Issue 2 / Monologues of the Self / Terminal One

The Awakening

That summer evening, the auditorium was packed with parents eager to listen to what the school had planned for the next academic year. Even though the air conditioners were on full blast, I could still feel that August, Louisiana humidity engulfing my body. The principal had just given a heartfelt speech about how the school was making impressive strides towards being more culturally diverse, and how it was hosting a record ten exchange students that year. Just when we thought she was done, she

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August 1, 2020

Issue 2 / Monologues of the Self / Terminal One

“So you think you can dance”

I stepped on my left foot backward in a charming motion, sliding across the slippery floor. I slid my left foot onward, chasing my retreating other foot with mine, like a fox on the hunt. I stood still, toe to toe, and I pulled my hips in closer. Threatening the audience with my own gaze, I looked to the left, and then to the right. And again, turning my head opposite. To the right, then to the left. Tumbling forward, my bits tautened on my spines as my right foot came frontward again, surprisi

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August 1, 2020

Issue 2 / Monologues of the Self / Terminal One

She Cut Her Braids in Mo(u)rning

Over the bubbling steam of bitter, hotChai on the stove,I listen attentivelyto Grandma teachingMe How to braid:Portion the pulsing veins of hair between your fingers.Turn them over with the delicacy used to turn pagesBut with a tighter pull,And let yourMovements over, under, acrossGuide the pattern of in and out. Let the coarse threads slip Between your fingers--But not too much, so you can tie it off At its feathery end.Rain hits the window panes.At such a young age,Braids were cut--I wanted th

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August 1, 2020

Issue 2 / Monologues of the Self / Terminal One

THE INNER TUSSLE

I’m fine.I can’t be better than this present state.Of course, I’m alright.They say, “chill, it’s just a pen.”But it's not just a pen.I lost hold of my dreams, my hopes, by losing that pen.It's not just a pen. Now I feel helpless, worthless, without my pen, I’m hopeless! It's not just a pen! As I lay down and count the rafters on the ceiling, thinking. I hope my pen has not been broken. The void in my heart will never be repealed. The emptiness in my hands will never be filled. It's not just a

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July 26, 2020

Issue 2 / Monologues of the Self / Terminal One

THE HUMAN DIARY

Dear Beatrice, It was just another friendless day at school. The usual. As I always do, let me share my thoughts with you. You, of all people, should know how it feels: to not have a soul to care about you. Even your shadow despises you. Standing at the edge of a lake, you hope to see your face-- no matter how rigid and rugged it looks-- but even the lake rejects hosting you. All it accommodates are peaceful swans and friendly egrets. No room for a heart that is weary of love and compani

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July 26, 2020