I know I was only 80 in Fae years, which was the physical equivalent of an 8 year old in the human world...yet mentally and emotionally I was just as mature as any human adult. I knew the true weight of the event unfolding before me...I was fully aware of the true impact of the closing of the dimensional portal between the Human and Fae worlds...between the mortal plane and my homeland. I was sad to see it happen, yet I also wasn't surprised. The Fae had been in perfect harmony with their environment and with one another for millenia. A few hundred years ago, the Royal Council of Fae had decided to subtly, behind the scenes help the human's improve their society by aiding them in balancing their relationship with Mother Nature...with Gaia, and with one another.

After centuries of persistent and tireless efforts the Fae had finally had to give up the act when the humans had started to turn their attentions towards fighting the Fae...towards fighting us rather than working with us like they had before. I hated the fact that we had to stop our communications...to stop our relationship with them in such a dramatic way. But...but we had to break the connection if we were going to survive. Us Fae, we were a peaceful race and had been so for such a long time that we had practically forgotten how to have a war...a war that the humans continously were pushing on us. It was only when they had realised that specially treated iron into our hearts was the only was to kill us...that was when we knew we had to cut ourselves off from them, at least in this stage of humanity's evolution. We couldn't continue to freely give of ourselves with only hostility and now fatalaties in return...it was time to move on.

Even though I was only a child in Fae terms, I was still fully aware of the historic importance of this event. I could hope that I would see the gateway between the two realms open up again in my several thousand year lifespan...but I wouldn't hold my breath, based upon what my Father had reported back from the front lines...humanity was so far off peace that not even my children would probably see the reopening of the gateway between our two dimensions.

The closing of the dimensional gateway didn't directly affect me...the lands of the Fae were significantly more advanced than the humans in basically every single way so it wasn't like our quality of life would be modified.The only way this affected me was seeing how it influenced those around me...and how it would impact my generation, we would be the ones responsible for living with this decision afterall.

Originally, us Fae had been able to somewhat blend into the mortal realm amongst the humans. We were a pecuilar supernatural race with our unique blend of both human and insect features which could make intergrating ourselves into different societies difficult. Fortunately, we were able to somewhat easily hide our insect features such as the retracetable wings and the enhanced senses...specifically our incredulous eyesight. I had only been to the human realm once...and it was the most overwhelming experience of my life. I know that the humans had very limited senses...they could only hear within a certain frequeny and see only a fraction of the visible light spectrum, but I hadn't realised just how oblivious they were to 90% of the world around them. The cocktail of intense emotions surrounding their world...hate,sadness,guilt and pain...it was enough to drive even the most grounded of Fae mad. I knew that Gaia, the Earth's spirit was upset at the humans and the way they treated her...but I hadn't realised just how bad it really was. My parents had spent years sheltering me from the harsh cold reality of the mortal plane, it was only on a eye opening school trip to the human's world...it was only then that I realised just how naive I was.

In the Fae realm, everything was in alignment...we were perfectly balanced with one another and our planet's energy...with our planet's spirit. It was because of this balance, this was why us Fae could live happily in this realm despite our insect like senses. We could see and hear...touch, smell and taste in a spectrum hundreds of times larger than a mortals limited sensory range. To truly articulate the differences between our two societies, I am going to compare the different elements I sensed on simply sitting in a park in both the Fae and the Mortal realm. Whilst I admit I am biased towards the Fae realm having grown up here and being Fae myself, I still can accurately compare the two thanks to the scientific training that all Fae are taught in school.

Let me set the scene for you accurately...you are sitting on a comfortable park seat simply watching the early morning pass before you. Tuning into your senses you begin to notice several things...factors that whilst seeming similar on the surface are significantly different underneath. I will save you from going into the excessive details...but if you are Fae, or have incredibly acute senses...you know what I am talking about. On a visible light level the two may be identical, but if you engage on other frequencies such as ultraviolet and infared...let's just say that the mortal world was overwhelming...it practically was screaming constantly.

The air was constantly filled with the buzzing of electronic waves and the mindless chattering of the various methods of digital mediums the humans used as communication. Visibly, the UV light from the sun was physically painful it was so bright...yet this wasn't all. The negative energy surrounding the planet thanks to Gaia's rock relationship with her residents created a nauseous like vibe wherever you went...no wonder the humans were riddled with physical,emotional and mental illnesses...their environment was toxic as a result of their own actions. Physically, the world were very similar...the touch sensation wasn't the strongest of the senses. Smell wise...it was like comparing apples to oranges. The Fae world smelt entirely natural...like dew and flowers...like running water and snowfall. In the human world...I could tell that these scents were evident, yet they were heavily buried under the stink of burning fossils and garbage infused with untreated sewage and toxic foods...no wonder they were all so sick all the time.

I know I am rambling now, but just know...know that the significant differences on a sensory scale between the two worlds. Until these are lessened, I know that until these are lessened the portal will remain closed. Until the humans repair their relationship with Gaia and bring peace to their realm through understanding and spirituality...Fae would always be seperate from humanity., and that was that.


