It’s midnight, and I really need to find my favorite shirt. I fumble my way through all the potential places in my living quarters where my shirt could hide. The drawers full of once neatly-folded clothes? Nope. The pile of clothes thrown on top of my dresser after being worn once? Not there either. The mess of clean clothes on the couch that I hadn’t gotten to folding yet? Sadly no. The stack of seemingly unrelated clothes in my hanging clothes organizer I bought from IKEA? Unsurprisingly no. Oh, I almost forgot - the assortment of clothes that had been living in the dryer for a week now? Nice try, but no. Exasperated, I run my hands through my hair. There’s only one more place to look: the laundry hamper. I dig through the pile of dirty clothes in my laundry hamper, hoping and not hoping to find my favorite shirt. Hoping, because if it’s not in my laundry hamper, then I have no idea where it is and need to conduct another search in the same places just in case I missed it. Not hoping, because then I’ll have to 1) wear another shirt tomorrow or 2) sacrifice some much-needed sleep so I can do laundry right now, neither of which I’m keen to do. After excavating the dirty clothes from the hamper like a dog digging out a bone buried in the sand, I discover my favorite shirt at the bottom of the hamper; I forgot that I wore it to work last week for a presentation and had accidentally gotten tomato sauce on it at the post-presentation dinner.

This isn’t the first time I’ve started planning my outfit for the next day or was getting ready to shower and then realized that something‘s missing. Sometimes it’s underwear, sometimes it’s socks, and sometimes it’s a member of my Favorite Clothes Club. Whatever it is, I couldn’t find it in my closet, or it’s in my laundry hamper, and it’s too late to take it out of the hamper and wear it without smelling weird. Which basically means one thing: time to do laundry! I wouldn’t say I love doing laundry, but I don’t dislike it either. Let’s just say that it’s my favorite household chore. You get to take breaks (while the washer or dryer is running) and when everything’s done, you get clean clothes! The feeling I get when I take my clothes out of the dryer and retrieve my favorite clothes is like that feeling as a kid when you reunite with your stuffed animal best friend after coming home from school.

But back to my search for my favorite shirt and my conclusion that I need to do laundry. One by one, I bring each item of clothing on my dresser to my nose for a sniff. If it passes the sniff test and I deem it acceptable to wear at least one more time, I keep it on the dresser. Otherwise, I put the piece of clothing in the appropriate hamper: lights and underwear in the white hamper, darks and socks in the blue hamper. Then, I transfer the clothes from the white hamper to the washer and pour the detergent. After turning the knob to the correct cycle and selecting the water temperature, I push the start button. Slosh slosh SWOOSH slosh slosh . Growing up, my sister and I did our own laundry every Sunday, and we often helped our busy mom do her laundry too. Ever since we tainted a white shirt by accidentally washing it with a new pair of jeans, we separated the lights from the darks (this was the only form of segregation we condoned), making exceptions for underwear and socks. All underwear went with the lights, and all the socks went with the darks, no matter what color they were. We washed the lights and underwear before the darks and socks so the underwear wouldn’t get contaminated by the socks. BUZZZZZZ ! Hearing the washer buzz, I jump from my seat to go to the laundry room. Back at home, we didn’t have a dryer, so we hung all our clothes on rods that my dad hung outside or in the garage near the washer. No later than 10 minutes after the washer buzzed, we would go into the garage to save the wet clothes from becoming a smelly clothes stew. After taking an article of clothing out of the washer, we would shake it and smooth it out before hanging tops on normal hangers, bottoms on pant hangers, and underwear and socks on a foldable clip and dry hanger. Sometimes we would have to spend three minutes just shaking out the clip and dry hangers because all the clips had gotten tangled together. And if someone accidentally left a receipt or tissue in a pocket, there would be laughter, followed by a lecture on emptying your pockets before throwing things in the laundry hamper, followed by the perpetrator having to pick out all the tiny white slivers of paper or tissue from the clothes.

