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INT. CLUB - NIGHT
Throngs of bodies move together on the dancefloor. Hot sweat rolls down their skin. Techno lights flash all over. Music blares over the speakers. JULIET (18) is in the middle of the dancefloor. She’s your typical girl next door. Except right now? She looks like a vixen from hell with her cleavage-revealing dress. ERIC (25) is dancing right next to her. Eric is like the thick, slimy grease on a gas station pizza. JULIET (yelling) Are you having a good time? ERIC A great time! Do you want to sit down? JULIET Sure! Juliet has to lean on Eric as they make their way to their seats. Finally, they sit down. Juliet takes a DRINK from a waiter who passes by. She drinks it almost empty before sitting it down. JULIET (CONT'D) I was soooo surprised when you decided to ask me out. ERIC Really? JULIET YES! I was like me? Me? He’s asking me out? You’re like the hottest guy I’ve ever met! Eric chuckles. ERIC Thank you. JULIET And- Juliet makes a gagging noise. JULIET (CONT'D) I need to go to the bathroom. The second that ‘want’ turns into ‘should,’
She becomes a withering flower, ripped from its damp soil, placed on a windowsill that only sees sunless grey, and dying limply in a dirty glass cup. the stones battle inside the body
water, a mirror an artless reflection of a woman the body is belonging by itself our face painted in the pink of lungs water, a mirror where do you long to be, before the cicadas' song begins anew. In a day and age when men’s opinions are so well regarded that they can quite literally overturn
constitutional rights, I felt the need to gather and record the opinions of women, historically less present. The overturn of Roe v. Wade directly affects millions of women across America. Their opinions on the subject need to be heard. So, I asked almost all the women I could what they thought about the overturn of Roe v. Wade. I have recorded all of their thoughts, thus propelling often overlooked women’s opinions into the record. By the time you finish reading this, women’s opinions on the overturn of Roe v. Wade, and women’s opinions in general, shall be slightly less vague. Now, before I begin I should point out the obvious flaw in my plan. I only spoke to about six or seven different women. Due to this fact, the opinions I am about to spout out can not possibly be indicative of the opinions of every woman in the United States, let alone the world. Let me make one thing very clear: that is not the point. This is not about making sure that every voice is heard. Feasibly, I could not do that. Originally, I went for the angle of diversity. I could not have imagined that all five women would have the same opinion. However, each and every woman I interviewed was of a common mind. In hindsight, this is not that surprising. According to the Pew Research Center, sixty-two percent of Americans believe abortion should be legal in all or most cases. Nevertheless, I will reiterate myself: this speech is about preserving women’s opinions. Here are some women’s opinions: Betraying boundaries that we have made,
Created defectives based off how we’re portrayed, Established prophecies that praise your name, And ensure that it’s legacy will leave us in suffering, And assert we are naturally weak and a detriment, You, Put a bird in a cage, Clipped their wings, Let them, spin, You, Then claim it as flightless, “It chose its reliance”, On that wing-clipping man, i. a woman’s accusation
blink your eyes open. i am here with you as i have always been. iron your white button-up catch my fingers on the hot metal, but you do not help my pleading scorched burns that hurt almost too much. watch my bones splinter as you talk in comforting intonations you think are good. the ideas you speak of make me wither a dying flower dried up, crushed under I sometimes ponder on the weight of disdain,
wondering how it feels like to be hated by many. Especially when once you found yourself bathed in admiration, only to be caught in a bitter haze, following an error, a mistake. Like Helen of Troy, wrongfully accused of igniting the Trojan War, once adored, then loathed, a fall from grace. I’m not talking about the bloodthirsty men of the past, History’s dark stain. Those earned their hatred, for they inflicted unbearable pain upon millions And I hope that as their bones rust under the earth, their memory gets soiled and tarnished; a second death. Little girl, don’t you know?
