The Writers' Avenue Issue 3 by The Writers' Avenue

The Writers' Avenue Issue 3

THE WRITERS' AVENUE

ISSUE 3: YOLO

EDITORS' NOTES LEYS I am an extremely cowardly person. I wish I could blame it all on my height and body structure and on my gender but then I’d be a total asshat for even considering the possibility that

women who

stand below

five feet

are, by

default, weak

and

defenceless. Lisbeth Salander would shoot me in the face and I’d deserve it. Nevertheless, I am a coward through and through. I’m afraid of change and the unknown possibilities and dangers it could bring. I’m afraid of shadows that lurk in the corners and treacherous reptiles slithering somewhere distant. I’m afraid of failing and disappointing those around me so much that I often stop myself from even trying. My list of fears can go on and on... ironically, one of the fears that top my list is my fear of being so afraid of everything that I’ll live a life so dull and boring that not a single day distinguishes itself from the other. However, as of late, I’ve realized something: being a coward sucks. Yes, I’ve saved myself from countless terrible what-ifs, but I’ve also cheated myself out of experiencing life to the fullest. Being constantly afraid is terrible and I’ve sworn to do something about it. It isn’t easy, going against my innate cowardly nature, but I’m trying my best. The fear is still there and it will always hang over my shoulder for the rest of my days but... YOLO, right?

DAVID This issue came later than expected. Some things just got in the way and we had a lot to deal with in terms of academics.

But the good news is that Paul and I have

gotten out from the rabbit hole of college and we are now trudging the “adult life” one step at a time; something to integrate with this issue’s theme, which is YOLO. “You Only Live Once” or simply YOLO has been popularized from Drake’s The Motto and is now the modern day counterpart of Horace’s Carpe Diem or “Seize the day”. But to delve closer beneath the phrase, it connotes a dangling question whether one is actually living a YOLO life or making the most of everything every waking day.

Are we actually YOLO-ing every second of our lives or are we

only trying to follow the hype? I know it is a tough question. Because there are days when we wake up hopeful about what comes on our way and we’re set to make every millisecond of it worthy of remembering. But there are also days when we’d rather settle behind our pillows and hide from the unpredictability of it all.

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ISSUE 3: YOLO

In my own perspective, I believe I only started YOLO-ing my life last year. The idea came like a tap from the back of my brain. I realized, there are things I needed to do, places to visit, events to go to, and strangers to have seconds of sexual tension with along the way (though kidding aside on this one), and it’s time to expand my horizons and start coloring my dull life to a vibrant one. YOLO-ing our lives entail a lot of things. From taking risks, procrastinating, committing mistakes, or ditching school because. . .YOLO, but it won’t hurt to sometimes go back to the familiar or shut off for the day and sigh “to hell with it, I’m sleeping instead” I do hope you will enjoy this season’s issue. Uhm, Happy YOLO-ing from the editorial team! Good times!

PAUL The issue's theme is something I honestly had difficulty dealing with. As I was thinking of something to blab about, I stumbled upon a song I always hear but never bother to search for: Neon Trees' “Animal”. I can't help but relate to the song. I'll be honest in saying that I had my share of YOLO moments growing up. If you would ask me what it feels like, sometimes it's fun but in most of these it would always end up having a metallic after-taste of regret; I should have spent time or my money for something else. At the worse, I actually feel incompetent with myself, both with controlling urges and showing to people how weak I could be deep inside. I find it funny with the inner dilemmas I have to deal with – born and raised as a Christian for one, while at the same time this identity has brought to me so much confusion and anguish growing up being bullied and isolated with the people you thought as brothers. At times I long for attention from others while at the same time I tried to dispel them away. At times I feel like the values of this world are so corrupted I wouldn't dare to partake, but at the same time I feel desparate not giving in and joining in the fun. So far, I haven't been hospitalized nor went to rehab or had some disease, and I hope I won't end up experiencing before I stumble upon my happiness.

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ISSUE 3: YOLO

IN THIS ISSUE We talk about the concept of YOLO - “You Only Live Once”; living in the moment, taking risks, discovering what makes us tick.

Featured Works YOU Lauren Simpson x Piper Shumski

I Promise You Alva Avve Madden

DETAILS Klaudia Wiski

SIGNS Celeste Rehmel

No Guilt Shafa Rashid

A Billet Doux to an enstranged lover Aditya Kumar Jha

Force-Feed The Realists Leo Karakolov

Reviews Confessions / Kokuhaku

Middlesex

White Album 2

Mitch Albom Book Signing

WITH PHOTOS BY Paula / Voice of America

Cover

Abbie Mendoza

Page background

DAVE Steinberg

“Rebuild”, Page 16

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THE WRITERS' AVENUE

YOU

ISSUE 3: YOLO

Lauren Simpson x Piper Shumski

You're tired and you didn't want to go out tonight. Usually you would desire being at the fair, going on every ride and stuffing your face with sickly sweet treats - cotton candy above all else. But tonight the lights of the stands seem to be too bright as it pounds on your head. Your hand lingers in your pocket, the thumb running over the screen, leaving smudges and prints. You continue to wait for the buzz of a message. Crowds surge around you, busy as bees; a blur of tickets, pocket books, and anticipation for the fair. They all laugh and shout and brush against you and irritate you overall. After deciding you can't take much more shoving and hushed excuse me's you enter the fair, still awaiting a text. You walk slowly, admiring the stuffed animals on display in the booths. The summer air is still warm even though the sky is darkening with nightfall. Finally, you feel the vibration indicating a text. You check your phone, the brightness temporarily blinding you only to find out that your friend can't come tonight. You hear your own breath whistle out in a sigh. You've already paid to get in; you didn't want to be here in the first place but now you feel obligated to not waste the night. You promise yourself two rides, a cotton candy, then you will go home and rest. With a plan secure in your mind you start your search for a ride. Any ride. The Ferris wheel crosses your mind, right next to the entrance. You don't want to ride the spinning art alone, though it is your favorite ride. You start to make your way towards the swings that spin like tops when the syrupy scent of cotton candy catches your attention. You look up quickly, searching for the source of the smell. You follow the scent down a row of booths: fried dough, popcorn, corn dogs, ice cream; on the end, tufts of pink and blue cover a cart. Children around you laugh while snatching the pink clouds from the air, sticking them in their mouths. As you approach the cotton candy cart, you saw her. In your head you see two parallel moments, both starring the same girl. Where you know there is now a pale ponytail, you see two long braids, trailing behind her as she runs through a sea of tall grass. Where you know there is an exhausted expression, you see bright eyes. Spheres of chocolate Hershey, the kind that gets gooey in your fingers. A confident toothy smile in place of a frown. This new girl looks up to the next customer with expectant eyes. The years shrunk her and stretched her vertically, erased her smile and gave her vague disinterest. It hasn't stolen away her confidence though; you can see it in a raised eyebrow. Then you realize why she looks so anticipative. She's waiting for you.

