THE PHOENIX REVIEW: 2020-2021 Literary Magazine
A collection of art compiled during the 2020 global pandemic.
Writing"Ocean" by Yale Coopersmith
"A Dream in the Night" by Camille Gaz "I Was Raised by Alcoholics" by Brithany Castro "Flickering Dreams" by Mark Veregge "He" by Camille Gaz "My Garden" by Mia Fisher "The Earth's Sonnet" by Alexandria Paris Williams |
Art"Beyond The Sunset" by Camryn Blum
"Children of Sun" by Mia Fisher "Sun After The Storm" by Jordana Rojany "Oil Painting Shattered Image" by Cassidy Jacobsen "Covid 19" by Mya Sutton "Eiffel Tower B&W" by Derek Chodor "A Perfect Day for Flying a Kite" by Jack Paris Williams "As The Wind Flows" by Jack Paris Williams Untitled by Ella Reisser |
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"Ocean" by Yale CoopersmithNo one's ever touched me like that
With a bottomless love (I often try to spin feelings into something palatable) I've never been kissed so hard And so much That I've been breathless (Words constructed into melodies and tapestries) And no one has ever looked me In my tortoise shell eyes And told me that they loved me (Trying to intellectualize and romanticize) That they would go to the moon for me Or even the 7/11 down the street (The ache that lives in my chest) Love letters and love songs don't apply to me And I'm afraid they never will (Say what you want to say) So I'll say what I want to say No flowers no patterns I'll say what I want to say She talked about the ocean once How she yearned for it like a lover How she wanted love She said I want the ocean to (Say what you want to say) She stopped (Say what you want to say) I chewed her words in my mouth You want the ocean to make you hers She didn't know how I had taken her words And made them raw (Say what you want to say) But I know that you can't grow flowers where they don't want to grow Say what you want to say |
"Beyond The Sunset" by Camryn Blum |
"A Dream in the Night" by Camille GazA charcoal sky invaded by the crystal moon
The crystal moon projecting one single beam of light One single beam of light illuminates the jade forest A forest filled with the sounds of the nocturnal A nocturnal nymph creeps amidst the oaken trees Oaken trees inhaling the crisp evening air Plump air permeated with the scent of sweet lavender A scent wafting up from the nymph’s bare skin This skin advancing into the moonlight Light shining from the looming heavens Heavens then reach bellow for sister earth embrace Sister earth propelling the nymph into flight A flight of downy wings and chestnut dreams Dreams to inspire two worlds to embrace The embracing of a crystal moon and ancient oaks Ancient oaks poised to catch the nymph if she falls A nymph soaring with stretching limbs and extended fingers Fingers eager to caress the charcoal sky A sky yearning to unite with the soil beneath Soil imprinted with the nymph’s pointed toes Toes which frequently dance under the silent moon The silent moon who smiles at the nymphs gentle touch A touch uniting two different worlds Two different worlds one of reality and one of mythology Mythology that birthed the nymph who now encompasses reality Reality to the elements prancing around her Her with the dark onyx curls that reflect bright light Light of the crystal moon which invades a charcoal sky "I Was Raised by Alcoholics" by Brithany CastroI was raised by
Drowning emotions with alcoholic beverages. Money covering attacking words. “I’m sorry” never feels true. The bare minimum Considered as being a parent, Type of parent. A thick curly haired Little girl being yelled at to do better in school with anxiety. “Hija, you need to stop this fake shyness and do better to be successful” Single mother. Type of mother. A big headed, Thinks he’s a macho man, Weeks old cigarette and alcohol smelling clothing. Fist on a wall above a small little girl's head. I was only in 2nd grade. Absent father. It has been eight years. Sorta father. Some wine sipping, To bandage the emotional wounds. Never even engaged. Had a child on accident. “You were a surprise gift from God”. Kind of adulthood past. A band aid of a mother. The real definition of a mother. Acceptance. Present 24/7. “You are the daughter I’ve always wanted”. Kind of aunt. Some skin around the nail picking. Knuckles cracking. Panic attacks in class. Eight plus missing assignments. Sorta trauma. Four therapy clinics. Some attempts. Hospital traveling. Doubled on antidepressant dosage. “Why me? What did I do to deserve this?”. Feeling everything, but also feeling nothing at all. Type of depression. I was raised by alcoholics. "Flickering Dreams" by Mark Veregge“I don’t know how much I want to talk about this, it’s weird, and a lot to unpack. It’s just a burden on those I talk about it with,” I told him.
“I’m willing to hear you out,” he said. Is it really okay? If I keep hesitating, nothing will be fixed, so I might as well. I took a deep breath and told him: It was Sable’s 10th birthday! And all her friends gathered around to celebrate my wonderful girl. She’s become someone I’m so proud of. The joyful rays of sunshine lit up the party in a golden glimpse of joy. She began opening her presents, overjoyed by the gifts her friends have given her. “Mommy, why is everyone so kind?” she said. “That’s just the way the world is,” I replied, happy to see my daughter questioning the world around her and seeing it for its natural beauty. Her brother began to join in song when I got out the cake, red velvet, her favorite cake, as it reminds her of the medical field she’s interested in. Her brother, Doure, tried singing, “HAAAAPY BIIIIIIRRRRRRRTHHHHHHDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY TOOOOOO YOUUUUUUUUUU!” Everyone laughed and we all dug into the rich red velvet. It was splendid, and I truly felt connected to my children. Just before bed, I read with her, as we both loved to read. She continued to read her stories of female heroes, as she wants to be one when she grows up. It’s just like the rich landscape around her, and that grand life she has ahead of her fills her soul. She just wants to protect everything that is important to her, the beautiful world, and the people in it. But then, my house turned to flame, my kids being reduced to ashes, and I couldn’t do anything about it, laying ever still, my flesh being charred, the painful heat suffocated me more and more with fear. My kids… my CHILDREN, MY EVERYTHING IS NOTHING BUT ASH! I could feel it all wearily trudging on in my memory, the sounds of the smoke signal ringing. The beeping got louder and louder until finally… BEEP BEEP BEEP I woke up and turned off my alarm clock and mourned. I was remembering the past, haunting me. I did have kids, but felt them both pass away in my hands. Their glint of light is what I wish my life had, but I woke up, cold, trembling with my grief. I wish they were alive, with me, and yet it’s not possible. It’s just something I have to live with. All throughout college, I’d been preparing for a job as a School Psychologist, preparing for the kids I’d soon have. Now, with the dream job of mine soured, I try to think of them. Because then, at least I could feel like I’d wonder what my kids would’ve done as my clients’ friends. What would they do as good friends of the kids I work with? How can I weave them into my work, to keep that spark of joy alive in me? But day in, day out, what I wish to have is gone, and I’m fighting in vain to keep it alive. “So, your children are like your muses?” he asked. “You know what? Sure, let’s go with that,” I replied. "He" by Camille GazHe shattered her glass heart with a rusted nail.
He mutilated her mind leaving only the ichnite of his sickness. He surrendered. He let his former ally crumble in the wake of insanity. He abandoned inviolable oath. He claimed no man's land. He disappeared into the abysm of her remembrance. He threw away a corroded bijou that day. He was too impatient to watch her naked form rise from the ash. His eyes blind to the cycle of life. Blind that phoenix ascends in death. She did ascend. Without his gaze Without his help. With only her hope. A goddess spread ruby wings and soared that day. He stayed mortal swathed in blindness. He lost a prize he never owned. He never realized. "My Garden" by Mia FisherAfter seeing the world in black and white for so long, witnessing it flourish in colour is almost ill-fitting. It’s as if I’ll blink, and the world will revert to being dull once more. Still, some days I embrace the change. Some days I forget how things used to be and enjoy how things are now. Of course, there will always be days that I act like how I used to. I recognize that.
