Fall 2025 Issue

A PORTFOLIO OF SELECTED LITERATURE

Enough

Huina Zheng

We tried so hard to become you. The one with effortless privileges. The one who never had to prove he was worthy of love. We thought if we worked harder, behaved better, grew up faster, we might earn a single smile from Mom, until the day you were born. Your first cry sent the house into celebration. Ours had only earned a sigh. Relatives beamed, “You finally have a son,” as if we were just dress rehearsals. There were stars in Mom’s eyes when she looked at you. When she looked at us, only the silence of dry, bottomless wells. Why? Not because you were better. But because you had one more bone than we did. You became our parents’ hope, the bloodline, the future caretaker. No one questioned whether you could carry that weight.
You earned the world by doing nothing. We did everything and still heard, “So what?” Yes, we envied you. Your freedom to play while we washed dishes. Your passing grades met with praise while our top scores were ignored. You were always “the future.”
We were “just girls,” meant to marry out.
But what hurt most wasn’t your privilege. It was that we once believed we could earn their love if we just tried harder. Now we know: This was never a competition. It was a game we were born to lose. The rules were written long ago. You’re the son. We’re the daughters. And we thought it was our fault. That we weren’t enough. That we were born in the wrong bodies. That wanting love was too much. We cared too much.
Wore chains we didn’t see. Tried to break them, only to swallow the key.
Enough!
Enough of measuring our worth by their yardsticks.
Enough of chasing fairness that never existed.
Enough of tying our dignity to crumbs of approval.
We don’t want to become you anymore. We’ll grind the rusted lock between our teeth, swallow the twisted rules whole, until our throats can no longer form a single lie against ourselves.

Excerpt from "Silly, really!"

Sarah Das Gupta

Mary Parry knew immediately when she walked into the classroom it was going to be a difficult day. The beginning of a new school year was always tricky. This was especially true of the eleventh grade. Public examinations loomed on the horizon. Tension was bound to be in the academic air. The class shuffled in and the usual suspects dashed for the seats furthest from the teacher. “As we have a number of new students, I’d like to re-arrange the seating. Perhaps one or two of you at the back could give me a hand?” Reluctantly, the “back row boys” began moving the tables and chairs. Eventually, Mary had the classroom she’d planned. Tables were now in groups of five pupils and the class had agreed to pull numbers out of a box to determine the seating plan. She smiled with satisfaction. Whether by luck or fate, the class was well mixed up. As the bell rang for the first break, Mary called one of the new students to wait behind for a few moments. The girl stood awkwardly, staring at her feet and fiddling nervously with her elaborately braided hair. Mary looked at the register. “Now, you must be Chika.” The girl nodded silently and then whispered, “Yes, Miss.” “You weren’t in school last year, it seems, looking at this report. Was that because you were moving about or perhaps you were ill?” “I couldn’t get on the bus, Miss.” Mary had expected a variety of responses, but not that particular answer. She glanced at Chika, who was staring trance-like out of the window. “Well, we will talk about that another day. It’s almost time for Chemistry now. Come with me and I’ll introduce you to Mr. Bryant.” That evening Mary was reading through the various reports on new students in the class. She left Chika till last. It seemed her father was from Sierra Leone and her mother’s family from Nigeria. Chika herself had been in the care of the local authority since early childhood. She seemed to have been in at least eight different foster homes. As she was nearly eighteen, she now lived in a council apartment with the support and guidance of a social worker. Her father had apparently died some years before, but Chika still had some contact with her mother. Mary worried that she was going to find Year 11 very tough going with a barrage of exams in the summer. Next morning, Year 11 were huddled together on the playing field complaining of the cold nip in the air and moaning about taking off their sweaters. “Bloody freezing. It’s against human rights, Sir.” “Why do we have to have sport so early in the morning, Sir?” “Can’t we go into the gym, Sir?” So, the complaints continued. The girls were playing netball and were in an equally recalcitrant mood. They had picked their teams and, predictably, Chika was the one left out. Mary, taking a short cut across the playing fields, saw her standing shivering at the side of the courts. “Hello, Chika. You need to keep moving. It’s a bit nippy this morning.” Just at this point one of the shooters fell and grazed her knee. Chika was called as a substitute; the whistle blew to re-start the game. Mary was about to walk back to school when she was stopped in her tracks. Chika had shot a goal from just inside the circle. Shouts of “Good shot!” and “Well done!” echoed round the court. Well, that’s something to build on, mused Mary. As she walked into her office, one of the canteen staff was waiting to speak to her. “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Parry, but I’m worried about one of the girls — a new student. Chika’s her name, or something like that.” “Yes, I’m a bit concerned myself.” “She didn’t touch anything yesterday, not even the fries.” “Thanks for telling me, Jan. I’ll speak to her before lunch.” As the bell rang for the morning break, Mary stood outside the Maths class. Chika came out at the back, looking dazed and generally lost. “Just come to my office, Chika. Nothing to worry about,” she added, noting the panic on the girl’s face. She sat down opposite Mary but avoided looking her in the eye. “Well, how did your first day go? Do you feel you’re settling in? Any problems you want to talk about?” “No, Miss.” Chika barely looked up as she spoke. “Well, I was a little concerned to hear that you hardly ate anything for lunch. You know you can always have a salad if you don’t like the main course.” To Mary’s surprise a tear began to roll slowly down Chika’s face. “I did like the food, Miss, but I couldn’t eat it.” “Ok, were you feeling ill or something?” “No, but they were all there eating and…” Her eyes filled with tears. Mary handed Chika a tissue, adding quietly, “Take your time. You don’t have to explain it.” “I can’t eat with other people. It’s since a foster home I was in. They said I was a freak and I had to eat on my own — after the others finished.” “Well, you don’t have to here, Chika. How would you feel about eating lunch in my office? I’m never here at lunchtime. You could just take your plate to the canteen when you’ve finished.” “Yes, if you don’t mind.” “Of course not. You look like a future star on the netball court, but you have to keep your strength up.” By the end of the Christmas term, Chika certainly seemed to be growing in confidence. Mary felt her English was improving. She was naturally creative and her general knowledge had surprised many of the staff. However, one of the Science teachers complained that Chika’s work was smeared and smudged with a light brown substance of some sort. Several others complained of the same problem. Mary broached the subject with her: “You know this could be a problem in the final exams. You cannot use different coloured biros.” “Oh, it’s just make-up, Miss.” “Well, you shouldn’t be wearing make-up in school and it certainly shouldn’t be smeared on your exercise books.” Chika looked hesitant, then the words suddenly rushed out: “It’s skin whitener, and it starts running down my face when I’m hot or upset. Sorry, Miss.” Mary felt like bursting into tears. “I think you should be careful, putting different chemicals on your face at your age. I was looking at the portraits in the Art Room the other day. Who painted that portrait of you, the one hanging on the back wall?” “John Kelly, Miss.” “I thought what a beautiful profile. He caught your expression perfectly.” “Really? Thank you, Miss.”

