An address on climate change.

TW: Violence Not all fears are outgrown, and one does not have to cut them to keep living. The poetry collection "Draped On My Bones" explores different fears intricately connected to the human body. The proof of fear lies within the unspoken spaces and shades of the figure. And as it shadows the very vessel of our being, fears play a crucial role in our choices, words, and other decisions. Notably, it can be rooted in traumatic experiences and bring about flashbacks that cause terror. But sometimes, it can be the driving force to continue or be the foundation of one's strength. The collection does not tackle whether it is more fear-based or strength-sourcing. Instead, it chooses to enunciate that there are fears that stay within our lives forever. It is very much possible to live and prevail while grappling with phobias. There’s no shame in having it draped on our bones. https://www.instagram.com/worksby_toniriotoc/ I. Mute Order Staple lip against the other Plaster them over old wound Leave a taste of tarnished maroon The steps to a mute order First eight hours with the lips sewn tight Air barely stays in body Like labyrinths, paths, a study Yet string doesn't set things right Stomach howls wolf but she cares not For the thirst for words sharpen Scrape at throat like bitter bourbon Yet stays in silence to rot The hammering heart hides a crypt In spaces, no ear listens Where her bystander admissions Lay to rest, like all hush-lipped Follow these vows for mute order Glimpse shackles in teeth chatters Phrases pound, cause heart murmur Quiet - a serial murder II. Barefoot Marathon Hands reach for stones to excuse Gravity's grip from barefoot boy Purple feet with staining bruise Frontline's experience in deploy Be blind to absence or lone Keep pushing on land versus wind Even when clean breaking bone If tears synonymous with skinned Outrace yesterday's ghost And win over future's victor Exceeds yet calls it almost Does barefoot marathon once more World knows he loses to none But never wins to anyone Boy ignores, does one more run Plays like Icarus and his sun III. Draped On My Bones Draped on my bones is my skin Where people's hands' caressed and pinched Concealed organs, and other cut-ins Canvas of me in each inch Figure parallel to theirs Yet clearly mine, yours, no in between Labeled by self-intimate affairs Fear's touch in stretch marks they've seen Yellow shades at soles clearest Meanwhile, pale lips hold the most creases Spot kaleidoscope eyes easiest Ten fingers wrong most pieces Anatomy bared the I With darker secrets nobody asked for Labels of Phobos, no more reply Despite the trauma we wore Draped on my bones evermore Are manic shadows impersonating fear Declared sole body for blood and gore Fleshed out shape akin to gear Will I ever live without my bones? Never. Therefore fear will accompany Forever.

instagram.com/hayden.officiall "Poetic Makeup" is meant to show who I am behind the poems I write and the internal struggles of being a poet/literary artist. Get me loose, catch me fresh- Cuz as soon as the evening wind humms This world is scratched beneath my rugged breasts. There's adventure on the voyage of psalms, There's beauty in a senseless mind. Senseful taste in a fruity tongue- that is the poet. Open your eyes, see my words walk down the street, See the hate- feel the busts of blood on a city gate. I'm a woman on so many levels, But beneath the Xeroderma and antidepressants, I'm a daughter. I am the daughter of the silenced poet. Pull on my wild strings. I'm just a sound mind. I work two jobs but I can't rhyme a line. There's a glide in my stance. There's pride in my eyes. A symposium of music in my heart. But no open seats for love on my side. You see, that's the way of the poet. The lonely, Deserted possession. It's the art of freedom, the craft of soulful expression. But in the closet of my deepest soul it can feel so soulless. Just like a cradled gunshot wound It creates my poetic makeup.

This submission entails the fear of growing up. Addressing the 2023 Winter Writing and Art competition, In This Darkness, observe a college student's first night away from home and the consequent isolation of doing so. The truth of adulthood presents itself in various forms; newfound independence, freedom, as well as the unexplainable loneliness many people face in the new world. By addressing this fear, the story captures a brief example of what it means to be an adult - how scary it is to leave home, knowing your childhood is far behind you. https://www.instagram.com/oishidutta__/ August It was getting dark when I realized I had nowhere to go. Within the Midwestern darkness, I walked along the wet sidewalk. It was the last day of August, and it was killing me. The hours had whittled down until Autumn seeped into the stale-beer air, the sound of children echoing into a lovely little memory. The end of summer comes the birth of a new season, and with that, the arrival of strange darkness- the kind that lingers after 6 o’clock, only to leave half a year later with the coming of a new Spring. I promise you; I’m not morbid. I really don’t like the dark. Or the rain. Or empty university towns, or the loneliness that links to turning 18 and being on your own. With a shaky hand, I wiped my face; it was raining, and everything I ever loved was in my family home, 283 miles away. I was wet, and August was over. And my mother never called. I felt heavy, walking along the street, shop lights flickering in the forthcoming night. Perhaps it was the corduroy jacket my mother made me bring or the weight of 17 perfect years, perfect report cards, extracurriculars, and a full ride to the University of Chicago. I don’t mean to brag; I mean, college is college. It really is a place full of homesick young people... the ones that disappear into college bars or their own dispositions. I was walking when it began to rain, dark water pouring into my sticky, unwashed hair. I couldn’t bring myself to shower properly because the dormitory bathroom was always crowded, filled with mouths that never stopped talking, moving, brushing their teeth, or sharing unasked information. The rain made me feel clean. My shoes hit the pavement, water spraying with every step. Someone leaned against a street light and said, “Let’s get going. We got class at 8.” “What possessed us,” a girl mentioned. “Signing up for sociology that early in the morning. God, this place is gonna kill me.” She said it, but she was smiling. I mean, she really, really, really was smiling - in the flickering darkness. I could see her teeth, guarded by two pink lips and a tan face. She said this place would kill her. Does the act of leaving home not kill us all? Do we all die a little when we leave our lives in pursuit of better ones? Is the fear of death the same as for growing up? I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve. I promise you; I’m not depressing - usually - but something about the evening darkness stirred me. I wasn’t walking along the street; each step aligned with my conscience, my abandoned