End of the Line — Myah Litteljohn
I like to ride the subway on Mondays. The chaos of people on their way makes me feel like I, too, have someplace to be. Normally I take the #11 bus all the way to Bloor-Yonge subway station. From there I can go wherever I feel drawn to most, any which way the compass points.
Today, despite it being rush hour, I’ve got the whole back row of the bus to myself. This isn’t unusual really–most people try to stay as far away from me as possible, even if it means clinging to those garish yellow straps. They’re right to fear me; sometimes I even fear myself.
But then a teenager boards the bus and, pushing through the throng of commuters, plunks herself and her overstuffed knapsack onto the seats right beside me. She stares directly at me, not with the usual fear or despair or resignation even, but with something else entirely–an ambivalence bordering on curiosity. Only young people have the audacity to stare this way, and even then this girl is unusual.
It’s my turn now to feel uncomfortable–the girl is too close, so close that I can feel the delicate thrum of life under her skin, trickling like an iced-over stream. Her mascara’s smeared from crying and her socks don’t match (one grey, one blue). When you’re me you notice such things, the small artifacts and incongruities that make up a life.
“Wanna listen?” the girl asks, earbud outstretched presumptuously. I shrug and she takes this for a yes. So I listen to her music, all tear-drenched chords and haunting melodies, the type of music that fills me with unwanted images of the places I’ve been and the people I’ve touched. The other passengers are all stealing glances now, gaping at me and my… strange companion. They don’t know that Death can be polite, kind even.
Off the bus at Bloor-Yonge station, I look back to find that the girl is following me. For a moment I’m a little flustered–normally it’s the other way around. I stop at the blocky, red transfer machine by the escalator, collecting exactly four blue transfers stamped with today’s date and time. I tuck them into my jacket pocket, pressing them into a growing mass of blue paper. (I’ve been at this a long time.) Small, everyday things like this say that I’m alive, that I’m really here, riding the subway, with places to be.
Today I choose the southbound train. It’s only slightly overflowing, a rarity for Monday mornings. Of course, I’ve got a couple of seats to myself. Sprawling out as I like to do, I scan the myriad ads and posters lining the subway car’s walls, hoping to be lulled to sleep. But today, sandwiched between ads for DoorDash and West Side Story (the musical), is something I haven’t seen down here for years–a poem. It’s called “Tomorrow, Always” by a local poet named Jesse June-Jack.
… Full of life, a subway train
travelling through
the ventricles of this ne’er shy city, where
tomorrow promised – is tomorrow always –
where you can find love because
this city is big enough for you to lose yourself –
but not big enough to be lost forever.
These last few lines cling to me like a long-forgotten song suddenly on the tip of my tongue.
The girl from the bus is in the same subway car as me (is she following me still?), her oversized yellow sweater sticking out like a sore thumb against a sea of greys and navy blues. Unlike most of the other passengers, she’s not transfixed by her phone. No, this one stares out the window, out into the cold, whirling darkness, as if searching for something just beyond reach.
And then she’s looking at me again, with something akin to longing or impatience or hunger. It’s all a bit tiresome to be honest, as if I haven’t seen so many like her in my time. I’ve held their bruised and battered hands, released them from their earthly struggles, granted them eternal sleep. And yet she’s somehow different, this one.
On a whim I get off at St. Patrick Station, the unruly heart of the city I now call home. Despite all these years I’m still drawn to the curious mix of ammonia, cinnamon and damp that greets me in the concourse, somehow a perfect match for the minty green subway tiles. A favourite subway musician of mine sings Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time”, her wistful voice so low it rises above the din. I slip a few dollars into her upturned cap, knowing that I’ll be… visiting with her again tonight.
The girl is a blurry, yellow figure in my peripheral vision, slowly coming into focus. She waves, trying to catch my attention. I let out a long sigh, quickening my pace. She’s not on my list, at least not today’s. Listening to her music on the bus was one thing… I am not one to be pushed into this sort of thing.
I find myself half-walking, half-running away from the girl, back down the concourse steps, back into the underground labyrinth. The girl is fast, yellow sweater billowing about like dust kicked up by Hades’ hellish chariot.
Fed up with this reverse game of cat and mouse, I turn and wait. We stand there momentarily, two kindred spirits united by the darkness within and without. My look tells her all she needs to know: if this is what she wants, then I will allow it. It is my job, after all.
Sprinting now, we stop just before the tracks, sneakers ignoring the yellow safety line. She wants to jump, and she wants my help. We hear the high-pitched whistle before we see the blinding lights: our train is here, just around the bend.
“Ma’am, step away from the tracks. Please, ma’am…” implores the voice from the train, brakes pulled too late.
I grab hold of her arm–she’s not cold like me, and this surprises me for some reason. (Did I think we were so much alike?) There’s a map of scars running along her skin–some old, some new, her very own compass rose. But there is still so much unmarked skin.
She winces at the coldness of my touch.
And so, I show the girl what I can offer. I show her barren fields where nothing lives and nothing dies, where neither sun nor moon rises or sets. I show her worlds above us, worlds below, all filled with souls lost forever. I show her my true self, the cold numbness that I am and that only I can grant. If she so choses, she can lose herself in me.
The girl recoils. She lets go of my hand and steps back from the ledge. The train rushes past and then screeches to a halt. Passengers get off and others get on, so many people with places to be–this underground full of life.
Once more we are alone, standing side by side on the subway platform, the girl’s mascara running again. She folds herself into my jacket, and I let her. A few silent moments pass between us and then I turn to go–up the concourse stairs and wherever I’m drawn to next. This time the girl doesn’t follow.
Myah is a young writer from Toronto, Ontario. Her writing often explores themes of belonging and family, while including fantastical or supernatural elements. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Ripple Foundation and Write the World, and has appeared in Young Voices and Under the Madness.
Letters to Sugar — Birdie Lehel
I'm seeing him again, sugar. Dug into my foxhole with a week’s grime on my face and a fear of death like I’ve never known, I catch him marching through the thick jungle like there’s some parade all the rest of us are too husked to see. He’s easy to spot—what with that gum pop pink hair of his and that bleached skin like it was his skeleton that was on the outside. I'm thinking then that I should be grateful for him, his giving me of something to search for that ain’t a bobbing helmet with a red star patch.
I guess I am grateful. I’d rather those quiet moments where he’s humming marching tunes than the whirling and gunning and the burning of smoke in my eyes. He says his name is Honey. He wears our uniform and leaves the helmet straps hanging like the rest of us, but he ain’t one of us. He thinks he’s living and breathing just like the rest of us, but he ain’t.
I miss you, sugar. I like writing these letters, though Davey and Lou always make fun. Davey says I write too much, but I don’t think he writes enough. He has a stack of postcards in his pack, and when he thinks it's been long enough since the last letter home, he takes one and cuts it in half; uses one side for his momma, and the other for his lady. He’s funny.
Anyway, I’ll keep watching out for Honey, and I’ll keep your pitchur safe.
And love, Khame.
Well, Davey went and died. Went out for a piss into the jungle because we’ve been stationed in an old village with no privacy. Lou heard him first, waking up to his screams. And then came gunfire from the trees, and we couldn’t hear Davey no more because everyone was shouting; foreign shouting from the treeline and our own cries as we left our dreamscapes and started shooting back. Then it was silent. Then the sun came up.
The Cong retreated and left poor Davey with his foot stucked in a ground trap. I won’t tell you what it looked like, sugar. I'm gonna think that he got a bullet in the head and died quick. That’s what I said to Lou, who was quiet and running his fingers in the dirt, and who’s tears I wouldn’t have noticed if sundown wasn’t planting them full of orange light. I said to him: ‘Davey went quick,’ but I don’t think he believed me. He should try to. Years down the line, if I get there, I’ll forget I was lying, and when I recall Davey, I’ll think: ‘It’s sad that he went, but at least he went quick.’ So I’ll keep on dealing and writing and looking at your pitchur and wishing I were anywhere else.
None of us wants to be here. But college wasn’t in our cards, and so we had no way to serve our great America that wasn’t here in the mud, eating dry tinned rations, and dying, but hopefully killing on the way out. I could’ve said I was a consheentshous objector. Said it was against my religion, even though me and Pa never were good Buddhist boys. But there wasn’t much else to do after his funeral, so I thought: ‘Why not?’
That night Davey died, Honey slipped into my foxyhole with something bunched in his arms, smelling like burnt sugar. He pushed the bundle into my arms, and what it was is what I’m writing on right now. Davey’s stack of postcards! Honey must’ve snatched them from his bag before they took his belongings for shipping home. I thanked him so much, and he smiled and nodded, and in the past eight months, I had never felt happier than I did just then. Then, Honey put his cheek to the top of my head and his skinny arms around my neck, saying it was always nice to hold someone. I felt like a worn dog, there with a made-up man lulling me and dead Davey’s postcards in my hand. I looked down, and anything left of the good feelings Honey brought fizzled out because on top of the stack was a card cut in half. And oh lord, sugar.
But love, Khame.
I'm thinking about you, sugar. I'm thinking about what to name a dog I’d like to have, and what sort of house we’d save up for. I’d like for some children, because we’ll make a fine Ma and Pa, and I’ll keep calling you sugar, and you’ll like it so much.
We’re moving back to base camp, which is on the longest stretch of beach. Walking back on different roads, though, and the bugs seem to be meaner. There’s not a single second where I ain’t scratching at some part of myself. But at least I got skin to scratch.
I’d like to update you on Honey, but I haven’t seen him since the village. Sometimes I hear him humming in the tall grass all around us, but sometimes it turns out just to be the wind.
Anyway, I’ve found that I’ve got this awful habit of thinking, sugar. And they’re not thoughts, but hungry little beasties with fur like steel wool and they eat at my pink brain and whatever else is there, gnawing termite-like, and it’s the worst when they find my ear holes, because they start this screeching that bleeds me without drawing any blood and I find that I am afraid and I am hurting and I can’t do nothing to stop it but try to shake them out one ear.
So I need something to do. I have written you a thousand letters, sugar, and a thousand more I have left unfinished. Whenever there’s a bad row of firebombings or a death of one I knew, I begin to color you in. There is your skin and your hair, and the light in your eyes, and I am the drawn moth, and I ask you not to swat me away, thank you. Writing becomes not so much pen to paper, but instead a real, living conversation as you sit in front of me with long legs. It is getting harder to color you in, even as I stare so hard at your pitchur that I’m afraid my eyes will burst.
I found Honey at base camp. It was still dark when we arrived, so his hair was a beacon as it reflected the campfire where he sat. I couldn’t help but go to him. It was easier after all that time apart; I missed his company, though that fact burned me with shame. Please don’t think it betrayal. It’s only that I’ve always needed sweet things, and he answers me when you can’t.
But, tonight, he was not answering me. Wouldn’t even look at me. I peered around his cheek and found that hollowness I know well, and it got me, because I never knew Honey to be hollow when he was always so whole. Whole worlds away at times, but whole all the same. I looked at the sand, its tousled skin. I knew that I was running out of Davey’s postcards. I had written to you too many times. There was a clock, ticking, and I was scared of how I would be once it hit midnight. I looked back up, and there were red eyes on me, neon and ill. And fearful, greatly fearful. Honey said, ‘There’s war tomorrow,’ like we haven’t been in one all this time. ‘Bad, blissful war.’
I went forward and held him, feeling skin and learning muscle and finding the precious bones of his fingers. Still, I would not call him real, but as I collapsed into him, I knew him to be as real as you, sugar.
He thanked me, thanked me. Then went sorry, sorry. A soupy rolling came to my stomach, and I wrenched myself away and threw. Honey patted my back and hummed as I pressed my forehead into the sand. The baby dunes around me cupped my ears so all noise was an acre away, and Honey had given me a warm sweetness so far from illness that I could barely believe my health was rocketing away.
I hadn’t a clue how, but I began to meditate. And I supposed that maybe Nirvana wasn’t so far away, as long as my head was in the sand.
With love, Khame.
Been stuck in a medical tent for the past day. Honey set up a game of solitaire over my legs, thinking he was funny. When the medic saw me—unaware, he balanced his clipboard on Honey’s head—I grabbed his wrist and told him it was malaria. He wriggled away and said it was just likely a bad bug. I hated him for a second, but then he gave me a lemon drop as he left, and so he is a fine one. Honey gossiped to me as he played, telling me that Mac’s serving time had just been reset because of the injury that put him out to a hospital back home, and that our commander had a secret chest of whiskey in his tent. I nodded along, grateful for the stream of words, but I could tell that Honey wasn’t interested, really. He’d look over his shoulder, then back at me, then to the cards, constantly circling his head. I suppose he thought I wouldn’t be able to catch the fear that remained in him if he kept moving and talking.
‘What’s scaring you?’ I asked softly, because he looked to me like a child close to crying.
He went still and focused on a dot of space far to the left of me. Finally, he murmured, ‘You can’t hear them, but I can.’ I asked who. He said, ‘The dying ones.’ I leaned forward and—because there would never be a better time—asked, ‘How much do you know about dying, then?’
He seemed miffed, but only for a second, because then great waves of sadness made his features limp. ‘I can recognize it as surely as anyone, and even surer where others can’t. Because of all these little wars and all these little boys I’ve shepherded to the better place, I think.’
That settled on me like silt settling on a creekbed. ‘And you’re shepherding me,’ I said, because I felt I knew, and it did not scare me as much as I thought it would. I had escaped death once, but if it were back again to take me with knotty fingers and hair like washed away blood, I would let it. It was the way of things, and I understood—truly, then—that we both needed someone to hold. I thought of Pa, you, and the Buddha. Davey, even, and all the blank letters he didn’t know he left me. I must have said goodbye, somewhere in the haze of it.
But Honey shook his head and put a hand on my wrist. ‘No,’ he said, so simply. Then, I was the child close to crying, because even death refused to take me. ‘I was,’ he continued. An oldness swept over his face; he wasn’t young and bleary any longer, but still and clear-eyed. ‘When I come around, most soldiers think me a bad man. They try to fight me off. But not you. Someone was doing my job for me, loosening your lid.’ Wordlessly, he plucked your pitchur from my breast pocket and placed it beneath the king on his solitaire spread.
