The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ The skeletal remains of the campfire taunted me. Now nothing more than a memorial to my failure. As daylight arrived I set about trying to retread where others had and work out how to make a fire. I tried simply rubbing them against each other as hard as I could. Then I decided that maybe the bark was preventing success, so I picked away at the outer layer to reveal the woody flesh beneath. I applied as much friction as I could, enough to produce heat. But no smoke. Never fire. I reasoned maybe I needed a different type of wood. Maybe the ones I was using were too porous or too dense. I returned to the forest and came back with a few different types of branch and tried again. Still, nothing. With each attempt, I kept up the short repetitive thrusts of my arm, pushing as much energy into the wood as I could until the burning in my muscles was too much, until I could grit my teeth against the pain no more, and I let go. As the day wore on, each attempt grew shorter and shorter till the pain was instantaneous, the first brush of the wood enough to cause my arms to spasm and falter. My back ached from being arched all day and my legs and chest stung from the cold chill that ran through them. Yet, despite all the exertion: no smoke, never fire. I had no more to give. I stopped for the evening, my muscles hot through effort yet my skin cold from exposure. I lay down and stared at the sea, trying to ignore the stones digging into my kidneys. Slow, peaceful waves rolled over the horizon, crawling towards me, till they brushed against the shore just a few metres away - so close, yet never touching - before they retreated and returned out to sea. I traced those waves back, back across the ocean, and back through time, to where this all began, back on Kadear. I remembered when I was a prisoner in the Citadel, tidying one of the council’s homes. A song had played from that artefact. The first miracle the Archipelago had shown me. The words from that song had stayed with me across the islands. *I had a good idea* *Let’s lay these bones to rest* *Build it all over and start again* *Cause I know, that if you dare to hope* *That if you dare to try* *To rebuild the pieces of your life* *Then you’ll find, the things you held so dear* *The things you held so close* *Were never really yours* *And what’s left* *That vacuous empty shell* *Is ready to be refilled* *With all the love you should have had* Here I was. My bones laid to rest, stuck on this island. But how well those words had mirrored my journey to here. I found out my dreams of the citadel were a lie, and I lost everything. A moment on Yotese Over Haven came back to me, a moment of regret. In a fit of anger I had told Alessia that everything since Kadear had been loss. “Everything?” she had said, the question heavy with an unmentioned hurt. I ignored it. I ignored it because I knew I was talking nonsense. Sometimes, when anger and hurt overtake you, you can’t admit that there can be any good. There can only be pain. In reality, since I left Kadear I had experienced so much grief. But, that vacuous empty shell was refilled, with so much love. Despite every bit of hardship, despite the death of friends, I had somehow never been more full. Love from Xander, Kurbani and her children. Love from all the people of Deer Drum. And love from Alessia. Love for Alessia. Here, alone, hope fading at the same rate as the light dimming on the horizon, I no longer had the energy to run from thoughts that had been circling round my mind for several islands now. The woman who had saved me so many times. The woman who had survived the hard seas through bravery, but also tenderness. The woman who put others first. The woman who believed in me and my stupid mission to explore the origins of The Archipelago. I thought of the way strands of hair blew across her face in the breeze. I pictured her wry smile when she teased, the tongue perched on her teeth. I remembered how serious she was about everything she did, and how much fun she had doing it. That love that had filled me, wasn’t common kinship. The ignored cognitions boiled over, no longer suppressible by the distractions of another island and another chase. I didn’t love Alessia. I was in love with Alessia. And she might be dead. I had feared losing her twice before. On Talin Barier when I heard of the attack on the island where she had been. On Granite Vowhorn when we parted ways and headed into the warzone. She would survive a third time... wouldn’t she? I had seen that mast hit her. I had seen her fall to the water. I hadn’t seen her resurface. A new pain formed in my chest. Not for my own peril but at the thought of what else might be in those oceans. Suddenly the waves in front of me weren’t calming, they were taunting. Gleefully celebrating that they held the wet, dark grave of the greatest person I knew. Was she dead? She couldn’t be. She wasn’t allowed to be. Because I loved her. And love could keep people alive. Couldn’t it? I closed my eyes, keeping the waves out and the tears in. I took deep breaths, feeling my chest heave through the strange concoctions. Perfectly still. Cold. Alone. Grieving and hoping. I tried to sleep. I had little success. ---------------------------------------------- The cold was beginning to make me weak. After three days without heat, my bones felt heavy, weighed down with a frost that had crystallised the marrow. I was struggling to maintain body temperature, my blood pumped fast and hard as the skin tingled from the cold outside and the heat beneath. I was also losing weight rapidly, what fat I had being burned off just staying warm. I needed to replace it. The leftover meat from the previous bird kill had run dry, and if I wanted to eat again, I would have to use what was left as bait. The kills had been a matter of learning the moves, understanding how and when to run for the prey. But as I lay still among the rocks again I wondered if I would be able to make the same steps. Just how quickly were my muscles weakening and my reactions slowing from the creeping frost. I would soon find out. A bird landed, I jabbed the stick, the gull rolled over, and I set off on my sprint. Each push of my legs felt like a snap, the same pain when you bend your knee slightly the wrong way, and you get a jarring thud through the limb. My lungs panted coarse air that stung against my trachea. I ignored the pain, outstretched my arms, and leaped for the bird. I grabbed a wing, a victorious yelp escaping my lips just in time for my torso to smack against the rocks. A stone rammed into my abdomen, and my body went limp, the fingers loosened, and the bird flew away. It took four attempts. With each one the pain subsided, but it didn’t feel easier. The aches and stings merely replaced by a numbness, my body unsure if my legs were even there. Still, I won. I would eat. Plucking the bird felt like a relief. After the many, many failed attempts at starting the fire, the routine of a task that I could do was a kindness. This time, I also tried to keep the feathers, lining them around the area where I slept. One bird’s worth wouldn’t provide much warmth, but it had to be something. I would take anything. However, as I finished preparing the meat, the problem I had been avoiding became an inevitability. There was no fire. I couldn’t cook. I stared at the plucked, but importantly, raw flesh in front of me. The pale skin was lined with bumps where the feathers had been ripped out, pale veins and patches of white fat could be seen below the surface. The skin felt rubbery and wet. The thought of eating the raw white meat already turned my stomach. The same stomach longed for me to cram down the meal as quickly as possible. My mind tried to process the two contradicting signals of don’t eat that, and eat that now. I turned it slowly in my hands trying to find the best place to start my meal, but that only made my eyes spot new things to be appalled by. Bloody sinew draped across bones, organs ready to spill out to the ground. There would be no way to ease myself in. I closed my eyes and bit down on the meat, tearing away at the soft, squishy flesh. Fresh blood dripped down my chin, watery and warm. It was refreshing yet the taste clung to my tongue like a fungus. It pooled and mixed with my saliva as my nose smelt the iron. Slippery bits of meat rolled in my mouth. It felt like they wriggled - though dead, not dead enough. I could feel the tendons and arteries snap between my teeth, the muscles rip and release their contents into my throat. I swallowed just as the nausea rose to meet the food. But I managed to hold it down. Hunger, the drive for energy at all costs, won out. I knew raw meat would go bad quicker, I couldn’t save any for later, and so I kept eating. I kept chewing away at the gamey, yet fishy meat until my stomach could hold no more. Till even my hunger ridden body begged me to stop. My head tilted back, triumphant and smug, my chin and neck red and sticky. I had over-delivered on the need. Satiated a drive so hard that every signal in my body pleaded for it to end. I exhaled with conquest, and I turned to look at the sea. My hands immediately dropped the remainder of the bird. A ship. I leaped to my feet. The ship was miles away, clinging to the edge of the horizon, yet its size meant it was still visible. It was a great metal beast, one of the warships sold by Tima Voreef. They had little chance of seeing me this far away, but maybe one would be looking out with a telescope. If I danced enough, jumped enough, screamed and shouted, just maybe they would see me. With the raw gull still folding in my stomach, I dug into my reserve energies, and waved my hands high in the air. I hollered, an inevitable futile shout. My screams fell into the oceans as I tried to muster the energy to jump even just a few inches. With each leap I could feel the still digesting meat bounce and slosh within me. Acid rose to the oesophagus, and my throat slowly burned. I reached down to the cold, dead fire - how much I wished it were alive now - and grabbed the two largest sticks I could find, waving them as extensions of my arms. The extra weight ached my biceps, and I could feel my elbows contract with each lift, my screams more now through resistance than excitement. The boat stuck to its path, hanging at the very edge of the earth, as I continued waving slow great arches with the sticks. Eventually the branches were too heavy and they dropped to the ground, clattering against the stones. My tired arms continued to wave, a small resurgence of life now free of the extra weight. I couldn’t jump anymore, and my screams had become a squeal, yet I made myself big, and made what noise I could, as that boat continued its slow, slow, painful journey. I watched night come and light fade - hope with it. I watched the lanterns on the boat flicker on one by one, evidence of human life, proof that rescuers were there. But they never turned, and eventually the ship disappeared off the edge of my world. I collapsed, my legs giving way as the last strands of muscle capitulated through strain and defeat. My head landed against the stones with a thud, and I could feel my vision shake with the impact. “Where are you, Alessia?” I cried, my voice stuttered. Above me the stars drifted in and out of focus. “You were supposed to be here by now.” She didn’t respond. She had three weeks to find safety, get the boat repaired and come find me. Now is when she should arrive. If she could arrive. I picked up a stone next to me, and with a grunt threw it at the sea. A pointless exertion borne of nothing but anger. More joules wasted in fits of emotion. “Please. I’m not strong enough to carry on here. I need you. I need a lifeline. Please.” My chest shuddered as beaten tears reached my eyes, phlegm bubbling in my mouth. I felt something shift in my stomach. My body froze with the moment. The mourning stopped, as a more physical urge took precedence. I rolled over, just as the contents of my stomach reached my mouth. Bits of lightly-digested raw gull spewed out over the rocky beach, the liquid running between the stones. My stomach spasmed in agony, as my mind felt dizzy with the smell. My head flopped back, too tired to shift away from the acidic smell drifting towards me. In the darkness, I could already hear happy flies gathering at the banquet. My demise, their feast. More wasted joules.


