ISSUE 2 DRAFT

EDITOR'S
LETTER
It is an honor for us to present the second issue of Star-
Gazette Literary Magazine! We've had so much fun
making it- the submissions were brilliant, and conversing
with the creators was amazing!
Creativity, we believe, is something everyone is blessed
with. It's magical, the way we can get lost in words, the
way we can design whole new people with our hands,
how we can capture every single moment of life with one
click, everything about art is different. And the best
thing is that in art, there's no right or wrong. There's the
only perspective, and we spend most of our life trying to
find ours.
Star Gazette is student-led publication run for, and by,
writers and readers. We are inspired by the voices of the
artists, more specifically, of the multitude of voices that
are contained within our small campus. Write poetry?
Star Gazette is for you! Have a hot take on a current
issue? Star Gazette! Interesting faith journey? Star
Gazette! Whatever it may be, we hope you find your
creative (or serious) niche with us.
So here we present our issue-2 - 'When the Stars Align'
We are elated to be furthering the mission of Star
Gazette Magazine and to hear your stories.
Cheers

TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. POETRY
Haunting by Mimi Lam
Plastic Love by Shivi Dixit
Fool's Paradise by Zoe Cunniffe
Poems by Ananya Thakur
Shattered by Smruti Mahapatra
Hunger by Elliot Love
The Sky Calls upon Us by Rabeiah Tasleem
You by Ayshwarya
A Beginning by Pavithra
II. PHOTOGRAPHY
Photos by Emils Niks Plinte
Photos by Abigail
Photos by Nikhil
III. PROSE
A Silent Soul
Me, my Girlfriend and God
IV. ARTWORK
Art by Ananya Reddy
Art by Sameera
5
6
8
9
10
11
12
13
15
18
20
21
23
30
37
39

I S S U E - 2
h
POETRY

HAUNTING
~Mimi Lam
Inadequacy
haunts me more than ghosts.
The words good enough
become my shadow.
Not belonging
in a sea of unfamiliar faces.
Competition with demons
who are one step ahead
mocking me.
Ghouls planted in my dreams
make me feel like a fool.
Everyone’s soul is possessed by
a troubled past, an anxious future.
Among us are monsters,
who didn’t go with grace,
either a friend or foe
both sharing one face.
Mimi Lam searches for the
universal truths in her poems and
tells the story of her family and
community. Mimi serves as the
Library Manager for a newly-found,
Black-owned poetry library in South
Los Angeles, a predominantly Black
and Brown, low-income
community. She also pursues acting
and practices Aikido.

PLASTIC LOVE
~Shivi Dixit
Tell me, love,
do plastic flowers breathe?
Do they live?
Ours did.
Can they be obliterated?
No, is what I've heard.
Write me a poem, love,
and tell me,
do plastic flowers grow thorns?
Do they hurt,
make you bleed?
No, is what all of them say.
But only do our clots sheathed
under the bandaids
know, they do.
The reds, yellows and greens
stuck on the sheeny surfaces
are perpetual,
but not real.
Shivi Dixit is a high school student,
currently preparing for medical
entrance exam. She writes short
horror stories and poems as a
hobby, as of now. Using the power
of words, she aspires to create
something that makes people feel
every emotion, one at a time. She
can be reached at her instagram
handle: @shivi____dixit
So,
I've taken them out of the vase
and entombed them.
I’ve made a habit
of watering the soil regularly.
Maybe one day
I'll try planting a sapling.
And I hope you do too.

