Part 1 of 3

By Troy Hornsby

Visions of Martin Luther staring at me

Malcolm X put a hex on my future someone catch me

I’m falling victim to a revolutionary song

—Kendrick Lamar, HiiiPoWeR

1

Nasreen sighed as she dipped her chin into her small hand. Willy continued reading his story, but none of his words planted themselves with interest in her mind. Her other hand tapped the small stack of papers on her desk, her own story looked up at her with childish admiration, though its parent could not look back at it the same. The Border of Terror by Nasreen Ismail, the black printed words read. It was a story she was most proud of after a week of research and anecdotes from Papa that left him silent when the verbal torture was over. After the silence he wept in her arms and she would hold him and rub his head.

All that trouble to have her story be told was “too political,” by Mister White. Too political? Those noxious words burned her ears and froze her blood, all she could do was respond with: “sorry, Mister White,” and fall back in her plastic chair while blowing a strand of her ebony hair out of her face. The dozens of eyes heated her skin, until she sunk back into irrelevancy, remaining the same shy Palestinian girl who wished to tell her father’s story—the story of millions. 

The clapping woke her from her unwarranted memories. Willy bowed bashfully as he sat back down with a wide grin on his thin lips. Nasreen bit the inside of her cheek. Nobody clapped for her, the only ovation she received was an awkward cough when she finished. She crossed her arms and sat them on her small stack of papers, her chin rested on her forearm as she fought back welling tears. 

“Wow, William, just wow. Now, there is some room for improvement, I feel your prose was getting a bit sloppy by the end with the lack of sensory details, but aside from that I have no further comments. A well-told story, William, thank you for sharing. Now, who would like to go next?”

* * *

Nasreen sat in the library, alone. The buzzing of a fly rang in her ear, but was quickly swatted away by her waving hand. Her history book that was opened to The Trail of Tears laid in solitude as its reader scanned the words but did not retain a letter. Papa was proud when she read the story to him, he wept from his wrinkled eyelids and clapped with pride. Would he worry that this career was unfit for her? She didn’t want him to think that. It would hurt her to see him frown, she couldn’t afford that. 

Nasreen groaned and clapped her palms against her brown cheeks that shined with hints of red. I hate him, she repeated. How could the stories of the dead be ‘too political?’ No. It wasn’t fair. Anyone could write about anything, why should she keep her mouth shut to appease others?

She lowered her head onto her open book, and wondered if she had been wrong in writing The Border of Terror after all. How could she be a great author in today’s society if her work is seen as “too political?” No one writes political literature like that anymore, she argued. What was she going to do now? Waste away with her flaming passion slowly snuffing out into a pile of useless ash? Would her stories consist of useless rubbish that no longer held the same sentiment as The Border of Terror? Would her work-in-progress novel be half-assed from start to finish? Maybe she would give up? Perhaps that was truly the only option.

Nasreen rose from her wooden chair, only to be surprised by Willy, who sat down across from her. He was not smiling, in fact, he was evidently exhausted with lips chapped—possibly from the cold wind of Portland—he was shaking and his large brown eyes hung low. He hung his red backpack on the chair and huffed. Nasreen ignored the man who basically had roses thrown at his feet while all she got was a bored cough. She closed her book and turned around.

“W-Wait, um, Nasreen, was it?”

He can’t even remember my name? “Yes.” She responded coldly. She held her book to her chest and raised her foot to leave.

“I l-liked your story. The B-Border of Terror, right? I thought it was great.”

“Then why didn’t you clap? Or say anything at all?” She didn’t turn to face him.

“B-Because, it was l-like watching a performance from a top-tier actor, you know. I was stunned, actually stunned. I could barely remember reading out my own story because I was too busy thinking about yours.”

He’s lying.

Nasreen turned around, biting the inside of her lip as Willy’s eyes entered hers. They were so gentle, so…intimate. His soft voice complimenting her story raised her heart rate slightly. “What did you like about it?”

Willy chuckled, “Where can I start? Many people don’t care for purple prose—I am the exception. Do you read a lot of Victorian literature?”

She shrugged, “A lot of it actually.”

“I-It’s evident in your work. In my opinion: you didn’t waste a word, it w-w-was like the p-perfect building.”