You sit sideways on a stool, your long legs stretched out and hooked together by the ankle. You are so pretty, pinning up your curls. But you’re also ditzy, because your bra strap is falling and you haven’t seemed to notice, there surrounded by a dozen slithering limbs vying for your attention, naked bodies like plucked swans trying to fly. You, at the center of it all, like the single dot of space at the end of a long road, letting me run to you, then taking me into you.
I’m not sure how exactly it happened, but it began first with twin teardrops falling onto your pitchur. And then I was crying—wholly crying—and then you reached out through the paper and stroked my cheek, and all the beasties woke and hammered around in my skull and there was Pa and then me, wringing my hands alone in the trailer, and then there was the recruiter asking what I had planned for the future, anyway, and he was right, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he? It was the night before I went off to basic training that I flipped through the skins magazine. I saw you, decided, cut you out and folded you up, and slipped you into my pocket. You were always with me, even when I was deployed and found my mortality was a fairy man with pink hair and white skin, winking at me through a whole crowd of my kind: boys who could die, easy. You were sweetness I couldn’t taste anywhere else, and I got sick on you.
Then, Honey kissed my forehead, dragged me from the cot, and danced us out onto the shore. There were a thousand cracks in my skull, so I closed my eyes against the ache. Water started lapping at my boots. Into the ocean, then, and all I could do was bend my head into his shoulder. Honey said, ‘I only wanted a friend, but it won’t do for you to be a friend of mine. Not where I’m going. Oh, I’m so sorry, Khame. So very, very sorry.’
I blubbered that I was sorry, too, for acting like a baby.
‘It’s alright. You’re just as scared as I am tired,’ he said. ‘And I am so tired.’ The sea level was up to my shoulders, now, and I opened my eyes to see him kicking hard to keep his face above the dark water. ‘Tired of the way of things, I guess, and just tired, too.’ Slivers of moonlight ran along the edges of the turning tide, weakly lighting our way. I wondered how far he would take us. I then wondered if I could find the strength within myself to swim back to shore.
‘I’ll ask of you only one more thing.’
I nodded.
‘It’ll be hard for you to do, but you have to.’
I swallowed seawater and coughed, then nodded. I swore I would do anything, as long as he didn’t leave me to rot. Or, if it were rotting we would be doing, I would be okay with that, just as long as I wasn’t doing it alone.
Honey, his face like a porcelain doll’s in waves of black velvet, said: ‘Push me out to sea.’
I held tighter to his shoulders and weakened my kicking. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’ He sneered, and his teeth were yellow. He clawed at my neck, dunked my head in the water once, twice, then brought me back up, and I found that I was gasping for air.
‘You don’t feel that?’ His tinny voice made his words sound like metal cans sliding against each other, brash and harsh and untaken by the growing wind. ‘Cool breath in your nose and mouth! Cool breath like ice pops on hot days! I’m not asking this of you, I’m telling you! Push me out to sea,’ he repeated. His voice softened, his hands trembling where they pushed at my fat cheeks. ‘I’m too much of a coward to do it myself.’
I breathed and then breathed and then breathed. Honey was right, sugar. I’ve never tasted anything so good in my whole life. The last thing I said before I let go was Thank you.
…
I’ve gone past thinking of you, sugar, and our fake future. I’ve gone past thinking of Pa, too, though there wasn’t much to think about except that I loved him and still miss him, and will never stop loving and missing him. And, of course, there was always the truth of Honey. When I let him go, I watched him drift away until his pink hair disappeared behind a wave.
Now, I’ve been thinking of the Buddha, and also of Nirvana. I should’ve been a better little Buddhist boy. I should’ve actually been a Buddhist boy, and not a boy who saw religion sometimes in the icons Pa put up, and through Pa’s path of enlightenment that he never—I don’t think—achieved. He bumbled drunk along that path, so I never thought of it as a straight way to go. But he really tried, so I’m thinking of it now.
I don’t want to be here anymore, and it’s not just because I don’t want to die. That’s a whole other thing I’ve been figuring out—that it’s living I want to do, anyway I make it. I could be looking for enlightenment, or just someone to share breath with. Right now, I want to go home, even when there isn’t a soul waiting for me. Before I burn your pitchur and all these mock letters, I’d like to thank you, too. I suppose you won’t exist once I forget about you, but I’m not sure how I could go forgetting any time soon. I promise I won’t. I’ll remember you sweetly, like sugar and honey.
Khame.
Dear Honey,
I made it home. It’s peach season in Louisiana, so I had my first one in a long time. I forgot how sweet they were, and how they would make my teeth ache.
I am writing from the porch and watching wind and sunlight move through the trees. I’ve dug up Pa’s collection of the scriptures and have started reading them, but I ain’t sure if they’re for me. I'm not worried, though. I’ll find something, now that I’ve started looking.
Love, Khame.
Birdie Lehel is a Florida high school senior who doesn't mind the heat, really. She writes mainly magical realist short stories, but also dips into the genres of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. She hopes to pursue a career in writing and inspire others to enjoy storytelling as much as she does.
Bunker Door — Ryan Landels
The lights in Leon’s room reached 70 lux, illuminating his sleeping form and the cobbled-together radio. The radio crackled with static, a dial slowly rotating around the frequencies. Short of the frequency searcher slowly rotating, there wasn’t any motion in the room.
The light reached 400 lux when the first word came out of the radio: “Fear.” The frequency searcher, oblivious to the change from static to word, continued gradually cycling through the frequencies.
The light’s brightness continued ramping up, growing to 10,000 lux. When Leon failed to wake, the room brightened tenfold. He began to stir, not wanting to wake up and complete yesterday’s tasks again today. The radio spoke again, “My,” and he startled, rolled over, and fell off the bed.
Sleep still clouded his eyes as he fiddled with the radio, trying to disable his frequency searcher. Slowly, he ran the dial through the frequencies, searching for the words in the radio. He tuned out the hum of fan-forced air, trying to find a pattern in the static, barely noticing the light as it dimmed to match what he’d been taught sunlight was. And then he found it:
“I will remember you, my child, of my cold and distant place.
And though the void lives on, and I am gone,
I will remember you, my child,
despite your attempts at harm.
Do not fear my child,
for I remember you always,
and you could never do me any harm.”
With that, the radio fell back into static. Leon let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and his shoulders slumped. He lay back in his bed, running all the poems he knew through his head. He’d never heard this one. Perhaps Alphus knew. He typed out the poem on his tablet, before sending it to Alphus and rising for the day.
His routine kept him busy, but not busy enough to forget the radio transmission. He hoped what he’d heard was a poem. Poems were how he broke the monotony. Poems and his cobbled-together radio were the two things that he hadn’t inherited from the previous inhabitants.
The day’s work continued to be monotonous. After the radiation leak in the lower half of the bunker, the bunker’s custodians were reduced to just Alphus Septimus and Leon. As if the bunker knew this, the amount of regular maintenance required to run the bunker had been shrinking since the reactor leak. Hydroponics B and C were shut down last week after the water filter in the piping broke. After the coolant pipes began to leak, HVAC had been shut off in non-essential areas. Still, the power generator limped along, running off of solar and battery reserves, since the fission reactor’s leak caused it to shut down.
Half of the day passed before Leon ran into Alphus, by the bunker door that was streaked with rust. Leon was pretty sure that was the door to the outside, though Alphus had never confirmed it. Whenever Leon raised that question, he was reminded of the pointlessness in knowing which door was the outside door and somehow, Leon never continued the argument.
“Alphus. I think there may be life outside.”
“Leon Korsavo. The world was not sufficiently irradiated for the total eradication of life. Plenty of plant, bacteria, fungal, and possibly even simple animal life has probably survived. Why have you brought this up again?”
“I think I heard a new poem, on the shortwave.”
“Unlikely. It’s just a broadcast bouncing around the ionosphere.”
“Can you at least ask the database if this poem is new? I sent what I heard this morning.”
“I can. I have downtime tonight. I will get back to you, but please remember the database isn’t exhaustive.”
With that, Alphus pivoted on his heel, his long jacket twirling around him. It was a dozen paces before Alphus pivoted again, turning to face a wall. His mechanical right arm clicked and whirred as he plugged into the wall-mounted universal port.
“You should get back to work. Even with the decreasing maintanence, the bunker is hard to maintain with two people and we cannot permit excess idleness.” Alphus’ voice sounded far away, as if this was some subroutine programmed into his voice box.
The day was uneventful after. Following Alphus’ instructions didn’t lead to an exciting day. Rebellion against the rules was an option, but not one Leon had considered for a long time. Not since the days of Alphus Sextus, Alphus Septimus’ father. He had thought it an odd tradition at the time, naming the family all the same name. Only later had he found it odd that there was no Mrs. Sextus to meet, but by that time Alphus Sextus had died and Alphus Septimus was in charge. That was the day that reactor had melted down. The crisis was narrowly avoided, but only Leon and Alphus Septimus had survived. Protocol dictated Alphus Septimus was to be placed in charge.
They had consumed the rest of the meat rations in the ensuing weeks. Alphus Septimus had told him that the refrigeration units had been damaged by the meltdown and the meat rations had to be consumed immediately. Alphus had been rather quiet during that time. In fairness, Leon had been quiet, processing the fact his parents wouldn’t be coming home anymore. They had both kept busy in the months after, suppressing their grief through working.
Lunch and dinner had as much taste as sucking on the plastic that made up the plates they were served on. The radio was crackling on static when Leon returned to his room. The frequency searcher scrolled the frequencies, dial rotating slowly, but only yielded static.
Leon’s tablet pinged with a message from Alphus: No media found with those lines. Remember the database isn’t complete and this isn’t indicative of outside life. Have you received any more transmissions?
Sleep had nearly come when the radio spoke again: “Do.” Leon turned off the frequency scroller and found the channel again. Taking note of the frequency, 49.42 MHz, he listened to more of the poem, transcribing all the new parts he heard:
“Do not fear my child.
For even when you leave me for red dust and white rock.
When you walk the paths of curiosity and discovery and opportunity.
And through your perseverance on this darkest path.
Nothing can be done to harm me,
until yellow gives way to red,
and I do breath my last,
forced from my very being, the final exhale in an uncaring universe.
I will remember you my child,
though your bones were ashes a millennia ago.
When a swollen red embrace,
pushes the last breath from me,
and flays my very existence from this place…”
Leon found moisture in his eyes. An unusual feeling that he’d only felt after the reactor leak, after his parents never came home again. After sending it off to Alphus, he collapsed onto his bed, feeling things he couldn’t remember how to process.
The next morning, Leon resolved to carry his radio in his pocket, removing the frequency scroller and adjusting it back to 49.42 MHz. He’d woken early for the purpose of showing Alphus the poem, hoping to evoke the same strange feelings in Alphus that the poem evoked in himself.
He passed by Alphus Septimus at the door again. “Alphus, d’you have a radio?”
“I don’t need one of those luxuries.”
“Take mine. Keep it tuned to 49.42 MHz. The poem should be on soon.” Leon pressed his radio in Alphus’ hands, forcing him to put it in his pocket. Leon waited, but Alphus pushed past him, knocking him slightly as Leon failed to get out of the optimal path.
Just then, the radio crackled to life.
“This is Jurgen Etason, of the commute Kaman. Today is the last day I will read this poem, Mother to Child, by our very own Matilda Vargendaughter.
Do not fear my child.
For though you pump and dig of the ones who came before.
And though you belch your clouds of pearlescent fog and smoke.
And when you pour your waste, bleaching coral and algae red.
Despite your blinding flashes, and chemical burns, and power yearns…”
Leon had heard the rest already, but it was still just as moving a second time around. Alphus Septimus had begun to breathe funny, his breath making the same hitching and irregularities Leon’s had made last night.
“Did you ever learn Greek, Leon?” It was a rather unusual question. Alphus never asked what Leon knew, except for that which pertained to a task. Without waiting, Alphus continued, “There were 26 bunkers that were built and staffed by 26 cyborgs. This is Bunker One, and was originally founded by Alphus Primus. Eta Primus staffed Bunker Seven. Etason must be the descendant of the Eta bunker staff. Unusual that they are transmitting and referring to the Eta Bunker as commute Kaman.
Alphus emitted a strange whooping sound that Leon had never seen him express before. “And I thought I was the last one! A strange twist of cosmic fate and irony, the Alphus becoming the Omegon, but no! There are others!” Then, in a more restrained tone, “We should contact them and offer them some of the resources of our bunker.”
Before Leon could point out that the two, half-broken hydroponics units could barely feed the two of them—especially since the end of the meat rations that Alphus had found after the reactor leak—let alone another bunker, the fans that cycled air around the bunker stopped functioning. There was an audible click as they stopped in mid-cycle, belts being thrown as the gears stopped turning and began to grind to a halt. Alphus cocked his head at this noise, then he plugged himself into the wall.
“There is sufficient air in the bunker for about a week’s worth of survival. After that, we asphyxiate.” An eerie silence descended. Without the fan-forced air, there was no background hum, no feeling of air moving ever so slightly. It was as if someone had plugged their ears and numbed their skin.
“We can’t invite them back to the bunker then, can we Alphus?”
“We cannot offer them refuge, no. It appears our options are a slow and painless death from CO2 inhalation or a potentially sudden, swift, and/or painful death outside. I would like time to think this over.” Alphus bustled Leon out of the corridor and put him into Hydroponics D.
Alphus took the radio out of his pocket and pressed it into Leon’s hands, “Take it, see if you can’t find more information out.” The door locked with an audible click and Leon was left locked in the garden. With nothing better to do than stave off the inevitability of potential death, Leon checked water levels and monitored the calcification of the pipes.
Perhaps an hour had passed before the door unlocked. Leon opened it and found that the only unlocked door in the hallway was to the machine shop where he’d cobbled together his radio years ago. There was a note on the workbench, written in Alphus’ perfect script: You should figure out how to build a transmitter.
It had taken nearly two hours, but Leon had nearly finished the transmitter. Using the last bits of scrap to solder an audio pickup to the circuit board, he’d built an ad hoc microphone. All that was left was to plug it into the radio. Before he could do that, Alphus Septimus walked in with a lunch tray.
