Infectious
Cover by Naz Alomgir
Infection is always present, whether it be illness that spreads, like pollen, or the seeds that grow to make air. Swallowed by greedy candle flames turning to fire that burns, and destroys. It is what you think of it to be; Smiles turning to laughter, or strangers to friends to lovers. Constantly, through every step, every minute, and second. Something reaches out to infect. Constantly, the world is infected.
SMACK, by Tessa Graves (10)
Image by Bree Graves
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SMACK. The mosquito dies. Not soon enough. The blood stains my forearm like poorly done tye dye as my feet dip and dive in the cool water. The docks have always been a nice place. They rock and creak with the winds that pass, they store memories. When I caught my first fish. When we built our house. When I went swimming for the first time all by myself.
“ADISA! Supper!’’ Mama calls from afar. Feet dripping and hair disheveled, I waddle in the door smiling because it’s that day. It’s the day when it’s over. “Mama, hunger wan kill me.’’ “Na so. My beautiful birthday boy, you 6 now. You eat now.’’ Mama serves spoonfuls of jollof rice on my plate, an extra for my birthday, another extra for being safe. I pray to the gods, thank you. Jollof rice coats my mouth, bringing joy with every grain. Mama smiles her crooked grin and watches my movements like a proud mother goose. I smile in return to her joy. I scratch my arm where the leftover blood stains and Mama stops. |
“Adisa de you bit by di bug?’’
“Hmm. I smacked it.’’ “No Adisa no! Dos bugs kill. You go de very sick!’’ “No mama. I’m six now. I’m safe.’’ “You betta shey you're right. I no wan you to die. You’re special.’’ “Okay Mama.’’ Jollof rice is gone. Feet are dry. Life continues. No mosquito will kill me because I’m six. Everyone says once you’re six you live until you’re 50. But Mama says I’m not safe anymore. That no one’s ever safe. I walk to my mattress. I close my eyes and sink into my patchwork quilt, listening to our floating house in Makoko sway with the waves. Back and forth back and forth. I lick my finger and smear the blood. I don’t want to scare Mama. I know the doctor drains people’s money, charging them 3,941 Nairas. My mind drifts back to last week where we attended 2 funerals for 5 year old children who died of malaria. Bugs so small take so many lives. “Goodnight mai sweet boi.’’ Mama says, her mouth full as she scrapes leftover Jollof rice from the pot. “Sleep wella.’’ Thoughts pull me from funeral to funeral, all the victims’ faces blend together in a sea of the past. I feel a mosquito on my arm, I slap it. Nothing. One on my leg. Gone. Tonight I fall into sleep covered in mosquitoes. |
Breaking News, by Abella Vasquez (10)
Image by Abella Vasquez
The Secretary of Defense, Cyrus Logstod, has been arrested. Logstod has been facing criminal charges of embezzlement, perjury, and conspiracy since February, but he has not appeared in court since the charges were filed. He was arrested today--sorry, Linda, the—uh—the teleprompter—ahem, Logstod was arrested today around 7 a.m. PST at his home in Los Angeles by federal agents and taken to California State Prison until further notice. We… we don’t have much information beyond that, but if I’m being honest… I expected this. Yes, Linda, I know; just let me have this moment.
Mr. Logstod has always seemed a bit fishy. The way he speaks during press conferences and how his staff is always so goddamn loyal… it never sat right with me. And that strange smile of his. Y’know, the only time I ever attended an in-person press meet was with Mr. Logstod. When that man smiled, so did the reporters. When he laughed, they did too. I remember sitting there with a subconscious grin on my face. I think I was horrified when I realized it. They stopped asking him threatening questions actually. It was more like… “How’s your wife, Mr. Logstod?” “How do you like your coffee? Cream or sugar?”. Hah! The way that man could capture an audience in a second…
Regardless, his meddling with the legislative branch of government was… disappointing to hear about. To think that the guy who runs the forces that protect our country tried to wiggle his way into more and more power is scary. If he wanted that authority legally, he could’ve just ran for President! Mr. Logstod is the kind of man who will seep his way into the cracks that are seen in our federal system and make them even bigger. He spreads his influence like water flowing through a pipe; direct and purposeful. I’ve seen how it affects people, I’ve seen the consequences, and finally I see the karma he deserves.
But I think that’s just how it works. The people with the most power never see it as the most. Glass half-empty kind of mentality, you know? What’s that, Linda? I-I’m being fired? Well… that’s alright.
Mr. Logstod has always seemed a bit fishy. The way he speaks during press conferences and how his staff is always so goddamn loyal… it never sat right with me. And that strange smile of his. Y’know, the only time I ever attended an in-person press meet was with Mr. Logstod. When that man smiled, so did the reporters. When he laughed, they did too. I remember sitting there with a subconscious grin on my face. I think I was horrified when I realized it. They stopped asking him threatening questions actually. It was more like… “How’s your wife, Mr. Logstod?” “How do you like your coffee? Cream or sugar?”. Hah! The way that man could capture an audience in a second…
Regardless, his meddling with the legislative branch of government was… disappointing to hear about. To think that the guy who runs the forces that protect our country tried to wiggle his way into more and more power is scary. If he wanted that authority legally, he could’ve just ran for President! Mr. Logstod is the kind of man who will seep his way into the cracks that are seen in our federal system and make them even bigger. He spreads his influence like water flowing through a pipe; direct and purposeful. I’ve seen how it affects people, I’ve seen the consequences, and finally I see the karma he deserves.
But I think that’s just how it works. The people with the most power never see it as the most. Glass half-empty kind of mentality, you know? What’s that, Linda? I-I’m being fired? Well… that’s alright.