The Essence of
Literature

FOOL'S PARADISE
sometimes my feet pound november concrete,
and i stretch my fingers out in the cold and
wonder if i am really here or if this is the
dream. i spin and spin in circles and the deja vu
flickers like static on a computer screen.
i forget to notice so much of my simulation:
how the sun boils down, slinking across the sky
at the same angle night after night. how
the water ripples, sparkling in sunshine,
dripping darkly along my scalp and frying my
shoulder blades. how all my motions are taken
into account. i stomp my foot and the wood panels
crack and groan. i bang on glass, and it fractures.
it’s the ease of the gas pedal, the twist of the faucet,
the slam of the door. it’s how nothing i touch
is ever the same as it was.
and still i am ghostly, like light between your fingers.
still i scream without an echo. i say your name
until i am allergic to it, and still you stare
into the patterned clouds. still i curl into sheets that mold
to the shape of my spine, crossing into a dreamland
that feels more like an awakening.
i dreamed i was clutching at water droplets, letting them
evaporate against my skin. i dreamed of a luscious wasteland,
the grass sunburnt, the sky losing its glow. pressed against
that window, peering out across my fool’s paradise,
i knew that this world could not exist only in my head, neurons
sizzling through the night. this was existence, something
that cannot be simulated. this was corporeal, blades
of grass scraping my ankles. i have flipped: i dream
of tangibility and aliveness, and i wake up
to a celestial illusion where the rivers stops flowing
as soon as i look the other way.
~Zoe Cunniffe
Zoe Cunniffe is a
poet and singersongwriter
from
Washington, DC.
She has
previously been
published in
literary journals
such as Velvet
Fields,
Trouvaille
Review,
Meniscus and
The Showbear
Family Circus,
and she can be
found on
Instagram at
@there.are.still
beautiful things.

HROUGH THE MASK
~Ananya Thakur
Have you tried seeing through the mask
That everyone seems to wear
Nobody seems to know
Nobody wants to ask
Why we’re all drowning in despair.
FACADE
~Ananya Thakur
This mask is beginning to crack
The holes are beginning to grow
People are slowly beginning to see through
The facade I’ve always shown.
Ananya Thakur (she/her) is a high school student from the Middle East. She
recently picked up writing as a form of self-expression in a time of uncertainty
and fear. Her work has been published/is forthcoming at The Trouvaille Review,
the Crossed Paths Magazine, the Hearth Magazine and more.

SHATTERED
The salty rivers washing off the shells
of goodness
Shadiness, a gush of winds moving to
my mind through my veins
Poisoning spirits and whispering
sorrows
My eyes flooded and wetted the scars
of my soul, carving furrows
~Smruti Mahapatra
The uproar in my throat came out as a
silent scream
The sobs punched through my body, it's extreme.
Lights and darkness imprisoned me in a shadowy bar as a team
I am begging the silhouettes of pieces
of my heart to yell, it's just a dream.
I felt a tremble
Unable to know, is it my room or me
who crumbles.
Theorizing, the dark rectangles
surrounding me, giving an example
Saying that this moment will pass, be
stable.
The pieces of my heart are no longer
broken but shattered
it's hard for them to shine with the
sunlight, they are all scattered.
I still hope to have those scattered
pieces and dust gathered
Or again the blanket of hope covering
me is tattered?
Smruti
Mahapatra is a
15-year old,
class 10th
student from
K.C. Public
School, India
and have been
writing poetries
and short
stories both for
her own
satisfaction and
for the school
and local
magazines and
hope to make a
difference here
as well.
The fabrics turned muted hues as the twilight arrived
As if they were awaiting dawn for their
colors to be again ignited.
The colors must be waiting for being admired.
And here I thought, another night I survived.

HUNGER
~Elliot Love
Elliott Love (they/them) is a writer
from Montreal. They write poetry
and prose in both
English and French. They were
featured in literary magazines Pøst
and Omelette. They
will be featured in the next issue of
Main Blanche. You can reach them
under
elliottlovewrites on Instagram.
I am a hollow hole of hunger.
I bite myself raw.
The skin in my mouth tastes
nothing.
It’s lonely in my stomach.
I binge on the scraps of
tenderness.
I throw it up soon after.
My throat wasn’t made for
soft things.
It was made to drink the
sharpness of your heart.
I can’t swallow anything
lukewarm.
What I consume has to pierce
me.
Love is a stone in my belly.
I know how to care for the
abscess that is my soul.
The way you nourish it chills
me.
You make me remember that I
am a person.
I can’t digest
you.

