ISSUE IV: Mirror of Society

PRESENTING ISSUE FOUR 

-IV- 

FOUR 

-IV- 

THE GLOBAL YOUTH REVIEW

2 0 2 2 

ISSUE IV 2022 Y. 

M I R R O R 

O F S O C I E T 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 

George White 

CONTRIBUTORS 

Adrija Jana 

Alex Shenstone 

Anna Nixon 

Anoushka Swaminathan 

Arbër Selmani 

DC Diamondopolous 

Eneida P. Alcalde 

Fasasi Abdulrosheed Oladipupo 

Felix Otis 

Halle Ewing 

Ilana Drake 

Jaiden A 

Jen Ross 

Katherine Ebbs 

Leela Raj-Sankar 

Mantz Yorke 

Matt Hsu 

Natasha Bredle 

Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi 

Ray Zhang 

Rebecca Colby 

Sandra Kolankiewicz 

Sheeks Bhattacharjee 

For advertising enquiries contact: theglobalyouthreview@gmail.com 

Cover Art: Milada Vigerova 

Magazine Designer: Sena Chang 

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THEGLOBALYOUTHREVIEW.COM

A table of contents and a letter from 

the founder — 

1 

INTRODUCTION 

Pulling back the curtains of 

society — 

2 

REFLECTION 

Shattered fragments that make up 

the mirror of society — 

3 

SHARDS 

Mending the shattered; healing from 

the broken shards 

4 

MENDING 

Featured writers and 

artists — 

5 

CLOSURE 

THEGLOBALYOUTHREVIEW.COM 

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TABLE OF 

CONTENTS 

THEGLOBALYOUTHREVIEW.COM | LITERARY MAGAZINE 

8 

EDITOR'S LETTER 

WRITTEN BY SENA CHANG | A note of 

gratitude to all editors, contributors, and 

team members involved 

17 GROWTH 

WRITTEN BY NATASHA BREDLE | A freeverse 

poem detailing one's growth after a 

series of tribulations in life 

22 

THE VIRUS 

WRITTEN BY ADRIJA JANA | A powerful 

poem placing emphasis on the centuries-long 

virus of racism 

102 

25 

THE LOCKET 

WRITTEN BY ILANA DRAKE | An bittersweet 

free-verse poem focusing on 

themes of loss and nostalgia 

126 CONTRIBUTORS 

A comprehensive list of all 23 contributors 

of the magazine, with biographies that 

provide further insight into their craft 

70 

72 

88 

95 

77 

THE MESTIZA 

BURDEN 

WRITTEN BY HALLE EWING | A story 

grappling with themes of identity loss and 

ostracization 

BOTTLE BABY 

WRITTEN BY MATT HSU | A short story 

that describes a reality where babies are 

sold, covering themes of racism, commodification, 

and human trafficking. 

WOULD RECOGNIZE 

WRITTEN BY SANDRA KOLANKIEWICZ | A 

poem focusing on the importance of individuality 

in a world filled with preordained 

assumptions 

32 WED 

WRITTEN BY JEN ROSS | A poignant story 

highlighting the issue of child marriage 

through the portrait of a young girl 

60 

LIFE IS A STAGE! 

WRITTEN BY SHEEKS BHATTACHARJEE | 

A critique of the growing disaffection and 

disconnect present amongst members of 

our society 

JUDGEMENT DAY 

WRITTEN BY JAIDEN A. | A piece exploring 

the inadequacies and failures of the 

modern criminal justice system through a 

short story 

COVER ART 

The cover art for this issue used 

a photograph taken by Milada 

Vigerova. She can be found on 

Instagram at @milivigerova. 

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BY 

SENA CHANG 

Editor’s 

LETTER 

T 

here is no doubt that the modern 

political system is shrouded by 

corruption, cronyism, and nepotism— 

all hidden within the everyday 

idiosyncrasies of life. From Putin's unprovoked 

invasion into Ukraine to the January 6th Capitol 

riots that threatened the very concept of 

democracy within the U.S., 2022 has blatantly 

revealed the many inefficiencies and corruptive 

structures present within the political system 

that masquerade themselves as justice, equity, 

and other morales. The many issues that plague 

our politics and justice system have come out of 

the shadows this year, demonstrating to us the 

fragility and temporariness of democratic ideals. 

Yet, many issues have still remained untouched, 

hidden behind curtains that are rarely pulled 

back in modern society. 

In this issue, we set out to find bold 

writers and artists unafraid to pull back 

this rhetorical curtain—steadfast in their 

commitment to speaking truth to power and 

shattering traditionally hegemonic narratives. 

Having closely read the works of each of our 

contributors, I firmly believe that we have 

achieved this goal through the powerful 

storytelling of our writers and poets. Reading 

through this issue, you’ll see the braveness and 

freshness with which these selected contributors 

face societal issues such as child marriage, 

racism, and commodification. These stories 

collectively reach into a rawness and profundity 

rarely found in today’s society; these stories 

plant a seed of hope within me that someday, our 

society will stand upon the pillars of true justice, 

equity, and transparency, instead of the distorted 

definitions of these morales that we have created 

in our world today. So, without further ado, I 

warmly welcome you into issue four of The Global 

Youth Review—a space abundant with talent, 

rawness, and truth about the most pressing 

matters facing us today. 


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“writing 

is the 

geometry 

of the 

soul. 

Plato 

(429–347 B.C.E.)

Magazine 

MIRROR 

of SOCIETY 

We warmly welcome you into The 

Global Youth Review's fourth issue, 

which focuses on what lies behind 

the curtains of society. 

By THE GLOBAL YOUTH REVIEW 


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ISSUE IV 

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BY ERICK BUTLER

CHAPTER 

reflection 

REFLECTION 

" One of the most destructive things 

that's happening in modern society 

is that we are losing our sense of the 

bonds that bind people together." 

Alexander McCall Smith 


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BY SNOWSCAT

CHAPTER 

"...rocking gently back and forth / 

in the wake / of our wasted youth, 

lost..." 

"Growth" 

Natasha Bredle

BY JONATHAN CHEN

G R O W 

T 

H 

G R O W 

T 

H 

G R O W 

T 

H 

WAS THE WORLD EVER MEANT 

TO BE TOUCHED BY OUR 

CALLOUSED HANDS? 

Natasha Bredle 

BY AARN GIRI

POETRY 

GROWTH 

By NATASHA BREDLE 

Battle wounds displaced, we are 

a myriad of lovers, seekers in/out of touch 

with the world, but tell me 

was the world 

ever meant 

to be touched by our calloused hands? 

Purpled fingers, bleeding cuticles 

charred nails that corresponded with 

the fruit of our labors, dazzling shades of 

sugar, citrus, everything 

in moderation has never failed, 

only we fail to see this 

when we mistake more for more, or 

less for more, or 

either reciprocal. 

Pursuing extremes, time slips 

through the cracks of our fingers to leave us 

rocking gently back and forth 

in the wake 

of our wasted youth. Lost 

laughter, fostering lips abridged 

dopamine receptors, abundant eyes 

caged seeds, fertile which might have become 

great forest trees destined one day to shade 

a weary traveler, or merely 

pump necessity into the atmosphere. 

Recognition is the greatest gift 

we give those unfulfilled possibilities of the past— 

recognition, and a promise 

to not fling the future behind us 

in the same blind-sighted way. 

The scars peppering our skin will remind us, striving 

for our different path, intending 

to see the sun that set too early 

rise again. 

We were birthed from the shadows. 

We will not turn our ancestors into the enemy, 

but allow their enlightenment to cascade 

over us like the light of day: 

barely perceivable, but overwhelming. 

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POETRY 

WAKING UP 

AFTER A PANIC ATTACK 

By NATASHA BREDLE 

Invisible clouds of cotton 

amass beneath your eyes, materialized 

during the night perhaps to soak up those inconsolable tears, 

and they did the job, but now your face 

might as well have been in a fist fight, bulging bags 

blurring your vision. But what is there to see 

when all you feel is the aftermath 

of your flight or fight perception? 

The heat, the bile rising in your throat, 

heart racing with palpitated rhythm. God, not again. 

Forget, forget, forget. 

But how can you carry on when the memory 

lies just behind the bend, along with the certainty 

of attacks planned ahead? 

Look around you, look, 

did the sun still rise? Can you feels its rays on your skin, 

oblivious to the terror that rattled your bones 

in the precedent hours of night? 

Is the Earth still spinning? 

Is your mother still driving to work at a school 

whose hallways are patrolled by buff men 

with tasers and badges? 

Are politicians still hollering on the morning news program? 

Are children around the world still huddling 

in the dusky corners of their homes, sucking their fingers 

until red welts appear? 

Are men still pacing jail cells, running their fingers 

along cold bars, struggling to recall the feel of sunshine? 

Are boys and girls still waking up in emergency rooms 

with their wrists stitched up like paper maché, 

tasting air and realizing 

they never wanted to stop breathing? 

Yes, the answer is always yes. 

You carry on when you keep moving. 

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BY ORFEAS GREEN

BY ANNIE SPRATT

POETRY 

FEMININE 

By ADRIJA JANA 

If I wear my Father's shirt, do I become a boy? 

If I cut my hair short, do I cease to be Feminine? 

What is Feminine anyway? 

Must Femininity stand with downcast eyes and cover her head? 

Must Femininity lower her voice and sit in a particular way? 

Must Femininity sweat in the kitchen and cater to the Man's every whim? 

Must Femininity close her eyes, and cast aside every dream? 

Must Femininity not protest for her due, a placard in hand? 

Must Femininity not vote in a democracy, or as a candidate in an election stand? 

If that is what Femininity is to you, 

Then I'm sorry to say 

I'm not Feminine 

And you, my dear critic, are not suited to the present times. 

And yes, I'm a girl 

But I don't need to prove that 

By wearing clothes you choose 

By sitting the way you want me to 

By wearing my hair the way you ask 

If I wear my father's shirts, you say 

People might start to think I'm gay 

So what if they do? 

I know myself 

And for me, that's enough. 

And being gay- that is not something bad 

It's your thoughts that are caged in a box. 

I don't need your validation, nor your advice 

I choose to exercise my freedom of choice, my Right 

And I don't need to be feminine for love 

And I will not change myself 

For those who truly love me 

Will accept me for who I am. 

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POETRY 

THE 

viRus 

"It's an epidemic that been ravaging, 

Not a year or two but for centuries now..." 

By ADRIJA JANA 

Icould be a mother, a daughter, a sister, a wife, 

Or a father, a son, a brother, a husband, 

I might be a little one that's yet to walk 

Or established in my own job. 

But none of it matters 

For when you look at me, 

My skin colour is all you see. 

No, you're not too open about it 

But oh so subtle! 

And you did notice: 

My skin tone is a shade too dark. 

The way you shifted to the other end of the train seat, 

The way you shifted the resume to the discarded pile, 

Just by looking at the picture 

Oh! you definitely did notice. 

It's an epidemic that been ravaging, 

Not a year or two but for centuries now 

And the virus has now perfected its art. 

No mask, no hand wash, no sanitiser 

Can now stamp it out 

Because it is now comfortably settled 

Into the deepest recesses. 

Of your heart, mind and soul. 

Into the very stem cells of your brain 

So that you see feel and act upon the skin colour, 

And not upon the thought, merit or feeling 

Of the person before you 

And you and only you 

Can root this virus from within yourself 

Of course if you're willing. 


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By CARSON ARIAS

POETRY 

I A M 

THE MODERN 

REINCARNATION OF OPHELIA 

By ANNA NIXON 

I am the modern reincarnation of Ophelia 

And I will not be hearing you 

If I am running down the road 

And you wind your window down 

to tell me to run faster 

Take this lavender you bastard 


I was just picking up a fork 

So why the f**k did you stroke my hand 

Did you have something slightly less charming planned? 

Take this clover, cuz your life is a sham 


And I will not be going near 

A man who comments on the smell of my hair 

As his breath moistens my ear 

With god knows what disease 

Take an ice plant because I hope you freeze 


And please don’t ever make me fear 

Opening messages when your name appears 

Just in case, instead of a text it is 

A sickening picture of your d**k 


And I just went for some fresh air 

When you stopped me in the park to stare 

And ask if I would gladly share 

A better view of my bunda 

Your flower’s ten feet in the ground that I wish you were under 


And why would you tell me that you’ll give 

Me milk everyday cuz you know where I live 

Stalking is not something easy to forgive 

So take this foxglove, and garnish your morning milk with it 


On vacation I was chilling when 

You grabbed my arse from behind 

Thinking I wouldn’t see or mind 

Then turned to your friends and smiled wide 

Take this ivy and eat it, it’s deadly inside 


And don’t scapegoat me cuz I’m not mad 


And the patriarchy is my controlling dad 

Take the rose without the flower, cuz you’re a prick 


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And I am beautiful but I don’t need you to tell me that 


And I’m not drowning because of any lad 

24

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By SAEED SIDDIQUI

RECOVERY 

By NATASHA BREDLE

BY 

NATASHA BREDLE 

By LOGAN WEAVER 

it is inexplicable 

the handprints on my body: 

one per thigh, face smothered, stomach marred 

until 

i lift up my hands and see the blood painting my skin. 

the ancient scrolls say to cry out to the sky: 

i returned your stars, 

when will you shine on me again? 

upon its muted response, the waiting commences. 

throw in a dabble of sleepless nights, go searching 

for estranged serotonin and when i repeatedly 

turn up empty, may the realization emerge 

that i have found other necessities, 

such as 

the words to describe this ambivalent recovery. 

‘better’ is not the pellucid term they exalt it to be: 

will i recognize you when we meet? 

many welcome strangers have passed through here, 

as well as the hostile, whose aura lingers 

like a curated scent. 

pressed wisteria or burnt candle wicks, 

alluring, but with the capacity 

of untamable destruction which i 

have wrought on myself: 

water, please wash away these crippling stains. 

i promise i will not forget. 

for now the handprints remain, 

but the sky gives me solace. the blood 

runs through my veins, hailed as remnant of the war. 

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Poetry 

on my 

identity 

By ANOUSHKA SWAMINATHAN 

perhaps i am a demon 

perhaps i am here, with my dirty claws and brittle teeth and mangled 

hair 

to ruin everyone’s life 

perhaps the reason that the way that i love upsets some is because 

they are perfect and god-fearing and pure and devoted and nothing in any 

way like me 

perhaps the reason that my in-between, my out-of-the-box is so terrible 

to some is because 

i go against their nature 

perhaps the reason that my skin, my history, என் மக்கள்* create such a 

tangible hatred in some is because 

we should have stayed in our own nation, browns and whites should not 

mix 

or perhaps those people are just overgrown bullies 

who can’t fathom the existence of those 

different than them 

perhaps i am the god, the monarch, the deva 

perhaps my ‘kind’ should do what we want without taking into consideration 

what will be said by a bigot 

perhaps our demonic nature is just that to someone who has never left the 

seat near their fireplace, staring into the flames with our imprints in their 

gaze 

*என் மக்கள், pronounced ‘en makkal’, means ‘my people’ in Tamil 


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By VLADISLAVE NAHORN

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By VALENTIN BEAUVAIS

POETRY 

What the Night 

Means to a Refugee 

WBy FASASI ABDULROSHEED 

OLADIPUPO 

Another room is ready to move my old memories 

and latest griefs. 

This is what I do all night, moving my childhood and 

its mistakes, my womanhood 

Before I become an outcast, moving my widowhood 

into the night, 

What used to caress me; soft full of songs, hard full 

of sensation 

And these taking spirits out of my body now, tiring 

my existence. 

A carb in my pajamas, every falling star like a child 

who left without 

Owning a name; I have named them all Ibrahim, 

every moonless night 

Like my husband taking away the light, like the 

beginning of all these turmoil. 

Every night is a new insurgent, a fresh war 

somewhere in my head.

PROSE 

Jen Ross 

WED 

"Nahla's mother...put her to bed 

by herself to give Nahla the earthshattering 

news: “Nahla, my dear, 

you are going to be wed.” 


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By THATSELBY

PROSE 

Staring up through the tall grasses at the clouds rolling by, Nahla 

takes a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of the date palms 

swaying gently in the breeze above her. The scent reminds her of 

afternoons playing in the fields with her brothers, and the sweet 

date pastries her mother made a few weeks ago for her 13th birthday. 

Savoring this rare time alone, lying still in the morning 

tranquility, she digs her fingers into the earth beneath her, palming its 

freshness, as if feeling it for the last time. Her brow furrows. She knows 

today is the day everything will change. Today is her wedding day. 

*** 

Nahla could usually be found in these fields, running around 

playing games with her brothers, or sometimes with friends from 

her village, Al Roda, on the banks of the mighty Nile River in Upper 

Egypt. Her family lived on the outskirts of town, on a small plot that 

received just enough river run-off to cultivate a variety of vegetables 

and dates, which they sold at the village market. Along with her two 

brothers, Nahla would help with the planting and harvesting, between 

her studies. 

Although it hadn’t always been so, all three siblings had 

attended school for the past few years. It was the part of her day that 

Nahla looked forward to most. There, she could play jump-rope and 

handkerchief games with her many friends in the schoolyard, and 

they would tease and whisper to each other about boys whenever the 

teachers weren’t within earshot. But mostly, Nahla loved her classes – 

science, history, and geography in particular – which made her dream 

of what life was like in the world beyond her village. 

She’d once professed that her favorite book was her geography 

textbook – which garnered a chorus of laughter from her classmates 

and an approving smile from her teacher. Nahla would often leaf 

through it when she’d finished her schoolwork and was waiting for the 

other children to finish theirs. Its glossy pages detailed the different 

plants, trees, soils, and animals in Egypt and other countries around 

the world. Nahla had memorized their names in both Arabic and Latin 

– and yearned to learn more about how farmers managed their crops 

in other countries. She hoped this knowledge could help her improve 

her family’s own way of farming. 

This year, the harvest had not been good. Many of the plants 

were diseased and the rains were getting fewer and farther between, 

which meant ever more frequent trips to the receding riverbed to fetch 

water. Beyond the dates and vegetables they farmed, her mother and 

father had struggled to put food on the table as there was no money for 

milk or meat. 

Her parents always seemed to have worried looks etched 

across their faces. But that didn’t stop Nahla’s father from telling them 

bedtime stories about ordinary men whose hard work and persistence 

would be rewarded with bountiful harvests and riches beyond their 

wildest dreams. While her brothers always looked on wide-eyed, 

arguing about who would be richer when they grew up, Nahla just sat 

silently, wondering why her father never talked about ordinary women 

getting rich. 

A week ago, Nahla’s mother had exceptionally come 


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By FILIPP ROMANOVSKI

PROSE 

to put her to bed by herself to give Nahla 

the earth-shattering news: “Nahla, my 

dear, you are going to be wed.” 

Although it was common for girls in 

her village to marry young, Nahla had 

hoped to be one of the lucky ones who 

managed to marry later. 

“Mother, no! Please! I want to 

finish school!” she protested. 

“That might be possible,” said 

her mother, frowning and looking at 

the floor, “but it will depend on your 

husband’s wishes.” 

“Why now?” pleaded Nahla. 

“Can’t we wait until I’m older, like 

cousin Mona? She was 18.” 

“I am afraid we cannot,” said 

her mother, no longer trying to hide the 

pain on her face. “You know the harvest 

has not been good this year. There is a 

man from Minya who is willing to pay a 

good sum.” 

The words were piercing. 

Nahla suddenly understood what it 

must feel like to be one of those goats 

at the market, and paraded around to 

fetch the highest price for their masters. 

Staring at her mother 

intensely, she took a deep breath to 

stop herself from saying something she 

would regret. Then her face softened 

and she sighed. She knew her family 

was in need. After a long pause, she 

reluctantly asked: “Who is he?” 

“Well, we know he works in a 

bank and he is a very respected man.” 

“How old is he?” was Nahla’s 

next question. 

