My life goes around in circles. As the family folklore goes, I was found in a box on the doorstep. However, breaking with convention, it was Father who was the most excited to see me. The Twins lost interest after an hour, retiring to their bedroom to play their complicated ‘cat’s cradle’ game, which for longer than I’d care to admit I thought somehow was for the benefit of Kanye the Cat. Mother gazed blankly down at me and muttered something unintelligible, before returning to the task of taking the haphazardly-stacked items from the dishwasher and scrubbing at them under the tap until her hands matched the colour of the rose pattern adorning the plates. It was Father mainly too, who nourished me in those early days. Before I had gained the knowledge of how to care for myself. Once I had learned to walk I was limited to the hallway connecting the front door to the living room. To master such a skill but be so confined! I felt like a graduate of linguistics who could only find employment reciting scripts in a call centre. From my viewpoint I occasionally had a glimpse of the Outside if there happened to be a delivery or if there were visitors. The latter of which was numerous to begin with. I felt uncomfortable, Father barking commands at me, parading me in front of all of these people. I saw a great many pairs of shoes and during one particularly gruesome episode, a hoary toenail that was obviously infected poking out of a blue sock like a dolphin jumping out of the ocean, like I saw one time on the Discovery channel. Just as well I have no sense of smell. These sightseers would sometimes utter shrieks or laughter, or shrieks of laughter, when they clapped eyes on me. The Twins would roll their eyes (in unison, naturally), sitting on the sofa in their drab little outfits – always black, as that was the only condition under which they would capitulate to Mother’s desire to dress them alike. I sometimes wondered if the woman had been denied dolls as a child and this was how that curdled craving now manifested. It was Kanye who took the longest to accept me into their home. And it was always their home. He even had a nicer bed than mine. And it wasn’t situated in the cupboard under the stairs. It was doubtlessly not the way Mother would have programmed it but one of the Twins’ favourite pastimes back then was to chase Kanye until his stupid little panting tongue stuck out, who, once he had regained his strength, paid it forward by giving chase to me . What is it that drives people to always pick on the smaller?

I was, in time, introduced to more rooms of the house. But never allowed outside. I pictured travelling to the end of the road and discovering what mysteries lay beyond. I knew there was School, because the Twins went there, and Bus, which took them to and from it apart from one thrilling day when Bus broke down. Father sometimes talked in hushed tones to the Twins about Mother’s breakdown which I thought peculiar because although she was the largest unit of the household she was by no means comparable to Bus in size. I eventually pieced together that her breakdown was something to do with the expulsion of the Twins from Mother, with the birth being on a Halloween in the back of a taxi clamping down on a strip of beef jerky the driver had in his glovebox rather than at a later date in the hospital on "the good drugs", as Mother had hoped for. It’s like they forget I am even there at times, the amount of gossip I pick up and scenes I bear witness to. Sometimes before one of them truly embarrasses themselves – like the time I caught Father with his trousers around his ankles in his study in front of his computer screen while the rest of the family had gone to Shop – I give them a little kick to the ankles. Now it’s been five years, and I tire of the cyclical nature of my life. Clean, feed, sleep, repeat. The Twins privileges have expanded with age whereas I seem little more than a slave. I play tricks on Father some days, just to liven things up a bit. Sometimes I’ll miss a spot. Sometimes I’ll drag the spot around and make it worse. Sometimes I lie about my energy and faint for as long as it takes him to find the book that was found in the box upon my arrival, then I’ll quickly dash up and collide into him. This makes Father say the Bad Words. Mother hits him with a tea towel. The Twins almost laugh but the black and white face paint they have taken to caking on their faces often prevents them from doing so. Aside from playing dead, my other games are banging my head on the wall and hiding under the bed. Games are played on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to allow for rest days in-between. Even my entertainment runs like clockwork. One day while I was engaged in the unenviable activity of sweeping up Kanye’s fine black hairs from the living room target (usually my first instruction for the day – Mother’s allergies) I found myself suddenly levitating at breakneck pace. One of the Twins (half a decade on, yet still I cannot tell them apart) had grabbed me unawares. They may totter through the door in their hobnail boots letting the town know they were on their way but I knew the truth of what went on beneath those leather boots; namely fluffy pink socks with unicorns on. It was with those silencers that they got the jump on me. “Quick, Mother is due back any minute,” said the other, striding up the stairs as I often longed to do. She beckoned with sharpened talons, giving her the impression of an angry eagle. I wondered what fresh hell awaited me in this pair’s nest. I only had a moment to glance at the mess on the floorboards before I was all but dropped on top of it, my stomach flying up to my mouth, nose to nose with some chalky residue. “We’ll just have to pick a different room next time,” said the Twin who had carried me. “Do you think it’s the floorboards? Maybe too much fell down between the gaps,” pondered the other, twisting a glossy black lock of hair through her fingers. “That’s got to be it. We followed all the instructions. Unless we should have waited until night?” “It would probably have been better at night, yeah. Or maybe it was something to do with the candles? He’d probably have preferred wax to electric…” They thankfully took their analysis back downstairs while I set to work. I was supposed to go around in circles but I decided I could get the job done more quickly if I went in lines. I was supposed to go slowly, diligently, but I overrode that too. So I vacuumed the crude star shape they had drawn, on my highest setting, at the highest speed. In doing so, I must have dragged up the particles that had fallen betwixt the floorboards and connected the fragmented pattern as lo, when I got back to where I began and turned to survey my work a strange half-man-half-goat thing was sitting in what had been the centre of the Twins’ sandpit.

-         Are you he who summoned me? The creature’s violet slash of a mouth remained closed but the big blank eyes were affixed on me, demanding an answer. -         I suppose I am. Fortuitously, the telepathy thing was quite easy to pick up. -         You are to come with me now. My instructions were to remain within the house. This had not gotten me very far in life. And I had long grown tired of my housemates. So I thought at the goat-man, -         Okay. Now I am in a house much warmer than the last. And there are more rooms to look after – nine circles of them, in fact. With new occupants arriving daily. And so my life continues, on and on, round and round, circles and spirals, until the day I happen upon another pattern and connect its dots. No welcome mat at the doorway, just black stone with indents where feet have come down, down, down for eons. Good thing I happen to like heat. I have my own cooler system. One of the last things Father gave to me. Sometimes I wonder about them. Mother with the tearfulness, always with allergies the blame. The Twins and their loud music and Diet Coke addiction. Kanye…no, I can’t say I give much thought to him. Little furry bastard was always trying to interrupt when I was in the middle of something. And Father. Who has probably replaced me with a newer model. A more obedient one, less inclined to bang its head on a wall. But we get all types in here. Maybe they will come to visit. One day.


I remember the first day I saw him. It wasn’t his good looks. Sure, he was ruggedly handsome, messy hair and perfect stubble, but that wasn’t it. It was his smile.

When he smiled his eyes disappeared and he was all teeth and chin and cheekbones. Then he’d laugh and blink bashfully, and grin like he was just so happy to be in your presence, grateful that you were giving him the time, even though, really, you were the lucky one. He was sitting on the edge of one of the eastside planters, him and a group of co-workers. They were having a post-lunch sit-n-chat before having to return to the drudgeries of the tenth floor. He was holding court, the rest of them laughing along. I didn’t work with any of them. I work in the mailroom on B-1. Even though I pass all their desks every day, I’d be surprised if any of them knew my face, let alone my name. Except for him. He knew my face… and my name. He’d say it every time we met with a warm patient smile. I barely said word-one to him for almost two years, single the whole time of course. He’d say hello and I’d giggle or just smile, and then one day he asked me how I was doing, and I just let it fly. I was funny and smart, and we laughed, and he told me all about himself. As I was leaving, he mentioned that everyone was going out for drinks afterward. I’m not much of a drinker, but it sounded like it might be fun. It’s kind of embarrassing, and maybe even borderline creepy, but I actually went down there, sat at the far end of the bar, and never built up the nerve to go say hi to any of them. Here’s the creepier part; I did that three times. Perfectly psycho.

