Writer to Writer Issue 8, Fall 2023 by writertowriterumich

Writer to Writer

A journal by writers, for writers

Writer to Fall 2023

Issue 08

Writer to Writer

a journal for writers, by writers Editor-in-Chief Talia Belowich Submissions Chair Merin McCullum Operations Chair Andrew Smedley Art and Design Chair Lydia Kado Editors Dustin Masker Haley Newland Amber Hashmi Uma Kulkarni Abby Willcox Michelle Liao Julia Housey Addie Steele Faculty Advisor Shelley Manis

ISSUE 8 FALL 2023

Letter from the Editor

Dear reader, Welcome to the eighth edition of Writer to Writer, a literary journal written by writers, for writers, in collaboration with the Sweetland Center for Writing. Through this organization, we aim to foster interdisciplinary creativity across a variety of modes, mediums and genres. This semester, under new leadership, Writer to Writer expanded our mission to focus on the growth of our membership. Through a series of weekly creative writing workshops, our members were able to hone both their creative writing and editorial skillsets to further advance as professionals and academics. In the latter half of the semester, our focus shifted to publication production. The editorial staff met weekly to share ideas, review submissions, and work together to compose the latest edition of our literary journal. Within this issue, you will find pieces that all touch upon common themes of life, love, and loss. From poems about grief to stories about batteling body image, we hope that you see yourself in this wonderful microcosm of writing and that you enjoy the stories our writers have chosen to share. As always, our journal strives to celebrate multimodality in writing as well as the individual writing process for different writers with our “Spotlight Interviews.” You can find snippets of these interviews with featured writers in the publication itself, and you can read them in full on our website. Lastly, this journal would not be possible without the generous support of the Sweetland Center for Writing, especially from our wonderful faculty advisor Dr. Shelley Manis.

Her incredible mentorship and willingness to help has been critical in the successful operations of our organization and our continuing growth as a young publication. To Shelley, the Sweetland Center for Writing, the contributing writers, and to you, the reader, we are so grateful. Thank you all for your support. Sincerely, Talia Belowich Editor in Chief Writer to Writer

Table of Contents 7

Bloom Julie Zhou

Kids Leanne Mercier

Today I Breathe in Aileen Dosev

Sea Lion (Natasha) Aileen Dosev

Sea Salt Aileen Dosev

His Last Christmas Owen Hee

People Pleaser Fiona Kiefer

Table of Contents

Halloween is my Father Fiona Kiefer

In the Garden of Slumber Qiying Feng

Empowered Erin Knape

Forough Farrokhzad Tina Shina

The Diner Haley Newland

Resistance Is Hanqi Shang

Masked Anonymous

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Snowflakes fall like ash Madelyn Chau

Saltwater Madelyn Chau

Learning to Live Again Lily Shaman

Finding Clouds in Gray Paint Kaitlyn Sabb

Kuelap Ethan Malaver

Julie Zhou

BLOOM Honesty is not a virtue. Why would you take away that strength to breathe a breath of life behind the door of death? Death is not not a virtue. Why, that breath you breathe fuels the blossoms of my azalea.

Leanne Mercier

KIDS Strange, foreign creatures Filled with disease and nonsense, But also of innocence and joy As absorbent as a sponge to the world around them But I can’t allow them to absorb The poison that spews from my mouth Or let them be brittle From a lack of everything For I am a creature of starvation Barely able to feed myself

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Aileen Dosev

TODAY I BREATHE INI P2 particles & Canada maple & dead grandmas & two cups of black tea & dreams & tiktok gospel & car exhaust & 10 ways to get slimmer & it’s time to close instagram & road racoons & the neighbors & katie’s first EP & dried womb in my underwear & folded laundry & red-rimmed eyes & my mama’s burnout & drowned billionaires & it’s time to close Instagram & refugees & BBC & prayer beads & chocolate crumbs & summer sweat & my swallow mouth, still gaping.

