Aryan's A-Z

  Violet Flame How about if King took a step down the pedestal? And let his dreams be shattered by fear, How about if prejudice raged on so vehemently? That the hearts of the colored be gouged by a spear. How about if the Klan kept fighting? And the souls of the oppressed caved in too quick, How about if the Browns and the Blacks remained brutalized? And harmed and beaten at a single uptick. How about if mothers and daughters were raped? Their hands shackled together and eyes bleeding salt, How about if no one was there to protect them? It was legal after all, and always the victim’s fault. How about if lynching and mobbing was praised? Men whipped and pierced to howl through the night, How about if they cackled, and sneered at your state? As you would be gagged at the throat to see naught daylight. How about if babies would be stripped from their mothers? The mothers left to die without appeal, How about if their bodies would be engulfed in fire? While the baby's head was crushed ...

    Artificial Intelligence: The Source Through Which We Fall           “Alexica, grab me a coffee and turn on the T.V,” I cawed out while sinking into my AI-generated premium leather chair. “Certainly sir,” a metallic voice vibrated through my eardrums, and the chair manually adjusted my posture to ensure a perfect arch was formed by my back for optimal health. As locket-golden beams of sunlight filtered through the windows in the dawning of a new day, I stopped Windr- our window adjuster- from automatically doing its thing in order to let in some more Vitamin D. Unequipping my earbuds, I soaked in the gentle melodic soundwaves of a few doves outside, as the flapping and barely audible rustling of their wings was like an orchestra far more serene than the works of even the greatest of classical composers (no offense Mozart). And in such refined moments as this, like for any great author or connoisseur of the arts, a novelty struck my thought...

 Global Warming: A Satire I skid past the curb at 90 miles per hour, leaves trailing me in a brittle dry vortex of wind. I’m sweating like a madman, perspiration glistening on the roof of my skin as the sun beats down upon it through the layers after layers of smog in the air. My e-bike spirals over lumps of bodies, dead or alive, and I finally arrive back home from university. In the corner in front of my house, I shoo away some homeless folk cooking their eggs on the front porch, and skimper inside desperate for a glass of water. After sipping my rations, three and a half measly sips for the next 24 hours, I slink away on top of our rustic couch and groan in an attempt to avoid fainting. They had warned us about this. Almost 20 years ago, albeit, but still. “That damn government, they keep sending down the waves of heat here. Icebergs never existed in the first place, they just drew our attention to them damned floating things of nonsense to drag it away from what they’re actuall...

  How Does the White Man? By: Aryan Mukherjee How does the white man live this way with his own brethren? One plucked from the ovule and the other the petal, Both brewed and simmered in the same dirt pot, Yet the darker is evicted like gas from a kettle. How does the white man leave us to his toil? Our pockets run dry and our palms scathed like field rows, The same ones we were promised to withstand never again, And yet here pass the thorns of this feigned ruby rose. How does the white man dispose us like dregs? He takes the Constitution which he consecrated and swore by, And wraps it delicately ‘round our very necks, And strips us of pride, made a lynched martyr to glorify. How does the white man sputter out with distaste? The word “Negro” like venom as if he wasn’t the fang, Rounds us all up like hogs in the pig pen of Harlem, And sets flame and ruination to our humble black gang. How does the white man simply live with himself? He claims our craft as talent as if it were his own...

Written by: Aryan Mukherjee, in partnership with Currently Informed   I knew something awful was brewing when the ringing came back. The same ringing in my ears and spine that echoed from within and blurred my vision at every moment that I tried to exorcize it. It was the ringing of phones, of computer notifications, a chime shared by almost all 2,500 kids at my school as soon as they were notified of their next challenges. So far, I’ve tried my best to avoid these challenges, but they’ve had their own sinister ways of creeping up behind me when I least expect it and paralyzing me as I am forced to smell their rancid breaths. The same breaths, most unfortunately, that I should have smelled coming from a mile away. Those of the people enforcing the challenges of course, which just so happen to be a handful of scrawny outstated students who’ve convinced practically everyone I know to join them in partaking in the tasks in the first place. Eventually, it was too much, and I had ...