Fiction

Loud music filled the room. Tom’s stick-like legs bounced to the rhythms of Patti Smith, Richard Hell, and the Ramones. Like fingers on a keyboard, they hit every note via convulsive inward twitches. Though unable to move, he had danced his homebound days away in his mind, and flared up the walls between himself and his neighbours.

His paralysis subsided upon the sound of silence. Tom straightened and strained each of his legs, as if they were made of crumbling wood. He stood up and floated out the door in a dreamlike state.

As he went outside the trees swayed to his rhythm, encouraging him to take one fresh footprint after another. He hasn’t walked in years, and every step felt exotic and transgressive. He felt himself doubling like a tom-tom drum at the climax of an upward-hill solo. His legs withered under the strain of sensory excess, so he reached for his fellow strollers for support.

The first figure he spotted was a teenage girl. She walked carefully, pliéing her way forward like a ballerina. Her long legs, winding and ashamed, didn’t seem to fit the rest of the body or the malevolent expression on her face. She had headphones on; Tom imagined ballet poses smashing an electric guitar seamlessly, its crumbs falling over the girl’s dark hair. He tried to mimic her walk, but it was too fast, too used up.

He heard the tap-tapping of the rain as he followed another silhouette across the street. She had a brisk walk and a concentrated style, like a first-rate dance teacher, relinquishing talent for authority. What would happen if she found a partner good enough for her? He wondered. Would she spread her wings and fly above the crowd to the rhythm of a ballroom’s starlight chandelier? He tried to keep up with her, but the bustling sound of her footsteps put him in need of a crutch to lean on. He dropped her trail and fell on a bench.

Tom used to slurp on movement like it was mother’s milk. He inhaled every rhythm and key change, and moved his body accordingly: he pogoing to punk, gesticulating to hip hop, swaying to jazz—and skinning his partners alive at slow-dancing.

There was one art he had never been able to grasp, and that was walking itself. The way people moved forward, never looking back or up or down – except for those more socially anxious, that is – the path leading them exactly where they needed to go. As natural as he was on the dance floor, he grew hopeless on the street.

Until the paralysis struck him.

He’d been kissed by a siren at the most elemental dance of all. The curves of his partner’s flesh suffocated his bones and blew substance out of them. Unlike birds, he did not learn to fly. He took to bed instead, watching the birds flocking and mocking him outside the window.

He would never love anymore. He could not dare to invite even a possibility of the tiniest tinge of attraction. He had loved once, and the woman broke his legs. They could have remained broken, he didn’t care about that anymore, but he would never let anyone break his heart ever again.

*

Pumped up by the air in his lungs, Tom situated himself firmly on the bench and watched people walk by. The street began to overflow with couples: tangoing their way out of fights, cha-cha-ing into each other’s business, or waltzing into a shared space of their own. One heart might have been a lonely hunter, but two constructed the most elaborate frameworks and patterns imaginable.

Tired of looking outside himself, Tom joined the fingers of his two hands together and took them on circling walks up the air’s stairs. He mixed and matched grungy rhythms and twirled until his cheeks turned flamenco red.

When he looked at the world around him, he noticed a woman leaning on the wall on the other side of the street. When she spotted his eyes set on her, she waved at him. He waved back.

Without walking over, the woman began to move her hips. She must have been about Tom’s age, with short red hair and a sickly pale complexion. He couldn’t see the features of her face from afar, but he saw a smile sifting through her body. He stood up and walked up to the edge of the pavement. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He began to mimic her, and sway his hips left to right. Without thinking twice, he raised his hand, as if pressing it on an imaginary wall; then he locked the air in an embrace with his other hand. The woman, in turn, reflected him.

Tom remembered the waltz lessons his parents had forced him to take in elementary school. Right foot forward, left foot to the left, right foot follows; left foot backwards, right to the right, left follows; and so it goes. The woman moved correspondingly. Each passerby stared and every other car honked, but no one stopped them. Everyone kept a safe distance, as if the pair was surrounded by an electric field of their own.

Tom felt a teardrop on his cheek. When he looked up, he noticed a bruise-coloured cloud staring at him and sending him cold droplets, one by one, like a cold shoulder. When he looked back down, the woman was gone. The trees turned motionless. People did, too. Their pace was slow and their movements mechanical, blurry, anonymous.