Aileen Dosev

SEA LION (NATASHA) I don’t know which is more intoxicating, the ocean spray or you our curious affection is the braying of sea lions rolling over the bay rocks, their spittle and squelch and grunting; our messy love. your curls wind up in mine somehow, sticky sugar hands and mouths, you gift me a strawberry kiss and that rockstar glance through those rose-tinted shades of yours. That sandy splatter of freckles. oh darling, looks can always kill, cuz your smirk is enough to make me seasick; I’m destined to drown on the swells of your lips, punch drunk on the taste of your kiss. oh god, what if you tossed me against the surf like one of those sea lions, slapping their flippers together in foamy lust? i don’t know your real name; but you look like a Natasha.

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Aileen Dosev

SEA SALT Salt grits on my tongue And the waves undulate never ceasing. Your smile uneven, mind cloudy, Its depths brew enticingly. My hair is the wind: Indecisive, flicking at my cheeks. My fingers are wet, from curiosity or addiction, I couldn’t care less. My hips melt into a nothingness, fluidity, Devoured by the greedy tongues of the sea. You want to swallow me? Do it then. Seize my body, toss me fine, Throw me against the tide, bite off all you can chew. Fill my lungs with brine ‘Til I reek of sand-tossed wine, Drown me. Spit me out on the sediment when the human taste is gone, or keep me in your clutches, I don’t mind. Bodies float in the sea. It’s the salt, y’know? And like that I’ll always be Part of you somehow.

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Owen Hee

HIS LAST CHRISTMAS The scars on your hands never seem healed You blinked, you stuttered - the look in your eyes revealed you did not know they were there a second ago but you brushed your snowy hair away from your face, turned the pages before you stared off into space, and with gravel in your voice, said, “There’s one song left to go.” You could barely stand up straight, let alone walk but you still had so much to give, in the way that you talk The daylight cast shadows on you as your pencil scratched on paper That was one of the final images of you that I still remember And I can’t forget you saying you couldn’t give everything away but you would like to, even if it was just for a day We found a studio at the edge of town, just in time where the snow burns and the clock towers chime When the sun sets, the mountains turn silver and it looks as if the forest is on fire A lonely piano cast in the spotlight The stars were burning out just to say ‘good night’ one last time, but before you could go you got ready to put on one final show

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Eyes closed, you conjured up walls of sound wave after wave, note after note as cameras surround Your world may be captured in black and white but your music evoked colour in the brightest light From the monitors to the microphones, we felt the blood shiver in our bones I wonder still, how you played so gently with the hands that carried a weight so heavy of all the years, the joy and the sorrow and the knowledge that you may never see tomorrow You could have chosen to walk through that door but you didn’t, for death is a day worth living for The song was over, and the spell was broken You leaned back, your eyes with words unspoken You had just played your songs for the final time but you smiled like you always used to every time You didn’t live to see one more Christmas The black star in your heart took you away from us but years from now, children will speak your name and wonder aloud how you bested Death at his own game

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Fiona Kiefer

PEOPLE PLEASER A terrible disease: Of needing to please, Fists always in balls, Not to punch but to keep something of my own in my palms, Feverish performing, They stopped giving out medals years ago. But comparison never ends, I’m trying to be the best just not sure what that is, I give so much, Usually to one’s undeserving, Only want to be loved, But the paradox is I’m so bad at choosing. Always picking the bad ones If I chose myself first, would I finally feel I’m winning?

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Fiona Kiefer

HALLOWEEN IS MY FATHER And I suppose Halloween is my father: Sweetness and surprise, To be a kid again, The well-intentioned whims of men, A playful breeze on a crisp night. And I suppose halloween is my father: Haunting and dark, And a path illuminated by beacons of promise, Strangers at the door, Trusting in things that aren’t always so sure. And I suppose Halloween is my father: A ghost I speak to, An absence I preach to, I’m pretending he’s here, Giving in to my sweet tooth, Halloween is my father: I feel him here, at the threshold, Under each mask, he’s dressed up, He’s coming home.

