"Since when I was 12 years old she told me once that we only remember the facts that are still going to happen. Thats why I write. I write to not forget. I write with steel and sign it with blood."

Peace. That is the state that prevails over Yamada under the reign of the Regent. After years of war, the kingdom finally began to recover from its fragile situation. The bad news is that not everyone involved got weakened from this war. To protect and conquer new peoples, the Regent will need to create never-before-seen policies, innovative strategies, and loyal servants willing to risk everything.
These servants, known as Strings, not only keep the danger away from the capital and borders but also proactively overthrow and combat enemy governments. However, the conditions for becoming a String are unknown. Miguel Ugarte will accept this challenge, although he has no idea what awaits him.

Rupophobic Plath Kauffman wants to keep his impossible rally victory going so he can indulge his narcissism and keep his illegal investor happy but he is prevented by the betrayal of a team member until he gives up everything—fame, fortune, his humanity—to take his revenge. His team is entering their eleventh season after achieving a perfect championship in their tenth season, a feat that made racing history. When he discovers that Devereaux is missing, Plath is determined not to let the team fail while nursing a desire for revenge. Obsessed with his own teeth and seeing his name in the news, Plath rebuilds the team while attempting to convince their illegal investor not to drop his support. He battles against a rookie team that’s perfect without even trying and a new teammate who is a sewage hauler. The team is on the cusp of a major comeback when Plath agrees to pay the ultimate price for a favor gone wrong. He then sacrifices everything he has left for one last shot at revenge against Devereaux.

Devereaux Weisz wants to achieve his father’s legacy of the night so he can rise above the filth of his past but he is prevented by an impossible city of people who need help until he is willing to sacrifice a second chance at family to reach the stars. The end of the road is where night begins. This is the belief that has driven successful rally star, Devereaux, to disappear from the city floating in the sky. Chasing this dream of night, Devereaux descends to the uninhabitable surface of the planet where the heat from the sun is said to have destroyed the old world civilization. Once there, he encounters a whole city built along one of the old roads and finds a childhood friend he never thought he’d see again. When she asks for his help, Devereaux can’t refuse but staying to help her means leaving his own goal behind.

Sebuah mitos mengatakan bahwa seseorang memiliki 7 kembaran di dunia ini. Tapi apa jadinya kalau Alvian bertemu seseorang gadis yang memiliki wajah yang mirip dengannya?

Alvian. Seorang murid kelas 12 SMA. Dikenal sebagai cowok berwajah cantik yang pintar, cuek, dan anti-sosial. Alvian hanya memiliki seorang sahabat yang sifatnya berlawanan, David. Namun, hubungan Alvian dan David menjadi renggang karena masalah perempuan.

Sylvia. Seorang murid kelas 10 SMA.  Sylvia terkenal dengan kelakuan yang suka menggoda para 'pangeran' sekolah yang kaya raya. Ia akan melakukan apapun untuk mendapatkan hal yang diinginkan. Ia berkepribadian ceria, suka menggoda, sedikit jahil, keras kepala, dan terlalu banyak berpikir.

Alvian kalah dalam sebuah pertaruhan yang mengharuskannya untuk berfoto dalam versi perempuan. Dewi Fortuna yang baik hati, mempertemukan Alvian dan Sylvia. Seorang gadis yang benar-benar versi perempuan Alvian.

Apakah Sylvia akan membantu Alvian?

"Temanku pernah berkata bahwa ada mitos kalau sepasang cowok dan cewek berwajah mirip, biasanya mereka itu jodoh... Apa kakak mau menjadi jodohku?" -Sylvia

NARRATIVE of WARD COURIER, Continued
June, 2009
SOUTH WALES, NY

Like a waif seeking shelter, Lys had fallen asleep with her head on my chest. I don't remember a tenderer moment. I was happy, looking forward to the progression of this affair, which it felt like it was destined to be. I was surprised at the way it had gone, after so many stops and starts and contradictions. I stayed awake another half hour, not moving so as to let her fall into a solid sleep.
She was gone when I woke. I don't know how or when she slipped out, but I think it was shortly before I came to. When I got to my first summer school class, I got a surprise.
The kids were grinning and making faces like they knew something was up. They usually don't laugh like that unless it involves something below the belt line. My fly wasn't down, so my mind went to other possibilities. It wasn't until I asked two counselors - members of the tennis team I coached - what was up that I got the answer.
Some of the counselors staying in the cottage on the hill were walking to breakfast about the time Lys pulled out in her top-down Beamer, probably in her mirror-lens Serengetis. They had seen her make the long, slow wind down my driveway to the road. At least ten campers had gotten a good look at her, and I know how she looked. The story of "Mr. Courier's Lucky Night" had made the rounds.
'Ah well,' I thought to myself. I don't like this sort of advertising around campus. I usually try to stay low-key. But you have to live your life.
****

