Catharsis

NYWC PRESS

ART +

PROSE POETRY GUMBO

EDI TED BY APOGEE JOURNAL

ca·thar·sis

FEATURING EDDYSON ALTIDOR E D WI N A A R C H E R TOLULOPE ARASANYI N ATIRA BARBER-ELLI S BENGA SIERRA BOYD TANYA CALIXTO ORNELLA DACI US MARIE DAMUS AZARI AH DAVI S NORA DOURA SHANI A FORBES TYLER GONZALEZ CHARLES GYEDU ELI ZABETH JAMES ALEXANDER JEAN -PI ERRE TERRY-ANN LAWRENCE JENEI CE MARSHALL TAKARA (MI A) MEKKUCH I DENE MORGAN ARINA NATH SHAMAR NIANG NI AZYEA-ARI ANNA CARRISSA NORMIL OLUWABUNMI OLUSI NE NI A TI PTON

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Catharsis Poetry, Prose & Art from GUMBO at Benjamin Banneker Academy

NY Writers Coalition Press SPRING 2016

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Copyright © 2016 NY Writers Coalition, Inc. ISBN: 978-0-9964012-5-8 Library of Congress Control Number: 2016939459

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

Editors: Cecca Ochoa, Chris Prioleau, Alexandra Watson Layout: Rose Gorman Interior Images: Elizabeth James, Arina Nath, Oluwabunmi Olusine Catharsis: Poetry, Prose & Art from GUMBO contains writing by members of NY Writers Coalition’s and Apogee Journal’s creative writing and skill-building workshops for teens at Benjamin Banneker Academy in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

Benjamin Banneker Academy’s GUMBO Writing Group is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventures Initiative (CASA), supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council.

Learn more about Apogee Journal at www.apogeejournal.org.

NY Writers Coalition Press Inc. 80 Hanson Place, Suite 604 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

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Contents I n t r o d u c t i o n Chris Prioleau

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Original Writing & Art

T o L o v e a W r i t e r Atira Barber-Ellis

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T h e E n e m y Carrissa Normil

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D e c e p t i o n Tanya Calixto

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D e v i l i s h G a z e Dene Morgan

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C a t G o t M y T o n g u e Edwina Archer

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G e n e r a t i o n Nora Doura

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P l a n t a t i o n 2 0 1 5 Terry-Ann Lawrence

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U n t i t l e d Niazyea-Arianna

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P r e a c h e r ' s K i d Sierra Boyd

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T h i s i s N o t W a r Carrissa Normil

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M y B r o t h e r M a l c o l m Marie Damus

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P h o t o g r a p h y Oluwabunmi Olusine

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B e f o r e I t ’ s T o o L a t e Shania Forbes

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P h o t o g r a p h y Oluwabunmi Olusine

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F o r Y o u Atira Barber-Ellis

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I n s o m n i a Dene Morgan

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Dear

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, Azariah Davis

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U n t i t l e d Arina Nath

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R e m e m b e r i n g S a g e Nia Tipton

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T o L o v e Niazyea-Arianna

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H a z z a Takara (Mia) Mekkuchi

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I n h a l e Jeneice Marshall

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B l a c k a n d B l u e Ornella Dacius

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U n t i t l e d Tolulope Arasanyin

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Douchebag Dollar Sign Alexander Jean-Pierre

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5 0 2 Azariah Davis

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M r s . B u b b l e G u m Benga

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I n H e r E y e s Atira Barber-Ellis

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M y J o n e s i n g S i c k n e s s Tolulope Arasanyin

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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Azariah Davis

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I n s p i r e d b y Y e l l o w R a g e Tolulope Arasanyin

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F i n a l H o p e Eddyson Altidor

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H e r e M y T r u t h L i e s Marie Damus

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F r e e T o S t e a l M y F r e e d o m Charles Gyedu

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U n t i t l e d Elizabeth James

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1 5 0 Y e a r s L a t e r Shamar Niang

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U n t i t l e d Azariah Davis

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M a g n o l i a s f o r H e r Atira Barber-Ellis

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Prostitute Soul, V i r g i n H e a r t Niazyea-Arianna

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T h e L o s t a n d t h e M i s s i n g Carrissa Normil

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A l l T o o F a m i l i a r Tyler Gonzalez

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L o c a t i o n : U n k n o w n Marie Damus

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U n t i t l e d Nia Tipton

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D e n i a l o r B e t r a y a l ? Dene Morgan

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L u s t Sierra Boyd

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P h o t o g r a p h y Oluwabunmi Olusine

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Disastrous Relationships Alexander Jean-Pierre

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C i n d e r e l l a ! A n E x c e r p t Ornella Dacius

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P h o t o g r a p h y Oluwabunmi Olusine

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W r i t e t o M e Sierra Boyd

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P h o t o g r a p h y Oluwabunmi Olusine

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Acknowledgements

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About Apogee Journal

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About NY Writers Coalition Inc.

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Foreword Chris Prioleau

Throughout the 2015-2016 school year, students from Benjamin Banneker Academy have met twice a week to write and share poetry and prose. The following is a collection of work by those students and some of their fellow classmates at BBA. Last year, in writing the introduction to GUMBO’s first collection, I spent much of my time processing my emotional reaction to the journal. I’d describe my prevailing sentiment then as “wow, we did it, I can’t believe we did it.” Now as this program, its students, and all of us grow a year older, I’m finding myself studying the work collected in this volume from a more intellectual standpoint. That isn’t an accident; this year the students from GUMBO pushed the envelope in a big way. They took what we developed last year and brought it to new and unexpected heights. As a whole, the work in this collection is more political, more confident, and more mature. It’s deep work, it begs for deeper analysis.

The contributors are growing as people and artists, dealing with more complex issues and emotions, becoming selfaware citizens of the world. The pieces in this volume address a multitude of topics: identity, slavery, police brutality, love, death, hope, hopelessness. They’re working through these issues as sharp-tongued artists switching patois with dexterity. These works are as influenced by Toni Morrison and Zora Neale Hurston as they are by Snapchat

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and Netflix. The work is very raw, sometimes funny, often heartbreaking; these pages pop—sporadically and chaotically, like flashbulbs—with an inner wisdom way beyond the artists’ years.

And once again, watching these young people develop as artists in real time, has been a gift. I remember getting ready to host the launch party for our first issue. I was excited to see all of the work we’d done come to fruition and was looking forward to seeing the students read the pieces they’d worked so hard on. I remember sitting in the library that day feeling so surprised that many of them had chosen to read pieces that were A) different from the ones they’d published in the journal and B) better than the pieces they’d published in the journal. I walked home that afternoon nearly in tears, I was so, so happy. They'd been working and they’d been growing.

This anecdote makes me think about the word “gift” and the ways that we use it. The students—individually and as a group— have it: a gift, a talent they’re developing and treating the world to. Though when I read their work, watch them work, listen to them discuss writing, or the world, or what have you I feel that I’m being given a second, equally remarkable gift, just through being there. It’s my sincerest wish that in the coming years they keep their gifts close, that they tend to them and cherish them as much as I know that I will mine.

As always, we hope that you enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed making it.

Chris Prioleau On behalf of GUMBO, Apogee Journal & NY Writers Coalition

Spring 2016

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To L o v e a W r i t e r Atira Barber-Ellis

To love a writer is to love blue ink stained fingertips and chipped coffee mugs filled with tea.

It’s to hear mellow music in the middle of the night and see her scribbling frantically beside the bed light.

To love a writer is to love more than one life because she hears so many people in her mind.

To love a writer is to watch her describe the vilest of creatures with the kindest of eyes.

To love a writer is to know a new secret all the time, because she puts a little bit of herself into every piece.

And just know that when she says she’s finished a story, it’s never truly done. Because each day she dreams a little more and sees a little more of the world that she wants to see.

To love a writer is to be amazed by the way someone can so vividly describe your eyes. And even though you see brown hair she sees “maple” or “honey” or the “little bit of amber left on the brown leaves”.

To love a writer is to learn to love yourself the way she writes you.

How she doesn’t mind all of your bumps and quirks because she craves after characters like you that just make the story work.

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To love a writer is to travel the world without waking her up or having to leave the comforts of your bed.

It’s to break in ideas and exude words that flow from her fingertips to a page where they’ll stay forever.

God how it makes you feel so alive! Because to love a writer means that you’ll never die.

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The Enemy Carrissa Normil

Sierra Correa on breaking an artist Sierra

...and they feel things so much more intensely than others do. Pain, guilt, joy...they feel everything.

They know how to cry, how to hurt. I think I take the most advantage of that.

Interviewer

What do you think makes them so different?

Sierra

They’re so aware. And they think—think about things other people don't think about—think all day and night even if it hurts them. They can’t stop.

They see things differently. It’s like since the day they were born they were just different. It’s like (sighs). It’s like they see things in color, while everyone else sees in black and white.

Interviewer

What’s so wrong with that?

Sierra

Everything is in black and white. Everything is supposed to be simple but they overcomplicate. It’s almost like they’re bent on ruining everything. The world needs leaders, teachers, healers, not someone who can pointlessly note a hundred reasons why hearts break or sing a song we’ve all heard a hundred times before.

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Interviewer

Hmm.

Sierra

What?

Interviewer

It’s just that (Pauses). Forgive me, this isn’t in the script (nods to director).

Director

(Thumbs up in approval)

Interviewer

(Returns to Sierra) Okay. It seems to me that many people believe what you and your friends do is malicious and unfair but here you’ve just justified your actions, I think.

Sierra

Yeah (Nods). Yeah. Nobody understands them.

It’s so easy for me to get into her head. I drive her crazy. We drive them all crazy (Chuckles).

Sometimes even to the point of insanity. And trust me there is no better pastime, but at the end of the day what I have to realize is that I am saving her. I am doing my part in keeping the world what it is supposed to be. Her doubt is my salvation.

Interviewer

(Nods) One last question before we run out of time. The young author you’ve been assigned to, she’s determined, a little stubborn. There were many like her who’ve succeeded. In your honest opinion, do you think you’ll be able to stop her, do you think she’ll make it?

Sierra

(Silence) No comment.

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Deception Tanya Calixto

As twisted as a born sinner.

You’ve sunken your teeth, jaw adjourned to a heart full of hate, oh what a pity, for you that is, to see I'm no longer amid your mass of ignorant victims withering at the touch of your malicious false piety, twitching against your deception as you attempt to regain the reins of your sanity.

May the lord have mercy on your wretched soul.

For we are yet to be abandoned in your thoughts, my only regret is that I hadn't done you off sooner.

The skeletons that loitered around your grave as you flung your blackened tongue like a whip.

These stories you've conjured up in your head amid such insanity and utter pandemonium.

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Devilish Gaze Dene Morgan

You like to claim that you are always there.

That you will always hold me in your loving care But you are the wall in my way, Blocking me from my peaceful destination, Increasing the potency of my livid indignation You sit and stare waiting for me to make a mistake, depreciate, Fall into that bottomless chasm, The one that has already grabbed hold and tugs viciously with each passing day The malice in you is too great to behold It too devours my spirit like the dagger held loosely in your hand, Staining the carpets with thick red blood My thick red blood I look into your eyes for some semblance of mercy, for some semblance of sanity, But I find none.

All I see is that deadly smile of yours I remember how I was once enraptured by it I found myself enthralled by its craze I fell in love with your delinquent ways I was hypnotized by your devilish gaze.

I remember how you pulled me to you like some sort of psychological magnet

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I was yours and you were mine, life really was sublime I truly believed it was love at first sight But looking at you now, I know I wasn't right You caused me so much pain and fright, That for so many nights, I cowered hiding from your strange delight For days, weeks I never bolstered enough might To combat you and your supposed insight, Your presence further fueling my plight So then I began to question, why?

Why am I always plagued with tales of tragedy?

Why can’t I be allowed to breathe?

Why is he so shrouded in secrecy?

Why am I tortured so adamantly?

But most importantly, why me?

What misdeed had I unknowingly committed?

He wasn’t supposed to enter my life Wasn’t supposed to cause me so much strife Wasn’t supposed to open wounds with that knife I look up briefly with disdain in my soul Smiling sadly at what I have become Desperately trying to fill that gaping hole I now have in my chest Feeling as though I now have my own scarlet letter, my own sinful crest How could this happen? This is his doing yet I am the one fazed My surroundings disappear and the sky fades All I can hope for are better days Now that I am free from his devilish gaze

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C a t G o t M y To n g u e Edwina Archer

He snatched it and I can't get it back in time.

It's been way too long.

I tried singing a song — about the days past and reaching to a loved one passed.

But I only succeeded to fail — as my words turned pale and the tune came out flat.

The song was sung but left unspoken and cascaded down a fruitless path.

Embedded in me were sorrow and wrath.

But she could not understand — she could not comprehend the tears that rolled down after the thunder, the tears I could not explain, and that were shed in vain I am terribly sorry I could not catch that cat sooner.

Mother...

For he not only stole my tongue but the remnants of my soul latched onto it.

The key that was supposed to free your sanity — Our sanity.

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Generation Nora Doura

Unscrewed from the vision Mother Mary envisioned, our females are auctioning off their self respect, accepting disrespect from all different directions.

False intentions become the invention that destroys the divine conception of life.

Construed with the thoughts of being owned we are probed to the point where we lose and choose imprisonment.

Contentment without resentment.

Accepting love from the people that descend in a pool of failure.

Failing to recognize that we are one with the sun. now there is nowhere to run.

So we multiply glorify to satisfy, pacify the horrified only to end up dissatisfied.

Because in the end we are discredited.

We are‌We are Women: Daughters, Sisters, Mothers.

So why do we choose to satisfy others by bending, undressing, begging, spreading our legs as he begs for a way in when we really should be begging for a way out?

But there's no way out if we keep walking the same route.

Because the world does not empathize.

Instead the world coaxes society into believing our Women have to be a certain brand, the submissive kind.

And the world will criticize if we choose otherwise.

So as a result we become the fragile oppressed minds

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Afraid to be who we really are We are Women: Daughters, Sisters, Mothers.

So why suppress great minds?

While our generation of Woman are being deprived of their pride our generation of Men are being glued to the assumptions that wars can only be won with the assistance of violence.

Our brothers are waging a war that cannot be won.

They're soul searching behind the gun.

