“Ugly” is a four-letter word that infected my vocabulary as a tween. If you were to word-search my 13-year-old brain for it, you’d receive more than 1,000 results. Not enough makeup or outfit changes could erase that dirty word from my mouth, funny enough it would rather encourage the use of it. Rounded glasses sat heavily on my nose bridge and braces over-crowded my mouth letting out an occasional spit when I would speak. At the time I didn’t think I was being so hateful of myself, I believed it was necessary if I eventually wanted to improve my image. My #1 merciless Rebecca supporter. Go, Rebecca! You’re doing AWFUL! Being surrounded by white skinny girls didn’t assist in the harsh criticism either. Watching my crush Hamilton (now thinking about it wasn’t a spectacular name) choose a tall, green-eyed blonde over my 5 ft brown-haired, brown-eyed self, chipped at the little confidence I didn’t even think existed. Did I require a race change and a growth spurt for his attention? Or maybe when Levi from 8th grade rejected me before I had even expressed a breath of my feelings. These were just two of many of what I would’ve considered “tragedies” at the time.  

After using brown eyeliner as an eyebrow pencil and the wrong shade of foundation for two years, I entered high school learning from my past mistakes. I was melting into a sense of satisfaction with my face and body. High school came with a whole new anxiety. With a new and improved complexion, initiated more interactions with boys. Their acknowledgment was what I believed I had wanted all this time besides looking pretty, but it wasn’t. I became hopeful that perhaps my personality was my winning feature, but ultimately it didn’t feel like it. I didn’t receive a feeling of euphoria, a thrill from their attention, instead, it angered me. Where was all this consideration before? Was my face all that mattered? I had formed a new hatred that bubbled inside of me waiting to erupt guts onto everyone. It was a bitter taste in my mouth that I couldn’t wash out. My suspicions were confirmed when I was told by a boy directly that he merely only liked me because I was pretty and nothing else. His defensive response could’ve resulted from my rejection of his feelings, but it unveiled his true intentions. A friendship I had naively thought was founded on honesty and respect crumbled before me. Had I merely obsessed over my appearance for validation from others?  

Yes, I had. I hadn’t done anything for myself. I came to realize that I was upset at others for superficially focusing on the surface, but I had been doing just the same. I was trying to push myself into a small space of standards alongside everyone else, like a bunch of sardines in a can. I had begun loving myself once I matured and shoved everyone’s opinions in a bottle and threw them into the ocean. They would float back occasionally, but I taught myself what truly mattered, my bliss. I had based my stringent assessment of myself on the cruel gaze of the world but acquired beauty by my definition. I regret the heartlessness I submitted my younger self into, how much I could’ve relished in that part of my childhood. How much I could’ve loved myself.  

Frank was thirty hours into a game of poker when he got the call from his bank. 

“Hi there Mr. Delillo, we’re calling to let you know you’ve overdrawn your account by fifty-two million dollars.”

Frank turned away from the table hunching to say, “don’t worry, I’ve got them on the ropes this time.”

“No sir, you only had four hundred dollars to begin with,” the banker went on.

“I’m holding two-pair here and he’s got nothing. Talk to you later,” Frank whispered over the banker as he hung up the phone and turned his attention back to the game. 

The pot that was being played for was sixty-two dollars. Making matters worse, Frank did not have ‘two-pair’ like he had told the banker. What he actually had was a pair of twos. Meanwhile, the man across from Frank held in his hands a royal flush. 

Frank was not particularly good at poker, nor did he possess a solid understanding of finances. Not only this, he had a tell that gave him away virtually every time he had been dealt a winning hand. It came in the form of fiendish laughter that he could hardly suppress upon seeing a favorable hand.

The frustrated man across from Frank was a seasoned pro in Texas Holdem. He and the menacing scar that ran from his left forehead, through his eye, to the bottom of his chin, had just about seen it all. He raised the stakes, picking up two more red chips from the immense stacks in front of him, tossing them towards the center of the table, refusing to pick up his elbow in the process. 

Frank looked at him suspiciously and turned to the card dealer, “he’s bluffing right?”

The dealer’s eyes widened at the question and the fact that he was face to face with one of the worst players of any game the world had ever seen. 

Across the casino floor, in the high roller section, the drunken billionaire stood up to relieve himself. He too was in the middle of something of a gambling marathon when he was hit with the urge. 

