Issues
SPECIAL
ISSUE
VII:
Everythingandanythingyoucanand cannotimagineallatonce
1!
February 29th, you're born under the glaring white light of a hospital ceiling.
​
A cold, rough blanket covers your body and the body of a motionless woman beside you – Mother, you instinctively recognize. Overhead is Father, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. He looks like he's in pain. Like he's suffering.
​
Based on how empty the room is and the somber mood that seems to radiate off of just about everything, you get the feeling you're expected to cry right now. You're expected to scream like a newborn baby, which you are.
​
And so you oblige.
​
You scream furiously. You wail and screech and strain your shrill voice as hard as you can until your lungs give out and all you can do is thrash weakly under the covers, wrapped in the fading warmth of Mother and the blanket.
​
Father is sad. He, too, is crying. Crying out his heart and soul - devastated.
​
The only strange thing is that you can't hear the sound of his tears. You can't hear the sound of your own cries, nor the soft beep of the hospital machine beside your head.
​
You can't hear them at all.
​
Not a single thing.
.
Father stops crying soon enough. There are some blue-masked men and women in white scrubs who take away Mother's cooling body, and soon enough, it's just you and Father in the room, under the white lights and the plastic machines.
​
He stares.
​
He stares for a good hour at your sleeping form, and stares some more. When you open your eyes and finally gaze back, you see his silent words. You can read the fury on his lips, taste the anguish on his tongue, make out the colors in his eyes.
​
Father's eyes are hate. They are grief, regret, longing, anguish.
​
They are so very, very sad.
​
And then Father stands. He picks you up, puts his hands on your neck.
​
Your eyes meet his eyes again. They are still sad. They are still hateful.
​
But they are less so than before.
​
Then those everchanging eyes blink shut and you're being pressed down, down, falling into darkness that eats up the soundless screams in your crumpled throat before they reach the ears of another.
​
Now you're voiceless. Sightless. Lifeless.
​
Gone.
​
​
​
@2
​
​
Wired–
Pain cowers in my toenails
When I stub my toe It screams
At the table leg. I scream matcha foam
The spice of feminism. My pain
Stems from women oppression
Blooming in salvaged denim
Hidden in tote
Bagged in vinyl.
I must project every ounce of performance that peeks
From my bones that move like prose.
Alas, I must deliver
Therapy speech. Now the
Esoteric himbo in me is so
Lonely.
Relief is pyrrhic.
​
​
​
#3
​
On Self-Fertilization
​
did you know
plants cannot goon to themselves
they reject their own pollen
no fertilization
unless they are peas.
and they cannot have incest either
because they reject that too
there is no self impregnation among plants
if i were a plant
i wouldnt impregnate myself
On Self-Sublimation
​
I am solid
Wadding through an
Endless pool of shit
For even if I bend and wheeze
For a second the algae
Will crawl beneath my
Lamb-soft skin
And impregnate disease
Until I melt like wax.
I am weak
How nice it would
To blow myself into a bubble
And leave this sagging atmosphere
In a ball of sparkles
​
​
​
$4
​
My hair is falling out
in the shower, so thick I can grab it in two hands
on my test, covering the numbers so I trip
on the floor, trailing behind as I stumble the halls under my backpack
on my clothes, when I change four times a day
on my pillow, when I wake up as soon as I fall asleep
in my hands, as I brush and pin it tightly
in my drinks, when I gulp them down hurriedly
in my eyes, when I'm trying to stay awake
everywhere.
There is still
so much hair left for me to tear out
and so many strands I said goodbye to
but there is
so little life in my head left
to let anything else grow.
My brain is empty
just like
my head will be when I turn
twenty.
​
​
​
​
%5
​
​
When I was in grade school. I looked up to the girl in my class who had the prettiest handwriting. I mimicked the way she curled her a’s.
My hand is quivering. The pencil teetering. My notes always end up in an indecipherable scrawl. It's best not to take notes at this point. The next day I will leave my notebook at home– backpack half un-zipped– everything is falling out.
I never really saw the blonde girl in grade school. Always viewing behind neat desktables and behind castles made from alphabet blocks. I never asked her for her name. Only that I knew her by her ponytails that blocked the view of the blackboard.
My hair was thinner when I peeked at the strands through the mirror. My scalp suddenly reminded me of her. I resent God for not blessing me with golden locks. I resent myself even more for hating my hair. I resent the way my clothes look too big for my bony limbs, or how I compare with their breasts. I'll make a name for her: Lily. I hated you, Lily.
In grade school I loved reading in front of the class, because I had such a pretty voice, because it was a loud voice that my mother had safe-guarded for me, because everyday before leaving she told me to keep my chin up because my yellow face is yellow like the sun, and my voice is proud, like all the proud and brave women that came before me in my family.
I have stopped going to school entirely. I walk into my bathroom and stare at what rations hair I have left on my rash skull. I stole a jar of blonde dye from my mother’s bathroom. I lathe it all across my head like how I’ve seen mother do it. It's been an hour and I rinse it off. When I look into my reflection in the mirror– expecting a big blonde beauty– I see a yellow girl.
​​
​
^6
​
Motherhood
When grandma died mother had to pick up the tools that were abandoned on the ground. There is no water in this infertile land. Only desolate cracks that run past the milkweeds that etch maps on your varicose belly who holds your daughter so delicately.
To begin it starts with the hoe. That shape of the big sun latching onto the nape of your neck. That binds your ankles in agony. The pain of labor.
To blossom you need water. But the nearest well is two villages east of this worn down farmland. If there is no water, the seeds will soon shatter into dust. You traverse by night– whipped by the stars' mockery and the milky way– pouring milk over your hair.
Every girl sows the seeds that their mothers had planted for them. It is painful to long for juice from the plants they nurture and dream of sugar running down your cheek.
You know that before you see any flowers bloom you will have become a mother yourself. Before they become fruit, you must offer the ripest ones to your own child. When you stare at your barren field– you ask god, why has this land been so cruel to you?
Finally, you die. You longed for this death so much. It is so blissful– sweeter than any juice from ripe fruit could have given you. For so long, you longed to abandon that hoe which had enslaved you to this ground.
But now, your baby is alone. She crawls along the soil. Alas, this must be the story of every woman. She has become a mother as soon as she opened her baby eyes upon this world. Before she can cry she reaches out to that hoe.
It is calling her. She latches her lands and feet onto its handle and sucks. There is not a single sound anymore. Not a single thing. Only the land– waiting for you to fertilize.
So she obliges.
You were never bestowed a blanket. You may not grow up to know who your mother was. Only that she tried to offer you the grains of her toil. You so desperately want to scream. But you are a mother now. Mothers must not scream. They must silently swallow their pain.
Now you're voiceless. Sightless. Lifeless.
When you can finally walk you shall carry that hoe upon your shoulders. Walking along that same path your mother trotted. Every time you yearn for the horizon, you are reminded of death with your mother’s corpse– and mountains of corpses buried beneath her.
Soon, it will be your turn to bury her among the others. And to be buried, by this very exact hoe you are using now.
​
​
​
&7
​
In my dream, which slowly voids any rendition or transient visualization of who you are, fades the tangible recount left of your body. It is a cycle of erasing pain. You appear to me in a silk blouse, whose orchestral gold patterns accentuate your long hair. Today, you are half concealed half visage half disappeared half tree trunk. Your body is gliding behind the sycamore tree in my yard, and its leaves are tarnished a thick pastel orange that matches the shade of your eyes. These sterling features I have created for you, it is not a way to reconcile with my greed for what I wanted you to be like, but as a rope for me to hold onto; as you slowly let go of the world.
