LIT BY DESIGN
New Design High School’s Literary Magazine Vol. 7 / 2025 - 26
Cristian Huerta Cruz
Untitled
Cristian Huerta Cruz
Untitled
Roslyn Espinal Beneath The Silence
In the stillness of unspoken nights, where shadow stretch long and cold, a silent scream is buried deep, a story never told.
Fingers once trusted now betray, whispered lies in every touch, a fragile heart shattered quietly, cracked beyond the church.
The mirror shows a hollow gaze, eyes, clouded with despair, haunted by silent echos, a pain too heavy to bear.
Time drips a slow, like mourning rain , each drop a heavy reminder, of innocence lost in darkness, a life left behind her.
Beneath the weight unspoken truths, a secret festers, grows, a betrayal so profound, so deep, the pain no one knows.
And in the final revelation, the truth begins to seep — the deepest wound, the darkest secret, was kept by the one she’d trust to keep.
The one who held her trembling, the one who was meant to care, was the one who broke her.
Her father's silent stare.
Mya Jones
Good Days Final
Roslyn Espinal
Who is “407”?
I can’t remember my name, or who I am as a being, who am I? What am I? I don’t really know. I spend most of y days counting the tiles. 1… 2… 47… 200.. But there never seem to be an end. Sometimes I will pull out my hair, to feel something other than the cold draft from the only vent in this box. Is it outside? I don’t think so. If it was.. Would I be able to see anything other than tiles? Small square tiles. Smooth, scratchy outlined tiles..
Other days I would just lay down on this thin hard mattress and stare up at the ceiling that seems to be also covered in tiles. Tiles, just more smooothh scratchy tiles. The fluorescent lights are so bright, like multiple what stars that seem to pulse the longer I stare. My eyes begin to water, I continue staring. The pain, the burning urge to blink type of pain rocks my body. My fingers gripping the thing irritating blanket that hugs the hard mattress, nails scratching. The pain lets me know I’m alive, I’m awake, that I am something. Most of the time I would walk in circles with my bare feet slapping against the cold, rough concrete flooring.
I’ve made a friend. I call it “407”. I don’t really see them but I love to talk to them even though they don’t really respond back. It’s rude that they don’t.. But who cares? They’re just good listeners. The only time that 407 is acknowledged by anyone other than meis only when people come dressed head to toe in big white suits that cover every soiree inch of skin they have to offer. Their faces covered in masks, that seemed like they are disgusted to breathe the same air I do.
They say “407, you are needed.” And sometimes I don’t move, waiting for 407 to make their way to them. I unjust sit in my corner waiting for them to take “407”. They stare at me like I am 407. Half the time they pull me, trying to drag me out by my arms. Sometimes my hair, if I’m being especially stubborn, I continued to say “I am not 407 I am not 407. 407 is scared. 407 doesn’t want to come out. 407 is not me.” Repeating over and over again. Though they do not listen. They dragged me into this room with trays of assortments of different instruments that I know that they’re going to use on me. Not “407”.
They force me down on this bed like table covered in thin, sheer white parchment paper. Strapping me down with belts, forcing my legs and arms apart for easier access. They prick, tug, bend, and pull me in ways that leave me snapping at them. Eventually they muzzle me. When they’re done they drag me back into my box. Shutting the door with the phrase “407 is back in her cell.” My arms left with puddles of black and purple, like a painting that is priced low but no one bothers to buy, dusting. I’ve always wanted to meet 407. Maybe I can. Only if they decide to put a window or even a mirror in this box, I eat, sleep, and count in. Maybe I am “407”.
Cristian Huerta Cruz
Untitled
The Soul, Fastor’s
Lexi Forch
The Soul is not my domain, it’s my great grand niece’s, Goddess of Fate and Souls of all things, deceased and alive. I know you’re probably interested, or at least would like it written down for your book, so I’ll tell you how Euleba runs things in The Underworld.
If you’re curious what The Underworld is like, it’s a library. An infinitely large library. Each soul is a book, or at least some form of information, such as scrolls, tablets, both digital and physical, audio books, etc. I presume you understand?
There are a few rooms in The Library, there’s the main entrance, also known as The Book Drop where souls enter, The Check In is where Vinara checks them for Judgment, Euleba’s Office is… exactly what it sounds like, she writes and observes fate.
