ISSUE II: Odyssey

THE GLOBAL
YOUTH
REVIEW
Issue to
YOUTH

ISSUE II
-II-
-TWO-
-
THE GLOBAL YOUTH REVIEW
By VELIBOR BAĆO

2 0 2 0
O D Y S S E Y
ISSUE II 2021 Y.
T H E G L O B A L Y O U T H
R E V I E W
EDITORIAL STAFF
Ibra Aamir
Dua Aasim
Abdulmueed Balogun
Sena Chang
Steven Christopher McKnight
Lisa Degens
Joshua Ellis
Zo Estacio
Ella Fox-Martens
Rowan Graham
Arianna Harris
Talha Hasan
Bianca J
Ziqing Kuang
Gabrielle Loren
Krittika Majumder
Ivaana Mitra C.
Shreya Raj
Avantika Singh
Helena V
Lake Vargas
Yvanna Vien Tica
George White
CONTRIBUTORS
MP Armstrong
Velibor Baco
Andrea Balingit
Waffa Batool
Sylvia Bonillos
Delilah Brumer
Elizabeth Corallo
Silent Chemical
Thanisha Chowdhury
Nicolas Correa
Shiksha Dheda
Katherine Ebbs
Jordan Gaines
Ishita Ganguly
Madi Giovina
Talha Hasan
Raina Koshal
Archana Kshatriya
Sophia Kunkel
Olivia Lathrom
Oskar Leonard
Diarmuid Maolalaí Ó
Faith McKinnon
Guna Moran
Will Nuessle
Saóirshe O’Neill
Arun Paul Kapur
Halle Preneta
Robert Rittel
Anthony Salandy
Alex Shenstone
Thee Sim Ling
Thomas Stockley
Sarah Syed
For advertising inquires contact: theglobalyouthreview@gmail.com
Cover Image: The Global Youth Review
Magazine Designer: Sena Chang
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CHAPTERS
Table of contents and a letter from
the founder --
1
INTRODUCTION
Spring 2020--
2
DAWN
the odyssey
Trials and tribulations--
3
AFFLICTION
A beacon of hope--
4
AFTERGLOW
Featured contributors and
acknowledgements --
5
CLOSURE
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P. 10
P. 22
C O N T E N T S
P. 17
In My Backyard —
Thee Sim Ling
Democracy is
Fragile —
Archana Kshatriya
P. 43
Suburb in the Sky —
MP Armstrong
P. 26
20 20 —
GYR
NO. II
— the odyssey
Restlessness —
Delilah Brumer
P. 50
P. 76
Visual Art—Velibor Baco, Untitled
P. 69
Paralysis —
Sylvia Bonillos
The Hourglass —
Shiksha Dheda
A Part —
Andrea Balingit
P. 79
Collpased
Conversations—
A.R. Salandy
P. 86
Even Tragedies
Need Reflections —
Olivia Lathrom
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By ANONYMOUS
On twenty-twenty
Waffa Batool, Contributor
Hong
Kong protests; Australia 's
declaration of emergency; A U.S drone
strike at Baghdad airport ; A worldwide pandemic.
This whole year was a challenge but there are few
unhighlighted things that were not reported but were seen.
Though isolation caused frustration I learned that the connection
with loved ones grew dense—many grandchildren and grandparents
were reunited under a single household, and a bond was reestablished. I
admit that we all lost a bond with someone who we thought would be part
of our life in the future, but it’s part of our growth and development—a
natural phenomenon of life—and thus, we were introduced to our
improved selves; the version who took online workout classes, cut
their bangs, made dalgona coffee, the version that started their
small business venture. All I experienced was growth; I saw a
child take his first steps, I heard laughter in the neighborhood,
I found once long-forgotten young girls playing with her
skills, intriguing her students, and mentoring their
minds; I felt proud of this human race—I saw life.
Alas! a new instinct of life was formed.
Waffa
Connect on
Social —
media
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
#GLOBALYOUTHREVIEW
@GlobalYouthRev
#GLOBALYOUTHREVIEW
@theglobalyouthreview
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CHAPTER
dawn
DAWN
"When we least expect it, life sets us
a challenge to test our courage and
willingness to change..."
Paulo Coelho
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
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Prose
DEMOCRACY
Fragile
IS
"I realized how easily we turn a blind
eye to the great gift of Democracy
that our freedom fighters handed us
as a birthday gift..."
By ARCHANA KSHATRIYA
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By SOHYUN C.
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PROSE
PROSE
I
belong to a
country that broke
through shackles
of Imperial rule
and became a
free country in 1947. Being home to
more than 1.36 billion people my
country faces enormous challenges
on daily basis and my existential
crisis isn't one of them. Also known
as the largest democracy, elections
take place and thanks to multiparties
and their ever-changing
coalitions, in absence of a clear
majority, multiple parties team
up and form a government ‘of the
people, by the people, for the people'
even when they were clearly not the
people's first choice. But we Indians
are pretty much comfortable with
the idea of arranged marriages and
therefore accept such off-shoots of
democracy without many rebels. No,
I am certainly not against democracy.
Why would anyone be? It gives me an
opportunity to at least have a say in
who runs the country when I have
absolutely no say in my personal life
choices (those are the consequences
of being born to an Indian father and
a Nepalese mother).
But in the past one year,
when the pandemic postponed my
exams and put a gigantic semicolon
to the great plans of my life
(hyperbole intended) I realized how
easily we turn a blind eye to the
great gift of Democracy that our
freedom fighters handed us as a
birthday gift. Yes, the gift-wrap was
a little torn, its color had slightly
faded, but it was a gift after all. And
just like those gifts which our Dads
got for us after searching for hours
in stores, we complained that it was
just not "exactly" what we wanted and
whined about it for hours. Or at times
just tossed it away, disregarding the
effort, patience and sacrifice that our
dear Dads had to make.
To the readers who braved
the title and the first two paragraphs
and reached this very sentence,
my hearty congratulations. You
did not take the idea of Democracy
for granted and chose to pay heed
instead of skipping it like another
topic from Political Science. So why
did 2020 – a horrid, marred, dreadful
year of the Pandemic force me to take
a step away from the life-saving shows
of Netflix and instead ponder how very
fragile our Democracy is? Yes, it has to
do a lot with the USA and Mr. Trump,
but it wasn't the only country that
forced me to appreciate Democracy.
Belarus a.k.a. White Russia held its
presidential elections in 2020 and
its implied Dictator Alyaksandr
Lukashenka defeated his opponent and
scored a landslide victory. But that's
not the end of the story. His title of
"implied Dictator" does have a cameo.
He has been in power since 1994. At
the very beginning of the elections, he
jailed his opponents but undermined
a woman - Svyatlana Tsikhanouskaya,
who he did not perceive as a threat
and allowed to register as a candidate.
Now Mrs. Svyatlana is the wife of Mr.
Sergei Tikhanovsky. Mr. Sergei was a
blogger and a potential presidential
candidate. He was imprisoned by
Lukashenka at the very beginning of
the election campaign. Mrs. Svyatlana
decided to continue to fight for the
cause that her husband stood for and
went ahead to contest the elections.
She was supported by the people of
Belarus – who demanded change –
and she drew record crowds in her
rallies. However, Lukashenka won the
elections. But some polling stations
claimed that, in fact, Svyatlana had won
the election. This outraged the people
and drew protestors in large numbers
in Minsk – the country's capital. But
hey, ‘a Dictator gotta do what a Dictator
gotta do’. Mr. Lukashenka shook
hands with his friend Mr. Putin – who
promised him support and stood as tall
as he could. Consequently, Svyatlana
had to flee the country for fear of
imprisonment. But in my eyes, she did
not lose. On the contrary, she awakened
many from their slumber, she ignited a
fire and instilled a dream – a dream that
promised democracy in its truest glory
which is neither a farce nor a facade
but pristine. The people protesting on
the streets of Belarus like never before
are Svyatlana's greatest achievement.
Will their hunger for Democracy
satiate and their thirst for a change be
quenched? Well, it depends on how far
they are willing to go to attain a true
Democracy. As 2020 shall leave a mark
in pages of the history of Belarus, it did
teach me a vital lesson – elections are
a prerequisite but not evidence of the
Democracy.
The story repeated itself
yet again. This time its center stage
shifted from Europe to Africa. Bobi
Wine (What a fascinating name!) –
singer turned politician challenged
Yoweri Museveni in the Ugandan
elections of 2021. Mr. Museveni won
the election but Mr. Wine contested
it on the grounds that he had
evidence about rigged elections. Mr.
Wine has been placed under house
arrest. The Government forced an
internet shutdown on the eve of the
presidential election. And might
I add – Mr. Museveni has been in
power since 1986 after toppling the
then-dictator Idi Amin by a coup
and uttered the words that he seems
to have forgotten – "The problem
of Africa in general, and Uganda
in particular, is not the people,
but leaders who want to overstay
in power." If the claims of rigged
election are indeed true then it would
imply that Mr. Museveni has indulged
in the very sin that he accused others
of committing. Whether the elections
were truly fair can be proved only
after allowing contesting the same in
the courts.
Power changes people. And
we don't need to turn to the history
books but look right at the present
to find a perfect epitome. Aung San
Suu Kyi, a human rights activist
who spent 15 years under house
arrest for demanding democracy
for the people of then Burma, now
Myanmar, and succeeded in doing
so after making great personal
sacrifices. She could not meet her
dying husband in London and stayed
away from her children. All for
the sake of Democracy – a system
which advocates equal voice to every
person of the country. The world
acknowledged her sacrifices and
applauded for her when Democracy
finally arrived in Myanmar. She
was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.
But then fast forward to 2017 –
Myanmar's army cracked down on
a minority community of Muslims
called Rohingya and caused a forced
exodus of men, women and children
leaving their country and their homes
By SOHYUN C.
behind to save their lives.
Imagine a hectic day at work; loads
of assignments, the pressure to meet
deadlines, surviving office politics,
fear of superiors lashing out – but
when we come back home after a
tiring day, take a shower and lie
down on the bed – we feel relieved.
The problems haven't disappeared.
The deadlines are yet to be met. The
ill-mouthed people have to be dealt
with. The bossy superiors have to
be greeted again the next morning.
But none of that forbids us from
feeling relieved in the comfort of
our homes. Our home sweet home
gives us a sense of security. What if
one fine day you were pushed out
of that very house and forbidden
from ever returning? Isn't it unjust?
That is exactly what happened to
the Rohingya Muslims in a Buddhist
country of Myanmar. And what
did the human rights champion,
a Nobel Peace Prize laureate, the
State Counsellor of Myanmar do?
She defended the actions of the
Myanmar army at the International
Court of Justice. People drunk with
power dance to a different tune than
their sober rebel selves.
At the same time when
the world watched the plight
of the Rohingyas, stories of yet
another ethnic cleansing surfaced
– the Uighurs. Unlike democratic
Myanmar, the Uighurs suffered
the misfortune of being residents
of Xinxiang, China – a socialist
democracy where the word
democracy is certainly misplaced.
There are no elections in China and
the Chinese Communist Party (CCP)
is the sole governing political party.
But could the injustice inflicted
on Uighurs be blamed on lack of
democracy? If yes, then how can
one explain the state of Rohingyas
in Democratic Myanmar? Certainly,
the democracy of Myanmar isn't for
"all" its people.
If democracy which is
perceived as a fortress to the voice of
its people fails to accomplish the very
goal, of what use is such a democracy?
In fact, it is not democracy at all.
Forget the past; the present teaches
us how feeble, like the wings of the
butterfly, a democracy is. All of us
who live with it, cherish it, (the
Umbrella Movement in Hong Kong
and the crackdown of the Chinese
Government on these protestors
have reflected how far the people
are willing to fight to protect their
democracy) and those who don't,
they dream of it. But democracy is
indeed a beautiful dream – it may be
imperfect, yet beautiful. But like the
wings of the butterfly, as soon as it
is grabbed by wicked hands its death
is inevitable. That made me wonder
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PROSE
PROSE
if there are any safeguards to protect
democracy. And yet again, 2020
brought more stories of it.
Peru, a country in South
America witnessed impeachment
of its president Mr. Martín Vizcarra
over allegations that he handed out
government contracts in return for
bribes. Sounds like a great story.
Karma punished a corrupt official.
But I hope I could have ended it
there. Before we delve further into
this story, it is important that we
know a little about Mr. Vizcarra and
the Congress that impeached him.
Vizcarra is a politically unaffiliated
centrist who is popular with the
voters owing to his fight against
corruption in a country marred with
corruption and scandals. On the
other hand, the Congress does not
enjoy confidence of the people and
have locked horns with Vizcarra in the
past over anti-corruption reforms
proposed by Vizcarra. To push his
anti-corruption agenda forward,
Vizcarra forced his Members of
Congress to cooperate with his
proposed actions, even threatening
with Dissolution of Congress, which
‘‘To our dismay, no Superhero
is coming to save us: we have
to become the heroes of our
own stories."
election. With the pandemic ravaging
the nation, an impeachment caused
sudden change of leadership and
instability at a time when the people
needed a strong political leadership.
This drove thousands of Peruvians
on the streets of the capital (Lima)
to protest against what they call a
coup. Vizcarra denied the allegations
but decided to step down and not
contest the impeachment. Could it
be possible that a leader who decided
to protect the democracy against the
evil of corruption was thrown away
by the corrupt sitting in Congress?
If so, the safeguard itself backfired.
Why did Vizcarra not fight against
this impeachment? Was he really a
corrupt politician who tricked people
to believe that he was their savior
while he served his self- interests?
I'm afraid I have no answer.
But I have yet another story
where the safeguards put in place
to protect a democracy were yet
again exploited. But in this story
the Congress did not remove its
president, instead protected him
from removal. In fact, they even went
to the extent of blocking witnesses
and forbidding the civil
servants from participating
in investigations. Yes, it’s
time to reflect upon the most
talked about event of 2020 -
The infamous impeachment
of US President Donald J.
Trump. Apart from making
lives of comedians easier,
Trump has managed to be in
the news every day thanks to
his obsession with Twitter.
He made the mockery of all the
relations the US had fostered with
its allies such as NATO and reduced
its leadership from every platform
possible by withdrawing from the
Paris Agreement and WHO, while
abandoning the Kurds; his sweetand-sour
relation with Kim Jong
Un, his complicated relationship
with Vladimir Putin, profiting from
the presidency, the presidential
pardons issued to the ultra-rich and
the last nail in the coffin – inciting
an insurrection and causing riots
on the Capitol – these are just a
few in the long list of controversies
Trump managed to stir during his
he eventually did. To his dismay, the
re-elected Congressmen too weren't
keen on being his friends. (I wish
Mr. Oli of Nepal could have learned
a lesson - Dissolution of Parliament
does not ensure winning over one's
rivals.) Vizcarra was impeached twice
within 2 months, ousting him out of
office just months before the end of
his term in 2021. Now, it is pertinent
to note that the impeachment was
based on investigations showing
signs of corruption by Vizcarra
during his time in regional
government more than a decade
ago. Further, Vizcarra had made it
clear that he would not run for represidency.