Sometimes it’s hard to let go of the past, even if you didn’t enjoy it to begin with. On those days, with my thoughts clouded and a shadow drawn over my face, I write. It helps me cope, but more so, it helps me release. I cannot tell whether the writing is fueled by self-remorse or strewn hopelessness, but I write nonetheless. I notice on my substandard days that I tend to isolate myself. It’s as if I choose not to be happy sometimes. Almost as if living in a cloud of these thoughts is just who I am. However, I notice on the better days that my smile is no longer forced. I notice how much my happiness leaks out of me, and it makes me believe I can get better. I have been getting better. The human interaction I thought I despise begins to sprout into something I love and look forward to. I no longer hide in the solace of my bedroom but plant seeds. I plant them everywhere. There is a seed planted on my phone after calling a friend. I plant a seed in my living room, as I’ve actually been able to leave my bedroom without feeling forced to do so. I plant seeds, and soon, they will grow. They won’t need as much water and care, and soon, I won’t have to do much at all to keep them well except for the occasional water. Others will help maintain my plants for me. I may occasionally water my now-grown plants, but the sunlight may help me and provide my plants with nutrients. My friends and family help me to become better, and I don’t need to force my happiness when I’m around them. It is always hard at the start, as when you start, you are at the very bottom. If you can get through the toughest stage, things will get better. Things will get easier to manage. And soon enough, once you start to plant your seeds and begin maintaining them, you will eventually have a garden flourishing in front of your eyes. After seeing the world in black and white for so long, witnessing it flourish in colour is almost ill-fitting. It’s as if I’ll blink, and the world will revert to being dull once more. Still, some days I embrace the change. Some days I forget how things used to be and enjoy how things are now. Of course, there will always be days that I act like how I used to. I recognize that. Sometimes it’s hard to let go of the past, even if you didn’t enjoy it to begin with. On those days, with my thoughts clouded and a shadow drawn over my face, I write. It helps me cope, but more so, it helps me release. I cannot tell whether the writing is fueled by self-remorse or strewn hopelessness, but I write nonetheless. I notice on my substandard days that I tend to isolate myself. It’s as if I choose not to be happy sometimes. Almost as if living in a cloud of these thoughts is just who I am. However, I notice on the better days that my smile is no longer forced. I notice how much my happiness leaks out of me, and it makes me believe I can get better. I have been getting better. The human interaction I thought I despise begins to sprout into something I love and look forward to. I no longer hide in the solace of my bedroom but plant seeds. I plant them everywhere. There is a seed planted on my phone after calling a friend. I plant a seed in my living room, as I’ve actually been able to leave my bedroom without feeling forced to do so. I plant seeds, and soon, they will grow. They won’t need as much water and care, and soon, I won’t have to do much at all to keep them well except for the occasional water. Others will help maintain my plants for me. I may occasionally water my now-grown plants, but the sunlight may help me and provide my plants with nutrients. My friends and family help me to become better, and I don’t need to force my happiness when I’m around them. It is always hard at the start, as when you start, you are at the very bottom. If you can get through the toughest stage, things will get better. Things will get easier to manage. And soon enough, once you start to plant your seeds and begin maintaining them, you will eventually have a garden flourishing in front of your eyes. "The Earth's Sonnet" by Alexandria Paris WilliamsThe stars don’t shine while we are fast asleep
Yet we keep dreaming of a perfect world Our moon's bright eyes dark from a clouded sheet Yet we keep moving through life in a whirl The sun's warm rays bring us into the day The silent cries of Earth are pushed aside And cruelty will lead our hearts astray And forge a path into our own demise The children weep for they are losing faith In those who have a duty to protect Corrupted minds pretend that we are safe And block out all the voices of protest A change in mind grows from a change in heart To save the stars and let us all restart |
"Children of Sun" by Mia Fisher"Sun After The Storm" by Jordana Rojany"Oil Painting Shattered Image" by Cassidy Jacobsen"Covid 19" by Mya Sutton"Eiffel Tower B&W" by Derek Chodor"A Perfect Day for Flying a Kite" by Jack Paris Williams"As The Wind Flows" by Jack Paris WilliamsUntitled by Ella Reisser |
Reflections: 2019-2020 Literary Magazine
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Table of Contents
Writing |
Art |
Figment: Chapter 1 by Adina Beck
Her cat-ear twitches, lifelike, halfway too animal for comfort; it’s cute, though, in a
symbolic way, an easy telegraph of emotion that hasn’t quite been mastered on the face, and a wonder of technology to boot. The eyes are too flat, the whole face is too flat, really, but the ray-tracing is good and there’s sparkle in the sclera and magnified iris that causes Gilly’s heart to twinge. Gilly tightens the muscles of her calf experimentally. She has taken the form of a smokey-eyed vampire-sorceress, able to light a cigarette with the snap of her fingers or throw sparks with a lazy flick of a hand. Her luminously white fish-net clad leg glides forward and she extends a slim, ringed hand to Lady Cinnamon at will. Lady Cinnamon’s throat is ornamented with a pink satin ribbon and bell; up close it trembles as if in breath. Lovingly meticulous in detail, deliberate and all the painful for it. Lady Cinnamon reminds her of a bird - the chokers, perpetually rouged cheeks, striped stockings - all part of a flashy mating ritual, her pin-curled pigtails a crest. A satin-throated warbler, maybe. She slides an anthropomorphized paw up Gilly’s white arm, past gentle, and Gilly wonders what her setup’s like, how she possibly manages such fine motor skills, or if Gilly is just projecting tenderness on her touch. Closing her eyes, Gilly pinches her own goose-pimpled thigh to remind herself of real sensation, that her legs are numb from immobility and not spine-ascending paralysis. Read More |
Two untitled pieces by Natacha Giurno
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Answering the Call by Fiona Fiebig
It draws you away from the human race
And lures you towards your rightful place Free and bold, you run away To find a pack that lets you stay Running, sprinting, and leaping for miles Exposes you to new lifestyles Memories of mankind fade from your mind Yet you do not care, for you left them behind You have the power in your hands That allows you conquer all the lands If you get lost, you will be found For you are part of a new team now Your time is done, but your story lives on For you are the “ghost dog,” brave and strong Dogs fight the urge to be man’s child As they answer, the call of the wild |
Jormungandr by Francesca Kirby
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Nature, Alone by Tristan Worsham
The veil of palpable peace is quickly pierced by each patricianly pace taken while perusing the unfettered facets of freedom, unfit for man.
Beasts not of our societal susceptibility secretly secede from mankind, venturing away from our houses and homes for fear of vandalic violence set upon them by mankind’s maniacal nature. Nature, of mismatched meaning, nature not of beauty but brutality, continued to poach and pillage such peace imposed by the silence of nature. Nature alone with bustling bloom, Bloom, defined by beauty. |
El Escudero by Isabel Heim
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Abandon by Ian Connolly
The night is cold And it bites at me Under these thin layers Which I must call a coat They are flimsy And in some places there are holes Through which the devilish wind Sticks its pointy fingers The night is dark And the moon has hidden her face. An old friend who doesn’t want To see me this night The dark sky above Seems cruel and uncaring Without her gaze I wish I could scream In agony to the sky But who would hear? For the moon is not listening I feel my feet move Though I do not control their path I stare at the ground, for if I looked up I would see And be reminded of what I am missing It is empty here It was once full Before life withered and fell Its fiery eyes turned a dead gray I wish I could scream I come upon a statue In the dim starlight, I see a smile Beaming on a young man’s face I reach out to touch him But recoil at the cold metal I stumbled out of the park Away from the shade of the trees My hand burning from the chill Of the statue’s malice And found myself under a streetlamp I felt judgment in its yellow beam And stepped back into darkness The streetlamp dies And abandons me as well I look to the stars. I see them shining and I smile But so far off: they cannot see me And they do not smile back. This lack of response turns My smile to a scowl And I continue to walk I find the river Its course runs East Towards the rising sun I am desperate For what is at its end The sun’s warmth I must feel the sun’s warmth I cannot wait any longer I wade chest-deep And then up to my head Until I’m submerged Baptised in the ice-cold Harbinger Of morning’s warmth The river tugs me down Under the surface I thrash and tumble The undercurrents pulling me deeper And deeper My lungs fill with the murky water And my eyes fill with silt My senses go dark I embrace the frigid cold I forget about the moon, The streetlight, And the stars, And the boy who turned me away My body washes up on the bank Where the river meets the sea My eyes drop open And watch the dawn I take my final breath My lungs submerged As the sun’s rays illuminate My pale dead face A glint of its light catches my eyes And restores the color to my face I cough and cough and cough The water spews forth onto the shore And I take a deep breath In the pale morning, The first of a new life |
Missing by Ryan McIntyre
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What is My Biggest Fear by Elisa Kim
What is my biggest fear?
I'm afraid of you. Afraid that one day, you'll wake up and come to reality. Realize that I'm not what you thought, who you thought. Realize that everyone else was right. Realize all of the doubts I had, all the doubts you denied, were right. So when you leave me behind and move on, I want to stop you before you do. Not to prevent you from moving on, but to let you know that I'm letting go. I want to thank you for everything you've done and the things you've taught me. Thank you for the times you made me laugh and the memories we've shared. So what now? Well, you move on. It's what's best for you. And me? I continue to search. Search and then get left behind, each time my heart breaking a little more as I come to the realization that nothing will change. It will always be the same loop, the same outcome. You leave with good purpose; I was never good enough for you. Since day one I knew. I've been waiting for this day. I knew it would come. I hope you're happier where you are. And don't think of me. I'm not worth your time. You were like a dream. It was nice while it lasted, but now it's time to return back to reality and continue stumbling around in life. Thank you for the adventures. You were like the butterfly that landed on my hand, and the current of life is now taking you away. Wherever you may go, now you are free. From me. I let you go with a heavy but willing heart. Know that I love you, and always will. Sorry for Everything. Sorry for being me. |
Kosmo, Maple, and Steve by Madison Ferdman
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Loneliness by Elisa Kim
Loneliness.
It's a weird feeling. And to me, not even a feeling. More like a state -- a state of acceptance. Loneliness. You accept the absence of love. Is it weird to miss someone you don't even know exists? Constantly wanting to be around them, talking to them, simply being with them. And yet, you don't even know who it is you want to see. The image you hold in your mind is so clear, so exact. But the lines are blurred, and you lose focus. You talk with others, laugh with others, but it's never enough. At the end of the day, you always end up back in your room, alone. Lonely. Wanting a shoulder to cry on, wanting an ear to listen, yet no one you can trust. Your mind is clear, but you flash in and out of consciousness. You know you have friends, but there's an empty hole. Something doesn't feel right. You're missing someone. But who? Who am I waiting for? Will I ever feel satisfied? Will the hole ever be stitched up? Will I just continue waiting waiting waiting, until one day, time has run out? I miss you. I don't know you. I want to see you. But I don't know who. This numbness, this confusion. This hope, this uncertainty. This ache, this acceptance. This is the feeling of loneliness. I would know. |
Call of the Wild by Uma Ram
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Poem by Yale Coopersmith
I've spent most of my life
Living in words Swimming in them Breathing in them Playing with them and twisting Them Threading them into stories of fantasy and home I met some men on Santa Catalina The isle of romance That breathed the same words I did The words of the sons of Abraham My family took those words for granted But I did not For those words were mine They belonged to me Thanks to a long and storied history Even if I could pronounce or spell them I understood the intent behind them But these men believed that women Did not own these words Only those who had been circumcised Could treasure the holy books So my brother was blessed A great mitzvah In a tongue he did not understand While I stood by And tried not to cry As they stared at my blasphemous hands They told me These words do not Belong to women Women and men are different And for the first time ever Despite hearing these words Many times I believed them For these words were different Than playground taunts Than jeers and snickers from peers Than those horrible words I hated hearing You'll never belong with us here For these men were my people MY people And they cast me off like rotting wood And if I was shunned by those like me By those who stood where I stood By whom would I ever be understood? Why did they cast me Why do they cast me I just want to be understood |
Pastel Dreams by Alan Gill
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Bounded by Alan Gill
Journey: 2019 Literary Magazine
Table of Contents
Patient Zero by Adina Beck
Built On Bandages by Rachel Perlmutter
Ancient Fear by Ella Michael
little haiku letter for you by Ella Michael
My Life’s Performance by Ivan Law
Success-20 Feet Ahead by Kiana Brizendine
Move On by Leenoy Margalit
Flames by Maxwell Diamond
Wisdom of the Sea by Sogol Gharaei
The Dreamer by William Cutler
Built On Bandages by Rachel Perlmutter
Ancient Fear by Ella Michael
little haiku letter for you by Ella Michael
My Life’s Performance by Ivan Law
Success-20 Feet Ahead by Kiana Brizendine
Move On by Leenoy Margalit
Flames by Maxwell Diamond
Wisdom of the Sea by Sogol Gharaei
The Dreamer by William Cutler
Patient Zero by Adina Beck
I woke up that morning with a throat as dry as the desert. Mr. Roth, my English teacher, would chastise me for using the cliche. However, Mr. Roth isn’t reading this, and I’ve racked my melting brains for the past several minutes trying to think of a comparison both spectacularly original and more apt- to no avail. Anyways, my throat wasn't just dry but hurt terribly, like I’d skinned it on the pavement. Well, it was mid-winter, and there was “something” going around, so I prepared myself some chamomile tea, choked down my Cheerios, and walked to school per usual.