Sunday

Deb Blenkhorn

She remembers Grey Cup Sunday, that first and only one they all shared

Before life got in the way

The feeling that this was something adults did, and here she was doing it

Her boyfriend, his sister, his sister’s boyfriend

The television blaring, the snacks set out on colourful plates

Not knowing and honestly not caring ‘bout the rules of the game

And when the guys came back into the room, asking what happened,

She said, “I think someone got a penalty for rushing!”

Which became a joke for months ahead

Why not go on for years this way?

Two couples, all congenial

Four lives forever intertwined?

‘Twas not to be…

We rushed ahead to other times, to other loves

Not even looking back till years had passed

And then with only fragments of the past

So long-distilled a vintage, bottled, casked

Did we ever even fight? I don’t recall except the end

And no one won, and no one lost, though all is lost

Not even to retain the world as friend.

I give myself a penalty for rushing

Headlong to tomorrow’s bitter strife

But sometimes I recall that Grey Cup Sunday

A vanished moment in a vanished life

Names for Birds

Jane Hertenstein

A bevy of quail —so young, so pretty A bouquet of pheasants (when flushed) —they say you can get away, if you want to A brood of hens —all the other girls stay with him A building of rooks —there are times, when fear A cast of falcons —or real love, makes you A charm of finches —think it’s not so bad A colony of penguins —and where else would you go A company of parrots —and who would you be, without him A congregation of plovers —all of them talk behind their hands A cover of coots —like they know, but they don’t A covey of partridges —not everyone can fly A deceit of lapwings —those sweet lips and promises A descent of woodpeckers —the swift back of his hand A dissimulation of birds —cower in your corner, hands over head A dole of doves —waiting, not a word, until he’s gone An exaltation of larks —exhale, breathe, breath A fall of woodcocks —try not to ruffle feathers A flight of swallows — the things he do A gaggle of geese, wild or domesticated —kisses all over A host of sparrows —soft caresses A kettle of hawks, riding a thermal —that thing that causes you to rise up A murmuration of starlings —so easy to forget A murder of crows —how he kills A muster of storks —again and again A nye of pheasants —you put on denial like a new skirt An ostentation of peacocks —smooth out the wrinkles, dab on makeup A paddling of ducks —hide the scars A parliament of owls —the police don’t come A party of jays —or if they do, there’s nothing to see here A peep of chickens —so you screw your mouth A pitying of turtledoves —shut the fuck up A raft of ducks —and every day the dream slips A rafter of turkeys —away, runs through your fingers A siege of herons —heaven or hell, you took a vow A skein of geese, in flight —things will one day A sord of mallards —sort themselves A spring of teal —you’ll get your ducks in a row A tidings of magpies —don’t be fooled A trip of dotterel —girl, get going An unkindness of ravens —as far away from here A watch of nightingales —do not look back A wedge of swans, flying —take wing A wisp of snipe —an unwavering ribbon across the sky

when i am sick i think too fast

Fayeh A.

