A Knight in Shining Denim
by: Kaelyn Hvidsten
Deep within the Everglade Forest, nestled among delicate ferns and babbling brooks, bustled the kingdom of Dewberry. The late-summer sun filtered through the towering oaks and illuminated the valley, teeming with activity. Critters of all shapes and sizes scurried about, claiming spaces for vibrant market stalls and stringing cheery banners between the boughs of low-hanging branches. It seemed all of Everglade was excitedly preparing for the coronation. That is, all except for one conceited squirrel.
The snores resounding from 4513 Applewood Lane abruptly ceased, and Denim tumbled from his bed. “Oh for the love of…” he trailed off in a series of muttered profanities as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and tottered down the stairs towards his front door. A lizard in gleaming palace armor stood outside, his fist raised to continue the knocking that matched Denim’s pounding head. The guard quickly clanked inside, kicking the empty cups and loose papers that littered the floor as he went.
“I’m here to escort you to your mandatory community service. His Majesty expects you to report in five minutes.”
“It’s good to see you too, Dave. How have you been? How’re the kids?”
“Follow me, please.” The lizard strode back out the door, crushing Denim’s foot beneath his armored boot as he passed. Denim cursed again and threw on his frayed jean vest before stumbling after.
The familiar clamor of a Dewberry festival crescendoed as the pair picked their way through the early-morning crowds to a small stage near the center of the village. Denim pocketed several goods from merchant carts before they reached a smiling group with green volunteer sashes that gathered before King Jacques. The King stood as high as his mouse legs allowed, issuing orders through a megaphone.
“Thank you all once again for offering your time. It is because of kind souls like yourselves that these events are such a success! Now, you have your marching orders. Off to your posts, everyone!” Cheers and applause scattered through the volunteers before they dispersed. King Jacques suddenly noticed Denim and pittered over, adjusting his crown and royal purple smock as he went. “Good morning, Denim,” he squeaked, “I’m glad to see you here. Hopefully your experience in community service will help you see that giving to the community is much more rewarding than taking.” His whiskers twitched slightly. “I’d hate to see your… charisma go to waste. Perhaps you’d like to check tickets at the East Gate?”
“What?!” Denim blurted. “But everyone knows that’s the most bor-” The guard kicked him from behind, and he coughed. “I mean, yes, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent!” The King cried, clapping his snowy paws together, “I’ll have David escort you straight away. Oh, and Denim-” he added as they turned to leave, “I’d suggest returning those fruits in your pockets on your way. My daughter isn’t as patient with thieves as I am, and seeing as it’s only a matter of hours before she wears this crown, it may be best to begin practicing discipline.”
Denim stuttered, but King Jacques was already exiting the theatre, his knotted cane clacking over the cobblestone. Barely restraining a prolonged groan, Denim reluctantly started towards the East Gate.
~~~
“Thank you for coming, and have a nice day. Thank you for coming, and have a nice day. Thank you for…” Denim sat hunched over on the stool outside Dewberry’s east entrance, his ears flattened and his head resting on his paws. The sun had begun its infuriatingly slow descent behind him, and Denim thought that if he saw another screaming child or heard another joke about the weather, he was going to burst into flames. Better get the water ready, he thought bitterly, noticing that the line still extended out of sight. He buried his face further in his paws.
“Excuse me? Am I allowed to sell these here?”
“Do you have a licence and-” Denim stopped mid sentence, his nose twitching. A warm, nutty aroma that smelled like love and hope and all things utterly perfect flooded his nostrils. He looked up. There beside him was a cloaked crow, rolling the largest cart of candied peanuts Denim had ever seen. The surrounding space instantly dimmed and paled, unable to handle the majesty of that glowing treasure.
“Sir? What were you saying about my licence?”
“Yeah, yeah, go on in,” Denim whispered absentmindedly. His eyes were wide. The crow confusedly continued through the entrance after a moment, and Denim watched until she disappeared into the market.
An annoyed cough called him out of his daydreams, and he turned to find a chipmunk, tapping her foot and waving her ticket in front of him. “You’re good,” he said quickly. “In fact… you’re all good. Come on in, everyone!” He shouted, leaping up and racing in the direction of the peanuts.
Denim bobbed and weaved between merchants, entertainers, and coronation festival-goers in the direction the raven went. Eventually, he picked up the smell, and it carried him all the way to the west end. He rounded a corner and suddenly there the cart sat, squished between stalls, in all its golden glory, the crow nowhere to be seen. His heart racing, Denim snuck behind the stalls and, when all of the surrounding merchants were distracted, eased it coolly down the road. Keeping a close eye on the patrolling guards, he ducked behind the nearest fern and pulled the cart into the brush. After a few seconds, Denim breathed a sigh of relief, and turned towards the peanuts, a predatory grin lifting the corners of his mouth.
