A dying man wept in his bed. His calloused fingers gripping the grime-ridden bedsheets. He
had once been a man of exceptional beauty. Now his skin was wrinkled and hardened like old leather. In his youth his family lived like lords in a grand estate filled with people. Now all those people are gone, and the dying man lies in anguish. With no sound aside from his weeping, he could not help but fall into a study of his life. Upon immediate inspection of the years gone by, his tears fell and his weeping surged. Once he had been a young man who’s appearance was compared to that of Hyacinthus, rich and quietly happy. He felt like the sun rising over an ocean. He felt as though he could conquer the world. At one point in his life, he fell in love with someone he knew was his soulmate. Not everything lasts forever and with age comes greed. The dying man was never the type of man who smiled. He simply always thought he had an ugly smile. However, his eyes were always a vessel to propel his happiness to others. A flash of satisfaction. A glint of joy. He was once a master at showing his merriment through his eyes but had since forgotten as he had not felt the need in years. The joy was drained from his eyes and all that was left was the longing for another time. For years, his life has been devoid of purpose and meaning. Simply a rotting, decaying shell of the man he once was. He wished for his soul to be in the body he once had; the body of his youth; the body in which he could run forever. Without friends, without family. Silent. Soundless. Suffering. To the side of him sat a young man. He was everything the old man was not. He was truly alive and had the ability to bask in his life. It was to the old man’s quiet satisfaction that an old bandage was tied around his eyes, so he may not see his son in the flesh. “I have provoked your upset?” The son questioned, his voice showing no emotion. “You have come to say goodbye?” The old man slurred. The son nodded, knowing the old man did not see. However, the silence spoke louder than a word. “My time is here?” His voice rose, demanding to hear his son’s voice again. “Yes.” The son answered equally loud, mocking his father. “Do not mock me, child.” His voice was sick, whilst attempting to sound as if he was the most powerful in the room. “Do not call me a child when you are the one crying in bed.” The son retorted, his youthful voice laced with geriatric contempt. “If that is what you believe than we have no further business. Leave me to die alone.” “I am not here because I care for you. I curse you to hear the voice you hate so much. You do not deserve a quiet death.” The son crossed his legs and laced his slender fingers together. He was deep in thought, but would not let his father know this. It would be the last time the two would speak, the two who had shared a relationship where neither spoke to each other out of choice. “When will the marriage take place?” Asked the old man, knowing his son would not leave and deciding it best to submit to the conversation. “Tomorrow.” The son answered breathlessly. “Do you love him?” He asked. “Perhaps not if loving someone means that you need to be vulnerable to them and show them your weakest spots. I do not think I will ever trust anyone that much.” The son answered, carefully. The old man said nothing. He had no response. From a young age, the son had his emotions beaten out of him. Beaten in training, beaten in racing, beaten in beatings. To the old man, emotions held back a man from becoming who he was meant to be. No one should see his vulnerability. That was why the son found it so amusing to see his father express emotion at the end of his life. Sometimes the only appropriate response to reality is to go insane. “Though one day, eons after you have passed, I may forget what you conditioned me to believe. I may reveal myself.” The son said breathlessly, voice barely above a whisper. “How long will you live after this marriage?” The old man croaked. The only comfort he had in this moment was imagining his son in the same position as him soon enough. Geriatric, weeping, decaying. Nothing. “I will stop ageing. I will have eternal beauty. My body will remain as it is now for all time. I will never die unless I wish it.” He smirked. “You will wish for the release of death long before you are free of my teachings. Trigonius will never know who you are.” The old man spat. “You know his name?” The son replied, a little shocked and somewhat disappointed. Take his name out of your mouth. “The servant girls talk in hushed whispers about my son and Trigonius.” He clarified. “Do you wish to know more of him?” The son asked, happy to have found a conversation subject until his father would finally die. “I suppose it is the only mystery left in my life. It may as well be resolved before I die.” The old man turned to his side, facing to the wall. He was now in a comfortable position to hear his bedtime story before he would never awake. The son leaned back into his chair and began, “Trigonius was a god and the son of gods. Exceptional beauty and exceptional strength. He could bend a javelin from end to end without it snapping. Something that separated him from other gods was his lack of interest towards affairs and flings. He only had interests in a person he felt love for. “This worried and alienated the gods to the extent that his parents arranged a relationship with an apparently beautiful woman from Turkey. They begged him to give her a chance, even one opportunity for a conversation. He would never speak to her no matter how much she tried. She had heard so many stories of Trigonius and was in love with him before leaving Turkey. Despite her advances, Trigonius was uninterested. “As you know, I spent a summer in Slae. In the day it would be humid and unpleasant. It was only at night I would venture outside to the rose garden adjoined to the house I was staying at. I would lazily stroll around and sit on the marble bench, admiring everything beautiful about the garden. For the first night, I felt completely alone and at peace.” “No one disturbed you?” The old man croaked, his voice considerably weaker than before. “Not for that night. I heard the distant sound of children in the street playing games, of men rolling dice at tables, women laughing uproariously after too many drinks. So much sound, all of it so distant it became background noise drowned out by the smell of bread and roses. You may wonder how scent can drown out sound. I wouldn’t know. It just did.” He paused. The son took in the scents of the room and immediately wished he was back in Slae. There was nothing but sweat, alcohol and smoke here. No sound apart from the bubbling of misery that lay on the bed. “The next night, I had been sat on the bench for a long time. The fresh taste of grapes in my mouth. When I rose and turned around there Trigonius was stood. He blended into the environment as if he had been another rose, who had never come into existence and would never leave. Simply an indefinite being. “If it wasn’t for his cantaloupe eyes, he would almost look ephemeral. They pierced my soul and made it belong to him. He was as handsome as a hero’s sculpture. There was a dip in his tanned cheeks that turned his cheekbones into blades. He stood tall and confident, with a serene and ethereal aura surrounding him. His hair fell effortlessly over his forehead in soft yet dark waves, adding to his otherworldly charm.” The son smirked knowing there was no one in the room who could see him smirk. He liked the idea of doing something no one saw and pondering if he even did smirk. Did an action exist if it was a secret kept to one person? “Trigonius moved across the garden towards me with grace and ease, his movements as fluid as the wind. His lean physique was accentuated by the way his clothes hung on him, complementing his every curve and angle. He wore purple and gold, the colours of the most wealthy. “‘It is a pleasure to meet you Vrykolakas.’ As he spoke his voice was soft and soothing, almost hypnotic. As he uttered my name, a chill was sent into my body. No one had annunciated my name like that before. It was how I always thought my name to sound. The way no one would say it. Not even I could announce out loud how it sounded in my brain, yet Trigonius was able to do it. “I had every reason to be terrified. A celestial being had visited me in a garden adjoined to a home I was only renting. He seemed to emanate a calm and peaceful energy, making me feel safe and secure in his presence. ‘Do not be afraid of me.’ He sounded vulnerable, desperate. Trigonius did not want me to fear him. To his luck, I don’t think I ever could. “As I gazed upon him, I could not help but feel drawn to his ethereal and mysterious aura, wishing to unravel the secrets that lay beneath his exterior. Trigonius stayed with me until dawn broke over the horizon. We shared in cheese and wine. He told me how long he had been watching me. How any other mortal or celestial left him feeling uninterested. “‘You may be the only being in existence that I feel something towards.’ Those were the words Trigonius said to me before leaving for his parents, the phantom of his touch remaining. He made no indication he would see me again and didn’t make it clear he could. So it shocked me when he arrived at my window the next night, making his way across to me with more confidence than last night. “He came for me every night for that week. I peeled back the layers of his exterior and found the beauty that was within him. However there was rage and a fire that could only be ignited by the sheer frustration of being a deity. Trigonius said I was the only man who could quench that fire. I knew him by the end just as well as I knew myself. Our hearts were in sync, we were two halves of one being that had found each other. “Almost every one has had the experience of spending a night with someone, where all they do is talk. By the end of the night, you feel like they are a real person. Not just another human wandering about that you will never meet. To you, they feel as real as you and me. That is only one night. After six nights of this, it becomes clear why it was so easy to fall in love with Trigonius. “So I do not think I was foolish for affirming his feelings by the end of the week. I would have affirmed them much sooner, but out of fear of sounding obsessive and a little strange I held out. Then of course, I moved back to the estate.” The son paused to take a breath, and was interrupted before he could begin again. “Which estate?” The father asked, his voice weaker than a whimper. The son smiled. His father owned a great many estates, to the point where he did not know which one his son had been living on for years. It spoke to his character, though the old man would never see this. “The river Lavabantur ran through it.” The son clarified with a nod the old man wouldn’t see. “Early in the morning, whilst the sun was streaming in through the shutters I rose and made my way to the window where I saw Trigonius, half a leg dipped lazily into the river. His face was blank yet satisfied. Then when his eyes met mine, a smile spread across his visage. When I reached him he had a gift for me, a rose plucked from the garden in Slae. “Surprisingly for a deity, he had little to no duties. He had power, but I suppose being a lesser god meant it was his parents who were higher beings that dealt with affairs. Trigonius told me his days were filled with reading, strolls and running. I told him it would be no difference on my estate, for that was what my life was. He took my hand to his chest and promised me, ‘As long as you are by my side, I am happy to be this forever.’ “I understand I am paraphrasing. You are dying. There is little to no time to focus on the emotions between us as it is now. Certain details must be abbreviated. I do hope you hear the end of this story before you die. That would be perfect timing.” The son laughed uproariously and heard no groans from the old man. He brushed aside the thought he was now the only living man in the room. “Every morning he would bring me another gift. A rose from Slae. A loaf of bread from my time in Oemeon, where he observed me without my knowledge. A memento for what we shared. He strolled, we read, we ran. He would rest his head against my chest as I read poetry late into the night and I shuddered, knowing a god was this vulnerable with me. That sheer emotion was enough to make me weep. “He would leave every so often in hopes his parents would suspect nothing. He would tell me of a new suitor that was presented to him. Some Lord or Princess, a person he had no intention of knowing. He assured me of that every time. There could only ever be me in his life. Deep down, I knew that this could not continue for as long as he would. Whilst he kept me in the shadows, I would only ever be mortal. “If he cared for me so much, why was he scared to make me what he is?” The son asked the question out loud, subtle anger rising in his voice. “One night, he returned to me later than usual. Sweat dripping from his forehead at the strain of travelling all the way here so quickly. He climbed into bed and wrapped me in his arms as was our general practice. He was tired, gently mumbling about a new girl his parents had presented. This one being the lesser of the lesser gods. Still, more power than I could achieve in this state. “He went on about how he disliked her nose and I broke. I showed him no mercy. I did not touch him, but my words crushed his immortality. I begged him to tell me why I was a secret. Why he allowed his parents to arrange these meetings when I would always be there for him. Was I simply his slave because of my mortality? To be treated however he wanted? Was I lesser in his eyes? Is that why he would not make this public? “Word after word sliced into his flesh, drawing out tears from his eyes. He