Non-Fiction

I never knew a thing about Georgia in the fall, until we plowed through forests in a rental car, its silver exterior lightening and slackening in the cold October sun. I got this from him – that thought that if I play the same songs on the broken stereo, and bring up the same three stories I can count on to warrant a reaction, that the trees lining the road will blur until indistinguishable from sand or sleet or Dallas, Texas where my father and I had that car ride without the speed bumps, or anywhere else we’ve been before. Both of us, always burdened by a sweet tooth, a tongue craving only what it’s tasted before. This wasn’t the ride through San Pedro where he spilled confessions onto my hands, which were still learning about steering. It wasn’t the slope down into the Spring snow when he screamed at me with black ice under the Subaru tires, either. I was eighteen, I had learned how to admit things, and forgotten how to drive. He was somewhere between blond and gray, a man who knows better than to change. The most callused hands that ever held me, and the softest ones that ever let me down. My father, my killer, who taught me the difference between trusting and believing. I watched the silhouette of his weathered face as he drove north of Atlanta, where he was alone in another condo with the same coffee machine – motherless, daughterless. I never knew if he was thinking so much at once that it hardened his face and furrowed his brows, kept him looking mean, but tender, just as he was, just as I became. Or if he’d heard so much too soon that he’d learned to tune it out, to tune me out, and watch the road and the rearview instead, and maybe that was why we hadn’t seen each other in three months and he’d forgotten to ask me a single question. I knew better than to try to keep my father, to even try to speak to him. I knew my father through the thick, curving scars on his hands, from ocean rocks and dirty brothers’ fingertips, and through the fights we fought just for a reason to burn and to talk, while my good sister watched. He gave me his agony, his ecstasy, the cracks in the sidewalk, and the tendency to not rinse blood off of clothes. I got temporary constitutions, we preach and retract. I catch him when his words come out all at once and step on each other’s toes, I step on his foot but I’ve never asked him to stop speaking. He can’t walk fast enough for cities, and I can’t sit still, so we drive, it is the only thing we know how to do. It is the only way to stay in steady motion, the place where he is right and I am wrong, we are big and we are small. Nothing meant a thing to me about Georgia in the fall, except that it wasn’t New York in the winter, except that he put his heavy map of a hand on my knee, and my lips were parting into teeth and my eyes were damp with the depth of it all, and he would love it, and so I never let him know.

 

 

Lovisa Lohmann, has been writing short stories and poems ever since she was little. Anytime she feels anything, her first inclination is to write about it, so that she can capture it before it disappears, and make sense of it. She writes most about the people she’s close to, and writes exactly the way she thinks,— so showing people her writing is like showing them a little piece of the inside of her brain. This is her first time having anything published anywhere, and she’s working on learning how to share her work with other people.

 

 

From shows like Riverdale and Euphoria to all the bestselling young adult novels, the media is overflowing with depictions of steamy teenage romance. Sixteen and seventeen-year-old characters are shown to be entirely absorbed with the drama of their love lives, while the rest of their time is spent taking down the mafia (Riverdale), inciting nationwide rebellions (The Hunger Games) and engaging in other farfetched action that presents them as the exact opposite of normal teenagers.

Pioneered by iconic works such as Twilight and The Princess Diaries, this particular shade of teenage entertainment has been popular since the early 2000’s and is widely consumed by its target audience today. However, these books and scripts are written by adults; the shows and movies feature adult actors. When young people—already eager to grow up—are told that the gorgeous superstars on-screen are supposedly teenagers just like them, they seek to reproduce the same illusion of glamor and maturity, whether through acts of rebellion or the passionate romantic entanglements they have been convinced is normal for kids their age.

The hit 2019 HBO series Euphoria features some characters whose growth and conflict revolve almost completely around romance. A rift forms between two best friends, Maddy and Cassie, when Cassie develops an infatuation with Maddy’s boyfriend; cheating, arguing, and manipulating ensues. Both characters’ internal strife centers around their mutual desire for male validation—and while it is valuable to depict the common struggles that teenage girls face, as well as to present these characters as real, flawed people, to reduce the entirety of their characters to boy problems and “cat fights” is not.

Through word of mouth alone, it’s common in high schools to hear about so-and-so’s breakup and her fight with so-and-so, while many other couples break up within weeks or months. Shows like Euphoria, which cast beautiful actors in their mid-twenties and thirties to play high schoolers, contribute to the urge among teenagers to grow up as fast as possible.