Of course, in retrospect, I should have realized something was catastrophically wrong when I sat down, achy and shivering, at my desk. I should have just stayed home, asked my mom to leave her shift at Sears, and slurped chicken soup in bed to the background noise of daytime television. In short: isolate myself in a heroic attempt to protect the healthy populace from the “something.” However, unfortunately for humanity, I’ve never been one for self-sacrifice. That, and I had an important English test in first period. I was committed to continuing on with my day like normal, ignoring my symptoms entirely and devoting my whole attention and undiminished mental faculties to learning.
Things did not go as planned.
At question thirty-three of my exam on Camus (I knew it had something to do with allusion but I was losing coherency) the room started spinning. The walls elongated and shrunk, a miasma of oil slick haze and jagged neon lines dancing in front of my eyes. I was transfixed. Finally, someone had added a bit of color to the place! The grout lines of the blue, tiled floor stretched with the loose ease of Silly Putty, collapsing into a shimmering dark pit at the center of my vision.
I blacked out. I think. The desk was hard under my pounding skull and I vaguely registered that my drool was soaking into the Scantron. Mr. Roth looked up from his desk, dignified mustache bristling, and mouthed words I couldn’t understand. The next thing I knew, I felt the soft, cool hand of class president, Vivian Malone, on my shoulder, guiding me gently to the nurse’s office. I stumbled through the quad, leaning heavily on her, half-conscious, my knees sending up jolts of pain at each step. My head lolled uselessly against her shoulder, and I got an unappreciated look down her blouse.
Eventually, a shambling mess, I was delivered to Ms. Bracken, who busied herself fetching the thermometer while I stretched out on the cot and examined the various anatomical posters on the wall. I felt desperately tired, my eyelids, indecisive, fluttering open and shut - only pain keeping me awake. The ache in my knees had not abated, instead spread up my nervous system like a live wire. My brain pulsed against the confines of my skull. My hands shook and the tepid indoor air felt like icy fire. Through bleary eyes I saw Ms. Bracken as a giant crow descending upon me, talons outstretched, and as she stuck a thermometer into my panting mouth, the plastic seemed to me as tough and deadly-sharp as a claw. I hacked out a hoarse and muffled scream, lurching weakly from the shadow of her blustering wings. Finally, the thing was removed from my lips, and I saw her eyes boggle comically at the readout. Her face went deathly pale, her hands flitting around, impotent hummingbirds, finally perching on the wall phone. I remember lying there, moaning and scrabbling at imagined maggots on my arms when Ms. Bracken came back to me, gingerly touching my sweaty forehead and murmuring softly. She appeared to me then as an angel, haloed by the fluorescent lights, softened by watering eyes. I cried out for her, and I think must have been too loud, or hyperventilating, because she put her palm over my mouth. In the moment, though, there was no surer sign that she wanted me suffocated. I reacted like a cornered animal, writhing away, chest heaving with a burning flurry of coughs. Barely hanging onto awareness, I huddled against myself, curled against the sudden sound of her shrieks, falling deep into a wandering sleep.
Later they told me that I had sputtered blood (plus a few particles of lung tissue but that's neither here nor there) into her open hand and had, simultaneously, broken a rather large blood vessel in my nose. I tried to imagine what a ghoulish sight that must have been - myself, eyes wide and delirious, wailing and scratching at my arms - then abruptly squirting a torrent of blood over the poor, ill-equipped nurse. How very frightening!
They also told me, much later, that Nurse Bracken had been visited by a gaggle of hazmat suits from the World Health Organization and dragged, shaken and terrified, into one of those decontamination showers oft featured in sci-fi movies.
It starts out with a dry, scratchy throat, that’s all. The fever comes- at first still seeming mundane enough to be the flu, but then leaping startlingly high, unaffected by medication. In the next twenty-four hours, the victim will face hemorrhage, swelling, a rash of pustules, purple and splotchy, all ending in the slow creep of necrosis. It’s ugly, I know that firsthand, incurable (which I also know firsthand), and results in death within three days. Three days? The bubonic plague took ten! Still, three can seem like a lifetime under the right circumstances, and when you’re in unbearable pain- the kind that makes a minute without morphine drag on for a year- three seems quite long indeed.
The next morning, Nurse Bracken woke up with a headache and throat that burned like the Sahara. She popped an Advil and a lozenge, unaware that the rest of the student body were doing the same. Mr. Roth called in sick (so did ten other teachers) and there were harried remarks about the flu as roll was taken and half the school marked absent. From there the spread was uninhibited, jumping from student to parent to coworker, leaving jobs untended, stores closed, roads unpaved. Suddenly, in what seemed like no time at all, people were marching in the streets, pustule-faced, shouting demands to a government that was sick in bed themselves. Survivors migrated from the cities. They wore surgical masks leaving only eyes uncovered, escaping the plague-infested streets stacked high with decaying bodies.
Meanwhile:
Vivian Malone rode alone in the desert, her clothing ragged and torn, her backpack straps hanging on by slim threads, a paisley bandana hiding her lips. The motorcycle stuttered beneath her, rhythmic; the road stretched into the distance. Suddenly the engine hiccoughed. She twisted at the handles desperately, but the hog had fizzled and died, perhaps, like everyone else, overcome by the plague. The sun glared down on her. She was miles away from help or comfort, open season for looters or rapists. Quite simply: toast. Then she heard it, the rumble of tires on the cracked asphalt. An eighteen wheeler appeared, a speck on the horizon. She waved her hands frantically at the man in the cab. He could be a murderer, but to stay would be a far more certain death.
The truck whined to a halt on the side of the road. The door swung open. He was bearded, the brimmed baseball cap pulled tight over his head obscuring most his features. As she grabbed his outstretched hand, a shot echoed through the desert. A cloud of dust formed, from its depths raced a brigade of ATVs, looters howling as they drove, sending bullets ricocheting off the truck. The man heaved her in quickly, foot slamming onto the gas pedal. The truck had a head start, but it was heavier than the lithe ATVs and they caught up, weaving around their target, guns reports still sounding. One bullet cracked through the windshield in a spray of glass shards and whizzed past Vivian’s cheek into the plush leather cushion. A startled gasp died in her throat. The man in the baseball cap suddenly beckoned for her to grab the wheel, and she leaned over as he reached behind the seat to produce a pistol and a glossy rifle. He handed her the smaller gun, took the wheel in one hand, and cocked his firearm with the other. When he pulled the trigger, the bullet zipped through the shattered windshield and straight through the occipital lobe of an unsuspecting rider. The man tumbled from his vehicle into the road. There was a meager bump as the truck passed over him. She readied her own gun and aimed at the other looter in front of her, mimicking the two armed grip she’d seen policemen use on TV. The crack was even louder. Recoil shuddered through her arms. Vivian had aimed for the head and hit the front tire, but either way, the problem was solved. And as her pulse slowed she realized just how scared she had been, how the dwindling adrenaline left her feeling hollow. The man in the driver's seat smiled at her, seemingly unruffled.
Meanwhile:
Mr. Roth looked down at his fingernails. In the dim light, he could just make out the ring of dirt under the white crescents. They were growing longer. His hair was too, oily, tangled, and brushing over his eyelids. He coughed into his hand and tasted metal which told him, without opening his eyes, that it was blood on his palm and not phlegm. Was it from dehydration, illness, injury, or, more likely, a deadly combination of all three? His medical knowledge was limited, but he knew with close certainty that it didn’t matter why anymore. Either way, he was reaching an end. The bullet graze across his shoulder throbbed. His tongue felt like a piece of over-large cardboard. His eyes watered, and he wanted to smack himself for wasting moisture. The steadily encroaching darkness announced the end of his second day in the storage container and heralded his impending death. It was there always, now, a monument in the distance, and he lay before it, languishing in its shadow. Languishing! He loathed to describe it in such aureate terms, but was there anything else? Even as a dying man, the poet in him reared its ugly head. He’d laugh if he weren’t sure the action would upend bits of his windpipe. How did he get there? If only he knew. It was already hard to identify fact from indistinguishable scraps of zombie movies and post-apocalyptic novels. Who had chased him from his sickbed and into the cell? A hoard of frothing monsters? A band of opportunistic rioters? A desperate family of plague victims? Yet again, the why occupied his mind. Yet again, it was irrelevant. Whoever it was, they had popped the padlock closed, and left him for dead not ten feet from his own home. They had fired a couple shots through the side for good measure. If only they hadn’t missed.
Meanwhile:
It was about two twenty-three in the morning when I died. My mother was there, sniffling in the threadbare hospital armchair. She looked awful- her eyes red-rimmed and a tangle of frizzy flyaways coming loose from her ponytail, face miserably downturned. A nurse brought her Kleenex and ushered her from the room. And she didn’t even put up a fuss! She didn’t demand to stay with my body, or that they try rubbing the stupid paddles together and burning my chest like a wilting piece of toast. Barely two minutes after I drew my last breath she had already passed the first stage of grief, collect two hundred dollars. She organized a paltry funeral (Vivian hardly shed a tear!) and shoved my belongings into boxes en route for Goodwill.
I suppose most would be more disturbed by the vivid picture of their own funeral. I suppose I am not most. Though I saw my impending death and the subsequent destruction of humanity with consuming clarity, I was not afraid. There was something compelling in the thought that my blood was as a pressing danger as radiation poisoning, lethal as ricin. That I- feeble and small in my starched white sheets, lifesaving tubes stemming maze-like from my body, hooked up to an endless array of machines- I was capable of causing such fear. Prepared to greet death willingly, secure in the knowledge that my life would have more significance than the average fifteen year old’s, I was at ease. My mind was filled with the comforting images of devastation: Ms. Bracken shrieking as my blood sprayed over her like rain, the men in yellow hazmat suits and their big white tents, the cities burning with plague-ridden bodies, and Vivian on her red motorcycle riding off into the sunset. The hospital nurse came in then, to swab a cool cloth across my brow. She told me that I was on the mend and would be back at school in no time. I could barely contain my laughter. If only she knew...
Of course, in retrospect, I should have realized something was catastrophically wrong when I sat down, achy and shivering, at my desk. I should have just stayed home, asked my mom to leave her shift at Sears, and slurped chicken soup in bed to the background noise of daytime television. In short: isolate myself in a heroic attempt to protect the healthy populace from the “something.” However, unfortunately for humanity, I’ve never been one for self-sacrifice. That, and I had an important English test in first period. I was committed to continuing on with my day like normal, ignoring my symptoms entirely and devoting my whole attention and undiminished mental faculties to learning.
