When I dreamt, I became someone else. It started two nights ago. The last thing I could remember before it happened was getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth, everything was normal. As I fell into sleep, something changed, not in my bedroom, but in myself. A force had found me, for whatever reason, it reached out and pulled me away. When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in my apartment anymore. I was sitting in a stranger’s chair, in a stranger’s apartment. I tried to stand up and found I couldn’t. I tried just turn my head or flick my eyes around the room, but they would not move. As the panic set in I could feel something new lurking in its shadow, the otherness, or rather I was the otherness. A spirit trapped in a stranger’s body; a rare discordant note played by a master pianist. In my dream, although dream does not feel like the right word, the man stood and went to the window and looked out at the starless, black sky. In the window’s soft reflection, I could make out the contours of his face, a weak, unassuming jaw and deep-set eyes made his reflection look like a ghost. Along his left eyebrow, I saw the shadow of a scar that came down around his cheekbone. I wondered who he was and where that scar had come from, but his sudden movement broke my train of thought. There wasn’t much to tell about the apartment, it was dark, it looked like a studio with a single recliner sat in the middle of the room, a shelf of books and movies and an unkempt bed with the box spring on the floor tucked away into one of the corners. It didn’t matter, he was suddenly on the move, stuffing his feet into ratty old converse and searching for his keys. As we walked out the door, he swooped his arm down and nabbed a prepacked duffle bag. When we were outside, I recognized that we were in the city. The man was walking pretty fast, the autumn breeze washed against his face and I realized that I could feel everything he felt, the rhythm of his footsteps on the soles of his feet, the clatter of the duffle bag against his back, the thin layer of sweat over his mustached lip. Dogs barked in the distance, and the me who is not me began to walk a little bit faster. He reached a hand to his face and stroked the tail of the scar there. After a few minutes we arrived at a beat-up old Honda, the man climbed into the car, tossing the bag haphazardly onto the passenger seat and turned the key. As he pulled out into the street I noticed that he was breathing heavily, and I could sense a tightness in his throat, the kind one might get when suffering with intense seasonal allergies or a winter cold. We, the Other and I, drove for a long time, far out of the city. I wondered if I might be able to read his mind to find out just where we were going, but it was as if his thoughts were completely blank and he was driving on instinct alone. We arrived at a ranch style house in the suburbs. The streetlights were sparse, and the man was careful to pull into the shadows between them. In the house a single light shown, the man sat in the car for a while and at it, in hindsight, I can guess that he was waiting for it to turn off. Even then though, I could still feel the peculiarity of the situation. This was wrong, it was too weird. I tried to tell myself that maybe he knew these people, maybe it was a sibling or a friend, maybe they’d not spoken in a long time and he was mustering up his courage. The light went off, the man grabbed the duffle bag and together we stepped out into the shadows of the night. The man moved swiftly through the front yard, somehow it was different from before, more calculated, more elegant, if one could call it that. He’d done this before I was sure of it. I tried to get inside his head again, wondering what it is he was going to do, rob them? Kill them? The only thing I could see when I looked inside his mind was an image of a dog, maybe a husky mix with great snarling teeth. The man muttered something to himself as he tossed the bag over the fence, but I was too distracted to hear it. He took a deep breath and leapt onto the fence. He scaled it the first try, but as he vaulted his rear leg over the fence his pants caught on one of the boards. There was a tearing sound as we dropped. We hit the dirt hard and it rang through our entire body, our ears buzzed and throbbed with the pain. Around the corner of a large hedge, a porch light flicked on and we heard the mechanical turn of a doorknob. The Other, although in pain, scramblee to his feet just in time as the door peeled away from the airtight rubber frame. A man stepped out of the house draped in an old robe. He wass taller than us and looked strong even though the paunch in his belly and the cigarette in his hand begged to differ. He did not suspect us sitting there in the bushes. I wished very badly then that I had control over the body that there was something I could do or say. In the Other’s mind I can see the hammer in the duffle bag, nestled between the lock picking instruments and the rope. *You can’t unzip the bag though*, I thought hoping to deter the Other, if in fact there were a way for him to understand me, *he’ll hear you.* I do not know if it was my thought or the Other’s that led him to tuck the duffel back into the bush, but he did. Then he looked out on the porch and the temporary relief I’d felt waned. There was a rusty old golf club that sat not three feet away from us. The other looked toward the man, taken in by his cigarette and his wandering thoughts. *You can’t!* I thought *He’ll see you! Just wait for him to go inside and then leave!* The other moves slowly, his spindly body narrowly folded through the stray unkempt branches of the bush. In our shared chest I felt the unmistakable pump of our heart, I could not tell then if it belonged to me or the other. The other fished both of his legs out of the bush soundlessly and then we sat on all fours behind the smoking man. The other reached out slowly and gripped the golf club. I felt the weight in my hand, in his hand. The Other pushed himself up on one knee and held the club over his head. Time is peculiar when true violence is involved. It’s difficult to explain, but I felt it on this night. The entire incident wasn’t more than 20 seconds in truth. Every instant piled lazily atop one another like autumn red leaves, but in hindsight, the mind pulls the pieces apart and lays them out in a neat fashionable order. The club came down with a whipping sound, slicing through the atmosphere. The man, who I imagine must have heard the noise turned around just in time to see the face of the nine-iron drive straight into his forehead. He fell to the ground slowly, stupidly, as if he were just pretending, and was waiting for his cue to spring back up. The other drives the club down again and again, the sick thud of the man’s skull is like an untuned primal drum. If I had eyes of my own, I would have wept. The blood spread thick and red across the rough brick tiles of the porch, draining into the guttural grooves between them, and soaking into the newly tainted earth. Don’t think that I’m being callous when I tell you that he was the one who got off easy. He would never have to know what came next. To my surprise the Other halted his bludgeoning. He bent down on one knee and set the golf club gently on the ground beside the body. A rumble welled deep from within our body as the Other removed one glove from his hand and dipped his pale white fingers into the scarlet pool. He pulled his fingers up to his face and the taste of copper rushed into our mouth. I wanted to be sick, right then and there. I prayed for the first time since I was a small boy that I might spit out the blood and be ripped away from this body, greeted by the patterned, familiar silhouettes of my bedroom. It seemed though that my prayers, like many prayers before it would go unanswered as I felt the blood trickle down our throat. The Other dipped his fingers into the pool once more and my mind squealed at the thought of another taste of putrid nectar. Instead of sticking the blood in his mouth again though, he did something strange, stranger than all the moments that had led us here. He traced a strange enigmatic symbol on our forehead. Then he peeled the glove back over his bloody hand and walked towards the back door of the house. The lights were off as we entered the house. The door crept shut gently behind us, guided by the sleeved fingertips of the other. For a moment we stood around in the darkness. As if we were waiting for something. I was still reeling from the strange disconnect of the previous moments, I thought to myself that if the Other were to turn around right now, we might still have seen the portly older man still standing there, smoking his cigarette. I knew however that was a lie. By the pictures, and the decorative touch of the house, I could tell that a woman lived there too. I wondered where she was. Did the Other know her? What did the symbols mean? All these thoughts ran through my brain as we dawdled from one room into the next. The back door opened into the kitchen from there we made our way into the living room, I guessed that this must have been where the light outside had come from. I half expected that the woman would be around the corner as we made our way down the L-shaped hallway towards the office and the master bedroom. She wasn’t the house was still except for a grandfather clock that ticked away in the office. It struck me then, something about the clock, how weird it was to even see a grandfather clock nowadays. You kept time with the phone, or the smart watch, or the stove or the tv or the microwave. It seemed so out of place for this relic of the past to be here. I guessed it might have been an heirloom and that unsettled me further. I was in these people’s home. Their whole life was laid out before my eyes, I felt dirty and awkward. The other stopped in front of the door to the master bedroom, wrapping his gloved palm around the doorknob and putting the slightest bit of pressure so the door just barely peaked open. Inside the shape of the woman lays still in the dark. I wish then that she might stir, that she might feel our presence staring at her, but she doesn’t. The door opens a little wider. As we’ve made our way through the house, I had an odd sensation that I had attributed to my nerves, a feverish sweat. It occurs to me just now that I could not have been sweating, because I’d become so entangled with the sensations of that other’s body, I’d forgotten about the lack of my own. It was only when the heat bloomed in our forehead and sent the other doubled over in front of the strange woman’s bedroom door, that I truly noticed. The pain was immense unlike anything I’ve ever felt before I imagined it was what it was like to be branded like cattle on every inch of your body. It was impressive that the Other was able to endure it silently. It was only when our bones began to elongate and shift around in our body that the woman stirred, even then it was just slightly, and she never fully woke. After a few moments spent writhing on the floor, we emerged again, changed, and accompanied by another. The spirit of the wolf. Its energy was truly petrifying, it felt like something ancient, that predated all of humanity and understood ways of the universe that mortal beings could not fathom. I was it; it was the other; the other was me. We could feel each other, but we could not understand. The creature moved on all fours slinking around the room, as it wrapped one giant hand-paw hybrid on the footboard the nails clicked and scratched against the wood. The woman stirred and the creature paused, but she didn’t awaken. I prayed she would, prayed that she might be faking reaching underneath her pillow for a gun loaded with silver bullets. I wanted this to be a world where at least one person seemed to understand and was prepared to deal with this unholy scenario. We lingered over the woman, a dumb, snarling, drooling beast. Surely, she must have felt the heat of the creature’s breath on her neck, smelling the same stench of foul rotted insides, but through it all the woman did not awaken. The creature hung one knuckled misshapen paw over the body ready to strike. I could bite at the tension in the air, and yet as if to torture me further the creature would not deliver its final blow. *Why won’t the monster strike her and end this?* I think, and then I feel it, a flinch, the slightest flinch in the arm. I can move the arm of the body, but it seems all I can do. In my mind, a mad cackle sounds and I know it is The Other. It had to be me, I realized, although I did not understand the how, I knew that the purpose of bringing me along on this spectral journey had been this moment. I held my paw over the woman, at that point, the only sense of power I had ever known. Could I do it? Would the creature do it anyway if I refused. As I stood in the wolf’s body contemplating over the pale moon face of the woman, the woman’s eyes surprised me by flickering open. I watched the woman’s face transform from serenity to utter horror as she became aware of what loomed over her. She let out a piercing cry and without my thinking the claw drew downwards. As if by a miracle the woman rolled at just the right time to evade the attack. I felt a pinch as the woman flailed and the wolf body was lifted off of the woman by a stray kick. There was a clatter as we rolled off the bed. I felt the creature override my control snarling back into the body. The woman reached for whatever she could and hurled it towards us. Glass shattered along the floor, sounding like the gentle chimes in this woman’s concerto of terror. The woman opened the closet unable to move since the wolf creature had the exit cornered. While her back was turned the creature dove aiming to pin her against the wall, but again the woman was too fast. She rolled herself into the closet and pulled the door shut. The creature roared as it slammed against the wall a smear of ancient blood splattered against the wall. I could sense the fury in the creature now, what ever plans this creature had had for me had fallen to the wayside and all that was left was blind rage. The creature pawed at the door, smashing at it over and over with its mutant man-beast hands. The Other and I watched in anticipating silence knowing that the woman would not be able to hold back much longer. That was when the door peeled open, the wolf lunged blindly and did not see what arose from the darkness there. It merely yelped when the old cavalry sword pierced its chest. Then it slumped and fell sideways, its breath went shallow, and I felt that the creature was beginning to dissipate. The last thing I can remember is the woman standing over us, and through the window a view of the full harvest moon. When I awoke, I felt sick and tired as though I had not slept at all. I had told myself that it had been just a dream, but I could not shake the true nature of the previous night. Sitting with my morning coffee I watched as the news came in about a woman who had survived a horrific home invasion in a neighboring city. The woman refused to comment for the news but seeing the outside of the home was all of the confirmation that I had needed. There’s not been any more deaths that I know of. At least none that sound like this one, but I’m scared. I think about going up to my uncle’s cabin, where I can be alone. I can’t explain why but I have the sensation that whenever I came home that night, I brought something back with me. It’s just a feeling, like looking at the pale face of the moon.


