BETWEEN THE LINES: Peace and the Writing Experience 2021 Anthology by International Writing Program

Between the lines 2021

TA B L E O F Foreword Acknowledgements

Abigail

It Breathes

Aisha

How Old Are You?

Alex

Nocturnal Canine Metamor phoses

Aliyeva Anthology

Alle

Red Lipstick

6 8 10 12 14 16 18

Alma

Untitled

Amalou

The boy witnesses a faulty heart at play.

Anna D.

5:54 am, July 18th

Anna S. 14th July

Anxing Untitled

Ariya

How You Seem {Golden}

Arshiya 2

Roots

20 22 24 26 28 30 32

CONTENTS 34 36 38 40 42 44

Aruzhan

Daiana

Elizaveta

Emily J.

Untitled

Azizakhon The Sleepwalker

Basant

Schrödinger’s Cat

Charlotte

If You’ve Lived As Long As I Have

Christopher I Have To Post This In An Anthology

Courtney

Eternal Flame

The Messengers

A Walk

Emily R. We Are Jazz

Ghala

Haritha

Grieving

William Comes To The Village

Untitled

Isabella The Ring

Janina

To My Voice

Joe

Wine, The City

Khalida Queen Bee

Kritheeshwar Wonder

Leyun

Fantasia of May

Luka

Dreaming Cost Money, My Dear

Maia

Agua De Beber

58 60 62 64 66 68 70

Mariam Various

Mariia Numinous

Maude

The Inverted Sea

Mohammad

Mona

Still Growing

Neptune Memories of Joy

Niloufar

Untitled

Nina Untitled

74 76 78 80 82 84 86 88

90 92

Reina

The Moon and the Stars

Roza

The Passage of Time

Rudaina

Sansar

My Love

Walk of Shame

Spencer

Otherworldly Peace

100

Tara

102

Tenuun

Resolution

Untitled

104

Ulyana

106

Varvara

108

Victoria

Половина комнаты

This Is It

An Infant Eye View of Home

110

Vivian

112

Yashaswi

114

Zainab

116

Faculty & Staff Bios

Soothsayer

Do You Know?

Palestine

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS E

ach year, since its inception in 2008, Between the Lines (BTL) has pursued innovation and growth. This year’s program is again made possible by the generous support from the Cultural Programs Division of the U.S. Department of State, and the dedication of individuals and organizations that support the program’s mission: Christopher Merrill, International Writing Program (IWP) director; and all the staff of the IWP at the University of Iowa; Jill Staggs, Asha Beh and Nancy Szalwinski, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs of the U.S. Department of State; BTL instructors: Mary Hickman, Rumena Bužarovska, Shandana Minhas, and Vladimir Poleganov; BTL teaching assistants: Sean Zhuraw, Delaney Nolan, Gyasi Hall, and Alea Adigweme; BTL summer assistant and special seminar instructor Sarah Adler; BTL anthology designer Georgie Fehringer; IWP editor Nataša Ďurovičová; BTL program assistant Caitlin Plathe; BTL program coordinator Alisa Weinstein. We also give our thanks to BTL’s guest authors and artists: Kiki Petrosino, Joumana Altallal, Razi Jafri, Justin Feltman, Henry Lien, Lauren Haldeman, Caroline Meek; BTL alumni Zahara Anver (Sri Lanka, BTL ‘20) and Sabine Shehab (Lebanon, BTL ‘19); Dr. Camea Davis, Urban Word Youth Poet Laureate Network director; Alexandra Huynh (2021 National Youth Poet Laureate), Serena Yang (2021 Northeast Regional Youth Poet Laureate), Faye Harrison (2021 Midwest Regional Youth Poet Laureate), Meera Dasgupta (2020 National Youth Poet Laureate); Jan Weissmiller, Karen Nicoletti, Kathleen Johnson and Sallie Fullerton of Prairie Lights Bookstore in Iowa City; and finally, to all the participants of Between the Lines for making this program extraordinary.

In Between the Lines Poetry glimmers, waking New pencils sharpened - Nancy Szalwinski

Director of Cultural Programs Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs U.S. Department of State

FOREWORD “Everyone was foreign, and so, in a sense, no one was.” - Mohsin Hamid from Exit West In 2021, for the first time in more than a decade the Between the Lines (BTL) program has been operating, we opened the application process with the announcement that it was going virtual. Although we felt justified by the outstanding creative collaborations that grew out of the preceding year’s virtual run, offered at the last minute to that newly pandemic-stricken cohort, last year’s disappointment of not being able to meet in person weighed heavily from the start, and, truth be told, never quite left us. Summer 2021 would instead be a chance to set aside the disappointment and refine our virtual toolkit: in 2021, the watchword was, let’s make virtual a virtue! Summer youth programming has been an integral part of the International Writing Program (IWP) since 2008. With the support of the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs (ECA) of the U.S. Department of State, IWP’s summer program BTL: Peace and the Writing Experience has been building on IWP’s core mission of global cultural outreach--expanding from several countries at its inception until now, in 2021, to include participants in twenty-one countries, counting the U.S. In combining creative writing and cultural exchange, IWP joins ECA’s mission to “increase mutual understanding” and “assist in the development of peaceful relations” by connecting youth to their peers and mentors around the world. Acceptance into BTL is a competitive process, and a virtual 2021 was no different. We are grateful to the dedicated public and cultural affairs officers at U.S. Embassies/Consulates

in the following countries for nominating their top candidates, with some receiving up to 50 applicants: Afghanistan, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Bangladesh, China, Egypt, Georgia, India, Iraq, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Lebanon, Mongolia, Morocco, Pakistan, the Russian Federation, Sri Lanka, Tajikistan, Ukraine, and United Arab Emirates (UAE). Then, along with U.S.-based students who applied directly to IWP, the 57 finalists were selected by IWP and ECA and invited to participate as full grantees. On July 10 th at 8am CT, a nervous and excited group of 42 international and 15 U.S. young talents signed in to our platform from their homes in a multitude of time zones. Zoom squares lit up with new faces and voices, yet as we shared stories, we glimpsed in each other the mosaic tiles of our diverse BTL community. As we’d hoped, for this cohort being on-line was simply the accepted, natural medium of the program. And so, they set the bar high with their expectations, ready to work hard to become better writers, develop their imaginations, exchange cultures, and get to know more friends worldwide. For some it was their first time taking courses in an English- language exchange program. Some were new to writing since the pandemic and some already mid-book! Packed for their virtual journey, they offered details of beloved items such as a favorite journal, cozy blanket, practical headphones, a dependable book, the flavors and smells of home. What they wanted to receive: “enlightenment” “opportunities” “new beginnings” “exposure

and knowledge,” while “still leaving room for surprises.” Our expert faculty, Rumena Bužarovska (IWP Fall Resident ’18, North Macedonia), Mary Hickman (BTL Faculty ’15, ’16, ’17, ’20, U.S.), Shandana Minhas (IWP Fall Resident ’13, Pakistan), and Vladimir Poleganov (IWP Fall Resident ’16, Bulgaria), skillfully guided participants through creative, cross-cultural, and other-worldly writing prompts, reading poetry and short stories, engaging in debates and instigating lively discussions, in small-groups and in writing workshops. In literature seminars, they conversed with favorite authors and poets across time and space; they examined American cultures through the stories of Amy Tan and Jhumpa Lahiri; they read and discussed texts by Pakistani authors of three different generations; they pondered Cortazar’s Axolotl (is it just an animal?), unraveled the mysteries of Octavia Butler’s metaphors; and ideas about utopia, dystopia and anti-utopia with Ursula LeGuin. From orientation day and the open mic event to the final graduation day, the participants chatted with their virtual “roommates,” lulled each other to dreamland with bedtime stories, and found windows into each other’s daily lives from afar via @btl_uiiwp on Instagram. In special seminars facilitated by guest artists they heard poet Kiki Petrosino read and discuss her book White Blood: A Lyric of Virginia, with YA fantasy author Henry Lien they developed new story lines and listened to his reading and singing-- from his Peasprout Chen

series. Led by Joumana Altallal and Razi Jafri, the students assayed visual and poetic documentary forms, then created digital stories inspired by the multimedia work of poet and animator Lauren Haldeman. With non-fiction writer Sarah Adler, they paid attention to joy and healing in their writing practices. The 2021 National Youth Poet Laureate (NYPL), Alexandra Huynh, accompanied by the 2020 NYPL Meera Dasgupta and the 2021 competition’s finalists, Faye Harrison and Serena Yang also Zoomed in to share their work and their experiences in the spotlight. Our own BTL ‘20 microgrant winners returned to highlight their outstanding collaborative literary projects over the past year in a discussion facilitated by Caroline Meek. Open to the public online – The young people had the opportunity to perform their new works in an Open Mic event, livestreamed on Facebook, and enjoyed a livestreamed BTL Faculty Reading, hosted by Iowa City’s iconic bookstore, Prairie Lights. Through challenges to physical and mental health, COVID-19, war zones, severe weather, responsibility for siblings and family, working jobs, attending school, starting college, cracked devices, spotty internet, turning day into night and night to day, our participants persevered so they could be together, write ferociously, and inhabit new imaginative worlds. With this anthology, we bring together our virtual particpants’ worlds and voices, hoping that the generosity, support, and love of this group live on…as do the legends of BIG BIRD.

Alisa Weinstein, IWP Youth Programs Coordinator Caitlin Plathe, Between the Lines Program Assistant

The beaten path takes me To a town Bustling with activity No one notices the arrival of a stranger I look around at the people And wonder “Where am I?”

IT BREATHES

The day Anna Howard goes missing, the forest is dead silent.

Abigail

While this might not seem like a big deal for most, for the citizens of Newtown, the forest is rarely quiet. There is always noise of the wildlife roaming the woods, of the leaves rustling, of the forest ... breathing. But this morning, when Newtown comes alive with the panic of a missing child, the forest was silent. As the citizens rush to search the town, no one gives a second glance at the frazzled hiker that walks in. Curly hair frizzy and dark skin glistening with sweat, the woman wanders into the town, staring dumbfounded at the scene around her.

USA

How I found myself here, I’ll never know One second I’m following the hiking trail The next I’m trudging along a narrow dirt path The trees surround me Their roots criss-crossing over the road And it’s almost as if The overgrown grass is parting for me To better see the way As I stumble through The pathway winding through the forest The Forest shifts and breathes Below my feet I wonder “Does the forest know I’m here?”