childhood, and the memories I feared giving up. I missed home, but I was afraid of forgetting it. Of walking into my bedroom in Detroit, only to realize that the bed was gone and those years covered in new paint. It was getting late, must’ve been 9. All the young people strolling around on this Thursday, arms linked because they were all they had. Really, that’s how it is with young people. We hold onto whatever we can. That way, when a few watered-down years pass - high school, proms, summers - we get sick of each other and choose to leave. We decide to go without understanding the fear of being alone. Walking quietly, I realized I could not remember the last time I held my mother’s hand. And with that, I wondered if I should call her, even though it would never be the same. The act of leaving cannot be reversed. A phone call will not erase the permanent mark of adulthood because leaving home means saying half a goodbye. More of a, see you later, but you’ll be different, and I’ll have changed. I want to tell you that after walking on the street, I reached my dorm, said goodnight to my roommate, brushed my teeth, and journaled for some crap. I did no such thing. I smoked a cigarette. She was lingering outside a 7/11. In the empty darkness, I could tell she was the sort of girl who never belonged, with her trembling cigarette radiating an orange hue painting her jaw. I saw her, and I remembered my father. Of him coming home from work, pulling out a lighter, saying he’ll be back in 10 minutes, appearing after 20, smelling horrible, smelling like the man I loved. And he would tell me about work. About getting an education someday, about doing better than he ever could have. I’d pinch my nose, and he’d tell me about his ‘university friends.’ Then he would cough. Mom would yell at him; I’d tell my father to quit smoking, but not in a way that showed how much I cared - my voice would go shrill, and I’d say to him, dad, I’m not going to take care of you when you’re old and dying… I was never scared of death, but I’ve always been afraid of saying goodbye… not to him, or my mother, or that old house, or the bedroom I’ve loved... but the warm grasp of dad’s smoky breath, summer in our old neighborhood, when I was young enough not to appreciate the things I loved and get away with it too. The girl on the street said nothing as I joined her. I guess that was fine; I mean, I had no reason to intrude. But then she spoke. “Are you lookin’ for something?” She breathed out, and I breathed in. God, she smelled terrible; really, she did. Up close, her eyes glinted brown in the streetlights. I felt stupid standing there, but I did not move. “No. Just hanging out.” “Hanging out…” she smiled to himself, taking another drag. The world fell quiet. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Have a nice night.” “I was about to ask you about that college stuff,” she said, sounding younger than I was. That cigarette stayed at her side, its amber afterglow lighting the dark brick wall. “You know, if you were with that group over there, those academics and all.” For no reason at all, I laughed. “That’s what everyone wants to talk about nowadays. Especially here,” I leaned against the wall. “I swear if someone asks about my major one more time….” “I get it,” she said. “What’re you minoring in then?” And I laughed again. “It must be nice,” she exhaled, smoke billowing around us. “With classes starting up and all. This time of year’s fun, isn’t it?” “It should be,” I stared at the ground. “Is it not?” “I mean,” I huffed. “I’m not complaining, sure, this place is great. The people are nice, and the dorms don’t have rats - but it’s bittersweet, you know? I’m not from here. It’s silly, but I miss the way things were.” “So you’re homesick,” she said. “Most of us are.” “I don’t know if it’s that,” I mentioned as I shuffled my feet, trying to explain the shaky feeling inside my chest, sliding underneath my ribs and into my throat. It was the same feeling I had in my guidance counselor’s office, talking about the future and the possibilities beyond college. I felt it when my parents stood in the dormitory doorframe, looking so small and fragile within the gateway to the real world. They said, see you later, and that was that. Sitting on that twin-sized mattress, I felt scared, staring at the printed pictures on the wall. I missed my parents and my friends and my silly little life. Of the faded memory of childhood, melting away into adolescence, into whatever the hell this was. More than that, I was afraid of letting it go, of letting it turn into 4 years at college, a corporate job, the lingering precipice of life on my own with no hand to hold onto. I explained it to her messily, and by the end of those four minutes, she was standing closer to me. “Detroit’s not that far,” she mentioned. “You can visit. I’m sure your friends will too. And let me tell you, you’ll meet so many new people. I promise you. This place is great for that.” “It’s not that,” I told her as she handed me a rolled cigarette. “It’s about visiting home and realizing I don’t remember all the details. Home won’t be the same.” She lit my cigarette, and for a moment, it seemed she was thinking really hard. “So you’re afraid of letting go?” I smiled a bit sadly. “And you’re afraid of growing up.” She took a drag, and I did the same. Coughing up, she said something, but I did not hear her. “It sucks, kinda,” I said. “Look at them all. It’s like there’s nothing to be scared of, and nothing has changed. Like our parents are going to pick us all up when it’s over.” She laughed, and that was that. She smoked a little more, as did I, and by the time her cigarette snubbed out, a short lifetime had passed. Blackness was sweltering around us, and as the final flicker of the dart died beneath my heel, what took the shape of an awkward silence. Until she spoke. "So, I’m Abby… and I miss home.” I turned to look at her; in the evening darkness, her straw-colored hair blended into the brick wall. She was smiling softly, and the moment was nice- the way she leaned against the mortar, faint store lights against her silhouette. Despite the dark nightscape, I could make out the expression on her face; it looked a lot like myself in a dormitory mirror, thinking of home and my childhood. “And I’m Reva,” I returned. She went to pull out another cigarette, but I stopped her, saying, “It’s not good for you. It really isn’t." Abby looked at the ground, smiling, fidgeting with that lighter. The flame lit the darkness, its warmth settling between us. “It’s the first night of college, and we’re lingering in a dark alley.” “Then let’s get out of here,” I said, and I meant it. “Are you hungry?” We stood around for a few moments, and then, she tucked the lighter into a pocket. Abby began talking about this Italian place down the street, how she dined there with her mother this morning, and how spaghetti is not a good meal for brunch. I begged to differ, and we talked about that. We disappeared into the Midwestern darkness, talking about our parents, memories, and the classes we had tomorrow.

