Literary Journal for Young Writers
By Chidiuso Ajaero
The Heart-broken Smirk
Smirking,
Faking,
Hurting,
Breaking.
Looking past those smirking, faking lips,
Feeling for that hurting, breaking heart.
Chidiuso Ajaero is an eighteen-year-old bookworm, calligrapher and environmental advocate. When she is not making the acquaintance of her characters, she loves spending time with her siblings and dreaming of Hogwarts.
By Eliza Browning
So we walked further, into the deepening waters of the past.
Maybe the sky over America today is not quite so blue,
maybe the distance is less between the here and now:
all those hours tug at their chains, unwind like acts
of destruction. What will this world bring? In cities,
the temporary background to our living, forests resurrect
themselves in concrete. The lakes split their dams,
rivers untame and run their old routes, subway tunnels
flood and streets coalesce into islands, the real estate
of the modern- West 27th settled by a flotilla of ducks.
What new migrations will there be? Maybe the seasons
will shift and we’ll have blizzards in June, maybe March
leaves will paper the ground- what sound will that hold?
What can we buy from selling your hair? The trees
will swallow their dollars, the oceans will rise and
spit out their dead and we’ll live in the mountains again,
expatriates from the lacework of frames we once
called home, a symphony in steel and iron-stippled light.
Eliza Browning is a first-year English and Art History student at Wheaton College in Massachusetts. She is a 2018 graduate of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program and a 2019 YoungArts Winner in Writing. Additionally, her work has been recognized by Hollins University, the Connecticut Poetry Society, the Eunoia Review, and the Rising Phoenix Review, among others.
By Alisha Ahmed
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.
By Jayla Stokesberry
The chair in the principal’s office is so soft that if you sit there for long enough, you can sink into it and never resurface again. That’s what happened to John Burkley. He went into the office, sat down in that plush chair, and they strapped him there and yelled at him until he disappeared forever. Rumor has it that the principal sends him food once a week to keep him alive, with no one to talk to but the dust bunnies.
This is the third time that I’ve been asked to sit in the chair and speak to the principal. Each time before, I’ve managed to avoid that terrible fate, but it has only gotten harder to escape. I fiddle with my thumbs. No one has ever talked to the principal three times in one year and remained unchanged by the experience.
I sit in the waiting room until a student exits the office, seemingly unscathed. He paces towards his next class with his head down. He looks like a new transfer. A sad smile forms across my face. He’ll learn.
“Next,” the principal calls through the crack of the closing door. I push it open with the palm of my hand and enter the room.
The chair is older than I remember. The bright yellow fabric has faded to a brownish mustard color, and the stuffing is beginning to come out of it. I peer through one of its holes to look for John, but before I can find him, the principal motions for me to hurry, so I sit down and face her desk.
“Welcome, Jason,” the principal says. “I suppose you know why you’re here.”
I glare at her. I’m not going to give in that easily. The chair supports my weight.
The principal clears her throat. I still don’t answer.
“You, young man, are failing your classes. I’ve called you in to discuss your options. You seem to need a little extra…” she pauses. “Help.”
“I don’t need your help,” I mutter.
“Your teachers have told me otherwise. I’ve been informed that you haven’t completed a single assignment in several weeks. Is there a reason you’ve neglected your studying?”
“It must have slipped my mind,” I answer.
She gives me a skeptical look, which I don’t find entirely fair. I did forget about the assignments, at least, after I shoved them down the paper shredder.
She lets her suspicions go, though, and continues. “Jefferson Preparatory has a 100% pass rate. We have a wide variety of resources to help failing students—”
I interrupt her. “John was failing. Did you help John?”
“We have no records of any ‘John’ at this school.”
That’s a lie so glaringly obvious that she knows she has to correct herself.
“I suppose you are talking about Jonathan,” she says.
“Burkley. Jonathan Burkely.”
“Jonathan Burkely was removed from our program for tarnishing our reputation and refusing to obey guidelines. A path you may be headed towards if you are not careful, Jason.”
The chair has begun to sink beneath me. I can almost feel John banging his fists against the inside of the chair in frustration.
“Luckily,” she continues, “the staff here at Jefferson is willing to provide you with several options to assist with the learning process until you have fully adjusted to our rigorous climate.”
“What if I never adjust?” I ask.
She stares right at me. No, she stares through me. Her gaze pierces through my chest and locks on to the chair behind me. She remains silent for a while, attaching my torso to the chair backing with two long metal skewers, and I wonder if she’s going to leave me hanging here forever.
“Don’t worry,” she says finally. “You’ll adjust, one way or another.”
She blinks once, and the skewers disappear from my chest. My full weight rests upon the seat once again, but this time, my rear sinks completely beneath the fabric. I try to push myself back up with my hands, but it’s impossible. I’m stuck.
“Now, do you have any more questions, or may we proceed?”
I decide to stay silent.
“Good,” she says. “Let’s discuss your options.”
She opens a drawer and pulls an old leather book onto her desk. She blows on the book to clean it, and the specks of dust float towards me and dance around my vision. She’s like a witch, casting spells on me, trying to transform me into a frog or a snake, or some other type of slimy creature that she could take home as a pet.