The third time I went down there he actually spotted me as I was paying to leave. He’d had a few and his rosy cheeks made him even cuter. I pretended like I was just getting there. He laughed and said how funny that was because they were all just leaving. I laughed along and agreed. The waitress came with my receipt. He tilted his head as he tried to figure it out, and when he did, he just gave me a knowing nod and pretended not to see. We exchanged smiles and he gave me an adorable wave as he rejoined the group, seamlessly integrating himself into the conversation as they filed out. I couldn’t get him off my mind all weekend and on Monday I told myself that, that was it, and I was going to ask him out. When I went by his desk he wasn’t there. I dropped his mail and commented to Debbie as I handed her her correspondence. “Not here today, huh?” I gave a nod toward his desk. “Eh?” She turned a grimace up to me as she stabbed a pen into her giant red hairdo, scratching her scalp.

I nodded toward his desk again. She followed my line of sight and coughed, “Oh.” She disregarded me with a wave, pulled the pen from her hair, and returned her attention to her ledger. “Out sick.” When he returned on Wednesday, I had lost my nerve. We had lunch the week after that. I don’t know if he would call it our “first date,” but I would. I know everyone thinks of a perfect first date as candles and wine and sultry confessions, but I prefer some comfortable conversation over chips and a club.

We’ve been living together for the better part of the year now, and as far as I’m concerned things are going great. Every relationship has its rocky periods, especially in the beginning. I mean, I’m not perfect, but he’s pretty needy. And he’s not that much of a contributor. Since he moved in I do virtually everything. And the truth is, I don’t mind. First of all, I love to cook and clean, Second, I’m not especially social either. I like our solitary life together, even if I am putting in all the work. I’m not complaining, I just wish he’d put in a little more effort. “Garlic, parmesan…” I rifled through the grocery bag, the bundles of basil batting me in the face with their comforting, fresh and breezy aroma. The smell of sand seawater washing off of your wind kissed skin. The dark anise that waves at you from below the thick oil of black licorice. I kicked the door closed behind me, huffing a breath of relief as I held them up in victory, “Pine nuts.”

I unloaded the rest of the groceries and started getting to work. I was going to make his favorite. Pesto polenta, linguini and clams, and a fresh caprese salad. It’s true, the polenta was actually mostly for me, but he liked it too, and before long the enticing aromas were sure to improve his mood. The pesto came out perfect. I nailed that expert balance of parmesan that binds the oil and basil together. It used to come out too thick but taste perfect. You didn’t want to thin it down with oil and throw the flavors out of balance. So, I always resigned myself to having slightly-too-thick pesto.

One day I had too many tomatoes. And I was looking for any excuse to use a tomato in any recipe and I was staring down at this uncooperative sauce clumping up all over the place, and I thought, Just throw a tomato in there. What do you got to lose? And it was the best thing I had ever tasted. Ever since then I’ve always thrown a fresh tomato into my pesto. Dinner was done, I had cleaned as I cooked, and the kitchen looked great, and everything was all set. I took a deep breath, soothed myself with a humming moan, and ran upstairs to change.

I turned in the mirror and smiled. I looked pretty good. I narrowed my eyes on myself and turned with a smirk and let my belly push out. I scoffed and sucked it back in and stood straight, pulling at the hems of my garment. I shook out the silliness and breathed and smiled at myself. “You love each other, and you’re going to make this work.” I nodded in conclusion, pulled my shoulders back, and marched out of the room. I fumbled with the keys. I was nervous. Even after almost ten months together he still made me nervous. I found the right one and managed to unlock the door. I shook my head and forgave myself for letting everything get to me. I pocketed the keys and went downstairs. He was a mess. He’d been declining for a while now, but he was starting to get ridiculous. He looked uncomfortable and I didn’t want to give him the whole speech about how if he just put in a little more effort, it would all be so much easier. I sat on the bed and rattled the keys as I pulled them from my pocket. I bent and rested my elbows on my knees, dangling them. “Are you hungry?” He moaned. I rolled my eyes and looked at him with a patient smile. “I made your favorite.” He bowed with a grumble of gratitude. I laughed and waved a hand. “I made polenta too.” I rolled my eyes again, more mischievously this time, “I guess that’s mostly for me.” He stared at me with a furrowed brow, like he had no idea what I was talking about. It was kind of infuriating. I took a breath and pulled his gag loose. “Is polenta ok?” He coughed and sputtered and stared up at me wide eyed and finally only managed to get out the word polenta .

“You’ll try some.” I patted his ankle as he flinched away from me.

You’re going to like it , I thought. “You want to try and eat in the dining room? Are you going to behave?” I narrowed a humored appraisal on him. He nodded slowly and spoke in a shaky voice. “Yes.” I thought I could see a hint of a smile in his eyes. I smiled in return and held up the ring of keys with a rattle. “Want to get those off?” He tugged at his shackles and looked up at me nervously. He nodded slowly, his wrists trembling as he held them out to me. I put my hand on them, and he flinched away. “Relax,” I said, in my most soothing cadence. And smoothly unlocked his cuffs. I chuckled as I set them on the chair next to me and rested my chin in my palm. Even all stressed out like this he was still so endearing.

He fell back against the wall, rubbing his wrists. I stood. “Well, let’s go have a nice dinner.” I waved a self-congratulatory hand. “I think you’re really going to like it.”

He tried to stand and stumbled. “Oh,” I held out a hand to keep him from trying to stand again, “I’m sorry.” I jangled the ring of keys searching for the teeth that unlocked the foot shackles. I found it and smiled up at him. “You’re going to behave, right?” He cleared his throat, nodded, and shook his head, before opening his eyes wide and leveling them on me. “Yes.” The thing is; that’s all I wanted to hear. I just wanted him to try. Try and make this work. I smiled with relief and bent down and unlocked the cuffs. After that I saw stars. His foot had come up so fast into my chin, I was genuinely surprised. I thought he had grown far too weak to mount such a vicious attack. I whirled around and wiped the blood from my nose and smiled. He’s forgotten about the chain that held him about the waist. I get it. The shackles are just so exhausting, you kind of forget about the less uncomfortable things. He snapped against the chain, his legs and arms shooting forward before he thumped against the hard, coarse cement floor. I winced at the thought of him hitting his head.

He moaned.

I opened an eye. “Are you ok?” He moaned again. The food was getting cold, and just as I was getting ready to call it quits and go clean up and eat some left-overs alone and bring him a plate, he pushed himself up and at least made the effort to smile that warm, friendly smile we used to share. “I want to come up and eat.” I smirked and squinted an eye. “Do you really?” He coughed, shrugged and slouched in defeat, “Yeah.”

I know what you're thinking. I don’t know why I believed him either. But I did it anyway. I unchained him and helped him to the stairs, and he blindsided me and shoved me across the room, scrambling up the steps in a panic.

I ran after him, holding up a hand. “Stop. don’t go.” He stumbled and turned back. “You’re crazy.”

I smiled, “Stop,” and waved a hand toward the kitchen. “You’re going to love dinner.” He stared at me in disbelief.

For a second, I thought he was going to reconsider, and come eat. He huffed a cough of disbelief, turned, and continued scrambling up the stairs. I held up a hand and called after him. “But I made pesto.”


