Writer's Wings February 2021 by Jacqueline Pelliccio

Anne Garcia

February 2021

Letter from Our Editors February 2021 Greetings, and welcome to Writer’s Wings Magazine’s 2nd editorial publication! Entering into the new year of 2021, a new decade is o cially upon us! Hence so, our theme for this edition is the Roaring 20’s, an age ﬁlled with a distinctive cultural edge and wild new beginnings. Our unpredictable present day reality has so many similarities with the glitzy but unstable future that the decade of the 1920s embraced, and it is truly amazing to see how the drastic changes in society today can be compared to that of 100 years ago! In addition, the new changes in the cultural aspects of society in the 1920s such as large house parties, new forms of music and dance (jazz, foxtrot, etc.), and evolving social gender standards can be related to present day trends and modern end of the year celebrations. With this, we’re rediscovering the legendary decade of the 1920s in 2021, remembering the inspiring past in order to progress into our very own hopeful future. We want to yet again genuinely thank our sta and assistants for all their applaudable hard work over the past couple months. Thanks to our sta , we were gifted with yet again another wonderful issue. Also, special thanks to our supervisor and editor, Ms. Pelliccio, for keeping this project on the right track and motivating the team. Thanks,

Vyshnavi Tangellamudi, Editor-in-Chief Sia Chokshi, Assistant Editor

Writing Prompt February 2021

Imagine stumbling upon a highschooler’s diary from the Roaring 20’s. What would they be learning about in school? What would they do for fun? What would their family be like?

Writing Tips from Mr. Barry Tell us a little bit about yourself. What do you teach? How long have you been at EHS? I’ve been at EHS for the past 25 years and I’ve taught every science including Environmental, Biology, Chemistry and Physics. Why do you enjoy creative writing? I like creative writing for two reasons mainly. I’ve always loved The Twilight Zone and how their stories deal with the supernatural and unexplainable while dealing with real world issues that a ect us all. I also love the idea of writing as solving a puzzle. I get ideas about characters and plots and then trying to create that pathway from the start to the end of a story is like solving a puzzle with so many pieces to include, omit, or modify along the way. When did you start creative writing? For my 40th birthday, I took a class that inspired me to write my ﬁrst collection of short stories. What inspires you in creative writing? Quiet moments. Spending time with di erent people, reading books, watching movies. Being a teacher! What is your favorite book? e Hobbit and Locke and Key. When do you usually write and how often? Usually during quiet times when there are no distractions. Do you enjoy following speciﬁc guidelines, or do you prefer simply writing without constraints? Mostly I write without constraints but I do try to keep to PG-13 themes. I don’t ever want to go too far down the rabbit hole, creating a story that might not be universally accepted or appreciated.

What is one creative writing piece that you are most proud of? Overall just being able to write the collection of short stories. I don’t have much time these days to write but knowing that I accomplished [completing a collection of short stories] is something I’ll always look back on and cherish. How do you think creative writing or writing plays a role in other subjects? What is its importance? Everything becomes more interesting and easier to problem-solve when it is associated with a story. I especially enjoyed using creative writing in teaching Environmental Science. Creating real world challenges that scientists might be faced with was a way to combine both things and make learning more interesting. Is there someone who inﬂuenced your passion for writing? My 3rd grade English teacher and other authors around me. What advice would you give to students passionate about creative writing? Read often, pay attention to sentence structure, plot development, and most importantly… the world around you.

We’d like to thank Mr. Barry for his time and advice and wish him luck and happiness in his retirement. Read one of his short stories here.

