The Literary Arts Magazine of ACS ATHENS 2017-19

The Literary Arts Magazine 2017-19

A publication of the Literary Arts Society of ACS Athens Art by Stella Argentopoulos

CONTENTS 2017-18 WORKS: Moth by Suami Dekker......................................................................................... Page 4 The Sea by Ilektra Wasila .................................................................................... Page 6 Untitled by Maria Kulukundis ............................................................................ Page 7 Desolation by Iliana Chitou ................................................................................. Page 8 A Winter of the Soul by Sofia Sofokleos ............................................................. Page 8 She is Evil by Marina Papadimitrakopoulou ........................................................ Page 9 Time by Alex Kontodimas .................................................................................... Page 9 Birds of a Feather by Zoë Scotes ........................................................................ Page 10 New Beginnings by Abdulmajid Alfassi ............................................................. Page 12 Winter Stroll by Marianna Sampson ................................................................. Page 12 Winter Poem by Ismet Ovcina........................................................................... Page 13 Her Love is Like Winter by Alexandra Dimitriou ............................................ Page 13 Lear | near Kolonos by George Dougalis ......................................................... Page 14 The Less Fortunate by Abigail Bello .................................................................. Page 16 My Story by Anonymous .................................................................................... Page 18 The Smile of the Sun by Fanni Fekete............................................................... Page 19 2018-19 WORKS: The Girl with a Million Questions by Grace Metcalf ....................................... Page 20 The Power of the Blindfold by Alexandra Dimitriou ........................................Page 21 Through a Siren’s Eyes by Zoë Scotes ................................................................ Page 22 Untitled by Kristina Papadopoulou ....................................................................Page 24 Untitled by Raphael Schlierf .............................................................................. Page 25 Untitled by Anonymous .................................................................................... Page 26 Questions by Maximilian Makarigakis ............................................................... Page 28 Untitled by Yun Zhang ....................................................................................... Page 28 Waltz of Time by Marouso Pappas ..................................................................... Page 29 The Red Footstep Anna Chatzioti ..................................................................... Page 30 Room in New York Odysseas Digbassanis .........................................................Page 31 Pain! by Persephone Margelis ............................................................................. Page 32 Untitled by Michaela Gregoriou .........................................................................Page 34

CREDITS & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Editor-in-Chief: Abigail Bello Editorial: Irene Georgakopoulos, Maria Kulukundis, Zoë Scotes, George Dougalis Submissions and Fundraisers: Grace Metcalf, Ester Pyykko, Ali Yarici Front Cover Art: Stella Argentopoulos Back Cover Art: Kalypso Barmbalia Content Art: Vasiliki Almyranti - Yiling Chen - Alexandra Demetriades - Markella Lousidis Lou-Gaia Marbach - Artemis Mitropoulou - Elena Papaspyrou - Aliki Papoutsi - Thania Sbarouni - Myrto Stathaki - Alexandra Valantassi Faculty Advisors: Mr. Hercules Lianos and Ms. Elizabeth Ktorides Special Thanks: Mr. John Papadakis, Ms. Sophia Soseilos Produced by: ACS Athens Literary Arts Society • Edition 2017 - 2019

3

I

get off the schoolbus and walk through the messy, but flowery, patio leading to our house. I open the white window door and am immediately greeted by my dog, Luna. I pet her while I set my bookbag down next to the counter.

“Mom, I’m home!” I say, hopefully loud enough for her to hear. As she opens her studio door, I hear the familiar sound of Joe Hisaishi music - she must be painting again.

“I left some pasta for you, it’s still in the pan,” she half shouts, obviously distracted by whatever it is she is making. I decide not to answer, since she probably wouldn’t hear me over the music anywayI pad over to the kitchen and put some leftovers to warm up in the microwave as I hum along to the now-memorised tune.

While I eat, I decide to check my phone for any messages - none.

I finish my food quickly and take my dirty plate and glass back to the sink and grab my bag to go to my room.

I decide to change into my comfy clothes and make my way to the studio.

“Hey honey, how was school?” she coos.

“Good.” Except that I got a terrible grade on my math test which basically determines my grade level for the rest of the year, and I’m the only student in my class who got put in the lower level and now everybody knows.

“Could I get extra math tutoring?” I say, looking down and picking at my nails.

“Math tutoring? I’m already paying for your art teacher and dance lessons - we can’t afford another teacher. Besides, where would you find the time?”

“I know, mom, but I thought about it, and I’m thinking of dropping art.” I cringe at the thought.

My mom stares at me for a second, as if processing my plan, then nods in agreement.

“I’ll try to find a contact tomorrow morning while you’re at school if you really want it.”

I’m surprised at her reaction - I thought she would put up more of a fight, especially since she’s an artist herself and she knows I love drawing and painting too… I find myself wishing she would have stopped me.

As I’m about to leave the room, she puts down her brush and pulls me in for a hug. “Did something happen at school? Did you get a bad grade?” Her motherly instinct kicks in, and am thankful for it.

I mentally debate whether or not to tell her about my grade and the teasing . I decide to go for the truth… except for the teasing. “..Yeah. I had a test yesterday, and it didn’t go so well.” I try not to look her in the eyes - she’s not severe, and she would never punish me for something like this, I just find myself ashamed and don’t want to disappoint her. She gave up everything to send me to this school. If only dad hadn’t - I cut off my thoughts and notice I’m on the verge of sobbing over a stupid grade.

“Did you study well for it?” She asks “I did, I just… I don’t know.. I can’t do it, it’s t-too difficult, and everyone else did well,” I croak, my eyes watering.

“But you’re better at other things,” She tries to comfort me by softly swaying me back and forth whilst standing.

“I know, mom, but it’s not enough. Math is important, and I should work harder on it since it’s one of my weak points. I want to be as good as the others in my grade.” I don’t know which one of us I am trying to convince.

“Honey, you should never put aside working on something you are good at and becoming great at it to improve a weak point in order to be average level. Focus your energy on your talents, and become the best at them.” “ I love you for who you are, and it’s okay to get a bad grade,” She adds, somewhat calming me, even though I already knew this.

I silently nod, and she kisses my forehead.

My face is now red, and my nose blocked from the crying. I agree to take a hot shower to relax, and

4

thirty minutes later, I am lying down on my bed.

I stare at the ceiling and notice a shadow flicker against the lightbulb - a moth is banging against it. As annoyed as I am at its constant suicidial tendencies, I’m too lazy to get up and do something about it.

Instead, I decide to look up why they seem to like the light so much.

“It’s because moths are looking for the moon. They’re looking for moonlight because they’re trying to fly north. So this moth, everything in it is telling it to do exactly what it’s doing. It’s doing the right thing, but it’s just the wrong light.”

As I drift to sleep, I can’t help but wonder, “...Am I a moth?” ~MOTH by Suami Dekker

Lou-Gaia Marbach

5

THE SEA The sea; Oh how I love the sea, His crystal blue waters Sure hold no mystery.

The sea; Oh how he makes me feel, When his serene waves hug me I feel like I can breathe underwater, When even the fresh air is choking me.

The sea; Oh how he makes me feel safe In a world filled with quicksand, Stingrays, and other sorts of dangers.

All of these were nothing in front of the sea.

The sea; Oh unfortunately When a thunderstorm appeared, The sea was not the same.

The sea; The sea that would drown all problems, Was suddenly in charge of my sorrows.

The sea; The sea that made me feel like a mermaid, Made me feel like just another fish in the sea.

As his waves moved on to other shores.

The sea; I don’t go to the sea anymore, I just admire his complexity from the top of my roof, Until the sea salt that seemed sweet to me, Gets washed off by the fresh air that used to choke me.

The sea; Oh how I loved the sea. ~by Ilektra Wasila

Alexandra Valantassi

6

UNTITLED

T

here was a young, city man. This man decided to take a journey to a farm miles away. He was in dire need of a break. The city was too busy for his simple lifestyle. He needed to get rid of the clutter in his life; all the extra and unnecessary things. He left behind his watch so he could lose himself in his thoughts, have absolutely no care in the world. Without the anxiety-inducing tick of a clock, he would be able to truly lose himself.

Upon his arrival, he was immediately greeted by the smell of sweet apples from the nearby orchard. It brought back memories of his childhood when he used to pick fresh apples and bring them to his mother to bake apple pies. The man’s tastebuds began to water as he remembered the perfectly sweet apples and equally perfect crust along with the warm feeling of comfort that invaded his mouth.

Early June was the time that this young, city man fled to the countryside. The sun was up for longer, it gave him more time to himself. Often times he would find himself perched on a rock overlooking the farm. Wind whooshing, animals squeaking, and leaves rustling were all music to his ears.

There was a path that was a shortcut to the nearby mountains, and only a handful of locals knew of this secluded path that had breathtaking scenery. The young man knew everyone in the town and often walked along the path on fine summer evenings. It was absolutely perfect.

