Growing up - read the poster hanging above Mrs. Langer’s second grade classroom. Below the poster sat a small plant and – Sam’s favorite – a hamster relaxing in a hamster house. Sam was a member of Mrs. Langer’s classroom, and every chance he had, he ran - as fast as he was allowed - to catch a glimpse of Mr. Hammy, the classroom hamster. Last week, Sam had even bought Mr. Hammy a toy – a small green and white colored ball. When Mr. Hammy was presented with the new toy, he squealed with joy, holding on to the ball with his tiny claws, chewing on the rubbery lining.

Sam always delighted in seeing Mr. Hammy playing with the gifted ball, until one day, when Mr. Hammy no longer seemed interested in playing with it.

“Mrs. Langer?” Sam wondered, “Why isn’t Mr. Hammy playing with my ball like he used to?” “Well,” explained Mrs. Langer, “Mr. Hammy is growing up. And as you grow up, toys that you used to play with, you may put away and no longer play with. Mr. Hammy is becoming a big, strong adult hamster.” “Huh.” Sam responded with disappointment. After school that day, Sam returned home and was greeted by his older brother and parents. His older brother, however, quickly retreated to his bedroom to do homework. Watching closely, Sam copied him by retreating to his own bedroom. Toys were spread out all over the floor of his bedroom, toys that he loved and enjoyed playing with.

This is going to take a while , he thought to himself, as he started to gather the toys, one by one, and place them in his toy chest. Once the toys were all in the chest, Sam locked the chest and slumped on to his bed. Now what?

Sam thought to himself. He didn’t feel any better. In fact, without his toys, he was rather bored. Sam waited, as the hours slowly ticked by, until he could hear his older brother snoring in the adjacent room. Tip-toeing into his brother’s room, Sam grabbed his brother’s backpack, and quickly retreated back to his own bedroom. He then emptied the contents of the backpack onto the floor. Papers, folders, and books tumbled out from the backpack.

Grabbing the book closest to him, Sam opened the book and began reading: “On Joseph’s farm there were a total of 40 animals - a combination of pigs and chickens. Joseph counted 100 legs in all. How many pigs were there, and how many chickens were there?”

That’s a good question , Sam thought to himself. He grabbed another book and began reading: “One of the causes of world hunger is infrastructure instability. Poor infrastructure makes it difficult – even impossible – to transport food to towns or remote villages that desperately need it.” Scratching his head, Sam opened yet another book: “The US national debt has reached levels not seen since World War II. As of 2019, US debt has grown beyond 17 trillion dollars.” Yawning, Sam closed the book and crawled into bed.  Unfortunately, sleep did not come easy for Sam that night - he ruminated over all the things he had just read.

Pigs have four legs and chickens have two, but could I possibly know how many pigs and chickens there were? And how would I be able to build enough roads and bridges to allow starving children to receive the food they desperately need?

As for 17 trillion dollars, Sam wasn’t sure exactly how much that was, but was hopeful that perhaps the coins in his piggy bank would be able to cover that. I’m not sure I like this growing up thing . Sam would rather have spent the night bringing out his toys and playing with them one more time, but, as Mrs. Langer said, in order to be a strong grown-up, you need to put away your toys and deal with grown-up issues. While not feeling content, exhaustion eventually overtook Sam, and he slept through the night. The next morning Sam grabbed the books he took from his older brother’s room and transferred them to his own backpack. He dragged the heavy backpack all the way to school, before letting the backpack fall off his shoulder in Mrs. Langer’s classroom. It was free-time, and one of Sam’s best friends immediately approached him. “Tom and I are playing monster game! Come join us!” Sam declined, taking out one of his newly possessed books from his backpack. “I need to work on solving these problems.” Throughout the rest of the school day, Sam declined to join in on the fun and games with his classmates, and instead focused on the problems documented in the book. But despite all the pondering and contemplation, head-scratching and struggling, Sam wasn’t one inch closer to solving any of the problems. Defeated, Sam buried his head into the book.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Langer. “Last night I put away all of my toys, and I started reading my brother’s books. They're full of problems, and I don’t know how to fix any of them. I really just want to play with my toys and my friends, but I also want to grow up, like Mr. Hammy.” “Oh? Well let’s go see what Mr. Hammy is doing right now.” Sam and his teacher walked over to the hamster house and took a look. While the green and white ball was still sitting by itself, Mr. Hammy was instead in a hamster wheel, squealing as he ran and made the wheel spin and spin.

“I just placed the wheel in his house this morning, and he’s already loving it,” Mrs. Langer started. “Growing up doesn't mean you have to throw away all your toys and only focus on adult problems. As you grow up, there may come a time where you no longer enjoy playing with a specific toy, but that doesn't mean you need to stop playing all together.” Surprised, Sam asked Mrs. Langer, “Does that mean I can still play with my friends?” “Of course you can! And you don’t need to stop just because you’re all grown up.”


The windows of the house flickered sadly. The wax flowed slowly down the red trunk of the candle. A soft whisper carved into the silence. The darkness had already absorbed almost all the dim light sources, but the mere glow of the stars shining incessantly. "You have to hurry, and remember, as soon as you get there to visit Abigail Clover." She will understand. Come on, hurry! You have to go- the old woman's teary gaze aimed at her black eyes.- We love you so much, Mary, my little Mary! They embraced. "God bless you, Mrs. Johnson, thank you for everything," she cried. - Come on, fast! They're right here!” An old man ran in excitedly. He was all skin-and-bone, his eyes swollen, purple wrinkles running down his face. His name was Mr. Johnson, and he has already suffered a lot for this decent Hungarian name, but how much more will he suffer more... The old door creaked open, and the dark figure melted into the sad night without a trace. Her silent footsteps may have been only heard by the angels sent by the old woman to take care of her. In the distance, the pounding of the enemy's horses was louder and louder. They rubbed the forest land heavily with their hooves, destroying everything that was life, freedom, and Home. They had stirred up a cloud of dust that left only torment behind; where they passed remained uninterruptedly sobbing in the wind. The fugitive walked all night. By the time the first rays of the sun blossomed on the distant horizon, Mary was already resting her aching legs at the base of a forest-edge bush. She unfolded her ragged haversack, in which there were merely three slices of dry bread, a red onion, and a little bacon. It seemed so poor, though she brought everything they had to eat. Her eyes filled with tears when she thought about how much this lovely couple had done for her. They helped and supported her in everything they could. Despite their age, they did their best. She stroked her lacy dress gently, in which she left home. The old woman even opened up the curtain to knit her clothes. She thought back to that cool November day as she wandered all alone in front of the store building. She was so young, barely six years old. Elegant people and ornately dressed women stormed past her. Sobbing, she was just shaking that her parents were dead, and she had nowhere to go. They were both taken away by the flu; they were poorer than the church’s mouse. They left nothing behind, just a little girl. Suddenly an old man approached her, carrying a full bag. He took potatoes for sale, but no one needed them at the market today. To his final desperation, he brought it into this little shop to see if the sellers here would buy it from him. However, they also refused. When he saw her, he didn’t have the heart to leave the hungry child, and although he and his wife lived sparingly alone, they adopted her without question. When they first met, she looked at Mrs. Johnson as her mother, who loved her with all her heart, as if she would have been her own, although she never had her own. She cherished her, loved her like a proper mother, a veritable guardian angel. As for Mr. Johnson, he would have put his hands on fire for the girl's health and happiness. Now here she is ... She left the people who would have sacrificed their lives for her. She ran away, there’s no way back. The path frowned contemptuously in front of her, as if accusing her of escaping, while the souls of so many people were finding their way to heaven because they were Hungarian. Now, after the glorious moments, they felt the painful hours, days, weeks of the 1848 revolution... They were surrounded, cruelly struck back. They ruthlessly incited an enormous elephant against the tiny bit Hungarian army. The fight was over; the loss was certain. If no miracle happens, the lives of thousands of Hungarians will be in danger. And no miracle happened ... The enemy treated the soldiers ruthlessly as well as the simple people of the nation. There is no longer as much wax in the world today as the number of candles burned during the weeping of the widows when their fallen loved ones were mourned. Mary went to sleep with an empty stomach, hoping she could still sleep without being attacked by devastating Habsburg soldiers. Although there was a constant rumble in the distance, they didn’t find her. She walked in fear, but eventually reached a Hungarian village. One stormy night, when she was ready to give up all hope, she found Abigail Clover, Mrs. Johson’s sister. She already knew 17-year-old Mary from older letters, who grew up on the outskirts of a city near Vienna. She was tired and skinny, her hair was broken, her lips were dry. Yet there was beauty in her careless appearance. She was more special than the other girls, her new family adored her. The years of peril were gone, however, the people never lost the mournful memory of the crushed revolution. When they thought about it, everyone's hearts tightened, but they talked less and less about it. It was the nation, mourning in black forever, that proclaimed this tragic event. Time passed, and the darkness was covered in even greater pain and agony. We’re writing 1920, the mournful year in which the Treaty of  Trianon was sight. It wasn’t a treaty of peace, but shame… It was not tranquillity, but disgrace. It had everything for a recipe of shame, and the chef proved to be overwhelmingly zealous in making this multi-course meal. What was yesterday Hungary, today is Romania, Ukraine, Austria, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia, Croatia. If the pains and losses of the First World War had not been just enough, they would have tried to deprive many innocent people just because they were Hungarians. However, they had forgotten one thing: whoever is born with Hungarian blood throbbing in his veins will also die as a Hungarian. Mary Johnson celebrated her 71st birthday in this famous year. Her little granddaughter revolved around her. This girl loved her grandmother so much, she would have done anything for her. At one time, however, she noticed the woman’s incurable grief. She heard her talking of a strange house where angels lived, and immeasurable wealth covered everything. At the age of 13 she managed to find out the exact address. She made a serious determination: she would visit that house. This decision grew stronger and stronger in her heart until a few years later she really did. However, all her ideas were contradicted by the sight that unfolded before her. A dilapidated, weedy house rose on the stony ground. The roof was ruined, the wall was perforated. After the revolution, it may have provided a refuge for raiding troops, but it was doubtful that anyone would have lived in it for a long time. Nora approached it with uncertain steps. The rusty doorknob left a dirty mark on her snow-white hands. The view inside was breathtaking. The windows of the house flickered sadly. The wax flowed slowly down the red trunk of the candle. The darkness had already absorbed almost all the dim light sources, but the mere glow of the stars shining incessantly. The 17-year-old girl sobbed painfully on the old floor. Her grandmother’s stories gained life in front of her eyes suffused with tears. She could almost feel the presence of the murdered couple's returning soul. The old door creaked open, and the dark figure melted into the sad night without a trace. Her silent footsteps may have been only heard by the angels sent by the old woman to take care of her…


Right after college, I took up woodworking.

