Issue 22

All that is stole, but what shall stay

By Geetanjali Purohit

-16/04/2021-

I didn’t know what grief was. That hollow feeling of helplessness and despair is consuming me now. Ever been to a casino and despite knowing the high odds of losing, felt the situation will be in your favor? It’s like you know the uncertainty yet don’t fathom its nature until you lose. Though I was acquainted with the uncertainty of life it is not until now during this pandemic that it is stark clear to me.

The coronavirus is still holding onto my chest, not treating me so bad but its effect on my family has got me weak in my knees. It was pretty late until my family realized corona had us in its radar which led to a series of unfortunate weeks and long hospital bills.

My grandmother and dad were hospitalized and the rest of us were quarantined at home. It’s this week that I realized how cautious we are to be of our frail lives, only one chance on existence. People spent a fortune on lives and not to my surprise my mom could spend an entire night sleeping on the administration room sofa in a Covid-19 ward while she was healthy to make sure my dad’s oxygen levels are in control.

I distinctly remember the scenario; it was almost midnight when my mom felt it was necessary to take my dad to the hospital, in the midst of the night on the streets of the once bustling city which was now dead, my mom rushed out with him during the curfew. You could only see the beaming lights from the sirens of patrolling cars and cops on duty making sure the curfew rules are strictly followed. No one was allowed to leave their homes after 9:00pm and so my mom was stopped by a cop but considering the emergency she was given a grant. On reaching the hospital and admitting my dad, it was so late, around 1:00 in the morning— there weren’t any Ubers available and it wasn’t safe to leave then,— and so my mom was left with no option but staying the night at the hospital despite the prohibition.

I guess I was never the loving kind, took the little things that people do for me for granted. I wasn’t very appreciative of the love I am often showered with and failed to notice its magnificent impact on my life until it was my mom with her immense love, who stood by us in our times of despair to rekindle the word grateful in my heart. I realize after having fallen multiple times, how important it is to notice and be expressive to people, as finally relationships are the reason you wake up every day with a smile and sense of comfort.

I kept hope imagining this phase to be a passing cloud, since everything is supposed to be temporary after all. However little did I know this pandemic was going to leave a mark of permanence. It got my grandmother.

Each night I slept looking at the void space on her side of the bed. Today I noticed the abandoned bird feeder and the weary wilting plants that have lost their lush in her absence. Right now, I peek down the balcony wall to see Kali our lovely black dog pressing on the bars of our iron gate, wagging his tail, still waiting to welcome her back from the hospital; little does he know she won’t return.

Battling through life’s harshest fights and always winning bruised but with an aura of bubbling confidence, I could describe my grandmother as invincible. Her sparks could make anyone’s day , so right now the steel cold silence that surrounds me is a reminder of her not being here.

Walking through our backyard now, where we use to spend a lot of time gardening together, I really feel lonely. I grew up eating her green chutney and pickles made from the mint leaves and lemons growing in our garden. I remember holding her hands when I was a child while she described all the herbs and plants in our garden. Her hands were always warm, a bit rough and sturdy. She had some scars which told great stories. She uses to tell me a lot of stories and I could see them come alive through her scars and her wrinkled hands.

She was a lot like me; fearless and full of energy, she used to tell me how she would climb on trees to pluck juicy fruits, how she had petted all sorts of animals she really adored and had seen mystical things I loved hearing about. My grandmother was nothing short of sunbeams, she used to light up the entire bazaar as she cracked up chatting with vegetable vendors, and catching up with the shopkeepers who adored her. The pandemic stole my greatest source of joy.

The surreal nature of this kind of loss is its contrast, with it being the most normal thing in life, everyone has to die. Yet strange; a coliseum of thoughts, dreams, and inexorably unique persona has been dispersed and will be a memory.

I can only promise to keep kindled her spirit of liveliness and bursts of energy, keep her love in the things that stay alive in her presence. I’m writing this to remind you lives are frail, change is constant. In this pandemic dark times are inevitable. Everything is temporary but our spirits shouldn’t die, just like my grandmother’s will dwell, the only thing that is permanent, the only thing that is not temporary.

Geetanjali Purohit is a fun-loving girl with a radiant personality. She loves to be the reason for someone’s smile. Having an array of interests from coding, writing, hanging out with her freaky friends to gardening with her grandmother she could be described as an amiable person.

Nobody’s Empire

By Zinnia Hansen

I’m a poet. I write my body and soul with the desperation of a prostitute. But when I sit down to describe my illness… I am on the edge of nobody’s empire. My words fail me. It’s like staring into the void. Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, ME, or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, is a complex, multi-system chronic disease that feels like having a persistent flu and leaves you utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically.

