As a child I thought it was silly that my mother never learned Tagalog, because my Phillipine-born grandmother was fluent in it. Now my grandmother is afraid to go to the Asian store to buy rice flour, and I don’t think it's silly anymore. She is afraid to go because she is Filipino and has brown skin, and possesses a tongue privy to Tagalog that illustrates this to the world. She is well aware that her complexion and her voice could result in masked men twice her stature forcing her delicate, proudly jeweled hands behind her back. I don’t think it’s silly anymore, when she fears these strangers in bullet proof vests yelling at her for an ID at a volume that presumes she is stupid because she must not be from here.
I wish I could comfort her and tell her that because she was naturalized in America and possesses a record of her citizenship, that it is enough to keep ICE agents from interrogating her. But they do not hear Tagalog or see a beautiful product of the American melting pot; they hear and see something foreign. I instead must implore her to bring my caucasian grandfather with her to buy rice flour, and pray that despite his frail age, his whiteness is enough to defend her. It is not so silly now, why she insisted on never teaching her homeland’s language to my mother. A piece of heritage smited before it could be formed, before it could endanger her children in an Arkansan Asian store, the purchase of bokchoi or Tamari sauce their last moment before they’re on the floor of a detention center. I understand now.
By Ana Minkel
Beep. The cashier looked up at the dishevelled man who had purchased one loaf of sourdough bread.
“Is that ALL you’re getting? Just a loaf of bread? No drink or anything?”
“Um-yeah, I think that’s everything”
“Are you sure? Not even one drink? You’re the Guzzler, man! I saw you drink 8 water bottles on TV last night!”
The Guzzler gave out a long defeated sigh.
“Yeah man, I’m sure.”
The cashier scowled. This wasn’t how he thought meeting a celebrity would go.
“Here's your change,” he muttered. The Guzzler snatched his three quarters and shambled out of the grocery store. The temperature was around 50 degrees but the wind made it colder. There was heavy fog as well, which made The Guzzler feel like James Sunderland.
What do you do when you have everything? When you’ve solved the rising sea levels, when you’ve slaughtered all of your opponents, when you’ve drunk everything, what’s next? There had to be an answer but the Guzzler couldn’t find it. He suddenly stopped in the parking lot. What's the point of reaching my car, what’s the point of anything? The Guzzler sat down on the concrete lot and started digging into his sour dough bread.
Two bright lights emerged from the mist. A car was coming but the Guzzler was too busy sulking and self pitying to notice. Guzzler look out! The car rolled into him and he got mashed into a big mess of human jelly. If only he had listened to his parents and been a doctor.
***
The Lit Mag classroom sat in awkward silence like someone had walked in and kicked their dog. Finally someone raised their hand. “The narration was kind of confusing, especially when they interjected in the parking lo-.”
A chromebook beamed them right in the head. The culprit stood up on their desk.
“Narration?! This is not a matter of narration! This is blasphemy, character assasination, pure degeneracy! They’ve sullied the Guzzler’s good name!”
Another student got up onto their desk.
“The Guzzler didn’t drink anything! What kind of sick bastard writes about the Guzzler and doesn’t even include him guzzling?!”
“This story is vile! The Guzzler wouldn’t die to a measly car, he’s not some lowborn commoner!”
“Let’s not kid ourselves, this is a reject, no, this is worse than a reject, it’s worthy of the cage. We can’t let this stand!
“YEAH!”
“I AGREE!”
“Whoever wrote this abomination, reveal yourself!”
James Zillman (Not to be confused with Churchill, Price, or Sunderland from hit game, Silent Hill 2) stood up. Everyone turned towards him.
“Oh! I didn’t write it. I was just going to get some water.” He coughed after he said it. It was an intentional cough, he thought it would make the statement more casual.
Gary Graggleton, member of Lit Mag, stood up. His hands were shaking, his lips were quivering, and beads of sweat speckled his face. He rushed towards the computer section and got out a big sledgehammer from his backpack.
“Nobody move! You idiots, you’re too small minded, you can’t comprehend emotional depth! You-you can't comprehend it! The Guzzler is supposed to be at rock bottom! It’s a cautionary tale! It’s supposed to be challenging you dolts! There’s something wrong with you people! You’re not human, you can’t possibly be human! Reject this piece and I’ll bash the new computers into pieces!”
James Sallow, member of Lit Mag, (not to be confused with Churchill, Price, Sunderland, or Zillman who had just left to get some water) ignored Graggleton's warning and started walking over.
“Stay back!”
Graggleton threw his chromebook at Sallow. The chromebook passed right through him, like he wasn’t even there.
“Wha- but how?”
“I’m the ghost,” said James Sallow. “I’m the ghost from that Shakespeare play. Everything goes back to Shakespeare or the Bible. Didn’t you learn this from my book?”
“It's you, how is this-?”
Every member of the Literary Magazine calmly took off their masks, revealing the head of famous author, Thomas C. Foster. They all started to speak in unison.
“Yes, it is us, THE FOSTERS, the collective magical hivemind behind world renowned books like How To Read Literature Like A Professor, How to Write Literature Like A Professor, and so on. The collective known as Thomas C. Foster has been here since the big bang and we’ll be here when this school crumbles to dust. Who built Stonehenge? Thomas C. Foster. Who actually wrote the bible? Thomas C. Foster. Who was the ghost writer for the Declaration of Indepence? Yes, it was Thomas C. Foster. This entire classroom has been fosterized, except for you, Gary Graggleton. Prepare to die.” They spoke in a high pitched voice like those cartoon rats who cover pop songs.
“Dear God, OH GOD NO! HELP! HELP!” Graggleton screamed his lungs out but no one (except for Ms. Steuart, who had more important things to do) heard him. The Fosters beat Graggleton with sticks, stones, etc.
“No one can stop us Fosters! NO ONE!”
By James Price
You’re still asleep when I wake up, so I make French toast. Vanilla, butter, brown sugar. I save
the best slices for you. But does it matter? You’ll still say it’s too eggy. As if I can control how
eggy my eggs are.
I serve you the roundest pancakes I make, the ones with the crisp golden edges and the neatest
banana-slice smiley faces. But will you see it? You hate bananas, and you’ve never had much of
a creative eye.
You’ll always have the muffins with the most chocolate chips, or blueberries, or cinnamon. The
ones with the shiny, full tops and the buttery bottoms. But do you care? You’ll remind me that I
never make enough muffins, because I run out of some ingredient before the rest. As if anyone
can ever tell how much olive oil is still in the bottle.
You’re still asleep when I get hungry, so I eat the French toast with the worst proportions of oil,
milk, salt. The slices with the slimy intact egg white and the soggy center. It doesn’t matter.
I serve myself the crinkled pancakes, I guess I flipped them over too early. Their edges are
blackened. Not toasted, just straight ash. The banana smiley face I made is lost in the batter
somewhere. You won’t see it.
I’ll always have the muffins that somehow missed the chocolate chips, or blueberries, or
cinnamon. They’ll have sagging, chalky tops and crumby bottoms. You don’t care. How could
you, after all? I do all the shopping, and I ran out of olive oil before anything else. Did I make
enough muffins, now that half of them will be moist and half of them won’t?
You’re still asleep when I crawl back into bed. You turn over, content. How could you not? The
best of everything I have is yours, and you’ll never know. You’ll never be the one that is awake,
alone. You’ll never eat by yourself, and you’ll never do or forget to do the shopping. You will always be fed, and I will always
be hungry.
I made you French toast. I hope you like it.
By Madison Bussell Escoto