(Warning for very minor mentions of abuse, and being ill. Marking as sensitive content just to be safe, but none of these things are in-depth.) The eclipse does not originate from natural causes. I’d understand your conflict reading that statement. To the average man, a total eclipse is just a product of our solar system, the moon centering itself in front of the sun to block the light of day. What if I told you that this comes from something more unreal, however? That the moon and the sun align in honor of two people in love? My mother told me a story, which originated from one of her grandmothers from long ago, about two men who met as the moon settled in front of the sun. These men were gifted from birth, drawn to the light of day and darkness of night, respectively. One’s name was Soleil; the other, Eclipse. This story is told from the perspective of Soleil. Soleil was raised in a family that was mostly lenient with their rules, especially since they only had one kid at the time. His parents were new to raising children, so of course they were bound to give him freedoms that the average kid may not receive. They let him play outside alone for hours, and would offer him whatever he’d like so long as he was happy. They were still poor, but they did the best they could. Before his birth, his parents struggled with keeping their home life stable. Their crops would barely grow at all, and they’d never have any luck receiving help from others. The family was viewed as cursed, thanks to a few unruly gossipers, and was treated as such. However, once Soleil was born, things took a turn for the best. Birthed right as the sun began to rise in the sky, he was called a blessing. His family, which was incredibly superstitious, believed him to be a good omen. The townspeople followed their beliefs, agreeing that he was certainly a child of the sun. As such, life improved for the homestead. Soleil, young and unaware of his meaning to the family, was simply happy to be born into such a loving environment. It didn’t matter how well they treated him, however, as he still yearned for another someone. Someone he loved, despite their differences. The truth is, since birth, Soleil had dreams of another boy. A boy that was opposite to him entirely, with black hair instead of blonde, and modest attire as compared to Soleil’s more eccentric style. This boy loved bugs and books, while Soleil hated bugs and never enjoyed books. Yet they still got along in his dreams, and they seemed to be close. This boy’s name was Eclipse. As Soleil aged, the dreams became more vivid, and he remembered them more often. He knew so many details about this other individual, and it only pulled the two closer. The rest of his family felt these were good omens, the same way Soleil was, and that this was merely a gift from God. That the two were meant to be together, even if their relationship was considered “taboo” for the time. Soleil would draw pictures of Eclipse on paper, and would pick flowers to honor the drawings of him that he’d made. Everything he’d eat, he’d save a bit on his plate for him, even if he wasn’t really there. He was fully in love with this man that, as far as anyone was aware, didn’t exist outside of his dreams. Soleil was certain this man was real. The way Eclipse described his own life in the dreams was too detailed, and the images were too vivid. Eclipse would explain his home life as abusive, treating him as though he was a curse. He was born as night fell, and his family believed that he would bring nothing but darkness to their lives. His sister especially, who picked on him on the daily. Wishing to help Eclipse out of his situation, Soleil would plan out an “escape plan” for him, with the help of his — albeit very hesitant — parents. Eclipse, in one of Soleil’s dreams, agreed with this. He did, however, specify one particular problem. He was sick, and it was a struggle for him to properly move around. Soleil did not care. He told Eclipse that he’d sacrifice anything for him, and that he’d help him walk if he so needed. This led to the two deciding on a date to meet up. Despite the lack of proper directions, Soleil was so determined to meet up with his partner, that he chose to pack for a multi-day trip. Where he was going was mostly unknown, and God only knows how far away it would be. All he knew, from what Eclipse had told him, was that it was near where the sun fell. Soleil worked for days on end in preparation for this trip, making his own food and packing his own supplies. He went through the effort of getting a job and everything, all for Eclipse. Soon enough, he was all set, with enough supplies to last him a small amount of time. Long enough to find Eclipse, surely. Before long, Soleil was waving goodbye to his family, heading out with just a large bag and the clothes on his back. Surprisingly, it didn’t take long to find Eclipse’s home. He’d left out before morning, and arrived at his home right around noon. It was just across town. Despite the long walking distance, it wasn’t too horrible of a walk, and Soleil could see himself traveling to Eclipse’s house daily if he so needed– but the plan was for the two to stay together, forever, and not have to separate. He went to knock on the door of the building before he caught himself. Eclipse’s parents were abusive, so surely, they’d hurt Soleil too if they knew about their relationship. Besides, he wasn’t getting the vibe that he was there, instead feeling as if he was just behind the house… So, he went there instead. Walking behind the house, he noticed a small figure with black hair standing perfectly still, appearing to stare up at the clouds. Without hesitation, Soleil approached the figure, moving in for a hug. This was when Eclipse collapsed, falling right as Soleil wrapped his hands around him. Eclipse should’ve been shocked, Soleil figured, but it must’ve been the fact that he knew he was coming in the first place. He smiled down at him, gently settling him down on the dirt as he sat beside him. Coughing, Eclipse spoke first, a surprised for Soleil given that he was always significantly quieter in their dreams. “Are you alright? That was not too bad of a walk, was it?” He sounded the same as in the dreams; articulate. “I’m just fine, now that I’ve got you.” Soleil smiled, leaning into Eclipse’s shoulder. It was a pleasure getting to see the man he’d always wanted to see. He wanted to kiss him right there, if it weren’t for the fact that they’d literally just met. “I’m in shock, the way you look the exact same.” Eclipse nodded his head, a small smile forming on his face as well. “I could say the same for you. You look lovely.” His reply was quick, as he moved to the side to cough away from Soleil. As he recovered, Soleil looked him over closely, frowning at how disheveled he seemed to be. His sickness concerned him greatly, as he’d never seen people this sick that haven’t died. He chose to savor this moment, however, and shoved that thought to the back of his head. “Is this the part where we kiss?” Soleil asked directly. This shocked Eclipse, who was now blushing up a storm. Nodding his head slightly, Eclipse had to gather himself. With the tiniest smile, he turned his head to the side, offering his cheek to Soleil. To which, he planted a small kiss, leaving Eclipse with an even brighter blush than before. This was when the moon fell in front of the sun, for the first time. Neither of them had known that this was going to happen, so they were both surprised when things suddenly went dark. It didn’t take too long before Soleil grinned, pointing up at the now covered sun. “Look, it’s us!” He said with heavy enthusiasm, the complete opposite to Eclipse’s demeanor. “The moon’s in front of the sun, like how you’re in front of me right now! It’s like a…” He had to think to himself the proper way to describe this scenario. It took a few seconds before he finished his sentence, ending it off with a, “... Solar eclipse! It’s like you and me, the solar eclipse!” Eclipse, recovering from the kiss, smiled as well as he nodded. “Yes, Soleil. ‘Solar eclipse’ is very fitting.” Pausing, he contemplated. “Do you think other people will call it that later down the line, if this happens again?” “If we tell enough people that’s what it’s called,” Soleil replied, as happy as he could be, before moving to pick Eclipse up from his spot. “Where are we going?” Eclipse asked. “Home.” Soleil replied, lifting Eclipse up and proceeding to walk in the direction of his own home. And that’s how the solar eclipse came to be.


How can I justify our – no – my actions? Good God, it was hot and dusty despite it being “monsoon season.” This dirty, sun-bleached southern extremity of Arizona surely contributed to the vortex of madness that pulled us in. I sit in a booth in the corner of a small café with a window view of Morley Avenue. I don’t know how I found this place. The turquoise-colored outside walls decorated with painted desert flowers attracted me subconsciously, I suppose. The reasoning for what we’ve – no – I’ve done, dammit, seems to reorder every time I try to reconcile what happened. My thoughts race. Christ, get a grip. I sip black coffee, close my eyes, try to control my breathing and think – hard. The train from Phoenix to Tucson was noisy and rackety. Every mile of rail sent its vibrations through the wheels and axles into the carriage, up the bench stanchions and into my body. The clickety-clack became a monumental annoyance. I suppose the plan was affecting my moral equilibrium. We’d decided on this course of action out of desperation, I know, and the train heightened my anxiety. Thomas wasn’t happy with my attitude. I could not have cared less about his opinion.

Would we ever get there? After some time and more of the damned clickety-clack, Thomas deflected my attention.

He said, “Are you having regrets?” “No.” I watched the infinite, unremarkable, cracked land slip by. The regrets, if things didn’t work out, would certainly come.      Thomas continued, “We’ll get into Tucson in about thirty minutes. Are you sure your friend will be there to meet us?”

    “I’m pretty sure she’ll be there. She did respond to the telegram.” More anxiety. Sitting across from me, Thomas stared out the window rather than look at my face. He was initially reluctant to the plan. We’d talked about it two weeks ago. The money would set us up for life, but what would happen to Cameron Hillman would be a proper reckoning. Hillman was scum. After establishing a real estate business in the new metropolis of Phoenix, using questionable practices according to some, inquiries about his family dogged him. His wife, Lillian, had disappeared, taking their daughter with her. Hillman was asked – politely – by his friends what had happened. He told them something about an argument regarding moving to California. It was odd that he didn’t appear upset, or so I was told. The intrigue continued when it was learned that most of Lillian’s clothes were still in Hillman’s house, along with the daughter’s clothes and toys. He was questioned by the authorities, and they seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss, despite the items left behind. I knew Hillman hadn’t been pressed too hard about the matter. When he got rid of his wife’s and daughter’s possessions wasn’t known. Hillman eventually left Phoenix, selling his home for a handsome profit. He went south and bought a black walnut plantation in the hills above Nogales. The neighboring border town is also called Nogales. The locals call both towns “Ambos Nogales,” meaning “both Nogales.”

I must have dropped off to sleep because I jerked my head up and was momentarily disoriented as the train rolled into the Tucson station. Thomas and I stepped off the train with our canvas bags and canteens, both scanning the platform for my friend, Hilly McConnell, a young woman I’d lived with in Phoenix. I spotted Hilly right away. She was dressed in a light blue shirtwaist embellished with embroidery and tucked into pants. Her short, red hair made her conspicuous. I ran to her. The hug and bussing of our cheeks brought back good memories.

