"There's my little Bee!" My grandmother rushes over to me, her face as wrinkled as aged paper. She smiles and pulls me into a warm embrace. Her hair smells of strong perfume, and I have to hold back the urge to cough. She leans back, holding me out in front of her and looking at me like I'm an abstract painting put out on display. "Haven't you grown into such a beautiful young woman." I always thought that was a funny statement. The 'haven't you' makes it sound like it's supposed to be a question, but how am I supposed to answer that? And I know it's a compliment, but I'm not a young woman! If I was a woman, I'd be off to college, doing more important things than visiting my old grandmother off in the countryside. I know it's blunt, but bluntness usually speaks the truth. But instead of offending her, I reply, "Thank you. How have you been?" "Oh, you know, the usual. It's been lonely without Philip, but at least I have Pumpkin," she sighs and glances at the small calico cat sitting at her feet. I nod, not wanting to speak further of Grandpa. That wound is still fresh, and I'm not in the mood for tears. “Well!” Grandma says, clapping her hands together so suddenly that Pumpkin jumps in fright. “We’d best get inside, shouldn’t we?” I follow her as she walks back into the cottage, clutching onto my backpack and duffel bag. She moves around quickly for an old lady. I guess her daily walks pay off. The interior of the house is just as cozy as the exterior, with brick walls and a fireplace in the sitting area. Half a dozen picture frames sit on the mantle, with images of my family and a couple of pictures that I don’t recognize. I’m happy to be back at Grandma’s house, but it feels empty. Grandma goes to the kitchen as I set down my bags on one of the sofas. Walking over to the mantle, I pick up a dusty black and white portrait of a young man. He’s smiling, and in the background I see what looks like the beach. The picture is obviously old, and I check the back of the frame for a date. Philip, 1967. I look back at the picture again, and realize how much he looks like his older self. And then, after I finally comprehend who he is and the fact that he’s not here anymore, a sudden feeling of sorrow washes over me. It’s as if rocks were dropped from my throat and landed heavily in my stomach, and a cold blanket of darkness covered me from head to toe. I was not unfamiliar with this feeling. “Bee?” My grandmother’s voice brings me back to reality, and I quickly set the portrait back on the mantle. “Are you alright? You’ve been staring at the picture for a long time," Grandma frowns at me, her face scrunched up more than it normally is. “Oh, of course!” I say quickly, nodding fervently as if that would make her believe me more.

Still glancing at me worriedly from time to time, Grandma continues making dinner, and the comforting smells of tomato sauce and meatballs waft through the air. Deciding I should finally visit my room, I grab my bags and head down the hall. I open the alder wood door and enter the bedroom I usually occupy during my stays. The room is small and musty, with a twin size bed set off to the side, random decorations on the walls, and a little window facing towards the mountains. The window is probably my favorite part about the room. I walk over to the window, resting my elbows on the sill. The view of the alpine mountains is stunning, and it always leaves me in awe no matter how many times I see them. Grandma calls for dinner, and I hurry off to the dining room where a large pot of spaghetti sits comfortably in the middle. I take a seat eagerly, and my grandmother sits across, heaping a large portion of pasta onto my plate. After several helpings, I slowly become aware that I am extremely tired. I clean up my plate, thank Grandma for the meal, and tell her I'm going to bed. She looks disappointed, as if she expected to spend time with me. But I shake it off and head to bed. ….. Light is never trustworthy. Sure, it gives you the ability to see what's in front of you so you don't go stumbling blindly in the dark. Sure, without light we wouldn't have color, and therefore our world would be a murky and colorless place. But with light, you have shadows. And bad things like to hide in places where no light touches. If we didn't have light, we wouldn’t have to worry about grief. I have never understood it. Well, I haven’t really understood how to handle it. The best I can do is stuff it into a drawer and pretend it was never there. End of story. But in the end, I'll find it pop up in some random place, not where I ended up putting it at all. That’s what’s so scary about it. You can’t control it. I can’t sleep. My body is so incredibly exhausted, but my brain feels like it was injected with ten energy drinks. I keep replaying a memory in my head, and I can’t seem to think of anything else. It's when I was about eight years old. I was just coming back from school on the bus, and I really wanted to get off of that bus. I hated school buses. They were always so loud and crowded, and sometimes you ended up sitting next to a stranger. Sometimes that stranger was extremely talkative, and they just couldn’t stop bothering you about whatever thing they had on their mind. Others, who were sometimes worse, would just pretend like you weren’t even there. But, after that long day of school, I wanted nothing more than to come back home. And I was surprised when I found Grandpa, waiting at the bus stop, grinning ear to ear.

Grandpa was the kind of person that made you happy just by being around him. He was always smiling, always in a good mood, and always warm and welcoming. He loved spoiling me, especially because I’m an only child.

And when I found him, waiting at the bus stop with open arms, it completely made my day.

I don’t know why I remember that specific memory. It’s nothing that is very noteworthy. But this memory seemed to be the trailer of a long movie, for I suddenly became overwhelmed with all the memories that flowed through my mind. Grandpa and I on the swings at the park. Us singing karaoke together. Grandpa reading a bedtime story to me before tucking me into bed. All those memories were so simple. But it must’ve been something if it made shiny tears stream down my face. It must’ve been meaningful if it caused me to suddenly feel that same feeling I felt when I saw his portrait. “Why,” I sob. That’s all that is running through my head at this moment. Why . Why did he have to go? I look around the room, the room so full of sweet remembrances and moments. Suddenly realizing it’s becoming hard to breathe, and the walls are starting to feel like they’re caving in, I pull myself out of bed and start towards the door. Walking faster now, I head down the hall, not knowing exactly where I’m going. My tears are making it harder to see, and my heart feels like a hundred pounds. Not fully in control, I hurry to the front door of the house, fumbling for the doorknob before swinging it open. Now running, I leave the house, descend the cobblestone steps, and into the dandelion-covered meadow. My heart pounds in my chest, as if a small man with a hammer is trying to escape from my body.

I need to leave.

I finally run out of breath and fall to my knees in the middle of the meadow. Looking up at the dark and cloudy sky, I cry, “Why? Why did you have to leave me?” I am shouting now, probably waking up every living thing that can hear me. There must be a time when my grandmother comes, for later I have a small memory of her wrapping her arms around me and whispering, “It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Although light is never trustworthy, you need it. Light gives you the ability to see what's in front of you so you don't go stumbling blindly in the dark. Because of light you have color, and beauty, and uniqueness. Sure, with light, you have shadows. And grief hides in those shadows. But, without light, you wouldn’t be able to see those you love in front of you.


I distinctly remember a scene from exactly a year, five months and three days ago, even as I forget what I’d eaten for breakfast before I went to school. The pink petals floating around my room, the text I’d gotten that day, the smile plastered on my face. Second-year, oblivious, Converse High me couldn’t even comprehend what happened next. He left. He had moved somewhere else, and he had forgotten all about me. No goodbye. Not even a glance back at me, who was waiting for him the whole time. But that… really isn’t my problem anymore, though. I’ve moved on from him, and I’ve adjusted to living without him who I’ve known more than myself. “San Aera!” I hear someone scream from behind me, and even before I turn around a slim, pre muscular arm slung itself around my shoulder. I wince at this, looking up at the boy beside me. He’s been at it for a year already, ever since that day. I call him Gyu, but his actual name is Choi Huigyu. We somehow stick around each other despite tipping our distress meters all the time. I wouldn’t call us friends. Definitely not a boyfriend, either. Our relationship general-wise is just… unnamed? He flashes that bothersome gummy smile of his despite deafening me just now. “Hey. Walking to school?” “Where else would I be going?” I ask, raising a knowing eyebrow at him. Gyu doesn’t say anything else and shrugs. “I don’t know. To me?” “Sure, I’d go to you instead of school and help you cram for a test that’s happening today. Isn’t that why you weren’t waiting in front of my house with my mother swooning at you as always?” “But you love helping me, don’t you?” I slap his arm in defence. He desperately needs a tutor, and yet he comes to me. He needs a friend, and yet he comes to me. I’m not a good enough friend, and yet he comes to me. Like every single day, lunch break, class break, class partner work, group work, and I never know why. Then we’re back to just silence, either one of us not saying much, and the atmosphere doesn’t change color. The sky is a bright blue and the clouds have decided to take a rest today, so the sun has all the space he wants. The road of cherry blossom petals in front of us has deepened a bit, the petals are running around everywhere. This scene seems a bit familiar… Gyu rips the word ‘silence’ from the air with a sigh. “It’s today, huh?” I look at him. “What’s today?” He says nothing when I ask. I’m used to this, yes, but at this point, I’m just so intrigued because he listens to me most of the time and I barely heed to him. He gives me encouragement but my advice-giving skill’s been a bit stiff. What’s on his mind? Gyu sighs again when I ask him. What the hell? “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but since he’s dead already there’s nothing I can do. You have to know something real quick.” I look at him, and he looks at me. It’s definitely not a joke, nor is it another school rant. It’s not about the teachers, not about his family. The look in his onyx orbs tells me it’s all about me and not him. What is it that he knows that I don’t? It looks like he’s hesitating to say anything else other than what he just blurted out because he’s constantly looking at things behind me, then me. He’s nervous. He’s never nervous. Gyu is always confident, if not, pride-ridden. He always boasts about himself because he’s that perfect. Everyone loves him and his milk-white skin, his lovely sharp onyx eyes, but I only hang out with him because he has no one who understands that he’s him because of his personality and I have no one in general. I’m about to interrupt him when he speaks, but his next words stop me and every fibre of my being. “Do you remember a distinct scene from this sidewalk? A scene involving… Sam Hyunjin?” He fiddles with his lost fingers and he doesn’t know where to look. I don’t know where to look, either, because I’m trying hard not to scream, or show that this shocks me, and all I’m thinking right now is What Is Happening . I think he knows that this is a pretty precious place for me. Because this was where my first confession took place. Hannam-dong High School. My second year. At about 4:59 pm when he insisted on walking me home.