acknowledged his mistakes as they were told to him. I reassured him that he was a part of me that I would never abandon even if he kept me like a secret. That was my bond to him. I could be in the shadows all my life and for him I would do it. But of course, that didn’t mean I wanted to be. I wouldn’t be. “After I felt everything had been said, I left. I know it was my own bedroom, on my own estate. But I knew Trigonius had travelled so far so fast to be by my side, to sleep within my bed. I did care for him, even in moments of anger. I can’t remember where I slept or even if I did. I only remember his absence in the morning through to the day. I told myself Trigonius was busy, though he never was. “The morning after that I awoke to find Trigonius beside me as if he had never, silent with the beauty of sleep. He looked so innocent when he slept, like his only emotions were love. I didn’t question his strange methods for talking to me. To be absent for a day and to clamber back into bed during the night. Instead of questioning, I rose and made a breakfast for the two of us. “When he came into the kitchen, he looked calm and controlled. Then within a word he broke down and couldn’t hide his emotions through a cold exterior any longer. He wept through his words, I held him. He told me he knew he had been mistreating me and would not do it any longer. He would make our affair known and give me the gift of immortality if that was what I wanted. “I chuckled and told him the gift of immortality can only be given to an ephemeral when a marriage takes place between them and a deity. We would have to marry for that to be the case. He nodded. An indirect way to propose, perhaps. That very night, I dined with his parents in the land of the gods. They were happy their golden boy had finally found someone to love and he had proven he was capable of love. “There was a comment about our ability to produce an heir, though Trigonius commented on the begging children in the streets of every city. How every one of them deserved to become a deity’s child. Overall, they thought me exceptional. It was toward the end of our visit that Trigonius said he intended to marry me. The parents wept from joy. Another in their dynasty, a husband to their prized hero. They spent the rest of the night pondering the wedding. Should it take place in the land of the gods or a mortal city? Who would be in attendance that was appropriate? He and I mostly left the wedding affairs to the parents. We only cared about being joined as one for the rest of existence, not the size of the cakes or quantity of fireworks. “I will marry Trigonius tomorrow and be granted the gift of eternal beauty. I will become a god. I will survive what you have done to me and one fateful day I will forget you ever existed. Then your name and limited importance will be lost forever. Goodbye, father.” The son resolved the conversation. He had made it clear that his hatred would last, but the old man’s legacy will not. That was what he came to do. The exchange was over. The son looked down to see if the old man would still reply. His chest had stopped moving. His heart had stopped beating. He was dead, limp. The son did not know at what point in the story his heart had given out and did not wish to know. He was gone. The son rose to his feet and left the dark room, joining hands to an awaiting Trigonius sat out on the street in front of the crumbling estate. About the Author: Thomas Coles-Houlis, though their name is subject to change, is a sixteen year old writer, film director, artist and screenwriter with interests in decadent stories of romance (most of the time that romance being queer), Greek mythology, as well as the gothic and the macabre. His main inspirations for his writing come from Edgar Allen Poe, Madeline Miller, Homer, Franz Kafka and Anne Rice. Memories of Vrykolakas, though its own creation separate from any existing mythology, was materialised out of the desire to write their own decadent romance and explore what would happen when a deity falls for a mortal.
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Your soul is not yours.
it’s everyone’s, everyone you have ever met, ever talked to, ever glanced at. Our souls tangle themselves up in each other, Intertwined. A child’s laughter, Coming from a room away. It intertwines with our souls, as it lightens our days. A glance with a stranger held for a while longer. No words were exchanged, but our souls did wander. A hug so warm, a hug so tight. And as we do, our souls unite. About the Author: Solamon is a 16 year old boy living in a coastal Australian town. He likes to write, draw, and play volleyball. “liberal feminism does not exist to me nor does it exist to the church”
My body is a temple of God, it is clean and safe. My body is a temple of God, it is humble and pure and free. I am a virgin pure, my God- I shine and reflect the Divine Light. I am a virgin pure, my God- why do my Duas remain unanswered? I know that you can hear me and I can feel Your presence when I am on my knees or when I am laid open like Your Holy Book. I see You peering down at me in the heavens- I hear Your voice, proclaiming Your Holy Plan and I taste the bitterness of salvation after the sweetness of sin, but why do my prayers remain unanswered? Does Your mercy and love favour one sex? One kind? (The animal kind?) Or does it favour hunger? Lord, I am hungry and starving. And suffering. Does Your mercy and love favour one sex? Lord, I am alone and hopeful and praying. I am part of Your Holy Plan, I know that but I am an animal-hungry and suffering. Lord show me that I am holy and pure. That I am still holy and pure, but I know that I am not. I lure the eyes of Your men for my pleasure and I pray for more than what I have and deserve- I am selfish and a woman, forgive me for my sins and I will undoubtedly be: A virgin pure, my God- I will shine and reflect your divine light. A virgin pure, my God- I will be your Holy Temple. About the Author: Jasmine Geverola or Mingg (as her friends endearingly call her) is a small artist, writer and performer residing in Cebu, Philippines. She spent her early years consuming books- a hobby she picked up after her fourth grade advisor applauded her for reading lengthy books her classmates and schoolmates weren’t interested in. All her life, she made performance and art a priority- she recited and wrote poems at the young age of eleven, acted and participated in musicals and performances when she turned thirteen, created and showcased her artworks at the age of fourteen, and joined her school’s dance troupe when she was seventeen. She is eighteen now and in a new era. She’s ready to crawl out of her shell and let people who don’t know her personally into her life by baring her soul with her words and art. Polish Translation (Original):