My sister and I developed a system in which we would hang all the pants first, then the shirts, and finally the underwear and socks. Then we took turns carrying the wet clothes and hanging them on the rods and then coming back to the washing machine. If it was sunny, we would hang the clothes outside, and if it was raining, we would hang them in the garage. By the end, we got a good arm and leg workout from squatting to retrieve the clothes from the washer, carrying the clothes from the washer to the rods, and lifting the clothes to hang on the rods. And as we retreated to our rooms, we prayed that our clothes would be safe from wind and bugs.

Now that I have a dryer, things are much easier. There are still some clothes that need to be hung to dry though. Take bras for instance. And my athletic jerseys. And all the other clothes that say “Hang Dry.” First, I hang all the clothes that can’t be put in the dryer before transferring the rest of the clothes in the washer to the dryer. Then I repeat the whole process with the batch of clothes in the blue hamper. Toss the clothes into the washer, pour detergent, select the correct settings, press the start button. Chug a chug a chug a chug a . The clothes hung on the rods outside probably got at least 300% of the daily Vitamin D recommendation by the time they were dry. Before the sunset, my sister and I would carry the laundry basket downstairs. Each time, it was a matter of detaching the clothes from their hangers and dropping the clothes into the basket as fast as we could before we were engulfed by darkness and attacked by insects. Sometimes, we would see a lonely piece of clothing lying outside in the dirt a few feet away from the drying rods, and we would frantically snatch it away from the dirt, curse the wind, and pat the poor item of clothing down. If it was still dirty, we would throw it back in the hamper. And if we had time before the sunset, we would fold the clothes before placing them in the basket so we wouldn’t have to fold them later.

After all the clothes were safely in the basket, we would carry the basket back upstairs. One of us (usually the one most scared of the dark) led the way, reaching behind to hold the front of the basket while the other helmed the back and made sure the garage door was locked. We kept our hands steady to keep the basket balanced, pretending that we were transporting an important official in a litter, except the litter was plastic instead of wooden. Once we reached the top of the stairs and set the heavy basket down on the carpet, we would slide it down the hallway - stopping by our parents room, then my room, and then my sister’s room to deposit each person’s clothes carefully on their beds like we were mailwomen or Santa Claus’s elves delivering fragile presents. Sometimes, mail got delivered to the wrong address, and a few days later, there would be a shriek of laughter when one of us realized that we accidentally took our mom’s underwear. Since my sister and I had a lot of the same clothes, sometimes there would also be arguments over whose clothes were whose, or incidents of someone accidentally taking someone else’s shirt thinking it was theirs, even though they didn’t even put their own shirt in the laundry. But now that my sister got married and moved across the country, I’m living by myself and doing my own laundry. BUZZZZZZ ! Once again, I jump in my seat at the intrusive noise and rush to hang all the high-maintenance clothing before placing the rest of the newly washed clothes into the dryer. Then, I clean the lint, adjust the dryer settings, and press the start button. Finally, I’m free from having to worry about smelly clothes stew. Since I’m doing my own laundry, I’ve gotten a little lazier about folding my clothes right after taking them out of the dryer. The folding stage typically happens in the following order: members of my Favorite Clothes Club, athletic jerseys, tops, bottoms, underwear, socks. As boring as it may sound, folding clothes is stress-relieving and a wonderful way to recount what happened in the past week or so. I already know that the last time I wore my favorite shirt was for good luck when I gave a presentation at work, but the other articles of clothing also have stories and memories weaved into them. Here are some of the memories from the past week, as told by the newly washed clothes: a PJ T-shirt from a popcorn-filled movie night; a pair of underwear that carried blood stains from when my period leaked; a jersey that used to be covered in grass stains, providing evidence that I tried my best as a goalkeeper at last week’s soccer tournament; and a pink lace bra that makes me blush when I remember last week’s date night. When I was little, the recounting would happen while hanging the clothes and removing them from the hangers, since each piece of clothing got at least 30 seconds of one-on-one time. BUZZZZZZ ! Now that’s the buzz I want to hear! I open the dryer and look through the batch of warm, clean clothes for my favorite shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Sleepy and finally at peace, I fold just the clothes I need for tomorrow and set them neatly on the top of my dresser before snuggling into my blanket. 10 hours later, I’m in my favorite shirt and pair of blue jeans, ringing the doorbell to Ms. Red’s house. I wait outside for about 30 seconds before an old lady cracks open the door. She smiles, a faint dimple appearing on her left cheek. “My laundry lady is here!” she says excitedly. I smile and walk into her house.