The house stood in eerie stillness, as it always did in the winter, the back room that used to be Grant’s practically screaming its secrets. It had been so loud since he left, especially in the wintertime. He loved the snow, and the room never let me forget it. The gray clouds muted everything, especially at night, and the streetlamp outside the second-story window cast a long, ink-black shadow along the wall. I hadn’t realized that the wallpaper had started to peel where the wall met the molding. My fingers trailed along the top of the old paint there, my skin catching on dust, the corpse of a dead spider, and flaked wood. It really had been a long time. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to step through the doorway. I felt his eyes on me. Grant’s. I knew it wasn’t possible. Not really. He was long gone. The wooden barrier swung open regardless, the hinges groaning in protest from lack of use. The room beyond, pregnant with energy - unsaid apologies, hateful ignominy, final punctuation - leaked old memories. I hadn’t cleaned it. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had all his furniture burned, of course. Couldn’t stand the sight of it. It hurt too much. I flicked on the light switch, and a dusty bulb flickered to life above me. A chill breeze swept past me as I entered, and I realized very quickly that the window must have a crack or some kind of leak. The place was freezing. It probably explained why my energy bill was so high. My arms wrapped around myself instinctively. I didn’t really know why I brought myself to do this every single year. I was trying to get over something, something too big that I couldn’t put down. It hung on my shoulders like one of those sleep paralysis demons you see in old paintings, ghoulish and somehow a little like you. My fingers clenched around my sweater and the age-old unresponsiveness crept up on me again. My hands trembled. My chest wavered. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I had to do it. I spun toward the wall, toward the only thing in the room. Grant’s mirror hung there, covered by a cloth that I had thrown over it shortly after he left. After a few short chokes as beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I dashed for the fabric. I tore it away from the wall like one would rip off a bandage to reveal the mirror underneath. It hit me like a flood. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, and I remembered how terrified I looked. As the date approached, I lost out on sleep. Dark purple bags ringed my eyes, wide and white like saucers, and my blond hair knotted against my skull. I hadn’t bathed for days. Weeks? Was I always so thin? Then Grant came, as he always did. The memory of him danced around the room like bad imaging on an old television. He raised his hands up at me, screaming silent words that I couldn’t remember as he spun around the room. I shouted back, pointing an accusatory finger at him. I was much rounder then. He ripped up the corded phone off the nightstand, ripped the cord from the wall, and flung it at me. It left a dent in the door. And then I said it. “When I know you’re coming home, it makes me want to kill myself!” I screamed. The mirror had seen everything. I yelled out in that room alone and I dropped to my knees under the weight of it all. I thought I could face it. I thought I could get the beast off me. I wailed so hard my throat tore itself open, and thundering footfall exploded from somewhere below me. Before long, someone had dragged me to my feet and was ushering me out of the room. “Claire? Jesus, Claire! I go to make a sandwich for five minutes.” Before I was pulled from the space, I took one last look at my reflection. That was the face of a woman who had told her husband she wished he was dead. When I finally came out of my trance, I looked up to see who had grabbed me and nearly threw up. The acidic bubble of fear came up in my throat and I swallowed it, chunks and all, back down. Grant pulled me into the kitchen - no, not Grant. Garrett. Grant wasn’t here anymore. Garrett, Grant’s twin brother, sat me down at the kitchen table and hastily reached for an orange bottle. He popped the lid off and pushed my medication into my hands. After practically throwing a cabinet door off its hinges, he handed me a glass of tap water. “You have got to be kidding me, Claire. The psychiatrist said you weren’t allowed in there. Especially today. How’d you find the key?” “It was under your laptop on your desk,” I replied. I was sure I sounded like my soul had left my body. “I don’t know what else to do. Dr. Sturges told you that you’re not ready to handle it. Every single year you have another break because you don’t listen to what he tells you. I can’t have you having another break, Claire. I’ve already had to cover every damn mirror in the house.” I didn’t say anything and just stared into the cup. I could almost make out my reflection there, but not quite, thank God. “Do you think I wanted to move out here? Abandon my life? My job? Just because my brother decided to marry some--” He stopped himself. I looked slowly up at him, interested in what he had to say. “Some what , Garrett?” * * * My shaking hands fumbled with the bobby pin as I tried to pry it into the lock. I had let myself go too far. Get lost. If I didn’t do it now, I would never do it. I would be stuck in whatever hell this was, below the surface but never quite deep enough to drown. Finally, the bobby pin clicked into place and the door popped open. I turned to look over my shoulder. Garrett should be sound asleep. He hadn’t noticed the Hydroxyzine that I had slipped into his food. Grant’s room stood before me again, that cold air wrapping me in a hug as I entered. I didn’t dare turn on the light this time. The cloth that I had pulled away remained in a heap where it had fallen a few days ago, crumpled in an uncomfortable shape on the floor. My eyes played tricks on me and imagined someone lying underneath it. I shook my head to clear my thoughts, as if that would help me, and then I looked to the wall. Where it hung, the mirror reflected just the edge of the window and otherwise empty room. I could not see myself in it. Not yet. The paper in my hand crumpled as my arms started to tremble and my fingers tightened into a fist. With my teeth, I unrolled packing tape - it practically screamed out as the adhesive gave. After ripping away a piece, I closed my eyes and pressed the tape to the paper and the paper to the wall. My finger glided over the smooth tape, and I tried to calm my breath. I could barely stand. I didn’t know if my body could take it. It had to. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the paper. A dark photograph took up the upper half of the page, almost indiscernible in the dark. But the headline wasn’t. Acclaimed and Beloved English Professor, Aged 38, Dies in Head-On Collision with Big Rig. My eyes met the mirror. A dark silhouette lurked in its circular frame, haloed by the snow-reflected light from the window. I took a step away from the mirror. Then back toward it. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I didn’t see my face. Not clearly yet. One more step toward it. And then I met eyes that weren’t mine. My eyes were blue. Grant’s dark ones stared back at me. The world turned around me and suddenly I had been flipped upside down. My face slammed into the mirror, the glass breaking against my skin. Something hit the wall against my head, and when I turned to look back into the room, the light had turned on, and the phone that had once been on the nightstand had slammed into the wall. “Grant!” I cried, turning to find my husband behind me with his hand behind my head. “Grant, let me go!” “This is all your fault, you know,” he replied, his tone as smooth as a pane of glass. “You told me to go kill myself, so I did.” He pulled me back from the mirror by the knots in my hair so I could face him. I grabbed for anything I could, but my fingers merely met wallpaper. “Garrett! Garrett help!” “It was as easy as driving under the overpass on I-25 right into that 18-wheeler.” My knees buckled and I hit the floor. The phone. I scrambled for it, but he kicked it away from my hand. “I’m sorry, Grant! I’m so, so, so sorry!” “I really made you that miserable?” He kicked me. “I never hit you. Never told you I hated you. Always did everything for you.” He grabbed me by my face, pinching my cheeks in so hard I couldn’t talk. He had such large hands, and I had lost so much weight. There was no way I could fight back. “No wonder you can’t look at yourself. You’re horrifying. I hope you really soak in every single second of suffering. That’s how every moment I spent with you felt.” He spun me around and shoved my face into the shattered mirror again, cutting my cheeks and my bottom lip. The metallic bitterness of blood dribbled across my tongue and then down my nightgown. “I hope I eat you alive.” The mirror. I turned and grabbed the mirror from the wall, spinning with as much force as I could to slam the glass into the side of his head. The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, the glass slicing open the left side of his face. As soon as the glass hit his skin, time froze. All at once, it was not the glass of the mirror that dashed across his face, but the glass from his car’s windshield. The headlights of the big rig bleached his face out and his muscles contorted from the force. And then we were back in the empty room. The mirror’s frame danced across the floor as it slid into the corner. He looked at me, his smile swimming with blood. He lunged. “Grant!” I pleaded. “Grant, stop!” We danced around the room, the broken glass on the floor cutting open my bare feet. I grabbed a piece and wielded it at him. “I’m going to follow you every waking moment, Claire. You won’t be able to look at your face ever again without seeing yourself as I saw you in the end. As the bitch that told me to take my life.” “I was wrong, Grant. I was confused !” “You weren’t confused , Claire. You were hateful. You hated yourself and couldn’t stand the ugly bitch you had become, inside and out, and so you took it out on everyone else.” He came at me again, and I lunged at him with the same ferocity. My arm jutted toward him, glass in hand, skin burning from the deep laceration that was forming there from gripping the shard so hard. But I moved past him. I moved my arms under his and I wrapped my arms around him as tightly as I could. I embraced him. “I’m sorry Garrett,” I cried, tears mingling with blood as they trailed through my cuts, stinging them with their salt. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. My own hurt was never an excuse to hurt you in the way I did. We weren’t the perfect couple, and we tried. But I can’t let you hurt me anymore either.” I raised the piece of glass as his arms tightened around me, pushing every bit of air out of my lungs, and I drove it into my eye. * * * My body shook. Not shook, necessarily, but rattled back and forth. As I emerged from a fog, something pressed into my face, so heavy I couldn’t sit up. “I need you to call ahead to Denver General, let the surgeon know we’ve got a self-harm suicide coming in with severe head trauma.” I didn’t recognize them. “Oh, thank God! Hey, hey! She’s breathing!” Grant. No. Not Grant. Garrett. Someone squeezed my hand. “Garrett?” I asked. My throat felt like I had swallowed sandpaper. “Jesus, Claire,” he replied in the darkness, his voice shaky with sobbing. “Why’d you go and do something so damn stupid?” “I’m gonna make you a promise, Garrett,” I croaked, attempting to turn my head. A hand promptly stopped me from doing so. “I screwed up our lives. I shattered our whole family. I shouldn’t have yelled at Grant so much.” “It wasn’t all your fault, Claire. Grant threw shit at you, too. Don’t forget--” “It’s okay. None of it matters anymore. I’m going to fix this shattered life. He doesn’t have a hold on me. I’ll never see his reflection - or mine - ever again.”