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For her next customer. You're her next customer. "Do you remember me?" You ask quietly. She blinks at you in surprise. "From what?" She asks. Her voice isn't the same but familiar none the less. Her name stuck in your throat, behind the curtains in the back of your mind but it just won't surface. "Summer '05?" You cocked your head, unkept hair falling in your eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't. Can I get you something?" She gestures the cotton candy before her. You nod then ask for her name. She gives out a breathy laugh. "I thought we were supposed to know each other?" You smile, her sarcastic laugh is like a breath of summer; you see her younger, up in a tree calling you a chicken for not joining her. "I'm not good with names." You confess. She pushes a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear, when she sees you noticing her expression turning hard. "Here you go." She says, thrusting the cotton candy towards you then ringing you up on the cash register. "So, are you going to answer?" She observes you, her brown eyes confused. "Answer what?" "What's your name?" You ask again. She rolls her eyes but a smile peeks at the corner of her mouth. "You can call me Trip." She says casually. "Your parents named you Trip?" You ask, now leaning on the cart counter. She pushes you off the counter and you laugh delighted. "It's a nickname, now are you going to buy that or what?" You fish a crumpled five dollar bill from your pocket and hand it to her. She rings it up then gives you your change. You don't leave as she seems to be waiting for you too. You simply smile. "Goodbye." She says, urging you to go. "What's your real name Trip?" You ask. "What's your real name, creepy-guy-at-the-fair?" She snaps. "You think I'm creepy?" You ask, amusement laced in your tone. "I don't know anything about you. I don't know you." "But you do." "I'm trying to work." She says. You look behind yourself but no one is in line. You half smirk at her and she stares back, defiant. You tell her your name. "In case you were wondering." You add.

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"I wasn't." She shoots back. "Don't be mean." You warn her, not without a smile. She rolls her eyes. "I have another booth to work at." She says as another worker approaches wearing a red polo that matches her own, the fair's name embroidered where a name tag should have be. "Come with me." You more tell her than ask. She doesn't seem surprised. "You don't know me." "But I do." "We're strangers." "But we're not." You lean towards her, the counter separating the two of you. She pauses considering, but then says, "I can't, I have to work." You're about to protest when she adds, "...plus I don't want to." You let out a big laugh. You can't believe you found her, yet you can't believe you forgot her. She's not just the girl from the summer you were eight. She's your own personal summer. Blonde wisps escaped her ponytail and now frame her face. You're tempted to reach out and tuck one behind her ear like she had done earlier, but you don't. The freckles sprinkled across her nose make your want to count each one like you did when the two of you were kids laying in the grass, pressed down by summer heat. "Don't lie, Trip. Have a ride with me." You offer up your cotton candy. "I'll share." She looks at your cotton candy stubbornly as she looks at you. You start to lose hope that she will ditch work until finally she shrugs. "Let me change real quick." She says, leaving the booth. You wait in the middle of the dirt walkway as people stream around you. The air is filled with some of your favorite smells. She then re-appears with a black tank top and jeans in place of her uniform polo and slacks. She catches you staring then lightly punches your arm. You rub it regretfully, thoughts it doesn't hurt, only bringing blush on your cheeks. "How about the Ferris wheel?" You suggest while noticing the inky darkness of the night that hangs like a veil just above the fair's reach. Her hands tighten in yours. "No." She says firmly. "Why not?" You ask, your face falling. "J-just no." "You scared?" You ask, a challenge behind your words. Her eyes catch yours, suddenly sparkling with a challenge. " No. I'm not scared of anything." She says the words confidently then blushes, looking away. You smile widely back, tempted to comment on her fearlessness but you let it go. "So where's the Ferris wheel?" You ask, searching the sky. She laughs.

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"Right near the front entrance, didn't you see it when you walked in?" You shrug, knowing you've always been directionally challenged. "And where's that?" You ask, embarrassed. She softly smiles; her eyes have a far-away look in them. She takes your hand and leads you reluctantly. You watch her as she leads you, ponytail bouncing, her striding with confidence. Her name is still stuck on the tip of your tongue, so you let out a few guesses. "Amitra." "What?" She asks bewildered. "Is that it?" Is that your name?" You look at her excitedly but you know it's not. It doesn't sound right. Like a musical note gone flat, or a word mispronounced. "No." "Marylin?" "No." "Josephine." "No." "Hamlet." "That's a boys name." "So it's wrong?" "Yes." She refuses to tell you her name still. As you approach the ride you see her staring at it, eyes wide with horror. "If you really are scared, we don't have to go on it." You say lightly. "I'm not scared." She insists, pulling you towards the ride. You wait in line patiently, though it goes by quickly anyway. You nudge her. "So, is this a daaaaate?" You drag out the word dramatically. "Absolutely not!" She insists, her cheeks reddening. She looks down at the ground but you can see the smile curling her lips. It only takes a few minutes and then you're up, the carnie in charge of the Wheel motions for you to get on the ride. He slams down the bar that hovers over your laps, securing you in. She hesitantly gets in, and you follow. "So, Trip..." You begin, "I think we have to kiss at the top. Not my rules. It's a law, sorry but yeah." You joke. She doesn't look at you, just towards her feet. "Ew, no." She replies but you can tell she isn't paying attention. You try to get it from her. "So...how does someone get a nickname like Trip?" You ask, honestly interested. "When I was nine, this kid told me I couldn't do all these things so I did them to prove

