The Queue by Rachel Blake

Long, serpentine meeting  

of on-the-spot impatient feet

mingled perfume of shampoo, cigarettes and heat

shimmying an inch here and there

in obeyance to the rule of queue 

adherence to the beat

fleeting friendships sail by

and the have-to-be-noticed vie for attention,

decibels held aloft in a strongman stance.

The more timid risk a glance at their neighbour

then pretend to look anywhere else

if eyes lock for a moment with the next 

droplets of conversation like “Did I feel rain?

Maybe not.”

“I am not a tree hugger” says the new woman in a floaty dress. “But I want to hug that one, hold  the bark  to my breast.”

The oak beyond the window ignores her request.

“I went to school with his uncle’s cousin,” states the bearded man

while gesticulating wildly, gathering all the attention he can from the slow moving snake,

the audience of the servile shudder in his wake.

Oh, we are taking three steps forwards, no two

a woman of a certain, assured sultry age

makes moves on a young man who is flattered

enough to perhaps engage for the life of the line anyway,

brief encounter for the those who cannot be even moments alone,

oh please prove that I am lovely,

insecurity prone.

A child says what we may all think;

“This is boring, why can’t we go home?”

Rachel Blake is a bit of an allsort; she enjoys making art, writing, baking, and challenging and protesting against policies that punish, stigmatize and isolate the more vulnerable. She manages (well, mostly) a complex and chronic mental health condition. 

The Right Moment by Njabulo Mbutho

That day underway
will the right moment ever be?
Soon turned into days,
days to weeks,
weeks to years

That day is now in my head and dreams every day
every hour
as I'm alone with undying hope,
endless imaginations of that day

I'm longing for the right moment,
waiting impatiently yet
this long wait hurts

Njabulo Mbutho came to terms with his sexuality at a very young age regardless of the negativity and discrimination in the society he grew up in - Kwazulu Natal, in rural Mthwalume (South Africa.) He is a Freelance Writer, Blogger and Fashion enthusiast.

Bones by Brooklyn Brayl (Feat. Ara Woland)

Brooklyn Brayl is a New York based transgender writer/performer currently living on the gender divide. She has just released her first collection of poetry, "Dirty Beautiful Words." Her website is www.brooklynbrayl.com

The Sign Posts are Empty by Simone King

I'm lost again though standing in the same place I was yesterday
sleeping in the same bed
living at the same address
wearing my own clothes
and using the same toothbrush
yet I am lost

Simone King started writing poetry and short stories/films in 2011. She writes about her truth and the many questions that plague her mind.

Editor's Pick of August: Jar of Paper Stars by Michelle Chan

It was Valentine's Day. Gilbert's hand trembled a little as he helped pass a love letter under the desk. It was the day of the year when exchanges of quick smiles between the students made the teachers look askance. Well-wrapped gifts with crumpled ribbons were hidden in bags crammed with books, or in the shadows of desk drawers. Many held their breath, dreading spot checks, and waited eagerly for the recess bell to ring.

Gilbert was one of them. He reached into his drawer and found his mother's old pickle jar hidden safely behind a stack of text books. Mrs Tang was explaining a new mathematical formula, but her words were wind breezing past his ears. He was too nervous and tired to pay attention in class today. He spent the whole of last night making what he believed to be the most sincere and, hopefully, romantic gift for Lily. He thought about buying a pair of earrings or Now That's What I Call Music! 35 audio cassette, but neither would best express how he felt about her. Hence, he chose to fold 99 tiny paper stars to put into a jar from his mother's kitchen cabinet.

He checked his watch-five more minutes to go. He tilted his head to steal a glance at Lily. She sat a few rows in front of him. The sight of her ponytail sent his heart thundering in his chest. He had never felt this nervous before, not even when he was competing at the state chess tournament.

They had been in the same class since the first year of secondary school. They were never close friends, but they worked well together when paired up in projects and they understood each other's witty jokes. She was one of the prettiest girls in school and the president of the Science Club, while he was a lanky, awkward boy with patched shoes, who excelled at mathematics. Every year they competed fiercely to be the top student in class. But in this final year, Gilbert wanted to be more than a worthy opponent to Lily. He knew she had a sentimental heart and was certain she would like his jar of paper stars.

Gilbert was still daydreaming when his classmates started to eject from their seats. He looked up and Lily was gone. He wrapped the jar with a thin exercise book and ran out to look for her. After a desperate ten minute search, he found her sitting alone on the science lab stairs. His heart sank when he saw her staring admiringly into a small red satin box.

Suddenly, he felt wary and uncertain, maybe even ashamed of his choice of gift. How could an old jar with a scratched up lid compete with a shiny, silky box?