He patted his pockets looking for his hotel room key. It took him some time to check every pocket because of the tens of secret ones expertly hidden in the expensive suit. The billionaire began furiously taking the pockets out as his bladder stretched and bulged to better locate his key so he could use the futuristic, sentient toilet in his presidential suite. 

The emptying of his pockets sent money flying indiscriminately off his person. A golden gambling chip lept its way onto the velvet carpets and rolled past shiny black shoes.

Frank loosened his tie and lowered his head into his folded arms on the table. He wasn’t excited about having to tell his son he couldn’t go to college anymore. Looking at his feet, feeling sorry for himself, he noticed the small golden glow between his feet. 

“One hundred million.”

Climbing rocks, playing in parks, walking around after dark as life spirals around the wonderful activities of our childhood. We played tag, red light-green light, and had water gun fights with our cousins, siblings, and friends on our neighborhood block during the hot summer days as our parents hung out. Hearing our laughter, running after one another, and seeing your gummy smile, I felt excitement, safety, and innocence. We attended school together, although we were in separate classes, we always found a way to connect. My parents know your parents, your grandparents know my grandparents, our entire family knows one another generation after generation. 

Years go by. We’re “grown” now. Two different paths that we took. On my way to school, I see you hanging out on the corners with people our parents told us to stay away from. Once in a blue moon I finally get a chance to speak with you, outside of the streets. While you tell me you’re proud of me, I beg of you to please be safe. The heavy metal gun you tote, the money you flaunt, and the gang signs that you now identify with, ring alarms in my head when I’m around you. Your innocence and gummy smile are no longer there, and you have become what I was told to stay away from. These days, I wonder if the connection of generations will continue or will this be the end of the line. I worry for you, my friend, my cousin, my brother. I love you always, please be safe. 

The boat rocked beneath him as the waves crashed against its side. Sam gripped the sides of the small boat tightly, his knuckles turning white with effort. He had never felt so alone before, surrounded by nothing but the endless ocean.

It all started out as a simple fishing trip with his father. They had gone out before nightfall, hoping to catch something big to bring home for dinner. But the storm covered the sky in gray. The winds picked up and the waves grew rougher. Before they knew it, their boat had been tossed about like a rag doll.

Sam’s father had done his best to keep them afloat, but the relentless waves had capsized the boat, sending them both tumbling into the water. Sam clung onto a piece of driftwood, praying that someone would come to their rescue.

But now, hours later, there was still no sign of help. It is now pitch black, with only the sounds of the ocean surrounding them. Sam felt his heart sink as he realized that they might never be found.

He shivered as the cool breeze brushed against his wet skin, sending chills down his spine. Hunger struck, and his throat dry from lack of water. His eyes closed as he prayed for a miracle.

The stars twinkled above them as the night fell, casting a peaceful glow over the water. Sam felt his eyelids droop, as he fought to stay awake. But the lull of the waves was too soothing, and soon fell asleep.

When Sam woke up, he was no longer in the water. He was lying on a sandy beach, his father’s arm draped protectively over him. Sam blinked in confusion, wondering if he was dreaming. But as he looked around, there was a blanket of safety over them

Sam looked up into the sky, thanking a higher power. He knew that he had been given a second chance at life. And vowed to never take it for granted again.

Once upon a time, in a small village nestled deep in the forest, there lived a young woman named Daisy. Daisy was known throughout the village for her beauty, her kind heart, and her fierce determination. She spent her days tending to her garden, helping her family, and dreaming of adventure.

One day, a terrible curse befell the village. A powerful sorcerer, scorned by a past love, had placed a curse on the village, trapping all the inhabitants within its borders and causing the land to wither and die. The villagers were in despair and no one knew how to break the curse.

Daisy, determined to save her home and her people, set out on a journey to find the sorcerer and break the curse. She encountered many challenges along the way, including treacherous paths, fierce beasts, and a wicked fairy who sought to stop her. But Daisy was determined and refused to give up.

After many days of traveling, Daisy came upon a grand castle, hidden deep in the forest. She knew in her heart that this was the sorcerer’s lair, and she approached the castle gates with trepidation. As she reached the gates, they opened of their own accord and she found herself in a grand courtyard, surrounded by the most beautiful flowers and trees she had ever seen.

As she wandered through the garden, Daisy heard a voice calling out to her. “Who dares to enter my castle uninvited?” it boomed. Daisy turned to see a handsome prince, his face twisted in anger. She immediately recognized him as the sorcerer who had cursed her village.