Things did not go as planned.
At question thirty-three of my exam on Camus (I knew it had something to do with allusion but I was losing coherency) the room started spinning. The walls elongated and shrunk, a miasma of oil slick haze and jagged neon lines dancing in front of my eyes. I was transfixed. Finally, someone had added a bit of color to the place! The grout lines of the blue, tiled floor stretched with the loose ease of Silly Putty, collapsing into a shimmering dark pit at the center of my vision.
I blacked out. I think. The desk was hard under my pounding skull and I vaguely registered that my drool was soaking into the Scantron. Mr. Roth looked up from his desk, dignified mustache bristling, and mouthed words I couldn’t understand. The next thing I knew, I felt the soft, cool hand of class president, Vivian Malone, on my shoulder, guiding me gently to the nurse’s office. I stumbled through the quad, leaning heavily on her, half-conscious, my knees sending up jolts of pain at each step. My head lolled uselessly against her shoulder, and I got an unappreciated look down her blouse.
Eventually, a shambling mess, I was delivered to Ms. Bracken, who busied herself fetching the thermometer while I stretched out on the cot and examined the various anatomical posters on the wall. I felt desperately tired, my eyelids, indecisive, fluttering open and shut - only pain keeping me awake. The ache in my knees had not abated, instead spread up my nervous system like a live wire. My brain pulsed against the confines of my skull. My hands shook and the tepid indoor air felt like icy fire. Through bleary eyes I saw Ms. Bracken as a giant crow descending upon me, talons outstretched, and as she stuck a thermometer into my panting mouth, the plastic seemed to me as tough and deadly-sharp as a claw. I hacked out a hoarse and muffled scream, lurching weakly from the shadow of her blustering wings. Finally, the thing was removed from my lips, and I saw her eyes boggle comically at the readout. Her face went deathly pale, her hands flitting around, impotent hummingbirds, finally perching on the wall phone. I remember lying there, moaning and scrabbling at imagined maggots on my arms when Ms. Bracken came back to me, gingerly touching my sweaty forehead and murmuring softly. She appeared to me then as an angel, haloed by the fluorescent lights, softened by watering eyes. I cried out for her, and I think must have been too loud, or hyperventilating, because she put her palm over my mouth. In the moment, though, there was no surer sign that she wanted me suffocated. I reacted like a cornered animal, writhing away, chest heaving with a burning flurry of coughs. Barely hanging onto awareness, I huddled against myself, curled against the sudden sound of her shrieks, falling deep into a wandering sleep.
Later they told me that I had sputtered blood (plus a few particles of lung tissue but that's neither here nor there) into her open hand and had, simultaneously, broken a rather large blood vessel in my nose. I tried to imagine what a ghoulish sight that must have been - myself, eyes wide and delirious, wailing and scratching at my arms - then abruptly squirting a torrent of blood over the poor, ill-equipped nurse. How very frightening!
They also told me, much later, that Nurse Bracken had been visited by a gaggle of hazmat suits from the World Health Organization and dragged, shaken and terrified, into one of those decontamination showers oft featured in sci-fi movies.
It starts out with a dry, scratchy throat, that’s all. The fever comes- at first still seeming mundane enough to be the flu, but then leaping startlingly high, unaffected by medication. In the next twenty-four hours, the victim will face hemorrhage, swelling, a rash of pustules, purple and splotchy, all ending in the slow creep of necrosis. It’s ugly, I know that firsthand, incurable (which I also know firsthand), and results in death within three days. Three days? The bubonic plague took ten! Still, three can seem like a lifetime under the right circumstances, and when you’re in unbearable pain- the kind that makes a minute without morphine drag on for a year- three seems quite long indeed.
The next morning, Nurse Bracken woke up with a headache and throat that burned like the Sahara. She popped an Advil and a lozenge, unaware that the rest of the student body were doing the same. Mr. Roth called in sick (so did ten other teachers) and there were harried remarks about the flu as roll was taken and half the school marked absent. From there the spread was uninhibited, jumping from student to parent to coworker, leaving jobs untended, stores closed, roads unpaved. Suddenly, in what seemed like no time at all, people were marching in the streets, pustule-faced, shouting demands to a government that was sick in bed themselves. Survivors migrated from the cities. They wore surgical masks leaving only eyes uncovered, escaping the plague-infested streets stacked high with decaying bodies.
Meanwhile:
Vivian Malone rode alone in the desert, her clothing ragged and torn, her backpack straps hanging on by slim threads, a paisley bandana hiding her lips. The motorcycle stuttered beneath her, rhythmic; the road stretched into the distance. Suddenly the engine hiccoughed. She twisted at the handles desperately, but the hog had fizzled and died, perhaps, like everyone else, overcome by the plague. The sun glared down on her. She was miles away from help or comfort, open season for looters or rapists. Quite simply: toast. Then she heard it, the rumble of tires on the cracked asphalt. An eighteen wheeler appeared, a speck on the horizon. She waved her hands frantically at the man in the cab. He could be a murderer, but to stay would be a far more certain death.
The truck whined to a halt on the side of the road. The door swung open. He was bearded, the brimmed baseball cap pulled tight over his head obscuring most his features. As she grabbed his outstretched hand, a shot echoed through the desert. A cloud of dust formed, from its depths raced a brigade of ATVs, looters howling as they drove, sending bullets ricocheting off the truck. The man heaved her in quickly, foot slamming onto the gas pedal. The truck had a head start, but it was heavier than the lithe ATVs and they caught up, weaving around their target, guns reports still sounding. One bullet cracked through the windshield in a spray of glass shards and whizzed past Vivian’s cheek into the plush leather cushion. A startled gasp died in her throat. The man in the baseball cap suddenly beckoned for her to grab the wheel, and she leaned over as he reached behind the seat to produce a pistol and a glossy rifle. He handed her the smaller gun, took the wheel in one hand, and cocked his firearm with the other. When he pulled the trigger, the bullet zipped through the shattered windshield and straight through the occipital lobe of an unsuspecting rider. The man tumbled from his vehicle into the road. There was a meager bump as the truck passed over him. She readied her own gun and aimed at the other looter in front of her, mimicking the two armed grip she’d seen policemen use on TV. The crack was even louder. Recoil shuddered through her arms. Vivian had aimed for the head and hit the front tire, but either way, the problem was solved. And as her pulse slowed she realized just how scared she had been, how the dwindling adrenaline left her feeling hollow. The man in the driver's seat smiled at her, seemingly unruffled.
Meanwhile:
Mr. Roth looked down at his fingernails. In the dim light, he could just make out the ring of dirt under the white crescents. They were growing longer. His hair was too, oily, tangled, and brushing over his eyelids. He coughed into his hand and tasted metal which told him, without opening his eyes, that it was blood on his palm and not phlegm. Was it from dehydration, illness, injury, or, more likely, a deadly combination of all three? His medical knowledge was limited, but he knew with close certainty that it didn’t matter why anymore. Either way, he was reaching an end. The bullet graze across his shoulder throbbed. His tongue felt like a piece of over-large cardboard. His eyes watered, and he wanted to smack himself for wasting moisture. The steadily encroaching darkness announced the end of his second day in the storage container and heralded his impending death. It was there always, now, a monument in the distance, and he lay before it, languishing in its shadow. Languishing! He loathed to describe it in such aureate terms, but was there anything else? Even as a dying man, the poet in him reared its ugly head. He’d laugh if he weren’t sure the action would upend bits of his windpipe. How did he get there? If only he knew. It was already hard to identify fact from indistinguishable scraps of zombie movies and post-apocalyptic novels. Who had chased him from his sickbed and into the cell? A hoard of frothing monsters? A band of opportunistic rioters? A desperate family of plague victims? Yet again, the why occupied his mind. Yet again, it was irrelevant. Whoever it was, they had popped the padlock closed, and left him for dead not ten feet from his own home. They had fired a couple shots through the side for good measure. If only they hadn’t missed.
Meanwhile:
It was about two twenty-three in the morning when I died. My mother was there, sniffling in the threadbare hospital armchair. She looked awful- her eyes red-rimmed and a tangle of frizzy flyaways coming loose from her ponytail, face miserably downturned. A nurse brought her Kleenex and ushered her from the room. And she didn’t even put up a fuss! She didn’t demand to stay with my body, or that they try rubbing the stupid paddles together and burning my chest like a wilting piece of toast. Barely two minutes after I drew my last breath she had already passed the first stage of grief, collect two hundred dollars. She organized a paltry funeral (Vivian hardly shed a tear!) and shoved my belongings into boxes en route for Goodwill.
I suppose most would be more disturbed by the vivid picture of their own funeral. I suppose I am not most. Though I saw my impending death and the subsequent destruction of humanity with consuming clarity, I was not afraid. There was something compelling in the thought that my blood was as a pressing danger as radiation poisoning, lethal as ricin. That I- feeble and small in my starched white sheets, lifesaving tubes stemming maze-like from my body, hooked up to an endless array of machines- I was capable of causing such fear. Prepared to greet death willingly, secure in the knowledge that my life would have more significance than the average fifteen year old’s, I was at ease. My mind was filled with the comforting images of devastation: Ms. Bracken shrieking as my blood sprayed over her like rain, the men in yellow hazmat suits and their big white tents, the cities burning with plague-ridden bodies, and Vivian on her red motorcycle riding off into the sunset. The hospital nurse came in then, to swab a cool cloth across my brow. She told me that I was on the mend and would be back at school in no time. I could barely contain my laughter. If only she knew...
Built on Bandages by Rachel Perlmutter
am I the only one who can hear it?
my eyes close
yes, there it is again;
that underlying chaos that exists in the formidable Quiet.
it bounces off the walls and echoes through my skull,
pounding like a drum without a beat
so intensely I can no longer decipher it from my very own thoughts.
the whispers of the Silence manifest into screams.
am I the only one who can hear it?
I inhale deeply, holding my breath.
the Emptiness assumes its own presence, filling the entirety of the room.
I feel my heart bruise and my legs collapse beneath me,
suddenly I’m on the ground.
the Quiet is staring me straight in the face
and I can feel Her smiling at at me through the darkness, like an old friend.
She holds me down and the immensity of Her roaring voice grows louder and louder.
am I the only one?
I exhale and sit up.
She strikes me again through the stillness.
face held against floor, my breath quickens.
searing and seeping through my being,
Her words weigh down my body.
even at the thought of getting back up, I am already down again,
over and over I try until I cannot move.
I call for help.
who can hear it?
the feeling of fear becomes so common it is numbing.
