Fabian Adri
Her
Chapter 1: A Mere Doll
The gazes were piercing her, unfolding every inch of glitter-drenched skin and ripping them apart from her muscles. If only she could run away, no one would be able to find her. No one.
“Sheela, chin up. Let me see,” a woman, apparently the future mother-in-law, said in a stern voice. Sheela raised her head slowly against the weight of the tikli (jewelry) on her head, just to hear a weary groan from the woman.
“Her face is too dark. I see why she is not married yet. Sweet face though,” the woman mumbled, her hand taking Sheela’s hands, caressing her hands as if to mock the thinness of her fingers.
Silence took over the room. Sheela could imagine her mother’s face, probably blaming herself again. Everyone was tired of it. Dressing up in a thick deep-pink saree and gold sets that dangled around her neck, being covered in layers of foundation–that was too light on her–along with faded pink eyeshadow that melted in the heat of the living room where she sat just like a showpiece just to hear the bitter utterances: no, too short, too dark, too thin, or too old.
Sheela was a doll placed on a glass shelf of a store, a beauty labeled too cheap and not wanted; bodies pass by muttering blunt remarks overlooking her magnificence.
“But my son is very generous. He agreed to the marriage. So no worries, someone has to marry her, right? Aww, my Mir is such an angel,” the woman cooed as she stood up from the stool placed in front of Sheela’s chair, which allowed her to pull the younger’s dignity apart with the critiques, words that will linger with Sheela forever, nourishing the petals of insecurities further.
Just upon the woman’s leave, after sharing sweet goodbyes between the two families, Sheela was hugged by her siblings and father.
“Finally! Sheela-sister is getting married. Hooray!” The youngers cheered, the air of a wedding session filled their house after anticipation and countless rejections. Sheela saw the relief that washed her parents.
“But…I don’t know what he looks like…” Before Sheela could finish, her mother shrieked.
“Girl, be grateful! We barely get anyone for you. You are almost thirty, no sign of marriage all these days! And what will he look like? He is a man, who once married but his wife died. He is over forty. Why did you think that snake agreed?”
Sheela was taken aback by the outburst. Everyone stormed out of the room, one after another. She looked around for some words of comfort; “It’s not your fault” will do a lot. But nothing came. She was all alone.
Was it my fault? What did I do? Am I a burden?
Nothing changed for Sheela. She went to bed with a heart swelled in pain and a mascara-stained face after taking a last look at the wooden box she hid under her bed.
-x-
Chapter 2: Trapped
“You call this food?”
“Sorry-”
“Keep your sorry to yourself!” Mir growled, pounding the table. Sheela immediately moved the plates and let down trails of apologies as the taller male walked out of the house, slamming the door in the process.
“Can you do one job right? Can’t keep your husband happy, can’t cook, and look at your hair. At least comb it nicely. Girls are supposed to be pretty and perfect. Honey, you are miserably failing,” the mother-in-law’s voice echoed through the dining hall, deepening the scars in Sheela.
Sheela unknowingly sighed, counting ways she can leave the room. She immediately knew what she wanted to do, her usual escape.
“Hey, would you care if I disappeared?” Sheela suddenly murmured standing against the wall, her hand desperately clutched on the royal blue dress she was sewing upon Mir’s leave.
“What are you talking about? What drama is going on?” Mir laughed as he motioned Sheela to move away from the TV screen. “But, no. You are not much of a help anyway.”
Sheela heard it: the hesitancy. She saw the crooked eyebrows of her mother-in-law. She knew they saw her as nothing but a joke, a burden just like her parents did.
-x-
Chapter 3: A Goodbye
Mir did not notice the emptiness of the bed but clearly heard the loud silence and lack of sizzles from the kitchen. He lazily got up from the bed and headed to the dining hall that is unusually empty. Mir would be lying if his heart did not drop a bit. .
“Ma! What is up today? I have to go to work, where is everything?” He growled, diminishing the peace of the house.
“Didn’t Sheela set up your breakfast yet?” His mother's voice peered from one of the bedrooms, as shock wavered in her tone.
“What do you mean? I have not seen her. Sheela! Sheela!” The chaos took over the house. Every room was searched for, no signs of the youngest.
For the first time, her presence was missed. Calls were made to Sheela’s parent's house, and the cries of her brother and sisters’ could be heard upon hearing the news of Sheela’s disappearance.
