Chapter 2 Combat

What's up, gang?

The world is a turbulent place right now, specifically the United States. We started off with a full serving of pandemic survival and have come back around the 2020 buffet for some toppling of racist institutions.

It's a time for reflection and change but it's also a time to fight. Each one of us can contribute in a different way whether it's showing up at the protests, donating money and supplies, gathering and sharing our knowledge, confronting hard truths, reading books, learning, and having tough but necessary conversations with friends, family, and strangers online.

The time has come to really show up and fight for the black community. Not just now but forever and always. You can find links here for ways in which you can start doing that here: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#

Thank you to all of the contributors for sharing your work. It's a weird time and some of us haven't felt at our most creative, but I do believe that art shouldn't be abandoned, but embraced in times of trouble. So thank you once again. <3

Kris

by Miss Fan

Chaos and panic like a hurricane

Screams from every direction

it has spread all around

Quick and swift like the wind

Sadness swept through the streets

Buildings crumbled down

The morning sky

Gray and clear

No sunlight

by Denirka Quiles

Words follow me, haunt me, torture me, eat me.

Words, never ending words.

Words said, words screamed, but above all, words unspoken.

Words drive me crazy.

Words make me happy.

Words shock me.

Words mock me.

Words shatter me.

Words heal me.

Words and words, never ending words.

I am words, thousands of words.

And thousands of words will never be enough.

Not enough to describe me, to express me, to love me.

No, thousands of words, my dear friend, will never be enough to grasp all that is me.

by Sara A. Perez Baez

CONFIDENTIAL MESSAGE FROM SUBJECT [REDACTED]: March 03, 2021

They say you’re meant to fight for honor and glory, but what they don’t tell you is that those two concepts mean nothing when your soldiers are being bombed and shot at on the battlefield. The moment you realize that you’re alone, that no one will truly save your soul from the horrors you’ve seen and committed, that’s when the fight for your new life begins.

*~*

Tom’s body grew heavier with every sinking step. The sand wouldn’t stop getting in my eyes and I’d never been so thirsty in my life. I felt Tom’s shallow breaths on my neck, only interrupted by a groan of pain. I placed him at the bottom of a dune and sat beside him. We both knew there was no water nearby, but our instinct to look around for a miracle hadn’t switched off yet.

“We’re only delaying the inevitable.”

“No shit, T.”

“Scott, seriously. This is it.” Tom looked at me like I didn’t know that the second we had decided to escape through the dunes, we had sealed our fate. It was a matter of time before They sniffed us out.

Then, the sand began to swallow us whole.

*~*

“Do you have news?”

“The subject was hallucinating again. I don’t think keeping him in a coma will clear his memories from the War. It’s been 20 years already; who knows if giving him all this time has strengthened him enough to fight back…”

“Humans have, and always will be, too frail. There’s no strength in him left.”

por Wildalis Martínez Rivera

Da igual

Da igual si mi cuerpo sangra,

si ovula o si entre tiempos está.

¿Que siempre estoy molesta?

¿Que siempre estoy triste?

¿Que la razón solo en el varón está?

Pues al diablo envío mis intentos

de aguantarte sumisa

todo el discurso científico-patriarcal.

Defeca y diserta en tu “derecho divino”

mientras yo me marcho,

sin llanto y al azar,

a los márgenes de un viejo papel

donde impreco atrevida

sobre estrofas, versos y rimas

que no se deben a nadie

y mucho menos a tu pensar.

*** *** ***

Cotidianidades de una madrugada de marzo

Recuerdo claramente mi despedida, pues nunca le había dicho adiós a una casa. Apegarse a objetos inanimados –pensaba– era una cuestión sumamente materialista. Sin embargo, yo no me despedía de la madera, de los azulejos, de la cama, del sofá o del viejo televisor. Más bien, le decía adiós a una vida de recuerdos. Puse mi mano en la pared y, al contacto, todas las memorias y las proyecciones de mi existencia se aglomeraron en mi mente como si fuera una suerte de Aleph que se abría en aquel preciso instante, ante la amenaza del dios más inclemente del trópico: el huracán.

