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Bittersweet Being

By Diana Melgar

 

Oh Loud Joy

Mariachi and reggaeton

The beat and rhythm they bring

Instruments, played quick and strong 

Dancing with all those around

Loud laughter replacing embarrassment

Bodies turning and swinging

The cheers and yells of those sitting

Resting till the next song 

 

Running away as pop-its hit near my feet

Birds singing proudly in the morning

Strong wind rustling leaves and hair 

Dogs barking, robust and playful

The slap of a soccer ball being kicked

The flow and strength of Spanish 

Words confidently spoken

Sung in music never ending

 

Oh Deep Afflictions 

 

Rifts in my family 

Fights and conversation I have yet to understand

Silent words screaming in my mind

the stickiness of barley dried tears

Losing a home to flames and heat

Witnessing the slow breaking of a person

Hearing their weeps and sobs

Comforting wails of regret and apologies 

 

Being a cause of lament

Anger and frustration of wrong doings

A sickening smell of alcohol

The counterfeit of  righting wrongs

Going back and forth, one parent to another 

Not knowing why I cry or feel so low

Taking for granted everything I have

 

Oh Quiet Bliss

 

A very specific sweet scent of light pink roses

A red muddy color and roughness of bricks

Creaky stairs, floors, and doors 

Cozy and close feel of the rooms

The smell of new and old books 

Sunlight from my mother’s window 

The largeness of her bed

The orange and red of a setting sun 

 

Long car rides in a packed car

From Texas to New York

Resting heads on another’s shoulder

Quiet nights of blissful sleep 

Beauty proudly beaming at night  

The cool air and the shining lights

Warm embraces overflowing with love 

Quiet laughter following uncontrolled howling

 

Oh Bittersweet Being

 

Reflections of memories, of feelings, and sensation 

All I have felt, thought, done, and seen

A collection always growing in my mind

Loud joy, deep afflictions, quiet bliss

All I am 

Such bittersweet being 

 

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City of San Antonio” Airplane

By Sophia Woytowitz

I had been without sleep for almost two days, at that point. I found myself scheduled to fly again almost immediately. I didn’t think I was physically able to go another thirty or forty hours without sleep. But there was no time to think about it. 

We were going — Period!

The crew and I grabbed about seven hours of sleep while the ground crew prepared the airplane, “City of San Antonio.” It was named this because our captain was from San Antonio, Texas. We took off again that evening for a night strike against what most of us considered our roughest target, Tokyo.

Suddenly, I felt the rumbling of the flak explode. I heard the shrapnel raining off the airplane. I dropped the first sets of bombs on the city of Tokyo. 

“Bombs away!” 

As the plane turned away from the scene, I could see the city of Tokyo burning to ashes.

After the bomb doors closed, the plane banked to the right and we started our long and treacherous journey home. The pilot said, “Everybody check-in.”

“Jack, here”

“Bob, ok”

“John, here”

“Peter, here

“Jourdan, ok”

“David, ok”

“Mike, here”

“Tim, ok”

“Nathen, here”

The calls paused. Silence.

“Is Bill ok?” the captain asked firmly.

There was a long wait…

Bill’s position was all the way at the back of the plane, in the tail gunner seat. 

No answer. 

My friend from the first day at Fort Dix was now presumed dead.

“Well, I ain’t cleaning that mess out of that chair,” Tim said jokingly.

Everyone in the plane chuckled at the not-so-amusing joke.

However, the danger wasn’t over. 

 

The trip back took more than 7-hours and was over open ocean. If the plane were to have a mechanical failure, there would be no place to land and no one could rescue us. We would surely crash into the ocean and we would all drown.

As we stumbled out of the plane; our legs were shaky from sitting too long. We got out and faced each other, knowing that someone had to clean up after Bill. Until, suddenly, the door form Bill’s compartment swung open. Two feet jumped out from the plane to the ground. It was Bill! We all ran to rejoice with him and asked him what happened.

“Why did you not answer my calls?” the pilot questioned.

“After the flak exploded near our plane, the connection seemed to vanish. I could hear your discussions.” He shoved Tim in a jokingly manner. “But I guess you guys couldn’t hear me.”

“We’re glad you’re ok,” I said. 

“Yeah, I was gettin’ worried that we would have to clean yer guts, man.” He laughed as Bill leaned on the mental plane.

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Crash

By Charlotte Knauth

A left hand loose on the steering wheel,
shiny silver band on the fourth finger.
A deep grey stretch of asphalt ahead,
and an expanse of dark sky above.
The passenger seat was empty,
the backseat home to only
a backpack, keys,
a bright red electric guitar,
and a stack of love letters
addressed to Michigan
from California.

His eyes trailed back and forth
across the open shadowed space before him:
empty
empty
empty
as the clock ticked
from pm to am.
The driver wore a smile
plastered wide across his face,
as he looked to the picture
scotch taped to his dashboard:
the brown hair and the
green eyes and the black jeans,

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The Little Horse

By Isabella Briggs

“Trotta trotta cavallino.” 

Three words I still think about. They do not have any particular importance. They do not mean anything special. 

When I first heard these words, I was young. My grandmother sat in an old rocking chair, holding me on her lap. I cannot quite remember the couch’s pattern or who sat there, but that is of little importance. 

I focused intently on my grandmother’s words. I could tell they were not English, but that did not matter. 

An infant does not require the meaning of words, only the entertainment they provide. I sat there in pure bliss, giggling along as Ninna chanted the phrase, moving her knees up and down to the rhythm. 

“Trotta trotta cavallino. Galoppa, galoppa, galoppa, galoppa.” 

Ninna’s voice sounded natural this way. Her heavy Italian accent for these words. She pronounced them correctly, unlike when she spoke to me in English. 

My young mind did not know why she sounded different. I did not know Italian was her first language. I did not know she grew up in Italy during a war. I did not know she never completed her schooling in America and therefore never mastered the English language. 

All that mattered as I sat there happily was her voice as she repeated those words, just to make me smile. Because that was all I needed. 

I would learn the rest later. 

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Riot

Katherine Butler

Is love bigger?
Because now when the
men in charge
lock up my right
to love and live,
when companies only
acknowledge me to
make a profit off of my identity
just to forget I exist
as soon as the month ends,
when I get criticized
and called broken
for not giving men what they
want,
when I get told to
“pick a side”
because it’s greedy to have both,
I think that love may be bigger,
but hate is louder.
And when those men in charge
decide to scream their hatred
at us, then I think it’s time
to remind them that
the first Pride was a riot.