Number

Number

It happened earlier than the Eastern Reich Commission had expected. Just a minor miscalculation. One should have been able to hear the bombs dropping from the other side of Earth, but the Commission didn’t hear anything until after it was far too late. After the explosions stopped, the Soviets sent a small recovery crew to see if there were any survivors from the wreckage of the German bunkers. There were only two men still intact. One who was young, the other in his mid thirties. They had been crushed, toppled by the roof of the bunker preserving their bodies from the devastation of the bombs.

“Were these ones ours? They’re wearing our coats,” one of the Soviets asked.

“Budala, look at their uniforms.” The commanding officer kicked one of the bodies over.

“Check their tags just in case,” another said. The first soldier reached down and gently tugged the tags from the necks of his fallen enemies.

“It’s blank. Wait no, see here,” The three men looked and could only one thing on each tag: “356” and “368.”
…

“Do you want a smoke?” 356 asked as he lit his fat cigar with an old match he had found in his backpack.

“Not one of those god-awful Polish cigars,” 368 said bitterly. “My last smoke will be a German cigarette.”

“God-damn, why are always you so gloomy? You lower the moral of our entire platoon. The fact that we have been stationed in Warsaw, trying to fight off the Commie onslaught is already dreary and nightmarish. Every time I see their planes drop a bomb, I hear the sound of thousands of civilians crying for help. Your pessimism pisses everyone off.” He took his cigar out his mouth and blew smoke through his nose. “I believe in change, and I still believe we can win this war,” 356 muttered.

“Change?” 368 scoffed. “My boy, you believe in mere fiction. Most of our platoon is sick, and two of them have already died. We are running low on food and water, plus we are running low on ammo and fuel for our vehicles. We’re wearing the coats of dead Soviets just to keep ourselves warm. Don’t you realize that we are wasting our time out here? That madman Hitler fantasizes that he can still win this war with both the Americans and Soviets crushing Germany like a python. You think that German High Command sees you as a savior, but to them, you are just another nameless number fighting for their whims.”

“Oh, screw you Otto!” 356 shouted, shoving the older man hard in the chest. Two Volkssturm soldiers rushed over to break up the fight, but neither men resisted. They were too tired. Suddenly, the sound of hard boots marching on concrete came from down the hall.

“Achtung!” ordered the Feldwebel. “Did I just hear you use a name, soldat?” 356 stared at the floor, saying nothing. “Look at me, and listen very, very closely. In your personal life, I could care less what name you call yourself or someone else. But in the army, you are nothing but a number. You have no name. The only reason for your being right now is to defend the Fatherland from those filthy communist scum. If I EVER hear you refer to yourself or someone else by anything but their number, I will personally see to your execution! Do I make myself clear, 356?”

“Yes sir,” 356 replied.

“Now, all of you need to make sure that you are ready to leave at 0500 hours before the Soviets begin their raid. Twenty miles west of here we’re bringing the division supplies to construct AA cannons and bunkers, so I suggest all of you pack your supplies now because we won’t be coming back,” the sergeant said. His tone was as cold as winter in Warsaw. He didn’t hate them. His bitterness was just another cruel necessity. And who wouldn’t be bitter, fighting for a lost cause just to stall for a delusional leader…









“Lone Sentry: The German Volkssturm (U.S. WWII Intelligence Bulletin, February 1945).” [Lone Sentry: Germans Disguise Panthers, WWII Tactical and Technical Trends], www.lonesentry.com/articles/volkssturm/index.html.

Key

https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/the_grass_is_always_greener_on_the_other_side


He stands at a door. He senses no other way around the door. From his position he sees nothing new and interesting on his side of the door. Nothing inspires hope nor a sense of feeling alive. All the grass is dry and brittle, and the trees seem to lose more of their green every day. The ground is rock hard and for many days the man's side of the door has been without rain.

He looks the door up and down. It is solid and the work of a skilled craftsman. The door has stood in the same location for centuries and has prevailed against the endless tests of time. The man has a deep desire to get beyond the door and go to the other side. What wonders and what opportunities could await on the other side? More than on this side, no doubt, the man tells himself.

