Once upon a time, in a forest by a river that always shone with the most promising of sparkles, there dwelled the faeries. Now, you cannot see them during the day, for they are secretive creatures; they hide amongst the leaves, disguising themselves as flowers. They are a quiet and graceful people who like to speak in riddles. The next time you are walking through a forest, close your eyes and listen carefully, you might just hear the light fluttering of a faerie’s wings… Fynn perched on the branch, eavesdropping upon the travellers’ conversation. It was interesting to hear how the humans thought of them. He fluttered his wings to see if they would look up. He watched as they bent down, examining a ring of mushrooms at the base of the tree. “What are you looking at?” That frightened Fynn enough that he wobbled. He held desperately onto Fabien’s tunic for support, hoping that the branches wouldn’t fail him. Unluckily, with a dreadful snap, the branch gave way, and Fynn tumbled out of the tree, dragging Fabien down with him. Fabien beat his wings, trying to stop them from hitting the ground, but he wasn’t strong enough to carry the both of them. They fell into the faerie circle. Fynn hit his head hard on a mushroom. Fabien was sprawled on top of him, looking equally as disoriented and humiliated. Fabien let his wings take him up. Fynn remained on the ground, looking at the sky – away from Fabien – to save himself the embarrassment. That disproved what the humans thought of them, they were definitely less graceful than they might have thought. “Are you all right down there?” The fluttering of wings neared. Fynn switched his gaze to Fabien, not prepared for the breath to be stolen from his lungs. Fabien hovered over him, flashes of his wings shimmering in the light. His hair was dark brown with streaks of lighter tones; residues of the warm weather where the sun almost bleached it golden. It swept across his forehead in loose curls. His eyes were lilac, pale against his mahogany skin that held a light sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks. Fynn had known those features almost his whole life, but he supposed that was the moment when he found beauty in them, it drew him in like a bee to a flower. They were laughing about the incident by the time night fell, but Fynn couldn’t quite shake the feeling he had whenever he looked at Fabien. How the brightness of his smile could almost compete with the fireflies, and the colour of his eyes not only reflecting the colour of the flower, but the beauty as well. They remained the fondest of friends. They laid by the river in summer, playing hide and seek with the water nymphs. In autumn, they gathered the fallen leaves, building them into enormous piles to dive into from the treetop. In spring, they hopped around from tree to bush to vine, picking whatever fruit and berries were ripe. And in winter, they threw snowballs at each other, and then nestled in front of the fire in the warmth of their treehouses. Slowly, but surely, with every laugh and smile, from summer to winter, Fynn fell in love with him. One night, Fabien flew Fynn to his door. He gave Fynn a hug before he left, like he always did. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Fabien said. There were fireflies circling his head, enveloping him in a warm glow. Fabien snapped his fingers in front of Fynn’s face. “Fynn, you there?” Heat rushed up his neck. He had been caught staring again. “Yes,” Fynn replied. “Tomorrow.” Fabien ruffled his hair, Fynn was sure that he was floating. “Just try not to fall out of any trees before then.” That was years ago now, Fynn was shocked that Fabien would still remember. Then, Fabien dove from the branches, waving at Fynn as his wings caught the breeze. Fynn clutched at his beating heart, the warmth of Fabien’s touch still lingering. “You love him,” his Mother, Jelena said as Fynn was warming his hands by the fire. Fynn’s eyes widened, feeling like a deer at the mercy of a hunter’s bow. Jelena was a cold and stern woman who rarely left the house. She was one of the remaining few faeries who had magic so faeries came to her from minor maladies to death draughts. She wasn’t exactly well-liked, but she was his Mother. “It is nothing, I promise,” Fynn stuttered. Jelena narrowed her eyes. That was the only feature they shared. Eyes the colour of rusted copper, flecked with gold at the edge of the irises. Her waist-length hair was stark white against her dark clothing. Her features were hawklike with sharp cheekbones and thin lips. She was elegant and poised in the way Fynn was clumsy. He must have taken after his Father, but Jelena never spoke about him. “He does not love you,” Jelena said, rising from her chair. Fynn felt those words like pinpricks in his heart. “I know,” he said. Fabien would never see him as anything more than a friend, and he wasn’t blind to all the girls who felt the same way he did. Over the years, Fabien had blossomed like the prettiest of flowers, but beyond that he was caring and kind to all that he encountered, his heart was genuine and true. “He will break your heart,” Jelena said, softer this time, an almost worried tone permeating her voice. “You don’t need to warn me, Mother,” Fynn said. “I know that we can only be friends, nothing more.” He shrugged, ignoring the numbness in his chest. “And I am fine with that.” “Do not lie to me, Fynn,” Jelena said, pulling Fynn uncomfortable close. “How long?” “A long time,” Fynn replied, swallowing. Jelena turned, tearing her fingers through her white hair. “I never wished for this to happen. I should never have let you befriend him.” “What are you talking about, Mama?” Fynn asked. “This is my fault,” Jelena said, collapsing back into her chair with her face buried in her hands. Fynn had never seen his Mother like this; shivering, seemingly on the verge of tears. “That bastard.” Fynn flew to his Mother’s side, tentatively putting his arm around her. “It is all right, Mama.” He didn’t know what else to do. “Nothing is going to happen between us, you don’t have to worry.” She straightened up. “But what happens when he finds a girl to love? When they marry? Have children? What happens to you then? You will be forgotten, thrown to the back of his mind. Will that not break your heart?” Fynn stood back up, wiping frustratingly at the tears those words had elicited. “See? You cannot take it.” “What did you mean when you said that this was your fault?” Fynn asked. Jelena took in a shaky breath. “I never talk about your Father because he broke my heart. We spent a blissful few years together, but there had been another woman the whole time. They ran away together, and he left me with nothing. Faeries only truly fall in love once. I loved him truly, but he did not. I was young, rash and so very angry. I concocted a spell that would curse him to die of a broken heart, make him pay for what he did to me. I was unaware that I was with child, that the spell would latch onto you instead, for you had his blood.” Fynn was holding onto the mantel for support because that was the only way he was remaining upright. “So, this… curse, it dooms me to die of a broken heart.” “The only way to stop the curse is for the one you love to return your feelings,” Jelena said. “He will not,” Fynn said. “He fancies another.” Her name was Eolande. He knew before Fabien had told him. One could see the lovestruck look in his eyes. “I am not going to let you pay for my mistake,” Jelena said, standing up suddenly and grabbing Fynn by the shoulders. “You have every right to hate me, but I will do anything before I lose you.” “I could never hate you, Mama,” Fynn said. His Mother had raised him. He owed his life to her. “Is there a way?” he asked. “For me to somehow stop loving him.” Not loving Fabien seemed like an awful thing, but what could he do? “I cannot take away your feelings for him,” Jelena said. “But love potions are easy to brew, he will fall in love with you in an instant.” Fynn shook his head. “No, that is wrong,” he said. “I will… I will not do that to him.” “He will not know,” Jelena said. “But that is a lie,” Fynn said, feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of it. “It is better than having your heart broken,” Jelena snapped. “Now, go to bed, while I brew this potion.” Fynn knew better than to argue with his Mother when she used that tone. The next day, Fynn waited for Fabien outside his treehouse, the love potion hidden in his pocket. The cool glass warmed beneath his fingers, the contents sloshing around inside. Fabien came out, eyes still misty with sleep. He gave a yawn. “Late night?” Fynn asked, his night had certainly been eventful. “Eolande and I may or may not have gone and enjoyed the festivity down at the river,” Fabien replied. “And I may or may not have proclaimed my love for her.” Fynn bit his lip awkwardly, the twisting in his stomach becoming increasingly prominent. “And what did she say?” he asked, trying to stop his wings from twitching – it was a nervous habit of his. “She said she would think about it,” Fabien replied, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Come on, we should go to the river, I’m sure there are still some people partying.” He must still be on a high after making his proclamation of love to not see Fynn’s discomfort. Fynn put off using the love potion for as long as he could. He had almost managed to convince a part of him that it wasn’t real. That last night had just been a wild dream, or that Jelena had been ill and spouting nonsense. Halfway through the day, Eolande came and dragged Fabien away. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Fynn,” Fabien said. Fynn managed a smile. “Yes, tomorrow,” he replied. Fynn spent the rest of the day alone. He shouldn’t be so selfish. He should be happy for Fabien. He couldn’t give his best friend a love potion and make him live a lie purely for his own benefit. But the pain grew in Fynn’s chest the more he thought of Fabien and Eolande together. He stumbled home in a daze, his head too dizzy and his heart too heavy to fly. The love potion remained in his pocket, unused. “Why did you not use it?” Jelena chided because she could read Fynn like an open book. “I’ll ruin him,” Fynn said. “He loves Eolande and Eolande loves him.” He clutched at the sleeves of his crumpled tunic. “It would be a mistake.” That night, he was awoken by his own coughing and a deep, cutting pain at the bottom of his ribcage. His hand flew to his mouth to try and muffle it. Something wet dripped between his fingers. The coughing ceased, and holding up his fingers to the sliver of moonlight coming through his window, he saw his pale skin slick with blood. The curse was real. He was dying. “You don’t look good,” Fabien said the next day. Fynn gave a weak cough into the crook of his elbow. “I’m fine.” The love potion was still in his pocket. All he hoped was that it would work and the guilt clawing at him would cease. So, when they paused by the river for fresh water, Fynn poured the love potion in Fabien’s leaf. Nothing happened for a good few minutes, but Fynn’s heart was drumming out of control. Then suddenly, a mist came over Fabien’s eyes when he turned to Fynn. “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” Fabien inched towards him, holding his palm to Fynn’s cheek. He was so close, warm breath defrosting Fynn’s chilled skin. “No,” Fynn replied. Butterflies fluttered in his heart. “They’re golden and pretty like jewels,” Fabien said. They spent the night watching fireflies dance across the night sky. Fynn still couldn’t get used to the feeling of Fabien so close to him. He had wanted this for years, his heart had yearned for it. But that didn’t make the sinking sensation in him any more bearable. Fabien pressed a sleep kiss against Fynn’s jaw. “I love you,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, with his arms wrapped firmly around Fynn’s waist. It was everything he had wanted. But Fynn knew he couldn’t have it forever. Just one night, he told himself. Just one night to give me everything I will never again experience in a lifetime. One night with my one true love. So, he held Fabien close to him, breathing in the delicate scent of the pink-flowering thorn, and all his deepest loves and desires – the only thing keeping his heart from shattering. “I love you,” Fynn whispered to Fabien. Perhaps, in his dreams, Fabien could hear the sincerity of his words and forgive him for his lies. He had lied about being fine, but he hadn’t lied about nobody ever telling him he had beautiful eyes, and he would never lie about loving Fabien. The effects of the love potion faded away in the morning. There were still contents remaining in the vial, and judging by the expression on Fabien’s face, he didn’t remember anything. But Fynn couldn’t do it again. He would rather go through the pain of heartbreak honestly than love in a lie. “You didn’t come home last night,” Jelena said when he walked through the door. “I was with Fabien,” Fynn replied. “I gave him the love potion.” Jelena raised an eyebrow, suspicion in her eyes. “What is it?” “I can’t,” Fynn said. “If I were to live every day of my life like that, I think I would drive myself mad.” He threw the vial before Jelena. “I won’t do that ever again.” Fabien didn’t greet Fynn at his door the next morning, but Fynn found him easily enough. He was by the river, running his fingers against the current. “Fabien,” Fynn called. He didn’t turn around. “What did you do to me last night?” he asked. “I’m sorry, Fabien,” Fynn said. “You gave me something,” Fabien said. He stood up and turned towards Fynn, hurt and betrayal written all over his face. “Look, I have known about your feelings for me, but I never thought you would stoop that low, Fynn.” The guilt was rising up Fynn’s throat, becoming harder and harder to swallow. “It was a mistake,” he said, but Fynn was already walking away. “Please.” He grabbed at Fabien’s hand desperately, his fingertips cold from the river. “Just let me explain.” “There is nothing to explain,” Fabien said, wrenching his hand from Fynn’s grip. “Stay away from me.” Fynn didn’t go after him that time because he knew he deserved all the pain of bitter regret, every fibre in him wishing that he could take it back. That night, he watched Fabien and Eolande dancing, caressed by the moonlight, lit up by the stars. Oh, the love he had had for one night. It just came as an ache in his heart. “I found another way to break the spell,” Fynn jumped at Jelena’s voice beside him, and then at the glinting metal of a knife. “What are you doing, Mama?” he asked. “If I stab him through the heart and mutter a spell as his blood drips on you, you will be free,” Jelena said. The look in her eyes was manic. She stood, a dark shadow in the night. Fynn shot up, making a grab for the night. But Jelena kept twisting her arm, making the blade bite into Fynn’s skin. “Give me the knife, Mama.” “I am doing this for you,” Jelena said. Fynn couldn’t let his Mother hurt Fabien. But he couldn’t keep fighting Jelena because he was bound to lose, and then Jelena would kill Fabien anyway. So he closed his hand over Jelena’s and drove the blade through his own chest. “I’m sorry, Mama,” Fynn said as he collapsed. The blade was so cold in his flesh. Blood soaked through his tunic, warm. His heart pulsated weakly. Through the small leaves of a strawberry bush, he saw Fabien’s wings glittering in the night, like how they had glittered on that day they had tumbled out of the tree and Fynn had fallen so hopelessly in love with him. Fynn hoped that maybe one day, Fabien would find it in his heart to forgive him. And then he died in his Mother’s arms. Jelena, despite her distraught state carried her son’s body all the way to the river where the water nymphs took him away. Fynn’s blood nurtured all the seeds dispersed in the grass by the wind. And a field of flowers grew from as a result his undying love. A field of lilac, sprinkled with a pink rose or two. They never wavered against the wind, and always provided shelter for the heartbroken, showing them that beautiful things could still exist. But it was also a place to celebrate love, where Fabien and Eolande pledged their lives to each other under a warm spring afternoon when the flowers bloomed at their brightest. And they lived happily ever after.