The city street looked like nothing more than narrow alley from the balcony of Cynthia’s seventh story apartment. Her legs, dangling off the precipice, quivered in fright and anticipation. The adrenaline was building in her chest, and she could feel her heart thumping ever more violently. She felt the tears well up in her eyes as she thought about all she was leaving behind. But she wasn’t crying because of nostalgia, no. Cynthia was crying because she had seen the evil of the world. She knew what hid in the darkest corners of the loneliest roads. She had seen the purest of evil in what seemed to be the holiest of men. Whether it was her stepfather who abused her and her mother when she was only twelve, but would attend church every Sunday and pretend he was right in his soul. Or maybe her real father, who walked out on her at the age of two after he cheated on her mother with her preschool teacher. And her seemingly best friend Marie, who ended up leaving Cynthia chasing her coat tails trying to maintain their friendship even after Marie had lost herself to a heroin addiction. Or perhaps it was Joseph. Her shoulder to cry on. Her friend that picked her up at two o’clock in the morning after she blacked out drunk, who then proceeded to take advantage of her in her state when he got her back to her apartment. But maybe the one that stung most of all, was the evil Cynthia saw in herself. In the wake of all her trauma, Cynthia had grown cold. Remorse was an old friend she kicked to the curb like the weekend’s garbage. Cynthia had closed herself off. Nothing mattered to her anymore. Not her family, nor her so called “friends” that remained by her side, but didn’t care enough to try and help her battle her depression. Cynthia realized that life wasn’t worth it. She had nothing left to look forward to. All she had was darkness to look back on. So, Cynthia stood up on the balcony railing, looking at the street below. It was three o’clock in the morning. The sidewalks were barren. The streets were void of any passing cars. The street lamps cast flickering shadows across the sidewalk below as the limbs of a willow tree swayed gently in the breeze. Tears from Cynthia’s face glinted in the moonlight. Her bloodshot eyes and burning, red face visible even in the dimness. Cynthia held one foot out, balancing still on the railing with the other. A spike of excitement burst into her chest, taking her breath and causing her to momentarily lose her balance. This was it for her. The world had won. She had played its twisted game and lost. And this was her finale. Cynthia leaned forward, closed her eyes, and fell. She felt nothing. It was as if she were sitting still. There was no sense of falling. There was no feeling of her body plastering itself to the walkway below. There was only a feeling of weightlessness and a slight breeze across her face. She then felt herself being lifted upward. She felt her feet plant firmly back on the balcony. She opened her eyes and froze. In front of her stood a figure so bright she could not look at it directly. It’s presence was frightening, yet soothing. The figure was the epitome of everything pure in the world. The figure spoke only a few words to her. “Your time is not yet, child. Go and do my work.” The figure then laid its hand on Cynthia’s shoulder, a feeling of relief and calm washing over her immediately, and disappeared. Cynthia broke down crying on her balcony. The words of the figure still ringing in her ears. Afterword: This is my first post on this subreddit, and I'd appreciate feedback. Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments.


They all think I did it. They all think I killed my best friend. I didn’t, though. However many times I plead innocent, they don’t believe me. They think I am lying. I’m not, though. Even though I was the last person to see Natalie Park alive, I did not kill her. They say I’m crazy. They say I’m deranged. They say I deserve my own padded cell. Why would I kill my own best friend? “Avena.” I look up at the sound of my name. My sister, Magnolia, stands in front of me. “Lets go. You’ve got a trial.” I want to curl up in bed and cocoon myself in a blanket. I don’t want to feel the cold, hard eyes of the jurors on me. The judge’s judgement as to what I’ve become. “I don’t feel well.” I try to lie. “I think I’m coming down with something.” Lia looks at me, clearly not deceived. “You’re always coming down with something on court days.” I sigh and pull myself out of bed. I throw on a blue dress and some blue flats. I pin my blonde hair up in a bun, and straighten my glasses. “Are you ready to go?” Lia asks. I draw in a long breath. “Yes.” She leads me out to her car, a blue Corolla. I open the passenger door and climb inside. Lia squeezes my leg. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. You’ve got a great lawyer.” I sigh. She looks at me, her blue eyes piercing into me. “You didn’t do it. If they can’t see from every angle, every suspect, then they are not great at their jobs.” “But what if they do find me guilty? I didn’t do it, so what? I’d get, oh, I don’t know, fifty years in prison for nothing?” “Life.” Lia says silently. I put my face in my hands. “I’m doomed.” ******* Lia and I walked up the marble steps to the courthouse. We pushed open the large fancy doors and walked inside, her heels clicking against the cold stone floor. We enter the elevator, and the rumbling as it ascends along with the easy listening music make me feel like I need to throw up. Nervousness could be a factor, too. We enter the courtroom and I take my special defendant seat. My palms are sweating,and my shoes all of a sudden feel too tight. The prosecutor starts the opening statement. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Zachary Richard Smith. I am here today to prosecute on behalf of the family of Natalie Park for the murder of their daughter. I will call three witnesses to the stand. One, Mary Anne Park, will testify. Two, William Grant will testify. And third, Vera Wells. “At the conclusion of the case, we will ask you to convict the defendant, Avena Richards, of the crime as charged. Thank you. “First, I would like to call to the stand, Mary Anne Park.” Mary Anne, Natalie’s big sister, approaches the stand. She never liked me much, and she was there on the last night. She starts, “Thank you. I was at a party with the defendant and my sister the night she went missing. The defendant and her had been fighting. They had both been drinking. My sister left the party with-” She pointed at me with a sneer on her face. “ Her .” I instantly recoiled, my shoulders scrunching. My lawyer, Dean Stewart, approached the stand. “Your honor, I have a few questions.” “Objection, your honor!” Mr. Smith said. “Overruled.” The judge said. “Mr. Stewart, continue with your questioning.” Mr. Stewart faced Mary Anne. “Miss Park, did you try to stop those two from leaving the party?” Mary Anne turned red. “N-no, sir.” “Even though they had both been drinking, you did not try to stop them from getting into a car and driving away?” “Objection, your honor!” Mr. Smith said. “Overruled.” The judge said. Mary Anne became very interested in her dress. Her answer was only a squeak. “No.” The jury mumbled among themselves silently. “Thank you.” Mr. Stewart said, his point clearly made. “No further questioning.” “Thank you, Miss Park.” Mr. Smith said. “I would now like to call to the stand William Grant.” Will walked up to the stand. His blonde hair seemed paler, so it wasn’t exactly blonde, but more like a grey white. His blue eyes also seemed leeched of their color. He clearly hadn’t slept well last night. He sighs. He clearly does not want to be on the stand. His parents probably pressured him into it. “Hi. I was at the party, and to agree with Mary Anne, they did fight. But it was over something really stupid and girly, like, um,” He scratched his chin. “Oh! It was that they wore the same perfume, and they were accusing each other of doing it on purpose. By the time they left the party, they were giggling and it was like none of it had ever happened.” “Any questions?” The judge asked. There were none, because this testimony had aided both sides. It proved that we had fought that night, but it also proved that by the time we left, we weren’t mad at each other. “I’d like to call Vera Wells to the stand, please.” Uhg. The popular girl. In our high school group, she was the most popular. She had the nicest hair, clothes and accessories- but she was also the brattiest. That tended to happen to people who were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Vera made her way to the stand, sashaying, trying to show off her Miss Me jeans and Gucci belt. “Hi. I was at the party the night, like, that Nat went missing. Avena and, like, Nat were totally fine! I never saw them arguing, and when they, like, left, I left at, like, the same time. Avena, like, brought Nat home. I saw Nat, like, getting out of the car and walking up her front steps.” A tremor passes through the courtroom. “Any questions?” The judge asked. “A few, your honor.” Mr. Smith said. He approached the stand. “Miss Wells,” He started, “What time of night did you see the defendant drop Natalie Park off at her residence?” “Maybe, um, ten or ten thirty?” The courtroom was silent for about ten seconds, the only sound was pens scraping on legal pads. “Thank you. No further questions.” Mr Smith said. Vera returned to her seat. “I will now start the closing statement. We know that Natalie Park and Avena Richards did argue that night. However, they were friendly again with each other by the end of the night. Avena Richards dropped Natalie Park off at her house, where she was never heard from again. However, as Avena had Natalie in the car with her, she was still the person who last saw Miss Park. Therefore, I ask for a guilty verdict. Thank you.” Mr Stewart stands. “I will now start the closing statement by defense. While Miss Richards was the last person to see Miss Park, she was witnessed going into her home. Miss Richards drove away, leaving Miss Park at her residence. Which she shares with her family.” He sneaks a glance at Mary Anne, then continues. “Therefore, I ask for a non-guilty verdict.” “Thank you.” The judge, Judge Miller says. She continues, “I will now conversate with the jury to get a verdict for Miss Avena Richards.” And they go into a closed session. Lia walks over to join me. “It’s gonna be okay, Ave. It’s gonna be okay.” Although it sounded more like she was reassuring herself, and not me. I started to sweat, and my feet tapped against the cold stone floor. Minutes ticked by, feeling like several hours. The clock on the wall felt menacing, its white face glaring down at me. Finally, after what felt like hours, Judge Miller and the jury presided. “We have reached a verdict. We find the defendant, Avena Richards, innocent as charged. Thank you.” At first, I didn't understand. I was so ready to be hauled off in handcuffs. I looked at Lia, and she was