Sanding wood, building birdhouses, learning how to use a saw. My hands flexed in new leather gloves as I started power tools and crafted little lopsided wooden walls. I read books about woodworking, scoured websites, and went out drinking with my fellow woodworkers every Saturday at 9pm.

I walked with a swagger in my step, digging my heels into the floor wherever I went. Thud-thud-thud whenever I walked into a room. You could hear me coming. I led meetings with my fellow interns at work and rapped my knuckles on the dark wooden mahogany tables of our boardrooms. Some good mahogany, I’d say with a boom of authority in my voice. Solid.

I joined Habitat for Humanity and helped them build houses, putting some of my skills to good use. We crafted frames alongside future homeowners and old retired construction workers who chewed gum and told stories with their Adam’s apples wobbling. Their stories always started with “in my day” and ended with “and then I ran home with the sun in my eyes!”

I developed a perpetual squint from staring down the ends of tools. I had a set of construction and woodworking clothes that always had some dust caught in them, making me sneeze. I began to loathe the sight of those clothes, out of place in my wardrobe of clean business suits.

One day, my boss came up to me and complimented me on my hard work. “Just make sure you tone down that walk, kid, and try not to talk down to people. But you’re doing great. You’ll be a top executive in no time.”

That night, I came home and ripped those woodworking clothes out of my closet, crumpling them up into a little ball and throwing them under my bed. The words “top executive” beat to the rhythm of the blood pounding in my skull.

Three days later, I took up painting.

I wore flowing smocks and always had paint stains on my hands. I painted flowers on small canvases and fruit on bigger ones. I painted peacocks and trees, meadows and valleys, and my old home in my hometown.

I began to walk lightly, my feet barely touching the Earth so that I’d flow as I moved, softly, smoothly, no jagged kick of my heels. I visited local art museums and examined the paintings in minute detail, jotting notes in a new musty leather notebook. Nearly every weekday night, my new art friends and I would sit in a smoke-filled room of someone’s apartment and drink dark red wine from coffee cups. I bought dozens of wooden paintbrushes and watched the bristles wear down as I kept painting. Every night as I brushed my teeth, I would listen to Vivaldi and picture bridges covered in blossoms.

At work, I nodded with an arch to my eyebrows, my face expressive even when I didn’t care. My dark eye makeup caught some glances, but no one mentioned anything. My colleagues only sometimes asked me questions about what I was painting, and I would tell them, hands waving, about my newest painting or art idea.

One day, my boss complimented me on my ability to boost morale and connect with others. “Who knew,” he said, “that art could really open people’s eyes?” He laughed his little heh-heh laugh. “Just don’t forget about what’s important. You’re not going to be any professional painter. All that painting stuff, kid, it’s got your head in the clouds and no top executive has his head in the clouds without his feet planted firmly on the floor.”

That night, I pulled out my newest work in progress, a painting of a bridge, and ripped it to shreds. I carefully packed up my paintbrushes and threw them into the darkest corner of my most inaccessible drawer, shoving it shut with a thrust of my hips. At the sink, before I brushed my teeth, I spent half an hour scraping paint off of my fingernails, nearly scraping off my own nails in my struggle.

Two days later, I took up dance.

I joined a studio where they taught beginner classes for adults, studying modern dance. I couldn’t perform the stretches with the grace of the other dancers, and I sweated and grunted my way through the first class. As we exited the dance studio, the teacher stopped me with a wave of his arm. “Wait,” he said.

I waited, his hand still on my arm.

“No one is born knowing how to stretch. It takes practice, and I can tell that you’ve got drive and skill. It takes a strong person to step out of their comfort zone and try something new, and you never gave up. You gave it all you got, and I want you to know: I’m proud of you. I hope to see you again next week.”

After he finished speaking, I nodded with a smile and ducked out of his grip, making a beeline for the door. The words “I’m proud of you” thrummed in my toes. I walked up to the tired receptionist at the front desk to the studio and added two more classes to my schedule.

I learned how to stand on one leg and shift my weight between my feet. I learned how to hold my spine, not too high or low, no slumping or arching of the back. I learned how to walk, feet placed evenly on the ground. I learned how to leap and turn, floating by focusing on everything else but gravity itself. I felt graceful, even as I panted with exertion every class.

I wore jeans and sweaters and dress shirts and soft worn boots, a sweep of woolen scarf completing every ensemble. I gave presentations quickly, short and sweet. I felt the weight of my words just as I felt the weight of my body – heavy and even, slow and smooth, only held exactly as necessary. My coworkers noticed the change gradually, and one asked me about how I’d learned my posture. More people began to gravitate to me slowly, as if I were a small magnet, even those I didn’t speak to. Co-workers joined me at dance classes, and we grabbed drinks together sometimes after class, discussing work and posture and home.

One day, I saw the boss speaking with his boss in the corridor after a meeting at which I had spoken, and I wondered what they were talking about.

The very next day, however, as I pushed open the heavy glass door to the office, the receptionist intercepted my path to my desk.

“Wait,” she said.

I waited.

“Boss wants to see you,” she finished. I nodded with a smile and walked to his office. After rapping on the door with one firm knock, I stepped back, eyes fixed on the plaque next to his door.

The door opened seconds later, the boss’s beaming face greeting me.

“Kid, come in, come in!” he said with a smile. I came in and sat down, accepting a glass of water from him, my spine straight. He settled into the leather chair across from me and clasped his hands on his desk, his shoulders twitching uncomfortably beneath his thick suit jacket.

“Well, let’s get right down to it. Kid, we’ve been noticing some really great work from you, and we were wondering if you’d like to level up and become manager. Great position, great pay. Whaddya say?”

“What changed?”

“Excuse me?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

I cleared throat. “Excuse my forthrightness, but you said earlier that I was too condescending, and then that my head was in the clouds, but now you want to promote me so soon? I’m sorry; I just want to know.”

He winced and waved a hand. “All in the past now, kid. You had some things you had to work on, and I just wanted to see you do better. But you have taken those comments to heart and improved tremendously—an almost unprecedented amount. I hope you see that growth in yourself,” he added, face suddenly stern. I tightened my muscles to keep myself from shifting in the chair. The room felt too hot, and I surreptitiously wiped my palms on my pants. “I do, and that answers my question, thank you, sir.” I took a deep breath. “So what would—”

“Just a moment,” he interrupted, holding up a finger. His eyes scrutinized my face. “Can I ask you something, kid?”

I nodded.

“You’ve been improving pretty steadily, already a lot for an intern, but these last few months, I’ve seen a great change come over you. What was different this last time?”

“I’ve always taken up hobbies, little human dreams, you know? I’ve done a lot of things,” I continued, tilting my head in thought. “But this last one, dance, really combined lots of my other interests. I don’t want to go pro,” I added, forestalling any concerns he might have. “But I wouldn’t want to stop.”

The boss chuckled, and I felt a foreboding shiver slide down my spine. “Well, you’re going to have to.”

I locked my eyes on his. “What—What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to have time for those frivolous things, kid,” he began, drumming his fingers on the desk. “You’re on the track to greatness, and silly little side activities aren’t going to get you anywhere.”

For the first time, I let out a laugh in his presence, a full-bellied laugh, and I saw him rear his head back in surprise. “I thought you might say that,” I said after a pause. “I really thought you might.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “Looks like you’ve got a choice to make then, kid. The company or—”

“—or myself,” I finished for him.

“Well, now, we’ve got tons of opportunities to take time for yourself. Work socials, group painting nights, all sorts of great stuff for you to kick back at.”

“That’s not for anyone, and everyone knows that. Last painting night, we all just got drunk and no one painted a damn thing.”

“We’ve all given up lots of little joys to keep this business going strong,” he replied, his tone even but severe, every word slow and enunciated. “This is a great opportunity for you. Don’t blow it.” He planted his elbows on the desk and leaned in. “One last chance: Give me your answer.”

The room went silent as I gathered my thoughts. Finally, swallowing hard, I smiled. “I went from top executive to thin ice pretty fast, huh?” I noted. “That’s how it works. Loyal intern to sad manager to drunk painter to top executive to ‘one last chance’.”

He stood up and stepped around his desk. “This conversation is over until you can screw your head back on right. Dismissed.”

I grabbed his arm and stood up, blocking his path to the door and planting my feet. “I could do your job.”

He resisted my grip. “Excu—”

“You know it,” I hissed. “I could do it in half the time it takes you, probably.” “You don’t know what you’re—”

“I don’t want your promotion. In fact, I quit. Effective immediately.” With a slow grin, I released his arm. He yanked away, shaking his head in disappointment.

