When it snows in the desert, time ceases. A landscape always so stark with lonely cacti and red dirt becomes bleak with a thin coat of white paint. The desolation of the desert is restless. Towering rock formations—nearby but somehow always out of reach—inspire dreams of mystery and nomads and the incessant journey for shelter. The barrenness of the desert in the snow is silent. Evidence that nothing ever moves here becomes worrisome, and painful.         Delilah hates the snow the way she hates curling iron burns and the cold, silky feeling of her grandmother’s wrinkled hands. It’s tolerable, but barely; frustrating, nervous, and the source of a unique sense of in-betweenness. The curling iron hits her forehead between getting ready and being ready, her grandmother’s hands between vivacious youth and the cold unknown. Liminal spaces where sameness rules but everything feels so uncomfortable.         Deserts are liminal too, but in a way that makes Delilah calm. She can control her life here; it’s hot and dry, but everything else is whatever she makes of it.         Now, Delilah is trying to make gingerbread cookies out of her busy, antsy snow anxiety. Katherine down the street—Dale’s second wife, fixated on her perfect family and her nuclear happy ending—is throwing a holiday cookie exchange. Delilah doesn’t care much for Katherine, but she does care for a distraction. Though her late RSVP will rile up the neighborhood, she hopes her cookies will make up for it.         Thus far, success in that department is doubtful. Delilah runs her finger down the list of ingredients again.

Egg, butter, flour, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, molasses, ginger— what could she possibly be missing?         She lets out a bitter laugh when it hits her—the sugar. Such a simple oversight of the most important part of any cookie, its sweetness. Delilah reckons a metaphor could be drawn between her sugarless cookies and her sour mood, but she pulls the pink sugar bag down from the top shelf of the cabinet before she can dwell on the comparison.         Before long, she’s done it. Delilah shakes her head as she pulls the pan out of the oven. Funny how remembering all the ingredients makes cooking so much easier. Delilah pulls her hand out of a red oven mitt and reaches to inspect one of the gingerbread men but cries out and shrinks back from the heat. She brings her burnt finger to her mouth and sucks on it a moment, a habit she’s never been able to break, even after she discovered aloe.         Looking from afar, Delilah’s gingerbread cookies are perfect. Crisp, warm brown, cleans edges. Once they’ve had a few minutes to cool she makes quick work of decorating, squeezing red, white, and green frosting from bags and making a mess of sprinkles on the counter. Despite the debris, the gingerbread men turn out just as well as she hoped. Sprinkle buttons and frosting smiley faces stare up at her as if they’re grateful for her handiwork.         Delilah looks out the window at the white scenery. She shivers, more from a strange sense of sickness than from a chill, and tucks a russet curl behind her ear. The air on Katherine’s front step feels colder than the air that berated Delilah when the left the warmth of her car. Her home is the most well-lit on the street, with ice sickle lights hanging from every eve and a rainbow of bulbs covering every piece of trim. Even every tree on the property is wrapped in tinsel Christmas lights, even though most of them are small and shrub-like.         Delilah rings the doorbell. She shifts on her feet as she waits, trying to shake the feeling of being watched from behind. A minute passes. Then five. When Katherine finally opens the door, Delilah is shaking.         Katherine smiles, a show of friendliness that feels oversized and plastic. Her blue gaze analyzes Delilah up and down, pausing on her skirt, but finally settling for direct eye contact. “Oh, Delilah, you look darling! Like a desert rose, brightening up this storm.” Delilah starts. Surely this is only and turn of phrase? The gleam Katherine’s her eye makes Delilah shiver. “Thank you,” Delilah manages, “You know I got this skirt on sale.” Katherine laughs, hollow and a little too loud. “I know a fellow bargain hunter when I see one! It’s just darling.” Delilah pauses, uncertain before crossing the threshold. Katherine stands directly between the Delilah and the party, like pearl-clad gatekeeper. She lifts her plate a tad higher, emphasizing the cookies in her hands. “Oh, I’ll take those!” Katherine snatches the plate of cookies from Delilah’s hands. She inspects them for a moment. “Gingerbread men! How quaint.” Delilah holds back a grimace. She follows Katherine inside, shrugging off her jacket and hitching it on the coat hanger—also wrapped in Christmas lights. Mingling isn’t Delilah’s forte, and she knows it. She wanders the room, standing between points of warm conversation, laughter, and mirth as if she is an asteroid stuck in orbit between stars. Liminal and in between again. She moves around, to avoid feeling stuck, but worries her unsettled pace draws too much attention. Delilah jumps when Katherine’s voice whispers in her ear. “I know your secret.” Delilah swallows hard. She turns around. The shimmer in Katherine’s eyes seems brighter somehow. Delilah’s palms begin to sweat. No one here knew about what had happened in Minneapolis. There was a reason she’d chosen a tiny New Mexico suburb when she’d been displaced. Delilah plays it cool. “Oh, do you?” she teases Katherine. “I hoped no one could tell I almost forgot the sugar in those cookies, but you have an eye for everything, don’t you Katherine?” Katherine narrows her eyes, vengeful and suspicious. “You’re a liar!” she shrieks. Delilah’s heart pounds and the floor bends. The deluge of panic and terror is sudden, piling over her like an avalanche. Dale, tall, lean, and clean shaven, drops a plate of sugar cookies, and after the shatter the parlor is motionless and silent. It reminds Delilah of the snow outside, and she knows she is on the precipice of “in between” and “arrived.” Delilah clenches her teeth. “You don’t know what happened in Minneapolis, you don’t understand what I had to do—,” Katherine interrupts her, tears welling in her eyes. The vein in her neck bulges. The ball of mistletoe hanging above them swings languidly back and forth. “You’re sleeping with my Dale! You’re probably sleeping around with all these men! Ruining the good ones and hurting innocent women.” Delilah blinks. She isn’t fooling around with Dale, and she’d never try. She prefers the limits of friendly conversation with her neighbors, hesitant to get involved in any of their dramatic lives. Her heart drops into a pool of pity. She doesn’t doubt Dale is cheating with someone, and Katherine is lashing out at the only person on the block who isn’t married. “Katherine, I’m not sleeping with your husband!” she exclaims. “Then who is?” Katherine demands, eyes wild, “Then what’s this about Minneapolis? Did you sleep around with someone there, too?” Dale clears his throat. “Katherine, sweetheart…” “Don’t sweetheart me! You know full well the entire reason we’re throwing this goddamn cookie exchange is so that I can get my justice! So that I can save this marriage!” Delilah shifts on her feet, unsure of how to placate Katherine. The last time she had to prove her innocence, she moved across the country. “It’s not Delilah, Katherine,” Dale rumbles. Katherine whips around, focusing her attention on the tall buzzcut that has dared to cross her. “You said it was Delilah!” “I lied,” Dale retorts. “It’s…it’s Cindy.” Katherine screams, guttural and agonized. Cindy, Katherine’s best friend. The godmother to her children. Delilah wants to act on her sympathy, but the confrontation has left her dizzy, shaky, and unstable. The panic is stronger. She needs to leave. Now. As Katherine sobs and beats her closed fists on the cookie table, sending crumbs and chunks of frosting flying, Delilah bolts for the door. Cindy calls after her. “Delilah, wait, this is all my fault!” But Delilah is already outside, the door slammed behind her. She runs until she reaches her car, then leans against the passenger side. Her breathing is heavy. The cold of the snowy air is refreshing. She shakes her head, rubs her eyes, and tries not to think of her old life—when she was Rose, from Minneapolis. When her husband was a little too controlling and a little too violent. When, the day of the biggest snowstorm of the year, she shot him. It had been self-defense. She knew it. The judge knew it. The jury knew it. The neighbors knew it. But a fresh start had seemed like the only option. A little town just outside of Santa Fe? Where it’s quiet, the neighbors are friendly, and it never snows? Perfect. Now, under the oppressive glow of the Christmas lights, with ice crunching under her feet, Delilah realizes that no matter how far she runs or how warm it gets, she will never escape the snow or the past.


The first day I walked into the Shop for my apprenticeship, I was nervous. Not a normal nervous. A nervous that made your stomach roll and your head spin. I was beginning a journey that I was sure would change my perspective of my entire life. And it did, in a manner of speaking.

As the bell on the door finished ringing and the door smacked against its casing, I felt myself liquify. Sitting behind a counter, looking at all kinds of badass I felt I would never be able to pull off, was my new mentor. She had given me the task of writing a few essays on influential people in the piercing community as well as the history of body modification in general and the different types of jewelry companies. I had learned a lot in a very short amount of time and I felt ready to take on the world. Then she handed me the mop.

I know, I know. ‘Earn your keep” and all that but I felt my heart sink a little before I plastered a smile on my face, just happy I could be in the same space, I supposed. This was my dream, after all. It’s all I had wanted to do for years. It was a deep, burning passion that kept me sweeping and mopping the floors, emptying the trash, and scrubbing the baseboards and the toilets for months. When she finally let me hold the jewelry, I was so excited I couldn’t stop smiling. She’d given me ‘throw-away’ jewelry that wasn’t good enough to be put in the high-end collection we carried. It was homework. I was slowly learning the different sizes and closure styles.

I regularly visit the website of the Association of Professional Piercers and the board members' social media. To the point of near stalking probably. It didn’t matter, though, because I was finally starting to feel a sense of belonging. Right? Even when I started being told to go fetch cigarettes at the gas station, I still showed up.