I am left but a void speck of nothingness on the ground,
all alone with the Silence.
I am built on bandages.
my eyes open,
She is only but a reflection.
my eyes close
yes, there it is again;
that underlying chaos that exists in the formidable Quiet.
it bounces off the walls and echoes through my skull,
pounding like a drum without a beat
so intensely I can no longer decipher it from my very own thoughts.
the whispers of the Silence manifest into screams.
am I the only one who can hear it?
I inhale deeply, holding my breath.
the Emptiness assumes its own presence, filling the entirety of the room.
I feel my heart bruise and my legs collapse beneath me,
suddenly I’m on the ground.
the Quiet is staring me straight in the face
and I can feel Her smiling at at me through the darkness, like an old friend.
She holds me down and the immensity of Her roaring voice grows louder and louder.
am I the only one?
I exhale and sit up.
She strikes me again through the stillness.
face held against floor, my breath quickens.
searing and seeping through my being,
Her words weigh down my body.
even at the thought of getting back up, I am already down again,
over and over I try until I cannot move.
I call for help.
who can hear it?
the feeling of fear becomes so common it is numbing.
I am left but a void speck of nothingness on the ground,
all alone with the Silence.
I am built on bandages.
my eyes open,
She is only but a reflection.
Ancient Fear by Ella Michael
This fear of the dark I have,
Is only a twinge in my heart
When I go downstairs to take my medicine
- when I forget to -
And I think to myself:
“I love the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
A quote from somewhere that I forget.
But this fear that I feel,
It is from my ancestors.
Years and centuries and ages ago
When fire was safe,
And night meant death.
And caves flickered with handprints,
And the red glow of embers.
This fear that I feel only rarely now
Is from my ancestors.
I carry this ancient fear
With pride.
For look how far we have come.
Surely we can go even further?
Is only a twinge in my heart
When I go downstairs to take my medicine
- when I forget to -
And I think to myself:
“I love the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
A quote from somewhere that I forget.
But this fear that I feel,
It is from my ancestors.
Years and centuries and ages ago
When fire was safe,
And night meant death.
And caves flickered with handprints,
And the red glow of embers.
This fear that I feel only rarely now
Is from my ancestors.
I carry this ancient fear
With pride.
For look how far we have come.
Surely we can go even further?
little haiku letter for you by Ella Michael
Do I tell you that
I still write poems about
You, who holds my heart?
Or do I tell you
It was not love, or was it?
- That I don’t know which.
Maybe I tell you
That our story is not done
(You say otherwise).
Do you picture me
Here, counting out syllables
Like a lovesick fool?
For I loved you as
Someone to trust and care for.
But was I in love?
That is the question
I revisit like the hand
Of an antique clock.
So I say goodbye
To a story that could have
Been a fairytale.
And I say hello
To a life I have yet to
Introduce me to.
I still write poems about
You, who holds my heart?
Or do I tell you
It was not love, or was it?
- That I don’t know which.
Maybe I tell you
That our story is not done
(You say otherwise).
Do you picture me
Here, counting out syllables
Like a lovesick fool?
For I loved you as
Someone to trust and care for.
But was I in love?
That is the question
I revisit like the hand
Of an antique clock.
So I say goodbye
To a story that could have
Been a fairytale.
And I say hello
To a life I have yet to
Introduce me to.
My Life's Performance by Ivan Law
Throughout the past seventeen years of my life, there has always been a part of me that holds a question that I fail to answer each time it protrudes from the cracks in the walls I have built around it. “Who am I?” Ever since I could understand the concepts of being different, being abandoned, being judged, and being loved, I have asked myself this question.
At the age of five, my parents moved my sister and me into the city of Calabasas from Downtown Los Angeles. After struggling with their business, the rent was too much for my parents, and we were forced to abandon our home and move in with my great aunt in Los Angeles. Tensions arose between my mom and father until he left us, shattering the world around me into millions of pieces. My mom wanted the best for us, so she got a job driving the bus in the Las Virgenes Unified School District (LVUSD). Though we lived in LA, we still made the journey to our schools in Calabasas as they provided a better education than most of the schools in the Los Angeles area. Even though it was painfully hard to wake up at 4:30 in the morning, we continued to drive two hours to attend the LVUSD schools.
I knew from the time I started in school that I was different from all of the other people who surrounded me. In a sea of porcelain faces, I was the only one who resembled the soil beneath the pavement. People would always touch my hair making remarks such as, “It’s so squishy” or “Why is your hair so weird?” The comments stripped me of my identity piece by piece until there was nothing left of me. These subtle actions caused me to feel as if I were not meant to be where I was, that I did not belong in that place. I also knew I did not belong in the community I lived in. Whenever I would look around at other African American boys walking down the street in Downtown Los Angeles, I could see the obvious reasons as to why I did not belong. They didn’t care about school but were more interested in becoming a professional athlete. I dressed differently, I spoke differently, I acted differently, I am different.
I constantly felt as if everyone would stare at me whenever talks of racism, African Americans, or discrimination arose. I was included with all the other children, yet in my mind, I was isolated because of the color of my skin. I encased my feelings of pain in a cage to protect myself, but I now realize that I only inflicted more pain upon myself. These experiences caused me to tread lightly when it comes to speaking out with others. A fear of offending others presides over me, forcing me to stay silent when ideas run freely in my mind. I now realize that offending others is a part of life, and I must speak my mind if I hope to make a difference in this world we live in. Silence is my enemy that I fight every day.
Many have gone through trials in their lives that test their endurance and challenge their beliefs. We all encounter them each day when we wake up to perform in front of thousands that never truly see who we are. The masses only see the side of us that seems to be joyous and unconflicted on social media, and through the face we present to them. We are not a victim of our circumstances; we can make a difference with our time to change those barriers. We can find out who we are and become who we want to be.
At the age of five, my parents moved my sister and me into the city of Calabasas from Downtown Los Angeles. After struggling with their business, the rent was too much for my parents, and we were forced to abandon our home and move in with my great aunt in Los Angeles. Tensions arose between my mom and father until he left us, shattering the world around me into millions of pieces. My mom wanted the best for us, so she got a job driving the bus in the Las Virgenes Unified School District (LVUSD). Though we lived in LA, we still made the journey to our schools in Calabasas as they provided a better education than most of the schools in the Los Angeles area. Even though it was painfully hard to wake up at 4:30 in the morning, we continued to drive two hours to attend the LVUSD schools.
I knew from the time I started in school that I was different from all of the other people who surrounded me. In a sea of porcelain faces, I was the only one who resembled the soil beneath the pavement. People would always touch my hair making remarks such as, “It’s so squishy” or “Why is your hair so weird?” The comments stripped me of my identity piece by piece until there was nothing left of me. These subtle actions caused me to feel as if I were not meant to be where I was, that I did not belong in that place. I also knew I did not belong in the community I lived in. Whenever I would look around at other African American boys walking down the street in Downtown Los Angeles, I could see the obvious reasons as to why I did not belong. They didn’t care about school but were more interested in becoming a professional athlete. I dressed differently, I spoke differently, I acted differently, I am different.
I constantly felt as if everyone would stare at me whenever talks of racism, African Americans, or discrimination arose. I was included with all the other children, yet in my mind, I was isolated because of the color of my skin. I encased my feelings of pain in a cage to protect myself, but I now realize that I only inflicted more pain upon myself. These experiences caused me to tread lightly when it comes to speaking out with others. A fear of offending others presides over me, forcing me to stay silent when ideas run freely in my mind. I now realize that offending others is a part of life, and I must speak my mind if I hope to make a difference in this world we live in. Silence is my enemy that I fight every day.
Many have gone through trials in their lives that test their endurance and challenge their beliefs. We all encounter them each day when we wake up to perform in front of thousands that never truly see who we are. The masses only see the side of us that seems to be joyous and unconflicted on social media, and through the face we present to them. We are not a victim of our circumstances; we can make a difference with our time to change those barriers. We can find out who we are and become who we want to be.
My mom used to tell me, “The difference between a successful person and a failure is how hard they work.” In the near-future, I see myself in the successful category.
I squint my eyes to focus on the scene at the top of the mountain above me; wind dances around a twisty tree’s branches, and sunlight bounces off the leaves and cascades onto the brush below. Soon I will rest there, and I will be a success. When I look at the bottom of the mountain, I will think: “It’s all so little.”
A wooden sign with an arrow pointing up introduces me to the trail: “Success is this way!”
I hitch my backpack onto my shoulders. As I take my first bouncy step, my right foot plunges deep into a muddy rutt.
Balancing on one foot, I shake off my shoe and whip my backpack off my shoulders to rummage for a pack of tissues, an extra pair of socks, anything. Finding nothing of the sort, I zip my backpack closed again...so what if my shoe is wet? The mountain awaits.
Setting out again, I barely dodge a red, gray, and white crime scene at my feet. A mouse drowning in the mud puddle, turned inside out, flies zipping about. I avert my eyes and find I have to plug my nose, too.
“Suffer now to succeed later.” I can endure more than this—this is nothing! Mincing around the mouse, I get back into the groove of walking, doing my best to ignore the lactic acid building up in my legs.
The sun inches its way across the sky, approaching the horizon. So many successful people have made it up this trail in one day, or so they say. Considering all the work I have put in so far, I expected the trailhead to be much farther away.
My legs refuse to go on, but if I stop, I will fail. I’m better than that—even if my current circumstances point to a future where I am unsuccessful and mediocre. I can’t live a life where I never feel the warmth of sunlight, the gentle whisper of the wind, or the soft cushion of the brush beneath me.
My knees buckle and I sink into yet more mud which seeps into my clothes, my ears, my hair. I can’t do it anymore. Limp, I slide down the mountain until another wooden signpost stops my descent. Peering through the mud caked on my face, I read the sign: “Success—20 feet ahead.” It points down and to the right, veering away from the regular trail which continues straight up.
I must have made it.
I crawl out of the mud, wipe my hands on my jeans, and trudge down the trail to success. I turn a corner, but instead of my twisty tree in dappled sunlight, I face a boxy, beige building. Standing in front of it is a lanky man with an awkward grin who pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Welcome to success! You’re a lawyer now,” he says. He escorts me through colorless halls, past a tiny window, and into a lifeless cubicle. Harsh fluorescent lights cascade onto the beige walls while the AC spits cold gusts of air, rustling a mountainous pile of paperwork. I know what I’ll see if I ever look through that tiny window. But I’d rather be successful.