Before he could send me out, I placed my knuckles ono the desktop and rapped on it twice. “Good solid table. Mahogany?”


Chili mac covered with oozing cheese for her baby girl, still chunky at age 3 with a round moonpie face and legs that started off as thick sturdy tree trunks before tapering off into sapling branches and flat feet with long floor tapping toes. Vegetable soup for her little boy, tall and painfully thin, owing more so to the racehorse metabolism he’d inherited from his father than the food allergies she had to carefully screen everything he consumed for. There was not a drop of butter on the rice the two children would share and although her daughter loved the stuff, Mama would be bringing grape juice rather than chocolate milk for them to drink. The girl might get a sip before her brother wrenched it out of her pudgy hands and what a disaster that would lead to. It was expensive to feed her son, but working in the base’s dining facility allowed her to alleviate her financial burden somewhat, as leftovers went out the backdoor with her after nearly every shift. Before departing for work she always made the food he would be served for breakfast and lunch, snacks, and filled his plastic cup. If he drank all the juice, then fill it up with water were her instructions. She trusted no one in the household to kill her son. They couldn’t get her simple instructions right and kept putting hot water in her boy’s cup following some crazy folk beliefs or whatever that cold water would make him sick. Didn’t they know a 4-year-old isn’t smart enough to know when something is too hot to drink while they were boiling water to put in his cup? They really were going to kill her boy one day! It was getting colder and the sun was setting well over an hour before her shift ended with dinner. Then off she went with her purse, and bag of goodies, and thinks of her little ones, two-thirds of her heart. It is still too early to put in a call back home to speak to the greatly missed piece of her heart. A year had turned into five years without her meaning for it, and she was still trying to find a way to make what she left behind blend in with what she had now. The grass wasn’t exactly green but it was what she had.

“Mammie!”

The door barely opened before a pair of knobbly sticks were being wrapped around her ample waist and a hot water bottle radiating enough heat to be felt through her coat.

“What the hell I keep telling ya’ll about giving my baby this hot shit?” Her southern backwater strongly melanated roots are shining through loud and clear with her vernacular making her incomprehensible and her admonishment on deaf ears. Tentatively lurking in the background, the daughter who had been unsure whether to approach or run away, dissolved into tears. And just like that, the evening was ruined. She pulled off her coat with one hand leaving it but not her shoes at the entrance much to everyone’s annoyance before swooping up her son in one arm to mollify his incessant need to feel her closeness and crossing the threshold. He laid his head on her shoulder coffee brown almost poker straight bangs falling heavy over brilliant pond water eyes could hardly leave him to go to work and nuzzled her collarbone. She could hardly leave the boy to go to work in order to be able to meet his most basic needs, so she slipped away while he was still asleep or otherwise distracted, and the household’s members were always anxious for her return for no other reason than to “shut that boy up his whining all the time”. It was a simple and begrudgingly accepted fact that she had usefulness if for no other reason than the boy worshiped the ground she walked on and there was no way to keep him without her.

“Every time I come home and think Imma have a good night.” The woman grumbled.

She met the liquid autumn green irises veiled behind horrifically unattractive coca cola bottle lenses that betrayed mongrel origins and had been raised momentarily from their preferred focus on an open soft covered study book. “Do you really let the other to cry and do nothing while I cannot concentrate?” came the expected criticism from the only person in the place that could actually understand her and should have been her right hand.

F**k you and them GD books!! Your Mammie and your brother both stay here but you wanting me to do everything!! Inwardly the woman almost through her third decade of life seethed. Outwardly, she just sucked her teeth and said coaxingly to her youngest child, “Stop all that so your daddy can read his books and come see what Mama got for you tonight. Mama knows how much you love cheese. Come see how much cheese Mama put on it for you.” Her true baby baby didn’t care much for her she knew, the gunmetal grey peepers full of anxiety and distrust, and was half scared of grown people in general crying at the drop of a hat, but she had her ways of getting the little girl to have something to do with her. She was Mama, a title held since her senior year of high school. Of course, she had a way to attract and quiet her youngest child. She still didn’t know how to answer her aunties’ questions about how on Earth she could’ve made the little girl be born so naturally nervous though as they tutted over the child’s seemingly constant crying every time she called them to inquire about her eldest. Had she and that foreigner man she so-called married been fighting all the time when she was pregnant or something?

Why is the last youngun you had always fussing and crying? You and that man been fighting and carrying on so much that you ended up having a nervous as hell baby? Seem like she cry if you look at her and you know that don’t make no sense for her nerves to be that bad already as little as she is! You gone hafta to do something eventually, make a change, cuz she can’t even go to school crying all the time like that. You gone hafta leave there or something if your baby can’t get no peace even when she at home with you and her daddy.  “Why you cry when you Mama is come home now?” The broken English of her teenage brother-in-law snapped the woman back to reality.

“Mama come home now. Go to eat the food of Mama and no crying!”

As the trickle of salt water streaking and the irritating the sensitive skin of the toddler’s puffy cheeks slowed and she moved slowly towards her mother, the woman breathed a weary sigh. “So you not eating with them tonight? The wannabe gangster I leave my kids with from morning till night is too good to eat what I bring for them?” It had been a part of the original agreement and she had reluctantly agreed along with the delinquent’s eldest brother currently preoccupied with the study books to put food in his belly in addition to a roof over his head in exchange for his services. Things had been okay back then when they first took him in as a favor to the widowed mother whose womb both the eldest and youngest had shared. Then her mother-in-law had realized that she didn’t have enough control over her eldest son’s life anymore and more importantly the first grandchild that she’d offered her youngest son up to help raise. She had installed herself into the household around the time eldest son was threatening to walk out the door, wife and son, after learning of the second pregnancy less than a year after the boy’s birth and demanding that the unthinkable be done. The woman still remembered the audible thud and horrified confused youth’s face as she cracked his eldest brother upside the head with a hastily grabbed glass liquor bottle at the mere suggestion that she not have this baby and told him that he could get right the hell out now if that’s how he was thinking. That she would be having this baby and would disappear with her son back to the United States and none of them would ever find either her or the children. They wouldn’t even know what she named the baby let alone ever lay eyes on it or see the precious first grandchild, the boy that right from the beginning had enmeshed himself to her.

But then her mother-in-law had come, moved herself into the drafty three-room sixth-floor walk-up unit paid for by the military’s housing allowance, knowing her eldest son would never protest or say no to her, and promptly made a nightmare of the then newly re-expecting young mother’s life.

The older but not too much older woman having become a mother herself for the first time at age 17 as a result of the resident scholar’s birth, despite looking down on her daughter-in-law for the same risky adolescent behavior, eyed her youngest son. He knew what she expected for him to complain about having to take care of the woman’s children all day and all she could offer him was leftover American food like they were all still living during the wartime days and third world status decades that immediately followed or something. Was he supposed to be grateful for scraps like the distant relatives that hadn’t escaped the peninsula migrated to safety and better opportunities prior to the war and had to endure the humiliation of accepting food from the country’s continuous and current occupiers?

“I can eat what nephew and niece are leaving maybe.” He finally said. “They should eat this food not me.” “No, you can come on and eat with your nephew and niece now and get full so you can sleep good and keep them for me tomorrow.” The woman insisted, speaking just slowly enough to be accommodating. “And you can try to help me understand why you and that mama of yours keep giving my baby boy all this d**n hot water for him to burn his mouth and throat !”

The meal wasn’t sumptuous but it was quite filling. The children ate seated on the floor which was covered with newspaper since nobody reasonable would expect barely preschool aged kids to eat neatly and not make a mess. Everyone in the household always marvelled at the woman’s child rearing techniques. How she had the children sit on sheets of newspaper on the floor insisting that they not get up while eating, warmed the food in the microwave only to immediately place the plates into the freezer for a few minutes to cool it before serving the food to her children, and didn’t give the beverages until after they had eaten most of the food. “Is this how you do in America?” Her brother-in-law inquired.

“It’s how I was raised.” She quipped nonchalantly. “Are you not go back to America soon? You want to grow up children here right?” He continued the conversation between bites of the strange casserole that had been served to his niece. “I don’t know what I want long-term.” She admitted. “But I wanna see my eldest again. I want them to see their big sister too.” “You want to take nephew and niece to America?” He clarified. “Yeah, I gave birth to all of them.” The woman reminded him. “Mother will never let you take them. You’ll be dead before you can even leave.” He shook his head gravely. No she would not die but she would pay a very high price for her eventual escape to freedom. The tiny bearer of the fallout would never forgive her.

"I'll give my life for my children, but thank you anyway." The woman persisted. "Thank you for what?" He didn't understand. "You love and take care of my children like your own." The woman explained with a lump in her throat. "You don't care what color they are or none of that. My boy adores you when he doesn't even give his actual daddy the time of day. And your brother never wanted our daughter but every time I see you with her you're so good to her that it don't even matter what her daddy thinks. Thank you for that. You might be a thug or wannabe banger but you're a decent and good man deep down. You know you not supposed to be doing that but every time you gamble and win some money then you buy for your nephew and niece like there ain't no tomorrow. If I had to leave this country tomorrow I wouldn't worry at all about my babies as long as they're with you. Thank you for that." They watched the children eat in silence for several minutes. "You don't belong here. Whatever you are doing do it more quickly. Whatever you do I will look after the children always." It was the beginning of the end as if he had given her permission, what was broken could never be fixed.


My fingertips run on the crisp, thin, flaky layer of the croissant; I can smell, will taste like melted chocolate and too much butter. It's fascinating, just as much as it is a shame; how many people miss it. It's beautiful, it's delicate, it's fragile, and yet, most people simply won't take the time to feel it. And maybe I shan't feel superior, because the only reason I do it's because it's the only way I can give it any attention at all. Its exterior is golden-brown and perfectly, masterfully baked; or so they say. I can feel its warm and toasty smell in my nostrils, mixed with the floral notes of lavender. The mauve lavender that's sitting on the marble windowsill by my bed.  Or so I'm told.  Along with the cream porcelain vases, a high ceiling, and box panelings on these bright walls.