My silence is a gesture for him to continue, so he does. This time he doesn’t hesitate. “He’s always looked at you differently. Not in a bad way. Hyunjin really doesn’t mean you any harm by disappearing suddenly, so I’ll have to tell you what happened—” “ What? ” The question I’ve wanted to ask the whole time, from when Hyunjin told me he liked me back to the day he was deemed gone from Hannam-dong— it finally comes out. And I start to speak this time, my blood starting to boil, bubbles sprouting from it. “What do I not know about Sam Hyunjin? What is it that I’m supposed to know? Gyu, this was last year, and if he wanted to ditch me, then why didn’t he just—” “ Sam Hyunjin was a cancer patient, Aera! ” My heart drops into my stomach and to the floor. Gyu’s words linger in my head, and the lava in my head has died down. It fizzes and dries out on its own, leaving me clueless, guilt-struck, and my knees buckle. Cancer . Hyunjin . A patient . Oh my God. Why hasn’t anyone told me about this at all? Who else knew other than Gyu? Who was Gyu to Hyunjin? Why… wasn’t I told? Then it struck me. I remember something from right after he dropped me off to my home, what he whispered in my ear when he pulled me close. I remember him breaking into a soft tear and him whimpering a bit. That wasn’t him being glad I liked him back. He was frightened. Those… those words— “Thank you so much.” He was telling me something. Why didn’t I realize sooner? My eyes sting now, and I’m trying to suppress mixed emotions in my head right now. It hurts. It relieves me. It just… makes me a bit teary. I misunderstood. And now the consequences of not perceiving it hurt more than when he left. “He didn’t wanna say anything about it because he knew this would happen, Aera.” Gyu pats my back softly, I collapse to him, tightly pulling him close. I know he’s taken back by my sudden gesture, but he returns it as swift as I pulled him. Gyu’s heart beats steadily in his chest— it consoles me just as much as a fetus. “You know…” I look up to these two words and see Gyu in a state that broke me even more. He was tearing up as he clutched my figure, but I could tell he was trying his hardest to stay strong. For me. For Hyunjin. “He… today was the day he died…” I shattered at this.


I think some people move through life with an intense purpose, you know? They’re the type of people when you meet them they just have it together- Just everything. I think my life was formed by a young God, learning how to knit strings of fate together haphazardly for the first time. I think if life was a river, then I’m a fish on the side of the riverbank, trying to walk. People get all sensitive when you talk about not wanting to be here, alive I mean, not like you’d ever do anything because then that would require you to you know- do something. I hope I’m not the only one like that, everyone I’ve talked to in support groups always has this phenomenal story; “And there I was! Holding my newborn son and I knew my life had a purpose.” It was the same for every group, I would patiently wait for them to finish, picking at my ugly thumb until they’d inquire why I’d chosen to stay. And of course, with me being a poet as I am, I’d eloquently respond; " I dunno, leaving seems like a lot of work." I’m not sure why I kept going for a while, it didn’t make me feel better. I mean, there I was; this monotone jerk who would ruin the vibe of the whole thing they had going on. Maybe in some odd way, it gave me a jaded hope, if these self-righteous jerks went through what I did, then maybe I too could one day care about something. Not that I didn’t care about things, I just couldn’t. I loved my mother and my father. But I didn’t really like them, or myself. I sometimes feel guilty, so many others could have been instead of me, but I just couldn’t care that I was alive. I think that’s why I moved to Paris, not for the sights, the culture, or the jobs. But for the people. My Dad had lived in California for his whole life, but my mother was from New York. She’d always like to tell me that Californians were nice but not kind, and New Yorkers kind but very not nice. French people were neither and that’s how I liked it. There was never any small talk at my job just the typical, “Salut.” “Hi, what can I get you?” “Oh you speak English-” “What do you want?” “Oh- a chocolate cross-” “Pain au chocolat- 3.25.” “Oh, ok.” Nothing interesting happens in Paris, I mean there’s always the idiot tourists that get scammed but everything falls into a pattern eventually. Each boring day went by in a blur, I guess if anything I liked it was the place I worked at. Very touristy, so I never had to worry about actually offending any actual locals. I think that the tourists liked that I was kind of rude, it added to- The Parisian Aesthetic

I didn’t really pay attention to my surroundings much, other than avoiding the crazies on the street. But I like them I guess, I think they add to the tres chic ambiance of my mediocre neighborhood, or as the French say. Very Chic. *hold for applause* I think then that’s two things I like then, crazy people and my job. Oh- and stupid kids doing stupid things. The concept always seemed so foreign to me, having a feral child was something my mother was always adamantly against. I had been thrown into so many activities as a little girl that I lacked the energy to be a feral child. My dad also refused to teach me anything other than sophisticated vocabulary so the most crazy I’d ever get was saying, “Could I possibly” instead of, “May I perhaps?”

I think the parents are mostly to blame, they always ignore their kids and of course, the kids look elsewhere for entertainment. Honestly? By the time I was eighteen, I had done all the living any reasonable person could want. It was just another day, I had gotten there at exactly 7:48am, like always. I went about my day on autopilot, rudely correcting tourists on their French, sometimes very wrongly, just to get a kick out of it.

Jean was always there on Wednesday, and he was always obnoxiously nice to everyone. Like the kind of sweet that hurt your teeth and gave you a headache. He always wore these wife beaters but they were from this awful designer brand and cost like 50 euros a piece. He purposefully spoke broken English- of course, unless he was complimenting what looked to be a well-tipping woman. It was a slow day, which drove me insane. I like having something to do when I am left to my own devices or I’d end up insane. I peered over to see Jean checking himself out in the murky sink water.

I sighed and threw a towel at him, “Maybe if you’d actually do something about the dirty dishes then you could stop being just a pretty face.” He turned around and smirked at me, “So- you think I have a pretty face?” “Honestly,” I threw my hands up in the air and walked over to the sink. I dipped my arms down and pulled out the drain. I shook the grimy water off my hands and held it in front of him, “you only hear what you want.”

The door rudely interrupts us with a chime. “Ah-” he coyly smiles, “I’ll get that customer.” “Oh no she has a child,” I apathetically state, “you don’t want to be a homewrecker do you?” She’s carrying a sweet little girl and is impossibly put together for a mother. “Ello, and welcome to the-uh how do you say-café,” he smiles flirtatiously at her, “You have the uh- ocean eyes no?” Oh my God, he’s pathetic

I roll my eyes as he continues to flirt with her shamelessly, she twirls her hair giggling like a schoolgirl. But I get it, if I was a tourist I’d be all over that act. I look over to see if any other customers are lining up behind her.

This is a mistake because I make eye contact with the little baby on her hip, she's a sweet little chubby baby, the ones you’d see on a yogurt ad I guess. I don’t know why but there’s something about her little gummy smile across her chubby face that makes me all fuzzy inside. Ok, maybe I can add that one little girl to the list of things I like. Jean is a flirt but he makes orders quickly, at the end of the day his whole act is for his ego and for his pocket. I look out the large window at the front trying to find an excuse to not talk to him. But I’m not sure why, something about today just feels a bit off. I sigh, peering back at the little girl who is now sitting on the lap of the woman, she is smiling as she squeals and gnaws on strawberries her mother brought in an old cookie tin. Normally I’d happily and quite rudely tell the woman that no outside food was permitted but- Babies don’t eat croissants, right? “Aren’t you gonna go yell at that nice lady?” he peers over my shoulder, usually I’d reply in a huff. “Hmm,” I pause and shake my head, strands of my hair falling down my forehead, “actually not feeling it today.” “When do you not feel like rudely correcting tourists,” he scoffs and throws a towel over his shoulder, pretending like he had been working hard, “even though you are a glorified one.” “How long do I have to live here to not be a tourist then?” I raise my eyebrow, playfully inquiring. “Eh-” he thinks for a moment, “since birth.” “Hm,” I returned to examining the baby, anxious to see if she got strawberries on her yellow duck dress. “You seem distracted- what’s on your mind,” he sighs and looks down at me, adjusting his apron, “and I know it isn’t me.” “I just-” I turn to him, rubbing my forehead, “something feels off today- I’m not sure why.” “Maybe it’s the weather?” he liked to hear himself talk as he wiped down the counter, “or there was that weird customer earlier the one with…” His voice trailed off as I focused on the little girl, the patio was out in the sunshine and a soft breeze carried an air of serenity. The mother placed the baby back in the pram as she turned to grab something out of her stylish bag.

