The Worst Thing

Emanuela Gallo

The quick phone call ends with no answers, just the echoing of sobs and the ringing silence of a couple of words replaying over and over in your head. You drop to the floor and hold on to your brother’s arm.

“What do you mean?” you say because it can’t be true, you don’t believe it. No, no, you say, but your heart comes to realize it faster than your brain. The tears begin to fall.

The memories start rolling in. When was the last time you saw him? You can barely remember. It was the Saturday before Christmas. You can’t visualize saying goodbye to him while stepping out the door. It was a little more than a month ago. “It’s better that you didn’t see him in the state he was,” you’re told, but you still hate yourself for not having a clear, final memory of him.

The world has changed, the world has shifted, the world has rocked. The world now appears through a new lens. You look at the paper you were writing two seconds before finding out the news — how oblivious you were, how ungrateful you were, how blissfully unaware and ignorant you were, how fortunate you were to have been living in that moment without the unbearable burden of reality. How lucky you were to live in yesterday’s time, in last week’s time, in last month’s time, in last year’s time.

The phone calls start rolling in and out; people who have heard the news and people who have yet to hear it. They offer their condolences but no one’s voice matches with the voice you truly want to hear. You had been looking forward to the leftovers from last night’s dinner — last night, filled with smiles and laughter and good food. You recall squeezing your sister’s hand in excitement. Now you squeeze it in anguish. Now yesterday’s leftovers can’t be enjoyed; they are tarnished by today’s misery. You eat mechanically, vision blurred, uncaring of the teardrops that fall into your plate.

The headache has been around for a while but it’s just now getting worse. The house turns silent. The world turns dreary. You look at old pictures and cry. You look down at the floor and cry. You write your paper and cry. You cry, all day long, you cry. It’s on the mind, all the time.

Now, you have to start rummaging through your drawers in search of something black to wear. If you don’t find anything acceptable, you’ll have to go to the store later. You try on a pair of denim and a blouse and analyze it in the mirror as if you care how you’ll look. Your eyes drift from the black of your clothes to the reflection of your face where your eyes are red and swollen.

Now, the other phone calls start, the ones to cancel and reschedule appointments for the next two days. You don’t know whether you should think about it or distract yourself. It feels wrong and borderline impossible to not think about it. But it’s not like when your world crumbles, the rest of the world does too. But every thought leads to yet another scrunched up, wet tissue added to the growing pile next to you.

Secret

Emanuela Gallo

I’ve got a secret and it might slip out yes, I’ve got a secret and it might slip out I try my best to bury it deep but my paranoia could get the best of me I’ve got a secret and it might slip out a split-second decision didn’t think too much if I explained my position they’d think I made it up they’d just hate me and paint me as a villain they could judge when I’m something much closer to a misunderstood victim how could I have guessed the consequence I’d face? It felt right at the time never thought of a cost can’t blame my judgment if it was blind yet I know they won’t see it that way I keep my head low, stay in my lane hear their whispers as they discuss who could be the culprit “who could it be?”

“who could betray us?”

“I have no clue,” I say, sipping on my drink look into their eyes and wonder if they think that I’m the key to their puzzle the one who occupies their minds wonder if they see the hidden secrets in my eyes they’re so confident what I did was wicked but a part of me still thinks I’m right all they whisper about is me but through death, I begin a new life

Glass table

Emily Singh

One bruise two bruise three bruise Stolen at age four

Chair blocking the front door

Alone again as an only child

Trying to make every day worthwhile. Building forts to make a home.

He tried to kill her with a shard of a mirror. Words became daggers

He saw his reflection and paused, Always on guard.

He spewed and disputed as she became more muted. The shard bookmarks her life story.

Cold Turkey

Joel Bautista