Anna takes another step Along the winding path Confused as to where she went wrong One second she was on a morning hike The next she was lost in the woods Inhale Anna feels something slither up her leg Exhale Anna turns and sees a vine retreating back behind a tree As Anna comes to a fork in the path She notices shoe tracks tracking from One path to the other Her fear only grows Since she doesn’t know who else Could be wandering the Forest

Aisha

HOW OLD ARE YOU? How old are you? Seems like you heard that a lot, right?! When you were a kid this question was always answered by your mom, when you got a bit elder you were tr ying to prove you are not that kid anymore and now when you are in this age, you are tr ying to show it less. But, all These points are not my meant when I say: “no body answers this question right” no worries I will give you the formula ……… you always answer it too quick “i-am 10, i-am 12, i-am 20, i-am 22’’. you are hasty, humans are hasty. Maybe if they answered it with a bit deeper thinking , they would not have stuck with further life questions. Or Maybe it’s time for a deep thinking!!! Count all those years you lived not just excite, when you made all those incredible memories as weapons. Yes, you made them; yes, you are the only creator of your own memories maybe that is the reason why they love you so much. they love you, they protect you and they huge you in all those worst, lonely and dark moments. You often do not care and too busy for making a better life. Not aware that all those better moments you are working for is inside these memories. (I desire you realize it soon) Here is the big FORMULA: you are (the years you lived + the years you made memories) years old. .. So collect memories, Collect immortals which support you to answer the question right next time now considering this I am asking you, How old are you?

Iraq

Alle

RED LIPSTICK

Y L OV E R K N O W S M E B E S T, he has the lining of my skin memorized like the streets of his childhood town. He knows exactly how to get to my head and linger like a tumor that grows and feeds on its own and eventually turns me against myself. He knows exactly how to reward me, he knows exactly how to condition me and put me into a mold, make me his perfect woman. My lover loves me the most, and he knows his worth to me, and he doesn’t want to share me. He knows best, which friends I should keep and which ones I should dispose of, and that’s precisely why I no longer have any friends. My lover loves me the best, and his love is like a wildfire in the wind. His love is beautiful and untamed. His love is not profound, but it’s unrehearsed, it’s proud and it is real. My lover loves me the most, and I love him back, but my love is tainted, it is flawed, and it is never enough, because my lover does not feel loved. I’m not his perfect woman, but he shows me that I could be. He keeps me in check and when I act out, he loves to paint me red with the stroke of a hand. I love it when he smears the red on my lips, but he loves it when he leaves the red on his fists. My lover loves me the worst, for when he goes blind, red consumes his world. He might paint me, the carpet and the collar of his shirt, he might leave his hands covered in red and my face covered in pain, but my lover never does things in vein, he reminds me every time, he only does it for love.

A N I S L U P U S F A M I L I A R I S . “Man’s best friends”. The reason I am awake at 2 in the morning. Dogs. Free-ranging urban dogs. Street dogs.

Alex

I do not see them, they (hopefully) don’t see me either, the only thing that establishes a connection between us, that alerts me to their neighboring presence is the barking. Their loud dispute rises up 14 stories and pierces my eardrums, rudely closing the gates to slumberland with each new wave. A wave ... a wave of fur and claws and teeth, a tsunami threatening to tear the whole building down, a wave of pure canine rage, it crashes into the stone and the glass, and while it’s force isn’t enough to shatter any of it, the wave manages to spill its droplets into my room. My room is moist with noise. I hear the droplets in my room grow into more dogs, they cough up their offspring, it tumbles out of the parent’s maw with a loud cry, grows in size and soon coughs up litters of its own. I hear them running around the house, forming packs, engaging in cross-generational mongrel warfare, the bowwows of anguish and the bowwows of victory consolidating into a cur cacophony. I wonder if they knocked down the lemon tree. Do dogs grow on trees? They might. Sticking their snouts out of the buds, smelling the air to see if it’s time, falling to the ground with a “woof ” during harvest season. The one who woofs the loudest must be the most ripe.

Armenia

It isn’t so loud anymore. I hear all the dogs coming together and merging into a single puppy. It grows smaller and smaller, letting out its last whimper before turning into a fetus and melting out of existence. I open my eyes to look at the ceiling but see the full moon instead. My mouth opens to howl but the only thing that comes out of it is a bubble of saliva.

NOCTURNAL CANINE METAMORPHOSES

A Azerbaijan l i y e v a

ANTHOLOGY for anything that has a purpose : take my hand and get me through hell touch my soul and leave me stories to tell rip my heart off my chest then say you regret I’m a disaster, my darling better not forget Put my mind in these verses then I’ll let it go Fill the void with red dresses and red charbono Heartbroken but heartless, thick skin on thick surface Hope whatever keeps you up at night has a purpose.

I wish I knew you.

I wish I could’ve witnessed your greatness. Instead, I witness your stories dancing from mouth to mouth as I’d listen to an ancient epic. I wish I knew you...

TI T LE

I wish our story wasn’t destined to end, before it even began. I wish I knew your voice so I could imprison it in my mind so I could hold you in as a memory, not a mere mirage. I wish I knew you. I wish I knew what it would be like to sit in your lap I wish I knew what it would be like to listen to your highschool friends. Instead, I have to listen to my grandma’s voice full of sorrow to this day as she brings you back to life.

I wish I knew you But all I know is your friends’ painting of you stuck between crumbling pages of an old note book, one that your son found, one that got to your granddaughter. Your granddaughter who wishes she knew you. Your granddaughter who reminds everyone of you without meeting you.

a L ebanon

That damn note book! I wish I knew you... I wish I knew you, so I didn’t have to put myself through the misery that is this poem, through the misery of guessing how you really were. I wish I knew how you left. I wish I knew you. I wish I never knew life, if it meant that you’d stay.

After Margaret Atwood’s The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart

Amalou

You put the kettle on the heat today, which is better than most days. You might actually make tea! It has been two weeks Of me bringing your cup to your bed to be left to dust, to gray. “The leaves are in the other cabinet!” I say, as you reach for the coffee. I think you aim to stay awake. Whistles and vapors rise. The beans have been ground and apprehend on a sieve the scalding water stream you won’t pour at last. It’s that stop. Again. Its cause is lost in conjectures that won’t draw to a close. This arrythmic play and pause. This I want, I don’t. You talk of a heart at fault to all that is earless, and I eavesdrop as you admit to throwing songs in the bin. Stern command is all you wish you can achieve. And I fear, the right words can’t be picked out our fields of study. Our four hands can’t harvest the lulling seeds you want to steep. We two can’t sing the lullaby your heart pleas for. Maybe a choir can appease? Or maybe that is my naive heart’s wish.

Morocco

THE BOY WITNESSES A FAULTY HEART AT PLAY. 23

5:54 AM, JULY 18TH 24

if man was born for love and revolution, tell me, Dazai: where are the revolutions I ought to have fought for, and who are the ones I have yet to love? —so he said in The Setting Sun. i am in my own blue period: the words emerging from my mind tinged with the color of a sea that says goodbye the hue of a receding tide —stuck. and it ought to feel like peace, at this hour in the morning, but i am unsettled because i know i should be doing something. but i’m not. I never understood how to answer those questions: what do you want to be in the future? what are your goals? what do you hope to achieve? I told them happiness, but it was never an answer that satisfied me or them. —the oxymoron: my peace requires constant movement.

Some people say revolution will never bring peace, but I grew up in a nation that told us otherwise: wave your flag, Marianne la Liberté, let the bells of Notre Dame sing. Where is the revolt, where is the fight? I am armed, I am ready with my pen and a high school diploma and a pair of dancer’s legs but what use is that if there is no paper, no exam, no one to challenge? Every day we complete a revolution around the axis and every 29.5 days the moon completes a revolution around us and every 365 days is a revolution around the sun and yet inside me the revolution is silent: I don’t know where to go next... —and it could be love, Dazai, but I haven’t found an anchor strong enough to resist the chain dragging me down into the hell of my own mind... I ask, again: if you say carpe diem, if we should seize the day, then tell me, Keating: where is the day? Answer me, quickly—the sun is setting and I am afraid of what the night will bring.

Anna D.

USA

14th JULY

Anna S.

The sun. The river. The sun. The river. The sun is playing with the river. Or river is indulging with this big warm star. Yellowish flickers are sweeping, twinkling and uncontrollably frolicking. Like a Christmas garland. Like the Morse code by using a flashlight between two friends’ windows. As if their friendship starts to become visible. We are sitting next to each other. Well, I’m sitting. He is lying on the grass with his hands under his head, stretching lathy legs and sleepily screwing up eyes under the lenses of glasses. Сurly forelock sticks out.

Russian Federation

‘W

E D N E S D A Y. 1 4 T H J U L Y ’ , M Y C A L E N D A R emotionlessly announced. And a phone reminder kindly added, as if apologizing for dry tone of his comrade, ‘Lying with a penguin in the park’. This weird set of words was radiating so much naivety, that I couldn’t hold back and smiled. At happy shining myself in the past by playedout myself from now. Exactly. How could I forget about it? Park. Penguin. Memories immediately jumped out from under a layer of dust somewhere in an attic of consciousness. As though I’ve typed an inquiry in the Google searching line. Yeah. They were still vivid and alive. After… How many years? Two, I guess.

I’m looking at the Vltava river.

15 centimeters distance. It seems long enough. So decently, so primly. We want to emphasize by this space: we’re just friends, no more. The black and white plushy penguin on his side, not mine, says the same about our relationships. Parents would have nothing to reproach us for. Our trinity is resting. We’re lying on the mysterious island in the middle of a muddy stream. We are hidden in the refuge of trees around. They have transported us to the ancient period, the era of silence, nature and harmony, and also allow us to freely observe life of far people, far cars, far city’s noises, which will soon grab us too. We’re amazed and fascinated by the new reality, our joint discovery, we should just enter that world with orange scales on roofs, pastel houses, a stone-paved bridge on the opposite shore. However, none of us is in a hurry. We’re greedily catching the play of shadows on our youthful faces, fuzzily feeling its actual value. “A little bit more, please...”, we’re praying, as people usually pray alarm clocks (the Lords of modern century) for an extra minute in the morning, because they don’t want to let a divine quietude leave them. They guess the covert catch. Vltava is flowing. I know, one day this memory will dissolve with us forever, and I’ll never hear whistle of its waves again. It’s so delicate, frail, as the world around. The end steals up, but I close my eyes, diving into the wind, dialog of leaves above our heads. Waves have picked us up, we’re just floating downstream of half asleep, half wakefulness. “A little bit more, please...” And we stop to understand is this hiss of the Vltava river or... the river of life?

China

UNTITLED

A n x i n g

My grandpa had a habit of writing diaries every day. A pen was always held at the cover of his diary book. He was not a talkative man, but he always seemed to have a lot to say in his diaries. “I smoked four bags of cigarettes today. Two were left in my pocket for tomorrow.” “I cooked green soybean, tomato, chicken soap, and braised pork leg for dinner. Delicious.” “I went to see my mom today and played poker games with my brother for a whole afternoon.” ... He recorded seemingly trivial things in his life and stored them in that blue-covered diary book. Even though fewer and fewer people are using pens, he persistently used a brown-lid pen to seriously write characters that became increasingly difficult to read as he became weaker and weaker. I remember the first time when I was learning to write. His soft hands wrapped my little hands. Whenever I looked down I could see the blood vessels on the back of his hands. He held my hand with his pen, slowly practicing writing my name down. He was the first teacher ever in my life. But every flower has its time to wilt, however vital it was in spring and summer. My grandpa’s winter finally came. During the last days of his life, he was still striving to pick up his pen to write diaries, but such a small pen had become so heavy for him. I couldn’t remember how many times I’d seen the pen falling on the desk and my grandpa looking at his palms with ink everywhere, confused and desperate. After eight years of struggling and desperation, on a tranquil morning, my grandpa left me forever.