Kwiaty na łące wyglądały niepokojąco. Zresztą, cały świat tak teraz wyglądał. A przynajmniej dla niej; przypuszczała, że dla niektórych wciąż zachował barwy. Zazdrościła im. Siedziała tu już dobre dwie godziny. A może więcej? Nie potrafiła stwierdzić. A zresztą, jakie to miało znaczenie? Delikatny, letni wiatr muskał jej odsłonięte łydki, przynosząc wraz z sobą zapach siana, lawendy i rozmarynu. Uwielbiała ten zapach, zapach melancholii, kończącego się lata oraz niespełnionych marzeń. I smutku. Czuła, że tak właśnie pachniał smutek. Słońce chyliło się ku zachodowi, malując niebo na najpiękniejsze barwy, których jednak nie potrafiła ich dostrzec. Nie umiała nawet rozróżnić, gdzie wśród tej mozaiki barw króluje soczysty błękit, a gdzie nieśmiałe pomarańcze mieszają się z delikatnym różem. Mimo iż wciąż było jasno, zdołała dostrzec na nieboskłonie kilka odległych gwiazd, rozpoznając niektóre z gwiazdozbiorów. Często wieczorami przychodziła tu, kładła się na nieskoszonej trawie i obserwowała je. Czasami robiła to samotnie, lecz o wiele częściej z Oleną. Wypatrywały wtedy ulubionej gwiazdy dziewczyny - Betelgezy, jednej z najjaśniejszych gwiazd w pasie Oriona, oddalonej od Ziemii o setki lat świetlnych. Olena powiedziała kiedyś, że mimo iż prędość światła jest szybka, to jednak nie dostatecznie prędka, toteż gdyby Betelgeza wybuchła, jej światło dochodziłoby do ludzi jeszcze przez jakiś czas. - To prawie jak spoglądanie w przeszłość - odpowiedziała jej dziewczyna. Zastanawiała się, czy to możliwe, aby teraz patrzyła na gwiazdy, które już nie istnieją. Wbrew pozorom nie była to wcale taka nieprzyjemna myśl. Przeszłość malowała się w soczystych barwach i różnobarwnych kolorach, natomiast przyszłość spowijały jedynie smutne szarości. Gwiazdy stanowiły dla niej wechikuł czasu. W ręku trzymała chabra, zerwanego już jakiś czas temu. Zdążył trochę zwiednąć i stracić uprzednią świeżość, był z lekka pogięty. Olena uwielbiała chabry. Często tu przychodziła, aby narwać ich pełną garść i przystroić nimi pokój, wsadzając je do małych wazoników i szklanek, zajmujących większą część płaskich powierzchni jej pokoju. Dziewczyna pytała jej, dlaczego tak uwielbia te kwiaty, lecz ona odpowiadała wtedy jedynie: To tylko chabry wiedzą. Była masa rzeczy, które Olena uwielbiała oprócz chabrów: kraciaste szaliki, karmelową herbatę i martensy, które nosiła zawsze i wszędzie, aby wydawać się choć kilka centymetrów wyższa. No i śpiew, ale to stanowiło jej skrytą tajemnicę. Dziewczyna tylko raz usłyszała, jak śpiewa i to całkowitym przypadkiem. Spytawszy ją o to później, nie dostała odpowiedzi, a tylko kilka ciekawostek o zwierzętach. Olena zawsze opowiadała ciekawostki o zwierzętach, gdy chciała zmienić temat. Zabawne, z jak wieloma wspomnieniami łączyła się ta łąka. Była cmentarzyskiem minionych chwil i zapomnianym myśli, zarówno tych dobrych jak i złych. W końcu to tu Olena oznajmiła jej, że wyjeżdża. To było dla dziewczyny niczym cios w serce. W jednym momencie poczuła gniew, rozpacz, strach, urazę, ból i smutek, i nie potrafiła zdecydować, co dominuje. Wszystkie emocje buzowały w niej, staczając ostrą bitwę o dominację, lecz żadna ze stron nie zdobywała znaczącej przewagi. Czuła się źle. Może zawiniła? Może to ona była tego powodem? Może nie była dostatecznie dobrą przyjaciółką? Za chwilę jednak przeniosła całą swą złość i wszelkie negatywne emocje na Olenę. Nie mogła zrozumieć, dlaczego wyjeżdża. Czy nie podobało jej się tu? Czy nie wystarczały jej już ich wieczorne spacery, rozmowy o niczym, kwitnące chabry i karmelowa herbata pita o wschodzie słońca? Czy nawet gwiazdy straciły dla niej wartość? Dopiero później zrozumiała, że nie była to wina ani jej, ani Oleny. Tak po prostu wyszło. W końcu ludzie ciągle krążą, poszukując swojego miejsca na Ziemii i skrawku trawy, z którego najlepiej widać Betelgezę. Olena była po prostu jednym z nich. Nawet nie zauważyła, gdy w jej oczach zakwitły łzy. Otarła jedną z nich, samotnie spływającą po rozgrzanym policzku. Powracanie myślami do tamtych wydarzeń wciąż bolało. Czuła się po pusta. I chyba trochę umarła. - Oh, Kamila, tutaj jesteś! Szukam cię i szukam... - wydyszała Olena, nadbiegając od strony lasu. W ręce dzierżyła drobnego chabra, a jej niewiarygodnie jasne, krótkie włosy tańczyły na wietrze. - Dopiero twoja mama powiedziała mi, że tu cię znajdę. - Usiadła obok Kamili, pozwalając muskać ostatnim promieniom Słońca swe blade nogi. - Cześć. - Wierzchem dłoni otarła gromadzące się w oczach łzy, nie chcąc, aby zostały zauważone przez przyjaciółkę. Wiedziała, że Olena zaczęłaby się martwić, a chwilę później zaproponowała pomoc i kubek ciepłego kakao. Taka właśnie była, mimo iż zgrywała twardą i stanowczą - miła, troskliwa i opiekuńcza, próbująca uratować cały świat. Kamila widziała jednak, że na jej barkach z czasem zaczęło gromadzić się coraz więcej problemów, które powoli ją wyniszczały. Nie chciała stać się jednym z nich. - Płakałaś? - Olena zawsze potrafiła zauważyć, gdy coś było nie tak. Kiedy dziewczyna nie odpowiedziała, ponowiła pytanie: - Płakałaś? Coś się stało? - Nic - odparła lekko drżącym głosem. - Po prostu mi smutno. Dzisiaj ostatni dzień wakacji. Już jutro szkoła. Chyba dopadła mnie jakaś wakacyjna nostalgia, to wszystko. - Po minie przyjaciółki widziała, że ta wiedziała, iż to nie wszystko, co ją nęka, lecz mimo to nie naciskała. - A poza tym, trochę ciężko mi się pogodzić z twoim wyjazdem. Chciałabym móc zatrzymać czas. Nie chcę, aby to wszystko tak po prostu minęło, wiesz? - dodała ciszej po chwili. - Wiem. Ja również tego nie chcę - wyszeptała Olena. Kamila doszła do wniosku, że ich twarze znajdują się zdecydowanie zbyt blisko. Mogła spokojnie policzyć malutkie piegi na jej zadartym nosie i zatopić się w brązowych oczach ukrytych za szkiełkami okrągłych okularów. Olena pachniała jak ostatni dzień wakacji: świeżo skoszoną trawą, lekko przegniłymi owocami i dymem z ogniska. Blondynka założyła jej kosmyk za ucho, a Kamila poczuła, jak jej na jej policzkach rozkwitają dwa szkarłatne rumieńce, następnie zaczynając się piąć w górę w kierunku uszu. Dzieliły ich centymetry. Z d e c y d o w a n i e znajdowały się zbyt blisko. Kamila poczuła, jak muśnięte karmazynową szminką usta Oleny stykają się z jej własnymi. Przymknęła oczy, czując, jak miękkie kosmyki przyjaciółki łaskoczą ją. Smakowała pomarańczą i truskawkami. Kamila nigdy nie przypuściłaby, że te dwie rzeczy potrafią być dobre razem, lecz wiedziała, że od teraz będą stanowić jej ulubione połączenie. Dopiero po chwili zdecydowała się odwzajemnić pocałunek. Dłonią, w której wciąż ściskała błękitnego chabra, objęła blondynkę, chcąc mieć ją bliżej siebie. A jedynym świadkiem tego wydarzenia była Betelgeza. English Translation: The flowers in the meadow looked disturbing. Then again, the whole world looked like that now. Or at least to her; she supposed it still retained its colors for some people. She envied them; she had been sitting there for a good two hours. Or maybe more? She couldn’t tell. And after all, what did it matter? A gentle summer breeze brushed her exposed calves, bringing the scent