What in the World Happened?    “Joanie, watch where you step! Where are your shoes?”    “They’re missing,” Joan answered, “How am I supposed to get to my room?”    Kate sighed deeply, pushing her long, tawny-colored hair behind her ears for the umpteenth time. “Hold on, I’ll figure something out.”    She went upstairs and searched Joan’s room. Finding only dress shoes, she gathered some rugs from the three bedrooms, pausing only briefly to look at Wendy passed out on her bed. That was when she noticed Joan’s shoes on her feet. Kate removed them saying, “We’re going to have a discussion tomorrow and you’re not going to like it,” Then she returned the rugs to their places.    “Here,” she said, handing the shoes to Joan,    “Where did you find them?”    “On Wendy’s feet. She must have put them on in her drunken stupor.”    “It was partially your fault,” Joan snapped.    “My fault! How do you figure? I didn‘t force her to drink so much.”    “You told Tom and Jerry they could bring their friends with them, along with the keg.”    Kate recalled the conversation from earlier in the night when Tom had said they would be late and were bringing two other guys. There was no mention of a keg. If only she had known how things would turn out.    Then she defended herself, “I did not! I never even got the chance to say, ‘no’ before he hung up. When I tried to call him back, he wouldn’t answer.”    “You didn’t have to let them in.”    “They’re your friends too! Why didn’t you tell them ‘no’?”    “I’m not going to discuss it anymore. I’m tired enough as it is and arguing isn’t going to clean this mess,” Joan said, then asked, “Do you think the landlord will find out?”    “I guarantee he will,” Kate replied, “He probably listens to the police scanner to see if any of his properties are being swatted.”    Joan couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I can picture him sitting at home doing just that!” Then she pulled out the vacuum cleaner.    Kate looked at the devastation surrounding her. Red plastic cups littered the room and the smell of beer was overwhelming. The two matching chairs that her parents had allowed her to have were both on their sides. Several hats lay on the floor, undoubtedly left by the combatants when the police took them away. Through the doorway, the keg sat in its plastic, garbage-can “icebox” in the kitchen.    The thing that bothered her most was the shattered glass that had been covering her artwork. The other girls were very enthused when Kate offered to decorate the living area with the pieces. Now, not only were they not hanging on the walls, they were mangled messes. Tears filled her eyes as she stared.    “I’m sorry about your art,” Joan said as she followed Kate‘s gaze, “I know how proud you were of them. Stupid Neanderthals.”    Kate silently walked over to each piece and gently picked them up, shaking them to ensure that no glass was still on them. First was the ripped painting of the patch of sunflowers that grew in a corner of the backyard at home. Then there was the one of her black and gray tabby cat stretched out on the floor soaking up an afternoon sunbeam. Now Patches was without part of his tail. Finally, there was her favorite; a beach scene from the trip to Hilton Head Island. Her dad had surprised the family after secretly saving money for years. The happy little clouds were now wrinkled beyond repair. After she collected all of the ripped pieces, she took them to her room.    When she arrived downstairs, Joan was attempting to vacuum the old, worn carpeting. Kate began to shift furniture around to make it easier for her to cover the entire floor. As she did, she began to replay the events of the night.    Things had actually gone fine at first, despite the surprise of the keg arriving. Joan, Kate, and the four boys were playing some games and listening to some music. That was when Wendy came home.    “Hey, Wendy, I thought you were going out with Spike tonight?” Kate had asked.    “So did I,” she replied, “but when I got there he had two of his buddies over and they were already drinking. I didn’t feel comfortable there so I came home. Mind if I join you?”    So the party had grown to seven people and things were still fine for the next couple of hours. Then Spike and his buddies arrived. When Joan let them in, Spike was immediately angry that Wendy was enjoying herself with other boys around.    “Wendy, I want you to come with us right now!” he yelled.    “I’m not going anywhere with you tonight,” she replied, “You’re drunk and I don’t want to be around you and your buddies.”    “Wendy, I’m not kidding. Let’s go, now!”    “She said she’s not going with you,” Tom interjected, “You having trouble hearing?”    That was when the fireworks started. Spike raced over and knocked Tom out with one punch to the jaw. Tom’s friends all jumped up and attacked Spike, which led to the other two guys joining in. There were three separate battles going on when the police responded to Kate’s call for help.    “Hey, can you help me with the couch?” Joan asked, disrupting the mental video.    “Yeah, sure,” Kate answered, walking over to the sofa which had lost its two back legs when Jerry had bulldozed Spike over the coffee table and onto its cushions. She noticed some red spots on the yellow fabric that covered the back of it.    “Do you think we can fix this?” Joan asked.    “Maybe, with some of that monkey glue,” Kate replied.    “Does that stuff work on wood?”    “The commercials make it sound like it works on anything,” Kate said, then sadly added, “Except mangled artwork.”    “Why is it that on television everyone has a great time together when they drink? We got a demolished room, guys at the hospital, and I’ve got a headache.”    “Beer companies want you to think that everything will be great. The reality is that people can act like idiots when they drink. Now I know why my parents lectured me about drinking when I first left for college. I hope Spike gets to spend the night in jail for what he did to Tom and for mouthing off to the officers.”    “I don’t like that guy…never did. I’m a little scared for Wendy.”    “I’m worried too. Maybe this will make her see how dangerous he can be. I still can’t get over how much beer she chugged after they took him away in handcuffs. I think we need to make it clear to her that he is not welcome in this house anymore.”    Joan thought for a moment before responding. “How can we do that? We’re all on the lease. I don’t think we can force that on her.”    “Easy! We’ll just tell her it’s that or we go to the landlord and tell him who was responsible for the police being here.”    “That might work. I think we’ve done enough for tonight. I need some sleep.”    “I’ll be right behind you, Joanie. I sure am glad that we don’t have classes tomorrow.”    As Kate wearily made her way into the bedroom, her eyes locked onto the destroyed artwork on her desk. Tears came again as she pondered the choice of trying to minimize the damage and keep them versus throwing away part of her life. She decided to sleep on the decision.


EMANATION You never knew that she had an infirmity until she struggled through the garden door. The limp only became distinct as she dragged her left foot slightly. The clumsy movement scraped her trainer and the bottom of her jeans on the floor. The constant pressure meant that the jeans were roughed up and frayed at this spot and the trainer clearly showed signs of being worn away.

Once I’d noticed the limp I could then see that the whole of her left side sat awkwardly on her body as if it hadn’t been sculpted out fully by her maker, but she clearly carried herself positively so this gawkiness was hardly discernible. And what a positive force of nature she embodied. From the minute she appeared you knew she was there. You could feel her emanating something powerful, forceful, a vibrating energy field. She was hypnotic. “So what do you want to know?” she said plunking down on the damp garden bench by the now emptied swimming pool.

The garden was strewn with crunchy, shrivelling autumn leaves, a motley yellow, brown, green flecked carpet. Her large, round face was framed like a shaggy lion with a thick, curly, dark brown mane. Her sharp blue eyes pierced. I had been finally invited to do the article because I had known her mother through work on the local paper and I helped her parents when they were left struggling with an unruly press pack in their road. I hadn’t really wanted to do the story. I’d initially walked away as I feared I wouldn’t do it justice. That I wouldn’t be able to capture the beauty and remarkable gifts this 17-year-old girl offered to the world. I’d been ordered back by my news editor and told to tell it straight. What did that mean: tell it straight. As if she could read my mind she quickly made it clear: “I don’t want something mawkish – you know – a poor me piece. No playing on my disability or being sentimental. Tell the truth. See me properly and tell it as it is. No embellishment. Take me as you find me.” I found her directiveness mesmerising. Actually, I would have been scared to do anything other than as she requested. It wasn’t an order but in its forcefulness I could only obey. I found I didn’t want to dramatize or overwrite. All I wanted was to strip my words back to their power. Allow her to stand in her truth, as she asked. And what was that truth? “I suppose I want to know what happened? How did all this start?” I replied. “I just woke up and I could see colours everywhere. Not just the usual colours that things have but layers upon layers of colours. Colour had been split into spectrums all around me. Light came out of everything. It spilt everywhere. As I put my foot down everything burst into light and colour with each step. I thought I’d entered a cartoon-land it was so bright and zappy. “I’ve never done drugs but I thought perhaps this is what it would be like. Now I’m saying this, I’m surprised I wasn’t freaked out but somehow it all felt normal to wake up and find that the world around me had gone psychedelic. “I felt that I was being held by some enormous being who’d stripped my eyes and opened them up to a new way of seeing – an alternative parallel universe. I should have been scared but in fact I felt comforted and supported.

“It was only when I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen that I realised something was wrong. My mum started shrieking and dropped the milk carton on the floor. Of course, usually I wouldn’t be coming down the stairs by myself. I’d need my mum or one of my carers to get me down and plump me into my wheelchair. So, as you can see, me lumbering around would have been a bit of a shock for everyone.”