Infect me, by Gwen MacEwen (10)
Image by Gwen MacEwen
The crowd is busy
The anxiety is infectious
I want to go home
Hold my hand
I don’t care if you spread the disease
I need someone to bring me back
Keep me in the present
I’m slipping away
Please don’t lose me
I rely on you
And maybe that’s not healthy
Maybe I shouldn’t be willing
To be infected by you
Just to make it out
Of this crowded room
I don’t like people
They make my heart race
Being perceived is my worst fear
But you can perceive me
If that’s what it takes
To keep you here
I need someone by my side
Someone who doesn’t leave me
In the middle of the room
To die
Feeling like my lungs might collapse
There’s no air in here
Not without you
You can give me your disease
I will gladly take it
Just please don’t leave
I won’t survive the illness
On my own
The anxiety is infectious
I want to go home
Hold my hand
I don’t care if you spread the disease
I need someone to bring me back
Keep me in the present
I’m slipping away
Please don’t lose me
I rely on you
And maybe that’s not healthy
Maybe I shouldn’t be willing
To be infected by you
Just to make it out
Of this crowded room
I don’t like people
They make my heart race
Being perceived is my worst fear
But you can perceive me
If that’s what it takes
To keep you here
I need someone by my side
Someone who doesn’t leave me
In the middle of the room
To die
Feeling like my lungs might collapse
There’s no air in here
Not without you
You can give me your disease
I will gladly take it
Just please don’t leave
I won’t survive the illness
On my own
Red Ink Report, by Devin Caguioa (9)
I needed to get rid of these feelings somehow. Romance is such a stupid thing, so why must I get myself entangled in it? My head’s in a whirl and I feel sick to my stomach; was it the flowers that were blooming in my body or the fluttery feeling of falling in love? I sat at my desk in my dimmed room, the sharp tip of the dip pen resting below the tattered paper.
My breathing was heavy, trying to steal air for myself from the flowers that continued to grow in my lungs. My hands rummage through the basket that lies on my desk, desperately searching for my tiny container of ink. I felt feeble, but based on a textbook I read relating to diseases, confessing my feelings to my dear one was the only other way I could cure it. Surgery was an option, yet me and my family lived in poverty – no way in hell was I going to find an unsafe way of stripping these flowers from my chest. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The clock was counting down to my death and I couldn’t do anything aside from write. No matter how sloppy my writing was, no matter how scrambled my thoughts were right now, I was desperate for another chance at life. I needed to get these feelings out.
My hands felt the glass edges of the ink container and I pulled my hand out quickly, holding the tiny canister. I tug at the lid of the container and begin to write in a frantic manner. My head was aching with all the emotions I bottled for my soulmate. My vision was hazy, but I dipped the tip of the pen into the red ink and began to spill my heart out all on the blank paper. I felt queasy writing words that seemed unintelligible in my eyes. I held my breath, not daring to cough up more flower petals than words I’ve written on the page. The red ink flows smoothly from the writing utensil, as though creating an image of what me and my dearest one could’ve been if I didn’t keep my head in my ass. If I weren’t so stubborn and full of myself. My wrist was working overtime writing a confession letter to the person I love. [...]
My breathing was heavy, trying to steal air for myself from the flowers that continued to grow in my lungs. My hands rummage through the basket that lies on my desk, desperately searching for my tiny container of ink. I felt feeble, but based on a textbook I read relating to diseases, confessing my feelings to my dear one was the only other way I could cure it. Surgery was an option, yet me and my family lived in poverty – no way in hell was I going to find an unsafe way of stripping these flowers from my chest. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The clock was counting down to my death and I couldn’t do anything aside from write. No matter how sloppy my writing was, no matter how scrambled my thoughts were right now, I was desperate for another chance at life. I needed to get these feelings out.
My hands felt the glass edges of the ink container and I pulled my hand out quickly, holding the tiny canister. I tug at the lid of the container and begin to write in a frantic manner. My head was aching with all the emotions I bottled for my soulmate. My vision was hazy, but I dipped the tip of the pen into the red ink and began to spill my heart out all on the blank paper. I felt queasy writing words that seemed unintelligible in my eyes. I held my breath, not daring to cough up more flower petals than words I’ve written on the page. The red ink flows smoothly from the writing utensil, as though creating an image of what me and my dearest one could’ve been if I didn’t keep my head in my ass. If I weren’t so stubborn and full of myself. My wrist was working overtime writing a confession letter to the person I love. [...]
I used to think you were beautiful, by Eliana Katz (10)
Photo by Eliana Katz
You are beautiful.
Hair flowing around you face,
Like calm ocean waves,
Soft and inviting
You are beautiful.
Eyes deep caves,
Glittering,
Filled with hidden treasure
You are beautiful .
Eye-wrinkling smule,
A warm,
Inviting,
Summers day
You were beautiful.
Love radiating from your soul,
Spreading,
Catching
Sometimes,
It would burn
When the waves rage,
The treasure stolen,
Your smile twisted,
Evil
You became infected.
What once held beauty,
Tarnished,
Rotten
I used to think you were beautiful
Until the infection spread
Hair flowing around you face,
Like calm ocean waves,
Soft and inviting
You are beautiful.
Eyes deep caves,
Glittering,
Filled with hidden treasure
You are beautiful .
Eye-wrinkling smule,
A warm,
Inviting,
Summers day
You were beautiful.
Love radiating from your soul,
Spreading,
Catching
Sometimes,
It would burn
When the waves rage,
The treasure stolen,
Your smile twisted,
Evil
You became infected.
What once held beauty,
Tarnished,
Rotten
I used to think you were beautiful
Until the infection spread
Spoiled, by Alexander Lam-Gaudet (11)
If you’ve ever pinpointed a brain calloused and bruised,
Don’t tell anyone.
When the girl, so symmetrical, asks you,
Don’t tell anyone.
I’ve read the list of names, over and over again,
I wish my throat wasn’t cocooning,
Where I could
speak.
It’s indescribable,
Alienating, if you will.
My name is tallied in a list of letters,
Born, or spoiled? They ask.
My skin, dirty and infected.
I wonder if she would have kissed me the same,
Knowing my mold is permanent.
So, I keep a promise,
Don’t tell anyone.