“I am Daisy,” she said bravely, “and I have come to break your curse and save my village.”

The sorcerer, taken aback by Daisy’s bravery, softened his gaze. “I cannot break the curse,” he said, “But I can offer you a deal. If you agree to stay with me in the castle for one year and tend to my garden, I will lift the curse from your village and restore it to its former beauty. But be warned, there is a catch to this deal. You must promise never to reveal my true form to anyone, and in return, I will give you the gift of the enchanted Medallion. As long as you hold the Medallion, you will always have a piece of my heart with you, and I will always be able to find you.”

Daisy, knowing that she had no other choice, agreed to the sorcerer’s deal. And so she spent the next year tending to the garden, growing it into the most beautiful and bountiful garden in all the land. She also spent her time getting to know the prince, who, despite his curse, was actually a kind and noble prince.

As the year drew to a close, Daisy realized that she had fallen in love with the prince. She knew that she could not leave the prince and the castle, but she also could not reveal the truth about the prince to the villagers. The prince, understanding her dilemma, suggested that they live in the castle together, but that they keep the truth about his curse a secret.

Daisy agreed and they spent the next few years living in the castle, ruling over the village and keeping the curse a secret. As the years passed, Daisy and the prince’s love for each other only grew stronger. They had many adventures together and Daisy helped the prince to break the curse permanently.

But despite their happiness, Daisy could not shake the feeling that she was hiding something from her village. She knew that she could not keep the truth about the prince a secret forever. Eventually, she mustered the courage to tell her villagers the truth about the prince, and they were shocked and saddened by the revelation.

But despite the initial shock, the villagers were grateful to Daisy and the prince for lifting the curse and restoring their village to its former beauty. They welcomed the prince with open arms and he became a beloved leader in the village.

Daisy and the prince continued to rule the village together, and their love only grew stronger with each passing day. They had many children, and their kingdom prospered under their rule. And even in death, they were never truly apart, for the enchanted Medallion that the prince had given Daisy still bloomed, a symbol of their love that would last for all eternity.

The villagers told the story of Daisy and the prince for generations to come, and it became a legend in the land. A reminder that true love will always find a way, and that even the darkest curse can be broken by the power of love and determination.

The alarm rings as it always does, Monday through Friday at 5:30 A.M. Rose checks her phone. No new messages pops on the screen. She sighs of relief. Throws the sheets off of her and gets ready for the day. Finishing her coffee and slipping on her shoes, she’s out the door by 8 A.M sharp, like always. Walking to the train is as safe as it always had been, thanks to moving to a new apartment, therefore a new neighborhood. In half an hour, she has arrived at her college campus after a two week break. Rose has stopped in front of the hill, heart racing, hands are sweaty, knees feel like jelly. She walks up the hill, step by step by step by step. The college becoming massive and towering over her. Rose stares at anyone male, possibly 5’10, or latino, just in case. Just in case it was him. She takes in a deep breath, takes another look around, and crosses the street. This was the longest day of classes for her. Three two hour classes back to back is extremely exhausting. Exhausting but it went along as usual. Eating one last meal at the cafeteria, scrolling through her student email, she spots one about a trespasser;

Dear fellow students,

Please be aware that this man, Jose Alexander Gomez has been spotted on campus. Please do not interact with this person and call 911 immediately….

The words became blurry, suddenly there was no air and time froze. God only knows how much time passed before Rose came to her senses. Throwing the scraps of food into the garbage and racing down the stairs and out of the building. Pushing past the groups of people outside headed for the train. Running down the hill devastated, a crushing pain in her chest, tears rolling down her eyes as she tries to catch her breath and somehow calm down so she won’t have a full breakdown in the train station. After wiping her face, she looks up and sees that the train is delayed. After some time people become annoyed and leave the platform. Soon it is just her and some person sitting on the bench in a black hoodie who appears to be sleeping. Looking up again and the train is coming in fifteen minutes. She turns to leave when suddenly the guy in the black hoodie jolts up. He’s wearing a face mask but his eyes. His eyes give it away. Her knees turn into jelly again and they buckle, hitting the floor. As he takes a step forward, she pushes herself up and races to the stairs. He chases after her and manages to grab her left wrist, she turns to face him and punches him in the face with her free hand. He lets go but then grabs her ankle as she attempts to climb further up the stairs. She falls, turns again this time kicking him in the face. He falls back and she sprints out of the train station. 