“My goodness, Blush! Don’t you look keen,” Hilly said as we broke from our hug. “Thanks, Hilly. I think I look like a dirty hobo riding the rails.” I giggled at that description. That bit of cheerfulness would be my last for quite some time.

“You’re the one that looks keen, Hilly. Nice outfit.” We remarked about our costumes for a couple of minutes. Thomas was polite but was anxious to be on our way. We had a mission to complete. I know Hilly sensed our impatience. She said the car was parked on the street in front of the station. The three of us walked into the blazing sunshine and straight to the 1915 Ford Model-T. Hilly told us the car ran well even though it was only three years old. She admonished us to be wary of the highway to Nogales as it was mostly graded dirt and could have sections of washout. The trip to Nogales would take about three hours. Hilly handed to me a paper bag that contained apples, a small block of cheese and a tin of crackers.

Hilly said her goodbye and walked away as we stowed our bags and canteens in the car and Thomas started the engine. The Model-T had an electric starter and, if needed, electric headlights. The dry, desert air would feel good flowing into the car. After an initial jerk as Thomas put the car in gear and we drove south toward our destiny. The stale dry air whipped by and tried to cool us. It wasn’t working. My eyes alternately watered and dried with every passing mile. Miles and miles of flat, arid land marked by scrub bushes, tall cacti, scraggly grass, the occasional wretched-looking tree and sand. The red-rocked mountains in the distance beckoned yet seemed out of reach. Could the Almighty have just pasted them there to tease and torment us? The sapphire blue sky was filling with clouds which at certain points blocked the devilish sun and provided brief moments of relief. Did the clouds portend a thunderstorm? If the skies let loose, it would be tough riding in the car. We could be washed away to either drown or dying in this stinking desert. My eyes were tired. I closed them for a while and slept.

I was jostled awake by a rough section of road. We were in the hill country just north of Nogales. Mountains appeared in the distance to the right. We were getting close to our target. Thomas sat rigidly at the steering wheel, his jaw clinched, focusing on the road. The wind whipped up dust that swirled around and into the car. I pulled a piece of paper out of my handbag and tried to decipher my writing, which was not an easy thing to do because of the unsteadiness of the car. I complained and Thomas finally slowed down. The road that led to the Hillman Groves appeared on the right. We almost missed it. Thomas spotted the small sign at the last moment and made the turn without flipping us over. More like a wagon road track, the road wound its way up the hillside weaving among black walnut trees. And, just like that, my senses were heightened. My heartbeat edged upward. The house was nothing like I expected. Thomas stopped the car in front of a one-story, Spanish Mission-style house with dirty beige walls and a non-working fountain in the shape of a bird in front. A low adobe wall in need of repair ran along the front of the property. The house looked down on International Street in Ambos Nogales, the dual border town of about six thousand souls, give or take. The hot, afternoon sun fully illuminated the dusty street. I could just make out a fence running down the middle of it. Hilly warned us there were reports from her cousin who lived in Douglas about tensions between citizens and officials on both sides of the border – especially those citizens of Nogales, Sonora that crossed the border to work. There were a lot of soldiers around too.

After a few minutes, Thomas and I exited the car and walked to the faded red front door of the house. A large ornate, lion-headed knocker faced us. I used the heavy piece of iron to announce our arrival. I looked at Thomas with apprehension as we heard footsteps. A latch was retracted, and the door opened. I stood face-to-face with Cameron Hillman, my father.

Hillman had at once a surprised and quizzical look on his face. A face more haggard than I remembered. Wrinkles cutting into the flesh and a scraggly growth of mostly gray facial hair made him look old and weak. His eyes held mine. I was sure he thought he was seeing a ghost. “How may I help you?” Hillman said in a smooth and melodious way. Thomas replied, “Do we have the honor of addressing Mr. Hillman?” “You do.”

“My name is Thomas Kilcannon and this is my wife. May we come in? We have an important matter to discuss with you. It will prove interesting.” Hillman stepped back and opened the door wider with a gesture to invite us in.

He said, “If you please.” Thomas and I walked into an expansive entry hall that opened onto a large sitting room. Hillman showed us to a couch with upholstery of red brocade that was thread-bare in spots. Hillman sat opposite us in an oak spindle chair.

“You shouldn’t be here now.” Hillman said. “Trouble is coming. My Sonoran workers have mutinied and won’t be back. There are soldiers on both sides of the border waiting for an attack. I’m facing ruin here as these trees go unattended. No one on this side of the border will work. Tensions are extremely high.” Hillman spewed the words in a torrent as if to have us run out of the house, down the hill and away from him. His face was flushed. After looking at us for a few moments and realizing we weren’t going to run out, he said, “What is it you wanted to discuss? You must be quick.”

I looked at Thomas. The time had come. The reckoning had come. “Do I look familiar to you?” I said as I looked directly into Hillman’s eyes.

He said nothing. His eyebrows pinched toward his nose as he studied my face. His mouth tightened. Then, his face relaxed and his eyes widened slightly. Panic? He knew me. His eyes didn’t leave my face. Suddenly, I felt my face becoming hot as though his gaze was attempting to burn my features away. A malevolence rose between us. I broke the spell. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?” Hillman’s head tilted slightly. He frowned. “You know, don’t you? You miserable son of a bitch.” The heat on my face was real. The malice in my heart rose with every beat. Hillman finally spoke. “You must leave now.” He stood up. “I will hear nothing from you. You cannot come into my home and insult me!” His fists were clenched. Would he really try something against Thomas? It would not end well for him. Thomas sprang from the couch and placed his powerful hands on Hillman’s shoulders. I saw my father wince as he sat down again. Thomas dared him to move.

Thomas said, “You’ll listen to what she has to say.” The tone was menacing. Hillman said nothing as he looked at me. I could feel the rage welling within me. “You killed my mother and had her buried in the desert. Your plan didn’t quite succeed with me.” Hillman’s face become stoic. I noticed a small tic in his left eye. “Yes, I’m your daughter, Rosemon. I was pulled from my grave by a savior. The time for retribution has come!”

His voice was softer now, but with a slight tremor. “I don’t believe you. My wife and daughter left me years ago and I wasn’t able to find them. What you say is without merit.” “To prove myself, let me tell you something known only to my mother and you,” I said. “My given name is Rosemon, but my mother always called me Blush. You never did. She told me I was named for the pink rose tattoo on her back.” My eyes felt as if they were flaming. Hillman sat back in the chair, his mouth open. He knew now. In a trembling voice, he said, “So, you have come to take my life. You will be caught and punished.” Hillman’s eyes looked beyond me to the courtyard outside. “That may be the final result,” I said. “I want what my mother promised me on the day you poisoned us. She had a silk purse stuffed with money that she’d earned from when she worked before marrying you. She told me you didn’t know about it and she wanted me to have it when I grew up. You must have found out about the purse, of course. And because of your business failures, you decided to get rid of us and keep those five thousand dollars for yourself because you knew mother would never give it to you. Is that what you used to buy this place?” Hillman’s dead eyes locked on me. “You have no proof of any of your accusations.” The rage reached a boiling point. I stood up, took a step toward Hillman and slapped his face with all the force I could muster. He turned his head back to me and said nothing. His mouth formed a sneer. As I drew my hand back to strike him again, this time with a fist, Thomas grabbed my arm.

Thomas looked at me, then turned to Hillman, and said, “There is proof, sir! I am that proof. I was there that night in the desert with you and that thug you hired, Clancy. I was the one you never saw that knocked you out. I saw that the girl was still breathing, and I shot Clancy. Unfortunately, the mother was dead. I pulled Blush from the grave, pushed Clancy in, and finished the burial. So, yeah, there is proof.” I looked at Thomas, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. My memory wasn’t cooperating. I vaguely remembered someone pulling me out of that hole and laying me on a blanket. I don’t remember anything else until being aware of another mother – Thomas’s mother – Mrs. Kilcannon. My mind was swirling.

Hillman seemed to shrink before us. Before I could ask about having the money returned to me, a man burst into the room. Where had he been? Did he hear what we said? He had a revolver in his hand and pointed it, not a us, but at Hillman. Thomas let go of my arm and we stood there looking at this man. Hillman turned in his chair to face the intruder.

Hillman said, “What is this, Mateo? Why are you pointing that gun at me?” Mateo, one of Hillman’s workers from the northern side of the border said, “You are doing us wrong, jefe.” Mateo’s hand was shaking. No telling where a bullet might go. “You favor the Sonoran workers over us. And now all of us have quit. Go to Mexico where you are welcomed. There are no workers here for you.”       Mateo was focused on Hillman and didn’t react immediately to Thomas moving toward him. Thomas lunged and his right shoulder hit Mateo in the chest. Mateo landed on the tiled floor with Thomas on top of him. The gun clattered across the floor. Thomas got up quickly and retrieved the gun. Mateo focused on regaining his breath. Thomas handed me Mateo’s revolver and pulled a Colt semi-automatic pistol from his waistband. As this was happening, we hadn’t noticed Mateo getting up and running for the front door. Thomas ran after him. Was he really going to kill the man? Was he afraid of leaving a witness?

I ordered Hillman to move his chair to the window and sit. I hoped to see what Thomas was doing. The gradual slope in front of the house ran down to the town. Walnut trees interrupted my sight line. My heart was in my throat. Mateo’s pistol was pointing at Hillman and I was afraid to take my eyes off him for more than a quick glance out the window. I saw a flash of a blue shirt running down the slope. It was Thomas. He was beyond the trees and approaching International Street.

     The gunshot ended my plan. Thomas must have shot at Mateo. A few seconds later, more gunshots filled the scorching, desert air of Ambos Nogales. What was happening? Surely, Mateo couldn’t have gotten another gun! I was trying to figure it out when Hillman came at me. The revolver in my hand fired. I don’t remember doing it. Hillman fell to the floor at my feet. A scorched hole appeared on his shirt. A red stain followed. He didn’t move. Goddamn! I ran out the door and down toward the town. I found Mateo at the foot of the slope. He was dead, a bullet wound in the head. I made my way into town. There were black American soldiers moving toward and around me. They continued up the hill. They would find Hillman. Good God, what happened here? There were several bodies of men lying in the street. I heard the report of another shot, and the bullet struck a building just to my left, barely missing me. I ducked into a doorway and knelt down. I spotted Thomas’s blue shirt about a hundred feet away. He was on his side in a ditch. When I got to him, I saw that he had been shot in his face. Tears flowed immediately. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. The gunshots continued. I had to get away and find a safe place. I don’t remember which streets I took. I knew I had to stay on the American side.