Don’t tell anyone.
When the girl, so symmetrical, asks you,
Don’t tell anyone.
I’ve read the list of names, over and over again,
I wish my throat wasn’t cocooning,
Where I could
speak.
It’s indescribable,
Alienating, if you will.
My name is tallied in a list of letters,
Born, or spoiled? They ask.
My skin, dirty and infected.
I wonder if she would have kissed me the same,
Knowing my mold is permanent.
So, I keep a promise,
Don’t tell anyone.
Content Warning
If you are comfortable with heavier themes; then this is the section for you.
Prettiest girl I've ever seen, by Naz Alomgir (CW; SA)
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“Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen”
He said as his eyes measured every inch of her, past her face. Drifting, his focus shifted from her eyes to her chest. He didn’t mean to though; he was simply giving it the attention it so desperately wanted. Curling his slimy wet tongue against his lips, he stared at her like a piece of cake, his body waiting patiently… his mind already cutting a slice. The frothed taste of vanilla buttercream lingered on his tongue from the knife. Its soft, untouched, piped dollops decorated the real treat hidden beneath. She laid there, knowing what will become of that night, yet letting it happen because she’s the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Prettiest to the eyes that wander to other girls with better figures. Smoother fondant that stretches to the edges. Ones that are baked to perfection and don’t leave raw batter clinging to the toothpick. Ones that have but a single layer. Why was she sitting there in his room, letting every part of herself get devoured? She eyed the door, letting him smear her painted lips. Letting him suffocate her. Thoughts flooded her mind, telling her to leave, to push him away, to yell. But the only thing she could do was cry. Even then, only a few salty tears fell from her eyes. He couldn’t see her smudged mascara, he wouldn't think she was pretty anymore. Did he ever think she was? Why did she let him have the first piece, a piece meant for someone special? Smoke clouded her face. She squinted her watery eyes as she tried to see through the blurred fog, tried to make sense of what was happening, but the smoke clouded her mind too. Once brightly lit wicks of hopes and dreams, blown out in seconds. Time she’d never get back. Time that was stolen from her. Time that he now owned, now and forever. [...] |
Image by Naz Alomgir
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The Sickness, By Eydie Padfield (9) (CW; Murder and Gore)
The cage is made of glass, unbreakable, bullet proof. The only exits are the slits in the ceiling that allow her to breathe. Heavily filtered and stuffy, the air pricks at her already raw throat, pulling a strangled cough from her. She sits on the ground, her head against the glass, eyes bloodshot and staring. The girl hasn’t showered in weeks, her hair hanging greasy around her pallid face. She hasn’t eaten or slept since she entered the ninth stage of the sickness, her movement reduced to twitches, her speech to incoherent mumbling.
The rooms around her are filled with people she knew, the ones she infected. The doctors, her parents. They are restless, they pace, yell and throw their few possessions around. Was it only a week ago that the girl had so much energy?
The doctors in their masks and plastic suits whisper as they pass her room. They think she will die soon. The sickness has eaten away at her insides, into her nerves and brain. It has taken everything that makes her human. But the doctors are wrong, she won’t die, tomorrow the pain will leave her, the fog will lift from her mind. She will be calm, charming even. The girl will comply with the tests and she will appear healthy, better than healthy.
Hope will make the doctors rash, they will want to be sure, take blood, scan her brain. They will open the cage and she will kill them. With a strength that is not her own the girl will snap their necks, rip them open so their blood pools in her hands. They will scream, she will smile, then she will walk through the open doors. The girl will kill, she will infect and soon her world will be ours.
The rooms around her are filled with people she knew, the ones she infected. The doctors, her parents. They are restless, they pace, yell and throw their few possessions around. Was it only a week ago that the girl had so much energy?
The doctors in their masks and plastic suits whisper as they pass her room. They think she will die soon. The sickness has eaten away at her insides, into her nerves and brain. It has taken everything that makes her human. But the doctors are wrong, she won’t die, tomorrow the pain will leave her, the fog will lift from her mind. She will be calm, charming even. The girl will comply with the tests and she will appear healthy, better than healthy.
Hope will make the doctors rash, they will want to be sure, take blood, scan her brain. They will open the cage and she will kill them. With a strength that is not her own the girl will snap their necks, rip them open so their blood pools in her hands. They will scream, she will smile, then she will walk through the open doors. The girl will kill, she will infect and soon her world will be ours.
Sanguessuga, Zack Atchison (9) (CW; Terminal Illness, Disaster, Body Horror)
Image by Zack Atchison
First, it was the mosquitoes.
In the midst of a scorching Brazilian summer, one expected to be swarmed with the blood-sucking pests, each seeking out the protein necessary to develop eggs and reproduce. During the cooler months, one might have observed the behaviour Catrina had that fateful day she realized something just wasn’t quite right; a mosquito landing on her stilled hand, but flying away before she even thought to smack it; rejecting a meal. A fluke, she thought, but when she arrived home that night, not a single bite made itself relentlessly itchy and hard to ignore.
Then, her plants.
She’d always found the presence of life, be it sentient or not, comforting. The fresh scent of vegetation was something no candle could ever truly replicate, the feeling of stems, leaves, or petals between her fingers more soothing than that of the most expensive silk. To say she was distraught when those plants began to wilt and crumble before her eyes may have been an overstatement, but she was certainly displeased. At this point, she knew something was wrong; but placing her finger on it seemed impossible.
So she called her doctor.
I can't fit you in until Thursday, he said, so she spent the remainder of that day sweeping up plant remains and chewing on her carefully manicured nails until they chipped. When she snapped out of her anxiety-induced trance long enough to pull her hand away from her lips, the violet tinge of her fingertips captured her attention. The colour burrowed deep into her tan skin, a physical manifestation of the mysterious ailment she knew afflicted her. But Dr. Silva couldn’t see her for five more days, so she just had to tough it out.
The next day, she did just that.
