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….

elegy to tombstones

Written by Kurn Sundaram

our fingers / brushing 
across your skin— tense at 
first, elegizing at last / names 
at the vigil slurred & smudged / little
fingerprints in their places / nameless
nobodies— the tombstone quick 
in its erosion / quick, till it’s all rock & none
body— none human, quick / our palms across
your hunched torso / two twins, collapsing in
this divine embrace / each, eager to bury the
other— two morticians for all things
unremembered.

The Older Brother Returns

Written by Holly Wilcox Routledge

C.W.: Mild allusions to violence, minor injury.

He goes to the fields after he has mopped up the mutton grease with the final dregs of bread. In the cold, autumnal morning, he wraps the woolen cloak around him more tightly, calloused fingers pulling wool through the metal hoops of his clasp. 

He still remembers the Spring they brought the sheep in for the shedding. Still remembers the pile of wool he was assigned to make this cloak, and the number of dye allocated to him. He remembers the singular pot he was given to dip the stretch of virgin, undyed fabric into to dye to its current colour amongst the honeycomb of others, bustling with his father’s workers, and his father himself. 

He had prodded the billowing fabrics, tied together like stomach and guts with rope, with the end of his crook, unsure of how the dye would turn out under his gaze. 

The older brother lets his thumb run over the handle of the sickle, polished through use and soft where it melds to his hands. 

He has stood in the fields day after day, Summer after Summer, the scorching hot rotation of the planets, as he cut and sliced through heads and necks of wheat, faithful sickle at his side where no horse or servant ever has been. 

The path he treads is the path he has walked since he was given his first sickle, which was too big, too large for the hands of a child, the blade as wide as his middle finger. It shone at first, but dullness spread across its curved edge like the encroaching heat that spreads along the leaves that rise amongst the tilled fields. 

The warmth will not remain for long; already now, he can see that darkness lingers in the mornings, and before long, he will rise and walk this path in the dark, with only the moon and his memory to guide him along the path. There is no point wondering if his younger brother will join him. 

But even still – 

The older brother dares to let his mind wander as he makes the first slice. The wood of the handle is warm, solid. As he swipes through the first clump of weeds, he remembers the day the first sickle broke, the wood splintering off in his hand, shattering into multiple directions, the way the solid sway of its body had suddenly twisted and snapped impossibly as he pulled the blade through a wedge of stalks. 

‘Too much’, the head farmer had told him as he inspected the bloodied chunk of wood that he had pulled from the boy’s palm, ‘Too much weight too soon. You cracked the body and it couldn’t hold up under the stress. It served you well, but you expected too much of it.’ 

And then he had bandaged the hand and handed him another sickle, with a blade so clean he could see his tear-streaked face in it. There was no pause for farming. There was no pause in this life for him. 

There was no glory for him here. He worked because he was needed, and to be needed was innate to this job. Without him, there was no food, there was no money, there was no certainty of success. They all needed him – and they needed him all the more because he was the only one out there. 

The older brother gathers the fistful of weeds, loops the end of the cloak through the clasp to make a crude hammock before dropping them inside. He was here all Summer in the fields, back bent and waist stooped to gather everything in time, to make sure every thumb and gram of crop was accounted for and measured. He was there when they began the plans for Winter, to prepare for the cooling temperature and the need to adjust. He was there first thing in the morning, and was the last to leave at night. 

He had been the one to assign the sheafs of wheat to be given to the festival sheep, he had been the one to make sure it was housed properly at night, that it was well fed and watered. He wondered if, when it was finally slaughtered, they would taste the devotion he had provided it; that they would taste every hour he had worked out in the fields and ditches in the roast. That somewhere, when it was opened up to be cooked and fried, everyone could see how much love he had given to it.

In the end, it had taken less than a minute to slaughter it. In the end, it had taken his younger brother less than four hours to eat the sheep that he had spent months tending to. Did he taste it then? Did he see what an example was supposed to look like as he ate? 

The older brother takes his scimitar and cuts out the next group of weeds he reaches. He should be taking them out by the roots, ripping them up where he knows they run miniscule beneath the soil, to prevent any further growth. Removing the weeds only by slicing them is a poor choice in the long run. 

He wonders if his brother knows that

He will need to show his brother the ropes of the farm, if he still remembers it after his time living in opulence. He wonders if his brother caught any news of the change in weather, if he still remembered the life he had so desperately tried to run away from. He wonders if his shame will direct him to work harder to remove the stigma that clouds around him – 

He wonders if his brother would ever know the difference between a brand new sickle and one close to bending and breaking into a thousand pieces. 

The older brother continues his way up the field, slicing apart the weeds as he sees them. His cloak grows heavier with each bundle he puts in, until he finds himself reaching the top of the field, a small slope that leads out to the road that runs by the farm. 