He spent the whole day out in the fields sitting with the chickens, goats, and cows and thought about all the things he wasn’t doing. It was liberating. He felt free.

As he was walking back home, he walked along the path again. This time as he walked, he really took in all the scenery around him. Absorbing every sound. Relishing every image.

Just as he was nearing the turn, he heard a deep voice laughing. No. It was more than that. The deep voice laughed like a maniac. A strange feeling took over the young man.

“It couldn’t be…no. It’s not.”

The young man attempts to clear his mind. That sound was all too familiar. He had definitely heard it before.

And then it hit him. “…Boss?”

It was his boss from work. The one who was supposed to be back in the city. A shiver ran down his spine and the young man’s hair stood up.

“Why, isn’t it a surprise to see you here?” The man chuckled.

The blaring of the alarm clock woke the young, city man up. His body immediately sat upright and he broke into a cold sweat. The realization finally hit him.

He never went to the fields, or the orchard.

It was all just a dream. ~by Maria Kulukundis

7

Thania Sbarouni

DESOLATION

A WINTER OF THE SOUL

In this dark world, every man has a story.

It goes without saying that a woman does too.

Alas stories usually full of “glory,” Go hand in hand with shedded tears too.

Conformity is capricious, It comes and goes, So does self-fulfillment, a man’s most revered foe.

As the sudden blizzard distorts our sight, We take a secret vow, to heed our soul’s latent advice Oh, you can’t avoid it, people come and go And surrendered to the flow.

Carrying around sinful smiles on their faces.

Wandering recklessly in the isolated winter frost, If only they are real, I’d like to know.

Lost in the blowing and drifting snow, Or deep down they murmur, “I need some space.”

We try to exorcise fears Which wait patiently to serve us the last blow.

This is just a spark, this is how it starts While the stream of conscience ruthlessly takes charge, On a gloomy autumn day, We regret our reserved, idle judgement, severely flawed.

People begin to destroy all nature’s arts.

And proceed to reveal our courage, Trees and shrubs looking orange, green, and gray.

Putting up a brave show.

Alas, the melting ice beneath our feet To liberate their souls, or even their minds.

Shows no mercy at all.

But how should they know the sin of all kinds?

Suddenly, it seems untimely but human, To fall from grace like a trivial snowflake ~ Illiana Chitou Amid the harrowing winter cold. ~ Sofia Sofokleous

8

SHE IS EVIL

TIME

Why time? Why? Because I could not succeed for death, We brought you into this world It did kindly succeed for me.

And you kill us.

Does death make you shiver?

The day I was born I walked with you Does it?

And you sent me to hell!

I will consider my killer.

Why time? Why? For my killer is scary, savage because she wants to kill.

My only question.

Does the killer make you shiver?

I hear you screaming, Does she?

I hear you ticking, You can kill, you can confess, but can you transfigure?

I see you whiten the planet, I see you darken the planet.

An executioner, however hard she tries, I feel you, Will always be swift.

I fear you.

But why?

Pause to pray, like the executioner does.

You are selfish.

You are rude.

When I think of the afterlife, We will die.

I see a hellish punishment.

You will rule.

I don’t like the fact that it Goodbye time.

Is there forever You will always be fine.

You cannot escape it, It shows no mercy, ~ Alex Kontodimas It does not resurrect. ~ Marina Papadimitrakopoulou

Alexandra Demetriades

9

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

I

can’t remember the first time I saw her. Only that, from that moment onwards, I couldn’t stop seeing her.

I saw her sitting on the sidewalk, the sun in her hair and a song in her throat.

I saw her roaming the park, stomping in leaves and splashing in puddles.

I even sometimes saw her silhouette burned on the insides of my eyelids when I tried to sleep. She haunted me, danced around my thoughts and vanished when I tried to catch her.

I figured she’d leave eventually.

I was wrong.

Over the next couple weeks, the girl did the unspeakable, and built herself up a reputation by feeding crows in the alley next to her house.

It wasn’t that the act itself was strange (although that did play a part-- nobody in town fed the birds, until that moment I’d been pretty sure there was even a law against it) so much as the circumstances surrounding it.

The girl would trek out every few days, hands outstretched and palms cupped. In them, a small pile of crumbs rested. When she finally reached the back of the alley, she’d toss them out ceremoniously, watching as the crows swarmed down in droves, cawing and pecking until you couldn’t see the girl anymore-- just the flapping black wings shielding her.

When the crows finally flew away again, she was gone.

Something worth noting was that she never fed any other birds. Just crows. If a pigeon tried swooping down, she’d chase it away angrily. If it refused to leave, she’d even resort to throwing rocks. The crows helped her do this, screaming at the intruder and flapping their wings menacingly until it backed off again.

Pigeons grew to dislike her. People grew to dislike her. Even my mother, holy woman that she was, grew to dislike her.

Slowly the whispers started. Theories on who she was, why she was doing this, and what it meant flew from mouth to mouth. Often times, someone might offer a theory and everyone else would pounce on it, working to alter it to the point where if they were to recount it to the original theorizer he wouldn’t have been able to recognize it as his own.

No one could find themselves quite agreeing with what their neighbor had to say. What the town lacked in size, it made up for in opinions-- the people had nerves of steel, and egos double the size of Myrto Stathaki their population.

The only thing everyone agreed on was that this girl was not to be approached.

“Not until we figure out what she wants, anyway.”

So, every day I was told not to talk to the girl who fed the crows.

And every day I grew more and more jealous of the birds that got to know her.

Until finally, I decided to be the first to break the silence.

Armed with a loaf of bread and a bundle of nerves, I made my way into the alley that had come to be known as hers and watched as she let bread crumbs fall from between her fingers. The crows hopped around her eagerly, pecking with greed at everything they could find. She laughed at them. My heart clenched.

I took a few steps towards her. The birds screamed at me. Some even flew away. I stumbled backwards in retreat, but it was too late: what had once been a mob was now barely a group, and the girl was looking at me with accusation.

10

“Why’d you do that?” she asked. Angrily. These were the first words she would speak to me, ones I would remember for a long time-- not that I knew that back then. “You scared ‘em away.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I stuttered. And then, trying to reconcile: “I brought you bread.”

The girl frowned at me. Up close she wasn’t as pretty as I’d thought: her hair was ratty, and her nose had a tilt to it that suggested a fracture. I looked down.

Silence stretched between us.

The crows did nothing to break it.

When the girl finally spoke again, her voice was different. Hesitant.

“Do I know you?” she said. I looked back up, just in time to spot her wiping her nose on her sleeve. Her orange hoodie was far too large on her, and a relic in its condition. Patches and stitches littered it. It looked like it hadn’t been washed for days.

“No,” I said. “But I know you.”

The girl recoiled, and once again I scrambled to explain myself: “I’ve seen you around-- feeding the crows-thought you looked cool--” “Just gimme the bread, weirdo!”

My stomach dropped like an anchor. This wasn’t going at all like I had hoped. The girl wasn’t pretty, the crows were flying away, and I’d botched up my first impression before even saying my name. The only thing redeemable about me now was the bread I was carrying.

I took a few steps towards her again hesitantly, loaf outstretched.

She snatched it out of my hands.

Taking a large bite out of it, she slowly began to tear up the rest, throwing it in a circle around her like confetti. I regarded her with awe. To my young eyes, the act looked ritualistic, something a witch might do in her cauldron the night of a full moon.

When she finished ripping up the bread and swallowing her bite, she finally deigned to look back at me. Her gaze was still wary, but there was something else in it now. Something unidentifiable.

“You better move,” she warned. “The crows don’t like visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor,” I said. Hopefully. “I’m a friend. Right?”

The girl laughed. It was an ugly sound, all snorts and shoulder shaking, but I didn’t mind. I was too busy hanging onto her next words.

“A friend,” she finally mused, her laughter settled like fog between us.

I nodded. “I brought you bread.”

“You scared away my birds.”

“They’re gonna come back.”

“You’ve been spyin’ on me all week. I saw you.”

Silence stretched between us again. I scuffed my shoe in the ground, suddenly ashamed. Spying wasn’t the word I had in mind when I looked at her. Observing seemed to fit so much better at the time.

“I think your laugh is cool,” I whispered. My words sounded feeble, even in my own ears-- it was a pathetic, last attempt compliment, sure to fail.

The girl stared at me like I’d grown three heads.

“My laugh?”

“Yeah.”

“I hate my laugh.”

“Well… I don’t.”

She tapped her finger against her chin thoughtfully, wariness wavering. The few crows still surrounding her had started pecking at her feet, at ease again.

“Nobody in town talks to me,” she said. It wasn’t an accusation, or even a complaint. Just a fact.

I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do. She was right.