“Does that matter?” asked her mother, 

defensively. “It has already been 

decided and your father has made 

the arrangements for a customary 

wedding.” 

Nahla stirred, her eyes betraying the 

fear brewing inside. Faced with her 

silence, her mother finally responded: 

“He is 33 years old.” 

Nahla gasped audibly. Ever 

since the day the blood had appeared 

in her panties, she had feared that her 

life would change in ways she would 

not welcome. It had been almost a year 

since that day and she was now 13. 

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PROSE 

She kept repeating the man’s 

age in her mind: 33. That was 

just five years younger than 

her father. How could she 

marry a man 20 years her senior? 

What would they have in common? 

What would she possibly speak to 

him about? She had seen girls in 

her village marry older men. Those 

girls looked so sad all the time. 

*** 

A few days later, it came 

time to meet her husband-to-be 

and his family. It was a Thursday 

afternoon and her mother and 

aunts hurried her into the house 

after school and began brushing her 

hair, applying make-up for the first 

time, and dressing her in an 

elaborate gown. 

When Nahla caught 

a glimpse of herself in a 

mirror, her mouth dropped 

at the sight of herself in the 

long bright pink dress beaded 

with intricate flowers. It was 

stunning. She ran her fingers 

along the silky fabric, circling 

the crystalline flowers. 

“It is a gift from your new 

family,” her aunt Hiba whispered. 

When Nahla looked up to 

inspect her face she almost didn’t 

recognize herself. Her eyes were 

rimmed with dark lines and her skin 

looked much whiter than usual. She 

touched her cheek and felt a faint 

powder. 

“Do not touch!” barked 

her aunt Hiba. “You will ruin your 

makeup. It is time to go.” 

Her family rushed her into a car she 

didn’t recognize, with a driver who 

shuttled them to a neighborhood 

closer to the city. As Nahla stared out 

the window, the houses grew larger 

and more well-kept by the block. 

She tried to imagine the face of her 

husband-to-be. Might he be a goodlooking 

man? What if he looked like a 

goat? Would he be a nice man? 

They finally pulled into 

the driveway of a large two-story 

white house, trimmed in bright blue 

paint, which was believed to protect 

against the ‘evil eye’—a curse cast 

by an envious glare. Although Nahla 

had never been superstitious, she 

couldn’t help thinking to herself that 

she really didn’t need such protection 

now, for who could possibly 

envy a girl getting married at 13? 

Her parents walked her to 

the arched patio entrance, followed 

by her aunts, who had come in 

another car. Just past the gate, a crowd 

of people Nahla didn’t recognize 

was greeting one another excitedly. 

When she arrived at the front door, 

an older couple who looked about the 

age of her grandparents greeted her 

‘‘ ...who could possibly 

envy a girl getting married 

at 13?" 

warmly. 

“Nahla: meet your new 

parents,” announced her mother, 

smiling widely. 

“Hello,” said Nahla 

tentatively, unsure of what else to 

say to these strangers she was now 

expected to call ‘parents’. 

“Welcome to our family,” 

said the older woman, extending 

her arms, which were adorned in 

thick gold bangles, and pulling her 

in for a hug. Nahla got a brief whiff 

of her strong rose-like perfume 

as the woman proceeded to usher 

her inside the house, steering her 

towards an elegant long white sofa. 

“Please sit.” 

There, Nahla waited as her 

father came to stand next to her, and 

a bearded man wearing a black suit 

approached from the other side, to 

stand and face her father. 

“I would like to formally 

ask for your daughter’s hand in 

marriage,” the man said, in a low, 

husky voice. 

So, this was her husbandto-be. 

Nahla examined his dark, 

piercing eyes, high forehead, and 

long nose. He was not particularly 

attractive, but neither was he ugly. 

He was tall and looked older than her 

father, perhaps because of his beard. 

He did not shift his gaze to make eye 

contact with Nahla as she stared at 

him. 

A bushier-bearded Imam 

entered the room and began speaking 

of how the Prophet Muhammad had 

honored his wives. 

“Men should 

honor women and women 

should serve and honor their 

husbands.” 

As he said this, 

several women nodded 

approvingly, while Nahla 

gawked. How unfair was it 

that women also had to “serve”, 

rather than simply honor their 

husbands? she thought to 

herself. 

The Imam proceeded to 

ask the man if he would follow this 

advice. He nodded. Then he looked to 

her father, who also nodded to show 

he accepted the marriage proposal. 

Then he sat down next to Nahla on 

the long sofa, while the groom sat 

on his other side. Another man she 

did not recognize appeared with the 

Islamic holy book, the Qu’ran, and 

handed it to her father. The bearded 

man then placed his hand on Nahla’s 

father’s and they read the Fatha 

passage in unison. 

When they had finished, the 

man stood before Nahla, and for a 

split second, he met her gaze. It was a 

fleeting glance, but with an intensity 

that frightened her. Then he took 

her hand and mechanically placed a 

golden band on her right ring finger, 

handing her a larger ring in her left 


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By KATERYNA HLIZNITSOVA 

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By JOEYY LEE 

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PROSE 

hand. After an awkward pause, he 

motioned for her to place the ring 

on his finger. Nahla blushed and 

took his thick, hairy finger, fumbling 

with the ring clumsily. She’d never 

touched a man’s hand who was not 

a relative. Applause soon rang out 

from the dozen or so guests. 

Moments later, a belly 

dancer decked in gold sequins 

emerged and began swaying her hips 

to the ever-quickening beats of two 

drummers behind her. Meanwhile, a 

few women dressed in blue smocks 

entered, offering the guests trays 

of fruit and flower-scented sweets, 

which Nahla declined. She could feel 

her stomach churning. 

“Fares! We are so happy for 

you!” called out an older woman that 

Nahla did not recognize. So, that was 

his name: Fares. 

“We thought you would never settle 

down,” laughed the woman, who he 

quieted with a stern look. 

The party went on for hours, 

without the newly engaged couple 

exchanging a single word. When it 

was time for Nahla to leave, Fares 

simply cocked his head politely. 

On their way home, Nahla’s father 

was the first to break the awkward 

silence, saying: “What a wonderful 

party. I think this will be a good 

family.” 

Nahla did her best to muster a smile 

but could not bring herself to speak 

the entire drive home. Staring out 

the window, she circled the sparkly 

pink flowers adorning her dress, and 

silently shed a tear. 

*** 

Nahla did not see Fares 

or her new family again before the 

wedding. 

One evening, all the women 

and girls in Nahla’s extended family, 

and three of her closest friends from 

school, descended upon her house 

for Laylat Al-Hinna – a customary 

party to decorate the bride’s hands 

and feet with henna the night before 

the wedding. 

There must have been at 

least 50 women and girls gathered 

there to celebrate and wish her 

well. It was the first time a couple 

of her school friends were visiting 

and Nahla felt a little embarrassed 

by her modest two-bedroom home 

with sparse furnishings. But her 

mother-in-law had brought some 

fancy hanging decorations to liven 

the place up, and even her normally 

stuck-up friend Sanaa didn’t seem 

out of sorts. 

“Remember all those 

times we acted out tales of princess 

maidens and dragons at recess?” 

Saana reminded Nahla. “Now you 

will get to live your own fairytale!” 

she said, batting her eyelids 

dramatically. 

The pair had been school 

friends since kindergarten, although 

By ALEX CHAMBERS 

their parents were not. Nahla’s 

mother once told her that Sanaa’s 

family was “too high class for her”. 

Strange, Nahla thought, that her 

family was suddenly open to her 

marrying someone from that class. 

Nahla’s aunt Maryam, ever 

eager to be the center of attention, 

took it upon herself to do the henna 

painting. She began by tracing a 

delicate floral pattern surrounded 

by curvy, intricate designs around 

her wrist. The henna looked black 

and raised at first, but Nahla knew 

that when it was ready, it would leave 

a temporary brown die for several 

weeks. 

The girls plucked dozens of 

sweets from stacked, shiny plates. 

They laughed themselves silly while 

playing games, then danced and 

sang songs. Meanwhile, the mothers 

and older family members clapped 

and took turns smoking a shisha 

pipe. Nahla lost herself for a while in 

the joy of the henna party, reveling 

in the rare congregation of females. 

She sighed and sat back to savor the 

feeling of safety, and love she felt in 

being at the center of such warmth 

and attention. 

“You are so lucky to be 

getting married,” crooned her 

10-year-old cousin Dina, who had 

always been close to Nahla, mostly 

because she defended her against 

an older brother’s teasing. “What a 

dream come true!” 

Reminded of what was 

to come, Nahla smiled awkwardly, 

feigning excitement. She didn’t want 

to seem ungrateful or reveal her 

feelings of impending doom. She was 

to wed the following day. After going 

to bed late, she barely slept a wink 

that night. 

*** 

The next morning, Nahla 

lay still between the tall grasses near 

her home, staring up at the sparse 

clouds and savoring the tranquility 

and her last hours of freedom – the 

last hours of the life she had always 

known. 

Although she could hear 

voices calling for her in the distance, 

she dared not move. Perhaps if she 

stayed here, hidden between the 

grasses, her family wouldn’t be able 

to find her and the wedding would 

have to be called off. What if she just 

rested here for a while? She was so 

tired and her eyelids felt heavy… 

Nahla had no idea how 

much time had passed when her 

P 

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39 


PROSE 

mother found her and angrily pulled her from the field. 

“Nahla, how could you? We were looking everywhere for you! The wedding 

starts in an hour! We need to get you dressed; we need to do your hair; we need to 

get to the groom’s house…” her mother shrieked. 

A dozen frenzied women crowded around her to dress and make her up – 

her aunt Hiba chastising her for the dirt beneath her nails and the grass in her hair. 

Meanwhile, Nahla tried to keep her eyes closed so tears wouldn’t be shed. 

The venue was Fares’ home again, which now looked like a flower shop – 

splattered with dazzling bouquets of pink peonies, cream-colored roses, and salmon 

dahlias. Nahla had been wowed by the engagement party decor, but this display 

was lavish beyond what she could have imagined. She bit her lower lip nervously as 

Fares appeared by a raised table in the courtyard. 

Clutching the protective arm of her father, Nahla took slow and careful 

steps toward him. Beads of sweat were forming on Fares’ forehead and he fidgeted 

with the sleeves of his fancy black tuxedo. Nahla had barely looked at the beautiful 

white gown she was wearing, but now noticed that it was so long she nearly tripped 

over it in her tediously high silver heels. 

As she reached Fares, he carefully lifted the thin transparent veil that hung 

over her face, running his hand gently over her forehead as he did, his first act of 

tenderness. 

Fares and Nahla’s fathers stood next to them, placing their hands together 

and a religious official man, called the shaykh, covered their hands with a white 

handkerchief while he read a passage from the Qur’an. He had them repeat a couple 

of words and then he removed the handkerchief – which made the transaction for 

Nahla’s hand official. Nahla had watched this done before, at her cousins’ weddings, 

but witnessing her father gift her away in this fashion, under the guise of religion, 

left a deeply unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

This ritual was followed by an eruption of music. The clanging tambourines, 

blaring trumpets, and pounding drums were loud enough to compete with Nahla’s 

racing heart. The couple was surrounded by guests as the procession began. The 

band performed traditional wedding songs and the women wailed in high-pitched 

ululations. 

The new bride and groom slowly made their way towards a 

flower-laden stage set up with two chairs, where they were to greet their guests 

and pose for photographs. As they sat, without speaking, Fares handed Nahla an 

envelope and a small golden box which he motioned for her to slip into her purse. 

A few of Nahla’s friends and cousins approached to pinch her knee, for 

good luck in their own hopes of being the next to marry. 

The ceremony was everything a customary Muslim Egyptian wedding was 

meant to be. 

The party ended late into the night and Nahla was exhausted, nearly falling 

asleep several times. Fares led her to a bedroom in what was now her new home 

and laid her on the bed. Then, he began slowly undoing the buttons of her wedding 

dress. Gripped with fear but not wanting to offend him, Nahla pretended to be 

asleep. 

After removing her dress, nudging, and turning her over a few times, Fares 

seemed to give up and quietly left the room. Despite her exhaustion, Nahla could not 

sleep for several hours, out of fear that he would return to her bed in the middle of 

the night. As his wife, she would now be expected to “serve” him, in all ways. 

*** 

Three months later, when Nahla came home to visit her parents, they could 

hardly recognize her. Her hair was disheveled and there was no longer any spark in 

her eyes. 


P 

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By HISU LEE

P 

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PROSE 

By CAMILA QUINTERO FRANCO 

Nahla did her best to stay 

positive despite her stormy new 

home, reminding herself to be 

grateful that she had no want for 

food or shelter, nor did her parents 

and brothers. 

She learned to play dominos 

with her father-in-law and tried 

to get to know the servants. In her 

mind, she would replay memories of 

happier times – of Eid celebrations 

at her grandparent’s house, of the 

rotten lettuce fights she’d have with 

her brothers during harvest, or 

of her dragon-slaying days in the 

schoolyard with Sanaa. 

A few months later, Nahla 

began feeling tired and nauseous. 

When she didn’t bleed at her normal 

time of the month, her mother-in- 

She sat down with them. 

“Mama, papa…,” she said, 

with tears welling in her 

eyes. “I want to go home!” 

Taken aback, her father 

asked: “Why? What is wrong?” 

“I haven’t been to school 

since the wedding,” lamented Nahla. 

“I miss my classes. I miss my friends.” 

“Yes dear, we understand. 

That is natural,” interjected her 

mother. “But this is a new life stage 

for you.” 

“Fares doesn’t speak to 

me,” she continued. “He only seeks 

me out when he wants to take me to 

the bedroom to have his way with 

me. And… he is not gentle. He hurts 

me!” 

Nahla’s father took a deep 

breath and shook his head. Her 

mother looked at him, searching for 

a reaction, but he seemed at a loss for 

words. 

She held Nahla by the hand 

to comfort her. “I am so sorry.” 

Hearing her, Nahla’s father’s 

pained expression turned to a scowl 

and he sat upright: “Unfortunately, 

this is the way things are. You must 

obey your husband. Your marriage 

was necessary.” 

Nahla looked down at the 

floor, then up and around their 

now-well-stocked kitchen – at the 

meat, her mother was preparing on 

the counter, at the pitcher of fresh 

milk on the table. Her family was no 

longer struggling to make ends meet. 

But why did her happiness have to be 

the price? 

*** 

law accompanied her to the doctor’s 

office. 

They sat silently in the 

waiting room. Far from being like 

a ‘mother’ to her, Nahla considered 

her more like an overseer, always 

barking orders at her, as though she 

were one of the servants. She never 

showed Nahla any love or tenderness 

and would turn a blind eye when 

Fares yelled at her. And Nahla was 

sure she could hear her cries and 

screams from the neighboring 

bedroom, but she did and said 

nothing. 

But today her mother-inlaw 

looked oddly happy, and even 

tried to hold her hand, which Nahla 

retracted after feigning a sneeze. 

The doctor asked Nahla 

several questions before having 

her lie down on a large reclining 

table. He wheeled over a machine 

and placed a cold, jelly-like goo on 

her belly then gently ran a rounded 

plastic wand over the goo. Suddenly 

the sound of static came from the 

machine – almost like what you 

would hear when switching between 

radio stations – and then a light 

thumping sound. 

“There it is!” said the doctor 


P 

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PROSE 

By JAKAYLA TONEY 

said to her mother-in-law. “That is 

your grandchild’s heartbeat!” 

Nahla’s eyes bulged and she 

stopped breathing. 

The doctor looked down at 

"This [fright] made sense—she 

was only 13, petite, and barely 

had a woman's body." 

her and said: “Congratulations dear. 

You are going to be a mother!” 

Her look of sheer confusion, 

followed by panic, made it obvious 

that this was not welcome news to 

her, so the doctor addressed her 

mother-in-law for the rest of the 

visit. 

After he had finished with 

the machine and handed Nahla some 

paper towels to clean up the goo, he 

took her mother-in-law to a corner 

of his office and lowered his voice to 

a whisper. Nahla tried not to crinkle 

the paper so she could overhear and 

was able to make out: “there are risks 

because she is so young”. 

Still trying to process the 

idea that there was a baby growing 

inside her, the thought that there 

could be risks because of it frightened 

her even more. This made 

sense – she was only 13, 

petite, and barely had a 

woman’s body. She looked 

over at her mother-in-law 

and the doctor – wishing 

she could scream out loud 

that she wasn’t ready to be 

a mother. Not yet. Not now. 

Not with Fares! 

She had seen other 

young mothers in the neighborhood 

and they always looked so forlorn. 

Nahla had always imagined it was 

because they couldn’t continue with 

school. But now she knew it must be 

more than that. They’d be stripped of 

their choices in every way. 

The thought of it all 

triggered a deep resistance to what 

was happening inside her. Babies 

were cute, yes, but she had no clue 

how to change diapers or feed a baby 

or make them sleep. She had played 

dolls, sure. But a real tiny human 

that she would be responsible for 

was something completely different. 

P 

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43 

Now, more than ever, Nahla longed 

to be back home playing with dolls 

instead or running around in the 

fields with her friends, going to 

school, and simply enjoying her own 

childhood. Not a child raising a child. 

Before they left the doctor’s 

office, Nahla’s mother-in-law 

hugged her for the first time since 

the wedding. 

“Nahla, thank you! We are 

so thrilled that you are bringing us a 

grandchild!” 

Lost in thought, Nahla 

smiled unconvincingly but said 

nothing. 

*** 

Seven months later, Nahla 

awakened to intense pain in the 

middle of the night. Fares ran for his 

mother as Nahla lay panting in the 

bed. Fares was yelling and looked 

frightened. The baby wasn’t expected 

for another month. 

He carried her 

briskly to the car and they arrived at 

the hospital within minutes. By that 

time, Nahla was crying from the pain. 

It is unlike anything she had ever 

felt. It was like magnified menstrual 


PROSE 

cramps but with her insides being squeezed out. 

The nurses and doctors hurriedly strapped a band around 

her arm that inflated and squeezed her. Saying something she couldn’t 

understand about her blood pressure, they wheeled her into a closed 

room. Something was terribly wrong. 

As the pain intensified unbearably, she started screaming. 

Overcome by flashes of cold, then hot, then terrifying dizziness, Nahla 

fainted. Foam began frothing at her mouth as her body started to 

stiffen and shake violently. 

Once Nahla had stopped seizing, the doctors prepared her for 

an emergency c-section to remove the baby. They injected the base 

of her spine with an epidural to numb her lower body and told her to 

look in the other direction while the surgeon began cutting through 

the layers of skin and muscle beneath her panty line. 

The smell of blood almost made her vomit and her head 

began spinning anew. Nahla lost consciousness again just as the baby 

was emerging. 

*** 

When she regained consciousness, the room was quiet and a 

doctor was standing nearby speaking to Fares and her mother-in-law. 

Relieved that the intensity of the pain has passed, and by now anxious 

to meet the child she’d been growing inside her all these months, 

Nahla searched the room for her baby. 

Noticing that she was awake, the doctor came to her bedside. 

Speaking in a hushed voice, he said: “Nahla, I’m glad to see you are 

back with us. You nearly died.” 

Cringing, Nahla closed her eyes and thanked Allah that she 

had survived. Then her thoughts quickly turned to her baby. 

“And my baby? Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked, expectantly. 

The doctor hesitated, looking over at Fares and his mother, 

who gave him a nod. 

“I’m so sorry but your baby died during the birth. Its oxygen 

supply was cut off and….” 

After the word ‘died’, Nahla did not register anything 

else. The baby she had so dreaded having a few months ago had become 

a part of her as it had grown in her belly. Although she still resented 

her age and lack of choice in this pregnancy, she had come to accept it, 

even growing excited and imagining what her baby would look like. She 

was eager to give it a name and to dress it in the tiny doll-like clothes 

she had picked out herself. 

“Oh, and it was a girl,” added the doctor, as he left the room. 