And when I was regularly reprimanded for having to leave to go to a job that paid my gas money and rent, I apologized. When I was alone in the shop for hours or whole days at a time, learning nothing other than people really don’t like someone not showing up to perform a piercing when they had scheduled it in advance, I smiled and made excuses for her.

Because that’s what you do, right? That’s what you suck up and allow to happen to you when you’re chasing a dream.

I was always there early and left late. I made sure everything was spotless and that the inventory was accounted for. Never once did I complain about her not bothering to come in to teach me or explain how I felt my time and energy were being wasted. I didn’t tell anyone how she would berate me and belittle me for small mistakes - I now know that they were small, having the knowledge of several years of experience. It felt like a betrayal to her, the woman I felt I owed so much for allowing me the opportunity to learn a craft that had been so coveted and felt so secretive. She had allowed me to walk past the velvet rope and enter into a whole new life.  So I continued.

She offered to make me a manager to which I beamed. She let me perform changeouts but only if they were fully healed. (I definitely changed out some unfinished healing holes.) And she asked me to help set up another business that she had, unrelated to piercing entirely, which I gleefully did, even giving her ideas to use. Even offering my partner’s woodworking skills to her. (Later, after everything was over, he would tell me I had never been good enough but that’s another story altogether.)

I met her boyfriend who who she said was a skinhead. He had been only nice to her and regularly gave me the creeps. But that could’ve me just being young and untried in social situations like that. I met her parents who owned a massive business that allowed her freedom to do as she pleased. But did I really know that or did I just assume that they let her have money from the stories she’d told?

I met her dog who I think about every time I listen to Coheed and Cambria.

I met a woman who became who would eventually be my second mentor - still not great, but considering she had grown up with my first one, who’s shocked? I certainly was.

I got the chance to cultivate my love for the craft. I missed out on the chance to go to Vegas with her. A trip that I’m sure I would have regretted. That fire of anxiety or misguided passion that had always kept me quiet against the abuse I was receiving from her and other people in my life was wavering. Flickering and slowly but surely fading as I got older and stronger. I had always been observant and smart but I was a constant blockade to the intuitive message in my gut. I had been told too many times by others that I was wrong. But when she offered me the chance to go to the conference free of charge - I was suspicious.

I took the opportunity but I started questioning things. I asked people and listened to her conversations with people. I started realizing that my mentor, the person that I held up so high, was a shitbag. I found out she had been planning to get me drunk in the hotel room so I could ‘network’ with other piercers. It shattered my world.

Nothing could go back to the way things were after that.

But the thing is, I don’t hate her. I couldn’t. Even with the things I know and the things she did.

She was my mentor and the first person to ever say, “You've got this.” No matter if it was followed by some passive-aggressive sentence. So now, when I look back at the old handwash log I had saved in my phone or the emails of my essays left in the sent box of my email, I still feel a slice of that same person who walked into that shop and asked for an apprenticeship.


For the longest time I've been having a problem, a very big problem. I alienate family and friends. I was kicked out of my family. Everyone hated me but they still came to help me. To make me see I was destroying my life. One day I realized what I was losing and I decided to get help. These Thank You Cards are for those who never gave up on me and for those who were tough on me. First, I want to say thank you to the big guy up in the sky. Without your love and guidance, I wouldn't be here. When I needed someone to talk too, you were always there. Thank you Heavenly Father. My best friend Genesis. My partner in crime. We did so many crazy things together. I can't name them all. It will take three full pages to name all the crazy things we did together. I'm laughing right now thinking  about how much we drove our mother's crazy. Genesis, you were there for me during the tough days of my life. The days when I didn't want to leave my house. The days when I was angry at the world. The days when I cursed out the world. You never gave up on me. I love you my sister and I thank you for all you did for me. I thank you for being my best friend. Doctor Norah Cooper. What would I do without you? You listened to me but never judged me I can always count on you  when I need someone to talk too. My problems were your problems. You sat next to me listening to my problems. No matter how long it took, you never complained. Even when I called you late at night with one of my panic attacks. You never got angry with me. You calmed me down and listened to me. I thank you for all those late nights and early mornings. I hope we can do more. Hallie, my baby sister. Where do I begin? You recognized my problem long before anyone else did. Even myself. You begged me to get help. I didn't listen to you. You came to my home every single day to tell me I had a problem. You cried in front of me. I still wouldn't listen. But you never gave up on me. You fought with me to get the help I needed. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you the first time. You pushed and pushed and pushed me to get the help I needed. My sister Hallie, thank you for pushing me and not giving up on me. I love you to the moon and back. Myla, my second baby sister. You were the total opposite of Hallie. You cut me out of your life because I never saw the problem I had. You didn't want me to infect your life. I get it. I understand why you did what you did. I hope one day we can repair our relationship. Thank you for letting me see what I will lose if I don't get the help I need. Grandpa Joe, my favorite guy in the world. You tell the best jokes. You know how to make me laugh. On my bad days, You were there for me always making me laugh. When I was spiraling out of control, Grandpa, you were there by my side comforting me and telling jokes. Thank you Grandpa for always making my life a little brighter. Paris, my last baby sister. You pulled me out of the darkness. You told me un your sweet way I was ruining my life. When I was crying, you sang to me. Your voice baby sister gave me hope that my life was worth living. Paris, you sang to me at my lowest point. You sang to me when I needed hope and love. I never got to say I love you. I hope one day I can say those words. Thank you Paris for always singing to me. Dylan, my favorite next door neighbor. I'm sorry for the headaches I caused you. You didn't deserve my anger. You once told me that living with a bottle in my hands is not living at all. That I'm existing in a world that doesn't seen the real me. Dylan, you knew what I was going through because you went through the same thing. You words helped me see the light. I once told you I wasn't worthy to be alive. You told me I was wrong. You told me I was worthy to be alive. That I was worth something. I just had to believe it. Thank you, Dylan for seeing the real me. Grandma Ellie, You're the tough one in the family and you let me know it every single day. You yelled and screamed at me. You told me I was being selfish only thinking about myself. Grandma, you kicked me out of the family. I don't hate you for what you did. I was or maybe I'm still a toxic person. I hope one day I can make you happy. Thank you, Grandma for being tough with me. Hunter, my comforter when I needed one. I cried on your shoulders for days. For hours when I was shutting the world out. You took the time to talk to me. I heard from so many people that I was wasting my life. That death would come for me soon. It was harsh hearing those words. Hunter, you told me to be strong. That if I put my mind to getting better than I could do it. I can make my life and my self better. Your hugs were special to me. I always felt safe in your arms. Thank you, Hunter for being my comforter when I needed one. Father Eddie, you always knew the right things to say to me. You were always a good person to me. From the very first day I went to see you, you opened your arms to me. The many times I came to you to ask for help, you never turned me away.  You gave me the power and strength to open my mouth and ask for help. Thank you, Father Eddie for being good to me. I saved the best person for last. Mom, the person who gave me life. The person I love the most in the world. I'm your first born daughter. The daughter who stood by your side. The one who was there for you when dad left. The one who comforted you when you cried. I cried too but I had to be the strong one. You told me I didn't need to be strong. I had to be strong for you and for my sisters. I didn't want you, Hallie, Myla or Paris to see me lose it. In the end I broke down and I lose everything. I thought what happened was my fault that's why I had to be strong. Mom, you tried to get me to see what happened between you and dad wasn't my fault. I didn't see it. You love me for who I was even during my darkest days. A mother's love is worth more than gold. Your love is worth a lot. Thank you, mom for always loving me. I hope by reading these Thank You Cards you all would know I'm trying my hardest to get better and I won't ever give up. I love you all.