"If you've seen one Monet, you've seen them all." Madame X said to herself. She stood before the umpteenth "Water Lily" painting in the Monet exhibit, soon to close.      Dressed in a long black dress, with auburn hair and pearl straps, she had had to spend eternity lifting one strap to her shoulder. Her artist, John Singer Sargent, was encouraged to paint out her fallen dress strap for a more conventional, if less appealing, strap placed firmly on her shoulder. She was stuck, always having to adjust the strap, just because of the controversy during the Paris Salon of 1884.      "Water Lilies: 1916," she read the label aloud. The light in the room was dim; the museum was closed. Normally she would be enjoying the revelries of the Toulouse-Lautrec Moulin-Rouge paintings, but she had been putting off Monet all this time. Now, she had finally crawled out of her frame and caught the last of it. She glanced at all the other water lilies and bridges that Monet had painted. Tomorrow, the paintings would be packed and would be off somewhere else.      She squinted at "Water Lillies: Part 24," and wondered just how many of the studies there actually were. Disappointing. Just more of the same. She glanced about the room. Way too many pictures of the bridge and water, she decided. Supposedly Monet was some sort of genius with all these duplicates. She sighed, and tugged at her strap again. Since Sargent had repainted, Madame X was stuck with pulling it back on her shoulder.      She headed off to the sculpture exhibit. No security guards, so far. That was good. She wanted to see what she had heard a patron say as the girl soot before her frame. "It's as if the stone is transparent," the woman chirped. She was a young one, no more than a teenager, wearing an assortment of colors and patterns, a gold nose ring in her left nostril. The girl explained to her fella--boyfriend? that Sargent had been forced to paint out the strap, to make Madamee X more acceptable, more--dull. Madame X liked her immediately,      Madame X grimaced. The statue room she approached was full of shuffling feet, of figures so stiff in stone knees, they had to throw their bodies from side to side to make any headway. The Greek athletes, their heads always turned in mid-motion, were the worst of them all. They couldn't see where they were going. As they shuffled about, she heard 'excuse me' and 'get out of my way,' come from the room.      She stopped as her favorite exhibit, a reproduction of Michelangelo's "David." The statue was a fraction of his real size, which meant all his male magnificence was usually at eye level. Madame X's groin flushed with the thought. Where was he? Oh, there he was, talking to the Greek discus thrower. They always got along, flexing their muscles and bragging about their achievements. Over there, the ebony mother with child, a modern art of two figures, large and small, had retreated to the shadows. Mama was always trying to suckle the brat, but an oval hole was where her breasts should be. The babe in her arms wailed, hungry for his milk. The poor woman would never get that kid fed.      Ah, the Bust room. No shuffling her, but facing rows of talking heads. Some had turned to face each other, but a few were quiet and had nothing to say. Madame X, pulling up her strap, stepped over to one bust. "The Veiled Virgin, by Giovanni Strazza," she read aloud. She studied the veil. My, that is extraordinary, she thought to herself. The work was exquisite, the veil, hewn in marble, looked, indeed, transparent.      "What do you want, sister?" the bust demanded.      "Why, I was admiring your veil," Madame X stammered.      "Yeah? Well, that's all anyone sees of me, i'n't it?" she said. Her eyes could not open under the veil, but she looked so demure. Her thick accent startled Madame X. "I'm just another woman, dime-a-dozen. Didja know I was the mother of God? Well, no, not necessarily. I'm just a veil, cut from marble. Hell, I could look like a weasel, or a bottle of wine, or somethin'. Wouldn't have mattered. Just another one of them," her base scraped as she shifted towards the other busts of Mary, "but I got this stupid veil on me. Can't see nothin', it's all marble, you know."      The Sargent woman did know. She said, "But the work is...."      "Wha'?" the bust demanded. "Interesting? Unique? Unusual? Dats what dey all say, i'n't? What is it, sister, huh? What is the veil? Speak up!"      Madame X frowned. "Obviously, far too transparent." The statuary room was beginning to annoy her. All those magnificent bodies, with noisy, exceedingly egos to boot. "I'll head to the modern art room," she said aloud to herself.      "I'n't that where you always end up?" said the bust.      "Far more interesting than you grumpy gusses," the Sargent woman sniffed.      "Yeah? Well, watch out for the whiney Jackson Pollok, there in the corridor. It thinks it's upside down again. Stupid picture...," the veiled woman grumbled.      The Sargent woman tugged at her strap and swept away to the new modern art exhibit. Here were all sorts of creatures. They peered at her in wonder as she glanced about the room. One red figure with huge teeth and two sets of eyes on top of its head, asked, "Oy! How you do dat?"      "Do what?" asked Madame X.      "Move," the image asked.      "At least you can see," said a purple blob with massive feet. "All I can do is crouch down and hold my toes."      "They're very nice feet, said Madame X.      "You really think so?" asked the purple blob. "They're not too big?"      "Oh, yeah! Definitely!" said Straight Line, slashing the canvass from corner to corner.      "I'm a delicate woman," said a figure in green and yellow that looked vaguely like up-chuck." Madame X raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. The blue square with extra eyes and cartoon limbs nodded, its frame wiggling on the wall.      "I must say," said Madame X, soothingly, "You all seem to have unusual features. What big eyes you have, Mr. Blue. And you, Miss Up--yellow, what big breasts you have." Miss Yellow wiggled her frame in delight.      "How'd you get out of your frame," piped a square with a squeaky voice.      "Why, I've been here for years," Madame X replied. "After a while, you get bored, just hanging on a wall. One night I peeled myself off my canvas and took to wandering. I've been doing so every night, ever since." She swelled with pride. "How long are you folks here for?" she asked.      "Six months, maybe, maybe more," replied Purple Feet lady. "Then we're off to New York. Can't wait."      Madame X sighed. She hadn't left Boston in years. She would have liked to go to London, or, perhaps, Paris, but John Singer Sargent was not nearly as popular as Claude Monet (though heaven knows why).      She started. The rhythmic rattle of keys was approaching. Security. Quickly, she lifted her skirt and hurried back to the Sargent room. The subjects of the other paintings were hanging about, out of their frames. The children, thought Madame X. "Quickly," she said as she shooed them back to their respective paintings. "Aww," they whined, but they minded her, and climbed back into their frames.      Keys was drawing closer. The Sargent woman raised her finger to her lips and scowled at each of the girls to silence.      And not a moment too soon. The security guard entered the room and looked about. He could have sworn he had heard giggling, but there were only the Sargent paintings, of children playing quietly, of lighting paper lanterns, of society women staring out of their frames. And if Madame X's strap had fallen to her shoulder, and she had sighed, well, it was a good thing he hadn't noticed.