This poem addresses the state of life that we all are currently a part of- a world that we as a society have created which has now backfired on us. https://www.instagram.com/lets_ink_it.1 Trust is a luxury these days, Where we hardly trust what we say. The constant pattern of deceive and be decieved, Is driving all the reliance away. Expectations are embodiment of heartbreak, Still we often stay oblivious to this “mistake”. It’s a pity how we can’t control our heart, But, now, this sorrow is too much to take. I am scared how love is being defined, Lust sugar-coated is bestowed to mankind. We are emulsifying toxicity into care, And the true well wishers are hard to find. Are we not even humans perhaps, Just another word for red flags. How we are constantly sinking in lust, While hearts are being price tagged. Dreams are being sold at the lowest price, From a human we become products overnight. It’s not a world but simply a market, Fenced with dollars blocking away the light. It’s not a career path but a race track, Winning is a skill that we shouldn’t lack. No one understands the pain of running, But losing guarantees you numerous attacks. Ego and self-respect look the same, Misunderstandings are the one to blame. Talking it out should have been a priority, But communication is long gone from the frame. Mental illnesses are being romanticized. Young lives are being sacrificed. No one gets the gravity of this situation, Pain and agony is being fantasised. All these services and facilities, We are losing sense in the craze of utilities. To me, villages still seem more peaceful, While it’s just silent and lonely in the cities. Day by day it’s getting scarier, Where we are unwilling to understand each other. All this confinement and endless contempt, Will only embellish these existing barriers.

The old red tree, there is a girl and a boy Hand in hand, head on shoulder Promising their future From making breakfast together To having coffee in winter nights Followed by the cuddles in the blanket And if someone gets cold or sick One would go make broth or hot soup for them From discussing finances To having quick goodbyes from the shower And if someone forgets the keys just in case They would rush over to hand them keys For just maybe he needed that warm hug That smell of vanilla cream she lathers on her skin With a little kiss behind her neck to breathe the essence of hers That scent of cologne that gives the hint of home And he turns back just to have a final look She tells him he looks good In this white shirt, she gifted him on his birthday last spring For the luxury of lavish life Held in the moments in which We just turn back to hold the essence of whole time

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Bones in the Closet follows a museum curator who finds herself stuck in a cycle of sexual abuse and follows through with the extremes of her trauma responses. https://www.instagram.com/hawthorn.maggie Word Count: 1014 Esther Haramata relished in the air of finality that came with being the only person in one of the finest museums in the world. In the absence of screaming children and bumbling tourists, the glorified hospice of dying history fulfilled its true purpose as a home of ancient intelligence. The petrified pottery and dwindling artifacts, the items Esther loved and cared for, were less figments meant to sell trinkets than the relics of civilizations long past. However, as Esther came closer and closer to the dinosaur exhibit, her faint smile soured. It was her assignment for the night. Survey the area and search for anything that Antony might’ve left behind the museum coordinator and Esther’s boss had picked the black gunk out of his nails as he gave her the assignment. And do some cleaning while you’re at it. There were no condolences, no I’m sorry for your loss, no I know how much he meant to you. The coordinator hadn’t known that Esther had tried to break things off with Antony only days before he went missing, so these statements should have been common courtesy. In the strangest way, the night their relationship fell apart reminded her of her father’s death, something she had witnessed alone when she was only twelve years old. Antony’s wild screams had been nearly identical to the strangled noises her father had made when he realized he was falling off the edge of the cliff, right before the roar was cut off by the smack of his skull hitting the jagged rocks below. If the milky spit that frothed from the corners of Antony’s cracked lips was a tad bit redder, it could’ve been the blood overflowing from her father’s splattered organs. The erratic flailing of Antony’s arms was eerily similar to her father’s lifeless body resembling something more like the branches of a tree than anything human. Even from the top of the cliff, Esther had seen the dirt caked to her father’s fingers. But the coordinator didn’t know that. He only knew his dirty nails, not Esther’s silent grief. And though Esther had been the one to break things off, she agreed to go to the part of the museum she hated the most for Antony. Esther stepped slowly into the dinosaur exhibit, toolbag in hand. Her well worn boots squeaked against the tiles as she tiptoed to the closest set of bones. The massive head of the half constructed triceratop leared down at her, its jaw slick with primordial drool. Out of the corner of her eye, the velociraptor head on the opposite side of the room swiveled only to freeze before Esther could get a good look at it. And that’s what she hated most about the exhibit. It wasn’t that it took a full shift to work through the room. It wasn’t that the museum spent most of their limited funds on advertising the gargantuas. No, what she truly despised was that the dinosaurs were not as dead as they pretended to be. “I work with them all day, and they don’t move.” The ghost of Antony whispered in Esther’s ear. “Come on, baby girl. You’re supposed to be the smart one here.” She tried to work through Antony’s haunting flirtations, but she soon found her calloused fingers running over the invisible rope burns that made up the map of her body. The knot that always seemed to hover in her larynx grew taunt as she remembered Antony’s grip, hot as the fires of a crematorium. She couldn’t quite recall if she’d told Antony if it was okay to touch