I wanted to paint a strong, seductive woman who, in her personal space, can be whoever and do whatever she wants without getting judged. https://instagram.com/a_chitra28?igshid=YmJhNjkzNzY=

https://www.instagram.com/galaxy.janna?hl=en

My submission is a culmination of the lifetime of experiences that have shaped me. It is personal and honest and means a lot to me. https://www.instagram.com/molly__agarwal/ Fear, as a word, means much more to me than it can define. As a typical Indian kid, I grew up in shared spaces among many watchful eyes. My definition of fear has changed all throughout my life. As a kid, one of my earliest memories is visiting a dam. Seeing the vast reservoir at the brink of water, introduced me to my first fear, the fear of water. More than water, the fear of the unknown and the sinking feeling came with it. When I was about 10, fear was changing cities and moving to a new place. It was the apprehension that came with making friends and fitting in. At 12, it was the fear of Mathematics and not being cool enough. Fear was suddenly looming in front when I first talked to my crush. It was butterflies in my tummy and sweaty hands. At 15, fear was loud and scary. You see, at that time, fear joined ranks with apprehension and danger, and caution. It rolled into one when I realized I was now a target of the male gaze, and my every step was seen and heard. My every action withheld consequences equated to my familial honor. At a time when fear should be my looming exams and approaching deadlines, my fear was the length of my skirt and the color of my skin. At 18, I realized that my fear wasn’t mine alone. It was my mom’s depression and my dad’s unemployment. It was my brother’s rebelling. Suddenly, it was encompassing and riveting. It captivated me and led me to believe it was alright, even when it wasn’t. At 21, my fear is my boyfriend’s fear of losing his parents. My best friend’s fear of her life being confined to societal norms. It is my parents’ fear of growing old. My brother’s fear of not being enough. In the end, fear is much more than a sinking black hole or a red, angry circle. It is now present in my dreams, my aspirations, my hopes, and my wishes. Because what can be more frightening than living itself? After all, my fear is now a part of me, omnipresent and all-knowing. It is now pastel with hues of white, soft, and free-flowing. It now longer defines me but is now represented by me. It rests when it wants to and takes charge when needed, but above all, it is now.

It represents the culmination of my lack of faith: my very affirmation of God's death. Through it, I try to show the constant doubts that haunt the mind of someone who can't fit in any religion and the acceptance that happiness can be found even without a god. https://instagram.com/maisumautor?igshid=YmJhNjkzNzY= Had I tasted the bitter and vile root that births your reason would it have made me more of a saint? had I forsaken my selfishness would it have given place to holier sins? had I exchanged in an anti-Faustian pact my fruit for your paradise my science for your atonement my life for your death would it have made me as happy as I already am? after all had I been what I am not what I can not be would it have still been me?

The poem is about a phase in my life that I consider very dear to me, and also the most excruciating. Writing this poem almost felt like catharsis. The cover photo is an artwork I made that sums up all the words I wanted to say, before I wrote this poem. This was a blind bargain, I called it when I met you, It felt strange, this familiarity; Like I knew you before you knew me. Beginner's Luck got us so far. You say your head's full of me; My name in your mouth Like pearls falling out, You love so loudly, the whole world can hear. This thing I'm feeling is bigger than myself. I have a Gambling Problem. I made deals with Delusion, Tried to win with a losing hand and couldn't, I gambled everything I had for everything I didn't. Me, my Monte Carlo fallacy, And you always coming back to me. So I let the cards fall on the floor. If we were set to win, we would've already. We were down to the wire When we got tangled in it. Perhaps, I can only write about love After I've lost it. Yet, I wake, shaking- On the moons I didn't gamble away, Dancing around drunkenly, In this dreadful drudgery of a parlay.

It's a short prose written exactly in one of those moments of divagation these sorts of anxious thoughts linger on. That means it not only talks about the fear of loneliness but was created at a moment the author was feeling troubled by those very fears in an almost metalinguistic kind of way. https://instagram.com/maisumautor?igshid=YmJhNjkzNzY= Ever since I can remember, I've always had a very exquisite fear: that of not being my best friend's best friend. That is, on the rare occasions I had a "best friend" as per se. Maybe that can be translated somehow as part of a much more primeval fear: that of being alone. It may sound incongruous, as I really love being alone - that's how I've lived my whole life and I don't intend to change. That said, people never "intend to change", they just do. But there's alone and there's Alone, or you could say that it's okay being by yourself most of the days, I even like it. On some special days, though, on a full moon or something like that, I don't want to be alone and I can't be alone and I simply need someone to unconsciously affirm me: "you are not alone". And being by myself on days like those is the worst thing I have ever felt.