This story is set in the island of Rambu in planet GAIA2 which is earth’s twin about 8 centuries behind but is still evolving. The king of Rambu summoned his prime minister (PM) who came. The king said “Can you tell me about that man named Poly?” “He is the head of Mother Nature cult and has introduced new types of worship of Nature. He venerates trees and plant life and halts pollution of waterways and rivers. It was he who introduced Nature day when he wants the entire population to bathe naked in the sea to avoid polluting water bodies like rivers. A large number of people are following him and are worshipping his way. He is becoming very powerful.” “I want to talk to him. Summon him to be present in my palace tomorrow morning.” “I can do it but he will come only along with his 5 Divine Daughters.” “Okay, I’m hoping to see him tomorrow.” The next day as the king and queen were holding court, Poly came in. He was accompanied by 5 young women. The queen asked “Who’re those women?” The king said “Those are his divine daughters whom he has enlightened into the ways of his cult. He has taught them the way to heaven.” “The girls look beautiful and he himself looks young and strong. I’m sure the girls can themselves take him to heaven” “Be serious. Remember he is a Man of God.” MAG bowed before the king and the king in turn wished him. The king asked “Will you explain about your Mother Nature cult?” MAG gave a lengthy exposition of his efforts towards conserving the bounties of Nature. The king was very impressed though the queen wasn’t interested. The king gave MAG a gold coin and said “I agree in principle to support your teachings.” The audience ended. MAG went back to his quarter and summoned Suq the witch. She lived nearby and appeared almost instantly before him. She was dressed in the usual style of the islanders only below the waist. She looked only about 30 and well-preserved.  Poly said “Suq, I want you to do me a favour. You’ve always cooperated in furthering my interests.” He fished out the gold coin the king had given him and giving it to her said “You’ve the reputation of being a good fortune teller. Go and tell the king that bad times are approaching and that he should retire leaving his son, the prince, to rule.” Though MAG wasn’t specific, she guessed that he wanted the inexperienced prince to rule so that he could easily dethrone him and become king. Suq merely bowed and left. MAG was sure she would carry out his instructions. Suq had a 12 year old daughter Lyra who had just come of age. Suq asked for an audience with the king which was immediately granted as the king patronised her.  She said “I have a humble request. My daughter Lyra is now ready to be married. She is very beautiful and talented and above all she has been gifted with three instead of the usual two which women grow. It is an auspicious sign indicating that she will marry royalty. She would be a good wife to the Prince.” The queen said “Suq, how is it none have noticed the anatomical feature?” “She keeps it covered as it could cause jealousy among women and curiosity among men. It has started causing comment.” The queen said “I’ve seen Lyra and approve of the Prince marrying her provided the king consents.” The king nodded when Suq who was very happy said “Your majesty, some discontents in your kingdom are trying to rebel. Your defences need to be very vigilant.” After Suq had left the king summoned his military commander and said “Increase vigilance and see that rebel elements are eliminated.” “I’ll do so immediately.” When the Prince’s engagement to Lyra was announced, MAG attempted to abduct Lyra using his divine daughters but he failed as security had been stepped up. MAG was arrested and questioned with torture when he confessed to plotting the dethronement of the king. On the king’s orders MAG and his divine daughters were exiled from the kingdom. The proposed wedding of the Prince with Lyra had an effect on females of the kingdom. Several of them of different ages including the queen met. The queen said “We’re going to discuss about the upper cloth for women. I remember the joke of long ago that a young girl was passing by on the road when she saw the prince approach in his chariot. She was so overcome by his appearance that she pulled up the cloth at the waist and covered her top. The prince noticed it and asked his minister who said it was only a natural reaction and she had only covered what had come in adolescence instead of what existed since birth. We women are very sensitive about exposing feminine parts.” The following are some of the comments of women who participated:  “People want to know why we also shouldn’t cover up like Lyra.”  “Lyra’s need is different. We’ve no problem.” “It’s men who have decided about female garments. They hide their family jewels and tell us to cover up unnecessarily.” “I’m proud of what I have and don’t need to cover up.” “If we cover up, men will be cheated as some of us could make meagre, ample. Such falsification of women’s possessions could lead to marital unrest.” “We may never know those who have more than two unless information is leaked.” “Covering up is not the only issue. If a tailored garment is prescribed for the top, it is very important that it allows quick and easy access to what is concealed.” “It is likely the covering up could add to the eagerness of the male to explore and..........” Females did not allow this woman to continue and hushed her up. The queen apprised the king of the views expressed and added “Women are divided about covering up.” The king heard it all and said “It’s against our tradition and culture to cover up.” The queen said “Let us give the freedom to women to show or conceal.” It is understood the option is spreading to other parts of that planet as well! Earth’s twin is still evolving! END NOTE: A story about a three breasted princess occurs in THE PANCHATANTRA , a Sanscrit  classic, translated into English by Arthur W.Ryder and has been borrowed to produce this story. *


“I am not going, Liana. You can’t make me.” The words were barely audible through the shower running in the background. “I’m sure they don’t want to go either, but they said they would. Besides, this isn’t for them and this isn’t for us, Rebecca. This is for your sister.`` A girl came out from the closet holding two dresses in her hands. Holding one dress up as if it was on she posed in the mirror, giving each outfit a try.

The shower shut off and the bathroom door opened more than it already was, another girl coming out with a towel wrapped around her body to prevent water from getting everywhere. “Don’t guilt trip me. It works too well.” She kissed Liana on the cheek before heading to the bed where she spotted a new outfit prepared for her. The dinner was quiet, no one had even greeted each other more than a nod with minimal eye contact. It was peaceful at the least, which was all anyone could ask for. The table was neatly set up, each person's plate and utensils made to look like they were in a restaurant. Dinner was served, however it was untouched as everybody was hesitant to move. Finally, the silence broke. “Well, thank you guys for coming. It’s so nice to finally see you guys again. I’m going to be honest, I thought you would’ve all said no.” Mya was comforted by her boyfriend's hand before she continued to greet her awkwardly silent family. “Please, eat. This took forever to make.” She tried her best to lighten the mood, which was not the easiest job to have in these circumstances. “Thank you for inviting us darling. You always reach out to your father and I, we really appreciate it.” Those words from their mother were a dull jab to Rebecca, however she knew not to let it get to her. She looked at Liana, took a deep breath, and continued on by grabbing a serving. “Oh, of course mom. Dad and you are always welcome here. My house is your house.” Mya smiled at her mom before she plopped a serving of mashed potatoes onto her plate as well as her mothers. “How sweet, right darling? We are finally accepted into one of our daughters' homes.” Silence. Not awkward, but tense. Rebecca gripped her fork tightly, trying her best to keep her composure as her parents continued to not-so-subtly call her out. She felt the want to speak up, but she knew it would go nowhere, so she bit her tongue and let it go. “Mya,” Her mother grabbed her hand with a smile, “I am so glad I raised you right.” That was it. She didn’t care to hold her tongue any longer. “Are you kidding me?” She turned her head towards her parents and let loose. ”I don’t mean anything against you Mya when I say any of this, but that is insane.” Liana tried to place her hand on her partner, but nothing. “I graduated from University, I started Medical School to become a doctor, I got married before I moved in with my partner, and so much more. And you are saying you didn’t raise me right?”

“Rebecca, do not raise your voice at us, we are your parents.” Her father stood up, pointing his finger across the table to his daughter who was beginning to fume with rage. “No one put down your achievements, but we sure as hell did not raise you right.”

“Why? Because I turned out gay? That isn’t wrong! When will you let it go?” Liana began to stand up, grabbing her bag as well as Rebecca's hand. “I think we should get going, I’m sorry Mya.” Mya stood up, trying to stop her father from talking anymore. “It is wrong, Becca, and you know that better than anyone else. We tried, we really did. We took you to Sunday school, you had boyfriends before, you know what is normal. You didn’t start thinking about this until college, when you met her.”

