Non-Fiction

The bustling sounds of the cafe swirl together with the pleasant aroma of freshly-baked croissants and imported coffee. I sit on a barstool that’s too tall for me; fingers drumming idly against the hardwood countertop as the Torontonians mill outside in the sub-zero weather. After I grab my drink, the barista and I exchange smiles as I retreat back to my perch; content to people-watch in the wifi-free cafe. The couple in the corner share a mocha, the vivacious group of teens fool around with their whipped cream; swiping dollops off each others’ cups. The child shrieks as he burns his tongue on the hot chocolate and his mother laughs as she braves a sip of her coffee. I sit happily with my elbows propped up against the table and my London Fog in one hand. With each sip, the warmth spreads throughout my body, imbuing me with newfound strength like a gentle hug. My body relaxes; exhausted after a long day of school, and my mind slips back into buried memories of places I’ve been. Places that don’t even seem real to me now.

Tea and coffee, it’s so simple, isn’t it? Something so pure, a part of lives across the globe. Six places. Six experiences. Wildly different, yet all united by a common thread.

〜✧〜

In Toronto, it’s routine. The amorphous blob of commuters rushing through Union Station, snippets of conversation flitting through the air like butterflies. There’s a small stand in the corner by the GO train platforms, tucked away and temporary.

In Toronto, coffee and tea are usually just means to an end. The byproducts of study sessions at Starbucks, furious all-nighters, the nervous hours before an exam. Simply for the aesthetic sometimes, the look of having a drink in your hand. It’s that thing you only drink for the little boost of caffeine; a stimulant to keep you awake. The drink is only there as a necessity to keep you awake in the morning, keep you running through the day.

Of course, there’s beauty in it as well. Beauty in holding the cup close to your face, the steam warming frozen skin as you chat with your friend. There’s the beauty of being a regular at a local coffee shop, the barista knowing exactly what you enjoy.

The whole notion of bigger is better, with the fancy lattes and frappuccinos. Drinks that are almost as much sugar and fake saccharine syrups as they are coffee, but to some, they still taste wonderful. There’s that amiable, beautiful culture of individuality in places, accented with the warm, inviting aroma that welcomes you with wide-open arms.

〜✧〜

In Saudi Arabia, it’s pure. قهوة عربية (qahwah arabiyya) they call it; Arabic coffee. Served in ornate tea sets, gold handles and shining teacups that sparkle as if touched by the stars themselves. The beauty is in the serving of it, not simply the drink. It’s constantly there, at breakfasts and social gatherings, served in those elaborate glasses.

The drink itself is bitter and dark, a pitch black colour that mirrors the night sky. An acerbic liquid that flows down your throat, the taste of sugar notably absent. It’s not unpleasant in the slightest, it brings a certain aroma of purity, tainted only slightly with hints of cardamom, and other rich Middle Eastern spices.

〜✧〜

In Italy, it’s espresso served in cups smaller than the palm of your hand. Somewhere off the coast of Positano, there are jagged cliffs where small vibrant houses in a stunning array of colours sit. At the place where the cliffs meet the vast expanse of glistening water, there is a small town. Lemon trees and small dinghies dot the shoreline where a coffee shop sits, filled with neighbourhood residents and tourists alike.

Some old men lounge there, on creaky white plastic chairs under a large umbrella (although it is not raining or sunny) with small cups of late-afternoon espresso in their hands. They’re talking animatedly, catching up on something I will never know.

It’s a bitter sharp taste, strong with a smell that packs a punch. It can be downed quickly, and gets your head buzzing a million miles an hour. I’ve always found the machines the most fascinating, though. Hulking contraptions of gleaming metal; hissing, steaming, brewing, and doing all sorts of fantastic things that somehow translate into a wonderful cup of coffee.

The coffee itself is so varied, based on the different times of the day. Milky is for the morning, and espresso is for any time of day. It’s as much of a social call as it is a drink, and the delicious coffee is as smooth as the words of the company brought by friends and family.

〜✧〜

In Istanbul, Turkey, it’s black tea, and the most delicious apple tea I have tasted to date. It’s not just a drink there, it’s a way of greeting, so ingrained in that society it’s almost considered rude to refuse.

Walk into the lobby of a boutique hotel to check in? Why yes, I would love some tea!