An azure-colored butterfly danced around the patio, darting from flower to flower. It twirled around and danced with wondrous color. The butterfly landed on the handle of the pram as the baby cooed at it. It reached out to it as the butterfly crawled into its hand, and then in one swift movement. It. ate. It. “Oh my god-” my eyes widened as I grabbed onto Jean’s sleeve, “did-did you just see that!” “What?” I turn back to see the mother leaving the café, a large tote in her left hand, and the pram in her right. I hesitate to try to figure out how to tell her that her precious child-  Ate. A. Butterfly. I slid down behind the counter, sweat beading on my forehead, “That baby ate a butterfly!” Jean looks at me in disbelief and concern, he pauses, his brow furrowed, “Is it gonna die?” “The butterfly is definitely dead.” “No!” he threw his hands up and sighed, “The petite baby!” “I-” I pause thinking back to my wasted years at medical school, “maybe!?” “We have to tell her,” I panic and grasp his shoulders, “do you still have the card she paid with?” “Yes,” he throws his apron off, “I’ll look to see if she’s ever had a delivery under the same card.” He scuttles off, leaving chaos in his wake. “Closing early today-” I hissed out to the few tourists in the shop, “French holiday!” He hurriedly runs back out with several addresses written down on his wrist, “It has to be one of these.” We both usher the customers out as he locks up the place quickly. “Excuse me,” a sour woman sneers, “what holiday is it?” Jean throws me an extra helmet from his obnoxiously red bike, I sigh, putting it on I snap my head to the woman quickly responding, “Mercredi!” I snap back to Jean as I mount the bike before him, “You’re delusional if you think I’m gonna wrap my arms around your little waist.” He sighs annoyed, “Fine, let’s go!” We dash and dart down streets, nearly avoiding crazies and tourists. He holds onto me like a scared child scolding me for my rough driving. We’re met with several very confused family members who cannot place her and moreover think I can’t speak French. “Le bebe! Elle a mangé un papillon!! “Quoi!?!” I’m getting increasingly frustrated, I know all too well that we’re racing against time as tears form in my eyes. Jean sees me out of the corner of his eyes, he looks at me all concerned with his puppy dog eyes, “Hey- we’ll find her ok?” “I just-” I shake my head, the tears stinging against my skin, “I need to do something that matters for once.” “Turn-turn turn!” he hastily grabs the left hand of the bike as it scratches up against a broken pipe, “oh, that hurt me spiritually-” “Shush!” I rev the bike, picking up speed, “This is the last place right?” “Ye- '' Before he can finish I drift into the courtyard of a stately-looking house, I begin to run to the door throwing off my helmet. “Not my helmet!” he picks it up brushing off the dirt. My heart skips a beat as the woman opens the door all flustered, she’s holding her baby who is all red in the face and coughing. “Please,” she, very distraught, begins to close the door, “I’m very busy and I just can’t-.” “Your baby-” I pause and catch my breath as Jean examines his bike, swearing fervently, “your baby earlier at La Peche Cafe, she ate a butterfly- I know it's hard to believe but it's true-” Her eyes open wide as she stares helplessly at her baby, “Oh my god- oh my god” She pulls out her phone from her side, making a call to the emergency line, “Hi- yes- my baby is sick and-and.” The baby begins to gag and cry, trying to throw up the butterfly. A lightbulb goes off in my head as med school memories are brushed off. The cobwebs in my mind begin to clear once more. “Hydrogen Peroxide,” I simply state, regaining my nerves and entering doctor mode. “What?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Our best bet is to get her to throw up that butterfly,” I place my hand on her shoulder trying to calm her nerves, “hydrogen peroxide in small amounts induces vomiting.” She pauses, nodding along with me, “Ok-ok It's in the sink cabinet, first bathroom on the left.” Jean darts inside, tracking dirt as he tears up the bathroom, a few seconds later he emerges proudly with a bottle of the exact thing. “What’s your baby's name?” I try to calm her as I pour a small amount of the substance into the cap she shakily feeds it to her frantic baby. “Mariposa-” tears run down her face as she holds tight to her baby, “her name is Mariposa!” You have to be kidding me. The makeshift nauseant works as the baby starts to gag before hurling all over the sweet mother's elegant pantsuit. An all too familiar pair of blue wings slide down the front of her blouse. The woman is unfazed by this and begins to sob relieved tears as she holds onto her baby. Me and Jean, not knowing what to do with ourselves, sit on the front steps of this grand house as the mother dotes on her baby inside waiting for more help. I sigh, relieved and slightly smile to myself. I did that- I actually did something.

We pause and stare at each other, unsure of how to break the silence. “How did you do that?” He looks at me like I’m something special, “how did you know to give the baby that awful-smelling stuff, the same stuff we use to kill mosquitoes in the fountain?” “Um, before I came to France,” I hesitated before sighing, “I was in medical school.” “Oh,” he pauses, unsure of how to respond, “and you didn’t become a doctor here?” I huff, glaring at him He frantically defends himself, “N-not that’s there’s anything wrong with that!” “I dropped out.” “Oh.” He pauses, clearly curious he squints at me, “...why?” “I-”, I looked up at him, “I was in a dark place. I didn’t care about anything, I was just burnt out and tired. I-I was so tired of being this perfect daughter who never complained- and never did anything wrong.”

I traced my fingers along the cool steps and looked up at him, “So I guess I kinda just snapped, and well now I’m here in Paris- with you.” “Wow- I’ve really fallen from grace huh,” I tease him as he rolls his eyes, failing to hide his smile. “Well,” he smiles at me, “it’s too bad, you would’ve been a really good doctor.” “Do you,” he looks at me with concern in his eyes, “do you still feel that way?” “It’s gotten better,” I put my head on his shoulders, “I just feel like I don’t have a purpose-you know?” “Like sometimes I wonder,” I look down at my hands, “is this really it? Is this all there is?” We’re interrupted by the woman sitting down next to me, she’s thrown a towel over the mess on her shirt, “The medics will be here in just a minute.” She has relief and gratitude strewn all over her face. She looks at me with slight scrutiny, “That was very clever you know, not many people know about that.” Jean speaks for me, “Not everyone has been to medical school.” I give him a punch in the side as I clarify, “ Half , I went to half of medical school.” She laughs at us and peers back to me, “You know, Sorbonne is still accepting students, if you ever wanted to put your talents to good use.” “It’s impossible to get into,” I try to conceal my hope, “I don’t think they would accept a dropout.” “Not without a glowing recommendation,” she shakes her head, agreeing with me, “say, from a tenured professor?” “Unlike butterflies,” I chuckle, “I don’t think any recommendations are going to appear out of the blue.” “You know, you always think that you know everything until it's your own kid in danger,” she smiles holding her giggling baby, “I’d love to write a glowing letter for you, it’s the least I can do.” “You work there?”

She nods, smiling wide, “I’ll tell them to look out for the butterfly girl.” I’m still not sure why it happened, but I’m glad it did. Because something inside of me comes back to life as if to yell at me; Do something! Do something with your life. Jean drives me to the same boring meetings on the same red bike of his after my medical school classes, the massive scratch is still there.

He says it adds character. I’m really still awful at telling my story at the support groups, which I still really only go to for the free muffins. “So, can you tell us why you are here today?” I sigh, knowing the questions that will ensue.  “I saw a baby eat a butterfly.”