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ISSUE 3: YOLO

to him that I could." Her voice was high as she was babbling at top speed, obviously nervous as she stares at the ever shrinking ground below. "I stole a pack of gum and threw a snowball at a police officer, ate a raw egg...but the last thing on this kids list was for me to jump off this bridge. It wasn't very high but to us nine year olds, it was. The water was kind of rough under it and everyone was too scared to jump off, so I did. My friends begged me not to, though I would die, but that didn't stop me. I jumped off the bridge like I promised. Just when I jumped, I didn't. I tried to stop at the edge but I tripped. I tripped and fell off the bridge, doing this kind of front flip. Everyone thought I was dead but I was fine, just kind of stunned. After that everyone started calling me Trip and it just kind of stuck." She gasped and leaned back in her seat, now looking up at the stars. "Is that why you're afraid of heights now?" You ask. She swallows. "I'm not afraid of heights." She replies, but she is a terrible liar and her voice is twisted and too high for her to be telling the truth. "I'm not!" She insists, seeing your expression. You grab her and pull her closer to you in the cart. She squirms a bit under your grip but glances at the ground again and then sits there with her eyes closed. You can't help but notice how she smells like cotton candy and sunscreen, and the tiny freckles that line her shoulders and her back. You pull on her ear and she glares up at you. "So what is your real name?" You ask again for about the millionth time, not expecting a real answer. She sighs and looks down at her feet, her fingers still grasped tightly onto your shirt. "Emma." She whispers, closing her eyes again and breathing deeply. You smile broadly, now you remember. Her name was Emma. The girl you spent that summer with when you were eIght was called Emma and this interesting and bold girl sitting terrified next to you was that Emma, your Emma. "What's your middle name?" You ask. "I don't have one." "How do you not have a middle name?" You lean away to look at her and show her your aghast expression. "Not everyone has a middle name." She sighs, rolling her eyes. "So you finally caved." You laugh into her ear. She backs enough away from you to fold her arms angrily in front of her chest. "Caved into what?" Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. Now you roll your eyes and laugh.

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"You caved into telling me your name, your real name." "I don't think that was caving." "I think that most certainly counts as caving. We could call it surrendering if that sounds better to you." You tease. "Now tell me your last name." "No." "Pleeease." "Casey." "Emma no-middle-name Casey," She rolls her eyes yet again. "Can I escort you out?" Her eyes were narrow but then widen as she realizes that both of you are safely back on the ground. "You distracted me... thank you." She says, then pulls you into a quick hug. You tuck one of the stray locks behind her ear and she doesn't duck away like you half-expect her to. She lights up from within instead. You shrug, and then get out of the carriage of the Ferris wheel, extending a hand to help her off, which she ignores. Her momentary gratitude was short lived but you in no way resent it. She puts a hand on your shoulder and quickly asks, "Do you want to go on another ride or something?" You feel a grin spread across your face as you look down at her. "Why did you forget me, Emma Casey?" You ask. "Why did you forget me?" She shoots back, venom in her words. "Emma," You reach a hand up and caress her cheek. "I didn't forget you. Of course I didn't. Not really anyway. You were always there in the back of my mind, under all the other crap. Getting smothered but never really gone." "You forgot my name." She accuses. "I forget everyone's name - my own included." You reply. She hesitates before dropping her crossed arms and looking up at you. "Of course I didn't forget you. I recognized you before you even saw me." I can feel my eyes widen in surprise and my mouth form a small 'o'. Then your stomach grumbles and she giggles which is unlike her; you take her hand and lead her back the way you came. "Come on Emma, letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s go get some cotton candy!" You pull her back. "Wrong way." She shakes her head, but her grin never leaves.

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I Promise You

ISSUE 3: YOLO Alva Avve Madden

Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere, I promise. Take my hand and I’ll take you around the world. We’ll walk the beach of Bali together, just you and me. We’ll surf the waves of Australia, falling hard into the water when we lose our balance on the board. We’ll climb the mountains of Japan, we’ll even hike up Fuji. We’ll lie together in a hammock in the jungle in Chile, with me in your arms. We’ll dance all night in the clubs of Germany. We’ll even go bungee jumping, after a long time of convincing and assuring. You’ll say you hate it, but I’ll know deep inside you love the thrilling rush. We’ll buy ourselves a little house in the suburbs of America, and from there we’ll settle down. It can happen, I promise. We can do all that, I promise. I’ll be a highly-acclaimed author, with lots of writing to do. And you’ll be a successful doctor, like you always wanted to. We’ll be working odd hours, and at times we’ll barely even meet during the week, but that’s okay. It’s okay. We’re used to being apart, aren’t we? We’ll make it work. Before we settle down, we’ll be living in a small apartment in Manhattan, won’t we? We will, I promise! That was my dream, not yours, but you gave it up for me. You’ll give it all up for me, you said. You said that you didn’t care, just as long we were together. I promise you, you said that. Your dream was to move away, wasn’t it? Away from your home country, you wanted to Asia, you said. But you said you’d give it up for me. You said we will never be apart, you promised that. You said it would PAGE 11

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always be us. And I promised you all those plans. I said to you, as I cried, and I said you’d promise you’d make it there. You actually had promised to take me there. But you became weak. Your faith let you down. No, you weren’t weak, your body was. Your cells began dividing, too much, too fast. Too many for your body to handle. They formed lumps in your beautiful belly, and I guess everyone knows what happened next. You said goodbye to me, one night on the beach. You said you’d always love me, and I told you that you were an asshole for letting go, for giving up. On you, on me, on us. I asked you what you thought I was supposed to do know once you were not with me anymore. You said you wanted me to tell you about all the places we’d go. We’d go to Iceland to run around in the snow, and then fall on top of each other. We’d sit quietly on a restaurant in Cape Town, both of us just reading a book. We’d go to the opera in Sydney, and you’d hush at me for laughing. And I promised you that we’d do that, if you’d only let me to. And you said, that we’ll go there. We’ll get there someday. And I just couldn’t believe you. I promise you, I never did.

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DETAILS

ISSUE 3: YOLO

Klaudia Wiski

I left my mundane office job early this afternoon, hopped in my car and headed for my house. The clear skies outside of my fishtank of a car paint a smile on my face with their cloudless perfection. Latch by Disclosure comes on the radio and I roll my window down. I'm enjoying the wind in my hair and thinking about the wonderful day ahead. I take a hot shower, after which I take some time to myself as I search for a little bit of reassurance and maybe a slight confidence boost from my Facebook and Instagram feedback. I'm not proud. I sit butt naked, phone in hand in my bed until it's time to get ready. I make myself half presentable and practically

skip

out

the

door.