What is silence? Is it a soft monotonous drone, a subtle buzzing - a swarm of bees discussing things in whispers? ‘This seems like silence – but not complete - I can hear something. Is this what ‘nothing’ sounds like?’ and she closed her eyes. ‘Closing my eyes seems to make the emptiness, nothingness louder’ she mused. ‘I wonder if this is the sound you hear if you are deaf, like Grandma was? She liked the quiet at the moment – needed it. She didn’t miss all the voices that were once in her head, - loud, insistent cruel voices. ‘Instructions that lead to destruction’ is what Dr Lynch called them when he could eventually have a proper conversation with her -  just the two of them, no friends telling her what to say from inside her skull, not the devil, just two normal adults conversing. It had taken a lot of sessions, rivers of tears and forgiveness  to get where Sally was now. She came into the ward fighting, not wanting to stay, the voices telling her to get out, away from this place where they would hurt her. Wrestling and kicking, shouting, swearing, a tiny body with a lot of fight, silenced with a needle. PTSD it was labelled . “Seeing what she saw was horrific” they discussed around the table. It’s going to take a long time and even then…..” Sally’s physiatrist told them shaking his head. A seasoned shrink, seeing and hearing the worst of human suffering, but being able to help ease the pain and agony for so many of his patients. “She seems strong thought, underneath all that pain she’s suffering” he concluded. It had been a long time. They wouldn’t go away – lingering on and on, disappearing for a short time but always coming back, claiming their place in Sally’s mind. It was like a cancer being scraped away and then returning. Dr. Lynch thought about the ‘olden days’ when the preferred treatment for psychiatric patients was electric shock treatment – wrapping the patients in strait jackets, holding them down and doing that archaic thing to them, even children. He shuddered at the thought and knew that he couldn’t have done it. He was a warm and gentle person with a genuine passion for helping those in need. Towards the end of her treatment Sally would sit in the garden on a bench and marvel at the beauty that could be found in watching trees moving in the wind. Branches would shake their leaves slowly, the sound mesmerising, a bit like a soft and gentle baby rattle.  It was peaceful too watching other people walking slowly over the green carpet of grass, taking small steps, quietly talking, telling their loved ones that they were ‘getting better’ and smiling for the first time in months. A little girl visiting someone rang past Sally laughing; her hair tussled by the breeze, face dirty from an ice-cream someone had given to her, and she thought of her own little girl. She could think of Lila now without rage and despair. Dr. Lynch had taught her that it was ok to miss a loved one, to want to be near them, touch and smell their fine hair, soft skin, but know they weren’t coming back again – reassured that our memories would always keep them alive in our hearts. She stood up to go inside. The little blonde girl had settled on the velvety softness not far from Sally, but for now it was a little too close. She could almost reach out and touch her. It was going to take time to feel completely relaxed when little girls were around her. “Hello Sally” Dr. Lynch called from the steps in front of her and she waved to this lovely man, her friend to whom she would always be grateful. “I was just coming to see you. How are you feeling about leaving us tomorrow?” he asked looking into her eyes for the reassurance he needed to know that all was well. “I’m a little scared John but I also feel strong enough to go. I can’t stay here for ever I know that. I also know that if I ever need help again, I only have to ring you” she answered in a quiet voice. “And also just to talk Sally” he reassured her taking his leave, telling her he would be here in the morning to say goodbye. In her soft pastel mint green room she sat on the bed spread – a  swirling paisley green and blue cover. It matched the grey carpet. She felt restless and looking through her window she watched the little girl trying to do handstands telling the adults with her “No that wasn’t a good one, watch this one” and she recalled her little girl saying the same thing to her while trying to master the art of cartwheels. Taking a deep breath Sally said out loud “I am grateful for the love I got to share with Rosie for five years. She will always live in my heart and I in hers and our bond of true love can never be broken”, repeating it twice. After the second time her breathing had slowed down, her sweaty hands were starting to dry and she no longer felt like she had pins and needles on her head. “Ok what I need is some dinner” she said out loud and walked to the dining room. The next morning she left. Dr Lynch was there to hug her, tell her once again how well she had done, how he had so much confidence in how her life would go from now on, but that he would always be here for her. The imposing stone house and wide verandas with lush floral grounds had been her sanctity for quite a long time. As she got into the taxi Sally knew that she had left the negative voices, and the destructive behaviour behind and the building that had welcomed her warmly, would get rid of them permanently after she had gone. Sally had decided to spend some time at the family holiday home. It belonged to her cousins who were quite a bit older than her. The old house hadn’t been used in a long time. It was not far from the sea. Sometimes you could hear the waves crashing against the rocks if you listened carefully. She looked around at the sparsely furnished cottage, with books being the only thing of interest in the white walled house, apart from a black and white photo that hung from one of the walls, the frame a solid black wooden surround. She didn’t know who was in the phot but assumed it was her Aunty and Uncle. They were long gone and the cottage had been passed down to their children. He had dark hair and a handlebar moustache while she had her hair done up in a bun – her frilly high necked collar almost choking her as she smiled nervously. ‘They looked well suited, proper, so stiff and upright,’ she thought. She had unpacked as soon as she got there – a legacy from being brought up with a mother who was once in the army – so neat and tidy. “If you unpack as soon as you get anywhere, then it’s done and you have free time then” she used to say. Sally didn’t have much to unpack; she was only staying a few days but remembering her mother’s instructions of long ago, put it all very neatly in the chest of drawers. Sally pulled a book from the shelf – liking the sound of the title she began to read silently. The quietness of the room felt heavy somehow, as if a cover had been thrown over the house. The buzzing sound had been replaced by a slight ringing in her ears, silent ringing. ‘Can you have silent ringing?’ she asked herself desperately trying to describe what the noiseless room sounded like. She put her book down after turning the corner of the page – “that ruins the book” her Gran used to tell her. Uncrossing her legs she rested her head back against the chair and listened. The bee sound had changed to a hum, long and hollow. She was tired and closed her eyes ‘just forty winks in this peace and then I’ll go for a walk’ she trailed off as her lids shut. When Sally woke up it was a lot later than she thought it would be. ‘I must have needed that’ she contemplated, adjusting her eyes to the dim light. Her ears became attuned to a sound that she hadn’t heard since being in the house – it was of the waves crashing – the only noise shattering the tranquillity and calmness of her surroundings. She could picture the white foam spraying out after the angry waves had hit the solid rocks, droplets flying in the air and being carried away, landing gently on whatever sat beneath them. Her Aunt used to get annoyed at how dirty the windows of the beach house were, blaming the sea spray that flew into them, sticking and then gathering dust. The windows were like that now, very dirty, and probably hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. Sally had to put the light on in the house to find her way around. She sat down on the lumpy couch and put her socks and sneakers on, grabbed her rain jacket and locked the door behind her. ‘This is my first official outing anywhere since being in the hospital’ she thought sucking the air into her lungs and feeling the coolness of it hit her face, refreshing and invigorating. It almost felt as if the clean fresh air was washing away the unhappiness and sadness, just for this moment in time at least. The little torch she brought with her kept flicking off and on. ‘It’s probably been sitting in that drawer for months – I’ll be lucky it if makes the journey to the beach. It did stay on, albeit sending Morse code signals all the way through the sand dunes to the edge of the water. It wasn’t completely dark as behind her was a small carpark with a street lamp and remarkably this was working! The sound of the waves seemed to be so much louder at the house. Sally sat down on the damp sand and took off her socks and shoes, then stood at the water’s edge , the cold water washing over her feet and making them sink deeper into the soft wet sand. It felt good, cleansing, relaxing. There wasn’t much to see as she stared out towards the horizon, just one ship with a couple of lights on it, surrounded by a black inky void. A couple of hopeful seagulls flew around but seeing no food being eaten or bait being put onto hooks, flew off, gracefully into the dark. High above where grey and coppery clouds gathered a few stars peeped out alongside a slice of moon from behind them, and Sally picked out the star that gave her comfort.. She was sure it was the same one, the right distance from the moon, and the brightest one – just like her little girl had been. She couldn’t take her eyes off it – the tide was coming in quickly and the water getting further up her legs, almost reaching the middle of her calf now, but still she watched it, as if her eyes and the star were magnetic. Just as quickly as when it first appeared, the moon slid behind a thick billowy cloud taking the twinkling stars with it, and she was gone. Sally wrapped her coat tightly around herself as she was feeling cold now – her feet had been in the freezing water for at least forty minutes and her legs were slightly numb at the bottom. Pulling them out of what felt like quicksand, they made a plopping sound as they came out, and she walked towards the tough grasses at the bottom of the dunes to sit and put her shoes and socks back on. The torch had stopped working and away from the carpark lamp it was very dark, but she knew this route and wasn’t frightened in any way. There wasn’t another soul around, only one other cottage with lights on shining through the old lacy curtains. Apart from the ocean there was no other sound and she walked back to the cottage with just her thoughts, her own thoughts and nobody else’s. She took her jacket, sneakers and wet, sandy socks off. She was glad that she had left the light on in the cottage; sometimes she didn’t like walking into dark places.  A grey rusty looking heater stood in one corner and she put it on, remembering from long ago that it soon warmed the place up, and then went into the kitchen to look at the meagre supplies she had brought with her and what she could make with them. As she pondered, her mind was deliberating on something else….and with the positive attitude that she now felt, did what she knew her little girl would want her to do… Sally went into the lounge room and turned the radio on, quite loud and began dancing to the music. It was a rock and roll song that she first danced to as a teenager. Then she thought of her beautiful, lively five year old daughter and how they used to dance together, laughing and falling over, and knew that it was time to put the silence of grief and sadness  on hold and bring out the noise of life once again.


The clouds were covering up the sky, the vineyard, and the cornfield my neighbor owned was covered in snow, so was everyone else’s house. I got up excited and woke my younger sister Luisa up, we both put our jackets on and left the house to play, it was the best moment I got throughout the day because later on, I would have to take care of the house. You see, I am only a twelve years old girl, but my mom is a hard worker she was the one who put food in the table and blankets on our beds. We didn’t have a lot of money, and to be more specific we couldn’t afford electricity or a nice meal, therefore we had to take showers in the lake during the summer, and with mugs filled with water during the winter. We lived in the middle of nowhere in Frosinone, Italy. We had only three neighbors, one of them was a communist congressman that every kid was afraid of – Although he had amazing cherries in his yard no one would dare to approach his house-  My dad moved to another country to start a new life right after I was born, he still helps us with the house though, sometimes I wonder what would happen if I moved to Brazil to be with my dad. “Kids, come inside it’s time to go to school.” My mom yelled from the kitchen window Luisa and glanced at each other finished up our snowman and ran inside to get our backpacks and a slice of homemade bread for lunch.  My mom kissed us goodbye and we walked to the train, everything was covered in snow, so it was hard to walk, but it was our only transportation to school. I’m not going to lie, it was fun, and sometimes one of our neighbors, Lorenzo, joined us on our journey to school. His financial situation was a little better than mine, but he lived with his dad, just like everyone else in school… Today the train didn’t crow, workers from all over the country took all of the space on the train, don’t get me wrong I’m not complaining, they work cleaning up the mess that the war made and helping families and places that lost everything. However, it feels certainly nice to be able to sit in a comfortable booth with my friends. The ride lasted one hour and forty minutes, twenty minutes less than usual. The school was another challenge to me, I have always enjoyed learning, I craved information all of the time, all of my teachers thought I was a role model to my class, but at the same time, they thought I was a freak.  I had to give my mom a short and cold letter written by every teacher, every single day.

                                                                                December 14 th                                                                                9:00A.M Dear Ms. Cardin Francesca is disrespectful with her classmates and I, again, please teach your child some manners. This type of behavior will not be tolerated anymore. Mr. Reddin

“Another one honey?” My mom looked at me with concern in her eyes while I handed her the letter with my right hand trying to hide the left in my pockets. “Your hand is bleeding… Let me take care of this” My tears were falling onto my cheekbones; my mom was so thoughtful although she agreed that I had to start using my right hand for my own good. She grabbed a glass of water and a piece of old clothing to wrap my hand. “every time, you look at this bruise just remember you have to use your right hand.” And that was what I did, I slowly learned and took care but sometimes it was inevitable because of the habit. On the way back to school, Luisa, Lorenzo, and I were talking about what he wanted to be when he grows up.  “I want to fight for our country just like my dad did,” Lorenzo said with confidence in his voice “But your dad died during the war, and it’s not like you have a lot of choices…” I said breaking the mood “You may be right, but I would enjoy it.” “I wish I could work and help mom out” Luisa sounded depressed for a minute but a few seconds later she was jumping around in the snow “Don’t be silly little sister, that would be my biggest dream, but we are not allowed to” We walked past the central fruit and vegetable market in Rome, the fruits looked so tasty and beautiful. “Oh, I wish we could buy one for mom, they look so good,” Luisa exclaimed. “We don’t have the money today Lu, but I am sure we can come with mom during the weekend.” I hate to say this to her, sometimes it is hard to watch an eight years old kid starve, but I think she was used to it just like I was… “I can get us some apples, my nonna gave me money to buy fruits at the market today,” Lorenzo said with a big smile in his eyes. “You don’t have to Lorenzo, It’s so sweet of you though.” “Don’t worry it would be my pleasure” I could hear the excitement in his voice. Lorenzo bought us and my mom apples, and we laughed and talked all the way back home. The next morning Luisa and I woke up early to go after the chickens to get the eggs, today my mom was planning on making a better meal because it was almost Christmas eve. It was tedious work, but Luisa and I knew it would be worth it later tonight. We got the eggs and raced each other to the house, while we were running I tripped on something stuck in the ground underneath the snow. “You broke half of the eggs!” Luisa screamed and helped me to get up. “That was all your fault, we shouldn’t have run” I was covered in eggs and it was my best clothes. “I know what we can do, we should go ask Lorenzo if he has eggs” Luisa turned around and started walking in the direction of his house. “Wait! I think There’s something under the snow, maybe its worth something!” I exclaimed but Luisa was already too far to hear We knocked on his door shaking, my fingers were freezing but I was sweating cold. I didn’t want that Lorenzo saw me like that or if he thought I was being rude to ask. When Lorenzo opened the door, he gave a big smile and told us to come in. We nervously waited in his small living room, everything looked so beautiful to me, his house had a living room, kitchen, and three bedrooms. It was different than my house, we only had a kitchen, one-bedroom, and the bathroom was outside in the cold. After a few minutes, Lorenzo brought the eggs and offered to help. I sent Luisa home with the eggs while I showed him what I had tripped onto earlier that day. “It is the remainder of war weapons. I can’t believe it! That is worth a lot of money. It is a Christmas miracle.” I said while giving Lorenzo a big smile “Come on, let me help you take this to your house” Lorenzo picked the weapon up and I could tell it was heavy When we got home, my mom was surprised to see what we found, we said a prayer that night and we made a promise to go visit my dad. When I woke up this morning, I noticed that my mom and Luisa were already packed and ready to go. We took the train to the Port of Civitavecchia located in Rome. Lorenzo came with us to say goodbye, he has been so sweet lately. I was so excited to go to another country, especially because I have never been on a boat before. Lorenzo said goodbye to my mom and Luisa first, they both thanked him for everything he has done for them and they turned around, leaving Lorenzo and I alone for a minute. “I’ll miss you; I hope you know that,” Lorenzo said softly. I could tell he was blushing “ I’ll miss you too, I don’t know how long I will stay in Brazil, maybe forever. I want to thank you for everything, you are the sweetest” I noticed I started to blush as well. “No problem, I hope you enjoy your time, I’ll write you” He looked down to his feet, so I grabbed his face, gave him a kiss, and I left in a hurry. Now we are in the boat and all I can think of is that I’m going to have a new life, live with my dad and Lorenzo will not be in it, I know I love this boy and that probably I will never see him again, but I know he was a big part in my life for all of those years.