Though it's full of drama,
the bottom line of discussing Trump
is realizing that the impeachment
which was intended to throw Trump
out of office was not supported by a
fair trial but instead he was acquitted
thanks to the Republicans who
decided to choose the President over
their constitutional duties.
Contesting an election
is not wrong. If that was the case,
I would be contradicting myself
after having favored the same in
the case of Belarus and Uganda.
But after having failed to establish
the allegations of rigged election in
several courts and being drenched
in narcissism unwilling to accept the
loss, causing misinformation and
sowing racial divide, look at what
has been the consequence of letting
him off the hook the first time.
The Republicans watched Trump
perform his misdeeds, applauded
and praised him as he intensified
the racial divides. They even
spewed nonsense in his favor with
the dreams of running for 2024 by
having Trump's voters on their side.
The country that enforces itself upon
other nations by selling the idea of
Democracy and idealizing itself as
an epitome of one, crumbled under
the weight of racism, antisemitism,
bigotry, xenophobia, Islamophobia,
to name a few. The Black Lives
Matter movement that spread
throughout the USA after the death
of George Floyd was a wake-up call
to the divisions that lay unsealed,
uncovered and naked for the world
to watch. Yes, the US has turned the
page and is willing to move ahead
with the first female Vice President
who is black and of South-Asian
descent, and with the most diverse
and inclusive team that could have
ever existed, but it still has to combat
the division that Trump exposed
before the world.
Certainly, India is not
perfect in any sense. I have a long
list of problems with my country and
my Government. But can I criticize
the Government, unafraid of dire
consequences? I wish I could say yes.
People who criticize the government
or a minister through Twitter and
other social media are often arrested.
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
And that forced me to ask myself:
can I not criticize the ministers I
have elected for governing my own
country? Because if I cannot then we
aren't that different from Thailand,
which set a draconian precedent of
its lèse-majesté law whereby a civil
servant was sentenced to 43 years
of imprisonment for criticizing
monarchy (she had shared audio
on Youtube and Facebook with
comments that were deemed critical
of the monarchy).
The arrests of comedians
being made for hurting religious
sentiments has made me further
question the dangerous mingling of
religion with democracy. To those
that disagree, the present has an
example for us. Poland, a European
country which has its conservative
government closely tied with the
Catholic Church, banned abortion,
thus snatching away the right of a
woman over her own body. How is
it related to religion? Because the
religious conservatives perceive
abortion as murder of someone yet
to be born but ridicule the existence
of the one living and walking on
the face of the earth. That is the
consequence of mixing religion with
governance. As far as artistic liberty
is concerned, freedom of speech
and expression does make one
pay. The beheading of a teacher in
France over displaying the cartoon
of Prophet Mohammad by Charlie
Hebdo is enough evidence about the
need of the society to be secular first
for the fruits of democracy to be
borne.
I seem to have visited the
turmoil in many countries despite
being locked inside the four walls of
my house. Suffering from anxiety,
panic attacks, sleepless nights and
depression served with the inability
to communicate about my mental
health with my parents, (Add it to the
list of perks of being born in a humble
orthodox Indian family,) I lost all my
friends because I was too ill to make
an effort to talk to them. Drowning
in my dystopia, these petrifying and
vile incidents taking place all over
the world easily caught my eye. They
brought a sense of normalcy to my
prevailing state of havoc because
they hinted to an Armageddon. It
may seem like I am romanticizing
these horrible events of the modern
world but to the mind that finds
peace in poetries of Edgar Allen Poe
and loses her soul in the dark lyrics of
Billie Eilish, these weren't terrifying
but all the more assuring that my
problems are, after all, tiny amidst
such colossal problems that people
have been facing all over the world.
Being killed because of the color of
your skin or being thrown out of the
country for being a minority or facing
a state-sponsored rape or having the
inability to decide if one wishes to
embrace motherhood or not – where
could any of my problems possibly
rank amidst these stories – nowhere.
Alas! All these stories are
actual events taking place as we
breathe. They are certainly not a plot
revolving around a group of villains
doing the bad stuff and who are going
to be kicked down by a Superhero. To
our dismay, no Superhero is coming
to save us: we have to become the
heroes of our own stories.
The first step towards
tackling a problem is to acknowledge
that a problem exists, and then after
having substantiated it with facts,
finding solutions to the problem. I
hope I have enabled the first step by
making you realize that if you reside
in a country which has Democracy
– don't take it for granted. It could
slip away through your fingers
like sand. All we have to do is stay
vigilant and ensure no one snatches
away Democracy from us. Because
Democracy is not undefeatable, but
extremely fragile. It can protect us as
long as we protect it.
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POETRY
2
Y O U
D O N ' T
B E L O N G
H E R E
IN MY
backyard
By THEE SIM LING
Y O U ' R E
S
O
K I N D
W I M B Y
I S W H A T
W E S T A N D
F O R
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
0
2
1
" This poem is based on the Not In My Backyard syndrome in Singapore. Some citizens have expressed reluctance at allowing ‘migrant
workers’ from foreign countries, such as India and Bangladesh, to live beside them, and during the Covid-19 pandemic, one such
citizen blamed these workers and their ‘poor hygiene habits’ for spreading the virus."
N
ot
In My Backyard
You don’t belong here
You come from another country
You’re so backward, noisy and dirty
NIMBY is what we stand for
It is our right to live as we choose
We don’t want you as our neighbors
You are basically just our workers
The system is already working so well
Why should we fix what is not broken?
Stay in your little enclaves
You, NON-CITIZENS
And don’t you dare
Step into my backyard
Not In My Backyard
Welcome In My Backyard
You deserve a place to stay
You travel here to feed your families
You’re so kind, resilient and forgiving
WIMBY is what we stand for
You have a right to live here too
We would love you to be our neighbors
You build our roads and homes
It’s time to change the system
It’s time to right the wrongs
Share our neighborhood with us
You, the guests of Singapore
And you will always be welcome to
Step into my backyard
Welcome In My Backyard
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OPEN LETTER
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
TO DISNEY
Channel
«You are limiting us to a box with set expectations.»
Dear Disney Channel,
550 million viewers. That is how
many children watch your channel.
550 million little kids learning how
to conduct themselves, how to acclimate to society,
and how to engage with others through your screen.
550 million children idolizing your characters
and absorbing their behavior. I would expect with
such preeminence one would be more attentive or
at least conscious of the impact their characters
and plot have on the cultural, personal, and social
development of our youth, yet almost the opposite
has been happening.
I, like the majority of my generation, grew up
watching shows like Jessie and Phineas and Ferb
that attempted at displaying a diversity of cultures—
including mine. One of my first encounters with
Indian representation was with your character
Ravi Ross. There was so much excitement when I
first saw him: for the first time ever, someone who
looked like me on the screen. I watched as he was
always the outcast and was portrayed with the most
typical Asian stereotypes: extremely smart, weak,
and socially inept. In addition to his hackneyed
By RAINA KOSHAL
character, he was the laughing stock of the group,
always being mocked or used. Looking back, the
bigotry is overwhelming. At such a young age,
unknowingly, I accepted the anti-Indian sentiment
of your shows to be how all of society views my
culture and the rightful way to treat ethnic cultures.
I had unintentionally become conscious of and
embarrassed by my ethnicity. I never talked about
my good grades, played dumb, and hid when my
mom packed me Indian food because I was too
scared to fit into the deprecating stereotypes you
had accentuated.
This fear of becoming the Asian stereotype was
not all in my head. Your shows had created an
environment in which micro-aggressions towards
ethnic cultures are normalized and emphasized.
Growing up as one of the only South Asian students in
the classroom, one of my many experiences of these
micro-aggressions was having different academic
expectations than my peers. It was presumed that
I always had my homework completed early and my
classmates would coerce me into sharing answers.
Through this, I too began holding myself to higher
intellectual standards and felt disappointed and
stressed by my failure to reach them. My “small”
accomplishments never impressed my peers and
started to lose my appreciation as well.
It is intriguing to think about the similarity between
Ravi and the character Baljeet from Phineas and
Ferb. The issue with having the only two South Asian
characters in your network be portrayed as perfectly
fitting into the Asian stereotype of awkward and
smart, having thick Indian accents, and being
disrespected is that it creates connections for the
viewer that leads to unconscious stereotyping and
groupings of South Asians. You are limiting us to a
box with set expectations.
One of Ravi’s greatest characteristics was his accent.
Perhaps if you had glorified Indian accents as you do
French or British, mocking Indian accents would not
be normalized or tolerated. What particularly angers
me is that with the misrepresentation of my culture
and with the mocking of our accents, you couldn’t
even correctly pronounce your characters’ names
- conveying to an entire generation that the bare
minimum of respecting one's name is unnecessary.
Now, having a corrected perception of Indian culture,
I am able to recognize the direct impacts of your
channel to my life and equally to that of my peers.
I have talked about Ravi from Jessie but the show
contains many other stereotypes as well: Emma is
presented as the shallow, rich, dumb blond, Zuri as
the loud, sassy black girl, and Luke as the popular
but dumb and messy white boy. It doesn’t stop there:
the spinoff, Bunk’d, has Tiffany Chen who is an Asian
who plays the violin, is always worried about her
studies, and has strict parents. And this is just one
show. I simply can’t understand why it is acceptable
to have shows that perpetuate such stereotypes that
terrifyingly overpower and categorize our youth by
their looks and ethnicity, stunting their individuality
and creating unnecessary apprehensions.
So, Disney Channel, as a fifteen-year-old Indian
American I have experienced normalized microaggressions
and direct stereotyping an unacceptable
amount of times and I blame a large portion of this
normalization on you. It breaks my heart that my
journey to becoming proud and confident of my
identity was so long and full of doubt. When I told
my friends about this letter, they had their own
experiences and thoughts to add- all my friends, of
different cultures and backgrounds, had faced some
sort of mistreatment that they correlated as a result
of what your network presents.
My hope is that you can work towards more
" It breaks my heart
that my journey to
becoming proud
and confident of my
identity was so long
and full of doubt."
respectful and correct representations of all ethnic
cultures so future generations don't feel the need to
hide parts of their identity to fit in. I do recognize
these efforts in new shows like Mira, Royal Detective;
I appreciate how it displays the beauty of Indian
culture and there is a South Asian main character
who is well rounded. But in order to move past shows
that were not as cognizant, I feel it is necessary to
recognize the faults and ignorance of them- these
shows are still streamed on your network and still
do affect our youth.
Sincerely, Raina Koshal
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
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POETRY
POETRY
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
IMAGE
OF A PERSON
By SAÓIRSHE O'NEILL
A
GENERATION
I
relate myself to a blurred image.
Something out-of-touch
and faded by the sun.
No fine lines, nothing clear-cut.
Just blurred colours
that you can’t quite imagine resulting in a person.
That is what I think of myself.
And I have this reoccurring dream
Where I melt into the floor
And I’m screaming, watching my legs
Evaporate, until there is just
Nothing.
And I can’t feel anything anymore.
I wonder if that’s how I’ll be remembered.
Like a half-forgotten
dream.
Blurry and worn from each time
I tried to refine it.
By SAÓIRSHE O'NEILL
Hopeless youth ranting
On small rectangle machines
Drinking dark and sweet and musty
Green tea,
And the old are fearful
Of the new
As they always
Seem to be.
Watching old movies
That make you feel
Seventeen,
Hoping you can
Write, paint, sing, scream
A new anti-society
For people to read.
We are all disenfranchised.
Our governments fail us
And we consume too much
For our own good.
But isn’t that just
Being carefree?
A generation of people
Told they were different,
Each of us
Doing the same things.
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
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PROSE
suburb in
the sky
By MP ARMSTRONG
golden shovel from the article “nasa and nokia are putting a 4g
network on the moon”
why do we need to defile the moon if
man hasn’t been there since 1972? nasa, you’re
failing when i trusted you. i’m unable
to trust any part of the government, i guess, or to
believe that this isn’t inevitably a war. get
this: in twenty years, i could be floating around a
lunar habitat, astral citizen down to the cell.
there’s an american undertone to a ringing phone,
& that must be the logic. it’ll be a signal
to the little green men on jupiter or mars that whenever
they’re ready, they’re lucky, for you
& your nation have an outpost where they can walk
along neat sidewalks & look upon your
perfect flowerbeds, newly painted front door, dog
barking a greeting. they’ll come around.
the entire galaxy will come around & see that the
people who annihilated the pesky block
to intergalactic communication & constructed this
suburb in the sky are superior, surely. will
i think so too? or will i sing its praises while i really
want to rip apart the flags & try to make
peace with those we alienated? & will you, or watch your
husband wash his hands of someone’s blood
while you wait in the kitchen, bringing a pot to a boil?
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POETRY
March
13, 2020
By ELIZABETH CORALLO
By SENA CHANG
DOWN
DEEP
By SYLVIA BONILLOS
I shut my eyes to the darkness only to find more in
my mind Along the valleys and mountains, in the
deepest oceans of my soul
I never dare dive in
because I know what’s at the bottom
winking at me in the faintest light of
the sun or
of the moon
T
he last normal day
I’ll ever have.
The last normal day
before a pandemic, a reallife,
sci-fi movie inspired, worldwide,
pandemic
changed the course of life.
Freshman to sophomore: the year it took
me to learn how to walk through the hallways
of school
without staring at my feet. 365 days
for my reality to adjust to the new world, the
sci-fi inspired,
Mean Girls induced, puberty-driven
world
I entered.
365 days to recover from change,
but only took one day to destroy everything
all over again.
It took one virus,
one person,
to destroy the world’s reality.
365 versus one, an impossible equation.
of teachers wiping sweat from their foreheads
because they’ve been kept out of the loop,
of refreshing Google and CNN, of holding
onto friends (just in case),
of administrations afraid to shut down.
Too soon or too late?
What’s going to happen to us?
Will the track season be canceled?
What happens to Spring Break?
No, no, it will be over in two weeks.
Two weeks?
Or 365 days?
How long does it take to recover from a
disaster?
One day to destroy, 365 to clean up. A familiar
algorithm.
Algebra II and the SAT prepared us for this.
But how would we know?
The leaders of this world
cannot tell us how long it takes to clean up
the mess of unexpected change, and the
transition from
middle school to high school cannot be
compared to
the transition of moving life to frozen chaos.
Across the United States, it was a day of
confusion,
But metaphors worked when life was normal,
so why shouldn’t 365 days?
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T H E
By VELIBOR BAĆO
PROSE
STORM
INSIDE
S K Y
S C R E A M S
A G A I N
" The sky screams again. She
wants to scream with it. She wants
to scream and cry and just do
something."