Tom felt the pronounced stickiness of his legs crawling back into the bones. He barely made it back home. As he did, he heard the trees’ whispers, their promise branches broken like the wind and swallowed by the rain.

He couldn’t tell if the drop on his cheek was a tear, or a bit of sky falling upon him.

 

 

 

 

Alex has been experimenting with various forms of writing for the past few years. She’s a Culture Editor and Writer for Roar News, her work has also appeared in publications such as HuffPost UK, Bad Pony Mag, Breath & Shadow, and Litbreak Magazine. She’s a creator of the YouTube channel, Alex Blank, where she explores the illusions and inconsistencies of the human psyche.

It didn’t feel like a vacation.

The entire week we’d been in Cabo, I tried to pretend—swimming in the hotel pool and lounging in the jacuzzi at night. I drank non-alcoholic Piña Coladas all day. At the all-inclusive hotel restaurant, I stuffed myself with squid, fish tacos, clam chowder, and macarons. I spent long mornings in bed and told myself that sleep is the only time machine in the world, though one-directional and oblivious to the past.

“We need to make the most of what we’ve got left,” my mother had said a month ago. She was pointing at the resorts on her computer: Cancun, Puerto Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas, Costa Rica. “It’ll come out of my retirement, but it’s worth it.”

“Why don’t we just stay home?” I recommended. “The doctor is here.”

Ultimately, they had settled on Cabo because Grandpa wanted to “stand at the edge of the world.”

It was almost five o’clock, and the Arch of Cabo San Lucas looked like a dragon bending over to drink from the sea. During the day, the sun perched right above our heads, blasting us with equatorial heat. But now, the wind blew just enough. We reached the beach’s edge, and I removed my sandals, taking small steps over the broken shells.

Standing at the tip of the Baja Peninsula, I admired how the water reflected the flame-like clouds. The colors reminded me of when Grandpa and I went bird watching at Shoreline Park. There, the long-billed curlews dug into the sand, and the belted kingfishers sat in the trees. Grandpa had pointed out the geese. “You know Canada geese don’t actually migrate to Canada? They were named after John Canada.”

“Who’s John Canada?”

“The guy who discovered that these geese were different from other geese.”

“So they don’t go to Canada?”

“Nope, they go somewhere south, I think.”

“To die?”

“Maybe some of them.”

“I wonder what happens to them after they die.”
“I guess their spirit finds a new body.”

 

The violent waves collapsed on boulders as if they wanted to break the rocks and suck me in. I inched around for a steady place to stand. In the tide pools, starfish lounged, sea slugs crawled, and sea anemone swayed their little fingers. I picked a smaller boulder where a thin tide ran over my feet.

On the beach, Grandpa set up a tripod for his camera. “I’m capturing the sunset time-lapse to condense into two minutes.” He loved time-lapses, often saying how they let us truly witness time passing because people never notice on their own.

“Like a flipbook?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

One morning, several years ago, he took me to Golden Gate Park. As he pointed his camera at the fog rolling over the Golden Gate Bridge, he said, “It comes and goes, and then it’s gone. One second the fog floats over the city, and the next, it engulfs it. It’s unpredictable.”

“You can’t see the bridge,” I complained.

“Yes, but you know the bridge is there. You’ve seen it a hundred times without the fog, so you can imagine it.”

Grandpa was like that. He would bring me places and tell me things, and half the time, I wasn’t listening. I went along because he had a way of making me feel important. He had an interesting past that he liked to talk about. He’d say, “Your grandpa ran a chemical factory. He was the guy everyone looked up to.” When I was younger, he was so cool, but as I got older, I didn’t always understand why he was constantly teaching me things. It sometimes felt like being in Mr. Kinsley’s history class.

On the beach, the sun was still over the arch, and my mom and I waded into the water. We rolled up our shorts to keep them dry, but the waves splashed our clothes.

Grandpa positioned us to stand knee-deep while he maneuvered from rock to rock around us, clicking the shutter button on his phone. With his expertise, his photos looked as if we stood in front of a green screen. He’d already captured so many pictures of our trip as if he’d planned to have so much time to look at them. He even brought a camera when we went ziplining. A small one that dangled from his wrist.

We’d gone the day before in the outskirts of San José del Cabo. He couldn’t be talked out of it. As we climbed higher up the stairs to the platform, I started to sway, and every time I looked down, nausea took hold of me. Grandpa marched ahead. I watched as one of the guides connected him to the trolley.

