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Blue Marble Review

Literary Journal for Young Writers

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Issue Eight

When Crisis Strikes

By Brooklyn Manga

When crisis strikes, the British put the kettle on. But for me, when crisis strikes, I reach a 3.0 GPA after years of hard work, graduate high school, and get accepted to my dream college all in one fell swoop. It was in January that the proverbial skeletons that hid in my family’s closet made their way out into the light, and I found out for the second time about my father’s infidelity. The first time I had found out were not factual occurrences but things that when looked back on in retrospect in the very instant that I learned the truth made it easy for me not to be surprised.

I had heard from my friends their own war stories of when they had found out the same things. They warned me that the divorce would be messy, told me stories of how their mom’s became, and where their dad’s went. But most of all, I was told that it was okay to fall apart a little bit in order to deal with the monumental brokenness that I felt inside me. Except, for me, that’s never been how it works. I had always been more efficient during the storm: I was the person that people leaned on, the one who made sure things were orderly, the defender. It was the last stretch of my senior year, and though my parents fought endlessly over money, over his infidelity, over him going or her staying, I was determined to finish strong.

I never told my teachers. At least, not until near the end when there was no more work to fill my time. Instead, I systematically studied, wrote papers, did homework, asked for extra credit where I could, and when I needed to cry in the middle of class, I excused myself to go to the restroom, and I cried. I always chose the restroom downstairs and near the cafeteria. Nobody ever went into that one. It was far away from most of my classes but it was private, and it was only place where I could breathe.

There was a point when things got so horrible that even now, months later; I have no idea how I got through it. My mother had gotten drunk and left home on a mission to die. She didn’t have to tell me for me to know what she was planning to do. I sat on the floor of my room, crying and texting her. But what strikes me now is the coldness of it all: How my father had left texting and calling and praying for her all to me. He didn’t tell me it would be okay. He didn’t drive out after her to stop her. He went back to bed.

But even during this time, I still managed to finish my readings for Economics. I still managed to get good grades on my essays in English. I still made consistent A’s on my Latin tests. My grades were shining, even though I was not. My attention waxed and waned in school. My sleep schedule was gone. I hardly ate. At night, I listened to my parents screaming at each other. My brother drove me to school. My mom left to live with relatives. My dad told me nothing at all.

Then came the part where I was no longer welcome in my own home. The part where I was blamed for things that were out of my control and I decided to live with my mom and our relatives. My school was an hour away. I slept on the couch. I had only a few pairs of underwear. My brother’s t-shirts. Pants that I came there wearing. But it was easier, and though I felt shattered, I didn’t cry as much. It was at this time that I told my AP Literature teacher what was going on. He was sympathetic and kind. As was my Latin teacher.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Official grades were coming out soon. I had finally achieved my 3.0 GPA. I was going off to the college of my dreams. Graduation was a week away. These things were enough to make my mom get out of bed even when she felt as broken as I had. They were enough to bring a triumphant smile to her lips, and a put a little glimmer of hope in her eyes. Now, I am in college and though the storm continues, I work and I strive and I drive myself to continue to be her pride. I cannot afford much. I don’t have many clothes or any of the cute room décor items that the other girls have. But I have a reason to continue. My mom.

And that’s more than enough for me.

 

Brooklyn Manga is an Atlanta-based author and poet with a preference for writing historical fiction pieces about queer youth, overcoming trauma, love, and nature. Though she has never been published before, Brooklyn has written two books, many short stories, an abundance of poetry, and is currently in the process of completing her third and longest novel yet. She has been an avid reader and logophile for as long as she can remember.

Notes from a Chinese Nail Salon

By Arja Kumar

I’m at the Chinese nail salon with friends who I think don’t love me anymore. I know this because they are talking about the trip to England they are going on with our English teacher on Sunday and not looking me in the eye when I ask them questions. I’m not going anymore. I cancelled because I’m afraid of flying.

Carmen said to come at about five, so I get there ten minutes early because I’ve always been late everywhere I go and am sick of it.

I’m the first one there. All the other customers look up and at me standing in the entrance. The door has a cheap rusty bell attached to a left over mistletoe hanging above. Its chime sounds as a barking whine.

A voice says, “Hi hunee. Pick out yo colahs.” I can’t tell which nail technician it’s coming from.

I go over to the color rack and examine different shades by holding them up to the ceiling light. Mom specifically told me not to get yellow because it reminds her of jaundice.

