But, but I must! Don’t you see the amount of paperwork it will take? This request of yours is a monstrosity! Why can’t you just let me do my job properly? Why? Oh my—the higher ups are not going to like this at all!” He was wringing his hands while quivering like a jelly. Suddenly, he broke down and started sobbing profusely, hunched up on the floor.
“I told them I couldn’t do it! Two assignments in one day, it’s not for me—not for me at all! First the boatman and, now your friend.” Tears streamed in torrents down his cheeks. They made a little puddle on the floor.
The boy snipped away at the entomologist’s hair. It was fine and wispy, the kind seen on low-quality brushes. The sobbing had receded and he only quivered a bit, now and again.
A haircut, it seemed, could cheer up anyone.
“Mr. Entomologist, what happened to the boatman?” asked the boy. The entomologist played with his fingers and was quiet. After a while, he spoke. “Like I said, I had to feed him to the fishes. Orders from the top.”
The boy snipped away, “I should like to speak to them about my friend. Can you take me with you?”
The entomologist shook his head. “Nobody can,” he said. “I’ve never seen them. I simply follow orders. That’s what I’ve been doing all this time—following orders. I’m not an entomologist—atleast not by profession. It’s simply a hobby. But I don’t like telling people that this is what I do. So you see how it is.”
They were both quiet for a while.
The entomologist was blowing bubbles from the balcony. They floated away like awkward balloons, huge, trembling slightly.
“Bubbles are fragile life,” declared the entomologist.
“Then we’re all bubbles,” said the boy.
The entomologist produced two apricots from his pocket, and gave one to the boy. He took a bite and chewed methodically. The boy said, “Tell me a story. He used to, but he doesn’t anymore. Tell me one.”
The entomologist gulped and thought for a while. Then he said, “Goldfishes are born from apricot trees, from the apricot. Oranges also yield goldfish—one from each segment. But a single apricot can only transform into a single goldfish. They are born, they live and they die, alone. Their short lives are a muddle, a tiny spark and gone.”
“This is a good apricot,” said the boy.
The little man wiped his nose, “Well, I am going today. But I will be back for your friend. I have to be. I’m sorry for him but, it can’t be helped. One day I’ll have to come for you too and then you cannot complain.”
“There shall be no one left after that.”
“Goodbye! Thanks again for the free haircut.”
The boy planted the apricot seed in the sand of the cove and went away for the night.
The morning revealed a little apricot tree, thin but sturdy. The boy went down the lighthouse and out into the beach. He gazed at the miniature boughs. The waves played a lullaby. Something made him lie down on the sand. The sun was in his eyes. He closed them. The sand sunk beneath him—and he was pulled along. He opened his eyes.
It was dark wherever he was. He kept quite still and allowed his eyes to adjust themselves to the light. Seawater stung his tongue. After a while, he found that there were apricot trees all around him. He was in a greenhouse. Rows and rows of them filled the glass building. Apricots dangled from branches. He felt one with his hands. It felt heavy and he felt heavier. His body was a weight pressing down on him.
He looked at the apricot. The walls of the fruit were semi transparent. He saw his friend inside. The boy tried calling but his friend didn’t hear. He tried. But nothing worked until he felt like tearing off the fruit, crushing and smashing it to a pulp and seeing his friend. All his efforts exhausted him. He closed his eyes.
The seagulls saw a human emerging from the waves—like the first animal to transition from water to land. The boy looked up. The lighthouse was missing. Saltwater stung his eyes. Sand grains irritated his palms. The sun was straight overhead, blinding and fierce. Crabs nibbled at his toes.
He looked towards the carcass of the fallen lighthouse and screamed. The lonely island screamed with him.
Mrittika Majumder is an aspiring young writer and high schooler based in Kolkata, India and while she likes to write, she doesn’t always find the time for it. She has not been previously published anywhere before. Her hobbies include reading (all day, if possible), writing and learning Japanese.
TO THE LITTLE GIRL PEELING THE SKIN OFF THE PAINTED GUM TREES — MK Bessac
It is gruesome,
what I did to you.
Nubby nails, like ivory hunters
husking every corium, every rind
and for what?
What was I hoping to find?
A tingling, arcane notion
you were holding out on me,
some vital tidbit enshrouded
beneath that bark.
But it was only pulp, sap, dumb
and wet, insisting upon itself,
reflective in the trembling grasp
of my selfish tiny, selfish hands.