At the front of The Library, is The Book Drop, where psychopomps bring souls. It’s like a waiting room for the dead. It’s one of the smaller rooms in The Library, but still quite large. Enough to house all the souls awaiting their turn for Judgment.
The Check In, the second destination on your way to eternal rest. The line isn’t usually very long in between the first two rooms, about 5 people at a time. Each individual must give their soul to Vinara so she can check for Judgment. There are 3 outcomes, The Beneath, The Brim, and The Beyond. Which are equivalent to “Hell”, a limbo of sorts, and “Heaven” and a sub-area in said dimensions catered to each individual soul… I’ll talk about these areas separately later on.
The smallest room in the library. But arguably the most important. Euleba’s Office is where the souls of the Gods are held, and I do mean all Gods. Mine, my Brother’s, my Parent’s, What you know as the “Greco-Roman” Deities. The “Egyptian” Deities, and all others. Mine is a stone tablet engraved with code, as in binary code. 1s and 0s. 01000110 01100001 01110011 01110100 01110101 01110010 00100111 01110011 00100000 01010011 01101111 01110101 01101100. Well, on the actual tablet it is not the 1s and 0s in your human languages. Numbers look different in the Language of the Gods, believe it or not.
Psychopomps, which in this case are deceased patrons, I don’t exactly know how they do their jobs, but as I believe you know a psychopomp is one who guides souls of the dead to the afterlife. They lead souls into The Book Drop, or something like that, it’s kind of a waiting room for the dead.
Mya Jones Weekends Final
Roslyn Espinal Alone Once Again
Beneath the broken sky I stray,
A fragile soul led astray.
A whispered lie, a gentle guise, A trap concealed behind kind eyes.
They groomed my trust with honeyed words, Drew me close, then silence hurled.
Betrayal’s knife, so cold, so sharp, Pierced my heart, a brutal scar.
Fear’s grip clenched, I gasped for air,
A silent scream lost in despair.
In darkness thick, I met my fate, Deceived, betrayed—sealed my state.
Zeinabou Traore Ode to weather.
because of your destructional state
your telling me that when i die
Depending on the weather, Every soul that I have ever loved and cared for will decide if my death is that important or not. if it's raining you would stay at home, Under your heavy duty blanket, enjoying the subtle warmth
While my body is being bonded to the tomb.
I sat in my free time analyzing if what I had done was enough, if i had remained in service to you
I spent countless hours trying to please each and everyone of you
Just for my funeral to depend on The rain?
All the sacrifices I had made
All of my hopes and dreams
Every ounce of goodness that I had seek
Every aching heart I had tried to ease
Just for my funeral
To depend on the rain.
Everything I've ever done
All that was said are now distant memories, My identity and beliefs buried untouched like a time capsule. Silently waiting for someone to think of me along the way.
So when you propose your so called devotion to me, I’m left to wonder would you attend my funeral with heavy rain or would you allow the rain to take the last part of me away?
Josiah Baugh Untitled
Rozlyn Espinal
Am I Enough?
Elara threw herself into different versions of herself like she was trying on costumes that never quite fit. She spent months buried in thick textbooks, memorizing facts about ancient stars and forgotten wars, hoping that being "the smart one" would finally provide a solid floor to stand on. When that felt too cold, she switched to a frantic kind of kindness, baking bread for neighbors she barely knew and overextending herself for friends until she was a hollow shell of "the helpful one." She bought a guitar until her fingertips bled, then a set of running shoes until her knees drifted into a constant ache, always chasing the high of a new label that might stick.
Every morning, Elara looked in the bathroom mirror and tried to find a hook to hang her identity on.
The Athlete? She ran until her lungs burned, but the finish line never felt like an achievement, just a stop.
The Intellectual? She read until her eyes ached, but the words felt like borrowed thoughts she was only renting.
The Daughter? She saw her mother’s eyes in the glass and felt like a fading carbon copy of a much more vibrant original.
She felt like a draft of a poem that someone had grown tired of editing. Despite the trail of half-finished hobbies and discarded identities, the "click" of belonging never came. Every time she mastered a chord or ran a faster mile, she would look at her reflection and see a stranger who was just very good at pretending. She wasn't failing at these tasks; she was actually quite good at most of them. The tragedy was that being good at something didn't make her feel like she was someone. She remained a collection of skills without a center, a girl who had tried everything to be enough, only to realize she didn't know who she was supposed to be enough for.
