Happily Ever After Meera
Young and joyful energy, Bright and sunny day,
Down ran the kids with hearts full of warmth, which was aching for something cold and sweet.
“Oh I wish I could grow up!” And soon they did.
Gloomy and comforting, Messy and breathtaking,
Down fell the hearts full of unbroken words, aching to be released as they watched the drops fall from the window.
“Oh, I wish I could grow up…” And soon they did.
Cold and untouched, Heartbreakingly beautiful
Down fell the beautiful memories, wanting to go back more than anything.
“Oh, I wish I were a kid again,” Said the old soul as they closed their eyes.
Love and Surrender
Nika
To thread life's odyssey, one looks forward to with such ardor.
Perceived that triumph begets sacrifice, joy comes with dejection. To ask oneself a question: Is it what life is there is to it?
Is letting go a show of love or surrender?
Letting go of someone dear pains so much. To discover one's passion brings joy to the soul
To pursue and fulfill one's vision is delight to the spirit.
Yet, without you in the picture causes the heart to cry.
Is letting go a show of love or surrender?
Letting go of someone dear gives oneself hope.
To find an answer to one's life's question is what one longs for. To find comfort and security is what one prays for.
Yet, without you in the picture brings sorrow.
Twilight comes, mind is conflicted, yet the heart is pleased
Discerning that He permits the lot to one's life calms one's soul. Life, love, and lots steer emotions, thus, radiance glares the soul.
Dreams With Shackles Indrani Bhattacharjee
It was one of many - a lifeless body, still on the ground. The skin had gone pale; veins rising as though they no longer wished to hold life. Bruises lingered around the neck - bruises of a struggle, of a body resisting its soul’s departure. It was one of many- many dead in the pursuit of someone else’s dream.
But before the body grew still, it had once been restless with wishes and hopes.
Arjun was a bright, young boy with a mind as creative as one can be. He did not just see colours - he felt them in his bones. Red burned with ferocity, blue whispered with calm, yellow gleamed with brightness, and green carried quiet wisdom. The way his fingers moved across the canvas was a performance on its own; his brushes danced and swayed to the splatter of paint on the stark canvas as an ethereal image was born. Each stroke was not just colour, but a piece of himself poured onto the canvas. In those moments, the world grew quiet, and only his art could speak.
Yet, it was a voice society refused to hear - a voice they would soon silence.
You see, to Arjun, his brushes were instruments of hope, but to his parents, they were nothing more than distractions from real success. They spoke of medicine, of law, of careers that brought “respect” and money, while Arjun spoke of colours no one else seemed to see. And so, day after day, he carried the weight of their dreams, even as his own slipped further into silence
And so he tried.
He opened his books, but every word felt like betrayal to his craft. Every diagram screamed his name, urging him to pick the brush again. Every colour touched his soul. Yet, with every page he turned, he felt shackled to a life that was never his own.
He decided to do it.
He wanted to live for them, but he could not die to himself any longer. If he obeyed, he killed his dream; if he disobeyed, he killed their pride.
He had been broken beyond repair, he had had enough.
He went to his secret studio; the one that saw endless nights of him brushing life onto his canvas. Half-finished paintings stood around him, watching him do the unthinkable. His fingers were stained with the last unspeaking colours of his life. In chasing both their dream and his, he lost them both. At the end, the room swallowed the sound of him leaving. The paint kept drying; indifferent and eternal.
It was one of many. It was one of many…
Thoughts, Not Prayers
Kyla Ignacio
Bells rang from across the grand aisles of the Diocesan Shrine of Saint Joseph before Father Nick could finish saying, “Amen.” The sound of clinking metal made me wince. It was too loud for my liking, yet I still appreciated the noise.
I took my Lola’s hand as she guided me to the altar. The bells were letting me know how close we were to the steps. After touching the grainy foot of the wooden statue, I mumbled a routine prayer I didn’t fully understand and began descending from the aisle, still holding onto my Lola’s arm. I felt the tiles thud beneath me. Quick clicks of two pairs grew stronger as I realized that the people pacing were calling out. They did not have to say my name for me to turn around.
“Anak, bulag ka ba?”
“Yes po, sister, Apo ko.” My Lola replied, my mouth halfway open before I shut it again to instead show a polite smile. The other sister took my hands in hers and asked if she could pray for me.
Who was I to refuse?
I bobbed my head once more, agreeing to her request in a register one octave above my natural speaking voice. My actual tone, it’s not what they’d expect to hear from people like me. It’s too deep, too full, too assertive, too human; So I speak saccharinely.
The sister’s prayer filtered through my ears in waves of coherence. The only message I understood from her whispering, “Please cure and bless this child, dear Lord, our God—Let her be an inspiration for us all.”