The tinkling sound of silver chimes as the door to a carpet shop opens, and suddenly a tea-tray with small cups of black tea appears. Glasses that curl perfectly in the palm of your hand and golden spoons with ornate handles to stir in saffron sugar cubes. Sitting on plush cushions, surrounded by hand-woven oriental carpets of deep, royal colours, the sweet tea gives way to soft conversation, doted with the sharp notes of the drink.

The tiny glasses are practically expected, wherever you go. It’s the famous tea, or apple tea if you’re young, that marks the conversation and the experience in every new place.

Bottomless, tinted with an array of different spices, each sip like fireworks of flavour in your mouth.

Prepared with the utmost care, shaken with a perfectly steady hand, pride taken in a good cup of a drink that’s synonymous with the country itself. It’s part of the culture, with its absolutely gorgeous flavours, so prominent wherever you go.

So simple, yet it’s still such a specific taste; one that you yearn for even when it’s been years. It’s world famous and so divine that even when you barely remember what it was, you still recall that it was something beautiful.

〜✧〜

In Egypt, it’s strong and sweet, with a pitch black colour. The light feeling of the Egyptian tea and copious amounts of sugar taste good together, the black tea exciting your taste buds all the way through.

It’s a strange idea, drinking scalding tea in a boiling hot country, yet somehow the liquid feels good against the blistering heat, the sandy expanse.

It’s a hazy memory, of a warm day and the sight of towering pyramids in the distance. The smell of sand and fresh sizzling meat on the jam-packed streets of Cairo. The thick scent of car exhaust fumes mixed with that of the perfume stores. A small side-of-the-road restaurant with a neon orange shopfront that served the creamiest pasta, and a bittersweet black tea that came in small yellow satchets.

〜✧〜

At home, it’s achingly familiar, a presence I haven’t lived without. Pakistani chai; half milk, half strongly brewed black tea, and some white sugar. A dark caramel colour, and a smooth milkiness that tastes like home.

I’ve been carrying it for as long as I can remember. In the evenings, to my parents, at functions, to my family. After dinner, there’s always a call around the group as to who wants tea, and at a certain age, it’s almost a proud feeling when you get asked, like you’re now officially a bit older.

It’s not like it is in Toronto’s culture, where you have to be “old enough” to drink caffeine. My childhood was dotted with sips, it was a conversation piece. It’s not so much as something to keep you going fast, it’s something to slow down upon. Siting with a cup of tea in your hand, surrounded by friends and family, the floating feeling of fervent joy invoked by being surrounded by loved ones. That’s the feeling that accompanies tea in my culture.

It’s sweet and creamy, not bitter, fruity, or ridden with any exotic spices. It runs across your tongue like the smoothest honey and scalds your tongue if you drink it too early. It’s the mark of happy post-dinner conversation, stretching late into the dwindling evening.

〜✧〜

As rich in history as they are in taste, these drinks stretch across continents, political lines, and cultural divides. We’re brought together by this simple act, the drinking of tea or coffee. And it varies so much among the 7+ billion people on this earth.

Tea, chai, te, thee, شاي, thé, coffee, espresso, قهوة عربية, café, kaffe, kava, kafè, whatever it is you call it, we all love to drink it. It’s so familiar, to so many people, and it’s unbelievably exciting to see how it tastes in the countless other places across the world.

 

I savour the last sip of my tea latte, watching the residue of the tea leaves and the moisture at the bottom of the cup run together like ink on a wet paper. The cafe seems silent for a moment, all the little conversations are just background noise as my mind wanders back to all the places I’ve seen. I smile, and think fondly about everywhere else I have yet to see.

So let’s go.

 

 

Alisha Ahmed is a high schooler from Toronto, Canada. She loves long car rides with friends, the view of the city at night, stargazing, and going to different cafes in cities around the world. Alisha can often be spotted thriving at the library or in a bookstore, curled up in a corner reading The Great Gatsby while drinking a mug of black tea. Her work is forthcoming in Advance, Three Drops from a Cauldron, and Plum Tree Tavern.

Dear Greta,

You don’t have obsessive-compulsive disorder. Saying so would be self-diagnosis, and you’re not allowed to do that. Your mom almost forbade you to use the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders for research because she was afraid it would cause hypochondria. Don’t prove her right. Everything you’re doing is normal.