I squint my eyes to focus on the scene at the top of the mountain above me; wind dances around a twisty tree’s branches, and sunlight bounces off the leaves and cascades onto the brush below. Soon I will rest there, and I will be a success. When I look at the bottom of the mountain, I will think: “It’s all so little.”
A wooden sign with an arrow pointing up introduces me to the trail: “Success is this way!”
I hitch my backpack onto my shoulders. As I take my first bouncy step, my right foot plunges deep into a muddy rutt.
Balancing on one foot, I shake off my shoe and whip my backpack off my shoulders to rummage for a pack of tissues, an extra pair of socks, anything. Finding nothing of the sort, I zip my backpack closed again...so what if my shoe is wet? The mountain awaits.
Setting out again, I barely dodge a red, gray, and white crime scene at my feet. A mouse drowning in the mud puddle, turned inside out, flies zipping about. I avert my eyes and find I have to plug my nose, too.
“Suffer now to succeed later.” I can endure more than this—this is nothing! Mincing around the mouse, I get back into the groove of walking, doing my best to ignore the lactic acid building up in my legs.
The sun inches its way across the sky, approaching the horizon. So many successful people have made it up this trail in one day, or so they say. Considering all the work I have put in so far, I expected the trailhead to be much farther away.
My legs refuse to go on, but if I stop, I will fail. I’m better than that—even if my current circumstances point to a future where I am unsuccessful and mediocre. I can’t live a life where I never feel the warmth of sunlight, the gentle whisper of the wind, or the soft cushion of the brush beneath me.
My knees buckle and I sink into yet more mud which seeps into my clothes, my ears, my hair. I can’t do it anymore. Limp, I slide down the mountain until another wooden signpost stops my descent. Peering through the mud caked on my face, I read the sign: “Success—20 feet ahead.” It points down and to the right, veering away from the regular trail which continues straight up.
I must have made it.
I crawl out of the mud, wipe my hands on my jeans, and trudge down the trail to success. I turn a corner, but instead of my twisty tree in dappled sunlight, I face a boxy, beige building. Standing in front of it is a lanky man with an awkward grin who pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Welcome to success! You’re a lawyer now,” he says. He escorts me through colorless halls, past a tiny window, and into a lifeless cubicle. Harsh fluorescent lights cascade onto the beige walls while the AC spits cold gusts of air, rustling a mountainous pile of paperwork. I know what I’ll see if I ever look through that tiny window. But I’d rather be successful.
Success- 20 Feet Ahead by Kiana Brizendine
I think that I think about you more than I should
I know that you think about me less than I wish you would
I wonder if you’re as happy as you look in your pictures
I hope you are--
I hope the years have been kinder to you than they were to me
I stalk your high school smiles
And I wonder if I’ll ever be happy like that
You are there with your friends and a drink in your hand
You wear nonchalance well
The way it has never really fit me
You are a world I do not know away
In a time zone I can’t catch up to
You have moved 7,000 miles on
And here I am
Learning what you have already mastered
Trying to grasp what it means
To let go
I know that you think about me less than I wish you would
I wonder if you’re as happy as you look in your pictures
I hope you are--
I hope the years have been kinder to you than they were to me
I stalk your high school smiles
And I wonder if I’ll ever be happy like that
You are there with your friends and a drink in your hand
You wear nonchalance well
The way it has never really fit me
You are a world I do not know away
In a time zone I can’t catch up to
You have moved 7,000 miles on
And here I am
Learning what you have already mastered
Trying to grasp what it means
To let go
Move On by Leenoy Margalit
Fire flying from afar,
Flames licking at the wall.
People screaming in fright,
Desperately trying to call.
Alas, it was all in vain,
With no time to pack,
People scrambling to flee,
With just the clothes on their back.
Memories left behind,
Embers gnawing at picture frames.
Old books burning to ash,
A house gone up in flames.
Flames licking at the wall.
People screaming in fright,
Desperately trying to call.
Alas, it was all in vain,
With no time to pack,
People scrambling to flee,
With just the clothes on their back.
Memories left behind,
Embers gnawing at picture frames.
Old books burning to ash,
A house gone up in flames.
Flames by Maxwell Diamond
Fresh air fills my lungs
saltwater brings me ease
and my feet are planted in the grass
far from grains of sand
I know the dangers of the sea
so loving yet cruel
my lesson is in session
and I must confess I am in a trance
I know the dangers of the sea
I search the golden sky
as my feet bury themselves deeper
the white fingers of the sea graze my skin
I jump back
I know the dangers of the sea
my phone is in my hand
and through my phone screen
I feel at ease
slowly, I go forward
the graze is gentle
slowly, wind’s palm pushes me farther
even when it knows the dangers of the sea
as the water grabs my ankles
I fall in love with the beautiful danger
I lure myself into the trap
no pity is given by the sea
just a smirk as my back hit the sharp rock
as pain erupts and travels over my body
I can’t cry because I knew the dangers of the sea
trusting the sea left me in pain on the grains that once covered me
the cushion of the earth is gone
even the golden sky is ashen black
my phone is swimming in the water
none of it matters
once again
I trusted the sea even when I knew the danger
saltwater brings me ease
and my feet are planted in the grass
far from grains of sand
I know the dangers of the sea
so loving yet cruel
my lesson is in session
and I must confess I am in a trance
I know the dangers of the sea
I search the golden sky
as my feet bury themselves deeper
the white fingers of the sea graze my skin
I jump back
I know the dangers of the sea
my phone is in my hand
and through my phone screen
I feel at ease
slowly, I go forward
the graze is gentle
slowly, wind’s palm pushes me farther
even when it knows the dangers of the sea
as the water grabs my ankles
I fall in love with the beautiful danger
I lure myself into the trap
no pity is given by the sea
just a smirk as my back hit the sharp rock
as pain erupts and travels over my body
I can’t cry because I knew the dangers of the sea
trusting the sea left me in pain on the grains that once covered me
the cushion of the earth is gone
even the golden sky is ashen black
my phone is swimming in the water
none of it matters
once again
I trusted the sea even when I knew the danger
Wisdom of the Sea by Sogol Gharaei
The Dreamer by William Cutler
Arthur erased a mistake he made in his log. He mused about where the mark went, and how it could be erased so completely. For the now thirteenth month in a row, he awoke at precisely 7:25 A.M., logged his time, and wrote a small summary of his dream. Something about vines, ravens, and boa constrictors. He shuddered at recalling these details; it was not a pleasant dream. But he did take comfort in his scrupulous log of his unconscious imagination. He fancied it gave him a sense of observation and, thereby, control.
He dressed, showered, ate his protein cube, and headed out into the hallway of the apartment building and down the stairs. There were no problems with the elevator itself, but Arthur hated the confinement, especially if a neighbor were present and he were obligated to converse. Once out into the world, he walked with purpose towards the bus stop, briefcase in one hand, lunch in the other. A passerby greeted Arthur with a friendly “Good Morning.” Mildly startled, Arthur reflexively mumbled an attempt at reciprocation and continued on.
As he rounded a corner, he collided with an immaculately dressed man in a three-piece with shaded spectacles. The impact knocked the briefcase out of Arthur’s hand; its contents spilled messily onto the otherwise neat, grey sidewalk.
“Watch it!” the suit barked.
Arthur mumbled a ‘sorry’ and looked up sheepishly at the man. Arthur could not see his eyes behind the shades, but still sensed the man was following something or someone with his eyes. The man continued at a determined pace, without any further regard to Arthur or the situation that just unfolded. Arthur collected his papers, but realized he was now running late. He quickly turned the last corner, but the bus was just leaving. It would be thirty minutes before the next bus arrived.
It was such a rarity that Arthur had nothing to do. He walked into a nearby park and meandered about, making small talk with the pigeons.
“Oh, I’m doing just fine,” he quietly responded to the inquiries of one bird.
Arthur turned his attention to the scenery; he found the small piece of green to be quite peaceful. It was circular, roughly one hundred feet in diameter. A thin dirt path bisected the park, with rows of small flowers adorning either side. One single oak tree in the center dominated the small saplings spread throughout, its canopy covering much of the park and a small stream that travelled perpendicular to the path. Under the imposing oak, Arthur sat on a bench next to the small stream. He observed, amidst the gentle current, a frog eyeing a buzzing fly, waiting for the fly to make its final mistake. Arthur found himself rooting for the insect, but the amphibian found its mark and earned a snack. The pesky fly was no more.
Arthur noticed then a small plaque on the base of the oak tree: “Planted in memory of R-- Brad----.” Some of the etching had been worn away.
An official in uniform was approaching others in the park, requesting to see their park passes. Arthur searched his briefcase for his, but without luck. He now nervously checked his pockets and his wallet; he must have left it in the apartment. Arthur quickly moved out of the park as the official walked in his direction, calling out to him. He wanted to avoid the confrontation of not having a park pass, and walked briskly, but the officer could legally run faster.
When the official reached Arthur, he brusquely asked Arthur why he left. “I didn’t have my park pass,” Arthur meekly replied. “I do have my city pass and residency certificate, however,” he hastily added.
Arthur retrieved and presented them. The official took them, inspecting them with great suspicion, before launching a volley of questions at Arthur.
“Why were you in the park in the first place?”
“What do you mean no particular reason?”
“Why were you late for the bus?”
“Haven’t you a timepiece?”
“Do you attend your weekly patriotic observances?”
Arthur answered every question truthfully, and, by the end, he had traced his entire day in detail since 7:25 A.M.
“That will do,” the officer interrupted Arthur as he explained the vines from the log. “You are aware I am going to have to fill out a report,” explained the officer, without looking up from the ticket he was writing.
“I understand,” complied Arthur.
“You would have been better off staying put and not retreating. It compounded your ticket; you should have known you would not have gotten away. No one does. Here is your ticket. You have two days, twenty-three hours, and fifty nine minutes to pay it, and you are prohibited from entering any park, even with your pass, until you clear the fine, do you understand?” the official inquired.
“I do,” muttered the accidental criminal.
The official recorded Arthur’s information, handed Arthur his passes, and gave a terse goodbye, as if purely customary by law.
Arthur sat at the bus stop, and, with his transit card in hand, waited. As he waited, he replayed the events from the park. It was the first time he had committed an infraction; he very studiously absorbed the district’s numerous laws and all of their intricacies in schooling. He had neither seen nor heard of many people receiving tickets. He recalled a colleague who ran too quickly on a walkway and was fined, but Arthur had not conversed with the colleague for quite some time; he couldn’t recall why.