of hay, lavender and rosemary. She loved this smell, the smell of melancholy, of summer coming to an end and of unfulfilled dreams. And sadness. She felt that this was what sadness smelled like. The sun was setting, painting the sky with the most beautiful colors, which, unfortunately, she couldn’t see. She couldn’t even distinguish where juicy blue reigned supreme among this patchwork of hues, and where shy orange mingled with delicate pink. Although it was still bright, she managed to see a few distant stars in the sky, recognising some of the constellations. She often came here in the evenings to lay down on the unmown grass and watch them. Sometimes she did this alone, but much more often with Olena. They would then look out for the girl’s favorite star, Betelgeuse, one of the brightest stars in Orion’s belt, hundreds of light years away from Earth. Olena once said that although the speed of light is fast, it’s not fast enough, which is why if the Betelgeuse exploded, its light would reach people for some more time. “It’s almost like looking back in time”, the other girl replied. She wondered if it was possible that she was now looking at the stars that no longer existed. Despite what one might think, it wasn’t such an unpleasant thought at all. The past was painted with luscious and multicolored hues, while the future was shrouded only in sad grays. For her, the stars were like a time machine. In her hand she held a cornflower, picked some time ago. It had wilted a little, lost its previous freshness and was slightly bent. Olena loved cornflowers. She often came here to pick a handful of them to decorate her bedroom with flowers by putting them in small vases and glasses, taking up most of the flat surfaces in the room. The girl would ask her why she loved the flowers so much, but Olena would only reply: “It is only the cornflowers that know”. There were a bunch of things Olena loved besides cornflowers: checkered scarves, caramel tea and docs, which she was wearing anywhere all the time to make herself seem at least a few centimeters taller. And singing, but that was her secret. The girl had only heard her sing once, and that was by complete accident. Asking her about it later, she got no answer, only some interesting facts about animals. Olena always told facts about animals when she wanted to change the subject. It was funny how many memories the meadow was associated with. It was a graveyard of past moments and forgotten thoughts, both good and bad. It was, eventually, here that Olena announced that she was leaving. It was like a stab in the heart for her. In one moment, she felt anger, despair, fear, resentment, pain and sadness, and she couldn’t decide what was dominating. All the emotions were bubbling inside her, fighting a fierce battle for dominance, but no side was gaining any significant advantage. She felt bad. Maybe she was responsible for it? Maybe she was the cause? Maybe she wasn’t a good enough friend. In a moment, however, she transferred all her anger and all her negative emotions to Olena. She couldn’t understand why she was leaving. Did she not like it here? Were their evening walks, their conversations about nothing, blooming cornflowers and a caramel tea drunk in the sunshine no longer good enough for her? Had even the stars lost her value to her? Only later did she realize that it was neither her or Olena’s fault. It just happened. After all, people are constantly circling, looking for their place on Earth and the patch of grass from which Betelgeuse can best be seen. Olena was simply one of them. She didn’t even notice when tears blossomed in her eyes. She wiped one away, a solitary one running down her heated cheek. Thinking back to those events still hurt. She felt empty. And probably a little dead inside. “Oh, Kamila, here you are! I’ve been looking and looking for you...” said Olena, breathing out heavily and coming up from the side of the forest. She held a tiny cornflower in her hand and her incredibly fair, short hair danced with the wind. “It was your mom who told me I’d find you here”. She sat down next to Kamila, letting the last rays of the sun brush her pale legs. “Hi”. She used the palm of her hand to wipe away the tears gathering in her eyes, not wanting them to be noticed by her friend. She knew Olena would start to worry, and a moment later she would offer her help and a cup of warm cocoa. It was just the way she was kind, caring and protective, trying to save the whole world - even though she tried to appear as tough and firm. Kamila could see, however, that more and more problems were starting to pile up on her shoulders as time went on, slowly wearing her down. She didn’t want to become one of them. “Have you been crying?” Olena was always able to notice when something was wrong. When the girl didn’t answer, she repeated the question: “Have you been crying? Did something happen?” “Nothing”, she replied in a slightly trembling voice. “I’m just sad. Today is the last day of summer holidays. School’s already tomorrow. I guess it’s just a bit of holiday nostalgia, that’s all”. She could tell by the expression on her friend’s face that she knew this wasn’t all that was bothering her, but she didn’t press on. “And besides, I’m having a little bit of a hard time getting over your leave. I wish I could stop time. I don’t want it all to just go away, you know?”, she added more quietly after a while. “I know, I don’t want that either”, Olena whispered. Kamila came to the conclusion that their faces were far too close. She could easily count the tiny freckles on her upturned nose and gaze into her brown eyes hidden behind the lenses of round glasses. Olena smelled like the last day of the summer holidays: freshly cut grass, slightly rotten fruits and campfire smoke. The blonde girl put a strand of her hair behind her ear and Kamila felt two scarled blushes blossom on her cheeks, beginning to creep upwards towards her ears. They were definitely too close. Kamila felt Olena’s lips, tinted with crimson lipstick, touch her own. She closed her eyes, feeling the soft strand’s of her friend's hair tickle her. She tasted like orange and strawberries. Kamila would never have guessed that these two things could be good together, but she knew that from now on they would be her favorite combination. Only after a while did she decide to kiss her back. With her hand, in which she was still clutching the blue cornflower, she embraced the blonde girl, wanting to have her closer. And the only one to witness it was Betelgeuse. About the Author: An18-year-old student, Alicja Kowalska has been writing and making up stories since she can remember. She mostly writes short stories and have been posting them on wattpad for six years (her username is @_impresjonizm_). Alicja usually write in polish, which is her native language. The story is inspired by her experiences as a non-binary person. Where do our words go when we don’t hear anything back?