Nasreen smiled and slid back into her chair. “What did you think about the characters?”

“I thought them remaining nameless was a perfect device, and all of them were so captivating in what? Ten pages? I just want to read it again.”

His smile. He wasn’t lying to her. 

“I can print you a copy.”

“A-A-And I’ll sacrifice my firstborn for it.”

Nasreen laughed, a soft and beautiful laugh not heard too often in her ears. “You don’t need to do that, but I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

Willy smiled, “thank you. Oh, and don’t worry about Professor White, he’s a real ass when it comes to stuff like that. He always suggests literature that’s always inherently political, but shuns you if you do your own work.”

Nasreen rolled her eyes and frowned. “I’m sorry. You just raved about my story, but I was too upset that I didn’t even listen to yours.”

Willy chuckled, “don’t worry about it, you’ll have plenty of time to listen to my stories written from the eyes of animals.”

“You write from the eyes of animals?” She was curious, “now I really want to read your stories.”

“Oh, p-please, they ain’t as good as yours.”

“You don’t believe that, come on, let me see.”

* * *

The brisk cold of the coming Autumn rubbed along her arm as she walked down the sidewalk to the two story house where golden lights illuminated through the shaded windows. A few lucky investments— and a managerial position of the local supermarket —had allowed Papa to garner enough finances to bring Nasreen to a good college. 

She took the silver key from her pocket and stuck into the black latch. She twisted it, and with a loud click, it was unlocked. Nasreen opened the door and was met with the smell of olive oil and chicken. Mussakhan, she thought as she salivated. She dropped her backpack by the door and let down her hair that she had in a ponytail an hour prior. 

“Papa, I’m home!”

Papa ran from the kitchen with a bright smile. The same shade of black hair resided at the top of his head, with a snowy white presiding at its side with a black beard that covered the entire bottom half of his face. He was still muscular as he neared old age, and was still as sprightful as he was in his youth. He was dressed in a black turtleneck and long navy-blue jeans. He ran to Nasreen and embraced her tight, laying three kisses on her thin cheeks.

“My sweet thing, how I missed you, my darling,” he smiled and looked at her with a golden flame residing in his dirt-colored eyes.

“Hi, Papa,” she laughed, “I missed you, too. How are you? How’s the shop?”

“It’s good, my darling. Come, come, I finished some Mussakhan, I’m sure you must be starving.”

Nasreen sighed. “Actually, Papa, I’m going to eat and then leave if that’s okay?”

Papa was midway towards the kitchen when he turned around. “Really? Why?”

“Well…” she bit her tongue, “I was invited to a gathering with a bunch of the literature students. One of my classmates suggested I go.”

“Oh,” Papa glanced at the picture of Mama that rested on the small table in the hallway. She was a beautiful woman, with the same glistening brown skin and raven hair Nasreen inherited. Mama was quite thin, even before the tumor that they thought was benign reduced her to a twig. She often joked about it, much to the horror of her husband and daughter. Nasreen dreaded Mama’s jokes in her final months, but when Papa looked at the picture of her in front of a mosque in Palestine, she wished she could hear one more. 

“I-I’m sorry, Papa,” she walked closer to him and hugged him around the neck.

“My sweet thing, don’t apologize. You are an adult woman, a beautiful one at that, you deserve time to yourself.” His smile was weak, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Did your teacher like your story?” He asked as they entered the kitchen.

The rich smell soothed her, for a second she had forgotten her troubles. “He said it was ‘too political.’”

Papa frowned as he sat at the table. He let out a harsh sigh and fidgeted with the table mat with shaking hands. “I’m sorry, sweet thing.”

Nasreen shrugged as she served the meal on two red plates. “It’s okay, I guess. Someone in my class liked it though, the one who invited me to the gathering.”

Papa nodded. “That’s good. Who is she?”

Nasreen sat Papa’s plate down with a fork and smiled. “A he, actually. His name is William Donner, he’s a black man and was raised here all of his life. He’s a smart man, Papa, I think you’d like him.”

Another smile came upon his weak lips. “Is he handsome?”