This piece is meant to be a meta-statement on how art is open to interpretation, and in a broader sense, how our perception of the phenomena around us itself may not be as rigid as we may like to think it is. An homage to the absurdity that is qualia, and that which lies at the confluence of ontology and epistemology. Perhaps, even, a piece that urges you to question what exactly is "perception"? (Like the shadows, some standing, others sitting, on the "floors" and "walls" seemingly inspecting what they seem to believe is something worth inspecting) and also question who exactly is being perceived when you view this work of art? Is the subject of your perception the work of art? Or, perhaps, it's your perception of the work of art? And so on, (ad infinitum, as the mathematicians say) like the frame at the center of the piece, receding to infinity. But, then again, this is my interpretation of this work of art, a suitable construction to express a collection of thoughts that I felt were worth sharing. Of course, the forms and colors used, and the composition may invoke a different set of emotions, and thoughts, that may manifest in a different interpretation, which is not incorrect, as there is no "correct" way to perceive, it just is, it is what it is. https://instagram.com/a6h15h3k_806

Many believe that we humans must undergo two deaths. One happens the moment our heart stops beating, the other comes when our name is spoken for the very last time. Such dreadful certainty served as inspiration for this entry. Now, let us wade through a few necessary lines of exposition so that, once proven unfounded the dangers posed by waters we are yet to know, we may properly dive into the story at hand. In the realm of Fallondal, where mortals battle endlessly for dominion, every being that dies in combat is forever bound to its cause. As such, they shall renounce their place at the Havens of Strifeless Rest, choosing instead to return to Fallondal as Warden Souls- radiant holders of immense power who fight on as guardians of their still-breathing brethren. Although formidable, Warden Souls are not immortal. As with any other soul, they can only exist for as long as they are remembered by the living. Additionally, a rival soul that matches their power is capable of striking them down. Either cause will lead to the same result. The Warden Soul, and all memory that ever existed of it, will vanish from existence. This story follows such a dreadful scenario. ____________ I beg you not to show despair when you see the many wounds upon my body, old friend. They are nothing compared to the damage we have inflicted upon Emperor Nomoethon's forces. If you want to offer any aid to me, then all I can ask of you is to sit down and listen to my words as we share the momentary peace that our victory has earned us. Good. Now that we are settled, I would like to ask: Do you remember ever hearing about the concept of Preemptive Remembrance? Not too sure? I do not blame you… As I told you long ago, Preemptive Remembrance is something that we work towards, be it consciously or unconsciously, from the moment we become conscious of our existence until the day in which our body falls unconscious for the very last time. This Remembrance I speak of is built on how we interact with others while alive. Family, friends, brothers in arms- those we hold closest to our hearts, those we strive to protect from our enemies, and those who are inspired by the tales of our prowess; we provide them all with memories of ourselves. It all works itself into a system where, upon rising from its vessel of flesh and bone, our soul has preemptively acquired enough remembrance to become a vessel for the memories built throughout its life cycle. That brings us back to my wounds, unfortunately. What you are seeing me bleed is Remembrance in its purest form- as palpable sustenance for this celestial body. Every drop that drips from my chest contains a memory of me. This puddle at my feet may just be every vague thing that a dozen minds once knew of me. Touch it, and you might feel a comment from a younger me slither through your ears. Very soon, it will all be lost forever. Oh no, my friend! Do keep on remembering that I was all but humble in life, but accuse me not of forgetting what a martyr’s death has taught me. My Remembrance and its significance have nothing to do with the ambition with which I once sought to establish an eternal legacy. The memories that we Warden Souls leave on the living before our deaths matter to all of us. In essence, they are what grant each of us our divine vitality- a vitality that is entwined so delicately with our Remembrance that if you are to remove one, then the other will promptly follow into oblivion. Do not ask what I mean by such a statement and ask yourself this instead: What do you think will happen when there is no Remembrance left for me to bleed? When all memories of me vanish from the minds of every mortal being in Fallondal? Well, my friend, the answer is that my soul must vanish as well. Where I will go, if there shall even be a destination, I cannot be certain. No one can, no one ever will, and that is how it must be. If we knew the answer to every "And then?", there would be no thrill in asking or waiting to find out, do you not agree? If you were to agree, then you would not look so mournful right now. Lift your chin and cheer up for me a bit, will you? I would prefer my final moments to be entrenched in an attentive gaze rather than a soulful one. I promise you that any grief you now feel will not outlast the time it takes for a leaf to… fall… I… I feel tired now. So very tired… Could you please help a friend lie down? Oh, thank you. You are too kind, listening to what a soul like me has to muse about. Your attention brings me back to a time when I was still alive. Our apprenticeship days at the Ulloriel citadel, where you and I were but thorns in that old blacksmith’s side. I enjoyed her tales of battles and journeys across the Umber Seas, but I could never find the patience required for her lessons and those never-ending, ever-so-bitter