NARRATIVE of WARD COURIER
July, 2009
The TOWN of ORCHARD PARK, NY

It was later in the summer, and Lys was off on another of her walkabouts. I had no clue when I would hear from her again except that it would be "a couple weeks." I'd had plenty of time to process things since our one dramatic conversation, and I needed it.
All Lys had told me about herself, her erratic button-pushing, her mood-swings from chilly to frenzied, her stymying behavior... The whole picture came together.
She was a stunningly attractive young woman driven to edgy act-outs. She had X-Games genes. She had been put off men by her overprotective - or possessive - father. She was driven to travel and pull up roots and push off entanglements everywhere she went. She left a trail of broken expectations wherever she touched down. Her only connection with Western New York was to her mother who wasn't going to live here long. She was like an autumn leaf, flying off a tree and drifting according to destiny. It was actually poetic. Based on what I knew of her and that one close conversation, I worked at and nearly completed a poem which I was trying to turn into a villanelle. It was just taking me some time to be sure it was proper even after it was outwardly finished. I meditated about it a lot.
I should tell you that I find the villanelle a damn hard thing to write. A villanelle is a very tightly structured poem of nineteen lines. It's got five three-line stanzas called tercets. It's got a four-line stanza at the end called a quatrain. That's the easy part, because there are prescribed repetitions of the same two lines.
Sylvia Plath ("Mad Girl's Love Song") and Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle...") wrote two wonderful twentieth-century villanelles. James Joyce put a good one into the work of his younger alter-ego, Stephen Dedalus, in "Portrait of the Artist..." I didn't think mine about Lys was anywhere near as good as theirs, though I do believe it held up as a poem and that it had some good lines and made some sense.
Because of the eight repetitions of the same two lines (they call that a dual refrain), the poem only has thirteen different lines in it. That might make it sound one line easier than a sonnet, which has fourteen. But then each of those repeating lines in the villanelle has to be even heavier.
There's no room for dead weight in a villanelle. There isn't in a sonnet, either, which feels like a tortuous form to some people. Sonnets are often rhymed, but a traditional sonnet has no fixed prescriptions but line number, and often line length. Pentameter - fundamentally, ten syllables per line - is customary in English, at least for poets who want to stay traditional. But the sonnet doesn't have to feature the repeating lines.
That, to me, is really the trick about the villanelle: those identically repeating lines. They not only have to appeal to the ear and the inner eye but they have to make condensed sense and be stitched so perfectly each time where they fall.
The villanelle is the Devil. I confess that I can't write a good one. I haven't yet, anyway.
I also thought about the relationship with Lys. I felt a sudden sense that I had let her down. If anyone ought to be wise and understanding, it should be someone who poses as wise and understanding. I realized that Lys' whole trip with me could have been an adult repetition of some of the discipline problems I had when I was a young teacher.
Not every act-out is a challenge that has to be met and conquered, though rookie teachers often see it that way. Sometimes act-outs are calls for attention, which is another way of calling for help. In an adult, amorous sense, this could have been the same thing with Lys. Compassion came over me, and admiration.
This girl may not have been sexually frozen, but she was amorously unusual. I got it. She didn't need a conquering hero, a canny 007, or a stern-lipped tough guy. She needed a man to be a bit of a big brother. Once I got that, my nurturing sense was touched.
It was during the period that I was working on that poem, that demon villanelle, and not knowing when I would see Lys again that I drove into a convenient in a nearby village to get some gas. I spotted Lys with a man and a woman about her age on their mountain bikes. They were getting air for the tires of one of the bikes and sipping on water bottles. There was no dirt on any of them, so I presume they were doing the roads.
"I just got in," Lys said, standing beside her Pete Fisher. "I was going to call you."
"No worries," I said, or something affable like that. It did take me by surprise to find her back and settled in. I would have counted on a little shout-out.
Lys looked OK. She actually was in a lot better emotional shape than I would have expected. She didn't introduce me to her friends, and I could tell by their lack of eye contact that they weren't interested in introductions. I did notice them. One was an athletic-looking, short-haired, middle-sized white guy. He looked like a clean-cut succeeder, good at anything he applied himself to. Same for the woman, who was sturdily built, short-haired, and attractive. I had the haunting sense that I had seen them both before, possibly with Lys in one of the pubs.
We made an arrangement to call each other and that was the end of it for awhile. I kept writing and playing tennis and enjoying the second half of my summer and otherwise living my life. People all grieve their own way, in their own time. I wouldn't want somebody asking me questions or passing judgements about what I had to do to work out the karma.




Author:
Author, teacher, storyteller, and supernatural historian Mason Winfield studied English and Classics at Denison University, earned a master’s degree in British literature at Boston College, and studied poetry and fiction at SUNY Buffalo with professor emeritus and MacArthur grant recipient Irving Feldman. He has written or edited fourteen books, including the regional sensation “Shadows of the Western Door” (1997) and “Iroquois Supernatural,” co-authored with Michael Bastine, on the traditions of the Six Longhouse Nations (Inner Traditions International/Bear & Company, 2011). Several of his surveys of upstate folklore and paranormal tradition may be found at the website of Western New York Wares: www.buffalobooks.com. He may be reached at www.masonwinfield.com.

An anatomically perfect human jaw fashioned of diamond-hard quartz crystal is uncovered at an Ohio burial mound and sold on the underground antiquities market. Shortly after, three pothunters are found dead.

A mysterious new drug suspected of South American origin surfaces in Buffalo, NY. Its unprecedented psycho-tropic effects include the momentary activation of ESP. 

Blind, speechless, emaciated street people start appearing in many parts of the world. An urban legend-cycle forms around them, and the name of a murderous old cult, “the Whistlers” attaches to them.

An archaeological team at a Mayan site reports finding a bizarre artifact and vanishes. 

An upstate schoolteacher’s book of New York legends and folklore foreshadows these developments and more. 