Milly had been my pet for fourteen years. The day she died was when a part of me died too, another little piece of my heart. She was given to me at eight weeks of age, a tiny soft bundle of fluff. From the minute I held her, she clung to me as if her life depended on it, and in a way it did, and mine on hers. “Mrs Wilson, this is our way of saying sorry for your loss. We know how lonely you will be without Mr Wilson, so we thought a puppy would keep you company”, and all the girls from the gymnastics club that I taught at, stood on my front door step, some crying, and handed me Milly. She did help with the loneliness. I had lots of friends, but at night time when they were lying next to their partners in bed, comfortable and warm, I lay on my side of the bed, feeling alone - awake for a lot of the night. I used to say that if I had a dog, it would not be allowed to sleep on the bed (mainly because I knew Ben would never allow it) He would to say to me “They’ve been digging and getting into all sorts of stuff in the garden and you want that on our bedspread? No way!”. We didn’t get a dog when Ben was alive anyway. We were always busy with our work, I sometimes worked at the weekend and he travelled with his job - it wasn’t fair if we couldn’t walk a dog each day, and I certainly wouldn’t want to leave it with just anyone, if we weren’t around. My sister Vanessa had a dog she rescued from the dog pound. She was lively but with a sweet nature, but looking of her, you would think she was mean and tough. Her head was square and rather large, she had a solid body and big teeth, but when you got to know her, you realised she was just a soft marshmallow. My nieces and nephews adored her and played rough and tumble all the time, and the dog was much more fearful of the kids than them of her. When Vanessa’s family went away on their last holiday, she asked if I would  come and just feed Lila before work for two mornings. Her friend was coming to stay at the house but couldn’t come for two days after they left. “The neighbour will walk her both mornings, and then pop in during the day, so could you just feed her first thing and give her some love?” she asked almost running out of the door before I could say anything! It was an easy task as we lived just down the road from my sister. I was greeted at 7am by a big softie, licking my face and wanting me to play. “Sorry Lila, I’m just here to feed you and give you a few pats”, which I did, wiping my slobbery face on my sleeve. And even after that, I realised then that I couldn’t wait to have a dog of my own. Ben got really sick, and for a long time he needed a lot of care. So it was never the right time for us to get a puppy or even a fully grown dog. “When you get well, we will get a dog Ben” I would tell him, “We’ll take it to the park every day and when we go away together, the dog comes too”. But for the time being I put the idea right out of my head. It was enough dealing with work, a home and a very ill husband.  The first time Ben was in remission, he was so weak that it took weeks before he had regained his strength, but then thankfully Ben could walk again without needing to rest and catch his breath. Then the big C came back again, taking us all by surprise as he didn’t seem to have any signs or symptoms that anything was wrong. He was a fighter though , and fought hard to not let the insidious disease beat him. Once again he went into remission, and we went away as much as we could. We knew that our time together was probably limited so made the most of weekend trips to out of the way places, offering the peace and solitude that was much needed for Ben and myself. Ultimately, we both knew after trying intermittently, and after so much chemotherapy, that children weren’t going to happen for us. It was tough staying positive knowing we would be childless, and it would only ever be just us, but our main aim was just to keep Ben alive. He died peacefully one night the week after the cancer had returned, and this time it had spread throughout his body. It was both unexpected and yet not a total surprise. I knew that Ben would have wanted to go quickly rather than to hang on, and unselfishly, for my sake. I was of course beyond sad. The gentle and loving man I had married was gone. I had no children to look at and think ‘You’ve got your dad’s eyes or Ben would have loved seeing how clever his son or daughter had turned out to be’ but I tried to tell myself that I was lucky to have wonderful memories, which was true, although sometimes that didn’t seem enough. Milly became my best friend. I could never imagine how much comfort a little fluffy dog would bring to someone. On a cold and rainy night, we would snuggle up together on the couch and keep each other warm. I would to say to her most mornings when she jumped off the bed to go outside, ‘your dad would never have allowed this you know!’ It’s funny how you talk to your dog as if they are human beings, even though you know you won’t ever get an answer. Maybe them not talking back was a good thing, especially when asking for an opinion on how you looked! “Oh, I really need to colour my hair” I would tell Milly and she would just stare at me or run off. One evening when I had come home from work a bit later than usual, and walked up to my front door, I noticed that it was slightly ajar. I didn’t feel in the least worried that someone was inside as the catch was dodgy, and I had been meaning to have it fixed for quite a while. Sometimes when you shut it behind you, it didn’t catch on the latch, but if you walked off, not looking behind, how did you know? I was annoyed at myself for leaving it this long and not having fixed it, and then pushed it open. Millie didn’t run to the door to greet me like usual. In fact, as I walked through to the kitchen, I realised she wasn’t even in the house. I went to every room calling her name. I began to feel extremely worried. I frantically ran to my neighbour and banged on her door. As she opened it, I quickly asked if she had seen Millie at all during the day but the answer was ‘no’. “Get in my car” she said to me “and we’ll have a drive around”. She was nowhere to be found. I came home and rang everyone I knew who lived in the area and asked them all if they had seen her, but the answer was the same. ‘Please come back Milly’ I prayed feeling very upset at the thought that she could have been run over, or just lost and lonely out there. My sister came over and brought me some dinner. “I can’t eat Jo, let’s go out again and drive around. She has to be somewhere.” By 11pm I was exhausted. There was no sign of her. I finally went to bed well after 2am with a banger of a headache, knowing I wouldn’t sleep, and crying into one of her little blankets. Once upon a time I would never have believed that a dog could make so much difference to my life, and give me so much happiness. She filled a void, greeting me whenever I came home with a furiously wagging tail and a few quick licks on my hand – letting me know how much she had missed me. It was never ‘dinner for one’, it was ‘dinner for one and titbits for the other’. Even having a little dog curled up like a foetus on the end of my bed, made me feel brave, and gave me comfort. (And sometimes plenty of sand on the quilt cover!) I didn’t just want Milly back; I needed her back. It had been two days since Milly disappeared. I was lost without her. I went to work and came home, then changed my clothes and went walking around the area, scanning the same places and calling her name. Nothing. On the third days after she disappeared, I had a phone call. “Hello Fiona speaking” I answered. It was from an elderly gentleman who lived about twenty kilometres from my house. “Hello Fiona. Do you own, or have you lost a little dog called Milly?” he asked me. “Oh no, are you kidding me? Is it really Milly? A poodle X?” “Oh ‘m not sure about that love. All I know is that she is brown and fluffy and has a name tag with Milly written on it, and of course this phone number.” “Yes, she’s mine. Thank you, thank you. I’ll come and get her now.” He gave me his address and I set off, crying with relief and feeling a mixture of excitement and disbelief at the thought of getting Milly back. When I found his house, he told me how he had come outside at 6am to pick up his newspaper, it was raining and cold. As he bent down, he saw a little bedraggled dog in his front garden, quite close to him. Slowly and quietly, he walked up to her and coaxed her into his arms. He said that Milly had snuggled in and fallen asleep very quickly, so he walked next door to his neighbours to get some of their dog’s biscuits for when she woke up. Fiona was not only very grateful to the stranger but felt that the emptiness she had without her dog was no longer with her. She felt complete again. As soon as they neared their house in Fiona’s car, Milly began to move from one side of the back seat to the other in excitement. Her tail wagged as if it was on the top number on a speed dial. She knew that she was home and had a couple of barks as if saying “I’m back.” “I don’t think she will run off like that again” Fiona told her sister over the phone “She is following me like a shadow – and I love it!” Fiona couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing at the vets. Since Milly had been back home with her, she seemed so content, loved playing throw the soft toy and bring it back, for what seemed like hours on end and standing patiently for Fiona to give a few morsels of each meal she had!  It had been at least a couple of months or more since she got lost and in that period of time, Milly had seemed just like her normal self. One morning Milly didn’t eat her breakfast, and wandered around the house slowly with her head down as if she had been told off and was in trouble. “What’s wrong little one?” Fiona asked her. “Have you gone off the lamb and veg? Fuss pot!” But even changing the flavour of the meat roll didn’t make any difference. That same day, in the evening after Fiona changed the food in the dog’s bowl, she didn’t come to even sniff it, and was still there the next morning. “I think I should take you to see the vet” Fiona said to a lifeless little dog lying in her basket. As she walked into the old building, Milly in her arms, Fiona had a strange feeling in her chest, stressful.  She felt even more uneasy when the vet, after examining Milly, said “I think we’ll need blood tests.” So here she was, the next day, sitting in the vet’s room waiting for the results from the blood test. Her constant companion lay lifeless in her arms. Fiona looked down at her into the dark brown eyes, sad and quite lifeless. She couldn’t help herself, tears welled up in her own eyes at the thought of losing Millie. The vet’s words echoed in her head as if they were coming from a place far away, slightly muffled, not clear. “What did you just say?” she asked “I’m so sorry Fiona, Milly doesn’t have long. She has a very aggressive blood cancer and it’s too far gone already.” “But she was perfectly alright a couple of months ago. I even took her when I went hiking two weeks ago, she was ok. Are you sure? Have you mixed up her results with another dogs?” Fiona was crying now. “Fiona, look at her, she can hardly lift her head off your arm. It’s the type of cancer that doesn’t show up until it’s almost too late”. “Almost, so she can get better?” she asked the vet wiping her eyes with a tissue. “No Fiona. It’s too late. I am so sorry”. She looked down at her friend, and love of her life. Her dull eyes were looking at Fiona with love, but she hardly moved. The warmth of her soft tummy was spreading through Fiona’s body and she stroked the soft brown fur, tears fell on it. “What shall I do?” she asked, wanting someone else to make the decision. “There would be no point in taking Milly home – she won’t improve. Why don’t you spend as much time as you would like with her here, and then we can put her out of her misery, kindly and lovingly.” Fiona felt numb. ‘I must be dreaming, and I’ll wake up soon and Milly will be clambering over me on my bed. Please let me be dreaming. I don’t think I can do this…not again’ she thought fearfully. She doesn’t know how long she sat with Milly but Fiona turned when she heard the door open, and a kindly voice told her “We are ready when you are Fiona. It’s the kindest thing we can do.” Fiona kissed the head of her beautiful dog and let the vet nurse take her out of her arms. She remembers seeing Milly turning her eyes towards her as she left the room, and felt as if she was saying to her “I know you don’t want to.” She doesn’t know how long she sat in her car crying her eyes out -  not wanting to go home to an empty house. The staff from the surgery all came out after locking up and the nurse knocked on her window, which she wound down. As she handed Fiona the little pink collar and silver letter M that had hung from it, she said “Millie went very peacefully. She didn’t move. I will ring you in a day or two and you can pick up the urn Fiona. Can I ring someone for you?” “No thank you.” Said Fiona clasping the collar in her hand. “I’ll ring my sister now and she will stay at my place with me tonight. Did she just close her eyes and go to sleep?” Fiona needed to know how peaceful Millie felt. It mattered to her. “Yes, so peaceful.” Fiona’s sister came over, with some dinner and they sat together eating in silence. Fiona felt quite sick with her headache but needed something to eat. It did help slightly. “I don’t know what I shall do now without her Jo.” Her sister didn’t say too much. There was no point in saying “You will get over it in time, or one day you can get another puppy, or it’s very raw now but will get better, honestly.” None of those were what Fiona wanted or needed to hear, so all she said was “It’s so sad Fi and will take a while, but I’m here for you, whenever you need me.” “Thank you, Jo. Goodnight.” As Fiona slumped on her bed, she slid her hand under her pillow and placed the collar there. She imagined that she was cuddling her little dog and a warm in her heart, and at peace. It became a ritual. Each night Fiona would put the little collar with the M letter hanging from it under her pillow, and each time she went for a walk, she would take the collar out and put it into the pocket of whatever she was wearing. If she didn’t have a pocket then she just held it tight. That way it was as if Milly was always with her doing the two things that they both loved. Sleeping on the end of the bed, and going for a walk. It was a special bond that could never be broken. It had helped Fiona cope with the loss of her beloved Ben - now this habit, or ritual was helping her cope with the loss of Milly. Humans or animals. The love might be different but a loss is just that. It’s something that takes a tiny piece of your heart, each time.