I know they’re choking out my head and my paper, But do they make the air taste different? Does it have flesh-eating enzymes for you too? The thought persists that I’d rather tasteless calories, Because that would make you love me less, But I’d still be able to tell someone something. Responses are bullets these days. ‘Beautiful’ fireworks still burn, Especially speeding where there’s been nothing but clicks, Let alone where myths of someone’s shield was. Are the things rumbled internally what broke the wars? Or was it new policy against my own weapons because of everyone else’s? The ‘I love you’s’ are the worst kind of clouds, Threatening me with a brain injury, Although I wouldn’t mind them tanking these memories of you. If you were to light a fire, don’t worry, they’d block the smoke. On the unpredicted occasions they are returned the I’s still aren’t sent. Instead, they rain as maps for where I should send that phrase. Soon enough, you’ll say something that’ll hit as I sacrifice those words again, And I’ll let them crush my ability to say something to someone. I’ll stop spitting pink pineapple. About the Author: Grace Halls is a 14-year-old from Western Australia, who has started writing poetry this year. She has been published in magazines including The Young Writers Ring and Atomic Form. She also has experience as an editor at The Promised Protagonists and Wonderful Nonsense. She loves reading classic books and crocheting. You can find her at graciesky24 on TikTok and Pinterest. Ukrainian Translation (Original):
1.Я жажду любові, Шукаю її всюди, Де є натяк на неї - я вже біжу. Щоб скуштувати шматочок Того, що називають "кохання". Я роблю для цього все, Та не бачу цієї любові. Хіба може бути гірше За жажду любові у інших? Я жажду любові та її не отримую. Я жажду уваги та її немає. І постійні думки та дні на самоті Заганяють мене далеко в тінь. Може колись моя жажда остине, Коли я зможу себе полюбити… 2.В один момент перед очима, Вже не плівка почуттів, А рясне небо із зорями. Момент коли розумієш, Що насправді треба, А що не треба зовсім. До чого душа лежить, А до чого мозок. Момент коли розумієш, До чого та як ти живеш. 3. Як хочеться вийти на світ Та подивитись на нього. Замість того, щоб бути Постійно в майбутньом. Як хочеться забутись, Та стати дитиной. Хоч на хвилинку забути Що потім чекає на мене. Просто вийти та подивитись На світ очима дитини, Як хочеться просто побути у світі English Translation: 1. I crave love Looking for her everywhere Where there is a hint of it, I'm already running. To taste a piece That which is called "love". I'm doing everything for this But I don't see this love. How could it get any worse For craving love from others? I crave love and don't get it. I crave attention and there is none. And constant thoughts and days alone Drive me far into the shadows. Maybe someday my thirst will cool down When can I love myself... 2. At one point in front of my eyes, No longer a film of feelings, And an abundant sky with stars. The moment when you realize What you really need, And what you don't need at all. To what the soul lies, And what does the brain have to do with it. The moment when you realize What and how do you live. 3. How you want to go out into the world And look at him. Instead of being Constantly in the future. How I want to forget And become a child. Forget even for a minute What awaits me then. Just go out and have a look To the world through the eyes of a child, How I just want to be in the world - Daria Bondarchuk He woke in a clearing between trees, golden light pouring over the swaying grasses, the
rustling leaves. When his eyes opened he was already standing, facing a beautiful girl with eyes a honey brown color he swore he knew. What was her name? He wanted to know her. The white sundress she wore, dotted with small flowers and hemmed with lace, waved around her knees. His head hurt dully, his mind under a heavy fog. How did he get here? He dug through his memories, but it was like wading in molasses. He thought he remembered heat. And light. “Noah?” The girl’s voice was soft, unsure. And Noah – yes, that was his name. She knew him. Did he know her? She looked familiar. The way her dark hair draped over her shoulder... that was familiar. He scanned the trees around them, searching between the tall trunks for movement, for signs of life besides the two of them. Something about the light seemed wrong, like it was flowing in from all sides. The trees seemed to go on forever, fading further and further back into a soft, hazy gold. “What is this place?” He asked. He wanted to ask her name, but it felt wrong to do so, like he was supposed to know it already. She’d known his. The girl looked around, and back to him. “I don’t know. I think... I think we’re dead.” Noah would have thought this was a joke, meant to frighten him, but the girl was glancing nervously around them, peering between the trees and wringing her hands. Noah didn’t get the impression that she was joking. “What makes you say that?” He asked. The girl – Noah could swear her name was on the tip of his tongue – tilted her head, giving him a puzzled look. “You don’t remember?” He shook his head, and she sighed. “You drove the car into a tree.” Noah blinked. The girl’s eyes were narrow, watching him closely as if monitoring his expression, but he wasn’t here, not really. He heard it in the back of his mind, the screech of tires, an ear-splitting crash and crunch. The pounding in his head, the earthen smell and feel of dirt on the side of his face. The taste of it. He’d been thrown out, had landed hard on the ground, and could feel sticky warmth on the side of his face, trickling into his ear and pooling there, even now. He’d called for her, for Eden – that was her name! – but he’d heard no response, and darkness had begun to crowd the edges of his vision. His head ached. “What else do you remember?” He asked. He couldn’t place it, but a sense of guilt and dread was bubbling up inside him, an almost nauseous feeling. “I remember all of it, Noah. It’s weird that you don’t.” Her voice was contemplative, but Noah thought there was an undercurrent of anger in it. If he had truly driven them into a tree and killed them both, he could hardly blame her. Noah dug back