I found the mirror when I was very young. I remember that it caught my eye because it was very pink, a little rose splotch in the mud. It was so very clean in the midst of that mess. I know that it’s not the most extraordinary thing to look at- just a pink plastic makeup mirror. But to that little girl, it was fascinating. So I picked it up, and I flipped it over and over in my mittens. Dad never liked me to go out in the cold, so on the rare snow days when he did, I was bundled in thick layers. I could hardly move, and if I fell over I might roll all the way down the mountain. Perhaps that was why it stood out so much. Little girls don’t see a lot of hot pink growing up in a log cabin. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that I liked it. I also understood that I shouldn’t tell my dad about it. We forget how much we understood as children, as soon as we grow up. I took the little pink mirror and hid it in a mitten. He always made me turn out my pockets, whenever I came in, in case of pine-cones. So into the mitten the mirror went. I didn’t take it out to look at it until that evening. It became a secret treasure of mine, this little thing. I didn’t know that it opened at first, didn’t realise what it was. I just liked to look at it, to touch it. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. But I figured it out eventually. I can recall the exact moment I first saw my reflection in it- rather, what should have been my reflection. Ice and water and glass had shown my face to me before, so I knew that there was something wrong with the mirror. It always showed everything else right- the cabin, with its run-down fireplace, dad in his natty armchair, staring at the flames. The woods outside. Every tree, every bird, the sun and the moon and all the stars. It was a mirror, that was what it did. Except that it didn’t reflect me. When I looked at it, I saw a woman. She was old. I mean, I was eight, so anyone over twenty was old, but this lady… she looked ancient. I guess it wasn’t her face, really, just her expression. She had this blank look, just staring at nothing. Her eyes never met mine, no matter what angle I turned her. Of course I was fascinated. I was too young, and maybe a bit too slow, to be scared of her. Why would I be? She was just an image. The fact that she only showed up over me was a bit weird, but I didn’t know anything back then. Maybe this was just something that happened. It was magical, both literally and figuratively. So there I was, with my magic mirror. The days went much the same as they always did, Dad would potter about, doing chores, showing me things, teaching me about nature in that rumbly voice of his. I know now that he wasn’t a well man, that the way I grew up wasn’t normal, but it never troubled me. I was happy, alone with him. The worst I ever experienced was boredom. With the mirror in my room at night, I conquered even that. I studied every little facet of her face, every line, every curve. She was pale, and her hair was a mess- frizzy and tangled. Her eyes never changed, always hollow, blank. Her lips were pressed into a half-hard line, and I couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a grimace. I still don’t know which it was. Of course, I grew up eventually. Everyone does, but I started early. I don’t remember that much about my last few days in the cabin. It’s all kind of hazy. But I’ll never forget when the car showed up. How could I? That car was the end of our quiet little life. I’ve heard a lot of justifications, for why my childhood had to die. I needed to attend school, I needed to socialise with people my own age, I needed to experience life in the real world- needed, needed, needed. They seemed to know so much about what I needed. The last day was the worst. Dad was angry, stomping about, muttering, a dark glint in his eye. I can’t remember what he said, but I remember I was frightened. Scared of his anger, of the shadows on his face. When the social worker came, I reached out to him, but he just turned away, clenching his fists. Take her, he said, take her and go. That was the last time I heard his voice. He was not a well man, so I forgive him. Now. I accept that he was trying his best, that he had no clue what he was doing. But back then? I was just a child, and I hated him. My mirror went from a treasure to an anchor. It was my only solace in those days, my little pink comfort blanket. You might think it odd, but no one ever tried to take it from me. Not the social workers with bags under their eyes, nor the bigger girls that swarmed me like flies. They took everything else, but never the mirror. It was like it was invisible. That was why it was so precious to me, I think. It became the one thing that was really mine, that I didn’t share with anyone. The woman in the glass was like my mother, the pink case like the smell of her perfume. I never knew my mum, so I guess this woman was the only one I ever really had. In hindsight, that’s almost funny. For a long while, I thought that that would be the worst time of my life. Sure, I had my little anchor, but it didn’t protect me from the rest of it. I started going to school, a stony place without even the slightest hint of green. It started off badly. It turns out that living in the woods with only one other person didn’t prepare me for class. I mean, dad taught me to read, sure, but that hardly meant anything. I didn’t know maths, I didn’t know history or geography or science. I didn’t know people. I could live all year in the forest, but two months in the city felt like dying. I started hanging out with the wrong crowd. It’s weird, sometimes the ‘wrong crowd’ are the only ones that’ll accept you. We’d do stupid things- set fires in oil drums, steal from convenience stores, etc. I almost forgot about the mirror, about my little mother in her little frame. I felt like an adult, when I was really still a kid. An angry, stupid kid. That ended as you’d think it would. We all got arrested. There was this guy named… I think it Jim, or something. He took all the blame, since he was the oldest. He had a couple priors, and the judge threw the book at him. I went to the trial, when he was being sentenced, and it’s funny, but they never mentioned that he was an orphan. A lotta that group were. Everyone but me, in fact. Maybe that was why they were so, ‘wrong’. Other kids lied, other kids stole, other kids raged against the world, but it was us that got into trouble for it. Maybe if our folks had been around, they would’ve stood up for us. Jimmy went to prison. Seven years, for stealing a six-pack of beers and a bike. He didn’t even really steal the bike, just took it to get away from the guy chasing him. He was a month away from seventeen, and he was tried as an adult. Grand larceny, armed robbery, and other harsh words were tossed around. All bull. He didn’t have a weapon, not even a pocket knife, and that rusty, piece-of-crap bike was barely worth a twenty. Even so, he got sent away, and we didn’t see him again. The rest of us got off with a warning, but we all suffered Jim’s sentence. Was it guilt? Perhaps. Whatever it was, we drifted apart, and the mirror was my anchor again. I found it under my pillow one night, and I held it tight while I cried. I don’t know why. Even now, I don’t get it. I obviously didn’t care all that much about Jim. I don’t even remember his name, really. But I cried until my pillowcase was soaked. The woman was as distant as ever. For a little while I hated her. I hated her blank stare, looking down, never meeting my eye. I even told her that, once, told her that I hated her. As if she could hear me. That was probably what I wanted, huh? For her to hear me. For me to be as important to her as she was to me. But she was just a reflection. When I got out of that place, I was happier. Hardly bouncing with joy, but no longer quite as miserable. I got a job at some supermarket, stacking shelves. It didn’t pay much, but it kept me off the streets. That was when I met Filly. She called herself Filly because her real name was Felicia, and she didn’t like it. Might have been the only thing she didn’t like. She was a sunny day at the beach, the most positive person I ever met. She was charming, and I was charmed. I told the woman about her. I’d taken to using her as a confidant, as a diary almost. She lingered there, with her pressed lips and frizzy hair, never reacting to a word I said. Best listener in the whole world. I would tell her about my day, about my thoughts, my little frustrations. I told her when I met Filly, the first day she worked at the supermarket. Pretty soon, she was all that I was talking about. Filly did this, Filly said that, Filly’s so cool, so kind, so smart. I wonder if she was writing the same about me. God, I hope not. I’d prefer that she was the cool one. Those days had a kind of subtle tension to them, something I couldn’t understand. Work was suddenly a breeze, but being at home was a quiet torture. I didn’t get it, and God, I’m just realising how much of my life I’ve spent not understanding things. I sound dense! Heh. Maybe I am. I was never more stupid than when she kissed me the first time. We were in the back, getting some supplies for the shelves, and I was talking about… I don’t remember what. She leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips, and all thoughts evaporated. That’s something I forgot to mention; she was brave. The bravest person in the whole world, that’s what I think. Where we lived wasn’t the kindest place for people like her. For people like us. The tension went away, and I finally realised what it was. I loved her. God, I was attracted to her. It was a simple thing, but it had left me stumped. I told the woman in the mirror, of course. Her silence was a welcome friend at this point, it helped me to think. Me and Filly got married after two months. We’d known each other a year at that point, so we weren’t really moving that fast. You couldn’t really get married properly in those days, not two girls or two boys, but we went up a hill, and we talked to God, and He heard us. I know that He did. It was love, so how could it be wrong? We moved in together, happy as could be. Before too long, Filly got a promotion. She’d always worked really hard, and she was charming, and that caught the right people’s attention. It was a regional position, so we moved upstate, to a more tolerant part of the nation. Filly had a lot of stuff, but I only took my clothes and my mirror. She asked me about it once, and I showed her my big secret. I was a bit nervous about that. I’d never told anyone about the woman, never showed anyone. Filly couldn’t see her. To my wife, as to everyone else, the mirror was just a mirror. I was a bit disappointed, and a bit relieved. After all this time, she was still only mine. I couldn’t share her even if I wanted to. The city was nice. Not as nice as the woods, but nicer than the town. There was always so much going on. Those were the golden days, when the sun shone and we were happy. We had each other, we had a bit of comfort and convenience, we had our careers and our long lives ahead of us. We didn’t need anything else. The end of that joy is when I discovered who the woman in the mirror was. I can’t forget that day. Every moment still smoulders in my head. It started out well- a lazy Sunday morning, quiet and warm, lying in each other’s arms. We got out of bed at eleven, ready for anything, ready to take the world by storm. Filly had an interview. God forgive me, but I’d sell my soul if I could have stopped her. She dressed up in her suit and picked up her briefcase, and she stood in the doorway, teetering on the edge with teeth on her lip. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she was nervous. Damn me to hell, but I reassured her. When I close my eyes, I can still see her on that threshold. Smiling, saying the last words I ever heard her say. See you later, alligator. If I could turn back time, I would tell her I love her. I would rush forwards and pull her in, and never let her go again. But that’s not what I did. In a while, crocodile. The love of my life walked out the door, a little spring in her step. Less than twenty minutes later… … well, you know what happened. I didn’t learn about it until ten hours later. No one knew we were married, but I was listed as an emergency contact. They called her mother first, ignoring my name on the card. It was she who called me. There’s been an accident. I didn’t hear much after that. I wanted to scream, to run, to find Filly and pick her up and suffuse my soul into her. I would have traded my life for hers. In an instant. But I couldn’t. She was my wife, but no one knew, not even her mother. Back in those days, it was just not something you’d ever tell anyone. So I said goodbye, and I clutched my mirror until it almost broke. The funeral was the worst day of my life. I went as a room mate, as a friend, and I had to pretend that I wasn’t being lowered into the dirt beside her. The car that took her life had taken her beauty, too, and the casket was closed. I wouldn’t have cared. There wasn’t a single thing that could have stopped me from holding her, one last time. Nothing but the strength of coffin-nails, and the weight of her family’s stares. So I whispered my goodbyes, and I played my reduced part. Not the widow torn in two, but just the sad acquaintance. The apartment wasn’t much of a home any more. Filly had a little vanity in one corner of our room, and I sat there, just staring at the ground. I had the mirror in my hand, and another reflecting me in front. I wanted to grieve, but I just sat. A day of acting had frozen me in place. I was still pretending, with no one around. I can’t tell you why, but I found myself looking up, up into my reflection. I was startled to see her. The woman. She’d escaped my little hand-mirror, and now stared back at me. For the first time, I was scared of her. I thought she had come for me, to take my place, to wipe me out, to leave nothing that Filly had loved. But she was just my reflection. I looked into my mirror then. She was still there, but she was looking at me now. Her eyes followed the motion of mine. Fear faded away, replaced by understanding, and then, grief. It was a relief, to cry, to shake, to scream and thrash in that room, alone. Like I said, that was the worst day of my life. I hardly look at the mirror any more. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t need to. All those years I had it were leading up to that moment, the moment when I was alone in my room and I couldn’t grieve. The woman is gone now. She was always me, and now all I see is my reflection. All that time. It’s comforting to think that that was the worst my life will be. I think that’s what it was showing me anyway. Hard to tell now. These days, it’s just a mirror.


