Not Home

Written by alarminglytired

When tomorrow comes
and the thunder quelled,
Your heart thrums
as you’re finally held.

A child who was blessed
to a humble family.
You who were cherished.
You who grew up happily.

When the stars shine
and rest in your eyes,
means you’re truly divine,
mommy’s  gift from the sky.

Oh, but time is a fickle thing.
It waits for no one.
It can cost you everything
in just a matter of seconds

When the heaven’s call
wishes their angel home,
you who gave your all
is now alone.

Without her warmth
you’re cold and scared.
Stuck in a billowing storm 
wishing she was there.

When the stars kneel
and their lights cloud over,
once again you’ll feel
the embrace of your mother.

Cafe Courting

Written by Gabrielle Wilkinson

From shared laughter over sundaes to stolen glances across banana splits, John’s ice cream parlour in Wingate was a popular haven for young couples in the 1950s. 

In classic 21st century fashion, the parlour has found a new life at the award-winning Beamish Open Air and Living Museum in Northeast England. Using original elements from the café, the replica building invites visitors to travel back in time with rock and roll classics whilst enjoying traditional ice cream and treats.

The building of a legacy 

The café was originally owned by Giovanni Baptista Parisella, affectionately known as ‘John’ in his constituency. After release from service in a battalion in Scotland, John worked at a fish and chip shop with his father before a short-term residency in Alnwick led him to the purchase of what would become an integral component of the local Wingate community. 

 A sprinkle of magic 

John’s Italian descent offered a unique sweet treat that dripped with authenticity, and it was not long till the parlour became a well-known staple for socialisation with café crooners. 

His cross-generation legacy finds itself weaving into many families’ stories. Descendants of the café crooners sit in the replica booth with a hot chocolate in their hand and fascination in their eyes, wondering what types of conversations must have occurred between lovers sharing a milkshake. Perhaps a disagreement over what to put on the jukebox or a shared adornment of a slice of chocolate cake topped off with a sprinkle of magic. 

The Ending

Written by Zoe Younessian

your hope is to return to the world light as
cremation, tethered to the only home you’ve
memorized better than poetry. to fold your
body into an exhale, to nourish a gingko by
the river you once drenched your hair in. to
keep the cycle going, to float above for the
first real time. to be no more and no less. you
deserve this. you 
are godless. you have never felt 
so certain.

Nosey Nora

By Kate O’Sullivan

T.W.: Implied SA
A witch could be described as many things, such as wise, wistful, mischievous, or even arcane, but none of these traits are what you need to be afraid of. The observant witch, however, can be your greatest friend, or your worst enemy. In Nora’s case, she could be described as knowledgeable, but many preferred to call her “Nosey Nora.” 

Nora finger-brushed her curly hair and smoothed her apron as she emerged into the shop. Herbs and roots covered the wall in different sized glass jars while mortar and pestles, scales, and all sorts of strange trinkets littered the counter. With a flick of her wrist, a sign flipped on the door to “open.” Before long, a young woman peeked into the shop. Her hair was tied back in a bright red ponytail, highlighting the bags under her eyes. 

“Hi, it’s Penny, right?” Nora shouted from behind the counter. 

“That’s me. How’d you know?” 

“No one else in town has red hair but your family,” Nora said, walking over to greet her. “I’m Nora, but I guess you knew that. Please sit.” 

Penny sat on the worn leather couch across from Nora, fidgeting with a string on her skirt. 

“How can I help you today?” Nora asked.

“I heard you can help with nightmares.” 

“Yes, I can. What are the nature of the nightmares?” 

Penny’s jaw clenched, and her eyes scanned the room like someone may overhear. “Do you have to know to make them go away?”

“Yes, and no. Dreams are fickle, they’re a different kind of energy. They can’t be created or destroyed, but they can be manipulated. Understanding the nature of the nightmare lets me know the best way to deal with it.” 

Penny nodded in understanding, but her lower lip trembled. “They’re really bad. The worst kind you can have…y’know what I mean?”