She greeted him with her double dimpled smile. “What do you have there?” asked Lily with curiosity. For all the years she had known him, Gilbert had shied away from anything related to Valentine's Day.

“It's nothing.” He pulled the exercise book tighter around it.

“Don't be shy. Let me see it.” Lily put the satin box aside and took the jar from him. “Oh my, I didn't know people still did this. You made them?”

Gilbert nodded, panicking in silence.

Lily held the jar carefully, like she had a baby bird resting on her palms. She tilted her head from side to side, examining the jar's contents with intense interest. “Yellow is a good colour.”

I know. I chose it because it's your favourite, thought Gilbert.

“There must be a lot of them in there.”

“99 to be exact.”

“Aah, the auspicious 99, forever or everlasting.” She smiled. “Whoever she is, I'm sure she'll like it. Who wouldn't like a love letter written in stars?” She handed the jar back to him and picked up the satin box again.

Gilbert felt defeated. Whatever was in the box, he knew she would much prefer it to his jar of paper stars. He wrapped the jar with the exercise book again and walked away. When he got home he tossed it into the rubbish can outside the main gate. Out of sight, out of mind.

The next morning, the garbage truck came. Mokthar, one of the waste collectors, opened the lid and saw a jar of paper stars beaming brightly at him under the dull grey sky. He salvaged the jar and brought it home. He placed it on the floor next to where his eight-year-old daughter Jamilah slept. “Here's your window to the night sky,” he said.

They shared a house with sixteen other people. The landlord put up partitions to create more rooms and generate more rental returns. They were some of the unlucky tenants with a windowless room. However, with the jar of yellow paper stars, Jamilah slept better at night. It was her priceless possession. On the nights where sleep eluded her father, she would place the jar on the floor next to him and say, “It will lead you to dreamland.”

Eventually, Mokthar earned enough money to move his family into a nicer home with windows in every room. Jamilah still kept the jar next to her every night, but its glow seemed to have dimmed over the past year. So when her classmate Siaw Ching was mourning the loss of her mother, she decided to pass the jar on to her. “It helped me through my darkest time. It will help you too,” Jamilah told her friend.

Siaw Ching didn't know what to do with the jar. What kind of magic did it possess? She shook the jar hard and paused. The room remained still and quiet. Her father came to her side and took the jar in his hands.

“Where did you get this?”

“Jamilah gave it to me,” said Siaw Ching, flatly. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

Her father smiled and said, “Remember how happy mummy was the night we laid on the beach star gazing?”

She nodded.

“Well, we rarely have a clear night sky like that in the city. So when you miss mummy, just turn to this jar. She'll be right there with you.”

Though Siaw Ching thought that this was kind of corny, she felt obligated to nod her head. But when night came and tears threatened, she found herself reaching for the jar. She held it to her bosom under the blanket and it eased her into a peaceful slumber.

The jar stayed with her for six months before she passed it on to her cousin, Johnny, who was recovering from a car accident. When he was discharged from the hospital, he decided to keep this tradition going by giving it to a cancer patient two floors down. And so the jar traveled from the nightstand of a man fighting colon cancer, to the windowsill of a lonely child, to the crib of a newborn, to the living room of an overworked single mother, to the desk of a newly certified accountant and the journey continued.

Ten years had passed since Gilbert made that jar of paper stars. The glass jar had lost its shine, the lid had rusted inside and out and the bright yellow stars had faded over the years. But despite its physical ageing, it still possessed its magic.

The jar now sat on the vanity desk of Mama Prema, a 66-year-old retired teacher. She was given the jar by her granddaughter to help her cope with the loss of her Siamese cat, Sawadee. She didn't really want the jar in her house, but she accepted it with reluctant gratitude. It didn't offer the comfort it intended, but it made her love her granddaughter more.

It was Valentine's Day. Mama Prema was having her usual early evening chitchat with her neighbours in the gazebo at the condominium garden. As they were complaining about their unromantic husbands, the new neighbour from A-8-7 walked past and greeted them politely. The ladies nodded in return.

Mama Prema found herself sighing every time she saw the woman from A-8-7. She couldn't recall her name, but was sure she was named after a flower. She was a beautiful young woman, but her sad eyes always overshadowed her sweet smile. Mama Prema wondered what life had done to her to embed such sorrow on that beautiful face.

Later that evening, Mama Prema left the jar in front of A-8-7 with a note saying, “Cheer up, girl. It's Valentine's Day. From Mama Prema of A-8-11.” She rang the doorbell and left.