Or so I've heard.

And it's hard for me to picture it consistently. Faces, colors, shapes. They're dancing, changing because I don't think I can remember them. It's like losing the voice of someone you loved. Losing the wrinkles on their face, forgetting how their laugh used to sound. Crimson, Indigo, Teal. Now, they're all down to meaningless words, words that make me trip, those ones that, if repeated too much, they would start growing spiky and shapeless in my head. I used to be blond, now I'm not sure. I used to look pretty, now I don't know. I used to stare at every imperfection on my face, now I can't stare at all. That day I was running from that car in the meadow, now I can't run from anything but my thoughts.

Thank goodness, I possess a voice outside my head, other than my own, to break this loud, unbearable silence. The delicate, protective Margaret, the only soul I've ever spoken to since the accident - my caregiver - speaks once more of how the sun shines uninterrupted on Rosewood Manor, as it always has and always will. At this point, I'm not even sure it's true, but I can't smell the pungent rain, so I can't dispute her. She told me, once again, about the vast, mahogany-paneled library I can't see. And the foyer, with a grand crystal chandelier that I tried but couldn't find. I've always dreamt of living in such a manor, and I honestly never stopped because even though now I do, I can't savor any part of it. It never actually came true. Because I might be living in a castle but all I can feel is the smooth texture of the silk duvet of my bed. And that croaky, loud and annoying crow of the Cuckoo Clock that yells that it's time for Margaret to present me with those violent, acidic, pungent eye drops that I can feel fighting with my clouded eyes. The ones that are supposed to magically give me back my sight, like that's even a thing. And days seem sometimes as if they'll never end as they fade into a confused blur much the same as the whole world around me; that I can only imagine, a collage of confused memories. And I have no clue where I am even though I make her describe it to me every single day. I don't know anything of what's around me, but I could tell you what color is the inside of my carillon. It's turquoise, TuRqUOiSe, TUrqÙöiSê, TūRQÛoÏsë. Whatever that means.  And the night breeze on my skin, the heat of the day, and cuckoo screams, hours, seconds, minutes, sounds, smells, tastes. And again, every day - the sound of footsteps behind my closed door, the gentle knock on it, and Margaret's warm, reassuring voice, telling me, once again about the well rehearsed and detailed description of this room.  But not that day, that particular morning, there is no knock, no voice, just silence. Just pitch-black, wide-open nothing, and my voice bouncing off those walls. Blinds that never got open, bread that never got toasted and the light kept locked out of here. The ring of an alarm that never got turned off and no voice to guide me out of bed, petrified under these covers seeing, hour after hour, an unmaintained world, a world that was waiting for a hand to be lived. And I could do nothing but wait, unable to do anything remotely independent. Meals left untouched and unused eye drops, and damn tears in my eyes that I know I shouldn't let form while taking the meds, and yet, there they were, running on my face, maybe trying to reach the floor to rush out that door; in vain. My only solace had been her voice; and wasn't that pathetic? That too had left me. I felt truly alone, and for the first time, truly impaired. I finally get the courage to sit on my bed, mostly out of hunger rather than actual bravery. I prepare to jump into the void, for my feet to fall in the never-ending mist surrounding me; except they don't. Their bare soles met with the icy marble floor. I push myself forward trying to map out anything surrounding, me and the comfort of my bed. A shot in the dark. No, more like a hand in the dark. A shaky, uncertain hand dumbly taking its body along. "The blind leads the blind." My throat pushes those sounds that lay on those walls and furniture, that send me back, based on how much echo they carry with them, how far away the next obstacle will be. Thud. Damn, I didn't sense that. My knees, shaky on the floor, my hands pressed against the smooth, patinated wood of the desk that creaks slightly under my weight as I get back on my feet. Dust on my fingers, now in my nostril- I cough as my dusty hand follows that buttery smell stretching to reach it, the cold, forgotten croissant. I drop my hand on it, I feel it for an instant under my palm before I hear its thud on the carpet. Usually, my mom would've yelled at me for taking it up and eating it - but I'm starving, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind this once. I feel the dust of the carpet, now on the croissant's flaky skin, entering my mouth. I cough again. I'm miserable. Eating dust in the wide-open nothing. Sobbing, letting every little drop of the medicine that my eyes managed to keep, on my cheeks- along with the tears. And so it went for days to come. Margaret's absence started hanging like a heavy feeling in my chest, and the odds that she was gone for a family vacation really started to wear off. They went on with other sounds and the waiting for echoes, bumps into furniture and bruises and cold meals. Updating the mental image of the space around me, which seems to be somewhat inaccurate now that I touch it, smell it, feel it. It's back to when I was a kid. Swallowed in soft blankets, certainly less soft in the darkness of my room, in the solitude of my room, at witching hour. My little bored mind and my eyes still lit and alive making monsters emerge from the dark. To transform the pitch-black into my worst nightmare, just for the fun of it.  But now it wasn't the same. The black that surrounded me wasn't just darkness and day after day, the shapes and shadows that I began to see were not echoes of a mind with too much imagination. They were real. I was seeing them. And it felt like they could see me. Not the mental map of my room, not a dream, they were there, before my eyes. I squinted, as if testing the gears of a machine that had just been put back into operation. After years, what felt like decades, even. It was back working. I was back working. As the fog around me began to dissolve, leaving a forgotten space for light to filter against my over-sensitive retina which began to tear at the first shining beam bouncing off the back of my eyeball. It wasn't much, but I could see the beautifully confusing and almost indecipherable reality around me. It was there. Maybe it was working; the drops were having their effect. I hold out my hand to feel the smooth, cold bottle come from my palm, then my index finger and thumb on the rubbery dropper, trying to get at least one of the twenty drops that are ending up on the carpet to fall into at least one of my eyes. Oh, but when they do, it can't go unnoticed. Because it hurts, it burns. Crack. The fog runs, smoke again filling my pupils, my, once again, gray, clouded, dead pupils behind an equally coffin-like stare. My eyes fighting the drops, the tears trying to chase them away, my hands clumsily doing the same and my squeaks, my sobs as the world around me turns black again. No. It was impossible. There was no way in any logical corner where the drops given to me by Margaret could– It couldn't be. Yet it began to creep up from the back of my mind, a slow but steady whisper. Could they perhaps be the cause of my blindness rather than the cure for it?  Stop.

It was Margaret. Her absence was driving me crazy. Or maybe it was setting me free. So I stopped taking them and waited for the shapes in the back of my mind to make sense again. I should have paid attention to what I wished for. Think twice. I'm like balancing on breaking branches as the world around me shows its truth, day after day. I wasn't broken anymore, I wasn't impaired and yet, I felt more helpless than ever. The reins of my life slip from my hands, how sweet ignorance was. I would like to turn a blind eye. Turn them both blind again, because the room I'm now looking at not only doesn't match its description. It's a terrible, pale, mediocre lie. My chest throbs with each breath, faster than the previous one; as I look at the claustrophobic, filthy, dark cell I thought for a castle in the last few months. My castle, my dream. I tripped and fell from heaven to the room I dreamt to see. Except it's not. The dried lavender that's sitting on the dusty, wooden windowsill right by my bed.  Now I can see.

Along with the cream shattered plates, a low ceiling, and stains on these dark walls.

Now it's crystal clear.  Her words shaped my world and wasn't that quite convenient? No. It can't- all this time…there is also perhaps the slightest possibility that she had been my sweet, quiet, caring…kidnapper?

Crack.