She never considered that. He did have a clean face with a nice smile. His eyes glowed even with the light dimming in the library, he was tall, somewhat muscular, and his soft speech lingered in her more than his physical. “A bit,” she chuckled. “Now, let’s eat.” They both said a prayer to Allah and ate the steaming meal on their plates.

* * *

She was dropped off by the Uber in front of another two-story house, though there was no comforting golden light that escaped it. The sun had set, and the pale moon overlooked its inhabitants with a divine blessing in its silver line.

Nasreen climbed the empty driveway, through the concrete path, and stood in front of the double oak doors with blurry glass panes in their center. Her hand was hidden in her long sleeve and she raised it to knock on the hollow door. 

Within a second of Nasreen putting her hand back at her side, the door swung open, and Willy met her on the other side, smiling, sweating, and…handsome?

“H-H-H-Hi,” Willy smiled, “glad to see you.”

“Glad to see you,” Nasreen smiled, “why are you so sweaty?”

“Was running downstairs every time someone came. I was hoping you’d be the first, you’re pretty much the guest of honor.”

Guest of honor? “Oh…well…that’s unexpected.”

“My God, where are my manners? Come in, please. Do you want me to take your coat?”

“I’m okay, thank you.” She stepped into the large house with its pure white walls and beige carpet. The house smelled with the buttery scent of popcorn, though no hunger boiled in her stomach for anything else after dinner. “Popcorn?”

“Movie n-night,” Willy answered with a smile as he locked the door. “We’re watching The Shining, have you seen it?”

“I read the book.”

“Of course you have,” he shook his head with the same flawless smile. “I’m more of a movie guy at times, but can’t screenwrite with only one perspective of writing, you know?”

“Film major?”

“Yes. But the creative writing does help at times with p-pacing, a-and p-plot, a-a-a-a—goddamnit.” They stopped at the foot of the stairs. “S-Sorry.”

“For what?”

Willy avoided her gaze. “I-I just stutter a lot when I’m nervous, and it’s really annoying dealing with the damn thing.”

“I bite my cheek and tongue, it hurts like hell but I do it when I’m nervous.”

Willy smiled again. A warmness burrowed inside her. “I guess we’re both special in a way.”

“Yeah,” Nasreen smiled back. The sudden yearning for popcorn made her mouth water. 

The two of them made it to the second story where a loft resided to their right. Seated on the black leather couch were two men and a blonde woman between them. On a red bean bag chair was another man with a shining phone in his thin face. On the floor were two women, both of them were thin and wore glasses on their puffy faces.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Willy started his announcement as though she were a celebrity, “this is Nasreen, writer of The Border of Terror.”

Nasreen bit her tongue and sunk into her clothes. One of the women on the floor rose to her feet with a gaping mouth.

“Oh. My. God! Your story was incredible. I could not stop thinking about it the entire day. Are you actually Palestinian? Was any of the story based on a true story you know? Did you—”

“Ashly, calm down,” the man on the bean bag spoke up without looking up from his phone, though his tone remained indifferent, “you’re going to suffocate the woman.”

“Shut up, Tom, I’m just asking a few questions.”

Nasreen’s face burned. “It’s okay, um, Tom. I can answer your questions, no problem.” Ashly smiled at this statement and hopped around excitedly. 

The other girl on the floor waved to Nasreen with a toothless smile. “Hi, I’m Kriss.”

Nasreen smiled and waved back.

The two men on the couch nodded to her, though she believed was going to need to extract their names through conversation—her least favorite way to do it. 

“Name’s Rosie,” the blonde woman on the couch announced. Her glowing hazel eyes seemed to go right through Nasreen.

She shuddered, but still kept a small amount of pleasantry. Willy ushered her to two lone bean bags close to Tom and they sat there. Ashly sat at Nasreen’s feet and proceeded with her questions. She answered with amusement and smiled as the woman wished to know more about how the story was conceived. Willy watched her intently with a grin, Nasreen noticed as she answered a question about her parents, her face warmed. 

“So…you’re an immigrant?” One of the boys on the couch asked, his blue eyes tore at her skin.

“My parents are. I’m a first generation.”

The blue-eyed boy nodded. “Nice. Fight the power.”

The blonde girl rolled her eyes.

“Why do you write?” Nasreen asked Ashly.