Among others, a common way that young people think they can achieve this is by getting involved romantically. There is nothing inherently wrong with romance, but kids who have not yet reached emotional maturity are often unable to pay proper attention to a partner. Teenagers may find themselves going through the same exaggerated struggles of the characters in their favorite shows—though unlike the actors, they will experience real harm.

Though much less of a rough ride than Euphoria, the New York Times best-selling series and Netflix movie franchise To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before is just as inaccurate and misleading. Despite the initial emphasis on the protagonist’s mixed Korean and white heritage, Lara Jean’s racial identity is seriously glossed over. In the movies, it is essentially summarized in a brief hanbok montage (hanbok: a traditional Korean dress) with K-Pop playing in the background, and a few shots of her deceased—and apparently irrelevant—Korean mother. To top it all off, the actress cast as Lara Jean is not half-Korean at all, but is actually of Vietnamese descent.

Rather than devoting some time to flesh out Lara Jean as a character—and her identity as an Asian one—the series makes her sexy jock love interest the focal point of the story. The boy and Lara Jean make out in a hot tub; Lara Jean defeats his ex, the jealous popular girl. There is nothing wrong with To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before in its most basic form, which both at its heart and on the surface is cute entertainment for young girls. What makes it problematic is the bland, one-dimensional protagonist that Jenny Han has written to lead it, and while unintentionally, she is normalizing the lack of goals or personality in female characters beyond romantic love that is already a common feature of modern entertainment.

In reality, a romantic relationship is more than just two people’s interactions; both are already their own persons, with interests and beliefs that exist beyond the sphere of their partner. To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before is just one example of an unfortunate lack of such depictions in teen entertainment.

Chances of a development, however, are far from slim, and we can always hope to see changes as the world of entertainment evolves every day. Until then, teenagers should by all means continue to enjoy their favorite books and shows. But they should take care to differentiate reality from fiction.

 

 

Ming Wei Yeoh is a sophomore at Minnetonka High School in Minnesota. She edits and occasionally writes for the school paper. Her dream is a career in journalism and creative writing.

 

*This essay previously appeared in the Chanhassen (MN) Villager *

 

I used to know a kid called Terry Kay Drew who was always angry. Angry because his parents had given him two girl names and only one boy name. Angry because his parents were getting divorced after Christmas. Angry in a way that it made Terry Kay so crazy he thought the world was going to end.

It was a Thursday in grade school, and Terry said, “The world’s ending tomorrow.” He’d gotten all worked up over some sort of documentary he’d watched.

We were at recess, watching the fifth-graders pummel each other at kickball. Supposedly, the Mayans had predicted the apocalypse thousands of years ago, and it was landing on Friday, the 21st of December. The 21st also happened to be the day of our fractions test, but Terry claimed there was no use studying since the world would be on fire by midnight. I had a crush on Terry most days, so I threw away all my math papers in agreement.

The school wouldn’t cancel outdoor recess unless it was below twenty degrees, and snowflakes were getting caught in Terry’s eyelashes. I think the cold has always made me feel braver. Made my blood flow slower to my brain, made me say stupid things.
“It’s so beautiful right now.”
Terry paused, blinking, and all those snowflakes wobbled and fell.
He asked, “What’re you gonna remember when it’s all gone?”
Snowflakes, Terry. You.

*

Almost exactly six months before the world was supposed to end, Lonesome George, the last of the Pinta Island tortoises, died. I snuck downstairs after my parents fell asleep to watch a TV special on him. The Pinta Island species was considered extinct from the beginning of Lonesome George’s forty years in captivity. I wondered if George knew he was the last of his kind, an endling. The caretakers at Charles Darwin Research Station saran-wrapped and froze George, and express-mailed his corpse to the American Museum of Natural History. George was stuffed and mounted so that his loneliness might be preserved forever. He would keep dying his infinite death and be made immortal after the end.

My pediatrician had a fishbowl in her office which housed a quarter-sized turtle called Fred (a sorrier version of Lonesome George). Fred had been put into solitary confinement after trying to mate with other turtles in the main lobby’s reptile tank. After a while, he retreated into his shell and never came back out. The receptionist wrapped Fred in a spreadsheet and threw him in the trash can.