Finally reaching the café on Morley Avenue, I had to come to come to terms with what I’d done and what would happen next. It could take some time. The tears came again.


 Margaret steadied herself on the ladder. She held on with one hand as the other was pressed against her white blouse trying to calm her heart against the height she had climbed. She lifted the same hand to run a finger along the heavy tomes stored up here. Coats of Arms. Heraldry. Gwynn-Jones. Emblems. Black, Farrel, Howells, Rowlands, Ward.    Margaret looked down. At the foot the rolling library ladder was a knight, a toad, and a cat, looking up at her, expectantly. Of course, Margaret wasn’t sure it was a knight at all. It was a suit of armor certainly, that had appeared when she was closing up for the evening. It did not speak. She could not make out eyes in the slots of the knight’s helm, but she checked that the bottom edge of her skirt wasn’t riding up. Just to be sure. Margaret adjusted her winged glasses to try to get a look again at the design of the surcoat the knight was wearing. It showed some sort of red lion and a thistle, on a shield, over a fallen dragon, or the loch ness monster for all Margaret knew.    She removed a heavy oversized tome on Scottish Heraldry and juggled it down with her, until her feet were once again safe on the floor. She put it on an old long wooden table. The knight moved to the other side of the table. He held up a gauntlet pointing to his chest.    “Yes, I know.” Margaret snapped. “It might help if you talked. If you told me what you want. I’m trying to find out where you’re from. That might be a clue. Unless you have a clue for me?”    The knight shook its head. It held something in its right gauntlet which Margaret had not really looked at before now. It was a toad. The knight was holding a toad. A pudgy cat jumped up on a nearby chair and onto the wooden table. It marched across the table to the toad in the knight’s gauntlet. The knight was quick enough to hold the toad away before the cat could get it.    The cat gave up the prey and walked on Margaret’s now open book and sat himself on it. He started to clean himself, nonchalantly. Margaret grabbed the cat gently by the scruff and underneath the arms. “Yes, I remember you when he came in.” She said. She stopped for a moment noticing a collar around the cat. She inspected the tag. ‘Mr. Cuddles’.    Mr. Cuddles bit at her hand twice, holding the second time. They locked eyes. Mr. Cuddles had not broken her skin. He changed tactics and decided to lick her hand instead. Margaret rolled her eyes and removed him from the table, lowering him to the floor. He headbutted her ankles and did figure eights around them.    Margaret turned the pages of the tome with care. She looked up to see the knight shaking his head and tapping his chest. Only he wasn’t making any sound. She could see the gauntlet tapping the breast plate, but there wasn’t any sound. She closed the book.    “Look, this is a waste of time. All this information is available on computers out there in the main branch. We’re not even supposed to be in here. This area is closed to be renovated and restored when we can get the funding. Now, let me go out there and just put your… your symbols into the computer’s search engine and it will tell us who you are. Possibly.”    The knight stood his ground. He held the toad in one gauntlet, while pointing with other back and forth to the worn, dusty, shelves surrounding them. Mr. Cuddles had set himself down on the floor between them, licking his paws. Margaret folded her arms in a stand off.    The held their places until Mr. Cuddles got up and came over to Margaret and attacked her ankles.   “Alright!” she said, reaching down to push away Mr. Cuddles. “But you have to give me a clue.” She shouted at the knight.    The knight offered her the toad. After a moment she dug through her purse on the long table and found some tissues. She held up a hand covered in several tissues and the knight placed the toad on it. Mr. Cuddles cried for the toad, but she held it up from him. The knight bent and picked up Mr. Cuddles. Mr. Cuddles, despite his size, managed to turned about in midair, and run up the knight’s chain mail and arm guard, to perch on his shoulder plate.    The knight moved to the shelves, as if he and Mr. Cuddles often travelled this way.    The knight went to the far left of the three-storey room to begin his search of the book shelves. Mr. Cuddles wagged his tail to show he was unhappy with this choice. The knight moved along the shelves. The tail wagging got stronger. The knight did not tary, smoothly gliding further right. Finally, they came to a stop. Mr. Cuddles purred on the shoulder plate, brushing against the knight’s helm.    As Margaret approached, Mr. Cuddles pawed at the books on the shelf in front of the knight. Margaret looked.    “This is poetry. This is the poetry section. You want me to read to you?”    The knight tilted its helm as if aghast by the suggestion. Mr. Cuddles was thrown off balance and dropped to the floor. The knight gestured to the shelf.    Margaret began on the left of the shelf taking each book out and examining its title and author. This gave her no clues. She saw a book further down slightly pulled out from the rest. It had a tear on its spine. She looked down to see Mr. Cuddles chewing on one of his paws. A small thin patch of leather appeared to be stuck on one of his claws. She looked at the tear on book.    “Oh, you’re a terror, aren’t you.” She admonished. Mr. Cuddles stretched and ignored her.    Margaret looked at the knight who was nodding. She still held the toad in one tissued hand. She tried to leaf through the small book of poetry with the other. As awkward as it was, she got to the middle of the book to find a pressed flower inside. It may have lain there for centuries.    The knight reached over and took the withered petals. From these dry crumbled fragments, a fresh white flower bloomed in his gauntlet. He held it to his chest and then faded away. He was gone.    Mr. Cuddles broke the silence with a cry for food. Margaret held the toad closer to protect it. “So, he was pointing to his heart the whole time. I thought it was his shirt. His coat of arms. Well, he’s a knight, right?” She seemed to be talking to the toad. “How was I supposed to know that?”    She sat down at the long table with the toad. With her free hand she started rummaging through her purse. “Well, I don’t need a knight, anyway. And I don’t… I don’t think… I’m not going to need you, either. Sorry.” She pulled out more tissues. Nail clippers. A tiny travelling sewing kit. Glass cleaner and a little shammy. Two wrapped butterscotch hard candies. And finally, a slightly linty, wrapped chocolate kiss.    She unwrapped the chocolate kiss. “Here.” She offered the toad. The toad’s tongue shot out and pulled the kiss back into its mouth. After some swollen breathing, or some swollen swallowing motion, Margaret was unsure which, the toad disappeared and a doubletted prince appeared. The freckled faced youth looked about the room in confusion. He smiled shyly at Margaret.    “Yeah, I’m really, not looking for you, either. Sorry.”

   Margaret led the young man to the front exit. She didn’t even question why he hadn’t disappeared as the knight had done. She left him on the stoop to go out and discover the new world while she returned to the oldest wing of the library to finish locking up.    When she got back, Mr. Cuddles was halfway into her purse, and scratching and burrowing his way deeper. “Mr. Cuddles!”    He stopped and stuck his head out above the purse. Margaret sat down and looked at him. “So, you’re the third one of this lonely trio. What are you looking for?”    Mr. Cuddles looked at her and sat back on his haunches, exposing his ample belly. He rolled onto his back completely and his eyes widened inviting her attention. She laughed, and started putting things back in her purse. She stopped when she reached the sewing kit. She unwound a length of thread from the kit and dangled it over Mr. Cuddles.    He batted at it, manically. Mr. Cuddles righted himself on his paws and chased the thread about. At times Margaret would dangle it above him, and at other times she would slowly draw it away from him across the table. He would crouch frequently into pounce mode before making his attempts to conquer the string.    As Margaret’s evening got even later, they played.


Pebbles Against a Window It was two o’clock in the morning. Josh knew that fact because of the red numbers that shone brightly from his old clock radio. “Why am I awake?” he wondered. Then he heard a sound just outside the window of his second storey bedroom. Had that been enough to wake him up? Could be. Remembering the Past Then he was suddenly hit by a blast from his past. When he was a teenager sleeping in this same room, his buddy Ralph would toss pebbles at his window to get his attention. It would typically be a Friday or Saturday night. Ralph would have come home late, and his parents would have locked him out. They were beyond strict and edged on downright mean, particularly his father, a man of a particularly powerful build, and hot temperament.            Josh would go to the window, and open it as wide as he could.  Ralph would then climb up the metal rungs of the old television antenna, and crawl into Josh’s bedroom through the window. Then Josh would listen to Ralph talk about what had happened prior to his being locked out.            Josh’s room was on the second floor of the main building of the motel complex that his parents ran. There was a restaurant downstairs, and 12 ‘cabins’ as his parents called them (although they were just rooms) for their paying guests. Downstairs was the office and a small, but quite popular restaurant that served their guests and others who had heard of the restaurant’s good food and friendly service.            Once Josh and Ralph were talked out and tired, they would go downstairs. Josh would get the key to a cabin that he knew was unoccupied, and give it to Ralph, so he could spend the rest of the night there. Josh’s parents wouldn’t mind. They knew about Ralph’s situation at home, and were sympathetic.            When his parents had moved into a retirement complex, Josh remained in the only home he had ever known. He had become the chef for the restaurant, after spending years learning how to cook from his parents. Wishing to dedicate himself totally to developing chef skills, and not wanting to have to deal with the added and uncreative responsibilities of a motel manager,  Josh had shut down the motel aspect of the complex. The restaurant had become quite successful, especially in the winter. Snowmobilers who stayed in other motels and cheap hotels in the area were big fans of the food that he cooked. It was one of the few things that they talked about that did not involve favoured trails, snow conditions, breaks in the ice over lakes, and the more esoteric features of their machines. During the winter, Josh even had put up a sign in a part of his parking lot. It read, “Snowmobiles Only”. In the summer there was always some clever person who would ask him “Does that still hold?” His smartass reply was some version of “No, at this time of year it is Sea-doos only.”            Josh hadn’t thought of Ralph in years, and hadn’t seen him since they both were 19. Ralph had moved out of town, and no one he knew had heard from or seen him since. He had asked Ralph’s parents about him once in the supermarket. It had taken nerve, even as an adult, to talk to them. They just said, “Not sure” as if Ralph was something they had misplaced in the basement, and hadn’t bothered looking for. Back to the Present. After this emotional rush of memories, Josh felt that the sound that had awakened  him, couldn’t have been made by Ralph, or by pebbles for that matter. He must have heard something else, and his dozy mind must have translated it into something old and familiar. Then he heard the sound again. This time he was fairly certain that the sound he had heard was that of pebbles hitting the window. He crept slowly to the window, worried that the one who had tossed the small stones would be able to see him. Then he looked down. There was a man in the parking lot, picking up pebbles. He was not alone. Near to him were two people, a woman, and a very small child of undetermined gender. Behind them was a dark and rather run-down van. Josh rolled down the window, and yelled, “Who are you, and why are you making this noise?” There was silence at first, as if the night had been insulted by Josh’s yelling. Then, in a much lesser volume came the reply from a familiar voice. “It’s Ralph. I wonder whether you would take us in for the night.” Josh quickly responded with “I’ll run downstairs, and let you guys in. But first, I will put some clothes on. I still sleep in my underwear, Ralph, and it’s cold outside.” A well-remembered laugh was the immediate response. Josh dressed quickly, and was soon downstairs, opening the door. Although he wasn’t much for physical greetings, he gave Ralph a huge hug. He even extended the same to the woman and child that were with him. He bid them to sit down at one of the restaurant tables, while he made some coffee and hot chocolate, and warmed up some muffins that he had made earlier in the day..