   These are the threads – plus his affair with a maddening woman – that draw narrator Ward Courier into the international adventure of occultism, terror, Native American tradition and onrushing prophecy that is Mason Winfield’s anticipated new novel THE WHISTLERS. By the time the picture of THE WHISTLERS becomes clear, we are ready to believe in a sinister conspiracy that could predate Atlantis and even hail from another world.

'I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.'

~Sylvia Plath

The loneliest people are the kindest. The saddest people smile the brightest. The most damaged people are the wisest. All because they don’t wish to see anyone else suffer the way they did. 
---------
Quotes by some famous people (some even my own)...
Do vote and comment :)

"Being born a woman is an awful tragedy... Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with the road crews, sailors, barroom regulars--to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording--all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstructed as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night..."

by Sylvia Plath.

A collection of poems that I enjoy. Some are poems; some are quotes. 
They aren't mine--all credit where credit is due.
There's no actual lead or genre since there isn't a true plot.

"It's okay, I've heard this a lot." I can't count how many times my friends asked me to go and see a psychiatrist, but I never liked the idea. I felt like an outcast.
"Well it sounded like I'm one of those jerk who likes to boast about things they do... I was just concerned..". He was very shy, yet so straightforward. I smiled slightly, "it's okay, you seem quite serious about your job."
He looked in my eyes and smiled gently, "Because I know how it feels to be left unheard." He continued, "Well I'm getting down at next stop, here's my card, I hope to see you again." He passed me the card, his name is Eric Charles. He noticed I was staring at his card attentively and asked, "what's your name by the way? Sorry I forgot to ask."
"I'm Sylvia Hudson."
"Like poet and novelist Sylvia Plath?" He chuckled.
"Yeah, how did you understand?" It was quite astonishing.
"Well just felt like you might like poetrys and novels, I'm Eric Charles by the way."
We shared a smile and sat silently for few seconds before he said it's time for him to leave. I looked up, "well I'm getting down here too." We both shared a small laugh, got down, and went to different direction. It was heartwarming to share a small talk with a stranger. I haven't done it much before, but it felt quite good.

***
When I got in the café, I found Eliza waiting for me. She waved her hand at me with a cheerful smile. It was nice to see someone this happy just cause they're meeting me. I passed by the tables and went to her, she instantly hugged me tightly. After everything I was feeling, it felt nice. "I missed you so much!" She said loudly and everyone's eyes turned toward us. We both looked around and burst into a laugh. "I missed you so much Ellie!!" It felt good to catch up with bestfriend after such hard time.
We both sat down as she kept asking me millions of questions.
"How are you doing this day?"
"Are you writing these days?"
"Did you meet someone new!?"
I chuckled and told her to calm down but it still seemed so hard for her.
"Well I'm doing okay.. yeah I'm working on a novel and No I didn't meet someone new."
"Ugh when are you gonna open your heart again, John doesn't even deserve this!" There was disappointment in her voice but what can I do, I don't like it either. Looking at my expression she softened a little, "it's been eight months since you guys broke up, you haven't even had a crush since then. How long are you gonna hold on to him?"
"I'm not holding on to him. I don't want to date someone now, I'm not in a good state. I'll screw things up."

Eliza sighed, "whatever let's not talk about that jerk. Let's order our favorite dessert!" Everytime we came here we'd order a sandwich and red velvet cake. We were ordering our dish when I saw a familiar face in the crowd. It was my ex John. He was with his best friend Simon. I looked away when I saw him here, I can't let him notice that I was anxious. I fixed my dress and hair to make sure I don't look sad. When Eliza saw I was acting differently she noticed John was here too. She held my hand softly said, "it's okay, I'm here with you." I faked a smile, I was feeling uncomfortable. It's our first meet after breakup. I closed my eyes and took few deep breath and smiled. It's alright. It's been 8 months, I'm over him. Yet my heart was aching, everything he said before occupied my mind within a second.

Sylvia has struggled all her life with depression and anxiety. Coming from a lower middle class background, she didn't have the money for therapy. On the other hand, Mona Martin, famous singer of this gen, is struggling with her own issues and anxiety. She has all the wealth she wanted but the peace could never conquer her mind.

By the time we reached the shore, I'm already smothered in sweat. Beads of perspiration were rolling down the side of my face through my neck, which made me feel ever more conscious. Red, after all, was only within an arm's reach; he was close enough to see all the crazy happenings going about my little face.

