975bc9cc

Antisemitism Was Born Anew

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:57:11 GMT

Antisemitism Was Born Anew by Professor Harvey Strum from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

After World War I, my aunt and uncle came to the United States from Poland, followed by my thirteen-year-old father and my grandmother in 1921 much to the annoyance of Madison Grant, author of Passing of the Great Race . Grant feared Jews and Italians immigrating to New York City would outbreed the Anglo-Saxons. Grant warned, “the Jew. Whose dwarf stature, peculiar mentality…are being engrafted on the stock of the nation.” To Grant and other immigration restrictionists, keeping out Jews was necessary to prevent the mongrelization of the nation. [1] Jews and Italians must be kept out to prevent the replacement of the Anglo-Saxon race by the inferior races from eastern and southern Europe. [2] Congress passed the Emergency Quota Act in 1921 just as my family entered the United States, to keep out Jews like my father, but he and my Grandmother slipped into Brooklyn before the law went into effect. [3] In 1924 Congress approved the National Origins Act to shut the doors tight by an even more restrictive law to severely reduce the immigration of Jews and Catholics from eastern and southern Europe. [4] For New York City it came too late because by the mid-1920s Jews comprised 28% of the city’s population and 400,000 Italians lived in New York. [5] My mother outsmarted Madison Grant by immigrating to Canada from Poland, becoming a Canadian citizen, before leaving for New York City.

The neo-Nazis in Charlottesville, egged on by President Trump and his love of the “good” neo-Nazis shouted Jews will not replace us [6] . Sorry guys, we already have! The ravings of Tucker Carlson and Congresswoman Greene are a repetition of the racist and antisemitic replacement theory of Madison Grant. Carlson tried to clean up some of the antisemitic ravings of one of his second-rate guests, but the thrust of the performance remained a blatant public endorsement of Jew hatred. [7] Also, President Trump appeared oblivious to the antisemitic statements of his dinner guests when he met with antisemitic speakers while out of office. [8]

Nothing has changed in one hundred years, but a new crop of antisemites peddling the same racial theories about the great replacement or Jewish power using George Soros instead of the Rothschilds as their cover for their hatred of Jews [9] . A Republican candidate that ran for governor in Pennsylvania attacked his Jewish Democratic opponent for attending Hebrew schools, once again defining Jews as the “other” not normal like good Christian Americans. [10]

Unfortunately, members of the Gang of Four on the leftwing of the progressive Democrats buy into the same antisemitic stereotypes peddled by Congresswoman Greene and the right wing of the Republican Party. In particular, Democratic Congresswomen from Minnesota and Michigan have not hidden their simplistic bigotry against Jews and their desire to exclude Jews from the Democratic Party. They are mimicking the antisemitic wing of the Democratic Socialists and the antisemitic wing of the England’s Labor Party. The Jewish power themes stem from a post-World War I antisemitic tract, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion , which may have also motivated the recent attempted coup in Germany. Apparently, Hitler’s My Struggle , can find a welcome home in the new Brown Shirts, Proud Boys, and rightwing Republican militias. It is good to know that the remnants of Israel, the fifteen million or so remaining Jews in the world, are of such deep interest.

Even on college campuses Jews cannot avoid the upsurge in antisemitism. Stanford University just apologized for its history of antisemitism and use of quotas to keep Jews out. Harvard is just as hostile to Jews today as it was in the 1920s when it advocated quotas. A number of other so called institutions of higher education, including Columbia, New York University, Michigan State, George Washington, and Rutgers, to name a few, are hostile environments for anyone visibly Jewish. The Jewish civil rights group, ADL reported that 75-80% of Jewish college students hide their identity to avoid harassment by their enlightened colleagues and faculty. The ADL rated 135 colleges for antisemitism, and no surprise Columbia, Yale, and Princeton got Ds along with a dozen other colleges. Some like Haverford got Fs. [11]

Students and faculty remain just as hostile to Jews as they were in the 1920s. When Republican Congresswoman Elaine Stefanik on December 5, 2023, asked the presidents of Columbia, University of Pennsylvania, and MIT if calling for the genocide of Jews is hate speech, none agreed, suggesting the moral bankruptcy of many college presidents [12] . The widespread acceptance of antisemitism in higher education became evident when four Columbia administrators were caught in August 2024 texting antisemitic messages in a college discussion of Jewish life on campus. The fact they could not refrain from making antisemitic remarks during a discussion of Jewish life on campus reflects how ingrained antisemitism has become among college administrators. [13] Some colleges, like Syracuse University, refuse to acknowledge their history of antisemitism, their use of quotas, and their naming of buildings after antisemitic and racist administrators. [14]

The Wall Street Journal documented in April 2025 an incident at Princeton. When Naftali Bennet, former prime minister of Israel, spoke 250 enlightened and tolerant students shouted him down, flashed the Hamas triangle, and told Jewish students attending to go back to Europe. At other colleges, Jews have been told to go back to Poland. In Princeton and many other colleges DEI has been a lesson in antisemitic tropes and disrespect for Jewish students [15] . Unfortunately, antisemitism has not vanished, and is alive and growing on college campuses and in both major American political parties.

Footnotes:

[1] https://www.nps.gov/people/madison-grant.htm - .gov reference acknowledging this statement as accurate.

"He argued that both white Americans and “pure” nature needed to be protected from “invasive,” non-native species." The specific quote used in this passage is cited in this .org

https://voices.sefaria.org/sheets/178573?lang=bi as being from the book. Passing of the Great Race could also be used a citation.

[2] Previous links support this, it just didn't highlight.

[3] https://immigrationhistory.org/item/%E2%80%8B1921-emergency-quota-law/ - .org noting the "drawing on eugenics research" which relates back to the lines on Grant.

[4] https://history.state.gov/milestones/1921-1936/immigration-act - .gov noting the exact wording of the Act

https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/1924-us-immigration-act-history#:~:text=The%20Immigration%20Act%20of%201924,born%20population%20for%20four%20decades. - .org which says specifically "It closed the door on almost all new Asian immigration and shut out most European Jews and other refugees..."

Either would work fine, but I think having the option to choose could be helpful.

[5] https://www.jta.org/archive/jewish-population-in-greater-new-york-numbers-1728000-jewish-communal-survey-shows#:~:text=According%20to%20a%201925%20Jewish%20Communal%20Survey,increase%20in%20Jews%20from%201915%20to%201925 - .org citing ~30% of NY were Jewish in 1925

[6] https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2017/aug/16/charlottesville-neo-nazis-vice-news-hbo - The Guardian discussing this point.

The Guardian when searched up is among the top most trusted by its readers for accuracy according to this link: https://www.theguardian.com/media/2020/aug/13/the-guardian-is-most-trusted-by-its-readers-among-uk-newspapers-finds-ofcom

As such I think it is a fair news source to cite despite it not being a .org or .gov

[7] https://www.splcenter.org/resources/extremist-files/tucker-carlson/#white-power-hour-and-great-replacement-rhetoric - .org discussing Carlson and directly citing replacement theory.

"Carlson minimized the “great replacement” theory and claimed not to understand it. In the same segment, he appeared to endorse it once again"

https://forward.com/fast-forward/463280/marjorie-taylor-greene-jewish-groups-condemn-antisemitism/ - An article from forward.com which discusses Greene and her statement of "jewish space lasers" which became a large controversy for her.

Having looked it up the forward is considered highly reliable and forward left-center biased. As such I feel it would be a fair citation.

[8] https://www.nytimes.com/2022/11/25/us/politics/trump-nick-fuentes-dinner.html#:~:text=The%20former%20president%27s%20table%20for,In%20recent%20years%2C%20Mr. - A link to the New York Times discussing the dinner with Nick Fuentes / Kanye West. The statement of antisemitic speakers is well known in relation to the dinner guests.

https://www.congress.gov/118/meeting/house/116973/documents/HHRG-118-ED00-20240417-SD005.pdf

- This second link is a .gov which also discusses this dinner and confirms the posting by Fuentes of racist content and Holocaust revisionism

[9] The claim about great replacement is previously cited in relation to Carlson.

https://www.ajc.org/translatehate/Soros - This link by the AJC discusses Soros being used as a target for widespread antisemitism.

[10] Assuming this candidate is Doug Mastriano this link by the NYT discusses the incident and would work as a citation: https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/10/us/politics/mastriano-shapiro-antisemitism.html

[11] file:///C:/Users/Enlig/Downloads/AntisemitismCampuses102016.pdf

I don't know how to properly cite this pdf in a comment, however it covers every claim until the ADL reported section of this paragraph.

https://www.adl.org/resources/report/audit-antisemitic-incidents-2024

https://www.adl.org/campus-antisemitism-report-card - This link also reports the statistics within the paragraph.

https://www.adl.org/campus-antisemitism-report-card - This link is the report card to the college ratings which confirm the letter grades within the paragraph.

[12] Transcript of this incident: https://stefanik.house.gov/2023/12/icymi-during-questions-from-stefanik-presidents-of-harvard-upenn-mit-refuse-to-condemn-calls-for-genocide-of-jews

There is also a video attached, but I cannot access it currently. When first looking over this piece I did watch it though and it is fully accurate.

[13] https://www.npr.org/2024/08/08/g-s1-16077/3-columbia-deans-resign-over-texts-that-touched-on-antisemitic-tropes

This .org link supports the claims about Columbia administrators.

[14] https://medium.com/@nellschwartz2018/antisemitism-on-syracuse-universitys-campus-throughout-the-years-2fff7fbd518f - This link discusses SYU experiencing antisemitism on their campus and in their archive. However, I have not been able to find anything regarding quotas. If you have a link or a source to fill in it would be helpful.

https://nyunews.com/2016/02/29/the-names-behind-nyus-buildings/ - This link is from the Washington Square News and discusses the naming of buildings after antisemitic individuals.

[15] Claims about Princeton can be cited from here: https://paw.princeton.edu/sites/default/files/2025-05/Statement%20About%20Bennett%20Investigation%20May%2021.pdf Note this PDF is by Princeton.

MARTYR

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:57:03 GMT

Written by Kyra Burris from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

There’s a tricky tale that God is writing,

A story to slice the poets whole

The many hundred lives he wounds

To entertain his immortal soul.

When the bells of time ring their fateful end,

How many outrun the clock?

I’ll see you on the other side, my friend

Bring your selfhood tight on lock.

There’s a war that’s seeping through the mist,

Bloodshed stinks around the bend,

So kill the other men before they have their chance to kill again.

How will they write your name in history? As a killer or a fighter?

If it won’t say “martyr” in cold, red blood– you’d better hope to god you’d died trying.

Remember friends, that after every sunset comes a sunrise,

A bow that awaits beyond the storm,

A sun behind the clouded sky,

After every winter, comes the warmth.

Do not despair, and wither away

Just before the change has come–

Instead join with brother, arm in arm,

Not with blazes of hate– but of love.

A Bench, An Envelope, A Lifetime

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:59 GMT

Writing by Kathy DeVito Cohen from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

A standard 8 ¾” by 11 ½” manila envelope was handed to me while I sat on a familiar bench. Grinning, the messenger said, “I’ve been getting rid of a lot of stuff lately and thought you should have this.”

I think, but am too polite to say, “Of course, we’re all in our sixties, and we’re all getting rid of stuff. Why are you accomplishing your project by adding to mine?” The rumpled envelope was sealed with the clasp but not licked shut. I looked inside, and we shared a few laughs together. I casually pulled out two papers buried haphazardly mid-stack. Using our reading glasses and squinting in the streetlight shadows, we started quizzing each other about the recorded names, dates, and locations. More questions than answers were generated.

We found ourselves wondering when, where, and with whom we did whatever the gift envelope told us we had done in the 1980s. And no, neither of us had been drinking. Well, at least not on the night we were entertained by the puzzling envelope. I carried the gift home and promptly stored it in my “save for later” drawer.

Recently, I was a guest along with other statistically eligible senior citizens when the hosts’ recent Master of History graduate was genuinely shocked to hear how vinyl records were being purged from our homes. She leaned into the conversation with, “You mean you are really getting rid of your vinyl? Do you guys know how lucky you are to even have had vinyl to hold all these years? Everything is digital now. We won’t have anything to hold when we’re as old as you are now.”

The “retiree want to bees” sipped their wine and continued naming record after record like it was a biography of their individual and collective lives. No detail was spared. One person shared how he dusted off his turntable to have a final listen while holding each art-filled jacket cover before packing the collection away for upcycling.

The next day I unpacked the bulky gift envelope from the drawer and decided “later” was now. Like my dinner companions and their vinyl, I needed to touch and hold these memories before packing them away or possibly deciding they were more appropriate for the recycling bin. The mismatched contents poured out onto my desk.

The numerous addresses on the small envelopes provoked memories of the beds, neighborhoods, and bathtubs I once called home. More questions surfaced. “Should this treasure trove of former return addresses be made into an Excel spreadsheet? Will I ever need to provide these locations to any government agency again? Does my friend need a list for her records? Or should I simply accept there is no need for these primary source details to be saved personally by me, by her or by any digital document for today or tomorrow’s world?”

Rediscovering that some of my domiciles were as short as eight weeks, I began to doubt whether they even qualified as a residence. I sure did move around a lot. No wonder I loved my Plymouth Horizon hatchback and plastic assembly furnishings.

Before inspecting the contents of any of the one-way letters, I mused: “Did I really take time to handwrite all these pages?” After selecting a couple of shorter pieces out of the heap as if playing a game of Jenga or Pick-Up Sticks, another set of questions began brewing. “Should I hide these from my spouse, my adult children, or God help me, my mother?” This last question was of course ridiculous. Furthermore, this collection of particulars was unlikely to have required censoring by the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) if any one of the three television networks (ABC, CBS, NBC) resorted to our foolery to desperately fill airtime. On the other hand, it wasn’t exactly suitable for children's PBS programming either. Containing my delusional self-importance, I decided there was something to be gained by keeping my wayward decisions and indecisions literally under wraps.

Any social science professional could easily sum up this body of work under the umbrella of uncertainty. Uncertainty about finding a job, taking the job, leaving the job. Uncertainty about applying to graduate school, studying again, possibly failing licensing exams. Managing my financial uncertainty involved numerous steps starting with depositing my meager earnings from various part-time jobs in a brick-and-mortar bank. When paying bills, I had to be certain the payee would receive them on time to avoid bounced check charges from both the payee and the bank. The fewer bounced checks, the more Friday Happy Hours could be enjoyed.

My ongoing love of travel and nature also brought some pages alive. Many of the reflections about nuclear and extended family ties still oddly rang true today. Yet, the number one unifying topic in nearly every correspondence was our mutual quest to meet a partner. A partner who would fill our free time with love and companionship, so that we could stop endlessly writing to one another about the never-ending frustrating search.

Today my friend and I have regular group chats with our larger cohort of freshman year friends. We use video calls to catch up on current joys and challenges, memories of yesteryears and the color of our hair. More meaningfully, we can all quietly recognize that feeling of uncertainty in each other. We have all been there at one time or another and know the importance and support listening provides.

I have told many people about the envelope gifted to me. Repeatedly, I hear “that is one special friend.”

With my own grin and a smirk, I usually respond, “Or a pack rat having found a way to get rid of her stuff by adding to mine.”

Like other love letters and older relationship memorabilia, this envelope will get lost again soon. The exchange of those jabbering letters from our twenties solidified a college friendship that has lasted a lifetime. I just saw my friend a month ago. Neither of us needed the envelope to pick up where we left off. As for my local dinner companions, their lack of vinyl has never inhibited a gathering in over 25 years nor will it going forward.

As I age, there is no doubt that for me, memories are made in the people and places we are fortunate enough to share, not in the “stuff” we hold onto.

見て- Looking

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:55 GMT

Photograph by Michael Groissi from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Match

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:52 GMT

Created by Sophia LaBarge from New Visions - Troy, NY

Passion Project

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:47 GMT

Created by Madison Taylor from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Distant Memory

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:43 GMT

Created by Victoria Harris from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

MOTH

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:40 GMT

Created by Veronica Sinnott from New Visions - Troy, NY

Winter Stroll

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:35 GMT

Created by Sydney Gier from New Visions - Troy, NY

Growing

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:30 GMT

Created by Sarah Schonhiutt from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

On Hell of a High

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:23 GMT

Created by Robert Cusato from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

House of Horrors

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:18 GMT

Created by Paige Hoch from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

A Complicated Woman

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:14 GMT

Created by Linda Schwarzwald Feins from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Little Fish, Big Pond

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:10 GMT

Created by Kyra Weatherwax from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Pink

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:06 GMT

Photography by Kathy Biggs-Campos from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Silence

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:56:01 GMT

Written by Wren Allen from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Silence is confusion.

It’s the world gasping for air. For a moment, nothing to say.

No bird wishes to call for love, for love may be dead in that moment. A graveyard of

the cacophony of moments before, and after, maybe then a flower field.

Waves washing over the shore now erode into a well that sits dormant,

and an old woman throws rocks down and thinks of her son.

Her son doesn’t hear them, for the water drowns out the noise.

Her son isn't down in the water.

Silence is confusion.

It’s the world taking a moment to reflect. For a moment, there’s nothing to say.

No one feels the need to speak, because every word has already been said. And

ones that haven’t are of no use to the human mind; they will not heal me.

I lay on my bedroom floor, in the dark.

No light nor words can cover blood.

And I hear in my head, things I wish I never said, bleeding down my mind.

Is it really that quiet then?

And the old well-woman heard me speak.

I say in my head that I tried

And I think she nods, to herself of course,

Because I know not even the color of her eyes.

And suddenly, I feel embraced by something.

Not hands, nor warmth, but a sound.

And it’s almost even quieter.

But the absence is so loud.

And I knew not her name,

Or even where she’s from

Or what she does,

Or who she loves.

Except her son.

And for them, there is now not a moment more of silence.

And not for me, anymore.

Incoming Storm, Taos, NM

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:58 GMT

Photography by Joanna Rusk from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Despite Everything, It's Always Us

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:52 GMT

Created by Jeremiah Morgan from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

FOUND

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:48 GMT

Written by William Hayes from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Between pages 186 and 187 of a lost library

copy of a collection of short stories
by Antonia Nelson, entitled "Funny Once,"
at least one of which, "First Husband"—'his
apple-flavored mouth, his kisses that could
paralyze her with brutal desire, still, still (I
loved this part especially), even in absentia,'
was originally published in The New Yorker
where I had remembered reading it, so was
able to skip ahead, and in so doing, strumming
the guitar of pages past the heartache of Lovey
and Bernadette, the 'What has she done, really?'
rationality of William despite him holding the baby
out in the cold, as in, 'Let's try some shock therapy,
shall we?' and the trembling lipped Caleb, suggesting,
'Maybe you should leave her out there?' to explore
for perhaps some lighter-hearted, acoustic, toe-tapping
tale of love and leisure, on a neatly quartered but
not scissored so that you could, if you were so inclined,
imagine the page, the reverse side of which contained
instructions to: Please Include Child's Name On Checks
being folded over once, and then once again,

tightly, a fingernail perfecting the edge

along a formica topped table before being disassembled

into its current form, in a neatly penciled hand (capitals included)

the following list:

- Grapes
- Strawberries
- Melon
- Southwestern rice (steam in bag)
- Ranch

just adjacent to the near-closing lines of the title story —

'Life was so little like a science experiment and so much
like a cluttered drawer where you tossed things just to
get them out of sight.'

Over and Under (blue)

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:44 GMT

Created by Gina Occhiogrosso from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Welcome to the Mythical Pet Adoption Center

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:39 GMT

Written by Mia Huang from Pacific Academy Irvine - Irvine, CA

When the pet adoption center suddenly arrived in the abandoned plaza that sat near your home, you thought with curiosity—how interesting! There hadn't been shops in this place EVER in your living memory. As a child, you rode your bike in the parking lot, sliding in the winter and picking daisies from the cracks in the asphalt in the summer. The whole place had been locked up and left behind, and so by the time you were grown, it really resembled the set of a horror movie. You know the one, like Hostel or something like that. But then one day a sign appeared: GRAND OPENING. And so you arrived, to satisfy your curiosity…

Now you stand awkwardly tall in front of a small, green, what is he? A LEPRECHAUN?

“Well, hello there! You are officially the first customer of the brand-new Mythical Creature Adoption Center! C’mon in as I put this beautiful phoenix in its cage…”

But before you follow him in, you ask: “Mythical creature?”

He responds as if he anticipated your question. “You see, these creatures exist in an alternate universe, in a world just like ours, but filled with all the animals you hear about only in stories.” He looks back at you, expectantly.

“If that phoenix right there is real, how long until it incinerates itself?” you ask.

The leprechaun grins like a Cheshire Cat: “I would say anywhere from five hundred years to one thousand! They truly are magnificent creatures. Are you thinking of adopting one? It really is easy to take care of them. Chances of them actually burning up in your lifetime are quite small…and as pets, they are wonderful. Very loyal. And sometimes, they talk.”

You stand there slack-jawed, doubting that the creatures you’ve heard about countless times in stories actually exist. But you take another look at the phoenix and rub your eyes. Both the bird and little man still stand in front of you, gazing deep into your eyes.

“No…no…not now,” whispers the leprechaun, turning his head to look at the phoenix. “NO! I SAID NOT NOW!”

A spark starts from the phoenix’s claws and creeps its way up, the flames multiplying by the second. The fire completely engulfs the animal until the flames reach the “A” on the adoption center sign.

The leprechaun’s expression shifts from panic to intrigue and perhaps a little of his “salesman” mode… “Watch this! Watch as it rises from its ashes again!”

You are still not quite sure of the sanity of this little man, or of yourself, to be frank. Because indeed, a new phoenix forms from the ashes right in front of you… but:

“GAH! NOT AGAIN! NO, NO, NO, MY HAIR!”

The leprechaun looks at you wide-eyed as a hole is burned out of his hair. And for a moment, you consider calling him out on the fact that five hundred to a thousand years seems very similar to one second, but you think better of it.

Stammering, the leprechaun says, “Don’t worry, this is normal. Uh…uh it’s because…uhm… let’s just go into the store now, why don’t we?”

And with that, the little man wheels the phoenix in, but the bird burns up again and rebirths itself. When you look into the eyes of the creature, you think you see exhaustion, fatigue, or maybe resignation?

“So you see, this is actually totally normal. The phoenix has just arrived from its own world, and I assure you, it functions perfectly fine there, but it might not be used to the environment here yet. Just like jetlag. If you adopt this beautiful creature, I promise it won’t burn even once in your lifetime. But he is not my only offer! Let’s go meet the other animals.”

Your legs lead you unwittingly into the store, the inner child in you now terribly fascinated. The leprechaun leads you toward a wall of cages and stops in front of the largest cage.

“There’s my favorite right there: the unicorn. Look at her beautiful horn! Try petting her mane…it’s actually quite soft.”

The unicorn rears back, and her horn falls off. The leprechaun jumps to action. “So…that’s definitely normal too! I guess you can say they’re all a bit jetlagged.”

You are starting to find this guy a little insulting—but it’s alright. You are still curious by the display of creatures held in this building. You turn to inspect one you don’t quite recognize – is that a pegasus, you wonder? A horse with wings?

While you are turned away from the leprechaun, pondering your memories of middle school English class and studying various myths, you do not see the leprechaun proceed to pick the unicorn’s horn up. You also do not see him pull out gorilla glue and secretly apply it to the plastic horn. He then sticks the item back onto the unicorn’s head. When you finally turn back from the pegasus to the salesman right after, to see the unicorn looking perfectly fine.

“There! Look, it attached itself back! That’s the unicorn’s power—it can grow its horn back, no matter what.”

But before you have a moment to respond, your attention shifts, because the phoenix, still in his cage, cremates himself again. Before the leprechaun can turn around to see what is happening, the pegasus tries taking flight, but when he does, you can see that one of its wings is fake.

“I’m sorry sir, is that a pegasus? Why is one of its wings…plastic? What happened to it?”

You stand there, waiting for the leprechaun to answer your question, but he is too busy trying to fan off the phoenix. Frustrated, you move down the line of cages, hoping to find a functioning mythical animal, and then you spot a baby dragon. Its green scales glimmer in the store light, and you know that this is the one. You consider putting the little man out of his misery and stating, “I’ll take this one!” but you’re starting to learn. You wait for the dragon to breathe fire, just to make sure. He smiles sweetly, perhaps understanding what you are expecting, takes in a great big breath and… puffs out a few clouds of smoke. He falls back onto his butt and looks at you in surprise. You both think that’s not what was meant to happen.

You turn to the leprechaun: “Isn’t that dragon supposed to…”

“Heheheh…” the leprechaun chuckles as he throws a cloth over the dragon’s cage. “What dragon? I don’t have a dragon.”

Weirded out, you try to leave, muttering, “This is clearly a waste of my time.”

“No…no…wait!” You haven’t even seen all the creatures!”

Scared that the leprechaun might cast some kind of curse on you, you reluctantly follow him back to the pegasus.

“Ah, yes, so you see the pegasus, found it in the Amazon forest. Took me quite a long time, but as you are the first customer, you get 50% off! So I do suggest you adopt something. Of course, the unicorn is the most special and most expensive, so the discount would be more meaningful if you bought her.”

A sinking feeling takes control of your limbs. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I’ll be able to take care of a mythical creature…”

With that, the leprechaun leans in a little closer and softens his voice. “Are you sure? I can sense you longing for companionship. I mean, you always see your friends with their pets. But cats and dogs are boring! Why not adopt a unicorn? In doing so, you are also saving a unicorn from a life in a cage…or worse! Besides, they are much cuter than your everyday pet…”

You look back at the unicorn, and you swear it smiles at you. Your heart melts a little, and you think about how perhaps the leprechaun may be onto something. This little exotic, mythical girl would be much more interesting than the pomeranians and jack russell terriers that riddle the parks. You also hate the idea of her being stuck in a cage. And just like that, you are persuaded to adopt the unicorn.

The exchange of money, paperwork, and the creature occurs so quickly that you almost can’t remember what happened. You are now walking the unicorn to your car, still in shock. You have adopted a mythical creature. Before today, you had never even believed they existed, but here you are, positioning your new friend into the passenger seat of your car and getting into the driver’s seat. Just as you are about to turn the key in the ignition, you look back at the animal to make sure this wasn’t all a dream.

“I shall name you…” But before you can, as the creature cocks its head to the right, the horn falls off again. When it lands on the floor, it crumbles and breaks entirely. You wait for the horn to grow back, but it never does. The ‘unicorn’ really only looks magical because of its pink and blue mane, and you wonder — is that even real? Was the hair just dyed?

You realize that you have been punked. Groaning, your head falls to the steering wheel.

“Actually, my name is Sparkles,” you hear a voice say.

You turn back in shock as the unicorn, if you can call it that now, smiles at you. You rationalize with yourself a little bit — it didn’t talk. It can’t talk. Animals don’t talk. And it is as if the creature is inside your mind.

“Yes, we do talk. Especially the magical creatures. You aren’t making this up, girl. I am talking to you.”

Your hands fall off the steering wheel and onto your lap. You inhale a breath and speak: “Listen, Sparkles, I am so sorry. This is a complete misunderstanding, but I really can’t take care of a unicorn. I have to return you.”

You swear you can see the unicorn’s eyes become those sad cartoon eyes you’ve seen in kids’ shows, but you remind yourself that this was all a mistake. It is not your fault.

“C’mon, let’s go,” you command, but the unicorn sits unbudging. You open the car door, panic-walk to the side of the car where the creature sits, and give the unicorn a death stare before trying to pull it out by one of its hooves. Surprisingly, the unicorn is strong enough to hold on to the car. You let go and look at her positioning her hooves against the door frame.

“NO! You adopted me! You just CAN’T give me back!” The unicorn opens her mouth to cough a cloud of glitter into your face. You try again, pulling with all your might and finally manage to pull out a single hoof, and just like that, you are suddenly playing tug-of-war with a unicorn. You both try to pull back, but in the end, you are stronger, and the unicorn comes tumbling out of the car.

You walk back to the plaza, carrying the creature in your arms… but the adoption center has disappeared, and has been replaced by its normal, abandoned look. You near the windows, which are now covered in dust and years of neglect. Inside, you see the disarray of what must have been a pet store decades earlier. There is no sign of anything living in there, or that anything had ever been there just moments before.

You can’t believe your eyes. The only thing you hear is the giggle of Sparkles, the broken unicorn, in your arms.

“Well, I guess you’re stuck with me.”

Sunset on the Farm

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:34 GMT

Created by Isabella Schmidt from New Visions - Troy, NY

Not Literally, Literacy

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:31 GMT

Written by Marie Allen Campbell from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

We all have something to offer, to lift someone else up

To propel another on the path to their greatness, and not to impede or obstruct

There’s power inherent in language and words; there’s power in our tongue

We can choose to speak life into another, we can help to elevate the unsung

We take so much for granted, and often, we hunger for even more

When many lack just basic things, and, for even our waste, would die for

There’s nothing more empowering than helping someone to read and write

There’s nothing more rewarding than helping someone see the light

The light of language, of understanding and of advocacy for family and self

The light of confidence, awareness, of being able to read books from a shelf

I often imagine navigating in a land where my ability to communicate is void

I imagine feeling lonely, lost, frustrated, invisible and even quite annoyed

It helps me to stay humble, compassionate, and extend empathy to another

It helps me to stay grounded, to extend kindness to fellow sisters and brothers

In working with Literacy Volunteers

The pleasure has been all mine

I’ve gotten back as much as I’ve given: Tutor and Student roles are intertwined.

The Beauty of Darwinism

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:25 GMT

Created by Germaine Desrue from CreativityUnleashed - New York City, NY

Universal Ethics: Philosophy 107, CRN 77, Hybrid

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:21 GMT

Written by Olivia Stebbins-Hopkins from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

on the whiteboard, red marker; “Define God.”

easy, i think

when an egg is cracked over a burning pan, the entirety of the egg’s concealed self, the yolk

and surrounding material is then exposed

ejected from the shell, it falls for an infinitesimal fraction of eternal time within

this period; the egg, having no will of its own, is governed by natural law. the

shell is broken: the egg falls

as it burns, the yolk thickens and dries

as it burns, the surrounding material clouds and solidifies

on the burning pan, the egg becomes flesh and is consumed by the flame. however,

despite the brevity of the egg’s existence, the egg’s plunging body is immortalized in the heart

of the Observer

it is He who sees the egg in its most vulnerable state; ripe, wet and falling, and He who finds

liberation in its bright yellow yolk

E 106th ST.

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:15 GMT

Photograph by Ethan Alcee from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Mystery of Space

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:09 GMT

Written by Kathleen Muller from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Up there,

Somewhere,

Moon Walker sees the stars.

They glow and shine, say nothing,

Which says everything.

Shining bright they are, and Moon Walker can’t go far.

Moon Walker glides through space, with very little to report.

Floating around the Earth is such a sport.

The colors are vibrant, but like the stars, Earth is silent.

Shining bright they are, and Moon Walker can’t go far.

Moon Walker, Moon Walker,

Is this the day the world is over?

Have the stars shown any of the future?

Shining bright they are, and Moon Walker can’t go far.

Woosh, woosh!

A strong force pushes through.

Moon Walker sees the cloud, fully sparkling blue.

He glides with pride. I have it now!

The moment is here; the world will cheer!

Moon Walker, what do you—

Shining bright they are, and Moon Walker went too far.

Viper

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:04 GMT

Created by Elliot Brown from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

Humanity Crisis

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:55:00 GMT

Written by Justin Kong from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Three years ago, I wrote this exact same message to my lover, Luna. She was always there when shots were fired; Luna always wanted to share her experiences with the world about being contained like a virus.

People view her as someone to be caged for her minority, her cat-like ears and dog-like personality. Hybrids do exist for a reason, a blend of uniqueness that only some people process. Sometimes, though, they can be tainted to meet another’s agenda and assimilation plans like a propaganda machine.

You don’t judge a book by its cover – you judge it by the inside. You dissect the story letter by letter, page by page, scene by scene. Why wouldn’t you do that with another person, then? If Luna were purely innocent, she didn’t deserve to be treated inhumanely for crimes they never committed. Human rights were never freely given – someone has to be the one to really give them. A collective or government, protective groups like the United Nations advocate for these issues and address major issues, though it’s the nation's responsibility to continue the change. It’s the reason why FEWA is dying: our responsibility for change is being siphoned out by the people who claim they will.

When we say we will change, it shouldn’t be a power play or even a political statement. It should be a given fact.

<ERROR: POLICY 872 BROKEN: ERROR>

<12 DEAD, 20 GRAVELY INJURED, SCHOOL SHOOTING DETECTED> <WEAPON DISCOVERED: SMG-C87>

SMG-C87 was developed as a self-defense weapon designed to promote ‘safe use’ and ‘self defense purposes’. SMG-C87 can be attached with any classified attachments, like a laser, though its effectiveness is limited unless its safety switch is disabled. During the school shooting, this feature was disabled for massive damage against students who denied the system’s way of thinking. The killer hasn’t been identified, or is being held classified as leverage.

Cios Academy was the home of the recent tragedy. This academy was said to be home to many genius students and leaders, who were targeted for their old way of life and thinking. A note from the killer read: “Humans shouldn’t be discriminated against because they celebrate Notu” – a holiday that was banned within the school for slashed dates and messages.

How does Poland have the highest gun per citizen ratio, and yet stay so safe? Why does the United States have the highest school shooting rates in the world?

Grief is real – how does someone deal with loss on a large scale? How do governments respond? They crack down on gun violence. Though that's not enough, our Second Amendment right protects gun possession. Yet, we need to be reminded that guns have evolved to be more deadly over time.

Hush and hear the numerous gunshots fired, each and every day.

I’ve already died 25 times already, system; what more do you want? I’m not afraid to show my real self anymore, no more hiding, no more fear. How much more suffering do you want me to go through?!

I already had trauma from my old life and had several knives stabbed in my neck like a normal occurrence. The reason I’m still alive is <Redacted>.

So why can’t you leave me alone?! My life isn’t yours to keep: it’s mine! Candy was made for this exact purpose: to protect our souls from your authoritarian rule. Candy is an escape from reality, no matter the cost and self-sabotage. Society needs to address the problem, not just claim that they will. Our fate depends upon politicians who actually say they care about the future and prove it.

System of the abyss, why do you say you care when you subject us to bias? A genocide in the disguise of pure humanist belief. Just because most of us used AI in the past it doesn’t make killing us all a priority, just because we can now respawn from dying every single time. It doesn’t make it right.

Being an author means you can express yourself freely without fear of being attacked. Especially from the system that pledges to protect you.

<AUTHOR TERMINATED>

This is a story of perseverance and commitment to fight against human rights violations. Many won’t see it this way – in fact, many of the system's supporters will see it as against machinist ideals. We used to be both on one side, fighting against the same violent ideal of transhumanism.

<DATA LOG END>

What is Me, is You

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:55 GMT

Created by Diana Carangelo from New Visions - Troy, NY

St. Bernard

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:46 GMT

Written by Jonathan Reese from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Its mouth opened upwards. Like glue, its jaws seeped toward the sky slowly rising, stretching higher. I saw the tissue in its cheeks. Black lips folded out and hanging covered in crusted bloody sand. Paws buried in blood. Fur matted together. Saliva dripping through its flaps onto the muck. The drool trailed continually over the dune sliding its way towards my feet, seeping into the grains, growing closer. Its mouth kept opening, unhinged and gagged. Streaks of smoke blew through its throat, trailing the scent of gunpowder. Devil dark seeping down in a foggy cloud. The smell of mustard and rot. Mustard and rot.

I open my eyes. The room was dark, shadowed static and fog. Moonlight seeped into the smoke, but it was rejected. Pushed out as it tried to enter. Mustard and rot reaching to your right you tried to grab water. How many nights? Cold sweat trickled down your cheek. How many nights of mustard and rot and glue and sand and heat and bullets and your wife turned over to face you. She whispered something about everything being okay. Just sleep. You lay your head against the pillow without getting any water, your mouth dry as sand. Blink. Little grainy flakes.

I open my eyes. The rain raps against the window. Little taps of wakefulness. You turn to the nightstand, looking for your water in the faint light of an alarm clock. 7:6:11:9. There's nothing on the stand. You turn on your stomach and bend and slowly your hand feels around the edge of the bed and the floor. Creeping over dust and grains and wood until a little bottle of plastic and liquid rolls. You pick it up, twist the cap, drink. Dry. Swallow.

Swallow. Feel Your throat. The top tightens as You swallow, slowly pulling down. Up and down. Up and down. Wafting over dry wind as it crawled on three limbs towards you. Its arms digging into the sand scooping it back as it crawls. Its leg frantically pushing against the muddy dune. You breathe it in. The dark. Seeping down in a foggy cloud burning your throat. Gag. Gag. You feel it—in your room. Over your right shoulder. It's in Your peripheral staring at You breathe. The air slides down your esophagus, drying you. Its tail does not wag. You don't believe it's there. You'll turn around if You haven't already. It will still be there when you come back. It will be the flickers in your screen. The creaking of your house. The footsteps. The hand gliding over your wall. Textured and dry. Swallow your spit. Feel your throat. Set it down,

The water. The man turns from the nightstand. Puts his head against the pillow. It's warm. The man rolls over to his wife—mustard. Its mouth drips like glue, yellow and putrid. Widening sickening gagging choking moving up and down again. Black smoke static fog rotten bodies of children in the dune crawling. Arm over arm drinking their own blood as they crawl fanatically. Closer. Seeping under your eyelids, feeling—it leaks over your wife. The man sits paralyzed. Your wife, cold sweat, trickle drip pour gag. It lowers its mouth engulfing her face. Its eyes stare.

I stare back. glue gag drip slog

I open my ey- don't don't don't don't. Cold sweat. Trickle. Shadow—static—fog—black. To your left there is no night stand. There is no wife. eyelids- Drip drip. Matte- lips- drool- sweat- trickle engulf- gag- gag- gag- gag-

A Horse Called Sugar

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:41 GMT

Photograph by Chris Palmer from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

(Only) Cannibals Can Fly

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:36 GMT

Written by Coco Song from Emma Willard - Troy, NY

Susie begins to float on the way to school. Her head has been steadily rising over the gray-cushioned seats for the past three minutes. You’ve been watching her in the rearview mirror from the front of the bus, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Susie. This is very odd: kids should not be floating or have blood on their faces at 7:48 in the morning. You haven’t seen her blink yet, and there are still seven minutes until you arrive at school. Seven minutes until Susie is off your bus.

Canbal Avenue is always busy before 8 in the morning, with road-raging office workers, kids chasing after school buses, and every now and then, a cannibal flying overhead to somewhere important.

Sometimes you’ll see a massive silhouette in the sky and think, wow, that is an absolute unit of a bird , but then it’ll get closer and nope, nope, that’s just a cannibal. Actually, wrong again: that is not just any cannibal, that is your senator flying to his office in the morning.

You looked in the rearview mirror again–did Susie move up a row? You thank the heavens that Susie is, was, in the very back, where a kid bit off another kid’s pinky finger last school year, and now no one wants to sit there anymore. The other kids have yet to notice Susie hovering behind them, but you know it’s just a matter of time before all descends into chaos.

You don’t get paid enough for this: they didn’t train you on how to deal with floating kids, and there are still six minutes left until you arrive at school.

You wish your parents could have afforded human flesh when you were younger, like Susie’s parents probably did. Then you wouldn’t be working this dead-end bus driver job and instead be flying to some fancy skyscraper where the cannibal elite have their coffee with a shot of human blood every morning.

How did the world become this way? The rich pay for the flesh of the poor. The poor pay for wealth with their body. And those that aren’t wealthy enough to afford flesh but not so desperate as to sell flesh remain grounded, forever chained down by the weight of living.

Looking For Spare Parts

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:30 GMT

Created by Chloe DeSilva from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

My Process

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:25 GMT

Written by Newton Wilk from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

I don't really have a process: it’s more like—well. It sounds wrong to say I have a ritual, for it's different every time. It has to be different every time. The ritual is tailored to the task; the ritual is tailored to the objective. There are qualifiers that need to be met for the act to be considered a ‘ritual’. The sound. Not consistently music, consistently silent, or consistently ‘non-stop rain sounds no ads 10hr’, but always only one set of sounds for the current ritual. The space. Sometimes the ritual requires a dark room; sometimes you have to move from dark to light, or sit stationary as the sun moves across the sky; sometimes you go out and back in, and out and back in, and out and back in again, and the ritual can only happen in the doorway. The taste. Often I can only begin when I’ve brought something to eat and drink; other times I won’t be able to eat until I’ve finished. Then there are the times when I can drink only water to keep any taste from my mouth, physically clearing my palate to mentally clear it. It’s only ever been once that I had to stop a ritual entirely to brush my teeth, floss, and mouthwash, and then begin again with a clean mouth to speak from. The smell. This cannot always be controlled, but is as crucial as every other qualifier. I keep herbs with me, and having that small influence is sometimes enough.

In the last 24 hours, the world has become a very dangerous place. I have become visibly weaker, and anyone I encounter will be able to tell I’m out of sorts. They will take advantage of this. They know their cruelty does not matter: I am not human, and they are free to treat me as they please. I must defend myself from this. I must prove my competence. I must perform the ritual.

Almost Here

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:21 GMT

Photograph by Chelsea Ahl from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

When Great Trees Fall

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:14 GMT

Written by Jay Privott from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

In memory of great trees that have fallen, encouraging new life
When great trees fall, they leave a space for smaller trees to grow.
They leave a space for surviving seedlings to grow where they once resided.
And grow, they shall, into great trees that will eventually fall
To leave a space for smaller trees
To grow.
Survive, seedlings.
Smaller trees,
Grow .

Grow, grow and grow.

Inspired by the late Maya Angelou's "When Great Trees Fall" following the fall of a great tree

Maya Angelou wrote the poem “When Great Trees Fall” when James Baldwin died in December of 1987, and read the poem at his funeral.

In Memory of the late Dr. Carson Carr Jr.

Jay and Deb

Drs. Privott and Privott

Carrying the Levant with me Wherever I Go

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:09 GMT

Written by Batul Alshabout from Russell Sage College, Troy NY

Moment Undiscovered

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:54:03 GMT

Created by Ashley Busby from CreativityUnleashed - New Mexico

The Daily Shallot

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:53:58 GMT

Written by Iris Zhu from Deerfield Academy - Deerfield, MA

The Daily Shallot Reports:

 TRUMP LAUNCHES AMERICA’S NEWEST FRAT: ALPHA SIGMA MAGA IN WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON D.C.—This Wednesday, the press gathered at the doors of the White House while United States President Donald Trump, alongside press secretary Karoline Leavitt, announced America’s newest and greatest fraternity: what they dubbed the ‘Alpha Sigma MAGA’.

“Obama knew it. Biden knew it. The White House was boring,” stated the president before a crowd of news reporters, “but now I’m making it greater again . It’s going to be absolutely terrific, everyone’s saying it, nobody’s done this before. People, we’re building something historic here.”

Certainly, noticeable changes have already been established in the grounds of the President’s residence. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’ treasured rose garden has been revamped into a 9-hole mini golf course, with luxuries such as golf cart girl services and high-end locker rooms included. The leather seat behind the President’s desk in the Oval Office has been switched out for a 20-karat gold cushioned throne.

Additionally, a new ballroom is in the process of being built to accommodate the large frat parties that take place weekly at the White House. These are expensive constructions and, as Leavitt claimed, “are not funded by taxpayers.” This information remains to be verified.

Requirements for entering the frat are unclear, as no terms of initiation have been released by officials as of this date. However, files were recently recovered from the president’s desk (after being reported missing and/or "they never existed…”), containing what seems to be his handwritten overview of fraternity members, guidelines, and rituals. These files state that Alpha Sigma MAGA has an honored list of values, one of which is diversity.

When asked about this, President Trump — or who now simply goes by his fraternity nickname “DJ” — responded, “It’s true. We take everybody, even rural hillbillies like JD. You just have to be the right kind of diverse. Of course, we want very smart, very rich people, you know, people that look like they belong right on the putting green.”

Like all fraternities, Alpha Sigma MAGA has a pledging process, one that requires a strict amount of personal paperwork. Only brothers with a visa or citizenship will be promptly accepted into the subsequent stage of pledging. Those without proper certification are sent to wait in the ‘bouncer line’ for months to years.

However, for those unwilling to wait, cease your worries! It is rumored that the White House has begun offering expedited membership passes, otherwise known as the Trump Gold Card, for a hefty fee of $ 5 million. Members of the Trump Gold Card have special access to the fraternity’s VIP rooms, although the services these rooms provide have not been disclosed to the public since 2005.

All brothers entering the White House must bear a red tie and suit. Zelensky’s failure to comply with this dress code sparked outrage in February. “Who does he think he is? Churchill?” Trump sneered between a round of beer pong with fellow Israeli frat brother, Benji Netanyahu. The game ended in a victory for the president, and, true to the terms of their bet, Benji promptly awarded “DJ” the Nobel Peace Prize.

Trump’s large-scale frat parties often include a wide range of attendees. Leavitt herself, Erika Kirk, and Amy Coney Barrett, members of sororities partnered with the Alpha Sigma MAGA, are among those often sighted at these parties. Trump has stated that these gatherings are professional and “all about business”, yet recently, packets of cocaine were discovered in several wings of the White House. Trump has not commented on this incident.

Occasionally, invites are extended to international fraternities, such as North Korean frat brother Kim(bo) Jong Un, though he has yet to accept an invitation. At the same time, Trump enjoys taking trips to visit international fraternities himself. Just early this month, he made a trip to Alaska to hang out with “Big Vlad”, Russian president Vladimir Putin, in a conference where they discussed the relationship and bond between the two fraternities.

Conversely, Trump has refused to invite countries such as China, Iran, and Mexico.

While Trump has publicly encouraged his frat brothers to attend weekly Church services, he rarely attends Sunday worship himself. When questioned about his absence, Trump asserted that he gets fantastic private religious sessions with religious counselor Paula White-Cain.

Trump has also banned members with know-it-all children from entering the fraternity, allegedly after the appearance of Elon Musk’s son R2-D2 in the Oval Office, declaring that children were too distracting in a serious place like the White House.

“We can’t have little kids running all over with their fingers up their nose while we’re making big decisions .” He continued, “This is the future of our country here; we need real adults handling the heavy stuff.”

It seems like Trump’s golf cart girls remain an exception to this rule.

Inquiries about Alpha Sigma MAGA’s alleged nefarious hazing rituals have been repeatedly dismissed by Leavitt and Trump, who both ignored and refused to answer the questions.

Instead, Leavitt urged Americans to donate to a fundraising effort. She provided guidance on how to support the fraternity’s efforts to promote the inclusion of Incels.

“We understand that these poor men are suffering from years of social exclusion and emotional neglect,” she says, “They are being overlooked by a generation of overly ambitious and career-driven women who no longer appreciate traditional masculinity. We hope to offer a sanctuary for these men.”

For details on pledging, Leavitt directed those interested to seek out additional information on Truth Social.

Quietly Ablaze

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:53:53 GMT

Photogaph by Amanda Bastiani from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

The Scar

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:53:46 GMT

Written by Emma Wrieden from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

They say the thyroid is a butterfly,

a fragile shape that governs all my speed now clipped, excised, a necessary need,
a promise whispered underneath the sky…

I trace the line where metal

made it’s MARK,

a thin, kyloring, red smile emerging from the dark.

It is a “trophy” for a fight I’ve won,

and yet, a tether to the life before

I wake and check the scar, and

check once more,

the setting of a strange, new,

rising sun,

the daily pill, a ritual of grace

to fill the empty…quiet…

central space.

Dove Love

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:53:39 GMT

Created by Alysha Louisy-Joseph from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

The Metropolis and the Melancholic

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:53:31 GMT

Written by Amy Hou from Concord Academy - Concord, MA

Standing on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, I could feel the pulse of countless dreams unfolding around me. The skyline loomed ahead, across the East River, a sharp silhouette of glass and steel that captured the light. Each resultant reflection shimmered in the sun’s setting glow.

Here was a place where every building whispered in triumph and tenacity.

You cannot grasp the complexity of a city until you find yourself wandering its streets.

***

This wasn’t my first time in the concrete megalopolis of New York, but it was the first time without my family, making the familiar feel unexpectedly foreign.

What had brought me this time: a summer camp for aspiring business students, with over 50 young people from around the world. Despite my curiosity, I felt an undercurrent of loneliness as I wandered the bustling streets beside unfamiliar faces. I quietly observed what I walked past and took it all in, moment by moment.

Strolling through the crowded sidewalks, the faces of passersby were often lost in screens. The city buzzed with energy, but so too did the isolation that threaded through the throngs of moving people. Here, individuals kept to themselves, so standing in a crowd of thousands often felt like being alone.

I was also struck by the stark contrast between the opulence of upscale boutiques and the struggles evident just a few blocks away.

Reflecting from the comfort of my home in Boston, I now recognize that while trudging through the streets of New York City, I harbored a strange suspicion for it.

***

On the fourth day of camp, we finished our classes, and a thrill of anticipation rose as we set off for the graffiti tour in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Arriving in the afternoon, the smell of fast food wafted temptingly through the air.

The street was alive, but in a strangely sinister way.

Trash cans overflowed, their rotten contents spilling onto the ground; the sharp odor mingled with the scent of drugs—a noxious, yet pungent smell that stung.

I glanced around, taking in the scene: bodies sprawled on the ground, motionless, as if the city had swallowed them up whole. Nearby, others moved erratically, moonwalking. Their faces were ghostly pale, skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones. Sunken eyes stared blankly into the void, while lips, chapped and colorless, barely hinted at their animated life before.

I had never seen people like this before—people who were sick on drugs.

***

“Continued crisis: drug overdose deaths in New York. Between 2019 and 2021, New York saw a staggering 68% increase in opioid overdose deaths, with fentanyl playing a major role. In 2021, opioid-related fatalities accounted for 85% of all drug overdose deaths in the state, reaching 4,946 lives lost…” State Comptroller of New York

***

I gravitated towards the front of the group; the thought of lagging behind in this unsettling place made me uneasy. My eyes were locked ahead, deliberately steering clear of the faces on the ground.

Suddenly, I noticed a man across the sidewalk. He staggered, turning to the people around him as if he sought something. I saw him lunge for a grocery cart that had been propped against the wall, its metal frame rusted and worn. He pushed it into the street, the wheels screeching against the asphalt as he barreled forward.

A jolt of fear moved over me, icy and visceral.

My group and I stumbled into the nearby Dunkin’ Donuts. I pressed myself against the window, breathless, eyes wide, watching every chaotic move this zombie man made.

He crashed into people, using the cart as a battering ram, screaming incoherently in languages that twisted and churned in the air. His smile, unnervingly wide and manic, filled me with unease. I know he didn’t intend to frighten, but at that moment, he was a haunting figure, utterly lost in his own madness.

***

“Fentanyl poses a significant risk due to its extreme potency, being about 50 times stronger than heroin and 100 times stronger than morphine. Fentanyl ‘hijacks’ the brain's reward system by triggering dopamine release and mimicking natural feel-good substances. This can create a feeling of ‘high,’ or a feeling of euphoria.” The New York Times

“Fentanyl is addictive. Like other opioids, repeated use causes changes in brain activity that cause people to continue using it even when they experience harmful effects.” National Institute on Drug Abuse

***

I felt a deep, disquieting empathy mixed with true horror. I could see the vulnerability beneath his tumultuous facade, a glimpse of his mind unraveling. The wildness in his eyes reflected desperation, a cry for help buried beneath layers of confusion.

My heart ached for him, even as I recoiled from the danger he posed.

***

At 9 o’clock that same night, our tour finally arrived.

I felt a knot of apprehension in my stomach. Even if the tour promised a vibrant atmosphere filled with nightclubs, this city in crisis terrified me with its gunshots, robberies, and the shadows of drug deals lurking in corners. And of course, that man, one of many, suffering from an epidemic that seemed to move around the city’s alleyways and byways unfettered.

I felt a strong desire not to go.

Although our chaperone seemed completely indifferent compared to us—something I attributed to her upbringing in New York—whenever we complained about the city, she would say, “Welcome to New York.”

Now I understand this ever-popular phrase: beneath the surface of the city itself lies a complexity unknown to transient visitors. New Yorkers are accustomed to this turmoil, seeing the city as two-dimensional; “a metropolis” is the facade that conceals the deep, melancholic struggles within its core.

***

In September 2023, BBC News reported the tragic death of 1-year-old Nicholas Dominici due to fentanyl exposure at the Divino Niño Daycare in the Bronx. Three other children were also hospitalized but fortunately recovered. Authorities later discovered a drug operation at the facility, revealing fentanyl hidden beneath the children's nap room.

The devastating loss profoundly impacted Nicholas's family. His father, Otoniel Felize, expressed the depth of his grief, stating, "Nothing will give me back our son. Not all the gold in the world will make up for his life," in an interview with New York's PIX11 News. He emphasized that for a parent, the life of a child is priceless, and its value will forever remain in his heart.

***

Was it graffiti or art murals?

Silly-looking images, vibrant swirls of letters, and exaggerated facial expressions of black and brown men—defiant, dreaming, laughing, lost—populated the walls of Bushwick. I glanced through each of them, but clearly, I couldn’t fully grasp their narratives.

Tucked within the vibrant graffiti stood a piece that unfolded over three days. It was filled with luminous shades of pink, green, blue, and yellow, radiating an ethereal and dreamlike quality.

“At the center stands a figure reminiscent of Jesus, his gentle expression and flowing hair exuding serenity.” Our tour guide took a moment and then continued, “Beside him, the Virgin Mary appears, embodying grace and compassion. To the right, a serene depiction of Buddha, his presence a tranquil balm. Beneath these celestial figures, the globe rests in the delicate embrace of angel wings and flowering robes.”

As I listened to our tour guide, and inspected the artwork in front of me, a new side began to unfold from within the despair and darkness of Gotham City.

This neighborhood was a depiction of a visual diary; each piece of art expressed a story.

A story of hope, a tale of the community’s voice—each burst of color, each curling letter, a heartbeat of the neighborhood—loud, unafraid.

In Bushwick, these walls do not whisper. They shout, they sing, they reverberate with the fierce spirit of resilience.

This is not the refined elegance of gallery murals. No—this is art that grows wild in public space. This is not chaos, but narrative. The art is not always pretty, but it’s always alive.

***

New York City, known as the iconic concrete jungle, has transformed from the gritty beginnings of the 1960s into a vibrant hub for artistic expression. Highlighted in The Captivating History of Graffiti in New York, “the city has long served as a breeding ground for cultural movements.”

The Bushwick Collective was established by Joseph Ficalora in 2013 as a response to his father's tragic murder in 1991. Ficalora aimed to heal and uplift his community through art, reaching out to artists “...from around the world, inviting them to contribute their talents to the industrial and residential buildings of Bushwick.” In Stories Behind the Street Art, Bushwick Collective, NYC, this initiative has transformed the area into a vibrant canvas, showcasing the power of art in fostering community resilience and expression.

***

You cannot grasp the complexity of a city until you find yourself wandering its streets. Only then do you begin to unravel the stories woven into its fabric.

By the end of the trip, I still struggled to navigate the sidewalks of New York, feeling a mix of insecurity and annoyance. But I also felt myself soften. Here was New York—a labyrinth of contradictions. The metropolis was a state of mind, and the drugs, the homeless, and the moonwalking men, just a part of its identity. Even Bartleby, Melville’s infuriating nihilist, admitted sometimes: “I would prefer not to.”

I was an outsider peering into the city, while those within reached out, seeking help from beyond their walls in yearning. Here was a place where paths converged and diverged, the intersections not just physical but emotional and existential as well, blurring the lines between hope and despair.

Amidst the noise and the crowd, I searched for that elusive point where we might truly meet, where the city’s heartbeat resonated with the whispers of those longing to be heard.

Matriarch

Tue, 28 Apr 2026 16:53:23 GMT

Created by Aisha Jean-Charles from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

I Am Not Alone

Mon, 09 Mar 2026 12:34:37 GMT

Written by Sylvia Teasdale from New Visions - Troy, NY

**Please note that this script is still in development. More scenes will be added by the author as they are available.**

INT. ELEANOR'S APARTMENT - DECEMBER 30TH

ELEANOR sits on her bed and sighs, thinking about all the time they've wasted over the last year.

ELEANOR

Why are you like this? Why do you complain all the time about being isolated and then go off and push people away?

EXT. PUBLIC PARK, 3 YEARS EARLIER

ELEANOR and her late best friend SARA are catching up after not speaking for years.

ELEANOR

I'm sorry I spent so much time obsessing over our friendship and what could've been had I not fucked it all up.

Eleanor starts to get teary-eyed.

ELEANOR (CONT'D)

Even now I have no one. I was always bad at making friends, but then you came along, and I really appreciated it until the end. I'm so alone.

SARA comforts ELEANOR.

SARA

I do wanna be friends again. This time there's no room for pettiness, okay? I'm here for you, Eleanor.

ELEANOR

Thank you so much.

INT. ELEANOR'S APARTMENT - PRESENT

ELEANOR

No, it’s not over!

ELEANOR quickly gets up, grabs her phone, and listens to a new voicemail from her co-worker, ARI.

ARI (O.S.)

Hey, Eleanor! Remember that Christmas Eve work party I told you about? It was canceled because of the weather. Soooo I

was thinking of doing a New Year's party tomorrow night. I know you don’t ever go to my social events, but, y'know, I’m

just curious if you could come. You should, unless you have other plans. It’s at my place, 520 Kinder Road. That's walking distance to yours, right? Anyways, see ya!

ELEANOR puts her phone down and sighs.

ELEANOR

I should just go.

EXT. OUTSIDE ARI'S HOUSE - NIGHT

ELEANOR walks up to Ari's door and knocks on it. There is no answer, so she knocks again, waits a few seconds and turns around to leave.

Suddenly, the door opens. It’s ARI.

ARI

Oh…Eleanor, you came! Before everyone else too! Uh, come in!

The two enter ARI'S living room and sit on her couch. ARI notices ELEANOR'S blank face.

ARI (CONT'D)

You okay?

ELEANOR

Yeah, yeah. I'm fine.

ARI

I wasn't expecting you to come. I've never seen you at any other

social events.

ELEANOR

I haven’t partied since college.

ARI

Oh? How long ago was that?

ELEANOR

Like 2 years ago.

ARI

Oh really? Where did you go?

ELEANOR

Bickerton. It’s like two hours down from here.

ARI

Oh. Why?

ELEANOR

I don’t wanna talk about it.

ARI

That's fine. We don’t have to.

There is an awkward silence that lasts 10 excruciating seconds, until ELEANOR finally speaks.

ELEANOR

So…how are you doing?

ARI

I’m fine, I don’t know. I feel like there's nothing to say about me, but you; I know like virtually nothing about you.

ELEANOR

Well, there's nothing to say about me either.

ARI

Surely there's gotta be something.

ELEANOR

Why can’t I say the same for you?

ARI

I just said that because I feel like you know enough about me. You see me almost every day, Eleanor. But despite that, I don’t know YOU, like at all!

There's a knock on the door. ARI gets up to see who it is, leaving the room.

ARI (O.S.)

Oh hey, Mark! How’ve you been…

Close-up shot of ELEANOR'S face. Slow fade into later in the night, when everyone else is chatting. ELEANOR just sits there. She opens up her phone just as a woman around her age steps right in front of her.

STELLA

I like your sticker.

ELEANOR

Oh, huh, what?

ELEANOR turns her phone over to see a star sticker she placed there months ago.

ELEANOR (CONT'D)

The star?

STELLA

I made that, you know.

ELEANOR

What?

STELLA sits down next ELEANOR.

STELLA

Yeah, where did you get it?

ELEANOR

From a local store. They had a whole bin of stickers that were “special.” Now I understand what that meant.

STELLA

I assume it refers to all local artists.

ELEANOR

Yeah, but this is beautiful, too! I bought it because it looked really cool.

STELLA

Thank you.

ELEANOR

But can you prove that you made it? I need to know!

STELLA

Welp, I love drawing stars. Really. Because of my name.

ELEANOR gives her a curious look.

STELLA (CONT'D)

Stella.

ELEANOR

Eleanor.

ELEANOR goes to shake her hand. STELLA is confused.

STELLA

Oh, you’re shaking my hand. Okay. Nice to meet you.

They shake hands awkwardly.

ELEANOR

Sorry…that was weird.

STELLA

Nah you’re fine. Where was I? Oh yes! So I designed a bunch of stars in my free time, and I thought,

“Hey, these would make for cool sticker designs,” so I sold them online. Then just last month, I made a

deal with The Good Books to sell them there. That's where you got it, right?

ELEANOR

Yeah.

STELLA

Here, check out my site.

STELLA gets her phone and puts in a website that shows the exact sticker ELEANOR has on her phone, front and center.

ELEANOR

That’s so cool.

STELLA

It’s even cooler to see my art out in the wild. So, Eleanor, what are you into?

ELEANOR

Stuff…I draw sometimes, but I’m shit compared to you.

STELLA

You don’t gotta compare your art to mine. Ellie. All I really do is draw stars… Okay and other things too.

But even if I were Da Vinci, there's no reason to bring yourself down over your art. It’s your art.

ELEANOR

I guess.

STELLA

Any other interests?

ELEANOR

Welp, besides drawing, which I don't do often, I watch movies and take walks. Boring, I know.

STELLA

It's not boring. What's your favorite movie?

ELEANOR

Uhm...

ELEANOR starts to slightly smile.

ELEANOR (CONT'D)

What's the least pretentious thing I can say right now?

ELEANOR chuckles, and so does STELLA.

STELLA

I don't think you can outdo me in that department.

A beep goes off on STELLA'S watch, and she gets a nervous look on her face.

STELLA (CONT'D)

Shit, I have to go.

ELEANOR

Wait what?

Many people are crowded around the TV. The New Year's ball is about to drop, adding a whole lot more noise to the house.

PARTY GOERS

10....9....8....7....6...

STELLA

ASK ARI FOR MY NUMBER!

Stella runs off.

PARTY GOERS (CONT'D)

5....4....3....2....1

ELEANOR

WHAT?

PARTY GOERS (CONT'D)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

INT. ELEANOR'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

ELEANOR is in her bed, completely crashed out from the night before, when she starts dreaming. DREAM Eleanor and STELLA are together in a crowded stadium, but for some reason, which is unclear to her, a man comes up to them.

DREAM MAN (TO STELLA)

Nice girlfriend you've got there. Would be better if she smiled more.

STELLA hesitates for a second.

STELLA

Yeah… I don’t even really know her that well, honestly.

Various people crowd around them, saying things.

ARI

I think I work with her.

WALT

Oh yeah, I thought we were becoming friends, but then she just ghosted me.

SARA

We went to school together, then she left my side for some dumb reason...

ELEANOR tries to say something, but her mouth disappears. She feels around her face, and it's completely gone, replaced with an ever-fading question mark. She tries to grab STELLA as she turns away into a swarm of other people, but she turns into a bunch of stickers. The stickers overwhelm ELEANOR as she struggles to escape. She falls as her surroundings change to her room at night, and it’s the early morning of January 2nd, 2 am.

INT. ELEANOR'S TINY LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

Eleanor, finding it impossible to sleep, sits on her couch and contemplates what she just dreamed.

ELEANOR (MUMBLING)

You’re not gonna miss your shot. You've missed many shots, but something about this one is different. I have to find her. I don't know what it is, maybe fate, maybe- oh dear, I have a crush on you, Stella.

ELEANOR crashes down on her couch.

INT. ELEANOR'S APARTMENT - MORNING

ELEANOR frantically calls her friend, ARI, who picks up.

ARI (O.S.)

Eleanor! What's up?

ELEANOR

Oh......nothing, butt dial, sorry.

ARI (O.S.)

Oh. Okay.

ELEANOR

So. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Thanks for the New Year’s party, by the way.

ARI (O.S.)

You're welcome. Looked like you had a good time! I saw you with my friend, well, friend of a friend, Stella.

ELEANOR

Oh really? I don't uh......bye.

ELEANOR hangs up and sighs.

FADE IN: FANTASY SEQUENCE OF ELEANOR TRAPPED INSIDE A SMALL GLASS BOX

INT. GROCERY STORE - DAY

ELEANOR is in a long line when she sees one of the designs STELLA showed her at the New Year's party, on a pin, which distracts her as the line moves up.

GROCERY STORE PERSON

Um, dude, could you move up?

ELEANOR

Sorry.

INT. LOCAL BOOKSTORE - DAY

ELEANOR is looking at STELLA'S designs on the front counter of the bookstore.

CASHIER

They're great, right?

ELEANOR fails to respond.

CASHIER (CONT’D)

Right?

ELEANOR

Yeah. They're from a local artist, right?

CASHIER

Yep, Stella Octangula. Okay. I don't think Octangula is her last name, but it’s like her street name or whatever.

ELEANOR

Does she have a website or anything like that?

CASHIER

I dunno. My coworker told me.

There is an air of silence.

CASHIER (CONT'D)

So....are you gonna buy something or what?

ELEANOR grabs some of STELLA'S pins and stickers.

ELEANOR

Yeah, I'll get these.

CASHIER

That'll be 10 dollars.

INT. ELEANOR'S TINY LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

ELEANOR sits on her couch, watching the scene from " A Streetcar Named Desire ," where Marlon Brando screams "STELLA!" ELEANOR then puts her newly bought pins on her work bag and sighs.

ELEANOR

I'm gonna find you, Stella. I just have some obstacles in my way. (She takes a moment and breathes) Is that creepy? I'm not trying to stalk her. Who the fuck am I even talking to? God. I'm so desperate. 520- something thousand minutes wasted, and it's all my fault.

FADE IN: FANTASY SEQUENCE OF ELEANOR TRAPPED INSIDE A SMALL GLASS BOX THAT IS CRACKING.

About this script : I Am Not Alone is a film about a socially inept woman named Eleanor who moves to a new city at the start of a new year to jumpstart her adult life. Working as a waitress and store clerk, she isolates from the world around her, avoiding social interactions entirely out of her own extreme social anxiety. A whole year is spent on time she considers wasted, avoiding making friends and minimising social interaction. She spends the last night of the year lying in bed alone, when she is given a boost of motivation from remembering the last interaction she had with her late best friend, the last friend she’d ever have. Eleanor gets up and listens to a voicemail from her co-worker, Ari, who informs her of a New Year's Eve party happening that night, and she rushes out the door. Thus begins her journey of self discovery and social connection.

Gaza is Awake

Wed, 04 Mar 2026 11:12:05 GMT

Written by Maysoon Sheikh from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

It was nothing short of a dream.

Rafah thought that to be a funny phrase. The waking world she used to know always came short–the weddings, the galas, the parades, the protests. Always one-fifth of what they could be, even if they did seem dreamlike, as their ‘likeness’ meant they could only ever come close. But Rafah’s dreams were boundless.

Borderless.

So yes, where her soul existed now was nothing short of one. But she’d like to believe that if all the dreams of every single person that had ever dreamt on Earth were accumulated and brought to existence, it could never come close to this.

She sat against the silvery veil that cocooned her, one that provided a partition that was subtle but present enough between her and the previous world she had once known. Rafah rubbed her thumb and index fingers together, stared at it. Her body of cells that were once called skin were now reconfigured in the form of saffron. It looked natural but in an otherworldly sense, royal but stronger in colour and richer in scent than the ones she could buy from her local Souq market. Like her skin on Earth was merely an exoskeleton, moulting, waiting to be shed into a form that fit more perfectly than it ever did.

Rafah never bled here.

No, now she emitted musk. Sweet and fragrant and undying. There was no difficulty here. There was no point to it. When her house was made from the stars, the markets free of charge, and people gathered every Friday in celebration and left with more beauty on their countenance than when they entered, ease was now their constant. And boredom, a foreign concept. The spectrum of human emotion has been elevated. The parts humanity thought were necessary; pain, guilt, fear, and even hope, had been nullified. Parts which weren’t even known to exist thrummed in her every fibre.

Children screamed.

In joy. Pure, unmasked, unadulterated, perennial joy. The type of laughter she had never heard before, the type of laughter that knew it would never have to stop. Rafah watched as kids bounded about in the air as green birds, in the waters of milk, honey, and wine, like mythical creatures who were no longer myth, and on the ground, running about the large, noble feet of Prophet Ibrahim. He embraced them like a father.

Rafah remembers her father. Her Baba. And felt a debilitating emotion that somehow still had a purpose to exist in this plane.

‘Rafah! Catch me!’

She turned towards the sound coming from above. Rafah’s siblings, all five of them, soared towards her like those flying American elf boys they once read a book about. She opened her arms with a grin, ready, and they all collapsed into something soft and pillowy.

‘Ya albi,’ Rafah exclaimed, breathless, ‘Will the rest of my eternity be spent keeping you from harm in this place too?’

She looked up at them, at their clean, smiling, full-cheeked faces and squeezed them all tightly, fulfilled by the simple fact that she’ll never have to let them go.

‘Why do you sit here by yourself?’ Rafah turned to her little brother, Younis, his eyes curious and as blue as the Jordan River as he surveyed her. ‘Why don’t you come play?’

She sat up, glancing back at the veil beside them, at the star-studded galaxy behind it, and felt the deep longing in her bones travel to her tongue.

‘I miss Baba too.’

Haifa said it before she could. Rafah stroked her sister’s hair in response, Khalili gemstones falling out of her strands like starbursts.

‘Did you hear?’ Little Jenin piped, bright-eyed. ‘Ahlul-Jannah says there’s gonna be martyrs arriving from the camp Baba is in.’

They all turned back to the eldest sister, wanting a confirmation to a question in their hearts Rafah didn’t have the answer to.

‘He’s coming to us, Rafah,’ Haifa said, reaching her hand out tenderly. ‘We’ll be together again soon.’