HOW YOU SEEM {GOLDEN} Disguised within the dry golden of the flammable savanna, two thousand evenly-spaced royal black spots and charcoal tear tracks. A solitary impala ruminates on threads of gold; unsuspecting. The same golden fibres, that enshrouds the lurking beast, within its golden waves. Silken paws treading silent footsteps. One after another, Gold moves within gold. Eyes sharp, canines, sharper. Zero one second, sixty the next, the majestic beast sprints; a flash of Gold against obsidian eyes. Gold LEAPS, gold lands, gold clutches, cold claws, sink deep within stretches, of red-brown. Gold jaws snap tight, over narrow nape, below chalice rebars, SNAP! The impala falls, in a haze of gold, static. Obsidian turns to VentaBlack, golden jaws, a crimson grin.

Ariya

But that, is not how a cheetah hunts its prey, no. That, is how You hunt. You with your black beady eyes calculating, calculating. Your cold hands steepled below your chin, above your black heart. Gears shifting, clanging, turning, clockwise, clockwise, anti-clockwise. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? you smell like the sun, like sun-dried chrysanthemums, like mildew and unkept tombstones. Wherever you go, shadows follow, shadow follows you, into the pitch dark, shadows of hushed voices and hissed curses, curse you prey. Where are you? where are you? Where are you? Nothing is ever unfound, no stones unturned, Hunter hunts prey. Pray you can outrun, the Hunter that hunts you, Prey. Run, run, run from gold clutches, from cold claws, fold yourself within yourself, hide within the mold, the mold of their memories, do not let yourself be found for an untold end awaits You. Hunt for eternity, run for even more, perhaps you are found, perhaps, you, are Gold.

Bangladesh 31

ROOTS

Arshiya

A H O R E . 2 0 1 1 . T H E H E A R T O F PA K I S TA N. Paris of the East. City of Gardens. But more fittingly, mama ka shehr (my mother’s city). You know my nani is about to make her world-famous cold-cake because a box of Marie Biscuits just came in. I watch her, doe-eyed and curious, as she crushes the biscuits delicately with her veiny, knotted hands. Only so, because they have been the pillars of support for generation upon generation of strong women. Each crease testament to sixty years of fighting battles for her daughters and now her granddaughters. I roam around my nani’s house. There are ghosts of my mother’s past in each corner. There, in that room, is where she would dance without restraint – being the free-spirited teenager she was – to George Michael playlists. I see it all: the beat-up radio, the pixie cut, the faded blue denim jeans. I think of the idealism and hope her eyes must’ve portrayed long before the world stole it away slowly. Another room holds the ghost of my Khala’s past. I can feel her presence in the pile of books that lay on the desk, untouched since the time they were the only friends she knew. Melville and Austen and Wodehouse. I think of the faith she once put in them, and wonder why it faded over the course of her existence. This house is littered with moments from forgotten lives. Mistakes that were made but also love that was shared. Creaky floorboards that made it impossible for mama and her sister to sneak out. A box TV for movies nights. Clothes from the 80s that they once fought over. Here – in this house – I feel most like my mother’s daughter. Here, I am most aware of the sacrifices that each of these people has made for me. Here, I can feel it coursing through my veins; the love and essence of the women who have raised me.

Pakistan 33

UNTITLED

Y BODY HIT THE GROUND, AND A sharp pain knocked the air out of my lungs. For a few more seconds, I could not breathe. I opened and closed my mouth as a fish washed ashore by a strong wave. When the air finally began to flow into my lungs, I sat down on the grass with a groan. Still confused and mind dizzy, my eyes scanned the terrain. Red. Everything was red. What is going on!? Somehow, I found myself in the middle of a scarlet field of poppies. Usually, the sight of poppies would fill my soul with warmth. They remind me of my grandmother’s village and hot baked cookies, childhood friends and a beautiful view of small neighbouring houses in the area. But now, I did not feel any warmth. A strange feeling of coldness washed over me. The field full of my favourite flowers now resembled an ocean of blood. And I was right in the middle of it.

Aruzhan

Kazakhstan

“Legend says that poppies were once as white as a blank canvas.” I gasped and turned abruptly. An unknown man stood beneath me, peering into the horizon with a soft stare. And then his gaze landed on me. For a brief second, I saw another man: younger, familiar. “However, as soon as the spilt blood of an innocent touched the petals, ruby liquid covered poppies, marking the beginning of an endless era of violence and cruelty.” Suddenly the wind blew. A chill ran down my spine. The unknown’s eyes instantly cooled. “You. You shed his blood. And for this, I will bring the whole world down on

The night was set. The ambience was rainy and wet; the soft rain streamed down her face as she stood running, all the way to the forest. The thin ray of sunlight that was still left, illuminated her honey eyes, which searched for answers. A glim of hope in her obscure pupils. At last, she arrived at the gates of the forest, finally, where she needed to be. It’s cold. I’m already passing the twelfth tree but cannot find it. The thirteenth; it might be here. I’m slowly digging snow with my bare hand … and THERE IT IS. The old and decaying map that I was looking forward to; now I have it. I opened it slightly as it was too fragile. There was nothing, just a blank paper. I got the wrong map. Again. Feeling overwhelmed, I was slowly felling down to the ground wondering, what I was going to do. But I need to find it.

She looked out the window, the snow gently falling on the busy city streets. She looked back down at her camera, fidgeting and biting her nails; she was hesitating to look at it. She looked back at the window again, sitting up slightly before making another cup of coffee. I am sipping another cup of black coffee. Is it the sixth cup or seventh? Honestly, I lost the count; I am just drinking till I feel more awake. It’s been three weeks that I wake each morning and feeling as though I didn’t get more than a couple of hours of sleep. Of course, I visited the doctor; I’ve been through sleep examination and medications; I tried everything existing, nothing appears to work. But this time, I decided to videotape my night of sleep to define if I’m sleepwalking …

THE SLEEPWALKER THE SLEEPWALKER Azizakhon THE SLEEPWALKER Tajikistan THE SLEEPWALKER THE SLEEPWALKER THE SLEEPWALKER THE SLEEPWALKER THE SLEEPWALKER THE SLEEPWALKER THE SLEEPWALKER

I’m not the best at handling life, and I might not deny it if someone claimed I was the worst. Uncertainty drives me to the verges of madness, yet I have a mind full of question. And with question comes doubt. In my own judgment, I am a pathetic liar for claiming my whole identity, which in core is only projecting, pretending, and trauma. Never a reality but always a reflection or reaction of other things. I strived for uniqueness, and it turned out, I was the nonexistent creature; I was the void among other creations.

Egypt

At some point which I can’t determine, a sense of awakening dragged me into reality and with the crumbling of all the armors, I found myself naked as of fresh birth. I had to build myself up because the old one was rotten, fragile, and bound to be damaged, but what do I know of building with the silky hands I own? I turned nineteen knowing less of myself than I did at eighteen, yet the same questions standstill. I was seeking define, yet all I had was undetermined. I looked for myself through the perception of others while never believing the good before the bad. I’ve read someone else’s words about me, claiming it’s all in the stars, and I wasn’t fond of the nonexistent freewill of being nor did I like the saying of the stars. I used to say that I’ll use it for my Art. I thought my struggles would make such beautiful pieces, cause I found an emotion I could write down as other ones became vague and unsensible, but there are emotions you can romanticize and there are ones once felt truly to the depth, puts your life on paralysis and traps you in space and time; somewhere suffocating and venomous to the life I hold in the folds of my soul. All while a version of yourself takes over your place and poorly handles your life if at all. I’m trapped in a box, undercover, and undetermined like Schrödinger’s cat. I might be dead, and I might be alive. One way to tell is by uncovering the truth from the lies, but until that great occurrence of uncover and define, I’ll keep on being like Schrödinger’s cat; everything and nothing until determined.

Basant SCHRÖDINGER’S CAT 39

I suppose I’m telling you this because I feel a little despondent watching your lovely world turn to sand and ash. I remember the beginning when the wind whispered against boundless, rugged mountains and the air was electric with promise. I saw when the first of your kind appeared with eyes bright with life and hearts beating in excitement and fear. I watched as they toiled and died and killed to climb to the top of your little marble. Then you made the world after your own image and carved out your little paradise. Now I see the greed that helped you rule lead to the destruction and decay of not only your paradise but yourselves. I watch with you as mythical fires rage in the sea and devour you while floods smother your organized cities and neighborhoods.

IF YOU’VE LIVED AS LONG AS I HAVE 40

If you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll realize that societies are like a handful of marbles thrown against a wall. Some shatter upon impact while others bounce off and continue being whole. Others crack and the pretty insides bleed out. So as much as you humans crave security, you forget that you are inherently unstable. I suppose you’re wondering what marble you are in. You are the marble that will not only crack and shatter but will explode into a dozen bits of glass shrapnel that will maybe even hurt the one who threw you.

r a

e t t lo

You will forget this conversation. Because to you, there will be another morning, another day in your paradise. You humans have such a short memory. Blink once, and a century disappears. When your world cracks, it will be too late. I will watch your marble explode and roaring shrapnel spear through the velvety darkness of eons. But that will be your end. Boundless eternity remains after.

USA

I HAVE TO POST THIS IN AN ANTHOLOGY I always ask myself whether we live in a universe lost between millions of other universes or if we live in a simulation where we are a very lucky generation who survived until now. How can we make sure life isn’t just another videogame and we are the NPCs? We can’t. This is why we should stop asking such profound questions and instead just live. Life is a buffet and being born is the VIP ticket. You have the VIP ticket so just go and enjoy the food and the party without asking too much questions. Sometimes the food won’t be good and the party won’t be fun but it does not mean you should leave. All you have to do is eat the food, dance the dance and then move on to another table with other people and different music. Whatever happens, keep moving, there will be better food. Stop asking why or how, stop questioning everything around you and start questioning yourself and why you feel the way you do sometimes. And most importantly, whatever you do, have fun while doing it. Find a way to dig the pleasure out of every single thing that you do and dig the lesson out of every single thing that happens to you. Those are the questions you should ask yourself. Now if you’re reading this, I don’t think you’re in dire need of asking the right questions but hopefully you will remember that you will find all of the answers of the world within yourself and only yourself. but the most important question I have in mind and that you should have in mind is this: Why aren’t there colorful friendly dragons in minecraft yet? Imagine having your own pet rainbow dragon sleeping on top of your home!