“No!” she cried. “No, no, no!” She collapsed back onto the bed and let the small plastic stick slip through her fingers and fall to the ground. She could not believe it! How could she allow this to happen? How in the world in this day and age had she not protected against this! Well, she thought, it’s 2003 and there are ways to deal with these things. And just as she thought it, guilt seized her and she quickly brushed off both the thought and the guilt. She closed her eyes, giving into the exhaustion that still lingered from the half marathon she just ran over the weekend, and, deciding to think about what to do after a nap, fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, she was relieved, buoyant, even. She lay still and let the memory of the most wonderful dream wash over her. In her dream, she saw herself with a little girl. At first, the girl was a tiny babe in the cutest little dress with a bow tied in her dark hair looking up at her while she gave her a bottle. The little baby’s chubby hands were reaching up to her face and her eyes held a gaze as if she was looking straight into her mommy’s soul. How could such a tiny creature hold such a knowing gaze? Then the dream pushed her forward in time and she saw the tiny babe trying to walk. She sat on one side of a carpeted living room filled with bright-colored toys and books and stuffed animals. The baby girl first wobbled and fell onto her diapered backside, but then pulled herself up again and then, slowly, one foot wobbled forward as the rest of her body began to adjust to the gravity. The little bug took another tentative step and then another and another and then fell into her mother’s waiting arms. She stood up with the baby girl and danced around, both of them laughing until the child began to wriggle from her mother’s safe embrace. She wanted to have another go! Swoosh, the dream forced her through time again and she was watching a tiny child running through the park. Oh, her mother thought, as the sweet little thing began to pull herself up the ladder on the slide. “I must let her try things,” as she examined the ladder, the height, the ground below, and where best to stand to catch her if she were to fall. But much to her mother’s delight, the baby girl climbed up, sure footed, and found herself at the top of the slide where she looked down and gave her mother a hesitant look. Her mother, now convinced that her child was incredible, encouraged the babe to push herself forward. “I’ll be waiting right here for you and won’t let you get hurt,” her mother said brightly. Then the child pushed herself forward and squealed with delight to be swooshing down the slide into her mommy’s waiting embrace. Then the dream advanced and she saw the baby, now a small girl, dressed with her backpack on and posing for a first day of Kindergarten picture. She had on a new red checked dress with a big red bow on her head. She didn’t even wimper – not one little tear, when her mama pulled up to the curb and the pretty young teacher took her by the hand and led her out of the car into the building. She marched in on the first day like she had always been there, with confident, bold steps, head held high, chest puffed out, and proud to be a big girl now. Time began to flash now more quickly. Years and years of fun and love and happiness and pain and worry and hope and failure and achievement flashed in her dream in moments, like her whole life was a movie montage. There the child was on the soccer field, with her best friend playing in her playroom, at birthday parties and Christmas celebrations, with her grandparents hunting Easter eggs, in the church play, getting awards at school, playing basketball, volleyball, going to her first school dance, on her first date, acting in the school play, working with kids on a missions trip, and graduating high school. Then she woke up and sat up on the bed and a hope had filled her soul. She did not know God, but she thought, I think God just gave me a message. Everything is going to be okay. Confused, though, she looked around the room and it wasn’t her room anymore. She was in a strange house that she had never seen. When she fell asleep, she had been in her upstairs apartment, but now she was in a simple little home on the ground – and a strange dog was laying on the floor next to her. She must have been dreaming still. And then, she was back in the montage. It was whirling by her, class pictures, pictures with her cousin, on vacation swimming with dolphins… Then the dream suddenly changed, like a plane that moments before was 20,000 feet in the air has just touched the earth for the first time in three hours. The wistfulness of the girl’s life flashing before her dreaming eyes came crashing to a halt and the dream stopped advancing time, abruptly, as if what would happen next was the important part. In her dream, she began to cry a little. At first, it was a soft cry as she watched her baby packing to go off to college. Then, she was standing in the dorm room with her baby, looking deep into her eyes and seeing her as the tiny baby she rocked and fed just 18 short years ago. And then, she saw it, that knowing gaze that had been so remarkable as a newborn was looking back at her now. And she knew. The tears still fell, but she knew. It was time to turn her loose and let her see what the world had to offer. She had to let her go take flight, to see what she could do with her life. Then, she saw a glimpse of her daughter’s future. The dream felt very different now. The beautiful pictures progressed, but now they were hazier and more obscured. But she could still tell – her baby would graduate college, land a wonderful job that afforded her an easy life, would get married, and have children – her grandchildren!- and she was happy and healthy and a ray of sunshine in her community. The surge of joy forced her eyes open. She looked over at the clock. 5:30 a.m. “Oh, well, I was going to get up in a few minutes anyway,” she told the German Shepherd at her feet. As she began to shake off the long night’s sleep, she remembered that she had dropped her baby off at college just the day before. Her heavy, puffy eyes reminded her of how she had cried most of the ride home. She stumbled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. “Odd,” she said to the cat staring at her from the bathroom sink, “I remember those awful thoughts after I found out I was pregnant and waking up with a renewed hope and joy, but I don’t remember what I dreamed.” She lost herself in thought for a moment. I do remember waking up hopeful. Maybe I had a dream like that one? Like the end of the one I just had that showed me what a wonderful life I’d have raising my baby girl? Was it that I was just tired and once I got rest I felt better and could face the future? No, no. That couldn’t have been all it was. “No, I was confident that everything was going to be just fine after that nap. I remember thinking about my strange shift in attitude and actually becoming excited,” she told the orange tabby now stealing water from the stream in the sink to groom himself. That dream felt like something I had had before, but it couldn’t have been way back then before I became a mother, could it have been? Then her mind turned to the present. As she brushed her teeth and began to think about the day, she heard rain hitting the bedroom window. “Rain?” she asked the cat, “It hasn’t rained in months!” The dog met her at the bedroom door as she went out to see what it was like outside. “Maybe it’s not a good idea to go for my morning walk today,” she told the pup. The pup let out a small whine and lay down on the dining room floor by the back door as she opened it and stood on the back patio, rain splashing on her from the eave just a few feet away. But it does feel nice, she thought, remembering the long, hot, dry summer they had just endured in Texas this year. Then, the sadness washed over her again. Her baby was at college and wouldn’t be home for at least two weeks. But let’s face it, she’ll never be home again like she was before. “Life is different now, so get used to it,” she said to no one in particularly, wiping away a small tear that had escaped. The sadness overwhelmed her again. “How are we going to make it here without our Bug? Why didn’t I raise her to be stupid and afraid to leave home?” she asked the persistent dog, that really just wanted her breakfast.  And just like that, she made up her mind to go out and get her morning walk in despite the pouring rain thinking that the weather exactly matched her mood anyway. Her sweet pup didn’t understand why she was being left behind for their usual morning walk. “It’s too messy out there for you today, sweet girl. You can go tomorrow.” She let some more tears fall as she drove to the local park. Then, as she sat in the parking lot watching the sheets of water dance down the windshield, she bowed her head and asked for a safe trip around the park. “And please, Lord, don’t let anyone I know see me!” Then, pulling the makeshift poncho she rigged out of a large trash bag over her head, she stepped out into the monsoon. She had to go. The mental toughness program she started just that day called for one outside workout and there wouldn’t be another chance today. She ditched the political podcast and audiobook and just listened to the rain thump the bill of her hat and the trashbag poncho. At first it was miserable and silly. Then she started to talk to God and tell Him how she really felt. Why did He give her such a gift, her Baby Bug, only to make take her away from her? She knew she was whining. She didn’t care. She was stomping through the rain puddles, quickly turning into streams, and letting her sadness ooze out through the angry words in now what was a loud prayer. The rain came down harder and the stream that runs through the park began to swell. It had been so dry for so long that the water wasn’t seeping into the rock hard ground, but running over it and flooding the low places even at this early hour in the storm. One mile down, and still she stomped and let God have it. “Why does it have to work this way? Why didn’t you make my marriage work? Why do we have so many problems in this world? WHY WHY WHY?! I wanted more time to be her mama! I want to go back and tell my younger mama self not to worry so much about the small stuff. I want to go back and hold that sweet baby as long as I could. Why did I rush that? Why did I ever think I didn’t want her? Why did I think my life was over the day I found out I was pregnant? Why, Lord, do you make us so dense and stubborn to miss the blessings you pour on us?” The storm raged and her feet were soaked. But her steps began to fall softer, her breathing less intense. The tenseness in her face began to fall away and she began to laugh. “Someone is going to try to commit me to the looney bin for sure,” she thought as she waved to the man in the parks maintenance truck driving through to check on the facilities. But the joy that welled up in her all of a sudden when she realized that she wasn’t angry with God. NO! No! She was so very grateful for the blessing He gave her in spite of her stupidity so long ago. I remember now, she thought, partly to herself, partly to God. You did send me a dream that day. I thought that day was going to be the start of a painful, long journey! Oh, and I remember having the thought that I might abort my Baby Bug. It was a short, fleeting thought – but it was there, no doubt. I remember being exhausted and falling into a deep sleep desperate and distraught. But then…”Lord, was that you?” she yelled into the rain. “Was it you that sent me that dream to show me that that baby was not the end of my story, but the beginning of it? Yes! Yes! It was you, wasn’t it? That’s why the dream felt so familiar to me – because I’ve had it before!” Then she grew silent, rounding the corner and heading down the home stretch. The rain had increased and now every low place was covered in water. The whole area had been praying for rain for months – and here it was, finally! People were selling livestock because they couldn’t afford feed because all the grass was dead. The whole state had been under water restrictions, and the lake that fueled the town economy was so low, the weekenders couldn’t get their boats off their dock so they had quit coming down and spending money in the local restaurants and stores. Governments at all levels were calling for ways to conserve and arrogant humans schemed plans to fix the environment. But God… “That’s right…But God! But God always restores” she said to the poor Hereford cow hunched by the barbed wire fence at the corner of the park, rain running in big streams through her reddish hair. “In a wave of his hand, look what He will do. Oh, sure, we scheme, and we plan, and we think we’re so very smart and clever, and all the time, God knows what to restore and when.” The cow moved away from the fence, less interested in God and more in a tree with low-hanging branches that might help shield some of the rain. Watching the cow mosey away, she began to think again about the dream. Of course, God had sent that to her to calm her and help her see that what had happened to her would serve as her deliverance, not her destruction. But she knew the last part of the dream, that was different. It had been hazy and not as well defined. It was God’s new message to her. “Child, trust me because I love you and have poured blessings on you already. I tell you, you will love the future too.” “Oh, Lord, I do trust you. You have given me the greatest blessing in my child. I’ll be a grandma!? My Baby Bug will be happy in her adult life? For what more can a mama’s heart hope? A happy child placing grandchildren in her arms? Lord, if that is your blessing, this time, I won’t miss it! I’m going to take my time and enjoy every moment!” A grandma, she thought again, as she passed the pavilion, and her car came into view again. The rain poured, defeating the long, hot, dry summer and a few doomsday predictions with it. She pulled the trashbag poncho over her head and placed it in the recycle bin by the ballfields and began to laugh and dance. “Lord, thank you for the rain. I won’t miss this blessing either!” Soaked to the bone and actually feeling a bit chilled, she twirled and turned, with her arms flung out and her head tilted toward the raging sky. A turn, a leap, and a splash! Yes, this new weather is perfect to go with my new mood! Thank you, Lord, for your grace and your pouring blessings!”