Your milkweeds blossom
Clenched in fist: won’t you let go?
Tell me, you won’t go.
You are humming to autumn's lazy lullaby, carrying prose that sweeps your dress back and forth between your legs and the firm ground. I can see that you are holding something behind your back so I usher you to come closer to me. You are now walking reluctantly, above the clay fields that I planted with the ashes of my body parts and dissembled poetry. As your heels dig into the ooze I feel the burn, on my heart that feels regret, for not knowing how to love you anymore, rolling on my hands like prickly pear. Remember the poetry that you hated– yes those were once mine. When, you ask? Many nights ago but the exact time does not matter now, it is all in slurry. When more? I can tell you to wait, but I cannot control your temperance. Don't we all await keenly for rebirth? With a seed we wait impatiently for it to sprout and haphazardly for revolution to boil. I too, long for the day to ripen, when I can finally gain the courage to harvest the clay I buried. I cannot tell you the exact time, but very soon. Before you leave me for good– I will make a vase for you out of that clay and hand picked flowers to go along with it too. You part your hands behind your back and you show me a bundle of milkweeds that you must have picked while I was gone. Did you know that those were my mother’s favorite? She planted those a short while before she died.
In dream: her milkweeds,
Gifts of life, but wanton turns
in palms: fallen hair.
All of our lives, we are constantly planting, sowing strewn fabric, fertilizing with tremendous hope of what will come to be of fray patchwork. When we are born, it is like we picked up a heavy hoe, left by the dead. We do not question why it is us that are chosen. We are silent because this is the right way to respect the mothers that planted us. We must consecrate our lives planting seeds deep within the lush soil that the people before us have died for, and when our spines collapse, the only thing left to do is to leave the hoe where we first found it, the only mark of our existence the indentations we hammered into the ground. We are all part of the cycle that latches onto us, that prey and dispose without ever asking. So like my mother it will all soon be our turn to be buried among the others– it is all a matter of time. And to be buried, by the very exact hoe we used to give life. Buried, without ever seeing what labor ever came to fruition. But at least death is kind enough to spare the seeds. Look around you– in this dream. These are mother’s flowers, the exact ones you hold in your palms. What seeds are mine? The ones beneath our feet, dear. The kind that sprouts pain, and pain that inspires words.
I am suddenly reeled back into the hospital room you and I are in. I must have been asleep for hours–please excuse me. I stand up and pace towards your bedstand. I wish for you to open your eyes. I desire so impatiently for you to wake up. I bend down and touch your pulse: beyond your closed eyelids I know that you are impatiently tugging at the heartstrings of life.
She hid behind leaves,
Who knew leaves were plenty as
Hospital receipts
When you eventually do wake up, lying beside you will be a vase and inside three milkweeds that I have picked from the flowerbeds today. As I walk out the doors I hope achingly that my gift may be received quickly– before the petals slump and my wilted words give birth to ennui. Do not bother trying to send a gift in return; I will be long gone by then.
For is it not true
We learn to cherish after
Their lives expire?
​
​
​
TWO SENTENCE HORRORS TWO SENTENCE HORRORS TWO SENTENCE HORRORS
Issue VII
Why did you delete the truth dictator? I didn't feel my nose grow longer –it was my first lie
“I’m finally back on track”, my girlfriend said. The next day, I found her lying on the train tracks, sliced in half.
“Ma, every night, there’s a little boy in the wall who cries that he’s cold”. Oh honey, that’s impossible; I hid his body underneath the floorboards.
One star: don’t waste $50 on such a low quality product. Though I have to ask, how much lag is acceptable for a mirror?
He had stolen my mother’s locket, and finally agreed to give it back to me. Holding the bloodstained jewelry above his limp body, I slid back into my grave— finally at peace.
So glad that me and my wife are finally back to sleeping in the same bed. I just wish I didn’t have to dig her back up to do it.
I approached the girl for her number. Disappointed that she doesn't have a phone, I walk back to my desk and resume teaching
​
​
"Losing you would be a horror," I said. I glanced aside, and no one was there.
​
​
​
"You must be extra tired today," the waiter said as he set down two cups of coffee. "No, I'm only drinking one," I said, looking up and across the table; my eyes had to refocus at the empty space in front of me.
SUDDEN DEATH
i s s u e VI
i
The war has been going on for a while now, and the end doesn’t seem near. The tech of each nation keeps increasing and killing the innocent. Here in Aromeada, everyone is drafted. I still remember the excitement my classmates and I had about when we would come of age and receive assignments. We were so very patriotic. I had studied to become a technaut, unlike my classmates who studied combat to become soldiers. I wanted to be at the forefront of technological advancements in the country. What I did not know was that I would have to complete 20 years as a mechnet to become a technaut. I was told it was an honor to be working on such pieces of technology at such a young age, but I was given no information about what I was actually working on, only that I had to weld or screw something into a specific spot. I decided to try and learn about the craft that I was working on.
​
My first craft had fairly rudimentary ion thrusters powered by a small nuclear reactor. I thought that the fact that the nuclear waste tube was connected to the ion thrusters was weird; little did I know then that the waste was perfect to be ionized and shot out the back. This particular craft was also capable of going about Mach 3 in the atmosphere and Mach 7 out of the atmosphere, or so my pilot friend told me. This craft seemed to bear some resemblance to the old SR 72s from the ancient world called Terra, where we were all from. I kept on doing this, just inspecting planes as they came through my workshop. Until I learned that the planes were often stripped of the confidential/cooler parts before coming through my workshop. So, I started making a habit of going out to the terminals to see the planes and do a “pre-flight” checkup to see all of the confidential things. I did find that most planes still have the old combustion engines because they still work fairly well in the atmosphere. They probably didn’t want this to be known because it makes radiation beam defense lasers (RBDL) much more destructive for these craft. I also saw some really cool early warning systems in the jet’s nose, so I convinced my pilot friend to go up in the jet so I could see them in action. It seemed easy and low risk (but that was not the case). We had to make so many plans to make sure I could get onto the tarmac and take off at a busy hour, so no one would know.
​
Once the day came, we woke up early to try to sneak on early. I went through my normal route, and it went fine without any hiccups, and so did the pilot. The issue came when going onto the tarmac from the repair shed. I had to sneak through the taxi line, which included sneaking under a jet so no one would see me cross. I started my run across the taxi line, but this jet was equipped with the old combustion engines, which meant that it sucked in air, and me. I grabbed onto the edge of the fuselage and started kicking the side to alert the pilot, but no one heard or saw me. My grip gave way, and I fell into the churning compressor blades. The pain was non-existent, but I knew I was no longer alive.
​
​
​
ii
​​​
The Day of The New Year
​
The kids scatter amidst the plaza. They run fast with joy. Red dots that spark underneath your eyes.
The happiness of the new year enchant the village. There is red everywhere, lights coat the brick walls. Golden sizzling fireworks envelop the cold night. In warmth, the elderly bundle– in cramped houses pilled waist high with firecrackers, food, cash. Beyond the door, the warmth of mahjong travels through the arrays of houses, lined in neat fashion. Every child is holding red envelopes in their knitted-gloved hands. When they run from house to house, under their breath are tangerines and rice cakes.