Christopher

Lebanon 43

UNTITLED USA

C o u r t n e y

Everyone is born with a soul pouch a pouch of a soul a thin translucent malleable bubble surprisingly strong against the troubles erased from your memory since the days of your maturity fill it with rocks to keep you fastened to the hurries of this world or else you’ll fly away quite too soon fill it with rocks your mother slips one in as she brushes past your heart from within your brother tosses it like the basketball matches with the boys in the alley back in the days of the grazing sunrays fill it with rocks you try it yourself choosing one that captivates you you swallow it as it forms an uncomfortable lump and slowly sinks to the pile of other rocks and gently thuds as it meets the others

All binds are free, you are now newly bound to the floating sea that caresses the corners of this world and all the stories of love or anger unfurled the rocks with stories fly the farthest bouncing on the surface of this water creating ripples that reach the ends tickling the wearied fingertips of my sister’s at a faraway place she cannot see me but she feels my story the rocks with stories travel across the sea handing away a piece of its body slowly but surely until what’s left is a magical dust that matriculate on the ends of each world your story lays safe there

fill it with rocks one by one until the thin seal breaks away and the rocks tumble out clacking on the cool cement

ETERNAL FLAME ETERNAL FLAME Daiana ETERNAL FLAME KAZAKHSTAN ETERNAL FLAME ETERNAL FLAME ETERNAL FLAME ETERNAL FLAME ETERNAL FLAME ETERNAL FLAME ETERNAL FLAME 46

HE FIRE KNEW NO MERCY and devoured any obstacle that got in the way, whether it was old furniture, collapsed walls, or human lives. He looked at her for the last time — what can one look say? Regret that they couldn’t protect each other? Empty promises to find a way to escape? But in her eyes, he saw everything: the challenge thrown at each other at the first meeting, quiet smiles, curses torn from the lips along with confessions, oaths that did not have to be memorized. One look from her was enough to give him the whole world. And that was enough to know that they would never get out of here. “So that is the end, my darling,” he whispered before their eyes closed forever. But their story will never end.

THE MESSENGERS

Elizaveta

HERE ARE LEGENDS WITH MANY names, many are laughed at, many are less known, yet one is unmentioned, forbidden to all, the legend of forgotten messengers. Lurking deep beneath the caves, deeper than the known depths, the creatures with immortal souls roar their unfelt tortures in undiscovered caverns. Their roars tell of great pain and agony, crushing bone and dusting lungs, tortures of hell awaiting the world. Their steel hooves brawling the frozen magma, leaving unmistakable dents of war, their time-forged tails crumbling their own caves, dusting the diamonds and causing the great earthquakes, their unforgiving metal-crushing jaws, hunting us in nightmares, their mountain horns, giving off the smell of deep cave’s sulfur, wildfire smoke and forgotten smell of ash, they, the forgotten and feared, carry the chains, heavy like their own igneous breath, keeping them hidden from eyes of the world. They have been in war with their burden, messengers of end, of terror, of rockfall, they have many names – “ThunderVoices,” “Death Bringers,” “Hell Guards,” “Hidden By The Ancients,” “Chain Carriers,” but only two were given by their creator – “Basefs” and “The Keepers Of The Chained.” Said to keep the sacred peace, immovable balance of the world, they lurk beneath the earth, the sulfur seas, the shadow lands, fulfilling their ancient duty, above the understanding of the folk.

Georgia 49

Emily J. USA

When I step outside I put one headphone of UMI into one ear While construction noises and subtle car engines fill my other I feel no hate for this town, for this dross today Maybe my hate is on vacation, far away from this place Somewhere sunny and placid The wind blows softly against my skin As if it’s kindly greeting me As if it’s trying to get my attention My oversized sweater makes me feel protected too Like Starla, I can crawl and hide in it Hide from the worry, pain, and fear that comes with life

A WALK

I look around and the sidewalks are empty Maybe everyone is scared that God is furious and will bring heavy rain upon us again Or maybe it’ll be hail

I walk past many houses Why so elegant? So sophisticated? If these houses were alive They would treat me as a servant And have me fetch them a tall glass of cool, iced water They would speak with fancy accents full of fortune and vain I look to the skyline Right in my sight is the place where I’m supposed to be My home, my real home Where all of my friends await for my indeterminate return Where my family will be ready to pick petty fights with me Where my confidence and happiness anxiously stroll the streets, lost and abandoned My two year sentence is almost up

USA

Emily R.

WE ARE JAZZ 52

Flash. Streamlights flood our stage, causing the golden instruments to sparkle about the room and give off an angelic glow. If only the beads of sweat on our hands derived from nervous anticipation was as magnificent as what we are holding. 5 Saxophones. 4 Trumpets. 4 Trombones. 1 Piano. 1 Drum Set. 1 Bass Guitar. What are we called? A Jazz band. A Jazz band that has worked for endless hours over endless months for this one performance. This one moment. We squint at the hundreds of chairs before us, scanning the room for a friendly-familiar face. Some of us find one and some of us don’t. It doesn’t matter, though. We’ll play well anyways. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Greetings to the judges for this years’ State Jazz Contest,” Our beloved director starts speaking through a microphone in front of us, “Today I’m proud to present the Midprairie High School Jazz Band. We have three pieces prepared for you today. I hope you will enjoy them.” He walks back off the stage. The audience gives us a polite round of applause and silence follows. Our adrenaline is spiking as we bring our instruments to our faces, drumsticks above the set, and fingers to the strings. 1. 2. 3. 1. 2. Sharp inhale, and we’re off. Our first notes are crisp and together, fingers fly across keys. The music is exciting and preppy— something easy to dance to. The pieces finish with 1 ringing bass note, 2 moments of dead silence, and a cheering audience on their feet. We smile into our instruments. A flawless performance. This moment makes us remember why we chose to become musicians— Not to be good individually, but as one being, living and breathing through music.

GREIVING

Ghala

I stood near him, holding onto his arm and looking out into our backyard. “It’s a wonderful day today, isn’t it?” I asked, before catching him staring at flowers nearby. “Yes, my dear. In fact, I think that the day is so gay that I could grab a handful of fresh flowers in a matter of minutes. Want me to test that theory for you?” he questioned. He walked us both towards the flowerbed and proved his ‘theory’ correct. “What a peculiar assortment of flowers you have chosen, darling,” I state. “Do you not like them? I only tried to incorporate the loveliest flowers, the brightest leaves, your favorite white roses—” I laugh and grab the flowers from his hand. “Do not think that I do not find the flowers attractive, for they are very beautiful. In fact, I love them so much I want to make them into a flower crown, right this moment,” I say positively before rushing into the house to do so. He followed along, meeting me in the living room. He helps me place the crown on me, and only then I noticed the vinyl started to play our wedding songs. “Would you favor me with a dance, dear?” he asked, lending me a hand. The sweet tunes played in the distance. We danced in harmony and peace for the rest of the night in each other’s arms, never letting go. As I started to yawn, I felt a light kiss on my head. “Honey? Are you ready to go back?” he asked. “Go back?” I reply, perplexed.

UAE

“To reality, dear. You cannot stay here longer, you know that.” I start to cry and feel a kiss on my cheek. “Must I return? I do not want to leave you.” “‘Till next time, sweetheart.”

No, he’s not, He opens that crummy old box, I cannot see what’s in there, It’s a black shiny object. Is it a rock, No it isn’t Is it a book, No it isn’t WAIT I catch a glimpse. I can’t believe it, It’s a black pistol! Yes, he grabs it, pulls the trigger and puts a bullet through his head.

an ka

He stops at the woods. He gets off his carriage and walks into the woods. No, wait! He turns back to the carriage and grabs an old crummy box and walks back. He sits on a rock with his right hand over his chin and keeps wondering. He holds his head with both his hands and keeps thinking. His white wooly coat with fur shines and his golden face shines. He stands up, and roams up and down. What is he doing? He looks like he’s observing nature.

Haritha

Here he comes! He passes our village But where is the coachman? He’s just all alone. The village folk admire his beauty. Just look at him. His skin is shinning with royalty, His face is glowing richness. You got to look at those stallions in his carriage, They look like ones from the heaven. He greets us and smiles at us, But everybody is silent. They just keep staring at him, hoping to be like him someday, and I follow his carriage and spy.

HE VILLAGE FOLK SPOT A GOLDEN CARRIAGE APPROACHING, Who’s coming? They question each other? Oh! It may be Joe, No it may be John, No it is Patricia they argue. No it’s Professor WILLIAM! Yes! It is! Professor William! Everybody stares at the professor’s carriage, But wait. What on earth is he doing in the village? Has he come to earn a profit or is he driving pass the village? Some say that he is here to release his stress, since he spends a stressful life. Only god knows! The village folk think that he’s king. Of course he is! Yes, you are right, he is like king, rich as a king But what on earth is he actually doing here in the village?

WILLIAM COMES TO THE VILLAGE 57

T T T T T T T T T T

H E R I N H Isabella E R I N H E RUSA I N H E R I N H E R I N H E R I N H E R I N H E R I N H E R I N H E R I N

G G G G G G G G G G

It shined in its little box, a planet in space A planet with a shell of bright purple and a dark core Orbited by diamonds, like stars, on each side Dared to touch the gem that it encircled Contained by a band of gold This was my grandmother’s ring, her little galaxy She was 17 when she became ruler The galaxy that rested on her pinky finger A goddess that controlled the planet and the little diamond stars It was the closet thing I have to her She never got the chance to tell me her stories To teach me her tricks Passed down to her by her mother and then to me They say I am so much like her But all I was left with was her little galaxy and no instructions I was 17 when I became ruler It hurts to take it out of the box I worry about what would happen if I tried it on What if it breaks? What if I lose it? I am not fit to be ruler A boxed galaxy that sits a few feet away Although safe and enclosed, it shines rays into my heart Only I can see them It haunts me as it glows there Waiting for someone to put it on Like the day I placed it on my finger it mistook me for her

TO MY VOICE

A confession: sometimes I can’t see you anymore. And this is in no way an accusation — I am far removed from any such self-righteous demand. No, it is more so an exhalation of wistful remembrance, though you are not here to share the air with me. There was an age, ages ago, the ages would know, when I found you crumpled in the dinge born of your own craft. The stalactites poking holes in you so that obscurity could trickle in. Sometimes it would gush. The walls wore the carvings of your opinion, each one scorching dust that flew up in surrender. You were afraid of their light. So you buried them in those corners that no one saw and no one understood and no one knew to look for. But I was your lightning and we danced the revolution of our entanglement like so many mothers and daughters do and so many mothers and daughters don’t. I’d like to think we danced for them too. And it was nice having you by my side, to lean into your rhythm and learn your rhyme. Now I lose you to people and places and noise and names. Wear the disguise that has been passed from silencing lender to silenced borrower to silenced owner. We will never own that silence. Believe that, I’ll wait. I want you to know that I was always proud. Of you and the tables you chose to sit at and the songs you chose to sing. And those you didn’t. Those were important too. Someday you will wander — with robust purpose untethered — in pursuit of a soft landing for your iron boots. Hold me then as your daylight, roar fire into the deluge. The Skies Will Know Your Name.