She opens the book and reads from it silently. While she’s distracted, I try to escape the grip of the chair again, but the more I try to loosen its grasp, the further I sink in. My body folds into a slight V shape. I sigh. I figure I’ll have to wait until the principal decides to let me go.
The principal looks up to find that I’ve fallen further below the surface of the chair, and I swear I can see her lips form a tiny smirk.
“Jason,” she says, “if you follow these steps, we will be able to get you out of this situation without problems.”
Get on with it, I think. I don’t dare to say it out loud.
“With your signature, I can write a recommendation for our two step preparation program. The first step is the questioning.”
“Questioning? What kind of questioning?” I don’t like where this conversation is headed.
“When first joining our school,” she explains, “many students partake in activities that are detrimental to our learning environment. Usually, students end all involvement in these activities within their first month here at Jefferson. Occasionally, a few students slip through the cracks. When students interfere with the learning environment, it is necessary to find the root cause so that it can be fixed. The questioning method has proven to be very effective.”
It’s true. No one at Jefferson Preparatory throws parties, does drugs, or cuts class. I’ve never seen anyone do even so much as blink during instruction time; everyone writes their notes in neat little columns without ever taking their eyes off of their teacher. They raise their hands to give insightful comments or, every so often, to throw a softball question to a teacher so that he feels good about answering it and being helpful. Then, they go home, and all they do is sit at their desks with their homework for hours. There are no sports teams, no art club, no amateur rappers who think that they’re famous because they got three hundred views on YouTube. There are only students, their worn down pencils, and a desk lamp that never gets turned on because everyone’s asleep by sundown. Working here is every teacher’s dream.
“So you’ll question me, and then what? What’s the second step?” I ask. The chair gradually pulls me in further.
“You’ve heard of our training programs, haven’t you?”
I ball my fists. “Training program” is a horrific euphemism.
You see, every once in a while, you’ll get a kid who’s slow to give everything up. Maybe he’s a street basketball prodigy, and his parents sent him here because the colleges won’t offer him a spot on their team until he gets his grades up. He thinks he can juggle two things at once, so he spends his days playing ball with his friends, and he stays up too late at night trying to get his work done on time. He only has to nod off once during class for the teacher to send him to the principal’s office. They’ll have a discussion, and she’ll write out a recommendation for a “training program” in New York. He won’t be in class for a week or two. No one will notice.
When he comes back, he’s just like the rest of them: staring at the whiteboard with soulless eyes. His school calls his parents to inform them of their child’s success, and they are elated that their son can finally chase his dream. Except then he tells them that he doesn’t want to play basketball anymore. He thinks it’s a waste of time.
Eventually, the other streetball players show up at his house asking where he’s been. They walk up the stairs, open the door to his room, and see a student hunched over a desk, filling out assignments with mechanical precision, and several dull pencils that have rolled onto the floor. He doesn’t even look up. Without saying a word, they leave him there. That isn’t the kid they’re looking for.
No one knows what happens during the training programs. Maybe they’re full of unlicensed surgeons who sever brains into pieces with their scalpels, or maybe they hire psychologists to strap students down to chairs and hypnotize them into robots. Only one thing is certain: the training programs change people. The principal ships you off to another state like she’s returning a defective product back to a factory, and in a couple of weeks, they’ll fix it for her and send it back free of charge. I don’t want to be fixed. All I want to do is tell the principal that she can shove her training programs right up her—
But I don’t say that. The chair would hear me. Instead, I tell her, “I’m not signing anything. I’m not doing the training program.”
“Jason, we have training programs all across the country. We can find the right fit for you. All you have to do is sign some papers. Just say the word, and I’ll bring them to you.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Jason.” She looks at me pointedly.
“You said I have options. I want to hear my other options.”
“Jason!” She slams her fists against her desk. My lower body swings beneath my torso and I start to fall until the fabric reaches up to my armpits.
“Don’t you understand? You have no other options, Jason. It’s the training program, or the chair.”
I start to wonder if it even matters anymore, because whether I drown inside of the chair or the principal sucks my soul out of my body, “Jason” will never be seen at this school again.
“What if I choose the chair?” I ask.
“You’d be the first.”
“You’re wrong,” I say. “John did it, too.”
She sneers. “John doesn’t exist. We made him up to scare kids like you into submission. It’s easy to make an example out of someone that isn’t real.”
“Liar!” I say. “You’re a liar!” With every word, the chair pulls me further into its fabric. My shoulders are completely smothered, and my neck sprouts above the seat like a pathetic little weed.
“No one at Jefferson would ever sacrifice themselves for some noble cause,” she says. “Look around you. Does this look like a school of martyrs?”
I think of all the dull, monotonous faces I’ve passed by in the hallways, the perfectly aligned rows of desks in every classroom, the pristine school bathrooms, the deafening silence in the cafeteria at lunchtime, and the resigned, shuffling footsteps of the new students after their first meeting with the principal. I come to a realization: it doesn’t matter whether John exists or not because this school will never change.