It’s 7:15 A.M. I awake in a stupor, unaware of anything and everything for far too brief of a moment. An obnoxious alarm is beeping, purposely placed out of reach on the desk opposite my bed to prevent myself from hitting the snooze. Light beams in horizontal stripes across my face from the window near the desk. It burns. Rolling over onto my side, I brace myself for the incoming light and slowly bring the alarm clock into focus. “It’s 7:15 A.M.,” I mutter to myself. I pause and stare at the clock for what seemed like an hour, yet the time was unchanged. It was as if time came to a halt but the devil himself neglected to turn off the alarm. Counting down from five, I gradually manage to push off the weighted blanket and sit up in bed. As I adjust and rub the sleep out of my eyes, I get a better view of my desk. On it, the alarm is still ringing, pounding at my head incessantly. Further over is a picture frame featuring two people and a glass vase, full of flowers. Suddenly, the smell of roses fills the air. My heart races and my face goes cold. It is 7:16 A.M. The Fourteenth of February. I walk to the closet and pick out the fanciest clothes I own. The white undershirt for my hand-me-down suit is tighter than I remember it being, so I give up on that outfit and go for the next best option. The black pants are stiff and creased, as is the gray dress shirt I paired it with, but at least they fit. I stumble a bit while going down the stairs. The living room has been an organized mess for a few days now, with piles of half-filled shipping boxes in the corner by the door. I was dreading going through the rest of our belongings, so when both of our parents came over late last night for dinner, I had a convenient excuse to put it off for a little while longer. In the bathroom, I struggle to find the shaving cream among all her various beauty products, though I could not help but read the names of the products I don’t recognize. I find the shaving cream in a different drawer and apply it sparingly to avoid getting it on my shirt, only nicking my neck once this time. Washing off my face, I look into the mirror. Deep brown eyes with deeper circles beneath them, always looking just a little lopsided no matter how I adjust my head. A nose too wide for my face and teeth you’d never find advertised. How did she pick someone with a face like that? As I finish my preparations, I find my way through the maze of boxes in the living room, keeping my eyes on the door the whole time. I put on a warm, furry jacket and squint as I open the door. As luck would have it, the world outside is bright as ever. A pathway to the car through the dirt-crusted snow has caved in, but I am able to tiptoe through it without getting any snow in my shoes. A lone deer catches sight of me during my odd dance and sprints across the road from the neighbor’s yard. Two vehicles stop on a dime for the deer as I walk to my car, giving me a gentle wave as they go. I attempt to reciprocate but all I can muster is a nod. The ride feels like a cycle through the washing machine; it sounds like it too. Clouds are few and far between in the ocean of blue sky around. Leaves on the trees have been replaced with an even coat of snow, uninfluenced by those who walk beneath them. In the passenger seat is the vase of roses from my desk. Five minutes to go. My heart is nearly escaping my chest. She has been waiting for me to arrive for a while now. I didn’t forget. I could not forget. I pull into the parking lot of a meager building on the far side of town. It is a busy business with snow-white siding and a formidable double front door painted black. People are all over, wearing dress clothes under their coats and talking amongst themselves. I avoid making eye contact and plod toward the entrance, my legs faltering below me with every step closer. Hesitation creeps in with my hand on the doorknob and I cannot help but stand there at the front entrance, my heart knocking on my ribcage, pleading to escape. Before I can reconsider, the door opens for me, and a fellow gives me a simple nod and motions me in. I take the first step, then the second. I take a third. There are flowers crowding the south wall in an elegant array, every last one staring me down as I hobble toward them. I slowly pass by ten lines of cushioned seats, grasping the top of each one from the center walkway. The vase is tightly clenched in my other hand. At last, I reach the wall of flowers and leave the vase and all but one rose by the display. It is painful to look down, but I could see her now. I leave the rose by her hands and put my hand to her cheek. She is still cold.


A chill bit through Hanna’s thin shawl. She wrapped it tighter around herself, brushing off errant leaves. Her head hurt and the world slightly spun. She put a slender hand on the trunk near her and took in the sight and smell of the forest. It didn’t make sense. How did she get here? Her mind was a fog, but Hanna was sure it had been a beautiful spring day when she had come to pick mushrooms for dinner. Now, she hardly recognized where she was in this picturesque fall forest. A slight breeze ruffled orange and red leaves, scattering them to an already crowded forest floor. She had to get home; her new husband would be expecting her. They had barely been married a fortnight and Hanna wanted to impress Eoghan. She ruffled her damp skirts and marched on. If she was where she thought she was, her modest cottage should be just around the bend. Moving on wobbly legs, Hanna let her muscles do the work, her mind still spinning. Finally, after what felt like much too long, the dusty road appeared in front of her, her home village, the one she had lived in since she was born, sprawled out below her. The sight of the tall church steeple filled her heart. Whatever had happened, maybe just a horrible dream, must be coming to an end. With wobbly confidence she marched down the road, across the burbling brook, and down into her home. The sight of her blooming garden welcomed her, but it was, off. Her plants should just be sprouting, as she had planted them when she and Eoghan moved in after their wedding. But now, towering sunflowers and bright round full pumpkins filled the small space. She pushed it aside, eager to see her husband. Maybe she would rest and when she woke up all would make sense again. She lightly palpitated her head, could she have had a fall? Last winter old man Peter hit his head on his barn eaves and lost a full week from memory. Could that be it? No, It didn’t feel right, Hanna was grasping at straws. She approached her wooden door and before she could twist the handle, the door opened. Hanna bit back a gasp. She was staring at, herself. Tall with coiled auburn hair, a slender, pale face spattered with freckles. Hanna pinched her arm, hard. This had to be a dream. Worse, a nightmare. “May I help you?” she heard herself ask. Hanna was speechless. “Are you quite alright? You look as though you’ve had a fright.” “I don’t...who are you?” The woman’s eyes, her own eyes looking back at her, grew distrustful. “My name is Hanna O’Murray. Who are you?” “I’m...I’m Hanna O’Murray. This is my house. What is going on?” The woman laughed, but the humor didn’t reach her eyes. “You must have taken a fall. Either that or you’ve had too much ale before the Harvest’s eve festival. I suggest you make your way back into town. My husband will be home soon, and he doesn’t take too kindly to strangers.” Hanna, though in disbelief, felt anger and bewilderment stir inside of her. “Your husband?” She almost shouted. “Liar! This is my house and I don’t know what sorcery or tomfoolery you are trying to pull here but I demand you leave at once.” The woman looked around, as though to make sure they were alone. When she turned back on Hanna her eyes had changed to a glowing yellow, her teeth grew long and sharp. Gently, she ran a clawed nail down Hanna’s cheek. “My dear, my sweet, sweet child. You have been missing for months. You would have been dead if I hadn’t needed you alive to take your form. You were as good as lifeless from the moment I dropped you in that forest glen like a wet sack of sod. You simply do not exist anymore. I am Hanna O’Murray and you are nothing.” Fear chilled Hanna’s insides. “I know what you are. You’re a fairy. A changeling. But that’s impossible, that’s just a story my mam told me as a child. This...this can’t be real.” “Oh, it is. Now, begone before I change my mind and eat you.” Hanna felt rooted in place, fear, and anger keeping her tethered. Suddenly, the sound of a horse came rolling up. “Hullo, dear! Are you ready for the harvest festival? I hear Kian grew a pumpkin the size of his sheep!” Eoghan, sweet Eoghan. Hanna felt tears well in her eyes when she looked at her husband. As he hopped off his horse and approached the house, his shining eyes changed to puzzlement. Hanna looked at the fairy to see her appearance had changed back. “Eoghan, darling, this woman is sick. She is pretending to me be. She plans to kill me and be your wife.” Eoghan’s dark eyes turned deadly as he rounded on Hanna. She had never seen such malice mar his face. “She’s lying! She’s a fairy. Please, Eoghan, it’s me, Hanna. Your real wife!” Eoghan looked back and forth from woman to woman. “Eoghan, please kill her before she kills us! She’s a demon! You know it’s true.” Pleaded the fairy. Eoghan took out the slender knife he always carried with him. He looked back and forth. Hanna could tell he didn’t know what to do. “It’s me! I can prove it. We got married on March 15 in a tent in a beautiful flower field. All of our friends and family were there. It was the happiest day of our life.” “Don’t listen to that demon, she’s tricking you! Kill her! Kill her now.” Then, the fairy began to speak an ancient language under her breath. A language long forgotten. Eoghan turned on Hanna, his knife raised high. The fairy’s face turned ugly, saliva oozing from elongated teeth. Hanna met Eoghan’s eyes, and she knew before she felt the knife slip into the soft flesh of her belly. Warm blood seeped through her hands. She was no more.