A girl. Of course. Nahla had always imagined it would be. 

A baby girl with curly black hair and big, beautiful brown eyes. She 

had secretly wished it would be so, even though she knew her family 

wanted a boy. They always did. Surely they wouldn’t be as disappointed 

as they would have been, had she lost a boy. 

As Nahla stared at her deflated belly, for a fleeting moment, she wished 

that she too would have died with her. 

*** 

Nahla decided to name her baby Alya, which means “from 

heaven” in Arabic. She held a small ceremony with her parents to bury 


P 

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By JESSICA FELICIO

PROSE 

her body in the fields near her parents’ home. Fares and 

her in-laws had tried to had tried to convince her not to 

do so and did not attend. But it was better that way. 

As Nahla’s body slowly recovered, her heart also 

began healing from the pain of losing her daughter. After 

watching her lie listlessly in bed for weeks on end, at 

the insistence of Nahla’s mother, Fares had allowed her 

to join a village support group for women who had lost 

children and husbands. 

The support group helped Nahla grieve and 

open up to others about her experience. She even 

made friends with another girl, with whom she vented 

her frustrations and confided the difficulties she had 

at home with the husband she so despised. She also 

secretly began taking English language classes after 

the support sessions with one of the women who was a 

teacher. This reignited Nahla’s thirst to return to school 

and learn about the world beyond her town. 

A few months later, at a follow-up medical 

checkup, Nahla’s doctor explained everything that she 

had been too distraught to hear that fateful day: that 

Nahla was very young, which carried certain health 

risks for her and for the baby. He explained that she 

had developed a blood pressure condition called 

pre-eclampsia that sometimes kills women and girls 

during childbirth. She had gone into labor more than a 

month early, which was common with young expectant 

mothers, but the baby’s organs had not fully developed 

yet, and the baby suffered a critical loss of oxygen during 

her seizure. 

With an indifferent expression, the doctor 

reassured Nahla that if she waited a few years, the next 

time would likely be easier. 

Next time? By now, she was 14 and the last thing 

she wanted was to go through that experience again! 

Nahla sat fuming, her mind flooding with a 

thousand ill thoughts that she was not allowed to voice. 

She thanked the doctor and left the clinic with her 

mother-in-law. 

“Do not worry. You will succeed next time. 

Perhaps it will even be a boy,” her mother-in-law 

reassured her. 

The words felt like a punch, deep in her 

abdomen. Nahla darted her mother-in-law a stinging 

look before getting into the car. But as they pulled out 

of the parking lot, Nahla realized that her mother-inlaw 

was right. If she stayed in this hollow life with Fares, 

history would repeat itself. She would be expected to 

produce an heir, no matter what the toll on her body or 

her happiness. 

And it was with this realization that Nahla resolved to 

leave – no matter what the consequences. 

After a long silence, she asked: “Would you 

mind dropping me off at my parents’ house? I need to 

talk to them.” 

P 

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T 


By GEORGE CHATZHMHTROU 

P 

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PROSE 

DC Diamondopolous 

The Bell 

OWER 

"Born and raised in Montgomery, 

Reverend Penniman had a hard 

time staying relevant, what with 

tattoos, body piercing, rap music, 

not to mention homosexuals 

getting married and reefer being 

legalized..." 

P 

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47 



By ALI BERGEN 

P 

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PROSE 

Reverend 

Langston 

Penniman sat on the edge 

of his bed, stretching his 

black fingers. Everything 

had either twisted up on him or 

shrunk except his stomach. Once 

six-foot-five, he now plunged 

to six two, still tall, but not 

the imposing dignitary he 

once was standing behind 

the lectern in front of his 

congregation. 

His parishioners aged, 

too. So hard nowadays to 

attract the young, he thought 

standing from the bed he 

shared with his wife of fiftytwo 

years. His knees cracked. 

He’d gotten his cholesterol 

under control, but at seventyfive, 

his health headed south 

as his age pushed north. 

Born and raised in 

Montgomery, Reverend 

Penniman had a hard time 

staying relevant, what with 

tattoos, body piercing, By SHANE HOVING 

rap music, not to mention 

homosexuals getting married 

and reefer being legalized. 

For a man his age, changing 

was like pulling a mule uphill 

through molasses. 

The smell of bacon 

and eggs drifted down 

the hall. He heard the 

coffeemaker gurgle. How 

he loved his mornings with 

the Montgomery Daily 

News—not Internet news— 

something he could hold in 

his hands, smell the ink. He 

even enjoyed licking his fingers to 

separate the pages. 

Off in the direction of the Alabama 

River, he thought he heard a siren, 

not far from his church. 

“Breakfast ready,” Flo shouted 

from the kitchen. 

Flo was the sweetest gift the Lord 

ever bestowed upon a man. Oh, he 

was fortunate, he thought, passing 

her picture on the dresser bureau 

and the photo of their three boys and 

two girls. Proud of his church, he was 

even prouder of their five children. 

Three graduated from college, all of 

them respectable citizens. 

“It’s gonna get cold if you don’t 

‘‘ There's a girl up on the 

bell tower of your church. 

Says she's gonna jump,’’ the 

black officer said. 

come and get it.” 

“I’m a comin. Just let me wash up.” 

The siren sounded closer. 

The Alabama spring day was 

warmer than usual. At nine in the 

morning, it was headed off the 

charts, as the kids say nowadays. 

Reverend Penniman washed and 

dressed. At the bureau, he brushed 

back the sides of his white hair, his 

bald crown parted like the Red Sea. 

When his kids teased him about 

looking like Uncle Ben, he grew 

whiskers just as white. His boys 

joked he looked like Uncle Ben with 

a beard. He chuckled. He would have 

preferred Morgan Freeman. 

“I’ll feed it to the garbage 

disposal if you don’t come 

and get it.” 

“I’m a comin now, sweet 

thing.” 

He heard the siren turn 

the corner at Bankhead and 

Parks. 

Reverend Penniman 

looked at the cell phone lying 

on his dresser. He’d yet to 

master how to get his thick 

fingers to press one picture 

at a time, or type on that itty 

bitty keyboard. He couldn’t 

even hold it in the crook of 

his neck. 

He hurried down the hall. 

The floorboards of the fiftyyear-old 

house creaked just 

like him. Not quite shotgun, 

his house did have a similar 

layout what with add-ons for 

the three boys. 

The siren was upon them. 

“Lord have mercy,” Flo 

said as she put the food on 

the table. “That sure sounds 

angry.” 

“Sure does. Let me take a 

look,” the reverend said from 

the kitchen’s entrance. 

He went to the living room 

window and saw a police car 

pull into his driveway, the 

siren cut-off. Two uniformed 

police officers, one black, the other 

white, got out of the cruiser and 

headed up his footpath. 

He opened the door. 

“Are you Reverend Penniman?” 

“I am. What’s the problem?” 

“There’s a girl up on the bell tower 

of your church. Says she’s gonna 

jump,” the black officer said. 

“Good Lord!” Flo cried, standing 

behind her husband. 

P 

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PROSE 

By JONAS JAEKEN 

“Let me get my keys,” the reverend 

said. 

“No time, sir. Come with us. You’ll 

get there faster.” 

Flo took off and came back with 

"Reverend Penniman felt like 

he was up on that bell tower, 

on the edge, with his arms 

stretched out..." 

the reverend’s cell phone. “Here 

baby. I’m gonna meet you there 

soon as I shut down the kitchen. You 

should at least have your toast. I can 

put it in a baggie for you.” 

“No time,” he said as he hurried 

out the door with the officers. 

Reverend Penniman sat in 

the back of the car with a screen 

separating him from the policemen. 

“Who is she?” he asked. 

“Don’t know,” the young white 

officer answered. 

“What’s she look like?” 

“Black teen, skinny, baggy pants, 

chain hanging from the pocket, 

hoodie pulled over a ball cap.” 

“Akeesha.” 

“You know her?” 

“Like one of my own.” The 

reverend looked out the 

window as the car pulled 

away. He clasped his hands 

together and said a quick 

prayer for the troubled girl. 

Lord, help me help her, he 

repeated to himself. “Did 

she ask for me?” 

“No.” 

“How’d you find me?” 

“Your name is on the 

marquee of your church.” 

“Oh, right.” 

“I’m Officer Johnson,” the older 

man said. “This is 

Officer Perry.” 

Officer Perry reached 

forward and turned 

on the siren. The noise 

deafened everything, 

including the pounding 

of Reverend Penniman’s 

heart. 

They drove toward 

downtown Montgomery 

along the banks of the 

Alabama, the RSA tower 

soared above the city’s skyline. 

The speed limit was forty. The 

reverend guessed they were doing 

twice that. His right knee pumped 

like the needle on Flo’s sewing 

machine. 

The siren screamed. The lights 

blinked and rotated flashing red and 

blue on the hood of the car. Reverend 

Penniman felt like he was up on that 

bell tower, on the edge, with his arms 

stretched out, his body holding back 

the weight of all his parishioners 

who had wept in his arms. 

At the corner of Graves and 

Buckley, the cruiser slowed, the 

siren cut-off. Officer Johnson made 

a right turn. People rushed along the 

sidewalk their cell phones pressed 

By DYNAMIC WANG 


P 

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PROSE 

By JULIA KADEL 

against their ears. 

Halfway down the block, Reverend 

Penniman saw more people standing 

outside his church than he ever had 

inside. A fire truck parked in the lot 

with men unloading a ladder. 

The police car jumped the curb 

and drove to the side of the brick 

building. He saw Greaty, Akeesha’s 

great-grandmother in her burgundy 

wig, mussed like a tornado whirled 

through it. She cupped her black 

hands on the sides of her mouth 

screaming and crying at the roof. Her 

pink housecoat hung open revealing 

her cotton nightie. 

Before the car came to a stop, the 

minister jumped out. 

Greaty saw Reverend Penniman 

and ran to him. “You get my baby off 

the roof, you hear, Reverend? She 

done gone and have a meltdown.” 

“We’ll get her down. Just craving 

attention like all teenagers.” 

“She cravin’ nothin’ but death. She 

gonna jump. She all I have!” 

He ran to the front of the church. 

Greaty followed. The reverend 

gasped. “Good Lord.” Akeesha 

teetered on the edge of the bell’s 

shelter. Her baggy pants flapped in 

the breeze. 

Two firefighters carried a ladder 

to the roof. They propped it against 

the gutters. 

“Get away,” Akeesha screamed. 

“I’ll jump, you try to get me.” Her 

voice carried over the mob. 

“I know the child. I can get her 

down.” 

“Don’t think so, Reverend.” 

The minister turned to see Officer 

Johnson standing beside him. “Then 

why’d you get me?” 

“It’s your church. I thought you’d 

be younger.” 

“I’m young enough and I’ll get 

her down.” He gazed up at the girl. 

“Akeesha!” he shouted using his 

pulpit voice. “I’m coming to you, 

child.” He sprinted around the side 

of the church, to the back, amazed 

at how his body complied with his 

will. Officer Johnson’s leather holster 

crunched with each matching stride. 

Akeesha had broken the frame of 

the door and busted in. 

“If I have to cuff you Reverend, I 

will,” Officer Johnson said. 

“You really want to save this 

child?” Reverend Penniman asked. 

“I’ve known her since she was four. 

I’m the only father she’s ever known. 

Now you let me do my business.” 

He pushed open the door when he 

heard car wheels on gravel. 

“Langston,” Flo yelled out the 

window. “Where do think you’re 

going?” She slammed the driver’s 

door. 

“Good Lord, woman, I don’t need 

you pestering me too.” 

Flo ran up to her husband. “Officer, 

you arrest this man if he so much—.” 

“You gotta save her . . . she's 

my baby—she all I have!” Greaty 

screamed coming around the corner. 

“Calm down,” Reverend Penniman 

said. 

Greaty wiped her face with the 

sleeve of her house coat. “She never 

been so upset. She so angry. Them 

girls who beat her up. Them punks 

who tried to rape her.” 

The reverend looked at Officer 

Johnson. “Get all those people away 

from the front of my church. And 

tell those firemen to take down the 

ladder.” 

“I’m the one in charge here, 

Reverend.” 

“How about we get Captain 

Martinez?” Officer Perry asked. 

“They can secure the reverend 

with a rope and harness.” Before 

his superior had a chance to argue, 

P 

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E 

51 


"The reverend glanced at the 

Alabama River. The spectacular 

Montgomery skyline was like a 

masterpiece God painted." 

By DC DIAMONDOPOLOUS 

By SVETLANA GUMEROVA

PROSE 

young Perry ran off. 

“Thank you,” Reverend Penniman 

shouted. 

“She a good girl except for her 

sin,” Greaty sobbed. 

Flo put her arm around Akeesha’s 

great-grandmother. 

“Flo, take her to the car,” Reverend 

Penniman said. “I’ll be okay.” 

“Keep him safe, Officer. Don’t let 

him do anything foolish,” Flo said as 

she led Greaty away. 

Reverend Penniman heard the 

whirling blades of a helicopter. 

“Good Lord. A child’s life is at 

stake and this is turning into 

a circus,” he said entering the 

back of his church. 

“How’d she get up to the bell 

tower?” Officer Johnson asked. 

“There’s a room with pulleys. 

A stairway curls around leading 

up to the bells.” Reverend 

Penniman could kick himself 

for letting Jake show Akeesha 

the inside of the tower. 

Officer Johnson shot up the 

stairs. 

“Wait! You can’t go that way. 

You’d come out behind her. I 

swear, man. You let me handle 

this my way or that girl is going 

to die.” 

Officer Johnson turned on 

the landing. 

The reverend had him in an 

eye-lock. “Please,” he said, not 

used to the sound of the word or the 

helpless feeling that it carried. 

“Why is she up there?” the 

policeman asked. 

“She’s a homosexual.” 

“My brother’s gay,” Officer Johnson 

said. 

The minister watched how the 

cop’s eyes captured a memory, 

something powerful enough to 

soften his features. 

Reverend Penniman climbed the 

fourteen steps to the landing. He’d 

always been proud of his bell tower, 

right now he’d wished his ancestors 

never built it. 

Officer Perry returned with 

Captain Martinez and a boyish 

looking black man. Both men held 

gear as they took the steps in three 

strides. 

“Well Johnson, your call,” the 

captain said. 

“We’ll feed Reverend Penniman 

below her, on the roof.” 

“Thank you.” 

The reverend led the men around 

a corner to a loft with stairs to the 

church roof. 

By JAKUB PIEROZYNSK 

“Got your Nikes on, I see,” 

Martinez said. “Good.” 

“Now put that contraption on me 

and let me out there.” 

The firefighters held the harness 

for the reverend to step into. They 

hooked the cloth rope to the straps, 

gave it a tug jolting the reverend 

backwards, then tossed the rope 

to another man who waited below. 

“Side-step going down the incline. 

It’s not steep, but we got you no 

matter what.” 

“Get rid of the ladder and the 

lookyloos. And stay well below. I don’t 

want her knowing you’re around.” 

“We’ll be down on the first 

landing,” Captain Martinez said. 

“I’ve had enough talk, gentlemen.” 

Reverend Penniman took the steps 

to the roof praying as he went, for 

Akeesha, for Greaty, but most of all 

for himself. That he’d say the right 

thing, be sincere, because Akeesha 

had the gift of honesty. He prayed, 

asking the Holy Spirit to fill him with 

wisdom. 

The door to the roof was ajar. He 

gently touched it. He felt the rope tug 

the harness. The door swung 

open. 

The roof slanted and leveled 

out several feet down. The area 

around the tower was flat. 

He smelled the fumes from 

the asphalt as he stepped 

sideways onto the shingles, 

planted himself and managed 

the incline. He took his time 

placing his right foot, then his 

left, and held for a moment. 

He did it again until the roof 

flattened out. 

Applause and shouts broke 

out. “Get back!” Officer Johnson 

shouted. “Everyone!” 

The reverend glanced at the 

Alabama River. The spectacular 

Montgomery skyline was like a 

masterpiece God painted. Then 

he looked below. He saw the 

van of a local TV station, the 

helicopter off in the distance; 

the crowd herded across the street 

by young Perry, and so many cell 

phones held up to the bell tower it 

looked like Beyonce held court. 

He heard sniffles, then crying. 

“Akeesha. I’m here to talk, child.” 

“Won’t do no good.” 

“Well, I didn’t climb all the way up 

here thinking it wouldn’t do no good. 

You and I have a way together, now 

don’t we?” 

“Prayin’ don’t work. I’m still gay.” 

“No reason taking your life.” He 

thought back to the convention when 

one minister said, let the gays kill 

themselves. 

P 

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53 


PROSE 

We need to protect our children. Only problem with that was 

all the molesting he knew came from men with little girls. 

He left those conferences feeling tired and old, the same 

men year after year with their stale jokes and self-righteous 

rhetoric. He felt trapped by the old ways and frightened by the new. 

“Everyone knows. It’s on Facebook.” Akeesha whimpered.” My 

girlfriend broke with me.” 

Reverend Penniman made his way around the side of the bell tower 

feeling the tug of the harness. He looked up at the teenager. 

Her hoodie covered all but the bill of her ball cap. She wiped her 

tears with the black leather band she wore on her wrist. “I wanna die.” 

She inched forward to the lip of the shelter. Her hand left the arch. 

“No!” Reverend Penniman yelled his arms stretched out as if he 

could catch her. 

The crowd oohed. 

He moved slowly around the tower until his back was to the mob. 

“Sit on the ledge baby.” 

“I’m goin to hell when I die. Bible says so.” Her voice quivered. 

“Greaty found out. Said I’d bring shame on her house—more than my 

mama in jail. Said a woman’s body parts were made for a man to make 

babies.” Her voice trailed off. 

“Greaty loves you, child. She’s running around screaming and 

bossing, telling us to get her baby off the tower. You hear me, child?” 

He watched horrified as she balanced herself on the rim of the tower. 

A slip and she would die. 

“They callin me a freak.” 

“Sit down now. We need to talk.” 

“Jump faggot!” someone hollered across the street. 

Reverend Penniman looked back at the crowd. Officer Johnson 

grabbed the man. Perry hauled him away. 

“They all stupid.” Akeesha sobbed. 

“We can work this out.” 

“Don’t dish with me, Reverend. Talkin’s no good,” she shouted. 

He lifted his head up to see her lip quivering. “Can be,” he said. 

“I’m goin to hell. Might as well get it over with.” 

“Now, don’t talk like that.” He thought of all those times they 

knelt together holding hands. Their eyes shut tight, the way Akeesha 

repeated his words to rid herself of the sin of homosexuality. When 

they were through, her face was wet with tears. He’d never forget how 

she’d wipe her fingers several times across her jeans like she’d been 

holding hands with a leper. He knew then she’d yet to be cured. 

He talked to his daughter about it. Rose told him the gay people she 

knew said they were born that way. She told him his generation treated 

the Bible like a deli, picking and choosing what to live by, who to hate 

and the nonsense of fearing God. His conversations with his middle 

child made him reflect. That’s all it did. He loved his children equally, 

but Rose had the gift of benevolence. 

“Akeesha.” 

“What?” 

“You jump, I’ll try to catch you. Then I’ll die trying to save you. You 

know that’d make Flo mighty mad, child.” He took a careful step back 

to get a look at her face. She gazed out at the Montgomery horizon. Her 

calm scared him. 


P 

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G 

E 

54 

By MICHAEL OLSEN

PROSE 

He remembered the first time Greaty 

brought her to church. She was four, 

always carrying her dump truck and 

running it along the pews. During the 

sermon, she’d nestle into Greaty’s 

bosom, thumb in her mouth. Her short 

hair braided. When she got older, she 

sang in the choir. For extra money she 

gardened around the church. He’d take 

her to McDonald’s afterwards. They 

talked. She was a good girl—even if she 

did look like a gang banger— thoughtful 

and quiet, never swore, didn’t do drugs. 

