Convince the Destiny

and then sat under the mango tree and rubbed it into my brittle scalp. I braided my hair that Sunday night, a strange humming noise ringing through my ears, my lips turned upwards in a grin.

I awoke Monday morning with more hair on my head than I had fallen asleep with. It was not yet dark and long, but it was close. The girls at school still smiled behind my back that week, but the giggling had ceased. By Friday, my hair was black. It fell down my back in inky tresses, outshining half the class. Rumors had begun to spread, that I was wearing a wig, or that my mother had paid handsomely for the scalp of another girl and had it surgically implanted into my head. The girls began to tug at my head, pulling at my roots, testing if they were real, jealous that I had outshined them so quickly. Each night I braided my hair, but I grew more and more tired of it. Eventually, the girls gave in--they invited me to sit with them, they stopped pulling at my scalp, they treated me as one of their own. I became the one pouring sticky mango juice down other girls’ heads, snipping locks of their hair when they turned to look at the board. Blinded by hubris, I grabbed snakes by the head and left them sitting on their shoulders, in their shoes.

I eclipsed all of them in their venom. This ensued for roughly a month--they invited me to their parties where they wore glittering dresses with shawls that jingled as they moved, and talked to boys that went to different schools. I came home after one of these outings, exhausted and gleeful, jewelry clanging on my wrist, my eyes glimmering, thinking of all the sour things I had said. I was vain and proud and drained from the night as I lay in my bed, my hair pouring over my shoulders, as I fell asleep. As I lay there, my hair began to writhe and contort wildly. Small, thin, snakes erupted out of my scalp, hundreds of them, teeming and squirming, and as they wrapped their thin bodies around my neck, I sputtered and gasped, waiting for the great epiphany, the light at the end of the tunnel, the long-awaited out of body experience; yet nothing met me at the end of the road, and I choked to death.

Isobel Matsukas

I want to feel alive but I can barely breathe. So I sit on the floor, with my head in the clouds to convince myself, manifest my destiny.

I’m tired and I’m only seventeen. Along with the smoky haze, in the air and my brain, comes doubt. I want to feel alive but I can barely breathe.

I let the water wash over me, make the outside clean. The towel holds me in as I paint a smile over the pout to convince myself, manifest my destiny.

In a morning daze, every soul is awoken by a machine. Every “like” in the yellowed blue light only brings me down. I want to feel alive but I can barely breathe.

Professional opinions hold the key to clarity. I journal on my own, holding the independence crown to convince myself, manifest my destiny.

Fairies, forces, fantasies, all I do is believe. I stretch and bend, strengthen and mend, to make all proud. I want to feel alive, but I can barely breathe, to convince myself, manifest my destiny.

Gavin Trent

Emil y T ownsend