“Mei?” 2 hours left. “Mei!” Would it happen again? “Mei!” The black-haired girl jolted back to the table in front of her. “Can you please pass the rice? It’s gonna get cold.” “Y-yeah.” Mei picked up the bowl from the far end of the table and passed it across to her sister. “Here. Sorry.” The small family continued to eat their dinner as they did every night. Her parents focused on devouring every morsel that they were denied as children, her sister picking the peas out of her rice, and Mei shaping the food away from the center, clearing her view of the silver rabbit in the center. Why did it choose me? She stared at the tiny creature. A symbol of luck and prosperity in her family. The dishes had been passed down for generations through her mother’s side. Mei remembered her mother telling her and her sister stories of rabbits from when she was a child. “You can always trust a rabbit,” she would say. She’d tell tales of small rabbits that lived in her backyard. She would watch them eat the grass and do her best not to disturb them. “But they won’t always trust you.” “Mei?” Her father put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up and saw the empty table in front of her. “It’s your turn for dishes tonight.” A pile of dishes sat in the sink. 1 hour left. “Can’t Jun do them tonight?” “You’re turn,” he said, pointing to a chore chart magnetized to the fridge. He exited the kitchen and patted her on the shoulder. She picked up the brush and began to scrub a bowl. At the bottom of it, the same rabbit that had been on her plate could be seen through the bubbles. She could clearly see the silver animal. It was seemingly resting, its ears smooth against its back and its deceptively long legs tucked underneath its body. It seemed to sleep among the pool of bubbles that grew with every swirl of the brush in Mei’s hand. “I think it’s clean.” Mei almost dropped the bowl in surprise. Her sister had come into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I’m just here for dessert and a show,” she trailed off, grabbing a pudding cup from the fridge. “You’ve clearly got a system here.” Mei put her head down and picked up another plate. “What is it?” “What?” “Something has been on your mind since dinner. What is it?” You only noticed at dinner? Mei kept her head down and continued to wash the dish. Her sister sighed, rolling her eyes as she began to leave. “Jun?” “Yes?” “Do you remember that rabbit you caught when we were kids?” “How could I forget?” Jun laughed. She straightened her back and pursed her lips. “’I told you that they are friends! Would you like if a friend kept you as a pet?’” She slumped back down to her normal posture, “and it was so hard to catch, too.” Mei exhaled lightly, almost laughing with her sister. “She was pretty upset with you.” “Yup. Why do you ask?” “I just...I saw a rabbit in the yard the other night and it reminded me of that.” Mei continued to clean the dishes as Jun finished her pudding. The older of the two dropped her spoon into the sink and exited the kitchen, dropping the empty, disposable cup into the trash can. 20 minutes. With the dishes done, Mei went to her room and sat at her desk. She grabbed a pencil and began to work on a new sketch, one of her newest friends. The moment the graphite pressed against the page she felt at peace. The fluid strokes spilled out of her mind, bringing it to life the way only she could. She thought her sketch might hop right onto her desk. Suddenly, her alarm began to play, letting Mei know that it was time. She closed her notebook and shoved it into crocheted bag. She slung it over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen. She grabbed a carrot from the fridge and a small rabbit plate from the set. Both went into her bag with care as she headed for the patio door. “I’m heading down to the shore for a walk,” Mei called to the house, “I’ll be back soon.” “Be careful down there at this hour. You know what they say about a full moon night.” Trust me, dad, I’m well aware. Mei walked outside and closed the door behind her. She hopped the railing and felt the sand between her toes. It sent slight chills up her body as she walked down the beach, but she welcomed every step. Her gaze was fixed across the waves as the moonlight danced across each tiny ebb and flow. Every star reflected itself on the black water. The breeze lightly swept across her face and pushed her hair gently back, causing her to hold her head up, a position foreign to her. She saw the moon in all its light. She kneeled down and removed the items from the bag. The plate, the carrot, and the sketchbook. She broke the carrot in half and placed both pieces on the plate. She turned back to the moon and saw a small nose poke out from behind it, wiggling in interest. I’m here. It’s okay. Suddenly, it became a face with whiskers that began to emerge from behind the large plate in the sky. Then, more and more of the creature slipped out and began jumping from star to star, sending bright ripples throughout the sky as if a rock were skipping across a pond. As it got closer, its size seemed to diminish. By the time it landed across from Mei, it was no larger than the average rabbit she had seen in her yard. It came closer and made its way to the carrot pieces on the plate. The silver rabbit began to eat the carrot. After a moment, it nuzzled one half away and cocked its head at the design on the plate. It made a noise that sounded almost like laughter. Mei giggled seemingly with the creature. She grabbed her sketchbook and began to draw once again. This time, her muse was right there, perfectly posed for her. You are a peculiar rabbit. The animal slowly inched toward her. It peeked into her book to see what Mei was drawing before stepping into her lap and curling into a ball. She accepted the loving gesture, just as she knew her mother would have before her. Thank you, my friend.


Sheila had barely tiptoed outside the borders of the United States, having only ventured on a couple of short jaunts into Mexico and Canada. So, when she saw an opportunity for exciting travel, she made a bold move - she volunteered to represent her team at an industry conference in Brazil. Little did she know at the time what she’d be getting herself into. “It sounds exciting,” she thought to herself with a smile, “I can do this. No big deal.” First, she needed to sort out getting a visa. Luckily her company used an agency to help with international travel and securing visas. “Piece of cake,” she thought to herself when her visa arrived in her mailbox just a week later. Then she realized there was a possibility she might require vaccinations. She did some quick research, determined what she needed, and scheduled an appointment with her doctor’s travel clinic. “Also, a piece of cake,” she said to herself after leaving the clinic with a bandage on her arm. Next, she headed to her bank to get Brazilian currency so she could make a few purchases in Brazil and pay for cab rides if they didn’t accept credit cards. “Always travel prepared,” was her mantra. “This international travel thing isn’t going to be so hard,” she said out loud while driving back to work, “I don’t know why everyone complains about it so much.” When the day of her flight arrived, Sheila’s bags were loaded up with all the right adapters she’d need to keep her phone and laptop charged up, along with an extra external battery if things got dire when she wasn’t in her hotel room. She had her full itinerary, her boarding passes, her hotel information, and the conference details all printed out and ready to go. She jumped into a cab with her neck pillow secured around her neck and a lightweight blanket packed into her carryon bag so she could sleep comfortably on the long flight. “I’m READY!” she declared to herself, and to the cab driver, who clearly wasn’t interested in anything she had to say. She shrugged and broke into a self-satisfied smile. All was fine when Sheila took off from San Francisco for her connecting flight in Dallas. She popped her headphones in and listened to the new playlist she’d created the night before full of all of her favorite, most energizing songs. Unfortunately, what Sheila discovered in short order was that all of her very detailed preparation did not remotely prepare her for what she was about to encounter. Not even a little bit. Sheila disembarked from the plane in Dallas and found her gate at the international terminal. She was in the middle of the pack waiting to board the plane and suddenly realized that everyone around her was speaking what she’d learned through her research was the native language of Brazil - Portuguese. “Well that can’t be right,” she mumbled. She looked up and down the line of people and realized she was the only Caucasian waiting to board the plane. But a lot of people boarded ahead of her, so there had to be a few Americans also headed to Brazil, right? She was in DALLAS for crying out loud. But as Sheila walked down the aisle toward her seat, all she heard was Portuguese - not a word of English. “Well, surely, they also speak English,” she thought and plopped down, grabbing her blanket and an extra sweater out of her carry-on bag so she’d be cozy when she tried to sleep on the overnight flight. Then the stewardess started making all manner of announcements...in Portuguese. “Fascinating. I thought everyone spoke English on airplanes IN AMERICA,” she muttered with an audible sigh. Just before the plane left the gate, a stewardess made a special trip down the aisle to tell Sheila, what she needed to know...in English, broken English, but English just the same...while also sharing that she was, in fact, the only English-speaking passenger on board. “Dear God. I hope we don’t have any type of crisis on the plane or it’s going to be the Brazilians leading the oblivious...the oblivious being ME,” she also muttered to herself. Oh well, once I get to Brazil, I’ll be fine, she thought. Surely people at airports and hotels all speak English. Sheila started watching movies on her tiny seatback screen until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer and finally passed out over the Atlantic Ocean, hoping the flight wouldn’t go down into the ocean. It was a pragmatic thought for a very OCD and anxious person such as herself. But still, her eyes managed to close for several hours until the morning sun started streaming into the plane. Suddenly the stewardesses were handing out trays of food with Portuguese words all over the various packages. It was the most delicious airplane food Sheila had ever tasted. Now that could have been attributable to the fact that it was “foreign” and therefore “exotic” in her mind. But Sheila was immediately convinced that Brazilians simply live their best lives when they travel from Dallas to Brazil, consuming many delicious fruity beverages and snacks. After landing, Sheila made her way off the plane and through customs in short order. Yup, her visa was all in line and proper. Then she headed to the taxi stand and tried to converse with the attendant, who clearly spoke not a word of English. She tried saying “taxi” and “hotel” and the name of the hotel, but the attendant just kept staring at her and shrugging. “Good grief, it’s going to be a VERY long week if it’s going to be like this at the AIRPORT,” she thought. She finally pulled her well-prepared stack of papers out of her briefcase and pointed to the name of the hotel. “Ahhhh,” the attendant said, and signaled a taxi to take her to her hotel, speaking a lot of unrecognizable words. What followed was a very long and quiet hour-long ride in a cab with a driver who clearly also spoke no English. And Sheila noted the extensive graffiti and favelas along the hillsides on the way to her hotel. “I’m such an idiot,” Sheila said out loud, wishing she’d invested in a book of Portuguese phrases to bring on her trip with her and that she’d done a little more research on the location of both the airport and her hotel. It was with more than a little trepidation that she wondered if she was going to be taken out to the