***Warning, people do die. *** We were told to stay calm. To ignore the waves as the beasts rose from the depths and pummelled into each other. As they hammered against the waters for days. Fluctuations of their fight caused the waves to upsurge and crush our homes. Finally, one fell, the blue waves embracing it and tugging it down further than we had ever gone, down from whence it came. We thought that was the end. We were told it was over. Told we could rebuild the houses battered by the waves and so we did. We tore down trees to fix walls and we cleaned the floors of seaweed. But then the beast rose once more. We watched from the beaches as it advanced to the island. We screamed as ripples from its movements became tsunamis that crashed down on the shores, ripping away rebuilt houses, and dragging them to the ocean. We sent our messenger ship to the mainland, who had sworn they would protect us. Who had taken over our government with the promise of safety. Who had made an oath. The beast descended onto the water washed sand of what used to be our beaches. It advanced inland, bringing devastation with every crashing step. It turned to us as we ran from it. Some of us found shelter and other found the claws of the beast. It took soul after soul, listened to scream after scream. A reply came from the mainland. A messenger boat came to us from our guardians across the sea. “A huge beast attacking your shore?” They called us liars trying to rob them of their resources. They said they would not fall victim to such nonsense. The beast killed more every day, finding our shelters, and destroying them, removing safe harbour after safe harbour from our reach. To take more lives into its bowels. Again, we called for aid from the ones we had trusted. We asked for boats, food, and water. Simple things that were easy to give. They scorned us again. They said they were too busy to amuse us. They said they had real problems to deal with. We read these words, huddled away from the sunlight. We read them scorning us, we read them pushing us to the side like lying children. We read them abandoning us. Yet we still held out, we sent for help as our land was invaded. The one messenger boat sped back and forth as we became more isolated from the world and from ourselves.  We told them just to come and see. We told them we were not lying. We told them everything we knew, but we knew less and less as we lost connection to the other shelters. No one wanted to run between them anymore. They told us that we were going to steal their boat. They told us we were liars. They told us they knew all about the ‘trick’ we were playing. We sent a final plea.  Certain we were the last shelter still standing on our lush island. We poured every heart we had left into one last letter. We spent weeks making it the best we could, weeks working to convince our ‘guardians’ our ‘protectors’ across the waves. But as the little boat left the shore, as the captain took the two passengers he could fit. The beast came. It saw movement, it scuttled across the water covered hills and plunged down at the boat. It took our message, our one safe line and our hopes. We ran. We ran as long as we could. It chased us. It chased us as long as we could run. We came to the water; we could not run anymore. It crested like a wave, ready to crash down on us. Some managed to swim away. The rest were taken into the beast. We watched our fellows end as we struggled to stay still and float in the turmoil of the waves. That is when we knew they were not coming. That is when we knew they lied. That is when we knew our allies across the sea were too far to care what happened to the island they swore to protect. But that is not where our story ends. We stayed still. A few of us were lost to the waves but we had no choice. When the beast left to search for more of us, we headed for land. Tired, we were forced to rest in the open. Fearing that the beast would remember us. In the morning we made our move. We built rafts out of fallen trees that floated in the water. We set out, far from the beast and into the waters it had risen from. We drifted as far as we dared. We found an island. Isolated but free from the destruction of the beast. We started again, this time without the mainland. Without our ‘guardians’. This time we flourished. This time we didn’t worry about the other people because they would never worry about us. That was our history. It was better than theirs. The beast moved forward, past the remains of our old home. It found the mainland and all the other lands. It did not care for the swords and the arrows thrown at it. It did not care for the shouting and the screaming. The people split into chaos once they knew their weapons could not save them, so maybe it was good that we didn't have any. They ran and fought each other rather than hiding like us. You might even call them brave, though we prefer the term stupid. The beast didn't care that they fought each other, it probably made it easier. We wonder if they ran to an island in the middle of nowhere like we did. Honestly it's unlikely such fools could survive. Though we don’t care that much... After all they didn’t care about us, we're happier like this anyway... free from their greed and their righteousness, maybe the beast was doing us a favour.


"How am I supposed to choose? To pick one would mean to betray the other. I can't there both so important to me" There I stood between the two most important people to me, my girlfriend and my best friend. They were my world but now my world was splitting in two. My girlfriend huffed and puffed and yelled a hurricane of complaints about my friend right at me, " LOUD! ", " MESSY! ", " WEIRD! ", " RUDE! ", She yelled with a face so red it would put even the ripest tomato to shame. My Best Friend with a force of equal magnitude roared a slew of insults in retaliation, " STUCK-UP! ", " NEEDY! ", " SELFISH! ", " CLINGY! ", his fists were balled so tightly I was afraid they were gonna burst. I shrunk back into my shell at the volume of the argument, I felt like a child watching the marriage of his parents fall apart. It was too much, my heartfelt low and groggy, my head was hot and fuzzy. I've never been able to handle conflict well. In a rush, I grabbed my coat and bolted for the door. The two still locked in their verbal battle didn't even notice me leave. I ran and I ran, I kept running as far as my skinny legs would take me until I arrived at a park. It was the afternoon and it was cold. The sun started to go down as I walked over to a bench and sat down. I just couldn't take it, this wasn't the first time that they had gotten into such a scuffle. Any time the two would come in contact with each other they always come to argue. I was tired of trying to make them come to terms. I've tried every trick and tactic in the book, I've wrung my brain dry trying to think of something, anything to stop their fighting, but the two were like oil and water they can never mix. I have tried to keep them apart, but they would just try to monopolize me to hurt the other. As much as they despise each other they are more similar than they would ever admit. One thing that they especially had in common was that they were both absolutely, unrelentingly spiteful, and they're both more stubborn than a mule. On my Bestfriend's last birthday, my girlfriend arranged a dinner party and invited her whole family just to spite my friend and on Christmas day which I was supposed to spend with my girlfriend my best friend had his parents invite my entire family on a trip. I'm out of options, if they can't stop fighting them I have to cut one out of my life, but how, how could I possibly do something like that. Both of them mean more to me than they could ever know, but if I don't do this they could end up hurting each other one of these days. Who, oh Who do I cast aside. I've been dating my girlfriend since high school, she's been driving me forward every day but what about my best friend we've been best buddies since prep school, he's held me up for years never let me fall. How am I supposed to choose, to pick one would mean to betray the other. I can't be both so important to me. Who do I discard my Sun or my earth, my gas or my break, my muse or my brush, I don't know. Even with my jacket the cold of the air still brushes my bones, I can't stop shivering, my teeth won't stop chattering. I get up ready to leave, the sky is lit up with a sea of stars but the only light near the ground is the dim shimmering of the lamp posts. My head begins to calm down at the sight of this scene but as my mind quiets my heart begins to race, the scenery through beautiful is unfamiliar, I am lost. Where am I, which way did I come from, is this park safe? these questions were boiling over in my brain. I began to walk, trying to find my way back, once I left the park I began to realize how truly terrifying it is to walk home in darkness. The Lights in the houses were off and there was hardly anyone on the streets. The quiet of my surroundings was absolutely maddening, the only sound was the faint noise of cars very far away and the clicking of my shoes on the concrete. I hope to find something familiar or recognizable so I can make my way home. The traffic light shone a bright red down onto me, the green man of light instructing me of my time to cross the street. I took a step onto the open road, I could hear a car approaching in the background, it sounded on its way so I had time to cross. About halfway across the street, the car was driving up. Its movement was unsteady and shaky. I hurried across as it approached, then suddenly, unexpectedly, I was on the ground, laying on my side. My mind is unsure of what had just occurred, my body still hadn't processed the reality of the situation. Red, a puddle of red, the darkest, most mesmerizing shade of red I'd ever seen laid beside me, Its size quickly growing till it surrounded me like a lake, Warm, it was warm, I felt so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open. The car stopped behind me, the driver got frantic and called out to me but I could barely hear him, it was so nice and comforting, this quiet was different from the one from before, it was soft and loving, it was tranquil. Darkness started to creep around my vision but I didn't mind, I just wanted to fall asleep. Bright, so bright, nothing like the loving darkness, a white light shone onto my face. I felt so cold once again. My eyes crept open and my sleep slowly faded away. There I lay in bed, on one side my girlfriend and on the other my best friend, they were crying, their faces were soaking wet. Protruding from my stomach was a bunch of tubes and pipes, A breathing mask was fastened around my face. My lips curled into a smile, they weren't fighting anymore, we were all together and no one was fighting, I was so happy. Their hands were coupled around both of mine, their hands were cold and trembling, my hands began to numb until I couldn't feel their hold anymore. Both of them were speaking to me but their words couldn't reach me even though they were so close, I couldn't hear anything, as I looked into their dripping faces my vision began to blur and darken, I was getting tired again. I layed in that bed with my two favorite people standing right beside me. I couldn't see them even though my eyes were still open. I couldn't hear them even though they were so close. I couldn't feel them but I knew they were there. I knew that once I closed my eyes I would have the most wonderful rest, I knew that I wouldn't wake up but that didn't bother me because at the moment the two people I love the most are with me. This quiet darkness is absolute bliss.


