The Gas Man

My panicked footfalls fall heavy, with each step my feet sinking deeper into the thick mud of the trench floor. Already half blinded by the condensation from my breath on the gasmask’s lenses, combined with the intense piercing sensation from where the yellow monster of a cloud had touched my bare skin, I staggered without direction following Matt’s heavy breathing. A hiss escapes my lips as the soft part of my thigh hits something sharp, the brutal throb sending me to my knees. Even through the agony I feel in my eyes and lungs as the gas begins to take effect, I can perceive the slow trickle of blood down my leg. 

Reaching out, desperate to escape the fast-closing mass of scrambling bodies surging behind me as my fellow comrades attempt to flee from the gas cloud, my hand blindly falls on the stiff face of a mutilated soldier. At some point during the scramble, I must have lost a glove because I could feel the waxy texture of his skin beneath my hand. I fell back, desperate to forget the sensation of touching those raised welts along his nose and eyes where the gas had done its damage. Staggering to my feet once more I am assaulted by the abrupt urge to tear off my gas mask and breathe normally; to escape the overwhelming claustrophobia I suddenly feel and simply allow the fight to leave me. Wrestling with instinct, I stumble forward blindly, until strong hands grasp my arms and haul me away.

They Wanted Us Here

The vinyl seat of the school bus vibrated at a frequency that seemed specifically engineered to make my uterus claw its way out of my body.

I pressed my metal travel mug harder against my lower stomach, desperately hoping the trapped heat of the hot chocolate would penetrate through my hoodie and numb the white-hot spikes radiating across my abdomen. It wasn’t working. Another wave of cramps cascaded through me, and I leaned my forehead against the cold, smudged window, watching the blur of pine trees slide past. 

I just wanted to be home. I wanted a heating pad, three ibuprofen, and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Instead, I was stuck on school sponsored fieldtrip, surrounded by the ambient noise of a dozen other kids from varying grades, the rhythmic thump of someone’s music leaking from their headphones, the high-pitched giggles of two middle schoolers three rows up, and the quiet crunching of an elementary kid enjoying a bag of potato chips.

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe through the pain. Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale for four. It was going to be a long, long day.

Then, the world tilted.

My stomach slammed violently into the hard plastic armrest as the bus swerved, tires shrieking a horrific, high-pitched protest against the asphalt.

"Woah!" someone yelled from the back.

The travel mug flew from my hands, scalding hot chocolate splashing across my jeans, but I didn’t register the pain. The bus fishtailed violently. Bags slid down the aisle, shoes squeaked against the floor, and the giggles from the front instantly transformed into sharp, terrified screams.

I gripped the edges of my seat, fingers tight enough to puncture vinyl covering. 

All I could see through the cracked, grime-streaked windshield was reality warping into a nightmare, as the massive yellow hood of the bus dove sharply, violently, off the crumbling asphalt. It dipped like the bow of a sinking ship, aiming straight into the maw of a steep, densely wooded ravine. Trees that had been a distant blur a second ago suddenly rushed forward, looming like jagged teeth.

The brakes, I thought, a sudden, cold dread slithering through my gut and wrapping around my ribs like an icy fist. Why isn't he hitting the brakes?

My eyes darted toward the driver’s seat, but gravity was already betraying us. We weren't slowing down. If anything, the pull of gravity down the incline was dragging us faster, the engine roaring in a strained, mechanical panic as we gained momentum.

Then came the impact. A deafening, metallic crunch echoed through the very bones of the chassis as the undercarriage slammed hard into solid rock. The violent jolt rattled my teeth and threw me against the frame. Right beside my head, the thick window pane buckled. A second later it shattered into a glittering spiderweb of silver fractures before exploding inward with a concussive pop.

There was no escaping it. Shards of glass rained down like a beautiful, lethal hailstorm, cutting through the dusty air.

The world tilted on its axis. The universe spun in a chaotic blur of green foliage, yellow metal, and gray sky. The sickening, low groan of metal tearing against metal vibrated through the floorboards. For one agonizing, suspended heartbeat, my stomach leaped into my throat, accompanying the horrifying, weightless sensation of airborne suspension.

And then, with the force of a falling mountain, everything went black.