Scarlet Storm stood near the library door. She saw her reflection in the glass, her red suit with her black mask that went around her eyes. Her blonde hair tied into a braid and her hazel eyes staring back at her. The other side was filled with darkness and silence. She was hesitant to open the door. Sure, only the motion sensors went off but anyone could be waiting inside. Her worst enemy, a homeless person, a kid who was doing something on a dare, it could be anyone. Scarlet didn’t know why she was scared to open the door. She was a hero and faced villains of all sorts. She had been tortured, questioned, knocked down, but she always got back up. At this point, she had no reason to be scared. She has seen the worst, she was sure of it, so why did she tremble at the thought of opening this door? She thought about leaving and letting the police deal with this but she couldn’t. Anyone who would be trying to send a message that would get to her would break into the library. People who only knew her secret identity made her even more scared.

Scarlet opened the door. She was able to since she worked at this library. She loved it for it was her second home. A place she has been in since she was a kid. A place that helped her grow and may or may not be a secondhand therapy, look that is expensive. She began to walk across the room. She had only been in a library a few times at night. It always had at least lamp lights on but now she walked in blackness, her only light begin the moonlight that streamed through. The library was still and not a sound was made. She made her way through the aisles of books until she got to the part with multiple desks and saw a figure sitting at one. Scarlet recognized the person immediately. The person sitting there was no other than her arch-nemesis, Wildfire. Her brunette hair was in messy, wavy curls. Her black boots were on the table, her suit was black with orange, yellow, and red streaking her leggings. She had a red mask around her eyes.

“What are you doing?” she called. Wildfire rolled her eyes, “Getting a book, something wrong with that sweetie?” Her voice was like honey and smooth, Scarlet about fainted.

“Something is when you're breaking into the place.”

“I was going to put it back. Can’t I just do some reading in peace?”

Scarlet saw the book she was reading. It was about nuclear fusion. “What are you going to do with that?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Blowing up the city? I’m a science major and textbooks are expensive. You wouldn’t know Miss. Art Major.” Wildfire taunted.

“Something doesn’t make me believe that,” Scarlet says.

“Oh look at you trying to be the hero again. Like you always do.” Wildfire said bitterly. “It’s what I do best,” Scarlet says, eyes narrowing. Wildfire stayed silent and counited to read her book, ignoring Scarlet Storm. “Aren’t you tired of it?” Scarlet blurted.

“Here comes the hero complex,” and Wildfire rolled her eyes.

“I mean it aren't you tired of it?”, Scarlet continued, “The fighting, the planning, the hurting? Are you tired of any of it?” Wildfire raised her eyebrow. “Aren’t you tired of it? The fighting back, the planning to stop it all, the pain you’ve been dealt all for the safety of this city?”

“Of course I’m not..”

“Then why would I?”

“I-”

“ I see. You just want to be the hero. You think that you are the hero! And you’ll believe the people who tell you that you are so stoic and brave!” Wildfire taunted.

Scarlet stared. She had no idea what she could say. “You once held my hand…” “What was that, dear ?” Wildfire asked.

“You once held my hand,” Scarlet said louder.

“Were back at this again. The desperate plea to make me stop the life I’m living and hopefully remember the life I used to live because you think that was better.”

“At least you wouldn’t have become this!” Scarlet yelled. “Have you possibly consider that I like this life better?” Wildfire said. Scarlet stared at her. “With that face again. You stupid hopeless romantic! You can’t possibly believe that I would be in love with you still but I think that you do. I know that you can’t take a hit on your ego and you can’t believe that I’m not in love with you anymore.”

“I know that you’re not in love with me anymore.” “Then stop caring for me. Stop caring about the life I’m living. Fight me like you fight all the other villains.” “You are not a villain,” Scarlet says. “What else have you conceived me to be? You try to stop me and try to convert me to a superhero life. I think that under that surface you call yourself heroic, you’re convinced you are above me.” Wildfire yells.

“I believe this life your living won’t help with all the hurt,” Scarlet says. Wildfire stares at her eyes blazing in anger. “Take the hand that you once held and let it be your knight in shining armor.” “YOU ARE NOT MY HERO...You couldn’t deal with the cards that I’ve been dealt.” Wildfire yelled.

“ You think that you are a villain but I know you're not. Under all the hidden anger is a beating human heart!” Scarlet screams, feeling her eyes start to water. “A heart that is beating but a heart that is broken and angry.”

“I know that you are upset...that I didn’t come in for you. I'm sorry that I never helped you...but please let me now.” Scarlet begged. “You are the knight in shining armor who came way too late. You watched my world crash down and saw my monsters prevail.” Wildfire whispered.

“I know but let me help you put it back together.” Scarlet pleaded. “You are not my hero and you never will. You can be the hero for everyone else but never me.” Wildfire said looking Scarlet in the eye. “ Please...” Scarlet pleaded one last time. “Go home Scarlet Storm. Stand up get out some things don’t go as planned.”


The Blackberry Do Over Sixta the gardener came today. She is Quechua but doesn’t wear the native clothing that many still do here in the Sacred Valley of Peru. The Quechua are descendants of the Incas. The older generation, the parents and grandparents of adult children, often speak only Quechua. Sixta is first the generation that learned Spanish in order to better integrate into the rapidly approaching Western world. Her children are now learning English and the Quechua language and culture are being slowly forgotten. These people are small but sturdy, like muscle-bound Staffordshire Terriers. Sixta and her husband Pepe work hard manual labor for about fourteen dollars a day. I pay more because I respect their time beyond industry standards. They both look like plump, ripe blackberries. Hair so black it looks blue; round cheeks burnt brown from the sun. Stubby hands and fingers stained from pulling grass and digging rocks out of the yard. I almost never understand Pepe because he speaks with a Quechua accent but Sixta translates his Spanish into her Spanish and then I understand.

I believe the Quechua and other native cultures are the true

tesoro  (treasury) of Peru; alongside the mineral resources and the Amazon rainforest that are being ravaged as we speak. Protection for these people is rare and they are largely marginalized. However, with a surge in the viewership of the programs

Ancient Aliens

and  Lost Civilizations,

plus the upsurge of shamanistic journeys in the Amazon with the foul-tasting mix that is known as ayahuasca, Peru has become a focus for archeological and spiritual travel which is energizing the native cultures and shedding light on their intrinsic value.