Lazarus Girl and Miracle Maid were already names she had been called for her remarkable transformation. Her mum had told me that Miriam had been born with Cerebral Palsy and had never walked properly. CP is like a stroke at birth or in the womb when the infant is deprived of blood or oxygen, or both. Miriam’s mother never knew what had happened but was told that the birth had been uncomplicated. Medics believed that Miriam had suffered an event while in utero. Miriam’s mother couldn’t remember any shock or distress, except that the family cat had died when she was about eight months pregnant. “As I bent over to help mum clear up the milk I was struck by her crying and the tears dripping into the milk which was running across the kitchen tiles. I remember thinking ‘why is mum crying?’ I still hadn’t made a proper connection with the weirdness of me walking around.” “And now?” I asked. “Of course, I get that this must seem like a miracle. In my head life felt normal. Instead of wheels I was using my legs.  Wheels, legs, I was mobile so I hadn’t made the distinction before. Even when I was walking in my colour dream I was me. I was just getting on with life, getting around as I wanted.

“And yes, legs are easier, before you ask. And am I doing anything different? No. I suppose it’s nice to be able to come up and downstairs but it’s not like I’ve taken up running marathons,” she laughed. “I like to be able to help out more. Mum has even got cross with me for not emptying the dishwasher. That would never have happened before. I think I like her getting cross with me now. It means she’s beginning to forget that once I couldn’t do those things. She now treats me like the others, like my sister and brother.” “How do they feel about it?” “Probably glad they don’t have to hump me around and put up with me being the special needy one anymore.” I think that the world will always see her as special but decide not to say anything. Instead I wondered if she still saw the colours. “Not quite in the same way. When the Being is here, then I do.” And there it was. “What can you say about the Being? If you’d like to discuss it of course.” “Only if you tell it straight.”

I agreed. In the end isn’t this what everyone wanted to know about - the Being? “I know some people want to call it an alien being. I think they’re scared of any notions of something more divine. Mum and I call it my archangel. It seems to like that. I’m not sure if it’s a he or she. To be honest I think it’s non-binary, though sometimes it feels very flowy and feminine and other times very strong and energetic and masculine. Most times it’s just there, glowing all these colours, dynamic and mega powerful.” I thought that was a good description for Miriam. She emanated. “When I go back to the start, I recall that it was speaking in my head and telling me to get up. Now I hear it all the time. If I want to know something I just ask and I’m told.

Of course, before you inquire, I’ve asked what it is. It just smiles. I’m happy with that. Does it really matter in the end?” I say that many people want to claim her and her Being for their own cause whether it be religious, or science or psychological. She laughs, “Church groups of all denominations have called or turned up on the doorstep. Some of them are very annoying with the talk of Christ and angels or possession. We’ve had the ufologists and crop-circler types - they’re fun but the NASA and shadowy government figures are boring and just want to take me away for experiments. Mum’s got really good at dealing with them now. “Whereas the psychiatrist and psychologist bunch want to explore my higher being energies. The Being laughs at this and shows me how to get rid of them, politely of course. We’ve got techniques for not answering the questions.” She looked fierce. I was glad she was answering mine. I wondered if the Being’s powers were fearsome. “I know it doesn’t want to harm me. I know it’s here for good. Like now, it’s saying what do you really want to know?” “What? It’s talking to me?” “Yes. It says you’d really like to understand the power of this world, this universe. What stands beyond time and space.” I admitted I did. I wanted to know how this girl had already performed miracles. A deaf boy could now hear. Another child could walk. As news of her work filtered out I could understand why Christian groups were muttering about the Second Coming and that many wanted to bow at her feet and call her a Messiah.

Now she was revealing that her gifts came from channelling this entity. “Come,” she said, standing up and walking over to the family’s empty swimming pool. Below, in the shallow end, a puddle of rainwater held soddened Autumn leaves and twigs. “The force of life is like this pool of water. All we have to do is use its energy to gather in all that we need. Water has its own power. It’s the mover, the gatherer, the transformer.” As she opened her arms and moved her hands the water flowed with her actions. She opened out her left arm and made a gathering gesture with her hand. At the same time the puddle below moved and all the leaves and twigs were washed into a neat pile in a corner.

I stood in awe. I felt I was witnessing magic but I knew it was more than that. This was some stranger, deeper truth, a different kind of beauty. I found myself saying: “Wouldn’t this be amazing if we used water more constructively?” Miriam smiled, probably like her Being. “I’m glad you understand.”

At that point I wasn’t sure who was talking; in fact, I no longer cared. Instead, we stood in silence together in the custard Autumn sun and admired the gathered-in leaves.