I found Belle and Sebastian last spring, right as my symptoms started to worsen. Bedridden with nothing to do except listen to music, I fell in love with the band’s lyrics. Their songs were delicate, gritty explorations of life’s glorious triviality. In a poetic tribute, depressed by the pandemic and my failing body, I wrote: “My dearest Belle and Sebastian, you break yourselves into pieces so casually/ such casual living is beyond me.”

It wasn’t until later that I learned that Stuart Murdoch, the band’s lead singer and songwriter, also suffered from ME. Songwriting was Murdoch’s way of accessing a world he wasn’t able to fully participate in. In an interview, Murdoch talks about how though ME had permeated many of his songs, “Nobody’s Empire” was the first time he attempted to write directly about his illness. I understand his hesitation; the void our illness creates is terrifying. Writing “Nobody’s Empire” was a truly courageous act. The song is helpless and helpful, hopeless and hopeful. Being ill is a lonely experience. It’s cathartic to empathize, but it’s especially exhilarating when that empathy comes in the form of an escape. Through “Nobody’s Empire”, Murdoch makes our disease beautiful. He embraces the emptiness. He allows it to be filled by fluttering, tender moments of love and pain.

I told myself I would not let my disability define me. But here I am, writing an essay about my musical medicine. The truth is our limitations do define us. They sculpt us. They form our contours. They help us choose our heroes. In Nobody’s Empire, Murdoch’s hero is a friend who is sick alongside him. He addresses her with poignant, defiant acceptance and love: “Lying on my side you were half awake/ And your face was tired and crumpled/ If I had a camera, I’d snap you now/ Cause there’s beauty in every stumble.” Sometimes I think I may have found a hero in Murdoch. I will never be superwoman, but I can tell stories, create metaphors, take a camera and capture humanity as we stumble towards a better future.

*Lyrics in Italics and quotations are from Belle and Sebastian’s song Nobody’s Empire, Girls in Peacetime Want to Dance

(this poem has also found a home on Write the World)

Zinnia Hansen is a seventeen-year-old essayist and poet from Port Townsend, Washington. She has a tendency towards abstraction, but a deep love of the idiosyncrasies that make us human. Her work has been published in several magazines. She was a participant in the 2020-2021 Hugo Young Writers Cohort. And she is the 2021-2022 Seattle Youth Poet Laureate.

We are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, & purple

By Maanas Sharma

Content Warning: Mentions of homophobia and transphobia.

FOR US, RED IS LIFE.

Our blood stains red, and it has bled at the hands of bigots, governments, and the police for centuries. Across races, religions, and genders, this blood unites us in life.

Ghastly as it may seem, we are here because of the blood, sweat, and tears of thousands, perhaps millions, of people before us. During Pride, we honor those who fought the good fight before us as we continue to make the world a more inclusive place one step at a time.

FOR US, ORANGE IS HEALING.

Trapped in the closet, we live every second of every day trying to hide our true selves. Our biggest fear is people discovering who we truly are, so we constantly put on a façade to act like someone we are not. Often times, we smother the very parts of us that give us life. Other times, we project our insecurities on others. Be it through depression, anxiety, or internalized homophobia, we as LGBTQ+ people struggle with the repercussions of this.

Disentangling this mess often takes us years. But ultimately, it is worth it to finally be ourselves. Being out, and being proud, is therapeutic. We are in the constant struggle of healing, but during Pride, we remember that there is a community of millions like us who will support us at every step of the healing process.

FOR US, YELLOW IS SUNLIGHT.

The sun is eternal.

We will be queer for as long as the sun will rise. We will be proud for as long as the sun will set. We will be here for everyone else in the community as long as the sun will shine.

There is sunlight at the end of the tunnel. Although sometimes it is hard to see in the darkness, we know it is here, because we are the ones holding the torch.

FOR US, GREEN IS NATURE.

We are natural. Through green we remember that who we are is who we are. Period.

And when people try and tell us otherwise, we simply quote Lady Gaga, because “Oh baby, I was born this way.”

FOR US, BLUE IS SERENITY.

Pride is serene. In a world where our identity is not accepted and constantly demonized, self-love is the most powerful force. Let us be at peace with ourselves, and let us take pride in our identity.

FOR US, PURPLE IS SPIRIT.

“You get to exhale now, Simon.”

Though millions of people heard that line in theatres, we felt that quote at a visceral level. Our young lives are spent hiding within a husk of a person we are not, forced to live a lie. Finally accepting our identity allows our spirit — smothered for so long — to breathe at last.