Despite the fact that she’d woken up horribly exhausted and cold as an ice sculpture, she managed to pull herself from the solace of her bed and slip on something a little more suited for the outside world than pajamas; jeans, a tank top, and the customary white coat of a prep cook, which she tied around her waist to avoid melting in the morning sun on her commute to Adamo’s. The train ride was relatively uneventful; though the woman sitting next to her had had quite the cough, which precluded her from listening to music in peace. [...]
In the midst of a scorching Brazilian summer, one expected to be swarmed with the blood-sucking pests, each seeking out the protein necessary to develop eggs and reproduce. During the cooler months, one might have observed the behaviour Catrina had that fateful day she realized something just wasn’t quite right; a mosquito landing on her stilled hand, but flying away before she even thought to smack it; rejecting a meal. A fluke, she thought, but when she arrived home that night, not a single bite made itself relentlessly itchy and hard to ignore.
Then, her plants.
She’d always found the presence of life, be it sentient or not, comforting. The fresh scent of vegetation was something no candle could ever truly replicate, the feeling of stems, leaves, or petals between her fingers more soothing than that of the most expensive silk. To say she was distraught when those plants began to wilt and crumble before her eyes may have been an overstatement, but she was certainly displeased. At this point, she knew something was wrong; but placing her finger on it seemed impossible.
So she called her doctor.
I can't fit you in until Thursday, he said, so she spent the remainder of that day sweeping up plant remains and chewing on her carefully manicured nails until they chipped. When she snapped out of her anxiety-induced trance long enough to pull her hand away from her lips, the violet tinge of her fingertips captured her attention. The colour burrowed deep into her tan skin, a physical manifestation of the mysterious ailment she knew afflicted her. But Dr. Silva couldn’t see her for five more days, so she just had to tough it out.
The next day, she did just that.
Despite the fact that she’d woken up horribly exhausted and cold as an ice sculpture, she managed to pull herself from the solace of her bed and slip on something a little more suited for the outside world than pajamas; jeans, a tank top, and the customary white coat of a prep cook, which she tied around her waist to avoid melting in the morning sun on her commute to Adamo’s. The train ride was relatively uneventful; though the woman sitting next to her had had quite the cough, which precluded her from listening to music in peace. [...]
Stranger, by MWD (10) (CW; Stalking)
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“Mama, there’s a stranger at the door”
That sentence ruined me. I don’t know how you found us, I don’t know if I ever will But you did. I was young and stupid; I thought a rule saying you couldn’t come would keep us safe, But that mindset is what poisoned me first. You stalked us. You knew me, but I didn’t know you. You were a stranger and I was a kid. My mom tried to fix everything, but it was too late. That house was infested and crawling, With the venomous poison you left. I watched it crawl up me Until I couldn’t move. Where was there to go? You could be at the park, so I won't go You could be near my house, so I won’t go. You played a game of hide and seek, but I only got to hide. Mama, she tried her best to show me lights And colors and happy. I was too scared to look like I used to; I saw the world through a dark lens, poisoned by you. Clouded by me. Mama and I, we boxed away everything Into a truck, we packed our things away Into a new house. It didn’t seem to matter. You didn’t have to be watching me To be there. You lurked in every corner of my walls, Every space between the floorboards, You even got in my head Every empty thought was filled by you And your poison, and to hide, and to look through My lens of my old ignorance. I was eleven when you were a stranger. I’m fifteen now. I’m not paralyzed by poison anymore, I’m not looking through any more lenses. I’m waiting for you. I have something to return. |
Image by Dana Khodr
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A Muse to a Poet, by Kayleigh Schnare (10)
How do I begin to explain someone like her? There is such a feeling that surrounds you when she’s near, a warmths that creeps into your soul and happily suffocates you. She's a sweet morphine that haunts your every movement, your every thought; a kind of craving that won't go away. She infects me, a sort of virus that won't leave, because when she's around, I change.
I hate when I'm near her, I stand taller, breathe less, and think more. In my head I run each of my words over and over, hoping they sound right in her ears. When they finally do slip off my tongue, I find I'm left with a bitter taste because my words don't sound like me.
I often find myself sick with the thought of her, and yet; although it’s stupid, I've never so badly wanted to catch something so lethal. Her sickness is one I welcome because it’s not one that kills, if anything it excites me.
I want her. I mean, I want her out of my life because I hate who I am around her. I hate her stupid smile, her infectious laugh, I hate the way she draws others in, her hair that drapes over her shoulder and crowns her face like a silk blanket drapes over her shoulder and crowns her face, and I hate the way she looks at me with those eyes.
Oh her eyes, the windows to her soul. They dig into me, clawing out my deepest intrinsic feelings. Her eyes remind me of the rain after a dry summer’s week; they’re refreshing and new. They pull you in like the rough waves that sheath the atlantic. She has the kind of eyes that turn me into a cheesy poet. Everything about her turns me into a cheesy poet. She just changes me.
My god, who am I kidding? I love her. I’ve spent so long denying that silly little feeling. If I'm honest, she's a thrilling experience. She pulls me in and I happily follow. She’s like the stars in the sky- no I could do you one better;she’s the first snow of the winter; a breathtaking beauty that only comes once. She’s the tiny caterpillar that fights to be the butterfly. She is the intrinsically beautiful part of life. The small details that make this life worth living. She’s my music and my light, and I would follow her into the depths of hell for just the chance to glimpse her smile. My lighter to a cigarette, a rose to my thorns, a muse to a poet.
I hate when I'm near her, I stand taller, breathe less, and think more. In my head I run each of my words over and over, hoping they sound right in her ears. When they finally do slip off my tongue, I find I'm left with a bitter taste because my words don't sound like me.
I often find myself sick with the thought of her, and yet; although it’s stupid, I've never so badly wanted to catch something so lethal. Her sickness is one I welcome because it’s not one that kills, if anything it excites me.