grinning so wide I thought her smile was going to break the confines of her face. Court was dismissed, and I ran and hugged Lia. I’m innocent I’m innocent I’m innocent. Me and Lia were so excited, we went to ice cream afterwards. I could almost forget the dirty look Mary Anne Park was giving me. Almost. ******* I walked up the steps to my house. It was a week after the trial, and life was somewhat back to normal. No one whispered about me in the halls anymore at school. People were sitting with me at lunch again. I was about to open the door when I noticed an envelope wedged between the screen door and the door. I pried it open and pulled out the paper inside. I knew it could have been for Lia, but I opened it anyway. Avena Richards, you are next. Definitely for me, then. I somehow got the meaning that You are next didn’t mean You are next to recieve a great prize! or You are next to get a free pass to Disneyland! I didn’t know what it meant. I looked behind me and along the street. It was barren and empty. I quickly went inside and slammed the door. My breaths were ragged and quick. What did it mean? I went to my room and did homework. I sighed, and no matter how many times I reread the same paragraph in my textbook, it would not stick in my brain. You are next. I shuddered and closed the textbook. No reading tonight, apparently. Instead I opened my laptop and searched Natalie Park . Of course, all the local news headlines came up. Natalie Park, 17, Goes Missing Remains of Natalie Park, Missing Local Girl, Found Trial Held for Suspect of Natalie Park’s Murder Avena Richards Found Innocent For Murder Of Natalie Park And so many others. I could keep scrolling this webpage forever, but I hear a knock on the door, so I close the tab and go out to the main room. I opened the door. “Hello?” A small envelope fell at my feet. I stuck my head out the door and looked up and down our street again. Empty. I picked up the envelope and opened it. I’m watching you. It was all I could do not to scream. Who? Who was watching me? Why? I turned around and went inside the house, slamming and locking the door. I closed all the shutters and locked the back door. About an hour later, I heard someone trying the door. The knob jiggled, then the person knocked. I crept over and looked through the peephole, and I released a huge breath. It was only Lia. “Why did you have the door locked?” She asked once she was inside. “And why are all the shutters drawn?” “I have a headache,” I lied. “I must have accidentally turned the lock on my way in.” Lia didn’t look convinced, but she said, “Okay. You go get some rest, then.” I slinked back to my room, pretending to have a headache. There, I found an email in my inbox from someone titled “You Know Who”. Closing the shutters and locking the doors does absolutely nothing. You’re next. I looked frantically around my room. What? I didn’t know who! I lied down, trying to just relax to calm my shaking nerves. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to shattering glass as a rock was thrown through my window. I sat bolt upright. What was that? Someone landed on my rug with a thud. Broken glass crunched underneath them. Their shoes made outlines on the carpet. The person walks toward me. They wore a black hoodie, and black leggings. Black high tops adorned their feet. They pulled their hood back. The face I was looking at shocked me. Mary Anne Park. “Wh-what do you w-want?” I asked, stuttering through my fear. “You. Gone.” Mary Anne replied. If I could only reach my phone, I thought. I could call 911 or get this on video. My fingers crept to my phone on my bedside table. Mary Anne noticed, unfortunately. She grabbed my phone and threw it out the window, into the night. “Nuh-uh-uh.” She said. “None of that.” I took a deep breath, then screamed, “LIA! LIA! MAGNOLIA! HELP!” Mary Anne looked shocked for a second, then she regained her posture and said, “Quiet!” I listened intently for the slightest sound of footsteps walking down the hall. Nothing. “LIA! LIA, HELP! IT’S AN EMERGENCEEEEEEYYYY!” I shouted. “That’s enough!” Mary Anne said, pulling a small black bar with a wider end out of her pocket. A taser. She was leaning toward me to touch the electricity to my neck when my door burst open. “What’s the problem, Ave?” And then she saw Mary Anne. “Get away from her!” Mary Anne turned, obviously surprised by my sister’s words. “I said, GET AWAY FROM MY LITTLE SISTER!” Lia shouted and tackled Mary Anne. They rolled around, Mary Anne’s taser flickering on and off in an attempt to electrocute Lia. Lia finally got Mary Anne pinned, and she straddled her on the ground. Then, Lia pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. “Hello? Yes, I have a home intruder...” ******** One month later... I walked down the stairs, on my way to my biology class. The sun streamed bright, and I had to put up my hand to protect my eyes. That night, Mary Anne Park had been hauled away from me and Lia’s house in handcuffs. Two weeks later, she was found guilty of breaking and entering, and even worse, the murder of Natalie Park. She had been sentenced to life in prison. We had been assured that she would not be bothering us anymore. I reached the bottom of the steps and almost ran into someone. He had thick, black glasses, and short blonde hair in a crew cut. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I said, recomposing myself. I was about to continue on my way when he looked at me and said, “You’re Avena Richards?” “Who wants to know?” “Ben Sullivan. I’m new here.” He held out his hand to shake. I readjusted my textbooks in my arms so I had a free hand. “Did you want to maybe...hang out sometime?” He asked nervously. I smiled almost as bright as the sun. “Sure.” Maybe things were starting to look up.


June 13th, 1988 I stand alone, frozen in the moment of my life I knew I would regret forever. Will you regret something if you actively participate in it? I have asked myself this question millions of times, each different time like a different lens I look at my life in. Another color, another life, another identity, or another girl. When she first smiled at me, she was electric, her eyes an icy flame asking to be fanned. The words on every wall surrounding me, repeating themselves infinitely. July 11th, 1979 If only people asked me what I was thinking so they could unravel me. I want to know who I am, or at least why I am. I pick myself up and walk over to the window my parents bought the house for. My mother had always fantasized about a bay window, looking out at the lake. A thousand secrets are consumed by that lake. Lakes have always been nosy. I venture over to my room, hoping to reread one of the novels that have made me a whole person. I have read some too many times to count. After a few rereads, the words so freshly woven lose their power and their meaning, After that, both you and the book become trapped in a cycle of codependency. Searching for the words that have shaped everything, your art, your mind, and your soul. All you can hear are those words, echoing in the mind that gave you permission to interpret and dissect them the first time around. I see a girl walking towards the cherry red house. She beams and knocks on the door. With nothing better to do, I open it for her. "Hello. I'm Charly." She waves. "Salutations. I am Sage." I return. And then I wonder if I should be returning or delivering. "Your house is my favorite house. It is the crimson of my heart. My favorite shade." She gushes but then composes herself. Dear reader, are you ready for my dearest, most special mistake? "Why don't you come in? You can see inside." I utter quickly. She accepts and walks in. Her hair is almost down to her waist. "How are you lucky enough to live here?" She inquires. "Oh. Um, I." For a moment I am mortified. How do say this without bragging? Mom says I should be less arrogant. "I skipped a few grades, and still got all A's, so my parents wanted to reward me." "How old are you?" She further interrogates. "I'm thirteen. What about you?" "Same." I hear a boy call her name. "I'm sorry. I have to go." She darts off. I wonder in the soliloquy that is my mind if I will ever really figure out why she adored him so greatly. I sit at the bay window, staring at the curtains, meditating inside myself. My mother comes up behind me. "You said you wouldn't fuss dear. No worrying." She tells me, almost as if she's attempting to train me. Maybe it's to be like her or at least to be like who she wishes she were. "Some kids are jumping off the dock. maybe you should go with them. It would be so amazing to jump into that crystal clear, freezing lake." My mother strongly encourages me to listen to her, but she makes it incredibly difficult when she is constantly proving herself to be unreliable. Nevertheless, I cave into her desires, like I always do. It sometimes pains both me and her to see me in a swimsuit. My scrawny, boyish form disappoints her exceedingly. When I am feeling with great contempt for my family, which is most of the time, I use odd words they don't understand. I once told my mother she was the definition of the word morosis. She just smiled and thanked me. I told my father the word petrichor was the new slang for cool the kids were using. He says it all the time now. And yet I venture onto the dock, with an expectation of disappointment. When I look from afar, I see a girl with flaxen hair down to her waist talking to a boy. He has already taken the plunge, but she is afraid. He is urging her to come in. He grabs her foot, and she screams. I run towards her, just to see if she's alright, and she isn't. Fighting for air, she obviously can't swim. He is drowning too, pulling her down with him, mocking her. While she fights to get out, I pull her up. But something hits him. And everything freezes. I buoy must have hit him. He sinks down, but both of us were too frozen, too weak to save him. I scream in horror. We make a fire, kindling the burning embers. "Why did you come if you can't swim?" I inquire. "Because he scared me." She responds quietly. "My friend set us up. Thought we could be a match. I told her he was cruel, but she didn't care. And I'm a pleaser." I can hear the tears in her eyes, but the darkness masks her face. "What are we going to do?" I ask. She shrugs. July 28th, 1979 The corpse of Billy DuVall was found that day, and Charly and I wondered what to do. Our parents asked us if we'd seen anything, but we denied it, saying we were hanging out together. Our alibi was weak, but at least we had an alibi. Unlike Kari Jamison, who I still think was doing drugs with her boyfriend Adam. Kari was questioned, but they came up with nothing. And Charly and I made a blood oath to never rat each other out. I still have the scars. The summer passed, our lives grew apart and went on. That was until Charly Richard shot her self two days ago. And all these years I've lived with this alone, with nothing but my pen to govern my soul. I bid this life farewell.