Examine your hands. When you make a fist, the crevices turn white. Your knuckles are white and bumpy and the skin around them is patchy red. Your skin is cracking, which shouldn’t surprise you— you’ve been washing your hands repeatedly because you can’t get sick this winter. Sickness would make you miss school and that would make you fail. If you missed school, you wouldn’t know what to do. You’d fall behind and you wouldn’t be able to catch up, so go wash your hands again. You don’t want to fail, do you?

Don’t bother using the Country Apple lotion this time. It won’t heal your hands, only prevent the cracks from bleeding for another day. Besides, it will make your pens and pencils slide out of your hand, so it’s not safe to use until you’re done writing.

Speaking of writing, have you finished your homework? Keep your lined paper out— you have to study for history. Grab two colored pens, a pencil, an eraser, and a white-out pen. Start by writing the chapter heading and the first term on the list in one colored pen. Scrawl everything you know about the term in pencil, and then check your notes. Add everything you forgot in the second colored pen. Repeat for each term; the finished guide will only be five or six pages. Think of this as preparation for the twenty- page guide you’ll make for finals. When you’re done, you’ll know the chapter, but you should still force your father and your friends to quiz you. You were told to get a good GPA freshman year, which means don’t get anything less than perfect. It’ll be impossible to get into college otherwise.

When you’re satisfied, put the guide in your accordion folder and take out your laptop. Open up your novel. Tomorrow is workshop day and you need something for the others to read. They sometimes skip a week, but that’s not a valid excuse for you. You need to write.

Your main character is Julius, and he does have obsessive-compulsive disorder. He’s not like you. You don’t. No one has diagnosed you, so disregard the signs. Ignore the time you yelled at your dad for plating your waffles because you didn’t see him wash his hands. Anyone would have. Ignore all the times you ordered your ice cream in a cup instead of a cone because your hands weren’t clean and you didn’t want to touch your food. When everyone else gets cones, they’re not being safe. Your so-called abnormal habits are the only thing keeping you healthy and passing your classes. Listen to me: you don’t have obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Put on some music while you write. You’ve made a playlist for Julius with songs like “Monster” by Imagine Dragons and “Control” by Halsey. You couldn’t relate to him otherwise— you haven’t turned into a monster. There are no demons or awful energy in you. There’s just me.

Write about a test like the one you’re taking tomorrow— a test that could ruin your future. That’s not a rare thing. Every test could ruin your future. Write about checking answers multiple times and still fearing your grades. Write about feeling that something is impossible and having that fear make it impossible. Write about the things I make you do because everyone should do them. They’re normal.

When you don’t know what to write, don’t take a break. Keep writing. You believe in your ability to write in a way that you haven’t believed in your ability to do anything in a long time. If you want that belief to stay, you can’t stop.

Don’t allow making your characters hurt— making them wash their hands a thousand times and have intrusive thoughts and lie in bed just staring at the ceiling because they have too many thoughts to sleep— let you stop hurting. Don’t stop rubbing your hands raw with sanitizer just because you need those hands to write. You also need health to write. Don’t turn your intrusive thoughts into story ideas. What if this campfire burns down the forest shouldn’t become what if the government sends a group of hydromancers to stop wildfires in California? You need to focus on finding the fire extinguisher just in case. Don’t tell yourself you can work out a plotline at night— do it now. You know that when you go to bed you’ll be too busy thinking about everything you’ve done wrong, ever.

Writing for school took your sanity, so don’t think writing for yourself is going to give it back. Not that you have obsessive-compulsive disorder, of course.

Sincerely,

Your Mind

 

Greta Starling is a high school sophomore. She enjoys reading and writing; some of her favorite books are by Adam Silvera and Becky Albertalli. She has been writing for most of her life but this is her first time being published. Follow her on Instagram at @greta_writes.

 

Crossing the Continental Divide is my idea. In the past year, I’ve attended two bar mitzvahs and, watching my friends being welcomed into the land of adults—or something like it—I feel like I’m missing out. My family isn’t religious, so there’ll be no ceremony to mark my own passage from childhood. Casting about for a way to prove my mettle, I picture myself straddling the definitive ridge at 13,000 feet and somehow talk my dad into going.