below her neckline, if she’d given permission before he groped under her shirt, or how many times she’d push his dirty hand away before finally relenting to his advances, but she supposed that didn’t matter anymore. Esther shook her head hard, as if that would send the thoughts of Antony tumbling out her ear canal. The violent action only changed the shape, and suddenly it was her father whispering in her ear. “I love you, baby girl.” He’d whispered that the first time she’d ever gone to a museum. It was a modest thing that had since lost its funding, but it, too, had advertised a chance to see real dinosaur bones. They were strategically placed near the end of a guided tour, but Esther never saw them. When the guides weren’t looking, her father pulled her off to an empty section, and he did what he had come to do. She was crying so hard afterwards that they were escorted out. The day Esther watched her father die was the following summer. Their father-daughter hiking trips were a regular occurence by then, and nobody suspected a thing. Just as her father didn’t suspect anything when Esther insisted they take a slightly longer route to see the ravine. He’d approached the edge, and she barely nudged his shoulder. Really, it had been a half-hearted attempt at best, but it had done the trick. “Baby girl, you’ve got to lend me a hand.” He had pleaded as he clung to the cliff’s edge with the tips of his fingers. “I’m sorry, baby girl.” Antony had cried those exact words as Esther cut off his hands. It was the only fleeting pleasure she’d afforded herself, to see him as helpless as he had made her. When Antony was reported missing, Esther had pretended that their break up had never happened. She willfully allowed the police to search her office, but they didn’t have the mind to bother investigating the newest collection of artifacts in the museum basement. Nobody batted an eye when she pulled several bones from the dinosaur reconstructions for a routine cleaning. Only somebody with her expertise would know that the bones came back a little smaller, less dense, almost human in nature. Esther went about her duties for the night with a smile on her face. Maybe Antony was right. Maybe the dinosaurs didn’t come alive in the dark of night. But, for the first time, he’d be there to find out.

https://www.instagram.com/muhammad.ali.riaz "Long ago, the Halmasti descended on our valley after the birth of my grandfather. It terrorized the people of the valley and many went missing. To this day, the missing ones have not been found." Khadija Begum was telling her kids a story like every other evening. It was their daily ritual before everyone went to bed. The electricity was gone, so they lit candles. The kids were hooked on the story. It seemed today’s genre was horror and suspense. Everyone had latched onto their pillows and stuffed toys. "It is said the Halmasti appears after a baby is born or a corpse is washed before burial. It lingers there for several days, and to protect themselves from that demonic fiend, the people recite the verses of the Holy Quran. The Halmasti usually targets newborn children, and one is never to leave them alone unless it is a pressing matter. In that case, one should place a weapon of iron near them." Outside, the thunder started crackling, and within moments, heavy rain hurtled down from the sky. Normally, the kids would abandon everything to go outside and play in the rain, but the story Khadija Begum was telling had completely captivated them today. “When the demon appeared in the valley, it abducted my grandfather and took him somewhere unknown and uncharted. Such abductions had happened in the past, the people were never found again. When my great-grandparents found out about this, instead of giving up and relinquishing, they decided to get their child back. So they traversed the entire valley on foot and climbed the mountain to visit the Seer. They say the Seer has remained atop the mountain for hundreds of years, but rarely do the people visit him, for the journey across the valley and up the mountain is arduous and not an easy feat." The clouds bellowed, making the kids jump out of their skin. "During those times, it used to rain heavily like this, and at night no one would dare leave their home, for the Halmasti, would be out lurking." "What if the Halmasti is descending and takes one of us?" Zunaira, the eldest of all the children interrupted. "Oh my child, don’t worry! I won’t let anything happen to any of you. Plus, no one has seen that demonic beast for years. As I was saying, my great-grandparents had ventured alone to the Seer. No one in our village supported them. Everyone called them fools for believing they could get their child back from the Halmasti. When they reached the Seer and told him about the abduction of my grandfather by the Halmasti, he said, '"Oh the day has come, when the devil rents asunder the fabrics of the universe and descends from the sky to wreak havoc and mayhem in this valley. Many will be doomed. Many will never be seen again. If you want to get your child back, the journey you will have to make will be back-breaking. No one has ever accomplished the task set before you, no one has ever come back alive."' The winds had grown stronger and the thunder louder. The candles started to flicker, and with another strong gust of wind coming in from the open windows, the flame was put out. The whole lounge went pitch black. There would only be light momentarily when the lightning outside illuminated the sky. "The Halmasti is coming for us!" Zunaira screamed. All of the children started to scream and cry in fear and panic. "I don’t want to die" cried Hasan, the younger brother of Zunaira. Soon, their words melted into inexorable wailing. Khadija Begum turned on her phone’s flashlight and went to relight the candles. She closed the windows and in the distance, she saw two dim yellow glowing orbs in the woods. She couldn’t make out what it was and decided to ignore it. Everyone had calmed down, but their faces were drenched in tears. "So, where was I? Ah yes, the Seer. He gave them a strange concoction, which he claimed was made from a flower native to the mountain, and could not be found anywhere else. At first, my great-grandfather hesitated to drink the elixir, but my great-grandmother was