New Jersey Undergraduate Student Writing Competition
2025: FICTION
We are happy to announce the winner and honorable mention for our second state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest is hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's Map Literary and faculty members of the WP Department of Language, Literature, Culture, and Writing. The winner is awarded a $250.00 honorarium.
First Place Winner
“Allegory of the Bee” by Joel Mason
Vivian was an optimist in every sense of the word, which was rare for a worker. She always had a smile on her face no matter what she was doing. The larva she raised loved her delightful disposition, yet she was treated as a nuisance by almost every other worker. Because when Vivian wasn’t processing nectar or taking honey inventory, she was running her mandibles, ranting endlessly about our future alongside Man. The workers and drones that believed called her a visionary; I, along with most of the other elders, called her an idiot.
I had just returned from a pollination run when I flew into another one of Vivian’s sermons. As usual, she was spouting moral platitudes on a mound of honeycomb to an audience of drones and workers, some enamored, others heckling. In my swift attempt to speed-walk past the congregation to turn in my nectar to the Processing Division, her eyes unfortunately locked onto me.
“Zara, come join us!” she obnoxiously exclaimed.
“Don’t waste your time,” interjected Bezabelle, another worker bee skeptic. “Viv ain’t saying anything we haven’t heard before, running out of material I suppose!”
One of Vivian’s most faithful fans, Betzy, seemed to have a rebuttal on standby; “Careful old timer, your ignorance is showing.”
“You really believe in this junk? Can’t you see she’s filling your heads with dangerous nonsense!” said Bezabelle, raising her voice.
“Compassion and reason don’t constitute junk, although I can see how words so advanced may sound new to you.” countered Betzy, matching the energy.
“Watch it kid, I’ve had dozens of run-ins with Man, dating from when you were a larva. Trust me, there’s no reasoning with them.”
“Then go sting one, granny, this hive’s overcrowded anyway.”
The fight that would ensue shortly after Betzy’s jeer would provide me with the optimal opportunity to escape. Even though it looked out of control with dozens of bees wrestling each other, they all knew the rule: no aiming for the wings, and absolutely no stingers. You’d think this would be obvious for any bee; after all, taking out a fellow bee with a sting means taking yourself out as well, but some need to be reminded of that. Back in my younger days when I worked in Honeycomb Production, I watched Zaylee sting another worker for making a few too many crude jokes about The Queen. Before she died, she said “It is my moral obligation to defend the name of my great Queen, even if it means my death!”. She was passionate, I’ll give her that. But passion like that gets bees killed.
To add onto my seemingly endless misfortune, I was caught on my way back outside by none other than the preacher herself. “Sorry about that Zara, they’re a little heated today.”
“Don’t you have a riot to stop?” I say with an attitude, in hopes of making her leave.
She chuckles over the permeating sound of violent buzzing behind us. “Yeah, they’ll sort themselves out. I know they won’t take it too far, us honeybees stick together after all, right?”
I don’t reply.
“I have another speech planned in a few days, if you wanna come and listen!”
I give her a sideways glance, “Listen Vivian…”
“Call me Viv.” she interjects. I reluctantly comply. “Listen, Viv, I’m not really interested in Man and whatever they do. I’m just here to do my part for the hive.”
“But there’s so much we don’t understand about them!” she exclaims. “They only attack us because they’re scared of us, you know.”
That line almost set me off, but I kept it in. “Quite the crowd you brought in today.”
“I know right! People are finally starting to take this seriously! Once we unite and address our relationship with Man, we can stop living in fear of them. We just have to work together.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I agreed.
“Well my break’s over, gotta get back to the larva!” Vivian said.
“See you later!”
I watched as she walked back to work, buzzing with glee. I didn’t really agree with her, and I didn’t care enough to argue with her at the moment. I was just glad she was gone, because if I heard anymore of her jabber about Man, I might’ve been the next Zaylee.
……………
I remember my first day on Nectar Harvesting, my first real flight far away from the hive. And what a beautiful hive we had. It was big, spacious, and well formed. It hung from the strongest branch of a birch tree, with a great view of the sky and nearby forest. Our Queen was wonderful, a truly benevolent leader. She would often come out and talk to us, thanking us for our work and cheering us on. Everyone was so respectful, so nice, even me. It was home, a nearly perfect home, and it would’ve been perfect if not for our close proximity to one of Man’s domains.
I remember my friends wishing me safe travels before I embarked. Buzlia, Vorenzo, Zevira, all of them, their faces, I remember them. I remember the daffodils and tulips I found about a quarter-mile east, next to the river, and the heap of nectar I collected on my very first day. And I could never forget the excitement I contained as I flapped my wings vigorously back home, eager to show everyone what a natural I was. Yes, I remember how good I felt that day.
The part I wish I could forget happened on the way back. When I finally had the hive in sight, I knew something was wrong. Some sort of liquid, like the rain we were all taught not to fly through, was hitting the hive from the ground up. I looked down at the source, and I saw one of Man. A big one, relatively speaking, holding a red canister that released the liquid. I wish I could forget how my fellow honeybees— the ones I grew up with, the ones who congratulated me on my promotion not too long ago— fell to the ground as fast as they came out of the hive. And I wish I could forget the sound of my hive, my home, falling and hitting the earth. As I approached my fallen hive, a toxic stench forced me back, and I knew if I got any closer, I would perish. So instead, I simply stared, dumbfounded as the member of Man responsible took his canister back into his domain. I remember drifting for a while, wondering what we could have possibly done to deserve such a thing, and not knowing if I should even look for another hive to take me in. Eventually I stumbled upon one; I told the workers what had happened, and was reluctantly accepted. Part of me wishes I never found this hive, that I had waited a few hours before going on my search for nectar. But another part of me wants to live, to remember what I learned: that Man will forever be a threat to beekind.
……………
I could never sleep on nights like this. Too much airflow through the entrance, or the humidity in the hive was just off. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t allow me to get any rest, so I decided to take a fly outside for some fresh air. As I flew through the night sky, I spotted Vivian from a distance perched on top of Man’s domain closest to the hive. And against my better judgement, I approached her. “What are you doing out here?”
Vivian was writing into a flattened piece of honeycomb, and spoke without breaking focus. “I could ask you the same thing, Zara. But I suppose the most rational answer would be neither of us could get any sleep, right?”
I nodded, not that she was even looking at me. “What are you writing?”
“A manuscript, so to speak,” Vivian responded. “I figured I’d put my thoughts into writing so future generations of honeybees can know what we stood for, you know? Pass it down to the next generation.”
Now, usually I would brush this comment off as more of Vivian’s nonsense, but this time I felt like challenging her. I stepped closer to her. “And what exactly would that do?”
Vivian faced me. “It would help future bees understand the truth about Man.”
One step closer. “And what truth is that?”
“That Man does not have to be our enemy”
Another step. I raise my tone. “What makes you so sure?”
“I’m not quite sure to be honest, I guess it’s just faith. And what is faith if not the highest form of trust?”
At this point, I am directly in her face, enraged. “Are you kidding me? Faith? FAITH? Dammit Vivian, you’ve got almost a third of the hive rallying behind you, and all the reasoning you’ve got to justify wanting to be peaceful towards Man is faith?!”
Vivian stared at me with a blank expression, which might as well have been a frown given how she’s always smiling. “Yes,” she finally responded. “My beliefs are backed in faith. I have faith that if we try to reason with Man, make them understand that we mean them no harm, they can stop targeting beekind. And again, you’re welcome to call me Viv.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’re ridiculous!” I yell. “Going face to face with Man is a death wish, they won't listen to you, they can’t possibly even understand you! All they will do is kill you!”
“They’re already killing us Zara,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard the stories, how members of Man destroy our hives all over the world. We pollinate almost every plant that exists, we’re the ones that keep the world alive, and yet we’re killed indiscriminately as if we are pests. Whether we die stinging our enemies or from Man’s poison, we are doomed either way. So why not make an attempt at peace? You may call it pacifism, I call it exploring our options. Because if beekind stays the way it is now, Man will wipe us all out before we know it.”
I stared back at Vivian, desperately thinking of something to say, to no avail. Because for the first time in a while, and I hate to admit this, she was actually saying something sensible. In response to my silence, she began to speak.
“I know you’re a drifter, one of the other elders told me what happened to your original hive. I’m sorry, I understand what I stand for must make you furious. But I wasn’t raised in this hive either. The hive I came from had clear walls, and we were surrounded by Man, dressed in all white, along with all their creations. My guess is that they were studying us, trying to understand us, the way I wish to understand Man. Eventually, they released us from their domain and we ended up here, at a real hive. They could’ve killed us Zara, like how Man killed your hive, but they didn’t. The members of Man that I grew up surrounded by took mercy on us, and released us back to where we belong. I think they understood our importance to the world, why we need to live in order to do our jobs and pollinate. If they were nice enough to set us free, then clearly all of Man cannot be bad, right?
At this point of the conversation, light was returning to the sky. I did not answer Vivian’s question, I simply said “Come on. It’s almost time to get working”. I wanted to forget everything she said, in fear that her ideas might take root in my mind.
……………
Days went by without Vivian and I speaking. She still held her sermons, I still did my job, and all was right with the hive. Eventually she was promoted to Nectar Harvesting, giving her authorization to go as far away from the hive as she needed to in search of the goods. But Vivian had something else in mind. On her first day of harvesting, Vivian chose to forget looking for flowers and fly into the domain of Man, according to Bezabelle’s witness testimony. Minutes turned to hours, and as daylight began to abandon the sky, the hive came to the conclusion that Vivian was gone. As I walked through the hive, I could see the sorrow on everyone’s faces, even the ones who heckled Vivian during all of her speeches. Bezabelle and the rest of the elder skeptics tried comforting Betzy and all of Vivian’s heartbroken loyalists. For the first time in a while, the hive felt united… united by the same bee that divided them.
That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I kept thinking about Vivian, about her cheery attitude. I wondered if she was so gleeful towards Man in their domain, if they understood her at all. Or if they simply swatted her down or sprayed her with poison like we were all taught Man did. Part of me knew it was better not knowing, but not knowing is what hurt the most. I walked past the dozens of resting bees to get out for some fresh air when I saw something familiar. Near the south wall of the hive, I saw the spot Vivian usually slept in, and in her stead was that flat piece of honeycomb, inscribed with the moral platitudes of none other than Vivian herself.
And as I stared at the unfinished manuscript, my grief began to transcend into an unknown sense of rage, a level of indignation I didn’t know was possible, and I started to hate everything. I hated that here, lying in my hands were the optimistic and revolutionary writings of a bee, asking for our kind to try and resonate with the greatest threat to our existence, the very bane of our species. I hated that the same bee who was most likely killed by Man was defending Man in the writings that must be taken as her final words, her final contribution to this hive, because if not this, what else? I hated that Vivan had spent her entire life preaching how bees and Man could be united, or at least not in opposition, just for her death to become an example of why Man is not and will not ever be our friend. And most of all, I hated that contrary to how much I despised everything Vivian stood for, I so desperately wanted her to be right. We all did. And how that she was dead, the hope died with her. But I know she wouldn’t want that. What Vivian did want was a better future for all of us– a future she knew she would never live to see.
The way I saw it, beekind’s future would be just as grim as our past; Man will continue to attack us with poison and destroy our hives. Bees will continue to fly into Man’s domain and never leave alive. We would continue to spend our lives pollinating the world, only for Man to spend their lives destroying it, whether they knew it or not. And nothing, absolutely nothing we did would make a difference. That’s the way it would be, forever and ever. But maybe it didn’t have to. Maybe our future could be different. Maybe we could coexist without fearing for our lives. That slight, faint possibility was enough for Viv. Which meant that in that moment, with her life’s work in my hands, it was enough for me.
And so, I began to write.
Joel Mason is from Paramus, New Jersey. He is a full-time student at William Paterson University, trying to write literature as a hobby.
2025 Runners-Up
“I’ll Take It” by Andy Takagi Rojas
Kazuki was a genuine rookie at life. Displaying virtuosic incompetence, deserving of a trophy crafted entirely from poor decisions and misplaced confidence. This greenhorn had the audacity to declare himself the coolest man not just in Tokyo, but on his flat Earth. Yes, flat. He insisted on it. Correcting people was his second-favorite hobby.
Was he actually cool? Not remotely, and that’s being generous. He had all the social charm of a lukewarm water vending machine. He strutted around Shibuya Crossing—the world’s busiest pedestrian intersection—like a misunderstood legend, too avant-garde for the masses. In reality, nobody was looking. Not because he was enigmatic, but because nobody cared. Even the giant LED screens advertising the latest bubble tea trends seemed to dim slightly as he passed. In Tokyo, avoiding eye contact is an Olympic sport; and with Kazuki, strangers were vying for platinum.