Handing the tray to Leon, he began speaking, “I’ve put the bunker to sleep. The lights are dimming, the water is draining, and the generator will go into standby soon. Have you finished the transmitter?”
“I have. Shall we attempt to communicate with Jurgen Etason?”
“Yes.”
Leon adjusted the dial, rotating it to 49.42 MHz. Plugging the microphone into the radio, he flicked a handful of switches and began speaking.
“Commute Kaman, Commute Kaman, this is the inhabitants of Bunker Alpha. Is anyone there?”
Static greeted his statement, crackling with the inherent randomness of the universe. Nearly a minute dragged out, each second stretching out as Leon checked either side of the frequency. Leon repeated his call into the radio, then continued waiting. Out of frustration and boredom, he kicked the table the radio was sitting on.
“Bunker Alpha, Bunker Alpha, this is Commute Kaman. We hear you loud and clear. Mind telling us where the bunker is so we can pop over?”
Alphus leaned past and spoke before Leon could, “Bunker Alpha is compromised. Half of it is irradiated, the guardian is compromised, and the ventilation system has failed completely. We request a pick up at the following coordinates: thirty-eight point seven, four, four, seven degrees north, one-oh-four point eight, four, three, three degrees west. Repeat, thirty-eight point seven, four, four, seven degrees north, one-oh-four point eight, four, three, three degrees west.”
“Copy that. We’re sending out a convoy, it should meet you in an hour and a half.”
Leon waited until they stopped transmitting, then asked Alphus, “What guardian? How’s it compromised?”
“The guardian is the term referring to a collection of point-defense weapons hidden in caves around the entrance. Geological tremors and the like have rendered them inoperable and sealed them in.”
The time passed quickly, Leon gathering his handful of possessions. Alphus emerged from his room with a knapsack. The lights were slowly dimming as they walked to the bunker door. The evening broadcast on 49.42 MHz played, the poem being listened to in its entirety for the final time. Leon could’ve sworn he saw moisture in Alphus’ eyes, but the half light made things difficult to make out. Alphus plugged himself into the wall, and the corroded doors shuddered open for the first time in seven generations.
A dry breeze blew over the two of them. Dust carried into the bunker for the first time in either of their lives. A desolate expanse greeted them, grey ash and white snow mixing on the ground. A handful of burnt trees were scattered around the entrance to the bunker. About a kilometer away, a cloud of ash and snow was kicked up by a trio of trucks.
It wasn’t the paradise outside that Leon imagined. There wasn’t a lush green—or even a sickly green. It wasn’t the desolate, irradiated wasteland that Alphus spoke of. The charred remnants of civilization and the death of a species wasn’t to be found recorded across the sands of this new desert. As the trucks approached, Leon and Alphus took one last look around the bunker enterance—a final glance at a sight they’d only just met. Alphus waited as Leon got into the truck, then tossed his knapsack into the truck and closed the door behind Leon. Before Leon could protest, Alphus slapped the bumper and waved the trucks off. As the trucks sped off, Leon watched, helpless, as Alphus returned inside the bunker. It wasn’t his place to cajole the drivers into turning around for Alphus. Besides, between the coughing of the engine and the rattling of sand and pebbles being driven over, it was all quite impossible to make out what the drivers were saying into their headsets.
After the bunker door closed behind Alphus, Leon opened the knapsack. Inside were two items. A storage box with various implements and tools. Alphus’ practical spirit, carried with Leon. The other item was a paper note:
I’m sorry. There is no guardian point-defence weaponry. I am the guardian and I cannot come with you in good conscience. Not after what I did after the reactor leak. This is my choice, and you are not allowed to change it. —Alphus Septimus
Ryan Landels is a high school author who spends his days writing, doing more homework than he deems necessary, and assembling/painting small plastic miniatures. He also writes music and plays piano and euphonium. This is his first publication.
The Promise Well — Andrea Zhang
It was Christmas Eve at my parents’ house. The family gathered around the large round table where everybody seemed to be at perfect distances too far from each other. There was Grandma’s creamy onion soup and Aunt’s honey ham, all to my left; mashed potatoes with too much cheese, Napoleon cake, to my far right; beef stroganoff, Costco rotisserie chicken, and garlic stir-fried greens in the center; honey-baked bread, flatbreads, and an untouched cheese board on the opposite end. My older sister, Teresa, sat at my ten o’clock with her boyfriend to her right, a loud-laughing brown-headed boy, and my cousins huddled next to them, hands trembling from too long a separation from phones. My mom sat two seats to my left, between the cousins and Dad, and across from them were my uncle and his wife, who were consumed in their own conversation. Grandpa sat next to me, his breath bubbling through phlegm and the dry walls of his throat. His sister sat to his right, eyelids heavy with purple-powdered makeup and thick, creasy eyeliner, and her hair put up in a marble-patterned claw clip with her bangs set with choking vanilla-smelling spray. Then, finally, Grandma, who sat next to the sister, her shoulders hunched toward her plate as if guarding it from others’ gazes. She wore her pearls again, the ones with brown silver pedals stiffening out, the ones she always said were “Pacific,” though no one remembered why that mattered anyway.
Grandpa reached for my hand with his rough left palm, then his sister’s, and soon the whole table was encircled by sweatered arms and fancy rings and thick metallic watches conjoined. I looked toward my sister. She gazed down at the patterned tablecloth and didn’t close her eyes before I did. Grandpa coughed violently into a napkin and bellowed.
“Dear Father, thank You for conjoining us here on this blessed evening. Thank You for the hands that prepared this meal, and for the roof over our heads. Thank You for family, those near and those far, and for the grace that carries us through another year—”
I peeked through the tight slit between eyelids. Teresa’s pupils reflected the round white bowls in front of her. I shut my eyes again.
“We pray You remind us of Your goodness, even when we forget, and keep love in this home, even when it’s hard to find. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
“Amen.”
The word left our mouths like relief before the next hiccup.
The clatter of forks and knives ensued: heavy ceramic spoons scraping against the bellies of bowls, large chunks of colors hoarded in neat designations on plates. Grandpa lunged for the mashed potatoes, beef stroganoff, honey ham, and honey-baked bread. Ma waited patiently for the greens she made. The two cousins tore up the Costco rotisserie chicken. Dad went for a flatbread—inelegant as it kept sliding off, coming undone by the repeated punctures of the awkward prongs. Teresa didn’t eat, looking somewhat disgusted by the stringy mashed potatoes, her fingers folding the same tissue but in a different pattern. Grandpa’s sister went straight for the Napoleon cake, despite it being dessert. The clinking and scraping of plates almost sounded like running water, constant yet thin.
“Sharon, why don’t you go grab the gin?”
“Gin? You know I hate gin.”
“Then what you got? Just give me anything to loosen up.”
Mom sighed, stood, and disappeared toward the kitchen. The table kept moving in circles with small laughter, persistent clanking, and the muted Christmas music in the background. She returned with two bottles of wine and glasses that weren’t meant for it. The cousins, having wolfed down their dinner, were sent to my old bedroom to play video games. She poured too generously, each glass filled to the rim.
First sips softened everyone: Grandpa reclined, Dad laughed at something no one heard, Mom and Grandma and Grandpa’s sister drifted into the things they used to do as little girls. Teresa’s mouth bent into a quaint smile.
“You know, you used to tell your sister that story about that well. You remember? She loved that one.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I pretended she didn’t imply wanting me to tell it.
“C’mon, Tommy, you hafta tell it. C’mon, just––”
“I’m not––”
“The whole family’s here, Tommy. Don’t dampen the mood. I mean… c’mon, sweetie.”
The entire table looked dreamily at me, eyes pink and eyelids drooling, corners of mouths lifted unnaturally. I shook my head, letting out a short, sprained laugh. Dad wheezed.
“Now we’re talking.”
“Alright.”
Teresa pressed her index belly along the rim of her glass, tracing a slow circle. I looked at her, then at the table: Grandma’s floral tablecloth snagged where the wood underneath was nicked and uneven. The patterns were a duller color than I remember, though their name hadn’t changed. I began.
There once was a well at the bottom of a hill, in view of a village with no name. The well was said to have been there since eternity, its stone walls eroded by rain and wind and the etching of initials. The water of the well was said to be the kind of blue you only saw thirty minutes after a sunset, a color a young boy thought looked like forgetting. And so, the villagers assumed it was sweeter water, though they never tried. One day, the little boy decided to go to the well and fetch a pail of this sweet water. His parents warned against it, as the village witch used the water in the well to conjure wicked spells, but he didn’t listen. He ran down the hill at dawn, his shoes muddied and legs cramping as he rolled his ankle while trying to get there. Reaching the well, he peered down its deep shaft, watching faint shimmers emerging from darkness. He grabbed his pail, double-knotted to a thicker rope, and tossed it down the opening. There was no plunk or echo. The boy looked down, puzzled, before pulling the empty pail up. He gazed panic-stricken at the rising sun, and, facing away from the blinding light, pulled the dry rope up bit by bit until a dampened part caught him off guard. The pail was filled to the brim with blue water, yet had no weight. Thirsty, he set the pail on the ground and sent water down his throat with cupped hands, the water so refreshing and cold he could not stop. By the end of his drinking spree, he looked around the pail where the water must’ve trickled down his elbows to the ground. In small bundles where the water met the land, the grass emerged greener than ever, small wildflowers budding and blooming. The boy’s eyes flashed with awe as he touched the newly born life, before he threw the pail back down the well and pulled up another full bucket of water that had no weight. I wish this water could help Ma, he thought to himself, before walking as quickly as he could back to the village, his limp no longer there.
A chair scraped beside me. Teresa pushed hers back, napkin pressed to her lips.
“Bathroom,” she said softly.
No one moved until the door clicked shut down the hall.
Mom laughed. “Keep going, Tommy.”
Grandpa coughed into his right palm, nodding.
I took another sip of wine. “Right,” I said. “So the boy brought the water home.”
Holding the water firmly against his chest, he arrived back home to a small stone house near the middle of the town. His mother laid pallid in bed, diseased from something no one in the town could name, and both the doctor and the witch said she couldn’t make it. The boy grabbed a small cup from the cupboard, scooping it full of water and placing a straw which he directed to his mother’s lips. “Drink, Ma,” he said softly. The puffy-eyed woman sipped cautiously, though each sip grew exponentially in size. The boy couldn’t look at his mother like this—so frail and defeated in demeanor—so he looked at the floor, lightly sobbing. The floorboard creaked beneath his feet, and he turned to see whether it was his brother or father at the door, but felt a caress from behind. He turned back slowly, first seeing luscious dark locks of hair, smooth, blemishless skin, glistening umber eyes, then red cheeks. “Ma?” he asked, turning to the miracle. His father, hearing the commotion, ran down the stairs with the boy’s brother. The family conjoined in a long, reviving embrace.
From down the hall came the sound of a door unlatching. I paused. Water was running somewhere, steady, thin, and polite.
“That her?” Dad said, half-whisper.
“Keep going,” Mom said, almost shrieking. “Don’t stop there.”
I nodded. I stared at the red in Teresa’s glass, bruising blue under the white light.
News of the well quickly spread despite the family’s attempt to keep secret, and they called it the Promise Well, both in the literal and metaphorical sense—similar to a wishing well that “wishes well,” the only difference being that the word “promise” guarantees it. Despite it being winter, the men of the town ran, trudging in deep snow, to the well with their big buckets. They dropped them down until intuition told them to pull. They heard no plunk, no echoes. Hoping to see the blue splash in front of their eyes, they reeled in the buckets as fast as they could, but to no avail: the well’s water seemed to have frozen somehow, even though no one could reach the icy layer. The witty women, seeing their husbands slouched over the well in defeat, had other ideas. As the flowers from the boy’s water-spilling remained in full bloom, poking through the snow, the women tumbled down the hill, desperate to uproot the flowers to find the water. They clawed at the snow, the dirt curling into the crescents of their nails, shredding away at the earth. Some women emerged victorious from the wrestling grounds, others calling their husbands to shovel the snow with their buckets to find any leftover roots. The defeated ones began collecting the solid dirt around the uprooted plants, hoping for elixir.
The villagers returned to their homes, muttering prayers under their breath. Some hoped for health, some happiness, others beauty. Then they began the process of consummation—some gnawing at the flowers and stems, some boiling soups from roots, others waiting for the ragged blocks of dirt to melt. But their wishes, the well’s promises, at best, only came half answered. The middle-aged man suffering from cancer felt unburdened for two months before his condition reverted; the young lady who asked for a slim nose kept it for a week; the child who wished his cat return to life fell into a coma for seven months, dreaming of his lost companion. The boy saw all of this and found the four jars of water his parents had placed in the false back of the kitchen cupboard. He quietly reached behind the thin wooden panel and grabbed a jar labeled “+” before tiptoeing back to his room. He sat on his bed with his eyes shut. I wish everyone would forget about the water and the well. He twisted the lid open carefully, afraid any would splash out if his movement was too sudden. He lifted the jar to his lips slowly before gulping desperately. He put the empty jar behind the curtains of his window and went to bed.
When he woke up the next morning, he peered out the window at the well. Spring had begun to thaw the land; the sky crystal blue, clouds moving away from him accompanied by birdsong. He looked down. Almost the whole village herded around the well. His veins tightened, his limbs bound by the shudder of cold panic. Before he even got ready, he ran to the well, trying to squeeze through the masses. The opening of the well was completely jammed with buckets, ropes knotted together and people quarreling over how to get their buckets to rise first. A young girl, with a small tin can tied to a long piece of string, slid her contraption between the crevices of the other buckets, and eventually, the tin flashed blue. Before the boy could see her run with the can, a lady with a lanky shadow whispered into his ear never to wish for what he did ever again because it couldn’t become true. The boy turned as fast as he could to look for the woman, but she had vanished.
Other than the little girl with her tin can, a couple others were able to obtain the sweet water. Those who didn’t do so discreetly had their water either stolen or spilled immediately, and the herd of villagers raged forth, some burning the ropes and using knives to cut the tangled mess loose. The pails all fell to the bottom, and as the masses lowered more ropes down the hole, no more water came back.