आसमान तुम्हारा नाम जानेगा.

Janina

India 61

Joe

Lebanon

WINE, THE CITY Hot in the sun, mild in the shade, cold near the river, Birds are loud today, beautifully loud, It’s 12:40 PM, an awkward hour here in Zahle It’s calm here, never thought about it Not anymore 2 cars are honking over each other, What a lovely smell, is that Tawook? It’s close to lunch hour, cooking smells flow from every window here, each smell tells a story about each house Church bells start ringing, I bet it’s Saint George’s having another baptism It’s very rustic here, a junction between a village and a city,

The “Centre Culturel Francais”! I doubt if they still have the intriguing books and movies they used to tease us with Foreign people walk next to me, Wow, is it still worth it visiting here? StarGate Ahead! I’m amazed how this movie theatre holds the best memories of my childhood, every movie there tastes different, I call this theatre my safe place, ooo the lovely smell of wine, It’s this time of the year when Chateau Ksara starts juicing its grapes, I doubt if ‫( ع ّمو‬Mr.) Samir still works there with his rough hands that generously hand you a fresh lock of grapes, My walk ends here, a small big town, no major things going on I like it!

QUEEN BEE

Khalida

NCE THERE WAS A VERY BEAUTIFUL GIRL WHICH her parents and friends called her Bona. Her hairs were light black. Bona went to a picnic every weekend with her friends. She and her friends were going to a picnic today, because today was the end of the week. So Bona what are we going to do for picnic today? Asked Rosa one of her friends which she was also going with her. They were about three people in the picnic, Rosa, Nina, and Bona herself. Whenever they went to a picnic with each other, they would come in the evening from it. But this time this did not happened. They came just before leaving a gain. What happened? Asked Bona’s mom with a wonder in her face. We forgot to bring our picnic’s basket which contained our sandwiches, said Bona. She was alone. Searching for the basket, her mom asked; why are you alone then? With the same facial expression. They sent me to bring the basket since today was my turn to bring a basket from home to the picnic, so that’s it. She answered still thinking and both searching. Ohhhhh, now I understand, her mother said while looking at the flowers in their garden. There were tulips, jasmines, hibiscuses, and especially roses. Bona run to the garden and wanted to pick some flowers. She picked one rose. Because there were too much bees so she could barely walk through them. Hugh, said Bona crying real hard and then she fell into the ground. It was evening, and no one could find her. Her mom looked everywhere for her. Then she was found. They figured that she was sunk by a special bee. After that time, she got powers and helped people. People called her Queen Bee.

Kritheeshwar Sri Lanka

WONDER Chaos. Chaos is the term for it. The only perfect word to describe at once the whole of the universe. When one spends enough time looking at chaos, they start to realise that there exists things beyond chaos. Abstract aspects with rhyme, with character. The universe as we see it is merely chaos with attributes perceived by the observer. Chaos will seem these fragmented words, but only until they are ordered by thee. Is it really order that you perceived? Or is it merely a pattern among chaos? To solve this one would take some time, Time you have, time that is worth, Remember that he who leads the alphabet, Is always null and will be change to none, It’ll take you a minute, or five or ten, To learn and break the chain of question, But if you do it, it shall be not for nought, This can be our little secret, yours and mine, The name is Vigenere, the third vowel French, ‘Tis good to know that imagination is key, Not as a metaphor, but literally it is, The only key to the treasure just ahead.

bduk avgab, hum ekoty sh awzxxe, zpnt ttz ptmis bb phagrae, bab n mtahrzrur beabb wg qe, otm ghtb wf pmrj bb fhzurb ank auaet brdqr ov ghxqf yqre, xmtrxb hum bocmes hn hum yitl, rsimqvixle wae mpog’a taxl go tkehqde, uvr wbbv czafucad xntbzf, atl aom rifb mn ovgekqa qmeixm, go nvrrzetgvq tawitpf, wucyd fiyr wze gv rpbbczm af nczagqhl, eulr jhiel quidaibrr hch bn msvmptl, bvnb eosm pag wbyg prkiz th kczxdenmad, fimom fhoa vsg’b hum neyb joks mbc’he xmnd, fimom ut oaa’t lwarbtito ghtb mbc xiqm, oum vcgm fhgb ghba kna m jucenxg, cam fhgb jal akrmf atl eiim, w jwzdkz jhtb humk fkmy, tam came tnig cawgr ba nub eetl, hb aqe cpnt umohbk cnibs umvbtps, hcg ogtm vn ank qf wbtzvvs tu kbnvmrr, btexm vs lw ahkt tnig nxmrf ba bk areg, uipp yoxm ghtv kuif yuc nnw q qbcxd kdrr iwbqmd ahwht, rmh, gw eek walr twgbxe un jhtb wf uasz kbnvmoymp, iy xyetaiem un obfeen, wg qe wuzgh t bfl…

Fairy of blossom psalm of nature messenger of warmth ramble in May! Here comes 小满(xiǎ o mǎn, Small Full), the most beautiful Chinese solar term. Like its literal meaning suggests—neither overly grandiose, nor extremely tiny, leaving blank spaces—Small Full is this magical time when things are just right. Farmers enraptured: grains getting full; children giggling: swinging next to the lawn. Time to imagine, time to embark, time to improve, time to endeavor…

Leyun

China

Here comes the 20th day, when loving couples softly dive into the sea of romance. Pronounce the date in Chinese, it sounds exactly like the three magical words we long to hear—我爱你(wǒ ài nǐ, I love you). Time for the butterflies, the smile, the eye contact, the geniune confession...

FANTASIA OF MAY

Moreover, may you embrace not only the special days, but also everyday as a gift. Ever tried a dance in the calming wind, a wander in the flowery field, or an adventure guided by the luminous moonlight? May you celebrate not only the transcendent events, but also every experience as a gift. Ever tried to look up to the evening clouds above? Just for a moment, evanescent but real, and enjoy the heart flow. Vibrant people under the same sky drift in the tender memory chant in the poetic remoteness lost in the pouring rain meet under the enchanting rainbow maybe we are never alone maybe we are never apart perhaps the sky warmed by you will illuminate your way bravely perhaps the best ode to the world is creation of passion perhaps the yearning will be heard and the echo will be given by time perhaps…nothing is impossible in May Beauty of spring-summer giver of daylight incarnation of hope sing in May!

Luka

V E RY AT T E M P T O F T RY I N G to write a creative piece ends with the Soviet literature taught to mass-produced children. My creativity was killed by the school teacher while putting me in her standards of thinking, writing, and breathing. Finding X according to the ancient rules is not my interest either. Neither is Physics since I don’t feel gravitated towards the earth, at least on my best days. Arts don’t fulfill the liberty I preach, since saying that Da Vinci isn’t the best painter can cause lifelong injuries with a freshly cut pencil, by the art teacher. The system wasn’t built for children whose story starts with “remember the time when we had no electricity because dad lost the job that he never got?”, but for children who have a story including rich fathers, leather chairs, and expensive cars. I don’t want my non-existing children to be raised with privilege, but with a sense of disappointment, problems, and one-dollar chicken soup in their mouths.

a i g r o

-Darling, play your flute. We will manage somehowsaid my mother.

DREAMING COST MONEY, MY DEAR

USA

M a i a

AGUA DE BEBER Eu quis amar Mas tive medo E quis salvar Meu coracao The song breaks our silence. I hear whispers of words I can’t comprehend, swiveling my head to find the melody before it fades. It’s coming from my neighbors house, flowing from their side window where white blinds flutter. I rise from my seat in the dirt. “Peter...” I don’t hear the end of what my sister says because I’m running down the sidewalk to catch the song. I knock on our new neighbors door. We haven’t met them yet since we just moved in, but right now I don’t care what my mother would say. “Hello,” the pleasantry scurries from my lips. “What is that song?” “It’s called Agua De Beber,” the woman in the doorway looks at my hands. I realize that I’m still holding tangerine beets from the garden, dirt dripping onto the alabaster porch. She tells me to wait, returning to the doorway holding a record. “Here,” she hands it to me. It’s new, or well taken care of because there aren’t any scratches. “I can tell you like the song. Take it.” I offer her the beets. She accepts, trailing dirt onto the persian rug in the entryway. At home, I plug our ebony record player into the socket in the kitchen, opening all the windows so I can hear the music in the backyard. My mother says we have to work in the garden three hours each day. I forget the dirt clinging to my jeans and the 98 degree weather. I play the record on repeat, pulling up beets and radishes to the rhythms of the music. Eu quis amar Mas tive medo E quis salvar Meu coracao

I SWEAR… It was a cry for help Not manipulation I swear… I swear… It was a cry for help I didn’t mean to hurt her I didn’t mean to torture her I didn’t mean to end up so well I swear… It was just anger Just a mood swing Just an act to sell

I H AT E E V E RY T H I N G W I T H O U T YO U I hate how birds sing I hate the sunrise When I’m alone in my room And you’re not by my side I hate how they look I hate how they smile Cause I hate the whole world When you’re not by my side

I swear… It wasn’t me I swear… It was a cry for help

28/21 [19.06.2021]

Georgia

Mariam 74

I’ve lost everything Everything in one night Lost everything Everything in 28 pills I’m not driver in the ambulance car I’m patient laying in the backseat

Normal people and me Normal people versus me Normal people scare me And honestly I envy

You I envy you Cause not all the time but sometimes you’re sure Sleeping in your bed is not that hard to do Cause you’re alone in your room There’s no one in you Normal people don’t take tests and pills They don’t care bout it They don’t have trouble sleeping cause intrusive thoughts They know what to think They don’t have the question “Will I die if I jump from this?”

My mother’s there crying sitting next to me My phone shows me old memories Can’t feel a thing cause I’m high on serotonin Don’t get me low Don’t get me low Just kill me slow Turn the light’s on Look me in the eyes Please just look me in the eyes And forgive me Please forgive me

NORMAL PEOPLE VS ME

They know They know They know what to feel They know cause they can’t see All the colors buried All the colors that scream They know cause they don’t sink In the blood they can’t see They know They know They know bout it They know They know They don’t know bout it

The journey to the sea includes a lot of preparation: I have to find a good spot without anyone to interrupt, to catch a fine day, to think beforehand what to take with me. The organization takes my time and effort. All busy week my thoughts revolve around the trip I’ve planned to the letter, anticipation rises like a wave until it is almost unbearable. Finally, a perfect moment is found, and I travel to the sea.