By SYLVIA BONILLOS
The cool wind blows through the bare branches of the tree. A girl
watches it bend and shake and snap. One of the top limbs falls
from the weight of the growing mistletoe and the pressure of the
wind. The clouds darken the sky and it is lit for just moments by
electricity. Amidst the fury, they sob, letting go of the sadness bottled up within
them, showering down on the world. The clouds scream and lash out with their
lightning, their electric fingers burning the ground, the trees, the people.
SHE LONGS TO BE THAT
STORM.
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The girl sits quietly in her window. She longs to be that storm. To let her emotions run
wild. To cry, to hurt, and to hurt others because they couldn’t possibly understand.
Not her parents, not her friends, no one in the world would understand her pain.
She reaches out and touches the window. Her fingers follow the streaming water on
the cold pane of glass.
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'STORM INSIDE'
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PROSE
P
eople
are talking around her. They have been since that night.
Always around her, never to her. “Oh, she’s too young,” they say,
“she shouldn’t hear these things.” But she wanted to. She needed to.
She needs to know.
What happened to my sister?
Why hasn’t she come home?
The girl’s hand drops into her lap and grasps tightly to the black fabric. The sky
screams again. She wants to scream with it. She wants to scream and cry and just do
something. Something to make it stop. Something to make everything stop hurting.
Because her sister isn’t coming home.
She never will. The two would never be able to watch their favorite movies together
or sing every song from High School Musical at the top of their lungs or have their
mini sleepovers just so they could be close. Never again.
The girl’s mother is keeping a straight face for now, but behind closed doors, she
has gone through box after box of tissues. She has soaked through the fabric at
the shoulder of her husband’s shirts for the last week. And that husband has sat in
the dark while two of the women he loves slept. He has sat on the bed of the third
woman, tears falling from his eyes onto the purple duvet, the one she had refused
to give up since she was ten.
Because that woman is gone.
The sky crackles with electricity as they carry her out. They hold umbrellas over the
carefully carved wood, even though they know it would be buried soon. The girl and
her parents follow the box. The stand around the muddy hole it’s placed over. The
rain splashes their cheeks as they each go forward and place a purple flower on top.
Because they were her favorite color.
By VELIBOR BMDDIGITAL.COM BAĆO
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CHAPTER
affliction
AFFLICTION
"Wherever there's hope there's a trial.
Hope, however, is limited, and generally
abstract, while there are countless trials,
and they tend to be concrete."
Haruki Murakami
By VELIBOR BAĆO
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Prose
JESSIE'S
S P E C I E S
"Then she’d heard the howl. Rising
from the distant mountains, from
unknowable forest depths, like an
air-raid siren or tornado warning
the howl rose, swelled, echoed..."
By WILL NUESSLE
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By YONGJIN C.
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PROSE
one
The notebook-sized platform swayed
slightly in the wind as Jessie sat, long
legs dangling over the twenty-story
fall, unmindful and unafraid.
Two hundred feet of
KESV Channel 12 antenna tower
was anchored at the summit of
the Aliquippa ridge, which added
another thousand feet of steep drop
to the valley below. The view was
spectacular, taking in thirty miles
of southern Washington forest.
The evergreen blanket rippled in
the breeze, as if to stir the sleeping
giants of the mountains.
A stray lock of chestnut
hair slipped free from her careless
ponytail, whipping at her face in the
breeze. Jessie tucked it back absently
as she listened.
Call to me again. Please.
She was startled by the
sudden shadow as a blue-gray
peregrine falcon shot past almost
at her shoulder. The bird cheeped
with pleasure at the surprise,
rolling over in mid-air to peer
at Jessie, wingtips fluttering.
Jessie stuck her tongue out at her
friend. “Showoff!”
The bird rolled back
upright and found a thermal,
rising into the afternoon sun.
Stretching on her perch, Jessie
looked out across the Cascades,
forgetting falcons, listening with all
of herself.
As she did the years fell
away, and she was nine years old
again, fifty feet up the evergreen tree
in Gamma’s backyard. She’d torn her
itchy party dress in the climb, and
Mama would be angry when they
found her.
Clinging to the pinescented
trunk she had stared out
across the forest, lifting her face to
the breeze ruffling her hair, pulling
at the braids and bows Gamma had
spent all morning arranging…
Then she’d heard the howl.
Rising from the distant
mountains, from unknowable forest
depths, like an air-raid siren or
tornado warning the howl rose,
swelled, echoed off the hills. As
quickly as it had come it was gone.
Leaving a little girl forever changed.
A decade later Jessie still
longed desperately to hear it again.
Just once more. Please.
When she heard the approaching
car, Jessie stiffened. KESV’s mastercontrol
station was tucked away up
in the boonies; nobody ever came up
there.
Looking way down, biting
her lip with the thrill of the height,
Jessie saw a midnight-blue luxury
sedan being flogged up the bumpy
dirt road. Oh, crap. Her hands were
suddenly sweaty. The sedan slid to
a neat stop beside Jessie’s dented
olive-green pickup, gravel bouncing
off the white camper shell. A second
later the driver’s door opened.
Jessie wiped her hands on
her jeans, grabbed the edge of the
tower ladder and waited. A firmly
‘‘...from unknowable forest
depths, like an air-raid siren
or tornado warning the howl
rose...’’
shut car door; five steps across the
dusty ground; the creak as the outer
door opened… Now.
Pivoting smoothly from
the platform to the ladder, Jessie
climbed down as fast as she could.
She walks through the tape room, into
master-control, greets my coworker.
The rungs flashed past her face.
Maybe she’ll think I’m in the bathroom.
Maybe she needs to talk to Jeremy.
There was an outside
chance, if she could climb fast
enough…
In the rush of her frantic
descent Jessie didn’t hear the outer
door open again, but couldn’t
miss the Boss bellowing her name.
“Jessica Delgado!”
Jessie stopped climbing,
panting, distantly pleased with
herself she’d made it almost twothirds
of the way. She looked down
the remaining sixty feet or so at
KESV General Manager Amanda
Birdsong. Best defense was a good
offense. “Hey, Boss! What brings
you here?” It’s perfectly normal and
reasonable I would be halfway up the
tower. Honest.
“Boots on the ground, Delgado!
Now!”
Jessie resumed her climb,
carefully and sedately, giving her
time to consider her defense. Would
you believe I was sleep climbing? No.
Because it was there? Too cliché.
Thought I saw smoke, wanted to check
before I called the Forest Service wasn’t
bad. Less crazy than the real reason.
As her sneakers hit the
tower’s concrete pad, Jessie
suddenly wondered what might bring
the Boss out to the edge of the world.
Mild panic at the trouble she was in
battled with excitement about the
possible news. She unobtrusively
rubbed her sore biceps, pushing
through the gate in the fence
surrounding the tower. The Boss
waited; arms crossed. Though
the Lexus behind her now needed
a wash, none of the dusty road
clung to Birdsong’s form-fitting,
midnight-blue dress. It wouldn’t
dare.
Why else would she come all
the way out here? They’ve decided.
Jessie’s mouth curved into a smile as
she walked. She cleared her throat
and tried to look contrite. Get out of
the hot water first. Celebrate later.
The Boss tapped a metal
sign zip-tied to the chain-link fence.
“I forget, Delgado, did the hiring
interview include a reading test? You
can read?”
Gee, that was three years ago,
who can remember? “Yeah, boss, I can
read just fine.”
A slight smile curved her
employer’s lips.
“Then I presume you saw
the signs.”
The signs that said No
Trespassing and Danger! Radiation!
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And yet I find you halfway
up the tower.”
“You would not believe
the view.” A confident grin for good
measure.
The Boss’s eyes were like
light-blue marbles. “I’ve seen it;
perfectly good picture in the Channel
12 lobby, taken by an engineer who
was supposed to be on the tower.
Takes up an entire wall.”
And you’re on solid ground
when you look at it. Not at all the same.
Jessie knew better than to say this.
“Setting aside the potential
ten-story fall, you do understand
prolonged exposure to RF radiation
could seriously injure you?”
“I checked with Engineer
Kevin; he said that less than half an
hour was no danger. Anyway, I was
only up there, like, ten minutes?”
The Boss tilted her head
back, shading her eyes with a
perfectly manicured hand. “How do
you stand it? I’m getting dizzy just
looking up from here.”
“I like heights. Always have.”
“Bird Girl,” Birdsong said
absently, shaking her head as she
looked down, making eye contact. “I
don’t want to see you up there again,
are we understood?”
“All out of my system, boss,
I swear.” Change the subject. “How’s
Emerald?” If Birdsong noticed the
lack of actual promise she let it go,
laughing shortly. “Fine, thank you.
She sends Hero her regards.”
“Who knew having a pet cat
and a bird of prey on the same studio
set would be so good for ratings?"
“Lucky Hero was so well
trained. For your job, especially.”
Not my fault you let your pet
streak past my peregrine.
“Speaking of jobs…”
Birdsong checked her silver
wristwatch bracelet. “Your shift’s
about to start, will Jay cover the
break?”
Without question. Whether
Jessie wanted to owe him any favors
was an entirely different question.
“Yeah, probably.” Whatever. If the
news was what she thought it was,
she wouldn’t be pulling many more
3-11 shifts out here with the mice and
boredom and lovesick coworkers.
Jessie smiled again, as the tips of her
fingers tingled.
The Boss sighed. “Good! I
wanted to speak with you before
your shift.”
In that second, the way
her employer was smiling, Jessie’s
fingers stopped tingling. “The, uh,
field-reporter job.”
“Yes.”
“You went with Nellie.”
Birdsong nodded, setting
her turquoise hoop earrings
swinging. “For what it’s worth, and
I’ll understand if it’s not worth
much, it was a close call and you
were always our second choice.”
Meaning I was never your
first choice.
The Boss kept talking
as she opened the door to the
slightly run-down, mildly spiderinfested
building boasting KESV’s
tape storage and Master-Control
operations, pulling Jessie in behind
her with the sheer force of her
personality. “Nellie has several
years on you, she has a Masters in
Broadcast Journalism—she’s the
better choice this time around,
Jessica.” Jessie knew all of this; didn’t
make it any less of a failure.
“Her name is Nellie, Boss."
Like out of Little House in the
Prairie. Doesn’t that get your Native
American blood up even a little?”
Plus, c’mon, you know I’m way hotter
than her. Give the public what it wants.
About to push open the swinging
door between the rooms, Birdsong
favored her with a full-on steel-eyed
glare. “Just because you have nonwhite
ancestry doesn’t mean you can
make light of mine.”
With effort Jessie managed
not to glare back. “Was just a joke,
Boss.”
“You’re young, Delgado,”
Birdsong said by way of forgiveness.
“You’ll have other chances.” She
pushed the door open to the glory
of the Master-Control Operations
room, splintering shelves, faded
newspaper articles, mismatched
chairs and all. “Besides,” she joked
to lighten the mood, “how could you
give up all this?” The Boss’s eyes
flicked at the bank of televisions
coworker Jeremy was monitoring,
pretending he couldn’t hear every
word. “I’m assuming I can trust your
professionalism?”
Jessie felt the fire blaze
in her eyes. She managed to keep
the sudden anger out of her voice.
“Boss, you don’t—I’m professional.”
I can push buttons with the best of
them. “You’re also a hot-blooded
Hispanic, Delgado, who I just found
dangling from the antenna tower.”
Birdsong rested her hand on a dusty
tape carousel. “I know how much you
wanted this.”
Flustered, hating it when
others could read her, Jessie fidgeted
with the silver crucifix necklace her
abuela had given her. “It’s fine, boss.”
Birdsong turned away,
sweeping through the long, narrow
room to the television monitors and
rack of videotape machines.
Following her was the last
thing Jessie wanted to do.
two
Jessie checked the clock by
the door. 03:05. The on-air monitor
showed Judge Judy pointing a finger
at a hapless plaintiff.
“Thank you for covering,
Jay,” the Boss called as she
approached. “It’s my fault she’s late.”
Jeremy swiveled on the
MCO stool, all freckles and rumpled
flannel and blonde hair tumbling into
his eyes. He put down a comic book
as he turned. “N-n-no problem, boss.
Always h-h-h…” the words came out
in a rush as he concentrated, “happy
to serve.”
“I appreciate it, Jeremy.”
Jessie snatched her timecard out of
the gray metal rack, handing it to her
boss, who glanced over at Jeremy and
back, a slight smile curving her lips.
Jessie kept her face blank through
long practice. If she pretended to
be unaware of his adoration, there
were fewer fumbling matchmaking
attempts by the KESV Cupid Corps.
Invite him to walk you out, Jessie
thought as hard as she could at her
boss.
Birdsong handed back the
timecard, which as Jessie glanced
at it said 02:45 under Time In. She
looked up, surprised.
“You said you were up there ten
minutes?” A slight, proud smile. I
can’t officially endorse your behavior,
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PROSE
but good for you, Jessie interpreted.
She offered a small smile of her
own in return. “Thanks, Boss.” It
was small comfort but just now
she would take what she could
get. Invite him to walk you out.
No
such
luck. “Jay, see you for
the dinner tonight?”
“ F - f - f a r
as I know, b-boss.”
Jessie’s Species | 8
“Glad to hear it.
You.” The Boss pointed
at Jessie. “You enjoy not
working overnight shifts?”
The 11-7 shift
would be awful even if she
liked watching television.
“Yes, ma’am.” “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then stay off the damn
tower.” With a last wave
she left, singing “Don’t do
anything I wouldn’t do,” as a
parting shot before the door
swung to behind her. Jessie
wondered if the Boss would
meet a peregrine falcon
on the way out; hopefully
Hero would stay in a tree
until the coast was clear.
“And then there were
two,” she said in an attempt
at breezy, leaning on the
elevated MCO desk. “How’s
life, Jeremy Wolff? All the
equipment working today?”
Grimacing, he
waved at the Tower of
Videotape Recorders, two
of which had gaffe tape
haphazardly covering their
gaping mouths. “Down to just
t-t-two VTRs today. J-Josh is
out of town until S-s-s-—”
Saturday. Just
say the word Saturday.
She knew he hated it
when people finished his
sentences, and she hated
herself for getting annoyed.
“ — S u n d a y , ”
he finally managed.
To cover her shame Jessie glanced
at the closest tape carousel, where
the On-Duty MCO was supposed to
stack the night’s shows. It annoyed
her to see that Jeremy had already
arranged her evening tapes. It was
a kindness some Operators did for
others and he always did for her
and she always wished he wouldn’t.
She sourly noted the
blank tape between Jeopardy and
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
‘‘ And at the end of the
day, you feel nothing.
And at the end of the day,
you can still do nothing.’’
Dateline Wednesday she would use
to record the live six o’clock news
broadcast. The one where she would
be on the wrong side of the screen.
“I hope I d-d-didn’t get
you into trouble with the b-boss?
When she came in l-looking for
you, I didn’t know w-what to say.”
Couldn’t he just leave? “What
were you supposed to say? I was
up the tower.” He looked at her
in amazement and admiration.
“You’re r-r-really brave, Bird Girl.”