Liana began to drag Becca towards the door but she refused. Mya began to beg her father to stop talking, but he ignored her pleas. This was how dinner had been going for the past two years, and there were no signs of change. “How can you reject your own daughter? You were supposed to love me unconditionally, and yet you don’t even answer my calls.” Her eyes began to well up with tears as she opened up to her parents. “I have tried so hard to convince you to have me in your lives again, and every time is the same answer. Do you even love me anymore? Do you only consider Mya your daughter?”

Everyone stood in silence as they waited for the answer. He was hesitant, staring at the wall as Rebecca tried hard not to cry anymore than she already had. The longer her father waited, the more they understood his answer.

“You will always be our daughter. Our little girl. But if this is how you want to live, being married and poisoned by that girl and her lifestyle, then your mother and I believe it best to separate ourselves from you.” His tone was soft but his words hit like a knife for her. She walked up to her parents, slowly looking up at them with her red and puffy eyes. Liana stared at the ground, unable to make eye contact with anyone at this point. “Have you ever even tried to talk to her? You have not once given her a chance. We have been married for two years and I bet you don’t even know her name. Tell me. Tell me her name.” Her mom sat quietly as her father shook his head, neither answering the question. “We should go...” Liana’s voice peeked out, small and almost inaudible. Rebecca shook her head, walking over to her wife and holding her hand. “Her name is Liana Ramirez. She is 25 and she currently is an elementary school teacher as well as the host of their art club. She loves kids, and they love her. Her students' faces light up when they see her, and they bring her gifts almost every day. She keeps them too, all of them. Even the ones that are stick drawings you can barely make out.” Her father began to hold his hand up to silence her but she kept going. “She also volunteers. Where? Anywhere she can find. Last weekend she went to the soup kitchen and even baked dessert for them, with her own ingredients. The weekend before she and I went to the animal shelter and now foster 3 puppies.” “Rebecca, please. Enough.” Her mother spoke out, but she refused to stop. “No, not enough. This woman is the kindest, most selfless, and most loving woman I have ever met. She is so kind she gives you guys the benefit of the doubt every time. I wouldn’t even have come if she hadn’t dragged me here. She wanted me to make amends. She wanted me to see if I could have my family again but you know what?” She walked Liana to the door and swung it open before turning back one last time. “She is my family now, I don’t need you guys. I am tired of trying to be a part of something I am clearly not welcome in. Thanks for inviting us, Mya. Next time, don’t waste your time.” With that, Rebecca turned back to Liana, kissed her forehead, and shut the door, leaving her family dinner for the last time.


Past Lives I am an ordinary girl living in an ordinary place who dreams of extraordinary times. I dream of being a pioneer in the frontier. The wild west I learned about in my fourth grade class, the trail I virtually walked in an online simulation. I imagine the bouncing of the wagon, the wide open skies. I can feel my anticipation at heading west, at the new life that awaited me and my family. I wish I could be the elegant wife of the owner of a silver mine. Living in an elegant mansion drinking fine tea out of fine china. I would wear thin dresses made of fine, touchable silk. My husband would order me lace and a dressmaker from the dusty town down the road, a wife of a miner who worked in the mine of my husband, would attach the lace, as delicate and intricate as a spider’s web, to those thin silk dresses. I would drink fine liquor, eat fine meals, and wear complicated and feminine hairstyles to the opera in Central City. I would have a coach and a driver, and life would be good and fine and wealthy. In truth, if I were to really be a pioneer I would be a simple girl, arranged to marry a simple farm boy with ambition. We would pack our wagon, my 3 plain dresses and the one fine dress for Christmas packed into the trunk my mother received on her wedding day and passed down to me. The weathered candlesticks that my husband received from his mother would be wrapped in the handkerchiefs that I stitched myself, in the long dark days of boredom living in a two-bedroom home with one big bed for my parents and another big bed for me and my siblings to wrestle around in each night. By the light of a candle and a crackling fireplace I would stitch those quilts and handkerchiefs. Life would be simple, but I would still dream. I would dream the dreams of a pioneer woman. Of big skies, and clear water. Of excitement, and the hope that accompanied the promise of a new world. Of the fear of the unknown that existed out in the waving grasses, and the blue skies of the west. In my past life as a pioneer, I would have the same adventurous spirit, the same big heart, and the same creative soul. I would not be the elegant wife of a rich man, I would be something better. I would be the strong and stubborn companion to a kind man in a wild place. I dream of being a ballerina or an opera singer, on the stage in New York in the early 1900s. It is an era of fantasy in my mind. I make-believe of opulence and extravagance. In my mind’s eye I see a small apartment, shared with a beautiful woman and me. In that small bohemian place we dream and dance. The money we make is mostly spent on the rent to a boisterous and occasionally cruel landlord, and the rest is spent on clothes and makeup and false jewels bought from carpets at loud and bustling marketplaces. Her and I walk arm in arm through the angry streets of New York in evening gowns at noon on a tuesday. We walk to the opera where we sing and dance on stage as chorus girls, and to the ballet where we wear our cardboard shoes and dance in uniform lines. When the show is over we disappear into the rowdy crowds. Not the Gatsby crowds of wealth and fortune, but the city crowds that gather in too tight spaces with no regulations and no care. The third class bunkers on the Titanic, a rowdy break from the rigid conformity and the delicate melodies of the opera and the ballet. We swing each other around in our costumes and our feathers and our rhinestones.

I dream of being an Old Hollywood starlet. In this life I am not ordinary. This is the time my dreams run wild. I am a pale faced beauty with vampy lips and dewey eyelashes. I am the world best performer, the most beautiful actress. I stamp my hands into the sidewalk and pose for pictures on the covers of magazines. I am a star, glamorous and refined. But I am that pioneer too, and the poor unacknowledged dancer on the chorus line. And I leave Hollywood when the men become too much. When they become too cruel and too demanding. I take my beauty and my talent and I say no, and I leave. I leave once again for New York City, in the years when Marilyn Monroe was there. And like her, I live in a simple brownstone and wear elegant tailored clothing, and I learn about beauty from simpler people. And perhaps I leave again, to someplace far off and far away, when I realize that there is more to the world than controlling men, and white talented faces.

In this life I am a star, after the years of toil on the prairie, and the suffering in the cramped and dirty spaces of the concrete jungle. In this life I am alone, and I am humbled. More so than in any life past. Throughout the conformity of the 50s, I find a way to come into my own identity, and become a part of building up the identity of the others. So in that way, blooms my dream of the 90s. A stubborn and fiery groupie. Moodily sitting a top of a speaker in a dim and smokey basement. Outrageous and angry but kind and involved. A mover and shaker in the new protests and policies of the era, a frightening face on the front page of papers, a speaker and an activist in a strange new age. Alive from knowing the difficulties of the west, with its wide waving grasses and its strange new dangers. Alive from the crowded smokey bars dressed up in feathers and hope, holding the hand of my lover who to the rest of the world is but a chorus girl too. Alive from the star studded 50s, the dismissal of fame and fortune, and the humbleness of an era of problematic prejudices and cruel conformity. Now alive and wearing pants and metal and nothing but black and discovering once again a new world, and being at the controversial and ever changing epicenter of it. And falling now into my current dream, of life as a woman living in a small townhome, studying an uncertain degree in uncertain times. Feeling the calls of all her past lives bubbling up inside her as she realizes now is the time to act as she has in all her lives past. Now is the time to be bold and adventurous, to be thrilling and risky, to be humbled, to fight.

These eras of my imagination, all falling into the reality of this present moment.


