Issue Nine

“Zombie” – The Cranberries

I’m eleven and dressed in a Nightmare Before Christmas costume, and I sit, tugging at my gloves, surrounded by other eleven-year-olds in costumes. I’m not like them. They all laugh and talk and enjoy each other’s company, and I’d rather die than stay here for one more minute, except I don’t get what I want. I’m very much alive and my mom’s not getting me ‘til nine-thirty. It’s seven now and everyone is playing Truth or Dare. I pray nobody calls on me, but God makes sure that one girl named Kassandra does. I pick “dare” so people might think I’m cool. She tells me to kiss one of my best friends, and everybody “ooh’s” until I give him a nervous peck. I’m lying when I say this isn’t my first kiss. He wipes the red lipstick off his mouth and I run to the bathroom to cry because I wasted your first kiss on someone I don’t like, in a desperate effort to impress people I like even less.

“Backseat Serenade” – All Time Low

            I’m thirteen and at a concert for a band I used to like. I’ve been abandoned by all of my friends, and I’m hitting it off with a girl I met in line. I’m different from her. She’s tall, has long, pink hair, and is way out of my league. I’m nervous, five-foot-three, and my hands are sweaty. Even though I know little more than her name and her music taste, that’s enough for me. She’s into me, and that’s more than I can say for a lot of people. It feels better than being alone, so I stand on my tiptoes to kiss her. I’m lying when I tell my friends that I’m the type of person to make out with a near stranger at a concert. I lose my best friend Siarra that night because I’m turning into someone I’m not. She’s telling the truth when she says this. I don’t learn my lesson.

“Stay” – Rihanna ft. Mikky Ekko

            I’m fifteen and I can’t tell for sure if that’s what’s playing over the chatter of high-school dance attendees swarming around me. I’m with another girl, also tall and out of my league, and my nerves are getting the best of me. She holds my hand and looks at me with sad, helpless eyes, and I look away guiltily, apologizing for ruining the night. She’s lying when she says I’m not ruining anything. I know how much she loves to dance, and I’m stuck here wallowing in self-doubt. She’s quiet for a moment, and then she breaks the silence by asking if she can kiss me. I’m lying when I tell her I’m okay with it, and when I convince myself that the last time I kiss her a year later really will be the last. I know this isn’t going to work.

“Just for Now” – Imogen Heap

            I’m sixteen and it’s just after Christmas break. I arrive at school and find her waiting for me, box in hand. She hands it to me and we don’t talk about what’s happening. We both knew this was coming anyway. She apologizes and I reach for the door. I hesitate, turning to look back at her. I’m lying when I tell myself I don’t want to kiss her goodbye. I punish myself for ruining our relationship by not doing it.

“Arabella” – Arctic Monkeys

            I’m sixteen and a narcissist. I’m alone in my room, applying makeup even though it’s the middle of the night and I’m not sneaking out to go anywhere. I’m lying to myself by pretending to admire my reflection; instead, I scrutinize every detail of my appearance endlessly. I cry, and the makeup smears. I kiss the mirror and slam my fist into the glass. I’m lying when I say “Pain is beauty” as I pluck the lipstick-coated shards from my hand.

“Ivy” – Frank Ocean

            I’m seventeen and the loneliest I’ve ever been. Siarra isn’t the only one who’s left me; all of my friends tell me that I’ve changed, that I’m not the person they used to know. I sit in a stairwell by myself and scroll mindlessly through the photos on my phone. I come across something a friend sent me a few months back: a photo from Halloween in 2012. I’m dressed in a Nightmare Before Christmas costume and surrounded by people who genuinely liked me for me, not just for the person I convinced them I was. I’d never been kissed.

“It’s quite alright to hate me now,” Frank Ocean sings.

I’m telling the truth when I say that I hate me now. But it’s quite alright. I finally learn my lesson from all of this. I go home that evening and remove the makeup, the clothes, and the facade I’d put up for years. I delete the phone numbers of those old flames, and I come across Siarra’s number. When I call, she doesn’t pick up. I leave a voicemail, telling her that I’m sorry for everything that happened that night at the concert. I never hear from her again, but I do see her the next day when she comes through the drive-through at work. She knows who I am; I can see our history in her eyes when she looks at me. But she says nothing. She grabs her frappuccino and drives away. Somehow, I am okay with this. I don’t spend my break crying over the fact that I’ve been ignored. I don’t dwell on the years of time spent together, or the way it all fell apart. I hand her her drink and that’s that, and I am okay.

“We will never be those kids again.”

Bec Kashuba is a writer and coffee-hating barista from Pittsburgh, PA. Her interests include dogs, calligraphy, and drag. Her least favorite song is “Margaritaville.”