T he year started off normal. School finished and my family took our long-awaited trip to Italy. Everything seemed perfect and aligned. The arrival of summer was like a fresh breath of air after a long day’s work or the first sip of warm morning coffee. In that moment, as my back hugged the sand and my gaze alternated between the vast blueness of the sky and the ocean ahead, it felt as if nothing could go wrong.

Then it did.

As we searched for our gate at the airport, I quickly texted my best friend that we were on our way home. It wouldn’t be for, at least, twelve hours until we’d arrive back at the house, but she said she missed me a lot. She also couldn’t stand being around her younger siblings for too long without the sweetness of my company. I was quite excited to see her too. It had only been two weeks, but it felt like an eternity.

When our steps came to a halt and a bright and welcoming smile greeted us, my father immediately checked us in. Ten minutes later, after the woman checked my parents’ passports, my two younger brothers’, and mine’s, we began to follow the other passengers. As I shoved my phone back in, I couldn’t help noticing the sudden change of color in the sky as the clouds gradually vanished and an ominous grayness crept in. I looked around, wondering if other people noticed, but everyone was absorbed in their own worlds. Some with their heads down checking their phones, some walking to their tables grasping trays, and some striding towards their gates, their paces quickening at every glance of their wristwatch.

Probably just rain, I thought to myself. After all, what else could it be?

The window seat was my favorite. I never understood why some people were terrified of sitting there, for it was always a peaceful place for me. Whenever I went on an airplane, I’d follow the same routine: sit down, fasten my seatbelt, plug in my earbuds, listen to my playlist, and stare outside the window. It was the one thing I looked forward to on every trip because it was the one thing that would never change.

Then, suddenly, it struck like the ferocious explosion of thunder. I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until someone vigorously shook me awake and the deafening screams of men, women, and children alike rang in my ears. Jolting awake and seeing my mother pulling my two brothers in a tight embrace and sweat building up on my father’s face, I averted my eyes outside the window and gasped as the wings of the plane shifted in different directions, its movements wild and erratic. With my hands trembling and heart beating a thousand times per minute, I watched as people hugged each other, even the ones that seemed like strangers, as they held on for dear life.

The flight attendants had stopped walking around too and, rather than uttering sweet words into the speakers to restore tranquility, they remained quiet. I had no doubt that they were panicking as well and holding onto each other, thinking that it might be the last time they’ll ever be together. In the midst of all the chaos, I looked at my father whose one hand gripped on the seat and the other holding onto my hand. I’d never seen him like that. He had always been the fearless one. The one who’d go skydiving if any of his friends dared him, the one who’d disappear in the cryptic woods and come out alive, and the one who went on a solo adventure around the globe as a teenager. This was the first time I had ever seen my father afraid and it didn’t give me a good feeling for what was to come.

I didn’t know what to do or what to say; it was as if my tongue succumbed to paralysis and took with it my limbs and appendages. It wasn’t like there was anything good to say, for as the plane continued to violently shift around, almost as if it was dancing to its impending doom, I realized that any moment could be my last.

I wasn’t ready to perish. I was just a young girl, a young girl who hadn’t lived her life to the fullest and wanted so desperately, so tenaciously, to live. Then, I realized that, when the time does come, you don’t really have much of a choice. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you have, or what you can do. It all comes to us just the same.

With the powerlessness seeping through my bones and the plane swaying back and forth like a bloodthirsty beast fighting its way out of its cage, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift back to the beautiful times. The times when my family watched cartoons together on snow days whilst the aroma of hot chocolate filled the air, when I’d get my best friend’s letters in the mail and melt at her heartfelt words, and on the sleepless nights when my mother sat on my bed and read a bedtime story even though I wasn’t a kid anymore. Moments like these were etched in my soul and these moments would be the one to haunt me the most.

And just like when my mother finished her story, I took a deep breath, smiled, and drifted off to sleep.

After an hour or so passed by, I slowly opened my eyes and watched as people began to step out of their seats, retrieve their bags, and join in the line of people, their faces painted with relief and bewilderment as if they had just seen the world for the first time. When I looked outside the window, there was land, in all its expansive glory, with people walking around and pushing carts. Then, when I turned towards my father, the beads of perspiration on his face were gone and, after his lips curved up into a smile, he immediately pulled me in for a warm embrace.

It was then that I realized we had made it.

But little did I know that that bliss, that gratitude, that restored hope, in that one afternoon wouldn’t last for long because it had just begun. T here were talks of habitable planets every single day yet nothing really came out of it. There was no way we could ever leave Earth, not when it was too complicated and risky. Besides, I don’t think I wanted to.

A few months have passed since the airplane incident and, though it seemed like my family had abandoned the memory, I couldn’t seem to do it as easily. It felt too real for me and, when I remembered that it was real and wasn’t a nightmare conjured up by the wildest corners of my imagination, I couldn’t shake off the fear brewing in my chest. The incident didn’t feel like it was a one-time thing; if anything, it seemed like it was an omen.

And I was right. Exactly four months and twenty-five days later, another disaster hit. Like an epidemic, the story of ocean levels rising and ruthlessly swallowing up the islands in its vicinity took over news sites around the world. Pictures and videos of people, their faces stained with tears and voices pleading for help, and, behind them, the place they once called home shattering into fragments and, soon enough, they’d follow suit.

Next, there were the fires. They were everywhere; from the depths of the Australian wilderness, the rich rainforests of South America, to the wondrous woods of North America, wildfires conquered the world, its terrifying temper scathing and uncontrollable, and reduced everything in its path to forgotten ashes. They were all over the news too with people crying, their eyes imploring yet hopeless, and some, in between whimpers, claiming that it was the end of the world. I didn’t think so. Not yet, anyway. Not in a million years, perhaps.

Then, there were the floods. They came in sudden and harmless for some droplets of rain never seemed menacing―in fact, they were rather calming―but then, sneakily, like a snake slithering in the verdant grass, the clouds detonated like bombs in the meditative sky and turned into a deluge. Like the fires, it took everything in its way from the streets people walked on for their morning stroll, the cafés for a quick rendezvous, and even inside people’s houses, ravaging everything from pictures, furniture, to children’s toys. It was unstoppable. Even places that never flooded did and it didn’t sit well with me. That there were no exceptions.

And, finally, there came the news that spelled it all out for us. It was the news that united everyone―be it farmers, scientists, businessmen, or children. It didn’t matter what country we were from, what languages we spoke, or what we believed in, because the news affected all of us just the same.

The planet was running out of oxygen.

Even after watching the news of the disasters that plagued the world, I had never once in my mind thought that the worst could happen. That the planet would become unlivable, that it would turn into nothing but a wasteland. Or, even worse, that it would cease to exist. It didn’t seem possible; it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Not when it was the miraculous planet that broke all the rules of the solar system and gave birth to life. Life that was rich, varied, and beautiful in every way.

T hen, before I had time to register it, my family and I were in an enormous spaceship, fastening our seatbelts as tightly as we could, with thousands of people doing the same. As I sat there, taking in the reality of everything, the reality of how we arrived there, I shook my head, hoping it was all a dream. Hoping that everything was fantasy and it all happened inside my mind from a restless night. However, when I pinched my arm and opened my eyes, I was still there, strapped on that seat, and in the company of anxious thoughts and equally anxious people.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” My father, sitting beside me as he always did, asked with a gentle cadence to his voice.

“Yeah,” I replied, thoughts still drifting off to anywhere but there.

Then, he said, “Good. Everything will be okay.”

All I could do was nod. I knew that he was trying to make me feel better, to make the atmosphere feel less tense and excruciating, but, unfortunately for him, he had a smart child. A child that knew nothing would ever be okay, that we were escaping from familiarity and taking a chance on a distant, possibly murderous, planet that we knew so little about. We didn’t even know if we’d survive there. Nothing was certain and that was the most horrifying thing of all.

After the initial launch where my body felt like it was vibrating and squeezing my insides, we finally came to a slower pace and it was then that I heard someone, a six-year old boy with warm eyes, sitting next to me whisper and point, “Look, I think we can see Earth from here.” I raised my eyebrows in confusion, but when I diverted my focus to the small window, a gasp escaped my mouth and my eyes widened in shock.

There it was, in the distance, like a faraway star that one could only yearn to touch, the Earth in all of its magnificence. But there was something strange about it. I didn’t know how the little kid could recognize it because it didn’t look like the Earth anymore. Because, as I stared out from the spaceship, the latter moving slowly as if wanting us to savor the fleeting moment, I saw the distant planet begin to crumble, the deep blue of the ocean and the rich green of nature vanquished by shadows of darkness, the bright lights blown out like candles on a stormy night, and that was when I realized there would be no more home to come back to.

The place where I’d lived all my life, where I learned about love and felt it in the most tender moments, where I danced fearlessly under the rain, where I gazed at the stars in my lonely days and longed for something I couldn’t quite name, where I dreamt of bathing in the moon’s radiant light, it was all gone. This was the end of an era and a thousand more.

Perhaps, the new planet will be better, younger, and cleaner. Perhaps, everyone will love it better than they did with Earth and forget the latter, but I knew that I wouldn’t. I could never even if I tried because, at the end of the day―at the end of the world―there would be no other place like home. It will live in my soul for as long as I do. I don’t know how many days it has been since we arrived. Things, and especially time, worked differently around here and I’m not quite ready to figure them out. Everywhere I looked, people were exploring and conversing, and, a few feet away, children ran around and laughed. For a second, it all seemed normal, that we weren’t in a land far away from home, far away from everything we used to know.