Noises. Aaron listened to the voices of dozens around him, a blur of conversations from inside the great chamber mixed with the distant chatter from the garden outside. The unified sounds of clicking tongues, smacking lips, and sporadic bursts of laughter created a wave of sound to tantalizing to piece apart. There was nothing here for him, surrounded by the cream of the crop, dressed in the finest wear of society, while he sat alone by the punch bowl, pondering his circumstance. The manor's beauty, enhanced by its luxurious furnishings, intricate designs, and meticulous decorations, only amplified his sense of alienation. He envied those in the garden, perhaps finding solace from the watchful eyes and judgmental stares inside. If only he could join them, even for a moment's reprieve, but the garden was off-limits due to a private event. “Why am I even here?” Aaron thought, recalling his desperate attempt to woo Ally, the assistant manager at Paul’s law firm, with as few credentials as possible. Instead, he became an impromptu bellboy on the day of a crucial inspection by the regional management, spending half an hour distracting the inspectors memorizing login details, navigating unfamiliar facilities, and performing tasks on the fly, while Ally resolved a potentially compromising security error. When the jig was up, Ally managed to pull it together, even if Aaron was thrown out. This was how Aaron found himself receiving a handwritten invitation to a black-tie wedding for the firm’s CEO, Paul, and his now wife, Elena Stevens. Ally recommended him for “creating a positive and favorable reception for upper management,” despite him not being on their payroll. Aaron never read the letter, not that he needed to since the invitation was sufficient for entry. Ally took it upon herself to throw Aaron a spare set from her husband’s closet to maintain the ruse. “Yep, Aaron…” He muttered under his breath, pouring himself a glass of punch and drank it quick. “You did a good job alright.” Deciding the event in the main chamber was too much for him, he backed out onto the balcony where he enjoyed the cool breeze blowing on his flushed face. It was quiet enough with few people around to notice someone like Aaron, who clearly stuck out with his unrefined stubble, budget digital watch, and cheap cologne. He felt like a fraud. His last job provided him an opportunity to rise up in a small company as a manager, but some internal shuffling and backhand recommendations ended up getting him kicked to avoid complications. He shook his head, trying not to let his memory get in the way of this peaceful serenity. The wind was nice, and the night was gorgeous. Despite what bitterness he often held towards those with lavish living standards, he couldn’t deny the estate was beautiful and peaceful. “We doing this?” A voice whispered. “Yeah, yeah.” Another voice, this groggy, responded. “Grab the wife, lock her in the car, and...” “Shh! Not out loud.” The first voice hissed, followed by the jangling of keys. “Take this, make sure it’s ready to go.” “Got it.” Then they departed. “Once everything goes down, meet me you-know-where. Stay polite until then, and nobody will notice.” Aaron did not move, his heart pounding. He listened as the footsteps faded away behind the foliage. “What did I just hear?” He whispered, unsure if it was real or a figment of his imagination. He repeated the conversation to himself. “Yes, yes, it is,” he decided, turning back to the party. “I have to warn everyone,” He ran back inside, and upon reentering, was overwhelmed by the sea of conversations all around him. “…company raised profits by 2% this quarter…” “Poor Lisa. I am sure she will… “…goes wrong, we can handle it. We…” “I work for Dave. He is a good friend…” “Who is he? Do we need him removed?” “Security will give us a good show if they do. Aha ha!” The noise of private dialogues became distinct voices, each word clear, each subtle differentiation in tone resounded with clarity, even their subtle alterations in appearance and unique details in refinery appeared more diverse. It all flooded into him like a waterfall. Aaron felt their glares and looks, shifting from one person to the next. Trying to focus, he approached one group. “Excuse me…” He had only begun, but they merely glanced at him, trying to ignore him. “Please, I need to ask where Paul and Elena are.” Aaron continues, but a middle-aged woman in the group turned, moving closer to the man in front of Aaron, blocking him from the group. “Let’s discuss this in private later, in the meantime...” Aaron got the gist—he was unwelcome. He turned to another group. “Excuse me, it’s an emergency.” The group looked at him, annoyed, then resumed their conversation. A man offered Aaron a glass. “Please, give this to that young woman over there and tell her it’s from Daniel. She will know what it means.” Aaron, somewhat aloof, does as he was asked, making his way across the room and delivering the beverage. “Thank you,” the woman said, quickly turning back to her conversation, not giving Aaron time to ask a question. “Please, send my regards to your sister. I am sure she is doing everything she can to handle the matter with utmost discretion.” “Thank you, I am sure she will appreciate it.” Aaron continued to search group after group, surprised by how many ways he could be politely rejected or dragged along, each interaction making him feel more foolish. Why was it so difficult? He knew these are important people, but he received no favors in his attempt to help. “Another drink butler!” “You need to stop, love. You are supposed to give a speech tonight.” “…letters are not meant for outgoing mail, and he said, well they have to go somewhere, right?” An elder butler approached Aaron, with a long face and narrow eyes. “Excuse me, sir, can I offer you a beverage?” He said with a polite and strong accent. “N-no, thank you,” Aaron stuttered, trying to be polite. “But I d-do have a question…sir.” The butler seemed willing to listen. “I overheard two men in the garden talking about kidnapping the wife, Elena” Aaron said carefully, trying to sound professional “I think she is in danger.” A few people laugh in the distance. Aaron quickly turned to look at the source, but turned back without recognizing them. The butler stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. “This does seem urgent, sir,” he said calmly. “I believe we should bring this matter to Paul directly. Please, follow me.” As they walked, Aaron continues to overhear more conversations around him. “Some people just doesn’t understand what fun is anymore…” “Do you think he knows?” “How could he…?” “…better not ruin tonight’s plans. I drove all the way from…” The butler took him away from the main chamber and to the game room, where several men are surrounding a pool table. “In short, business is booming. Randy is handling the next meeting and we’re projected to raise profit margins by three percent by next winter.” “What kind of name is Randy?” “I didn’t name him.” “We’ve got company.” The gentlemen glanced in Aaron’s direction, clearly viewing his presence as an intrusion. “Wait here, sir,” The butler said to Aaron. Aaron complied. The butler approached Paul, whispers in his ear, and pulls him aside. They spoke quietly for a while. Paul chuckled, then spoke sternly and sent the butler off. Paul himself then approaches Aaron. “I guess I have you to thank for this warning,” He patted Aaron on the shoulder. “Yes sir, I overheard…” Aaron began but was interrupted. “Do you know who these hooligans are?” Paul asked quickly. “I don’t know sir, but I recognize their voices.” “Good enough,” Paul smile. “I am going to need your help, then.” Aaron straightened up. “Y-yes, sir.” He said, eager to get involved. “That’s a good lad,” Paul praised. “I’m going to introduce you to some people, and if we’re lucky, you might recognize them.” “Wait, sir!” Aaron shouted, drawing looks from the other men. Paul signaled for him to lower his voice. “Keep it down. This is still a party. Show some manners.” Aaron nodded. “Sir, aren’t we going to protect your wife? What if those people aren’t there?” “They have to be,” Paul reassured him. “If they have any hope of getting close to her. As for my dear Elena, I sent the butler to check on her. She’ll be safe, as long as you can do your part.” Paul patted Aaron’s shoulder. “You can do that for me, right?” Aaron gazed at Paul, determination flashing in his eyes. “Yes, I can, sir.” “Good,” Paul extended a hand. “Call me, Paul,” he said. “Aaron, sir,” he replied, shaking Paul’s hand. Paul escorted Aaron to the main chamber and pointed out the direction in the side wing. “That’s where Elena is. My butler will make sure she is safe. For now, let’s me introduce you to some of my friends.” True to his word, Paul introduced Aaron to several important benefactors and family friends. “Will Kowalski!” Paul called out. A man with a white rose turned and cheered. The two hugged. “Congratulations, Paul,” he said, shaking his friend’s hand vigorously. “Thank you. Meet a new friend of mine. Aaron,” Paul turned to face Aaron. Caught off guard, Aaron stumbled out a response. “Uh…h-hi,” he said, raising his hand awkwardly. The crowd chuckled. “Is he still a boy?” Will laughed. “We will make him ripe as a fellow could be,” Paul said, slapping Aaron on the back, causing him to stumble forward. The group laughed again at Aaron’s humiliation. “Well, I need to show this one around. Let me know if you need another glass or two!” Paul then lead Aaron out, giving him space to recover and helping him fix his suit. “If you want to help, I will need more than just a confident act. These people aren’t afraid to chew each other out, even someone like you, understand?” Aaron nodded. “Yes, sir.” “Then act like it,” Paul said, giving a light punch to Aaron’s chest, which made Aaron recoil. When he recovered, Aaron looked away for a second. A moment was needed to breathe deeply and prepare himself to look back at Paul, a moment to prepare for his mission. Finally, looking back into Paul’s bright hazel eyes, he stood straight. “Don’t worry about me, sir. I can handle this.” Paul give another light punch to his chest. Aaron did not move. “Good. Now, let’s go.” As they returned to the main chamber, several more people approached Paul. “Hey, hey! There’s the man of the hour.” Shouted a man with a bushy beard, drawing the attention of several others. A larger crowd soon formed around them “Paul!” “Oh my God, what took you so long?” “Hey, Paul! Have you met my brother?” “Mr. Stevens, we must talk.” The crowd surrounded Paul, who expertly complimented them and slowly dispersed the group until he had a moment to breath among five others. Finally, with things settled down, Paul turned to Aaron, and introduced him. “Everyone, I would like you to meet Aaron, a gentleman from my firm.” Paul said. “Well, hello there!” An older man said. “A gentleman such yourself could afford to look better at one of these events. This is a wedding, you know.” The younger man beside him looked provoked by the elder’s address. “Dad!” He whispered, his voice cracking. A sense of familiarity struck Aaron. “That’s not polite.” The way he whispered, the way his voice cracked—it was definitely him. The younger man was one of the voices he heard from the balcony. Aaron was faced with a different problem now; all eyes were on him. Paul was giving him a look, the kind where he expected Aaron to stand up for himself. Aaron understood and rushed out a response. “Oh, well, that’s because I work hard to keep everything in order,” Aaron said quickly. “I was rushing to arrive on time…” “On time!” The old man cracked up. “Young man, the party doesn’t start till midnight!” The crowd howled in laughter. Even Paul smiled. “I want to introduce my friend to others. Please excuse me, Mr. Siemens. Let’s talk again when we have minute.” Paul said, raising a glass to the elder man. Paul pulled Aaron away, but before he could call out to another group, Aaron pulled on his cuff, and stepped up to face Paul. “That boy, beside Mr. Siemens,” Aaron said. “It’s him! I heard his voice.” Paul raised an eyebrow. “Him?” Paul asked inquisitively. “Jacob Siemens. His family are friends of ours. I don’t think…” “I am sure of it, sir.” Aaron interrupted, confident. He knew what he heard, and he recognized the voice. He played the conversation over again in his head. The way he cracked his voice, the subtle deepness. He turned to look at Jacob, whose voice he honed in, focusing through the sea of noise of the crowd while he spoke to his father. There was no doubt about it. Seconds later, shouting erupted, followed by a feminine shriek. A man rushed onto the punch stand, brandishing a gun. The man shot two rounds into the ceiling. Everyone fell to their knees in freight. “Paul Stevens! We are taking your wife. Bwa ha ha-ha ha!” He then jumped off the table, ran out onto the balcony, secured a rope, and rappelled down. Aaron stood up and ran to the edge where the rope was. The masked man had already landed on the first floor and was running to two others masked men, carrying a bound woman. “Elena!” Aaron screamed. Adrenaline surged through him as he grabbed the rope and slid down, hardly noticing his burning fingers. He landed and sprinted towards the car. The kidnappers had begun to accelerate and Aaron lunged, barely brushing the trunk handle and landed in the grass, before the car sped off through the open gate, echoing off into the night. Silence enveloped the parking lot, broken by distant shouts of security and Aaron’s incoherent swearing as he pounded his hot fist on the grass, sobbing. The crowd emerged, witnessing the pitiable display Aaron was in. Paul approached and kneeled beside him. He said nothing, only patted Aaron’s back. A snicker pierced the quiet, then several more, until laughter and cheering erupted from the crowd. Applause filled the air, and even Paul’s voice boomed with joy. Aaron turned, bewildered. Why were they laughing? Did they not just see what happened? “Son!” Paul said, still snickering. “Thank you!” Aaron was stunned. “Wh-what? Why? Wh…” He stammered as words failed him. “Take a look,” Paul pointed towards the balcony. Emerging from the balcony entrance was the remarkable woman of the hour, Elena Stevens. Her dress shone bright white like the stars above with fairy-like wings of silver sparkled under the evening lights. Aaron’s jaw dropped. She was a vision, but circumstances continued to elude any understanding. I-I don’t understand,” he finally uttered. “Of course you don’t, boy!” Paul said with a smile. “Did you not get the invitation? This was all planned. But by God, I did not plan for this! You were amazing. Next time, let me know if you want another major role. Everyone always loves an action man.” Paul then turned the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, Aaron!” The applause that followed was thunderous, but it felt hollow to Aaron. For what was done, he could not erase the turmoil inside him. He wanted to smile, acknowledge the cheers, but his heart was heavy with humiliation. As the applause faded, Aaron’s world seemed to spin. He struggled to focus on the faces around him, the conversations blending into an indistinguishable hum of noise and a mosaic of fashion moving about. The fireworks outside painted the sky with bursts of color as the pre-celebration had finally begun and the crowd prepared for the next stage of the party, but Aaron didn't lift his gaze. His thoughts were consumed by what had transpired, the kidnapping, the deception. He turned and walked out those gates, the men and women who stood at the gate snickered as he walked out. Sitting in his car, he turned to look at another commotion unfolding. The frantic shouts, another car rushing out of the gates. This time the security leapt into action. The distant shouts of the crowd becoming apparent. “Elena!” Everyone cried. Aaron did nothing. He remained in his world. The humiliation, the fear, the confusion—they were all genuine. But so was courage in the face of danger. But as the sirens cried out in the night sky, Aaron made a silent vow to himself: to be stronger, wiser, and never let himself be a pawn in someone else’s game again.