“Remember to brake when you see the other platform,” the man said. “Don’t worry. My partner will catch you on the other side. Just make sure you don’t stop in the middle.”

I stood there, under the shade of the platform watching Grandpa. It was frightening to see him dangle on that line, his feet pointed forward as he grasped the handlebar. When he picked up speed, he grew smaller until he blended into the dry hills like a bird in flight.

At times like these, I thought about Jesus. I had recently been learning about him in Sunday School. My parents always believed in God, but only after Grandpa’s illness had they started going to church again. Maybe Christianity was right. Or Grandpa was right and we’d all be reincarnated. I guess we’ll know when we know.

Then it was my turn. The guide hooked me onto the trolley, repeated the same dialogue, and sent me soaring.

The wind blew and I started to twist. I kept anticipating the platform, but the line stretched longer. Instinctively, I applied pressure to the rope. I scrambled to turn the other way, but I only braked more. I thought for sure I’d get stuck in the middle. If I did, who would save me? But then, the other platform came into view, and I saw my Grandpa waiting, snapping pictures of me. His mouth was slightly open, his hair was gray and long, and his camera hid his crow’s feet.

The sun dropped behind the arch, peeking out from the hole. Darkness descended on the stone structure. As I admired the glow of the day’s end, Grandpa snapped a silhouette of me, the sound of his camera’s click crisp over the rushing waves. “Silhouettes are a type of disguise,” he once said. “You never know what the person has on their face: joy, fear, or loneliness—the blacked-out face hides them all.”

When we walked back to the red rental car, Grandpa strode in front while my mother and I trailed behind him. The distance between us grew with every step he took. I yelled, “Grandpa, wait! There’s no rush!”

But he didn’t hear me. The wind had caught my voice and lifted it away.

 

Justin Gu is a junior at Palo Alto High School. He has been writing for three years, and he finds his inspiration from family experiences. He was recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing for various pieces.

Eliza tucked paint-stained hands behind her back and took a step closer to me. Her faded summer camp T-shirt was knotted at the waist, daylily-gold skirt brushing the tops of her sandals. Standing in the blunt fluorescent of the airport terminal, her contour was more defined, shadows seeping through her neck. Graduation had weighted her to the ground like I thought nothing ever could.

We used to draw all over our geometry notes, faces and flowers and flowy dresses. They all ran into each other in the margins, collarbones intertwining with hibiscus stems, tangles of tie-dye arteries twisting through wide-rule lines to the sun. Once we realized how to put summer onto paper, we could never focus on math again.

We were always afraid of the dark. On those wide-eyed August days, we would spend the whole afternoon sprawled in tall field grass, tracing clouds with our fingertips. We stretched our arms to the sky and let hazy pinks and yellows fog our vision. But when the sky flooded periwinkle, and mosquitoes swarmed around our heads, we would run all the way to her house, set candles on the windowsills, switch on all the lamps and flashlights we owned, sit cross-legged on the floor, and wait for dawn.

And that was how it was. Every summer, from when we first learned how to stretch our arms wide like the sky, to the moment we realized we could never win against the world.

The day after graduation, she didn’t paint flowers on her jeans or run cursive paths through the open field overlooking the lake. She sat in my backyard and scuffed patches of dirt with her big toe and picked at an orange peel. And made small talk. And then a mosquito landed on her arm and she said she had to pack and she drove herself home.

That night, I fell asleep with the sunset.

She went to college in California. “Where winter doesn’t exist,” she said, burying her nose in my neck as she hugged me goodbye. She pressed a small, square canvas into my palm — a painting of a sunflower, flush against the bluest sky.

Her hazel eyes burned gold with tears as I looked up. She said, “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Half an hour till her midnight flight. Five and a half hours more, and she’d be landing to an L.A sunrise. I said, “Me too.”

I left for Chicago the next day. Full scholarship.

I can’t remember exactly when we stopped talking. We FaceTimed every day at first, and then one afternoon she had too much to do, and so it became every other day. And then once a week. And then just texting. And then silence.

I let it hurt.

Chicago doesn’t see the sun, but I wouldn’t know the difference. I have watery suns awaiting me at all hours of the day now, nestled in sagging ceilings that are either off-white or dirty. Sometimes, during lectures, I stare up at them just to feel the spots in my eyes again, but it’s not the same.