Jessie
laughed
noncommittally, checking
audio meters that
didn’t need checking,
wishing he would go.
“The view must be s-s-s—”
“It’s amazing,” Jessie
interrupted, hoping
hijacking his sentence was
less insulting than finishing
it. “The Boss suggested I’d
be better off enjoying the
picture in the station lobby.”
“Less r-radiation.” He
cleared his throat. “S-sorry
about the r-reporting job.
I was rooting for y-you.”
“Yeah, thanks, so was I,”
she clipped in response.
She didn’t want to be mean
to him, but she did very
much want to be alone with
her failure. Just go, Wolff…
Finally, Jeremy began
sliding his 7-3-shift whatnot
into a blue and red backpack.
If there was a You’ll g-gget
‘em next time waiting in
the wings, it went unsaid.
She bit her lip, hating
herself. Turn my skin
green, call me the Wicked
Witch. “Uh, thanks for
pulling my tapes, Jeremy.”
“Sure. Hey, what’s it g-gonna
take to get you to c-c-call me
‘Jay’ like everybody else?”
An act of God. “I just, you
know, want to treat you
professionally.” She gave him
a warm smile. See, I don’t
want to hurt your feelings…
He looked disappointed,
and she hated disappointing
people; so against her will,
as Jeremy slung the bag over his
shoulder, Jessie offered, “Gonna
dress all snazzy tonight, ask out
Channel 12’s newest on-air talent?”
At the door, Jeremy
looked back, his face red. “Oh, um.
N-n-nellie’s okay but she’s never
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PROSE
been very p-patient with me. Not like
s-some people.” He swung through
the door, leaving an embarrassed
smile behind.
15:21:07. Jessie needed to
get the three-thirty break ready. She
had just long enough to use the one
machine not currently playing Judge
Judy to cue her three commercials
and 15:30 show, double-check the
insurance commercial loaded in
VTR-4 and watch Judy’s credits
with one eye and the clock with the
other. At 15:28:27 she hit Play on -4,
counted two seconds and tapped the
Crossfade button on the router.
“Are you struggling to find the
right homeowner’s insurance?”
“I so am…” Jessie said
absently, with a calm but frantic stab
at the Eject button on VTR-3. She
waited the endless five seconds for
the spools to unclench and spit out
the previous tape. Judge Judy could
cool her Betamax heels on the dusty
desk for now; grab the next tape and
slide it in and pray not to see read
ERROR 08-032, especially with only
one working VTR, as the greater
Seattle-Tacoma area waiting for The
People’s Court would endure thirty
seconds of black screen.
At which point the phone
would start ringing, since everybody
and their sainted mother had the
unlisted Master Control number.
“Why’s my screen blank?”
“What happened to the
signal?”
“Didn’t you air that Judge
Judy episode last Thursday?”
Fortunately, Attorney
Marlys Mathews was nice to her and
loaded, as did the Seattle Mariners
promo and praise be to Clare patron
saint of television, Judge Koch was
soon handing out justice. Twentyseven
minutes of peace and relative
quiet until the next frantic ninety
seconds. At least the four-to-five
program was a nice, hour-long show.
As was the 6 O’clock news.
And the 9 O’clock news.
“It’s fine,” she told herself.
“I like my job. It’s quiet. Can you
imagine if I had to drive to some
newsworthy location right now with
lights and a camera, do something
meaningful and important rather than
making sure everybody gets to tune
into the latest stupid episode of the
stupid People’s Court?”
She tapped her fingers on
the desk, stewing over it, until the
four o’clock break. Once Days of Our
Lives was well underway, Jessie used
somebody’s forgotten ten-pound
barbell to jam open the door to the
outside world, make sure it didn’t lock
behind her, not wanting to go through
that again.
Reaching in through the open
passenger window, Jessie grabbed the
heavy leather gauntlet, tugging it onto
her left hand. Jeremy’s chocolatebrown
car being long gone, she had the
mountain to herself.
Almost. Doubling her tongue
behind her teeth, Jessie whistled down,
up, down and within seconds her best
friend backwinged to a gentle landing
on her gauntleted wrist. “Hey, you,”
she said, as Heronimus suffered having
the feathers behind her eye ridges
scratched. “Having fun without me?”
Hero breeted in answer, her huge, dark,
yellow-rimmed eyes regarding her
master calmly. “Well,” Jessie laughed,
“don’t let me hold you back.” With an
upward sweep of her arm she launched
the falcon into the air, watching her love
climb into the sky for the thousandth
time. The sight left her breathless for
the thousandth time.
Keeping an eye on the flight,
Jessie crossed the dirt road into the tall
grass. Hero shouldn’t be too hungry, but
the falcon would be indoors all evening;
good to get her some supper now.
As her legs rustled against
white-blossomed yarrow, a little wood
thrush was startled from its repose,
shooting into the open air. The brownon-white
flitter wasn’t halfway across
the meadow before the blue-gray
thunderbolt descended, predator
taking her prey as Jessie’s heart leapt.
I will never tire of seeing that.
Of seeing anything you do, my love.
Leaving Heronimus to her
meal, Jessie decided her promise to the
Boss denied her another tower ascent,
today at least. She settled for perching
on a boulder overlooking the ravine.
The same breeze whipped the same
lock of hair around her eyes again; she
she pushed it back once more
and sighed.
Birds of prey had it so
easy. Target, dive, consume.
Repeat as needed. You missed
your strike, you flapped back
into the sky to seek another
opportunity. Sure, there were
powerlines, hunters, eighteenwheelers
to watch out for, but to
take wing and soar thousands of
feet above the clawing, grasping
earth, free of the chaos and the
crowds…
Jessie turned on her
perch to watch the falcon, as bits
of wood thrush disappeared into
the razor-sharp beak. “Trade
you,” she whispered.
Looking back out over
the sun-drenched evergreens,
part of her listening as always,
hoping as always to hear the howl
one more time, Jessie considered
using bird-of-prey tactics for her
own problems.
That was a thought.
Invite Nellie up to the ridge, get
her to walk by the tower and
at just the right moment… “I
pounce!” She yelled into the void.
“Pre-reet?” Hero looked
up from her meal, alarmed.
“Sorry,” Jessie
apologized to her love, who
clacked her beak, returning to
her meal. Embarrassed, Jessie
ran her hands through her long
dark hair before retying the
heedless ponytail. One problem
with her hawklike plan—it would
require help. “And I know just the
guy who would volunteer, too,”
she grumbled. Another problem.
One she’d assumed getting the
KESV field reporter’s job would
solve.
Another thrush flew
unmolested out over the expanse,
diving between towering
trees. “They were supposed to
choose me,” she whispered to
the mountain, hands wrapped
around her knees.
The Boss said there’ll be
other chances.
In what? Six months,
a year? Another year pushing
buttons, cursing snarled
videotapes, pretending she didn’t
know her stuttering coworker
carried an Olympic-sized torch for
her. Night after night watching Nellie
Madison, Girl Reporter.
No. Through the waves of
failure the fight inside flamed up,
the anger. Who talked her way into
this professional television job with
zero experience?
“Me,” she answered herself.
Who just now sat fearlessly
atop a two-hundred-foot television
tower?
“Me.”
Who did a world-class job training a
peregrine falcon without assistance of
any kind?
“To be fair, Mom kept the
Fish and Wildlife perros at bay.”
WHO?
“I did.” The fire deep inside
crested and she rode it once again,
perched on the granite outcropping
taking in half of southern
Washington. “It was me. And I will
get ‘em next time.” She would find a
way.
Meanwhile, looking at her
wristwatch, Jessie saw Kermit’s hand
getting dangerously close to the big
5. She called to Hero, cleaning her
beak on her feathers. “Wanna go
watch Wheel of Fortune?”
three
After grabbing her old
black backpack out of the truck,
Jessie whistled. Her love astride
her arm, she carefully shouldered
the outer door open, carrying the
falcon inside. Hero settled on the
tape carousel, watching everything
and woe betide any mouse making a
break across the floor.
Back at the MCO desk Jessie
pulled off the gauntlet and grabbed
a paperback, her notebook, and a
large sealed Tupperware container
out of the backpack. After the top
of the hour break, Jessie left Hero
to breet at Pat and Vanna, as she
strode down the claustrophobic,
narrow hallway past the occasionally
cleaned bathroom to the kitchenette.
Her grilled-cheese sandwich would
be safe enough on the counter, but
like all good station scavengers she
checked the tiny fridge. Surprisingly,
four cans remained of a six-pack of
soda, along with a note:
It’s a Boy! Have a drink on me.
- Adam
So Sarah had finally popped
out the kid. Last time Jessie had talked
to Adam his wife was a week past due
and ‘Godzilla-like’. Jessie considered
snagging one but they were the Triple
Caffeine version. “I’d be awake ‘til
Sunday,” she said to nobody, grabbing
several paper towels instead.
Returning to her post, she
piled them strategically on the floor
behind her best friend. Jeopardy always
got Hero worked up.
Jessie prepped the 17:30 break,
glancing at her love, the flickering screen
reflected in her endless dark eyes. Then
she cleared the MCO desk, moving Shift
logs and FCC Regulation books, making
room for the Tupperware container.
Carefully opening and setting the lid
aside, Jessie considered her prize.
An abandoned bird’s
nest. Probably, judging by size and
consistency, a yellow-billed cuckoo.
“I’m a brown-eyed cuckoo to
still be doing this,” she sighed, pushing
the stray lock behind her ear again.
“Least it keeps me off the streets. And
TV towers.” Trying not to feel ridiculous
as she bent to this impossible task yet
again, Jessie started gently pulling it
apart, one piece at a time, carefully
logging in the spiral notebook anything
noteworthy.
Everybody knew birds made
nests of twigs and leaves, but most
avians weren’t picky; they’d use pine
needles, feathers, cobwebs. An urban
nest might include shredded paper or
grass clippings. Jessie had once found
the string of a yo-yo.
But Jessie was not looking
for grass clippings, or feathers, or
cobwebs. Examples of such, along with
the more traditional twigs and leaves,
were tossed into the empty container
and forgotten.
Her heart rate increased
slightly with the first piece of fur—but
no. Gray wolf. An interesting find – the
species had almost been destroyed
in the 1900s – but it was not what she
wanted. Neither was coarse black bear,
or sleek oiled river otter. There were
several shaggy tufts of bobcat fur;
Bobby was prepping his winter coat
early this year. Gonna be a cold one.
Another frantic two-VTR station
break later Jeopardy replaced Wheel
and Jessie continued pulling apart
her bird’s nest, vaguely aware of
the flickering On-Air monitor and
nearly muted answers in the form of
questions.
There was a lot of deer fur
in that particular nest. Washington
being well-stocked with deer, after
dozens, hundreds of nest demolitions
Jessie could identify deer from feel
alone, from smell, even blindfolded.
But people had found
deer. And bobcats. And river otters.
Discovered them, named them,
classified them.
She was searching,
impossibly, ridiculously, for
something…else.
Something whose howl once
echoed across a forest.
It wasn’t a large nest,
and only a third remained to be
picked through when at 18:00:00
she hit record on VTR-2, the Studio
Signal button on the switcher and
nudged the Room Volume slider
up halfway. For the next fifty-eight
minutes Channel 12’s broadcast was
somebody else’s problem.
She didn’t want to pick at a
stupid bird’s nest, Jessie realized. She
didn’t even want to be in this room,
and technically she didn’t have to
be, unless something in Seattle went
wrong and she had to throw on an old
Andy Griffith Show they kept sitting
around for emergencies, anything
being better than dead air.
That hadn’t happened in
ages, and if she wanted to take her
falcon and walk out for more fresh
air, nobody would ever know.
Granddad Levar looked into
the camera again. “With the recordbreaking
heat this summer has come
increased wildfire danger. For more
on this, we go in the field to Channel
12’s newest reporter, Nellie Madison.”
And then Jessie and the
greater Seattle-Tacoma area were
looking at Nellie “Oh My God, Right?”
Madison, standing at a ranger station
somewhere in the mountains. That
would’ve been my shot. My story.
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PROSE
“Thanks, Levar. It’s been
a long, dry summer here in the
Cascades, and firefighters are
struggling to contain several large
blazes.” Nellie twitched her long
flame-red hair over one shoulder,
turning to point to a Bear sign, the
one with the Fire Danger level pegged
at VERY HIGH. “As you can see, my
friend Smokey here is definitely
concerned…” As Nellie went on,
Jessie caught herself eyeing the
switcher. Past Studio Signal, VTRs
1-5 and SMPTE color bars there was
an ironically white button labeled
BLACK; one little button that would
spare the greater Sea-Tac area from
any more of sweet Nellie’s sweet face.
I don’t need this job that badly, right?
The button was maybe three inches
from her fingertips. Nobody
could prove it wasn’t a system
glitch. Signal dropout. Solar
flare. Happened sometimes.
B u t … s h e ’ d
given her word.
So instead of
punching the white BLACK
button Jessie swiveled on
the stool, turning her back
on monitors, nest, Nellie.
Hero’s eyes looked right
back at hers. Always aware
of her mood, the falcon
tilted her head sideways.
“I’m not a failure,”
Jessie reminded herself
softly. “Just look at you.”
Hero chirrupped in
agreement while Jessie swung back
to have a long pull at her water bottle.
From the room speakers: “—and
with little to no rain in the forecast,
there’s plenty of hot, dry summer
days ahead. Reporting from the
Cascades, I’m Nellie Madison.” As
she signed off, Hero ruffled her
feathers and muted right onto the
paper towels. When Jessie was done
laughing, she went for more towels to
wipe her spit-take off the MCO desk.
Despite Hero’s perfect timing, as
Channel 12 News segued into Weather,
then Sports, Jessie’s dark mood
descended again as she halfheartedly
returned to her perhaps pointless,
almost certainly hopeless task.
But it was something to do.
She pulled out more twigs
and leaves, some raccoon fur, trying
not to remember how She pulled
out more twigs and leaves, some
raccoon fur, trying not to remember
how long it’d been since the last
truly remarkable find, revealed as
wolverine hair. The most interesting
item she found in thirty minutes
was dried snakeskin, looked like bull
snake. Then it was the second half of
the newscast, and Jessie was still very
aware of Nellie Madison’s Fire Bad
recap, now delivered next to a greenand-white
Forestry Service truck.
So aware, she nearly missed them.
Twined around a cedar
twig, half-obscured by cobweb,
were six long, red-golden hairs.
Jessie almost dismissed them as
‘‘ As she held those six
long, red-golden hairs up
to the cheap, fluorescent
MCO room lighting, deep
inside, across a decade,
she heard the howl again."
dog, maybe collie or Lhasa apso…
but they were too coarse. Much too
long to be bear, or mountain lion,
despite the faint but pungently wild
smell her nostrils could discern.
They sure weren’t human.
Seven years, nearly, she’d
been risking eyestrain and madness
with these absurd nests. As she held
those six long, red-golden hairs
up to the cheap, fluorescent MCO
room lighting, deep inside, across
a decade, she heard the howl again.