The villagers began tossing coins, paper, hair of themselves and loved ones into the well, hoping for answers. Some days, the promises would be fulfilled, but for the most of the time, the well stood in silence. The village rustled with anger. They tore down its stone walls, its roof, setting fire to it and the ground around, dancing wild-eyed in circles. They widened its mouth, digging ruthlessly until all the trash and unwanted things could be thrown down—unwanted food, unwanted furniture, unwanted people. The blue they once worshipped turned to gray, and they stopped believing there had ever been water in the first place. Still, the ground around the well stayed damp, as if it remembered.
The bathroom door opened softly, revealing Teresa, her hair damp against her temples. She walked back toward the table but didn’t sit, only stood there listening. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned—or maybe that was the well. I looked up. Teresa’s wine was always blue.
Mom was screaming from fear and confusion. The blue spread on the bowls, the plates, her hands, smelling faintly of soap and iron, steaming. I waited for the flowers, the way they once burst from the dirt in bright, stupid faith. But all that remained was Grandma’s tablecloth, its printed blossoms flattening under the white light.
Someone’s glass, her boyfriend’s probably, struck the tile, rolled once, and kept rolling beneath the table. Teresa’s mouth moved like she was trying to speak, but no sound came—only that slow glugging, water rising through a drain.
I kept telling myself, it’s just a story, just a story, but the floorboards were already wet.
I looked at Teresa, her eyes reflecting that impossible blue, the shade that came thirty minutes after the sunset, the color the boy had once thought like forgetting. She wasn’t afraid. I couldn’t stand her for that.
After that night, no one mentioned the water.
We called the plumber the next morning. He walked circles in his paper shoe covers, shining his flashlight into the sink, the pipes, under the dishwasher. He ran the tap, jiggled the knobs, checked the water heater in the basement.
“There’s no leak.”
He scribbled in his yellow pamphlet.
“If anything, your pressure’s low.”
Mom nodded and began writing the check. Grandma scrubbed the tablecloth in the sink until the flowers blurred into a pale field. The stain wouldn’t come out.
Teresa said nothing. She didn’t drink at dinner after that. Not water, not wine. She shifted to things in cans, her fingers reflective around the metal. Glass couldn’t be trusted.
Around then, I heard her in the bathroom long past midnight with the fan on, water hitting porcelain in a thin, unbroken stream. I stood in the hallway, waiting for a shadow under the door. When she finally stepped out, the light behind her washed straight through her; she brushed past me without weight, leaving only the faint, familiar smell of soap and something metallic. She didn’t look back.
Some time later, the “well story” turned into a party trick again. Mom would bring it up when the wine went down too fast at Thanksgiving or Easter.
“Tell them about the well. The miracle water. The villagers. Remember, Tommy?”
Everyone would look at me. I’d start from the hill, the boy, the witch, the blue. I never talked about the pipes groaning or the floorboards staying damp for days. Never about how Teresa started sleeping with the bathroom fan on, drowning out the sound of drains. In some versions, the boy’s mother lives. In others, she doesn’t. I watch people’s faces as I adjust it, tweak the outcome by a sentence or two. Their eyes brighten or dim on cue.
Nobody ever asks what happened to the boy.
Teresa stopped sitting through the story altogether. She’d stand up halfway through, step outside into the cold, breath coming out in little white bursts. Every time, I pretended I didn’t notice. Every time, I knew exactly where she was going: the side of the house, where the downspout emptied into a small square of earth that never quite dried, even in August.
Sometimes I’d go look at it after she left. The ground stayed slick, dark, faintly soft under my shoe. No flowers. Just the possibility of them, withheld.
Andrea Zhang is a senior at Western Reserve Academy in Ohio. She writes fiction and essays attentive to voice, restraint, and social performance, grounded in close observation. Her work has received NCTE Achievement Awards in Writing First Class distinction, and she is a graduate of the Iowa 6-Week Online Writing Workshop. She serves as Student Body Co-President and as a senior editor of her school newspaper. She is glass-half-full, with reservations.
Things There Are Only 1 Of — Alice Pulsinelli
1 . Vanilla, Apparently
At this self-serve soft-serve ice cream place five blocks away from our house, the vanilla machine’s label says “the one and only.” What confused me about it was that vanilla was actually the only flavor that had two machines you could serve yourself ice cream from--not even chocolate had two, just “the one and only” vanilla.
I pointed this out to my mom and she said, “There’s irony for you,” and then got some strawberry ice cream. At the toppings bar all she put on was strawberries, which really bothered me because a) why would you put strawberries on strawberry ice cream; that creates no depth of flavor at all, and b) why would you put fruit on your ice cream when there are a million candies to choose from? When I tried to bring this up, my mom just said that the sweetness of a good strawberry could outlast any candy. This seemed to me to be fairly objectively inaccurate, but I just shrugged and dug into my salted caramel ice cream with M&M’s and Reese’s mini cups.
My brother Johnny’s favorite soft serve flavor is vanilla, but he’s the kind of kid who gets like a tablespoon of ice cream and then absolutely loads on the toppings (candy, not strawberries). My mom doesn’t really approve of this (“If you begged to come get ice cream, the least you could do is actually get ice cream,” I remember her saying). Johnny hasn’t come with us for a while, though, so his ice cream habits might have changed. I really hope not.
My dad says he doesn’t like ice cream, except I know he likes pistachio because he ate it when my mom brought some home for him. Maybe he just doesn’t like coming with us to get it.
2. My Favorite Rooms in My House
In fifth grade, we had to write a list of favorites, and one of them was “favorite room in your house.” I knew right away which 1 mine was, so I wrote it down, but then I erased it and wrote “my bedroom” because that’s what everyone else at my table wrote and I realized that maybe my actual 1 was kind of weird.
My 1 favorite room in my house is my brother Johnny’s room. Sometimes I go in there just to read, or write, or do homework. This really bothers my mom, who asks me, “Why don’t you just go work in your room? It’s much cozier in there.” I don’t really know how to respond to this. How would I possibly explain that my peach walls and quilted bedspread and nice polka-dot lamp that was a birthday gift just don’t feel like home as much as the gray walls and corner drumset of Johnny’s room?
One time I was reading in Johnny’s room really late because my mom forgot to come up and tell me to go to bed, and Johnny got home from wherever he was, and he came up and turned on the light and saw me and yelped and said, “[Expletive] El, you scared me [expletive]less.” I thought about reminding him that that language makes Mom mad, but I decided to just say, “Sorry.”
He sighed and said, “It’s okay,” and then he grabbed something off his desk and left again. I went back to my work until Mom came up and told me to go to bed and asked me again why I don’t just read in my room since it’s much cozier.
3. Blue Dodgeballs in Gym Class
Since I don’t like playing dodgeball in gym class, one day instead of playing I counted how many of each different color of ball there were. It was a challenge since they were being thrown around, so I can’t guarantee any of the totals, but I noticed that there was only 1 blue dodgeball.
Since I don’t like playing dodgeball in gym class, now I play a game instead where I try to get out only by being hit with the blue dodgeball. I don’t really want anyone to know I’m doing this, since it seems a little weird, but sometimes I also pretend that it’s good luck, somehow, to be hit only by the 1 blue dodgeball, like maybe if I get hit by it Johnny will be home before dinner, or maybe he’ll actually be at school tomorrow. It’s never worked, but I read somewhere that the very definition of superstition involves ignoring logic. So I do it again. And again, and again.
4. My Parents’ Favorite Children
I read in the advice column of the newspaper a letter from a mom who liked 1 of her kids better than the other and felt all guilty about it, and I wondered if it was from my mom, but then I figured it wasn’t because a) I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t have time to write to the advice column, and b) I’m not sure she’s guilty about it.
You can even hear it in the way she says our names: the L’s in Ellie roll off her tongue like silky molasses, but the N’s in Johnny stick in her throat like mud. Cold, sticky, unsweet mud, and I wish I could somehow transfer some of the softness from me to him, but everything seems frozen exactly how it is.
5. Cookie Recipes My Mom Likes
At Christmas, my mom has 1 recipe that her mom cut out of a newspaper back in the 1960’s, and that’s the only 1 we ever make. I wanted to try this one with cream cheese that my friend Myra sent me, but my mom said we have to stick with tradition.
When I was little my mom would tell me that our cookies were Santa’s favorite; our house was his favorite stop on the block; etc. I would always squeal delightedly when I woke up and saw the plate covered in crumbs, and then I would wonder if Johnny ever squealed like that.
Last year my mom forgot to come down and eat the cookies and leave a bunch of crumbs, and she felt really bad but I told her not to worry about it. Johnny wasn’t home anyway so I already knew it wouldn’t feel like Christmas.
6. People Who Understand My Brother Johnny
Sometimes I think/hope that this 1 isn’t true, like when Johnny is actually in the kitchen eating breakfast at 7:30 when he’s supposed to be and my mom actually says some throwaway comment that doesn’t sound critical. But then she’ll have to ruin it by saying something about his attendance, and “make sure you aren’t late to school,” and they’ll be back to silence that sounds like rock grating on metal.
So it’s just me.
7. Movies that Resonated with Me
Mostly I don’t really watch movies, only at sleepovers or whatever with my friends, and then we’re mostly talking and not paying much attention to the screen anyway. But in second grade I remember my mom took me and Johnny to the movies to see Frozen, and this is maybe my most vivid memory of all time, ever: the feeling of Johnny against my right arm and my mom against my left; the way my heart felt like floating little sparkles when Elsa realized the key to thawing the land was love; the way I thought Johnny might be Elsa, and that meant I might be Anna, with enough courage and power to bring him back from his lonely ice castle. Maybe he’d even be able to thaw all the cold he’d left everywhere, maybe even thaw himself. I didn’t really know, just reached out toward that reminder that not all ice is forever.
Before the movie, my mom and Johnny had a big fight because Johnny wanted popcorn and my mom said $8 for a tiny bucket of popcorn was crazy. I remember Johnny didn’t even care that much at first, but when my mom started saying no over and over again he got really worked up until finally he was sort of crying. Then I started crying because I just wanted them to stop and Mom finally bought us a small popcorn to share. Johnny didn’t eat any of it.
After the movie I kept drawing pictures of Johnny as Elsa and me as Anna, just to remind myself that he would always come home, no matter how far away his ice castle was or how far I had to go to find it. I taped one of them to the fridge, but the next day it was gone. I still don’t know who took it down.
8. Colleges That Will Admit Someone Who Has Not Attended a Whole Week of School since the Sixth Grade
Sometimes I worry that this number is actually 0. But then I remind myself that it only has to be 1; surely there is 1 that will take him.
There has to be.
9. Posters on the Wall of Johnny’s Room
It’s a poster of the drummer from this metal band, a guy who Johnny supposedly wants to play like. Sometimes when I’m reading in there, I look up and see him staring down at me and see his spiky earring and hair that is half dyed red and imagine that he actually is Johnny. Except that Johnny hardly ever even plays his drums anymore.
One time I climbed up on the drumset seat and picked up Johnny’s drumsticks and clicked them together and got ready to hit the hi-hat with one of them. But for some reason I just sat there with the stick hovering over it, until finally I carefully replaced the sticks and went back to my book.
10. People My Mom Makes Cookies With
I sometimes wonder if my mom wants Johnny and my dad to help, but it always ends up being just me and her working through the newspaper-clipping recipe from the 1960’s. My mom is really into making the cookies as perfect as possible, so she’s one of those people who weighs the ingredients instead of just measuring them in cups, and she has a nice sifter for the dry ingredients, which it’s my job to operate. Last year I told her that Johnny was really good at cracking eggs (he is; I’ve seen him make an omelet at 3 in the morning), because I was hoping she’d say, “Okay, why don’t we wait for him to make the cookies” (It looks so stupid in writing, but I read somewhere that hope is not always rational; it just clings and clings and looks for reasons to stay alive).
What she actually said: “You are too,” and handed me the eggs.
11. My Brother, Johnny
In my elementary school, by the west door where the first graders walked in, there was a sign on the wall that said Everyone is Unique. It’s not true, though; I know I’m not, because when it comes down to it, I’m just another drop of water ready to merge with everyone else: afraid to stand out, afraid of looking weird, afraid to be just 1.
Johnny is oil; he can never splash into that ocean; he just can’t. He’s the 1 person I know who’s just 1, and that’s why I know, all deep in my heart behind the irrational hope and blue dodgeball games, that he will never really come home.
His favorite soft serve flavor is vanilla.
He wants to be a drummer.
He is like Elsa from Frozen.
I don’t even know if those things are true anymore.
Alice Pulsinelli is a high school junior from Lawrence, KS (home of the best college basketball program in the country). Since self-publishing a 36000+ word novel in sixth grade at the recommendation of her English teacher, her love for writing has expanded, with her favorite form being short fiction. She has participated in a variety of writing electives at school, including Creative Writing, Independent Study on Writing, and Journalism, where she is the copy department editor.
Free Now — Maggie Gray
Stella
“Stella, the Uber will be here in five minutes,” my mother yells up the stairs.
“One second!” Thunder booms, muffling my response. I was really hoping for some sun now that I’m back home in New York, but it’s just as dreary as it’s been at school in London for the past week—I swear it never stops raining there.
Just my luck.
Rain pounds on the roof and my lights are off; only the dim light from outside illuminates my room. It’s almost 3:00 PM, but the storm makes it feel much later. A streak of lightning interrupts my thoughts and I sit up straight, legs folded in criss-cross. The lightning flashes, highlighting my empty suitcase lying at the foot of my bed. I despise packing. At this point, packing up my life and flying six hours across the Atlantic Ocean is practically a weekly occurrence since my mother requires my presence in New York for every single event. I’ve attempted almost every excuse in the book: I have schoolwork, I can’t miss my art show, I have an important speech to prepare for. They never work. My mom is too deep in New York society to accept any excuse I give her—she truly believes, “we must present ourselves together when in society,” as she tells me so often. I think that’s stupid. I couldn’t care less about what “society” thinks.
I think that's the main reason why my mother and I are different. Our only similarities are our physical features: straight blonde hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. My eyes have a hint of green in them, but no one ever notices it. Not even my mother.