* * * * *
The next morning, Arthur recorded another summary, again unpleasant. He dreamt he was alone on a small tropical island, but the waters started rising. His feet were stuck, planted in the same sand as that displayed in the Museum of Geology, the only he had ever seen. The waters rose without clemency, and Arthur awoke in a cold sweat after a few seconds of simulated drowning. Of course, the tropical island came purely from a combination of his imagination and from a fiction he read many years ago, as he had not yet actually seen anything ‘tropical’ or been on an ‘island’ in person.
After his standard routine, he walked along his usual route, but felt something was awry. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something on the traffic poles move. He turned his head, squinting through his glasses; a street camera peered directly at him, following Arthur’s movement. Other cameras did the same, observing and rotating with scientific precision. Something about the hive of robotic eyes struck Arthur in a particular manner, conjuring within his mind images of his only visit to the nature preserve. He recalled the thousands of eyes from onlookers who now appear faceless with the passage of time. They observed, with great fascination, the last of the ‘free’ orangutans and zebras, munched on their popped corn treats, and begged the animal officials to bring out the hibernating mammals and small rodents in hiding. Their requests were often obliged.
Until this point, Arthur had never noticed these cameras. Naturally, he had known they were there, but never had he truly noticed them before.
Arthur grew uncomfortable and quickened his pace, up to the legal limit of course, now visibly anxious, and wishing to catch the bus. He disliked this undue attention, but camera after camera turned toward him; there seemed to be no blind spots. He saw them at the bus stop and in what he could see of the park. Arthur was so focused on them as he entered the vehicle that he nearly jumped when the driver requested his fare. With trembling hands, Arthur put what was probably too much into the machine and sat near the front without relaxing. Before Arthur entered the office, he stopped by the Office of Dues and Fines and paid the fee for yesterday’s fiasco. The observation devices persisted, and so did the deep feeling of dread. Both accompanied him the entire workday.
It was dusk when he exited the bus from work; he had to make up for the lost time the day prior. Streetlamps illuminated his rather barren path home; most others were already in their housing units. He stopped by the park on his way. It was quite dark, as there were no lights nearby. No lights by which he felt he could be seen, just as he preferred. He lay on the bench and lost himself in the gentle rustle of oak and muted croaking of frogs, even forgetting about all of the recording devices. Checking his timepiece, Arthur reckoned the length of his rest, “Almost thirty minutes.”
He sat up, and heard a leaf crunch as he did so. No leaves were under his feet. He looked around. Nothing. He called out an isolated “Hello?” Silence. Arthur noticed one of the latches on his briefcase was undone and found this extremely odd. The latches were worn, to be fair, but Arthur very seldom forgot to close one. A low grumble indicated he was late for his meal. He secured the briefcase, grabbed his effects, and headed home.
The presence never seemed to leave him. Or maybe it was not a physical presence but a mere feeling. He concluded his nerves were simply still on edge because of the infraction. He arrived at the residential complex, navigated his way up the stairs, and approached his door. After fishing for his keys and two failed attempts at insertion, he finally found his target, opening the door with an eerie, yawning creak.
The interior light turned on to reveal his apartment not at all how he left it. Furniture was overturned, cabinets were rifled through, and books lay face-up on the floor, piled on top of one another. It appeared as eerie as a bloody battlefield during a lull in the fighting. Arthur immediately went to the telecom to report a robbery, although he noted that his valuable electronics and bank credits rested on his desk, entirely accounted for. He dismounted the small rectangular device and dialed the appropriate number. It was long, but he had memorized it years ago. He put the phone to his ear and heard only the on and off beeping of a failed connection. Arthur became increasingly panicked. He almost rushed back out, but just then he heard a pair of footsteps. The presence from earlier intensified greatly. Accompanying the footsteps were voices, talking about something. Someone. Him.
“I have never seen anything quite like it, I am truly curious what you make of —.”
“Shhhh! He’s here.”
They must have noticed the door left open. Arthur froze, now overpowered by fear. He figured the criminals or miscreants had returned with ill intentions in mind. He heard the shifting of leather and a metallic click, and he mentally prepared for the worst. The two men entered the apartment, but they were not robbers. One was an officer, in uniform. The other was a handsomely dressed, imposing man in a three-piece with seemingly opaque glasses, which he promptly took off. The officer remained silent, but the man introduced himself as Dr. G----, from the Department of Psychology and Education.
“I’ve been very fascinated by you these past few days, Arthur.”
“D-Do I kn-know you?” Arthur spoke weakly and distrustfully, with trembling lips.
“This is the first time we have officially met, but I have been involved with your case for quite some time. Your dream records are quite amusing.”
Arthur didn’t think so. “Perhaps you had some frightening experience in the pools in your youth? Pah, it’s nonsense. There is no real accounting for your dreams and your inexplicable decision to note them. But look at me now noting your notations, derailing the most pressing matters.”
“Pressing matters?” Arthur quietly inquired. “I was about to report a robbery...” Arthur continued, but trailed off.
“Oh, there’s no need to report what has happened here. We are well aware, and it will be cleaned up, I assure you. No, the pressing matter here is you. I am very concerned about what I have observed.”
At ‘concerned,’ the officer walked outside of the apartment, as if on cue. Apprehension flashed visibly across Arthur’s face.
“Something is troubling you,” the doctor resumed. “There was something that caused you to flee the officer in the park that day,” he pondered.
“I didn’t want to get a —.”
“Yes, yes, I know the official reason of course; the report was sent to my office last night,” the doctor interrupted. “But you knew you would be caught. It’s practically mechanical deduction. I was searching your residence for an answer just a few moments before you found your way inside, and I think I found the answer...”
He produced a small pocket-book, a very old one. The title was smudged out and much of the text was entirely illegible, but some bits could be discerned. Arthur had calmed somewhat, not fearing imminent danger to his person, but now he began to sweat. The doctor looked at Arthur, then cleared his throat, preparing to read.
“When in the course...dissolve the political bands...powers of the Earth...all men are created...”
The doctor closed the book. “I found this in your shelving unit. Are you aware that this type of material is —.”
“It’s purely historical! I don’t believe a word of it!” Arthur exclaimed, raising his voice for the first instance in a very long time.
“I sincerely doubt that! This dangerous text has been removed for quite some time, you know. We have long progressed past this rubbish. Its effects on the psyche have been eradicated centuries ago.”
Arthur opened his mouth, but was unable to connect his vocal chords to the words forming in his mind.
“You are very sick, and you need help,” the doctor explained, extending his hand as a gesture of friendship.
“I- I don’t...f-feel very sick,” Arthur attempted to rebut. His palms began to sweat. Looking at the doctor’s hand, Arthur thought it flashed the sickly, gnarled green of jungle vegetation for an instant. He felt claustrophobic.
“You wouldn’t know; you do not possess expertise in these matters,” the doctor pressed, reoffering his hand.
“What if I refuse?” Arthur asked desperately.
The doctor was surprised at this, but recomposed himself. “Then we would have to come to some different arrangement, but I’m sure it will be less...well, pleasing for you.”
Arthur’s clothing seemed to tighten, his shoes glued to the floorboards. He tugged at his collar, but the sensation remained. Looking around desperately, he noticed a letter on the counter. He recognized it. It was addressed to him from his mother, and it was opened. Arthur remembered putting the letter in his briefcase earlier that morning. The report, the cameras, the latch, the leaf crunch, the phone, the presence. All flashed in his mind at once. “Of course there were no robbers,” he internally realized.
“Please, it will be much easier if you just...”
Arthur took a step back away from the doctor and turned toward the window. Arthur felt water at his feet now. He looked down, but his shoes were dry.
“You don’t know how sick you are!” the doctor exclaimed with great worry.
He advanced another pace. Ripples splashed against his waist.
“You don’t know what’s best for you; you simply need to be retaught, and all will be better!” the doctor counseled.
Another step. He stood in front of the window. He could feel his heart pounding through his ribcage. All feeling seemed to leave his arms and legs. The doctor called for the officer to come back in, but Arthur didn’t hear. The snap of the window latch disguised another metallic click from the officer now rushing in. Arthur became dizzy as he looked down upon the city. Seven stories. The waters nearly reached over his face now; Arthur struggled for air.
“FREEZE!” the officer shouted, aiming his firearm at Arthur, but the command sounded so muffled that Arthur failed to register it. He practically swam forward, clawing at the opening, but a current kept restraining him.
“This must just be a nightmare. It will end, and soon I will awaken,” Arthur reasoned with himself. But just then, two sharp pops were heard. Arthur felt the bites in his back, but ignored them as he fell through the opening.
As he accelerated, he no longer felt the presence. The waters had receded. His nightmare was over.
He dressed, showered, ate his protein cube, and headed out into the hallway of the apartment building and down the stairs. There were no problems with the elevator itself, but Arthur hated the confinement, especially if a neighbor were present and he were obligated to converse. Once out into the world, he walked with purpose towards the bus stop, briefcase in one hand, lunch in the other. A passerby greeted Arthur with a friendly “Good Morning.” Mildly startled, Arthur reflexively mumbled an attempt at reciprocation and continued on.
As he rounded a corner, he collided with an immaculately dressed man in a three-piece with shaded spectacles. The impact knocked the briefcase out of Arthur’s hand; its contents spilled messily onto the otherwise neat, grey sidewalk.
“Watch it!” the suit barked.
Arthur mumbled a ‘sorry’ and looked up sheepishly at the man. Arthur could not see his eyes behind the shades, but still sensed the man was following something or someone with his eyes. The man continued at a determined pace, without any further regard to Arthur or the situation that just unfolded. Arthur collected his papers, but realized he was now running late. He quickly turned the last corner, but the bus was just leaving. It would be thirty minutes before the next bus arrived.
It was such a rarity that Arthur had nothing to do. He walked into a nearby park and meandered about, making small talk with the pigeons.
“Oh, I’m doing just fine,” he quietly responded to the inquiries of one bird.
Arthur turned his attention to the scenery; he found the small piece of green to be quite peaceful. It was circular, roughly one hundred feet in diameter. A thin dirt path bisected the park, with rows of small flowers adorning either side. One single oak tree in the center dominated the small saplings spread throughout, its canopy covering much of the park and a small stream that travelled perpendicular to the path. Under the imposing oak, Arthur sat on a bench next to the small stream. He observed, amidst the gentle current, a frog eyeing a buzzing fly, waiting for the fly to make its final mistake. Arthur found himself rooting for the insect, but the amphibian found its mark and earned a snack. The pesky fly was no more.
Arthur noticed then a small plaque on the base of the oak tree: “Planted in memory of R-- Brad----.” Some of the etching had been worn away.