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Qiying Feng

IN THE GARDEN OF SLUMBER Before I laid down those flowers, my good uncle, you had already turned into the ground that one day these flowers will withered upon. I didn’t bring candles as you might have expected. You see, I’ve always been afraid of candles — the flashing flame became a raging blaze, reducing you to ashes as cremation was what you prefer. For far too long, your body was your chain, binding you on the white mattress infused in disinfectant. I know you would like to walk down the stairs bare foot, kissing the ground with your toes. Well, you did it. Flames burned away your shackles. You are now part of the earth where another thousand flowers root between your toes.

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Erin Knape

EMPOWERED

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Tina Shina

FOROUGH FARROKHZAD Sew her skirt with riot and rhyme Congeniality The one tree she never could climb Starved artist Filled to the brim Spilling over Her chalice of “sin” Pretty young lady At the end of the road Out of sight, Out of mind Out of her mind She’s out of her mind You’ll moan and scream and bite My fervent fingers jotting and soaked My pages filled, With your iconoclasts Your evergreen grave remain Disturbed by tales of me, But no tales of shame.

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WRITER SPOTLIGHT: TINA SHINA In each issue, Writer to Writer selects a few submitting writers to interview, encouraging them to refect on their piece and their writing process. Here, our Operations Chair, Andrew Smedley sat down with writer Tina Shina to talk about her piece, Forough Farakhzad. AS: What inspired you to write “Forugh Farrokhzad?” TS: I am a reader and a writer at my core. I’m also an Iranian immigrant. That’s why I chose to write about Forugh Farrokhzad. My primary goal was to introduce her to people in America. I think I produce my best work when I feel very strong emotions and that was definitely the case with Forugh Farrokhzad because I feel such a big connection to her. AS: Were there any hurdles you had to go through, or any big struggles to get across what you wanted to express? TS: For sure. Writing a poem about a poet is super hard, because you often find yourself comparing your work to their work, which should not be the case, but you get a lot of impostor syndrome from about if you’re telling their story the right way, and the way they would have wanted. There’s just a lot more pressure on using the right words and the right metaphors and all of that.

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WRITER SPOTLIGHT (CONT): TINA SHINA TS: And with that, there isn’t a lot of information in the Anglophone world about Forugh Farrokhzad or the Iranian world. Because she wrote about such bold and taboo topics, they weren’t very accepted in the culture of Iran at the time. AS: What was your writing process like? TS: For my writing class, I had to take a piece that I had already previously written and turn it into three separate genres. My origin piece was actually my college Common App essay, which I had written about Forugh, and how I connected with her as a character, writer, and poet. I had never really liked poetry before reading her, and after [reading her work] I felt a connection to her. So my first experiment was to write the poem Forugh Farrokhzad. Then I turned the piece into a kind of theatrical op-ed, and also a photo essay that all kind of just accompany each other to make one big project about Forugh Farrokhzad. But the poem that I had submitted to the journal was the very first thing because it just came so naturally to me.

Read the full interview on our site: @https://writertowriterumich.music.blog/archive/

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Haley Newland

THE DINER I feel like one of those old diners: The ones with the red leather seats, the checkered floor that is always sticky, the atrocious wallpaper that greets the guests, the smell of fried food drifting from the noisy kitchen and, of course, the trusty jukebox pulled straight from the 1950s. New people pass by the window, new people come in to eat, and, sometimes, new people will come back. With each passing visit, they will have grown older, Will have trekked new adventures. But it doesn’t matter how hard the workers scrub, the diner floor will always be sticky. And no matter how hard they try to move it, the jukebox sits in the corner forever. Generation after generation pass through the diner’s doors, endlessly changing, returning anew, each greeted with the same old sight. And just like the diner, I can only watch.