my brain won’t walk, it runs
barefoot, in gravel, dragging memory like a leash.
i close my eyes but everything behind them keeps moving.

the pillow is soaked.
i thought about third grade.
i thought about that time i said something cruel in the cafeteria.
i thought about the freckles on your left shoulder.
i thought about death for four hours
and taxes for five.

my body hums like an old machine
left on overnight,

overheated
the kind that ticks even after it’s unplugged.
i check the clock.
3:07.
i check again.
3:07.

i can feel my heartbeat behind my knees.
it’s whispering you forgot something.
i sit up and the room swims,
a fishbowl filled with breath and yellow light.

someone is coughing down the hall.

every thought is a firecracker.
every thought is a mosquito,
and my mind is a summer porch.

i remember things i never lived.
a woman in a red coat dropping a glass in a diner.
a dog barking at a green balloon.
my father’s hand on the gearshift.

i try to pray but end up apologizing instead.

the ceiling cracks like an egg.
i laugh.
it sounds like choking.

i close my eyes again.
inside, a lamb is running laps.
it looks like me.
it doesn’t stop.

Ego death for the first time ever

Cris SL.

One morning I woke up without the word “I.”
It must’ve slid off in the night,
along with the dream where I peeled an orange
and found a small, blinking face inside.

I tried to put myself on like a coat but the sleeves just fell off.
The meat stayed.
The consciousness somewhere in the walls,
tapping.

I walked around for days like a grocery bag with a hole
thoughts dripping out in a wet trail behind me.
Someone said my name,
high, brittle, like glass being stirred.

wanted to say,
but there was nothing behind my teeth except the sound wind makes
when it forgets where it’s going.

Gender turned to soup first
alphabet soup, sticky and lukewarm.
I tried to spell something honest with the floating letters.
I got “ ”

The ego, I think, is a trick of lighting.
You keep enough fluorescent bulbs on
and suddenly you believe in edges.
and the silhouette runs.

I am slouching toward the drain.
Hair clog. Mouth noise. Old receipts.
I am what’s left when language forgets the recipe for self.

Mother Teresa Didn’t Spiral After Brunch

Aby Solomany

If goodness is measured it rots.
I draft compassion like copy
The virtuous don’t check the chat
to see if their check-in landed right.
They don’t replay the moment
they said “take your time”
and wonder if it sounded performative.
I do.
Every mercy I offer arrives pre-creased,
like it’s been folded and unfolded too many times.
It still works, maybe.
But it’s no longer gift-wrapped.

101 Damnations

Meghana Gosh

I want to be spotted like blot in cream, like someone left me out too long and now I curdle visibly. Speckled like a bad banana peel, soft in places that shouldn’t be soft, blushing where no blood is supposed to pool. I want the skin to say it before I do. Polka-dot me with fever, with shame, with tiny moons of mold that bloom in time-lapse, a dermatological confession. Let the spots crawl, not land but movement, a slow parade of something not-right. No more clean skin like hotel soap! They chant. I want to look like static feels. Like a dial turned halfway between stations. I want to be a textile that makes people itch. A tag you cut off and now feels ever worse. I want a stranger’s hand to hover mid-air and not land. Because something’s wrong with the picture. Something’s pulsing beneath. The spots would say yes, this one is thinking too hard again, this one doesn’t sleep right, this one licks the backs of her teeth when she lies. I want to be marked the way milk sweats in heat. The way ink bleeds through cheap paper. I want them to see the outside and know: there’s something in there knocking too loud.

Vision Board

Eliza Losoves

I have a Pinterest board called "Love."
I've never been in a relationship.
Is that hopeful or sad?
I also have a board called "Dream Life."
Now that I know is sad.

The apartment in the photos has tall windows,
light pooling on a rug no one has ever spilled wine on.
There’s a bookshelf with only the spines I wish I’d read,
and a table set for two,
though no one's ever sat down.

Sometimes I scroll through it late at night,
like I'm looking for proof
that someone like me could live
a life that doesn’t feel borrowed.

None of it smells like anything.

No socks left on the floor,
no half-laughed sentences caught in doorways.
Just pictures. Just light.
A mirror to look into and think nice thoughts.

That I know is sad, too.