“Oh,” she shrugged, “a lot of trauma that seems to only get out when I write something down.”

Nasreen respected that answer with a gleeful nod.

“What about you?” Willy asked, his soft eyes still lingered over her. 

“Well,” her throat knotted. “Before my mom died…I read at her bedside. Eventually she told me, ‘Nasreen, I’m bored of these books, why don’t you write me something of your own.’” Nasreen sniffled, though only air traveled in her nostrils. Her eyelids flickered as threatening tears began to pound against her eyes. “So I did. Every day and night I would write a story about a page or two with crayon, or pencil, whatever I could find, and I’d read to her. It was silly stuff like: a little girl riding a unicorn, or a story about a man who gets rich when it rains diamonds, or…” she hesitated, “or a doctor who can heal a sick person with a touch of his finger.”

Nobody paid attention to Jack Torrance striking the pale door with his axe. Their eyes, their wide, unblinking eyes, were now pointed at her—even Tom who looked away from his phone for longer than two seconds. She could not tell if there was sadness, empathy, or intrigue. Nasreen fought the coming threat of tears and shook off the hanging sadness she brought on Willy’s doorstep.

“I’m sorry, it’s supposed to be movie night,” she chuckled. 

“Don’t apologize,” Kriss smiled, “so you do this to feel closer to your mom, right?”

Nasreen nodded.

“I think that’s beautiful.”

“I-It is,” Willy nodded

* * *

The orange light in Nasreen’s room was dim, but still allowed her room to be visible. Its pale walls were the canvas that allowed the shadows of the room to be painted. Her large birch desk was littered with papers from school, writing, and personal items that buried her mouse and keyboard. She sat in her soft leather chair whose wheels remained stiff on top of the carpet and sighed. Her fingers tapped against the black handle of the drawer on her right. She swallowed, and hesitated, and pondered. 

Open it. The soft voice of her mother called.

“I can’t.”

You can, it’s just one quick motion.

Nasreen gripped the handle. To pull it out would be having to lift a tungsten cube with a broken arm. Seconds were minutes, and after sighing and wiping away her invisible sweat, Nasreen let go. Before any of the voices in her mind could scold her, she turned out the light and slid into bed. She pulled the covers over her head, and allowed the day to exit her mind with tears that soaked her cheeks and pillows. 

* * *

Nasreen hated the cold, she hated her professor, and she hated her nonsensical assignments that worsened her self-loathing. The only thing she hated worse than those three, however, was people. When she read her story aloud, their eyes only seemed to watch as she crumbled into a child again, stumbling over her words, worried that boogers were flying from her nose, or that she was making a strange face. After her professor’s comment regarding her story, she noticed that they stared more. She was no longer the girl that remained hidden, no, she was now The Palestinian Girl That Was Called Out By Professor White. That’s what their stares told her, she didn’t need to hear them speak.

The blinding light shined above her as she hid herself behind her laptop that was shut off. Groups of students buzzed and flocked to their own cliques as Nasreen remained alone, as she always had, and she always wished to be.

“Hi, N-Nasreen,” Willy sat next to her with a smile, “how you doing?”

Nasreen was speechless. “Why are you sitting here?”

Willy’s eyes circled around the room. “Free will, right? Plus, no one was sitting here.”

The eyes returned with smiles and whispers. “Willy, I think you might tank your reputation if you sit with me,” her reflection in the dark screen exposed the strands of hair that poked up from her scalp, her hanging bags on her eyes, and even her quivering lip. 

“We’re all writers here, Nasreen,” he took out his Macbook and sat it down gently on the long table that acted as a part-time mirror. “Some write for money—like R-Rosie—others write for therapy, and you and I, we write for change.”

She raised an eyebrow, “but Professor didn’t call you out.”

“To be honest,” he chuckled, “the g-guy’s an idiot at times. Give him simple and honest and he’ll preach it night and day. But give him anything outside his little bubble—let’s say Ellison or Richard Wright, maybe even Borges—and he’ll flip his lid about its uselessness. The reason he said anything about y-yours, is because yours was obvious and specific. I told the story of a group of lions that reflect the war in Sudan, but I didn’t say anything about it did I? Not a time, not a place, not even a name, but if you research the event with my story, it all adds up. But he doesn’t know that, ‘c-cause he d-doesn’t understand us, or our stories and he never will. He’ll rave about McCarthy and The Great American Novel bullshit, but between you and me, he’s as little qualified to be a-a Creative Writing professor, as I am to be The President of Mexico.”