But she suffered at school. It showed in 

her grades, and she finally dropped out. 

He was the only man in her short life, 

and she clung to him like a daddy. Her 

great grandmother looked after her like 

a one-eyed cat watching two rat holes. 

She ain’t goin to end up in jail like her 

mama, or dead like her granny. She 

gonna be respectful, yes, indeed, she 

gonna be a fine woman when she grow 

up. 

“Akeesha,” he said with a stern voice. 

“You want to give Greaty a heart attack? 

I told you how worked up she is.” 

“She always worked up.” 

“She loves you.” 

“Quit lyin!” She spread her arms out. 

“I’m not lying. You’ve seen her 

below. Running around. Now you hold 

onto that post.” The noon light threw 

no shadows. The wind rippled his shirt. 

He felt the sun beating down on his bald 

spot. “God loves you.” 

“Then how come we pray to change 

me?” 

“Cause you wanted to be like other 

girls. Remember? I’m not a psychiatrist. 

Praying is all I know.” 

Reverend Penniman took out his 

handkerchief and wiped his brow. In 

the 1980s, he buried a young man who 

died of AIDS. He’d never forget how 

his boyfriend threw himself on top 

of the casket crying and shouting the 

dead boy’s name. He never thought 

homosexuals had feelings until he 

witnessed that young man’s grief. 

“We prayed to make your life easier. 

So you’d be happy.” 

“Didn’t work. My life be easier if 

P 

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E 

55 


By SAM BARBER 


P 

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E 

56

PROSE 

people left me alone.” 

“You’re probably right, child.” The 

reverend wiped his mouth with the 

handkerchief and put it in his pocket. 

Even if his heart struggled with what 

he was going to say, perhaps he 

could save her. “Maybe God made 

you perfect the way you are,” he said, 

thinking of Rose. 

“You lyin so I don’t kill myself.” 

“No child. I’m saying it cause God 

has a reason for you being here.” 

He heard sniffles. Then he saw her 

skinny hand swipe across her face. 

“Oh baby, come down and let’s have 

a good cry together.” 

He watched for any movement 

from her feet. 

“Quite a view up here,” he said, 

trying to sound casual. “We live in a 

beautiful city. Don’t you think?” 

“I wanna go to California.” 

“Now, why would you want to 

do that? What about Greaty?” 

“What about her?” 

“Girl, I’m getting a crick in my 

neck looking up at you. I haven’t 

eaten today. At my age, I’m on a 

schedule, and I get awfully tired 

if I’m hungry. We can talk better 

down here. Sit behind the tower. 

Alone. I want to talk to you like a 

grown-up.” 

“I am grown up.” She shifted and 

pulled the hoodie off her head so it 

fell around her neck. “Jalissa broke 

with me. Who gonna love me?” 

“Child, there’s a whole lot of 

people in the world. There’s got to be 

one just for you.” 

“You not being honest.” She tugged 

the hoodie back up. “You wanna boy 

to love me. I don’t wanna boy.” 

“Darlin baby, I admit I don’t know 

much about such things. All I know 

is that I love you, and that love is 

greater than any judgment I cast 

upon you.” He hesitated, and thought 

about the words that flowed out of 

him so effortlessly. It sounded like 

something coming from Rose’s lips, 

not his. 

He looked up. “Akeesha!” Where’d 

He circled it fearing she jumped from 

the other side. “Akeesha!” he cried. 

He didn’t dare to take that part of 

the roof. The slant angled too steep. 

He felt weak, a little dizzy but his 

adrenalin rushed. He went back the 

way he came, the harness tugging. 

Sweat poured into his eyes. 

The door to the roof creaked open. 

“What you wearing Reverend?” 

Akeesha stood in the archway. 

“Lord have mercy, child!” His 

heart felt like a bowl of confetti. 

Instead of fearing the worst, she had 

climbed inside the tower and took 

the stairs to the roof. “You could 

have answered me when I called. You 

done scared the daylights out of me, 

child.” 

“What you mean, your love greater 

than your judgment?” Akeesha asked. 

“Oh, oh, my darlin baby—we 

"No child. I'm saying it cause 

God has a reason for you being 

here." He heard sniffles." 

should enjoy this magnificent view of 

our city and thank the good Lord for 

the beautiful child that you are.” 

“I’m not beautiful.” 

“In God’s eyes and mine you are.” 

“You lyin’.” 

“I swear on my sweet Flo’s life.” 

“Then why we waste all that time 

prayin when I’m already okay?” 

He caught a glint of the stud that 

she wore in the center of her tongue. 

“You not as smart as you think, 

Reverend.” 

Reverend Penniman let out a 

hearty laugh. “Well, I’ll tell you a 

secret, Akeesha, I don’t have all the 

answers. Sometimes I have to make 

it seem like I do or no one would 

come to my church.” 

“They won’t come anyway, lyin and 

all.” 

He thought about what Rose 

said, how the young have turned 

away from religion. “You know 

my daughter, Rose? She’d agree 

with you. You know she’s studied 

in India. Traveled the world. Says 

God is always expanding—not 

sure what that means.” He walked 

slowly toward the girl. “You know 

something, Akeesha?” 

“What, Reverend?” 

“You taught me something.” His 

voice fractured. “You taught me, 

child. And I’m truly grateful.” 

“Taught you what?” 

“Can we sit here, for a minute? I’m 

really tired.” He slid down the wall. 

The harness grabbed at his thighs as 

he sat. 

Akeesha walked like she’d been on 

the roof a hundred times, maybe she 

had, he thought. She sat next to him. 

“You taught me to accept you.” 

He slowly pulled the hoodie down 

so he could see her face. “I’ve 

always thought of you as one of 

my own. Flo, too.” 

Akeesha took his gnarled old 

hand. She spread each of his 

fingers to include hers. He felt 

love in her fingertips. 

The confetti in his heart flung 

out over his beloved Montgomery. 

It showered like a vital rain. “I think 

there’s only love in God’s house,” the 

reverend mused. “So much of life is 

good.” 

“Can we go to KFC?” 

Reverend Penniman smiled. 

“Not McDonald’s? We always go to 

McDonald’s.” 

“No. KFC.” 

“Sure enough. My treat,” he said. “I 

could take you to a fancy place where 

we sit at a table with a white cloth 

and linen napkins. We can order ribs. 

They have finger bowls with water so 

our hands don’t get all sticky. Eat as 

much as we want.” 

“No. KFC,” she said, standing 

and holding her hand out for the 

reverend to grasp. 

P 

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E 

57 


BY VITALIY ZALISHCHYKER

CHAPTER 

shards 

SHARDS 

" There is one, and only one, thing in 

modern society more hideous than 

crime namely, repressive justice." 

Simone Weil 

P 

A 

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E 

59 


By TESLARIU MIHAI 

Prose 

a 

JUDGEMENT 

D Y 

"My freedom flies away 

like a hawk disappearing 

into the night sky." 

By JAIDEN A. 

By TESLARIU MIHAI 

Imagine 

wavelengths 

of colour striking the 

surface of my skin as the 

bright light slowly enters 

my eyes. The sun caresses my face 

with its warm, unwavering, gentle 

hand. My eyelids flutter as the light 

extends its arms, softly opening my 

eyes as it unveils the world around 

me. The gentle serenity of the sun’s 

golden rays fade away, retreating 

bitterly into the shadows as my eyes 

adjust to the greyness of the setting. 

Broken shards of glass lay limp 

beside me and the TV is full of static. 

I imagine its beating heart about to 

give out as the crispy buzz from the 

screen slowly fades away like the last 

heartbeat. If it weren’t destroyed, 

the room would be quintessentially 

mundane. 

My mind starts to become a 

little foggy. The thoughts flowing in 

and out become slurred, my vision 

clouded. That’s when the panic sets 

in like an alarm clock going off in my 

head and I realize… 

…I don’t know who I am. I don’t know 

where I am, whose room this is, or 

what my name is. 

The living room downstairs doesn’t 

make sense either. The couch is 


P 

A 

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E 

By TESLARIU MIHAI

flipped upside down. The light bulbs 

are smashed. The photo of the happy 

family is unrecognizable. But the 

girl is holding something that seems 

familiar, a 

phone. 

‘‘I don't know who I am. I don't know 

Phone. 

where I am, whose room this is, or 

I frantically 

reach into my 

what my name is..." 

pocket but 

there’s no 

phone, only a piece of ID. A woman 

with frizzled blonde hair, ghostly 

eyes, and a plump smile is encased 

within the photo. The name Stellar is 

listed on top. 

I pick up a shard of glass 

and look into its reflection. 

“So I’m Stellar.” 

Saying those 

words out 

loud makes 

my name seem 

true as if the 

wavelengths 

of sound that 

float around 

screaming, “I’m Stellar” into the 

atmosphere make my identity hold 

weight in the real world. But when 

the sound fades into emptiness, 

P 

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E 

61 


PROSE 

thoughts rush into my mind as a river of memories plunges my 

consciousness underwater. 

“Look, Stellar, I’d appreciate it if you kept this quiet.” A man in a crisp 

suit stands in front of me. “Plus nobody is going to believe you,” he adds. 

I can’t speak. I can’t even move my hands. But my eyes start to process my 

surroundings. Bottles of medicine line the shelves, papers are stacked on 

the desk, and empty pill bottles litter the trash. 

Medicine, medicine is what I need. 

As my mind is pulled out of my ocean of thoughts, finally 

having a chance to breathe, I decide to head out to a pharmacy to 

get medicine. It’s as if this plan was meant to be. There are keys in 

my jacket pocket that unlock the car. The navigation system shows 

Gregorie’s Grocery Store as a recent destination that’s been searched. 

As I start to drive the roads are clear. This plan seems too perfect to be 

true. 

I notice that it’s awfully quiet outside. 

But the silence is a gift, the first dose of medicine that soothes 

the throbbing headache, increased heart rate, and foggy vision that 

plagues me. As I continue to drive, something catches the corner of 

my eye. A sinister shadow. The glimpse of a man holding a camera. A 

bright flash. I tell myself I’m making this all up, that once the medicine 

enters my body everything will be alright. That it will all make sense… 

The parking lot is empty. My car invades the lonely pavement 

like an insect. As my feet gently massage the ground a scream pierces 

the quiet of the day. 

“Come here, you.” 

I turn around and a tall, startling figure is present. I 

don’t know if I can even call him a man because his features have been 

twisted. His skin is patched with purple, his eyes glow a deep, misty 

yellow, as if they are dying stars, and his voice is slurred. It’s as if death 

has sucked all of humanity out of his soul. 

“I’m…I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure I can help you.” I take cautious 

steps back. 

“You should be sorry for what you’ve done,”the man blurted. 

“You deserve this.” 

“Deserve what? What does that even mean?” I whisper to 

myself. 

Then it happened. The man pulled out a gun from his pocket. His eyes 

lock into mine like a predator toying with its prey. His grey teeth shine 

as he smiles a wicked smile. It’s the look of a monster. The gun’s barrel 

stares judgingly into my soul and it’s all I focus on. My legs aren’t mine, 

my hands stay locked in place, my heart stops beating. Frozen in fear I 

lose control of my body. The hypnotic state is fascinating. The way that 

time seems to stand still, the way all the vibrance in the world, once an 

oasis of colour becomes a desert stinking of death. 

A bullet pierces the air, cutting through the flesh of the 

atmosphere and as I look in front of me, I see the man crumple on the 

ground. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t say anything. But his eyes. His 

eyes are open, the bright yellow pupils stare at me with fascination and 

judgment, as if they are looking at a monster. 

A woman's voice booms like a thunderstorm, 

“C’mon we gotta go.” Her arms grasp my shoulders, pulling 


P 

A 

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E 

62 

By TESLARIU MIHAI

PROSE 

me towards her car and my legs follow 

in pursuit. I do nothing, I let her guide 

me into the passenger seat as the 

neurons in my brain try to send signals 

to process what’s happened. But I still 

don’t understand. 

“What just happened?” 

My voice sounds ghostly. 

“What’s been happening for the past 587 

days if I’m correct,” she calmly replies. 

“No please stop the car, 

this isn’t right, I need to go back for 

medicine,” I demand. 

“It’s a death trap in there”, 

the woman states, “You’d get killed the 

moment you enter.” 

“But where’s the police? Why 

are these people doing this? What 

was wrong with that man?” So many 

questions linger, they float like stars in 

a galaxy, burning brighter and brighter, 

waiting to be noticed. 

“Jeez you don’t know, do you?” 

“No, I woke up in this strange 

house with nothing but my ID.” Even 

as the words leave my mouth they 

dissipate into the air like a vapor trail. 

The woman looks at me with a skeptic's 

awe and all I can hope is that she 

believes me. 

“Well, I’m Moria. It’s 

complicated but around 2 years ago 

a parasite was released. It clawed 

into the minds of civilians, turning 

innocent people into deranged, killing 

machines.” Her voice didn’t waver, its 

flat sound dully gliding across the air. 

It’s as if she’s said this before. 

She continues, “The few who 

are unaffected are looking for a vaccine, 

apparently the scientists who caused 

the outbreak stashed a few in their labs 

before everything went wrong.” 

Scientists. Lab. 

Those words are like a stone 

being dropped into the ocean of my 

mind, sending ripples of thoughts that 

scramble to the surface. The electrons 

in my brain begin to panic as they try to 

process a new memory. 

“You crossed a line by touching me like 

that. It was inappropriate.” 

P 

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E 

63 



By CHRIS YANG 

P 

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E 

64

PROSE 

Ihear my voice boom with the 

energy to spark a supernova. 

Wisps of anger are evident. 

“Common Stellar, 

stop freaking out.” It’s the same man 

again. 

“No. You need to face the 

consequences of your actions.” 

“Hey, are you still there?” 

The memories fade away like mist 

in the wind, dissipating into the 

atmosphere. My eyes open wide and 

the bitter afternoon light brings me 

back to the harshness of the day. 

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I added. 

“Like I was saying we’re 

heading to a lab up North to find 

a cure. We should be there soon”. 

Click! The sound of a camera. 

“Hey, are you taking 

photos?” I ask. Moria shakes her 

head but her eyes tell a different 

story. 

“It’s probably your 

headache playing tricks on you,” she 

explains. 

The lab looks out of place. 

Its metallic shine contrasts against 

the dull, matte sky. The tall white 

doors seem to demand respect 

from the people who entered, but 

there was no respect given to the 

crumbling bricks on the wall or to 

the cracked windows. 

“Here,” Moria whispered, grabbing 

a key from her bag and opening the 

door. Something seemed off, the 

plan was again too perfect… 

“How do you have -” 

“It doesn’t matter”, she 

replies. “Hurry up.” 

Inside the lab, there weren't 

the expected bright white lights or 

chitter-chatter between scientists. A 

cave of darkness seemed to surround 

us, like a murderer enclosing in on its 

victim. As we entered the room at the 

end of the hall I heard a noise from 

behind. The crunching of broken 

glass was evident, the deep breaths 

of a person rang louder in my head. 

“Watch out,” Moria 

screamed. 

A woman with skin blotched 

with purple and eyes as yellow as 

the sun grabs onto my shirt. Then I 

see it. The screwdriver in her hands 

starts to spin like a tornado coming 

to life. 

This time I don’t freeze, I 

run. My feet carry me forward faster 

now, the terror still ringing in my 

head like a leech. 

“Help,” Moria shrieks, her 

voice slicing through the calmness of 

the atmosphere. 

There’s nothing I can do, I tell 

myself. I feel guilty but that thought 

is the only justification I have to keep 

running. 

Her muffled voice is choked 

off. 

I reach the end of the 

hallway. Left or right, which way to go? 

“Hey there beautiful,” 

whispers a man, holding a knife. I 

can see that it’s stained with what 

By EVIE S. 

appears to be dried blood. 

“Please, no, please don’t 

hurt me,” My voice drips with fear. 

“It’s ok darling”, he says, 

walking closer. That’s when I run 

when my legs bolt down the hallway. 

I see a light. Its golden gleam cuts 

through the darkness around me. 

The rays glisten with warmth and all 

I can think about is the safety that it 

will offer. I approach the light, I take 

a deep breath, close my eyes… 

…“Bravo! She’s entertaining, 

wouldn’t you all agree?” a man asks. 

As I open my eyes, as I 

let the light trickle and bring my 

world to life, my heartbeat slows 

and I realize that I’m no longer in 

the lab. The courtroom I appear to 

be in stares judgingly into my soul. 

The jurors in front of me all laugh, 

chuckling with a sinister sense of 

humor. The judge at the front smiles 

as the jury continues to whisper and 

laugh uncontrollably. I notice a giant 

screen in the middle of the wall. On 

it is a photo of me in the house I woke 

up in. 

What’s going on? 

“Darling are you alright, what’s the 

matter?” the judge asks in a snarky 

manner. 

“The infected were chasing me, they 

killed a woman!” I tell them. 

“The infected?” the judge chuckles. 

At that very moment the guy from 

the grocery store, the woman with 

the screwdriver, and the man with 

the knife walk into the courtroom. It 

was like seeing ghosts from my past. 

Except they looked fine. The purple 

splotches were gone. Their eyes were 

no longer gleaming with yellow. The 

seemingly dead man was now alive. 

“Can we have a bravo for 

these brilliant actors?” the judge 

questions. A round of applause 

echoes like dynamite as it explodes 

harshly into the atmosphere. 

“And how can we forget the one and 

only, Moria?” the judge chanted. 

Moria walks into the courtroom. 

It’s as if the court has now become 

a stage. I notice that the red stain on 

her shirt is gone. 

“Now last but not least, we have the 

accused, Stellar Hymen!” The jury 

doesn’t give me a round of applause. 

Instead frowns trickle onto their 

faces and looks of disgust plague the 

courtroom. One word seems to hang 

on longer than the others: accused. 

“Well even if we don’t love Stellar 

herself, I must say that she was 

entertaining,” the judge exclaims. 

“I don’t understand,'' I whisper. But 

the whisper turns into a crescendo 

P 

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65 


PROSE 

By MARIANNA SMILEY 

as I shout, “Moria should be dead. 

The 3 infected should be trying to 

kill us, why are you even in this lab, 

what’s going on?!” 

“We thought you might 

ask,” Moria replies. She looks at the 

judge who seems to nod. 

He presses a button and a video 

plays. 

It’s a news report from a 

month ago. 

“Yesterday at noon judges, 

lawyers, and jurors met at the 

supreme court to discuss the case of 

Stellar Hymen, a pharmacist from 

NewTechLabs. Back in May, Stellar 

was seen accusing the CEO, George 

McGreggor of sexual assault, a bold 

assertion that threatened his career.” 

Memories started to trickle 

back in. I could remember the incident 

now, I could feel his hands pressed up 

against mine with the strength of a 

lion, his lips slithering against my lips 

like a snake poisoning his prey. And his 

eyes. The way his eyes pierced my heart 

as if he were staring at a piece of trash 

that would later be discarded. 

The broadcast continues, 

“The police launched an 

investigation and found that no such 

allegations were true. George Mcgregor 

took Stellar to court due to the public 

chaos that threatened his company as 

a result of her false accusation. His 

lawyer, Kenneth, one of the world’s 

best, saw that Stellar should be tested 

to see if she was worthy of redemption.” 

So this was a test? I suddenly 

remembered how the pieces of the 

puzzle clicked together. The weird 

house I woke up in, the way the GPS 

led me to the grocery store, the fact 

that Moria drove me to this lab. 

“To explain more we have 

Helen Larson, the founder of the 

company NewTechTrials that carries 

out this modern form of justice.” 

The camera pans to a woman 

dressed in a business suit. Her lips are 

glossy, her eyes stained with joy from 

what she’s about to say. “Well thank 

you. NewTechTrials is the future of 

ensuring that our nation gets the justice 

it deserves. Stellar harmed the science 

community, and as requested we've 

been tasked to design a test to see if she, 

despite being guilty, is deserving of a 

second chance. We’ve been developing 

a new memory-draining serum so that 

3 months from now Stellar will awake 

with no recollection of who she is. 