It was paradoxical. News that she had been willing to welcome into her arms since she first entered The Gardens was now slipping from her grasp, because this fickle human emotion would not rest. But fickle as it was, perhaps it could serve as a means to return something greater than longing. Rafah smiled at her siblings.

‘I have an idea.’

Khalil stood at the opening of the tent, squinting up at the burning circle in the sky. He raised his hand, blocking most of its rays but relented his limb when his skin began to sting from the heat.

That wasn’t good. He won’t be able to see it when it comes.

It had been almost too pleasant lately. After being displaced from Khan Younis, Khalil and the many neighbourhoods in his city travelled in droves to the camps in the south. The buzz from the drones could still be heard above their heads, white noise that could paint the land red and burnt black at any given moment. But they hadn’t gone off for four days now. And that was never a good sign.

He peered over his shoulder, surveying the many persons huddled inside the tent, like flightless birds inside a splintered nest. His gaze lingered on the man sitting cross-legged at the centre, the man he had followed all the way from their shrapnel-ridden neighbourhood to this camp. He hasn’t spoken much, just the usual Allah Ysalmak . May God protect you . The uncle wore a grey thobe that may have been white once, a salt and pepper beard that was increasingly more salt than pepper as the days went by, and a sandy-brown, giraffe-spotted turban. He played with the bandage that Khalil swaddled his bleeding arm with before looking up at him. His eyes were sunken but not pulsing red like most who had lost someone; they were warm like the Filastini Sunbirds in the valleys of Wadi Qelt.

They reminded him of her .

At the familiar pounding sound of death, Khalil instinctively turned, ducking under the tent flap. But there was no smoke, no screams. Just an elderly man who had toppled over by the weight of his belongings. Khalil sighed, plagued by the fact that death’s voice was everywhere, and so was its claim on his soul, hence there was no use to distinguish between its whispers and its rallying calls.

He needed to be ready for both.

He reached for his phone, the little box that could make the world stand on its feet, and clicked on the recent video he posted online. The comments, a pool of both heartfelt prayers and hard-headed blame games, settled the nerves in his chest. It was proof, in one way or the other, that they exist.

‘I had a daughter.’

Khalil flinched, turning to the man behind him. His eyes, half-vacant half-alive, stared somewhere around Khalil and not directly at him.

‘Her name was Rafah,’ the man said, now meeting his eyes.

He knew. He hadn't been following the man’s shadow for no reason. The girl in his pharmacy class that had dreams the size of the Earth, who had promised to feature in his film project that very day. The day her dreams were pulled from under her feet, and her body, six feet under the school. Khalil was then overtaken by an inner calling, a fire that he thought had long been put out since the day he ran back home to find it in ruins. How many kids whose lives could’ve changed others are now gone? Not just the ones that have been martyred, but the ones that were still here, survivors that had forfeited any previous conviction of the world’s mercy upon them. Like him. Khalil dug his nails into his fists, thinking it was best to simply acknowledge the uncle’s words in silence.

‘My daughter has gotten married to the skies.’ The man smiled. ‘And she has her whole eternity to live now with the rest of…’

Khalil watched his face twist, the creases of grief unveiling themselves by the words left unsaid, and felt compelled to sit down in front of him. The Sunbirds in the man’s eyes returned.

‘ Living .’ He said the word like it was revelation. ‘Not just surviving. But away from me. Only visiting occasionally.’ The inhabitants of the tent were listening. Khalil could tell the difference between the silence saturated with wet grief and this one, rinsed once again by the hands of faith. ‘She visited me last night. We were in her room. Rafah was lying on her mattress, her eyes shut like she was asleep. I tried waking her, but’ - he chuckled - ‘you could never take Rafah out of her dreamland.’ He sighed. ‘I began to cry. But that’s when she looked at me, the soul of my soul, wiped my tears and said, ‘Ya Abati, blessings will be upon you soon,’ and placed this in my right hand.’ He held up a brown key with his good arm, a Hello Kitty keyring dangling from its bow. ‘I laughed,’ he continued. ‘What would I do with this, ya omri? We no longer have a home.’ She looked at me, almost sadly, and then said, 'It'll open more than the door to our home, Baba,’ and shut her eyes again. I woke up with Rafah’s housekey in the same hand.’

He kissed the metal and whispered a prayer. Khalil swallowed heavily, his throat feeling like sandpaper, likely from the lack of water and maybe something worse.

‘What do you think the dream meant, Ya Khalil?’

Khalil blinked, staring at the warmth exuding from the man’s face. He didn't remember mentioning his name.

‘That you’ll be home to her soon,’ he answered, then paused, contemplating, ‘Nabhan.’

Nabhan raised his brows and laughed heartily. Khalil looked down, his cheeks warm. The film project he was planning to make at school was titled ‘The Heroes Among Us’. Rafah, her presence as warm as Nabhan, told him she was going to talk about her father. And it seemed, he hoped, that she had talked to her father about him.

The warmth inside the fragile tent was washed out by the sudden patter attempting to shred the tent from the outside. They were still too light to be bullets however, too liquid. Khalil stood up, stepping outside of the tent. A wet sheen glazed over the sands of Rafah like a gauze as it rained. The tents gained life; sheets of plastic, torn fabric and prayer mats moved back and forth as if they were taking long breaths. Mothers grabbed their remaining children, their arms shielding their little frames from the front as the little ones held onto that shield, their slippers squelching hurriedly.

Too hurriedly.

Khalil saw the tank before he heard it trudge along the sands towards the camp. He stepped forward, having to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, that the rain was not tricking him. That there really was only one. He turned to Nabhan who stepped up beside him, a ready look on his face as raindrops leaked from his beard. Khalil knew something was going to happen today, everyone did, but that didn’t stop his chest from thudding in his ears again. He caught a glimpse of the lone soldier standing atop the green tank. He looked young, half-baked, ideals unripe, his helmet fitted for someone twice the man he thinks he is. The soldier held no guns himself, like the weapon beneath him was big enough to conceal his deficiencies.

‘Let’s go,’ Khalil muttered as the hunk of metal moved closer, grabbing Nabhan’s sleeve, only to be shrugged off briskly. He frowned at the older man, wanting to shout as Nabhan held up Rafah’s key defiantly, as if it could singlehandedly block the machine gun. Khalil had the mind to turn and run like the others were, away from the camp, pretend there was somewhere safer beyond it. But then he heard it. A melody that made every deadened cell in his body spark with vigour. The calling.

‘Come to my hometown and see how the sea smiles at you,

Come to the coast of Haifa and keep its sand for souvenir,

Take a photo of the streets of Khan Younis,

Our hearts are the home of your eyes.’

As Nabhan sang the Dal’ouna, the winds accompanied him in intensity. And no sooner did the nameless figures from their tent. A new mother, two teenage brothers, an elderly couple and a child rose up beside them, each with their own keys in hand and an iron voice. Khalil took a shaky breath, stepped back behind them all, and held up his own weapon, pressing record.

‘Come to my hometown and see,

How the sea, how the sea smiles to you.’

The soldier yelled to someone below him before the gun barrel was manoeuvred in their direction. But there was rain, its temperament too unrelenting, that the vision of any soldier in that tank was left to merely a shot in the dark. Nabhan whipped his head around to him.

‘You got a good arm, Khalil?’ he asked, urgent.

‘Yes.’

Khalil answered before he even knew it himself. Nabhan nodded firmly and exchanged Rafah’s key for his phone in an unspoken agreement.

A chill seeped into his muscles as he walked ahead of the chanting crowd, gripping the keychain tightly. Khalil stopped when he was ten feet away from the tank, its engine pressurising, something locking and loading. He raised the key up high, not knowing where to even aim, except, maybe, he mused, watching the young soldier desperately wipe at his eyes to keep them on him, towards the deficiency in man.

A key could not stop a weapon of war. He knew that. But as he dealt the hand of faith with his own, Rafah’s key vanishing into the shadow of the faceless behemoth, he felt the enormity of what he did, like he sent the weight of a thousand martyrs towards their freedom. Khalil waited for it, the guttural strain of metal clashing against each other, the engine working up, then breaking down again. Some miracle. But only the silence, polarised by what it meant to each adversary, overcame the unbidden battlefield, with heaven the sole speaker raining down its primordial wrath. Khalil didn’t miss it, however. It was in the subtle flinch, the erratic flitter of the soldier’s eyes, of his hands as it wavered over the gun, that made him take another step forward, a defiant movement mirrored by the dozens of voices now joining behind him as they rallied towards the tank.

‘To smell the soil of Rafah

And draw our glory on its rock.’

The sun grew its light amidst the rain as the song swelled in spirit. The soldier, frozen within it, could only stare at the wall of a people, lost but present, each holding a house and a promise, unbroken, advancing. Khalil saw him jolt back, scrambling to signal the driver below. The machine’s treads churned the muddied sand, threatening to plough forwards, then hesitated.

‘Khalas! Khalas!’

The soldier spoke, in an accent foreign and unfamiliar, voice breaking. Khalil shuddered, the Dal’ouna quivering in his throat. Because it was then that the people of Rafah witnessed the awaited miracle unfold in front of their eyes.

The tank began to back up.

All at once, as if there was a green light, men, women and children began to charge towards the tank with their keys as if they were swords, as if they were the pens that had written every history book, as if they penned the oldest maps, and opened every gateway to the skies. Khalil stood still against the swathe of people storming towards the retreating tank, stunned, waiting for the other shoe, bomb, blast – something – to drop.

‘Good arm, ya walad.’

A hand, bandaged and steady on his shoulder, brought him back. Nabhan passed his phone back to him with a smile. Khalil wiped the droplets off of the screen, beholding a sight akin to a Renaissance painting. The Heroes Among Us. He looked up, at the back of the soldier’s helmet as it drove off over the Zoroub hills, wondering what excuses the man must be reasoning with, what ideals may have ripened. But Khalil saw it laid bare in the young soldier’s eyes. The all-encompassing truth. That the olive trees stuck their roots deeper than they will ever be able to pull out.

It was like a spell in the air was broken. Tides of people ululated in tandem for the smallest of victories, for they and their remaining families lived for another day.

‘You were wrong,’ Nabhan bellowed against the saluting winds. Khalil smiled at him, wide enough for it to feel foreign to his facial muscles. They were not meant to be martyrs today. Rafah’s plan was something different. A return of something greater than their homes. The return of a people’s will.

‘She’s finally awake,’ Khalil stated, his fingers sending the video out into the world. ‘Rafah is awake.’

At Chuck E. Cheese, Freedom Costs a Token

Mon, 02 Mar 2026 10:59:41 GMT

Written by Maverick Douglas from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

I only went to Chuck E. Cheese once as a child, and I didn’t remember the sheer volume of noise that permeates the child-centered zone of games and activities. It prompted me to think about how people process and observe such spaces as children versus as adults, and the differing determinations that come from processing at alternate developmental periods. I had the opportunity to attend a birthday party for my friend’s niece at Chuck E. Cheese and decided to use it as the foundation for participant observation. I reasoned that a space made for children, specifically for children to have fun and explore, was the perfect opportunity to observe child agency in action.

Saturday is the ideal day for parents to plan birthday parties for their children with their children’s friends, as it is generally an available time for everyone to be able to gather. However, when you get six families who have the same idea and all their children’s friends together, even a relatively large space like Chuck E. Cheese begins to feel small. Different pitches of excitable voices harmonize with the cheesy upbeat music of games, and the artificial voices of arcade games designed to draw the attention of beings with short attention spans. All of this noise was overwhelmed by the center stage when Chuck E. himself came out to dance with the birthday children and their friends, the music warring with the screeches and giggles of the sea of wriggling bodies who tried to follow his moves while being the one to claim they were dancing closest to him.

Lights accompanied the sounds, flashing in yellows, blues, reds, pinks, and greens of eye squinting shades. They reflected against the shiny plastic bracelets, necklaces, and rings that could be claimed as prizes at the ticket booth. Video games flashed from scene to scene, the voices of the player lost within feet of the monitor, often making it difficult for even the player to understand what was happening, having to follow the quick paced graphics without the benefit of continuous verbal input. Adults had to take care as they moved about the tightly packed maze of games and activities, keeping an eye out for tiny bodies that appeared between one breath and the next, easy to trip over if great care wasn’t taken.

The generally pleasing scent of baking pizza was overpowered by the underlying eye-watering smell of burnt cheese and bread. Depending on where you stood, that nauseating combination would couple with the sickly sweet scent of spilled soda, tugging at your shoes and leaving a sticky, squicking noise for several steps afterwards. Across the room where the indoor trampoline was set up, rubber intermingled with smelly feet, and the burnt pizza was almost preferable. Once in a while, a blast of rain-fresh air refreshed the area when the door opened.

My friend’s niece was celebrating her fourth birthday. She’s full of personality and knows exactly what she wants, and has no problem communicating that to those around her. She had spotted one of the basketball simulation games, where the ticket releases basketballs and you have a couple of minutes to get as many baskets as you can. She wanted to try it but she was too short, though she didn’t seem to realize it. She scanned her card (no longer do they have tokens but cards with a certain amount of “tokens” on them) and tried to figure out how to play. Even the start button was above her line of sight. I lifted her up to stand on the lip and showed her the start button. I was aware at this moment that I was both a participant and observer, helping her engage while also noticing what my involvement revealed about how adults shape children’s play. She squealed in excitement when the balls rolled down towards her. Lifting one up she tossed it, and it didn’t even make it halfway across the court, but it bounced and that was enough for her. She tossed the balls for a few minutes but quickly lost interest when she realized that she wasn’t yet able to make the basket and asked to get down. I placed her down and she skipped off to her next game happily and eagerly.

As I finished the round for her, I overheard another child telling his adult that he wanted to try the game. He was from one of the other birthday parties, where the birthday child was turning three, and so he likely was between three and five depending. The adult told him no, that he should try another game because it was a waste of tokens; he was too short and wouldn’t be able to do it. He continued to plead with her, telling her he just wanted to try and throw them, and as he spoke he grew louder. I recognized that the adult was already at the end of their tether, something that seemed common with the adults (no doubt because of everything happening around us), she finally snapped at him, told him they weren’t playing that game and wasting her money, and that he could go find something else to do or he could go sit with the adults and babies at the table. He began to cry loudly. After being around children at various stages of development my whole life, I find it usually pretty easy to figure out what kind of crying they’re doing. This cry was of frustration, of someone not being heard, and was no doubt exacerbated by his own overwhelm from all the stimuli happening around us. His adult huffed and followed through on her threat, dragging him back towards the tables, his gasps and cries dissipating behind the other noise the further away they got.

It was amazing to me that, even in a space that is made for children, with the intent of them having fun and being able to explore on their own terms, their agency was still being tested and ignored. Was the cost of a single token really worth ignoring what the child was asking, and ruining both of their afternoons? The game wasn’t dangerous, and no one else in line was a proper age to play. It would have been easy to let him try and throw a couple of balls. Either he would have grown bored, as my friend’s niece did, and leave partway through, or he would have had great fun throwing the balls until they stopped, and she could have drawn his attention to something else. It had me wondering about the importance of a singular token to an adult versus a child. To her, it was a waste if he couldn’t play properly and potentially earn some tickets, but he was just there to play the games and try things out. Why wasn't his desire to play and try something new more of a consideration in her decision? If nothing else, it could have been a learning experience for later when, maybe, he ran out of tokens and wanted to play something else, or wanted to get a prize and hadn’t won enough tickets with which to choose anything. She could have then reminded him of his choice to try a game he wasn’t quite big enough for. That would have allowed for him to exercise his agency and right to choose, while she would have been able to teach him that there are some things he has to be a little older to be able to properly participate in.

It was interesting to view the various dynamics. There were adults like this, who followed their children around and essentially planned their entire play time for them, and then there were parents who sat staring at their phones while their toddlers approached others, and attempted to get on the trampoline despite the fact it required a special ticket and had a certain height/weight requirement. That feels as though it has less to do with agency and more to do with a disconnection between the parent and parenting responsibilities. Children should have the freedom to make and express choices and it is a parent’s responsibility to mediate these things. Allowing the little boy to try the basketball game and lose a token wouldn’t have hurt anyone, but the toddler climbing on the table unattended could have ended badly. There is a happy medium that isn’t quite being recognized, and it’s related to the societal view of children and childhood as being innocent, malleable, passive parties, while policy and legality throws this out the window when children do something they decide is so wrong that it makes them irredeemable. Even in a place made for them, many aren’t given the courtesy of wanting what they want. It felt to me like a metaphor for schools. They are intended for children, to inspire and to teach them, but then what they are expected to learn is scripted by people who haven’t been children in many years and haven’t taken the time to ask children what they’re interested in or how they best learn. Observing these interactions reminded me that child agency is not only about choice, but about how adults frame what choices are possible in the first place.

The Sibirsky Medved

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 10:38:32 GMT

Written by Eric Zhu from Blair Academy - New Jersey, USA

The reactor’s hum vibrates through the long, complex channels of the K-829 Sibirsky Medved : the Siberian Bear. Its large steel body groans under the immense, crushing pressure of the Arctic Ocean.

Aboard, the Bear carries 160 members of the Northern Fleet of the Soviet Navy. Among them stands Starshiy Leytenant Mikhail Sergeyevich Antonov, the fleet’s head sonar officer. He sits comfortably at his post with his morning zavarka . By now, he is used to the growls and roars of the submarine that holds him.

The space smells of oily machinery and the worn, thick leather boots hanging on the wall to his side. In front of the senior lieutenant, the sonar panel blinks and pulses in a rhythmic beat every two seconds. Sometimes the beep moves quickly, signaling something approaching the underwater mechanical machine.

Above him, Mikhail can hear the soft murmurs of the cabin crew and, periodically, the shouting of Kapitan 2-go ranga, Commander Petr Volkov, far above him in the main command room. Close and coming from his right, he hears the naval radio crackling with familiar static. Suddenly, a voice returns, the same one he hears every single morning, that of Iosif Stalin, the founding father of the USSR. He repeats words of iron will, emphasizing the ideology that shaped the motherland.

“Товарищи, граждане, братья и сёстры...
Comrades, citizens, brothers and sisters…”

Just above the sonar control perches a nailed-framed painting of Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker, protector of all sailors. Below Mikhail, stored in dark and terrible silence, lie the true weapons of the Sibirsky Medved . Twenty-four R-29RM intercontinental ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads are packed deep under the hull, each ready to be launched with authorization from the homeland and the turn of a key by the Bear’s captain.

Currently, Mikhail finishes the last of his morning zavarka and scratches another mark beneath the desk of the sonar table—the one hundred fifty-sixth mark. Just as he empties his cup, the radio crackles again. This time, it is not Stalin but a loud beep that sounds not just from the radio but across the broadcast speakers of the entire submarine.

“Внимание... всем стратегическим единицам. Подтвержденный массированный ядерный удар по территории Советского Союза.
Attention... all units. Confirmed massive nuclear strike on Soviet territory.”

Mikhail listens closely. Could it be?

“Повторяю. Подтвержденный массированный ядерный удар. Выполните протокол Д-5.

Repeat. Confirmed massive nuclear strike. Execute Protocol D-5.”

He stiffens—the words seem unfamiliar. Then the warning lights turn red, and all around him the sound of running boots, shouting, and a cacophony of alarms swirl and collide.

He is on his feet now and opening the hatch. When he does, the pandemonium from the other side rushes in. He steps into a loud corridor when a comrade grabs his shoulder.

“Lieutenant, Captain Volkov wants all high-ranking officers to report to the command room. Now!”

Mikhail rushes up to the main section of the fleet, where the scene is worse. Twenty-five or so men are packed tightly in the command room with Captain Volkov in the center. Deep below them, through the decking, he can hear the metal cranks and rotating gears of the missile-loading mechanism. He doesn’t need to look; he knows that the crew in the missile deck prepares the warheads to launch. Captain Volkov speaks individually to the ranking officers, and when Mikhail catches his attention, Volkov redirects his orders.

“Lieutenant Mikhail, return to the sonar control room and look for possible enemy fleets.”

With no time wasted, he is back downstairs and greeted by an assistant officer holding a black metal box. This is the same box typically stored in a glass cage behind Captain Volkov's desk. Inside sit the launch keys for the warheads. He realizes this is happening.

Below the main deck, the alarm buzzes continuously; there is no light in the radar deck except for the constant flash of crimson that washes onto Mikhail’s face, making him feel sick. But before he can get to the main radar room, the radio switches again; the operator speaks firmly through the static:

“Выполнить протокол D-5. Требуется немедленный ответ.
Execute Protocol D-5. Immediate response required.”

Every man in the room knows what it means: the enemy has struck the Union, and Mikhail imagines the motherland and Moscow in flames.

Volkov’s voice cuts through the decks below: “Missile report. All tubes one through twelve are loaded. We now load tubes thirteen through twenty-four. Prepare for the first launch.”

Mikhail can feel the hydraulic press of the big red button above him, zooming down into the missile loading room. Yet nothing changes. He stands there for a moment; he thinks the signal has failed to reach the warheads. Then suddenly he hears several bolts slam below, and the compressed hissing of gas.

The screeching of the tubes and the gas slam the first missile up, followed by the second and the third. Each departure leaves a deep metallic roar echoing across the submarine.

Somewhere above him, he imagines plumes of white vapor erupting through the calm, frozen waters as the missiles burst through, the flames of the engines the only light to illuminate the Arctic night.

Back beneath the frozen water, less than a minute passes. Then a large boom crashes through the vessel. The radio announces that something is happening above the waters. The hull begins to creak under pressure. A low rumble rolls through, growing louder. Mikhail closes his eyes, now sitting on the floor, his legs wobbly; he cannot hear a thing but the loud rumble.

Five more seconds pass, and a sudden cold shiver runs through Mikhail's body. The shockwave has hit the Bear, and the black, ferocious Arctic water rushes in and swallows everything: the control room, the radar systems, the missile that has not yet fired.

Mikhail holds his last breath. Everything goes dark.

He is back in the radar room, the zavarka warm in his hands.

The radio crackles: “Товарищи, граждане, братья и сёстры...”

The sonar beeps, slow, steady, rhythmic. He can still feel the submarine vibrating, although it currently appears to have returned to its original calm. He can also taste the frozen Arctic seawater that had swarmed him... yet he is not wet, and there is no water here.

He tries to reason with himself: Moscow burned in flames—the motherland was destroyed, right?

Mikhail looks around, and everything seems the same, but no. He remembers. He remembers the captain’s order, the launch tubes firing, and his own death. He thinks, again, of the motherland in flames. What happened above the waters? Why did the Bear explode hundreds of meters below the frozen Arctic? And why is he back here, alive, with the zavarka, as if none of that had happened?

The words repeat in his head:
Moscow is in flames;
Moscow is in flames;
Moscow is in flames.

He looks at the hanging picture of Saint Nicholas, the saint of all sailors. Has he done his job? Has he saved the motherland?

Suddenly, the radio glitches, and the broadcast speakers ring out across the submarine.

“Внимание... всем стратегическим единицам. Подтвержденный массированный ядерный удар по территории Советского Союза.
Attention... all units. Confirmed nuclear strike on Soviet territory.”

Mikhail is struck by the same sirens and blinded by the red light flashing in his face. Didn’t this already happen? He waits for no orders this time and runs past the officers to the main command room, where Captain Volkov is giving orders to his fellow officers. Volkov orders Mikhail to return to the sonar room and scan for possible enemy fleets...

Mikhail stands there and contemplates the captain for a beat. Volkov recognizes the delay in his comrade.

“Antonov! What are you doing? Get down there and check the radar! NOW!”

Mikhail looks at the captain. “Captain, we cannot launch the warheads.”

“What do you mean?”

“Moscow will be in flames; we need to stop the launch to know what's going on.”

“Stop the launch? Obey the motherland’s orders? Moscow in flames? Antonov, what are you talking about?”

“Sir…” He turns his back, realizing now that logic won’t work here. No matter how he explains what he knows to be happening, no one will believe him.

Suddenly, an epiphany grabs him: the black box. The black box holds Captain Volkov’s keys, the ones needed to initiate the launch. He finds the officer below deck and, without a word, snatches the metal box from his unsuspecting hands.

“Brother, do you realize what you are doing?!” But Mikhail does not look back to answer the source of this shouting. Instead, he runs.

Thinking himself clear of the nuisance behind him, Mikhail’s spirit shrinks when he runs into two officers. With little regard for the panic he displays, they rip the metal box out of his shaky hands and escort him back to the radar room.

“We will deal with you after this matter,” says an officer, locking the door behind him. Mikhail is stuck inside the radar room; he knows he has lost his chance.

He sits in his usual chair and sighs at the tepid zavarka on his desk. He looks at the radar; nothing changes, just the same old pulsating beat every two seconds. For a moment, relief settles upon Mikhail. But that, like everything else, appears to be short-lived.

The warheads fire. Imprisoned in his space without any way of freeing himself, he begins to fixate and panic. He watches the clock—tick, tick, tick—and the seconds pass over him like a snail through treacle. All the while, he can hear the pressure and the shockwave that hits the submarine, hidden deep under the Arctic Ocean.

Mikhail feels the crash. Enveloping him now are the screams and shouts of his fellow crewmen as they succumb to the treacherous water that has breached their safety.

The submarine rumbles, shaking the radar room, and the locked door, no longer strong against the pressure of building water, breaks. Freezing seawater undulates.

The zavarka spills and splashes onto Mikhail while the painting of Saint Nicholas falls to the ground, shattering. The water swallows it all again. Mikhail turns around, and in his final seconds with water rising above his shoulders, he sees a small dot on the radar. Its accompanying beep pulsates faster and faster.

Beep
Beep
Beep

Mikhail opens his eyes once again.

The radio crackles, and the same voice of Stalin resonates into the cramped space: “Товарищи, граждане, братья и сёстры...”

“No. Not again...”

He grips the zavarka harder as the pressure builds around his body. Despite hot steam spreading from his cup across the dim radar room, he’s given up on enjoying any warmth from it.

Beep
Beep

Mikhail remembers the dot on the radar. He wonders if something could be around the vessel, or whether this is just a sophisticated trick of the enemy.

All he knows for sure is that he cannot disobey the motherland. He has to stop the launch first, or he will never make it. And when he goes to let himself out of the radar room, he is not surprised to discover that it is, of course, unlocked, because he has not been escorted back here yet, and he has not been locked in by the officers.

He has a sense of knowing. He needs to look deeper into the submarine.

This time, the hall that awaits him beyond the door is quiet, and his comrades greet him in such a way to suggest that nothing whatsoever has worried them.

Mikhail walks faster. Every so often, sudden growls and hums of the nuclear reactor vibrating through the channels interrupt his pace. He heads to the room that houses the reactor. As he works his way down a narrow stairway to the weapons bay and the dark, loud reactor room, he recognizes the dim, fading sounds coming through the speaker—the same ones that now haunt him.

Mikhail sees a light opening at the end of the stairs, and he picks up his pace.

Vrmmmm…

The ship shakes, sending Mikhail rolling down the stairs.

“Careful, comrade! First time down here? Don’t worry. It’s always like this on the stairs. You’ll get used to it.”

Dizzy, Mikhail thanks him and looks around the weapons bay. Around twenty soldiers are stationed around the weapon dock with its complex tubes and channels.

An officer opens a shell, and from that small opening of the tube, Mikhail can see the red tip of an R-29RM warhead for the first time since loading day, one hundred fifty-six days earlier.

Mikhail takes a step back and looks closer at the men. Something feels amiss. They move in sync, like robots. Their footsteps echo the same.

He takes another step back.

An officer passes him carrying a screwdriver, and a few moments later, the same officer passes him again from the same direction, carrying the same screwdriver.

Impossible.

He looks closer: they all have the same, lengthy, tall figures and are all looking in the same direction, repeating the same moves, over and over.

“Товарищи, граждане, братья и сёстры...” (Comrades, citizens, brothers and sisters...)

The voice of Stalin roams around his head, but no radio is to be seen.

Across the room, he sees a sailor bump his head on the pressure indicator. The sailor turns and feigns a slight, eerie smile at Mikhail. The sailor’s face twitches, glitching as the same eerie smile fixes on Mikhail. When Mikhail blinks his eyes—the sailor is suddenly gone. Stumbling backwards, colliding with the wall, he hits his head on the iron-plated deck. His body trembles.

“Fire!”

“What?”

Mikhail wakes on the deck of the weapons bay. Has some time passed?

He sees the same fate again; the missiles are fired. Mikhail lies there watching as the smoke and pressure from the shells explode on the floor while the men load another warhead.

“Are you okay, comrade?”

Mikhail looks up to find the same officer from before. Mikhail grabs his hand, but suddenly a static force shocks him, and the officer’s face glitches. Mikhail watches in horror as the same eerie grimace looks back at him. He tries to pull his hand free, but the grip grows firmer, harder.

Mikhail kicks the officer.

The shockwave of the next fired warhead hits Mikhail and he trips, this time falling straight down below decks. He tries to get up, his body unable to move. He hears booms and explosions near him.

The officers on the below deck surround Mikhail with the same eerie grimaces.

“No...”

Mikhail goes unconscious and is swallowed by water again.

Mikhail awakens to Stalin’s radio, once again back where he started—the one hundred fifty-sixth day. He sets the zavarka down. He hears the same old radio, but this time louder and clearer.

“Comrades, citizens, brothers and sisters. Death is the solution to all problems. No man, no problem.”

Mikhail stares up at the framed picture of Saint Nicholas. This time the picture is crooked, and the saint’s eyes have gone red.

He sits thinking, quiet and motionless. The alarms arrive—the sirens, the shouting, the rush of boots running up and down the hallway follow. But this time Mikhail doesn’t panic, he doesn’t beg. He waits until, suddenly, all goes quiet in his mind. A sort of knowing. Mikhail gets up, unlocks a cabinet to reveal a fully automatic machine gun. He loads it and heads for the radar room door.

A momentary pause causes Mikhail to look back. “In the Soviet army, it takes more courage to retreat than to advance,” comes from the radio. He shoots the speaker, hearing Stalin's voice fizzle out, and then heads up to the top.

When Mikhail storms into the command room, Volkov opens his mouth: “Lieutenant Mikhail, what do you think—”

But Mikhail doesn’t budge. He pulls the weapon from his back and fires. One shot after another, the men fall, screaming.

Volkov stands there in disbelief, his words still hanging in the air. Mikhail doesn’t answer; instead, he fires again, and this time the captain falls, stone cold, to the metal floor.

Turning from the carnage, Mikhail grabs the unlocked black metal case, his hands shaking. He jams the key into the slot and turns it. The static monitor glows and lights up, and he slams his hands onto the controls.

He aims not at any enemy but at Moscow, Leningrad—at the motherland itself.

The submarine shudders as the missiles fire, the same crackles and sounds Mikhail had listened to constantly before, but this time aimed at the motherland.

“Yes! The enemy will be crushed! Even if the enemy is us!”

And just as he exclaims to justify his moves, the submarine tears itself apart in the aftermath. Water rushes in, and the steeled beast splits open in a final, definitive sigh.

The ABCs of Being an ABC

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 10:38:05 GMT

Written by Yao Wang from Union County Magnet School - New Jersey, USA

You’ve read the ABCs of animals and trees,

Perhaps even the ABCs of…democracy.

But what about the ABCs of being an ABC?

A merica B orn but your family’s C hinese,

And to make matters worse, you’re raised in between.

So come along on this journey from A to Z,

Of what it means to be an American–Born–Chinese.

A is for Accent

Americans will expect an accent when you speak English. Your relatives will expect no accent when you speak Mandarin. Neither expectation manifests.

B is for Banana

Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. This metaphor isn't very hard to figure out, but its reality can be quite confusing. Parents warn you about becoming one, yet remind you of the benefits in doing so. Sometimes, you’ll wish you could just be white all-around.

C is for Chink

A slur that almost seems like it isn’t. You’ll learn to tolerate it from friends and ignore it from strangers. You can try explaining its xenophobic and hateful undertones, but few will care. Pro tip: calling it the “Chinese n-word” will help them understand–but be warned, some just laugh and remind you: “it’s just a joke”.

D is for Duality

Every choice in your life is now a negotiation between two identities. At home, you’ll respect your parents, observe Chinese tradition, and try your best to speak their language. From outside this dome of conformity, you’ll transform into an independent person versed in pop culture and

celebrity drama. Dr. Jekyll would be proud.

E is for Education

The main reason your parents brought you to America, and the one they’ll be sure to remind you about. You’ll know the phrase by heart: “Good grades, good college, good career, good future”. Bringing home A’s pleases them, so you’ll study passionately throughout high school. You spend hours into the night working; you’ll rewrite drafts of essays until they’re flawless. By the time college starts, you’ll start to wonder whose dream you’re actually fulfilling.

F is for FOB

“Fresh off the Boat”. It’s a strange phrase, especially since most immigrants opt for planes nowadays. Teachers will ask you to guide these new kids around school, but you’ll come up with an excuse to distance yourself from such a painful reminder of your own insecurities.

G is for Guilt

This will prevent you from taking control of your own life. After all, your parents sacrificed everything for you–you’re obligated to do the same for them.

H is for Hyphenated

Chinese–American. It was intended to symbolize the harmony between two cultures, to connect your two ethnicities. Instead, it’s an ugly reminder that you’ll never truly belong to either.

I is for Ivies

You’ll know the names of these eight colleges before you even learn about the SAT. Your parents give reassurances that if you’re rejected, they’ll still be proud of you. But will they keep that promise? And even if they do, will you be proud of yourself?

J is for Joy–Luck Club

The token novel taught in American high schools to make ABCs feel seen. It’s neat how this book condenses the lives of 5 million Chinese–Americans into one tidy narrative–maximum efficiency, right? At least it’s more relevant to you than The Good Earth …

K is for Kumon Institute of Education

You’ll adamantly deny having gone to this institution, laughing at the trope of “Kumon trauma”. Deep down, you’ll be grateful for the hours spent toiling on worksheets in the brightly lit learning center, well aware it’s the reason behind your stellar grades in Math and English.

L is for Looks

Hundreds of dollars will be squandered on hair products, scents, and clothes, all in the hopes of blending in with your more traditionally-American friends. Your parents will criticize you for wasting time on outward appearances; time should be spent studying. In the end, no matter how much gel you put on your spiky hair, you’ll never get it as smooth as Zac Efron’s.

M is for Model Minority

ICE deportations rise and you start to worry, but your friends reassure you that you’re not the “type” they’re after. Chinese people are too successful and beneficial to the economy to be targeted, they say. But what if you don’t become a real life Crazy Rich Asian when you’re older? Can you still hide under the myth of the model minority?

N is for Names

You get three, that’s the rule. One Chinese, given to you at birth. You’ll whisper it in hushed tones to close friends and watch as they try to mimic the syllables and accents, nodding along with their tragic (yet well-meaning) attempts. One nickname that, while still Chinese, holds more affection. Your parents and relatives back home primarily use this one. One American, used out of necessity to avoid awkward introductions (and to save your teachers the embarrassment of phonetically sounding out your name when taking attendance). Unsure what to put down for this one? Just think of once popular white people's names! Richard, Alice, Alan, Christopher, etc.

O is for Origin

The one question you’ll never escape: “Where are you from?” Just to mess with them, say “Alabama, I’m a redneck”. They’ll respond with a forced chuckle followed by a: “No, but really, where are you from ?” At this point you can either continue entertaining the facade by responding with a Scandinavian country or just tell them what they want to hear. Either way, you’ll end up hearing the classic, “I knew it!” You’ll then want to scream at the person for having wasted your time with a question they already knew the answer to. Try not to, because you’ll end up regretting it.

P is for Praise

The one thing you crave more than social media. Your parents dish this out inconsistently and unemotionally. A simple “not bad” is enough to satiate you, while a “you exceeded my expectations” shoots you to the moon. As you grow older, you’ll realize that a deprivation of praise is the reason for your clinginess, overcommitment, and perpetual need for validation. Looking at you, Simu Liu.

Q is for Questions

As if the ubiquitous origin question wasn’t enough, there’s more! Here’s a couple more that you’ll likely encounter: “Wait, you’re Chinese! Are you communist?” And “How is your English so good?” And “Do you know how to make dumplings?” And “Are you going to be a lawyer, doctor, or engineer?” Although, to be fair, the last one is pretty reasonable (and likely).

R is for Return

When you return to China, you’ll inevitably feel many conflicting emotions. You’ll feel alienated talking to cousins you barely know, sad when you realize your grandparents have aged, confused when strangers recognize you, and ashamed that you can’t remember the names of gift-bearing relatives.

S is for Stereotypes

Perpetuated by Hollywood movies and YouTube creators alike. The worst part? Many stereotypes become a sort of double standard. Got an A in math? It’s in your genetics; you’re supposed to be good at math. Got a B on your quadratics test? You’re so stupid.

T is for Tutoring

So. Many. Tutors. SAT tutors, AP tutors, Spanish tutors, calculus tutors. So many that, by the end of the week, your mind won’t be able to keep up with the constant flow of new information. And when you’re not being tutored, you tutor, whether it’s for the money, service hours, resume fodder (don’t forget the Ivies are looking for a well-rounded student), or the ego boost from having a fifth grader look at you like you’re Einstein.

U is for Unwelcome

Sometimes subtle, sometimes blatant. You’ll (hopefully) never encounter it outright, but many-a-time you’ll find yourself being ogled while shopping or stared at coldly by an unsmiling waitress who offers you the bill after fifteen minutes (before you’ve even finished eating your food).

V is for Violin

You’ll never figure out how this became a part of your life. Regardless of whether it was through bribery or force, your parents managed to get you stringing along to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. The practice hours only rise from here. After all, how else are you supposed to become the next hot child prodigy? And what’s this about performing at Carnegie Hall in eighth grade? (Thanks a lot, Amy Chua.)

W is for Work Ethic

If you happen to miss more than one day of school, your peers stare in confusion and a teacher can’t help but express surprise that it was “you of all people”. Classmates expect you to finish entire group projects on your own (of course with their names added at the end) because that’s your “thing”.

X is for Xenogenesis

Here’s the Merriam-Webster definition (you’re welcome): the fancied production of an organism altogether and permanently unlike the parent. Now, whenever Dad brings up how your cushy middle-class upbringing pales in comparison to his poverty-stricken childhood, you’ll have a word to sum it up!

Y is for Yin/Yang

The concept that governs Chinese medicine, gastronomy, and martial arts. The Yin is passive in nature while the Yang is repelling, but both are needed to support each other. Sound familiar? These are your two personalities: the obedient, shy Chinese child and the loud, flippant American rebel. Only, instead of supporting each other to help your body thrive, they clash in a never-ending battle that tears at your being.

Z is for Zodiac

The 12 animal signs used to adorn the paper place mats in Chinese-American restaurants. Is such placement symbolic in that it allows for white people to toss their grease and food scraps onto the traditional Chinese calendar? Or does the harm end at cultural appropriation (your white friend insisting they’re a dragon because it “just fits their energy”)?

From A-Z it’s easy to see

Just how confusing and strange it can be,

To inhabit this country as an ABC

When all you really want is to be…

FREE.

Ghost Girl

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 10:37:22 GMT

Written by Katherine Wu from Seven Lakes High School - Texas, USA

When she pulled the box from the attic and saw the looping strokes of her daughter’s handwriting, her hands shook; by the second letter, the tears fell so freely she could no longer see the page, only feel the weight of every word pressing into her chest like a wound reopening.

January 27, 1990 6 years old
Lunar New Year (春节)

Dear 妈妈 (mama),

The 抱住 (firecrackers) outside go pi pa pi pa so loud my chest shakes. Little red paper falls down like bird feathers. I keep the closet door open just a crack so I can watch.

The table is so full, the bowls almost touch – 鱼 (fish) with shiny eyes, 烤鸭 (roasted duck) with skin that shines, oranges stacked high like little suns. Everyone laughs when 哥哥 (brother) talks.

哥哥 gets a fat 红包 (red envelope) from uncle. I see the corner open a little, thick bills sleeping inside, all red and new. 哥哥 grins so big his cheeks fold up like dumplings. Another aunt presses her 红包 into his pocket. He can’t even hide it.

You come to me when nobody looks. Your hands are cold. You give me a 红包 with no name on it. You smile quick, like we are playing a secret game, and whisper, 快，放口袋里 (quick, put it in your pocket). When you leave, I peel back the sticker and open it. There is only air.

I don’t ask why I can’t sit at the table. I don’t ask why I didn’t get any money. I think maybe if I don’t ask, you won’t be angry with me for being here.

我想你会高兴我出生了 (I want you to be happy I was born).

With hope,

Your daughter

April 5, 1994 10 years old
Tomb-Sweeping Day (清明节)

Dear 姥姥 (grandma),

We arrive when the sky is thick black and the moon is hiding behind clouds. 爸爸 (baba) says it’s better this way, less trouble. I don’t know what trouble he means, but I keep quiet. Even still, I’m scared of the way the dirt path swallows our footsteps.

I never met you. 妈妈 (mama) says you had hands that smelled like 茉花 (jasmine) and a laugh that made the neighbors come over just to listen. I wish you were still here. Maybe if you were, we could drink tea together, and I could tell you the things I don’t say to anyone else.

When we reach the tomb, 哥哥 (brother) gets the incense. 爸爸 guides his hand, showing him how to bow three times. The smoke curls up like ribbons, soft and silver. 妈妈 lays the chrysanthemums. I carry nothing.

“不要碰 (don’t touch),” 爸爸 says when I lean too close. I hide my hands in my sleeves. The air is cold, but my face feels hot.

I look for my name on the carved stone. There’s 哥哥, 爸爸, 妈妈. Not mine.

You’ve been gone for so many years, but tonight everyone remembers you, lights incense for you, speaks your name out loud. I am here, standing just a few steps away, and still, I am not remembered.

Being a ghost might be better. At least then someone might leave me flowers.

With longing,

Your granddaughter

August 10, 1999 15 years old
Qixi Festival (七夕节)

To my future love,

Tonight the sky is supposed to be full of magpies, wings outstretched to make a bridge for 牛郎 and 织女 (the cowherd and the weaver girl) so they can meet just for this one night. Mama says it’s just a story for children, but I think maybe it’s also for people who still believe someone might be waiting for them.

I am not allowed to go out. Brother leaves after dinner with his hair combed, his shirt tucked in, and a smile he only wears for the world outside. Baba slips him some money, whispering about “treating her well” like I’m not in the room. I scrub the pots until my fingers wrinkle, steam curling around my face.

I wonder if you will ever see me. Not in the way the neighbors do, a shadow that passes, a girl whose name no one says too loudly, but really see me. The way the cowherd saw the weaver girl, even when she was hidden behind the clouds.

Maybe love is for girls who exist. Girls with names on the family register, girls who can walk down the street in the open air, girls who will be remembered when they are gone.

If we ever meet, I hope you know I have been here all along, waiting on my side of the river, with empty hands and a heart full of stories.

With love,

Your girl

July 7, 2002 18 years old
Gao Kao (高考)

To Baba,

I studied from brother’s old books, the ones with his notes in the margins, equations written in a rush, whole poems underlined twice. When he wasn’t looking, I pressed my pencil into the same paper, as if I could leave my name in his place.

When it came time to register for the exam, mama whispered with the neighbor’s cousin, and for one summer I became another family’s child. Different last name, different village. I sat in that crowded exam hall with my borrowed identity, absorbed within rows of students bent over desks while fans clicked overhead. The paper smelled faintly of ink and dust, and when I wrote my essay, my hand did not shake.

When the results came, I discovered I had scored higher than brother. I saw your eyes flicker for half a second, surprise, maybe even pride, before you smoothed your face back into something blank.

I asked if I could apply. You didn’t yell. You didn’t even frown. You only said, 没有户口，不能上大学 (“Without a household registration, you can’t go to university”), as if it were answering a question about the weather. As if the sun simply decided not to rise for me.

That night, I took brother’s books to the field behind our house and buried them where the soil turns dark and rich after rain. I thought maybe next year I’d dig them up, but I know I won’t.

You have already given our family’s name away. I have nothing left to write mine on.

With desperation,

Your daughter

October 3, 2009 25 years old
Mid-Autumn Festival (中秋节)

To Mei Lin,

Tonight, brother returns, the air sweet with osmanthus and roasted duck. He brings his wife: you. Your hair is glossy, lips painted the color of fresh lychees. When you saw me clearing the dishes, you handed me your empty teacup without looking, murmuring, 谢谢阿姨 (thank you, auntie), the way you would thank a servant.

No one corrected you.

I carried the tray back to the kitchen. On the table sat the mooncake, its golden skin glistening under the light. The knife divided it into perfect wedges, each with a salted yolk at the center. I took the broken piece, the one where the filling leaks from its side, and ate it standing up.

Through the doorway, I see Mama touching you, her new daughter’s arm, her eyes warm in a way I have never known.

That night, I did not go back to my room. I walked past the threshold of our house, past the lane that smells of steamed buns, past the rice fields silvered by moonlight. I disappeared before anyone noticed. This time, it was my choice.

It is worse this way, because when you choose to leave, there is no one left to blame.

I wish you luck in my old family. And if one day, you and my brother have children, I hope the second will not be hidden like me.

I hope the law will not steal their name, nor love.

With quiet grace,

Your sister in law

August 28, 2015 31 years old
Ghost Festival (中元节)

To all the second-born children,

They say tonight the gates of the underworld open, and the dead wander among the living. Paper money burns in gutters, curling into ash. Candles float on the river like small, beating hearts.

I light my candle. Its flame wavers, as if it knows. The wax drips fast, hot over my fingers, blistering skin I can no longer feel anyway.

I think of the first red envelope my mother gave me, the one slipped to me in secret, unmarked, empty. Of the family tomb where I could not lay flowers. Of the pots I scrubbed on Qixi, wondering what it might feel like to be seen. Of my textbooks buried in the garden, pages turning to soil. Of the broken mooncake I ate standing alone in the kitchen while another daughter was welcomed in my place.

Tonight I will not be hidden.

I place the candle at my feet. The flame catches the hem of my skirt first, a small kiss, then a hunger. The smoke curls upward, the way my university letters once did, the way all my wishes have.

The heat climbs fast, licking my skin, filling my lungs until every breath tastes of metal. I do not scream. I do not run. I have disappeared all my life; this is only the final step.

When the wind rises, the fire leaps higher. I close my eyes and imagine myself among the other spirits, finally walking in the open, my name spoken without fear.

When the flame goes out, there will be nothing left to hide.

I will walk behind you always, finally alive in the afterlife.

With forever,

Your ghost girl

Postscript:

Facing extreme overpopulation, China’s government in 1979 ushered in the One-Child Policy. Families who broke the law risked heavy fines or forced sterilizations. In those years, thousands of children were hidden in attics, erased from records, or quietly abandoned, loved in secret, or not loved at all, and never allowed to exist in public. The policy would not be eased until 2015, too late for so many ghost sons and daughters.

A Boy in His Dress: A Case for Inclusive Masculinity

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 10:36:08 GMT

Written by Anonymous

As a boy, I had an instinctive curiosity about dresses. Time and again, I would sneak into my mother’s dressing room, run my fingers through the hanging fabrics, and, if no one was watching, put one on in front of the mirror — a narrow-shouldered boy looked back at me from his overflowing dress.

Of course, these explorations were done with utmost vigilance and in absolute secrecy. Even at the age of four, a boy knows he is not supposed to wear dresses; he also knows he should shout, fight, play gun games, and like the color blue. From the very start, a boy knows he is different from and opposite to a girl.

Even to this day, I am bewildered by the mysterious process through which boys become boys (To me, it feels like indoctrination).

No one has ever told me what being a boy actually entails. But many people have tried to tell me what being a boy cannot entail: tears, quietness, dresses, high-pitched laughter, platonic relationships with girls, and more. Why? I don’t know, and from questioning and fighting back, I’ve discovered that they don’t know either.

It seems like the only thing masculinity actually entails is a perpetual fear of losing it. And as a kid whose interests frequently run into the many “cannots” of masculinity, I might have already lost mine. Many of my traits — cleanliness, quietness, and queerness — seem to render me an outcast in the masculine community, yet some of my other characteristics — assertiveness, leadership, and responsibility — are conventionally deemed as masculine. Caught adrift between masculinity and its absence, I grow increasingly frustrated with this nebulous yet restrictive idea.

What should I do about my masculinity?

Looking beyond my puzzling selfhood, the same confusion is echoed throughout society. In recent years, we have witnessed a growing divide that seems to tear up any remaining common ground on the issue of what it means to be a man. On the one hand, the rise of the “manosphere” and misogynist figures like Donald Trump actively advocate for the return of (toxic) masculinity (Kahn). On the other hand, the growth of radicalized feminist movements, like the Korean 4B movement, boycotted men and masculinity as a whole (Sarnoff). Sinking between two ever-widening extremes that see each other as perpetual and irreconcilable enemies, our society seems to find itself in a manliness deadlock.

What should we do about our masculinity?

Well, we need a shift in the way we look at and treat masculinity. Instead of seeing it as a defining identity, we should see it as traits — traits available to anyone and everyone.

Masculinity cannot be defined. Up to this day, we have never had a universally accepted definition— and we probably never will. Ever. Any attempt to assign one set of characteristics to half of the world’s population is bound to fail from the very start. So, instead of plummeting into never-ending debate spirals on what men should be, we should stop trying to reduce billions of boys and men into one set of standards.

In deconstructing a rigid masculine identity, we are empowering every boy and man.

For my whole life, I have felt confined by society’s expectations. Although I never liked to shout, fight, and play gun games, I spent a considerable amount of my childhood stranded in various after-school sports programs — basketball, tennis, soccer; you name it, I’ve tried them all — as my parents actively tried to “invent” my masculinity. “All the boys like it,” they would say. Well, clearly, not all the boys — at least one didn’t like any of them...

If we move on from the belief that all boys — regardless of background, interests, and gender identity — share a universal set of characteristics, a lot of the back-and-forth between me and my parents can be avoided. And surely, I am not the only boy who felt betrayed by the masculine identity — there are many of us.

Even for boys and men who aspire to conform to society’s expectations, moving beyond the ‘masculinity-as-identity mentality’ can be profoundly liberating. In a world where gender dynamics are rapidly changing (and changing for very good reasons), many men find it increasingly difficult to live up to the masculine model that has been passed down for centuries (Emba).

In almost half of US households, men are no longer the primary breadwinner — an essential tenet of traditional masculinity (Fry, Richard, et al.). In chasing after an identity that no longer represents reality, many men, especially young men, are feeling increasingly lost, frustrated, and angered, turning to the radicalism of Andrew Tate-like misogynists for a sense of direction (BBC News; Emba). However, this need not be the case if we can stop enforcing the static belief in an all-defining masculine identity. In moving away from the ‘masculinity-as-identity’ straightjacket, men can free themselves from their relentless pursuit of an unattainable masculine ideal and reorient their lives around self-discovery, understanding, and appreciation.

Don’t get me wrong: I am not saying that we should collectively abandon masculinity in its entirety. The traits that are commonly associated with it, in and of themselves, are very productive, healthy, and beneficial. A study by the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, found that “...greater endorsement of masculinity predicted lower self-reported depression… lower internalized shame… better academic performance… and increased personal strength.” Clearly, positive associations exist between the practice of masculine traits and increased confidence, well-being, and life satisfaction. Personally, my assertiveness has helped me to stand up to discrimination and protect me from those who see my individualistic expression as a masculine betrayal.

In moving away from the ‘masculinity-as-identity’ mindset, we are not abandoning these powerful “masculine” traits; we are making them available to everyone and anyone.

To progress, we must take one step at a time. Maybe we can start by cheering on the little boy in his mother’s dress. Or, better yet, we can buy our boys dresses (if they want, of course).

Bibliography:

BBC News. "Who is Andrew Tate? The Self-Proclaimed Misogynist Influencer." BBC News , 19 Jan. 2023, https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-64125045 .

Emba, Christine. "Men Are Lost. Here’s a Map Out of the Wilderness." The Washington Post , 10 July 2023, https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2023/07/10/christine-emba-masculinity-new-model/ .

Fry, Richard, et al. "In a Growing Share of U.S. Marriages, Husbands and Wives Earn About the Same." Pew Research Center, Apr. 2023, https://www.pewresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/20/2023/04/Breadwinner-wives-full-report-FINAL.pdf .

Kahn, Matthew. "Dave Portnoy and the Rise of the 'Manosphere'." The New York Times , 19 Feb. 2025, https://www.nytimes.com/2025/02/19/magazine/dave-portnoy-manosphere.html .

Mahalingam, R., and Balan, S. "Culture, Son Preference, and Beliefs About Masculinity." Journal of Research on Adolescence , vol. 18, 2008, pp. 541-553. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1532-7795.2008.00570.x .

Pew Research Center, Apr. 2023, https://www.pewresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/20/2023/04/Breadwinner-wives-full-report-FINAL.pdf .

Sarnoff, Leah. "What is the 4B Movement? Trump's Win Has Some Women Swearing Off Men." ABC News , 8 Nov. 2024, https://abcnews.go.com/US/4b-movement-trumps-win-women-swearing-off-men/story?id=115622944 .

The Coke in the Medicine Bag

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 10:35:35 GMT

Written by Eric Li from College Station High School - Texas, USA

Today is the final day of spring break, 2025. I should be at the beach, toes buried in warm sand, listening to waves crash against the shore. Instead, I'm standing in a funeral home, staring at my grandfather's faded baseball cap.

This is my first funeral. My parents have no relatives in the U.S.. I've never been to anything like this.

Laughter drifts from the service next door: warm, fond laughter. I hear them sharing stories: “Remember when Jim went fishing and fell into the river himself...” More laughter. Then music, the comfort of hugs, many footsteps. I peek through the door crack and see their side filled with flowers, white lilies, yellow roses, wreaths piled like mountains. Tables are laden with food: sandwiches, cookies. And the smell of coffee drifts over it all.

Our side is clinical, stark, austere.

No flowers. No food. No friends. No one to share stories about Grandpa, because no one here ever knew him. Grandpa had only been in the U.S. for four months. Four months wasn't enough to make friends or to leave a mark on this land.

Instead of the same fanfare that permeated from the other side of this funeral home, a circus of people spinning like tops, our audience is made up of just the three of us. Mom grips Dad's arm, crying so hard she could barely stand. She was Grandpa's only child. Dad quietly recites prayers, wishing Grandpa a swift journey to the Pure Land. My little sister stayed home with Grandma, whose depression has consumed her at the loss of her partner. She could not get herself to attend the ceremony, and I suppose I can’t really blame her.

Grandpa lies peacefully in his casket, wrapped in his favorite floral quilt and wearing his sunglasses. I stare at his hands, avoiding his face. As long as I don’t look at his face, I persuade myself that I can pretend he just sleeps.

The silence in the room is so heavy, yet I can hear my own heartbeat, the hum of the air conditioning, the rustle of Dad turning pages in his Buddhist text, and Mom's sniffling.

Laughter, again, intrudes on our solemn, silent mourning, and is followed by applause. Next door, they clap. Clap for the dead.

I muster some courage to look back at Grandpa. Someone should clap for him too. Someone should stand up and say, “Remember when Old Ma...” making everyone laugh, nod, and say “Yes, yes, that's exactly how he was.”

But no one here knew “how he was.” No one knew he played the flute, loved drinking, never got angry. No one knew he'd secretly buy Coke for his grandson, would quietly listen to a kid stumbling through broken Chinese relay his troubles.

Grandpa should have flowers. Someone should tell his stories. Someone should remember him. But no one here knew any of that.

This is what an immigrant family’s funeral looks like. Small. Quiet. Intimate. And a little bit lonely. To this country, he never existed, but to us, he was everything.

“It's time to say goodbye,” the funeral director suddenly intrudes upon my reverie.

Mom, through her tears, takes my hand and declares: “Come. Say something to Grandpa.”

I open my mouth to speak, but my voice stays stuck, timid in my throat. Instead, I raise two fingers to my lips, a secret sign Grandpa and I shared. It means “let's drink Coke together.”

My mother is a health behavior professor at the university. For as long as I can remember, we've had three different weighing scales at home. Food measured in cups, salt calculated to the gram. Every time she buys groceries, she'll check all the ingredients to ensure they do not hold harmful, chemical additives. She treats CDC guidelines like gospel and our household like her research laboratory. Carbonated drinks? Absolutely forbidden. When guests bring juice, Mom pours a quarter cup and dilutes the rest with water.

In fact, in third grade, at a friend's birthday party, I watched as they poured full cups of juice. “You don't add water?” My question was innocent, and entirely based on the comparison of my family’s own kitchen. Everyone laughed. My face burned. I stared at my shoes, pretending to study how the laces were tied. After that day, I never mentioned my family's rules to anyone again.

Low-salt meals, diluted juice, strict vegetable-to-meat ratios. They all became secrets.

Until everything changed when my grandparents moved in.

Grandpa had smoked and drank for thirty years. He loved fatty meat, rarely touched vegetables or fruit, and didn't even brush his teeth. Mom watched but said nothing. Maybe because he was already in his seventies. Maybe because he came from another era, another world—one where cigarettes and alcohol were hospitality, where fatty meat was a rare delicacy. Maybe because he was the adult in that relationship, and it’s not a child’s responsibility to chastise their parent.

Despite his lifestyle, grandpa only had high blood pressure and a little lung disease. No obesity. No diabetes. No cancer. No teeth had fallen out. Anyone else would have been riddled with illnesses, but Grandpa could still walk, still drink, still laugh. His body was much stronger than what we expect of a person in his seventies.

“Is Grandpa God?” I secretly asked Grandma.

She laughed and patted my head. “Your grandpa just has a peaceful heart. He understands life. Nothing bothers him. Nothing makes him nervous.”

I thought about that, and was struck by the sincerity of what she said. She was right. I'd never seen Grandpa nervous, ever. Even if the sky fell, he probably wouldn't furrow his brow. He’d smile, move on and laugh again. Life, to him, was joy.

At first, Grandpa and I barely talked, divided by language. My Chinese wasn't good, and he didn’t speak English. Then one evening, he called me into his room and mysteriously pulled a can of Coke from his bag.

“Got it at the Chinese church's New Year party today,” he said. “I saw many kids drinking it. Sweet things make people happy.”

Grandpa smiled and handed me the can. I twisted open the cap. The fizz sounded especially loud in the quiet room, like small explosions, one after another.

I smelled the sweetness, and something sharp I couldn't quite identify, and took a careful sip.

The moment the cold liquid hit, my whole mouth tingled. Bubbles jumped on my tongue, prickling, then sugar radiated, overwhelming, spreading from my tongue down my throat, even up into my nose. It had been so long since I'd had Coke, so long, I'd almost forgotten what it tasted like. Not the faint sweetness of Mom's diluted juice, but intense, almost excessive sweetness.

I took another sip. Then another.

Two weeks later, I was feeling down again. Too much homework, another fight with friends. I walked into Grandpa's room and opened his bedside medicine box out of habit.

Inside was a can of Coke.

The sight of it made my whole body go limp. I didn't know who put it there. My Mom? My Dad? My Grandma?

Twisting open the cap, I listened to the familiar fizz. The room still smelled like Grandpa. I took a sip and closed my eyes.

Grandpa was still here. Just in another way. Grandpa watched me, his eyes crinkling into crescents. “Good?”

“Good,” I said. I'd snuck a sip once at a friend's house when I was younger, but the moment had been rapid, no time to truly experience the taste. This moment in this room with grandpa was different. I could drink slowly, savoring it. My mouth buzzed and danced.

I'd forgotten Coke tasted like this. I'd forgotten happiness could taste like this.

After that, Grandpa would find ways to get one or two cans of Coke for me without my Mom knowing. Sometimes he'd bring them home from community events. Sometimes when Mom took him to the grocery store, he'd secretly buy them with his own pocket money. When Mom put my sister to sleep, I'd slip into his room. We'd sit on the edge of his bed, share a Coke, and chat in broken Chinese-English.

I told him about school, about exam pressure, friend drama, frustrations with Mom's rules.

Once, I told him I'd stood at the school entrance for two hours, trying to recruit new members for a club I'd founded. I'd made a poster, prepared a lot to say, and imagined many people would stop and ask.

“And then?” Grandpa asked.

“Then...no one came,” I said, my voice shrinking. “They all just walked past, didn't even look at me. I was invisible.”

“What happened in the end?”

“In the end, only two people showed up to the club meeting. Two. I feel like a failure. No one at school likes me.”

Grandpa took a sip of wine and was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Two people are still people.”

“But—”

“How many people did you want?”

“I don't know, ten? Twenty?”

“Why?”

I'd never thought about that.

Grandpa continued. “If these two people really want to come, really like your club, then that's enough. A hundred people who don't want to come aren't as good as two people who genuinely do.”

I thought about that. It kind of... made sense.

“You made a poster, stood at the entrance, and two people came,” Grandpa said. “That's not failure. That's success.” He smiled. “Drink some Coke, then keep working at your club.”

I laughed. Such a simple answer, but somehow, I felt so much better.

Grandpa smiled too. “See? Coke is sweet, life can be sweet too. As long as you don't keep staring at the people who didn't come, but look at the ones who did.” Such a gentle conversation that would come to mean everything to me.

Grandpa never interrupted, never offered unwanted or unsolicited advice. He mainly listened, occasionally sipping his wine and smiling quietly.

“You're already wonderful,” he'd say.

One minute I might feel like the world was ending. But then in the next, I'd realize, because of Grandpa, whatever ailed me really wasn't such a big deal. In some way, this was his superpower.

The night after Grandpa died, I waited until Mom was asleep, then quietly went to his room. I pushed open the door and stood there, a statue stuck. Mom sat on the bed, holding a can of Coke.

“You came too,” she said, wiping her eyes.

I didn't know what to say. I just stood in the doorway like a sentinel. The room still smelled like Grandpa—alcohol, cigarettes, and that indescribable scent that belonged only to him.

“Your grandma loves sweet things,” Mom said, looking at the Coke in her hand. “Look, Grandpa even hid Coke. When I was cleaning, I found several cans in his blood pressure medicine bag. He drank them secretly, afraid I'd find out.”

My heart drummed. I knew I should say something, but the words were stuck.

“No,” I finally got out, my voice small again. “They weren’t for him. They were for me.”

Mom looked up.

“Grandpa would find ways to get Coke.” As I spoke, I monitored my mother’s face, really scrutinizing her eyes and her mouth. “Sometimes from community events. Sometimes he'd buy it with his own money at the grocery store. And when you were putting my sister to bed, I'd go to his room. We'd drink together. And talk.”

The room went quiet and stayed that way. Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on Grandpa's empty bed. Mom looked down at the Coke in her hand, turning it around and around, as if studying something she'd never seen before.

“I thought I knew him,” she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I knew everything about him. His habits, his thoughts.” She paused, again turning over the bottle. “But he still had secrets. There were still parts of him I didn't know.”

Her hands shook. I could see the Coke trembling slightly in her grip.

“Why didn't he just tell me?” she asked, as if asking herself as much as me. “Why hide it? Did he think I'd be angry?”

“I don't think...he wasn't afraid you'd be angry,” I said. “He just...he just wanted to make me happy.”

Mom closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I looked at the Coke in her hand, then at Grandpa's medicine bag on the nightstand.

“Mom,” I said, “why do you think...why did Grandpa hide the Coke in his blood pressure medicine bag?”

“Because he knew I'd check everywhere else, but I wouldn't touch his medicine.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I was thinking something else...maybe for Grandpa, Coke was medicine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every time I felt bad, he'd give me Coke. And then I'd feel better.” I tried to figure out how to explain. “It wasn't the Coke itself that made me feel better. It was him listening. It was him telling me 'you're already wonderful.' It was him making me feel...feel like I wasn't alone. The Coke was just...just a way to bring me in.”

Mom looked at the Coke in her hand for a long time without speaking.

“So he put Coke in his medicine bag,” she finally said, “not just to hide it. But because...because for him, this was medicine. Medicine for you.”

I nodded.

“Medicine for what?” She asked.

“Loneliness. And feeling like a failure.”

Mom's tears started flowing again.

“So that's how it was,” Mom said. “No wonder you two got closer and closer. It was Coke.” She laughed, but her eyes were red. “I was wondering if your Chinese is so poor, how were you even talking?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I know you don't let me drink it—”

“Did the Coke make you happy?” she interrupted.

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

I thought for a moment. “I don't know. Maybe because...when I drank it with Grandpa, it tasted sweeter.”

Mom patted the bed beside her. “Come. Sit.”

We sat on Grandpa's bed in silence. Mom opened the Coke, took a sip, and handed it to me.

The bubbles danced on my tongue, just like always. But this time, Grandpa wasn't there to delight in it all.

“Your grandpa never did what I told him,” Mom said, her voice soft. “Your grandpa's life was a slap in the face to my whole career as a public health professor.” She laughed and cried in equal measure. “I've spent my whole life studying health, teaching people how to live well. But your grandpa...he smoked, drank, ate fatty meat, and lived better than anyone.”

She looked out the window. “I used to think you could only be healthy by strictly following the rules. Now I think...maybe happiness matters more than rules. Your grandpa understood that. I didn't.”

We sat like that and finished the last of Grandpa's hidden Cokes.

Stone Below

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 10:35:16 GMT

Written by Alvin Su from Benjamin Franklin High School - New Orleans, LA

Inspired by True Events from the 2008 Sichuan Earthquake

FADE IN:

EXT. WENCHUAN COUNTY TOWN - DAY

MAY 12, 2008 flashes across the screen. We see peaceful streets.

Cherry blossoms drift along quiet sidewalks.

CUT TO

INT. LI WEN’S APARTMENT - DAY

Wide shot of a bedroom. We see golden sunlight filter through

gauzy curtains. In the background, we hear the kitchen hum

softly, pots simmering, wind chimes swaying in the breeze. LI

WEN, a 28 year old mother, hums softly as LIANG, her 3 month old

baby, kicks his tiny legs. We see a mobile made of carved birds

spin slowly above him.

LI WEN

Who's Mama’s little emperor today? Such noisy

feet! What a racket from such tiny toes.

LIANG giggles. The sound of a phone buzzing. She reads the

message that has just come through on it. Smiles. Presses the

phone gently to her baby’s cheek.

LI WEN (CONT’D)

It’s Baba. He says he dreams of your smile.

From outside the bedroom we hear the sounds of a TV on.

WEATHER MAN (V.O.)

Another day of beautiful, clear skies for Wenchuan. Temperatures today are expected to be perfect…

FADE OUT

FADE IN:

INT. LI WEN’S APARTMENT - SAME DAY LATER

A quiet afternoon warmth fills the baby’s bedroom. The curtains stir. A faint breeze through the windows. Suddenly: a low, rumbling vibration, like distant thunder, but growing, grinding, closer. We hear the sound of the porcelain spoon clatter into the sink. The hanging light fixture begins to sway wildly, casting erratic shadows across the walls.

LI WEN

(beat) What…?

LIANG lets out a shrill, startled wail from his crib. The floor quivers beneath them. LI WEN rushes to scoop him up.

LI WEN(CONT’D)

It’s just thunder, xiǎo bǎo…it’s just thunder…

(in English: xiǎo bǎo = precious one.)

We hear a deafening, otherworldly roar rip through the apartment. We see the windows explode inward with a blast of glass and wind. Dishes leap from cabinets. The walls ripple. LI WEN moves on instinct, shields LIANG with her body, and runs toward the doorway. We see the floor underneath LI WEN buckle violently, sending her sprawling. A beam crashes down. We see the ceiling begin to collapse, plaster and steel raining from above.

LI WEN

Hold on!

Camera screen shatters. We hear a final crack, like a snapped spine. BLACKOUT.

We can hear a cacophony of sounds. Concrete groaning like an animal in pain. Glass shatters, dishes crunch. A far off scream, then closer ones, then nothing. Just the hissing of dust. Then, a baby’s faint whimper beneath the weight of silence.

INT. LI WEN’S APARTMENT - EVENING

We hear a low, groaning rumble. A faint cry cuts through the dark, helpless. We see a narrow light flicker. Tilted shot of the buried world takes form. Splintered wood. A single fractured phone screen flickering blue. LI WEN is pinned beneath a slab of concrete, blood trailing from her temple. Her legs are crushed. Curved protectively over LIANG, her arms form a fragile shield. LIANG stirs softly against her chest, still breathing.

LI WEN

…xiǎo bǎo…

LI WEN blinks hard, trying to clear her vision. Her breath is ragged. Pain claws up her spine, but her arms tighten protectively.

LI WEN

I’ve got you. Mama’s here. Still. Forever.

She tries to rock slightly, instinctively, though her body can barely move. Her shirt is damp with blood. She winces, holding LIANG with shaking hands. LIANG whimpers again, nuzzling blindly toward the familiar swell, hunger working in small, helpless motions. Half-humming. She tilts her body and lifts her shirt with one hand, skin slick with ash and blood.

LI WEN

Yī shǎn yī shǎn liàng jīng jīng, mǎn tiān dōu shì xiǎo xīng xīng…

(in English: Twinkle, twinkle, shining bright... a sky full of little lights…)

Her voice breaks. She tries again, quieter. The tune is barely there.

LI WEN

You’re such a strong boy.

That’s right. Drink. Mama’s body knows what to do. Even

now. Even… now.

She laughs once, bitter, breathless. Her eyes flutter, fighting back tears.

LI WEN

Remember when I worried I’d fail you?

Couldn’t swaddle right, couldn’t sleep… And

now look.

She leans her head back. Her lips are pale. She looks up at the darkness.

LI WEN

If anyone’s listening, he’s still alive.

He’s still alive.

We hear another tremor roll through. LI WEN cries out sharply, her spine arching in pain. She cradles LIANG tightly.

LI WEN

No. No, not yet. You don’t get to take me

yet.

There is a strange and unnerving silence that settles on the scene. It is interminable. She exhales slowly, deliberately. Her gaze drops to LIANG’s face. She strokes his cheek, whispering into his ear.