Gisella di Vallepietra sat, as gracefully as she could, on the embroidered padding of the stool before her instrument. She brushed off her silky skirts, and threw (yet another) anxious glance around the two dozen guests now ambling to their seats in her father’s gilded sitting room. Signore di Vallepietra rarely threw such ornate dinner parties – he could barely afford their ornate Venetian villa as it was – but Gisella had spent months begging her father to host a fine affair which might showcase her hard-won musical gifts. He had finally agreed, with a few eyerolls, to plan an evening dinner in celebration of Ognissanti , All Saints Day. The di Vallepietra extended family and friends were thus graciously invited to an evening featuring the family’s very own Signorina Gisella. So Gisella sat, perched like an eagle, before her shining harpsichord as the candlelight shimmered off of the fine ivory keys. It had only taken her an instant to choose her weapon for the evening since Gisella already knew what her favorite instrument was. After all, Gisella had attended her concertos, admired her mastery of the harpsichord many times before. In truth, it was because of her that Gisella had demanded that her parents purchase a harpsichord for the new villa – an expensive investment indeed – and for her sake that Gisella had abandoned the dulcet tones of her harp for the bright, plucky notes of her newest acquisition. Gisella’s palms began to sweat as she scanned the sitting room once more. Her family’s butler began to glare at her nearby as he impatiently waited for the signal to begin the evening’s program. Gisella’s mind raced: where was she ? She had said she would attend, weeks ago! Gisella pondered, frantically, if perhaps a more important family had invited her to their own party this evening. Perhaps – after weeks of hoping – the carefully laid plan was all for naught? But a shuffling in the very back of the sitting room caught Gisella’s eye. She gasped sharply; there she was, at last and of course, fashionably late. The voluptuous Lady Carlotta strode in, glittering in a gold and cream gown with a bejeweled hand tucked in that of her brother, the Count di Carbognano. The Count was Lady Carlotta’s usual escort; her own husband was long dead (although rumor said Lady Carlotta herself had poisoned him). Some of the Gisella’s maids had even whispered that Her Ladyship was secretly married to a commoner – not that Her Ladyship ever limited herself. Gisella had listened carefully when the stablehands muttered that Lady Carlotta had lovers of all sorts, of all classes, of all persuasions. Most fascinating of all, to Gisella and her pounding heart, was the rumor that Her Ladyship enjoyed “unnatural” affairs. There was talk of a beautiful woman in Rome, a talented painter with her own workshop, who Lady Carlotta had known for years. But Gisella didn’t care; Lady Carlotta had been in Venice for months, after all. Some commoner artist in Rome was surely far from her mind (and her heart) by now. It was for her , Lady Carlotta, that Gisella had composed tonight’s sonata. All she had to do now was play it. Gisella motioned to the butler with a sharp nod, and his booming voice silenced the crowd on cue. Gisella timed her opening notes with a few soft taps of her right shoe on the white marble floor. With another quick breath, she began to play. Gisella had titled her composition Achilles and Patroclus : the great lovers of The Iliad . She carefully allowed the deeper notes of the piece to ring clearly as the sonata transitioned from playful, to serious, to somber. Gisella told herself that she was playing only for her as her fingers flew over the keys. These thoughts, less chaste with every pluck of the strings, sent a bead of sweat trailing down Gisella’s forehead. Every few moments, she stole a glance at the onlookers: her indulgent parents in the front row, her aunts and cousins warmly smiling behind them. But try as she might, she could not catch Lady Carlotta’s face in the melee of waving fans. The remaining notes seemed to pass in seconds, and Gisella soon found herself rising unsteadily on numb legs before offering a curtsey to the smattering of applause. But Gisella jerked her head up just in time to finally glimpse the object of her affections, grinning at her brother, her dark eyes sparkling as she joined in the polite clapping. *** Gisella had left nothing to chance that evening, and had surreptitiously stolen the seating chart for dinner only hours before the performance. Tonight, she and Her Ladyship would not be separated. Signore di Vallepietra threw his daughter a raised eyebrow as Gisella glided to an open seat in the middle of the long table. Gisella smoothed out her skirts before casting her gaze demurely over the wall-size pastoral paintings which provided the dining hall’s main décor. The minutes ticked by, like the pangs of purgatory, as Gisella waited in perfect silence. A ripple of familiar laughter jolted Gisella to attention. Lady Carlotta swept into the open seat to Gisella’s left as a footman gently pushed her chair closer to the table before them. Gisella flashed her new companion a broad, inviting smile; Lady Carlotta parried with a brief nod before offering the same to the young lord to her left. Gisella’s grin twitched slightly at this mediocre response, but it faded entirely as Lady Carlotta chattered away with the lord beside her throughout the primi course of tomato soup. Gisella’s desperation deepened with each fresh dish placed before her as she failed, repeatedly, to draw Lady Carlotta’s burning eyes onto her own. Lady Carlotta, on the other hand, seemed to have a fabulous time as the witty conversation from the raucous guests around her sent her jet-black curls flying with each gasp of laughter. An hour passed; Gisella’s fingers grew numb as she gripped her fork. Gisella took her courage in her hands once formaggi e fruta was served. She grasped at a brief dimming of the conversation to loudly clear her throat. “Signora,” Gisella began, turning her entire body to face Lady Carlotta. For once, the deep brown eyes turned fully onto Gisella, taking her in with a sweeping glance. Gisella swallowed back the thrill of finally winning her full attention, and forced herself to focus on the delicate task at hand. Around them, several pairs of eyes now bored into Gisella’s honey-blonde head. “I understand that Your Ladyship is an accomplished player of the harpsichord,” Gisella continued, carefully measuring the flattery in her effusive tone. “I wondered if Your Ladyship enjoyed my sonata earlier this evening?” Gisella clenched her hands in her lap, but kept her gracious smile pinned to her fair cheeks as she waited, expectantly, for a response. Lady Carlotta’s eyes glanced upward for a moment, as if to gather her thoughts. Gisella waited as her fingers began to wring her skirts. The seconds stretched interminably; Gisella willed her breathing to slow down, her heels to stay silent on the marble beneath them. “The composition was quite intriguing,” Lady Carlotta finally answered. Gisella drew a sharp intake of breath. “But the tone of the piece was not suited to the harpsichord,” Lady Carlotta quickly added. “I suspect the music would fare better on an instrument with a wider and deeper pitch range.” Fare better . The words ricocheted through Gisella’s frantically churning mind. “As to your performance,” Lady Carlotta continued, “while the opening stanzas were rendered capably, the middle section of the piece was too rushed for the notes to ring properly. A common problem, I can assure you, for amateur players like yourself.” Gisella’s throat closed as her mind fixated on that brutal word: amateur . But her eyes darted sideways as Lady Carlotta gently patted her shoulder. “Undoubtedly, my darling, you have a great deal of potential,” Lady Carlotta concluded warmly. “I am certain that you can achieve proficiency on the instrument with a few more years of hard work.” Gisella’s smile remained etched into her features. She nodded lightly, even as her clenched hands trembled in her lap. The warmth in her belly, the delightful tension in her hips evaporated as Lady Carlotta turned her head back to the far more interesting guests around her. Soon enough, the merry conversation resumed, and all eyes abandoned the little wilted rose of a teenager. Gisella held back her imminent tears long enough for a small bowl of pistachio gelato to appear in her field of vision. Mercifully, her father took this moment to offer a toast to the holy holiday. Gisella quietly excused herself, and dashed from her seat just as the guests’ heads rotated to the front of the table. Nobody noticed her disappearance; nobody cared, either. A few running strides took Gisella from the dining hall back to the doorway of the vast sitting room. Gisella stormed past a handful of (mildly concerned) maids carting out used wine glasses before slamming the heavy door shut behind her. She quickly took in the fading candlelight illuminating the gilt moldings, the shiny wooden paneling along the walls, the strewn-about chairs where her family’s guests had gathered to enjoy her performance only a few hours before. At last, Gisella’s wandering eyes reached her own harpsichord, and the little embroidered stool. The very sight of the instrument, keys still glistening, stung Gisella like a curse. Gisella picked up her heavy shirts as she rushed the makeshift stage. Fuming, she flung the pointed end of her high-heeled shoe into the padded stool and sent it flying. The little stool crashed violently against the wood-paneled wall behind it, and tumbled unceremoniously onto the rug below. One of the curved cherry-wood legs now bent precariously sideways. Gisella’s assault wasn’t finished; she next gripped her fingers around the open edges of the harpsichord lid, barely missing the delicate keywell, and shoved the massive instrument with all her might. This time, however, the object of her rage only moved a few paces - but left a deep scratch on the stonework beneath. Gisella ignored the fresh damage, and gasped for air as she pressed her palms around the lid edge once more. Gisella’s rage soon melted into despair. Slowly, deliberately, she closed her eyes. The tears now trailed down her cheeks in earnest as she recalled the hours sitting on that little stool, shoulders aching, as she pored over her own scratchy handwriting. How many nights had she spent imagining her composition, perusing old concertos, desperately crafting a piece that would surely amaze her ? Gisella grew nauseous as she counted the cost, and then counted the reward: amateur . That was all she was, really: an amateur. Lady Carlotta was simply honest enough to say it to her face. “I’ll never play again,” she hissed to the empty air all around her, the statues in the corners, the painted cherubs gracing the ceiling. “Never. I hate it!” She finally uttered the most bitter words of all: “ She’ll never care .” The cracking of the prop stick, which held the harpsichord’s upper lid aloft, did not rouse Gisella from her heartbreak. She never heard the swish, either, as the heavy lid slammed onto her unsuspecting fingers. But she screamed like a harpy as the sharp, burning sensation sent her staggering backwards. Gisella’s vision blurred with the pain as her fingers seemed to grow hotter with every passing second. Gisella tried desperately to regain her composure, but the effort only produced fresh cries and a new round of tears. Several minutes passed as Gisella crouched pitifully on the floor, peering through a haze of tears. At last, she held her bruised, aching hands just inches from her eyes to assess the damage. Every finger was purpling, the knuckles bloated and stiff such that she could barely move them. “Oh, my God,” Gisella whimpered in horror. Slowly, the flush of pain dulled as Gisella’s common sense returned, belatedly, to her. She gazed around, taking in the destroyed stool, the ruined floor, the damage to an instrument her parents could barely afford as it was. The full horror of her tragic mistakes washed over her as she drew her knees up beneath her silky skirts. Gisella realized that, like her tragic heroes of myth, she had fulfilled her own prophecy: she would never play again.


The showrunner nearly tripped on some cables as he ran to meet the contestants. “Good of you to come in so early. I hope that the car got there in time and that you had…” Michael could tell that they were not listening, no matter how excited they were to be here. “It’s Never Too Late!” had been the top reality-television show on the network for the last five years, but it seemed as if the contestants were just getting worse and worse as the ratings got better and better. The woman – a “Rachel” in this particular season – was trying very hard not to use her cell phone as her hand dangled over the padded swivel chair. The man – “Donald,” conveniently, his real name (legal issues notwithstanding) – was looking at his watch and grinning at him. “We had the talk in the limo. You second came over and had a chat with us.” Already, this Monday morning was turning out to be a real pain in the brain for him. Micheal enjoyed watching the contestants going through the motions – they knew who the final couple would be, but were legally blocked from revealing this or any other details of the show (NDAs are wonderful things, he thought). He even liked some of the contestants over the years – their “Mitchum” and “Suzanne” were a good match – and he could imagine many good things happening with this show. It made people happy and they had their People’s Choice Awards to prove it (record number for reality TV). But there was always something to trip him up; something that would make his day that much annoying. “My second? No one told me…” “It was a woman who was in the nice car when it picked us up.” She finally spoke up and shared this info while texting (did she know that this would be the last time she could do that for several weeks; very smart). “Okay, look, I don’t know who that was supposed to be, but we just have to get you on set for…” “Said her name was Laura and that she knew you.” He kept the grin going, now with some sort of gum or cud stuck between his teeth. It was going to be an ugly day. Laura… Laura, Laura, Laura… She was back. It had been a very difficult time in both of their lives – her divorce; his uncommitted girlfriend – but she was now back. The idea of this being a prank was becoming much more believable. “Okay…I…” “I think that we have everything we need right. She said that you would take us to the main set when we were ready.” The woman dropped her phone into a clutch purse Michael had not noticed before and she finally looked at him with a soft smile. “I think we’re ready.” The two of them stood up at once and he barely recalled what he wanted to say next as he walked them both to the set. He thought about what Laura must have said to them. And then he tripped over the cable. * Laura… She was here, actually in the building again. All those plans that he allowed to rise up and stay unformed in his thoughts were coming back to him. She had also been a showrunner when he started here. Her job was to make sure that he knew that he had a job (basic assistant and gopher for various people who went on to bigger roles or vanished once the season ended). She had lit up the place like no one else could… “You heard who’s back?” Guy wasn’t supposed to be here for another hour, thought Michael. What the hell was this waste of skin doing on set? Everything the man said sounded like it was a challenge to him and his responsibility on the show. Michael felt some comfort that he was not the only one who hated the most popular member of the cast (damn Neilsen ratings and surveys never lied). “Hi, Guy.” “Hi, yourself. Did you hear what I said? Laura is back on staff now. She was brought in to save all of our skins, I guess.” “Yeah, I heard. But why are you here so early?” “Are you kidding? I got called in. That’s how I found out about the return of my beloved, my dear. Our beloved Laura.” Guy, with that perfect smile, suit that cost what Michael had paid for his first car when he moved to Hollywood, and hair already set and perfected, was the one person who could get away with calling him “Dear” or “Dude”. He had been with the show from very beginning when they were both looking for PA work and a casting director decided to give them both screen tests. Several awards later and many late-night meetings that Michael was not privy to, Guy had a certain amount of power that other showrunners might have respected. They just might have… “Anyway, is there anything you need before…” “Nah, dude. She gave me all her notes. All she recommended was that you stay in the main office and see if she can have a chat with you.” Now Michael felt like breaking his jaw. “She wants to see me?” “Yeah.” Guy sucked his teeth, looked out at the set, and smiled until the glare hurt Michael’s eyes. “Better get up there, my dear.” He walked off, leaving Michael wondering about fate and the problem of hard work versus results. * No one in the office. No one in the main hallways. No one anywhere he would have chosen to be. Michael was aware that Guy played pranks on people, but he never did so when they were about to go to air. He would have to think about what to say to whomever was in charge when this was all over.