determined to get her child back. She drank it without any contemplation or forethought. She collapsed onto the floor right after that, seeing that he also hastily gulped it down, for he didn’t want her to be alone." Khadija Begum’s phone came to life and rang loudly, petrifying the kids, "Ok everyone, time’s up. Get back to your beds. I’ll tell you the rest of the story later." Everyone complained and whined. No one was willing to go to sleep. "But you just got to the best part-" Hasan protested. "Now, now. To your beds, everyone." The thunder had stopped and the rain dwindled to a drizzle. Zunaira got up and went outside to replenish her water bottle from the water cooler in their backyard. The crickets were creaking and the trees in the woods were rustling. Cool and gentle air caressed her, sending chills through her body. Zunaira was enjoying the weather; she stood in the middle of the backyard, looking up at the night sky. The stars and the moon painted the skies with a heavenly view, and for a few moments, she was lost in the beauty of it. Taking in deep, refreshing, and rejuvenating breaths, she walked to the water cooler and filled her bottle with ice-cold water. Whilst the bottle was getting filled, she looked around at her surroundings; the peace and tranquility loaded her with pure joy and merriment. She loved the valley, it was the best place on earth to be. The water bottle began flowing and cold water fell onto the ground, splashing at her feet. Some of it trickled down her hands and to her arms. She took a gulp of it and felt the coolness descend into her. Zunaira took another quick look at her surroundings, but this time something caught her eye. There was something in the woods; she could see two glowing objects in the shadows. They flickered and moved to the right. The realization hit Zunaira: those were eyes; the eyes of some animal lurking in the woods. Instead of going back into the house, she stood there. Those eyes had held captive her undivided attention; she was completely hypnotized and started taking strides toward the woods. The rain had stopped, but the ground had turned into a quagmire, and her footsteps printed onto the ground easily. She opened the fence gate, exiting the backyard and onto the mud tracks that separated the woods from their house. In the distance, she could hear the laughter of the other children in the house. Someone had probably cracked a joke, and the whole legion was hysterically laughing at it. However, her attention was locked on the two ominous-looking eyes that were fixated on her. Once she got closer, in striking distance, the bushes moved and the trees shook. The yellow eyes had melted into the darkness, maybe the animal retreated into the woods. Instead of turning back and doing the sensible thing, Zunaira kept on moving and advanced into the woods. She had no awareness of her surroundings or where she was going. She was utterly mesmerized as if those eyes had a magical magnetic pull to them that would make people go to lengths they never thought they could. -- Zunaira had never ventured into the woods at night. No one did. The fear of the Halmasti still plagued the valley and had festered deep within the hearts of people, even though no one had seen it for ages. But these thoughts didn’t occur to her as she took strides toward imminent danger. Twigs cracked under her feet, and she pushed the bushes out of her way. The darkness was of no help to her, as she stumbled and fell into a muddy puddle, splashing the mud water everywhere. But that didn’t bother her, she stood up and spat out the mud in her mouth, and carried on walking forwards without a second thought. Zunaira reached a clearing, where the moonlight poured in and lit up the whole place. The ground was enveloped in tall grass, that reached up to her waist and there was a stump of a tree, cut down by someone. But she couldn’t see those eyes or the animal anywhere. There was nothing here. The hypnosis wore off and Zunaira questioned herself, "Why did I walk out here? What’s wrong with me? I should get back before someone notices my absence." As she turned around, she heard a deep growl. On the other side of the clearing, the two eyes had appeared again, and this time they were emitting a mixture of yellow and blood-red. Slowly, the creature stepped out of the shadows. First, the muzzle materialized, it was drenched in blood. The monster had feasted on fresh prey recently. It huffed from its flaring nostrils, and flame danced out of them. The flame was a blend of yellow and red as they melted into each other. Then, it revealed its menacing, sharp carnivorous teeth. Just the sight of its countenance made Zunaira tremble like an earthquake. Her legs quivered like a tuning fork and her mouth morphed into a desert. She wanted to run away, but her entire body was paralyzed and frozen. The fiend showed its entire body; it looked like an oversized wolf and had a thick coat of dark red fur that was also covered in blood. On the right side of its body, there were three long slash marks, from which blood oozed out. The Halmasti had probably fought off another predator and was punished by the enemy with a souvenir of their duel. The tail was lifeless; it was a mass of dirty fur hanging from its rear, just a few inches above the ground. The claws were as long as a human finger and as sharp as a knife, and the Halmasti had sunk them into the earth. It flared its nostrils again and huffed out a fire, and then, with a loud, ear- shattering shriek, it charged toward Zunaira. The screams and shrieks coming from the woods had woken Hasan up. It’s as if something forced consciousness back into him, for he didn’t feel sleepy or drowsy at all. He was gasping and breathing heavily; his back was covered in sweat, making his shirt stick to his skin. But that was a dime’s worth to him right now. He knew something had gone wrong. Hasan got out of his bed and went to Khadija Begum’s bedroom. He tried to wake her up, but she shooed him away, "Hasan, whatever it is, we’ll talk about it in the morning. Now, let me sleep, dear child." Hasan went back to his bedroom and tried to sleep. "Maybe it was all a weird dream I saw. I must be worrying without any reason. Everything is fine, nothing is wrong," he tried to convince himself, but sleep wouldn’t come to