~~~
Twenty minutes later, a scream sliced through through the cobbled streets of Dewberry. Musicians plucked into silence, conversations petered out, and pattering paws and claws slowed as everyone gradually realized it had lasted too long to be a squeal of joy. The scream multiplied. Dozens of voices cried out from the center of the village, all shrieking one name: “Calypso!”
Denim peeked his head out of the ferns, and the empty peanut cart rolled away behind him. The name pulled a string of his memory. Calypso the Crow was Everglade’s most notorious scavenger; a master of disguise, she darted between kingdoms, sneaking in and stealing the possessions deemed most valuable. Denim couldn’t help but admire her efficiency. The ground beneath him rumbled as a black mass suddenly shot into the forest canopy and the crowd rushed back towards him. Fed up with his monotonous life in the village, Denim emerged from his hiding place and followed the shadow of wings.
By the time he reached the East Gate, the King was already waiting and furious. He paced hotly as Denim approached.
“There you are! I was about to send the army after you! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Your Majesty, if this is about the peanuts, I swear, the cart was empty when I-”
“What peanuts? What are you talking about? You abandoned your post and allowed Everglade’s most imminent threat inside the walls! What do you have to say for yourself?”
Denim froze. Hazily, through a fog of peanutty dreams, he remembered the face of the merchant who had pushed the cart. He’d recognize that scarred, feathered face from the wanted posters anywhere. Well, apparently anywhere except behind a mountain of the world’s tastiest snack. “King Jacques, I-”
“Never mind! I don’t want to hear.” His whiskered face twisted. “We have an incredibly dangerous situation on our hands.”
“Dangerous? I’d hardly call a case of thievery dangerous,” Denim half-chuckled, but the laughter promptly died in his throat.
“That’s enough out of you. You have no idea the catastrophe you may have just caused. Come with me,” he finished in a whisper and walked a few paces, just out of the earshot of passing civilians. Denim instinctively stilled as the King’s black eyes fell urgently upon him. “Calypso indeed stole our most precious possession today; I saw her carry it off with my own eyes. However, the Princess, Calypso, myself, and now you, are the only souls who know of its existence, and I should like to keep it that way. What that blasted bird took is worth more than all the world’s gold. She stole the Heart of the Forest – the Golden Acorn.” Denim’s eyes widened, the words ‘more than’ and ‘gold’ ricocheting around his skull. The King dropped his voice even lower and continued.
“That Acorn has been secretly passed through the Dewberry royal family, generation to generation, for over six hundred years. It has the power to restore life to the forest each spring, and my daughter cannot be crowned without it. If it is not returned to the castle by the rising of tomorrow’s sun, the winter will come this season, and it will stay. For Calypso, a creature who feeds on death and shames the name of her species, that is a paradise.
Now, listen to me very carefully. I cannot create a panic by sending out soldiers during the festival. Since this is your mess, I am entrusting you to right it. You must go alone, and take nothing but this lantern and dagger.” The King handed Denim a firefly-light and a small, silver knife, encrusted with several sparkling gems. “Though it does not serve the kingdom, I don’t deny that you are a fine thief. You are cunning, a quality that will serve you well should you choose to use it for the benefit of others.”
Denim raised a finger and cleared his throat. “If I may, your royal mousiness, I don’t think this is such a good-”
“You will be cleared of all withstanding charges and gifted a large sum of peanuts if you succeed.”
“Done.”
~~~
A flock of forest finches startled and took flight as Denim yelped and suddenly sunk waist deep in the river. Several hours had passed since he began his journey, and Dewberry, the only home he’d ever known, wasn’t even a blink on the horizon behind him. The moon was well into her climb, her shining face providing little light through the thick foliage. Denim climbed onto the bank, grumbling and ringing out his tail.
“Good-for-nothing fireflies,” he muttered, angrily tapping the lantern King Jacques had given him. The light promptly went out. “Oh, come on! I didn’t mean it!” He whined. The fireflies indignantly remained dark, and Denim yanked off the lid of the lantern and dropped the whole thing in the grass. Vowing never to employ the help of those “pretentious wannabe stars” again, he stomped onwards in the dark.
The King had directed him to follow the river until it opened into a barren meadow. There would stand Everglade’s tallest tree, which long ago shed its leaves and rotted from the inside. Carved into the corpse was Calypso’s lair. The King warned Denim that no one had ever been able to enter the meadow undetected. Then again, he thought, none of those amateurs were me.