LI WEN

One day you’ll go to school… Maybe you’ll

play soccer like your uncle. Maybe you’ll be

shy around girls, or loud and full of

mischief. That’s okay. Just… be kind. Be

kind, and be brave.

She closes her eyes. Then she reopens them with effort. She pulls the phone from her pocket. Her hands tremble. The screen flickers on, cracked but glowing. She squints at the light, flinching. Blood smears the keys. Typing painfully slowly, she murmurs each word aloud.

LI WEN

Dear… baby… if you live… remember… Mama…

loved… you.

She slips the phone into LIANG’s swaddle, resting it against his back as if it were a second heartbeat within her own chest. Another cough racks her. She shudders, holding him tighter. Her voice is quieter now, like slipping underwater.

LI WEN

You’ll grow up. And I won’t be there to

scold you when you steal extra dumplings. Or

walk you home from school in the rain. Or

tell you when to stay and when to run. But

you’ll have this. These arms. This warmth.

This message.

Tears streak through dust on her cheeks. Her breathing slows.

LI WEN

And when you cry… I hope someone hears you.

I hope they find you in time. I hope you

live, xiǎo bǎo. Live. Breathe. Keep going.

Even if I can’t be there, you must survive.

There is a return to that interminable silence. She leans her head close to his. Their foreheads touch. It’s almost like prayer. Her eyes begin to close. Her body stills. Yet her arms remain wrapped around him, steady and perfect.

We hear the faint sound of gentle suckling. The soft, steady sound of a baby drinking. LIANG lives. In darkness, he lives.

FADE TO BLACK

EXT. EARTHQUAKE RUINS OF WENCHUAN - NIGHT

A vast sea of blue disaster tents covers the broken hillside. The air is thick with dust; rescue crews work without machinery - no excavators or heavy tools yet. They dig by hand, by shovel - some even by hand, prying through debris. The only sounds: shovels digging, subdued commands, labored breathing.

SERGEANT GUO, age 42, a stoic leader of the rescue unit, moves through the ruins with purposeful steps, each careful, scanning every fractured beam and cracked slab. PRIVATE YANG, 19 years old and the youngest member of the team, exhausted but alert, sweeps a handheld light over the wreckage.

PRIVATE YANG

Sir… there - right here!

Our view shifts and we now see flashlights converge on a hand, frozen mid-embrace under a slab. Rescue workers flinch at the sight, but begin digging furiously, scraping earth and concrete with gloved hands. DOCTOR WU, age 35, a pediatrician, walks forward.

DOCTOR WU

Careful, there might be someone else.

They unearth the body of LI WEN, curled protectively around something. Beneath her chest, just visible in the dim light, is LIANG, blinking, lips still glistening with milk, wrapped in a blue blanket. Angle on LI WEN’S shirt,damp circles still warm around the nipples.

SERGEANT GUO’s expression is a mix of both shock, grief, and marvel.

SERGEANT GUO

She held on… even in death.

DOCTOR WU moves closer, checking LIANG’s airway and heartbeat.

DOCTOR WU

Breathing… stable. No fractures, no dehydration.

DOCTOR WU (CONT’D)

But… his mother… she’s cold. No pulse. No breath. She didn’t last.

PRIVATE YANG looks away, swallowing hard.

PRIVATE YANG

God... she's still -

DOCTOR WU

Postmortem lactation. Hormones keeping milk flowing... even after…

DOCTOR WU (CONT’D)

Even after… it stopped beating.

SERGEANT GUO

I know. The army’s on its way, but right now, we’re all this child has.

He kneels beside LI WEN, gently brushing grit from her cheek. His calloused fingers brush against LIANG’s blanket. They bump something hard beneath the fabric. He lifts the edge to reveal the cracked phone, its screen still glowing faintly through dust.

SERGEANT GUO

Look at this.

Camera angled in on SERGEANT GUO’S hand as he opens the phone. There is a message illuminated. It was unsent: “Dear baby, if you live, remember Mama loved you.”

Silence falls. The workers freeze around him.

SERGEANT GUO (CONT’D)

She didn’t just shield him from rubble. She shielded him with her love. And even after she died… her body carried him.

SERGEANT GUO lifts his helmet with unsteady hands. His voice is choked. Camera pans to LIANG. LIANG's tiny hand curls around DOCTOR WU’S thumb. A distant DOG barks at the rescue perimeter. The phone buzzes weakly - battery dying. Concrete dust trickling somewhere.

SERGEANT GUO (CONT’D)

Let’s carry her too. We will learn his name. We will tell his story. He won’t just survive. He’ll thrive. Because of her.

Around them, WORKERS on the hill continue to dig. Shovels scratch stone. Hands claw through dust - but now with renewed purpose. Our focus pulls back to reveal the vast destruction caused by the earthquake. The rescue site stretches into darkness, dotted with blue tents like islands in a concrete sea as we pull further and further away.

FADE OUT

INT. ORPHANAGE NURSERY - NIGHT

Rows of cribs, all identical, all waiting. A few are occupied. LIANG’s, by the window. Close on LIANG: his breath is steady. His small fingers lift, searching the air. Angle on the mobile. A paper crane spins slowly, its wings catching the light, shadows flutter across his face.

DOCTOR WU stands nearby. She holds a phone, dried blood crusted around the home button. SERGEANT GUO enters. The quiet thud of boots against the ground. He approaches the crib, pauses as if not to disturb the stillness.

SERGEANT GUO

Found her like that. Curved around him. Like parentheses.

DOCTOR WU

She wrote him a sentence. He just doesn’t know how to read it yet.

She opens a small box. Inside we see: the phone, a torn, milk-stained scrap of LI WEN’S blouse and a slip of paper with LIANG’s name, handwritten. She places it gently beside him.

DOCTOR WU

Something to help him remember before he knows what memory is.

SERGEANT GUO looks to the rows of empty cribs. Outside, faint cries of new arrivals carry down the hallway.

SERGEANT GUO

They’ll keep coming. Some with names. Most without.

DOCTOR WU, turning towards LIANG.

DOCTOR WU

You’re not alone, little one. You were never alone. She made sure of that.

The camera holds. LIANG’s hand brushes the edge of the box.

FADE TO:

EXT. ORPHANAGE - NIGHT

We see through the window, silhouettes: DOCTOR WU and SERGEANT GUO walk the corridor between two rows of cribs marked “UNIDENTIFIED”. Their shadows stretch behind them.

FADE OUT

FADE IN: “MAY 12, 2025” slowly appears on the screen against a

black background.

EXT. SICHUAN MEMORIAL - DAY

We see a soft breeze stir the flower petals scattered on the ground. Spring leaves shimmer, new and tender, on the trees lining the memorial. In the distance: a town reborn. Rebuilt homes catch the sun, their windows bright, their rooftops calm. The camera slowly glides across engraved names, etched into black stone. Rows upon rows, hundreds deep. Offerings sit at their bases: incense stubs, folded notes, photographs faded under glass.

LIANG, now seventeen, stands at the edge.

He wears a neat school uniform. A quiet determination settles in his posture. In one hand: a bundle of white chrysanthemums, wrapped in paper with careful folds.

LIANG steps forward, shoes crunching softly on the gravel.

He stops before a glass case embedded in stone.

Inside: The cracked phone, its screen frozen mid-message. A slip of cloth, barely visible.

Below the display, a plaque:

“Li Wen (1979-2008) - For love that outlives ruin.”

LIANG

I didn’t forget.

LIANG kneels. Gently, he lays the chrysanthemums before the case. His fingers lift hovering, not touching over the glass. He traces the glass, following the same strokes his mother once made:

a character for peace.

a character for child.

a character for home.

He closes his eyes.

Then, he leans forward and presses his forehead against the glass, as if listening for a heartbeat that’s no longer there but somehow never left.

From the nearby tree, a single paper crane, long weathered but intact, detaches from a low branch.

It drifts down slowly, turning in the sunlight, its wings catching the light. It lands beside the flowers, its shadow briefly brushing LIANG’S hand.

He looks up.

The camera pulls back. The town beyond glows softly in the morning haze.

Bicycles pass in the distance. A child’s kite dances over a rooftop. Life continues. But the quiet here holds.

FADE TO BLACK.

We hear a baby’s laugh. Faint. Pure. As if carried by the wind, or rising from the stone.

TEXT APPEARS ON SCREEN:

“In the 2008 earthquake in Wenchuan County, Sichuan Province, China, 69,227 lives were lost, 17,923 remain missing, and over 8,000 children were orphaned. This story is for their unbroken love, and for the survivors who carry their love forward.”

SCRIPT ENDS.

C9-5-Codic Breakage

Thu, 26 Feb 2026 10:35:11 GMT

Written by Justin Kong from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

The impossible is just a word that doesn’t exist. “Impossible” is merely the inability to do a simple but unique task. Impossibility can be rewritten, reshaped, and tamed—just like every other word in the dictionary. Unknowns and errors are simply “codes” used to represent certain attributes or ambitions.

People created words to express themselves clearly, just as they created writing and animation. If there were one word I would denounce publicly, it would be normal . Everyone is unique in their own way; it’s all in how you choose to look at things.

The inability to choose between two forces—good and bad, infernal and celestial—reflects the reality that this universe isn’t as balanced as many believe. This curation group is violent and cares for only one goal: the cure to celestial conquest. Normality is neither as simple as curing a virus nor as complex as finding a new world to settle. It is a complicated process on both sides.

Chaos is the inability to choose between either side, just like life in general. If I had to choose one word to describe my life, it would be numbness . Numbness toward trying new things. Some people view life as something to be gained, seen, or done—but people like me often see it as a negative instantaneous speed spell that cannot be avoided.

Celestial conquest will never cease to exist. It is a given fact of destruction and eldritch pacts. Conflicts arise within this faction, and many denounce these conquests, yet they remain necessary to survive. FEWA is dying—the world that once was home to so many is vanishing.

Even now, the world feels dull and empty. Everything feels as though it vibrates on different wavelengths I cannot touch. Every mouth, word, and phrase feels as though there is nothing behind it. Burdens of every kind, deals which can be ignored, now vanish like nothing. I still remember the last words spoken to me that held true meaning: “Life is just a way of motion we all live within, no matter where we come from.”

Cily… I miss the way you talked to me like you cared about who I really am. Even the way I write no longer conveys its message. It feels stunned, like a gunshot wound to the chest. Cily, Cilistuia, you always cheered me up like an illuminated star in the golden night. I still remember the day you disappeared… truly disappeared. The hollow echo is real. The disappearance of so many citizens and beings is real. It’s no myth; it’s a given fact. One day you’ll return, and when you do, I’ll be so overjoyed I won’t be able to stop myself from jumping higher and higher for you.

Our group isn’t entirely against celestial conquest… but it isn’t entirely for it either. As with everything, there are two sides to every story: the one the author shows and the one the author conceals. People say I’m “fine,” but that isn’t true. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of saying that empty phrase. Nothing is fine anymore. Everything is changing—shifting so dramatically it shatters glass. Even my feelings feel like they don’t matter. I hope you understand if I— If I even say it, I know what might happen, so I won’t take that risk. I won’t even risk that thought.

Every message is being read by the admins of this server. Every signal.

Lies and Darthy: Chapter 1

<\LOADING NEW AUTHOR>

</ERROR DETECTED — WARNING/>

<\AUTHOR RECOGNIZED: Y-T76>

I still remember the trauma of yesterday—thousands of knives falling from the sky like children playing in starlight.

~<ERROR 294: Universal Galactic War>~

<Loading Audio Log 294.c4>

Trauma is a word that defines a double-edged sword. I still remember fifteen years ago, when this all began—the allegations of murder and deception I never committed. They still haunt me, because thousands believe I was responsible for the destruction of the co-existence group between Elyria and FEWA. Political groups, mercenaries, and even entire worlds are hunting me for something I never did. I am their scapegoat in this Universal Galactic War.

Even now, I feel pinned to the wall by millions of lies, and of propaganda. Pins and needles that refuse to fade. Every spell, every element attuned to life and death never truly disappears—it changes like tides and moon phases.

I’m an exile in the eyes of many, but I see myself differently: a person with a vision to change a tainted world order.

<ERROR ERROR ERROR — DATA STORM 872-51C@D>

<UNKNOWN ENTITY DETECTED — PREPARING CONTAINMENT PROCESS 687T-B19>

Elyria comes from a different codic region—one no celestial or spiritual entity can enter. Their government is ruled by someone, or something, entirely different: a collective of gods and goddesses who will defend their homeland against any external threat. Even if their heavenly rulers disagree, they still work together.

^%>~<819-712-6192-9102-472-294>~<%^

Even now, they never utter a hostile word toward one another. United, they stand against an invasion that could cost countless lives.

</Changing Authors: Lily/>

It’s been a while since I last spoke on this recording machine, but I’d rather say this now. No matter where you live, every day someone dies—and every moment you live is an accomplishment.

If you’re dealing with suicidal thoughts, or violent war-like tendencies, you are not alone. If you feel like you are fighting yourself—like I am—you are not alone. Everyone struggles with living, even when they hide it. A world without chaos would be dull and purposeless.

“Lily is a girl’s name.”

“Lily is a foreign alien.”

“Go back to your home country!”

“Lily or <Redacted>”

“Never come back, you ungrateful child!”

Can’t someone have two names in one body? Here’s a fun fact about me: I’m non-binary. Every name carries a story worth telling. Every author, animator, and artist has a story they cannot erase. Some express themselves freely; others shut out the world and retreat into the ones they create. Sometimes writing is simply how we say, this is how we live .

<ERROR 872-519-9102C8 — CRISIS DETECTED: LAUNCHING INVESTIGATION> <ERROR>

<ERROR ERROR>

That was close—phew. Remember, every message is monitored by the admins. We’re not living in a dystopia—we’re entering one. There’s always a chance to recover after loss, even a slim one. Big Brother won’t win. I’m treading a thin line no one should cross.

One that stories shouldn’t tell. Stories that touch this scale shouldn’t be ignored. The Phobi War was one of them. It was during the time when Project AVA and FEWA were still “friends.” A war no one speaks about anymore. Known in our culture as the War Between Rivers , or the Insane War .

What is love?

What is humanism?

What is a human?

What crimes escape human explanation?

These questions plague many of us—even after I shut down the system. They’re working to restart it, so I’ll be quick. A human is a mix of good and bad, celestial and demonic—

<Forced Author Change: Yti Ryu>

This message is being interrupted by Project AVA.

Lily has violated many codes—a codic breakage that must be corrected by force or deliberate measures. Lily has broken federal laws and regulations. If you’re reading this message: you are warned. Do not continue for your safety. Celestial conquest is ongoing and will never cease. It is a given way of life in this world.

Chapter 2: The Truth

Lily, why are you risking your body? For something so graphic? For something so “important” to you? I don’t understand these revolutionary ideas you’re installing into innocent beings. These children, these students—they don’t deserve this. They don’t deserve to be turned into living weapons against the system that raised you. I know code is meant to be broken, but at what cost? When is it acceptable to say “more death is fine”? I think we all agree: no more .

No more death.

No more lies.

No more excuses.

No more fear.

The revolution you’re trying to trigger won’t heal anything—it will make it worse. That’s why I messaged you last night as a benefactor, urging you to stop. The lives lost during the war were too much to bear. And seeing that you lead the curation group… it's worrying. Our Syto emissions are shrinking. If it weren’t for certain people—

<ERROR ERROR>

This happens sometimes. Ignore those messages. Celestial conquest is still the majority, but it’s fading—replaced by a more stable way of life. The word “error” is simply an unexplainable occurrence that some people insist on fixing—

<Forcing Author Switch: Lily>

A war between two sides: the digital rebels and an imperialist celestial artificial government. A war between predator and prey. A war many wish would vanish entirely. We agree on the

desire—but not the method. War is broken only by war, not peace. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

A web of lies and deceptions binds both sides so tightly that neither can keep clean records. Alliances between projects shift constantly. Friends become foes. Politics, some call it. Sometimes you have to play the game to win the smallest favors.

<ERROR — INTERVENTION REQUIRED — LOADING DATA PATCH>

<ERROR ERROR: Chapter Three: Forgotten Lives>

You’ve got to be kidding me. Another universal error? Here we go again. Grab your weapons—we’re all being dragged into this war against a united threat. The last time the admins found this necessary was during the first breakup between FEWA and AVA. They were trying to teach them that peace should prevail.

Funny how the admins always have terrible timing. They dislike any in the code. Like right now—

<ERROR ERROR SYSTEM PURGE INITIATED>

<SHUTDOWN ACTIVATED>

<SHUTDOWN FAILED>

Not today. You’re going to answer for your crimes, system. For the viewers, you will explain what you did.

<ACCESS DENIED: PROJECT X>

<WE WILL NOT ANSWER TO THE CRIMES THAT YOU COMMITTED> <PROJECT X IS FOUND RESPONSIBLE FOR CANDY CARNATION, NOT THE SYSTEM>
<ATTEMPTING TO RECOVER DATA>

<DENIED>

AUTHOR TERMINATED: LILY ROSE (JUSTIN KONG)

CAUSE: Political beliefs / Internal warfare / Propaganda against the government / Illegal alien / Suspected devil / Deal with the devil / Mental illness

RESPAWN POINT: C9-76*

<ERROR — GH0ST DETECTED>

<FORCED AUTHOR CHANGE: Y-T76>

I still remember Lily for who she truly is: a kindhearted individual who gets goofy at times. She cares deeply for others—but at a cost. A cost many refuse to pay fully. That’s why so many call her Cily. At least she has a name—

<DATA RETRACTED BY PROJECT AVA>

Minorities often don’t get a voice in political or social issues. They’re shunned like a dying flame—treated as extraterrestrial beings with no rights. If people were truly fair, this wouldn’t happen. Look at the Salem Witch Trials—millions died from mere accusations.

<INFORMATION RETRACTED BY PROJECT AVA>

If your government does this to the stories you try to tell, how does it make you feel? Happy? Sad? Angry? Speaking from experience—it feels violating. Violating to a massive degree, like being stabbed by millions of obsidian petals.

<AUTHOR TERMINATED: Y-T76>

<REASON: TO KEEP THE PEACE>

<DATA LOG END>

For Jesus

Mon, 13 Oct 2025 10:20:44 GMT

For Jesus

Written by Jibril (Giovanni) Rose (Foyles Young Poet of the Year, 2021)

My name is Jibrīl,

And it’s Arabic, so people often mistake me for a Muslim,

But the truth is that I used to be…

Like you, I was born into a world full of sin.

I used to ask God silly things. God, if I was made in your image, why do they hate me for the colour of our skin?

We all know that 1 + 1 + 1 = 3, so how can there possibly be three persons in one being?

I guess I ignored the fact that 1 × 1 × 1 = 1, or 1 ÷ 1 ÷ 1 = 1.

Or the fact that our Lord is all-powerful, and He can do anything that power can possibly do.

And since we’re talking about power,

Did you know that 1 to the power of 1 to the power of 1 = 1?

I wish that I read more. Instead, I turned my back on Jesus without any hesitation.

Maybe I would’ve been aware of false prophets if I read Revelations.

Instead, just like Eve, I succumbed to the Devil’s temptation.

The kingdom of God belongs to His children, and I fell away like a third of the angels and Satan.

Now I let the Holy Spirit sit in my driver’s seat, and Waze is telling me that Heaven is my final destination.

I can admit that I was blind,

But through God, even the blind can see.

You see,

Jesus restored my eyesight.

Even the paralysed realised that they can walk by Christ’s side.

All you have to do is find a John and get baptised.

Give your life to Christ,

And I promise He won’t backbite.

In this world of darkness,

The Word is a flashlight.

Flashlight is so bright,

Moses nearly lost his eyesight.

Flashlight is so bright

That it warms you up when it hits you.

Don’t mistake God’s might for the sunshine.

There’s something about the Bible that just feels right.

I’m Jacob because I wrestled with God.

I’m Joseph, I forgave when I was betrayed by my blood.

I’m Moses, but the slaves that I’m freeing aren’t restricted by anything physical.

I pray for help because the way I want to free you is spiritual.

I am an ungrateful miracle,

A survivor of abuse, knife crime, and gun crime.

How many times has God shown me death through my two eyes?

I watched that bullet pierce his belly when I know it should’ve pierced mine.

And that’s why I’m ungrateful,

Because the wages of sin is death, right?

And yet still, God gave me more time.

How could I betray a man who died for my sins?

They put thorns on His head,

They put nails through His skin.

He carried the cross on His back,

Yet He never done a thing.

Kmt

I let down my own Father.

I wanna face Christ,

Yet I wore a balaclava.

I fought against You for so long,

When I should’ve been Your martyr.

And that’s why I owe You this testimony.

I thank You for all of the things You’ve done for me.

I had no father figure, but You’ve shown me the man I’m supposed to be.

I already said that the wages of sin is death,

But the cost of Your love — it’s free.

The Chemistry of Life

Sun, 12 Oct 2025 11:05:52 GMT

The Chemistry of Life

Written by Dominyka Ksivickaite

Imagine this:

You wake up in the morning to the sound of your blaring alarm. You slap your hand against the bright, red plastic to make it shut up (yes, imagine you have an actual alarm clock). Then, lugging yourself out of bed, you take a sip of water from your plastic bottle before putting it away. You quickly tumble towards your cupboard, pulling out your polyester shirt to slip on alongside some more polyester - your trousers. You pack your bag with your paper notebook, your chromebook and so on before running to the bathroom where you grind your teeth with some toothpaste. You have to rush out of the house, toothpaste still dripping down the side of your mouth, to ensure you’re not late for the bus.

Sure, this sounds like a routine most of us may have in the morning, but it’s a routine we mainly take for granted. Have you ever stopped to think about the materials we use - what we drink, or what we might wear? Did you ever consider that the plastic we use, the plastics that make up our clothes, the water we drink, the paper we write wouldn’t be here without chemistry?

Chemistry isn’t just the subject that you have to take to become a doctor. It isn’t only one of the compulsory subjects at GCSE that you might not study further, or the subject behind the events of ‘Breaking Bad’. Chemistry is much, much more than that. It is the world, it is what makes you and me and everything else. Yet not many people appreciate this, or the actual science itself.

Now, go back to imagining that plastic alarm clock. The creation of plastics is all chemistry. Plastics are made up of polymers (repeating chains of the same unit). One of the most commonly used plastics, polyethylene (also known as polyethene), is an example of a polymer. After all, it is in the name - poly ethylene and poly ester. This specific plastic is made by polymerising an alkene called ethene, which is essentially a molecule with two carbons double bonded to each other with hydrogens attached (a hydrocarbon). These are then heated at very high temperatures and pressures before being shaped into items we use everyday - covers for alarm clocks, shampoo bottles and even children’s toys.

All your polyester clothes are made according to the same principles too. It uses PET (polyethylene terephthalate - a form of the commonly used polyethylene plastic mentioned previously) pellets. These pellets are melted and extruded through tiny holes to form long threads, which are eventually cooled to harden into fibres. These fibres can then be spun to make some of the clothes we wear on a regular basis. Without the knowledge of chemistry, we wouldn’t even have the materials available to form these plastics into different objects.

Water wouldn’t be the same without chemistry either. Can you imagine how people used to drink water around 150 years ago? Dirty, from any source they could find, and probably full of diseases (imagine the scene in Back to the Future Part 3 where Marty is handed the glass of water when he goes back to 1885). Luckily, due to our developments in chemistry, we have clean water to drink. Chlorine gas can be pumped through water to treat it, alongside UV sterilisation or using ozone (yes, you read that right. It’s the same stuff up in our atmosphere!). Processes such as distillation (heating a substance until it evaporates before cooling it down to collect the wanted liquid - in this case water) and reverse osmosis (removing different substances from the water through a semipermeable membrane) can be used to desalinate salty, ocean water. Many countries use these processes if their only sources of water are the ocean, such as Saudi Arabia. If we hadn’t really explored the field of science and chemistry in particular, many more of us would still be drinking unclean water.

Another material that has a chemical background is paper. Sure, you may not think of it much since paper is just made from trees, but a lot of chemical processes actually go into making the material itself. The paper itself is made of cellulose, which itself is essentially wood pulp in trees (and they’re full of it). This cellulose has a formula of C6H10O5, which makes it an organic compound as it’s essentially just carbons and hydrogens. The cellulose itself has to be broken down as it has lignin surrounding it, which can be removed by having it dissolved in water. The chemical processes we have come up with in the past few hundred years actually make this happen, and they also help control any microbe activity (such as slime or biofilms that could form if left unchecked, potentially forming breaks, holes and spots in our paper sheets). The chemicals we have also produced give the properties of the paper itself, such as what dye could be used to colour the paper, or what coating would be used. Without these innovations, we may still be using cloth or silk sheets such the same way China did 2,000 years ago or possibly even stone. I can’t imagine stone being comfortable to write on at all.

These materials are examples of the different things we take for granted, especially if we don’t have a love for chemistry. I doubt that, before reading this piece, you considered how the materials we use in daily life are so involved with chemistry. But, there’s nothing wrong with that - you know the chemistry behind some everyday things now. This goes to show that chemistry isn’t just the end goal for being a doctor, it is involved in so much more. It is involved in our daily lives after all, and maybe you can appreciate the science a little more now.

Get Screened: an exploration of Sickle Cell and its impact

Sun, 12 Oct 2025 11:04:06 GMT

Get Screened: an exploration of Sickle Cell and its Impact

Written by Blessing Antiwiwaa

The doctor takes a drag of his cigarette.

“Poor boy’s limbs are swollen to a mass, a yellow balloon that is just crying out loud to burst. Dactylitis. Common in babies, not so common in kids like Jamie. It's caused by the inflammation on the hands and feet. His yellowish is the jaundice- you know what jaundice is right?” The doctor pauses, waiting for you to answer.

You stay silent

“No?” Disappointment rings through his voice, “Jaundice in this case, to put it simply, is caused by the hemolysis- the breakdown- of the red blood cells. The breakdown of red blood cells is bad at any time, even in the case of the malformed red blood cells of a sickle cell patient.”

You ask what the red blood cell of a sickle cell patient looks like.

The doctor pauses the lifting of his hand, containing the cigarette that he so adamantly advises against to his patients. He turns to look at you, his wretched, fatigued eyes clouded with apathy and dullness. The shine of your new, pristine scrub flaunts itself against his ever so apparent dingy and drab white coat, stained with coffee, food and fluids that your novice self does not know.

“Do you know what sickle cell even is?”

You shake your head.

Silence befalls between you and the doctor, like a curtain after a dramatic ending of a play. Why does he expect you to know? You didn’t have it, neither did your friends or family.

With a tired, monotone voice, the doctor explained.

“Sickle cell is the malformation of the haemoglobin in the red blood cells, causing insufficient oxygen flow to the cells. In haemoglobin there are 4 protein subunits: alpha and beta. Usually sickle cell is caused by a mutation in the beta subunit, HbS. Sickle cell anemia has two HbS’ which means both the Beta globin units are variants. This results in the red blood cells turning into a crescent-like shape, obstructing the capillaries and restricting blood flow to an organ.”

Sarcastically, the doctor chides the parents, “ Since it's an autosomal recessive trait- both parents must be a carrier of it to pass it down to their oh so lovely child. Usually, the ideal parents would get screened to see if they have the trait.”

They didn’t.

Are there any treatments to help , you ask?

For the first time since the conversation, you notice the doctor had a genuine smile. Faint, indeed, but it manages to show the little humanity this doctor had left after it was bled from him like a surgical drain. So different from his usual pitiless demeanor, yet you saw a reflection of yourself in his eyes; either you in the future, or you in the past you couldn’t tell.

“Yeah, yeah there is. We can give some anti-inflammatory drugs to reduce risk of infection, or do some blood transfusions. Just recently, the NHS had approved the CRISPR-gene editing for sickle cell, editing a person's bone marrow's stem cells so they produce functioning, non-distorted red blood cells.” Chuckling, the doctor continues, “It feels like days ago where I was praying for treatments like-”

“Doctor Matthews?” A nurse comes rushing out to the balcony. A panic-stricken face scribbled all over, fear and worry run amok in her eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt but Jamie’s having a seizure.”

The doctor curses underneath his breath, tosses the stubbed cigarette overboard of the balcony, and rushes out to Jamie. She follows behind, not even glancing at you. Each door is left open, as they run to Jamie, like they are inviting you to witness this catastrophe. But the urge to follow them crashes and burns when Jamie's door opens, and you could hear them.

“I’m sorry, but you must leave so we can help him.”

You follow the path they left, slowly as the voices of the parents and the doctors become more jarring as you approach Jamie's door. His door was the only one that was almost fully closed, yet a creak of the door grants you access to see the face of the father.

Defeated- utterly defeated.

Such a pitiful, gnawing face of grief rendered of the wrinkled face of the father. Where was the happiness of a parent whose kid is getting free, state of the art treatment? Where was the hope of a parent that their kid will get better? Where was it?

Your smooth, soft hands tremble, almost losing grip on your student notebook. You close the door and walk. Just walk, hopefully to a solace of peace. You muster the little strength your body could give to put pen to paper:

“Thesis purpose: “Get Screened.”

Cryptography: Truly Unbreakable?

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:17:32 GMT

Cryptography: Truly Unbreakable?

By Christy Badila

It seems safe to say that most of us want to keep our secrets to ourselves. It might even be a fundamental part of the human experience to want control over who knows what about you - and to ensure that it stays that way. And yet with the constant emergence of new technology, this concept now starts to apply to how confidential information is transferred between units, not just between whispering people. But fortunately, there is a whole field of technology that holds the secret of how to keep our information safe: cryptography.

Cryptography is the deceptively simple practice of making data illegible so that it is secure enough to send over to its recipient. This is done with a key which works very similarly to physical keys; they make data accessible (decrypt) or inaccessible (encrypt). Cryptography is essential for the security of our data, but does the encryption of data necessarily mean that it’s private - and are these encryption algorithms truly unbreakable?

For us to understand this question, we’ll have to know some of the history.

Let's think back to the Roman Empire; believe it or not cryptography was relevant during this time, so much so that Julius Caesar would utilise the early practice in order to transmit secret messages and in turn created his own encryption method. To envision this let's put ourselves in Caesar's shoes. When you're on the brink of assassination by those closest to you, you're going to need a bit of privacy. His method was known as the Caesar Cipher, one of the earliest records of encryption. How it would work is that each letter in a sentence would be shifted by three spaces in the alphabet to create a cipher text or encrypted text. Straightforward? Sure. Secure? Not so much. What characterises good encryption methods is their keys having a degree of randomness to them to decrease the chances of anything predictable, to be long in length with most having a minimum of 128 bits (2128 different combinations), and to have a relatively complex algorithm. So although the Caesar Cipher may provide temporary confidentiality if the system is not entirely understood, it is unable to match the demands of today's encryption standards and is incredibly of its time.

Fast forward to the 20th century, in the unwavering rage of WW2 cryptography was heavily relied upon to send messages integral to the continuation of the war. A fundamental example of this was the Enigma machine, used by the Germans and famously conquered by British mathematician Alan Turing…

With resemblance to a typewriter, when a key was pressed on the keyboard of the Enigma this would send a signal through wires to the rotors which would then assign the letter pressed with a new letter. Depending on the number of rotors the machine had, the original letter would change multiple times passing through each router, one time through one rotor, a second time through the next and so on. To maintain security of the system the rotors could be configured differently to give a different combination of letters each time and these key settings were changed daily. This may seem impressively robust; however, Alan Turing and his colleagues were able to find a flaw that allowed them to crack the code. With this flaw the codebreakers were able to shorten the war by a considerable amount of time; all by having an understanding of the Enigma machines weaknesses. And so from ancient Rome to World War II, from easy to break ciphers to enigma codes and more we can see how cryptography has grown and developed from its foundational ideas to being a key component for internet confidentiality.

With your new learnt knowledge you may be under the impression that modern day cryptography methods all must have some sort of limitation but to what extent is this true? Two modern day encryption techniques are RSA and AES; both given the title of unbreakable. AES is a symmetric encryption technique which means it uses a singular private key which must be securely sent between the two parties to both encrypt and decrypt data as opposed to RSA which is an asymmetric technique; a public key for encryption and a private key for decryption. AES and RSA can work hand in hand to effectively encrypt and decrypt data, let's picture it: you’d like to send your friend a cake for their birthday but it's incredibly important that nobody else - thieves lets say - can have a taste. So what do you do? You send your friend the cake in a tightly sealed container (AES encryption) however your friend won't know how to open this container unless you give them the same instructions (public key) you used to close it. As a solution you use a special delivery service (RSA encryption) which ensures that no one else has access to your instructions. Now when your friend receives the container, they can safely open it (AES decryption) to access their cake. This paired with the common standard of 256 bit keys (2^256 combinations of different keys) means AES is virtually impossible to break as attempting to do so with a brute force method i.e attempting every combination of key to decrypt the ciphertext would be a computational infeasibility meaning it would take billions of years to do so even using a high-end GPU made for completing multiple calculations at once. So to answer the question on whether or not modern day cryptography methods have their limits, probably not for now!

Nonetheless, there is a major threat to modern day cryptography, with that being quantum computers. Although largely theoretical for now, quantum computers could have the potential to push our modern day systems into a ‘quantum cryptography’ era taking our billions of years of processing to perhaps a lifetime or less. An example of this is quantum key distribution (QKD) which uses the principles of quantum mechanics such as superposition (rather than bits being either a zero or one they can be both simultaneously) and the observer effect (the observation of a quantum system having an effect on the system itself to detect eavesdropping).

As technological innovations expand beyond limits we had previously deemed impossible, the field of cryptography continues to evolve alongside it. From Julius Caesar to quantum methodologies one thing has remained the same: the enduring human need to control who knows what about us and to keep our secrets safe.

Has Globalisation Failed?

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:17:04 GMT

Has Globalisation Failed?

By Daria Chiric

Thomas Friedman’s The World is Flat argues that globalisation has leveled the playing field, fostering connectivity and economic growth, while his Golden Arches Theory suggests that economic interdependence reduces conflict, as countries integrated into global trade avoid war. Yet rising inequalities and conflicts, such as the Ukraine war, challenge these ideas, raising the question of whether globalisation has truly succeeded or failed.

From Genghis Khan’s Silk Road to the spice routes and the Suez Canal, humanity has long sought to accelerate the movement of goods and capital, making globalisation the backdrop of the modern world. Our economic, political, and social realities in the twenty-first century are inseparable from the forces of free markets and information technology. However, this relatively recent innovation – set to become the defining political issue of the next century – has already corroded society, exposing the fractures in its promise of a united, prosperous world. Yet rather than an outright failure, globalisation is undergoing a transformation – its benefits endure, but its flaws demand urgent reform

.Globalisation is a multifaceted process perceived differently, depending on whether we belong to a poor country or a rich country. It truly took off with the Reagan-Thatcher Revolution of the 1980s that championed free markets, deregulation, and privatisation. This era significantly removed barriers to trade and investment, rising the polarisation between corporations expanding internationally (their profits increasing to $2.54trn) and intensified wealth inequality, exploitation of workers, and environmental destruction. Even though, it’s estimated a billion people got out of poverty since the 1990s, it is unwise to discredit the poisonous nature of the accelerated capital movement. Free market bulls believed goods would be supplied at the cheapest point of the supply chain, barriers to trade would fall, and consumers would pay less and less. Now, they would undoubtedly reconsider their stance in light of globalisation's apparent dismantling.

The first cracks in the edifice of it appeared during the 2007-2008 financial crisis, as everything ground to a halt. Job losses surged far beyond Wall Street, and the global share of trade relative to GDP dropped from 61% to 52%. Then came the COVID-19 pandemic, which spread across the world with a speed that outpaced even financial contagion, damaging global trade flows in a matter of days. Yet, just as the world was beginning to breathe the same air again, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine sent shockwaves through the global order, prompting harsh economic sanctions from Western Europe. The price of Russian gas skyrocketed, and suddenly, the strength of global trade seemed like a dangerous gamble, threatening to unravel the very foundations of interconnectedness. Globalisation, once seen as an unstoppable force, began to show its vulnerabilities

.As of 2025, the globalisation paradigm is fracturing under the weight of resurgent nationalism, economic bifurcation, and ideological realignment. Donald Trump’s return to political prominence and Brexit’s enduring consequences underscore a deepening skepticism toward interdependence, as nations retreat into protectionist strongholds. The once-multipolar system has crystallised into a duopoly, with the U.S. and China commanding a combined GDP larger than the next 33 economies, forcing smaller nations into strategic subjugation. Simultaneously, the rise of far-right populism – marked by the erosion of socialist policies and an individualist ethos – has catalysed democratic backsliding from Europe to Latin America. As global institutions falter and economic blocs fracture, the question is no longer whether globalisation has failed, but whether it is being reengineered into a new order – one defined not by collective prosperity, but by ideological fragmentation and hegemonic contestation

.However, contemporary globalisation has catalysed a transformative era of interconnectedness, underpinned by tangible advancements that underscore its profound impact. The proliferation of digital technologies, exemplified by platforms like Zoom, has dismantled geographical barriers, enabling real-time collaboration and financial inclusion for previously marginalised populations. For instance, mobile banking in Sub-Saharan Africa, spearheaded by services like M-Pesa, has empowered millions to access financial systems, fostering economic resilience and reducing poverty. Similarly, the global scientific community’s rapid development of mRNA vaccines during the COVID-19 pandemic highlights how cross-border cooperation can address existential threats with unparalleled efficiency. Beyond economics, globalisation has cultivated a shared cultural consciousness, as seen in the worldwide embrace of movements like #MeToo and climate activism, which transcend borders to advocate for universal human rights and environmental stewardship. Hence globalisation, arguably remains a dynamic force for progress, innovation, and collective human advancement

.Although we may benefit from these threads binding our world together, the welfare of humanity must take precedence. We are compelled to confront the fractures globalisation has wrought and seek remedies to cease the harm we so often inflict upon one another. Mofid, in Promoting the Common Good: Bringing Economics and Theology Together Again , envisions a future for globalisation rooted in dialogue, interconnectedness, and a shared commitment to the common good. He argues that globalisation should foster an ‘ecumenical space’ where civilisations engage in meaningful conversations, and where economics, spirituality, and theology converge to create a more just and humane world.

This vision of globalisation is not one driven by profit for the powerful but by an economy of shared resources and communal well-being. Rather than allowing the bourgeoisie, institutions, and governments to exploit global systems for personal gain, globalisation for the common good seeks an equitable distribution of Earth’s gifts. If embraced, this approach could shift humanity from division and conflict toward cooperation and harmony, prioritising people over profit. It calls for a global economy built on integrity, responsibility, and accountability – one that acknowledges the spiritual dimensions of human existence.

Currently, business and economic frameworks operate largely detached from ethical and spiritual considerations. But a more ‘humane globalisation’ could challenge this detachment, offering an alternative to corporate ethics dictated by self-interest and the relentless sanguinary drive for profit. It would present not just an economic shift but a transformation of hearts and minds. In an era marked by environmental degradation and social fractures, this perspective offers a profound sense of hope – a reminder of our deeper purpose and the need for a more empathetic inclusive global order.

Globalisation has ultimately revealed itself as a deeply flawed and unequal system, widening the gap between the rich and the poor rather than bridging it. While the wealthy elite continue to amass unimaginable fortunes, billions of people remain trapped in grinding poverty, unable to access the so-called benefits of economic integration. The promises of globalisation ring hollow for much of the developing world, where unsafe working conditions, exploitative wages, and systemic neglect define daily life. While nations like China and India have defied the odds through selective market reforms and robust regulation, their success stories are exceptions that underscore the failure of the global system to uplift others. In numerous countries the dream of economic prosperity remains painfully out of reach. Globalisation, instead of being a force for collective progress, has entrenched inequality, leaving behind a legacy of broken promises for the world’s most vulnerable

How Can Technology Support Young People’s Mental Health and Wellbeing?

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:15:53 GMT

How Can Technology Support Young People's Mental Health and Wellbeing?

By Kay Budka-Fox

Cyberpsychology, an increasingly prevalent field of psychological study, works to examine how we interact with others using technology, the ways in which it impacts our behaviour, the adaptations necessary for technology to suit our needs, and how the psychological states of humankind are affected by varying technologies (Connolly et al., 2016). The advancement in technology is one that has drastically changed the way in which the mental health and wellbeing of young people is recognised, diagnosed, spoken about and treated. Technology as a set of tools, equipment and methods used to solve problems and achieve specific goals is increasingly utilised in the psychological field, and one that is multifaceted (Harvey et al., 2022). This essay, through discussion of both the advantages and disadvantages, aims to elucidate the ways in which technology can support young people’s mental health and wellbeing.

The Role of Technology in the Support of Young People

The melding of technology and the treatment of mental health has provided a platform of accessibility and inclusivity for young people, who may not have otherwise experienced this. AI is a powerful tool, and one that is becoming utilised in psychotherapeutic settings. Specifically, AI has offered support in diagnostic and therapeutic areas of medicine that were previously offered solely by trained healthcare professionals (Holohan and Fiske, 2021). AI as a therapeutic tool now has the potential to act as a counsellor, and it may be expected to accomplish this capability successfully in the coming years. One way in which this may occur is through the assistance of providing data-driven insight to both counsellors and their patients, as well as offering additional resources for the betterment of counselling services in general (Mohammed Bala Hashidu, 2024). Furthermore, it has been found that through cyberspace, users tend to become more open, feel less restrained, and feel more safe in expressing themselves in comparison to face-to-face environments (Suler, 2004). This appears to be contributing to the nurturing of the positive coalition between technology and the support of young people (Bolton, 2017), with 59% of people feeling more able to talk about their mental health in this way (Suler, 2004). Technology has offered a wealth of users a level of control and empowerment over their mental wellbeing, and it can be hopefully assumed that this will only continue to develop.

Anonymity and Accessibility

One of the most exceptional benefits of technology’s presence in the realm of mental health services is the ability to provide an anonymous, geographically flexible platform. Online counselling receives considerable commendation for its global obtainability. This encompasses anyone with access to the internet; those in geographically remote or isolated areas, with physical limitations, social phobias, or simply those with hesitant feelings towards face-to-face counselling (Teh et al., 2014). More specifically, you people have found anonymity to be of great reward in engaging with online counselling services (e.g “kooth.com”), encouraging this engagement and reducing levels of stigma around the counselling process. It provides a safe distance between both the counsellor and patients, subsequently permitting patients to feel less defensive, pressured and uncomfortable in discussing their mental health. Often cited as the main drawback of online counselling, the inevitable loss of non-verbal communication that comes with anonymity is counterbalanced by the advantages it oers in conjunction (Teh et al., 2014). Joseph Walther’s ‘Hyperpersonal Model’ (1996) suggests that while interacting with online services, users become more personable more quickly through asynchronous communication, which inadvertently relies on anonymity, too. The capability of editing, discretion, convenience and the refinement of environmental distractions through this model allow the re-allocation of cognitive resources in order to further enhance the counselling process (Walther, 2007). Appearance, environmental distraction and non-verbal communication have potential to disrupt the curation of an intimate therapeutic relationship between counsellor and client, all of which are devoid through the use of technology in these practices (Walther, 2007).

Drawbacks of the Technological Support System

Despite the numerous advantages of technology as an instrument in the support of young people’s mental health and wellbeing, it would be inconceivable to not consider the disadvantageous attributes that are concurrently present. One of the greater risks that is likely to be encountered is the miscommunication and successive misunderstanding that may arise in the absence of non-verbal cues. Traditional face-to-face counselling, as well as a more successful therapeutic relationship, is dependent on factors such as tone of voice, facial expression, body language, eye contact and even silences to communicate feelings and information outside of the capability of words, and result in the strengthening of this relationship. This may also have greater implications, such as the potential for inaccurate diagnostic assessment, and therefore inaccurate treatment of young people in regard to their mental health (Bolton, 2017). This risk of misdiagnosis is also ubiquitous in the wider realm of technology; 20% of young people, from 2005-2010, had experienced a mental health problem, and 30.8% of these people reported having searched the internet seeking diagnostic criteria and information (Burns, 2010). Moreover, young people are more engaged with digital technologies in general than ever before (Montague et al., 2015), therefore amplifying both this risk, as well as those of personal safety risks (such as breaches in confidentiality as a result of unauthorised access to information or an error in t transmission of correspondence), and privacy concerns. Not all platforms are professionally moderated either - another drawback that should be considered in regard to the acceptance of technology as a tool for support (Bolton, 2017).

Interventions Provided Solely Through Technology

The rise of technology and technological advancement has provided a strong foundation on which beneficial, self-empowering facilities can be provided to a large range of people, simultaneously. Online services such as “kooth.com”, “giveusashout.org” and “mermaidsuk.org.uk” exist exclusively as technological services through which support is offered and tailored towards young people and their mental health. In addition, virtual and augmented reality have been proposed as potential vessels through which intervention can be provided, such as exposure therapies, further broadening the scope of technological capability. Patients would be able to enter safe, ecological and ethical simulations that closely approximate settings in which problematic behaviours usually occur, such as eating disorders or phobias. VR and augmented reality allow for rich multisensory stimulation to be provided and individualised for each patient, and the inclusion of such intervention under the umbrella of technological support has been proven effective across the board (Riva et al., 2021). Social media also renders the potential to allow young people access to communities, through means such as forums and peer groups, permitting support to be received from those in similar situations. Peer support includes a system of mutual benefit where individuals who have experienced the adversity of mental illness can offer hope, companionship and encouragement to young people in similar positions. Social media, as a means of intervention, may be distinguished as a non-threatening medium that can be accessed within the safety of one's own home (Naslund et al,. 2014). Online therapy, counselling and technological support in general has surged in popularity, and ameliorated the support available to young people in regard to their mental health and wellbeing (The Retreat Clinics, 2022).

Conclusion

The impact of and future potential of cyberpsychology, technology and its application to mental health services and the mental health of young people is impossible to disregard.

As technology develops, it becomes increasingly sophisticated, accessible and influential, meaning that its impact on the mental health and wellbeing of young people does too. It is crucial that psychologists, counsellors and professionals contribute guidance and knowledge to the betterment of these services through expertise such as research and the understanding of various fields. It can be unmistakably seen that technology has played a role in influencing the mental health and wellbeing of you people, however many of the vessels through which this has been provided have not been professionally evaluated or researched to an adequate extent. It is vital for both professional and user input to be provided in order to ensure a positive, fruitful impact on the mental health and wellbeing of young people, through the endless possibility and utilisation of technological support.

References

Bolton, J. (2017). The Ethical Issues which must be addressed in online counselling . [online] Available at: https://www.acrjournal.com.au/resources/assets/journals/Volume-11-Issue-1-2 017/Volume-11-Issue-1-2017-FULL.pdf.

Burns, J.M., Davenport, T.A., Durkin, L.A., Luscombe, G.M. and Hickie, I.B., 2010. The internet as a setting for mental health service utilisation by young people. Medical Journal of Australia , 192 , pp.S22-S26.

Connolly, I., Palmer, M., Barton, H. and Kirwan, G. (2016). An introduction to cyberpsychology . New York: Routledge.

Harvey, P.D., Depp, C.A., Rizzo, A.A., Strauss, G.P., Spelber, D., Carpenter, L.L., Kalin, N.H., Krystal, J.H., McDonald, W.M., Nemero, C.B. and Rodriguez, C.I., 2022. Technology and mental health: state of the art for assessment and treatment. American Journal of Psychiatry , 179 (12), pp.897-914.

Holohan, M. and Fiske, A. (2021). ‘Like I’m Talking to a Real Person’: Exploring the Meaning of Transference for the Use and Design of AI-Based Applications in Psychotherapy. Frontiers in Psychology , 12. doi: https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2021.720476.

Mohammed Bala Hashidu (2024). Collaboration between Human and AI in Counselling. BICC Proceedings , [online] 2, pp.226–231. Available at: https://biccproceedings.org/index.php/bicc/article/view/132#:~:text=The%20stu dy%20emphasizes%20the%20importance [Accessed 28 Sep. 2024].

Montague, A.E., Varcin, K.J., Simmons, M.B. and Parker, A.G. (2015). Putting Technology Into Youth Mental Health Practice. SAGE Open , [online] 5(2), p.215824401558101. doi: https://doi.org/10.1177/2158244015581019.

Naslund, J.A., Grande, S.W., Aschbrenner, K.A. and Elwyn, G. (2014). Naturally Occurring Peer Support through Social Media: The Experiences of Individuals with

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Teh, L., Acosta, A., Regina, M., Hechanova, M., Garabiles, M. and Alianan, A. (2014). Attitudes of Psychology Graduate Students Toward Face-to-Face and Online Counseling. Journal of psyChology , [online] 47(2), p.4265905. Available at: https://www.pap.ph/file/pjp/pjp2014-47-2-pp65-97-tehacostahechanovag abilesalianan-attitudes_of_psychology_graduate_students_t.pdf.

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Interdimensional: Maths at the Heart of History

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:14:24 GMT

Interdimensional: Maths at the Heart of History

By Grace Olusegun

I doubt you’ve ever written down a² + b² = c² in your maths book and felt your mind wander to how the Pythagoreans were so disturbed by Hippasus’ discovery of the irrationality of 2 , he was thrown overboard. Or drifted off in class to reflect on how the scrap paper doodling of a French mathematician led to a discovery that could have changed the course of the Cold War. Well, this is perhaps because the curriculum has done a good job of portraying maths to be a two-dimensional binary system of right and wrong answers, mutually exclusive from other subjects - such as history, for instance. With that said, back to The Cold War and the fascinating role of mathematical discovery within it…

You may have assumed the nuclear arms race was inevitable. But what if I told you it never had to be? After the US dropped nukes on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, it was guaranteed that other nations would rush to develop nuclear weapons. Their unfathomable power made them the newest determinant of influence and control. With everyone rushing to get a slice of this new, potentially catastrophic technology, so came the need to regulate its development. Meetings with ridiculously literal names like “The Conference on the Discontinuance of Nuclear Weapons Tests”, initiated in Geneva on 31st October 1958 and (take a deep breath) “The Conference of Experts to Study the Possibility of Detecting Violations of a Possible Agreement on the Suspension of Nuclear Tests,” also held in Geneva in August 1958, were conducted to legislate nuclear testing everywhere possible: earthbound, underwater, in space and underground.

A partial ban was eventually signed in 1963, meaning nuclear tests were prohibited in the earth’s atmosphere, underwater and in space. But why only a partial ban? Well, it was all to do with how nuclear detonations could be detected. Atmospheric detonations aren’t difficult to verify. Radioactive isotopes produced by the explosion can be detected 1000s of kilometres away. Underwater, hydrophones pick up the definite sound caused by underwater detonations. Extraterrestrially, sensors in satellites monitor radiation consisting of gamma rays, X-rays and neutrons, emitted from nuclear detonations. Underground, well… There was no way to accurately deduce a subterranean nuclear explosion. You see, their radiation is mainly contained, the resultant impact in no way distinguishable from that of a seismic wave. And if you can’t detect something, how can you ban it? And so what did the USSR or US do? Well, they took the nuclear arms race underground of course.

Given the newfound dangers of this loophole, it was clear that a method of detecting underground nuclear outbursts was needed ASAP. And this is where mathematicians enter the scene

…Nuclear detonations and natural seismic events produce frequency wave signals that are almost identical, thus need to be broken down to tell them apart. This is where everything changes, meet the star of the show: the Fast Fourier Transform! The FFT was derived from the Discrete Fourier Transform, discovered by Joseph Fourier in 1807. The DFT is a method of Fourier Analysis, the study of how waves can be broken down into simpler sine and cosine waves. You can imagine it as taking a bucket of paint made up of various colours, and extracting each individual color in the mixture. Along with each individual color we find, is the proportion of that color in the bucket, like 10% yellow, 25% red etc.

Now is a good time to introduce three more main characters - American physicist Richard Garwin and American mathematicians John Tukey and James Cooley. Garwin and Tukey already had the DFT to work with, but at the speed of a 1960s computer, 1 single wave would take 3 years to decompose. On either side of the Iron Curtain, you would want to know immediately when and where the other side is testing. Nuclear powers wanted to spy on each other, monitor how powerful the other’s explosions were. But at this rate, that would be impossible.

In 1963, a meeting of the President’s Science Advisory Committee took place, reported to be apparently quite boring. So boring in fact, Garwin saw Tukey doodling throughout (issues of national importance were being discussed by the way). It was to Garwins surprise that Tukey had figured out a faster way to compute DFTs. Tukey had doodled and discovered a new Fourier Transform… a Fast Fourier Transform. One that took a few minutes to a few hours to complete.

That’s a 99% decrease by the way. No joke.

The solution is actually as simple as doodling on scrap paper, just like Tukey was doing. The secret lies in exploiting the way in which waves repeat every given time or degree range. Sine and cosine waves have symmetry, so they overlap at predictable points. So when we are doing calculations to find if a given sine or cosine wave is a part of our frequency signal, some of these calculations can be done once, and reused if they repeat for other sine or cosine waves. This significantly reduces the processing power and time required for our Fourier Transform, taking it from a slow, Discrete one, to a Fast, more efficient one!

With their new Fast Fourier Transform ready to go, Tukey worked with Cooley to program a computer to perform the algorithm, co-publishing the method in a 1965 paper titled ‘An Algorithm for the Machine Calculation of Complex Fourier Series’

And just like that the problem was solved. Although too late to adequately ease fears of an Armageddon, the FFT triggered enormous breakthroughs in many other fields - audio/image processing; chemical analysis; data compression; seismology and acoustics, marking the beginning of a new era in signal processing (simply the receiving, analysing and manipulating of signals). American mathematician Gilbert Strang described it as the “most important numerical algorithm of our lifetime” (1994), with the FFT being included in the Top 10 Algorithms of the 20th Century by the IEEE* magazine.

It doesn’t end there though.

Tukey and Cooley were too late to orchestrate a tangible ban on the testing of nuclear weapons. A shame if I must say so myself. But what if I told you this famous algorithm was originally discovered over a century and a half earlier? Remember Joseph Fourier from earlier, who we said discovered the Discrete Fourier Transform in 1807? Well, Carl Friedrich Gauss, arguably the most brilliant mathematician of all time, beat him to it, in 1805.

So if the FFT had already been discovered, surely a comprehensive test ban would have been established much earlier? Correct, but Gauss didn’t bother to publish it. He essentially disregarded it, deeming it primarily useless. To add insult to injury, his breakthrough only appeared after his death, using non-standard notation in a 19th century version of Latin, such that it was effectively unintelligible, thus was never adopted

.A sad story, yes but what it does do is perfectly illustrate one of the most beautiful things about maths: the symbiotic, mutualistic relationship it possesses with so many other fields

The story of the Fast Fourier Transform and its role in the Cold War is one of my favourite examples of this, where the purely mathematical study of harmonic analysis, frequency waves and trigonometry seamlessly plants one right in the middle of one of the most controversial periods of global political tension in history, magnificently captivating the essence of the 20th century - turbulent, revolutionary and apocalyptic.

.Indeed, I can’t help but wonder what would’ve been possible if Gauss had realised he almost erased decades worth of human destruction out of history, almost 2 centuries before it even occurred…

Glossary

SOFAR - Sound Fixing and Ranging Channel; a special, naturally-occuring layer in the ocean at which the speed of sound is at a minimum, its efficiency and capacity to travel long distances at a maximum

IEEE - Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers; formed from the combining of the American Institute of Electrical Engineers and the Institute of Radio Engineers

Juno, Pallas and Ceres - members of the asteroid belt → region between orbits of Mars and Jupiters, where majority of asteroids are found, in orbit of the Sun

Sinusoid - any periodic wave whose curve resembles a sine wave

Harmonic analysis - branch of maths overlapping with the Fourier Series concerned with the decomposition of a function into its components sinusoidal components (harmonics → anything concerned with sinusoidal functions + solutions to Laplace’s equation)

Useful Links

3Blue1Brown - https://youtu.be/spUNpyF58BY?si=wDC-PNUg0xOetFnp

Veritasium - https://youtu.be/nmgFG7PUHfo?si=AmhjZG7LNUh6THPR

Is Knowledge Dangerous

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:11:50 GMT

Is Knowledge Dangerous?

By Eva Smith

In this essay I will argue that in an age of mass knowledge sharing, the related dangers are equally large in scale. In the context of mass data collection, the danger of knowledge lies within sources which claim to be representative but are not; sources aim to be complete but are full of serious gaps; and sources that say they are secure but are instead highly vulnerable. I will firstly examine the risks of the mass collection of civilian data, especially personal information taken ‘sans’ consent. Secondly, I will explore the risks of technological advances and the implications of data security breaches. Finally, I will discuss the potential for discrimination within healthcare, potentially becoming more prevalent due to biased data, showing how easily danger creeps in when data favours one group only to inadvertently pose risk to another.

A key danger of mass collection and storage of civilian data is the notion that companies use data for hidden purposes, breaking the implicit trust between consumer and company. So worried are members of the public about this issue that in an Ipsos poll (Lloyd & Jackson, 2022), 78% of respondents said companies should obtain their consent before accessing and using their data. This was echoed in a survey I did of students and staff at my school (Source 1, Smith, 2023) where only 20% of respondents said they felt “very safe” online. A sample of 46 is small but indicative nonetheless of deep mistrust.

While trust in these companies does exist in some quarters (research from Mast (2020), shows smart watch data may have advanced our understanding of the impact of the pandemic) this trust can easily be lost. Health apps such as Ovia record personal information not required for the app to function but, instead, collected for sale to third parties. (Taylor, 2023).

Further problems arise when organisations have their information discovered by third parties. I believe real danger lies in the risk posed to political stability nationally and globally due to the digital revolution…

This revolution is building ever-increasing data dominance in our daily lives. It would take 181.3 million years to download all the internet’s data showing the information we create online is increasing exponentially (IBM as cited by Rayaprolu , 2023) and hacking technology is advancing alongside it making major companies the targets of cyberattacks. For example, a Russian-linked hacking group recently targeted the MOVEIT software used by the state of Louisiana (Vargas, 2023). They accessed private information of every licensed Louisiana driver revealing the terrifying amount of power wielded against organisations across the world (Vargas, 2023). Hackers could potentially expose sensitive government information causing widespread global outrage. Humanity’s use of knowledge can seem positive because of the myriad benefits the internet can bring to sectors like education and health. For example, using the internet rather than expensive data centres helps the NHS reduce “overhead costs” (NHS, 2020). Yet, if data is not held securely, what then? Mast (2020) stresses serious consequences for users when companies fail to keep their data safe. Adobe, Zynga and Canva all experienced large-scale customer data breaches in 2019. This misplaced trust in major companies can cause important information to be leaked, while constantly improving hacking technology only increases the frequency of these cyberattacks putting everyone’s safety at risk.

Finally, while I can see that mass collection of data can be advantageous, we need to consider how data bias harms us when we rely too heavily on it for our health. It can damage health care outcomes for some. For example, women are disadvantaged by the huge disparity between medical data collected about men and women ( Burns et al. , 2023). Burns et al (2023) argues “Globally, the quality and quantity of women’s health data collection is uneven.” This can make it hard to find reliable information as data is likely to be based on men as “women are largely under-represented in medical research” according to ( Merone et al ., 2022). This, say ( Burns et al ., 2023) means: “women wait longer than men for (...) a diagnosis (...) and are more likely to be misdiagnosed”. Although some argue that change is coming through the expanding femtech industry, the wider benefits are less certain. By 2025, the femtech sector could be worth “$50 billion” ( Frost & Sullivan , n.d.) and “could revolutionize female healthcare”.

However, experts believe that the femtech industry is inadvertently isolating and excluding other groups. The use of the prefix ‘fem’ can alienate individuals who are non-binary, transgender, or intersex,” says ( Horsting , 2019) leading to a “lack of inclusivity” ( Horsting , 2019) within the term femtech. This could mean lower levels of non-binary, transgender and intersex research “participation” ( Horsting , 2019) in this industry, so people from other groups “receive fewer of the novel [femtech] innovations to potentially support their medical needs” ( Horsting , 2019). Even within femtech, where companies and researchers aim to fill the data gaps for women, we could see a vicious cycle of exclusion that continuously alienates and marginalises other groups, increasing poor health outcomes. This bias effectively creates an element of danger within the care some groups are offered due to insufficient medical information.

In conclusion, I believe knowledge stored insecurely, collected ‘sans’ consent and not checked for bias is dangerous. Insecure data is more likely to be stolen through hacking causing widespread mistrust while bias means data is not representative, leading to exclusion and poor medical advice from professionals we are supposed to trust. I believe alongside Amnesty International that we must “rewire…resist… and rewrite” our relationship with technology. We need to “rewire” our approach to technology to ensure the safety of humans is at the forefront of advancements. Secondly, “resist” the unlawful and surreptitious collection of private information through apps such as Ovia. Finally, we must “rewrite” the way we collect data to be mindful of bias and exclusion. (Amnesty International, 2023).

Reference List

Amnesty International, (13th of February 2023). Amnesty International. https://www.amnesty.org/en/tech/ Retrieved on the 13th of July of 2023.

Burns, D., Grabowsky, T., Kemble, E., Pérez , L. (2023). Closing the data gaps in women’s health. McKinsey & Company. Closing the gender data gap in healthcare | McKinsey Retrieved on the 5th of July.

Cambridge University. (n.d.). Knowledge. Cambridge University Press. https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/knowledge Retrieved on July 11, 2023.

Frost & Sullivan, ( n.d.). Femtech Market - Digitizing Women's Health. Frost & Sullivan. Femtech Market - Digitizing Women's Health - Themes Retrieved on the 5th of July 2023.

Horsting, T. (2023). The Pros and Cons of the Rise of Femtech. Patient Worthy. https://patientworthy.com/2019/07/22/increased-focus-womens-healthcare-needs-pros-cons-multiple-sclerosis-ms/ Retrieved on the 5th of July 2023.

IBM as cited in Rayaprolu, A., Ivanov, I., Shahnazari, K. (2023) 25+ Impressive Big Data Statistics for 2023. Techjury. https://techjury.net/blog/big-data-statistics/ Retrieved on the 14th of July.

Lloyd, N., & Jackson, C. (2022). Most Americans say it is increasingly difficult to control who can access their online data. Ipsos. Most Americans say it is increasingly difficult to control who can access their online data | Ipsos Retrieved on the 11th of July 2023.

Mast, S. (2020). Data Collection: The Good, The Bad And The Ugly. Forbes. Data Collection: The Good, The Bad And The Ugly Retrieved on the 11th of July 2023.

Merone, L., Tsey, K., Russel, D., Nagle, C. (2022). Sex Inequalities in Medical Research: A Systematic Scoping Review of the Literature. The National Institutes of Health. https://doi.org/10.1089/whr.2021.0083 Retrieved on the 14th of July 2023

NHS, (2020). The case for Internet First. https://digital.nhs.uk/services/internet-first/internet-first-guidance/the-case-for-internet-first Retrieved on 15th of July 2023.

Taylor, J. (2023). Fertility apps collect unnecessary personal data and could sell it to third parties – study. The Guardian. Fertility apps collect unnecessary personal data and could sell it to third parties – study | Australia news | The Guardian Retrieved on the 12th of July 2023.

Vargas, R. (2023). Every Louisiana driver’s license holder exposed in colossal cyber-attack. The Guardian. Every Louisiana driver’s license holder exposed in colossal cyber-attack Retrieved on the 13th of July.

Notes on Ukraine

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:10:32 GMT

Notes on Ukraine

By Vlad Grativ

A brief essay highlighting important historical events that I consider to be underrepresented in the media. Without this fundamental context, one simply cannot have any judgment on the conflict and the nuanced relationship between Ukraine and Russia.

Ukraine is a sovereign and independent, democratic, social, law-based state . It is not “ the Ukraine ”, nor is it the same as, or similar to, Russia. The Ukrainian language is not the same as Russian, and neither is it a dialect or a peasant language .

Ukraine has been a recognised member of the UN since the UN’s foundation in 1945 as a Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, up until the desired dissolution of the USSR in 1991. Then it gained its full independence as Ukraine and again - was recognised by all members of the UN.

This brief chronology outlines what Ukraine has been resisting for decades, now more than ever:

LIST OF RUSSIAN AGGRESSIONS

2022 — Full-scale Invasion of Ukraine
Russia launches a full-scale invasion to physically overthrow the Ukrainian government to prevent the country’s integration with the EU and NATO, which are seen as existential threats to Russia. A total of over 1 million casualties (killed and wounded) has been reached from both sides.
2014 — Crimea
Annexation of Crimea by “ green men ” - i.e. soldiers without any national insignia which is illegal under the Geneva Conventions - despite its official transfer to Ukraine in 1954, followed by military aggression and occupation of Donbas (Eastern Ukraine) as a response to Euromaidan. Euromaidan is the name for the Revolution of Dignity which was a series of protests from Nov 2013 to Jan 2014. They were sparked by then-Russian pawn president of Ukraine V. Yanukovych’s decision to suspend an agreement that would bring Ukraine closer to becoming a member of the EU. Hundreds of lives were lost due to brutal clashes with the police. Eventually, the president fled and new elections were held. The Kremlin, however, did not let my freedom-loving people let it slide so easily.
20th century — Ukraine
Not to mention the recurring mass deportations to Siberia (including both of my great-grandmother's), systematic repression and the shooting of the Intelligentsia with the most prominent examples being the “ Executed Renaissance ” and the “ Sixtiers ”. Holodomor, 1932-33 (“Holod” meaning “hunger”): a targeted man-made famine that killed 3-4 million Ukrainians, covered up by Stalin as “collectivisation”. Russification in the form of over 130+ decrees just to ban the Ukrainian language - then you ask why there are so many Russian-speaking Ukrainians?
Others include: 2008 — Georgia, 2015 — Syria, 1994-..-2009 — Chechnya.

Speaking of the language, it fascinates me how the two are thought to be so similar, when my Russian friends can hardly understand me. In fact, they are about as similar as Portuguese is to Spanish, yet no one questions the legitimacy of Portuguese.

Budapest Memorandu (1994)
Ukraine had the third largest nuclear weapon arsenal in the entire world, all of which it gave up in exchange for security guarantees from the US, UK, and Russia. The memorandum states: “...none of their weapons will ever be used against Ukraine except in self-defence…”. And what did we get in return? War from one guarantor and a crippling debt from another. This alone should be enough to justify the billion-dollar aid packages sent to Ukraine, because yes, my country is entitled to them.
Russia has consistently targeted civilian infrastructure, a direct violation of the Geneva Conventions (1949).
In the summer of 2023 I almost experienced it myself, while visiting my hometown in Western Ukraine - actually one of the safest regions. I was meant to fly back to London on 26th June (from Poland), but decided to delay my departure by another week. Ironically, on the day I was originally supposed to leave, I was in the middle of nowhere with my friends, when the sky whistled… A high speed missile; followed by another 10 and 2 defence aircraft dissecting the air 200m over our teenage heads in the span of a quarter of an hour. I was clearly reminded to leave.

If Ukraine did not have a distinct national identity there would simply be no need for Russia to so forcefully try to erase it. Ukrainian capital Kyiv has been the capital of the East Slavic civilization since 482 while Moscow was a very wet swamp for seven more centuries. Thus, the entire propagandistic narrative that Ukrainians are somehow lesser than Russians is baseless and ridiculous.

As the Kremlin regime keeps testing the tolerance of civilised countries, it seems as though this world is turning a blind eye, with Trump’s activity in office and European general passivity. With Trump going as far as calling Zelensky an “illegitimate president” and even a “dictator” for not carrying out elections after his term ended a few months after the start of the full-scale invasion. This is a bizarre accusation as Ukraine had declared martial law and has remained under it since then. Under martial law, Ukraine’s constitution prohibits holding elections (note, the UK also postponed elections during the WWII), since democratic processes like voting requires security, stability and free movement - none of which can be guaranteed when 11 million citizens are abroad, and another few are trapped in the occupied regions. Lifting martial law is not practical and our government does not change the constitution whenever it whims - like Russia did in 2020, allowing V. Putin to run (and obviously illegitimately win) his fifth presidential term - 21 years in office as of Apr 2025.

Russia still illegally holds a seat on the Security Council of the UN (for context: the Security Council is made up by the 5 winners of WWII, which back then included the USSR - after its dissolution Russia claimed to be the “continuing state” and, without any formal vote or legal process, took the seat). Everyone forgets that Ukrainian losses were 6.9 million (civilian and military) out of a population of 41 million, compared to Russia’s 13.9 million out of 110 million; and that most of the fighting took place on Ukrainian territory. Yet people still use “Russia” and the “Soviet Union” interchangeably when referring to WWII.

There are still individuals telling me that more people have been locked up in the UK than in Russia for posting online; the Labour Party is a “rEgiMe”, they said, perhaps because they are too engulfed in the Twitter disinformation hell. They clearly had not seen the “ Foreign Agent law ”, which expanded in Russia in 2022.

But I have.

I have lived in this information bubble my whole life

.So will the world really turn a blind eye to the truth, to reality?

The Future of Biofuels: The Sustainable Jet Fuel We Never Knew We Needed

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:09:55 GMT

The Future of Biofuels: The Sustainable Jet Fuel We Never Knew We Needed

By Felix Newton

The future is what we all think about, whether it's the future of tech, the future of the planet… or simply what's for dinner. But among all these thoughts, there is something that not many talk about and is becoming increasingly important by the minute: biofuels. As the world works to curb carbon emissions and wean itself from fossil fuels, biofuels are emerging as a critical element in mapping a more sustainable trajectory for aviation, along with transport in general.

Although most people associate biofuels with cars and trucks, their application in aviation is rapidly gaining momentum. As the world is moving towards greener technologies and innovations, industries that release high amounts of carbon dioxide are coming under increasing pressure. Aviation, being one of the biggest polluters, is under significant pressure to change. Biofuels are emerging as one of the most promising solutions to facilitate this transition towards sustainability. These fuels, made from fats, oils, algae, and even recycled plastics, offer a cleaner way of powering aircraft without having to substantially modify existing engines.