Carmen, Lucille, Kali, and Sierra all file in at once. They were outside waiting in their cars — waiting for Carmen to park.

Indecisive, we eye different colors in silence. When we all find a shade we like, we sit down and wait for our names to be called. They start talking in whispers.

“Are you guys talking about the England trip?” I question.

“Yeah. We had a meeting yesterday.”

“Mr. Fredrick was wearing an American flag t-shirt and khaki shorts.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“Yeah, I know right. It get’s worse though.”

“What?”

“He was wearing sandals.”

“Oh no.”

“I know right. It was so ew.”

“His toes looked so nasty! And his nails were yellow. Yel-low!”

The lady who always does my mom’s nails approaches me and asks if I’m the daughter of my mother. I nod yes and she fills up water in the tub. She puts my feet in along with some blue gel that smells like toothpaste.

Keep feet inside and relax.

She knows me. I came here to get my nails done for prom. It’s me who always forgets faces and names. Nancy, that’s her name. Her American name. I have no idea what her Chinese name is.

She’s pregnant.

I try to estimate how far along she is. It’s hard to tell because she’s so skinny and her stomach is a giant tumor. Six months. She shouldn’t be working at the nail salon.

When Nancy is massaging my feet I notice she has a Pandora bracelet.

“Is that a Pandora bracelet?”

“Yes.”

“I have one too!” I gesture to the silver band on my right hand. “My mom got it for me.”

“Charms too?”

“Yeah. I only have three so far. A music note, a book, and a guitar. All my hobbies.”

She nods and keeps buffing at my feet.

I can’t figure out how to work the massaging chair. The buttons are labeled in Chinese. I press a random one and get the wind knocked out of me. Shiatsu. The lady next to me laughs and tells me she can’t figure out how to work the chair either.

I picked out a dark blue polish for my hands and a plum one for my feet. My friends are still sitting in a line, waiting for a manicurist to call them over. They are still talking about the England trip.

Nancy starts clipping my toenails.

“Why yo mommy no come?”

“She’s still at the hospital…working.”

“Yo mommy very busy.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“What yo daddy do?”

“You mean what does he do for a job?”

Nod.

“He’s uhm… a businessman. But he’s not really working now. He stays home and takes care of us. So I guess he’s a stay at home dad.”

“That’s nice. Good fo you and yo sista.”

Carmen is the first one to get her manicure, even though she was the last to arrive. The rest of the girls don’t mind that she goes first because they’re all her puppies. They listen to her. She doesn’t listen to them.

Carmen is arguing with the manicurist because she doesn’t understand what Carmen is saying. It’s funny because Carmen is Chinese as well. She doesn’t know the language because she was adopted from China when she was a baby. Carmen wants gel nail polish. She cusses under her breath.

“Listen, I just want to get gel nail polish.”

“Ok, ok, come sit. I first massage you then put gel.”

“I don’t want a massage! I just want you to paint my nails!”

Carmen looks over at the line of girls that are now laughing and recording her tantrum on their phones. Quick clips that they upload to their Snapchat stories so that everybody could see. Nothing is kept private anymore. Nothing goes unnoticed. A bored moment can’t possibly be passed without the internet — even when real people are sitting next to you.

I’m isolated in my little island to the far right corner of the salon with Nancy. She’s almost done painting my toes dark plum.

“Colah look nice on you.”

“Thanks.”

Kali is getting acrylic nails like always because her nail beds are too short. She’s wearing jeans today even though it’s ninety degrees and heavy heat outside. It’s supposed to start storming in an hour. Slight possibility of tornados. The storm two days ago knocked out the town’s power for four hours. It is supposed do the same again today.

Nancy helps me up even though she is pregnant and tiny. The first time I met her, I mistook her for my English teacher’s wife. They were both young and Chinese and I swore she was Mrs. Fredrickson. A couple of the boys told a story during lunch one school day about the time they saw Mrs. Fredrickson during a football game in October. She came after school ended that day, waiting for Mr. Fredrickson. The Spanish teacher and computer teacher were talking to her in the hallway while she waited for class to end.

“You look awfully young.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“You’ve got to tell me how old Mr. Frerickson is though. He never tells anyone. Not even his students.”

She didn’t know. Nobody did.

“I think he’s foty.”

In actuality Mr. Fredrickson was forty-seven.