The woman from A-8-7 opened the door just as Mama Prema was entering her unit. She looked at the jar suspiciously before picking it up to read the note. She smiled. She brought the jar into her bedroom and examined it under the light. She held it carefully, as though she had a baby bird on her palms. A memory stirred within her. A long-forgotten memory, which never held much significance, was slowly emerging. A boy, a very nervous boy. What was his name? Albert? Wilfred? No. It was Gilbert! The smart, adorable Gilbert. At that moment, fond memories took over her weary self, and she broke out the infectious double dimpled smile that once melted so many hearts. 

Lily hadn't felt such exhilaration for a long time. After her husband divorced her because of her inability to conceive, she fell into a deep depression that left her exhausted and discouraged.

She adjusted herself on the bed and the yellow stars shifted in the jar, revealing a quarter of a white star. She opened the lid and poured the contents onto her bed. There were three white stars, all worn from too much unfolding and refolding. She decided to unfold them to assuage her curiosity. When all three strips of paper were opened and laid out on her bed, they revealed a love letter that read:

Dear Lily, Your kind soul and generous heart make you a rare and precious jewel. Whenever I feel discouraged, a glance at your beautiful face will lift me up. No matter how today unfolds, I want you to know that you shine brighter than any star in the sky. Sincerely, Gilbert.

Tears slipped down Lily's face as she read the letter over and over. It was a simple letter, not the most poetic or romantic, but it moved her in the most amazing way. She felt a spark light within her, a glimmer of hope, an ounce of courage, an open path before her. Suddenly, life didn't seem so harsh. “Wherever you are now, Gilbert, thank you,” she whispered.

She returned all of the yellow stars to the jar, but left the three white strips of paper out to be framed tomorrow. She put the unused razor blade back in the box it came in and tossed it into the rubbish bin. She tore the unfinished letter to her parents to shreds and felt a great relief pour into her. She was glad this jar of paper stars reached her ten years late. It wouldn't have meant much to the teenage Lily, but it saved her life tonight.

Malaysian-born Michelle Chan has tried her hand at journalism and is now exploring the realm of fiction as an outlet for her overactive imagination. She is currently writing her first novel, which she hopes will one day see the light of your bedside table.

Coming Out the Closet via an "Open Letter" by Njabulo Mbutho

Dear family,

This letter was actually supposed to be sent a decade ago, tried all these past years but couldn’t live with the guilt of possibly spoiling the family’s “Profile.” Lately I’ve been dodging your phone calls simply because I have reached my lie limit, actually exceeded it. Lying, not only to you but most to myself and now sitting here all by myself inside these high scary, empty walls on detention for kissing my boyfriend goodbye. I’m extremely concerned about how this will sink into your head. After a decade of living a lie, resulting in being weak for enduring all the pain and nightmares coming with it, drained out by the choice I made for your sake (my safety) till today, you would always tell, rule, choose, talk and think for me- early last year, you pushed me choosing my wedding date! But that was an instruction I followed, you never considered asking if I even wanted that. Should I buy the “allowance” to also free my opinions and express myself? Everything is always decided for me, leaving me with no choice but to go on with it (as I was taught to respect at all times by you.)

I respect and am thankful for having you in my life, but you’ve been making me live the life you want and do, say and act according to you. Do I really deserve to be stuck in your vision? What about my vision? Almost all our conversations required a simple yes or no answer from me, you never wanted to hear my thoughts, what were you scared of? Certainly you knew and know exactly what you’re dealing with and dodging to face. As I’m locked in this room, punished for an innocent goodbye, at least now I’m free from being ruled and instructed by you. Well, I have gained the courage to explore, be myself. The harm from allowing myself to be exploited and lying to myself has caused deep scars in my heart, but when you receive this letter half of them will disappear.

I did not make a mistake, the reason I’m on detention is because we were apparently saying our goodbyes in a “Non-Gay people” park; our deeds were considered as offensive to the public. It’s no surprise that I’m gay to you all, the only surprise is that I’ve finally got courage to express, stand up for myself and break out of the shell. I could be a disappointment to you after everyone was hyped-up about me being a father, which I did for you (one of the instructions I followed.) Honestly, I never loved “her” (the mother of my child) I only appreciated how she perceived things in life and obviously, her fierce sense of fashion. I was blinded by all the girls who ogled me, never attracted to them, but to the attention. I’ve been empty all these past years, living a lie, but today I see the light, the future, not only because I’ve found the courage to be myself and the love of my life (him) but because I feel revamped, whole. I’m happy I got the courage to break out of the shell, now I will live effortlessly not following any of your instructions. I’ve never been this happy, it feels like I’ve finally put on the right shoe size, everything fits together now.

