I am a writer at heart and have been my entire life. I am also a musician (marching band, pit orchestra, concert ensemble, jazz band) and an avid lover of all arts, which I was lucky enough to educate myself about at a performing arts high school. There, I became head copy editor at the newspaper, stage manager for multiple theatrical productions, and began my own business called Kaizer’s Hand (a reference to one of my favorite movies, The Usual Suspects); it is a proofreading and editing business for students and young professionals, including proposals, cover letters, resumes, etc. I have been using the website Fiverr as my start up location but am working on creating my own website and expanding my operation. I am also in the process of becoming an editor at the Zeniada Magazine at Johns Hopkins, which was unfortunately postponed due to the coronavirus crisis. I have several short stories, poems, and a short novel which I plan to publish within the next few months, currently being edited or revised. I’m not 100% sure what I want to do in the future because there are so many things I love. I have completely immersed myself in the arts and I can see myself writing a Broadway musical, writing for a fashion magazine, becoming a novelist, or even starting an organization like The Creative Process. My main plan for the future is to be a creative force that can spread a message throughout the world and make an impact, regardless of the industry.

My band director used to say, “Math, science, and all other topics are what makes the world run. The arts is what makes the world worth living in.” To me, creativity is at the heart of humanity, an intrinsic instinct that even the most right-brained people can access and use. The ability to create emotions, depth, and imagination is an integral part of society, a way to release the inner workings of our minds and hearts, which is what storytelling and creativity allows us to do. It makes life fascinating, to see the self expressions and inner workings of another’s mind, and it connects us as human beings, taking us to other worlds and realities we may not have even been able to imagine. I want to tap into this incredible resource more. Learning from others is the key to growth and I want to immerse myself with people and places that inspire me and can inspire others. I want to know more stories and more people and learn as much as possible about the creative process (no pun intended).

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Blue Tornado
by Analucia Reid

The underside of my bed had a lot of dust. I could see the bunnies dancing on and above the wooden slats of the bed frame, some dangling down and others hovering suspended in midair, frozen in time. It was stuffy and dusty, but somehow, I could breathe better below. The mounted twin XL was almost high enough for me to sit cross-legged underneath without hunching, but not quite. I had access to a phone charger and headphones, and I could reach into my minifridge if I really stretched. There was no imminent need to uncurl myself from fetal position and exit my reprieve; I often mused that if I did die, whoever came looking might have a hard time finding me.

I thought of death every day. Sometimes it would just be a daydream, an image of myself getting hit by a car, contracting a deadly virus, falling to my death. Other times I would see or hear of death and wish I was in their shoes, that I could trade the life I didn’t want for the death they weren’t expecting and did not desire. My eyes were shut tight and I started daydreaming again; did I have enough pills to actually kill myself or just permanently damage my internal organs? I had no access to rope, I would have to buy some, but where could I hang myself that was high enough to snap my neck?

The more options I crossed off my mental list, the more discouraged I got. Death is a tricky business, and I was terrified of trying and failing. I turned to my other side and checked my phone. 12:17pm. Time was an endless series of busy nothings that flowed cyclically; as my depression worsened, I could see clearly just how much of an illusion it was. I had been thrown from the cycle, desperately clinging to a tangible reality that contained things like the sun, darkness, and rain. Mainly, it’s because I was always so tired, sagging from one place to another in a daze like an insomniac. I quickly learned that too much sleep is just as bad as none, but my sleep dependency exceeded 11 hours a day, minimum.

One moment didn’t flow into the next, they just happened without my knowledge until I had a lucid moment where reality suddenly came hurtling towards me. Beneath my bed was the twilight zone; time had no place and there was nothing tangible to ground me other than the dust. I could hear music coming from the wall beside me, undoubtedly in the adjacent suite where my roommates lived. I could feel the vibrations through the wall, and I reached up to grab a pillow to put my head under. Noise was another thing that didn’t agree with me and why I rarely ventured into the public. Everyone sounded like the adults in Charlie Brown cartoons, just womp womp wowomp womp.