I want her. I mean, I want her out of my life because I hate who I am around her. I hate her stupid smile, her infectious laugh, I hate the way she draws others in, her hair that drapes over her shoulder and crowns her face like a silk blanket drapes over her shoulder and crowns her face, and I hate the way she looks at me with those eyes.
Oh her eyes, the windows to her soul. They dig into me, clawing out my deepest intrinsic feelings. Her eyes remind me of the rain after a dry summer’s week; they’re refreshing and new. They pull you in like the rough waves that sheath the atlantic. She has the kind of eyes that turn me into a cheesy poet. Everything about her turns me into a cheesy poet. She just changes me.
My god, who am I kidding? I love her. I’ve spent so long denying that silly little feeling. If I'm honest, she's a thrilling experience. She pulls me in and I happily follow. She’s like the stars in the sky- no I could do you one better;she’s the first snow of the winter; a breathtaking beauty that only comes once. She’s the tiny caterpillar that fights to be the butterfly. She is the intrinsically beautiful part of life. The small details that make this life worth living. She’s my music and my light, and I would follow her into the depths of hell for just the chance to glimpse her smile. My lighter to a cigarette, a rose to my thorns, a muse to a poet.
Laughter is The Best Medicine, by Rae Winchell (10)
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It all started with a simple smirk.
Her shoulders slowly start to rise, Her eyes crinkle, The dimples emerge. Her smirk cracks into a small giggle. As an attempt to mask the laughter, She covers the smile with her hand, biting down her lip. Even still, others begin to notice. Sly looks creep around the room, People begin to smirk, Small snorts and chuckles, More attempts to cover smiles. Then, the original culprit makes a mistake. The mistake of looking around, And, after seeing others faces, She couldn’t control it any longer. The eruption, Finally released. Giggles, chortles, and finally - laughter, shrieks, roars Tears stream down her face, And she gasps for air. This eruption is like a volcano. The lava sprays across the room, Leaving no one untouched. Everyone lets go, Allowing the playful infection to come in. They allow it to take over their bodies. Cackles, hoots, giggles. Heads leaning backwards, Everyone holding their stomachs. Someone walks out of the room, Hysterically laughing. A stranger notices as he walks by, And begins to smirk as well. The same series of events occur And soon, the infection spreads to him. |
Image by Rae Winchell
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You, by Nex Lowe (10)
It’s you. It’s really you. Oh how I can’t believe it’s you. You. You who tore my whole life apart. You who put your infections on top of my infections. They twisted and turned into a larger, more colossal infection. Your fearful cries of help, that I would always answer no matter what I was doing, who I was. Your fearful cries. When my cries reached your ears they weren’t worrying, they didn’t distress you or make you stay lying awake, staring at the ceiling through the night. But to me, they were worrying. I felt them as fearful as you did, but you simply could not seem to reciprocate all I had done for you. It felt almost as if our brains were connected by wires. I would try to rip them out, twist them, turn them, cut them. Each time, you would forcefully plant them right back, pumping your disgusting sap into my brain, giving me your thoughts, giving me your worries, giving me what you had to offer, well I gave everything I could offer. I wish I could just slap you right now. I would slap you and I would say “You are an utterly massive, colossal, giant dick!” but I wouldn’t do that. When you were sweet, you were sweet, but with all that you gave me? Yeah, I would never go back. I am never going back.
The Grapevine, by Nex Lowe, MWD, and Naz Alomgir
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Please click the audio player above to listen to 'The Grapevine'.
[Intro] [Verse 1] Like a grapevine Twisted in my lies Grapes fall all around The roots never die [Verse 2] Standing on the ground But can’t hear your cry Still I stand higher You will no longer rise [Chorus] The grape vine spirals, My lie has spread You come tomorrow Your truths are dead Infectious fire Mine burns brighter You say that I'm a liar And still you’re admired Caught in the crossfire From sweet to sour The rumors gave me power. [Verse 3] Like a grapevine, You can’t climb And like a grapevine Devoted my time To see your downsprial To see your fall Can’t stay up on that pedestal When there's nothing at all |
 Image by Naz Alomgir
[Chorus] The grape vine spirals, My lie has spread You come tomorrow Your truths are dead Infectious fire Mine burns brighter You say that I'm a liar And still you’re admired Caught in the crossfire From sweet to sour The rumors gave me power [Interlude] [Bridge] Lie, cry, deny Thought I might as well try Handing you your demise You were tied to the vine Grapes on the vine Each rumor is my lie You can do your best to deny it But my fire has been ignited The flames all climb high And still I lie I lie, I lie [Outro] |
Rainbow Confetti, by Eliana Katz (10)
Image by Sharonne Katz
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The night before, I lay awake. Sleep is unreachable. My mind runs high speed towards the sun, as I look to the moon above.
A seed is planted between each beat of my racing heart. Anticipation germinates, sprouting as the sun comes around, spreading throughout my soul. Infection is pumped through my body; the butterflies in my stomach as I enter the venue and the tears in my eyes as the stage comes into view. Applause, then a painstaking two minute countdown. One smile spreads joy across the stadium, connecting like the beads of a friendship bracelet, held together by an invisible string. Hours fly by in seconds and my mind is overtaken. The infection spreads, coating my glitter covered eyes and red lacquered lips. From my painted shirt, traveling along my friendship bracelet strangled arms, seeping through my bones to my beating heart. It spreads from person to person, through smiles, laughter, and loud singing, consuming everything in its path. Carefree spirits in crowds as far as the eye can see, infected with the inexplicable sensation. A sparkling horizon of sequins and glitter, falling like rainbow confetti at the end of a long night. A moment anticipated for over a year, gone and past in the blink of an eye, yet the infection beats on in the hearts of those it has touched. |
It's just child's play, by Kim Soroka (10)
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I scamper.