I had no idea how to show my true being because I had no chance to tell you these past years. I’m deeply sorry for all the lies I did and said, I pray you find it in your hearts to forgive me. I suppose I got used to making you happy, not myself. As I’m coming home this summer, can I bring my boyfriend over? I want you to meet him. After a decade, ten awful, sad and traumatic years of my life, not wasted because I believe everything happens for a reason, I finally can be myself. Sincerely I’m GAY. 

Njabulo Mbutho came to terms with his sexuality at a very young age regardless of the negativity and discrimination in the society he grew up in - Kwazulu Natal, in a rural area called Mthwalume (South Africa). He is a Freelance Writer, Blogger and Fashion enthusiast. This piece has previously been published here: www.the01storyofusblog.wordpress.com

Wait, does this mean I'm gay? | Giving My Secret Away! By Njabulo Mbutho

Come to think of it... I actually miss my best High School friends (Sam and Eric.) Describing their characters is not a simple task. However, I'll give you just a glance. Sam was always this quiet and conservative type, loved sports and the nightlife. With soft blue piercing eyes, and very tall boned, girls couldn't help but ogle him, wanting to be on his "Romance Books." We had a lot more in common than we realised. When I say "WE," I mean Sam and I. Eric was very opinionated, more of a chatterbox and fairly annoying-an ordinary guy who expresses himself through the art of talking, talking non-stop. Now this dude was on everybody's case and could find fun in every situation, even a funeral, hence having him around always made us more lively. Breaking rules and getting away with it was his hobby. He could talk himself out of any situation-one of the benefits of being a chatterbox.

It was a Friday night, a week before our test week, when Eric hosted a massive house party in our room (the three of us went to the same High School, and were now doing our Senior Year in College and we were roommates.) The house was packed with more than twenty party animals. This was on campus. Booze wasn't allowed on the premises, but Eric had organised more than enough booze for the night. The theme was "Six Sex Symptoms," as stated on the invitations he sent out to all the attendees. That's a catchy theme if you ask me! Who wouldn't want to be part of this outrageous theme? Only seniors were allowed to host parties. 

This was a Friday like no other, as we (Sam and I) had last been at a party months back. This was something we'd been excited about and looking forward to. There were a number of things we did together, like working part-time at the College's Library, which initially gave us little time to ourselves. Our friendship began back in High School when we were in the same class.

So, the music and refreshments were all in place. Everybody was having a blast, making new study mates and friends. The time for the "Six Sex Symptoms" activities arrived just when we were having our fourth glasses of wine. Activities included "The Wet Dream from Heaven." Basically, one had to reveal the most memorable wet dream they’d had. 95% of the attendees loved this game-did I too? Well...as Eric announced that the game was about to begin, there I was, gazing at Sam's blue piercing eyes and I suddenly realised that he was the very same guy I'd been having sex with in my sleep for the past couple years. I had been keeping this to myself because I thought it would eventually stop. But I was damn wrong! It all started back in High School when Sam wrote a remarkable essay for the Life Orientation assignment-it was about how he accepted his sexuality as an openly gay individual. His story sounded a whole lot like the bounded side of me, the one I'd been ignorant about, the one I've never wrote or talked about to anyone. This is the very first time. When I'm not asleep, the idea of me getting undressed with another guy simply sounds silly and unreal. I mean, Beyoncé was my obsession, not One Direction! I have absolutely nothing against homosexuality. 

Sam told me about his "Wet Dream from Heaven," but I cannot remember a word he said, I couldn't pay attention, it felt like I was having my "Wet Dream from Heaven" right there and then. To tell the truth, lately dreaming about him felt great. Almost right! I'd literally fallen in love with him, only in my sleep though! For years, I was having "The Wet Dream from Heaven" with Sam. I think it's time I cough this out, I said to myself silently. Sam eventually told me come on now buddy, let's hear it (with his charming smile.) At that moment, I thought to myself, "I probably should make something up to tell him," but the problem was my entire brain was reviewing all these "Wet Dreams from Heaven" I'd had with him during this conversation and it felt unfair not letting him know. I wanted to tell him but had zero ideas how to. I'm speaking from the heart!

Njabulo Mbutho came to terms with his sexuality at a very young age regardless of the negativity and discrimination in the society he grew up in-Kwazulu Natal, in a rural area called Mthwalume (South Africa.) He is a Freelance Writer, Blogger and Fashion enthusiast.

China by Angelina Bong

It was summer 1999. I never thought life could be like this. A slave like me could never want something more from life. Besides, I was never truly alive. I was a tool to be used and confiscated when all was said and done. I should never question what I was born to be, for it was all laid out for me. I was bought for a price. If anyone should remain silent for the rest of her life, it should be me.  What happened must have been a stroke of luck or some mighty invisible hands at work.