Viewers will be able to livestream and 

enjoy some sense of punishment as we 

bring her into an apocalyptic world.” 

She didn’t lie, I thought. 

This world was apocalyptic and 

my memories were groggy. The 

details about the court case seemed 

fabricated. When I searched my mind 

I could recall nothing about those 

events. The trial seemed to have 

faded from existence like a lonely, 

lost winter day. I kept listening with 

intrigue. 

“To make this interesting 

we’ve hired some of the world’s best 

actors including Moria Donahue, 

Angel Arkams, Jason Leskts, and 

Matthew Ferris! As well some of the 

best cameramen, stage directions, 

and makeup artists will be featured. 

In the end, the jury and judge will 

decide whether or not Stellar deserves 

to be free. But stay tuned to see what 

happens. NewTechTrials promises you 

justice.” 

The video cuts to thousands 

of people chanting and clapping, 

holding up signs with my face printed 

on them, some with an X crossed 

through, others with flames around 

my head. So the memories about the 

office, about the abuse, about the 

fight with George were true. 


P 

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E

PROSE 

By IAM OS 

“Well folks,” the judge chuckles, “The 

expression on her face is priceless. 

But it’s time to see what the jury 

thinks!” I look over to see the faces 

of the jury. I notice how each of 

"...as if the veil of lies that 

covered the legal system had 

been removed, I could see the 

truth now..." 

them is lavished with rich, luscious 

clothes, and how their teeth shine 

with a sparkling white. Watches, 

necklaces, and gems litter their skin 

like shimmering stars amidst the 

universe. It seems that the rich and 

powerful would be judging me. It was 

as if I was playing a casino game, one 

that was rigged, that I was destined 

to lose. A woman with blonde hair 

responded, “We the jury unanimously 

find Stellar undeserving of a second 

chance and guilty.” 

Guilty. The word lingers 

in the air like a dead song. As if it’s 

attached to an anchor, it seems 

to weigh me down as my mind 

starts to break under the weight, 

as I feel my consciousness sinking. 

Another memory flows in like the 

tide. The day of the court, 

the day George stared me 

in the eyes as I was judged, 

as he smiled wickedly the 

moment I was found guilty. 

These people were wicked, I 

thought. They were cruel 

vultures, desolate, greedy 

creatures for how they 

found happiness in seeing 

my pain. Only a monster 

would make me go through 

this apocalyptic test to see if I could 

be saved. But perhaps then, everyone 

in the justice system was a monster. 

My mind snaps back to 

the courtroom. 

“Thank you jury,” the judge 

responds. “Today it is clear that 

Stellar failed 3 tests. First, she let 

her greed consume her as she stole 

a car.” I rolled my eyes, of course I 

would take the car! The whole test 

was practically designed in a way 

that required me to do so. This 

wasn’t justice, I knew I was innocent. 

“Second she willingly broke 

P 

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67 

into a lab, showing her inability to 

follow the law.” I didn’t say anything, 

I didn’t even beg or plead as I heard 

those words. I knew that nothing I 

said would ever change their mind. 

As if a blindfold was lifted off of my 

eyes, as if the veil of lies that covered 

the legal system had been removed, 

I could see the truth now: The justice 

system was stained with injustice. 

“Finally, Stellar chose to be 

selfish as she let Moria die, a perfect 

example of a narcissistic individual 

that shouldn’t be let into society. I, as 

the judge, sentence Stellar to infinite 

time in prison.” The gavel hits the 

desk. Moria smiles at me. The jury 

claps in glee. 

The last ripple of a memory 

that flows through the now-dead 

ocean of my mind is where this all 

started. I remember the room I 

awoke in, the shards of glass laying 

on the floor. 

The justice system was 

just like those shards: a fractured, 

broken, useless tool. I smile as the 

reality of the world shines brighter 

than it ever did. I cling onto that 

thought as my freedom flies away 

like a hawk disappearing into the 

night sky. 


i s s 

u 

mirror of society 

e 

f 

poetry & prose 

photography & art 

o 

u 

issue four 

r 


By ANDRE BENZ 

P 

A 

G 68 

E

By JAKOB ROSEN 

Poetry 

THEY 

COMPOSED 

US. 

In The End. 

By ALEX SHENSTONE 

Ludovico Einaudi is the name 

of experience. 

Hans Zimmer—he created time. 

Ramin Djawadi crowned our 

conqueror of the night. 

Danny Elfman taught us 

the art of war. 

Giona Ostinelli and Sonya Belousova showed us 

a kingdom’s last blooming rose. 

Carlos Rafael Rivera taught us how to 

win the final game. 

Justin Hurwitz gave us such an epilogue— 

an epilogue of we artists all. 

P 

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E 


By MATEO AVILA CHINCHILLA 

Prose 

T he 

MESTIZA 

BURDEN 

"A white teacher looks at me and 

says, "Now, aren't you glad we changed 

things for you over there?" I ask him 

what he means." 

By HALLE EWING

PROSE 

M 

estiza: 

mes·tiz·a 

noun: 

1. (In Latin America) a woman of 

mixed race, especially one having 

indigenous or Spanish Descent (Oxford 

Languages). 

2. A racial classification used to refer to 

a person of combined European 

and Indigenous American 

Ancestry. The term was used as 

an ethnic/racial category for 

mixed-race castas that evolved 

during the Spanish empire 

(Wikipedia). 

I am born into the 

entropy of 2006 North Carolina, 

cradled in the palms of white 

women, woodland phlox and 

Sweetgum trees the same color 

as my mestiza hair. A shiny 

spoon of white-passing clickclacks 

against my growing teeth 

while my mother is dismissed 

as nanny, servant, babysitter. 

This Filipino telenovela fades 

into the background with a 

choking cough when the halohalo 

comes out of the ice-block 

freezer. It thaws in my throat. 

I reach for it with baby hands. 

I am dumped into 

the palmetto fronds of coastal 

California. I am sitting under 

the tangerine tree when my 

uncle, my mother’s brother, 

brushes bangs off my forehead 

and says I got the pretty genes. 

He peels open my eyelids and 

admires the swamp green, the 

same color as where I was born, 

and my mother tells him thank you. 

“Mestiza,” He says. “She is 

so beautiful.” 

I look at my mother and ask 

why I look more like Daddy when I’m 

equally hers. 

She says, “Manahimik ka (be 

quiet). Eat your oranges.” 

The next time it happens is 

By LIANE 

when I am in second grade. I wear 

my Filipino clothing to school on 

Cultural Day and people say I look 

like a little white girl playing dressup. 

A white teacher looks at me 

and says, “Now, aren’t you glad we 

changed things for you over there?” 

I ask him what he means. 

He ruffles my hair and says, “You 

wouldn’t be this beautiful if we didn’t 

help you out.” 

I tell my mother this. She 

sighs and says, “My little white girl.” 

I say, “Why do I look like 

Daddy and not you?” 

She says. “Ano Ka Ba? 

Kainin ang iyong pagkain at itigil ang 

pagtatanong.” 

(What’s wrong with you? Eat your 

food and stop asking questions.) 

It takes her two more years 

before she explains that while I am 

Filipino, I am also European because 

horrible men decided to taint 

pure brown bloodlines with their 

whiteness. I scrub the floor with a 

sponge. 

She says, “If you go to the 

Philippines, they will say you 

are magunda (pretty).” 

I say, “Because I look 

white?” 

She says, “Linisin ang mga 

sahig (clean the floors)." 

I am in fifth grade. I am 

lying next to her in my parents’ 

wide queen-size bed as she 

explains a war I have never 

heard of and says, “The United 

States thought we were too 

savage to govern ourselves.” 

I say, “Why?” 

“Dahil sila ay masama (Because 

they are mean).” She says, 

“Masyado kang maraming 

tanong (You ask too many 

questions). Go to sleep.” 

(I ask my dad the same 

question. He says he hates 

white people.) 

I am in seventh grade. My 

mom drives me to school on 

the way to the hospital. She is a 

doktor. 

I am proud of her. I tug 

on her green scrubs and say, 

“Mahal Kita.” (I love you.) 

My family sits under that 

tangerine tree. My Filipino 

uncle sits next to me again. He 

brushes mestiza bangs off my 

forehead and peels open my green 

eyes and says, “You’re a beautiful 

girl, you know. Very American.” 

I say, “I am Filipino,” 

He Laughs and Laughs and 

Laughs. 

He says, “No, you’re not.” 

P 

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PROSE 

By MARIKA VINKMANN 

BOTTLE 

BABY 

By MATT HSU 

They presented Mom with a 

barrage of bottles, swollen 

like milk jugs, corked with 

burnt cardboard. The nurse 

held a clipboard in one hand and a 

clementine in the other. Mom had 

an hour to scan the reports, to raise 

the bottles to her eyes, to sing to the 

babies dormant behind glass. We 

left the hospital half an hour after 

entering, a bottle baby in Mom’s 

elbow crook, and the receipt in her 

skirt’s back pocket. 

The pricing system 

is rote, yet still speculative. Babies 

are awarded a value based on their 

longevity, their looks, their predicted 

personality;, anything that appears 

on the atomic-level scanner. Blonde 

babies are the most expensive. 

Blue eyes add a two-thousanddollar 

premium. Gene patterns 

that indicate obedience push the 

price upwards, while neurodiversity 

causes it to plummet to nearly zero. 

The cost used to be fixed, but supply 

and demand tossed the bottle- baby 

economy into financial entropy. 

We’re not wealthy, so our new baby— 

who we’ve decided to call Lucas—is 

small, angry, and Chinese. 

In his early days, Lucas 

is treated much like a hunk of raw 

poultry. He soaks in warm water for 

several weeks, as his limbs unfurl, 

his face takes shape, his umbilical 

cord floats away like bread in tomato 

soup. We season the water with 

nutrient packs, bought in bulk from 

the nearby supermarket. A lightbulb 

hangs over his tub, casting light over 

his scrunched fingers for twelve 

hours per day. 

Mom pulls Lucas from the 

bath at 7:00 a.m. on September 16, 

which I suppose is now his birthday. 

The moment his head emerges from 

the water, he begins to wail. Not a 

gentle coo, not a miracle cry—a fullout, 

five- alarm, pineapple- cake, 

donkey-on-the-mountain wail. It 

shakes the shutters off our windows, 

turns our pecans into pie, grabs Dad 

by the collar and dumps him in the 


P 

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72

PROSE 

backyard. Mom tries everything, 

rocking and bouncing and steamed 

milk, but he just won’t shut up. 

I create a small barricade in my 

room, made of pillows and stuffed 

penguins, but Lucas’ cries drive right 

through it. 

It’s five o’clock the next 

morning, and he’s still going. Lucas 

has not gotten louder, but he’s 

definitely shriller, frillier than the 

night before. Mom and Dad have 

turned a muddy yellow from the 

stress. Their fingernails bend away 

from the noise, and the hairs on their 

heads have begun to wither away. All 

three of us have crusts contouring 

our cheekbones, black smudges 

beneath our eyes. My oatmeal tastes 

like tears. 

Mom’s on the phone when 

I get back from school, pressing 

her lips against the receiver. Across 

the house, Lucas continues to wail, 

screeching as if silence would cause 

the world to stop spinning on its axis. 

Several moments later, Mom taps the 

handset back into the dial pad. She 

tells me we need to take Lucas to the 

hospital. Dad tucks Lucas’ old bottle 

into a cloth bag, along with a turkey 

sandwich and a stack of manila 

folders, before ushering us into the 

car. Lucas continues to cry. 

The doctors say no 

refunds. Lucas can be returned, 

but his valuation has dropped 

significantly. They apologize, say that 

malfunctions don’t usually occur, but 

jab at the waivers Mom signed when 

she protests. Dad and Mom and the 

doctors disappear into the room 

next door, shouting over Lucas, who 

they’ve left with me. I take him in my 

arms, lifting his chin beside mine. 

Soon Mom and Dad finish 

their conversation with the doctors. 

They disappear for a while, then 

reemerge in the hallway, a handheld 

cradle hanging below their hips. 

There’s a baby inside. They wink 

at it, cover their eyes, bobble their 

tongues, shower its head with 

caterpillar fingers. I try to make 

eye contact with them through the 

door’s glass pane, but they keep their 

heads fixated on the exit as they walk 

away. The baby’s name is Luther. 

My name is Theresa. 

The doctors come back into 

the room. They stuff a purple rag into 

Lucas’ mouth, and he stops crying at 

last. 

By SANMEET CHAHIL 

P 

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73 



By RAGHU NAYYAR 

P 

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74

PROSE 

A 

Farewell 

TO 

HARM 

"A Farewell to Harm", inspired by the 

Rift Valley region of Kenya, depicts 

how execution and banditry is 

influenced by poverty and corruption. 

By FELIX OTIS 

"S 

he was right Tor, damn 

it..! “ John Bett was 

saying laughingly to 

his wife, patting her. 

She laughed with a wide, affectionate 

smile and hugged the sleeping boy 

child between them closer against 

her ribs. The child stirred. The car 

was trundling towards the gateway 

between the pleasant rows of Nile 

tulips and Nandi Flames which 

sprayed the shade beneath with 

their gay flowers in the gentle 

rainstorms and winds of the season. 

The headlights revealed in the dark 

the aesthetic display that this action 

created. 

“Easy lad,” said the mother. 

“You’ll soon be lying in your bed.” 

By REDD 

Their laughter was of 

happiness rather than humor, 

and stemmed from Dr. Kiprono’s 

assurance last August that Tor’s 

medication to stem out a nascent 

tumor in her left breast would be 

successful. This evening he had just 

done a scan at Eldoret Hospital and 

declared her cancer-free. 

“You’re very lucky, Mrs. Tor 

Bett,” said the doctor, as he watched 

her and her husband and son sip the 

coffee a nurse had brought them. 

“The tumor was found out early. 

Otherwise it’s usually fatal.” 

“What do we do, doctor,” 

asked Bett, “to keep healthy?’ 

“Grow and eat lots of 

vegetables. Fruits. Less purified 

sugar. If possible avoid sugar 

altogether. Seek regular check-ups.” 

The sound of honking had intruded 

P 

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PROSE 

into the valley’s quiet nightlife 

when suddenly the rainfall and 

the drone of an approaching 

motorbike assailed them. They 

were two bikes and the damp faces 

of the men in dark jackets in the 

passenger seats looked into both 

windows and pointed gun barrels. 

“Get out, quick!” 

“What do you want?’ 

“I said fucking get out!” 

Suddenly, gunshots were 

heard that shook the heart of the 

valley and made the male domestic 

who was opening the gate start. The 

force of bullets threw the couple out 

of the car into the rain, floodlights 

and gore that had suddenly ganged up 

over the array of flowers and leaves 

that daily the labor of trees sprayed 

their drive with, and the domestics 

curled into a heap and barrow and 

consigned to the bin pit with equal 

kindness. A backseat window was 

pistol-whipped, elbowed, and the 

sound of breaking glass rang in the 

silence. A damp, rough hand grabbed 

the backpack in the seat. The watery 

leather jacket arm appeared to 

glisten with infernal guilt under the 

light of the interior. Then the bikes 

turned and roared away into the 

dark night. 

Everyone scrambled to the 

gate from the farmhouse where a 

young daughter’s birthday was in 

progress with friends, wine, cake and 

music. A bottle of wine was spilt and 

an apple slipped from the table and 

dropped after the gathering down 

the stairs to the door. Their cries met 

only bodies and rain and gore. The 

rain-like sweat bathed their hair and 

trickled down their miens as they 

witnessed the nightly, dismal end. 

Two days later, a mediumbuilt 

man in his late thirties boldly 

walked into General Atea Maximum 

Security Prison and requested 

to speak to Gerald Sando. One of 

the warders drinking tea in the 

reception, dressed in their green 

khaki uniforms and black berets, 

flipped his HP laptop and searched 

the name. 

“Gerald Sando… Gerald 

Sando,” he repeated under his 

breath. Large bold characters of 

the name appeared on the screen 

with smaller details listed under 

it. “Gerald Sando. Robbery with 

violence. Third time. First taken for 

shoplifting. Second time for cattle 

rustling. Last time for cattle rustling. 

Slapped with 25 years. Doing his 

last three years. Suspected to be in 

constant communication with his 

gangs that terrorized Rerech Valley,” 

the prison policeman looked up, the 

look on his face none too pleased. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Kipell Bet.” 

“Kipell Bet,” the warder 

typed. “Related by any chance to 

the Bett killed with his wife and son 

yesterday in the valley in cold blood?’ 

He handed Bet a printed, stamped 

By SUSAN WILKINSON 

slip. 

"No. My name is spelt with 

one t at the end.” 

“Sorry but I’ve used two ts. 

Visiting hours are close to an end. Go 

straight along that corridor. Present 

that slip to the officers at the office 

to the right. Good luck, and be flash 

about it.’ 

Bet walked briskly along the 

corridor. A lot of friendly noise came 

from a canteen to his left where cops 

drank coffee, tea, soda. 

“You want to talk, or just see 

him?” the stern little woman with a 

small pistol in her holster asked. 

‘Talk.” 

Two armed warders, 

chatting casually about the weather, 

were summoned from the canteen. 

They conducted him to a chair, 

indicated the telephone on the little 

wicket in the wall grilled with bars 

and withdrew. One of them looked at 

his wristwatch. 

“You got ten minutes, and 

that’s clement.” 

While he was being 

conducted to the telephone Gerald 

Sando was sitting on another chair 

on the other side of the bars while 

two burly warders withdrew five feet 

or so. Sando lit a cigarette. He was a 

sleek, hard, smiling man. He raised 

the telephone. 

"Success,” Bet said. 

"How much?” 

“Nine-hundred.” 

“Good. 150 to all. The dregs 

for King Gerald. How’s that?" 

"Perfectly understood." 

They rose together like it 

was a ceremony, and the cops on 

both sides of the iron curtain came 

behind them concurrently and saw 

them out. 

The three sleek coffins were 

nearly covered in fresh, luscious 

flowers. They were real flowers from 

the fields of the valley. The valley 

teemed with trees and flowers. The 

catafalque was bathed in tears and 

sunshine. Among the mourners was 

Fredrico Maconi. He was bowed, 

humbled, tall, but still with his white 

skin and long golden locks he was 

prominent beside Annabelle, his 

wife. Maconi would never forget till 

the day of his death the sorrow and 

tears that accompanied the three 

coffins and the red soil into the pit. 

Only three months ago he had come 

to the valley following a section in 

Safari. He had been in the south 

coast with Annabelle drinking coco 

water reclining on beach chairs 

reading in the tropical sun. 


P 

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76

By RAZIE HOSSEINI 

P 

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77 


PROSE 

He decided at once to buy a 

plot in this little paradise 

if only to please Annabelle. 

And now beside the brook 

in the valley looking out on 

the emerald fields where residents 

grazed their cattle was rising 

the first expansion of his resorts 

outside Europe, La Emeralda. And 

the fields were alive with antelopes 

and elephants. But how would he 

tell Annabelle that the kindhearted 

man that had sold them the land 

was murdered in cold blood in that 

very paradise? She never believed it. 

Even right there in the cemetery she 

still obviously couldn’t believe it. He 

cried in his handkerchief and when 

he raised his damp eyes to look at the 

padre the pits were being filled. 

One spring morning, 

Maconi looked out of the third floor 

of La Emeralda. A drizzle ensued. 

Fundis was alighting in the yard to 

give their last touches to the interiors 

of the five floors. They wore helmets 

and reflector vests and boots. They 

conversed in casual drawls as their 

feet echoed up the vacant stairs. He 

was admiring the African tulip with 

its floral flames in the sunrise beside 

the brook close to where he had set 

up a large greenhouse to provide 

ready veggies for the resort’s needs. 