Once they had all settled down, Ralph began to tell his story. He had worked at a decent job as an assistant manager at a hotel in a town about two hours drive away. His wife worked there as a part-time cleaner, their child always with her. There had been a fire and the place had burned down, so they no longer had jobs.

Ralph had come back family home a week ago. His parents still lived in the old house. So he, his wife Aileen, and their three-year-old daughter Ethel had gone there to stay until at least one of the parents got a job and they could afford their own place. His parents gave them one week, “Then you’re all out of here.” They hadn’t changed a bit, particularly Ralph’s father. By six o’clock that evening, their week was up to the exact hour. They had been almost physically tossed out. Ralph’s father was still a very physically powerful and intimidating man. He ended his verbal notice of ejection with a statement, that, quiet unintentionally, would prove quite useful. “You could always go to where your friend still lives.” They had never called Josh by his name, just “your friend,” with a noticeable sneer of judgement. They had gotten into their van and had looked for a place to stay the night, with no luck. Then Ralph remembered his father’s words about “your friend.” He decided to take a chance. After hearing Ralph’s tale of woe, Josh said, “I’m glad you came, old friend. You can stay in the best of the cabins, like you did in the old days. Last year I closed down the motel, as I am too busy as the chef at this restaurant. Maybe that can change now with you and Aileen here. You can run the motel. But Ralph, no more pebble throwing incidents, waking me up at two o’clock in the morning. That will be written into your contract.”


"Powers of the light, Guardians of the Earth, I call to thee to give me, Your strength, open all doors, Watch over me, I trust in your hand, to help me through this, Difficult time, so let it be," Bang the attic begins to rumble, then it's over. What did I just witness? My mother and grandmother doing magic. How? "What is mother?" I listen intently at my mother and grandmother, clearly something is bothering my grandmother. "Iris, we need to tell Star the truth, She deserves to know about our family, the family she was born into." "I will tell her when the time is right." Shoot! They are coming. I run as quickly as possible down the stairs and hide in the bathroom. I open the door a bit and see my mother and grandmother arguing. Secrets, what are they hiding from me? I'm old enough to know the truth but like always my mother treats me like a child. I wait a few more minutes and head back to the attic. I enter the attic, look around for anything that will tell me their secrets. The attic is dusty and old filled with cobwebs and spiders. Damn it! I can't find anything. I decide to go back to my hiding place where I saw my mother and grandmother. Right over there in front of the window is where I saw them. I walk there and look around. Under a stack of blankets, I find a chest. I pull the chest out and open it. Inside the chest I find candles, different color candles, little bottles and under all that I find a book. I take the book out. On the outside of the book is a symbol that looks like a moon and below that it reads Eldridge. I open the book. Oh My God! I never believed this was real. My mother always told me magic is not real. She lied to me. This book proves magic is real. But the question is, why hide it from me? Eldridge, that name sounds familiar. Where have I heard that name? "My dear Star, the truth shall be upon you soon." I better leave before I get caught. I head to my room and look up the name Eldridge. Wow, I didn't realize there would be so many results but one caught my eye. I click on that one. The Eldridge family flees Covington Falls in the middle of the night. Covington Manor has been destroyed. Where did the Eldridge family flee too? For 300 years the mystery of the Eldridge family has been told over and over and over again in the hopes someone will tell the truth. I close my eyes and begin to think about everything that has happened tonight. My mother and grandmother doing magic. My mother not wanting tell me the truth about whatever they are hiding but my grandmother wants to tell me the truth. Then there is the book of magic and the name Eldridge. I wonder if I should confront my mother. I begin to pace my room when I notice a piece of paper on the floor. I pick up the paper. It reads "The truth is here. Come to the library and all will be revealed." Yes, my home does have a library. I guess someone knows I know the truth and it's not my mother so it must be my grandmother. I walk to the library, open the door and enter. "Hello." No answer. I keep walking. "Come to the back my dear." I walk to the back and see my grandmother. "Grandma, what are you doing here?" I run and hug my grandmother. Wow this library is amazing. I only been in the library twice, this is my third time here and it's so beautiful. "I know you want answers. I'm here to give you those answers you are seeking." I nod and listen to my grandmother. "Many years ago in Covington falls, the Eldridge and Covington families lived in perfect harmony until one disastrous night. On that night the two eldest Eldridge children decided to play with magic. They didn't know anything about magic or how it works but they didn't care. What happen next tore these two families apart and a fierce rivalry grew all in the name of vengeance. The two eldest Eldridge children used magic the wrong way and a beloved member of both families was killed. This story doesn't end there. The Eldridge children blamed one of the Covington daughters. Both of them said she tricked them into doing magic. The Covington daughter said the Eldridge sons who tricked her, took her prisoner and was forced to watch them do magic. They both denied it. Because the name of the town was Covington Falls, the Eldridge family became enemy No.1. The Covington's were out for blood. The Eldridge family had no choice but to leave and in doing so they destroyed the Covington Manor. This book will give you more answers to your questions." My grandmother hands me the book then leaves. This is a lot to take in. I sit down and begin to think about everything I was told. But the one thing she didn't tell was if we belonged to the Eldridge family. The book is interesting, had a lot of history on the Covington family, none on the Eldridge family. Why is that? I keep reading. Some interesting facts keep popping up like witches and great power. "I can't believe you did this mother." "She must know who she is Iris. Star needs to learn how to protect herself. Her training must begin now." No way this cannot possibly be true. The Covington and Eldridge families are related. Oh My God! where does my family fall in all this? I keep reading and I finally have my answer. Rosemary Covington married Henry Eldridge. Since that union the family has become two. In the back of the book, I find the Eldridge family tree. I look at it from top to bottom, all the way down I spot my grandmother's name and my mother's name and under my mother's name I find my name. It is true we are part of the Eldridge family. There is more to the story I just know it. "Your right baby girl, there is more to the story." I see my mother standing in front of me. I'm sorry mother." "No star, it is me who is sorry. I was trying to protect you. Your grandmother is right. You need to know the truth and how to protect yourself." What is my mother talking about? Protect me from what? "I don't understand what's going on mother." "I will finish grandma's story then we can begin training." I nod. I listen intently as my mother begins. "Your grandmother left off when the Covington Manor was destroyed. The manor was destroyed by the Eldridge family. They wanted nothing to remain of their time at the manor. The Eldridge family took all of their precious belongs and disappeared. No one in Covington falls knew where they went. The Covington family tried and tried to find any signs of the Eldridge family but they couldn't. Years went by, generations of new Covington's were born, still the stigma of the Eldridge family remained. Where is the Eldridge family? The million dollar question no can answer. I'm going to give you the answers. It's going to change your life forever. The Eldridge family settled in the town of Canyon Hills and changed their to St. James. That wasn't the only thing that changed. The appearance of the family also changed." St. James, that's our name. Oh My God! we are the Eldridge family. "How is this possible?" My mother stands up and with a snap of her finger changes into a different person. Wow this is all surreal. I'm speechless. "We belong to the Eldridge family. Rosemary Eldridge your many times over great grandmother was the most powerful witch of all time. Her magic, the magic me and your grandmother practice is past down from mother to daughter. The Eldridge sons that the Covington's blamed for the death of the beloved family member didn't do what everyone said they did. They never in their lifetime ever used magic. Those two boys were Rosemary's sons. Rosemary had a sister who was jealous of her. Her name was Roxanne. She was the one who blamed the Eldridge sons. The truth is Roxanne was the one who misused magic and caused the death. Roxanne told many lies that the Covington family believed. Rosemary, she said was the one to blame for not hiding magic from her family. So, Rosemary her husband and the rest of the Eldridge family had no choice. They fled to survive. Rosemary and her family came here to Canyon Hills, changed their name and appearance to survive. The Covington's are still searching to this day for any signs of us. Each generation of Eldridge/St. James child has their appearance changed. Star, your appearance was changed for your protection. The Covington's are also witches but not nearly as powerful as Rosemary, this is the reason we went undetected and the reason why we never told you. Right now, things have changed, a new threat is coming. Your grandmother is right you need to know the truth and begin your training." I was born into a family of witches. This is life changing. I don't know how to process all this. "Tell me what you are think." "This is a lot to take in. Can you change yourself back into the woman who raised me." my mother changes back. "Who was the person that was killed?" I ask my mother. "His name is Arthur, patriarch of both families." "And the two brothers?" "Theo and Sebastian." Okay, I know their names and the truth about my family, now I can begin my training to become the next Eldridge/St. James witch. I'm looking at myself in the mirror and I say to myself you can do it Star. "Do you want to see how you look now?" I shake my head. I'm perfectly fine the way I am. "Ready to begin." "I am."