Mariia

When I’m there, I still need to summon all my willpower to walk into the waves— (to begin) I stay on the edge, hesitant. The water seems cold, unfriendly. At last, I take a deep breath and throw myself into the sea. Turquoise waters close over my head. The change of temperatures is so intense I float for a moment. Then I open my eyes. Sun rays cut through the water column. The salt stings my eyes. The sea bottom seems so close and so distant at the same time, and I can’t reach it, but at least I can see it, (see how I can get to it) The flow of time slows down. I swim further and further away from the surface, now confident I can explore the depths. The sea feels like my ally when I’m in it. I am caught in a undertow, and I don’t know where it’ll take me, but I decide to trust it, that I will reach the hidden treasures on the bottom of the sea. A school of colorful fish flashes in front of my eyes and instantly disappears. I’m disappointed, but I hope I will see it again. I don’t know how much time passes. The undertow lets go of me, and I understand how tired I am, how my lungs ache because of the lack of oxygen. I swim back to the surface, the water gently hugs and carries my tired body. I want to continue, but my limbs already feel funny, and the shore seems too far away. The salt dries out on my skin, my wet hair stick to my shoulders, my breaths are heavy and uneven. I fall into the sand, exhausted, but then I turn back to the sea, to see its beauty one more time before leaving. (until next time)

Russian Federation

NUMINOUS

N A DREARY SHIP NAMED CASPER, Born of Psyche and alabaster. Eternal ending and linear wonder, Forever sinkinggoing under. There I stood among the masses, Cursing our thankless captain, Who, on his shoulders, two birds rest, Cardinal East and Cardinal West. How now should I progress, go on? What now should I place balance on? Where nowFor nowIn limbo lies, This vessel drowning in the sky. Sapphire saturation laps at its edges, Ashes of an ending Everest. And as I stand, forlorn in manner, I steal a glance at our commander. While crewmen, together, stand seasick and shaken, He remains at the helm, cast out and forsaken. Blood stains his hands like a misinformed ember, Condemnation always loves the messenger. A villain for guiding the souls of man, Offering aid and outstretching a hand. As if it were he who severed their threads, The one who told rivers to no longer run red. In reality the finality that adorns his name Is to help us across this phantom plane. The boat rises further upflirting with sea level and briny water erodes my face as I’m buried in this maritime meadow. So, in this inverted sea, I smile And slowly start to reconcile With past, future, and present’s demise I open my mouth and let in the sky.

THE INVERTED SEA THE INVERTED SEA Maude THE INVERTED SEA USA THE INVERTED SEA THE INVERTED SEA THE INVERTED SEA THE INVERTED SEA THE INVERTED SEA THE INVERTED SEA THE INVERTED SEA

Jordan

M o h a m m a d 80

HEN SHAKESPEARE QUOTED Hamlet with “To be, or not to be? That is the question—” (Hamlet, III, i, 57), he was quoting every individual’s mind, reciting the admiration of the ideal perfect life that we call it a utopia. However, what happens in reality is what in French said: “Que sera, sera!” which stands in English: “Whatever will be, will be”; thus, destiny or chance is what determines our future, our being, and our hypothetical seventh heaven. Besides, when the French rational thinker, Rene Descartes said: “Cogito ergo sum” in Latin, he wanted our being merely without the future’s determination, as if we are machines are been to think. Therefore, we conclude and start from the same loop’s cycle, by inquiring: What is the state of being? Is be a verb or a noun? And mainly, why to be?

haunted by the ghosts of all the promises i broke, i crawl back home and find you there

STILL GROWING

you mosaic of naivety and wisdom you filled up diary with daydreams an earnest little soul starved for the glory of things unknown to anyone especially you of course you’re anxious watch as you outline your journey as if you’re some gifted psychic who can somehow predict the ending you carve rules into stone with your fingernails wish on signs and shooting stars you look for comfort everywhere except yourself you are young still growing still soft hands and wide eyes it’s you really in the clear, lukewarm water a kaleidoscope of lessons from all the places you’ve ever been and all the people you’ve ever met did i lose you or did you find me? you’re too young to know the difference and so am i

Mona 82

but when we meet for the first time since that apple-colored September you squeeze my hand and plead ‘please, come back.’

Egypt

you’re wrong still a blossoming bud still unaware and terrified sleeves soaked with fallen tears so how then can i not forgive myself for the plans that fell through and the days that left me empty? how then can i not pick myself up for you? how can i look at you and how far i’ve come and not love myself for it, too?

MEMORIES OF JOY Neptune

USA

It’s dashing barefoot across sand that burns like a hot iron A thousand tiny grains burrowing in the space between toes with chipped baby blue polish, But you’ll still laugh and leave daffodils yellow flip-flops forgotten by the door when you do it all again tomorrow morning Leaving sandy footprints across the kitchen floor. It’s sitting in front of a roaring bonfire on an ancient lawnchair The sting of sunburn making itself known every time your face twists with a smile, Lulled to sleep by the safety of a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and boasts the logo of a team you never played on The taste of marshmallows and Sprite fading like an old memory. It’s the hypnotic sound of feet slapping against loose gravel Warm sweat dripping down your face like tears and your tongue sitting dry and sticky in your mouth, And the feeling of fingernails digging into the soft flesh of your palms as you push yourself further and further and further And the constant companionship of the numbers wrapped around your wrist. It’s a truck’s tailgate digging into the back of your legs and the promise of a thunderstorm building in the air, the flash of carnival lights, and the inescapable weight of summer humidity. It’s the leather of a steering wheel worn smooth by time and the jolt of a metal bat against cleated feet echoing through your bones, fingers stained shades of blue and purple from wild berries, and the always lingering scent of vanilla.

UNTITLED

Niloufar 86

Topic: Life Lessons Sometimes I think that our life is like a classroom and every second of that is a lesson or something to learn. To be honest, I do believe it that our life is a real process of learning. You see, listen, feel, explore and experience many great things. Actually, life is a really creative and innovative class. Why?! Because it teaches the necessary lessons and points in different methods and then make a more different test for you. You learn directly and indirectly. You know, learning and getting point directly is not that much hard but catching the indirect and hidden ones matter and are the most important part of this learning classroom. Some of you, may think: Oh my God! What a stupid idea. But let`s experience it even one day. From the moment you wake up till the time you want to sleep, hundreds of accidents may be happened. Because of learning of this events and finding out the real essence of that, you just need to THINK. Think clearly about every single thing that happened in your day. I suggest you to take a note book and every night before sleeping, think about your day, your actions and reactions and your feeling during the day, then figure the lessons out. In the next step, bring your thoughts on the paper and write them out. I bet I will be amazed by your own writing, because you have learned a lot of great lessons. In couple of days, your mind will be set to get the lessons automatically from environment and people around you. The amazing fact is this that your mind is used to think and explore. Undoubtedly, you will know more about life, its value and many more things. You learn how to deal with people, how to behave, what and how to say and…. Let`s start from today on. Think, explore, write and get amazed. Just a request: please let other know about this tip. Be the holder and developer of Life Lesson`s chain.

For me, it’d be the mountains that November. Where the wind would shriek and the fire was home. And the cold, all biting brilliance, buried in those dying leaves. Like the songs I never learned, I always knew. We’ll go back to November and the cold will still be tall, the trees still taller, winter wrapped around them. Do they wonder, do they know? History and past and the past passed by, and look, look:

USA

Nina

there’s an island where the trees remember winter, even if they’ve never seen the cold. There’s an island where the trees fell down from heaven, or, their seeds washed in with the waves. Towards the earth. There’s an island where the trees believe in magic, or maybe they just believe in wind. Bringing seeds, flowers, drifting in the air, the waves. They look so much like snow. Hear the wind rushing in from the north, from some place I’ve never been. Watch the leaves, the seeds, they’ve remembered how to fly. Through generations, learned things they can’t recall. We know memory’s like breathing, rising up like spring. There’s a man who drew paint from the berries of that island. He made from it those seeds, those tides, that wind: we are that which makes us, that which brings us home. So maybe identity only meant remembrance. Like my hair, worn by a hundred mothers and sisters before me.

Maybe one would hang a flag on the wall, in so many colors. And I’m sorry

Your mother helped you pin it to the wall: stripes of redorangeyellow, bluepurplegreen. My mother let me take a painting she had found, white flowers, pale grass. And I don’t need a flag, I know, but if we painted something rainbow, I think that would be fine. Instead, I’ll pin up poems. I’ll put yellow on my walls because I’ve always loved the sun. Like how you like purple, on your walls, in your hair. So I tell you I wish I’d dyed my hair red, which is only a lie cause it’s true. Do you think there’s something so alien it’s yours?

that she can’t, that I won’t, And I think of ancestors in love by the edge of the woods. Making plans to fly away on the wind: like so many flowers, so many leaves. Thinking of a daughter who could kiss who she wanted and hang flags on the wall. I’m sorry I wasn’t loud enough and big enough To be their softer vengeance. We try to teach our daughters how to scream. Or, sing. It’s all the same: daughters and daughters and things we’ll never say aloud. One day you’ll hang your flags on the wall, one day you’ll dye your hair red, one day you’ll sing to the sky. Until then, we keep running to the forest. Seeds floating in on the wind. One day, the soil will be yours.

THE MOON AND THE STARS

Reina

Beneath the starry night sky, they were merely humans, laying on the grass, gazing at the dark sky, and connected by the twinkling stars, the shining, silver moon, and everything in between. “Why do you think humans are so attracted to the night sky and the stars?” she wondered out loud. He thought for a moment before replying, “Under the same moon and stars, they are reminded that no matter who they are, they are all equal and that harmony attracts them.” She hummed in acknowledgement, deep in thought. Then she said, “In a whole, gigantic universe swathed in darkness, the stars still manage to light it up. So I believe that just as it reminds people of their equality, it reminds them of hope. It reminds them of the wonder in the making of this universe.” He smiled and looked up at the sky again where the stars were winking at him. “Hope,” he breathed out. “Dare we still believe in such a thing?” “Oh, it isn’t just about daring,” she said. “We must believe in it. It is what carries us forward, for without it, we become empty shells, existing but never actually living, because we seldom expect anything other than disappointments and losses. We even become numb to that too in the end. Hence, hope is essential for humans. It is our lifeline.” A gentle breeze blew and she faded away, for it was the wonder he felt that had brought her here. He closed his eyes and imagined all the great things that could happen, drifting to sleep. When he opened his eyes, he was looking at a blue sky and the sun’s golden rays filled the air with warm delight. He smiled. It was time to continue living - living with hope.

Lebanon 91

THE PASSAGE OF TIME

Roza

HE FOOT OF A RABBIT, I WAS GRANTED And the head, in exchange, lost Yet, the guilt never settled in Heavier, warmer, a mass of hysterical light plummeted to my core Or perhaps grew I would have surely known by now if I hadn’t adored you so I would have known if time hadn’t seemed to dilate by your hand I would have known if I hadn’t counted my days in your ramblings And I should have known, when the Mayans and the Romans Looked utterly foolish to me in a quest to measure it Did they not know? Did the greats of astronomy and calculus not know That my baby reigns over time And did they not observe night blending into day Or the blur of the short hand passing over the segments Motionless, maybe too quick to notice? How, God of Elijah? And maybe when the mass lightens When breathing comes easier to me When all my organs get on with their day When Jane Austen withdraws her, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” Only then would I agree to the passage of time.