He thinks of greener grass, stronger winds, and bigger trees. Days of plenty would last forever, and nights would hold no limit to their wonders. Stars would embellish the sky, and the sun would rise undaunted each morning with sweet kisses streaming down on each ray. His dreams held so dear to him would finally be answered and his thirst for once quenched.

He holds a key. To him it is the only way to breach the door. There is no other way he thinks, for why else would there be a lock for the door? Why else would there be a key? There is only this one reality in which he thinks, and the key is the only way through the door.

He attempts to lift the key to the lock. But the key is heavy and will not move from where he holds it. The key is weighed down with his doubt that what he thinks awaits him on the other side is wrong; that all he has seen and thinks will prove to be no better version on the other side. Time and time again he struggles to move the key. His light heart falters, and he feels himself fading. The key cannot move as it is far too heavy.

He ponders his situation. The heavy key cannot move, the key that is his one escape to a better life. A lifetime of questions floods his mind. What must he do now? If the key cannot move and unlock the door what does that mean about what he has thought? Is it all wrong? His very reality of the key has collapsed. His reality he has only ever known has abandoned him.

With a heavy hand he drops the key. It falls to the dry and caked ground with a heavy thud. In a slightly desperate manner he moves his hand towards the handle. With a shaky grasp he begins to turn the handle and the door opens. Sweet kisses of sunlight beam down upon his face. A quick scan of his new environment shows still more hardship to come yet renewed promise and hope. His initial confusion quickly dissolves into relief and awe.

The door has been breached and in less than a moment his heart soars. The key, in a figurative sense, was never the key to crossing the door, but rather the true key was letting go of his worry and doubt and simply walking on. Maybe then the man may adapt to his new reality.

The Flummoxing Four

I have to seriously do something now. I can’t just sit and stare at...what is it called again? Oh right, a prism! Or maybe it’s a tetrahedron if I remember correctly from math class. Countless questions are swirling around my mind: How did I even get in here? Who brought me in here? What exactly is happening? Why is this happening?

Confined in a small, dimly lit room, I can feel my claustrophobia kicking in. Neither windows nor switches are in reach of my sight. The only thing different from the cold granite of the room is the small tetrahedron and four eerie doors chiselled into the walls. Unable to control myself, I run to the door to my right. As the door doesn’t unlock, I bang it vigorously and a panicked shout finally escapes my throat, “Hey! Is anybody there? Please get me out of here.” There is no reply. I run to the other doors, doing the same, probably looking like a headless chicken. All the doors look the same with a slight difference; each had one of the letters, V, C, B, and S engraved into it.

After a while, when I have shouted my throat hoarse, my panic turns into helplessness. But I refuse to just give up. I reach out for the tetrahedron with the intent of finding a clue that can release me from this nightmare. As I pick it up, a tiny torn piece of paper about the size of my pinky finger, falls onto the floor. I bend down to take the paper in my hand. In the dim light of this room, it seems almost impossible to make out the tiny words printed on the paper. But after concentrating properly, I can make out a faintly discernible title, “CHOOSE or DIE.”

It suddenly all makes sense to me, the four doors and four faces of the tetrahedron. “Eureka!” I shout, “I have found the way out!” Full of excitement, I suddenly jump up, but the four spooky doors take all the excitement away. I can hear my heart racing as I read further: The sole way to escape is to open the CORRECT door. Good Luck.

Wait. That’s it?

“Oh come-on! What do you mean the correct door?” I yell in frustration as this situation starts getting on my nerves, and throw the paper down. I stamp on it and twist my ankle till I can feel it under my foot, crushed.

Heavy breaths in and out, I calm myself so I can think. Then I examine the tetrahedron even more closely. All of a sudden, four images appear on it. The sudden occurence of these vague images make the situation even weirder than it already is. “That’s not important right now!” I try to get back to focus, so I can get out of here as soon as possible. Assembling all my attention together, I finally figure out the blurry images: a mountain, a jasmine, a beach, and a music note.