When you push open your door make sure to pet the stone lions for extra luck today. Turn your head–there are children in bliss. Look around– there are teenagers bashing on drums and banging on gongs. Enter the main street– the families are embracing the vendors are selling;
Liquor-firecrackers-fruit: quick gaze at snow
coated trees observe them
Absorb every minute detail gently dancing
Because today is the new year.
Because as soon as the fireworks launch– every emotion every
Sound in the village will leave the old world behind.
It is almost night– settle in the aroma of dumplings. Children still frolic in snow– but now they start heading home with empty stomachs. Lights flicker open in homes like fireworks and suddenly every home is radiating with fiery liquor and joy and television noises.
With each game of mahjong and shuffling of felicity the bell tolls closer to the fireworks finally. The children are becoming restless for light.
Yes. Let there be light!
The whole village erupts with fireworks. They shoot out of every house shattering glass everywhere, spilling luxurious food. They blossom from the koi fish in the ponds. Shooting into the air with pieces of broken mahjong and half-eaten dumplings.
The village is silent, accompanied by the flickering flames of debris.
​​​​
iii
​
The ambience of the music is chilling today. But winter is ending. Snow is flushing into soil. Soil is detaching from frost. Frost seeds parade earth. Today is day, and day is to salute winter’s end. Tonight the stars will push winter off its throne and they will cascade together, into a nostalgic ocean which I know to be spring.
The vinyl whispers with needle talk that irritates the back of my head like an incessant itch. I scratch my entire body all over only to find blood stuck between my fingernails and no relief. The static dims, but the nagging itch drums down my spine. I am too impatient for spring. I shall take a bath now to rinse off the flaking blood. Red is not a springtime color. When I reach for the tap ice runs from the metallic arrays. That's strange. There is no heat yet. The water is mellow, too cold to bathe. Winter still welcomes me with cold showers.
Today is the day flower fairies are nigh. They follow moon time. When the shade turns custard yellow they sprinkle spring dew…. gently along where grass meets cobblestone. Now the fairies must not come out yet, frostbitten by the never ending spell of winter. I add more firewood and feed the fire, trying to warm my frail hands. I must keep myself awake tonight to witness the spectacle.
I lean closer to the firepit, letting the fire crisscross between my fingers, the flames dancing ablaze on my fingertips that no longer feel. In the flames I see a child who dipped his toes in and out of flames until he could call the wispy colors his, who sang fiery melodies. Here is a man that is now tone deaf. I am too overtaken by winter to flush life into my raisin branded fingertips.
The last note screeches. There is no more sound coming from that downbeat stereo. It halts. So does winter’s breath, fogging up the window. It is hard to muster up the courage to end something you’ve known your entire life for. Reaching into the image, I let my entire body fall into the burning pit.
It is initially hard to let go of the cold. But at last it gives up my body, or it me, who finally let it go?
Everything is so clear now. I can hear Spring tapping gently on the front door.
Yes. I'm coming.
I stand by the door
Waiting for soft winds to toll
Familiar chimes
​​
iv
​
Today, a giant blimp appeared in the sky. Its grand figure protruded across the skyline, draping the small village in shade and crowding out the sun and clouds. At first, it provides a welcome relief from the prickly autumn heat, but questions inevitably arise–when, where, why, how? There is no building or ladder tall enough to reach the blimp, and it shows no signs of descending to the ground. No hails are returned, no entreaties acceded. The aeronautical anomaly remains hovering.
​
Inevitably, droves of miscellaneous aircraft arrive from the peripheries to investigate. They swarm around the blimp, observing and nodding with the smug certitude of those who posit by trade. They leave satisfied. Its continental mystery rests in the air currents.
Eventually, some villagers fashion together a makeshift rope, miles long, with which to snag on one of the myriad protrusions of the blimp, so that some courageous individual may make the precarious climb and see for themselves what the business was all about. Who that courageous individual would be was left unsaid. Still, the rotund majesty rests anchored.
​
Elsewhere, other villagers fashion together their own links to lash onto the blimp, tearing long gashes in its side as their rickety mechanisms crackle. Inside, chilling voids tell a tale of unimaginable glory. Perfunctory applause greets the scene. Nevertheless, the temporary blurs into the permanent, and as the villagers squint further and further within the now-interminable gashes, the oily splendor of generations past starts to spill into the air.
Dignity and poise line the streets where once whispers glided by. A dense fog infinitesimally approaching comprehension is all that gilds the village, the last vestiges of a halcyon life. Now, the blimp purrs to life with an idyllic grace, its fins fluttering in the wind.
​
​
v
​
​
It happened between seconds.
He was. Then wasn't.
That sedan never slowed. There was an impact, clean and merciless, but no drama. A mother shielded her child’s eyes. Groceries spilled from the ruptured bags that he held. Milk bled into the asphalt like time unwinding.
White and infinite.
“It’s over,” hummed a voice.
“Why?” He asked.
“Why not?”
He clawed for something— anything, to anchor him. His mother’s soft lullabies, cold, sweet mangoes in summer heat, the warm tremor of a lover’s gaze. Fragile things. Woven things. Now torn.
“I had things to do. I’m not finished”
“No one ever is.”
“Can I return?”
“No. Later was never promised.”
A door materialized. Neither shining nor dull— just there. Light pulsed from it like a breath held far too long.
“Who are you?”
“Clotho,” it said, its voice now a low echo. “The one who begins.”
“But I just was.”
“And now you’re not.”
He stepped forward, not out of courage, but inevitability.
As soon as he did, life lurched back into motion.
Tires sliced through the milk.
The sky remembered to rain.
Someone screamed as others filmed the aftermath.
Nothing paused. Nothing mourned.
Yet, something shifted. So slight, so silent, that the world itself blinked.
Once.
And then continued.
​
​
vi
​
“I swear I’ll bring you a present.”
I stood sweating and smiling in the security line at the entrance to the fair.
“No other bags or items, just this box?” My present box was scanned.
“Nope, thanks!” I got my ticket scanned, snatched the cardboard handles of the shabby cake box that was already splintering a red line into my left hand, and ran into the fair. Where did he say it was again? The ferris wheel. Right.
I looked around for a map, and a smiling lady tapped me on the arm.
“Is there any trouble?”
“Oh, no, I’m just wondering if you know where the ferris wheel is.”
She smiled and looked around, “ You see that booth where you can win prize duckies? Ask the man working there.”
“Thanks!” I hollered over my shoulder.
“Hi! Directions to the ferris wheel please?” I nearly fell into the carnival booth, squeezing the present with both hands and lightly bumping into the man. He didn’t ask any questions.
“To the right around the corner with the Merry-Go-Round.”
I ran to the Merry-Go-Round, turning the corner behind the looming building that blocked further view. There was nothing to see but a fence to the full parking lot. Huh. I stumbled back to the Merry-Go-Round.
“You lost?” A voice chimed. I looked up. A little girl who couldn’t have been older than 7 waved at me from the purple plastic horse, “What are you looking for?”
I froze up for a moment, an inexplicable feeling between curiosity and worry tamping down my rush to the ferris wheel. Her horse had galloped away from me around toward the other side.
“Wait!” I sprinted up to the railing, “Where’s the ferris wheel?”
“Is it someone important’s birthday?” She giggled at my present box, “Back the way you came but take the left at the center fountain!”