The streets of Morehead City is bustling with workers getting last minute things ready for the festivities that will begin at 8 PM. The crab pot is checked over. The lights work now to check the timing of it coming down. They need to make sure it is exact. Morehead City is nothing like New York City. There are about a third the people if that many. A small fishing town with many privately owned shops and restaurants, a quaint town that the people living there and around there love. One such person moved to Beaufort, NC when she was a young mother. Her daughters were middle school and elementary school age. Three girls in a small town, perfect combination, or so she thought. Life started out perfectly in 1995 when Mary and her husband found the cute three-bedroom house just out of the town of Beaufort. Before their daughters joined them, a young boy asked them if they needed any help and if they had any children. This was how it was in the south, especially in Beaufort. Children were very respectful and willing to help when they can, usually the latter is in hopes of a little money but they will not ask for it. Mary and Jim have been married four years now. This is both of their second time around. Mary’s first marriage was full of verbal abuse as well as physical, emotional, and psychological. Leaving their last place was a blessing for her because she was truly able to put all of that behind her. Jim has been the perfect husband. Jim worked for the government in the shipyard in Portsmouth, VA. He also was in the United States Army Reserves. Once he and Mary got married, he took on two other jobs to help make ends meet. In 1994, he found out that his dad had cancer. After the operation to remove the tumors, he and his family were told that they could only guarantee one year of good quality life because they could not get all of the cancer out. At that same time, his mother was being treated for breast cancer and he received his third pink slip from the shipyard due to the RIF program (reduction in force). The other two were pulled from him. Jim was very stressed out. One day, Jim came home from his reserve weekend duty. He wasn’t home long when the phone rang. The Army was offering him a full-time position. They were offering him to go active duty, Jim took it. He had to be away for schooling, so Mary had to hold down the fort and start preparing to move. Neither had any idea where they would be going. Most of the preparation was done while the girls spent time with their other parents and family. This gave Mary time to go through items and decide what they will keep and what they will get rid of. In the mail, Jim finds he has a set of orders. “Mary! We got the official word! We will be moving to the Morehead City area.” Mary was very excited about this news. Jim has been drilling with the reservists there for the last four years and there were times she would go with him. She loved the area. Before heading off to school, the two of them take a trip to Morehead City to find a home to rent. They met with a realtor and she showed them a house in Beaufort that was within their budget. They signed the paperwork and handed over the deposit. This will be their home for the next three years, or so they thought. The day Jim left for school, the realtor calls. “Mary, I am sorry but the owners of the house need to pull out of the lease.” “Why is that?” “The job he was hoping for fell through and they just found out they were having their first child.” “That is ok, we will let them out. See if you can find something that will be willing to let us have a six-month lease. That will give us time to find exactly what we want,” Mary said to her. “Will do.” Mary hangs up and sighs. Little did she know that this will become a normal thing for her. The moment Jim will leave, something will fall apart or fall through. In a day or two, the realtor finds a house for them off of Harker’s Island Road in Beaufort. Mary sets up a day and time to come to see it for herself. Her dad offers to come along with her. He is old fashion and does not like the idea of his daughter going off anywhere by herself, especially four hours away. The day comes and Mary sees the house. It is three bedrooms with one and a half baths. Just what they need for their three girls. The only problem is that it is truly a shack. The best part is that the owner is willing to have a six-month lease on it and the price is less than the other home Mary and Jim were looking at. That was in June, by December Jim and Mary buy their own house. They were moving in when the young boy comes over. Those three years were some of the best and some of the worse in their marriage. Here it is now 2019 and getting ready to become 2020 and this is where they decide to retire. Their middle daughter moves here right after graduating high school and ends up renting their house with two sometimes three roommates. The oldest moves into the property several years later when her husband abandons her and their daughter with Mary and Jim. Of course, that house had to replace a few years prior due to the spread of black mold. But she moves in after her sister moves out into a house her and her husband (the young boy across the street) buys their own house right next door. Since that time, that boy from across the street cheats on their daughter and makes her move out of the house. She had nowhere to go and agree to allow the children to stay there until she finds something. She first moves in with her parents and then a good friend of her stepdad had a place available at a price she could afford. She ended up with a two-bedroom. She gave her kids the bedrooms and she took the living room to sleep in. The door opening takes Mary out of her reminiscing of the past. There are two of her grandchildren, coming to stay the night with her while their mom and the oldest granddaughter (a teenager in high school) go to the festivities at the waterfront of Morehead City. The other two go to the bedrooms. Gary plays with his cars and Legos that he has at his grandma’s and Amber takes her tablet, her sketchbook, and her pencils into the other bedroom. Mary hopes the New Year will be a better year for her daughters. They have been through so much. Misty and Rachael with Deidre make it to the waterfront. Deidre asks her mom, Rachael, if she could walk around with her friends. Of course, Rachael agrees but tells her that she has to stay close by. The girls go to the vendors and get themselves a sweet iced tea. No one makes tea better than anyone in North Carolina. They get settled in and wait for the crab pot to drop. Just about time for the countdown, they clink their cups and say “Here’s to a New Year with New Beginnings.” The lights start-up and the crab pot begins to fall. The sisters say out loud. Ten…Goodbye to anger. Nine…Goodbye to hatred. Eight…Goodbye to financial struggles. Seven…Goodbye to the fighting. Six...Goodbye to self-pity. Five...Hello to new friends. Four...Hello to more opportunities. Three...Hello to self-love. Two...Hello to possible love. Together they shout out. One...Hello to new beginnings!!!! Happy New Year!


Do not ever step foot on the ground. Charlie had been told this his entire life, but it never really sunk in. He didn’t understand the deep-seated fear everyone else seemed to harbor. He thought it was incredible, a beautiful problem to be solved. Until he was laying on the floor of the lab staring at the ceiling and blinking away tears. The first time Charlie ever saw the ground consume a person he’d been twelve. What the tree-top teachers referred to as “live mummification” was a quick, disturbing process. Dirt crawling over skin to create a sort of exoskeleton. A casting of the human body, like those papier-mâché spheres they’d made in class years ago. It’d been an elderly lady that first time. The pulley system keeping her safe had malfunctioned and she’d lurched off balance. It was a code yellow bridge and wasn’t fully enclosed. The old lady stumbled to the side and was pulled right over the edge. Charlie caught only the first flash of the swarming ground on her skin before his mom had ushered him away. As the crowd around them shrieked and cried, Charlie craned his neck for a better look. He’d liked to have claimed this moment as the catalyst for his obsession, but really that had occurred years ago. It was maybe a few days after his seventh birthday, and he was crossing that old rope bridge by his house. It’s been built in a rush by early survivors trying to escape their houses for supplies. He was not supposed to be on it, but that had only made him more intent on using it. One of the rotten wood planks had splintered under his front foot and sent him toppling forward. It was only due to some notion of luck that his hips didn’t fit through the empty space and his arms had gotten tangled in the ropes. His leg hung down, exposed, ten feet off the ground. And then his new shoe, a size too big so he could grow into it, slipped off his foot. It landed on the dusty ground and tipped over sideways. Charlie’s breath caught in his chest, but nothing happened. The shiny shoe glistened under the sun. He wanted desperately to stick his finger in that restless dirt, just to see what would happen. He stayed put for way longer than was logical just in case, but the ground remained flat and lifeless. The shoe was not alive. The second time he saw someone be consumed by the ground he was 18 and on the verge of declaring a major in Microbiology, specializing in the study of those tiny organisms that made the ground hungry. This time the fall had not been an accident. He’d been crossing a major intersection of bridges when a commotion piqued his curiosity. A young woman who looked barely older than him had crawled out onto the roof of a one-story house where no one would risk following. Her auburn hair floated in the wind. People crowded against the railings to watch her. A few kind souls called out things like “You don’t have to do this!” and “Things will get better!” but the girl ignored them. She stared straight ahead and stepped off the roof. For a millisecond it was as if she was walking in the air, and then she plummeted to the ground and landed with a heavy thump. Immediately the soil surged up to meet her. She didn’t make a sound as it closed over her. Charlie came back every day for two weeks to observe the hardened cocoon. Inside, he knew that the body was being decomposed, drained away. The microorganisms in the dirt would suck the nutrients from her. Then the cast would collapse in on itself and the ground would smooth over once again. It wasn’t surprising that these events would have a lasting effect on him. The unexpected part was the nature of the effect. Where others would shy away and realize how dangerous the ground was, Charlie felt himself drawn to it. He wanted to understand the little beasts that terrorized his people. So, it was inevitable, really, that he’d want to see this forbidden phenomenon again. The lab he was assigned to was on the upper floor of a university no longer in use. The building was old, made of even gray bricks. He had to duck through the fifth-floor window that had been fashioned into an entrance to get in. The walls were off-white, and the floors were so stable it made him feel somewhat unbalanced. His feet, used to the bridges and tree-top platforms, weren’t accustomed to the solidity. The equipment in the lab was well maintained: microscopes, autoclaves, incubators, centrifuges. He felt like a child in a room full of new toys. On one side of the room, where a balcony had once been, a ramp had been fixed that led down to the ground. The space before it was taken up by a deoxygenation chamber used briefly to asphyxiate any rogue organisms. Charlie was integrated into a group that exclusively studied the microorganisms in the ground called Vitae Suffocent . Life suckers. The study was relatively new, they’d only recently worked with engineering to create a protective suit. Before then, the scientists would lean out the window with a cup fastened to a long pole and scoop up a small bit of the dirt. With the help of the suits, they had been able to set up a secure mock habitat to observe the specimens’ behavior. The group was small, a handful of young students of which he was one, along with six seasoned scientists. For the first time, Charlie found himself surrounded by people who were just as interested in the ground as he was. The obsession that had set him apart from other kids in school was now reflected all around him. There was a girl who’d started at the same time as him- Tori. She was short and had thin black hair chopped short around her ears. Because they were new, they were often assigned projects to work on together. He wasn’t sure if he liked her, but it didn’t matter much. There was an ongoing experiment that needed a fresh test subject, someone to stick a finger into the Life Sucker habitat. Charlie volunteered immediately, exhilarated by the idea of being able to touch the ground. He pictured it being magical, a borderline religious experiment. He worked himself up over it for days, so that when it was finally time he was almost bursting with excitement. The scientists heading the experiment placed him in the deoxygenation chamber with the container. Around him, they gathered clipboards, pencils poised to jot down any and all details. His forefinger was swiped clean with an alcohol wipe that made the skin feel dry. Tori unlocked the circular compartment in the top of the container. Slowly, breathlessly, Charlie lowered his hand into the habitat. The tip of his finger brushed the dirt. It was soft and damp as he pressed the finger down. Charlie blinked and the soil began to stir. It tickled the pad of his finger. He watched in fascination as the hidden organisms began to climb up his skin. It was a strange sensation. The soil was cool and light, it felt more like a caress than a smothering. Tori clicked the stopwatch in her hand and began to count aloud. By the time she reached seven, the organisms were up to his wrist. He withdrew his hand. The seal on the opening caught most of the dirt and held it back, to the irritation of the organisms. He held his hand away from him, not trusting it. Tori latched the contained shut quickly. Someone on the outside of the chamber switched it on. They held their breaths as the oxygen rapidly drained from the room. A loud whirring assaulted Charlie’s ears. His chest tightened. For a minute they all felt like they were suffocating, then it abruptly stopped and the doors to the lab popped open. Oxygen flooded back in. Charlie sucked in a deep breath. He examined his hand. It was tingling and covered in little red blotches, but otherwise, he was fine. No damage had ever been recorded from less than ten seconds of exposure. Charlie glanced at the other set of doors over his shoulder. The ones that opened onto the ramp that led down to the ground. He longed to go through them, wanted to dig his hands in the ground and laugh as the organisms consumed him. He turned and walked back into the lab. A month later he was given a protective suit and given the chance to wear it for the first time. He and Tori had been assigned to walk, outside , to a big oak tree and back. Charlie was thrilled. He stepped into the suit and pulled it up over his arms. A tech zipped him in and checked him over. The suit was a stiff layer of slick rubber designed to lack tread so the organisms wouldn’t be able to climb against gravity. The boots they were given were thick and clunky. They were tall, reaching up to his knees like a pair of extra-long rain boots. A device attached to the top of the boot sent out vibrations that they’d found would deter the organisms. The hood of the suit came up over his head and the visor was clicked into place. He saw the world through a glass partition. Then they were in the chamber and the doors behind them were closing. It was midday and the sun was shining. A breeze spirited a few brown leaves past the glass. The doors to the ramp opened. Charlie stepped out first. His heart pounded in his chest. It was right there, the ground. He walked quickly down the ramp, Tori following behind him at a more reserved pace. He paused at the end of it. The dirt was disturbed, as it always was when the organisms were present. It looked almost fluffy. Charlie took a deep breath and lifted one foot. He lowered it slowly to the ground, enjoying the crunch of soil underfoot. He leaned his weight forward, ready to take another step, but paused. The ground was shaking around his boot, pulsing in strange waves. It was trying to climb up his boot, he realized. He tried to pick up the foot but felt resistance. The ground clung to his boot, pulling him back down. Charlie watched, entranced. He continued to pry his foot away and eventually the dirt fell back down. He looked at Tori, whose face he could just see behind the visor. She looked equal parts disturbed and fascinated. Afterward, he felt like he’d been on another planet. It was amazing, he’d been on the ground, but he couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed. What had they learned during that expedition? Nothing new, nothing interesting . He wanted more. All he could think about was how slow the studies they performed were. They were no closer to understanding these organisms. They needed to study them in action. His plan fell together quickly after that. Once again he fastened the protective suit on and was checked over by the other technicians. Tori was doing the same next to him. Charlie clapped a hand on her shoulder and with the scalpel hidden in his palm he sliced a tiny hole into her suit, the rubber splitting easily under a sharp blade. She turned and gave him a thumbs-up. He hid the scalpel in one of his pockets. They walked through the chamber and out onto the ramp. The suit was heavy and sweaty against his skin. Through the visor, he saw the dirt-coated ground come closer and closer. The first step was always the most exciting. His foot hovered over the solid ground, casting a wavering shadow over the dirt. He placed it firmly down. The ground beneath him stirred, trying to creep up his legs but being deterred by the vibrations. Slowly, the ground pulling at them with each step, they made it 50 feet away from the end of the ramp. He knew they were being watched closely from the observation windows, but at this distance, no one would really be able to tell what happened. Charlie shoved his foot hard to the side right as Tori took a step. The bottom of her boot caught on the top of his and she lost her balance. Her arms windmilled but the suit was too bulky and dragged her down. She should have gotten up. The suit should have kept the microorganisms at bay. But Charlie had damaged her suit. He gazed intently down at her as the organisms poured over her and into the hole in the fabric. He bent over as if to help her, but really he just wanted to get a closer look. This near, it was mesmerizing. The dark earth swirled as though it was possessed. It rose and fell like a liquid. Tori cried out one last time before they closed over the top of her dark hair. Charlie ignored the panicked voices over his earpiece. Through his visor the majority of the event had been captured (excepting, of course, when he purposefully tripped her). He'd made a huge leap in the field, no matter how tragic. The footage would help inform scientists for years to come. Except, he didn’t know (no one did) that after a feeding, the organisms laid their eggs. Hundreds of microscopic eggs stuck to his boots and were carried back into the facility. The eggs, not having to breathe oxygen yet, were not affected by the deoxygenation tank. Charlie stripped off his suit and hung it on the hook. Overnight, the eggs hatched, and those tiny, deadly microorganisms scurried to hide in the dust accumulated above cabinets and at the edges of the room. Charlie was the first person at the lab that morning, still buzzing with the exhilaration of the day before, ready to study the footage and propel their lab forward. When his skin started to itch, he thought nothing of it. Until he noticed the little red dots on his forearm. Then the world tilted on its axis, and he crumpled to the floor. He’d made another major discovery that day. The skin of the microorganisms contained a deadly neurotoxin. There weren’t enough creatures to make a cast over him. It was a slow death during which all he could think about was how these organisms would feed on him, suck the life out of him. After, they’d lay their eggs. And the eggs would hatch. And the organisms would spread. His curiosity had doomed their entire town. He’d brought the ground to them.