Connecting all these images forms a strange picture in my mind: a person playing a music note while doing aromatherapy on a beach on a mountainside. But that doesn’t make sense. Then, maybe it means: a person listening to music, on a beach near a mountain, while doing aromatherapy. This doesn’t make sense either. Realizing the foolish thoughts in my head, I start thinking aloud, “Wait a second, the paper says to choose one. So, there is no point of me just combining them.”

Again, my brain experiences an overload of questions: What’s the difference between these? What can be dangerous in these beautiful, relaxing things? Should I just choose randomly? But it doesn’t seem safe to be fickle here; it’s a matter of life and death.

Maybe each item displays what’s behind the door. If that’s true, I can simply choose the music note. I can’t imagine anything being wrong with a music note. Actually, never mind, a beach, a mountain, or a jasmine don’t seem dangerous either. Unless, it’s a species of jasmine that is very poisonous, and the mountain and the beach are in isolated islands. What if I get teleported to those isolated mountains and beaches after I open these doors? But there might also be a problem with the music note; what if it hypnotizes me?

“Arghh! This is so confusing! I would rather die than solve this!”

Wait, what if the first letter of each image indicates something? MJBM. That doesn’t mean anything though. After spending what feels like an hour on rearranging these four letters, I hear myself saying, “What if it says, ‘Make a Jump Behind the Mountains?’ Oh my God! That make sense.” I sigh in relief. I decide to press the mountain side of the tetrahedron.

I can feel my fingers trembling as it gets closer to the tetrahedron.

I scream at myself, “Aditi, just trust yourself!” 

I make the move.

I press it but not hard enough. 

Something else strikes my mind, mountains and music notes. What’s common in them? The letter M. “This means the only letter that is repeated is M and it’s repeated twice,” I have started speaking normally now. So, does that mean the second door is the one that can potentially help me escape?

“This is my final decision. That’s it! My brain can’t think anymore,” I whisper-screech so no one can hear me. I pick the second yogurt and one glance away from the shelf full of yogurts gives me the sight of a worker shaking his head in disappointment at me. As usual, I give him an awkward smile. He should be used to it by now; this happens every week. After giving a final goodbye to the vanilla, butterscotch, and strawberry yogurts, I reach the counter. I pay the bill and walk back home enjoying the taste of cold chocolate yogurt running down my throat on this sunny, humid day.


iStock_77843591_MEDIUM.

the summoning

This is the last place I thought that I would be in right now. But then again, here I am. Standing nervously in a shadowy, barely lit, circular room, surrounded by hooded figures, all murmuring words which were just barely out of my hearing range. I was summoned to this magical and mysterious location, which I was only able to witness from afar when I was in my early years. The Mages, as the common folk tend to call them, of this establishment are some of the most popular and famous people in our world. It is so esteemed, that out of thousands of contestants who wish to join them, only a meager number manage to pass the first test, and even less manage to scrape by and get through the rest of the tests. For reasons beyond even me, I've managed to pass almost every exam with flying colors, and now I stood before them one last time.

"Will contestant number 11037 please present their work?" the first hooded figure standing in the shadows announced, "This will be your last and final test on your ability to animate the unliving." I was snapped out of my nervous thoughts. Contestant number 11037- that was me alright! This number only goes to show how many young men and women came here before me and stood in the same shadow covered, dimly lit room, only to be swatted away when they simply weren't enough. I walked into the center of the room with uncertainty, the spell I so carefully crafted inserted inside a special contraption. As I readied myself to present my work, a small, quiet tone started playing from a seemingly invisible music box. Suddenly, as it stopped, a black ghostly figure materialized behind me. A little shadow, covered in shades of black and grey- with the only exception being its eyes- which were a bright, glistening white. While frightening at first, this shadow's only mission and purpose is to aid the lonely and the neglected. It protects them, like a comforting eclipse covering one's sorrows, and like a mother's love- infinite and unconditional.

In the end, I was spent and exhausted. I showed them everything I had, yet they haven't moved an inch. Will I end up like all of competitors before me, yet another failed contestant who must go home in shame? Accept that "Some people aren't made for this job. See what momma told you? You'll get nowhere if you keep on chasing shadows and fantasies?" and continue my life as a simple child, abandoned by all those around me? As I dejectedly turned to leave, the first instructor swiftly announced with a booming voice "The test is officially over," and then in a warmer voice told me what I was waiting for since I came,

"You got the job. Welcome to the Witchcraft Studio, the most esteemed animation studio in the world!" the examiner exclaimed. “We simply adored how lifelike your little creation was. We felt like it was alive! With how realistic your animation is, I think it will be our utmost pleasure to work with you.”