And to them capturing another soul is the price that has to be paid when love is unavailable.

No longer retrievable.

Unobtainable, so it ceases to exist.

But please, tell me please: what is humankind if we cannot love?

No love found so our boys bestowed this generation of girls a fate that has a fatal ending .

Choosing to surround themselves with gangs when desire grabs a hold of their minds.

Our sons are fighting for the wrong, they're too strung up on those levees and crystals that they're allowing success to be untouched, unclutched.

Yes, unfortunately when drugs compel they're spending nights, days, months, years, even decades in jail cells.

Giving up on self redemption because it seems as if they've lost sight of the man in the mirror.

The true essence of humankind when the exterior disappears.

But how can we ever explain to our future sons and daughters that our generation felt no remorse for all the souls it stole with its guns?

The same generation who used drugs to capture and enslave young minds.

A generation that cannot love.

Yes the same generation expected to give birth to our unborn baby girls and boys.

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The new generation of Men and Women But fate serves us right because we choose to slaughter the idea of respect.

We're choosing to be buried alive instead of escaping our undying prophecies.

Choosing, but wait... I wouldn't call this choosing.

Because I don’t recall choosing this life.

No, not this hostile way of life.

I wouldn't call this choosing I'd call it like it's proved to be.

Just the way I had seen it before.

Before my time, before hundreds of lifetimes before mine I'd snatch it up and attach it to the rings of Saturn.

And yes, I'd be the one to guarantee no way of its return.

Because there would be no more indication of its existence.

Only the reconstruction of the masterpiece we have the potential to create by hand.

Call it a generation made by Man.

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Plantation 2015 Terry-Ann Lawrence

The lashes lurk in our shadow The stings cause us to cringe Blood accumulates into A sea of our ancestors, and us, Slavery wearing its own suit Camouflaged in police brutality In the hands of corporations Our men and women chained Bondaged to their version of right Conditioned to believe the just way is wrong Our men and women chained Controlled, coded to say, I’m guilty Coded to say that melanin Should be eradicated It’s no longer 1865 When we were told we were free But for our misdeeds We were sent to pick cotton To slave in mines To build the railroads It’s now 2015 When we are sentenced for decades for things with little weight An ounce of marijuana

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An act of peaceful protest A change of car lanes We are exploited to build Military and police gear 7 cents an hour or nothing at all We have no representation We are no longer whipped But stripped of our humanity Refuse to work: lose canteen privileges Refuse to work: thrown in disciplinary housing Black men dressed in orange Black and white stripes Black men indicted Losing all their voices A peaceful home shattered A master’s home built Black hands in labor Creating opulence for elites If I was Dr. King My throat would run dry My voice would find no time for rest Protest would plague the nation I would gather our young men and women Working hard in our universities I would gather our young men and women Enlighten, Educate, and Entreat a future generation I would know without a doubt That this modern plantation Could never stand strong With our brave souls united1 1

The current prison system in the US reflects a modern plantation with slaves. Research has proven that corporations have lobbied for longer sentences for prisoners in an effort to make more profit. These prisoners are then exploited to build dorm furniture and lockers for our youth and the bridges and dentures used for dental lab work.

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Untitled Niazyea-Arianna

It seems like we walking.

Walking targets with no red and white.

A police bullet destined to end my life.

And when we get tired it’s gonna be world war six.

We aiming to kill.

Can't no one fix this shit.

Drop that C we don’t fuck with opps.

So police man tread lightly, cause if a black boy is dead then your body gonna be the next to drop.

Should I put 16 in your body for Mike Brown with

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a black glock or should I put 22 in your chest for the innocent man killed in that staircase who didn't even live his life yet?

Better yet should we put you in a choke hold for Eric Garner? Let your brothers in blue watch you take your last breath.

Watch you embrace death It's tit for tat, an eye for an eye. Like Sam Cooke said it's been along time coming. So when change gon’ come? So Mr. Police Man remember there's more of us them there is of you. So wat you gonna do wen we get tired too?

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P r e a c h e r ’s K i d Sierra Boyd

He was out and about doing no such good.

His daddy didn't know he was out in the hood.

He didn't know about the girls he fucked with.

Nor did he know about dope selling boys he stayed in touch with.

Daddy didn't know know his son handled a gun.

He didn't know that he wasn't planning on finding the one.

He thought his son was in those books, preferably the one glory bound.

He thought his lil boy had just gone of track and was waiting to be found.

Who knew that Lil PK was everywhere he wasn't suppose to be.

Slowly losing his mind with that happy crack, losing his sanity.

Rolling in the deep, playing a dangerous game, and with those cuffs around his wrist, he knew he'd never be the same.

PK gone down, Daddy's face adorned with a frown, the middle ground he never found.

No promise land just 6 feet down down, underground...

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T h i s I s N o t Wa r Carrissa Normil

Carnage.

Our frontal troops had swept through enemy’s territory leaving nothing but. Blood doesn’t scare me anymore.

Dismembered bodies and faces of men and women that watched and waited as death came for them; the sight doesn't cause me fear but instead continues to evoke something within me I can not understand.

“I wish I could save you.” I utter to the remnants of people, of a home; everything that once was.

I know my words are treacherous. I’d sooner lose my tongue before I utter them twice. But these words come from my heart, a darkened place I seldom visit. Still, it is a place that, though devoid of most other virtues, holds more truths than I will ever let be known. And questions. Questions so merciless they impale through flesh, all the way through to the other side.

How is it that I can cry and bleed for you all at once? The Enemy, they call you. The twisted, the infidel, the corrupt and the demonic. You stand before us and block the sole path to the glory for which we are destined and for this you are all these things.

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Whether you’d be these things if you did not oppose us, is not a question they ask. But it is one that I have so efficiently drilled into my subconscious that there is no way of escaping it now. You are men and women; humans who play the role of monster. And I can not blame you. I too bare fangs and claws and lose sight of the light to protect what is mine. I draw blood and you draw mine. And it seems we are doomed to be like this because we both stand bullheaded and refusing to die. I, too, block your path to glory.

Why must we fight; take those things from others that we were never meant to have, force ourselves onto to those who are unwilling and destroy so vigorously? Because bloodshed is a language that all people speak, even when eyes do not meet. It is a language that says the strongest shall see his mission through. No matter how mislead it may be. And on this mission missiles are launched from both sides destined for a head-on collision, destined to leave everything in their paths in ruin. And I count my losses and wonder how they compare to yours, wonder by what misfortune have you found yourself here. Then I curse at myself for feeling anything for you. You are evil incarnate and you should be damned! But in my dark heart, where I never like to venture, I know I feel everything.

And in my heart I know what war is.

Wars are not fought by the good and evil, nor are they fought for causes such as love and hate. The vision is what drives us. Our vision of making Earth the closest thing to heaven. And every man has his own. And every aggressor, it seems, is willing to destroy Earth to make of it something it can never be.

Then I think like a child and wonder why our heavens can't be one. Could we carry the weight of the world on our

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backs if we all stand together? This question is a shard of glass too deep for me to remove. And I start to believe that I hate humans for not trying with every ounce of themselves to make peace a reality. Then I remember that this is what war is, the relentless and pious fight for peace. And I think to my equals on the other side. As they press the barrels of their guns to our temples, they must be thinking the things I do. They must want their heaven as wholeheartedly as I do.

They must suffer and cry for the warmth of their loved ones as I do. They must weep for me as I weep for them, see themselves through me.

Tell me that they do and I am not just weak! “I know, my friend behind enemy lines, that you suffer as I do. And oh, how I wish I could save you.�

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My Brother Malcolm Marie Damus

A sailor at sea with no direction Malcolm was misguided Malcolm was lost Ruling an empire like no other African king, Malcolm was my brother To be betrayed as he was so many times We see it was inevitable To turn to a life of crime, thankfully he did the time The walls closing in on him, his imagination brought revelations He beat the odds, not forgetting all that he had to suffer My role model, Malcolm, is my brother The white man took the place of the devil Separated his family, got rid of his mother Someone who’s love he should’ve felt unconditionally Couldn’t be compared to another Opening my spirit Cleansing my heart Enlightening my mind and giving me a new passion Thanks to him, knowing myself got a little less tough Malcolm will always be my brother No doubt that we need Malcolm X in today’s society Someone with no social anxiety Our broke race is like a broken china piece Try to put it together but you’ll still see the damage We refuse to come together as one and that’s what’s gotten us at a disadvantage

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Photo by Oluwabunmi Olusine

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B e f o r e I t ’s To o L a t e Shania Forbes

I'm saddened by the world around me I look around and cry at what I see Is this how life is supposed to be?

Everything is crumbling to ruins Fast forwarding time, just to rewind the mind Wondering if life was best how it was Or maybe it never was good at all Seeing the world the way it truly is, is a curse There are just so many lies that lie beneath our noses But we are blinded by flashing lights and booming music Mind controlled, brain washed Can't we wash away our innocence, our ignorance Barricades Fifty Shades We watch the Hunger Games but don't realize it's about our games The shame Do we really want to know?

The more you find out, the farther you go Pull back the curtain and take a look: It isn't gold and white or black and blue It's dark in here Even the light is dim, flickering Sins creep heavy in the church Dare to see the truth

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Don't fall in the trap, don't watch the news Nothing is what it seems There's darkness in the seams Open your eyes and look behind the blinders put over us since birth It's the matrix over here It's corruption and despair I mean they call us crazy, right?

Conspiracy theorists and all, those who see, are deemed ridiculous They see the coming fall Do you hear the Devil’s call?

Heed the warning and realize it all Before it's too late...

Photo by Oluwabunmi Olusine

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F o r Yo u Atira Barber-Ellis

Today is going to be a good day.

Today –– for a Monday –– is a good day.

Because today your curls are poppin’.

A three-strand twist out with your Coconut Oil and Cantu (Thank God you decided not to Bantu).

And you got your edges laid too!

Yes, you know you bad boo.

And shrinkage be damned!

Cause when you walk into the room You’ll feel like a model and not like a student stuck in school.

Granted you might get some heat damage from blowing out your hair on HIGH but who cares?

You do.

You finger through your ends in the middle of class and search for split ends when you should be searching for your notes.

You contemplate putting your hair up because it just might mysteriously rain.

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But then you remember all those tears you shed just a year ago because your hair couldn’t hold a scrunchie and it was so thick and people called you names because you still let your mom do four cornrows on your head.

You remember feeling ugly when that boy who wasn’t even all that cute said the two puffs on your head looked gross.

How people only complimented you when you got that blowout and you could’ve sworn the Dominican hairdresser was jealous because she cut two inches of hair instead of just your ends.

The confidence was so transparent back then.

It only lasted as long as you stayed away from the pool and kept that shower cap on tight.

You run to the bathroom and fix your part. You make sure the shape still curves in at the bottom like a heart.

“Oh, yes girl! Hair is poppin’” Someone behind you says.“ We trying to look good for bae?”

No, you think. Not for him. You did this for the girl who cried when mama did her hair and still felt jealous that her hair never touched her shoulders like the other girls.

For the girl who could embrace the moisture of the rain.

Who never thought she’d find someone who’d love her at her braid out and satin cap too.

No, you did this for you.

You sat for an hour detangling for you and doused your scalp in conditioner for you.

You laid your edges and fluffed for you.

You lined your eyes and chose a lipstick to match your attitude just for you.

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You pull a curl and watch it bounce back; see that little reflex of shine. You smile. Laugh and say thank you. It wasn’t for him. No. Because on Mondays and every other day, you do this for you.

Insomnia Dene Morgan

Tavora twisted and turned in her bed every night. Though she tried desperately to relax and ease her tension, sleep avoided her. As such, she constantly tried to put herself to good use albeit her body being on the verge of collapse.

She walked around for hours looking for something to focus her energy on. But what was there that she hadn’t already done? She perused her novels twice and thrice over, cleaned the house until it sparkled and shined, and watered the flowers which had more life than her.

Fortunately, Alize, Reza, and Jolivette had homework.

Why not help them since she couldn’t help herself?

It was evident in her dead, empty, bloodshot eyes that what she craved for herself was highly illusive. No amount

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of twists or turns, changed positions, soothing sounds, or precious words ever succeeded in getting her closer to her greatest desires. Maybe it was because she got used to it.

The long hours of endless work and the sweet, bitter aroma of crushed Brazilian coffee beans coursing through her veins. She was never allowed the time to just sit down and relax, or maybe even get a couple of hours of much needed sleep. But this was the life she chose to live. As a nurse, she lived for others and feigned strength to keep them from worrying. But as a human being, she was broken. Her heart desperately tried to repair itself, but whenever it did, she would just give pieces of it away until there was nothing left to give. And even then she would continue to chip away at herself for the sake of others.

Tavora was a single mom with three kids, a runaway ex, and retired parents. The negligible income she received was spread out so thinly that she found herself going days without food. Her children never went hungry though and neither did her parents because she took it upon herself to give them the world while the world was stolen from her.

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Dear

,

Azariah Davis

Dear_____, I really like this girl, I want to show her the world, my world - pause.

Shit I almost got caught in the moment.

Taking this shit that I spit like ILOVEMAKONEN. But for real, I would get caught up with the thought of her, maybe that’s what it is.

The thought of a female that fits the criteria of society, more of an airhead mentally with an amazing body At first I was scared, All of my self-esteem as an introvert wasn’t repaired.

And it still isn’t.

Then three years passed from class to class, and she just caught my eye.

Swear that infatuation for her made me feel like I could become king of the coop.

Her love of the Graham character threw me for a loop.

I was insecure.

Thinking that I had to wear J’s, sweats, and Nike techs.

But it’s more than that, I’m mad at myself for even thinking she’s like that.

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At this point in time, she’s game to a predator who wants his meal, But honestly, it’s a search of a lion trying to find a mate to rule his pride.

But I guess she doesn’t see that.

She sees me, us as the boys who ain’t shit, looking for a quick fix, and dip right then for the next bitch.

Just like the 99%, I’m that 1.

The one that stays behind from his friends and waits for you.

The one that she laughs off when we admit our feelings.

The one that stays up at night hoping you’re not in distress.

I could go on and on, but if it goes on any longer, this shit could become a song, and its already long.

Let’s just say, from the moment I met you, my mind was frayed.