Once the monitor faded up
on the Dateline set, Jessie could take
a breath, say a prayer of thanks to
St. Helena, patron of archaeologists,
and try to remember where on
God’s earth she’d put the tiny bag.
The perfect little evidence bag she’d
swiped from Uncle Officer Theo.
Hero’s head was cocked again.
“I found something, my
love.” She rooted around onehanded
in her backpack past cheap
paperbacks, gum, fire-starting kit,
then finally felt smooth plastic.
Pulling the bag out she carefully,
reverently tipped the hairs inside.
Not about to let the
precious little bundle go far, Jessie
tucked it into her bra, next to her
heart. Then she was free to head
to the kitchen, suddenly starving.
The museum opened at nine.
Fourteen
hours.
Along with her sandwich
Jessie snagged the bottle of hot sauce
and to hell with the stereotype; on
another whim she grabbed
one of the triply caffeinated
sodas as well. She danced
through the dark hall back
to the MCO desk, dug her
battered cassette player out
of the backpack and plugged
it into the room speakers.
She took a big bite of grilledcheese
sandwich with liberal
hot sauce, washed down with
a generous swig of artificially
flavored sugar as the opening
notes to Whitesnake’s “Still
of the Night” filled the room.
Turning the sound down a
bit for the sake of her falcon’s
incredibly sensitive hearing,
Jessie saw Hero eyeing the
can. “Why not,” she justified the
caffeine ecstatically, feeling the
tiny plastic bag brush her teta.
“Not like I’ll be able
to sleep tonight anyway.”
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Die Tired
By Nicolas “The Withdrawn” Correa
My body feels heavy.
My mind feels heavy.
Am I just tired, or is it something more?
I know that when we speak of always being tired,
we invite always being tired.
My mind and body still use their own language to yell it out even when the
words may not escape from my mouth.
The matter of the fact is I am f**king exhausted.
Exhausted because every single day I feel guilty about something that I
shouldn’t, or maybe I should, or maybe it has something to do with my brain's
wiring, or maybe cause I’ve been listening to the devil’s word a little too closely
instead of God’s.
You can’t act outside of the way you normally do without it seeming like
something’s wrong.
Sometimes the life of the party just needs to stop drinking and chug some
f**king water.
I’m alert to the lack of vitamin D—the absence of sun.
I almost wish I didn’t have a job right now so that every day I could be in it.
I’ve gotten better at going outside now, cause I wouldn’t even allow myself to
go for a simple walk without feeling guilty.
As if I’m one of the people contributing to COVID-19.
Police brutality and corona sparking up my anxiety.
Isn’t it odd how we want to move with groups of our people to protest against
these unjustified killings, AND corona hits the hardest against the people of
MY community?
Like we really have to say that in addition to this, the virus is also killing us.
You would think it’s working hand in hand with the police.
I need to breathe for those who no longer have the chance to.
I know I have God by my side forever and always,
but I feel bad for admitting that right now I am feeling spiritually weak.
I crave a week with absolutely no human contact.
I wish it were that easy, but this weekend dedicated to God and myself will be
exactly what my soul needs.
And that much
I know.
R E S T L E S S
N E S S
Delilah Brumer
I’m a witch. Transcripts and classes are my
raspy-voiced enchantments and midnightcolored
charms. I ward off insanity with grades
and essays. My avoidance-laced potions have
side effects
unfortunately. They get rid of the pacing-backand-forth
boredom and replace it with foottapping
stress. I never have enough time to
sitdownandrelax. Tranquility isn’t achievable
when I’m too busy
avoiding it. Productivity is
imperative. Without it I’m too busy thinking
about
lifeandstuff. I don’t like being
a light switch that’s stuck after being played with
by an over-excited toddler. I’m like a time-lapse
of a flower begrudgingly sprouting in a nature
movie except for the fact that movies can be
turned off. Why don’t we just sit here and
exist for a little while? No magic involved.
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By CAITLIN SIEVERS
BMDDIGITAL.COM

POETRY
I
I'VE BEEN SEEING
SO MUCH OF MYSELF
LATELY
By MADI GIOVINA
F
rom the couch, I can see the full-sized bed
we share, dressed in white with
mismatching
pillowcases. And the back of my
full-length mirror. The one I watch myself
dress in: me, sucking my stomach in, and
me, weighing my breasts in the palms of my
hands, always too heavy to imagine
them being held by someone else. Either
way, it’s always me in the mirror.
And still from the couch, I see my front door,
the only exit, which is neighbors with
my bookshelves, the ones made out of stacked milk
crates. Then there’s the TV on the shoe rack,
which serves as a TV stand. It was
supposed to be temporary, but
isn’t everything? And there, on the dark
TV, is my reflection again.
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR

POETRY
P OETRY
C L E A R
PLASTIC
FOOD
CONTAINER
By ELIZABETH CORALLO
(circa. 2020)
My hair is past my shoulders again,
The brown curls clawing over each other
Like the swirls of paint I brush across the canvas
Of the Paint-By-Number sunflowers.
The Made-in-China pots of color that
Smell of melted plastic and remind me of
The Argan Oil used to straighten my hair into
Golden-brown plated sheets, confining me
To the roots of the sunflower.
My hair was once above my shoulders, but the
Sunlight stopped kissing my scalp when lockdown
I
am the clear plastic food container
That sits on the kitchen counter, unlidded
And untouched. There are no parties or
Gatherings, no need to fill the container
With cookies or pasta or salad or sandwiches
And waltz it to a celebration of life when all
The dancing is now done by death. The people
Are trapped inside their homes as the plastic
Food container is trapped inside the moldy
Wooden cabinet of my kitchen,
Waiting in the dark with only the hum of
The dishwasher reminiscing of the movement
That continues around her, the attempt at normalcy
Of fellow appliances who are stuck in the same
damning
Cycle of a lifeless year. A year where she is
Clothed in dust and shrouded in a
Repetition of days and nights, living in a world of
Never-ending, never-opening cabinet doors.
Never is the theme of the world in 2020.
Never has the plastic food container
Seen the smiles of friends this year,
Not once has she been full.
PAINT-BY-NUMBERS
sunflowers
By ELIZABETH CORALLO
Began. No need to hide my hair, no need to change
Frame and elongate my naturally puffy face, then
The colors and texture of my natural state when
Maybe, maybe
There was nobody but me to see it.
The sunflowers will bloom beside my bed, and
That’s when I discovered the petals of the sunflower.
the light will permanently illuminate
Honeybees and peaches, light permanently
my body, my face, my curly hair.
Illuminating the painted petals, my hair permanently
My hair is past my shoulders again,
Curly with no more room for pretend.
But I don’t plan on cutting or straightening it.
I could not stop the growth of my hair,
And if I accept the sprouting wisps that
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By CAITLIN SIEVERS
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POETRY
POETRY
A
L
L
T
H
E
THINGS
THAT MAKE ME
miss you
they say that when you're on a ladder
you should maintain three points of contact
to be truly safe
but with you, i find so many more than that
spread across the day:
By THOMAS STOCKLEY
i find you in every mention of iceland
pip people
(we will be
orchards)
By THOMAS STOCKLEY
in this unprecedented dent
on our collective lives
space is growing for some of us
to bloom.
space for we, the chronically anxious
the bent and abandoned
we who never fit in this world anyway;
and now the world doesn't fit itself.
we, whose idea of a good time
is taking the toaster to a water park
just to see what happens.
we, who have been waiting for a kinder world
since our hearts were first broken.
we, who have been tenderised
by the meat mallet of modern living.
the furloughed and forgotten
the ones who thought ourselves rotten to the core
are realising that,
all this time,
we were full of pips
tiny cases of infinite potential
sewn in some kind of rubble.
and i know that we'll bloom,
that we will be orchards
when all of this
is over.
and i remember your mother tongue.
in every song that we once shared,
i remember the rest of your mouth.
i stare into the light that falls
on either side of the day
until it belongs to someone else.
i present every meal to myself, alone
and wish you were there to appreciate the plating.
i think of you with every new street cat i befriend
and even the ones that walk away
still remind me of you.
you are here, almost physically
with every bottle of mid-price red wine in a plastic glass
and anything that could remotely be considered a picnic.
i see you in the spectrum of colours
that traces the food in our fridge
and i miss you most
in the knowledge that sundays are less fun
without you.
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
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POETRY
LOCKDOWN'S
HTHE
HOURGLASS
By SHIKSHA DHEDA
The days turned into weeks, the
weeks turned into months,
the months
into years.
I still felt
like
I
was
stuck.
I thought
time had been cemented.
with me. That it was trapped
in an endless hourglass just like I was.
But when I finally looked up, realising that I had not smelt your petrolinfused
overalls in eons, I saw that time had changed everything.
E
x
c
e
p
t
me.
NOT
MUCH
FUN
this time
this time round,
we knew what it would be like
that there would be no more surprises
that we would have only what we held.
we knew that the postman would be our best friend,
every parcel a life line to the outside world.
we knew that every meal would be a ritual,
a tribute to the gods we'd lost.
we knew there'd be more outfit changes
than nights out.
this time, we were not surprised
and the sun did not come through the windows.
we sat, dusty and folded like the curtains
that we no longer needed.
this time, when we heard ourselves laugh
it was a sacred, seldom heard noise
that we clung to as it washed over us,
like the salmon climbing waterfalls to find their home.
this time, hygiene is a monument
because some days, that's all there is.
this time, we did not sit and laugh in public parks
and doorstep conversations were not a novelty,
they were all we have.
every child splashing in puddles
every smile from a stranger
every dating app match
every housemate hug
every text from friends that are not quite forgotten
mean a lot.
this time, it's tougher.
and there are some days when i don't know
if i'll see another.
but yet i know
there are still small joys,
tiny miracles
that keep us safe until it passes.
By TOM STOCKLEY
By SOHYUN C.

POETRY
INSIGHT
By GUNA MORAN
F
or some reason
you are upset with me
for a couple of days
Although I don’t know the reason
I guess it right
You haven’t spelled it out
I too haven’t asked you
We have taken opposite positions
Silence is chatting between us
Maybe the conversation is called
the battle of nerves
Bloodless
without arms
this is the most difficult battle
On earth it is the best person
who wins this battle again and again
It is the one who ends this silent battle
is ever defeated
You want to be the winner
Me too don’t want to be the loser
So the distance between us is widening
* * * * *
(Original Assamese poem titled
By SOHYUN C.
“Antardarshan”)

POETRY
PROSE
PROSE
D E L U D E D
K A T H Y
Hindsight gave way to creeping despair
As reflective anxiety corrupted
Eager words now writhing
By A.R. SALANDY
But bare witness still, to a woman
One dimensional, and contorted by irrelevance
Deep in those jaded halls,
A B U N D A N C E
o f
A N
t a s t e l e s s
tequila
With long gone discontent
In memory of a delusion,
Or rather a being self-deprecating.
Never-ending, and pacified
By men whose power rises to the fore,
If only to demoralize women and children,
By FAITH MCKINNON
But, cheap cigarettes enveloped academic air
With that all so familiar gratification
Immediate, and self-preserving
Where reproducers of indoctrination
Do find momentary reprieve
From grandiose narcissism,
If only to prove, that paltry wages spoke
A thousand deadly truths,
A thousand critical theories,
All amounting to nothing, but betrayal and
conjecture.
There is an abundance of tasteless tequila in my glass; now, I
believed this to be a reputable place.
A hole-in-the-wall sizzling with the passion of a theatre town, it
ought to have good tequila.
One would think.
W
C
R
O
S
S
R D
not feeling lately
so very inspired.
all poems
just coming out
horizontal
crossword clues.
Home to Shakespeare festivals and a buzzing culture, while black
and white westerns rampage across a tiny television in the corner.
And those splendid tacos we eat just before “As You Like It” while the
sheriff mounts his steed and fires smoke from a dark pistol, and the
lady melts in his arms.
He rides off into a sunset made of charcoal and gray and white and
steel and titanium and black and ash and soot and cinders and snow,
all the colors of which there is no color.
Inside the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, however, any color goes, and
goes where it wants—sky blue, violet, tangerine, goldenrod, peptopink,
red, navy, sunshine, forest green, lime…
I am reminded of the lack of lime in my glass.
So the tequila, nevertheless, sits in its indignity; it is ashamed.
By DIARMUID Ó MAOLALAÍ
It is ashamed that it is only water in a glass posing rebelliously
beside a tequila bottle long since emptied of its enticing contents.
By CAITLIN SIEVERS
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POETRY
POETRY
By ANONYMOUS
ANI'S
D R U N K
By DIARMUID Ó MAOLALAÍ
ROUTINE
ani's drunk. for once
we've thrown covid
to the windows – hosting
a christmas party
for some friends
of my fiancee. I know,
I do know it – but look,
we've been good,
and it wasn't my idea;
just our apartment's
biggest. and ani's drunk
and doesn't know anyone
so she's bothering my fiancee –
complaining of drinking
too quickly, how she'll never end up
going home. it's understandable –
I get it, I do get it – it's christmas,
she misses her parents
and her friends in argentina.
and plus, it's a pretty
dull party – a drunk
always helpful
to discuss. around 11
the dog must be walked;
I take her out
to walk with me.
she's still rambling,
while the dog pisses,
about how she's so much
very lonely – for a second
I get worried
she might lean in
for a kiss.
I
hear voices in the cracks of the walls,
Clawing their way to influence.
My mind is Tartarus and looks like
him too.
It burns hotter than scarlet fever.
My goldfish told me
To take my medication.
Muffling the words through loud bodies of
water.
I swirl it with my hands,
Watch the water pendulate.
He feels at home.
I put the pill to my mouth,
Hear it screaming,
By SAÓIRSHE O'NEILL
“Please, no
Don’t eat me”
I flush it down the toilet.
Still screaming,
It has no hands to hold itself,
No nails to tear on the bowl.
Flush.
A swirl.
That’s where the goldfish will go.
ANXIETY
By JORDAN GAINES
My mouth is open screaming,
Hands fisting at my hair
My chest is taught and sharp
Breathing between choked sobs
My pulse speeds up
palms cold and clammy
My eyes are filled with tears
Cheeks rubbed raw from the tears
I’m alone to drown
Drowning in the unknowns
The changes, the fear
It’s overwhelming and alarming
I’m expected to brush it off
But they don’t see
The silent screaming
Screaming for someone to see
To know
To tell me it’s all going to be okay
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CHAPTER
afterglow
AFTER
GLOW
“Hope is the thing with feathers that
perches in the soul - and sings the tunes
without the words - and never stops at all.”
Emily Dickinson
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By FAITH MCKINNON

POETRY
POETRY
M U S I N G
My stub and stage watching the light changing
horizon,
from the ceasing day pursuing thoughts arise in.
Splendid sight by silver rising moon summer
ending,
thoughts that burst intellectual feeling.