Every night, Kazuki performed The Grand Entrance: dramatic pause, slow turn of the key, greeted by the soul-crushing silence of his 30-square-meter castle in Nakano (a working-class Tokyo neighborhood with maze-like alleys of tiny bars). His apartment smelled faintly of mature takoyaki (fried octopus balls) and broken dreams. His royal court? A fridge that made unsettling noises resembling passive aggressive sighs at 2 a.m. His loyal companion? Admiral Bubbles, his goldfish, floating aimlessly with the apathy of someone enduring an existential crisis, clearly unimpressed by Kazuki’s own. Judging by its vacant stare, Admiral Bubbles had given up on Kazuki around the same time Kazuki tried to teach it Morse code.
“Ice Cream” by Camryn Gureki
The day had been filled with children. At least every other customer had a miniature clone by their side, tugging on their shirts and asking for a sprinkled donut. The parade of wiggly teeth, chubby cheeks, and excited chatter amused Callie. Today was a better day, when the grip on her heart loosened enough to let her experience some peace.
Callie had made a comment to her coworker Santiago about how quickly the donuts had flown off the shelves, joking about how they were like magnets to the children’s mouth. Santiago hadn’t returned her chuckle. He’d given her one of those sullen glares before turning back to assembling the breakfast sandwiches at his station.
She’d tried the joke again with her manager, Kate, before the boss had left for the day.
“Did you notice how fast the sprinkled donuts went today with all the kids?” Callie had called over the whirring of the espresso machine. “I swear, it’s like their mouths have magnets or something!”
Kate had looked up from the phone in her hand with a notch between her eyebrows and a curled upper lip. “No, they don’t.” She’d pressed the phone to her ear and walked out before Callie could be polite and wish her a good night.
Creative Writing Contest for NJ Undergraduates
We are happy to announce the winners and honorable mentions for our first state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest was hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's undergraduate literary journal, Zeitgeist!
2023 First Place Winners:
Fiction - "Heroine" by Julian Morales
The rope was inviting the drunken man to a blissful eternal sleep. Years of practice tying knots on ships paid off for this one moment that would relieve him of his grief stricken burden of enduring another day without his dearly departed wife. He never realized how much he would miss her. They were at the apex of their relationship and things were getting better and better between the two of them, but then she was taken from him. He had become her Orpheau and she, his Eurydice, only no matter how much he sang or how well he sang, God would not give him the chance to rescue her from the Underworld. They would never reunite in this world. He tried with all his might to move on but his attempts were as futile as the cancer that slowly agonized her into oblivion. He promised her that he would always love her and that he would live for the both of them. She told him no, that he cannot live for the both of them. He can only live for himself. She wanted him to find love again in someone else and care for them the same way he did for her. She said his love was the most precious thing he possessed and it was to be shared, not to be a jarred firefly. It was as if she knew then he would do it, she tried to prevent his demise well after she was gone, but their love was opium, the ultimate drug that he could not live without.
Poetry - "Peaches" by Julian Morales
The peaches are fresh this summer.
Our table has been set,
though the food has not been cooked
We should make something out of peaches because
they are fresh this summer.
A basket of it sitting in the kitchen
with at least a dozen peaches
Ripes and orange and
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on your cheeks
that get rosy when you are sick
or when you cry
Your cheeks are rosy now, too-
Are you feeling sick?
Did you cry?
Don’t be like that now
You should smile
Our peaches are fresh this summer.
They didn’t rot away like last year
all that hard work growing them
gone to waste.
Come on now,
we could have peach pie
or cobbler
or sauce
or whatever you do with peaches
I bet they’d taste the best
after you’ve set the table
Don’t let all your hard work in this house
gone to waste
The peaches are fresh this summer
Even if you or I are not
They are ripe and orange
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on our cheek
that get rosy when we are sick
or when we cry
Our cheeks are rosy now too-
Are we feeling sick?
Did we cry?
Creative Nonfiction - "The Hands That Hold" by Kaden Donnelly
Press, lean, and stretch. With gentle hands, she grips the tape strips. They’re each cut to specific lengths. Two are long, two are short, and two are small squares. The backing paper crinkles as she peels it off to reveal the adhesive. Goosebumps travel up my arms in response to the sound. If any sound could make my ears bleed, that would be it, I joke to her with a grin. Maybe I should play the one sound you can’t stand… hmm? She bops me playfully on the head with her free hand and sends me what I hope is a meaningless glare. She hates bagpipes. I keep joking that one of these days I’ll set it as her alarm tone but I’m honestly just scared for her retaliation prank. Okay, is this good? She has the first long strip lined up along the center of my chest, well just to the left of that, to allow for another strip on the right side. I nod and she presses the adhesive to my skin, rubbing along the edge to make sure it sticks. Alright, lean over and arm up. Why did I roll my eyes just then? At first, I think, I’ve been through this so many times her words feel redundant, like I’m dumb and don’t know what to do. But it’s our routine. She reassures me with more than words, as she stretches the tape around my side. She knows it will hurt when it comes off and yet, her hands do this for me. They have just taken one of my greatest insecurities, and hid it away from myself and the world.
How long have you had that on? With gentle hands, she reaches under my t-shirt, pulling at the band of the binding fabric. This glare is for real. No jokes. No sly smiles poking through. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth are my options. I guess… ten hours. I cringe at myself, knowing what the response will be. I remind myself that everyone has bad days. Hopefully she’ll buy that this time too. It was a bad day, baby. I’m sorry. She looked at me disapprovingly, but no less caring and worried. Come closer, she commands delicately. She lifts my t-shirt up and over my head. I let it fall to the carpeted floor. I turn around slowly. Her hands lift the fabric from the back as I pull my arms through the holes. Relief. I collapse down next to her on the bed. As I sit there, my shoulders fall and I inhale dramatically. Her hands are on my back and chest, one each. Smell the cake… blow out the candles. I follow her lead. I smell Funfetti, with vanilla icing and rainbow sprinkles. I can see, behind my eyes, the glowing flames of burning candles. I expel the air forcefully. Hey, you spit on me! Babyyy! But she's laughing, and so am I. Her hands come to rest on my shoulders, as they massage away any remnants of pain. Freedom until tomorrow, when I’ll pull it on again.
Reflections of naked ghosts and a big, strong man. With gentle hands, she cups my chest. Mirrors are disturbing. Mirrors are hateful. Mirrors feed all the voices we wish we couldn’t hear. Bare skin reveals so many things. For many, they see the imperfections and flaws any human body can have. Unreasonable standards upheld by society. I see the ghost of a girl long gone. Dead. Buried. Name erased. Those hands, so protecting, try their best to keep the ghosts hidden from view. Ghosts are trickly, though. They break free from human flesh and shine through in the light. Let’s see those muscles, baby, she urges. She’s grinning at me. I can see in the mirror. That’s one reflection I’ll never take for granted. Alright, alright. Mmmmm… fffff…. I exaggerate my breath. I strain and flex my biceps one at a time. Then both together. I can’t help but produce a genuine smile. There he is. I never seem to truly see him, see my progress without her showing me. Who’s my strong boy? My big, strong man? Ghosts be gone. Fly far away. Disappear into the air. She’s holding me, her hands show me the image I wish and dream to see. His is me. And he is strong.
A scrubby, scrubbies, and slippery rubbies. With gentle hands, she dollops shampoo in my hair and rubs it in. It’s ocean fresh, or so they claim, though how one recreates the smell of ocean water to put into a shampoo is beyond me. We have this scrubby. Wooden handle. Silicone spikes. Scratches all the right places on your scalp in the shower. Lean back. More please. She guides my head back and uses the scrubby to remove the dirt, dandruff, and distress of the day. It’s time to rinse. The warm water streams over my head. At the last second, before I jump out of its flow, she places her hand above my eyes. Somehow, I’d rather have water in my eyes. She’s only trying to protect me but then I wouldn’t have to see. What’s even better is she doesn’t make me feel… feel the parts of myself I wish weren’t there or the parts that aren’t there that I wish were. Is it time for scrubbies? I ask, rather impatiently, but with anticipation. There’s an itch on my mid-back that I can’t quite reach. Where’s your soap honey? It’s Irish Spring. Again, not sure how they think they can capture the smell of air on an Irish mountainside but, however they did, it makes me smell good. Stop! Stop! That tickles! I yell. She spends a little too much time scrubbing my armpits. She thinks I smell bad, well, that I smell like a man. I try to slip away. The soap is slick. Slippery rubbies! This is the best sensory shower activity. Yes, honey, slippery rubbies. Soapy skin to soapy skin with ehr, and all my worries disappear. Her hands run along my sides, my back, my neck, into my hair. I’m safe and I’m clean.
Trypanophobia is the extreme fear of needles. With gentle hands, she prepares each needle, bottle, and band-aid. I had to Google that fear. I wouldn’t say it’s extreme, but there certainly is some fear. I lie, of course. She takes each step with care, drawing the liquid through the first needle. Her vision is focused intently, eyes mere centimeters from the outside of the syringe. My eyes, however, are focused anywhere else. The ceiling is bright white. There is nothing interesting to see up there. But if I can cross my eyes and see just out focus… Which leg? Let or right? Damn. It’s time. I point casually to the left. Left, I answer back flatly. If I pretend not to care, maybe I’ll be braver than last time. Her hands graze my right leg. Left, baby! My left. Your right. Now I let out a chuckle, my mind dragged away abruptly from its apathetic facade. Oh, right! Okay then, flex for me. She gives me a half, sheepish, smile. I tense every muscle in my left leg, so tightly that I’ve clenched my teeth and fists. The wipes are so cold, like peppermint breath. Please don’t make me! Please! I don’t like it. I really don’t like it. She reassures me it will be over quickly. It hurts! I know it only pinches for a second, but the anticipation feels like the drop on a roller coaster. My stomach is even more twisted now, than it would be upside down. Deep breaths, bubby. One, two, three… It’s over. I’m still clenched. She pulls away the needle and her hands place the band-aid across the small mark with care. I can finally release. This is every week. For the rest of my life.
So many moments. Every day of our lives. Spared and saved by her gentle hands.
2025: FICTION
We are happy to announce the winner and honorable mention for our second state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest is hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's Map Literary and faculty members of the WP Department of Language, Literature, Culture, and Writing. The winner is awarded a $250.00 honorarium.
First Place Winner
“Allegory of the Bee” by Joel Mason
Vivian was an optimist in every sense of the word, which was rare for a worker. She always had a smile on her face no matter what she was doing. The larva she raised loved her delightful disposition, yet she was treated as a nuisance by almost every other worker. Because when Vivian wasn’t processing nectar or taking honey inventory, she was running her mandibles, ranting endlessly about our future alongside Man. The workers and drones that believed called her a visionary; I, along with most of the other elders, called her an idiot.
I had just returned from a pollination run when I flew into another one of Vivian’s sermons. As usual, she was spouting moral platitudes on a mound of honeycomb to an audience of drones and workers, some enamored, others heckling. In my swift attempt to speed-walk past the congregation to turn in my nectar to the Processing Division, her eyes unfortunately locked onto me.
“Zara, come join us!” she obnoxiously exclaimed.
“Don’t waste your time,” interjected Bezabelle, another worker bee skeptic. “Viv ain’t saying anything we haven’t heard before, running out of material I suppose!”
One of Vivian’s most faithful fans, Betzy, seemed to have a rebuttal on standby; “Careful old timer, your ignorance is showing.”
“You really believe in this junk? Can’t you see she’s filling your heads with dangerous nonsense!” said Bezabelle, raising her voice.
“Compassion and reason don’t constitute junk, although I can see how words so advanced may sound new to you.” countered Betzy, matching the energy.
“Watch it kid, I’ve had dozens of run-ins with Man, dating from when you were a larva. Trust me, there’s no reasoning with them.”
“Then go sting one, granny, this hive’s overcrowded anyway.”
The fight that would ensue shortly after Betzy’s jeer would provide me with the optimal opportunity to escape. Even though it looked out of control with dozens of bees wrestling each other, they all knew the rule: no aiming for the wings, and absolutely no stingers. You’d think this would be obvious for any bee; after all, taking out a fellow bee with a sting means taking yourself out as well, but some need to be reminded of that. Back in my younger days when I worked in Honeycomb Production, I watched Zaylee sting another worker for making a few too many crude jokes about The Queen. Before she died, she said “It is my moral obligation to defend the name of my great Queen, even if it means my death!”. She was passionate, I’ll give her that. But passion like that gets bees killed.