“Find my daughter, I don’t care!” Sheela’s father broke down into tears on the other end of the phone.
Beep
She left everything behind, except the wooden box Mir saw her hide in her closet along with the incompletely cut silk fabrics that used to be put into a neat pile near her worn-out clothes. Nobody would be able to tell the difference after she left; the house was as quiet as it was. They realized the loneliness of Sheela, who never voiced her pains, and stayed quiet in the house gulping all her bothers. Their sighs of frustration and the muttered dissing turned into untold promises–swearing to compliment her chicken curry if she comes back, or perhaps tell her how beautiful she looks in the light blue dress that glows against her dark skin–soon came the tears seeing an untouched letter.
Eman Atwain
Deadly Spring
Confusion fills me as I stand in this deserted land. What happened? How did I end up here? Buildings and lifeless bodies are leveled to the ground. Dense clouds surround the entire area tightly, restricting any notion of hope, and the sun is nowhere to be found, as if it is afraid of witnessing the devastation.
As I step forward, my foot stumbles over an unknown object. When I look down, I am greeted by the sight of a bloody hand reaching out from beneath the rubble. The bright red blood contrasted sharply against the gray surroundings. The hand reaches out to me as if seeking assistance.
With hesitation, I reach down to offer assistance, only to hear a cry of pain. I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders as I pull, trying to lift the heavy weight of a broken world. As I begin to comprehend the devastation before me, the cries of agony grow louder, and my heart races with panic. The hand holds mine; its hold decreases with each passing moment.
I stopped and stared at the shattered fragments, each a reminder of a life, now lowered to pieces scattered across the ground. I approached them with caution, feeling the warmth of my blood dripping down my hands, staining the soil, and bearing witness to the devastation.
I gently removed each broken piece, hoping to eliminate the mark of sorrow. I kept going, desperate to find the truth buried beneath the ruins.
As the pile of rubble shrank, a child emerged from it. I grabbed it tightly and pulled it out of the rubble with all my might. His bloodied hand reached out to me, his eyes filled with tears, wordless yet speaking the story of the land. His clothing was ripped and bloodstained, bearing witness to the horrors he had witnessed.
As I approached the young boy, I noticed that his hand was badly injured, but the rest of his body appeared to be unharmed. As I got closer, his eyes widened with dread.
"What's your name?" I asked gently, attempting to calm him down.
"My name is Omar," he said, his voice slightly trembling. Among the destruction was a group of kids playing soccer barefoot.
A deafening noise approached me, and my entire world began to shake, and everything began to fall apart. Cries of anguish rang out from every direction as if the world were collapsing. Everything came to a stop: the voices stopped, the wind stopped blowing, and people stopped breathing.
Kerstyn Myers
Deep and Desensitized
With fingers dancing gracefully on the keys, A hacker works with practiced ease.
If you click this hyperlink, it invades your interior, polluting your exterior.
Pop up messages, Anti-Virus Error, Trojan Trojan, Exposure Exposure.
They probe and prey; they break and bend to find the weakness within, to make it end.
Keys crushed as the victim’s bleed dollar signs.
All some black hats see are dollar signs. White hats see the helpful signs.
A cry for help, the enemies are desensitized.
They work so much that they spread the masses, making others pay like IRS when you get your
taxes.
Thinking like my opponent to capture a moment with a source that hits the right components.
For those who use it for the right, it can shine a beacon, it can shed light.
So don't dismiss this art with fear, for it can bring solutions near, touching the hands of someone
dear or someone you can barely hear.
Just remember, with great power, comes great responsibility, and let your hacking be a force for
good, for prosperity.
Tyler O’Neal
What My Challenges Are Like
I was different from most kids. I talked to myself, I watched a lot of cartoons, mimicked movements I saw in cartoons, and just had an overactive imagination. When I was in elementary school, I got picked on for being “different.”
I was one of the smartest kids in my classes, but most of my challenges were social. I barely had any friends, and many kids thought I was “weird.”
“Tyler, you are one of the weirdest people on the planet,” said Trinity, a girl from my 4th grade class.
“You have no friends; you’re going to be sad and lonely for the rest of your life,” said William, another kid in my class.
When I was 15, I developed an interest in videography. In summer of 2016 I began my YouTube channel. Over my years being a YouTuber, many of my challenges came from trying to impress others. I overworked myself to make my videos entertaining. I stayed up late on school nights to come up with ideas. I dealt with the drama and chaos that is social media just to get my work noticed, and I did it all because I love videography. “Some days I wanted to give up what I loved doing because no one gave my art a chance.” I posted that on my Instagram story a few times.