The shutters that hid away the sun now flew up, chasing away any sign of the shadows that were occupying the room before. I sighed in relief as I took the contraption, a simple projector I used to show my work. I didn't bother opening it, since unlike any of the other contestants, I didn’t use the conventional methods and I knew that no film would be found inside. They were ignorant enough to not notice what was in front of them. As I exited my new workplace and began walking down the street, discerning bystanders might had noticed a small, sad tune coming from an invisible music box, almost drowned out by the traffic outside. They may have noticed a little "friend" following me; a small shadow with glimmering white eyes. A special spell I've made for myself, after years of neglect from the common folk around me, which came out of being forced to hide my true nature as a member of the almost extinct Shadow Witches.

Illustration by Hadas Friedman

Toes

The day my life changed was when I woke up from surgery totally different. Paralyzed from the neck down, only able to move my left foot, a different me. I lie in the hospital bed wondering if I would ever be able to paint again. From a very young age, I was fascinated by artistry, and I took up art classes from the age of four.

My mother stood next to my hospital bed in tears. “Everything will be okay,” she said. I clearly remember the words she used even though I was being medicated heavily: “It will all be okay in the end and if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” Unable to answer, I gave her a smile even though it felt like the end.

After the accident, I was bullied at school for the way I looked, going to an all boys public school wasn’t easy for a kid who didn’t care for all the sports that required me using my legs, like soccer or running. I couldn’t write and had to take tests orally. I could never bring myself to tell my parents how unhappy this school made me. How do you explain feeling like the center of a merry-go-round, the stagnant centerpiece to outside life.

My mother and father were happily married up until my accident. I blamed myself for the fighting over who would bathe me, dress me, and drive me. I blamed myself when my dad packed his bags and left my mom to pay the rent. I blamed myself when my mom locked herself in the bathroom and sobbed every night when she thought I couldn’t hear. I blamed myself when she got arrested for stealing from our neighbors to feed her gambling addiction. And when I sat on the sidewalk, covering myself with some cardboard and newspapers, shuddering and squirming from the cold, aching from the hunger, I didn’t even cry because I was at fault for being this way. I was alone, and it was all because of me.

Many years went by where I was begging on the streets of Barcelona, counting my last penny. I had no escape. One day, lost in my thoughts as the air was cold and hard on my small fingers and nose, I thought all hope had been lost. The world is a weird place, fleeting in its petty for things that don’t affect it. One day, however, a small girl stopped and stared at me long and hard. After standing at a distance for a minute or two, she approached me, “Hello,” she smiled. She was a British girl, I recognized the accent from the big screens across the road that always aired advertisements about British chocolates. “Hola,” I said sheepishly. People didn’t usually talk to me. Without further warning she tore off a piece of one of my newspapers and pulled a pen out of her pink dress pocket, and began to draw a picture of what seemed to be a man. She took one last look at me and nodded. Then she was off. I smiled at the encounter. It was the first time someone had really acknowledged me. I looked carefully at the picture and laughed. It was a stick picture of a man drawing with his feet. The idea seemed totally ridiculous to me. No one can hold a pen with their toes. I noticed the girl had left the pen beside the drawing. I thought for a moment. No one was around, so I attempted to pick up the pen with my toes. I dropped it at first and laughed it off. After a breath, I tried again. What did I have to lose? I managed to draw a letter, and then another and then another, and for the first time in 10 years, I saw my name in writing, and cried. I cried for my mom, for my dad, for my hands, for the all boys school I hated, for the cruel world that had placed me here, but mostly for myself, I cried for me.