That week he had ordered batteries 

worth 150000 shillings to supply him 

with his own ready chickens and 

eggs. 

He gradually became aware 

of a large herd of cattle, including 

camels, approaching the valley from 

the other side of the rill. They were 

hundreds and their AK47-wielding 

herders drifted across the northern 

frontier looking for greener pastures. 

They were the Turkana, a nomadic 

tribe of the Nilotes. They wore beads 

and cloaks and plaited hair and were 

very friendly. They wore daggers too, 

and sometimes during the safaris, 

they provided security and guidance 

due to their special discipline which 

had made the country create them 

a sort of legendary symbol for its 

hospitality sector. In the nation’s 

tourism ads they were popular as 

accurate props and models for the 

face of the tourism industry. 

Suddenly, the herdsmen 

were attacked by five gunmen on 

motorbikes and Maconi heard 

gunshots and saw game and the herd 

scatter. One of the gunmen fell and 

three of the herdsmen also fell then 

from behind a police Land Cruiser 

braked abruptly and six anti-robbery 

squad policemen pushed through 

their doors with guns corked, barrels 

rising. Just when they were accosting 

the bandits more gunmen sped from 

behind and opened fire on them 

and Maconi watched their bodies 

scattered there on the field like offal 

in a slaughter. He grabbed his phone 

and dialed, but when he raised his 

face again a missile flew into it, and 

with its force he was thrown back 

into the room against the approach 

of a scared Annabelle, who was just 

arriving from touring Lake Turkana 

five miles away. 

“Darling,” she said in 

Italian, leaning over him, shaking 

him. “Are you okay?” 

Then, she saw the red spot 

between his eyes. A crimson rill 

flowed gradually from it. Then the 

little source became a river. He had 

been shot by a stray bullet. Annabelle 

looked out of the window. The 

rustlers were driving the great herd 

away across the rill. There were two 

silver rills sourcing from her own 

eyes through which she watched this 

daylight terror. 

Inspector General Jeff 

Ochieng was a fat, dashing man close 

to his retirement. He was painfully 

conscious of the perils of his job. He 

had been for close to forty-five years. 

A meeting was underway in the 

conference hall of the National Police 

Headquarters. He had convened it. 

Arrays of shaken police inspectors 

sat around the glossy mahogany 

table in piece suits. Some of them 

wore berets, while the rest wore 

crew cuts. Mineral water bottles 

By CLAY BANKS 


P 

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E 

78 

By MATT FLORES

PROSE 

and clipped print chapbook reports 

were laid before every inspector for 

reference. The Inspector-General 

walked straight to the front. Against 

the wall was a large computer screen 

that showed the Reret Valley. He 

indicated this, and for a moment he 

looked lost for words. 

“This, as you all know,” he 

said,“ is Reret Valley. This beautiful 

valley in the purlieus of Lake 

Turkana has been lately the scene 

of violence and murder. What is 

hard to understand is, who gives 

us away every time we attempt to 

stand between the residents and the 

bandits who’ve wreaked havoc in the 

valley? Only a week ago we lost near 

eight of our officers when robbers, 

obviously having been tipped by one 

of us, surprised them unexpectedly 

from behind. They were surrounded 

between two gangs of cattle rustlers 

and executed 

point-blank. 

An Italian 

businessman 

who has 

invested 

heavily in 

the country’s 

tourism was killed by a stray bullet. 

Crime in the area has become an 

eyesore of national concern, scaring 

investors.” 

An inspector raised his 

hand. The IG nodded to him. 

“Somebody has been 

making an income from betraying the 

force. Someone very unscrupulous 

and very dirty. Apart from the loss 

of our officers in the valley and the 

lamentable loss of civilian lives, 

a page of these chapbooks states 

clearly how a tapped line between 

a convict and his visitor appears to 

point to underhand deals.” 

Another inspector raised 

his point. 

“Am for watching this 

convict scheduled to be released. His 

much-hyped resolve to live crimefree 

should be totally disregarded. 

He will lead us to whoever has been 

"Crime in the area has become 

an eyesore of national concern, 

scaring investors." 

betraying the force, and this tapped 

chat, if am not mistaken, confirms 

that Gerald Sando was still very 

much in control of his gangs from 

prison.” 

“Good,” said the IG. “From 

tomorrow we set up a special 

commission to investigate the rot in 

our midst. Good afternoon.” 

Two burly prison warders 

were seen marching briskly one 

autumn morning along the corridor 

that led to the dungeons of General 

Atea Maximum Security Prison. A 

heavy bunch of ancient-looking keys 

jingled between them. They met at 

one of the gates, neighboring the 

wicket where the visitor had engaged 

with the prisoner three years ago, 

the turnkey, who returned their 

salute with casual condescension. 

He turned his back to them, and keys 

and heavy chains were heard to grate 

deftly against 

the metal of 

one gate after 

another. They 

were black 

gates mounted 

with spikes 

in high walls 

of concrete in turn mounted with 

broken bottles. 

In a yard of the prison, 

hundreds of convicts in the gray and 

white striped uniform breakfasted 

on tea and toast. In a second yard 

behind that another hundred 

convicts breakfasted, the stewards 

busy at their heads with cauldrons 

and ladles. The place was crowded 

and noisy. They stood in smaller 

groups within the crowd chatting 

apparently without the slightest 

scruple in the world. Among the 

convicts and stewards were warders 

attentively keeping order. 

“Listen here,” said one of 

the cops, producing a slip. “If I call 

your name step forward. Dolla Golla. 

Wait over there.” 

One of the burly officers 

conferred briefly with one of the 

warders. 

P 

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PROSE 

hey walked through the 

T 

noise and crowd to the 

noise and crowd in the 

yard behind. The turnkey 

again tussled with the 

keys against chains and 

lock. Inside the gate, the second 

burly cop read aloud from a slip. 

‘Our Duka.’ 

A not very good-looking 

man stepped from the crowd. 

‘Stand aside. Gerald Sando.” 

Gerald Sando was a tall, 

strongly built man in his early fifties. 

He had a mischievous smile upon his 

slick, pleasant face. 

“Step aside.” 

“Kyalo Kazu.” 

Finally, the cop folded the 

paper and lit a cigarette. His partner 

walked up to the three mentioned. 

“Get your possessions and 

follow us. Better hurry or you’ll have 

to resume your time.” 

Ten minutes later at the 

reception Gerald Sando, among the 

four, was seen to smile, a small holdall 

hugged under his armpit. 

“What you gonna do now, 

Sando?” the female cop asked. “ 

Resume crime?” 

“No. I’ll start farming in the 

valley.” 

“You’re said to still regularly 

correspond with your old gangs. Is 

that true?” 

“No.” 

He was handed a form and 

shown where to sign. 

A quarter of an hour later, he 

was seen to emerge outside the Gate. 

To the press that accosted him owing 

to the infamy of his youthful days 

he told curtly he would have a word 

with them not very long. He would 

expose the rot in the security organs. 

The two burly warders watched him 

get into a waiting Toyota RAV4 which 

sped once it gained the highway. Bet 

lowered the window. 

“Where are you driving me, 

Bet?” 

“To The Pearl. On Lake 

Turkana. The guys are waiting. 

There’ll be a warm bath and a change 

of clothes and breakfast. And a bottle 

of wine.” 

The free convict stared 

at the landscape. It had changed 

greatly. Twenty-five years was 

an eternity. The road was a dual 

carriageway now, and down in the 

beautiful valley, he saw a new yellow 

tiled resort surrounded with ivy and 

bougainvillea from a new bridge over 

the rill. There were cars in the yard 

and tourists. In the distance, the lake 

lay wide and glossy like a leviathan 

mirror. 

They were silent for 

the five miles, and Bet was quiet 

to allow his friend to take in the 

breathtaking scenes and change 

that time and social ventures had 

wrought. Sometimes, they slowed 

down to give way to great herds of 

cattle that belonged to the pastoralist 

residents. The Pearl was a sprawling 

granite edifice overlooking the lake, 

standing on nine acres of land. 

The land was arid and the dust 

drank deeply the heat of the sun, 

prompting tourists to seek the cool 

of the lake. As their car left the road 

they spied tourists and locals along 

the lake. There were boats on shore, 

and more offshore. Some of the men 

rowed, while others were engine 

vehicles that parted the waters with 

their prows in their speed. Along the 

shore, some fishermen mended or 

prepared fishing nets. Annabelle was 

among a party of tourists who got in 

a boat excitedly headed for a remote 

island with guides to see animals. 

She now ran La Emeralda. Her resort 

shared a lot with The Pearl. Her only 

child with Maconi, a blonde, blueeyed 

man of twenty-four named 

Mike, was among the party with his 

Swedish girlfriend, Judy, of the same 

age. She was the daughter of the 

Swedish Ambassador. She was very 

pretty with long cascades of red hair. 

Mike had just joined UNHCR and 

drove one of the organization’s relief 

supply trucks. 


P 

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By FER MORENO

P 

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PROSE 

ando shaved in the expensive salon on the ground floor. It was 

Sin the boutiques that served mainly wealthy tourists. There 

were massage salons, wines, and spirits. Beautiful girls, 

employed there no doubt, went about the place. He denuded 

in the toilets, and Bet came and binned the clothes and shoes. 

He bathed in a large white bathtub, savoring the luscious water and 

foam with his eyes closed. For a long time, he had missed this very 

freedom that the rich enjoyed, that inspired his reign of terror as a 

criminal in these parts. Now he was out of prison and his bank account 

was fat and he would have it all. 

Sando surprised the gathering in the third-floor suite like he 

was just in. There were bottles of wine and beer over the table but no 

one was drinking heartily, obviously pending his reception. He let go of 

his little hold-all and a very buxom, beautiful woman sprang out of the 

corner seat and ran into his arms, followed by a youth of twenty-five 

dressed in jeans and short sleeves. 

“Sando.” 

“Njoki. Who’s this?” as he spoke the little youth hugged him, 

and the uncouth audience looked on touched, their silence redolent of 

the sort of awe peculiar to people of very mean ideology who otherwise 

hold it in very high esteem. 

“Kennedy. Your son.” 

They disengaged, and looked into each other’s eyes. There 

were a striking resemblance and tears. Now one of the men rose. He 

had a tummy. He also wore a baseball cap. He was older. One of the 

ladies filled glasses all around. Everybody raising their glasses, the 

corpulent man said earnestly :‘To dear old Sando’s health.” 

Glasses clanked. 

“I hear there’s a job this afternoon, Jack,” said Sando, after a 

while, eying Bet and the older man. 

“A group of wealthy tourists, including the present owner of 

La Emeralda, are out in the lake. They’re camping in one of the islands.” 

“Kennedy, you will join the team. Learn to fend for yourself in 

this jungle of a place. Got it?” 

The youth nodded. From his hold-all, the father who had just 

regained his freedom produced a new little revolver. He handed it to 

Kennedy. 

The island was sandy, and sunny. Where they made tent was 

grassy, and overhead was a near-canopy of acacia and other Nile tulips 

and other native trees that they could not give names to. Frederick 

Dickens, a widower in his late fifties and the manager of a travel agency, 

presided over the grille in the tent yard that roasted dik-dik meat 

supplied by the natives. Poaching was illegal but the occasional game 

wardens wandering in speed boats had respect for White Hunters and 

class privilege. Mike and Judy served warmed sausage and grilled dikdik 

and a Chinese spinster in her mother’s company and an African 

girl with whom they were on very good terms served the wine. 

“Let’s get out of here, Mike,” said Judy. “ It’s so sequestered.” 

“I can’t leave mother. We’ll go together,” they were walking 

along the lake now, away from the party. Judy clung with both hands 

on Mike’s elbow. “ Besides, after so long in the camps among disgraced 

crowds it’s great ambling freely where there’s only trees and sunshine 

– and you.” 

At two, they got into the boat to watch crocs. They were 


P 

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82 

By WOLFGANG HASSEL

PROSE 

looking out over the rails in groups 

of twos and threes when out of the 

horizon they were surrounded by three 

boats with gunmen. 

“Slow down or you all die!” 

shouted one of the masked gunmen in 

the boat that blocked their way. As well 

as the others his gun was pointed at the 

tourists. “ Turn back to the island.” He 

indicated the island by making little 

jerks suggesting the direction over 

their back. Finally, he fired overhead. 

The women shrieked and screamed and 

sought cover. 

When they got back to the land 

they were rounded and held hostage 

inside the tent. The bandits feasted on 

the remains of the dik-dik and drank 

the wine vigilantly securing the place. 

One of the men walked in and grabbed 

Annabelle by the hair, roughly. Mike 

was furious but he could do nothing 

about it. 

“Take out your phone. Make 

a call to La Emeralda,” Annabelle was 

crying. She couldn’t believe this. A gun 

was pointed at her head. “ Tell them to 

send one million.” 

The same cruel process was 

repeated on every head under siege. 

That evening, Sando was 

abducted by four gunmen outside The 

Pearl. His wife reported to the police 

immediately. At the gate, four Jeeps 

belonging to the Flying Squad were 

leaving for the lake island. From the 

hotel balcony, Njoki saw the vehicles 

trundle into the Ferry. 

It was seven-thirty. 

“Hands up, and surrender. 

The island’s surrounded,” boomed a 

voice through a megaphone. 

They were afraid and started 

running. Boats strategically placed 

around the place flooded the island 

with headlights and heavy gunfire 

ensued. Four of the hostages were held 

as shields by four gangsters. 

“You get closer and they’re 

mincemeat,” threatened the corpulent 

leader, his shield tussling to get free to 

little avail, and a pistol was held to his 

head, for it was Mike. 

But presently, more policemen 

P 

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By YASMINE ARFAOUI 

P 

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PROSE 

walked up from behind and held 

guns to the gangsters’ heads in turn, 

and they were outmatched. 

“Place the darned things 

down,” said the foremost policeman. 

Closer to the shore some of the 

cops inspected dead and injured 

members of the gang when the 

exchange had died down. The leader 

of the squad, Inspector General Jeff, 

pistol-whipped a casualty nursing a 

leg shot, who groaned and rose. 

“Haroun handcuffs them, 

then huddle them in one of the boats,” 

he turned to the cops walking with 

him to the newly subdued bandits. “ 

Two of the bastards escaped.” 

“Is everyone okay?” 

The tourists were hurdled 

in the tent yard, still very shaken 

with terror. A couple of them gave 

first aid to old Dickens, who was shot 

in the shoulder by a stray bullet. 

“Get up, everyone. Help him 

up. Get back into the boat.” 

Sando’s bullet-riddled body 

was found on a remote shore by 

fishermen rising early to check their 

nets. He had been tortured and he 

was pinioned with plastic rope. Bet 

saw his friend’s body. He became 

afraid. At midday, the Inspector 

General announced amnesty to 

gangsters that would give up their 

unlawful weapons on KBC. Bet was 

seen surrendering his AK-47 early 

the following day. The IG declared 

him forgiven, and this grace was 

echoed by religious leaders across 

the country. Bet became a reformed 

taxi driver. 

He had a beer in a bar 

in town the fateful evening. Two 

strangers engaged him at the bar. 

They mixed their brandy with ginger 

soda and drank standing up, and 

tipped the beautiful girl behind the 

bar who passed the orders through 

the wicket in spirits of good feelings. 

“Hola,” said one of them 

to Bet, after ascertaining he was a 

taximan, “ is that far from here?” 

“ Seven KMs, roughly,” said 

Bet. 

“How much would that be?” 

asked the other. “ Would you take five 

hundred a head?” 

“That’d be a surcharge. 

Three-fifty is fair fare to you and fair 

business to me.” 

One of them slapped a one 

thousand shillings note over the bar. 

Bet’s bullet-riddled body 

was found by a goat-herder the 

following day at sunrise. He had 

been violently interrogated. He was 

pinioned. The media was buzzing 

with suspicions and conspiracy 

theories. Almost everyone suspected 

the police. The Catholic Archbishop 

declared on TV that it was evil to 

murder indiscriminately a man 

already forgiven by society. The IG 

refuted the claims, adding that he 

only wished the police had been 

able in all that time to bring an end 

to these terrorists who had held a 

By MARTIN FENNEMA 

whole nation hostage with their reins 

of terror. 

“In any case, God forgives,” 

he concluded. “ That can’t be said of 

a policeman.” 

Annabelle finalized 

the sale of La Emeralda to Moha 

Duresh, a wealthy businessman of 

Indian descent at Phillip and Milly 

Advocates, an attorney’s office 

in Nairobi. Duresh’s firm made a 

transfer of three-hundred million 

shillings to Annabelle’s bank account 

P 

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85 

immediately. Annabelle drove 

from the attorney’s at Three in the 

afternoon. She met Judy and Mike 

for lunch in one of the suburbs. 

The youths were going to announce 

their engagement. Mike had ordered 

shrimps, salad, and a bottle of Four 

Cousins. 

“You’re distracted, Mrs. 

Annabelle,” observed Judy. 

“She appears to be 

sorrowing,” said Mike, pensively. 

“It’s this place’s 

atmosphere, Children. I can’t take it 

anymore.” 

Later that week, Mike 

is seen leaving Judy on the coach 

and following his mother through 

the rooms. The look on his face is 

quizzical. 

“You’re not leaving, mum.” 

Annabelle is throwing 

things in a huge trunk. 

“But I am, Mike. Am sick of 

everything. Am not the kind of soul 

to live every day looking over my 

shoulder for gods sake.” 

“They’re building a police 

station, and beefing up security.” 

She rose, and zipped up the trunk. 

“Sorry, but that won’t 

change my mind. Am fed up.” 

Mike was dressed in sidepocket 

britches and a t-shirt. His 

hands were in his pockets. 

“Every poor woman and 

child need the investment you’re just 

now leaving with mom. They need 

it. Badly. I’ve worked in the camps 

and the inner city and I know how 

badly these people need an improved 

economy.” 

“I don’t give a damn 

anymore, Mike.” 

Her plane left JKIA in the 

afternoon, and the two youths left 

behind, rode silently through the 

streets wondering whether it was 

still wise to assume a possibility of 

surviving these streets. 

“Am afraid,” said Judy, and 

snuggled up closer, tightening her 

arms around Mike. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll go back 

to Europe. Then we’ll marry.” 


PROSE 

ut my dad won’t 

"B 

hear of it. Calls this 

slaughterhouse a 

paradise. He reads 

Gurna, and Achebe.” 

“It’s a paradise alright. 

Perhaps you can’t say the same of its 

people.” 

“Say that in the streets and 

you’re a racist. And it’s not everyone. 

Every nation has a crime rate. Take 

care.” 

The traffic sign ahead 

showed red. They braked behind a 

snarl-up of cars. 

“I don’t care. Besides, you 

don’t have to be your father’s disciple 

Judy. It’s enough he sired you without 

your consent.” 

“Mike, I love him.” 

“So do I.” 

Mike returned to UNHCR 

and the camps. He wondered if he 

should serve 

the poor and 

‘‘But my dad won’t hear of it. Calls 

displaced or go 

back to Europe this slaughterhouse a paradise. He 

and find work 

in some snug reads Gurna, and Achebe." 

office and 

marry Judy. 

When summer came he was still 

thinking. 

Kennedy walked with the 

frame to the door and back. His 

mama clapped happily. She took the 

new crutches from one of the hired 

medical people and gave them to 

him. 

“Try these. They’re at 5”5.” 

A petite nurse and two 

pretty paramedics adjusted them 

for him until they were two inches 

higher. He crutched to the end of the 

long corridor, to the loos. 

“That’s his accurate height,” 

said the petite nurse. 

“He will be like his 

father,” said a male voice over their 

shoulders. Everybody except Njoki 

withdrew. “ In fact, he’s very much 

like him.” 

“Yes,” laughed Njoki. “He’s 

the very chip of the blue block, 

Inspector Jeff.” 

The Inspector General had 

his black beret folded and stuffed into 

the buttoned part on the shoulder 

of his khaki shirt. He had one of his 

hands in his pocket. They stood side 

by side and gladly watched the youth 

crutch back towards them. 