Even when I’m boxing at the gym, I’m not the best fighter or athlete but I still show up and try my best, and I’m not afraid to fight anyone. “Every abled body in here is sparring today. Tyler, you and Isiah are sparring; Isiah is a professional fighter,” said Coach Warren. “Ok, coach, sounds good,” I said. I’m a heavyweight boxer and sometimes I have doubts about myself because all the other boxers have “perfect bodies.” I think I can’t ever be as good as everyone else because of my size.
In college I made the Dean’s List two times in a row, but sometimes I think I don’t try hard enough, and that I’m not smart enough. “Wow, two times in a row; I never thought I’d get this far. I know I’m smart; it’s just some days I’m lazy,” I said to myself numerous times.
I have the heart and passion for the things I love doing. I just need to learn how to stop doubting myself and to stop caring about what others think.
Life has taught me no matter how genuine I am, no matter how pure my intentions are, no matter how good I am at what I do, I can’t please everyone.
People will think anything regardless. People will always have something to say regardless. But the best part about life is we as humans have the power to not care what people think and we have the power to not let their opinions determine how we live.
Opinions are just things people say to feel relevant in someone else’s life.
You don’t need friends to be happy just like a superhero doesn’t need powers to be super.
In the end being different is what makes me special, I live up to my own expectations, I don’t expect much out of others, and above all else I’m being who I am. I don’t need validation from invalid people.
I know who I am, I’m Tyler O’Neal and one day all my ambitions will come to fruition.
Jaila White
The Way God Wanted Me
As I walk in the door from school, my mother greets me from the couch, excited. She asks how my first day of 9th grade was. I told her it was okay for the first day.
I lied. It wasn’t okay at all. But I couldn’t tell my mom that.
She asks if I met any new friends, and if there were any bullies she needed to know about.
My mom is overprotective of me. I was bullied at my last school so she found me a new school in the area.
I told her no–to both.
She just wanted to make sure I was safe.
As I go upstairs to my room to unpack my school things, I start to overthink things like: Will I ever meet any friends? Will I ever be okay again? Mom called me downstairs to eat dinner, but I wasn’t hungry, so I just turned in for the night. As I lay down, I couldn’t seem to fall asleep. Maybe it was the nervousness I had from my first day, but sooner than later, after staring at the ceiling, I fell asleep.
The next morning my alarm goes off at 6 AM as I tell Alexa to stop. I start to get up to do my morning routine. Finally, I’m finished getting ready, and it’s now time for the second day of school.
Once I arrive at my first class of the day, I sit down next to a girl who introduces herself.
“Hi, my name’s Shania.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Mykala,” I replied.
“Nice to meet you as well”.
She knew I was new, of course, and said that we should be friends. It was so nice to finally meet a friend. She was nice, pretty, and even smelled good. She didn’t even a-
“Can I ask you a random question? You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”
I spoke too soon…
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Are you an only child?”
“Yes.”
I knew this question was going to come up.
“Do you like being an only child?”
“Yes and no. It’s peaceful most of the time, but it does get boring being alone with just my mom and grandmother.”
“Oh, okay! Do you WANT siblings?”
“I want them but I also don’t.”
Before she could ask more questions, the teacher tells everyone to quiet down.
I told Shania we would talk later at lunch.
At lunch, Shania and I talked about things like why my mom doesn’t let me ride public transportation (Uber, light rail, bus, etc.), the loneliness, and anxiety of being an only child. We also bonded on other things. We had a great conversation, and it was great to finally talk to a friend about all of this.
It’s now the 3rd week of school, and it’s pretty okay here. Shania’s been a great friend so far, I have quite a few cool teachers, I’m making good grades, but the only thing is–the cyberbullies. In the middle of 3rd period one day, I received a mean text message from a bully. As I stared at the message, I started to tear up. I saw this coming. The messages started to get to me. I asked to use the restroom so I could be alone to cry. Then I called my mom to come get me because I “wasn’t feeling well.”
For the next couple of days, I stayed home because the cyberbullies hurt my heart. I couldn’t help but to ask–What made these people different from the last bullies? The last ones just played around, but these people! They actually said hurtful things. I think they just like to hurt others…but I don't know–just thinking.