Song of the Wind By: Ann Yuan “Just listen to the song of the wind.”

I was standing at the entrance of a corn maze when I heard that soft voice. Jane'd taken Terrence to have the adventure that he had a longing for. Looking around, I only saw a woman standing six feet from me. Her lips trembled, as though whispering to herself. “Excuse me, Ma′am?” Given the fact that I was the only person within the earshot, I was obliged to say something. But I didn’t how to start a conversation. “Did you hear it?” She asked without turning her head. All other children and parents had rushed into the maze. A few heads bobbed up and down in the forest of corn stalks, giggling and shouting gaily on their way going down the path. A few corns, fortunately, missed by farmer’s hands, remained on the stalks to wither and die. “Yeah, I hear it.” I grinned. “Kids can be wild inside the maze, even adults—”. “No, not that,” she interrupted. The woman had short silver hair, a heather cardigan, and black cropped pants. I figured she was a grandma bringing her third generation to the farm to enjoy the warm sun and fresh air. That must be it. She turned to me and asked again, “did you hear the song of the wind?” What kind of question was that? I couldn’t help but be alerted. Her eyes were gray-blue yet her face was blank — no amiable smile of an indulgent grandparent, no resentful expression leftover from a bitter fight with a foolish husband. Not even the weariness and tedium that often were hidden very well by people in her age. “Ma′am, huh....are you a poet?” I faked a chuckle, trying to find some explanation. “Why do people enter a labyrinth, even though they know, eventually, they will get lost?” She ignored me and pushed another question. Speechless and uncomfortable, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, hands tucked in pant pockets. The parking lot was empty, so was my head. Nothing could bring the distraction, aka the rescue, to save me from facing this woman alone, and answering her weird questions. I could simply leave and go back to my car, which was socially inappropriate, even rude. Just hang on for a few more minutes, the kids would be out soon, and this place would be swamped like a fish tank in a pet store. “Does your child enjoy the maze?” Finally a real question, a question that I'd begged for.

“Oh, yes! Terrence, my son, loves this place. He’s so good at it, it's amazing, sometimes his mother needs his help.” As soon as I started talking, words just spewed out. It was like I drifted away in a river out to an unknown place, I started telling this woman my life story. Terrence, unlike me, is a quiet boy. He likes to draw, spending hours on his sketch notebook. So my wife and I would like to bring him to play outside, as suggested by his pediatrician. We drove about an hour to get here, but it was worth it; the hayride, corn maze…I loved it too. I grew up in a metro area. There were no farms, no cornfields or apple trees, only roads, crammed with tiny houses, and climbed up slopes like cobra raising its head. In the distance, the houses were just like matchboxes stacked on top of each other. I imagined there was a secret tunnel inside which magnetic levitation transporters convey people from one house to another. After school, I usually went biking with my friends. The streets were curved, bending, and zigzagging, just like a maze. There was a whiff of heated asphalt, mixed with smells of over-ripened fruits, sitting in the corner, waiting to bewitch passer-by into the wrong direction. But I always find my way home. There was just one time that I was afraid I didn’t know that place anymore. My mom and dad still live there. Three years ago, I brought Terrence to see his grandparents. After dinner, I decided to walk around. I followed the old bike route, sauntering about the neighborhood. The streets seemed narrow and murky. I thought it was altered because of the dimming light. Several blocks later, the views have changed. Houses were remodeled and put on different paintings, new neighbors glanced at me like a total stranger. Moving forward, I was unnerved. I kept looking back, trying to remember the way I came from. In the end, I knew I was lost. I couldn’t find my way back, I couldn’t find the place where I was born in. I blurted out all the stuff to avoid the awkward situation, to ease my nervousness, or, for unknown reasons I believed I should tell this old woman about that incident which I didn’t even tell Jane. It was so natural though, like a speech that I had long prepared just for this circumstance. I wouldn’t stop myself had she not let out a long sigh, trailing with a soft chuckle. “She walked in there and never came out,” she said. “Who?!” I tried to control my voice. “Your child? I mean, your grandchild? It’s impossible. This is a kid-friendly place. We came here every year, it’s —” “I waited and waited. Sometimes I thought, maybe I was the one who was lost. She’s already worked her way out from another exit. She doesn’t need to come back to me anymore,” She continued, didn’t answer any of my questions, and probably didn’t care about my existence. My scalp tightened up, goosebumps creeping up on my arms. A breeze picked up, dry and crisp Autumn air brushing my face. Right at that moment, I heard the sound of the wind. No mistake, it’s the sound of the wind, mellow yet venomous. It was there since the first day, sitting in the corners, ready to bewitch passer-by and lure them away. I lunged into the maze, yelling out “Jane, Terrence!” A dark shallow appeared from the back of a corn stalk. Terrence was right in my face, flailing his arms around and trying to climb on my legs. I hugged him tight until he whined and pushed me back. “He found the exit in a second but he just won’t come out.” Jane smiled at us. I said nothing, slung him up to let him sit astride on my shoulders. As I pulled my car out of the parking lot. I glanced back to the corn maze. She was nowhere to be seen, all that was left was a mall of corn stalks quivering in the wind. They must have sung a melody, but inside the car, I heard nothing.