Lucille is the last one up. She is the one that looks like her old mother. Her face is weathered and her hair is fried from straightening it all the time. She was my best friend until seven months ago when she started to think that I was too boring. In my imagination, we officially broke up over text messages.

Y don’t u talk to me anymore?

What r u talking about?

U seem like u don’t like me anymore.

?

I bought u Pandora earrings for ur bday. They were 60 bucks. U forgot my bday. I’m always the 1st one to text u. U never text me anymore. I care about u, but it seems like u don’t care about me anymore.

Stop the drama. Jeez.

I’m just telling u what I feel Luc. C’mon what happened to us being besties?

We still are.

I don’t think so.

It’s not my fault u don’t have social media.

U don’t like me bc I don’t have social media?

I guess so. I mean, face it, ur out of the loop all the time. U always have a blank face whenevs we talk about that kinda stuff. Tbh u don’t rlly know anything … so ur not very fun anymore.

 

I know she’s been hanging out with Kali because they whisper whenever I look at them. Kali has a boyfriend and that makes her interesting. Kali has a life. Kali and Lucille have a Snap Streak of 300.

 

Nancy is massaging my picked at fingernails with cuticle oil.

“Erm… can you not do my left hand please? I play guitar.”

“Hmm?”

“I need my calluses to be hard. So it doesn’t hurt when I play.”

“Oil only make cuticle soft, not callus.”

I breathe. “Ok, good.”

The massage hurts my veins.

“You play guitar?”

“Yeah. And piano.”

“Thas good. My daughtah only play da violin, but I try to tell her play piano too.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You a junior?”

“No, senior.”

“My boy a senior too. You know, he very cute.”

“Oh wow.”

“You very cute too.”

I laugh because I see where she’s going. “Thanks. But my parents prefer I focus on school right now.”

“I see.” She laughs under her mask even though she is tired. It sounds like a wheeze.

Nancy mumbles something in Chinese. She’s talking to her baby. Don’t breathe until we get home. You don’t have to smell the fumes. They aren’t good for you. Don’t worry, I will pray for your lungs. Her face says pain and I need to work even though I’m not supposed to be because I need money to keep the house and buy the food and to raise the new baby.

Sierra is the first one at the drying station. She usually never gets her nails done because she is a feminist and likes her body the way it is. But she is at the nail salon today. She’s discussing the upcoming school play with Carmen and Lucille.

“Minnie said if her and Leon get the leads, they wouldn’t have to fall in stage love.”

“Why?

“Cause they’re already in real love, you idiot.”

“They’re not getting the leads.”

“Yeah, I know. They have no chance.”

My nails are done. Nancy sends me to the drying station.

“I can’t believe they’re actually a real couple.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Leon and Minnie.”

 

“Ohhh.” I don’t tell them I saw the two lovers three weeks ago at band practice. I didn’t even tell any of them that I’m in an indie rock band with the freshmen boys. Minnie and Leon came to spectate our songs, but really, they used the three hours as an excuse to make out on Reid’s couch.

I tell them, “Leon got a concussion.”

“What the heck? How?”

“He slipped and fell at work. Now he has a cane.” Leon works at an ice cream shop downtown. I imagined the incident happening like a cartoon; him slipping on a banana peel then growing a mountainous lump on his head.

“Where’d you hear this from?”

If I told them, they would question me to shreds. “Uhh, I just heard it somewhere. I think it’s just a rumor though.” I don’t tell them Leon told me himself at band practice.

Kali is finally done. She doesn’t need her acrylics to dry under the drying station.

“Ready guys? Her keys are in hand.”

Everybody gets up.

“Do you need a ride?” Lucille asks me.

“No, my dad’s coming to pick me up.”

“Are you sure? Because if you didn’t call him already I can drop you off.” Her voice is sorry because she always the one who has to take me home. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me anymore.

“Yeah,” I lie.

After my friends leave the nail salon I call my dad and pay at the cash register. One of the manicurists is a Chinese man that looks like a punk. I wonder if he’s Nancy’s husband or lover. His skin is burnt sienna, a separate shade from the rest of the pearly manicurists. I question if he’s even Chinese at all. He was talking to Nancy when she was doing my nails and he was doing another customer’s. They were exchanging foreign words that sounded like Nancy was in pain. I see her outline in the back room behind the cash register. She’s lounging back on a chair. Her eyes are closed and her hands rest on her stomach. She cries for the thing growing inside her because she is poor and doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t want the thing growing inside her to suffer.