Iraq 93

MY LOVE

My love, Your blood is pure gold and your mind is a treasure they will hunt down to kill. You are so much more than you think you are, so much more powerful than you think you will ever be. Tell me darling, why do you doubt the steps you take, the moves you make? Tell me darling, is it because of how they give you the long looks, glinting with lust and danger? Tell me darling, is it because of how they chant so loud that the planets above can hear their demands for you to dress more modestly and walk more timidly as if this world you were born into wasn’t meant for a being as other-worldly as you? My love,

Rudaina

Bangladesh

I’ve had my share of the lion’s prey and believe me when I say I’ve walked on tightropes thinner and more frayed than the shawl that they wrapped around my bloodied body. I’ve had them stalk towards me, tall and dark and loud, with a hunger for gold. I’ve felt that familiar churning in my stomach, and my hands turning into fists while blood rushed to my head making me dizzy with anger and a fear that amplified every second. I’ve had them touch me as if I was theirs to own, to touch, to eat. To give pleasure even when it pained me, to stroke egos even when it haunted me. Darling, I’ve been to boardrooms and bedrooms and had my ability to formulate words to defend myself, my body, my existence snatched from me. I’ve had them stuff me with honey dripping words to soothe my craving for freedom and had them give me hopes of stolen dreams and blooming flowers that died within a night. I’ve drank from their poisoned minds and had my back beaten when I dared not to bleed to my death. So have faith in me darling, for I know the curves of the path you’ve been destined to take, all too well. Heed my words my sweetheart, for you will need more than the strength in your fragile heart to overrun the darkness that chases you.

My love, Know that the blood of sorceresses courses through your veins. Know that with one look, you could become the alpha of a pack of wild wolves, salivating for an inch of you. Know that with one blow, you could make them fall to their knees and create a river with their tears, begging for your forgiveness. The steps you take make the earth shake and their audacity of look over your glorious body crumble into pieces of shame. Your nails are sharp, but your wit, sharper. The curves of your body and the desires in your heart are not sins to repent for, but rather weapons. The dreams they showed you then heartlessly broke are yours to glue together with a passion stronger than the winds that blew away your urge to fit in. My love, I’ve had them try to tame the goddess in me. Had them coil around a sharp and shining rope tight around my body, had them try to take away my power to walk to my temple. Had them try to force words down my throat and had them try to doll me up like in their sick fantasies. But when the skies turned black and their bruises turned blue, I’ve had them worship me at my feet, failed thieves of the power we hold. My love, Please never forget - you’re a woman by birth, but a goddess by blood.

HIS HAD BEEN THE SECOND-WORST THING to happen to her. Possibly third. The actual second worst would be the time she climbed a sick tree in a clearing in the forest with brittle branches and fell. The first would most definitely be the improvised extermination she, her younger sister, and their grandparents undertook at their residence outside the city. It was a horrible affair with the torching of moth mothers and scraping off their eggs into the trash. The smell was unbearable. Khertek Vasilly was walking home late from school. She had been held back at school to clean up the library after the mathematics Olympiad had ended. Her house was the farthest away, and those among her friends who had carpooled did not live in the same direction. Her mother had admonished her for wearing a heavy jacket and wool pants to school that day. Now she wished she had listened. Carrying her backpack was one thing, but she would be dead if her second place certificate was damaged so she had to use both hands. As such, she had to suffer the summer heat, roasting in her dark shawl. What had happened to yesterday’s snow? She wondered, no one to answer. Just the previous day, her street was blanketed in the frozen H2O. She mocked at her classmates, who had arrived at school chilled in all sorts of warm weather outfits. She enjoyed the ensuing dread that crept up when the first flakes hit the window. Yet that morning, feeling the cool wind in the air, she left with more heavy clothes. No need to check the weather when there are the clouds above, mirroring the apartment buildings that lined the residential area. Her arrogance would be paid for in laundry, a freezing shower, and the memories of everyone’s laughs.

WALK OF SHAME WALK OF SHAME Sansar WALK OF SHAME Mongolia WALK OF SHAME WALK OF SHAME WALK OF SHAME WALK OF SHAME WALK OF SHAME WALK OF SHAME WALK OF SHAME

Spencer

USA

Y LUNGS BEGAN TO GET USED TO THE CRISP feeling of dry air scratching at my throat. Looking toward the horizon I saw one of the loompa bounding ahead of the herd. Its wrinkled, green snout led a path for the rest of its body to follow, and with its movement the dust began to swiftly rush into the snout. A ghost of a smile appeared on my face as I saw its energy and enthusiasm break through the crowd. I lifted my wooden cane into the air and slowly moved it up and down. The loompas began rushing toward me in a sprint, and for just a moment I was worried about their sheer mass overwhelming me, but I have done this a thousand times previously so I quickly extinguished my worry. I took a confident leap towards the decaying fence while thrusting my cane toward the entrance. The loompa’s rolled into their domain like bowling balls, scattering and bouncing across the earth. Once the herd successfully entered I slammed the gate shut. I could feel the wind blow past and a rush of satisfaction came over me as I heard the click of the metal latch enclosing their home. Swirling around, I began marching back to the house under the willow tree. Long, immovable branches protected us from suffocation and even brought beauty, a concept previously foreign to us, into our lives. Leaves, pink and plentiful, floated downward from the top of the willow gifting those who reside under its dominion with a smell that I could only describe as welcoming. After the fall the world went into a stage of rebirth and began spewing red dust to heal, and the willow trees ended up being the last memory of when the planet was whole.

OTHERWORLDY PEACE 98

a r a T

My lofty ambitions for the next year, white, untainted clouds high in the sky, floating and unreachable impervious to everything a fiery yearning at 3 am a leisurely afternoon reverie, watching the amorphous clouds blend into figures and shapes as my hazy, sun-drunk daydreams fancy unique and visible only to me I wait for them to descend so I can climb onto them and they do Jan 1st

RESOLUTION India 100

the moment they touch the ground I stomp on and pollute them with my clumsiness they become nothing but grey poofs of smoke emanating from vehicles enveloping and suffocating me year end : I spot another cloud trying to forget about the spoilt clouds of yesterday the cycle continues Until all the black clouds rise and combine to kill me with their acid rain

101

UNTITLED In every stroke, lengths and curves A story hides, with strength, preserved The brush flows, black ink. A horse’s nicker whispers. The most ancient monument of Mongolian written language is the 800 year-old Stone of Chinggis. On its body, a celebratory message is carved in the 16 consonants and 5 vowels that we know as the Uygurjin Mongolian script. The nomads. One with the wind, and one with the water. We are both forgetful and forgotten. Every wave of the river is unrepeated. Every scent in the wind is obliterated. We have been nomads ever since the beginning of our existence. We are untamed, like our monuments and memories. From cave carvings to city ruins, the history unrevealed proves us unrepeated and pieces of our legacy, obliterated. Thus, an upright script- a standing treasure of the mind and bodyis what connects today to our history.

102

Brothers were separated, and lands were fragmented. Days have passed, and the new has plagued.

Tenuun

20th century was us under our soviet brothers, being molded into who we are today. We wanted to be just like them, like a brother. Even though the majority of population was illiterate, the education of Cyrillic alphabet was successfully endorsed with communist empowerment. By 1946, the traditional script was scraped off of chalkboards all over the country. And in the mere half century that followed we were almost entirely literate: with Cyrillic letters. The new has plagued. The repressed fights, and the free concur. The repressed remembers, and the free forgets. Today, our family, the Inner Mongolians, use this script in their daily lives, even while they suffer under cultural oppressions from authorities. While one friend can read only five words by it, another friend who lives and was raised in China, knows all. While my people talk about its uselessness, our people are getting killed for its use. While we enjoy Russian apartments with wide windows, we are being force-labored in concentration camps. And as one fights over the complexity of its essence, another one is fighting to learn it. To have pride, one must find their identity. To have an identity, one must embrace what they have and endure what they face.

Mongolia 103

ПО ЛОВИНА КОМНАТЫ Russian Federation

U l y a n a

Моя половина комнаты. Половина раскладного дивана, который с начала локдауна я стала делить с братом, тоже вернувшимся в родительскую квартиру на изоляцию. Половина шкафа, в который едва влезла куча вещей, в основном ненужных, мёртвым грузом занимающих пространство. Четверть пола, где я, словно ниндзя, пытаюсь заниматься йогой. Остальные три четверти занимают шкаф, письменный стол, комод и диван, всегда разложенный, потому что брат предпочитает изучать социологию в горизонтальном положении. Половина большой книжной полки, привинченной к стене, занята пособиями по подготовке к выпускным экзаменам. Часто меня нет на моей половине комнаты, в физическом и экзистенциальном смысле. Я сажусь на широкий подоконник, задвигаю штору. Так я хотя бы на треть восполняю давящую нехватку личного пространства, тоски по моей просторной комнате, в которой я жила последние полгода. Почему на треть? Из шести стен у меня только четыре – сам проём окна. Стекло обнажает меня, выставляет напоказ всей улице, а полупрозрачная занавеска предательски разрушает границу с остальной комнатой. Вторую треть крадут постоянные визиты бабушки. «Где Ульяна? На подоконнике?» – я вздрагиваю от шаркающих шагов. К горлу подступает ком, раздражение оккупирует разум, в глазах загорается страх зверя, загнанного в угол (в буквальном смысле). Штора резко отодвигается. «А тебя и не видно из комнаты». Да, почти не видно. В этом была задумка. Полузадумка. Начинается пересказ очередной очень-умной-цитаты-очень-умного-учёного. Незаметно закатываю глаза. Напряжение возрастает. Тогда для меня всё стало пыткой: солнечный свет, который гнал меня из единственного укрытия, переговоры на повышенных тонах трёх вечно работающих телевизоров, литр кофе – единственный «легальный» энергетик для каждодневной двенадцатичасовой подготовки к экзаменам. Мне стало казаться, что граница между реальностью и моим бредом стала такой же неуловимой, как штора оконного убежища. Прошёл год, и я не уверена: то казалось или стало явью?

104

105

THIS IS IT ‘is it terrifying?’ ‘no. i don’t think so. it’s the way it is, you know? everything must come to an end, the drip finally stops.’ ‘see you on the other side.’

Varvara

i was making up my mind as i was checking off the last textbooks the students of my class had turned in. that was it: no more essays, math problems, presentations, no more waking up at 7 a.m., walking to school with my best friend, no more tries to fit in the community i didn’t enjoy being a part of, no more mental abuse by the soviet-shaped teachers - no more school. all the books were back in the library, all the grades were written down, all of us were free. or were we? the smell of the last summer in my childhood hit my nostrils while i was making my way down the steps. the walls i have been surviving in for the past seven years were whispering their last goodbyes into my ears. there were no more eighth-graders chatting on the windowsills, no more fifth-graders running around the hallways and knocking the seniors off their feet, no more seventh-grade girls discussing boys in the bathroom - only my shoes were tapping on the stairs i have walked up and down one too many times. ‘well, that is not the end,’ i thought, ‘i’m not leaving the country, at least. another city is not another continent. i will come to visit my favorite teacher, will see my classmates over the summer. there is still prom celebration to come and some gatherings with my friends.’ i walked out the gymnasium’s doors that day, confident that i deeply loved this place and the people i grew up with and would be back for a visit very soon. little did i know.