To add onto my seemingly endless misfortune, I was caught on my way back outside by none other than the preacher herself. “Sorry about that Zara, they’re a little heated today.”
“Don’t you have a riot to stop?” I say with an attitude, in hopes of making her leave.
She chuckles over the permeating sound of violent buzzing behind us. “Yeah, they’ll sort themselves out. I know they won’t take it too far, us honeybees stick together after all, right?”
I don’t reply.
“I have another speech planned in a few days, if you wanna come and listen!”
I give her a sideways glance, “Listen Vivian…”
“Call me Viv.” she interjects. I reluctantly comply. “Listen, Viv, I’m not really interested in Man and whatever they do. I’m just here to do my part for the hive.”
“But there’s so much we don’t understand about them!” she exclaims. “They only attack us because they’re scared of us, you know.”
That line almost set me off, but I kept it in. “Quite the crowd you brought in today.”
“I know right! People are finally starting to take this seriously! Once we unite and address our relationship with Man, we can stop living in fear of them. We just have to work together.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I agreed.
“Well my break’s over, gotta get back to the larva!” Vivian said.
“See you later!”
I watched as she walked back to work, buzzing with glee. I didn’t really agree with her, and I didn’t care enough to argue with her at the moment. I was just glad she was gone, because if I heard anymore of her jabber about Man, I might’ve been the next Zaylee.
……………
I remember my first day on Nectar Harvesting, my first real flight far away from the hive. And what a beautiful hive we had. It was big, spacious, and well formed. It hung from the strongest branch of a birch tree, with a great view of the sky and nearby forest. Our Queen was wonderful, a truly benevolent leader. She would often come out and talk to us, thanking us for our work and cheering us on. Everyone was so respectful, so nice, even me. It was home, a nearly perfect home, and it would’ve been perfect if not for our close proximity to one of Man’s domains.
I remember my friends wishing me safe travels before I embarked. Buzlia, Vorenzo, Zevira, all of them, their faces, I remember them. I remember the daffodils and tulips I found about a quarter-mile east, next to the river, and the heap of nectar I collected on my very first day. And I could never forget the excitement I contained as I flapped my wings vigorously back home, eager to show everyone what a natural I was. Yes, I remember how good I felt that day.
The part I wish I could forget happened on the way back. When I finally had the hive in sight, I knew something was wrong. Some sort of liquid, like the rain we were all taught not to fly through, was hitting the hive from the ground up. I looked down at the source, and I saw one of Man. A big one, relatively speaking, holding a red canister that released the liquid. I wish I could forget how my fellow honeybees— the ones I grew up with, the ones who congratulated me on my promotion not too long ago— fell to the ground as fast as they came out of the hive. And I wish I could forget the sound of my hive, my home, falling and hitting the earth. As I approached my fallen hive, a toxic stench forced me back, and I knew if I got any closer, I would perish. So instead, I simply stared, dumbfounded as the member of Man responsible took his canister back into his domain. I remember drifting for a while, wondering what we could have possibly done to deserve such a thing, and not knowing if I should even look for another hive to take me in. Eventually I stumbled upon one; I told the workers what had happened, and was reluctantly accepted. Part of me wishes I never found this hive, that I had waited a few hours before going on my search for nectar. But another part of me wants to live, to remember what I learned: that Man will forever be a threat to beekind.
……………
I could never sleep on nights like this. Too much airflow through the entrance, or the humidity in the hive was just off. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t allow me to get any rest, so I decided to take a fly outside for some fresh air. As I flew through the night sky, I spotted Vivian from a distance perched on top of Man’s domain closest to the hive. And against my better judgement, I approached her. “What are you doing out here?”
Vivian was writing into a flattened piece of honeycomb, and spoke without breaking focus. “I could ask you the same thing, Zara. But I suppose the most rational answer would be neither of us could get any sleep, right?”
I nodded, not that she was even looking at me. “What are you writing?”
“A manuscript, so to speak,” Vivian responded. “I figured I’d put my thoughts into writing so future generations of honeybees can know what we stood for, you know? Pass it down to the next generation.”
Now, usually I would brush this comment off as more of Vivian’s nonsense, but this time I felt like challenging her. I stepped closer to her. “And what exactly would that do?”
Vivian faced me. “It would help future bees understand the truth about Man.”
One step closer. “And what truth is that?”
“That Man does not have to be our enemy”
Another step. I raise my tone. “What makes you so sure?”
“I’m not quite sure to be honest, I guess it’s just faith. And what is faith if not the highest form of trust?”
At this point, I am directly in her face, enraged. “Are you kidding me? Faith? FAITH? Dammit Vivian, you’ve got almost a third of the hive rallying behind you, and all the reasoning you’ve got to justify wanting to be peaceful towards Man is faith?!”
Vivian stared at me with a blank expression, which might as well have been a frown given how she’s always smiling. “Yes,” she finally responded. “My beliefs are backed in faith. I have faith that if we try to reason with Man, make them understand that we mean them no harm, they can stop targeting beekind. And again, you’re welcome to call me Viv.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’re ridiculous!” I yell. “Going face to face with Man is a death wish, they won't listen to you, they can’t possibly even understand you! All they will do is kill you!”
“They’re already killing us Zara,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard the stories, how members of Man destroy our hives all over the world. We pollinate almost every plant that exists, we’re the ones that keep the world alive, and yet we’re killed indiscriminately as if we are pests. Whether we die stinging our enemies or from Man’s poison, we are doomed either way. So why not make an attempt at peace? You may call it pacifism, I call it exploring our options. Because if beekind stays the way it is now, Man will wipe us all out before we know it.”
I stared back at Vivian, desperately thinking of something to say, to no avail. Because for the first time in a while, and I hate to admit this, she was actually saying something sensible. In response to my silence, she began to speak.
“I know you’re a drifter, one of the other elders told me what happened to your original hive. I’m sorry, I understand what I stand for must make you furious. But I wasn’t raised in this hive either. The hive I came from had clear walls, and we were surrounded by Man, dressed in all white, along with all their creations. My guess is that they were studying us, trying to understand us, the way I wish to understand Man. Eventually, they released us from their domain and we ended up here, at a real hive. They could’ve killed us Zara, like how Man killed your hive, but they didn’t. The members of Man that I grew up surrounded by took mercy on us, and released us back to where we belong. I think they understood our importance to the world, why we need to live in order to do our jobs and pollinate. If they were nice enough to set us free, then clearly all of Man cannot be bad, right?
At this point of the conversation, light was returning to the sky. I did not answer Vivian’s question, I simply said “Come on. It’s almost time to get working”. I wanted to forget everything she said, in fear that her ideas might take root in my mind.
……………
Days went by without Vivian and I speaking. She still held her sermons, I still did my job, and all was right with the hive. Eventually she was promoted to Nectar Harvesting, giving her authorization to go as far away from the hive as she needed to in search of the goods. But Vivian had something else in mind. On her first day of harvesting, Vivian chose to forget looking for flowers and fly into the domain of Man, according to Bezabelle’s witness testimony. Minutes turned to hours, and as daylight began to abandon the sky, the hive came to the conclusion that Vivian was gone. As I walked through the hive, I could see the sorrow on everyone’s faces, even the ones who heckled Vivian during all of her speeches. Bezabelle and the rest of the elder skeptics tried comforting Betzy and all of Vivian’s heartbroken loyalists. For the first time in a while, the hive felt united… united by the same bee that divided them.
That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I kept thinking about Vivian, about her cheery attitude. I wondered if she was so gleeful towards Man in their domain, if they understood her at all. Or if they simply swatted her down or sprayed her with poison like we were all taught Man did. Part of me knew it was better not knowing, but not knowing is what hurt the most. I walked past the dozens of resting bees to get out for some fresh air when I saw something familiar. Near the south wall of the hive, I saw the spot Vivian usually slept in, and in her stead was that flat piece of honeycomb, inscribed with the moral platitudes of none other than Vivian herself.
And as I stared at the unfinished manuscript, my grief began to transcend into an unknown sense of rage, a level of indignation I didn’t know was possible, and I started to hate everything. I hated that here, lying in my hands were the optimistic and revolutionary writings of a bee, asking for our kind to try and resonate with the greatest threat to our existence, the very bane of our species. I hated that the same bee who was most likely killed by Man was defending Man in the writings that must be taken as her final words, her final contribution to this hive, because if not this, what else? I hated that Vivan had spent her entire life preaching how bees and Man could be united, or at least not in opposition, just for her death to become an example of why Man is not and will not ever be our friend. And most of all, I hated that contrary to how much I despised everything Vivian stood for, I so desperately wanted her to be right. We all did. And how that she was dead, the hope died with her. But I know she wouldn’t want that. What Vivian did want was a better future for all of us– a future she knew she would never live to see.
The way I saw it, beekind’s future would be just as grim as our past; Man will continue to attack us with poison and destroy our hives. Bees will continue to fly into Man’s domain and never leave alive. We would continue to spend our lives pollinating the world, only for Man to spend their lives destroying it, whether they knew it or not. And nothing, absolutely nothing we did would make a difference. That’s the way it would be, forever and ever. But maybe it didn’t have to. Maybe our future could be different. Maybe we could coexist without fearing for our lives. That slight, faint possibility was enough for Viv. Which meant that in that moment, with her life’s work in my hands, it was enough for me.
And so, I began to write.
Joel Mason is from Paramus, New Jersey. He is a full-time student at William Paterson University, trying to write literature as a hobby.
2025 Runners-Up
“I’ll Take It” by Andy Takagi Rojas
Kazuki was a genuine rookie at life. Displaying virtuosic incompetence, deserving of a trophy crafted entirely from poor decisions and misplaced confidence. This greenhorn had the audacity to declare himself the coolest man not just in Tokyo, but on his flat Earth. Yes, flat. He insisted on it. Correcting people was his second-favorite hobby.
Was he actually cool? Not remotely, and that’s being generous. He had all the social charm of a lukewarm water vending machine. He strutted around Shibuya Crossing—the world’s busiest pedestrian intersection—like a misunderstood legend, too avant-garde for the masses. In reality, nobody was looking. Not because he was enigmatic, but because nobody cared. Even the giant LED screens advertising the latest bubble tea trends seemed to dim slightly as he passed. In Tokyo, avoiding eye contact is an Olympic sport; and with Kazuki, strangers were vying for platinum.
Every night, Kazuki performed The Grand Entrance: dramatic pause, slow turn of the key, greeted by the soul-crushing silence of his 30-square-meter castle in Nakano (a working-class Tokyo neighborhood with maze-like alleys of tiny bars). His apartment smelled faintly of mature takoyaki (fried octopus balls) and broken dreams. His royal court? A fridge that made unsettling noises resembling passive aggressive sighs at 2 a.m. His loyal companion? Admiral Bubbles, his goldfish, floating aimlessly with the apathy of someone enduring an existential crisis, clearly unimpressed by Kazuki’s own. Judging by its vacant stare, Admiral Bubbles had given up on Kazuki around the same time Kazuki tried to teach it Morse code.
“Ice Cream” by Camryn Gureki
The day had been filled with children. At least every other customer had a miniature clone by their side, tugging on their shirts and asking for a sprinkled donut. The parade of wiggly teeth, chubby cheeks, and excited chatter amused Callie. Today was a better day, when the grip on her heart loosened enough to let her experience some peace.
Callie had made a comment to her coworker Santiago about how quickly the donuts had flown off the shelves, joking about how they were like magnets to the children’s mouth. Santiago hadn’t returned her chuckle. He’d given her one of those sullen glares before turning back to assembling the breakfast sandwiches at his station.
She’d tried the joke again with her manager, Kate, before the boss had left for the day.
“Did you notice how fast the sprinkled donuts went today with all the kids?” Callie had called over the whirring of the espresso machine. “I swear, it’s like their mouths have magnets or something!”
Kate had looked up from the phone in her hand with a notch between her eyebrows and a curled upper lip. “No, they don’t.” She’d pressed the phone to her ear and walked out before Callie could be polite and wish her a good night.
Creative Writing Contest for NJ Undergraduates
We are happy to announce the winners and honorable mentions for our first state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest was hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's undergraduate literary journal, Zeitgeist!