The storm is rolling south in tumors of clouds. A squall line of grayed lumps that look like they could collapse any minute. Veins of purple lightning run through the sky and deliver howling thunder. The earth is begging the sky for mercy.

My dad is on the way so I sit down on one of the waiting chairs. The salon is closing early because of the storm. The other lady manicurist is sweeping hangnails and dust off the floor.

I give the male manicurist at the cash register three dollars and tell him it’s a tip for Nancy. There is no one left in the salon except the three manicurists, a lady in exercise clothes, and me.

The lady in exercise clothes texts her teenage son on her cell phone.

Honey, can u plz take the chicken out of the freezer? I’m running a little late.

K.

 Tell your sister to take a bath too.

 K 

A picture of her pedicure.

Cute.

Nancy comes out of the back room to thank me for the tip. The lady in the exercise clothes is gone now. Now, I can say it.

“Nancy?”

“Yes, hunee?”

“Please don’t work here anymore.”

“What ah you saying hunee? I have to wohk heyah.” She laughs and thinks I’m crazy.

“It’s not good for your baby. I hear it howling inside of you. It’s begging you to stop working.”

She is confused. I leave her that way and walk towards my dad’s car.

 

 

Arja Kumar is seventeen and is a senior at Aquin High School. She lives in a bucolic wasteland in the Middle of Nowhere, IL. Aside from writing, she likes filmmaking, punning, and playing music in an indie rock band with her friends.

Zombies in Space

By Maverick Gillette

This is the story of me, Veronica, the popular for being weird, high self esteem, hair dyed ponytail kind of person. This is the story of how I tried to escape my problems by going to Mars. Emphasis on the word tried. It was the year 2037. I was hanging out at my house playing some dumb game, then all the sudden alarms just started going off everywhere. That blaring, annoying, worrying sound I will never forget to this day. I checked my phone, as I was worried and wanted to know what the heck was going on. First thing I saw?

“A “zombie” outbreak, as scientists are calling it.”

I stared in disbelief at the screen when, a new message popped up.

“New text message from ‘Little Bro’.”

I opened it, of course, and saw the conversation we had been having

“Heard about the new zombie game coming out?”

“Yeah, I heard it’s pretty dumb

“Say what you will, I’m getting it”

“Whatever little bro”

I then looked at the one he had just sent.

“Coming to get you, we need to get on the spaceship.” Spaceship!? What the heck is he talking about?

“This isn’t a game, Travis, this is real life.”

“I am aware, I replied. They’re sending people to Mars as a last ditch effort, I grabbed Dad’s ‘In case of emergencies’ bag.”

At this point I knew we had an actual, serious emergency on our hands, and I was indescribably terrified. In my breakdown I realized something, I hadn’t paid any attention to the banging on my door. This banging made me even more terrified so, yay? Luckily for me Dad had also left me an emergency bag, but there was a problem… I forgot where it was located. A searched the house as the banging got louder, and louder, and louder still. In the end, nothing insanely intense happened. I found the bag in my desk, grabbed it, and waited for my brother to get here.

“Now Veronica.” you may ask “Why didn’t you just simply get in your own car and drive to the spaceship yourself?” Well, two reasons. First of all, I had no clue where this spaceship was. Secondly, you think I can drive a 2029 Subaru through a horde of zombies? Well the answer is no, I can’t. So I waited, and soon I heard a “beep beep” outside my room. “He’s here” I silently said to myself, and then I realized ANOTHER something. How the sham am I going to get to the car? And then I remembered that I have roof access… I’m “smart.” I climbed to the roof, about ten feet off the ground, and then thought to myself— “This is kinda high in the air and if I miss I’m probably dead…” Then I came to the revelation that this is life or death. “AND I CHOOSE LIFE!” I yelled, jumping from the roof towards the car, afterwards realizing that I could’ve just dropped down and landed on the car just fine. I landed on my brother’s truck and then transferred myself to the back of it as my bro started to drive.

I’ll skip the boring part and just go straight to the spacecraft. The words “S.S Impenetrable” were written on the side in black. We got there in the nick of time because the zombies were thickening and they were about to leave. Military were all around, taking pot shots at the zombies. Now, these were not those running zombies that would kill you in two seconds, no. These were the type of zombies that you would get too cocky or stupid and that’s how you’d die. Me and my brother hopped on the space shuttle and got ready. The sleek white design was kind of off-putting for a rescue vessel. A man by the name of Todd (I read off his tag) was standing at the door, helping people in. Me and my brother were the last ones on, but just then another family of three, a mom and her two children, drove up to the shuttle. “Please, just let me and my children on, there has to be room right?” the woman said, desperate sounding
“Sorry ma’am, we only have two spots left.” said the person who I assumed to be the corporal or whatever the top rank in the military was.