Nasreen smiled, “I think you’d be a great 

President, all things considered.”

 “Thank you. I’d try anyway.”

Professor White entered with a loud swinging of the door and hearty “hello, glorious writers.” Willy turned to their Professor with a blank face, but Nasreen could not take her eyes off of him. Such passion, such irritation, such artistic light that burned like an immortal flame. She smiled at him, wishing to bury herself in his mind that seemed identical to her own. 

* * *

Nasreen read in the library alone. Willy had an afternoon class, and so she decided on spending a few hours reading Gulliver’s Travels for her night class. There were only three people sitting at their desks and reading and the lone librarian who only typed away at her computer, pushing her glasses up every five seconds while unleashing a dry cough.

It was truly peaceful, the first time Nasreen had peace in school since before her mother passed away. The orange sun plastered its torso on the far end of the library, slicing the building in half between the last bit of light in the west, and the darkness that would drown the sky in a few hours. The smell of warm ginger tea and dust played with her nose, offering her solace as she analyzed Swift’s prose and satire. A chill sank into her jacket and lingered, but it did not matter as shifted in her wooden seat every second and brought momentary warmth. 

Her peace ceased when the blonde woman, Rosie, she remembered, entered with pounding footsteps against the hardwood. The librarian hushed her without looking from her computer that should have remained in the 80’s. Rosie waved her golden hair that sparkled in the crimson sun and made her way to Nasreen’s lonesome table.

“Hey,” she glared at Nasreen with fire shooting from her pupils, and yet she followed library rules and spoke quietly, “what’s your deal with Willy?”

She looked up from her book. “What?”

“What’s your deal with Willy?”

She scoffed, “nothing? I’m confused.”

“I know you’re only doing your little activist performance to get in his pants, you skank. That whole mom sob story might fool everyone, but not me. You understand me, terrorist bitch?”

Nasreen bit the inside of her cheek until she was sure she might cause blood to break out and spill onto her tongue. She slid her bookmark inside the dry pages and slammed the book onto the wooden table. Rosie flinched and the conviction in her eyes burned away. 

“Have you ever loved, Rosie?”

Rosie raised her eyebrow and scoffed. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

“I loved my mother, I love my work, and I love the life I’ve lived so far. If you truly believe I would keep it on the back burner for some guy, then you don’t know me. Maybe you don’t care, and that’s fine. I’m a terrorist skank, and you’re a racist bitch, and we can keep it like that. Deal?”

Rosie’s face puffed and burned with the color of a tomato. Her hands gripped on the sides of the table as her eyes attacked Nasreen with a vicious stare. “I hope your country burns to a pile of rubble, bitch.”

Nasreen’s eyes stung. The countless stories from her mother and father of the children coated in blood, the fallen rubble, the whistling of the bombs that ended with a deafening explosion. Countless times before her mother’s death the two of them sat in front of the television with the late night news on for updates on the invasion. “Maybe if you want Willy to like you, Rosie, respect the art he cares about.”

She scoffed once again and mumbled under her breath. She slid in her backpack and stormed out of the library. 

Coming inside, though Nasreen figured Rosie didn’t notice, was Willy with two steaming plastic cups in his hands. He smiled when his eyes met Nasreen’s. She moved her hair out of her face and sank back into her seat as she had been doing before the confrontation.

“Hey, Nasreen, I got us some coffee.”

“Oh,” she bit her tongue, “I don’t drink coffee.”

Willy chuckled, “that’s okay, more c-c-caffeine for me then.” He sipped on the cup in his right hand and cursed at it. 

Nasreen chuckled and tapped her fingers against her book that laid face-up. The warring orange and black dragged their battle up the wall, the brightness was losing. 

“Willy, I had an idea.”

“What is it?” He took out his laptop and opened it to a glaring white screen.

“You know how we’re going to be focusing on satire the next two weeks?”

“I do.”