Denim hadn’t gone more than fifty paces before he slowed, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up. The intense conviction that he was being watched slid its icy fingers up his spine and made him shiver. He squinted around, barely able to make out anything in the inky blackness. Nothing stirred except for the occasional owl’s song or late-night cricket raves. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, and cringed when a stick cracked under his paw.
All at once, a bloodthirsty screech filled the air to his left, and a pair of razor-edged claws closed around his shoulders with an iron grip. Denim struggled against the cold bones as he was heaved from the ground, but to no avail. The forest floor spun farther and farther beneath his feet.
“Let go of me!” He yelled through gritted teeth as they reached the top of the canopy, kicking his back paws like a trapped rabbit. The crow cawed aggressively, obliging, and the crushing pressure on Denim’s chest lifted. “AAAAAAAH!”
Villagers later reported the wailing of a freefalling rodent reached all the way to the outskirts of Dewberry.
Just before he struck the grass, the talons closed around him once more, and Calypso jerked to the right to pin him against a nearby tree. Denim struggled to whip his neck out of the way as she repeatedly drove her beak into where it had been moments previous. In horror, he realized he’d lost his dagger sometime during the fray. Calypso shrieked and reared her head back, preparing for one final blow.
Suddenly, a flash of hazel slammed into the raven’s side, and she fell to the ground, releasing Denim. Too stunned to run, he watched as the pair rolled off, feathers flying and wings beating furiously. Finally, his savior sunk their teeth into Calypso’s leg, and she instinctively took flight, soaring into the shadows and out of sight.
The heavy sounds of Denim’s breath filled his ears. After a moment, he stumbled over to the brown bundle lying by the river. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a young mouse. As she opened her eyes, he wordlessly held out his paw to help her up.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, rising to her feet, “You, on the other hand, almost got yourself killed.”
When the mouse brushed herself off and met Denim’s stare, recognition rocked through him, and his mouth fell open. “You’re Princess Daphne.” He pointed at her, dumbfounded.
“Well-spotted,” she quipped, replacing the tiara that had fallen around her neck. “And don’t bother introducing yourself. My father’s already told me all I need to know about you.” Her eyes narrowed.
“I don’t understand… why are you here?” Denim asked, unfazed.
She sighed. “When we get back to the kingdom, you can’t tell anyone I was with you. I snuck out. I saw Calypso fly off with the Acorn and heard Father sending you after it, and I wanted to make sure it would be returned to us safely. Besides, this might be my last chance for an actual adventure before I’m stuck in the castle for the rest of my life.”
Denim hardly imagined living large in the palace and being given everything on a silver platter qualified as stuck. Never having to worry about where he’d find his next meal sounded like a fantasy.
“Listen,” he said, his heartbeat finally calming as he continued along the river, “I appreciate the concern. Really, I do. But I hardly think the forest at night is any place for a princess. I can handle myself. Calypso’s likely dropped off your precious little snack in her lair, and I need to be invisible to get through the meadow. I can’t accomplish that if I’m towing a walking flare behind me. Dear old dad will have everyone and their mother looking for you.”
“Excuse me?” She huffed, stomping along beside him, “Do you hear yourself? Do you recall that time two minutes ago when I saved your bushy butt? And when we find Calypso’s hideout, chances are I’m going to be the one towing you through that meadow! You can’t fight to save anyone, much less the Heart of the Forest!”
“And what gives you the right to come out of nowhere and criticise my combat skills?” He whirled to face her, placing his paws on his hips defensively.
In the blink of an eye, Daphne drove her knee into Denim’s stomach, grabbed the scruff of his neck, and flipped him on his back, winding him. “I’ve trained for nineteen years with the head of the royal guard. And you should know, being a misogynistic nutbag doesn’t sit well with the future queen. Now come on. We’ve got to get the Acorn before the sun rises, and I have to teach you how to protect yourself so you don’t officially doom us all.”
~~~
The moon was at her peak. Denim and Princess Daphne sat hidden in a tree at the edge of the meadow, apprehensively gazing up at the colossal fortress that was Calypso’s hollow tree. Different species of beetles and roaches writhed and shuddered over every inch of its charred bark, giving it a vital, malefic air. Down below, several shifting shadows crawled through the grasses, no doubt patrol rats. And there, queen of everything the darkness touched, perched Calypso atop her tower. At her feet was a small, golden speck.
Denim gulped. “Are you sure the spring won’t come without the Acorn? I mean, everyone back in Dewberry is probably wondering where you are. Maybe it would be best if we just…” He trailed off when Daphne slowly turned to face him, exasperation etched in every whisker.