Sixta and I are going to harvest black berries today. The living wall bordering one side of the yard is a massive blackberry bush. It is about eight feet high and 20 feet wide. Gratefully many of these berries are in plain sight, politely hanging over the fence so we can pick them without going in to battle dress uniform. Sixta must have the skin of a rhino. Nothing seems to penetrate her epidermis. I am “Oooo-ing and Ouch-ing” the whole time. My mind is filled with bowls and bowls of fresh, organic, berries topped with

crèma de leche, cinnamon and powdered sugar. Visions of my mother’s blackberry pie come to mind. And her blackberry jam…memories of picking blackberries as a child on our farm flash in my mind’s eye.

            My family had a farm in Western Pennsylvania. We had cows, pigs, chickens, horses, a cherry orchard, two peach trees and one over-achieving pear tree. The woods grew wild blackberries, which we, as unpaid child labor, were forced to pick wearing long-sleeves in the dead of summer. Because we were semi-poor we didn’t buy long-sleeved

summer

shirts, we wore flannel shirts from the winter collection.

            Along with the suffocating flannel, there were the cat’s claw-like brambles which bypassed the flannel to rudely grab raw skin. Needless to say, picking blackberries was not my happy place as a kid. In addition, the uncontrollable urge to eat them before they hit the basket largely sabotaged my success. Nonetheless, with five kids picking we would amass enough for my mom to make several pies and dozens of jars of jam. My mom was a Martha Stewart type. Any food she touched turned into delicious scrumptiousness. I have never, ever made a pie or even attempted to because I knew it would not pay homage to my sweet mother.

            Despite the pain and suffering I went through to harvest the raw ingredients, I enjoyed the tasty homemade treats. But when it came to giving gifts at Christmas, store-bought was the only safe way to go—in my eight-year-old mind.

            But lo and behold my mother insisted I give the school bus driver a jar of homemade black berry jam several years running. The day she would give me the darling jar decorated with a pert, hand-sewn bow, tied perfectly around the metal ring of the canning jar, my stomach would churn and my cheeks would start to burn. Why was it me that had to do it? Probably because I was the youngest and everyone else had graduated from mortification school.             As the school bus neared, my capillary system flushed into my face. The hair on my arms stood up and goose pimples formed, not from the cold but from the rude assault I was about to make on the unassuming bus driver. Poor guy.             I shuffled up the steps. As I passed, I stuck my arm out with the jam mumbling, “ThisisfrommymommerryChristmas.” The bus driver, Mr. Thomas, an African American middle-aged man, smiled brightly with his perfect white teeth, “Why thank you! That is so nice. Thank your mother for me, will you?” I knew he was feigning enthusiasm. He would probably forget about it as soon as he got home. Why couldn’t we have bought some tube socks from K-Mart, or a Steeler’s skull cap to keep his fuzzy, balding head nice and toasty?             With my mother now passed and my entire family gone I would give an arm and a leg to have those moments back. No better blackberry jam has ever passed the mouth of a human being. It tasted like a dark purple, explosion of love. I am guessing Mr. Thomas scraped every morsel out of the bottom of the jar and probably even stuck his finger in to swipe the extra bits hiding under the lip. Proclaiming, “Mmm, mmm, Miss Natalie sure can make blackberry jam.”

            If I could do it over I would spring up the bus steps holding the lovely jar with both hands. I would offer up the blessed and sacred elixir and say, “Mr. Thomas, my amazing mother is bestowing this priceless jar of homemade blackberry jam to you as a symbol of our deep appreciation and gratitude for driving us safely to school every day.”             I would sit down on the green plastic seat with a smile of smug satisfaction for having been part of a team that produced the most excellent of products. My capillary system would behave, pumping blood to my heart for the gratitude I was feeling. Goose pimples would be inert and unseen, ready and waiting for some other, more appropriate circumstance.             How many times do we wish for do-overs? What if we could live in the present moment, appreciating all that we have now? Would that eradicate the pain of loss and sadness of nostalgia? The pain of guilt or longing for “the good times”. What if right now is the good time? My mother’s passing drove home this point in a painful way. Each moment I have is precious. Is there time that is wastable so that I can fight and argue, blame and judge another? The wise saying that often crosses my mind is, “Live each day as if it were your last.” I’ve begun to be more present, noticing when my mind is chattering away about some problem I’ll have in the future. I stop, take three deep breaths and look at the detail that surrounds me. A stone wall with mustard-colored lichen, tomatoes growing in a red tub, pink geraniums in the border garden, Henrí’s alert, shiny brown eyes, Sixta and her blue bucket. This practice brings me into the present moment. All past and all future have and will only take place right now. As I move on in my life without my precious mother, I hope to evolve so that wanting “do-overs” becomes less a part of my thoughts and I become more fluid with Life itself. But right now, I have blackberries to pick with my Quechua friend. And five dogs crowding underfoot all wanting to be petted. The sun is shining and I can hear the river gurgling outside the adobe wall.

THE END


(Author's Note: Reader discretion is advised! The following piece contains mentions of suicide and mental illness. Please note that this is all fiction! If you are an individual struggling with any of the aforementioned, please know that there are resources! You are not alone!) Lawrence Bradford sat silently with his hands neatly folded across his lap, moccasins locked parallel to each other and pulled inward, like the unassuming character he was. Dressed in a frayed cashmere coat and long trousers, Lawrence shifted in his plush cushion to peer at the figure before him. It was only the fire that crackled beside him and the howling, white wind outside that broke the stillness of the October evening. The weather is quite dismal out there. It would be difficult to see anything!  Lawrence mused to himself.

Lawrence scanned the room with his gray eyes. His arched nose and furrowed brows gave him a more pronounced look of concern than usual. It had been three months since he had frequented this office, due to Mrs. Bradford’s continuous prompts.

“Dr. Lenning is the most esteemed physician in all of Emsworth. Vivian’s god brother had some ghastly visions, but after seeing the doctor, he was back to his normal self in no time. Oh, do pay him a visit! He’s right up the street!” Mrs. Bradford had urged. It turned out Dr. Lenning’s office was right around the corner, three doors down from St. Mary’s Cathedral on Howden Street, a short distance from the Bradfords’ flat. Lawrence was to meet him weekly, at a quarter till seven, just after he had left the school he taught at. Being a school teacher was far from the career he had dreamed of – instead, Lawrence had always wanted to be an architect. Drafting tall scrapers and bizarre structures in his schoolwork as a young boy, this fanciful imagination was what caused most of his beratement as a child. But because of a fatal accident of the late Mr. Bradford when Lawrence was still a schoolboy, he had settled on a more easily-accessible occupation. After the passing, the other students often taunted him, “Oh, look! Lawrence is still drawing houses!” and “You’ll never be able to become an architect, you guttersnipe! All you are thinking of is your imagination!” “Mr. Bradford, I understand that your slumber has not improved?” Dr. Lenning inquired, snapping Lawrence back into the present. The doctor was young – a product of years of shaping in an aristocratic, old family from the States. In the eyes of Lawrence, everything about him was blatant – there was nothing to hide and nothing to lose. There was no meaning behind those cold, blue eyes and Lawrence found himself curiously loathing every meeting with him, though he had no prior animose encounters with the young American.

“Er, y-yes. That’s true,” replied Lawrence. “And why would that be? Last week you mentioned that the terrors were getting more severe. Is there anything in your life that is requiring much strain?” “Er…” Conversations with Dr. Lenning were never easy. It seemed almost impossible to describe his nightly visions to someone that barely seemed interested. And for the past three months, there was nothing but stagnant conversation and the same axiomatic advice from Dr. Lenning. “Tomorrow is a new day. Rid yourself of the thoughts.” But, Lawrence was hounded by the same dream continuously, night after night, terrifying him and forcefully engraving it into his memory.

Every dream started with Lawrence walking down Howden Street. He would gaze longfully at the intricate patterns on the buildings that he had sketched as a child. The Greek Corinthian columns, each splendidly ornate with furnishings and surrounded with uniform fenestrations like squares in a lattice. Each brick in the wall was meaningful and inserted with care. The steps to each entrance were carefully designed to welcome the occupant, with a feeling of benevolence, warmth, and connection. A bridge into a new world under the arch of a doorframe.

And alas – the cathedral!

St. Mary’s Cathedral was hallowed, in his eyes. An air of importance and gravity emanated from the Trinity that was laid embellished on the heavy doorframe. The glass-stained windows several stories high were what captivated Lawrence the most. He imagined what he would see once he peered out of the multicolored facets. Perhaps he would see a new perspective on his life or even better, see another chance for him to start again. The austere beauty of such delicate fragments shrouded the entirety of the establishment with an air of mystique. A haven for worshippers, a solace for wanderers, and a resting place for the vagabonds. A home to all.

The large bell from the cathedral would toll seven times, an indication for Lawrence to hurry along home. Alerted, he would turn the corner as the bell rang, heel-and-toeing along the backside of the cathedral, his heartbeat matching the drums of his footsteps. DONG Looking up, he would see movement in the Cathedral. How curious! He would think. DONG As he scampered along, he would see it was a window opening. The image of cherubs and seraphs trumpeting would catch the light of the setting sun. DONG Lawrence would halt once he realized that someone was climbing out of it looking possessed and transfixed by a spirit. DONG The man up above, several stories in the air would look left then right, as Lawrence would stand frozen in place watching this strange ritual. DONG Lawrence would cry up at the man, who would now be looking to the heavens as if to pray for one last reconciliation, to prevent him from doing anything unspeakable, especially in a place so sacred. DONG Like a worn handkerchief, the man would fall down weightlessly to the cobblestone road, producing a horrible squelching noise from the impact. Lawrence would rush over to the man, now spooling in a pool of his own blood. Adrenaline rushing and with outstretched hands, he would reach out to see if there was any life in the person laid before him to salvage. But there would be an object looming closer to Lawrence. Rolling on the stones. A bloody mess, Leaving a trail like a rolling, open bottle of red wine gurgling its contents onto a white carpet. A head. DONG A head that reflected the same expression as the spectator that stood before it. Both entities had the same gray eyes, arched noses, and furrowed brows. And from ground to sky, there was a resemblance that could not go unnoticed. The resemblance was, in fact, uncanny. Lawrence had just witnessed his own suicide.