But the axons seemed to connect and put my cerebellum in functioning order when she stayed.

Dear _____, I really...love this girl, I want to show her the world.

My world, my hearts of hearts, scars upon scars And I want her to do the same.

Quoting the bro Tiller, I just want all of her in exchange for me.

She says she doesn’t want to destroy my life, I said fuck it.

I’ll take you just as you are, Fuck the transgressions.

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Art by Arina Nath

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Art by Arina Nath

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Remembering Sage Nia Tipton

For Ryder Hodge, Sage Foster had always been one of those girls. She was an endless quirky ball of impulsivities, ate chocolate milkshakes with an extremely oversized spoon instead of a straw, and knew absolutely nothing about absolutely everything. She couldn’t name the last five presidents of the United States but she knew the coffee order of every single person in her senior seminar.

She couldn’t spell the word “because” without muttering “Betty Eats Cake and Uses Six Eggs” under her breath. In the Venn diagram of high school clichés, Sage landed somewhere smack in the middle.

She had acquaintances but she didn’t have friends; after school interests, but not the student involvement; the ability to run a 52:40 in the 10-mile, but a huge hatred of sweating. She was the picture you would see next to the definition of sensible absurdity (but Ryder was more than happy to be sensibly absurd with her (even if it landed him in the back of a police car twice in the April of his senior year).

Maybe Ryder knew Sage was about to ruin his entire life from the second she sauntered into his sophomore civics class. The main problem for boring ol’ Ryder was that Sage was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen (him being of average intelligence, large shoe size, and a very lanky shape). She, with her shirt rolled up, baggy jeans rolled down, mop of messy strawberry blonde hair, and stormy grey eyes that were all kinds of flawless. She had a small freckle on her nose and a scar on her shoulder blade from a snowboarding accident. Ryder spent too long on those parts, mostly because those

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were his parts to see; the parts everyone else looked beyond when they looked at Sage from down the hallway.

He highly disliked when people called her hot; he thought of it as disheartening. The stripper at The Landing Strip off Route 66 was hot. Sage Foster was an entirely different kind of beautiful, one that couldn’t so easily be put into words. But the problem with Sage Foster being so damn fascinating was that Ryder was so damn normal. The first time Sage kissed Ryder, he was drunk off of boxed wine, wearing black sweatpants with a hole on the left butt cheek, and he hadn’t showered in 48 hours. He couldn’t feel his face, his eyes were red and puffy, and he’d just gotten two wisdom teeth pulled and had been dumped by his not-so girlfriend. Maybe it was just a pity kiss.

He drooled on her chin midway through, she didn’t care. That was the thing about Sage Foster; she didn’t kiss just for the sake of kissing. She really kissed. She kissed like she was trying to reinvent the fundamental properties of kissing. She took her time, her slender fingers knotting around every strand of hair on the back of his neck, the curve of her lips to mold delicately against his. She kissed like she was connecting the dots, no line of skin on the length of his spine untouched by her acrylic nails. Sage Foster lived life as recklessly as she could, but when they were together, her and Ryder on his ratty old couch in his basement, she finally took moments to breathe.

The day Sage fell in love with Ryder, who had already been head over heels mental for her, was the day Ryder played “All Time Low” on the drive home from school. He was tone deaf and she was smitten. He thought Alex Gaskarth was hot, and she thought that any boy, who thought Alex was hot, was therefore also hot. When she leaned over the console to whisper this in his ear, he began grinning like a Cheshire cat. Because he was just table salt and she was Himalayan pink rock salt. He was just flank steak and she was filet mignon. They weren’t supposed to work, but somehow they did.

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The last time Ryder saw Sage had coincidentally been the last time they would take their Sunday drives. Ryder would cruise around with Sage in his Ford Fusion at noon every single Sunday. Ryder would blast “All Time Low” through his speakers, and they would just sing along. And so it became the last time Ryder saw who he’d eventually comprehend to be the definitive love of his life. Sage Foster had always had an obsession with cigarette lighters. She displayed them by the dozens in neat rows along her shelves, color coordinated to the exact shade. Ryder’s favorite was a knockoff from Nevada. It didn’t dawn on him until later that Sage did in fact have a flaw, she was severely obsessive compulsive. Never was a lighter out of place, she always carried one, like an extension of her fingertips. On and off, on and off, on and off. In class, she would click it under the desk.

Driving, she would have one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the lighter. In the two years Ryder knew Sage, he’d never seen her smoke. She just didn’t want to smoke; she just liked the idea of it.

“Ryder.”

“Hey, earth to Ryder.”

“Ryder, are you there?”

Funny, Ryder thought. He wondered when she finally decided to light one.

“Ryder Cooper Hodge!”

Ryder looked down, Jesse St. Felix (Ryder’s only friend from high school, apart from Sage Foster [but Sage Foster was dead]), looked up.

“I’m worried about you man,” he said.

“It’s been four years and twenty seven days since I saw her,” Ryder said meekly.

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“I know time flies.”

“The last time I saw her, we were singing along with Alex Gaskarth.”

Jesse grimaced, “That’s messed up.”

Jesse was right, it was messed up. It was messed up that Sage was dead. It was messed up that Ryder was invited to her funeral. It was messed up that she’d never lit a damn cigarette in the first place (after she’s promised Ryder otherwise). And it was messed up that he hadn’t been there to see it.

“I think I hate her,” Ryder said, although he didn’t hate her, he hated that he couldn’t hate her.

“I think you love her,” Jesse replied.

“I think I think too much.”

“About Sage?”

Ryder nodded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his suit. It didn’t fit him because the last time he wore it he was 15, and now he’s 22 and fatter.

“Man, maybe you need some counseling.” Jesse shuffled, around them the crowd was filing into the church.

“Counseling,” Ryder shook his head. “No, I don’t need counseling. I need a time machine. I need it so I can go back in time and tell her just because you move to New York doesn’t make you a hot shot and just because you liked the idea of smoking doesn’t mean you should smoke. And maybe I’d even go back and tell her I loved her, because God, Jesse all that time and I never actually said it.”

“You were a coward back then.” Jesse scratched his head, shrugging his shoulders.

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“Yeah, and now she’s dead.”

Jesse just nodded silently. It occurred to Ryder that Sage would have made a stupid joke out of the whole thing, and if Sage got to plan her own funeral, there would’ve definitely been a musical solo by Alex Gaskarth.

But Sage Foster didn’t get to plan her own funeral. And Ryder didn’t get to say goodbye (or ask if she wanted Alex). Before Ryder could process anything, his feet were dragging him towards the open coffin at the front of the church. He peered inside and saw a different version of Sage Foster. Her hair was in a very sophisticated, un-Sage like bun. She was dressed in clothes that Sage would never wear, ever.

Ryder narrowed his eyes, and leaned in closer. This wasn’t Sage Foster. She smelled like really cheap perfume, instead of pop tarts and lighter fluid. Her lips weren’t curled in that signature smirk, and Ryder knew that Sage would have died smirking.

It couldn’t be her.

And yet it was, because Ryder could see the familiar freckle on her nose and the scar on her shoulder. And he could still feel those fingertips tracing the back of his neck all those years ago.

“Hey Sage,” Ryder whispered. “I, uh, I don’t know. I’m sorry I never made it to New York. I hope you’re not mad about that. I’m kind of mad you went in the first place, so maybe it evens out.” Ryder paused. Around him, people settled into their seats. Ryder swallowed, Sage didn’t say anything or do anything because she was dead. So he took out the Nevada lighter that she stole from her room all those years back, and placed it under her cold hand.

“So,” he mumbled. The priest was making his way up to the stand.

“I’m gonna go watch your funeral now. You know because that’s

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what people do here. There’s a lot I wanted to say to you the night you left, and I guess here’s better than nothing at all.”

Sage Foster didn’t ask him to continue, but Ryder did anyway.

“I think I love you. Sorry for that too- not the loving you part, but the not telling you part. Though I guess I did, so maybe I’m not sorry for that. Maybe I’m just sorry you’re gone.”

The preacher started speaking, and Ryder looked at Sage, and for the smallest second, he thought he saw it. He was stupid, crazy, maybe both, because Sage was dead.

The smallest twist of a smirk.

Like somewhere, up there, in a place Ryder would never get to because Ryder believed he was going to heaven and a girl like Sage Foster was probably, most likely, going to hell, Sage heard him and was making up for all those things they’d never said in the real world. Like she was saying, right here in the church, (endlessly fascinating Sage Foster to painfully normal Ryder Hodge). Screw you, I love you too.”

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To L o v e Niazyea-Arianna

Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? A question asked across the ages. To each its own, when it comes to love. One way or another we fall in love, and with love sometimes two steps behind is heartbreak. The cycle of love is one not everyone is bold enough to step in. The unbold do not fear love, but instead have complete disdain for it. So spatially aware, that they are aware there is no room for love or loss. So they choose not to love or lose at all.

Hazza Takara (Mia) Mekkuchi Hazza was dead. He looked beautiful, even on his deathbed. I had to make sure of it, simply because he wouldn't have had it any other way. He looked so peaceful, like he was sleeping. Appearances do make everything; I realized this too late in the game. He was broken.

We both were. All those nights cleaning off blades and wrapping up injuries take a toll on you. I hated him for it... but then again, who can hate Hazza? I surely can't... I loved him. I loved him from the way he curled his arms around me when we slept to the way his

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hands curled around the trigger of a gun. He did everything with elegance, and I could do nothing but adore it. I knew he loved me too, there was no denying it. He treated me like a princess, and I loved every second of it.

My bloodlust grew stronger by the day, and he would always kill for me. He was proud of his work--he would smile every time he saw his signature on the telly. "For my music box," the bodies always had written on them. Whether it be severed tongues or rotting hearts, he always brought something back for me. Sometimes I'd go with him, watch how he attracted everyone with his million dollar smile. He'd smirk at me--I wasn't jealous. I knew he'd come home to me. The wet screams of people getting stabbed in the lungs was rejuvenating‌ especially hearing Hazza's laugh. It sounded psychotic to other people, but it sounded like joy to my ears. I loved it. I loved him.

"Will you sing for me, my love?"

I screamed every time crimson red met white sheets. I screamed when the knife ran against my skin, and I screamed louder when it stopped.

"So beautiful," he said when the the blood turned into swirls against my skin. "What gift would you like today, my love?" Dark brown eyes trailed up to meet emerald green ones, and I smiled.

"I want you."

But now he is gone. I made sure he was wearing all white, like he wanted. Hair curled neatly around his neck, tight-lipped smile... almost as if he was laughing.

"We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of a wonderful young man and angel..."

I couldn't help but laugh myself.

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Inhale Jeneice Marshall

Rosa looked out of the palace window. He should have been home by now. She saw a glimpse of the fire burning below, the men huddled around trying to get warm before leaving for war. She inhaled the smoke, trying to calm her nerves. All she could think about was Gabrielle. Today was their one year anniversary, he'd left the night before to help the men strategize a plan of attack against the clan attempting to kill her and her people. He said it was an emergency, the enemy was closing in. She walked over to the night stand, brushing her long black hair uneasily. He'd been absent a lot recently. She stared at herself in the mirror, her big brown eyes, caramel skin, and pink lips. She was queen and he was a warrior from a land abroad, he never told her which. She thought back to when they first met, on the battlegrounds of Anora, where she was trying to negotiate peace between the people. He was assigned to protect her. He watched over her day and night. At first he thought the job was beneath him, after all he was captain. He didn't know how much danger she would get into, over and over again. He didn't know he was protecting a queen, or of her special powers. Her people kept it a secret. Her eyes watered as she reminisced. A year later and she still didn't let her beloved know of her power. Tonight, she would, it was time. She couldn't wait and longer, she grabbed her fur coat and ran down the stairs. She barged into the stables called for her horse.

"Wild Fire! Come here!" She screamed for him. He came charging at her, seeing her alone, he came full speed with a cloud of smoke. As if reading her mind he didn't slow, he kept charging and when he

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was close enough, she jumped on. Racing him towards the camp grounds where she knew Gabrielle would be. With Wild Fire’s speed, they zipped through time and were at the camp in less than a minute. She got off the horse, coughing a little, and ran. She smelled the scent of Gabrielle, he always smelled like the sea. She spotted him sitting away from the campsite by the edge of the beach.

She looked at him and her heart just shattered. She didn't want to believe it. She'd known betrayal before, when her best friend Rebecca tried to kill her in her sleep. She'd learned to never trust, even those who say they love you. She didn't want anyone to get close to her ever again. Then he came, broke down her walls. She thought she knew him, she thought she saw him, she thought he'd loved her.

She knew now that it couldn't be true as she stared at him holding a woman in his arms. She approached him her palms getting very warm, her fire was about to emerge. She tried to breathe but smoke came out of her nostrils.

"Liar!" she screamed lunging at him, fire shooting out of her palms.

He whipped around throwing the girl out of his arms as water from his palms and shot back at her.

"So it's true," he said with sorrow in his eyes.

"You're a fire holder."

Her skin sizzled and her hair turned to wisps of smoke.

She stared at him dazzled for a moment before regaining composure.

"Liar!" She screamed at him.

"You lied to me."

He pointed his hand at her, the water flowing out, extinguishing her flame. The waves rose behind him and he drew it closer to her. She screamed out in pain.

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"I trusted you! You lied to me. How could you not tell me you were a water holder? Did they put you with me to kill me, is that it?"

He looked at her confused and drew back the water. He stood there like a robot for a moment just confused. The woman he was with emerged and Rosa saw clearly now, it was Rebecca.

"Gabrielle don't listen to her, she wants you dead. She was sent to kill you!" Rebecca hissed.

Suddenly a spark went off in Rosa’s mind. Rebecca had the power to manipulate one's thoughts. Looking at Gabrielle staring at her with his confused expression Rosa used her high pitch voice to scream and cut the enchantment he was now obviously under. Gabrielle blinked, he looked at Rosa. Anger filled his expression and he lunged, standing between her and Rebecca. He turned his back to Rosa, and stared at Rebecca.

"Becca, I see your powers of persuasion have gotten stronger." He said.

"Awe, Gabe, I was having so much fun."

Gabrielle grew very tense, sneering, "Don't you ever call me that. Leave now or I will kill you myself," he roared.