lectures of hers. You, my friend? You had your ears perked for every word she spat. It’s no wonder the sharpness of your swords eventually out-mastered that of her tongue. You say that you cannot recall my presence at that time in your life… To lose such an early memory of us together can only mean that you are moments away from forgetting everything about me. No, please. Your devotion touches me deeply, but these forces are outside our control. Try as hard as you may, you will still forget me. Only a soul is allowed to remember those who have been subject to these sorts of untimely vanishments, and as old as you may be, know that you are still many battles away from joining your ancestors. I insist there is nothing to be done. But know that there is nothing for you to fear, either. Once I am gone, it will be as though I had never been here, to begin with. You will not mourn me. After all, one only mourns in memory of the dead. Not for a life that, by all accounts, never came to be. Yes, it feels dreadful indeed. Why must we die twice? And why must our souls be snuffed out so thoroughly? You might think that way, but you would be sorely mistaken in calling this method unfair or cruel. I can only consider it merciful. I said that, right? Erasing all memory of a dying soul is an act of mercy. If you do not believe me, think of how, with death's embrace, we are promised a reunion with everyone we have lost. How crushing would it then be to know that one of your kin will not be there to guide you as you oar into the Havens of Strifeless Rest? That the one you love will not be there to share an eternity of peace with you? Or, if you were to die in combat, that you and an old friend will never be granted the chance to battle side by side once more, now as eternal guardians of your people? Your eyes alone show the devastation brought on by the prospect of my departure, so I hope you understand my solace in knowing that your grief will not be prolonged until the end of your days… That your mortal psyche will be spared the weight of my complete and utter loss. My time is near… It is not fair on my part to keep my rambling going and going, rarely pausing to let you converse in these last minutes we have left. If I am perhaps talking too much, it is only because I cannot help but fear the oppressing quiet that could be lurking past the threshold that my soul now stands at. Will there only be a void where silence is law and sleep is unending? Or perhaps, once there is no trace left of who I am, my spirit will be forged into a new being? Pushed into a new body and granted a new life to live? I ponder those two options and find it hard to see any difference between them. We may be reborn, and still, we remember nothing from our past lives. Would that not be a sign that, after being forgotten, our old selves did indeed face that nothingness we all fear so much? What change does it make if, each time I am reincarnated, I have no recollection of what it was like to once take part in existence? Oh, forget it... There is no point in thinking my way around the inevitable. What I am now will disappear, no matter if any future lives await me… I can only thank you for being here to listen, my friend. You have lent me your ears so kindly that I wish I could deliver anything of value for them to hear without the memory of it being short-lived. I… I suppose I should still try. Havens know you deserve my best efforts… Very well, if the whim of fate grants you only one thing to remember from our talks, let it be this. The Remembrance that we build up throughout our lives can last a thousand years, and yet, on some unbidden day, it will nevertheless die and take our souls with it. But as dwindling as our stay in the memories of the living can be, its effect can never be erased. Even if the names of most of our fallen soldiers were lost in the fog of endless wars, the legends they have built would forever accompany us on the battlefield. It is in honour and memory of their sacrifice that our hearts beat with pride and our chants make riots out of enemy formations, for our ancestors’ presence is as mighty and undeniable as the myriad crags that guard our great Hallingher Kingdom. Similarly, no matter how little of me you will be allowed to remember, know that our bond, forged as we grew older and shared even after I joined the ranks of the Warden Souls, has shaped us both into who we are in this very moment. In the vast course of existence, there is and will always be a point where you and I fought side by side, in body and spirit, and unlike with your memory, nothing can shape or alter that past to remove me from it. By the Havens... I hadn’t even noticed. My hands have vanished… And this lack of visibility is crawling up my arms… This is it, my friend. Once I disappear, you will wake up, and this will all feel like a strange and distant dream, one that you’ll promptly discard when your captain summons you for your duties. I cannot feel my wings. Are they also gone by now? How-... How long do I have left? What more can I tell you? Oh, yes- yes! There’s one more thing I must ask of you, my friend... I assume that, after you, I am meant to be the last soul to forget who I was. So, could you please focus your mind solely on my name so that you may whisper it before nothing is left of me? I want that to be the last thing I hear. Of course, you remember it. You used to say that never in a million lives would you ever name a child after me until my death changed your mind. Yes, that one! Please say it loud and clear before my ears fade away… I can barely hear your voice now… And I am awfully tired… What comes next? Will I fall asleep or open my eyes to Fallondal once more? Will my awareness be gone forever, or will it follow into a new life? So many questions… I’m glad to be with you as I ponder them, my deepest friend. I hope you wake up with the blissful promise of a new dawn… Of another day to be alive... Did you say something? That was my name I heard, wasn’t it? Oh, thank you… Thank you… Yes… Yes- my name was Aliashtar! I’d almost forgotten...