And he had to relive the whole thing every night. “Mr. Bradford, are you listening to me?” the crisp voice of Dr. Lenning penetrated Lawrence’s thoughts. “Oh, y-yes yes… Oh, I mean n-no I didn’t hear what you said,” Lawrence replied, hurriedly. “I was saying, Mr. Bradford,” the doctor cleared his throat, “If you want to continue these meetings, I’m going to need you to, per se, open up a bit more. I want to find the root of this… “vision” you have.” This angered Lawrence. He had put himself to great lengths to even confide in this stranger, and yet he still wanted more from his weak heart. The toll of living the same scene over and over again without a break was already draining, but to have to describe the experience out loud was destructive to his fragile mentality. He had to watch his own soul drain out from the whites of his eyes in his sleep, for Heaven’s sake. “Mr. Bradford, I know I can assist you. I just need to know a bit more about you and we, as a team, will head in the right direction. However, at the moment, you are being… uncooperative which brings challenges for both of us. I realize that talking about you seeing your own death may be… frightening, but I need you to think like an adult . All you are thinking of is your imagination,” the doctor chuckled. Lawrence had snapped.

The storm outside had settled with only a light drizzle of rain remaining. The clouds were clearing up and the setting sun loomed in the horizon. The sky was blessed with a rainbow that stretched across the office’s trio of glass windows.

DONG The bells of St. Mary’s Cathedral had rung, signaling for the schoolchildren at the park to race home for supper. DONG Lawrence, inside Dr. Lenning’s office, stood up, wordlessly. His eyes were glazed over and were fixated on the beam outside the window. DONG “Mr. Bradford! Are you listening to me?” the doctor yelled.

DONG “You know, all my life, I wanted to be somebody. I had dreams too, you know,” Lawrence whispered, creeping closer to the window, sunshine scintillating off of his transfixed, gray-hued eyes. DONG “But one day, God decided to snatch it all away from me. And look what I’m left with?” Lawrence let out a chuckle, which grew into a full-bellied howl. He was uncontrollable. Insane. “Mr. Bradford, I don’t understand–,” the doctor started as he cautiously stood. “Mr. Bradford was my father’s name! I’m Lawrence. And I’m going to be someone one day!” “Erm- Lawrence, why don’t you sit back down and we can talk–” “NIGHTMARES!” Lawrence spat back at the doctor, which caused him to fall back into his seat.

DONG

“My dreams have all died! I’m left with only NIGHTMARES!” “My, my, doctor! What splendid windows you have! You can see everything from this height! And look– a rainbow! I remember seeing rainbow windows somewhere…” Lawrence inched forward and stared out the window. And then everything happened so quickly. He threw open the windows and climbed out of the window frame.

“Mr. Bradford! Lawrence! NO!” the doctor scrambled out of his seat to pull him back… DONG But it was too late.

Lawrence Bradford had stared at the rainbow outside of the window, waiting to see if he could see a new perspective on his life. But instead, he saw a glimpse of his own reflection. In his eyes, he was not a schoolteacher, a husband, a son. He was a nobody in the world.

So he threw open the windows to see if he could have just one more chance at something great. He looked to the left, then right, then finally, up. But there was nothing outside those windows.

So he jumped.


Lacey choked and sputtered as she struggled to keep her nose above the cold water. An arm like a bar of iron around her upper chest tightened. She fought against it, against the current that slid along her back and down her legs. “Stop, dammit,” a stranger’s voice rumbled from behind. “I’m trying to save you.” The words sank in. He claimed to be her savior, not a killer. She forced herself to accept that as the truth, for air flowed into her lungs as she relaxed and let him pull her through the water. But why was she here, drowning? And where was “here”? Last she knew, she was at ASU, heading for the math building. Lacey looked up at the cloudless blue sky, where the morning sun still slanted low from her right side. Not much time had passed. Perhaps she would not be too late for work. Her stomach churned as she considered how crazy those thoughts were. Voices came into her waterlogged ears, a meaningless clamor of fear and anger. Hard hands grabbed her arms, lifted her from the water. She was laid down ungently and immediately shoved onto her side. Pressure on her rib cage. Fingers prying at her mouth. She pushed them away, then slapped at the other probing hands. All she could see as the nearest would-be Samaritans pulled back was a row of feet and knees. Lacey managed to sit upright in the puddle growing larger on the smooth cement under her butt. As she attempted to piece together what had happened, her entire body began to shake. She hugged herself, clothes soaking wet, draining off her body heat. A woman demanded, “What were you trying to do?” Another woman, in a soft and warm Southern accent, said, “Nothing is so bad you should kill yourself over it.” “But I wasn’t,” Lacey protested through chattering teeth. “I couldn’t have. I must’ve just slipped and fell in.” The encircling crowd shifted, revealing the placid, glittering expanse of Tempe Town Lake. The sun shone over the Mill Avenue bridge, only a few minutes’ walk from campus. What had happened during that missing time? She had no recollection of anything since passing the high glass walls of the engineering building. Blackout? Seizure? “You walked straight into the water,” the first woman said accusingly. “Then you didn’t even try to swim. You just went under.” “Call 9-1-1,” someone suggested. “No, don’t,” Lacey said. The Southern woman said, “You have to go to the hospital. You nearly drowned.” “I’ll go. Just not in an ambulance.” She had no faith in emergency rooms. She would need to pinpoint her symptoms first, figure out what tests would lead to a diagnosis, then get a referral for anything her own doctor could not do. Lacey got to her feet. She ignored the avid, critical stares. “Where’s the man who rescued me?” Everyone looked around, but he had vanished. Tears of guilt and embarrassment stung at the back of Lacey’s eyes. She had not even thanked him. She borrowed a phone and called her boss to say she would be late. “An accident,” she offered as her excuse. In response to his questions, she said she was unhurt, simply shaken. “Take the day off,” her boss ordered. Relieved that she would not need to face her coworkers until she came up with an explanation, Lacey gave him a sincere thank-you before disconnecting and handing the phone back to its owner. She fended off well-meaning offers of assistance and walked on stiff knees toward the nearest bus stop. Once she got home, she would make a pot of sweet tea, take a shower, change clothes, turn on her computer, and figure out what was happening to her normally sharp mind, which had served her well for twenty years on the staff of the School of Mathematics. Accumulating bits of knowledge and piecing them together like a quilt always soothed her nerves. Lacey did not make it home. She came back to herself leaning out into the air high above one of ASU’s broad pedestrian malls, her back arched and arms outstretched as though to fly. The concrete below undulated like a mirage in her panicked gaze as she attempted to regain her balance, windmilling her arms, pressing her heels into the roof with every taut muscle in her legs and back, willing herself not to fall. Once she collapsed on the flat surface and could no longer see the height from which she might have plummeted to her death, she began to shake and sob. Breathing became difficult in the small gasps her tight chest allowed, the very air surrounding her thick and oppressive. Somewhere in her mind, she felt a ghostly presence. Even as she became aware of the lurking phantom, it drew away. Had it saved her? Don’t go, she thought to it, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears. Immediately it vanished, like a soap bubble carried too long on a breeze. Lacey wondered whether anything had been there—or if she was simply hallucinating. A manifestation of her own mind, perhaps, that had brought her back to awareness before she could harm herself. She crawled farther from the edge, then sank down again and rolled onto her back. She let the sun bake her skin and dry her clothing until her trembling muscles stilled. The exotic perfume of jacaranda blooms, jarringly normal, drifted past on an errant breeze. Eventually, not daring to remain longer in the sunlight, Lacey rose. She explored the rooftop until she discovered a narrow maintenance access that must have been the way she had gotten onto the roof. At the edge of the building, she hugged the shadows, reluctant to emerge into the flow of people passing along the mall. The Health Services center stood nearby, its sign proclaiming compassionate health care for students. She considered begging them for help, for she no longer trusted herself. One near-death incident was worrisome enough. Two . . . that was a disturbing trend. But she was not a student. Lacey swallowed in a vain attempt to dislodge the lump in her throat and looked around her wildly. Perhaps she could make it to the Catholic Newman Center, or the Methodist church on University Avenue, before awareness slipped away again. She felt conspicuous standing in one place so long, but the rooftop struggle had both frightened and exhausted her. Could she ask someone—anyone, a passerby, a kind stranger—to accompany her to the transit center or the hospital and hold her back from anything crazy or dangerous? She let out a half-strangled sob, realizing how that would sound. What, then? What could she do? Lacey had no idea. This time when the darkness released its grip, Lacey came back to herself with a train bearing down on her, its brakes screeching as people screamed from the passenger side of the high fence built to keep them safe. This time she was not alone. That other presence was in her mind with her, battling for control. She understood at that moment what her body had somehow known, that the phantom meant to subdue her will. No, worse, it wanted to replace Lacey, the disorderly human mind, with its own pure intellect. Her muscles, under neither her control nor that malevolent other’s, kept her frozen in front of the oncoming train. The drowning, the fall, the train, she realized dimly, were all to drive out this other mind, the one that intended to claim her physical body. Lacey tried to beat back the presence, tried to smother it, shout at it, but it kept advancing. Then her body began to act, taking a halting step toward the fence, then another, and another, passing over the low light-rail track and into the narrow space between the train and the fence. Unable to stop the physical movement toward self-preservation, even if she wanted to, Lacey found herself being collected together from the various parts of her mind. The presence—perhaps some kind of AI gone rogue—was downloading itself, she gathered from alien information swirling around her brain. Her body had been interrupting the downloads by placing itself into danger. Each time, she, Lacey, was rebooted. But the AI had learned. It would keep her fleshy envelope alive. Lacey fled to a part of the brain where she sensed the least activity. The center of emotions, she guessed. What use would an AI have for such? There she hid, compressing her consciousness into the tiniest of spaces, hoping to go unnoticed while she observed and learned, waiting for her chance to emerge and reboot her human mind.