And he felt that it was over. All those years in the business; all those years on this show… There was not much to show for it except one relationship that ended badly for him, and his feelings for Laura. Nothing else. He decided to not stay on the set during the first take. His office was not too far from the exit. Michael stepped inside for a moment and looked for paper. A handwritten letter was probably the best way to resign. Would they even accept…? There was a letter on his desk. It was handwritten. Michael felt a pain behind his eyes that quickly turned into a twinge through his back. If they were going to fire him, that would be the way to do it. So, let’s get to it. Michael dropped to his desk and blinked. It was from Laura. * Dear Michael, Well, by now you have heard I am back. I decided to give this place one more chance and I found that they were willing to promote me this time. No longer showrunning this one. I am now one of the producers! Your boss, yes, but I don’t think that will change our feelings for each other. Yes, feelings do matter. I went through a terrible time with that divorce while you were being cheated on by my ex. Is that some sort of sign that we should have noted? Is that something that we can ever get over? Is it something that means we can have a second chance? Can we give this a try? I love you. I do love you. I know that with a change in our relationship, this is completely inappropriate, and you have probably moved on with your life. Please talk to me when this day is done. Laura * He did not hear much else beyond one of the other staff informing the audience that the show would be on in about ten minutes. He did not care about Guy, the fake “Rachel” and “Donald”, or his own feelings about the job (the resignation could wait). He sat with the letter and let the show go on. “…And, ladies and gentlemen, we are back!”


I jump out the window at full speed, eyes closed. Forget falling down a rabbit hole or going through a looking glass. I blink, suddenly feeling like I’m falling. I feel myself wake up in the same way one wakes from a dream where the floor vanishes beneath them and I find myself looking at myself in a mirror. I instinctively look down at the prosthetic breasts and the dress I’m wearing. Yeah…no. I’m getting pants.

“Miss!” I cringe, and resist the urge to say “no”. “Yes?” I ask as the maids continue to apply make-up and jewellery. The jewellery, for the most part, is fine. The make-up is not.

“Do behave today.” …what? What’s today? “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!” I look at the reflection of the person who’s talking to me through the mirror. She’s not quite the head maid, but she’s up there. What’s today? I’m fairly confident the ball— which I plan to skip— isn’t until— “The banquet!”

The…the what now? “The banquet! ” She said as if her saying it like that would clarify what she was talking about, “I swear your memory is non-existent nowadays!” To be fair, I am a different person. Literally. I’m pretty sure I’m either possessing or switching places with Emily. I have no idea what she knows.

The maid gives a very loud sigh and then explains that, apparently, there is a banquet and that I have to attend. In a dress . I politely signal to the maids that I won’t be wearing earrings. I’ll just go back and let Emily deal with this nonsense. The maids finish up and, after getting more information about the banquet, they leave. I quickly get up and look at the window. Yeah, no. I can barely move in dresses. Pants first, jump later. I try to find where Emily put my clothes and, while it takes a minute, I do end up finding them. I undo the skirt portion of the dress and quickly put on pants. I can’t help but nod in satisfaction. I open the window and take several steps back. It’s easier to run and jump out of the window than to climb out.

“What do you think you’re doing.” “Jumping out the window” and “this window is magical. Don’t worry, I won’t die. I’m just switching places” are sentences which people tend to…not react well to so, instead of saying either of those, I answer a different question: “I find dresses uncomfortable.” He— Emily’s stepfather— starts loudly ranting at me and calling me names. I mentally curse as I put the skirt back on, over my pants of course, and get forcefully dragged out to the carriage after he slams Emily’s door shut. The household servants all seem to have disappeared as I’m dragged through the hallways. I resist the urge to put him in his place, reminding him that he technically he has no power. Emily’s mother does. Emily does. Hell, technically speaking Emily’s younger siblings might have more power than him in this household. I resist though because this isn’t my life. It’s Emily’s.

I yank my arm out of his grasp and enter the carriage. Emily’s sister comments that I look pretty and I nod, give a gentle smile and thank her. Her demeanour changes as Richard— Dick, as he actually prefers to be called— enters the carriage. As the carriage takes us to the banquet, I’m reminded of how I used to live a few years ago. Even if it wasn’t…optimal…circumstances, I’m glad I got out. I ignore that forbidden thought which tries to pass through my mind. I stare out the carriage window, admiring the scene moving before my eyes. We weren’t in the city. We, from my understanding, were going to some private property that’s surrounded by…well, it’s basically surrounded by forest even though most of the forest is private property. There’s a seemingly never ending wall of trees, tangling one and overlapping one another. I think about that window that connects us. I wish I knew more about it. Did Emily create it? Regardless of who made it, why? Also, why in the seven hells is it a freaking window? Like why not a door? Or some other entryway? I rest my head on the glass and try to see the stars. I love looking at the stars. I wonder if the person who linked the windows misses the stars over there? Wait. What if they jumped between worlds? It still exists and there’s no magic over there so either they stayed there, died there or died over here before they could do anything else with it. Why that world though? Was it random chance?

As the carriage comes to a stop, everyone climbs out. We’re eventually escorted to a table where we all sit. I lean back and to see if the stars are visible in spite of the light. I smile as they are. I hear familiar footsteps as I turn to see a familiar face. His hair is a different colour, but it’s definitely him though. Without thinking, I stand up and walk towards him and start chatting. Ronald gives me a look and I raise an eyebrow as I cross my arms. “And who might you, who dares speak to me so casually, be?” “Come on— what? Do you seriously not recognise me just because I’m wearing a dress and my hair is down?” His look hardens. Dick quickly gets up, pushes me into a bow and starts apologising to Ronald while berating me. I brush him off and stand up straight, looking Ronald in the eye. I pull out and toss aside the prosthetic breasts and quickly style my hair so it looks like my usual hairstyle. I gesture to myself as Ronald’s face morphs into realisation and something that looks like panic. “ E-Emery!? ” “ Listen , I know I probably look different with a dress and my hair down, but I’m not Clark Kent, Ronald—” “How dare you refer to Prince Roland in such a manner!” Wait— What. I turn to…Ronald? Roland? He shifts awkwardly. I stare at him. Prince? Wait— Hold on— He grabs me by the hand and leads me away in a way where I can’t see his face. I frown, but let him lead me away in silence. We eventually enter a room. He lets go, stands still for a minute, seemingly in thought, before he starts pacing back and forth and running a hand through his hair. He suddenly stops and turns towards me. “You and Emily…you’re different people, right? And the window story…that’s real too, right?” “I’m surprised you believed me.” “Of course I do!” I nod and give him a smile. “…do you want a change of clothes?” “Hmm?” I furrow my brows. “Do you want a change of clothes? You seem uncomfortable in a dress.” “Oh,” I stand up and undo the skirt portion of the dress. The apparent-prince quickly goes to face a wall. I raise an eyebrow, “By the way, Ronald or Roland?” “W-What?” “Ronald or Roland? Which name do you want me to call you? Or does it not matter? Oh— you can turn around whenever now.” “…Roland.” “Cool,” I remove the jacket/sleeve portion of the dress as well and I watch him flinch at my bruised arms. “You technically have all the power,” Roland hands me a ribbon to do my hair. “What?”