MK Bessac is a writer from Hawaii and a senior in high school. Her poems have been selected for Editor’s Choice in Teen Ink and published in The Howl. When not writing, she enjoys playing with her cat, Misu, and stretching.
First Rice — Anika Tenneti
I)
In 2010 I’m six months old.
It is my अन्नप्राशन1, and
I am fed by Mother
and her mother and her mother and
every mother to have ever lent their withered hands,
saintly fingers posed in a gentle kiss, as if they
owed us their love.
She sits me in the eye of the room,
a forking road, and lays out
a book a dollar bill a pen a bangle.
I crawl, a feral bandit.
My eyes swill the lactescent luster of gold,
and I choose the bangle.
II)
In 1968 I’m reborn as a kerosene lamp.
Each evening, Grandmother parts through the
first rice crops of these hypnotic paddies
when I beckon her with a sky of dwindling saffron,
with sundown.
She must think I’m a दीपम्2
with how reverently she fattens my noxious flame.
As I dissolve into plumes, I take a final swig.
I imbibe the fuel within the fourteen-year old patriarch,
before she bullock-cart-rides for an hour next morning
to get the schooling she’s starved of here.
Riding past thatched roofs and marchers’ faded footsteps,
she hopes her daughter could have more,
that her daughter’s daughter could have even more,
that—
III)
I’m reborn as a poet.
I lodge in a dim, stale-aired chamber,
clinging to the smoke of पोङ्गल3:
I scorched it on my first day, when it failed to rise.
Enclosed by these ashen walls, I drink faraway stories:
anemic cordials for my emptying thorax. My vying,
dying field.
Bangle clinking to the beat of a pyrite heart,
fingers rattling, breaths convulsive,
the pen blots
like the घृतम्4 I spilled last दीपावली5.
I pause,
and then it floods, intoxicating the famished pages of this book.
Maybe by this outpour of accrued curse, I think to myself,
I am purged.
That is, until my pulse trickles into संसार6.
When will I learn?
_______________________
1 Annaprāśana (a word in Sanskrit) - a Hindu ceremony where infants are fed their first bite of rice, and then take part in a symbolic “choosing game”
2 Dīpam - an oil lamp lit during worship; represents prosperity, good fortune, and enlightenment
3 Pongal - a dish of rice and milk that is intentionally boiled over when moving in to a new home; represents abundance
4 Ghrutám - a clarified butter often used as fuel for oil lamps
5 Dīpāvali - a festival where oil lamps are lit to celebrate the victory of good over evil and virtue over ignorance
6 Samsāra - the cycle of rebirth based on actions in previous lives; can be escaped by enlightenment
Anika Tenneti is a poet based in California. She is greatly inspired by the idea of using writing, especially poetry, as a tool for expression and introspection. She has explored a vast array of themes in her works, some of which have appeared or are forthcoming in anthologies such as Cargoes, Sheepshead Review, and Just Poetry. When she is not writing, she enjoys learning about various scientific concepts and doing origami.
We’re Sitting on Car Hoods at Starbucks — Fiona Liu
and I haven’t slept in three days. The parking lot is grey &
empty; the sky purple in fast-moving clouds / someone has
turned the saturation way up. Static crackles from
tinny earbuds / and thoughts knock around my skull like pills
in a half-empty bottle // that I never learned to swallow; so I
roll them under my tongue into the hollows of my soul & they
coat my mouth with their chalky aftertaste long / after you are
gone. Citric acid puckers my raw fish-cheeks, leaves my lips /
acetic snowdrops / you eat ghost peppers just to feel something; so maybe
we can die / with smiles // or maybe we don’t die at all, maybe we just live
forever, and / isn’t that a horrible thought? Halfway across
America, there’s another bullet shot & blood runs red like the mother’s
(secret lover) / we’re screaming under the streetlights; it’s a silent night
because the world is too loud / to hear; only I’m just a glitch drinking
black coffee with lime soda & you said god is the third pattern you see
at three a.m. // when you press the base of your palms too hard against
your swollen eyes (we’re seeing stars). Somewhere in the world, a baby is crying
for / its mother, who lies dead & trampled beneath the tires
of an American / tank. Did they ever tell you / how the world
fights its wars? — with McDonald’s and Coca-Cola and
Hollywood movie stars / wearing blue jeans with Converse
high-tops. When I close my eyes & they are too dry to cry / but
you’re still wishing upon shooting stars // cheers! Let’s take this shot
bottoms up. Maybe if I / drink enough Red Bull I can fly & maybe
if I fly I’ll see / god is the color of your eyes when you’re lying // like
maybe if we had eyes at all. \\
Fiona Liu is a high school sophomore from California. Her work has been recognized with a Gold Medal from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. In her free time, she can be found listening to music, curled up with a good book, or visiting local cafes.