Hasan that night. No matter what he did, that night kept him up, and he kept pondering about what had happened. In the morning, Zunaira usually wakes up first among the children, so Hasan decided to go to his sister’s bedroom. But upon opening her door, he found it vacant. "Strange. Where is Zunaira?" he thought. So Hasan searched for her throughout the whole house, when he realized she wasn’t home, he raced to Khadija Begum, who had just gotten up. "ZUNAIRA IS MISSING!" he cried in panic. "What has happened, Hasan? Calm down, please." Khadija Begum tried to pacify Hasan. He told her the whole series of events since he got up in the middle of the night. The notion, that maybe the Halmasti abducted Zunaira crossed her mind, and it sent ice-cold shivers down her spine. "Where did Zunaira go, before she was meant to go to bed?" she interrogated Hasan, who replied, "I think she went to fill her water bottle from the cooler outside." Hasan was trembling with fear, and his cheeks were covered with streams of tears. He started sobbing, so Khadija Begum held him tightly to her chest and comforted him till he stopped weeping and regained his composure. They went to the backyard; the rain from yesterday still had a cooling effect and the winds were still howling. The sun had ascended a little bit, on its trajectory up to the zenith, but that would take a little while. Khadija Begum wrapped her shawl around Hasan to protect him from the cold, who was still shaken from all that happened. His love for his sister was unparalleled and second to none. He couldn’t imagine spending even a day without her. They spotted Zunaira’s footsteps on the muddy ground that had solidified after the rain had stopped. But her footprints were conspicuous on the russet earth. To her horror, she saw the footsteps leading into the woods, and her doubts about the Halmasti were getting weaker with each step. With each stride, she prayed that Zunaira was safe and hadn’t been abducted. The dread and fear made her heart pound. They crossed the fence gate, crossed the mud tracks, and entered the woods. Today, even the birds weren’t chirping or singing; only silence prevailed, interrupted by the occasional rustling of the trees because of the feeble gusts of wind. She picked up Hasan and trod carefully when they reached the woods. The footprints led straight to what she could make out, as a clearing. When they reached the clearing, she put Hasan down and reconnoitered the whole area from her position. The tall grass had been trampled by something massive and heavy, leaving a trail of destruction behind it that began at the other end of the clearing and ended where they were standing. “Look!" Hasan pointed at something glistening due to the sunlight on the ground. It was Zunaira’s water bottle; buried under the flattened grass, it was smashed and crushed. The metal body had been beaten into a sheet as if some heavy object had fallen on it. When they brushed the grass aside, they also found large footprints, something like those of a wolf or a big hound. Khadija Begum went utterly still; her eyes were plastered onto those footmarks, and everything in her periphery went blurry. The questions and cries of Hasan rang in the background, but her mind was virtually occupied by the fate of Zunaira and what had happened to her. Her doubts came to be true: The Halmasti had returned, and it had come for Zunaira this time. Her eyes started to water, and she was teetering 0n the brink of crying, but she realized that would cause Hasan to cry uncontrollably as well. She took a few deep breaths and gathered herself. Then, without saying a word, she picked up Hasan and made haste back to the house. Hasan complained and protested, trying to release himself from her iron grip, but she only replied, "I will find Zunaira and bring her back." Horrendous and scary thoughts kept plaguing her mind, but she had devised a plan: She would find the flower from the mountain, make the elixir, drink it, and journey across the world to find and rescue Zunaira. When they reached home, the first thing she did was call her closest friend, Zulaikha, and asked her to watch over the kids while she was gone. However, she told no one where she was going, what she was going to do, or whether she would ever come back. She started walking on foot; the journey to the mountain would be long and would take quite a while. Khadija Begum decided to traverse on the mud tracks since no one used them and no one would notice her leaving the valley. The winds had died down and the skies had cleared; there were no clouds and the sun shone with utter pride and glory, as it hovered its way to the top. This induced hope and fortitude in Khadija, as she embarked on a journey that her great-grandparents had made ages ago. They had been successful in bringing their child back, but there was always a price to be paid, when anyone dealt with the malevolent beast, that the Halmasti was. Her great-grandfather paid for it with his life. He sacrificed himself for his newborn son; whom he never saw again. And her great-grandmother was traumatized for the rest of her life; what she saw in that realm haunted her dreams until her last days. But that was a sacrifice Khadija was willing to make for Zunaira. The day had waxed and waned into the evening. After hours of walking, she finally exited the valley and reached the base of the mountain. It rose into the sky, touching the heavens. The peak was enveloped in a thick blanket of snow. Somewhere up there, the Seer was in absolute solitude and silence. A path had been carved into the mountain that led upwards, but Khadija didn’t plan on going all the way to the Seer. She knew where she’d find the flowers and how to make the elixir. The steps were treacherous and steep, but with determination and will, she carried on ascending the mountain with all her strength. It took hours before she saw any vegetation or flowers. The path was mostly rocky and barren, without any life. It spiraled up to the peak, slithering like a serpent around the mountain. Khadija then came across short wild grass that sprouted from cracks on the steps, and finally, she saw a cluster of violet-petalled flowers; these were the ones. She crouched down and plucked a few and stashed them in her satchel. She looked at the view; the sun