An official in uniform was approaching others in the park, requesting to see their park passes. Arthur searched his briefcase for his, but without luck. He now nervously checked his pockets and his wallet; he must have left it in the apartment. Arthur quickly moved out of the park as the official walked in his direction, calling out to him. He wanted to avoid the confrontation of not having a park pass, and walked briskly, but the officer could legally run faster.
When the official reached Arthur, he brusquely asked Arthur why he left. “I didn’t have my park pass,” Arthur meekly replied. “I do have my city pass and residency certificate, however,” he hastily added.
Arthur retrieved and presented them. The official took them, inspecting them with great suspicion, before launching a volley of questions at Arthur.
“Why were you in the park in the first place?”
“What do you mean no particular reason?”
“Why were you late for the bus?”
“Haven’t you a timepiece?”
“Do you attend your weekly patriotic observances?”
Arthur answered every question truthfully, and, by the end, he had traced his entire day in detail since 7:25 A.M.
“That will do,” the officer interrupted Arthur as he explained the vines from the log. “You are aware I am going to have to fill out a report,” explained the officer, without looking up from the ticket he was writing.
“I understand,” complied Arthur.
“You would have been better off staying put and not retreating. It compounded your ticket; you should have known you would not have gotten away. No one does. Here is your ticket. You have two days, twenty-three hours, and fifty nine minutes to pay it, and you are prohibited from entering any park, even with your pass, until you clear the fine, do you understand?” the official inquired.
“I do,” muttered the accidental criminal.
The official recorded Arthur’s information, handed Arthur his passes, and gave a terse goodbye, as if purely customary by law.
Arthur sat at the bus stop, and, with his transit card in hand, waited. As he waited, he replayed the events from the park. It was the first time he had committed an infraction; he very studiously absorbed the district’s numerous laws and all of their intricacies in schooling. He had neither seen nor heard of many people receiving tickets. He recalled a colleague who ran too quickly on a walkway and was fined, but Arthur had not conversed with the colleague for quite some time; he couldn’t recall why.
* * * * *
The next morning, Arthur recorded another summary, again unpleasant. He dreamt he was alone on a small tropical island, but the waters started rising. His feet were stuck, planted in the same sand as that displayed in the Museum of Geology, the only he had ever seen. The waters rose without clemency, and Arthur awoke in a cold sweat after a few seconds of simulated drowning. Of course, the tropical island came purely from a combination of his imagination and from a fiction he read many years ago, as he had not yet actually seen anything ‘tropical’ or been on an ‘island’ in person.
After his standard routine, he walked along his usual route, but felt something was awry. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something on the traffic poles move. He turned his head, squinting through his glasses; a street camera peered directly at him, following Arthur’s movement. Other cameras did the same, observing and rotating with scientific precision. Something about the hive of robotic eyes struck Arthur in a particular manner, conjuring within his mind images of his only visit to the nature preserve. He recalled the thousands of eyes from onlookers who now appear faceless with the passage of time. They observed, with great fascination, the last of the ‘free’ orangutans and zebras, munched on their popped corn treats, and begged the animal officials to bring out the hibernating mammals and small rodents in hiding. Their requests were often obliged.
Until this point, Arthur had never noticed these cameras. Naturally, he had known they were there, but never had he truly noticed them before.
Arthur grew uncomfortable and quickened his pace, up to the legal limit of course, now visibly anxious, and wishing to catch the bus. He disliked this undue attention, but camera after camera turned toward him; there seemed to be no blind spots. He saw them at the bus stop and in what he could see of the park. Arthur was so focused on them as he entered the vehicle that he nearly jumped when the driver requested his fare. With trembling hands, Arthur put what was probably too much into the machine and sat near the front without relaxing. Before Arthur entered the office, he stopped by the Office of Dues and Fines and paid the fee for yesterday’s fiasco. The observation devices persisted, and so did the deep feeling of dread. Both accompanied him the entire workday.
It was dusk when he exited the bus from work; he had to make up for the lost time the day prior. Streetlamps illuminated his rather barren path home; most others were already in their housing units. He stopped by the park on his way. It was quite dark, as there were no lights nearby. No lights by which he felt he could be seen, just as he preferred. He lay on the bench and lost himself in the gentle rustle of oak and muted croaking of frogs, even forgetting about all of the recording devices. Checking his timepiece, Arthur reckoned the length of his rest, “Almost thirty minutes.”
He sat up, and heard a leaf crunch as he did so. No leaves were under his feet. He looked around. Nothing. He called out an isolated “Hello?” Silence. Arthur noticed one of the latches on his briefcase was undone and found this extremely odd. The latches were worn, to be fair, but Arthur very seldom forgot to close one. A low grumble indicated he was late for his meal. He secured the briefcase, grabbed his effects, and headed home.
The presence never seemed to leave him. Or maybe it was not a physical presence but a mere feeling. He concluded his nerves were simply still on edge because of the infraction. He arrived at the residential complex, navigated his way up the stairs, and approached his door. After fishing for his keys and two failed attempts at insertion, he finally found his target, opening the door with an eerie, yawning creak.
The interior light turned on to reveal his apartment not at all how he left it. Furniture was overturned, cabinets were rifled through, and books lay face-up on the floor, piled on top of one another. It appeared as eerie as a bloody battlefield during a lull in the fighting. Arthur immediately went to the telecom to report a robbery, although he noted that his valuable electronics and bank credits rested on his desk, entirely accounted for. He dismounted the small rectangular device and dialed the appropriate number. It was long, but he had memorized it years ago. He put the phone to his ear and heard only the on and off beeping of a failed connection. Arthur became increasingly panicked. He almost rushed back out, but just then he heard a pair of footsteps. The presence from earlier intensified greatly. Accompanying the footsteps were voices, talking about something. Someone. Him.
“I have never seen anything quite like it, I am truly curious what you make of —.”
“Shhhh! He’s here.”
They must have noticed the door left open. Arthur froze, now overpowered by fear. He figured the criminals or miscreants had returned with ill intentions in mind. He heard the shifting of leather and a metallic click, and he mentally prepared for the worst. The two men entered the apartment, but they were not robbers. One was an officer, in uniform. The other was a handsomely dressed, imposing man in a three-piece with seemingly opaque glasses, which he promptly took off. The officer remained silent, but the man introduced himself as Dr. G----, from the Department of Psychology and Education.
“I’ve been very fascinated by you these past few days, Arthur.”
“D-Do I kn-know you?” Arthur spoke weakly and distrustfully, with trembling lips.
“This is the first time we have officially met, but I have been involved with your case for quite some time. Your dream records are quite amusing.”
Arthur didn’t think so. “Perhaps you had some frightening experience in the pools in your youth? Pah, it’s nonsense. There is no real accounting for your dreams and your inexplicable decision to note them. But look at me now noting your notations, derailing the most pressing matters.”
“Pressing matters?” Arthur quietly inquired. “I was about to report a robbery...” Arthur continued, but trailed off.
“Oh, there’s no need to report what has happened here. We are well aware, and it will be cleaned up, I assure you. No, the pressing matter here is you. I am very concerned about what I have observed.”
At ‘concerned,’ the officer walked outside of the apartment, as if on cue. Apprehension flashed visibly across Arthur’s face.
“Something is troubling you,” the doctor resumed. “There was something that caused you to flee the officer in the park that day,” he pondered.
“I didn’t want to get a —.”
“Yes, yes, I know the official reason of course; the report was sent to my office last night,” the doctor interrupted. “But you knew you would be caught. It’s practically mechanical deduction. I was searching your residence for an answer just a few moments before you found your way inside, and I think I found the answer...”
He produced a small pocket-book, a very old one. The title was smudged out and much of the text was entirely illegible, but some bits could be discerned. Arthur had calmed somewhat, not fearing imminent danger to his person, but now he began to sweat. The doctor looked at Arthur, then cleared his throat, preparing to read.
“When in the course...dissolve the political bands...powers of the Earth...all men are created...”
The doctor closed the book. “I found this in your shelving unit. Are you aware that this type of material is —.”
“It’s purely historical! I don’t believe a word of it!” Arthur exclaimed, raising his voice for the first instance in a very long time.
“I sincerely doubt that! This dangerous text has been removed for quite some time, you know. We have long progressed past this rubbish. Its effects on the psyche have been eradicated centuries ago.”
Arthur opened his mouth, but was unable to connect his vocal chords to the words forming in his mind.
“You are very sick, and you need help,” the doctor explained, extending his hand as a gesture of friendship.
“I- I don’t...f-feel very sick,” Arthur attempted to rebut. His palms began to sweat. Looking at the doctor’s hand, Arthur thought it flashed the sickly, gnarled green of jungle vegetation for an instant. He felt claustrophobic.
“You wouldn’t know; you do not possess expertise in these matters,” the doctor pressed, reoffering his hand.
“What if I refuse?” Arthur asked desperately.
The doctor was surprised at this, but recomposed himself. “Then we would have to come to some different arrangement, but I’m sure it will be less...well, pleasing for you.”
Arthur’s clothing seemed to tighten, his shoes glued to the floorboards. He tugged at his collar, but the sensation remained. Looking around desperately, he noticed a letter on the counter. He recognized it. It was addressed to him from his mother, and it was opened. Arthur remembered putting the letter in his briefcase earlier that morning. The report, the cameras, the latch, the leaf crunch, the phone, the presence. All flashed in his mind at once. “Of course there were no robbers,” he internally realized.
“Please, it will be much easier if you just...”
Arthur took a step back away from the doctor and turned toward the window. Arthur felt water at his feet now. He looked down, but his shoes were dry.
“You don’t know how sick you are!” the doctor exclaimed with great worry.
He advanced another pace. Ripples splashed against his waist.
“You don’t know what’s best for you; you simply need to be retaught, and all will be better!” the doctor counseled.
Another step. He stood in front of the window. He could feel his heart pounding through his ribcage. All feeling seemed to leave his arms and legs. The doctor called for the officer to come back in, but Arthur didn’t hear. The snap of the window latch disguised another metallic click from the officer now rushing in. Arthur became dizzy as he looked down upon the city. Seven stories. The waters nearly reached over his face now; Arthur struggled for air.
“FREEZE!” the officer shouted, aiming his firearm at Arthur, but the command sounded so muffled that Arthur failed to register it. He practically swam forward, clawing at the opening, but a current kept restraining him.
“This must just be a nightmare. It will end, and soon I will awaken,” Arthur reasoned with himself. But just then, two sharp pops were heard. Arthur felt the bites in his back, but ignored them as he fell through the opening.
As he accelerated, he no longer felt the presence. The waters had receded. His nightmare was over.