SUBMISSIONS

“This I Believe About Writing” The first day of school in 2016 proved to be my breaking point. I remember feeling my heart being ripped out of my chest and the tears flowing uncontrollably. I admit I am someone with a soft heart and tears that threaten to fall at every little thing, but this was di erent. It was a di erent kind of sadness and emotion that hit me this time and it was loneliness. I felt so terribly broken and shattered that I didn’t even know where all the broken pieces of my heart were at the point. My best friend-- my only friend in a new school for almost one year---replaced me. It hurt, and it hurt a lot. I wanted to lift up my spirits and make myself feel better, tell myself I’ll be okay, but I didn’t want to lie to myself. So I wrote, not a poem but a story. I wrote a story about a girl who was betrayed by the person she laid her heart out to. It didn’t make the pain go away and it most certainly did not stop the tears from burning at the back of my eyes when I saw her but it did make me feel better, it took some of the pain and taught me to be a better and stronger person. June 18th, 2018 was easily one of the hardest and saddest chapters of my life. It was the day my best friend-soul sister moved away to Texas. I remember sitting on my bed and balling my eyes out the day she left. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me but even more than that, I wanted to get this weight o my chest--this pain and feeling of heartbreak that I couldn’t seem to shake. So, I grabbed my pen and diary and wrote a poem. That was the day I discovered my passion for writing poetry. The words flowed beautifully and I wrote until I felt better, until the deep gash on my heart was slightly healed. I wrote my feelings out and told her how I felt. I spilled my heart out into the paper and let the tears mark their spots. Once I was done, I felt complete. I felt like I told her that I was going to fight for this friendship, and I was not going to let her being thousands of miles away ruin what we had built. Writing healed my broken heart a little bit that day and writing our story made sure that I would never forget the memories we made. There was no certain date when I started feeling like I was floating but more a time period. Recently I have been feeling lonely, and I am finding it hard to be able to function without crying half the time. I stay in my room most of the time but even more than that I live in my head. My insecurities have slowly been eating me up and I have felt myself drift away from the rest of the world. I listen to the voice in my brain and it’s telling me that I am not enough and I will never be enough. I cried so much last week but each tear shed was another word written.

I wrote my feelings down in poetry form once again and it healed, this time, my terribly damaged brain. Writing everything down helped release the pain eating away and it pressed backspace on all the insecurities I felt I couldn’t face. I believe writing helps heal the pain you are experiencing and ﬁx the broken parts of your heart. I believe that it makes you a lighter person and it helps you release pent up emotions you have been keeping in too long. I believe that a pen and a paper are a hospital for a heart and a therapist for a brain. I believe that when you pour your heart out and you know no one is listening you can be true to yourself instead of always lying. I believe that if you attend your therapy sessions with a pen and paper then you will feel better and truly understand who you are.

“Stuck in My Bubble” I was just minding my own business in my bubble until you came. You, with your bright white skin, your eyes that didn’t know whether to stay green or brown and your beautiful curly black hair. I was sitting on the docks, my feet lightly skimming the surface of the water, wrapped comfortably in my bubble. Then you came. You popped my bubble with the simple word, “Hello.” Then you plopped down next to me and chattered as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime. I soon realized that you weren’t like me at all. You were a fun, outgoing girl whereas I was a shy, introverted boy. I never understood why you chose to hand out with me. The next day, you snuck me out of my house close to midnight. You took me to a clearing in the woods, where the only source of light was the twinkling stars, which winked and whispered to each other. You told me funny stories about your wild adventures in the woods and I told you boring stories about my mild adventures in the petite section of the local store. The following days, I felt myself getting more and more comfortable being with you. You had a rowboat. You rowed me deep into the swamp where the alligators lived. We found a tiny log with a bunch of tiny, scaly baby alligators the size of a small lizard. You picked one up and gently placed it on my lap. The baby alligator sprang o quickly, frightened by my rapid breathing. The ﬁnal day I ever saw you was many months after the ﬁrst day. You had wanted to go to the train tracks which ran through the woods. I followed you as you retold the wonderful stories you told me over the course of the months I had known you. Once we arrived, you boasted that you can run faster than a train. I laughed and told you that you couldn’t. You insisted that you could so I joked that you should try to cross the tracks when a train would becoming. You agreed. We waited for an hour or two until we felt the tremors through the earth. We looked to our left and a huge diesel freight train thundered down the tracks. You, being the cheeky little cheat, ran across the train tracks when the train was at least a mile away.

You boasted and jumped up and down, and, with such a big head, you kept crossing the tracks again and again. The train was eight hundred feet away. Again and again, you crossed. Five hundred feet. Again and again. Four hundred feet. Again and again This time I cried out a warning which you ignored. Two hundred. Again and again. I was on the verge of tears as I cried out to you, but you kept running, laughing as if this was such fun. When the train was less than a hundred feet away, your run was cut short as your foot got caught between either the tracks or the rocks under the tracks. The last I ever saw of you was your bright white skin, your eyes that didn’t know whether to stay green or brown and your beautiful curly black hair. And that giant smile I had come to love. The train whizzed away, taking you with it. I don’t remember what happened after that. All I remember is your smile. Your wonderful smile. Your stupid smile. As if you had known what was going to happen. I cried that night. And the night of your funeral. And many nights after that. I cried and cried until I couldn’t. I went back into my bubble. I realized that my bubble would never leave me. My bubble would never make me cry, never make me worry, never would brag. But my bubble will never love me.