“I did not just spend the last three hours teaching you how to punch for you to just give up! You are by far the most arrogant, selfish animal I have ever met, and I work in politics! You’ve spent your whole life believing the world revolves around you, and guess what, you’ve gotten your wish. The lives of countless others are now resting on our shoulders. It’s time to wake up and step up. You hear me?” She poked him between the ribs, hard.
Maybe it was the gravity of the situation, maybe it was Daphne’s authenticity, or maybe it was a lingering hallucination from all the peanuts, but a small lightbulb flickered on in his mind. Small, but important. His perspective slightly shifted, and he saw the squirrel Daphne was talking about; the squirrel that stole, who didn’t treat anyone with respect, who’d only come this far for the personal rewards. He saw himself, and he didn’t like it.
“You’re right,” he finally replied. Daphne blinked. “If we want to get out of each other’s hair, we have to work together. I’m ready.”
“Okay,” she said after a moment, bewildered, “let’s go then.”
The pair carefully picked their way through the meadow, staying low to the ground and quiet as a, well, mouse. When they reached the base of the trunk, they found a mountain of what looked like thousands of transparent insect statues.
“Exoskeletons,” Daphne breathed. Wordlessly, she and Denim strapped a pair of the largest ones to their backs and joined the masses of scuttling feet on the tree. It was slow work, and Denim sensed that Daphne, a creature not accustomed to climbing, was growing weary.
At last, they neared the top and slowed before they came within Calypso’s view. Denim repositioned so he could whisper his rough plan to Daphne.
“I’m going to go around to the other side and throw off my vest as a distraction. When Calypso hopefully chases it, we can try to get the Acorn from two different angles.”
Daphne nodded, and Denim began crawling to the northern side of the tree. Once he was secure, he slid off the exoskeleton and held his jean vest out with one arm. At the sight of that bit of fabric, everything that had defined him until this point, the thievery, the lying, the impertinence, suddenly rushed to the forefront of his mind. He felt he was holding a piece of himself – a shred of a life he was ready to leave behind. He dropped the vest.
A great black eye peered over the edge of the tree, focusing on the blue lump bouncing between branches. Calypso stretched out her wings and dived after it. Denim quickly scrambled up the remainder of the tree and met Daphne, who tucked the glowing Acorn under her arm. It was more glorious than Denim could have ever imagined. Every inch of its incandescent surface was covered in luminous, pure gold, and it shined like it was sent from heaven itself.
As they clambered down from branch to branch, Calypso reappeared in the air behind them and swooped at Daphne, who pressed the Acorn protectively between her stomach and the trunk. Calypso doubled back and swooped again. The insects began to realize what was going on, and they changed direction to scuttle towards Denim and Daphne. Denim realized they had about ten seconds before they were overtaken.
“Run, Princess!” He yelled, “I’ll distract Calypso when she comes back!”
Daphne looked like she wanted to fight, but there wasn’t time. Calypso dove towards her, and she leaped to the next branch, pausing only for a second before jumping lower. Denim steeled himself and tried to remember what she had said about punching. Before she flew back out, Denim sprung out onto the crow’s back and dug his paws into her feathers. “Twist, thumb over knuckles, fist to chin, and… follow through!”
Calypso screeched and dipped in midair as Denim connected a punch to the side of her head. He landed another, and another. Suddenly, she barrel-rolled, and Denim lost his grip around her waist. For the second time in the same five hours, he hurtled through the night air. Down, down, down he tumbled, bouncing off blackened branches, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. The ground grew closer, and he rocketed into the pile of exoskeletons, spraying old skins like a volcanic eruption of the undead.
Gradually, the sheddings broke his fall, and he skidded to a halt, several hollow legs curled around him. The corners of his vision were beginning to darken, but he forced the thought away as he faintly registered someone calling his name. Denim frantically dug his way out and looked up. Daphne was still climbing down the tree, a legion of bugs on her tail. The Acorn was slowing her down.
“Denim! Catch!”
She threw the Acorn as hard as she could, and it arched through the starry sky, a glistening silhouette. Denim shuffled backwards and aligned himself as the nut plunged towards him. He threw up his paws, but it was too late. The Acorn brushed his fingertips before crashing to the ground with an earsplitting crack. He froze.
“Time to go!” Daphne yelled as she darted up behind him. She grabbed his arm and yanked him into a full sprint, quickly bending to scoop up the Acorn on her way. The pair bolted away from the meadow, legs shaking and breathing shallow, towards the cover of the forest. They didn’t stop running until they were sure the sounds of thousands of scuttling insects had completely faded into the night.