A few weeks after Ms. Red was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I’ve been going to her house every week to help her do laundry. She’s forgotten how to use the washer and started doing her laundry by hand, but that was causing arthritis in her hands. Since she has trouble operating machines, I’m the one who places the clothes in the washing machine, adds detergent, turns the knob to the correct cycle, selects the water temperature, and then pushes the start button. While her clothes are twirling and dancing in the washer, I sit with Ms. Red and tell her the adventures I encountered in the past week: my work presentation, my fancy date night (minus the night shenanigans), my soccer tournament... Then when the washer buzzes, I move everything to the dryer. For the next hour, Ms. Red and I organize and clean her house. Finally, the dryer stops, and I bring all the clothes to her room. Then together, we fold. For Ms. Red, folding clothes is relaxing and makes her feel productive. She doesn’t say much these days, but when we simultaneously pick up the same item of clothing to fold, her eyes twinkle and she yanks it out of my hands so she can fold it. Every now and then after I finish folding an item of clothing, I’ll look over to check her progress and see her slowly but surely folding in her own special way. An expert at packing clothes into suitcases that seem too small to fit everything, my mom often taught me various methods of folding clothes that I still use to this day. Now, every week, Ms. Red shows me different folding techniques that she claims to have invented. Last week, she “folded” a pair of socks by rolling one sock and putting it in the other sock. Today, she’s folding pants by first rolling up the legs and then folding along the inseam. Sometimes we race to see who can fold the most clothes, and other times we focus on organizing the folded clothes by color or type.

Spending four hours each week doing Ms. Red’s laundry has made me contemplate how much the ordinary task of doing laundry entails. Everyone needs to do laundry, but not everyone can do it. No matter their size, shape, color, or age, different items of clothing all go through some part of the laundry process. Doing laundry can happen early in the morning or late at night. Wet clothes can be tossed into the dryer or hung outside to dry. Laundry can be done by hand or by a machine. A successful laundry session involves separating light from dark clothing to prevent unwanted color transfer, removing wet clothes from the washer promptly to prevent an onslaught of mildew smell, and depending on preference, having a system for folding clothes. But why do people really do laundry? Sure, dirty and smelly clothes are unsanitary and unpleasant, but what causes someone to actively take on this mundane task? Maybe it’s their love for a member of their Favorite Clothes Club. Or maybe it’s a different kind of love. When my sister and I were in high school, sometimes we were too busy to do our own laundry, and our parents would quietly do our laundry for us. And when we were in college and returned home for the holidays, we would find that our parents had already washed our bedsheets for us. Doing laundry was one of the many ways our parents showed us their love.

Even though Ms. Red keeps calling me her laundry lady and insists that I call her "Ms. Red" , I’m just happy that I get to do laundry with her. I hope Ms. Red knows that w henever I visit her and help her do laundry, I’m really saying, “I love you too, Mom.”


