Why Coffee Chip is the Elite Ice Cream Choice by Aaliyah Sharma

 Why Coffee Chip is the Elite Ice Cream Choice

by: Aaliyah Sharma

         When you walk into an ice cream shop, the sheer number of colors and toppings can be overwhelming. You have the neon blues of cotton candy, the classic brown of chocolate, and the endless variations of vanilla. However, for those who want a dessert that actually tastes sophisticated, there is only one real contender: coffee chip. It is the perfect balance of "grown-up" flavor and classic sweetness, making it the undisputed heavyweight champion of the freezer aisle.

        The brilliance of coffee chip starts with the base. Unlike fruit-flavored scoops that can sometimes taste like cough medicine, or vanilla which can feel like a blank canvas, coffee ice cream has a deep, earthy richness. It provides a caffeine-inspired bitterness that perfectly offsets the heavy sugar and cream. It’s a flavor that doesn’t just sit on your tongue; it actually wakes up your taste buds. For a teenager who is probably already juggling a million things, that slight hint of coffee flavor feels like a nod to the busy, productive person you’re becoming.

        Then, you have the "chip" factor. Plain coffee ice cream is good, but adding chocolate chip,—specifically dark chocolate or semi-sweet chunks, turns it into a masterpiece. The texture is everything here. You get the smooth, melting creaminess of the coffee base followed by the sudden, satisfying snap of cold chocolate. It prevents the experience from becoming boring or one-note. Every spoonful is a little treasure hunt for that next crunch, which makes the entire bowl much more engaging to eat.

         Another reason coffee chip wins is its versatility. It’s the rare flavor that works in every season. In the heat of July, it’s a refreshing, icy version of your favorite drink. In the middle of winter, the rich, cozy notes of the coffee bean make it feel like a comfort food. It also pairs perfectly with almost anything; whether you put it on a warm brownie, inside a waffle cone, or just eat it straight out of the pint while finishing a late-night project, it never feels out of place.

        At the end of the day, picking coffee chip is a power move. it shows that you appreciate a complex flavor profile over a sugar-crash-in-a-cup. While everyone else is fighting over whether strawberry is "too pink" or if mint chocolate chip "tastes like toothpaste," you can sit back and enjoy the perfect harmony of bitterness and sweetness. It’s the elite choice for the refined palate, and once you go coffee chip, it’s hard to go back to anything else.

Why Cereal Must Always Come First by Aaliyah Sharma

Why Cereal Must Always Come First
        It is one of the oldest debates in the history of the kitchen table, right up there with whether pineapple belongs on pizza or if a hot dog is a sandwich. However, when it comes to the logistics of breakfast, there is really only one logical way to prepare a bowl: the cereal must hit the porcelain before the milk. This isn't just a matter of tradition or habit; it is a matter of physics, flavor, and basic common sense. Anyone who pours the milk first is essentially playing a dangerous game with their morning routine, and it’s time we break down exactly why the "cereal first" method is the only way to live.

       The primary reason for this rule is the "Volume Control Theory." When you pour the flakes, loops, or clusters into the bowl first, you can see exactly how much room is left for the liquid. You are in total control of the ratio. You then pour the milk to perfectly coat the treasure you’ve just laid out, stopping exactly when the milk reaches the top of the pile. If you pour the milk first, the cereal just floats on top like a sugary iceberg. You end up with a tiny, unsatisfying serving of cereal and a giant puddle of leftover milk, or worse, you keep adding cereal until the bowl overflows onto the counter.

        Then, there is the issue of the "Splash Zone." We have all experienced the basic laws of physics: when a solid object is dropped into a liquid, displacement occurs. If you drop a handful of crunchy, jagged cereal into a pre-poured pool of milk, you are essentially asking for a face full of dairy. It is an unnecessary risk to take when you are still half-asleep and trying to get ready for school. By pouring the milk over the cereal, the liquid flows through the cracks and settles at the bottom, keeping your shirt clean and your morning stress-free.

        Beyond the mess, we have to consider the "Crunch Factor." The whole point of cereal is the satisfying snap of the first few bites. When you pour milk over the cereal, every piece gets a light, even coating, but the bottom layers stay crunchy longer because they aren't immediately submerged in a deep pool of liquid. If you float the cereal on top of a bowl of milk, the bottom of that "cereal raft" gets soggy instantly while the top stays bone-dry. This creates an inconsistent, weirdly textured eating experience that no one actually wants at 7:00 AM.

        Ultimately, while you are technically free to eat your breakfast however you want, the "cereal first" method is the only one that guarantees a perfect ratio, a clean kitchen, and the ideal texture. It’s the foundation of a successful, organized morning. Anything else is just breakfast chaos, and we already have enough chaos to deal with once the school bell rings. If you’re still a milk-first rebel, it might be time to reconsider your life choices and embrace the way the cereal box intended.