Thank you, mangoes: thank you for long summers spent with remnants of yellow stuck like plaster all around my mouth, like rusted ring-lines around a bathtub. Thanks for coating my fingers with the same sweet, sticky chrome tint that I promised my grandmother I would wash straight away, but I never obeyed because the bathroom was oh so far. Thanks for being the first streak of paint on Nani’s immaculate, white canvas of a carpet that had been laid down only two months ago. But it’s no big deal because they replaced all the carpet floors with wood three years later. Thanks for cooling me down in the sweltering summers when the box fan’s breeze was not frigid enough, so my tongue playfully immersed itself in the refreshing wake of your juicy liquid that oozed between my teeth and coated the insides of my throat. At eight year’s old, my cousin and I would be content with sitting idly in front of the box fan, transfixed by the monotonous rotation of the blades as we ingested every inch of your surface right down to the peel. Unscrupulously, we cast the bowls off to the side as we proceeded to amuse ourselves by talking into the fan to make our voices sound all echo-ey. But Nani always selflessly cleaned up our messes for us; well, I guess except for the time I stained the carpet because some messes just can’t be undone. Thank you, mangoes, for teaching me alongside Nani that what’s on the inside matters more because the first time I ever met you I defiantly shook my head in disgust. To me, you looked like what the awkward result would be if a potato and an apple had a baby. You were a weird shape; you were not quite circular or ovular, and your color was if a second grader hadn’t yet finished blending their paint stripes together. Despite my protests, Nani bribed me to try you in exchange for a lollipop, and by the time I had polished you off, I didn’t even want that lollipop. Thank you, mangoes, for becoming my comfort food and my go-to midnight snack. I’d choose you over a pizza any day. I love to bask in your sweetness, and I love your psychedelic yellows that hide beneath your obscure, outward appearance. Thank you, mangoes for providing a distraction when my cousins and I had to wait in the hospital lobby on Christmas Eve as Mom and Dad left us. “It’ll be fine,” they said. That was a lie. Thank you, mangoes for helping me reminisce the good times, the bad times, all the other times in between. But most of all, thank you, mangoes, for reminding me of her.

Sofia Bajwa is a high school student, and her work has appeared in a small amount of anthologies by students. She is an emerging writer who also claims to be a DIY guru, chocolate enthusiast, and professional Netflix binge watcher!

There is always a stage in a human’s life where they question their existence. Whether you are at work, school, or however else you may be going about your day, you stop for a moment. You look over what you are doing, or repeat what you said and trail off, or maybe you say nothing at all. And you begin to stare as your mind wonders to that reoccurring question, asked throughout human history: What is the point of life? I mean, what really is the point in all this? You begin with the common solutions. Religion? Evolution? And you ponder on the thought that all this means nothing from a wider perspective. And that your life will have no impact on the universe, and at this point you become ever so quiet. Your head starts to spin, and your heart races slightly. But I want to make a change in the world, you say. Or, I do not really care, you say. Or, it is all in God’s plan, you say. And you turn your palms up, and examine every dash and curve. With those same hands you put their backs on your forehead to check for a temperature. And then you place your hands on your chest to check that your heart is still beating.

Your eyes scan the crowd of blank faces, of people you have seen, but will never know. And then you see a familiar face in the crowd, but still it is not someone you know. Just the same person that you pass every day, on your way to and from work, or in your lunch break. They decide to light a quick one a distance from their work building. You are sitting in a nearby café from your own workplace, as you watch them from the window. It is clear that they are having a stressful day. They deeply inhale, and exhale a plume of smoke. You admire their skills, as you have never smoked a day in your life. You know that smoking is not your taste, but something about it in the movies, and in the way this person is standing, makes it look somewhat cool. You check your watch and hurriedly finish the croissant and coffee that you have been enjoying. As you make your way back to your workplace, you pass the person smoking a cigarette. They turn their head to avoid catching your face, and you smile politely as you pass, acknowledging their consideration. You walk a few minutes more until you reach your destination. What you do not know is that the person smoking as you passed, caught the end of your smile, and let their gaze linger upon the back of your head a little more than necessary. You have always been told that you have a great smile, but you have never quite believed it. Once the cigarette has been put out, they quickly brush off any remaining residue, and straighten out their clothes.

A few towns away, a dispute can be heard. One is accusing the other of cheating, while the accused furiously denies such suggestions. Hands flail around. Their rings move in and out of the light, catch it and flash like sirens. The regret is clear on the face of the accused, and after trying to convince their partner, they sigh and blame it on the bottle. A neighbour smirks after peering through a bedroom window. They begin adjusting the buttons on their shirt, and fixing their rumpled hair. Their pulse is still racing.

In the world somewhere else, a group of children take the miles-long route to school, travelling through forests in order to learn. Their hands are a little rougher, their hearing a little sharper, and their vision is just a little clearer than their across the sea counterparts. Who knows what is waiting in the forest? Across the river, two people stand at the water’s edge, trying to catch some fish. The rumbling of their stomachs is muffled, but the hunger is clear in the longing of their eyes, and the salivating of their mouths. When one starts to become impatient, the other taps their shoulder a few times, and mutters, ‘patience’. Their bucket remains empty until the next morning.

Somewhere else people are travelling to other countries. Think of those first time flyers, the honeymooners, the experienced travellers, the escapists, the adventurists, and those people on business trips. Or they are being trafficked by the same people that promised them a job and a new life. This new life, turns into a lie. One that could cost them their life, or limbs. On a ship there is a container full of livers, kidneys, and hearts. For a second you stop and question how they could possibly be human, but before you get any deeper in, your mind changes subjects.

Moving along, someone dines in the finest of eating establishments, where they eat until their heart’s content. It has taken them years of saving in order to afford this. Course after course is served in the daintiest of portions, cooked to perfection some might say. Each mouthful leaves them longing for more, and as they ponder on the taste of the previous dish, a new one arrives. When they have finished dessert, their stomach reaches full capacity, and they fall into a kind of food coma ecstasy. Food is what they live for after all.

And as a baby is born, another life leaves this realm, and enters one unknown. And you finally realise that you have been thinking and people watching for far too long. You continue to go on your way. The answer is still unknown to your question, as you go a few more years before it crosses your mind again.

Lexus Ndiwe is currently a student at university, and when she is not studying or writing in class, writes outside of academia as a sort of therapy. She is fascinated by the sound and influence of words, and uses them as a bridge to try and connect with people.