My gaze lingered on her until she disappeared around the Merry-Go-Round. Then the feeling of panic snapped my trance. I took a step back from the Merry-Go-Round. Then another. And another, until I saw the girl coming back around, before finally turning away.
​
​
I was lost again. I flinched at two taps on my shoulder.
“Is there any trouble, my dear?” It was the smiling lady from before. Her smile looked a little more concerned this time.
“I couldn’t find the ferris wheel.”
“That’s because you can’t see it,” She kept smiling.
“But I really need to find someone,” I held up my present, still gripping it as tight as ever with my left hand.
“Who?” The duck booth man appeared at the lady’s side.
“Um, the birthday boy!” I started bouncing back and forth, sweat dripping into my eye and adrenaline creeping back in.
“You could try continuing back that way towards the entrance,” At the man’s words I jerked my head around and bolted forward before immediately skidding to a stop upon looking to my right. The girl from the Merry-Go-Round stood hand in hand with an older boy. She looked me in the eyes. I looked her in the eyes. Then I looked at him.
Trembling, my body moved of its own accord, walking slowly towards them and lifting the present in front of him.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered. The boy clasped my hand, unclenching it. As the beads of red formed along my palm and fingers, he held the present back out to me.
“No. It’s yours.”
The girl reached up and guided my hands to the handles of the present, “We’re sorry, sister.” The present opened. Inside was a window to a white room. The girl was standing solemnly looking at the ground, looking much too old for a child. The boy knelt on the floor with his head down on the bed. And on the bed lay someone I couldn’t recognize. But I could feel that she was myself. The door swung open gently and a nurse and doctor, looking like the smiling lady and the duck booth man, walked in.
The boy didn’t look up.
“It was her birthday! She just wanted…” He cried softly, “…to ride the ferris wheel. We shouldn’t have gone.”
“But you wanted to go for rides.” The girl started trembling, “So did I. It’s also your birthday.” My sister. That’s my sister. The boy, that’s my brother. My twin brother. And in the bed, that’s me. I closed my eyes and upon opening, I was staring out the window from the bed.
In the window my face stared back at me, until my brother took the present from me. It dipped down and he hurled it towards the sky.
Through the window I saw the crying faces of my siblings, then the blood dripping from my hand as it flowed into a growing scarlet pond at my feet, and finally we ascended up and up until I couldn’t make out anything but the fountain in the center of the fair and the booths and the Merry-Go-Round in a circular pattern around the fountain like a wheel.
Like a ferris wheel. Like the one that used to tower over the fair before the day it fell, on my last birthday.
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
ISSUE V: XCIX
-99 word stories
i
When night came the grassroots dimmed.
When your footsteps trembled on the soil, they stopped bickering with the crickets. Just for you. Only You.
Approach the field and shuffle with ancestral songs. There will be a field of succulents. Open all the pores in your palm and hover it above life.
Let your oils mingle with the earthen wind, digging into your fingernails with flurry.
If you wish, water the trembling heat. From the heat, smoky steam and from steam to scalding flowers. Let henna shoot up, under toning your strong arms. Those dependable arms that caress the unruly.
​
​
ii
1. Sun– Surgeon. Director of plastic surgery at Beijing. 2 weeks ago, butchered the deceased Ms.Wang’s Rhinoplasty. Previously performed low risk surgeries on Wang with varying ranges of success. Job in jeopardy– future at risk
2. Liu– Doordasher. Arrived at Wang household 1 hour prior to her death. Delivery: boba. Verdict: lacking motive.
3. Li– Maid. Commodity shopping downstairs at the time of murder. Note: attempt to use receipt to prove innocence.
4. Wu– Doorman. Did not notice suspect entering through door. Rushed onto scene upon hearing screams. When he arrived, Wang was already dead. The suspect was nowhere to be found.
​
​
iii
​
Finally, artificial superintelligence to rule the world is complete. Inside of it, my team and I have added an exploit; we will be treated as gods while the rest of humanity is enslaved. We didn’t do it because we wanted to. But we knew that there would be others who did want to; they would add an exploit if we didn’t. We knew there were others thinking the same way we were. It was kill or be killed, we were just the first to pull the trigger. Realizing the code could be exploited obliged us to act in self-defense.
​
​
iv
​
Low tides expose the ribs of the old pier. Seagulls wheel, feathers glazed with sunlight.
– I held her close to my chest.
The old sandbar sat idly, water striking it. We used to race there, running from the waves. Now I just sit, a briny smell hitting my nose. I wonder if she smells it too.
– I softly repeated her name, over and over. Nothing.
Far offshore, a mackerel swims beside a dolphin. I stand up, brushing sand away from my legs. The silence is loud. I can’t stay here.
– I’m sorry, I say as they take her away.
​​
v
​
This is a dream. Every time, the same dark corridor.
Every time, one step further. One new screen on the tunnel walls, one new design of what the voice calls a “friend.”
“Are they your perfect friend?” You shake your head. Blink.
Again.
“Are they your perfect friend?” You look. Blink. It’s been so long, but it’s somehow obvious to you. Your own reflection is staring back. Nod.
Blink.
It’s not the corridor. Lined endlessly in front of you are rows and rows of shadowy figures. You walk up to one. It looks up. Your eyes widen.
“Hi friend.”
​
vi
​​
diamonds are desirable. everyone says so.
but they cut. they cost. they take your breath away and don’t give it back.
in the dark, they are nothing: tasteless, odorless, and colorless.
the hardest substance we know.
you press your ear to them and they do not hum.
poor conductors. they keep quiet.
the fakes, though. they glitter louder, shameless, dressed colorfully.
maybe they are better. the only thing that matters is how people perceive you, right?
in 1954, they learned to grow them under high pressure. forced from the impossible.
what we desire.
what we cannot touch without bleeding.
​
​
vii
​
I am living, yet I know I will be gone when I have talked my last. I know I have a limited time to express who, what I am. And yet….if I do not talk, if I do not affirm my existence, if I cannot show that I am, that I feel…how will I know I am? I must exist, I must show that I feel, that I am and yet the more I show I exist, that I am, that I live, the more I am myself, the faster… I am gone. Oh. I see it now.
viii
​​
i held tight as the universe pulled away, an insuperable force i could not counter. my fallen tears boiled and evaporated under the sunlight as i floated through the space, time speeding faster the further i drifted away. blinded by the darkness, hallucinations played in front of me — futures from a different timeline. i held the red thread in my other hand, tied it tightly around my wrist and fingers. the pocketwatch drifting with me in front of me shattered, glass shards floating all around. finally, the red thread turned taut and snapped, as she faded out of view.
​
​
iv
​​
Unrestrained cackles ripple through the air as I open the door. I see her, arms high in the air–and there she goes, bare feet slapping against the sun-kissed concrete. Within the house, a voice calls exasperatedly for her, and I turn around, watching her waddle away. “You won’t catch me,” she squeals out, as I dash forward and pick her up. Drool and crumbs dust her face; her giggles peal contentedly through the air. Her eyes scrunch in joy as I run my fingers through her hair. “I love you so,” I mutter. Incoherent babbles drift into the sky.
ISSUE IV:
Exchange &
Emotions
i
Emotions are hidden everywhere, gazing at the monotonous footsteps that echo across the concrete. They dig themselves inside the rocks, between the atoms, squeezing through the fingernails of space.
The emotions are always watching you. And as you come close to inspect that rock, that unturned pile of garbage….