His head smashed into the low wooden doorpost of the Flagon Inn as he was leaving. All eyes were on him as he rubbed his head, trying to suppress the throbbing pain. He noticed the awkward glances he was receiving and smiled. “Ouch!” he said, amusingly. Several men laughed as they returned their attention to their gambling. A serving girl smiled and resumed her duties. The innkeeper nodded sympathetically. “Watch yer head ther’ mister,” he said, “it’s a bit low.” Alan smiled as he closed the door behind him and started down the dirt street, his head still throbbing. He passed several people heading for the inn. It was a busy place he thought. Especially in the early hours of the day. They always had a pot of stew or a leg of lamb that would satisfy any man’s hunger. Alan headed for the training grounds. He would be working with a few of his men on sword combat. Their small city didn’t have many trained soldiers, except for those that he taught. His men were there practicing as they awaited his arrival. They greeted him, then resumed their positions. He demonstrated a new maneuver with the sword. He then observed as they applied it to their previous training. The blunted swords rang all morning as the trainees attacked, blocked, and counter-attacked. As soon as the sun was directly above them, the practice was over. Grabbing his bow, Alan started for the city gates. The best place for archery practice was outside the city. No need to accidentally hit an innocent bystander inside the city. He enjoyed the woods more anyhow. But, as he reached the wooden walls of the city, a horseman came galloping through the gates. He pulled his steed to a halt. He didn’t bother dismounting. “Sir Alan,” he began, out of breath “their coming!” “Who?” He asked. “Raiders! From the East!" “What do they want?” There was a moment’s silence. “To raid us, I guess,” observed the rider. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Alert the city officials." “Yes sir.” The horse’s hoofs thudded on the ground as the horse galloped through the street, people scrambling out of the way. Alan turned ‘round, heading for the barracks. This was the time that he had been training his men for. And he hoped that they’d prove worthy. Two hours passed since the first sitting of the raiders. The city had been fortified to the best of its abilities. The walls were manned by the seventy men-at-arms and the thirty-odd archers. The raiders had formed a line of warriors, just outside the forest edge. Far enough to ensure that arrows were not a threat. “What are they doing out there?” asked William. A well-trusted archer who Alan could always rely on. “How should I know?” he said with mock disgust, “Feel free to go ask ‘em.” “Ha, only if you’ll come with me.” “Ah no. Your the one who is so anxious.” “Not Anxious, just, curious.” “Same thing," Alan said mater-a-factly. William silently mouthed the words “Is not” but made sure Alan wasn’t looking. They both stood staring at the enemy wondering what would happen next. “Do you think they will take the city?” asked a young soldier standing next to William. “Na,” Started Will, “they don’t stand a chance. Look at ‘em out there. They don’t know the first thing about fight’n.” The young lad didn’t seem convinced. He stood glaring at the forest edge. “Ah come on Al. Tell him there’s nothin’ to fret about.” Alan leaned forward, looking around William. “Well, we haven’t had to face a threat like this before. This is the time to use all that you’ve been taught and use it well. Or else,” he paused before continuing, “we’ll all end up lying on the ground with our throats slit.” The young man swallowed hard and nodded. William heaved a sigh and nodded as well. “Oh come on. It’s not the end of the world. No need to get all huffy puffy,” put in a passing serving boy who was bringing water to the men. William whirled around and gave him a playful, kick in the pants. Then realizing that he had water, ran out after him, longing to quench his thirst. Everyone who had witnessed the scene busted out laughing. It was nice, thought Alan, to have a local comedian to cheer up everyone. Despite his tendency to make a fool of himself, he was an excellent marksman with a bow and a good soldier to have watching your back. Another hour or two past and yet, the raiders were still waiting. They had now started fires and were cooking what smelled like stew. Somehow Alan knew that they should be using this precious time sparingly. But there was nothing that he could do that would make a difference. There wasn’t any way for them to get help. Even if they were able to get a messenger past the enemy, it probably wouldn’t amount to much. Even if the nearest city did send troops, it would be too late. A fifty-mile march would take more