Chatter, laughter, it all sounded like a foreign language, an inside joke that the entire planet was in on but me. When I walked to class, if I even went to class, I often felt confusion; why is everyone so happy? How is everyone so awake? The weight of other’s emotions felt like a car crushing me, even when I wasn’t directly interacting with anyone. Even just hearing the chuckling and singing of my suitemates was enough to send me spiraling, I had to block it out. They couldn’t care less about me, they just used my dishes and my coffeemaker. I squeezed the pillow tighter against my ears, but I could still hear the music.

I was getting irrationally angry, as though the notes and lyrics were an attack against me, a personal vendetta. I threw the pillow violently and started beating the drywall between us with my fists; after a few moments, the music got louder, and they banged on the wall back. I rolled over flat, staring at the wooden slats again. My hands were trembling, and I could feel the salty water in the corners of my eyes, ready to gush down my flushed and twitching face. My tear ducts constantly held me hostage, I could cry at any moment of any day and be completely unable to explain it. First came the stinging, the prickly pokey feeling behind and beneath the eyelids, then the welling, where the tears began to clump and gather for the final waterfall.

Crying always made me feel guilty, because I was hyperaware of the fact that there was no reason; visions of homeless people and starving children would attack my frontal lobe and create a guilt about the superiority of my circumstances juxtaposed by my pathetic tears, which made me feel worse, which made me cry even more. The hot tears streaming down my face flowed silently and my throat was tightening like a vice. I wanted to have an outburst, scream, break something, hurt somebody; at least then I’d be feeling something, I’d be alive, I’d be human. I am not human anymore. I am the shell of a homo sapien, the husk of a living creature with no soul, no free will. I am more akin to an animal than a human being, simply a slave to my biological urges and environment.

The urge I was having right now was the same I always did when I felt the blue tornado begin to sweep me away – to do something drastic, to throw myself down a flight of stairs or jump in front of a moving vehicle or maybe go out late at night and pray for a maniac on the loose. My throat felt like it was going to snap in half from the inside out and I realized I wasn’t breathing. I swallowed a gulp of air and let it whoosh right back out of me. Depression can also render you immobile, trap you and your psyche with psychological chains that are heavier and more real than the physical metal links. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, so I just closed my eyes; when I opened them again, it was pitch black.

Hours had passed but I don’t remember sleeping. Sleep was my standby mode, the black screen with abstract shapes forming and shifting on a laptop left sitting too long. My mouth was incredibly dry, I had cried out the last of the water in my system and was left with just dry flesh and bones. I slowly rolled over and crawled towards my small fridge; it was barren, save an expired quart of milk, spoiled Chinese food, and an almost empty jug of water. I sipped the last drops feverishly while the dehydration made my head, my eyes, my everything hurt.

I would have to reenter the world of the living and journey to the water fountain if I was going to survive. My heart began to pound at the thought of leaving or running into another person, god forbid someone I knew. I crawled and stood up for the first time that day and my legs buckled beneath me. Television static buzzed inside my lower limbs, the blood rushing to them quickly as I braced myself on the chair in front of me. I set the jug down and grabbed a stray hoodie on the floor, pulling the hood and drawstring so tight only my eyes were visible. I wasn’t wearing any pants and I dropped to my knees to sift through the hills and valleys of clothing making up the landscape of my floor.

I couldn’t find anything but jeans and I refused to put them on; too much work. The ratty and holey panties I had one weren’t going to cut it, so I removed my hoodie and put on a robe. Since there was a community bathroom, walking around near naked was standard practice, but this meant my unkempt curls and sunken, shallow face would be exposed; a necessary sacrifice. I grabbed the jug and took three deep breaths, staring at the wooden door in front of me. I grabbed the doorknob, opened the door, and broke into a full-on sprint. Out the second door to the common space, down the hall, past the corner by the bathrooms, until finally, the fountain. I tilted the plastic container beneath the gushing water and tried to breath normally. I could hear a door opening somewhere and immediately capped the jug.