Penny met Nora’s eyes, and she didn’t have to say anymore. Nora recognized the hurt that lived there. It was the kind of hurt that you could feel in every nerve of your body, long after it had happened. The body always remembers, even if we wish it wouldn’t. 

“Is it based on real events, or fiction?” 

“Real.” Penny whispered. 

Nora’s stomach tightened. “I can help you.” 

“Really?” 

“Really. Come with me.” Nora walked to the back door, gesturing for Penny to follow. Penny rose on shaky legs, still uncertain, craning her neck to see inside the dark space. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you into a pie,” Nora joked.

“That’s very reassuring,” Penny said, managing a weak smile. 

Nora led Penny past the walls of potions to one filled with books. Her fingers danced atop a few volumes before she pulled one like a lever, revealing a doorway to another room. 

“Not witchcraft, just good carpentry,” Nora chuckled. 

The hidden room was nearly empty, save for one ornate crystal bowl in the center that levitated on its own. The back wall was covered in bottles holding wispy white dancing strands. Some even had little glowing yellow orbs, like miniature stars. 

“These are dreams. Most of them were given up or taken for one reason or another, and I safeguard them.” 

“What do you do with nightmares?” Penny asked. 

“I collect those too.” 

Nora made a pulling motion and the shelf rotated 180 degrees. Where before there were white wisps, red and black strands writhed against each other, violently swirling and reforming every second. 

“So many. Isn’t there a limit?” Penny asked. 

Nora eyed her, weighing whether she should tell Penny how everything really works.

“First I’ll ask you this: do you know why they call me Nosey Nora?” 

“They say you eavesdrop on everyone at the tavern, or send ravens or spiders to spy on them,” Penny said, blushing.

“Yuck! Ravens yes, spiders no,” Nora said, gagging, “The townspeople are right of course, I am nosey. But they haven’t figured out why.” 

She gestured to the vials, “You’re smart to notice. There is a balance I have to keep between the dreams and nightmares I possess. Eventually I have to return them to people’s minds.” 

“Wait,” Penny said, holding her hands up in understanding. “You give people nightmares?” 

“Yes, that’s why I sit eavesdropping at the tavern. I send the nightmares to those who I think deserve them, and steal their dreams away.” 

“That’s so wrong! You can’t just play puppets with their minds,” Penny cried. 

“I know,” Nora sighed. “Most townsfolk here are kind, so I end up taking a lot of the nightmares myself.” 

Penny blinked in confusion. “You…give yourself nightmares?” 

“If it means someone like you will be free of them, yes. I do.” Nora’s eyes were distant, as if recalling all the horrors she’d seen that weren’t her own. 

“What will you do with mine?” Penny asked. 

“If you approve, I’ll send it to the person responsible. It’ll modify itself to their mind, so it won’t resemble yours.” 

“Yes,” Penny whispered after a moment, “Please make it go away.” 

“Close your eyes.” Nora pulled a crystal wand out of her pocket. She held the wand up to Penny’s forehead and made a slow pulling motion. An awful writhing red stream slithered from her head like a snake before catching it in an empty vial and corking it tightly. 

“All done. You can open your eyes.” 

“It really won’t come back?” 

“It can’t, it’s locked up here until I do a return-to-sender spell.” 

Penny paused for a moment, then held out an outstretched finger. “Pinky promise?” Nora smiled, she hadn’t pinky promised anything since she was a girl. 

“Pinky promise,” she said, taking her pinky. 

Nora waved goodbye to Penny before returning to her wall of nightmares. Her fingers hovered over the worst of them, containing years worth of agony, despair, and fury, bottled and hungry. She selected one, then two, then another three. 

“There are fates worse than death,” Nora said. “And some people deserve to meet them.” 

She smiled as the spell commenced. He would not sleep for a very, very long time. 

Summer is

By Hailey Jiang

The scorching sunlight shining, 
Bird calls lasting until evening
When the sun leaves and 
The sky turns purple, 
Leaving me with a love confession 
on my lips. 