Aaliyah Sharma

This White Bed Of Mine, a short story by Fatima Azeem

 This White Bed Of Mine

A silent breath whispered the number of snowflakes falling from Heaven. It was hard to keep your eyes open in fear of snow getting into your eyes, and yet, Alessandro stubbornly stared at the sky like it was the enemy of humanity. What was there to fear when his eyelashes would catch the tears of a cloud? 

Lying in a fury of snow was never this serious. Lying in the snow never even passed Alessandro’s mind before, and yet there he was, like an angel embraced by a fresh blanket of nothing but white. The whole world was covered in one pure color, from the trees to the colonies of ant hills. Everything seemed so in place except for him, alone, lonely, one. It wasn’t always like this, but what was the point of yearning for something you didn’t even know? What troubled him, though, was that these certain unknown memories kept attacking Alessandro over and over, like moments that weren’t meant to be forgotten. These images weren’t nightmares, no. He never experienced them during the night, even. They were always playing in his mind when he least expected them to, like now, lying on the cold ground, when there was nothing to lull his eyes closed.

Now he remembers, it was a day like this, in an unknown year, in a life Alessandro didn’t remember. His mouth moved on its own, possessed as if he were there now. 

* * * *

“Thoughts are meant to be forgotten. So why ask me what I’m thinking about?” He said, with quiet spite, mind you. The other, who was supposed to answer, instead stooped down, kneeling towards the questioner. 

“Wouldn't you like it if I knew about you, and you knew about me? We’re friends, after all,” he answers. The questioner looked up at him funny. “Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that, Andro.”

“Alessandro, not Andro,” the man, smoking, said. He was engulfed in smoke, both from the cold and his cigarette, his head empty. The cold was numbing his nose. “ I don’t understand why you act this way.”

“What way, Andro?” His dear friend questioned. Now he was the questioner. “I haven’t done anything to pique your interest.”

“I never said you did,” Alessandro told him. “I just like your art, Ramie. Nothing more, nothing less.“

“Why, ‘cause it’s illegal?” Ramie smiled. Yes, that was his name. Given to him by the woman who bore him and left him the same day. Nothing to pity about. His hair was covered in chunks of snow piling on top of each other, and Alessandro couldn’t help but watch as the frozen tears covered him. He didn’t reply to Ramie, not protesting anymore when the boy sat down next to him. 

Up ahead, there was a frozen expansion of a hibernating river. It glistened like a mirror in the sun's light, which peeked its head from the curtains of gray clouds, as if to show mercy to those below. Not that they asked for it. Still, the two men welcomed the short-lived warmth of honey-dew sunlight. One thankful, the other numb in thought. It was silent between them for a while, even as the sun rested in the west, out of sight. 

“Being miserable must be a punishment from God,” Ramie said out into the open. He wasn’t addressing me, that much I knew, but what could a person like Ramie feel miserable about? I didn’t ask him. 

Instead, I asked, “Do you believe in God?” Now this question felt like I rang a bell over his head, the impact echoing through our consciousness in a hum. I turned to face him just slightly, trying to figure out what he was playing at, but the way Ramie stared out into the vast distance gave nothing away for me to read. 

“There has to be something out there, greater than us, to have created all this.” Is what he said, gesturing to the landscape, and I silently agreed with him, content in finally feeling understood. It was difficult to believe in something you couldn’t see, but if that were the case for everything, then what would be the point in having hope? It was reassuring to know that maybe out there, a life better than here was awaiting us, and that our minds just couldn’t comprehend it yet. 

“Whoever did create all this is the real artist here,” I muttered to myself, then to Ramie, I said, “Could you paint this, as you did before? I’ll pay you for it.” Ramie finally looked at me, scoffing. 

“That’s a high risk for such a kind offer. Where would you even hide the artwork?” He pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. “Someone will have to have noticed two men exchanging artwork for money like they were drug dealers in a back alleyway.” 

“Like how you always do. Hide it in the walls instead of on them.” I quipped back.

“You creeper. How’d you know?” He threw some snow at me, missing in the process. “Mariano told you? That weasel–”

I just laughed at him, throwing my cigarette butt into the snow and burying it. It simmered away like a star dying in the night sky, and I kept my eyes on it until Ramie got up and started walking, more like waddling, down the hill. He offered me a “see you later” rather than a “good-bye”— he didn’t like saying good-bye— and yelled down from the bottom that he’d talk to me about our “drugs” tomorrow, saying it was too cold to sniff powder, anyway. 