countryside and murdered, never to be heard from again. Her heart started racing at warp speed until eventually, she arrived at her hotel in the very upscale and beautiful Sao Paulo business district. She quickly discovered that the hotel reception staff, mercifully, spoke exceptional English. She headed to her room to dispose of her luggage, then headed back down to speak to the concierge and learn what was within walking distance of the hotel so she could spend her Sunday afternoon exploring. “Well,” he stated, “There’s a little indoor shopping mall right down the street, then if you take a right and walk about 3-4 blocks, there are lots of other shops and restaurants to explore.” “Excellent. Are they both safe areas for me to walk alone in?” Sheila asked, with more than a little concern for her safety. She had read about crime in Sao Paulo and didn’t want her first big foray into international travel to land her in the middle of some horrific crime to her person. “Oh yes, ma’am, both areas are very safe,” the concierge reported with a smile. Sheila checked out the little shopping mall first. She wandered from one end to another only to discover it was mostly furniture and carpet stores, which was disappointing, but no matter. She felt very self-satisfied for simply getting out and exploring in a country where most people didn’t even speak her language. But eventually, Sheila realized she was very thirsty and headed to the mall’s food court, to purchase a bottle of water. She pointed to the water bottles behind the counter and said, “A bottle of water, please?” The cashier just stared at her. Sheila leaned in and pointed harder at the water bottles. Still nothing. Finally, the cashier started pointing at each item in her glass case until she got an affirmation from Sheila after she had pointed to the water. The cashier rang it up and Sheila handed her 100 reals, having no idea how Brazilian currency actually worked. “Ugh, another thing I forgot to prepare myself for,” she thought as she shoved the change she was given back into her wallet, hoping she wasn’t paying $10 or more for that bottle of water. She left the shopping mall and headed toward the shopping district; but after walking just a couple of blocks, she started to feel extremely uneasy. She was the only woman walking down a very deserted street with just a couple of men wandering aimlessly amongst boarded up and graffitied buildings. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no,” she thought and promptly turned around to head back to the hotel. "That concierge does NOT know what he's talking about!" Once safely ensconced back in her hotel room, she turned on the TV to discover that all the shows were in Portuguese. “I can do this,” she said, figuring out how to turn on English subtitles. In no time, she was picking up Portuguese words while watching “Big Bang Theory” in Portuguese, which amused her to no end. Now that she was finally relaxed, she realized she was starving and ran down to the lobby coffee bar to pick up something to eat. And that was when she discovered that bacon pizza is a thing in Brazil. And not just little shredded up bacon bits...full slices of bacon laid all across the pizza, its entirety which she consumed in less than 20 minutes because...bacon...pizza. Monday morning rolled around and Sheila headed to the conference, only to have the keynote speaker, followed by all the other speakers presenting all the content in Portuguese, without English subtitles. “Phew boy, I really need to learn to ask the right questions before I EVER leave the country again,” she muttered after returning to her hotel room. The next day, she ran into a couple of colleagues she’d met a couple of times before, one of whom actually spoke Portuguese at home with his Brazilian wife, and they made a plan to go to dinner at...obviously...an authentic Brazilian steak house. At the restaurant, her colleague carried on detailed conversations with the waiters about exactly what meats they wanted and what they wanted to be served with them. Uncharacteristic of her normal very buttoned-up personality, Sheila just laughed, exclaiming, “Hey, I’m along for the ride. Feel free to impress me!” They headed to the gigantic salad bar, and the three of them sauntered around it to determine what choices they’d make. Kevin looked at her and whispered, “There’s nothing I love more than a salad bar made ENTIRELY of MEAT!” They both laughed a little too loudly and the other patrons began to stare. Sheila came to the realization that she didn’t have a care in the world about what people she’ll never see again in a foreign country thought of her and continued laughing as she piled meat and seafood high onto her plate. The next day, when Sheila had some free time before heading to the airport for her flight, she went and sat down in the hotel coffee bar and drank what was clearly the best espresso she’d ever had in her entire life. She pulled out her laptop and started writing the article that was due to her boss by the end of the day when the barista came over and started chatting with her in broken English. Before long Sheila and the barista were teaching each other words from their respective languages, sharing a laugh when they each improperly pronounced the other’s words. When Sheila finished drafting her article, she got up, packed up her bag, waved to the barista, smiled, and said, “Obrigado!” As she walked back to her room, she ran across the housekeepers busily stocking their carts in the hallway. “Bom dia,” she said with a smile as she shuffled past. She jumped in a cab back to the airport, using up her Brazilian reals on souvenirs for her son at the airport, then boarded the plane and sat down, letting out a deep sigh. “Well that wasn’t so bad,” she thought to herself, as she silently plotted in her head what country, with very few English speakers, she wanted to travel to next.


The Empty Room July 14 th , 1881 Suzanne Marsh Tad stared at the emptiness of the room. Had it only been two weeks since the stranger arrived? Ma didn’t ask questions but agreed to take care of the stranger. The stranger had been brought by none other than Sheriff Pat Garrett himself. This did not really seem odd since the sheriff always was bringing wounded men here to Ma. The stranger young, with blondish hair and the two biggest buck teeth Ma and I had ever seen. Ma told me to fetch a sharp knife and the whiskey she kept for medicinal purposes. The stranger withered in pain as Ma began to dig the bullet out in his shoulder. He glared: “Hey look kid, I don’t need nobody fer an audience. Soon as I’m healed I am headin fer Texas.” He passed out from all the whiskey Ma had been dosin him with. She continued to dig in his shoulder with the knife. Sheriff Garrett was holding him down until the fifth glass of whiskey took hold. Ma, her brown hair in her eyes was pushing strands of hair back out of her eyes. Finally Ma produced the bullet. The young stranger was passed out cold. It was my job to check on him for Ma. The following morning rumors were flying around Fort Summer that Billy the Kid was dead. Tad began to wonder about the identity of the stranger laying in the bed. He wondered why Sheriff Garrett had told Ma to keep the stranger under warps...no one could know he was there. The Sheriff told Ma he would return in a few days to check on him. Tad watched as the stranger turned over in his sleep, moaned then turned over the other way. ‘Restless like; maybe he will awake soon and I can find out who he is. Three days later Tad stood looking into the room. The stranger gawked at him: “Where am I? What am I doing here?” “This is the Sherman place just outside of Fort Summer.” Tad quickly ran down the wooden stairs: “Ma, Ma come quick the stranger just woke up.” “Tad, go get Sheriff Garett NOW!” Tad ran as fast as his legs would go, he finally found Pat Garrett in a saloon. Tad spoke in a low voice: “Yer prisoner woke up a little while ago, Ma sent me ta find ya.” Pat Garrett turned on his heel, following Tad back. Pat knew he did the right thing in saving Billy’s life; he just did not want to be caught doing so. The result would be a lyncing; his own. He thought about the Lincoln County Wars and Billy’s part. The shoot outs; no he was right to keep Billy alive, he deserved another chance. Tad and Pat Garrett arrived back at his home. Ma, was standing in the doorway waiting: “Sheriff, he been askin fer ya since he came to.” “How long before he can ride?” “A couple of weeks at least.” “Here is fifty dollars, don’t let him out of your sight, there will another fifty when the job is done.” That was more money than Ma made selling cattle. Ma, smiled a weary smile at Sheriff Garrett: “He is on the top floor the room on the right.” “Tad, show Sheriff Garrett the way.” Ma returned to butchering the cow she had started early that morning. Tad led Sheriff Garrett up the stairs to where the stranger was: “Hey Little Casino” “Hey Big Casino.” “Billy, when you are healed well enough I want you on a horse and out of here. Head for Texas and stay there.” “Sure will Big Casino, what happened?” “Well Billy, the only way I could protect you was to shoot you. I winged you in the shoulder; faked your death.” “Thanks Big Casino, I’m done killin. I would still like to kill that Dolan but I think you are right. I ain’t safe here in Fort Summer.” “Billy, I’ll be back before you leave with your six shooter and a rifle.” Pat Garrett stood tall at six feet four inches, he ducked out of the doorway; closing the door behind him. Tad overheard the conversation between Billy and Pat Garrett; this aroused his curosity even more. What was the Big and Little Casino? Could that possibly be Billy the Kid that was in that room. Tad, knew about the rumors that Billy the Kid was dead, killed by none other Sheriff Pat Garrett. He knew better than to ask questions that could not be answered. He turned to go downstairs, he could smell Ma’s roast all the way up here. His mouth watered as he entered the kitchen. The other boarders had already left for various jobs: “Ma, I got a strong hunch that stranger is Billy the Kid, right here in our place.” “Tad, I want you to promise me you won’t repeat what you have just said. Sheriff Garrett asked me not to tell who this stranger is. It will be better for both of us. Now, you go on, and take this upstairs to the stranger.” Tad, knew there was no possible way he could ever tell anyone about the stranger in the guest room. Later that evening Ma sent him up to the strangers room with a tray of food. Tad knocked on the door: “Come on in.” Tad entered the guest room: “Howdy, my name is Billy Bonney and your name is?” “Tad, Tad Sherman.” “I am glad to meet ya Tad.” “I hope ya won’t be thinkin I am nosey but are you really Billy the Kid.” “Sure am. Sit down and talk to me while I eat. I had nothin since the gun fight when Pat shot me. I know he did it for my own good. I am alive. I am thinkin about headin out of here in a few days. I have always had a hankerin to see Texas.” “Did you really kill a man when you was fifteen.” “Ya I did but it ain’t nothin I am proud of. Killin ain’t what folks think it is. Bein a gun fighter with a price on your head. No not any more I am twenty one years old I am sure fixin to live way beyond that.” Billy smiled at Tad: “Don’t go getting any bright ideas Tad. Take it from me breakin the law n murderin folks it ain’t no way ta live.” “I know Billy, my Ma been tellin me that since I was a little feller.” “Well listen to her she makes good sense.” A week later, Billy Bonney rode out of Fort Summer under the darkness of night. He rode hard and fast to a small Texas town he’d heard about; Hico. When he arrived he kept to himself. He knew that there was still a warrant out for him. He changed his name to “Brushy” Bill Roberts; remaining in Hico, Texas until the day he collapsed and died of a heart attack on December 27, 1950. “Brushy” Bill was known throughtout Hico as Billy the Kid. He certainly knew a great deal about Billy the Kid...maybe just maybe he was Billy the Kid.