Josiah Baugh Untitled
Rozlyn Espinal The Regret
In shadows deep, I’ve long been lost, A silent voice, a heavy cost. whispers drowned in endless night, A plea for help, out of sight.
The world around me, deaf and cold, A story untold, a heart grown old. I yearned to be seen, to be understood. To be lifted from this pain I bear that is deep. But silence grew where hope once stood. Despair took hold, a cruel embrace, A final act to leave no trace. I closed my eyes, let darkness fall, Into the void, I gave my all.
Yet in that dark, I saw them weep, Their grief, a wound so painfully deep. Loved ones shattered, tears like rain, A grief so raw, a lingering pain.
Now I drift as a sprite in sorrow, Lost in regrets I cannot borrow. A ghost of sadness, endlessly yearning, In endless tears, forever burning. I wonder if they feel my ache, Or if my choice was just a mistake. For in their grief, I find my shame
A silent echo, endless pain as, My regret is in their name.
Zeinabou Traore
The Erratic Benevolent
I wasn’t much of a fighter, you see.
I stood as a bystander in my own story. Watching others use me as a joke for entertainment because that's how it was meant to be.
I was trained to be kind and completely negligent of my own wants and needs. And for the most part, it was okay.
Why would anyone turn away from the opportunity of being liked?
I wasn’t much of a fighter, you see.
I thought Surely being likable would grant me a spot in this community.
I had nothing to lose besides my self-respect and dignity.
Was staying true to myself really worth the ache and isolation?
or perhaps the act of standing silenced behind a crowd appealed to me?
I wasn’t much of a fighter, you see all of my battles were left unheeded, put to the side like that one leftover in the back of your fridge
I spent majority of my life apologizing for being hurt, Apologized to the doctors for being unwell
And my teachers for having questions
I wasn’t much of a fighter so
therefore I apologized for bleeding on your newly cleansed floor although you wounded me repeatedly
If you wish to look down on me for this you may however keep in mind that
I wasn’t much of a fighter but one upon a time I was praised for it.
Josiah Baugh Untitled
Lizbeth Reyes Untitled
Melasia Coleman
And for Once, Real Was Enough
"I work all day, Dalia, and this is what I come home to?" mother always yelled when things got out of her control, but the two unwashed bowls on the table, the hoodie on the couch, and the unswept floors were not worth the rage in her eyes.
"Look at this place," she snapped, throwing her hands into the air. "It's a mess. You're a mess. Get out of my sight."
Her words began to sink in as I retreated to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me. I clicked my lock softly, as if it was a bomb that could set off another argument. I stood there for a moment, my fist clenched at my sides, my chipped nails carved small crescent shapes on my palm, as I stared down at the dull yellow wallpaper peeling at the corner of my room. Something felt strange. The white trim was consumed by the yellow wallpaper. The yellow deepened into crimson. I turned my single bed a queen, draped in silk. The carpet beneath my feet softened. My tiny bedroom stretched outward until it wasn't my room anymore. I stiffened when I felt something brush against my back. My hair, I reached behind me. What had stopped at my shoulders now cascaded down my spine. It smelled of wood and natural maple syrup, not the cheap scented candles my mom liked. I unlocked my door, eager to show my mom my new room.
Instead, I stepped into a beautiful emptiness. Above me, thousands of stars burned brighter than the moon itself. Water crashed against jagged rocks below. I was in disbelief. My breath caught in my throat. Where was I? Strangely, I didn't care. For the first time in my life, the word freedom made sense. Vines draped from towering trees, glowing softly beneath the starlight. The air smelled of rain and wildflowers. I exported for what felt like hours in this endless jungle.
Eventually, I reached the top of a waterfall. The water thundered over the edge, crashing into the darkness below. It was loud. Too loud.
"Dalia, get up. It's time for school."
I froze. My mother's voice. The rushing water turned green, then back to the dull yellow wallpaper I knew well. The stars faded into patches of yellow and white trim. The jungle dissolved around me like paint washed from a canvas. I opened my eyes. I was back in my narrow bed, staring at the dull yellow wallpaper peeling from the corners of my room.
"Dalia, don't make me tell you twice. I’m already late for work."