Shraavani Sontam

“Solitude” Iridescent city glows Dining tables, fancy clothes In this setting and this tone No one wants to be alone So Lonely sits with his friends But only sitting near the edge Living in his little island Only steeping every now and then Lonely sits with a pretty face But his pretty lips are such a waste Words ﬂow from his mouth in tiny drops Afraid of what his colorless humor would cost Lonely sits still with his stale soul, With weary eyes, unable to stand tall He watches conversations tossed back and forth And nothing is amusing him, not even the silver fork Or the ﬁne china or the feast on the table Or even his Louboutin stilettos Lonely sits there missing the warmth of his home Realizing he only feels blithe when he is alone The iridescence around him puts him in mute He sits, missing the state of solitude

“Memoirs of Yesterday” It’s strange the way fond memories stay stuck to the skull, unappeased yet still yearning for return. With just a thought, it swiftly returns The smell of old, used library books. As time passes, and the days grow short, Still ﬁlled with the fond memories of joy like yesterday, and the day before. Playing together out on the old worn down asphalt of the playground, not knowing where our paths would take us down the road. The thought remains bittersweet, like a sour apple drowned in caramel, Longing for that same feeling you had in that moment. Alas the past eludes me, time’s arrow marches forward. I hear the children laughing, their sticky hands leaving prints on yellow slides, and wooden chips buried in their shoes Those handprints wash away with the thundering storm, but when driving past that old tree the carved hands were left unworn. The sweater you gave was left untouched in a box under a couch. Yet somehow your goodbyes left an agonizing chasm in my heart, I feel your presence but still like a burning home I fall apart. As I watch the time tick away, I think about you In this moment in time, I see the shadows of what we used to be. I still feel the warmth of your lips that touched my cold head, I'll never forget the feeling of freedom and responsibility rare Memories may be blurry but you will never be forgotten, so you need not worry. But still on the days that I remember things about you, my heart struggles with the loss and I try to think of something new. Yet even so, your presence still lingers as if you never left, and it pains me to no end, It was cruel of you to leave at all, but it was crueler that you left in fall.

“What If, What Do, What Will?” What if “I” was di erent What if my life was too What if I was the same The same as you I wake up each morning wondering why Wanting to ﬂy away Maybe even wanting to die What if I was stable What if it's all true What if I was able to do what you do What do I do now Now that I'm not wanted What do I do now After years of being haunted Feeling like a burden That is not new Feeling like a bird that people want to shoo What do I say to them Please tell me what to do What will happen now Will I be forgotten Will I be the burden that no one had wanted What will my life become Will I always be this way The one who was always yelling but with nothing to say I feel like I'm ﬂoating in a never ending cycle Of the life of a boy who just feels so recycled Shraavani Sontam

“The Upside Down” The ones I do not see. The ones I do not hear. They consume my life. I continue to dread in fear. Fear of this world. Its ravaging thoughts. Do they care for me? No. They do not. Come haunt my life. Come hither today. Why does it matter? I’ll only run away. Come along with me. Together we shall stray. Away from this darkness. In hopes of a new way. Mohita Ilamurugan

“My Brain is a Golf Course” My Brain is a Golf Course, Farther and more vast Than the distances My retina could see and cast My Brain is a Golf Course. There always exists some pond To trap the balls of thoughts From going beyond. My Brain is a Golf Course. Never do the balls stop rolling Like the thoughts in the Brain That never stop strolling. My Brain is a Golf Course. The process is continuous: New balls come in, Holes and Goals are set to win, and Unrequired balls are disposed of within. Shraavani Sontam

“Oh My Grade” My heart is crying Brain power is dying I am not getting far Despite me trying I do not know What is wrong Maybe it's because I'm not an expert Around the people I'm among I cannot take it anymore There is nothing else to store Since all I see is sadness and stress in this grade business. Yet when I look up high Believing in the sky I hear the voice of an angel Whisper in my mind... Down I come from heaven Down I come to Earth. To show my little friend To show my little friend To show my little friend her worth. "Don't be sad, Don't be mad, my little friend. All it takes is a little courage, practice and e ort for all this to end."

"Grades do not determine you, my dear. Nor do they determine your career They identify problems That may be unclear and make those mistakes and weaknesses Go and disappear." "Low might be your grade But e ort is your aid So face your challenge unafraid Give your mistakes to me to trade And let that perfection in you be made."