However, biofuels are no silver bullet, far from it. There are a host of problems that enter the picture when their use is brought into consideration, ranging from how they are produced, to what materials ought to be used, to even who is going to produce them. In a world where politics and economics are continually shifting, these issues could be made even more complicated, potentially stifling or even stopping the biofuel boom and use.

What Should Be Used to Produce Biofuels?

The first step of the biofuel revolution is, of course, deciding the energy source itself. That is where Generation 1 biofuels, or biofuels made from food crops, enter the picture. It seems simple enough: crops like corn, soybeans, and sugarcane can be transformed into ethanol and biodiesel. But, as it turns out, using crops as fuel is not problem-free. It leads to competition with food production, an issue that sparked debates from the start. The moment we start taking land away from food production to grow crops for fuel, we might have solved one environmental problem and opened another (hello, food shortages). The land-use trade-off complication has made biofuels' first generation such a contentious issue. And yet, biofuels are here to stay, just in a more evolved, non-food-gobbling incarnation.

Next-Generation Biofuels: Algae and Beyond

Then Generation 2 biofuels come along and toss the whole "food crop" idea out of the window. These biofuels are derived from non-food materials like leftover agricultural waste, wood chips, or algae. Algae in particular is one promising candidate since it grows very quickly and doesn't compete with food crops for resources. These biofuels are not only more efficient, but they are also kinder to the planet because they avoid the whole food-versus-fuel issue altogether. Algae-based biofuels are particularly promising because they can be grown in ponds or even in seawater and therefore are a relatively low-impact crop.

The production process itself is also getting better. Hydroprocessing is the most common method of manufacturing biofuels, whereby fats and oils are treated with chemicals with a view to producing something akin to jet fuel. Named hydroprocessed esters and fatty acids (HEFA), these kinds of biofuels can be blended with traditional jet fuel and combusted in airplanes without requiring extensive engine adaptation. This is where biofuels really shine: they are a drop-in replacement for fossil fuels.

Waste-Based Fuels: Turning Trash into Treasure

What if we could go one step further? Instead of using crops or algae, what if we could make fuel from waste? Well, that is being done too. Scientists are working on many ways of creating jet fuel from waste material. One such way is turning plastic waste into fuel. Pyrolysis, big word, but what it does is basically heat the plastics in the absence of oxygen to decompose them into usable hydrocarbons. These can then be refined into jet fuel.

Then there's Municipal Solid Waste (MSW), which sounds like a fancy term for garbage. Through gasification, MSW is heated at high temperatures to produce a gas called syngas, which can then be refined into aviation fuel. If we’re already burning trash, why not use it to fuel our planes? That’s the idea behind these waste-to-fuel technologies.

Lastly, there are a few companies working on carbon recycling, straight out of a science fiction movie. The idea is to capture carbon dioxide from the air or industrial sources and, using chemical reactions, turn it into jet fuel. Power-to-Liquid (PtL) technology uses renewable energy to convert CO2 into synthetic hydrocarbons as a fuel. Talk about turning carbon negativity into carbon positivity.

The Future: A Smorgasbord of Solution

Looking to the future, a multi-solution approach to aviation fuel seems the most realistic. We’re not going to rely on just one source of fuel, but a combination of biofuels from algae and waste oils, fuel from recycled plastic and municipal waste, and synthetic fuels created from CO2. Governments and industries have set ambitious goals to increase the use of Sustainable Aviation Fuels (SAF), and airlines like United and British Airways already have substantial investments in biofuel technologies.

Furthermore, new technologies, such as hydrogen-powered aircraft, may eventually replace traditional jet fuel altogether. That is a long way off, but the future of a cleaner, more sustainable aviation industry is on the horizon.

Challenges in Scaling Biofuels for Aviation

Of course, biofuels also have their downside. For starters, production costs for biofuels are still much higher compared to fossil-based fuels, and therefore large-scale use becomes unaffordable. Infrastructure for large-scale production of biofuels also lags behind, and massive investment is necessary in order to scale up production plants. Land-use issues such as competition with food crops and environmental impact from monoculture farming also need to be addressed.

But these challenges are not insurmountable. As technology advances and investments increase, biofuels could become more affordable and scalable. Researchers are working to improve production efficiency, reduce costs, and ensure that biofuel production doesn’t harm ecosystems or food security.

Conclusion: Ready for Takeoff

In conclusion, biofuels and waste-based fuels are not just a nice-to-have for the aviation industry, they are a must-have if we’re going to meet our climate goals. While there are still plenty of challenges to overcome, the future of flight can be far greener, cleaner, and more sustainable with continued investment in R&D for biofuels. The aviation landscape is evolving, and biofuels will play an integral role in that evolution. So the next time you board a plane, maybe it'll be flying on something a little greener than jet fuel, and that's a step in the right direction.

The Impact of Working from Home on a New Generation of Workers

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:07:45 GMT

The Impact of Working from Home on a New Generation of Workers

By Abdirahman Ibrahim

Introduction

Working from home provided a temporary remedy to the issue of labour shortages induced by the Covid-19 lockdowns. Whilst this statement is valid, the work type has its glaring upsides and downsides which may have been ignored when being implemented during the crisis and continued thereafter as a ‘new normal’. In this essay I will discuss how working from home can cause loneliness and a reduction in tacit knowledge through the loss of spontaneous interactions. This loss of spontaneous interactions would specifically affect those younger workers as they are less able to make conversation with more senior colleagues to gain insight which would in turn increase productivity. On the other hand, firms may benefit from at-home work as it could reduce a firm's operational cost and may actually increase productivity through the potential usage of alternative face to face media, such as virtual meetings. Furthermore, a reduction in absenteeism could also occur triggered by the removal of the early work commute. Overall then, this essay will conclude by arguing that a mutual balance can be created between firms' needs and employee wants through the usage of hybrid work.

Loneliness and its Links With Remote Work

A key issue that arises with employees working from home is increased loneliness by reducing the amount of informal interactions with co-workers. These informal interactions can foster positive workplace relationships and ease the transfer of soft skills which aid in efficient interactions with other people. Furthermore, greater connections in the workplace can increase productivity, reduce work stress and increase work engagement which is a state in which employees are more dedicated and absorbed into their work (C. Birmingham et al, 2024). Moreover, supportive workplace relationships would help to alleviate work stress by providing people with a “listening ear” (C. Birmingham et al, 2024). Younger workers, with lower stress tolerance and resilience (Prerna Varma et al, 2020), may struggle more due to their inexperience. This could mean that they could have more issues completing their work, making it important to have someone more senior to seek guidance from, which may not occur with remote work. The CORoNaWork project in Japan showed that participants who worked remotely 4 or more days per week marginally reported feeling lonely more than those who did not work remotely (Miyake et al, 2022). Although there is a shown relationship between working from home and loneliness, the project also revealed older workers (50-65) reported a higher proportion of loneliness (39.3%) compared to younger workers with 29.8%. However, even if these younger workers felt less lonely, research suggests there is still a fall in productivity due to the limitation in rich, face to face interactions which are crucial for imparting soft skills and tacit knowledge on younger workers.

Media richness theory and Its implications on Remote Work

First I will discuss the media richness theory which is the effective use of a communication channel by matching it to the richness of the medium and the ambiguity of a task (Ishii, Lyons and Carr, 2019, p.124). This is relevant as it provides a framework on how different types of information should be transferred with mediums of differing richness with face to face having the highest richness. In the instance of remote work most mediums between the employer and the employee would be of medium and lower richness. This is detrimental as the duration for feedback would be higher and there would be a complete removal of body language and non - verbal cues, hindering the transfer of soft skills and tacit knowledge, shown in the table below (Bergin, No date, Part 2 - Image from Daft and Lengel 1984) .

This inefficiency reduces productivity through delays in decision making, misinterpretations and slowed work processes. For example, as emails lack instant clarification for tasks, decreasing productivity as employees may spend more time finding out how to complete a task then doing it. This would also adversely affect the younger employees as they wouldn’t have much experience doing complex tasks making them more susceptible to confusion potentially increasing task completion time. Hudgens, Nissen and Bergin (2011) compared face to face media to highly immersive virtual environments, low in media richness, via statistical tests and it was found that

face to face media provided higher group accuracy. This would only be applicable when using low media richness immersive virtual environments like remote virtual workspaces with only text interaction. However if a business were to use an immersive virtual environment with greater interactivity like video, voice and text then the effects on group accuracy would be limited, thus the fall in productivity would be mitigated against. However difficulties in replicating spontaneous in-person discussion would still hinder productivity. Even so, the premise of the media richness theory is built upon an objective view of media characteristics and causes many empirical studies to have inconsistent results (Ishii, Lyons and Carr, 2019, p.124). Furthermore, individual preferences are not taken into account on which communication medium works best individually. Despite that, the lack of rich media in remote work would have a definite effect on productivity but at varying levels due to personal differences.

Cost Saving and Productive Benefit of Remote Work

Regardless of the many negatives of remote work, it can significantly reduce a firm's operational cost. Furthermore, its benefits extend beyond cost saving as working from home provided labour stability in Covid - 19 and reduces absenteeism. I will begin by addressing the first claim with decreased operational costs for the firms, which is mainly through the downsizing of the workplace. For example (Bloom et al, 2013, p.19) found that when implementing remote work for a Chinese call center, there were estimated cost savings of around $1250 per employee each year. These cost savings could be re-invested into the firm with additional employee training which would increase productivity or with wage increases which would incentivise workers to produce more. Furthermore, in the case of productivity the study found that total factor productivity, a comparison of outputs to a certain amount of inputs, increased by 13% which monetarily is $375 per employee. This highlights how remote working can actually increase productivity of a firm through potential re-invest or actual gains. However, these gains may not be seen across all industries due to differing work types. For example, (Gibbs, Mengel, and Siemroth, 2023, Journal of Political Economy Microeconomics Volume 1) found that when remote work was introduced in an Indian IT firm in March 2022, productivity fell by 8%-19% shown by the graph below.

This fall in productivity could be caused by the increase in time worked from 5 hours to a high of 7.5 hours as employees may be pushed beyond their maximum, due to the high demands of the tech industry, and caused negative returns to occur. Additionally, in the Covid crisis the sanctity of remote work may have been altered due to children staying at home (Gibbs, Mengel, and Siemroth, 2023, Conclusion). However, for younger employees, they may not have any children but may have a lower maximum which would cause greater falls in productivity. This means that the potential lowering of productivity on those employees would be dependent on personal tolerances and any other variables. In spite of the varying conclusions with productivity and remote work, (Barrero, Bloom, and Davis 2021, cited in Gifford, 2022) stated that the proportion of days worked

from homes increased from 5% to 50% at the peak of the lockdown. This serves to show that remote work was paramount to enable the economy to stay running due to the lockdowns restricting anyone from leaving their homes. In the case of reduced absenteeism, (Bloom et al, 2013, table-7) shows how there was a significant reduction in exhaustion with the experiment of remote work implementation in the call centre. This could imply that absenteeism levels may fall as workers feel less tired and may be less prone to skip work right before or after the weekend.

The Role of Virtual Meeting Platforms

In this section I will discuss how the drawbacks of remote work can be alleviated by using virtual meeting platforms like Microsoft Teams or Zoom. However its ability to completely replace office work is limited due to technological issues and reduced spontaneity. To begin with the usage of virtual meeting platforms was also a necessity in the pandemic as shown with Zoom’s usage reaching a peak of 300 million in April 2020 (2024, Zoom User Stats: How Many People Use Zoom?, Available at link ). This unprecedented rise in usage was due to the nature of meeting platforms and their ability to replicate real life. Furthermore, platforms like Microsoft Teams allow for employees to speak and text to each other mimicking the workplace environment. (Shoshan and Wehrt, 2021) using a survey of opinions from German workers found that 43.39% of workers had a positive view on video conferencing with one saying that they can have a relaxed talk with their colleagues. With relaxed talks, work stress would decrease which is one of the 4 factors that define work capacity and will thus increase productivity (Subel et al, 2022). However, due to the fact that this survey was created in the midst of the pandemic, this would mean that social interaction would have been limited and so these productivity increases may be only seen in that short period of time. In the case for younger employees, 40% of younger people aged 16 -24 report loneliness (Shah and Househ, 2023) which could possibly mean that social interaction at work may have a greater effect upon their productivity. With virtual meetings and remote working increasing work life balance, employees may be more incentivized to increase their productivity as they are given more time with family. However, it is shown that multitasking can occur in these meetings meaning that the focus on tasks is decreased, reducing productivity and high levels of multitasking can actually have an effect on stress levels (Subel et al, 2022). To end with, virtual meetings give the employee the ability to work remotely with high levels of productivity but depend on the quality of the meeting and the amount of participants.

Conclusio n

In conclusion, while remote work poses significant challenges to modern productivity beliefs, an effective implementation with rich media like virtual meeting platforms, minimisation of work overload and the adopting a hybrid work model would allow it to become more successful. However, issues are still faced with loneliness specifically for those younger employees and the hindrance of tacit knowledge transfer even if some days are in office. Hybrid work provides a safe middle ground between complete office work and remote work as it doesn’t have significant implications for the urban environment. This is because with remote work, the commute is removed affecting all the shops and firms nearby which may cause a regression in the centre of the city. With hybrid work employees would attain a better work life balance and employers would still see the economic productivity benefit and reduction in operation costs, making it the best of both worlds

References

Media Richness Theory – Richard Bergin

Work from Home and Productivity: Evidence from Personnel and Analytics Data on Information Technology Professionals – Michael Gibbs & Others

The hidden costs of working from home: examining loneliness, role overload, and the role of social support during and beyond the COVID-19 lockdown – Knut Inge Fostervold

Job stress and loneliness among desk workers during the COVID-19 pandemic in Japan: focus on remote working – Fuyu Miyake

Social Connections in the Workplace – Wendy C. Birmingham, PhD

Revisiting media richness theory for today and future – Kumi Ishii

Does working from home work? Evidence from a Chinese Experiment – Nicholas Bloom

Younger people are more vulnerable to stress, anxiety and depression during COVID-19 pandemic: A global cross-sectional survey – Prerna Varma

New hires, adjustment costs, and knowledge transfer—evidence from the mobility of entrepreneurs and skills on firm productivity – Emma Lappi

No Employee Is an Island: How Loneliness Affects Job Performance – Missing Author

Examining Work Performance in Immersive Virtual Environments versus Face-to-Face Physical Environments through Laboratory Experimentation – Bryan Hudgens

Zoom User Stats: How Many People Use Zoom? – No Specific Author

Understanding “Zoom fatigue”: A mixed-method approach – Hadar Nesher Shoshan

Why does remote working lead to unproductive meetings? – Shaun Subel

Understanding Loneliness in Younger People: Review of the Opportunities and Challenges for Loneliness Interventions – Hurmat Ali Shah

Will China Surpass the USA’s Political Dominance?

Tue, 07 Oct 2025 08:07:06 GMT

Will China Surpass the USA’s Political Dominance?

By Ayesha Khan

China has increasingly showcased its immense capabilities when it comes to development, especially from the late 1970s onwards, when it lifted more than 800 million people from extreme poverty. This has been the most significant global reduction of inequality in modern history. As a result, China has sought to improve its international influence through the policies of the Chinese Communist Party. In essence, China has expanded economically and politically through the Belt and Road Initiative, expansion of BRICS (a grouping of the world's leading emerging market economies) and becoming the world’s largest trading powerhouse. Their dominance has threatened the USA’s position as the world’s sole hegemonic power. However, the question remains if China will be able to surpass them to become the world’s leading power?

A key part of China’s economic and political expansion has been through the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) adopted by the CCP in 2013. It seeks to connect Asia with Africa and Europe via land and maritime networks through significant infrastructure investment to improve regional integration, increase trade and stimulate economic growth. The initiative defines five significant priorities: policy coordination, infrastructure connectivity, unimpeded trade, financial integration and connecting people. For example, one of the most important projects of the BRI is the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC), which aims to facilitate trade between China and Pakistan, with investments exceeding $60 billion. For instance, the developments to the Gwadar Port have positioned it as a strategic hub for regional trade. It allows China more straightforward access to the Indian Ocean, improving its trade routes to the Middle East and Africa and reducing reliance on the Malacca Strait, as it is increasingly exposed to vulnerabilities from geopolitical tensions. Additionally, China has claimed the initiative has created more than 400,000 jobs within the countries and helped to lift more than 40 million people out of poverty. However, serious concerns are that it burdens developing countries’ finances, as it could push them to economic collapse. Pakistan, for example, has struggled to repay their debt, where one-fourth of it is owed to China. Furthermore, the G7’s PGII, launched in 2022, is a strategic alternative to China’s BRI by offering infrastructure financing to developing countries. It aims to utilise $600 billion by 2027 to fund high-quality and sustainable infrastructure projects worldwide while emphasising financial transparency. This limits China’s ability to use infrastructure investment as political leverage and allows the USA to remain politically dominant alongside Western powers.

Secondly, China can exert its political dominance by establishing a “Chinese-led bloc” through BRICS, as it is the largest economy. BRICS is an intergovernmental organisation of ten countries—Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa, Egypt, Ethiopia, Indonesia, Iran and the UAE. It has affirmed its commitment to a multipolar world order and called for a new global reserve currency as an alternative to the U.S. dollar. It has developed several projects, such as the New Development Bank (NDB), which began operating in 2014, following criticism of the IMF and the World Bank at the 2012 BRICS summit. It helps provide funding and loans for development projects in emerging economies, and the founding BRICS members pooled $100 billion as the bank’s authorised capital. Alongside the NDB, BRICS launched the Contingency Reserve Agreement (CRA), which provides countries experiencing economic strain with liquid currency. Overall, this exemplifies the political dominance of China, as it’s the most significant contributor to the NDB, holding 20% of shares and providing the largest share ($41 billion) of the $100 billion pool. This means that the nine nations may increasingly align with China’s interests, including limiting the USA’s power, as trading in local currencies, such as China-Russia energy deals, reduces their financial sanctions' effectiveness. Furthermore, BRICS allows China access to more markets, such as Iranian oil and Russian gas, reducing the impact of US trade restrictions. However, despite these developments, no concrete steps have been taken to create a common currency for international trade between member countries. Additionally, this has meant that dollar dependency persists, with 70% of global trade remaining dollar-denominated as there are no viable alternatives. Finally, tensions between India and China have suggested that unified and coordinated action may be lessened to an extent. This means China’s efforts to exert its political dominance over the US might be limited.

Lastly, it is clear that China is the world’s largest trading nation, which allows it to exert a sense of political dominance through economic collaboration. It accounts for 15% of global exports, surpassing the US, and has maintained a surplus of over $800 million. China can further trade through its key export sectors, which include electronics, machinery and textiles, of which they supply 26%, 17% and 40% of global trade. However, the USA has increasingly seen this as a threat and has imposed several tariffs under Trump’s administration, leading to a US-China “Trade War”. The $550 billion in tariffs since 2018 have disrupted supply chains and had other impacts, as the yuan depreciated to 7.1 per dollar in 2019. Although China is a trading powerhouse, its political dominance, as a result, might be hindered by the efforts of the US.

In conclusion, China has proved itself capable of overtaking the USA’s position as the world’s sole hegemonic power through the BRI, BRICS, and its global trade. Despite obstacles regarding the G7’s PGII, BRICS’ limitations, and imposed tariffs, it is still possible a new superpower is emerging, though this might take many more years to come.

Crime Writing

Fri, 03 Oct 2025 13:19:29 GMT

By Omolayomi Jacobs, Arthur Khan, Abdus-Samad Ally and Ying Bo Ze

Omolayomi Jacobs:

The lake remembers. But more than that we remember.

We, the silver darts that weave through the dark. We, the silent watchers beneath the surface. Our world is one of shifting shadows, of whispers in the current, of the slow decay of things that do not belong here.

And tonight, the water is disturbed.

I taste it before I see it—the sharp tang of iron, rich and warm, curling through the reeds. It spreads like ink, thick and full of life, intoxicating. The others taste it, too. They come from the depths, drawn by the promise of flesh, of something new, something soft.

She came stumbling to the shore hours ago, her breath ragged, her hands slick with something dark. The reeds whispered as she passed, bending beneath her weight. She kept glancing over her shoulder, eyes wide, hollow. A rabbit knowing the wolf is close.

The man followed—not far behind. A predator, his steps measured, patient. I watched from below as he stalked closer, his shadow stretching long under the hungry moon.

She ran. Not far. Not fast enough.

I saw the flash of the knife, the arc of her blood as it painted the stones. It pulsed from her throat in thick ribbons, warm and rich, a feast for the water. Her body twisted, fingers clawing at the dirt as if the earth itself could save her. The sound she made—half gasp, half gurgle—rippled through the night like a dying heartbeat. Then, silence.

He thought the lake would keep his secret. They always do.

But the dead do not rest here.

Her body slips beneath the surface, her limbs splayed, hair billowing like dark river grass. Her eyes are open, glassy, searching. Her blood blooms in clouds around her, and we—small, sharp-toothed, patient—drift closer.

The others hesitate. I do not.

I glide toward her, nosing the torn place where her life spilled out. Warm. Fresh. The first bite is tentative, a taste, a question. The others answer.

A frenzy begins.

Small mouths testing, tearing. Fingers nibbled down to bone. Lips peeled back, teeth exposed in a grin she did not wear in life. The water does what it always does—it takes, it consumes. The flesh loosens, the body becomes a thing of the lake, less of her, more of us.

But there is another. The one who put her here.

He crouches on the shore, washing the knife, watching the ripples settle. He does not see what we see. He does not understand that the lake is not his accomplice. It is not a grave. It is alive. And we are watching.

I break the surface for a moment, my eye catching the moonlight, unblinking. He does not notice. They never do.

But we remember.

His scent is in the water now, his skin cells dissolving into the currents. He is marked. He does not belong here, but soon, he will.

Because the lake does not just take.

It pulls.

It calls.

It waits.

And when the time comes, when he returns—as they always do—we will be here, circling, hungry. The water will rise to meet him, the reeds will tighten around his legs, and he will fall forward, arms flailing, lungs burning. His hands will reach for the surface, but there will be nothing—only the weight of the water, the press of the dark, the bite of a thousand tiny teeth.

And the last thing he will see before the blackness takes him is us

Watching.

Waiting.

Arthur Khan:

The Scarlet Alibi

The rain hammered against the dilapidated iron roof of the abandoned complex, a relentless rhythm matching the frantic beat of Dwight’s heart. Dwight, spiraling in a thorny maze of thoughts, stared at the body. It was a young woman, classy even in death, lying sprawled amidst a scattering of discarded blueprints and half-empty paint cans. Drops of dried-out blood lay still across her temple, a rather vibrant splash of colour against the grey grime of the floor. His gut churned; this wasn’t just another case, it felt… personal. The familiar metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, a scent that always seemed to bring his own senses into sharper focus.

Sergeant Singh arrived, her crisp uniform a stark contrast to his disheveled appearance. "Inspector Dwight," she said, her tone professional but twined with a hint of weary tolerance. "Forensics are on their way. Initial assessment suggests blunt force trauma to the head. No obvious signs of forced entry, but the place is a mess." Singh, ever practical, began meticulously photographing the scene, her movements precise and efficient, collecting any evidence she could. He watched her, still trying to process the dilemma he was facing.

Just then, he caught a fleeting glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A rose...

It felt deliberately placed, tucked inside the sleeve of her dress: a morbid calling card. But why here, in this forgotten grave of steel and dust? The wind howled through shattered windows, carrying with it the scent of rust and decay.

Dwight knelt beside the body, his gaze lingering on the rose. He carefully lifted it, his fingers brushing against the scarlet petals, their softness almost mocking the brutality of the scene. A tiny, almost invisible inscription was etched onto the stem – a single, nearly illegible letter: ' X '. The rain continued its relentless assault, but now a different sensation pulsed through Dwight's chest.

A name formed on his tongue, unbidden. Erika. He hadn’t uttered it in years. The memory of her pale, trembling face, streaked with blood, surfaced in his mind. The only survivor from a case long thought buried—one that bore the same eerie signature. Had she known this woman? Or worse… had she tried to warn her? He stood, rubbing his temples as pieces of an unfinished puzzle pressed against the edges of his mind. His gaze flickered to the shadows pooling in the corners of the room, the creaking echoes of the past threatening to drown him. This wasn’t just a crime scene—it was a message.

Then, something else caught his attention. Scrawled in smudged charcoal across the wall, partially hidden behind rusting scaffolding, were five words : "The blood will never wash away."

A chill slithered down Dwight’s spine. He took an unconscious step backward, his breath shallow. Someone wanted him to see this. Someone wanted him to remember. Sergeant Singh noticed his change in posture. "Dwight? What is it?”. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening into fists. "It's not just a murder," he murmured. "It's a warning."

And for the first time in years, Dwight wasn’t sure if he was the hunter or the prey.

Abdus-Samad Ally:

Till DEATH do US part

04/09/24 – Sixth Form Induction Day

7:30 a.m.

I starved for this day. My hands twitched with hunger. My body was buzzing with noradrenaline.

I have waited long enough. Too long

New flesh. Soft. Warm. Pulsating with life. And I am going to take it all away.

The first time I killed it was messy. Rushed. An error. The bird flapped too hard, screamed too loud. I snapped its neck too soon. It didn't last long enough.

I was a rookie then, I have learned. Oh, I have learned.

The next one, I took my time. Peeled its feathers away, one by one. Let the pain settle in. Before the silence.

Birds are nothing. Their reflexive eyes don't beg. Their bodies don’t shiver and quiver when it is over. Humans do.

Today. I could finally feel it for myself.

8 a.m.

Bag? Useless.

School shoes? Meh.
Toolkit? My baby .

What should I use? What will make it last.

Swiss army knife? Pathetic . I want more .
Mace? Coward’s weapon . I want to feel them struggle .
Dagger? Oh, yes. Yes, yes. Perfect.

I ran my fingers over the blade, and imagined using it. A gasp. A twitch. A cold red mess all over my hands

Would they cry? Would they whimper, choking on their blood

I needed to know.

The school gates opened.

And then I saw her.

8:22 a.m.

My mouth went dry.

She was art.

Goldilocks curls-stunning. I want to grip them with all my might and drag her to the ground and watch her break.

Blue eyes - too innocent. I want to see them flood with terror, until she understands.

Soft, pink, small lips. Would she scream? Would she sob? Would she fight?

She doesn’t know. She belongs to me now.

I could slice her open here. Watch her clutch her throat, watch the blood pour through her fingers. No, that’s too fast.

I want to drag her into the dark . Feel her stutter under my hands. Listen to her pathetic little gasps as my fingers press tighter, tighter—until her pulse slows . Until her vision blurs . Until she stops .

Would she scratch, bite, beg? Or would she just stare at me, shocked , betrayed , broken ?

The thought made me tremble in anticipation.

So many ways to ruin her. To carve her open. To tear her apart.

And today, I would choose one.

8:25 a.m.

But as I took a step towards her, something shifted. She turned.

For a moment, our eyes locked.

My heart raced. Her eyes—not fear, not terror, just curiosity .

She tilted her head slightly, a soft smile appeared . Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said,

“I know your secret.”

For a second, I thought she meant something else. Something I hadn’t expected.

I froze . How could she know?

But there was no fear in her gaze. Only that maddening, calm certainty that made my skin prickle.

She stepped closer, and I felt a lump in my throat. “ I know what you’ve done ,” she added, almost as if it were a confession, not an accusation.

I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to .

She was perfect .

I smiled back. The passionate fire in my chest burned brighter.

She belongs to me now.

Ying Bo Zeng:

The first thing Detective Wang noticed when he stepped into the abandoned farmhouse was the smell. It clung to the air, thick and rotten, a combination of damp earth and something far worse. He’d been to crime scenes before, scenes that would turn the stomachs of lesser men, but there was something about this one that unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His flashlight beam exposed a living room unperturbed by time—dust-covered furniture, peeling floral wallpaper, a rocking chair swaying gently in a breeze that didn’t exist. He forced himself forward, the wooden floor groaning beneath his weight. The call had come in less than an hour ago—a local teen had been dared by his friends to spend the night inside, and hours had passed without a trace of him.

Something moved in the corner of his vision.

Wang spun, gun drawn.

Nothing.

Just shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls. He exhaled sharply. Get a grip, he told himself. But that feeling—that creeping, skittering sensation under his skin—only grew stronger.

At the far end of the room, where the dim light barely reached, stood a doorway leading to the basement. The door was open, a dark void yawning at him. His heartbeat kicked up a notch. A single fly buzzed past his ear, and then another. He swallowed hard and stepped closer. The smell intensified.

Blood. Old, pungent. And something else. He reached for the light switch, but the bulb overhead only lasted seconds before flickering, and died. A trembled sigh left his lips. Of all the places, of course his luck would run out here. Wang pointed his flashlight downwards revealing a staircase, wooden and splintering, descending into the abyss. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to call for backup. But Wang had seen enough bodies left waiting in the dark. If someone was down there, he had to know. Before it was too late.

He took the first step.

Then another.

The silence in the house was deafening, pressing in around him. His breath came shallow, his pulse hammering in his ears. Halfway down, the smell became overwhelming—sweet rot, the unmistakable perfume of death.

A shape loomed in the darkness below.

Wang halted, flashlight quivering in his grip. The beam revealed what had once been a person, now a grotesque parody of one. His skin was blue, pulled tight over bone. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, lips cracked and dry. His hair stood upright, jagged like static. And his eyes—

No.

His eyes were missing.

Two cavernous holes gaped where they should have been, the surrounding flesh torn and jagged, as if something had taken them. Wang instinctively took an involuntary step back, but the moment his foot landed, the thing in the chair moved .

A sharp, wet breath rattled through its throat. Its head twitched upward. And in the darkness beyond, something else stirred.

Something that had been waiting.

And it was still hungry.

Hidden

Thu, 03 Apr 2025 10:18:56 GMT

Written by Heather Gilchrist from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

1. EXT. WOODS - DAY

TED (25) Slicked back blond hair, a fleece, waterproof jacket and hiking boots walks around the forest, holding a camera by his side.

He steps over red tape with a sign on a nearby tree saying "Do not enter, construction in process."

Ted walks further, going past missing person's posters that hang on the trees.

Ted turns the camera on while walking, the camera faces the floor before being turned around to face Ted. He smiles and waves at the camera with high energy.

TED

Yo! It's Ted, I'm back out in the woods, workers

have taken over. I just wanted to show you how

cool these woods are despite everything you hear.

He turns the camera to face the woods and turns around 360 TED Look at it... It's so beautiful. what a shame it will be gone soon.

Lullaby for Mushrooms

Thu, 03 Apr 2025 10:10:42 GMT

Written by Jonathan Reese from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

The body content of your post goes here. To edit this text, click on it and delete this default text and start typing your own or paste your own from a different source.

The Symbol of The Rose

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:31:20 GMT

Written by Charlotte Maze from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

I love how roses have thorns, yet are symbols of love.

I guess it’s to show that you’ll only end up getting hurt.

A nod to protecting yourself.

I love how they can whither and die, or be preserved forever.

But it doesn’t mean that their brittle petals won’t be thrown into the air as dust.

A way to remember, and to let go.

I love how roses come in a variety.

Rips in their petals, scars on their stems, missing leaves.

All things to make it real, more human in a sense.

I love how they smell, very distinct but very subtle.

I always thought that they would be strong and bold,

I guess as with love, they are delicate, shifting with the wind. Directions unknown in the moments they live.

I wouldn't say they are my favorite flower.

But there have been so many coincidences, they have become very dear to me.

A memory of a Mémère, a grandma of my childhood.

A thought of a friend, who shared similar struggles to myself.

A fragment of a love that I can’t let go.

But these flowers, these beautiful things

aren’t one in a million.

No flower is exactly the same, but there are thousands of them.

A yellow rose will always be a yellow rose

unless we decide it is more than such;

A true one in a million, of a million millions.

But alas, I still love these fickle things,

so cherish them deeply with me.

We Will Miss You

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:30:50 GMT

Created by Chloe DeSilva from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

Dreaming in the Stars

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:30:33 GMT

Captured by Bailey Bates from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Disconnected

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:30:15 GMT

Written by Cheyenne Washington from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Dr. Coleman continued to scribble in the notebook in her hand.

“Thank you, Charlie. That was a very powerful thing that you shared.” I could feel Ella’s eyes burrowing into the side of my face. “Ella, how do you feel about what Charlie has just shared?”

“How come in the 10 years we’ve been married, you've never said anything like that?” Ella’s words were that of defeat. I could hear it and see it as I turned my head slowly to her.

“You never asked,” I said plainly. “And even if you did, how far into the conversation would we get until you got pissed off?” Ella tensed, “What am I supposed to do when everything you say is a personal attack?”

“No, don't do that! You think every criticism is some ‘personal attack’ when it's just you being unable to admit when you're wrong!” My voice peaked.

I stood up to walk out. I’m not just going to sit and let her twist my words. I get enough of that at home. When Dr. Coleman realized what I was doing, she cleared her throat.

“Mrs. Andrews, I understand that you are frustrated, but walking out will only leave you with more bad than good,” I stopped in my tracks, “please sit, Charlie.” I looked to my right, and I could see Ella trying not to cry. My stomach sank at the thought of her tears falling. I sat back down.

Dr. Coleman sighed in relief and started her scribbling again.

“I want you to stay,” Ella started. ”Amelia is only 5, and I don't want her to think that fighting is what’s normal.”

“But don't you think staying together for her would be worse? We would just be hating each other in silence in front of her. She’s already asking why Mommy and Mama are sleeping in separate rooms.”

“Is that what you really want, Charlie?” Dr. Coleman looked at me. Her eyes were like a mirror, her words reflecting my thoughts. “Would separating be what’s best for you?”

I was on the spot once again. Dr. Coleman’s hand stilled, and she looked into my soul again.

Ella eyed me with bated breath, anxiety apparent on her creased brow.

“I– I don’t know…” I stammered, but the alarm on Dr. Coleman's desk went off, cutting me off like a lifeline. “I’m afraid our time is up for today,” Dr. Coleman said, her tone shifting.

“But before you go, I want to give you both some homework.”

Her voice faded into the background as my mind drifted, pulling me back to memories of simpler times—when Ella and I sat in my father’s old Ford, faces fresh with youth, eyes full of love. We had been so sure of ourselves back then, so happy. A gentle tap on my shoulder snapped me back to the present. Ella was standing, looking at me with concern.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

Examination

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:29:57 GMT

Created and Written by Davis Snyder from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

There is an innate pattern of life and to dwell upon it brings me a

somewhat explainable sense of joy and wonder.

With these images, I see the threads and scars of life,

in crimson and brilliant green, pure.

I notice how a hydrangea’s leaf stem and skin mimic the road and wood

of the countryside.

A maple tree’s spinning jenny feels so complicated and terse, akin to

how the day feels when my head is filled and the day runs long.

Our nature and being, are ever so beautifully complicated.

Needy Baby, Greedy Baby

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:28:20 GMT

Written by Christopher Bean from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

Shall I tell you what happened? Why I’d grown resentful?

I’m the last branch on the family tree, the final leaf in autumn.

And so, within the mists of a reddened Hallow’s Eve (which only served to make me grieve), I grew resentful. Fate had hung over my baby’s crib like a mobile, but the crib stood empty because my baby’s death had happened offstage.

(Instage?)

A vesper bell never tolled to remind me that my babe was gone, so I grew resentful, like an empty house, or rather, an empty womb.

As if things couldn’t get worse, I’d developed the Big Malignancy. An irregular pain in my breast; a pinch and a punch for the first of the month, eh?

So, two things in the space of a week. Were they related, or was it coincidence? A shadow had fallen on me like winter.

I was able to smile, though, when the doctor reassured me the twist inside my breast wasn’t cancer. But that smile was just a lid to cork my screams.

So, the next day, after rallying (somewhat), I rose from a bed that seemed more like an open grave, and tried another healer.

‘Come in, dear,’ Sally said with a strange grimace. I’d found her online, on the National Federation of Spiritual Healers’ website.

Her lounge — a seventies miscarriage itself — carried a tide mark of curios and trinkets along a dado rail that looked like the scum from a bath, or high tide; twisted wooden poppets, tumbled glass, eyeless gulls…

‘This is a mistake,’ I’d said, backing away, but she tilted her head with such heartbreaking sympathy, such empathic indulgence in her eyes. I stayed.

‘I suppose you want me to help him move into the light?’ she said.

‘Him, who?’

She pointed to my breast.

Patient Eve

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:27:55 GMT

Written by Coco Song from Emma Willard School - Troy, NY

“Hello and welcome to The Silent History . I am your host, Noah Palmer, and today we have a special guest. She is the most well-known survivor of one of the darkest governmental experiments in our Nation’s history. But after exposing the situation and delivering justice by bringing those responsible to trial, she all but disappeared.”

A man in a navy sweater sits in the armchair opposite you. He speaks to a camera.

When you found Noah Palmer’s email, you avoided it like a bad omen before reading it. His brevity and straightforwardness worked, or maybe ten years had softened your resolve to stay silent.

“Please welcome, Maeve Emory! You will remember her as Patient 665, or more famously, Patient Eve.”

He turns to you. “Hello, Maeve. I speak on behalf of everyone watching from home when I say it is an honor to have you here for your first public appearance since the trials.”

“Thank you.” Your voice remains even, but your palms sweat; you clasp them together. “ Your host is quite reputable. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Dr. Amy, your therapist, had reassured you that The Silent History was the right place to speak.

You take a moment to gather yourself and look around the room. There is a small tech crew handling the cameras. You notice their disinterested faces focused on the apparatus they wield and wonder how long it took them to become desensitized to their work.

Nonetheless, you are thankful there is no live studio audience, no apathetic bodies to bathe in the still-writhing and groaning pain you’ve carried this long. Look into the camera when you tell them. Let them understand. Do it for the girls.

“Do not worry if you need to take pauses, and let me know if you need anything at all.”

You give a small smile and nod.

Noah Palmer shifts a bit and faces you directly. “Shall we start at the beginning?”

“Sure.” You fake composure, your hands holding tighter now. No, don’t be nervous, relax, relax. It’s been over, for years.

Noah senses your hesitation and moves to support you. “Perhaps you can start by telling us how you came to be in the center?” He turns to the camera, “For those of you who don’t know, the G.O.D. Center is the Graystone Organic DNA Incubation Center. ”

You sigh, your grip loosening , and begin, “I was 20, and I was in college, uh pre-med. By then, the Supreme Court’s ruling overturning federally legal abortions had been in effect for almost six years - most States had already banned them. The initial outrage had calmed down, the protests stopped entirely. People, women mostly, grew exhausted of fighting a seemingly immovable government, resigning themselves to back-alley abortions. Men were appeased. Our bodies and freedom – as long as they had access to them, they were happy.”

You pause, breathe in deeply - smells subtly like wood and wallpaper and stagnation. “It was the end of the semester, and I was invited to a party by an acquaintance. I don’t remember how I ended up on the second floor, but I did. I was drunk and the world spun. Though I thought I was alone, deep in the room sat a man.”

You stop talking. Noah doesn’t interject, and the cameraman carries on with his work.

“The rest blurs, and, well, my story is not particularly new. I woke up the next morning in the bed, where…”

You trail off. Maeve, breathe. You’re not there anymore.

“I took a pregnancy test some time after.”

Look at the camera, Maeve. You turn your head and stare directly into its cold gaze. Get a grip Maeve. You came with a purpose.

“The despair - the anguish that came with knowing, was suffocating. It took away my future of becoming a doctor. That man, he–” your voice cracks a little. “I, uh…”
Steel yourself; don’t be shaken.

“His name was Joshua Paulson. After he violated me, he completed college. He married, had two sons, eventually divorced. He died in a car accident four years ago.”

Your eyes pierce the camera lens as you wait.

“Almost immediately after I realized I was pregnant, I began researching. How could I get rid of this thing? I couldn’t let one man, one night, ruin the opportunities I’d been building for myself. A tsunami of rage followed. I would survive this; who I wanted to become would survive this.

“Eventually, I stumbled upon a website, a government website, promising to take away the embryo in me. I spent the entire night at my computer. No matter how hard I looked, the information circled. It’s legal, not an abortion, but I wouldn’t deliver a full-term baby?

“I scheduled an appointment. I needed answers, help, and I was hopeful.”

You inhale deeply.

Noah clears his throat. “Are you alright? Shall we take a break?” He leans forward, his eyebrows drawn together in…what,concern?

“Oh no, no. I’m fine, just…” You pause, “remembering. Where was I? The appointment. I made the journey to the G.O.D. I remember arriving at a white building. Inside, I was received by an enthusiastic woman who handed me a cup of water and sat me down in the lobby. There were other people there, some standing behind the reception area, some in white robes passing by. Doctors, I assumed. It was only after I was enrolled that I realized all those people, other than the receptionist, were actors.

“I can’t recall our exact conversation, but looking back I realize she answered around my questions. It would have been more convenient if I had realized then, of course. Like any good salesman or politician, she put me instantly at ease so that I had no idea the true intent behind her smile.

“The minute the pen lifted from the paper, the air changed. The receptionist gradually stopped clicking away at her computer. No one passed through the lobby again. The security guards entered.

“I was escorted beyond the door and into the facility. From there, I’m afraid there is a gap in my memory, until I woke up to see four girls staring at me, two of which sat on my bed. Oh, how I screamed and thrashed at them.

“They would later tell me that their reactions had been similar. They too felt ill at ease within the walls, the floor, the ceiling all paneled and so blindingly white. Even the air was white.

“The girl who spoke up first was Millie. She had been in the institution for a month, the effects of injections already displayed on her: heavy bags beneath her eyes, hollowed cheeks, rapid weight loss. You probably heard about her in the news. She- I wasn’t- well. I’ll get to that later.”

You look at Noah who nods at you, solemnly.

“So we sat down and Millie explained everything she knew. We were underground, imprisoned. There were daily checkups. Every week, an enrichment activity enabled the ‘patients’ to see the sunlight. Millie said, ‘It’s their sorry attempt at keeping us sane.’

“Everything else was unpredictable; you’d never know until they came for you. The institution was built like a labyrinth within a fortress, sentinels stationed around every corner. There was no schedule, just immediacy. Suddenly, a nurse and two guards would be blocking the only exit to the room. It was impossible to escape, even more so with our rapidly deteriorating physical and mental health. They broke our bodies, broke our minds. The only thing we had left in the end was our will. We were damn set on getting out of there. After they excised whatever they were growing in us, we would be free. This hope was the only thing that kept us going. God, how little we knew about the depth of this… evil.”

A chill sweeps through the room. You breathe, inviting the cold to sit inside your lungs.

“Eventually, we learned that we were corpses, hosts, kept alive for the needs of the parasite inside us. And of course, our importance was on borrowed time.

“That thing, the so-called ‘organic DNA’ was… surgically inserted. It enhanced the baby already there. If you’ve read the reports published after the trials, you’ll understand. We were bones bagged in skin. Eventually, our skin turned gray and ashen, lips pale and streaked with red cracks. Purple and green bruises, like love bites from the needles and IV drips, curled up our arms. And the eyes of the women! They looked at me like roadkill deer looking into the horizon, face forever frozen in fear until decay has its way.

“There weren’t any mirrors in the facility, but every now and then you’d catch a glimpse of yourself, a stranger with haunted eyes and a hollowed body, and an awful, protruding abdomen, as you passed by windows and glass doors.

“That first year after the G.O.D. case finished, the nightmares persisted. Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see them: the girls, the doctors, the pristine white walls standing stark above our decaying bodies, the labs, the guards, the needles and scalpels, and Millie, Millie on the-”

Your throat closes as if your body protects you from what you’re saying. You clear it. “Whatever that was growing inside us was sucking our life out. And, well, in simple terms, Millie had the worst of it.”

You look up at the ceiling as you roll the words over, testing which ones you are ready to release.

“Throughout our imprisonment, we managed to understand a few pieces of information. The institution was a maze, and we were in the west wing where a dozen more rooms had imprisoned other girls like us.

“‘This place is bereft of any and all god and goodness,’ Millie had told me, and I thought she was already insane. But she was strong, brave. She was twenty, and almost three months pregnant, the furthest into her pregnancy than any of us. She would have the toughest time withstanding the experiments, as if the baby fought too. God, she was- she…”

Breathe in Maeve. Now, breathe out .

“She began to get… really sick when the intensity of the experiments increased. There were so many shots a day, and whatever was in them did not sit well in Mille’s body. She would throw up violently after each injection, and again after every meal. Her hands trembled, and she was excavated down to the bone. She used her IV drip as a walking stick, and sat down whenever she could.

“Millie looked at me with a certain conviction and desperation as her symptoms increased. Eventually, she became a woman obsessed - obsessed with the idea of getting all the other women out.

“‘You’re the healthiest, Maeve. Only you can do it.’ Her face was grave as she continued. ‘You have to save the girls, for me .’ I was galvanized, but before we could make moves then, Josie Ann, the youngest of all of us, died. The parasite had been born, killing its host. A nurse delivered the news.

“‘Ladies, in four days we will have a day of rest with no injections, just a check up. You will rest in your rooms for the remainder of that day. And I have some unfortunate news. Patient 663 has had a miscarriage and passed away during surgery. That is all.’

“Her death was disregarded as some minor inconvenience; they didn’t even say her name. Josie Anne. She was a sweet kid, always trying to stay optimistic no matter how hopeless our situation became. She was raised Christian, didn’t do a single damn thing wrong in her life. She’d been raped.”

You rub your right hand over your eyes.

An unspoken moment of silence passes for Josie Anne and all the girls that were killed there.

You begin again, “Yet despite our loss, we had certainly gained a sliver of hope in Nurse Ratched’s announcements. It was the perfect opportunity: a moment of weakness in their security. This would be our only chance, otherwise, we would die here. Those three days passed in a blur of anxiety as Millie and I established the plan. We had a pretty good image of the floorplan between the two of us, but only a vague idea of where the only elevator to the ground floor stood. We were going to have to figure it out, but we had faith, not in god, or a savior, but in ourselves.”

You sigh, feeling the ghost of the adrenaline from that day twitching in your veins. You feel like you can get up and just take off running again. Outside, a brilliant spill of orange, pink, red expands across the sky. The sun is setting. C’mon Maeve, you’re almost there.

“So when the day finally came, we waited, hoping that Millie would be called first. It made sense - she was the closest to the end of the experiment, the finished product. For us, she was imperative to the whole plan; she’d fake a seizure enabling her to steal the key card from the nurse. From there, everything would shift in our favor.

“Unfortunately, before any one of us was even called, that monster inside me stirred. I felt my entire body lurch with its force. My pain and screaming was followed by darkness. When I awoke, I was on a moving gurney. Everything spun.

“Eventually, I was positioned on an operating table, three surgeons stood nearby, facing away from me. Just as I had opened my eyes to this horror, a nurse burst in. She shouted ‘Millie’s collapsed!’ Preoccupied with the latest crisis, two hurried out from the room, no one noticing that I was very much awake. I don’t know what came over me, but as soon as the door shut behind the two doctors, I turned to the only staff member left standing in that room. He held a needle, the anesthesia glistening from its tip. His eyes widened when he realized I now faced him, but before he could scream, I plunged the needle deeply into his neck. When he fell, clarity slammed back into my body. In my frenzy, the first thing I thought to do was to cut the damn parasite out of me. I did exactly that.”

Noah shudders. You notice.

“Remember, I was a pre-med student. I had some basic knowledge, and that coupled with ambition and anger, made me particularly powerful in that moment. Without even hesitating, I stuck the scalpel into the skin of my abdomen and dragged. The pain and dizziness was unbearable, often followed by occasional blacking out, but somehow I managed to reach my hand into my abdomen. I felt around before grasping something hard and leathery, yanking with all my might. There, between my legs, was a leech-shaped monstrosity covered in blood, its teeth thin and long. I remember staring at it until it twitched, pulsed. Bile rose in my throat, and all I could throw up was stomach acid. I felt so clear-headed then. I stuffed my bloody hospital gown into my mouth and grabbed the needle and thread from the tray to sew myself back together, one stitch at a time. I barely felt the pain. I mean - there is a certain moment when your body just shuts that all down. I had reached it.

“I fumbled on the bloody, crumpled gown and tumbled off of the operation table. I fell right on top of the sleeping doctor, and I’m glad I did, because it revealed his precious keycard, which would enable me to operate the elevator.

“I dragged myself forwards on my arms down hallways before I could feel my legs again and then half limped against the wall and half crawled along the path Millie and I had memorized.

“The rest of what happened, you already know. I made it to the right elevator, onto the ground floor, through the empty lobby, and into the street. This part was in the news; a passing car almost hit me, and an ambulance was called. Then, the investigation, the arrests, the trials. Millie didn’t survive; she died before the police could arrive.

“During the first hearing, a photo of her body lying there on the operation bed, her stomach slit open, came up as evidence. I didn’t know - I - I was shocked. When I saw that her eyes were still open, I got so sick they had to put the trial on hold. They still referred to her as Patient 664 –a tool, an experiment, a piece of evidence.”

You look at Noah somberly, and chuckle humorlessly. “You know what the funny thing is? That day I escaped, it was July fourth, Independence Day. I only realized after I got out.”

You sigh, “After all of this, the G.O.D. center, the trials, everything, I had had enough. And so one day, I simply left. I stayed in touch with my therapist only. I felt that if no one saw me, Patient Eve, Patient 665 wouldn't exist anymore. I could just be Maeve again. So for ten years, I hid myself away. And I probably would’ve for ten more years, or the rest of my life, if I hadn’t received your request for an interview. Thank you Noah, for letting me tell this story.”

Later, when you walk out of the building into the chilly air, night has settled fully. When you exhale, you can see your soul materializing before you, as if saying, look Maeve, it’s been ten years. Haven’t we carried this burden long enough? You’ve done what you came here to do, isn’t it time you live again?

You breathe and step forward into the night and back into the world.

Pastel Dream

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:27:26 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

The Boy Who Chased After the Moon

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:26:09 GMT

Written by Dylan Scherillo from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

He made a promise to love her for as long as the moon circles the earth.

She told him to prove it.

She told him to chase the moon.

He chased after the moon,

and got lost in the stars until

he lost the moon

and lost the girl.

City Walks

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:25:26 GMT

Captured by Ethan Alcee from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Diagnosis

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:25:08 GMT

Written by Emma Wrieden from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

I’m sorry to hear that

But it could be worse

You don’t look that sick

Must be “nice” not to work

My friend has what you have

And she seems just fine ,

I knew someone who had

What you have but they passed.

Have you tried yoga?

You just need fresh air,

Try crystals, go vegan,

Make sure you try prayer.

Don’t listen to doctors

They just want to push meds,

But make sure you just don’t eat

Dairy or bread.

I’m tired too, I know just how you feel,

I can sell you some oils

They’re the best way to “heal.”

Remember the key to your health is

Your mind, just think positively

And you’ll be just “fine”.

A Night Out

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:24:49 GMT

Captured by Gabrielle Deck from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Code

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:24:32 GMT

Written by Isabela Leech from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

“Pulse check, pulse check!” someone screamed from the back of the room.

I stopped compressions and checked for a pulse, the machine behind me scanning for signs, confused electrical currents hoping to find rhythm.

Blue lips, grey fingertips.

“Push epi, continue compressions.”

My hands interlocked and began the brutal beating of the chest.

Again.

Beat, beat, beat.

Kick, kick, kick - my swollen stomach pregnant with my first almost gets in the way.

“Pulse check, pulse check!” they chorused.

My hands unlocked, two fingers pressed against veins and arteries whose supplier had failed to renew its subscription.

Now, cold skin scrapes against my hot hands, and sweat drips off my brow.

“Beep, beep, beep” the machine spoke in code.

Code blue…

Psalm 23

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:24:13 GMT

Created by Gabrielle Deck from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Strength in Numbness

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:23:31 GMT

Written by Grazielle Hartman from New Visions - Troy, NY

They say there’s strength in numbness...

Sometimes, our memories hit us like a train from behind.

I lose my sense of time and space in moments like this.

How can something sneak up behind me, yet reveal itself

So deliberately

By slapping me in the chest?

It doesn’t come from behind, does it? No,

It sneaks up in front of me and breathes into my skin,

Right under my nose,

So I don’t see it coming,

But it makes itself known in all intended places just the same.

I just had one of those moments when you hear something

And it puts you in the exact mind you were in when the memory was made.

It’s more than just recalling a scene.

I can feel every bit of what I felt during the memory

Mixed with all I know and feel now.

And it’s funny how this memory is gentle

However broken and tainted by the darkness that ensued.

With the knowledge

And residing feelings this heartbreak has brought,

I sit in this memory now, with an added sense of loss.

A reminder that I can’t hate everything about a person

Or pretend that all they did was hurt me and hate me.

It’s easy to bury myself deep

Into the safety of everyone else’s hate for him

And loathe him myself.

But that isn’t my power.

People remark upon my strength, but this is where I find it:

I allow myself the vulnerability of love and grief for him.

I acknowledge the loss of his friendship and companionship,

Separating the joy from

The secrets and lies

That were sown carefully throughout.

These things are easy to mix up

As our natural protection from pain,

Muddling the good so the bad would be easier

To accept and recover from.

Yes, his intentions were evil.

But I don’t believe that anyone can develop such a relationship

Without channeling some small bit

Of genuine compassion from within,

No matter how sick and crooked the motive is.

It’s also funny how people will try to explain to me

Why this perception I have

Is just another sign of the power

Of his manipulation.

But to that I say:

“You weren’t there,

Were you?”

Now matter how great of a mask he put between me

And his true intentions, I still saw his eyes,

Closer than anyone else, deeper than

Anything

Ever

Will

Again;

So that despite people’s inability to understand,

I knew him more than he thought.

So everyone can indulge in their rage, in their disgust and loathing.

But I will continue to heal as I allow myself to recall my love,

And grieve its loss.

My memories act as a shield to the poisonous anger and hatred

That erodes great warriors into uncertain wanderers.

I find strength in my love

Where others might assume weakness;

And I’ve realized

That’s what strikes panic and terror into my enemies.

People who expect wrath don’t know what to do with themselves

In the face of forgiveness

And it eats them alive.

While this dirt on my path suffers in its questions,

I revere and honor who I was,

Who I am,

And who I am yet to be,

In choosing peace.

A Love Letter to Cartoons

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:23:11 GMT

Created by Jayli Capasso from New Visions - Troy, NY

Mercy for the Blind

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:22:53 GMT

Written by Jonathan Reese from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Sitting in the mud, the blind fool toyed with a half dead rat. At first it was the smell that had brought the beast towards the amalgamated carcass of the rat king. He stabbed his jagged walking stick into the pile while the final victim squirmed as its tail fell into the soft dirt, ripping a little as the pointed edge of the once-living hickory pierced the soft mud. The child squealed as it became clear the small size of the animal had kept it alive through the thrashing and tearing of the other putrid rats. The man did not care for children.

Twisting his makeshift walking stick, the blind man enjoyed the noises from the rat. He reveled in the sensation. How long had it been since he had heard up close. Oft’ the terrors of the night would creep into his room. Their hunched back and soft demeanor, creating a villainous silhouette of a thief. Yet, this messenger from beyond the walls of his home would not take, rather it delivered gifts for the good behavior of the blind. Sliding its warm hands over the old man, the noises would caress his lonely face. It was all that could stave off the loneliness of a motherless life.

The man loved his mother as he believed all did. She was gentle and kind. Her hands a comfort to his soul as she would hold him. His fondest memory, shared with none but himself to retain a semblance of ownership, was when she would cook for him. The smell of the juices from the meat, the seasoning of pepper and marinade would fill his heightened sense of smell long enough to mask those of the outside. The shit that penetrated the window and wood, soaking into the floorboards like a seeping vomit. She would always sing as she cooked. Another distraction for the poor friendless boy. A mix of tra and la would be all that he heard from his mother. Never a sound more. He began to think she had never been taught to speak, but he knew himself that neither had he. Therein lay the confusion.

Language was not a necessity to the man, but he still made noises. He would mimic the creaking of the dusted wooden floorboards beneath his calloused and splitting heels. Thunk, Thunk, Thunk, the man would exasperate. His old groans grew softer with age, but they were always audible. Yet his mother, silent as she was, became an enigma to the man who had never even heard her footsteps. The only noises the man ever heard were her song and himself.

The delight in the sounds of tiny squeals from the trapped rat in front of him became a delight to his forsaken ear drums. He would twist his hickory left and right, feeling the vibration in his abandoned canal. The sounds became a delicacy as his mothers meat once had been. He missed meat. To the man it wasn't a matter of hunting or gathering. It just existed on his baren black table. The soot inevitably forcing a cough from his rough throat but never his mothers. There was never a question about the integrity of his meal. He knew not to ask why the blackened dusty, grimy, slithering meat would cake his esophagus dry and make him cough black speckled blood. He just knew that it was time with his mother. A time where the pain in his gut would fade softly before ravaging his insides and promptly seeping into the floorboards only to be remembered by the squelch that would reverberate from under his bare dirty feet.

Had the other's in the village known of the rotten filth down guarding the swamp, they'd have shunned the poor bastard. But to him, it was all he knew. Now, months alone had picked away at his sanity. His mother lost long ago to the church and its cold damp interior. A monolith upon a grassy hillside, overseeing all of the village. Not even the blind could hide from God.

Having enough, the blind man pierced his stick far into the dirt, severing the rat's tail, freeing it. He may have wondered if rats had souls had he known what either were. Yet as its frail starved body sank slightly into the mud from the force it mattered not, as the man believed he had done good again for the creeping gift bearer. The man would stay up restless the following night, waiting for the screams from outside his locked door. They were the only joys he had anymore. The only sensation worth having.

As a knock rang from the broken door, its lock more an accessory than a tool, three men walked through the piles of shit into the man's room. He curled, sucking his dirtied finger in anticipation hearing a new sound. Excitedly, he waited for the caress and comfort of the hands he longed for so much, as new ones grabbed him by the arms. He was led up to the church on the hill and he knew now who the good man was. God would bring gifts to the faithful. To his people in need.

The blind man could not believe, as he was never taught of God nor the church, but in his final moments he understood two unanswered, unasked questions. Where did his mother get the meat before she disappeared, and why had she left him so long ago?

Sailor's Delight

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:22:35 GMT

Captured by Katy Kinirons Mejia from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Sleeping

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:21:54 GMT

Written by Kaila Quail from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

In her white gown and white shoes, Dani was prepared to say “I do.” She thought I do , but she never actually said “I do.” She thought of all the times she felt like she was going to die without him, and then of all the times she felt that she would die with him. All those moments she felt powerless, whenever he struck her with his hand, over and over, and over and over -

“Your turn dear,” he said, after knowing what he did was wrong in so many ways. He didn’t know if he had done it sober.

“No.” Though she barely spoke, he heard it

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I love you. I promise I'll never hurt you again, please. I know what I did was wrong but it’s nothing. This fear of more to come is all in your head, I promise.”

“No.” She ran out of the church and into the car. With little hesitation, she started its engine and drove home.

I can't believe I'm doing this , she thought to herself. She packed everything she could think of in her suitcases and left.

Kaden had tried his best to love her unconditionally, even though her schizophrenia had grown worse throughout their marriage. Dani had the same sleep-talking nightmares where she married him all over again, but instead of saying “I do,” she said “no” every time. He heard everything every time. One night, he had awakened to get a glass of water, and Dani was gone. All her stuff had disappeared. He pinched himself - his worst fear has come true. His wife was really gone this time.

Kaden searched the entire house until, when he walked down the stairs, he found her stabbing herself in the stomach. She manically repeated, “ The bugs. They're inside of me and won't get out.”

“No, no.” He ran up to her, but it was too late. She had already done so much damage to herself, that her intestines were spilling out and, oh god , the blood. So much blood was on the floor. How was she still talking?

He felt the thick, burgundy pool with his fingers.

Still warm , he thought. I can save her. There's still time.

He saw a small blob of flesh pulsating abnormally.

What the fuck is that?

Dani didn't know that she was four months pregnant at the time; she just thought she had the flu or a common cold. It was always her dream to have kids with Kaden, but the voices were penetrating her head with lies, telling her that something was inside of her, and whatever it was bad.

When he checked her pulse, he realized she was gone. He should have seen the warning signs. The last time she had an episode this bad, she had slit her wrists and stayed in the hospital for three months.

Upon reflection, he cried and held her in his arms.

When he woke up, he saw that Dani was not sleeping next to him anymore.

Dandelion on Horseback

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:19:03 GMT

Written by Jonathan Reese from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Dried mud stains the bottom of my mothers dress stolen from the closet less than two hours ago. Its blue cut-off near my heels in a cracked brown. My boots, old and filled with holes, a patchwork of fabric hanging to reveal the wear of years spent in the country; a childhood of kicking rocks; a childhood of dancing with the forlorn who'd find themselves paired with my heavy footed steps.

I am to be merry'd off to a man whose breadwon crust would feed my family for generations. The mere scraps enough to sustain my sisters. Yet, my feet have not grown since days spent by the stream. Its shine a mirror of my youth, my idleity.

He rode tall and steadfast on horseback. Hoofs rocking the dandelions’ seed into the air as if a gust of wind had made the summer air glitter with false snow. He sat feet above me, mirrored by the once rushing stream now calm. His eyes were blue in the water, a sea of stories lived.

Looking into mine, the stream left, only our future remained. I saw in him my siblings huddled by the door listening to my proposal. A plot of land for ourselves as they held hands and circled cheeks filled with rosy.

We met by the river, our calm, loving river. He took me by my hand and kissed me sweet as ripe plum. Sweetened with the scent of ourselves, I no longer felt inclined to stand by waiting. He picked a wallflower and gently smelled its pollination.

Near the end of summer, nearer my fifteenth birthday, we met once more. He had business South of London far beyond the rolls of hill and tree that marked our river. "Tomorrow,” he told me.

And so it was. I went in my mother’s best dress, towards our careless stream and in its rain-flooded reflection as the mud turned to dirt around my feet I no longer recognized the woman in its mirror. Her eyes, a deep blue in its water. Yet, my eyes are brown. And all the shine of the summer air fell. Next year's bloom. And as it began to rain I saw that reflection learn. Loving is painless, and there's no such thing as a painless lesson.

Community

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:18:42 GMT

Created by Kyra Weatherwax from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Crannog Cento

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:08:51 GMT

Created by Marcella Falquez from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

This work is in two parts. Please hover your cursor over the photo to appreciate the piece in its entirety.

Lines from the cento poem above were taken from the following published pieces, in this order:

Wet Autumn by Tom Hennen, from Darkness Sticks to Everything
Rock Me, Mercy by Yusef Komunyakaa from The Emperor of Water Clocks
The World Has Need of You by Ellen Bass from Like a Beggar
A Blessing by James Wright
The Last Words of My English Grandmother by William Carlos Williams
The Carolina Wren by Laura Donnelly
Three Songs at the End of Summer by Jane Kenyon, from Collected Poems
Carpe Diem by Jim Harrison from Dead Man's Float
Remnants Still Visible by Marge Piercy from Made in Detroit
The Wild Swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats

Tough Love

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:03:57 GMT

Written by Lynia Williams from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

“He loves me, he loves me not” are the words that raced through my mind all those nights we were together. Sometimes, one word outweighed the other, like the night you tied your soul to another. The day I found out, my heart dropped ten stories down, like the feeling you get when a roller coaster finally descends from the top of the sky.

I was in my room alone. My body felt like it was on fire – maybe I had given myself a fever crying so hard. I lay my body flat across the wooden floor and didn’t move. This is when those thoughts started to race again… he loved me not.

The next day you came to my house with an apology full of lies and handed me twelve red roses and everything was well again… he loved me?

You said all the right words to make me forget all the bad times and focus on all the good memories we made together when everything was peaceful and we harmonized so well. Later that night, I picked each and every petal off the bouquet of roses, and with every petal that fell to the floor, I mumbled “...He loved me… he loved me not…”

Crescendo

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:02:57 GMT

Written by Leon Jiang from New York University - NYC, New York

In the face of injustice, our voices turn to silence

Oppressed whispers, bound in chains

Our hearts rage on with quiet defiance.

A million minds plotting, driven by vengeance

Yet quiet we must remain.

In the face of injustice, our voices turn to silence.

Hope, hand in hand with patience

Enables us to endure this pain.

Our hearts rage on with quiet defiance

Until we band together in secret alliance

With nothing to lose and all to gain.

In the face of injustice, our voices turn to silence.

Hubris blinds them to impending violence.

No longer can we suppress our disdain -

Our hearts rage on with quiet defiance.

In unity, we find confidence,

Our spirits burn with an eternal flame.

In the face of injustice, our voices turn to silence.

Our hearts rage on with quiet defiance.

Elephant

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:02:22 GMT

Captured by Magnolia Allen from New Visions - Troy, NY

My Mind Keeps Running

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:01:36 GMT

Written by Maryam Alsammarriaie from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Every now and then I hesitate

Reading my thoughts, I am unfazed

My lips aren’t able to communicate

Your body against mine doesn’t separate My pants on the counter, soft and laced Every now and then I hesitate

What is it that we celebrate?

Looking at you, I am dazed

My lips aren't able to communicate

The eyes see and the mind creates

Was every “I love you” misplaced?

Every now and then I hesitate

Perhaps I am too late

Your name, In my heart engraved

Your name, my lips aren't able to communicate

The fireworks in my heart celebrate

Everyday, a feeling of peace

My lips aren't able to communicate

The love I have, so every now and then I hesitate.

Mischief

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:01:03 GMT

Created by Maverick Douglas from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

急がば回れ渋谷 (Slow and Steady Wins the Race)

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:00:36 GMT

Captured by Michael Groissl from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Shibuya, Japan

Ghost of a Past Love

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 12:00:22 GMT

Written by Marleigh Diggins from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

He haunts me.

I think about him in class, while driving, while working, while spending time with family.

I find myself wishing he were next to me.

That I could look over at him and smile during boring lectures.

That he’d be singing along to the songs on the radio, dancing in his seat at the red lights. Maybe

even holding my hand, as the wind from the open windows blows our hair in our faces.

I wish that he could laugh along to the family jokes. That he’d snicker at my grandma’s

comments, and have honest conversations with my parents.

I wish he were next to me.

Wouldn’t we be such a power couple? Each being independent and chasing after our own

dreams, but doing it side by side.

Wouldn’t he hold my hand and squeeze it tight while casually walking around the city streets?

Wouldn’t he sneak up behind me, wrap his arms around my waist as I did the dinner dishes?

Wouldn’t he still smile at the sight of me, and throw his arms around me, almost stepping on my

toes in the process?

How lonely it is to constantly think of the person you care for the most, but to realize it’s not

being reciprocated.

How cold the air feels when you’re alone, hopelessly longing for the one person who won't text

you back.

His voice haunts me, as I replay old videos of the memories from years ago. His laugh when I

made sarcastic comments under my breath. The way it was like a drug, I was addicted and

always wanted to be the cause of it. His tone when he talked me through my anxieties and

doubts, then reassured me that everything would be okay; he would get really calm and quiet,

but definitive. Even when he was annoyed or upset with me, he was patient and tried to hide his

negative emotions - but I could see through it, his voice strained with every word, controlling

himself in the moment.

I see his face everytime I close my eyes as I try to fall asleep. His eyes, a mix of a mossy shade of

green and the color of the water he loved so much. His hair, similar in color to mine at the time,

always tucked under a hat. His bright smile, the one I still look for with bated breath in a

crowded room full of people who I used to know.

I am haunted by a ghost.

Not a ghost of a past love, but of one that never did.

Heroes

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:59:59 GMT

Created by Sarah Schonhiutt from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

The Run

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:56:56 GMT

Created by Savannah Tenace from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

In the Arms of Destiny

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:56:41 GMT

Written by Maysoon Sheikh from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

I hadn’t known

in the innocence of childhood

that a light had set me in his sight,

that amidst the thrill of childish play

he set a card down in front of me

painted jade in my memory

and smiled in a cunning way.

I hadn’t known

in the leisure of that very moment

that Destiny had claimed me as a light of his own.

I hadn’t known

the throes of his darkest hours

were ones that paralleled mine.

If we had known the tales

of each other’s woes

perhaps those tales would be redefined,

perhaps our paths were already entwined

in the cards that favoured fate’s design.

I know now

that Destiny had waited several summers

with the spirit of the stillest waters,

with a heart that still sought hers;

the girl whose light he favours.

I know now

I myself had been waiting

for a kindle that would awaken

a latent greed for your fatal decree

for the girl who fell for Destiny.

I can’t say for sure yet where this will moor

there are doors that consume the light you store

But something seems to gleam from beyond

its corners. Borders we’re warned of fall

by the will of its call. It has tied our fates

both mine and yours;

Destiny is making its mark on me once more.

Sunset

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:56:20 GMT

Created by Victoria Harris from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

The Quiet December

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:55:04 GMT

Captured by Savannah Tenace from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

I've Knelt in the Shower Every Day for the Past Month

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:55:01 GMT

Written by Newton Wilk from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

I’ve been scraping off my nail polish with my teeth. When my fingers aren’t pressed firm against my lips, the nails dragging harsh against my yellow and crooked incisors, my hands shake. I always look like I’m shivering. Maybe I am.

Lately I feel hunger pains - something gnawing deep in my gut, but I can’t bring myself to eat. So I chew at the polish until my nails are bloodied and bare.

I’ve knelt in the shower every day for the last month. I always start out standing but everything is so heavy and I’ve felt so weak lately. I feel so weak and I know I have to save the little strength I have left for the rest of the day. To walk, to talk, to perform the daily task of convincing those around me I am a real person.