                       In an attempt to keep him from seeing me drip with wetness, I reached in my pocket to grab my handkerchief. But I find nothing. No handkerchief. No tissue. Not even a small piece of paper I could use as a makeshift hankie. I sigh, exasperated. "Seriously," I thought to myself. "Where is my bandana when I need it?"  Left with no other option to get rid of the moisture invading my face, I lower my head so I could use my shirt to wipe of the sweat instead. Yes, dear reader. I know. It's gross. It's completely unladylike for me to do that. It is disgusting. But then again, my only other option is to wipe my face with my hands, which would be even more disgusting given that my hands have been through a lot lately. 
                     "Hey," Red says, handing me something. "Here–use this."
                      I look at him, then down at the thing he held out to me. It took me a good five seconds to process what it was, given that it was pretty dark. It was his black and white checkered handkerchief – at least, that's what it looked like. The part of the beach where we are now isn't exactly well-lit, so everything were in muted shades of black, white and gray.                         Anyway, I didn't want to sound ungrateful, not to mention poker about what I really need, so I gently take it from his hands, saying, "Geez, thanks." In response to my surprisingly non-argumentative reply, he smiles at me. And as though he'd read my mind, he looks away. Not in the world was I going to clean up with his eyes on me. So when his gaze was focused on the waves running towards the shore, I bring his hankie to my face. But before using it to wipe the grime off my visage, I hold it to my nose and smell it ever so dearly. I love the smell. It was a mixture of scents I couldn't quite understand or put into words, but it made my heart beat like the tell-tale heart.
                        "I'm ready when you are," he says all of a sudden, prompting me to get on with my sweat-wiping agenda. 
                        "What?" I asked while clumsily wiping the sweat off my face.
                        "I said," he replied. "I'm ready when you are."
                        For a moment, my heart raced ever so slightly. I wasn't sure by what he meant, and I have no idea what to respond to this statement of his. I just look at him – stare at him, even – for what felt like an awkward eternity with his hankie in my hand, which now reeked of sweat.
                        "For your story," he continued, breaking what would have been complete silence had it not been for the waves crashing against the rocks. "You know, about your initial non-interest in the Red Sox game and about your interest to come here at Newport instead. You promised."
                        "Oh," I reply in a whisper. "I didn't think you were actually serious about that."
                        "Well, I am," he says. "I'm seriously interested about everything."
                        "It's a long story," I tell him. "That's a warning, so you can still change your mind. Besides, it's too much to handle for an acquaintance."
                        "It's a long night," he replies, smiling. "And besides, we're the only ones here – your story is safe. Cross my heart, it'll just be between you and me. No one else. And if it makes you feel any better, I don't judge."
                        "But why?" I ask him.
                        "Why I don't judge?" he clarifies, looking at me as though I just asked him to solve a mathematical question, though I bet he could answer easily.
                        "No, weirdo," I reply with a smile. "Why do you really want to know my story? Is this part of your job as a pre-college proctor or are you just really nosy about the lives of other people?"
                        "Because I want to know you better, that's why," he replies. "I like you, Liz – in case you couldn't tell."
                        There was silence for a moment until I gathered all the courage I had to tell him everything – from my parents' complicated marriage, my hopes to get away from all the mess, and everything in between.
                        "But you don't have to," he says, looking back into the ocean. "If you don't want to, we can just stare the sea for the next hour."
                        "Fine," I reply.
                        "Like I said," he replies.  "No pressure."
                       "It all started with my dad," I said, shifting my gaze into the endless mass of water ahead of us. "Just a little less than a year ago, he told me about all these really great universities here in the US and how I could study here for college. I thought he just really wanted what was best for me – I mean, all the great universities are here, and you know that. Everyone knows that. That must have been why it was so easy for me and my mom to get excited by the prospects of my studying abroad. But then after some digging and some unfortunate circumstances, I realized that it was his way of keeping me out of the real problem."
                        And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how involuntary tears started rolling from my eyes, how Red, surprised, asked me what the problem was, and how I gloriously failed to hold back the waterworks despite my most desperate attempt. In between sobs, I apologized and told him not to worry – this happens all the time, I said. When in fact, it's never happened before. I've never broken into a helpless fit, not alone nor with a friend. I started tearing up because it was the first time that someone asked me what I truly thought without any hidden agenda or something like that. I cried because I couldn't believe that I was telling my sad, pathetic life story to a boy I just met. I felt my heart twist into a knot, making it harder for me to breathe and get the tears out of my system. I sounded like a lapdog making alien sounds of rough breathing and sobbing.
                        "Hey," he says, reaching out and pulling me into what would be a very comforting hug. "If it's too much to handle, you don't have to tell me. I'm sorry."
                       I'm now in his arms, sobbing harder than I just did. He was shushing me to silence and peace, but I just couldn't let go of the negative thoughts invading my head. In my mind, images of my dad and his mistress, my mom crying, and the attorneys handling their annulment case filled my mind. In my mind, my parents were never going to get back with each other, not now or in the future. I just know it.
                        "But hey," he continues, holding me ever so tightly. "You can let it all out if it makes you feel any better. And I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to listen, okay?"
                        And so, while rapt in his warm embrace, I told him everything – the good and the bad, the highs and the lows of my existence. I told him about my father's infidelity. I told him about my plans to push through my plans of studying in the US, granted I make it in time for the SATs, the subject tests, and the TOEFL. I told him about my dreams of starring in a Broadway show or a Hollywood film, or even just a small commercial – anything. "It's always been my petty childhood dream," I say. To which, he responded, "My childhood dream was to ride a convertible. Hearing yours, I now feel ashamed of my younger self."
                        We laughed. We laughed a whole lot more after the sad parts of my story, especially when I told him about my love for the theater, acting, and the arts even when this love seemed a bit one-sided since theater, acting, or the arts never showed that much interest in my mediocre talent. 
                        "I write a poem almost every day," I tell him. "Amidst the demands of school and the problems at home, writing has become my safe haven. It's become my solace and my reset button. When I write, I let my thoughts flow like water in the river. At first, I'd just write a poem and then that poem becomes a song and the song becomes a subject of a whole screen play I have in my head. It's crazy, I know. But that's how it is for me. I guess you can call me a crank now if you want."
                        "Don't worry," he replied, soothingly running his hand through my hair. "We're all crazy, crank. You're not alone, crank."
                        I laugh at his remark, especially on his emphasis on the word "crank".