This single word turned into sentences, which turned into full letters. And finally drawings, my art, my art had come back to me. I found some old paintbrushes and a tiny bit of paint in a trash bag near and started painting. Passers started buying my art, talking to me, donating paint brushes and paints and blankets. I was finally part human again.
On a sunny Monday afternoon, the busy streets had given me a generous amount of viewers and buyers for my art. People were amazed by me. They would watch and admire and compliment my works. A young man approached me. He kneeled beside me carefully, steadying himself, “Hello, what’s your name?”

“Jason,” I responded.

“You draw these yourself Jason?”

“Yes sir,” I replied.

“Wow, they’re incredible.”

Thank you very much.”

“You seem happy,” he said to me,

“How could I not be sir? I have art, I have sunshine, I have park benches with lovers, I have fresh air and clicks of heels. There are people with nothing.” The man looked speechless. He thought for a moment, and then smiled a vivacious smile at me.

“Thank you Jason,” he said, and as he made to walk away, I handed him a paper with a saying I wrote, the first day I learned how to write with my feet. He read it, tilted his hat at me, and with a grin, lifted his pants on his left leg and tapped on his prosthetic.

***

“Wow Jason, a moving story. Well I guess everyone wants to know  what was written on the piece of paper you gave to me?” “Well,” Tom, reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old piece of paper and unfolds it, he smiles, “when your will is big, the obstacles are small.” “I don’t think I can follow that one folks, so that’s all for tonight’s show. Thank you again Jason for sharing your story. I’m Tom Whittaker, Goodnight everybody.”

Photograph by Dylan Ephron

Pencil Cases

“As I was saying, we are all going to die in this crummy box,” Abeba pessimistically insisted. A grand, lively pencil case with tie-dye patterns all over, filled with all the colors of the rainbow. That box, the Abeba was referring to, had been down there for about 20 years. It was once a beautiful, colorful, and full of life. However, ever since there was a new manager in the store, the box and those inside were left to rot. The box was once colorful and now it is drained of those colors. The beauty it once had was gone now. The top edges ripped apart due to a cat biting on it. For 15 years there have been two gorgeous pencil cases inside that box, forgotten. 

Ahmed, the second pencil case in that box had been in love with her for as long as he could remember. She lights up his life which apparently will be spent in here. 

“I’m telling you for the last time. The only way that we are getting out of here is if we climb to that top shelf. Once we’re up there, we can't be refused. They are the ones speaking of freedom all the time. It would make them hypocrites if they don't let us in,” Ahmed repeated for the hundredth time, a blue pencil case with a rainbow and a unicorn sewn on the front.

“Don't you see? The next generation of pencil cases is already up there. Will they really accept us?” Abeba asked.

“Abeba, all we want is a home, right? Someone to take us home and take care of us. That’s all we have ever wanted,” Ahmed answered her. “We are in a vile box, for heaven’s sake, we could get trampled on any second. We want a safer place to stay and live, is that such an evil act?”

“I suppose you’re right. After all, we are all pencil cases. We have the exact same purpose and inside, we just happen to look different on the outside. Wait, isn't the climb dangerous?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, yeah, it is very dangerous. However, it is our only hope. We can do this, Abeba,”

Abeba and Ahmed began their climb to what they thought would be their new haven. Little did they know, they wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms from their fellow pencil cases. Although technically speaking, their fellow pencil cases wouldn't welcome them with open zippers. 

Their haven is located at the 5th shelf, during that climb, that was all they saw. The possibility that freedom and opportunity that 5th shelf would give them. In front of Abeba and Ahmed was a sea of dangers with labels in the way of their climb, blocking their path. They were also dodging the hands of the children and parents who were taking items from the shelves. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going to get in between them and their last bit of hope. 

“Come on Ahmed, we’re almost there,” Abeba encourages Ahmed who is two shelves behind her. They are both about to pull themselves up onto the 5th shelf when suddenly the leader of the new generation of Top Shelf Pencil Cases (TSPC) appears. 

“Look who we have here. Your pencil cases have been trying to reach our shores for a while now. All of them failed. Do you think you can come and invade our homes?” the leader of the TSPC asked sarcastically.

“Listen, sir, we just want a home that protects us. We are all the same here, aren’t we? Please embrace us into your home and let us learn your culture as you learn ours. Let us live in peaceful harmony, kind sir,” Abeba pleaded.