THE SKY CALLS UPON US
When the stars align,
Will I know its fate that brought us
back together?
Will I know that you’re no longer a
dream but a feeling I can touch?
The sky is calling upon us,
but we’re lost in the memories of
a dreadful yesterday,
Remember the time, I told you
“this love is fading away”
But darling, all I know now is how
our love was always found in
between
my arms,
how it was found in the longing of
a daydream I could never call
mine,
The stars in the sky are the tears I
lost to you,
And now I’m looking for the star
you defined as ‘us’
O’ how the moon turned half
hearing you lost the memories of
me,
Yet in the abyss of the night,
I still wait for you to reappear,
I still hope that when the stars
align,
“I could trace back the
constellations to us”
~Rabeiah Tasleem Khan
Rabeiah Tasleem Khan
is a coming of age
poet,photographer
and collage artist,she
started her poetry /
collage account (
@poetryby_rabz) just a
year ago and is
published in many
magazines. She hopes
to release her own
poetry collection later
this year.

Ayshwarya is an 18
year old Indian college
student who dreams
of inspiring people
with her words. Her
works have been
published twice in the
Indian Science Cruiser
and several times in
her school magazine
and small regional
magazines.
YOU
your freckles and dimples
match the colour of the visual art
you put up last sunday
by your bedroom window.
you say art is for art's sake
but i refuse to believe that.
i want to show you;
art is for those who can love,
who haven't yet lost
the last embers to hold on to life.
it is tough to create,
tougher to put your creation
for inspection
by the world
that is heartless
in most cases.
i want you to know
that your art defines
a part of you,
not all of you.
you work with rough jute
and acrylic
but that is not all.
you are also the girl
who likes glitter
in her wardrobe
and would love to learn
how to skate like a pro.
you are the girl,
who is sometimes shy,
sometimes exuberant
and absolutely unpredictable.
~Ayshwarya

you are also the girl
to have a thousand markers
yet use none.
you are not defined
by all those small things.
you are a blend
of the blue,
the pink,
the yellow
mixed with
a lot of red
and brown,
purple running
through your middle,
you are all those things
you choose not to see.
when the stars align tonight,
look out of your window
and place a hand on your heart.
you don’t have to say a prayer
but be thankful
that you are
you.

A BEGINNING – FROM THE VERY START?
Those memories slowly fade away
But reappear as fresh as before
Or maybe more so.
I feel the wings parched up
Still torn apart.
That scar, untouched, undisturbed
Penetrated by those words,
Those words that mean something
Something unforgivable.
That has implanted itself, made my heart their
abode.
Those words that were too easy to be let gone,
too easy to be forgiven
But adamant to let go.
I tug it behind.
Tug it all.
Impenetrable memories, undefeatable.
Unforgivable.
(Gasp!)
~Pavithra
I feel it wearing away
Slithering behind me
And stopping, Dead.
I feel the scar - the unforgivable one, that
Impenetrable one.
I feel it fading.
I feel the wings parched up
Now taped together
Legacies never meant to be touched.
Legacies about me- by strangers.
The weight lifts itself up

Invisible but totally felt.
The hallucination of disappointments now feels meaningless.
Those words now feels forgivable.
I feel sensible, sophisticated,
sagacious, responsible.
I am no more that child who tugged everything around.
I let go.
Those expectations by people who neither knew me nor I them,
Those expectations now mean nothing.
Meaningless.
Forgivable.
Anew.
It is a beginning.
From the very start?
Pavithra CP is a young, high school student from India
who believes in the transformative and healing power
of words. Driven by the magic and essence of literature,
she takes pride in providing the best work possible. Her
work has been published in multiple platforms such as
the Delhi Post and the prestigious Hearth Magazine. It
has also been published in many other platforms
including the Bloom Magazines. She is a part of the
WtW community and enjoys poetry. When not reading
or writing, she would be seen chatting with her friends
or contemplating over what is there for dinner.