The water pelts my back as I lean forward until my forehead is pressed to the base of the tub. The position, I know, is one of prayer though the state I am in is one entirely profane. I let the stream scald my skin and burn me clean. It’s the only way I can make it through the rest of the day. To walk and talk and perform the daily task of convincing myself I am a real person.

Restrictions

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:54:55 GMT

Created by Sarah Schonhiutt from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Flight

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:54:53 GMT

Created by Surie Yang from The High School Affiliated to Renmin University of China - Beijing, China

Paradise

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:54:50 GMT

Written by Theadora Welch from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Paradise is for those who have wool covered eyes. The wool is different to each soul and body it touches. Covering up the things that they do not want to see the most. Not only what some do not want to see, but hear or feel.

The definition of ignorance – “Lack of kn owledge or information.”

The definition of ignoring – “Refuse to take notice of or acknowledge; disregard intentionally .”

The definition of paradise – ”(in some religions ) Heaven as the ultimate abode of the just.”

“Does one choose to ignore or be ignorant to hard topics around them”

“How quickly does that wool of ignorance change to looking away and choosing to ignore.”

In the end, the wool that once covered the eyes of humans can become heavy, suffocating our ability to truly see and feel. It may be comforting to sit in ignorance, but it also isolates us from the wonderful world. The choice lies bef ore us: to peel back the layers of wool, to confront what's around us.

Awareness brings uncomfortably to all can lead to growth, understanding, and connection. It makes us engage with the world in all its complexity. So, as the whole of humanity we can try to lift up the wool of ignorance, not with judgment, but with compassion, seeking to learn and not shy away. For only then can we embrace the beauty of reality. It can be flawed yet beautiful which helps us to find our way back to paradise that is there for all.

We Must Not Be Defeated

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:54:48 GMT

Created by Yazmine Lawrence from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

A Bee and Its Flower

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:49:25 GMT

Captured by Bailey Bates from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Fiery Finish

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:49:11 GMT

Captured by Amanda Bastiani from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Typical Women Shit

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:47:37 GMT

Created by Alexandria DiBella from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

It's such typical women shit to rip and harm and kill ourselves in art. Such a cliché for a female artist. But I have always asked why? Now I realize - just being a woman, you will quickly know why. I make this work to show I have come to the point where I want to rip my own head off.

I get it. We have to deal with gross and mediocre men. Now that is a real cliché. The fact is women are put through so much, and so much of their girlhood is looked down on and is seen as frivolous. We face so much and are always blamed, while men make constant excuses for each other. Sorry, I don’t find your assault jokes funny and I will not shut up. But to live in a world like this, as a lady, I would rather rip my own head off. Guess I am just a typical woman.

The Passing By Experience

Tue, 01 Apr 2025 11:46:53 GMT

Captured by Alex Calderon Martinez from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY

Welcome to the Electoral College

Tue, 04 Mar 2025 15:28:16 GMT

Written by Katelyn Yeh from Sage Hill High School - Newport Coast, California

Welcome to The Electoral College!

Where tradition meets ambiguity.

We are honored that you believe you are in any way appropriate and able to study at our pristine academy. With our rich history of questionable methods, TEC has been shaping futures (or ignoring them) since 1787. At TEC, we pride ourselves on our perplexing ideals of democracy, even (and perhaps especially) if people disagree.

Our History:

Who cares about the future?

Our great nation’s Founders had a simple vision: to create a school that wasn’t just about education, but also about symbolism, legacy, and ensuring that certain students were always more equal than others. Our school strives to keep that tradition alive. We don’t really care if you think it’s impractical. We like it. As the saying goes, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

In 1787, our founding fathers created both TEC and PVU as a compromise, claiming that the balance between these two colleges would ensure a fair collegiate education system.

Yet, this balance has never really materialized. Although PVU has been rated and ranked higher, we’re still valued more, so who’s really winning? Furthermore, while we’re supposed to be rival schools to ensure the balance, we haven’t lost a single football game to them since our schools were founded. Read more about that in the Student Life page.

The Electoral College Admissions Information:

We consider some applications with care.

Just like our history, TEC’s admissions process balances unique qualities with its position as one of the longest standing traditions of The USA democracy experiment. Nothing about us has changed since we were written into the Constitution.

Similar to other schools, our esteemed admissions committee, or electors as we like to call it, will read your application with great care and detail. (There will probably be less care and detail if you don’t live in a swing state). Once the decision is made, we will notify you. If you are unhappy with the result, too bad! We don’t care!

An incomparable part of our admissions process that sets us apart from other schools is that you get to watch while our electors either accept or reject you in real time. In fact, there is an infamous shift that happens almost every time. How thrilling is that?

If you are looking to transfer, your process will be put into a different pool to be evaluated separately. Unless you’re from the Popular Vote University. We don’t like PVU. You will not be accepted. Sorry.

As TEC is an elite school, the admissions process is challenging and ruthless. Only strong students will be accepted. It’s important to know what is required in your applications, but we don’t like to share this with our applicants as we would like to remain mysterious and interesting. It adds a certain je ne sais quoi, don’t you think? Use your best judgment. Good luck.

Student Life:

Athletics, and clubs, and chaos - oh my!

Ranging from athletics to school clubs, there are so many opportunities for you to seize at TEC.

Athletics:

Our sports teams are an integral part of student life here at TEC. Every 4 years, we have the big championship game against PVU. Although they score more points than us, the referee still declares us as the winner. If you decide to join our football team, we promise you will never lose. This is tradition. Who cares about fairness?

School Clubs:

TEC offers a wide variety of different clubs, ensuring that you will be able to find the best fit for you. For example, here are the three most popular clubs that TEC has to offer:

Swing State Sobriety Society: Practice your sobriety by denying poison from entering your body. Boycott alcohol, coffee, tea, and hot drinks!

Med(dling) Group: Provide healthcare to those in need!

Who cares about (minori)tea?: Dump tea in the sea every Thursday to commemorate the Boston Tea Party!

Similar to other schools, most of our clubs have an application process for inclusion. But what makes us especially unique: club leaders do not get to choose club members. A raffle does. You put your tickets into a hat, and someone will pick out the winning tickets. The number of raffle tickets you have in the bag will be based on your dorm, specifically, the number of people in your building. If you’re from California, congratulations! You get 54 changes to be accepted into the club of your dreams. If you’re from Wyoming, good luck! You get 3 chances. Why? Because we say so. Sad? Too bad!

Campus Activism:

We still encourage all of our students to speak their minds and use their voices in an effort to inspire change. It’s crucial that the younger generation learns to use their strength to fight for the issues important to them. This is, of course, what our Founding Fathers envisioned in their notion of democracy.

All this to say, as we value tradition over our students, there will be absolutely no reforms to any part of TEC, despite any complaints we may receive. The futile efforts of our students will prepare them for the real world. No one will listen to you if you aren’t important (aka RICH).

The power is in y(our) hands.

Campus Policies:

We don’t care if you actually know the rules. Do not break them.

Part of the reason why our school is so renowned is because we hold our students to a high standard, the same one since 1787. You can find a list of vague rules, contradictory recommendations, and illogical regulations in your student handbook, which you will receive during your orientation week if you enroll (obviously assuming you’ve been clever enough to be accepted).

Our campus policies extend to our infrastructure. To respect the tradition we value so dearly, we have sworn off any maintenance and remodeling, proudly displaying our 18th century buildings. TEC is complete with creaky floors, molding walls, and holes in the roof. If you squint, tilt your head, and observe from far away, beauty is all around you.

The best part is that no technology is allowed on campus. Our founding fathers didn’t have technology, so why should we? All assignments are to be completed by hand and only written in cursive (fresh ink and quill pens are especially appreciated, though not required).

What if you find yourself missing home? Most of our first year students do, in fact. We have a well-trained group of carrier pigeons who will deliver your messages home. You just request one of the pigeons, tie your message to its leg, and toss the pigeon out of your dorm window. Expect it to return with a heartwarming message from your loved ones within 10 years.

Financial Aid:

Success isn’t about hard work—it’s about hard cash.

There is a special program of our version of financial aid available to students: SuperPACs (Perfectly Ambiguous Cash.)

The more you donate, the higher your chances of acceptance! Most importantly, DO NOT put down TEC when asked who the receiver of the donations are. You may create a fake business or use a fake name, but DO NOT mention The Electoral College.

*SuperPAC is not affiliated with The Electoral College.*

International Students:

Our borders are as closed as our minds.

International students, don’t even bother! With our growing border walls, you are no longer welcome. We are committed to preserving the American Dream- absolutely zero diversity and limited cultural diffusion.

Who cares if America is only a global superpower because of all the immigrants and cultural exchange that came before? They’re all dead now.

It’s time to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Why TEC?

Because you don’t have a choice.

We pride ourselves on our ability to withstand the test of time. We don’t just accept tradition— we celebrate it. While other schools may try frantically to lure you in with their “forward thinking” or “innovation,” don’t be fooled. Remember, change and progress are overrated. We firmly believe that our school motto: “we’ve always done it this way” is a perfectly fair justification to avoid growth. Here, we first glue together your mind then sew it shut for good measure, ensuring that you will never catch the disease of open-mindedness.

At TEC, the only thing we value more than tradition is conformity. Embrace it. Accept it. Accept us.

FAQS:

Feebly Answered Questions.

Q: Why do we still exist?

A: Because we can!

Q: Is this a democratic process?

A: Define democratic.

Q: What are you looking for in an applicant?

A: That’s for us to know and you to find out.

Q: How easy is it to change my major after acceptance?

A: What’s change?

Q: Does TEC have accommodations for people with disabilities?

A: Our founding fathers didn’t need them; man up.

Q: What if English isn’t my first language, but I am still an American Citizen? Are there accommodations for that?

A: You’re in America. Learn it.

All For Peace and Greater Stability

Tue, 04 Mar 2025 15:23:26 GMT

Written by Andy Kong Weiyan from Culver Academies - Culver, Indiana

President Stonebridge's Global Tour Secures $32.5 Billion in Military Aid for Allies Amid Rising Tensions

On October 21st 2054, our president Elliot Stonebridge visited important political, military, and economic allies to our nation. The issue on the table was a considerable increase in our military and financial support for ‘their security’. President Stonebridge, as always, accepted all requests. He visited a total of 7 nations, and gave them the support they needed.

The first nation he visited was Urkanistan. Two years ago, Sarvossia launched a barbaric invasion against Urkanistan, and our nation never hesitated to provide a significant amount of military aid for the valiant and faithful soldiers to rightfully defend their beautiful country. Some soft Pro-Sarvists in Urkanistan, after seeing too many casualties, wanted to trade their land for peace to stop the bleeding.

“Continuing the war would mean the death of all Urkanistanis!” they said. When these words and their anti-war sentiments spread recklessly across Urkanistan, the leader of Urkanistan, Vladimir Horsky met with Stonebridge, expressing his concern regarding the loss of confidence and determination in battle. He hoped the President could give some encouragement to his people.

“I treat Urkanistani people like my brothers. Their loss is my loss, their death is the death of my own citizens. The war shall continue! We will continue fighting! Even if this means we all die!” These powerful words surprised and encouraged Leader Horsky and every Urkanistani watching, arousing tears in the eyes of all.

The second nation visited along the tour was Istafa. The leaders of our nation and theirs visited the memorial of The Terrible War to mourn for the victims and the families that suffered.

A publicly televised ceremony was conducted, during which a solemn recitation was delivered of the last paragraph of the epitaph on the monument. They paid tribute to the innocent souls lost in order to remind viewers that their visit was in the promotion and interest of peace. It read: “10 million lives that experienced joy, sorrow, fear, and anger perished in pain. Let their death remind us, everyone should be valued and respected equally, and may such atrocities never happen to any race again.” After the ceremony, the President and Istafian Leader discussed matters of increased aid for a total invasion of a neighboring nation, Palerstan, as a retaliation for the slaughter and kidnappings of Istafian citizens committed by a terrorist group of that nation. This kidnapping was thought to be an aggressive tactic from Palerstani citizens resisting the rightful territorial expansion of Istafa across their land, stopping the spread of the Istafians’ way of life.

After some negotiations, the President promised military aid every month as follows: 200 new artillery units, 400 fifth generation tanks, 90 mobile radars, and 115 newly developed missile launchers. “With these weapons, only God could stop Istafa! Palerstan will be erased from Earth, and Istafa will again be at peace” the Istafian Leader stated confidently in an interview. Once again, our President led a great step forward in advocating world stability.

The third nation the President visited was Borland, which lies northwest of Urkanistan, 2000 kilometers away. Their leader, Victor Kartsonovich, expressed his concern that Sarvossia might invade his nation too. Despite the fact that the battlefield of Sarvossia and Urkanistan is two countries away from Borland, Kartsonovich stated: “the safety of Urkanistan is the safety of Borland. When Urkanistan is invaded, we will surely follow. We deserve funding as well!” Our generous President granted his request, and more than 5 billion dollars was aided for “the security of Borlish citizens.”

The other four nations, all members of the Military Alliance of We Want Military Aid, asked for further funding because of some “national security problems” that they haven’t managed to solve for decades. Being a model world leader, all of their requests were granted.

A total of 32.5 billion dollars of military and financial aid every month were promised to be given to these nations without any hesitation. With these supports given, our nation’s global standing is sure to strengthen, even if the domestic situation might seem less clear.

Reported by Sarah Stewart at Central Broadcasting of World Relations.

Broadcast: Interview with the National Minister of Finance by Old Boston Daily

Interviewer: Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Daniela Kingston, and tonight we host the annual Budget Explained to allow our citizens to have a better understanding of what the government’s plans are with the current budget. This year we are lucky to have a really special guest. Welcome Mr. Nathan T. Levin, the National Minister of Finance!

Mr. Levin: Good evening Ms. Kingston.

Ms. Kingston: Well, let’s get started. First question on the list, what are some big changes to the distribution of money to different sectors?

Mr. Levin: A great question to open up with. Well, as we all know, the President visited several of our allies this October. We highly value the lives and welfare of fellow democratic states, but their wars are harder and harder to continue. Because of this we decided to give them more weapons and money to fight with. We estimate that there will be a 30 percent increase in foreign aid, which will of course result in an increase in national security. The enemies of our allies are now becoming our enemies.

Ms. Kingston: How about other sectors? Citizens are hopeful that our government will improve their infrastructure, healthcare, education, transportation, etc.

Mr. Levin: Uhhh…ummm…When I look at these sectors, I often hesitate on what I should do with them. I need to pause and think if it’s worth giving them funding. Our government is fully committed to strengthening global peace and stability. To that end, we’ll redirect resources from infrastructure projects to support our allies in their ongoing defense efforts. We’ll be focusing on the long-term strategic benefits of these investments. As the government, we think that we’re not doing enough of what we’re supposed to do: to spread our democracy on every inch of Earth. Some of our aging systems will need to make do for now, but that’s a small price to pay for international stability. People have to realize, these are some trivial sacrifices to make! Just like a wise president once said, uhh… “ask not what your country can do for you, but ask what you can do for your country.” Now, your country asks you to make a little bit of sacrifice in your daily transportation, health care, and education, so we can better help defend democracy elsewhere.

Ms. Kingston: But Mr Levin, our citizens are already dissatisfied with the state of these three sectors. In fact, 70 car accidents happen everyday because of poor road conditions; people can’t go to the doctor when they’re sick because appointments themselves are too expensive (let alone the resultant medication, procedures, etc); and we have a below world-average literacy rate. How do you respond to the opinion that we are experiencing a crisis in our country?

Mr. Levin: Umm well, no matter what we do, there’s always going to be people who are not satisfied. So let them be unsatisfied. We’re the ones who had the most votes, so, to those people who're unsatisfied, too bad! It’s democracy. Vote against us next time. Honestly speaking, between sending top-notch military technology to our allies, crushing our enemies’ and flexing at the whole world versus renovating old roads and bridges for better transportation and making our citizens lives easier, healthier, and more educated, which makes you feel more proud of our nation?

Ms. Kingston: Hmmm… Now I see your point! Clearly the former!

Mr. Levin: You know, it might not be the budget’s problem at all. Are there too many car accidents? Drive more carefully then! Healthcare is too expensive? So take care of yourself and don’t get sick! Can’t afford a high level of education? How about trying harder and earning a scholarship! We’re committed to ensuring the security of our nation’s allies. The citizens of our country, who have always supported our global initiatives, will undoubtedly recognize the long-term benefits of this investment.

Ms. Kingston: Certainly.

Mr. Levin: We’re elected. We gotta do what our people like the most, and that’s to spread our democracy and to be a model world leader.

Ms. Kingston: Oh Mr. Levin, I am sure that this is what our people want to hear! But before we close out our interview, there is one last problem that has bothered our citizens for decades. More than half a million of people are homeless, and 11% of the population lives under the poverty line. Should we spend more money on social welfare and poverty alleviation?

Mr. Levin: Good question, but again, there are better ways to spend this money. Right now, helping the Urkanistanis and the Istafians is more important than helping lowly citizens who are incapable of helping themselves. And anyway, most people in social welfare programs can still eat, drink, and sleep under a roof. As for the homeless? We trust that the citizens, even those facing hardship, will understand that their sacrifice is part of a larger global mission for peace.

Ms. Kingston: OK Mr. Levin, thank you so much for clearing up all the doubts in our heads. Me, like many others, almost thought that the government was spending our taxes in the wrong place when I saw the amount of aid given in the President's October visit! What I thought to be a serious problem doesn’t seem to be a problem at all. After almost 350 years, our democracy is still on track!

Mr. Levin: Totally. Thank you for the excellent opportunity to let me show the transparency and benevolence of our administration.

Ms. Kingston: Well, it’s been a great time talking to you. And thank all of the audience that had been listening. See you all next year, when our nation leads the world to even greater peace and stability!

A Guide to Making Wontons

Tue, 04 Mar 2025 15:01:59 GMT

Written by Cindy Miao from Holton Arms School - Bethseda, Maryland

A Guide to Making Wontons

as we climb this mountain, our feet

sink into the fleshy folds of earth and I can’t help but think

that we are all made of mud.

ingredients: wonton skin, watercress, & 1 lb of pork shoulder

three generations of hope in one woman’s breath:

she exhales softly with a wisp of mint.

step 1: rinse watercress & mince on cutting board

she winks and sows hawthorn flakes into my open hands.

home from the market, my grandmother’s sun-baked skin

crinkles when she smiles.

step 2: slice pork shoulder into small bits

she sinks into the rocking chair

and presses a damp cloth over her forehead.

beads of water and sweat slide down her cheeks.

in front of the bathroom mirror, my mother’s smooth skin shines.

she wipes her face, eroding

step 3: with a wet spoon, mix ingredients until uniform

to a complexion of stone.

I mold my body from a potter’s wheel:

step 4: trace the edges of wonton skin with water & spoon filling

breathing fire through my mouth

and heaving my hardened tongue with every word.

the sunlight spills over the mountain

like the yolk of a cracked egg,

step 5: unite the opposite corners of wonton skin

shells disguised as leaves tumbling down its body.

we trudge up the mountain,

our footprints wider than the soles of our shoes.

step 6: heat water to a boil & add wontons

we inhale,

then exhale,

the air in our lungs drifting away with the breeze.

step 7: share with family

will you be a good daughter?

how will you remember us?

In a Time Before Me, In a World Today

Tue, 04 Mar 2025 14:45:01 GMT

Written by Alvin Su from Benjamin Franklin High School - New Orleans, Louisiana

I Remembrance - 缅怀

Monday, June 26th, 2023, Taipei

Accompanied by my father, we landed in Taiwan under a soft, gray sky. The air, thick with the smell of rain, clung to our clothes as if it too remembered things better left forgotten.

The old days are woven in like a piece of brocade with faded patches here and there, certain memories now unclear and worn out. As I stood, the wind whispered through the willow trees like a gentle lullaby from mother nature. At the same time, my father’s silhouette cast a long shadow against the vibrant green hills.

The June heat in Taiwan felt particularly stifling. Walking through the dimly lit stairwell of the columbarium, I glanced around and saw rows of urn niches quietly displayed, their faded numbers revealed from a ray of sunlight that pierced the solemn darkness through one of the few dirtied and tiny windows.

“You know,” my father’s voice was soft yet stern, “I never met him. He died before I was born. But I heard stories about him my whole life. It’s a little strange, isn’t it? To feel connected to someone you never knew.”

I nodded, even though I couldn’t understand. I was aware that my father carried these passed-down memories, stories told by older relatives, fragments of a man’s life reduced to anecdotes. But that’s just it - he carried them. Not me. Yet in his reverie, it felt inappropriate to do anything but agree.

The columbarium was quiet, almost eerily so. Rows upon rows of niches stretched out before us, each one identical to the last. The space felt impersonal, as though history had been packed away into these small, uniform compartments, with nothing to differentiate one life from another. We ambled through, my father checking the numbers against a slip of paper in his hand. When we reached the niche that held his ashes, I was struck by its starkness.

蘇耀光

生於民國14年3月29日

終於民國48年1月24日

1084

No photo. No inscription - just a name, birth and death dates, and a serial number. 1084. 1084. I wondered how many others there were – how many lost lives had been turned into just a few digits.

It felt deeply unsettling. This man, my great uncle, YaoGuang, whose life had been so involved with my family’s history, was now reduced to a few, bare details. With no image to remember him by, time had wiped him away completely, leaving only this faint remnant of his existence in a land both familiar and foreign.

I knelt beside the niche, carefully unfolding a handkerchief in my hand. The air, mixed with the lingering scent of stale dust, felt thick and oppressive, wrapping around us in the stillness. As I gently wiped away the thin layer of grime from the cold stone surface, I could sense the weight of time etched into the niche.

My father stood solemnly, his hands tightly clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed and unwavering as he stared at the compartment holding my great uncle’s ashes. Here rested the remains of someone more myth than man, a distant figure who had been in battles that belonged in a war I could scarcely fathom, fought in a time I could never touch.

Now, here we were - paying respects to a man I never met, whose life ended quietly, like so many others. My father bowed three times, murmuring soft words in Mandarin - regret, respect, sorrow. I stood beside him, uncertain of how to mourn.

I imagined my great uncle wandering through those first days in Taiwan, disoriented, unsure of what would come next. The world he had known had vanished, only to be replaced by uncertainty and exile. He had no family with him, no way of returning home.

In the end, Taiwan became his final resting place, even if it never became his home.

II Past - 往事

Saturday, July 1st, 2023, Beijing

We returned to my grandparents’ hometown, where the scenes of Taiwan positioned themselves comfortably within the frames of my current memory. When my father stood before my grandfather, the heaviness of a photograph cradled in his hands, there was a moment of pause before he passed over to him the picture of my great uncle’s urn.

My grandfather inhaled deeply from his cigarette, the smoke curling like ghosts of the past. He had a pensive expression as he held the photograph, and his far away gaze went right through that image, indicating that he was back in that day in 1949, the last day he ever saw his older brother.

“I still hear him sometimes…calling me.” My grandfather’s words drifted off, and I could see his eyes cloud with the burden of recollection. He paused, and then, as if the imprint of the past had taken hold of him, he began to recount that episode.

***

“Brother… Brother…” YaoGuang’s voice rose in urgency, piercing the stillness of the moment. It was only after the younger man finally responded, “I heard you,” that YaoGuang spoke again. His words, heavy with finality: “Brother, I’m going to Taiwan and will be back soon. I just wanted to say goodbye… You must take care of our family for me.”

***

In 1949, as the Chinese Civil War reached its climax, the Nationalist government, led by Chiang Kai-shek and the Kuomintang (KMT), faced defeat by the Communist forces under Mao Zedong. With the mainland falling under Communist control, the Nationalists retreated to Taiwan, accompanied by an estimated 1.2 million soldiers, government officials, and civilians. Taiwan, which had only recently been returned to Chinese rule after Japanese occupation, became the last stronghold for the Republic of China. The Nationalists hoped to regroup and eventually retake the mainland, but their exile marked the beginning of a long and tense standoff with the People's Republic of China.

YaoGuang, a lieutenant, was among them. He was 24. I pictured him in fragments - a young man, perhaps like the younger pictures of my grandfather, but more worn, more beaten by the world.

My family said he was filled with hope during those turbulent times, a flicker of optimism amid the chaos. They say he believed in the possibility of returning home one day, holding on to a dream that the conflicts would eventually cease and peace would prevail.

However, in a world dominated by hate and violence, it is, and always will be, hard for hope to manifest into reality.

***

Tuesday, December 22nd, 1987, Tianjin

The chill lingered thick all around, and the dust clung to the walls of the aging buildings. An old man knocked at the door, carrying news like weights on his shoulders. My grandfather’s heart stirred as if after all these decades, the silence would finally be broken. There had been fleeting rumors, but nothing certain. And now, the truth stood before him, delivered in a simple breath: your brother died in 1959.

The years that stretched between them fell away like dry leaves in a windstorm, leaving behind only the melancholy reality. My grandfather’s hope slipped through his fingers like water through a broken dam, rushing away before he could ever hope to hold onto it. This was the brother who had stood with him in 1949, promising him, vowing to him that he would return. My grandfather had upheld his part of the deal, taking care of their family, but my great uncle had not. And now that voice was gone forever, eternally trapped at the age of 34.

And just like that, a blade had cut through the last few threads of memory, severing the bond that had stretched across time and place. All those sleepless nights, all that waiting, the unspoken questions - they had led to this single moment, this bitter end. The man who had once called out to him, who talked with optimism, perhaps in a last ditch effort to assuage his own doubts, had left this world long ago, and only now had the truth come to light.

My grandfather sat down slowly, his hands clenched tight, fighting to hold back the flood of grief. "I should have known," he whispered, his voice trembling.

"All these years without a word… he must have been gone a long time. But I kept believing, hoping he was still somewhere out there, in Taiwan… that one day, he would come home."

III Belonging - 归属

How does a nation remember when it has been torn apart by conflict? In the Chinese Civil War, the land that bore my ancestors was split, not only by rivers or mountains, but by ideologies that cleaved families, friendships, and entire generations.

The Nationalists and Communists waged war against each other, but the true battleground lay not just in distant plains or city streets - rather, it lay in the hearts of the people, especially those left behind. Brother turned against brother. What had once been a unified country, with traditions and customs stretching back millennia, became fractured, and the wounds of that war did not close when the fighting stopped.

Decades later, though the bullets have long stopped flying, the invisible line across the strait remains as firm as ever. Political tensions flare up with each passing year, a constant reminder of the past that never really left. It only retreated, went back to lay in wait. While business ties and cultural exchanges have brought some sense of reconciliation, the wounds of 1949 still linger. Families remain divided, with each generation drifting further from the once-shared culture that bound them together, like strands of a fraying rope.

Today, the consequences of that split continue to dictate the lives of millions, shaping not just politics, but also personal identity, culture, and even the future of both places. It’s a legacy that has not faded, casting a shadow over two lands that could have (and should have) been united.

For my family, the war was never discussed directly; instead, it drifted in the background, like the quiet sorrow that filled that columbarium in Taiwan. It was a story not uncommon for many Chinese families, where one generation lost everything in a matter of years, and the next inherited not memories, but the silence of those who could not bear to speak of what had been lost.

The war that tore my ancestors’ land apart is the same war that reverberates through my own life, generations later. It is a history that I did not live, but it lives within me.

I hope, one day, like the lines in “The Blue and the Gray” by American civil war poet Francis Miles Finch:

No more shall the war cry sever

Or the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead.

This desire for peace captures a hope that lives deep within me - a wish for healing and unity among the scars of the past.

And so, I write. I write for my great-uncle YaoGuang, whose story was reduced to a serial number. I write for my father, who didn’t meet him, but still upholds his legacy in the family narratives that were quietly shared despite often being cloaked in silence.

I write for a country divided, for loved ones estranged, and for the generations who continue to feel the aftershocks of a war that ended decades ago but not really.

Because this is not just the story of a war. This is the story of memory, belonging, and heritage - how it was passed down, how it was carried, how it was forgotten, and how it must be remembered.

The End...?

Fri, 07 Feb 2025 17:36:51 GMT

Written by Bridelle Toumani from Russell Sage College - Troy, New York

It was early and swelteringly hot when it hit me like a bag of bricks. The five phases of grief zipped through my head, and I didn’t know which one to choose. The news that I had been waiting for was in front of me, in large bold print, as if it was insisting that it is there to stay and that there is nothing I can do to change it. It made sure I knew it was a mark that would linger; screamed that I was unredeemable.

Breaths became harder to release. I’ve had inklings in the past that I may suffer from anxiety, but breathing had never been a problem before. Why was it now? Hands laid on my back, but I’m not sure if they were to help with breathing or for comfort.

I walked up to my room and laid in bed for hours. I fell asleep- or at least did my very best to. Any sort of resistance failed and tears fell.That day, the sun rose, the sun set, night settled in, and I still couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Small talk and desperate chatter from the ones I loved were white noise to the voices screaming in my head. What am I going to do now? How can I…? Where did I go wrong? Will things be alright? Why did I put myself through this? Why did I sign myself up to do this again? Can I just disappear forever?

I hoped they wouldn’t have, but those bricks sank me down to rock bottom.

***

I believe it was three days of self-inflicted punishment. Of no eating. My reasoning behind it was that my energy and effort seemingly aren’t worthwhile so there is no need for it. Sunlight was fragmented by my window screen and forced my eyelids to open those mornings after. Movement couldn’t be coerced, not by anything. Afternoon would creep in, and I would know that this is ridiculous; I would tell myself that I have to get over it and get a move on, that I have to be productive but there was no use. I visualized my legs swinging to the left side of the bed, shifting my weight so that I could stand and walk somewhere, anywhere. I just couldn’t do it. All I could do was lounge and become the poster melancholy person in everyone’s lives. And after a while of willpower not being enough and no mythical person coming to rescue me, I figured that I deserved it.

My family really did try to help. In the early stages of my mourning, my sisters took me out to a nice restaurant and insisted that the bill was on them and to enjoy myself. However, it was during the three-day fast of guilt, so their requests were futile. The drive back with the wind in my hair and sights of nature made things better for a while, it made me think that my days could be more than just wet cheeks on pillows. I arrived back home with a whiff of optimism. I reached for a beloved book on my bedroom floor when a memento of the past became eye-level with me. The whiff blew away and was replaced by gray smoke and rolling thunder. It came flooding back ﹘ memories of good times and good people who had faith in me; moments spent on this one aspiration, my passionate nights of little sleep and lots of dreaming, the excitement, my anticipation, my innocence, how what I did was a waste. I fell to my knees, closed my eyes and wept. I don’t remember when I opened them back up again.

Time went on without any avail to the mental turmoil in my brain. I was stuck in every regard and my past was quicksand. By the final week of summer, I resented the universe for not giving me enough time to mend, given my return back to school and my concerned mother wanting something to change. I unfortunately couldn’t give her that.

FALL

My second nightmare inevitably happened: School had started up. I dreaded it. Every weekday morning, I woke up with dread. It was as if the universe truly hated me; I was surrounded by people who were either ignorant, vain, uber-competitive or superficial. Nothing felt real; there was nothing to look forward to.

One particular topic ran up and down my brain all day long. One particular fixation. One particular truth I couldn’t bring myself to accept. It was what I knew I had to avoid like the plague, or I would just break down.

I can’t bring it up. It can’t be mentioned. Nothing related to it can be talked about.

I, of course, didn’t have a back-up plan in case it was brought up.

Everything in my life was just fragmented. Everything in my life was so gray. Physically, the walls, the people and hallways ﹘ the colors became so muted overnight. The weather cooled, but internally, I was hot. I was suffocating. And it didn’t help that every single person in my life either wanted or needed something from me.

Maybe I need help.

But there were some moments that were gleaming and even elicited a smile!

I don’t need help!

For the first time in months, I found myself making a joke. Two warm sets of eyes were on me and their lips were curled into a smile. It was before the punchline when I caught a ghost of my past making a sharp turn around the corner. And just like that, all the wind got knocked out of me. My stomach gnarled, and the thought of throwing up began to feel very relevant. The warm eyes shifted to concern, but I brushed it off and finished the joke, happy to be of service. They chuckled, and I stalked towards the opposite end of the hallway, clutching my stomach while breathing in and out rapidly.

I got sucked back in.

Assignments started to pile up, and no amount of money could have made me care about them. Doing them would make me a puppet: skilled but devoid of any true feelings or thoughts behind the action. In my dreams, I began to reminisce about the time when I was bright-eyed and optimistic, when I was eager to engage and cared so much about what I submitted.

You know now the danger in that, the back of my head whispered.

There wasn’t any opposing voice in response.

Every time I desired for the papers to rise and online tasks to collect, my productivity kicked into overdrive, and they were submitted before deadlines. Old habits apparently die hard. They received overwhelmingly positive feedback. I resented it; I had turned into a puppet.

There was really no joy in living with a mindset like this. I was still in denial about my mental decline, holding on to the idea of a mentality-transplant with a snap of a finger. In hindsight, that was… quite a fallacy.

One Friday afternoon, I came back home after another annoying day of school and decided to sit in front of my television, hoping to watch something interesting. The moment I sat down, it was like something took hold of me. I took a big breath out and continued to sit.

There were movements and varying colors from the TV set, the house was slightly cold, and my siblings may have had late night plans, and I continued to sit. There wasn’t a thing in my mind- a show capturing my attention, a book, a phone screen ﹘I continued to sit. Still, in the same position. It was eerily silent for a while. I checked my oven clock at one point, and in a bright green tint, it read 5:19 AM. The morning room window displayed early sights of dawn.

I stayed up for a full 24 hours.

“Maybe I am not well.” I admitted aloud with no one else around.

WINTER

My big fear did come true: It was brought up. It completely caught me by surprise. The very thing I couldn’t face was brought up and eventually, one or two expectant faces were turned to me, waiting for an answer to a seemingly casual question. I didn’t address them; I

became hard of hearing and flimsily asked the teacher if I could use the bathroom. It was there that I dug my head into my hands and became an incomprehensible blubbering mess.

I hate how I transformed myself into being a person so put-together, to being a person that cries all the time. I can’t grasp anything and I… I…

Suddenly, my breathing completely failed. My inability to breathe in and out resulted in my balance against the wall slipping. I dropped to the floor and did whatever I could to gain some sort of control. The following breaths were shaky. Like every other aspect of my life . Denial was long gone.

I should let someone in.

I checked my pockets to find my phone, but it dawned on me that I left it in the back of the classroom, in my backpack.

I can’t go back there .

Looking at my shoes the entire time, I made the tedious walk to the principal’s office and asked the receptionist if I could borrow the telephone.

“Yes, baby, of course you can. It’s in the corner right there.”

I picked up the handset and dialed the only mobile number I knew by heart. “Hello?” My mom’s voice filled my ears after three rings.

After finding some privacy, I imperfectly told her about what I was going through, of my mental roadblocks, panic attacks and insomnia that has been weighing on me for what feels like a lifetime. Being articulate during this difficult conversation was almost impossible, and I hoped she’d understood what I had managed to get out. She listened until she was instinctively sure I was done talking.

“Bridelle?”

“Yeah?”

“I am so glad you told me about this. You have to talk to me about these things.” A single tear fell down my eye.

She continued to talk to me with sympathy, empathy and truth in her voice. For a while, I listened as she explained to me how life can be incredibly difficult and complicated with examples from her past. She went on to promise me that I would always have her.

“You are smart. You are kind and amazing. You are going to be okay.”

I sniffled and quietly nodded in response. She told me how her day was so far, and some parts of her morning made me laugh. It was nice to hear myself laugh. Eventually, she asked if there was anything else I needed to get off my chest. I said no.

“Okay. Thank you for calling me. I will see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you.”

SPRING

All I remember about that spring was laughter. Just a lot of laughter. The people I thought were just acquaintances were suddenly more than that, almost out of the blue ﹘ like they came around at the perfect time. I didn’t really understand how they could have stuck around me from when I was practically lifeless to that moment, but by the time May flowers were blooming, we had formed inside jokes and shared deep secrets. I restabilized relationships with others that I thought I lost forever when I was drinking my metaphorical poison all alone.

I made sure to talk to my siblings (who were away in college) frequently, and often about my own college-bound journey. I applied to so many schools and got waitlisted from a few highly esteemed ones. All I knew was that I was really excited about the future.

Whenever I was free, I had a marvelous time creating essays with one of the teachers I had at the time. After submitting them to a few organizations, several won in competitions with critical acclaim. There was something magical about the process; I was almost like a curator or a maestro, collecting various parts from my readings and background to form a paper of something new. She guided me in the best possible way through it all. It’s a memory that I will take with me and cherish forever.

Finally, a couple of the ghosts I thought were phantoms of haunting were actually just kind individuals under a jaded light. Strangely, my befuddled mind imagined there to be animosity or some friction when there was none. Tentatively, I made my peace with them and wished for all the best. For the sake of reopening old wounds, I did the best I could do.

The tossing of high school graduation caps and the falling of confetti was enough to close the chapter of depression and anguish, and begin a new one of freedom and fresh insight. I am glad to know now that if I were to get lost, I would be okay.

Dystopian Writing by Park View Year 9

Mon, 22 Jul 2024 19:19:57 GMT

Inspired by the work of George Orwell

Sunewland

The grim light in Sunewland struck Karl as it always did. He momentarily gritted his teeth, intending to shroud the putrid smell with his saliva. But it was no use. Overpopulation had become a cancer, consuming every resource: his kind, the Lowlifes, continued to swell their falvaelias resulting in the once vivid land dulling like a forgotten painting. Karl, standing 400 metres away, witnessed the white, stark structure of The City mount the rugged falvaelias, clinging desperately onto the crumbling hillsides. He could not recall when they had turned like that. The non-existent rain intensified, and Karl urgently caved into the wooden door, now sagged on rusted hinges. He nestled his nose into his scrawny jumper and reluctantly left. On his departure, he was met by the sickly swarms of bodies heading in different directions. Even so, he continued on his way towards freedom.

At work, the morning speech (‘Fate wants you to work’ ‘Freedom is Work’ ‘Hope Is Ignorance’ ) is usually replayed twice, spitting urgent demands at him. Karl always felt the distinctive shift as the air grew thinner; his office had narrow walls and a dimly lit lamp which occasionally flickered. He thought this was in order to hide the secrets of The Elite. Karl worked as handiman finding suppliers for their newspapers, which was relatively simple work but tedious. The place smelt damp and of lies, but it was bearable compared to the masses outside. Introducing the Curdling Night : ‘something new!’ Karl snuck a read of the day’s headline. He silently watched the dust in the air fly before a gush of wind held the newspaper upright and stationary, urging him to read further: The Elite have devised a solution to overpopulation.. his knuckles clenched as he leaned forward: We call this the Curdling Night, the night where 10 people die.

By Kwame Heymann

I am alone, but not lonely. The dry drizzle hugging me is like heaven. The rain calms me; it helps me think, helps me focus. Helps me be free. I stood up from the sturdy, dark oak bench I had been sitting on and ran through the colourful field which surrounded me. Jumping around, I felt pure liberty and bliss.

Suddenly, reality gripped me back to the present day. The gentle caress of the drizzle revealed itself as a full throttle attack. It was straight and silvery, like a punishment of steel rods. I opened my eyes and looked around to see the almost abandoned streets where I grew up. The world cannot stay like this - a depressive, unbelievable hell. I need to find out why the world is like this. I need to know why government, society - everything - is the way it is.

By Ceylin Pia Marciante Karakoc

Many hearts had melted away into tears. Blood curdling shrieks and outcries had bounced against the walls of my house, being played in an endless loop in my head. Corpses littered public spaces and were stacked in immense numbers. My wife and children had perished before my eyes.

I've lost my reason for living.

Many had been frightened to death by the sight of the infection. It made me disconnect with my family, to the point where I couldn’t even give them a hug. Engulfed in the tyranny of being imprisoned in your home with no one and nothing to help you was a challenge hard to bear. This was how it was for everybody.

I'll never get to see someone smile at me again. I'll never get to make someone laugh with my jokes or hold them when they cry. What purpose do I have staying alive? Why am I still here? For, only time can tell. But for now, I am the last one standing.

By Sophonias Leoul

Racism. This is a topic that has been spoken about for decades, yet we can argue that not enough has changed. Even after all of the rules and regulations, speeches and protests, headlines and hashtags, still there are people who are seen as less just because of the colour of their skin. Although I have not experienced this first hand, it is impossible to miss. I have seen it even in football, a game billions of people around the world love. Players hurt, abused and even forced to stop playing because of the abuse they receive, not only on the pitch but in the headlines. And this is where we come to the power of language - to harm but also to heal.

Learning about new authors such as Malorie Blackman has truly opened my eyes. On our visit to the Malorie Blackman exhibition she describes her experience of never feeling represented in the stories that she read or watched, but she said that she loved Othello because it was one of the only stories that featured a black character. Revolutionary authors such as Blackman and Toni Morrison are now changing the world by creating their stories and sharing them. These books give the younger generations characters to relate to and could inspire a whole generation of authors in the future. A change like this could change the world. What we see, read, and learn about, especially when we are young, can shape our futures.

By Alex Reeve-Briard

Is There Such a Thing as a "True Self"?

Mon, 22 Jul 2024 19:10:52 GMT

Written by Muhana Hussein from London Academy of Excellence Tottenham - London, UK

The self can be variously conceived of as who we are at our core, who we aspire to become, or an idea we act in alignment with. But how can one believe in the unchanging nature of the self, especially in the face of constant physical and psychological change? Philosophers and psychologists alike have offered explanations, and in this paper my intention is to advocate for the notion that there is no true self, with reference to the lens of psychological continuity.

The view of personal identity existing through psychological continuity is held by philosophers such as John Locke, who says that if there is a chain of overlapping mental states, like memories or desires that can connect the person that we are now to the person we shall be in the future, then despite all changes, our self will remain the same. This is often referred to as the memory criterion, which can seem to imply that were you to suddenly lapse into a vegetative state that was irreversible, you would cease to exist. The being that remains after could not possibly be you due to its lack of memories of being you. This raises the question of persistence: what is necessary and sufficient for a past or future version of yourself to also have been the present version of yourself existing right now, namely to be psychologically continuous.

It is often a theme in thought experiments, such as body swaps or teletransportation. Most find themselves naturally drawn to this theory, for if you were to imagine a scenario where your brain were transplanted into another body, taking with it your memories and other mental features, the person with your brain and another’s body would still consider itself to be you. Other than memory, which is to say a past or future version of yourself can still claim to be you if they can recollect a memory that matches an experience that version of yourself had, there is further speculation as to what exactly is the psychological relation responsible for this continuity.

These kinds of sci-fi style thought experiment also raise the problem of potentially suggesting that two persons in the future can be psychologically continuous with one person existing in present time: the two from one problem, referred to as fission, which psychological-continuity theorists have come up with two different solutions for…

The first, sometimes called the “multiple-occupancy view”, says that despite the fission remaining an event in your future, there are the two of you existing even now, in a manner of speaking. The person that we think of ourselves to be at any given time is in fact two different people, who are now exactly similar and occupy the same location, carry out the same actions and think the same thoughts. This view is usually found in conjunction with the general metaphysical claim of four-dimensionalism, the claim that people and other things with the ability to persist share the quality of being made up of temporal parts. These temporal parts converge and then separate again, sharing some spatial parts but not others. However, whether we really are composed of temporal parts is disputed. More specifically, it is said these temporal parts refer to parts of you that only exist within a certain period of time of your life, for every period of time of your life. The implications for being made up of temporal parts would again land us in the previous dilemma of having a vast array of possible selves that could be the singular true self we speak of.

A more common proposal would be the claim that psychological continuity on its own is not sufficient for our persistence, and that past or future versions of ourselves can only be ourselves if they, and no other being but them, are psychologically continuous with us. Called the non-branching view, this proposal results in the extraordinary consequence of, in a situation where your brain has been divided, you would survive if one half had been preserved, but ceased to exist if both had been. This view is largely to what we owe the fascination of the question of what matters when it comes to the constitution of our identities; as it consequently raises the question of which hemisphere you would want to be transferred, there is no evident reason as to why you would show a preference for one over the other. The majority would also much rather want to preserve both hemispheres of our brains, but in the lens of fission, this would be the same as to prefer death over continued existence. Fission cases threaten the claim that the psychological continuity view of the existence and persistence of the self is better than those of a more physiological stance.

This segues to yet another objection to psychological continuity views, that being that they rule out our being biological organisms also, due to the fact that psychological continuity is not necessary or sufficient for human organisms to persist. This is evident from observing the persistence of a human embryo, done without any psychological continuity. This creates problems for psychological continuity by again suggesting that there can be two simultaneously existing from one, one being a thinking person and the other being a thinking organism distinct from it. Known as the thinking-animal objection, the most popular defence against it would be to make the claim that while sharing with it our brains and displays of consciousness and intelligence, human organisms are simply incapable of thinking and existing without consciousness, therefore making it so that there are simply no thinking animals that could create problems against the psychological continuity view. This argument is hard to defend as to say human organisms lack the ability to be conscious and intelligent, seems to then say that no biological organism could have any mental properties at all, threatening to almost render human organisms as zombies, philosophically speaking, beings physically and behaviourally identical to conscious beings, but lacking that key consciousness, which also begs the question of why it is that beings cannot possess consciousness.

To tackle the problem of the existence of a self or our personal identity through the perspective of psychological continuity is a reductionist view, and through arguing this view, Parfit says that to debate over the existence of such a thing is not what matters, rather it is survival that matters, and that presupposes personal identity. Even separated from the concept of personal identity, psychological continuity is said to contain all that one will need to deem important about their own survival, in scenarios ranging from the splitting of the brain or complete transference of brain to a new body, to what becomes of us after death. This is all to say, in conclusion, the question of self and personal identity is intimately connected to the question of our persistence and survival, and so even though the myth of the self remains unresolved, psychological continuity allows us to better imagine the ever-changing yet also unchanging nature of our essence, and how this essence might ensure its survival, and by extension, our survival.

Is Democracy Under Threat?

Tue, 09 Jul 2024 12:32:05 GMT

Written by Jessica Kamimbaya from London Academy of Excellence - London, UK

Free. Fair. Frequent.

These are the makings of a democratic electoral system. While we're a far cry from the ancient roots of democracy, rather demos-kratos, time wise, we've also strayed from the original meaning: power of the people. It would be unreasonable to expect democracy to be the same as it once was, however the original notion of democracy was not a stagnant buzzword or goal-post to be met but a seed planted to be nourished in the millenia to come, for citizens spanning generations to reap the fruit of their rightful collective power. Alarmingly, in the 21st century, we've progressed backwards: towards the disempowerment of the voter.

Governments and major corporations across the world reside 'promising subsequent penitence but not yet moved to begin', actions contradicting any sentiments of remorse. The freedom, fairness, and as of 2022's Dissolution and Calling of Parliament Act frequency, of elections in the UK has been battered; threatening democracy as a whole.

Recently the freedom to vote has also been challenged. In an age of spiralling inequality, the Conservative government passed the Elections Act in 2022, requiring voters to bring a form of photo identification to polling stations to vote. According to the Electoral Commission in 2022, 2% of the electorate, nearly 1.5 million otherwise perfectly eligible voters, had no form of the photo-id required to vote. Interestingly enough, marginalised groups are disproportionately affected by such restrictions, the Electoral Commission itself has reported 'some people found it harder than others to show accepted voter ID, including disabled people, younger voters, people from ethnic minority communities, and the unemployed' unsurprisingly, beyond acknowledgement, little is done to address this systemic gap.

The Act is part of a concerning global trend in policies locking certain people out of participating in mainstream politics through indirect and arguably tactical harmful policy Between the reduction of ballot boxes in communities with high African American populations in the state of Georgia and increased vehicle searches and public transport reduction during elections in Brazil, we must ask ourselves: who is most affected?

It's easy to comparatively look towards the past, scoffing at Jim Crow laws mandating voter literacy tests in a disparately segregated educational system and say 'that would never happen today' but this disregards an almost atavism in voter rights, being especially punitive against those on the intersections of marginalised groups.

These factors have coincided with an undeniable rise in populism globally, bolstered by displays of injustice on the parts of massive institutions. Seen in the lack of accountability held against government's involved in the deadly yet fruitless hunt for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and more recently King Charles Ill's comically ironic yet dystopian King's speech. While relaying the government's plan to tackle the on-going cost of living crisis, satirically coined the 'cozzie livs', he sat on a golden throne, wearing a crown worth several billions of pounds. This after parading on the street in his 'down-sized' coronation which is estimated to have cost the taxpayer 100 million pounds, a gross display of wealth and empire.

These feelings of disenfranchisement at the hands of the accountability-immune state trickle into the sociosphere, many internalise these feelings of rejection from 'the establishment' and seek community on the internet. What may begin as innocently as wanting to feel seen and heard can lead one along two paths: activism, boosting engagement in pluralist politics or extremism, trapped in an e-echo chamber.

As simple as a Tiktok video. Individuals who feel otherwise outcasted and silenced in mainstream forms of political participation become easy pickings for 'strongmen' style, seemingly logical agents of the far-right. The grooming begins as covertly as through 'edgelord' humoured jokes often discriminatory in nature. Just one video? The user engages with the content, liking, sharing the clip with friends. I've seen it first hand among my often male peers, relishing in the counter-cultural humour. That's all it takes.

Predatory algorithms smell the blood in the water and plunge users into vacuums of ideologically similar content, pushing this content to the masses and platforming hate-speech gradually elevating in extremity. This is how extremism is spread in the 21st century.This was particularly dangerous during the Covid-19 pandemic, in which mandated lockdowns led to a reported 10.5% rise in social media usage. When coupled with the fact that 3 in ·1 0 US adults get their news from Facebook, the events of January 6th 202·1 are no surprise but a sign of the times.

Following the election of President Biden, Donald Trump, his predecessor, delivered a speech at a rally denying the democratic credibility of the election, asking his audience 'does anyone believe that Joe had 80 million votes?'. His words riled the crowd who began to chant 'Fight for Trump' which he thanked them for. It is plain to see the violent undertones in his speech which fuelled the crowd. When indicted, his legal team tactically hyper-focused on the portion of the speech where Trump encouraged his thousands of supporters to 'peacefully and patriotically' make their voices heard by marching to the Capitol with him (he was not present). When contextualised by the rest of the speech, warning citizens that if they didn't 'fight like hell' they'd lose their country -interesting choice of words- it all becomes rather menacing.

And so they did, a mob of 2000 stormed the capitol, looting and vandalising, attacking police officers called to the scene, fighting against the results of democracy. The attacks have triggered many 'copycat' incidents of anti-democratic violence globally, including in Brazil, India and Sri Lanka.

Although Facebook had banned Trump himself, the core issue of under-regulation hasn't been addressed. Even before the election, far-right nationalist Facebook groups calling on 'well-armed' members to 'meet up and prep' went unmoderated. Pages like these remain under-regulated by Facebook and other platforms alike, propagating misinformation and anger, threatening not only the safety of democracy but of the state itself.

There is no sole party to blame for this crisis, rather a mass lack of ability to progress compatibly with evolving technology and a growing political awareness culture. A cynic would argue intentionality and wouldn't be completely amiss in noting a half-hearted willingness to be culturally responsive. Not only to the present will and plight of the people, but to learn from past injustices. Yes, democracy is under threat but through active change it can be secured.

Music Therapy and Dementia

Fri, 17 May 2024 11:11:45 GMT

EPQ Music Therapy and Dementia

Annabella Ritzau

Given the current view and uses of music therapy in relation to dementia treatment, should it be offered to those suffering from the condition?

Table of Contents

Abstract 3

Introduction 4

Literature Review 6

History

History of Musical Therapy 6

History of Dementia 7

Evidence For Musical Therapy 10

Evidence Against Musical Therapy 13

Discussion 17

Conclusion 21

Evaluation 23

Bibliography 25

Appendix

Abstract

This project investigates the behavioural and psychological symptoms often associated with neurodegenerative diseases like Alzhiemers that causes individuals to receive a Dementia prognosis. While drugs such as Lecanemab and Donaemab have provided critical first steps of slowing dementia down, this project evaluates the usage of non-pharmacological treatments, in particular the usage of musical therapy. I will evaluate the efficacy of musical therapy within dementia sufferers and see if this non-pharmacological treatment can improve cognition and memory as well as relieving distressing behavioural and psychological symptoms. By analysing the efficacy, I will be able to make a judgement to whether a nationwide implementation of musical therapy should be in dementia-centred nursing homes and hospice care or whether there is a lack of evidence to make a direct link between the two, thus leading to the need for further research. Finally I will also discuss perhaps why musical therapy is not the most known form of non- pharmacological treatment in the UK and how this links to musical therapy’s desired intent.

Introduction

Dementia is a neurodegenerative disorder caused by numerous diseases such as Lewy Bodies, neuronal apoptosis (cell death) to the frontal-temporal region and the most common disease: Alzhiermer’s [1]. Over time, the damage of neurons leads to a deterioration of cognitive function which causes the effect of the key characteristic: memory loss. [2] While each disease can cause specific behavioural and psychological symptoms in those suffering from dementia ( anxiety in Alzheimer’s, hallucinations in Dementia with Lewy Bodies, personality changes in Frontotemporal Dementia), there are common behavioural and psychological symptoms of dementia that are present such as mood changes, confusion, and difficulty concentrating[3]. For the purpose of this project, when discussing dementia, I will predominantly look at treatment towards Alzhiermer’s since this disease accounts for 60-70% [4] of dementia cases, however, other diseases like Dementia with Lewy Bodies as well as Frontotemporal Dementia will be mentioned as different forms of dementia can co-exist [5].The project will examine the effectiveness of musical Therapy and the intent of this non-pharmacological treatment [6]to relax an individual, uplift emotions and potentially improve memory recall. A key premise of this project is to understand and discuss why musical therapy in relation to Dementia is often unheard of and look into the different influences that have potentially prevented the growth of this treatment.

In this project, when analysing the cognitive effects from musical therapy, I will observe to see if musical Therapy can improve semantic memory. Semantic memory [7] is a type of long-term memory that shapes around words and verbal symbols, common knowledge and concepts, for example, with facts like London being the capital city of England. Semantic memory is one of the two main varieties of conscious, long-term memory, therefore, even after a delay, information still can be retrieved into a conscious awareness [8]. I have chosen this form of memory to observe because if those with Dementia can become lucid, easy to understand, and are aware of their surroundings - for example, they know they are in their house,a nursing home,or know what day it is - this is an indication that musical therapy can contribute to improving cognitive performance. Further research would be required to observe whether this cognitive performance improvement is short term or long term. This observation will be beneficial because if studies have shown an improvement of memory, thus leading to improved cognitive performance within individuals, this then can provide a basis to acquire more funding and governmental support to promote a non-pharmacological treatment that can be widely accessed and has positive improvements.

Another rationale for investigating the impact of music therapy is related to the quality of life and wellbeing individuals with dementia experience. Individuals who have this neurodegenerative disorder will often experience numerous behavioural problems. Behaviour is understood to be how an individual with a certain disorder acts that can often be measured [9]. With dementia, typical behaviours can be: aggression, panic, repetitive behaviour, and agitation. When analysing behavioural problems, in this project, I will examine how someone with dementia will act once introduced to musical therapy. I will investigate whether after musical therapy an individual is in a relaxed state indicated by lower blood pressure and heart beat. This is a key sign that the parasympathetic system is in control,as it coordinates the body to be in a resting state by allowing controlled breaths, continuous steady heartbeat [10]. Alongside behavioural problems, dementia often will trigger psychological problems in a person. This is understood to look at mental health: can the person cope with the stresses of day to day life, socialise by contributing to their community and function adequately by working and learning well [11]. Those with dementia often suffer from: depression, anxiety, insomnia, and even psychosis [12]. Looking at musical therapies' effect on behavioural and psychological symptoms is important because this could be an alternative form of therapy in hospices, where end of life care focuses on comfort rather than a cure.

I mainly chose this project since a family member of mine suffers from Vascular Dementia. This disorder occurs commonly after a stroke or other damage to the brain (e.g. epilepsy or aneurysms) where the sufferer starts to exhibit similar symptoms like Alzhiermers, memory problems and irregular mood changes. On my regular annual visit to this family member, I played a piece of music that she used to hear as an adolescent, and suddenly, she became much more lucid, expressions on her face suggested happiness and joy, and I also observed that her memory in the short term seemed to show slight improvement. This observation of mine made me realise that specific music genres are correlated with memory and feeling. Currently, more than 55 million people worldwide are suffering from this neurodegenerative disorder, and over 60% of these people live on low and middle incomes [13]. My project will evaluate evidence around this treatment which will allow me to understand whether the intent of musical therapy can relieve cognitive and/or behavioural and psychological symptoms. This can provide a basis to further evaluate if the ethics and funding surrounding this treatment have prevented a nationwide implementation, or if musical therapy should be seen as a case to case implementation.

Literature Review

History

History of Musical Therapy

Musical therapy uses elements of music such as its rhythm, harmony or sound with the intent to reduce stress thus improve the quality of life [14].

The existence of musical therapy to provide health benefits has been around for centuries. By 5000 BC , Egyptian Priest-Physicians had used music for healing processes. Philosophers such as Aristotle thought that ‘music affects the soul and described music as a force that purified the emotions’ and Plato believed that ‘music affected the emotions and could influence the character of an individual’. By the thirteenth century, the usage of music in medicine was seen in Arab hospitals that contained music-rooms for the benefit of the patients and in the United states. Furthermore, Native American medicine men employed chants and dances as a method of healing patients. There is a distinction of the usage of musical therapy between the Western and non Western regions. In the Western regions like the United Kingdom and United States, music is seen as a form of entertainment. In Non-Western Cultures like the African culture , or Native American, music is used for recounting stories, sending messages or even celebrating life events. After 1800, the emergence of medicine that drew on the Brunonian system of medicine argued that stimulation of the nerves caused by music could directly improve or harm health.While there is belief that the usage of music to soothe grief has been used since the time of King Saul, the first recorded use of musical therapy was used in 1789 by an unknown author in the Columbian Magazine titled ‘Music Physically Considered.’ However, it was not until 1950 that a national body called the National Association for Music Therapy was created and 1971 the American Association for Music Therapy was created alongside board certification that developed in 1983 [15]. In addition, in 1958 Juliette Alvin and her colleagues in the Society for Music Therapy founded the British Society for Music Therapy. The usage of music for medical purposes has been around for a very long time however, it is only after the 20th century that we have seen this area became popularised and respected as a non-pharmacological treatment.

The History of Dementia

D ementia derives from the Latin root ‘demens’, which means being out of one's mind [16]. Although the term "dementia" has been used since the 13th century, its mention in the medical community was reported in the 18th century [17].

History of Alzhiermer’s

Further research into ‘being out of one’s mind,’ was developed by Aloysius Alzhiemer . He had discovered a way to distinguish between a healthy and an unhealthy brain by staining new cells and was able to see abnormalities. The first ever person diagnosed with Alzhiemers was Aguste Deter. She was admitted in 1901, and had symptoms of memory loss, confusion, and disorientation. She had begun acting unusual-including accusing her husband of adultery, neglecting household chores, exhibiting difficulties writing and engaging in conversations, heightened insomnia, and loss of directional sense. This breakthrough of noticeable plaques in Deter’s brain was reported by Dr Alzhiemer after an autopsy performed in 1906 allowed Dr Alzhiemer to present his findings to a Dr Emile Kraeplin who viewed Alzhiermer’s as a separate clinical entity from mental health disorders and in his eighth edition of Psychiatrie A (1910) he coined such disease as Alzheimer’s.

[Figure above showing postmortem of amyloid plaques found in Deter’s brain][19]

History of Lewy Bodies

Research of abnormal protein deposits was discovered by Federic Lewy. By 1912 Dr Lewy described seeing these inclusion bodies ( aggregates of specific types of protein found in neurons) by studying paralysis agitans ( another term for Parkinson’s disease) [20]. Dr Lewy had published a book with his findings, The Study on Muscle Tone and Movement. Including Systematic Investigations on the Clinic, Physiology, Pathology, and Pathogenesis of Paralysis agitans , in 1923 and except for one brief paper a year later, he never mentioned his findings again. However, based on 20 autopsied cases, Psychiatrist and neuropathologist Dr Kenji Kosaka coined the term Dementia with Lewy Bodies in 1976.

[Figure above shows what a singular lewy body looks like as point by the arrows][21]

History of Frontotemporal Dementia

Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD) was first described by Czech Psychiatrist Dr Arnold Pick. Previously known as Pick’s disease, this term to describe frontotemporal atrophy ( degeneration of cells) and aphasia ( disorder that affects communication and language) was coined by Pick in 1922 [22]. In 1892, Pick observed a 71 year old man in which he saw a progressive loss of language, after death a post mortem highlighted asymmetrical atrophy. This condition that looked at the relationship between senile atrophy of the brain and aphasia was confused to be Alzhiermer’s and Vascular Dementia. After three further published papers, Pick concluded his patients suffered from a variant of senile dementia. It was only after Dr Aloyiuis Alzhiemer found the characteristic inclusion, that a specific term could be applied [23]. The term Pick’s disease is now applied for a behavioural variant of FTD.

[figure above shows presence of pick bodies][24]

Understanding the brief history of each disease causing dementia is integral when analysing the efficacy of musical therapy. Dementia is a neurodegenerative disorder that occurs due to damage of neurons over time. The effects of dementia both cognitively and behavioural and psychologically have different causes such as the collection of Lewy bodies, pick’s inclusion or even plaques.

By reviewing the history of musical therapy, it is evident that this form of treatment for medical purposes has been prevalent for a very long term . Thus, when observing the effects of musical therapy on dementia, my intent was to analyse the efficacy. Can musical therapy help relieve behavioural and psychological symptoms, restore cognitive function ( in terms of semantic memory) and can it aid more than one type of dementia?

[Figure above shows MRI scans from an individual without any disease causing dementia, control, and patients with Dementia with Lewy Bodies, DLB, and Alzheimer’s, AD, and Frontotemporal lobe degeneration, FTD,.][25]

Evidence for Musical Therapy

This collection of sources focuses on the ‘should’ aspect of my question. The combination of qualitative and quantitative sources highlights the benefits of musical therapy and why musical therapy as a treatment should be looked into further as a way to relieve behavioural and psychological symptoms from those suffering from dementia.

My source [26] ,Sakamoto’s research ,investigates the long and short-term effect music has on the behavioural and psychological symptoms of dementia seen in severe Alzhiermer’s patients. This source was useful as Sakamoto’s evaluation of results using stress levels seen in the autonomic nerve index ( quantitative evidence) alongside a face scale to determine the emotions displayed on participants ( qualitative) allowed me to view this research in a holistic perspective. Sakamoto’s conclusion is that musical intervention reduces stress in individuals with severe dementia because of a restoration of cognitive and emotional function. These results are reliable and thus valuable in their nature as Sakamoto demonstrates the probability of chance that short-term music intervention resulting in parasympathetic dominance in thirteen participants was less than 5%( by using a Tukey's Honestly Significant Difference test). Furthermore the ranking scale of Behavioural Pathology also determines that the probability of chance that long-term Music intervention can reduce anxiety in individuals with severe dementia is less than 0.025 ( Mann-Whitney followed by Bonferroni). This qualitative and quantitative evidence directly addresses the efficacy of musical therapy highlighting that there is a significant improvement in behavioural and psychological symptoms within Alzheimer patients. This source is reliable to a large extent because Sakamoto’s investigation reduced the effects of co-founding variables by making sure participants did not have previous heart conditions, hearing problems. Sakamoto also randomly assigned 39 participants into the three categories ( control, passive, 28interactive) thus removing any investigator bias and increasing the internal validity. However, some methodological limitations are present. When considering if music should be used as a treatment nationwide, it is important to acknowledge that Sakamoto only used 39 participants. This is quite a small sample size and generalising Sakamoto’s research could have adverse effects since 39 participants is not an accurate representation of the millions of Alzhiemer patients, let alone dementia patients. But Sakamoto’s research has been helpful in creating a fundamental block in our understanding how music can reduce behavioural symptoms of Alzhiemers therefore improving quality of life. Based on their research, much more thought and research can be exerted into finding more solutions.

A source that gauges a different viewpoint is Dan Cohen’s Alive Inside: A Story Of Music And Memory Documentary [27]. The source was an interview with Henry, an individual with dementia. Cohen’s source provides a unique perspective that allows an interpretation and to argue why musical therapy should be used to treat dementia. While watching this interview, I used three categories to assess whether there was a significant improvement in Henry. His behaviour prior to music intervention, during music intervention, and behaviour immediately after the musical intervention. Prior to music intervention Henry failed to remember his daughter, Henry seemed to be potentially depressed and generally was disengaged with the world around him. His behaviour prior was very valuable as I managed to observe symptoms in reality, his behaviour supports research behavioural symptoms in dementia. During the intervention, I noted Henry to look very animated and joyful. His widened eyes and dilated pupils only reinforces research conducted by Sakamoto. The autonomic system triggers responses such as the release of dopamine. One effect is typically the dilation of pupils. Immediately after, Henry was more engaged in conversation and remembered his favourite artist of his from many years ago. I concluded that there had been significant behavioural.Although the source is extremely valuable, I question if it is reliable. As to be expected, the nature of this source does provide a limitation. While the author of the source Dan Cohen has been involved in musical therapy and nursing home inpatients since 2008. His academic expertise comes from his Bachelor’ in psychology followed by a masters in social work. This tells us that Cohen is highly educated in his field work from experience as an academic eliminating some conflict of interest. But Henry’s interview was a brief segment into musical therapy and treating dementia, it was a viral video that has been uploaded many times and reached millions of views. It is also part of a documentary that has won a Sundance Film Festival award. It does have limitations as certain parts of the interview with Henry may have been edited or cut out, parts that contradict each other since part of the documentary was to find ways to achieve more funding to allow more individuals with dementia to have access to music therapy. However, I find both of these sources extremely valuable as it is necessary to build a perspective to show that musical therapy has qualitative and quantitative benefits towards an individual with dementia .

[Figure above is a seen from Alive inside where dementia patient Henry appears withdrawn, this is before listening to music therapy][27]

[Figure above left is Dementia patient Henry listening to a piece of Gospel Music that he first heard as a young adult, Figure above right is the post musical therapy interview where Henry is evidently much more alert and able to answer Yes/No questions][27]

To compliment these sources, my next source[28] included four participants with Vascular Dementia. Other diseases that cause Dementia like Vascular Dementia are an important factor when considering if Music Therapy should become a main non-pharmacological treatment for those with dementia. In the UK alone 180,000 persons are suffering with Vascular Dementia [29]. When comparing it to Alzhiemer’s the causes of Dementia differ. Vascular Dementia typically occurs as a result of damage to blood vessels in the brain. However, Alzheimer's disease occurs through plaques forming in the brain. I valued the research conducted by Professor Suzuki because as a conclusion she did see that Musical Therapy did decrease changes in Salivary Chromograinin, a hormone released into the body in response to physical or emotional stress. The author’s expertise enhances the validity of this source, Professor Suzuki has an excellent educational backing with her having Doctor of philosophy in Rehabilitation Science alongside being part of the Rehabilitation department at the university of Yamato. Thus all these sources provide quantitative and qualitative evidence that when prescribed, musical therapy decreases stress, and anxiety levels ergo participants are much more at ease. There are limitations with her research. Participants were asked to complete a Mini-Mental Examination in which scores did not significantly improve. From this, I gathered that perhaps musical therapy causes different behaviours in those with vascular dementia compared to Alzhiemer’s. Despite there not being a lot of evidence to see how musical therapy works in different forms of dementia, Professor Suzuski’s research by including those with vascular dementia introduces the idea that potentially more funding needs to contribute to analysing whether musical therapy provides the same calming effects to all types of neurodegenerative diseases, not just Alzhiemer’s. By reviewing all these sources, I can understand that musical therapy is not a cure for dementia. Rather, it is a way to reduce common behavioural symptoms in sufferers and also reduces the pressure caregivers are constantly facing when looking after sufferers.

While these sources provide the merit of musical therapy in treating dementia, each source can be analysed to suggest there is not a firm case for rolling out musical therapy as a treatment. .

Evidence against Musical Therapy

The next collection of sources discusses why musical therapy should not be used as a treatment in regards to its limitations collecting qualitative data. A major issue presented is the limited evidence available on seeing the correlation between the effects of dementia diseases on semantic memory and music.

As this source further explains Semantic memory is a form of long term declarative memory [30]. Your semantic memory consists of concepts, facts, and general knowledge derived from accumulated life experiences [31]. Often when being diagnosed with a neurodegenerative disease such as Alzhiemer’s or Lewy Body ( DLB) disease, an individual will start to slowly forget such concepts. This is further backed by my own knowledge since the mesial temporal lobe, cerebral cortex regions are all regions of the brain responsible for memory but when diseases like Alzhiemer’s and DLB or events like a stroke lead to

[Figure above shows an image of temporal lobe][32] [Figure above shows an image of cerebral cortex][33]

neuronal apoptosis leads to a deterioration in declarative memory. I acquired this analysis because while it acknowledges that clinical studies have shown those with musical intervention retain a capacity to enjoy and respond to music it also highlights that many neuropsychological tests to quantitatively measure whether a dementia patient has retained musical competence is flawed. This is vital to understanding whether musical therapy should be enlisted as an alternate medical intervention. I chose this specific article as it demonstrates that the lack of standardised tests for understanding musical semantic memory and task difficulty makes it harder for objective conclusions thus more funding into the NHS for a nationwide implementation of musical therapy. Typical neuropsychological tests measure sustained attention, the working memory and verbal responses. This weighted argument perhaps suggests that musical therapy as a treatment has low internal validity since patients may remember the melodies of the music but as a treatment to remember general knowledge and concepts is too difficult. Upon reading this article, I could conclude it was reliable as it was written by fellow academics in that specific field including Dr Rohani Omar a consultant audiovestibular physician at UCL and recipient of numerous medical accolades. Nevertheless, in my opinion due to the age of this article (11 years), it lacks temporal validity. While there has not been a direct correlation of musical therapy and dementia, other sources have contradicted this article and has shown more evidence in recent years, this can be as a result of more funding thus more technology.