I quickly stuff my clothes into the suitcase, grab my toiletries, and sit back, staring at the messy pile of clothes and bags. That’s good enough. I don’t have time to fold my clothes, so I zip up the suitcase and—wait, my jewelry. I scoot over to my desk and reach to the top, my hand blindly searching for my jewelry case. But instead, my hand brushes over a smooth piece of paper: an envelope. An overwhelming sense of dread falls over me when I realize what it is. I know it’s going to ruin my already bad mood, but still, I grab it.
My stomach twists, tears already threatening to fall. And yet, I pull out the folded paper letter addressed to me. Unfolding it, I see the familiar, neat handwriting sprawled across the page. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself but I feel a pull to read it again—as if there's something I can do to change his decisions. But those thoughts fade as I begin to read his letter for the second time since he sent it a week ago.
12/4/22
Dear Butterfly,
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. My hands won’t stop shaking, and my heart feels like it's shattering into pieces I’ll never find again. But I need to do this—for you, for us—even though it’s tearing me apart.
I have to let you go.
I can’t explain why. Please don’t think for a second that it’s because I don’t love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything, more than words could ever say. But life has pulled me into a place where staying isn’t an option. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.
You’ve been my everything, my light, my laughter, my safe place. You’re my Butterfly. I’ve watched you flutter into my life, filling it with colors I didn’t even know existed. But butterflies aren’t meant to be held too tightly. They’re meant to be free, to soar. And as much as I want to keep you close, I can’t clip your wings.
Every moment with you is etched into me: your smile, the way your hand fits perfectly in mine, the way you say my name like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’ve made me feel alive in ways I never thought possible.
But I can’t be what you deserve, not now, not like this. And it kills me to walk away, knowing I’m leaving you behind. You’ve always been my heart, my hope, my home. But this is a goodbye I have no choice but to give.
I hope one day you’ll understand. I hope you’ll remember that I loved you with everything I had, even when I couldn’t stay. And I hope you’ll keep soaring, my Butterfly, spreading your light wherever you go even when life is against you.
I love you, I’m sorry,
Jacob
The thick lump in my throat grows tenfold as the letter falls to the floor. It doesn’t make sense. Not a single word. I have the same unanswered questions swarming through my head. If he loves me, why can’t we stay together? Did he find someone else?
I clench my fists at the thought, my nails digging into my palms, deeper, deeper. My vision blurs as tears well in my eyes.
Nononononono.
A faint buzzing fills my head and the drumming of the rain increases, creating a chaotic noise as the rest of the world fades away. Tear after tear begins to make their watery descent down my cheek and neck. One after another, pouring down my face like the rain outside my window. My body shakes as I fight to suck in a deep breath, and I can hear my breathing getting louder by the second. I cover my face with my hands and bring my legs close. I squeeze my eyes shut, my gasping sobs filling the cocoon of my arms and legs. I’m clawing at my skin, pulling at my hair, and pressing my palms into my temples in hopes it will stop my absurd crying. But my tears are uncontrollable. I kick my legs in the air, wanting nothing more than to scream.
Why is it always me?
I can’t be too loud, my mother might hear. So I suppress my wails, leaving only the sound of the rain shooting bullets into the roof.
It feels as though I’ve been crying for so long—even though my tantrum only lasted a couple minutes—that my ribs hurt and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t—
I need him.
I feel the need to cry more, but my eyes are dry.
Empty.
A hollow feeling fills me. I hold my legs close to my chest and lean my head back. I take in the grey lighting filling my tiny room filled with furniture. It feels like the walls are getting closer, as though the furniture isn’t there—leaving me, my suitcase, and the stupid, crumpled letter alone. It lies on the floor next to me, ruined. Distorted. Broken. I feel as if someone is clawing their hand through my chest and shredding my heart to pieces before discarding the leftovers on the floor next to me, forcing me to confront my freshly broken heart while listening to the brewing storm.
“Stella,” my mother’s stern voice echoes from the bottom of the stairs. Her voice pulls me out of my depressing trail of thoughts and back into my tortuous life. “The Uber is here.” She’s closer now, stomping dramatically up the stairs. “Your plane leaves soon. It’s—” she stops. I assume she sees me: puffy, red-eyed, with tear stained cheeks. I assume she knows I was crying. “I don’t have time for this. I have dinner with friends soon. Your plane leaves in 1 hour, and if you don’t go downstairs now, you’ll miss it.”
She was hesitant at first, it seemed, but that didn’t stop her from spewing those cruel words at me. She just doesn’t understand. She never does.
I don’t look at her. I bet she's standing there with one hand on her hip, the other on the doorknob, as she waits in the doorway with a frown on her face—the same position she assumed when she lectured me as a kid. But I don’t look at her, instead I stare straight, as if with zero thoughts clouding my mind. I stare through my window, outside, past the dying cedar trees, surveying the endless sky. I stare at the roofs poking out between the trees, the houses that hold a loving family with happy lives. I stare at the rain falling heavily, each drop sliding down my window.
This is the kind of weather butterflies drown in. I remember reading that in a book a few years ago. I stare at anything and everything, but her. The cedar trees' leaves droop from the heavy rain, though the green color is still permanent. As it will always be. As it will always be in my eyes, yet no one notices it.
Except for him.
Jacob
2 days later
The familiar train station slowly pulls into view. I’ve been here many times when visiting my love, Stella, at boarding school. I smile at the thought of her. Her twinkling brown and green eyes that light up whenever she sees me are engraved in my mind. I can already hear her silly laugh—I can’t wait to see her. It’s only been two weeks since we broke up, two weeks away at a military school, two weeks of tortuous hell. My parents had sent me there under no conditions. I’m not a druggie or messed up in any kind of way, but my parents believe I’m not a grown man yet—whatever that means.
The train screeches to a stop and I start to stand, reaching up to grab my small duffel bag from the overhead compartment. The military school was located in France—my parents wanted me as far away as possible—so all I had to do was get a ticket and take the Eurostar over to London. My parents think the school would help “discipline me” because I am, and I quote, “head over heels for a 17-year-old, immature girl.” I’m only one year older, but my parents expect me to find a “true woman.” They forced me to send the letter to Stella. I wasn’t allowed to add any details about my whereabouts or why I was breaking up with her—I hope it hasn’t caused her too much pain. I hope she'll understand the situation. A nervous feeling fills my stomach, causing butterflies to wreak havoc. What if she found someone new? I dismiss this thought; we always knew we were soulmates.
I lug my duffle bag strap over my shoulder and step off the train. A damp smell and fluorescent lights fill the underground station. I locate the exit over the heads of hundreds of people—a perk of being 6’5—and start heading towards it.
I pull my hood over my head, hold my phone close to my chest, and my duffel bag tighter, as I walk up the exit stairs into the…sun? It’s always raining in London.
No chance it’s sunny.
But the unmistakable light warms my face. I close my eyes, tilt my head up, soaking in the delicious feeling. The butterflies from earlier start to calm, replaced by anticipation. I smile and take a deep breath. But someone aggressively pushes past me, bringing me back to reality, where the crowd weaves around me. I frown at the pusher, half-tempted to flip them off. British people. I roll my eyes and continue walking.
It’s only a 20-minute walk to Stella's boarding school, but the sun is already sinking as I arrive at her school dorm building. Now colors paint the sky: red, orange, and pink. My throat feels dry from the bitter-cold air, puffs of foggy air form from me huffing each breath. I rub my hands together before entering the school dorm building.
“Hello sir, how can I help you?” the receptionist asks. She greets me as the warm inside air envelopes me.
“Hi, I’m visiting Stella Everett,” I say, my voice breathless from the short walk. I wait patiently for the receptionist to give me the usual visitor sign-in sheet. It’s required due to the boarding school’s strict rules and 30-minute visits.
The receptionist frowns, “I’m sorry, there’s no Stella Everett enrolled here.”
What? How is she not here? She’s always in the same room, each year.
“What do you mean? She’s been going to this school for the past 3 years. She should be in room 204—.” I stop myself and take a breath, “I visited her in September,” I say.That September, I snuck out of my house, and bought a plane ticket with my allowance.
I look around anxiously. The moon has replaced the sun now, leaving an ominous feeling lingering in the air. I can’t believe her mother sent her to this school, they can’t even keep track of the students.
“Hmm, let me see,” the lady replies. She types on her keyboard for what feels like an eternity. My hands grip the counter edge, my gut telling me something’s wrong.
“It says here that Stella deregistered from this school…” her eyes scan her computer screen, “...2 days ago.” The receptionist looks up at me in boredom. “You can go look in her room, it should be unlocked,” she continues.
My blood starts to boil. Deregistered? Why would she leave the school? Her mother would never allow her to leave boarding school—it costs a fortune.
“Great. Thank you,” I bite out. My anger flares, even though it isn’t the receptionist's fault.
Where could she be?
My head feels hazy as I turn and practically jog toward the stairs. I push open the door and run up the stairs, going 3 steps at a time. My heart thumps with only one thought on my mind:
Stella.
I reach her dorm and twist the doorknob, revealing an empty room. I scan the little square room containing a desk, a small twin-sized bed, and a tiny wardrobe in the corner. The only lighting being the moon shining through the glass-paned window and the stars twinkling, shining bright. They remind me of how her green and brown eyes twinkle and shine when she looks at me.
There is nothing, no one but—
Wait.
My eyes zero in on the letter on her bed. My heart thumps rapidly in my ears as I move slowly toward her bed. The words on the envelope come into view, my name is written on the front.
Could it be from someone else?
I stare at the almost illegible handwriting and I know for a fact Stella wrote this. Hesitantly, I pick up the letter, the paper smooth against my rough hands. The room is silent, and the rest of the world disappears.
It’s just me and the letter. Her letter.
My shaky hands slowly tear open the envelope and pull out the letter. My temper from only 2 minutes ago is gone, and the butterflies fly away, leaving a bundle of knots in my stomach. My breaths come out shallow as I unfold the letter, the sharp paper edges scratching slightly at my skin. I first see the teardrop stains that are almost dry. My gut screams at me not to read it; the letter will ruin me, it chants. But my heart takes over—my worry and love for Stella are the only thing that matters.
My jaw tenses and throat thickens as I begin to read her letter.
12/6/22
Jacob,
Missing you is a strange ache. One that doesn’t fade but shifts, like the tides. It pulls me in quiet moments, in the pauses between words, in the spaces where you used to be.
Some days, it feels as though you’re slipping further from me, like sand between my fingers. But other times, you’re everywhere. Etched into the lines of my thoughts, in every laugh that echoes a little too long, in every shadow cast by the rain.
You were the one who stayed. After my dad left, I stopped expecting people to stay, and for my mother to actually care about my feelings. But then there was you, and for a moment, I believed in something lasting. I let myself believe I was worth holding on to.
Now you’re gone and I just don’t know how to let go of someone who made me feel seen when I thought I was invisible. You were the only one who looked past the surface and found me. But now, without you, I’m adrift, as though the parts of me that you brought to my life are slipping back into the dark.
Did you know a butterfly's life span is 2 weeks? Just long enough to flutter into someone’s life and leave it forever changed. Maybe it’s my turn to fly away, be free. I’m free now, isn’t that what you wanted?
Stella
Maggie Gray is a 16-year-old junior at Weston High School in Massachusetts. Though she sees her future in the medical field, she also enjoys writing in her free time. Whether sipping coffee in cafes in the early mornings or jotting down new story ideas late at night, Maggie dreams big and wishes she could try everything the world has to offer. Free Now is her first publication in a literary journal, and she hopes to continue sharing stories that connect with readers through emotion.
The Orangutans — Kajae Evans
The Lowland Rainforests, Borneo
Sweet Hani. Little, sweet Hani. Your toes are so precious, so miniscule yet perfect and padded. Put your head on my shoulder and rest. Curl your body towards mine and sleep. Your beautiful lips are puckered, as if you’ve just tasted a sour fruit. Why do you always make that face, Hani? Are you in a perpetual state of disgust? Does the fresh dew make your lip curl? My mother knew right away what kind of daughter you’d be. ‘Oh, but this one will be testy!’ she said. ‘And spoiled!’ She and your aunts laughed at me, pitying my sullen situation. But I don’t mind. I would cross the ends of the jungle just to find your favorite leaves or climb the tallest trees to cup the freshest water in my hands to give to you. I would crack my fingernails in jagged rocks to probe for the saltiest lizard for you to gobble up. I don’t resent your neediness. I have always adored caring for you.
Let me wipe away your tears, crying never does anyone good. The blood is staining my fur, tinging it from orange to vibrant red, but I’ll ignore it. I will never be mad at you. Rest your head here, Hani, and don’t squirm. Stay still and feel it. Feel the gaping hole in your chest. Feel your pain and anguish and feel my love for you. Listen to my soft words, quiet your haggard breathing and accept that you are going to die in your mother's arms. I won’t let them pick and rip apart your body. I won’t leave you for dead lying face-first in the sharp branches. I won’t let the jaguar come back and finish you off. I’ll lick the tears off your bitten cheeks for you and hold you until you take comfort from my presence.
Hani, don’t you see how you are cherished? You are my first-born, my companion, my joy, my entertainment, my frustration, my everything. I could never abandon you. Why do you doubt me? Have I not proven myself devoted to you? I will never leave you, so stop demanding me to. Let the jaguar come back for seconds. Let him fill his grotesque belly for more. I will not let his presence remove me from my child. Oh, don’t cry, Hani. You are more important than my entire life. I was nothing without you; I was empty and useless. You gave a purpose, an incentive to wake up in the morning, a reason to smile at the sun for nothing but love. What is my life compared to yours? I can always have more children, but your time is up. You will never know the joy of the power that lies between your legs. You will never fill the pure ecstasy that is laying with your lover in the seductive wash of moonlight, running your fingers through each other’s fur and murmuring meaninglessly. I have felt that before, and it was delightful. I have fulfilled the joys of my youth; I may not be old, but I am wise, and I know when my days of exploration and wonder are over, while you haven’t even begun to bloom. That, Hani, is what you should mourn, not my undying loyalty.