The girl considered me again. More crows had started flying down again, pooling around her like water-- if water was black, feathery and loud.

Delicately taking a step out of her crow-circle, she approached me, and reached out to ruffle my hair. I froze, feeling stupidly like a cat. She was short compared to me, barely coming up to my chest. She had to go on her tiptoes to reach my head. Her hand felt soft nestled in my hair. If I was a cat, I’d start to purr.

“Okay,” she finally said. Her face was still not as attractive as I’d first thought, but it was now split in half by a gleaming, hundred-watt smile that seemed to make everything a little brighter in the world.

My heart soared.

“You’re a friend.” ~ by Zoë Scotes

11

WINTER STROLL NEW BEGINNINGS The cold breeze hits me, Waking me up from the lethargy.

The sky falls down, As the flakes of snow land on me.

The wind blows through my hair, The snowflakes surround me in the air, Disengaging me from my despair.

I feel the freedom all this brings.

The power of winter does these things.

The power of winter causes these feelings, And triggers me to make new beginnings, Away from people with troublesome misgivings.

~ by Abdulmajid Alfassi

God and nature give me life Society’s standards stab me like a knife Winter came and I left it all behind, Into the woods I ran, lay down on the snow To society’s pressures I said no, no, no.

As I was lying down, the trees talked to me.

They told me they love me.

I told them they’re the only ones that let me be.

They told me that in the woods I was free.

I let my hair loose and yelled into the wind.

I laughed and ran I became so much more than just a man.

I am the ornament on God’s greater plan.

I saw Him smiling at me, but then His figure ran, But I knew that my life had just began. ~by Marianna Sampson

Myrto Stathaki

12

Myrto Stathaki

WINTER POEM

HER LOVE IS LIKE WINTER

The monstrous air blows Colder and stronger on me, I lose myself in thought, Not going back to my comfy room, Facing the icy pavement like a morning bird Who searches an unfrozen drop of water, I pace my footing along the least risky spot.

Her love is like winter other times dark and cold filled with jealousy and regret when you look into her eyes you can see the paranoia and sadness When it is dark and cold.

Not to come upon a brutal fall, Longing for the weightless warmth of days gone by I still search for the unseen purpose Of where and why A fish in a school following a migration But not belonging.

Her love is like winter sometimes beautiful and selcouth filled with love and care when you look into her eyes you can see her falling deeper and Deeper When its beautiful and selcouth.

~ by Ismet Ovcina ~ Alexandra Dimitriou

13

LEAR | NEAR KOLONOS Then you read sedatives Tomatoes and laxatives So the thoughts blurt out And somehow [linger] somewhere [ - ] (has) seeped through [ ] and Is now on the channel feed, Trying to sell marimbas, vibrating toothbrushes, soft core zionism, and other convertibles.

Marination. Panoramic surveillance and internal oversight.

I took your case out of spite His|he’s kind -- of rendered scenario -Meant to be Invading the living room, Setting up trenches In your most recent Sulcus (grooves).

Precious colly-flower Withered spinach spinach and seared juice for your sweet-tooth A low turning point for a public bus of high velocity, An emergency landing into muddy|puddy waters and scaly sement Your son’s two hands and a dog’s journey engraved on the new city carpet A construction site, full of motivation|motion And extracts from the ma(u)ppets In some odd synchrony. |rest in| And you, a small flaky animal at the end of the bay With oyster clusters clammed on your hair What is this to you?

It can’t be out of pleasure that you shell your eyes open Yet you’ve seen it all… :The [...] [...] How brave of you.

There’s footage of them on the rocks Compelling evidence Their flesh was salted, yet it tasted fresh Still simmering after three plunges and a warning shot.

Crusty, sun dried insects with moist and ploppy tracheas Their internalised vibration - an externalised annoyance A chast carousel of lethargic calls and aneurysms The tunes of a cicada orchestra

14

Anthro-colonisation but reversed in terms of self The way I see it it(‘)s just colonisation, plain and simple.

Don’t you be fancy about it!

The|From| tree to tree, they just grow mute when threat is near And we are a threat Here to perpetuate their kick-started (crowd funded) extinction.

Don’t let me collect dust in this antiquity.

It runs down the line like Asthma, A marfan building by the sea and leucodermis pines Its rustic whitewash walls |uneven|thickly| gouache -painted-firm|frozen- (embalmed) Desert Dunes.

GiveYour meHungry myTired 8thPoor grade report card The one with letters on it but of the sort that don’t mean a thing A statue of [bad guy] with its index, middle, and ring finger missing Nights (mornings?) listening to the summer days with the usual radio frequency interference Nights on the rooftop _ the balcony Banana yogurt and the second best thing; And give me back my |old| (current) neighbor She’ll be washing dishes at 2 am Boiling tap water And for reasons I will be up to see it.

A riff raff of polyester fungus -- and other good plans Memorial cubes and blank scores Retirees and|in colored socks.

Bury me alive. ~ George Dougalis

Aliki Papoutsi

15

THE LESS FORTUNATE

“T

he world is full of monsters with friendly faces.”

I remember the last time he said that to me. I remember the way his eyes pleaded with me to just this once take him seriously. Then he was gone, stolen by one of the monsters he tried so hard to protect me from.

Now the monsters haunt me.

The barista at Starbucks today had a friendly face. She had bright green eyes and a sweet smile as she asked me what I wanted to drink. Last month I would have complimented her on how pretty she was, now all I could do was wonder how many hearts had broken because of her and how many times she’d lied.

The cashier at the thrift store’s face was friendly too, but when I dug through my purse for my wallet and still couldn’t find it all I could do was shrink back and pray his monster didn’t come out. The woman behind me in line paid for the pretty pink blouse I wanted.

I smiled at her and would have thanked her except she had this look in her eyes that looked exactly like Papa’s had right after he gave me candy and right before he beat my mother. All I could think of was the terror as I grabbed the blouse and fled.

It took me a while to realize how odd I looked running for my life with a pink blouse in hand, and only took me a beat longer to realize I’d left my purse at the thrift store. By then I was in a nice residential neighborhood with white houses and mowed lawns. I stared in bewilderment, what sorts of monsters lived here?

Then my eyes focused on the children playing in the street. One was peddling a tricycle in circle after circle, another was chasing him screaming in delight, two more were shooting water guns in any and every direction.

My heart softened. Surely these children couldn’t be monsters. Perhaps the world is full of monsters, but it can hardly be filled to the brim. There must be innocence and peace and joy found somewhere, maybe I’d finally found the place all those had been hiding. Maybe innocence had fled from my childhood and come to live here.

The child in the tricycle halted at my feet and stared up at me as my heart jumped into my throat.

“That’s my mommy’s shirt,” he said. “She told me she wanted to give it to the less fortunate. Are you a Less Fortunate?”

I almost laughed, one of those big happy laughs that make the world seem okay again, but it had been too long since I’d laughed. Instead I answered, “You could call me that.”

“I think my mommy would like to know her shirt got to a Less Fortunate,” he took my hand and stood up. “Come meet her.”

I tried to protest, I really did, but I think I’d spent so much time protecting myself from the monsters I didn’t have the energy left to fight the goodwill of a child.

His mom was cutting carrots in the beautifully-decorated-picture-perfect house I’d never gotten as a child.

“Hey Charlie did you remember to-“ her voice died in her throat as she turned around, wiped her hands, and tried to hide the surprise in her bright blue eyes.

“Hi,” I quickly let go of Charlie’s hand. “I’m really sorry. I - um - Charlie saw I’d bought this blouse from the thrift store and I was walking by and I- he wanted to show you.”

She glanced between me and the cloth in my hands for a long, silent moment before slowly smiling. “Yes, I believe that was mine. Fancy how it would find its way back to my house in someone else’s hands. I’m Charlotte.”

She wiped her hand on her apron once more before extending it to me. As we shook her hands I searched her eyed for a glimpse of her monsters, but all I saw was kindness and affection.

“You know,” Charlotte said, turning back to the vegetables she’d chopped, “I think I made enough for three. Would you like to join in on snack time?”

I hesitated. Just because I couldn’t see the monsters didn’t mean they weren’t there. “I’d love to but - um - I’m expected.”

There was hurt in Charlottes’ Aliki Papoutsi

16

eyes now, she knew I was dodging her. I waited for the monster to come but all she did was reach for a pad of paper and scribble on it for a moment. “Here, at least take my number and… call me sometime, I’d love to meet you for coffee or a shopping spree.”

I barely managed to stammer out a ‘thank you’ before the coward in me hightailed it out of that beautiful house. At least the monsters were familiar, this kindness was as alien to me as outer space.

My apartment door was shut safely behind me before I realized I had no phone. Any chance of further communication with Charlotte had been left at the thrift store along with my purse. It’s not that I’d actually been planning on contacting her, I just liked the security of knowing I could. And this meant I’d have to face the monster at the thrift store again.