“You technically are the head of the household.” I knew Emily had power, but…wow. That’s…wow. But… “I’m not Emily.” “You could be.” “That’s—” “Emily is dead.” “W…What?” “Emily was poisoned. When you…when we were sparring, that one time the sword flew out of your hand…I got concerned. Perhaps it’s the paranoia that comes with being in power, but…” “You looked into it.” He nods, “Yes. I went to talk to you about it once, but…I met Emily instead. I realised that dresses meant it was Emily and pants meant it was you.” I nod and we sit, “That’s why you were confused.” “Yeah… ” “I see a potential problem if I were to stay here.” “Ah, your life in—” “The window.” “Ah?” “The window. I don’t know how it works. I don’t know what happens if someone else tries to come through. I don’t know what happens to my body. I’ve been assuming I’ve been…well, I assumed my body was either in a coma or sleeping.” He blinks in a way that reminds me of a specific meme.

“Like sure, I’ll stay since it’s an empty vessel now but I want to one or two more things in my other life before moving. And, you know, making sure I don’t get screwed over by a magic window is also nice.” He nods, “Makes sense.” “…so…any ideas? Like I only discovered magic after coming here.” It looks like he was about to start talking, but then stopped himself, “Wait— how did— if—” “I was pushed out the window.” “ Wha— ” “Anyway—” “ Wait— ” “Would either smashing the glass or sealing the window or something work?” “Wha— Maybe?” I nod, “So, take control of the household, maybe tie up some loose ends of my previous life and mess up the window. Seems…yeah…” I groan and look at the ceiling.

“Well, at least one of those is rather simple.” “Eeh?” “You kind of just have to declare it— ideally at an event— and that’s basically it. If anyone has any issues, I, prince of the empire, will declare my support. After that, you can decide what to do with the household whenever.” “…it can’t be that easy— it’s never that easy.” “I mean…it is. You wouldn’t be aware of it, but there was this whole big thing— long story short: due to events before you came here, the household has always belonged to you — well, Emily— but it was simply…delegated. You can un-delegate at any time.” I blink, stupefied, and then stand up, “I guess I’ll do it now then?” Roland laughs as he stands. Before we go back to the event, Roland stops and runs off somewhere only to return with a sword. “Wanna join the competition?” “Of course, may the best man win,” I give Roland a grin as I take the sword. As we walk back to the banquet, we discuss a bet. As we walk towards the banquet, Roland grabs the megaphone from the announcer and gives me a mischievous smile.

“ Roland no— ” “ Roland yes~ ”

He takes a deep breath and then bluntly announces that I am now in charge of the household in what I’d argue was the most embarrassing manner possible. After Dick throws a tantrum and me telling him we will discuss this later, as I have no idea what to do with him at the moment, the rest of the banquet was rather uneventful. Unfortunately, the hunting contest was a tie and Roland and I immediately started planning a tiebreaker. Once we return to the mansion, I declare that Dick would no longer live here. I would loan money for his (new) lodgings and would give him an allowance of sorts— which would be paid back— for about a year (or until he found a job). Depending on his behaviour, he would either have a week or a month to find a place to stay that’s not here.

I also told Emily’s siblings and mother that they are free to do what they want— whether it be staying, going with him, going back and forth or something else entirely— and then left to figure out what needed to be done next. After a few days of me un-delegating the household and figuring out what to do now, Roland comes over with a mage and the three of us stare at the infamous window. I also tried finding info about the window. Unsurprisingly, I find nothing. “Tell me about the window.” I confidently face the mage, “I jump through it and end up in a different universe and in a different body. On the other side, there’s a window that I jump through and end up in this universe and in this body.” “…” “…” “…and?” “That’s it.” “…” The mage gives us a look and then stares at the ceiling, as if it would give them the answer, “…I’m guessing it’s the window itself rather than the glass.” “…does that mean I have to remove the wall or…?” “We might be able to just have the window re-done—” “Magical seal.” We both turn to the mage who has a blank expression. “I could apply a magic seal. It’s more cost-effective and less destructive.” I turn to Roland. We both shrug. Yeah, that works. I turn to the window and smile. Something of a second chance at life, eh? Something tells me it won’t be too bad this time around.


I cry so rarely that I sometimes suspect I lack proper lachrymal ducts. Because no matter how miserable I feel, how low my heart sinks, or how far I am knocked sideways, I barely shed a tear. I didn’t cry when my dad was killed in a car accident when I was eight. Or when Matt, my husband of ten years, decided to leave with Alice, his best friend’s wife. But now I realize there is nothing physically wrong with me, and I learned restraint from my grandmother, Anneliese, because crying is not for survivors like us. “Carrying emotions on the sleeve is for the weak, kiddo," she told me at Dad’s funeral. Anneliese is as tough as a walnut and as difficult to crack. And so am I. I’ve inherited her strength, or rather, she taught me how to hide my feelings, no matter how often life has rugby-tackled me and rubbed my nose in the mud. My mother complained that I resembled Anneliese more than she did. I was proud because, aside from my grandmother's personality, I have her height, blue-grey eyes, and blond hair, whereas my mother is a chubby brunette with prosaically brown, not honey-colored, pupils. And while mom is a softie, Annelise is unbreakable, regardless of the circumstances. My eyes barely water when my mother calls one June morning to say Anneliese has passed away. I somehow manage to squeeze out three paltry tears, which plop into the milk and cornflakes as I put the bowls on the counter for Jake and Tim. "What's wrong, mom?" Jake, the older of the two by five minutes, asks. "You are making the cereal salty," grumbles Tim. With the back of my hand, I quickly dry my cheeks.. Cornflakes with salt must be yucky. "Oma's gone," I reply.

"Gone where?" Unlike Tim, who is all emotions, Jake is pragmatic. His first reaction is always curiosity. "Back to where she came from. The old country," I say. I promised not to fill my sons’ heads with stories of heaven and hell, angels and devils, and God and his infinite mercy. If my children choose to believe in something—a divine presence, a superior being, or whatever name they want to call it—the moment will come. At five, they are simply not old enough. That’s another thing Anneliese and I have in common. Or should I say "had in common?" We both doubt God's existence. Anneliese would chuckle whenever the subject came up: "Doubt, but not completely deny it, God forbid." We will not attend the funeral. Mom said Anneliese would be buried the following day. The undertaker explained he could keep her refrigerated for a day or two, but the June storms raging over Miami were causing havoc with electricity, so he suggested a quick burial. Just in case. Anyway, I’d have to drive seventy miles to Salem with two small kids in an old Ford Fiesta with no air conditioning, then take a seven-hour Delta flight to Miami, where mom would have to pick me up while worrying that her dead mother was spoiling in a thawing freezer. Instead, we agreed that I would travel at the weekend when everything was over. In the meantime, I quietly mourn her here, in the comfort of my home, where my unruly twins hurl cornflakes at each other and engage in a disgusting burping competition. As always, Jake wins, leaving Tim in tears. Looooo-seeeer," Jake sings, walking off to the lounge to watch Sponge Bob on Nickelodeon, while Tim howls and begs him to switch to Disney. I think of Anneliese as I wade through heaps of washed socks, underwear, scruffy t-shirts, and shorts in the untidy kitchen, with the counter full of cornflakes, breadcrumbs, and spilled milk. I always think of her as Grandmother or Anneliese. On occasion, I use the German word oma . Never "grandma" or "granny." Perhaps because of her tough exterior: tall, painfully thin, her ash-blond hair pulled back into a severe bun. Even at eighty-five, she looked flawlessly put together and never wore pants, instead opting for straight black skirts, white blouses, and low-heeled pumps. No foolish aprons for Anneliese, even when she was cooking. She was the epitome of an Ice Maiden or a Valkyrie—a demi-goddess from Warnemünde on the Baltic coast, where she was born and never returned. Oma perpetuated the perfect image not only at home but also in the hospital, where she worked as a theater nurse. Mom, who was obviously biased, claimed that she was the best nurse in Florida. And, since she never lost her nerve, all the surgeons fought to have her assist them in complex craniotomies and thoracic aortic dissection repairs, whatever the last means. I had last seen her almost three months before she died from breast cancer, which had progressed to stage 4 and spread to her lungs. "Terminal," she said drily. "A few months to go, and then it’s curtains for me," she remarked, rolling the "r" in curtains, the sentence thick with the still discernible German accent, even after more than fifty years in Florida. I sat on the edge of her bed, holding her blue-veined hand.

"Have you brought me the underpants I asked for? Every time I go to the toilet, my bum is on display because of the open-backed hospital gown. I may be dying, but I want to go out in style. I don't want George, that handsome young nurse, to see how saggy and wrinkled my ass is!" she winked mischievously.

"What?!” She glared at the elderly patient in the bed beside her, who seemed to have overheard our conversation and was stunned. “I can still have some fun before I take the last walk towards the light," she threw at her neighbor, who turned her back to us despite finding it challenging to accommodate the drip. I burst out laughing. Just like Anneliese! "Yes, Oma. Three pairs, elasticated, white, no frills. They will hold up your ass, all right," I smiled and handed her the packet. Plastic rustled as she unwrapped the undies and spread them on the bed. "Jesus wept, Frances. These things are for a toothless granny ready for the grave, not for a tough cookie like me. There is still some fight left in me, for heaven's sake!" she scolded. “With these butt-huggers on, I’ll never make George fall for me," she giggled, holding up one pair like a celebratory flag and waving it at the neighbor trying to untangle the drip tube from the bed sheets. Nothing about Anneliese has ever struck me as particularly grandmotherly. When Dad died and Mom and I moved in with her, she promised to take turns dropping me off and picking me up from school, to help financially and do the occasional babysitting. But nothing else. She had a life and a job she liked, and she wasn't your typical German oma who cooked ginger lebkuchen for Christmas and knitted jumpers with reindeer. Yes, she was delighted to have us, but we all had to toughen up and assume our responsibilities.