I had so much to teach you. I wanted to show you how to forage for berries and leaves yourself, to strike the exact point in the treetops to let the water sprout out, what to do when the ache in your belly starts to emerge, and ferric blood begins to flow with your pee. I don’t have the time to tell you everything, and your state is so fragmented I doubt you will understand. You will never know about the bond shared between us mothers, aunts and sisters, the encamping of spanked bottoms and ticks engrained under fingernails, the wet kisses planted on the mouth and the wailing of a child caught in mischief. My mother and sisters only met you once. I was supposed to revisit them at the feeding tree in the next ten moons. Sami will miss you. Ngatemi will scream, beat her head against the tree trunks and pull out her fur. Mamma will sigh deeply, and caress me on my shoulders, wishing me endurance. Oh, you will never know these apes! You will never receive the care and affection I was fortunate to receive! Mourn this, Hani, mourn your inexperience.
I thought I would have you in my life until you were grown and had children of your own. I thought I would be able to pinch my grandchildren’s cheeks and wipe their crusty behinds. But my expectations for my future are fading away before my very eyes. I’m not ready, Hani, to mate again. My lover was so gentle with me, so kind and attentive, but I know he was a pebble in a mountain of boulders. I’m scared; frightened to try again. I don’t know how to attract apes; I don’t remember how to make myself appealing and desirable for a male to choose me over others of my hump-rubbing contemporaries. I have forgotten the art of enticement, and I will be too lonely to relearn. For who can replace you? Who can replicate the intensity of my first love?
You will never know your father, Agung. Oh, I remember how I trembled to his nest, replaying in my mind horrors of myself snatched and relentlessly pounded into mush. I pushed my lips and squeezed my eyes to produce tears. I fully expected to be ravaged by the ferocity of an old, temperamental ape clinging to his vitality, but when he laid me down and entered me, I felt nothing but bliss. I was engulfed in a bottomless pool of intensified heat and sounds so pleasing to my body, I lost control of myself and dug my nails into his back until I drew blood. Later he kissed me from my forehead to my toes as I lay in his arms. I had always treasured that magical night and I prayed that you would be lucky enough to experience your own kind of paradise. Agung would’ve been so proud of you, would’ve cupped you in his huge hands and look at you with wonder, amazement that he could create something as precious as you.
You had so much to learn and discover. You had so many things to see, and touch, and feel, much more than my beating heart and hot breath breezing across your bloody forehead.
I imagined we would work as a team, building nests together, eating together, and staring up at the stars and kissing the whorls of each other’s ears. You were to be more than a daughter; you were to be my second self. It was a fantasy of mine for you to be my replica, my twin, so I could teach you the commodities of the jungle, the warmth of the family, and the dark beauty of the unknown. I wanted to see your eyes light up when I taught you how to catch dew off a glossy leaf at dawn, to guide your nipple directly in alignment with your child’s mouth, to instruct you on the most efficient way to weave your nest. I wanted to teach you how to survive and how to live. That is the only thing I regret, not giving you enough information. I have and am still babying you because I love you so much, and in a way, as selfish as this might be, you will be my baby forever. I will always imagine you, not as a sturdy adolescent or mature adult, but as my little girl, wrapped up in my arms, with your shaky breathing and curled fingers. Don’t blame me, Hani, for my overprotectiveness. Don’t spite me for my willingness to leave you as a child, to keep you in my memory as a baby years after your absence. You are my precious, my own, my darling, and I cannot bear to pull myself from this image of you, of your tiny body shuddering, of your big, luminous eyes locked with mine in tenderness. You will be kept away in my heart, blocked with the heaviest rock and left in the secure thickets of the towering evergreens. I won’t let anyone pervert you, twist your memory to be miniscule or trivial. I won’t let my future lover encourage me to get over my sorrows so he will feel less uncomfortable when I cry your name in my sleep. You have always belonged to me, but our love is beyond ownership. You are me, from your brown, cocoa eyes to your ability to smile, and laugh in the face of danger, in the face of the jaguar staring you down and gazing at your taut belly, ripe and succulent.
Hani, tell me, have I been a bad mother? Have I neglected you? Be honest, and don’t lie to me, don’t tell me a falsehood to spare my already morose feelings. I’m looking at you, and I’m seeing the light fade from your eyes, your jaw beginning to slacken, and your grip growing loose, and I’m growing scared, because I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. Being my first-born, you were a first-hand witness to my blunders, my mishaps, my gross miscalculations. I remember two weeks after your birth, I left you hanging on a flimsy nest of leaves on a low branch to give myself a break from the demanding challenges of motherhood, blocking your reproachful face in my mind while I played in a riverbank and sucked on durians, freeing myself from the burden of you for just a little while. I remember a month ago, you were so terribly thirsty. We had been scavenging the entire day, and I was far away from our nest; I feared we were lost. You were moaning, desperately communicating that you needed water now. At my wits’ end, I hurriedly climbed up a tree to find some leaves, berries, tree holes, anything for you to drink, but I was so hasty in my ascent that when I attempted to reach a branch to climb, I slipped and nearly tumbled unto the hard dirt floor. I remember your terrified start and the piercing shriek as you began to wail from fright. I was a failure, wasn’t I? A terrible, negligent mother. You deserved better, much better than me, and yet I’m asking so much of you that you forgive me for my mistakes, for my inexperience. All I ever wanted was for you to love me, for happiness to be the first thing on your face when you saw me. I could understand us eventually growing apart as you carved your own path, I could handle the decreasing frequency of your visits until you finally stopped seeing me altogether, but I could never endure your hatred. I enviously want to be your favorite person, your confidant, your guide, the one you look to and think, ‘Yes, this is my strength.’ Is that too much to ask? Am I horrible and selfish for wanting this? I speak so much about want and desire, but I will never know how you feel and what you think of me, and although I’ll pacify myself my choosing to believe you truly loved me from the moment I brought you into this world, the fact is that your love is an utter mystery to me, and that is the question that will haunt me every day of my life, from dawn to dusk, from lover to lover, from child to child.
So, I won’t ask you to love me. I won’t ask of anything, but your grace for my oversights, my laziness, my overbearingness, my overprotectiveness, my pressures. It aches me to lose you, but I know I must let you go. Every motherly instinct is screaming at me, but I choose to leave you in peace and ease your way into nothingness, to embrace your dying body and tell you it’s alright to go, to leave, to place you in death’s raft and push you off into the incomprehensibleness of stillness. Can I sing to you, Hani? Can I give you at least that? Can I hum tuneless melodies into your ears until your heart slows, your breath quiets, and your fingers curl open? And can I raise my voice to bellow the songs of my mother, and her mother, and her mother, in reverence of you? Can I bellow until the jungle pauses to listen to the echoes of a grieving mother strengthened by the grace of her daughter? Can I bellow, not caring who hears me, whose ears perk up, and sights sharpen, for the deep stirring in my body cannot allow the memory of you to be unsung, forgotten, lost to time but for the bloodstains on the dirt? Can I give you at least that, Hani? Can I honor your innocent, transcendent soul? Can I give you peace?
Kajae Evans is a writer living in the Turks and Caicos Islands. She enjoys reading, writing, and taking long walks on the beach. This is her first publication.
Before the First Light — Rira Hakimelahi
Central Park was one of the biggest areas of nature that Tara knew about in the city. It wasn’t the most natural thing in the world, sure, it was mainly man made, but it was the most she could find.
Alex had told her he wanted to walk there. She couldn’t blame him, after all he’d been trapped in a lab all these years; the poor guy probably needed more than a bit of fresh air. They’d met for the first time in OXE tower just two months prior. It hadn’t been a long time, but it was longer than most of her friendships.
They stood at a cross walk together when Alex abruptly said.
“That’s a pigeon, right?” He pointed over at a pigeon that sat on the yellow spray painted concrete just six feet away from them. Tara looked up at him and squeezed his hand.
“Yeah, that’s a pigeon.”
Alex’s eyebrows furrowed together before saying in a completely serious tone, “He looks like he should be wearing a bowler hat.” He nodded to himself as if this was a reasonable thing one would say when seeing a pigeon.
“Maybe he should be.” She shrugged before she pulled him across the street with her when the walking light turned on. His hand tightened around hers, his eyes darted around the street in a panic.
“The cars aren’t gonna hit us, right?!” He started to pull himself back towards the curb but Tara still dragged him forwards.
“They’re not gonna hit us, look, the park is just there. You can make it a few more steps.” She motioned to the open gates of the park. He took a breath as the crosswalk counted down until they had to be on the other side. Finally he nodded to her and they finished the walk to the other side of the street. His eyes had been closed the whole time, and he let her lead him blindly into the park. It was odd to her, having to explain the concept of walking to a 25 year old man, but it was what had to be done if he ever wanted to do press conferences for the team.
“This is a park?” He tilted his head to the side as he looked around at the park, and he just froze. He stared at the lake and the kids with their little remote control boats, his eyes widened with awe. But Tara couldn’t see it, at least not what he saw.
All Tara saw was a boring old park with brownish-green grass, the leaves were dull, and many of the kids were shouting at their parents to have their phones back. The Alice in Wonderland statue stood lonely, not a single kid to climb it in sight like they used to when she was a kid.
Before OXE boarding school.
“Yeah, this is a park, not much to see-” But he cut her off as he ran over to the lake to look at the ducks and see his reflection in the water. “Alex, wait up!” She shouted while she ran after him.
She’d been given one condition to take him out of the OXE tower, that she wouldn’t lose him.
“That’s a duck! I saw those on the TV! That’s a duck right?! It has to be a duck!” He reached his hand out into the lake to try to touch the ducks. The birds flew away in a startled manner while some of the people nearby gave him a weird look.
“Yeah, those are ducks.” She put her hand on his shoulder to calm him down; the brown ducks flew away. They weren’t even the green ones that you see once in a blue moon. They were just regular ducks, another creature on this earth, and that’s what they’d always be.
“Why did they go away?” He blinked a few times, confused, before he looked back down at his hands. “Did I hurt them?” He whispered to her in a feeble voice, his gaze still focused on his hands that could in one simple moment cause more pain than she had in her entire life.
“You didn’t hurt them. They’re just scared, that’s all.” Tara shrugged and put her sweater covered hands over his. His hands were warm and they felt as if she was holding her hands close to a fire.
“Oh…” Alex tore his eyes away from his hands and looked down at her with a soft sadness in his eyes. “Why would they be scared of me?”
“Alex, they’re much smaller than you. If you were that small, wouldn’t you be scared if a guy ten times your height ran at you?”
“I guess so.” He sighed then let go of her hands and looked over at the lake. He looked a bit behind her and his eyes suddenly lit up.
“What’s that?” Tara turned around to see the Alice in Wonderland Statue in its full bronze glory. It looked lonely over there with no kids climbing it.
“Oh that’s the Alice in Wonderland Statue. I used to climb on it a lot as a kid, before OXE took me.” She took his hand again, and they started to walk around the lake towards the statue.
“You used to climb on the statue? Isn’t that a bad thing to do?” His eyebrows furrowed and he looked down at her.
“I mean no one really cares much if people are climbing on it. It’s just an old statue. I used to try to climb and sit on Alice’s lap, or on her shoulders. But my favorite was in the tree part with the Cheshire cat.”
“But it’s not a play structure, it’s a statue. Why would you use something so pretty as a playground?” He scrunched his nose up in what she thought was confusion.
Tara couldn’t see what was so pretty about the statue.
Nothing about it gave her the idea that it was pretty like it did for Alex. Her opinion on it hadn’t changed since she was seven, it was just as creepy now as it was then. The Mad Hatter looked like he was an ugly short version of Willy Wonka who ate people instead of chocolate, and the Cheshire cat had an unsettling smile from upon its metal tree. Nothing about it screamed beauty; it was just another ugly statue of a beautiful story, like most of its kind.
“It’s just a thing with this statue. Come on, it’s fun if you try it.” She ran up to the statue and tried to climb onto the mushroom base.
She could remember being seven and climbing here, putting in all her strength to swing herself up onto the metal tree. But with seventeen years of combat training, it had become a second nature. OXE had made her like that, and she knew they’d make worse of Alex. That was all that government organizations that hid their tracks did, turn innocent people into monsters.
Once she reached the top and stabilized herself, she looked down to find-
Oh shit, where did he go?
“Alex?” Tara called out, she prepared herself to jump off the statue and go find him.
“I’m here!” She heard his voice from under the metal mushroom cap. “There’s a freaking metal baby crocodile! How cool is that?! Is this normal for statues?!” He exclaimed and stuck his head out from under the statue. Tara let out a sigh of relief.
“Uh, yeah, it’s normal for it to have details.” She turned her body around so she could look down at him. Her long wavy brown hair fell over her face and she flashed him an awkward smile. She couldn’t begin to imagine how stupid she looked up there.
“That’s so cool!” He went back under the cap. Once she was sure he wasn’t going to just disappear on her again, Tara closed her eyes, and she tried to feel the joy she’d once felt here as a child. But all it felt like was being on another random landmark during a mission. The differences being she was here for fun and wasn’t holding a sniper.
The wind was the same and the fear of falling remained. But if she lost her balance while taking the shot she would fall…
And fall…
And fall….
Until she was just a mush of flesh and broken bones at the bottom of a famous landmark….
She shook her head and blinked a few times in an attempt to snap herself out of it.
This isn’t a mission, you’re just on a kiddie statue. You’re fine.
She forced herself to move past it and focus on the statue itself. There was nothing that made her heart spark with the first rays of curiosity. It was just another day in New York City, just that now she had free time and Alex was with her.
“This statue smells like a penny.” Alex commented from the ground below her. Tara opened her eyes to look down at him.
“It’s made of bronze, bronze smells like copper.” She answered simply while she leaned on the Cheshire Cat. He started to climb the statue to sit on Alice’s shoulders. She watched as he did, she paid attention to every movement. An irrational fear took over her that he’d fall, but deep down she knew he’d be fine.
“Huh, I didn’t know that.” Alex wrapped his arms around Alice’s head and placed his chin on top of it. “And you’re saying you got to see this whenever you wanted as a kid?”
“I mean yeah, I did. It was nice at first. But the more I went it kinda got boring.” She pulled her baby pink cardigan closer to her body as a gust of wind hit them. “Looking back, I wish I’d asked to go more back then.”
“I don’t think it’s boring. If I’m gonna be honest, this was the best day of my life.” Tara glanced over at him, her heart heavy with pity. Alex’s gaze was stuck on the sunset, his eyes wide with awe.