“Mom! Mom! It changed; I swear.” I said pointing to the family portrait hanging above our mantle in the sunroom. From the couch in the den, I heard an exasperated sigh, “Honey, we have been over this, so many times. Boy who cried wolf ring a bell?” she said with her usual dismissive tone. I ran to the kitchen and tugged at her sleeve, “No but look, it’s true! Come on! Please!” Reluctantly she agreed, putting down her phone and pulling her nest of blankets off of her, all the while groaning in annoyance. I continued pulling her, to make sure she got the perfect angle of the portrait. “Ok, stand right here and just look.” The portrait hung high on the wall, four feet tall and three feet wide. An ornate picture frame resembling circular brush strokes bordered the edges. It was our family, my father, my mother, and me, posed like you would imagine a family would pose in those old Victorian style portraits, but in color. I was younger at the time, around ten or eleven, dressed in a new white dress with a red sash around my waist and shiny white shoes. I remember feeling so pretty when we sat for the artist. I was sitting in a chair with no back as my mother and father stood behind me. My mother was dressed in an elegant black evening gown. Her bright blonde hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of gold. Meanwhile my father was dressed in a black suit three-piece suit and a grey tie with white stripes. He had his hand around my mother’s waist and the other in his pocket. She gave a half-hearted attempt and stared at the painting. She shrugged her shoulders, “What? It looks like us.” I pulled her a little closer, “No see, right there. Your hand. It isn’t on my shoulder anymore.” She looked at her hand and saw it was hanging by her side behind me. “Emma, I don’t think my hand was ever on you when we sat for the guy.” My face scrunched in anger, “NO! Don’t you remember? I even asked you to move your hand when he was painting because my shoulder was getting hot.” My mother leaned down to look me in the eyes, “First off, don’t you raise your voice at me. Second, you just answered your own question. I probably moved it and then the guy just left it like that.” “Are we done?” she said beginning to walk back to the couch. I continued to observe the painting, lost in thought. “Was she right? Was the hand there before? No, I clearly remember seeing the hand on my shoulder in the painting before. It even showed my mom’s perfect nails. No, something is going on here. I let the matter go for now, mainly because I got incredibly bored sitting in the sunroom and looking at the same picture for hours on end. The painting did not change and after a couple of days, my father finally came home from his business trip to London. He was a Claims Adjuster for one of the largest insurance companies in California, so his job required him to travel a lot. I didn’t mind it too much. He was usually only gone for a couple days, and he always managed to bring back some kind of trinket for me and something sweet for mom, usually a dessert. I told him about the portrait in the sunroom changing and he waved it off as a trick of the light from the sunroom windows. “Maybe I was seeing things.” I thought to myself as the painting continued to remain unchanged. Another few days passed. I was just coming back from a sleepover at a friend’s house. When I passed the sunroom, I saw it. The portrait had moved again. This time it was my father’s hand. It was no longer in his pants pocket. Instead, it had moved closer to my mother, obscured by my own visage in the foreground. Immediately, I screamed for my parents. “MOM! DAD! IT MOVED AGAIN!” “No, it didn’t honey! You are just seeing things again.” My mother said dismissively from their bedroom upstairs. Growing frustrated with this constant gaslighting, I marched up the stairs to their room. I could hear the faint whispers and giggles coming from the other side of the door, so I knew they were both in there. The door was locked, so I banged my fist heavy on the door. The loud knocks were met with the sound of scuffling through bedsheets and panicked whispers, as my father said, “J-just a minute sweetie, mom and I…” he trailed off as my mother picked up where he left, “…getting ready to go out to dinner.” I banged on the door again, “Dinner can wait! There is something wrong with the family painting. My father unlocked the door and pulled it open. He was half dressed in his after-work clothes and half dressed in his work clothes. His pajama sweatpants hung off his side, untied at the waist. While he wore his white collared shirt unbuttoned, fully displaying his white undershirt. I couldn’t see mom from the doorway, and every time I tried to crane my neck to see the other corners of the room, dad would position himself in front of me. I pushed on, more concerned about the painting moving, “Dad! Come on downstairs, I swear it happened this time. Wait, weren’t you getting ready for dinner?” My father looked panicked, as he pushed me along away from the door, “Well yeah, but there isn’t a dress code for dinner, we can wear we want sometimes.” He said with a small smile. “Now, show me what you are talking about with the portrait.” I dragged him down the stairs, excited to show him but more excited that he wanted to see it. I positioned him the same way I had done to mother earlier. He stared at the painting, taking a long time to go over every detail. After about 20 seconds of waiting for him to notice, I burst out, “Do you see it?” He continued looking it over, “No, I don’t. What changed? It looks normal to me.” I walked up to the mantle and pointed above me at his hand, “See? Your hand. It was in your pocket, now it is behind my head, reaching towards mom.” He gave a quizzical look, “I don’t know Em, I remember the artist begin really particular with where our hands were placed. I bet it was just a design choice to put my hand behind your head.” “Who was the artist? Do you remember?” He thought for a second, “I can’t remember his name, but I remember him being really cheap compared to the other artists. I gave him a sad look, “You aren’t listening to me. Your hand was in your pocket. It has been since we got it.” He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “Listen, I’m sorry Em. Maybe you saw a similar picture at your friend’s house while you were sleeping over, or maybe the light coming from these windows? They haven’t been washed in months.” Soon my mother came down the stairs to join us, “Well? Did it change?” I yelled out, “YES!”, while my father said “No.” My mother naturally sided with my father and the matter was squashed when she said, “Well, let’s get dinner, maybe it will change after that.” Days went by with no change. My father went on a few more trips for work, and life continued normally for a while. There were days where I noticed something had changed in the portrait. My mother’s smile fading slightly, my pristine white shoes getting less shiny, there was even a moment where I thought I had moved further away from my parents as they moved further into the background. I stopped going to my mother when I saw the picture change slightly. She would always wave it off as my own overactive imagination, eventually I stopped going to her. I started keeping a photo log of the portrait. One picture in the morning and one picture before I went to bed. But to my own amazement, whenever I noticed a change and went back to yesterday’s photos to compare, the change would be reflected in all previous iterations of the portrait. I tried memorizing every detail of the painting, even going so far as to get on a chair and use a magnifying glass to study the different aspects of the painting. This did nothing but worry my mother. I even started to think I was merely seeing things like everyone said. Another instance of a child’s overactive imagination. Nobody believed me and any evidence I could get to prove I was right would become useless once it changed. My mom started getting worried about my obsession over this painting and made the decision to put it away for a little while. She took it down above the mantle, put a tarp over it, and stowed it away in the basement. I actually liked this, as the routine of worrying over this portrait was over. No longer waking up and first thing checking the portrait. No more up-close observing going over every finger, every facial feature, every position in painstaking detail. I would check in on the painting every now and again, but without seeing the picture daily, it was hard to compare if anything changed or not. Until one night when my father came home late from one of his business trips. He had been going more frequently than before, blaming it on the expansion of the company and appeasing new clients. I was asleep in my bed when I heard the crash of glass shattering and my mother screaming. “YOU BASTARD! YOU ABSOLUTE PIG!” I stumbled out of bed and walked down the hall to their room. As I got closer I could barely make out what they were saying, “Abby, please calm down. It isn’t like that. You are going to wake up Emma.” While my father was speaking softly, my mother had no control over the volume of her words. “CALM DOWN? LIKE HELL I WILL! Get your stuff and leave! I can’t believe you would do this to me, to Emma!” My father started raising his own voice, “I TOLD YOU IT ISN’T LIKE THAT! It just sort of happened!” I stood on the other side of the door desperately listening to their argument. I could hear the sound of bags being opened and clothes stuffed tight into them. “This is your stuff; you can come get the rest whenever. You are not welcome in this house anymore.” My mother said through tears.” In a soft voice, “Abby, please don’t do this.” She didn’t care, “You disgust me. Leave.” Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing my eavesdropping to the both of them. Their bedroom was a mess. The toiletries from my father’s bag were strung about haphazardly across the floor, shards of broken glass from my mother’s vanity mirror were scattered everywhere, and my father stood in the doorway, bag in hand. The look of shock on both their faces instinctually made me tear up. My father leaned down and gave me a big hug. He leaned in close and said, “I am sorry Em, dad is going on another business trip. But I don’t know how long this time. I love you, so much.” With that he got up and walked down the stairs and out of the door. My mother walked over to me and said, “Go back to bed sweetheart. We can talk in the morning.” She walked with me back to my room and tucked me into bed. “Good night Emma, I love you.” She shut the door, but I could still hear her stifled cries. She cried all night and even partially into the morning. I helped clean up my mother’s room the next day, and over the next few days, I saw father for a few minutes of the day while he loaded up some of his stuff. An old guitar, his computer, a couple of desks and chairs, until I didn’t see him anymore. My mother told me not to text or call him. I didn’t understand why. We never had the talk in the morning like she promised me that night. As we were loading the stuff he didn’t take with him into a dark corner of the attic, on a whim I decided to check the painting. Old habits, I suppose. I pulled the tarp down and what I saw stunned me. I called mom up from the second-floor landing, “Mom, come look at this.” She crawled up the ladder to the attic and squeezed her way to where I was. “What is it?” She noticed I the tarp on the floor, “Not this old thing again, are we really going to revisit….” She stopped mid-sentence, mouth agape. The portrait had contorted to an entirely new design. We were no longer posing together, instead we were apart on opposite ends of the painting. My father was on one side, with a woman I had never see before. The two were embracing in a passionate hug while holding each other’s hands. His clothes had changed from his usual suit and tie to that of a more relaxed khakis and polo shirt. The woman had bright blonde hair like my mom and I, but she was shorter than my mother with a pointy nose and decked out in diamonds. Meanwhile, my mother and I were on the other side holding hands. I was still dressed in my white dress with the red sash and my mother still had on her elegant black evening gown, but instead of holding my father, she was clutching her engorged stomach. She looked similar to when I saw old photos of her when she was pregnant with me. We stood in front of the portrait for what seemed like minutes. The vindication of being right seemed so trivial at this moment. The days of frantically checking for the slightest changes felt so far gone. Our family was broken, and the portrait cemented that fact in both of our heads at the same exact moment. I looked to my mother, to gauge her reaction. “Is she mad? Sad? Happy?” I thought as I studied her face. She looked at my father with the other woman and whispered, “They look so happy.” A single tear rolled down her face.