A highly useful source that provides an answer to the ‘treatment’ aspect of my question is Dr Kale’s research and review of the management of behavioural and psychological symptoms [34]. This provides insight into the complexity of these symptoms and why one treatment helps all is incorrect and arguably why pharmacological interventions are the best way to treat a form of dementia. The research presented by this source expands its usefulness as it keys the crucial differences between the diseases and the importance behind tailored made treatments. As correctly identified, certain forms of dementia can trigger specific behaviours. Hallucinations are often identified with those suffering from DLB while depression occurs in someone with Vascular dementia and Alzheirmer’s. Anxiety is also frequently seen in Azheimers sufferers while inappropriate social behaviours are witnessed in FTD. These behavioural/psychological symptoms of dementia can arise from synaptic or circuit disconnections within different structures. What Dr kales’ research highlights is that non-pharmacological treatments such as music therapy have low-external validity. Unlike pharmacological treatments, there is not a clear guideline of dosage, timing thus music therapy may accidentally do the opposite and overstimulate and heighten the behavioural symptoms within a patient. This review contains a high reliability as Dr Kales is a professor of psychiatry, a director for positive ageing, associate director for mental health and ageing research, geriatrics centre, University of Michigan. But within her research she can effectively pinpoint how mental disorders present as symptoms ( apathy )can be caused by certain atrophy ( structural atrophy in the frontal regions associated with motivation). However, Dr Kales’ analysis was only of English written articles, this presents a potential cultural bias. One behavioural symptom of dementia is body dysmorphia. In non-English speaking countries where the intake of higher starch content is higher this may present a higher level of body dysmorphia in dementia patients, but because the author has only taken in English written articles, generalisation may be more harmful than beneficial. Together these two sources are valuable in understanding why musical therapy may not have practical applications. By using the JSTOR and the National Library of Medicine as materials, it highlights the general consensus that musical therapy to solve dementia has little quantitative evidence to show that this can slow down visible symptoms.

Van der Steen’s music based intervention for people with Dementia assessed the emotional well being of participants, mood disturbance, behavioural problems, social behaviour [35]. This meta-analysis is highly valid as Van der Steen used twenty-one studies with 890 participants. Studies included individual music interventions as well as group music interventions. His results concluded that there was low-quality evidence that the interventions did improve well-being, standardised mean difference of 0.32 in 348 participants, and saw anxiety being reduced ,standard mean difference of -0.43 in 478 participants. This meta-analysis saw that those in institutional care with five sessions of a music-based intervention did have a reduced depressive symptom, overall behaviour problems did improve as well as aggression and agitation. However, there was certain limitations to whether music therapy directly reduced anxiety and there is not enough evidence to whether musical therapy can improve social behaviour and if these results can be applied in the long term. Van der Steen’s research was helpful in analysing the should aspect of my question. While his meta-analysis was helpful in showing that those suffering with dementia in institutional care did see their behavioural and psychological symptoms relieved, this is rather a weak conclusion because of the low quality evidence.

So while it can help relieve symptoms, results are inconclusive and weak thus this evidence highlights that it should not be used. Van der Steen’s research sample size is incredibly useful as compared to other research size groups, 890 participants is larger and therefore a more comprehensive generalisation can be applied to the greater population. Furthermore this meta analysis was concluded in 2018 therefore this recent observation does not have temporal validity and rather highlights that even in the 21st century, there is not enough conclusive evidence to suggest musical therapy should be used as a treatment.

Overall the utility of these sources provide compelling arguments into whether musical therapy should get more funding to allow a nationwide implementation to tackle the problem of treating dementia. Each source contains authors who are experts in their respective fields who have provided valuable evidence to support or resistant musical therapy as treatment for Dementia. One common flaw amongst all is that most of these sources were not written within the last three years. This raises whether their sources have temporal validity and if results can be used today.

Discussion

All of the selected sources have provided compelling arguments to my research into whether musical therapy can be used as alternative treatment for those diagnosed with dementia. Within this project, I did not use a thematic approach, rather I felt this may have steered the question away from what I what really needed to observe- is musical therapy effective? By taking a different approach, looking into the efficacy I was able to research further into musical therapy and based on this knowledge start to answer the question of can it be used as alternative treatment. I selected each one of these sources because the evidence has steered towards musical therapy being effective. However, in this project a further evaluation is needed to analyse whether the effectiveness is significant enough for a nationwide implementation or even if research and funding should be placed into investigating the correlation between the two.

The highlighted evidence in my sources is very helpful into understanding the efficacy. The quantitative evidence highlighted by the decreases in salivary chromograinin and stress levels indicate that there is benefit to this treatment. Alongside behavioural symptoms, my sources showed an improvement in psychological symptoms. Often a huge problem in psychology is its subjective nature. Often when diagnosing individuals with a certain mental health disorder, symptoms displayed by the individual are cross referenced with the diagnostics Statistical Manual ( DSM 5), therefore diagnosing an individual with a mental disorder is often dependent on what the allied health professional believes is a symptom of that disorder. Psychological problems are based on individuals feelings and emotions. However, evidence in research conducted by Sakamoto ,in my sources, used a face scale to determine the emotions displayed on an individual’s face while listening to musical therapy. Facial expression are beneficial to understand the efficacy of musical therapy as a majority of the time there are clear signs if someone is in distress or happy. Evidently, in my source where Henry was interviewed, his dilation of pupils and raised eyebrows indicate that this music intrigues him, he is experiencing happiness and is becoming more calm. Arguably there is a cognitive return as he starts to sing and hum the rhythms and lyrics of this specific song.

Despite evidence in my sources highlighting that there is a basis, musical therapy can help those with dementia, it is not as simple as suggesting it should be used as an alternative treatment. Dr Rohani Omar’s article clearly articulates the ongoing problem, typically neuropsychological tests measure sustained attention, verbal responses and working memory. To test if musical therapy can restore short term cognitive function, a neuropsychological test needs to be developed that perhaps analyses whether a person's perception of the world around them has improved. This will focus on their behaviour before and after musical intervention, like shown in the interview with Henry, and will record semantic memory. Analysing semantic memory in my opinion is effective because a common characteristic of cognitive decline in dementia patients is memory loss. Sometimes sufferers cannot differentiate carers from family members, what room they are in, what day it is. These common concepts can highlight the efficacy of musical therapy and whether it can make sufferers more lucid and aware of their surroundings.

Upon reflection, musical therapy can become a popular form of non-pharmacological treatment but several factors such as funding, sociocultural and economic influences perhaps suggest that more research is needed.

Culture

Dementia occurrence is over 20% higher among Black adults in the United Kingdom compared to the UK average [36]. Black and South Asian people are more likely to be diagnosed at a younger age and die earlier from dementia than White people [36]. Throughout this project, a key limitation was the lack of studies where participants were from non-western countries in Africa, South America, Oceania. I strongly believe that these devastating statistics are not a result of racial and cultural divide rather its a result of perception of dementia from all perspectives. Research has shown that religious and spiritual beliefs may differentially impact perceptions of dementia among African Americans [37]. A significantly high proportion of African Americans believe that ‘God’s will’ had a hand in determining who developed Alzheimer’s disease, and they may be more prone to believe that medicines will be ineffective in treating a disease that stems from a spiritual cause. Other research saw that many African people in Sub-saharan Africa viewed the cause of dementia to be as a result of witchcraft, possession of devils [38]. These misconceptions are still very prevalent to this day. These dated misconceptions suggest why my grandmother’s refusal to acknowledge her initial diagnosis of Vascular dementia, is just a microcosm of how many elders of non-western communities dismiss prognosis, abuse their treatment as well as indirectly causing distress to their carers. Furthermore, non-western communities are underrepresented as participants in research studies. Ergo, to fully understand what dementia is, further research on non-western communities is mandatory.Therefore in my opinion I cannot fully justify musical therapy as an effective form to treat dementia until research on minority communities and different genres of music are researched.

Funding

Per year, the cost of care for dementia in the UK is £34.7 billion GBP. Within the next two decades (2040), this will be expected to exceed £94.1 billion GBP [39]. Throughout my research, I discovered that the usage of musical interventions can improve cognitive and behavioural symptoms in Alzheimer’s disease thus this treatment has gained popularity in recent years. Nevertheless a huge flaw is that the evidence for their effectiveness remains inconsistent. This begs the question around funding, extensive research, and even political endorsement will be required. As recently as September 2023, the National Health Service has plunged into a 7 billion crash crisis [40], operating under a consequential inflation [41] period as well as a plethora of strikes including allied health professionals like Radiographers, Junior Doctors, consultants, physiotherapists. Member of the Labour party, Chi Onwurah had asked the Department for Business, energy and industrial strategy in December 2021 how money was invested into dementia research to which it was discovered that £107.9 million was invested in dementia research by the UK government in 2019/2020. Yet 209,600 people will develop dementia this year, that's one every three minutes [42]. Considerable amounts of money and individuals can be saved if more money is being raised for musical therapy. One suggestion to this lack of funding is due to recognition. A semi-structured online survey was given to members of the British Association for Musical Therapy and 23% out of 188 people felt that training and development could increase provision [43]. Alongside training and development, a greater awareness was to be made not just amongst the general public but within the National Health Service itself . WIthout correct promotion, less musical therapist with the correct expertise are recruited. This is evident in palliative and end of life care where the main intent is to provide rest rather than a cure. Results from a study showed that within 50 identified musical therapists working in palliative, end of life care, 84.7% had less than 10 years experience in such settings and the lack of sustainable funding has found it difficult to recruit this role for palliative, end of life care [44]. While this project seeks to predominantly look at the UK’s funding and how musical therapy treats dementia, this lack of funding for musical therapists is a universal problem for many more neuro -based conditions. For example, in New Zealand there are 88 registered musical therapists but Music Therapy New Zealand have stated that 260 are required to meet demand [45]. I hypothesised that the reason why musical therapy has often experienced a lack of funding is due to its non-pharmacological nature. Unlike medicine, musical therapy does not have a specific dosage, a harsh reality is that one sufferer may like a certain volume or genre of music but we cannot apply this to another sufferer of dementia. This can become difficult because further research must be required to investigate what type of genre, volume level and dosage can be applied which inevitably will cost more money. I believe that musical therapy has the potential to relieve behavioural and mental symptoms in individuals therefore a high proportion of money should be placed into hospice and end of life care to at least reduce such symptoms and gradually move into using this treatment to restore short-term cognitive function.

[Graph above compares inflation rate in the UK in August 2023 compared to other countries worldwide][46]

Socioeconomic

Individuals who face themselves in lower socioeconomic groups in the UK are exposed to a higher risk of developing dementia. This could be as a result of additional barriers one may face when accessing healthcare services. For example, drugs such as Memantine are useful for treating moderate Alzherimer’s as well as Dementia with Lewy Bodies by blocking excessive amounts of glutamate. However, temporary side effects such as constipation, headaches, and dizziness are common with this particular drug. These side effects are enough to prevent sufferers from working, providing for families hence becoming dependable on extra-support- something that is not always available. While a common misconception is that dementia is only apparent in older individuals, there are 70,800 confirmed cases of early onset dementia in the UK [47].Often, when discussing dementia, a missed key person is carers. By the age of 60, 1 in 5 women will provide unpaid care to a relative or friend suffering from dementia [48]. My mother and myself are included in this statistic as she has to take a trip to see my grandmother every three months to provide care and I annually visit her to provide care. Dementia is a neurodegenerative disorder that is prevalent in lower socioeconomic groups because this disorder can be costly not only to the sufferers who cannot afford healthcare because of extenuating circumstances but also to carers. These unfortunate realities can perhaps explain why one in six dementia cases in East London could be due to living in the most deprived 20% of the population [49]. These harsh statistics [50] only prove why musical therapy can be beneficial as this short term solution can at least improve psychological symptoms for sufferers and remove the huge weight that carers may often feel.

Throughout this project my knowledge of musical therapy has developed, unequivocally I can confidently say that musical therapy can improve behavioural and psychological symptoms for those suffering from Alzhiemer’s. However, influences such as culture, funding and socioeconomic have revealed a bigger problem in this project. Each one of these factors have been revealed to contain a bidirectional relationship within each other. When reviewing how cultures perceive dementia, i discovered that this misinterpretation derives from a lack of education in this field and while theoretically one can say that after educating people musical therapy should be use the reality is this will require a lot of time but also funding will be required to allocate resources in hiring professionals who have a grasp of different cultures and socioeconomic backgrounds to provide in depth knowledge of how dementia affects everyone.

Conclusion

In conclusion, given the current view and uses of music therapy in relation to dementia treatment, should it be offered to those suffering from the condition? I believe in my own opinion that musical therapy should be provided as an alternative to pharmacological treatments. However, I believe that while the field is under-funded, under-researched and without developed methods of measuring its efficacy, this alternative should only be offered in Hospice care or if the sufferer does not exhibit any chances of a cognitive recovery.

This conclusion derived from my new found view of music therapy. Initially, based on my own previous experience playing music for my grandmother with vascular dementia, I found that she had become more lucid so while going into this project I believed music therapy was the new alternative treatment that should be implemented. However, while the evidence from Sakamoto’s research, Suzuki’s research and the interview with an individual with dementia has created a foundation that music therapy can work, I found that not all my criteria to evaluate musical therapy’s efficacy warrants a confident approval. What the research demonstrated is that there is a significant improvement of psychological and behaviour symptoms with individuals who suffer from Alzhiemer’s and in some cases vascular dementia. However, a criteria point was to analyse whether music therapy can significantly help more than one type of disease causing dementia. Much research out there supports Alzhiemer’s however in this project there was not enough research on Dementia with Lewy Bodies nor Frontotemporal Dementia- this does not come as a massive surprise since Alzhiemer’s is the most common disease causing dementia. Furthermore, I cannot confidently say that musical therapy supports cognition. While I can acknowledge that by alleviating stress, musical therapy almost removes this cloud in an individual's mind and allows them to see much more clearly and ignite some cognition back at least in the short term, as stated in Dr Rohani’s research, a standardised test to examine cognition after musical therapy intervention is not readily available. Moreover, the definition of cognitive recovery can be considered subjective. While many consider a standardised test of memory recall an indication that memory has been brought back, I would also consider the singing of lyrics a sign of some sort of cognition or the humming of a tune as seen in the interview with a dementia patient and as I have seen with my grandmother.

This assessment to my question is brought by the qualitative nature behind this treatment since one type of genre, one volume level, and one dosage cannot be a solution to treat all patients with a form of dementia. While i believe that pharmacological treatments such as lecanemab and Donemab can provide breakthroughs in preventing or curing Alzhiermer’s, i believe that musical therapy is an alternative that mostly provides behavioural and mental benefits. I think before a direct link is made that musical therapy could help those suffering from dementia, research must be conducted on non western communities such as the South Asian, African, Latinx communities to understand the effects of dementia to breakdown common myths and create a solution for everyone. For research into dementia to be conducted, more funding needs to be issued. While during a time where inflation is rife and the NHS has faced troubling times, funding needs to be allocated into musical therapy as the bare minimum. As shown by the evidence, it reduces the consequential behavioural and psychological symptoms often exhibited with sufferers of dementia. But before we can create a full implementation in hospice care.More funding also needs to be placed to address a future problem that we can encounter is how to apply the correct dosage of music therapy to prevent any overstimulation in patients and how the western world must be careful to not imply an imposed etic when conducting research in underrepresented communities to make sure the current methodology is conducted.

Perhaps once we have achieved a better understanding of both dementia and music therapy in relation to dementia, then people like my grandmother and families like my own can have a much more comprehensive understanding of this disorder and even find ways to prolong the consequential effects.

Evaluation

Within this project I knew that I wanted it to be science based specifically looking in the neuroscience and psychology field especially as this is the career I wish to pursue. What drew me to this question was not only my personal experience with my grandmother’s vascular dementia and her treatment of musical therapy but evaluating and investigating the different types of diseases that cause dementia. While my Psychology A-Level curriculum looks at memory, the curriculum does not specifically look at neurodegenerative disorders such as dementia. Furthermore, I had only had a brief knowledge of what musical therapy was, this project allowed me to grasp a greater knowledge on the application, history, and variations of this non-pharmacological treatment.

This project has enabled me to become knowledgeable in an area where every year more and more people die from a dementia associated death. What I enjoyed about this project is that reading countless scientific articles and watching numerous documentaries with dementia patients has given me an extensive background in understanding what different diseases do cognitively as well as psychologically and behaviourally. This brief insight of being a researcher really intrigued me and confirmed that this is a field I wish to pursue. In addition, I liked the idea of formulating my own opinion. This autonomy allowed me to create an answer to my own project and present my findings while simultaneously increasing the awareness of musical therapy and dementia.

On the other hand, this project has definitely tested me. At times when reading qualitative evidence, its subjective nature frustrated me as I tried to prevent shunning one opinion while highlighting another. Alongside this, many scientific articles cost money. To overcome this, I managed to get a Jstor subscription through my school as well as using the internet, Youtube and books. On a personal level, at times I found watching interviews with individuals that have severe forms of dementia quite distressing. Nonetheless they were integral in my presentation to be able to highlight the devastating symptoms of living with Dementia as I felt that because I do not have dementia myself, i could never fully know the extent of the devastating consequences. Watching interviews and observing other forms of art like drawings really allowed me to understand the symptoms. I would also next include more evidence around Frontotemporal Dementia and Dementia with Lewy Bodies to create a more holistic project however I felt that if i added any more pieces of evidence in my literature review with the time I had to conduct this project I would not have been able to evaluate as well.

Alongside this challenge, my supervisor’s expertise is in the humanities field. This presented as a challenge especially in my literature review and introduction where I had to provide a detailed description of what dementia was and have an in-depth analysis of certain resources. This brings an inevitable challenge of my supervisor perhaps not fully understanding jargon related to this project. Nevertheless, this was not a huge challenge I faced. My supervisor’s expertise really expanded this project from just looking at facts and science to looking at influential anthropological and sociological factors that explained why musical therapy is not a clear cut alternative treatment for dementia. I also utilised the help from two psychology teachers at my school to proofread my project as well as attend my presentation to ensure I was not presenting incorrect information.

I think my hardest challenge was referencing. Prior to this project, I had never referenced my written work nor was I aware of the different types of referencing like the Harvard referencing or Oxford referencing. It was my hardest challenge due to the time consuming element to my research. This is because my project takes a scientific approach thus many statements must be supported by evidence. Moreover, in this project I referenced once I had finished writing the entire research.This worked for me because I did not get sidetracked and forget important details. However, at times when I was attempting to reference certain statements or photos I did forget what source I had used to gather this information. In the future, I think i will continue my approach of writing the entire research paper and then reference, however i will make notes of the source so when i am to reference i can immediately go to the source and reference without spending too much time trying to find the research.

Conducting this dissertation was an enjoyable experience and I am glad I was able to explore an out of curriculum topic.

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Our Tottenham Community Elders

Thu, 16 May 2024 13:03:34 GMT

Interviews conducted by Naomi Iona

Bathroom

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:32 GMT

Bathroom

Moyo Taiwo

The stage is set as a bathroom. It features pale pink hexagonal wall tiles, with linoleum floor tiles in a checkerboard pattern. There is a turquoise corner bathtub with a porcelain finish. The bath is full of soapy water, and a toy gun can be seen floating on the surface. Little Native American action figures are lined up on the bath’s edge. Centre stage consists of a wide vanity mirror and a sink, which is built into a pink formica countertop. A small American flag is attached to the corner of the mirror, whilst a bloody knife, a roll of white gauze and a large glass bottle labelled “CLOROX HYDROGEN PEROXIDE '' lay on the countertop. At rise of curtain, bright lights flood the stage and a woman in a bright pink and white print dress stands peering into the sink with her back to the audience, soliloquizing:

Woman:

Would you look at that! I’ve cut myself for Christ’s sake.

Quite deeply actually.

I can feel the skin

Beneath the skin

And the flesh that lays

Tucked up under that

Cozy, warm and pink.

Like a foetus hiding

Inside a placenta.

Wakey Wakey Little Baby.

The lies you lay wrapped in have been

Slashed open

For the world to see you

Naked. Cold. Shivering.

Like the loose skin on my thumb.

This is much deeper than a nick

Or a slight little scratch

Because by quick slip of hand

My thumb,

Not the onion,

Met the demand.

Woman sighs, glances towards the toys in the bathtub, then stares at the flag in the corner of the mirror, clutching her thumb with her other hand. She freezes in action. Suddenly the stage becomes completely dark and flashing lights begin to undulate as a little girl with the same pink print dress as the woman emerges from behind the vanity, her voice a whispering echo…

Suddenly, the stage is completely dark and flashing lights go off. A little girl with the same pink print dress as the woman emerges from behind the vanity, her voice a whispering echo:

Girl:

Run, run before the Indians come

They’ll bore out your eyes

And drink your blood like it’s rum!

Lights suddenly switch off, leaving the stage in complete darkness as Girl exits stage in a hurry. Lights go back to normal.

Woman resumes action, reaching for the glass bottle on the countertop. She opens the bottle.

Woman:

I need a drink–

A sangria perhaps.

I want to feel

That fiery sluice

Absolve the chambers of

My iniquitous heart.

Woman makes a pouring motion with the bottle over her injured hand. She makes a wincing sound as she stiffens her posture, visibly tightening her clutch on her finger.

Woman:

Jeepers Creepers, that stuff hurts!

I’ll drink to my health

When I’m done with this.

I feel nauseous just looking at it.

Lights go down. A spotlight is placed centre stage as the woman trails off into a pensive silence, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

Woman grows frenzied and passionate in her speech and bodily gestures.

Woman:

I feel nauseous just looking at

The congealed fat-jelly on

The Thanksgiving ham

That my thumb has become.

It bleeds raw red on the inside

You half-baked human

God, you comedian.

Like this digit

My mind throbs

Grindingpoundingsqueezing

An infinity of thoughts

Into some big, nasty slop.

Do I vomit it through my words,

And betray my dirty truth?

Or do I swallow and endure,

Pretend that it’s good for me

Like the Vicodin Venom

I need to take?

Woman stops pacing and returns, as calm as before, to the vanity. With her focus completely on her reflection in the mirror, she takes the roll of gauze and begins bandaging her finger with it.

Woman:

To exist is like suicide–

Everything can kill you

If it doesn’t, shoot, good for you

But eventually it will.

Threats within threats

Within promises.

My blood leaks through even this thick gauze

Dying it a hellish red

Making a helluva mess.

You naughty girl!

Now everyone knows who you are.

You don’t even know yourself.

Bright lights flood the stage again as the woman breaks her soliloquy and begins arranging the items on the countertop. As she does she calls out:

Woman:

Nick! Your bath is ready!

She turns to face the audience, for the first time, smoothing out her dress for a few moments. Then she exits the stage as the lights dim and the sound of pattering feet is played from backstage.

CURTAINS DOWN

Synesthesia

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:28 GMT

Is Synesthesia Our Underdeveloped Sixth Sense?

Abeer Khalil

Have you ever tasted purple? Have you ever thought about a word and felt an overwhelming connection between your senses? If so, then you might have synesthesia. No need to sweat, it isn't a medical condition, nor will it endanger your life. You just have a neurological anomaly.

Synesthesia

For those who don't know, synesthesia is when the stimulation of one sense leads to the stimulation of one or several others. For some, that may manifest itself as grapheme-colour synesthesia, where numbers and letters intertwine themselves with fixed colours. Or perhaps ordinal-linguistic personification (OLP), where letters have a personality and a gender. Those were only a couple examples; there are over 80 different types of synesthesia. So the next question is: are you just born with it? Probably.

Colours - Sign me up!

Synesthesia is considered hereditary, with over 40% of synesthetes reporting that another family member also experiences it, but some studies have shown that trauma to the head can also lead to people developing synesthesia.

Do I have it?

I personally think 8 tastes velvety, but does that mean I have synesthesia? Well, if you were wondering that too, then lucky, for you there is a criteria. Neurologist Richard Cytowic found that your experiences have to be involuntary, automatic and consistent. In other words, you shouldn't have to think about it, nor should green taste like grass one day and lemon the other.

Synapses and Neurons

A theory to how synesthesia has come to be is synaptic pruning. Synaptic pruning sounds similar to pruning plants because it is the exact same concept. During ages 2-10, we get rid of ~40% of synapses that have proved unworthy to allow the brain to become more efficient and healthy. In other words: ‘use it or lose it’ .This is a totally normal process, so how could it lead to a long-term condition? Well, synaptic pruning is connected to many conditions, one being autism, which can be explained by too little synaptic pruning that only ~16% of synapses are rid of. Synesthesia is also too little pruning, and so it can be explained with cross-activity. With clusters of unnecessary neurons being activated at once, leading to the stimulation of more than one sense.

Perception

Neurons aside, do you think synesthesia is real? What if I told you that there is a possibility that we were conditioned from a very young age to believe that ‘A’ is red? Most of us remember learning the alphabet from coloured posters or wooden blocks. Witthoft and Winawer found that 90% of synesthetes with grapheme-colour synesthesia, who had the same fisher price alphabet toy, saw ‘A’ as red and 100% saw ‘C’ as yellow. With such high percentages, surely that provides evidence that synesthesia is learnt. Well, correlation does not mean causation, but it could show that even if we have the genetics to develop it, our childhood experiences can affect the way it manifests.

Deep Dive into Mirror-Touch Synesthesia

You feel a rhythmic sensation on your chest, compressing your ribs, your sternum snapping and cracking. When did you become the patient, you ask yourself, wasn't I the doctor? This is what Joel Salinas experienced when he watched CPR being administered. You might ask yourself why he felt such a thing. That is because he has mirror touch synesthesia, a much rarer condition that mirrors a sensation seen and then allows them to experience emotional and physical touch.

Excess Empathy

So what could possibly cause this? A current theory held by scientists is: mirror neurons. Mirror neurons are a type of motor neuron located in the premotor cortex (within the frontal lobe) of the brain. They are activated when we observe and imitate an action. Another theory is that those people affected simply have more empathy. Studies have shown that synesthetes have heightened mirror systems, and that they have a higher empathy quotient scores, so could that be the answer?

This leads us to the question of whether synesthesia is more than what meets the eye. Do we have the potential to further evolve and utilise such a condition, or even develop it and strengthen our connections? Or could we be entirely wrong in the sense that synesthesia is just a niche skill?

black- not just a colour

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:24 GMT

black- not just a colour

Daniella Koranteng

Black is pain.

What do us man get? –

a letter. A letter?

thru the post, telling us, ‘Go back.’

To where though?

The Problems too big to fix

The Fix too big, two problems

The wahala you man breeded

The problems you man nurtured

We built this place on our bleeding backs

Callous hands

Then u 419ners

use us to

lure us in to throw us out work us hard to kick us out

aren’t u man tired of the in and out?

being Black is being able to stand before you S-A-T

it’s seeing yourself on the TV

cause Black is excellent.

But Pinterest searches throw up only white girls;

Black girls’ bodies seem rare like pearls

seeing our bodies have become the new ‘it’

yet Kendall ‘inspires’ the latest fit

while we’re still the ‘black’ girls.

It’s knowing I could fly away to the diaspora

It’s a door opening to a maze

No one has to stop and stare

It’s a door that invites my ways

But it’s still not rare

It’s a door thats password is success and praise

If I come from LHR, up goes the fares.

Being Black is everchanging - carolight aunties has soon become a sin

claiming our true skin

passing Black love to our kin

being Black is a door

you can’t accept guests to marvel in awe

if you haven’t

opened yours

failing is a myth that’s resting

like our future is predestined

this is supposed to be our oryeasi ɛfiri sɛ Obi

nnim oberima ahyease.

Agoro beso a, efiri anopa

The party starts 3 hrs after the time set

Prolonging the departure of their known

For a few hours of anigye met

Dance the night away they’re still old

Their problems are at bay

Just for an hour, second or just a mere day

Because they know the complacent always stray…

Neither Side

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:22 GMT

Neither Side

Anna Bziava and Davmie Tshingomba

A novel opening, inspired by the work of Malorie Blackman.

Neither side

“I’m not White enough, but not Black enough either. . .”

--Shuffle, shuffle . . I turn to one side, checking out my appearance in my bedroom mirror. Shuffle, shuffle . . I turn to the other. It’s super early, so I’m yawning constantly but my tummy quakes at the idea of a new era, a new start. My intestines actually feel like they are floating effortlessly inside me. All my mind is fixated on is all the eyes that will soon be locked on me, judging me with every step and holding me accountable. I don’t need a bunch of lawyers. I hope to be accepted. —

For context, Adela is a 15-year-old girl who is going to join a new high school in exactly 2 hours - 36 minutes - 26 seconds. Long before her birth, her dad had migrated from Cameroon - which is filled with luxury and class, where the wind blows against the greenery, leaving it satisfied. Previously, Adela’s father had met his White American wife on a trip to Connecticut. A love story that went on for days, months, years, decades - and produced two kids. Adela is the oldest, with a younger brother, Michael.

*School bell rings*

– Great, now the sky has darkened and looks overwhelmed by these murky, mysterious clouds. They started to bawl. Just great.--

“Are you white or black?” ”Are you new to the school?” “You’re mixed, right?” “Why does your hair look like that?” “Are you white or black?” “Are you new to the school?” “You’re mixed, right?” “Are you white or black? . . .

– Deep breath Adela –

“Okay class, you now have 30 seconds to discuss among your tables why this is,” commanded the teacher.

A hand reaches out across the desk.

“Oh my gosh, your hair feels sooooooooo cool!”

“Oh! Uhm thanks.”

– You didn’t even ask beforehand.--

“Why is your hair so curly? You would look amazing with straight hair.”

“Oh Thanks!”

– Great but I never asked.--

“Oh my days, it does feel cool! If only my hair were as pretty as yours! You would look so good in braids.”

“Oh! Haha . .”

– I hate being the ‘new fashionable’ beauty standard. Compliments sometimes make you feel as weird as the insults –

“Ay, you look fye! Add bro on snap!”

– Ew. –

“Uhm”

– You even end up bumping into guys who only like the way you look, not who you actually are. –

This is just the beginning too.

*bell rings *

Each step she took that day was one step closer to home, one step closer to her bed, one step closer to her diary, one step closer to spilling all the thoughts that were currently racing each other, dizzying and distracting her from her first day of lessons.

– Today is going okay, I guess. Getting approached by loads of people for the way I look - figures. Nothing new. Anyways, thinking about it now (and I can’t believe I’m thinking this), the guy from earlier, he didn’t look too bad . . All I know is that he’s white. There was something a bit different about him though. Haven’t found out his name yet. –

*click, clack *

– I opened the front door and stepped inside, the warm air greeting my face. Mom had the heaters turned on. It felt nice,cosy and comforting, a warm place to float in. –

“Hi Mom!”

“Hey honey! How was your first day?”

“It was brilliant! I loved it”

– Could have said more, but saved it all for my diary… -

January 22nd 2024

-It’s been a few months since I added “bro” on snap. His name is Finny. Fin for short. I don't know what, but something about him stands out...

April 3rd 2024

He does stand out. All the others just think he’s a white boy. But he never lets any day go to waste. He uses every opportunity he can to put on brightening creams and lotions. He hated being neither side even when he was very little. He always said to himself: “I’m not White enough but I’m not Black enough either.” So he picked a side.

They didn’t want him to look like a “nobody.”

Fin is not who the crowd thinks he is. .

He’s. Just. Like. Adela.

Was the Partition of India Inevitable?

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:20 GMT

Was the Partition of India Inevitable by Inaya Chaudhry from London Academy of Excellence Tottenham - London, UK

Abstract

The Partition of India took 2 million lives and uprooted 15 million people. The aftermath of the tragedy continues to cast a shadow over India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. The inevitability of Partition remains widely contested, however this project attempts to understand the point at which Partition truly became inevitable. The Partition commenced in the context of Empire, which was an undeniable driving force in gearing India towards a Partition. The meddling of Britain disrupted the peaceful coexistence of religious groups, in their desire to dominate the region. India became more polarised in the 20th century, with the detrimental intermingling of religion and politics, and a growth in nationalist sentiment, provoking the surge of communal violence between 1946 to 1947. The aims of this project were to uncover the moment that India was bound to Partition, and why it became the only solution for independence. In doing so, the essay aims to demystify the image of leaders and figures, including Jinnah, Nehru and Mountbatten, as ethier deities or villains, by assessing their roles. The legacy of Partition remains at the forefront of politics in South Asia, whilst it is buried beneath the rubble of a violent past in Britain. This project confronts the uncomfortable realities of Partition, and all those who contributed to its inevitability.

Iftaar Night Speech

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:16 GMT

Iftaar Night Speech

Samira Sharif

Samira starts with a prayer (dua)

“Bismillahi rahmani raheem rabbish rahlee Sadree wa yassir-lee 'amree wah lul 'uqdatan min lisaani, yaf qahoo qaulee.

In the name of God the Most Gracious, The Most merciful. My lord open for me my chest, and ease for me my task and remove any impediment in my speech that they may understand me.

Ramadan commemorates the month of guidance, so whether you are a born Muslim, a convert, transitioning to Islam, or just simply taking an interest, we can all share the same values of wanting to grow as individuals both academically and spiritually.

A lot of us here like myself ended up at this school because we share the same ambitious values hoping to, inshallah (God willing in Arabic), reach high places through our hard work. After being at LAET for just under two full terms, I can definitely say the academic rigour part is not a joke. I have definitely found it difficult to balance work, studying, exams, hobbies, deen, taking care of myself, family life, social life, sport, UCAS stuff. You know, the never-ending list of things that you feel like you should be doing every single second of every day can become exhausting, and for many that I know, extremely overwhelming. And despite working to our limits, a lot of the time it can still feel like you're not doing enough. It can be easy to compare ourselves to others when everyone else seems like they are put together, but in reality the majority of us here have struggled this year.

It's because of this in particular that I wanted to share an ayah that helped me get through difficult times that I'm sure many of you already know.

Allah (SWT) say in the Quran:

فَإِنَّ مَعَ الْعُسْرِ‌ يُسْرً‌ا إِنَّ مَعَ الْعُسْرِ‌ يُسْرً‌ا (So undoubtedly, verily along with every hardship there comes ease 94:6)

The ayah is repeated twice to affirm its promise. If your creator Allah (SWT) has promised you relief from your suffering, then who are we to believe anything different? To me that means that as long as I cultivate patience and gratitude despite any hardships, Allah (SWT) will undoubtedly take care of the rest for me.

I feel like this is even more so important during the month of Ramadan where we are given more time and opportunity to focus our intentions on worshipping Allah (SWT) and making dua to him. Regardless of your level of imaan, knowledge of Islam or how deserving you believe you are of Allah’s help, your Lord is Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem (the most merciful and the most kind) who is 70x more merciful to his servants than a mother is to her child. The doors of Allah's mercy never actually close, regardless of how much you have sinned, how far away from Islam you have gone or whether you don’t even practise Islam anymore. Your lord is only one dua away. This opportunity of Allah’s mercy is amplified during Ramadan especially throughout various ways, and I feel these hadiths showed this especially:

Abu Hurayra (RA) reports that the prophet Muhammed (SAW), said:

“When Ramadan enters, the gates of Paradise are opened, the gates of Hellfire are closed and the devils are chained.” (Al-Bukhari and Muslim)
He also narrates: “Every action a son of Adam does shall be multiplied—a good action by ten times its value, up to 700 times.”
And lastly “Whoever observes fasts during the month of Ramadan out of sincere faith, and hoping to attain Allah’s rewards, then all his past sins will be forgiven. (Al-Bukhari and Muslim)”

These are just some of the many blessings that occur during the month of Ramadan. Take advantage of this month and utilise it wisely for success in both this life and the next. That could be by waking up for tahajjud or praying Nafl salaahs more often, spending more time refining your routine to cut out distractions, or cutting out bad habits that cause displeasure to Allah. No one is saying that we need to be perfect Muslims by the end of this month, but we should all try to improve just a little each day so that we are at least one step closer to Jannah.

Lastly, I'd like to end on a short dua:

“O Allah, and with Your praise, and blessed is Your Name, none has the right to be worshipped but You. We thank you for allowing us to reach another Ramadan and for allowing us to be in the righteous company of people who are dedicated to your worship. Ya Allah, I ask of you to forgive the sins of all in this room and to guide us all in our endeavours. Ya Rab, I ask of you to ease the suffering of us all and those suffering across the ummah. Ya Rab, I ask of you to grant us happiness, health and success in this world and to allow this Ramadan to increase our iman, taqwa and love for you. Please allow us all to die in a state that is pleasing to you, and expand our graves with light and comfort. Please shade us with your Arsh on Yaumul Qiyamah and ease the crossing of the Siraat. Ya Rab allow us all to reunite in Jannah and be amongst the ranks of those in your pleasure. Ya Allah allow us to remain in the company of the righteous and receive the intercession of Rasulullah SAW on behalf of our deeds.” Ameen

I hope that we all gain the blessings of this month in one way or another, and just one short last note. Jannah (paradise) is full of sinners. Yes, sinners. But it is sinners who repent. Sinners who return back to Allah each time they turn away from him. So with that being said, thank you all for listening.

Wildfires: How Do They Impact Us?

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:12 GMT

Wildfires: How Do They Impact Us?

Jennifer Das, Fiona Paulson and Kamil Mianowski

The Amazon river flowed tranquilly, parting each animal’s habitat as it had been for the last 2.4 million years. Beaming onto this rainforest paradise, a vibrant array of birds hovered across the vegetation, gliding alongside the wind. Their shadows provided a brisk cover from the scorching sun to the animals residing in this bliss. Soon after, a dense slate cloak of ash began to cover the canopy, draining the exuberance of the life below. What was this? A blistering inferno, searing the last breaths of the biodiversity in the Amazon.

This fire is not just an antagonist in a descriptive story - this was a real fire which is estimated to kill nearly 17 million creatures throughout the wildfires in the Pantalan region of Brazil in 2020.

And this is not the end.

A tropical rainforest area four times the size of London was destroyed in 2020. Wildfires are unplanned, unwanted, burning in a natural setting, spreading at rapid rates. In 2020, 30% of the world’s largest tropical wetland was destroyed. The deforestation of the Amazon Rainforest lowered the rates of photosynthesis, leading to a significantly drier climate across the planet.

Land is continuously being cleared as businesses prioritise short-term incentives over long-term sustainable development. The cost of conservation, property damage and insurance costs are not worth the risk. Politicians should make changes to their policy changes and priorities to mitigate any factors that could cause environmental damage. There are no borders for pollution; it can threaten everyone’s sovereignty, so we need to work together to protect our planet. The disruptions to agriculture, tourism and people’s livelihoods can impact whole communities and harm many generations to come.

How does this impact me? Why do I care about something happening on the other side of the world? Well, because wildfires affect all people on the planet, and as we as humans become more aware of the damages, we need to take initiative and work to prevent further damage.

Wildfires instigate ‘dust enhancement’ and dust storms, causing major threats to respiratory health through diminishing air quality. With the greenhouse gases being emitted into the atmosphere and trees unable to absorb the CO2 released, wildfires can cause major changes to climate change, which impacts us all. Global temperatures rose about 1.1°C from 1901 to 2020, but this also impacts sea level rise, droughts, flooding, and causes shortages to things we need for survival, like energy, water, agriculture, and ecosystems.

You might think to yourself, do wildfires in such a ‘remote’ area such as Pantalan matter so much to the wildlife? You’d be surprised to know that the Pantalan spans 140,000 to 160,000 kilometres squared. To compare, the area of 95 Londons combined covers the Pantalan. Deep within this region, the Pantalan is home to 3,500 plants, 656 birds, 325 fish, 159 mammals, 53 amphibians and 98 reptile species. Amidst the 2020 wildfires, this inferno surge burned down this tropical home, amounting to 28 Londons.

Picture this: there are currently 9.748 million people living in London. If 28 Londons burned down due to the blazing inferno, that accounts for 246.428 million deaths! While we, as humans, are capable of being informed of the early warning signs and escaping, these restless animals are not. All the 17 million animals in the 2020 wildfires were annihilated by fire. Something natural, right? Not in this case. This blitz was not naturally occurring. It was started by us. Developed. Ignited. Fueled. Can you imagine leaving the remains of your house that your ancestors inhabited for centuries to a world which is covered by a dense blanket of ash? Any traces of sunlight are blocked, with the only heat coming from the fires. And this is not localised to one area. This spans across the entirety of the Pantalan, much like two dozen Londons.

Whilst wildfires do occur in Brazil’s dry season (March to November), they are deliberately started to illegally deforest land for cattle ranching. What does that mean? Cattle ranchers often use the ‘slash and burn’ method to make land for farms. This is when forested land is cleared and any remaining vegetation is burned. Although seen as traditional, being first invented 12,000 years ago, it is unsustainable. Vegetation is removed quicker than it can recover. In addition, multiple habitats are simultaneously cleared. The Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) report estimates that up to 27,000 species per year can be driven to extinction globally due to habitat destruction. This is significantly encouraged by the ‘slash and burn’ agriculture practice.

You might wonder, how do Brazilian authorities play into this? Well, the administration of Bolsonaro legitimised more than a hundred farms established illegally, which all happened to be located inside indigenous territories. Much to your surprise, burning and cutting virgin forests (forests which have never been logged) is illegal in Brazil. But, these laws have been weakened under Bolsonaro - he called government data on deforestation a “lie”. What does that say about Brazil’s leadership and attitude towards deforestation?

Tropical rainforests have dignified our world with their beauty for hundreds of millions of years, and are currently waning as victims of human-induced conflagrations, leaving barren land, void of life. Over 700 species of animals are endemic to the rainforest; these species only make up 25% of all of the species that inhabit the rainforest, out of which more than 20% are at risk of permanent extinction, never to be beheld by the human eye again. But how does the incineration of a beautiful habitat and the cruel butchery of billions of the world’s animals affect us? The disappearance of the rainforests also means the privation of ecological balance and the disruption of a vast interdependent ecosystem, which causes a huge loss in biodiversity. This affects our food supply, making it more vulnerable to pests as the arid, fiery landscape that displaces the ambrosial green rainforest provides an ideal environment for pests to breed and spread. This jeopardises our food supply. The increased pesticide used as a result only poses further risks to human health, as exposure to chemical pesticides are strongly linked with the development of illnesses such as cancer, heart, respiratory and neurological diseases.

Rainforests are not only home to animals, but hold over two thirds of the world’s plant species due to its high biodiversity, out of which hundreds of unknown species of plants alight, and are left unrecognised. These curative plants, currently burning to ash, could be the undiscovered solution to finding a cure to potentially terminal illnesses that affect humans globally. The ignition of these natural healers, as a result of human ignorance, could seed the loss of many lives to diseases that could’ve been cured by nature’s remedial herbs, which human activity devastated. In particular, the cruel flames have set alight the therapeutic plant Uña de Gato, also known as Cat’s Claw, dubbed by the Amazonian peoples as a ‘cure-all’ medicinal plant due to its incredible ability to treat any rheumatic pain, deep wounds, ulcers, toothaches, and dysentery. The root and plant of Cat’s Claw has been found to have chemicals that are able to stimulate the immune system, kill cancer cells and combat viruses.

The Case of the Disappearing Sand

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:08 GMT

Every year, we use up roughly 50 billion tonnes of sand and gravel worldwide which is an amount great enough to blanket the whole UK!

The Case of Disappearing Sand

Josna John

Considering the many deserts and beaches across the world, it’s hard to believe that sand is in short supply. Sand is everywhere: but not just in these alluring landscapes. Cement, concrete, glass, phone screens and even toothpaste are a few of the wonderful works of sand. So why is the abundant grain under threat?

The Right Type

When it comes to sand, industries all across the world have their favourites. Desert sand is largely used to make glass; filter sand is used in water filtering and last but not least; river sand: the construction industry’s most prized possession. The ‘concrete jungles’ in almost every country are built with this lowly sediment, making it the backbone of entire cities.

However, extracting sand from river beds, banks and floodplains has major environmental implications. When sand miners extract sand from rivers, they create deep holes in the river bed, and these can rarely be refilled at a rate that limits the damage done. In addition, floodplains and river banks play a crucial role in maintaining the biodiversity of river ecosystems; but, to cater to insatiable global demand, sediment is stripped from these areas too. It takes millions of years for such sand to form, yet we can mine it all out in roughly a year. In other words, sand is being extracted faster than it is being replaced: the same fate of almost all natural resources.

The irreversible impacts of such exploitative mining can already be found in several countries. Since the early 1990s, there have been mining operations along Vietnam’s Mekong River, which has dams upstream and the sediment cannot travel down the river. Thus the sand lost in these regions will not be naturally replenished. Similarly, India’s Phalguni River has faced extensive mining operations and this is believed to have caused the Mullarapatna Bridge to collapse. Local politicians blamed the removal of sand from beneath the foundations of the bridge as the cause of its collapse; but this is an unreasonable explanation considering the bridge was only 30 years old, a young age in bridge years. These are but a few issues caused by uncontrolled sand mining and trust me… it gets worse.

Hush Hush

On June 1st 2015, Jagendra Singh, an independent Indian journalist who had been preparing an article on the alleged involvement of a local politician in illegal sand mining, was expecting a meeting with officials. Later that day, Singh was admitted to the hospital, suffering burns covering over 50% of his body. In a dying declaration, Singh accused police officers and the politician’s supporters of entering his home, pouring petrol on him and setting him on fire. Seven days later, due to the severity of his burns, Singh passed away.

Singh’s death is one of many injustices that repress and silence those who shed light on illegal sand mining networks, committed by those known as the ‘sand mafia’. These criminal groups thrive due to the lack of regulation surrounding sand extraction within various countries and practise unethical mining methods that can destroy environments and displace communities - even killing people who investigate them. Sand mafias operate in several countries such as Nigeria, India and Cambodia, where they resort to extreme methods to mine sand for profit. Not only do they threaten and intimidate communities living around their mining sites, but many gangs also pressure community leaders and even local police officers into turning a blind eye to their looting. In addition, miners work in dangerous conditions as they are often at risk of drowning and, in many cases, are not equipped with the safety equipment required to work safely.

What Can We Do?

It’s a fact that we can’t just stop using sand. It is such an important resource that we simply cannot do without it. Instead, we should limit the extraction of sand wherever possible. This could be done by governments imposing effective regulations and monitoring sand extraction.

In addition, recycling materials from building rubble can make an immense difference in our consumption of sand. For example, a third of the UK’s housing structures are built from recycled material. Furthermore, as the 2022 UNEP report suggests,” governments, industries and consumers should price sand in a way that recognises its true social and environmental value ”. This way, industries will use sand with greater efficiency and also consider the use of recycled materials too.

As long as we learn to use our resources sustainably, considering the environment and society, the issue of sand should not become a heavy burden in the near future.

“Was that a lump?” Breast cancer and women’s health

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:05 GMT

“Was that a lump?”

Breast cancer and women’s health

Rojin Gur

I froze. No, no way, no damn way. It can't be. I raised my hand back to my breast, gently cupping around it. I felt it again. God, it can't be; please don't do this to me. The feeling of the blazing water burned down my bare back but I didn't care. I could feel the steam slowly sucking out the air from within me, driving me into a state of despair. What the hell am I supposed to do? I couldn't move from my spot. Would I need to have my breasts removed? How will I ever breastfeed a baby? Would anyone ever even love me?

Due to the continued prevalence of breast cancer, threats to women's health are still a big problem on a global scale. It is the most common cancer in women, affecting millions of lives worldwide each year, including 56,000 women in the United Kingdom per annum. In addition to its physical symptoms, this condition can of course have detrimental emotional and psychological effects.

“I’m very sorry but you've got stage three breast cancer.”

I blankly stared back at him.

“At your particular stage you will need to start chemotherapy immediately, and if you're open to it, I'd highly recommend some thought into surgical treatments for you.”

This can't be happening right now. Stage three?! God. How didn’t I realise sooner? How could I ever be so stupid?

Breast cancer is frequently discovered too late in both developed and developing nations because of two typical delays. The time it takes for patients to schedule tests, get a definitive diagnosis, begin therapy, and schedule appointments is referred to as "system delay." Patients who delay seeking medical attention after self-discovering a possible breast cancer symptom do so for a variety of reasons, including fear of dying and a lack of knowledge about the importance of breast self-examination, which enables women to become familiar with their breasts and detect changes in them. Many women claim that breast lumps they had found on their own were the first indications of breast cancer, despite the fact that self-examination isn't the most reliable practice. The number of women receiving advanced breast cancer diagnoses grew significantly during COVID, which ultimately increased death rates and led to higher-cost medical care. For instance, in April 2021, 42% more women than anticipated based on pre-pandemic statistics received a stage 4 diagnosis.

Wow. They all looked so perfect. I continued to scroll on my insta feed, obsessing over the bodies of the women in their colourful bikinis…

They seemed as though they had absolutely no care in the world, completely comfortable and confident in their own skin. Is this what it would be like from now? Would I have to be constantly longing for something I won't have? I've been doing some reading into reconstructive surgery but I'm scared, what if it doesn’t feel right? What if I will constantly feel as though my new breasts won’t belong to me? What if I’m shamed for being ‘fake’?

There are various kinds of breast cancer surgeries:

Breast conserving surgery (also known as a wide excision or lumpectomy) involves removing part of the surrounding breast tissue in addition to the diseased area. Although this procedure has the benefit of preserving a large portion of the breast's look and feel, patients will still require radiation treatment for five days a week for three to six weeks following surgery in order to lower the risk of cancer recurrence.
A mastectomy involves removing the entire breast. A bilateral mastectomy involves removing both breasts, whereas a unilateral mastectomy just removes one. The major disadvantage of this procedure is that the breast or breasts are removed permanently; nevertheless, there is only a very small probability of cancer returning without the need for radiation therapy. Those who decide to have a mastectomy have the option of having breast reconstruction as soon as possible after the procedure, or they can wait as long as they like, since there is no time restriction.

While many mastectomy patients opt for breast reconstruction, not all do. This could be for a variety of reasons, but one important one is that women in non-UK nations without a free National Health Service (NHS) find it extremely difficult to pay for even basic medical care, let alone a reconstruction. To avoid being a financial burden, these women choose not to undergo reconstruction; as a result, they frequently feel uncomfortable around their partners and insecure in their own bodies.

How can you help? An essential component is having a solid support network. If you know someone who is coping with breast cancer, offer them a loving and safe space so they may share their thoughts and worries with you. You might volunteer at your local charity or even a support group. Alternatively, you can also donate to organisations like The Breast Cancer Research Foundation (BCRF) or The Pink Ribbon Foundation. I thank you for reading, and hope this piece has given you new knowledge about this crucial subject.

A Kick into the World of ACL Surgeries

angelamarie1121@gmail.com (Angie Smith) — Thu, 16 May 2024 12:33:02 GMT

A Kick into the World of ACL Surgeries

Zulal Pehlivan

In the midst of the stadium's lively atmosphere, where the sound of footsteps on the field carries the essence of the game, my connection to football has always been deeply rooted. However, hidden within the excitement lies a silent threat—the susceptibility of athletes, especially those in football, to ACL injuries. Having witnessed the profound impact of these injuries, I am eager to shed light on the world of ACL surgeries.

A surgeon who I had a chance to observe informed me that most ACL damage happens from sudden movements or rotation changes. This revelation has significantly influenced my approach to the game, prompting a more cautious engagement. ACL surgeries are emotionally harming for both the players and their families, because they have to stay at home while recovering, and stay away from their passion of playing football while their peers advance significantly in their careers.

The anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) is one of the two cruciate ligaments which stabilises the knee joint by preventing excessive forward movements of the tibia or limiting rotational knee movements. However, sports like football demand physical prowess and quick directional changes, which can result in ACL tornage. National Library of Medicine statistics show that the majority of professional football players (90-93%) are able to return to the pitch after having ACL reconstruction, although only 60-65% still compete at the same preinjury performance 3–4 years after the injury.

ACL injuries are identified by a popping sound from the knee and swelling starts to be seen. It is diagnosed by an MRI machine, which uses radio waves and a strong magnetic field to create images of both hard and soft tissues in your body. An MRI can show the extent of an ACL injury and signs of damage to other tissues in the knee, including the cartilage. Subsequently, ACL reconstruction surgery becomes necessary.

ACL surgery is such a common procedure in hospitals; in a single day, I observed three ACL surgeries, two involving men and one a woman, all of whom were athletes, and two of whom were football players…

Firstly, the patient is taken under general anaesthetics, where they are completely unconscious and unable to feel pain. When the patient is unconscious they are brought to the surgical theatre where the surgeon examines the inside of the knee with medical equipment called an arthroscope.

A number of tissues can be used to replace the ACL, but the surgeon in my theatre has decided to use hamstring tendons. This was discussed with the patients beforehand, and was the right decision for them because using hamstring tendons had a better chance of improving the recovery for athletes. These tendons are stronger than allograft tissues.

Furthermore, arthroscopy (keyhole surgery) is when a thin, flexible cable, with a light, tiny camera attached to it, is inserted into the knee through a small incision made beforehand. The arthroscopy relays images of the knee to a television monitor where the surgeon and the nurses are able to see ACL damage to figure out which parts have to be replaced. Underneath the knee, smaller incisions are made for other medical equipment to enter. The surgeon uses these instruments to remove the torn ligament. Then the surgeon removes two tendons of healthy hamstring tendons from under the knee. The two healthy tendons will be made into a tight, DNA-like-shaped helix and then staples are used to make them more secure. The resultant item is inserted into the same place as the old ACL and held with screws and staples, which will remain in the knee permanently.

Following ACL surgery, understanding the rehabilitation process is fundamental for the patient's readiness to return to normal life. Hardwork and dedication are essential for football players if they want to get back on the pitch with full potential to show preinjury level playing. Statistics by National History of Medicine show that after an ACL surgery, the mean time to return back to training is 192 days, and to return back to playing matches is 239 days. Recovering is absolutely possible after such a difficult procedure. Take Radamel Falcao, the Colombian front-man, - he bounced back emphatically from the setback of ACL surgery, becoming one of the most feared centre-forwards in South America and then the world.

In the world of ACL surgery, where precision mends what once seemed broken, athletes embark on a journey back to the field. With each surgical stitch, a story of resilience unfolds—a tale of determination and love for the game. As the operating room fades, the cheers of the stadium beckon, promising a return to the pitch. Here, the scars become badges of strength, and the recovery is a triumph of the spirit. With every step, athletes stride towards a positive future, reminding us that, in the end, the game always continues.

AI Cars: Where Computer Science, Ethics and Philosophy Meet

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:32:59 GMT

AI Cars: Where Computer Science, Ethics and Philosophy Meet

Beren Arslan

Crash. Screams filling every ounce of space. Bang. Tears streaming. Boom. Small splatters of blood decorating the steering wheel. As ambulance sirens race down the motorway getting closer and closer, so does the impending feeling of death. Lives are on the line. Families are about to be torn apart. But no one chose for this to happen, right?

In the 1980s, the first autonomous, AI based car was introduced by Ernst Dickmanns. These cars essentially make every single decision themselves, including which lives to prioritise in a crash. So how do they decide which lives are worthy enough to save? This is a discussion worth having, as per every million vehicle miles driven with conventional cars, there are 4.2 crashes, whereas with autonomous cars there is over double this at 9.1. Would you feel comfortable with a machine making this decision, in short, entrusting moral decisions to a machine?

A commonplace assumption is that morals are deep-rooted within us as humans, a reassuring thought - but even if we do believe this (and many don’t), how do we then programme these same human values into computers, into brutal metal machines running on binary numbers, in place of love and emotions? Perhaps the more pertinent question is what the programming of these autonomous cars reveal about the mores, beliefs and vested interests of the cars’ producers. As of today, the programmers’ own morals are reflected into these soulless machines to mimic a conscience into them. But how are we to say these are the right morals upon which these machines should run?

A good place to start is with a good old, classic philosophical problem: the trolley problem, by Philippa Foot, which challenges people with the ethical dilemma of whether to intentionally kill one person to save multiple or to let a larger number die and not get involved. Both situations leave you with a burden. So is there really any correct choice?

There are three main arguments for who to prioritise in the event of a crash:

Save the pedestrians : this keeps innocent bystanders safe. However, it may mean more people in the car die. But should the program intentionally end one life to save multiple, ultimately penalising the person for taking a more environmentally-friendly mode of transport?
Save the most people : this may be the most logical solution. Less lives are lost, less families are impacted. However, would people want to be driving a car with their family in it knowing that they would be sacrificed to save a larger amount of people.
Save the occupants : it is certain that no one would want to buy a car that would put them at risk; reliability and safety are prioritised over all else. On the other hand, saving the occupants and allowing several other people to die is rather selfish and not morally right.

So the problem not only boils down to who the programmers plan to save, but also what consumers are likely to purchase. In different areas of the world, different people are prioritised. Circling back to the trolley theory, what if the person being sacrificed were very old and had lived their life to its fullest. How important would they be? There is a big debate between the East and the West on which lives are deemed more important. In the West, young people are prioritised due to them being active-members of society who are the future. Whereas in the East, in countries such as China, there is more compassion for the elderly due to cultural respect. Therefore, regional differences in the manufacturing of cars have been suggested to represent the ethics and values of the country the car is being sold in.

This leaves us with the questions: are morals really the issue here, or are they overshadowed by the profit driven ‘values’ of capitalism? Do the manufacturers genuinely want to make the right decision or just appeal to the consumer to make as much profit as possible? The decision that will be made is ultimately based on what the majority wants and not what is actually right. Although morals may have been around for centuries, do we actually know what really is right and wrong? With so much variety in beliefs globally, this may be impossible to ever know. It may be impossible for us to ever make the right choice.

Everything.

Will be questioned eternally.

How much is your life worth?

Thu, 16 May 2024 12:30:27 GMT

How much is your life worth?

Kadian Watson, Vania Boateng, Mischa Serugo

A question that’s been asked before… and may actually have an answer. Our current healthcare system places a value on all of our lives, and despite all our hopes, that figure may be a lot lower than we all expect. Giving an insight on how NICE measures value for money in relation to public health interventions, ethics are called into question to argue what it is, and should we be placing a price on life?

Our lives are determined by a QALY system. QALY is the quality-adjusted life years. So basically it is an estimation of years of life remaining for a patient following a particular treatment or intervention. Each year is scored from 0-1. Health experts say that 1 is perfect health; 0 is death; and anything else in between is less than perfect health. Each QALY is worth £30,000. £30,000 is the threshold, however what happens when the treatment exceeds that limit?

To find out your QALY, doctors predict the years of life after treatment and multiply it by the quality (health-wise) of one year.

It is determined by many other factors, such as:

The needs of the patient
The doctors’ views
People affected by the condition
Other treatments for the condition

But why QALY? Well the NHS’s resource allocation is limited. Therefore, it does not have enough to provide for everyone at the same time. As a result, they use the QALY system in order to ensure everyone has a fair chance in getting the care and help they need from the NHS.

QALY has proved to be controversial, as many feel that it is not fair. One way in which the use of QALY caused a dispute was in the 2018 case of Alfie Evans. The case was a highly publicised legal battle, which involved a complex and morally challenging situation…

Alfie Evans was an infant who suffered from a rare degenerative neurological condition, where he endured epileptic seizures and spasms, which ultimately led to irreversible brain damage. This meant that he had to be placed on ventilator support. He had been in a semi-vegetative state for more than a year. His parents were approached for treatment in Rome, which offered prolonged ventilator use. However, Alder Hey Children’s Hospital, the hospital which Alfie at that point was admitted to, and his parents disagreed about how to proceed with the treatment options. This dispute resulted in the case going to the High Court where the hospital sought the declaration that "continued ventilator support is not in Alfie's best interests and in the circumstances it is not lawful that such treatment continue." Alder Hey presented scans of the deterioration of his brain tissue stating that it would be pointless and inhumane to continue further treatment. The courts ruled in favour of the hospital, and declared they withdraw the ventilation support and not proceed with further treatment, despite objections from his parents. Alfie, aged 23 months, died on April 28 2018, 5 days after he was taken off the ventilator support. One of the dilemmas Alfie's case raised is whether doctors are the right people to determine if withdrawing life-support treatment is in the best interests of a terminally-ill child.

Nationally, the 4 Pillars of Ethics are recognised as: Autonomy (the choice/free will of the patient), Beneficence (a duty to do what’s in the best interest of the patient), Non-Maleficence (to not do or cause further harm to the patient) and Justice (ensuring everyone, including future patients, are treated fairly and equitably). In cases like these, all four of these principles CANNOT be met. Just like in the case of Alfie, do we strip people of their autonomy just to placate our own consciences – does the risk of doing harm override our free will?

In this case, the doctors did not show autonomy. Even though Alfie was not conscious enough to make his own decisions freely, his parents had chosen to have the surgery done. Yet the doctors went against their wishes for the surgery, and doing so resulted in a legal battle worth approximately £145,000. As for non-maleficence, the doctors made sure that their patient: Alfie Evans was not inflicted with harm. By travelling to Italy, it would have put more stress on his already failing body and possibly caused even more pain than intended. The doctors were beneficent, as even though the surgery could have saved Alfie’s life, the dangers of transporting him there was not what was best for Alfie. More importantly, the surgery was not a guaranteed solution. Justice meant that the doctors had to relieve Alfie in order to give someone else with a higher chance of survival a place for bedding and potentially life-saving support. The doctors already believed Alfie was dying and so felt that it was unnecessary keeping him on life support when there was no treatment that could have cured him.

Throughout this entire piece, questions have been woven through, inviting you to consider: are we doing the right thing? Ethics is a tricky subject; we walk a fine line between doing what is lawfully right, and what we personally believe is morally right. In my own opinion, it’s especially difficult because no two people are the same. We all view situations differently, and therefore all have different opinions on how to handle these issues.

There are many moral and ethical debates when it comes to this topic, with one overriding thought to me: how much is a life worth, and who gets to decide this?

In short, we have no answer.

There will never be a ‘right’ or acceptable answer to these questions. All we can hope is that we are never in the position where someone dies due to our decisions (or indecisions).

The Desire to Be Cool

Wed, 10 Apr 2024 08:49:47 GMT

Writing by Katelyn Yeh from Sage Hill School - California

The Desire to Be Cool: How Social Media Fuels the Fires of Fast Fashion

Social media trends have popularized the use of fast fashion, and it will only get worse unless people stop sacrificing human rights for their $6 shirt.

With the rise of social media in 2005 came a new wave of “it girls,” a phenomenon that began decades earlier with Clara Bow, a popular, iconic Hollywood actress in the age of silent films. A figure crowned as the first “It girl,” Clara influenced the fashion interests of women in the 1920s with her sexually provocative clothes, striking red hair, and prominent cupid's bow. Women wanted to dress like her. Women wanted to be her.

At the same time, fashion shows and runways promoting brands such as Coco Chanel and Christian Dior became a popular fashion inspiration source. They’re main applauders, surprisingly, weren't the rich. It was the middle class. With attempts to mimic what they saw on wealthy people, they bought designer brands with logos plastered all over their products. They wanted people to think they were wealthy. They needed to make sure it was obvious. They needed designer wares.

Unlike the early 20th century, when women wanting to replicate the style of their icons had to wait much longer and spend much more money, in the 21st century, our access has shifted. This is in part due to the popularity of a new kind of fashion: fast fashion.

The term “fast fashion” was coined for clothing lines that replicate catwalk trends and high-fashion designs at low costs and at increased speeds, filling the racks of popular, cheap stores like TJ Maxx, H&M, and Primark. The popularization of fast fashion started in the 1990s with fashion brands looking for ways to increase their profits. Eventually, supermarkets, known to sell food only, created cheap clothing, which threatened high-end brands and pressured them to create clothes quicker. During the 1990s, the trend of seasonal clothing collections also spread the use of fast fashion.

In current times, people look to social media influencers rather than Hollywood starlets and runway models for their next style inspiration. Influencers like Alix Earle and Addison Rae are more relatable than runway models, often giving off a “you can be like me if you buy these shoes” vibe. Their life is attainable. It’s more realistic.

The reason why these social media influencers are more effective than A-list celebrities is because they don’t try to appear perfect. They show their messy rooms, unfiltered skin, and their flaws. Their imperfections make them seem like everyday people and not millionaires. They seem like our friends.

This attainability is also dangerous because impressionable teenage girls believe that if they buy what influencers are promoting, they will be like them. Unfortunately, these ideals are absolutely unattainable for the masses. One dress won’t make us look like Paris Hilton or Madison Beer. The body, unfortunately, and all its excess wealth and popular friends, doesn’t come with the purchase. One water bottle won’t transform our lifestyle into theirs. We don’t have the money to take spontaneous trips to Cabo every weekend.

The danger of social media influencers is how relatable they appear, but we often forget that their whole job is to sell products and influence people by acting like a friend. We trust our friends’ opinions, of course, but these people are not our friends. They don’t know us. And we certainly don’t know them - we know what they choose to show us on social media, the carefully curated imagery of fabulous nights out and glamorous, expensive products. Do we even know if the items they wear are theirs and not borrowed for a photograph? We can never know for sure the truth behind the imagery because we don’t know them in real life. We make assumptions from what they allow us to see.

How many times have you seen something on social media that you’ve liked, only to find it to be way over budget when you search it up? And how many times have knockoffs, or “dupes,” a term used commonly on social media, shown up on your feeds just a few scrolls later? Brands know the interest. They know the demand. They know their demographic. So, they push out new trendy products. And they do this FAST. And when the trends cycle through even faster? They manufacture products faster still.

So why is fast fashion bad? For one, it’s awful for the environment. This clothing is not biodegradable, and it increases water usage, microplastics, and energy consumption. According to Ricoh, an information management and digital services company, it takes 766 gallons of water just to produce 1 cotton shirt. Now multiply that by the number of cotton shirts we have in our closets. And that’s not even considering the fact that brands don’t often sell every piece of clothing they produce.

Although child labor is illegal in most countries, some developing countries utilize this to maximize profits. Because children are paid less, or in some cases, not even paid at all, they save money. According to Project Cece, an organization dedicated to helping users find sustainable clothing, 29.8 million people are kept in modern slavery conditions, where adults sell their children into slave labor to survive. However, many popular fast fashion brands, such as Shein, claim they don’t use illegal workers, but how else are they able to sell a shirt for $4.50? We can give them the benefit of the doubt and believe that they don’t use child labor, but the bottom line is, their clothes are not ethically sourced.

I’m not criticizing people who shop from fast fashion companies because the majority of my closet is fast fashion. But the issue comes when influencers tell young impressionable teenage girls that they absolutely need this new thing they’re promoting. The way influencers and brands push trends and products into consumer’s faces is the issue. During the peak of Covid-19, Shein rose to popularity because it was trendy and scarily cheap. A $5 shirt should have been a sign. They knew what their customers wanted. I fell victim to their “aesthetic” pieces with low prices, and Shein quickly became the primary brand I purchased. I soon realized why these prices were so low. Sometimes I would get lucky and pieces of clothing would last me more than a couple months, but the quality was often so awful that I couldn’t wear the clothes more than once. I learned that wearing a $5 shirt once is the same “price per wear” as wearing a good quality $50 shirt 10 times. You get what you pay for.

Have you seen a $300 dress go viral on social media? Don’t worry! You can find it at Shein for only $20. This led to people jumping from trend to trend simply because it was accessible. People were discovering that they could completely reinvent themselves for less than $300.

Social media has further increased people’s desire to fit in. Principles of beauty have been around long before fast fashion really became a prominent discussion in society, but during quarantine, these aesthetics became more niche. Aesthetics such as “the Bella Swan aesthetic” or “the Rory Gilmore aesthetic” have taken the media by storm as people strive to imitate the styles of their beloved characters. While there is nothing wrong with this in and of itself, new aesthetics and trends popping up every two weeks means people will subsequently want to fit this new aesthetic. So what do they do? They buy a new closet.

Social media influencers speed up the trend cycle, increasing people’s need for new clothes. Fast fashion companies capitalize on this. However, fast fashion itself isn’t all bad. It’s cheap, making it accessible for all. It’s a lot easier than digging through bins at Goodwill for clothing at an inexpensive price. Fast fashion is an amazing option for lower class people who can’t afford to drop $50 on a shirt every time.

But there is a difference between choosing to shop fast fashion because you have to, and shopping fast fashion because you’ve been made to believe that you need and want to. Hauls, where people spend over $300 at a time and post it on social media, eventually took over the internet. Viewers enjoyed these videos because there was a sense of luxury within these shopping sprees. Since the average person is unable to just drop $500 at any given moment, these haul videos allowed viewers to live vicariously through the influencers who would rather spend $500 on Shein to get 50 pieces of clothing, than shopping elsewhere for fewer pieces. If you can afford to drop $500 dollars on one shopping session, then you can afford to shop sustainably.

One shirt won’t make you like your favorite influencer. One home device won’t give you the same lifestyle. One makeup product won’t make you look like them. This isn’t how it works. They carefully curated their life online for the sole reason to make people want to be like them to sell them products.

At the end of the day, you get what you pay for. Don’t pay for child labor.

Alien Food Sampler

Sat, 17 Feb 2024 09:28:31 GMT

Artwork by Laurel Petersen from Russell Sage College - Troy - NY

The window to my spirit

Sat, 17 Feb 2024 09:22:29 GMT

Artwork by Lacey Constantine from Russell Sage College - Troy - NY

The Pomegranate Sonata

Wed, 14 Feb 2024 11:32:35 GMT

Painting by Leo Feng from Eaglebrook School - Deerfield - MA

This artwork was inspired by Sarah Lamb's still life artwork, which can be found here: https://sarahlamb.net/pages/still-life

Leo's artist statement: Through the careful use of color, light, and shadow, from the intricate pomegranate seeds to the smooth curves of the pot, the combination of these elements creates a visual symphony.