But, as I discovered a few minutes ago from an astronomer who spoke with me about the universe as he noticed my eyes glued to the darkness above, the Earth wasn’t so far away after all. Except it wasn’t what I hoped he’d say. If anything, I wish he wouldn’t have spoken to me, just so my heart would still be in pieces.

He said that, from here, I could see the last pieces of the Earth’s annihilation, its return to dust after being filled with so much energy and vitality.

When he said those words, I shuddered. It didn’t feel real. It wasn’t supposed to be real. He was lying. He had to be. But yet, I remained there, body adhering to the spot. I don’t know what I was doing, I didn’t want to watch the Earth decimated into pieces, but I couldn’t get up.

Then, it happened. There were no deafening noises such as those that you’d hear from a heart-wrenching tragedy nor any screams or wails, but rather a distant light in the corner of my eye. For some reason, I thought I would see solidified fragments, but this made more sense. The light was everything―it was the last piece of flesh and bone from the Earth and the testament that there was once a planet, so rich, colorful, and vibrant, that housed lives so complex and filled with love.

As the light faded away and droplets of tears streamed down my face, a long-lasting breath made its way out of my lips with the words that almost came out as a whisper, “Goodbye.”

I wasn’t the kind that said goodbye . Instead, I’d always say, see you later . Goodbye meant an ending, a finite conclusion that I’d never see them again. I don’t remember the last time I’d said it. I don’t think I ever had. But, it seemed fitting this time. I wanted to say more; in fact, I wanted to scream, to let out everything, but I couldn’t because nothing would come out. All there was was a hollow emptiness, a helpless yearning, for the ghost of a place that was once there.

And that was when I realized my planet was truly beautiful. It wasn’t a novel thought; I knew that the Earth was beautiful. It was a trinket―a memento―of the vast, enigmatic universe and so were we. But this time, the feeling was different because, as I reminisced staring out the stainless window, the planet destroying itself in agony and distress, I realized it was utterly and profoundly beautiful and felt it in my bones. It started as a shiver, then a chill in the spine, and later on, like a festering disease, it seized my whole body, wrapping its arms for protection.

I was prepared for the end of the world. I knew it would come for, after all, everything that lives must also die. It was the cycle of life, the only rule that was concrete and definite. Birth and death, beginnings and endings, they came in a pair. But what I didn’t prepare for was the planet dying and me being alive. I could’ve never seen that coming. It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t seem right . The searing emptiness was there, steaming like a witch’s pot. The feeling that I was incomplete, that there was something missing, that the Earth couldn’t die without its children, and that its children couldn’t live without the Earth. We came in a pair, after all.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” I didn’t realize my mother was right there and, as I looked up at her, her brown eyes hopeful and her smile kind, I leapt up from the spot and into her arms. Then, in between her gentle rubs on my back and my sobs, I whispered, “I will be.” I meant it. I didn’t know when, but I knew that, one day, I would be.

I knew that, as long as life existed, so would remnants of the Earth. And, since the Earth was beautiful, so was life, and, in that ephemeral moment in time, I knew that, as I go on and breathe the freshness of the new air, my life would be different. Not because I was living on a strange and unfamiliar planet, not because I was forced to restart everything, but because, this time, I wouldn’t waste a scintilla of it. After all, there was nothing incredibly more fragile and frail in existence than the very thing we called life itself.


Author's note: This story is here because of an amazing person called Rayhan. He asked for a new story-which I had not given you Reeders in a long time- and I delivered. (WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE? GO FOLLOW HIM BUT FIRST READ THE STORY!) What's wrong with him? You touch your head and groan. There is a steady stream of blood running down it. Then you see your sloth. After rethinking your life choices, you wrench the sloth out of your bed and start screaming at it in slow motion, because it's a sloth and it's slow. The only language it can understand is slow. After tiring yourself with hoarse and scratchy slow-screeching, you flop back in bed, procrastinating on laundry and dusting. The sloth only makes it worse. As you drift off, you hear a bang and swore that you heard slow motion swearing. You jump up with a few choice words as well, regretting ever getting the sloth. The sloth has no name. You couldn’t afford to pay some affection for a cute, meaningful name like Mr. Cuddles or Flash. No, the sloth was just a worthless gift, used up like an empty toothpaste bottle, and can be thrown away just as easily. What you would give to be an animal-expert right now. How do they take care of pets? Soon, you wake up every night bleeding. On the best days you just get a scratch. On the worst, it's a bloody gash. If you are lucky, you get a prick. When you had planned to go for a walk, of course you weren’t planning for a stupid sloth to be right there on your doorstep. Of course you picked him up. And now, you wanted to scream at Past You for being so, so naïve. And then this whole “to have a sloth, or to whatever- since-you-didn’t-listen-to-your-teacher-Mrs. Something” How ridiculous. And when you finally stopped your train of thought your house was a mess. And your plans were ruined. You were going to step outside, splash in the newly formed puddles, go to the store and get a bagel, then loop back home. Instead, you picked up a sloth and now he’s ruining your room, terrorizing your sleep, and has sent you to the hospital for loss of blood many times. “Alright, so you want to send a sloth to jail? ” “Yes sir, for attempted murder and stealing.” “What?”

“I’m telling you about a sloth so you and throw him in jail. Do you have a hearing problem?” “Pardon me, but you said you were reporting a sloth. What the hell did a sloth do to you?” “ATTEMPTED MURDER ON ME!!! YOU SEE THESE GASHES? HUH? SEE THEM? HE DID THAT!! THE SLOTH DID IT!!!” After that, you had to go to therapy. You hated it and beat up many chairs before you could leave. You ran to your unclean home, picked up the sloth, and grinned evilly. “So, Mr. Sloth. Let’s have a little chat.” Flinging him into a chair, you stood over him like a cat cornering a mouse. The poor thing looked at you and tilted it’s head. “As you know, you have been causing me trouble. My house is in shreds, my face hurts, I have multiple bills, everyone thinks I’m crazy, I think I’m crazy, and I know you know I know you know all that somehow fits into YOUR FLIPPIN’ FAULT YOU BEAST!” The sloth fell off the chair, and now you have much more bills to pay. As the days drag on, you prepare yourself for the war against your demon sloth. Cute and friendly it may seem, it’s actually a horrendous beast. Buried under those adorable eyes is a burning soul sent by the devil to hack your mind and snap your body in half, blood crawling down your whole body like the demon has sliced you many times.

To hell with time; I have a war to win. In the ending, you won the war but lost the battle. Even when locked in it’s cage, it still tried to hypnotize you with its eyes. Eyes…. No! Snap out of it! You can’t fall prey to it! As you stumble and try to wake up, you notice that the sloth has escaped.. Again. The best way to get him back, you found, was to wear your bleeding scream mask and charge at it full speed while chanting “BUTTER STICK BUTTER STICK BUTTER STICK” And then the sloth will freeze in place. You just grab him with leather gloves and shove him in his cage. But this time, it was different. As you geared up, you saw him quietly come towards you, looking like a child walking it’s first steps. Then it slowed and seemed to turn around, stopping and judging you with those beady little eyes. You found yourself looking at them, unable to move or turn away as you felt the devil come to you. Or maybe not, you realized. The eyes were filled with something other than an otherworldly demon from an imaginary space in our minds.

Warm. The warmth you feel when someone hugs you, the warmth that you get when you drink hot cocoa. The warmth that this sloth is showing right now. But why? I have been so mean to him. Why do I deserve this warmth? Then it hits you like a fire truck in reverse driven by a baby. It doesn’t care. It’s a sloth. Sloths love everybody.

You gently pick up the sloth and carry it back to it’s cage. Then you think hard about your future with it. All the scratches you will receive, all the money you got to pay and all the screaming you probably will do (of course you will scream). But if you have your future with this little menace (well, maybe a cute little menace) then you got to have a name. You abruptly sit up straight, causing your sloth to stare at you. Squinting at him, you whisper: “How about...Ray?”

Dedicated to…. Drumroll please: Rayhan Hidayat! For two reasons: 1. THE SLOTH’S NAME and 2. He’s so funny to talk to! And his stories and bio: JUST THE BEST

Thanks Rayhan! Have a great day everyone!


DEVIL’S DEMISE Six o’clock. It’s time. I go to the kitchen first, and open the third drawer by the sink.

That’s where David keeps the hammer.

It feels heavier this time.

My hand shakes as I pull it from the drawer. No. My hand isn’t shaking because of the hammer.

It’s because of what I’m about to do. Who I’m about to talk to. I take a breath as I step into the doorway of the bathroom.

It’s very dim inside.

Pale light filters in through a single clouded window and the white tile floor sparkles clean before me.

I should know, I’m the one who scrubbed it this afternoon.

Scents of lemon and bleach fill my nostrils as the door closes behind me.

My hand slips over the knob, and I push the button in the center.

I don’t need any interruptions. I keep my eyes down as I cross to the sink.

When the temptation becomes too great, I close them, taking another deep breath.

My hands move to rest on the counter top, the hammer hitting the laminate with a dull thud.

Even before my eyes open, I know he’s there.

I can feel his presence in my gut.

It’s a sick feeling.

A nauseous feeling.

But he just waits patiently for me to open my eyes. So I do. I see him in the mirror looming behind me.

Smoke and darkness silhouetted against the plastic shower curtain, and eyes filled with a glimmering seduction that is both frightening and tantalizing.