Not Cut Out to be a Princess — Delilah Cameron
“Not everyone is cut out to be a princess. You’re proof of that, my dear.” I hear it over and over in my head—a nonstop chant, a chilling reminder.
And maybe she was right. My own mother did know me quite well. She was never sentimental or loving, but no one expected her last words to be an attack on me. The crown princess. Her daughter.
Elliot claimed she was just referring to my free spirit. And yes, I did have a tendency to neglect my responsibilities—but I always got the job done eventually. She was always stressed out by my procrastination. I swallow the lump in my throat before anyone notices.
“Elizabeth…” says Elliot, definitely catching my emotional moment. Must be twin instinct or something. Twinstinct. “I’m sure Mom didn’t mean it like that. She probably was just pushing you like she always does—did.” He swallows, running a hand over his face. “To… I don’t know. Make you stronger?”
I close my eyes and take a deep, rattling breath. Her perfume still clings to my sleeves. I press my lips together and shove the thought away.
The door creaks, and Isabelle pokes her head in without knocking, her eyes shiny and red. The bed dips as she clambers up beside Elliot. In the silence, I can almost hear Mom’s voice—or feel her touch. Memories flood in: her brushing my hair, reading poetry, laughing at dinner. My chest aches.
Three quick knocks startle us before Ryan steps quietly inside. Elliot and I share an uncertain glance. Ryan’s never been one for family moments—he must really be hurting. He spent most of his time with Mom, tucked away in the library reading ancient poetry.
“General Maddock told me to hand this to you, Elizabeth.” Ryan slides a folded note across the blankets. I don’t have to read it to know what it is—security details for my coronation tomorrow.
I heave a deep sigh. “Why couldn’t you have just been born five minutes sooner? Five minutes!” I exclaim, pretending to be frustrated. Honestly, I am a little jealous he wasn’t forced to lead a country just because of birth order. I mean to sound playful, but some of that bitterness seeps through.
He doesn’t laugh. He just looks at me, his crystal-blue eyes heavier than usual. He’d make a much better monarch than me. We were only born four minutes apart, but those four minutes decided everything. Four tiny minutes destined me to rule hundreds of thousands of lives I knew next to nothing about.
You’d think there’d be some kind of qualification… a test, maybe.
“Like you would let him!” Isabelle interrupts, rolling her eyes. “You always have to be first in everything, Lizzy.” Her plump twelve-year-old face is still streaked with tears. It must’ve been a lot for her—seeing Mom so limp and…
I shake my head to clear the thought and manage a smile. She isn’t wrong. I do like to win—especially against my twin.
Elliot reaches out and takes my hand. “She has a point, you know.” He smirks, catching Isabelle’s hand with his other. Isabelle and I each take one of Ryan’s, even though he grunts in disapproval.
“But seriously,” Elliot’s voice softens. “When have you ever let anyone tell you who you are—or push you to do something you don’t want to do?”
“I…” He’s not wrong. I may be a terrible procrastinator, but I’m strong-willed. And nothing—not the press, not the people, not the court, not even my own mother—can make me doubt what I’m capable of.
And then it clicks. Maybe she was right. I wasn’t cut out to be a princess.
I was made to be queen.
Delilah Cameron is a young writer based in the United States who creates stories about identity, resilience, and the unexpected paths life takes. She spends her free time reading, daydreaming, and writing short fiction under her pen name. Though new to the world of publishing, she hopes to inspire readers with characters who discover strength in themselves, and dreams of one day publishing a full-length novel. She sees the world as a glass half full, believing that even small stories can make a big difference.
Folding Shadows — Iwan Lee
I first met Mark at the shelter, on a Thursday that was quiet in that strange way right after the evening rush. The sun had just dropped below the rooftop outside the window, so the sky looked muddled—ash and rose at the same time. Most volunteers had trickled out after serving dinner. I stayed behind. Not for some deep reason, just needed to finish my hours.
Mark was at the window, shoulders hunched. The streetlight outside had just blinked on. He wore an Army jacket frayed at the edges, sleeves shoved up above his elbows. Word was he’d served in Afghanistan, and everyone somehow respected that without asking questions. The topic hovered at the edges, unspoken.
I hesitated for a second before moving closer with a bin of towels. Funny, how some people carry so much weight, you notice it before they even talk.