The General’s Uniform Tristin’s eyes popped open. Jumping up he twisted. Explosions rattled his ears. Camouflaged troops shouting orders and others laying down fire atop the bulwark. Wait...he squinted; they were literally laying down fire. Blasts of flames burst from the troop’s palms incinerating the landscape before them. Black dots zipped across the scenery like ants with superspeed. He tried to make out the dots, but they were too far away. He tried to move but his clothes refused. His clothes felt...stiff, he regarded his outfit. “What tha...” “Hey,” a soldier shouted, “he’s up!” Tristin regraded the clothing again, a general’s uniform, pristine and starched stars and pins galore. But everyone else’s uniform was ripped and torn. One of the dots jumped onto the bulwark while they were distracted. Tristin stepped back or at least tried to step back. These dots were beasts. Their molerat body and lion type legs seemed out of place. Weirder yet, their bodies were translucent like it wasn’t really here. Is this a dream ? Tristin thought. A soldier screamed as it smacked him into the pile of weapons behind. Real enough to hurt Tristin thought. “What is this!” he shouted. One of the soldiers blasted the beast sending it screeching away. “We can’t kill them sir,” another cried. “We need him now!” The soldier with furrowed brows and a firm step came towards him. He looked in charge. He handed him a shield he got from the armoury. Tristin’s arm rose to take the shield. He clenched his fist. “What was that?” Tristin asked. “Take the shield nitwit,” a voice said, Tristin twisted searching for the source...” hurry up the men are dying.” He glanced at the captain that stood before him. He pointed to the general’s uniform Tristin had on. “Yes, I can talk,” the uniform said top pocket flapping like a lip, “but no time for that, now” it continued, “take the shield.” Tristin took it. “Are you sure this is his affinity?” the captain asked. “Guess we’ll see,” the uniform said, then launched him into the midst of the creatures in the open plain before the bulwark. With inhuman speed he dashed into the horde, translucent pink blood masked the land with every strike. The shield sent rippling poles of lightning across the land evaporating the creatures. Soldiers cheered but Tristin screamed as he was pulled backwards. His hand twisted behind him crashing into another set of ghost-like lion-moles. “What are you doing?” Tristin yelled. “My arms don’t work that way...” “Just shut up,” the uniform said “I’ll do the work just hold tight to...” A creature pounced on him. Tristin jumped. Panting, he turned. He was in a living room. His living room. He exhaled. “Honey are you ok?” Jemma asked, “oh my you’re sweating.” He felt the couch beneath him just to make sure. Jemma chopped vegetable a few feet away. She was real, right? Of course, you couldn’t fake that beauty. “That one felt real,” he said. Tristin sighed, relieved to be home. “One of those weird dreams again?” Jemma asked.  “Yeah” he replied “but this time it was...” he reclined resting his head on the couch then closed his eyes. As soon as his lids closed, he jumped. Soldiers blasting lion-moles and screaming all around. “You again,” the general’s uniform said. “The same one?” the captain said, shield in hand. “Well, this wasn’t it,” he said looking at the shield. He rushed for the sword. “Take it,” the uniform demanded. The uniform had a deep, masculine voice. “Hey!” Tristin said refusing to take the sword, “this is my body.” The uniform sighed, “could you please take the sword so I can save my men.” “Why am I talking to a uniform,” Tristin said, “this is a dream.” He closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, they were still there. The captain regarded him, concerned. “Why did you pick him again?” the captain asked. “I didn’t,” the uniform said. “This is not a dream Tristin, take the sword or men will die. And if they die, you die.” “The same guy?” Another soldier asked. The captain nodded. “I am right here you know.” Tristin said. “The only benefit,” the uniform said, “is that we can have multiple chances to guess his affinity for one of the armor sets.” After trying to wake himself two more times he finally took the sword. “Hey,” Tristin said, “do I have a say in this?” “No” the uniform said, then launched him into the horde. He crashed into the ground knee and fist sending dirt flying. He didn’t feel anything just as before. The uniform moved his hand with the sword slashing lion-moles. Lightening cracked and pink blood splashed as they made their way towards a distant form. A giant lion-mole standing on two legs. The giant monster loomed in the distance. Tristin eyed the creature. It had three heads. “Focus,” the uniform said, “stop stiffening your hand.” Tristin decided it’s best to play along if he won’t wake. He moved with the uniform slashing and stabbing. “Good,” the uniform said. “I know right, I think I might be getting the hang of...” Tristin woke up in the middle of a board meeting. “Tristin,” his boss said smiling, “Glad to see you are back with us.” What day was it? He checked his watch; a week had passed. “I’ll let him off the hook this time guys, he burnt the midnight oil to meet the deadline.” Deadline? Tristin thought, for what . Who was living his life while he was away? The only thing he could recall was going to sleep on the coach. Tristin rubbed his temples, then closed his eyes. He held them shut. He feared what he would see if he opened. He could feel a migraine coming on. What in the world was going on? Slowly he peaked. “He’s back,” the Captain said. “That one was amazing.” Tristin cupped his forehead. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. “Yeah,” the uniform agreed, “but the sword is still not his affinity.” “What on earth is going on here?” Tristin asked. “Why am I here, what are we doing and why can’t I remember the time that passes when I am here?” The captain handed him a belt, ignoring his rant.            “Ready?” the uniform asked.            “Wait,” Tristin said “what does this...” the uniform launched him into the horde. He still hadn’t gotten used to that superhuman jump. This time Tristin––or rather the uniform––killed beasts with his bare hands.            “Ah!” Tristin screamed flashing his hands. They really were bear hands or paws. They ripped into lion-moles as Tristin flowed with the uniform directing his body.            “Hey,” Tristin said as his fist split the head of a beast.            “What?” the uniform answered sounding breathless.            “What’s your name?” “Really” the uniform said slipping underneath a lion-mole and ripping its gut. “You are in a transdimensional space fighting translucent monsters wearing a talking general’s uniform and you want to know my name?” “Well,” Tristin said, he ducked as paw pass passed above him. “I don’t have anything better to do. This all must be a dream, even when I think I am awake.” “Just call me general,” the uniform said. “I doubt we’ll see each other again. Summoning the same person three times is...unlikely.” “Summon?” Tristin asked. “Yeah,” the general said, “only your type can wield the legendary weapons and ware me?” Tristin regarded the belt as they ducked for cover, “yes” the general continued, “this is a part of the legendary armor.” “How long have you been fighting?” “Just over two thousand years,” the general replied. “What!” “As long as we can hold them back its fine,” the general said. “But weaklings like you cause them to gain ground.” “And yet you summoned me twice?” Tristin asked. “I don’t choose who wears me?” the general said. “Who does?” “Enough talking,” the general said “when I say duck, then...” “What?” Tristin said. His head lifted off his body. Tristin jumped standing. The people in the pews behind watched him. Church? He thought, he could remember the last time... “Honey” his wife said under her breath, “please sit down.” He sat down eyes opened refusing to even blink. “You promised you wouldn’t sleep,” Jemma said “I...” she looked at him, “what’s wrong with your eyes?” “Nothing,” he said, eyes dripping. “It’s watering,” she said “Hun, is everything...” a shush from behind cut her off. Tristin stared ahead, ignoring her. His only aim right now was to not go back. And so, he kept his eyes opened. “Is this because you didn’t want to come” she whispered. He shook his head. “We do not fight flesh and blood!” the preacher shouted in that signature way preachers do. Totally unnecessary if you asked him. “And so we need the full armor of God.” Wait Tristin thought what? “Let’s look at Ephesians 6:13” the preacher continued. “Therefore” the preacher read “put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.” Seriously? Tristin thought. “The only way to defeat the devil in your life” the preacher continued. “Tristin, I think we should...” “Stop talking” he said to his wife. “I mean, listen...” “The only chance we have” the preacher said, “is to put on all the armor, not one, not two all of it.” Tristin sighed, “I can’t believe I am doing this again.” “Doing what,” Jemma asked. Tristin shook his head, then closed his eyes. “Listen general,” Tristin said to the uniform, “Give me all the armor.” “What?” the general asked. The captain handed Tristin a breast plate. “I want them all,” Tristin said. “Are you crazy kid,” the general said, “you can barely handle one; anymore and you wouldn’t even last a minute out there. These are legendary...” “What’s the worst that could happen?” Tristin asked. The captain eyed the uniform. The general remained silent. Finally, he spoke “If you are killed by a legendary weapon, you die! For real, not just here, no coming back.” “Oh” Tristin said. “Go hard or go home.” “Oh crap” the general said, “get them all, best case he dies early and we get someone else next time.” “Done!” the captain said strapping on the boots. “Ready?” the general asked “let’s do this,” Tristin replied. They zipped from one lion-mole to another slashing dashing and spraying the land pink. Most of the time the lion-moles evaporated even before he could slice through them. A sort of force enveloped him creating a protective shield. “I’ll be dammed,” the general said, “you are still alive. How’d you know?” “Long story,” Tristin said ducking under a paw. The duck was late, but it didn’t matter, the lion-mole evaporated before it touched him. They stopped. The lion-moles hesitated, stopped attacking. One of the three headed giants zipped towards him. The general blocked with the shield. This one did not evaporate. A thrust with the sword sent the giant zipping away, avoiding the strike. “Alright,” the uniform said. He rose his arms, shield in one sword in another. Thin strips of blue lightening danced across the surface. Tristin squinted; a bright blue light shot from the heavens. In waves they rushed across the land in every direction. Lion-moles and giants alike evaporated into nothingness. The general sighed, “you should have led with that one,” Tristin said. “Didn’t know I could,” the general said, “it’s the full set. It made all the difference. Good work kid.” “Wait,” Tristin said, he could feel his mind drifting away, “what now?” “We go home,” the general said. “Honey,” Jemma called, “we are going to be late, check the closet.” Right, he thought we are heading for a restaurant, and I am looking for my favorite tie . Wait, how did I know that? He opened the closet door. The general’s uniform hung at the front of the row. “General?” Tristin called. “Who are you talking to?” Jemma asked. Tristin spun, “no one,” adjusting her hair she went downstairs. “Don’t worry kid,” the uniform said, “I’ll be here when you need me, and I brought the armor, all of it.” The general lifted a sleeve pointing under the bed. Tristin smiled, then left.