The principal reads that thought right off my face. “That’s right. Your idol can’t help you now. It’s time for you to sign the contract.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no.” The principal can reprogram a thousand students to do her bidding, but I refuse to let her control me.
Her cheeks flush with anger. “Do you think anyone will care about your sacrifice? No one will even remember you.”
“I’m not doing this so that they will remember me,” I say. My neck is submerged. I tilt my head back so that I can say my final words. “I’m doing this so that you will.”
And with that, I take one last look at her faltering expression, then sink below the surface.
It’s dark. I can’t breathe. It’s mind numbingly dark. It’s dark like the soot on the floor of an abandoned coal mine. It’s dark like the infinite depths of outer space. It’s dark like twenty thousand feet below the ocean. It’s dark like the gaping mouth of a man eating giant. The dark is suffocating me. I can’t breathe. My lungs writhe inside of my body. Thorns of fire pierce my chest. I can’t breathe. Fear seeps into my blood like acid. Pure agony.
I would do anything, anything, for a single molecule of air.
I’m on top of the chair again. I’m gasping. Coughing. Heaving. The principal looks at her watch.
“Thirty seven minutes,” she says. “Impressive. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t want to come up after all.”
Air is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.
She pushes a piece of paper and a pencil towards me. “Are you ready to sign this paper? Or do you want to spend more time with my chair? Maybe a week long vacation?”
I snatch the pencil from the desk and sign her contract. I can’t go back there. I’m sorry.
The tip of the pencil breaks off as I finish.
Her smile chills the air. “I knew you’d come around eventually. Now, follow me. Let’s begin the questioning.”
I get up from that wretched, ugly chair and do as she says. As I leave the room, I can almost hear John screaming and begging me to be the one to make his pain worthwhile.
The door closes behind me.
Jayla Stokesberry is an eighteen-year-old writer who attends Aragon High School in California. She developed a passion for writing when she began to use it as a way to express her inner feelings and her perspective on the world around her. Along with writing, she enjoys playing soccer and spending time with her dog.
By Emily Weatherburn
I sit in silence. All it takes is the slightest spasm of an aching limb – an untimely itch that simply must be scratched. I breathe deeply, trying to make as little noise as possible.
He’s still there, watching me. I can’t see him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there. He’s always there, waiting for that one, fatal mistake that I know one day will be my undoing. He doesn’t know where I am and I don’t know where he is; that’s the game, because it is a game. It’s an endless game of dice rolling. Except if I lose, I don’t just lose my dignity. The price is my life, and the reward is his.
I can feel that itch now. It’s in my right leg. I want to look down at it, to check there’s not some parasite hooked onto my skin, but I can’t. Even when I’m being eaten alive, I can’t move – not until I hear that telltale rustle of leaves that tell me he’s leaving. Then, I will run, and, as the dice are flung into the air, I will race for my life.
The itch is getting worse. I need to scratch it, but I know there’s not long left; soon, he will be gone, and I will get to keep my life. I try to calm myself. I can’t let my own fear be the ruin of me, not when there are so many depending on me. I let out a long breath, thinking of home.
It happens in an instant. Just as a sharp, jarring pain cuts across my leg; I hear a sudden rustling that tells me my hunter is giving up. Too late. I gasp from the pain, and then it is too late and I am running.
I dart out from my hiding place, a clump of densely growing leaves, and flee into the open meadows beyond. He’s right behind me, rampaging through the undergrowth. He is close. Too close; there isn’t enough time. I speed up, putting all my remaining energy into my legs.
The right one is still stinging, and a suspiciously warm liquid is beginning to trickle down it. I don’t have time for it, not for an injury. The smell of blood will only drive my hunter on.
I duck back under the cover of trees: a detour. It’s risky, and it might cost me, but it’s the only option I have left. I dart around tree trunks and leap over uneven ground. Then, as I skip over a protruding tree root, I feel my leg give way underneath me. The ground vibrates and hot breath skims over my neck, but before he can reach me, I duck, and then I’m on my feet again. The chase continues, but my hunter is now upon me, scraping at my back as he matches my pace. There is barely a claw’s width between us.
This is it, a voice whispers in the back of my head. You’re going to die today. You’re going to lose the game. I can almost sense his sharp teeth as they lurch towards me. You’re too late, the voice whispers.
I stop running. I stand resolute, and, as I do, time seems to slow down. I don’t think of the hunter, moments from plunging his fangs through my midriff. I think of home; I think of my tiny, little burrow, hidden barely two metres away from where I now stand. I could make it. Of course I could, but I can’t. Under those trees, my babies lie curled up together, their eyes bright and their mouths hungry.
They will have to go hungry tonight. They will have to go hungry until they learn to feed themselves – if they ever do. It’s better to risk that, whispers the voice. It’s better to risk it than lead this monster to them. You can’t do that. You can’t kill them.
So, I listen to the voice. I don’t move, because I can’t move. I’m not angry: sometimes, we lose the game.
Sometimes, the fox catches the hare.
Emily is a student of English at the University of Exeter. She has previously had two poems published in Young Writers anthologies and spends most of her time reading and writing.
By Greta Starling
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.