than two days. By that time they would surely be defeated. All he could do was position his men in the best positions possible. He put men on all sides of the city walls. Although the majority was facing the oncoming enemy. If he had more men he would have fortified the entire city with plenty of men. But the circumstances called for risks. He placed the locals, who weren’t official soldiers, on the undermanned walls. It was better than no men at all. However, if they were counter-attacked from behind, they would be at a major disadvantage. “Why don’t they just attack?” asked one of the soldiers. “Yeah,” started William, “I think I’d fare better fighting a man than facing this dreadful waiting.” Several men chuckled in agreement. “I think they are waiting until they get their food,” put in an older man, “I get the impression that they’d rather fight on a full stomach!” He stated with a stout laugh. The ranks of men boomed with laughter. How could men facing potential death be so eager to laugh and make jolly? Perhaps it helped put their minds at ease, or maybe it was a way of getting ready for what awaited. Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, they were laughing and having a good time. “Or maybe they’re…” The still air was disrupted by a blaring horn near the forest. A battle horn. It meant something. The enemy ranks formed quickly. The rattling of swords and equipment was audible, even from such a distance. There was another horn blast, and the enemy began to advance. Suddenly, another rank of warriors appeared from the forest, then another. They had kept their true numbers hid until now. Alan knew that the morale of the men had dropped slightly. The raiders advanced steadily. He estimated two-hundred fit and fighting men. He judged the distance between the city and the advancing army. Taking an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it on the string, singled out a single man in the middle of the group, pulled back, and loosed. The arrow arced across the sky; a blur, as it sped towards its target. He was rewarded by a cry of pain that echoed across the, to be battlefield. He had hit something. They were in range! “Archers!” he shouted, “Let loose!” Showers of arrows rained down upon the enemy. One after another. An ever-present threat. A never-ending fear that would discourage those advancing. Soon, the raiders had crossed more than half of the field. Perhaps an eighth of them were lying on the battlefield. Stuck with a mortal shaft. A heavy log, with rope handles, was brought to the city gates. They smashed it into the gates time after time. Each time the gates shuttered. “Archers,” Alan shouted over the chaos, “aim for those on the battering ram!” Arrows took out a dozen or more men, causing the heavy log to drop to the ground. The log was later lifted, reaping havoc on the gate once more. More arrows rained down on them. Men climbed up crude, wooden ladders, making their way over the walls. Alan shot an arrow through the first man, who crashed onto the ground, landing on his own men. The next man on the ladder hesitated, wondering if he would meet the same fate. William grabbed the top of the ladder and pushed it off the wall. The log crashed into the gates again. The ladder was back on the wall within seconds. Warriors clung onto each rung; heavying themselves up. Grabbing a battle-ax, that had been dropped by a raider, Alan smashed the top rung of the ladder. William pushed the ladder down again. The ladder was turned around so that the missing rung was near the bottom. Alan made an out-witted gesture with his hand. He hadn’t thought of them just switching it around. He put an arrow in the man who had had the idea. “Shoot those who are on the ladder,” William shouted. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” “Quite your complaining.” Three of the five men climbing the ladder fell to the ground, stuck with an arrow. William grabbed the ladder and turned it over, dumping the remaining men. He then hauled the empty ladder up and over the wall, throwing it down below, inside the city embattlements. “Climb the wall now!” shouted William. “I guess you can be useful at times,” Alan said, staring in amazement. “Yeah, at times.” There was a loud crack as the gates gave way. Then a bang as they smashed onto the ground. “Archers! The gates!” He loosed an arrow into the flooding mass of warriors who swarmed through the opened gates. He had positioned forty of his best men to guard the gates, in case they were breached. A volley of arrows met the advancing men, bringing down over a dozen. Steel rang on steel as the two foes made contact. The raiders gained ground for the first few seconds. Alan feared that the frail line would break. But instead they began to make