2023 First Place Winners:
Fiction - "Heroine" by Julian Morales
The rope was inviting the drunken man to a blissful eternal sleep. Years of practice tying knots on ships paid off for this one moment that would relieve him of his grief stricken burden of enduring another day without his dearly departed wife. He never realized how much he would miss her. They were at the apex of their relationship and things were getting better and better between the two of them, but then she was taken from him. He had become her Orpheau and she, his Eurydice, only no matter how much he sang or how well he sang, God would not give him the chance to rescue her from the Underworld. They would never reunite in this world. He tried with all his might to move on but his attempts were as futile as the cancer that slowly agonized her into oblivion. He promised her that he would always love her and that he would live for the both of them. She told him no, that he cannot live for the both of them. He can only live for himself. She wanted him to find love again in someone else and care for them the same way he did for her. She said his love was the most precious thing he possessed and it was to be shared, not to be a jarred firefly. It was as if she knew then he would do it, she tried to prevent his demise well after she was gone, but their love was opium, the ultimate drug that he could not live without.
Poetry - "Peaches" by Julian Morales
The peaches are fresh this summer.
Our table has been set,
though the food has not been cooked
We should make something out of peaches because
they are fresh this summer.
A basket of it sitting in the kitchen
with at least a dozen peaches
Ripes and orange and
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on your cheeks
that get rosy when you are sick
or when you cry
Your cheeks are rosy now, too-
Are you feeling sick?
Did you cry?
Don’t be like that now
You should smile
Our peaches are fresh this summer.
They didn’t rot away like last year
all that hard work growing them
gone to waste.
Come on now,
we could have peach pie
or cobbler
or sauce
or whatever you do with peaches
I bet they’d taste the best
after you’ve set the table
Don’t let all your hard work in this house
gone to waste
The peaches are fresh this summer
Even if you or I are not
They are ripe and orange
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on our cheek
that get rosy when we are sick
or when we cry
Our cheeks are rosy now too-
Are we feeling sick?
Did we cry?
Creative Nonfiction - "The Hands That Hold" by Kaden Donnelly
Press, lean, and stretch. With gentle hands, she grips the tape strips. They’re each cut to specific lengths. Two are long, two are short, and two are small squares. The backing paper crinkles as she peels it off to reveal the adhesive. Goosebumps travel up my arms in response to the sound. If any sound could make my ears bleed, that would be it, I joke to her with a grin. Maybe I should play the one sound you can’t stand… hmm? She bops me playfully on the head with her free hand and sends me what I hope is a meaningless glare. She hates bagpipes. I keep joking that one of these days I’ll set it as her alarm tone but I’m honestly just scared for her retaliation prank. Okay, is this good? She has the first long strip lined up along the center of my chest, well just to the left of that, to allow for another strip on the right side. I nod and she presses the adhesive to my skin, rubbing along the edge to make sure it sticks. Alright, lean over and arm up. Why did I roll my eyes just then? At first, I think, I’ve been through this so many times her words feel redundant, like I’m dumb and don’t know what to do. But it’s our routine. She reassures me with more than words, as she stretches the tape around my side. She knows it will hurt when it comes off and yet, her hands do this for me. They have just taken one of my greatest insecurities, and hid it away from myself and the world.
How long have you had that on? With gentle hands, she reaches under my t-shirt, pulling at the band of the binding fabric. This glare is for real. No jokes. No sly smiles poking through. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth are my options. I guess… ten hours. I cringe at myself, knowing what the response will be. I remind myself that everyone has bad days. Hopefully she’ll buy that this time too. It was a bad day, baby. I’m sorry. She looked at me disapprovingly, but no less caring and worried. Come closer, she commands delicately. She lifts my t-shirt up and over my head. I let it fall to the carpeted floor. I turn around slowly. Her hands lift the fabric from the back as I pull my arms through the holes. Relief. I collapse down next to her on the bed. As I sit there, my shoulders fall and I inhale dramatically. Her hands are on my back and chest, one each. Smell the cake… blow out the candles. I follow her lead. I smell Funfetti, with vanilla icing and rainbow sprinkles. I can see, behind my eyes, the glowing flames of burning candles. I expel the air forcefully. Hey, you spit on me! Babyyy! But she's laughing, and so am I. Her hands come to rest on my shoulders, as they massage away any remnants of pain. Freedom until tomorrow, when I’ll pull it on again.
Reflections of naked ghosts and a big, strong man. With gentle hands, she cups my chest. Mirrors are disturbing. Mirrors are hateful. Mirrors feed all the voices we wish we couldn’t hear. Bare skin reveals so many things. For many, they see the imperfections and flaws any human body can have. Unreasonable standards upheld by society. I see the ghost of a girl long gone. Dead. Buried. Name erased. Those hands, so protecting, try their best to keep the ghosts hidden from view. Ghosts are trickly, though. They break free from human flesh and shine through in the light. Let’s see those muscles, baby, she urges. She’s grinning at me. I can see in the mirror. That’s one reflection I’ll never take for granted. Alright, alright. Mmmmm… fffff…. I exaggerate my breath. I strain and flex my biceps one at a time. Then both together. I can’t help but produce a genuine smile. There he is. I never seem to truly see him, see my progress without her showing me. Who’s my strong boy? My big, strong man? Ghosts be gone. Fly far away. Disappear into the air. She’s holding me, her hands show me the image I wish and dream to see. His is me. And he is strong.
A scrubby, scrubbies, and slippery rubbies. With gentle hands, she dollops shampoo in my hair and rubs it in. It’s ocean fresh, or so they claim, though how one recreates the smell of ocean water to put into a shampoo is beyond me. We have this scrubby. Wooden handle. Silicone spikes. Scratches all the right places on your scalp in the shower. Lean back. More please. She guides my head back and uses the scrubby to remove the dirt, dandruff, and distress of the day. It’s time to rinse. The warm water streams over my head. At the last second, before I jump out of its flow, she places her hand above my eyes. Somehow, I’d rather have water in my eyes. She’s only trying to protect me but then I wouldn’t have to see. What’s even better is she doesn’t make me feel… feel the parts of myself I wish weren’t there or the parts that aren’t there that I wish were. Is it time for scrubbies? I ask, rather impatiently, but with anticipation. There’s an itch on my mid-back that I can’t quite reach. Where’s your soap honey? It’s Irish Spring. Again, not sure how they think they can capture the smell of air on an Irish mountainside but, however they did, it makes me smell good. Stop! Stop! That tickles! I yell. She spends a little too much time scrubbing my armpits. She thinks I smell bad, well, that I smell like a man. I try to slip away. The soap is slick. Slippery rubbies! This is the best sensory shower activity. Yes, honey, slippery rubbies. Soapy skin to soapy skin with ehr, and all my worries disappear. Her hands run along my sides, my back, my neck, into my hair. I’m safe and I’m clean.
Trypanophobia is the extreme fear of needles. With gentle hands, she prepares each needle, bottle, and band-aid. I had to Google that fear. I wouldn’t say it’s extreme, but there certainly is some fear. I lie, of course. She takes each step with care, drawing the liquid through the first needle. Her vision is focused intently, eyes mere centimeters from the outside of the syringe. My eyes, however, are focused anywhere else. The ceiling is bright white. There is nothing interesting to see up there. But if I can cross my eyes and see just out focus… Which leg? Let or right? Damn. It’s time. I point casually to the left. Left, I answer back flatly. If I pretend not to care, maybe I’ll be braver than last time. Her hands graze my right leg. Left, baby! My left. Your right. Now I let out a chuckle, my mind dragged away abruptly from its apathetic facade. Oh, right! Okay then, flex for me. She gives me a half, sheepish, smile. I tense every muscle in my left leg, so tightly that I’ve clenched my teeth and fists. The wipes are so cold, like peppermint breath. Please don’t make me! Please! I don’t like it. I really don’t like it. She reassures me it will be over quickly. It hurts! I know it only pinches for a second, but the anticipation feels like the drop on a roller coaster. My stomach is even more twisted now, than it would be upside down. Deep breaths, bubby. One, two, three… It’s over. I’m still clenched. She pulls away the needle and her hands place the band-aid across the small mark with care. I can finally release. This is every week. For the rest of my life.
So many moments. Every day of our lives. Spared and saved by her gentle hands.
2024-2025 Short Fiction Writing Competition
We are happy to announce the winners and honorable mentions for our second state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest was hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's Map Literary Team
First Place Winner
“Allegory of the Bee” by Joel Mason
Vivian was an optimist in every sense of the word, which was rare for a worker. She always had a smile on her face no matter what she was doing. The larva she raised loved her delightful disposition, yet she was treated as a nuisance by almost every other worker. Because when Vivian wasn’t processing nectar or taking honey inventory, she was running her mandibles, ranting endlessly about our future alongside Man. The workers and drones that believed called her a visionary; I, along with most of the other elders, called her an idiot.
I had just returned from a pollination run when I flew into another one of Vivian’s sermons. As usual, she was spouting moral platitudes on a mound of honeycomb to an audience of drones and workers, some enamored, others heckling. In my swift attempt to speed-walk past the congregation to turn in my nectar to the Processing Division, her eyes unfortunately locked onto me.
“Zara, come join us!” she obnoxiously exclaimed.
“Don’t waste your time,” interjected Bezabelle, another worker bee skeptic. “Viv ain’t saying anything we haven’t heard before, running out of material I suppose!”
One of Vivian’s most faithful fans, Betzy, seemed to have a rebuttal on standby; “Careful old timer, your ignorance is showing.”
“You really believe in this junk? Can’t you see she’s filling your heads with dangerous nonsense!” said Bezabelle, raising her voice.
“Compassion and reason don’t constitute junk, although I can see how words so advanced may sound new to you.” countered Betzy, matching the energy.
“Watch it kid, I’ve had dozens of run-ins with Man, dating from when you were a larva. Trust me, there’s no reasoning with them.”
“Then go sting one, granny, this hive’s overcrowded anyway.”
The fight that would ensue shortly after Betzy’s jeer would provide me with the optimal opportunity to escape. Even though it looked out of control with dozens of bees wrestling each other, they all knew the rule: no aiming for the wings, and absolutely no stingers. You’d think this would be obvious for any bee; after all, taking out a fellow bee with a sting means taking yourself out as well, but some need to be reminded of that. Back in my younger days when I worked in Honeycomb Production, I watched Zaylee sting another worker for making a few too many crude jokes about The Queen. Before she died, she said “It is my moral obligation to defend the name of my great Queen, even if it means my death!”. She was passionate, I’ll give her that. But passion like that gets bees killed.
To add onto my seemingly endless misfortune, I was caught on my way back outside by none other than the preacher herself. “Sorry about that Zara, they’re a little heated today.”
“Don’t you have a riot to stop?” I say with an attitude, in hopes of making her leave.
She chuckles over the permeating sound of violent buzzing behind us. “Yeah, they’ll sort themselves out. I know they won’t take it too far, us honeybees stick together after all, right?”
I don’t reply.
“I have another speech planned in a few days, if you wanna come and listen!”
I give her a sideways glance, “Listen Vivian…”
“Call me Viv.” she interjects. I reluctantly comply. “Listen, Viv, I’m not really interested in Man and whatever they do. I’m just here to do my part for the hive.”
“But there’s so much we don’t understand about them!” she exclaims. “They only attack us because they’re scared of us, you know.”
That line almost set me off, but I kept it in. “Quite the crowd you brought in today.”
“I know right! People are finally starting to take this seriously! Once we unite and address our relationship with Man, we can stop living in fear of them. We just have to work together.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I agreed.
“Well my break’s over, gotta get back to the larva!” Vivian said.
“See you later!”
I watched as she walked back to work, buzzing with glee. I didn’t really agree with her, and I didn’t care enough to argue with her at the moment. I was just glad she was gone, because if I heard anymore of her jabber about Man, I might’ve been the next Zaylee.
……………
I remember my first day on Nectar Harvesting, my first real flight far away from the hive. And what a beautiful hive we had. It was big, spacious, and well formed. It hung from the strongest branch of a birch tree, with a great view of the sky and nearby forest. Our Queen was wonderful, a truly benevolent leader. She would often come out and talk to us, thanking us for our work and cheering us on. Everyone was so respectful, so nice, even me. It was home, a nearly perfect home, and it would’ve been perfect if not for our close proximity to one of Man’s domains.
I remember my friends wishing me safe travels before I embarked. Buzlia, Vorenzo, Zevira, all of them, their faces, I remember them. I remember the daffodils and tulips I found about a quarter-mile east, next to the river, and the heap of nectar I collected on my very first day. And I could never forget the excitement I contained as I flapped my wings vigorously back home, eager to show everyone what a natural I was. Yes, I remember how good I felt that day.