“Well—and don’t laugh—what if I wrote a satire about what Mister White said to me? About how my story was ‘too political.’”

Willy’s soft eyes went into hers and he smiled. “Absolutely.”

“You don’t think it’s too much?”

He scoffed. “Professor White offended your people and heritage. Would you stop me from talking shit about someone who said ‘slavery wasn’t that bad?’”

Nasreen shook her head.

“Same thing. I just don’t want you to get kicked out of school for it.”

“You can’t be scared of the consequences of a revolution, Willy. I’d go up to the guillotine proud if I needed to, as long as I made sure I got a word or two out.”

“Those a-are s-some bars. Were those off the top of your h-head,” he laughed. 

Nasreen didn’t laugh. The glowing orange was subdued and the white overhanging lights shined over the two of them like a spotlight. “Willy, would you stay by me?”

“Of course,” he took her by the hand, “a-always.”

His hand was coarse but comforting. Her own thin hand lingered in his embrace until he pulled it away quickly, muttering under his breath as his eyes darted between her and the keyboard. Far out the window the last of the sunlight was falling behind the hills that resided miles from the campus. Violet and pink rivers ran through the sky without chains to withhold their flight. She smiled at the beautiful sight of orange, pink, and purple. The spiral of colors were soon washed away by the sea of darkness.

You will persevere, she thought, just keep pushing.

* * *

Sitting at her desk brought less comfort than she had hoped. The world beyond the screen was blank with only the black dash to comfort her with her equally empty mind. 

As she turned in her chair without a thought to accompany her, the desk drawer called to her. 

She ignored it. 

Her story needed to be told just as the millions over the sea needed her to tell it. The title was conceived, then a sentence was born and soon bloomed into a paragraph.

Tears and blood from her people flooded into the story of her own making, attacking Professor White’s words while strengthening her own. The sun will rise on us, Papa, I promise you. 

* * *

do u think he has a KKK hood in his apartment? Willy’s note read. Nasreen contained a chuckle.

“Probably.”

Professor White was going over the general roots of satire. Critiques of government, society, and religion. 

“The former is the most popular as seen in Animal Farm or The Master and Margarita. Social satires, in my opinion, are the easiest to detect and write. I’m sure you all have read The Picture of Dorian Gray, that is considered a social satire as I assume you all are aware of. The base of satire, while being funny, is to tell a message in a very obscured way—much like an allegory of sorts. For example, let’s say I wrote a satirical fiction tale about…Ethiopian children who scream like monkeys and pickpocket traveling colonizers. To some that may be funny, and the message would be to critique the deliberate stereotypes of Black people.”

Odd example. She turned to Willy who was struggling to contain his amusement.

The lecture passed gradually, but when it was adjourned, Nasreen stretched and groaned with gratefulness. The ruffling of backpacks and the flurry of conversation filled her with life as she carefully descended the stairs to the door on her left.

“Miss Nasreen, may I speak with you please?” Professor White announced.

Her body warmed and goosebumps trickled down her flesh. Willy squeezed her shoulder behind her as she passed the door to face the short fat man with a bushy brown beard and head of auburn hair. The edges of his eyes were cursed with crow’s feet, his nose was as small as a penny, and his lips were unbearingly chapped. The last of the students trickled out of the room, and the door swung close with an echo. 

“Yes, Professor White?”

He smirked, “I noticed you were not fond of my analogy in regards to my satiric lecture.”

Nasreen grimaced. “Just thought it was in bad taste.”

“No, no, you are entitled to your opinion, do not think I am upset. Unfortunately, that was the best I could conjure at the moment,” he chuckled, “but I wished to speak to you about something else.”

“What’s that?” Her teeth grinded.

“Your story you presented the other day: The Border of Terror, I wanted to speak to you about it since I seemed to have upset you.”

“You did.”

“And for that I apologize, Nasreen. Last thing I want to do is upset my student.”

Her eye twitched. “It’s just…we both know many politics are imbedded in literature and—while I don’t believe my story was inherently political— you told me it was ‘too political.’”

Professor White winced and leaned on his long spruce-wood desk. “I did say that.”

“So…what makes my story so different from Gulliver’s Travels or Animal Farm?”