And for Once, Real Was Enough
I shot upright and hurried through my morning routine, replaying the previous night's experience over and over in my head. Was it real? It felt real. By the time I arrived at school, exhaustion hung over me like a storm cloud. If it wasn't a dream, then what was it?
My history teacher droned on about Ancient Egypt while I stared out the window. The bright blue sky shimmered strangely. The sky turned a blazing orange-red. I flinched when the blue sky turned a blazing red orange. My stomach dropped. Sand poured through the cracks in the classroom walls, collecting around the legs of desks and chairs. The room grew hotter by the second. One by one, my classmates began sinking beneath the sand. When I started sinking, I closed my eyes in fear.
When I opened them again, the classroom was gone. I stood alone in a vast desert. Heat radiated from every direction. Endless dunes rolled toward the horizon like golden waves. In the distance sat an oasis, its water sparkling beneath the scorching sun. Then something flickered. I looked up. The sun glitched. For a split second, my teacher's face appeared where the sun should have been. I looked up but it glitched.
"Dalia... Dalia," the sun flicked on and off to my teacher's face until I was brought back to my classroom.
A few quiet giggles echoed around me as I snapped back to reality. My teacher stood at the front of the room with his arms crossed.
"Dalia," he said. "What is something rare to find in a desert?"
My heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, I answered, "An oasis."
The class fell silent.
"Correct," he said, and walked back to the front.
I took a breath, realizing it was real.
Every day after school, I couldn't wait to get home. From the moment I walked through the front door, my mind was already somewhere else. I could go anywhere I wanted and stay for hours. One day, I would wander the streets of Paris, smelling fresh-baked madeleines and Dacquoise. Next, I would watch cherry blossoms drift through the air in Japan. If I felt adventurous, I would leave Earth entirely and float among the stars. It was my own personal paradise.
Soon, reality began to feel like an inconvenience. It stood between me and the places I truly wanted to be. I started skipping classes just to disappear into other worlds. Why sit through
And for Once, Real Was Enough
(continued)
a lesson when I could go learn it in real time, distant galaxies, the deep oceans, Europe. The more time I spent daydreaming, the less I wanted to return.
Malina was my best friend. "I really want you at my game," she said as we walked to class. "You've been missing a lot of them lately."
My stomach twisted with guilt. "I'll be there," I promised. And I meant it.
That evening, I sat in the bleachers beneath the stadium lights. The crowd screamed like their lives depended on it, shaking the metal seats beneath my feet. For once, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Then I saw it. Near one of the exits stood a figure made of white and teal light watching me. Nobody else seemed to notice it. I blinked, but it remained there, glowing softly against the darkness.
Slowly, I rose from my seat. The figure turned and drifted toward the tunnel beneath the bleachers. The feeling in my gut told me not to go, but I followed it anyway. The sounds of the game grew fainter with every step.
"Stay," it whispered. Its voice mimicked mine. "We could be happy forever."
The glowing hand stretched toward me. I shook my head. "No. I have a game to watch."
For a moment, the figure seemed to smile. Then it lunged. I stumbled backward and sprinted toward the exit. My fingers wrapped around the cold metal door handle. A moment of relief flowed through me, but when I pulled, the door dissolved into grains of sand. The stadium vanished and suddenly, I was standing on a beach. The ocean stretched endlessly beneath a golden sunset, and the sand grazed my feet warmly. It was beautiful. Too beautiful.
A sharp slam echoed across the shore. The beach shattered. The ocean drained from the sand, and the sand drained until it turned to concrete. The bright sun had turned back to the dim light in the hallway. Reality rushed back.
I found myself standing in the empty stadium. I rushed to the open field. There, at the far end of the bleachers, sat Malina. Her shoulders tensed when we locked eyes, her expression dull and tiredful.
"Dalia," she said with a distasteful tone. "You missed my game."
I opened my mouth to explain, but no words came out. I looked at the ground. How could I explain a beach that didn't exist?
And for Once, Real Was Enough
(continued)
Malina shook her head. "I kept looking for you." The disappointment in her voice gave me goosebumps. She turned and walked away. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me. Weeks passed, then months. At school, teachers called on me only to be met with blank stares. My grades slipped. Empty seats at lunch became my only company. At home, things weren't much better. Most days, I rushed straight to my room, never leaving, not even to eat.