“How’s that leg now, Ken?” 

“Better.” 

“You need a good rest,” said 

the Inspector General, turning to 

Njoki. “Let them give him a cup of 

coffee.” 

They watched Kennedy, 

askance, crutch himself towards his 

bedroom. 

“He had a metal screwed to 

his femur,” said Njoki. 

“All the more hopeful.” 

Without another word, 

they walked side by side down the 

external, steel stairwell. 

“Have 

you found 

out whether 

Sando and 

Bet perished 

in the hands 

of the Police, 

or from the 

betrayal of their own brethren in the 

underworld, Inspector Jeff?” 

Inspector Jeff hesitated in 

his walk, bringing them to a halt, and 

face to face. There was in Njoki’s eyes 

a thirst for information that might as 

well have been the unpredictability 

of her newfound love for him. But it 

was also an emotional salad of guilt 

and despair. 

“Could have been anybody, 

Njoki. Police to save their face, their 

brethren to stem rivalry. The job is 

just as risky as mine,” he shrugged 

his shoulders. “What’s for sure is that 

we’ll probably never know, Njoki.” 

In the yard of the suburban 

house, Njoki allowed the Inspector to 

kiss her cheek. 

“I’ll see you at The Pearl in 

the evening, Njoki.” 

She watched him drive 

away with a lot of uncertainty. 

By ALEX AZABACHE 


P 

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By OLADIMEJI ODUNSI

P 

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87 

By MILTIADIS FRAGKIDIS 


POETRY 

WOULD 

RECOGNIZE 

By SANDRA KOLANKIEWICZ 

I 

’m not sure what to say of the grim-faced men 

pushing people up the steps of the trains we 

were so thrilled to see updated, modernized 

cars floating on magnetic tracks at a speed 

unimaginable to my grandmother 

who never would have believed you could ride the 

Staten Island ferry with a phone in your 

pocket. My earliest memory’s of pointing 

to the great lady with the torch, appearing 

both gigantic and small under a grey sky, 

withstanding the raindrops that fell as we moved 

below to sit in our scratchy, woolen coats. 

A year in Chicago after her hasty 

marriage, from the window of their new high rise, 

they watched a tornado plow the city on 

the other side of town and wanted to go 

home. Who can blame them for knowing a lake was 

not the sea, for craving neighborhood grit, for 

missing their mothers and aunties, thinking a 

bay their home, an island their oasis? She 

never left again, knitted socks for soldiers 

in two wars, could admit drawing a line and 

holding was the same as losing, claimed painful 

events are sometimes meant to be forgotten, 

would recognize what is happening today. 


P 

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E 

By DEV ASANGBAM

P 

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BY ANNIE SPRATT

CHAPTER 

mend 

MEND 

"You must not lose faith in humanity. 

Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops 

of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does 

not become dirty." 

Mahatma Gandhi 

P 

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91 


POETRY 

T H I S 

HAS 

ALWAYS 

"and still after, supposedly innocent questions 

and jokes, / piling up year after year and I just 

/ sit and smile and endure, take it just like the 

other browns and yellows..." 

By ANOUSHKA SWAMINATHAN 

even though i’m growing up in 

silicon valley 

in the 

21st century 

wow, super advanced in terms of everyone’s rights, right? 

i wasn’t even double-digits when donald trump was 

elected president of a whole goddamn country. 

i was already aware at age seven that 

people with my ‘privates’ and my color aren’t 

safe. 

and even before, i was in kindergarten and 

another little kid said to me that he 

didn’t want to be friends because i’m 

indian and 

my brown might 

rub off, my 

culture dangerous. 

and still after, supposedly innocent questions and jokes, 

piling up year after year and i just 

sit and smile and endure, take it just like the other browns and yellows 

‘where are you really from?’ here. 

‘haha, your rat’s nest curls’ they’re natural, and nobody taught me to 

B 


P 

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92 

By LUKE STACKPOOLE

POETRY 

take care 

‘you being good at math doesn’t matter, 

it’s probably just because you’re indian’ 

‘your home food is disgusting. why 

would you bring that?’ 

whispered from the other table to the 

new kid: ‘don’t go near her. she’s indian, 

so her hygiene sucks’ (when i would 

shower daily and they were proud to 

remember once a month.) 

(and yet these are the ‘good’ 

stereotypes.) 

and then, years later for me, discovering 

black lives matter and 

intersectional feminism and 

queer pride, all 

these concepts that had been right 

outside of my grasp, unnamed and 

amazing, but 

they’re still worth lesswe’re 

still worth lessthan 

one wrinkling 

predator’s voice. 

so, i’ve always known america isn’t 

great. 

those who didn’t are the ones who 

have always benefited. 

they ‘didn’t know’ because they didn’t 

have to, didn’t 

learn it the hard way, relearn 

every day. 

i feel no love for my country because 

it has never loved those like me 

EEN MY 

A M E R I C A 

P 

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E 


hy do they always teach us 

hat it's easy and evil to do 

hat we want and that we 

eed discipline to restrain 

urselves? It's the hardest 

hing in the world - to do 

hat we want. And it takes 

he greatest kind of courage. 

mean, what we really want. 

hy do they always teach us 

hat it's easy and evil to do 

hat we want and that we 


P 

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94 

eed discipline to restrain

By TAPIO HAAJA 

Poetry 

LIFE IS A 

STAGE! 

"What the all don't see / are the strings 

carrying each of them after all, they are in a 

large sea / of puppets..." 

By SHEEKS BHATTACHARJEE 

AMan walks across the darkened street His 

footsteps hitting the ground with rhythm 

producing a monotonous, steady beat and 

looking through the colorful tainted prism. 

A woman is sitting on her bed, 

reading a novel she's read before 

and thinking, what if i'm really dead? but, she buries herself 

into her novel once more. 

A child is playing in the park, 

their mother sitting far behind. 

But, before long, the sky turns dark 

The poor mother, it turns out, is blind. 

What they all don't see 

are the strings carrying each of them after all, they are in 

a large sea 

of puppets who the puppeteer has condemned. 

P 

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By SARAH 

Poetry 

WHO IS TO 

BLAME? 

By OLADEJO ABDULLAH FERANMI 

Descending from the body 

Comes the head of he who perished a nicer 

way 

In the hands of the men who seek fort in the 

bush 

But attention was paid more to emotional internal affairs 

Staking the souls of teens, fathers 

To face death in its vault. Who is to blame? 

Round, they sit now and then, fiddling 

Their games are from both standpoints. Unmasked, 

conspiracy 

Became the pass to rule, forgetting it's not to reign, 

The eternal curses, the souls of their puppets, 

The tears for their beloved, the dead man's mother 

Sets the suns even before dusk. Who is to blame? 

Who is to blame? The soil, a lot we met, 

Governed by our fathers, now pools blood. interstate, 

Religious disputes, with disputes in places 

Not worthy of calling home. Sit and pounder, 

You're the case, and it all emanated from you 

Labor on yourself before inquiring; “Who is to blame?” 


P 

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E

PROSE AND POETRY CONTEST 

ENTER OUR WRITING COMPETITION! 

By MATEUS CAMPOS FELIPE 

July. 2022 

The Global Youth Review, alongside Coexist Lit and SeaGlass 

Lit, is hosting a prose and poetry competition open to 

youths aged 13 ~ 24! Check out our socials to get updates 

on our free workshops, opportunities to publish, and a 

giveaway—all held during the duration of the contest! 

ONLY YOUTHS AGED 13~24 ELIGIBLE 

9 / 30 

METAMORPHOSIS 

P 

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97 



By DARIO MUELLER 

P 

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Poetry 

AS HERSELF 

E 

V 

E 

N 

though 

"Raised above you, her gaze outward 

/ and away, she cries like a maiden 

bound to / the prow of a ship, bent 

on a voyage..." 

By SANDRA KOLANKIEWICZ 

The first light came like an infant who hasn’t 

slept the night, the sky red and screaming from her 

toothless, cherry mouth. Arrange her over your 

shoulder, away from your ear, and she wails at 

the past, the wave you leave behind in your wake 

as you walk the floor, upsetting the air and 

making a path for silent molecules to 

follow. Raised above you, her gaze outward 

and away, she cries like a maiden bound to 

the prow of a ship, bent on a voyage toward 

a future she resists. Children are poor 

metaphors for experience, the nurse told 

me after the operation which was meant 

to fix what happened in a country where they 

sterilized me for free. Man, woman, rich, poor 

rendered inert except for the energy 

in their own lives, no taking on the privilege 

of another, having survived the kind of 

love that lets you see a baby as herself 

even though she’s yours and wailing at the dawn. 

P 

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E 


POETRY 

NUCLEAR 

Winter, 

FATED 

DEATH 

By LEELA RAJ-SANKAR 

First published in warning lines 

I. Watch, first: from between the 

hands of 

two bodies lying on a stripped bed in 

a dingy, airless apartment, 

light spills as if from an open wound. 

In the distance, a siren blares. On the 

street below, a woman 

whispers breathlessly to her 

companion: something is coming 

to save us. I don’t know what. But it’s 

almost here. 

So the city settles down to wait. The 

seasons pass. In a decaying bed in a 

decaying apartment on a decaying 

street, 

the lovers’ hair falls out in chunks. 

Flies circle the ceiling fan. The lovers’ 

teeth rot in their open mouths. 

They’re 

not dead, just sleeping, in a city of 

people who are 

not dead, just sleeping, anticipating a 

messiah who will never come. 

An hour or a year passes. The two get 

up and dance, and it’s just like they 

II. Suppose, for a moment, that in the 

huge dark empire made of money, 

the sun never rose. That we spent 

years pressed desperately together 

because 

all we had was our own feverish 

heat— 

Suppose, for a moment, that I loved 

you. That this was 

how we brought summer back to 

life; the empire to its knees. 

A film of sweat. The winding of a 

metronome. 

Overripe fruit. Laughter. We were 

happy and that was 

our one great act of political 

rebellion. 

III. Stay sitting right there by the 

window, 

where the light catches on your 

face— 

Whatever you do, don’t move, don’t 

make a sound, don’t leave this room: 

I’m going to save you even though 

that doesn’t mean anything. I’m 

going 

to save you even though it’s too late 

and you are Lazarus half-risen, a 

decomposing, 

corroded thing that doesn’t know it’s 

already dead. 

The poet and the muse. The lyre and 

the love song. 

The eulogy written in lieu of digging 

you a grave. Verse. 

Chorus. Wend and repeat. Wend and 

repeat. 

IV. I’m sorry I looked back. I’m sorry 

I threw it all away just because 

I needed to make sure you were still 

behind me, still following 

footstep after damned footstep, from 

the belly of this hell into the mouth 

of another. 

I’m sorry there’s not enough oxygen 

in the story to breathe and I’m sorry 

that 

as soon as it ends we are just brought 

back to the beginning. I’m sorry that 

we have nothing left to carry. We have 

nothing left to will into existence. 


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By CASEY HORNER 

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By CHAI CHAI 

BY 

ILANA DRAKE 

the 

LOCKET 

«love that extends, love that extends beyond the miles» 

hold onto my words like the times we 

spent together before before you left, 

two feet 

moving onto the train & i had to say 

goodbye, hands clasping the locket you gave me 

with a picture of you to remember to 

remember these times while you are gone. 

i remember how in high school, everything felt so 

right, 

you were there at the volleyball games & i would 

cheer you on with posters made with magic 

markers 

at your football games 

& our prom proposal put everything together. 

like a locket, love that extends, love that extends 

beyond the miles 

of distance we travel with eyes focused on the 

new surroundings 

of farms & cattle & of skyscrapers & streets 

which have been walked 

too many times & which now hold cracks that 

need to be fixed. 

& we come back we come back to our town on 

break. 

& everything seems different they say we are 

young, 

they say that everything can be fixed and what is 

meant to be will be, 

but i do not know where the words can start and 

form sentences, 

sentences which can lead into paragraphs about 

the journeys. 

& we become two parallel roads 

& a heart that breaks like a locket, 

a locket which now reminds me 

of the last part of us. 


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OF FARMS & CATTLE & OF 

SKYSCRAPERS & STREETS / WHICH 

HAVE BEEN WALKED / TOO MANY 

TIMES... 

By DHRU J. 

EXCERPTS FROM 

the locket 

& A HEART THAT BREAKS LIKE A 

LOCKET, / & A LOCKET WHICH NOW 

REMINDS ME / OF THE LAST PART 

OF US. 

By KEVIN MATOS

andromache 

By LEELA RAJ-SANKAR 

originally published in Ex/Post Magazine 

broken promise friday morning, 

heat rising off blacktop like 

a ghost trying to find its way back home. a thousand boys 

standing on street corners 

naming themselves nothing, yes, 

the ones holding their breath, yes, 

hands like bird’s wings and a dream like lavender 

that we don’t remember, wait-- 

what was his name? how old was he? what did he sound 

like 

when he laughed? no, scratch that, 

i want you to bring him back, tape his body together 

and give it to his mother as 

a christmas gift. do you remember? 

do you remember? do you 

remember? every time that sentence leaves someone’s 

mouth 

a gun fires somewhere, but 

don’t think about that now, please, mind the gap, 

step back, put your hands up before you 

end up like him too, before they hand you another hat 

or identity and you end up like him too, dear, please forget 

there’s a word other than alive to describe him, 

just imagine him laughing in a home that isn’t this one, 

reborn on someone’s scarred shoulders, do you 

remember? do you remember? friends and romans and 

countrymen, i interrupt with more news, of 

a lynching, and another, and another, 

though that doesn’t happen anymore! we’re just being 


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By VLADIMIR GLADKOV

POETRY 

melodramatic! a million crows on the powerlines. 

a million 

worn-out sneakers and broken ribs and 

hearts pouring from bloody noses and the tension 

that snaps like a string. do you 

remember? do you remember that 

we lived here? do you remember that you existed? 

in the summer silence, our 

frilly white dresses, 

loose collars, too-big suit jackets, every 

pearl of water, perfect body outlined in 

one-way glass. the july that said, don’t call me a 

casualty, the july reborn on hands and knees, 

concrete 

bones and eyes like knives and 

lungs that refused to give out. when the gun goes 

off it spills 

marigolds and water lilies and carnations, but 

do you remember? do you remember the crimson 

roses? the sleepless nights? the day you came home 

to your 

mother, grinned with all your teeth and said, 

look, ma! not a single exit wound! while the city 

burned 

behind you? boyhood means searching. girlhood 

means writhing. 

growing up on fire means learning to breathe 

through the smoke, your blood 

the songs of lost saints. this town made of chlorine 

and 

oak trees and cigarettes. the mecca we built for an 

unfeeling god 

in the hollows of our cheeks. i want you to look at 

this place and say, 

now, everywhere, always. i want you to look at this 

place and 

think of bruised hips and overripe fruit. i want you 

to look at this place and say, 

do you remember? do you remember? do you 

remember? do you 

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By VEETERZY 

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Poetry 

Money 

Tree 

By RAY ZHANG 

i. devotion 

Edges of vermillion sun 

refract upon my skin. 

Evening crickets drowned 

by pulsating radios. 

Mutters of prayers 

arrive–each phoneme 

carry an intoxicating beat. 

Harmoniously 

wishing for more. 

ii. despise 

If only you knew petals drift down 

like roots of eucalyptus trees, 

then, you eyes wouldn’t mirror 

possums, 

playing dead before a fight. 

Your gentle prayers no longer rhyme 

with 

drips of a stream; they gush out like 

waves among the 

Congo. Stipped down to your 

bare stems, all that’s left is to 

move one foot in front of the 

other. 

iii. despire 

I know you sold everything, 

that grandmother’s pearls were 

gone, and that your smoker’s lung 

have given up – 

only weeping for the tree of ténéré 

when it has fallen. 

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By VLADISLAVE NAHORN

Poetry 

MIND 

OVER 

Matter 

"Inescapable torture 

confines me in my 

conscience." 

By REBECCA COLBY 

Push me away and pull me right back again; 

tug of war twine stretched carelessly thin. 

Zero in on the light blemishes patterning my skin. 

Like flecks of paint splattered violently by your despicable hands. 

A twitch of the wrist and the bruises fade 

a cruel trick fashioned by an even crueler mind. 

By JORGE SIMMONS-VALENZUELA 

Your vindictive words puncture gaping holes, 

ripping sinew and tendons to enigmatic shreds. 

Inescapable torture confines me in my conscience. 

The gnawing creatures from within come out to feast 

upon myself and my anxieties, 

tearing my still heart from my empty chest. 

Time shared with my demons is no better than death herself. 

Ivory claws dig excruciatingly deep into my permeable flesh, 

leaving no perceptible destruction in their wake. 

A tangible hurt is resistant to discovery, 

without painful illusions of a wandering mind. 


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By ZONGNAN BAO

P 

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By ZAHRA NOSRATI 

109 


By JC GELLIDON 

Poetry 

Russian 

DECEPTION 

The Global Youth Review would like to note that "Russian 

Deception" contains sexual themes that are intended for 

mature audiences only. Viewer discretion is advised for 

younger audiences. 

By ARBËR SELMANI

POETRY 

I 

am in the seventh heaven. 

For God’s sake, I am the 

favorite dish of seven men! 

I am the drink that is poisoning the 

peak of seven souls 

Within these walls seven melodies 

are being played 

From one angle to another, 

Fourteen hands treat me like as if I 

were the most beautiful harp on the 

universe. 

I am a man, 

But I am feeling like the queen of the 

order of every state. 

One of them is Chekhov, 

He takes me and writes to me 

literally, 

He peels off the shell from my 

body 

He knows well how to write 

a verse, he knows where the 

feelings sting 

I bump into him in the corners 

of this bed, 

Around my mouth I have Russian 

juice, from the saliva of this 

passionate man. 

He will fall in love with me by 

tomorrow night, 

I am the sauna where he heats up, I 

am the fountain where his thirst is 

quenched. 

Pyotr Tchaikovsky is the most 

beautiful tonight, 

He asks me to be one of the swans 

He tastes me like the last vodka, like I 

was a lead treasure, 

He touches my eyebrows, and the 

curtains of the room are flying with 

the breath 

I roll with him on the table where the 

food is eaten, 

The vases are broken to pieces, all 

because of this brave Russian. 

Tchaikovsky will fall in love with me 

by tomorrow night, 

This Russian exploded with the 

symphony I love 

I want to rest, but how can I say no to 

Pushkin 

He begs me on his knees, he seems to 

have lost his muse 

My arms tremble when this man 

approaches me 

He gets hard on from my smile, from 

my seductions, 

Since the other one left him, his days 

are just a lie 

I surrender, on the piano, to all what 

this man represents, 

I surrender over his face. 

He’ll fall in love with me by tomorrow 

night, 

He will feel that he belongs to me, I 

am his running water on piano, like a 

stream. 

‘‘I am the drink that is poisoning 

the peak of seven souls / Within 

these walls seven melodies are 

being played..." 

Nabokov is sad, fragile, very jealous 

He has little hair, smokes of a lot of 

cigarettes, we reconcile while he 

squeezes me 

hard to himself 

I made every butterfly in his belly, in 

his bones, 

I caused every earthquake to happen 

in Russia tonight, 

He tells me about lullabies, about 

children, he kisses me and his lips 

tremble wet 

We are in the bathroom, I give myself 

madly to him, two books forgotten on 

the floor, 

With water, destroyed. 

He’ll fall in love with me by tomorrow 

night, 

He protests strongly, then he is afraid, 

he tells me that I have to love him. 

Stravinsky looks out the window, 

stuck behind me and my neck 

He lists the dreams of nights in 

Moscow, 

He kisses my waist with pleasure, my 

right ear is inside his tongue, 

He gives me honey and wormwood, 

he feeds me, with the opera heard in 

background 

He invites me to the Russian sea, I 

give him no reason. 