Restitution Chores In our house, we knew that a large request or big mistake started with a big chore. Mama's verdict over both ends of the spectrum often hovered with whatever restitution chore we chose to complete. We all harbored a specialty; I cleaned the fridge or ironed my parents' work clothes while Vaun steam cleaned the stairs, couches, and other upholstery. Youngest brother though, mainly just stayed out of the way. He found himself in a revolving door of mischief that chores couldn't save so he just waited to be forgiven or forgotten until his next episode. Restitution chores were our way of showing our parents that we knew what needed to be done within our household and taking responsibility of the things no one wanted to do or had time for made us uniquely irreplaceable. Restitution Chores also gave us an opportunity to live active lives while my parents' house stayed clean enough and their Silvertab jeans starched so they stood on their own. If I wanted extra cash to go skating Friday night, Shannon's Popup Dry Cleaning service opens for business. When Vaun misses curfew by two hours and sneaks in smelling like weed and CK One, the sound of the carpet cleaner whirrs first thing Sunday morning while the coffee maker drips for Mama, because we knew she needed her coffee first thing in the morning delivered to her while she caught up on “All My Children” in bed. The beauty of our Restitution Chores are the infinite opportunities for improvement. Something can always be cleaned better, as 2/3s of our trio is guaranteed unconsciously to contribute a worse mess within days, some occasions, hours. Once I saw my mom cry after someone spilled or dripped on the clean floor and damned if I don’t feel that as a mother. These chores remained valuable due to our fourth sibling, named Not Me. They are a figment of calamity who never receives blame for good deeds. While Not Me may have broken the crystal brought back from Germany, Shannon, Vaun, or Googie dealt with the aftermath of their unplanned visits. Not Me spilled Kool-Aid in the fridge and put the empty pitcher back instead of the sink. They opened the foil leftovers without closing them back. They left empty cans of root beer under my bed and left spills on the countertop. Not Me is responsible for the fries left in the backseat of the car and absolutely ALL clogged toilets and gum found stuck where it shouldn’t be stuck. I learned that as a generational curse, Not Me is born right around the time you think you’re done having kids and think shit’s starting to come together. There’s a little bit of Not Me in all of us, and they’re a reminder that it doesn’t matter who did it, somebody still gotta clean it up. In the case of my chore, $20 instead of $10 required that I removed everything from the fridge, food, shelving, crisper drawers and wiped it down completely. From there, I’d wipe down the jars of grape jelly, mustard, and anything else victim to messy teenagers. I’d tip back the aerosol whipped cream can meant for Daddy’s ice cream sundaes and instead of a shot of sweet creamy goodness I think to myself, “Fuckin Googie,” as the can dripped white sugar soup onto my face, my younger brother already came through and sucked the gas out like a whippet. While making a mental note to tell on him later, I’d throw out all the leftovers stored in old margarine containers or wrapped in tin foil, then meticulously place each item back inside in a neat order that said, “please forgive me,” or “please let me.” I wasn’t getting caught as much as the boys, so I leaned often towards “please let me.” Somehow, whether they could afford to or not, I ran out of the house with a $20 in hand. Vaun started his restitution chore by removing the African Violet and Ivy plants from the tiny square landing halfway between our fourteen stairs. They basked in the glow of a sky light but due to their placement, sharp turns and sprinting the steps sent Not Me flying into the poor plants regularly. Half-assed cleaning also done by Not Me left an ever-present pile of dirt on the carpet that sneakers or bare feet ground into like Rick James at an afterparty. On any given day Tracy Joevaun McGill moonwalked to the busiest space of our house wearing his “Captain Save a Step” cape to seek a grand favor or graceful forgiveness from the Queen of Kingston Avenue. He knew his audience and rarely disappointed. Everyone in the house knew that he would always be forgiven, as he saw him worth forgiving. He chose to sweep with a broom instead of using the attachments on our new Hoover. He said it was because vacuums never always got everything, plus it made the carpet look neat. I remember how excited we were to get the new vacuum, because it wasn’t just for Mama, it was for us. I still get excited for a new vacuum, even though I don’t use it nearly as much as I should. Our family scientist created his own carpet cleaner from the arsenal of household supplies kept under the sink and above the washing machine. Mama's favorite smell was apples and cinnamon, so he made sure to pour only a tiny bit of the oil in the mix; too much would stain the carpet. His specialty was sparking forgiveness through acts of kindness and service, which upon his completion, we’d gather around as Mama melted into a puddle the moment she laid eyes on his work. Vaun is forgiven, harmony returns to the castle, and the three of us spend the calm trying to dodge our invisible sibling's petty attacks towards our character. The summer before my senior year I’d come home from working at the movie theater. Daddy called us to sit at the bottom of the stairs to tell us that someone murdered Vaun’s girlfriend and to be nice because he was coming home to stay with us. Be nice. He looked at me because I wasn’t always nice. I remember hoping he wasn’t involved and spiraled into my daydream of what to do if something bad happens. He came home subdued and because I didn’t know how to handle a sad older brother, I stayed out his way. I cocked my head in confusion watching him play Macy Gray and drink from a bottle of gin with red rimmed eyes. When he disappeared into my parents’ bedroom across the hall the urge to sit outside the door and listen as I’d done before never presented itself. For the first time in my seventeen years, the household investigative journalist minded her own business. I stayed in my bedroom and let my daydreams terrify me to a dreamless sleep. I woke up the next morning to the familiar whirr of the carpet cleaner. The broom stood in the corner of the landing and I bounded past Vaun who kneeled on all fours, scrubbing the square landing of the stairs. The African Violets and Ivy pots sat on the dining room table, temporarily safe from our fourth sibling and neither of us acknowledged each other as he scrubbed furiously at the carpet, a concoction of cleaner and Mama’s favorite smell of apples and cinnamon overpowering the secret in the air between us, screaming for help and forgiveness. I left him to his Restitution Chore hoping it was enough and not knowing until I returned home hours later that he'd cleaned our stairs for the last time.


It was after midnight. Stephanie Armstrong stood on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building, an odd figure for this time of night. Her brown curls had been pulled tightly into a ponytail, her face wore light make-up, and she was dressed in a black business suit. She had a white purse slung over her shoulder, and a suitcase stood next to her. Stephanie stared intently at the entrance of the apartment complex where her ride would soon appear. Then she saw a white SUV, which came to a stop in front of her, and the driver leaned out of the window. In the darkness, all Stephanie could see was a head of bushy hair.

“My name’s Sarah,” said the driver, her cheerful voice almost jarring in the nighttime silence. “You’re Stephanie, Amanda’s friend, right?” “I am,” she answered. “Where would you like me to put my suitcase?”

“If it fits in the back seat, that’s fine, but I’m afraid you’ll have to sit in the back seat as well,” she said apologetically. “The floor of my passenger seat is kinda messy.” “Ok.” Stephanie did as she advised.

Sarah drove out of the apartment complex, and in a minute, they were on the highway to the airport.

“Thanks for picking me up,” said Stephanie, realizing she had forgotten this courtesy. “I was happy to get an Uber, but Amanda reassured me that you wouldn’t mind taking me out to the airport this late at night.” Sarah waved a dismissive hand. “Amanda knows I’m a night owl, don’t worry about it.” “Like staying up late?” “Oh, yeah. I love to game at night. That’s how I met Amanda, actually. We’ve never met in person but we’ve been gaming with each other for a year now. I guess when you’ve gone on so many missions to kill dragons together, you feel like you know each other pretty well.” Stephanie obliged Sarah with a laugh, but she was glad it was dark so she could bite her lip nervously. Amanda had talked about her “great friend, Sarah,” and she had naturally assumed she knew Sarah very well, but they were apparently superficial friends at best. However, there was nothing to be done about this now, and she resigned herself to a trip with someone who was barely a friend of a friend.

“So Amanda said you’re flying to New York City?” continued Sarah. “Yes. I’m making a new start.” “Well, I figure that’s the place to do it,” she said. “Got a job already?” “Not yet. I’m staying with relatives.” “Oh, how nice. Are you originally from New York . . .?” “Yes, and I wish I’d stayed there,” she said vehemently. “I only moved out here because my husband got a job. But Junction City is such a boring town, and Oregon is a boring state, at least compared to New York, New York.” She panted a little, a look of relief on her face at being able to vent. “I’ll never do anything for anyone again. I know it sounds selfish, but I want to be selfish, I do! That’s why I’ve left my family.” She laughed again, but it was slightly nervous this time. “I didn’t tell them I’d left, but I don’t care. I’m going to live for me now.” There was a brief silence, then Sarah said, “Sounds like you’ve put some thought into your priorities. Nothing wrong with that, huh?” Stephanie was surprised at the gentleness in her voice. She had expected shock, or even disgust. She hadn’t told either Amanda or her New York relatives that she had abandoned her family without warning. She had simply said that she and her husband needed some space.