In a cold winter’s night of 1987, a Chinese baby girl with shining eyes was born. Her cries filled a small corner of a city in the province of Anhui. She was a pretty sight to behold. Her mother looked at her with terror in her eyes and refused to hold the baby born of her flesh. Her father came in, saw the baby, held her in his arms and quickly fled the room. It was too much of a risk to keep the baby. The one child policy meant they could only have one kid and it would have to be a boy. The boy could help with the laborious business and would be able carry the surname of the family. A girl would be of no use to them. The father passed this crying baby bundled in rags to a red-haired foreigner waiting near the dock and she was never to be seen again in China. That baby was me.

I grew up not knowing who my parents were. I always thought Master was my father but aged six, it finally dawned on me that my siblings were all tanned. I was the only fair child. At first, I thought I was special and then realised the colour of my skin was a curse. They would all make fun of me and said Master picked me from the rubbish bin and bleached me till I was pale yellow because the stench on me was so horrible that no one could bear to be near me. I ran to Master asking him who my parents were and how I ended up in a land where no one else looked like me and was reprimanded with six harsh beatings from a rattan rod. From that day onwards, I never questioned Master again. Nor would I ask anyone where I came from. 

It was never easy to please my Master. I tried singing but I sounded like a grasshopper creaking in the woods. I practiced dancing again and again but my clumsy feet prevented me from swinging the graceful hips I never had. I never excelled at any of the performances my siblings could do so easily. They all seemed like a chore to me. I wondered why I did not possess any talents worth pursuing. How was I going to help Master make money? Would he throw me out because I could not contribute anything to make a living? All I could do was sit and beg but that was not helping much.

One day while I was begging, a beautiful lady with long blonde hair and clear blue eyes came to me. She gave me a chapatti with some hot dhal. She told me I was pretty. My heart almost stopped in disbelief. I wondered if she was just complimenting me out of pity for my kind who had to sit and beg. I smiled graciously at her and she patted my head gently. No one had ever touched me like that before. I did not know whether to cry, to run or to laugh. Instead, I stared at her blankly till she left. That night, I could not sleep at all thinking of the gorgeous maiden sent from heaven and her soft hands.  

The next day, I saw her again. She was passing the dusty streets of Pink City. Clad in a blue kurta and jeans, she came over and handed me a McDonald’s vegetarian burger. I was too stunned to speak. I had always seen teenagers and families enjoying Happy Meals in the yellow, red and white restaurant and could only dream that one day some angel would bring the burgers to me. My angel arrived in the form of a lady with sparkling eyes, which spoke of love when she gazed into mine. This time, I thanked her in English. I knew a few words of English from my older siblings who picked it up in the streets from the foreigners who came to visit Jaipur. From that day onwards, I saw my angel every day without fail. She would bring me food to eat and thanks to her I learnt a lot more English, although our conversations were always brief. I looked forward to our meetings every day and for the first time in my life, I felt happy. I loved her so much and I swore I would die for her. 

This angel of mine gave me a present. It had attractive women with long flowing dresses stuck on papers. Each paper had different pictures, which were delicately drawn with meticulous details. There were some words at the bottom of each piece. My angel told me that my present was a book. I was mesmerized by it. I started looking at my book every night and imagined that I could be one of those graceful ladies wearing striking gowns. It was a consoling dream every night where I could escape from my life. Master saw me one night clutching my book and took it away from me. He tore the pages in front of me as I choked back tears of grief. He made me promise never to touch a book again for it would spoil my pure mind. I nodded in silence.

One cloudy day, this angel of mine stopped coming. I waited till sunset but she still did not come. I was heartbroken. I asked the shopkeepers and stall owners who might have known her. One of them told me that she had flown back to the United States. My heart was torn. My angel left and betrayed me. My only source of joy had been taken away.  She did not even say goodbye. I was left alone again in the slums I did not even belong to. I was from a different planet and it hurt so badly. I could not cry for crying was forbidden. Master would strike us with a stick so hard until we were so bruised that we could not walk for days. I sucked all the pain into my soul and grew quiet. I vowed never to smile again unless it was to seduce and tempt, never to let anyone into my heart again. I became silent and only spoke when it was absolutely necessary. 

My heart cried till it cried no more. I was turning twelve and Master was preparing me for something huge. I was no longer allowed to go and beg. I was to take care of my skin and make sure I did not do anything to hurt myself. There were no more beatings or slappings. I was to make sure I knew how to walk properly. I had to take dancing lessons every day, although it was difficult as I was never cut out to be a dancer. Master told me someone would visit me and make me a woman. That person was of great honour and would bring great wealth to our home. He told me that I would never be the same childish and foolish person I was before. I was to become a mature, wise and refined lady once this honourable person paid his visit and made me one. I was delighted and made all my preparations with care. I would finally bring admiration and riches to Master. I would be the best slave anyone could ever have. I was born to be that.