Stravinsky will fall in love with me by 

tomorrow night. 

The fifth man who is touching me 

tonight, he comes to me like a well of 

kissing, 

like a freshwater spring. 

Tonight I turned to Gogol in every 

character in the book, 

We touch each other, we argue, 

we kill each other, then he 

caresses my feet, 

I hate him, I like him. 

Between the pillows, two glasses 

of wine are waiting to be drunk 

This Russian man, he will drink 

me first and then his worries 

He will start by praising me, the 

classical hymn, turning me into 

a prophecy 

Gogol will fall in love with me by 

tomorrow night, 

He started crying, this man is crying, 

but there’s no chance that I’d say to 

him ‘I love you’. 

My body glows with coconut oil, it’s 

Dostoevsky’s fault 

Everyone leaves the room, the two of 

us were left alone, 

He slaps me lightly on the face, he 

sees that I am as icy as a storm 

Like frost I open myself to this man, I 

surrender to him like a strong wind, 

like lightning, like rain 

This big-chested Russian laughs, he 

thinks he owns me 

Quickly, with his woolen hand, he 

shakes me as he pleases. 

Dostoevsky will fall in love with me 

by tomorrow night, 

Even if he goes crazy, he won’t 

swallow me like a quince next fall. 

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POETRY 

Grandma's 

APPLES 

GBy RAY ZHANG 

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away” she mutters, 

Juice splattering as 

freshly peeled skin fall 

near old dusted shoes. 

Serene, she sculpts. 

Hunching over, 

apple bits touch my hands 

Peels stained with brown stellates, cascading its sides 

Dark stars 

dotting up and down 

Chunks 

carved and diced– 

not an even slice. 

A basket of apples 

each perfectly round 

Shining crisp skin 

Apples and hands 

wrinkle, craving away. 

away from fresh apples. 

As every morning before 

crisp red apples 

became 

brown soft mush 

while muttering, 

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away”

By PAWEL CZERWINSKI

POETRY 

ON THE 

MORNING 

OF 

YOUR EXECUTION 

By ENEIDA P. ALCALDE 

S 

enators gather for English 

breakfast—colonial crumpets & clotted 

cream, 

blood orange marmalade on white 

toast— 

sweetness stuck on sticky smiles pleased with 

the latest financials for their pockets & conflict 

mistresses’ jewels prim & proper 

jackals occupying the House 

built by the people 

but not for the people, 

history’s dust sifting beneath hard-toed 

shoes polished by laymen paid a pittance, 

sweat salty like yours tracking down 

your back saved from the lash 

unlike your neck. 

Senators play tug of war, sing 

London Bridges indifferent 

to your life, collateral 

for the rule of law, 

while your mother holds vigil, 


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knees sinking into damp earth, 

hands grasping candles, 

teacup flames trembling 

under monsoon skies, 

fury clamouring 

to burst. 

No storm will wash away the ink 

commandeering your final moments. 

No stay of execution will be granted 

like all others declined since independence. 

Senators will go on to the House 

via the manicured fields, play poker. 

They will not witness the rope constrict. 

Your mother’s wails 

traversing the east west winds. 

Their President will close the Book, 

set the royal stamp on the cherry wood desk, 

wash his hands at the sink, 

reapply powder, and offer a trained 

smile when he greets the Press.

e 

g 

egos 

e 

g 

By ENEIDA P. ALCALDE 

o 

bullets 

poll numbers 

makeovers 

invisible hands 

pull 

red tape 

polished suits 

princes and 

profits 

push 

bolded and constant 

plastic 

puppets 

politics 

power plays 

o 

s 

s 

By MATEUS CAMPOS FELIPE 

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I AM 

THE MAIN 

By ARBËR SELMANI 

TW: Contains mature themes 

Understandably, 

I am the main prostitute of this city! 

I steal from the petals of every flower. 

I live because they drink me, curse me and eat me. 

I am the bee that bites the most painfully in hive 

I am the cure, the sweetest milk in the spring 

I am every torn dress, every sting, every slap that cracks 

I buzz, I keep this city alive. 

Through the streets, alleys, phone booths 

Under the bridges, near the sidewalks 

In bar kitchens, in neighborhood cafes 

Beaten by night lights, in terrible settlements, 

Even in the middle of the day, between cars 

I put lull minds to sleep, nervous tongues, 

The crown on my head, I am a monarch, I am that bird that never cries, 

I swallow, I keep this city alive. 

I am an observer of misery, 

In university buildings, in green parks 

In hot saunas, in muscle pools, 

At gas stations, in toilets with enough luxury 

I lose myself, I even lose the men who pay 

I am part of things, actions and meetings 

I delay hugs, I exclude caresses, even kisses, I hate it all 

I am the most dangerous woman, with charisma that does not kill 

I scream, I keep this city alive. 

I hear boredom to every moonlight 

Some women hate me, others envy me 

I step between the legs of the poor, I let the poor enjoy me 

I am the captain of morality, the first one to be called by every politician, 

I am the most beautiful with Japanese eyes, I am the sultan woman 

I break every law, every article, every code and every norm 


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By ADIL JANBYRBAYEV

POETRY 

I break my neck, I get desperate, I get 

wet all over 

I am the train station, a stop, a queen 

without a king 

I poison, I keep this city alive. 

I face the storms, north winds, I am 

surrounded by an amazing aura 

I have no gender in my face, I am a man 

under my skin, always a useful woman 

I see hell, I see heaven, I kiss who I want 

In a bakery, in a hidden motel of a 

remote village 

On the tables of theater buffet, on the 

floor, 

No part of my skeleton is flawed 

They want to wipe me out, then we 

make love, I’m the craziest shark in the 

sea 

I am steel, I keep this city alive. 

I’ve opened up, and I am animated, 

I am the main prostitute of this city! 

Drunk I bow to those who see me as a 

threat, 

I am the anxiety of happy men, I am a 

body sunk in wandering 

I am a thin membrane that turns every 

man, every woman, every river bed 

Under the waterfall, in the mud, in 

important administrative offices 

I have rushed, like a mad mother, to 

every tie, to every single poor one. 

The eyes of the priests see me, the eyes 

of poorly grown children. 

Shepherds and housewives and 

lutenists see me, 

Watchmakers see me, both blacksmiths 

and peasants want to enjoy me. 

I don’t like my lips when they have 

nothing to do, without any blessing 

I shake, I shiver, in red heels I keep this 

village alive, 

No, 

Together with the city. 

PROSTITUTE OF 

THIS CITY 

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POETRY 

P R O U D 

COLOURS 

By KATHERINE EBBS 

CW // Queerphobia 

Red sky at night shepherd’s delight, and queer herds are delightful. 

Red life screams that it’s about the person, not the pronoun. 

Red stop-sign cries that it could be Adam and Steve, and also Eve. 

Red ladybirds land in spaces where faces accept their spots. 

Orange chocolates heal queer heartbreak, no matter the gender. 

Orange autumnal leaf piles reject all the other seasonal norms. 

Orange lifejacket keeps those afloat who aren’t quite sure what 

Orange boat to board, but soon realise the boat doesn’t need to be labelled. 

Yellow rubber duck dives into his own depths, and discovers he likes drakes. 

Yellow sunlight hit the balcony window, and his eyelashes were a ray of vision to 

him. 

Yellow sunflowers he bought will never wilt. They only ache when he misses his 

Yellow ball of sunshine because he loves him for all his mistakes. 

Green hills drag them up and into nature to escape gender conventions. 

Green, healthy conversations about not feeling at home in their body. 

Green fingers link to uproot and re-plant our shoddy cis-earth, and to make a 

Green fluid world. The waves are as crystal clear as 

Blue artificial vodka sipped through her plump lips. A mouth whispers 

Blue melody and harmony about the first time she was kissed properly. 

Blue bruises linger at the spot she last missed her. 

Blue tac forever holding up flash shots they took on a disposable camera. 

Purple pictures made by mixing blue and pink. Spilt ink over the kitchen sink to 

find a 

Purple spirit. Not always just a fifty-fifty split, but sometimes it is. 

Purple silk handkerchiefs and purple petalled violets; the secret language of queer 

love. 

Purple, peace dove tweets love who you love because love is love is love. 


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By H. HEYERLEIN

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By DAN MEYERS 


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POETRY 

UNION JACK 

“Great Britain has lost an Empire and has 

not yet found a role.” - Dean Acheson, US 

Secretary of State, 1962 

By MANTZ YORKE 

A 

globe splattered with pink: 

a proud testament to heroism and the gift of civilization, 

so my first school taught. As did my dad, 

starting a scrapbook of the royals’ South African tour 

with newspaper photographs of the battleship Vanguard 

‘showing the flag’. 

At high school I learned more about Britain’s victories, 

the benign governance of colonies 

and the moral superiority gained from noble commitments 

like ending the trade in slaves. 

SERVE AND OBEY, the blazer’s badge commanded, 

a motto so clear in its intent and yet too vague 

for youngsters to appreciate its relationship to learning 

skills of soldiery in juvenile platoons. 

The day the King died, the theme of the solemn assembly 

‘Service to the state’, brought out the implications 

as the Head insisted Russia threatened war 

and we should all prepare ourselves to play our part. 

Later, archival digs exposed 

some monstrous building blocks in imperial foundations – 

famine met with indifference, pillaged resources, 

severed communities, colonial atrocities. 

The sun long set on empire, the UK continues 

the conceit of potency – aircraft carriers, nuclear subs, 

troops engaged in wars abroad, a seat on the Security Council – 

and yet its pretension to military clout is undercut 

by trimming expenditure on soldiery, ships and planes. 

The pink on the globe spoke truer than we knew: 

the bold red of a coat has faded in the glare of day, 

and the Union Jack, now the grubby white of Jasper Johns’ flag, 

is a standard fraying in the wind, 

its cloth beyond repair. 

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WRITI 

TH 

GEOM 

OF T 

SO 

P L A

NG IS 

E 

ETRY 

HE 

UL 

T 

O

EAD NOW 

READ NOW 

EAD NOW 

READ NOW 

EAD NOW 

READ NOW 

EAD NOW 

Heritage 

ISSUE III | 2021: HERITAGE 

FALL 2021 EDITION 


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social 

media 

The Global Youth Review 

#THEGLOBALYOUTHREVIEW 

@THEGLOBALYOUTHREVIEW 

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CONTRIBUTORS 

ISSUE FOUR 

ADRIJA JANA is a bibliophile with a natural eagerness to learn new things, Adrija enjoys 

writing, music, dancing, acting, event management, communications, and public relations. 

An international award winning recently published poet, she has established herself in the 

national and international Model United Nations (MUN) circle. Being an empathetic soul, 

Adrija loves to take care of stray animals and devotes much of her time to social services. 

She has worked with several magazines and youth organisations across the globe and is an 

ardent and committed activist in the field of advocacy against Period Poverty and Education 

Inequity. 

ALEX SHENSTONE is a transgender, UK-based Creative Writing Masters student. He 

spends most of his time on binge-watching TV shows, adores the Marvel 

Cinematic Universe, and his poem "They Composed Us. In The End" was 

inspired by the composers that have really moved him in his favourite films 

and shows. His debut poetry collection "Jack of All Tales" is out with Alien 

Buddha Press, plus he has other work out with Pastel Pastoral, Ghost Orchid 

Press, Green Ink Poetry, The Minison Project and others. He can be found on 

Twitter at @AlexakaSatan. 

ANNA NIXON is an aspiring writer and poet from Manchester, England. 

In her poetry, she is especially interested in the relationship between our 

phycological and physical environment and seeks to find images in her 

surrounding nature to capture emotion. Outside of her poetry she enjoys 

swimming, reading and getting two-pint-tipsy in sunny beer gardens with 

friends. More of Anna Nixon's work, including poems, newspaper articles and 

spoken word performances, can be found on Instagram at @annanixonwritings. 

ANOUSHKA SWAMINATHAN is a queer Indian-American 7th grader from 

Northern California. They love reading all genres, but primarily write realistic 

fiction and sci-fi, as well as poetry. They have previously been published in Ice 

Lolly Review, Chasing Shadows Mag, and YAWP Journal. When not reading or 

writing- so barely ever- xe dances Bharatanatyam, yearns endlessly, and does 

debate. Xe also may have a mild addiction to writing in second-person. Both of 

their pieces have been inspired by personal experiences as a queer girl of color. 

ARBËR SELMANI is a journalist and poet from Pristina, Kosovo. He has 

published four books. His poems and stories have been translated to Italian, 

Slovenian, German, Bosnian, Serbo-Croatian, Greek and lately in English 

for Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, Zoetic Press, Ethel Zine, The Impossible 

Archetype, Rhodora Magazine and Changes Review. He enjoys swimming and 

travelling, reading James Baldwin and likes to think one day he might visit 

Japan. 

DC DIAMONDOPOLOUS is an award-winning short story, and flash 

fiction writer with over 300 stories published internationally in print 

and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories 

have appeared in: Penmen Review, Progenitor, 34th Parallel, So It Goes: The 

Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, and 

others. DC was nominated twice in 2020 for the Pushcart Prize and in 2020 

and 2017 for Sundress Publications’ Best of the Net. 


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CONTRIBUTORS 

CONTRIBUTORS 

ENEIDA P. ALCALDE’s poems have appeared in literary outlets 

such as riverSedge, Birdcoat Quarterly, and Magma Poetry. She 

graduated with an MA in Creative Writing & Literature from 

Harvard University’s Extension School and is the Managing Editor 

for Oyster River Pages. Born in Chile, Eneida fled the Pinochet 

dictatorship with her family as a child. This life event underlies 

her passion for social justice, a recurring theme in her poetry. Eneida also 

draws inspiration from her Chilean-Puerto Rican heritage and the places 

she has called home—from Chile and the United States to Bolivia, Abu 

Dhabi, and Singapore. Learn more at www.eneidaescribe.com. 

FASASI ABDULROSHEED OLADIPUPO is a Nigerian poet who loves every 

goodness carved out of words, he sees poetry as storytelling thus tells the 

stories of leaving, of vanquishing, of desert and its horrors, of oceans and 

bodies becoming griefs and flotsam, stories of stigma and having to live 

as homeless. Fasasi sees poetry as a graffiti of metaphors.Fasasi has been 

published at Southern Humanities Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, 

Oxford Review of Books, Stand Magazine, Olongo Africa, The Citron Review, Scrawl 

Place, Short Vine Literary Journal and elsewhere. 

FELIX OTIS Felix Otis is the pen name of Felix Otieno. Felix Otis lives in 

Mombasa, Kenya. He's a casual worker and writes poetry, short stories and 

novels. "A Farewell To Harm” is a crime/literary fiction inspired by a real valley 

deep in the Rift Valley region of Kenya. It depicts how death and banditry in the 

small, resource-rich location is influenced by poverty and unemployment, and 

police corruption; how after using unsuspecting bandits to murder and plunder, 

they kill them in the most cold-blooded extrajudicial killings ever seen. 

HALLE EWING is 15 years old and from Southern California. She has boundless 

love for the written word, and their previous publishings can be found in Paper 

Cranes Literary Journal, Crossed Paths, Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine, the 

Weight Journal, Second Chance Literary, Ice Lolly Review, and the Blue Marble 

Review. Their Instagram handle is @halleewingg. 

ILANA DRAKE is a freshman at Vanderbilt University, and she 

is a student activist and writer. Her work has been published in 

Ms. Magazine, YR Media, and The 74 among others. She is also the 

recipient of multiple Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She can be 

found on Twitter @IlanaDrake_ and her website is https://ilanadrake. 

wixsite.com/mysite/projects 

JAIDEN A. is a student from Vancouver, Canada passionate about 

social justice, academics, and learning about the world around him. He 

loves how poetry and prose can be used as an outlet to untangle and 

express the knot of thoughts in his head. Jaiden hopes that readers are 

able to see the repercussions of his themes in reality and pause and think about the world 

around them, even if it's just for a second. 

MANTZ YORKE lives in Manchester, England. His poems have appeared in print magazines, 

anthologies and e-magazines both in the UK and internationally. His collections ‘Voyager’ 

and ‘Dark Matters’ are published by Dempsey & Windle. 

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ISSUE FOUR CO 

CONTRIBUTORS 

JEN ROSS is a Chilean-Canadian 

journalist and former foreign 

correspondent. She spent 10 years working 

in communications for the United Nations, 

including UN Human Rights and UN 

Women, before taking a break to write 

fiction about her passion: girls' rights and 

empowerment. She speaks six languages 

and has travelled to more than 50 

countries, including Egypt. She now lives 

in Aruba and works as a university lecturer, 

writer and editor. 

REBECCA COLBY is a sophomore at Littlet 

School in Littleton, a small town in the Unit 

enjoys writing poetry and prose, as well as d 

scriptwriting. Her steadfast writing compan 

cup of tea and her sticker-clad computer. 

NATASHA BREDLE is an emerging writer 

based in Ohio. She likes sunsets and the 

quiet, and is the caretaker of several exotic 

pets. You can find her work in Peach Mag, 

Full House Lit, and Anti-Heroin Chic, to 

name a few. 

KATHERINE EBBS is currently in her third 

year of reading English Literature at the 

University of Sheffield. Her writing tends to 

tackle issues of queerphobia and injustice 

within society. As a lesbian, she aims to 

emphasize the oppressions that queer 

people still face, even as society progresses 

forward. Her poetry also questions 

structures of power, particularly concerning 

patriarchal structures of abuse. 

LEELA RAJ-SANKAR is an Indian-American 

teenager from Arizona. Their work has appeared 

in Mixed Mag, Warning Lines, and Ghost Heart Lit, 

among others. In his spare time, he can usually be 

found playing Scrabble or taking long naps. Say hi to 

her on Twitter @sickgirlisms. 

MATT HSU is a student from San Franci 

His work has been nominated for the Pus 

and he’s published or forthcoming in The 

Dynamite Poetry, Sine Theta Magazine, an 

Currently he's querying his first novel: a 

mystery about a crafty assassin. You can 

Twitter at @MattHsu19. 


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CONTRIBUTORS 

on High 

ed States. She 

abbling in 

ions are a warm 

SANDRA KOLANKIEWICZ's work has appeared in 

Fortnightly Review, Galway Review, The Healing Muse, New 

World Writing and Appalachian Review. She is the author 

of Turning Inside Out, The Way You Will Go and Lost in 

Transition. These poems are about our sense of home and 

the kind of love and commitment that helps parents raise a 

child to fledge and be themself in a world full of preordained 

assumptions about what we are supposed to do or become. 

SHEEKS BHATTACHARJEE is a first-year college 

student at the Pennsylvania State University and 

is the co-founder/EIC of Vocivia Magazine and a 

nonprofit organization (Astral Cognition). They have 

published poetry in Coexist Lit, music pieces in the 

Harmonic Mag, and Young Poets Unite’s Instagram 

page! All of her work can be found on her website 

(thecreativitydumpyard.tk) and she’s on Twitter and 

Instagram as @mildlysomewhat. 

NTRIBUTORS 

sco, California. 

hcart Prize, 

B’K, Kissing 

d Paddler Press. 

twisty, thrillerfind 

him on 

RAY ZHANG is an Asian American poet. His work has been 

published in Teenink, Bow Seat Ocean Awareness, and the Blue 

Marble Review, among others. Ray's poetry has been recognized 

in the Benvenuto Poetry Competition, SCC Writing Contest, 

Scholastic Art and Writing, etc. In his free time, Ray enjoys hiking 

through the midwestern wilderness. 

OLADEJO ABDULLAH FERANMI is a Nigerianbased 

writer, poet, orator, and undergraduate at the 

University of Ibadan. He has been trying to pursue 

his passion for writing by writing multiple genres. 

He resides presently in Ibadan, Nigeria where he 

enjoys reading and writing indoors. 

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THE GLOBAL YOUTH 

REVIEW 

ISSUE IV 

JUL 2022

ISSUE IV: Mirror of Society

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