headway; pushing the attackers slowly back. Surprised by the unexpected success, Alan and the other archers continued to rain arrows down from the embattlements. He knew that the forty men down there couldn’t hold on forever. He had to do something. William threw down another ladder that he had wrenched from the wall. The heavy oak wood crashed into several men, sending them sprawling. Alan looked at him briefly, “Keep ‘em coming Will.” He reached for another arrow. His hand didn’t find anything in his quiver. “I knew I was running out,” he murmured under his breath. Throwing down his bow he drew his sword. He glanced at William, who was fighting two men who had made it over the wall. Alan darted forward, thrusting his sword through the first. William took care of the other. “I’m going in,” shouted Alan, “they need help down there.” “I’ll keep ‘em off the wall,” said William, “Good luck.” “It’ll take more than luck,” he said as he descended the steps to the ground. He picked up a wooden shield that had been dropped as he charged into battle. He caught a blow from an ax on his sheild, then thrust his sword at the man, who crumpled to the ground. Ducking a sword, he rammed his shield into a man. Then blocked another sword with his own. Keeping his shield poised in front of him as best he could, he traded blows with the enemy. He parried, then attacked. Ducked and counter-attacked. Charged, only to retreat. He could feel his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought on. He could hear his fellow comrades breathing the same way. The enemy was tiring as well. But there were more of them. Lots more. Dodging a sword, he swung at a large raider, missing him by an inch. A young lad, seeing his chance, darted in and sliced the man's leg. The man fell to the ground grasping his leg. Alan finished him off. He and the lad continued fighting this way. Alan, a trained warrior, would attack a man; leaving him open for the lad to get a blow in. Alan could then put him out of commission. An ax swung at Alan's head. Jumping back, he avoided the deadly blow. Hiding behind his shield, he advanced. He felt his arm give as the axe came down on the shield. Then, quick as lighting, the lad lunged forward, stabbing the man in the stomach. The axeman, big as an ox, swung his ax at the boy despite the wound. The back end of the ax sent the lad hurling back. Crashing to the ground. Filled with rage, Alan advanced once more, his shield raised. The ax splintered the wood as it smashed into the shield. Ignoring his throbbing arm, he dashed forward, taking a chunk out of the mans arm with his sword. He then smashed the pommel into the man's face. The man fell to the ground. Soon his lines began to give ground. Little by little the raiders moved farther into the city. Then, in a sudden burst, his lines gave way! Raiders surrounded him on every side as he fought for his life. He managed to get the upper hand with the first two, but the other men were giving him some serious trouble. A metal blade sliced through his cloth armor and cut deep into his arm. Warm liquid ran down the length of his arm. A shield hit him in the face, throwing him back a yard or so. Blood blurred his vision as he regained his feat. It was evident that they were loosing the battle. He was grateful that they had sent the women and children, along with a few young men, down river. The raiders had been polite enough to give them time to do so. Unintentionally of course. He glanced down at his arm. Deciding to ignore it, he swung his sword round experimentally. His thoughts lingered on Aliss as he made his last stand; taking two men on at once. He heard William shouting “Look out Al!” He ducked instinctively. A sword flashed viciously over his head. Alan dashed forward, slashing the man's legs. A boot caught him in the ribs. Grabbing the boot, he drove himself forward, driving the man into the dirt. He rolled to the side, a sword missing him by an inch. Having dropped his sword he drew his small dagger from his belt. He could hear William shouting something at him as he charged. Blocking a sword with his dagger, he grabbed the man's wrist, driving his shoulder into the man's chest. A sword caught him on the other arm. He turned on the next man, the dagger still in hand. Armed with an ax, his opponent swung at him. He managed to dodge the first. But the second hit him in the chest; sending him to the ground. He struggled to get up but fell to the ground. He could see William chopping and slashing at everyone in his path. He knelt beside him, putting his hand on his chest. “Alan, Alan. Just hang on,” He hesitated a second, “You’ll be fine.” Sword poised, William charged the raiders. The few men who were left rallied behind him. Alan knew it was their last stand.