WE ARE RED, ORANGE, YELLOW, GREEN, BLUE, AND PURPLE.

Never underestimate the power of a queer person who loves themselves. For those who may not yet, never underestimate the power of a queer community that loves you.

Maanas Sharma is the Editor-in-Chief of the Journal of Interdisciplinary Public Policy and a junior at the School of Science and Engineering in Dallas. His academic interests lie in bringing social scientific perspectives into quantitative public policy and he is vehemently opposed to all forms of injustice. He is the Director of Finance at Redefy, the nation’s leading youth-led social justice organization, co-founder and Program Lead at Seeds2STEM, a youth collaborative targeted at underserved in the DFW metroplex, and has a personal interest in LGBTQ+ liberation.

Breakfast on the Weekends

By Olabisi Aishat Bello

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m trying to ignore the empty chair at the head of our table.

In front of me, china plates carry the weight of yam and scrambled eggs, guarded by one tall glass of grape juice— my usual weekend breakfast. We eat in silence, my mother and I, like this is normal, like things have always been this way.

After two or three forced bites from her meal, she clears her throat and asks,

“Don’t you like the food?”

“It’s fine.” I poke the same piece of yam I’ve been playing with for the past five minutes.

“But you haven’t even touched your juice. Is grape no longer your favorite?”

I suppress a sigh then bring the cup to my lips. It smells funny, so I know the juice is stale, but I take a deep breath and drink it all.

“It tastes good,” I tell her, once I’ve emptied the glass.

She smiles at me. “Thank God. I was worried it had gone bad or something since it’s the same bottle from last week.” She chuckles and pours some for herself. “I don’t know why I forgot to go to the supermarket.”

Because he used to be the one who bought the groceries. But I won’t bring it up.

The doorbell rings, and we both drop our forks.

It rings again, this time its echoing ding dong stretching over the room like overworked rubber ready to snap. My mother looks up at me.

Of course.

I get up and walk to the entrance, drying my sweaty palms on my jeans. As I pull the door open, I look away from his face and focus instead on the buttons of his Polo shirt.

“Welcome sir,” I say then move back to the dining table before he gets the chance to hug me or touch me or say anything that would fill the emptiness of our house, even for only a second.

I try to make eye contact with my mum as I sit back down, but she doesn’t look up from the piece of yam she’s trying to cut up.

“Bola.”

“Kunle.” They acknowledge each other’s presence as a mere courtesy. No more sweethearts, or darlings, or delicious apples of their eyes.

He reaches for the empty chair but hesitates right before he pulls it out. We act like we don’t see it.

“So, how’s school, Sope?” he says, smiling at me after he settles in.

“Fine.”

“And the teacher that was giving you trouble?”

“Fired.”

“Really?” He laughs and takes a bite from his yam. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

“You weren’t here.”

He pauses then shifts in his seat. “Okay. Okay. Understandable,” he says, nodding.

I don’t even need to look at my mum to sense the bad eye she’s giving me.

“Sope?” she calls me.

“Ma.”

“Bola, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” he says.

She ignores him and turns her attention back to me. “We agreed no wahala, so behave.”

I stuff eggs into my mouth. “I am.”

“You better.”

She picks up her fork, and he focuses back on me, but before he launches into another question, I scarf down more food until eggs start to spill from the corners of my mouth. He must take the hint because he looks away from me, turns over to my mum, then realizes his error and faces his meal. Silence finds its seat back at our table.

I pick up the juice carton and pour some into his glass, hoping the sour taste does the work for me and lets him know just how awful life has been without him these last few weeks.

“This would be the best thing for our family,” he’d said.

The juice rushes past the halfway mark on the glass.

A divorce isn’t always bad, Sope.

Three-quarter.

I’m still going to come for our Saturday breakfasts.

What use is it if you won’t be here for dinner?

I pour and pour until the juice bursts past the brim and cascades over the sides of the glass. My hands are shaking, and the liquid is spilling everywhere.

“Sope!” my mum calls out, and I jerk my hand off the now-empty carton.

I glance at the tablecloth— it bleeds purple.

My dad is looking at me, his eyes livid, right eyebrow twitching in that way it does when he’s angry. This is the same man with such a hatred for messiness that he would yell whenever my shoes dragged in any dirt from outside. But this isn’t his house anymore, so I stare right back at him, daring him, almost begging him, to yell, to get mad, to act like he’s still my father and not a random stranger who just pops in, but he clenches his jaw and looks down at his plate—saying nothing.

“What’s wrong with you?” my mum shouts at me.