We still follow each other’s Instagrams; her posts always show up at the top of my feed. The algorithm is taking a while to catch up. She’s smiling her genuine smile in every picture, made only truer by crystalline California light, not the heavy Jersey heat we tolerated out of necessity. I wonder if her new friends — glimmering, molten, like her, like I could never be — take her to the ocean at sunrise on the warmest days of the year. I hope they do.

Once, the summer we were eight or nine, we were lying on a beach towel in her backyard, benevolently competing to name all the birdcalls we heard. As I said, “Indigo bunting,” Eliza asked, “Do you think the sun and the sky and the clouds can see us like we see them?”

Intellectually, I knew the answer. But I said, “I think they can see you.”

Her brow furrowed as she contemplated. “Why not you?”

“‘Cause I’m just me, and you’re a lot more than just you,” I said, and this, I know, is true.

I was born lonely, and then I spent twelve summers with Eliza, and now all I do is look for her.

 

Lili Namazi is a fourteen-year-old rising junior with a passion for all things literary and musical. When they are not writing, composing, or playing an instrument, you will probably find them drinking iced coffee, listening to music, and daydreaming. They plan to continue their artistic pursuits in college and as their career.

There’s a woman standing at the other end of the subway platform.

There’s nothing abnormal about her appearance: backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie emblazoned with the name of some college, jeans ripped at the knees, scuffed sneakers tapping a rhythm against the yellow tiles, presumably on beat to the music she’s listening to on her phone. The epitome of a college student. I would know, considering my own ensemble of clothes.

None of that is what grabs my attention, however; what does are the numbers floating above her.

A timer, I realize after they count down to two minutes. As the woman turns her head to cough into her hand, the numbers follow the movement, as if they are attached to the top of her head.

I look around to see if anyone else sees this, get an unspoken second opinion or reaction. There’s no one else around, however; it’s late, and this isn’t a popular stop to begin with, being located at the outskirts of the city and all.

Staring at the changing numbers, I wonder if this is something of the norm. New pieces of technology seem to pop up on the daily, and it’s impossible to keep track of every single one. Still, if such a thing was possible, something akin to a holographic display, Emily would have talked my ear off about it already. I consider taking a picture and showing it to her later when I get home, but don’t. Knowing her, it’ll be met with some snide remark – “Oh, this girl caught your eye, did she?” – followed by a lot of passive-aggressiveness for the next few days. After the week I had, that’s the last thing I want to deal with.

Anyways, back to the floating numbers.

For the briefest moment, I even entertain the idea of a supernatural explanation, before banishing the thought. I haven’t believed in anything supernatural all my life, and am not going to start now.

Of course, there are countless other questions besides the how.

Is the woman even aware of the numbers? If not, am I the only one seeing this? Why only this woman, and not the countless people I met throughout today? What makes her special?

Is it somehow contagious? Will I wake up tomorrow morning and see a timer above my head in the mirror?

But most important of all: what is the timer counting down towards? What happens when it hits zero?

My initial thought is that it could be the waiting time until her train arrives. This is promptly disproven when her timer hits one minute, and there’s a ten second delay before the waiting time on the nearby train sign follows. So, not that then.

It could just be something mundane she set as a reminder for herself, like ‘buy milk’ or ‘feed the cat’. Something that doesn’t matter to anyone besides herself, especially not a stranger waiting for the same train. But then why showcase it for everyone to see, which brings me back to the question of whether she’s aware of the numbers being shown.

Then, it hits me, the most obvious, cliché answer that I somehow didn’t think about; it could be the time of death.

Now that I look again, the woman has this sort of resigned look on her face, tired but determined. She pockets her phone just as the light from the incoming train can be seen, growing brighter and larger as it approaches the station.

“Train approaching,” says the station-wide announcement from above. “Please stand back from the edge.”

The woman takes one step forward towards the edge of the platform instead, and it’s all the incentive I need to break into a run. The first passenger car enters the station, closing in on where the woman is standing, and I’m still too far away to reach her.

“Stop!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by the screeching of train wheels against the rails, and all I can do is watch helplessly as the woman brings a hand up to her mouth, timer reaching zero and-

She sneezes, inaudible but unmistakable in motion.

The timer disappears.

 

 

Hwankyu Song was born in Korea but raised in a multitude of countries, the most recent one being the US. He’s currently attending Carnegie Mellon University, where he is majoring in Math and minoring in Creative Writing. His stories are usually lengthy, but he also writes flash fiction on occasion.