"Frances is old enough to be on her own after school, and you, Tilly, must get a job," she said, and we obeyed. Because she never asked, she just told us what to do. I frequently wondered how a toughie like Anneliese could have given birth to a weakling like my mother. Tilly is her mother's polar opposite in every way, not just physically, with her plumpness and perpetual concern about calories and how they will settle around her waist. She cries at the drop of a hat, is terrified of thunder and darkness, and nothing makes her happier than preparing krapfen , or doughnuts in German, for Jake and Tim. And if she could knit, I'm sure my kids' closets would be stuffed with sweaters with snowflakes and reindeer. When I was a kid, there was little hugging and much of what Anneliese termed "toughening up. "There is no such thing as bad weather, Liebchen , only unsuitable clothing," she quoted a German saying. True to her word, rain or sunshine, she chucked me out to play in the garden, ride my bike, or skip the rope. "A healthy mind in a healthy body, Frances," she repeated another of her favorite aphorisms. "I failed with Tilly. She’s been a wimp her whole life, even as an adult," she added, "but I’m not going to make the same mistake with you. You, Frances, are a trooper. Like me!" I beamed at the praise. She was right, of course. She was anything but gentle. She wasn't the kind of grandmother who kissed bruised knees and egos better. I was seventeen when Dave Carlson dumped me before prom night. When I told her I would most likely die from a broken heart, she said, "Nonsense, hearts are muscles. They don’t break." She made me wash my face, put makeup on, and go to the prom as if nothing had happened. I felt our closeness the most when she took out her antique teak box containing her "mementos." "The only thing left from the old country," she explained. "Real handcraft made of proper materials, not like the plastic crap they now make in Taiwan. My mother bought it in Mandalay, Burma. It’s called Myanmar nowadays." She never passed up an opportunity to teach me something. "My grandfather was a tea merchant and used to take us there on vacation," she added. The word Mandalay conjured up images of oranges and white jasmine. Of vanilla and musk. I imagined a country full of tiny, fragile, dark-complexioned girls with almond eyes who smelled of bergamot and carried boxes like Anneliese’s in their delicate hands. Finely carved from ebony and with mother-of-pearl inlays, the box was the size of a typical case, perfect for holding a set of cutlery for six. Oma kept the key to it on a long silver chain passed down from her own Oma. When she opened it, it felt like venturing into an exotic and faraway land, similar to Narnia. Apart from some old papers tied with a red ribbon, which she told me were her birth certificate and nursing diploma, the box contained just a few things, but they were so wonderful for a child! A pair of girandole earrings (she said it was pronounced "jeer-an-dou-lee") with three green stones suspended at the bottom, with the centerpiece slightly lower than the other two. Oma explained they were emeralds set in gold and let me hold them to my earlobes. But I couldn’t wear them because my ears were not pierced.

There was also an exquisite Karl Moritz Grossmann nurse’s fob watch, which clips onto the pocket of uniforms or scrubs with the dial turned upside down, allowing the wearer to tell the time. It no longer worked, but Anneliese kept it as a keepsake from a doctor she admired when she was young. "He was smart and dedicated to his work. Nowadays, doctors work just for money, but he..." Her voice trailed into silence. "He worked for the sake of medicine. Of science!" My favorite was a sepia photo with serrated edges, taken in Steinhöring in 1938, a year before the Second World War started. It was where she had done her apprenticeship alongside ten other sixteen-year-olds from the nursing school in Berlin. The girls posed in front of a gray, three-story structure with large windows. "A maternity and recovery ward for young German mothers," Anneliese explained. The nurses wore black uniforms with white smocks and black caps to keep their hair in place at the back of their heads. They formed a row, with Anneliese, the slimmest and tallest of the ten, in the center. “It was wonderful to be young and pretty," she smiled at me wistfully. "Those were exciting times, Liebchen. Meaningful times."

When I finally make it to Miami, the storms are still wreaking havoc on the power grid. Jake and Tim are grumpy after the long flight, refusing to go to bed because they napped on the plane. "Don't worry," Tilly says as they settle in her kitchen with a chocolate ice cream each, their hair still damp from the shower. "I’ll keep them busy. You go up to her room. I thought you’d like to have her teak box. She asked for it in the hospital, but she was unconscious when I finally took it with me. I’m sure she’d love you to have it." I tell the boys to behave, warning them that I will keep my ears open in case they fight. And no burping competitions today, I instruct. Before I reach the landing, I hear one long, disgusting belch and peals of laughter from the kids and their grandmother. The box is on Anneliese’s dressing table; the key is in the lock, the chain swinging like a silver serpent. As I lift the lid, I am overcome with the same sensation I had as a child: I am entering an exotic and slightly prohibited realm. I take the box to the bed and start taking things out one at a time. Age has tattered the edges of the folded yellow paper. The fob watch is silent, without a heart-like tick-tock. The earrings disappoint me today; the gold is covered with a patina of time, and the emeralds don’t sparkle. Their essence has vanished, along with the soul of the person who wore them. I tip the box over, and the rest of the contents spill onto the black and blue cotton coverlet. There is the sepia photo of Annelise and her nursing colleagues. In fact, there are two other photos I didn't see before, both printed on stiff paper in hues ranging from soft caramels to deep, rich browns. One portrays a tall, stylish man smiling a gap-toothed smile at the camera. He is hauntingly charismatic, proud of his well-tailored uniform—embodying authority and instilling a bit of fear. Two lightning bolts shine on the collar patches. He has a peaked cap, with a spread-winged eagle casually tilted on his head. The other image shows the same man and Annelise standing next to each other. He's wearing a white doctor's coat. She is dressed in the same nurse's uniform she wore as an apprentice in Steinhöring. He reminds me of Nibelung from Wagner’s opera. She, as always, is an elfin Valkyrie. Both impossibly beautiful. Both incredibly Arian. I can tell the photo was not taken in the maternity ward since Anneliese is older and has more careworn features. I turn the picture over. The date written at the bottom says January 1, 1945. Below, in smaller letters, Auschwitz-Lager Zwillinge Programm, which I know means the Auschwitz Camp Twins Program. I recall the man's name, or rather, what people called him after the war, from a documentary I saw a few years ago: Todesengel—the Angel of Death. A medical doctor, he used his position in the concentration camp as an opportunity to continue his research into heredity, particularly in identical twins. Another frame from the documentary comes to mind. Two little girls in striped pajamas, scarves covering their heads. They expose their thin arms with 6-digit tattooed numbers.

The man and Annelise smile, smug in their belief that, as my grandmother once said, they were working for the sake of science, not for money. I feel my stomach do a virtual somersault, making it difficult to hold down my dinner. I want to escape, but there is nowhere to run to. I cannot go downstairs, where Mom is sitting with my boys. My darling twins, or meine lieblinge zwillinge , as Annelise used to call them. But I don’t want to stay here either, in the room of the woman I thought I knew. Whom I know I love. I cannot stay a moment longer in the presence of the box that holds Anneliese’s secret. Like Pandora, who opened a jar containing sickness, death, and fear, I have opened a box full of unspecified evil. And, as in Pandora's case, it’s no longer watertight. The truth is out, however ugly it may be.

I finally gather crumbs of courage, stuff the papers, the photos, and the rest of Anneliese’s "mementos" back into the box, and lock it with the key, which I put in my pocket together with the chain. As I walk down, my steps are heavy, and my shoulders slump under the weight of a secret I'll never reveal. The kitchen is full of laughter. Tilly is chasing the boys, and whenever she catches one of them, she tickles him till he bursts into laughter. They look happy. Innocent in their ignorance. When she looks up at me, my mother's gaze penetrates the fabric of my soul. "Is everything all right, darling?" she inquires, her dark, round face filled with concern. I remain silent, rush towards her, put my arms around her, and sob, drenching her chest with tears.


From the very first moment I opened my eyes to this unknown world around me, I was in here, in this box-shaped glass. A vast room with weird-looking glass walls. The thick layer of glass is sapphire blue, with nothing to be seen outside it. With no doors or windows. I’ve always wondered, from where I’m getting this delicious food. And where are these people who deliver this food coming from? Three meals per day, but no more than that is allowed to me. I was young and oblivious to what's around me.