“Thanks for being understanding,” said Stephanie. “I really appreciate it.” “Of course.“ A minute later, Stephanie heard a loud bang. “What was that?” “Oh, dear,” said Sarah, as both of them heard a repeated thudding. “Tire’s flat.” “What?” exclaimed Stephanie. “I‘ll miss my flight.” Sarah sighed and pulled the car over to the shoulder of the highway. “I’m really sorry about this. The tire must have rolled over something sharp on the road.” “I’m gonna call an Uber,” said Stephanie frantically.

“Good idea,” she agreed. “I’ll go check on the tire.” To Stephanie’s relief, there was an Uber nearby that could pick her up in five minutes. Carefully opening the door so it did not jut out onto the highway, she went around to the other side of the car, which faced a long stretch of grass running towards hills in the distance.

Sarah was examining the right rear tire from a crouched position. “Flat as a flapjack, as Dad used to say. I’ll need to call a tow truck.” “Well, don’t worry about me,” replied Stephanie. “I’ve got an Uber coming, so I should make it to the airport on time. Thanks for coming out all this way, though. Sorry about the tire.” “Oh, it’s all right.”

Sarah stood up quickly and moved around her towards the trunk. “I wonder if I have something in here that might help. Here’s something,” she said brightly, and pulled out a wrench.

The wrench gleamed dimly in the light of the street lamps. Stephanie did not know much about tires, but she was fairly certain that a wrench would not help. She was about to point this out when she finally caught sight of Sarah’s face.

Framed by curls that were just like her own was the same face that stared out at her every time she looked in the mirror.

Stephanie screamed. “What - Who are you?” Sarah seemed to have expected this reaction, for she smiled. “I’m everything you should be, Stephanie. Or, at least, I soon will be.” “What do you mean?” she gasped. “You know, when I found you on Facebook, I couldn’t believe it at first. I was you, and you were me. Then I created a fake profile, and I was lucky enough that you friended me, though you didn’t know who I was. You know me as Gemini.” “Gemini?” Stephanie then recalled all the conversations she had had with her, including one in which she had revealed her plan to leave her family. “I met Amanda through you, and it’s true we game together. But of course I couldn’t let her see me, that would freak her out. But you can understand why I was fascinated with you. How many people meet someone exactly like them? Well, I wouldn’t say we’re exactly alike, but in appearance - Anyway, you have no idea how envious I was of you. You had a husband who loved you and took care of you, and you have a young daughter who always wanted to be with you. But you kept complaining about wanting to be on your own, do your own thing. That’s when I realized it’d be better if we switched places. But how? And then you told me about how you were going to leave them. My luck changed, and I knew I could take your place. I offered you a ride, but you turned me down.” “I didn’t know who you were, but I thought if Amanda knew you - “ “Yeah, I convinced her to recommend me to you. And it worked!” Stephanie was breathing heavily. “But that’s crazy. You can’t replace me. You don’t have any of the same memories that I do - “ “You’ve told me a lot about yourself, remember? I’m sure I can bluff my way through the conversations. Your husband probably won’t care as long as he knows he can come home to a loving wife, and your daughter will get the affection that she deserves.” “No, no, no,” said Stephanie, panicked. “It’s wrong - “ “And what you’re doing is right? Oh, no, Stephanie, you’re in no position to judge.” During the conversation, Sarah had been lazily swinging the wrench. Now she walked slowly towards Stephanie, who began backing towards the grass.

“What’re you doing?” murmured Stephanie, frightened. “What if you change your mind and decide to come back? You’d ruin the life I’ve built for myself. Unlike you, I’m not letting anything get in the way of the family I want.” Stephanie tripped and fell on her back. She shrieked briefly as the wrench was raised in the air and came down. A little while later, the Uber driver arrived on the side of the road, and he addressed the woman leaning against what he realized was a car that had broken down.

“You’re Stephanie, right? Listen, I’m so sorry for being late. I thought I’d make it sooner, but this man had to run in and get his wallet and he took forever.” She beamed at him. “No problem. I just need a ride home. I’ll call a tow truck in the morning. I hope you don’t mind if I’m a bit dirty, I’ve been on the ground looking at my busted tire.” “Nope, glad to help.” “Thanks. You won’t believe what a night I’ve had. My car broke down, and I found this injured woman on the side of the road. I just got done calling 911.”

“Whoa, really? Should we wait?” “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” she said regretfully. “Looks like she got hit by a car. I’m pretty sure she’s dead. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get home. I’m exhausted, and I have to tell my husband in the morning that I blew a tire trying to get medicine for an upset stomach.”


CW: Suicide

*** To increase my self-discipline, I started taking freezing cold showers at the age of fourteen. Every morning, I would wake up, brush my teeth, and step into a waterfall of icicles. It wasn’t a pleasant thing, but my mother never complained that I’d used all the hot water like my brother did when he was my age. Our house is old, built before the constitution was signed. Heat is a rarity. But that’s hardly to do with the gaps in the bricks.

I started doing this when I failed a math test, and my father told me that if I’d just studied harder, tried harder, worked harder, then I would not have failed. He was wrong. My father always thought he was right, but he was wrong. Numbers to me are not tangible, whatever they taught me about numbers in elementary school didn’t stick. But Still, I started taking freezing cold showers.

A lot of websites will list the benefits of cold showers. They reduce muscle soreness, improve your circulation, and hydrate your skin. In a locker room, I hear girls talking about how they never wash their face in the shower, it dries out your skin, they say. Perhaps that serves as a simple explanation, but nothing has ever been so simple for me.

After a year of freezing, I saw rows and rows of red cuts on my friend’s arm. We were fifteen, sitting in the study hall. It was winter and the edge of her sleeve was pulled back like an invisible hand moved it, like someone wanted me to see.

I told the school counselor. My friend never spoke to me after that. I wish I could tell her that she and I are twin souls. That my shivering pale hands and her red bleeding arms are both a form of self-destruction. I have ice water in my bloodstream and she has iron on the inside of her sleeves.  She and I were twin souls, didn’t we drink from the same can of sprite, that night sitting on someone else’s porch?  “I’m cold,” She said.  I told her that I didn't get cold. Not easily. I lied. I lied again and again to her.

I wish I could have told her that but I won't even tell myself.

Either way. She killed herself last spring. During the celebration of life assembly, I ran math equations in my head, trying to figure out how I could have spent those two hours working on an essay. My parents would kill me if I failed that essay. If they got there before I did. Warm summer evenings and the rattling of my radiator, hissing like a snake and shaking like a leaf. They both mean nothing to me. I ace every test, my grades are good. One day, in a difficult math class my father insisted I take, I got a B-, and that day I didn't walk home.

My legs carry me out into the forest. New England winters are brutal. There is snow shining on the ground, and the yards look like the surface of the moon. In these woods are where witches upon witches were hanged. New England winters are brutal.

I sit against one of those old stone walls, the ones they tell us American soldiers hid behind during the Revolutionary War. I’m not a soldier. My grandfather fought in World War Two and my brother tried to join the military when he was eighteen, but my mother wouldn’t let him. There’s nothing noble about us.

My coat and scarf are hung on a tree, waving in the wind like a woman from a ship leaving port. My boots go next, set into the snow like a time capsule my brother and I buried in the yard. We filled it with pictures and VHS tapes and buried it beneath a weeping willow tree. The tree fell years ago, that tin box tangled in its roots.

I lay in the snow for hours, feeling my limbs go numb and my brain slow down. My heart, always defiant and always struggling, beats like a rabbit’s. It tries so desperately to pump blood to my vital organs, to save me. My breath is cold, a woolen cloud against the dark backdrop of a starless sky.

Finally, mercifully, sleep overtakes me. As a child in elementary school, between concerned child meetings and flashcards with stark, black numbers, they taught me how to pull myself out of a frozen lake. How to put blankets in the back of a trunk. To pile blankets on a bed and test ice before you walk on it. They told me the one thing you should never do is fall asleep. Somehow, it feels good to finally break a rule.

Some hunters find my body. They take my coat and boots, leave the scarf. My mother wrote my name on the tag of my jacket, despite my insistence that I’m not a child anymore.

“In case it gets lost” She said. I don’t think she ever thought, holding that sharpie and scrawling her child’s name, it would ever be used to identify a body.

In the investigation, they will ask about me. They will ask my parents and my friend if anything seems off. They say I was always so hard-working, always very disciplined, and respectful. I never broke any rules, except for a key rule. My mother will sob into her hands, and my brother will see my pale face and find it incomprehensible. My father will regret every time he told me off for having low grades. Ha, no he won't. He'll see this simply as another failure. My teachers will find the news shocking, my friends will feel a pang of pressing guilt, like stones on their shoulders. Like I did. I get up quickly, frantically. Swears turn to steam as I say them. I tug my boots back on and jog home, taking my coat and leaving my scarf to hang in the tree-like the body of another, unfortunate girl.

My mother screams at me for staying out so late. I trudge up to my room and pile blankets on my bed. My head is spinning. I wonder how the cold has affected me, everything seems foggy. I keep checking my fingers, which are still there, and my toes, which are still there. My heart races like the dog chasing a rabbit, its master shouting at it to go faster, work harder. I let my heartbeat slow. For maybe the first time in four years, I do not have a stress-dream about school. In the morning, I wake up, brush my teeth, and turn the shower knob all the way to the blue. I think of rows and rows of graves of girls hung on trees, I think of rows and rows of bleeding cuts on an arm, and I think of rows and rows of straight As, stark black letters, signifying nothing. What was I doing it for? Just to kill myself? I take that cold metal handle and I pull it back all the way until hot water rattles through the pipes.