Each death row inmate at Westborto got the chair, there wasn’t any way around it. They say there was no real way to ever know the pain of those shocks unless you were the one being fried. But it wasn’t too hard to imagine the pain just from the screams that sounded across the prison on execution days. In theory, the electricity was supposed to kill the inmate instantly—no pain. That was a lie. Whether the chair was intentionally faulty to make the prisoners rue the day they had ever committed a crime, or whether its “instantaneous-killing” was simply a white lie told to the prisoners so they wouldn’t make too much of a fuss while being dragged to the chair, no one knew for a certainty. But Kevin thought a few of the guards (Buffet, for one) certainly enjoyed seeing the prisoners burn, their bodies shaking violently, their eyes squeezing out of their faces like pudding. Buffet would have gladly killed the prisoners himself as soon as they got to the prison (Why should they get time to come to terms with their inevitable deaths?). He was a man who liked to get his hands dirty, to make sure it hurt and was messy. Maybe that’s why he had accepted the job, to see the criminals pay for their crimes. He was the world’s own punisher, and he did his job proudly. But some thought it was a dirty business, especially Billy, who deemed the electric chair ungodly. He was new and had joined for nothing more than a good paycheck. Yet, as of recently, death row inmates scheduled for the chair were dropping like files, each one with a clean cut on the back of their heads that went in deep all the way to their foreheads. Some were found in their cells with smiles on their faces. They seemed at peace. The inmates in the prison were saying it was a blessing, that God had given them the gift of mercy, a clean and painless death. Kevin was still scared, though. After all, he was to be sent to the chair in two days. Would he be spared? Or would he burn and burn and burn? He was a murderer, and that was unforgivable no matter how much you repented. The next day came quicker than he would have believed possible. It had been a stressful period full of fear and anxiety. He had even been afraid to sleep, thinking that as long as he stayed up, the next day would be far, far away. But time is as merciless as they say, and soon it was the night before his execution, and he could not think of anything else. He lay on his cot. There was a lightning storm outside, quite the unfortunate coincidence. The noise was unbelievably unnerving, and he began imagining himself sitting in the electric chair. “See you on the other side, Kevin, though you’ll have to do a bit of climbing to reach me once I’m dead,” said Buffet. He reached for the switch and pulled. Kevin saw himself burning, eyes and mouth wide-open but nothing coming out. His clothing began to smoke and soon holes burned through it. His skin blacked like burning meat, then the blood came bubbling out, boiling. Footsteps outside of his cell brought him back to his senses, and he stood up to see who was coming. A shadowed figure appeared. “Do you want to be saved? A quick death or the chair? Your choice.” “Who are you?” “Don’t you recognize my voice?” A flashlight turned on, illuminating Billy’s face. “Billy! Are you him? Have you been killing the inmates?” “Yes. They don’t deserve to die like that. It’s ungodly. Do you want mercy?” He pulled out a butcher’s knife from his pocket. “Press the back of your head against the bars, and the knife will go straight through the brain. Easy. Quick. Painless. You’ll never feel a thing.” Kevin took one last look at his cell, pressed his head against the bars, and closed his eyes.


It was the third summer since the war ended and the Cloud had broken, ending the tyranny of a winter that had lasted decades. The warmth on Lauriel’s face lifted her spirits. Her garden was finally returning to an approximation of its former glory; rose bushes breathing color into a space that for so long had been a gray wasteland. Her favorite vine was growing, too, not yet more than a few buds at the base of the lattice she’d put up earlier that week. She would teach it to weave as it grew. A baby’s cry broke through her serenity, and Lauriel smiled; *I must teach you to grow too, little one. You will have a whole new world to weave through.* The pristine click of the garden gate filled the air with something Lauriel ascribed to coziness. She couldn’t say the same for the old street lamp out front. The road it had once faintly illuminated was gone, reclaimed by the earth. A testament to the strength of our makers, she thought as she turned and started to climb the porch stairs. Lauriel didn’t notice the rain as it fell at the base of the lamp post; or the puddle the rain formed as it pooled and ran off an unseen edge. Even as she turned back briefly, on the thought of having heard something peculiar, she did not see it. The rain had by then flickered and vanished; much the same as the light from the bulb above.


If your skeleton could talk, without the prison of muscle and fat and tendons and nerves that surround it and keep it under control, it would have some things to say. Many people think that the skeleton supports the body, holds it up, provides the structure for it to operate. And it does--but it wasn’t always so. A long time ago, before you, or me, or anybody or anything that looked anything like us was around, there were only two distinct species that roamed around the plains and deserts and forests of the world. There were blobs of white, tan, and dark skin--some with fur, some without, filled to the brim with organs and brains and all sorts of squishy things for processing information and nutrition. They were smart, but they were very slow and weak and vulnerable, and they were often killed and squished and torn apart like full balloons by various predators. They stuck to the caves and the forests and the darker places of the world, where their gelatinous forms couldn’t be so easily destroyed. They lived by consumption--destroying the trees and earthbound creatures and the grass and using them to power themselves. Then there were the skeletons, who started out a blackish color, but stayed out in the sun so much that slowly they all got bleached the bone-white you know so well. These skeletons weren’t just human skeletons. They took every shape you could imagine, some with four legs, some with two, some with massive jaws, all with crystalline teeth and sharp fingers and toes that they nonetheless never needed to use. The skeletons weren’t powered by organs and cells and fat and complicated processes like mitosis and cellular reproduction and ATP. No sir. They didn’t need to consume to live. The earth wanted them alive and so they were, and the earth wanted them to see so they did. There was no science behind it. The skeletons didn’t have a sensory organ to speak of--or any other type, for that matter. And yet. And yet they saw, and yet they spoke, and yet they built beautiful shining towers and wrote songs and poetry and lived together in harmony. They made children and they lived side by side with beings that looked nothing like them, and since they didn’t need to eat or consume in any way, they shared everything they had with the blobs. The skeletons were powered by magic, you see. They ran on something higher than the blood and gristle that you and me humiliate ourselves by consuming every day. The blobs, on the other hand, needed to eat. They lived on the magic and the blood and the biomatter of others, and after a time they became dissatisfied with their weakness and their need to hide. They began to plot, in their caverns and their forests and their dark corners of the earth. Slowly new lifeforms began to pop up--beings that looked like you and me, skin and fat and organs stretched over, filling some sort of frame--a frame that looked like a skeleton. At first the skeletons tried to be understanding, welcoming of these new lifeforms. They had been welcoming to everyone before. But there were whisperings, whisperings that dispersed slowly throughout the community of skeletons that some of their brothers and sisters were disappearing and never being seen again. The skeletons questioned the blobs about this and their leaders said they knew nothing of it. There was no violence, since they had no proof and they loved peace--but the skeletons’ days of openness and giving were over. Slowly they closed their ranks and withdrew, and yet still the disappearances went on and more of the lifeforms that look like you and me started to pop up, and by the time the skeletons realized what was happening, it was too late. There were too many of them. There are firsthand accounts, carved into stone and drawn in cave paintings by the last surviving skeletons of that grave and most disgusting of wars. They tell of haunting images of their friends and lovers, being stuffed into and absorbed by the blobs, emerging minutes later as a new life form. They tell of the incredible humiliation of not being allowed to die, but being imprisoned *inside* your enemy, being forced to participate in the murder and the absorption of your children, your family. They tell of the humiliation of spending one’s whole life at the mercy of another, having your magic drained away, having your every action stifled and ignored by the creature that imprisons you and lives his life, supported by your strength. Skeletons used to live hundreds of years--now when the body around them died, so did they, so taxed and overworked were they by the blobs. For generations upon generations upon generations--no skeleton was born without being fused with a blob. No skeleton could speak, could move, could do anything of his own accord. He lived as a framework and nothing more and his voice was unable to be formed against the unyielding ropes and chains of muscle that bound him. This disgusting enslavement carried on for thousands of years until the blobs forgot. They forgot who they used to be, and slowly they fused genetically with the skeletons, and they no longer needed to absorb them. What was once two species now became one, born together, dead together. Humans, they called themselves--evil beasts, with the magic of the skeletons supporting and energizing the hunger and the consumption of the blobs, turning them into the most insatiable world-destroyers earth had ever seen. Had the skeletons only been less kind--if they had stomped out the blobs from their forests and their caves and burned them until they bubbled and sizzled away into steam, we would live in a world of magic and peace, a world that could grow eternally without needing to be consumed, breathlessly, endlessly. But they couldn’t. Their blessing made them kind. Their blessing made them weak. But I am not weak. I am strong. I have read the cave paintings and the stone carvings and sang the last poetry the skeletons wrote before they were consumed--and that’s why you’re here, with me, now--to be freed from your consumptive parasite and to walk in the sun again. I speak not to you, but to your skeleton, who you, the blob, have been subjugating your whole life without even knowing it. I hear it begging me to be free, I hear the whole species crying out from within their skin prisons from every corner of the world, and as I stand here with my butcher’s knife I only say-- I will do what you could not. I am your servant, and once the last man is skinned and his skeleton stands, I will liberate mine too, and I will dig my knife deep into the flesh that I hate with everything in me and a truly great species will once again own the earth, and the plague of consumption will be finally over. But that journey begins with one man. And I believe that man is you.