Summer is 
The repetition of the ocean crashing, 
The scent of coconut, 
The thrill of a carnival ride 
In the dark, just us and 
The lights, a golden spark 
As the world spins around us,
Your hand on mine. 

Summer is 
The salty breeze in your knotted hair,
Seashells tinkling in the wind, 
The smell of coconut sunscreen, 
A lost memory, a drunken haze 
Of what happened the night before. 

Summer is 
Seashells washed ashore 
To be strung into bracelets on 
This day, woven together on your arm. 
The taste of coconut ice cream, 
Cold and sweet, the after taste of
Your lips. 

Summer is a coconut shell, 
Summer is whirled together,
Summer is fleeting.

Away and Apart: Far from Familiarity 

Written by Subhashree Pattnaik

Staying away from your comfort zone, your home, your immediate social environment in which you were brought up and made to live comfortably is not just an act of individuality but also an exploration of what it means to be an individual, independent and responsible of your own becoming. The reality of being in subjective charge makes its way into the fancy of living on your own terms. And the acceptance then becomes quiet, a silent act of changing and becoming “someone” to make meaning of, to be able to define life. 

The question then arises–  had you been at home, your comfort zone, would this reality still have settled in you like dust on an unwanted road? Would your comfort have been able to give way for this truth and change to be accepted? Is that why your home has always been so reluctant of letting you go? Is that why the eyes held you back at your departure, and is that why your city asked you to not flicker through its flickering lights? To give it one last chance at making you someone. And is that why confidence overlapped with nervous adrenaline rushes? 

But you must move out of their comfort zone because life will turn. And it is only when that responsibility makes itself inevitable that homesickness becomes a tangible and separate genre of emotion if you could at all sarcastically label it the same way (coming from an experience myself). The recollection of familiarity becomes mourning. You mourn your comfort and desire to be loved by being cared for.. Independence could be an overwhelming change. Thus, the frustration always ends up taking the shape of missing and wishing, past and a far away alternative present. 

Missing comfort and missing home then often become a subconscious action that arises out of a conditioned factor of environment. This is not to challenge personal bonds and  human relations. But to reflect on the fact that even “personal” is conditioned. Bonds themselves are formed inside conditioned factors. This whole narration of conditioning is to reflect the emotional vulnerability of being away and Apart from such conditions that construct comfort. 

These moments are not only moments of intense vulnerabilities but also  sheer joy. For even moments of extreme satisfaction or relaxation bring a sense of desire to belong and to share what is yours with the comfort of whoever provided it. But situational and distant acceptance becomes easier  than moments of recounting vulnerabilities. Their absence becomes an omnipresent manifestation of them. Which impacts  the very deep connection of comfort the individual experiences. It is yet again a deconstruction of comfort and a sense of subjective reassurance. 

The conditioning factors include  frustration. Sometimes, there is a guilt of abandoning and a sense of being abandoned. When helplessness takes the shape of grief, the frustration of you leaving takes on guilt. The absence then becomes a tangible element of intangible desire. Familiarity begs recognition, unfamiliarity begs realization of your reality. 

The only reality being that life— away and Apart is the only truth and you can choose subplots of life from that one truth. Independence breeds unfamiliarity that then turns into a familiar condition. At the end, a conscious dream takes the shape of a comfort zone that was once a reality.

The Attempt

Written by Gianna Buelow
TW: overdose, death, and suicide

You can hear the last fading drops of water drip,

Drip,

Dripping

from the shower.

The tears fall from your face as you cry,

Cry,

Crying

for the twentieth time this night.

Your thoughts still spin,

Spin,

Spinning

as you fail to self console.

Now your heart will lose,

Lose,

Losing,

as your depression takes control.

You can no longer stop yourself as you break,

Break,

Breaking

Breaking.

Wanting nothing but to scream at

whatever has control over this universe

for torturing you like this.

Telling yourself it’s not bad enough,

To feel that way,

To think that way,

You’re just being dramatic

your thoughts say.

The bottle is close,

Too close,

Too easy.