                        This must be what it feels like. I thought to myself. This must be what it's like to have a boyfriend or even just a close male friend. You'd have someone to hug you – someone bigger and meatier who could give the most comfortable embrace. (Side note: most girls prefer to be skinny and are therefore not the best people to give the most comfortable hugs.) I wish I had one growing up. I wish I had one back home. Maybe, if I had a really, really close male friend, I'd have grown up a bit more vulnerable. And that might have been a good thing. Maybe. 
To lighten things up, I tell him about my impression of America, how I'm truly, deeply grateful for Shake Shack and Taco Bell (I love them both, by the way), and how much I've been enjoying my classes at Harvard even when I won't get credit for taking any of them. 
                        "What do you think about it in general?" he asks me, which sends me in a whirlwind of emotions. After all, I've been, at different levels, in love with what I've been seeing and doing for these last two weeks. I told him about how my heart lights up every time I step into Annenberg for a meal or how my heart skips a beat every time I enter Widener to study. I told him how I exchanged emails with the cook of Annenberg after praising their team for such an amazing job in not only feeding us, but also making us enjoy our meals and how I was mistaken as an actual undergrad at Harvard, which propelled me to tour a group of young kids.
                        "It's just a wonderful community to be a part of – even if it means two weeks for me," I tell him. "Sure, it's a grand place with all its fine architecture and buildings, but really, I love the people more than anything. Especially on the first day when everyone was gathered at the Sanders Memorial Hall – that was amazing.
                        "I'm sure you're used to being friends with a Junior Olympic athlete or a Gold medalist in a Math Olympiad, but for me, it's different," I tell him. "It's pretty cool to be a part of this community, you know. It's something I wish I could have back home or at least in college next year."
                        "What about your other interests aside from school and extracurricular activities?" he asks me. "Anything you fancy? Tell me about your favorite book or film. Your favorite dessert, maybe?"
                        "OH MY GOSH I LOVE CHEESECAKES," I almost scream. "AND CARROT CAKES AND CHOCOLATE MUDPIES AND VANILLA ICE-CREAM!"
                        "OKAY," he says with a chuckle. "The energy you have for food is contagious."
                        I say a few more things about my favorite books and films – To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and Dead Poets' Society and Confessions of a Shopaholic, respectively. He said he'd never read To Kill a Mockingbird and promised to read it as soon he can; he loves the Bell Jar, which made me like him even more.
                        "It should be a s widely known as The Great Gatsby," he said.
                        "I know!" I practically yelp. "Sylvia Path is a genius! The Bell Jar is downright badass and a great masterpiece!"
                        We ended up laughing at our little arguments for The Bell Jar, and low-key lamenting the death of Robin Williams, the star of Dead Poets Society. Red hasn't seen Dead Poets' Society, but has seen another great film in which Williams starred in, which made him a fan, ultimately.
                        I tied up my narrative with a pretty ribbon when I told him about a typical day in my dream life: I'd wake up at 5AM in my penthouse somewhere in Manhattan, take a run at Central Park, go home and prepare for work directing a musical at Broadway, and spend the night drinking wine and listening to classical music. It felt good telling him everything. 
                        "Wow," he says after I said 'the end' as though I was telling a fairytale story. 
                        "I know," I reply. "Wow, indeed."
                        He chuckled, I smiled, and while rapt in each other's friendly embrace, I knew we were happy. Every molecule in my body screamed happy. I am happy. I felt at home in his cuddle and in his presence; I was no longer conscious. I didn't mind fixing my hair even when I knew it looked like bird's nest, thanks to the strong wind. I don't mind telling him about my worst fears, which is going insane. I could tell him anything and everything, and I'm no longer scared about his reaction. He was my ally, and I, his.
                        "Well, what about you?" I ask, hoping to prolong our conversation. "What do you think?" I didn't want it to end.
                        "The thing that surprised me the most would have to be about your dream job," he says. "I never would have guessed that your biggest dream is to be a star or an actress – I thought you'd rather be an owner of three-star Michelin restaurant or a chef."
                        "Why?" I asked, genuinely curious. I wanted to look at him but then I'd have to pull away. So instead, I stay in his arms, smiling, waiting for his smart reply.
                        "You love to eat."
                        "Very funny," I say sarcastically, but I end up laughing anyway.
                        "So," he says, loosening his squeeze. "Where does your non-interest in the Red Sox come in and the reason why you signed up for it anyway?"
                        That took me by surprise. I realized I did not tell him about one of the most important – if not the most important – thing about me: the culture and beliefs of my family.
                        "I come from a very traditional Asian family, Red," I tell him. "Even if I have a million reasons to back me up just so I could do something I really truly want – Broadway, for an instance – my parents' final decision is what's going to be followed, not mine. And it's not just them. My grandparents, my aunts, and uncles – they all have a say in it. Eventually, everyone talks about my life and give their inputs on how I should live it. It would have been easier if I had siblings. But since I'm an only child with zero cousins, I have all eyes on me. It's good, sometimes, but not entirely always."
                        "I'm sorry you feel that way," he tells me. "How do cope with that?"
                        "Well, most of the time, I get angry. I'd lock myself up in my room, take out my pen and paper, and write everything I feel. Sometimes, the pressure I put on the pen is so strong I'd accidentally rip the paper with my heavy strokes. But then, when I think about it, my anger isn't really for my parents. I'm not mad at my elderly relatives, either – don't get me wrong. 
                        "I actually find myself angry at myself, knowing that I should do something about it. Maybe I could have convinced my dad to let me join a film festival or start my own YouTube channel. But no. If it's not for school or for my college application, I can't exactly argue my way to what I really want – not even if my life depended on it. Not even if it makes me the happiest person alive."
                        "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry you haven't had the chance to do the things you really love."
                        "Don't be," I reply. "It's got nothing to do with you. Besides, my parents saved me from possible heartbreaks had I lost those film festivals or had gotten negative comments on my channel. Not to mention heartbreaks from guys."
                        "But, Liz," he says. "That's what makes life exciting, don't you think?"
I remain silent, but deep inside, I was shouting, "Yes!" Tonight is, after all, a product of unplanned activities – thanks to my parents' being far away and inability to patrol me.
                        "To be dauntless, to be reckless, and to leap before you look – that's what makes life a little more interesting, as what my philosophy professor once told me."
                        "I figured," I reply with a smile.
                        "Aren't you a mind reader?" he jokes. "But I guess, your inability to argue and stand your ground is, in a way, a good thing. Let's just say like everything, it has its pros and cons."
                        "And what would the good side be?" I ask him.
                        "Had you been extremely headstrong and not open to what others think," he says. "You wouldn't be here with me, sitting at the beach of Newport, talking about things that actually matter more than cheering for a Red Sox game."
                        "Makes sense," I say, pulling away from the hug. 
                        "But we still have to get going," he replies. "We don't want you to miss the highlight of your American trip, now do we?"
                        "Right," I say. "Either way, thank you, by the way. Thanks for this."