I'm alarmed. I won't get caught. I won't get infected. The children carry it from one to another. They want to spread it to me too. I apologize for all that I've done. Just please don't catch me too. I hide like I've done before. I hold my panic-stricken breath. I calculate how much longer I have to survive. Just until someone will save me. My free time stops. I feel a hand linger over me. I feel the infection crawl up on me. The unwelcoming energy. It has reached upon me. Everything gets hushed. Children begging to hide. I now recognize the feeling. I’ve been infected. “Ewwwww!” I hear classmates roar in laughter. I looked towards them,they were victorious. their lemon stained teeth gleaming in the light. Victorious faces as they survived another chase. dimples caving into their faces as their smiles lines mirror onto my face. The infection was all just a race. Thankfully, I gave away the cheese touch. but I'll never lose that infectious childhood that came along with it. |
Image by Kim Soroka
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The Interrogation, by Tessa Graves (10)
Image by Bree Graves
Who, what, when, where, why, how. The questions you’re supposed to be able to answer about your own life. But what if you don’t know how? What if you don’t know what? Or when or where or with who? What if you can’t explain the why? Am I supposed to know everything? You shake your head no but the answer’s always yes.
Pressure building like a volcano waiting to erupt.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. Life is a series of forking roads and you’re supposed to know how to navigate them. With whom you want to travel. What goal you’re striving towards. Where and when you will arrive. Why you started this journey in the first place. Society conforms you to become a pre-coded robot, molding you into prestigious jobs and overpriced schools too quickly for you to even process the changes.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. From the 50s housewives, to 2000s pressured models to 2024s suicidal kids; questions hound and chase people, grappling onto anything and everything they can reach. Questions pester children from the day they are asked their favourite ice cream flavour. Answers are expected from everyone, strong and weak, young and old. The invisible strings of society infect the new generations with the answering disease, you can try to run but it’ll catch up.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. Answers do not come easily, they’re dug up, polished and given with pain. Each response comes with a part of you, emotion and effort that you can’t always afford to give up. But they demand, they badger, they harass, they pester until you’re nothing but a corpse with answer shaped holes. You can trace your body back to when you answered you liked chocolate ice cream, it didn’t hurt back then but it sure hurts now.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. Why do you say that you care about the future generations and the outcome of this earth when you morph our children into skeletons who crumble once they’ve been used for their responses and their so-called additions to society. Rewrite the narrative and cut our kids slack, keep their bodies whole until it’s their choice to answer. Until they can trace their bodies and it’ll show love, kindness and personality. The who, what, when, where, why, how should become the think, create, breathe, listen, learn, grow.
Pressure building like a volcano waiting to erupt.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. Life is a series of forking roads and you’re supposed to know how to navigate them. With whom you want to travel. What goal you’re striving towards. Where and when you will arrive. Why you started this journey in the first place. Society conforms you to become a pre-coded robot, molding you into prestigious jobs and overpriced schools too quickly for you to even process the changes.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. From the 50s housewives, to 2000s pressured models to 2024s suicidal kids; questions hound and chase people, grappling onto anything and everything they can reach. Questions pester children from the day they are asked their favourite ice cream flavour. Answers are expected from everyone, strong and weak, young and old. The invisible strings of society infect the new generations with the answering disease, you can try to run but it’ll catch up.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. Answers do not come easily, they’re dug up, polished and given with pain. Each response comes with a part of you, emotion and effort that you can’t always afford to give up. But they demand, they badger, they harass, they pester until you’re nothing but a corpse with answer shaped holes. You can trace your body back to when you answered you liked chocolate ice cream, it didn’t hurt back then but it sure hurts now.
Who, what, when, where, why, how. Why do you say that you care about the future generations and the outcome of this earth when you morph our children into skeletons who crumble once they’ve been used for their responses and their so-called additions to society. Rewrite the narrative and cut our kids slack, keep their bodies whole until it’s their choice to answer. Until they can trace their bodies and it’ll show love, kindness and personality. The who, what, when, where, why, how should become the think, create, breathe, listen, learn, grow.
Bad Omen, by Rachel Kilgour (9)
They say hope is infectious.
Something people can’t help but contract, something so pure and good that it spreads from one person to another.
I’d say that isn’t the reason it’s so contagious, though they aren’t far off from the truth.
Hope is a leech, something that latches onto you and sucks away at your life. Something spun to be seen as a blessing, a gift, something to be grateful for.
But it’s not.
In fact, I wish I never had hope in the first place. I wish the concept itself had left me alone, kept its fangs away from the flesh of my heart and the depths of my mind. If I had never encountered hope, I never would have felt love. And I would never have met you.
I never would have walked out onto that campus over the summer, would never have believed I could pursue something so big and important. My tour group wouldn’t have stopped in front of the doors to the library, and I never would have seen you leaving them. Your books in hand, eyes squinting at the brilliance of the sun. Before then, hope had managed to weasel its way into my life; but when I saw you, it took hold of my heart.
I was staring, very clearly staring, but the birth of my newfound confidence made it difficult for me to care. A beautiful stranger was only a few paces ahead and I was on top of the world—what could possibly go wrong?
A lot, I would’ve told myself. If only I knew.
I should have seen the warning signs. The crow that flew above us when we spoke for the first time, the shattered mirrors in the bathroom where we had our first kiss. But how could my smitten heart stop for the overshadowing my mind presented in desperate, superstitious methods? [...]
Something people can’t help but contract, something so pure and good that it spreads from one person to another.
I’d say that isn’t the reason it’s so contagious, though they aren’t far off from the truth.
Hope is a leech, something that latches onto you and sucks away at your life. Something spun to be seen as a blessing, a gift, something to be grateful for.
But it’s not.
In fact, I wish I never had hope in the first place. I wish the concept itself had left me alone, kept its fangs away from the flesh of my heart and the depths of my mind. If I had never encountered hope, I never would have felt love. And I would never have met you.
I never would have walked out onto that campus over the summer, would never have believed I could pursue something so big and important. My tour group wouldn’t have stopped in front of the doors to the library, and I never would have seen you leaving them. Your books in hand, eyes squinting at the brilliance of the sun. Before then, hope had managed to weasel its way into my life; but when I saw you, it took hold of my heart.