One night, a knock landed softly against my bedroom door.
"Dalia?" My mother's voice. Not angry. Just tired. I hesitated before opening my door. For a moment, neither of us spoke. "You've been in here a lot lately," she finally said. I shrugged. "Been busy." The lie came too easily.
My mother's eyes searched my face. "Your teachers called..." She paused. "And Malina, how's she?"
Silence fell upon us again. I crossed my arms and looked to the ground. "I said I’m fine." She sighed, and for the first time, she didn't argue. She picked up her laundry basket and walked away. The disappointment in her eyes lingered long after she disappeared.
That night, I wanted to go to London. But when I got there, something was different. Something was wrong. The sky above me flickered; the stars blinked on and off like broken lightbulbs. The scene glitched from London to my bedroom, then back. A chill creeped up my spine. Then I saw it again. The white and teal figure stood at the corner of the street near a lamppost. Waiting. Watching. Its glow reflected along the dark streets as it got closer, so I turned to leave.
"Why do you keep running?" it asked. The voice made my stomach twist, because it was mine.
I backed away. "What are you?" I looked around in panic.
The figure tilted its head, a smile spreading across its face. My smile. "I am everything you always wanted. I am freedom. Escape your perfect world."
The words no longer sounded beautiful. It sounded dangerous. "You ruined my life," I whispered.
And for Once, Real Was Enough (continued)
The figure laughed. "No, Dalia." It took another step toward me. "You did. This is what you wanted."
Images of my reality flashed in my mind. All I could think about was my mother standing outside my bedroom door. Waiting. Worrying. Alone.
"You chose me."
The dream world trembled violently. The quiet streets of London turned into grainy sand, then the wet leaves in the jungle. I finally understood the truth. The dream world I created had never been there to save me. It had been there distracting me from what really mattered. My life. My real life.
"Stay. You don't have to go back." The figure stepped closer. "Back to the yelling." Another step. "Back to the loneliness." The stars overhead flickered once more. "Back to the disappointment."
Its glowing hand reached toward me. The dream world stretched endlessly behind it. I hesitated. Paris, the jungle, the beach, the stars, a perfect home. Every place I had ever wanted to be. Every version of myself I had ever wanted to become. I could have that forever.
Then the image of my mom flashed in my mind again. I pulled my hand back. "No." I shook my head and took a step back. "I love this world and how it made me feel. Here I'm free." A lump caught in the back of my throat. "But I love my friends. I love my mom."
A crack appeared across its face. Thin at first. Like fractured glass.
"I love my life."
The crack spread.
"I don't want to keep hiding anymore."
The figure's smile stretched wider, sounding like tearing paper. The white and teal light leaked from its face violently. It screamed, but its voice no longer sounded like mine. It sounded like hundreds of my voices speaking at once.
"You need me."
The sky darkened.
"No, I don't."
Milanngela Miranda Copia de Journal
Abilify
The first time i started to hallucinate i was about 9-11 im not sure and a psychiatrist put me on 50mg of abilify. I don't remember much on it but everything was a fever dream. I remember having a routine of drinking milk with honey everyday and the only thing I would drink. For the first time I didn't care so much and everything was easy. I can't really describe the feeling but the best way i can put it was i felt so high up some may say its a high feeling but ever since they stopped prescribing me the pills i tried to find something similar but never did. RIP moon. A bird fell on my backyard and my uncle found it was a weird looking bird. Tenía grenas lleno de canas. I took it in my first ever pet.i always thought it would be a cat or a dog but a bird would do. I fed it raw rice, soaked it in a bit of water so he wouldn't choke. Lasted a good day. Next morning I looked at the cardboard box ' ‘wake up moon’’ she did a lap around the living room. I stumbled across a fan edit of Selena and it was of her and her old band (Selena y los dinos)surfing a wave. wave(beach)/wave(hand) i took moons arm and waved it at luisa then she dropped–not off my hand but her body weight. Me and my sister laughed for a while out of shock but wave/wave. I was fully convinced that if I prayed though to god he would bring moon back alive. Before that I remember a scene from the movie Lady Bloodfight where a lady used martial arts to bring back alive a bird. Si ella lo hizo yo tambien. I had that bird for a week and couldn't let go of it. The smell was apparently bad but I don't remember much but I prayed. Life turned into this tv screen with black and white
What i like about life