                        And just as soon as we both got up, I reached out and kissed him on the cheek.

If you met your soulmate and you only had one night together -- say five or six hours -- what would you do? This should have been the first question that Lizze "Liz" Ong asked herself the moment she literally fell in Red's arms.
Straight-laced Lizzie goes on a night filled with crazy adventures one could only dream of doing with Red, a complete stranger. They start of with a banter, go on with a friendly chat, and end with a bang.
Adventures happen. New things are learned. Secrets are revealed. Courage is regained. And most importantly, love is found.

When Sylvia arrived back home from her trip to see Owen, she was exhausted. She lay in bed and wasn't feeling well. Her stomach felt as if someone was twisting around her insides. She'd lost weight, and it hurt when she ate or drank. She could bear all of this if she wasn't alone. No one to lean on, no one to talk to, no one to cry with, no one.
She propped up the large, full pillows behind her back, took her cell phone off the nightstand, and scrolled through the numbers until she came to Claudia Roberts. She stared at her name, then decided to call her. Claudia answered in an upbeat and joyful tone.
"Hello," she said.
"Claudia, darling, it's Sylvia."
"Sylvia, how are you? I haven't heard from you since the anniversary party. Where have you been?"
She cleared her throat. "I've been busy. I...well...I'm sick."
"Sick? Well, are you in bed? Have you seen a doctor?" Claudia asked.
"Yes. I've seen a doctor," she replied.
"Oh, good. So, I've got so much gossip to fill you in on. I mean, you missed a wonderful party with the Beckers. You know how Francis Becker throws a party. She had the most fabulous food, but the decor was simply dreadful. Poor dear, she raved all night about her decorator. She has no taste and all the money. Such a shame."
She listened to Claudia go on about the music, food, who attended, what they wore, and who they were with. She laughed lightly at her anecdotes about the new maid or how she had to fire the gardener.
"So, are you coming to Spain next month? You know I just purchased a new villa, and Jackson is letting me throw a big party. The who's who will be there. You must come, Sylvia," Claudia said
"I don't think I'll be able to make it, Claudia," she said.
"Oh, no. Well, I'll be sure to tell you all about it. If you change your mind, let me know. I really must go now. It's been great hearing from you. Ciao."
In that moment, Sylvia realized she had no friends. Not one. She looked down at her phone and scrolled through the names until she came to Monica Dancy. She stared at the name. She remembered the last time she saw her. It was about 2 years ago at a dinner party.
During the party, she found herself alone with Monica. They were both in the restroom. Monica was fixing her hair in the mirror when she walked in. Monica looked at her in the mirror, then continued to fix her hair.
"I really don't know you why bother," Sylvia said. "It won't help." Monica shot her a look. "Really, Monica, why are you here? You don't belong here."
Monica froze, then turned, looked at her, and pierced her lips together. "No one wants me here? You've got that wrong; no one wants you here. Everyone knows what a bitch you are. When exactly did you get your invitation to this party? Or did you just hear about it and assume you were invited? Probably Claudia. She does feel sorry for you. We talk about it all the time. She's the only one who will have anything to do with you, and that's out of pity. Unlike you, Sylvia, I have friends – and unlike you, I don't have to pay people to be around me."
Monica tossed her hair and walked for the door. As she opened it, she said, "Oh, and Sylvia? Fuck you." She quickly walked out of the bathroom, letting the door slam behind her.
She was right, Sylvia thought to herself.
She threw the phone across the room and watched it shatter against the wall.
"Fuck!" she screamed.
For the first time, she understood what Monica had said. She was alone. She felt her eyes swell up with tears.
"I'm tired of fucking crying!" she screamed.
She slowly dragged herself out of bed and over to her desk. On the desk sat the black folder Sharon had given her. She slowly put her hand on top of the folder. She decided if Lily wouldn't meet her, she'd go meet Lily.
"You have to do this, T! We need you to do this," Chloe said into the phone. "Besides, it would be good exposure for your article."
"What the hell do I know about hosting?" she said.
"You're perfect," Chloe said.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Look T, we didn't even think about a host, and when we did, you were the first person we thought of. Come on, it's a few hours for one night," Zoe said.
Tallulah groaned into the phone. "Oh, okay. But this means I have to be there early, and I have Lily coming here for her makeup and stuff."
"Don't worry, I got you," said Chloe. "I'll meet Lily and make sure she gets to the open mic." "See, it all works out," said Zoe.
"Yeah, right," she said, not sounding happy.
"So, usually the host will kick off the show with something. You got poems and stuff. I know you do," Chloe said.
"Yeah, I got poems and stuff," she said. "I can do anything? Any poem?" "Of course," said Zoe. "It's an open mic."
Tallulah lay on her small sofa, with her legs dangling over one of arms. They'd asked her to host the open mic, and she just wasn't ready. She'd never read her poetry in front of an audience. She got up, walked into her bedroom, and began to rummage through the closet. After several moments, she found what she was looking for: An old large shoebox.
She took the box and placed it on the bed, then took off the lid to reveal all her old journals and notebooks. She'd kept a journal since she was eight but hadn't written anything for the past 5 years. She didn't know why; all she knew was, she didn't feel like writing anymore. "Did I lose my spark?" she said out loud.
It was in those quiet moments, brushing her teeth, doing laundry, drinking tea, that the doubts of her writing abilities would creep in. She'd always wanted to be a writer, and she was, but it wasn't like she'd written the great American novel. Moments of not being good enough or not being accepted had plagued her all her life. When those moments arose – and they did often – she would push them deep down inside. She forced herself to move forward.
She started going through each journal until she found one from her senior year in high school. She wrote a lot back then. She flipped through the journal and smiled when she came across an entry that read, "Beat Michael again today in chess. He's really obsessed with winning. You'd think he'd be proud because he taught me how to play the game. I don't see what all the fuss is about. Maybe I'll let him win tomorrow. He really is my best friend."
She continued to flip through the journal until she found an entry that read, "You Sound White".
It wasn't as much a journal entry as it was a poem. She continued to read:
 