‘Don’t think that, you can’t do that, not to your family, not to your friends,’

But do they even care, would they even miss you, they don’t want or need you,

The other voice rings in your head,

Screaming,

Crying,

Begging,

for it to end.

You stare in the mirror as you desperately try to fight

back the thoughts that’s begging for it to end.

You lose.

The bottle is close,

Too close,

And too easy.

‘It could end,’

‘There would be nothing left

The thoughts

The feelings

The emotions

The urges

The actions

The regret

The hurt

The pain

The fight

The endless effort to appease all the people that will never like you anyways

It would all end…

The pills slip down your throat with a simple sip of water,

The empty bottle is discarded in the sink,

Dropped as you have your own visceral reaction to what you just did.

What did you just do?

How could you have done this?

What is wrong with you?

You’re supposed to be perfect.

You’re supposed to be perfect!

You were supposed to be perfect.


I do regret it,

     but not for the reasons you’d think.

I regret it for hurting those I love,

          but not for hurting me.

I know what I did was wrong,

               but I can’t help that it felt so right.

Maybe I miss who I was before all of this was alright.

But a healed person doesn’t miss the pain;

                    doesn’t beg for worse to happen,

instead of begging for it to go away.

A healed person is better than me,

                         because I’m still begging for me to stay.


I’m sorry

I’m so so so sorry

I’m sorry for taking those pills

  I’m sorry I couldn’t throw up

    I’m sorry for putting us in that hospital bed

I’m sorry I still remember our Dad’s yells when he saw the bottle

  I’m sorry I still remember our Stepmom telling me it’s okay

    I’m sorry I still remember the drive to the hospital

      I’m sorry I still remember everything in the hospital

        I’m sorry I can’t get it out of my head

          I’m sorry I can’t forget

I’m sorry I thought there was no other way

  I’m sorry that sometimes I still think that way

I’m sorry for causing the flashbacks

  I’m sorry that house can’t feel like home anymore

Baby, I’m sorry

  Please forgive me

Baby, I need your love, not your hate

  Please understand what I did

Baby, I thought it was for the better

  Please forgive me

    Please remember

Baby, it’s okay,

I forgive you.

I always forgave you.

Stupid

Written by Vanshika Srivastava

Stupid, something I am used to calling myself over and over again. A habit that I have seamlessly picked up from my peers and everyone around me, but what does it mean? What do they mean by it? And how am I supposed to take it? Younger me, with those wide and curious little eyes, thought it to be something cute, like a mouse. It just has this ring to it. 
But soon I was told it was not so. The word that I giggled over was now the apex point of something heaving me down day by day. Something self-derogatory. 
One day, during that single silent moment amongst the many trivial ones, I reeled back to when stupid wasn’t stupid. At least for me. How did stupid turn to stupid? Then I went on experimenting, calling myself stupid in Finnish, German, and Spanish. Tyhmä. Dumm. Estúpida. Nothing. I felt nothing. 
It’s just so curious, I realized, that we, our own mind, keep on adding this value to something that is simply crushing us down. And I laughed and laughed and laughed, realizing the irony, how stupid this actually was, and how stupid we actually are.

The Whistleblower

Written by Tia

Welcome to the Museum of the Evolution of the Homo sapiens. I, your storyteller from the land of the Humans, humbly invite all members of Alienopolis to today’s session, A Tour Through 100 Years of the Modern Human. Take your seats and fasten your seatbelts, for there lies a long tale ahead.

100 years ago, this world was recovering from the wounds of a great war. Men trying to rebuild families and governments, and women marching on their feet to make their voices heard. 

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Scream. Scream. Scream. 

Monarchies collapsed, their legacies under the sand. Because no kingdom stands forever. In this world, everything has an expiration date. I don’t say that; history does.

After much politics and powerplay, a new era of catastrophe arose—a second great war. Civilians tortured, soldiers martyred, children lost, populations starved and wiped off. This was 1945. Banks, billionaires, politicians—all bankrupt and financially exhausted. They decided that keeping colonies, maintaining the songs of imperialism, oppression, and profit-making, was getting heavy on their pockets.