I think puberty gave me the posture of a turtle. For one, my underbite got worse, and I started to shrink into my backpack when scared. Every Friday after school, a nurse had to coax me out of my sweater-shell by offering me Polly Pockets, and would then proceed to drown me in industrial-grade eye drops. The nurse said the infection could take my vision, so I decided to practice becoming blind.  At home, I stumbled along hallways with my eyes pinched shut, making lists of what I wanted to see if the end was truly coming.

I remember that once, on the way back from an eye appointment, we gave Terry a ride home. We were driving by the school, and Ma spotted him lying beneath the monkey bars. He’d been waiting three hours for his mother to pick him up. In the car, Terry sat pressed against the window and drew expletives in the fog from his breath.

None of us ever mentioned Terry’s mother. Terry’s mother, who everyone knew was a bit unhinged. Terry’s mother, who hadn’t left the house since her husband filed for divorce. She believed there were aliens on Pluto and that Amelia Earhart crash-landed in the Bermuda Triangle. Later, we found out Terry’s mother maxed out her credit card because she was so convinced the world was going to end in 2012.

For Terry, the world had started ending a long time ago. Doomsday was everywhere: in his mother’s neglect, his father’s nightly stays on the couch, the court date after winter break. Doomsday was in the front door that was never locked, that opened to a house reeking of dog pee and suburban decay.

It had felt like doomsday too that time Terry sacrificed bugs in the playground, as an offering to the worm gods to save my eyes. He tried to comfort me by saying there wouldn’t be much to see anyways once the world ended. I thought about asking Terry if he ever got the same feeling, the breathlessness of loam spilled into throat.

I thought about how on Friday, December 21st, Lonesome George would die another time. I thought about Lonesome George, whose world had ended six months ago and wouldn’t stop ending.

*

Terry covered my eyes with his hands, and for a second, I thought I’d already gone blind.
“That’s what it’s gonna be like tomorrow,”  Terry said as he dug a hole next to his house, which was a street down from mine. The air was different in Terry’s part of the neighborhood. It had that half-new, half-hopeful smell of discount clothes.

The Mayans made grand pyramids and temples, some of the only proof they even existed. Maybe the Mayans predicted the end of their civilization and built all those palaces out of the fear of being forgotten.

Terry wanted to leave something behind too. Our legacy was to be in mulch monuments and plastic megaliths. We buried a Gatorade bottle filled with spit and all my best Nerf guns for archaeologists or martian conquerers to find.

Lonesome George’s caretakers tried everything to prevent the end of the Pinta Island tortoises. In an attempt to preserve George’s genotype, they mated him with two Volcán Wolf giant tortoises. All the offspring were inviable. Maybe after George turned to dust, his DNA would be returned to the atmosphere.

*

In 2012, Reuters reported that one in seven people were convinced the world would end in their lifetime.

*

At 11:39 p.m. on Thursday, just before the end of the world, Terry Kay Drew knocked on my patio door.
He handed me a bicycle helmet, saying it would give us a better chance at surviving the shower of moon rocks.
I told Terry about how scientists were trying to resurrect Lonesome George using the DNA of closely related tortoises.
I asked, “Do you think anyone will try to bring us back once we’re gone?”
Terry pulled the helmet over my ears and I closed my eyes. I grabbed his hand, which was sweaty, and we hid under the patio furniture. Waiting for the end, or something like that.

 

 

Caroline Wu is a young writer from Central Ohio. Her work has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and Kenyon Young Writers Workshop.

 

 

We spent most of last summer somewhere between the kitchen, the Walmart parking lot, and her white-silver Audi. On the kitchen island, our feet dangling in the thick air, on the tile floor, our backs pressed against her mahogany cabinets, dark red varnish with nice silver knobs. The Walmart in our Illinois town, and, when we grew tired of looking at bruised produce, the Walmart in the town ten minutes over. One weekend, on a whim, she picked me up from work and we drove to Milwaukee. Midnight, new smells, beer signs, my mother blowing up my phone, and still, we ended up in a Walmart. This is the great fucking thing about Walmarts, she said. The ubiquity. You travel states away and your home is through the automatic doors. Who knew Wisconsinites ate the same instant oatmeal as us.