Rosa gaped at Gabrielle as he pulled out his sword. His back rippling, the sound of bones moving as wings came bursting out. Rebecca stared at his approaching form.

"Gabby, you wouldn't. You know me."

Gabrielle sneered and swung his sword. Rebecca gasped and jumped into the water. "Gabrielle!" Rosa screamed. She was being attacked by the water nymphs. He hadn't even noticed.

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"Release her!" He stated angrily. Pissed at their interference, the nymphs released Rosa, who stared at Gabrielle, totally lost. Turning his back to her, Gabrielle put his foot in the seawater, searching for Rebecca by sending waves of energy through the water. She was long gone. Running a hand through his blond hair, he grunted to himself. "Who are you?" Rosa whispered interrupting his train of thought. Turning back to her, she could only see concern in his green eyes.

"Rosa, I am the controller of sky and sea. I felt a dark energy emitting from you during the war. I came to kill you, instead, I fell in love. I was never able to understand the dark aura that surrounded you, until now. I suspected fire was to blame."

"I'm the Fire Queen. " She whispered staring at him. Blackness began sneaking its way into her vision. She was a fire queen in love with the lord of the sky and seas. He was the bringer of rain and thunder and he was going to kill her. This was her final thought before blacking out.

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Black and Blue Ornella Dacius

His voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

She heard the clang of his keys against the glass table. She heard the groaning of the wood floors, as if they themselves were in pain from the weight of his boots. She sat stiffly in the darkness of the closet corner, hunched over with her nose between her knees to muffle her ragged breathing. Cold sweat made her bangs stick to her forehead.

Maybe if she shut her eyes tight enough, he would disappear. She always told herself this, because keeping her eyes open only reminded her that she was in a nightmare she would never be able to escape from.

Heavy footsteps one by one made their way to the bathroom, and then she jumped as the door was slammed against the wall. “Maia!”

She dug her nails into her skin so she wouldn’t flinch. The sound of her own name sliced through her ears like a sword. She covered her head with her arms and pressed her eyes tighter until tiny galaxies flashed across her vision.

“Maia.” This time, his voice was frighteningly sweet as he made his way towards the bedroom. Moments like this made her wish she did not have a name. In one of her many alternate universes, she didn’t.

Instead, she was a strong, independent girl who worked at a police precinct, aiding the weak and hopeless like herself. She was a fighter.

She was not a prisoner.

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In the sudden moment of silence, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart against her rib cage. It hurt, physically, because in the end, the worst bruises were from that. Those sounds terrified her, the sounds when nothing was happening. It meant she was forced to live with a mind where nothing but tortured screams resided.

The sound of his boots kicking the door open sent a jolt of fear deep into the marrow of her bones. She covered her mouth and pressed her back against the wall. Never was she so desperate to stay in the dark. He would find her. Even if she knew not to hide in the same place twice. Maybe if she surrendered, he would only break her nose. If she gave up, maybe he’d let her see her family one more time before he kicked her to death.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

She pressed one hand to her chest, as if to mute the sound of her erratic heartbeat. He was trained to smell fear, and trained to love blood.

She heard him walk to the bed, where the shuffling movements meant he was checking underneath. Then she heard him getting closer and closer in her direction. She could taste murder in the air.

And in that moment, when the closet door swung open, and her small frame was no longer hidden in the darkness, she hoped that he would actually kill her. At least she would finally be free to float to the alternate universes where she could become someone else.

She sucked in a slow breath before she screamed. There was no more space on her body for bruises.

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Untitled Tolulope Arasanyin

You see how he struttin' with that hoodie over his head like the KKKs hovering?

Oh sorry I aint mean to offend your 1,000 dollar sweater...but wait you asking for what? A dollar to get some breakfast? That must be a joke, right? I mean you wearing 3 months of car insurance, I mean those jewels on your neck, but you can't get your ass anything to eat? Or have those jewels turned into rope that cut off the circulation to your throat and you become the walking dead?

Have you allowed the history of nooses to become a nuisance in your life?

YOU CAN’T BE THAT STUPID. You look nice, you strut tough, your glam outshines but is your brain alive?? I mean really alive? Like do you have ability or the capability to understand these things? The thing that is going on in our world that will crush you, my brother, because you walking around like you’d rather be dead.

I remember when it was I rather be dead than not free.

But my brothers are dead not free. But we love free shit.

But freedom ain't shit if we still battling this shit. This shit that taking over our world. While we getting shit on, then wiped, then flushed down the toilet. Like we don't mean shit. But that's what ya love doing. So continue doing you.

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Cause ya love doing the same shit like you’re unable to commit to do anything for yourself, but easy to commit a crime for someone else. Like I'll take the L, bro. They'll send me to jail but I ain't no snitch, like I never switched sides. My nigga do you even know what side you suppose to be siding with? Like you don't even know yourself.

Douchebag Dollar Sign Alexander Jean-Pierre

Despite his “stage” name, Alloicious Washington is revered for tons of community work. While blasting out lyrics about how he’ll bust a cap in your head and take ya girl, he sends 5% of his earnings to St. Jude Children’s Hospital, and puts another 5% towards community development. In his free time he works with scientists and technology developers who make very great strides. In 2022, he’ll be the reason why you are able to use a phone to create meals, do your homework, and teach you things, which he will give out to the homeless to test.

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502 Azariah Davis

I will achieve my dream Going platinum without any features Go through the lion’s den without fear of pain Why are you going through a lion’s den anyway?

It’s a metaphor, jackass You would know if you’d pay attention in class Not just looking at a fine ass On to bigger things What, the biggest L? If the guy across the room would dispel I could quell the notion of me murdering a human being Shut up bro, you ain’t shit Surprise motherfucker, we up in this bitch But in all seriousness, have a drive I stress this to my adolescence so much My past is therefore what I make of it, And regrets seem like blasphemy for the people who achieve peace 16 years of being lost And I could finally say I’m back and I’m so much better Accepting my mistakes Take two and two and you get 60 That seems to be the epitome of me Where an odd combination of stupidity and intelligence mix I really can’t seem to find my fix Curtail, past transgressions

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My thoughts being held in a great depression Of where I truly didn’t learn any lesson I was bull-headed and strong, but I guess it didn’t last long I wanna be a god No Kanye, the god of me Control the emotions and pains That a raging spirit of a human being couldn’t contain The restriction of a brain Pause, like the end of a raging tornado But I will become a maelstrom To end the whispers of loss, mistakes, the echoes make no sense to me now Gods have no regrets, unless they intervene in the affairs of mortals What coalesced of that taboo was life And I guess the feeling of regret against the hard skull didn’t feel it Until I really did feel it But that’s neither here nor there All I can do is stare At the success I’ve made Physically and mentally I’ve decayed Because my dream was constantly abated Really hate to see that they’re on me now When I’ve made it But I guess that’s what being human means doesn’t it?

To those that I’ve dated (Nah) I never said love, I said like Because whenever I confused the two, all it does is cause me heartbreak and strife I guess the numbers engraved upon my life are 502 That’s the number for the boss shit I do

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From just being a lifeline to others that think it’s their time When really it’s just saving their minds, over a baretta Now it just seems someone’s trying to use me for being better While they’re wasting money on J’s and sweaters This world is not ready for me That much is true Or maybe, just maybe I’m not ready for it I have X amount of years to come So I’ll just continue from where I begun

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Mrs. Bubble Gum Benga

Come get some Honey pot That's love and she wanted a lot My honey was rock hard She didn't want to starve She became hot Honey was filled to the top of the pot The weather had it on a solid cold lock I went down a couple blocks Found a flock of hot stacks That's pancakes and put them on top of the honey It began to jello down But hello come round the breeze Solid with no space for ease I said please, oh honey pot Save Bubble We've never really had it so rough She was tough but soft down to every bubble bone Not as strong like us Gums you know I woke up next to bubble the next morning Temperature higher than ever not getting any better So I ran with my honey pot to any of the hottest areas In a couple hours I was back and helped treat Bubble to as much honey as she wanted Oh finally her temperature had dropped and her beautiful smile returned And she never visited but she never left either She just remained She's Mrs. Bubble Gum today

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In Her Eyes Atira Barber-Ellis

She was covered in papers and ink. She was always buried beneath a mountain of her own creations. Of voices, and lives, and moments living inside of her head. Wrapped tight in the cloth of her soul and kept warm until they melted like smooth butter out of her fingertips. Sometimes they were cold, brisk, and chilly like ice, and sent chills down his spine.

He loved to read her work. It amazed him. He loved that sometimes she let him read about the places in her mind where she often got lost. He got to meet all of the lives she lived and loved them all as much as he loved her.

It did scare him though, how easily she could get lost. How one minute they’d be sitting together laughing at the television, and the next she’s staring out the window dreaming about a new adventure. He still didn’t understand why she’d rather write about an adventure than take one of her own?

“It’s comforting, y’know. To build a world and all of its parameters, never fearing what’s to come because you’re the architect”.

“Was this inspired by ‘Inception’ cause it sounds like you might need a totem soon.” She laughed at that and licked his nose. Yes, like right there on the tip and it was weird, and would have grossed him out if she wasn’t her. But she was, and he loved her, so he grew to love it because what else was a man to do.

She decorated her arms with ink. There were so many times during the day when she’d mindlessly scribble a small semicolon on her wrist or scratch free into her arm. When he told her she should

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just get it tatted he really didn’t think she’d take him seriously, but then they ended up at that small parlor downtown, and she was grinning from ear to ear.

She only wanted a small, something that would mean something to her and still matter in the future when things change.

“So you’re going to get my name tatted then,“ he teased, “because you know I’m never leaving, babe.” She laughed that hearty tune of hers. It was such a light laugh, more like a breath of air than a solid sound. It was magical.

She was reading on her phone while they waited for her appointment and was fiddling around with a napkin and a pen. “;” That’s all he could draw. In different sizes, fonts, dimensions. It was like drawing her without needed to sketch out her skin. She glanced at him for a second and smiled.

When the artist- Ricky – came out ready to permanently ink her skin she eased the napkin from his hand and told the artist she wanted one of the semicolons.

So it’s not an exaggeration, really, that she covers herself in ink.

Even now, as she lay beside him on the bed there was a book resting next to her pillow and a pen dangling loosely from her hand.

The bold semicolon stood out on her skin against the soft glow of her lamp. He’d reached over and turned it off, not wanting it to disturb her adventures. He closed the book up for her and tucked it under her pillow so that “It could like collect all of my dreams and those could make such dope adventures…or just be full of pancakes and you.”

He loved the idea. That he was in her dreams. That he was apart of her constant story. He loved knowing that in all of her stories, in all

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of her realms there was a version of him somewhere to love that version of her.

When he lay down she rolled over into his arms, not evening opening her eyes and she nuzzled into his chest and whispered “Jaan�. He wrapped himself around her and breathed her in; ink and love and dreams and stories.

He loved that in his eyes she was never lost to him.

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My Jonesing Sickness Tolulope Arasanyin

I be jonesing so hard, I forget to breathe.

Like so hard, a fish begins to sink, like so hard, you become my need, like so hard, the sun and my heart are linked.

I be jonesing so soft, I peek at you through the halls.

Like so soft, you wouldn't notice me at all, like so soft, I could barely speak, like so soft, you make my knees weak.

I be jonesing so cool, you think I don't even care.

Like so cool, you think I don't stare, like so cool, I don't care about the gossip, like so cool, this jonesing is something rare.

I be jonesing so sick, I wouldn't even miss a day.

Like so sick, my doctors know your name like so sick, my arms all scratched up like so sick, medicine can't even take away this jonesing sickness.

I be jonesing so hard I need you wherever I go.

Like so soft, I need you like a coat.

Like so cool, you give me the chills.

Like I got a jonesing sickness and you my special pill.

To tell you the truth I be jonesing for you.

Just jonesing for you like a rare cold.

And my doctors can't fix it, it's like you got the special jonesing code.

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...............

Azariah Davis

The life I lived was lost, swept away in the sands of time and now looking at what happened most. Top of my game, fullest confidence on what I proclaim, but then, it was gone. I’ll quote the Avatar here: “He was a guide, to see real people from the truth and the lies. It’s never really lost unless not shared. My heart aches because of my mistakes, the ones I know that ruin me to self-nominate. One thing that I learned in life is that confidence brings your goals, not being timid, meek and drive-less, you already know. The body is a temple, and mentally I have forsaken it, leaving it to destroy itself through my stupidity and my carelessness. Oh my, oh my, only I can blame myself for what I become. The thought of blaming others makes no sense to me.

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“Weren’t you involved metaphysically to think that there was going to be longevity, because you only want some form of serendipity? I dream that my clouds get a little less dark, and they do, but only when I think about you.

You make me crumble, and honestly I’m happy. But, I need to rebuild for my empire’s going to be the death of me. Let me borrow another quote here, just to make it clear who I am.”

They’re gonna know my name until it fade away. To the people, that made me the being that I am, I’m known. If I do make it big, just know the people that have my back when I took that path, I’m coming right back for. So, I’m done. The chapter’s written. There’s another door opening for another being and I won’t be able to see it.

Meh, I guess the human ‘empire’ was meant to crumble

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Inspired by Ye l l o w R a g e Tolulope Arasanyin

Listen asshole, ya think ya know so fucking much cause ya stayed in Africa for two months, had a little fun now ya come back. All intelligent and what. Fuck ya read a couple things and think you can tell me how African I should be, like you got the drop on my family tree, so I'm suppose to sit with some tea and listen all pleased?

But ya don't remember what ya use to call me, African booty scratcher, shit that name stuck till I was a teen. But now ya feen for those dashikis, like a young man feen for some hickies.

Like how some of ya brains get sucked dried like some hickies.

But you so African, right?

Miss go all natural I'm the new light of the Pan- Africanist fight.

Ya become so American taking what you like then exploiting it, that shit ain't right.

But we are all from Africa, name the fucking country then

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listen to Nwa Baby, have a couple Africans friends, and say "Yeah I'm so African, I'm better than them."

Like Tolulope you don't even look African.

How Africans suppose to look then? You know so much tell me what your book says? Am I suppose to look starved? Head shaved? Little tribal scars? Tell me THEN TELL ME how good fufu is, and about that red rice ya love. Tell me then, tell me to get in touch with my roots because my hair is perm.