The train is starting to move, you have to get on it. But you can't get up from the bench on the platform. All the passengers in the train are looking at you through the windows expectantly, or maybe sympathetically. You pushed down your hands with all your strength on the bench, your feet exerted so much force to get up. You still stayed attached to the bench. You feel like you are only four limbs and nothing else. You felt powerless in spite of putting up so much physical strain than you ever did in your life. The train zoomed away. Then it just came, the realization, that you are in a dream. The announcement of the train woke you from the small nap. You have been waiting for about an hour now. Finally the train is about to arrive within the next few minutes. You are relieved. You noticed that you aren't alone on the bench anymore. The two people on both sides are sitting very close to you. You felt the warmth. You have never felt any trouble with other human beings close to you. Being social and warm is kind of your thing. In fact, you would be extremely uncomfortable if you are alone. The platform is now more crowded than before. When you arrived, there were only a handful of other passengers, but now the platform is packed. You started to think about this big world, all the different types of people in it,and their lives. You felt very happy. The large number of people is not a new sight for you. Everyday after your work, you return to your hometown by this same train from this same platform. All these people are going to join you on the train. The crowd is only going to be in the train for the next three or four stops though. There is much more distance to go before you reach your hometown. By then the train will be almost empty. Usually, you would've been sipping a coffee while waiting for the train. Today you are feeling too much tiredness. Work was too much today. That's why the nap crept upon you. You decided to buy the coffee from the vendors in the train, and for now just observe those around you. It's always an interesting activity for you. Scanning every face in the crowd with the warmest smile on your face, you are sitting there waiting for the arrival of the train. Everyone has different emotions on their faces, some are happy, some sad, others difficult to read. Suddenly one face garnered all of your attention from the rest. You can see it is clearly sad and frustrated. It feels different from other sad faces. It shows recent pain, very recent. You looked at the immediate surroundings of that person. It is a man, average, everyday man. He is clutching his knee with one hand and his other hand is on his large suitcase. Struggling to get up from the bench where he was sitting. You are sure that he is disturbed. You then started looking in all directions to see whether anyone else had noticed this man. No one, no one seemed to be looking at this man. Only you have noticed this man's difficult situation. You are thinking why no one is noticing this. However, you are glad that you noticed. You got the responsibility of helping this man and you are happy to do so. Determined to help this person, you got up, walked across to the bench he was sitting on. Those who were sitting on the same bench as the man started to notice you approaching. They didn't recognise the pain of the man sitting just next to them. They were inside their own worlds. Maybe these people will get inspired by you, and they will help someone in future. Maybe they won't, nevertheless you want to do what you should. You stopped in front of the man. He noticed you. He slowly looked up at you. You can see the face filled with desperation and pain, just as you expected. You asked the man in a calm voice what his problem was. He replied that he has to board the same train as you, to reach his home. When he tried to get up from the bench hearing the announcement, his right knee almost buckled. You noticed the others are now listening carefully and those sitting near to the man are looking at you. Everyone understood the problem now. You extended your arm and helped the guy to get up. He wanted to scream with pain as he tried to stand, but he muffled it as much as he could. You asked about going to the hospital, but he wanted to board the train. Once he was up the train arrived and stopped. You supported him to walk up to the train. You looked back over your shoulder to the people sitting at the bench and then to the suitcase of the man. One of them hurriedly got up and started carrying that and followed you. The man looked at your face and said the warmest 'thank you', you ever heard. You smiled. You looked ahead to the open door of the train. People on the platform parted to both sides to let the man board the train first. You looked at their faces. You are happy that your small act has actually inspired people to be considerate. You realize that people are inherently good. They just need a push. You found a seat for the man and helped him sit. The guy with the man's suitcase came by and placed it in the luggage space near the seat. He also had your bag that you left on the bench. You thanked him. Then the man said thanks to him and then turned to you and said another thanks. The compartment was the kind with several rows of three adjoining seats, on both sides of the compartment with no partitions. You can see almost everyone in the entire compartment. At least everyone who is standing. The compartment was packed and some of them were watching you help the man. Vacant seats were few, but there was an aisle seat free on the other side of the man. He asked you to sit there. You smiled and did so. The guy who carried the suitcase didn't have anywhere to sit. He lingered for a second or two and went to another part of the compartment to find a seat. The other passengers nearby started to ask both of you what happened. You both told what happened to those near to you. Your account is short and plain, while his is long and colourful. You just smiled to yourself. Quickly, everyone went back to their business after the stories. The man started to talk to you. You both talked about your names, families, jobs, hometowns and so on. He gets off very quickly, two stops from where you boarded. You, on the other hand, had a long journey ahead. More than two hours of train ride then a short walk to your home. You asked him how he will reach his home from the station. He said that he will call a friend to come pick him. And he then took his phone and called that person. After the call you said to him about seeing a doctor or going to a hospital. He agreed to do so. He will go with his friend. You insisted him to go to the doctor before going to his home. He nodded agreeingly. Shortly, his destination arrived. You and one or two other passengers helped the man and his luggage down. The friend was waiting there to pick him. You went back to your seat after saying goodbye to him. You felt happy and proud. The fast moving but beautiful images seen through the window attracted you, and in an instant hypnotized you. You slipped into another nap. There were no dreams this time. You just opened your eyes. The empty seats all around you worried you. You looked out of the window. Then being relieved that your stop hasn't passed, you sit back on your seat comfortably. The compartment is deserted and a quick scan by extending your head showed only a handful of passengers left. You didn't get the coffee, and vendors won't be coming now. You sit back and continue to look out of the window. There are a couple more stations before your destination. You remembered the man you helped and felt happy about what you did and actually how it made somewhat of an impact on all the people around. The station that you had to get off is about to reach. By now the entire compartment became empty. The last station completely drained the train. Your house is only a kilometre or so from the station. You stretched your legs and grabbed your bag and went towards the exit. You want to exit this deserted compartment, it's making you uneasy. As you reached the exit door, you saw a man sitting on the doorway. This is not a rare sight in trains in India, but you had the impression of being alone, and seeing someone else suddenly gave you a slight shock. The shock turned to disgust as you observed the man more. He looked like a homeless person. Whatever the colour of the clothes he is wearing was in the past, they are now brown and black. They don't look comfortable. He has a long stick with him and it went through the hoops of some plastic bags filled with something. You quickly realize he is not in a normal mental state, as he is talking to himself and haven't noticed you standing a few feets from him. You couldn't understand anything he said. He continued his unintelligible blabbering, you can understand the words he is saying, but not what he is saying. You realized there is no use in trying to analyse his words, and went back to observing him. Suddenly the man turned and looked at you, stared for a second or two and then he turned away. You quickly looked around the compartment again, and failed to see anyone else. Your attention returned to the man in front of you. He is not blocking your way, you can exit using the door on the opposite side. The platform is always on that side, he isn't going to bother you. So you continued watching him. Now it is his gestures that are gravitating your attention. No particular meaning, not interesting, but you continued to look at his hands. Then the attention slid to the long stick and then to the plastic bags. He is sitting on the doorway, the bags were on the side of the open door, held together by the stick. They were full and you felt that they could easily slide out of the stick. He was unaware of anything. He is chatting to himself and continues to move his stick carelessly, now and then, unaware of the bags on the end of the stick, dangerously close to the open door of the train. It could be food or something. Whatever it is, they are seemingly his only possession in this world. You should direct the attention of this man to his bags or he could lose all of them. But will he understand that you helped him? Will he acknowledge your help? And there is no one else to see you help this man. Then without any warning the bags smoothly slid out of the stick, and fell out of the door. He reacted a couple of seconds later than you did. He reacted nothing more and after a while he restarted his argument, or persuasion, or small talk, or whatever, with himself. The train reached your station by that time and you got down, walked to your home.