The moon didn’t appear as I looked back at the sky once more before getting up, and neither did the constellations. Today’s play would not show, like usual. I felt numb again, just this time, not from the cold. I warmed up to Ramie too much today…

So just go home, Alessandro, go home.

* * * *

The sounds around Alessandro were muffled. Maybe the shed of unnecessary snow from the sky finally got to him. After all, he was facing paradise when he closed his eyes, and now he was at his side, chasing the remnants of what used to be Ramie. Alessandro’s face burned with the cold,  and he tried to steady his breathing, attempting to wake the lungs that felt frozen with his heart. Was the snow trying to strangle him quietly, suffocate him peacefully, in an attempt not to disturb anyone? How kind of Mother Nature. But no, Alessandro’s eyes opened like a door leading to a new world, a dark one. He gasped and startled, sat up quickly, wincing in the process. How long had he been here, reminiscing in his sleep? Nothing felt warm anymore, not like how it was in his “dream.” The sun wasn’t showing him mercy today. Nobody was. Nothing would be showing mercy. That’s just how reality was. 

The Ride Home, a short story by Fatima Azeem

 The Ride Home

The woman walked towards the bus stop, out of breath from running earlier. She realized long ago that there’d be no point in catching the afternoon bus from where she was. Frustrated and tired, she sat down with a sigh, rubbing her eyes before glancing around. It was dark now, she noticed, and it put her on edge, so she made sure to follow the shadows passing by every now and then. Cars rumbled on the street, honking, echoing through alleyways and around corners of the city. The woman turned her face towards the oncoming bus, relieved finally that she’d start her journey home. She stood up with another sigh, gathering her bag and fixing her coat before standing at the edge of the road. The bus honked twice before stopping in front of her, and the doors opened with a hiss. The woman allowed her feet to carry her into the vehicle, where she scanned her phone with a daily pass near the front of the bus. She muttered a “good evening” to the driver before narrowing her eyes towards empty seats. There, in the middle, was an empty seat, but an intimidating man sat right beside it. She felt eyes on her as she scanned the area, avoiding lingering glances before quickly stepping towards the back of the bus, sitting in a seat not so packed with people. The woman finally breathed again as the bus started moving, leaning back to rest her head. 

Still, she couldn’t help looking up towards the front of the bus, looking at the flashing numbers that would pop up now and then. 7732A, it read. The woman opened her phone to check her ticket, reading the numbers. A7732, it showed. This stunned the woman. Why would it be different? But it wasn’t that different on her ticket as it was on the bus she was on, so maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal…? She shuffled in her seat, sitting upright and looking around. Damn it, what now? How could I be so careless? She looked out the window to figure out where she was, recognizing a street sign. She knew where she was, so she quickly got up to press the “Stop here” button. She waited for the bus to stop. She watched the bus driver. Nothing stopped, so she pressed the button again, this time pressing longer. She heard the buzz, but nothing stopped. She held onto a railing, feeling the bus shake. What the hell is going on?

She yelled, “Excuse me!” only to find the eyes of passengers turn towards her. The woman wanted to hide, but she called the driver again. “My stop is here!” 

The driver glanced at the woman before saying, “No, it’s not.” The woman felt her heart beat race, shocked by the audacity of what she just heard. 

“What? What did you say?” She started walking up to the front of the bus, before a passenger grabbed her wrist. She looked at the woman, tense as ever. 

“You’re on the wrong bus, lady.” The passenger said. “It’s too late now.” Her eyes were dim as they met the woman.

“What do you mean by ‘too late?’ What is going on?” The woman said, voice trembling. She felt goosebumps start to run up her arm, the one the passenger held. She screamed as the bus started to accelerate, going faster every minute. She looked around, but nobody was scared like her. “Let me out!” she shrieked, “Just open the door, please!” She cried.

“The bus doesn’t stop. Ever.” Said the passenger. “You’re dead, now sit down for the ride.”

The People's Faith, a poem by Fatima Azeem

 The People's Faith

Perhaps memories don’t define a person

Maybe our authenticity lies in pain

We go from carving hearts to gutting out land

In the fire of man, no shadows are made

Under the moonlight, we sit on gold, wondering: who stays up during the nights of October? 

The stars, you would say

But they’re getting closer, aren’t they?