▪▪▪

The silence came first.

It wasn’t a peaceful quiet; it was a heavy, suffocating stillness. My lungs expanded, dragging in air that tasted distinctly of burning rubber. Every square inch of my body throbbed with a dull, echoing ache, but the sharpest point was the agonizing, localized fire blooming in my lower abdomen.

I blinked, my vision swimming through a heavy haze of gray smoke and floating dust motes. The world was sideways. I was no longer sitting; I was jammed awkwardly against the reinforced metal wall of the bus, my legs tangled in the twisted frame of the seat ahead of me.

Then, audio snapped back into reality. A high-pitched wail broke the silence. I craned my neck to find its source. After a few seconds of twisting, I caught sight of the tiny first-grade boy who always sat near the front, screaming in pure, unadulterated shock. Above his cries, the sharp, chaotic bickering of twins Chloe and Zoey cut through the smoke. "You stepped on my arm! Get off me!" 

"I can't see! Chloe, I can't breathe!"

"Everybody stay exactly where you are!" A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the panic from the middle of the bus, only a few rows behind me. It belonged to an older girl, a senior I’d seen in the hallways but never spoken to.

Already on her feet, she balanced precariously on the tilted aisle. A nasty gash was bleeding near her hairline, but her hands were steady as she reached down to haul a crying elementary kid out of a crumpled row. "Niall! Leon! I need eyes on the back. Who's moving?"

"I'm up," a second voice hollered in response. A loud curse accompanied a heavy thud as Leon, a junior I recognised from varsity sports,  shoved his way down the mutilated aisle. "Niall? Niall, talk to me."

"I'm good, man. I'm okay," a boy’s voice, Niall’s, choked out, coughing through the dust. "I’m trying the emergency door; the back door. It's stuck."

I shifted my weight, attempting to free myself from the vise-like metal pinning me to the chair, frantically reaching for my backpack, which was wedged beneath the crumpled vinyl seat in front of me. I pulled at the straps, my fingers trembling, scraping my knuckles against torn metal until the bag popped free. I zipped open the front pocket, my heart hammering against my ribs.

My small floral zipper pouch was there. I opened it. Four pads. Three tampons. That was it. That was all I had for what was supposed to be a six hour bus ride, with supplies waiting on the other end.

"Hey. You're Brooklyn, right?"

I flinched, snapping the backpack shut so hard the zipper bit into my thumb.

Looming over me was Sadie. I’d noticed her around school before, she was in the year above me and always wore the same vintage denim jacket.  Now that jacket was torn at the shoulder, and a smudge of black grease was smeared across her cheekbone, but her dark eyes were piercingly clear. She clutched at the hand of her brother, a little elementary-aged boy, named Toby.

As I struggled to free my legs she let go of Toby's hand and stepped down into my crumpled row, steadying herself against the metal wall as she leaned across me. Before I could stammer out a protest, she grasped my ankle and guided it from between the seats.

"The metal edges in here are sharp," Sadie said, her voice low and a little shaky. She looked directly into my eyes, her face mere inches from my own. "Be careful what you lean against."

My heart did a violent, erratic flip that had absolutely nothing to do with the adrenaline of the crash.

"I… thanks," I breathed, my voice quavering.

"Can you stand?" she asked, offering me a calloused hand which I took, pressing my arm against my throbbing abdomen as she hauled me out of my seat's wreckage.

"We need to get out," Sadie continued, stating the obvious, turning her head toward the front of the bus where Jean was trying to force the crumpled frame of the main door open. "The engine is hissing, and we're resting at one hell of an angle. Brooklyn, do you have your bag? Good. Let’s help Jean."

▪▪▪

The emergency door didn't give way with a clean pop; it groaned, a sickening shriek of tortured steel as Leon threw his entire varsity-built shoulder into the frame. On the third hit, the latch finally sheared off, the door flying open, and hitting the uneven ground outside with an echoing thud, letting in a sudden, violent rush of freezing mountain air that instantly began to chase away the choking gray smoke.

"Go, go, go!" Jean barked from the now clear exit, one hand pressed tightly against the bleeding gash on her forehead. "Big kids grab a little kid. Don't go back for your stuff, it's not worth it."