Fred's foot was pressed hard on the gas. As the van sped along the highway, he briefly winced at the sound of crunching coming from the backseat. Scooby was sitting next to a pile of Scooby Snacks, swallowing one after the other. He wasn't even tasting them, but the constant presence felt good. It distracted him, kept his mouth busy so his mind could forget. He let one dissolve on his tongue as he watched his hollow-eyed best friend. Shaggy was shaking silently, uncontrollably. He bit down on his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering. It was his fault. He watched his shaking legs with a newfound hatred and bit down harder. Blood rushed from his tongue. It tasted good. Velma took her glasses off. The world around her blurred into a mass of vague shapes and colors, and she plotted alternatives. She shouldn't have listened to Fred's plan, should have known it would go wrong like usual... She could have moved the clothesline away from the steps, onto the soft grass. She could have tackled the "ghost" before it tripped, could have called the police, could have given up all together. It wasn't hurting anyone, really, just messing around in an abandoned old house. "It." Who was she kidding? The ghost was a person. Not an it, a child. The image of his tiny head smashed on the concrete steps was imprinted in her brain. She tried to focus on something else: the frayed seat, her muddy shoes, anything. But the image remained, and she shuddered as she watched the blood ooze out over and over and over and over again. She hit her head against the window, but the image remained. Daphne, sitting next to Fred, wasn't aware of anything behind her. Her eyes were clouded by tears, her body wracked with sobs. She knew her make up was a mess, and for the first time in her life, she didn't care. All she wanted was a hug, a touch, even a look of reassurance from Fred. She reached out her hand, but he didn't see it. Couldn't see it. Daphne pulled at her hair and tried to scream, but nothing came out. She leaned forward and hugged her knees in a fetal position, praying that Fred would somehow make everything better. Fred's eyes were scanning, searching. He was numb now, deaf and blind to everything else but the road. He found what he was looking for and calmly exhaled. No one made a sound as he crashed into the tree. Hi everyone! This is my first post on here, hope you like it! Cant wait to hear your feedback.


UNREQUITED LOVE I can recall the first time we met as if it was yesterday. It was at the Drummond’s on the occasion of their daughter’s birthday; Edwina, the younger, if possible, even more obnoxious of the two Drummond girls. What I can’t remember is how old I was exactly. Thirteen? Fourteen? My mother, already, though we did not know it, evincing early signs of the dementia that would gradually reveal itself in all its horror, convinced herself that, as the Drummond family hailed from Scotland, I should do homage by attending the party dressed as the bonny Prince Charlie of historic note. Can you imagine? A house full of young girls, all dressed in their prettiest party frocks and I get deposited at the front door dressed in a tartan kilt, sporran and tam ‘o shanter! Before the door had even been opened by Mrs. Drummond, I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me as I watched my crazy parent speeding off down the gravel driveway like a bat out of hell in her Triumph Herald. Mrs. Drummond did not disappoint, breaking into hysterical laughter as the party girls gathered around her, taking their lead from that awful woman, forgetting their game of pinning a donkey with a tail and, instead, pinning their brutal scorn on my costume fail. How maliciously cruel children can be. Why is that, I wonder? Through my tears, I saw this ethereal figure; a fairy queen, complete with wand and gossamer wings, push her way through the mocking crowd, their sadistic laughter growing ever hysterically wilder, and taking me by the hand, lead me away from that house, down the driveway and into the house next door; her house I soon discovered. I’ll never forget, as I glanced back, just the once, through misty eyes, the stupefied look of the Drummond matriarch as she saw the object of her derision disappear from view. As soon as we turned into the adjoining driveway, my saviour, Emma, took me by my arms and looked me in the eyes. “They are horrid, horrid people. Take no notice of them. Until you arrived, it was my fairy outfit that was being made fun off. Come on, we can play in my room. It’ll be much more fun”. I had seen Emma around the town occasionally, a couple of times at the library that I could think of, but we had never met. I knew, from the uniform that she had been wearing on those occasions, that she attended the fee paying, private school, Rutherfords, while I, of course, went to the local public school, St. Sebastian’s. If it hadn’t been for my mother’s chance encounter with that dragon, Mrs Drummond, at the only hairdresser in the high street, I would never have found myself invited to a party at this end of town; the posh end. Yet, from the moment that Emma had rescued me, we two became the closest of friends. Emma lived with her father, Henry, just the two of them, her mother having died when Emma had been too young to really understand the pain of losing a parent. I never quite understood what it was that Henry did, something mysterious for the government but, in contrast to my own father, he seemed to treat Emma as an equal and there were no rules or restrictions in their house; they simply co-habited. Emma never referred to her father as anything other than Henry which, at first, I found disconcerting but I soon fell into this same easy rhythmic style. For his part, Henry seemed to be pleased that his daughter had found a real friend in myself and he left us to ourselves whenever I visited, which was often, after school and, at weekends, often staying overnight. That’s not to say that she did not visit me, also; she did. What I loved about her was that she never, ever, passed any comment on the difference in our living arrangements. Not that we lived in squalor but our house, although detached, was situated in a much less salubrious area and was a far cry from the splendour of the almost mansion in which she and Henry resided. My own father was a tax inspector; a fastidious, bookish man, constantly switching off lights that had been left on, straightening rugs, curtains etc; you get the picture. He was a good man, I have no doubt, but he struggled to cope with the dual burden of a daughter and a wayward wife. I don’t believe he had the slightest idea of how to raise a girl, being the youngest of five boys himself. Which, unfortunately, left me entirely in the hands of my mother. She, God bless her, still only in her thirties, had her own struggles: disappointment at how staid her marriage had become, a longing for something more... exciting... and a slow descent into madness. Somehow, Emma slotted straight in and, while unintentionally charming the pants off my father, also represented, to my poor afflicted mother, a glimpse of the life she, herself, had always longed for. For myself, Emma became the friend that I had thought I would never find. She was, though not conventionally beautiful, attractive enough to warrant the attention of boys as we wandered around town. I noticed this, of course, for it was not an asset that I possessed; my red hair and freckled skin, not to mention my poor eyesight, necessitating glasses, having the opposite effect. But, more than looks, Emma was a genuine friend. She never lied, detested patronisation, was intensely loyal and inspired in me a desire to be better. My school work improved dramatically as a result and my father was quite startled by my reports as I rose in the ranks from being an average student to the top of my class. All through our school years, though at different schools, we shared things that we had respectively learned, only serving to enhance our education. Literature, especially, was a lynchpin. We both adored reading and would pass books back and forth, spending hours discussing various plot lines, dramas, tragedies and romances. For both of us, the outside world simply didn’t exist. We needed no other companions, content, solely, in each other’s environments. Obsessive? Possibly. Possessive? Definitely not. At least, I don’t believe so; the question of having to share Emma with somebody else simply never occurred so it was not something that I had to deal with and, I assume...would like to believe... that she felt the same way about me. Even when it came to vacations, It just seemed to evolve naturally into Henry expecting me to be a part of their holiday plans. In this way, I discovered new countries, languages, customs, food. I remember, after returning from one magical trip to Italy, when I first introduced pasta to our household and my father thought it had to be eaten in its solid form; our usual meals, up until that time, emanating mainly from cans. It was a wonderful time of discovery for me and, I can honestly say, for Emma, too. Though quite different to the type of holiday that she had become accustomed to, she absolutely loved being a part of my family trips to the seaside, the British fare of fish and chips, jellied eels, cockles, candy floss and funfairs, staying at cheap boarding houses, my father’s perverse habit of placing a knotted handkerchief upon his balding head as protection from the sun, my mother’s ever more daring bathing costumes. It was a world hitherto unknown to her and she revelled in it and we became ever closer. Then, of course, talk of university threatened to interrupt our idyllic world. For the first time, it appeared that our single path would start to veer in separate directions. As this realisation began to take hold of me, I felt quite calm, reassuring myself that we would still have our vacations to look forward to and, perhaps, could visit each other occasionally during term time although my ambitions were geared towards a lesser university town somewhere in the north of England while Emma, as per Henry’s wishes, was destined for the more auspicious, hallowed halls of Oxford. To my surprise, it was Emma who seemed to be the one upset at our forced parting. Why, she pleaded, could I not apply to attend the same colleges as she? The thought had never occurred to me; nobody from St. Sebastian’s had ever aspired to Oxford. It simply did not happen; we knew our place in the hierarchy of 1950’s English life. Yet, after Emma had begged me to, at least, try, the thought grew within me and I asked myself: why shouldn’t I have the same opportunity? There really was no difference between Emma and myself. In fact, because we had shared so much of each other’s education, our trips abroad, the countless books that we had jointly read, intellectually , we were exactly on par with each other. My joy at opening my acceptance letter from Balliol was as nothing to Emma’s when I broke the news. She had been accepted at Magdalen but it meant that, for the next three years, our lives would remain entwined