Like silent streams become an exited river,
with falls that make tall trees quiver.
Some hidden path behind and deep cave,
the un-whispered tale of thoughts in rave.
In admiration of silent and intense,
By ROBERT RITTEL
stories from to soul to soul magnificence.
My hammock now suspended by other dreams,
lady Jane charms and subtle intervenes.
Some train in that sparkle firmament,
calls for more stimulus entertainment.
Being so far up high where no device can reach,
mentus corpus and its tragic impeach.
The art of dreaming illusion like a movie house,
and gently drifting into darker douse.
CONTAMINATED
I haven’t seen another person’s nose
in nine months. I barely recognize
myself without a mask on. The
algorithms have the same problem. My
bangs have grown out, my body has grown
thicker, my skin more paltry. I have
morning breath through the afternoon and
early evening. I am not complaining;
this is just how things are now.
By MADI GIOVINA
mayodia
By GUNA MORAN
O Mayodia heaven of bliss
Standing on the high snowy peak
I’ll stretch out my hands towards
the white clouds of the sky and whoop
Oh Firmament
Let me blend into your horizon
Making lunar balls I will cuddle them close
Carefree I’ll dance thrilled by the feel of snow
In the grand court of whiteness sorrow will sit by
Deep in my heart love will ripen
Taking a dip in the icy stream on impulse
I’ll drink in the beauty of the Mayodia sky
With the sun moon and stars I will play
The smiling stars will take me around
The moon will flirt with me in her lap
The sun will keep the day mild with warm kisses
* * * * *
Note: Mayodia, which means "Shrine of Mother Goddess",
is known for its scenic beauty. It is located in Arunachal
Pradesh, with an elevation of 2,655 m, above sea level.
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By SOHYUN C
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POETRY
PROSE
POETRY
Deus ex machina;
A god from a machine.
COGNITION
A nurse; a cog in a machine.
Forced to keep going,
Even when about to break down.
Overworked, meltdown, turn around,
And in a blink of an eye a life lost.
The machine is rigged.
A system that consumes people whole.
Protection; a word heard too often,
But not listened to.
Take time to take care, to be overcareful.
Protect them by protecting yourself.
Show that outer strength.
A disguise; unrecognisable and dehumanised.
The personal armour of PPE.
Blue plastic gloves holding your hand.
Blue plastic gloves shielding the face
Of a nurse chocking back a sob of sorry
That turns into a cough.
Uncle Jay working in intensive care;
Spread across twelve floors.
There is a flaw in the engine.
The intensity has become critical.
On his commute home, on the train,
He replays the trauma of the day.
Only to walk in the door to his husband
And slap on a brave face.
Tired eyes sagging under goggles;
Exhausted from personal risk.
Battle wounds indented his face,
And they won’t fade because of crisis.
Huge numbers hit him hard.
Helplessly, striving to maintain
That NHS grit. It’s hard.
By KATHERINE EBBS
Although he is thinking,
‘I don’t get paid enough for this!
This isn’t what I signed up for.
They didn’t teach me this in med school.’
He carries on – a keyworker.
He’s dealing with the unimaginable.
A conveyer belt of bodies.
Some things you just can’t speak about.
The sheer scale of suffering indigestible.
People just dying and dying and…dying.
Nervously acting.
Who gets the oxygen tank,
When seven people’s breathing falters?
A patient moved across the country,
Just so they can breathe.
There’s no time to take a sigh of relief,
Not with the night terrors.
Trapped in a cage with the water rising.
Beds constantly filling up and all are gasping.
There’s no room for errors.
There’s no room, full-stop.
A bed; a priceless possession.
He heals you, but he can’t
Heal himself from this.
Death gives no lunchtime breaks.
Inner turbulence revealed;
Cracks finally break.
A face mask finally falls apart,
And there is no longer perplex left.
The fragile machine finally
Runs out of fuel.
It’s running on empty.
A little girl finds her Mum crying
Whilst she dries her hair.
She said the hospital called.
Nan wasn’t coming back.
She had broken on the phone,
And it wasn’t the landlines fault.
Helen was sixty-four.
They didn’t get to say goodbye,
Not even through a screen.
She was oblivious to night and day.
Cared for by scared strangers,
Who turned her over,
So her scarred lungs filled up
With air.
Turning, turning, turning,
Day after day.
But then her levels plummeted.
It’s about what comes with a death too.
Each person with their own story.
Dignity plummeted.
They had to wear masks
To Helen’s funeral.
On the way, they passed
Five ambulances.
The blue lights flashing fast –
A warning sign to others
Not to end up like them.
No hymns to be heard.
A silent desperation in the sunrise.
Red anger. Danger.
The last rays of her last days
Of the last sun.
The girl lay by her Nan’s side
A bunch of purple heather.
Levels rising; it has reached its peak.
She isn’t just another Covid statistic.
She is someone’s relative,
Someone precious, someone who gave light.
It isn’t right, that another line went flat.
She isn’t just a line on a graph.
And the little girl murmured,
(When she told her schoolteacher
Her Nanny had died),
‘That’s a sad story isn’t it?’
This bereavement was avoidable.
Boris takes a seven-mile bike ride.
Celebrities go to Dubai ‘on business’.
Hancock plays footie.
There’s blood on their hands.
Mass casualties caused by the Tories.
They chose to ignore, and merely applause.
They cut down on medical restrictions.
They made cuts and arrived far too late.
They chose capital at
The costly expense of lives.
Failing to lead as people fail to breathe.
You aren’t forgiven.
We won’t look away.
Conscripted to fight on the frontline;
It’s your battle too, and right now,
You’re fighting on the side of the enemy.
Colleagues working side-by-side.
Soldiering on.
Hooking up people to their new
Breathing machines.
When will those people wake up?
No one knows. The virus is real.
Wake up and see.
You sit and clap for keyworkers
As their reward.
But they can’t hear you –
They’re stuck on a ward.
A planet mourning
The life that could’ve been,
A life that was, and lives lost.
A reunion that will never happen;
The giant mourner.
It comes in waves.
How many waves will it take
Until it drowns you and
You can’t come up for air?
The daily death toll; it isn’t fair.
Death has taken its toll.
Tiers and tears.
Stop this from staying the same
For years and years.
Stop the dread of death.
Stop the invisible danger
From getting scarier and bigger.
Don’t hesitate to do the right thing.
The NHS is our body of tubes.
Our life support is them.
We are all a cog in the machine;
We can’t stop it from turning.
A god from a machine;
Deus ex machina.
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POETRY
Chitralekha
By GUNA MORAN
H
aving painted on both eyes
suddenly vanished
Chitralekha the enchantress
She planted
in heart
the garden of Babylon
It is swaying
in heart
heavenly flowers are blooming
Everyday we hear
melodious calls of painted birds
You are the gardener
of the hanging garden
I know you won’t come back again
Yet amidst the clouds
will be shining
the radiant smile of the sun
* * * * * *
(Original Assamese poem titled “Chitralekha”)
Note: Chitralekha was the boon companion of Usha, the
daughter of the King Baan of the Sonitpur kingdom in
Assam (India) of the Mahabharata era. Chitralekha had
magical skills at painting and portraiture in particular.
By
By
ARUN
YONGJIN
PAUL
C.
KAPUR

POETRY
POETRY
MAYBE
THE NEXT
DAY
"Maybe the next week will be
better
Maybe the next month will be
better
Maybe the next couple of days will
be better,
Maybe tomorrow will be better. "
By SARAH SYED
T
he image echoed through my head
Playing in my mind like a recorder
As realizations dawned upon me
I took a glimpse at the mirror
And saw on the reflection,
My view of the world became narrowed by the walls I saw every
moment.
Subconsciously,
My dreams became emotionless
The sun was only the phenomenon of nature,
Nothing to help break free from the same old routine.
Remembering the Blue Jays song
Finding dark clouds part paint the sky
As the timid breeze breathes
Through the curls of my hair ee thoughts,
Sitting on Zoom,
Waiting in my room
Hoping for flowers to bloom
But everyday was nothing but gloom.
Subconsciously,
My dreams became emotionless
The sun was only the phenomenon of nature,
Nothing to help break free from the same old routine.
Remembering the Blue Jays song
Finding dark clouds part paint the sky
As the timid breeze breathes
Through the curls of my hair
The sound of the rocks and twigs crunch underfoot
Free thoughts,
Only one thought
Life was good.
Suppressed thoughts so rooms didn’t become cluttered
And losing our minds isn’t what people are afraid of nomore,
Because outlets are almost non-existent
As we lay in bed and feel grey
Echoes
Those are the echos during these arduous times
Arduous for the mind
Echoes
As the encapsulated borders of the world
Those are the echos during these arduous times
Have been shrunk to the depths of a tiny room
Arduous for the mind
Reflecting like surrounded by mirror paned high walls
Reflecting like surrounded by mirror paned high walls
Resulting in every turn,
But Having to repeat the same routine each day.
Where you run into yourself.
At least the calm voice has not slipped out the door
Because these are all echoes
To be a thin glass away from the outside world
But having to repeat the same routine each day.
Maybe the next week will be better
Maybe the next month will be better
Maybe the next couple of days will be better,
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Like a grey and white painting from the olden days
It's confusing, all that used to be amusing
Simplest acts of kindness taken for granted
Simple smiles of strangers were taken for granted.
There at least is a calm voice
A voice that says to smile more
A voice that says count your blessings
instead of your loss
Months have passed
Days are passing
Minutes seem longer now
Each second past is a blessing
I know it's not easy but we can make it work
Just as long as you smile
Raise your head up high and smile
Life is still good.
A new mentality is what we need
An affirmation a day
Hope is always on the horizon
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POETRY
POETRY
PROSE
S O N G
O F T H E
broken
By ISHITA GANGULY
I have lived in darkness,
I have been numb for years.
Yes, parts of me are still broken,
S O F T
H O R I Z O N
The breeze of silken dawn blew free,
scintillation of stars so many more to see.
Tide of time by flow in crystal serenity,
low blooming glistening deep alchemy.
Sparkling arches dispensing mirage,
eternal fountain flow of soul to soul courage.
Distinct dark blue sphere overhead,
vivid lights leaping in that grace of spread.
Realm of pleasance observing prime,
dazed vision unaware by the same.
By ROBERT RITTEL
The almightiest sensitive obscurities,
dewy dawn of timeless memories.
Gleaming wealth of open hearts confined,
longing richness in the garden of mind.
In sweet dreams and by soft gentle kiss,
eternal imprint of what we miss.
The light in that great presence and cope,
hands that feel like the glow in infants hope.
If you watch me close you can see those cracks.
My heart has bled so much,
It might never be healed.
Though I might appear quite sorted,
The truth is I have not yet been fixed.
PARALYSIS
Some nights my pillow is wet,
By SYLVIA BONILLOS
Some mornings I question my existence.
There are days I question my sanity,
As I keep seeking answers to unasked questions.
My tears laugh at me trying to write meaningful words,
I keep writing though I know my poetry is flawed
I still write.
I keep writing.
And I keep moving on.
I can feel it before I see it
This pressure on my body
This presence holding onto me
I force my eyes open and pray for emptiness
For nothing but warm air hugging me tricking
my sleepy mind
But it’s there
A long wriggling centipede sits on my stomach
The long legs grip onto my thin blanket
Onto the skin of my neck and cheeks
It burrows into me through my ears
though my eyes
through my nose
through my mouth
and all I can hear is the tick tick tick of its legs
as it climbs
The body is never-ending
It just keeps going
deeper and deeper and deeper into my body
It runs around my stomach
and stirs my organs in the dark
It presses every bit of air from my lungs until
the pain is gone
Until the only movement is under my skin
Until the only sound is the wet gurgle of my
flesh being torn to bits
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By SOHYUN C
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POETRY
POETRY
A
By ARCHANA KSHATRIYA
By ANONYMOUS
SHAKESPEARE,
WILLIAM
By ALEX SHENSTONE
N
ow is the winter, so shaken as we are.
O for a Muse of fire before we proceed any
further.
Good morrow, two households,
You do not, in sooth, open your ears.
M
E
S
S
A
G
E
Darling I know the sorrows you bear,
Your fears and your nightmare;
Your silent sobs at nights alone
Don’t you put that fake smile now,
To me they are all known.
But let me say a little about you
You are a warrior, a soul too true.
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
You are brave in your battles at day
At nights you keep your demons at bay.
The world hurts you at every moment,
But you don’t capitulate to its torment.
Who says you are a coward, a wimp?
You scale mountains even when you limp.
Know your worth, rise and shine,
Be You – the best version of mine.
-Your Inner Self
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
Learning
TO LIVE
Who is there, amidst you, that would ascend?
By OSKAR LEONARD
You are both alike in dignity and well met,
Apparently.
But when you all then meet a man but frowns,
You are so wan with care.
I know not why I am so sad.
Hear me speak of our discontent.
Locked in a hot-pink bedroom—
blame my child self, the teen
covered the colour in posters—
I learned to live without losing.
No more failed conversations,
fizzling out. No following a vague
group around like a little lost lamb,
or a puppy, or a cliché.
Just group chats I could close,
a dog who always listened,
endless time to sleep and write
and love myself—finally.
It took being forced into four walls
to discover the soul beneath my skeleton.
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By YONGJIN C.
BRIDGES
T
he sun leads the
way down the
street, deserted
b u t
for the
occasional stranger that
moves to the opposite
side when I pass. I cast
my eyes down when
they do, an unspoken
agreement. You can’t
smile from behind a mask.
I keep my gaze
on my legs, almost alien
as they move in their back
and forth, back and forth
rhythm, wandering on their
own. When they stop, I’m
at the pond. The cattails
look just as surprised
to see me. They beckon
me forward either way.
The last time
my shoes grazed this
grass was in early March,
accompanied by two
pairs I haven’t seen since,
except walking away from By ANONYMOUS
strained hellos and averted
eye contact when we
accidentally crossed paths.
The virus was just another
name on the news back
then, worlds away. It could
never touch us. Nothing
could. Not when we had the
entire world in our hands.
This little patch of
thin-branched trees and
an artificial pond, this was
where we were gods every day
until our parents called us
home for dinner. We waded
through the stormwater
tunnels and named ourselves
explorers, decorated logs we
hauled to the clearing and
named ourselves creators.
The shade of the willows
kept us immortal, and the
rainwater that dripped
from the honey locust
leaves was our ambrosia.
I reach the dip in the land
where water sits shining and still. The
sun stares back at me in the reflection.
PROSE
By THANISHA CHOWDHURY
One hop, and I’ll have crossed it.
But that was our biggest problem
once, the six inch distance between
‘‘Maybe our three shadows
under the willow trees
will meld back into one
someday. Maybe the world
will heal and we’ll all be as
okay as we were when it
began.’’
where we were and what we wanted.
So we made a bridge. We gathered
sticks and rocks and dug grooves into
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the mud with old plastic spoons we
found littered around the bus stop.