P H O T O G R A P H Y

~Emils Niks Plinte

My name is Emils
Niks Plinte and I
from Latvia,
Salaspils.
I've been doing
photography
professionally for
almost 2 years
now but overall
it ths would be
4th year. As a
photographer, I
view the world
through a
creative lens.
This creativity
has led me to
many
adventures, and
has given me the
chance to
collaborate with
some truly
talented
individuals.Findi
ng a style was a
tough road for
me, after more
than 4 years I've
finally found a
beginning for my
style, but there is
still long way to
go for a perfect
product/style.
~Emils Niks Plinte

Abigail Telfer is an 18 year old student from the UK who is currently in her
final year of studying photography at A level. Her work mainly focuses on
topics to do with identity, mental health and stigmatised issues within
society. She wants to create artwork that gives her a voice in a very loud and
rigid world.
~Abigail

~Nikhil

I S S U E - 2
PROSE

"So, you're telling me that someone broke into your apartment, attacked
you and destroyed your laptop?" said Ajay, a police inspector.
A SILENT SOUL (PART 2)
~Aamuktamalyada Thalluri
An excellent officer, and Ria's brother, one of them, he readily agreed to
help after Ria called, her terrified voice narrating the events that had taken
place. He looked at Ria. He didn't think her story was plausible, but when
she'd called him, her voice held a note of panic one simply couldn't fake.
Ria answered, not looking at him, "Yes." She heard the disbelief in his
controlled, measured tone.
She didn't tell him about the message from Ritu, it was something that Ajay
would never believe. In fact, she was finding that hard to believe that
herself, even though she had seen it with her own eyes.
"Why?" Ajay questioned.
"What do you mean?" asked Ria.
"Why would anyone do that? Is there someone who has a grudge against
you; Someone, who, perhaps wants you dead?" he said, enunciating every
word slowly, looking at Ria carefully/
"I don't think so." Ria said, shrugging.
"Ria, look, I want to help you. I really do. But I can't do that if you're lying to
me."
She began,"I'm not l-"
He cut her off with a stern look. "Alright, I'll tell you what you what I found. I
examined every door, every window and there are no signs of a break-in. Apart
from your laptop which was broken - not stolen, nothing else is amiss. It's clearly
not a burglary. There are marks on your neck, implying that someone did try to kill
you, but if someone wanted you dead, you should be."

Ajay continued, with a very confused expression on his face, "Ria, it was deleted
three years ago."
Ria spoke angrily, " What do you mean, I should be dead?"
"Well, clearly the person who broke in was very thorough. In fact, so
thorough, that it looks like no one was ever in your apartment..... Except
you. Look, I can understand that you're frustrated, but I can't help you if you
insist on hiding things from me." Ajay said.
Ria took a deep breath, "Three years ago, my girlfriend died. I wrote our
story and posted it on my blog yesterday. And.... she commented on it."
"Your dead girlfriend commented on a story you wrote?" a puzzled Ajay
asked.
Ria nodded seriously, "I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me.
I'm not joking Ajay."
"I didn't say you were......." he trailed off. "And what did this girlfriend say?"
"That she was alive. That she needed help." Ria said. "Look, I know this
sounds crazy but I-"
"Ria, I'll be the judge of that." He paused for a few moments, considering the
matter. "Tell me the address of your blog." Ajay finally asked, taking out his
phone.
He paused for a few moments, considering the matter. "Tell me the address of
your blog." Ajay finally asked, taking out his phone.
Ria told him, and after a few minutes of surfing, Ajay looked up at her with a frown
on his face.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"The blog you're talking about, was deleted."
"Oh."