The pain of thought tortured many. He flung himself down in a rickety chair in his dusty apartment, feeling the ghost of thoughts come on like tidal waves—relentless pursuit with a water baton raised until he succumbed and prepared himself for the unceremonious thump of impact, the blow that’d knock him out cold; that was what recalling one’s hurtful memory felt like. He was trying to recall what it had felt like.            His exhalation caught in the thorax, never arriving in the realm of existence.            Just as he thought he was going to give out and be demoted to his previous mundane self, before all this had happened, a thought danced in his mind—there would be no return to any semblance of normalcy once one had a taste of the transcendental; he knew, he confessed to himself, feeling a draft of air journeying through the lungs, then trachea, energy being restored where it had previously been dislodged or stolen or held prison. It’s better to slap oneself with truth then to wallow in the comfort of self-delusion.            A month ago, after this particular ordinary middle-aged man came home from an exhausting night, he sprawled on the couch, lost in thoughts about the torment of the night. Strange circumstances crept through his mind as the content of the night was suddenly lost to him, tossed by a pair of mysterious wilful hands into the abyss, and so strikingly sudden and absolute in its unmovable reality he found his power to be, his reaction was nothing besides a frail cry, after which he tipped over into slumber right there on the couch. It was only when the afternoon sun blazed across his eyes, the other day, was he hit by the full-blown recognition of what had happened—he had erased his memories. Specifically, a cluster of memories that had scarred his long-barren heart, proving the incident associated to be too hard to take. And indeed, he felt lighter, giddy, almost. There he was, hair sticking up in places and stubble accumulating, he had, by the graces of magical entities and ancient deities, gained the power to erase pain.            That night, his overly empathetic neighbor visited with a home-baked lemon pie, which she immediately stepped in and put down onto the dining table after she was greeted by her pallid and somber neighbor. A couple of glasses of wine in, he told her everything. He feared, at first, she would think he was going insane, but as her wide-eyed, stunned expression gave way to more an understanding one, he thought he gained an ally in this craziness.            “That’s awful. You know, you never told me where you were going…But I recall you getting agitated over minor things the past week. It must’ve been something terrible.” Her mouth twisted, brows knitted in genuine concern, what was on her mind, though, was not mere worry.            “Yes, although I’ve forced it out of my brain, I somehow feel it in my heart.” His eyes swept past the photos on the shelves, with his father’s strained smile in the family and his graduation photo, palm snaking its way up from the abdomen to the heart, as if finding its way back; and the ensuing two pats on the heart, felt like a wound.            “I’m so sorry to hear.” Her slender fingers brushed his shoulder, “I might have an idea to cheer you up.”            “What?” He retracted his gaze.            A glint in her eye. “See if this is only a power you can use on yourself. You can try to erase my memory. Well, one, if I focus on it hard enough.”            After much back and forth haggling, flirting, but possibly it was the wine that made him chuckle and nod. Why not, she’d promised to focus on a trivial, soon-to-be-forgotten memory—her going to the CD store last week to buy some records.            It worked; she had no recollection of said shopping experience, nor the items she bought, sitting right there in her apartment—as she ran back to check and afterwards rapping on his door to announce, you only change the memories, not the facts, the world turns just the same, or something to that effect in her alcohol-slurred speech.            And he got more scared. But then the alcohol really started to kick in and she, his very own manic pixie dream girl also in her middle age, widowed, and indeed lovely, suggested making a living out of this strange super power that must’ve slipped right from the pocket of some absentminded angel and fallen into his lap.            “People choose, if they really do come to you, people must’ve thought it through; it’ll never be your fault, and think about how much you can help those people! Those miserable lives altered by your mere thought! And excuse my bluntness, you’ve been between jobs for what, now? Two months? And it’s probably time to get something going on the road.” Her bird-like hands wrapped around his, “This is amazing, you need to grab it, before it disappears.”            She didn’t know he worried about its sticking, not its disappearing. >>>            As he sat in his apartment now—alone and expectant for a client—he was once again attacked by a terrible thought: what if this thing grew and split like cells according to the irrefutable rule of nature, then another power developed inside of me? He closed his eyes—how else, then, would I feel in my heartbeat a messed-up rhythm? This intermittent march, bringing to his mind’s eye the unsure, at times stalling footsteps of the client whom he was supposed to meet any minute now.            Maybe now he could direct his sensory inner workings with whomever he focused his thoughts about; maybe he’d been pulled deeper into this mess, this pool of poured cement gradually setting with his face—his brain, his mind—submerged inside. Nonsense, he was dismissing his own radial thinking as the door rang.            He blew out air, and the tight lump in his chest loosened ever so slightly to grant him a window of time in greeting this client.            A tall woman in her early thirties was standing there, fidgety, a high forehead seemed to be the primary feature catching attention as eyes fall on her long, smooth face, the mousy hair was done up, with strands spilling out here and there, she had on a midi dress with complicated patterns his eyesight were not relenting enough for him to make out.            She hesitated, brown inquisitive eyes darting around his apartment, then said, “Should I come in?”            “Yes, yes, please.” He made way. “How rude of me.” He was starting to gather threads right then and there, her signal was strong so he was hoping for a quick and easy erasure, then receive the small sum of money that each of his clients, joyous with the troubled memory lifted off their shoulder, insist he take. It’s during those moments of feeling he had been the reason for people’s relief and contentment could he overlook the terror that came with this power.            “Thanks.”            “Would you like some tea?”            “Sure, why not.”            The kettle was thumped down onto the stovetop; the woman gave a start and he apologetically nodded in her direction, gesturing towards the plump couch.            “How may I call you?” His demeanor took on a gentler, mellowed-down quality in a stranger’s presence.            “Clara, please.”            “And…” He repeated what he’d said over the past month in this kind of moment, “How may I help you today?”            Instead of an answer’s arrival, he saw Clara’s gaze was fixed on the overturned picture frames on the opposite shelves, all except one, his graduation photo, by himself, had on the cap with boyish bangs spilling out across his forehead.            He brought over the set of teaware. A sudden idea seized him, and he was sure it was engendered by the way Clara didn’t ask about the photos. “Do you want to prepare the tea together?” He asked, sitting down.            “I’m not sure…”            “Ah,” Faint smile blossomed on his wrinkled face, “this is a traditional tea practice, where the tea is poured over and over onto the clay; with repeated brewing, the fragrance of the tea is infused with years and years of aroma trapped within the clay.” A pause. “You can share with me your story as we pour the water and the tea together.”            “Okay, sure.”            “First we cleanse the cups. Here, I’ll show you how.”            So there she was, pouring tea nervously over the delicate equipment, a month after the man discovered his power right on this couch, attributed to his neighbor’s strong social network, so naturally all of her friends at the baker’s store and the grocer knew about it, with some dismissive, some believing.