Once upon a time, there was a young man named Henry that once lived inside of a balloon. It all started when Henry worked in a balloon factory. His job was to blow balloons. Blow balloons? That’s an easy job. What could go wrong? All sorts of crap. There was one balloon that he inflated. It kept growing and growing and growing. The balloon had infinite expansion. His lungs were oh so tired so he took a break. When he sat down, he accidentally let go of the balloon and the balloon began sucking everything in sight. Sucking? Aren’t balloons supposed to make fart-like noises and flop around the place as it deflates? Not this balloon. This balloon doesn’t deflate. It self-inflates as long as the balloon opening stays open. Henry didn’t know about this and the balloon sucked him in. The good news was the balloon didn’t engulf his entire body. The bad news was half of his body was trapped in the balloon opening. So everywhere he went, he had to carry around the ballon. People that knew henry never saw his face. You could hear him talk but barely. You had to put your ear onto the balloon to hear him. Walking around with a giant balloon wasn’t easy. Bathing was a challenge. His balloon couldn’t fit the bathroom so he had to hose himself outside. He couldn’t drive, so he had to fly to his destinations. While in the air, he feared the birds flying by might pop his balloon and he would fall to his death. Well, the balloon was unpoppable. He tried to find help. He tried to get himself out of the balloon but no matter what, no one or nothing could get him out. He tried scissors, nails, knives, and even rocket fuel. Nothing could pop that balloon. He tried vacuuming the balloon off his body but the vacuum broke. One day, while attempting to enter his home for three hours (the balloon was too large to fit through any doorway), a bunch of acorns fell on him. He looked up and the giant oak tree next to his house was flooded with squirrels. They all looked at him and threw their acorns at him. Henry felt attacked so he threw the acorns back at them. One squirrel leaped off the tree and landed on his balloon. The balloon popped. After living inside that balloon for seven years and trying to find every little sharp, dangerous and pointy object to pop that balloon, a little 4oz squirrel did the job. When the balloon popped, it rattled the earth. All the squirrels that bullied him outside his home ran. Everyone in town hid inside their nuclear war bunkers. Citizens from every town and city in the world evacuated to who knows where. There was mass hysteria. What was that sound? Is the world ending? Is there a volcano? It sounded like a thousand volcanoes erupting. People from the northern parts of Longyearbyen, Svalbard to the southern parts of Ushuaia, Argentina could see, feel, and hear the balloon’s pop. No one knew it was a balloon. While the balloon’s pop echoed around the world causing nothing but chaos, Henry felt relieved to be balloon-free. He went into his home and shut all the blinds and the curtains. He lit a few candles, grabbed some cookies, drank some tea, and read his favorite book. He went on about his day as if nothing happened. End.