The employees at our home Walmart must have noticed our repeated presence, our slouchy pace, but we didn’t rearrange shelves, or cause commotion, and we bought at least one item per trip, even if that item cost three dollars, so they left us alone. I say that we bought. Really, it was always her, for the same reasons that we drove in her car and used her card for gas and sat on her marble kitchen countertop. She bought the same thing every time, a small flimsy cardboard box, which contained a chocolate egg, a scrap of paper, and, inside the egg, a plastic Peppa Pig, dressed in one of sixteen fun thematic outfits.

In late July, my parents were divorced. They sat me down to give me the talk, but I had known what was coming, the dining table crusted over, the kitchen walls sweating, and our lawn wouldn’t stop dying, even though my mother paid a nice college boy to treat it with an emerald-green solution. We love you very much, said my father. This doesn’t change that. I nodded back at him. Ran my thumb over Princess Peppa in my pocket. Texted her with my other thumb. Come pick me up.

You’re being quiet and weird, she said in the Audi, her foot heavy on the gas. Stop it.

I apologized. Thought of Chef Peppa and Pirate Peppa standing two inches tall on my windowsill. That summer I picked them up and shuffled them every night before bed, as if they cared about movement. I thought of Nurse Peppa. You have to turn bedbound patients every hour, she might say. Or else they’ll develop sores. My head started to hurt. I imagined Pirate Peppa’s eyepatch, brimmed hat, raggedy striped shirt. Eye on the horizon. Everything shifting under.

It’s been an autumn and a winter since that summer, so the details of each of the sixteen figures escape me, although there was a time when I knew them, could spot a Peppa from a mile away. Actually, much of that summer escapes me. I turn to my camera roll and find nothing, because I never thought to reach for it, in those days, perhaps deemed nothing worth keeping, at least not with a third party. She gave me approximately one of every six figurines, keeping the rest, although she must have had doubles and triples of some characters. I lined every one of mine up on my windowsill, plastic cartoons smiling towards my bed. Although she came to my room at least twice during the summer, she never noticed.

In her kitchen she pulled out another cardboard box, unopened, sealed with a dab of tape. My mom got it for me, she said. I didn’t go without you. Although I could. Another bolt of pain ripped through my head. She noticed me wince. You need to stop drinking Polar, she says. That’s what gives you those headaches. It’s the bubbles. Straight through your bloodstream.

Stop drinking my Polar, I heard. I paused in my path towards her fridge. Sat back on the floor. Turned my parents over in my head, like a wind-up doll, tried to turn the key, familiarize her with the contours of their juddering movements. I need a divorced Peppa to explain, I thought to myself. A Peppa with a removable ring-piece. Immediately I dismissed this as ridiculous. There are no interactive Peppas.

She bit carefully into the egg, split it down the seam. It cracked into two neat pieces. Inside: the familiar curl of paper. Sixteen printed Peppas, side by side. She dropped the paper onto the floor, where later the housekeeper swept it up, where later I fidgeted uncomfortably, unsure whether to move to make space for her broom. Do you think, I said, and then stopped. She didn’t look at me, but she stopped disassembling the egg. This was how I knew she was listening. Why, I said to the back of her head, do you think you buy stuff like this?

An awful pause. Then her fingertips resumed. Look, she said, look, forget that. It’s Knight Peppa!

I celebrated appropriately. The moment slipped past. The housekeeper came and went like I knew she would. Through her kitchen windows I could see the lush greenness of her backyard, the spiraling hedges, the bursting gardenias, the morning glories winding up trellises sturdier than most city buses.

You have chocolate on your teeth, I told her.

Do I? she responded, swiping her tongue over her upper lip. Did I get it?

No.

Yes, I told her. Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, you have it.

 

Anne (she/hers) is a high school senior from Chicago, Illinois. She can occasionally be found on Twitter at @anneechen1 and has never eaten a radish.

 

In my girl group’s high school coming-of-age movie, I’m the Token Gay character. You know–that comedic relieving gay best friend that is only in the movie for the pride points and the main character’s support. While I do know a few other lesbians, all of my best friends happen to be straight (shocker: not every gay person is friends with every gay person). As a high schooler, friendships are a huge part of my life. My best friends keep me from stressing about finding tablemates at lunch, finding partners for projects, and finding roommates for field trips. Not to mention all the tears, fears, and secrets we’ve shared. These girls are my sisters at heart and their friendship is nothing short of a blessing.