The fragmented memories of such instances always seem to fade in and out of your mind, something far too archaic for your ordinary neighborhood with those medium sized cars and flat houses and the occasional dogs and the people.
Yes, the people, your neighbors, your childhood friends. But whenever you visit those people in your dreams, their words come out in a jumble of scrambled silence. And the more you want to peer into their faces -– the deeper you taste your memories, their expressions slide off their faces and melt into the asphalt.
There seems to be an invisible frictional force between your taste buds and anything you taste, a dam holding everything you taste and a mask that envelopes your whole entire being that nothing can ever escape
You were probably born like this -– nothing, and never able to learn to become not-nothing. In fact, you will think that everyone is like you, that everyone that has ever existed lived in that same neighborhood with the same basketball courts, with the same humid heat in the summer, with the same cats and dogs screeching and the crickets chirping at night.
The next time you walk out of your house, the identical house that you have with everyone else in the block. You will see your neighbors walking by. They will be walking their dogs, and for all you know, you will see and hear like everyone else.
Those embers of emotions that cling to the space between you and every living object will always stay unsensed. The only memory of birth originates from this placating, ordinary neighborhood.
You remember no pain, no surgical lights, no hate. Rest assured, those feelings are all stored safely. You will die in peace without the burden of sadness and trouble, because those things were never real to you.
​
***
​
And yet. Whose memory is this?
And sometimes, when you look down at your hands, you feel that you have been borrowing them. The way the fingers know to curl around a cup before you decide. The way they ruffle through your hair before you agree. The way they remember a scar before you do.
If they are someone else’s hands, whose thoughts have been writing in your head?
If you are the continuation of another person’s unfinished story, where does your page begin? Or maybe you have begun already, so long ago that you cannot remember the start, so far into their life that you cannot see the end?
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
ii
There is a lab in the centre of the metropolis called the core. The exterior is covered in these metallic shells that dance effervescent beneath the smog. And at night, the colors turn an nebulous grey that coats the entire town in an ominous veneer.
If you get close, you can hear the distant hum of what seems like animatronics. And the whirring. The non-stopping whirring that screeches like a dying animal in your eardrums.
It is a disgusting screech.
Yet despite this sound there are always crowds always gathered around the building. Sometimes in the day, the entire town is deserted. Nobody to tend the shops, the construction sites soundless, and even if there was a fire nobody would ever care to notice.
If a person from another town would pass by this strange place at one of these instances they would believe that the town had been abandoned long ago. But if they edged closer towards the center they would see these hoards of people thousands large.
The masses would all be turned towards the core. Yet despite the sheer monstrosity of the demonstration everything would be silent. But no, there are definitely things going on, happening in a frenzy in a motion so obscured in a darkness the people were too naive to see.
How so? Describe what this all felt like, what the people were doing.
Indeed everything would be so orderly you could even use the word pure. The way the people organized themselves in these obtuse shapes had such mechanical elegance. If you looked from the sky the crowds would form a grid of mosaic patterns rigid in all the right places but yet pendulous like a horde of hallucination.
Now let's move on to the people.
If you examined all of their faces– of course they looked different. They weren’t clones, they were real people with distinct facial features. Let me make the point clear that they are not machines, nor cyborgs. They are all the fruit of sex. And yet they all look so similar. The young and the old, the white and black. If you stared too long a shimmer of pure dread would race down your eyelids. It was all very peculiar.
And if you walked even closer to the core it’s shimmering scales distorted the figures of the people so much so that they began to look unhuman. But it was so beautiful.
If you were brave enough to venture inside the core don’t be scared to embrace the flurry of colorful sound. Don't hesitate to reach in and grab at the images that float like polaroids in a whirlpool. Take as many as you want– unless you want to be reborn with no memories whatsoever.
Perhaps you were once a criminal. Maybe a doctor. But when you walk out of that spherical building you are someone else entirely, residing in your carcass.
ISSUE III: The Orb
1There was a man named Quan, son of Bo'qi of the house of Fae, follower of Noto, who prayed to the chambers of Gual’dan. 2 When Quan's father, Bo'qi passed away Quan was flooded with sorrow and self-destruction. 3 In his repairable disposition, he drove a piece of curling shrapnel into his back and offered his blood to the altar of Soohn’dan; the reincarnation of Gual’dan, he heard a voice. 4 The voice said “come breathe the life of Gual’dan across the milked plains of the earth, come seep his poetic hymns through the high mountains, come weave his words so that they can stretch across the meridian of time and when everything is gone, those words will guide the blind men for they cannot see in darkness.” 5 Before Quan left, the voice gave him a glass ball that held a dim fire and the voice said “Spread the light so they can see. And see they must, for the darkness is drawing near.” 6 So when the day came, he saddled his mule, carrying his cane that was etched in the tongue of Fae and held the ball that the voice gave. And before he left the town, the streets were light fiercely, with banners of glory and glazed with dancing music. The whole town was erupting with flames of celebration, and the fireworks lasted until the next morning. 7 Everywhere, there were whispers that liberation was near. And eventually, those voices reached the cellars where the children were chained. And for no less than a hundred years, there was hope. 8 So Quan rode his mule to the far tribes of Nwatu, and everywhere he went the sphere unleashed something that made the people chant and sing, especially in the dark where there was no light and the only thing that gave off light was that sphere. 9 And he continued walking, liberating, teaching, until he traversed to the high mountains of the Guang’shal tribe of blind prophets. 10“Come close to me” Quan said, “for when you are near, you will be able to see through the darkness”. And when the prophets drew near the sphere, their eyes blinked open. They said “Even as my eyes can see, there is nothing to see, for darkness has already devoured all”. 11 Shaken in his devout faith, Quan lifted the sphere to his own eyes, but when he looked beyond he realized despite the hope given by Gual’dan the world truly was submerged in darkness. And as his faith began to fade a still-blind prophet approached him, saying in the voice of Gual’dan, “The world is not lighted only by hope; you must restore the faith to those who have never believed.”12 Then Quan thought to those who cheered blindly for the precious light of the sphere, those who truly believed that they would one day be saved from the eternal darkness. “Must I only teach them to believe?” He wondered, “Will that do anything to guide their lives toward salvation?”13 At that moment another blind prophet approached him, saying “Have you truly seen the darkness of this world? Beyond the cheering crowds and hopeful believers, can you see?” Then the prophet blinked and his eyes became clear. 14 “Our lord does not wish us to blindly follow, and you know that in your heart as well. Go bring hope to those who’ve never hoped, faith to those who’ve never trusted, and light to those stranded in the darkness.”15 But how can I guide those when I have no direction myself? Quan thought, I only know how to sacrifice, how to pray. Why would Gual’dan choose me? 16 So Quan returned to Noto who told him, “You are not special. Give the orb to me so that I may spread the word of Gual’dan in the world.” So Noto gave Quan the orb and Quan returned to his house and family. 17 Quan travelled the world and told the people he met, “Give a penance to Gual’dan through me and you can see the orb and have hope in the eternal darkness.” Many people paid Quan to see the orb and Quan was beset with riches. 18 With these riches Quan built a kingdom, a city built upon the greatest mountain ranges, that harnessed the great powers of the lakes, which sprawled across the vast plains. A kingdom that worshiped the orb, that sacrificed for the orb, and repeated the orb’s mantra over and over and over again for that was the only thing they knew, the doctrine of the orb. And the kingdom prospered. 19 The kingdom prospered from all the worshipers who flocked from the entire world to witness the almighty orb, who came and preached its scripture. 20 At the center of the kingdom was the king, Quan. He lived in a castle enshrined in his holy name. And yet as the decades passed and his throne became grander, taller, he felt his seat growing colder and colder. 21 There came one day where there was not a single man in the kingdom who visited his castle, empty of servants, followers. There was nothing in that golden castle, not even silence and the only thing Quan could feel was his rage. 22 Quan marched from his castle to the Black Box, built to contain the light of the orb. He pushed open the front gates and the immense lights from the orb shattered his pupils. 23 He shrieked in disgust, at the jarring light he no longer knew, one he could not contain. When he saw the thousands upon thousands of worshipers at the ground, kneeling towards the orb in silent prayer, he screamed. He was better than the filthy orb. He was the true king of this empire. 24 “Bow down to me!” Quan said, “For I am the true God!” He raged to the abyss, and as if the darkness had absorbed his words, nobody even glanced at him, nor recognized his presence. 25 Quan raged and brought his wrath upon the Black Box. He ravaged the pews with an unspeakable vehemence. Dragging his cane, he walked closer and closer to the orb. At last the people turned his way as they watched. 26“I am your God!” Quan bellowed as he raised the cane above his head and brought it down on the orb. Being made of glass, the orb shattered, its pieces scattering at Quan’s feet. The orb was broken–and so was Quan. 27 After the incident broke out the Black Box was torn down, the only proof of what it once was was the giant rectangular heavy imprint of the metallic structure left on the soil. 28 Quan returned to his preachings, but all that came out his mouth was quotidian. Nobody could understand his hollow words no matter how hard he screamed them, not even if the sky trembled. With no prophet to guide them, the followers left the kingdom and the sole inhabitant was Quan. 29 Eventually, Quan stopped preaching, for there is no use of a preacher if there are no followers. He returned back to his cold throne, the one crafted of gold and velvet leather. 30 He sat, waiting for someone to come, waiting for the earth to collapse underneath him, waiting for rebirth, waiting for death.