through his memory, but it was like the dirt of it was packed down hard. They’d been speeding along a winding road, lined on one side with thick trees. He remembered his pounding heart lodged in his throat, the world blurring in front of him. The tree rushing toward them. Before that, his mind became a wall of solid rock. He knew he had to ask, but the tight feeling in his chest made him hesitant. What if he’d done something horrible, something unforgivable? He was already pretty sure he’d killed both Eden and himself. How was he supposed to reconcile that? How could he apologize? There was no way to fix it, to make things right. He swallowed around the lump of fear and guilt lodged in his throat. “What happened?” Eden opened her mouth to speak, then paused and closed it again. Her brows knit close together, her gaze lingering somewhere around their feet. There was a moment of silence between them, where only the wind whispering through the canopy of leaves above them could be heard, and it wasn’t giving him answers. “I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted quietly. “You don’t remember anything? At all?” “I remember being scared driving, and the crash. That’s... kind of it.” Eden took a deep breath and released it slowly. She lowered herself into the grass, sitting cross-legged, her white skirt flaring out over her legs. “We panicked and ran. We didn’t even call 911.” “What?” “We set a fire,” She said, and he must have looked alarmed, because she assured him, “By accident.” “How? What happened?” Her mouth twisted, and she fidgeted with the lace on the hem of her dress. “We were having a picnic with candles. You knocked one over, and the grass caught in a second. It spread like-” She rolled her eyes. “Well, like wildfire.” He didn’t answer, unsure what to say, and she looked at him for a long moment. “I wonder why you don’t remember. I can still feel the heat on my skin.” She rubbed her forearm as if trying to brush away the feeling. “I don’t know. My head hurts pretty badly,” he admitted. “You probably hit your head in the crash.” Eden was almost whispering, almost talking only to herself. “Or maybe you’re still drunk.” “I was drunk?” He didn’t feel drunk, but she nodded and said, “You brought wine to the picnic, and I think you were nervous, because you drank most of it.” Through the fog crowding his thoughts, Noah could picture a pink and white plaid picnic blanket, laid out over tall grasses that had been pressed flat to the earth. He thought he remembered a spread of foods, mini sandwiches and a fruit platter and chocolate-covered pretzels, empty bottles of wine set down between candles in glass holders. He remembered buying the fruit platter at Ray’s, the local supermarket, and rearranging it onto a heart-shaped plate, then wrapping the whole thing in Saran Wrap for the picnic. He heard Eden’s voice, colder and angrier than he’d ever heard, a blizzard to her usual summer rain. He had begged her to come with him. The flickers of memory stacked atop each other, creating an image, a scene that played in Noah’s mind with unnerving clarity. He’d brought Eden to the field where they’d met in college on a nature retreat their university was hosting, meant to encourage students to disconnect from technology. Noah had gone for extra credit in his environmental studies class, but Eden and her friends had been excited for it. When they’d met, the field had been a late-spring green and scattered with wildflowers. Noah had sniffled and sneezed the whole afternoon, his pollen allergy humiliating him in front of the pretty girl with the dark hair and the blue cardigan. He’d kept glancing at her, fascinated by her drawings of the wildflowers, detailed renditions she sketched into a purple book. She seemed unaware of the way she twisted up her mouth in her focus. Later, she’d do it comparing renter-friendly peel-and-stick wallpapers for their bedroom. Later still, while measuring cups of brown sugar as he removed the first batch of cookies from the oven. Noah had been startled when he found her watching him too, making fleeting eye contact again and again throughout the afternoon. Five years later, in the same place, the grass was dry and brown and dead. The drought had taken its toll, the summer sun having scalded any remaining moisture from the soil. Noah had brought two bottles of peach wine, a nice summer flavor, he thought, to the picnic. He kept thinking the picnic spread, all bright and colorful, looked jarringly out of place against the dead grass. He’d wanted to explain... The rings. The dinner. The note. Noah’s mind whirred, and the pieces that fell into place in his mind crash-landed. He’d gone shopping for an engagement ring, had brought Eden’s best friend Grace along for a second opinion. With her help, Noah had chosen and purchased one, and taken Grace to dinner afterward to plan the proposal. It was going to be her job to hide unseen and film the proposal, but beyond that he hardly knew how he wanted to go about it. When he’d arrived at his and Eden’s shared apartment that night, he found a hand-written note from Eden, scribbled in uncharacteristically messy handwriting, saying only that she knew he was cheating on her. No hint of where she’d gone, no sign she planned to return, though all her belongings remained. He’d remembered then: Grace, her back to the restaurant’s large windows, getting a call from Eden in the middle of dinner. He remembered her lying, saying that she was on a date. He’d thought nothing of it at the time. Now, he stared at Eden. He hadn’t gotten a chance to fully explain at the picnic, interrupted by the blaze that had singed the edges of the picnic blanket. He supposed the whole thing was ash now. In their haste to leave the burning field, Noah remembered stepping on the fruit platter plate, cracking its heart into sharp shards of ceramic. Smushed bits of fruit had leaked a rainbow of juice through the cracks. “I remember,” Noah whispered. Eden’s brows raised. “Everything?” He nodded. “Good,” Eden said. “Then you owe me the explanation you promised.” Noah swallowed. “Grace was helping me pick out your engagement ring.” He told her the full story, watching tears pool in her eyes. She had the same look on her face