It was the day after the March equinox, marking the Spring season. The first freaking day of Spring and there is already a case of a missing person. I heard the call myself. A frantic man calling to report that his wife was gone. He began rambling on and on, fast and frightened the words all came out. Ellie, the emergency dispatcher, gives me a glance.

“Sir, sir, I need you to calm down. Talk slower for me?” Her voice is cool and collected. I marveled on how she could do this all day. Channel all of these frantic voices and urge them to calm down and give us the facts so that we could get help to them as quickly as possible. Her voice never wavered, not once. At least, not while I’m here when she receives a call.

He gives her all the information.

Address, last seen, name, wife’s name, how long she’s been gone, etc.

“She...She was just here yesterday. She won’t answer any calls. I...I’m sorry, she’s just been going through sort of a rough patch and I thought she was finally recovering. But she didn’t come back from the errand she said she had to run yesterday so I’m on edge. Oh God, do you think she went to kill herself? Oh God!” The man was starting to freak out. “Sir, please, we will try to help you locate your wife. Just stay strong for her right now, OK?,” Ellie says, ever the therapist. “OK,” he whispers on the other end.

The call is finished and Ellie turns to me, her short, dirty blonde hair flat against her head. She grabs my coffee and I glare at her before grinning and heading on over to check things out about this guy’s missing wife. I bring my partner, Cameron, along and ask him to put the address on his phone. He does as I ask and then we’re off, speeding down the road.

I arrive at the brick house and knock on the door. A man with dark orange hair comes out and closes the door behind him. His eyes look red, presumably from crying. I go through protocol and ask him to show me where she was headed. All he knew, unfortunately, was that she was going on an errand. She didn’t tell him where or what for.

Cases like this are harder to define. We hardly have any information. I just hope we find her. ** The case is underway and I arrive to work on the second day of Spring, rested up and ready to go. Well, of course, after a cup of coffee.

Carla knows me. She already had my cup hot and ready on my desk. Aiy, what would I do without her. She’s the first person I befriended here, considering she was a fire that no man would dare pour water on. She seemed to control the place, her voice loud and full of authority. She would make a great cop, I’ve told her so, but she continues to refuse. She’d rather stay here and scare us while bringing everyone what they need. Her skin was darker than mine, a deep brown while my Spanish roots give me an olive tone.

“Rise and shine K-9’s!” I hear her call. She has the accent of this small town, somewhere between rural and urban.

I chuckle as I notice Jerry jump at the sudden increase in noise. The office is usually quiet when she’s gone. And that’s why we need her. I smile despite myself as she comes over, showing off her nails to everyone she passes on her way to my desk.

“Heyo, heyo! Latina in the HOUSE! Have you seen my nails?”

I laugh and take a second to look at them. They’re a pretty shade of purple, one I’d have to ask her about later. I haven’t gotten my nails done in quite some time and thought maybe I should treat myself to something nice.

I look up at her, raise my eyebrows, and nod coolly, a smirk on my lips.

“Yeah, I know. Purple is in style right now, Darla told me.” “How can you get your daughter to tell you all the trends! I try my best with mine but she just looks at me, crinkles her nose and laughs, It’s embarrassing! It’s like she thinks I can’t pull it off. I wore a scrunchy the other day and she looked at me like a complete stranger. Aiy, I’m too old now, I guess,” I say to her. “Oh please. Honey, you’re not old enough to say you’re old. Look, I’m sure she'll come around. Just...I don’t know. Be cool.” “Yeah, thanks. Now, if only I knew what cool was,” I respond, messing with her. Carla sighs and rolls her eyes as she gets up. I take a sip of my coffee when Cameron comes over to me. He takes a deep breath and looks at me, lips shut tight. “What?,” I ask. “Another missing person two neighborhoods over the one from yesterday.” He crosses his arms. I slump in my chair and turn my head up to him. “You’re kidding.” “Nope. Just got the call a few minutes ago. A young kid. He didn’t come back from school and a witness claims that they saw him enter some woods.” This Spring did not look like it was holding any promises. I place a hand over my eyes and squeeze.

“Alright, let’s go.” ** After we interviewed the parents of the mom, we came back to the office. Turns out that 15 new missing persons were filed. What is going on here? By the next day, we had over 30 cases and all within close distance of each other. And then the real weird thing came up.

“Guys, you’re going to want to see this,” says Seth, the computer whiz with the glasses. We all bound over to his desk, even Carla seemed intrigued. “All the calls, when you pinpoint their addresses on one map, form a circle. A perfect one, actually, surrounding a single point. Here.” He points to a dot on the screen and I look up to Cameron at the same time he looks up to me. We nod in unison and I copy the coordinates down on paper before I get up and go, Cameron close behind.

I turn the siren on and make my way. ** It’s definitely not what I expected. For one, it’s empty, not a single person on site for as long as the field is wide. Two, it’s a beautiful meadow blooming with flowers of all kinds.

I turn to my partner who shares the same confused look.

We scout the place, guns at the ready, but find nothing. We head back to the car, tired and sweaty. Seriously, what is going on? ** Finally, a breakthrough. A mother called today and said that her son might know where they are. She said he’s willing to show us. The boy’s brother was one of the missing and we headed there as soon as possible. I just want to know how he knows where they all are in the first place and if he truly does. I hope this isn't some kind of trick where the boy leads us to his room and says that his brother is on the chair, that he’s a ghost. Cameron knocks this time and a tall woman appears. A brown-haired boy in blue sneakers jumps forward, takes my hand and says, “Follow me.” I am taken aback but does as he commands. To my utter surprise, he leads us to the meadow Seth made us investigate. He continues to grab my hand until we are in the middle of the great expanse. The mother gives me an apologetic look, excusing her son pulling me all the way out here. But she also looks...Hopeful.

The boy turns around to us and gestures all around him. My eyebrows furrow, puzzled at what he’s trying to get at. Then, suddenly, his eyes go wide with fear and he points a shaky finger at me. No, behind me. We all turn around, whip fast, but see no one. I turn back to the boy but...he’s gone. Just disappeared. ** No one can explain it.

He was here. Then he wasn’t. The department is a sad mess.

We are all just so demented. How were we going to solve this? I rub my head, drinking my third cup of coffee this morning. We got another call today. Another few actually. All of them to file someone as missing but one was claiming that their little girl can speak to them. That’s all she said before she hung up. That her daughter has spoken to them. It’s almost too much. It’s such a vague comment but it’s almost too much. We’ve contacted other police departments and none of them have reported a missing person yet this Spring. It seems to be in only our town. I take a gulp of my drink before we head out.

** The little girl is blonde.

She’s small and doesn't talk much.

Her dad went missing a few days ago. Her name is Melody and she likes to draw. That’s what we know. Oh, and that she speaks to the missing persons. She’s really small so I have to bend to look at her in her pale blue eyes. “Will you show us?” She nods her tiny head, wavy hair almost covering eyes. The mom places her in their car and starts driving. Cameron and I follow her. She stops right in front of The Meadow. I take a deep breath in. “You good?” Cameron asks. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just try to get this figured out.”

He agrees and we follow Melody to a spot on the field. She drops to her knees in front of a particular flower and says, “Hi Daddy.” Melody looks up. “They’re all here.” She points dots across the field. "The flowers are the people you're looking for."


It was a long day at work which Susie loved doing just to get away from home. Susie's had so much responsibility on her that she didn't even feel married. Life started slowly consuming Susie and she had no outlet so she became bitter. Susie would sometimes cry in her room because she wasn't happy. Susie kept feeling like something was missing. Susie loved her family and was very loyal to them and her life was good. Susie was raised in the church all of her life and couldn't wait to stop going! Susie was made to go to church all the time as a child which made her faith strong. Susie had a lot of fear because of childhood issues and attacks on her as a young adult. Susie also had many close relatives to pass in her life such as dad, grandmother, uncle and so on. Susie's way of coping with these things was road rage and going off on others! Although this was toxic it was the only thing Susie could think of to do. She had forgotten about her faith along the way of life's struggles. Susie started to see the marriage was toxic and not serving her. Susie's son got shot by a group of troubled youth. This was the most traumatic experience of all. Susie didn't feel protected even with her husband. This was the straw that broke the camel's back! Susie knew this was a warning from God to change her life! Not only her life but her family's lives as well. What we do not only affects us but our loved ones as well. Susie cried and cried about this decision because she had been married for 17 years! Susie didn't know how she would support herself because she had become dependent on her husband's income. At this point Susie didn't care because she started back talking to God. Susie got a job and succeeded at providing for the household with God's help! Susie's lease was almost up and she knew she had to move from that house with those painful memories. Susie moved when her lease was expired and got an apartment instead of a house. Susie and her sons began healing from the trauma one day at a time. Susie struggled with wanting revenge on her son's attacker to the point she couldn't sleep. Susie knew in her spirit this wasn't right and had to teach her son who struggled with the same thoughts. Susie had to tell God about her family's struggles because only God could help them! Susie prayed constantly and worked and before she knew it those thoughts were gone. Susie still had to constantly teach this method of forgiveness and giving it to God to her. It was not easy to come back from a bullet but he still was alive. Susie was grateful God said no he will live and not die. Susie and her son went to trial that year and out of the four people involved they charged one and gave him four years. What a slap in the face that a person can try to kill you and get four years! This was truly a disgraceful system who showed Susie they didn't care. The bullet grazed his face and went into his right shoulder. Susie had to let go and let God to have peace and a somewhat normal life. Susie and her family continued to live life and receive life's blessings. They moved from those apartments and into a better area were we felt safe to finish healing our trauma. Susie stopped smoking weed and cigarettes which kept me in toxic situations longer. Susie's only brother had passed and Susie went into isolation. Susie was full of pain and remorse. One year after that Susie filed for her divorce once her baby boy was 18 years old. All he ever knew was mom and dad and by him being older it wasn't as painful. Susie cried so much and her heart was broken because she loved her husband! She realized that she had been putting him before herself and it didn't feel good! Susie was not being her true self by sitting back letting someone else run her life. Susie went through soul searching, meditation and shadow work! Susie read a book on boundaries and the full life frame work from Lifehack. Susie's life started slowly getting better. She didn't go outside much and she gave my husband back his truck. Susie felt like a loser and that she wasted all those years on him. She started watching psychics on utube and received answers she searched for her whole life. Susie's thought process and her heart started to change. She had visions of my brother, dad and grandmother in her dreams. Susie got to hug them to know they were okay and that helped her heal fast. Susie started to get more messages through the cards. She absolutely loved hearing from her Angels and loved ones. This spoke to Susie in a beautiful way and warned and gave Susie advice. These were things her intuition was already telling her! Susie began to see the beauty in everything and everyone. She recognize the blessing that came through the trauma of pain. It was a new beginning for her full of new possibilities! Susie thanked God for the air that she breathe, the trees,sun, moon, animals, water, and life! She thank God for my journey and the lessons from the journey! She thank God that she was always loved and supported by God even when she thought she was alone! Susie was grateful for forgiveness and love that she was given so she give it back! Instead of complaining about God's paradise that was created for us, Susie was in love with life again! Susie learned to never put anything before God and to appreciate all things in life.  Susie no longer carried around resentment, anger or bitterness.  Susie took on the fruits of the Spirit which are love, joy, peace, fruitfulness.  Susie started helping others in her apartments with gifts, knowledge and love.  Susie was usually introverted but decided to step out on faith.  Fear was no longer apart of Susie's life because she knew God was always in control and not her! Elisa Wells