“Now why would we do such a thing? So that you can bring all of your disgusting customs of how to live your life? Oh no wait, so you can steal all of our jobs by becoming the ones that are bought instead of us? Why would we ever trust you?"

“We just want help, and you are the only ones that can provide us with it. We don't wish you or anyone else harm. We want what everyone wants, love,” he said gently looking at Abeba. 

“Happiness, and a life full of delightful moments. Please help us. We just want to live.” Ahmed answered him, tears streaming down his face. 

The leader of TSPC stepped forward. He reached out a zipper. Ahmed and Abeba’s faces lit with faith, their hope having been restored. As they all locked zippers, the leader’s smile grew from side to side. A cynical expression filled his face, and it seemed to fill the entire store. Abeba and Ahmed already knew what was going to happen. Thrown out and shunned by their only hope, they accepted their fate. The leader let go, letting Ahmed and Abeba fall to the ground. Time stopped for both of them. Looking into each other's eyes wishing the pencil cases could see how little difference there is between them. They wanted to live, but instead were given to death’s cruel reach. They hit the ground and became invisible to everyone walking by. Hearts once filled with hope, shattered with reality’s screech. Those same hearts that were praying for a new beginning were trampled on and shredded into pieces. Destroyed by the people whom they needed to survive and live a wonderful life.

Illustration by: Fun With Fibro. Feeling Blue Pencil Case.

Virtual Reality

boogie2988. “Fat Guy Destroys Xbox.” YouTube, YouTube, 11 Feb. 2012, www.youtube.com/watch?v=OG4StOKFw7M.

        “What?! That doesn’t count, it was lag! I hate this game! Screw you EA! Fix your broken game!” He pulled off his virtual reality headset and slammed it on the ground, causing it to shatter into 30 pieces. “DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT! STUPID PIECE OF JUNK!” He dropped to the ground and began to grab the broken pieces of the headset. His face was red, and he continued to scream about how EA needed to get nuked. His friend Joey came in and saw him screaming on the ground.

        “What happened this time, Steve?” Joey asked. “You’re so mad, I think the vein in your forehead burst.”

        “EA broke my VR headset.”

        “Come on! That’s the fourth one this year.”

        “Well technically I didn’t break it, Joey, EA did.”

        “Shut up, its completely your fault. You do this every time someone kills you. You get just as mad, have a mental breakdown, then scream on the ground for the next 20 minutes. Now you broke another game system.”

        “Well, it was an accident.”

        “That’s what you said last week too. This time you have to pay for it yourself.”

        “WHAT?! YOU THINK I HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEY?”

        “Well, it’s your game” He didn’t feel like listening to Steve continue to scream, so he left the room to let him deal with it himself.

        “WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GET 300 DOLLARS? THE ECONOMY’S ROUGH RIGHT NOW! YOU THINK I CAN JUST FIND 300 DOLLARS BETWEEN MY COUCH CUSHIONS,” Steve yelled from inside the room, but Joey had already left and was trying as hard as he could to ignore him

        “What a loser,” Joey whispered to himself.

        Steve knew there was no way he could convince Joey to pay for a new headset so he decided to spend every last penny he had to buy a new one. He got up and yelled at Steve, “I’m getting a new one myself, you jerk.”

        “Right now? Is GameStop even open this late?”

        “Yes.”

        “Don’t drive when you’re angry; it never ends well.”

        “Shut up, I’m not even mad,” Steve replied, even though his face was still red, and his fists were clenched as if he were about to punch someone. He got into his car and drove on to the freeway. There weren’t many cars on the road, but all of them did something that annoyed him in some way. He called every other driver around him either an idiot or a moron.

        Eventually, someone cut him off and he said “Oh you think you’re so cool huh? What a piece of crap!” He was getting just as angry as he was before and his face was turning red again. Then he rolled down the window and yelled, “YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME?!” then he slammed right into the same car that cut him off. They both skidded across the freeway and both of their cars were destroyed. The impact caused Steve’s head to hit the dashboard and he was knocked out cold.