My skin is black
And I offer no apologies
My lips are full
My hair is nappy
My ass is round
 
My thighs are big
And I offer no apologies
You've held me down
Pushing my head underwater
You laugh at me
Snicker and grin
Because I'm supposed to be less than
 
I'm educated and smart
I'm gonna leave my mark
On this world
So the words that I speak
And knowledge that I seek
All come to light
But again you try to hold me down
By telling me I sound white
 
My skin is black
And I offer no apologies
My lips are full
My hair is nappy
My ass is round
My thighs are big
But I know wrong from right
An educated sista
That you can't handle
So you tell me I sound white
 
You've got me trippin'
Like there's something wrong with me
But I can see, you just mad
'Cause I ain't what you'd thought I'd be
Brown skin white words
And I make no apologies
But people usually fear what they can't understand
 
Call me an anomaly
My skin is black
My lips are full
My hair is nappy
My ass is round
My thighs are big
And I make no apologies
But people usually fear what they can't understand
 
 
Call me an anomaly
Not black enough for blacks
And too black for the whites
All because you say I sound white.
 
As she read the last sentence, she decided she would open with this poem. It still resonated with her; even now as an adult, she encountered these same words from both Black and white people.
She remembered on the first day of AP English, a girl in class told her she was trying to sound white. When she interviewed for a position at a large newspaper, one of the interviewers had slipped and told her she sounded white. The guy she dated told her she sounded white. She'd always felt the need to defend her Blackness, but now, in this moment, she didn't care anymore. At the end of the day, she was still Black.
She continued to go through her journals until she found 3 more poems she'd written in college. She read each poem. "Not bad," she said to herself. She put the poems aside and put the box back in the closet.
The apartment was quiet. Michael had moved out, and Tallulah lived alone again. She had gotten used to having him around, but she knew he wouldn't stay long. She heard a knock at the door and walked out of the bedroom and to the front door. She opened it to find a smiling Mrs. Herrera, who held a basket in her hands.
"Hola, Tallulah, are you hungry?"
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
<gdiv></gdiv>

You Sound White is the story of protagonist Tallulah and a cast of young aspiring African-American women five years post-college. Her writing career has not taken off as she has planned and is working three jobs to make ends meet. She has grown up in a world that judges her by her skin color and how she talks. Her life takes an unexpected turn when she befriends a homeless woman named Lily. Tallulah realizes that there is a story there and as Lily's past materializes, her own life is illuminated and dissected in ways she could never imagine.

