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.
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.
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.