It took me three days to gather up the courage to face the monsters again. I went to work, avoided all human contact possible, then went home. I realized on the third day though that my groceries were running out and all my coupons were on my phone.

I had two options: face the monsters and look for my old phone or face the prices and buy a new one. I didn’t have enough money to buy a new one.

“Hi. I think I left my purse here when I came a few days ago. It’s blue with a white stripe down the middle, do you think you’ve seen it?”

There was no way the store’s managers was a monster His face was grumpy to begin with - not nearly friendly enough to hide a monster. He did find my purse, though I think he knew who I was the moment I spoke and just dragged his feet out of spite toward the world.

I left the store smiling, the grumpy people always make me laugh. At least they were safe.

“Hey! How are you? Um, I’ve been looking for you.”

I turned around slowly, there was no way that voice was calling me. There was Charlotte. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said with a little smile. “I realized I never got your name.”

“Celia,” I managed to stammer. I was still shocked at running into her and I still didn’t know how to respond to a well-meaning face that held no monsters.

“Well, Celia, do you have somewhere you need to be? I’ll admit I’ve only gotten more interested in hearing your story and there’s this great coffee shop down the street.”

I’d taken three days to gather the courage to face the monsters, might as well face any and every one that came my way.

“I’m always up for a new coffee shop,” my lips tested out a halfhearted smile.

“Wonderful. I only have two more bags to bring in. Care to help me?”

“Of course.”

As soon as the woman handed Charlotte the cash for her clothes, she flipped through it and smirked at me, “This should be enough for coffee.”

The real laugh felt good in my lungs.

“Can you believe it?” Charlotte turned to me as we stood in line at the same coffee shop ages later. “Six months ago I cornered you at the thrift store and made you come have coffee.”

“Six months ago I was still seeing monsters,” I took a moment to appreciate where I was now before ordering my drink at the counter.

“Hey, we all had our demons.”

“Some of us got our angels too.” I smiled at the barista. “Your hair looks gorgeous today, thank you for the coffee.”

Charlotte was smiling proudly when I sat at the table across from her. “You’ve come so far Celia.”

“I couldn’t have come even a step without you.”

Charlotte raised her paper cup, “To the past six months.”

“To everyday angels,” I tapped her cup.

We talked. We laughed. We sipped coffee. We enjoyed the companionship of this thing we created. I couldn’t help but reflect on all these last six months had meant to me, I couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that I can see the beauty in people again. Papa’s abuse doesn’t define me, and neither does the tragedy I’ve endured.

“Oh goodness, school ends in five minutes. I’ve got to go pick up Charlie.” Charlotte grabbed her purse and stood.

“Send him my love, tell Ralph I said hi too.”

“Of course,” she grinned and the bells on the door jingled as I looked down at my phone. “Hey Celia.”

She was still there, door propped open, looking at me.

“The world is full of monsters with friendly faces.”

I echoed our standard response, “And it’s just as full of angels in the least likely places.”

I knew those places now, those were the places the Less Fortunate were welcomed. ~ by Abigail Bello

17

MY STORY

T

he worst physical feeling in the world is a punch directly to your diaphragm. This is also known as a gut punch. Your breath is cut of, your diaphragm spasms your vision goes black, your mind goes blank and you fall to your knees. A feeling of helplessness and defeat overcomes your body and your mind. After a few seconds it’s over, but the shock continues. Those few seconds seem like an eternity. The bottom line is that you get over it.

Emotions are different though. As humans, we are complex things, and so are our emotions. Emotions stick with us. We may think that we have gotten over something but we never truly have. Anger, grief, disappointment, they all stay with us. Happiness may stay for a while but for the most part it is momentary and easy to get over. Grief, on the other hand, is complex and hard.

Unlike many people, I can pinpoint the moment that my life and my whole outlook on it changed. This moment is a conversation that happened between my parents and I in the guest bedroom in my old house in Jamaica. The conversation was about my parent’s divorce.

I won’t tell in detail what they said but I will say what I felt. In all honesty this is because it’s not important why it happened and who is to blame. I have no pent up anger toward anyone.

What I do have is residual feelings from the situation. I guess I knew that things weren’t perfect in my family but I just thought that they were just normal family problems. I really didn’t expect anything like this. The moment that that word came out of their mouths, I blanked out. I didn’t hear anything after that. It felt like I just got punched in the gut with a wrecking ball. I was angry, disappointed, grieving, happy, scared and surprised all at the same time.

Angry because I had built myself a perfect family, until my whole world came crashing down.

Disappointed because I thought divorce wasn’t anything to fret about but now I knew that it was something that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. Grief because I realized that my family wouldn’t be together anymore. In some odd way I was happy because I knew that the constant arguments were over. Scared because I didn’t know what my future was. For the first time ever I didn’t know how my life would unfold from here on. I was scared, terrified even, the most I had been in a very long time. It hit me pretty hard. Now if you ask me how I feel about it I would say “I’ve put it behind me” and for the most part I have, we all have our days.

Even though I wouldn’t even wish these feelings upon my worst enemy, somehow I’m thankful that I went through them. I’ve learnt many things; positivity, mainly. I learnt that things don’t always swing in your favor. I’ve learnt over the past few years that sometimes it’s better to have two homes rather than one. I learnt that there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how dark the tunnel is or how long it is. I learnt that sometimes grieving is exactly what you need and that it’s alright not to feel ok for as long as it takes. I now know that the soul takes time to heal from any trauma, whether it is a divorce or just a bad breakup.

Showing grief is never a bad thing, it shows that you’re human. Emotions hurt sometimes, but they are the only things that make us feel alive. Even though this experience has changed me I must say that for the most part it was for the better. I’ve come out of it mentally stronger and more positive. I love the people in my life now more than I ever have before. Going on something that an idol of mine, Bruce Lee, said, “I don’t pray very often but when I do, I don’t pray for an easier life. I pray for the strength to endure the life that I already have.” I’ve realized now that I have to value time because I love my life, and time is what life is made up of. I’ve also come to know that it doesn’t matter that you fall to your knees, it matters that you get back up. ~ by Anonymous

18

THE SMILE OF THE SUN When the moon goes to sleep, The sun wakes from the deep, Spreading light, So bright.

The sun is like a golden treasure, Everyone wants to steal it for pleasure, It makes people smile, From the sea to the Nile.

It opens its eyes to observe, And gives the humans what they deserve, Their laugh and content, Leads to travel to a tent.

The sun gives them warmth, And always moving forth, With its hands it protect and surrounds, Humans and creatures on the ground.

The smile of the sun is a reminder, Of who is kinder, Keep up the smile on your face, To remember just in case. ~ Fanni Fekete

Thania Sbarouni

19

THE GIRL WITH A MILLION QUESTIONS

T

he threat was real. The unthinkable, the unfathomable yellow card. It meant bearing the gawking eyes of my classmates and feeling ostracized as my yellow stood out amongst their pristine green. It meant sitting out of recess. “No, nope, nada, I was not going to go on yellow today,” I thought with steeled determination. My mouth was a vault and I had thrown away the key.

“When Sacagawea led Lewis and Clark, there-” Boom. Vault broken, incinerated, obliterated.

“What did she look like? Could she shoot arrows? Did they eat buffalo?” I prattled one question after another, millions teeming in my mind. My teacher, however, made sure they stopped.

“That is it! You are going on yellow!” she bellowed.

My mind shut down. My first yellow card ever. I had managed to make it to the second grade without incident and it seemed that within an instant I was a common criminal. The stares of my classmates drilled into my head. I hung my head down in shame and stayed silent for the remainder of the class. At recess I sat by the wall as punishment and watched my friends have fun without me; at that moment I made a vow.

“I will not ask any more questions, it only brings trouble.” …

“If only our bottom jaws move why do we bite down instead of bite up? Where do babies come from? Are kangaroos born with a pouch?”

The incessant yammer from the little girl was never ending and the questions themselves were something else. Some had no answer and others, well, let’s just say I, as a young babysitter, was not about to explain them. Of course, that didn’t stop her from asking questions.

“Where does the sun go when it’s dark?

Why don’t planes flap their wings like birds?” She was asking every question that popped into her mind.

Vasiliki Almyranti “Why do you ask so many questions?” I finally managed to squeeze in between her barrage of inquiries.

“Because I want to know the answers” she stated matter-of-factly.

“No that’s not what I mean”, I struggled to articulate my thoughts in a way she would understand, “Why do you ask them? No one has the answers to all of your questions.”

She paused to think, not a sound escaped her in that blissful moment. Placing her head in her hands she simply said; “How do I know you don’t have the answer unless I ask, the answer just might be hiding.” “ Well -” “Answers are good at hiding, sometimes they’re tricky for me so I have to ask other people,” she interrupted.