The light in the sky, indeed, gets closer, attempting to mesmerize

Yet the whistle speaks for itself

And heat is raining down to melt our hands, and her lover, and the farmer’s trees

Not the man in the suit

Not the old men who sleep in their clean blankets

Revealing the awaiting rubble at dawn

Yes, maybe blood is cheaper than oil

So while our roots rot into the soil, people will have nowhere to live but in the dirt of their land

Even if it means the flowers drink their blood

But our leaders are deaf, and justice is being left blind

Why Banana Peppers and Jalapeños Rule the Pizza by Aaliyah Sharma

 Why Banana Peppers and Jalapeños Rule the Pizza

        When it comes to pizza toppings, people usually play it safe with pepperoni or complain about pineapple. But if you want a pizza that actually has some personality, the elite combination is banana peppers and jalapeños. This duo is the ultimate "cheat code" for anyone who thinks standard pizza is a little too bland. It’s not just about making the food spicy; it’s about creating a balance of flavors that most other toppings simply can’t compete with.

        The magic starts with the banana pepper. These bright yellow rings are the unsung heroes of the pizza world because they bring a specific tanginess to the table. They aren’t particularly hot, but they are pickled, which means they provide a vinegary crunch that cuts right through the heavy grease of the cheese and dough. If you’ve ever felt like a pizza was too "heavy" or salty, the acidity of the banana pepper is exactly what you need to brighten up the entire slice.

        Then, you add the jalapeño to bring the heat. While the banana pepper handles the tang, the jalapeño provides that classic spicy kick that wakes up your taste buds. When they are baked in a high-intensity pizza oven, jalapeños lose some of their raw "bite" and develop a slightly smoky, roasted flavor. This creates a layered heat that builds as you eat, making every bite a little more interesting than the last. It turns a boring dinner into an actual experience.

      The best part about this pairing is how they work together as a team. The vinegar from the banana peppers actually helps mellow out the sting of the jalapeños, so you get all the flavor without feeling like your mouth is on fire. It’s a sophisticated move for a "simple" meal. Plus, the contrast of the bright yellow and deep green makes the pizza look a lot more appetizing than a standard pile of greyish mushrooms or plain brown sausage.

        In the end, pizza is supposed to be exciting, and nothing is more exciting than a slice that fights back just a little bit. Choosing banana peppers and jalapeños shows that you aren't afraid of a little flavor and that you value a crunch over soggy veggies. So, the next time you’re staring at a menu and can’t decide, skip the basic toppings and go for the spicy-tangy combo. Your taste buds will thank you, even if you have to drink an extra glass of water afterward.

Aaliyah Sharma

The Digital Loop by Aaliyah Sharma

 

The Digital Loop

by  Aaliyah Sharma

        We’ve all been there: you open your phone at 9:00 PM just to check one notification, and suddenly it’s midnight. You haven’t moved, you’re scrolling through videos of people deep-cleaning their carpets or ranking types of cheese, and you aren't even really enjoying it anymore. This is the "infinite scroll" trap, a cycle where we keep searching for one more hit of entertainment even when our brains are clearly exhausted. It feels less like a choice and more like a reflex, especially when we’re using it to avoid a looming history essay or a messy room.

       The reason this happens isn't just because we have low willpower; these apps are literally designed to be bottomless. In the old days of the internet, you eventually reached the end of a page and had to click "next" to keep going. That tiny pause gave your brain a second to ask, "Do I actually want to keep doing this?" Now, that friction is gone. As soon as one video ends, the next one starts, or as you swipe down, new content loads instantly. It creates a flow state that tricks your mind into thinking you’ve only been online for five minutes when it’s actually been an hour.

        The weirdest part of the infinite scroll is the "numbing" effect it has on our stress. When we have a massive to-do list, the sheer weight of it can feel paralyzing. Scrolling becomes a way to turn off our thoughts and block out the anxiety of what we’re supposed to be doing. However, it’s a fake kind of relaxation. Instead of feeling refreshed after a break, we usually end up feeling more drained and guilty because the original problem is still there, and now we have less time to deal with it. It’s a loop that feeds itself: the more we scroll to avoid stress, the more stress we create.

       Breaking out of the loop usually requires more than just "trying harder" to stop. One of the best ways to snap out of it is to reintroduce the friction that the apps took away. This could mean setting a physical timer across the room, using "scroll-stopping" apps that lock you out after a certain limit, or even just switching your phone screen to grayscale mode. When the videos aren't bright and colorful, they suddenly lose a lot of their hypnotic power. It sounds simple, but making the experience slightly more annoying can be enough to remind your brain that there’s a real world outside the screen.

        Ultimately, it’s okay to spend some time mindlessly scrolling—we all need to decompress sometimes. The goal isn't to delete every app and live in the woods; it’s just about taking back the remote. If you find yourself three hours deep into a "What’s in my bag" marathon, don't beat yourself up. Just put the phone face down, take a deep breath, and do one small thing on your actual to-do list. Once you break the momentum of the scroll, the rest of your night usually feels a lot more under your control.