It is John’s birthday, his thirtieth, to be precise. He does not want to make a big fuss out of it, so when we meet him, he is walking his elderly neighbour’s dog like he always does on Wednesday afternoons. The dog is small, stubby, and shaggy and has bright brown eyes that look curiously into the world. So basically, he looks a lot like John, even if he is not the owner. John always wanted to have a dog, but his parents never let him when he was a child and since he has been an adult, his landlords would not let him. So, Spencer is what he got, but it is fine, really, no responsibility, just a walk with a dog once a week. John would have enjoyed his afternoon walk more if it was not his birthday. He generally did not like holidays, the pressure to do something special and the forcedly good mood…His birthdays were the worst. He never really understood the point of them. It had neither been his effort nor his wish to be born. So why celebrate? Why pretend that this was a special day? Of course, his parents had a completely different opinion about this. For them his birth was a very significant event, an event that had changed their life profoundly and that had fulfilled everything they had at one point stopped to hope for any longer. So, he had to have a celebration of some kind. Typically, it included dinner with his parents and a lot of presents he did not want but got anyways. Tonight they were going to his father’s favourite Italian place, one of those exquisite restaurants with long white candles in silver candle holders on white table cloth, just the place where you go with your doctor parents and have a glass of prosecco to celebrate your getting together. He had to get home and get himself ready for the evening, get a shower, maybe do a little meditation to relax, put on some comfortable clothes that would not prompt his father to make his usual remarks about the importance of exercising regularly. And he must under no circumstance open the letter he had been hiding in his desk drawer for the last couple of days. It would only upset him. It always did. As long as John could remember he knew that he was adopted. He was everything his parents could ever have wished for: a son, a baby son of their own after years of failing to conceive. They had sworn that they would do everything in their power to make him the nucleus of their new atomic family. He would grow and prosper and become their son not only by name but also by his complete being. They had also sworn that they would not lie to him about the circumstances of his birth and their parenthood. He asked the inevitable question when he was three years old and their neighbour was seven months pregnant: “I was in your belly, too, mommy, right?”. He was clearly expecting a simple, reassuring “Yes”, but what he got was a fairly complicated “No”. That day he learned about the concept of adoption. He was mature enough to grasp the basic concept, but too little to deal with the emotional impact of the fact, that he had another mother, a mother who gave him away. Was he bad in some way, damaged goods? Too little to understand or to ask, his young brain compartmentalised the issue: he understood that he was special due to his adoption because and told everyone who would care to listen, to the horror of his parents. The more traumatic aspects of the whole affair sunk deep down onto the ground of his subconscious. They lay down there like the carcass of a whale, slowly rotting and releasing tiny particles into its surroundings; bigger chunks were eaten by fish and other creatures of the deep sea and resurfaced in disguise. They emerged as profound self-doubt, a lack of basic trust and the uncanny ability to present himself as the person the other one had always wished for. Unsurprisingly. John became the perfect son his parents had wished for. They could hardly believe their luck since they knew that adopted children could cause a lot of trouble, their biggest fear was that his birth mother had been a prostitute and John would turn out to be a drug addict or criminal or just bad. Alas, John never did. The mystery of his birth mother accompanied him his whole life and, on his birthdays, it became especially intriguing. He never wanted to tell his parents about it since he did not want to give them the feeling that they were not enough, or that he longed for his ‘real’ mother. He didn’t, not really. And still, as soon as he turned eighteen and could contact the youth welfare office to ask for more information on his adoption, he did so. Maybe the mystery had grown too big, maybe the resentment for her had become too big, maybe he just wanted to close the case, which would have been easily possible if his mother was indeed a troubled person. Or, on the opposite, how would his life change if his mother was amazing, maybe a famous actor or even noble and rich? As is turned out, none of his hopes and fears became true. His mother was a friendly common woman, still young and very warm-hearted. She said all the right things, for example that she regretted giving him away every day of her life. She explained to him that she had been very young when she was pregnant with him – 15 – and that she was raised in a very difficult family and just did not see any way to keep him at the time and that she just wanted the best for him. She was so happy that he had gotten in touch with her and she could not wait to introduce him to her new family who all knew about him. John was very disappointed with this. He had expected more drama, more feeling, more something. He could not really put his finger on it. He met her more often, he met her family, nice ordinary people all over. In some respects, they were quite like him. Like him, they always had tea for breakfast. His parents preferred coffee. They had the same favourite colour (blue). And they had a dog. They greeted him very warmly and he instantly became a member of the family. He hated it. You would expect that every adopted child longed for exactly this. But he just hated it. All these years, he had managed, he had fantasized about his mystery mother and it was ok, not great, but ok. And now he felt this rage, a rage that had been buried very deeply inside him. He did not want to belong to them, he did not want another family. He wanted to hurt his birth mother for having abandoned him. So, when he turned twenty-one, he decided that he’d had enough and did the only thing he could think off: he abandoned her. He did not return her phone calls; he did not write to her and he forgot her birthday. The last time they had seen each other, he had told her to her face that he despised her. He kind of enjoyed her tears. Unfortunately, she still had his address. A letter from her had arrived two days before his birthday. Just seeing it had made him feel uncomfortable: slightly ashamed of himself and slightly satisfied. He had buried the letter unopened in his desk drawer; he could not open it before he had had dinner with his parents because he was afraid that they would see it in his face. Mollified by a couple of glassed of vino rosso and some grappe he returns home. The evening has been a relative success, they have gotten along quite well, his father has not made any remarks about his physique and they have given him a city trip of his wish as a present, something he was actually looking forward to. When he enters his dark apartment, he is in a bright mood and filled with some tender nostalgia. He is ready. He opens the letter. He does not read the card but slowly and pleasurably rips it apart and tosses the shreds into the bin. There is also a little present in the envelope: a pair of red-blue socks, hand-knitted. John looks at them and sighs. With a tiny uninterpretable smile on his face he takes them to his bedroom. There he opens the undermost sock drawer and puts the pair in there, next to their nine colourful hand-made siblings. Just where they belong.