“Please, I beg of you.”

Now my brother was a little bit, how do I say, too friendly.

“Here ma’am, take my seat”

“NO!” I yelled, “somebody else can do it!”

It was too late by that point though, he was already off the ship.

“I’ll see you when you get back Ver!” he said as he threw me his I.C.O.E. bag.

“NO, DON’T YOU DA…” But it was too late, the doors were shut. I saw the military hand him some type of gun or something, but he gave it back.

The reason I didn’t tell you about the ride to the shuttle is because he’s the person in the apocalypse who is convinced there’s a cure and doesn’t kill anything. I saw him drive off and started to fear the worst for him and, before I knew it, I was on the floor, weeping. That guy, Todd, came over and started to attempt to comfort me. “Hey” he said, in a calm, soft tone. “It’ll be okay, I’m sure he’ll be fine, he wouldn’t leave if he didn’t know what he was doing.” Except, that’s exactly what he would do. The ship started to take off and within the blink of an eye, it felt, we were in space. Now, you might be thinking “How the smudge could things get worse from here?” Well, have you ever heard of something called “Snakes on a Plane?” Imagine that except zombies, on a spaceship. Remember that family that was let on last second. Well I forgot to include this detail, but the military was checking people for bites, and they didn’t check that family. The mom had gotten bit and so had the kids. They were easy to deal with, but not quickly dealt with. They bit a few people… Including me.

“So much for the ‘S.S Impenetrable’ huh?” I said, laughing nervously. I didn’t tell anyone I’d gotten bit in the fight for fear of being quarantined. “We still weren’t technically penetrated.” Todd said. Todd gave me the vibe of being a pretty serious, experienced, sarcastic kinda person, the exact kinda person my brother was. Made me miss ‘im even more.

Felt like it took years to get to our destination. That was probably just me being worried about my bite though. When we got there, of course, I slipped like the clumsy dork I was, revealing my bite to all. Luckily it was only revealed for a second and only Todd saw it. I looked over at him and he was looking at me with a terrified expression. He hopped down from the stairs and came over to me. “You hid this from me?” He said in an exasperated whisper.

“Maybe” I replied

“For… we need to get that amputated.”

“What my leg?!”

“No, your arm… WHAT DO YOU THINK?” He said a little louder than he should’ve.

“Fine, but only if I get a cool new leg.”

“This is 2037, what, you think you’re going to get a peg leg?”

“‘Ya never know Todd. (I read his name tag)”

“Did you just say ‘I read his name tag’?”

“Shut up, let’s go.” I said as I stood up and starting walking to the nearest infirmary.

By the time we got to the infirmary my leg was starting to hurt. We walked in the front door and rang the desk bell. Soon a nurse came to the front. “What are y’all doin’ here? You hear about the zombies outside?” His Southern accent was heavy.

“We need an amputation,” Todd blurted out.

“Wha… I…” the nurse sputtered out.

“A.S.A.P”

“Fine fine, ‘urry to this back room.”

“Eh… I trust him” Todd exclaimed, confidently.

I’ll spare you the details of what happened in that back room… Since the doctor had already fled, it was messy. Somehow, I didn’t die AND I got a sick new robo-leg, I mean, what’d you expect, it’s 2037, not some dumb year like 2017. The nurse gave us a pretty cool package deal, the leg and a set of knockout dart assault rifles also known as K.D.A.Rs. “Now go help yourself, don’t get hurt or anything, please.”

“We won’t, hopefully” I said.

I think of myself as a realist. When presented with a situation I look at the situation as it is, not how it could be. So when we reached “Forttude Hill”, as the sign read, I thought to myself “This place is great to set up some kind of like survivor safe haven or something.” Because believe me, this virus spread quicker than a rumor in middle school. “Okay, a few things could happen when we enter this gated community here.” I said aloud. “We either get jumped by apocalypse scavvers, it’s infested with zombies, it’s populated with survivors, or nobody is here and we get the place to ourselves.” Now, the reason I called them scavvers is because it’s short for scavengers. Even on earth in the first hour or two people were raiding buildings and… killing each other to survive.