He didn’t look over, but broke the silence.
“You ever… been somewhere, and it felt like you left a piece of yourself there?”
I stopped, confused.
“Like… a place you miss?”
He shook his head. “No, not missing. I mean a place that broke something in you, so when you left, the broken piece got left behind. But it’s crazy, it still hurts anyway.”
Maybe if I’d been older, I’d have said something smart. But I was fourteen, and heartbreak to me was not getting invited to a friend’s birthday party, or losing Pancho—the dog I’d had since I was a baby—just a few weeks earlier. I still wasn’t used to coming home and not hearing his paws on the floor. At home, we called him The King of the Floor.
The question hung between us. I just kept folding.
Eventually, he turned my way. His eyes looked hollow, like he’d forgotten how to blink.
“Two tours… overseas,” he finally said, voice flat. “Lost some good men. Think I lost myself, too.”
He tapped the side of his head. “My body came back. Some other parts—didn’t.”
A staff member glided past in the hallway, calling for someone. I don’t remember who.
“I sleep by the back door, near the mats,” he told me, almost like apologizing. “Used to have a bed. Had a daughter, a wife… Sometimes pain stiffens you into someone your people can’t recognize. So they leave. Or you leave. Doesn’t really make a difference after a while.”
He picked up one of the towels, and started folding. There was something shaky about his hands that made me slow down, too.
“Funny,” he muttered. “Folding towels… it’s like putting chaos away. Makes me think, maybe if I fold enough, I’ll fit back together, too.”
For another few minutes, neither of us said anything. It wasn’t an empty silence. More like… full of everything we couldn’t put words to.
“You’re young,” he spoke up at last. “You don’t belong here.”
I shrugged, kind of. “Just wanted to help, I guess.”
He managed a half-smile, small, but real. “Then maybe there’s hope for the rest of us, if you’re here.”
***
Days bled together after that, each shift blurring into the next. I kept coming back—partly for him, partly for myself, and at first, for the hours. Mark sometimes talked, sometimes just gazed out the window, or folded towels across from me, the space between us becoming comfortable.
One slow afternoon, he dug a faded photograph from his wallet.
“She’s my daughter,” he whispered. “Doubt she even remembers now.”
I took the photo and felt the edge, ragged under my thumb.
Didn’t know what to say.
“It’s not only war,” he said, voice thin. “It’s losing the little parts of your life that kept you anchored.”
***
On my last shift that month, Mark was outside under a nearly bare tree, jacket zipped too high against the cold. Autumn felt mean that year.
“You know about the twenty-two?” he asked, not looking at me.
I shook my head.
He sighed. “Twenty-two vets… every damn day. People think the war kills us. Truth is, most of us die after we’re back home.”
He stared at his hands, tracing a line in the concrete with one finger.
“It’s not the bullets,” he said, low. “It’s what you drag home—the guilt, the memories. The shadows that don’t quit, even when you think you’re fine.”
***
He left the shelter a week later. No warning, no note. I searched for him—maybe even just out of habit—but he was gone.
Every so often, I catch myself thinking about Mark—the way he sat so still, or how he folded towels like they mattered more than anything. Sometimes I think about all the others out there: lost, silent, invisible in the cracks we don’t bother to look at. Sleeping beside their shadows. Waking up to silence. Disappearing before anyone even notices.
Just before I left, he said something I can’t forget:
“Some things… you can’t say out loud. Doesn’t mean they ever go away.”
***
I still wonder if he ever got a night free from those shadows. If, even once, the hurt slipped away for long enough that he could breathe again.
I don’t know if talking to me changed anything for Mark. But it changed me for sure. I used to think trauma always looked loud—shouting, sobbing, falling apart. But I’ve learned it’s often the quieter things: the way someone folds a towel, the silence you share, the way someone vanishes and no one asks why, the little cracks you don’t notice until they’ve grown too wide to cross.
We only notice the shadows when they’re leaning close, whispering.
And by the time we do, I wonder if it’s already too late.
Iwan Lee is a writer from New Jersey. His work has been recognized by The New York Times, Scholastic Writing Awards, and Stone Soup Magazine. He currently serves as a Junior Editor at Polyphony Lit. In 2025, he was one of 26 young poets selected worldwide for Polyphony Lit’s Poetry-on-Demand Marathon, with the anthology published on Amazon. Two of his works are also forthcoming in The Bookends Review. When he’s not writing, Iwan can be found playing Canon Rock on his guitar, hitting tennis balls, or fishing and imagining new stories by the water.