Sorry I didn't know making my hair straight also changes the blood that runs through my veins. Tell me how African you are.

With your 70 average you not living in no African household.

Tell me about your dashikis, your waist beads and your natural hair.

You must have passed the African test right? How African are you?

Oh I should stop questioning your identity, because this ain't no African school?

But you do know of Oladuah, Akhenaten, Mandela, Kwame so you more African?

True, true. I mean omo akata olodo, oh shit don't know what that mean I think you got to head back to that African school.

Because now I’m refusing, refusing to be subjected to this belittling that you think is cool So fimi sile. Leave my ass alone Stay true to yourself, my sister But bitch stop you don't know that much about the majesty behind my African ancestry.

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Final Hope Eddyson Altidor

These white feathery, hands all leathery, snakeskin slippery all for slavery. The clouds weigh down on me night and day I pray that I pick at least 200 a day.

My fingers are numb and raw from picking cotton, are we forgotten. They’re screaming out to me to stray, but I stay because the whip a comin’ for me if I play.

These soft white clouds weigh down on me today.

Hungry, thirsty with a dry mouth, back baked with intense heat, with no food to eat.

Work is all I know. Dyaestheisa aethiopica was put on me but duplicity was all I knew.

Grieving with fears of yesterday’s anguish, thousands of boundless tears, the sale begun, young girls were there, defenseless in their wretchedness.

Mothers stood and saw their dearest children sold.

Am I destined to be bold and refuse to be torn than shackled and sold?

Please don’t sell me massa, you can beat me all you want but please don’t sell me.

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I will make sure that I bring 2,000 pounds of cotton to the table even with your mislabel that I’m disable. Please Massa I will be fasta than your whips hitting my back, you won’t even be able to track.

He swore to me that he would kill me if I didn’t do his chores, he showed no fear nor empathy. I clearly shouldn’t mess with his gear since he nearly, dearly killed me.

But my eyes told me otherwise, I should rise and give goodbyes before the sunrise.

I see my controller’s point of view, and realize that the key to being happy on this plantation, is to get salutation for your supreme ability to oppress but I’m not impressed because I shouldn’t be repressed.

So now I’m going to escape and I’m amazed that I’m awake.

Today will be the last day that I obey, I will nix the idea of the white man and fix my own path to freedom since my life was destined to be worthless by the oppressor.

I dreamed of freedom. Freedom is elusive or perhaps an illusion. At every turn it evades so I must seize the free and let the doom escape me. The night has been long, the wounds have gotten deeper, and the walls have gotten steeper

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H e r e M y Tr u t h L i e s Marie Damus

Enslave the African man, although that wasn’t my original plan. What they’ve been forced to believe, their hearts know the truth, their minds deceived.

My truth is based on their oppression, this poem being my confession.

You may speak out and believe me, you’ll be right, but your masters won’t allow you to rise up without putting up a fight.

I keep you mentally enslaved like a canary in a cage that’s just lost its song.

You sing my praises, like you know their meaning: to silence your grieving.

I see your eyes search the skies for a reflection of hope.

I’d help you look but we’re just not that close.

Their hands grab your hymns from your lips.

Claws of enslavement rip the faith from your darkened souls. “Obey your master,” you are told.

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The roughest whip of all is not the one who tears through bloody skin as the slave screams, but it is the one who tears belief out of big dreams.

The master sees dark skies in a negro’s eyes, constellations that show where freedom lies.

Preachers’ tongues are razor blades that slice and slice away at the thing negroes call spirit.

The negro transgresses if he doesn’t obey.

But the one with the whip goes unpunished everyday.

A disease you must have? Well thank god it helps you get away.

What I’ve been created for, to keep you from doing wrong while you sing your freedom songs, just remember to them your minds belong.

So be good to massa, your reward will come in the end.

Your brothers you can no longer defend.

How could the devil take my children if they’re close to me.

Holding up the Bible cover up the truth you see.

You’ve become pacified, forgetting all the reasons why you’ve cried.

You know they’re filling you with lies yet you still worship me til the day you die.

The lord notices your duplicity.

And for that he forgives you, it’s not your fault that they punish you because you are golden in hue.

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Free to Steal My Freedom Charles Gyedu

Lively as a young buck, the river of youth rushes through my body. I—pushes for the imperial crown more than Julius Caesar aspired. A Sour—frown on these faces, despise my ambition. I out-hoe, out-reap, out-husk, out-dance, out-everything with prideful—stance.

The cotton plant fears my might.

I—fight for the days the Overseer can't stop me.

I can pick quicker in a nick of time, My good ol’ slave master look upon me and—rave.

He would sing, "Wha’ a fine young Negro I have here!"

My vanity is becoming inflamed, Master, no Negro better than me.

Peter Piper couldn't pick more pickles than me.

Two hundred barrels of cotton ain't none to me, I came from a—kindred line of proud warriors.

He's going to have to make me the Overseer!

I proudly worship good ol' Master, I—profoundly look after his well-being.

He knows amongst the Negroes, I'm the blue-eyed baby,

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Savior of Master plantation. High expectation for Master’s young buck.

My heart aroused, Master recognized my importance.

Master trusted me with his Negroes?

I’m paddy rolling my fellow Negroes?

I’m—controlling ol’ Master plantation!

He entrust me with his precious property!

Then, one Negro told me, “You is free, we is freed."

I was free?

Indeed I was free!

Free at last!

Free, to be of Great service to my master.

Free to be the overseer of the plantation!

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Art by Elizabeth James

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1 5 0 Ye a r s L a t e r Shamar Niang

Freedom at last in a nation where nothing lasts Free from the oppression strangely blacks are still stressing still compressing and professing our worth to the dominant mutation tryna understand how pigmentation and large features results in the physical and mental dehumanization, extermination of our people's minds which are still confined now I’m just wondering where we draw the line When will we be celebrated not tormented and tolerated?

When will we be congratulated for more than our free servitude?

When will they realize the angry black woman is merely a description of few?

When will they realize that intelligence grows in the hood too?

When will they recognize and empathize that our 339 years of scars have not faded? they try to eradicate say we fabricate that we aren't enslaved through the system rather we enjoy lying dormant

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being impoverished and starving deep hunger for our history which for some still remains a mystery But if we ask how many Jews were gone when Hitler was through you'd say 6 million before the question could cease but how about our deceased ? killed us off as if we were a disease get rid of the cancer called black and oppress them so much they can’t fight back made sure they intertwined systematic brutality until we accepted our fatality and had the nerve to call black faulty because they knew if they gave us the same opportunity we would excel rebel and be better than Amanda & Ariel be better than the label they put on us or the fable they spread So 150 years later and we're still whispering the same tune on deaf ears & only our black peers hear the little silver metal piece left shackled clinking in the shade watching the white man claim the same stupid story that is responsible for Abe's fame the same man who stated four scores ago apparently set us free at least that’s what history says to believe then let’s ignore the black man’s struggle of simply living in America the land he was not created in the land he was unfamiliar to

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the same land he built up and the same one he was enslaved and imprisoned in the same land where the folklore of the free is merely a story and instead the words string together the impoverished and disrespect the imprisonment and disconnect the hate or disdain and our black name stained with the white man’s name and if I recall the white man brought us all chained, shackled and whipped senseless so if the white man brought us all I wanna know, why does he so badly wish to see us fall?

Untitled Azariah Davis

What can you show me? Besides your sins, your truths, your lies, what difference is that to me? You’re flawed, just like so many things on this Earth. You’re the shattered mirror that I have to one day mend together. If I’m hurt by it, that means I only played with you, and that’s my punishment. As the life essence drips from my skin, I’ll have the memory that I tried to play and couldn’t keep up. I give my torso to the people who had me from jump, but you changed the slate slightly, the curve of the sides, my mirror. I have no clue. I’m stupid, but it makes sense if I love you.

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Magnolias for Her Atira Barber-Eillis

I never wanted it to be this way. Never wanted to be the cause of this.

We were light. We were beautiful. She was the glow to my nighttime.

And now we’re both dark.

And I could’ve changed this. I knew that this feeling would consume her but I was so selfish and couldn’t let her go. How can I let go of the only thing that managed to break through my shell?

I was allowed to be selfish! To hold onto her. I needed an anchor. I’d been drifting for so long, empty and wasted and not wanting anything but, damn it, I wanted her and I had her and there was no way I could let her go! Not when she was mine. Not when she lived for me and breathed for me and loved me.

She loved me. And it would destroy her one day. It did destroy her.

I destroyed her.

I pressed her so far into my skin that her voice lived within my bones.

Her movements, her graceful dance, ma bichette, she glided across my mind and twirled through my life. She wrapped herself around me and told me everything would be okay. When I was too dark, way too dark for her to see me she’d grow a bigger flame and keep me warm. I thought her heart was never ending, I never knew it would break one day and leave her in the cold.

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That’s not what I wanted.

I just wanted to love her. I thought I did. She was all of me and how couldn’t you love someone when they’d done so much for you?

It didn’t make sense! Nothing ever made any sense but it didn’t matter because she numbed my thoughts with a click of her heel.

I remembered the first time I went to see her dance. It was as if she were born and raised on that stage. I wanted to be there every night, promised the earth that I’d be at every show. She could have stood still and it still would have been the most graceful thing in the world.

How could everyone not crave to have her grace? If she were born with it how could we not all be?

“On your toes. Yes like that,” she’d smile. She’d pull me along the floor with her, showing me where to spin and where to duck. Where to jump over my pain and where to wrap myself in her.

She thought showing me how to dance would be a good idea. “Fun. Lots of fun and physical. It’s good exercise.” I, of course, let her do anything she wanted to me. I trusted her with my life, my body, and my all.

“Mon cheri, you’re a natural.” Natural. Naturally bad. Naturally dark.

Naturally cold.

She always blew out a breath, as if she were chilly from touching my hands. They were always cold, frozen over from the inside out.

Yet she said she’d never let me go. And she didn’t.

“I’ll just wear gloves before I hold your hand,” she’d joke and the shine was always there in her eyes, chiseling its way through my ice.

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I love to watch her dance. Her long legs, those dainty arms, always so graceful and peaceful. Her movements were more than just muscle memory. She wrote movements with her body that I for the life of me would never be able to write with a pen or have fall from my tongue.

I wanted to lose myself in her the way she lost herself in those movements. I wanted to be the music she danced to, to control the tempo and bring her down to me, slow her down so that she could never speed away from me.

I wanted so badly to hold onto every moment, every word, and every laugh that ever passed her mouth. I wanted to be the reason she could smile at the end of a long day and giggle in the middle of the night.

I loved being the one to make her laugh. To be the only reason she’d stay awake in the middle of the night. I loved that she was entranced by just the sound of my voice.

“I’m going to marry you one day,” I whispered to her over the phone when she was miles and miles away from me and I couldn’t think of any other way to keep her with me.

She giggled and said “okay.” I couldn’t help but grin.

“Why are you laughing? I’m serious love,” I declared. “I’m going to marry each and every piece of you.”

“Individually?”

I laughed. “Yes, if I have to. Individually. I will marry all of your pieces.”

“Mon Cherie,” she breathed. She was always speaking French, always. It was a part of her, so much so that I even began sucking that from her.

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“I love you.”

“I love you too.” I grinned. She’d blow me kisses over the phone and whisper songs into my ear but the static made the distance seem even longer than it truly was. She was too far, much too far for me to hear her words.

When she came home I couldn’t control myself. I wanted her. I wanted her so bad.

She wrapped her warmth around me and I was suffocating in her. I couldn’t breathe but my mind was so, so clear. Or maybe it wasn’t.

My thoughts clearly had to be suffocating in her, too.

Because she was the only thing I could think about. Her touch. Her feel. Her hands, soft and gentle through my hair, under her palm.

Pinned above her head and her face so pretty and sweet and her eyes so wide and beautiful. Her lips against mine so plump and so, her. Her. Her. Her. It was her. I wanted her. All I ever wanted was her and here she was, under me, mine. She was mine and I loved it!

I fed off of her love like I was a black hole. All I wanted was more. All I wanted was to be full and be to whole. And I wanted to be full of her.

Full of love, full of life, full of light. I wanted her grace and I wanted her flaws. Compared to mine they were merely specks.

The mole beside her mouth was barely a dot and she covered it with concealer the way I could never cover the scars of my life. I kissed it whenever I could whether I could see it there or not. How could she hate it? How could she hate the details of herself that I loved so much?

I had none of these quirks. I had no physical flaws. I was born of stars the same as her. I was bathed in silks and golds that were so heavy, they crushed my bones and left me swallowed in the dark.

I just wanted her light.

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I loved when she told me stories of her youth; the childhood that helped to mold the person that I knew. I immersed myself in them, tried to live in her moments. I wanted to make them my own, to make up for never loving my own.

“I loved the garden,” she said, her voice always as soft as a whisper yet loud and humming like pouring rain. “Mother had a large, beautiful one in the yard. It was always so colorful and I’d run through the tall sunflowers and field of lavender with my brothers. It was weird being the only girl but I loved playing with them none the less.”

I always took a deep breath around her. Inhaling the lavender scent that lived in her skin.

She’d brush the hair out of my face as she spoke. “That was never my favorite place though. My favorite place was under the magnolia tree. When they found out Mère was pregnant with me, my grandparents were so happy. Grand-père was so happy, but he wasn’t sure if he’d live long enough for me to remember him. He was getting sick at that time and didn’t know how long he would live.

“So he planted me a tree. And it was the most gorgeous tree I’d ever seen. There were always petals scattered across the lawn and they were so messy and beautiful.”

“A beautiful mess.”

“Yes, of course. And I would dance between those big white flowers, and twirl my little skirts the way they twirled as they fell. That’s where I learned to love to move and dance. And be graceful.”

“Like a flower.”

“Like a flower, yeah.”

She said I was a flower too. Beautiful and dark. A black rose covered in thorns.

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God, even her words were dripping in honey-dipped grace. It leaked from her lips and I drank it like ambrosia, the drink of the gods.

Having her here, beneath me, small and frail beneath my fingertips made me feel like the god the world said I looked like.

I was all-powerful when I was with her. There were no breakdowns, no tears, no moments of hatred for the life I’d lived and things I had seen. My strength and her grace, we were unstoppable.