“Don’t your answers hide?”

“Well, I guess my answers hide but not all of them need to be found,” I gently spoke. “I“WHAT!” she loudly interjected, “You can’t leave them hiding, that’s not how hide and seek works! If you don’t find them they have to stay hiding” she stated. I hesitated, for a little girl it was quite profound.

“It’s not game. Some of the answers you are looking for aren’t hiding, they don’t exist,” I gently spoke.

She looked at me astutely, “If you are a seeker then they are hiding, they have to be.”

I stared at her. Nothing was impossible to her, the answers were merely hiding, waiting for her to find them in a game. Why had I quit the game? … Or rather, had I ever truly quit the game? Perhaps the thrill of nights spent cloaked under my sheets as a child, illuminated by only a flashlight, eyes devouring the lines of text, was not merely caused by learning the end of a story. Perhaps it was always the excitement of returning to a long lost game. An excitement I saw in the little girl, an excitement I wanted to free once again. So I turned to the little girl.

“Will you help me seek? I’ve got a million questions.” ~by Grace Metcalf

20

THE POWER OF THE BLINDFOLD I went down a dangerous path.

Full of cold nights, endless tears and darkness.

I walked through the night with a blindfold.

You were guiding me but it was too much; You tried to free me but i ate you up And you did the same.

Tangled in a mess with empty promises I knew it all along but i didn’t listen You tried to help me but we were young And i was tired of the endless cycle of messes with empty promises.

So i let go. Once, twice, three times.

You didn’t understand, maybe you never will.

As much as you tried, i’m sorry but i had to walk on my own To Take the blindfold off, and see the truth: That we’re kids in a big world and we f***** around with the idea of love But it was never meant to be, no matter the promises.

I took my blindfold off. …

I walk through the night, dreaming with the stars.

I look in the mirror and see a princess looking back, A princess who deserves better.

I see myself for who I truly am, a person with meaning and reason, a person meant to be here, a person meant to love and be loved.

After falling for you, I realized who I was missing; Falling in love with myself and who I was meant to become.

You see me, and you see a stranger, a heartbreaker, a b**** and a player.

I see myself and see a survivor, a giver, and a lover.

You hate who i’ve become, because you never got around to knowing me again.

I like it that way.

I like who I am, without you, I became everything i was meant to be. because we were doomed from the beginning and you had Artemis Mitropoulou hopes that were never ending… i wasn’t meant to fulfill those hopes.

We fell in love, we ended with broken hearts, but i never realized, loving myself is what I needed the most. ~ by Alexandra Dimitriou

21

THROUGH A SIREN’S EYES i do not like men. they’re loud, angry creatures. they wish to own everything, and yet see the value in none of it. they trample their way all over the earth holding whips and chains and sickles, and try to beat it into submission as they have with so many of its children in the past. as they have so many of their children in the past. i’ve been around a long time. each breath i take spans a lifetime of theirs. i’ve lived quietly under the surface, and lulled them to join me-- how can you conquer the world? i sing to them, if you don’t even know what’s hidden under your ship? curiosity slays them each time. i’ve feasted on their meat, coarse and hard, defiant even in death. and when i am done, i’ve used their bones to clean my teeth and brush my hair. i am a resourceful creature. i do not ‘waste.’ each one of my trinkets has a use, each one of my actions a purpose. i sing, i eat, i clean, i brush. i sing, i eat, i clean, i brush. i sing, i eat, i clean, i brush. and i watch. i like to watch. it is through watching that i realise there is more than one kind of man. i do not get to see the Other Men, not often. the men i know, those with the dry flesh and the hairy faces and the voices that do nothing but yell, do not typically seem eager to bring them along on the voyage. i’ve heard them whisper (if yelling at a lower frequency can count as a whisper, that is) of bad luck and tempting the fates. but the trips can get long, and sometimes, with a muttered curse and a prayer that the fates will turn a blind eye, the Other Men are brought aboard. i am the fates. i do not turn a blind eye. instead, i watch. the Other Men are nervous. they scurry around in twos and threes like little schools of fish, apologizing when they get in the way and rushing off to help the men when yelled at. they flinch if they’re approached too fast, and cry when they think no one is watching. they are thin, and quiet, and pretty.

22

almost all of them end the voyage with swollen bellies and unreadable eyes. i do not see much of the Other Men. but i get the impression the Other Men do not really wish to be seen. except for this one. i’ve been following their ship for a good couple weeks now. that is how men measure time, i think, and though it is hard for me to follow their whimsical patterns, i unknowingly find myself trying. some of my kind prefer to sit on their rocks to sing their songs rather than follow the ship and strike when they see fit, but i am my own master, and i follow no rules. and that extends to the rules of tradition. i’ve seen this particular Other Man before. it’s not hard, since they are the only one of their kind onboard this particular voyage. they are a timid creature, doe-eyed and skinny, all legs and elbows. while many of their kind have chests swollen like pufferfish, theirs stays stubbornly flat, even like the ocean floor. beyond that though, i see them as nothing special. then again, if they are nothing special, why is it they are the one left crying behind on a jagged array of rocks the night after a terrible storm? i am an immortal creature. i scorn curiosity as the vein from which humanity sucks death from desperately, thinking it is progress. and yet, for the first time in my life, i too am curious. i approach them as i do most men. sweetly, with nothing to lose. i am an immortal creature, and they are just a different man. and besides, my kind does not know fear. “welcome to my home,” i greet them, and watch as their eyes grow large and their sobbing grows louder. “i’m going insane,” they weep, wringing their hands. “it’s my first day at sea, and i’m going insane!” i watch as their hands flail. they’re almost rhythmic in their hysteria: up, sideways, down, up, sideways, down, up, sideways, down… “if you’re real, tell me this. are you a good spirit, or a bad one?” they finally choke out, and i break from my trance. “please, at least tell me this. i hope to god that i’m not insane, and i hope to god that you’re good, but he doesn’t seem to be listening to me a lot lately. still, i prayed for a sign, and maybe it’s you...?” “there are no gods here,” i tell them. “and i am no one’s sign but my own.”

i run my tongue over my upper lip and imagine that i’m spreading their tears on it. “your kind always asks too many questions,” i say. they seem confused. they look kind of stupid when confused, but endearingly so. never before have i had less and more of an urge to eat someone. “my... kind?” “men.” they laugh, then, a short and bitter sound. their teeth are exposed when they laugh. they look a bit like a horse. “oh, i’m not a man. lord knows that much. if i was a man, i wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with, now would i?” two more tears roll down their nose, but they wipe them hurriedly away this time before i can get to them. “if i was a man, i’d still be on that old ship you see sailing away instead of here, left for dead.” another laugh. “i might even have been the captain.” “why are you here?” i ask then, and i hate the taste it leaves on my lips. my kind does not ask questions. questions are what lead men into our jaws to begin with.

Yiling Chen they sniffle a bit, and dab at their eyes. they have nice eyes. the color of the rocks they’re seated on. “who are you?” they finally whisper, and unlike all the men i’ve encountered they really do whisper it. it’s hardly above a breath. i tell them my name. the Other Man still seems hesitant. “and... are you here to judge me?” they ask. their bottom lip trembles, and i think about biting it off. “is it... is it my time?” “i am here to do as i see fit,” i say. “i am here to sing, i am here to swim, i am here to pull your kind down when i think they’re getting too high and mighty. but mostly, i’m just here to eat.” their nose twitches, and two fat tears roll down it. i lean in, very close to them, and they shudder, half-heartedly trying to get away from me but with nowhere to go. from the tired familiarity of their motions, i wonder if they’ve been in situations like this on land as well. flicking out my tongue, i lap at the tears. they taste salty, but nothing compared to the water i’m so used to tasting. the Other Man shivers. “why did you do that?” they ask. it almost sounds like a complaint.

the Not Man smiles at me sadly and i feel the unnatural urge to wrap my arms around them. i’ve only known them long enough for ten waves to crash upon the rocks they sit on, and yet they’ve pushed me to do acts that i’d otherwise never have dreamed of doing in a lifetime. and my lifetime is not finite. “the same reason as why i’m not a man. i was cursed a woman. and everyone knows it’s bad luck for a woman to be on a ship.” they swallow. “when the storm started up earlier, everyone pointed their fingers at me. she’s the one responsible, they said. it’s her who caused this. my husband, may god forgive him, was the one to suggest they throw me overboard...” and here they... no, here she starts sobbing again, hands flying up to her face to cover it. i am an immortal creature. i am the fates. and, to this... woman, this beautiful, sobbing little creature, i am her spirit. i am her sign. and so, when i extend my hand to her wordlessly, gesturing to the water around me and then glaring at the ship sailing off into the horizon, she does not hesitate. she takes my hand, and joins my symphony. ~ by Zoë Scotes

23

UNTITLED

A

t the dawn of the third millennium, humanity wakes up, stretching its limbs and rubbing its eyes, remnants of some god awful nightmare are still drifting across its mind.