I'm

bursting

with

excitement, and not only from the half of a pot of coffee

drank

just

few

short

hours

prior.

expectations for the afternoon are high and quickly fulfilled as I walk the hardwood floors of one of the cutest boutiques around. I talk to a coworker on the phone and continue to circle the jewelry stand as I wait

Now I have baggage and I don't cling. It freaks people out, makes them think I'm damaged

for Charlotte to make her way to the mellow mushroom next door. We eat, drink, laugh and I walk away with a blue moon pint glass. With permission might I add. Katie, Charlotte and I make our way back to charlottes place where we meet Brendan. For the first time in a while I'm in a room with four people and none of them want to sleep with me. None of us are the type of girls that really get along well with other girls so this little group we have recently formed is very promising. Katie and Brendan go over a wedding song list as Charlotte and I pack for her upcoming move. A little bit if sadness managed to consume me, but only for a moment. Married at 20 and separated at 23 makes you grow up a little faster than you may want to. Living with your parents at 24 and starting practically from scratch will make you appreciate the little things. A seven year relationship that turns from burden to the most difficult decision you've ever made has the ability to make you almost numb to any sorts of emotions. When you give almost a third of your life to someone only to walk

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away with nothing to show for it other emotions flowing through become easy to disregard. Now I have baggage and I don't cling. It freaks people out, makes them think I'm damaged. I completely understand why someone would jump to that conclusion based on the facts presented. I have an odd belief about relationships. I'm an observer by nature. I sit, watch and listen. I pay attention to how people talk, their body language and how hard they're actually trying. It never seizes to amaze me how one sided most relationships tend to be. One person is always emotionally dependent on the other person and can hardly imagine their life alone. I never understood that. Why would you put your happiness in someone else's hands? Who are they to decide when you smile? I think we should enjoy people for who they are when and how we can. When they move on, for whatever reason, we should let them go. Accept that we learned and grew from their presence in out lives. We then should take those lessons and being them into the lives of others along with the lessons we've learned from anyone else we've ever encountered. People are the true doorways in life. Doorways to adventures, opportunities, relationships, lessons and experiences. Those doors will shape and mold us as we squeeze through and explore what's waiting on the other side. I have adapted a very positive outlook on life and I find it almost ironic that it is 11:53pm and I am wrapping this up while practically melting into Charlotte's couch. I stumbled upon this contest today and couldn't believe how much I could relate to the topic. The idea that you only live once and every moment should be enjoyed. It's so often that we pin little pleasures to our "inconveniences" list when we should be driving out to the lake just to watch the sunset. Moments like that should never be taken for granted. We are so quick to allow to day to day consume us. Remember the people you surround yourself with will ultimately mold the future you so surround yourself with people you adore and admire, remind yourself that each day is a new opportunity to do whatever you want. One even said, "Today is the oldest you have ever been and the youngest you will ever be.â&#x20AC;?

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Rebuild Sometimes when a structure is compromised, you can let it topple to start over, building anew and learning from mistakes or oversights. Photo by Dave Steinberg

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SIGNS

ISSUE 3: YOLO

Celeste Rehmel

I sat in one of those plastic chairs from elementary school, those terrible brown ones with the silver buttons that pull your hair every time you leaned back. I shifted my weight uncomfortably, trying to find the best position in both the chair and the situation. I took a moment to look up from my intense study of the floor and find that the other dozen or so chairs arranged in a circle had come to be occupied. All those people were staring at me questioningly. “Why are you here?”, their gazes seemed to ask. Almost contemplating leaving the room and just going back home, I reverted my eyes back to the ground and wondered, Why am I here? I could easily see why everyone else was. I could see the glazed eyes, the yellow, nicotine-stained fingernails. I could see the spinning heads, poisoned by alcohol. I could see the substance-contaminated bodies writhing with desire. But I had none of these signs. I heard the young, sort-of-attractive man in a plaid flannel button-down and a beanie in the center of the circle say, “Alright, looks like everyone’s here. Who would like to start?” Not looking up from the floor, I didn’t react and I asked myself once again, Why am I here? The girl immediately to the right of me started speaking. “My name is Lauren and-” My mind replaced her rough, smoker’s voice with my own quiet and subdued one, substituting her sentence for the one I had told myself over and over again. The one I swore I was actually going to say aloud today. I pictured myself standing in front of all these people, and strongly saying, “My name is Amelia and-” My mind was so scattered. I had to stop and remind myself what I was doing here in the first place. Then I let my thoughts wander, and started at the beginning.

4th grade. That was the year I realized that not everyone was going to like me, and decided that no one ever would. That was the year I started to analyze myself in order to find that one fatal flaw; that one thing that made everyone hate me. Why did everyone hate me? What could I do to make them accept me? No matter what I did, it was weird or stupid or ignorant. To this day, I haven’t been able to narrow it down to one thing. There are too many things wrong with me. Too many imperfections. I wrung my hands in my lap as the list scrolled through my head, like the endless

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credits after a movie. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough. Not talented enough. Not caring enough. Not strong enough. Not assertive enough. Not reliable enough.

Not good enough. I remembered the summer before my sophomore year, and I sighed. What a summer. The summer of my first kiss, but also the summer of my first broken heart, my first real fight with my dad, my first attempt at running away and my first thoughts about- I shoved that train of thought out of my mind entirely, or at least tried to. Nevertheless, my leg started to bounce up and down anxiously, and my hands trembled. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and re-opened them. Images flashed through my mind and I pushed every one of them away as soon as they appeared. The way he looked at me before he kissed me; anxious and longing. My backpack sitting by the door to my room, packed and waiting for me to snap. The page of my Bible telling me to stay, to stick it out. The way I looked as I stared in the mirror after my father said the most contradicting words I'd ever heard. Those words echoed within my skull. “Why can't you do anything right?” That's not what made me upset though. I'd asked myself that a million times before. What started the desperation and loneliness was those words directly followed by the phrase my father used whenever he didn't know what else to say to make me stop crying. “I love you and I'm proud of you.”

“Why can't you do anything right?”

It got to the point where I didn't believe him. Those words actually used to comfort me, but as time went on, they became mundane. Words that had no meaning. I scoffed at him in my head. (I didn't have the courage to do it aloud.) How dare he say that? How dare he try to hug me and tell me he's not mad at me for messing everything up again? How dare he? There was a reason I didn't tell him anything. He didn't really know me, and he didn't want to. He wanted to think I was his perfect little girl, when he knew I wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but it was true. He wanted me to be perfect, “just like him”. Well he could forget that. I promised myself a long time ago that I would never become like him. The memories continued to flash through my head. I remembered those fears sophomore and junior year of being left alone. I remembered the fear of screwing my life up, which I was continuously reminded of. It was as if my dad was standing