Stupid jokes, afternoons bleeding
into evenings, and then we
were done. It was an ugly
little thing, but it did the job,
and we had made it, and we
had made it together. We
used it even on dry days,
just to feel the pride of our
own work beneath our feet.
And it was where we could
be without worries, dirt on
our hands, smiles on our
faces, before we all aged
decades within months. I
think of the waning group
chats and tight-lipped
smiles we give each other
now in passing. Do they
remember being twelve
and thirteen and in love
with feeling important?
I look over at the bridge,
overgrown with yellowed
grass and half-submerged
in rainwater. The strip of
bark we’d placed over it lies
on its side a few feet away.
I lean over and take it in
my hand, let the roughness
of it graze my skin.
Maybe I do want to stay
a kid forever. And maybe
it’s even possible, if I fill
in the blanks around me
with bright enough colors.
Maybe change doesn’t mean
drowning your creases and
tears in seas of gray. Maybe
our three shadows under
the willow trees will meld
back into one someday.
Maybe the world will heal
and we’ll all be as okay as
we were when it began.
I place the bark over the
sticks. It lies crooked, but
that doesn’t matter. The
thin wood shakes as I take
one step, then another,
and cross the bridge.
The water ripples under my
weight. I turn my face to the sky.
There’s nowhere left to look but up.
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PROSE
POETRY
S H A T T E R E D
time
WINDOW
O F
D R E A M S
By HALLE PRENETA
By ROBERT RITTEL
When we are born, the crystal of time is formed, a purple crystal that
glimmers in the moonlight. The soft sound of bells plays in the background,
releasing all tension in your muscles as the crystal’s edges prick your finger
on its sharp edge at every hour, reminding you of the inevitability of death.
On birthdays, the crystal gets smaller as people grow closer to their ends of
time, the color of the crystal fading as light gradually fades from your cheeks.
The smell of rotting flesh grows as the crystal shrinks. Your time is almost up.
You don’t know if you just want the end to come or if you want the crystal to
come back. To regrow.
For your time to restart.
You frantically look around in the black synapse you find the crystal
in, the moonlight guiding you to reach out for anything that will make your
time restart. To make the crystal grow and for its color to come back. As you
frantically reach for anything around you, your bloodied hand knocks against
the crystal, causing it to shatter into pieces.
Like crystals, time is precious. We’ll never know when we won’t have
anymore left. You stare down at the shattered crystal as you feel your body
sink into the synapse you find yourself in, the moonlight soaking up your
dying soul.
Your time is up. You brought it upon yourself trying to restart the clock. Death
has its traps and you fell for them, now only existing in the void time calls
home.
The visions beyond the enduring crisp of
firmament,
wishes of ideal and escape into mental decadent.
Dreaming vacancies to the holy sane,
loving aspiration forever by gratitude of reign.
Childhoods play and magical thought wonderland,
where the impossible is the golden rule to
understand.
Enchanted places and many self that only oneself
really knows,
myriad of creatures in foreign worlds with all its
bestows.
Wonder of heroic wealth by its absolute power
trace,
image simulation molded and caught in
transcendental space.
Q U A N T I F Y I N G
an
ILLNESS
By SHIKSHA DHEDA
The dream weaver holds the levitating rotating
globe at hand,
destinies favorite muse conducting with the
magical wand.
The law of loves beauty in its own delicate
retrospect,
never looses its enchanting wonder and surprise
effect.
The castle of indomitable presence and sacred
ground,
the worst of worst for recuperation found.
Shared stories sensing itself to the turning point of
matter,
creating synchronized universes distinctive blue
and flatter.
Seeing clearly know for all makes perfect sense,
the tincture of spheres colliding with residue of
love immense.
(Formerly featured on NeuroLogical Blog)
254 days since I left my house.
At all.
255 days since I have petted my dogs.
619 days since I have given or received a hug.
2444 days since I watched a movie
At the cinema.
2460 days since I ate
in an actual restaurant.
2150 days since I have eaten takeout .
Pizza was the last, I think.
34 days since I have had a proper shower.
2 hours since I have washed my hands.
1.5 minutes since my last intrusive thought.
By FAITH MCKINNON
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
By SOHYUN C.
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By ANONYMOUS
Prose
A
PART
Exploring the
COVID-19 pandemic
through vignettes
By ANDREA BALINGIT
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
March 13, 2020
[Redacted]
8 hrs
‘See you tomorrow’—we didn’t know
that was the last time we would see
our classmates and teachers.
Like Comment Share
[Redacted]
4 hrs
NO CLASSES, YES!!!
Like Comment Share
[Redacted]
3 mins
Us: school sucks
2020:
Like Comment Share
March 15, 2020
We would like to announce that
the graduation ceremonies of the
elementary department, senior highschool
department, and the colleges
have been suspended until further
notice following the Executive Order
released by the city government. We
ask for your understanding.
Sent 7:30am
March 20, 2020
“You’re returning? But there’s a virus
out there!” My mother said over
dinner.
“They’ll surely impose
a strict lockdown. If not here,
then there,” I added to no one in
particular before I filled my mouth
with a spoonful of fish and rice.
“I need to go to work. It’ll be
over soon.” My dad responded, not
raising his head from his plate. “I’ll
get you and
the kids next
month, like
we planned.”
He slurped his
soup.
April 4, 2020
“Did you get the food rations?” Our
neighbor asked when he passed
by the red gates that bounded and
separated our house from the others.
‘‘It’ll be over soon. I’ll get you
and the kids next month, like we
planned..."
I looked up from my book.
My mom stopped sweeping
our front yard and stood straighter.
“No. They were giving out food
rations?”
“Yeah! 25 kilos of rice and
a handful
of canned
goods!” He
was clutching
a white plastic
bag against
his chest. “Ah,
these are the
canned goods. My brother carried
home the rice.” He added when he
saw us staring at his bag.
“Where did you get it? How did you
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PROSE
POETRY
C O L L A P S E D
CONVERSAT
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
By A.R. SALANDY
Ostracization can be cruel
But Nadz says that some 'peak' in high school,
I O
you know? No one told us.”
The afternoon sun slit
through the trees that towered above
us.
“We were given a paper to
fill up earlier. You didn’t get
anything?”
“No.”
May 15, 2020
“Enhanced Community Quarantine
will be extended until May 30, 2020.
Anyone below 21 years old and
above 60 years old are prohibited
to go outside. Any person seen
outside without a valid quarantine
pass will be detained. Please follow
the protocols and guidelines
accordingly,” the reporter for the
evening news narrated over a video
of a group of people sitting with
handcuffs on their wrists.
May 20, 2020
“Happy birthday, Daddy!” I pushed
my face into the phone’s camera.
My father’s video feed was
grainy but I could clearly see him
in his red crisp shirt, the empty
backseat of his car and a glimpse of
the steering wheel at the edge of his
video.
“What are you doing for
your birthday? Are you cooking
something?” My mother asked.
“Maybe I’ll eat a burger.”
I sat beside my mother.
“We’ll make some spaghetti in honor
of your birthday, Daddy!”
“I’d love that.”
June 6, 2020
“You sit around all day, doing
nothing. The least you could do is
come with me and help me buy the
groceries for the next two weeks.
Do you think I can do this alone? I
shouldn’t be the one doing this but
I’m the only adult in this family. Do
you think you can do this alone? I
think not. Unless you want to starve,
stand up and stop complaining!”
July 7, 2020
How many months has it been? I
rarely get out, except those days
when I accompany my mother to buy
groceries. But I don’t mind not going
out at all. I have always loved staying
inside but now… it’s different. I get
lonely when I’m inside our house.
It suffocates me. Is it because I no
longer see the streets brimming with
people? Everyone is trying to bring
back the normality they had before
the pandemic. They chat, smile
and laugh. But there is something
hampering them, resisting against
them, and they are hopeless against
it.
I have never liked going
outside and I often avoid the crowds
but now I miss them. I miss the
events, the boisterous activities of
the city. I miss hearing the static
raucous noise of the malls, or the
chatter and shrieks of children
playing outside.
July 24, 2020
“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”
August 16, 2020
“I’m so tired! I’m tired of taking care
of three children on my own. I’m
tired of doing all the errands alone.
I have no one else to turn to. If only
you were here, it would have been
so much easier—no, don’t tell me
you need to work. You could have
found work here! We could have
set up our own business, like those
online businesses today. They’re
everywhere. We would have made it
work—no, you’re too greedy. Are you
going to prioritize your—"
I rammed my earbuds in
my ears and set the music to the
maximum level, drowning out the
noise around me.
noise around me.
October 9, 2020
The Philippines has the most strict and
the longest lockdown in the world—the
radio chattered in the background as
I accepted my father’s evening video
call.
“Daddy, when are you going
to get us?”
The country has recorded
334,770 COVID-19 cases, 275,307
recoveries, and 6,152 deaths.
“Daddy, I miss you.”
Out on brick red grounds
Where taunts locked this body tight
In endless battle,
For lament as one does on action,
Only true planning
May succeed to break engendered fear
Grown on subtle propaganda
And teased with tokenism lofty,
For in muted academia
Can capitalist gain be seen to overtake
Any sense of victory I say,
But one can argue some are simply
Born cold hearted,
And in their predictions lose humanity
To jealousy and vain infatuations,
For some may rise to the fore
And some may gain meritocratic success,
But most remain jaded
In fantasies educational.
By FAITH MCKINNON
N
S
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POETRY
POETRY
TO
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
FIND
M E T H E
SUN
By SOPHIA KUNKEL
Find me the sun in the dead of winter,
As the sky blushes an ashy gray
and my thoughts dampen, splinter,
decay.
Find me hope in the middle of a pandemic,
As the world descends into torrential panic
And my mind fractures, dents,
I am purely volcanic.
Find me the sun in the dead of winter,
As the leaves curl under glisteningly dangerous frost—
To be imprisoned in my unceasing worry,
Is this what 2020 costs?
FEEL
By SYLVIA BONILLOS
The moon was gone today. It
left an empty hole in the sky.
Devoid of my bright friend and
the others that pass by. So I let
him in,
just to feel something.
Even if it was his icy hand
holding onto my bleeding heart
By VELIBOR BACO
By VELIBOR BACO
A dialogue with the
E V E N I N G
s t a r
By ROBERT RITTEL
Above the twilight faintest glimmer,
end-summer evening turning to reddish dimmer.
The lonely star of love in dusky shine,
into the ocean of faint and far to prime.
Some sensing of splendor in awe as trail,
soft gleam and tender wonder bale.
I bow my heart in humility,
“Speak to me; I want to know your secret”,
a sweet voices spoke softly in spirit.
“My dear one, you are itself the art of love,
and the art to be beloved whom you adore”.
“Reflections from heaven on to earth,
that turn earthly desires into spirits of faith”.
“That freedom of space is found in the formless,
sparks, glance and dewdrop fortress”.
“Your presence in that immensity of space,
shows me your majestic providence”.
“The dimming of my light only in mourn,
when loving souls are in destinies storm”.
“The opportunity in life becomes a great pity,
when realized a too late reciprocity”.
“Thank you little star of mystic beginning,
and no ends in phenomenon mental spinning”.
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PROSE
Even Tragedies Need
REFLECTIONS
By OLIVIA LATHROM
Do tell me, 2020, why must you practice such evil tendencies?
You made this year a living hell for the world’s participants,
and unearthed tragedies only bodies underground could
understand. As we stand, 2020, your time is almost up. Your older
counterpart, 2021, is about to take to the stage. And I believe I speak
for all of us when I say we hope next year is better. Quite honestly, our
standards are at an all-time low, my bar is on the ground. As long as
we don’t greet the year with threats of a Third World War, I’ll be swell.
I hope, 2020, that you’ve had your fun. You’ve packed unnecessary
events to create a historical masterpiece of a year, however tragic. But
we also thank you, 2020, for the year to remember. We learned things
about ourselves in the forced isolation, one of which being that online
school doesn’t fly and too much time with loved ones drives you mad.
But we learned what it was to be connected in ways other than physical.
We singled out our true friends and learned that masks are not only
a fashion statement, they are a tool that saves lives. We learned that
ballots take forever to count and that movements can blow up within
hours, inspiring the world to change. We learned many things this year,
2020, and for that we are grateful. I simply ask that the new year doesn’t
bring nearly as much anxiety.
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SHORT FILM
0:15
0:24
0:51
1:09
Short Film
2 0 2 0 : IT GETS
LIGHTER
1:34
"2020 : It Gets Lighter" encapsulates
the ups and downs of the COVID-19
pandemic through the medium of
film and cinematography."
1:39
1:44
By ARUN PAUL KAPUR
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WRITING
IS THE
GEOMETTRY
OF THE
SOUL
P L A T O

CONTRIBUTORS
CONTRIBUTORS
We are beyond honored to
showcase the work of many
talented photographers, artists,
and writers in our inaugural
issue.
Over 20 countries are
represented in our magazine,
including India, Japan, and the
U.S.
studying business
ISSUE TWO
studies as her majors.
Her country, her religion
of Islam, and her life
experiences have
Contributors
always been sources of
inspiration. As an only
child, her need to liaise
were turned into reading
and writing, which later
fostered her passion for
writing and generating
literary content.
POETRY
MP
ARMSTRONG
MP Armstrong is a
disabled queer writer
from the United States,
studying English and
history at Kent State
University in Ohio.
Their work appears
or is forthcoming in
Perhappened, Prismatica
Magazine, and Hominum
Journal, among
others, and their debut
chapbook, "who lives
like this for such a cheap
price?", is forthcoming
from Flower Press. Find
them online @mpawrites
and at mpawrites.
wixsite.com/website.
This piece reflects on
the news that Nokia and
NASA are joining forces
to establish 4G on the
moon, incorporating
that space will become
as suburbanized as
Earth--a terrifying idea,
since the suburbs on this
planet are scary enough.
VISUAL ART
VELIBOR BAĆO
Born 1985 in Bosnia,
Velibor came to Austria
as a war refugee. After
studying law in Salzburg,
Austria he worked in
the banking and law
field. Currently living
in Vienna, Austria he
paints abstracts and
writes German, English
and Bosnian poems and
prose texts.
PROSE
ANDREA BALINGIT
Andrea Balingit is a
student and writer from
the Philippines. She
started to write fiction
at the age of 15, but
only started to submit
her pieces to different
literary journals this
year. The pandemic
changed her life, leading
her to decide to take part
in the literary world and
bring with her stories
of her country. With her
piece ‘A part’, Andrea
shares a story that most
of her countrymen still
face today, but even
though they are all apart
due to the pandemic,
they will always be a part
of one community.
PROSE
WAFFA BATOOL
Waffa Batool is
seventeen-year-old
girl who belongs from
the city of light Lahore
situated in Pakistan.
She’s in O’level 3
POETRY, PROSE
SYLVIA BONILLOS
Sylvia Bonillos is a young
writer, amateur poet,
artist, and the Editing
Director Internal for The
Young Writers Initiative.