CornFlower Moon Harley Seesholtz Aaria was just another part of just another normal day. A day on a planet that was so, so special. This planet was called Soha, and Soha’s days were years and years long. They never ever seemed to end, and nobody on Soha really counted anymore. Aaria loved the warm, welcoming sunshine on her face, even if it was artificial. She wasn’t sure how the big corporations and producers did it- made fake sunlight. It seemed impossible, she thought. She loved the warm feeling on her face when she walked outside, but something deep inside her remembered… something inside her remembered that it just wasn’t as good as the real thing. She had read books about Earth (she, of course, had been there before, North Carolina, but it was becoming increasingly hard to remember Earth.) Not that there weren’t other planets- but Earth interested her the most. Maybe it was because she was born there, but it's more than that. It had other people- an atmosphere, warm, real sunshine, and healthy, green plants that grew with the help of the sun. It’s an almost magical process that people call photosynthesis. Her parents on Earth would send her little packages with things from Earth in them. They never failed to get to her. So far, she was sent a leaf, a branch, a small, smooth block of wood, a coconut, an acorn, a deer antler, a pinecone, a porcupine quil, a small portion of Fools Gold/ Pyrite/Iron Sulfide, a flawless sketch of a sunflower done by her Mother, a bluebird feather, a turkey feather, a flower petal, a decorative butterfly pinned down and secured in a case/frame that hangs on the wall many, many, MANY letters and postcards, and a jar of dirt. Dirt didn’t sound that special, but it was Earth’s dirt. It was capable of growing plants and holding life. Well... not on Soha it wasn’t... All these things brought back memories that were buried under her knowledge and need to learn from her expensive, non-Earth school. Almost all life on Soha was artificial. Their food was all fake nutrients, because it was too much work and took too long to send things from Earth to Soha. If it could spoil or wasn’t worth anything, then you wouldn’t be allowed to send things back and forth between planets. All that did was waste fuel and time. Aaria thought the people on Durva were pricks anyway… What with their riches and huge colonies. One colony on Durva could swallow the entire Soha population in one fell swoop. Luckily, they haven’t. Yet. There has been some heat between them and Soha... I guess Aaria hasn’t really had a proper introduction. Her name is Aaria Lia Katz. She is a 14 year old girl from Earth. She is part of a group of kids who are actually from Earth on Soha. Everybody else is a person who has a family history of ancestors on Earth, but there are no people who have touched Earth’s land and lived there that aren’t these kids. Aaria is part of a small group who was sent by rich families on Earth to go to school on Soha. These kids have all seen the sun. The adults have not. Not unless they are driving the shuttles that send packages (and, at one point, these kids) to and from Earth and Soha. And even then, they have never stepped foot on the soft grasses of Earth’s fair surface. They have not appreciated the fine textures and gorgeous sights of all the nature and beautiful things Earth has to offer. Aaria didn’t want to go to school on Soha. Her parents made her. They claimed it would help her make more friends and give her more diversity. She couldn't stay in North Carolina forever. They had money to throw away, so they decided it would be used to send her to school on a planet that still takes days and days to get to even while going lightspeed in one of the highest quality shuttles Soha has to offer. The days on Soha seem to never end. People there have just sort of stopped counting as the days went on. They just let time do what it wants, and if they feel it will be night soon, they cancel plans for the next few hours. If they were right, they get some favour and praise for accurately guessing. If they get it wrong, they are reprimanded by their bosses for canceling work when they weren’t supposed to. Aaria thinks it’s unfair, but she, as a 14 year old, can’t do anything about it. Aaria, in her 8 years and many school grades of being on Soha, has never seen the Moon. Every day, when they are sleeping, she sneaks out of the facility she stays in with the other kids and waits. She waits for the fictitious lights to go away, and for the moon to come out. Nobody ever knows when it will happen... Soha has its own Moon, and to see it is a treasure, so once every... Well, who knows how long- the big, rich companies and producers turn out all the fake lights so the kind, patient people of Soha can see the Moon. Soha’s Moon isn’t the gray colour she remembers Earth’s Moon being, no, Soha’s moon seems to glow a beautiful cornflower blue. It shadows their entire world in a lovely shade of blue, and everybody cancels plans so they can see the gorgeous night sky. Sadly, the moon stays out for around 4 hours and then leaves, not to be seen for years and years on end. Or, well, years and years on never end. Aaria- just once -would love to see the Moon. She just knows that she will take enough pictures of the night sky to fill an entire house, but it’ll be worth it, because she can say that she has seen something that only happens for 4 hours every who knows how many years. Aaria, that little girl with a big dream from bum nowhere North Carolina, will be special. At least a faint bit.


Sophie had always found solace in the forest behind her grandmother’s house. The canopy of towering oaks and whispering pines offered a refuge from the noise of the world and the suffocating expectations that shadowed her every step. Today, the forest felt different. The air was heavy with the kind of stillness that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. It was as if the forest was holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, kicking at the fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. She’d walked this path countless times, each step familiar, each turn well-worn into her memory. But today, she felt like a stranger, navigating through an unfamiliar place. Her mind was a storm of thoughts she couldn’t untangle—work stress, her strained relationship with her parents, and the nagging feeling that she was meant for something more than the mundane routine of her daily life. She paused by the old oak that stood at the heart of the forest, its trunk thick and gnarled with age. Sophie had carved her initials into its bark when she was ten, a testament to her childhood promises and secrets shared with the wind. She ran her fingers over the faded letters, tracing the lines and curves. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves above her, and for a moment, she felt the urge to run. To just leave everything behind and see where her feet would take her. As she turned to continue down the path, she heard it—a soft whisper, almost imperceptible, carried on the breeze. It was not the usual rustle of leaves or the creaking of branches. This sound was different, ethereal, as if the forest itself was speaking. Sophie stopped, holding her breath. She strained her ears, but the whisper was gone as quickly as it had come. She shook her head, chiding herself for being so fanciful. But then it came again, clearer this time, like a faint echo of a voice she couldn’t quite place. She turned in circles, trying to locate the source. Her heart raced, a strange mix of fear and curiosity tugging at her. “Hello?” she called out, her voice swallowed by the vastness of the trees. No response came, just the whispering wind. But this time, she caught a word—a single word that sent a shiver down her spine. “Stay.” It was barely more than a breath, but it was unmistakable. Sophie’s mind raced, rationality battling with instinct. She should leave, she knew that much. But the voice had a pull, an undeniable allure that she couldn’t resist. She stayed rooted to the spot, listening, waiting for more. The wind swirled around her, colder now, almost biting, as if the forest was drawing her into its depths. She remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell her—old tales of spirits and ancient guardians of the forest. They were just myths, Sophie had always thought, bedtime stories meant to entertain and frighten children. But standing there, alone with the whispering wind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that those stories held a kernel of truth. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice trembling. She felt foolish, talking to the air, but the silence that followed was unbearable. She needed to know. Needed to understand why that single word had resonated so deeply within her. The wind shifted, and for a moment, the world around her seemed to blur. The trees swayed, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands. The whisper came again, this time clearer, more insistent. “Remember.” Sophie’s heart pounded in her chest. She staggered back, her mind flooded with fragments of memories she couldn’t place. Images of a different time, a different life, flashed before her eyes—a young woman standing in the same spot, looking up at the same towering oak, but dressed in clothes from another era. There was a sense of familiarity, a strange déjà vu that made her question the line between reality and imagination. She clutched her head, trying to make sense of the jumbled visions. It felt like a dream, yet every detail was vivid, every sensation real. She could feel the coarse fabric of the woman’s dress, smell the damp earth beneath her feet. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the vision faded, leaving Sophie gasping for breath. “What…what was that?” she whispered, her voice shaky. She felt the forest closing in around her, the once familiar path now a maze of shadows and secrets. She took a step back, her foot catching on a root, and she stumbled, falling to the ground. The wind whipped around her, more forceful now, as if urging her to listen, to understand. “Remember,” the voice repeated, echoing through the trees. And then another word followed, one that made Sophie’s blood run cold. “Home.” It was not a command, but a plea, a desperate call from the past. Sophie’s breath hitched as the realization dawned on her. The visions, the voice—it wasn’t just the forest speaking to her. It was her own voice, a piece of herself that had been lost, calling out from across time. She remembered now. The dreams she’d had as a child, of running through the woods in another’s shoes, of prayers under the canopy, the looks of distress on peoples faces has they were led beside to the alter, the agony of the ritual blade, the screams as crimson painted the earth. It wasn’t just her imagination—it was a fragment of a life she’d once lived, long ago. A life that had ended too soon, with unfinished business that had lingered, waiting for her return. Sophie stood up, brushing the dirt from her hands. She looked at the oak, at the initials carved so long ago, the stains, the forest was a part of it, forever changed, forever scared and felt a connection that went beyond her own lifetime. She wasn’t just standing in a forest; she was standing at the crossroads of her past and present, where the echoes of who she had been and what she endured collided. The wind calmed, the whispers fading into the background hum of the forest. But Sophie knew she couldn’t ignore what she’d heard. It had changed everything—her understanding of herself, of the world around her. She wasn’t just a visitor in this place; she was a part of it, bound by threads of time, memory and blood. With a newfound sense of purpose, Sophie turned and began to walk, not away from the forest, but deeper into it. She didn’t know where the path would lead, but she was no longer afraid. She would follow the whispers, unravel the mystery of her past.