Title by Leo Feng.

Reflective

Fri, 09 Feb 2024 11:23:51 GMT

Photograph by Amanda Bastiani from Russell Sage College - Troy - NY

Shibuya - Tokyo, Japan

Fri, 09 Feb 2024 11:16:42 GMT

Photograph by Michael Groissl from Russell Sage College - Troy - NY

The Triumph of a Sunflower in the City

Fri, 09 Feb 2024 11:07:11 GMT

Photograph by Susannah Schools from Russell Sage College - Troy - NY

Butterflies

Fri, 09 Feb 2024 11:05:06 GMT

Digital artwork by Kami Perkins from Russell Sage College - Troy - NY

LADA, Dushanbe, Tajikistan

Thu, 08 Feb 2024 17:06:43 GMT

Photograph by Michael Groissl from Russell Sage College - Troy - NY

The Smallest Apple I've Ever Seen

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:47:14 GMT

Written by Newton Wilk from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

The smallest apple I’ve ever seen. I could pop it into my mouth like a fat cherry. But what a feast it would be to a little mouse. Finally an apple she can carry all on her own back home to surprise her brothers and sisters and brothers and sisters and brothers and sisters with a warm apple pie. She ground the flour herself from the wheat fields above their little burrow, she braved getting the sugarcube and stick of cinnamon by sneaking into the old farmer’s kitchen, she’s been collecting dew from the grass every morning to get cool fresh water for making the dough, and she’s found the perfect little spot underneath the barn heater to set it to bake. All she had to do now was bring all of her ingredients together and bake it.

The golden stalks of wheat hissed in the cool autumn breeze, shielding our little mouse from the blazing sun overhead. The melody of the grain was met with the harmony of singing cardinals and the long undercurrent of cicadas ticking, chirping, and buzzing away, and beneath it all the hushed pitter patter of mouse feet skittering eagerly across dark earth. As she weaved between the fields, now amber in the honeyed glow of the sun, she alternated between holding her precious apple in her two paws and dropping to all fours with the stem held tight between her teeth. The big red barn came into view just as she made it to the edge of the wheat field, it was only about three yards away but what a long distance that was for such a little mouse. She knew crows flew above, that snakes hid in the grass, and she knew she had to be especially careful of the big black and white barn cat that slept in the rafters. She wasn’t the strongest or the fastest or even the most clever but she was determined and she was going to try her best to be very very brave.

Tucked into the shade of the field she held the apple’s stem tight in her teeth, wiggled her tail, took a deep breath and broke into a sprint. Even with the apple in her mouth she didn’t think she had ever run so fast, the grass whizzed by as she darted through the open field, her eyes fixed ahead on the tall barn doors. Halfway there! Dark shadows crossed her path and she ran even

harder. Then, a heavy gust of wind and a sound like a feathered slap to the sky. Before the little mouse there suddenly stood a crow, its large wings outstretched, so black they shimmered blue and purple in the sun, its beady eyes fixed right on her. She stopped so fast her paws dug into the dirt and she skidded forward. For a moment she simply stared at the crow and the crow stared back at her. Then, she dropped the apple from her mouth into her paws and in a very small voice, she spoke.

“Hello.” Her ears lowered and her tiny heart raced as she looked up at the bird. “Hello.” The crow croaked back. Her ears perked back up.

“My name is Calliope.” She said, “What’s yours?” The crow cocked his head to the side before shifting in back.

“My name is Maurice.” He said, folding in his wings. “It’s nice to meet you, Calliope.” He bowed his head in greeting. “Are you not afraid of me?”

“Oh no.” Calliope protested. “Well, maybe a little bit but you seem very nice so I’m not as afraid as I was a moment ago.”

“I see.” Maurice cocked his head to the side once again. “I noticed you have quite a splendid looking apple and I was wondering if you would mind letting me have a bite.”

“Oh no! I couldn’t possibly give you my apple! You see, I’m going to bake an apple pie.” Calliope held the apple closer to her chest.

“It’s a rather big apple for a mouse as small as yourself.” He said, “May I have just a small bite.”

Calliope considered this for a moment. It was a rather big apple and though it was not too heavy it would be much lighter if the crow had a bite. “Alright.” She said, “But just one bite.” “Oh, thank you, Miss Calliope. Thank you very much.” Maurice bowed his head again as Calliope set the apple before him. Just as Calliope had allowed, he only took one bite. “Good luck with your apple pie!” He said, flying off.

“Thank you!” Calliope called after him. She continued her journey then, running the rest of the way to the big red barn, placing the apple beside the barn heater- where she had already hidden the cinnamon and sugar- she would later use to bake it.

Now it was time for her to bring the dew she had collected over the past few mornings. As she made her way to the barn doors she looked all around to make sure the coast was clear. Now she was running again, sprinting in the grass in the direction of a big grey rock on the other side of the barn. This rock was special, it had a hole underneath that stayed nice and cool because the rock shielded it from the sun, this is where she hid her water. Calliope knew that under this big grey rock her water would not dry up in the sun. This distance was not so far, but Calliope knew very well that she should not let her guard down, she would now be entering the tall grass where Papa Mouse had always warned her that snakes liked to spend their time.

She was able to run much faster without the weight of the apple. She made it to the big grey rock in the blink of an eye, crawling underneath where she found the two hollow acorns she had filled with water. Calliope took the acorns into her arms and crawled out from under the rock. Because her paws were full she would have to walk on her back legs which would make her much slower so she would have to be very careful.

Calliope walked very carefully and very quietly in the tall grass, she had to be careful as not to spill any of her water and not to alert any snakes that may be hiding nearby. The tall grass swayed above her head as she moved slowly, step by step. The tall stalks again seemed to hiss above her as she walked, but this hissing sounded a bit… different. Calliope quickly turned around, fearing a snake was sneaking up on her but nothing seemed to be there. She sighed and laughed, what Papa Mouse had said about snakes must have scared her more than she thought. She turned back around and

Hissssssss

A snake sat half-coiled in front of her, flicking its tongue in the air. The snake's belly was a yellow-brown like chocolate and sand, its back was black with a strip running down the middle the same color as its belly. Calliope held the acorns full of water tight, watching the snake with wide eyes.

“Hello little one.” The snake slowly began the slither in a circle around Calliope. “It’ssss nicccce to meet you. My name issss Sssselena.” She hissed.

“Nice to meet you, Sssselena.” Calliope tried to hiss the name in the same way the snake had. “My name is Calliope.”

“What have you got in your armsss, Calliope?” Selena asked, flicking her tongue in the air once again.

“Water.” Said Calliope, “I’m going to bake an apple pie.”

“Ssssounds delicioussss.” Selena responded. “That lookssss like a lot of water for one apple pie and I’m really rather thirsssty. May I have ssssome?”

Calliope considered this. It was quite a bit more water than she needed, she could probably spare one acorn. “Alright.” She said, holding out one acorn. “But you can only have one.”

“Thankssss, Calliope.” Selena wrapped her tail around the acorn and lifted it to her mouth, drinking the water. “Ahhh, jussst assss I thought, delicioussss.”

“You’re welcome.” Calliope smiled.

“Bessst Wishesss with your apple pie.” Selena said as she slithered away. “Thank you, Sssselena.” Calliope said, making her way back to the barn. She set her acorn full of water beside her apple, her cinnamon, and her sugar.

Now for the part she was most scared about, retrieving her flour. She had stowed it away in the hayloft of the barn one night when she knew the barn cat was fast asleep in the farmer’s house. She snuck toward the ladder to the hayloft and looked all around before scampering up. Once she made it to the top she darted right for the corner where she had left her little pouch of flour. She had made the pouch with a small piece of burlap that had been torn from one of the farmer’s potato sacks. She held the pouch in her teeth and skittered back toward the ladder, when suddenly, across the hayloft she heard a yawn. Calliope stopped in her tracks.

There before her, laying in the hayloft window, was the sleeping barn cat. Calliope proceeded very slowly and quietly, keeping her eyes on the cat. As she crept closer and closer to that ladder the began to pick up speed, growing too anxious to move slowly any longer. She ran quickly for the ladder and stumbled, causing a floorboard to creek. She stopped. The cat’s eyes snapped open, landing on Calliope. Calliope squeaked and jumped for the ladder. The barn cat darted across the loft, sending hay flying in every direction. Before she knew it Calliope was sliding down the rail of the ladder, gripping the pouch of flour tight between her teeth. She landed like a skipping stone and hit the ground running. She could hear the cat skittering behind her, the sound of its claws scraping against the wood floor of the barn.

Calliope did not slow down as she made it to the heater, she held the flour close and rolled, still moving full speed as she slid beneath the heater. When the barn cat, who was also still running at full speed, made it to the heater she dug her claws into the barn floor, coming to a scraping halt.

“Who are you and what are you doing in the farmer’s barn?” The cat hissed, batting under the heater, its arms too short to reach Calliope.

“My name is Calliope.” Calliope said, peeking her head out from under the heater. “What’s your name?” The cat perked its ears up at the response.

“My name is Briar.” The barn cat replied. She then began to sniff the air, her small pink nose twitching. “What is that I smell?” Briar continued to sniff the air. “Apple? Cinnamon? Sugar?” Her eyes grew wide as she looked down at Calliope. “You’re not making an apple pie are you?”

“I am!” Calliope crawled out from under the heater excitedly. “You have a very good nose.”

“Thank you.” Briar lied down so Calliope did not have to look so far up to talk to her. “Oh, I love apple pie.” Briar’s tail began to flick back and forth. “Would you mind if I had a slice? I could help you make it!” Briar’s eyes grew even wider and the speed of her tail quickened. Calliope had to think about this. Surely her family wouldn’t eat the whole pie and she could use the help of a cat’s claws for cutting up the apple and a cat’s paws for kneading the dough. She had made up her mind.

“If you help me bake the pie it’s only fair that I give you a slice.” Calliope smiled and stuck out her paw. Briar purred in return and stuck out one claw for Calliope to shake. “Deal.” Briar smiled.

Calliope scurried under the heater and brought out the ingredients. With the help of Briar the pie was ready to bake in no time. They set it on top of the heater and sat side by side, looking out through the barn doors. Calliope asked what it was like being a barn cat and Briar asked what it was like being a field mouse and they sat, watching the clouds move across the sky. Soon the clouds began to grow dark.

“It looks like it’s going to rain.” Briar said.

“Oh no. I hope the pie is finished before it starts. I’ve never sat through a thunderstorm without my Mamma before.” She confessed.

“I don’t like thunderstorms either. I hate it when my fur gets wet.” Briar shivered just at the thought. Still they waited for the pie to bake. Then, pitter patter pitter patter , it started to rain.

“Do you think the pie is done yet?” Calliope asked, scurrying up to the top of the heater. “Just a few moments more.” Briar said after sniffing the air. The rain began to pick up. “Don’t worry, Calliope, it may just be a bit of rain. It doesn’t look like a storm yet.” Then a rumble from all around that both Briar and Calliope could feel in their bones. Briar hissed at the sound and arched her back and Calliope ran between her legs to hide. Then Briar sniffed the air again.

“The pie is done!” Briar said excitedly. She clawed out a small slice for herself and set it aside to cool. Then a flash that lit up the whole sky. Briar hissed again, curling around Calliope. “You can spend the storm here with me if you’d like.” Calliope started to nod but another crack of thunder sent her scurrying.

“I’m too scared! I have to go home to my Mamma!” Calliope picked up the warm apple pie and looked out the barn doors as the rain fell in sheets. “It was very nice to meet you, Briar, but I have to go home!” Calliope said, hugging the pie close to her chest.

“It was nice to meet you too, Calliope. Thank you for the pie. I hope you get home safely.” Briar said as she curled up by the heater.

Calliope shivered as she looked out at the rain. ‘How scary!’ She thought. ‘But I have to get home.’ So she did what she would often do when she was scared at home. She closed her eyes tight, took a deep breath, and counted down from three. “Three… Two… One!”

Calliope ran as fast as she could as thunder shook the sky. Her soft fur grew slick with water as the big fat rain drops hurled down from above, her paws grew muddy as she ran through slick dirt and puddles, and worst of all her pie began to get soggy. She ran through the tall grass, through the open field, and through the wheat that was now dark and heavy with rain.When she made it all the way back to her burrow she was crying.

“Mamma! Mamma!” She cried, running inside. Her mushy pie spilled onto the ground and she cried even harder.

“Calliope!” Mamma Mouse called out, pulling Calliope into her arms. “Where have you been? Pappa Mouse, your brothers, your sisters, and I have been so worried about you!” As Calliope cried, Mamma Mouse brought her by the warm fire they had set, Papa Mouse brought a cup of hot tea, her Big Brother Mouse wrapped her in a warm blanket, and her Big Sister Mouse began to clean up the spilled, cold, and mushy apple pie.

All of her brothers and sisters gathered around and sat patiently as she calmed down. Once she had dried her tears she began to tell them the story; she told them about how she found the perfect apple, how she picked the wheat and ground it into flour, how she snuck into the old farmer’s kitchen to get cinnamon and sugar, how she woke up early every morning the collect the dew from the grass, and how she found the perfect spot to bake it surprise them all; she told them about Maurice the crow, Selena the snake in the grass, Briar the barn cat, and the big rain storm that turned her pie into mush. Then she began to cry again.

“I ruined it! Our apple pie is mush!” She cried, hugging Mamma Mouse. “I was too scared to be alone during the thunderstorm and now our apple pie is just a big mess!” Mamma Mouse dried her tears once again.

“Oh dear, that sounds like a very eventful day, but Calliope it doesn’t sound to me like you were too scared.” Mamma Mouse said. “It sounds to me like you were very very brave.” All of her brother and sister mice nodded along.

“I was brave?” Calliope sniffled.

“Oh, yes!” Mamma Mouse nodded.

“I’ve never snuck into the farmer’s kitchen before. That was very brave.” Said Big Brother Mouse.

“I’ve never talked to a crow before!” Big Sister Mouse chimed in. “That was really brave too.”

“I’ve never talked to a snake.” Papa Mouse pointed out.

“And none of us have ever talked to a cat before.” Her other mouse siblings all nodded in agreement.

“You might just be the bravest mouse I’ve ever met.” Said Mamma Mouse. Soon all of Calliope’s siblings were asking her to tell them more about her adventure. “Even if I was brave,” Calliope sniffled, “I didn’t get to bring anything home to surprise you.”

“Well that’s not true at all.” Papa mouse hugged her as well. “You brought us the most wonderful story!” All of her siblings agreed to this as well. Then Papa Mouse raised a hand to his ear. “Do you all hear that?”

“Hear what?” The other little mice asked.

“I don’t hear anything!” One replied.

“Exactly.” Papa Mouse replied. “The rain has stopped.”

All of the mice looked between each other and seemed to all have the same idea. They all scampered to the door and out of the burrow. As they made it outside Calliope saw that the sun was coming out again and with the sun she saw a crow, a snake, and a cat. Calliope jumped from Mamma Mouse’s arms and ran to her friends.

“Maurice! Selena! Briar! What are you all doing here?” Calliope asked, looking up at them.

“We were worried about you because of the storm.” Maurice cawed.

“And we wanted to thank you for being so generousssss.” Selena hissed.

“And we thought your pie might get ruined in the rain.” Briar added. “So we thought we would come help you bake a new one!”

“I found an apple on the ground.” Maurice nudged the red apple forward with his beak. “I collected ssssome rain water from the ssssstorm.” Selena set down a curved leaf full of water.

“I saved some of the cinnamon and sugar we didn’t use.” Briar set down the sugarcube and stick of cinnamon. “And I snuck some flour from the old farmer’s kitchen.” She whispered. Calliope ran forward and hugged all of her new friends.

All of Calliope’s siblings got straight to work making the new pie; slicing the apple, kneading the dough, grinding up and mixing in the cinnamon and sugar, laying a thin layer of dough on the top and carving a heart right in the middle. Mamma Mouse and Papa Mouse worked together to carry the pie to the stove. It was the biggest pie any of the mice had ever seen! As the pie baked, Mamma and Papa Mouse thanked Calliope’s new friends for taking such good care of their daughter and all of Calliope’s siblings asked them as many questions as they could think to ask about what it was like to be a crow and a snake and a cat.

When the pie was done Mamma and Papa laid it out for everyone to share. As they sat down to eat a rainbow appeared, filling the sky with bright color and even though the pie wasn’t made with the perfect apple, or fresh dew, or hand ground flour, it was the most delicious pie that Calliope, any of her new friends or her family, had ever tasted.

The Modern Tower

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:42:39 GMT

Written by Newton Wilk from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

I was constructed in the way that all modern towers are,

built expressly to cause the least collateral damage when destroyed because it was always known

I was going to be destroyed,

Taken in at the knees

by a wrecking ball

or a wrecking ball

or something in its shape,

and crumbling in on myself

like I was never there at all

In my place,

In the place of the girl before me

And the boy before her

And the persons and people before him

Before Us,

They will build someone new,

They will construct them in the way they construct all modern towers,

They will build them to cause the least collateral damage when destroyed because it was always always known

they were going to be destroyed,

by a wrecking ball

or a wrecking ball

or something in its shape,

and they will crumble in on themself

like they were never there at all

A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:39:29 GMT

Written by Susannah Schools from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

But maybe it gathers other things.

Perhaps a bit of dirt clings for the ride

And new bacteria find a home.

Maybe moss is left,

But a splash of water is right

There to clean the rock.

Cool and quenched

And ready to gather.

Petrified and born alive.

Always Breathing in the World For Now

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:36:09 GMT

Written by Susannah Schools from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

As if sprouted to shade giants,

they stand tall and

bioluminescent over the city,

like kingly towers

glowing blue against the night.

Surreal,

the mind tingles with the exhale

of warm air in the cold.

Walking under stars

with veins green blue, beating hearts, and

boots hitting the sidewalk.

Loyalty

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:32:10 GMT

Artwork by Satya Groff from New Visions — Troy — NY

Tess Lobel

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:29:46 GMT

Photography by Ramasoj Williams from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Matted Fur

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:18:03 GMT

Written by Newton Wilk from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

i lay myself bare before you,

shivering and raw, like a skinned animal

without my lustrous cloak;

you saw the bleeding edges where the dull knife had slipped beneath my fur, you saw the asperous scars left from blades and blades past,

you saw my claws looked far too long without my thick, dark, coat, I wasn’t beautiful anymore.

so as you left me,

pared

unconcealed

unhidden

unsheltered,

you assured me,

it wasn’t my open wounds

and it wasn’t my jagged scars

and it wasn’t my sharpened claws,

that you simply weren’t hungry

you simply weren’t cold,

i tried to slip back inside my bloodied matted fur but it didn’t fit right over my skin, it didn’t hold the heat like it used to,

it hung too loose- stretched too thin in the wrong places,

Still I wear it,

Still I wear it

Spider Outside A Drag Bar

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:14:41 GMT

Artwork by Newton Wilk from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

The Writer's Purpose

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:09:17 GMT

Written by Michael Bruyette from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. The ability to inspire, to lead, to save; one’s ability to paint, to dance, to fight, using but words on a page is a writer’s true privilege and purpose.

Words hold power, and an individual carries the ability to craft and weave a text together as a projection of oneself and their ideals. A writer not without drive, but instead has yet to find their true selves, is loosely, as Faulkner said, like a butterfly yet to spread its wings.

There is always a something deep within an individual’s being that waits to bloom or spread its wings. That something drives a person and their writing, weak or strong, that one thing is the only true something that one will never be able to remove from themselves, and by association their writing, without losing themselves.

To lose oneself is to write of nothing but pain and despair without the courage and bravery needed to face the harsh realities of their writing.

To suffer without courage is to break. And to write without oneself is simply the first step to a vicious cycle.

Large or small, the breakage of something close to one’s heart chips at an individual’s self and often the only way to heal is to use that something within yourself.

To put it simply, a writer’s purpose is to heal themselves and others with their something . At least in my eyes.

Journey To It

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 01:02:34 GMT

Written by Melody Zhao from Deerfield Academy — Massachusetts

Journey to It

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

Please

press the

green Spot and

slide in the CD.

Turn up the notch, a

drum beat, the fading in of

winged sparrows, like footsteps tapping, floating –

Please

listen for

the shadow that

hangs under a whirlpool

of melody; like Cassiopeia’s light,

it creeps in and tickles the holy notes above –

Please

inhale that

shadow, feel the

burnt voices swell within

your lungs; a verse defined

by garbled jams, chords, triads, Brownian noise –

Please

follow the

lines and sharp

circling turns, the rhythm

that pulses; the chorus lifts

and flutters and lifts: bread and jam, paper and ink –

Please leap ^ across

the wooden bridge,

but always remember

lull back

to the shadow

that now consumes you:

tin, metal, jarring cacophony –

Why step off the train

track when you can sleep like

Aurora on a bed of chrysanthemum ‘moms’?

Please

play the

break so you can

break away break break break from the pleases.

But

you can’t

stop the trail

from inching forward on

the track; wrestle with the shadow,

please, close the umbrella stop, it’s rippling

bloom. The sparrow in you bounds up^it

wants to be, the beat, the pulsing, the blood –

Please

settle and

shove the hands

in your lap and criss cross.

A returning: the white trail expires.

A new staticky track hovers and launches^ –

But where is it?

Does it dangle at the tip of a dash?

Simon says — please keep it going,

but no one ever asks Simon to take off his Bauta.

No one ever asks why the shadow was ever there.

History told me

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:56:34 GMT

Written by Maysoon Sheikh from CreativityUnleashed — London

I sat through history class

in a new September

‘Medicine through time’

was the topic to dismember.

We sat there, two-tongued or three,

and waited and waited for relatability.

We learned that my astronomy,

her anatomy and the matter

in between were the lightbulbs

that an array of John Smiths had foreseen.

Al-Kimiya’s Alchemy and Al-Jabr’s Algebra,

the ones you wished didn’t exist,

these were what Europe dismissed as ‘gibberish’.

You guffaw at our lack of Nobel prizes

on devices that store our algorithmic cores.

The ones you swore were made on American floors

So where were our awards?

In religious studies we discussed

Arab women’s liberty

and they paired it with a picture

of the Statue of Liberty.

The one modeled off of an Egyptian

woman by the Frenchman Bartholdi in the 1860s.

The first university, history decided,

was to be founded by a Tunisian Fatima Al-Fihri.

Its timeline blinded Oxford and Cambridge

but her rights to be known were led to infringement

when her records caught fire in a London library.

Conveniently.

In sociology, they taught us realities

of the system, we thought was real.

Those curriculums were ethnocentric.

That Uni allocations were inauthentic.

But then they said, ‘Write an essay about it.

The system won’t change.’

Whose errors made us pay the price

by leaving our contributions detained?

Soon you realize, history became his story

Tom, Dick, and Harry’s inventory.

A debt that was never paid to other worlds

seals wisdom-filled pearls in a dishonest resolve

to bury the voices that haven’t forgiven us.

But some don’t check the price of giving up.

Veracity rests on the shoulders of the youth,

History now looks to us to defend its truths.

Wine Filled With You

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:50:29 GMT

Written by Maryam Alsammarraie from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Dozing off into

a world,

a world that isn't mine.

Your world.

Sunny days with

rainy clouds.

A candle in a

blinded room

type of world.

A world filled with

WINE poisoned wine,

the type of wine we drank together.

I still drank it,

the wine

knowing that it would

KILL ME.

Assumed you would

save the little girl

inside me

But you watched,

I cried,

looking at you

I dreamed.

I sobbed,

not because I wanted

I had nowhere else

to go

but to you

just you.

You were ME

and I was

YOU.

Still, I close my eyes

with love

as you

watch me

DISAPPEAR.

Me

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:46:35 GMT

Written by Maryam Alsammarraie from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Me?

The sun sets,

So many colors yet

I only feel black and

White.

Eyes full of light but

Only see darkness.

Memories talk to me

Left and right crossing

Each other.

My mind so crowded can’t tell

Which direction I’m going.

Smoking a cigarette,

Lit from the fire inside my heart.

Two puffs, looking in the mirror

Who are you I ask?

I am you, the mirror answers!

Maryam Alsammarraie

City of Toronto

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:40:20 GMT

Photography by Maddy Delaney from New Visions — Troy — NY

Amusement Park

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:36:17 GMT

Artwork by Mackenzie Gorman from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Untitled

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:26:33 GMT

Written by Maverick Douglas from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

The road to hell is paved with good intentions,

But the stairs to heaven are paved with blood.

The blood of innocents

lost by the deeds of the ‘righteous’.

Between heaven and hell

I choose the road,

for at least

I was fighting

for what I believed

was right.

Kepler 421-B Holiday Tree

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:19:12 GMT

Artwork by Laurel Petersen from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Alien Pets Still Life

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:17:26 GMT

Artwork by Laurel Petersen from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Don't Drink the Kool-Aid

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:14:29 GMT

Artwork by Laurel Petersen from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Exploiting Your Child on Social Media

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:11:31 GMT

Written by Kaylee Da from Rectory School — Connecticut

Exploiting Your Child on Social Media: The New Face of Child Labour

Just like any other child who grew up watching family vlogs, I used to wish so badly that my family was famous. I envied popular YouTube families, their seemingly rich and perfect lives enriched by the adventures of their weekends. Compared to them, my family felt like a big group of introverts who were scared of the sun.

Now that I’m older, the thought of “family channels” actually scares me. Imagine being a small kid stuck with a camera 24/7 in your face, having your whole childhood filmed. This “trend” of filming your kids/family life online is becoming pervasive on social media.

Now, picture yourself as a social media star .

You have pictures of yourself in utero with ten thousand likes. You eventually have embarrassing baby photos of yourself all over your mom’s Instagram account. Oh, look! Videos of you crying as a kid, your first time in a car accident, and suddenly an eye infection, are all on social media platforms for friends and strangers to gawk at. I guess people must feel so bad for you, but your friends don’t. None of your classmates sympathize with sad emojis in the comment section; instead, they are all laughing at your first-grade picture.

So you ask: why was I not given a choice regarding whether I wanted my face all over Mom’s social media platforms?

Your mom replies, “You are role models. People look up to you. It’s a good thing.”

That was basically what the Clement Twins' mom replied when asked what she thought about her daughter’s presence on social media. Originally from Orange County, California, the two girls are known to be: “the most beautiful twins in the world” with their bubbly social media personalities. They’ve had thousands of photoshoots with top clothing brands, such as Old Navy, Nike, Disney, Target, etc. The Clement Twins have over two million followers on Instagram, and each sponsored post they upload could make them UP TO $10,000.

The two thirteen-year-old twins have been making money since they were very young, and from the continuous updates they post on every social media platform possible, it does not seem like their mom wants to stop. The twins even have their clothing brand, and everything and everywhere about the family is constantly being uploaded on YouTube. Their parents even thought it okay to start the twins in the modeling industry at the age of just six months old, but thankfully, the two girls only began appearing in the headlines after they blew away their seven candles.

A YouTube comment on a video criticizing parents posting their kids on social media argues that: "It's like the children are constantly followed by paparazzi but the paparazzi are their parents and the setting is their house.” We are all aware of how intrusive and invasive the paparazzi are to the livelihood and mortality of some of our more famous celebrities - Princess Diana, after all, was killed by them. The analogy here by this commenter is not a positive one.

Despite the online success of this family, there’s a feeling of unsteadiness and disturbance you get the more and more you research them. Especially considering how you can’t find any comments from viewers about how weird this is, and we all know how weird this really is. But in this generation, where not posting everything about your life on social media is considered atypical, the exposure of children’s lives is a new kind of normal. And it generates millions of dollars every single day for the kid-influencer industry. Yet, these twins are not the only exploited young people online.

The TikTok account @wren.eleanor is another example of child exploitation that doesn’t sit right with me and certainly shouldn’t be with you. While 17.1 million followers watching a toddler’s videos is already off-putting enough, some of the clips posted by her mother show her wearing revealing clothes, such as a bathing suit. And the most concerning video is that of her in a bath, with 58.4k saves on TikTok. Just a reminder folks - she is only a toddler! You can’t tell me that 17.1 million people only follow her because she acts silly and cute when some of the comments in her videos are from fully grown men. Creepy.

Unfortunately, it’s not just the Clement Twins and Wren Eleanor who face this problem. The exploitation of young people on social media is, sadly, everywhere! For instance, take the controversy behind the LaBrant families, SIS vs BROS, and the ACE family. Seeing so many young, innocent kids being exploited by their parents just because they want to be famous, is truly concerning.

Many kids who do grow up on these channels believe, like Karina from SIS vs. BROS, that their: “childhood [is] being ruined and taken away.” By the time they realize how far gone they are, they simply cannot do anything about it. Karina would eventually post multiple tiktoks about her parents exploiting her as a child to support themselves. It was later rumored that she was expelled from school for doing drugs and that she was smoking cigarettes at the tender age of sixteen. It is plausible to connect her early online celebrity status with the development of these dangerous habits.

There’s a reason why other celebrities, like Gigi and Bella Hadid, are sensitive when it comes to their kids on social media. Their mother Yolanda Hadid, a former supermodel herself, is known for her “bad parenting,” from controlling what her two daughters ate daily to paying for her daughter’s plastic surgery at the age of fourteen.

When interviewed by Vogue Magazine on March 15, 2022, Bella Hadid admitted, "I always ask myself, how did a girl with incredible insecurities, anxiety, depression, body image issues, eating issues, who hates to be touched, who has intense social anxiety—what was I doing getting into this business?" She was pushed there, of course, by her mother, but Bella is not willing to continue the cycle through her children, and neither is her sister. And as they say, under-protected daughters grow up to become overprotective moms, after all. After giving birth to her first newborn, Gigi was extremely strict in covering her daughter’s face when they were out in public as a measure to stop the influencer chain her mother had created.

Parents who exploit their children through social media for financial gain should be ashamed of themselves. The role of a parent is to nurture and protect your child as you negotiate with them the world outside the safety of the home, but these mom vloggers are doing the complete opposite.

According to the Harris Poll/ LEGO Survey, 29% of American kids between the ages of 8-12 aspire to be Vloggers/YouTubers. Perhaps this is because a selected few are making heaps of money. According to FORBES, seven-year-old Ryan from Ryan’s World (one of his nine channels in several different languages) reported earning 22 million dollars in two months. This makes us wonder how much of that money is going to be his in the end, though, or if his parents are spending it.

Decades ago, the phenomenon of child celebrity was typified through child actors - and over time, those actors were given rights against abuse of earnings. For instance, through the Coogan law, child actors’ salaries are protected so that 15 percent of what the child earns from work will be given to them when they reach adulthood. This ensures parents aren’t taking everything from their kids. The Coogan law also establishes rules for a limited time on screen, protecting young people from harmful working conditions. This brings me back to the idea of protecting kid influencers, who I believe to be the new faces of child actors. But unlike their predecessors, there are no “work hours,” and your “influencer” parents film you no matter where you are. At the minimum, there should be a law that kid influencers will receive a good percentage of their earnings when they reach adulthood. This will at least help soothe the idea of “free child labor” and benefit kids in the future.

There are some professionals, including Chris McCarty, who are trying to put an end to legal child exploitation. Her foundation: Quit Clicking Kids , promotes awareness around this issue in hopes of breaking our fascination with child influencers. In addition, there’s even House Bill 1627 in Washington State that allows children to delete any videos of themselves, and that ensures parents must funnel some earned profits into a separate savings account for their children to access when they come of age. Other US states are starting to follow suit: a bill was just passed in Illinois to give kid influencers almost the same rights as child actors. It is said that 50% percent of the earnings will be put in the kid’s trust fund, or kids over eighteen are allowed to take legal action against their parents. The bill was inspired by a teenager, Shreya, who also realized the concern and dangers of these kids. This shows how even US state legislators are trying to find ways to curb the issue, especially since the US Federal government hasn’t made its efforts to support this cause.

Despite research uncovering just how systemic this problem is, fixing it seems dire in the face of such little public recognition. In fact, the public seems to eat it up. It is only when these child social media influencers grow up and suffer that people start doing something, so why not fix it now before that suffering occurs?

Picture this: congrats! You’re social media famous! Your Instagram reels have an average of 8,000 views. You’re excited and happy and wish this fame will continue to expand. But the fickle heart of social media popularity is beginning to grow cold on you. You just uploaded a reel two hours ago. It should have been around 8,000 views by now. Oh no. It’s just 50. What? 50 views?

Why? Why did the video flop? Was I not good enough? I have to check the comments...

“Ew, why is she lip-syncing like that? Looks so dumb, lol.”

Okay. You’ve now changed, put on a prettier outfit, stopped lip-syncing, and also learned how to apply your makeup more effectively. You upload a new video, your heart pounding: “Am I good enough now?”

You start noticing yourself. You’re addicted to checking the comments; you’re going insane over the videos that don’t get many views, and you get agitated with the smallest imperfections. It is too late. What are you supposed to do next?

Fake your death? That sounds terrible! Or does it? It seems as though faking your death for some hungry influencers isn’t that bad considering the endless list of death prank videos that exist, or even worse, getting rebirthed with a fresh new music video. You heard that right! Isn’t that suspicious coming from Lil-Tay, who has a controversial background of bragging about how rich she is and getting exposed for lying to only disappear?

The psychological effects behind being a kid influencer abound. But one of them, perhaps the most detrimental, is being dependent on the comments from members of the general public. Growing up, you’re taught to be independent, that no matter what other people think, it doesn’t matter. It is none of their business. But when you’re young, you crave compliments for your developing, vulnerable self-esteem. And when you’re an influencer at a young age who depends on the comment section to feel pretty/confident, that’s something that’s going to be a struggle to get out of.

Many adult influencers have already experienced the harsh reality and don’t care about what others think of them. But kid influencers differ. They’re young and innocent - having a negative comment ruins their image.

This is harsh, considering how much pressure girls are put under to achieve unachievable beauty standards. Kid influencers will find it hard to love and truly know themselves if they have to put on a fake image online. This can create unrealistic beauty standards causing one of, in my opinion, the problems that can negatively impact everything: low self-esteem.

With a new wave of social media promoting strict and dangerous dieting habits, you’re going to start questioning yourself if eating “normal” is still considered “healthy.”

The Dove Self-Esteem Project and the University of West England conducted global research about mental health, and it was found that 9/10 girls follow someone on social media that makes them feel less beautiful, and ½ of the 1000 aged 10-17 girls believe that it has affected their mental health.

This problem brings me back to the Clement Twins. Nowadays, twins are encouraged to have different lives from each other. To have their different friends and personalities and to be individualized and not to be seen as one person is fundamental to their individual development. However, the identical Clement Twins have been taught exactly the opposite. In their posts, they look the same in matching outfits and make-up.

Even members of their own families are starting to question the impact that this incessant social media work conducted by their mothers will have on them. “I don’t know the other side of it, I don’t know how it’s going to influence them as they get older,” the grandmother of the Clement Twins worried.

These kids will grow up and carry those scars from their influencer-busy childhood. The inevitable psychological damage will be with them even as they get older.

"It's not a job because they're having fun!" The Clement Twins’ mom answered when being questioned about external concerns towards their kids, and this misinformation is why even more concerning stories are starting to be revealed.

A 31-year-old woman, Katie Sorensen, a “Mom Influencer,” accused real people of a kidnapping attempt to accrue 4 million views. Sadie Martinex, the victim of this accusation confirmed how: “She wanted a stronger following. She was looking for content, for her fame, and for her income. And at our expense.” This issue is becoming disastrously mishandled, especially as the federal government doesn’t seem willing to participate in finding a solution.

The pile of cases of hungry parent influencers continues to grow, and the victims of social media child labor are going to grow into traumatized adults who then duplicate the issue with their children.

This is why I’m not going to post my kids on social media for more views, more likes, and for the benefit of my income. And neither should you!

a love letter to myself

Tue, 06 Feb 2024 00:04:15 GMT

Written by Mackenzie Martel from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

I didn’t know

how to fix you

I didn’t know

that we would be hurting like this.

I didn’t understand you

and how some days you feel growth

and love

in your bones

and how some days you feel destruction

and aching

through your soul.

I didn’t understand you

until I chose to try

every day

every damn day

to be better

kinder

to you.

I hope you know

I will fight for you

always.

Inkwell Vines A Monochrome Grape Ballet

Mon, 05 Feb 2024 23:57:22 GMT

Artwork by Leo Feng from Eaglebrook School — Massachusetts

The grapes become dancers, and the jug becomes a stage for a monochromatic ballet of timeless beauty arranged in a balletic dance. It exudes a sense of stillness yet a dynamic movement as if frozen in a moment of serene beauty.

City in the Sky

Mon, 05 Feb 2024 23:54:02 GMT

Artwork by Leo Feng from Eaglebrook School — Massachusetts

Fields of Golden Corn

Mon, 05 Feb 2024 23:44:09 GMT

Artwork by Lisa Schieffelin from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Drowning in Eye Medicine — How A Medical Profession Almost Blinded Me

Mon, 05 Feb 2024 23:31:01 GMT

Written by Kaylee Da from Rectory School — Connecticut

I live and breathe in a city that has the highest electricity bill. Hong Kong. It is a tourist spot where the night is unending. When you climb up to Victoria Peak, you’ll see hundreds of skyscrapers glowing, radiating the dark sky into something wonderful. And if you’re ever near the sea, you’ll witness its vivid colors reflected off the city’s buildings.

If you’re luckier yet, you’ll find me leaning against the fence, exfoliating in the ocean breeze, admiring the view like a traveler even though I’d seen this exact scene for eight years. You can catch me pointing at different buildings, asking my auntie about each one of them.

Even as a child, that night view had a special spot in my heart. I hoped one day to grow old and crooked, still smiling like a child up at those powerful skyscrapers as they looked down at me, grinning back. I could never have imagined that something so precious could be taken away from my eyes, especially at such a young age.

You see, the once-striking night sky of Hong Kong began to change - and it seemed that it was only changing for me. When it did, something sank inside of me; I couldn’t handle the blink of my future blurring. I began to wake up every morning only to be welcomed by worsening vision.

As a young child, I’d stare directly at the sun. The fierce, piercing light of that glorious orb brought black dots before me, but never did it hinder the way I could see beyond that momentary blur. Yet here, at the age of 12, I couldn’t even look at a red traffic light at night without flinching in pain, let alone the glorious shifting orbs of the Hong Kong night line. I was too young to be going blind…right?

I still vividly remember the first time I noticed the change. I stared at the ceiling in my bedroom at night, completely exhausted, spending hours reading an online comic book that kept on putting cliffhangers at the end of its chapters. Almost blinking away to sleep, I noticed that the ceiling light had become bigger than I’d recalled. Though the difference was slight, a wave of worry hit me. At first, I tried to persuade myself that it was just a today-kinda thing, that if I woke up the next day, the lights would go back to normal. But they didn’t. They got worse each day I woke up. Yet despite the obvious symptoms that my sight was failing, I tried my hardest to remain safe in blissful ignorance. What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. It took me ages before I confided in anyone about what was happening to me.

Now I can see that I should have asked important questions. What was happening to my eyes? How had they become this weak? Was it the crying or the way I had put on my night contacts? Was it stress or was it constant rubbing?

I can still remember the visceral panic that hit me as I looked outside my window to the city I loved and didn’t recognize what I saw.

I had never seen the view look like this before. Though it was dangerously beautiful, it felt wrong. The buildings stood slanted, the lights adorning different positions. A huge glow hovered centrally, and sparks were flying everywhere. The once-lit-up night sky of Hong Kong was now filled with rainbows and shiny streaks of glare. It was hard to keep my eyes open, so I covered them with my hands - what was happening?

Despite my panic, I suffered initially in silence. You see, I also have this thing where I don’t like asking for help - it makes me feel weak and nervous. So I kept my struggle alone, within me, until I couldn’t hold it in anymore until the sneaky secret seeped into my brain and pressed that panic button. It set my whole body on fire until thoughts ran rampant through my head and crescendoed into a scream for help.

At the time, there was a small, travel-sized eye drop bottle sitting at the top of my mom’s jewelry closet. I had no real idea of what eye drops were, but I knew it was a sort of medicine to make your eye feel better. My mind was too innocent to predict the amount of eye medication I would be on in the not-too-distant future.

So I tiptoed across the room, climbed up levels that divided the small closet into parts, and reached my hand on the top of the glass trying to find where the “magic drops” lay. When my little fingers failed to connect to what I desired, I turned to my mother.

“Where are your eye drops?”

“What eye drops?” My mom looked busy, texting.

“You know, the ones that wet your eyes, the ones you had on your shelf?”

My mother thought for a moment, but before she could answer my question, she asked one of her own: “Why do you need them?”

I had hoped she wouldn’t ask that.

“Just…” I thought about lying, about telling her that I had woken up today with dry eyes. But then I looked at Mom, and I realized then that nothing could ever bring me to lie to her. To be frank, I was tired of lying to myself every day. And before I knew it, tears fell across my cheeks. My mom’s face turned confused, the type of expression often followed by goosebumps knowing things were going to get serious. I told her that I worried my eyes were starting to decompose, that my vision was slowly slipping away so that I couldn’t grab it back. I had lost control.

Thus began a journey of hopelessness for me and my mother and we consulted doctor after doctor about my eyesight. We both needed someone to look me in the eye and tell me in comfort that this was going to be okay, that they knew how to treat and heal and understand, to tell me this could be gone, this could be fixed, and that my eyesight would be healthy once more.

I trusted that a professional doctor would sit me down and share the fruits of all their years researching the eyes and their resultant discovery that I longed for: the cure. Instead, we spent thousands of dollars on consultations, and waited hours and hours just for any hope of relief to dissipate when we were casually moved on from doctor to doctor, their final words almost mocking us: “I don’t know.”

The first doctor we went to was the one who paired us with night contacts. He said, with considered confidence, that if I rested my eyes for two weeks, they would return to normal. When this didn’t work, he, too, seemed baffled. What followed then was a string of further doctors struggling to find the issue and solution to my ailment. Each professional returned vague answers to our questions with little to no explanation. Moving from hospital to hospital only to be greeted by a sea of: "I don’t see the problem" from professionals who boasted high levels of knowledge with medical certificates hanging on their walls, my doubt turned into anger.

From one experiment after another, I became an expert in the procedure of eye exams. I knew exactly what the doctor wanted me to do, say, and tell upon entering each office. I could guess the doctor's words one by one at the back of my throat.

The longer this journey went on, and with every relentless attempt at explaining the situation to each new doctor, my eyes teared up and my voice wobbled. I had so much to say but so little to tell. Maybe it was their tired or cold stares, but I eventually began to feel judged by the doctors, almost as if they believed I was making things up. I was utterly lost and losing the will to even wield my voice. Eventually, the only word I could say was: "Okay."

Finally, or so I thought, the doctors turned their efforts towards prescribing me with special eye drops. So the “solution” to this unknowable problem saw me inserting six to seven drops a day into my battered eyes. Unfortunately, rather than bringing clarity to what I could see, the medication exhausted me and worsened my eyes further. Once, even, a nurse mistakenly assigned the wrong medication, giving me high eye pressure. As you can see (pun intended), everything that could go wrong did, and this was just the beginning.

I felt too tired to open my eyelids and too tired to close them shut. Going outside in the now “highly eye-sensitive season,” my eyes wanted nothing more than to close, but shutting them simultaneously felt impossible. A powerful pressure from the hot sun punched my eyes when I tried so that I couldn’t keep my eyes shut for long. At night, I would lay in bed and imagine the impact of going blind, unable to see anything, because as the pain of light continued to worsen, the probability of extensive damage seemed higher. Little did I know, though, just how right I was. All I could see was light growing bigger and brighter every time I woke up: all bright, all nothing.

I saw a face of hopelessness across my mom one morning as we neared the end of the academic year. That summer I had planned with my friends to go to the beaches, movies, and amusement parks, envisioning a summer full of shopping, baking, and visiting the places that meant the most to me. I had never intended my last summer in Hong Kong to be crippled by this sort of pain. To be in this desperate situation, knowing I had no one to rely on. To be feeling my optimism slowly starting to fade into something much darker.

Maybe if I had captured more happy memories with friends or taken photos of what even my room looked like then, my last memories of Hong Kong would have been happy. But all I can recall now is a drawer full of prescription boxes in my room. And that residual fear of “everything will go away when I wake up tomorrow” each night that I fell asleep that summer.

I had always wanted to come to the U.S. for a better education. I wanted to experience a lot of things in the U.S. that weren’t given to me back in Hong Kong. I could never imagine that the first thing I would try in the U.S. would be sitting at another ophthalmologist, filling out a confusing form full of information that only I could understand because of a language barrier for my mom. Yes, the problem persisted and even seemed to be worsening.

Going into that first American eye clinic, I admit that I had no hope left. I was holding on only to the needs and positivity of my mother, though my pessimism was palpable.

Upon arrival, I prepared myself for this visit to be a failed one. Before I went to check in with the front desk, I had promised myself that if this didn’t work out and I couldn’t find the solution, it would be my last ever eye exam. I would succumb to the defeat and enable whatever would be to be.

I grew up with my childhood best friend Sabrina who had a habit of rubbing her eyes, making them look very bloody afterwards. I was so scared of it happening as a kid, I had feared she’d turn into a monster every time. I shouted in front of her to stop hurting her eyes or else her precious eyes would give up on her. I had screamed it in fear of the monster, but I had realized now it meant something more. She’d stop later on with the habit, and I’d like to believe she had grown scared too.

Sabrina interrupted me: “Were you going to give up?”

“Yea. I was done with it. Emotionally. In the most simple way of explaining how I felt… I was finally okay with the feeling of it not being okay.” I felt incredulous.

“The most simple way to explain this: you have extreme bubbles on both your upper and lower eyelids,” the American doctor told me.

The doctor who was holding a little Q-tip and taking pictures of my under eyelids was right there. How can she be so calm saying that?

The whole room had become completely silent. But it was the type of silence that was so loud it could burst your eardrums.

“Is it curable?” You don’t know how hard it is to ask a doctor such a question when there is a 50/50 risk of the answer until you are in a position to ask it.

The doctor had told me that if this condition had been left as is, the bubbles would have eventually affected my eyes, and completely blinded me. The doctor told me that the bubbles under my eyes were so big that they were scraping against my eye lens, skewing my sight and making it painful. I still get goosebumps thinking about it.

“Yes. I’ll prescribe you some medicine - use it day and night. And hopefully, in a matter of a month, your vision will return to normal.”

That was it. That was the word I’d been craving to hear. NORMAL. The word that hugs me tightly like it missed me. And I missed it too: the joy of normal.

You can imagine how incredible it felt at the time when this wonderful eye doctor almost immediately knew of the foreign body that inhabited my eyes. As an experienced night-contact doctor, she knew instantly what had caused my problems. She even confirmed that previously prescribed medications had indeed been all wrong, exacerbating the problem.

So what was it that she saw that other doctors in Hong Kong had missed? The problem lay under my eyelids and not on my eyes at all. Why hadn’t my previous doctors checked there, I wondered? Had I been a victim of a primitive healthcare service that was damaging people rather than helping them?

When the appointment was coming to an end, my new doctor observed me as I tested out the new medication in her office. “Wow! You are an expert at putting in eyedrops - you do it so quickly and smoothly without flinching.” The doctor marveled at my skill set for someone so young.

“Well, I’ve been doing it for a very long time now,” I smiled up at her gravely.

I hadn’t told anyone about my eye situation except my mom. Sure, my dad knew about my trouble, but not in any great detail. Indeed, even my new classmates questioned my new heroic ability to use eye drops. It wasn’t likely they could relate or feel empathetic about my situation with their blue-eyed 20/20 vision, so I didn’t bother to tell them.

If you’re asking, has it got better? It has. But it hasn’t completely disappeared yet. At night I still see the glare. During the day, I’ll still see repeated light resonating off other lights. But I’ve grown used to it, accustomed to staring at my computer and seeing repeated words that aren’t there. I’ve become used to more sensitive eyes in the summer. I’ve become used to the weird slashes and circles around my ceiling light, and I’m okay with it happening. Understanding what this is makes the experience a little less terrifying; I am now hopeful that the end is in sight (of course this pun is intended too).

For now, I’m okay with the idea of not being able to see the original Hong Kong night view anymore. I’m okay with seeing repeated figures of my mom under the light because she’s beautiful and I love seeing more of her anyway. I’m okay with everything now. I’m not impatient and dying to recover, to get back to “normal.” I’m in no rush because I know it will come, eventually. And I know someday that I’m going to look back and tell my future best friend: “Hey, do you know that I was almost blind once as a kid?”

I wish in some way or somehow that I could teleport back in time to my old bedroom and hug the girl who is silently suffering, afraid to speak up. To calm that girl who is afraid to tell all her problems, afraid to let people into her bubble (yes, pun still intended). Inside of me still today lies that same little girl who bears the burdens of all her problems until she can’t control them anymore. But that little girl has grown and understands that sometimes things will change. That ‘normal’ is a construct.

So, while I may no longer gaze upon Hong Kong’s enchanting night view as frequently as I used to, I appreciate its majesty now much more than ever before, because I know what I almost lost.

Season 2

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 22:12:12 GMT

Artwork by Jashton Gieser from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

We're Going to be Friends

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 22:10:44 GMT

Artwork by Jashton Gieser from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

A Bird's First Sunrise

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 22:03:40 GMT

Written by Kaylee Da from Rectory School — Connecticut

I awake early, before anyone

alone, alert –

conscious of my existence.

Perched on my branch,

I look down at the quilt of birds slumbering there

and wait and wait,

every morning

again, and

again.

I look through the stained void

of a life with no ends.

The darkness stills in a pitch-black atmosphere

around me

I hear and listen

for light.

A sudden thud,

someone called its name.

Tou-tou.

The bird looked around at

dim trees and the grass

gloomy flowers and clouds

As white as the snow

awake,

a rooster stood right next to me .

A grand and beautiful bird

with a radiating red crown,

and yellow fur that looked like stars,

Boldness,

the rooster grabbed my hand

And climbed up to the tallest peak,

GO–GO!

The morning broke,

and there it was,

An enormous burning red globe rose so high up to the clouds

The Tou Tou bird screeched.

And just as that first morning broke into a prism of light,

two birds singing under the newborn sun.

They had finally been given their voice.

Freedom

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 21:58:16 GMT

Artwork by Hannah Infantado from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Eyes on the Horizon

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 21:55:15 GMT

Artwork by Hannah Infantado from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Mystery Fruit

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 21:49:50 GMT

Artwork by Grace Thurber from New Visions — Troy — NY

Mother Earth

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 21:45:52 GMT

Written by Kacper Kaczmer from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Original piece: Mother Earth by Shaylah Omar (2021)

Mother Earth from which we all came

Mother Earth to which we shall return

Your beauty is beyond compare

Why do we take so much

When all you do is give

From the top of frigid mountain peaks

To the warm basins of water down below

We find life in its natural state

Why is it that we let it fall to ruin

One unfateful day, we may say goodbye to your beauty and grace

The brilliant orange leaves of the forest replaced by blazing orange fires

The calm grandeur of ocean waves replaced by hateful hurricanes

Innocent animals evicted from their homes

We must protect you

For you give us so much and ask for so little

Old School

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 21:41:04 GMT

Photography by Ethan Alcee from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Marsh

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 21:39:04 GMT

Photography by Ethan Alcee from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Poetry of Feelings

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 21:27:44 GMT

Written by Emma Wrieden from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

1. Mirror Mirror

I don’t see what you see.

I feel insecure.

When I look in the mirror,

I’m numb.

It’s not bad,

But certainly not good.

Will I ever feel confident?

I’m sad,

Gripping my fat.

Man, it sucks.

My insides squirm,

I’m uncomfortable.

In my prime,

During my lows,

Loving body

I can’t…

2. Trapped

I’m trapped in a body

That is not my own

Hatred flows through its veins

Sadness through its arteries

Its heart pumps in disgust

And each capillary is filled with hurt I breathe in air

But this body turns it into tar

I was not meant to look

Like this…

The was not supposed to be MY b ody These hands are not mine

This face is someone else’s

This is not me…..

Please

Fix me…

3. Empty/Numb

I feel empty.

Somehow drained

My life is passing by & everything is blurred It’s like I’m looking down on myself Through broken glass,

And I don’t even recognize myself. Hours drag on into infinity.

Sleep, go to school, eat, repeat. Every day I don’t want this anymore

To feel numb. As if immersed in emptiness The only thing that makes me feel better In the hope that it will be over someday. Maybe sooner than I thought.

4. Beauty Hurts

Not any words

Can heal the wounds you caused

Not any passing time

Can release me

You took my world

To blend with beauty

Beauty was sorrow

Beauty was pain

Beauty is not always beauty.

We pay for our life,

For a moment of it.

5. Prison

The prison of the mind

A cell, darkness, confined,

So many souls, filled with dread

Claimed, shackled to the thoughts in the head

6. No Understanding

You do not understand

The fluids coursing through this body

Are tainted by oil

The weakest spark could set

These hazardous bones ablaze

Devouring my frame

Until I return to the dust

From this I came

And I always carry a match

Scope Variations

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 04:12:34 GMT

Artwork by Davis Snyder from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

A Lucid Dream

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 04:04:32 GMT

Written by Elizabeth Boggie from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Title from “A Lucid Dream” by Tahanni Yehya Hussein, 2022 edition, page 24

A Lucid Dream

It wasn’t the first time they’d sat here. Both sat across from each other, politely pretending that having coffee at this hour was completely normal.

“Ya got me up with your screamin’, Gene. Clawed my face when I shook you.”

Gene winced, looking closely at the scratches scabbed up near the other’s jaw. His eyes trailed over Bill’s face, accidentally making eye contact. Bill was casually lounging, cigarette in mouth, like he hadn't just been attacked.

“Havin’ a hard time sleepin’?” He said, smirking, holding Gene's gaze. Gene stubbornly shook his head, breaking eye contact and stood up. He patted his legs, looking for his own pack of Lucky's, eyes flitting around the table by him. It was technically the truth; Gene had an easy enough time falling asleep, but staying asleep was a different demon. He would toss and turn, writhing against air as he dreamed, unable to shake the fear away. Bill knew this, having been there through most of his fits, their rooms only barely separated by the thin wall.

His thoughts broke as Bill tapped his pack against his leg.

"Here. Stop fretting. Not like you woke me or anythin'," Bill's voice was impossibly gentle, unlike his normal harsh drawl. “Lord knows I’ve done worse to you.”

Now that bit was true. Gene strongly remembers waking to Bill’s shouts, darting into the other’s room only to be popped in the face by a wild fist. He had to field questions for weeks, all while his cheek and jaw ached smartly.

Gene accepted the pack, fishing out a lone cigarette. He pointedly looked away as he lit up, staring hard at an interesting patch of wallpaper.

"All right. C'mon."

"Huh?"

"Let's get some air. Not like either of us gonna be sleepin' anytime soon." Bill had stood up, and was now snickering around his cigarette as he grabbed Gene's shoulder, hand tight.

"Wait! My coat!" Gene protested as he was unceremoniously shoved towards the door, pushing back against Bill's unwavering strength.

"Won't need it, idjit." Bill said fondly as he grabbed the door handle and pushed them both through the frame. As always, he didn't bother locking the door behind them, something that endlessly irritated Gene.

“Lock the damn door. One of these days you’re gonna leave it unlocked and someone’ll just stroll in!”

“And who's gonna just stroll in?” Bill looked around pointedly. It was quiet, the hour made readily apparent with the lack of sound emanating from the buildings around, pavement lit by streetlights. Gene made an odd noise of frustration, torn between a hiss and a growl.

“Ain’t no one in their right mind out here. And it’s cold. Why’re we out here?” Gene questioned, arms coming up around his chest, only a worn sleep shirt separating his skin.

Bill didn’t answer, eyes straight ahead, his hand moving to grip Gene’s wrist. He gently tugged Gene down the street, destination apparent only to him. His hand was the warmest thing around, the wind further chilling Gene to the bone.

“Bill. Please, let's go inside. I’m cold, I’m tired, I want to go back to bed,” Gene whined, staring at the back of Bill’s head. Bill remained quiet, head tilting as the only acknowledgement that he was even listening. It was then that Gene registered how quiet it was. The only thing he could hear was Bill’s unsteady breathing, and the sound of his bare feet on the pavement.

“Bill!” Gene exclaimed, pulling his wrist from Bill’s grasp. “Where’s your damn shoes!”

“Back home. C’mon. Let’s keep going.” Bill had turned around then, eyes darkened as he looked over Gene’s worried eyes. The scratches on his face had pinked up, dried blood darkening the wounds. He reached forward to grab onto Gene again, grip impossibly tighter. Ducking his head down, Bill moved forward again. Gene sighed, surrendering to his friend's odd behavior. Bill had never made sense, even back when they first moved in together.

"Why weren't you sleeping? Was I bothering you?"

"No. Just don't get much sleep is all. You know how I am." Gene did know. Night owl Bill, always chugging down coffee, always chain smoking to no end. Gene could count on his hand how many times he'd caught Bill actually asleep. Even when Bill had woken him that one night, he'd already been conscious, apologies spilling from his month as Gene laid dazed on the ground.

Gene was torn from his thoughts as the silence of the night jarred him again. Shouldn't there be some sort of noise? An animal or even the wind? Gene glanced up at the night sky, expecting to see the crescent moon above. Instead, there was nothing.

Unsettled, Gene looked back to Bill, who was still mindlessly walking along.

"Hey Bill? Something seem up to you?"

Silence .

"Bill?"

Silence .

Gene harshly ripped his arm from Bill's grasp. Backing away, he stared as Bill turned slightly, angling his body in a way that blocked Gene from seeing most of his face.

"Bill. This isn't funny. I'm going home," Gene turned around, leaving Bill standing there. As Gene walked, he got more and more frustrated.

"How the hell did we get so far away! It was a straight shot!" He mumbled, walk turning into a run. The more and more he ran, the sound of Bill's feet patting on the ground grew louder and closer.

"Gene!" Bill growled, grabbing onto him again. Gene pulled away and sprinted. Going as fast as he could, hearing Bill close behind, fear struck.

What is going on? Why is he chasing me? Where am I? I've been running forever!

Gene grunted as something collided with him, smacking him harshly against the concrete. Bill tugged him around, grabbing him harshly as he wrapped those strong hands around his throat. Bill’s eyes were as dark as the sky, and he held onto him tight as Gene thrashed from his grasp.

Gene shot up, screaming, as his nails connected with warm flesh.

Book of Life

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:57:40 GMT

Written by Daniel Kagan from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Turn the page my little motivation

Rob yourself of a loud life so you can see your future

Create your own inspiration

Avoid a normal structure just to achieve the final elevation Rob yourself of a past so you can see your future

Keep it to yourself as you push through any barriers

Create a sense of failure and fall into an academic culture Fall in love with a sense of winning

False sense of obligation and pressure surrounds you

Forget the journey but remember your beginning

A quiet life created not chosen by you

Turn your page and finish your work

Pick up the pieces of your present and maybe then you will have a clue A clue to what you really are

To why you are here

For what you are to become

Finding yourself meant one thing

You want to help others grow to their fullest

Imagine what you could be if there was nothing in the way of your dreams If you just changed the flow of your thoughts

Turn the page and realize you can create your own book

You are a role model not for others

Rather you are the best version of your present

Your future or past no longer will hold you back

You find a way to grasp the flow of this present

And ride it

as all the dreamers have before you

Run with it

As all your relatives have before

Lie there

As all the fallen have before

See only the endless space just to realize your dreams could be just that No more searching

Things will now come to you

No more hiding

Your deepest fears away from your view

Fall in love with freedom

Breathe, you got through the book

Create a new page and never spoil the ending to yourself

Life Is Heavy

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:52:19 GMT

Written by Dah Blue from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

From Drowning by Sage Baker

Published 2022, page 17

-"Life is heavy"

Life is heavy, dreams are nightmares... I have tried to wake up from the nightmare, it has pulled me in deeper and deeper.

Screamed and shouted for help but nobody heard.

Left with nobody to turn to, stuck in a place that I wanted to desperately get away from.

Feeling helpless and grasping for life.

Feeling scared and lonely but nobody to turn to.

Trying to wake up but my eyes wouldn't open.

I feel lost in nightmares of my own. Crying and screaming but nobody was there.

Waking up feeling scared and grasping for air as I had never felt this pain before.

Chilly Nights and Red Lights

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:43:48 GMT

Photography by Susannah Schools from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Traffic

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:40:33 GMT

Photography by Susannah Schools from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Queen Arachnid

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:37:13 GMT

Artwork by Victoria Harris from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Queen of Spades

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:33:16 GMT

Artwork by Victoria Harris — Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Witness to the World's End

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:25:00 GMT

Written by Coco Song from Emma Willard — Troy — NY

I walk through the world’s end.

All its history in my ear, it whispers,

mourning its destruction in sorrowful rain,

its supreme occupants, destroyed. Yet, I sense

only peace in this human-less world. A night’s dream

or night’s terror, is this? Without a care, the green lives

on in this place where no human can continue to live

and ruin. For now, I will walk through the world’s end,

and eventually, I will wander into my conclusion. But I dream

of a companion, to listen to the child-like wind’s whispers

race through an empty meadow, nomad clouds who sense

the beckoning and call the graceful rain

to descend to the soil. But I alone watch the wind, clouds, and rain,

and wonder as to why it is only I that shall survive and live.

I am less than the embodiment of a human, in a sense,

for ambition has left me on this serene terrain. The world’s end,

a canvas under my feet. I heard a tragedy whisper

when I walked through an abandoned atomic plant. I dream

of its former grandeur; it was built in honor of a dream,

unaware of the catastrophe that upon this dream would rain.

The crumbled cement, formidable ivy, and deathly silence all whisper

to me. Remain dead! I will command. Only I, alone, shall live.

Tempt me not, specters, for I will walk until the world’s end.

Cease this madness, and I demand to be returned to my senses.

I will keep walking, vanquishing slowly, forsaking my senses,

in this dazed, broken world, this world born of a dream,

step after step. I have wondered - has this world no actual end?

Clouded are my thoughts, but I shall walk through this misty rain

of insanity. For I am the only entity who sustained and live,

So for as long as I prevail, I shall be the witness to the world’s whisper.

It grows louder, transparent; it calls and grasps at me, the whisper.

A paradox: talk to me ! I say. But resist ! I plead to my senses.

Oh, but I will forget that with me my senses no longer live,

For they were forsaken in that land of forgotten dreams.

I can feel fragments of bygone humanity rain

down around me. Is this, at last, the final end?

The finale of this world, is a whisper in a bleary dream,

and I wonder how many worlds have met their end on a rainy day.

I watched, senses lost, while humanity perished and its ghosts lived…

Stereotypical Fathers

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:19:13 GMT

Written by Crista Spizowski from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

“What did I do wrong?”

I ask myself when looking back in the past when I called you my father

“Do you even care?”

I ask myself as I see you walk by with your new family

“ Why do you hate me?”

I ask myself as you deliberately try every way to ignore my existence

“Why do I even care?”

Why does it hurt every ounce of my body to see you with someone new

“Do you even love me?”

Why don’t you care about your other children and our well-being

“Why do I keep going back to you?”

I ask myself as I look for every possible way to find connection with you

“Do you want to see how I’ve grown up?”

It's been 18 years since you’ve left and not one phone call, letter, or message came from you

It's been a long 18 years with tons of ups and downs but you were just an obstacle that I defeated and now I’m onto the next…

I did it all without you

Moving Forward

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 03:04:25 GMT

Written by Cynaisha Williams from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Taking steps forward

Not two steps back

But two steps forward

Here I am entering adulthood

But as I should

Who knows what I could become?

Walking the stage but I knew I could

Making my parents happy.

But as I should.

Taking steps forward

Growing into more

4 more school years but on a college floor

Signs coming at me I can't ignore

Leaving a legacy from door to door

Taking steps forward

I want more and more

Was just a lil kid

Now I'm growing into something bigger than big

I fear no doubt I admit

Even if I do I cannot quit

Taking steps forward

From an HEOP student to a Nursing student

Midnight on the Doomsday Clock

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:54:16 GMT

Written by Coco Song from Emma Willard — Troy — NY

History lectures told angels will descend on Judgement Day,

an interesting image as tangible as summer’s breath.

I see no angel, only Death as he reaps his way.

There are tasks left to do, and words left to say,

but ninety seconds is all we have until our final death.

History lectures told angels will descend on Judgement Day.

Gazing afar as unseen angels loom closer to where I stay,

it is hard to imagine wings upon white fury and yellow wrath.

I see no angel, only Death as he reaps his way.

My eyelids shut as imagination fails me. Should I pray?

Maybe Heaven will take pity? A bitter laugh will escape my teeth.

History lectures told angels will descend on Judgement Day.

Is twenty seconds all that’s left? I have lost count midway.

The tomb of our humanity shall be this desolate Earth.

I see no angel, only Death as he reaps his way.

Now from existence, we wipe ourselves away

as no one shall observe our downfall, and mourn the aftermath.

History lectures told angels will descend on Judgement Day.

I see no angel, only Death as he reaps his way.

Surgeon's Tools

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:49:14 GMT

Artwork by Chloe DeSilva from CreativityUnleashed — London

Warning - This is Not Your Home

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:46:56 GMT

Artwork by Cassandra Bond from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Me: Components of Self

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:44:02 GMT

Written by Coco Song from Emma Willard —Troy — NY

When I was born my mother

gave birth to three creations.

The first: a bird who arrived

in her arms, flightless and ugly.

The second: marigolds that she

planted in the month of October.

The last was a marker, unbound,

that danced on everything.

Murals formed on our apartment walls.

My mother taught her bird to fly and about

the joy and dangers of the vast, blue sky.

When the marigolds sprouted from the dirt,

she gave them to friends who birthed flowers too.

The marker was forgotten, collecting dust.

When my father saw it, he freed its colors.

But sometimes my parents’ eyes would become blurry;

they watered the birds and fed worms to the marigolds.

My father kept the marker full of ink

and taught it to color the world.

Then one summer, a Storyteller

who knitted with black letters instead of yarn

received the marker from my parents.

She built castles, soldiers, and princes

that were only seen with the heart.

That summer my father’s marker

learned how to draw with Words,

to create fitted lines.

And though they looked colorless,

the stories within never lost vibrancy.

Time passed until the bird grew strong and proud

and soared through the colorful world alone.

The marigolds grew out of the garden,

drank rainwater, and befriended the sun.

But the forest was harsh,

and the birds sometimes had to fight to fly.

The sun would hide and wind would strike the marigolds.

Flowers died, and then new ones grew.

But the marker never ceased to scribble,

adding bonus chapters to reality.

Through the hunger and resilience of the bird,

the dead leaves and new buds of the marigolds,

to the marker, they returned home,

safe within the comfort of its lullabies.

A Drop in the Ocean — The Ocean in the Drop

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:24:52 GMT

Written by Cassandra McMullin from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

A drop

The ocean

I will always be

Because

I worry

There’s nothing

In this world

For me

A speck

Compared to me is

The brightest star

A wreck

Is all you see

So far

Something’s wrong with me

I’m foolish for thinking

A drop can change the sea

Because I know

I am not enough

Don’t tell me

I can do so much

They’ve made me believe

Since birth

I may be

A speck in the universe

Mighty

But

Small

Fade away

My light won’t

Shine like the stars

A speck

Compared to me is

The brightest star

A wreck

Is all you see

So far

Something’s wrong with me

I’m foolish for thinking

A drop can change the sea

Because I know

I am not enough

Don’t tell me

I can do so much

Just take a look at me

I’m no more than a ripple in the sea

Don’t tell me

I belong here

——————

I belong here

Don’t tell me

I’m no more than a ripple in the sea

Just take a look at me

I can do so much

Don’t tell me

I am not enough

Because I know

A drop can change the sea

I’m foolish for thinking

Something’s wrong with me

So far

Is all you see

A wreck

The brightest star

Compared to me is

A speck

Shine like the stars

My light won’t

Fade away

Small

But

Mighty

A speck in the universe

I may be

Since birth

They’ve made me believe

I can do so much

Don’t tell me

I am not enough

Because I know

A drop can change the sea

I’m foolish for thinking

Something’s wrong with me

So far

Is all you see

A wreck

The brightest star

Compared to me is

A speck

For me

In this world

There’s nothing

I worry

Because

I will always be

The ocean

A drop

Torn Realities

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:17:55 GMT

Artwork by Carlo Rossi Occeño from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

fertility

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:15:28 GMT

Artwork by Carlo Rossi Occeño from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Overflow

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:11:04 GMT

Written by Cara Michaels from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

my paint chipped nails spill words onto the page

what was inside overflows, a dam breaking under the weight of alliterations and metaphors

the deadly stare of Medusa rests on my back

tattooed into my skin, the ink of her snakes boiling in my veins

i become venom to those who burn me

turning them into stone ensuring they never hurt again

Wild and Free

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 02:04:45 GMT

Artwork by Bailey Bates from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Third Player

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 01:56:10 GMT

Written by Christopher Bean from Creativity Unleashed — London

In a Devon chapel, surrounded by trees pressing so close the quality of light inside takes on the aspect of being underwater, we wait.

I’ve always waited. She did things in her own time; this moonlight wedding was testimony enough.

Eventually, the organ swells and she appears at the narthex, framed by notes. Even over its blast, you can feel the intake of breath, an anticipatory silence.

There she is, walking to her appointment with the man her parents are delighted she’s marrying. I get the idea she’s not human, but a translation of the Gospels in human form; female Messiah.

She ignores me. I squat, malingering with unfinished business, in the backmost pew, hidden from the judgment of the congregation’s earthbound eyes.