The day finally came when the honourable person arrived. He wore a bright orange turban and his beard was so long you could weave it into braids. He introduced himself as Mr. Jee. After I performed a dance, Master took us into a room filled with all things shiny and gold. The bed was covered in silky red sheets with golden embroidery. I would never have dreamed of sleeping in a bed as heavenly as this. Although everything looked like dreamland, I felt strange at the thought of a bed as a meeting place. Mr. Jee looked at me intensely and switched off the lights. I was afraid of the dark and wanted to say something but I remained silent. Within seconds and swift like the lightning, his fat hairy hands reached for my golden saree and tore all my clothes off. He started touching me all over but something in my heart told me that this was not right. How could such horror make me a woman? I panicked and kicked him with all my strength, I fled the room and for fear of Master’s disappointment, I ran with all my might away from his home. I ran till I could run no more and slept in the corner of a street. I was covered only by the torn saree cloth I had managed to grab.

I woke up in broad daylight with noisy kids roaming around the sandy alleys. No one seemed to notice me. Everyone seemed engaged in their own daily routines. There were a few camels strutting slowly across from me. I was hungry, thirsty and scared. I was afraid Master might send people to look for me. The last time someone tried to run away, Master found him and chopped his arms off. This armless boy grew into a man who would beg for the rest of his life with a paper cup as his companion. I feared that would happen to me. I gathered up my saree and wrapped myself properly and started to move. I walked till my feet bled and my toes blistered for I was without shoes when I left that shameful chamber. It was soon midnight. There was not a soul to be seen along the highways of the desert. I took my slumber on the roadside until I heard the honking of cars. It was still dark but fear took hold of me again and pushed me to get up and walk.

On the fourth day, I was drained of all my energy by the terrible scorching heat of the desert. My head was spinning and my steps became slower and slower. I was dying for water. I did not dare ask anyone for fear of them recognizing me as Master’s slave. I continued to trudge along the rough roads dragging my painful feet. Alas, I could take it no more. I slumped against a tractor like a huge rock thrown at a wall and slept. I slept for hours. Not even the sound of honking trucks could wake me up. I lay at the roadside like a dead log.

I was awakened by some foreign music, which was new to my ears. I opened my eyes and sat up. I felt like I was in a room on another planet. There were none of the shiny decorations so loved by the Indians. The blanket covering me was filled with puffy cotton and it was satin white. The whole room was white, except for the mahogany chairs and tables. Even the wardrobe was white. It was peculiar but very clean. Nothing like the home I had slept in. I jumped out of bed and ran out of the room. An old man and a young woman looked at me. I stared at them for I was startled to see people of different colours than I was used to. The young woman had features similar to mine. She had long straight silky black hair and pale yellow skin.  She began to explain to me that she saw me on the roadside when they were passing by; they were tourists in Jaipur and they were on their way back to Delhi. She thought it was a rare to see a fellow Chinese sleeping on the streets and so she saved me.

I finally found out one piece of information about myself. I was Chinese. How odd. I had never heard of that word. Whatever it meant, I must be part of it or it must be part of me. I started to sob and tears flowed out like rivers of water penned up in my years of silence. I told them in my broken English about what happened and the woman held me in her arms like a baby. She assured me she would help me in whatever way she could. 

The air was clean and there were different types of big tree lining the tar roads. There was no honking from the cars that passed us and there were no beggars in sight. We reached a huge mansion with brown window panes, surrounded by a blooming garden with magical flowers I had never seen before. The young lady grasped my hand, walked me into the house and led me up the stairs to my room. I could hardly breathe when she told me the room belonged to me. It was fit for a princess.

The room was painted pink and I had a queen size bed with quilted covers all to myself. There was a desk next to it with a table lamp so exquisite I could only imagine seeing it in a palace. I leapt for joy as I looked at the shelves and saw hundreds of books waiting for me. I could escape into different imaginations at different times. I reached out for a book and flipped through the pages. I saw weird organic shapes with words all over them and there were lines in each shape. I wished I could read them. 

The young lady pointed at the shapes and told me that those were the maps of the world. She explained that we were all living on this planet named Earth and it consisted of various countries. It took her and her husband one year to sort out paperwork to get me from India to the United States. She even went on a search to discover how I reached India. She finally pointed to a huge part of a shape and told me, “That’s China. That is where you were born.”

My eyes moistened with tears as I finally understood the meaning of my name. I am China.