“Did we lose Calypso?” Denim gasped, breathless, when they stopped by a bend in the river.
“I don’t know. We’d better hurry back to Dewberry. I’m not sure how much time we have.” Daphne responded, doubled over.
“Wait,” he said when he had control of his lungs, “There’s something I need to check. Can I see the Acorn?”
Daphne handed it to him, and Denim immediately squeaked in surprise.
“What? What is it?” Daphne looked over, concerned, and she matched Denim’s distress. There, running from tip to base, breaking the Acorn’s perfect surface, ran a large dark split. The tip of Daphne’s nose went white.
“I’m so sorry, Princess. It slipped while I was trying to catch it, and it must have landed on a rock. Will it-”
“It’s done,” she said shortly, swallowing hard. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just take it back to the kingdom and hope that I can be crowned before the sun… ” She trailed off, and a strange expression melted onto her face.
In one fluid motion, she plucked a sharp stone from the riverbank, swung it over her head, and smashed it down onto the Acorn. It instantly shattered and splintered open. Denim yelped and leaped back.
“Are you crazy?! What are you-” But the rest of his sentence shriveled on his tongue as he gazed down upon the fractured nut. Its insides were black as pitch and oozed a foul-smelling liquid. Denim thought he even saw some wriggling decomposer feasting its way through the flesh of the seed. The golden Acorn, the Heart of the Forest, which had kept Everglade and Dewberry’s royal family safe and blooming for centuries, was completely rotted through. Daphne flung a paw to her mouth and sank to the ground, eyes welling over.
“Did Calypso do this?” Denim breathed. Daphne numbly shook her head.
“No,” she replied, sniffling, “no, she couldn’t have. The Acorn is linked to the monarch of Dewberry and symbolizes their loyalty to the forest. The only way it can corrupt from the inside like this is- is if…”
“Your father.” Denim felt like he had been hit by a freight train. He joined her in the cold grass, his head whirling. “Why would he want to endanger Everglade?”
“I don’t know,” Daphne whispered, hugging herself, “I have no idea how or why, but this can only mean he’s working with Calypso.”
Both sat, stunned, for several minutes. Finally, Denim broke the silence.
“I know this is frightening,” he said quietly. “I’d spend the rest of my life right here if it meant I never have to face Calypso or the King again. Maybe that makes me a coward. But it’s like you said: the lives of countless others are on our shoulders, and it’s our responsibility to see this thing through. I’m with you now, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He held out a paw to help her up. “Teammates?”
She hesitated, then reached to hug him. “Friends.”
To be continued…
Notes for the end because I didn’t finish lol (not to be included in lit mag): Denim and Daphne make it to Calypso’s tree, and they start sneaking up to retrieve the Acorn. Denim has a bit of a character arc, and the first symbol appears: his jacket. He wants to leave his past life of thievery behind, and he shows that by giving up his jacket as a diversion. There’s a battle, but Denim and Daphne manage to escape with the nut. Once they return to the forest, they discover that the Acorn was damaged during the fight and realize a little later that it’s completely rotten on the inside (second symbol). The Acorn represents the current monarch’s loyalty to the forest, so this can only mean that King Jacques is corrupt, and he’s been working with Calypso the whole time in order to gain more time on the throne (dun dun duunnn). Princess Daphne is obviously very upset, and Denim comforts her. The second act comes to a close with their newfound friendship.
The pair race back to Dewberry to share what they’ve discovered, but nobody believes them. When the King figures out they know the truth, he tries to send them to the dungeons, but Denim and Daphne fight their way free of the guards and back into the throne room. Daphne wrestles the crown from her father and starts to put it on right as the sun is rising. But before it touches her head, the King appears behind her and pulls out his dagger. In his most heroic moment, Denim launches himself between Daphne and the King and takes the hit. Daphne dons the crown, coronating herself just in time. The Acorn magically swirls back together and heals Denim in the process.
In her rightful place at last, Queen Daphne sends her father to be detained by the royal guard, who witnessed his attempted murder. She also knights Denim, clears him of all charges, and shares a large stash of peanuts with him. The end!!
One little epilogue note: I purposefully did not have Calypso talk after the beginning to show how villains are often dehumanized and misunderstood. Calypso’s origin story is unknown (at least for now :) ), and it’s far easier to hate/fear something you know nothing about.
Fear
by: Siya Gupta
I’ve never really thought of the reason that makes me get up in the morning.