But, being the only lesbian in a friend group of straight girls can be…well…queer (please excuse the pun). It’s not that my friends have ever had any problem with my sexuality. We’ve all been very open and interested to hear about each other’s different walks of life, and we celebrate that. Still, there is a certain loneliness that comes with being the gay friend. I never share the giggles that erupt as the apparently “cute” boys walk by like my other friends do. I don’t get to jokingly make fun of my friend’s crushes without hearing that I couldn’t understand it anyways. I don’t feel that same rush of uncertainty and hopefulness around school dances due to the severe drought of queer people at my school. Of course, none of this is my friends’ faults. There’s simply a barrier of understanding that straight people and lgbtq+ people have yet to transcend.

Being queer as a teenager can feel as if that High School Musical life you imagined as a kid is passing you by, or like it was never built for you in the first place. A queer person who “peaked in high school” is virtually unheard of. And while it’s true that high school is an all-inclusive hell and that many straight people suffer it as well, they can at least have a hopeful chance at that Prom Court Dream while queer people are forced to accept their reality as the pre-dance decorators. Along with popularity and external validation, that Prom Court Dream is about something else: The Knowing. The Knowing is the consciousness that this is where I’m meant to be. The Knowing is the assurance that I will be fine wherever I go. The Knowing is this abstract feeling that if people like me enough to put a plastic crown on my head in a school gym, then I’m probably doing okay in life.

Unfortunately, it takes more than a plastic crown to reach The Knowing, it takes community. The best way to find who you are is to find others who understand your reality. While my straight friends try to do this for me–and I appreciate their efforts–there are certain realities we will never be able to see for each other. They don’t know the stress of rummaging through outfits, looking for one that seems “gay” enough for me to feel seen. They don’t understand the meticulous dissections lesbians must undergo to figure out whether we’re talking to another lesbian, or just a really nice girl. They don’t see the furrow of my brow as I listen to a straight girl complain about how “unfortunate” her attraction to men is and how she “wishes she were a lesbian.” I think that’s why high school is such a bleak place for most queer people. We don’t know others like us so we don’t feel seen. We don’t feel understood. We don’t feel Known.

Although this may all seem a frivolous issue, suicide rates and attempts in lgbtq+ youth are disproportionately higher than their straight counterparts, which can likely be attributed to the incessant loneliness that is high school for a queer person. If we could build a sense of community and belonging for queer teens in school, I believe we would be much closer to solving the suicide epidiemic. Straight friends of the world, try to listen, see, and understand–even failed attempts mean more than you can understand. And for people like me, I hold the knowledge that high school is temporary and that we will find each other when we are meant to. Somewhere out there, there is another person understanding, seeing, and Knowing.

 

 

Lydia is an aspiring writer from North Carolina. She hopes her writing will serve as the sign someone is looking for.

I still saw Cormac for a while after he died. Always as I slept. The dream always followed the same basic timeline. It was the last time I ever spoke to him. In the dream, as it was in real-life, I am unaware that in a week or two he would fall from his bicycle on the Luas line between Harcourt Street and Charlemont and his warm, kind heart would be stopped forever.

I met him outside Theatre L in University College Dublin’s Arts Block. I was on my way to a lecture and saw him furiously typing emails – presumably about some sort of rally or protest to take place soon. I stopped and I spoke to him at length – those who know me will know how much I talk; those who know Cormac will know how much he talked too. There is no surprise whatsoever that I ended up fifteen minutes late for that lecture. It was a Critical Theory module, something I suspect Cormac would have found intensely interesting.

When I emerged, he was still there. Still bashing away at the keyboard. I spoke to him again. He was about to leave for the City Centre, to Leinster House. He had recently been elected Chair of Labour Youth. I got the slight feeling I was keeping him from his work so we agreed to go for a pint soon. Then I left.

It is odd to think that not long after that, Cormac would no longer be around. It is equally strange at this point to imagine that Covid-19 was never a factor in his life. He never experienced the mask-wearing, the lockdowns, the itching for a pint. The ongoing pandemic has become such a by-and-by of everyday life that it is hard to imagine that there are people who never had to consider such things. I often wonder what he would have made of it all.

I had that dream on a few occasions. Sleep has always been a tricky enough negotiation for me. Up until that point, I experienced intermittent bouts of insomnia. This happened every few months – maybe three or four times a year. The insomnia was replaced by this dream.