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right next to me, I could hear his voice so clearly. “Everything you do today has the potential to change your whole life, so you better not screw anything up.” I remembered the feeling of terror and panic I always felt. Wait. I didn’t have to remember it, because it never left. I continued to stare at the school-room tile beneath my feet, trying to distract myself by attempting to count the gray flecks against the white background. I wanted the feeling to stop. I knew it never would, though. I gave up counting before I'd really started. I listed all the things people expected of me. All A’s in school. Make All-State Band. Make Governor’s School for the Arts. Become fluent in sign language. Get into an Ivy League college. Always obey everything mother and father say. And I remembered I hadn’t been able to do any of them. I’d failed. Instinctively, my hand reached towards my stomach and I clawed at the skin though my shirt. My struggle to suppress my memories collapsed right at that very moment. That first night, the very night I was trying so hard to forget, flooded my memory so vividly that it seemed like it was happening all over again. My whole body began to shake as I remembered every detail. I watched myself as I lit a match and inhaled the sweet, woody smell of smoke floating off of the match stick between my fingers. It burned my nose. The stench became more pungent as I placed the flame nearer my body and the hair on my skin turned from blonde to a scorched black. Then the heat licked at my flesh and I sighed. My hand twitched in a kind of erratic dance, greatly resembling the flame itself as the fire ate away at my flesh. There was a strange feeling in my stomach that said this was wrong, but at the same time, this was, oh, so right. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I had promised him, and myself for that matter, that I would never do this. I was always the Good Kid who wouldn’t ever do anything bad. Within my top 10 things I would never do was hurt myself and forget my homework. But let’s be honest. I’d forgotten my homework a million times before. Why not ignore the other promise, too? It was too late, anyway. The match burnt out and I reached for another one, immediately striking it against the box. The process repeated and my whole body began to shake. As long as the flame was against my skin, I felt relief and relaxation. As long as there was

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pain, I forgot everything else. The scene changed in my mind, but only slightly, the only difference being the stars shining through the slits in the blinds. I fell asleep early, with a slight tremor in my hands. When I woke up, it was still dark out and the tremor has spread to my entire body. I clutched at my stomach, scratching at my burns with my fingernails and making them bleed. I could feel the urge to get up, cross the room and grab the box of matches, perfectly in its place on my desk. Instead, I curled up tighter in my blankets and dug my nails into the blisters. I couldn't risk the smell of smoke drifting throughout the house. I felt tears of desperation begin to gather in my eyes and I willed myself not to cry. I could just imagine my mother’s voice saying, “Don’t cry too much. You’ll wake up with red eyes and people will think you’re high.” So instead, I imagined the sting of the flame against my stomach and my breathing slowed slightly. I slowly drifted back to sleep, imagining the temporary bliss of pure agony. Then I remembered the day I gave away my precious box of matches. I thought I could stop as long as they were somewhere I couldn’t get them. But I soon found out that wasn’t entirely true. It wasn’t even about why I started in the first place anymore. I had lost all feeling since I had begun. It was about finding that feeling I had lost since. Proving to myself that I wasn’t numb, that I could still feel something when no one else was around. Soon after my matches were out of sight, I found a knife. Placing it to the skin next to the burns on my stomach I pressed down as hard as I could and drug the blade across my skin. A red line was left, but no cut was made. I tried again and again, trying to make some kind of mark. Discouraged, I moved to my forearm. I had a fleeting thought of good thing it’s winter, and I swiped the knife in a perfect line. I watched a bead of blood, beautifully red, form at one point in the opening. I smiled a little to myself, and repeated the steps. Over and over and over and over...I had to know the pain wasn’t only because of everyone else. I had to convince myself that I was the one who caused all the fear and failure. I was the one whoI stopped mid-thought and looked up. Everyone was staring at me, expecting me to say something. I froze, my thoughts stuck in the longest moments of my life. The

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ones I'd spent right outside the door to the room I was in now. I stood, my legs about to give way, my breath coming fast,

and shallow. I stared

at the door. Should I go in? Or should I turn and run? I can handle this on my own, I don’t need these people, I thought, but then someone pushed me to the side, trying to get through the door. They elbowed me in the stomach accidentally and I flinched. I knew I couldn't fix myself, but I didn't want to admit that. Who would? I didn't want to be like this. I was hurting people, not just myself. But why should I care? They all hurt me anyway... It was then that the person I had become began to genuinely scare me. How could I think such terrible things? How could I let myself give in to that? But, no matter how much I hated it or how much it terrified me, I couldn't make the thoughts go away. I couldn't stop on my own, and I knew it. I also knew that if I didn't stop, I'd be dead in a matter of time. I didn't want to die...I didn't want to be hopeless the rest of my potentially short life. So I reached for the doorknob. Slowly. My arm itched for spilled blood. My focus suddenly centered on the moment I was sitting in, everyone staring at me, awaiting the moment all my problems would be revealed. I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath in, letting it rattle out of my lungs soon after. “Hello, my name is...” I said, and I felt tears start to leak out of my eyes. I choked on a sob and forced myself to start over. “My name is Amelia and I can’t stop hurting myself.”

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No Guilt

ISSUE 3: YOLO Shafa Rashid

Her chipped, crimson nail traced rings around the rim of the nearly empty bottle of alcohol. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the car seat as another wave of nausea hit her. She ran her fingers over the bangles around her wrist. Something twisted in her stomach and she wrenched them off, ignoring the angry red marks they left on her skin. Breathing hard, she tried to roll down the window quickly. It was stuck. She swore before pushing the door of the car open and flinging them out. Away from her. She rubbed her wrist, breathing more easily. Combing her fingers through her tangled hair, she looked up at the house in front of her. “Asleep.” She said in a hoarse whisper. “Are you?” Her trembling fingers found the small handgun from the passenger seat and she got off, not bothering to close the car door. She stumbled through the dry leaves scattered across the lawn and reached the front porch. Easily reaching above the door, she retrieved a silver key which she pushed into the lock. The cool autumn wind blew some leaves into the house as she took off her shoes and threw them onto the grass. Closing the door softly behind her, she breathed in the familiar smell of the house she had spent every afternoon of this last year. The legs gave way and she wretched, gun slipping out of her hand with a loud thump. Her fingers fisted into her skirt as she gasped, trying to keep the memories away for just a little bit longer. Until it was over. There were reminders everywhere she looked, every time she moved. She grabbed the gun and let rage consume her body. She held the weapon more firmly in her grasp, making her way up the staircase in the dark, every step etched into her memory. When she reached the bedroom door she had came for, she stopped, expecting some kind of voice from inside her head telling her to stop, to think again. None came. So she turned the door knob and quietly stepped inside the room. His brown hair fell over his eyes, moonlight caressing his face gently. Eyelashes rested on his cheeks, he looked peaceful. She walked closer to the bed and thought maybe she looked this peaceful last night, just before he snatched away her peace. Her sanity. Her right to say no. Her right to her own body. She slipped her fingers into his hair and tugged back his head. His eyes flew open as he gasped, pulling himself away. “A...Amy-” His eyes dropped to the black object in her hand. “What’s- what are you doing here?”