Rediet Mereke

“Rose” She was pink He was blue She spoke roses Yet he didn’t bloom He ran everywhere Looking for space But she seemed to love Every bit of the chase She loved their talks Under the moon Except he’d look to the sun For a brighter mood Settling down? Not his style He pictures his dreams Great and wild Breezing through The windmill isle He still loved To make her smile But she couldn’t see past His warm gestures So she thought They were love letters

Her heart frowns With every goodbye Yet she enjoys His carefree eyes So until the world Anchors her a ection She’ll still follow him To view his perfection

Mohita Ilamurugan

“Losing Someone” It’s like watching a ship sail away but not having the anchor or the strength to pull it back. That’s exactly what it’s like, watching the person you spend years with, by their side, choosing someone else over you. It’s not a lover, no, it’s a best friend. It’s the first person you see on a Monday morning waiting by your lockers with a familiar as heck smile on their face. It’s the first person you go to when you need advice. The first person who you go to when you get a bad grade or have a terrible day. The first person that comes to your mind when the teacher says ‘partners’. The last person you’d ever expect to leave. Then slowly, so slowly, you don’t even notice until it’s too late; they’re gone. So gone that you can’t pull them back no matter how hard you try. And try you will, and it’s hard, it’s hard to watch that happen, to feel helpless and out of control. Now, you stand there and watch your person, with someone else, sharing the same look that you used to. A look you believed was reserved only for you, sacred between the two of you, only to be stolen by someone else. That friendship that the two of you swore was forever, that was never-ending, wasn’t. And then you’ll try to talk to them, but it’ll be like talking to a complete stranger. You knew this person’s soul, could read them like an open book, but not anymore. People change people, but sometimes not the way you want them to. Soon enough, you won’t be their person. Their eyes, unrecognizable, their voice, unheard, their personality, unfamiliar, their soul, unknown. But that feeling, that sinking feeling in your heart, that heartache, that is what never goes away. That feeling refuses to be forgotten because it's essential to go through that. You’ll cry, you’ll sob, and you’ll feel your heart being ripped apart. You will never stop loving them, never stop the endorphins running through your body at the sound of their voice, never stop the heart racing every time something bad happens to them. That’s love, once you do it once, you can’t undo it, can’t unlove them, nor can you unknow them. You just have to watch as they become a di erent person, build a new life, a life that will have nothing to do with you. You won’t ever hate them, though, but every time you see them, you’ll feel the hurt that’ll become oh so familiar.

Some people go through it so much over the years, they forget what it’s like to trust someone. They become closed o , scared to try again with anyone. The anxiety and fear of losing that person again will prevent them from ever believing. Because, to them, there is no guarantee that the new person won’t leave. The most heartbreaking part of it is, they believe there’s no way out; and, the person that they put everything and every minute of their life into, let them go like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like everything was nothing. And before all the heartache, they will try and ﬁx it, and try again, but when it doesn’t work, they will experience all the pain; after that pain is the recovery. It will take time, but it will come, I promise. There will be someone else, someone who comes along with a familiar smile and you’ll smile again, and you’ll laugh, and once you do, that’s it, you’ve done it. You found someone else and you’ll embrace the fact that they could walk away at any moment because you’ll want to feel the love and happiness again. That love and happiness, which is so worth it, worth the risk, the tears, the hurt, the anger, the ﬁght, the memories, worth all of it. Anne Garcia

“Bedtime” I don’t like bedtime! I used to, but now I don’t Why is there bedtime? I don’t like bedtime! I loved being kissed by mommy And reading stories I don’t like bedtime! That’s when the memories start Oh, and the nightmares I don’t like bedtime! I miss mommy She would curl up right next to me I don’t like bedtime! Mommy would scare the monsters away And hug me I don’t like bedtime! Mommy would always wipe my tears When I would cry I don’t like bedtime! That’s when I’m reminded … Of who I lost one day Anne Garcia

February 2021

Write a short story from the perspective of your favorite movie/book character(s) revealing how they would deal with an event from the 1920s.

Submit your piece to the literary magazine by 4/1/21, and specify that you are entering the “February Writing Contest” in the form. PRIZES Top 3 entries will be published in our next issue. 1st place will win a t-shirt with their favorite character on it!

Click here to submit your writing to be considered for publication in our next issue.

STAFF Editors Vyshnavi Tangellamudi - Editor-in-Chief Sia Chokshi - Assistant Editor Sta Writers Aamna Haider Aimee Jose Ailya Khan Zunairah Khan Ishani Rajeshirke Layout & Design Hena Patel Krish Shah Sia Shah Sanjana Suresh Submissions Reviewers Karen Edema Paul Fernandez Nevada Pidgeon Jia Shah Rad Subramanian Copy Editors Sadya Ahmad Allen De Sagun Jana Elgebrawi Michael Gibbs Shravani Joshi Dominique Magno Diani Moore Sarah Sumual Art Department Anne Garcia Mohita Ilamurugan Rediet Mereke Shraavani Sontam Advisor Ms. Jacqueline Pelliccio

Mohita Ilamurugan

Rediet Mereke