This is our first trip with just the two of us. Our usual hiking companions can’t make it this time, and we know better than to ask my mom, who has a long list of reasons she thinks our beloved pastime is crazy. My dad and I have been backpacking together since I was nine, mostly in Tennessee, North Carolina, and our home state of Georgia. We meet hikers from all over on these trails, and it’s not like passing someone on the street. There’s an instant connection, a sense of community and common objective. We strike up a conversation with anyone we encounter. We unite to tackle common challenges. Hiking the Conasauga River Trail when I was thirteen, we had to ford the river more than thirty times in thirteen miles, assisting some nervous hikers whose names we never caught. A lush canopy of trees hovers above these southern trails, so it feels to me as if we’re all exploring a protected world together.

After flying to Colorado, Dad and I catch a train in Durango and get off at a trailhead in the San Juan Mountains. From there we plan to spend six days making a loop in the Weminuche Wilderness. On each trip we’ve taken, I’ve carried more in my pack, and now, at fourteen, I split the load evenly with my dad. We bring just the essentials: tent, sleeping bags, water purification system, dishes, utensils, stove, first aid kit, food, and a food canister to keep bears away. And, because June is early in the season, we’ve brought an ice ax and crampons to help us traverse any lingering snow.

I can’t get over the immensity of sky out west. Without the familiar tree canopy, I feel like the shell of my known world has been peeled back. The only other humans we see are thru-hikers making their way from Mexico to Canada. They’ve been charting their progress to arrive at the high elevations in Colorado just as the snow becomes passable. Their entire journey will take four to five months. We share some food with them, and after they move on my dad says I’ll have to make that 3,100-mile trek with my friends.

Dad’s a quiet man. When he spots something noteworthy he lets out a little laugh, and I know to look in the direction of his nod. As we hike along a ridge, we see melting snow forming icy blue pools on the plateaus below us. The sun-warmed water spills off the mountainside, creating cataracts that rush into the canyon. Some of the beauty sneaks up on us. We trudge toward a field that looks from a distance like a swath of unremarkable green. When we get up close, yellow and white wildflowers turn their faces to us, like shy girls who still know they’re pretty.

With a starting point of 8,900 feet, we climb thousands of feet every day, but with all the ups and downs from ridge to ridge most days we lose nearly as much as we gain in elevation. When we hit 12,000 feet, a thick pad of snow, packed down by its own weight, coats the trail. But the path reveals itself to us, and we never quite lose our way.

On the third day, we reach the Continental Divide. My dad takes a photo of me with one foot on either side of the boundary, and then we head on. The terrain is no different.

It’s when we’re ascending a pass on the fourth day that Dad runs out of steam. For years, I had to run to catch up to him. Now, he lacks the strength to carry his pack. I carry my own pack 400 meters, then set it down and run back and shoulder my dad’s. I do this for about three miles, while he slowly makes his way up the trail.

When we reach our campsite, we rest for a long time before I set up the tent and make dinner. A flame-bright sunset outlining the mountaintops dissolves into boundless space as the weary sky casts down her first bright star, silvery and steady. Thousands more trail behind. And we both let out a little laugh at the beauty just out of reach.

 

Stephen Thomas Fuller lives in Marietta, Georgia. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Straylight, Defiant Scribe, and the Kenyon Review Young Writers Anthology. He plans to major in chemical engineering, and he spends way too much time daydreaming about extravagant backpacking adventures.

A few years ago, I heard a quote that Mr. Rogers had said about what happens when tragedy hits: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping’” (Fred Rogers). This quote took me back to the day of June 1st, 2011. I woke up thinking it would be a normal day. I went to school and once leaving I noticed the greenish eerie tint the sky held. It was an extremely hot and humid day, so a thunderstorm to change this was long overdue. I walked a mile home like I did every day and once home I was greeted with my grandmother rushing me inside. She informed me with a quiver in her voice that there had been tornado warnings.

The weather alert alarm is a noise I will never forget. To this day, whenever I am watching T.V. and the test alarms come on, my heart races, and my mind goes back to the day of the tornado. After a half hour of watching my two brothers and I, my grandmother began to sense our unease as we looked out at the green sky, wondering if the warnings were something we should take seriously. In a panic, we called my mother, who was late getting home due to traffic.