Shania called to check on me because I hadn’t been at school. I told her I was okay and wouldn’t be at school for a while, that I just needed a break.
My mom realized that I hadn't come out of my room, eaten, or even talked to her about why I wanted to stay home. She came in to have a chat with me and sat down.
The stories. The messages. Everything.
I told my mom everything that had been happening. We had a long conversation about it all.
She told me, “Don’t let those kids’ words get into that beautiful head of yours. You are one amazing kid, and if they can’t grasp that, then they aren't meant for you.” I kept those words with me as I thought about going back to school.
I stayed to myself. I did my work. And after several weeks went by, nobody messed with me anymore. I learned to ignore the mean things people say.
Being an only child doesn’t define me, and it shouldn’t bother others.
Ma’issa Wright-Kerr
Captured Smiles
The bedroom was dark, outside of a shard of moonlight. She entered, being careful to step quietly so as not to disturb the old floorboards or the young girl sleeping in bed. She walked to the machine that sat in the corner, always going. The SD card felt as if it were burning a hole in her pocket, and she quickly inserted it into a glowing compartment. The computer-like device came to life, its screen displaying a percentage bar that slowly moved and shined in a soft blue.
The woman sighed in relief, sinking into a blue Lego chair that was too small for her.
“Mommy?” A soft voice peeked out from under a golden satin comforter, surrounded by wires that led back to the machine.
“Oh, Era, I’m sorry honey; I didn’t mean to wake you,” Jamie jumped up, practically standing at attention.
“It’s alright, Mommy, I know you’re just taking care of me.”
Jamie’s heart broke with the weight of her daughter’s response. She didn’t want her to be aware of the effort it took to feed the device, but Era’s eyes were wide open even when she was asleep. Luckily, she was too young to see the toll it took for her mother to combine her love and knowledge of coding with the necessity of photography. “Such a caring girl.” She bent over her daughter’s small body to kiss her on what seemed like her head.
“Weellll since you woke me up, can you read me a story?” Era squirmed out, a grin slowly glitching across her mouth.
“For that smile, anything,” said Jamie, turning to reach for the bookshelf that hid behind the web of wires. “Charlotte’s Web?” By the time she turned around, her daughter’s smile had traveled to the other corner of her mouth, causing her mother to mirror her expression. She had improved the coding!
“You know it!”
————————
A parent never wants to receive a call from their child’s school about an emergency. Hearing the normally calm voice of the secretary, Ms. Yanet, speed to double time only made it more anxiety-inducing. “She’s balled up crying? Well, what happened? You all are supposed to take care of my child!”
Frustration and fear mixed in Jamie’s veins as she sped to the school, tires squealing as she pulled into the parking lot.
“Where is she?”
The wailing child she expected to see when she entered the colorful room was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a shell of the child she had dropped off that morning greeted her, eyes dull. The light that normally powered her irises was dim.
————————
“E, can I ask you something?”
Era quickly sat up in bed, shoving her diary under her soft comforter. “Sure, Dad, what’s up?”
Era’s dad shifted in her doorway. “Do you remember your grandma Tori?”
Scents of Egyptian musk and the feeling of warm, moist lipstick flooded Era’s brain. It felt like some of it reached her heart too, though less noticeable, like dusting a forgotten room. “Yes, I think so. She always made my favorite cherry custard, even though everyone else hated it.” Everyone else? “And those ugly Christmas sweaters you used to make us wear!” Though meant as a joke, Jamie hadn’t gotten home from work yet to upload the latest smiles, so it didn’t translate.
“Watch it now.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“Anyway, would seeing her be something you’d be interested in? I’ve been trying to talk to your mom about it but I think it’d mean a lot to know you wanted to see her too and I don’t know if —“
“Sure, Dad.”
————————
That night the first floor of their family home became more like a boxing ring than a house. To an onlooker, they were opposing sides of a war but really they both craved the same thing: community.
“You talked to Era about it? Without talking to me?”
“Well, I kinda guessed it would go just like this. I was trying to lessen the storm.”
“Oooh, lessen the storm. So I’m a storm now. Just some chaotic, messy thing, not someone who’s trying to make a good life for our daughter?”
“A good life, yes, but she can have a great one. She needs her family; we need her family.”
“We are her family.” Jamie said, ending with her lips so close and still you would have thought she was the one who couldn’t smile.