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Hanqi Shang

RESISTANCE IS Resistance is __________ 1. a protest sign. 2. a fist raised in defiance. 3. a like left on an Instagram post. ^almost 4. a link that leads to ‘This content cannot be displayed.’ 5. poetry scribbled in

notepads rather than my

Notes app. 6. a piece of paper, blank. 7. the banner hung from a bridge. 8. the banner still hanging in our hearts. 9. fuel for the fear festering in my stomach. 10. fueled by anger a yearning for something better, different. 11. the voice hiding in between letters, behind crossed-out lines,

and on the parts of the page not stained by ink.

12. a decision made.

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Anonymous

MASKED Bumped into each other in the union It was fated Our laughs reverberated through the halls Happiness leaked out of every orifice Conversations consisted of compliments Chocolates and flowers Favorite restaurant on repeat Secret hand holding We floated through campus Leaving sparkles and sunshine behind It was your birthday I woke up on your birthday Surface It was all on the surface Sucked up in our “destiny” Our “luck”

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Sucked up in our “destiny” Our “luck” How lucky I was To meet a boy I thought I knew who you were, but I Nodded along to things I already knew Masked by the dreaminess of it all Funny how the roses lasted longer than us Suffocating your ego is My eyes are open Are you still dreaming?

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Madelyn Chau

SNOWFLAKES FALL LIKE ASH I am not meant to taste snow or to quake in the wind, I am meant to sweat I am not meant for forests temperate, I am meant for jungles wetted by the sea I am meant to taste salt between black teeth as I chew betel nut among longshore waves I am not meant to clutch a rosary, I am meant to pray to Buddha as I kneel under the banyan grove we worship I am meant to be brown my parents were told they were meant for walking on fields of grass blanketing land mines and layers of congealed blood, meant to decompose in camps on Malaysian islands until they could be saved by the Great Whites my parents were told they were meant for living — wasting in housing projects, their áo dài hung out to dry on the clothesline only to be set afire by the neighbors

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my grandparents were told they were meant for imprisonment, seven years of separation across the Pacific, stitching hems in a California factory, angry, stinging bees sent in envelopes of hate despite what we were told, I know we are meant to live through winters of war, see sacred blossoms unravel come spring, and present them, in bouquets of gold, to our beloveds

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Madelyn Chau

SALTWATER i You were loading the dishwasher, talking about bioluminescent phytoplankton off the coast of California. You were nowhere near the ocean — it was snowing outside, and the windows were open, letting flakes of frozen freshwater run into the screen as they attempted to follow the wind into the apartment. They crumbled softly. You started the cycle, and soon any remnants of pesto sauce from the lunch you neatly consumed were wiped from existence after a mere two hours inside a noisy hot water box. You made sure everything was clean before leaving. Have you ever been in love? Growing up, come December all the other kids were excited about the prospect of Santa and his promised gifts. All the movies had a jovial white-bearded man and chiming bells. For some reason I never believed in Santa, even as a child. It seemed too good to be true. Come to think of it, I don’t recall ever believing in love either. Did your parents never tell you they loved you? They did, every day. Did you believe them? Of course. Are they divorced? They are not. So what’s wrong with you? I imagine it would have went something like that. But you were gone, so I had no way of truly knowing.

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It took about three days for you to drive to the ocean. You made sure the doors to your Civic were locked tight before reclining in the backseat each night. You would wake up to cramped legs eventually and get out of the car to stretch them before getting back on the road. You wished you had brought eye drops. The sun seared through the front window and illuminated the dust that floated so nonchalantly in the poorly ventilated space. The beach looked different than how you remembered it. You took off your shoes to feel the sand swallow your feet, and the sand was cool. The sky was overcast, and there were jagged rocks and black seaweed strewn about. There were two other people, one holding a paperback and the other walking a coarse, ragged dog. Nobody was in the water. The sand was cool. The sand was cold. All of a sudden being barefoot seemed silly. Being at the beach was absolutely ridiculous. You put your shoes back on and, with sand still between your toes, got into your car and drove away. You didn’t even get in the water.