           “I taught my nephew to hate my sister.” She said, hand hung in midair, and the clear, yellowish liquid flowed out, unleashing white tendrils. The steam obscured the tiny space between them.            He simply nodded, and let the ceremony consume them; it could do that, as he had learnt as a boy, him inching closer to his taciturn, distant father on the couch of his childhood home, and his father hadn’t leant or turned away or become quiet and rigid. He ruminated often, even as a boy, about his father’s behavior and temperament, as if this big man were a scarred squirrel who didn’t know what to do with its infants. “The tea, seeps into the clay over time, stronger flavor that way.” His father explained. And he, dared not, even, to nod along, afraid the slightest of response would jolt his father out from enchantment by the steam—he simply sat there and absorbed every word like a ravenous dog, delivered softly from his father’s lips.            Stabs of pain shot out from his core, where his heart resided, as he recalled this, one of the few memories he’d held so dear like feathers, like a bunny, like a clay teapot. >>>            “I have always resented my sister,” Clara whispered as she too was reliving her memories inside the cloud of mist, “But maybe not as deeply as I thought.”            Clara’s sister, Naomi asked her, on a Tuesday afternoon, to come over and watch Kyle because there had been an emergency run-through and her presence was mandated — Naomi was a designer at a bridal company. As urgent as it was, Naomi could only think to phone people she knew and who lived not far away. All the same, Clara was reluctant and surprised to receive the call, her sister’s voice growing anxious on the phone, just like sandpaper that is desperately trying to smooth over rough patches, reassuring her, it’s only for a few hours , and Clara’s heart was suddenly filled with stale memories of petty quarrels, accusation towards their parents’ favoritism, their competitive streak in everything—the likes, at which Clara’s eyes rolled and hand waved.            So as she finally gave in—as was her usual reaction in quarrels, confrontation and bargaining with Naomi—Clara was stricken with latent bitterness when she arrived at the place and greeted six-year-old Kyle, just off from school and drawing on the legal pad.            He was drawing his mother as he thought her to be, a pretty woman whose smile broke like sunrays. That enraged Clara, who saw in her big sister of five years a backstabbing, black-mouthing, manipulative bully well into their adulthood, someone so far a departure from the angel that was practically depicted on the yellow pages. Then, as was understandable in one who’d been blinded by resentment, Clara contaminated that angelic image in Kyle’s mind with poisonous words; she told him about the time Naomi had poured breakfast milk over her dress, then leered at her over the counter, just so Clara would be scolded and would have to do the dishes; she told him about the way Naomi had ignored her during school lunches even though she’d seen her sitting only a few benches away; she told him about how Naomi had stolen her project ideas; but most importantly, she told Kyle, all innocent eyes swirling with traces of green and blue, his gaze on the rapidly moving lips of Clara, belting out one last secret: Naomi didn’t want Kyle at first. And though it was true, it wasn’t Clara’s place to tell it, least of all in such a malicious way. Afterwards, he grew even quieter, put down the color pencils, and went to his room to play with legos.            Left alone in front of the drawing, Clara was confronted with a deep, foreign sense of guilt, directed towards Kyle and her hateful sister. For a moment, as she stared at the drawing, she experienced a sudden and horrible dislodging of memory, in which she was prompted to think about Naomi’s maturity over the years, and how she herself had been projecting Naomi in such a light her big sister didn’t even have a chance at redemption. But hate, accumulated over years, possessed the power to trump all other trivial slivers of emotions, so, Clara wished to erase that spark of sympathy for Naomi, and with that, the memory of that afternoon.            After a while into her recount, though, the man found himself losing track of what Clara was feeling and instead, focused on what Kyle must be feeling.            “Don’t you think, if anything, Kyle also needs to be here today?” He gently pushed.            There was only silence amidst the thickening steam. In a minute, the heat distributing evenly, leaves swirling inside the cups, the tea would be ready; and inside this minute, the two’s breathing slowed down.            Then, his brain shifted in a manner alien to him with the thin smoke evaporating; he felt something started to displace him, his tether to this moment evaporating along with the fading whiteness.            He saw his father, through the mist that day on the wooden couch of his childhood, making out his father hard-edged outline, and a faint smile; he saw his father, drunkenly stumbled into the foyer, an anomaly, after that he learnt his mom ran off with a man who knew how to make her laugh; he saw his father, putting on a suit as if he was the one receiving the certificate, tying a necktie in the mirror, brows knitted tight; he saw his father, insisting on living in the old house and refusing to venture into the city, as suggested by him, twenty-two, ambitious and who’ve secured a job position in an architectural firm, his father said that day, spine pulled straight yet still shorter than him, “You’re all grown up, you don’t need me anymore;” he saw his father, on the hospital bed, with tubes in his body, breathing raggedly, and when his eyes opened, it’s as though he’d been greeted by an astrological rare event for which he’d been waiting his whole life; he saw his father, inside the coffin, snug, small, traces of the quiet giant of his childhood crushed in the cruel hands of time, he thought, as he looked at his serene face, always mysterious, always stern and harboring secrets, and he cried all those tears that he’d been too afraid to cry in front of his father, and he’d hoped his father, in some other dimension, hadn’t heard him.            “I remember…” Shakily, the words slipped out of him. That night, he had erased the memory of lowering his father’s coffin into the ground, he had erased the pain of lost chances at connecting with him, the lost time in which the two, timid, had never known each other. And in all those years, his vicious heart that was shut up by years of silene, study and knowledge and books, had wrought upon him a kind of hatred towards his father and the void between them, quite undetectable yet lethal—that which was nowhere to be found in the valves of his heart, after he’d lost him in his memory, which was the cruelest and most absolute form of loss.            As Clara waited in the shared silence, her resolve in erasing her own feelings of sadness and guilt towards Naomi was shaken, and as she lifted the tea cup and sipped, her toxic and obsessive thoughts were afloat in the tea’s bitterness and the tinge of sourness—they were carried downwards, whereas previous they had been lodged in her throat, eager to somersault into existence.            And the man, opposite her, whose profile was no longer shrouded by the mist, professed, “Sorry, Miss Clara, I can’t do it.”            “I don’t think I can do it, too,” She aimed a faint smile at him, rejuvenated by the hot tea that warmed her core, “I think I need to go and do some explaining. Untie some knots.”            He nodded. They stood, shook hands, and he was left alone by a client for the very last time. Because with Clara’s stepping out the door, hate and hope mixed within her, the pain and hurt and revelation keeping her head level and her hands shaky and her legs determined, the man’s power went out through the same door and never came back.


“No one knows what the cause of this is,” the news reporter said, soon after Doug had fixed the cable and the news station was the first thing that came on. “Whatever it is in the air is causing everyone to drop dead immediately. But we have no reports of anyone dying that is indoors so if you are currently indoors, stay there. Make sure all of your windows are closed and you should be OK. We are working on a way to have food and water dropped off to people though we are not sure how you are going to be able to get it since you cannot open your doors. Whatever you have in your house right now, ration it. Stay tuned for further updates.” Doug turned off the TV and he looked at Rachel. She was lying on the couch still, with her legs in the tight jeans she was wearing stretched out across the couch and her feet with the loose white socks on them resting against the arm rest. She had a smile on her face and did not seem to be the least bit bothered by this national emergency. “Well, I hope you’ll let me stay here,” he said awkwardly.

He wasn’t sure if he actually had to ask her permission or not. He was still technically on the clock and just here to fix her cable but he wondered if she had the right to tell him to leave her house during a national emergency like this especially when it meant he would surely die. His legs started to shake when he realized his life was in her hands. He didn’t think she’d tell him to leave but he’d seen crazier things from customers. What would he do if she didn’t allow him to stay? He supposed he’d have to fight as there was no way he could go out there. “Oh of course,” she said. But she spoke with amusement and he could tell that there were going to be strings attached. That was fine. As long as he didn’t have to go outside. He was able to see out the window from where he was standing and even though this was a secluded neighborhood, he saw a few dead bodies lying on the ground. Yeah, he couldn’t go out there. He looked back at Rachel and she had stood up, now walking towards him. Her long brown hair went down past her shoulders. She wore a red tank-top that showed off her fairly broad shoulders. She stood at 5’9 so she was three inches taller than he was. She was 31-years-old, a year younger than he was. She shook her hips as she walked closer to him. “If it’s just going to be and you locked up here for a while,” she said once she got right up to him and she looked down at him. “Then we’re going to have to figure out who the dominant one is.” “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said nervously. “I think it would work out best if we just worked together – as equals.” “No one is ever equal in a situation like this,” she said to him. “We don’t like in a world of equality. There’s always a dominant one. Now we need to find out who that is.” She got closer than he liked to he tried to push her away from him. She grabbed him by the shoulders and he immediately felt how much stronger she was than him when she pushed him right up against the wall. He fought to push her away but was no match for her. She held him there with a smile on her face, watching the weaker man struggle. After amusing herself by watching him unsuccessfully try and fight him away she threw him on the floor. It shook him up and before he knew it, she was sitting on his chest. He reached up to push her off of him but she took control of his wrists before he could get a hand on her. There was little struggle before she was easily able to overpower him and push his arms to the floor. She watched with amusement as the weaker man struggled to free himself but couldn’t even move. “Oh look at you, poor weak man,” she said to him. “You look like you are having such a tough time. I bet I know what will put a smile on your face.” She let go of his wrists but before he could do anything, her strong fingers were tickling his ribs. He had never had a reaction like this and he immediately started cackling with a high-pitched laugh. It was harder than he had ever laughed before and his stomach was in pain while his eyes had completely watered up. Being stimulated like this was far worse than getting beaten up by her and what made it worse was that there was nothing he could do about it. “Stop,” he was barely able to say with how hard he was laughing. “Please stop!” “You want me to stop? Well then you’re going to have to do something for me. Come rub my feet.” She got up off of him and went back over to sit on her couch. He considered trying to make a run for it but remembered that if he ran outside he was dead. He looked at her feet with the loose socks on them, waiting to be rubbed. Slowly he walked over to her, kneeled down, and grabbed a foot. “Nuh-uh,” she said. “Pull my socks off and then do it.” He pulled off her socks to see her size 10 soles looking right at him. He began massaging her left foot. He felt like he was her slave as she lay there comfortably and he supposed that he was. He ended up massaging her feet for a good twenty minutes before she turned the TV back on and the newscaster was still reporting. “Things outside seemed to have cleared up for now,” he said. “And the CDC has determined that it is safe to go outside – for now. But it is recommended that wherever you are, you get to your homes quickly if you are not there already as we don’t know if this will pick up again. Don’t be outside any longer than you need to be. Continue to ration what you have as all stores are closed until further notice.” Doug felt relieved and the fact that it was safe outside wasn’t the number one reason. “Alright, well I’ll get out of your hair,” he said. “Glad your cable is working again.” “Kneel back down!” she ordered. He started to get up like he was going to make a run for it but she started to get up. He knew she could overpower him so he got back down on his knees like she said. “I’m going to keep you here for a while. Keep rubbing my feet.” “But things could get bad outside again,” he protested. “This might be my only chance to leave for a while.” “That’s fine with me,” she said. “I’ve found a use for you. Now massage my feet.” She wiggled her toes and then looked back at the TV, like he didn’t matter other than to do what she wanted. With no choice, he got back to massaging her feet. Things were changing with the world but they were especially changing for him.