The power didn’t affect her the way it did me though. Not yet at least. She was still always so kind. To everyone she met, she smiled and said hi and laughed at all people’s jokes when they weren’t funny. She complimented other ladies in the middle of the street.

She kissed the back of my hand and always thanked the postman.

“Be kind,” she had said, “You never know what someone else is going through.”

Of course I didn’t know. Who the hell was I? How could I possibly read people’s mind when I was so busy ignoring my own?

I didn’t care to be honest, about what other people were going through. I knew what I was going through and no one was kind to me but her.

She was so kind it sucked her dry. I sucked her dry. And I knew what I was doing. I knew that eventually my darkness would consume her but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop loving her grace and loving her movements.

But there were days when I wanted her the most and wouldn’t let her leave my side. And she loved me so much that she didn’t mind.

She’d wake up and roll straight into my arms. She’d kiss my face and decorate her face with a smile wider than any other. She would scrunch up her button nose at my morning breath yet still kiss me anyways.

We’d walk to the bathroom together; my arms wrapped around her

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waist, and brush our teeth side by side. Every time she’d go to wrap her hair up atop her head I’d tug it down, watching the dark waves fall across and adorn her shoulders. We’d watch ourselves in that large bathroom mirror, regal and flawless. A beautifully flawed king and a wholly flawless queen.

We were picture perfect. She was the goddess to the god I craved to be.

And I never wanted to let her go. I didn’t want for anyone else to love her. I didn’t want anyone else to feel the way she made me feel.

I didn’t want anyone else to ever see her dance.

She was my personal dancer, my ballerina, ma petite danseuse.

It was bad, and I knew it. But every time she had to leave to practice or perform I had two choices. It was either I followed her like a dog to own or I possessed her, wrapped my fingers around her mind and held on tight until she forgot her own name on my tongue. I’d bite down on her lip, so hard, her blood would be laced with mine. We would be one. We were one.

I was hers and I wanted her to be mine so I never let anyone else know what it was like to feel her love.

Her love was mine and it consumed my mind. It filled in all of the empty gaps, all of the nooks and crannies.

Mine. That was all I could hear. It was all I could see. I’d close my eyes and only see her and her smile and her mole and her love. Her love was so blinding behind my eyes, I loved every second of it.

I loved every second of her and she loved me until she couldn’t anymore. I indulged in her so much, drank up so much of her that she had nothing left to thrive on.

Sorry. I was so, so sorry. I am sorry. Every second that I remember

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her broken smiles and the laughter lines that turned to frown lines I am sorry. The furrow between her brows was no longer from smiling but from frowning.

It was happening, the same way I knew it would. Her love would break her, would be her destruction. Her perfections would captivate me to the point that they would twist and morph themselves until they were imperfect and ate her whole.

“I’m not good for you,” I tried to tell her. I tried, I did, but she wouldn’t take it. She stood before me, stripped of clothes and skin and kissed my neck and I couldn’t push her away. Not when I wanted her so bad. But my want was not, could not ever be more than her need to get away from me.

“Please mon cherie, I’m your greatest weapon.”

“Yes,” she whispered, skin between her lips and all. “A razor blade trimmed with lace.”

She was so bare before me. Every layer of her had been stripped away, eaten piece by piece by my darkness. Looking at her felt invasive. The opia it was, it was much too intense. She was vulnerable beneath my grip and she didn’t care.

Her grace, the soft blur of her movements, everything was covered in a thick shell. She gave so much of herself to me that she had nothing left for herself. And I had no idea how to give it all back.

She thought she wanted to be there because she thought this was love.

This was not love! This was pain and sacrifice and, and greed. This is bitter, selfish greed. I’d been so greedy for her love that I took it all; I wasted it all on my selfish needs!

I wanted to be whole so bad! I wanted to fill the gaps of my soul so

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bad that I tore hers apart.

But it wasn’t my fault. Not entirely. I was the gun but she pulled the trigger yes. She wanted this. No person would ever love so much that they let you so close without knowing the consequences to come.

She knew I was dangerous, she knew I was flawed. That behind this skin and these eyes, these bones were rotten to the core and no amount of her could ever polish them clean.

But we were only human. We’re just people. We were stupidly drunk on each other, on the idea of love. We thought it could fix us. We thought love and love alone would be able to heal us. I thought it would heal my brokenness.

I knew her soul would light my home but I never knew it would leave hers in order to do so.

I couldn’t live with myself. The holes started growing larger. My dark core started sucking all of her gold dry, leaving nothing but a shell, a beautiful corpse by my side.

We were both sad. Miserably, terribly, dangerously sad. We walked the earth as broken drunks, licking at her love until there was nothing left.

She was never mine. She belonged to herself, to the little girl under the magnolia tree. And I stole her love away because I couldn’t create any of my own.

I hated myself. There was nothing I could do but let her go. I stole her grace and used it to mend my sorry bones. But she had to save herself because I was made of black holes and would only destroy her more.

I drove her away, the worst ways I knew I could. I dramk more, I lusted more, I yelled more. I yelled at everything and nothing. I broke glass and tormented the world because I was angry with myself.

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I was born of kings! Of iron and gold, yet with bones of ivory so weak and frail. What man didn’t even know how to love? How to strengthen one’s self? Why did I have to beg and plead and steal from another? Like a commoner.

She was never meant to wait for me, at my beck and call. I was a commoner hoping to catch even just a glimpse of the queen.

I shook her from my grip, watched the tears stain her cheeks. I blew smoke in her face and cackled like every other drunken bastard. I left her there to float away knowing that without her I’d sink. But I was much too gone anyways. There was no saving me from the hell that I deserved for stealing an angel.

She was never mine, no. But losing her broke a part of me that I didn’t know I still had.

The hole was gaping now more than ever and felt never ending. It was as if all of my black holes were mere mouse holes in the wall and this, this was the storm that would finally take me away from this place.

There was only ever cold air in my lungs, and there was never any light since she’d gone. I hated myself, more than anything but I needed to let her go so that she could find herself.

So that she could learn to love herself the way that she loved me.

She found it, slowly. The shards of glass protecting her skin melted and smoothed out along her grace. She spread her arms and pointed her toes, lifted her legs and soul.

I love to watch her dance. Those arms, those eyes wide as ever and not as dull. Lips plump and whispering songs. Legs long and sleek, carrying her across stage after stage. Secrets hidden upon her face.

I want her. So bad I want her. But she wasn’t mine and she never

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would be. She never was. She’s a goddess and here I stand, a broken king.

It was never meant to be this way. We were never meant to bear the same darkness.

But I feel it still. That power, the last shallow bits of her golden lacing itself through my veins. Through clenched fists I could still feel her skin and through closed eyes I could see her light.

She was never mine. She needed to live a life of her own as much as I wanted her by my side. But tonight, on this stage, on every stage, she danced for me.

Ma petite danseuse We were never meant to be this way, but as the smoke decorated my lungs this was okay. She twirled her hair down for me and I left magnolias here for her.

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Prostitute Soul, Virgin Heart Niazyea-Arianna

I no longer have a virgin Heart. It’s been fucked with and broken apart.

My heart has become a Prostitute, paid with "love" filled lies. Though my soul hasn't caught up. I gave 100%, trying to protect what I was born with: white soul.

But soon it would become Like my heart: black, broken, and dead.

So please revive my heart, but don’t touch my soul.

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The Lost and The Missing Carrissa Normil

“Where are you?” I spoke to the sky as if Clarity could hear me light years away, even as I whispered.

She was in some unknown place, the distance between us so immense it seemed infinite.

A pain struck me in the stomach.

What if she was lost? What if she was afraid?

The image of her crying snuck up on me and I felt something important inside me shatter. What would it take for me to find her and have her in my arms again? What could I possibly do to keep her from crying, as I stood along a shore so distant and worlds away from her? And tell me, Clarity, that if we ever do meet again that you will remember my face and let me know that all this time I’ve missed you and suffered alone, that you too had trouble going on, knowing I wasn't beside you. Please don't let anything––not the war of two peoples, not the sacrifices made to keep all that is good, not the search for something great––let nothing keep you from remembering who I am. Keep this oath to me and I swear we will be together again and you will no longer have to fear, for everyday that you are lost, I am missing. Clarity, your image is the only hope I have in finding either of us.

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A l l To o F a m i l i a r Tyler Gonzalez

Walking down some nameless avenue, some unknown street, is when I see her, and the first thing that comes to mind is: "I know this girl." I knew in the back of my head that we never met...or at least not in this lifetime. But her hair, and her smile just seemed all too familiar. The way her eyes expanded as she spoke to the man sitting across from her. All too familiar.

Then, she looked at me. It was a brief glance at first, but she had to do a double take when she saw me, and I can tell from the look on her face that she knew me too. From where I'm not sure. A dream, another existence? It's all too vague. After a minute or so, the man left, waved goodbye and the girl, halfheartedly, waved goodbye back. She sat there, her eyes would drift towards mine, and then back to space, and then back to me again. There were people speaking all around us, but we were so involved in ourselves that we had forgotten the rest of the world existed. Finally I got up the courage to walk towards her. A task that took an eternity to complete. People bumped into me, an infinite amount of faces littered my vision and blurred together as I rushed past them, tripped over them, pushed them aside. Anything to get to her. All I could see clearly now was her face. She stared and I stared back.

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It was as if gravity was pulling me away. The fates casting their invisible hands and holding me back. They didn't want me to get to her. But I defied destiny and managed to get to her table. I noticed her eyes light up and greet mine with so much love and recognition, I swear we knew each other before. "You found me" she almost whispered. I was going to ask her if we met before. But before I could utter a single word, Fate's hand succeeded in pulling me back. The girl, eyes alarmed, outstretched her hands. It did no good as her face blurred in with everybody else's, her familiarity gone. I was pulled back into the unknown, into the darkness, into what was not familiar...

And then I woke up.

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Location: Unknown Marie Damus

Jonesing for a man that wants me for me and not just my body But we both know what’s the only thing on your mind so I don’t know why I’d think you could do anything for me But my lovin ain’t free and it don’t come cheap I’m hoping that you’re able to pay because I won’t accept cash or credit, not even debit I’m thinking I should just dead it, because I’m accepting knowledge, a good fella that’s thinking about college Your looks may have me hypnotized but I’m trying to taste your mind to know your true intentions, and see if you’re that kind of guy cause I’ll be damned if you turn into the reason why I cry or stay up late at night Wondering if I was wrong to teach you the lyrics of my soul you play my heart’s song then transform the words into your own And have me lose myself, location: unknown.

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Untitled Nia Tipton

I’m not terrified of the day you look at me and see nothing. Nothing but a person to put on a list of other names that mattered to you, but just not enough. I’m not terrified of the after.

You weren’t the same thing for me. What you don’t see is that the amount I mattered to you was meager; a single word in a single sentence that may never find its way to a dictionary. What you don’t see is that I was writing our story, this entire time, and you were flipping to the end.

I suppose the true tragedy wasn’t that I was trying to change a permanent plot. It was that you had already written your own story, and I wasn’t important enough to be in it.

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Denial or Betrayal Dene Morgan

Why would you lie straight to my face like this?

I always loved you and always cared I’m the pillar holding you up Though your hate grows stronger, I’ll never give up.

I always watch you and wait for mistakes That much is true But it's only to catch you before you fall from the potential I see in you I always love you and my only goal is to help you succeed But you keep fighting me no matter how much I plead But what choice do I have?

You’ve made it clear that you no longer want me And if I can’t have you nobody can I’ll escort you to a new world On the other side of the bright white light You look into my eyes with your innocent pleading face Stop it! Stop that! Don’t look at me like that!

Everyone always looks at me like that!

I force a crooked smile on my face and watch your once sun-kissed skin turn pale We were once so perfect and clung together tightly But you tried to hide from me I can't have that. I mean come on, you know I can't have that

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But why?

Why do you view me as some monster?

An obstacle to just get over.

Why do you make me do this to you?

I don’t want to, you know I don’t, but you make me do this to you Now you look at me with disdain in your eyes, the windows to your soul That sadness was the last emotion I would ever see on you The last emotion I will ever see on you Because just like that, you faded away, now free from the confines you saw in me.

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Lust Sierra Boyd

It's the type of thing that consumes the mind.

We put our hearts and souls into it, we just waste time.

Thinking it's that little thing we call love, the one gift I believe is sent from above.

We abuse the laws, the rules of it all.

We forgive and forget, still answer their call.

Thinking, yea I still love her, I'll still hug her and hold her close But where is she when you need her the most?

Where is she when you’re begging, crying falling on your knees close to dying?

Where are these people we claim to love?

The people that are supposed to be there when push comes to shove?

We begin to wonder, losing our minds, as their simple excuses bring us in and out of time.

In and out, in and out, in our faith we begin to doubt.

How crazy could we be?

We begin making the conclusion, god just doesn't love me.

Lust, love, lust, love, it doesn't make sense.

And around our hearts we begin to build a fence.

We build it because we let the ones in we thought we oughta, we thought we must And slowly we come to the daunting conclusion, it was just lust.

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Photo by Oluwabunmi Olusine

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Disastrous Relationships Alexander Jean-Pierre

The relationship of which two people are in is ominous, mentally and physically.

The evidence is incontrovertible, the relationship needs to end.

The relationship is toxic and detrimental, if it is not vanquished then it will result in turmoil.

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Cinderella!

A N E XC E R P T Ornella Dacius

“Cinderella!”

Cinderella sighed at the sound of her stepmother’s voice, and peered her head around the corner. She knew it wouldn’t be long before the woman found something else for her to do. Had she dropped breadcrumbs on the floor or spilled mango juice on the table? Or perhaps she broke a potted plant in the yard? She’d barely had two minutes to herself.

Cinderella ran her fingers one last time over the intricate stitching of the pillow her mother had made for her. When she hugged it close it to her, she could still smell the scent of rose lilies, her mother’s favorite flower. She used to help her plant it before she got sick, and even after she died, she and her father would tend to them. The pillow was the last thing she had of her mother’s, as her stepmother had thrown everything else away as soon as her father died. When she heard the distinct footsteps and the creaking of the wood floor, Cinderella quickly placed the pillow under the pile of brown pillows she normally slept on and stood up.

Her stepmother threw the door open and marched in, heels clicking loudly on the floor. Cinderella straightened her back and made her face as expressionless as possible.