I walk into physics just as Ms Hastings is handing out our tests. Ms Hastings gives me a young lady, you're late look. I give her a tell me about it and have you noticed I'm swimming in a pool of sweat look. Ms Hastings raises an eyebrow. I sit at my desk.
Ms Hastings lays our tests facedown. She does the regular threats: 'You must not look at anyone's work!' and 'Put away your phones!' and 'Your time starts now'.
We flip our pages over.
Turns out, I am ready for the test. My brain fires up and the neurons make my hand move and the formulas come out like good little ponies at a show.
Most of my tests are fairly easy, which isn't me boasting; it's just a statement of fact. Mum says I might have a photographic memory, which is good for Mum because she often forgets her pin numbers and passwords.
Mum could be right. All I have to do is look at something and it sticks. Sometimes, the image repeatrepeatrepeatrepeats, like a GIF I can't turn off.
The room fills with the buzz of numbers. Pi scuttles over our papers, theorems talk to themselves. Ms Hastings looks at her phone—probably at some friend skydiving or snorkelling in the Bahamas, while she's trapped in here with us.
The bell rings.
'Time's up!' calls Ms Hastings. We hand in our tests. Next class is English.
I don't chat or dawdle in the corridors; I slip between the crowds, a fish weaving. In fifty-five minutes I'll have to speak to Grace. Just keep swimming, Biz.

Mr Birch stands like a flamingo in front of the class, one foot scratching the back of his leg.
'Okay, everyone,' he says, 'today we'll be writing about the ego. That is, your alter ego. Consider your readings over the weekend, and the work of Plath in this context.'
A collective groan from all of us. We've done Plath now for three long weeks and no one is a fan. I mean, we all 'feel' for her, but at this point we've read her and analysed her and discussed her and it's like peeling an onion until there's no onion left.
'I want you to write a description of your alter ego, due at the end of the day,' Mr Birch says, ignoring our protests. In case we don't remember what he's just said, he writes it on the whiteboard, his blue pen squeaking. He then sits at his chipped desk behind his PC, doing paperwork.
We hunker down to do the assignment. That is, some of us do the assignment; some of us daydream. The new boy pulls out a book and reads it behind his laptop screen.
Fans flick-flick above us. A trickle of sweat moves down between my boobs. I stare at my computer.
I don't much like to write about myself. It's not my thing, discussing any part of me. Over the years, Mum has suggested we go see people because Dad is dead, but then we put it off. I did sit with a man once, when I was seven and a half, in a room with yellow-painted walls and framed cat pictures. The man had round glasses like Harry Potter. He laid out paper and blunt colouring pencils and said to draw, so I did. Then he hummed and ha-ed and said, 'I'll just speak to your mum now, okay?' and when Mum came back out, her eyes were really red, so I didn't draw for anyone else after that.
The cursor blinks on, off.
I take a breath, and dive in.

My Alter Ego: A meditation/poem, by Elizabeth Grey
Consider the Ego / The ego is defined as a person's sense of self / Which includes but is not limited to self-esteem, self-worth and self-importance / Don't we all think ourselves important, that we matter? / We are matter, this part is true / But do we? / And / Is it possible to have an alter self / I.e.: an opposite, matterless self?
No / Such a thing cannot exist / The universe is made of matter / And if I am alter or other then I would be lacking matter or a sense of matter and as such cannot be in the universe / And if I am outside the universe, that makes me a singularity, a concept impossible to imagine / Therefore, my alter ego is beyond my capability for imagining / And thus, cannot be described.
The End
P.S. Some say God is a singularity, but people imagine God all the time / They think he looks like someone's white grandpa, or Santa Claus / God's Alter Ego is sometimes called a Dog / (Sorry) / It should be added that Dogs exist and have the potential to exist throughout the known universe / So it is possible that my earlier hypothesis is wrong.
I close my laptop, look up at Mr Birch, who'll get to read this masterpiece tonight. What a lucky guy!
The bell rings.
'Please email me your essays by midnight!' calls Mr Birch over the scrape of chairs, the shoving of laptops into bags, the clatter of our bodies beelining it to the door.
Now it's recess.

At recess and lunch, I always sit with Grace—and Evie and Stu and Miff and Rob and Sal. The Posse, they call themselves. I should say: We, as a collective, call ourselves The Posse. I am in The Posse. I am an integral member of The Posse, I think.
Grace and I have sat with The Posse since the first day of Year 9. We were both new. Evie saw us hovering uncertainly in the schoolyard, and decided we belonged to her. She brought us over to the bench under the tree by the fence. There, everyone interviewed us. What bands did we like? Did we prefer a day at the beach or inside? Had we read The Communist Manifesto? Had we seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? Did we like it? Did we have a tattoo? If not, what would we get and where?
The group made the questions sound like conversation. But I could feel everyone marking us invisibly. Tick, tick, cross, tick, tick.
I let Grace answer first and watched everyone's faces. I crafted my answers the way their smiles went.
In the end it was okay. We could stay. But of course we could stay! The Posse is inclusive! The Posse is Love Incarnate!
We would have more people in The Posse, but most people are stupid, says Miff. We, The Posse, agree.

Before I came to this school, I was never in a group, so being in one—especially one with a name—was quite the novelty. It still is, because, I mean, I belong to six other people and they say they miss me when I'm not there. I've sat on the bench under the tree by the fence for just over two years now, laughing and saying things I think I'm supposed to.
And almost every second of every minute I'm with them, I feel like I'm seeing the scene from somewhere else. In front of a screen maybe, watching someone else's life.

Biz knows how to float. She has her people, posse, her mum and the twins. She has Grace. And she has her dad, who tells her about the little kid she was, and who shouldn't be here but is. So Biz doesn't tell anyone anything. Not about her dark, runaway thoughts, not about kissing Grace or noticing Jasper, the new boy. And she doesn't tell anyone about her dad. Because her dad died when she was seven. And Biz knows how to float, right there on the surface-normal okay regular fine.

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