His chin rests on my shoulder, filling the curve against my neck. “You didn’t do your hair today,” he remarks, his hot breath releasing against my cheek. “It’s Friday,” I stammer. “Ah, yes.

Cleaning day.”

There’s a chuckle, and he raises a hand, digging long, sharpened nails into my scalp. “It’s funny, isn’t it?

Right now, your friends are out having a good time.

And you’re at home, scrubbing floors.” His fingers slide the length of my hair. “They know I’m busy,” I reply. “Is that what you tell yourself?

No. The real reason is obvious,” he whispers, pressing his lips against my ear. “They don’t invite you anymore because you’re too ugly.” A knot forms in my throat.

I knew he would say this.

It’s always the same.

But it still hurts just as much as the last time.

When I try to look away, he places a hand firmly around my chin and holds my face up steady to the mirror. “You little slob,” he hisses. “You fat, ugly slob.” “Stop it.” “Did you have dinner yet?

I hope it wasn’t too much.

It will be harder to force it back up,” he reminds me.

I glance nervously at the toothbrush.

“You better hurry, before David gets home.” “No,” I say, firmly.

“I’m done with that.” “Oh really?

You’re certain?” His face turns into my hair, and he inhales deeply.

The sensation causes me to shudder, and he chuckles again, the deep tones of his voice echoing off my sparkling clean tiles.

I look away from the toothbrush and at a bottle of liquid foundation.

It’s tucked against the corner of the mirror, next to my brush, eyeliner, and tube of Wonderwand volumizing mascara. “Make-up won’t help.

Your face will still be round.”

He pinches the soft flesh of my neck, just beneath my chin.

“They have surgeons for this, but you can’t afford it.

So you just have to stay ugly.” My eyes begin to cloud as I feel the anger rising inside me.

Not at him, but at me.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I promised I wouldn’t let him get that far.

But here we are, like every other night in front of the mirror.

His laughter.

My tears. “Aw, shhh,” he coos. “Don’t cry.

I’m here.” A slender finger reaches out, and drags the teardrop down my face. “I’m always here.” Sometimes it seems like he has always been there, but that’s not true.

There was a time when I could look in the mirror, and he didn’t come.

I could look in the mirror at my round cheeks and kinky hair and say, “Hello, beautiful!” But not anymore.

Now, every time I looked, all I could see was what he told me to see. A fat, ugly slob. “You better get things done, we’re running out of time,” he insists. “Yes,” I agree. “You’re running out of time.” “What is that supposed to mean?” I tighten my grip around the hammer. “I’m not going to see you anymore,” I tell him. “You think it’s that easy?

Well, it’s not.

It will be hard to keep me away.

Harder than you can manage.

You’re not that strong.” “I know.

But I’m not going to do it alone.

I’m going to get help.” “Disgusting!” “No.

I’m not.” He recoils a moment, as if in shock, and towers behind me.

The smoke billows, and the darkness swirls within him.

The glitter in his eyes is gone.

Now all I see is only hatred.

Now all I see is only rage. There is a knock at the door. “Julia?

Julia, are you in there?” CRAP! David is home. “Pathetic!” he growls. Knock, knock, knock. “Julia, are you ok?

Open the door.” “You stupid, little–” I raise the hammer and his eyes widen.

Endless pools of nothing, staring at me in horror. “You think that will stop me? You can’t kill the devil!” KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. “Julia! Please, open the door!” I stare at him for the last time.

“But you’re not the devil. You’re just my devil.

And this is your end.” I swing the hammer right into the center of the mirror.

It shatters in large shards, crashing into the sink and all over the counter, some even reaching the floor.

I step back and look at the destruction.

My heart pounds furiously in my ears, almost as furiously as David beating on the door. But it’s over.

He’s gone. My hand grips the doorknob, and I turn it slowly.

David pushes his way in, wrapping his arms around me tightly.

His breaths are as ragged as mine.

I rest there in his embrace.

I lay my head on his shoulder, and feel his hands press against my back, pulling me as close to himself as he can manage. “What happened?” he asks, urgently. “Are you ok?” “Yes,” I tell him.

“I’m fine.” And for the first time, it’s true.


It was midnight. The moon was full and the breeze, silent and chilly, blew through the innocent walking down the streets below. Lawrence stood by his bedroom window, big enough for him to fit, and high enough for him to meet an ungodly demise. Apparently, it has all come down to this. Him in a dark bedroom waiting to be found, his associates have left and gone, and the only person that still seems to care is the one that is after him. He never thought that it would end with such violence and with so much pain. He never thought that life would make him suffer so much with the choices that he made. He thought he was actually doing the right thing. It was evident though, that he had to make some decisions that did not consider the welfare of others. But these choices, they weren’t easy. Lawrence sighed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to let go of the guilt that he buried deep in his consciousness, to a place where not even he can reach. Maybe this is his punishment. The voices of the hurt kept ringing in his ears and they shout: We curse your soul into the depths of the underworld! Never to resurface or see the light of day ever again! It was torture. He only needs to close his eyes to remember the visible agony on their faces. He hasn’t slept properly for days now and his body seemed to not have any plans to do so. He couldn’t eat either, not even a cracker. He has grown thin and his face became sunken. It was the consequences, he guessed. But he was doing the right thing! He knows deep down that he was fighting for the greater good. There was more than just glory and the satisfaction of being recognized as someone who’s willing to do what is necessary to succeed. It wasn’t greed. It wasn’t just self-righteousness. It was mercy. It was a sacrifice for the betterment of many. From down below, Lawrence noticed a particular red sedan that he recognizes a little too much.  He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. It was only a matter of minutes now. The blonde woman would be at his doorstep and there would be nowhere to run. No chance of escape. Moments passed and his bedroom door opened loudly with a bang. A young woman with short disheveled blonde hair barged into the room. She flashed a blinding light to his face, he winced through blinded eyes. “I got you now,” she whispered “no more running.” “It’s not like I was running from you, you just couldn’t catch up.” Lawrence said. The young woman stepped forward. “Don’t. I’ll jump.” She glanced over to the window behind Lawrence. The busy street ignorant of the encounter happening to that significant apartment building. She snickered. “I swear, I’ll jump,” Lawrence repeated. “You shouldn’t have done what you did. I told you we were in this together.” she lowered her flashlight and aimed something at his head “How could you do this to me, Lawrence? To your family?” “You wouldn’t listen to me,” Lawrence said calmly. “Because you were wrong, Lawrence!” “Do you think I’m happy with what I did? Do you think I get to sleep comfortably under my sheets?” Lawrence raised his voice. He was angry now. They were once partners but she couldn’t understand what he wanted to achieve. They shared a dream, a vision. Until she decided to trek a different path and Lawrence was set to venture alone. “Why did you do it then?” she asked, her voice low and shaking. “Because it was the right thing to do and we both know it.” He replied. Silence. There was only silence. The blonde woman clenched her weapon as she held back a tear. He was right. She didn’t want to agree with him but deep down, she kind of does. She just couldn’t agree with how Lawrence would go to extremes and couldn’t care less about the people he could cause pain. That wasn’t what she signed up for. “Undo it. I’m giving you the count of three.” She warned him. Lawrence remained silent and unmoving. “One.” “I can’t” he whispered. “Two.” She stiffened her stance, ready to take him. “I won’t!” Lawrence shouted. “Three!” “I’m sorry I had to do it, sister. It’s do or die.” “What are you talking about?” her determined face turned into confusion. It was such an intense moment. Everything happened so fast. She was ready to take him down and he was ready to counter but then time seemed to have stopped when Lawrence’s apartment door’s lock chimed. Someone has unlocked the door. The two were stunned. No one is supposed to enter through that door at this hour. The door swung open and a middle-aged woman appeared. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, a pizza box in her hand and a handbag in the other. She walked on to the kitchen and laid down everything she was holding onto the dining table. The two looked at each other in panic. Then they hear a deafening scream. “Lawrence! Lilian! Get your asses over here!” It was their mother. Lawrence’s throat ran dry and Lilian became wide-eyed with the ringing voice of their mother. They have been found out. The two slowly crept to the kitchen with their heads hung low. Their mother was fuming and they would probably never hear the end of her scolding. “What is this?” she said, pissed off and fuming, and pointed at the wall opposite their kitchen. It was painted red, while the rest of the room was painted a beautiful olive-green. “I thought I told you to change-“ “Change the color of the wall. Exactly, that is what we did!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Yeah, and this idiot decided to do it on his own while I was out to get another brush.” Lilian explained “Then he went all dramatic about punishments and not sleeping and victims calling out for his name.” she continued. “Change the color of the wallpaper on my computer.” Their mother facepalmed herself. “Oh,” Lilian whispered to herself. “What’s even worse is that red doesn’t match the color of the room and where did you guys even get the paint?” “I asked some from the neighbor and he gave it to me,” Lawrence answered. “You bothered Mrs. Johnson for paint?” their mother couldn’t believe it. Coming home from a busy day at work, this is not what she expected. “I told him not to and he wouldn’t listen to me!” Lilian shouted, “I said that we should find a color that matches the room!” “Again, I did not ask you to change the wall’s color.” Their mother massaged her temples in an attempt to calm down “At least, you didn’t bother any more walls.” “Umm.” Lilian looked down, embarrassed. “We actually started in your room.” Lawrence blurted out. And at that moment, jumping off his bedroom window didn’t seem so bad.