The Carnival comes once a year. It’s a mystery, she thinks, how the artists manage to set their tents so quickly without anyone noticing, but when the fated day comes, they are already set, lights hanging and flags waving. Parents all over town look weary of the Carnival; strangers are not to be trusted, after all. Strangers will doom us all, say the Elders. Her parents think so too. But she does not care. After all, she loves the Carnival. This year, she is finally old enough to go on her own to the Carnival, as anyone under the age of sixteen is banned from the show. Her parents do not want her to go, but everybody knows that whoever wishes to enter the Carnival will find their way inside. That’s just how things are. The Carnival is so big that it looks absurd. The stands go as far as her eyes can see, stretching and stretching. Her feet do not hesitate and carry her to the first one, then another, and another. There are fantastic little trinkets and treasures everywhere: she finds a clock that sounds like a human heart, a ring that is warm to the touch after spinning it three times, and a string that can only be cut with nasty words. Her pockets empty rather quickly. Having realized that, she cannot bear to look at the seller anymore. -What’s the matter little bird? –the old woman stares her up and down as she snatches a rainbow-tinted shell that tells secrets from her hands. –Out of money already? She nods, ashamed. –That seems to be the case, yes. The old woman smiles, -But that is hardly a problem, is it? There are many things you possess that are more valuable than money. Here at the Carnival, we trade everything. It’s truly a marvelous place. –She smiles again with perfectly straight, white teeth. Even at her age, she’s still remarkably beautiful –Tell you what, I’ll give you this shell if you give me three locks of your hair. -Of my hair? –Her hand reaches unconsciously to her head – I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’ve always been told that my hair is very pretty, but I don’t believe it is as valuable as this shell. -It is very pretty indeed. I wish I had luscious hair like yours. Three locks of it seem like a fair price. -Well, if you are so sure then so be it.- They shake hands, and, swiftly as a spring breeze, the old woman cuts three locks of her hair. The shell is now in her hands. -Pleasure doing business with you, little bird. –She smiles again, widely, wildly. –It is indeed a very good deal. She doesn’t know how to answer, so she curtsies and goes to another stand. And, oh, the old woman was so right: the Carnival is truly a marvelous place. Money is not needed to get what she wants. The sellers ask for so little and give her so much! Three secrets for a bottle that contains all of the salt of an ancient sea, a kiss for a key that opens all doors that cannot be opened, her freckles for a necklace that makes the bearer feel the embrace of a mother. This is the land of marvels and wonders! Everywhere she goes there’s a new treasure to acquire. Off with her ability to cry, more of a nuisance than a blessing, goodbye to all the memories of her first five years of life –she doesn’t remember that much anyways- it’s even easier to part with her middle name, which she despises anyways. Who cares about all the fights she’s ever had or all the wrinkles she’ll ever get? She trades, and trades and trades. Eventually, she has to stop at a near stand as she feels as if she could fall any time. The girl inside manages to catch her before she tumbles to the ground. Moving with just a leg is harder than it seems. -Parece que alguien ha perdido el rumbo –the girl is so pretty and smells like tangerines –siéntate un ratito a mi vera, ¿quieres? Nothing that comes from the girl’s mouth makes any sense. She can’t remember if she has traded her ability to understand languages. She tries to speak, but her mouth feels weirdly hollow. The girl pulls some cards from a wooden box and shuffles them without looking. –Tres cartas: una para el pasado, otra para el presente y otra para el futuro. Es la manera tradicional de hacerlo, ¿sabes? No bueno, supongo que no. –She pulls three cards from the deck. It is a very peculiar one, she must say. Instead of clubs, hearts, spades and diamonds, it has coins, garrottes, swords and goblets. –Tienes unos ojos azules muy bonitos. Por el color de tus ojos, te leeré tu primera carta. No es un mal trato, ¿verdad? She nods, not quite getting what she’s saying, but eager to see what she intends to do. The girl puts down a card and flips it, showing the picture of a funny man holding a goblet. She says something more and pulls another card. This time, the picture represents three coins forming a triangle. The girl smiles at her: all-white sharp teeth and she blinks in surprise. That’s the last thing she sees. -Supongo que no tiene mucho sentido que la saque ahora, pero bueno, un trato es un trato. –The girl makes shuffling noises and then lets a soft “Oh”. –Qué curioso. Está vacía. –she sights, and now that she can’t see, the girl’s voice sounds tired and older. - Mala suerte. The noises stop after a while, and she guesses that the girl must have left, so she tries to stand up. Standing over one leg, she approaches the closest noise. She wonders what could they possibly be saying. Her focus on the foreign voices is so intense that she barely notices falling to the ground. Someone helps her stand up and then she cannot feel her fingers anymore. More people crush into her. With every touch, she feels something slipping away: an ear, her lungs, her heart, her thoughts. A touch to many and she forgets her brother, her parents, herself. But she does not care. After all, she loves the Carnival.


Possible TW: Description of dysphoria. Ruby stared at her reflection in the floor length mirror. She saw so many things wrong with the way she looked. Her hair was way too short. Her shoulders were too broad. She was about six inches too tall, her voice was three octaves too deep, her chest was about two cups too flat. At least, she thought. She didn’t know much about cup sizes. But the worst of all of her flaws was the fact that her body was biologically male. She didn’t understand why she had been born that way. Ruby could go on and on for hours about the things that she disliked about the face she saw staring back at her, but she didn’t exactly have the time for proper self loathing. She had to get ready for the big day she had ahead of her.

She slowly and painfully adjusted the grey duct tape that she had stuck to her inner thighs, changing the position of the tape so that it curved around her pelvic bones and up towards her belly button. She then pulled on a pair of small tighty-whities, getting dressed in a pair of ripped skinny jeans and an oversized, light purple sweatshirt. Finally, she slipped into a pair of black and white checkered Vans, and brushed out her ear length brown hair. Pretty much the second that Ruby was done getting herself ready, she heard a loud, obnoxious knock on the front door. She tensed up, startled by the noise, and then she hurried down the stairs to open the door. She quickly swung it open, and there on the porch stood her two best (and only) friends Finley and Klaus.

Finley smiled brightly as she opened the door. “Hi, Charlie!” Ruby winced slightly at her deadname, but she managed to hide it from her friends. “Hey, guys, come on upstairs,” She greeted them quietly. Klaus and Finley followed behind Ruby all up the stairs to her room, kicking off their shoes at the doorway. The three teenagers got comfortable laying on Ruby’s soft bed, and Klaus and Finley turned themselves around to face their friend. “So, why’d you ask us to come over here to see you, Charlie-Boy? We don’t hang out here much.” Klaus enquired, tilting his head.

This time, Ruby wasn’t able to hide her wince at the awful name. The two boys sitting in front of her immediately looked worried. “What’s wrong, babes?” Klaus asked her gently. He always called his friends pet names when he was worried about them. Ruby took a deep, slow breath, gearing herself up for the rejection she was sure to receive. “I have something to tell you guys, something kind of important.” Klaus and Finley looked at her intently; they were both confused, and slightly worried about her. “I’m transgender.” She blurted out quickly. She watched as Finley and Klaus’s eyebrows raised a tiny bit in surprise, and she could see the gears in their brains turning. She immediately began to ramble on, trying to explain herself to them. “So, uh, that means that I’m a girl. My name is Ruby Elizabeth Clare, because I couldn’t pick just one middle name, and my pronouns are she/her and I’m not named Charlie anymore. I never was really. I understand if you don’t wanna be friends with me anymore after knowing this, ‘cause it’s really weird to be honest and a lot of people think it’s gross and wrong, and that I’m gonna go to Hell because of it and I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought that too because it’s against Christianity, and-” “Ruby.” Finley interrupted her quietly. Ruby’s heart fluttered from hearing him use her proper name. “Yes?” “I’m trans too.” Klaus and Ruby’s heads both snapped towards him in surprise. “You are?” She asked.

“Yeah. I’m a trans guy, have you not seen any of the pictures in my house? You’re safe with me, I promise.” Ruby teared up. She couldn’t believe that her best friend was just like her.

Finley saw the tears in her eyes, and he held his arms open. Ruby launched herself into them, and he wrapped her up, holding her tightly to his chest.

“I promise, Ruby, it’s okay to be trans. I love you so much, and I’m so proud of you for feeling brave enough to tell me and Klaus this. This is so important.” “I’m proud of you too, and I love you,” Ruby whispered, holding onto Finley like he was her lifeline.

After a few seconds, the two friends pulled away from each other and turned to look at Klaus. Suddenly, Ruby’s heart was full of fear again.

“Klaus..?” Finley’s voice shook a bit. “How are you processing all of this?” Klaus shrugged nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed. “I’m fine with all of it. I have nine siblings, you really think that every single one of them are cisgender and straight? Henrie is a trans boy, and Jemm is genderfluid. Besides, even if I didn’t have trans siblings, I’m attracted to men. I’m gay. Why would I not support all of the LGBTQ+ community?” Ruby was silent for a moment, but then she let out a loud, teary laugh. Her friends looked at her curiously. “I can’t believe I was so scared to tell you guys this! You’re so freakin’ accepting, I should’ve known!”

Finley and Klaus laughed along with her, and Klaus stepped towards the other two teenagers. “Can I join the hug?” He held out his arms, and Ruby and Finley wrapped around him. The three friends stayed in their group hug for several moments, before reluctantly pulling away from each other. Ruby looked at her two best friends. “I love you guys so much.” The boys smiled back at her. “I love you too, Ruby,” They responded in unison. Ruby beamed at her real name, and then sat back down on her bed. She kicked her legs up and turned on her TV.

“So.. You guys wanna play Mario Kart together?”