*********
"So this was where Ritu lived?" Ajay asked, his sharp eyes taking in the
posh building. At the entrance, he noticed the CCTV cameras, which were
surreptitiously hidden under some foliage. He made a mental note to
inquire if he could obtain footage from three years before.
"Yes." Ria replied, in a distracted way.
"You brought the key?" Ajay questioned of Ria.
"Yeah." Ria said, "Here." she said, handing it to him.
"Which floor did she live on?" Ajay asked, walking to the lift.
"The penthouse." came the prompt reply.
The ride up was quiet. Ria had never been much of a conversation maker, and Ajay
was far too wrapped up in his thoughts to initiate one.
Nothing Ria said had made any sense to him, her story seemed far too improbable.
But he didn't think she was lying. Whatever had happened, left her terrified. Apart
from wanting to help out his sister, the case was too intriguing for someone like
him to pass up on.
A ding sounded, signalling that they had reached their destination. The balcony
next to the door looked old, dusty and deserted, as if no one had set foot on it
since a very long time.
Ajay looked at Ria. She stood like a statue her face wiped clean of any emotion. It
was clear that she was lost in deep thought. The doors of the lift began to close.
Ajay held his had out to stop them. Ria appeared not to notice.
Gently, he asked, "Shall we?"
She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for whatever horrors lay in
store.

*********
The apartment was eerie in the way most places in horror movies were -
abandoned. The really creepy part, Ajay thought, was how everything
looked ordinary. Everything looked as it ought to be, as if the occupant had
gone out for a vacation and would return.
He stole a furtive glance at Ria. She had a distant, unreadable expression,
something quite in character for the Ria he had known.
They were the same age. Ajay's parents had adopted a nine-year-old Ria.
She'd always been a silent soul. She was brilliant in her academics, always
ahead of Ajay, but he hadn't minded. She was nice to him. His other 6
brothers never were. She'd grown apart from the whole family after she left
for college.
"You didn't tell me that... That you..." he stammered as he couldn't phrase
the words properly.
"That I dated girls?" she asked with a faintest hint of smile.
He nodded, turning a little red.
"I never really thought about dating anyone at any point of time. Ritu.... just
sort of happened, that's all." she said, looking around the apartment with an
almost pained expression on her face.
"Oh." he said simply, not knowing what he could say.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about that." she said, her tone strained
as she looked around Ritu's flat.
"Yeah." he said relieved. "I'll just, look around the apartment. You don't have
to stay if you don't want to."
She shot him a quick grateful look, before leaving.

"Well?" Ria asked Ajay. It was a week after they'd met at Ritu's flat. Ajay told her that
he'd get back to her after he examined all the evidence. They'd decided to meet in
a cafe.
He sat across from her now. He appeared 10 minutes after Ria did,
carrying a bag. He shot her a peculiar, searching look as he sat down,
but didn't say anything.
"I have a few questions I'd like to ask you." he declared, sounding official.
"Okay.... Is anything wrong?" she asked, not understanding his peculiar
behavior.
He ignored the question and shot back with one of his own. "Where did
you meet Ritu?
"At college, I told you-"
He cut her off. "What classes was she taking?"
"Same as mine.... Aj-"
*********
"So, she was the same year as you, studying the same subjects?"
"Yes. Ajay, where are you going with this?" she asked, confused.
He took out a bottle of pills from the bag. He showed it to her and said,
"I found these in Ritu's apartment. Do you know what these are for?" he
asked, watching her expression carefully.
She stared at them blankly for a while. Then she remembered. "For her
heart! She had a heart condition. Come to think of it, that might be why
she...." her voice faded off.
"Ria, how many times did you go to Ritu's place?" Ajay asked, soldiering
on.