Trigger warning: suicide As Beth climbed the thirteen flights of stairs to the fourteenth floor, she rehearsed in her mind what she was going to say to Devon when she broke the news to him that she was leaving him. With each step, her resolve to finally follow through on this, now 8-month endeavor of ceasing her six-year relationship with Devon, a failed and failed again writer who was never quite able to write that breakthrough novel he always talked about. Over the course of the six years, escalating fiercely to new extremes in just the past few months, Devon had grown even more entrenched in his dream of becoming a writer, even more than what Beth had grown accustomed to calling “normal behavior”. She was actually going to do it this time. No hesitations. No cold feet. No backing down, giving in, and sinking into the same depression she had been dealing with for much too long. I deserve better, she told herself. Beth reached the final step on her journey upward. She opened the stairwell door into the hallway she was all too familiar with. She walked down, door after door until she reached her destination. She pulled her key ring out, began to undo his key from her ring. She would give it back to him after she had broken up with him. Beth took a deep breath in, held it. Doubt arose in her gut. She blew it out along with the lungful of air. Beth knew she was doing the right thing, but as with most cases, the most right thing never really means the easiest thing to do. Sure their relationship was strained, and he never seemed to have time for just the two of them - at least not without resorting to mentioning or redirecting the topic of conversation back to his writing. She really did love him. it just. . . wasn’t the same anymore. He wasn’t in it and Beth could clearly see that now. She inserted the key, turned it, and pushed through the door. The scene she stumbled into startled her. She stood in the doorframe, unaware of her inability to move while she gazed at the open window across the room. The curtains moved about as the wind blew them and the position Devon was currently in, half in half out, made it almost looked as if the curtains were some sort of cape. “What the hell are you doing?” Beth finally managed to say, unsure of how long she was actually standing there before speaking. Devon stumbled back out of the window. He held something under his right arm. “Jesus! You scared me!” he said, holding his free hand over his chest. “I scared you?” Beth said, moving further into the room. “You scared me! What are you doing hanging out of the window?” Devon held up a finger to Beth, appearing to try to catch his breath after the scare Beth had supposedly given him. Beth crossed her arms, felt the keyring in one hand, the unclipped apartment key in the other, and suddenly was reminded of her original intent in coming over in the first place. She resolved again to follow through, no matter what. “So, are you going to tell me what you were doing hanging outside of the window on the fourteenth floor of an apartment building?” “Thirteenth, technically.” “Whatever, answer me.” “Well, you know how I’ve been trying to write my novel?” The question was laughable to Beth as if that had not been the topic of discussion for the majority of their relationship. “Yes.” She kept it short, realizing that being too blunt was just going to make the inevitable breakup all the harder. “I figured out what I need to do to make it actually work. I know how I’m going to be able to finish it,” Devon said with a smile that made Beth’s heat race. Ignore it , Beth told herself. “Ok, what does that have to do with you out on a ledge? And what’s that under your arm?” Beth craned her neck to try to see it better. “That’s not your typewriter, is it? Were you going to throw it out?” “Yes, and yes,” Devon said looking down at the typewriter under his arm, patting it like it was a pet. “But you love your old typewriter.” Don’t get emotionally sucked in Beth. “I know,” Devon said, as he finally stopped petting the inanimate object. “Let me explain.” “Please.” “I realized that all this time I was doing it all wrong. I wasn’t being the type of writer that I needed to be to make my work...” he stopped to search for the word. “Pop!” He exploded the fingers of his hand as he said the last word. Beth squinted her eyes at Devon, cocked her head to the side. “I need to become a ghost writer.” “Ghost Rider? Like, that crappy Nicholas Cage movie? I thought you hated it?” Devon stood there, silent. A few seconds passed and his face didn’t change a bit, he just stared at Beth with a blank stare on his face. Then, he finally answered her, “No.” “No, you don’t like those movies or no -” “No, not a ghost rider,”: Devon interrupted, “a ghost wri-t-er.” He pronounced the ‘t’ in writer harshly, like the clap of a snare drum. “A ghost writer?” “Yes, a ghost writer. That’s what’s going to set me apart from the rest. It’s what will release all of my pent up creativity.” “Ok, sure. You’re going to get someone else's idea, get paid by them for you to write it and then you both benefit from it. I still don’t get what you hanging out of your apartment window has anything to do with it. And why would that require you to toss your typewriter out on the street fourteen floors below?” “Thirteen . . .” He shook off his train of thought with a frustrated grunt. “No, that’s not what being a ghost writer means.” Beth was confused, it showed in her face. “Ummm, I’m pretty sure that is in fact what it means.” This conversation felt all too familiar. She didn’t want to get sucked even further into it. She couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s not the kind I’m talking about then.” He heaved a sigh, an echo of many of their past conversations, mirrored in this one. Beth rubbed the apartment ket back and forth between her index and pointer finger. Devon shifted the clunky typewriter to under his other arm, “I’m talking about becoming a ghost so that I can write my stories that way.” “You mean . . . like a ghost, ghost?” Beth lifted her hands up to the side of her head, “Oooooooooh. . .” Devon shook his head, let out another sigh of annoyance, “When you put it that way, it sounds stupid. How do you do that? You always somehow manage to make whatever I say sound stupid?” Beth felt the rumblings of an argument coming on. “You can’t be serious right now? I mean, come on.” Beth said, lowering her hands that she didn’t even realize she had kept up. “You don’t honestly think that that’s a thing, right?” “Of course it’s a thing. I’ve done a lot of research on the topic. This is going to work.” Then it hit Beth. She knew why he was in the window when she first arrived. He planned to jump out of the window to kill himself. To become ‘a ghost’ so that he could ghost write. “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Devon said, turning back towards the window. He raised his foot and put it through. “You never did. But soon you will. I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone.” Beth froze. She didn’t know what to do at this moment. In the few minutes they talked together, she realized she didn’t have the guts to break-up with him, but she also knew that if she stopped him from climbing through the window, she would be stuck in a relationship she hated and despised. She grappled with a thought that no one should ever even have to possibly entertain. What if she let him die? Beth shuddered. Could she actually sit by and watch idly as someone else ended their life right before her very eyes? Devon swung his other leg out of the window so that he was now sitting on the ledge, both feet dangling over the empty air just outside of his window. He’s got to be joking...right? Beth thought to herself. This can’t be happening. . . She was wrong. Before she could even react, Devon took a sideways look at her, said, “see you on the other side.” and fell from the window., typewriter underarm. Since that fateful day in Devon’s apartment, Devon went on to become a national bestseller with critics and fans alike praising his work as, quote, “pure genius!”, “an honest to god piece of art” and “Simply ethereal”. He wrote such works as “When the Clock Strikes Six”, “Two Tiny Chairs”, “Green Umbrellas”, and “The Snowman with a Gun” as well as such instant classics as his poem, “American Bird” and his memoir “One Flew over One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” where he got super meta about how he stumbled upon his ingenious idea of becoming a ghostwriter. He collected as many accolades and awards a writer could ever dream of, winning them hands down, left and right outselling the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling and all of Stephen King’s books - combined. He was dubbed a pioneer in the arts of ghostwriting. A true innovator, willing to go to any length for the love and pursuit of his craft. Beth was glad that she hadn’t gone through with the break-up and knew she would have grown to regret it for the rest of her life.