CONTENT WARNING: murder, language, and sex parts. The wind was blowing and I was drifting in a river full of dead fish. I heard my girlfriend yelling my name. "AMY!...AMY!...AMY WAKE UP!!" but I couldn't wake up. It was a bright Saturday morning and I was laying in bed cuddling my girlfriend who just woke up. She sat up and gave me my morning kiss. "Are you hungry?" She had asked me as she got up to go make something to eat. "Ya but, I'll make breakfast you go take your shower." I was walking to the kitchen behind her saying that. She turned and looked at me and then smiled, "ok whatever you say." She giggled a bit and then walked to the bathroom. I headed to the kitchen to make some breakfast for Emily. I heard the water in the bathroom running. I started making eggs and then 15 minutes pasted and I heard the water turn off. I had breakfast ready for Emily. I heard the bathroom door open then I turned around from the sink to ask her a question but I was stopped. Emily was standing at the end of the hall, no towel, and no clothes. I could see the heat radiating off her body she started walking to me and she came around the counter. I pulled her close to me and I could feel the heat from her body through my clothes and then I kiss her gently sliding my hands down to her bare flesh. She started making small noises and kissing me. I picked her up and took her back to the bedroom and I laid her on the bed going down kissing every inch of her body I could. But all seemed to end when there was a knock at the front door. I rolled my eyes and told Emily to stay put. I went to the front door and opened it. "Hel-" I was stopped when I saw Emily's mom standing there with a slap across her face and bruises all on her body. I opened the door more so she could come in then Emily came out with her clothes on and saw her mom then ran to her and helped her to the couch. "Mom what happened?!?!" I went to get her a glass of ice cold water and I came back and gave it to her. "Your father came home... From the bar." She took a drink then looked at me. I had rage in my eyes and her mother could see that. I stood up and grabbed my keys "WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!?!" rage was all in my voice and it scared Emily. I looked at her mom and she told me where to find him. I ran out the door and showed up to Emily's parents house. I busted the door in and went right to where Emily's dad was. "YOU PIECE OF SH-" I was stopped when I saw he was dead. I looked around and then I heard someone behind me. I pulled my knife and turned around and to my surprise Emily's older brother was standing there with a gun in his hands. "Mike?" I asked questioned. "Amy?" He looked at me then I looked at him. Emily showed up with her mom and they both saw what was going on. Emily raced over to me and grabbed the knife from my hand then she put it in her pocket. She hugged me tight and then looked at Mike. "Hey brother" she said scared to death, "please put the gun down. Mom is ok and you saved her. Now please put the gun down." Mike dropped the gun down and it went off and shot my leg. I dropped the the floor and held my leg. "PUT THE SAFETY ON BEFORE YOU DO THAT DUMBASS!" I held my leg and then Emily went over and grabbed the gun then came back to me and helped me to the couch then grabbed a pair of tweezers and gave me a belt to bite down on. "This is gonna hurt." She warned me before going in with the tweezers and pulling the bullet out and I screamed. It hurt so bad I bit through to belt and left marks in it. She finally got it cleaned up and wrapped it. I sat her next to me then I started to hold her and love on her. Everyone got to talking but I stayed quiet and fell asleep. I woke up in the car and we were driving back to my house. Emily's mom was at her own house getting help by Emily's brother. I placed my hand on Emily's thigh and she smiled. "Good morning sleepy head." She gave a slight giggle and set her hand on my hand. I smiled and winced at the pain that was still going through my leg. "How's your mom doing?" I asked, "she's doing better then before." Emily replied. I nodded then we pulled up to my house and I opened my door and got out limping to the door and getting my keys to unlock my door. I walked in Emily behind me helping me. I pulled her infront of me and I kissed her with my hands on her hips. I slid one of my hands down her leg and up her skirt. "So where were we?" She took me to the bed room and then I laid her on the bed and I took her clothes off while taking my clothes off. She bit her lip and I went down. I heard her moaning and telling me not to stop. ** I laid next to her breathing hard and she was to. I cuddled up to her and pulled her close to me, I looked at the time and it was almost dinner time. "What do u want for dinner?" Emily looked at me and replied with "can you make us sushi?" I nodded my head then got up and put my shirt and pants back on and then walked to the kitchen. Then it went black. * The wind was blowing and I was drifting in a river full of dead fish. I heard my girlfriend yelling my name. "AMY!...AMY!...AMY WAKE UP!!" but I couldn't wake up. I didn't know what was going on. I woke up in the hospital and next to me was Emily and my parents. "Where am I?" I sat up and Emily hugged me tight. She answered all my questions and told me what had happened. I was hit upside the head by my step father and dragged to an old boat that was being pulled by a river. I held Emily in my arms then looked at my mom and my dad and step mom. They all smiled. My parents were christians but seeing how happy I am with Emily they approved of my sexuality and all my choices. * Three years passed and me and Emily were out eating dinner at a fancy restaurant and I dropped my fork on purpose and I looked at Emily then pulled a diamond ring out. "Emily Oak, will you marry me?" Emily tucked her blonde hair behind her ear and nodded her head and started crying tears of joy. I put the ring on her finger and hugged her while kissing her. Everyone in the restaurant was clapping for us.


It was dark. But the darkness was peaceful, wrapped in a blanket of the stars, and the beautiful glow of the moon. That earthly aroma hit, as the rain came down. Beautiful rainy days are angelic in a way that suits this personality most. My mother once gave me some advice that I had been turning over and over in my mind, ever since. “Not everyone deserves to know the real you,” she had said, “Let people criticize who they think you are, as long as you know who you really are it doesn't matter, what they think of you .” My mother had not said anything else after that, we’ve always been communicative but in a more reserved way, I was quiet most of the time, and my mother didn’t like loud noises so we had a way of understanding the other, in a more introverted way. I had always understood that she had meant more than what she had said, although I never questioned it myself. I walked the streets of London, near my favorite library, The National Art Library. The library was filled with thousands upon thousands of books, stories, poems, scriptures, it was truly a writer's paradise, a place of creativity, and magic, I sat down on the velvety soft chairs, as I leaned back, that old book scent, that I enjoy so much filled my senses, and I began to get lost, ounce more in the pages of the book. The book was interesting to say the least, it reminded me of the simplest of times, the times where worries were not around, and I could be me without a care in the world, always with my noes in a book. I had always been in my own little world, ever since I was only but a child, never really paying attention to the outside world, nor to people, I was an outcast, and people generally hated me, maybe it was because I was blunt, or maybe it was because I was too truthful, but whatever the case it didn't change the fact that people just did not like me. I had but only one friend, and her name was Lilith, she was nothing like me, she was more outgoing, and she was loud, in a good way, she had porcelain skin, and beautiful golden locks, she was the beauty of our school, and everyone liked her, including me although I think it was more envy than me liking her. I remembered the last conversation we had she had come up to my like usual, we ate lunch and the she had asked me, “doesn't it get lonely being by yourself all the time?”, to which I then replied, “doesn't it get lonely being with fake people all the time?”. After I gave my response I could see that she was offended deeply, she never spoke to me again, and slowly we drifted apart and I was again all alone, in an unforgiving world, although not completely I still had my books, and that was enough for me, I truly believe that I will be an outcast forever, but I don’t really mind it,or at least that’s what I tell myself, In truth it hurt a lot when Lilith had left me behind, I have thought about it and even asked myself why am I like this, I wish I could fit in, I wish I wasn’t alone, although it can't be helped this is me “I don’t want to be me anymore…” I whispered to myself, I felt something cold and wet coming down my face. I was crying. I tried to make it stop but it wouldn't, the tears just kept coming down on my light rugged inflamed face, and my heart felt heavy, sort of like a weight that was weighing down on my chest. I suppose it is true what they say about me, I am a freak, a nobody, but I want to be somebody. I wanted to make myself matter. I looked out the window, my tears still flowing, much like how the rain kept coming down, at least I knew I wasn’t crying all alone, at leas the clouds were crying with me, my tears stained the pages of the book which I held closely to my chest. The ironic part was that the story that the book was about, was much like mine, a girl that was left behind, who people hated, simply because she was different than everyone else. And the girl n the story reminded me of me. This girl had scars both physical and mental, she was a knight of sorts, and was stronger than any man or women, she always spoke the truth, she was blunt, and because she only spoke the truth and because of her strength people had forgotten that she still felt, that she was still human, and so she was made out to be a monster, a horrible terrible monster. she was ridiculed, made fun of, and laughed at. She was a total outcast, nobody like her, and so the girl, left and never came back she closed herself off of humanity and only went out when she had to. This girl, this story, is a sad and terrifying one, "I don't want to end up alone, I just want to fit in is that too much to ask" I asked myself, I looked around the library, it was completely empty, as if it was abandoned. I walked toward's the window, and pressed my hand on the cold smooth glass, I saw couples together sharing umbrellas and laughing, children playing in the puddles of which the rain created. I want to be like that, I looked at my reflection, my dark brown hair, my scared skin, and my dark chocolate brown eyes, I hated what I saw, I had gotten skinnier I looked sick, I quickly looked away, and ran my fingers through the spines of books on the wooden shelves. I grabbed my thing and left. The rain pouring down, crying with me the whole way, me and the rain, the two forever alone outcasts.


“Memory is more indelible than ink.” Her name is forgotten by time, and she writes letters.

She is the ink to the quill, the paper to the typewriter. She is the words one speaks, and the silence between them. She is outdated, but she is new and fresh to those who have not come by her before.

She writes letters in ink, for in her opinion that is the only true way to write. She writes from dusk to dawn, penning new phrases and words no one has heard. She writes voices for those in her mind who are voiceless, and she writes songs of sorrow for those who cannot sing.

She writes in her tiny cottage by the sea, her windows always open. She enjoys the breeze of the wind, as it brings voice to her quill. She loves the whispers of the sea, the energy of the wind. It brings her own voice and energy, so she has never moved away. Her dying grey hair splits at the bottom, her old, fragile bones taking longer to write. She is old, but she has knowledge, knowledge the world would die for.

She looks down at her quill, noting the intricate curves on the bottom that hold onto the ink before she presses it down once more. She had used the same quill for many years, but now she uses a new one, one that holds more ink and therefore can tell more stories. Still, she misses the old quill's grip in her hand, the ease of pressing it down to make a simple mark.