Professor White inhaled harshly and shook his head. “May I be honest with you, Nasreen? And keep this between the two of us?”

Nasreen’s mouth dried. “Sure.”

“I don’t find your story, and the story overseas in Gaza and Israel that…compelling. I mean…it’s war. War is a generational cycle that’ll occur forever. There have been many stories about war and I find yours to be…unoriginal, I’m sorry. You paint this picture as though it is truly a genocide when—in all fairness—it’s not. It’s like a seesaw, Nasreen, just two sides falling back and forth; threatening, bombing, killing.”

Her blood did not know whether to freeze in shock, or combust with rage. She could only stay still as Professor White shrugged. For nights and days she bore witness to the constant bombings, the orange lights that polluted the dark skies like fireworks, only to leave ash, dust, and blood in its wake. The pictures of dead—massacred—children were forever branded in her mind, cursing her in her nightmares. Papa’s cries after a nightmare or a sudden trigger echoed in her mind. And this man had the audacity to belittle the experience of her own family and blood?

“I understand.” Her eyes burned. “May I be dismissed?”

“You may. Just keep writing, Nasreen, I’m sure with your style you could get published.” He smiled, it seemed genuine, though her senses urged her it was not.

She nodded and quickly dashed to the door, her light backpack had gained one hundred pounds as the floor beckoned her. She opened the door to find Willy on the side who leaned against the wall with his attention on the gray carpet. He raised his head and raised his eyebrow at her downward expression.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” She flew past him, her hands tight around the straps of her backpack.

“What did the f-fucker say?”

“Nothing, Willy, drop it.”

“Nas—”

“Just fucking drop it, Willy, please,” the warm tears escaped. “Please, just leave me alone.”Nasreen left her friend behind, tears fell from her brown cheeks as the lights seemed to dim around her. She bit the inside of her cheek as her heart hammered her sternum. His smile, his goddamned smile burned in her mind like the photos, and Papa’s cries. Oh how she would use it against him, she told herself as she stormed through the hall. The edges of her vision were blank, the dim tunnel would only lead to her desk. There’ll be no more distractions, no more excuses, no more doubts. Her story will be enough.

* * *

Her ears would have let out steam had she been in a cartoon instead of the unfortunate reality, at least then she’d be able to pound Professor White with a ten-ton hammer.

Nasreen had told Papa about the strange conversation, and he rightfully swore a tornado about the man he had never met. His cheeks glowed red in the golden light as they ate in silence. Later, as he watched Tom and Jerry to calm his nerves, he convulsed as his mind attacked him with memories only he held. Nasreen held and calmed him into the realm of sleep, the only place nowadays where peace was in his life.  

The stars twinkled in the curtain of black in the outer world, the world now so far from her. The Judge, her newest story, was now bare in front of her. Four thousand words of tears and frustration were laid out, ready for all to see. Just a few tweaks were needed for it to be perfect, but Nasreen was proud of it all the same. Her eyes magnetized to the forbidden drawer, but were torn away with a quick glance to the stars again. She wished she were beyond the stratosphere, where the flames of stars and supernovas would cool her back, instead of the flaming glares of her classmates and teachers. The memory of Starcatchers, one of the first stories she wrote for Mama, returned. Nasreen smiled at the memory. It was a rainy day, and Papa had told her to stay inside. Annoyed and hearing her mother’s hacking, she wrote Starcatchers in Crayola with colorful illustrations outside the margins. Mama loved the story so much she had it framed by her bedside and during her worse days, Nasreen found her reading it with red eyes and drying cheeks. 

The frame was in her arms the night she passed away. Nasreen turned off her computer and jumped into bed. The crickets played their song down below, the soft wind ran its finger along the wind chimes as its spontaneous melody played in her ears. The sounds of the evening sang in her ear as she sank into much-needed rest. All she wanted was for the story to sprout from a seed to a towering tree. Soon, The Dead Revolutionaries of the past told her in her dreams, soon.

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Troy Hornsby is an African American author of three books (a novella, a short story collection, and a full length novel) aw well as a contributor to Pulp Lit Magazine. In addition to his writing, he is also pursuing a degree in English and Creative Writing to spread his love and knowledge for the written art.