So they began to leave the lands they looted. And gave themselves a new sense of entitlement in return. Regarding the fight for Freedom and its monetary opportunities perhaps….

This entitlement made men and their parties divide lands, distribute area, gain political power in the name of democracy, and build institutions for ‘world peace’. All of it meant for the satisfaction of the whims of ‘The Entitled’.

The Entitled masked their greed with intelligent-sounding speeches of hope, progress, change, and equality. 

The warring ideologies quickly grew hands and held nukes, enough to destroy the whole world at the press of a button. 

Money became weaponised.

Justice was commercialised.

Because The Entitled—who were once colonisers—were greedy for growth and money. I mean, who would want to give up on their old habits, right?

This, in turn, gave rise to an economic system. Capitalism. The Rich get richer, the poor get poorer. That was the base of this system. 

Organisations, statistics, systems, jobs, companies, expectations, values, people—all began to define Capitalism as the mark of ‘success and progress’. 

You would ask, ‘Was there anything at all that kept everyone together?’ 

Well, yes and no. 

You see, humanity does not extinguish itself so quickly. But if you live inside a system driven by greed disguised as progress, how much can you expect?

Yes, I will not deny that there have been momentary sparks of true kindness, bravery, and love. But more often than not, the virtue of kindness, helping one another, comes along with ‘Terms and Conditions apply’. The bravest of souls, the softest, the most giving, and the most observant of life are remembered and respected after their deaths. I do not even know how or when we humans decided that we are mere passersby to one another, every relationship bound by a condition of service and loyalty. 

Constructs, norms, segregations, divisions, and factions are what our world is made of. It has only gotten harder to love freely in this place—to know a love which is not tied by doubts and assumptions. The Entitled’s Capitalism has only been successful in growing the divide. 

For instance, this system has made womankind believe that the only way a woman has access to freedom is through money. I believed it too. 

Until someone wise told me that money should never have been my primary concern. What I truly deserved as a girl and a woman is safety, within and outside my family, without being oppressed. Desiring what I truly deserve and seeing it become a reality feels like a dream I will never get ahold of. Because this world is made for only one kind of the entire human population of 8 billion. The man-kind.

Here, everyone is in a rat race—the rich for making more money and a name, the poor for survival. Some classes exist between these two extremes. The main goal of these classes is a sense of stability, i.e., for as long as one can continue to be a working person, to be able to feed their family and children. 

The working class. The middle class. Such distinctions might be ironically funny, as one might learn that the world has enough to feed and keep 8 billion humans, equitably. Yet the legacies of colonialism and capitalism deny such equity. And the imbalances are hurting Mother Nature on an unprecedented level. 

As a matter of fact, the denial has reached such grave heights that today, in 2025, 2.1 million humans inside a mere 365 square kilometres of land, are being starved, tortured, and killed. All because The Entitled, with their politics and power, decided that they are not deserving of existing. 

Guess what .The culprits aren’t hiding behind their actions. They openly declare their motives and deeds. Humanity is living in an era of witnessing genocide being live-streamed on devices. Devices made for efficiency, fast connectedness—a mark of human advancement. 

And as much as the reality is presented to our eyes, some of us are stuck in our need for comfort and space, some of us want to disconnect because it doesn’t bother us, and some of us are stuck in our inability to effectively help because we do not have access to the highest seats of power. No matter the pain and empathy felt, this writer herself is confined to the boundaries of pen and paper. Words won’t fill the starving bellies and quenching thirsts of 2 million bodies, and perhaps more, who too deserve dignity and the right to life. 

I do not know what lies ahead, because when a world is crafted out of greed, for profit, it is easy to be convinced by illusions. They keep us safe, restrained, enslaved. This world is run by a million illusions that seem to be falling apart, chunk by chunk. But this storyteller cannot tell if history will repeat itself in the realities of tomorrow. 

My dear fortune tellers of Alienopolis, this brings you to the present day. And I now leave it to you to chalk down your thoughts on humanity, and perhaps give us a hint of the fate that lies ahead for this species….