I was staring, very clearly staring, but the birth of my newfound confidence made it difficult for me to care. A beautiful stranger was only a few paces ahead and I was on top of the world—what could possibly go wrong?
A lot, I would’ve told myself. If only I knew.
I should have seen the warning signs. The crow that flew above us when we spoke for the first time, the shattered mirrors in the bathroom where we had our first kiss. But how could my smitten heart stop for the overshadowing my mind presented in desperate, superstitious methods? [...]
the infections of your touch, by Maddy Byl (10)
my skin breaks and tears
the bumps form up on my arms
i can feel them as i drag my finger down my face
my body is rejecting you
punishing me for wanting you
for needing you
the rash is spreading
my skin grows itchy where you touch it
it is not fireworks
it is not butterflies
you are infectious
a growing disease that i wish i could wash away
and i try
rubbing the cool water on
it is not helping, nothing helps
but i can’t tear myself away from you
the torn skin still craves your touch even though it is rejecting it
i am not sick
though i could be
when you are not near my skin is smooth and clear
where your hand has rested on my shoulder there is a burning rash
where your eyes have looked into mine they are watering
they are losing their sight
the infectious feeling of being addicted to you even though my own body pushes you away
it grows more each day
every time i feel you near
this time it isn’t going away
my breathing becomes restricted
my skin has not healed
will it ever?
my body hates you
but my mind craves you
you are infectious
yet i want you all the same
yet i need you anyway
the bumps form up on my arms
i can feel them as i drag my finger down my face
my body is rejecting you
punishing me for wanting you
for needing you
the rash is spreading
my skin grows itchy where you touch it
it is not fireworks
it is not butterflies
you are infectious
a growing disease that i wish i could wash away
and i try
rubbing the cool water on
it is not helping, nothing helps
but i can’t tear myself away from you
the torn skin still craves your touch even though it is rejecting it
i am not sick
though i could be
when you are not near my skin is smooth and clear
where your hand has rested on my shoulder there is a burning rash
where your eyes have looked into mine they are watering
they are losing their sight
the infectious feeling of being addicted to you even though my own body pushes you away
it grows more each day
every time i feel you near
this time it isn’t going away
my breathing becomes restricted
my skin has not healed
will it ever?
my body hates you
but my mind craves you
you are infectious
yet i want you all the same
yet i need you anyway
Red, by Abella Vasquez (10)
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Untitled, by Patrick Ralph (10)
No one speaks. We all know what we’ve done. We all know the way the sickness leaks from peoples limbs, pitch black liquid almost like ink. But ink paints new worlds, new places to go. These people are not going anywhere anymore.
A ragged cough alerts us all to the task at hand. The task that has been at hand for so long that we can’t even remember what the task is anymore. Workers crowd around the stretcher. They ask the question to the victim.
Their answers are always the same.
Yes.
A few people take the makeshift cot, and drag it, as gently as possible towards the pitch black mass in front of us. We should have done this a lot sooner. Suffering is only a product of the human nervous system, but it’s enough to make a man go mad.
Our bodies do not care about the person they house. Just the body itself.
Life is valuable.
But we are not.
A ragged cough alerts us all to the task at hand. The task that has been at hand for so long that we can’t even remember what the task is anymore. Workers crowd around the stretcher. They ask the question to the victim.
Their answers are always the same.
Yes.
A few people take the makeshift cot, and drag it, as gently as possible towards the pitch black mass in front of us. We should have done this a lot sooner. Suffering is only a product of the human nervous system, but it’s enough to make a man go mad.
Our bodies do not care about the person they house. Just the body itself.
Life is valuable.
But we are not.
to cure an incurable disease, by Theia Taylor (9)
Pink, plush armchairs and Mum’s hand on my back
The sickly-sweet pain enclosing my throat
Anti-nausea pills sit in my knapsack
The infection in my veins likes to gloat
Black plague moves easily through my body
Blood in my throat and splattered on the walls
The substance encases me, proud and gaudy
Just evading the view of my eyeballs
Stay curled up in a fetal position
Full-body shivering in my fleece sheets
Heart crashes with my ribs, a collision
My pulse coming out in erratic beats
My disease festers, a sticky black mound
It'll stay until I’m deep in the ground
The sickly-sweet pain enclosing my throat
Anti-nausea pills sit in my knapsack
The infection in my veins likes to gloat
Black plague moves easily through my body
Blood in my throat and splattered on the walls
The substance encases me, proud and gaudy
Just evading the view of my eyeballs
Stay curled up in a fetal position
Full-body shivering in my fleece sheets
Heart crashes with my ribs, a collision
My pulse coming out in erratic beats
My disease festers, a sticky black mound
It'll stay until I’m deep in the ground
Answer the Phone, By Rae Winchell (10)
Image by Rae Winchell
Eating breakfast, watching your phone Going on a walk, holding your phone Reading a book, distracted by your phone Living your life, glued to your phone Spending each day controlled by your phone A small, rectangular box with a screen Taking over your brain Controlling you It's just a small rectangular box, isn't it? It’s more than that It’s a necessity A requirement Something you can no longer live without The world revolves around phones It needs phones We need phones Are you wasting your time? What if each video you scroll past, each show you binge, What if it’s all a waste? Have you been staying up late, on your phone? Spending time away from family, on your phone? All this, just to watch some mindless videos? Answer truthfully: Have you given in? Have you allowed the infection to travel to your brain? Be honest, Does your phone control almost every aspect of your life? Don’t lie, I know the infection has gotten to you It’s not your fault, though It’s gotten to all of us Everyone in this world, living with a deadly disease |
Forcefield, By Nex Lowe (10)
Image by Nex Lowe
Around me, A shield. Clear, colourless. I can see all around me, The havoc, Despair, Horror. Cold stares, Faces, Expressionless figures Coat the streets. I want out, I want to tell them, Tell them, They’re being controlled. But they’re infected, And sometimes, I wonder, If I may be infected too. |
Mask Lovers, By Naz Alomgir (10)
Image by Naz Alomgir
Even though we are separated by these suffocating masks I can still feel the warmth of his breath shielded by cloth. He’s breathing? He’s breathing. Breathing at a normal pace. Not too fast not too slow. Signifying his lungs are clear, that he can inhale and exhale from his nose and his mouth. Cold air entering, leaving warm. It’s... nice. It’s nice to know he’s not leaving any time soon. That he has many years ahead of him to live happily and healthy. Years that aren’t filled with disease and sickness. I wish I could say the same about me. My lungs, infected by disease. My body never gets a moment's rest. Inhaling the coarse air and exhaling—no choking—it out. My body feels sore. My mind feels numb. My lips feel untouched, lacking his love. When was the last time I kissed him with my lips unveiled? I miss the feeling of his lips. Looking into his eyes just simply isn’t enough but goodness, they’re beautiful. Deep and profound, I could stare into them forever and find new meaning every time. Secrets kept under those black, shadowed eyes. Pools of ink for poem-writing quills. Though whenever we kiss, he shuts them. Hiding them from the world. From me.