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Lily Shaman

LEARNING TO LIVE AGAIN Trigger Warning: Talk of Anorexia, bulimia, and disordered eating. If you or someone close to you is experiencing, or has experienced similar things, please contact help. It started off slowly — adding a run into my daily routine, eliminating my “after dinner treat,” examining my naked body in the bathroom mirror, and pinching the fatty parts of my stomach and thighs that I had always hated. My mother told me that she appreciated my healthy habits and applauded me for this newfound motivation. I thought to myself, I feel good. This is the new me. My friends and family noticed the change in my figure and praised me for it. My grandma asked me how to get rid of her stubborn lower belly fat and my friends would tell me how good I looked in my new, smaller clothes. I fed off of the compliments and validation I had always hoped to receive. It wasn’t long until the voice inside of my head became louder and more aggressive. It told me to replace breakfast with black coffee and to skip lunch altogether. It told me to increase my time on the treadmill from 30 minutes to an hour. It told me to avoid the movie theater and ice cream dates with my friends. It told me to push the people closest to me away. I told everyone I was okay; there was no need to be worried, I was finally happy. I felt better than ever, despite the constant burning sensation in my throat caused by purging. Suddenly, the compliments shifted to concern and my reality became skewed. The little energy I

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was devoted to pushing that extra mile on the stationary bike and refraining from failing my classes that I no longer prioritized. I alienated myself from the people I loved the most, but the empty feeling in my stomach kept me good company. I withered away to skin and bones, and my life became a liability. My mother wept over my sunken eyes and angular hip bones, but, to me, her words sounded like flattery. My vision began to blur and going up the stairs seemed an arduous task, but I was an addict and could not stop. My main food groups consisted of fruit, pretzels, and protein bars, and if I was pushed to consume otherwise, it often resulted in a screaming match or tears. I could not take a shower without pulling out handfuls of hair, my nails were as flimsy as paper, and my heart rate dropped to a concerning pace. I was struggling to stay afloat on the sinking ship of my health, and I was in desperate need of a lifeboat. After a consultation with my pediatrician, I was sentenced to tri-weekly appointments with different specialists, surrounded by criticism and forced to live by rules that were not my own. I could not go out to eat without supervision. I could not use the bathroom for an hour after a meal. I could not eat a meal alone. I could not do any activity that burned extra calories. I had to follow a three-stack, three-meal diet written out on a pink slip of paper. I reverted to a child-like state as my mother spoon- fed me my meals and comforted me as I sobbed in her arms afterwards. I did not want to accept the fact that change must occur for any chance at a brighter future. I spent the first few months of family-based “recovery” in denial. I ripped apart my meal plan, slipped my dogs most of my dinner when my mom wasn’t looking, told my mom I was getting lunch with a friend when I was really sneaking out to the gym, and

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They kiss and kiss. They spend time together in a way where she c turned on the shower as I threw up any progress I made that day. My doctors were perplexed as I came back for my check up two pounds lighter than the week before. I was pulled out of school to complete more intensive, attentive treatment. I was suffocated by support and care, and craved freedom. One morning my mom frantically ripped my covers off of me and repeated that “we’re going to be late for the appointment,” but I could not recall scheduling or hearing about one. Apprehensive and curious, I got dressed in my favorite oversized jeans, sweatshirt, and fuzzy socks and hopped into the car. When we arrived at the My Body Eating Disorder Treatment Center, my stomach twisted into a knot. We sat down on scratchy burgundy couches, my eyes burning from lack of sleep and the bright white lights. When we were called into the office, the nurse asked if I was aware that we were discussing options for local in-patient residential care. (I was not). A shiver went down my spine, but I could not tell if it was my nerves or lack of body fat failing to keep me warm. I was questioned and criticized about my failed recovery plan for about 15 minutes, until the nurse suggested a solution: out-of-state in-patient treatment. My mom tilted her head in confusion, because she read online that this specific treatment center offered an in-state program. The nurse told her that I was “too far gone and would be a liability if she admitted me to her program.” My mom called her a bitch and told her to “go to hell!” as she dragged my motionless body out to the car. Taunted by the threat of out-of-state residential treatment, constant supervision, and death, I realized how dire recovery was and that it was my responsibility to change. My whole life was devoted to staying alive, and I just wanted to live. I wanted to take my dogs on a walk. I wanted to go out to dinner with my friends without sending my nutritionist