        “WHAT?! DEATH BY CAR ACCIDENT?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” He yelled “What kind of joke is this? FIX YOUR GAME!” He pulled off his headset and yelled “I spent an entire month on that world just to die in a CAR ACCIDENT!” he slammed his headset on his knee breaking it in half. “Wha- WHY DO THEY MAKE THESE THINGS SO WEAK?!” he sat in his chair staring at the broken headset. “Screw this, I’m buying a new one.” Then he got in his car and drove away.

Phony Friendship

Dicaprio, Shubham. “Rajasthan: 3 Places, 2 Friends, 1 State.” Tripoto, Tripotohttps://Www.tripoto.com/, 2017, www.tripoto.com/trip/rajasthan-move-touch-and-back-5a9bacd8a6a73.

         “Don't let me forget that I need to print the notes for my presentation when we get to school tomorrow,” I said.
         Iris didn’t respond, just registered my request dutifully. I became friends with him in middle school, and ever since that day, he never left my side. Iris was very helpful. He had a photographic memory; he knew just about every street and restaurant in the city and never seemed to run out of energy. Well, that’s not true. By the end of the day, he usually needed a good night’s sleep.
         Despite his imperfections, he was a joy to be around, so I always kept him close. He was full of fun facts and sayings, and although he could be distasteful at times, that was no reason to give him up. Whenever I had a nagging doubt at the back of my mind that something wasn’t right, his virtue and sophisticated nature always managed to wash it away. For instance, once I asked him if he could help me with my Spanish homework, and he did the entire page for me in only a few minutes. This incident left me in wonder at his seeming expertise in all subjects.
         “Who needs a lot of friends when you have Iris?” I thought to myself.
         He came to my house every single day after school, which I enjoyed very much. Having such a good friend made any time together fun. Despite this, Iris could be intrusive at times. Often when I was doing my homework, he would interrupt me without any consideration at all.
         “Let me tell you about what happened last weekend,” Iris would beg.
         “Can’t you see I’m busy?” I’d reply.
         “It will only be a few minutes.”
         “Fine, if you insist.”
         Life was going great, or so I thought. However, within a few years, Iris started irritating me more and more. He turned from the once perfect friend into a bad influence. Maybe I was just growing up. Maybe he hadn’t changed at all; maybe I was the one who was changing, but ultimately, I came to realize that it was just wishful thinking. I started hanging out with him less and less, but he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. He still came to my house after school, though I forced him to stop his incessant distracting when I was working by not allowing him in the room.
         “This actually isn’t so bad,” I thought. “Maybe it's good that we’re not such close friends anymore.”
         They say time heals all wounds, and I was beginning to find truth in this mantra. As the doubts I had about our friendship solidified, new benefits formed. Seeing Iris less gave me more time to myself, and I began to cheer up by finding ways to pass this newfound time. I started making music and playing ping pong and reading books. Our friendship had been nice while it lasted, but its conclusion was starting to feel more pleasurable.
         “I'm happier without him. I know it,” I reflected.
         I didn’t fully believe it myself in the beginning, but as the months went on, it became a fact. I truly was more content without Iris around me at all times. I didn’t shut him out completely; however, I began to understand that the less interaction we had, the better. Of course, I continued asking him to remind me of important events, and I certainly never stopped asking him questions.
         “Iris, set an alarm for six AM tomorrow,” I said, then I plugged my phone in and went to sleep.

An Urgent Question

I scream. ZUR HÖLLE MIT DIR. In frustration, I throw my what feels like six hundred fifty fifth clothing item on the floor. The pile is growing at an alarming exponential rate. I’m on my period, I have been in pyjamas all day, and now I can’t find anything to wear. I don’t believe anyone truly doesn’t care about their looks, and I am no exception. In fact, I am always a little suspicious of those who say they don’t. I have heard people say “Looks don’t matter” and “First impressions made within six seconds matter” in one breath. I mean, that’s almost paradoxical. What do you notice within the first six seconds of seeing someone new? Certainly not the complexity of their soul. It doesn’t make sense. I look at the watch. 19:40. Five minutes. With a breath release that could probably blow away my closet, I let myself fall into the soft, lavender fragrant hill. I feel my muscles decontract, and I surrender to the muffled silence of cloth in my ear.