I turn and pick up my fork, trying to breathe through the growing tightness in my chest. I know she’s restraining herself. If this were a couple of weeks ago, she would scold me, and I would cry, then my dad, my only best friend, would tell her to stop, and she would. But I’m crying now, and no one’s saying stop.

I stab another piece of yam with my fork, piercing fresh four-by-four dot patterns on it, and paying no attention to the eye signals and head movements happening above me. They always used to communicate like this, when they were happy and in love, but now they’re neither, so what’s the point?

After a while, my mum’s shoulders relax, and she picks up her silverware, my dad following suit.

We eat in silence, ignoring the juice dripping on the floor. Mother, daughter, father—three parts of a puzzle that will never fit together again, but it’s Saturday morning, so we have to pretend that when my dad walks back out that door, he won’t take the missing piece of our family with him.

Olabisi Aishat Bello is an aspiring biomedical engineer from Oyo State, Nigeria, currently studying chemical engineering. Despite her passion for science, she has always loved the fluidity and joy writing grants her, and she hopes to make an impact in society with this gift and overall devotion to making the world a better place. She loves writing both poetry and fiction, and you can find her works in the Kalahari Review, the Neurological Literary Magazine, the Open Culture Collective, the African Writers, among others. You can follow her on Twitter @OlabisiBA.

Pulling the Plug

By Mrinal Pattanaik

(TW: self harm)

I never know how to start these things, you know?

[1:53 AM]

And I’m bad at conversations anyway — it’s worse when it’s one sided. But you didn’t pick up, so I guess I should just get it over with. I might leave more than one voicemail, sorry.

[1:56 AM]

Remember when we went grocery shopping and every week I’d mess up the list? I always left out the milk or the eggs or the lettuce and you’d mark it down on my hand so I’d remember it this time, and I’d forget anyway. You laughed it off, though. Every time, and then you drove out near midnight to fix my mess. I’ve never been good with checking everything off.

[1:57 AM]

This was the last thing on my list. I really hope I didn’t forget anything.

[2:01 AM]

Lately I’ve been thinking about supernovas. They burn so bright for so long and then when they go out it leaves a mark — like a black hole or something, or a flash in the sky for a million miles. Something big before they’re gone. I’ve been wondering — [a sigh, long and soft] — I’ve been wondering if it makes any difference because at the end they’re gone anyway.

[2:05 AM]

You used to want to be an astrophysicist. I remember that, still. And I remember you’d say you

would have gone through if it didn’t take so much math, because when you were little you had books and books of stars and moons and planets and black holes, enough to take over a wall in your room. You sent me pictures once. I still have them saved somewhere but I don’t want to look or I’ll miss you more.

[2:07 AM]

People always ask if it hurts to die so slow. I never know what to tell them — I haven’t died any other way. [a crackling laugh] Sorry. Probably not that funny.

[2:12 AM]

Do you still have that list of movies you wanted to watch? I remember whenever we talked to new people you’d mention how you’ve never seen Snow White and everyone would stare at you. You liked that, I think, how they’d look with their eyes wide open, and you blushed, sweet and soft like the princess you didn’t know, like you wouldn’t laugh about it time and time again.

[2:13 AM]

I’d say I’ll miss you but I don’t know if I’ll be anything after this, so — I don’t know, maybe I won’t miss you, I guess. This feels anticlimactic.

[2:13 AM]

It’s a lonely time to die.

[2:14 AM]

I wish I’d picked the afternoon instead.

[2:15 AM]

Or maybe I don’t, because then you’d pick up.

[2:16 AM]

This is the last one, I promise. I’ll miss you even if I’m nothing anymore. I hope you’ll miss me too.

Mrinal Pattanaik is a senior at Neuqua Valley High School. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Sandpiper Magazine, and Up North Lit, amongst others.

voicemail to brutus

By Julieanne Larick

-after “I Know a Man” by Robert Creeley-

to wonder if brutus was cute

on the ides of march is

to laugh at julius

julie, julia, juliette

jeweled upon a feathered crown

is life a life

if you are not glorious

or should i focus on driving

i fill my hollows with sun

each day, my blood

runs dark, moony

i buy supplements and wonder

if mottled skin droops

i suck in my stomach

i hope for the best,

say thank you, have a nice day,

and think of brutus

sorry caesar.

Julieanne Larick is a Midwestern Best of the Net-nominated poet. She studies English and Environmental Science at The College of Wooster. Julieanne reads prose for GASHER Journal. She has poems published in perhappened mag, Blue Marble Review, NECTAR Poetry, and others. Her portfolio is http://www.julielarickwriting.com and her Twitter is @crookyshanks.