Angelina Bong is a poet, writer, artist and fashion professional from Malaysia who is currently working on her first novel. She finds beauty in all things as she randomly blogs about them while sipping her favourite cup of coffee. This piece has previously been published on angelina-bong.blogspot.com

Editor's Pick of July: The Usurper by Ariel Bernstein

There are times, usually when I’m not even trying to remember, that I think back to the days when I awoke and knew I’d have the whole day to be myself. The memories aren’t always clear of course, as I must have been only five or so at the time.

I didn’t understand then why it had to change but now that I have time to think things over, I'm pretty sure her concern really started when the subject of red-shirting came up.  I was only four, but I remember the look on my mother's face when my pre-school teacher asked if she'd thought about it.  Nora is one of the youngest and still a bit immature isn't she? the gray-haired teacher with lots of experience with these types of situations said, either oblivious or resilient to my mother's contempt. Still has trouble recognizing all of her letters and often trips up on the days of the week. She's only four, but still, maybe she'd do better to wait a year. She said all this in front of me as though I couldn’t understand.

We left that day and I don't know what else happened with the teacher. I do know I started kindergarten with everyone else and stayed one of the youngest. You just need help mom told me. She decided to help me some days and I'd remember to water the plants and feed our cat Fifi. But it turned out to mostly be okay in kindergarten. I really liked the music class and painting and somehow figured out that a d was not a b and got almost every day right, except Saturdays and Sundays took a while to fit correctly into my head. I was better with the other kids at that age too, which was a big plus for my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Krause, so mom let me go in most days.

Maybe her help picked up around second grade when we got a lot more homework and tests and all that. I think I did okay but certainly not the top of the class. When she helped and she got to tell my friend Janie's mom that I tied for first place in the second grade spelling bee, I could see we'd continue this way for a while at least. I tried to make the best of it on those days and watch a lot of TV and find the hidden chocolate bars but sometimes I was just bored. Not as bored as I am now of course, but you never know how good you have it at the time.

I liked going to school and sometimes even doing things like squash practice, because the top schools like students who play squash-and piano lessons of course, so I tried as hard as I could. I figured that might be her strategy for a while. If I couldn't do well enough, she'd announce that I needed her help and I'd sit that day out, so it was all about motivation. But sometimes I did okay or even better but she said it still wasn't good enough.

One time when I was eight I remember I threw a fit. We'd just had three snow days in a row and I didn't want to stay home anymore. But I was supposed to read a report aloud to the class the day we finally got to go back to school and mom said I didn't look up enough during practice or enunciate a lot of the big words and she just knew I'd be too nervous standing in front of the whole class. I didn't care that she was right; I just wanted to go and feel badly during the report and then eat my cheese crackers and yogurt for lunch in the cafeteria. So I screamed I was going but she was too quick for me and I never knew how she did it. You are my flesh and blood, she would say and give me a kiss at night because she knew things I didn't and that was that.

When she came home to see the mess I'd made she said it didn't matter, that I got an A for the report and now I needed to clean to feel good about accomplishing something on my own. I didn't clean very well and she knew and said it was okay because it wouldn't affect my future.

At night she came into my room and held my face in her hands and looked sad. Don't you know how lucky you are? she asked me and I know I was supposed to say yes but I stayed silent, which she was okay with. Some parents think they do everything for their child, she said. They think activities and tutors and the best best best are enough but I know I'm the one giving you the best. All the advantages I could ever have to offer, you get to have.

When I was younger I used to imagine it would end one day. I'd finally catch up to where she wanted me to be. The marker kept changing though and getting pushed further and further back and her help only increased until I didn't even remember days where I was me. She sometimes mentioned how ungrateful I was because she always made sure I was at the top of my class, even when it got a lot harder in tenth grade and she started using tutors too.

She says she wants me to go to medical school because she always thought she'd do well, so she's having me take all the pre-med required courses in college now. The coursework is beyond her and now she's the one catching up but that's nothing I can help with.

I sit and watch TV and read graphic novels and look up anything on the computer to make me forget how I used to be me. It's her life now and she says she's going to make the best life for me. Sometimes I look through her work and find a grade that's not the top and I ask her about it over dinner. She doesn't like to talk then and sulks in her room and then I go online and decide who I want to be for the day.

Ariel Bernstein was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She is currently a stay-at-home mother to two young children in Livingston, New Jersey. She writes a blog, “How to Raise Benevolent Dictators,” at: a3bernstein.wordpress.com

Born With a Baby in My Tummy by Simone King

That one day called me mummy-

the feeling of life inside of me
when I was still a teen
a baby having a baby.
I accidentally nearly drowned my baby whilst giving him a bath-
life's simplest task was nearly my baby's last-
trial and error as I came to know better
learning the life of a teenage mother.