Papayas should grow on papaya trees. Slowly but surely, like an Itty-bitty caterpillar and its Hundred legs that pitter patter Pitter patter... Into a butterfly, spreading its Delicate wings that glitter with Morning dew. Papayas should grow on papaya trees. Of course, you probably wouldn’t be able To tell that the papaya tree is a papaya tree At the very beginning It looks like a normal tree with some flowers Scattered here and there Here and there... Smiling at passers-by, who smile back And think: How cute, But never think about the tree again. Trigger Warning: references to female infanticide and mentions of suicide
the pain scale according to my grandmother: 1. “the dull ache in my stomach as i watch my father leave to fish. it is as harsh as the glitter of the sun on the water that i sometimes dreamed of making my jewelry. perhaps i’d wear it to church. my father takes the sea for granted. 2. my sister pulling on my arms and telling me to go back to bed. she doesn’t want me to take the boat out at night. 3. water in the nose. i cough and sputter and it is a glorious and horrible sting. 4. burning myself on chai. my mother is teaching me how to be a housewife. i laugh through the bright pain and put the hurt finger under the tap and learn a valuable lesson: water heals. 1899 - Suffrage
Mama used to bake braided bread every Easter. The slap of calloused hands against soft dough echoing through the kitchen like a lullaby. The clump of flour staring back at me could be anything but smooth and light in my clumsy claws. Tangled and twisted, she would smack my hand, perturbed by my wild spirit and untethering eyes Mama never liked me. She knew what she had created. A vagabond in a whistle-stop of conformity So I left. I let the salt-laden waves lift me away, until Mama and her bread became a folktale. Every Thursday night at 7, Cecilia and Eliza went to the local diner. They rarely
discussed it. No other establishment was ever considered (except for that one time the restaurant was unexpectedly closed for fumigation). It was the way things were. One Thursday evening, Cecilia arrived at the restaurant one minute before the hour, expecting to see Eliza in their usual booth. Instead, an elderly couple had planted themselves there. Cecilia frowned. Had she mixed up the days? But no, she hadn’t. It was Thursday. She knew this because they had served tamales for lunch at work that afternoon, which they did every Thursday. “Excuse me,” she said to the nearest hostess. “Have you seen a girl about yea high — she held up her hand — with brown curly hair? Big glasses?” Blood – rich whispers of crimson,
Like flames melting the feelings beliefs alive, grief that spelled Out the word – I n f e r t i l e Infertility wrenched beauty from my life, Erasing the stars from the night, Darkening my heart – but I survived Yes, I remember I was young one day, Yearning, aching – praying Begging for one smile from a baby, A smile that told me I’d been right… Love would- love could save me At age 5, the MRI machine was my personal tree house, the stickers on the ceiling were my safe
space. It felt cold; heated blankets are now a distant memory. It seemed like I spent an eternity inside that Magnetic Resonance Imaging Scanner. Maybe I just had one scan, but it felt as if it defined my entire childhood. I was already a member of the Pirates of the Caribbean with my eye patch, and now I was also the world's worst Telephone player. My left ear's ability to understand speech reduced with time, declining from 68% to 48% by age 34. In the past I needed hearing aids, just as I do now, but back then I did not love myself enough to accept the help they would give me. Growing up, my friends remained unaware of my hearing loss. As I aged, I'd jokingly tell them to sit on my right side. I'd nickname my left ear my "bad ear," attempting to make light of something that was crippling. But beneath the humor, the truth was harsh: I spent my life guessing what people were saying. she molds life through the cup of her palms
arrows slicing bullseye when she acts with silver tipped precision her footprints create forests in her wake every step nurturing seaweed green plants bursting gracefully to radiant life They called her a monster,
transformed from fair maiden into foul creature A girl whose beauty rivaled that of the gods themselves, whose name was whispered in equal awe and envy Powerless against Poseidon’s lustful desires, her sacred sanctuary was seized by his merciless grip Blamed for the sea god’s sins, she bore Athena’s wrath, her suffering a scapegoat for his violation Banished from the realm of man, she wandered a path unknown, 2:52 p.m.