It happens faster than I ever thought it would, hits me with the force of a moving train, and pierces me like an unforgiving bullet. "What?" I say. But those words don't come from my mouth, escaping from the confines of my throat. They don't, because this isn't happening. It is all a dream - and a pretty bad one at that. Everything will be fine, I think, everything is, in fact, just fine... "I'm sorry. I should have told you about this way earlier. Before things got so dire." His voice is distant, dry, emotionless. He doesn't even sound human at all. "l don't get it. What do you need to tell me so desperately?" I sound so stupid. My voice soars like a magnificent eagle hunting for prey and then falls, crashes against the ground like a pathetic pigeon with broken wings. "Why can't you just tell me this in person?!" I scream, and I realize, horrified, how psychotic I have become in just a couple of moments. Are things so bad? When did we go off the rails like this? Is this my fault?! There is a cough. Even through the phone, which strips reality of every detail and delivers a naked, vulnerable and warped mess to my ears, I can sense that his mouth hasn't opened at all. There is someone else with him. A woman. She coughs again, as a tear rolls down my cheek. I know exactly where this is going. "l have been seeing someone else lately", he finally lets out, and I notice that he doesn't seem concerned, or sad, but rather relieved, liberated as if an invisible burden had been finally disposed of. That burden, of course, is me. "Look, I obviously didn't want things to happen like this", he says. "I loved you, Liz. I really did. But you drove me insane." Loved. Have I become so soon an unfortunate memory, a sad reminder of his past? "We have been together for a while." He stops. That's it. He isn't going to speak anymore. "So what? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to get up from my chair and clap? Do you want me to praise you for cheating on me?" I'm not even talking; I'm yelling, screaming at the top of my lungs, bursting half my vessels along the way. This is not happening. We are fine. We. Are. Fine. "Please, calm down. I need to you to understand that- " "To understand what, Peter?! To understand that this is magically over? To accept that some random woman just got in your way and bam, there goes our relationship?! Tell me! TALK TO ME, YOU BASTARD!" "Take a deep breath and calm down-" "Don't tell me what to do! I AM NOT A CHILD! You cheated on me, you disgusting pig, and I swear that you--no, she will pay for this!" "What are you going to do Liz, huh? Are you going to pay my new girlfriend a visit and slay her as if she were some pest you have to get rid of? NO! I love her! She does not behave like the venomous, possessive snake that you are! She lets me go out with my friends when I want to! She isn't attached to me all the time as though she were a leech! YOU DISGUST ME. YOU SICKEN ME. Do you not get that? Have you fallen that low?! Listen to this with extreme attention, Elizabeth: the second you dare lay a finger on her, I will make sure you won't get in our way ever again, by any means necessary." Did that just really happen? Did she just call me "a possessive woman"? Am I one?! Of course not. I helped him. I took him in my arms when others spat on his face. It is clear now, however, that I took the wrong decision. I should have left him to wither and die. "Oh. You're threatening me." There is not a hint of emotion in my voice. "So if I try to take away your new bone, you're going to bite me like the rabid stray dog that you are? What a wonderful world this is! HA! Can't you see? You belong to me. Without me, you are nothing." "Are you even listening to yourself? I do not belong to anyone! I am a free human being! You are sick, Elizabeth, perhaps incurably so. This is why I left you alone in the house. You are a parasite." "Don't you dare lecture me as if I were some obtuse--" "Enough, Elizabeth! I have tried to be patient, to be reasonable! I have tolerated you for too long! You are sick. You might be bipolar, delusional, or schizophrenic, for all I know. You keep claiming that I 'belong to you'. You have always told me that 'you made me'. You may be right, since, after all, you made me sick. Every single day with you was torture. It is now when I realize that I only tolerated you because I pitied you. It wasn't love. It was pity. I saw you, alone, troubled, reviled by many. Now I know why. You are vile poison." For some reason, I fail to respond. I just stand there, looking at my own contorted reflection in the mirror. "Tell me, Peter...of all things, why did you let me buy such a hideous mirror?" There is silence. Then, he speaks. "We never bought any mirrors, Elizabeth." That must be wrong. That is wrong. We bought a mirror a long while ago. I remember it clearly. It is the one that now I face. "Of course we did! The one in my bedroom!" "Elizabeth...seriously. I think you might be very stressed right now. And I understand, of course; in all honesty, I could have handled this better. But this is concerning. But know this: there are no mirrors in your bedroom." "You're lying, Peter. I can see my own reflection in it right now." "No. I once bought you a small mirror for Valentine's Day. Your reflection horrified you. You shattered it to pieces, and said: "I'm sorry, Peter, but never, ever buy a mirror again. I hate them." For a moment I stay quiet. I almost yell at him. But then I realize that his words are not lies. I hate mirrors. I stare at an empty wall. The mirror is no longer there. Then there is nothing. His voice fades away. He is far, far away from me. He will never hurt me again. "Elizabeth! Hello?!" The phone wiggles around on the sand. The waves wash it away. "l am at a beach. I love beaches. I love the water." I say this, even though there is no one around who can hear me, even though the phone is actually my fist, even though I am here, trapped on a cell on the psychiatric ward of a hospital, yelling the name of someone who, long ago, put me here 'for my own safety'. "Peter! Let me go, Peter! I am fine!" I crash my fists against the window. What is wrong with me? "PETER!" Nobody hears me. Through this dirty pane of glass I can see other people like me, trapped in these metal cages as though they were dangerous animals. We are not sick. We simply choose to see the world in a different way. "But I still love you, Peter." Those words did not come from my mouth. Of course they didn't. I drop myself against the cushioned floor. Even pain has been taken away from me here. Eight years ago, Peter brought me here. He said I was schizophrenic. He said I saw things that were not there. A psychiatrist told me that I could construct entire worlds, full of people and places, each with their own completely fictional story. Is this one of such worlds? Am I where I think I am? I'm not certain of anything anymore. I don't even know if my name truly is Elizabeth. In spite of that, I think they both lied. I think they did, because I can feel the sand in the beach, swim in the warm water, as the nurses look at me with an expression of horror and pity on their faces. If only they saw and felt what I do. I am at a beach. I have always been at a beach. I love you, Peter. Thank you for setting me free.


When I was a kid, all I wanted was to grow up. "Momma, when will I get big?" "Dad, can you build me a time machine so I can be a teenager?" Now I am a sophomore in high school and all I want is to go back. I want to go back to the simpler times, when my only worries were "what should I bring to my playdate with Ryan," or "how am I going to beat Michelle in the toy car race?" I am an introvert, people call me the quiet kid in school. I don't have many friends and I am a huge overthinker. Teenagers are mean, I would know that better than anyone. People will make fun of you for things you cannot control. I am constantly bullied. At first getting made fun of was terrible and it ruined my week, now I am numb. Sometimes the things they say are small, like a rude comment on my clothing or hair. Then things got bigger, not only did people use words, but physical interactions too. I always want to stick up for myself, I really do, but in the moment I freeze and before I know it, the chance I had has passed. After a long day, I come home, do my homework, take a shower, eat, read, anything else to keep me occupied. I used to do extra curricular activities, gave up on that. Maybe I'm just an easy target, since I don't do anything about it. I am actually pretty good with comebacks, it just usually takes me until days after to think of things. "Oh I should've said that!" Is a commonly used phrase, not out loud of course. My mouth gets dry a lot, hence the fact that I tend to not speak. I also have an epic chapstick collection. It is only around my best friend, Leah that I am able to feel comfortable enough to say what is on my mind without being judged. Even then, she has grown further and further apart from me over the years. I spend a lot of time by myself. My parents are always at meetings and on work trips, leaving me home by myself 90% of the time. I bought myself a turtle and named her Smiles. Smiles keeps me company, she knows all of my secrets. She hears all of my clever comebacks and wordplay. School gets out in a couple of days. Everyone is talking about their summer plans while I am sitting in the back of our classroom. It is almost as if I am invisible. I realized that I have not a single plan for the three months we have off for break. It was then that I thought of the perfect idea. Maybe I can do something with my time. Fix myself up. It is gonna be hard, but with the help of Leah and Smiles, maybe I can actually change! Okay, now it is the first evening of summer break! I need a plan. I have tried counseling and therapy, no use. I always thought that I was scarred from the pain that lurks inside.. maybe not? I want to show the people who have hurt me what they have done. I have made a list of names with those who have ruined some part of my day, no matter how small or large. The people who have done the worst, like bullying me constantly, hurting me deep inside, maybe even who hurt me physically, anything like that, are at the top. At the bottom are the ones who only said a harsh comment or something little like that. This list traces back to people from 8th grade, when I shed the first tear from bullying, of many left to come. I will confront them. I will also make it known to others that they have done something wrong. No matter how great this summer goes, I just know that I will never forget the way some people made me feel. Now that my list is done, I feel that I have accomplished something. "Okay, Smiles. I think I am actually getting somewhere with this." I know that she wont reply, but I know that Smiles is listening. "Next step, figure out what the next step will be." I made myself some tea and put on my brainstorming slippers. "I've got it! I can put together a speech. I will talk about my experience with bullying. I will show people that your actions can affect people." Smiles loves the idea.. I think. I decided to call Leah so I can tell her about my plan and maybe we can practice my speech. She said that she is so excited to hang out with me again and that she will be here as soon as possible. I refilled my snack drawer, just for her. About five minutes later I heard my front door open. Leah knows that she doesn't have to knock. Then I heard her somewhat obnoxious, "Hiiii!" "Hey Leah!" "So.. what's up?" I continued to tell her about my plan. "Oh. my. goodness! That is genius. I am so glad that