The earliest memories I have all include my sister Allison. We have been best friends since the day we were born. Oh yeah. I probably should have mentioned that we are twins. We both have dark red hair and hazel blue eyes. We're almost completely identical except my eyes are a little bigger than hers and she has more freckles than me. But until you really know us you can’t tell. We have always been very close. We did everything together.

Ally and I lived with our mom in Portland, Tennessee. Our mom was a senior in high school when she got pregnant with us. My dad was a senior too. He was the star of the football team and had his pick of girls. But he chose my mom. And if I’m being honest I can’t blame him. My mom has the same hair as me and Ally but her eyes are a bright sapphire blue. I always assumed we got our hazel eyes from him but I don't really know. You see, my dad left us before Ally and I were even born. He was too young to be a father. But my mom. She was incredible. She had really good grades and was able to get a scholarship to business school. My grandparents took care of us while she was at class and eventually she opened her first boutique. Even with the scholarship my mom didn't have a lot of money and was often very stressed out. To help,

my grandma taught her how to sew so she could make us clothes. It really helped to distract her. She got so good at it that after college she ended up opening a boutique with her best friend Molly. It’s not a large shop but it provided us enough money for everything we needed. With some help from my grandparents.

Allison and I had the same group of friends and always hung out together. Even though we were a small group we always had a good time. It was me, Ally and our friends Mia and Olive. Every summer we would all spend time swimming in the lake, going to the movies, and all kinds of other stuff. We were always in the same class in elementary school and ate lunch together everyday in middle school. We did homework every evening at each other's houses and even had family dinners once a week.

In my mind our life was perfect. That is until the summer before senior year.

It started the same as any other summer. My friends had planned to go to the movies to hang out all day to celebrate the first day of summer and Ally and I were gonna spend all night planning what we were gonna do. I was sitting in my room waiting for her for about 30 minutes before I decided to go look for her. I found her in her room reading a piece of paper. When I knocked on the wall she looked up and quickly hid the paper under the pillow. I ignored it and just asked her if she was coming.

“Actually Eliza, I’m tired. Can we do this tomorrow?” she asked.

I could tell she was upset but I decided to just go with it. “Sure we can do that, goodnight”. This was the first day I noticed a change in Ally. When I woke up the next day I came down stairs so we could plan but she wasn't there. I asked mom where she was but she said she hadn’t come down yet. Now I was really confused. We went to bed early and she knew we were supposed to leave in 20 minutes. I ran upstairs to talk to her and saw her sitting at her desk doodling in a notebook. “Hey are you ready?”,

I asked.

“Actually I don't really feel like it. I think i'll sit this one out”. And now I was concerned. “Are you feeling ok?,

you were so looking forward to this and we told Mia and…” “Look Elizabeth, I just don’t wanna go!” she snapped. The look she gave me scared the life out of me. But honestly I was really mad at her. How could she ditch us like that? “Fine!”, I snapped back and left.

This lasted all summer. Ally always had an excuse to not hang out. And it wasn't just me. She stopped doing things with my mom. She even made excuses to not to go to my grandparents or family dinners. By July I was done with her. I decided it was better to just let her be moody. Whatever the reason was. Mia and Olive decided to do the same. My mom didn't give up so easily. She kept forcing me to ask her to come with me places. I fought a little but decided it was better just to get a no and move on. And this was our routine till August. Our town was having an end of summer carnival and my mom was insistent on everyone going.

“Mom I’m telling you she won’t go.” I said, while helping her hang up clothes. “She’s barely left her room all summer.” “I don’t care. She needs to get out.” She picked up the empty basket and headed inside. I grabbed the bag of clothes pins and followed her.

“Ally! Come down here please”. I heard her yell. Immediately I wished I had waited another minute to follow her. I might have been able to stay outside and miss the fireworks. Ally came slowly down after a few minutes. She glared at me when she passed and walked to mom. “Honey, the end of summer carnival is tomorrow. Are you excited?” “Not really.” Ally responded then turned to go upstairs. My mom looked at me and I gave her a shrug with a “Told you so” look. Her face changed immediately from gentle to frustrated.  “Ally!” she said firmly, stopping Ally in her tracks. “You are going to this carnival. I don’t know what is going on with you but I have had enough of this moping. In fact today you and your sister are gonna go out and spend time together. We both immediately complained but she gave us a look that meant we had to go. So we got our shoes and walked outside without another word. “So uh...what do you wanna do?” I asked. She shrugged and refused to look at me. I sighed and just started walking towards the woods. She followed slowly behind me. We walked for about ten minutes in silence before I finally snapped.

“Ok that’s it!” I screamed, definitely scaring Ally. “Why have you been hiding away from everyone? What gives? What is your problem?”

“That’s none of your business!” Ally snapped back. “Ally come on.”

I said, “we use to hang out all the time.” “Yeah well maybe I don't wanna spend every second of my life with you anymore! And maybe I don’t wanna tell you everything anymore!” “Fine!” I screamed. “Fine!” she screamed back.

Just as I was about to turn away a blinding light shown from further in the forest. Ally and I both covered our eyes. I peaked out behind my hand to see the light had dimmed enough that I could see. I turned to look at Ally just to see that she had started walking towards it.

“Ally wait!” I called out running after her. By the time I caught up to her she had already found the source. Two doors were just sitting in the middle of the woods. They were both a deep red with gold handles and hinges. We walked up to them. The bright light surrounding them dimmed as we got closer till eventually disappearing through the keyhole. I peered through the hole but couldn’t see anything. I walked behind the door. The backs were the same as the front. I came back around to see Ally reaching for the handle on the door on the right.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “What?”

“You don’t think a door in the middle of the woods is strange. And that maybe you shouldn’t open it?” I said sarcastically. “Oh come on how bad could it be?” She asked, still reaching for the door. She grabbed the handle and turned it...but nothing happened. The door was locked.

“Hmm…” she said then walked towards the door on the left. I went to follow her but something stopped me. I looked at the right door and, for some reason, reached for the handle. Suddenly, the door began to shake and I heard a strange noise. I looked over to see Ally had grabbed the other door knob and was looking at the top of her door. I looked at the top of mine and saw that letters were being engraved into the wood. It read Two sides to every coin. Two kinds of people. Two sides of every story. You know yours. It’s time to see hers. Ally and I turned our heads to look at each other, then back at the doors. Then, without really thinking, we opened them and stepped inside.

At first I had no idea where I was. It was dark and when I felt around all I felt were cobwebs and wood. I was really scared. I leaned against the wood to try to calm down when suddenly I felt something cool on my back. I turned around, found the item with my hand, and realized it was a door handle. Just as I was about to turn it I heard someone walking around. I paused for a moment then slowly turned it and peaked out. Looking around I was able to see that I was in a wardrobe that has been sitting in my attic for as long as I could remember. I walked out slowly to see Ally looking for something.

“Ally!” I called out. “What happened, how did we get here?” But she didn't respond. I went up and waved my hands in front of her but she just walked past me and kept looking around. Suddenly she headed toward the wardrobe I was in. I followed her to see her pull a green hat box from it. I watched as she opened the box and started looking through it. I peered over to see it was full of papers. My mom was not very organized in college so a lot of important paperwork was just sitting in old boxes. Ally suddenly stopped digging and pulled out an envelope with mom's name on it. I was a little confused at first till I looked closer to see my dad's name on it too. I watched as Ally thought about putting the letter down then shove it in her pocket and hurried down the ladder. I went to follow her when suddenly I realized I was already in her room. I was facing her vanity when I saw her in the mirror. I turned around to see her sitting on the bed reading a piece of paper. Suddenly I walked in the room. Well another version of me.

“Actually Eliza, I’m tired. Can we do this tomorrow?”Ally said. That was when I realized what was going on. I didn't know why but somehow I was back to the last day of school. The day Ally stopped wanting to hang out with me. With anyone. I looked back at where Ally was sitting to see she was gone. The room was dark except for a small bulb that should have been in the attic. That old wardrobe was in the corner where her dresser usually was. It was like the rooms had combined. I walked over to the bed to see the envelope laying there. I sat down and opened it. It contained a letter to my mom from my dad. It explained that my dad was leaving because He did not feel he could handle two children. He told my mom how he loved her but wasn't ready to have two kids. It stated that he had been selected for a professional football team and that he would send my mother money to take care of us. As shocking as this was, it was the last line that really stuck out to me.

“Please tell the girls that I loved them and that I am sorry. Maybe if it was just one it would be different. Goodbye. Love, Ethan.” I was in shock. My mom had told us that our father ran off and never told her where he went after he left. And all the money that was supposedly coming from my grandparents was actually from him. But the last line infuriated me. He couldn’t handle two kids. Most people are so excited when they have twins. It’s probably very stressful but it’s still a miracle. How could he do that? And why would he never make contact? Ally and I were almost 18 and he never wanted to meet us? “Eliza.”

I was still in shock when I heard Ally say my name. I looked around and realized that I was back in the woods. I turned around to see that the doors were gone.

“Ally, what was that what just…” I paused when I noticed her staring at my hand. I looked down to see I was still clutching the letter.

“Well” I thought, “at least we know it actually happened.” “Ally, I realized that this letter was shocking but...you didn’t talk to anyone for months. How could you…” “Didn’t you read it?” she asked, “Dad left because of me.”

I looked at her confused for a moment before I realized what she meant. Ally and I are twins but I was born first. I looked at the last line of the letter again,  “Maybe if it was just one it would be different.” After that I finally understood what happened. To Ally this letter was saying that if it was just me. If she had never been born I would have a dad. Mom would have a husband. I looked at my sister and saw tears start to form in her eyes. I ran to her and wrapped her in my arms.