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Amy laughed. “Wow. Feels a bit like de ja vu, doesn’t it, Nick?” She cocked her head to the side, looking into his light brown eyes. “Only it’s the other way round. Oh and I have a gun.” They both stared at it for a moment before Nick spoke carefully. “Amy look, sit down. Lets talk it out. I was drunk and-” “You’re lying.” She spat, fury spilling into her words. “And even if you were, which you weren’t, its not a bloody excuse to rape.” She raised the gun, pointing at his chest. “Tell me, Nick. Is being drunk an excuse that’s good enough?” His eyes widened in fear as she stepped onto the bed, standing over him, a foot on either side of his chest. He shook his head. “Amy listen to me-” “No!” she yelled. “Shut up. Shut up! I trusted you!” Amy dropped to her knees, sitting on his stomach. “Why did you do it?” She asked quietly. “I want to know why, Nick. Answer me.” She traced his cheek bone with the barrel of the gun, fighting the impulse to shove it into his face. She brought it lower and stopped at his left shoulder. “No answer, huh?” She pressed it into his flesh and pulled the trigger. Nick’s painful cries followed the loud bang; Amy was sure half the town had heard. She placed a hand gently on his forehead, begging his silence. “It's okay.” Her fingers dipped themselves in the blood oozing out of his shoulder. “Isn't that what you said to me when I was screaming?” “Amy-” Nick gasped through the pain. His quivering hand tried to cover the wound but she pushed it away. “Please. Please, help me...somebody,” He tried yelling. “Amy, I’m sorry.” Amy leaned in, bringing her lips close to his ear. “I swore to myself,” she whispered. “That I wouldn’t kill you if I saw guilt in your eyes. I saw understanding. I saw fear. I saw helplessness.” She brought the gun to rest over his heart. “Amy-” “I saw no guilt.” She punctuated her last word by planting a bullet in his heart. She looked up and their eyes met for only a millisecond. She watched the life leave his eyes. But she knew a person didn’t always have to be physically dead for that to happen. Her fingers were coated in his warm blood by the time she vaguely registered sirens and the door being kicked open downstairs. Heavy footsteps were followed by men in uniform bursting into the room, hands grabbing her and the gun being snatched away. They were saying something but she could only stare at the blood on her hands. She felt no guilt.

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A Billet Doux to an enstranged lover Aditya Kumar Jha

Dear Artemis, I want to be your book. Hardbound, cream hued, stained with ebony ink. Page after page, I want your fingers to run through me as I pour into you an infinity. I want to jade you, wound you with merciless words of loss, ache and death. Wilt with you as your tears melt my being, seeping into me the pain you have felt. But my stories cannot all be dreary, there will be March of blooming joy as I turn the page and you will find that mirth cannot be far behind. I want to you to stir your soul and mark your ephemeral memory, so even if you have to leave to attend to life’s other oddities there shall be a bookmark decorating me - goading you to resume reading me. I will let you have the liberty of dog folds and slanting underlines, but only so that I can read you as you read me and we create mutual minds. I want to tell you of stories I am populated by: of a Dante whose soul traversed the purgatory, a Darcy who birthed lust for charm and chivalry, of a Precious Ring, six dead wives and their ruthless King, and Eragon and his dragon’s egg and a talking Lion who struck the Ice Queen dead. There will be tales of a libido driven Doctor and his nubile Lolita, of a ceaseless wait for Love in the time of Cholera, of the promise of a thousand times over and of a Boy who lived, who fought the Dark Lord with magical might, of a Sherlock and his genius alchemy and of Shellys, Byrons and Derozios and their delicious blasphemy. But fair warning, banish me to Hell’s seventh circle when you wish for me to tell you of a vampire who sparkled.

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I want you to take good care of my small domain as I grow old and my print begins to fade and the spine weakens and breaks. I want a book jacket preferably hand-made, with my name scribbled on it. The workshop will have to build me anew but don’t make me bland, dull and brown; I want to be vivid, colourful from cover to cover, my hues to run unbound. Your friends will wish to borrow me; I will become their favoured company. I am built to please minds swelled with curiosity, be wary of wars you’ll wage to demand back my custody. I want you to read me on paper and not on screen, for there is no intimacy when you cannot touch me. You will be my worm, licking me as I percolate new words into your vocabulary. You will question and dissent, argue and comment; I won’t take credit but the knowledge shall stem from the very roots of me. You will curl under a quilt but your freezing tips shall peruse and tickle me. And when you forget the toothbrush and paste, but never forget to carry me even when in such ungodly haste; I will be flattered and never leave your side as you journey through land, water or the skies. I want a shelf for me. I have lain beside you night after night weaving a phantasmagorical maze, watching you imagine lovers, lights, fields, fights, magic, mice, centuries and days. I have given you an eternity, and now that my place is no longer beside that brilliant head of yours, lolling in the stupor of slumber I want my own space. But even when you’re done and decided to put me away, do return for I assure you “a precious, mouldering pleasure it is to meet an antique book”. Especially your book, Artemis.

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Force-Feed The Realists

Leo Karakolov

They say I romanticize all that I do Well, allow me to try something new, just for you! If you can’t tell I’m angered, keep up with my tone My brain’s full of chemicals for a girl, blood and bone Is that heartless enough for you? Boring enough? The love you don’t feel, both your jail and your cuffs So I see her differently? Oh, boo hoo, you false critics! Cry fucking rivers; don’t forget I’m a cynic! Yes, she brings light to my sky every night. Yes, she’s one of my reasons to fight. No, if you push me, I’ll never fight fair. No, expectations aren’t all that I’ll tear! When it comes to my feeling, when push comes to shove I’ll break all your fingers, my heart chose her to love! So if you all refuse to back down, guess we’re stuck, Sure, she’s imperfect, and I don’t give a fuck!