Author’s Notes:

Alhamdulillah – means Praise be to Allah (God)

In sha Allah – means if Allah wills or God willing

“This is what the Beloved Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings be upon him and his folk) was referring to when said, “How strange are the affairs of the believer, because all their affairs are good for them. If pleasing things happen to them, they are grateful, and that is good for them. And if displeasing things happen to them, they are patient, and that too is good for them.” [Muslim]”

Source:https://seekersguidance.org/articles/general-artices/believers-strange-rejoicing-exclusive-eid-gift/ 

… 

She booked one plane ticket and another. She would go to the airport with only a carry-on, while her brother would go with three suitcases.

She asked her brother what he was most excited about, and he said he’d be most excited to receive her phone call, In sha Allah. “In sha Allah,” she said, with a smile.

When she left the plane she walked with her brother past customs, to baggage claim, to the shops, and then she hugged him goodbye near the chocolates. He had another flight to catch. 

Now on the plane, he popped in one, two, of his favorite chocolates. He laughed remembering his sister, who didn’t share his sweet tooth. Before he closed his eyes for a nap, he said “Alhamdulillah.”

Four years passed. He was all done with university. One day he received a letter from a strange address. It read: 

“Journal day 353

Alhamdulillah, today was such a good day! I was so nervous, but he was soo nice! Even though ten years passed since we saw each other, he was so caring! When I looked at his face I saw your eyes. You guys have the same smiling eyes. We ate nearly as soon as I got to the house because he insisted I must be hungry. And then we took a walk near the beach only because I told him I love the ocean. Before I went to bed, we talked and I cried, we cried.

The doctors said his memory loss was so severe that he still can’t remember some basic details from his life. Miraculously though after ten years, he was able to remember the people he was last with, their names, their ages, and how they looked. 

In the few days after the worst part of the war had diffused, they found him wandering the streets in a close-by city. Blood stained his shirt, and one of his hands was disfigured. He only had a few dollars in his pockets and a box of chocolates that he managed to buy from a shop. When they tried to take the box from him and get him to the hospital, he refused, and when they asked him who it was for, he wept because he could not remember. 

I told him the story the orphanage told us, that we were found as a boy and a girl who miraculously survived a collapsed building, due to the rock hard table that was placed over our heads. We were blessed that the rebels didn’t find us afterward.

“Alhamdulillah,” he said, we were kept safe. He was the one who had taught me this word “Alhamdulillah,” which was one of the only words I could manage to say in the time that we were found.

See brother, we were never truly abandoned. There was always someone else who cared for you. I hope you’ll be able to use whatever you learn to care for others, since it’s your dream.

Anyway, I’ll have to call you and tell you about all this tomorrow, In sha Allah. Can’t wait to see you though.”

The phone call from his sister never came, and he never saw his father’s smiling eyes, could never go back in time and choose to stay with his sister for that first week in their homeland, instead of planning to visit once orientation week was over. He never could have known that a sudden earthquake would come to the city that had once known war, the day after he departed from it to begin his journey as a psychologist. He could only live on. He had to.

He picked up the little chocolate left inside the envelope, along with a note that read “The chocolate I never got to give to my baby boy. For you.”

He wept, mouthing the words “Alhamdulillah.” It was all he could do after wondering for years what his sister might have wanted to say, and if his father had ever cared for him at all.

Viccinium Myrtillus

By:Chidera Reece 

Indeed, it all depends on who is responding. 

A grownup will likely give you an explanation about light, how it bounces off air particles, how some wavelengths are absorbed while other wavelengths are thrown back out, and how those particular colors/wavelengths are the ones that you and I can see. 

A scientist’s response will probably be considerably more perplexing but a lot more compelling.

But, every time you ask a journalist, you will receive a different response. 

One solution, for instance, is found in the unique qualities of blue fingerpaint. Blue paint dissolves from children’s hands into the air and colors it blue whenever they use it. The color ages over time, yet as long as fingerpainting exists, the sky will always be blue. 

The creatures with blue eyes that live at the North and South Poles are tied to another solution. They are constantly gazing upward, and the entire world can see the blue of their eyes as they reflect back. These polar critters are probably unknown to you since they are skilled at hiding from satellites and explorers. All we’ll see is the reflection in their eyes.