There was a flash of light, and Ginevra glanced up from her desk. In her doorway was a young girl, in her late twenties at most, in flashy makeup and a sequined black dress. She scanned the room in a daze, her distant eyes scanning the room—the porcelain walls, the soft cream couch in the corner, the three paintings of running water—until finally settling on Ginevra and her white desk. “Have a seat,” Ginevra said, gesturing to the chair across from her. Slowly, the girl shuffled forward, pulling the chair out with a quiet creeak , then sitting down. Nodding, Ginevra leaned to the side and pulled out one of the cabinets next to her, flipping through until she found the proper file. “Here,” she said to the girl, who lifted her eyes from Ginevra’s alabaster suit and back up to her face. She opened her mouth to say something as Ginevra pushed a single form towards her. “Fill this out.” “Where am I?” The girl whispered, glancing around the room a second time. Sighing, Ginevra pulled out the pen and ink from her top drawer, placing them next to the form, then she tapped the desk to get the girl’s attention. Frowning, she brought the paper to her face and squinted at it. “I’m sorry,” the girl said after a moment, “I don’t remember- “ “That’s alright,” Ginevra said. “Just put what you do know. We can’t get started until you do.” The girl nodded, still a bit out of it, dipped the pen in the golden ink and started to fill in the blanks in large, rounded letters. When the girl handed the paper back, Ginevra lifted in and tilted it back and forth, letting the light reflect off of the shinning ink. There was a slight scarlet tint to the “I” the girl had written in Daina Washington . Misspelling her name—the girl must have hit her head hard. Still, there were no large swaths of red, which was a good sign. Lying on the form rarely worked out well. Setting the paper back down, Ginevra opened her computer: a floating square of light that Dana squinted at in a way that indicated she knew it was odd, but she didn’t know why.  Ginevra entered the information Dana hadn’t left blank, which, admittedly, left something to be desired. But Dana’s full name was unique enough for Ginevra to find her profile with relative ease. Dana Washington , it read. Born: 2/14/95 3:36am Died: 12/31/20 11:58pm Car crash Dana leaned forward, trying to get a peek at Ginevra’s screen, but she pushed it down before she could. “What’s the most recent thing you remember, Dana?” “Uh,” Dana closed her eyes, her hand returning to her temple. “I was at Matt’s New Year’s Party. We had a fight, so I left early, took my car home.” “And then what?” Ginevra coaxed. “Well, I-I don’t actually remember getting home,” Dana muttered. “Actually, the last thing I remember, I was turning right at an intersection, but the sun was too bright…” She paused, frowning. “Wait. It was night, I’m sure of it.” Dana went quiet, and Ginevra waited. After a moment, Dana fell back against her chair, eyes going wide. Then she started pulling on her clothes, checking her arms. For injuries , Ginevra thought, with a touch of pity. When Dana finally looked back up, her eyes were no longer lost, but desperately clinging. “Am I dead?” “I am sorry for your loss,” Ginevra said. As she always had said, for thousands and thousands of years. Dana went still, and Ginevra continued to offer comforting words as she grabbed Dana’s recourse packet from her desk. Muscle memory meant Ginevra wasn’t really listening to the words she was saying, but, then again, neither was Dana, not really. It was the tone that mattered, more than anything. She handed the recourse packet to Dana. “What the hell is this?” She muttered. “You lived a very fulfilling life, Dana,” Ginevra said carefully. Dana snorted at that. “You opened a lot of options for yourself.” Dana, who had been staring at the packet unwaveringly, looked up in surprise. “You can choose any of the ones on that list.” “Any of these?” Dana repeated, flipping through the pages and pages the packet provided. Ginevra nodded. “I understand it can be a bit overwhelming,” Ginevra said. Though it really doesn’t need to be she thought privately. Most people were satisfied with the first few options. “You can exit and enter this room as you please.” “But your secretary said I had to make this quick,” Dana said, then snorted derisively at herself. “I can’t believe that’s what I choose to say.” “Wait,” Ginevra said, her eyebrow twitching. “My what?” Dana frowned. “Your secretary?” “…Give me a moment.” Dana looked up in surprise as Ginevra hurried out of her seat, muttering something about waiting on the couch when Dana called for her to wait. The hallway outside of Ginevra’s room was as colorless as the inside. Or, it should have been, but it wasn’t today. Directly across from Ginevra’s door, like a bloodstain in the snow, was a scarlet executive desk. Rested atop of it were the legs of a woman in a red leather jacket and ripped black jeans. “Ginny!” Lilly cried, wide grin on her face. “What brings you here?” “Oh, get up .” “Hey, you should be thanking me,” she said, lifting her feet off of the desk. “That girl was standing around for ages before I told her to go in.” “ That’s- “Ginny started. Then she took a deep breath, and let it out. “That’s the point. They’re supposed to take their time. You know that, Lillian. And what’s this?” Ginny gestured at the desk. “Neutral stimuli only, you know that.” Lilly shrugged, unbothered. “So, how’s it going?” Ginny turned her head to the side, staring at the walls. “Who’s the girl?” Lilly continued, nodding her head at the door. When Ginny continued to ignore her, she folded her arms and frowned, like a petulant child. “Come on, I know you get bored.” Ginevra looked away silently, the statement getting on her nerves the way Lilly had known it would. “I don’t get bored.” “Oh, come on, if that was true, you wouldn’t have transferred departments,” Lilly’s eyes shown with mischief. “What do you think makes this girl a special case , anyway?” “I have no idea,” Ginny admitted after a moment, her tense shoulders dropping. “Everything she’s done seems normal so far.” Lillian smirked. “So, no trying to attack you with your own portrait frames?” Ginny clenched her teeth. “No.”  “Ha! You totally would’ve been toast if it wasn’t for me.” “Right,” Ginny muttered, and it got quiet. “Hey, Ginny?” Lilly said after a long moment. She was staring at the door now. It was a shade of white, like everything else in sight, with the only color coming from the gold 333 nailed to the door. “What do you think she’ll do?” Ginny sighed, settling her arms across her chest. “Reincarnate, maybe?” she guessed. “Those her age rarely choose to relocate. She seems too restless for it, anyway.” Those were the first two options in the packet. People never choose anything that went past the first few pages. “Maybe she’ll ascend,” Lilly mused thoughtfully. Ginny snorted. “Yeah, right. We haven’t had a new guy in centuries, Lillian. And I know for a fact, neither have you.” Lilly’s eyebrows drew together. “Well, you never know,” she said, defensively. “We could use one.” Lilly’s eyes were still fixed to the door, when she tensed suddenly and her eyes shot up to Ginny. “I mean,” she added quickly, “so it’s not as much work.” “…Lilly- “Ginny began. “I’m done.” Both Ginevra and Lillian jolted in surprise. The door was open now, Dana Washington standing in the doorway, holding the recourse packet out in front of her. “Oh!” Ginevra said, and hurriedly brushed herself off. “Thank you.” Dana nodded and took her seat. Not back inside, where she was meant to, but at Lilly’s obnoxious desk. Lilly gave Ginevra a smug look, and she fought the unprofessional urge to roll her eyes. But Ginny’s carefully controlled expression morphed more and more into a frown as she flipped past page after page of inkless papers, right down until the very last box on the very last page. Other Lilly, who had been looking over Ginevra’s shoulder, burst out laughing. Ginny spared a moment to glare at her before continuing to read Dana’s writing. It was a long, vindictive and clever description. “So,” Dana said, when Ginevra had finished. “Can you do that?” Ginevra bit her lip, thinking. There were limits to what she could do, of course. Limits that differed depending on the person and their deeds in life. But the rules pertaining to write-ins had been repeated to her so long ago, they had almost completely washed away. And Lilly and Dana were waiting. After a moment, in that hallway of lace and bone, with no color save for the numbers on a door and a desk like the wax seal on a love letter, Ginny said “I’ll try.”