How many times has someone prayed for my vision instead of directing those prayers onto me, all of me? Perhaps they could see what I had yet to accept. That my disability consumed everything that made me dynamic. Is that true, or have I been conditioned to think that way? The facets of my identity have branched out into a void of which I cannot see into. There are no bells or clicks or hands to guide me through it either, and up ‘till now, I doubt there ever will be. Maybe that’s why I question them then, instead of bowing and being grateful.
A patch of bright yellow imprinted its silhouette amongst the dozens of other floaters swimming in my sight.
I blinked at the ember flickering before me. My hands clasped in the same position around the candle’s wax base as they were earlier around the sister’s outstretched hand. I wanted to tell my Lola about the candle. How its light allowed me to see it despite over 80 percent of my vision being lost, however, I didn’t want to break the silence. The serene atmosphere wouldn’t last long. She would change as soon as we got home, and I would resent her once more. So maybe a minute or two would delay that. If only for the same amount of time I stayed quiet.
The fire jerked from left to right, bowing and stretching. Never stopping to take a singular shape. It no longer soothed me. Its warmth and presence still felt familiar, but the way it wouldn’t stop shrinking, moving, growing—changing; I was conflicted. Light is a symbol of hope, good, prosperity, and knowledge. All things I strive to embody, yet I’m cowardly. Once the fire burns brighter, once it grows bigger, and hotter, and fuller, the lines on the wall become harsher. The dimmer the unseen gets. The harder it will be to adjust once the flame is eventually snuffed by those who know it’d spread.
So I set the candle down, resisting the urge to blow it out after cringing at my thoughts. What was meant to be an offering for my late grandfather became a cliche metaphor about myself.
How egotistical. I flitted my eyelids to reduce the strain caused by staring at the candle and looked up. Hundreds of other flames greeted me. My Lolo’s fire blending in to the colony of others that flew about like fireflies concentrated in a jar—Is that all these candles are for? To provide light for those navigating grief? To bless the souls of those who’ve passed? What if those very souls did not care for religion? Would this very church have condemned them for who they were when they were alive? What if they were Queer, or transgender, or dark-skinned, or crippled? Would this church light candles for them still? Or is it beneficial for them to remain anonymous to the bishops and sisters and priests? Would they blow out their candles if they knew? Would they pray for the lord to cure their beings, even in death? If they were alive now, would the church even let them in here? Would they let a gay couple work as acolytes? Would the sisters let a trans woman in their choir? Would Father bless a black man without noting his chocolate skin? If the disabled churchgoers weren’t docile and agreeable, would they still see them as inspirations? Would they keep praying for cures and miracles and forgiveness we never asked for, yet desperately wanted—If only to break away from the patronization forced upon our shoulders.
In truth, I enjoyed the attention. The martyrdom that came with my disability blew my ego up to heights unbefitting of someone with my meager achievements, radicalizing my periods of pride with the overwhelming isolation, codependence, and hardship I exchanged for recognition and basic accommodations. Still, I do not know if the means justify the end. Does the praise compensate for my struggle? Does my left eye have to be completely blind in order for my right eye to be partially sighted? Do I need to turn into a caricature for others to see me as real?
Table for Two Sofia B.
Polo
I set the table for two and stare at it, wondering, When did everything go wrong?
We used to be inseparable. But now there’s only me standing in the house we once shared, and even though we never had anything romantic –we were never lovers; ours was platonic. It now aches more than any breakup I’ve ever gone through, and that you once helped me through. But now you’ve left, and yet, it still feels like a part of you remains.
I sit at the table, and in your chair there’s only a shadow. Laughing and exchanging memories with me; and it’s weird, because although it shares so many similarities with you, it laughs hollow, almost mockingly, like a song played on an off-tune piano.
I don’t remember inviting it, but it’s the only company I feel I have. I stare at it and wonder what happened to us.
The shadow sometimes dresses like you, or smells like you. Tonight, it’s wearing one of your own hoodies, the one we got on our first trip together back in high school, when we joked about becoming roommates. Although there are parts of the story that seem blurred, slightly different from what happened. But I’m not sure if it’s because it saw it from different eyes or because it’s not able to get it fully right. Almost seems like a hallucination.
“Why didn’t you trust me?” I ask it. “What did I do that made you feel like you had to hide our friendship?”
I feel the knife twist inside my chest, breaking every part of me it reaches.
“It’s not your fault.” It answers. “You did nothing wrong. It was me.”
“But…” I try to hide my tears, although I know the shadow probably won’t care if I cry. The more time I spend with it, the more this hollow sensation grows inside of me, too. “I was always honest with you. I told you everything.”
“I know.” The shadow leans close –whispering– and reaches a hand to touch my cheek. Its touch felt warm in the beginning, but now it’s just a cold and chilling sensation. “Just give me time. All will be alright.”