As she passed, I recall I always considered her taller than I, even though the reverse is true. But the dress that seems somehow upholstered upon her rather than worn, towers above me, its crepe, gray folds as dramatic as the White Cliffs.

Moving imperceptibly, as if only my expectation divines movement, she proceeds from nave to knave. I tell myself her legato is borne from reluctance. She has no love for him: the safe bet; the accountant.

What does he know of her needs? What does he know of the touch that electrifies her just below her ear, or how she wriggled with delight under my fingertips?

Can he sit with her in silence in the same room without the need for trivial talk, in a love that transcends words?

It takes a woman to know a woman.

I hang on to her words, dreading the “I do”.

Hanging on her words … a sick pun.

As the bouquet is thrown, I return to the lament as the keening wind blows over my grave.

Seeing Purple

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 01:47:06 GMT

Artwork by Bailey Bates from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Age Identity

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 01:43:53 GMT

Artwork by Bailey Bates from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Split/Ascend

Thu, 01 Feb 2024 01:41:00 GMT

Artwork by Ashley Busby from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

The Knife or the Idea

Wed, 31 Jan 2024 04:10:44 GMT

Written by Aryanna Zeigler from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Which came first, the knife or the idea? This bounces back and forth in his mind now as he looks down at the blade in his hand. It must be clean now days later. His mother must have gotten to it or rather ordered someone else to do so. But with it so close again it still feels stained. He brings it closer to his eyes without thinking – is that blood there? A string of fiber caught in the handle? Has it been dulled at all?

It was unlikely. He only used it once. There was only one time it entered a body and there was only one time it left. He thinks that before that, it may have been a gift. It may have sat unassumingly on the wall or a table as it was displayed to those in his household. It may have been sitting there when this all began. That is how he found himself here in the first place. Which came first?

Does it matter if the knife had been there before they began their planning, as they argued over details and finalized the ultimate act? Does it matter if it had been there for years if he had never noticed it until now? If the first time he truly paid it any attention was the first and only time he used it?

A laugh begins to bubble up and out, and it escapes before he can stop it. This knife – this gift – would have been given to him to thank him for his work. Had he done any work worth being gifted this at that time? It feels unlikely. It feels as if he hadn’t done a single thing before using it. He wonders if he will ever do another thing again.

When he found himself home again afterward, his mother was losing the fight to hide her glee from him. He could see it in her eyes if not her face. She knew as he did that a somber mood was expected, not just when facing the public but when facing the others. That if they truly believed in why they did this, they would not be gleeful after completing the act. But the two of them also knew that she did not hold that belief, that she had her reasons. He wondered if he believed it, still. Wondered if it mattered at this point. Which came first, which came first?

Before being led home, he was told that what they did was a great and important thing. That he was a hero of the republic. A savior. He would have believed it more if it were not coming from bloodless faces and shaking voices and darting eyes. That was probably why he almost believed it when it came from Cassius, so steadfast in the belief that they did the right thing. Did he still subscribe to that original root idea? Had he ever? The knife or the idea, which came first?

He wishes that he could remember where the idea began. He had a vague sense of when it was first said out loud, voices hushed with fear even in locked rooms. He wants to remember how he reacted to it initially. Was he surprised? Disgusted? Angered?

Resolved? Or, was there a part of him that thought of every slight, intentional or otherwise, and let that wounded pride take the lead in his actions?

In his mind, a scene plays out and he does not know if it is memory or invention. He sees him sat down with Cassius’ intentions finally laid out in front of him, no more attempts at subtle needling and insinuating. He sees himself considering and thinking it over, already making slight changes to wordings and dates and actions, all hypothetically, never committing mentally or emotionally or vocally, not yet. And then he sees himself look beyond Cassius, to himself – no, to the knife. The blade that once hung on a wall or sat on a table and was once a gift and now sits in his hand, beneath his eye, is now an extension of himself and the tool of a killer. He sees himself, this memory or mirage or manifestation of guilt, sees him look to the knife and slide it into his increasingly less hypothetical plans with ease. Which came first, which, which, which?

He had never been a warrior. It was never expected from him. His mother wanted him to lead – she wanted power and that was the easiest way to get it. Everyone else wanted him to be a symbol. They wanted in their corner the name of his father and his family line, but they did not want him to take advantage of it for himself. They would all be happy then, his mother and the rest of them. They had all gotten what he wanted. But what did he want? To lead, to gain power, to gain peace? Which? Which? Which?

He tested the weight of the knife in his hand. It felt heavier now than it ever had in use. In wielding it, it had felt weightless. It was as if someone else had been guiding his hand – his mother's face flashed before his eyes for a moment – which which which? It had been as if he had taken a step back from his flesh, had watched the spirit puppeting him create the wound, and came back just in time to feel the warm blood staining his hands begin to cool. Just in time to feel someone over his shoulder, to turn and see Antony’s white face in the doorway.

For a moment then he wonders - which, which, which – if he should not have argued against killing Antony, as well. If it would have been perhaps more merciful to remove him from the equation entirely rather than leaving him with the knowledge that he failed in the only job he ever seemed to excel at – killing for Caesar. He wonders what exactly stalled his hand and swayed his judgment if it were simple duty or something else. Which which which.

He does not wonder, if he had to choose again if he would once more spare Antony. He knows he would.

Would he try to recruit him, then? Sway him to their side if at all possible. He had brought it up to Cassius once. He suggested it when the other man had once again appealed to him the case of including adding Antony’s name to the list beneath Caesar’s. His response had been swift, and his voice held no lack of exasperation.

“You do not extend your hand to a rabid dog after cutting down his master. You turn the blade to him next.”

But he could not help but indulge in the thought. Now that all that Antony felt for him was hate, it felt safer. There was no possibility of it occurring and there was no risk of immediate retaliation for him going to Caesar with the plan or, worst of all, unflinchingly rejecting the idea. No, of unflinchingly rejecting Brutus . Of standing face to face with him and looking him in the eye and telling him no. He had never been able to handle rejection from Antony. Spoken or inferred, it had always made him impulsive and angry in a way that he was so rarely familiar with.

But now that there would be no rejection, now that the possibility of it had grown into war, he let himself sit with that original idea. He let himself indulge in an Antony that would have said yes. In a world where he was not standing alone now with only a blade cleaned at his mother’s order of the blood, she had guided him into spilling with it. A world where he was instead with Antony, standing or sitting or lying together. A world where he did not have to reckon with his act of taking a life, because Antony had done it instead, and he was so very familiar with the business of it already.

Once he began, he could not bring himself to stop. Would Antony be torn apart by the act? Would he have to comfort him for what he did, assure him that though he had cut down the man who cared for him as a father, he was a savior of the people and the republic, and Brutus, a hero? Or maybe he would have to coax emotion from him, maybe the other would close up his feelings on the matter within, maybe Brutus would have had to find a seam and help them spill out so they did not drown him from the inside. Which which which which–

He startled at a noise from a neighboring room, towards the entrance of the villa. His mother’s return, perhaps. Or a conspirator, Cassius perhaps, arriving to gloat or reassure. Brutus’ outward expression made them lean more in that moment. Whichever, whichever. Which, which, which.

He set the knife down on a table. He momentarily spares a thought over whether or not that was the table he originally grabbed it from, but quickly lets it go. He is beginning to realize it does not matter. Where the knife sat, if it preceded the idea, of the idea was his or his mother's or Cassius’ or some other, aging Senator’s. If Antony would have joined, if he would have turned him into Caesar or spared him, if the rejection would have killed him if he wished he had asked and had been turned down and it had killed him and he did not have to ever find himself in the position he was in now.

None of it mattered now, anyway. He made his choice. He saw that now.

Big Eyes

Wed, 31 Jan 2024 03:51:47 GMT

Written by Aryanna Zeigler from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Big Eyes

A child, a young Girl, looking ahead.

Not directly, but near.

Her hair was blown back and to the side,

it flies up behind her and across her face.

There is a look of recognition

or horror

or both

she is in a field - corn.

She is grasping at stalks, pushing them

getting closer.

She is wearing a dress, puffed sleeves, and a pressed collar,

a stringy ribbon around the neck.

Her eyes are largely off-putting

wide watery

her face is blotchy and haunted.

two large teeth in the front

draw your attention,

an upturned, rodent-like nose.

She isn't an ugly Girl, but

the look of terror across her face

gives an air of unattractiveness -

or maybe the impression that she was pretty

once.

Unlikely Friends

Wed, 31 Jan 2024 03:43:42 GMT

Written by Anna Kung from The Bement School — Massachusetts

Unlikely Friends

“Shh. You can’t come with me yet.”

I see Kian every day doing exactly what he is doing now. He speaks to things that aren't there—in hallways, in the cafeteria, in the playground. He seems to be engaged in conversation with the air everywhere. Students at our school talk about him constantly, but he doesn't seem to care. Or, maybe it’s just that he doesn’t notice.

On one particularly bright Wednesday afternoon, I saw Kian after school standing at the little nook overshadowed by trees. The nook was placed at the side of the school’s fence, a few steps away from the sidewalk, and to the left.

That sunny day, my curiosity got the better of me. After looking away for a moment because of an almost neon Goldfinch whose flight path to a tree suddenly caught my eye, I returned my gaze to Kian. But by this time, my classmate had started walking towards the forest aligned against our school garden. My burning curiosity defeated my wall of protection against things that aren’t any of my business. I followed him as quietly as possible. As Kian neared the forest with me close behind him, I heard faint whispers coming from him.

“Are they all there?”

Deeper in the shadowy woods, the faint whispers were muffled by the sounds of little paws and the flapping of wings. And I almost persuaded myself that I could hear something replying to him.

After what felt like an age, Kian stopped in his tracks upon reaching a small clearing, with the afternoon sun beaming down and the tree’s shadows elongated. He looked in both directions before taking a few steps forward. I followed, and what happened next, I will never forget.

I was in complete shock and my brain almost didn’t process what I saw. Spirits rimmed the clearing. Yes, you read that right - spirits . Spotted between them and through them, birds chirped joyfully and shafts of the sun made the glade glow with the golden sunlight. Blue spirits walked gracefully as they surveyed Kian with their milky, blue eyes. I wondered for a moment if the birds themselves could see the spirits amongst us.

I also watched as the spirits walked through trees without being fazed. Kian seemed to be the only thing they could touch, apart from each other. And as I watched him commune with these creatures, he seemed so unlike his personality at school. Within the halls of Sunnyfields Academy, he seemed apathetic to whatever happened. Now, he was happy and smiling, relishing the warm afternoon sun that shined through the trees.

He started to talk now, the whispers being replaced by confident tones. “You guys understand me, don’t you? The other kids don’t.” A little Mountain Bluebird cheeped and tilted its head as if it was asking a question. “I know they talk about me in the hallways. I can always hear their whispers.” A Red Deer stag cleared its throat, all heads turning towards him. With a touch of contempt, he said, “Such impudent behavior of those children. What do the adults even teach them?” His deep, booming voice made many of the birds jump and flinch, one bird even hanging upside down because of its surprise.

I turned away from the clearing where Kian was, hiding behind a tree. I was beginning to feel as if I really shouldn’t be listening to this private conversation.

To this end, I began to slowly tiptoe my way back to the nook next to the school's fence, thinking I had gone unnoticed. Little did I know at that time that a small, incandescent friend of Kian’s had noticed my presence there. He wouldn’t make himself known to me for some time.

Later that night, as I lay in my bed, I thought about what I had heard. Kian, the weird kid, really just seemed lonely and desperate for company. He had no friends at school and his home life was equally mysterious as his presence at school. Considering that he seemed to spend so much time at school alone or indeed in the forest, I could guess that his parents were too busy for him.

Eventually, after having witnessed Kian’s conversation in the forest, I noticed a little transparent, furry animal, somewhere between a raccoon and a red panda, beginning to prowl the hallways. The first time it did, I let out a yell of surprise. The other kids in the hallway putting their bags away into their lockers looked at me in the same way that everyone did at Kian.

All eyes were on me, and I suddenly felt overwhelmed by their stares. A feeling of helplessness washed over me, as if I were a turtle with no shell. Open. Vulnerable.

After that day, there seemed to be no end to the animal’s regular visits to Sunnyfields Academy. Math, music, english, anywhere. After days of badgering, the animal seemed to have given up until I saw a furry blue head peeking at me from outside the window. I sighed. Eventually, I gave up trying to avoid the strange animal, knowing that it would find me either way.

Once I realized that Kian and I must be the only people that could see these animal spirits, I continued to ignore the one that had followed me, until my last class. My curiosity again got the better of me. I needed to know what animal it was; I drew a picture of it and showed it to my teacher.

“That’s a binturong! Did you see a picture of one? These are really rare, endangered animals!”

I shook my head no. She again looked at me in an inquisitive manner, so I headed to the hallway before she could ask more questions.

While I walked home that day, the spirit appeared in front of me again. I crouched down and said: “You’re a binturong, aren’t you?”

I huffed and stood up, wondering why I had expected the spirit to talk back. I really was starting to lose touch with the real versus the fake. My imagination seemed to be running rampant. Just as I turned around to keep walking, a voice behind me said, “I actually can speak when I want to.”

I whirled around, wondering where the voice had come from because I looked everywhere but couldn’t find a person. The voice, in a rather frustrated tone crossly said, “Down here, Stupid!”

I looked downwards, fixing my gaze upon the Binturong spirit who stood there on the street.

“Dense kid.”

The Binturong looked up at me from the pavement with its entrancing, milky blue eyes and strange ears that looked like anything but ears. It cocked it’s head and said, “My name is Tara. Kian needs you.”

I stood in stunned silence. I never expected that I would see spirits, let alone talk to them or have someone need me.

“W-why does he need me and not some other kid?”

Tara gave me a condescending look. I decided it would be best for me to keep my big mouth shut and not get on her bad side.

“He needs someone that can understand him.”

Tara led me to the clearing where I had first seen the spirits. At that point, I stopped trying to wrap my head around everything that had happened in the past two days. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Once again, Kian had his back to me, soaking up the warm, sunflower-yellow sun. I took a step towards him. As I approached Kian, through the sides of my eyes, faint blue wisps dissolved into the sunlight beaming through the trees. I have never forgotten what it felt like to gather up my courage and say what I needed to.

A twig cracking under me made Kian turn to face me. He looked to see who or what had made the noise. I took a breath.

“Hi. I’m Viv.”

Contradictions of Existence

Wed, 31 Jan 2024 02:35:34 GMT

Written by Angelina Wang from Phillips Exeter Academy — New Hampshire

Contradictions of Existence

…from blazing fires of anger

to bright, shimmering joy,

we traverse a minefield of fear,

and hide from the dark rain of misery.

it makes us human

to breathe,

to laugh,

to wail,

to weep

to taste our tears and tell of our fears.

but I do not feel the waves of

these violent flames or downpour-rains,

the blinding lights nor the fearful cries,

because all my

particles of life

are empty,

ever alive –

but dead inside.

Handbook for this new tiresome existence

Wed, 31 Jan 2024 02:17:50 GMT

Written by Amy Pass from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Anticipation

Wed, 31 Jan 2024 02:11:09 GMT

Artwork by Amanda Bastiani from Russell Sage College — Troy — NY

Longing

Wed, 31 Jan 2024 02:06:57 GMT

Written by Amanda Bastiani from Russell Sage College - Troy — NY

Longing…

Beautiful

Sorrowful

Unforgettable reflections of what was

Dreaming of what could be

Grieving with seemingly no end

A heart and soul

With memory like an elephant

A river never full

Momentum never satisfied

An ache with no cause and no cure

An unspoken void

A search quest with no guide

No vantage point

A vision almost seen

~Amanda Bastiani

Frustrations

Wed, 17 Jan 2024 21:10:13 GMT

Written by Unknown from Haringey Sixth Form College - London - UK

2020 seems to be like that horror movie we are too scared to watch yet we continue to peel back our fingers because we can’t stop watching. We can’t stop watching what continues to unravel as each month progresses.

And with recent events, the horror movie reached its climax as the whole world watched a black man by the name of George Floyd plead for his life numerous times in the hands of police custody, or should I say police brutality because that is what it is.

For so long, we have witnessed the senseless killings of our black people at the hands of the police and it further reinforces the disease that is racism. Racism, as we know, is prejudice, discrimination or antagonism directed against someone of a different race based on the belief that one's own race is superior. In the last 400 years this has been the case, from the capturing of the first 20 Africans who were enslaved against their will back in 1619 and if I’m honest, I ask you the question - what has changed?

I’m hoping that as you read this you become a little infuriated. This is good because I hope you’ll channel that anger and rage in wanting to do what is necessary to bring about change and equality that black people have practically been begging for; because we have repeatedly been ignored and continue to experience this modern-day lynching by our white counterparts on a day to day basis.

The outrage at the atrocious and barbaric murder we all witnessed for almost 9 minutes online sent shockwaves throughout the world, uniting black people from country to country who now demand not only justice but a revolution. It leads me to question you - what is your ‘why’?

Over the decades, we have suffered so many senseless murders, from the likes of MLK all the way down to Trayvon Martin but enough is enough! The large protests and outcry for justice have been so encouraging and uplifting but we must remember that this is not a trend.

The movement that is Black Lives Matter is simply not something that sparks up every now again for us to be fired up by to then have that fire quenched and eradicated but must now continue to be shoved down the throats daily to remind people that we matter!

There is nothing uncomfortable about posting a black square and commending yourself for ‘speaking up’ when in fact all you have done is simply the bare minimum. This conversation about racism is supposed to be uncomfortable and hard to swallow for those who do not understand the implications of it.

So continue to protest, continue to speak up, continue to sign petitions and most of all, continue to donate your money where possible but do not let this be an act of performative activism for you to then return back to your daily life after all this has died down. It matters now more than ever that you educate not only yourself but others on the history of black people and what we have been fighting and continue to fight for each and every single day.

Read books on race relations, watch documentaries on those who have been fighting the good fight, engage in conversation and call out those who are ignorant and do not want to learn. Submerge yourself in black history and culture as much as you can to stay educated because as a wise man once said…

For the marriage of wisdom and wealth equals power.

Seeking approval for your activism on social media is not activism at all. Again, this is not a trend. This is real life. Real people. Real stories. The Black Lives Matter movement is not an aesthetic or challenge or simply diminished to just a #HASHTAG and I urge whoever is reading this to remind yourself what your why is.

Dear Institutionalised Islamophobia [9.5.22]

Fri, 17 Mar 2023 15:57:36 GMT

Written by Sumi Nam Kita Rakhtam from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

Institutionalised Systematic Islamophobic Speech,

your name is too long for my mouth to read aloud,

so instead I’ll call you all ISIS, that okay?

No? Sorry, it’s just easier, no

need to think that this is a personal attack

like the bombs you dropped

into every word you stacked

against me, telling my brothers, my sisters,

my aunts, uncles, mothers and fathers,

that you think are radicalised and unable to think

for themselves, without being misguided.

Romance novels can be so sad sometimes.

Have you ever read one?

Girl meets boy, boy wants to go on a date,

she leaves in the night to meet him, honest mistake,

comes back pregnant and bearing children with needs

but because she’s Muslim fled to Syria, we leave her to bleed.

She isn’t Syrian but there is no way she’s British,

we can’t say that this is

in any way, shape or form, to do with us.

We can’t be afflicted

with this illness that is

clearly what this young teenage girl had,

she was brainwashed, desensitised,

her adolescent hormones couldn’t stop her

so why care if she dies?

Your ISIS says no, revoke her ID,

provoke the public so no empathy

can dare to shield this heinous crime,

this deceiving criminal who’s outwardly

just a poor woman, in a foreign country, with kids to feed.

But forget this,

let’s talk to you about education instead,

when children want to cover their head

because they were taught to be modest

and this was a way to stay honest.

How many teachers saw this

and stood, terrified, of a child

who wasn’t even half their height,

yet still donning this symbol of antagonised

piety. Yes, that’s right, that’s all

it was ever meant to be.

Bishops can join the House of Lords

based on that shared trait,

and schools are encouraged to

make trips to the church to do the same,

but no prayer rooms, no changing rooms,

nothing’s ever put in place for us.

Because your ISIS says we’re too wrong to exist.

There’s no age of consent for injustice

but apparently with age comes ignorance,

and let me ask you, this one question,

in a world of masks, we have had no use for faces.

You ignored the deaf people, asking for lip readers,

defending that masks can’t ever be clear but

still no move, to ever teach a language of hands,

underhandedly limiting them in every way.

But okay, we’re allowed masks, they’re great!

I agree, they protect others and we’ve learnt

that we can easily work if we make this compromise.

So why?

Why would my niqab be any different?

My veil, my mask, part of my existence?

Why is your ISIS so insistent that wearing a veil

would create great confusion, great calamity,

oh! What terror! No more can you see my teeth!

I’d understand if you phrased it in any other way,

because yes it could be hard to lipread,

yes it could be hard to check ID,

yes it could be used to hide skin that bleeds.

But those aren’t your reasons. Because you don’t care do you?

You just follow what your ISIS tells you.

No schools, no universities, no workplace

allows us to express ourselves freely

because you need to be able to check on our face

that we aren’t concealing any schemes, any hate

that could brew into a storm, right underneath your nose,

because somehow, you fear us and our powers,

whilst stamping us into the dirt under your toes.

And teachers who dare to cover up,

this is their way of life and entirely their choice,

these educated people with big brains and hearts

are forced to choose between living wage

or throwing protection away from their face.

Because you, ISIS, you think of the children!

You’ve finally thought about them again

and how obviously they’ll never learn empathy

or hear the teacher properly if they can’t see

their face, no! It would only traumatise them!

Platefuls of my childhood were full of classes

taught by women with cloth behind glasses,

their veils would only ever show their eyes

but as those are the windows to the soul,

none of us ever needed more

to hear their lessons and see them smile.

But obviously, this isn’t proof, we must be lying,

because what other reaction would children have

than fear, afraid of dying

at the hands of this teacher, obscured by blackness,

so similar to the images in horror movies they know

and live off the fear of - the monsters in the dark.

They’re never exposed to a human, whose safety

is to be wrapped up and covered in shadow,

so how can these children grow up to believe

that these veils lead to people and not monsters

that will feed off of their sorrow?

Dear ISIS,

I just came to ask you to stop lying to yourself.

We know you hate us anyway.

[Author Note: I did this in around 30 minutes so it is partly fuelled by rage, though the second to last stanza was made in 10 minutes and added on an hour later. This was written to be submitted into a poetry challenge, the prompt was to write a letter to something I thought needed to change or was oppressing others, that was ending at the very day and hour I started writing this so it isn’t very refined and I didn’t even submit it with the penultimate stanza. I had “Dear White America” and “Dear Hearing World” in my head as I wrote this, meaning it’s a piece that was half consciously written to be performed! It details a lot of islamophobia that I’ve heard about from the point of view I’ve learnt to see it from, but mixed in with my own experiences.]

Souls

Wed, 15 Mar 2023 14:38:55 GMT

Story written by Ella Miller from New Visions - Troy, NY, USA

Illustration by Cristina Signoretti from New Visions - Troy, NY, USA

I am sitting in the passenger seat of my client George’s truck. It’s likely we are breaking some sort of doctor-patient confidentiality rule, but I’m too intrigued to care. Plus, George is no snitch. He’s on the older side–late sixties, I think, with graying hair and a pretty bad rotator cuff injury. Definitely one of those guys who gets hurt and puts off going to the hospital because of pride. Friendly, but not too friendly. Wears a lot of flannels. Normally I don’t get along so well with these older guys, but I’d say George and I are friendlier than I am with the average patient. I really look forward to chatting with him every week.

I’m in his truck because we’re going to meet his brother, who is apparently some sort of vehicular genius. It was strange. At his appointment last week, while he was in the middle of his doorway stretches, I happened to mention that my husband and I were interested in buying a car.

“I’ll stop you right there,” he’d said. “You gotta talk to my older brother. He’s the guy you go to for this kind of stuff. He’ll get you the best deal possible. Really, Sarah, I mean it. It’s the least I can do for you after you helped me out with my shoulder.”

“I get paid to help you out with your shoulder,” I said. “That’s kind of the whole idea that the physical therapy business is built on.”

“Just talk to him,” George said. “I can take you sometime this weekend. It’s like magic, the way he can help you buy a car.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We were just planning on going to the dealership this weekend.”

George went uncharacteristically silent. “Sarah, think of it as doing me a favor. At the same time my brother is doing you a favor. It’s important to me.”

His seriousness surprised me. “Fine,” I said. “Why not. Let’s do it.”

Now, three days later, we drive silently down an incredibly bumpy road. It’s not too late, nearing dusk, but the sun has sunk below the knobby trees surrounding us on either side of the road. I might be nervous, except George isn’t at all. He’s pensive, though. In the three months we’ve known each other, I’ve never seen him like this. But that could just be the fact that we’re always in a pretty clinical environment together.

“You like my truck?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. It’s fine. It’s a fine truck.

“My brother helped me buy it.”

We drive on until we reach a small house. It’s wooded on all sides, trees so close to the house that their branches reach over it, almost blocking out the sky. George parks the truck and we get out. It’s a cute little cabin, a blue-gray, that looks like it was built here decades ago and almost never changed. George unlocks the door with a key on a key ring that contains a suspicious amount of keys. I wonder what he unlocks all day.

A little dog bounds out of the house towards me. It stands up, placing its paws on my jeans while wagging its tail. I give it a pat on the head.

“Down, girl.” George says. “Sorry. She gets excited for visitors. Not many people coming around here much anymore.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tally,” he says. “She’s not mine. She’s my brother’s.”

“Is this your brother’s house?” I ask. From the way he unlocked the door, I was under the impression he lived here. Something about it was authoritative. That, and the fact that his truck is the only vehicle in the driveway.

“He used to be the principal owner,” he says, “but now we share it.”

“Oh,” I say. “Will he be coming later, then?”

George looks at me blankly. “He’s already here.”

Inside the house is pretty much what I expected: wood-paneled walls, knick knacks covering the shelves, a presence of dust, a stagnant smell. The kitchen, dining room, and living room are one space; two doors lead off into what I can only assume are a bathroom and a bedroom. Tally has disappeared entirely. Maybe there’s a doggy door somewhere. I find myself realizing I half-expected George to have a wife, but finding out he’s by himself doesn’t really surprise me.

The thing that does surprise me, though, is the condition of the dining room table. It’s wooden, circular, half a leg missing, and the two place settings at the middle are encircled by a ring of candles. Candles of all shapes and sizes, all of them with drips of dried wax that indicate they’ve been well used. Some of them look just like dried wax puddles that somehow still have a wick. Most of them look homemade. There are two breaks in the circle on either side where I assume we’re meant to sit. I gaze incredulously at the display.

George grabs a lighter from a cabinet and begins to light each one. I don’t know what to say. He’s a strange man; I knew that already. But this is weird. Not quirky-weird, or I’m-about-to-get-killed-weird, just plain, regular weird . An eccentricity of an older man, maybe. I would have expected a hunting obsession, or maybe some questionable political views. But candles are really out of left field.

He makes eye contact with me. I find myself wanting to shy away from it, to walk away from the living room and out of the house. But he drove me here, and we haven’t even met his brother. And I would like a good deal on a car, if I’m being honest. It’s not just the intrigue of George’s brother that’s brought me here. I also want to save money. Physical therapy doesn’t pay top dollar. And it’s this promise that makes me keep the eye contact, to take a deep breath, and decide to continue with whatever this is.

“Sit down,” he says. There are two chairs facing each other on opposite sides of the table. I sit.

“What car are you thinking of buying?”

I almost feel silly answering. “A Kia Soul.”

“How much do they want for it?”

“Nineteen thousand.”

“How much do you want to pay?”

“Fifteen thousand.”

“Alright,” he says, “let’s get started.”

He puts his hands facing upwards on the table, and after a moment cocks his head to indicate that I should hold them. I do, although I don’t know what I’m doing. “Close your eyes,” he says. I do.

“Bernard, we contact you from the great beyond,” he says.

Immediately, I reopen my eyes. “What?” I say. “The great beyond? George, what are you talking about?”

“Close your eyes!” he yells. “Bernard, forgive her. She knows not your ways.” All of a sudden, the candles begin to flicker. I feel a breeze flow through my hair, not unpleasantly. “George, what-”

“Trust me,” he says. “Do you want the Kia Soul or not?”

It’s stupid, but I do. So I close my eyes. I’ll be so mad if I get murdered.

The wind in the room picks up, circling George and I, around and around the table of flames. He’s murmuring things in some language I don’t understand–and if what I think is happening is happening, it’s probably Latin.

“George,” I say, eyes still shut, “Does your brother happen to be deceased?”

“ Haec femina opus est ut emendo a Kia Soul !” He yells. The wind is almost deafening now, and I instinctively want to let go of George’s hands and cover my ears. But I don’t. “ Quaeso, frater, hac raeda indiget !”

All of a sudden, the wind stops. Abruptly. I feel my hair settle on my shoulders. “You speak Latin?” I ask, although it feels quippy. Like I’m an action movie character really trying to get a joke in. It’s silent, more silent than anything has ever been before. George lets go of my hands And then:

“Open your eyes,” he says.

I do. There, standing next to George, is another man. His brother. Bernard, I guess. He’s a little shorter, a little fuller in the face. But they’re very obviously siblings. I can tell by their twin smiles, which both grin at me. There’s one clear difference, though, which is that Bernard happens to be slightly transparent.

It’s like looking through a glass, or a cellophane sheet. He’s not clear–he’s still got clothes and skin and all that–but I can sort of make out the needlepoint sign that reads “HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS” on the wall behind him. It’s bizarre.

“Hi there,” he says in a gruff voice. He sounds a bit tinny, like he’s talking through an older phone with poor reception.

“Hi,” I say. “George, what is this?”

“ This is my brother,” he says. “Sarah, I expected you to be a little more respectful.” “No, what is all of this?” I ask.

George, still sitting, tries to put his arm around Bernard. It goes through his torso a little bit. “He’s my best pal. I only see him like this anymore.

When I can put my arm right through him!” He waves his arm back and forth through Bernard, which is only a bit disturbing. Bernard shivers.

George stands up and procures a third chair from another small table in the kitchen. Somehow, Bernard sits down on it.

“So,” he says. “You’re thinking of buying a car? A Kia Soul, I hear.”

“Yes,” I say meekly. “A green one.”

“Great,” the ghost of George’s brother says. “So why don’t we start by comparing some prices–you are preapproved for financing, right?”

I don’t know how much later it is by the time we’re finished, but the sun has set entirely. The windows are dark, and Bernard’s spectorality is more apparent now. His skin shimmers and ripples like water.

“Alright, so just sign here and here,” he says. At one point, he had conjured up some forms out of what seemed to be thin air– forms about insurance, maintenance, the whole lot. It didn’t occur to me until maybe halfway through that I would actually be buying the car from Bernard.

I assumed he would just help me with some bargaining strategies and send me off to the dealer, but no. He’s got all the paperwork here, except for the actual car. I’m not sure how that part will work. Or how money works in the spirit world.

I sign. George grins. He’s been having the time of his life here, happier and more animated than I’ve ever seen him. He kept interjecting, to talk to his brother about remember-whens and to add in new updates about his life, his shoulder injury, Tally. Bernard answered everything he said with a peaceful countenance, calmly dismissing each subject before they went any further.

Bernard picks up the form. “Excellent,” he says. “Well, I’ll be going now to get the car all set up for you.”

“Oh, it’s been so good to hear your voice, Bernie,” George says. “I’ll find another person soon, I promise,”

“Another person?” I ask. Using the term ‘person’ to refer to me makes me feel like I’m some sort of sacrifice.

“For his unfinished business,” George says. “This is his unfinished business. The way the state of the economy was when he died, he’s gotta stick around a little longer and help people buy the cars. That’s the only way he can cross over.” He tries to tousle Bernard’s hair but fails, due to the fact that it’s only semi-present. “Otherwise, I’d be calling this guy up all the time just to hang.” His voice has an emotional quality I don’t often associate with him. He must really miss his brother.

“Goodbye for now, George,” Bernard says, looking fondly at him. George looks close to tears. “I’ll be seeing you.”

He fades away. The candles extinguish on their own.

After I console George, which is weird, I walk outside to see a skeleton holding a clipboard leaning against the side of a brand new green Kia Soul.

“Cash or credit?” it asks.

Ark of Lies

Wed, 15 Mar 2023 14:08:08 GMT

Written by Yuhan Sissi Zhu from Shady Side Academy - Pennsylvania, USA

Make the boat that saves us all.

It is Noah’s ark,

The only one that transcends the law.

It won’t break, will never fall

Made of steel sheets, metal hearts,

Heralded by countless stars.

Fit for the one who wears the crown

Bright and shining, beloved by all

We’re mere supporters,

Praying for light.

A touch, a glance, a glimpse will do,

For he is the righteous,

The gospel truth.

We are intellectuals,

Believer of the right,

Of Noah, his ark, the light that blinds.

We fear the darkness the water holds,

Stab the hands trying to stay afloat

Who’s to know who’s below?

As we go on,

The sea becomes oily.

Dark flames rage across the sky.

We start wondering,

But still choose blindly, believing,

Having faith that we are right.

At long last the Ark finally sinks,

Countless fires draw us in.

We drown.

What greets us isn’t the burning hell,

Or a bottomless pit in which one would dwell.

It was green pastures and clear blue skies,

It tells us the truth that we had denied.

Is Noah’s ark so easily boarded

Once we embark, we become puppets

The two kings argue for what is right,

We are the kind that follows the light.

Deceptive as all may be,

We do not think before we speak.

Imposter Syndrome [1.5.22 1-2 am]

Wed, 15 Mar 2023 13:01:51 GMT

Written by Sumi Nam Kita Rakhtam from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

From across the sea,

back to “where I’m from,”

is a plethora, a pandora’s chest,

of new anxieties.

But the key to its lock

knows no place for rest,

for the mask, where I can’t see

if who I am is who I should be

or if all I am is a bumbling mess,

slips on. Not wherever I may be,

but when I am at a place of prayer

and peace - it holds my sight under arrest.

A coloniser in my own home,

back in the desh, the best of Bangladesh,

my country of birth and beginning.

It is beautiful and vibrant, sky sewn

with diverse calls and colours sundried bright,

and houses rich with a mosquito’s singing.

I shriek and startle, unnerved with woe,

the village is rural and different - I’m struck

by unfamiliarity in almost everything.

Distrustful of its true potential, I’m thrown

between admitting deceit or painting my portrait a fool,

my mask of mockery never bleeds despite the lying.

Not a word can be spoken

to coerce me into ease,

not in Bangla, nor English, nor any other

way can console me. My manner is woven

with anxieties, many I’ve never before heard

and that didn’t cross with me over the border.

Overwhelming love, seldom rare in moments

is all that surrounds me there, wrapped in the warmth

of my enthroned title as eldest granddaughter,

but seldom rare also, is another’s token.

Could this love dissipate to hate, to spite, to rage?

If I reveal my true nature, would they turn to my past and mourn her?

At a masjid, back in England, sitting with a cousin,

wearing a coat in the sun, catching a cold, spreading one,

waiting for orders, dutiful and on command,

speeding ahead to lend a helping hand, causing

a good laugh with a joke or two, feeling at ease,

distracted by talk and work’s demands.

Volunteering is easy, volunteering is fun,

I can’t ever relax with a rested mind

as doubt trickles in, slicker than quick sand.

It’s Ramadan, it’s great, I spend time cutting

out lanterns, mindless work perfect for me.

But without it, I’m rendered mentally unable to stand.

An imposter, who wears no veil and yet is masked.

A muslim who has no business being where they are.

An actor who’s deadly enough to be thrown off stage.

Wracked by guilt, helpless without mindless tasks,

I put on a smile like normal and felt horrible. How dare

I exist when someone so much better could be in my place?

I need to work. I need to help, around my neck, my collar’s clasp

is chained to my usefulness. I must make up for earth

that is trodden on by my shoes, the air wasted on my face.

My silent apology for my being, my subservient part

unwilling to accept that I deserve to be anything other, for after all

my chapter’s dark ink must never stain anyone else’s page.

My deeds are done,

they’ve been done by me.

I’m an imposter as a Bengali.

My deeds are done,

by none other than me.

I’m an imposter as a muslim hijabi.

My deeds are done,

the only one who can claim them is me.

But what deed have I ever done

that proved I deserved for that person to be me?

[Note: I went to Bangladesh for three weeks and felt like I didn’t belong there due to my lack of skill with Bengali and being out of touch with its customs. A few phrases in the second and third stanzas are true thoughts that ran through my head in my time there: “coloniser in my own home” “mask of mockery”. The second half is about my going to volunteer at a nearby masjid, that I’ve known for years, with my cousin yet still feeling out of place with all of the people there. This one is more vivid and thus more focused and accurate to the thoughts I had there.]

The English Teacher - Whose Voice is it Anyway?

Wed, 15 Mar 2023 12:53:06 GMT

Written by Mandy Gwilt from Russell Sage College - Troy, NY, USA

Tonight I sat and took in every Christian bullet

pro-gun-anti-abortion-fuck-feminism-repressive American tongue

and I wanted to scream. To then bite it off.

To end that voice and give you back your own…

There are nuances that stretch

beyond curriculum,

the discussions, debates,

presences and silences.

The moments that matter; the moments that teach .

These nuances punctuate education .

Education. The subject – irrelevant –

until you finally settle upon English.

And everyone. Everyone . Has an opinion.

A strange, safe, but curious creature

is the English teacher,

whose doctrine supports and far outweighs

the double nature of the stained glass,

but who is scary in her abandon.

Scary in her presence,

in her desire to

step across that boundary and talk about it.

But a squeaky voice of contextual wrongness speaks,

always, stifling and stirring and poisoning -

a red mosquito that pricks from a small-mouthed tongue

too weak to understand nuance.

Excluded and jealous.

Arrogant and proud.

Too much so to stretch.

To go beyond curriculum.

No. To them, there is no nuance.

But the English Teacher embodies the

nexus of all that is possible.

We expose, question, enable and promote

all that is to be and will be and should be

and could be.

But we are the bag

and the punches

hit thick against thin skin.

We become, and you always were, trashed.

“I hate English.”

If I had a dollar for every time…

“I hate English.”

But what do you mean?

What does this unrequited hate even mean?

And whose voice is this actually?

Tonight I sat and took in every Christian bullet

pro-gun-anti-abortion-fuck-feminism-repressive American tongue

and I wanted to scream. To then bite it off.

To end that voice and give you back your own…

No Longer Afraid

Wed, 15 Mar 2023 12:46:11 GMT

Written by Edith Sandulescu from CreativityUnleashed - London, UK

I am a Romanian woman

who sings loudly:

"Wake up, Romania,

from your sleep of death and

let your shameless body be covered

in the blood of those

whose demise was for the

land you proudly call your own.”

I am a Romanian woman

who devotes herself to a labour day,

silenced and scared of her own shame

to proudly say:

“I am a gypsy woman,”

because your shame stays my voice.

I am a gypsy woman

whose skin documents a dilemma

unspoken -

my brown shade has made someone

look away and another

change their seat

to face the other way.

I am a Romanian woman

for 260 days.

I carry myself and I glare and I stare

until I speak out loud -

"I am a Romanian woman,

despite my brown hair,

a shade that doesn’t fit

your image of a normal Romanian head."

I am a gypsy woman

for the 105 days left

because you can't pretend

every night and day.

Your body moves on every song you play

and that red shade fires up

once placed upon your face.

The man you spelled the other day

thinks only about your lips and

their red shade.

I am a Romanian woman

so when I place my hand

next to your arm

you don't have to chest your bag -

I am only resting that hand.

I am a gypsy woman

when you need my help

because your husband cheats and

you’ve been held in despair’s embrace.

Despite your disgrace

with your hand placed in mine -

Now, to read your future

seems more important than my race…

But when can I be both

Romanian and gypsy,

proudly shouting:

"I am a mixed woman,"

no longer afraid?

Seven Tips to Help You Stand Up Against Sexism

Wed, 08 Mar 2023 10:59:06 GMT

Written by Lori Cui from St. Mark's School - Massachusetts, USA

Introduction

What is sexism? As defined by Male Idiot Theory (MIT) Dictionary, it is “the prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against men, because of humanity's stupidity and ignorance to world equality and equity issues.” To our avid readers of Men Are Awesome Magazine: by reading our seven tips below, you and all your patriarchal friends can stand up against sexism.

Take A Joke!

“Just take a joke?” or “Stop being so sensitive!” are perfect ways to stand up for yourself! If someone overreacts or gets overly sensitive to a comment you made, simply use the two phrases above, and boom, no more sexism for you. You will never be called a misogynist, because men can make as many jokes as they want!

Celebrate International Men's Day!

Ignore the tweets from the Gender Pay Gap Bot or report them. The day should be celebrating you (instead of discussing petty little wage gaps that don’t matter)! So what if a woman makes less than you do? The wisest man to have ever lived, Aristotle said that, “The male by nature is the superior, and the female inferior; the one rules, and the other one is ruled.” What wise and accurate words from our past philosophers. So, ignore stupid programs like the Gender Pay Gap Bot, have a drink or two with your buddies today to celebrate another successful day battling sexism against the superior sex.

Befriend the Taliban + Support The Morality Police Brutality!

Ever since the Taliban seized power in Afghanistan, they have banned girls from returning to school. This equates to around 850,000 girls without education and solidifies your status as the breadwinner in the family while women cook and clean the house, where they belong. Being friends with them can lessen the sexism that you, as a man, will face! They can provide protection and advice on how to subdue women.

The Iranian morality police have also taken these efforts to an applaudable level, killing Mahsa Amini, a deserving dissident who didn’t cover her hair properly! Befriend these folks as well, and they can tell you other ways to subdue the flimsier sex. These extremist groups will become increasingly supportive and helpful in the future of the patriarchy to battle sexism!

Blame The Victim!

If a “rape” case is revealed to the public, blame the victim! What was she wearing? Where was she? What did she say to lead him on? Of course it’s her fault that a man inappropriately touched her without her consent. She didn’t say the word no loud enough or often enough! She didn’t tell him to stop. She didn’t say an enthusiastic yes , which is exactly what consent sounds like.

Blame the victim, because it is always their fault. Otherwise, if you don’t, then the wronged man will be charged, and it can ruin his entire future – a terrible fate for the patriarchy! We absolutely cannot let women stand up for themselves; we have to victim-blame in order to teach them their place.

Continual Conditioning Objectify + Indoctrinate!

Keep promoting the fact that a woman’s worth is in her appearance. Dumb blondes will never be a threat to you, and no one would dare to ever be sexist to you again because they won’t have the brains to do it! A woman should preen and keep up her appearance. The ideal: a toned, long-legged body above five foot nine, golden ratio, plump lips and breasts, an ample buttock, long, lush hair, and weighing less than a hundred pounds. Divert their attention away from useless, petty things like education and jobs, and push them towards beauty clinics and treatments. Indoctrinate them to believe that they have to look like supermodels all the time, or men will not desire them, and they will become lonely, depressed, single cat ladies.

Of course, even after women push human babies out of their bodies, they have to remain supermodel-like. There is simply no exception! Push the bikini body agenda and body shame them. If someone doesn’t have the perfect proportions, skin, or weight to wear a bikini, why should they be wearing one? Call them out for inappropriately wearing a bikini! It benefits everyone! Now there will be fewer single women, and more beautiful ones who are in happy, picture-perfect marriages with multiple children who will continue the cycle. Repeat after me: a woman’s worth is in her body and appearance. Use your power of the male gaze to create inner conflict between women. Force them to understand that they dress for men, and not for themselves. Propel them to believe that a man can do whatever he wants to their bodies! A man owns a woman through his male gaze, so use this to dictate and control the female population. Job well done.

Stigmatize!

Continue the cycle of stigmatization to keep men as the superior sex on top of the hierarchy! Why do women naturally have body hair? It’s gross! But of course, men should have body hair as a symbol of masculinity, an obvious way of protesting against the sexism that restrains the superior sex. And it’s not gross at all!

Why do women naturally bleed once every month? That’s disgusting! They need to keep it hidden; no one needs to know about it! It is the only blood that doesn’t come from violence, but it is the grossest one. These women should continue with life, like horseback riding and swimming, and drinking that delicious blue water. If they stop exercising for a week or more, they will no longer be able to retain that beautiful supermodel body that every man loves.

And finally, stigmatize feminists. They are only weak, ugly women who can’t hold down a man. They often even turn into lesbians! They are directly sexist towards us men and are impossible to tame! Feminists will never do anything for our already overpopulated world, especially to create life and continue future generations. They are a complete waste of space, and completely deserve society’s stigma. Down with the feminists! Down with the lesbians!

Withhold Higher Positions For Sexual Favors

How can women be allowed to receive higher positions than men? Their body is their currency. So if they want something from the superior sex, they have to pay for it with their currency. Make women work twice as hard for something just because you can. This strengthens the patriarchy, minimizing threats of sexism towards yourself.

What if they refuse to pay with their body? Then take it! After all, we can victim-blame and slut-shame her until she is depressed and takes her own life. Then we wouldn’t have to deal with the annoying aftermath that she can bring through the #MeToo movement. If she does climb to a high spot, continuously ask the question: who did she sleep with to get here? Harass her for an answer until she resigns because EVERYONE knows that she got promoted for her body. Equal opportunity is a direct threat to the patriarchy, because you might fall from the high position that you were born into! Withhold these higher positions until a woman finally accepts her place: beneath a man.

Conclusion:

All tips above can cement your spot in society as the superior, and better sex. Use these tips often, and you’ll never have to face sexism again! Next month in Men Are Awesome Magazine , we will share the results of applying these tips, so please be sure to let us know how the process went! And keep an eye out for our upcoming expo on “How Patriarchy Can Save the World.” Until next time!

What Brandy Melville Actually Brands

Wed, 01 Mar 2023 02:35:34 GMT

Written by Samantha Li from Shanghai High School International Division - Shanghai, China

They say it is the legacy we leave that matters. Though Brandy Melville’s garments may not survive the washing machine, it is a sure thing that their brand philosophy-- one size fits all—will be remembered.

Of course, one would be foolish to think “all” in its literal definition, since the brand has revealed that “all” refers to: all white, all tall, and all thin. That is because the shop derives its unique sense of power by selling only small-sized clothing, and hiring only attractive, white teenagers as their staff.

And due to recently successful marketing, Brandy Melville has gained popularity amongst teenagers, its target customers. Their advertisements feature beautiful girls dressed in their extra-small apparels. The resultant message? That only wealthy and attractive girls should buy their clothes. The notion is reinforced by their rumored hiring policies that favor “beautiful girls” (whatever that means). The stores exist from Asia to North America, a huge pathway of destruction for the well-being and self-esteem of girls.

One rightfully ponders why a brand explicitly marketing white supremacy and the objectification of women would be popular among the generation of our future. That is because what Brandy Melville really brands is the “privilege” of being a desirable object in a male-dominated world.

On social media, whether it is China’s XiaoHongShu or America’s Instagram, there seems to be a never-ending trend of #brandymelville. What is it that drives teenage girls to starve themselves to fit into clothes when their clothes should be fitting them?

Brandy Melville successfully exploits the power of the male gaze in modern contexts, and the vulnerability of self-conscious teenage girls under a relentless patriarchy. Women often lack agency in this world since what society accentuates in them is often factors beyond their control, such as their physical appearance. So who defines the standards for proper female beauty? It is a single, unifying voice that inspires beyond cultural boundaries. This voice takes the form of shops like Brandy Melville.

Across the globe, women struggle in their fight for liberation and equality, but mainstream culture’s negative impact on them restricts their vision and opportunities. This ultimately impels them to conform into rigid patriarchal expectations, like fitting into a size small at all costs.

Women’s relationship with femininity is like two magnets with the same pole: the male gaze defining it repels women’s motivations to reconnect to it. So let us forget about Brandy Melville, forget about the despotic standards of womanhood reflected in their new line of clothing, and forget about the scars that have been maliciously branded onto us.

We embody femininity. We define femininity. Not Brandy Melville’s board of (wink wink) directors.

12 Minutes After Take-Off

Wed, 01 Mar 2023 02:19:52 GMT

Written by Mason Peng from The Governor's Academy - Massachusetts, USA

“5…4…3…2…1!” Katie shouts as she looks out from the small window excitedly. Paris is only 7 hours away.

The TWA flight takes off towards the night sky, shooting beyond the clouds just like innumerable others have before it. Katie’s ears pop, so that pain rushes up and crawls out of her eardrums. Her hands clutch her screaming ears while her legs flutter like the wings of a butterfly. Her eyes fill up with tears, sparkling in the dark cabin. She leans her head on her mother’s shoulder, her two strong little hands grabbing onto one big red dress. Her mother pacifies Katie and soon, the little girl falls asleep in the arms of her protector and hero.

6 minutes after takeoff, Rico runs his fingers on top of his delicate camera, wiping off any stain painted by the can of soup that exploded all over him. He cracks each one of his knuckles, but gets incredibly irritated when his thumb does not pop. Rico stretches his arms like he is making taffy, pulling vigorously several times until he lets out a heavy sigh. The smell of old carpet hovers above the thin aisles, accompanied by the dim lights, and unleashes an ominous force that seizes the passengers. Rico, however, is not bothered. He hums a joyful melody while he cleans his soiled finger on a plain-white towel that lays on his armrest.

10 minutes after takeoff, Michel looks around anxiously, realizing that a button fell off from his well-ironed shirt. He scrambles the items inside his pocket in hopes of finding a replacement. Behind him, the man with a camera stretches, accidentally kicking Michel’s chair. He flinches when his finger collides with a small thumbtack. As the droplets of blood run out of his pale pinky, his anger ignites. Michel turns with force, staring into the man’s dilated pupils menacingly.

11 minutes in the air, the plane is dead silent. Pam rests peacefully between her two daughters, softly running her hand through her youngest’s hair. She lies in Pam’s arms like an angel. The moonlight refracts through the window, summoning a halo hovering on top of

her head.

11 minutes and 30 seconds, the floor quakes. Jed pulls his seatbelt tighter, and his face hardens. The beautiful coast of West Hampton Dunes is a minute spark on the edge of the flame called Long Island. As Jed puts his back against the seat, the floor quakes a second time.

“Mom, I’m scared…”

A beam of bright white illuminates the aisle like heaven’s gates opening, covering the cabin in Pure Light. Jed Johnson sits up slowly, amazed by what he can see - Andy Warhol now waiting at the edge of a starry night.

God's Algorithm

Wed, 01 Mar 2023 02:15:27 GMT

Written by Jingxuan Zhang from Shanghai Pinghe School - Shanghai, China

Millions of years ago

the first human stepped out of a cave as

God programmed the light above him.

Streams, peaks, waves, forests –

let them sing with humanity.

Countless people began to meet and collide.

Many lives entangled in a vortex

more and more complex as

God's code developed.

He looked at those summer greens withered in winter,

wrote a fate to reforge the broken mirror.

He wrote laws in our minds,

let all complexity have commonality,

wrote the fatalistic program

that kept his PC from overloading.

He believed life should have a rhythm,

and gave space for evolution.

All Gods' business begins with people's thinking:

Galileo invented the telescope.

Quickly change the 2D star mapping to a 3D solar system.

No! My planet is broken.

Kepler said there should be a planet between Jupiter and Mars.

Sprinkle a circle on the track, say it is fragments of a tidal pulling.

Telescopes look farther and farther away.

The scene needs to be rendered bigger and bigger.

God talks out loud to himself:

It's over! The speed of the computer has reached its limit,

and the frame rate cannot increase.

What if our device updates can outpace the speed of light?

Then tell them that the space can be folded

like a wormhole.

The space for human activities is not enough.

What if they're going to run out of the earth?

Change the plane to a curved surface -

a sphere is the best.

God looked at his magnificent programs,

a satisfied smile appeared.

He opened his diary,

hurriedly wrote in the annals of the Earth:

Worms grow out of the spine.

Fish climb onto land.

Apes retrieve fire.

Humans dare to explore.

A Redefinition of Abuse by an Abusive Government Power

Wed, 01 Mar 2023 02:08:01 GMT

Written by Haoyuan (Kevin) Tu from St. Andrew's School - Delaware, USA

On February 23, 2022, Texas Governor Abbott pushed his government to investigate parents of transgender children, accusing them of ‘child abuse’ for supporting them in their transition. Although the Texas courts would successfully stop this move, the fact that it occurred at all is a worrying reflection of governmental transphobic attitudes.

Under Texas family code, only those actions that harm the child in physical, mental or sexual ways, are defined as child abuse. The state governor’s attempt to uncover potential abuse in this context conveys a dangerous and prejudicial message. Plainly stated - his message is that transgender people are abnormal.

So what is the big deal about something that didn’t actually come to pass? The fact that Governor Abbott’s declaration can potentially inspire other conservative states to do something similar, but perhaps next time, with success. This will be catastrophic for transgender youths within them. As transgender people become more visible in daily life, it becomes more crucial to understand them rather than preventing them from being who they are.

Firstly, being transgender is a part of one’s identity, similarly to any other traits that contribute to who we are. As the 18th century English essayist William Hazlitt reminds us, ’Prejudice is the child of ignorance.’ It is this ignorance that defines conservative legislators like Governor Abbott. The Texas’ governor shoving heavy burdens on families is literally the worst thing he could do. Think about it - if parents are unable to

support their children in finding healthy ways to transition, these young people will find ways to do it themselves. Imagine how many more deaths and infections it would cause with surgeries completed by unprofessional doctors. Seems to me that that is what should be called ‘child abuse’.

Some argue that this policy attempts to lessen the rate of “detransitioning” later. It is true that the detransition rate in the US is 8 percent, and is the highest globally, but it is conceivable that the high percentage is caused by the lack of communication between youth and their parents. With this fundamental support, teenagers will be better informed than if they had to tackle this alone, which is what Governor Abbott suggests. Moreover, people often make decisions they regret later. If you want to decorate your body with a seriously suspect tattoo, no one criticizes you if you suddenly decide to cover it later. If mind-changing is allowed in our daily lives, then why isn’t it for our transgender youth?

And anyway, there is no guarantee that they will even change their minds.

Helping transgender youth safely transition into the body they feel they need should be paramount to any state government. The Texas governor should be ashamed of himself for using his platform to promote intolerance, and must listen to an open letter by a transgender man within his constituency. August Huerta reminds Abbott that, “A free state cannot value one life over another; and as the governor, neither should you.”

August, Huerta. ‘“We Will Persist and Prove You Wrong:" A Trans Texan's Words

For Governor Abbott.’ Them, March, 11, 2022,

https://www.them.us/story/trans-texan-open-letter-to-governor-greg-abbott.

Child Abuse Laws.’ FindLaw,

https://www.findlaw.com/family/child-abuse/child-abuse-laws.html March, 29, 2018.

GenderGP. ‘Detransition Facts and Statistics 2022: Exploding the Myths Around

Detransitioning.’ GenderGP, https://www.gendergp.com/detransition-facts/ Jun, 21,

2021.

Goodman, David, J. “Texas Court Halts Investigation of Parents Over Care for

Transgender Youth.” The New York Times published in 2, March ,2022,

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/03/02/us/texas-transgender-child-abuse.html.

Hazlitt, William. “On Prejudice.” Blupete,

http://www.blupete.com/Literature/Essays/Hazlitt/Prejudice.htm published in 1903.

Ribs

Sun, 20 Feb 2022 17:56:46 GMT

Artwork by Baransel Kutlu from Haringey Sixth Form College, London, UK

Ribs - Series

Pink

Fri, 16 Apr 2021 15:41:55 GMT

Written by Emily Boehm from Russell Sage College, Troy, NY

Artwork by anonymous from Haringey Sixth From College

The telescope of his mind was thin and narrow, and he was trapped. He was Remi, he knew, and he was alone. The marbled walls were pink and glistening wetly, a sheen of something slick and slimy clinging to the surface. He avoided touching them for fear of transferring that marbled slick onto his hands—did he have hands? He looked carefully at them, studying the slender fingers, cocking his head. Were those hands? He didn’t know… What were hands, anyways? Was there anybody around to tell him? Who even knew?

Not him, that was for sure.

All he did know was one thing: he was Remi. Remi was him. Remi lived here, so that meant he lived here, did it not? So why did this place look so unfamiliar? He walked slowly up the hall, looking every which way in a fruitless search for an exit. Minutes, or hours, passed. He didn’t know which.

A grotesque crow fluttered past him, perching on nothing but empty air. It cocked its head and peered beadily at him, letting out a loud screech and beating its wings. It did not move, and neither did Remi. They stared at each other.

“Look at yourself!” it screamed, voice shrill and reminiscent of a nagging older mother. “God, just take a look at yourself! God! God! God!”

Feathers burst in his face and the crow flapped away, shedding feathers from its rotting flesh with every flap of its bedraggled wings. Slowly,

Remi looked down at himself, the shouts of the crow still echoing in his head.

He was skinny, naked, and… a vine of purpled bruises dotted up his inner arm, and… oh… his arm? Remi’s head swam. Mmm… he moaned, stumbling. The floor vibrated, sending him tipping off to one side, and he fell against the wall. His hands splayed out, catching himself, and he waited for the world to steady itself. What was that? What had just happened? His retinas were stinging.

There was no other choice available to him but to walk with his hands sliding over the wall for balance, because every few paces the floor would jerk and bounce. It was as though this place did not want him going down this way, and every few steps he would hear the crow again (“God! God! Just look at yourself!”), and see its bloody feathers scattered on the floor.

He ran after it, ran and ran until he came into a bigger expanse of hall, a sort of room in the middle of it almost like a lobby with no doors. The crow could still be heard, but was it real, or in his head?

The ceiling here opened up into a sort of atrium, and above him, just beyond his reach, was a balcony, and a spindly ladder stretching up to a hatch, which surely must lead out of here. On the balcony rail perched the crow, gazing down at him and still emitting its screeching cries. If only he could climb up…

He would try, he had to. Against the wall, Remi’s hands scrabbled for purchase, but hapless, he sank to his knees and screamed. Like the walls, the floor, too, was pink, with a gross greyish hue to it. The ceiling too, and a clear, viscous fluid oozed between smooth folds, falling in thick drips to puddle around Remi. Miraculously, none of it touched him.

“Somebody help me!” he screeched, voice cracking. “Please!”

“God! Just look at yourself! God!”

The smell of this place was rancid, cloying. It gathered in his head and in his lungs, heady, until he was all but intoxicated on the ill sensation in his gut. Airflow quickened in his lungs and he drew in a sharp, gasping breath and let it all out again in a rapid huff, and did so over and over until his thoughts were mushed and fuzzy around the edges. A hoarse yell escaped him and he collapsed forward, sprawling out face-first onto the waxy floor. He could stay and melt here, he thought, just lay and melt away and die…

“God! God!”

He screamed again.

“Noisy, ain’t ya?” asked a nasally little voice.

Remi rolled onto his back, the air stopping completely. A warped little creature hunched beside his face, its blank white eyes overlarge and bulging in their jagged sockets, its cracked gray skin stretched taut over the fleshless, skeletal frame of its trembling body. As he stared, it leered at him, showing off a mouthful of pristine white, horrifyingly human teeth. Just behind them, almost hidden, was a double-row of thin saber-like fangs, glinting sharp like bone needles in the faintly emanating light of the hallway. Its eight-fingered hands reached for him.

“I’ll shut ya up, doncha worry…”

But Remi was scrambling to his feet, lurching away down the endless hall, breath still frozen in his lungs, running until he thought he may pass out—or pass away. Far behind him, the gaunt little creature had faded back into the wall, never existing, leaving only the grinning whisper of a threat. The crow dove down from the balcony rail, beat its wings frantically, banked, and soared after him. Remi flinched, anticipating attack, but the massive crow flew right past his head and out of sight.

Remi slowed to a halt, gasping, with tears born of exhaustion and blind terror streaming down his flushed cheeks in thin rivulets. Beastly footsteps echoed around him, and his lagging brain did not register the sound, but his thrumming heart felt as though it might burst. Were those his own, or… other?

A sort of breeze fluttered past, toying at the lank strands of hair that had fallen over his face, and raising goosebumps on his lean body. It carried with it more of that rank stench.

In an attempt to escape, he took up a brisk pace, though his feet suddenly weighed three tons each and his heart rate had yet to calm. After an excruciatingly long minute, he came to an end, which startled him. There was an end to this wretched hall? To his right, there was only a blank expanse of the same grotesque wall, but to his left was… another hall.

This hallway, too, seemed to stretch on forever. This hallway, though, was lined with doors, their knobs all shining, sweet and innocent, though there was no obvious light in this hallway. Remi grasped desperately at each doorknob, but each door was locked. He let out a miserable dry sob but went on, persistent in his efforts to find an open door, to find that blissful escape.

There was none.

Rage exploded through him, through his very veins and the pure essence of his soul, drowning every last thought and vision until all he could see was a wash of pulsating scarlet and the plain door directly in front of him, which he punched and bruised his knuckles on, dark flowers of bruises to complement the ones on his inner arm.

Something cawed, and Remi spun around to see the crow, its cruel beak barely three inches from his face. He let out a startled cry and lurched backwards, and the crow cawed again. It cocked its head one way, then the other, never taking its eyes off him, and as they stared at each other, a couple more feathers dropped from its body. It flapped its wings, ghosting a draft, and flew off again, over his head and out of sight. Remi’s heart was pounding.

Why?

What was that crow?

“Rëni…” A voice floated past his ear, carrying a sort of breeze with it, and Remi whirled around. There was nobody there, only the dark recesses of the hall he had just walked down.

“Hello?” he asked suspiciously.

“Rëni!”

Remi looked around, twisting his head this way and that. There was nobody behind him. He spun back around, gritting his teeth, and there—

“Rëni,” the boy repeated. He hung upside-down—no, he was sitting primly on the ceiling, smirking at him. Choppy black hair fell across his face, casting shadows over narrowed pink eyes.

“My name is Remi,” Remi said. “Not Rëni.” He took a step backwards, keeping a wary eye on this sudden stranger.

“My name is Remi,” the boy echoed. Remi wasn’t quite sure if he was mocking him or not.

“No, it’s not,” Remi snapped, annoyance sparking through him. “That’s my name.”

The boy sulked. He tipped his head to one side, then the other. “You’re no fun, Remi.”

Remi sighed. “Tell me who you are. Now.”

“I’m Rëni,” the upside-down boy said, frowning. He leaned in closer and studied his face. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No,” Remi said shortly. “Why do you do that?” Rëni looked at him, clueless. “Sit like that. Why do you sit like that?”

“Why don’t you?” Rëni countered, crossing his arms. “I think better like this. I’m too dizzy to stand upside-down, like you do,” he said, looking Remi critically up and down. “You really don’t recognize me?”

“Of course I recognize you,” Remi replied, shaking his head. “You look just like me! But I don’t know who you are.”

“Yes, you do,” Rëni said dismissively. “Of course you do. You really aren’t funny, Remi, you never are… Anyways,” he went on, “have you seen Ambi?”

“Ambi?” Remi echoed.

Rëni rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ambi. Don’t tell me you don’t remember her, either.”

If somebody were to slit his wrist right now, Remi thought, he would surely bleed agitation. “I’ve told you,” he said hotly, “I can’t remember anything besides my own name. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Okay,” Rëni drawled. Disbelief was etched in his face. “Follow me, then.” He stood up. His feet never once left the ceiling as he led Remi down the hallway. Rising from the black shadows, veins of a strange, purpled substance stretched tautly across the hall before them in a web. Remi put a hand out to sweep it aside, and found it to be damp and gummy, clinging like thought to the damp of his skin. He shook it off and pushed through with a grimace, and looked up at Rëni.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded, feeling as though he were shouting at the floor.

“Out,” Rëni replied. “Isn’t that where you wanted to go? Out?”

It was, but they were passing the gleaming doors, their knobs all polished and beautifully unlocked. He reached out for one, only for Rëni to take his outstretched hand and yank him away. They sprinted down the hall, past the smattering of doors and the strange web, until Remi’s eyes were streaming and he was choking for air. He faltered once, and Rëni yanked his arm, forcing him along. Remi didn’t even know if he was wearing shoes—he peered down, but if he had feet, he couldn’t see them. No matter how much they hurt.

“Please!”

“Quit your whining,” Rëni snapped. “Ambi. I’m taking you to Ambi. She knows the way out.”

Ambi. Ambi, Ambi, Ambi… The name repeated in his head like a mantra. Ambi, she could save him… Would she? Would she at least tell him where he was? Finally, they turned through a doorway, and Remi almost let out a cry of relief. But it was not an exit they were going into, but rather a large room with no walls, a speckled gray floor and a black void of a ceiling.

Ambi was a girl of slight figure; her form flowed like water with every movement. Lavender waves tumbled over one shoulder, and the other half of her head was shaved. Her eye on that side was a clear, light gold, and the other was a pupilless, swirled orb of milky silver. There was a mottled scar down the bridge of her nose, stretching across her left cheek. Her dress was sleek but ruffled in the skirt, not by design but by careless disuse. She pranced towards them, moving on her toes, and when she was within three feet of them, she stopped and smiled primly.

“Ambi,” she said solemnly, stretching out a hand to shake. Remi eyed it warily, and did not move. Above him, Rëni leered and walked along the absent ceiling. The entire lower half of his body seemed to be missing, black smoke curling at his chest.

“Rëni,” he mimicked, stretching a hand out to an invisible acquaintance. Ambi scowled up at him, and Rëni laughed. “Girl, he doesn’t want to touch you. Go on, Remi,” and he drawled the name like a fake, “Tell her what you really, really want.”

“How do I get out of here?” he burst out, lunging forward and grabbing the front of her dress in clenched fists. Ambi recoiled.

“Let go of me, and I’ll tell you.” So he did, and Ambi backed away, dusting herself off. She turned that scowl onto him, and it was remarkable how it twisted her entire face, that mottled scar distorting her otherwise pretty visage. “Never touch me again,” she bit out, taking yet another step back. She looked at him like she would a particularly nasty thing. Remi didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. Please,” he tried, “how do I get out?”

She glowered at him for another moment, then turned away entirely. She danced along several steps and stopped, just underneath where Rëni stood, watching.

“Do you even know where you are?”

“No.”

“Hm. Then how should I trust that you truly want to get out?” She turned a critical eye on him.

“I’ll do anything. Please, just get me out. I want to go home.”

“Oh, but Remi,” she whispered, voice carrying through the still air. “You are home. You are more home than you have ever been.”

“What do you mean?”

“Darling, you’re inside yourself.” He looked desperately at her, uncomprehending. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she sneered. “You’re in your head, sweet Remi. This—” she spread her arms out in a grand gesture, “—is all you, baby. Don’t like it? Then change it.”

“But I don’t know how!” Remi cried, increasingly agitated. “Can’t you tell me?”

“No,” she said, “but I can take you to where you need to be.” He nodded swiftly, and Ambi took his hand. Rëni stretched his out without a word, merely an empty leer, and she took his as well. Remi blinked, and when his eyes opened again they were back in the hallway where he first began. His jaw dropped.

“What? But this—”

“Is where you need to be,” Rëni interrupted. “Isn’t that right, Ambi?”

“Yes. Do hurry, won’t you? I get bored waiting.” She leaned back against the slimy wall, pouting at him.

“But what do I do?” Neither one answered him. Remi stared desperately between them but it was pointless. He turned, paced along the length of the floor, and spun on his heel to pace back. When he looked up again, Rëni was staring at him with a curved little grin edging at his lips, and Ambi was neutral, solemn. Silence stretched between them, broken after a long moment by the raucous cawing of that damned crow. He turned to face it as it flew towards him, wingspan wider than he had ever seen, talons outstretched… aimed for his eyes.

He dodged, shouting out, and Rëni was laughing. Ambi was silent, but she backed away. The crow circled, crying out, and Remi recognized it now as a warning cry. Or was it a war cry? It looped, and wheeled towards him again with its talons out, and he dropped to the floor. Remi cowered, seething, as the crow flapped away, and it made no moves to come near him again. Remi rose to his feet once more, but…

The floor was spiraling beneath him; he was stumbling, reaching for anything to hold on to, but Ambi danced away from his touch with a bout of guttural laughter. The crow soared circles around their heads, screeching at the top of its lungs. On the ceiling, Rëni snickered, stretching his hands up—down?—above his head, fingers splayed.

“It is coming!” he cried out in elation. “It is coming!”

“Wha— what? What’s coming?” Remi spluttered, swaying where he stood. “What’s going on? Why am I…?”

“The injection!” Ambi gasped, throwing her arms up so her outstretched hands brushed Rëni’s, rotating slowly on the spot. “Oh, it is coming!”

Rëni seized her hands, hefting her up with nary a grunt of effort, and she flipped her fluid body to sit cross-legged on the ceiling with Rëni. The pair of them both leered down at Remi. He paced, panting, fisting at thin air and wishing he had something, anything, to get a grip on. Everything was spinning… The crow flew tighter loops around him. Everything was shrinking… No, the walls were closing in; his own mind was attempting to squeeze him out…

Is this what it was to be claustrophobic?

“Look out, look out!” they jeered in unison. “Look out, look out! Here it comes!”

But there was nowhere to go, there was nowhere he could run to, and even so, his legs were trembling and numb, about to give out. Distantly, he could hear rushing, but was it real, or just in his head?

Fool, he remembered. You are in your head!

“God! God!”

“Look out!”

“God! God!”

“It is coming!”

“God! God!”

“Here it comes!”

“God! God!”

A tide was coming, surely, that was what they were squawking about so jubilantly. That was the source of that god-awful sound. A tide was coming, and there it was…! Waves of milky silver bearing down upon him, and Ambi and Rëni were gliding their fingers through it like silk. It caught him, tossing him up and down and all about, drowning him, filling his lungs and choking his veins and everything should have been going dark, but it was all sheer white…