that she did when she admitted she’d knocked over his grandmother’s lamp and shattered its stained glass lampshade. When he finished speaking, she remained silent for a second that seemed to drag into eternity, then whispered, “Oh.” There was a moment where neither of them spoke. Then Eden said, “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I should have talked to you before running off. I should have trusted you more.” Noah took her hand. Her skin was soft, her nails painted purple, chipping at the edges. “I’m sorry I killed us,” he said. She huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that was kind of a dick move.” Her smile fell. “I can’t believe we’re dead.” He looked around again. It was a beautiful place, unlike anything he’d seen before. “It’s strange. I wonder where we are. I would have thought that, if there was an afterlife, there would be more people.” Eden nodded her agreement, looking up to the sky. Noah spoke again. “I know I can’t do anything to fix it, and I don’t expect forgiveness. I stole your whole life from you.” He felt a harsh twist in his chest. “But I hope you don’t hate me,” he said, plucking a blade of grass from the soil and twirling it between his fingers. The look on Eden’s face broke Noah’s heart all over again. “I don’t hate you,” she said, her voice soft and lovely. “And I do forgive you, whether you think you deserve it or not. We wouldn’t have even been at the field if I’d trusted you and Grace more.” “Maybe,” he admitted. “But I can hardly blame you for being upset. I can see how it did look suspicious.” “Forgive me?” She asked. He didn’t even have to think about it. “Of course.” Noah wasn’t sure if it was real, or if his headache was turning into hallucinations, but he swore a golden haze was forming around her. He looked at his hands, and it seemed to be gathering around him too. In moments, the whole of his vision turned to gold. The last thing he could see was Eden’s face, looking back at him. About the Author: Emma Beilman is an undergraduate student at Bloomsburg University in Pennsylvania, studying creative writing and literature. She works at an outdoor adventure program and spends her free time reading and rock climbing. I wonder what qualities of mine you dispossess, that you had once so feverishly claimed?
I wonder if your parents ever read the letter that denied them the knowledge of your corruption and damnation of all I gave to you. You see my words never fruited such rotten conversations from cruel mouths, But yours claims me to be barren; harsh and infertile. To please your new master, you now dispossess all that was once yours. But my dear the grass will not be greener, and by winter you’ll be shocked to find that the grass on the other side has become the same rotting patch you left me with. My dear, you could never farm anything truly nourishing could you? None of your seeds will make it to harvest, nothing you plant will ever take root. You once ran your hand over me, told me that I was yours, Every feature was something you marvelled over, every sight worth a thousand looks. A land rich and green, now is told too dry to be worked upon; incapable of growing anything of substance. Tell anyone you can and make me your desert, make me the place that you will never travel to again, but don’t you forget that it was your hand that harvested those words your hand that poisoned my land. Those words that poison every good thing that comes to you. About the Author: Teddy Knight is from Australia and is currently 16. Their main form of writing is poetry. I once took a walkout in freezing winds in the dark.
Within the darkness and cold, the empty branches overhanged the park. Only the moon lit my way, yet still, it was lengths away. The wind blew my hair, blinding my eyes, making me slightly sway. I felt myself stomp against the rock streets for balance. Then I heard it. Louder and louder, bit by bit. The cawing of a bird so black. The noise shook me, taking me aback. The crow had made its presence known. Its black wings take flight around me. Its figure so black and dark, I can barely see. It wanted something from me, that I know. The same thing it has always wanted, so long ago. Though, I don’t have much to give anymore. Once again, something shiny caught its eye. I backed away, letting out a sigh. It’s beak down reach for my wrist. A string of pearls, it wants on its list. I pull away, not this time. Stubborn it is, it dives for the shine. I swung it away, the pearls were mine. It pokes its beak and flaps its wings. Hitting me back with harsh swings. Tears stung my eyes, I only wanted my pearls. Its greedy eyes watch the pearls fall. It swoops away, full of pearls and all. The moonlight dims as it flaps away. Back to its home, bringing my pearls to its stay. Leaving my wrist bare and cold. Kleptomaniac crow, why must you take my shine? Kleptomaniac crow, why must you take what is mine? You disgusting creature, you awful beast, you awful beast! Go away, go away, be gone, I demand you to cease! Never come back to me. You dulled me down to a matte slate. You left me in a boring, blank state. You took away what made me. Leaving to drown in a never-ending sea. You cruel, cruel beast. - Ivan Blackford Before I realized
Before I could prepare myself for it The path of my emotions curved ever so slightly to the left And I thought it would drift back in Like a brook that connects again down the line Oh what a Fool I was to believe that I laugh at myself now The original path can't even be seen by the naked eye anymore It only lives in my mind To be recalled bittersweetly Memories in themselves are evil They seem so close But in reality they are a random points In time Us drifting through it And can't return I don't have a choice but to keep floating down this stream Wishing And dreaming of it to turn right Sometimes it gives me to false hope It turns right for a Day or two But then again It violently turns left Why didn't I realize of its deviation I could've fixed it right then And there two years ago About the Author: Ahmad morid is 17 years old and loves art and literature. They are currently in the 11th grade and want to pursue art in the future! |
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