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“Is there anything you need me to do, Madame?” she asked.

Lady Tremaine’s gaze was as condescending as usual, and her nose was wrinkled in disgust. Cinderella knew she looked terrible, but it wasn’t her fault. She had spent the morning cleaning out the fireplace, so her hair and face were streaked with soot, and under her fingernails were blackened as well. In between scrubbing the floors and cooking, she had no time to worry about her appearance.

It’s not like she left the house anyway.

“I’ve become accustomed to your…unkempt appearance.” She drawled. “How disgraceful. And yet...you managed to look so beautiful at the ball.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “The ball? I-I don’t understand.”

“Of course you understand, you stupid, lying girl.” Lady Tremaine walked slowly in a circle around Cinderella with her hands behind her back, heels clicking and clacking with every step. Her steel colored eyes seemed to dissect her. Cinderella felt the moisture collect on her palms. She kept her back straight.

“I’m afraid I don’t. I wasn’t allowed to go to the ball.” She said. “I had to stay home and do all the work you left me.”

“Is that so?” said Lady Tremaine. Her tone of voice made Cinderella’s chest tighten with anxiety. “It’s so miraculous. How I could not recognize you at the ball before. Dancing hand in hand with the Prince.” She waved her hand as if to dismiss the thought. “Oh, the girl I saw, she looked so much different. Nothing like the filth that stands before me now. I, like many other attendants, was quite intrigued, if not troubled, by this girl’s sudden arrival. She’s never been seen in the kingdom. Where, oh where, could she have come from? How did she manage to steal the Prince’s attention? It took me longer than I would’ve liked, but I came to a rather incredulous conclusion.”

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She stopped, right in front of her bed, with a slightly unhinging smile.

“You did go to the ball, Cinderella. You forgot this.”

Lady Tremaine held her hand up, and in it was a sparkling glass shoe.

Cinderella’s heart dropped to her stomach. She sucked in a breath.

“I found it in your trunk,” Lady Tremaine continued. “What a terrible place to hide it, I might say. So tell me, how did you manage to go to the ball?”

Cinderella wiped her palms on her dress, and licked her dry lips. “I-I don’t know-“ “It is of no use lying to me,” she interrupted and jabbed a finger in her direction. “Now I know what a sneaky, ungrateful little scoundrel you are! Your father would never have believed me. You put on such an innocent front. I have always seen through you into the malice that lies within.”

“Malice?!” Cinderella exclaimed. “I have never shown anything but kindness to you!”

“Kindness? Is that what you’re hiding behind?” Lady Tremaine laughed. “Unluckily for you, I am not your father. You cannot fool me like you fooled him.”

Cinderella stepped back as her stepmother stepped towards her.

“You thought you could thwart my plans to marry my daughters to the Prince, didn’t you? Well, now your treachery has given me a much more calculated plan.”

She pulled a small plastic bag from the pocket of her bodice, and held it up before Cinderella. It was filled with a crystal colored powder that shimmered in the sunlight. “Since your sisters’ feet clearly will not fit this shoe, when the Prince and his Duke arrive tomorrow morning, you are to attend the fitting. Seeing that your foot fits, the Prince will whisk you away to his palace to marry.”

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Cinderella swallowed as perturbation climbed higher and higher into her chest. “You want me to marry the Prince?”

“No,” she said. Her eyes darkened. “I want you to kill him.”

Cinderella let out a gasp of disbelief as her hands flew to her mouth.

“No! No, have you gone mad? Why would you-why would you want to kill the Prince?”

“It is none of your concern why. It is only your concern that it is done.”

“No!” Cinderella retorted, “I won’t do it!”

Lady Tremaine lunged forward and gripped Cinderella’s ponytail.

Cinderella cried out as her stepmother dug the long nails of her other hand into her neck and dragged upwards, tearing away skin.

“Your father is no longer here to protect you from me,” she said, voice deep and oozing with viciousness. “If I chose to drag a blade across your pretty little neck and spill your blood across these floors, no one could stop me. You will do as I say. You will poison the Prince and if you do not, I will make sure your heart is on a platter for your sisters and I to eat while the mice feed on your lifeless body.”

A sob racked Cinderella’s body as Lady Tremaine left her on the ground with blood running down her neck. Her body shook uncontrollably as tears blinded her, salty and warm against her face.

Her skin was on fire, her chest heaved as she struggled for breaths.

There was a soft thud. Cinderella wiped her eyes and saw the small plastic pouch on the floor before her. She stared at it, through her tear blurred vision, lips pressed together, hands clenched in anger.

“You’re going to put this in his drink,” her stepmother said as she stepped around her and walked off. Cinderella stayed hunched over until the clacking of heels was drowned out by her sobbing. She wanted the tears to stop. She wanted the shaking to stop. She

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wanted this to stop happening. She’d tried to be positive, to think of everyday as an obstacle that she could get over until she finally didn’t have to endure them anymore. She’d always thought the worst day of her life was when her mother died. This was the worst.

The worst moment she would ever experience, without a doubt.

She was so angry. Angrier than she’s ever been before in her life.

Angrier than when her stepmother ripped her mother’s dresses.

Angrier than when Drizella and Anastasia took all the souvenirs her father had brought her from his expeditions. Angrier than when her father left her with these…these…

She sniffled, and suddenly there was a furious pounding at her temples. She couldn’t tell if it was from her stepmother’s attack or from crying so much. Still, she grew weary of it. Cinderella wiped her wet face off with her hands and curled up in a ball on the floor.

PART 2 Cinderella heard the royal anthem playing all the way from the attic.

She was already fully dressed when she jumped out of bed and ran to her window. Sunlight illuminated her living quarters, and though she cleaned as often as she could, she still saw the dust particles glistening in the beam. She sat on the window sill and watched as the Palace Army marched down the path leading to the house.

There were at least 60 soldiers dressed in royal blue and white, the colors of Andalasia, followed by men playing a seamless rendition of the royal anthem on gleaming golden trumpets. She watched the procession with fascination, as she’d never seen one so extravagant before. The trumpet players rounded the path down the hill onto her home, followed by none other than Duke Armingham, Prince Maelon, and his Royal Consort, all on beautiful white horses. She watched until every head was around the corner, before leaving her spot at the windows sill.

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Cinderella inhaled deeply as to keep the pain of last night’s events from choking her alive. She was wearing her best dress this morning.

A long, blue cotton dress with frilly sleeves. She’d made it herself, out of scraps she’d hidden from her mother’s old gowns that she’d managed to conceal from her stepsisters. Her hair was done up as presentable as she could make it look. Some curls had still escaped and hung down over her brow and her ears. She looked better without dirt all over her.

She turned from her crookedly hung mirror and went to stand by the door. She heard voices, that of a man-Duke Armingham. She recognized his voice from the ball. And that of her stepmother's. She also heard Anastasia and Drizella’s high pitched quarreling somewhere in the background, probably about which one of them got to breathe the Prince’s air.

Cinderella tip toed as quietly as she could down the steps until she got close enough to see a bit.

“Your Highness,” her stepmother cooed as she curtsied most formally. “What a pleasure to have you in my home.”

Cinderella craned her neck. She didn’t know why she was so eager to see his face again. She’d been more than close to him at the ball, even if it was for only a couple hours, but that was more time than most people got to spend with him. The Prince stood a few feet away from her stepmother and stepsisters, dressed in a royal blue jacket and well fitted white pants. He was much taller than she remembered, and his black hair was now slicked back in a style that flattered his face.

The Prince smiled, very attractively, at her. “No, it is my pleasure,” he said. “You do have a fine home. Very well kept.”

Her stepmother batted her lashes and laughed politely. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. My girls do a fine job.”

Cinderella shook her head, but it didn’t really bother her. It wouldn’t be the first time her hard work was passed off as her sisters’.

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At the Prince’s side was Duke Armingham, who stood with a straight face hidden under a well-trimmed grey beard. He stood so regally as though he had a pole in his back. His gaze lingered on her stepmother from time to time, and sometimes her stepmother looked back, with a slight twinkle in her eye. At the Prince’s other side stood his Royal Consort, who had a much friendlier face than the Duke.

“You’ve given us much of your time,” said the Prince, “and we wouldn’t like to waste anymore. As you know, I am searching for a young woman that I danced with at the ball, to whom this glass slipper belongs.”

The Royal Consort held up a blue pillow on which the shimmering silver slipper rested.

“I hope to make this hasty,” said the Prince. His eyes traveled to Drizella and Anastasia. “Which one of you wonderful ladies would like to go first?”

Drizella squealed and threw herself forward, her eyes beaming with delight. “I will!”

Prince Maelon gestured her to the royal blue chair, which the consort had set at the base of the stairs. Drizella’s red spirals bounced when she sat, and she pulled the hem of her dress up eagerly, revealing her foot. The Prince took the shoe from its pillow, knelt before her, and tried to slip it on. Drizella’s toes were as far as it got.

“What? W-what?” Drizella tried to wedge the rest of her foot into the slipper but it wouldn’t fit. Her face reddened.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t fit, my lady.” Prince Maelon said, as he removed it, with some effort, from her foot.

Drizella got up, eyebrows furrowed, and walked back to her spot next to her sister. The Prince gave her a sorry look before Anastasia threw herself into the chair.

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“I know it will fit me,” she said confidently. For a second, the Prince’s expression looked regretful, but he smiled at her and held the shoe out. Anastasia grinned and shoved her foot in.

Cinderella could not understand why her stepsisters had been cursed with such enormous feet. Anastasia’s largest toe was all that could fit. The Prince’s jaw would’ve dropped if he had not caught himself.

Anastasia huffed, desperate to get the shoe on.

“I’m afraid the shoe doesn’t fit you either.” Prince Maelon said.

There was a twinge of relief in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“B-but…but…” Anastasia’s bottom lip quivered, her face reddened like a tomato. Her eyes watered. The Prince looked at Duke Armingham, who looked equally as confused. He was not used to dealing with crying women, Cinderella could say.

Anastasia shook her head and joined her sister, wiping angry tears from her face. Drizella wrinkled her nose at her.

The Prince stood up, shoe still in his hand. He looked at her stepmother apologetically. “That’s it,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Lady Tremaine.”

“Actually,” said her stepmother. “There is one more girl.”

The Prince raised his eyebrows. “There is?”

“Yes. My stepdaughter, Cinderella.”

Cinderella sucked in a breath.

“May she please join us? If she wishes?”

“Of course,” her stepmother agreed. “Cinderella!”

Cinderella straightened herself, suddenly nervous and sweaty. She inhaled deeply and made her way down the stairs, one step at a time.

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She received an assortment of looks. Firstly, her stepsisters eyed her in jealousy and confusion. Then her stepmother with well concealed hatred. The Duke and the Royal Consort with interest. Then the Prince with admiration. His eyes were glued to her, as if she were a hidden treasure, and they followed her down the stairs. She tried to keep her eyes somewhere else, like she did at the ball, but it was just as difficult. He was still so handsome.

When she was off the last step, she curtsied. When she raised her head, their eyes met. “Your Highness,” she half-whispered.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair. Cinderella sat and pulled the hem of her dress up slightly to reveal her foot. The Prince, hopeful as ever, knelt before her. Though she knew without a doubt it would fit, her heart still leapt in her chest. She slipped her foot into the shoe. The Prince looked up at her, eyes bright with awe, like all his dreams had come true.

“It’s you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “You’re the girl from the ball.”

She nodded, smiling. Against her wishes, her face was red. The Prince’s smile became a grin. He stood and held his hand out to her.

Cinderella slid her hand in his hand, just like she did at the ball, and stood by his side, barely able to contain her excitement.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” he said, brushing a curl from her forehead.

“Neither can I,” she said. It was only half a lie, because despite knowing the shoe would fit, she couldn’t have imagined she’d wear it more than once, or that she’d be standing hand in hand again with the Prince. The moment felt surreal to her.

“Announce it to the kingdom,” said Prince Maelon. He was speaking to the Royal Consort but his eyes were still on Cinderella. “There is no need to continue the search. I have found my princess.”

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PART 3 When Cinderella arrived at the palace, she was once again overwhelmed by its extravagance. She marveled at the high arched stone walls that curved into an infinitely altitudinous dome overhead. The walls were gold, painted with intricate murals depicting the Andalasian War. Every few feet were stone columns with daedal designs carved into them to form Andalasia’s royal seal. She’d never noticed them before. Last time she’d been here, the palace was too full of people. Now, the only people that walked the vast, echoing halls were diplomats and palace servants.

Prince Maelon did not leave her side, not for one second, as they rounded corners and walked into new hallways.

“How do you know your way so well around here? This palace is so big!”

Prince Maelon chuckled. “Believe it or not, I still get lost. One step in the wrong direction and I’ll be on a completely different side.”

Cinderella laughed at the thought of the Prince getting lost in his own home. “Do you carry a map everywhere?”

The Prince reached into his pocket. Cinderella’s eyes lit up as he pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. Surely enough, it was a map, drawn to show every room and hall in the palace.

“Wow, well then I’ll need to take extended tours to get anywhere around this place.” She joked.

“We wouldn’t want you wandering into the execution room, would we?”

Cinderella gasped, and the Prince burst into laughter.

“I’m only joking,” he said, through his laughter.

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Cinderella smiled, too, though she was still sure the palace did have an execution room. Every palace did.

“Here we are,” said the Prince. Cinderella had not realized they’d stopped walking. They were in front of two massive oak doors, with knobs painted gold and sculpted to look like butterflies. He pulled the doors open and they stepped into a lavish room.

Cinderella had never seen such a luxurious room in her life. The walls were white and floral pink, brightened by the crystal chandelier that hung from the domed ceiling. There was a large canopied bed in the middle of the room, made with rose colored sheets and frosty, puffed pillows. The furniture was purely opulence-a glossy pink oak dresser against one wall, a long flower shaped mirror to its left. The windows were almost as high as the ceiling, and long, flowy white curtains hung from them. Cinderella walked in, breath-taken, and turned around in a circle as she admired everything her eyes could take in.

She stopped to look at the Prince, who was watching her with a pleased expression.

“It’s beautiful.” She said, bringing her hands to her heart. “It really is.”

“I’m glad you like it. This room belonged to my mother.” The Prince smiled a bit. “We refurbished it to suit your comfortability.”