"Just once. She moved in after college, three years ago, and I
helped her move. That's all." she answered. "How is this even
relevant?"
"I'm going to speak now, and please don't interrupt me." Ajay said,
looking at her with an almost sad expression.
"Okay." Ria said. She felt very nervous for some reason.
"The first thing I did after I dropped you off at home was go to
your college. I spoke with teachers, the Dean and all of them told
me something quite strange. A student named Ritu never studied
there."
"What? I don't understand-" Ria began.
He held up a hand silencing her. "Now this was shocking. But I did
understand what was going on shortly after I received the CCTV
tapes from the building you said Ritu was supposed to move in.
The flat is registered in the name of Ritu, but the only person who
ever stepped foot in that apartment was you. And, it wasn't just
once, it was multiple times."
He looked at her stunned face.
"I can see that it doesn't make any sense to you. It didn't to me
either. So I went back to the apartment, and I found this."
He placed the bottle of pills on the table.
"The pills were given out on the name of a doctor that I tracked
down. I showed him your photograph and asked him what he
could tell me about the girl in the photo. He asked, "Ritu? What do
you want to know about her?"

Ajay continued, "He told me about a girl who'd started seeing him four years
ago. She called herself Ritu and she told him about she needed someone to
help her. When she was asked to produce her identification, she showed him
your college ID. Well, he did some investigation of his own and after
pinpointing her exact problem, he prescribed these pills to her."
Ria finally spoke, "Heart pills? How- how could they help?"
"Ria, these pills aren't for the heart. They're to treat schizophrenia."
--Fin--
Aamuktamalyada is a writer,
the
poetess,
Author Meet
guitarist, amateur blogger, and a parttime
teenager. She spends a lot of her
time writing or thinking about writing,
hers, or other people's. Her tastes are
as weird as they are varied. Her favorite
writers range from Louisa May Alcott to
Stephen King to Pseudonymous Bosch.
She recently began working on her
masterpiece, Mage Academy, a YA novel
with superheroes, and mythological
elements. (Did warn you that she's
weird!).You can reach her @
amukta.thalluri@gmail.com
Aamuktamalyada
Thalluri

Me, My Girlfriend And God
~Oskar Leonard
"Are you sure about this? You know you don't have to come if you don't
—"
"Freya. We've talked about this. It's important to you, so I'm coming."
Smiling, I looked into the eyes of the one girl I loved more than
anything in the world (such cliché, I know) and tried to figure out what was
going on in her complex, unique mind. It was intricate. You could never
quite tell what was flitting through her stunning, brunette head, but even
getting close was an amazing experience.
She would do anything for me. I would do anything for her. I suppose
that made us a pretty good couple, if you thought about it.
"It'll be like walking into a vipers' den," I mentioned, knowing I had
nearly exhausted my list of metaphors but persevering nonetheless, "but
all the vipers are old. Most of them, anyway."
"Your mum isn't old," I knew that, and I knew that she was waiting in
the living-room for us at that very moment, probably sat on her armchair
reading a newspaper on her phone (which one? She'd never tell me, for
some reason), while we hesitated and talked in the front garden, "and I've
seen all the kids there. Not everyone who goes to church is old."
"The kids go to Sunday school, it's not the same thing," I shook my
head, vague memories of being taught about the Bible, and how to be a
'good person' in equal measure flickering uncertainly through my mind.
Childhood seemed like such a long time ago, even though I was still in it.
Early childhood. Fifteen was still a child, wasn't it? Or was it?
The world confused me.
"We're in the eye of the storm," I pointed out, before correcting myself:
"the calm before the storm."
"Can't even get your cliches right," she chuckled, reaching over to take my hand
and squeeze it, "you're worried."
"Oh, you can tell?" I tried to match her chuckle, but it ended up being a halfhearted
giggle, something that I would've come out with in Year Seven. Year
even... Why did everything feel like such a long time ago? Why was I only realising
that time passed in that exact moment? "We should go in."