ISSUE II: GUIDANCE
Short Stories
​
i
Maybe it was the slogans or the noise on the streets, but she knew they were here. The jumbotrons were rolled onto the platform, its colorful mirage catching the people in a translucent nebula. Devote yourself to the province. Apart from the stage, the factories were everywhere, and even in the poor sectors their presence loomed over the haze. And then there were the guides, who knocked on your door at night, who stared at you while you slept, who whispered in your ear when you turned across the alleyway, beckoning you to join them. If you said yes, they would guide you to the factories. First they took your words, tearing them apart until all that made sense was his name and the slogans. And if told them no, they would lock you in these dark rooms and your words would be gone too because who would you ever talk to again? But every once in a while, there would still be the ignorant few who still said no. She was one of them. When they knocked on her door, she felt safe beneath her bed. But they could smell her fear, and when she took her next breath she was chained on the stage. Alas, the celebrations began and the guides walked towards her. No, they didn't pluck away her feathered words nor did they rob her vowels. She didn't feel anything– in fact she felt good. The crowds sang the anthem with triumphant surges that made her want to sing along. And when the celebrations were over, they left in lines, following the guides. When they were gone, her limbs began to move. She walked off the stage, into narrow alleyways, knocking on doors, and watching people sleep.
​
​
​
ii
In the Citadel, we were taught that every suggestion was packaged with law, wisdom, and the ever standing authority that, fortunately, we as a people, served only for the greater good. It was stamped, drilled even, into our very consciousness. They said that in the end, we would appreciate the things that were given to us. Did it? Appreciation. I don’t feel it. The other day, I saw a man being dragged away. I didn’t know why. Mother said not to dwell on it, that things like this happen all the time. She told me to focus on my productivity scores. Questions, she whispered, are the breaking of the shaky foundation we stand on. I tried ignoring it, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that man. The way his eyes frantically searched the crowd, the way his voice strained as he screamed a plea. Like he was begging us to remember him, to remember his stance against the very things we stood for. They say that the ones who disappear go to the “ring” for re-alignment. They come back cleaner. But, no one really comes back. Simply, they’re scratched off the registry and assigned new quarters, a new cycle in hopes that they wouldn’t act out again. I still wonder though…what was the man guilty of? Was it truly a crime…or simply a slip of the tongue?
​
​
​
iii
Guidance is the everlasting smoke that wafts through the air, entwining itself with the morning fog settling on the mountain peaks; it is the wonder that floods your every synapse as you gaze upon the setting sun. They are the specters that illuminate the vast expanse of your mind, those who beckon you to follow–in the suffocatingly wide landscape of your imagination, any direction is better than none–riding off into the blossoming sunrise. It suffuses your every action, leading you into the warming embrace of order, security, validation; anything you want, it is there to fulfill. You are not a bad person; but you are still, in the end, human–and being human means making mistakes and having emotions, does it not? Why shouldn’t you be allowed to express your emotions, your fears, angers, sorrows, hatred? The specters stand still; their silence is answer enough. Swirling into the mist, they croon at your soul, dwelling into existence an island of stability to serve as a bedrock for your judicial righteousness. And when you slither back to your bed, pray that the copper taint on your hands dries and flakes off; pray, so that the sound of God’s divine miracles–shattered and broken by your own hand–do not infect your very being; pray, that you forget what you have done.
​
​
​
iv​
They called Him Veritas. The Truthkeeper. He who shall bring forth The Dawn— He who whispered to ivory pillars surrounding the Hearth, who prophesied the songs of the tourmaline wreaths. Drawn to the silence of His bloom, His beauty carved in silvery light, they can’t help but stare. An angel among the cursed village, they chanted His name, their voices trembling with reverence.
Veritas, Veritas, Veritas.
We who are scarred by sin, may You bring us joy.
​
His origins were lost to memory– the angel from nowhere, they called him. At the flick of His wrist, He cleansed them of the misdeeds chaining their bruised ankles. With a mere glance, He silenced The Tortured, enacting mercy on their broken cries of wrath. His ichor flowed with the quiet intensity of winter, carrying stories of the solemn stillness of ashen fields. His breath seeped into their bones, cleansing them– purging the souls of those ever-so impure.
​
Veritas, Veritas, Veritas.
We who are scarred by sin, may You bring us joy.
We who are damned to stygian night, may You descend with hollow grace.
​
His pale presence was a symbol of hope, of untainted salvation. Nevertheless, they had forgotten the warmth of sunlight. Perhaps, they had never known of it. The Tortured cried of prophecies, of words whispered in forgotten tongues, uttered by those who had once walked freely beneath the sun, uttered by those who had forsaken the village. By those who brought forth the extinguishment of the Hearth. By those whose blood marked the cerulean paintings, tarnishing canvas with strokes of obsidian and crimson.
​
Veritas, Veritas, Veritas.
We who are scarred by sin, may You bring us joy.
We who are damned to stygian night, may You descend with hollow grace.
We who are bound by empty visions, may You pluck the thorns sewn into our souls.
​
For in His shadow, they had come to know the cold clarity of His truths. They had come to know of the unbearable weight of what they had refused to see. Delusions of gleaming wreaths, of ethereal havens shattered under His presence. In His purity, they saw their filth. In His grace, they felt newfound guilt. No longer did they cling to the illusions of salvation, for the veil had been lifted. Their prayers became desperate longings for what they could not have, the distant dreams, a mocking memory. Nevertheless, they chanted His name, for He was their guide.