“I pick option D”

“This isn’t a choice, it’s a list.”

“Oh, okay… I still choose option D”

“But I just… you know what let’s talk about something more important here. Why haven’t we been attacked by zombies at, like, all?”

“But the spaces…”

“Apart from that Todd”

“Huh, I don’t kno…”

As expected at that very moment a horde of zombies started shambling up the road to us

“You just had to speak Veronica, didn’t you?” I said, angrily. Todd had the brilliant idea to roll and explosive barrel, conveniently placed next to the gate, down the hill and have knockout darts attached to it, thus knocking out all the zombies! “Okay… let’s do it I guess.” The barrel was rolled, the plan worked, surprisingly, and we entered the gated community with a card we found off one of the dea… knocked out zombies. And bombo, the gated community was empty and ours for the taking, or community starting in this case.

It was not an easy process to set up that safe haven. It seemed that new zombies just kept on coming. Scavvers wanted our supplies and stuff. And the walls were unusually low to the ground, making them easy to breach or climb over. We named our little community after what was left on the signs, and it eventually became a fully fledged small village. “Forttude Hill, where all the cool things are.” As it came to be known in the years following. Their leader only known as “Lost Leg” and her trusty assistant “Strong Arm.” My main mission from then on was repairing and refueling that spaceship so I could go save my brother, that’s how confident I was that he was alive. I had a picture of him by my bedside and the people in my village had come to know him as “The Returning Savior” that would come back one day to save us all. Hopefully he does come back, but I might have to go get him. If I know my brother he’s probably already done the same thing 241 million miles away on earth. Probably has it where he’s destined to be lifted away to help more people if I know anything about him, and great googly moogly do I know things about my brother. He’s probably started some cult about video games or something, I didn’t know, I was on Mars! That is a story for another day though. Until then, keep surviving the apocalypse, or something.

 

Maverick Gillette has always wanted to write a story and get it published, so he decided to write this. He is thirteen and in eighth grade, and writing is his favorite thing to do. He usually doesn’t write seriously or professionally, so this is his first time.

More Than Just a Number

By Alex Rojas

The A/C is always what hits me first. Every inch of my skin feeling that cold embrace as the smell of fries and onion rings takes care of my nose. The tables are all full, and a crazy kid or two dashes past me as I walk in. I see a familiar face all the way behind the counter smiling. “Number 35, ready,” comes out of the intercom in a bored voice. Before I even make it to the line that face already announces in that jolly Mexican voice of hers “chicken strips for Alejandro papas crispy.” I wait in line just for the sake of paying (though they would gladly let me pay for my food later) and having a quick chat about how our families are doing. It’s been like that since Louis’ Burgers opened nine years ago. Still coming all the time, still getting the same thing, still the same looks of confusion on the people’s faces.

When I’m waiting for my order I always know that what I’ll hear over the intercom isn’t “number 36” or anything boring like that. It’ll always be “Alejandro.” That’s right, they call me up by name when my food is ready. The people around me always have a funny look on their face, asking themselves why would that kid get called by name? It’s a brief curiosity- makes them think about the complexities and stories that might be going on in the lives of the others around them. It fades away quickly and they get back to munching on their burgers.

It’s a point of decent confusion when I bring my friends. “Did they just say Alejandro?” “Yeah, yeah they did.” “But, that’s not even your name. Why don’t they call you Alex?” “Cause I kind of like the longer version, I never get to be called that.” It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve gone there and all of the employees still call me Alejandro. In all honesty, it’s a nice feeling to hear it over the intercom, makes me feel special to have the monotonous pattern of “Number 33, 34, 35, 36…” broken up by me.

My parents enjoyed the history behind my name, Alex. It means protector of others in Greek, Alexo. Well known to just about anyone, it’s the shortened version of Alexander, a name that has been owned by eight popes, and many a king, including Alexander the Great himself. Nowadays a female named Alex isn’t very strange, but its traditional role was serving as a name for newborn Greco-Roman babies with aspirations of becoming soldiers. At the time, the most common of occupations for a white man, thus the name grew well in its crib, then disseminated through conquest. It’s very rare someone doesn’t know an Alex.