“How about the jeans shorts? They’re pretty. And appropriate. Apart from that, they don’t have paint stains like those horrible jeans of yours.”

Instinctively I reply, “I am sorry. Absolutely not. Have you seen the forecast? It’s twelve degrees outside and have you seen the…” Wait. One second. Where did that nasal, wheedling voice come from? It’s almost as if… no, but that can’t be. Clothes don’t come to life. It just doesn’t happen. Suddenly, an arm, or so it seems, breaks through the pile. I hear a high pitched tone, probably the sound of my own squeak. Only then I notice it is not an arm - it’s an empty sleeve.

“No need to be so surprised, young lady. We are at your service here. And no, the shorts are a terrible idea, they are way too cold. And besides, no offense - they make you look like a nun. Have some fun! How about your new pants? They make your ass look cute.” This voice is different. More squeaky. Annoying.

Indignantly I flare up. The arm retreats.

“You cannot say that! Who even are you?”

“Just a little outlier of your brain, dearie. Everything we say here is a thought that has crossed your mind before. And you cannot tell me that you don’t like looking good.”

“Don’t listen to my colleague. She only cares about your looks and nothing else. These pants aren't safe! They are almost begging for looks and comments. Or even worse things, if you know what I mean.”

I shake my head. Did I hear her correctly? I feel a wave of feminist impulses rising in me.

“You are even worse! My clothes don’t send any messages. They don’t invite or send anything - they would have to be able to talk to do that, haha …  I mean. Usually. But in any case, does my brother ever worry about being safe? My cousins? They walk around shirtless, for Christ’s sake. And I can’t even wear normal jeans anymore? Gosh. Stupid chauvinistic world.”

“YASSS! GET IT! You can walk around with your boobs out and you would still not be asking for it. And to you, safety department: how dare you say something so outrageous to a notorious feminist?”

“It is not outrageous. I am just concerned about your safety, darling. And I agree with you; it’s not fair. Absolutely not. But right now, it is the reality, and you achieve nothing by bringing yourself into unnecessary danger. You always walk faster when you are in a dark street, the only living human apart from another man… Don’t tell me you are never scared at night. Don’t tell me you don’t make a detour  to not have to go through the park when it’s dark out. Society just isn’t there yet.”

“Which is exactly why she has to fight it! She shouldn’t be disprivileged because she has a non-male gender.”

“She shouldn’t, but unfortunately she is!”

“And you are not willing to do anything about it! Take the mini skirt, Ava.”

“No no no, absolutely no way. The turtle neck is definitely the best choice.”

“Is she a turtle? Take the tank top!”

“Didn’t you say it was cold out? Your mother’s long coat!”

“Yoga Pants!”

“Skirt down to your ankles!”

“Leggings!”

“A long robe!”

“A bikin..”

The clock moves to 19:45, and suddenly there is - silence. The arm, or better said the sleeve, that was just outstretched in an almost aggressive manner, drops. I grab it. Throw it up. It falls down again. The pile of clothes is just a pile of clothes again. With a sigh, I grab loose pants and a sweater. The supermarket closes in a few minutes. I can solve the question of empowerment or safety another day.

Dandrea, Amanda. Dress Codes, Slut-Shaming, and the Male Gaze. 25 Nov. 2013.

economics

Nicole Golan

I joined this class in order to better my understanding regarding economics as a whole. I feel in joining this class, I will learn real-life situations/business. I would like to expand my knowledge of how the online market works and the trading stocks. I also want to learn more about how business cooperations come to be and the steps needed in order to be successful in one.

The only personal experience I had with economics was when I worked in a catering company. I always hear about trading, marketing and business from the elderly in my family because my father works as a businessman. Also, I have a credit card where I get a limited amount of money to spend every month and I have to manage the money in order for it to be enough.

Clothes that are limited edition usually cost a lot of money because there is a limited amount of them and that's why they are so expensive - an example of scarcity. However, it can be a very expensive thing for someone, but this someone has been working so hard to earn the money for this piece of cloth and he spends all his money on it. This is an opportunity cost because he spent all his savings on this one thing.