Lo buenos recuerdos se juntaban con los terribles. Cerrando los ojos, vi a mi padre tirado en el suelo con espuma saliendo de su boca. Estaba a merced de un corazón débil que se le reventaba en el medio del pecho, mientras yo solo podía mirar desde el marco de la puerta, como un autómata. Vi también, cada cumpleaños celebrado en la humildad de una familia que no podía pagarse las grandes fiestas de los demás, pero que se desbordaba en caricias y afectos para los suyos. Sentí las lágrimas de mi madre y de mi hermana cuando la soledad las arropaba, aunque sentí también sus sonrisas y sus miradas de complicidad mientras horneaban aquel bizcocho de fresa que tanto les encantaba. En ese acto culinario podía ver los espíritus protectores de mis abuelas y de su sazón de antaño, guiando la mano de mi hermana y confortando el alma de mi madre. Recordé también el espejo de mi cuarto –tantas veces testigo de mis amores y de mis desencantos–, la cajita de música que chirriaba una vieja melodía y los ojos grandes y puros de un centenar de mujeres que me habían ayudado a crecer. Eran los recuerdos de dos generaciones de mujeres férreas que conocían el llanto, pero desconocían la palabra “imposible”.

Observé también el futuro, menos definido, más enigmático: el agua cubriendo mis pies, techos volando, la destrucción de la casa, los árboles caídos, las muertes, los terremotos, la oscuridad finita, el retorno de la luz, el amor, las nuevas generaciones, los nuevos retos… Pasado, presente y futuro se unían en perfecta comunión, a través de las imágenes borrosas de mi mundo onírico. Cuando abrí los ojos, mi mano seguía pegada a la pared y mis lágrimas ya se habían secado. Me acerqué a la pared de madera, le di el más puro de los besos y salí corriendo. Aun siendo la más indisciplinada de las deportistas, emprendí el maratón más largo de mi vida. Corrí como un caballo desbocado hasta que ya no sentía ni mi cuerpo ni el tambaleante suelo. Corrí hasta que me sentí volar por el firmamento.

Beep, beep, beep…

Me levanto azorada para toparme con un techo muy blanco. Durante los primeros minutos, me siento confundida, pues aún no he despertado del todo, pero voy cayendo en tiempo: mi sueño me había transportado a un pasado de pérdida y reconstrucción. Hoy vivo en una nueva casa y forjo nuevos recuerdos. De vuelta al presente, miro la hora y reconozco estar tarde para mi turno en el hospital. Me visto de prisa y recojo mi cabello en un moño imperfecto, pues mis rizos siempre hacen lo que quieren, cuando quieren, porque así lo quieren. Coloco la mascarilla en su sitio, a pesar del dolor que producen en mis orejas, me miro al espejo y me quedo en un trance largo observando mis ojos cansados… No hay imágenes ni retrospecciones ni presagios, pero, al salir del trance, veo que mi mano derecha está tocando mi reflejo con el dedo índice. Separo mi mano del espejo, me coloco los guantes y compruebo que mi armadura contra la pandemia esté completa. Miro el reflejo con la fuerza primigenia de un ejército amazónico y salgo caminando de mi casa con calma y elegancia. El combate continuaba, pero yo ya no soy la misma. Mi cuerpo ya no duda que puedo renacer de las cenizas.

by Ericka Rivera Figueroa

When Sora from Kingdom Hearts said, “my friends are my power,” I thought he was just saying some sappy Disney crap. Growing up, my positive role models were anime characters; stubborn and pure optimists who fought for their friends and for good no matter what. Now that I’m older, and have survived a category 5 Hurricane, earthquakes, and am in the midst of a global pandemic, I can kinda understand what Sora meant when he said that.