So, we went in. Not much more to it. My heart was jiggling around in
my chest as I jiggled the key in the door, like it was trying to copy me. Like
a child.
Was I a child? Awkward questions which I really didn't need right then
appeared, clouding my mind. Were they helping, by making me avoid the
issue at hand? Or were they just being annoying?
Both. Neither.
We went inside.
The beautiful girl who I was incredibly lucky to call my girlfriend,
sometimes called Teegan when I didn't have the energy to tell her exactly
how much I loved and appreciated her just to address her, took her shoes
off in the hall. I left my boots on. Mum didn't mind either way, but it was
always something she commented on. From the first moment Teegan set
foot in our house, took her shoes off and shook hands with my Mum,
Mum decided that she was 'the one'.
I had decided that a lot earlier, in a park on a dark night when she
offered to walk me home. I first noticed how blue her eyes were under a
yellow street-light back when they were actually yellow—or orange, I guess
—instead of electric white.
She walked me home. She made sure I was safe on a dark night, after
an afternoon full of fun and an evening full of sharing secrets and
memories. On that day, I knew her, and I knew she was 'the one'.
"Mum! We're ready," I called through the house, leaning against a wall as rushing
sounds erupted in the living-room. 'Is it that time already' and 'I hope we're not
late' floated through the house as keys clinked and the cat meowed indignantly at
something. It probably got disturbed from its comfy position on my Mum's lap, but
church didn't wait for Whiskers.
It had waited for me. God had watched and waited as I struggled over whether
or not to even go. Believing in him was never a question, but believing that he still
loved me after everything that I'd discovered about myself was another question. A
lot of the people at church would have one simple answer for me: no. God didn't
love lesbians, or gay people, or anyone who didn't fit the cishet norms of old
Christianity.

But he loved everyone. Or he was meant to. I couldn't believe that I
was living in sin when I also believed that God made everyone and
looked at us as his own children. You only hated your child for being gay
if you were a bad parent, and he couldn't possibly be a bad parent.
No. I believed in a God that loved me and all those old ladies just
the same, no matter who we decided to spend our lives with or who we
turned out to be.
He created me, after all, and he created me to be gay.
Mum appeared, frantically brushing her hair and checking it in the
hall's mirror. Teegan smiled, greeted her with a compliment and looked
about as calm and collected as I wished I could ever be. She was always
like that. Teegan was just a calming presence, whether we were doing
exams or getting yelled at in the park. Somehow, she managed to say
the right things to everyone.
Finally, we all marched out of the house and into the car. Mum's
urgency came in waves, which usually lapsed when she needed to do
something like adjust her makeup in the mirror or look through her
diary.
I think that was a parent thing. We'd always be in a rush until Dad
needed to finish watching a horse race or football match on TV, when he was
still here. I had a game I wanted to finish playing? Not important enough.
Some men needed to kick a ball around a pitch with my Dad watching?
Completely fine, an extra ten minutes before we needed to leave appeared
from nowhere. The logic boggled my mind.
But we all piled into the car in good time, meaning, at least, we wouldn't
turn up late to church. That would be a good way to turn some heads, no
matter who we were turning up with.
Of course, we were turning up with Teegan. That changed everything. But
being late and bringing Teegan? Total disaster.
Now, girls," Mum began, since it felt like the beginning of a long speech, as she
started the car and began pulling out of the driveway, "I know that you know that
this isn't exactly going to go amazing. It might not go badly, but neutral is what
we're aiming for. I love you both, and I think you're perfect for each other and I'm
sure everyone else, including God, thinks that too.