“I’m sure you’ll have better days. Soon this will seem like the most average thing ever. All we did was go to the park.” He finally looked over at her.
“I don’t want it to. I don’t want to see things the way you do,” he whispered and his dark blue eyes looked down at her through his slightly grown out brown hair.
“What do you mean the way I see things?”
“I don’t understand you, I mean look around,” He gestured to the almost empty park; the dying grass, the ducks, the leafless trees, and the cracked cement walkway. “How can you look at all this and not feel anything? How do you not see how amazing it is? I don’t want to get so used to a world this beautiful to the point where it looks boring to me. Don’t pretend you understand, you and I both know you don’t.” Alex stopped to let out a tired sigh.
Tara could see all the years of being locked up in a padded room in OXE’s lab reflected in his eyes. Captivity, experiments, loss of memory, all sixteen years of it was all on display for her just in a single tired expression. Her heart felt like it got ripped apart just looking at him.
“Tara, did you know this is my first time at a park in sixteen years?” She could feel her hands start to shake.
“No, I didn’t.” She whispered and closed her eyes. It was difficult to imagine a world where all she’d known were white walls and syringes full of propofol. But that was his reality, and it scared her.
“I don’t think you- or anyone really -know what life is really about. It’s like you forgot. You don’t remember what it’s like to live. I didn’t when I was nine and they took me. I don’t want to ever take it for granted, never again. Not when I know I could lose it.” His eyes were shiny with unshed tears and then he just closed them. Tara leaned over to put a hand on his knee.
“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” They both sat there in silence for a bit. She tried to think how he could, to see how beautiful the park was besides decaying nature. But she couldn’t get it. She couldn’t reach far enough into her mind and find the seven year old Tara who could see the world for how beautiful it was. All she saw was a park dying and preparing for winter.
“We should head back, my curfew is seven.” He finally spoke up.
They started to walk back together in silence, their footsteps matched one another. All of a sudden Tara got pushed aside as a little girl with wavy brown hair accidentally ran into her before she sprinted to the Alice in Wonderland statue. A moment later the girl’s younger brother ran after her and they began to climb the statue, they bickered with one another over who could climb the highest while their mom warned them to be careful.
Tara stopped to watch the children climb the statue and Alex had stopped with her. She watched as the little girl in the magenta coat climbed up the statue and took her place on the Cheshire Cat’s tree.
“Maman! Look how high I climbed!”
“‘Joohnam,’ sweetie, please be careful. You don’t want to break your arm again!” Her mother had called to her and the girl’s younger brother had crawled over to sit on Alice’s lap with the small statue of a Dinah the Cat. Finally, it came to Tara like the first light. Seeing the joy in that little girl’s face and watching her be so excited, it gave Tara hope. The world was far from regular for that little girl, maybe it didn’t have to be for her either. She could be used to the world, but she could still look for more. Look for happy little moments like this. She walked over to Alex and put her hand in his.
“Come on, let’s go. We’re late anyways.” His eyes trailed from the kids on the statue over to her, and he gave her a small smile.
“Yeah, let’s go before James decides to start writing his lecture about being late.” He laughed a bit and she laughed along too.
As they continued their walk back to OXE tower, she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the grass was with the red leaves decorating it. The duck from earlier was back on the pond, this time it swam with its family. Only now did she notice how special each and every one of their feather patterns were to each duck. They weren’t boring, quite the contrary, she just had to look a bit deeper to see how pretty each of them really were.
They walked out of the park gate, and the pink lighting from the sunset coated the street in a rosy glow. A pigeon stood near a hot dog stand on the other side of the street, probably just waiting for someone to drop some bread for it.
Tara looked up at Alex who looked down at her.
“Still the best day ever?” She asked simply and let a small smile take over her pink painted lips.
“Yeah, it is.”
“You know what I think?” Tara prompted as they stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. He raised an eyebrow and flashed her a loopy smile.
“What?”
“Pigeons really do look like they would be wearing bowler hats.”
Rira is a fiction author who currently spends her time writing short stories in hopes of writing a novel. Her publications include "Before the First Light". She can't wait to publish more stories from her desk in Massachusetts.
The Balilla Boy — Catherine Ste-Marie
My Matta has seen better days. The cranks are noisy, and the windows don't roll all the way down. The seats are patched where the sun has eaten through the seams, and the leather on the driver's seat is slightly discoloured. The scent of chestnuts fills the car, prompting me to look out at the rolling hills and the rows of brittle cypress that line the road. It takes two hours to drive from the city to the countryside. I pass a shrine, one of those whitewashed pillars with a cracked tile of the Madonna, and I slow without meaning to. I got on the road about an hour ago, and it feels like I couldn’t be farther from home.
Gravel pops beneath the tires, and the engine sputters. I pull into the driveway, remove the key from the ignition, and take off my sunglasses. I cautiously climb the steps to the old oak door, the wood cleared of varnish. This style of house is no longer built; grand houses like these are only found in the countryside. I hear the scurry of rats, which makes it clear I’ve invaded their nest. I wipe my feet on the carpet and my brow with my sleeve. The stairs to the second floor cascade into the entrance, a symmetrical arrangement with a dirty, faded red carpet. I leave the foyer as the curtains shift with a draft, letting light in through the dusty window. When I walk into the living room, I cover my face with my hat, not wanting to inhale filth.
The wallpaper had bubbled where the heat of summer pressed against it, leaving veins of deeper red underneath. A clock still ticks, however, half an hour slow. My coughs and the ticking are the only sounds; the rats must have returned to their nest. The room was once filled with lamps with thick shades, shelves of old books, and ornate moulding that adorned the chandelier’s medallion; now, dust covers the once-vibrant, floral upholstered chairs. The windows are cracked from the strife of winter, and suddenly the panes start to rattle against the frame, the putty disintegrated. It has been months since I received the telegram informing me of my inheritance of the property. Removing my gloves, I pick up a glass ashtray, the only item in this room that is not smashed or shattered. I look at old photographs and rosaries, polish them with my cuff, and decide to move on.
The kitchen looks different from the way it used to. Dishes are broken, the cabinet doors hang by their hinges, and the copper cups and steel pans have corroded, offering a patina to the dim room. The green wallpaper has peeled, and mould has grown around the tiles lining the floor. I remember being barely able to look over the counter as dinner was being made.
She hummed while she cooked.
“Take your shoes off, no dirt in the house,” she says. I run to the entry, take off my shoes, place them on the carpet, and run back. “What are you making?” I walk over to the counter and peer at the dough in her hands. We’ve had soup for the past week, and I get excited since it seems like she is making pasta, so I ask again. She shoos me away. “Go clean up, and then we will eat,” she says. I rush off to my room to change while she stores the flour and sugar.
I pass from the kitchen to the dining room through a small hallway. Glass crunches underfoot, and the floorboards creak from the weight of my boots. Velvet curtains once hung from the walls, covering the arched windows; the sun hurt Grandmother’s eyes. I hear the tick of the clock from the living room.
I run in, chased by my sister and sit down, eager to eat. We’d returned from another day of playing and swimming in the lake, as we often did. “Come inside, lunch is ready,” she had told us from the porch, but we were having too much fun, and I didn't want to go inside. “We eat together or not at all,” she says. She appears from the kitchen carrying the soup tureen like a reliquary. She is the cook and the oldest, so she eats first. I grow impatient and take a sip before she does.
She tells me to stand beside the table as she and my sister eat. After they finish, she invites me to sit back down, though the soup is cold and there is no more bread. I am upset because I have often seen her give bread to the people who come to our door.
I circle the table and picture the candles flickering on the chandelier, how long it’s been since we’d sat down together. Despite being alone, I look around, and I decide to undo my jacket and loosen my tie. I check my watch and see that it's almost noon. I have to start my return within the next hour or so.
I head upstairs using the rail to pull me up. I injured my leg last week on patrol; while it didn't prevent me from doing my duty, it’s been a hassle to drag around. I reach the top of the stairs and turn left into my old room. The room is smaller than I remembered, and so are the toys that litter the floor. My bed, however, looks like it did when I left, unmade and dirty. The posters are gone, but the outlines remain.
One morning, I wake up to her, her body hunched over me like a scary fable, tearing them from the wall, taking my soldiers and stealing my knife. I rush out of bed to confront her, my body feeling elastic and my eyes dry from sleep. She says, “You're not old enough to understand what these things mean, so you're not old enough to have them.”
I refute, “I need that knife, it's not yours to take, and neither are my posters or my soldiers,” She answers me with a glare. I left late that morning, scrambling to find my bag. I walk, brooding, as my ire has time to fester. I kick stones and glare at the wildlife. On my way to camp each day, I pass a shrine — whitewashed pillars with a cracked tile of the Madonna — and stop to pray on scabbed knees, muttering words from a breviary. On that day, I decided to walk past it. After dinner, Grandma sits in the living room and beckons me to enter. She hands me back my knife, but not my soldiers or posters. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I sulk all the way to my room and hide the knife in my drawer. Now, I approach my bedside table and open my drawer to see that the knife is still there.
My sister’s door is closed, and I see light peeking through the crack under the door. I decide not to go in. Instead, I continue down the narrow hallway. Passing the bathroom, I glance at the mirror, the reflection distorting my face, and I walk on towards Grandmother's room.
I take off my boots before entering, stalling and struggling in the hallway. She never allowed any dust to collect, and it seems it hasn't in her absence. The beige sheets that drape the bed still hold the pillows adorned in tassels that she sewed herself. They match the curtains and the tapestry that hangs on the walls. I walk to the window, peer out at the lake, and notice that the room no longer smells like her.
I wasn't allowed to enter her room as a kid, but when she went to the market or was downstairs reading, I would sneak in. The room was plain compared to the lavish style of the first floor. The most expensive item was likely the ebony dresser, pressed against the wall opposite the door. However, her most prized possession was the dress form, always draped in fabric. The first time I ventured into her room, the mannequin was in a very elaborate gown that seemed out of place. Now the mannequin has mere scraps covering its canvas frame.
It felt eerie being there, as if she were in the room with me. It is well past time for me to head back. As I step over the uneven floorboards, I see the trap door in the ceiling. I put on my boots and pull on the string, and it takes me a few moments to climb up. I duck as I enter the attic and see boxes and boxes of old clothing and toys. I remember playing up here in the attic when I was little.
As I explore further into the mountain of items, I see my old uniform on top of a box, my first blackshirt. I take off my jacket, undo my tie and pick it up. Though the coat still fits, it's snug and doesn’t leave much room to breathe. I place my hands in my pockets and pull out a piece of paper. As I read the broken text, I quickly put it back.
It was May, I was twelve and had been in the blackshirts for four years. I marched through the streets with other exuberant boys. I wanted to go to Rome and become a hero — we all did — but I wanted it most. I sang “The Youth of Italy” aloud again, as I had the night before. During the summer, we would run exercises, and the older kids gave us scaled-down versions of service rifles to fiddle with. During those warm months, sweating through my woollen jacket, I would walk up to the girls' camp for my sister, and we would walk home. We would play in the lake for hours behind the house. Often, I would see people in rags approach our door, and I would ask Grandma about them. “It is none of your concern. Go back outside and play,” she dismissed.
Hail, O people of heroes,
Hail, immortal homeland,
Your sons are reborn
With faith in the ideal.
The valour of your warriors,
The virtue of your pioneers,
Still shines in the hearts of Italy — in the hearts of faith!
We listened to veterans talk all day about the importance of loyalty and those who would betray our country, the partisans. That, according to the laws of fascist morality, when one has a friend, one marches with him wholeheartedly. I had a close friend who would come over to the house after camp some days, and whenever he did, I would carefully hide some books in Grandmother's collection, moving them from the living room to a cupboard in the kitchen. I had grown tired of feeling ashamed, of feeling like I was betraying my country. I wanted to do what was right. They taught us that evil exists, but that we are given the greatest gift, loyalty and free will. It was noon on a Sunday, and, confidently, with a pen in hand, I had made my decision and slid it into an envelope. I walked to camp the next day, just like every other day, but when I reached the entrance, I pulled the letter out of my pocket and handed it to the lead officer. He read it over and then leisurely handed it back. At lunch, I saw them get into their trucks and ride off over the hills toward Grandmother's house. The rest of the day, I had trouble with all my tasks, failing many exercises except the simplest. I reloaded my gun wrong, missed my targets and only after the veterans had finished their speech, realized I hadn’t heard a word they said. After camp, I did as usual and walked to the girls' camp, but she was not there. I asked where she had gone. “She’s been brought home,” they said. So I walked home on my own.
Youth! Youth!
Springtime of beauty!
Through the harshness of life,
Your song rings out and goes!
Balilla, young hero,
The pride of the homeland,
In your ardent gaze shines
The hope of tomorrow!
Approaching the door, I cautiously climbed the steps and, with shaky hands and rapid breaths, I reached for the doorknob. The house was completely ransacked, windows broken, books strewn everywhere, cupboards open, their contents littering the floor. I call out to my sister, panic creeping into my voice. Suddenly, a soldier enters, his jacket adorned in metal, his face pulled straight from a film, reminding me of my old posters. Giving me a nod, he tells me that I will be living elsewhere with a family of true patriots. “Where’s my sister?” I ask. “She will also be living with a new family, a family with a loyal mother.” He walks me back to the entrance. I look around and quickly turn my back to the house, hiding my tears.
Over Italian soil,
Over death and pain,
Rises the sun of labor,
Rises the sun of the future!
And for Mussolini, and for the Fatherland,
May the new path blossom —
Youth! Youth!
Springtime of beauty!
Her perfume lingers, and the attic smells sickly sweet. But that's not the only thing that smells; a rotting odour makes me nauseous —so nauseous that when I climb back down, I fall on my bad leg. I limp back through all the rooms, collecting my tie, jacket, hat and gloves and go out the front door.
The smell from the attic clings to my clothes as I step outside. The air is cooler now, and I turn to close the door, and it takes some force to shut it. When it finally latches, a hollow sound echoes through the house. I rest my hand on the doorknob for a moment before letting go. I put on my hat and make my way to the car. The house shrinks in the rear view mirror, and I see it just as wonderful as it was when I was young, before it disappears behind the hill. The cypress sway in the wind, their shadows trembling across the pavement. The road curls around the mountain, and the sea air fills the car.