The evacuation proceeded as an uncoordinated blur of panicked adrenaline. Leon scooped up little Sam, who was still crying silently, clutching his jacket like a lifeline. Niall took charge of the bickering twins, Chloe and Zoey, practically throwing them from the bus in his desperation to get them safely away.

Sadie kept her hand firmly locked around Toby’s wrist, but her eyes darted back to me. "Brooklyn, stay right behind us. Keep your hand on my shoulder if you think you’re going to lose your balance."

Nodding numbly, I clutched my floral pouch inside my jacket pocket like a talisman, my other hand clinging to the strap of my tiny backpack. 

Abdomen throbbing, I scrambled over the overturned seats. The angle of the bus was alarming; every time a piece of metal groaned underneath my uggs, it felt like the entire chassis was going to slip another fifty feet along the  jagged incline on which we rested.

When I finally hit the dirt outside, I staggered haphazardly forward, desperate to be as far as possible from the wreckage.

Dense, dark pine trees crowded the steep, downward heading slope on my right. Up above, past the jagged line of the cliff we had just plunged over, the mountain pass highway seemed impossibly distant. No way to climb back up.

Straightening desperately, I listened for sirens, looked for flashing lights, anything but the sound of the dying bus engine and other kids' desperate cries.

"Everyone over by that flat boulder!" A command rang through the clearing, the voice echoing in my ears even after they’d stopped talking. 

“Come on, everyone,” Jean added, "Sadie is right. Sit down so we can get organised. Someone should scavenge for any blankets or first-aid kits from the storage undercarriage before that engine fluid catches fire."

Sadie guided Toby to the boulder, forcing him to sit, before she turned back to face the wreckage. Her face was set in a tight, cynical expression as she regarded the steep incline we had just tumbled down.

"No one saw us go over.” She muttered to herself, sharing a look with Leon. “The wildlife center wasn’t expecting us until late tomorrow, and the hotel won’t care if we don’t show up tonight.”

Her point was clear. No one would realize anything was wrong, for a very long time.

Frankenstein's Monster Fan Fiction

My chest hurts. The pain is the first thing I become aware of as reality crashes into me, every breath I draw an endless torture. Bright yellow light, so hot it burns the back of my eyes, keeps me squinting in suspense. My hands curl, sharp points scraping the inside of my palm, drawing blood. I can feel the warm liquid tracing rivers down my forearm. It takes me a moment to realize that it had been my own nails that had committed the wound. Struggling into a sitting position, I reach with clumsy arms to wipe the sleep from my blurred vision. My movements are heavy and uncoordinated, my motions unruly and not entirely my own. It was as if each part of me had a mind of its own that I couldn’t quite discern, each movement a jerky action that ripped at exposed tendons in my arms and legs.

Despite rubbing viciously at my eyes, my vision remained foggy and each of my senses seemed to work at only part of their intended functionality and in no relation to one another! Even my thoughts felt unusually cloudy, as if I were looking through a fairground mirror where everything was distorted and unnatural. Something was very, very wrong with me. Trying to speak, I open my mouth wide and exhale. No words, only a dragged out, low, harsh to my ears, grating, moan escaped from my parted lips. Joints creaking, I stagger to a sitting position and leaning down to escape the nausea let out another horrified grunt, this time caused by the horrific appearance of my own hands. The pointed nails and torn at pasty skin fascinated me almost as much as the open veins and visible muscles pumping up my arms did. What happened to me?

Lifting my eyes, I notice the man standing huddled in one corner. His face was streaked by tears and he was shaking increasingly, every twitching spasm of his limbs growing increasingly in frequency and in violence. His face was pale, although not as sickly as my own gray pallor; I may not be able to see my reflection on the stone walls but if my hands and bare chest are anything to go by I suppose I must look rather frightening. The man in the white coat uttered a high pitched squeaking noise from the back of his throat as I raised one disproportionately long arm in his direction. “Stay away from me!” He howled, dashing away to the closed wooden door. “Keep away! Keep away you-” he tripped and fell to the floor in a jumble of limbs, “you MONSTER!” Finished speaking, he charged up a flight of stairs as I dragged myself behind.

I don't know why I followed him. Perhaps I just couldn’t stand being in a room by myself. Alone with only my own dreadful company.