“Ally this is not your fault.” I said while hugging her.

“Yes it is. He wanted you. He wanted mom.” She let go of me, “why didn’t he want me?” I looked at my sister and felt tears in my own eyes.

“You know what? Who cares. You are an amazing person and he is missing out.” She looked up at me, making eye contact with me for the first time in months.

“Ally,

forget about him. I would rather have you than a dad who would run away from someone they loved.” She smiled and hugged me. “I’m sorry Eliza. I’m so sorry.” I smiled and told her it was alright. I broke our hug and said sternly, “But never do it again.” We both laughed and took one more look at where the doors were. We looked at each other and walked back to the house.

“Hey what happened when you went through the door?” I asked.

Ally’s face dropped, “Umm…” she stuttered.

“It’s ok. Tell me when you're ready.” “Thanks” she said. I smiled “Come on. We have a carnival to go to.” We walked back to the woods talking and laughing. It was like the last three months had never happened. But I couldn’t stop wondering what Ally saw through that door. I may never know but if it was anything like what I went through, finding out will change both our lives. I just hope if she does decide to tell me, they change for the better.


I met her Monday morning. She was peering into the large glass double doors of the office building in which I worked in the Los Angeles area. My mood matched the ugliness of the grey clouds having spent the previous afternoon and evening with the guys drinking beer and watching the pathetic Chargers lose until I asked, “Can I help you?” And then she turned around and so did my mood. Her name was Farah Cassidy. She was a new hire. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said. “I can’t figure out how to get in,” she said sweetly brushing a stray strand of honey blonde hair away from her face. To which I said, “Allow me.” By mid-morning, Cliff, my roommate, co-worker, and best friend, appeared at my cubicle. I spun away from the computer and faced him. He, we, all the men dressed in two-piece suits. If we left the cubicle we had to put on our coats. The old man liked the old days. Cliff expressed his refusal to conform by wearing ties typically with sharp jarring patterns and colors or as if created by a cartoon artist. He kept them loose around his thick neck and wore his top dress shirt button undone. Mine tended to be more of a conservative pattern and coloring with a little pizazz on the weekend. We were both clock watchers, just trying to keep our heads above water until lunch then punch out to go home and fuck off gaming for a few hours before doing it all over again. “You see the new girl?” he said smiling and raising an eyebrow. “What’s her name?” I shook my head. Cliff, ever since he started dating one of our coworkers, turned any conversation regarding anything into how I should get a girlfriend. Truth was she’d been in my head since meeting her. “Farah,” I replied. “Did you need something? Because I have lots of paperwork and phone calls. You still work here, right?” He straightened up and waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Maybe you can get a shot in at the Christmas party on Friday.” “I hadn’t planned to go.” I spun around and unlocked my computer. “Well don’t wait too long, the sharks are circling.” And we were. I included myself in the pool of men who went out of their way to introduce themselves to Farah as she sat in the cafeteria reviewing corporate materials. I took the long route to the restrooms to steal a glance at her. To my joy, she gave a small wave. Of course, I stopped by to say hi and see how things were going. She had removed her business suit coat. Her shoulders and arms were pale and delicate. Gold hung around her neck, circled her wrists, and dangled from her earlobes. “Everyone has been so nice to me,” she said. I told her if she needed anything to let me know. She said everyone’s been saying that. I needed to step up my game. * At the Christmas party, I stepped up my game. Alcohol always helps. That Friday night Farrah and I spent twenty minutes in my cubicle away from co-workers who were wishing one another Merry Christmas. She playfully teased me about the family photo on my desk, the one with my entire family at the reunion years ago. But she raised a plucked and penciled eyebrow at the image of the dubious octopoid on my mouse pad. “It’s Cthulhu,” I told her and quickly looked to switch conversational gears. Cliff warned me not to frighten her off with all the horror, sci-fi, and fantasy “shit” we watch. My confidence began to falter. “He lives at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean,” I blurted. “The ocean,” Farah said musically. She sipped the golden bubbling wine from her clear plastic cup. She licked her lips. “I love seafood.” And then like an idiot, I said. “I know how to cook.” And then after her face brightened, I doubled down and blurted, “I can cook seafood.” But my stupidity paid off because she said she would come by the following weekend for dinner. * “Holy shit!” Cliff exclaimed upon seeing the culinary operation I had underway in our small kitchen apartment for my dinner with Farrah. “Someone wants to get laid!” He called me a loser and then left to spend the night at his girlfriend’s apartment in the city. Our apartment, #218 on the second floor of unit two in the Bountiful Hills apartment complex in the San Francisco Bay area was not Fung Shui. More like shit flung everywhere. We shared a common kitchen with a small counter and table with four wobbly chairs a buddy loaned me years ago and then he moved away without it. We watched TV in the adjoining living room from either Cliff’s parent's cast-off couch or the maternity rocking chair one of our co-workers had wanted to unload. The kitchen tile and living and bedroom carpets were an unattractive light brown. The linoleum in the shared bathroom was also brown. The walls were white and the only item hanging from them which got attention was the dartboard. The living room’s sliding glass door led out onto the small covered wooden deck. The Kennedys, cool couple, lived below us. From our second-floor balcony, we could see Mt. Diablo looming in the distance beyond the freeway. Eucalyptus trees grew in the neighborhood and their minty aroma wafted through the apartment. Our comfortable bedrooms were identical in design and similarly furnished. Closet, dresser, double bed, and gaming computer at a desk. One game chair and three monitors. I had a menacing Cthulhu figurine on my dresser beside a green glowing essence dispenser misting cinnamon vapors to dispel any funk. A few items Cliff determined too geeky had been stored in the sliding paneled closet. But the horror movie posters stayed up. I spent the morning cleaning and the afternoon shopping. Mom made painfully sure we knew how to handle mop, sponge, spray bottle, and vacuum. The apartment sparkled and smelled chemically disinfected. At Whole Foods I spent one hundred and fifty dollars. Cliff laughed. “You should have gone out to dinner. It’d been cheaper.” I found the music from the 70s and 80s punk rock group The Cars particularly perfect for setting a nice atmosphere with their up-and-down music about the ups and downs of love. I played “Since You’re Gone” and got to work. I got the recipe from the internet. The picture looked simple enough. An iron skillet filled with sizzling shrimp in a slight light brown broth and sprinkled with green and red seasonings beside a platter of yellow rice. I’d never cooked anything this elaborate in my life. Food was from restaurants, take out or the patio BBQ. My pattern was to ask someone out and then for whatever reason we moved on. “It’s because no girl wants to watch horror movies,” Cliff had said. But I keep hoping and trying. * She arrived. The butterflies were going nuts. She giggled, laughed, and bounced into the apartment where I closed the door and took her coat. She wore an eye-snaring, heart-stopping bright floral dress and smelled wonderful. I gave her a tour of the apartment. “OH, there’s that guy,” she said pointing at Cthulhu. “You’re room’s interesting.” I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

We enjoyed a glass of wine while I finished preparing dinner. She had a million questions, which was a good sign, right?

I followed the recipe or at least I thought I had. We opened a second bottle of wine, and I may not have paid as much attention to it as I thought. I was not a fan of shrimp. Up until then my only one experience with it had been as a disgusting cup of shrimp cocktail set before me at dinner at a friend’s house one night ages ago. It had been cold, rubbery, and crunchy. I saw no reason to try it again until Farrah said she liked seafood. You get one chance to make a first impression. I wanted to make this one count. I had set out a white tablecloth, green placemats, and proper shining silverware. I think it impressed her. When dinner was ready and served along with garlic bread, and salad, I made a toast. “Bon Appetite.” “It smells delicious,” she said. We dug in. When I bit into the crustacean’s crunchy shell and tasted a mushiness, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. “Did you devein these?” she asked, speaking through a mouthful of unchewed food. “De-what?” I felt my face grow warm as she then I spit our food into our napkins. Perhaps I had not followed the recipe as well as I thought I had. I profusely apologized to her, to which she gracefully told me not to worry about it. She suggested ordering pizza. We cleaned up, finished that bottle of wine with the pizza while watching a movie. “Oh, I don’t like horror movies,” she said when I suggested watching my go-to pic when introducing horror to someone who says they don’t like it. Even after politely pointing out its awards and the money it made, she preferred to watch something funny. The movie ended and she had to go. I walked her to her car. I didn’t go in for the kiss. I chickened out. I think if not for the shrimp incident my chances may have been better. “I had a really wonderful time tonight,” she said and drove off. The opportunity to say, “Next time let’s go to a restaurant,” came and went and I headed back into the apartment to watch a horror movie and wondered if I wanted a next time.

* “How was the date?” Cliff asked the next day when he returned to the apartment. “Details!” He made exaggerated hand gestures as if holding large round objects on his chest. I thought about Farrah. The way she smelled. And then about shrimp. She didn’t like horror movies either. To switch gears, I asked how his girlfriend was. I listened to him explain what happened. They broke up. He Showed up and he’d been the one who had been surprised. He said he was fine. It’s best not to pester a friend about their problems unless they are struggling. I think Cliff and I will be fine. We agreed it would be best to avoid dating people where we both worked. “Dude!” Cliff said enthusiastically. “Next weekend you, me the bars. Yeah?” I told him he’d been right. “I should have taken Farrah out to dinner.” We laughed, drank beer, watched sports, gamed, went to bed, and then got up to do it all over again.