She answered the phone as if nothing was wrong. She said calmly, “We get these warnings every year,— we live in Massachusetts! We have nothing to worry about.” By the time she got home, the calm in her voice had vanished. She had heard that the tornado had formed, and we had minimal time before it came our way. She grabbed snacks and rushed us into the basement knowing we could be down there for a while. From the basement, we heard the roaring winds and loud thunderous sounds. It was as if a God was banging on the sky. I looked out the tiny window we had in the top left corner of my basement and saw debris flying all over and witnessed the windows of my mother’s car shatter. I looked away, hiding my face. We began to pray, “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit, Ame– CRASH!” All we could hear was glass shattering, and the crashing of an object into our house. We huddled and attempted to wait for it to all pass, but knew our house was in a fragile state and worried it could not stand any more of the storm.

My mom stood up and told us to follow her. She told us that we were going to huddle, stay together, and run to my neighbor’s house, hoping their living conditions were better than ours. I knew from the sound of the crash that our house was in bad shape, but I never would have thought I would walk up the basement stairs to see a fully grown pine tree taking up the space of my living room. My younger brother yelled, “It smells like Christmas in here!” not old enough to realize the tragedy that just occurred. We were all in shock but came out of it quickly as our adrenaline kicked in. We stuck to our plan and stepped outside to run to our neighbor’s house. Once outside, I looked out at what used to be my neighborhood, now a space covered in huge pine trees, cables, and wires. I looked to my right, to see the Cathedral High School scoreboard on my neighbor’s lawn. We lived a mile away from Cathedral. It was all too much to take in at once, yet we kept running, being careful of downed power lines until we arrived at my neighbor’s house. They let us in willingly, and were relieved we were okay. Once the wind died down, we walked outside again. The whole neighborhood was checking on each other, asking if everyone was okay.

If not for my neighbors’ care and motivation, I would have never left my basement. After seeing the effect the tornado had on my neighborhood, I was afraid it would happen again especially with the unsettled weather in the days following the tornado. Once returning home from my neighbor’s house the day of the tornado, I went straight to the basement and did not come upstairs for two weeks. It was my neighbor George, the kindest man you’ll ever meet, whose words pushed me to leave and go outside. He softly spoke, “Everyone misses you. Let me make you a promise. I promise it will not happen again. I want you to come upstairs one time, and if you hate it, you can stay down here forever. Just come upstairs and see everyone that is helping.”

It was amazing to see people come together immediately after the tornado. Everyone helped each other out in a time of need. I saw families I’ve never seen before pulling wagons filled with bottled water and sandwiches for the neighborhood, along with the National Guard attempting to normalize the neighborhood I used to call home. It took the entire length of the summer for us to be able to see the ground of our backyard. At some points, we had up to thirty people at a time volunteering to help clear out our debris. As for the tree that split our house, our neighbors cut it all up, cleared it out of my home, and used a tarp as a temporary wall. The tornado brought us all together as a community and made us respect each other all the more. Block parties on the yearly anniversary date of the tornado became a ritual and the tornado soon became a story to tell.

 

 

Lydia Ryan is a senior at Minnechaug Regional High School. She hopes to be a journalist in the future. She enjoys hanging out with friends, binge watching her favorite TV shows, and spending time with her two brothers.

I never have really liked apologies. Hearing people give them out has always made me feel some level of guilt for whatever reason, more so when I’m on the receiving end of them. I basically cringe at the soft and occasionally weepy voice that floats out those delicate words, as if they’re some beg for forgiveness. I get it, you feel bad, but let’s just move up and out past this time and forward. Leave the past behind please.

I suppose that’s an odd sentiment for somebody like me to hold anyway. Who would dare think that I, somebody who has vowed their major in college to be history, would want to move on and be done with the past? I can spend day after day in the lecture hall while my stocky

grey haired professor rambles in monotone about the revolutionary nature of sowing barley seeds in the ancient Middle East and to the disgust and horror of my peers feel enthused. But, when people mess up and sin against me, all I want to do is go into stasis and sleep till the next day. Wake up, shower, try and move on because whatever has happened has happened and actions cannot be undone.

It was last December that apologies had become a recurring theme in my life. I had come home in the middle of the day after an argument with my girlfriend and we both needed space. As I opened my front door the reek of bleach and industrial soap stung my nostrils. I knelt down to shake the saddle bag from my shoulder and rest it beside the living room’s pink sofa. As I rose again my head tilted to my staircase to notice naked pillows on top of it. The cases had been removed. The hallway light was on too.