At 107 pounds, I’ve never considered myself to be a strong person. I can’t carry or lift heavy things, can’t throw a punch to save my life—I’ve always felt scrawny. I don’t ever give myself enough credit. If you tell me that you think I’m brave or strong or resilient, it’s hard for me to understand what you mean by that. But my friends, they tell me that any chance they get. In fact, they make me feel like I’m a shonen character like Deku or Naruto and I’m all badass and amazing even when I think I’m basic af. My friends teach me to be patient, teach me to be kinder, teach me to be a better person, and have played a crucial role in who I am and the type of person I want to continue to grow into.

Even though I don’t have a keyblade to unlock the darkness within people’s hearts, I always try to be supportive, kind, and understanding towards others. Its pretty ironic that its hard to be like that with myself, but it comes almost easily to me when its towards people I care about.

It’s hard admitting that each of us has darkness within us, one that most of us fight with every day. We fight Heartless every day whether they take form in our hearts or those of our peers.

I guess what I’m trying to get at is that I never thought I would be living in a dystopian novel or something akin to a videogame. The way I’ve been surviving and keeping strong throughout the chaos is by having friends to talk to and who share in my interests. Not just those friends, but also having games like Final Fantasy 7 and Kingdom Hearts to play that remind me that no matter how bad things may seem, if you surround yourself with great people (even though they may not see themselves that way) some of that greatness will rub off on you and you too will be able to overcome whatever crap the world throws at you.

by Margaret Shrager

“Make sure you turn your body as you strike,” Fidel tells me, gently correcting my stance and moving my thumb to a less-breakable position on my fist. “The force should come from your body, not just your arm.”

It’s January 19, 2016, and he’s teaching me to punch in the kitchen we’ve been sharing for about two weeks. My wife watches anxiously from the dining room, scared for my safety tomorrow, scared for her safety in the years to come—just scared. It usually manifests itself in anger that supersedes reason, so her decision to abstain from tomorrow’s festivities are understandable. I, on the other hand, am the level-headed one, slow to anger, the kind grandmother of whatever group I join, even at 25. I wear my kindness like a conch wears their shell—something beautiful to hide the writing mass of spineless anxiety beneath.

Emphasis on the spineless. I’ve never done anything assertive in my life, and I’ve certainly never thrown a punch before. Until a few months ago, I never thought I’d have to.

And then.

***

“A black man was lynched by the police. What will you do about it?” The words are printed in Times New Roman on standard copy paper and taped to a light pole. There is a number to text at the bottom of the poster, along with the words “Put your white privilege to good use.” Signs around here are pasted to poles like concert advertisements on a New York subway, though, so this one could almost go unnoticed. Its main competition in the area is a beautifully illustrated image of the boarder camps, with the words “Stop Caging Children” written below.

In other parts of the city, the walls are coated in graffiti and the streets are lined with broken glass, but things are quiet here. So quiet, in fact, that I pull down my mask and take a deep breath of summer air. It’s the first time I’ve been outside in days.

A sticker on another pole reads “ITMFA”.

“We did,” I mutter beneath my mask. Didn’t make a difference. The power comes from the body, not just the arm.

It’s June 1, 2020, and

F U C K

by Andrea Arango

It’s all good to chant

“¡PAZ!”

when you are safe in the woods.

It’s easy to sneer at weapons

when you have sharp claws.

But when they come for bx,

bx’s heart cramps,

and suddenly,

leaving the forest,

hiding,

asking for things bx will never get,

makes bx so angry

that bx’s claws rip the man’s head off

before the group even finishes

their second howls of “¡PAZ!”

The silence is deafening,

bx’s fur matted with sweat.

But when the second man appears,

points a gun,

a wx tears his arm off before he can even shoot.

And for half an hour

there is no trace of girls in the bleeding forest.

There are only teeth and leaking tendons

and the sound of a whole box of dampeners

being crushed under rough paws.

After,

they bury the bodies,

digging deep trenches in the mossy ground,

and bx couldn’t tell you

if they were girls

hiding the evidence,

or animals

too full to eat another bite.