The Crimson Kisser Killing him will be simple. Too simple. I have nearly completed the job and

James is nowhere to be seen.

Surely he was here tonight. He would never miss a ball knowing that I am here …

Would he?

“Is your head elsewhere?” Charles asks, and I realize it looks to him like I am

gawking. “Only on how handsome you look tonight, I get so lost looking at you” I can see

his ego is growing, almost as much as my patience is waning. But I smile and feign an innocence I know he will like, it will make this whole ordeal much faster so that I may find James.

No.

I must forget James. He is not here, and he would only challenge me, try to stop

me from what I must do. Why would I ever want him here?

“I thought you one of the most beautiful girls on the dance floor tonight.” He

pulls me away again with the compliments I know he does not mean. I did not dance. Y ou’re just like the others I want to say. But I do not, because I never can, so I laugh.

“You flatter me, Your Highness. I do not think I have ever met anyone as

charming as you.” Other than fourteen of your cousins I killed, but you do not need to know that quite yet.

“What do you say we abandon this wretched hallway and go somewhere more

private?” He runs his finger up and down my arm, and that is my cue. I smile a smile that says I have never done such a thing, and nod a nod that says I am eager. Letting him step in front of me so he does not see the knife I pull out of my dress, I try to remember the last time this was so boringly simple.

Goodbye Charles, you never stood a- “Pardon me, Your Highness, how I hate to intrude. However, you are needed in

the ballroom.” I freeze. I freeze because I know that voice, and I cannot tell whether I am happy or angry to hear it.

“Can it not wait, James? I am very clearly busy.” Charles motions to me, and

judging by the impatient look on his face and the annoyance in his voice, I do not think he sees the knife. But to be fair it is past my dress, And they never see past that. “If that is what you want me to tell the Queen, then yes it can wait.” He knows the

last thing I need is more people here, and I know for certain now I am not happy to see him.

“It is alright Your Highness, I will find you later and we can continue our…

conversation.” I smile, and while Charles still looks annoyed, he nods and walks towards the party I had just managed to steal him away from, no longer a simple task when the entire kingdom is after you.

As soon as Charles is out of sight I take off the decorative masquerade mask

covering my face, James follows suit. As he walks closer I see the look of smugness on his face, meaning he can see the rage on mine.

I am angry. Angry because I wished for James. Angry because he thinks he won.

Angry because I failed. “Is anything wrong Crimson?” Crimson. Why James took it upon himself to give

me such a name is beyond me. He is very clearly taunting the name the kingdom gave me, so not much original thought seemed to be put into it. At first I was flattered, delighted even at the possibility that he cared enough about me to give me what my so-called parents never believed I deserved. But hearing him say it now, taunting me with the fact that Charles got away. I am not so sure anymore that I enjoy it.

“What could ever be wrong James? You merely interrupted a quiet conversation.”

I look away, I will not let him think what he did had any real effect on my mission.

“Oh please, like I would believe that The Crimson Kisser herself would ever have

a quiet conversation.” When I turn to face him his arms are crossed and he looks unamused. I can change that. I prefer him to be angry. “I had half a mind to believe you forgot I was the Crimson Kisser James,

considering how comfortable you have gotten with me lately.” And there it is. I watch as his breathing quickens and he bites the skin inside his cheek, and suddenly I am not so angry anymore, just determined. “I will never forget. And I will never be comfortable with you.” The way he says it

pains me, because he says it as if it is true.

But I know James. And I know he would not be so angry with what I said if he

was not just as angry with himself, because my words hold weight. “Then why are you merely standing there? Making no effort to arrest me, or kill

me at that. Could it be because you do not want to?” He looks away, but I can still see the seething. I know I am getting somewhere by taunting, I just do not know if it is good, because there is a reason I have not killed him either.

He must have read my mind, or perhaps I let my face slip, because his expression

changed from anger to some sense of realization, and he turned to fully face me once again.

“And what about you?” No. “What about me?” How idiotic I sound, and he knows it.

“You best me in every fight. Escape every masquerade no matter how hard I try.

And yet, you always leave me alive. Could it be that you do not want to?” I do not reply, because what could I say? I do not want to kill you because I fancy you James, but I killed twelve of your

cousins and your brother, who I also happened to be engaged to. And by the way, I need to kill six more and then you, but what do you say we forget all of that and run away together? I swallow the lump in my throat, hoping my thoughts are not as readable as they

feel. I am not so stupid as to believe we could ever do such a thing, nor so stupid as to believe he would ever want to. I know it was a mistake to allow myself to get so close, but at this moment my only goal is to prolong his life, and I cannot do so if I continue to sabotage my mission just to have a moment with him. I need to get him angrier. Blind him so much so that he attacks, and loses with

minimal damage. Then I will find Charles and finish this, and never again will I give James the time of day to stop me.

And I know just the way to do it. I throw my knife at his feet. He switches his gaze from me to the weapon,

confusion displayed on his features. Please let this succeed. “What are you doing?” He asks, and to be quite honest I am not sure. But if it

works, he can leave alive. “I am turning myself in.” I am calling your bluff and praying your ego takes the

reins. I put both my hands together in front of me, and his facial expression once again changes more to fear than to anger, but I continue regardless. “No you are not.”

“I am. Arrest me if you would like, kill me if you wish to save me from the masses.

But whatever you choose, I will go willingly.” Now I feel him getting angrier, however he has yet to do anything. James has never been one to hesitate.

“Stop this, you are acting a fool.” It seems as though he is talking to my hands

and not me, because he refuses to look up from them, I continue regardless. “I am simply making your life easier James, and all you have to do is accept it.” I

motion to my arms, still held up and together. He finally looks up at me, but I do not see just anger, I see desperation and fear, the type that I feel. I want to stop. I want to lower my hands and close the gap. I want to do something that will stop him from feeling those things, because somehow it hurts more to see them on him than on me. But I know what will hurt worse,

So I continue regardless. “Just do it.” My voice comes out quieter than I need it to, almost a whisper,

lacking the determination I need it to have. This is not how this is supposed to go.

He still looks angry, but I do not think it is because of me. He grabs my wrists,

only it is gentle, and as if he does not truly want to. I underestimated how difficult it would be to leave him this time. But he does not move. He simply stands with my wrists in his hands, as if he is

determining what to do next as much as I am, and he looks at me as if my eyes will give him the answer to what he should do, and I cannot look away. “I think they are down this way.” What? We both turn to the voices, and I know I have only

seconds before they see me. If I am lucky. I look back to him to see he is just as surprised, but I cannot risk it being a lie. For

all I know this is his latest attempt at a trap.

I remove my arms from his grasp and move to grab my knife, but before I can

I feel an arm grab me from behind and pull me further down the hallway. The voices begin to fade, and it takes me a moment to realize that James is saving me.

Why is James saving me?

There is no doubt about it, I feel the urgency in his steps and the desperation in

his grasp. He could have left me. He could have turned me in to the very people he works for. But he did not. I cannot focus on anything now. I am certain that if James was not holding my

arm I would have fallen, because I cannot even comprehend why he is holding my arm. Before I even have more time to think, the voices have gotten louder, and it

occurs to me that James does not know this castle. Luckily I studied its maps, so it is my turn to lead.

“This way.” I step in front of him and make a sharp left, continuing the run until I

see the outline of a door.

Finally. I push it open and we both run in, James slamming the door shut mere moments

before the voices pass the room. I was so preoccupied, they were closer than I thought. And so is James. My back is against the door to keep it shut, and James’ hand is

resting against the door as well. When he catches his breath he looks at me, and I see when he notices how close he is to me, but he does not move.

The only sound filling the quiet room is our breathing, and for a moment I feel as

though I could forget my duties, my consequences, the fact that I was almost caught, because all I can think about is how James has never been this close to my face before, and he has never looked at me this way before, and why is he not moving away?

“I think they are go-” I try to speak, but James cuts me off by kissing me. James is

kissing me. James has never wanted to kiss me before, has he?

His free hand finds the side of my face, so gentle and wanting, I do not know how

I ever thought he could hate me. And suddenly I do not care why he decided to kiss me, because I want this too.

My hands find his neck and his other finds my waist, and I cannot explain it, but

it feels as though he has wanted to kiss me. It feels as though he has wanted this since the moment we met. As if he had to hold it back every second since then and he has finally let it out. I feel it too. I have wanted this, wanted him , for so long that I feared I would never stop wanting for as long as I live.

And now I have it. I have his lips and his hands and his desires. I have everything.

And just when I thought he would pull away, it was as if he could not bring

himself to do so, and he came back to me with more, perhaps because we both know that this room is safe, the same way we both know that this room is not forever, but I do not wish to think about that.

I do not know how I ever thought this could be wrong, nothing feels more right

than him. The way his hands feel, so warm that I swear I could feel them through my dress, and if I could I know they would be soft, but just as wanting as the rest of him. And the way he kisses me, it is not just a longing caused by time, it is a longing caused by me. A longing that tells me he does not care about what I have done, he just cares about who I am, the woman I only let him see.

And then he pulls away, putting his hands on each side of my face. Looking at

him and having him truly look back is almost as good as kissing him. He licks his lips, and I listen to the sound of our breathing slowing down, letting me know it was not just in my head.

I continue to look at him, because I do not know what else to do. There is no way

to leave this room without everything changing, but there is no way to stay.

“Well, this complicates things.” Yes James. More than you know.