you are finally going to be sticking up for yourself! To be honest, you were kind of being a baby before haha." I wanted to tell Leah that what she just said hurt my feelings, but that would just be proving her point. I gave Smiles a quick look, then brushed it off. "Yeah. Okay, so I really want to confront the people who have bullied me before we do anything else." Leah opens my snack drawer. "Oh I know! Most of the popular boys were pretty mean to you, and they always hang out at the football field next to the bleachers. Maybe you can start there." "Oohhh good idea. I need to prepare something first." I grabbed a pencil and paper and we got to work. Leah finally convinced me to tell off the popular boys. We made a list that ended up being 13 pages long which showed what I was going to say to each person or group of people. I have been practicing talking without chickening out with Smiles the best I can. "Listen here, I am done letting you push me around!" Maybe a little too aggressive. "Hey, could you please quit making fun of me?" Too polite. I can feel Smiles' judgement through her tank. Or maybe that's just me. Leah can drive now, so she dropped me off at the football field on her way to hang out with her new popular friends. "Goodluck girlie! You can do it, remember what we practiced." I hopped out if the backseat with butterflies in my stomach. "Thanks for your help, Leah." "Anytime." She drove away and that is when reality sunk in. I was all of the sudden not so confident, but forced myself to walk behind the bleachers. I started with a simple and soft, "hi." The guy gang turned around with straight looks on their faces. Six boys, all football players. What was I thinking.. The team captain, Bryce said, "Whats up nerd?" They all laughed at his rhetoric. I rolled my eyes and was ready to speak up, "wow. how original, Johnny." Oh my goodness. I just said the wrong name. I cannot believe I just did that. They all were laughing at me. Before the boys could start beating up on me even more, I ran. I failed to stick up for myself again. I came home and told Smiles about my huge mistake. I guess it wasn't that bad, but now they're going to tell everyone. I think. Maybe I will always be this way. I will keep practicing. I cannot keep giving up so easily. That is what led to all of my issues before. The summer went on and I kept trying to write my speech. I need a good ending. I coordinated a date to present my speech. Mrs. Spieth, my art teacher, is the head of the PTO. She said that at 3:00 at our open house, I will be able to present. That is less than a month away now. The big day that I will speak my mind is September 3rd. The summer has been pretty good so far. My parents were actually home for the 4th of July. We had a barbecue. It was really nice. Then they left for a cruise and won't be back until the second of September. My mom and dad don't know what I have going on. I never make the effort to tell them. I ran into a bunch of people over the past couple months who have bullied me in the past. I remembered what I practiced with Smiles, but I always chickened out. At the Library with Heath, he knocked my books out of my hands and I did nothing about it. The ice cream parlor with Madison and her group, they took my strawberry blast, I did nothing. There were several other times. That is why I am so excited about this speech. I finally got some alone time with Leah, three days before my speech. That is when I got another bright idea. It would be the perfect ending to my speech. Leah smiled at me with bright eyes after listening to the end result that I practiced with all of her old stuffed animals. That is when I knew this was `right. It is September third, 2:53pm. I am getting ready to go onto the stage. Smiles is in my purse. I finally got called out and Mrs. Spieth introduced me to everyone. This is what I have needed since the 2nd semester of 8th grade. A fresh start. I looked into the so-called "audience." That is when I saw my parents. They came! I excitedly set my papers down onto the podium. Mrs Spieth whispered, "you may begin." I started talking about my history with bullying. "It started in eighth grade." It feels like I have said that a billion times. I decided to let out everything that was bottled up inside with a bit of improv. I told several stories. "Maybe it isn't me. Maybe it is all of you who are doing this. This story might not mean anything to anyone at this open house, but I know that I am not the only one who doesn't want to go into another school year feeling awful every. Single. Day." I realize how cheesy this whole thing probably sounds, but I don't care. People need to know. "I have made a list of those who have hurt me." I saw scattered glances around in the small crowd. I saw some of my bullies. "I will not be sharing that information, but you know who you are. I hope we can learn as a community, to treat each other like humans. Enough of the bullying." I felt a tear run down my cheek and immediately got embarrassed. "Thank you." I turned and walked off of the stage with my head held high. I wiped the tear off of my cheek. That is when there is an applause. People actually liked my speech. My parents cheered, and I was smiling ear to ear "backstage." The school year began, and multiple anti-bullying programs started. I made a difference, no matter how small. I was even featured in the newspaper! Leah's friends invited me into their group, and mom and dad started working from home so they can spend more time with me. I play soccer now and joined the debate team. Junior year has been amazing so far. The pain I felt the last few years will always be there, but a lot less of it. I smiled at Smiles, and for the first time, she smiled back. This story inspired by the "he said she said" prompt at readsy.com


.....“it's time to do deaths duty and pay the ferryman to carry their souls to their eternal resting place.” For the past two weeks, I have been seeing that message everywhere. First I started seeing it all over my social media accounts. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Reddit. At first, I thought it was someone playing a prank on me, messing with my head. Till last week I was driving my mother to the doctors for her follow up when I heard it over the radio. It was playing over and over again, on every station, I switched to and my mother didn't even seem to notice it. Then it began playing over and over in my head. It was all I could think of. “It's time to do deaths duty and pay the ferryman to take their souls to there internal resting place.” Strange things started occurring when I went places. People started acting funny around me, especially old people. Some would eye me up and down as if they sensed something of me. If I came across a really old person they would come up to me crying begging me to take them. Others would beg me for more time. “More time for what, take them where.” Dogs in the street bark and growled at me, cats hissed at me. Then I woke up to a crow sitting on my window sill and ever since it's been following me around everywhere I go. As I drag myself out of the bed I notice my hand is swollen. It's throbbing and really tender to touch like it's infected or something. The crow that's been following me around is still sitting on my window sill, just staring at me. I thought he was just hungry so I tried feeding him. He wasn't interested. He seems to be waiting for something else. I struggle to put on my clothes, my hand seems to be getting worse. I think it's starting to smell. I decide to stop at the shop to get some painkillers for my hand. Standing at the checkout I point to the painkillers. The guy serving me goes into some sort of trance. I ask him if he is alright, his eyes fixate on mine. “It's time to do deaths duty and pay the ferryman to carry their souls to their eternal resting place. The crow will show the way. The crow flies and the light guides.” As he stands there repeating the same words over and over. I look down at my hand which is now completely black. No pain, no smell, just dead leathery flesh. I leave the shop as the cashier is still chanting the words at me. I get outside and the crow decides to dive bomb my head, narrowly missing me. He keeps doing it, till he has my attention. Then flies off cawing in the direction he wanted me to follow. Then I remember the cashier words. “The crow will show the way. The crow flies and the lights guides.” I follow the crow downtown toward the hospital. As I near the hospital I see a light coming from a window a few stories up. My little friend the crow perches himself on the window sill with the light shining from it. I make my way into the hospital. As I make my way through the halls my presence seemed to go unnoticed. I felt like a ghost haunting the halls of the hospital and the only people who paid me any attention seemed to be the dying. As I Make my way to the floor with the light, I sense it pulling me towards it. I reach the ward and I look up at the sign. “Paediatrics ward” I follow the light to a room and in the room, there was a bed with a little girl lying in it. She looked about ten. She had her whole family around her. Her mother and father were comforting her as she took in her last few breaths. I could still sense the hope radiating from her parents, that by some miracle her failing lungs and organs would kick back into gear and all this would just seem like some nightmare that they could all wake up from. For me, it all felt surreal. I felt like a fly on the wall getting a glimpse of one of the saddest and most intimate time this family will ever experience. I look down at my hand. What was once flesh and bone, was now just a shadow. I know what I need to do now. I know what those signs meant. It was so clear to me, like something inside me woke-up. My presence in this room meant that any hope this family had, I was there to take it from them. I walk towards the bed. The family oblivious to me. I walk over and I stand next to the girl. She looks at me and smiles; I smile back at her. I reach my shadowy hand into her chest and I feel her essence bind to mine and we walk off hand in hand as the noise from her heart monitor rings out through the hospital. As we walk hand in hand towards the light, it begins to dim. As the light disappeared the darkness started to creep towards us swallowing any light in its path. The little girl starts to cry. “I'm scared. I want to go back to my mommy.” The darkness consumes us. I feel the little girls grip on my hand loosen as if someone was taking her from me. She screams out. “Please, I'm scared.” I lose the little girl to the darkness and a thunderous laugh sounds out from its inner depths. “The Ferryman has been paid.” All of a sudden I'm back outside the hospital. My hand back to its black, leathery self. Feeling angry, scared and confused. I think to myself. How can I do this to people knowing where they go when they die. Then I hear that dam crow call out again. Swooping down at my head to get my attention. As I follow him I begin to get a very uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. As we get closer, I start to get sick with worry. As I near the house I see the light shine from the sitting room window. I take out my keys and put them in the front door. I walk into the sitting room and there is my mother sitting on the couch blue in the face coughing up buckets of blood. I look down, my shadow hand reappears. I walk over to my mother with tears in my eyes. She looks at me and smiles. “I'm a ready son. I'm just glad it's you that's taking me.” I look at her in total dismay. “I don't think you're ready for this.