It is morning, and she has not written anything yet. Yet, she does not want to write today. She wants to go to the sea like she used to as a child. She wants to dip her toes into the water just like she dips her pen into her ink, and drag them out, writing words in the sand. She wants to meet new people, and experience new things.

She tugs at her white hair, once ebony, now ivory. Slowly, she stands, putting her hands on her desk to balance herself. She has not stood up in a long time, and not left the small cottage she lives in even in longer.

She looks down at her work, at the letters she has written. They are short, but she is still not proud of them. She filled the pages with little doodles of flowers and pupils of eyes in her usual black ink.

She frowns, and puts them in the drawer under her desk. Today’s will be better, she promises herself. Today’s letters will reflect the ocean air.

The door creaks as she stumbles towards it, fresh air illuminating the room as she swings it open. The windows only bring so much, she realizes, thoughtfully. It is the true outside that brings the most brightness.

Somewhere in her mind, she saves that line for a letter.

She manages to bring herself farther forward towards the sea, down the hill her little cottage is located atop of. She breathes the air fresher than before, with it’s salty ocean scent. She loves it. It’s like a good dessert - sweet and savory. The perfect balance.

She used to cook, but she does not anymore. Now, she simply writes, writes letters and writes stories.

The wind blows her dress to the side, its color the same pearly off-white as her hair. She wears a pearl around her neck, too, but it is different, as it is a darker color. A black baroque pearl, one of the rarest kinds. Irregular in shape and in color.

It’s chain is thin and long, made from the same material as her old quill. She turns her head towards the sea, thinking about how the waves touch the sandy shores, when the necklace comes off with the wind, one great wave taking it away into the water.

She runs towards the sea, letting her feet touch the ocean.

She runs and she runs. “Give it back!” she cries out, screaming at the ocean. She has not spoken in years, so her voice is old and tired. “Give me back my pearl!” The ocean grins in response, its waves stretching left and right. “Oh, no,” a voice says, calling it from the distance. “We cannot do that, letter-writer. It was ours, and it always will be.” She looks forward, trying to find the voice. She knows not every person has a voice, which is why she writes them, but she has not yet met a voice with no speaker. Finally, she sees her, a child, perhaps a teenager, wearing a flowing blue dress with matching blue eyes. Her hair is a light auburn, with streaks of the orange sunlight. She smiles with the waves, letting her eyes crinkle in the light. “Oh, letter-writer,” she says with a grin. “So, we meet again.” “Who are you?” Our protagonist replies, her own eyes still locked on the pearl. The child smiles, clutching the necklace in her hand. “Do you not remember?” she says, her voice lowering. “You once wrote a letter for me.” “But I haven’t written a letter in many years,” the letter-writer replies, her eyes drifting their gaze from the child’s hands to her own steady glare forward. “At least, not for anyone else. I just write letters for myself and for the people in my mind who cannot tell their own stories.” “The people in your mind?” “Yes,” she says, nodding to herself. “The characters, you may call them. They come through me, and I let them tell their own stories on the paper.” “Is that really a letter?” Her head tilts backwards as she speaks.

“I suppose you could call it a story, if you preferred. But I call it a letter, as I am the one writing it.” She pauses, thinking of her writing. “But I write letters, too. I write letters to the people I have spoken to, to the people I know I will eventually forget. I write so that I can remember.” The girl laughs, more of a cackle than a grin like before. “And yet,” she says, tightening her grasp on the pearl. “And yet, you have failed, as you have forgotten me.” “It seems I have,” she replies, letting her own voice waver. “What is your name, child?” “I would tell you,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “If you did not steal from me any more.” “But I do not steal from you.” She glances up in confusion, the wind blowing her to and fro. “You say I stole my pearl from you, but I did not. It was a gift, from someone long ago.” “Precisely.” She frowns again, her hair being ruffled by the wind. “You seem to know more about me than I know,” she says, her voice rising with the wind in confusion. “If that is the case, then what have I stolen?” “I do,” the child replies once more. “And you write in ink, do you not? Ink is from the ocean, you know, from the bodies of the octopus and the squid. You steal from us every day, and you have never seemed to care.” Her own blue dress ruffles up with her maple red hair. She forcefully stands her ground against the wind, Perhaps it is her age that makes her so strong, or perhaps it is the sheer amount of power she holds.

“Letter-writer,” she begins once again. “Have you nothing to say?” “No,” says the letter-writer. “No, I do remember you. I just never wrote you, I always drew you.” The child frowns. “You drew me?” She asks, her face growing pale. “You drew me with the ink you have stolen from my ocean, simply to preserve my memory, a memory others will be able to see? How dare you draw me.” But the letter-writer frowns, her voice still wavering. “Iris,” she whispers out, tracing the outline of a flower in the air. A flower identical to the ones on her cream colored paper in her room. “You are Iris. Iris of the Ocean. You came to me, asking for a letter to the sky. I remember laughing, for Iris was the messenger of the sky and of all letters in the old tales, but you said you were not named for the rainbow or for the skies, simply for the flowers in the ground and the center of one’s eye. You said you would be the messenger, however, for you must deliver a letter one could never hear about.” The girl smiles, her own irises glinting in the sunlight. “Well done,” she says. “But still, have you no remorse for the ink you have stolen?” “I wrote you a letter,” the letter-writer continued. “A letter to the sky from the seas. And, in return, you gave me a pearl as my payment, a small black pearl, irregular in shape. A gift, you said. A gift from the ocean.” “Also true,” says Iris of the Ocean. “But technology has long replaced ink. You could use typewriters, if you truly needed to write. But you insist on ink, ink made from my seas.” “Do you,” the letter-writer starts, her voice fading out into the oblivion of the seas and wind. “Do you - do you know my name?” She pauses, thinking about how to explain her question. “Iris of the Ocean, do you know who I am? All I know is that I write letters. I do not know whether they are stories or letters anymore. I do not know if you were one I made up from my mind or remembered. All I know is the paper and the quill, all I know is the past I was given, a past I now forget. I use the ink of the seas because I remember the seas, I use ink because I know it well. I could use a typewriter, but the letters wouldn’t have my touch to them. No one would ever be able to read them and know they were mine.” Iris sighs, her shoulders dropping. She leans down to the sea, reaching to pick up a dollop of the ocean. A sphere of water. Slowly, she inserts the necklace inside of the sphere, letting it float in her own makeshift briny, blue sea.

“I know your name, letter-writer,” she says. “I know who you are, and I know who you could be. You have not come to the seas in years, letter-writer. You live right here, and yet only now you can explain why you use my ink. Here is your pearl. A gift from the sea, something for you to hold onto. But you must promise to no longer write in ink.

If you can make this promise, I will tell you your name, as well, for the ocean knows you well. The wind will remember you from now on, and the seas will continue your legacy. You did not tell me your name before when we met, but I have learned it over time.” The letter-writer smiles, reaching her hand forward. “That’s a deal,” she says, her eyes wide with happiness. “Thank you, Iris of the Ocean.” “Thank you, Runa.” “Runa?” She asks, her eyes growing wider. “That’s my name?” “Yes.” She frowns, looking back up to see Iris’s auburn hair and blue eyes, but they are gone, replaced with the wind and the seas. She is gone, gone back to her home. To the ocean. The letter-writer begins to climb up the hill once more to her cottage by the seas, ready to go into town for a typewriter. Her name is Runa, and she writes letters.