Outside, the fog hides everything. It fills up the neighbors’ yards, turning laundry sour with mold. Out of the breath-stained windows of my uninsulated apartment, a fog-shaped hole reminds me of nothing. No feathered tree-fingers, pointing towards the sunset. No birds swooping for pieces of freeze-dried berries on the grass. Until the wind changes, the fog reveals only absence. Inside, I do what I can to distract myself: kettle on, Costco TV playing The Little Mermaid (1989). All of the household blankets, half mine and half Alder’s, cluster around me in a fuzzy heap. I’m eating Grape Nuts because they remind me of Mara (even though they taste like ground-up toenails), because she cares about her digestion the way a normal person might care about their pet Maltese. Mara is one of those people you feel the need to explain to people but never can. With Mara, almost everything is a bit. Even gynecology appointments, art school, student debt, inevitably becoming a high school teacher. Grape nuts. It’s all something to laugh about. Mm. Time for my daily sand, she said every morning back in the dorms. It took me two years to realize she just liked the flavor. On the TV, the daughters of Triton swirl around a mermaid-sized clam shell. Its lips part to reveal an empty, blue cushion—no Ariel. I fumble with the edge of a seafoam-colored throw, waiting for Mara to call me. Artist's Description:
I aimed to create a powerful presence in the woman's direct gaze, demanding attention and challenging the viewer. I opted for bold strokes and a mosaic of pink shades to emphasize that qualities often considered soft or vulnerable are, in reality, wellsprings of strength. Furthermore, the use of bright, unapologetic pink was a deliberate choice to subvert traditional gendered associations and to reclaim the color as a symbol of empowerment and defiance. The textured layers of paint, applied with a dynamic and almost aggressive technique, mirror the turbulent journey of the women's rights movement, the collective demand for equality and the refusal to be silenced by women. Be gentler still, unquiet sea; again she
sees her city days. She only ever saves what memories are not too heavy to carry. The pigeons want to know is she happy or does she ache? How many of her days is she still in the unquiet sea? Just buy the ticket overseas already; forsake those days on planes and the ache of some lady saying, "that carry-on looks heavy; Ruchi held out a delicate arm. Blood trickled in wispy veins down her soft skin, dripped onto her
torn blue sari. "Meri jaan [my love]," she croaked. Even after two bullet wounds to the torso, her voice rang sweet as a bird. "Jao. Mujhe...mujhe bhulna mat. [Go. Don't...don't forget me.]" "Nahi! Nahi... [No! No...]" Rahul dropped to his knees. He reached for her hand, but it had already fallen, limp, to the dirt floor. For one tranquil moment, he froze, stared down at Ruchi's trembling red lips as they let out a final breath. Then he crumpled into himself, pressed his forehead to her limp shoulder and sobbed. Mournful sitar1music accompanied Rahul's cries. Each pluck of the strings intensified his sorrow. Ruchi and her lover shrunk into the distance, revealing the abandoned shed and the bodies strewn around it, until everything faded to a foggy white. Maithili fished for a tissue on her crowded desk. She wiped salty tears from her face and blew the last two hours' worth of sniffles out her nose. Damn it, she thought, If the king hadn't pulled the ridiculous ploy of sending his minions to capture her instead of doing it himself, Rahul might have been in her place. She sighed and cracked her back, stretching her arms until her fingertips grazed the rough ceiling. It was cold and damp as a block of ice, and she recoiled, rubbing her hand vigorously on her sweatshirt. New Jersey winters really sucked. And so did Rahul. The king was way hotter. She would watch old Indian films more often if the morally gray male lead got the girl and if the love interests didn't look twenty years older. I hold my guilt between my teeth like I’m at the dentist. / It drills deep into me / She tells me to open wide, but I bite down. / For when I speak it becomes sanguinary / When they take x-rays, they say my jaw is too
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