It was a Thursday night and outside was the coziest thunderstorm. Perched where the great woods met a cliff overlooking an ocean was an old house, taller than it was wide. Sitting inside this house, a woman, in her favorite wingback chair, enjoying the comfy storm. Unlike most in her current situation, she wasn’t reading, or listening to music, or doing anything particularly entertaining. She was simply sitting, staring at her crackling fire and thinking. Of what she was thinking we may never know, but one could almost be certain she was thinking. The house was dark–it always was this time of night–but the storm had cut what little electricity the old house had. But she had lit a candle, and that was all she needed. The thunder boomed.

She was staring; you couldn’t verify if she was thinking, but one look would confirm that she was very much staring. At one point it seemed that she was staring so hard she forgot exactly what she was staring at, for in the blink of an eye she realized that she was not in her chair by the fire, but in the hallway upstairs. Looking at a wall. She wondered how she had found herself in this predicament–she didn’t remember moving at all, and even if she had, why had she gone here? As she turned her head, she heard a child’s laugh coming from the bedroom door. Strange, her daughter had grown up and moved out long ago. She went back to her chair.

As she sat in her chair she heard crackling, the crackling of a radio tuned to a channel with no signal. A voice cleared the crackles, and the old sound of a 1920s vocalist flooded the room. The woman by now was most likely deep in thought, perhaps she was thinking of how strange it is that a radio with no source of power that has not worked for 6 years would suddenly turn on. But it was a lovely tune, so she stayed put. Or perhaps, she was thinking about a child’s laugh coming from an empty room. Or maybe not.

She was sitting, staring, and listening–listening to the rain and the song. She closed her eyes and listened, listened until she heard a new sound: water.  She opened her eyes to find she was no longer in her chair–she was sitting on the edge of her bed. She sat staring, not at a fire, but rather out of an ocean-view window. Yet the water she was hearing was not the ocean, it was the sound of the sink in her bathroom, the sink with the spout that never turned on. She was glad that it was finally working. She walked back downstairs.

When she sat back in her chair she could see the fire, and through a window she could see the ocean. Through that same window, she could also see the light falling of snow. It’s on cold winter nights that one loves to sit by the fire and think; although for the woman it was getting increasingly hard to think, with the radio and the fire, not to mention the buzzing and flickering of the table lamp’s bulb. She considered turning off the lamp but decided she needed the light. As the musical stylings of 20s swing faded into 40s jazz, she decided that she needed something to drink. She walked across the room and grabbed a mug out of the cupboard. The particular mug she grabbed was found at the very back of the cupboard and read “World’s Best Dad” on the front; it was the only one clean. She rinsed out the dust and made some hot chocolate. She sat back down and relaxed into the music. During one song a noise piqued her ears. It was the sound of a bell, the kind you would put on a house cat. It sounded identical to the one she had put on her old pet. After a rather loud meow, she felt her cat walk across her feet and settle on the chair beside her. Anyone else in this moment might have been perplexed: why, after 24 years of being missing, had her cat finally come back? I suppose she was just happy her cat had returned.

She sat listening to the radio, the ocean waves, and Edith the cat purring softly in her sleep. After finishing her drink, she returned to her staring, the light of the fire consuming her attention. As she stared, she felt a gust of wind brush her cheek. She was standing at the edge of the cliff and looking at the water. This was not unusual, although she usually enjoyed being here when the weather was nice. Tonight was very foggy with a slight breeze–not ideal conditions if you are looking to view anything. Light wasn’t an issue, not even in the dead of night; the moon shines so brightly here it could pass for a second sun. But due to the fog, the only thing she could see was the gleam of a lighthouse on a distant shore. Until the ray from the lighthouse went out. Now tell me why, in the middle of the night, when the earth was nothing but fog, did a lighthouse go out? Conceivably, the only notion she held at the moment was that she now had to go back inside.

She turned and started to wander towards her house. About halfway there, an intense beam of light engulfed her sight. The beam came from the woods and stayed on her for a second or an hour, or what could have been any amount of time, then disappeared. She lightly shook her head in an attempt to clear the floaters from her eyes and walked to the front door. As she was walking, she hoped that whoever was holding that flashlight escaped the foggy woods and got home safely. But she wasn’t too worried, after all, Edith made it back. When she had settled back into her chair, she listened to Edith’s bell slowly make its way down the stairs and into her lap.