had gone down hours ago, but the stars and the moon shone intensely as if they had come out just to help her along her journey. The valley stretched out below her; she could see the lights turned on inside the houses and said a prayer for everyone down there. The fresh-water stream that flowed through the small village gleamed under the radiance of the heavens. For a while, the picturesque and scenic sight of her home inundated her with peace and tranquility and brushed aside all her worries. She sat down and crossed her legs and pulled out a small wooden bowl and the flowers from her satchel. With her hands, she mashed the flowers in the bowl, forcing out the nectar and the juices, and poured water, to make the mixture, and then let it rest. Khadija closed her eyes and envisioned the series of events that would occur once she drank the elixir. She was willing to go to any lengths to save Zunaira, even sacrifice her own life. It reminded her once again of the sacrifice of her great-grandfather and also when she first heard of it from her mother. She remembered herself and her mother both crying at the end of it. When she used to ask her grandfather, he would prevaricate and never answer. He never talked of it to anyone. Whenever someone would bring it up, he would go stiff and become tense, as if he remembered what happened to him and what he saw even though he was an infant at that time. Khadija opened her eyes; the elixir was ready. She picked up the bowl and without any hesitation and further thought she drank it. She started getting dizzy; the world became blurry and vague. Her vision lost all order and structure. Everything morphed and danced into each other. Nothing made any sense. She lost all sense of touch and feeling and had a sensation that she was levitating and hovering in space. And then she blacked out; there was nothing but pitch-black oblivion. The thunder and rumbling of the clouds woke her up. Everything around her was dark and red. The crimson sky was flooded with a legion of monstrous clouds, from which lightning descended and constantly struck the cracked desert ground, which appeared blood red under the scarlet demonic-looking umbrella that spanned across the sky. It was all flat land around her that merged with the sky at the horizon in three directions. But far to the east, there was a gargantuan volcano that spewed hot, blazing lava which ambled down its face. Above the volcano, dark poisonous fumes had gathered and remained stagnant. The lower part glowed with a golden tint because of the magma palpitating and gurgling in the volcano. If the winds blew her way, the toxic fumes would asphyxiate and end her right there. Khadija realized that she was parched, but there was no water to quell her thirst. She had lost her satchel and the water she had. Lightning hit and pulverized the ground, and it was so bright that she got blinded for a few moments and her ears rang intensely. She gathered herself and started to drag herself towards the volcano. This world was sucking the energy out of her and she was debilitated; her legs were quivering and with each step walking became harder. She thought she would collapse, but she would continue to remind herself of Zunaira and get filled with willpower and resolve. Then a ghastly shriek resounded across the plains. Some creature was flying in the sky towards the volcano; it hadn’t noticed her but it kept emitting horrendous sounds as it made its journey to the volcano and then it plunged itself into the crater. She would have to make haste to the volcano before some other malevolent fiend saw her. Her heart was pounding rapidly and she felt a lump in her throat. She was scared, drenched in fear and horror. Khadija looked behind and stopped dead in her tracks. A dust storm had materialized and was kicking up; it was heading straight in her direction and toward the volcano. She knew instantly, that she had to make haste to the volcano and find somewhere to hide, otherwise it would be curtains for her. Khadija raced as fast as she could; as she got closer she could make out a small cave tucked under an overhanging on the bottom of the volcano. The storm had virtually engulfed her, but she managed to launch herself into the cave in time. When the powerful and potent winds struck the volcano, the whole place shook. Khadija placed her hands on the cavern walls to balance herself, as the ground was treacherous and she could easily sprain her ankles there. With her palms stretched out and grazing the rugged walls, she started following where the path led. It got hotter and hotter; she was moving toward the center of the volcano, where the magma was. Sweat trickled down her brow and dripped onto the ground, evaporating instantly with a sizzling sound. She could hear the growling and the gurgling of the magma even from here. After minutes of treading in the darkness, following the path using the walls as a guide, Khadija finally stumbled into a large opening; the cave had grown into a large cavity. The ceilings were bedecked with ominous and menacing stalagmites and the ground was rent asunder by a stream of lava that meandered across the length of the cavern. It separated Khadija from the other side, where a sinister, diabolical, maleficent creature sat on what appeared to be a throne. It was staring straight at her with a wicked smile that stretched from ear to ear, as it flaunted the dilapidated ruins of its teeth. The creature’s flesh was plagued with severe burns and it had sharp scales on its torso and limbs. From the ends of its fingers, long knife-like spikes sprouted out that were curled onto the edge of the hand. The face was the most horrendous part of its body; instead of a nose there was a giant crater that was constantly bleeding and the eyes were entirely black, one seemed as if it would fall from the socket. The ears were a ruin; marred completely and they melted into the flesh hanging from the monster’s skull. The throne suggested that this monstrosity was the ruler of this damned realm, he was the master of the Halmasti. Slowly it got up from the throne and as it moved the scales grazed each other, producing a ringing sound that made Khadija cringe. It bellowed with an ear-shattering roar, making the entire place tremble. One of the stalagmites collapsed onto the ground