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Reviews Confessions / Kokuhaku (2010)

Director: Tetsuya Nakashima Writers: Tetsuya Nakashima, Kanae Minato (original novel)

Starring: Takako Matsu, Yukito Nishii, Kaoru Fijiwara, Ai Hashimoto

Review by Leys One final lesson. It begins in a classroom. A young homeroom teacher, Yuko Moriguchi (Takako Matsu), calmly and nonchalantly delivers a long drawn out lecture to her class who blatantly disregard her presence. As Moriguchi’s

discussion

persists,

the

class

realizes that something is wrong. Despite the seemingly calm and kind facade their homeroom teacher wears, her words gradually grow darker and more sinister until the whole class is riveted and disturbed by her lecture. They think she’s gone crazy. They’re right. Unflinchingly, Moriguchi drops the bombshell that starts the spiral of madness. Two of her students killed her daughter... and she wants them to pay for their crime. The movie opens with an amazing yet terrifying hook. Moriguchi’s morbid monologue was accentuated by the astonishingly realistic performances of her class and intensified by the stunning and ingenious cinematography and musical score. The build-up was perfect as was the pacing of the scenes. We know that something terrible had happened but we are given the information slowly in small amounts and in different and contrasting angles so, as a result, throughout the film a feeling of dread weighs in the pit of our stomach. The

film,

however,

doesn’t

just

revolve

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around

Moriguchi

and

her

masterfully

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orchestrated revenge. Confessions constantly shifts to different points of view and showed how different characters got sucked into the gruesome tale. First person narration was brilliantly applied so the viewer could really understand the psyche of the students involved. Because of such technique, we can’t really hate one particular character regardless of how ruthless and uncaring they seemed in the first part of the film. We are given profound glimpses into the mind of uncertain teenagers as they eventually suffer the consequences of their actions. The characters are so well developed that one can’t help but sympathize with them during the course of the movie. It was almost impossible to tell who was the most evil. The way the class of fourteen-year-olds handled their teacher’s confession was cruel and vindictive. Because it had nothing to do with most of them, they didn’t care. They showed no signs of sympathy or regret. They were carefree and stoic to their classmate’s suffering, to their teacher’s agony – their indifference was terrifying, even more so because it was felt so real. Each and every character was complicated and convincing. Their objectives, fears, and emotions were accurately portrayed by the stunningly talented cast. Majority of the characters were played by child actors and all of them were fantastic despite being so young. From Takako Matsu’s role as a broken mother with a thirst for vengeance to Yukito Nishii’s role as the emotionally impaired genius desperately trying to get back something he had lost, the acting in Confessions was superb. Even the minor characters such as the class of thirteen-year-olds played their parts perfectly. The looks of boredom, hostility, and cruelty looked so sincere that it was unsettling. Savagely dark and brutally poignant, the cinematography of Confessions will leave you astounded by its clever use of seemingly innocent and normal scenes juxtaposed with the cold-hearted tragic storyline and the deeper issues that plague it. It was an innovative approach to drama and psychological thriller. The musical score that is both cheeky and disquieting

will

give

you

chills.

The

cheery

soundtrack

represented

how

deep

and

complicated childhood and children can be, something that most of us older viewers tend to forget sometimes.

Confessions is Tetsuya Nakashima’s first psychological thriller film. Nakashima is best known for his comedy movies - such as the incredible Kamikaze Girls - yet watching

Confessions you never would have guessed it. The movie received countless awards locally and internationally and it deserved every single one of them.

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Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides Review by Leys “I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day of January 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency

room

near

Petoskey,

Michigan,

August of 1974...” If there was ever a tremendously ambitious novel

that

seemed

rejoice

touching

particularly sensitive subjects such as incest and hermaphroditism but handled them not just appropriately but also gracefully, it would be Eugenides’s tour de force, Middlesex. A story, no, an epic about a Greek-American who suffers from

5-Alpha-Reductase

Deficiency,

otherwise

known as hermaphroditism, and two generations of family scandals and secrets, Middlesex is a delightfully inventive piece of literature that deserved winning the 2002 Pulitzer Prize. The

novel

brilliantly

imagined

and

cleverly plotted. It talks about Calliope Stephanides, a Greek American who, up until she reached the peak of puberty, was unaware of the recessive mutation in her fifth chromosome that literally changed her life overnight.

Though the book centers around

Calliope and her transition to Cal, the novel encompasses more than just his life but his family’s as well. Middlesex is divided into four books. The first and second book narrates the story of Cal’s grandparents and his parents, the third and fourth are all about Calliope and her strange and painful but ultimately beautiful journey to finding her real identity. We are also given in depth accounts of several people who, though directly related by blood, are completely different from each other which gives the story its complexity and tenderness. The novel has as many twists and turns as the

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mythological Labyrinth of Crete. It has more than just personal and private conflicts that antagonize the characters; Middlesex also touches upon social and racial conflicts in the early seventies and how those affected the community Cal grew up in. Eugenides really outdone himself with this book. The writing is gorgeous and clever, the kind that any reader would want to savour in their mouth for a few seconds before turning the next page. Whether it’s on a battle-scarred village in Asia Minor or in the glory days of Motor City Detroit, Eugenides paints perfect pictures of his profound story with his remarkable gift for words. There’s a lyrical quality to his writing that can really draw the reader in and a bit of cheekiness that can keep anyone’s attention. The characters in Middlesex were exceptionally vivid. Eugenides gives the readers colorful personalities that are not only realistic but also enjoyable to read about. Every character in the book is given the right amount of attention and, by the end, we know what drives them to do what they do or what held them back from doing what the reader knows is the right thing However, it should be said that although one of the book’s signature asset and strength is its extremely detailed narration of the Stephanides’ family history,

Middlesex’s concentration on the little but significant tidbits of Desdemona and Lefty’s (Cal’s grandparents) move to Detroit as well as Tessie and Milton’s flirtation is also what many consider to be one of the things that dragged the plot to an almost sluggish pace. The narrator, Cal, is rather omniscient and although his narration is witty and delightful, the exhaustive way he described events that occurred before his parents were even born was a bit too far-fetched. Ironically, Cal spends so much time piecing together the puzzle of his genetic history that only half of the book is dedicated to his own life. Because of this, the last half of the book feels a bit rushed and abrupt. Most even feel like they hardly got to know Cal at all.

Middlesex is an enchanting novel about finding your true self and developing enough courage and self-acceptance to fight for it. It’s a story about one Greek family’s life in America and their struggles to achieve the American dream. The novel is intimate and sweet but also cynical and funny, an epic worth the time and energy.