For a while I considered the idea that this was not a dream at all and that it was time-travel instead. The consistency of the timeline within the dream – as well as the fact that, during the dream, I did not know what was about to happen – puzzled me. It made some amount of sense that this was entirely real, and that I was reliving this event by time-travelling back to it, in a Groundhog Day sort of fashion. Ultimately, whether or not it was time-travel is irrelevant – once I was up, life goes on as usual, and Cormac has not returned. I checked several times. I admit now that nothing will ever be different simply because of a dream I had.

About a month after Cormac died, I went to Berlin for the weekend with some friends. The ins and outs of that trip are fuzzy and unclear (and to be honest I’d like to keep it that way). When I got home, a bout of insomnia followed, but this time, the occasions where I did sleep were marked by night terrors. Night terrors are no fun whatsoever. This lasted for about ten days. I was a ghost haunting UCD’s campus during that time. At some point, however, amidst the night terrors and insomnia, I had another dream about Cormac. This one was different. On this occasion, we were still outside Theatre L, but nobody else was around. It also looked slightly paled, as if a graphic designer had toned everything down. Another big difference was that everything seemed slowed down. Not quite in slow-motion, like in a film, but slightly off the pace of real-life. That’s how I know it was a dream and not time-travel.

This time, I knew what was going to happen – that Cormac was not long for this world. I don’t think he knew. I don’t know why I didn’t try to warn him. Maybe it’s because I knew it was a dream.

We talked for a long time. About unimportant stuff, in the grand scheme of things – but don’t they always turn out to be the conversations you remember most?

After a while, I knew it was time to go. I knew what was going to happen to him, but there was no long-winded ‘goodbye’ or any of that. There was a brief “see you later”, and I gave him a hug, and I left. I have not seen him since.

My insomnia has not returned since those couple of weeks. Maybe, in dealing with my dream about Cormac, something else was put to bed, too.

We have spent the last year or so living with various levels of Covid-19 restrictions. Cormac did not live long enough to see any of this happen. As I mentioned, it is strange to think that a person I went to school with has gone before the most seismic event in living memory. Cormac died in December 2019 and I have tried to write about it many times since, but always failed. I wonder what he would have made of the year that has happened since.

Patrick Freyne wrote that the death of a schoolfriend caused, for him, a realisation that you can die in a stupid, meaningless way. Until I read those words I did not know that I had the same realisation. When I was a teenager I used to cross the road without looking and weave in and out of passing cars as I did so. I don’t know when I stopped doing this, or whether it has anything to do with this epiphany. I do know I haven’t done it since then. This may also just be a factor of me growing up – though the people closest to me would tell you that is yet to happen.

Recently I dreamt about death for the first time in a long time. In this instance, it was me who was dying. I was brought into a room by a doctor and told that I had about a month left. There was nothing in the way of diagnosis or explanation, besides the fact that I was, indeed, dying. This information, ultimately, changed very little. I still went to work. I still walked every day. I still did everything I usually do except I was very sad whilst doing it.

In this dream, I received a call from my optometrist to tell me that I was due another eye test. For some reason, I went along with it. Though I was going to be dead in a few weeks, I scheduled an appointment for a week after I was supposed to already be dead. This reminded me of life more broadly. Nietschze might argue that art is a howl against death. I would argue that everyday life itself is a quiet rebuttal of death. We are all going to die. What is everyday life – listening to the radio, kissing a partner, petting a dog – if not a modest decision to cold-shoulder our date with eternity?

I woke up before I reached the end of this dream – that is, before I died. I think that’s the point. I like to think I have a gentle awareness that someday I am going to die, but that I am not anxious or death-stricken.

Richard Dawkins, the unwavering atheist, wrote that “we are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones.” Dawkins was not anxious nor was he death-stricken or racing towards life’s finish-line with vigour. What he meant was that the potential number of people who could have been here instead – instead of you, instead of me – means that the fact we get to experience death itself means we have experienced life. That certainly makes us the lucky ones.

I’m sure there are more dreams to come about death. I have not dreamt about Cormac in a year, but I can still imagine his face, still hear his voice. One day, that will fade. For now, at least, he is as alive as anybody else inside my head.

 

 

Shane McDonnell is a student from Dublin. He is studying English with Creative Writing at University College Dublin. His work has appeared in Sonder Magazine, Silver Apples Magazine, The Wells Street Journal, The New Word Order, ‘Brevity is the Soul: Wit from Lockdown Ireland’ and Caveat Lector.