There was something with barbed wire, and a huge mushroom cloud, “oh well, it was just a bad dream,” it mumbles aloud.

Humanity washes its wrinkles and examines its agenda but spits out its morning coffee looking aghast at its corrigenda.

our oceans warm and acidify methane plumes rise up (that we let ratify) the cosmic theatre of creation slowly deteriorates to something closer to damnation See we praise religion, (the religion that is humanism) which is driving us to climate cataclysm.

A spectre is hanging over us in silence not of mass extinctionbut of obsolescence.

The human parasite is spreading; Catastrophe from nuclear weapons, climate change, new technologies emerging in other domains.

Sophisticated hacking operations and the spread of disinformation.

There’s all these distractions from basic human interaction.

Media focuses more on celebrities than on basic world necessities.

The agricultural revolution gave rise to theistic religions, and the scientific revolution gave birth to humanistic religions.

Now we view ourselves, homo sapiens, as something closer to homo deus, and giving new sense to worldly definiens.

Oceans tainted from oil spills.

How many kids have these wars killed?

How many families can’t afford bills?

Organisms are now algorithms This disaster has grown beyond the choices that indibeing turned into caged rats, viduals can make; distracted from the maze by meaningless cheese this is now about our industries and governments running after status, promotion, money, nice cars, big having decisive and large-scale actions to take. houses, and more TVs. And I’m not trying to be pessimistic, You see this could end badly; people are just too damn materialistic. a story filled with fear, money, and greed.

Caught up in a money hysteria Companies sharking through political seas. with capitalist criteria.

Businesses with bad broken morals, and blindfolded bureaucracies.

Humans are mere cogs in the social machine This is not rhetoric. deprived of dignity, autonomy, and freedom within.

They don’t deserve our scrutiny.

Politicians are a stooge to serve private corporations This is the most urgent of times, that in return give holistic segregation. and the most urgent of messages.

As we are living in a paradox of free trade corporations are given lawsuits to overturn sovereign It is a mere 2 minutes away from midnight, laws of nations and the doomsday clock is ticking. that regulate pollution, food safety, GMOs, and mini- Humanity is getting tired mum wages. and its wrinkles are now so defined, by the glow of Armageddon.

Humanity means less profit in the eyes of greed, so what are we going to do for the collective need? ~ by Kristina Papadopoulou When the droughts start to intensify Elena Papaspyrou

24

UNTITLED

M

y father and I are rowing towards our freediving spot. I have set a target record of 25 meters for today. I am relaxed due to the pleasant green and blue waters of the Daskalio sea but I’m also going through a great adrenaline rush. My previous record was 20 meters which was my limit. Now, I feel like I’m ready to face a challenge and push my limits. This is a battle between me, myself and the deep blue sea. We have finally reached the spot. I signal my father, throw the weight in the water, and watch as the turquoise beast devours the rope. As the rope has come to a sudden end, the boat shakes and I feel a strong heartbeat notifying me that it’s the one and only moment. “You know,” my father explains,” it’s not too late to turn around or even just postpone this.” However, I’m sure about myself and simply disagree while putting on my fin-socks, then fins and then finally my mask.

I roll over the side of the boat. Cold water rushes through the sides of my wetsuit as I enter the vast empire of the sea.

I look down. I can barely see the bottom. However, I can slightly distinguish a change of shade, due to the enormous algae bushes. The sun is shining through the water creating visible rays of light that disappear into the depths. My view is beautiful, yet intimidating. I notify my father when I feel the moment and turn on my back and lay face up in the water and close my eyes. I reach for my pulse, which continuously releases a light pressure on my fingertips, trying to relax and slow my heart beat down as much as possible as I perform my breathe-up. After about two minutes of a kind of meditation, in which I clear my mind of any thoughts that could distract me, I take three deep final breaths. On my last one, I inhale first from my lower, then from my upper lungs, and lastly try to pump as much air into my lungs as I can, using my mouth. This creates pressure that makes me feel that if I continue some more, my lungs are going to burst. I then kick back with my legs in order to turn backwards, and finally begin my descent.

As I enter the blue, everything is thoroughly silent. I feel my heart beat in my chest. I intend to keep it slow and steady.

My mind is clear and I feel unattached to the outside world. I reach a point where the pressure starts to build up in my ears. I quickly equalize and feel a satisfying relief as all of the ocean sounds become deeper and more noticeable. I do that by creating pressure in my mouth and holding my nose to release the pressure from my ears. After this procedure happens about four times, I reach a point where I can see that the bottom is about 5 meters away. This means that I am 20 meters deep, which was my previous record. At this point, there is so much pressure that I feel like there is no air in my lungs. It is like having exhaled entirely. I feel the need for air as compressions occur in my diaphragm which are constant contractions of my abdomen and stomach muscles.

However, these are normal and I attempt to ignore them. I am determined to reach the bottom. I give a final push and then finally touch the ocean floor. I feel isolated. Yet, not in a negative way. It is a feeling that cannot be described with words. I feel far away from the rest of the world. It is just me and the ocean. Alone. However, now I realize that I am desperate for air and that I have to swim 25 meters more before I can take a breath. I look up. The surface of the water is barely distinguishable. I just see the sun’s rays piercing through it. I give a push from the bottom and start ascending quickly. The more I go up, the more my lungs start expanding again and I can feel my ears re-adjusting themselves to the pressure automatically. However, when I reach about the middle, I start panicking. It feels impossible to hold my breath for 12 more meters. I swim faster and faster, but time moves slower and slower.

Elena Papaspyrou As I reach the surface, I take a big breath. I feel great relief. However, my feelings of relief, are quickly overpowered by astonishment and triumph. I have done it. I beat myself and the sea. My father congratulates me. I take off my mask as I lay face down with my chest on the side of the boat to relax. Every time I am down there, I feel separated and isolated to the remote, outside world. Like being in a mother’s womb, only instead of a small, narrow space, I feel that the space I have is infinite. Nonetheless, the air now feels great. I’m glad to be up here even though I prefer being down there.

Being there feels like being in a different universe. A universe I prefer. ~ by Raphael Schlierf

25

UNTITLED

E

very time my eyes met her, it was almost like I was fifteen again. Odd familiarity mixed with an off putting sense of foreignness. If I closed my eyes, I could hear her laugh sometimes. It was still there, in some corner of my mind. But when my eyes were open, I was faced with a daunting nothingness - and a question. There always seems to be a question. I wasn’t sure what it was, I just knew it left me wondering how. How did we ever manage to get here?

I closed my eyes allowing myself to drown in my memories, even if it was for a little while. She was never the type of girl with empty brains. To me she’d always been the antonym of a dimwit. She would always make me think of things I would have never considered on my own. She’d think out of the sphere of my norms. It was challenging.

It was fascinating and exhilarating. Next to her, the world seemed broader and bigger but less scary at the same time. It helped me get rid of any spiritual confinements I had, knowing that I could not be condemned for my sporadic lack of perceptiveness.

I didn’t know that then. I didn’t know that when I first laid eyes on her. All I saw was someone quiet.

Someone who didn’t make comments just for the sake of being heard. She didn’t need to. She was heard through the way she sat, the look on her face. Or maybe I was the only person in the room who felt like she spoke that way.

When her voice finally echoed in the otherwise echoless room- I felt triumph in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t expected it, but at the same time I had. It wasn’t what she said, but rather the way she said it. Her voice was loud and confident with a slight bored drawl to it. That’s what I had expected. She may not have spoken much, but when she did you couldn’t help but listen. I hadn’t expected her to talk at all that day- but she did. I hadn’t expected her to address me, but that’s what happened. I had looked at her face more closely. I was met with the sombreness of someone who wasn’t afraid to say what they believed and that’s why she didn’t need words to express that. It felt like I could understand her but at the same time I couldn’t. There was a kindredness in her but there was also the heavy element of the unknown, a combination that intrigued me.

Elena Papaspyrou

When you say you yell out of love To discipline To teach You are not showing love You are not showing acceptance You are blurring the line Between anger and kindness And teaching to respect People that verbally abuse Because they look so much like you ~by Anonymous

26

I never did figure out the unknown in her. I never really tried. I merely got accustomed to it. We were never on the same train of thought. She was always on another one, right beside me. I never knew if these two trains had the same destination. All I could do was hope that they did. She always looked at the things I said in a different light. Maybe through rose-coloured glasses in the beginning, but it was still different. I always liked to believe I did the same. There was nothing that we had in common, even when it came to the most mundane of things, like the eternal debate between films and books. I was always more of a book person- she was always more of a film person.

