Welcome back lovely readers, to Tea Leaves - the cozy blog space of Tea-Stained Literary, where stories
whisper in every corner! Today, we are savouring five vibrant and wistful pieces of stories, hand-picked by us, each a pathway to a world crafted with care. Pour yourself a cup of tea, and drift through these pieces, one sip at a time.
Autumn in Fragments
By Claire Kroening
(Previously published by Paper Planes Press)
“Wrapped in the essence of autumn and nostalgia, this piece captures a fleeting memory,
through a tapestry of imagery, scent and bittersweet reflections.”
I remember autumn in fragments:
the way light bent
through the last apples
clinging to their branches—
a warm fog tangled in the trees,
the air a sweet taste
of woodsmoke and rot.
my hands bury in woolen sleeves,
where chill weaves into the fabric
like matted ferns against earth,
tinting softer
with each passing week.
I remember you
in the slant of remaining luster;
your hair woven in copper,
glowing with the last
of afternoon’s warmth.
we didn’t speak,
a last golden thread between us
as we let the moments hang—
frayed as a leaf caught midair.
The Months Of The Year
By Zubaidha Afsheen
(Trigger Warning- Blood, Alcoholism, Implication of SH)
“A piece that walks through each month of a year, showcasing the distortions of a mind in
circumstances, it tells a story of regret, temporary hope, and a loop that seems never
ending”
it's january and i say
new year, new me but
i'm still weeping over
the boy who I once loved.
who once whispered
sweet nothings to me
under sycamore trees,
and peppered nectarine
sweet kisses across my
shoulder blades.
now it's february
and i lay beneath
the same sycamore
tree, alone and
desperate to be
loved again.
i drown in a dionysian
ecstasy as march rolls
in, and i dance till the
soles of my feet are
bloody and ruined
because maybe then,
the pain of this loss
won't be felt so much.
but as april comes in
leaving autumn kisses
on my cheek, i can
feel the tears that
stained them and i
weep again. not for
him this time, but for
the girl i once was.
may came and you
with it. you with your
obsidian eyes and
daring mouth. i am
on my knees begging
a god i don't believe
in to never take you
from me.
but then june sweeps
in faster than a hurricane
and i'm drowning in an abyss
of despair again, wishing
I had never met you.
july arrives and so do
the vicious words of
my mother. i am cursed
she says. not meant for
love but for rotting within
my own skin, with no
escape. she is right, of
course.
my mouth is wrapped
around a bottle of wine
as august approaches
slowly, tauntingly.
It is the month of us.
it was. and now you
are twisted in sheets
with her and im crying
in an abandoned alley
wondering where i
went wrong.
September is a blur.
a blur of blades and
blood and weeping
and clinging to the
little life left in me.
I am disgusting.
I wish I never existed.
my house is a mural
of your life. i want to
tear it all down. i never
want to touch it again.
help me, help me,
help me.
october wasn't better
than all the other
months, after all.
november is all
drunken mistakes
and meaningless
promises. i feel like
I'm drowning. maybe
I am. maybe not.
i know nothing
These days.
december is finally
here again and so
are the feeling ive
been suppressing.
do my friends love
me? need me? am
Am I not good enough?
i think i am going to
kill myself. i probably
should.
Mushroom Cloud Monologue
By Scarlett Alderwood
“A conversation between a grandmother and her grandchild, sparked by an innocent
question, revealing a story of how a mushroom cloud seen from afar forever took a beloved
family and sister”
“Who’s what, darlin’?” *is handed frame from offscreen* “Oh, that’s your great-aunt Cecilia.
She was a real firecracker back in the day- had a heart of gold too, so Daddy liked to tease
that at least one of his girls grew up with manners… No, pumpkin, they’ve all been gone
awhile... ‘Course I remember it...” *reflective pause* “as if I could ever forget such a thing…
The war was nearly over and the school was lettin’ us go on a trip, ignorin’ the fact that
nothin’ was normal, tryin’ to give us a regular school year I s’pose. Lia stayed home that day-
a fever, she insisted- so Mama stayed home to fuss over her. Mama always liked to fuss. I
don’t think my sister was sick at all, she never liked the countryside anyhow, she just wanted
to play with the stray that roamed around our street. I can’t imagine why, the mangy thing
was always yowlin’ at night. Never let me sleep peacefully for more than a few hours at a
time… what was I saying again? Don’t you gimme that look, child. I may be old but my mind
sure as hell ain’t. Now where was I… oh yeah, the school trip. We were roamin’ the fields,
lookin’ at the trees and all the flowers in bloom. It was beautiful. A real nice place for a
school trip, almost too nice… I remember suddenly looking up at the sky- no rhyme, no reason to it, no ‘feelin’ that I should, I just did. And that’s when I saw it: a giant mushroom in
the sky. Students stopped and pointed, and the teachers contorted in fear. They knew what
happened, and as soon as some started cryin’, we all knew it too... Never got to say
goodbye either, what with the radiation poison and the stink of death permeating
everything… I never stop thinkin’ about my sister, how I should’ve called her bluff and made
her go anyway, so at least then I woulda had someone… I really hope that mangy cat was
worth it.”