“Alex?” I called up to my brother. A man in black dashed from some room and ran down the stairs, his heavy boots cracking on every creaky step like thunder and lightning. The next second moved at the speed of a minute. Absorb every detail of this scene, burn into my mind forever so that every time I try to sleep I see it. A young man in a baggy black jacket that went over his waist stomps in a rush towards me. His light coloured eyes framed in the ratty black mask over his face. His gloved hands tracing my banister as he heads down so to steady himself, knowing he needs to be careful not to lose his step. Running down stairs in heavy winter boots is not an easy thing at all. As he swears death threats, my mind goes numb and tries to decipher what he’s saying. Is Alex wearing a mask while cleaning because the fumes are bad for his lungs? Is he yelling at me because he wants me to get out and not inhale the fumes? Oh wait, this isn’t my brother. This is a robber. Yeah, I’m about to be robbed. A pistol’s handle hammers into my jaw and I can taste the blood touch my tongue from the very second my lip rips. Iron.

After a day of gory details, of being beaten, hooded, tied up in my own home and dazed by a concussion, I stood outside of the emergency room in the December frost without shoes, without a jacket, without a phone or wallet or keys. Most people who have been violated cannot think well afterward. Their minds are tied up in their emotions, in their trauma, in confusion. I was not like that, and in fact was so calm after the fact that detectives arrived in my hospital room to accuse me of staging the crime myself,— for why else would somebody be collected and have their wits about them after being assaulted and robbed? Apes. As I stood there waiting for my ride, my mind went to one thought: Beth. I have to tell Beth. Oh my god, how have I not told Beth? Well, I was robbed and was a bit busy until now, but seriously I need to tell Beth!

I struggled to get a hold of her, after all it was 2018 and nobody had phone numbers memorized. In the car my mother told me that she had the phone number of Beth’s sister from some event or another a year ago. I called her, I texted her, I begged her to tell me Beth’s phone number. Her response? ‘Oh just message her online.’

Thanks for the help, Stace.

My sense of time was distorted, and I’m sure that was in part due to the fact that my skull had been batted at half a dozen times, and the whole experience seemed like a practice in surrealism. Some seconds felt like minutes and some minutes felt like hours and some hours had passed and felt about as fast as an eye blinks. Needless to say that the twenty minute ride home took my mind on a slow motion tour of the rush hour traffic between my house and the hospital. I got home, scrambled on to my laptop, which had been thrown across the room by a burglar but was still functional, and I messaged her a brief summation of what had happened. I told her I was okay and asked if she would please see me. And did I mention how slowly time was passing at this moment? If twenty minutes is two hours in post-assault time, then imagine the eight and a half hour long wait between my message and her response. It’s about two in the morning, and I’m wide awake because sleeping is now an impossibility before I get the first message she sends me after learning that I’d been pistol whipped to the point of a cracked rib.

‘Omg that’s fucked.’

I have never cared for apologies. I have spent years feeling uncomfortable with receiving them, plagued by some sense of guilt for somebody being sorry and for some inexplicable reason why. It could very well be some sort of self loathing that deems myself unworthy or maybe something about the shame of people when they lend me their sorrows.

While I can pretend that on the early December morning I wanted to simply move on and forget the past day, move on and forget the argument, move on and forget the robbery, move on and forget that that was her response I cannot allow myself to. Every night I see the light eyes of a wild man as he hunts me through my house. Every night I remember that was her first response. Those are the words that will be ingrained in my memory whenever I recall this day. Those are the words that will float through my skull as I make ill fated attempts to sleep.

People say their apologies to me. Don’t say you feel sorry for what I’ve been through. Don’t wish me well after everything. Please, don’t lend me any apologies, don’t lend me any empty words. I don’t want a false utterance about how you understand when you don’t, about how things will get better. I don’t need your downtrodden words to make me feel safer. All you need to do to show you care is be there, not detached from me via the single sentence of a text.

 

 

A freshman and merit scholar at Concordia University in Chicago, Jefferson is an avid reader and a history major. He has been previously published by The Westerner. Jefferson’s favorite poet is Wilfred Owen, and his favorite author is Anthony Burgess.