"But old Mrs Henderson—she's the one to look out for, I think—
might not think the same. You're prepared for that, right?"
"Yes," Teegan chirped, cheery and calming as ever.
We'd gotten into the backseats of the car, so she reached over,
again, and squeezed my hand, again. She called me out for my cliches
but she had a few old favourites up her sleeve as well. Not that I was
complaining—the comforting touch of her fingers on mine, brushing the
back of my hand in that way that she knew I liked, was incredible. Such a
small thing, but still: incredible.
"Did you get your mock exam results, Teegan? I know you were
waiting for them," and I was effectively excluded from the conversation.
Part of me was relieved, since staring out of the window and watching
the world pass by seemed like a great way to not think for a bit, or just
think about some completely unrelated things, but I also enjoyed seeing
my mum and Teegan interact.
It never got old. She swore that she loved us both the same, but I knew she
really cared for Teegan. It might've been the best reaction to a new partner that
any parent had ever had, ever.
I wasn't good with words when I was nervous.
To be honest, I wasn't great with words when I wasn't nervous, but I was
noticeably worse when something was on my mind. Teegan told me that. I'd not
really noticed, being too busy worrying whenever this inability to speak properly
thing happened, but she pointed it out one day. It made sense. She did that—I've
already gone on about her so much, but she did so much. Everything about her
was awe-inspiring. She was who I aspired to be, who I loved and who I wanted to
spend the rest of my life with all at once.
As Mum and Teegan moved on to other school-related topics, such as the
updated lunch menu (Mum and Teegan both had the ability to have extended
conversations about pretty much any topic you threw at them), my thoughts
wandered outside the car window. Houses passed. It was just houses and cars,
houses and cars, then the primary school, then houses and cars. White car. Blue
car. Black van. A lorry rushed past, gone in a moment. It probably shouldn't have
een going that fast. One primary school kid in the road and then there'd be a real
disaster.

But the primary school kids were at home, either in bed or eating
breakfast. Or doing homework. I always did my weekly homework—weekly
homework, what a blessing compared to high school!—on a Sunday. No
one told me to, but I did it then anyway. Sunday mornings were for church
and Sunday afternoons were for homework.
Sunday nights were for sleeping, just like every other night. Sleep was
the best.
"Here we are," Mum announced, even though she didn't really need to.
The church was the biggest building in the area, and, considering it had
its own car park, graveyard and gardens, it was pretty noticeable. Still, she
said it, and it broke off my train of thought. All that pointless pondering,
gone in a moment.
Back in reality, I got out of the car and drifted over to Teegan's side.
Mum rooted in her bag for something or other, then checked that she'd
locked the car three times. If anyone stole a car in a church car park...
that would be low. A lightning strike would probably be on the way. Or
at least some bad luck, I would hope.
The usual crowd was heading inside. Despite what Teegan said, I was
right. Mostly old people. Cardigans and jumpers and beige trousers,
long skirts and wispy hair. I didn't dislike any of them, especially not just
for being old, but I was wary of them. None of them had noticed us yet.
Would the car park change from being serene and filled with the
general quiet buzz of chatter to a battleground if they did notice us?
Teegan didn't give me time to consider that doomsday option. My hand
was squeezed. My mum found whatever she was looking for in her bag
and locked the car for the fourth time, before coming towards us and
nodding towards the door.
"We'd better head in," she said, smiling.
"Yes," Teegan nodded, knowing exactly what to say.
"At least it's not raining cats and dogs," I muttered, not knowing
what to say at all.
All three of us walked into God's house, and I tried to not focus on
anything but the thought of being welcomed by God.
--Fin--

Oskar Leonard
Oskar Leonard is a transgender
author and poet, a senior editor at
The Altruist and a poetry and prose
editor at All Ears India. He has
written six books: three novels, two
poetry anthologies and a novella. His
pieces are in publications like
FOURALL Magazine, Fever Dream
Journal and Juven.
Meet The Author!!

ART
I S S U E - 2

Ananya Reddy

Ananya Reddy

Sameera Parveen
Sameera Parveen is a 13y/o, middle school girl.
She is a self taught artist who practiced and
flourished in arts during the lockdown. Her aim
is to use minimal art supplies yet create the
best out of it. Her pieces are mostly portraits
and nature related paintings. She has her art
published in a number of websites and
galleries.

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