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White Album 2 Mikki (First Published on Deremoe.com)

White Album 2 follows the story of a popular visual of the same name. Set 10 years after the original story in White Album, it focuses on the entanglements of three high school students as they try to sift through love, music, and growing up. While the first animated series was adjudged a failure, WA2 was seen to be a better series, though I’m not sure if I could second to that observation since I haven’t watched the first one. But in itself, the show’s good. You get a basket of nice tunes, there’s a love story, and it’s about teenagers so most anime fans could relate to it somewhat, though I would admit they wouldn’t bear watching it due to the raging teenage hormones in it. There’s basically three characters in this story: Haruki, a romantic guy who has a strong passion for the guitar and could be perverted at times; Setsuna, a singer who just wants to please everyone but fails to make friendships and Touma, a

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talented pianist who wastes her skill due to her depressive bouts. When Haruki scrambles to rebuild the light music club in time for the annual school fair, fate makes him meet the two girls. The story circles around how they bond with one another through music, then later on finding themselves in a dilemma when love intervenes in the friendship. White Album 2 tends to take things slow since there’s not much to discuss in the series anyway – half of the series just focuses on the build-up of the Light Music Club, their practices, and the actual performance. The other half then shifts gear to how their friendship is tested when romantic and sexual attractions come into play. Setsuna and Haruki became a couple, in which Touma pretends she doesn’t give a damn when in fact she’s being hurt so much. But then Setsuna knows all along that Haruki and Touma love each other, finding herself a villain in this love story. Sounds like the typical soap opera or late night radio call, right? How amusing it is to see teenagers think beyond their years when it comes to love. Haruki actually reminds me of that jerk in KimiMachi whose presence have just complicated things, while Setsuna in my perspective can’t be understood especially with the irrationality of her decisions. Touma, on the other hand, had the best character development from being an antisocial to someone coming out of her shell. About the technical details, you don’t really look for such in this show since you’re just focused with the plot. One might focus more with the music and the songs featured, which sounds actually nice. An additional surprise is how WA2 dared to be “mature” with some scenes, even featuring one of the pairings making out (though the scene was creatively blurred). The plot might be predictable, but at least you’ll know what to expect so that you can just focus on the emotions to be blurted out. I almost cried when Touma confessed her feelings to Haruki and they were fighting in the street as the try to fight off a kiss. I guess it’s a powerful scene worthy for nomination for best moments in romantic anime. White Album 2 might have been a predictable teenage drama but the execution was satisfying enough for a casual fix. Since the current roster of episodes focused only on the Introductory Chapter of the VN, I am expecting a second season to fully close this off.

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Mitch Albom Book Signing Cebu City, Philippines Leys x Richard Nikki Yu Cafifge February

23,

Sunday

–

first read a Mitch Albom book two years ago but had heard of his name and his books even before that. At the time, though I had read snippets of his works through social media, I had only a vague notion as to what kind of author Albom was and what kind of books to expect from him. The book that I read first was For One More Day. It had less than two hundred pages and the type the publication house used was spacious and fairly large so I knew that I could finish reading it in one day, maybe even in one sitting. I was right on both terms. I distinctly remember reading, and subsequently finishing, it during Physics class, when our sir went AWOL yet again. The room was noisy and restless but I hardly heard anyone or anything at all because I was too lost in Albom’s story. By the time I reached the last few chapters, I was kicking myself for reading such a book in a public place. The hot tears prickled behind my eyes as I finished it, feeling a hundred emotions at once. I became a Mitch Albom fan right then and there. Two years after my first (though definitely not my last) Albom book, something incredible happened: National Bookstore announced that Mitch Albom was coming to the Philippines. I was ecstatic. For weeks National Bookstore proudly showcased Albom’s books on a special table and readers of all ages raced

surprising

buy

them.

seeing

That

was

Albom’s

not books

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contain a sweet sincerity in them that can really hook the reader in, regardless of whether or not that person likes reading books in particular. Albom’s novels are short but incredibly powerful and inspiring that even those who say that they don’t “really read books for fun” can’t help but fall in love with Albom’s words. On the day of the book signing, I was nervous and excited at the same time. Due to family reasons, I arrived in Ayala at around 12 noon, two hours after registration started. I knew that the venue was going to be packed with people but I wasn’t expecting just how packed it was going to be. I later learned that people had lined up for registration hours before Ayala even opened. When I was finally registered, there wasn’t a seat left unoccupied.

around

physically

and

looked

felt the excitement in the air and heard the delicious

sound

pages being turned as bookworms

every

corner waited for Mitch Albom. There wasn’t a single

person

venue

that

the

wasn’t

holding Albom’s latest book, The First Phone Call from Heaven. I was surrounded by booklovers on all sides. It was glorious. Before anyone knew it, the clock struck two in the afternoon and I noticed that people got even more restless than before. Everyone was craning their heads to see the man himself ride down the glass elevator. Groups of people cried out Albom’s name and every so often bursts of applause cut through the cacophonous crowd. When a lady from National Bookstore announced the arrival of Mitch Albom, the audience cheered so loud that the whole mall seemed to shake. My first thought was that Mitch Albom looked a lot less intimidating than his promotional pictures made him seem. He was funny and insightful, an overall humble man unspoiled by the fame his books has given him. He first talked a bit about his past and how he hadn’t really planned on being a writer. Mitch Albom was a musician first before he dabbled in journalism for a small newspaper. Even he was surprised at how people seemed to

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like his stories in the newspaper. When he wrote Tuesdays with Morrie, he never expected for it to become such a bestseller. He even joked that he was initially afraid that he’d have to give out free copies of Tuesdays with Morrie whenever he went out because it might have not sold any at all. Mitch Albom stressed that a person can do incredible things when they’re doing it for someone else. That was obviously the case for him with Tuesdays with Morrie which considered as The Most Successful Memoir by a lot of people. Albom also talked about his charity projects to help those affected by Typhoon Haiyan (local name Yolanda). He told us about the local foundations he was helping in and truly inspired everyone with his philanthropy. He was a busy man with a big heart. After the short interview, the

book

Hundreds registered

signing of

began.

people

but

Mitch

had Albom

promised that he would stay put crowd

until had

everyone their

the

turn.

The

audience cheered in happiness. My registration number was 541 so I had to wait for hours. I didn’t mind a bit though. It was incredible seeing such an awe-inspiring man resiliently sign book after book and pose for just as many pictures. His smile never faded and he showed no signs of stopping even after three hours of non-stop signing and posing. Every so often he’d walk to the audience and offer to take a group picture. Nothing seemed to quell his spirits. I waited for nearly five hours that day. I watched scores of people approach Albom – some brave enough to exchange a few words, others even hugged him – shake his hand, and then get their picture taken with him. By the time my turn finally came, I was a mess of nerves and shakes. I shook his hand and, before I could even say anything, he thanked me for coming. Before I knew it, I was smiling at the camera. The encounter couldn’t have lasted more than a minute but I treasured every second of it. I walked down the platform with a grin on my face and a pleasant flutter in my chest. It was an unforgettable experience that inspired me to write even more. Mitch Albom, I salute you.

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We are The Writers' Avenue We give writers a place to be heard.

Get in touch with us http://writersavenueph.tumblr.com http://facebook.com/writersavenueph http://twitter.com/writersavenueph writersavenue@outlook.com

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THE WRITERS' AVENUE

ISSUE 3: YOLO

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