and we began to speak of sharing lodgings in Oxford. My father’s reaction to my acceptance surprised me greatly as he burst into tears. He had never before shown such emotion. As for mother, she celebrated by purchasing a bottle of “plonk”, the cheapest kind, imbibing the entire contents herself and, then, running half-naked down our road proclaiming to all and sundry that her daughter had been accepted for Oxford. Unfortunately, at the time, father was at work and I was at Emma’s and there was nobody to stop her. A policeman discovered her, comatose, on a park bench in broad daylight, surrounded by gawping onlookers and, thankfully, covered her exposed parts, before another passerby recognised her and she was returned home, oblivious to her actions. Sadly, this compulsion at public exposure was to become more and more prevalent. Oxford brought about a great deal of changes to my life. For the first time ever, I found myself sharing a flat with, not just Emma, but two other girls. The reality of “digs” had come as a harsh surprise to both of us as we discovered that two girls, alone, could not afford the exorbitant cost of a flat in a university town. We were forced to take in two lodgers and both girls seemed to be good choices, one from London and one from Surrey. They were not party girls and, like ourselves, were intent on making the most of their university education and achieving good careers once they had graduated. At that time, it was not quite the norm that it is today and men ruled the roost in business. As well, of course, I, especially, had to adapt to this new way of living. At first, I was intimidated, I freely admit, by the intellects of those other students around me and it took me some time to really find my feet and come to terms with the fact that, actually, I was just as intelligent, if not more so but, gradually, I found my tempo and began to embrace my new existence. But another far greater change was happening; one that I found totally unexpected. It was the age old tale of the ugly duckling evolving into a swan as I found my body changing alarmingly. I had, of course, experienced menstruation pre-university but no noticeable differences in my bodily structure had accompanied my periods. Yet, now, it was as if I was possessed by a living organism; something inside of me was altering. Each morning, as I stared into the bathroom mirror, I noticed another change. My facial structure began to adjust; my cheekbones becoming sharper, my lips more pronounced. Suddenly, I found the face staring back at me to be, dare I say it, attractive. My flat chest began to sprout; at first, slowly but, gradually, developing into full blown breasts. For the first time in my life, I had to purchase bras. It is hard to explain fully what this meant for me, the perennial wallflower; a person who had never thought herself to be attractive in any way. Now, it was I who attracted admiring glances from fellow students and I liked it. This feeling was enhanced when, on a trip back home, I persuaded my father to pay for the cost of contact lenses. Back then, they were what was known as the “hard” kind. Not only were they made of hard plexiglass but they were, also, hard, as in difficult, to become accustomed to and, many times, I almost abandoned my efforts but I persevered and, upon my return to Oxford, the effect was startling. Emma, of course, had noticed all of these alterations, not just in my looks and my bodily shape but, also, in my newfound confidence as a result of my late development. She embraced it, encouraged me, loaned me a bra until I could purchase a new one. She it was who gave me advice on new clothing, designed to enhance my looks. But another change had begun to take hold of me. As if all of this was not enough, I also began to develop feelings...feelings of desire. To my consternation, I found myself having secret thoughts; thoughts of nakedness, sensuality, a longing to kiss and embrace. Despite all of the admirers who now surrounded me, only one person was the object of my fantasies, the person I had loved platonically for all these years: Emma! It is difficult to express my torment; the agonies I endured each night as I lay in my bed thinking of her, so close yet so far way in an adjoining room. So many times I thought of rising and tiptoeing into her room, laying beside her but I could never find the courage. My studies suffered as a result of this all consuming lust. I felt exhausted, depleted, such was my passion. Throughout it all, her devotion to me never wavered. She was the same lovely girl who had rescued me that day, taken me under her wing, welcomed me into her family home, learnt to love me, share with me, encourage me. She it was who had pleaded with me to apply for Oxford. Could it be... possible... that she might harbour similar thoughts for myself? Oh, not the bookish, skinny thing that I was but this new, feminine form that I had become. Was there even a chance that our special relationship could develop into something more passionate? How many times I asked myself this question, searching, ever searching, for clues; in her eyes, the way she spoke, the hugs she gave me. How many different interpretations I came up with. She did, she didn’t. She did, she didn’t. On the last evening of our first full term, several students from Balliol were gathering to celebrate at Marlborough and we were each assigned specific foods or drinks that we had to bring with us. I invited Emma and she, of course, accepted. I had been tasked with supplying a bottle of champagne and, to compensate for my Magdalen intruder, I brought two bottles along. Having never before visited Marlborough, both Emma and I were entranced by the beauty of our surroundings on this warm, early, summer evening. In particular, we were both fascinated and mesmerised by the incredible design and shape of the maze that took up a huge part of the grounds. Having consumed one bottle between us, we wandered through the maze, the tall, dark hedges towering above us, determined to find our way to the centre. Round and round we went, in and out of verdant channels leading to dead ends and forcing us, giggling hysterically, to retrace our steps and start again. At some stage, I popped the cork on the second bottle and we took sips, froth running over and down our dresses. As I looked at Emma in the moonlight, the bubbles of champagne dribbling from her mouth as, intoxicated, she chortled with joy, I felt an overwhelming urge to take her in my arms and kiss her wet lips. Impulsively, I moved closer and locked eyes with her. It was now or never. For one bittersweet moment, I closed my eyes and experienced such ecstasy, such a sense of achievement as our lips locked. Emma; my Emma. As I opened my eyes, I was appalled to see the look of revulsion on her face, the sheer incredulity, a look of... betrayal. As she pushed me away and staggered back, still staring at me as if I was some monstrous thing, I tried to reach out, stammered my remorse, attempted to explain my feelings but she turned and ran from me. The greatest friendship I had ever known, over , disappearing from sight, never to be revived. Half drunk, I tried to gather my thoughts, my head spinning. She mustn’t speak of this; my perversion. I lunged disjointedly after her, realising that, inadvertently, she had taken a path to a dead end, one we had only just returned from. I came upon her crouched on the grass, her back against a hedge, sobbing mightily. “Emma...” “Stay away from me”, she screamed. “How could you? After all these years. I trusted you...” I don’t exactly know what came over me at that point. A sense of enormous loss, of course. But, more than anything, the realisation that the one thing I wanted, the only thing, would never be mine and nothing could fill that void. If I couldn’t have her, I would make damned sure that nobody else would. I raised that heavy bottle and brought it crashing down upon her unprotected head...again...and again...and again.


(WP) Pride Versus Greed Part One: The First Sin Everyone knew who Tessa St. Claire was. She was one of the best politicians that had ever lived, and she knew it. But her ambition alone hadn’t been the blessing she needed to achieve her dreams, as much as she liked to believe so. It had been the ring. It had transformed her from mousy, meek Tess, keener to hide out in the library than socialize with her peers, to Tessa, the woman who stood with the world at her feet and her arms opened wide, eager to take everything it offered her. When she’d found it, abandoned on a bookshelf, it had twinkled like a secret, hidden star, just for her. Without thinking much of it, she’d slipped it on her left ring finger, which had been naked since her fiancé had left her. Suddenly, everything changed. She was being invited to parties, getting asked out by men and women alike, her curls smoothed straight, her acne vanished, and all of her clothes were shiny, new, and designer. She quickly rose up the ranks, and with her social success, her grades rose as well. She was the top of her class by the end of her senior year. Graduating from Yale that summer, she quickly landed a job at a top-tier law firm. But with her newfound beauty and silver tongue, that wasn’t enough anymore. She was soon an assistant to a politician, and then she became one herself. She was a rising star, and she told herself that the ring had nothing to do with it. Maybe it had given her a little nudge in the right direction, but it wasn’t solely responsible for everything she’d reaped and wrought. She was the author of her own destiny and always had been. \*\* Tessa St. Claire boarded her own private jet, ringed by her entourage and bodyguards. She was due to be in Chicago in the morning for her campaign run. She was shooting for the Senator’s seat, and she knew, deep down, that she could do it. Anyone could be fleeced; it was all a matter of saying something in just the right way. She ordered her assistant to go get her tablet; she wanted to constantly be updated on her opponents. She curtly thanked her and sent her to fetch some other things. Powering on the device, she tuned in to CNN, and found herself looking at her opponent, a fetching older man with salt and pepper hair and a fine goatee. Preston Culpepper, her former assistant. Traitor. His suit was Hugo Boss, a black and white pinstripe that hugged his bulky frame. He looked as though he was giving a speech. She turned up the volume on the tablet, and the man’s rich baritone came through the speakers, honeyed and genteel. “I am known as a man who keeps his promises,” He was saying, smiling out at the crowd, working them as only a politician could. “I will be happily anticipating your votes, folks, when I run for Senator of Massachusetts!” The last of this sentence was drowned out by roars of approval, and Tessa pinched the screen, zooming in on Culpepper’s right hand. On his ring finger glinted a bright, golden ring, and her own finger began tingling in response, as if it could sense its brother, even so many miles away. It appeared she had competition in the one place she’d never expected.