a South African story. https://www.instagram.com/kareemisonline Life in the shanty town wasn’t much to speak of. It was a slow, seemingly unending cycle of waking up to absolute destitution, and going to bed with water and stale bread as supper, if any. The pain of living such a lifestyle could easily be seen on faces of the older and less naive, but was almost undetectable on the children – besides the protruding cheekbones which came as a result of the empty cupboards they’ve grown so used to. Walking around, the smell of urine almost hurt the nose with its' intensity, and uncollected garbage lined dusty roadways. Unemployed parents sat daily thinking of what they could offer their children for sustenance, and how to get more. One of those parents was Martha Magagula, known to the locals as Gogo Martha – one of the longest-running settlers in that forgotten section of Kliptown. Her only dependent was her fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Nandi. Nandi was a very bright and hardworking young girl, balancing school at Progress Secondary, and being the cook and cleaner in her tiny dwelling. Gogo claimed she had been rendered useless by her arthritis; Nandi thought she was just lazy. The pain in Gogo's joints was nothing compared to that of posing Nandi's mother. Her body was found massacred in a field that residents had made into a garbage dump. Investigators said she’d been raped prior to her death. “Now that your mother is gone, you are my only hope to see a life outside of this shack before I die,” she often said to Nandi, morbidly. School and Gogo were the only things that gave Nandi purpose, until she was approached by a boy midway through her fourteenth year. “Hey, nginguThulani,” said the handsome young boy upon his introduction. “What’s your name?” The spark of romantic fascination in combination with the surge of hormones ushered in by her new adolescence had Nandi feeling attraction, a strange – albeit pleasant – feeling. The grade 9 boy began his courting and had Nandi spell-bound for the fortnight during which he continued to woo her. Sexual innuendo began to invade their conversations, and grew from mere flirting, to actions from which they both received pleasure. When around each other, it was all they could think about, and soon it became apparent that consummation at its' fullest extent was imminent. The day came, and it was bliss for both of them. The feeling of skin-on-skin distracted them both from the realities of living in Kliptown. They engaged frequently, until two months after their union Nandi said, “Thulani, ndikhulelwe,” cutting through the pleasantness of the conversation they were having prior. Neither of them could afford a doctor or the abortion pills, the deliberation over what to do about the pregnancy made the air between them cold and they were now more distant than ever. “I'm not ready to be a father, Nandi. I'm sorry.” That sentence would mark the end of their teenage romance. Gogo was an experienced woman; Nandi's recent morning sickness, constant complaining of sore breasts and visible fatigue prompted Gogo to ask sternly one afternoon after the break-up : “Who is the father?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nandi replied. “I'm not foolish, Nandi. Answer me.” Nandi's anger towards Thulani and the recent burden of carrying a child built up within her and in that moment, she said something that she knew was terrible, but her emotions rendered her mind useless. “He raped me. Thulani raped me.“ Tears began to build in Gogo's eyes. “Some vermin raoed and left your mother to die. He was never caught. I won’t let that wretched boy get away.” Gogo sold fatcakes in the morning to supplement her government grant, and Thulanj was a regular. He ordered his usual two fatcakes and slice of colony, and handed Gogo the money. “I couldn’t find the one who took my daughter, so the one who took my granddaughter’s dignity will suffer today, and she mixed in the rat poison she kept to thwart rodent into his breakfast. “Be well at school, my child,” she said to him, as she did every morning. She relished the sight of watching him eat much more than be could ever enjoy the homemade treats. By the time the school day was over, news had spread that Thulani was no more. Nandi was caught between grief and guilt. All of her anguish intensified when, a few weeks after Thulani's death, her pregnancy began to show. She cried almost daily, for reasons which Gogo could not surmise. Arrangements had been made for Nandi to abort the child at the local clinic in a few days, and the boy who assaulted her was dead, so why would Nandi cry? The answer to that question revealed itself on Nandi's suicide note. She told the naked truth, and said that she loved the boy that she'd previously claimed had raped her. Martha sat stunned on that day, unable to even form tears, while blood continued to spill from Nandi's wrists, dirtying the floor and wetting the sheets of the bed they used to share, in the process. She would continue living for about five years after that day, with pain in her frail heart, and blood on the hands that fed the residents of Extension 3 every single morning.