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a picture of my finished plate. I wanted to stop wearing my winter coat in the middle of May. I wanted my mom to stop crying. I wanted to use the bathroom on my own. I wanted everyone to stop treating me like a glass that was placed on the edge of a table. I cannot pinpoint a specific cause or motive that changed me, but I finally stopped resisting recovery and decided to defeat this monster head on, and for the most part, alone. I skipped therapy and meetings with my nutritionist, dropped my meal plan, and disregarded the “recovery” methods being forced on me. I got a taste of how freeing it was to live without such constraints. I slowly reintroduced cheese, vulnerability, bread, and satisfaction to my system, but it was not easy. I often broke down and sobbed on the floor because my old jeans did not button anymore, and my bones became less of an accessory. After a few months of pain and self-discovery, I was able to add a second helping of pasta to my plate and indulge in the chocolatey goodness of my favorite “Semi-Sweet, Triple Chocolate Ghirardelli Brownies’’, without abusing the treadmill or expelling it from my body afterward. Sometimes I look back at old photos and envy the cheekbones of the skeleton smiling back at me, but I also feel so proud of her for releasing all control and overcoming every fear she had in order to survive. Recovery is not linear, and I still have moments of weakness, but I am just happy to be alive.

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WRITER SPOTLIGHT: LILY SHAMAN In each issue, Writer to Writer selects a few submitting writers to interview, encouraging them to refect on their piece and their writing process. Here, our Art & Design Chair, Lydia Kado sat down with writer Lily Shaman to talk about her piece, “Learning to Live Again.” LK: Are there any messages or takeaways that you hope your readers will have when they read your piece. LS: I think just knowing that this isn’t like a singular person struggling against the world; there’s so much support out there that’s hard to feel when you’re in the thick of things. It’s very lonely and isolating. It was one of the loneliest times of my life, not only because I felt alone, but because I was kind of ashamed for a while about admitting that I needed help, and I’m a very independent person. At first I didn’t want anybody’s help. So I think the message that I would want is just not to be afraid to seek help, you’re not alone. An eating disorder feels so hard to overcome, if you’re in denial of it, or stuck in the mind space of having one for so long. But, it is possible to get better. You might not ever feel a hundred per cent. You might not feel like the most confident person in the world. You might not love yourself a hundred percent all the time, but recovery is a possible thing, and it’s a part of the process to backslide.

LK: What did you struggle with the most while writing your piece?

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LS: Kind Kind of what I said earlier, pushing away the negative and embarrassed side of myself — the side that didn’t wanna tell people about my experience or was embarrassed to share these really personal, somewhat private details of my life and expose them to people that I don’t even know. I kind of just had a fear of other people seeing this side of me and having a reaction or having a certain idea about me. But at some point I just overcame that, and it ended up just feeling really good. It was also hard to reflect on such a painful time. Not that I don’t still think about it a lot, but it’s another thing to like, really ponder it and flush it out and try to make sense of it like in words. Because sometimes there’s not a word for how I was feeling, or sometimes I didn’t have a word for the intense, crazy moments that happened that I can’t even describe. I guess it was hard to put words to my thoughtS.

LK: what inspires you to write in general. LS: Honestly, I never really connected with anything in school, like conventional subjects; I loved art class. I loved writing, but I was never like ‘oh, I love math and science’ or doing this confusing stuff that doesn’t interest me. So in high school, towards the end, I realized how much I just appreciated writing. If I got it like a paper in history I would be like, ‘oh, thank God!’ Like ‘I can finally write for an assignment.’ I took a rhetoric class, my senior year of high school, which is really where I found my voice as a writer, I think. I started appreciating [writing] and really pushing boundaries and seeing that it’s kind of something fun and enjoyable, instead of just something I have to do for school or my career. I really just learned to enjoy it.