Everything is free–we just don't want to accept it. People dedicate their time on a piece of paper with numbers and most people live off of money when in reality it's not a way to live. People criticize celebrities who sell their soul and little do they know they are doing the same. This may sound cheesy but you literally can do anything in life. People are in their heads too much ‘’but if i do this xy and z will happen’’i can't do this cause of que se yo the point is you are limiting yourself to live even in the slightest choices. Those are all excuses and the only person that will get affected is you, you just don't know it. When you realise what you're capable of doing you will look back and think wow there were so many choices or options. Especially in times like this people are so blind. Everyone is different and the same all at the same time. We all hold similarities but are special in our own ways. Instead people just know how to follow and not lead i get it it is uncomfortable but as the saying goes be comfortable in the uncomfortable
Copia de Journal
Ahora todos quieren ser latinos pero les falta sazón- just like bad bunny said. It's always ‘’taco tuesday, buenos días, como estas, diego’’. But when it comes to actually representing . crickets. Everyone is so quick to mock but not represent. The only time they decide to represent is when it makes them look a certain way —that's when they want to make noise.’’your english sounds good’’ but that's not what i asked. Of coarse ms tofu didnt realise how offensive that was but oh well i will always represent my roots
Good or bad doesn't matter when you don't know how to stop when doing too much or doing too little. A good person could do something bad and would still be seen as a good person. Bad people do bad things and get bad consequences. The difference between me and you is i dont use titles to describe me as a person. My actions would speak for itself and in life even the silenced move are the loudest moves. Stability and balance is a skill I try and master everyday.
La despedida de milly rock/millie vanilli
Something that i learned being here was to always advocated myself for myself and to never change to fit in most people fake anyway also that everything is limited so byeee -milly rock out
My mistake
you get what you give. I was nice for a period of time, not sure if it was my poor skill on reading people or what not but people took advantage of me. Not but it's or , ors im tired of hearing I'm sorry but that sorry sounds so empty you actions sure as hell dont match the sorry. Now I have these walls and suddenly I'm the bitch or hard heading. My pills are working just fine so im too medicated to care
Copia de Journal
I cant/dont want to take seroquel or any pill for that matter. The pills take the life out of me. When I'm at my highest moments I feel great, everything is perfect, no mistakes. Every step I take a flower blooms but man seroquel. For me it means so much for me to handle life on my own in a way. Sadly these times are limited and there are times where im not sure if i will ever come back.’’youre just a teenager its normal- or some billshit like that but if i were to kill someone right now it would be a problem. Oh ok. Back to topic numbness is what I feel. I can't complain , it's my resting time. I exhausted myself at times. Sounds crazy but everything goes fast so i have to make sure i keep up to understand but there times it get hard to keep up. Like riding waves on the beach when you keep up it's a blast youre in control but if you dont a wave could kill you literally. Knowing what I know about myself, I'm proud to say I'm glad I'm proving people wrong. I couldn't afford to spend time in a psych ward. So I keep to myself. It's a problem I feel proud of taking care of by myself.
La santa muerte me cuida. No todas tienen que entender. La gente es así. La vida casi no me ha dado nada y todo a la misma vez. Cuando no tienes nada tienes todo a la misma vez. A mi me tocó encontrar todo de lo que yo se sola y ps pasa nada
Es una niña que Dios apiade de ella.
I remember when I moved to my grandma's house. My family case was recently opened. I grew up with a mom that told me’’ yo soy tu papa, tu mama, tu amigo’’ though her actions didn't match her words. Since little i knew who i didnt want to be. I remember crying about everything and everyone. It was mid march 2022 and my godmother decided to separate me from my sister and send me to New York with my grandma . Only 9 months into this case. Me and my grandma didn't really see eye to eye but she was my grandma. Though we fought, I will always be grateful for her comforting me during an episode I had. She knew my situation- she would always tell me how I should've protected myself and to not dress a curtain way. I was a kid. It was a Wednesday and I was in my first days at the new school I go to. It was a hard day, I'm assuming my grandma sensed I wasn't ok and gave me money to get food like everyday i would go to the popeyes across the street-$5 large fries. When i got home i found my grandma on the couch crying.’’yo ore todos los dias pa ustedes, que papito dios les cuide ya que ni mama o papa tiene pa que les guíe, que su alma se sane”
Ansumana Trawareh Untitled
Morrie Francis Disconnected
It’s Monday
All I want to do is run back and forth with no problems as I stay on my same tracks
My friends tracks
My job as a train
Helping people travel, get them to where they need to go,
Avoid Delays.