I was in a constant state of trying new things. Things that I would have probably never tried on my own. I suppose that’s why it proved to be calamitous. It was never sustainable. It was bound to catch up with us sooner or later.

There’s only so many things I could try before losing myself in the world’s pertinence.

Different or not, there was only one thing that I succeeded in deciphering: the somber look that I had faced on that first day melted away sometimes and was replaced by a soft expression. An expression that told me that there were not enough words to express how much she cherished my presence, my input. Me. It was immensely rewarding. I knew that just like with her words, it took a lot for her to express emotions with a look. Words are a medium of emotion after all.

I opened my eyes with such abruptness that the cold wind almost made me tear. I saw her again. She was sitting there, in that same sombreness I remembered. Something had changed however, I didn’t know what. I walked in front of her without a second look. She didn’t even look up. Yet I felt an instantaneous tag in my stomach screaming at me that this wasn’t right. I ignored it. I’d got really good at that.

I never found out what happened. I waited. I was patient. But before I knew it days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Before I knew it she had found peace in a small corner in the back of my mind. Trying to remember her was like water slipping quickly through my fingers. ~ by Anonymous

27

Artemis Mitropoulou

QUESTIONS Questions, Rivaled only by the answers, Yet treated like cancers.

Those are my impressions.

Questions, Truly volcanic eruptions, Some without introductions, Some with interruptions.

Questions, The art of learning, Their absence is concerning.

Formed to reach decisions.

Questions, A habit of utmost importance, How else to oust ignorance?

Surely not by closed sessions.

Questions, Not signs of weakness or doubt, Rather tokens of vulnerability brought out.

These are your misconceptions.

Questions, Why is there an obsession With their suppression?

These are your digressions. ~by Maximilian Makarigakis

28

UNTITLED The moon was there fading in the cloud, And all the stars twinkled.

A star falls ,a sound ascending to God. But there was a little soul doubting, When all the others prayed.

Why were you standing? others asked.

I don’t know where I am going.

The paradise with all the blessing, child.

For all the happiness and glory, child.

The little soul was still standing, And the passing soul continued praying and passed.

For years and years the little soul was still standing Prayed to himself but not to the Lord, With a little candle flickering.

Why were you praying to me? the little soul asked.

I wished to go to the paradise with all the blessing, Why weren’t you praying to the Lord?

You’re our Lord. Hear our praying!

No one would pray to himself, except you, my Lord.

The little soul was still standing, But all the stars would shine for the new God. ~ Yun Zhang

WALTZ OF TIME Ruin, rot, decay.

Moss ascending along damp stone, the droplets form temporary pearl necklaces on the pine needles above.

The air, a thief, swiftly stealing like a trained pickpocket.

But the crystals drop from its loose grasp, seeping into the soil and the oak-coloured planks, our only shelter from the rain.

The walls are moving, heavingas if expressing a sigh of longing for when it stood proud, young and new.

Goosebumps form on the skin.

The weight of the humidity (and seemingly the world) rests underneath tired eyes.

The constant flee from the grip of time feels like a lost fight.

Grass and soil consume the body As watery eyes search for answers above.

But, it does not feel suffocating, nor sinister.

Rather like a welcoming embrace of a long lost friend.

Small.

The feeling of being small without the fear of insignificance.

For as much a part it is of you, you are of it.

And oh, is it mesmerizing, stunning and marvellous.

As such, are you.

The white hair resting on the ground resembles the lustrous crispness of fresh snow.

Veins, like roots pulse with the rhythm of flowing rivers.

The cabin no longer encloses the mind, body or soul.

Even it, in its state of corrosion, has flowers growing from the cracks.

The music.

The rumble and the pitter patter stops.

The waltz has ended.

The clouds part as if to make space for a new member, and I am not afraid anymore. ~ by Marouso Pappas

The clouds above no longer look ominous, but rather beautiful as the grey masses slowly but steadily waltz across the sky.

Markella Lousidis

29

Yiling Chen

THE RED FOOTSTEP Once upon a winter daydream, Drowsy and sleepy I suddenly heard Heavy steps coming in.

The noise took my breath away.

The sound made my bottle fall and break.

The sound was causing me terror.

I opened the door and the footsteps stopped.

My eyes glanced into the darkness and I could Barely see any light from the end of the corridor.

I saw a shadow running away and vanishing, My face was mirrored in the door’s handle; I closed it and swallowed.

Alone in this mystery of devils, I heard laughter from far away.‘‘How could I survive?’’ I said to Myself, evil spirits were following my echo, the smoke of my cigarette was creating figures of unknown faces while the wind was blowing.

30

‘‘

I was living in a horrible nightmare’’, I said to myself. This situation was torturing me, I couldn’t stand being terrified and locked up.

I felt trapped, like a bird in its cage, waiting to be released.

I froze, the clock stopped, the glass of wine was shaking and the drops didn’t fall anymore.

Opening the window I flew outside like an eagle and started running like a horse. I felt the fresh smell of grass and tree branches reaching out with their fingers, I opened my eyes and realized I was placed in a odd garden.

I didn’t know what had happened, so I returned to my house.

When I reached it, I saw footsteps made of blood, Then I remembered what had happened the day before. ~by Anna Chatzioti

ROOM IN NEW YORK

I

t was only from a distance that he could see them. Only in passing did he notice the couple in their living quarters.

The rampant, rabid beating of the city pounded the editor into submission and deluded his imagination to a point where faces, not people, were the only things he saw. His starched collar was starting to chafe his neck, as he had been talking all night. He wanted to take that stud out, and relieve his neck of the clean white knife that had tortured him for hours, but his bowtie was strung so tight that he needed a sword to cut it open. Neither his top hat nor stiff fronted shirt and tails could protect his mind from imagining the world outside of print. For him, the passive man with a routine, the estranged editor, the world outside of the margins of a newspaper was terrifying. In a scene of shock, he stood there, from the other side of Sullivan St. He asked himself, “why, why, what is it about these two that pulls me in?” The editor took some time to let his mind dream about what they might be like to sit down next to at the Union League. He tried to undress the lady in red with his eyes first, but quickly regressed, as he thought that was beside the point. He was more interested in reading what the man was reading. ‘That’s my paper you know!

Would you like to talk about it?’ he exclaimed loudly within himself and reservedly whispered it to them. He wished so badly to talk, just a chat with the lady and a drink with the gentleman.

With a piercing glare the man in the vest swiftly grabbed the sides of the chesterfield and seemed to notice the editor. The neatly turned out man’s attempt to reach out and finally have a real conversation after a long night at the Met, was in vain. Curtains closed, imagination erased, the editor walked off into Washington Square Park, where he spent a long night which he was never Painting: oil on canvas, 73 x 91 cm. Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery. to return from.

“We gotta move out of this neighbourhood Bets, too many damned weirdos here.” Crumpling the newspaper on the neat little table Betty had spent all morning buffing, Llewyn knew nothing but said a lot. “We gotta sell that piano and get ourselves a gramophone now Betsy. Look, I know you love bangin on that thing but we have to start entertaining the Swifts sometime soon.” His chattering was intolerable, Betty thought, but she listened anyways, softly pressing in a B-flat-minor chord, letting the vibrations of the strings ring true to her although her fiancé made her deaf. “Am I not gonna get a word out of you today? I spent the whole goddamn day in the office talking to losers and nobodies to get the silent treatment at home? For what? For what Betsy?”

Her silence persisted to an extent where his madness hastened, eventually dying off. He sat back down and nestled himself in all the gaps of the chair. She knew this man, if only he thought of her a little, he would have been able to save her.

“Llewyn,” she said softly, “you have to know that this red dress, this piano, and the paintings on the wall don’t come from nowhere.” She knew that his ears had closed when he drew the curtains in, but, nevertheless she continued.

“Llewyn” she said again, “I’ve been working all day at Carnegie, my fingers are killing me.” Still, nothing out of her fiancé, “Llewyin” she said, but this time with an irritated impetus “you know the editor of the Times?” Again, Llewyn said and did nothing but flipped a page to the financial news. “Llewyn, I’ve been seeing him”. Llewyn was interested, but made no inquiring looks, as he kept reading: ‘Lowest Stock Prices Yet as Wall Street Haemorrhages Cash’. “Llewyn I’ve been sleeping with the editor of the New York Times; do you not care? I spend the whole day away from you and you don’t even flinch!” She was fed up, the Crash, her fiancé, the Editor, the whole world was crumbling. “Betty, I simply don’t care what you do as long as you don’t bother me, I’m reading the paper!” A strong G-Major chord rung through the building as she put her grandmother’s mink fur coat on, grabbed her purse, and paced around the room once, as if to check that she had not left anything behind. She was headed to Washington Square park.