The part I wish I could forget happened on the way back. When I finally had the hive in sight, I knew something was wrong. Some sort of liquid, like the rain we were all taught not to fly through, was hitting the hive from the ground up. I looked down at the source, and I saw one of Man. A big one, relatively speaking, holding a red canister that released the liquid. I wish I could forget how my fellow honeybees— the ones I grew up with, the ones who congratulated me on my promotion not too long ago— fell to the ground as fast as they came out of the hive. And I wish I could forget the sound of my hive, my home, falling and hitting the earth. As I approached my fallen hive, a toxic stench forced me back, and I knew if I got any closer, I would perish. So instead, I simply stared, dumbfounded as the member of Man responsible took his canister back into his domain. I remember drifting for a while, wondering what we could have possibly done to deserve such a thing, and not knowing if I should even look for another hive to take me in. Eventually I stumbled upon one; I told the workers what had happened, and was reluctantly accepted. Part of me wishes I never found this hive, that I had waited a few hours before going on my search for nectar. But another part of me wants to live, to remember what I learned: that Man will forever be a threat to beekind.
……………
I could never sleep on nights like this. Too much airflow through the entrance, or the humidity in the hive was just off. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t allow me to get any rest, so I decided to take a fly outside for some fresh air. As I flew through the night sky, I spotted Vivian from a distance perched on top of Man’s domain closest to the hive. And against my better judgement, I approached her. “What are you doing out here?”
Vivian was writing into a flattened piece of honeycomb, and spoke without breaking focus. “I could ask you the same thing, Zara. But I suppose the most rational answer would be neither of us could get any sleep, right?”
I nodded, not that she was even looking at me. “What are you writing?”
“A manuscript, so to speak,” Vivian responded. “I figured I’d put my thoughts into writing so future generations of honeybees can know what we stood for, you know? Pass it down to the next generation.”
Now, usually I would brush this comment off as more of Vivian’s nonsense, but this time I felt like challenging her. I stepped closer to her. “And what exactly would that do?”
Vivian faced me. “It would help future bees understand the truth about Man.”
One step closer. “And what truth is that?”
“That Man does not have to be our enemy”
Another step. I raise my tone. “What makes you so sure?”
“I’m not quite sure to be honest, I guess it’s just faith. And what is faith if not the highest form of trust?”
At this point, I am directly in her face, enraged. “Are you kidding me? Faith? FAITH? Dammit Vivian, you’ve got almost a third of the hive rallying behind you, and all the reasoning you’ve got to justify wanting to be peaceful towards Man is faith?!”
Vivian stared at me with a blank expression, which might as well have been a frown given how she’s always smiling. “Yes,” she finally responded. “My beliefs are backed in faith. I have faith that if we try to reason with Man, make them understand that we mean them no harm, they can stop targeting beekind. And again, you’re welcome to call me Viv.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’re ridiculous!” I yell. “Going face to face with Man is a death wish, they won't listen to you, they can’t possibly even understand you! All they will do is kill you!”
“They’re already killing us Zara,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard the stories, how members of Man destroy our hives all over the world. We pollinate almost every plant that exists, we’re the ones that keep the world alive, and yet we’re killed indiscriminately as if we are pests. Whether we die stinging our enemies or from Man’s poison, we are doomed either way. So why not make an attempt at peace? You may call it pacifism, I call it exploring our options. Because if beekind stays the way it is now, Man will wipe us all out before we know it.”
I stared back at Vivian, desperately thinking of something to say, to no avail. Because for the first time in a while, and I hate to admit this, she was actually saying something sensible. In response to my silence, she began to speak.
“I know you’re a drifter, one of the other elders told me what happened to your original hive. I’m sorry, I understand what I stand for must make you furious. But I wasn’t raised in this hive either. The hive I came from had clear walls, and we were surrounded by Man, dressed in all white, along with all their creations. My guess is that they were studying us, trying to understand us, the way I wish to understand Man. Eventually, they released us from their domain and we ended up here, at a real hive. They could’ve killed us Zara, like how Man killed your hive, but they didn’t. The members of Man that I grew up surrounded by took mercy on us, and released us back to where we belong. I think they understood our importance to the world, why we need to live in order to do our jobs and pollinate. If they were nice enough to set us free, then clearly all of Man cannot be bad, right?
At this point of the conversation, light was returning to the sky. I did not answer Vivian’s question, I simply said “Come on. It’s almost time to get working”. I wanted to forget everything she said, in fear that her ideas might take root in my mind.
……………
Days went by without Vivian and I speaking. She still held her sermons, I still did my job, and all was right with the hive. Eventually she was promoted to Nectar Harvesting, giving her authorization to go as far away from the hive as she needed to in search of the goods. But Vivian had something else in mind. On her first day of harvesting, Vivian chose to forget looking for flowers and fly into the domain of Man, according to Bezabelle’s witness testimony. Minutes turned to hours, and as daylight began to abandon the sky, the hive came to the conclusion that Vivian was gone. As I walked through the hive, I could see the sorrow on everyone’s faces, even the ones who heckled Vivian during all of her speeches. Bezabelle and the rest of the elder skeptics tried comforting Betzy and all of Vivian’s heartbroken loyalists. For the first time in a while, the hive felt united… united by the same bee that divided them.
That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I kept thinking about Vivian, about her cheery attitude. I wondered if she was so gleeful towards Man in their domain, if they understood her at all. Or if they simply swatted her down or sprayed her with poison like we were all taught Man did. Part of me knew it was better not knowing, but not knowing is what hurt the most. I walked past the dozens of resting bees to get out for some fresh air when I saw something familiar. Near the south wall of the hive, I saw the spot Vivian usually slept in, and in her stead was that flat piece of honeycomb, inscribed with the moral platitudes of none other than Vivian herself.
And as I stared at the unfinished manuscript, my grief began to transcend into an unknown sense of rage, a level of indignation I didn’t know was possible, and I started to hate everything. I hated that here, lying in my hands were the optimistic and revolutionary writings of a bee, asking for our kind to try and resonate with the greatest threat to our existence, the very bane of our species. I hated that the same bee who was most likely killed by Man was defending Man in the writings that must be taken as her final words, her final contribution to this hive, because if not this, what else? I hated that Vivan had spent her entire life preaching how bees and Man could be united, or at least not in opposition, just for her death to become an example of why Man is not and will not ever be our friend. And most of all, I hated that contrary to how much I despised everything Vivian stood for, I so desperately wanted her to be right. We all did. And how that she was dead, the hope died with her. But I know she wouldn’t want that. What Vivian did want was a better future for all of us– a future she knew she would never live to see.
The way I saw it, beekind’s future would be just as grim as our past; Man will continue to attack us with poison and destroy our hives. Bees will continue to fly into Man’s domain and never leave alive. We would continue to spend our lives pollinating the world, only for Man to spend their lives destroying it, whether they knew it or not. And nothing, absolutely nothing we did would make a difference. That’s the way it would be, forever and ever. But maybe it didn’t have to. Maybe our future could be different. Maybe we could coexist without fearing for our lives. That slight, faint possibility was enough for Viv. Which meant that in that moment, with her life’s work in my hands, it was enough for me.
And so, I began to write.
2025 Runners-Up
“I’ll Take It” by Andy Takagi Rojas
Kazuki was a genuine rookie at life. Displaying virtuosic incompetence, deserving of a trophy crafted entirely from poor decisions and misplaced confidence. This greenhorn had the audacity to declare himself the coolest man not just in Tokyo, but on his flat Earth. Yes, flat. He insisted on it. Correcting people was his second-favorite hobby.
Was he actually cool? Not remotely, and that’s being generous. He had all the social charm of a lukewarm water vending machine. He strutted around Shibuya Crossing—the world’s busiest pedestrian intersection—like a misunderstood legend, too avant-garde for the masses. In reality, nobody was looking. Not because he was enigmatic, but because nobody cared. Even the giant LED screens advertising the latest bubble tea trends seemed to dim slightly as he passed. In Tokyo, avoiding eye contact is an Olympic sport; and with Kazuki, strangers were vying for platinum.
Every night, Kazuki performed The Grand Entrance: dramatic pause, slow turn of the key, greeted by the soul-crushing silence of his 30-square-meter castle in Nakano (a working-class Tokyo neighborhood with maze-like alleys of tiny bars). His apartment smelled faintly of mature takoyaki (fried octopus balls) and broken dreams. His royal court? A fridge that made unsettling noises resembling passive aggressive sighs at 2 a.m. His loyal companion? Admiral Bubbles, his goldfish, floating aimlessly with the apathy of someone enduring an existential crisis, clearly unimpressed by Kazuki’s own. Judging by its vacant stare, Admiral Bubbles had given up on Kazuki around the same time Kazuki tried to teach it Morse code.
“Ice Cream” by Camryn Gureki
The day had been filled with children. At least every other customer had a miniature clone by their side, tugging on their shirts and asking for a sprinkled donut. The parade of wiggly teeth, chubby cheeks, and excited chatter amused Callie. Today was a better day, when the grip on her heart loosened enough to let her experience some peace.
Callie had made a comment to her coworker Santiago about how quickly the donuts had flown off the shelves, joking about how they were like magnets to the children’s mouth. Santiago hadn’t returned her chuckle. He’d given her one of those sullen glares before turning back to assembling the breakfast sandwiches at his station.
She’d tried the joke again with her manager, Kate, before the boss had left for the day.
“Did you notice how fast the sprinkled donuts went today with all the kids?” Callie had called over the whirring of the espresso machine. “I swear, it’s like their mouths have magnets or something!”
Kate had looked up from the phone in her hand with a notch between her eyebrows and a curled upper lip. “No, they don’t.” She’d pressed the phone to her ear and walked out before Callie could be polite and wish her a good night.
Creative Writing Contest for NJ Undergraduates
We are happy to announce the winners and honorable mentions for our first state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest was hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's undergraduate literary journal, Zeitgeist!
2023 First Place Winners:
Fiction - "Heroine" by Julian Morales
The rope was inviting the drunken man to a blissful eternal sleep. Years of practice tying knots on ships paid off for this one moment that would relieve him of his grief stricken burden of enduring another day without his dearly departed wife. He never realized how much he would miss her. They were at the apex of their relationship and things were getting better and better between the two of them, but then she was taken from him. He had become her Orpheau and she, his Eurydice, only no matter how much he sang or how well he sang, God would not give him the chance to rescue her from the Underworld. They would never reunite in this world. He tried with all his might to move on but his attempts were as futile as the cancer that slowly agonized her into oblivion. He promised her that he would always love her and that he would live for the both of them. She told him no, that he cannot live for the both of them. He can only live for himself. She wanted him to find love again in someone else and care for them the same way he did for her. She said his love was the most precious thing he possessed and it was to be shared, not to be a jarred firefly. It was as if she knew then he would do it, she tried to prevent his demise well after she was gone, but their love was opium, the ultimate drug that he could not live without.
Poetry - "Peaches" by Julian Morales
The peaches are fresh this summer.
Our table has been set,
though the food has not been cooked
We should make something out of peaches because
they are fresh this summer.
A basket of it sitting in the kitchen
with at least a dozen peaches
Ripes and orange and
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on your cheeks
that get rosy when you are sick
or when you cry
Your cheeks are rosy now, too-
Are you feeling sick?
Did you cry?
Don’t be like that now
You should smile
Our peaches are fresh this summer.
They didn’t rot away like last year
all that hard work growing them
gone to waste.
Come on now,
we could have peach pie
or cobbler
or sauce
or whatever you do with peaches
I bet they’d taste the best
after you’ve set the table
Don’t let all your hard work in this house
gone to waste
The peaches are fresh this summer
Even if you or I are not
They are ripe and orange
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on our cheek
that get rosy when we are sick
or when we cry
Our cheeks are rosy now too-
Are we feeling sick?
Did we cry?
Creative Nonfiction - "The Hands That Hold" by Kaden Donnelly
Press, lean, and stretch. With gentle hands, she grips the tape strips. They’re each cut to specific lengths. Two are long, two are short, and two are small squares. The backing paper crinkles as she peels it off to reveal the adhesive. Goosebumps travel up my arms in response to the sound. If any sound could make my ears bleed, that would be it, I joke to her with a grin. Maybe I should play the one sound you can’t stand… hmm? She bops me playfully on the head with her free hand and sends me what I hope is a meaningless glare. She hates bagpipes. I keep joking that one of these days I’ll set it as her alarm tone but I’m honestly just scared for her retaliation prank. Okay, is this good? She has the first long strip lined up along the center of my chest, well just to the left of that, to allow for another strip on the right side. I nod and she presses the adhesive to my skin, rubbing along the edge to make sure it sticks. Alright, lean over and arm up. Why did I roll my eyes just then? At first, I think, I’ve been through this so many times her words feel redundant, like I’m dumb and don’t know what to do. But it’s our routine. She reassures me with more than words, as she stretches the tape around my side. She knows it will hurt when it comes off and yet, her hands do this for me. They have just taken one of my greatest insecurities, and hid it away from myself and the world.