That’s all it’s done lately, ask for more time. Time I’m not sure I have anymore.
I look away, tears now falling without pause, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the living room mirror. My eyes have started losing their shine, and my skin is becoming duller, darker around my eyes. Although it’s not the only thing that has changed, all the life and light sucked from it; the house has felt it too. There are no more photos on the walls, the smell of the morning toasts has gone, and the shared laughter has gone silent. The only thing I hear is the drops of water coming out of the kitchen sink you said you’d fix after work.
Meanwhile, the shadow sits next to me, its smile glowing.
“What is it that you took from me?” I ask it, not hoping for an answer.
Something inside me is boiling, a rage that shouldn’t be there, after all, we didn’t really argue last time we talked. You just took off without me.
“I never meant to hurt you.” The shadow says. “I’m sorry.”
“Then why did you do it?” I scream at it, and the shadow vanishes.
The next night, we sit together again for dinner, but the shadow barely touches your food. It just keeps staring at me, as if waiting for me to say something, to ask something. Every night it sits with me, making me think of all the great times we had together, and every morning I wake up exhausted.
But I have nothing to say to it tonight.
The more I stare at it, the more I can feel my blood boiling, trying to break free and launch itself at the shadow. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry at you and this confused at myself. I want to see you, get an answer, but I also want you to go away and take this shadow with you –because the more time I spend with it, the more tired I feel; the duller I feel –and now, the angrier I feel.
I don’t want to see you.
The shadow smiles at me and puts something on the table. A small Polaroid of us, all young and smiling. The smell of the salty water from the sea, the feeling of the sand sticking to our feet, it all invades me without warning.
I try to touch it, to get it away, but that white border where we once wrote our names cuts me deep.
“Think you can get rid of me just like that? We used to be something, you used to say we were soulmates. Are you really ready to not see me again?” The words come out in your voice, and I feel as if they’ve stabbed me deeply in the heart.
I hold onto the table, vision blurring and chest tightening. It’s so difficult to breathe.
It makes the shadow laugh. It stands up and hugs me from behind, sending shivers down my spine. I brush it with my hand and it laughs again, but this time it sounds nothing like you, there’s an echo to it that makes my hair curl and my fingertips go cold. Once the shadow leaves, I feel immensely tired, drained –like I’ve run out of battery.
“You’re not her. You’ll never be her.” I say to myself.
“But I’m the only one you have.” The shadow echoes in the distance.
I look to the ceiling, where the shadow seems to linger for a little before dissipating.
I go to the park the next day, with a small book I bought for myself and a lukewarm coffee I made at home, a recipe we promised to try but never found the chance to. The colors around me feel more vibrant than I can manage, almost offensive, and I have to put on my sunglasses. For a moment, I can’t help but wonder if the shadow could survive here, where everything is too bright for it to hide.
Come to think of it, when did the colors in the apartment become so dull they became lost? I can’t quite remember.
I look at the people running around, and while I don’t understand how some of them can pretend to be fine, it makes me realize how lonely I am. But as bad as I feel about myself, as much as I don’t have anybody else, I also don’t want to lose the little of myself I still keep. I miss my friend, but I miss my shine the most.
That night, the shadow is already waiting at the table before I even start cooking dinner. It smiles widely at me.
“What are you making tonight?”
I ignore it the best I can and set the table for myself.
“Don’t you think you’re forgetting something, dear?”
I look at the shadow and walk to it, grab the chair where you once sat, and slide it close to the table until it reaches the border. The shadow vanishes right in front of my eyes.
Dinner is for one from now on.
Cranes and Tulips
Avery Potter
Through the river of gold I descent, Dust on me that melt.
Down to the concrete that stood alone, Among the greens of rice and paddy.
And I search and search, mud splashing. Bathed by the sun, kissed by the wind.
Warm, and icy, lukewarm.
A feeling of destination, a person beside. Unknown but familiar, running.
By a lake stood cranes, staring. Eggs on the ground.
A crack right before me. Tulips bloom from within the shell. TheAtlas Domain FORGE
Beyond Comfort
Levi Dante
I had never been one to settle. It all seemed cowardly to me to risk the endless possibilities that came with persistence. The drive and force to attain something far beyond comfort was always appealing to me.
As I navigate the nature of life, however, my stand on this matter was altered. I am slowly finding the sense and beauty in seeing things as they are rather than their potential. Try as I might to oppose this truth, I am quite humbled by how much I longed for betterment, that I failed to value the present. In a sense, I lost more than I gained. Nonetheless, I have settled it within myself that the days ahead of me will no longer be filled with dread and unrealistic ideations. Instead, I vow to leave a legacy that embraces the past, treasures the present, and awaits the future wholeheartedly.