I waited until the footsteps receded down the hall, reaching beneath my bed to grab the bag of things I had collected earlier in the day. I smirked to myself. No one ever notices what I do, and I love it. Once I opened my door slowly and checked no one had their lights on, I sneaked down the hall to the window. Checking behind me once more, I opened the window and sat on the sill. I took a deep breath and jumped. I resisted the urge to scream in delight, knowing it would only get me found. I dropped another two storeys until I opened a wormhole and disappeared. I stumbled to the ground, looking back at the castle and leaning against a wall for support. A giggle bubbled up inside of me, but I fought it back, remembering where I (hopefully) was. I walked around the side of the building and spotted the purple dot on the door frame. Another successful wormwalk. I knocked three times, waited, and then knocked twice. The door flew open and I saw Dena standing in the light that shone from her candles. She looked me up and down once, nodded and said: “He’s out by the field. Be careful now, you wouldn’t want someone seeing you.” Her voice had a slight lilt, making her words sound almost like a poem. I thanked her and walked behind the other houses near the field, careful not to make any noise. Once I was out in the open, I let the glowing rock my tutor had been showing me this morning come into existence once more, holding out my palm as the rock gradually reformed. I held it above my head once it was fully formed, letting its light guide me through the field without breaking my legs on some hidden hole. The field had a gentle incline, so once I reached the top, I paused for a second, drinking in the moonlit view of the palace that was my prison and home. Lower down the field, I saw a dark shape moving, and crouched, squinting into the darkness. “Nixon?” I called gently, my voice carrying through the quiet air. I see a flash of purple below me and then a hand touches my shoulder. I almost scream, but cover my mouth before I can make too much noise. I hear a smooth chuckle behind me and the hand retreats. “Star’s sake, Nix! You gave me a heart attack! You know I hate it when you do that.” I turn to face Nixon, my golden eyes glaring at him in the light of the glowing rock. His dark blue eyes, black in this light, gleamed with mischief, and the one-sided smile he gave me only made me want to punch him more. “Chill out, Hope. You’re late anyway, so it wasn’t for no reason. Did you make it ok?” He said in a deep voice, his words containing the same lilt as his mother’s. I nodded and sat down where I was, looking out over the valley between this little hill and the gentle mountain where the castle sat. “So,” I said, once Nix had sat down beside me, “What’s the lesson going to be about tonight? Ethical uses for Existential Sorcery? Or practical uses for the wormhole?” He looked at me for a moment longer than was necessary then looked at the moon. “Ways Existential powers have shaped our society and why they shouldn’t be outlawed.” I leaned back and waited for him to continue. “Many years ago, there were loads of Sorcerers and everybody prospered. Although some used their powers for bad, most people were helpful and kind. That is until the royal family tried to kill all magic. The general population doesn't know the reasons, but maybe you do. Most people speculate about why the king tried to kill all sorcerers and the common theory is he was upset because his family didn’t have any powers at all, so if they didn’t have magic, why should the rest of us? Anyway, he successfully killed magic in his time, but the tricky thing about magic is it isn’t an ancestral thing. It happens to appear in some people at different stages in their lives. I know of an old man who woke up with wormhole powers. And there was a baby in a village a couple of miles down the road who made her toys disappear. Then there was you. Randomly appeared right in front of me, scaring the starlight out of me and the sheep.” I laughed remembering the first time I accidentally used one of my two powers. “Yeah, but I wasn’t much more calm than you. I completely freaked when I realised where I was.” He turned his head and smiled at me. “You were really loud though, and I had to lie to that guy and tell him you had hurt yourself.” “Oh, when we were young,” I said teasingly. “Why do we say all that stuff about the stars and moon? I’ve only just realised that we say stuff about them all the time.” Nix nodded like he knew this would come up. "People were trying to find out the limits to magic before it was outlawed, and one of them was that we can't change the sun, stars, or the moon. Although we usually use words connected to starlight, sometimes other villages use the sun or moon more often. It all depends on where you come from.” He stood up and dusted his trousers off. “Right, let’s empty that bag you brought and see how much you’ve improved with your wormholes.” ***** My parents had told me repeatedly that reading was the appropriate entertainment for a proper princess. My older sister Hope could run around the palace singing at the top of her voice and playing with the piglets in their sties – in their eyes, she was a lost cause. But as long as they had no more children, I had to be princessy enough for both of us. I looked at the cover of the book I'd picked and sighed. Why can't I even be childish in my own room? I knew without checking that a woman was watching me from outside her door. There always was. It was times like these that I almost didn't like Hope. I loved her – as much as anyone can love a close relative that they barely see – but sometimes I resented her carefree, immature behaviour. I should be the immature one. Suddenly I felt an urge to do something – something mischievous, something definitely immature. “Dena, would you please find my father? I would like to discuss this fascinating book with him,” I lied. “Of course,” Dena replied in that musical way of hers (I envied her voice. It was so - perfect). She saw the book, lying open on the first page, and said nothing. When she was gone, I smiled—good old Dena. “Faith! You're not busy?” I whirled around, clutching my hands to my heart. “Star's sake, Hope! You gave me a heart attack!” I said. “And... why are you covered in flour?” She looked down at her blue dress, turned starch white from flour. She brushed it off, and I winced. I knew what our father would say about the mess. "That? I..." She blushed and looked down at her feet. "I wormwalked into the pantry by accident trying to get up here. Cook wasn't in a good mood." I laughed. Not the refined, regal laugh my parents had taught me - it felt good to laugh again. Hope smiled, self-consciously dusting off more flour on my bedroom floor. “How's the magic coming on?” she asked. “Magic? You mean, I can wormwalk like you?” “You could. Although you'll never be as good as I am.” My sister grinned as I gave her arm a weak punch. “Well, there is something,” I mused. She sat on the arm of my chair and waited for more. “I'm beginning to see these... faint lengths of string.” Her mouth opened. “That's the only way I can explain it, with string. There are loads of them, and they sit in people's heads – everyone's, although I can't see my own. They kind of overlap, like they're sitting on top of each other, but I can see them like they're spread out. And they're all different lengths.” It was hard to explain, but I was relying on her already knowing what I meant. Her face warned me that this wasn't a good thing, but I carried on, anxious for her to understand. “I haven't tried anything with them yet, but I'm sure I could. I feel like I could just... tug a bit. I want to see what would happen, Hope.” I burned with curiosity – if my parents had this, they would've told me, right? I gave myself a mental hug at the thought that I might be special. “Can you do something with my -” she hesitated. “- my string? Now, I mean.” I nodded and focused. I separated her string, picked the shortest piece, and gave it an experimental tug. It snapped in half, the frayed edges moulding into the invisible length of my own string. The room's colours seemed to dim a little, and I thought, Why am I trying this? I'm going to fail . I glanced at Hope. She seemed completely carefree – even more than usual. Then she frowned. “Give it back, Faith,” she said gently. It was my turn to frown. “Give what back?” “The string.” My frown deepened as I dug into my mind, trying to find the string to return. “Try mine,” my sister suggested. I looked into her mind and found the severed string. Raising a finger for Hope to be silent, I coaxed the rest of her string away from mine, watching as it separated and joined back to her. I straightened up, feeling lighter. “You know more about this than I do, don't you?” I said. Hope nodded, still recovering from whatever I had just done. “You know that magic is centred on voids, yes?” she said. I shook my head. “It's why we mention stars, moons and the sun so often. Because they're in space, which is a giant void.” I knew this was what her secret teacher had told her a few lessons ago (I'm not completely ignorant), but I listened anyway, silently praying. This better be good. “So some people can make wormholes, some people make things disappear, and some people -” She hesitated. I waved my hand encouragingly. “Go on.” “It's called emotional void, or EV for short. It's – rare. Those people can drain you of emotion – temporarily, I mean. Some people specialise in one emotion, in their case it lasts for a day, some people are all-rounders, which lasts an hour each.” She fidgeted on the edge of her seat. “So that's what I have,” I prompted, then paused to think. “There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?” “It can be good.” Was she – is she pleading? “People who specialise in sadness make our kingdom so much happier, and people who specialise in anger can stop wars.” Now I got it. “There's something you're leaving out. Some people specialise in joy, love, and positive emotions, don't they? And...” “And so our parents are scared of anyone with that kind of power, so prisons are for other sorcerers, and EVs get... executed. And what you just showed me is exactly what they're scared of...” Her voice trailed away. ***** When I returned to my room, I sat on the bed, thinking. What Faith just showed me scared me and I didn't know what I was going to do about it. The fear or the power she had showed me. I was facing the window, watching the clouds go by, my thoughts swirling like a storm. I twisted my copper-coloured hair around my fingers a couple of times, unconsciously biting my lip. I stopped when I tasted the metallic tang of blood, sighed and paced to the window. No one could find out about Faith now, not even Nix. I hated the thought of keeping something this important from him, but I had to for the sake of my sister. I smiled to myself, noticing that I was actually acting like an older sister should. A sudden knock on the door made me jump and spin around. “Who- who is it?” I called out, trying to slow my beating heart. “It’s Hatti, m’lady, and I come baring an invitation from your parents, the king and queen. They would like you to join them for lunch.” I could hear the squeaky floorboard outside my door, which meant Hatti was about to walk away. “Hatti! Wait!” I said as I opened the door. She turned slowly on her heel, giving me a wary look like I might try to bite her or something. “I, um, I don’t know what to wear, would you mind, uh, helping me to pick something out?” When I was ready, I walked carefully down the main staircase, trying not to trip in the weirdly puffy and long dress. I usually wore boy’s trousers with a tunic over them. Occasionally I would wear a very practical dress or two, but they were never like this. Finally, I made it to the bottom without falling on my face, and I hurried to the dining room, still not sure why they would bother making me have lunch with them. I never eat in the palace, I’m always out before everyone is awake, strolling the town or playing in the fields below the castle. Sometimes, I forget lunch entirely, only remembering to eat something when I get back home, late at night, when all the delicious smells from dinner still lingering in the halls. The heavy doors swung open when I knocked, startling me for a moment. No one ever does that for me normally. “Ah!” My dad’s voice boomed from the head of the table, “There’s the little rascal! Come on Hope, sit down already!” I scurried to my place at the table, nervously fiddling with the outermost fork. When my mother spoke, I jumped, and my fork clattered to the floor. I winced as a servant picked it up and I tried to grab it from her, but she gave me a strange look and got me a new one from a tray in the corner of the room. “So.” Mother said, giving me a hard look, “Your Father and I have been discussing your place here. We don’t think you’re as ready as we would like you to be, seeing as you’re the heir, and we’ve decided to give your sister the title of Crown Princess, instead of you.” Faith, who I hadn't noticed up until then, gasped and dropped her glass. “M-me?” She sputtered, leaning back for the maid to clean up the mess her spilt drink had caused. “Yes, you. Now, while we will still allow you to live in the palace, Hope, we want you to start helping out since you cause a lot of messes. We would also like you to stay out of the way when we have visiting officials and royals over, maybe staying in your room or… out.” She said the last word carefully as if she was thinking of saying something else. “So, you want to get rid of me?” I asked, my voice breaking on the word ‘rid’. This was my worst fear coming to life. I’d always thought that if I could lower the standard for Faith, then she wouldn’t feel so pressured as I had when that awful woman Leana was my tutor. She had always yelled at me for the slightest mistake, never letting me do anything I wanted. So once she was gone, I wouldn’t let myself get controlled like that again, swearing never to be like Leana had tried to make me. Of course, I still cared what my parents thought of me, but I figured if I couldn’t be perfect like Leana had wanted me to be, then I would try my best to be a perfect version of myself. But now, they all thought I was a failure, and I knew Faith never thought very highly of me, but now? The way she was looking at me now was a look of sympathy, but not one that said ‘I’m so sorry, Hope, I’ll try to help you get your title back,’ it said ‘Oh dear, you weren’t expecting that, were you?’. “No, dear, we just want you out of the way. If you can’t be a presentable princess, then you’ll have to stay quiet and unseen.” My mother said, condescendingly. I pursed my lips and stood up, pushing my chair back with my legs. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, but I blinked them back, turning and running away from the horrible people in the dining room. Unconsciously, I opened a wormhole and ran through it, my unshed tears warping my vision. When I finally stopped, I was on a mountainside somewhere far away from the palace. The castle was just a smudge of grey on a distant mountain. I sighed in relief, sitting on the ground and finally letting my tears fall onto the soft grass. Suddenly, the sun disappeared, and everything got dark. I blinked the remaining tears away, standing on the now-dark hillock. The stars were shining and the moon was round, but it was still the middle of the day. Then, one by one, the stars started disappearing. [Co-written with Annie Persson. I only wrote the parts between the '*'s]