How long have you had that on? With gentle hands, she reaches under my t-shirt, pulling at the band of the binding fabric. This glare is for real. No jokes. No sly smiles poking through. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth are my options. I guess… ten hours. I cringe at myself, knowing what the response will be. I remind myself that everyone has bad days. Hopefully she’ll buy that this time too. It was a bad day, baby. I’m sorry. She looked at me disapprovingly, but no less caring and worried. Come closer, she commands delicately. She lifts my t-shirt up and over my head. I let it fall to the carpeted floor. I turn around slowly. Her hands lift the fabric from the back as I pull my arms through the holes. Relief. I collapse down next to her on the bed. As I sit there, my shoulders fall and I inhale dramatically. Her hands are on my back and chest, one each. Smell the cake… blow out the candles. I follow her lead. I smell Funfetti, with vanilla icing and rainbow sprinkles. I can see, behind my eyes, the glowing flames of burning candles. I expel the air forcefully. Hey, you spit on me! Babyyy! But she's laughing, and so am I. Her hands come to rest on my shoulders, as they massage away any remnants of pain. Freedom until tomorrow, when I’ll pull it on again.
Reflections of naked ghosts and a big, strong man. With gentle hands, she cups my chest. Mirrors are disturbing. Mirrors are hateful. Mirrors feed all the voices we wish we couldn’t hear. Bare skin reveals so many things. For many, they see the imperfections and flaws any human body can have. Unreasonable standards upheld by society. I see the ghost of a girl long gone. Dead. Buried. Name erased. Those hands, so protecting, try their best to keep the ghosts hidden from view. Ghosts are trickly, though. They break free from human flesh and shine through in the light. Let’s see those muscles, baby, she urges. She’s grinning at me. I can see in the mirror. That’s one reflection I’ll never take for granted. Alright, alright. Mmmmm… fffff…. I exaggerate my breath. I strain and flex my biceps one at a time. Then both together. I can’t help but produce a genuine smile. There he is. I never seem to truly see him, see my progress without her showing me. Who’s my strong boy? My big, strong man? Ghosts be gone. Fly far away. Disappear into the air. She’s holding me, her hands show me the image I wish and dream to see. His is me. And he is strong.
A scrubby, scrubbies, and slippery rubbies. With gentle hands, she dollops shampoo in my hair and rubs it in. It’s ocean fresh, or so they claim, though how one recreates the smell of ocean water to put into a shampoo is beyond me. We have this scrubby. Wooden handle. Silicone spikes. Scratches all the right places on your scalp in the shower. Lean back. More please. She guides my head back and uses the scrubby to remove the dirt, dandruff, and distress of the day. It’s time to rinse. The warm water streams over my head. At the last second, before I jump out of its flow, she places her hand above my eyes. Somehow, I’d rather have water in my eyes. She’s only trying to protect me but then I wouldn’t have to see. What’s even better is she doesn’t make me feel… feel the parts of myself I wish weren’t there or the parts that aren’t there that I wish were. Is it time for scrubbies? I ask, rather impatiently, but with anticipation. There’s an itch on my mid-back that I can’t quite reach. Where’s your soap honey? It’s Irish Spring. Again, not sure how they think they can capture the smell of air on an Irish mountainside but, however they did, it makes me smell good. Stop! Stop! That tickles! I yell. She spends a little too much time scrubbing my armpits. She thinks I smell bad, well, that I smell like a man. I try to slip away. The soap is slick. Slippery rubbies! This is the best sensory shower activity. Yes, honey, slippery rubbies. Soapy skin to soapy skin with ehr, and all my worries disappear. Her hands run along my sides, my back, my neck, into my hair. I’m safe and I’m clean.
Trypanophobia is the extreme fear of needles. With gentle hands, she prepares each needle, bottle, and band-aid. I had to Google that fear. I wouldn’t say it’s extreme, but there certainly is some fear. I lie, of course. She takes each step with care, drawing the liquid through the first needle. Her vision is focused intently, eyes mere centimeters from the outside of the syringe. My eyes, however, are focused anywhere else. The ceiling is bright white. There is nothing interesting to see up there. But if I can cross my eyes and see just out focus… Which leg? Let or right? Damn. It’s time. I point casually to the left. Left, I answer back flatly. If I pretend not to care, maybe I’ll be braver than last time. Her hands graze my right leg. Left, baby! My left. Your right. Now I let out a chuckle, my mind dragged away abruptly from its apathetic facade. Oh, right! Okay then, flex for me. She gives me a half, sheepish, smile. I tense every muscle in my left leg, so tightly that I’ve clenched my teeth and fists. The wipes are so cold, like peppermint breath. Please don’t make me! Please! I don’t like it. I really don’t like it. She reassures me it will be over quickly. It hurts! I know it only pinches for a second, but the anticipation feels like the drop on a roller coaster. My stomach is even more twisted now, than it would be upside down. Deep breaths, bubby. One, two, three… It’s over. I’m still clenched. She pulls away the needle and her hands place the band-aid across the small mark with care. I can finally release. This is every week. For the rest of my life.
So many moments. Every day of our lives. Spared and saved by her gentle hands.
We are happy to announce the winners and honorable mentions for our second state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest was hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's Map Literary Team
First Place Winner
“Allegory of the Bee” by Joel Mason
Vivian was an optimist in every sense of the word, which was rare for a worker. She always had a smile on her face no matter what she was doing. The larva she raised loved her delightful disposition, yet she was treated as a nuisance by almost every other worker. Because when Vivian wasn’t processing nectar or taking honey inventory, she was running her mandibles, ranting endlessly about our future alongside Man. The workers and drones that believed called her a visionary; I, along with most of the other elders, called her an idiot.
I had just returned from a pollination run when I flew into another one of Vivian’s sermons. As usual, she was spouting moral platitudes on a mound of honeycomb to an audience of drones and workers, some enamored, others heckling. In my swift attempt to speed-walk past the congregation to turn in my nectar to the Processing Division, her eyes unfortunately locked onto me.
“Zara, come join us!” she obnoxiously exclaimed.
“Don’t waste your time,” interjected Bezabelle, another worker bee skeptic. “Viv ain’t saying anything we haven’t heard before, running out of material I suppose!”
One of Vivian’s most faithful fans, Betzy, seemed to have a rebuttal on standby; “Careful old timer, your ignorance is showing.”
“You really believe in this junk? Can’t you see she’s filling your heads with dangerous nonsense!” said Bezabelle, raising her voice.
“Compassion and reason don’t constitute junk, although I can see how words so advanced may sound new to you.” countered Betzy, matching the energy.
“Watch it kid, I’ve had dozens of run-ins with Man, dating from when you were a larva. Trust me, there’s no reasoning with them.”
“Then go sting one, granny, this hive’s overcrowded anyway.”
The fight that would ensue shortly after Betzy’s jeer would provide me with the optimal opportunity to escape. Even though it looked out of control with dozens of bees wrestling each other, they all knew the rule: no aiming for the wings, and absolutely no stingers. You’d think this would be obvious for any bee; after all, taking out a fellow bee with a sting means taking yourself out as well, but some need to be reminded of that. Back in my younger days when I worked in Honeycomb Production, I watched Zaylee sting another worker for making a few too many crude jokes about The Queen. Before she died, she said “It is my moral obligation to defend the name of my great Queen, even if it means my death!”. She was passionate, I’ll give her that. But passion like that gets bees killed.
To add onto my seemingly endless misfortune, I was caught on my way back outside by none other than the preacher herself. “Sorry about that Zara, they’re a little heated today.”
“Don’t you have a riot to stop?” I say with an attitude, in hopes of making her leave.
She chuckles over the permeating sound of violent buzzing behind us. “Yeah, they’ll sort themselves out. I know they won’t take it too far, us honeybees stick together after all, right?”
I don’t reply.
“I have another speech planned in a few days, if you wanna come and listen!”
I give her a sideways glance, “Listen Vivian…”
“Call me Viv.” she interjects. I reluctantly comply. “Listen, Viv, I’m not really interested in Man and whatever they do. I’m just here to do my part for the hive.”
“But there’s so much we don’t understand about them!” she exclaims. “They only attack us because they’re scared of us, you know.”
That line almost set me off, but I kept it in. “Quite the crowd you brought in today.”
“I know right! People are finally starting to take this seriously! Once we unite and address our relationship with Man, we can stop living in fear of them. We just have to work together.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I agreed.
“Well my break’s over, gotta get back to the larva!” Vivian said.
“See you later!”
I watched as she walked back to work, buzzing with glee. I didn’t really agree with her, and I didn’t care enough to argue with her at the moment. I was just glad she was gone, because if I heard anymore of her jabber about Man, I might’ve been the next Zaylee.
……………
I remember my first day on Nectar Harvesting, my first real flight far away from the hive. And what a beautiful hive we had. It was big, spacious, and well formed. It hung from the strongest branch of a birch tree, with a great view of the sky and nearby forest. Our Queen was wonderful, a truly benevolent leader. She would often come out and talk to us, thanking us for our work and cheering us on. Everyone was so respectful, so nice, even me. It was home, a nearly perfect home, and it would’ve been perfect if not for our close proximity to one of Man’s domains.
I remember my friends wishing me safe travels before I embarked. Buzlia, Vorenzo, Zevira, all of them, their faces, I remember them. I remember the daffodils and tulips I found about a quarter-mile east, next to the river, and the heap of nectar I collected on my very first day. And I could never forget the excitement I contained as I flapped my wings vigorously back home, eager to show everyone what a natural I was. Yes, I remember how good I felt that day.
The part I wish I could forget happened on the way back. When I finally had the hive in sight, I knew something was wrong. Some sort of liquid, like the rain we were all taught not to fly through, was hitting the hive from the ground up. I looked down at the source, and I saw one of Man. A big one, relatively speaking, holding a red canister that released the liquid. I wish I could forget how my fellow honeybees— the ones I grew up with, the ones who congratulated me on my promotion not too long ago— fell to the ground as fast as they came out of the hive. And I wish I could forget the sound of my hive, my home, falling and hitting the earth. As I approached my fallen hive, a toxic stench forced me back, and I knew if I got any closer, I would perish. So instead, I simply stared, dumbfounded as the member of Man responsible took his canister back into his domain. I remember drifting for a while, wondering what we could have possibly done to deserve such a thing, and not knowing if I should even look for another hive to take me in. Eventually I stumbled upon one; I told the workers what had happened, and was reluctantly accepted. Part of me wishes I never found this hive, that I had waited a few hours before going on my search for nectar. But another part of me wants to live, to remember what I learned: that Man will forever be a threat to beekind.
……………
I could never sleep on nights like this. Too much airflow through the entrance, or the humidity in the hive was just off. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t allow me to get any rest, so I decided to take a fly outside for some fresh air. As I flew through the night sky, I spotted Vivian from a distance perched on top of Man’s domain closest to the hive. And against my better judgement, I approached her. “What are you doing out here?”
Vivian was writing into a flattened piece of honeycomb, and spoke without breaking focus. “I could ask you the same thing, Zara. But I suppose the most rational answer would be neither of us could get any sleep, right?”
I nodded, not that she was even looking at me. “What are you writing?”
“A manuscript, so to speak,” Vivian responded. “I figured I’d put my thoughts into writing so future generations of honeybees can know what we stood for, you know? Pass it down to the next generation.”
Now, usually I would brush this comment off as more of Vivian’s nonsense, but this time I felt like challenging her. I stepped closer to her. “And what exactly would that do?”
Vivian faced me. “It would help future bees understand the truth about Man.”
One step closer. “And what truth is that?”
“That Man does not have to be our enemy”
Another step. I raise my tone. “What makes you so sure?”
“I’m not quite sure to be honest, I guess it’s just faith. And what is faith if not the highest form of trust?”
At this point, I am directly in her face, enraged. “Are you kidding me? Faith? FAITH? Dammit Vivian, you’ve got almost a third of the hive rallying behind you, and all the reasoning you’ve got to justify wanting to be peaceful towards Man is faith?!”
Vivian stared at me with a blank expression, which might as well have been a frown given how she’s always smiling. “Yes,” she finally responded. “My beliefs are backed in faith. I have faith that if we try to reason with Man, make them understand that we mean them no harm, they can stop targeting beekind. And again, you’re welcome to call me Viv.”
“That’s ridiculous! You’re ridiculous!” I yell. “Going face to face with Man is a death wish, they won't listen to you, they can’t possibly even understand you! All they will do is kill you!”