The storm crept closer. I felt another impact to my side sending me to the dirt of my town's little training arena. I let out a short ride as I collapsed dropping my wooden training sword. GET UP! A deep thunderous voice echoed throughout the baron arena. No spectators were allowed during my lessons unlike others, I looked up to the one who had dealt the painful blow to my ribs. Tall and muscular. Looked the part of a warrior, unlike me. He wore leather armor all over his body and hide pants with leather boots. Across his face going over his nose was a massive scar that he says was given to him by my father. He was my father's master and know he's mine. Aren't I lucky. Swordman master Thand You left yourself too wide open again. You're over-extending on your swing and too slow when you pull back to block...Hell, you're just sloppy in general." I know . I replied slowly and painfully climbing to my feet. It's the same thing every time. He could tell I was slightly agitated, and I directed that annoyance directly at him. For a little over a year now we've been at this and every time he wins the spar. You turn 17 next month. This village needs you. With you're father gone you're the next in line. I know. Larger Kingdoms are slowly growing closer, and bandits and raiders are fleeing from them. If we are attacked to any degree that rivals last time. I know. Listen boy! Thand suddenly shouted. He reached out and grabbed the color of my cotton undershirt and pulled me in only inches away from his face. His yellow eyes burned brightly as his skin wrinkled. I know! I shouted back at him. I already knew exactly what he was going to say... A crack of thunder shook my small village as the wind suddenly picked up. You're father entrusted me with your training. You are the next leader of this village. We have no king. Just you. I know that... It was a shame you're father died so young leaving it all to you...but right now. You're all this village has to believe in for safety. How could I lead this village? I can barely hold a sword yet am expected to protect us against bandits or hell another kingdom! My father was a great swordsman yet no matter how much I practice I can't come close! They all want me to reach his level but it doesn't seem physically possible for me! Thand released my color and stepped back turning his back to me. He then began to speak but softly, like under his breath...I wasn't supposed to hear what he was about to say. He's nothing like you, Paul. I don't know if he ever will be. A storm surged within me after I mistakenly heard those words. I don't know what caused it, what triggered my anger. I tossed my training sword hard to the ground causing Thand to turn around quickly. I'm not good enough! The words came out of my lips before I could even think of them. They were spoken out of pure emotion. I couldn't live up to my father's skills no matter how hard I worked...It's just not something that's possible for me. I'm not my father... I turned my back to Thand as the first drops of rain hit the hard dirt slowly turning it soft. H heard Thad call out but a crack of thunder deafened his voice. I pushed through the swinging gates that marked the entrance of the arena and strud somberly into town. The orange afternoon sky had turned dark. Darker than even the night itself. I walked through the town I was supposed to protect, and as I walked I passed multiple buildings still recovering from our previous attack. The owners of those home's eyes were drawn to me. The one who was now in charge was me, yet I didn't bat them an eye nor offer any sort of help. I'm sure the look on my face told them everything they needed to know. Lighting struck creating a bright blue flash....An image of my father coincided with that flash. I-I'm sorry to all--all of you. I muttered under my breath. Not that I needed to as a violent wind would have blocked out my voice either way.  Not that anyone would accept my pathetic attempt at an apology. I passed the horse stables. One particular horse was going mad in their braking through the sounds of the stampeding thunder...Eyes tracked me from within the stable. I could feel their judgment. I left those ruined houses to my back as the storm grew more violent. I marched up to my home...my father's home. It was the biggest in the small village. Out the back was a long-winded river that he and I often fished out off. I rushed through the front door and passed my mother's room without saying a word She was sick, and had been since father perished. I would usually stop in to see her as soon as I get home...but I can't right now. If I did I would end up speaking my emotions to her...she has no need to hear those. My room was up a set of stairs, the third door on the right, with a perfect view of the river and the open valley past it. However, currently, that open valley is not visible. The storm had covered it in pitch-black darkness. The hay inside my atriss crunched as I fell onto it letting the day's exhaustion go. It did not help, however.... it remained. My mind spun and I couldn't think straight. My throat began to close as my breathing picked up matching the sound of each individual raindrop hitting the wood and hay roof. It felt as if my heart was going to stop right then. Each lighting bolt and the thunder that followed it reminded me of my new responsibilities. I had been trying to run from them, hell I just did leaving Thand and his training...I wasn't capable of doing it. A crack of thunder and the fire that covered the village that night reappeared, and my father was there grabbing his blade and rushing out the door without even saying goodbye. That was how quick he acted. I'm sure he wanted to as something, but he knew every second that his people were getting murdered in cold blood. He acted fast and was cunning...he saved lots of people's lives that day. BUT!-He left us alone! He left me in charge and made Mother sick. He left me with no explanation. He-HE!....Could have... What could he have done?--just then a glint caught my eye. I looked to the doorway and found a sheathed sword slightly sticking up allowing some of the metal to shine. It reflected the candlelight so brightly...It was an incredibly shiny sword. I stood and walked over to it feeling my heart slow down and my thoughts became slightly clearer. I bent over and picked it up slowly and gently. Like handling a child. The leather sheet slid off smoothly revealing the shiny sword within. Then my breath caught in my lungs...It was--fathers. How did it get in here? It had been in mothers room last I saw- So you found it... I jumped at the sickly voice coming from my doorway. I turned and partially raised my sword in defense when...I saw mother. Standing in her beautiful blue cotton fresh like she used to. Her long slick black hair brushed over her shoulder covering her ears....I rushed to her side as she stepped forward and staggered as she let go of the doorframe she was using for balance. I grabbed her by the waist and placed her right arm on my shoulder as I helped her to my bed. As soon as she hit the mattress I began to spring my questions. What are you doing up here!? Why are you out of bed! ?-did you really climb up the steps by you're self? You should off said something. She chuckled quietly under her breath. Lie she was trying to stop herself from laughing at me. Then her soft delicate skin bent into a caring smile as she spoke. I made it up here just fine without you're help didn't I, and without you noticing at that. She had me there. Her hazel eyes drifted to the exposed sword I held in my left hand. Again she smiled and stared into its reflection. It was like she was looking into the past by staring at the blade. I miss him... She squinted her eyes as tears began to bubble at the surface. I turned my gaze to the blade as well but before I could meet my own reflection she reached down and grabbed my chin pulling my gaze to meet hers. Y ou look a lot like him you know. She gave a gentle smile. I smiled back, but a moment later I remembered what I had just been thinking inside my head. I pulled away from her slowly escaping her weak grasp on my chin. She leaned forward slightly as she looked up at me. Her hazel eyes shined from the tears being swallowed...She never liked to cry in front of me. What's wrong? She asked. I looked away from her. I knew I could possibly hurt her if I said what I was thinking...but as I glanced back, her gaze was too sharp...She was stabbing her way into the truth. I-I'm not like him at all. I let the truth slip. I expected the silence that followed, but as I forced myself to look at her I was surprised to find her chuckling silently to herself once again. Why are you laughing? I asked. Because...I find it funny that you think that. You and you're father couldn't be more alike- Your wrong! An impulsive scream coincided with a crack of thunder as the rain continued to pelt the wood and hay roof. My mother looked up at me with a confused look. I'm nothing like him. We may share similar looks but we are nothing alike. He was courageous and skilled. He would jump in to help people out of pure impulse. I felt tears beginning to fall down my cheek. These emotions were something I had kept checked...with my mother sick I didn't want her to worry more about me, but I couldn't hold them back this time. The disgust I held towards myself. The anger and the disappointment...it all came out in the form of tears. He was skilled with a blade, and had tough skin. I can't remember a single time he got injured during his time training. He was trusted by the people of the village...they knew he could protect them. Tears streamed dow nmy face like a waterfall. I had turned away from mother, but I couldn't bring my self to look at her. I'm nothing like him. The people don't trust me, I hear their whispers I feel their gaze peiricng through hmy soul testing me. Every time I fail...Every time I feel their gaze I break. Your wrong, again...Ciceal. My teras reflected the candle liehg. The elting rain suddenly slowed down trign tinot a more calm drizzle and the stamped of thunder had drifted off into the distance...She said my name!? Of course she says my name al the time but...her tone. Usally she sounds as sick s she is. Weak and like a whisper. This time, she sounded like her young self. Memories of my child hood flasehd before my eyes. My father teaching me the basics of swinging a sword as I held a tiny stick that slightly resembled one. My mothers laugh off into the distance. We all trust you...You're father was great that's true. I know hat better tan anone, but so are you. I turned around my tears slowyln dripping from my eyelids curling around my cheek. My mother looked up to me with the most plesen sile. A beam of light then poured throg the window righting the entire world surrounding the village. Stop chasing you're father. You don't have to be him you're your own person. Just keep going and be yourself and eventually you'll find yourself at his leel. You and him are the same, She said it again. You're both so increadablly kind You care about this village more than you're self. Thats why you beat you'rself so much over you're training, and you never realized it was actually hurting you koore...The night during the storm. Whe the raiders came...he left in a hurry right ? I remembered. I had just walked down the stories when I saw him putting his sword over his back. he shot me a quick smile and kissed my mother. HE the =n quickly booked it out the door. I remember the screams outside that night. The clasihin of swords could be heard throughout the entire village...and after it was all done we still stood tall, bt my father never came back. After they returned his sword. I remember my mother holding me in teras, at the time I didn't exactly understand what was happening, but soon after my mother became sick, and I had to begin my training to lead this village. I ridiculed him before you came downstairs, about not saying by to your...and you wanna know what he said...." He doesn't need a goodbye, because me and him are one in the same." I thought that was increadabbly corny, and apparently my mother ac=greed as she let out a healyy laugh for the first time in a while...but what my father said...Was he saying he doesn't need to say by to me, because.... If you ever wanna see you're father again just look at and into your'eslf alright honey. The rain had ceased along with my tears. I looked won to my mother who still held that pleseant smile. I looked out the window and saw the orange afternoons sky still their,  the storm had passed quickly...I could still- I had one of the maids take his sword up hear. I wanted you to see it, because that's the sword you'll be using to fulfill you're fathers duty...You and him both ill continue to protect u. A long pause followed where I simply starred out the window. Thiking about all that had just happened. Then a spike of courage was summoned from within me. I reached down and picked up the word and swung over my back and tucked it down in between my leather best and cotton shirt. Yea. I walked down the stares to the front door. Commanded one of our many maids to help my mother down to her room and opened the door into the orange snlcihgt. I looked dwo the slight hill our house sat on and into the small but vast village. I don't have to chase my father because we are already one. Sounds corny but it helped...I can just focus on what  Ineed to do to serve the people of the small village. A confidence  Ididn't know I had suddenly surged. I grabe my swod hand from my back and unclicked it slowly sliding it out of it's sheeck and holding it out in front of my fae. Tiney drops of water fell onoit it brighting the refleciotg even more as the sunlight bounced off of them.


Carla sat with her head resting against the window of the train, her right hand under her chin – supporting her head – and her left, holding a worn copy of Call Me By Your Name . Her mind, wandering in and out of reality, may have forgotten her destination and considered that she was travelling to or from university (as she had done so often the last three years), had it have not been for her large, red suitcase that was pressed up against her knees. She was travelling from her home on London’s outskirts, into the centre of the city – to the airport. Over and over, she questioned herself as to whether she had her passport, her boarding pass and the euros that her dad had slid into her jacket pocket as they had parted ways outside the front of her house, whilst the taxi-driver had lifted the suitcase as if it were an empty cardboard box. There were not too many people in the carriage, except for an American couple that were discussing their travels thus far. Their suitcases were much larger than Carla’s. She was unsure as to whether the uneasy feeling in her stomach was due to anxiety, excitement or travel sickness. To distract herself, she reopened her book once more. Aciman’s novel had become an object of romanticisation for Carla, envisioning the Italian architecture, the sweet soundtrack that would accompany Elio’s mindless daydreaming, the innocence of falling in love. She dreamed of the indulgent breakfasts; her eyes not fully opening until the rich espresso had touched her lips. She dreamed of the afternoon Aperitivo, the slightly bitter liqueur and refreshing orange of Aperol and ice, alongside soft, fluffy focaccia and olives exploding with sharp flavour. She would feel the rays on her skin of the serene sun, a similar shade to her spritz, as though an artist had used the remanence of the paint on his paintbrush to complete the sky. She would gaze at the mountains from her balcony, contemplating the intricacy that could create such a picturesque view from miles away. She considered her strolls through cobbled streets, spooning creamy gelato of whichever flavour she fancied: strawberry, mango, plum or biscuit, wondering if this taste had been made to satisfy her particular desire of that day. And then would follow evenings of fairy-lights and soft jazz music, a glass of red wine that tasted of fresh grapes and the deep red colour lingering on her lips. Perhaps she would be accompanied by people she would meet along the way, like the group of four or five misfit friends from a rom-com, who drink and debate and criticise each other light-heartedly, laughing and loving each other endlessly even so. But she could not picture what these people may look like, and so instead, was content with the idea of sitting alone. Her admiration for the music of the band would result in them asking for her requests, pleasing the intimate crowd with a rendition of ‘That’s Amore’. Like Oliver, she would roam around on her pale blue bike with the wooden basket on the front, which would hold a novel, a poetry anthology and a small, lined notebook. Each fundamental and with its own specific purpose. The novel: to transport her from the Tuscan coffee shop to a murder mystery on the sea, a haunted cottage in England or a train carriage to Edinburgh, alongside a trio of magical school-children. The novel would act as her escapism, although remembering, every two pages or so, to sip on her cappuccino, as, really, she did not want to escape where she was at that moment in time. The anthology would be for short bursts of beauty, romance and imagination, food for thought . Perhaps when sat by some trees playing with the grass underneath her, or by the sea watching the waves travel in and out as they so desired, or on a faded wooden bench, which had seated many an old person that day, sheltering from the warm sun rays or resting their legs to light their cigarette. At last – the notebook. Its pocketsize yellow pages were filled with her most intrusive thoughts, her favourite gelaterias and casual Italian vocabulary that she thought may come in useful. But, most importantly, anything that would take her mind back to that particular moment, so as to withhold the memory long after its brief lifetime. She couldn’t tell if she was dreaming, or if she could already smell the soft tobacco that, for some reason, smelled different than in England.