When my sister told me She wanted to marry a white person So she could have beautiful mixed babies. I was shook. For a while I was angry with her. What's wrong with being black? Black is beautiful. Black is- Then I remembered How I used to be just like her Afraid of my own blackness Hating the skin I was born in as if The minute I was born Dirt and grime latched onto me Embedding itself into my skin. I abhor the thought of ever procreating With someone who looked like me As if having black children was Some kind of curse. So I forgave her and instead Hated myself. For my sister is a canvas Stained by my paintbrush of imperfections. I wonder just how much of My bad habits she has made hers I hope one day she will forgive me for all The wrong I have taught her. One day I hope she sees her beauty How beautiful her skin is Illuminating the sun itself. I hope she finds it in her heart to love Her dark curly coils For they are a crown of excellence Resting upon great shoulders. I hope she understands that The world often fears great things, Making them feel small and insignificant So they do not discover themselves And the greatness they possess. https://www.instagram.com/zanokuhledimba

This poem is about the alienation of sacrificing culture and heritage to fit in. It's about the false promise that America is a melting pot, where all cultures mix together. The reality is immigrants and their children trade off parts of their history and identity to fit in, to try to be what people demand, and then finding that they are still not enough. https://www.instagram.com/cmyeungg?hl=en I remember peeling off one identity for another, only to learn nothing from it but regret. Cocooned in a nest of blood red envelopes and yogurt drinks only to be dropped into the abyss of elementary school. I remember a girl telling me my dumplings smelled weird. a mountain of indignities- I've learned to shred my heritage into scraps, shoving the mangled bits they like into caricatured stories and clothes. I made deals with the devil, my classmates, trading tonal inflections for European conjugations, steamed fish for chicken nuggets. Later, I dipped my tongue in Cantonese and Mandarin only to find I'm too coated in red, white, and blue that an accent sticks to my words like glue. They didn't tell me my scraps would become me, this mosaic of school lunches and half-remembered phrases. I once went out on the 4th of july only for a fuckboy to slither out and ask me to say hi in 'my language' My deals with the devil have locked me out-too Asian for Americans and too American for Asians. I feel robbed, walled off from the past by a language barrier and staring into the smoking gun of an American future where my non-Christian beliefs no longer belong. Now, I hold these mangled scraps in my star-spangled hands and wonder if this is all I will ever be.