“They’re already killing us Zara,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard the stories, how members of Man destroy our hives all over the world. We pollinate almost every plant that exists, we’re the ones that keep the world alive, and yet we’re killed indiscriminately as if we are pests. Whether we die stinging our enemies or from Man’s poison, we are doomed either way. So why not make an attempt at peace? You may call it pacifism, I call it exploring our options. Because if beekind stays the way it is now, Man will wipe us all out before we know it.”
I stared back at Vivian, desperately thinking of something to say, to no avail. Because for the first time in a while, and I hate to admit this, she was actually saying something sensible. In response to my silence, she began to speak.
“I know you’re a drifter, one of the other elders told me what happened to your original hive. I’m sorry, I understand what I stand for must make you furious. But I wasn’t raised in this hive either. The hive I came from had clear walls, and we were surrounded by Man, dressed in all white, along with all their creations. My guess is that they were studying us, trying to understand us, the way I wish to understand Man. Eventually, they released us from their domain and we ended up here, at a real hive. They could’ve killed us Zara, like how Man killed your hive, but they didn’t. The members of Man that I grew up surrounded by took mercy on us, and released us back to where we belong. I think they understood our importance to the world, why we need to live in order to do our jobs and pollinate. If they were nice enough to set us free, then clearly all of Man cannot be bad, right?
At this point of the conversation, light was returning to the sky. I did not answer Vivian’s question, I simply said “Come on. It’s almost time to get working”. I wanted to forget everything she said, in fear that her ideas might take root in my mind.
……………
Days went by without Vivian and I speaking. She still held her sermons, I still did my job, and all was right with the hive. Eventually she was promoted to Nectar Harvesting, giving her authorization to go as far away from the hive as she needed to in search of the goods. But Vivian had something else in mind. On her first day of harvesting, Vivian chose to forget looking for flowers and fly into the domain of Man, according to Bezabelle’s witness testimony. Minutes turned to hours, and as daylight began to abandon the sky, the hive came to the conclusion that Vivian was gone. As I walked through the hive, I could see the sorrow on everyone’s faces, even the ones who heckled Vivian during all of her speeches. Bezabelle and the rest of the elder skeptics tried comforting Betzy and all of Vivian’s heartbroken loyalists. For the first time in a while, the hive felt united… united by the same bee that divided them.
That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I kept thinking about Vivian, about her cheery attitude. I wondered if she was so gleeful towards Man in their domain, if they understood her at all. Or if they simply swatted her down or sprayed her with poison like we were all taught Man did. Part of me knew it was better not knowing, but not knowing is what hurt the most. I walked past the dozens of resting bees to get out for some fresh air when I saw something familiar. Near the south wall of the hive, I saw the spot Vivian usually slept in, and in her stead was that flat piece of honeycomb, inscribed with the moral platitudes of none other than Vivian herself.
And as I stared at the unfinished manuscript, my grief began to transcend into an unknown sense of rage, a level of indignation I didn’t know was possible, and I started to hate everything. I hated that here, lying in my hands were the optimistic and revolutionary writings of a bee, asking for our kind to try and resonate with the greatest threat to our existence, the very bane of our species. I hated that the same bee who was most likely killed by Man was defending Man in the writings that must be taken as her final words, her final contribution to this hive, because if not this, what else? I hated that Vivan had spent her entire life preaching how bees and Man could be united, or at least not in opposition, just for her death to become an example of why Man is not and will not ever be our friend. And most of all, I hated that contrary to how much I despised everything Vivian stood for, I so desperately wanted her to be right. We all did. And how that she was dead, the hope died with her. But I know she wouldn’t want that. What Vivian did want was a better future for all of us– a future she knew she would never live to see.
The way I saw it, beekind’s future would be just as grim as our past; Man will continue to attack us with poison and destroy our hives. Bees will continue to fly into Man’s domain and never leave alive. We would continue to spend our lives pollinating the world, only for Man to spend their lives destroying it, whether they knew it or not. And nothing, absolutely nothing we did would make a difference. That’s the way it would be, forever and ever. But maybe it didn’t have to. Maybe our future could be different. Maybe we could coexist without fearing for our lives. That slight, faint possibility was enough for Viv. Which meant that in that moment, with her life’s work in my hands, it was enough for me.
And so, I began to write.
2025 Runners-Up
“I’ll Take It” by Andy Takagi Rojas
Kazuki was a genuine rookie at life. Displaying virtuosic incompetence, deserving of a trophy crafted entirely from poor decisions and misplaced confidence. This greenhorn had the audacity to declare himself the coolest man not just in Tokyo, but on his flat Earth. Yes, flat. He insisted on it. Correcting people was his second-favorite hobby.
Was he actually cool? Not remotely, and that’s being generous. He had all the social charm of a lukewarm water vending machine. He strutted around Shibuya Crossing—the world’s busiest pedestrian intersection—like a misunderstood legend, too avant-garde for the masses. In reality, nobody was looking. Not because he was enigmatic, but because nobody cared. Even the giant LED screens advertising the latest bubble tea trends seemed to dim slightly as he passed. In Tokyo, avoiding eye contact is an Olympic sport; and with Kazuki, strangers were vying for platinum.
Every night, Kazuki performed The Grand Entrance: dramatic pause, slow turn of the key, greeted by the soul-crushing silence of his 30-square-meter castle in Nakano (a working-class Tokyo neighborhood with maze-like alleys of tiny bars). His apartment smelled faintly of mature takoyaki (fried octopus balls) and broken dreams. His royal court? A fridge that made unsettling noises resembling passive aggressive sighs at 2 a.m. His loyal companion? Admiral Bubbles, his goldfish, floating aimlessly with the apathy of someone enduring an existential crisis, clearly unimpressed by Kazuki’s own. Judging by its vacant stare, Admiral Bubbles had given up on Kazuki around the same time Kazuki tried to teach it Morse code.
“Ice Cream” by Camryn Gureki
The day had been filled with children. At least every other customer had a miniature clone by their side, tugging on their shirts and asking for a sprinkled donut. The parade of wiggly teeth, chubby cheeks, and excited chatter amused Callie. Today was a better day, when the grip on her heart loosened enough to let her experience some peace.
Callie had made a comment to her coworker Santiago about how quickly the donuts had flown off the shelves, joking about how they were like magnets to the children’s mouth. Santiago hadn’t returned her chuckle. He’d given her one of those sullen glares before turning back to assembling the breakfast sandwiches at his station.
She’d tried the joke again with her manager, Kate, before the boss had left for the day.
“Did you notice how fast the sprinkled donuts went today with all the kids?” Callie had called over the whirring of the espresso machine. “I swear, it’s like their mouths have magnets or something!”
Kate had looked up from the phone in her hand with a notch between her eyebrows and a curled upper lip. “No, they don’t.” She’d pressed the phone to her ear and walked out before Callie could be polite and wish her a good night.
Creative Writing Contest for NJ Undergraduates
We are happy to announce the winners and honorable mentions for our first state-wide undergraduate writing contest. Celebrating excellence in the genres of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, the contest was hosted and judged by the editorial team of William Paterson University's undergraduate literary journal, Zeitgeist!
2023 First Place Winners:
Fiction - "Heroine" by Julian Morales
The rope was inviting the drunken man to a blissful eternal sleep. Years of practice tying knots on ships paid off for this one moment that would relieve him of his grief stricken burden of enduring another day without his dearly departed wife. He never realized how much he would miss her. They were at the apex of their relationship and things were getting better and better between the two of them, but then she was taken from him. He had become her Orpheau and she, his Eurydice, only no matter how much he sang or how well he sang, God would not give him the chance to rescue her from the Underworld. They would never reunite in this world. He tried with all his might to move on but his attempts were as futile as the cancer that slowly agonized her into oblivion. He promised her that he would always love her and that he would live for the both of them. She told him no, that he cannot live for the both of them. He can only live for himself. She wanted him to find love again in someone else and care for them the same way he did for her. She said his love was the most precious thing he possessed and it was to be shared, not to be a jarred firefly. It was as if she knew then he would do it, she tried to prevent his demise well after she was gone, but their love was opium, the ultimate drug that he could not live without.
Poetry - "Peaches" by Julian Morales
The peaches are fresh this summer.
Our table has been set,
though the food has not been cooked
We should make something out of peaches because
they are fresh this summer.
A basket of it sitting in the kitchen
with at least a dozen peaches
Ripes and orange and
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on your cheeks
that get rosy when you are sick
or when you cry
Your cheeks are rosy now, too-
Are you feeling sick?
Did you cry?
Don’t be like that now
You should smile
Our peaches are fresh this summer.
They didn’t rot away like last year
all that hard work growing them
gone to waste.
Come on now,
we could have peach pie
or cobbler
or sauce
or whatever you do with peaches
I bet they’d taste the best
after you’ve set the table
Don’t let all your hard work in this house
gone to waste
The peaches are fresh this summer
Even if you or I are not
They are ripe and orange
with swirls of pink
The same swirls of pink on our cheek
that get rosy when we are sick
or when we cry
Our cheeks are rosy now too-
Are we feeling sick?
Did we cry?
Creative Nonfiction - "The Hands That Hold" by Kaden Donnelly
Press, lean, and stretch. With gentle hands, she grips the tape strips. They’re each cut to specific lengths. Two are long, two are short, and two are small squares. The backing paper crinkles as she peels it off to reveal the adhesive. Goosebumps travel up my arms in response to the sound. If any sound could make my ears bleed, that would be it, I joke to her with a grin. Maybe I should play the one sound you can’t stand… hmm? She bops me playfully on the head with her free hand and sends me what I hope is a meaningless glare. She hates bagpipes. I keep joking that one of these days I’ll set it as her alarm tone but I’m honestly just scared for her retaliation prank. Okay, is this good? She has the first long strip lined up along the center of my chest, well just to the left of that, to allow for another strip on the right side. I nod and she presses the adhesive to my skin, rubbing along the edge to make sure it sticks. Alright, lean over and arm up. Why did I roll my eyes just then? At first, I think, I’ve been through this so many times her words feel redundant, like I’m dumb and don’t know what to do. But it’s our routine. She reassures me with more than words, as she stretches the tape around my side. She knows it will hurt when it comes off and yet, her hands do this for me. They have just taken one of my greatest insecurities, and hid it away from myself and the world.
How long have you had that on? With gentle hands, she reaches under my t-shirt, pulling at the band of the binding fabric. This glare is for real. No jokes. No sly smiles poking through. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth are my options. I guess… ten hours. I cringe at myself, knowing what the response will be. I remind myself that everyone has bad days. Hopefully she’ll buy that this time too. It was a bad day, baby. I’m sorry. She looked at me disapprovingly, but no less caring and worried. Come closer, she commands delicately. She lifts my t-shirt up and over my head. I let it fall to the carpeted floor. I turn around slowly. Her hands lift the fabric from the back as I pull my arms through the holes. Relief. I collapse down next to her on the bed. As I sit there, my shoulders fall and I inhale dramatically. Her hands are on my back and chest, one each. Smell the cake… blow out the candles. I follow her lead. I smell Funfetti, with vanilla icing and rainbow sprinkles. I can see, behind my eyes, the glowing flames of burning candles. I expel the air forcefully. Hey, you spit on me! Babyyy! But she's laughing, and so am I. Her hands come to rest on my shoulders, as they massage away any remnants of pain. Freedom until tomorrow, when I’ll pull it on again.
Reflections of naked ghosts and a big, strong man. With gentle hands, she cups my chest. Mirrors are disturbing. Mirrors are hateful. Mirrors feed all the voices we wish we couldn’t hear. Bare skin reveals so many things. For many, they see the imperfections and flaws any human body can have. Unreasonable standards upheld by society. I see the ghost of a girl long gone. Dead. Buried. Name erased. Those hands, so protecting, try their best to keep the ghosts hidden from view. Ghosts are trickly, though. They break free from human flesh and shine through in the light. Let’s see those muscles, baby, she urges. She’s grinning at me. I can see in the mirror. That’s one reflection I’ll never take for granted. Alright, alright. Mmmmm… fffff…. I exaggerate my breath. I strain and flex my biceps one at a time. Then both together. I can’t help but produce a genuine smile. There he is. I never seem to truly see him, see my progress without her showing me. Who’s my strong boy? My big, strong man? Ghosts be gone. Fly far away. Disappear into the air. She’s holding me, her hands show me the image I wish and dream to see. His is me. And he is strong.