The sun begins to rise, and when the first waves of heat begin to run up the side of his cheek,  he has to turn to try and lessen the glare. He gazes back over the fields he has grown up alongside, the beaten path he took to reach this point. The farmhouse where his family sleeps following the feast is quiet, with only a few servants flitting in and out, getting everything ready to start the new day. He wonders how well his father slept last night, holding his youngest son to him, like he would never see him again. 

The sun ascends behind him, higher and higher, his shadow dragging itself out along the field before him, like the sharp, jagged edge of a rock, the point of a sickle, but never quite reaching the farmhouse below.

Taking After Mother.

By Subhashree Pattnaik

People often told me 
That I take after my mother 
In the way I look like her 
The same structure of defeating nose 
The same frizzy hair with wild curls
The same innocent eyes 
That dry up at nights without glaring.

But I have begun to think 
Now that I’m not an unaware child anymore 

That I take after her in
More than just disappearing looks
In how my eternal kindness has never 
Been returned— I still never run out.
Silence on the other side of the phone, 
Echoing like a hanging telephone
Yet I always pick up 
Bare hands desiring for something to hold
So be it an absent emblem of unreturned help.

No critical appreciation
No remarkable remembrance 
A perfectionist performance of regular chores 
Only to be forgotten and ignored 
Like a god’s prayer that was answered.
Because that’s what makes us women, 
Endless labor and no recognition
A dying sadness through a forced smile.
And a tranquil heart, long lost in a spiral 
Of terrific crowds. 

I take after her in 
My loneliness disguised as independence— 
My hands chaotically searching for things 
Because time has never stopped for us—
Multi-tasking, managing, working, 
Solitude is sometimes a struggle 
And my mother makes sure 
I learn to handle my anger.
She knows what she has passed on 
Other than the generational grief 

Of womanhood so, she asks me
Not to repeat mistakes 
Of staying at the same place— home
To never love, to always let go 
To cut threads and ties.
We both can’t stand a privileged man 
Exaggerating about his destined success.

‘Please look after this bear. Thank you.’ 

Written by Gabrielle Wilkinson

With Paddington Bear’s anticipated arrival in London’s West End later this year at the Savoy Theatre, let’s take a trip down memory lane to the first television programme developed from the Paddington Bear stories! 

Where it all began 

It is Christmas Eve 1956. A man spots a teddy on a shelf in Selfridges. Feeling sorry for the poor little bear, the man buys him as a Christmas present for his wife. Unbeknownst to him, the bear will become a worldwide phenomenon… 

Michael Bond’s name has become synonymous with the creation of the delightful Paddington Bear, with the books selling over 35 million copies worldwide and translated into 40 different languages. Bond credited the inspiration of the refugee bear to his childhood memories of children being evacuated from London with labels around their neck. From this, he came up with the famous tag around Paddington’s neck, which reads, ‘Please look after this bear. Thank you.’

The ins and outs of the show 

The animated TV show ran from 1976-1980 in the form of 5-minute shorts shown before the evening news. It followed the story of a Peruvian bear and the Brown family who named him Paddington after the London railway station in which he was found. Produced by FilmFair and using stop-motion, Paddington was a puppet in a three-dimensional set narrated by Michael Hordern, who brought his distinctively polite English voice to life. 

Viewers follow the bear’s misadventures, which see him getting into spots of trouble including flooding the bathroom and knocking over a camera whilst taking a family picture! Personally, my favourite episode is ‘A Shopping Expedition’. The episode sees Paddington embark upon a shopping day out in London to buy some new pyjamas, eventually deciding on a white pair with red, yellow and blue flowers. In classic Paddington fashion, he climbs into the store bed thinking it’s there for people to test out their pjs, before waking up from his nap to a sea of faces staring at him through the department store window! 

Paddington is synonymous with politeness, hard stares and of course, marmalade sandwiches. However, his most distinct feature is his hat. Paddington’s hat has taken multiple forms: black, yellow and red. If you were to ask the majority of the British public which colour they associate with Paddington, it would be an educated guess to predict most would say the red hat. Whilst the red version may win the popular vote, I will always remember him as the 1970s version with his distinct black hat. The books actually only described his hat as ‘rather dirty coloured’, not mentioning any specific colour, but when Paddington came to our screens, show creators decided to use black, and something about it will always be my favourite version of him. Perhaps I am biased from it being the first version of Paddington I remember, though I strongly believe the preference is due to how the black compliments his blue duffle coat perfectly, with a finished look I find more refined than the other versions. 

A timeless tale

One of the main reasons I love Paddington is that his timeless charm transcends generations to keep him as the nation’s favourite bear. Despite my being born over 20 years after the show’s finale, the series was integrated into core memories of my childhood. Those red boots were there when I opened my eyes for the first time and every day when my mother got home from school, a sweet reminder that whilst many factors in life are uncertain, Paddington is always there. 

A message to the future children of the world: ‘Please look after this bear. Thank you.’