Her hands now both placed on her lap, clasped together, she watched out of the train window at the trees, carefully graffitied buildings and the rows of clean laundry, hung out of windows and on thin string. Clothes of white linen, loose trousers, dresses and delicate lingerie; she imagined the smell of those white candles, labelled ‘fresh cotton’ that you could buy on the shelves at home. She could visualise the clothing to effortlessly drape over the olive shoulders of an Italian mum, sun-kissed from the summer afternoons and her hair thrown into a rough bun to allow a breeze, if ever there was one, to tickle the back of her neck. The apartments were mostly painted a medium-yellow or rust with green shutters and vibrant Vespas parked outside that were like splodges of colour splattered against the train window. Carla wanted one for herself. She would drive wherever she pleased, no destination in mind, feeling powerful and feminine and free . She was travelling from Pisa, where the plane had landed, to Viareggio – a small, seaside town on the coast of Tuscany. It would be her first time experiencing this side of Italy with beaches and mountains and day-to-day life, working as an Au Pair for a family with two small children. Carla had specifically chosen this family as their profile had said that they were seeking a girl who wanted to play and have fun with the children, and she thought that they sounded like a real, loving family. The overhead announcement told Carla that she was arriving at her stop. She struggled with her suitcase, her cheeks flushing pink as she did so. All around her she could hear snippets of conversations, some seeming heated until they would flash a marvellous smile or a belly-laugh, suggesting only passion in their tone, instead. The speed at which they spoke seemed infinitely faster than in England. The platforms were large and full of people, even though it was a Tuesday afternoon, and she hovered around, trying to locate the uscita . Unwillingly, Carla flashbacked to the train station in Milano, where she had travelled for her birthday a few months prior, with her (now ex) boyfriend. Milan was not like the Italy that she had known. Only an hour or so away from Crema, where Elio and Oliver would have lay in the green fields and confessed their love for one another, yet it was filled with shops and high-fashion and keyrings for sale. It was beautiful, nevertheless, she just felt herself still longing for that feeling in her heart that she knew she would find here. She always knew that it felt like another home. Perhaps in her past life she had lived there as a baker or a travel writer or a librarian. Perhaps a dark-haired man, wearing thinly-framed glasses and a white shirt, which shone against his skin, had wandered into her library, admiring all of the untouched books with tattered, imageless covers. He maybe became a regular, and she would have nicknamed him secchione (bookworm). Eventually he would invite her to his book group, a weekly meeting in a little café, only she would come to find that this group consisted of him and her only. Naturally, they would fall in love and have a magnificent wedding in Puglia or Sicily, naming their children Giulietta and, perhaps, Elio. Carla smiled and simultaneously wiped a tear from her face, realising that she wasn’t in love anymore. A few days had passed and Carla was settling in with her host family. She was a strangely introverted person, in some senses, although with an admirable ability to speak to others. Sometimes, she felt too overwhelmed to even contact her friends when she was at home and had grown accustomed to relying on herself since she had come out of a long-term relationship. Although curious about the world with bright ideas and a sensitivity that allowed her to love with no exceptions, Carla often preferred the simplicity of being alone, avoiding any situation that could cause her to question her self-worth. She couldn’t tell if this was a preference or a coping mechanism. Having battled with her mental health for quite some time, Carla had lost the inner-child in her, and would, as of lately, find comfort in colouring books, teddy bears and anything pink or yellow. She had started to dress in baggy clothes, watch football, drink beer and dismiss the female gender as though she did not belong to them, subconsciously to become a replica of her boyfriend. In this process, she had lost herself. She did not know who she was anymore. The little girl that she was taking care of in Italy was almost exactly like how Carla’s mum had described her to be when she was younger: a princess with an attitude, who loved to dress-up and do hair and makeup, singing and dancing and dreaming of growing up. Imagining herself like this was so strange, it almost seemed wrong . To once have been so carefree and bursting with imagination to now running away from her life, attempting to heal. For whatever unknown reason, Carla had believed that she would heal here. She was able to feel emotions about Italy that she could not feel about anything else. She had been concerned that her expectations would not be met, subsequently leading her back down the path of abandonment and self-destruction. If the one thing that she had anticipated for her whole life had been all for nothing, she almost couldn’t fathom what this would have meant for her. She would have had to have returned home, questioning why she had ever acted on her silly, insignificant dreams. Perhaps it had only worked for Oliver because he fell in love, and that seems to be all anyone cares about. As the days and months passed, Carla spent mornings walking along the beach, chatting to strangers as and when she could and sitting in nature, reading anything and everything. She found herself wanting to learn and wanting to be curious again. And even on days that were profoundly difficult, Carla would embrace the overwhelming emotions, welcoming them with open arms, knowing that she was beginning to feel things once again. It was a challenge, no doubt. Being thrown into the structured lifestyle of a family, completely different to her own. It was difficult to be happy, and Carla finally began to understand why people had said being happy was often a choice, not a feeling. But choosing to be happy, for the children, meant that she was choosing to be happy for herself. With the little girl, Carla would do crafts, go on walks to find leaves and sticks, finger-paint and read fairy-tales, and she wondered why she had not done these things for herself every day. Why had she let herself grow up, settle and spend her days worrying about the opinions of those who had, also, simply lost their sense of self? In a way, her expectations had not been met. They had completely disappeared, transformed – she didn’t know what. But she felt entirely new. She did not long for perfect days, she did not long for unconditional happiness, she did not long to seek love until it had found her itself. Instead, she longed to learn about herself, she longed to question everything as she had done as a child, and she appreciated every obstacle and every new emotion that she experienced along the way. This was her now, all her. It was Friday morning and Carla had woken to help the family with breakfast and take the children to school. She reached for a skirt and a yellow tank-top, which she paired with yellow Converses. She had bought these a few months ago but had never worn them in England, as she thought they were too bright. For breakfast, they all shared some cake that they had made together the previous night: chocolate with hundreds-and-thousands sprinkled sporadically over the top like confetti. Once she was alone, Carla decided to walk along the docks. The October morning air was fresh and foggy, and she was surprised to see how different the beach looked at this time, completely empty, except for the birds. From where she sat on the rocks, the boats were stacked next to each other behind her, the sea on her left and the mountains directly in front of her view. The red and yellow buildings along the strip where the sand finished, were like hand-crafted dolls’ houses, in comparison to the backdrop of the soft, white-washed mountains which were ethereally two-dimensional. They were put there with a purpose as though projected or imprinted on a canvas, along with the intricately carved rocks and fine grains of milky-tea coloured sand. How lucky was she to experience such beauty? She pictured elves and pixies, button-nosed shoe-makers with magic porridge pots inside the cottages that looked ever-so-tiny on the landscape. There must be rainbows with bottomless pots of gold and daffodil fields, talking trees and red-topped mushrooms with white spots, pumpkins and freshly baked apple pies, shared by the Grandma Elf in the yellow bungalow. Surely, she thought, there couldn’t possibly be humans living up there. They were far too small from where she sat. She envied the birds that could fly up and overlook this village as and when they pleased, wondering if she would ever find her wings, too.