Now that I think about it, there’s multiple reasons. I want to have a good, successful future, I want to make my parents proud, I want to have new experiences, I could go on. But there’s no point, because these reasons boil down to one. Fear. I’m not talking about the fear of being poor in the future or dying, although, sometimes I’d prefer to be that than feel this, but I’m talking about the fear of failure. That’s the real reason I get up in the morning. When I wake up and think about it, sometimes I feel like I should just give up. Stop trying. I know I’ll never bring myself to do it though. I’m too scared. I want to be walking on that stage in four years, shaking hands with the principal and hugging my parents. I want to receive that acceptance letter that says I got into my top college. I want to get that call saying that I got my dream job. I can’t get all of that by not trying. So I guess I’ll keep trying, see where it takes me. I’m just hoping it can make me happy, too.
Hate Letter to my Car
by: Erin Koller
Dear Ember,
I am writing to you in order to express my potent dislike of everything about you. You may think that you are named Ember because your license plate begins EMB; however, you’re so named because you are a hot mess and if you crash I’ll leave you in the ashes. That crash becomes more likely every time you refuse to accelerate. The carpet under your pedal is worn thin, and so is my patience. Your remarkable gas mileage is wasted on a rusty wreckage like you. You are undeserving of it. Your previous owner smoked, and looking at you I can see why. You get winded going uphill faster than my grandmother. During the winter, the slightest layer of frost may as well be glaciers of ice, mirroring the pace you move at. Suffice it to say, you are on ice, and it’s thin. At the next minor inconvenience I will send you to a dumpster and cleanse the earth of your presence.
Waiting expectantly for that day,
Erin
Love
by: Bella Kim
Love. What is truly the meaning of love? Is it the butterfly feeling in your stomach? Or is it the warm feeling on your face?
Love to me is the giggling feeling that I feel when I’m around him. Love to me is the natural instinct I feel when im with him. Love to me is when he tells me that he thought I was beautiful, which that made me feel as if each time he says I’m not that he truly thinks I am actually very beautiful.
He fills my heart with love instead of hate. He gets rid of my hatred for this dreadful world. The hate that I feel for myself when I just sleep. He doesn’t make me uncomfortable. He makes me feel safe. Each word he speaks makes me happy.
He used to make me feel sad. He used to make me feel as if I had no place in this dreadful world. He now makes me feel as if I belong here. He makes me wanna stay. He lets me feel that I have worth as a human being. He gives me worth.
Love to me is the way he makes me laugh. Love to me is the way he makes me smile and how I can never be mad at him or anyone. Love to me is how I can be normal and how I can feel safe around him. Love to me is how he wants to hear me blabber about random stuff.
People say he loves me but I just don’t believe it. Yes he acts how he wants to and how he never has the chance to. Yes he calls me randomly and tries to make me laugh and smile. I feel as if he wants to see me smile.
Hate to me is when he breaks my heart and makes me go crazy. His eyes his dazzling eyes. They glistened down at me as I passed by. I wonder behind those dazzling eyes of his, he thinks I’m very beautiful too and he misses me as much as I miss him, and how crazy he thinks of me as I’m psycho for him.
He left me. But there is this new boy who has found his way to my heart. He’s the sweetest of them all but the furthest away. Regardless of distance he is still the sweetest most caring of all.
This time I truly believe this one loves me unlike the other. This boy’s pretty blue eyes look down at me smiling as we order food, he never wants me to pay and refuses each time I try, unless he has no money of his own.
His blue eyes shined brighter than the others. His blue eyes reminded me of the summer sky, not a stormy ocean. It’s easy to get lost in the both of theirs but this one has got to be my favorite one.
Our Old Bombay Flat
by: Aish Devulapalli
Our old Bombay flat sits still now, no longer buzzing with love.
We bought it at a ridiculously low price, as some superstition of being cursed for not selling the lot in time scared the previous owner into throwing over the keys for any amount we named. We broke a coconut over the threshold (the only traditional officiation of our marriage), and managed to squeeze every ounce of our love into this tiny space. When we made our anniversary cake, the edge of the kitchen counter pressed into my waist, but your flour-dusted hands enveloped my torso. And when we kissed ourselves into our twin bed after, we made love so slowly, as to not throw things off the bedside stand. I cried when you wouldn’t stop repeating “I love you,” and in that moment the room seemed to fold in until we were all that was left. As small as our flat was, our love lit it up like a mansion.
Until the power went out.
Cancer found shelter in your body the very next month, slowly tucking you into its bed of death, but the couple next door still comes by every week with enough food for both of us. As if such compassion does anything but make me hyper aware of the fact that we are no more- that I must carry the weight of my grief when I cannot eat what is supposed to be yours.