The snow was the type you weren’t supposed to drive in, period. Especially not during the heaviest part of the storm, when white fluff was dumping at an astonishing rate. Meg was at the wheel, navigating in her minivan, which was the absolute worst type of vehicle to be in at this point. I listened to her chatter, looked over my shoulder at Beth, wondering why neither of my cousins seemed to be frightened beyond belief like I was. I was half-wishing I had gone with my father instead, safe inside his four-wheel drive SUV, confident in his winter-driving skills. But. Meg, Beth and I were cousins, all the same age and raised together, born in a decidedly fertile year for our family. As adults, my cousins and I saw each other rarely--the occasional death seemed to be it. So I wanted every single second with them, even at the risk of crashing on a snowy back road. We were on our way to the memorial service for our great-aunt, Libby. The title always seemed too long, so she was just Libby to us. Although she had died almost a year ago, the memorial had been postponed to allow southern family members time to coordinate travel plans. I’m not sure why we picked the dead of winter, but here everyone was, driving one behind the other on back roads while wet snow stuck, a chain-reaction pileup just waiting to happen. “Remember the elephants?” Beth said, and it had been anyone’s guess who would bring that up first. The elephants and Libby went hand in hand, a simultaneous thought, one that couldn’t be born without the other coming into play. Of course, we remembered the elephants. In attempt to keep my mind off the sliding van and Meg’s complete obliviousness to the treacherous roads, I elected myself to be the one to retell it. It was Christmas 1988 or some such year. We were all gathered at my grandparents’ home, a place that seemed to have been the setting for Normal Rockwell’s inspiration. Little had changed since the 1960s, not in décor or progressiveness. It was as though time stood still at its most idyllic point. With the exception of the semi-new television and the rabbit eared Casio radio in the kitchen, everything else was a relic of the past. The mustard yellow corded phone, the sunken living room with brown patterned wallpaper. The camaraderie between my father and his family, me and my cousins, and Libby. Libby was as eccentric as one could possibly be. Even as an adult--when I understood that her job as a museum curator indicated intellectuality, and her work as a Red Cross nurse during wartime indicated versatility, and her knowledge of countless subjects indicated that she was educated--even then, eccentricity was her stand-out quality. On Christmas Day, she dressed in billowing satin clothing, rainbows of bright colors, gifts from her friend Amari in Africa, she told us. It was her standard holiday wear. She always wore Birkenstocks, long before they were trendy, and long after they were trendy. She kept her hair short, her lips hot-pink, and her fingers adorned in turquoise and silver jewelry. A mashup, she was. Her home, a brownstone in New York City that she owned outright, was filled with objects that didn’t go together. It was a mashup just like Libby. Full of oriental rugs, first edition poetry books displayed on floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves, ancient pottery with tiny chips inlaid with gold. Paintings worth more money than I can imagine and an abundance of plants suspended in macrame hangers. Her financial independence was a nod to a state of being that was yet to become vogue: a successful, single woman. No husband necessary. As kids, we all sort of knew Libby was well-off and that’s where the elephants come in. Perhaps the most eccentric thing about Libby was her style of gift giving. Single, childless, and rich--she should have been the relative who indulged us with expensive gifts. Cash in envelopes, hard to score Cabbage Patch Dolls, or the brand-new, much coveted Nintendo system that was all the rage. Libby’s gifts, however, ran a different gamut. One Christmas, it was eagle feathers for all of us! She had spent the year collecting them on walks and hikes in upstate New York, and she was just over the moon that she had enough to present one to each of us. Something to tie us all together, she said. We spent the day playing Davy Crockett and tickling each other under the chin, but it was a strange gift to eight year old girls. Another year, she donated an extraordinary amount of money to MOMA, dividing the total by however many of us there were and giving us each a handwritten certificate stating that a donation had been made in our name. Gifts like this were usually accompanied by something small, a token to offset the disappointment in our little faces, I suppose. Her go-to was a coupon for a free Frosty from Wendy’s. One year, my dad decided to best her. On a summer visit, she commented on the loveliness of our rose gardens, and demanded to know what kind of witchery my father was using to produce such succulent blooms, such deep color. He explained that the cow farm next door allowed him to fertilize his roses directly from their manure pile. Libby was beyond excited about this, imagining what cow poop could do for her little terrace garden. But there was no time that day for my father to take her on a field trip next door. “I’ll wrap it up for Christmas,” my dad joked. And when that Christmas came, he wore a grin on his face that stretched from ear to ear as she opened the box and the read the note he’d attached to the bag. Ten pounds of cow manure, all hers. Quadruple bagged, though if you leaned into the box, you could still catch a faint whiff. Which of course we did, over and over. “Yes!” she cried out, punching her fists in the air like a small child. She was beyond tickled that my father would go to the trouble to bag up manure for her, let alone present it as a Christmas gift. Meg, Beth and I rolled our eyes and plugged our noses. That year, we learned, Libby was just as weird of a gift recipient as she was giver. Anyhow. The elephants. The kicker was the year that she’d spent months abroad in Africa with Amari, who we secretly gossiped was her lesbian lover, after overhearing the adults whisper their own suspicions. They were doing some type of missionary work with poverty-stricken children that seemed unreal to us cousins, living our spoiled, sheltered lives. While there, she’d become invested in the preservation of African elephants. Their herd numbers were declining, poaching was a problem, and help was needed to protect them. Libby couldn’t save the children and the elephants with her own two hands. So she fed malnourished toddlers rice on spoons (so I imagined) and bankrolled the elephants Through some program or other, she adopted three elephants. One for each of us--Meg, Beth, and me. Each year, she told us, she would continue to donate money towards the efforts to preserve the herds near the area that she and Amari had spent months living in bush-like conditions. In our names, of course. As we each opened our card, reading the handwritten notes to ourselves, I think we all felt a collective sense of disappointment. The three of us were nearly teenagers, so we smiled politely and said thank you. In her excitement about the three elephants, Libby had forgotten to include our standard Frosty coupon. “She was so excited about those elephants,” Meg laughed. We listed the other various gifts: wooden African beads, sent to her by Amari one year. Season passes to the Bronx Zoo (that one was actually pretty cool.) Original hardback copies of Nancy Drew mystery books, long after they were age-appropriate for us. Eventually, after she entered Sunset Retirement Community and later, a nursing home, the gifts became recycled Christmas cards. Slipped inside would be a five dollar bill and a note encouraging us to spend it on something special , whatever special thing five dollars could possibly buy. The Frosty coupon seemed to go the way of our childhood and the elephants...in the past and forgotten about. “You know, I missed getting those damn Frosty coupons,” Beth said. I looked back and smiled at her appreciatively. I knew exactly what she meant. “Did you ever look up the elephants?” Meg asked, as she slid her van into the parking lot and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ironically, as Meg turned the van off, the snow stopped and the clouds began to reveal patches of blue behind them. “No," I said. "Why, did you?" “I did,” Meg said. “Did you know they’re still alive? Well, mine is anyhow. There’s a website. I’ll send you the link later. We'd better hurry.” We hopped out of the van, following Meg and the throng that was trickling into the building, the rec center of Sunset Retirement Community, where Libby had spent a large portion of her retirement years. I couldn’t seem to get Meg's words out of my head. How many years ago had the elephants been? Had Libby’s money directly kept those three bad boys alive all this time? I had never, not once, thought to ask about or investigate saving African elephants. I glanced back at Beth, who seemed to read my mind. She was teary-eyed. “Our elephants are alive! That just makes me...” She couldn’t find the word. “I know,” I said. Inside, we found ourselves surrounded by family. Not just our immediate family, but the extended family. Libby’s other nieces and nephews, second cousins we knew in name only, their children our age but complete strangers. Everyone smiled tentatively at one another. But there were more people than could possibly have fit on our family tree. I elbowed my dad. “Who are all these people?” He smiled. “Her friends.” The memorial got underway quickly. One of Libby’s nephews thanked everyone for braving the snow, and explained that this was a day for us to remember Libby. No agenda, just an open forum in which anyone who wanted to speak about Libby was free to do so. I looked around the room. I was in disbelief at the amassed crowd. My dad had said they were her friends, but these were people of all ages--some younger than I, some wrinkled and elderly in wheelchairs pushed by aides. There were quite a few people in scrubs. I expected that my dad would be the one to stand first and speak, but I was wrong. As I turned forward again, I realized a line was forming at the lectern. My dad was maybe tenth or eleventh. I nudged Meg and Beth, each on one side of me. “I don’t think we’ll have to speak,” Meg whispered, as awestruck as I was at the crowd and the line. "Just look!" The first person at the microphone was an attractive man wearing scrubs. He introduced himself as Daniel, one of the nursing home employees. He was perhaps thirty, and I was shocked to see tears openly run down his face as he described what a joy, what an absolute light Libby had been in his life. He was unabashedly emotional as he spoke. At the end, he pulled something out of his pocket. “She gave me this a few weeks before she passed. Just a polished rock from a souvenir shop, she told me, but it was still special.” He held his palm out, just enough that we could see the shiny jade-colored rock he cradled. He chuckled and then spoke again. “She gave it to me because, she said, ‘it’s pretty and so are you’.” Daniel laughed and along with him, so did all of us. The next person at the microphone was one of my dad’s cousins, who spoke of summers spent with Libby in New York City when he was a troubled kid, an attempt by his parents to set him straight. “There I was, fourteen and trying to score drugs and Libby thought the antidote was to take me to the museums and teach me about the Renaissance.” He shook his head, the second grown man in ten minutes to choke up. “Well, she was right,” he said, quickly stepping down, his emotions all too much for the moment. I looked back and forth between Meg and Beth. We were all crying. Beth passed us a little packet of tissues. Next, the head of Sunset. She spoke eloquently about Libby’s presence in the community. She talked about the monetary contributions Libby made each Christmas to the food pantry that the retirement community was involved with. She talked about how, on Christmas Eve, Libby snuck around like Santa Claus and left little coupons on each resident’s door. “You know,” the woman said, “Those ones you get at fast food places? For free fries or a Frosty?” Now Meg was laughing and crying at once. I reached out and clasped her hand in mine. There was no way I was going to be able to talk, nor were she and Beth. But this? Listening? Was a tonic for grief. Was a balm on the empty space left in each of our worlds. It felt like Libby was right there with us. Probably watching all of us with her hands clasped together, her mouth open in sheer delight. My father’s words of his Aunt Libby began with a story from childhood, when Libby was the only adult who went sledding with them, no matter how wet and cold it was. Who taught them how to lay low and gain speed on their wooden sleds with metal runners. Who was there at every Christmas, with her silly and weird and wonderful gifts in hand. “I guess we all know what Libby’s gifts were like,” my father acknowledged, and the crowd collectively laughed. He wiped his own tears--my father!--and shook his head. “How lucky was I,” he said, “that she was my very own aunt.” On and on it went. The friends from the retirement community--too many to count. Employees of Sunset. Neighbors from the New York City days. The final woman to speak was Lucy, the daughter of Libby’s cleaning lady in New York City, who was the recipient of her numerous fur coats when Libby finally sold the brownstone to move to Sunset. “My mother and my sisters and I had so little, we really struggled. Libby always wildly over tipped my mom, and then, when she left, we had the fur coats!” Lucy said. "She had no way of knowing, or maybe she did, that my mother didn't have enough money for winter coats that year." It was not lost on me that while I, a privileged child in suburban America, received only coupons and feathers, this young lady's family was the one to get the fur coats. Their worth was accentuated in warmth over monetary value. In fact, it seemed, for all the money she had, she only invested in things that really needed it. Supporting the arts. Food pantries and hungry children. Elephants in danger. After Lucy stepped down, Libby’s nephew instructed us to move to the next room, where there were light refreshments for us all. We began to shuffle out, the hum of the crowd rising, tears dissipating and replaced by laughter. In the room next door, in a large, glass-paned stand-up freezer, a man reached in and out offering everyone one of the dozens of child-sized Frosties from Wendy’s. Ice cream in a snowstorm in the rec center of a retirement village, a hundred people gathered together for Libby. It was perfect. People began to mingle outside of their collective circles. I wanted to talk to Lucy, to tell her I remembered meeting her once, when I was visiting Libby, and Lucy's mother brought her along to clean. I wanted to see if she could recall playing with me on Libby’s terrace, pretending we were in a jungle amongst all the growing plants. As I looked for her, I saw that others seemed to be doing the same. My dad was shaking hands with the head of the retirement community. Daniel and Meg were laughing over the stone, which Daniel was showing her. Meg, no doubt, would tell him about the elephants. Old people, young people, relatives, friends, employees--every single one of us, connected only by Libby. Each of us at one time or another a recipient of a gift from Libby--more than once, if we were lucky, like my dad said. As I watched the connections being made and ate my Frosty, I realized this was the gift--this was the ultimate gift. I could not imagine anything that would have delighted Libby as much--not saving the elephants, not cow poop, not eagle feathers or shiny stones or collectible books. This. The people of her life together, right here. The culmination of her existence in terms of love. This, along with Frosties, was her final gift to us. And what a gift it was. Tossing my paper cup, I reached into my purse as I scanned the room. I felt my fingers touch the African beads I had long since taken to carrying, letting them serve as a worry stones. I rubbed them while searching the crowd for Lucy. I wondered if she had worn one of Libby's furs today. I hoped she had.