I don’t know what I’ll do with the house. For now, I just keep driving.
Catherine Ste-Marie is a writer from Montreal, QC, Canada, whose work has been published in OxJournal. Passionate about history, science and the environment, she dreams of helping to create a better world so that future artists and creators can thrive. Catherine enjoys playing her many instruments, reading, and beating her two sisters at card games. Ever curious and optimistic, she approaches life with a “glass half full” mindset, ready to turn challenges into opportunities.
The Table — Arya Kambhampati
The dining room waits in reverent silence as the afternoon light spills through the west-facing windows, illuminating dust specks that dance above the space’s centerpiece: a massive table that has served four generations of my family. The wood glows amber under the fading sun, its surface worn smooth by years of use. A series of curved indentations along one edge where pencils had pressed too hard during homework sessions, water rings from countless glasses, and in one corner, a small carved lettering that looks like initials, which is nearly polished away by years of cleaning.
The table dominates my grandma’s dining room, its presence unapologetic and rooted. Once ornately wood-crafted, its legs have softened at the edges from thousands of brushing knees and fidgeting feet. The golden wood has darkened over time, deepening to rich mahogany at the edges where countless hands have gripped while pulling chairs forward. At its center, the wood is slightly concave from the weight of eighty-seven years of platters, bowls, and elbows pressed in attention during lively discussions.
Six chairs surround the expanse, not the original set, which had deteriorated a while earlier, but replacements selected so many years ago that now themselves showed wear. The cushions, now covered in a faded burgundy fabric, have been reupholstered twice. One chair, at the head of the table, stands slightly taller than the others, with armrests worn smooth where fingers have drummed during conversations.
Against the far wall stood a matching hutch, its glass doors reflecting the warm light, and among the beautiful crystal and silverware displayed sat incongruous treasures: a lopsided clay bowl I made in elementary school art class, a disheveled snowman ornament, and a hand-drawn family portrait framed as though it were a masterpiece.
It was one of those Sundays where everyone showed up but no one wanted to be there. It was our weekly performance for the family, as usual. My grandma had been hosting them since she moved from India to help take care of my brother after he was born. I was surrounded by the same familiar faces, though they felt more like acquaintances than anything else. I try to engage with my aunts and uncles, but the dialogue never sticks. “How’s school?”
“Good,” I answer. “Busy.”
A nod, a tight smile. Silence.
The adults talked about the weather, their jobs, and whatever new restaurant they had just tried. My aunts smiled too hard. My uncles checked their watches. I offered to help set out the water glasses just to escape the small talk. My grandma handed me a tray wordlessly, her bangles clinking. Her silence was never empty: it was always packed with things she didn’t say out loud.
So I slip into the comfort of my routine for these gatherings. I set the table with my siblings. We know the drill. Steel plates with simple silver rims, stainless steel spoons and forks arranged neatly next to crisp cloth napkins folded with precision. My siblings and I exchange glances, a private language of raised eyebrows and suppressed sighs. A single raised eyebrow from my sister meant Do you see what she’s wearing?, A glance at the hallway clock meant how long are we staying this time?, and a hard side-eye from me, usually directed at the grown-ups mid-conversation, translated to something like help me, I’m dying.
Dinner is finally ready. We sit down in the same seats we always do, in the same silence.
And almost like clockwork, the questions start coming, slipping in with every bite.
Last week, I was the one under interrogation.
“How many hours a day do you even look at that?” my grandfather snapped, not bothering to disguise his annoyance.
“Probably eight,” my mom guessed, clearly enjoying the chance to chime in. “Screen time is out of control. I read this article that said—”
“Always with the articles,” I muttered under my breath.
They made me read my screen time report out loud like it was a confession.
Instagram: 2 hours. TikTok: 1.5. Messages: 2. Books app? A tragic 14 minutes.
“You said you were reading more,” my dad said, disappointed. “I was. Just… not on the app,” I tried. He wasn’t convinced. No one was. So this week, I left my phone in the car and pretended I didn’t care. I hoped that I escaped the scrutiny this week.
Like always, my grandma had the opening line.
“We spoke to Riya Auntie yesterday,” she said brightly. “Her daughter finally got married. Such a beautiful ceremony. Simple, but elegant.” Every adult at the table perked up slightly. My aunt, the one sitting diagonally across from me, shifted uncomfortably. We all knew what was coming.
“And you know,” my grandma continued, “she’s only 30. Same age as Dipika.” The table went still. No one said her name, but Dipika’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She put it down gently. Her face was unreadable.
“In our time,” my grandpa adds, “you would be married by 25.”
I look at my sister. She rolls her eyes. I stifle a laugh. I want to say something, something brave.
“She’s doing really well at work,” I offered, trying to change the subject, but my voice came out too quiet.
No one acknowledged it. The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic, it was just dull. It was almost like the breath before a sneeze or the stillness in a room before a picture falls off the wall.
“She’s doing well,” my grandma repeated, smiling tightly. “But working is not the same as being settled.”
There it was.
My dad coughed and reached for the food uncomfortably. My uncle leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. Dipika didn’t flinch. My parents look away. I pick at my food.
Then: “What is your number one college right now, Arya?”
I freeze.
“We are still discussing,” my mom cuts in.
“Let’s discuss now,” my grandma insists.
“How is your SAT?” asks my grandpa.
My stomach drops. I mumble, “I’m retaking it.”
“You must study harder,” he says.
My dad joins in. “No more wasting time with friends. You need to focus. I studied for two months and got a 1600. Just read that one book, remember? It changed everything for me.”
I know the book. I’ve read it. Twice. It did not change anything.
Maybe, I want to say, I’m just not you. But I say nothing. My mouth stays shut. My throat tightens. My sister glances at me, her eyes saying: Hang in there. I nod, barely.
They keep talking. Talking at me. I hear myself agreeing, promising to try harder, to cut the distractions, and to make everyone proud. Then suddenly, without warning, my eyes well up. I stare down at the table, the beautiful table, and blink fast. I can’t cry at dinner. I excuse myself quietly, push back the chair, and walk to the bathroom. I shut the door and let the tears fall. Quietly and with no drama. When I return, the conversation has shifted to clothing.
“You wore that outside?” my grandma says while staring at a picture on my mom’s phone. “You should be careful,” she adds. “You don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
I bite my tongue. The wrong idea? Because I wore jeans and a slightly cropped shirt? Because I don’t live in 1985?
They start saying things in Telugu that they think I won’t understand. I have understood since I was seven years old, and I understand more than enough. The word “Murkhudu” floats by. Complaining. That’s me. The complainer.
They don’t look at me when they say it, but they don’t have to. I keep eating, pretending not to hear, pretending that the lemon rice isn’t turning bitter in my mouth.
My eyes drift to the table, its surface worn by years of use. It is easier to focus on the table than their piercing words.
The table got there before they did.
My grandfather had gotten into a PhD program in California, and my grandmother sent the essentials ahead. A few suitcases, some cookware, and, oddly enough, one enormous wooden dining table. It made no logical sense, but she insisted.
“We’ll need a proper table,” she told him. “We’re not eating on folding chairs like students. We have two children.”
He didn’t argue.
When they landed in California weeks later, jet-lagged in the California sun, the apartment was bare except for the table. It sat in the center of the living room, its carved legs slightly uneven on the floor.
My grandfather dropped his bags and looked at them, then at my grandmother.
“It’s huge.”
“It’s stable,” she said, patting one of its carved legs. “It’ll be good for studying. You’ll get your degree in half the time.”
He ended up writing most of his dissertation on that table. His notes were sprawled out across it for hours, the fan turning overhead, half-drunk cups of coffee growing cold next to stacks of paper. The table was covered in books cracked open with pens stuck inside, and research articles stapled and annotated in red pens.
My mom used to study at the same table. She and her friends would work through their AP physics and geometry problem sets. College brochures curled at the edges under the stacks of yellow notepads. They always had snacks, steel bowls of Kurkure, and peanuts that were casually passed around for everyone to share.
When she was sixteen when something snapped: A B+ in chemistry. Her first B ever. The moment she walked through the door, the air shifted. Not with yelling, never with yelling, but with something quieter: disappointment. She set her backpack down beside the table, the straps falling limply to the floor. The house was heavy with the smell of cumin and jasmine rice. Her notebooks jostled with every step she took, the corner of a graded lab slipping out just enough for the red ink to show: 87.
My grandmother stood at the stove, stirring something in slow, even circles. She didn’t turn around.
“You’re smarter than this,” she said.
My mom paused.
“It’s just one grade,” she finally replied. It was careful, but she could hear her voice catching.
My grandmother didn’t sigh or raise her voice; that wasn’t how things worked in their house.
“It is always just one grade. Then just one missed opportunity. Then just one life that isn’t what it should have been.”
She turned down the heat on the stove, still not facing my mom. “We didn’t come here for B-pluses.”
It wasn’t about the grade. It never was. It was about the weight she carried that wasn’t entirely hers. It was about growing up in a house where ambition wasn’t a choice but a responsibility.
A B+ felt like a betrayal.
My mom didn’t respond. She just walked to the table, pulled out the chair she always sat in, the left one, and sat. Her hands were motionless on her lap. Her eyes stung, but she wouldn’t cry. She didn’t want to give in to the silence. Behind her, the spoon clinked against the side of the pot.
“Next time, study more,” my grandmother said. Still gentle. Still devastated.
“I studied,” my mom said. But not loud enough for anyone to believe her. Maybe not even herself.
No one mentioned her honor roll. Or how she stayed up past midnight the night before, reviewing her notes in the dining room. Or that she skipped lunch that day to retake a quiz for extra credit. None of that mattered. And sitting at that table, with the wood pressing against her palms, she realized that at the end of the day, to her family, it wasn’t about effort, it was about the result.
Later that night, when the house was quiet, my mom sat at the table alone. Her books were still open, though she wasn’t reading. Her hands were shaking, not in rage but something closer to exhaustion. She opened the junk drawer and pulled out a small craft knife. She rested her hand on the table and stared at the grain. Then, carefully, she carved one letter: A.
Not for her name. Not for the grade she didn’t get. Not even out of anger.
She carved it to remind herself that she existed outside of expectations— or at least she wanted to.
But the next day, she went to school. She studied harder. She retook the exam and got the A. She went to a good college. Majored in something practical. Came home on time. Wore the right clothes. Got the right job. Got married. She became the perfect daughter her parents had always wanted.
The table stayed in the house. Dishes were cleared, new laptops replaced old textbooks, but the table remained. Every time she sat at it, she remembered that night. The letter.
Years later, when she had children of her own, she never talked about the letter. The table was in the center of my grandma’s house like it always had been. Her children did their homework there. She circled their spelling errors with red pens, corrected their grammar mid-sentence, and told them to never settle.
“Smart girls don’t get lazy,” she’d say, as she had once been told.
She pressed the same expectations onto them that she had once pushed against: not because she didn’t remember what it felt like, but because she did. Because the pressure had worked. She had gone to college. She had succeeded. She had become the version of herself her mother always imagined. A version that looked impressive on paper.
There were some moments when she’d sit alone at the table, sorting mail or checking school portals, and her fingers would drift over the wood. The indentation was still there. She never spoke of it. Maybe because it embarrassed her. Maybe because if she acknowledged it, she’d have to admit that the version of life she chose, the one built on rules and grades, wasn’t the one she wanted after all.
I run my fingers over the table now. Same spot. Same wood. The A is still there, faint, but visible if you know where to look. My mom pretends not to see when my eyes settle on it during dinner. Maybe she hopes I will never know the story of it.
By the end of dinner, we are all exhausted. Not from the food, but from surviving the meal. I help clear the plates. My aunt offers to dry. We share a look— one of those unspoken acknowledgements. You okay? Me too.
The table remains. Solid. Watching. Absorbing. I wipe down the surface slowly. My grandmother stands in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, her eyes soft but calculating.
“This will be your table one day,” she says.
She means it as a blessing.
I don’t respond at first. The cloth is still in my hand, the fabric damp and warm. My fingers are curled tightly around it. I nod because it is easier than saying no.
Because inside, I know: I don’t want this table. Not because it isn’t beautiful. Not because it hasn’t held generations of meals, assignments, and lives. But because I don’t want what comes with it. I don’t want a table that makes people small. A table that asks for straight A’s, perfect scores, and quiet obedience. A table that knows how to praise results and forget effort. A table where silence means disappointment. I don’t want to inherit the weight of that expectation. I don’t want to build a life on fear of disappointing the people who raised me.
My grandmother’s eyes meet mine from the doorway, her gaze softening just a little. I think she sees the hesitation, my unspoken resistance. Maybe she recognizes it—because once, she must’ve felt it too. Maybe she knows I don’t want the table as it is now. Not with its silence and expectations still heavy in the woodgrain. Maybe she hopes I’ll come to understand it the way she does. But I won’t.
My table will be different.
It will be a round table, made of a light, honey-colored wood. The wood grain will flow in waves beneath the matte finish, catching the light softly rather than reflecting it harshly. The legs will be simple and solid. No fancy details or decorative elements, just 4 sturdy supports. The chairs around it look like they were collected over time rather than bought as a set. Some are painted, their colors faded and edges worn down; others are bare wood with mismatched finishes and heights that make the whole arrangement feel accidental.
People will come to my Sunday dinner because they want, not because they feel obligated. No one will be performing. The chairs will never feel like interrogation seats. There will be no rehearsed small talk and no awkward silences heavy with expectation. No one will define their worth in grades or resumes. No one will sit quietly rehearsing answers to questions they never wanted to be asked. I won’t ask about test scores or college applications. I’ll ask better questions. Questions that don’t have a right answer. The conversations will flow without pauses of discomfort. I want my family to feel safe here. No pressure, no judgment. Just us. This is the table I want.
Arya Kambhampati is a writer who has already published two poems, “The Space Between” and “The Fairytales We Never Outgrow.” When she’s not reading or spending time with friends, she’s probably somewhere overthinking her college applications and imagining the essays she’ll write next. Even as she looks ahead to college, Arya hopes to keep writing: both the stories she lives and the ones she creates.