Read the full interview on our sit @https://writertowriterumich.music.blog/archive/

Kaitlyn Sabb

FINDING CLOUDS IN GRAY PAINT Her room was stale. Reminiscent of opening the pages of an ancient Bible right up below your nose and sniffing in the tiny particles that had been resting there for years. Perhaps “musty” described it better, like a grandma’s attic. Despite the slightly suffocating air, the room was neat, organized, and simplistic, mostly because Mom had donated all her things. Her essence was still there, though. From the doorway, I could see the faint indentation on her desk chair where she spent hours reading Jane Austen novels on repeat and the crack in the wall where she peeled away at the chipped yellow paint until it resembled a drifting cloud. Mom was painting in gray on Thursday, so I took a photograph of the cloud and sent it to her: “Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

Ethan Malaver

KUELAP EXT. CELENDIN’S BUS STATION - LATE NIGHT JULIAN (16) exhales, and his breath fades in the air. He is standing in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of the entrance. Julian is snuggled up, freezing and staring at the street in front of him. He has a little smile on his face, but his desperate eyes are bad at hiding his wait for someone. Julian is forming scary scenarios in his mind. EXT. CELENDIN’S STREETS - LATE NIGHT We hear ROMEO (17) running, as we see old Peruvian rustic houses in motion. They are dimly lit up with a blueish color. EXT. CELENDIN’S BUS STATION - CONTINUOUS The arms of Julian’s penguin beanie move with the wind. The lack of sleep is hitting Julian. Fear starts to take over his stomach. He groans, anxious.

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We see Julian’s beanie again. Suddenly, Romeo takes the hands of the penguin, and waves with them. ROMEO (catching his breath) HI! Sorry, sneaking is Taking a deep breath, Julian turns back and hugs Romeo tightly. Julian presses his head on Romeo’s shoulder, closes his eyes and thrusts his fingers onto Romeo’s back. Romeo didn’t expect this. JULIAN I thought something bad happened to you. ROMEO (comfortably laughing) No, Julian, I live up the other street. JULIAN (laughing relieved) Shut up, they all look the same. INT. CELENDIN’S BUS STATION, WAITING ROOM LATER Their backpacks lie against each other on the seats. INT./EXT. BUS - NIGHT

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It’s dark. We hear the tires on the road. At the back, Romeo and Julian are sleeping curled up on a burrito blanket. Their row is empty. Julian’s head rests on Romeo’s shoulder. The moon shines over the blanket on their laps. CLOSE IN ON Romeo’s face, as it gets closer to Julian’s lips. He wants to kiss him, but his cheeks tremble a bit like something is pulling him back. Romeo’s lips get closer to Julian, and when there’s almost no distance between them... We see the mountain’s slope in motion. It changes to various shots of the silent but absorbing blueish void of valleys, surrounded by small elevations, forests, and giant mountains. The gloomy umbra of the deserted Andes. Romeo’s lips stand still in front of Julian’s. EXT. LOS ANDES MOUNTAINS, ROADS - DAWN In the quiescent grayish-blue sky, clouds move slowly and the sunlight blinds the view. They’re sleepy but happy. ROMEO (V.O.) In the fair, really?

JULIAN (V.O.) Yeah, I remember it clearly. ROMEO (V.O.) Gosh, how old were we? We see them walking on an empty road, up on the border of mountains. They are carrying a bag together, walking up. JULIAN Mmm, I was like 7 and you were 8. ROMEO I don’t remember, rough years. JULIAN Yeah I know, don’t worry. ROMEO Tell me more about it please. JULIAN Well, it was our last day in Celendin before leaving for school again. Our families went to the fair.

Read the full story on our site, @https://writertowriterumich.music.blog/archive/