But to the surprise of no one I am forced to stop
This time a group of teens are holding my doors
Keeping me in place
I feel my doors being forced open
A painful shove, restriction
It hurts
It really hurts
I don’t want to break again
Why do you make me break?
Disconnected
“Stay clear of the closing doors please”
I’m I not helpful enough to you?
I am moving again, running the steeltracks causing sparks to fly
Like a runner in a marathon, imaginary veins pumping
My tracks go up and down like a fun roller coaster
I love this feeling
But sadly I am not a roller coaster
This is not for fun
My fun
I feel my trusted tracks betray me, stabbing my wheels
A sharp pain, a knife wound twisted and jagged,
Another delay.
“Thank you for your patience”
I move once more
Unfamiliar
Unrecognized
Not mine
Whose tracks am I on?
Where am I?
Where
Disconnected
Am I still being helpful? Do you see me as helpful?
A railway with many twists and turns I’m getting dizzy, very dizzy
Do you love to see my struggles? For another problem to occur? Is that why you mistreat me?
I just want to help
I stop I made it to a station
“Next stop is…”
Then I see it A sinister grin A weapon in hand, the same revolving smell of a bad substance
A bad human
I don’t want another delay I don’t want to witness the red paint of a victim
The red of the unfortunate
The screams of many Defending the ears I don’t have
“we will be held momentarily”
I sit still
“Thank you for your patience”
Angry shouts are thrown my way
My name on the lips of people
Speaking as if they wish to put a curse on me
Do you really see me as more of a burden than your friend?
They leave me
“This train is no longer in service”
The people that I held and gave my support to now leave me
Again
If only I had arms to keep you close
Had a mouth to speak, apologize
Eyes to make you see my distress is like yours
Ears to cover the insults of the mistakes I can’t fix
A nose to smell the agonizing smells of the station to feel your pain
I see my friends have also stopped
Will you ever understand mine?
Numbers and letters on them as if they’re seen as cattle
Run under the human system
One that is mistreated
One I can’t do anything but obey what I am poorly meant to do
But is it really our fault?
My fault?
Rozlyn Espinal
The Architect of the Trap
I have never seen a mouse build a mousetrap.
An animal kills for a stomach full of meat or a moment of panicked safety, its paws stained only by the raw necessity of the wild. There is no malice in a predator, only hunger. But I have seen a man forge a rifle, polish the cold geometry of the barrel, and aim it directly at his own reflection. I have seen him pull the trigger until the dry click of an empty chamber is the only sound left in a room gone cold.
We are the only species that deifies the architect of our own slaughter.
We didn’t just invent the steel spring for the mouse; we perfected the mechanism for ourselves. We spun webs out of imaginary lines on a map, engineered scarcity into printed paper, and turned thoughts into dogmas to hunt our neighbors. We call it "progress" while the weight of our monuments crushes the foundations beneath them. A man will set his own house on fire just to rule the ashes, draining the life from the soil and the very breath from the lungs of those who tend it, all to fill a void that sovereignty cannot satisfy.
The blood on a man’s hands does not wash away; it cures, sinking beneath the skin until guilt is just another layer of his anatomy.
It was never about the mouse. It was never about a grand design or a collective good. Those are merely the velvet ribbons we tie around the gallows. It is entirely about the ego, the frantic, desperate need to title and deed a world that was never ours to possess. We lie, we ruin, and we butcher under the delusion that we are cultivating a garden, all while the floorboards are slick with the remains of those who stood there yesterday.
We trade lifetimes for leverage. We construct weapons not merely to strike, but to posture, a global theater where the only script is look at what I can destroy. We are so obsessed with holding the lever of the trap that we fail to notice our own ankles resting against the wire.
I have never seen a mouse build a mousetrap. A mouse is far too practical. If a mouse is clever enough to outwit a mechanism, it simply takes the cheese and leaves the iron to rust. It takes a much more complicated, tortured kind of intelligence to build a cage and willingly step inside.
I have only seen the human who became the machine itself.