The name Alex has issues though, it’s so… normal. My name drifts into commonality, the usual, just one of many. Being forgotten is a thought that haunts me to my very core, and I try to avoid it all costs. Having a name like Alex makes that tough at times. Sometimes, I’d rather have a name like Ezekiel or Leonardo or something that you need to use your whole mouth for. I remember those people, and I’m sure when they feel the flip side of it, that their name is too long, they can shorten it to Zeke or Leo. But my full name is just Alex. I can’t nickname myself to something longer, that defeats the purpose. So when I hear that name over the intercom, Alejandro, it feels right, meaningful.

My parents though, attach my middle name to it. Alex-Enrique… Enrique. Something you can roll the r’s in and feel when you say. That’s not boring; the whole mouth is forced to leap into action, resulting in a more vivid memory. For a lot of kids the sound of their middle name erupting from the mouth of one of their parents makes them shiver. But… adding Enrique is a thing I enjoy, and most of the time to my parents that is my name.

It just makes it so much more interesting to add a little something. Replacing the x with a jandro or adding a whole Enrique. These things make the name different, more interesting, and memorable. Nobody in that restaurant will remember “number 34” or “number 35” and tie it to a pair of faces. But they will remember that little glitch in the matrix, that break in the infinite series, a kid’s name over the intercom.

 

Alex Rojas is a student with newspaper article experience and an active participant in the AP English classes offered at his high school. He’s been interested in mathematics since he was a child but recently has sparked an interest in the humanities after having an incredible professor.

Horseshoe Loops in Canyonlands

By Mollie Tom

Horseshoe Loops in Canyonlands

Canyonlands National Park is located southwest of Arches National Park. It’s known for its dramatic desert landscape carved by the Colorado River. The Colorado River and the Green River divide the park into four districts: Island in the Sky, The Needles, The Maze, and the rivers themselves. The whole place is way too big to see all in one day so we decided to take a plane ride over Canyonlands. It was well worth the trip! This photo is of two successive opposite horseshoe loops.(MT)

 

Mollie Tom is a lover of traveling and she should be. There are so many exciting places to explore. Most people would rather not leave their hometown or go on vacations, but she is not one of them. She’d rather walk to the nearest bus station, randomly pick what town she’ll go to next, and then spend the entire day adventuring before checking into a hotel. “Feeling free – I have nowhere to be and no one to see. I have the whole world in front of me and two feet to take me there. That is the best feeling in the world.” – Mollie Tom

Chickens

By Zander Dorler

The Blackberry farm was a serene place with neatly kept fences and a large windmill standing as a nice landmark. Days were quiet except for a few snorts from the pigpen. But this day was an exception in the chicken pen, the day before Thanksgiving.

“Listen to me!” Ms. Cluckerson said with great anxiousness. “They are fattening us up, they are going to kill us and eat us.”

“Your crazy theories always make me laugh,” said Pickle-Strip while eating from the seeds and nuts on the ground. She thought Cluckerson was trying to be funny because there was no way the humans would hurt beautiful chickens like themselves. But Cluckerson was becoming quite bony from not eating and constant stress.

“The food will make you..’ Cluckerson was trying to think of something to convince her that she was right.

“What was that?” Pickle-Strip asked, full of confusion about what Cluckerson was telling her.

“The food will make you ugly, yeah it will make you ugly,” Cluckerson burst out thinking her answer was sure to convince her to stop eating. Pickle-Strip took great pride in her vanity.

“That is silly.” Pickle-Strip said. “How could food do that?” Cluckerson did not have an answer for that so she walked away thinking of other ways to convince her because if she convinced Pickle-Strip, everyone would agree. Everyone believed that whatever Pickle-Strip did was cool. And if every chicken believed and they all survived the human attack, Cluckerson would be a hero. All she ever wanted was to be liked.

Later that night she saw some chickens from three pens over being taken and was very alarmed. “Wake up! Wake up everyone! They are coming to eat us now!” Cluckerson shouted. By the time anyone woke up and looked, the people were already gone. “They were just here, they were. I saw them!” No one believed her.

The next day, a bus of school children came to visit Blackberry Farm on a field trip. Cluckerson thought this was the end for every chicken and that the humans would feed them to the children. She ran around saying, “It is the end!” It was, but only for her. All the beautiful chickens were brought to the petting zoo but Cluckerson, having nearly starved herself, was the ugliest chicken so no child would want to see her in the petting zoo. She was killed and eaten by the farmers for a very tasty light meal.

 

Zander does not write often, but enjoys writing when he does. He has three cats and loves each of them very much. He lives in a nice town in Texas with his mom.

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