My breast, still undeveloped, now filled with milk,
skin soft as silk
I chose to read -
for every antenatal class I was late-
the only one I attended was high stake.
I learned the power of breath,
death was near in my despair-
no cheers, but the sounds of people moving their chairs.

 
Tiger claws over my once smooth tummy,
the after-marks of becoming a mummy
as the baby grew bigger inside of me.
Swollen feet, a new way to eat, no longer in the mood to meet and greet-
the baby's tears blew my mind,
a little ball of sunshine labelled mine for a life time.

The responsibility of having to name,

a symbol that this was no game.
I was never ashamed and held my head high-
unfamiliar footsteps, followed by emotional threats, a walk I would live to never forget

Simone King started writing poetry and short stories/films in 2011. She writes about her truth and the many questions that plague her mind.

Valerie by Jennie Campbell

The buzzing fan behind the counter made Mary reminisce about the cicadas singing their mating song during the humid summer months in her native Texas.

Summers in Los Angeles weren’t sticky, but just as hot if not hotter. Fortunately, the diner she worked in was on the shady side of Spring Street. The pale concrete government buildings imposed dark shadows upon the asphalt.

The tiny diner was peppered with a few regulars, not busy for a Tuesday, but it wasn’t lunch time yet either.

Mary rubbed her back through her periwinkle uniform as she wiped the worn countertop with a rag. As she stretched her neck and head, with its loosely bundled ginger hair, she inhaled a waft of coffee and griddle food.

Her half-closed, green eyes filled with light that bounced from the shades worn by the woman who walked through the door. The tan fabric of her high-waisted skirt and pale-rose colored chemise complemented and contrasted against her dark chestnut skin. In the sunlight, she radiated like an angel, making Mary’s freckled cheeks flush a scarlet red.

She’d seen Valerie, the lawyer, often. The prim and proper counselor was much kinder than she looked. On a few occasions, they had chatted at length about scripts Mary had submitted; and though Valerie specialized in criminal law, she offered to look over any contracts Mary might be offered.

It both excited and made Mary uneasy to think that she’d lived in L.A. for over three years and hadn’t sold a single story. She feared she may be doomed to die working at the diner.

“Hola, Mari,” Valerie smiled as she approached the counter.

“Hello, Valerie,” Mary greeted her, shyly pushing her black rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Valerie made her way to her usual booth and proceeded to plop her Michael Kors bag on the seat.

“I think I’ll get the Pig n’ a Poke today. I’ve been good all weekend,” she smiled up at Mary as she removed her sunglasses and pulled some legal files from her bag.

“Sure thing,” Mary smiled, scribbled a note and handed it to Tony, the cook.

“Here you go.” Mary sought an open spot for a coffee mug on what quickly became Valerie’s desk.

Valerie reached out and took it from her and in doing so brushed Mary’s hand.

A twinge of heat spread out from Mary’s stomach.

She fantasized about taking Valerie on a picnic to an open green space with a blanket. She’d bake her grandmother’s famous apple pie. They’d joke about how Mary was trying to fatten her up and Mary would compliment her perfect thick, hourglass figure.

Valerie would find an excuse to bring Mary close and gently place her smooth lips on hers because Mary would be too petrified to initiate anything.

“Mari,” she could faintly hear Valerie saying, “You OK?”

Shaking out of her daydream, Mary smiled at her through the painful realization that her illusion would never become a reality.

“Yes…yeah,” Mary laughed nervously.

Valerie smiled up at her as she shook her head a bit, “How’ve you been? Written any good movies lately?”

There it is again, she thought, that feeling of failure.

“Actually,” Mary hesitated, “…I have. It’s more of a passion project, but I’ll be wrapping it up soon.”

“It’s occurred to me, I’ve never read any of your work. If you don’t mind, I’d like to read it,” Valerie offered before taking a sip of coffee.

“Wow, really? Yeah. Sure. Please, I would love that. I could always use feedback,” Mary replied.

“Of course,” Valerie smiled and placed her hand, with its freshly manicured nails, over Mary’s, with its short, clean nails, “Maybe after I read it, we can get a cup of tea and chat about it.”

Mary was sure she was red as a beet.

“That would be lovely,” Mary Anne smiled as they locked eyes.

“Order up!” Tony shouted causing the women to break their stare.

“I’ll bring you your order,” Mary gently pulled away and grinned like a hopeful idiot.

If that’s not motivation to write, then I don’t know what is, she thought.

Jennie Campbell is a Latin-American author residing in the Los Angeles, CA region, who identifies as bisexual and seeks to increase the visibility of LGBTQ and ethnic minority characters through her writing. 

This story has previously been published on jenniecblogs.wordpress.com and thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com