Ukraine

‘oh, no, there is no other side. this is it.’ * credits to the Bojack Horseman TV series creators for the quotes in bold.

106

107

Under the apricot tree a feast at the break of day I hear the drummer boy’s beat carrying raw, urgent rhythm (the flesh and blood of primal youth) and new beginnings.

AN INFANT’S EYE VIEW OF HOME

I see streaks of black and white pounding out panic’s pursuit Panthers ready to pounce the leopard about to leap (and the hunter’s crouch with Remington magnum’s positioned) The sound of a gunshot. The hiss of the bullet as it passes through the air My blood ripples turning torrent toppling the years and at once I’m in my mother’s lap a suckling returned to the year of my birth.

Victoria

USA

108

I’m walking simple paths with no innovations, fashioned with naked skin the warmth of quick feet, loving arms, and hearts in green leaves wildflowers pulsing As the rising smoke of invasion rolls in. Then I hear the wailing piano solo speaking of complex ways in a towering crescendo; of faraway lands and new horizons with coaxing diminuendo, but lost in the labyrinth of its complexities It ends in the middle of a measure And I lost my young self in the morning mist I lost my culture and it aged my spirit. Lured out of the crib of not knowing graduating from the blanket of ignorance and bliss.

109

Vivian

USA

R. JONES, THE TEACHER responsible for the majority of my scholastic suffering, tells me to stop rinsing my AP Euro textbook in a sea of neon yellow. It isn’t my fault that my highlighters have enough ink to tie-dye the Milky Way. Wouldn’t it be nice if space were pastel-hued — a buttery gutter of soft pinks and blues? Instead, I leaf through pages of my textbook and compress color into a singularity, allowing monochrome gravity to swallow Sans Serif obelisks of columns and rows. Fluorescent yellow vanishes past the black hole’s horizon, sinking into the yawning maw of an inaccessible singularity. My physicist of an aunt once painted quantum data over a sunset. I think I’ll see color once I’ve been spaghettified.

SOOTHSAYER 110

111

DO YOU KNOW? Yashaswi USA

Ignorance is bliss, Until the reality of knowledge sinks in. You can’t lock your mind if you don’t know how to, Knowledge will always find a way in. It seems hard to come by, But it usually isn’t grand. Born from a little insignificant seed, Growing fear within. Once planted inside your mind, It will make you want more. So powerful, even you can’t seem to control it.

112

What makes it so alluring? Is it the power and control it offers us? Or the fact it opens our eyes, To seemingly everything? Think of all the things that scare you, Do you notice that they all come from the same thing? You can’t be scared of something that you don’t know exists… Or can you? That feeling you get when you suddenly lose someone you love, When they seemed just fine an hour ago. Or when you wonder how your life will be like, Awaiting final exam scores. I know you know that feeling, Even if it’s still weak. Has it ever been hard to admit that you don’t know something? Does admitting it make it seem more real? Do you feel the loss of control, Not knowing? What will happen tomorrow? Will it be the same as today? It can’t be… Go ahead, ask what terrifies me. I’ll answer truthfully, if you are willing to.

113

PA L I ST IN E

Zainab

The clear cloudless sky lights up with flames as the large smoke cloud made by the bombing grows. The horrible sight sends shivers down your spine. Blown hard by the impact of the first and biggest exploration you still feel weak but you keep on running. You can’t stop or they will get you. Around you is just total chaos. Screams. Cries. Panic. Flames. Fear. Death. Things till now you didn’t know could be seen were right in front of you. You feel faint but you can’t stop. In search of some sort of refuge so keep moving. With every step your feet slow down. Your head starts spinning and eventually you fall to the ground. The once clear sky was covered by the smoke. On the ground you see blood and bodies. The screams and cries blow with the wind. Under the same you grew up under. The same ground you played on. The same wind your blood flowed with. The same place your heart beats and the same people your souls strives to save. You have only one though on your mind now. Our goal, you’re porous. With the last dyeing breath u have you open your mouth and scream as loud as you can. “Palestine will be free!”…

Pakistan 114

115

VLADIMIR POLEGANOV

is a Bulgarian writer, translator, and screenwriter. He is the author of one collection of short stories, The Deconstruction of Thomas S (2013) and the novel The Other Dream (2016), which won the 2017 Helikon Award for Best Fiction Book. His short stories have appeared in various literary magazines in Bulgaria and abroad. “The Birds”, was featured in Dalkey Archive Press’ 2016 anthology Best European Fiction. In 2016, he participated in the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program, followed by residencies in Shanghai and at the Sun Yat-sen University in Guangzhou, China. He has translated novels by Thomas Pynchon, George Saunders, Octavia Butler and others into Bulgarian. In 2020, his translation of Lincoln in the Bardo won the Association of Bulgarian Translators Prize. He is currently working on a PhD in Bulgarian literature at Sofia University, where he also teaches courses on creative writing and literature of the fantastic.

RUMENA BUŽAROVSKA

is a fiction writer and literary translator from Skopje, North Macedonia. An author of four volumes of short stories translated into several languages, her collection My Husband has been published in the USA, Germany, Italy, Hungary, the former Yugoslav republics and has been adapted into three stage productions in Ljubljana, Belgrade and Skopje. A 2018 resident of the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, she is a professor of American literature and Translation at the State University in Skopje. She is the co-author and coorganizer of the women’s storytelling event PeachPreach.

FACULTY

SHANDANA MINHAS’ first novel ‘Tunnel Vision’ was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Book. Her novel ‘Survival Tips for Lunatics’ became the first children’s book to win a General Fiction Prize in South Asia, taking the Karachi Literature Festival Fiction Prize in 2015. Her other books are ‘Daddy’s Boy’ and the novella ‘Rafina’, which was adapted into the feature film Good Morning Karachi. Her essays, columns and short fiction have appeared in publications including EPW, Herald, IQ, and the Griffith Review. Her work has been translated into Italian and Estonian and adapted for theatre and cinema. An IWP fellow in 2013, she has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia.

MARY HICKMAN

was born in Idaho and grew up in China and Taiwan. She holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she was an Iowa Arts Fellow. Hickman is the author of two books of poems, This Is the Homeland (2015) and Rayfish (2017), which won the James Laughlin Award, given by the Academy of American Poets and chosen by Ellen Bass, Jericho Brown, and Carmen Giménez Smith. An assistant professor at Nebraska Wesleyan University in Lincoln, Nebraska, she also teaches in (and loves!) the University of Iowa International Writing Program’s Between the Lines exchange program

FACULTY FACULTY

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ALEA ADIGWEME

is an anti-disciplinary IgboVincentian-U.S.-ian cultural worker active in the fields of creative writing, book arts, performance, installation, and visual media. She’s the author of the poetry chapbook birdbolt idolatry (dancing girl press, 2015); her media work has been exhibited at Public Space One in Iowa City. Her first experimental short film, [untitled], screened in competition at the 31st-annual New Orleans Film Festival. After earning a BA in Russian literature at Reed College, adigweme earned an MFA in nonfiction writing, an MA in Media Studies, and a graduate certificate in Gender, Women’s, and Sexuality studies from the University of Iowa. She is currently based in Tovaangar, the unceded Tongva territory commonly known as Los Angeles, where she is a second-year MFA student in interdisciplinary studio art at UCLA.

SEAN ZHURAW

is a poet, teacher, and baker. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Tin House, Boston Review, TYPO, agape, and in the glass pastry case of Day by Day, his family’s restaurant. A graduate of Columbia University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he teaches English at the Community College of Philadelphia and lives with his husband in West Philadelphia.

BTL TEACHING ASSISTANT

GYASI HALL

is an essayist, poet, playwright, and breakfast food enthusiast from Columbus, Ohio. His work has been published/produced by Thoughtcrime press, Get Lit, Z Publishing, and MabLab Theater, among others. His debut poetry chapbook, Flight of the Mothman: An Autobiography, was published by The Operating System in spring 2019. He is the former poetry editor of Quiz and Quill, as well as a 3 year veteran faculty member of Kenyon College’s Young Writers Summer Workshop. He currently resides in Iowa City where he is pursuing his MFA in Nonfiction.

DELANEY NOLAN got her MFA in fiction from the Iowa Writers Workshop in 2016, and is currently a teacher and editor located in New Orleans. She has taught online classes with Catapult, and in 2020 was a BTL counselor. She has also taught writing with Iowa Young Writers Program, with IWP in Morocco, as a Fulbright specialist in Moscow, and elsewhere.

BTL TEACHING ASSISTANT

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BTL TEACHING ASSISTANT

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ALISA WEINSTEIN

received a BFA in Drama and MA in Educational Theatre from New York University, and a PhD in Anthropology from Syracuse University; she also studied at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, and conducted dissertation research in India on a FulbrightNehru scholarship. Among her other writing, she authored scripts for India’s Sesame Street, Galli Galli Sim Sim, and is currently at work on an ethnography of tailors working in Jaipur, India. A co-founder of Home Ec. Workshop in Iowa City, she often teaches knitting and sewing to crafters of all ages.

IWP YOUTH PROGRAMS COORDINATOR

SARAH ADLER

received a BA in English from the University of California, Berkeley, and is currently pursuing her MFA in the Nonfiction Writing Program at the University of Iowa. Her work explores a variety of topics, including identity-making on the Internet, the role of contemporary art in society, and gendered modes of interpersonal communication.

BTL SUMMER ASSISTANT

GEORGIE FEHRINGER received a BA in Creative Writing from The Evergreen State College. She is an MFA candidate and Iowa Arts Fellow at the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program. Her writing is experimental poetic prose with a focus on physical form; it has appeared or is forthcoming from The Black Warrior Review, TIMBER, and Entropy Magazine. She is Co-Creator and lead editor at Pixel and Fragment press and has a love for all things book binding letterpress and design.

CAITLIN PLATHE received her BA in English and Creative Writing from the University of Iowa. An alumna of IWP’s Between the Lines program, she has held several assistantship positions at IWP for the last four years. She is also the author of I Am No Plath, a volume of poems.

BTL PROGRAM ASSISTANT

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BTL ANTHOLOGY EDITOR

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BETWEEN THE LINES: Peace and the Writing Experience 2021 Anthology

Articles inside

Zainab

Victoria

Faculty & Staff Bios

Tenuun

Varvara

Tara

Spencer

Roza

Sansar

Reina

Emily R

Ghala

Emily J

Rudaina

Christopher

Aruzhan

Charlotte

Azizakhon

Elizaveta

Basant

Courtney

Daiana