▪▪▪

Finally out of the stairwell, I lumber down one hall after another looking into room after room and pushing open heavy oak doors. At last, I found him sprawled out on a bed, hands dropped dramatically over his face and hair spiky with sweat. Standing over him, I trace my hands as gently as I possibly could across his beautiful facial features. Tracing his bushy white eyebrows and clear wrinkled skin. My hand next to his pale, fair skin shows to my disagreement just how yellow and crumbling my own complexion really is. My hand jerks away from him, cutting a long gash across his cheek. The man in the white coat awoke to my startled expression inches from his own and blood dripping from my tapered fingertips. An unearthly howl escaped his mouth, a truly wild cry of unbridled fear. Again, he staggered away.

Before I could take the first step towards following him out the entryway and into the courtyard, I spotted a terrible face glaring at me from the other end of the room. The figure had stooped shoulders and a hooked nose. One arm seemed to hang lower than the other and its greasy hair clung in unattractive clumps to the side of its misshapen, shrunken head. Springing back out of fright, I tried to hide behind the bed, ducked down to avoid the horrible thing’s haunting glare. To my surprise, it copied my movements down to the expression and that is when I realized. That was when I realized what I was.

What I am Not.

I'm not this tune

I've been playing

for the ears of anyone looking,

but not for the ears

of anyone listening.

◅▻

I'm not the clothing I adorn

each morning when I wake,

a camouflaged attempt

at fitting in.

◅▻

I'm not the box I checked

on the screen you placed before me;

because one word in multiple choice 

is never enough to fully capture

the well inside.

◅▻

I'm not the same person I was

four months ago today;

even in so little time,

the slightest alteration can ripple into

a wide-reaching change.

◅▻

I'm not the person I'm going to become,

though the seeds of that being

are somewhere hidden inside me,

waiting to be nourished by whatever new ideas 

take root.

◅▻

I'm not the echo you thought you heard

when you mistook my breathing

for a familiar song.

I am the pause between notes,

the place where sound decides

whether to rise or fall.

◅▻

I'm not the silhouette

you traced around me

to keep me still.

Your outlines never learned

the way my edges shift

when I’m finally unobserved.

◅▻

I'm not the mask I practiced

in the mirror before dawn,

the one stitched together

from borrowed gestures and careful silence.

◅▻

That was only the shell

I wore until my own voice

grew brave enough

to speak.

◅▻

I'm not the story you drafted in your mind

with its tidy arcs

and predictable turns.

I am the unwritten chapter

that refuses to stay

where you place it.

◅▻

I'm not a list of nots and crosses

in the book you hold,

reading from pages of simplified messages 

pasted together

in another attempt at connecting.

◅▻

I'm not anything you've read,

because I'm so much more 

than what has been written between 

the words and sentences 

streaming through your mind.

Waiting for the Spring

The ground is frozen over,

my breath lingers in the air.

Frost is nipping at my fingers,

snow sticking to my hair.

◈

The river which in spring

flowed with bountiful vitality,

now is frozen over,

waiting for the thaw.

◈

The air seems strangely quiet.

Like time is standing still.

In a land immortalized,

by frost, by snow and by cold.

◈

I cannot hear the wind, or the birds in the trees.

Standing in the woods,

alone,

it’s just me.

◈

The trees all are stoic.

Keeping their lasting peace.

Patiently they hibernate,

waiting for the spring.

◈

My mind feels finally peaceful.

My heart beats a sluggish pace.

The silence has a conscience

that lulls me fast to sleep.

◈

In a land immortalized

by frost of gentle shade.

The rising sun will find me

as beneath the trees I lay.

Authenticity in a Connected World

In a world that prioritizes and glorifies extroversion, introverts still have the power to make dramatic change. The Extrovert Ideal is the omnipresent belief that the ideal self is gregarious, alpha, and comfortable in the spotlight. However, one third to one half of Americans are introverts, meaning that one of every two or three people you know may find social situations to be stressful. This is striking, given that our culture often equates success with sociability. For example, individuals are more likely to succeed at a job interview or be promoted if their employers find them to be confident in social situations and easy to get along with, even if their technical skills are inferior to those of their peers. 