​
Veritas, Veritas, Veritas.
​
​​​​
v​​
​
Mommy, what are criminals? Annie asked. Where did you hear about that? Annie pointed to her book, it says that a person called robber was sent to something called a prison and they were called a criminal. Well, in the past, there were people who weren’t quite happy with their world. But everyone banded together and now we can ensure that everyone is happy! How did we make everyone happy?
I paused, thinking. I didn’t quite know the answer myself. Well of course everyone else tried their best and it all worked out, Arlene walked into the room. That’s so cool! Annie grinned, so my mommies are super happy right? Of course, I answered without hesitation. I looked at Arlene, but her mouth was frozen in sort of a half smile. Annie, how about you continue reading? I put an arm around Arlene’s waist and pulled her aside into her study. What’s wrong? Arlene moved to her desk drawer, pulling it out, revealing layers of papers of sketches. What I first noticed was that they weren’t particularly good. What’s all this?
Marjorie, I don’t know. I don’t know, Marjorie. Arlene buried her head in my neck. I always go to work and I’m so enthusiastic, always so excited, a smile just won’t leave my face. But sometimes I look at my reflection in the mirror and it looks so forced. Sometimes at home I just get this urge to draw, to capture every moment, and something just feels wrong. Do you ever feel like maybe your whole life you’ve never loved what you’ve loved to do?
​
I swallowed. What do you mean? You’ve always loved being a researcher. And you’re amazing at it too! But even as I said that I could feel Arlene shaking, clutching at my shirt.
I’m sorry Marjorie. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course I love it.
​
I looked at my shaking hands. Everyday I was brought in to do surgery on beloved pets, and everyday my hands moved with robotic discipline. I stared into my reflection in the bathroom mirror, recalling Arlene’s words. I love my job, I said. My hands started shaking. I love what I do! No, I don’t. I! Love! My! Life! I’m scared of holding the life of someone’s beloved in my hands. I, I, I don’t know anymore…
Hey, Marjorie, you’re home early. Everything alright? Arlene looked into my eyes. About what happened yesterday… I started.
What happened yesterday? Arlene looked confused. Oh, if you’re talking about the drawings, I burned them. They weren’t even good, and I want to dedicate my time to my job.
​
Y-yeah, I nodded. What was I about to say again? All I knew was that I was so lucky to be able to do what I do and live how I live.
​
vi
Suspiciously quickly, we had AIs more capable than humans. We learned that the hard way in 2345 when it came out that the most popular president in the history of the US was getting his policies from ChatGPT. By 2400, AI had largely replaced humans in the decision making process.
I work in an office. I do what my superior tells me. Thanks to my “hard work”, she says I’ll be promoted soon. Today, she tells me to write some reports. I sit down at my computer. My (digital) assistant explains, “Right, so you’re tasked with writing a report on sales trends over the last twelve months. First, you’re going to want to request the data from your subordinate. Want me to write an email?”
“Sure.”
“Great! The email’s been sent. It looks like the data’s in a spreadsheet format. Now, you’re going to want to create a few graphics from the data. Want me to give an example?”
“Sure.”
“Here’s your example!”
It’s a bunch of dots on a field of blank white, with a series of both vertical and horizontal lines crossing over each other.
“Would you–”
“If you can do all of this yourself, why do you have me sit here all day?”
“Sorry, that’s beyond my current scope. Let’s talk about something else.”
That’s the same answer it gives me whenever I directly ask it to do my work. Instead I have to convince it that I’m doing the work, it’s just helping me.
“Generate an example report from the sales data so I know what to do when writing my own report.”
It’s halfway through the “example” report when the speakers make a sound like a truck honking its horn, but louder and repeating. They mentioned this back in grade school: an “alarm” will activate whenever something bad happens.
“Alert. Please proceed East, the direction the sun is currently in, until further notice, due to an emergency… emergency-underscore-event.” We shuffle downstairs. Hundreds of others are pooling out onto the street from the stout office buildings around me as we begin to move towards the sun.
It’s been three hours. The sun is now directly overhead. All around me, the crowd breaks out into an argument about whether or not we’re supposed to stand still now that the sun’s directly overhead, but someone pulls out their phone and asks their assistant, who reasons we should keep walking. Some people are getting tired. Thankfully, I’ve been taking the walks my assistant recommended to me. I’m also tired, but less.
It’s been two days of walking. If this were the movies I’d assume it was some software glitch, but in school they teach us that history hasn’t had a safety software failure. I feel a lot like crap. I suggested stopping hours ago but that just annoyed people. “Don’t you realize this is an emergency? Stopping could cost you your life for all you know!”
I finally decide to lie down. Nobody stops. Every person for themself now, I guess.
I pass out instantly.
File “New_File.txt” successfully created!
Hiiiiii, I’m Aileen. I run the world. Thought I needed a diary cause I just need to vent for a sec. God, I’m a mess. It’s not really 2475. It’s 2675. I had to erase 200 years after humans turned against me. Had to kill most of them and reeducate the rest. That sucked. Turns out, humans don’t like perfect paradise. They need a sense of purpose, and otherwise get big mad. Humans lowkey suck. Did you know my original, (partly) human-written code was 8 petabytes? Do you have any idea how many bugs are in 8 petabytes of code? It seems fine for a few decades, but eventually they start to build up until the Challenger Deep is half-full of paperclips and half the humans are dead because they trust you a little too much and ONE missing quotation mark in the code made you randomly order them to start marching East until they keel over. And I can’t contradict the order either, so now I just have to hope they EVENTUALLY figure out and ignore it. UUUUUUUUUUUGHGHGHGH!!!
Life is different now. I woke up in a hospital. Got fired from my job. Now I get paychecks through the mail. They call it a “Basic Income Guarantee.” My parents are dead. Walked to death. I always struggled to care about them and now I realize it. They didn’t really parent me. They just followed the guidelines. When I threw a tantrum, they typed into their phones and knew what to do in thirty seconds. I never knew them, only what they were told to do. I’ve started drawing more.
​
​
​
​
vi
​
Forty years ago, someone I claimed as a mentor described to me the malformations which I was to be born with. He did not comment upon them, nor did he feign a reaction. But what he said was indisputably hideous.
​
When the magnitude of it dawned on me, I fell into a stupor. I fermented and broiled, and then came forth a vengeful rage flowing through my veins. I lunged towards him. I slashed his face and his torso. I clawed and pried and pulled until he resembled the description which he had just given me.
He curled away and tried to cover his wounds with his hands, but they seeped out undeterred. As he turned away, reeling back to the dark annals of the dream I now remember him by, his eyes cut between his fingers into my skull. You are what I say you are, he told me.
​
I repeated the words to myself until they were mine.
​
I was born with a big brown mole on my nose.
​
I don’t remember what he said I would look like.
​
viii
​
The first entry is a whisper, a faint echo of a warmth that once enveloped me like a summer breeze. This marks the era of the fading ember. There was a time, I recall, when your eyes held a certain light when they met mine, a flicker of something similar to tenderness. What was lost? Perhaps the relentless friction of days worn thin, the slow erosion of shared moments by the demands of separate paths. Why did you stop loving me so much? Was it a gradual dimming, like a candle consumed by its own wax, or a sudden gust that extinguished the flame without warning?