Accepting anything they gave me, not knowing what’s better anyway. But, the sole thing I had in me was curiosity. Like any other child my age, I desperately wanted to know more, to explore whatever I had in my both little hands. But, the only thing I explored was the varied types of vegetables, fruits, and sweets I got as a meal. My favorite one was chocolate sweets, I loved those so much; I used to cry for them, the days that they send me other tastes. They didn't care tho. With age, I wondered about other stuff like why I'm in here alone and the others are outside; I see them coming with food and nothing more. Every day, Nothing changes they burned the same routines into my memory. Initially, I couldn't comprehend what they say when they communicate with each other.

No one taught me how to speak. No one taught me how to think properly, I was just going with instinct. With time I taught myself some words, the one connected to the food I like. A few years later, I started thinking of a way to escape past that barrier just to see what's on the other side, and nothing more.

But they won't allow me near any of the walls putting me to sleep whenever I get close to one of them. I tried running past them when they come with food, but they always leave behind one of them to keep me from doing that. Not even getting close to the lights of the other side. They enter and leave the same way, through the far end of the wall, but when they leave, the wall returns to its original frozen state. And with that thinking, I've always ended up with the same dead-end, so I started changing my perspective. I started carefully looking at these people’s faces trying to learn about them; I tried to imitate the way they interact, thinking that can help me properly understand them. And to my surprise, a few days after I started my novel way of thinking.

I instantly started seeing splendid stuff while asleep. Random stuff about the people I tried to focus on understanding during the day. I started seeing stuff about the girl I was looking at during the day. I chose her because she was remarkably the closest and nicest one to me, at least from my prescriptive. During one night, I slept naturally at my usual bed timing. And the moment I put my head on my pillow, I started seeing this weird stuff and feeling as if I'm no longer in my body. It felt obnoxiously weird at first, but the same strange power that got over me instantly giving me this dream forced me to get used to it. I was looking through the girl's eyes at the most elegant thing I've ever seen in my life so far. She was looking wonderingly at the clear night sky; I recognized what was she looking at even tho I've never seen it before. At that moment I undoubtedly recognized who I was, and where I'm right now, it wasn't my actual identity, but in that realm it was. I was merely watching. Not able to perform any action of my conscious will. I indeed kept looking at unusual objects for the first time and I kept on learning about them just by looking fondly at them. I went through the next few weeks learning about the world outside this chamber through that innocent girl. She was approaching her days performing her routine activities not knowing that I was observing her actions during the night. I thought I was re-experiencing the events she went through during the day.

Until one night, I noted an odd thing. During the dream I embodied. The girl fell and injured her arm and got replaced with another girl. That frightened me. But later on, when they brought breakfast, she was the one who delivered it to my hand, and she was fine with no visible bruises or injuries. I freaked out for that; I was witnessing events that didn't happen. That got me shocked for a while, and I didn't know what can I do or achieve with that. It's not like I had a way to use the dreams deliberately. The next day, the girl got replaced; it was then that I knew for sure that what I saw a future event. It stunned me at first and got me spending the entire day thinking about it.

Now that the girl is gone I'm back to my normal dull routines. I tried the same approach I took the first time with the other girls that served my meals, but with no results.

Months went by. And one day, the girl returned. I was so happy to see her that and for the first time; I displayed a different facial expression, for the first time I gave genuine positive emotion. When I had done that, the one next to her instantly noticed and told the armed guards. They came in with beautiful glowing chains, used to bind me down. I tried resisting but with no use; I was so scared weeping for my dumb reactions, not like I could've changed them willingly. I screamed at the top of my lungs, just to burst up from my bed frightened. It took me a while to calm down knowing that it was just a dream and that my actions today will get me in trouble. After a long time, it felt strange to get back to that ability. But this time it took me off-guard, it came to me with no outside help. The thing I understood about this dream ability is that it is just a defensive ability that was activated through that girl, but the connection developed with her blew my mind. And, that was the first time I witnessed the complete use of this ability.

By the time that girl entered with the food, I was already calm and waiting impatiently to see her after all this time; after all, she is the only one who can aid me accomplish my goals even if it's not by her own will. From that night I continued searching for specific answers using that girl, and after a couple of days, I got valuable info about what I was eagerly seeking. Using some old books she had with her, I can finally get to unravel the truth behind my lifelong imprisonment.


“That’s the thing about this city.”

Two Years Earlier Andrew Maye smiled as he stared out of the bus window at every attraction that the city of Fantasy had to offer. The children, treated like adults. The trees, completely naked even though it was Spring. Andrew didn’t see a single frown the whole way to his hotel. Andrew stopped and exhaled calmly in front of his room door when he arrived. A maid helped him unload his bags as she opened the door for him. “This place is amazing,” Andrew said. “How can y’all live here? This is such a vacation spot.” “All tourists say the same thing. Then they end up coming back to live here.”  “I don’t blame them.”  "Tea? It’s our city’s favorite drink.”  “Sure.” Andrew reached for the cup of tea and smiled before he took a drink. His pupils widened and everything he imagined was happening right in front of him like a hallucination. Andrew’s heart sped up for a few minutes and he heard whispering voices in his brain. They were repeating his own thoughts back to him over and over. “Everything alright?” His temporary high had been blown after hearing the maid's voice.  “Where does this tea come from?”  “From here. This is the only place on Earth where you can find original Fantasy tea.”  “I’d like to be left alone for the afternoon.”  “Yes, sir.”  “Where else I can get this?”  “We have some hot tea brewing in your room and some bottled ones in the fridge."  “Thank you.”  Andrew shut his room door as fast as he could. He didn’t even get a chance to look around the room before running over to the refrigerator for a bottle of Fantasy tea. The Next Day “Hello?,” a man’s voice said. “Mr. Maye? Are you in there?” “Hello?” Andrew responded. “Who is that?”  “This Is Fo, your personal tour guide.” “Shoot,” Andrew mumbled. “I’m coming out in a sec.”

“And this is where the first school was built. I wish I had a chance to go there.”  “What’s so special about it?”  “The best doctors and lawyers went to this school. Rumor has it they closed it to prevent everyone from having the same level of education.” “Not to interrupt this boring tour, but I didn’t come to France to see some school that’s been turned into a museum.”  “What would you like to see? I will take you to go see it.”  “Right now I just need some Fantasy tea. Can you show me where to get that?”  “Yes, sir. Right this way.” Fo led Andrew to the first shop he’d ever seen that served more tea than coffee. “Here we are, sir.”  “Thank you. I’m going to have my drink alone. We can pick the tour back up later.”  “Yes, sir.” Fo bowed before walking away. Andrew decided to sit outside since it was such a nice day out. He looked up and saw a woman staring at him. He thought it was just a coincidence and looked away. He looked up again and she was gone. Andrew scrolled through phone when a child ran over to his table and knocked his tea out of his hand as she slammed her hands down on the table.  “Please, make it stop. Stop!”  “What is wrong with you, demoness?”  “Make it stop.”  “Rebecca!” A woman yelled angrily. She walked over to the table and grabbed Rebecca by her arm, snatching her away. “I’m so sorry,” the woman said to Andrew. “Here’s some money for your tea. My daughter gets out of hand sometimes.” “I see.” Rebecca kicked and screamed. “Don’t let her take me away. She’s not my mom. You have to help me.”

 “People,” Andrew murmured before rolling his eyes. His waitress walked over to the table and smiled as she picked up his menu. “Have you made a decision yet?”  “Um ... yes. I’m sorry, I actually had a question.”  “Yes?”  “The pasta salad, how is it?”  “The best you’ll ever taste.” “Excellent. What’s, where’s ...?”  “You seem a little jumpy. Is everything alright?”  “Where’s my waitress, the other lady?”  “What lady?”  “She was slim with dark brown hair. Her pants were blue and she looked like a younger girl.”  “We don’t have anyone here like that.”  “Yes, you do. I was just talking to her.”  “What were you talking about? I could probably answer any questions you have.”  “No, it was a personal conversation. Thanks anyway.”  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”  “It’s okay. I’ll have the bouillabaisse.”  “And a refill on your tea?”  “Absolutely.”

Andrew had no idea how he wounded up at a table in a casino when he opened his eyes. He had stacks of poker chips in front of him and the sound of the dice hitting the side of the table is what brought him to reality. “Whoa!” He said as he backed up frantically. “I can’t afford this. How did I get here?” Everyone around the table looked at Andrew like he was crazy. “I gotta get out of here.” Andrew hadn’t even walked five steps before he got hit in the head by a wine glass; he fell flat on the floor. “Where’s the money?” A voice behind him yelled. “I’m sorry! I don’t have a thousand dollars to give you.”  “A thousand? You just made a ten thousand dollar debt for yourself in twenty minutes and I’m gettin’ my money.”  “Ten thousand? I don’t even have one thousand.”  “You made the bets and now you pay up.” “I don’t have it.”