Alone now, Llewyn stared at the text. He undid his tie and took off his waistcoat. Thinking that his whole life amounted to this, he could not bear it. Fiddling with his braces he reminisced about the day that his father bought them for him.

That was long ago, before Betsy, before New York. The paintings on the wall reminded him of nothing, the whole room was out of focus. As he approached the mirror on the wall above the upright, he could only see a blur. ~by Odysseas Digbassanis inspired by “Room in New York”, 1932 by Edward Hopper • Originally published on Art of Darkness: Daily Art Blog

31

PAIN!

I

push the glass door to the tattoo shop and a little bell dings. As I step inside the smell of sterilization hits me. My stomach knots with fear at the thought of a needle going through my nose. I’ve watched so many videos and read so many articles yet I still feel unprepared. I know not to get pierced with a gun, to clean it multiple times a day, to not move it around a lot, and to wash my hands before I touch it. A familiar song is playing from the speakers, “Come on Feel the Noize” by Quiet Riot, a perfect song to make me feel like I can conquer the world. I walk up to the cashier, she has faded bright pink hair, her left arm covered in tattoos. “I made an appointment to get a septum piercing done today,” I say in a soft voice contradicting the colorful, punk rock vibe of the entire shop.

“Yeah! We have you written down. If you can just wait a little, the piercer will be right here.” I begin to walk around the shop, looking around in awe at all the creative designs all over the walls and the unique patterns of the furniture. As I stare at the walls the new school designs pop out at me as if they were alive. They are monsters with bright colors staring at me as if to tell me to get over my fears. On the wall next to the cashier there is a huge mural with pictures of tattoos that they have done. One stands out to me in particular medusa with blacked out eyes and thick snakes for hair.

I sat there and looked at it for a while, I do not know why, but they make me forget about being nervous.

I look down at an old dark wood shelf placed on the ground. It has stickers on it for the Yiling Chen

32

customers to take. I pick one up and feel the smooth paper on my fingertips it feels like running my fingers on glass. Last time I touched a sticker I was a kid, it calms me down to have something familiar in this completely new space. I travel back in time and start to think about the first time I got my ears pierced. It wasn’t an environment even close to this one. I was in a nail salon, my mom was getting her nails done and a lady sat me down on a tall white stool and showed me a piercing gun. She explained to me how it was not going to hurt and that I had nothing to worry about. Obviously I had a lot to worry about since my piercings got infected twice, but I did not know that would happen then. She pushed my hair back and put the gun to my ear. I was scared out of my mind. The lady counted down 3… 2…

1… BAM. It didn’t hurt but the loud noise scared me.

Coming back to reality, I turn and walk towards a table that has 3 binders on it. I open one to find it filled with designs for possible tattoos. I sit down and flip through the plastic sheets, carelessly looking at the tattoos focusing more on the fact that I’m about to get my first important piercing then on what I’m looking at.

The piercer comes down the stairs and looks at me. He has a beard and is wearing a Metallica t-shirt.

Tattoos litter his forearms and he has an eyebrow and lip piercing. “I’m ready whenever you are,” he says. I look up from the tattoos and my heart starts to beat at what feels like 200 beats per minute. I follow him upstairs and the smell of clean metal gets stronger with every step. By the time we reach the top of the stairs I’m almost out of breath, I look down and it has been only (?) 10 steps, my mind is racing with everything that can go wrong making me hyperventilate. “Lay down here and we will be done in a minute,” he says “Okay,” I say as I lay down on a bed with paper on top of it, like the ones in a doctors office. The paper rubs against my clothes and makes a soft crumpling sound that echoes in the room breaking the silence, I slowly adjust myself trying my best not to rip it.

He walks me through his steps so I know what he’s doing, he first puts a clamp on the septum of my nose and moves it around to find the right spot between the bone and the thick part at the bottom on the nose. It hurts me as he clamps my nose, but I try to not show it so as to look stronger than I actually am. He takes the needle and holds it close to my nose. He counts down 3… 2… 1...

OUCH! I feel a pinch and then a throbbing in my nose. It did not hurt too bad, or at least it hurt less than I expected, but there are tears uncontrollably running down my cheeks. He pulls the needle though and puts the horseshoe shaped jewelry into what is now a third hole in my nose. He tells me I can get up now and hands me a tissue and a little mirror. I look in the mirror and I can’t stop smiling from the overwhelming joy of having conquered my fear and having a beautiful outcome to show for it.

My eyes have creased in the outer corners and my cheeks are lifted close to my eyes from my wide smile, my braces are poking into my bottom lip from how tightly stretched across my face my lips are but I don’t mind it because of the pure ecstasy I am in. He tells me to clean it with salt water, to never touch it if my hands are dirty, and to not move it around too much. I walk downstairs and pay with a smile stretched from ear to ear marked halfway with a septum ring. ~ by Persephone Margelis

33

Untitled

T

ime isn’t tangible. You can’t lay it on your palm, or place it around your neck or drape it over your shoulders.

You don’t see it in the air, or in a sunrise, or in a sunset. Time is as synthetic as it is invisible. And although I’ve never seen it, I have felt it. I have felt it come to a halt, I have felt it speed up rapidly. I have felt it mock me, fool me and warn me.

The first time I felt Time was the summer after I’d turned twelve. It was our third night in Sifno and we were spending it at a family friend’s house.

“Does it have to be me again?” my brother grumbled.

“Rules are rules, Greg,” my cousin, Emilia, shrugged, insisting we stay true to the rules of hide and seek. Greg rolled his eyes in response.

“I’ll tell you what:- if you don’t find anyone this round one of us will volunteer next round,” Alex, my sister, stepped in like the peacekeeper that she is.

“Can we just start already…” Costi, my other cousin, mumbled.

With a defeated sigh, Greg turned around, eyes closed. He leaned against a tree and started counting off.

5. Adrenaline widened my eyes, stirred my blood and heightened my senses. I started to run.

10. I looked back in a rushed frenzy. I giggled as I noticed the others following me.

15. Where can I hide, where can I hide? No, not behind the wall. Crap! That doesn’t work either, I thought.

20. What are those, I questioned while I squinted at a set of stairs. The stairs ran up the side of the house.

25. I waved the others over and pointed at the set of stairs. Grins appeared on the other’s faces.

30. I rushed up the stairs.

The stairs had led me to a roof. The roof was flat and empty. We all tried suppressing our giggles as we laid down on the roof.

“He’ll never find us here,” I whispered. I felt so clever.

“I hope not, cause if he does then he’ll-” “-Ssshh!” Costi’s sushing cut through mine and his sister’s conversation.

“100! Time’s up!” Greg’s voice sobered our giddiness. My muscles tensed and my stomach hollowed from the nerves.

I couldn’t help but smile. We had found the coolest hiding spot.

All I could see was the night sky. The stars glittered. Their light looked alive dimming and brightening with every passing second. There were tons of them, making the sky look like a checkerboard of light. I held my breath, anticipating a shooting star. None came, but the sight still left me breathless. I felt both empty and whole, looking at something so vast, so limitless that I was infinitesimally a part of. The sound of tzitzikia had overwhelmed my hearing. It was as if the rest of the world had gone quiet, letting them sing.

It was in this daze of awe and wonder that I felt Time. I felt it stop. I felt it telling me to enjoy this moment, to grasp onto its every detail and feeling, to savor the nights of hide and seek and silly games and pointless giggling, to appreciate childish mischief and naivety. In that second, Time warned me of adulthood and responsibility and maturity.

Time roared- but from a far enough distance to make that roar a faint whisper, a slight premonition. It’s this cry that would offer an explanation for why, in a year’s time, when we’d play hide and seek again it wouldn’t feel the same.

Or why, in the coming year, I’d develop insecurities, I’d get catcalled for the first time, I’d wear makeup. Time quieted my worries; it offered me the opportunities of the future, an ambition, a freedom I previously lacked. To this day, I still anticipate the day I’ll get to drive my first car, or I’ll get my heart broken, or I’ll board my first flight alone.

And just as Time was on the cusp of resuming itself, I was on the cusp of childhood. So when Time did start again, loosening its hold on my conscious, I felt an unimaginable shift; a sense of longing for things to stay the way they were, a sense of weakness for not being able to do just that. Finally, when Greg did find our precious hiding spot and we were forced to get up, dust our knees and descend the stairs, it finally dawned on me that this moment was becoming a memory. That childhood would soon become a memory.

“That was such a good hiding spot, “ Alex exclaimed, while I, listening in to what she was saying, associated the hiding spot to much more than a flat roof.

“Shame we can’t use it again,” somebody said. I can’t remember who, because it doesn’t matter who- we were all thinking it.

“Maybe it isn’t such a shame…” ~by Michaela Gregoriou

34

Yiling Chen

35

The ACS Athens Literary Arts Magazine www.acs.gr © 2017-19