So I allow a box of fresh samosas (your favorite) to sit uneaten on the dining table. Yesterday, the beautiful housewife extended an enormous tin dabba to me with her bruised, bangle-adorned arms. “You must eat to keep your head high,” she always says with her head hung low, as if my independence is what her submission yearns to be. She must be deluded, I think, to believe that the pleasure of spiced potatoes blanketed in flaky pastry sheets somehow forces out the pain of your absence. Her stoic husband pulls a chair out from our dining table, beckoning me to eat, and it hits me just how different from them we are.
The one time my mother came to visit us, she complained to these very neighbors of her unruly daughter, the girl she couldn’t believe was her own. With the audacity to elope in another city and leave everything that had hurt me behind was simply too much for her fragile heart to bear. Because what can be worse than knowing that you failed to instill a doctrine into your child for the past twenty-six years of her existence? The day that I announced my love for you was the day she had sobbed that I had set myself on a dark and dangerous path. But of course, when our flat was ‘broken down,’ the neighbor’s was deemed to be perfect. Not for the scrubbing the housewife did at 7 A.M every Saturday until her fingernails gave way to blood, but for the confines placed around her until she shrunk to a mold of ‘pleasant woman.’
But now that you’ve passed, she never will. My mother may have seen the pristine bindi’s and the crisp linen suits of their marriage, but she never heard the housewife’s prayers of “p-please do not touch me there,” in the night as she awoke from a nightmare. From an outside perspective, we lived their life. A pleasant marriage, a small home, and peace and quiet. But to me, our old Bombay flat was never a prison.
It may never satisfy the world that forces me to mold myself into something more ‘digestible’- to give them a woman that is less bold and more ‘emotionally available’ to remarry, but we made this flat our world. And until I join you in the next life, it will remain ours.
Union
by: Asher Denkmann
The stone floors scraped against Dmitri Molotov’s bare knees as he was dragged across it by two heavily armed guards toward the courtroom. The feeling in his chest sank with every second. It reminded him of a mission he did with his comrades years ago, an illegal mission trip to Yucatán, but they were detained as soon as they landed at the airport.
“A Russian,” the guards had sneered, “a Red.” But they checked his forged passport and background information, and let them pass. The risk of capture was high then, but relief passed over the team afterwards. Now, Molotov wasn’t so lucky.
He was forced into a chair by the guards and looked up into the stone-cold judge’s eyes, the multicolored flag flying high behind him. “Dmitri Molotovich, you are sentenced to life in prison and your citizen status revoked by the glorious state of the North American Union. The Fathers of Fascism look down on your sins. You will be evaluated for execution within forty-eight hours.” The guards grabbed him, and he didn’t bother struggling as they led him out of the room and down into the complex of the prison.
They threw him into a cell, his wrists scraped and bled as he hit the ground. He flipped off the guards and muttered curses in Russian. The guards did not react. Instead, they left the room expressionless, in perfect military fashion, and closed the door.
Minutes later, a small food tray was pushed into the room. Molotov ate the stale bread and rice, and drank half his water, saving the rest for later. He put his tray by the door and thought about his comrades—friends—as he sat on his cot. They looked out for him, and each other; they treated him like a brother and listened to everything he said. It pained Molotov, and as tears rose in his eyes he forced them down; he hadn’t cried in two decades. He forced the existence of those tears down as a guard entered the room, a sandy-haired white man with the same blank expression as all the other guards.
“Prisoner Molotovich, I am Lieutenant Robert Sanchez of the state of Texas, and I am assigned to you for the possible remnants of your life or until you are released from this prison.”
“Where are we?” Molotov asked. The guard didn’t answer, and Molotov stood up and looked out the window.
The Tower of Liberation stood out amidst all the skyscrapers, with the blinking lights and rushing cars reminding Molotov of where he was. “Denver,” he breathed. “I’m in Denver.”
The feeling of exhilaration Molotov felt disappeared as he remembered the circumstances. He had never thought about execution before like that, and he had always considered his death as one more for the fight against fascism.
The room was nearly bare around him, the grey walls standing out against his white clothing. There was only a cot and a table. One window was barred. Escape was impossible, it seemed. Like I’d escape anyway.
Three hours later, his guard—Sanchez—slid his lunch tray into his room, closed the slot, and turned to leave Molotov’s cell. Yet Molotov knew that he couldn’t stand more hours alone, even if it was with a fascist dog.
“Wait!” Molotov called out to the guard, who stopped and turned around. “What is it?”
“Get me some ice cream, a last treat before my death,” Molotov answered, and the guard let out a sigh.
“Ice cream is not permitted food for prisoners, according to Article IV of-”
“Just get me some ice cream, will you? Break the rules for once.” Molotov answered angrily. The guard stared back at him.