A scrubby, scrubbies, and slippery rubbies. With gentle hands, she dollops shampoo in my hair and rubs it in. It’s ocean fresh, or so they claim, though how one recreates the smell of ocean water to put into a shampoo is beyond me. We have this scrubby. Wooden handle. Silicone spikes. Scratches all the right places on your scalp in the shower. Lean back. More please. She guides my head back and uses the scrubby to remove the dirt, dandruff, and distress of the day. It’s time to rinse. The warm water streams over my head. At the last second, before I jump out of its flow, she places her hand above my eyes. Somehow, I’d rather have water in my eyes. She’s only trying to protect me but then I wouldn’t have to see. What’s even better is she doesn’t make me feel… feel the parts of myself I wish weren’t there or the parts that aren’t there that I wish were. Is it time for scrubbies? I ask, rather impatiently, but with anticipation. There’s an itch on my mid-back that I can’t quite reach. Where’s your soap honey? It’s Irish Spring. Again, not sure how they think they can capture the smell of air on an Irish mountainside but, however they did, it makes me smell good. Stop! Stop! That tickles! I yell. She spends a little too much time scrubbing my armpits. She thinks I smell bad, well, that I smell like a man. I try to slip away. The soap is slick. Slippery rubbies! This is the best sensory shower activity. Yes, honey, slippery rubbies. Soapy skin to soapy skin with ehr, and all my worries disappear. Her hands run along my sides, my back, my neck, into my hair. I’m safe and I’m clean.
Trypanophobia is the extreme fear of needles. With gentle hands, she prepares each needle, bottle, and band-aid. I had to Google that fear. I wouldn’t say it’s extreme, but there certainly is some fear. I lie, of course. She takes each step with care, drawing the liquid through the first needle. Her vision is focused intently, eyes mere centimeters from the outside of the syringe. My eyes, however, are focused anywhere else. The ceiling is bright white. There is nothing interesting to see up there. But if I can cross my eyes and see just out focus… Which leg? Let or right? Damn. It’s time. I point casually to the left. Left, I answer back flatly. If I pretend not to care, maybe I’ll be braver than last time. Her hands graze my right leg. Left, baby! My left. Your right. Now I let out a chuckle, my mind dragged away abruptly from its apathetic facade. Oh, right! Okay then, flex for me. She gives me a half, sheepish, smile. I tense every muscle in my left leg, so tightly that I’ve clenched my teeth and fists. The wipes are so cold, like peppermint breath. Please don’t make me! Please! I don’t like it. I really don’t like it. She reassures me it will be over quickly. It hurts! I know it only pinches for a second, but the anticipation feels like the drop on a roller coaster. My stomach is even more twisted now, than it would be upside down. Deep breaths, bubby. One, two, three… It’s over. I’m still clenched. She pulls away the needle and her hands place the band-aid across the small mark with care. I can finally release. This is every week. For the rest of my life.
So many moments. Every day of our lives. Spared and saved by her gentle hands.
2023 Honorable Mentions:
Fiction - "Vase-girl, Flower-girl" by Laiba Khurshid
On my 16th birthday, my aunt had sent me a black vase filled with a myriad of flowers and a note that read “Happy birthday sweetheart! I hope something interesting happens to you this Year.”
I was beyond flattered! Being given flowers was such an elegant gift. It felt like a very adult gift to receive. I was beginning to feel like an adult myself, so I greatly appreciated being seen for what I was.
To show off my beloved flowers, I put them on the dining table where everybody would be able to see them. Even as time passed, the petals remained fresh, and I stared at them with the same zeal that I had the first day that I had received them.
However, after about a week I noticed something about the vase the flowers were in. It wasn’t actually black. Instead, my aunt seemingly had used nail polish to cover up whatever the original design of the vase was. Here and there, I could see faint lines and colors of what lied underneath.
I wondered why she would have done such a thing and mentioned it to my older sister, who immediately replied, “Why don’t we take a look and find out?”
She fished out a bottle of acetone and a handful of cottons balls from the hallway closet and carefully began scrubbing the black nail polish off. She pressed her fingers so harshly against the vase, I was afraid it would break! But it was more resilient than I gave it credit for- or maybe my sister was weaker than I thought?- and slowly the nail polish gave way to the painted figure of a girl wearing pink dress with eyes icy blue, skin white as chalk, and hair yellow as corn.
“I bet that Zohra Auntie covered it up because she thinks it’s bad luck to own anything that looks like people.” My sister explained as she took a close look at the vase-girl. “She thinks they’ll come to life and watch you or curse you or… something like that.”
“Why did she buy this vase if she thinks it’s bad luck?” I asked, confused. “Doesn’t make sense to go through the trouble of covering it up.”
She shrugged. “Maybe somebody else gave it to her and she re gifted it to you.” That seemed the only explanation, even if it still didn’t make sense to me- oh well. I had to be satisfied with what I had and leave it at that- that would be the adult thing to do, right? “A shame that she covered it up, though. She’s so cute.”
It was really cute. Even if my aunt thought it be bad luck, I couldn’t help but feel lucky to have something like this. Since the flowers were coming out of the top of her head, I couldn’t help but exclaim, “She looks like she’s wearing a fancy flower hat!”
Laughing, my sister shook her head and retorted, “You’re looking at her wrong! The flowers are a part of her- she grows them naturally with her hair!”
I saw what she meant! Her head wasn’t a perfectly round, closed thing. It flared open at the crown, which is where the flowers were placed. And since the stems had been cut too short to be seen, the blossoms looked as if they were bursting out of her head with her hair.
But oh, what a silly thing to think and say! I kept giggling alongside my sister, saying, “That’s the dumbest thing that I’ve heard. Who do you know that grows flowers out of their head?”
What extraordinary timing! Right when I said, a neighbor of ours walked by the kitchen window. That itself was not an odd occurrence, since our house was situated in such a way that we could usually see our neighbors walk down the path to their own front doors. No, what was an extraordinary was that our neighbor- a woman I had known my whole life, a woman who I saw and spoke to on a somewhat regular basis- had flowers bursting out her head the same way as the vase-girl.
I stopped giggling and couldn’t help but stare, perplexed and even a little horrified, as my neighbor walked by. My sister hadn’t noticed. She had glimpsed at our neighbor and thought nothing about it… as if it were normal! As you ordinarily see people with flowers bursting at of
their head!
…then, at that very moment, I realized that my neighbor had always grown flowers from her head. It took me until that point in my life to have noticed.
Well, it would be inaccurate to say that I had never noticed. If I think back on my childhood, I can always see her standing there with flowers bursting out of her head. I even remember a few times in summers past complimenting her on how bright her petals looked this year. She had blushed, replying that I looked very bright as well.
But somehow, despite how extraordinary it was and the fact that there must have been nobody else in the world like that, I never properly realized that it was strange. All of us in our town looked upon my neighbor as if she were normal!
It was like a dream. How strange life could be in them- you walk down the street and it would literally be raining cats and dogs, for example, or you celebrate your summer birthday in the middle of a snowy day- yet you would never question them because, well, it just feels natural in dreams. Then you wake up and realize it wasn’t and wonder how you didn’t question it while. Dreaming.
In my town, I was the only one awake to the surrealness of the flower-girl, while everyone else slept soundly. A part of me wished I could close my eyes to it again, for how isolating it was to be the only one awake. But no matter what I did, I always stared at her in awe and wonder when she walked by. There would be no more dreaming, I knew.
The funny thing was that the flower-girl looked like the vase-girl, too. She wasn’t brown like my family and I are. She was some flavor of North European, with eyes icy blue, skin white as chalk, and hair yellow as corn. She wore old-fashioned frocks in faded shades of pink, yellow, and green. Once, those frocks must have been quite vibrant. But she’s been wearing the same few for as long as I knew so, well, they’re bound to get dull.
The flowers coming out of her head were different than the diverse mix in my vase-girl. The flower-girl’s were all the same: a group of carnations the same color as her corn yellow hair. I can’t help but be disappointed seeing them… couldn’t she have had something else? Something more interesting? Only carnations of the same color- and yellow at that, too!- seemed very boring.
Calling her ‘flower-girl’ may be a bit misleading. My neighbor was no young girl, instead being an older- and, as my mother was always pointed out with scorn, unmarried- woman. Her exact age, I’m not sure of; she always seemed very ancient to me. That was the starkest different in her and the vase-girl, who seemed very young. Though I can’t be exactly sure of that- she is only a vase, after all- but whatever artist had created her didn’t bother to paint wrinkles and age lines on her face.
Still, I’m sure the vase-girl was meant to be young, for her lips were puckered and bright red. As if ready for kissing. And I can’t imagine an older woman ready for kissing.
I’ve been thinking nonstop about my neighbor since I’ve made this discovery. Would anybody believe me if I pointed it out? No, I’m sure that they wouldn’t. I’m doomed to be the only person to know, to see the world for the dream it was. What else was out there that shouldn’t be? That I didn’t know?
I had been pondering this for some time. Lying in bed at night, I couldn’t sleep plagued with thoughts. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. Though it was past midnight, my neighbor stood outside my bedroom window, staring at me.
Immediately, I jumped up. She put a finger to her mouth before motioning for me to come out to meet her.
Standing out in my father’s garden, the full moon’s light bathed us like blue sunshine. “What do you want?” I asked her.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me nowadays,” my neighbor said, smiling, “and wanted to know… how long?”
From those words alone, I knew that she knew that I knew. There was a certain shock in talking about it out loud instead of inside my head- one that I was not prepared for.
In a low, almost scared, voice, I answered, “Just a little while. Since my birthday.”
The flower-girl nodded. I could tell she took a certain delight she took in acknowledging herself.
“Why…?” I tried to say. “I mean… were you always like this?
“…I wasn’t.” She bowed her head to reveal that amidst the yellow carnations was a short, red carnation that I never noticed before- if you could even call it red, as it was wilting away into an ugly brown. The aroma of rot reached me and made me wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“The day that my fiancé proposed to me, this red carnation grew. And when he left me, it wilted, and the yellow ones bloomed.” She sighed, pain reflected in her eyes. “I’ve tried to cut it, but it always grows back. And it always wilts,”
I knew that this wasn’t what I should be paying attention to, but nevertheless I couldn’t help to ask, “You had a fiancé? Who?”
She looked at me strangely and told me the name of a man that also lived in the neighborhood. “I didn’t know you two were engaged. He’s so much younger than you,”
“He isn’t.” The flower-girl raised her brow. “How old do you think I am?”
I became embarrassed to answer. “Well?” She demanded. Her questioning glance made me feel the need to reply.
I honestly replied what I thought. “Somewhere between 50 and 60.”
“I’m not that old. Why do you think that I’m old and he’s not?”
“He doesn’t look old,” I said, but even as I spoke, I knew it wasn’t true. He was twice as wrinkled and even grayer than she was. It just seemed more fitting on him, was all.
She let out a sound which I couldn’t tell was a laugh or a cry. “You’re too young to really know old someone is.”
“I’m not young!” I exclaimed, defensively. “I mean- I am young, but not too young. I’m an Adult.”
“When you’re older, you’ll see you are.”
Seemingly done with me, she turned to leave. I watched as she went back to her house, a single yellow petal falling out of her head and floating in the wind…
The next morning, I returned to my father’s garden and cut some of his flowers. I didn’t want to take all his best flowers- it felt like stealing his hard work- so I mostly picked mediocre ones and weaved them together into a crown which I wore for the next two days until they wilted. I’ve decided that next spring, I’ll start my own garden so I can show off my own flowers instead of my father’s.
“Why are you wearing that?” My sister asked in the afternoon, noticing my crown. “Do you to look like your vase-girl?”
“Something like that,” I replied with a shrug.
If I was being honest, I wasn’t quite sure why I did. Perhaps it was just because flowers in your hair looked so beautiful.
I was one day older but felt years younger.
Poetry - "The Hanged Man" by Nathaniel Simon
Hanging from the gnarled tree is a man dressed in stars.
Tattooed across his bloated chest is the starry sky that
Flew over his head when he was born.
Where did he come from? Nobody is sure.
But It doesn’t matter anymore.
All that matter is where he is now,
Hanging from the gnarled tree in the backyard of a small hostel. Along the side of a highway
He’d been up there for a week,
Yet no one has the nerve to take him down.
The local delinquents chuck jagged rocks at the corpse.
The townsfolk cower in their homes.
The mob responsible is let off scot free.
Yet, none of this is important.
Not to the delinquents, they’re too busy looking for kick,
Not to the townsfolk, they’re too afraid to press charges.
Not to the mob that enjoyed undeserving freedom, and
Especially not to the dead man dressed in stars.
Nothing matters to him anymore.
Poetry - "Live to Fight Another Day" by Kaden Donnelly
The weight of the world
Straining, falling, letting go
Now drift off to rest
Strength hails from dreams of her smile
Live to fight another day