I have always loved the man-made sounds that break the quiet of the night: passing cars, train whistles, the morning newspaper being delivered. These sounds, particularly in my youth, offered me comfort and safety, someone else was awake, alert, standing guard without any knowledge of their appointment to this powerful and protective role. My fear of the night was well-known in my family and lasted inappropriately long-well into my late teens-dissipating only when I entered college and moved into a dormitory that housed more than 500 wonderfully nocturnal humans. But before this Heaven-on-Earth housing assignment, deviations from my nighttime routine were rare: Fan, check. AM radio set to the staticky overnight talk shows that were broadcast from Cleveland, check. Corner lamp on, check. TV off, check. That last requirement may seem counter-intuitive but it was the 1970s, and to be awakened by the National Anthem and subsequent sign-off tone at the witching hour of 2:00 AM was the kiss of death for me. The parameters of acceptable waking times were rigid- to be awakened before midnight or after 4:00 AM were safe; after all, my dad got up for work at 4:30 and then dawn was close enough to allow me to slip back into my slumber. If, God forbid, I opened my eyes in that 4 hour window of terror, my fate was sealed: I would lay motionless, paralyzed, sweating from a combination of fear and now-suffocating blankets that I refused to come out from under, listening for unexplainable noises, and waiting for some unknown force to find me. I wanted to cry, but my silence hid my presence while I prayed for dawn to come. What was I expecting might happen? Who or what was I waiting for and hiding from? Many years would pass before I understood the cause. My sister, Heather, was my loyal companion throughout much of my introverted childhood existence. She was two years my junior and always included me in with her circle of friends. Her devotion extended into my nightly wee-hours requests for accompaniment to the bathroom, and it rarely took more than a light tap to get her to rise, without speaking, to join me on the trek down the 1970s avocado shag-carpeted hallway. On one particular night, timestamped only by the matching nightgowns recently sewn by our mother (Simplicity circa 1976), our nightly journey would quietly but profoundly transform the rest of my childhood. To set the stage, picture a split-level middle class Midwestern house that sat as the neighborhood anchor where all the tar-covered streets converged. We were the only house with a swimming pool in the yard, albeit an above the ground find from the local salvage store, but it was the summer yard where neighborhood bikes would lay as plans were organized for the day among the young riders, and neighborhood ladies would gather for some sun, cigarettes, and chatter. Inside, shades of orange and green dominated, with a velvet sofa and chairs in the living room, and a brown and yellow plaid couch that paired well with the fashionably-paneled walls in the den. All floors carpeted and all walls papered in florals, trellises or bicentennial charm. A black wrought-iron rail led up the stairs and wrapped around to a balcony landing on the second floor, with a spectacular mirror-tiled wall for the backslash. It was this mirror that reflected the image of my sister and I in matching nightgowns, ages 6 and 8, as we walked from our shared bedroom side-by-side that night. The first hint of oddity came from the flood of light that blinded our night eyes as we made our way to the bathroom in those still pitch-dark hours. The living room glowed. Every light was not only on but also seemed much brighter than usual. A child’s mind rationalizes quickly, and I dismissed the strange illumination as the result of forgetful parents. As Heather and I got closer to the wrought iron railing that separated the elevated hallway from the living room, I saw something moving... walking actually... from the living room toward kitchen. In sync, Heather and I kneeled down in front of the railing, our hands holding the cold metal rails while our faces peered through to see the creature that stood down below. It was a very large white rabbit, standing upright. It stood at least 7 feet tall and if I had stretched my hand out through the rails, I could have touched it. It stopped instantly when it became aware of our presence and turned its head quickly to meet our now-frozen faces. The massive creature had a colorful poncho of some kind over one shoulder and a sack over the other, amusing enough that I don’t remember feeling frightened; what I do remember were the rabbit’s large eyes-almond-shaped and onyx black, like the darkest waters of the ocean at its deepest point. The eyes were the whole of the creature, not the costume it had wrapped itself into. It communicated with us and the message was clear, “Get up. Go back to bed. Never speak of this night again.” I heard the message from somewhere in my head, but not through my ears. No sound was ever made and the rabbit’s mouth never moved, but I knew Heather had received the message too, because we stood up together and followed the clear instructions we had been given. It must have been something about the safety of that dorm, the distance now placed between my childhood home and this college town, that allowed the memory of that night to catapult from its hiding place and into my conscious mind some 10 years later. It was there suddenly and completely, and I shared it with my roommates-one of whom was an art major-and soon she had sketched, almost perfectly, the creature she named “Demon Bunny.” It was a vividly detailed memory without question, and my roommates and I brainstormed the rational and the irrational possibilities: a dream? a nightmare? an alien? a burglar? The weekend following my revelation, I headed home for a visit that included a shopping trip with my mom and sister. Demon Bunny was now alive and well in my mind but its message was still firmly fixed-”Never speak of this night again”-and I was fearful of the consequence that might follow if I violated that pact. I had decided to share my story with my mom and Heather, and I finally threw caution to the wind as we drove along on our shopping trip, “You know, I had the strangest memory come back to me recently. I think it was a dream... haha... but here it goes...” I told my story to my mom and sister, both with very different reactions. My mom’s concerned and confused stares alternated back and forth from the road to her narrating passenger and back again. Heather, who had been relaxing in the back seat now slid her body forward and leaned her whole head into the front seat space between my mom and I, her face drained of color. “That wasn’t a dream. I remembered it a few years ago. ” she said. My mom nearly drove off the road, asking why she hadn’t mentioned it before this moment. I already knew the answer. My sister, just inches from my head, and with a now deeply accusatory and worried tone directed her response at me, “Because we were told not to.” With the cat, or more accurately the rabbit, out of the bag we compared stories, matching detail to detail the events of that night-the lights, the colored poncho, the sack, the eyes, and the message. My mom, who had just finished the alien-based book Communion: A True Story, was convinced that the rabbit was an extraterrestrial. My sister committed to silence on the topic after that weekend and today remains hesitant to discuss it any further. I have done some research into the topic over the years and while I felt ridiculous entering the search words “big white rabbit in my house”, “rabbit with eyes that spoke to me”, and “do shape-shifters exist?” into my computer, I did stumble across a concept from Celtic folklore that seemed to check many of the boxes: the Pooka. The word “Pooka” is believed to have come from the old Irish word for Goblin (puca) or perhaps the Scandanvian word “pook/puke” meaning ‘nature spirit’. According to the lore, it appears only at night, enjoys creating mischief, and it is often inclined to conversation. They can take the form of any animal, although most commonly they appear as horses with glowing eyes. Pookas are credited with being benevolent, protective, and sometime havoc-wreakers. They often leave those who encounter them with a questioning of whether or not the visit was even real. One of the first things I ever read about Pookas was that when they appear to a child, they seek to forever alter the perception of reality for that child. Hollywood has borrowed the Pooka for now-famous films like Harvey (1950), Donnie Darko (2001), and Pooka (2018). I’m still not sure what we saw that night, but I don’t think was a “demon” and I certainly hope it wasn’t an alien. I can live with the idea of the Pooka so that’s where I landed.