Based in California,
she loves to help fellow
young writers and artists
through TYWI and its
various programs and
projects, including the
recent Winter Write-athon!
POETRY
DELILAH BRUMER
Delilah Brumer is a
high school sophomore
from California. She is a
student-journalist and
aspiring poet. When
not writing, she can be
found reading or playing
with her three dogs.
Follow her on Twitter at
@BrumerDelilah.
POETRY
ELIZABETH CORALLO
Elizabeth Corallo is a
high school student
and emerging writer
from New Jersey who
focuses on poetry, book
reviews, and short
fiction. She currently
runs a book review blog,
SeaglassBookNook,
and serves as the Co-
Summer Programs
Director at The Young
Writer's Initiative.
When she is not writing,
Elizabeth enjoys playing
tennis, hanging out with
friends, and drinking
way too much coffee.
VISUAL ART
SILENT CHEMICAL
This piece comes from
the artist Caitlin Sievers,
a young artist of African
American, Filipino, and
Norwegian descent that
takes pride in her ethnic
background. Throughout
her school years Caitlin
took time to hone her
art and find a way to
translate the trauma
experienced in all those
years into something
beautifully put onto a
canvas. That trauma
being what spurs her
inspiration has now also
become what can bring
on a sort of calm to her
mind as she continues
to further her artistic
journey with exploratory
pieces.
PROSE
THANISHA
CHOWDHURY
Thanisha Chowdhury is
a Bangladeshi-American
writer from Northern
Virginia. She is currently
in her freshman year of
high school. Thanisha
has been reading since
she could recognize
letters and writing since
she could form them
on paper. She writes
almost out of necessity,
since she often feels
that the words will
overflow out of her if she
doesn’t. Her personal
essay “Bridges” is about
growing up and growing
apart from friends
during the COVID-19
pandemic, reflecting on
the afternoons they used
to spend at their local
pond. Thanisha hopes
that others will relate
to and be inspired by
her writing, and create
something marvelous of
their own.
POETRY
NICOLAS CORREA
Nicolas “The Withdrawn”
Correa is a multitalented
artists from
the Lower East Side
of Manhattan. He has
been writing for about
17 years, believing that
creativity in the arts
serves as his truest form
of self-care. He started
off as a kid writing
raps, poems and comic
books, and still has all
the art saved in a safe
place today. There’s
no sign of imagination
slowing down anytime
soon, especially since he
writes every single day.
His piece, “Die Tired,”
was written and inspired
by Jhené Aiko’s “Born
Tired” off of her third
studio album, Chilombo.
POETRY
SHIKSHA DHEDA
Shiksha Dheda is a
South African of Indian
descent. She uses poetry
(mostly) to express her
OCD and depression
roller-coaster ventures.
Mostly, however, she
writes in the hopes
that someday, someone
will see her as she is;
an incomplete poem.
Sometimes, she dabbles
in photography,
painting, and baking
lopsided layered cakes.
Follow her on Twitter:
@ShikshaWrites
POETRY
KATHERINE
EBBS
Katherine’s love for
writing began just before
lockdown and helped her
get through the difficult
days. Britain is the place
she is most attached to.
She feels lucky to have
the NHS and recognises
that we must fight for
the people who fight for
us. Her poem is intended
to highlight the reality
of what is happening
that many people cannot
see. Her Uncle works as
a frontline nurse with
Covid-19 patients, and
her poem is dedicated to
him, his colleagues, and
all keyworkers.
POETRY
JORDAN GAINES
Jordan is a young teen
fiction writer from the
United States. Her focus
is primarily on dark
fantasy and fiction,
though she also enjoys
poetry. She grew up with
a small school that was
focused on sports, but
instead, she found solace
in writing. It is both her
passion and emotional
and creative outlet, and
is something that has
completely changed her
life for the better. When
she’s not writing or
doing school work, she
enjoys baking, reading,
and sketching. Her piece
depicts the struggles
of anxiety during the
pandemic, and the
emotions that go along
with it.
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CONTRIBUTORS
CONTRIBUTORS
POETRY
ISHITA GANGULY
Ishita Ganguly is a writer
from India. She is the
author of the book,
"Stories from the City
called Kolkata" and coauthor
of 3 international
anthologies. She has
written over 100 articles
on distinguished
platforms.
A double master's degree
holder, a corporate
professional turned
educator turned fulltime
writer, Ishita loves
the written word.
She is a book lover who
believes words have
immense power and
writers can make a huge
impact in the world!
POETRY
MADI GIOVINA
Madi Giovina writes
poems and stories.
She is a co-editor
for Backslash Lit,
submissions coordinator
for What Are Birds?
Journal and the founder
of Perennial Press. Madi
lives in Philadelphia with
her feisty cat, Shrimp.
PROSE
RAINA KOSHAL
Raina Koshal is
a Sophomore in
Highschool from
Chicago, Illinois. She
plays lacrosse, runs
a nonprofit which
equips at-risk youth
with essential learning
supplies, and, you
guessed it- loves to
write! Her favorite way
to channel her thoughts
and self-express is
through personal
reflections on current
BMDDIGITAL.COM
social issues and starting
a discussion within
her community. As an
Indian American, this
piece was written to
start a conversation on
the largely unexamined
topic of the anti-Indian
sentiment in Western
media and its effects on
our youth. Throughout
the piece, she shares
personal anecdotes
and illustrates many
viewpoints on the topic.
PROSE, POETRY
ARCHANA
KSHATRIYA
Archana Kshatriya is an
Indian poet and writer.
She began writing
poems at the age of 13 to
combat her battles with
her demons. Her poems
often explore the dark
side of the human mind.
For her writings she
firmly believes in the
principle “Keep It Simple
Silly” and endures to
make them easy to read.
Her poem “A Message” is
an acknowledgment of
the personal struggles
one endures and
conceals from others
with the fear of being
ridiculed.
Her piece “Democracy
is Fragile” looks closely
at the reasons for the
several protests taking
place world-wide.
PROSE
RAINA KOSHAL
Raina Koshal is
a Sophomore in
Highschool from
Chicago, Illinois. She
plays lacrosse, runs
a nonprofit which
equips at-risk youth
with essential learning
P
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supplies, and, you
guessed it- loves to
write! Her favorite way
to channel her thoughts
and self-express is
through personal
reflections on current
social issues and starting
a discussion within
her community. As an
Indian American, this
piece was written to
start a conversation on
the largely unexamined
topic of the anti-Indian
sentiment in Western
media and its effects on
our youth. Throughout
the piece, she shares
personal anecdotes
and illustrates many
viewpoints on the topic.
POETRY
SOPHIA KUNKEL
Sophia Kunkel (she/
her) is a literature-lovin’
high school senior in
Pennsylvania with a
passion for writing. She
is editor in chief of the
newspaper at her school,
Marketing Director
for The Young Writers
Initiative, and co-owner
of a popular writing tips
account on Instagram.
When Sophia’s not busy
with writing related
opportunities, she
enjoys picking up a good
book and sipping on a
piping hot cup of tea,
running cross country,
and hanging out with
her mini goldendoodle,
Bielka. You can find
Sophia at her website,
www.writing life.blog.
PROSE
OLIVIA LATHROM
Olivia Lathrom is a
fourteen year old lover
of everything writing.
She resides in the depths
of the Pacific Northwest
and stays true to the
stereotype that people
from Washington adore
the coffee and rain that
comes along with the
Evergreen State. Her
favorite author is Adam
Silvera and she passes
time by sobbing over
his books, listening to
musicals, reading, and
writing, of course.
POETRY
OSKAR LEONARD
Oskar Leonard is a
transgender selfpublished
author and
poet from the UK, as well
as a senior editor at The
Altruist and a poetry and
prose editor at All Ears
India. He has written
six books: three novels,
two poetry anthologies
and a novella. His pieces
have been featured
in publications like
FOURALL Magazine,
Take Care Zine, Ogma
Magazine, Fever Dream
Journal and The Young
Writers Initiative
Literary Journal:
Juvenile.
POETRY
DIARMUID Ó
MAOLALAÍ
DS Maolalai has been
nominated eight times
for Best of the Net
and five times for the
Pushcart Prize. His
poetry has been released
in two collections, "Love
is Breaking Plates in the
Garden" (Encircle Press,
2016) and "Sad Havoc
Among the Birds" (Turas
Press, 2019)
PROSE, VISUAL
ART
FAITH MCKINNON
Faith McKinnon is a teen
writer, logophile, lifelong
reader, unconventional
artist, athletic nerd, and
a passionate Christfollower
in the western
United States. She enjoys
soaking up sunshine,
life, and wild laughter.
She is a member of
Write the World, and
her favorite words are
sonder, meliorism,
anemoia, and ambedo.
Her piece "An Abundance
of Tasteless Tequila" is
based on author Erin
Morgenstern's idea
of snapping a photo
of a scene brimming
with stories to tell and
writing one possibility
for those stories in just
ten sentences.
POETRY
GUNA MORAN
Guna Moran is an
Assamese Poet and
critic. His poems are
published in more than
a hundred international
magazines, journals,
webzines, blogs,
newspapers, anthologies
and have been translated
into thirty languages
around the world. He has
three poetry books to his
credit. He lives in Assam,
India.
PROSE
WILL NUESSLE
Will Nuessle of the
United States holds a
third-degree brown
belt in ninjitsu, rides
a Harley, primary
caregives three small
boys and claims he
can recite the alphabet
backwards in less than
ten seconds. He also
writes occasionally; his
words have appeared
in Boundless Journal,
the Lothlorien Poetry
Journal, the premiere
issue of Portmanteau
Magazine and he recently
won second place in
Page Turner's Short
Poetry contest with a
drinking song about
dragons. His featured
piece is an excerpt from
a full novel; rest assured
something waits out
there for Jessie to find...
POETRY
SAÓIRSHE O’NEILL
Saóirshe O’Neill (she/
her) is a poet and short
story writer from
Mayo, Ireland. She is
currently studying
creative writing and
the National University
of Ireland, Galway. She
enjoys drinking copious
amounts of coffee and
listening to music. Her
work focuses primarily
on subjects of identity,
culture, and death.
Saoirshe’s work has been
previously published
in the Neuro Logical
Magazine, the Fahmidan
Journal and the Vox
Galvia.
VISUAL ART
ARUN PAUL KAPUR
Enigmatic. Passionate.
Charismatic. Lover of life
and all truth that binds
us together. England
based from the city of
Wolverhampton, Arun
Paul Kapur is a mental
health advocate that uses
the arts to tell stories of
life. His love for poetry
and visuals aims to
raise the voices of the
unheard.
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HALLE PRENETA
Halle is from the US and
enjoys writing short
stories and poetry! She
gets her ideas from
random life experiences
and fanfiction. When
she’s not writing, she’s
either watching YouTube
or playing Animal
Crossing. She also enjoys
theatre, music, and
petting her cat and is
very passionate about
various social justice
issues. She’s had works
published in The Hearth
Magazine, Write Now Lit,
and Tealight Press and
has works upcoming in
the B’K, Potted Purple,
Fahmidan Journal, and
more. Her Twitter handle
is @YaTheatreNerd and
you can check out more
of her work here: https://
medium.com/@halleee
POETRY
ROBERT RITTEL
Robert grew up in a St.
Franciscan orphanage
at Maria Laach, where
his schooling and
talents created an
apprenticeship to
become a chef.
Robert developed a great
sense for textures and
flavors with resonance,
while timing and
discipline proved
itself with given
responsibilities.
By 35 Robert met his wife
from South Africa and
operated a restaurant
in Franschhoek, the
Gourmet Capital in
South Africa.
A powerful new horizon
opened his spirituality
by being introduced to
Astrology.
The language of
symbolism and celestial
imagery fuels his
creativity and poetic
expression.
POETRY
A.R. SALANDY
A.R.Salandy is a mixedrace
poet & writer
whose work tends to
focus on social inequality
throughout late-modern
society. Anthony travels
frequently and has spent
most of his life in Kuwait
jostling between the UK
& America. Anthony's
work has been published
140 times.
Anthony has 1 published
chapbook titled
'The Great Northern
Journey' 2020 (Lazy
Adventurer Publishing)
& 1 upcoming Chapbook
'Vultures' 2021
(Roaring Junior Press).
Twitter/Instagram: @
anthony64120
POETRY
ALEX SHENSTONE
Alex S (he/him) is a
young, transgender
student and writer living
in the UK. He enjoys
writing in a multitude
of formats, including
poetry, prose and comic
book scripts, and enjoys
watching films and
TV shows on different
streaming services at a
constant rate. He likes to
delve into darker themes
and stories, whilst trying
to create poignancy to
make readers experience
something meaningful
and existential from his
writing. His piece here,
“Shakespeare, William”
is meant to be seen as
BMDDIGITAL.COM

CONTRIBUTORS
ABOUT US
a deconstruction of the
bard’s language, leading
to a construction of
worldly contemplation.
He’s on Twitter at @
AlexakaSatan.
POETRY
THEE SIM LING
Thee Sim Ling (she/
her) is a young writer
in Singapore who has
placings in several
competitions and has
been published in
Overachiever Magazine,
BAZOOF! and Skipping
Stones. She is also a
writer for websites
such as Gen Z Writes
and Plastic-Lite SG.
Being autistic with
mild scoliosis, she is
passionate about writing
about disability hot
topics. She is currently
addicted to puzzlesolving
and website
building. lucindathee.
com
POETRY
TOM STOCKLEY
Tom Stockley is a queer
artist, poet and activist
known on stage and
page as T.S. IDIOT. They
write about mental
health, identity politics
and the sadness and
small joys we find in
the cracks of every day
life. They cut their teeth
in the DIY punk and
queer communities of
the UK, and over the last
decade have performed
and published their
work everywhere from
national museums to
toilet cubicles.
POETRY
SHIKSHA DHEDA
Sarah Syed is an
enthusiastic activist,
public speaker, and
student researcher
who is eager to bring
a positive impact to
the world around her.
In her spare time, she
loves to write poetry
and short stories, which
have been awarded
at national level and
received international
recognition.She has
been published in two
youth books and in
London. She explores
many opportunities
in STEM and has been
awarded countless times
at school, regionally and
was a finalist for national
and international
competitions. Sarah
hopes to pursue a
career in pediatrics
while also advocating
for social justice and
environmental issues.
A SPECIAL
THANKS TO:
Our internal staff, along
with our community on
Twitter and Instagram,
who have relentessly
supported us, despite
the many obstacles we
faced with curating this
issue.
THe global youth review IS A literary
and arts MAGAZINE THAT is dedicated
to amplifying the voices of the youth,
especially those that are traditionally
marginalized.
THE
G L O B A L
Y O U T H
REVIEW
Founded in 2020, we use words as a vehicle
with which we unify and empower young
voices. Our mission is to combat divisive
narratives and bridge cultures, people,
and ideas together.
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THE GLOBAL YOUTH
REVIEW
ISSUE II
JUNE 2021