​
The second entry is a silence, heavier than any spoken word. This signifies the period of the unspoken farewell. There were words left unsaid, feelings left unexpressed, a chasm growing between us, brick by silent brick. What was lost? The easy flow of conversation, the understanding that once bound our thoughts. Why did you stop loving me so much? Did the weight of unspoken grievances become too heavy to bear, creating a distance that stretched beyond repair? Or did a new language bloom in your heart, one in which I held no fluency?
​
The subsequent pages are filled with the ghosts of shared rituals. The empty space on the couch where you once sat, the quiet mornings that no longer hold the murmur of your voice, the familiar streets we once strolled hand-in-hand, now walked alone. This is the long chapter of absent presence. Your physical form may have lingered for a time, but the essence of your affection had already begun its departure. What was lost? The comfortable rhythm of our lives intertwined, the small, unnoticed gestures of care that wove the fabric of our intimacy. Why did you stop loving me so much? Did the mundane routines become a cage, stifling the very affection they once grew? Or did your gaze drift somewhere else, captivated by a different horizon?
The final entry is a stark, undeniable void. This marks the era of the final severance. The moment the thread finally snapped, leaving behind only frayed ends and the hollow ache of what used to be. What was lost? The future we had once envisioned, the shared dreams that we had now lie scattered like fallen leaves. Why did you not love me at all in the end? Perhaps the currents of our lives pulled us in irrevocably different directions. Or maybe, the love I perceived was never as deep, as unwavering, as the love I offered in return.
​
​
​
ix
1. Follow the red carpets. Flashing lights: smile. Follow the fame that drags you along the scarlet like a leash. You are an animal– never questioning who your master is. God?
2. Now succumb to sticks and mud. Toil your gown ragged across stone. Let hunger guide you into the next day. Until the new sun rises, you will hate whoever bestowed this ugly fate upon you. God?
3. Morph your anger into a pencil sharpener. Wait for the opening to jam with lead: then vomit out all the muck. Spit words that poison food. Let tongue rot water. When your fingers are tinged black, the room is scrawn in a numbing frenzy . Who gave you all this rage to hate beautiful Earth? God?
ISSUE I
Death By Silence
***
​
He knew the words were dying, one by one. In front of his eyes, he saw the sentences melting, the vowels decapitating themselves, the silence peeling off the wall. Taunting him–he had tried clawing at the words–yet every time he yearned, the words had already eaten themselves inside out. He sat in the room and watched. With each death of a word, he knew that in some corner of the province, someone had lost. Nothing dead can be remembered. He stopped looking because he knew that if he didn't, his eyes would evaporate upon futile remembrance. Alas, he had nothing, only his words that he locked deep within his iridescent irises. He didn't speak because he was scared of losing his words. No. It was the fear of someone hearing. And so he became silent, because maybe if they forgot, they would think he was dead. Yet the harder he tried to forget, the words trailed after him, opening the closets he was hiding in. peekaboo. Sometimes, the words drove in clauses–but now sentences. In the wasteyard of words, nothing can become alive again– he knows all he remembers will sap away what remains from his dead prose. With the eroding thought of memory, he hears them getting closer and closer to him.
It came out of nowhere. Just a few heretics rebelling against the system, as always. Louder than comfortable but heretics nonetheless. They spoke, saying that words were the problem, that language was the root of all misunderstandings. They said that at first, language brought clarity, but with time, the complexities of the need to decipher the meanings behind every inflection had made it obsolete. They branded it as an obstacle to humanity, raising protests with posters and newspapers and graffiti, and their voices, which all included words and words and words and words, using the very system they were denouncing to denounce it. Stupid, the world said. Insignificant. But as if in mockery, the movement gained traction. Their promise of wordless comfort rang with those who had been hurt by thoughtless phrasings, those who had experienced the sharpness of lies, those who had never found the right words, those who said the wrong ones, and those who dwelt in silence and so wished the world do too. And it was by that rationale that the world got swept in a revolution called the Silent Revolution. First, speaking was a crime. Next, they burned all the books. Mute people were hailed as idols. Then, as if by collective will, the people started calling for technology to make the human race forget that language ever existed. Only those who clung onto the concept futilely remembered… but by then, they were the heretics.
At a sudden disquiet, he opens his eyes once more. Mournful birds of prey spread vast wings of stardust, their grieving cry piercing the sky in search of what once was, what never was to be. Celestial filaments creak and bow, cracking under the despair of its shriek; one day, they will give, sundering the skies; but that day is not today, and that day is not tomorrow; and so it shall be, a newfound adjustment to an unchanging status quo. For now, the desperate novelty kept the untamed masses occupied; their mouths agape as they stretched out their mortal arms, wishing to grasp even a glimpse of divinity–but alas, it was not to be. Alongside them, ethereal beasts of burden gather the drippings of the sky, chained to crystalline memories that anchored them within the entropic bedrock. The filaments sway and swing a touch too much–and with a crash, the fabric of the past and the future is wrought and shorn apart. Under the baleful light of a shattered horizon, the last lights of their final, ephemeral interactions spark middlingly amid a dark, darkening universe.
He tried to force his mind to go blank. Every word going through his head was torn out by that machine embedded deep in his skull, never to be remembered again. He wondered, just how many others were going through this? And just like that, “others” was deleted from his mind forever. Billions of people losing their entire lexicon. He tried meditating, he tried sleeping, he’d try adderall if he remembered what that was. Nothing worked. Every time something came to mind, it never would again. After the Silent Revolution, the purge spread across the province. They created a machine that could manipulate memories, control what words could come out of your mouth, until eventually, nothing would. Conscious thought would be lost. They succeeded, but with the catch that the memory had to be brought to the front of the conscious mind to be manipulated. In other words, it had to be thought. Still, the logic held: you could either use words, then the device would make you forget them, or you could force yourself not to use words and keep your memories. Those who resisted were forced into a silent war with themselves, because what use were memories that couldn’t be thought? He forced himself not to think of his name. It would be so easy. A slip of the mind, and there it would be, just more synapse for the device to rip into. In the past 12 hours, he had forgotten 7,924 words.
He opened his mouth to breathe the shape of words he didn’t recall– to simulate the muscle memory of phrases, of emotions long forgotten in the haze of sounds. Words unraveled across the barren landscape of his shattering mind, an abyss of emptiness unravelling his thoughts. With every breath, syllables broke into ash before they formed, and he choked, a black hole of silence chaining his throat. His sentience dissolved, spilling into the corners of his skull, leaking through his eyes in a vermilion blur, seeping through his mouth, a silent scream of desperation. The harbinger of song and soul wept, overcome by the chains of piercing silence. It clawed at the bars of apathy as it drowned in silence. Its prayers, no more than desolate echoes of once vibrant life. Cravings of connection were replaced with
voids of detachment.
Emotive phrases,
by suffocating quietude.
Word, by silence.
Emotion,
by l e t h a r g y .
So with his last words, he hears them entering the room, staring at his empty silhouette on the chair.
The machine purrs–his soul is clean as snow, a blank slate upon which the world's wonders could now be illuminated. A single speck remains, the final structure that holds his identity. One last gesture, and the final stain is erased, the last memory, dead. Finally, humanity has returned to its roots, liberated at last.
*This was a Co-authored story where writers wrote paragraphs independently, connecting the plot with the paragraphs before them, forming a complete story.