and Khadija thought the ceiling would crumble, trapping her under the debris. She could hear the phlegm accumulating in its throat, as it continued to shriek. It was summoning someone or something. Khadija was utterly petrified, she thought her heart would give up right there and then. Her entire body was quaking, her legs had grown as feeble as those of an infant, and she realized that she was holding her breath. Suddenly, something smashed through one of the walls, pulverizing it into smithereens. When the dust settled down, she saw what it was, and who it was holding. The Halmasti, covered in dust and ash, had Zunaira in its robust steel-like jaws. It was holding her by the back of her shirt; her head was slouched over and her limbs were hanging out toward the ground. Then at the command of its master, the Halmasti hurled Zunaira to the front of the throne. “ZUNAIRA!” Khadija cried as she took a few steps closer to the stream, “I’m here, please look at me!” But Zunaira was comatose. Seeing this made her heart drop, she was in sheer fright and horror. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just- just let her go!” She pleaded to the fiend that looked at her in amusement. At first, it started laughing hysterically, but the laugh didn’t sound any different than the horrendous screeches it had made earlier. Then it rapidly spoke gibberish, it was entirely unintelligible to Khadija, but then to her sheer surprise, the Halmasti spoke up as well; it translated with a hoarse, raspy voice: “Oh you weak, frail human! It is funny, how you are willing to do foolish and irrational things out of love! Just like the old man and woman, who came before you!” The Halmasti huffed flames from its muzzle, trying to intimidate her. “But if that is what you are willing to do, you witless creature, then be my guest!” The Halmasti and its master both shrieked louder than the thunder rumbling outside. Something charged towards her from behind her; it was galloping like lightning at her, its' footsteps thundering and making the ground tremble under its wrath. As soon as Khadija noticed it, she turned to look behind her, but it collided with her, hurling her into the lava. Her screams rang and resonated in the cavern, but just as she fell into the lava, they died down. The thunder of the clouds had stopped; only silence prevailed. The stench of burnt hair and flesh clung to the air. When Zunaira opened her eyes, she found herself back in the clearing. It was dark; the evening had matured into night and there were no stars or the moon out today. She couldn’t recall what happened after she encountered the Halmasti. Remembering it flooded her with dread and fear, she raced back towards her house before it appeared again. Zunaira didn’t care to slow down and tread carefully, but made haste with tunnel vision straight ahead; many thorns and bushes cut her skin, but she didn’t care. She saw her house in the distance, which pacified her a little bit. She flung open the backyard door and hurried in. Everyone was sitting down, except for Hasan who was pacing around the house. But instead of Khadija, it was her friend, Zulaikha, who was sitting with the children. All of them stared at Zunaira in astonishment. Only one question came to her mind: “Where is Khadija Begum?”

The inspiration for this piece was my own experience of having feelings for my best friend. Instead of embracing the realization that I wasn't straight, I snuffed out my own feelings and, in a way, killed that part of me. The door jingles merrily behind May as she exits the flower shop, a single tulip in hand. Her heeled boots clack against the sidewalk, her wristwatch ticks incessantly. She has a meeting in an hour with an important client, but today is a special day. May hastens through the city, past an old Episcopal church whose curved architecture clashes with the art deco skyscrapers. May finally arrives, stone giving way to grass, where she meets June. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, my love?” May tells June, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “Running a law firm isn’t easy, but you supported me every step of the way.” June doesn’t answer, but May expects that. “Do you remember what today is? It’s our anniversary. Ten years, to this day.” They met in a coffee shop during their senior year of college. May, a political science major, hunched over books in her corner seat she hadn’t left in hours. June, a fiery-haired art major is working part-time as a barista. Their spheres never crossed outside of the intimate atmosphere of the coffee shop. June’s sly smile and the phone number written on May’s latte changed that. “On our first date, you gifted me a bouquet of red spider lilies. To this day, I can’t figure out how you knew they were my favorite.” June escorted May to her dorm, an elaborate flourish of her arm as she opened the door for May. Joy hung in the air, bringing the two closer. There was freedom, a taste of rebellion, in their love. It was perfect for a time, as all temporary moments are. The afternoon sun has melted the dew, and May sits in front of June. “I’m doing well. I have my ups and downs, but I’m happy”—May’s hand absentmindedly comes to rest above her heart. The hollowness persists—“I miss you, still.” Red paint splattered on canvas, a brush in June’s right hand, her left intertwined with May’s. Stolen kisses, soft touches, all-nighters with splotches of paint on June’s brow, May’s muffled laugh as she wiped the color away. There is nothing but the ever-present emptiness lodged in May’s chest, the hole she has survived with for the past 7 years. May has adapted and learned to live with half a heart but not to love. Never to love again. May’s eyes are dry. She only cried once, surrounded by shattered glass and heartache, hot blood seeping into her jeans (how it reminded her of paint—if only it painted) with June’s cold, limp hand grasped in her own. The ticking of her watch drags May to the present. She stands, brushing stray blades of grass off of her slacks. “Time to go. Happy anniversary, my love. Know that I’ve always loved you, even when you couldn’t love yourself.” May leaves, the clacking of her heels blending with the clamor of the city until she is forgotten in its enormity. Far behind her, a fresh tulip adorns a gravestone.