The man standing over Andrew looked over at a few guys and said, “let’s take this outside.” All four of them followed each other outside while one of them dragged Andrew out. The men took a turn on Andrew, punching him in the face every chance they got. He was too drunk to defend himself. They started kicking him when he fell to the ground and didn’t stop until they saw flashing blue lights. They left and so did the cops after they ensured that Andrew was okay. Andrew stood to his feet with bloodied clothes. He walked out of the ally that he was in and saw her again. The woman who he thought was just glancing at him at the cafe was now staring at him in front of the casino. Her blond hair was as messy as it was before. She looked as if she didn’t take care of herself. Her clothes were dirty and so was her face. Andrew walked a few steps closer to her and she started walking away. “Hey!” He yelled at her. She never slowed down. She just sped up. Andrew ended up following her into another ally that turned out to be a dead end. There’s no way possible, he thought.

He found his way back to his hotel. The woman at the front desk greeted him on his way in, but he ignored her. He had a lousy look on his face as he entered the elevator. He finally poured himself into bed as soon as he finished a cold bottle of Fantasy tea.

Fo knocked on Andrew’s door and Andrew opened it in his underwear and a an opened robe. “Yes?”  “I hope you’re ready for a day of excitement.”  “What are you doing here? It’s like ten in the morning.”  “It’s actually 4:12 in the afternoon and, you asked me to come.”  “What?”  “Here’s the text message.”  “I sent that?”  “You sent this to me last Friday.”  “I don’t remember.”  “I figured you’d seen it all but I guess not. I don’t mind. You hired me to show you around and that’s just what I’m doing.”

Andrew’s vision was shaky with every step he took. He walked a lot slower than usual and barely kept his balance. “This is the best place to eat in Fantasy.” Andrew was too distracted by outside noises to focus on what Fo was saying. He couldn’t even look at him as Fo spoke to him. “Stop! Stop!” Andrew said.

“Is everything alright?”  “No! Everything's not alright.”  “Can I get you some tea?”  “Not unless you have some in that bag of yours.” It so happened that Fo did have a bottle of Fantasy tea in his bag.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”  “There is something going on here. What's wrong with this place?”  “Come again.” “What's going on here?” “Specify?” “For starters, it seems like everything is directed towards me. And also, my waitress disappeared the other day and she’s the only person I’ve been able to have a regular conversation with. There’s this crazy lady that keeps following me and every time I almost catch her she gets away.” “Are you okay?”  “Yes, and I keep blacking out. I've never blacked out in my life. I’ve probably done it twenty times since I’ve been here and then I wake up in strange places wondering how I got there.”  “I wish I could help you, but you’re confusing me. I’ve never heard of such.” “Fine. I’ll take a picture of the crazy lady next time I see her.” “Make sure you have her consent. It’s a felony here to take a picture of someone else without their consent. Most of us just abstain from using cellphones.” “This place is crazy. You people are crazy. One more crazy thing and I’m packing my bags and leaving.”  “We really enjoyed your company, but we respect your choice.” Andrew finished the bottle of tea in his hand. “Why is this tea so addictive?” “I'm not sure.” “It was rhetorical, smarty. I’m going to get some more. Show me the nearest place around here to get some.” “Yes, sir.”

Andrew and Fo walked through a crowd of people. Every person that Andrew walked past stopped and stared at him. He didn’t have to look back at them to feel their eyes piercing him. He kept his head forward and tried to avoid eye contact with anyone. He walked into the shop and refused to move forward after everyone was already staring at him. “Is there somewhere else we can go?” “This is the last shop open for the night.”

“Fine. I'll wait while you go get it.” “Yes, sir.”

The staring got worse as Andrew stood outside waiting for Fo. Some looked away when he caught them while others continued to stare. Andrew decided to go inside after all and instantly regretted it. Everyone had scary smiles that creeped him out. Not only did they stare, but they whispered amongst themselves about him without breaking their focus. “Just grab the tea and let’s go. I don’t feel good.”  “Yes, sir.”

Andrew kept to himself for a while. He had to. When he walked down the street, he was stared at. When he opened the door to the balcony, he was stared at. There was nothing he could do to escape.

As usual, Andrew drunk a bottle of Fantasy tea and fell asleep wherever he was.

There was a noise in Andrew’s room that even he couldn’t ignore through his deep sleep. He opened his eyes and looked around. There was nothing. He laid his head back down and closed his eyes again. Before Andrew could even question himself about the noise, he opened his eyes and saw blond hair right before he got his mouth tied up. The woman leaned closer to him and whispered, “Make a sound and you will regret it for the rest of your life.” She removed the cloth from Andrew’s mouth and he sat up. His heart was beating so fast he thought he was experiencing a heart attack. He didn’t know what to do besides breath. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m not going to hurt you.” “Who are you and what do you want?” “I want to help you. I know I look like I live on the streets but that’s only because I do for right now. But, I’m not homeless. I have a home. I just don’t live there anymore because my husband checked me into a mental institution.” “What does that have to do with me?” “He told the cops he wanted to have me admitted because I was telling crazy stories about this city, but I know for sure that he only did it to make room for that college girl that’s only with him for money and status.” “What crazy stories?” “As you know, I’ve been following you. I try to get through to someone every time someone comes here. You’ve seen crazy things and, they all have answers to them.” “Please help me understand this place.” “Your waitress, she never disappeared without a trace. They locked her up because she was trying to ask you for help without actually asking you. That’s probably why you were so into the conversation, because it made sense. That little girl that ran over to your table is a prisoner. Most of the children work in Fantasy tea factories when they’re little.” “Why?” “That’s just how it is. Children are treated like adults here. That tea that you love so much is made by children making less than a dollar a day. They don’t have safe working environments either. The tea also makes you loopy. That’s why you pass out so much. You do so much while under the influence of that tea and don’t even realize it. You made a fool of yourself a few times. That’s why it’s offered to you so much. They want you to keep drinking so you don’t have a straight head.” “If half of what you’re saying is true, then why are you the only one that has a grip on reality?” “I used to be one of you. I was a tourist that went to parties every night and I drunk myself crazy. After I caught my husband cheating I started drinking the tea a lot more. It made me realize that the tea was the reason I blacked out so much. That’s why I stopped and it made me realize that things around me weren’t normal. I’m not the only person in Fantasy that has a straight head. Most people aren’t open about it because they know the consequences. You need to get out of here and don’t come back.” “No, you need to get out of here.” “I’m trying to help you.” “I’ve been recording this whole time and the cops are on their way.” “No!” Angelina shrieked. “Please, don’t do this. This may be your last chance. You are ruining your life. You have to call it off.” “Get away from me.” “Please, don’t let them take me away.” The cops came storming through the door. They recognized her instantly and pinned her to the ground as she screamed. They dragged her out of the hotel room in handcuffs. The head officer stopped by Andrew on the way out and said, “You don’t know how much you’ve helped. We’ve been looking for this one for a long time.” “Wow. I should’ve called a long time ago. This wacko’s been following me since I got here.” “Thanks. You really don’t know how appreciative we are.” “Goodnight, officer. I’m glad I could help.” Andrew closed the door and took a seat in the nearest chair. He may have sent the only sane person in that city to jail and the thought stuck with him for the whole night, tearing him apart.

Andrew looked at everything in a different way. He heard Fo’s voice in the background but didn’t care to listen. “Tea?” Fo said to him. “No.” “Why the sad face?” “You need to tell me what’s going on in this crazy city.”

“What’s going on?” “That’s what you need to tell me. I had a few crazy things explained to me, but I need to know more. I saw a woman get tased in front of me last night.” “What kind of crazy things?” “You didn’t tell me that kids make this tea. They treat them like slaves. What is in this tea that makes it so addictive?” “Look around.” “What am I looking at?” “The trees. The leaves are the main ingredient. Now that your eyes are open, we don’t have to treat you like an outsider anymore.” “Yes, you do. I'm not a part of this society.”

“You were the one that accepted our invitations. You came to our parties. You even came to the one that we threw for you on the night of your arrival. That was for you, Andrew.” “So, people just come here, lose their minds, and then join the way of life?” “It appears so.” “I won’t be a part of it. I’m leaving here tonight.” “I fully support you.” “You don’t think I can do it?” “I know you can. I’ve seen you do it.” “What are you talking about?” “You’ve left here five times in the past two years. You keep coming back.” “Two years? I haven’t even been here one year.” “How much of that tea did you drink? You’ve been here for two years. You’ve also left multiple times, but you keep coming back.” “Why? What have you people done to me?” “It’s not us. It’s you. No matter how far you go, no matter where you go, you’ll always find your way back to Fantasy.” “I’m stuck here?” “No. You could sober up, but it takes five years to sober up, almost impossible.” “Why is this legal? Y’all are poisoning people.” “Yes, we gave you the tea, but we’re not making you come back. As long as you’re under the influence of Fantasy tea, you’re going to come back. Tipsy equals trippy. Trippy equals risky. Risky equals dummies and dummies are what keeps this place busy. That’s the thing about this city.”