The Queen’s room. Cinderella had heard of Prince Maelon’s mother, Queen Sharion. She had died when he was born, and the King had loved her so much that he never remarried. She couldn’t believe that years ago, the Queen of Andalasia had slept in this very room. Stood in the very spot she was standing.

Cinderella smiled. “Thank you. I am truly grateful.”

“It is my honor.” The Prince smiled back, and then he said, “I will give you your privacy.”

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He stood there for a few seconds, like he didn't want to leave, and then he made his way out, shutting the door softly behind him. As soon as he was gone, Cinderella walked to the large glass windows and threw the curtains back. Through the glass she could see the white balcony that overlooked the beautiful garden below. The Queen’s Garden is what they called it, as it blossomed with pink roses, which had been Queen Sharion’s favorite flower. The spring breeze carried their sweet scent into the room. She inhaled and stepped out onto the balcony. What a beautiful place. She ran her fingers along the soft rose petals, careful not to bend them under the weight of her touch. So fragile, they were. They required much care and love to grow. But they were also beautiful and fragrant, she thought as she ran her fingers down to the thin green stems. SoCinderella sucked in a sharp breath and jumped back. She held her index finger up where a bead of blood had now formed on its tip. She had forgotten. Roses had thorns.

As she turned to find a towelette, something crystalline caught her eye. She bent down and picked up the small plastic bag her stepmother had given her. It must've fallen out of her dress pocket.

The powder shimmered in the sunlight, and suddenly, despite the warm spring air, Cinderella’s blood iced over.

Her stepmother’s voice resounded in her mind. I want you to kill him.

Each second she spent looking at the poison in her palm filled her with more dread. She thought she had a plan when she came here.

She thought she could find a way to escape the crime she was doomed to commit, but as she was leaving her home after Prince Maelon's shoe fitting, her stepmother had grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed until her eyes watered.

“I won't be the only one watching you,” she had whispered into her ear. “You are not safe. Not even in the palace.”

And so her not yet well-developed plan to get rid of the poison and somehow save the Prince’s life had been crushed right then and

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there. She didn't want to believe there were people watching her, waiting to end her life if she defected from her stepmother’s devise, but she knew better. Lady Tremaine would kill her and then kill the Prince anyway. There was no way out of this, and it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

She closed her hand into her fist, hiding the poison underneath her fingers. She leaned against the balcony and looked out unto the rose garden below. She was just like them, she realized. Beautiful and fragrant. Except her thorns would kill.

PART 4 “The wedding will be in two weeks.”

Duke Armingham's voice was monotonous as he read off of a piece of cream colored parchment.

“It shall be held on the Grand Terrace at noon. Afterwards, the feast shall be held in the Grand Dining Hall.” He paused and looked over at Maelon, who was absentmindedly picking a loose thread from the armrest of his chair.

“Your Highness. Your Highness.”

Maelon looked up, eyes wide with confusion. “Pardon?”

Duke Armingham eyed him disapprovingly, the kind of look he gave often when the Prince zoned off in important meetings. “I am going to assume you heard nothing of what I had been saying.”

“You mentioned the wedding being in two weeks.” Prince Maelon attempted to appear attentive, but the Duke’s expression was clearly unimpressed.

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He'd known Duke Armingham his entire life, so he was much less of a Duke and more of an uncle. Armingham had been his father’s duke since the beginning of his reign, and would soon be his duke when the time came. The time being his father’s death, which was approaching closer day by day.

As excited he was for his wedding-he was overjoyed, truly, to have found his future bride-knowing he would one day he king made his stomach feel heavy. He’d seen how his father had managed the kingdom throughout the time before he'd gotten sick, and he felt, though he'd never told anyone, that he wouldn't be able to carry the responsibility.

It was a foolish thought to think, as he’d been preparing for this his entire life. All the fencing and jousting lessons, accompanying his father and Duke Armingham on diplomatic visits to other kingdoms, attending lavish ceremonies, and sitting through daily lessons on Andalasian history. He should be ready by now, but for some reason he wasn't.

“Your Highness, we must also begin planning your coronation. It will soon be time for you to take King Arelon’s place, and your wife that of Queen Sharion.”

The Prince sat up in his chair and forced himself to pay attention.

“Yes, I'm aware of that. I just wish…”

The Duke rolled up the parchment paper and rested a comforting hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “I know this is quite stressful, all of this planning, but you must become accustomed to it. This is the life of a king.”

“I know, it just feels too soon.”

The Duke was not a man of much emotion. He'd never seen him cry, or smile, or move a facial muscle for that matter, unless it was to reprimand him for un-prince like behavior. Yet now, there was

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something very close to sadness in his steely grey eyes. “Yes, Your Highness. Much too soon.”

With that, Duke Armingham left the Prince alone to ponder. Prince Maelon sat there, hands folded under his chin, for what felt like hours, until he stood up and decided not to waste anymore time. He made his way down the wide, echoing halls, to his father’s chambers.

King Arelon’s chambers was one of the largest rooms in the entire palace. Its ceiling was enormously high, curved into a dome with the walls painted a pale green. Two ceiling high windows made for an excellent view of the Andalasian Lake, and the many bright stars that shone in the sky.

The chamber was sparsely furnished, to fit the King’s preference, and did not have many decorations, except for a large gold framed painting of King Arelon and Queen Sharion on the day of their wedding.

Then, the King was young. His hair was coal black, and parted to the side. His lips were painted into a loving smile as he held on to the Queen’s hands. The Queen herself was beautiful. She had long auburn hair and a smile that sunk deeply into happy brown eyes.

Every time he saw that painting, Maelon yearned even more to have known his mother.

“Maelon, is that you?”

The Prince walked to the large canopied bed where his father lay, bundled under covers with his head propped up on three pillows.

When he saw his son, he reached a shaking hand out towards him, a warm smile on his otherwise pale face.

The Prince took his father’s hand. He sat in the chair that he'd pulled up next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

The King coughed, or more so hacked, and beat his chest with his other hand. “I am well, son. I am feeling better than yesterday.”

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Prince Maelon smiled. His father was the most chivalrous man he knew. Of course he would not admit he was in pain, even if it was written on his face. “That is great, Father.”

The illness had quickly drawn wrinkles into his forehead and turned his skin a sickly shade of pale green. It caused him to become extremely hot and then extremely cold, and his hands shook incessantly, like they were now, in between the Prince’s own hands.

The King coughed again, and then wheezed. His face contorted in pain. “Maelon, how are you? You ask me all the time and yet I never seem to know how you're doing.”

“I'm fine...I am preparing for the wedding, that's all.”

“What are you afraid of?”

King Arelon always knew what he felt, as hard as Prince Maelon tried to conceal his emotions behind diplomatic calmness. Maelon looked up at his father, who was in turn looking at him expectantly.

“Okay,” Prince Maelon sighed. This was his father. He might not get another heartfelt conversation. “I'm afraid...I won't be able to lead the kingdom as well as you have.”

King Arelon shook his head. “When I first became King, I thought the same thing. That I would never surpass the greatness of my father’s rule. Maelon, you will do greater things than I in this Kingdom. Being a great King is not just about diplomacy and courteousness. The greatest kings have the greatest hearts. And you, my son, have the greatest heart of any man.”

Part 5 “You must stand still!”

Cinderella groaned as her back was forcibly straightened and the air knocked out of her lungs. Her chest cavity felt like it was wedged

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between two concrete walls. She would no longer be able to breathe if Bertha tightened the corset any further.

Bertha, the palace stylist, tied the corset string into a bow at the base of her back, then she stepped around the long burgundy train of fabric that was Cinderella’s dress to assess her work.

The woman, whose age was nearly impossible to decipher, was petite, with a head of hair so black it seemed blue in the sunlight. She critiqued Cinderella through squinted almond shaped eyes, with her lips pursed and her nose scrunched like something smelled dank.

“I-is there something wrong?” Cinderella asked, suddenly feeling insecure.

“Should we leave the sleeves, or dispose of them?” Bertha asked.

She spoke to Mary, another stylist, who was bent over a wooden box of sewing threads.

Mary looked up at Cinderella and made a face. “Remove the sleeves.”

“You are right. She is our future queen, not a widow!” With that, she tore the sleeves right off the dress, leaving Cinderella stunned.

“And now let us do something about your hair, my darling.” Said Bertha, reaching up to yank the clip that held Cinderella’s hair in place. The blonde curls fell to her bare shoulders. Bertha nodded and mumbled something along the lines of “a terrible mess.”

As much as she’d tried, Cinderella just could not adjust to life in the palace. It was half because everything she did required primping, and half because she knew this life did not belong to her. She wasn't meant to be the next queen of Andalasia. She wasn't meant to be sitting on the sparkling glass throne next to Maelon. She surely didn't deserve him.

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She didn’t know what to do, and though she tried not to think about it, her dilemma stared her in the face at every moment. The wedding was in a week. She was running out of time, running out of options.

And her stepmother’s threats were making her paranoid. I won’t be the only one watching you. What did that mean? Who else could Lady Tremaine have on her side? She knew her stepmother had contacts. Perhaps a few guards here and there, or maybe even servants to inform her about in palace ongoings. Still, everyone loved the Prince. She couldn’t think of anyone, besides maybe neighboring enemy kingdoms, that would want to kill him.

“Oh, you look absolutely stunning!” Exclaimed Bertha, stepping back to admire her work. “Doesn’t she look great, Martha?”

Martha nodded enthusiastically and clapped her hands. “I think she might just be the most beautiful queen we’ve ever had. Even more beautiful than Queen Sharion.”

Photo by Oluwabunmi Olusine

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Write to Me Sierra Boyd

When all seems lost and you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders Baby write to me Tell me how the pounds cripple your very being and your lungs feel like they'll collapse on you Tell me your story and how it’s broken and torn from one end of your heart to the other.

When the water washes in and the sun smiles upon your face Baby write to me Tell me poetically how the smell of the ocean attracted all your senses Tell me how the sunlight dances along the sand between your toes When your tears run dry but your sorrow still shows Baby please write to me Tell me how your conflictions toy with your mind

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Tell me how your weeping is in need of my hands to dry your tears When you’re up late at night Baby just write to me Tell me about how the stars glitter in your eyes and when the cool midnight air wraps around you, you feel my embrace.

Tell me how much you wish I could embrace you too When you want to Baby it's ok to write to me You can tell me about your fears and your triumphs Tell me about your day and which step you took Tell me about you and your story your wonderful beautiful story And maybe one day Baby when my heart can handle the stiches and the stings from past affairs. When the earth is plentiful with pure happiness and rich love. When the skies run a deep blue and my eyes can look without filling with tears, I'll write to you too.

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GUMBO Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves

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Acknowledgements As a small, grassroots organization, NY Writers Coalition relies on the generous support of groups and individuals dedicated to getting the voices of those who have been silenced heard. Many thanks go to our foundation, government, and corporate supporters, without whom this writing community and publication would not exist: Allianz GI, Amazon.com, the Bay and Paul Foundations, Brooklyn Community Foundation, the Kalliopeia Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Pinkerton Foundation, the Tiger Baron Foundation, and the Two West Foundation. NYWC programming is made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

Benjamin Banneker Academy’s GUMBO Writing Group is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventures Initiative (CASA), supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council and NYC Council Member Laurie Cumbo.

We rely heavily on the backing and guidance of individual NYWC members and attendees of our annual Write-A-Thon. In addition, members of our Board of Directors have kept this vital, rewarding work going year after year: Timothy Ballenger, Jonas Blank, Tamiko Beyer, Louise Crawford, Jenni Dickson, Marian Fontana, Lisa Smith, and NYWC Founder and Executive Director Aaron Zimmerman.

What you’re holding is the collective effort not only by the students in the GUMBO Writing Group but by the dedicated staff of Benjamin Banneker Academy and community arts organizations, as well: Many thanks to Francie Johnson, our BBA faculty liaison; Ms. Scerri, GUMBO’s loudest cheerleader in the English Department; and our dedicated editors Cecca Ochoa, Chris Prioleau, and Alexandra Watson of Apogee Journal. Without you, this workshop and publication would not have been possible.

Finally, special thanks to the dedicated members of the GUMBO Writing Group: Thank you all for another great year of adventure 129 and magic in words.

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Apogee is a literary journal specializing in art and literature that engage with issues of identity politics: race, gender, sexuality, class, and hyphenated identities. We currently produce a biannual issue featuring fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and visual art. Our goal is to publish exciting work that interrogates the status quo, providing a platform for unheard voices, including emerging writers of color.

The word apogee denotes the point in an object’s orbit that is farthest from the center. Our mission combines literary aesthetic with political activism. We believe that by elevating underrepresented literary voices we can effect real change: change in readers’ attitudes, change in writers’ positions in literature, and broader change in society.

For more information about Apogee Journal visit www.apogeejournal.org

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NY Writers Coalition Inc. (NYWC) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that creates opportunities for formerly voiceless members of society to be heard through the art of writing.

One of the largest community-based writing organizations in the country, we provide free, unique, and powerful creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society, including at-risk, disconnected, and LGBT youth, homeless and formerly homeless people, those who are incarcerated and formerly incarcerated individuals, war veterans, people living with disabilities, cancer, and other major illnesses, immigrants, seniors, and many others.

For more information about NYWC programs and NY Writers Coalition Press publications visit www.nywriterscoalition.org

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G R E A T U N I T E D M I N D S B E L I E VI N G I N O U R S E L V E S

gum·bo

This year the students from GUMBO pushed the envelope in a big way…The contributors are growing as people and artists, dealing with more complex issues and emotions, becoming self-aware citizens of the world.

— CHRIS PRIOLEAU CO-EDITOR

NY Writers Coalition Press & Apogee Journal are proud to present CATHARSIS: POETRY, PROSE & ART FROM GUMBO. This collection dips into history, rests in dreams, and puts forth a world that is colored by every emotion of the rainbow.

Written and compiled by Great United Minds Believing in Ourselves (GUMBO), NYWC’s after school workshop for teens at Benjamin Banneker Academy in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

GUMBO is made possible by the Cultural After School Adventures Initiative (CASA), supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council and New York City Council Member Laurie Cumbo.

For more information about NYWC creative writing programs and NYWC Press publications, visit WWW.NYWRITERSCOALITION.ORG.

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