“I am not permitted to—”
“Yes, I noticed. But what if you were? Can’t you get a poor man some ice cream before he dies? That doesn’t matter to you? Don’t you want to know why?”
“I don’t, and I don’t care.” Sanchez’s accent made the words come out in a drawl.
“Is it because you’re afraid?”
“I am lucky to serve the glorious leaders of the North American Union by following the given orders and not giving unnecessary information away.”
“‘The glorious leaders’? Is that what you think of them, or is that what they tell you to think of them?” Molotov mocked.
Sanchez suddenly slammed his fist against the bars. “You will be silent!”
“He speaks. I didn’t see that coming.” Molotov was surprised.
“You are the most annoying Russian I have met. What is it with you and your ways that make you so against our ideology?”
“Can’t you see it? The disappearances? The war? Don’t you see the kind of people you’re working for? The ones who rule by fear?”
He was too busy ranting to notice Sanchez’s hand creeping up by the slot. In a flash, he seized the food tray and threw it across the wall, outside of the cell. Molotov stopped talking abruptly.
Sanchez turned back to him, face red. “Traitors, especially those who talk traitorous of our government, do not deserve the food all else does. That is what socialists think, just like you, Russian.” The guard turned and walked away, but not before Molotov noticed the tear dripping down his eye.
***
Hours passed, and Molotov checked his watch. Thirty-two hours left. Not much time left, and in the sixteen hours that had passed he had slept, eaten, and yelled at a fascist. Boring death so far.
He tried to get some sleep, but then heard movement.
“Denver’s beautiful, isn’t it? One of the most beautiful places I’ve seen, though I have usually been in places wrecked by war.” Sanchez explained.
“Why are you here?” Molotov sighed. “I thought you didn’t socialize with Russians like me.”
“On the contrary, I came here to apologize.”
Now Molotov turned around. “A-apologize? The fascist apologizes? To me? A Russian?”
Sanchez laughed, and it surprised Molotov. The guard became serious. “Yes, I’m sorry, but I hope you can understand. During the Unification War, the Russians wanted Alaska. My brother was sent on a mission there, and didn’t survive.”
“I do not know what became of my family,” Molotov explained. “We came here before your time, right after Mexico was conquered. We wanted a better life after our government began purging people again. Unfortunately, we were mistaken.” He sighed. “I was taught that fascism was the greatest ideology, that Hitler and Mussolini shaped the new world, but I refused to believe it.” Sanchez kept listening. “I didn’t want that. So I ran, joined the rebellion, and for 35 years, stayed there, free,” Molotov spread his hands, “until now.”
Sanchez walked away in silence, but Molotov knew that he had listened and would think about it.
***
“Up.” A guard growled at Molotov. “You’re needed in court.”
“Have I been released?” Molotov said mockingly, and the guard shoved him forward.
They passed Sanchez on the way to the courtroom, but he did not make eye contact with Molotov.
“Lieutenant,” the black-haired guard saluted. Sanchez grabbed Molotov’s arm and dragged him to the courtroom.
Again, forced to the ground. Again, the judge stared at him with cold eyes. Again, the flag flew behind him. “Dmitri Molotovich, after careful examination, your sentence has been reexamined. You will be sent to the Black Hills Camp in South Dakota and will spend the remainder of your years there.”
Still alive! Molotov wanted to shout. He wasn’t going to die after all. But as he got escorted to his cell, he began to think about it more. Endless, mindless work. No point to it; it was plain torture.
“My condolences,” Sanchez said as Molotov went into his cell. He passed him his tray. “I thought about what you said.”
“Will you mind me telling you one last thing? Fascism is wrong. The system is flawed. The existence of the land we were built on is a lie. We were once free—that was America; a free country. But after the Revolution, things changed. The point is that things can change. You can be free, just take a stand.”
Sanchez stared at Molotov. He finally said, “I will escort you to the train station.” Reluctantly, Molotov got up, having finished his meal.
The two walked out of the prison and into the Denver night. Molotov stared up at the towering skyscrapers as Sanchez brought him to the train. Two guards were outside. They saluted. “Lieutenant. We’ll take it from here.”
Sanchez shoved Molotov toward the train, but in the last moments, said only four words, “I’ll think about it.”
Molotov got on the train and sat down. The doors closed with a whoosh, and leaves fluttered out of the way. As the train pulled away, he looked at Sanchez. The guard’s face was different. It still was stony, but in those eyes, a hint of curiosity remained.
Dmitri Molotov allowed himself one last small smile as the train pulled away.