I never shut mine, keeping them open to savour every bit of his beauty. Lustfully admiring every feature that sits on his face. Making sure to memorize every small vein that rests on his eyelids, every curve that lay in his ears, every hair slicked on his head because soon my colourful world will be black and white. Perhaps just dark since I’ll be cloaked by my own eyelids. Suffering to live every day, but do so for him. I'm ready to leave the world behind, but not my world. Not the world created just for us where only we exist.
But I guess it doesn’t matter as I will be buried in the world beneath.
Abandoned from both worlds above.
I never shut mine, keeping them open to savour every bit of his beauty. Lustfully admiring every feature that sits on his face. Making sure to memorize every small vein that rests on his eyelids, every curve that lay in his ears, every hair slicked on his head because soon my colourful world will be black and white. Perhaps just dark since I’ll be cloaked by my own eyelids. Suffering to live every day, but do so for him. I'm ready to leave the world behind, but not my world. Not the world created just for us where only we exist.
But I guess it doesn’t matter as I will be buried in the world beneath.
Abandoned from both worlds above.
Wash your Hands <3, By Kayleigh Schnare (10)
It starts small.
Germs burrow into your skin
They feast on your flesh As they dig deep into your tissue
They spread out
Smearing their filth within your once virtuous body
They clot and multiply
Crowd your cut so it begins to rot
Your body tries to fight it off but it is overtaken by the sick creatures within you
The blood begins to crust and the itching starts
The sting becomes blinding
And a glossy layer blankets you open wound
Soon that gloss turns white as pus begins to pour from you skin
It’s too late
The infection has started
And sepsis takes over
The organisms thrive in your muscle tissue
They crowd you like maggots to rotting food
They colonize more of you body
Your liver
Your lung
Your heart
There is no Turning back now
Bacteria feeds on your lifeline; Like rats biting the wire unaware of the harm they will do
The infection has rooted,
your body is tainted as the parasites that grow within you
Germs burrow into your skin
They feast on your flesh As they dig deep into your tissue
They spread out
Smearing their filth within your once virtuous body
They clot and multiply
Crowd your cut so it begins to rot
Your body tries to fight it off but it is overtaken by the sick creatures within you
The blood begins to crust and the itching starts
The sting becomes blinding
And a glossy layer blankets you open wound
Soon that gloss turns white as pus begins to pour from you skin
It’s too late
The infection has started
And sepsis takes over
The organisms thrive in your muscle tissue
They crowd you like maggots to rotting food
They colonize more of you body
Your liver
Your lung
Your heart
There is no Turning back now
Bacteria feeds on your lifeline; Like rats biting the wire unaware of the harm they will do
The infection has rooted,
your body is tainted as the parasites that grow within you
Sharing Season, by Kim Soroka (10)
Image by Kim Soroka
The leaves whap against the windows, the wind picking up each day. Shadowy clouds and ill lit nights come rapidly as the days begin to creep deeper into October. The college campus's emerald gardens turn blank and bare. Perfect for a vacant stomach to be filled. Well, at least to Isaac’s image. He was carrying a bag filled to the brim with food inside his apartment. Kicking the door closed, Isaac placed the food down droopily against the kitchen island. Clustered objects pushed and wedged themselves against the bag as the items did not have any room inside. Sitting down, he splayed the bag open, and vigorously maneuvered everything to make room. Barely sustaining his hunger, he smelt the waft of fries and burger roam throughout the house. His roommate Adam sat playing video games in the den and didn't seem to be bothered by the smell. ”YUM!” Isaac roared, digging into a heavenly bite of the Popeye’s burger. His scratchy voice boomed across the house, now definitely seeming to peak his roommate’s interest. Pausing his game, Adam leisurely made his way into the kitchen, wondering what turned Isaac’s foul mood into such enthusiasm.
“Oh hey, what's up? I didn't realize you were home yet.” Isaac mumbled as food dribbled from his mouth, letting the oils fall and seep into their wooden counters.
“Nothin’ much, what are you eating?”
“Popeye’s, sorry I didn't get you some, I thought you were at the lab.” he spoke, shooting an apologetic glance towards Adam, although no amount of guilt would make him share his comfort food. [...]
“Oh hey, what's up? I didn't realize you were home yet.” Isaac mumbled as food dribbled from his mouth, letting the oils fall and seep into their wooden counters.
“Nothin’ much, what are you eating?”
“Popeye’s, sorry I didn't get you some, I thought you were at the lab.” he spoke, shooting an apologetic glance towards Adam, although no amount of guilt would make him share his comfort food. [...]
Welcome to the end of this edition of Spotlight! Our team thanks everyone who submitted their amazing pieces and our teachers, Blaudog and Mr. Serroul!
And most importantly, thank you for reading!
And most importantly, thank you for reading!