Rising deliberately from her cross-legged seat, spine uncoiling lazily, the dancer held everyone’s attention. Fully erect, she paused. Then her body began a slow ripple from belly to toe, like a wave caressing a beach. A perfectly poised torso, arms fluttering only to complement the circular movement of her hips, highlighted the stillness of her shoulders. The soft, languid tones of the musicians began to increase pace. The dancer responded, her feet beating out a fast tempo in a call and response to the hollow resonance of the percussion. Stamping down on the parquet floor, she began a steady revolution. As the rhythm grew faster, so did she. Swirling skirts of purple and gold spun in an eddy of delight. The dancer lifted her arms, releasing her delicate hold on the voile veil which rose like mist above a turbulent whirlpool. Graceful arms rose above her head, wrists crossed and rotating against each other as if summoning the forces of the vortex upwards towards the ceiling. Candlelight twinkled, golden beams bouncing off sequins that glittered like stars on the night sea. As if giving a voice to the light the coins on her tightly fitted hip scarf tinkled above the primal boom of the hand drums. Faster and faster she twirled until, with a sudden flurry of staccato beats, the rhythmic drums ceased. The dancer dropped to her knees. Head down, the waterfall of her dark hair hid her face. Her skirts pooled about her. Slowly she lifted her head, one hand on her hip, the other fingertips balanced on the floor, as though she was claiming the earth. Gazing forwards, her caramel-coloured eyes seemed to drill into mine. Her smooth olive skin had a sheen, whether from oil or sweat, that served only to enhance her exoticness. My heart thudded in my chest erratically, as I released my breath. I hadn’t realised I had been holding it. The heat of the evening seemed to portend a tropical storm, humidity rising from all the bodies crammed into the hall. Glasses clinked softly and whispered voices murmured distantly, the sound muffled as though being carried across a great sea. I drew the heavily scented air deeply into my lungs. Revivifying. Resuscitating. Something in me had shifted. It felt like I had stepped into another world; another life. The turbaned musicians seemed to be drumming a message of complicity, the pulses of percussion instruments and the gliding of the cymbals speaking to me on an elemental level. All around me the colours had brightened. Reds popped out energetically against gold fabrics that gleamed like sand and greens spoke of palm trees swaying gently in warm desert breezes. A memory of Arabian tales rose in my mind, long forgotten, but once much cherished with incalculable demands on my mother to re-read them as I snuggled in my childhood bed. I would be transported from the dull cement of London, and the long grey drizzly days, rushing from underpass to underground on the daily walk to school. The surrealness of the moment, an Eastern paradise in an East London working men’s club, made me smile ruefully. I waited at the bar now crammed with the hens all calling for more “Sex on the beach” accompanied by suggestive winks. “As-salaam 'alaykum”, a soft voice spoke beside me. I turned to see the dancer. Her seductive figure draped now in a richly embroidered shawl of reds and purple, streaked through with golden threads, she smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Arabic” I replied, shrugging feebly. I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t respond appropriately, as I always did. “My apologies” she countered, “I thought you were Arabic”. She wasn’t the first to ask me this. I suppose my own complexion was similar to hers, and my hair didn’t carry the afro curl that all my siblings had. It had always been my assumption that I got my hair from my mother’s side more than my Dad’s, whilst all my siblings took after him. “No I’m mixed race, Jamaican and English actually, but I often get asked.” “Oh.” Her response was flat. Unconvinced. She drew her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders as she seemed to consider her next comment, “You seemed really into the show. Have you ever tried it?” “No.” Feeling that my response was a little too brusque I made an attempt to engage in a conversation, intrigued by her whole presence, “But I loved it, yes. You were amazing, and the music was so hypnotic.” “Thank you habibi. You are so kind.” A gracious incline of her head. “Do you do many shows like this?” I asked with genuine curiosity. “No habibi. Normally our group only dances the Raks Sharqi for our family celebrations.” “Oh I see.” I pondered a moment, confused. “Raks Sharqi is what you call ‘belly dance’. In Arabic it means ‘Dance of the East’”, she explained in gentle tones. Looking at me quizzically, as though waiting for a reaction, head cocked to one side. “Oh” I again muttered, feeling even more inadequate than I had at the start of this exchange. “So you don’t know the music or the dances at all?” she enquired. Again all I could respond was a simple “no”. “Ah, perhaps one day you will want to know more.” The statement, delivered so calmly, seemed undeniable. “I must go now. I hope I will see you again one day habibi.” Bowing her head in a gesture of farewell she pulled her shawl up over her head and turned away, her movements as graceful as on the dancefloor. The encounter stayed with me all night and my dreams were punctuated with fragments of a recurring dream that I hadn’t had for years. I stood in a vast desert, undulating golden sand dunes hiding the horizon from my view. A compass in my hand spun wildly out of control and every path I took led me to a cavern filled with genie lamps. But I could never touch them. They would slide right out from under my fingertips and begin moving like a kaleidoscope so I could never grasp one, colour intertwining and shifting in a nauseating dance. I woke feeling frustrated and bereft. Recalling that Dad would be visiting Mum later that day I called him at 9 o’clock sharp to catch him before he left for the market. His usual Saturday shopping trip for fresh fruit and vegetables. He was a creature of routine, steady and dependable. Tomorrow he would make curried goat for us for lunch, filling containers to take away so I would have two or three meals through the week. When we had finished our long lunch we would settle down for a fiercely competitive domino match, shouting and laughing as we slammed the tiles on the plank table he had built from left-over timber three decades ago, painted in a faded turquoise that he said reminded him of the Caribbean Sea. Sometimes my brothers and sisters would join us with their children and the flat would echo with laughter and shouting, the banter relentless but always loving. But there was forever a mum shaped hole now. A void in our centre that I had unwittingly started to fill. It would be me calling the family in November to organise the Christmas plans and swap present suggestions. Every Easter I would select the perfect lamb joint and fend off the hopeful, yet unhelpful, suggestions to try something different “ just this once Aunty Gem ”. It was my turn to be my father’s sidekick now, maintaining the balance he and Mum had brought to our little piece of the world, through challenge after challenge. We arranged to meet at the nursing home at 3pm when tea and cake would be served. It was a warm sunny day, despite the showers the night before, and we took Mum to sit outside so she could enjoy the roses that were starting to bloom. Mum was lucid today, patting my knee and calling me Little Gem, like she did when I was very young. A nickname that would always make me smile. We chatted for a while about the past week’s activities which for Mum had included a ‘sound and movement’ class and bingo, which she hadn’t won, to her loud annoyance. Dad and I looked around in concern as she vehemently cussed the other ladies for cheating, though we couldn’t quite get her to explain how they had cheated at bingo. Thinking to divert her attention, Dad gave a loud guffaw and chortled, “So Gem, tell us, what you get up to last night at the Social Club eh?” Leaning over to Mum, he tenderly took her hand and said, “You remember Stacey Wilson, Linda? Gem’s best friend from middle school? She had her hen party last night at the Social Club. Yes, so Gem here had a late night. We’ll get her to tell us all about it!” Thinking that my mum would love to hear about the belly dancer I launched into a full description of the night, leaving out my unease and sense of foreboding. I laughed as I told my parents that the dancer had thought I was Arabic and her suggestion I might want to consider dancing myself. Expecting mum to laugh, as I had been the clumsiest child and never took to dancing, it was a few minutes before I noticed the silence. Both Mum and Dad looked shocked and then Mum’s eyes seemed to glaze over, the familiar shutters being drawn over the rich brown eyes so like my own. Gazing into the distance she seemed to be staring at the rose bushes, merrily waving their buds in the light breeze, but I knew she didn’t see them. “Noor ‘eini.” The whisper was barely audible amongst the cheerful birdsong and distant hum of traffic. “Dad?” I queried as I turned my attention to him, sitting still and taut in the garden chair. “Gem, my little Gem,” he sighed. And with that sigh he seemed to deflate, like a punctured lifeboat. “Noor ‘eini. Light of my eyes.” Mum’s voice was tender yet wistful. Addressing a ghost from the past. “Noor ‘eini? Is that Arabic Mum?” Turning to my Dad, “How does she know Arabic Dad?” My voice rose in mild hysteria. What the hell was going on? “Gem, we were going to tell you, I promise. But everything was so wonderful as it was, and we didn’t want to upset you.” “Upset me how?” I couldn’t process what was happening, or how I felt. All the deep emotions of the evening before came flooding back to me. “You see darling, I’m not actually your biological father. Your mum was pregnant when I met her after a brief relationship with a Sheikh. And he didn’t, couldn’t, want to acknowledge either her or you. He had to go back to Saudi and marry someone there.” My mouth was as dry as the sand dunes from my dreams, yet my brain swirled madly. My eyes welled. I gasped for air. To say something. But there were no words. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin to wipe my eyes. A delicate cursive script caught my attention. I unfolded the napkin, cheap white and unbranded from the social club last night. "Habibi. My number. Please call me. I believe you are my sister.”


An Hour The bird on the wall squawked once. It had flung itself into the stagnant air for a moment, pausing only long enough to cry its chord, then vanished into its nest once more. It fell silent. Everything was silent. The hallways were silent, no longer begging for the soft steps for which they had once longed. The door frame was cut and marked to varying degrees, with names and numbers scrawled in caring script. The kitchen was calm, the measured dripping of the faucet's tears had long since dried into apathy. The living room lacked its own eponymous nature, its couches and chairs tired and layered in heavy, gray lethargy. Out front, the pumps were dry and thirsty, pleading for a drink, a drink inevitably denied by the cracked dirt of the stone well. An old wooden bucket, moldy with maturity, lay still and silent, in mimicry of the world it knew. The house was empty. The silence broke all at once, and rain fell swiftly, sure and confident the land it softened would give no resistance. The land had long since been claimed by the rain and had resigned itself to its domain. As the rain descended, the sun melted away, unable to compete with the storm. A once great entity reduced to flaming rubble on the horizon, still emitting light, faintly, however unnecessary light happened to be. It would have been hard to breathe, the trees had long since been uprooted or toppled. They no longer had the will to breathe life into the world, and the world too was too weary to sustain it. And thus the trees fell, and with them, the world held its breath. The cracked dirt drank quickly, and cried, parched for more. The thirst was unquenchable, the more there was, the less it seemed. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the Earth tried to cry, but the tears refused to flow. It feared the rain had forever ended, as it had once breathed in excess, now it craved the winds cool embrace. The sun shone again. This time brighter than before. Had someone cared to look, a wooden clock shaped like a house could be seen on the wall, preparing to sing the hour. The dry ground had since decayed and warm methane breezes would often flow, dragging along streams of blood red dust, a parade for the emptiness. A window gave out, and the dust found the inside of the house becoming desert. And then the wind gave out and the dust settled permanently in it's new home. The last wind had come, and gone, and with it, had blown the last flame in the sky. The bird cried twice in darkness.