The breeze that came through the fire escape window was no match for the July heatwave. I poked my prepubescent head through the window into the wrath of the summer sun. At least the sky was a pretty shade of blue and the sound of kids belting out “Tag! You’re it!” over the melody of the ice-cream truck was music to my ears. Next thing I knew, cars started rolling up to the curb down the block. People crossing to my side of the street in droves. Great, what summer activity am I missing out on now? A barbeque? Parade? Suddenly, the noise of the newly formed crowd was filled with the soulful cries of women pleading with others, but the words drowned in the commotion. Worried looks paired with racing feet kept the street buzzing like a protest.

My hands slowly rest on the windowpane not long before I flinch in shock from the sizzling metal cooking in the sun. I backed out of the window into the slightly cooler interior. My grandma fast asleep on the couch with her flowery nightgown waving in the air from our little cheap plastic fan on high. The poor machine was no use, at best it produced a breeze as cool as an exhaust pipe. As I motion towards her, I stop and think if disturbing her nap is worth an annoying lecture about how I always ruin her sleep. I return to the window to find the heart of the crowd still beating. More cars and more people arrive. I recognize the usual gang members from their sketchy disposition and color-coded bandanas. This could be a gang war brewing.

Then, a car that’s parallel parked opened its backseat right door. A bald, middle-aged man steps out with a tank-top and timberlands on. As soon as he closed the door, he fell on his back after a piercing sound silenced the borough. Anything alive with legs ran in opposite directions. Adults, kids, dogs, pigeons–you name it. I jerked my head back and ducked to the floor. Did this man just get shot? Was everyone waiting for him to arrive? Why would someone shoot him? Is he dead? These questions hijacked my every thought.

I looked to grandma still dozing off as if two gunshots weren’t just fired. The shots were quick and harrowing like birthday balloons popping without warning, yet, this time, the sudden fear was justified, and the stakes were real. The silence that followed was worse. No more kids yelling and ice-cream trucks blaring. No more chattering people or honking cars. See, at nine-years old, I already knew what death looked like on hospital beds and funeral homes. But I never seen such blatant violence outside of movies before. To have total control of someone’s fate with a pull of a trigger. For the rest of the day I did not return to the window. All there was left to see was pretty blue skies and blood-red sidewalks.

I have always hated the word no. It was like a shadow hovered, strangling me with a cord, forcing my lips to breathe out yes. I never understood why I came to be this way. I guess it was the people pleaser in me. 

 I remember the first time I was groped. Guys in middle school were always vicious and had sinister ulterior motives. I thought he was my friend, but as he groped my butt and my breasts he laughed and said “it was just a joke.” His friends said I liked it, that I was asking for it. That night I cried my eyes out realizing I wasn’t seen as a girl, but as an object to touch. Afterwards, I  became an advocate for the “Me Too” movement.

Three years later, my sister sent me an article to read. She said this would change my perspective on who I am as a young woman, and the true disgusting motives of some men. This article followed the experience of Marina Abramovic who was a performance artist. Would you ever trust your fate with a stranger? No? Well she did. 

Marina called this Rhythm 0, an experiment  to see the true intentions of society. She was passive, permissible, and even agreeable. A variety of objects were placed on a table with the intent that any one can pick up the objects and do what they will with it. The objects ranged from feathers, roses, chains, knives, chocolate cake, olive oil, scissors, and even a gun. Many will call Marina mad. Who is insane enough to ever leave their will at a stranger? 

She turned herself into a living object for the sake of true art. For six hours she stood passively and quiet. She was in true submission to strangers. At first it was sweet, some fed her cake, gave her a rose, and placed an innocent kiss on her. Then, like the switch of a lightbulb it turned horrific fast. 

They took scissors and cut off her clothes. One cut the skin on her neck and drank her blood. Another, took the postil, loaded the gun and pointed it at her hand. Unfortunately, one man even tried to rape her. The whole point of this experiment was to show how animalistic and cruel one’s intention can be with a woman.

After I read this article I sobbed. I felt shame for blaming myself over the years as men felt they could do what they wanted with me. It is never a woman’s fault when they are at the cruel stakes of a man. This article still influences my perspective with the social movement. 

Many women have come out with their own stories. We are not mere objects available for male pleasure. We are human. Now, I’ve grown to love the word no. I love to shout it at the top of my lungs, and see the appalled looks on men’s faces as I bruise their ego. It is okay to say no. I know that now. No. No. NO!