Rosa Parks exemplifies how introverts can catalyze social revolutions. Her refusal to give up her bus seat to a white passenger was a pivotal moment in the Civil Rights Movement. She didn’t shout or protest in a disruptive manner, but her quiet defiance sparked a nationwide movement. When the bus driver ordered her to give up her seat, she simply replied with “no”. When he threatened to have her arrested, she said “you may do that”. 

On the afternoon of her trial and conviction for disorderly conduct, the Montgomery Improvement Association held a rally for Rosa Parks where five thousand people gathered to support her act of courage. Martin Luther King Jr. addressed the gathered crowd. He said: "There comes a time that people get tired of being trampled over by the iron feet of oppression…". The resulting city-wide bus boycott lasted 381 days. People trudge miles to work and carpool with strangers, proving that even quiet acts of resistance can mobilize thousands and reshape history.

Emily Dickinson’s poem “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” explores the liberating nature of anonymity. In the poem, Dickinson compares the public to a bog - vast, shallow, and murky - suggesting that public personas often lack depth and authenticity.  This suggests that Dickinson thought it was more rewarding to be your own individual than change yourself to fit in with the public’s preconceived idea of perfect or normal. This shows that public and private image can be quite different because it emphasizes being true to yourself over performative belonging. 

The poem “My Honest Poem” by Rudy Francisco highlights how external perceptions such as your name, appearance, or family, influences how people expect you to act, and how that, in turn, influences internal identity. The metaphor “Yesterday, I tripped over my self-esteem,” exposes hidden insecurities and emotional vulnerability. It is a metaphor that exposes self-doubt and emotional fragility not on display to the public. This is a good description of the way people put on fake smiles or emotions  to fit in with the world around them. The line “I have solar-powered confidence” suggests that his confidence is conditional, thrives in positive circumstances, and is otherwise there only for the benefit of others. Francisco’s poem illustrates how individuals often adopt public personas that mask their true emotions, highlighting the tension between authenticity and societal expectation.

Why do personal and public identities differ? One reason is a lack of representation of complex identities in media and education, which leads to people feeling isolated. People may feel compelled to conform with societal norms if they haven't seen their experiences, cultures, or values reflected in mainstream media. When individuals don’t encounter narratives that validate their experiences, they feel pressured to conform with dominant norms in public spaces. This increases the divide between personal and private identity, and leads to people masking their true backgrounds, feelings, thoughts or heritage in order to gain acceptance or avoid judgment. 

Another reason people's public image and private identity differ is to protect themselves from harassment or discrimination. If people fear being targeted for things that set them apart such as gender, race, religion or sexuality they may choose to conceal aspects of who they are. For example, there are many countries where identifying as LQBTQIA+ can lead to imprisonment or even death. In hostile environments such as these, maintaining a personal persona that aligns with societal expectations becomes a form of defense. This disconnect can create emotional strain, as people feel misunderstood, unseen, or alienated, even in the presence of others.

Ultimately, the tension between personal and public identity reflects broader social dynamics such as power, social structures, safety and visibility. In the quiet defiance of Rosa Parks and introspective poetry of Rudy Francisco and Emily Dickinson, we see how people navigate these pressures in different ways. Rosa Park’s story shows that authenticity holds the power to challenge the status quo and inspire transformative change.

In a society that elevates extroversion as the ideal, introverts often feel compelled to adapt their public personas to meet societal expectations, even if it means putting themselves in situations that make them feel uncomfortable. This mirrors the broader tension between personal and private identity, where individuals, whether introverted or extroverted, navigate a world that tends to reward conformity over authenticity. 

Whether it's Rosa Parks quietly defying injustice, Rudy Francisco exposing the fragility behind public confidence, or Emily Dickinson embracing anonymity, each reveals how people manage the divide between who they are and how they are perceived. The fear of discrimination, lack of accurate representation, and cultural norms all contribute to this divide, leading many people to hide their true selves for self-defence or approval from peers. However, these stories also show that diversity has the power to challenge these social norms, lead to new ideas, and shape movements and art. The overarching message of these stories is that authenticity is not weakness—it is a powerful force capable of challenging norms, sparking movements, inspiring courage in others and reshaping society.