Fifth is to the Moon
By Amaranth
“A piece presenting a moment of comfort and vulnerability between two siblings, an escape
from their seemingly unavoidable circumstances. And a story within a story that mirrors their
life a bit too much.”
This story follows a pair of immigrant siblings throughout their lives from childhood until the
eventual death of the older brother. Laima, the younger sibling, had a “dream world” as a
child in which everything was perfect because it was the opposite of reality. After the events
listed below, they have “lost” this world and struggle to cope with the harsh reality of the real
world. Misha, the older brother, is anxious about his future. He wants to protect his sibling
but is incredibly distant from the rest of the family and
society outside of his household. He has made a decision that Laima has been slowly
catching onto. The year is 1978 and the two are hiding while their parents argue in the hall.
Off-screen, the sound of two people, a man and a woman, becomes louder. They start with
some disagreement, but it becomes an argument heard through the walls of the two siblings'
separate rooms. LAIMA, 11, reacts with frustration and a twinge of fear as they cover their
ears. MISHA,
18, reacts by sighing as his grip on his books weakens. There is a knock on his door and he
sets down his novels, next to a box filled with similar objects, before he goes to the sound.
He opens it with no hesitation and smiles at his visitor.
LAIMA
Can you tell me a story?
MISHA
Of course. What should this story be about?
LAIMA smiles back and enters his room. Together, they sit on the floor. MISHA’s room is
bare,
his bookshelf is nearly empty and his desk is cleared. Notably, his record player remains,
and it
is playing LAIMA’s favorite song, Clair de Lune.
LAIMA
My favorite one, with the asteroids.
MISHA
But I’ve told that one so many times. Don’t you want to hear a new one?
LAIMA
No. I want to make this one a new one, to make it special.
MISHA
Okay. We can tell this story again. Once upon a time… (the lights grow darker, more
space-y)
There were two asteroids that orbited around the sun. The little asteroid (LAIMA), more
energetic
and free, asked the older asteroid (MISHA)-
LAIMA
“I wish I were different.”
MISHA
(hesitating) “Oh tell me, young rock, why do you wish that?”
LAIMA
(without a beat) “Because I would be happier.”
MISHA
“How do you wish you were different? We are misshapen asteroids, we cannot change.”
LAIMA
“Well then, I wish I were a star. Glowing bright, the planets would bow down to me. I would
be
beautiful simply because of my existence. But I am a dusty, cold, grey asteroid. I am
unhappy.”
MISHA pauses. Is this a confession, a secret? He slowly continues.
MISHA
“Well,” said the old asteroid, “I wish I were different, too. I’ve dreamt of being a moon all my
life. I would have a planet to look after and a star to share the sky with. If you should be the
sun,
I will be the moon.”
LAIMA
(smiling) “We would be happy for all of eternity. We would leave behind our old rocks and our
souls would live on through these new identities.”
MISHA
(quietly) And yet, we are mere asteroids floating through space.- “We can only watch from
afar
the joys that are the lives of stars and moons, how are we supposed to change?”
LAIMA
(thinking) “We believe in the possibility that we can change.” You know, just as we’ve
changed
the story.
MISHA
That part is easy, changing stories. It’s only pretend, how are we…
He cuts himself off. LAIMA stares at him with pure sadness in their eyes. The two do not
speak as
MISHA realizes what he has said. All the while, the arguing outside continues, its volume
amplified from the silence.
LAIMA
Why do our parents fight? It feels wrong, their love is completely taken over by anger.
(standing up, pausing his record) Because it is wrong. They’re stressed, nervous about the
future.
Something like that.
He puts the vinyl into the sleeve, walking to a packing box and placing it inside.
MISHA
-Laima. I have to tell you something.
There is no response.
I-... I’m leaving you. Maybe you’ve known, I’ve seen the way you look at the boxes. I don’t
want to leave you, I… (he can’t find the words to say what he really means) I feel trapped
here,
in America. Isolated, I guess.
LAIMA
Where are you going?
MISHA
What?
LAIMA
You said you feel trapped in America. If not here, then where?
… He is silent. His face betrays him, it tells LAIMA the answer. Home. As their eyes fill with
tears the room grows smaller, brighter, overwhelming, -surreal-. They can only whisper out
what they feel, their voice too soft to make themself heard. Everything is abruptly stopped
when their MOTHER enters the room. When she swings the door open, the two of them look
over in fear.
The room is back to normal, much to the dismay of LAIMA. They are awake.
Thank you so much for having read our very first blog post! We hope you've enjoyed reading this wonderful collection of poetry and prose from talented, young creatives, all around the world. We can't wait to see you in our next blog post, and thank you once again to our lovely authors who have been published!