She got lost in thought for a little while, but when she returned, she determined that not too much time had passed; it certainly wasn’t morning, and the hailstorm was still going as strong as it was in the late evening. Her cat had moved back to her separate chair and fallen asleep. At some point, the radio had stopped playing tunes and reduced itself back to crackling, and the old lamp bulb had finally given out. The one thing that grasped her consciousness most urgently was the fire, which had gone out. The house was nothing but a pit of darkness, light coming only from the moon. She was paralyzed with fear, her mind consumed with the sound of hail striking the walls, a broken radio crackling, and a dead cat purring. And then she heard it: a pounding. This wasn’t hail, this was the front door. And as she slowly turned around to face the door, it happened. She finally stopped thinking.

 

 

 

Avery Sauber is an eighth-grade student at Centennial Middle School in Minnesota. When she’s not doing schoolwork, she can often be found playing lacrosse, taking naps, or updating her personal book index -complete with title, page number, and publication date. She hopes to continue with her writing pursuits in the future.

Red velvet curtains; ornate, centuries-old windows; snobbish-yellow light washing the walls with nineteenth-century aristocracy; an ottoman and an intricate, plum-colored cushion; empty crystal vases; Persian carpet choked with antique dust … one couldn’t care less about the setting, glorified and mundane.

The subject sitting atop the ottoman, however, is far more compelling. She looks ahead with wide black eyes, this woman so similar to yet so incongruous with her backdrop. Her rings glisten gold and platinum, matching the colors of the thick frame surrounding her. Her hair is tightly pinned behind, not a single strand out of place. The camera is positioned toward her, with all intent of capturing more than just her beauty. Not just her lightly blushed rosewood cheeks smoothed over with layers of makeup, the luxurious folds of her brightly patterned dress, but also the creases of her hand, the tense grip in her jaw.

What has she been through to voyage all these leagues? Expulsion or persecution from her land, lack of support, a temporary sojourn in the first world…the possibilities flip through like stills. She is asked to turn a little more toward the westward window, where dwindling rays of sunlight fall upon her, illuminating irises like muddy rivers, beating violently against the boulders that constrict them. A glistening film coats those tumultuous eyes.

Weep, but don’t let those tears fall, woman—you cannot choose who sees them. Let them sit atop your lashes like morning dew.

She does not react to the first blinding flash. Her mouth is pinched into a small rosebud, her hands clasped tightly on her lap. Her skirt, intertwined with gold and red and violet, is frozen, unruffled by movement. Underneath the heavy volume of her dress, the outline of her legs becomes more apparent. She is thin, bony, constructed of scaffolding. The skin on her face hangs against her cheekbones, creating hollows her paint cannot hide.

Tremble, woman, but don’t rattle your seat.

Finally, an aperture: in between takes she exhales, mouth open. Within the gateway, cumulonimbus clouds pulsate dense grays and lash out lightning bolts. Gnarled, ancient trees with young lime-green foliage reach for the ceiling, bending before they can shatter it. She conceives universes she is too frail to hold. She yearns to release the wealth she carries inside, but the image she maintains is unrelenting.

Bleed, woman, but do it gracefully; don’t fall apart, or we cannot piece you back together again.

She shifts, pouring her life’s discomfort into the tilt of her foot she has been taught to maintain for years. Her joints creak in their limited span of movement. Her lips purse, stopping the whistle of air that fluted through her sighs. The gleam in her eyes disappears and she becomes the portrait the camera is supposed to create.

Where is the vibrancy of your youth, where you questioned the walls built before you? Where is the vigor that propelled you to climb them? Was it age that weakened your hands, that made you slip and tumble to a kneel? Who makes you crumble under the weight of his pronoun? Restricting your realm to the claustrophobic box of your mind, all the while taunting you with soft brushstrokes of foundation, creams, silk or cotton dresses and vibrant geometric patterns.  Stuffing you in this room…what are your origins whose primitive lies bind and gag you?

Woman, where is your essence? The colors inside you are locked within that golden chest surrounding you, key long lost. Look at you now, still-life fixture. Have you traveled this far to be an ornament clasped onto tradition?

But stay still. This is hardly the time to speak.

 

 

Nithya Ramcharan is a high school senior from New Orleans, Louisiana. She loves writing in her free time, along with drawing, playing the piano, and walking her dogs. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the Apprentice Writer.