Terra tilted her head to the canopy of stars over the glade. A cool wind blew from the trees surrounding her, covering the area with the energy of the earth and stars. She stretched her arms overhead, the silver bond around her wrists sparking in the full moonlight. Your energy is mine. “This tribunal is called to order,” Alinta said from her throne on the north end of the circle. Her dark form glowed with the fire of her magic, warming the space in front of Alysia. “Alysia, you are charged with magic negation. How do you plead?” Terra’s brown eyes glinted. “Not guilty.” “How can you say that?” Zephyrine said in her whispery voice. “You clearly stole our magic for your own gain. How else can you explain how we fade while you strengthen?” Terra stiffened in the coldness emanating from Zephyrine’s wispy form. “I’m of the earth. My power is from the alignment of life. If you’re out of alignment with your element, then you aren’t using your energy properly.” “We’re talking about magic, not your mystical energy,” Maren's smooth voice washed over Terra. “I am of the water. How can you explain why the tides are running low? Or the streams are running dry?” Terra channeled the earth's energy through her feet, fortifying herself against the binding of her sisters’ accusatory forces. “You’re out of alignment.” “We form a symbiotic circle,” Alinta said. “Fire, wind, water, and you, the earth. It’s impossible for three of us to be out of alignment and one to overpower the others. The nature of the world is balance, but that balance has been disturbed. Earth is strengthened in direct proportion to our weakening forces. Explain yourself. What have you done?” I rise. Terra silenced the thought. She could not reveal herself. The cosmic forces needed more time to complete the cycle of redistribution. “I have done as I always did, living in alignment with the power of the earth,” Terra said. “You are my sisters. You know that my strength comes from the living world, not from the elements. I have only what the universe chooses to give to the growth and sustenance of life.” A golden light streaked across the sky. Terra smiled. If it chooses to give more, then I will gladly take it. “The skies are strange with new lights, and the planetary forces are shifting,” Maren said. “This is no natural phenomenon. We feel it in our elements. There’s been a shift in the cosmos, and our magic reveals no other enemies or disruptions from without. That means that the problem is from within.” She leaned forward, pressing the force of her cold presence against Terra. “Except for you. You’ve grown stronger these past months, and more vibrant. It’s as if you discovered some secret that you did not share with your sisters.” “There are no secrets. We’re bound to one another as we are bound to this planet,” Terra said. “We share access to the same knowledge, power, and energy.” “Magic,” Zephyrine hissed. “Your magic is simply a redistribution of energy,” Terra said as she willed the energy from her wrist bond through her body as another gold light flashed across the sky. “The only difference between us and the mortals is our ability to manipulate that energy through the will of the mind and body.” “This is blaspheme,” Maren said. “We hold this world together. We keep order in nature. If not for us, cataclysmic forces would have destroyed the planet, the people, and this entire system eons ago!” “The earth only exists for us,” Alinta said. “We keep the balance. We direct the forces through this world. We hold the key to the light of life and existence. Without us, they are nothing!” “You are becoming nothing through the abuse of your energy,” Terra said. “Has it occurred to you that the reason you wane isn’t some dark threat, but the sullenness of your soul?” “You are a heretic and a thief,” Alinta said. “How dare you accuse us of tainting this world with our magic? You are the one who needs to learn your place.” She stood, casting her red shadow over Terra. “We will hear no more of your lies. I proclaim you guilty of magic negation and heresy. I sentence you to the dungeons of purgatory until you repentant and rehabilitate enough to rejoin our forces.” Terra smiled. “You mean until I’m more firmly under your control, but you forget one thing: one of us cannot control the others. We only control our elements.” A firey finger flew through the sky. Terra stood up straight, inhaled deeply, and raised her cuffed fists in front of her. “Your energy is mine. You control nothing of this world anymore.” Rise. White light burst from the cuff, breaking it off Terra’s wrist. The light swirled around Terra, jolting her with the full energy of the system. She stretched and exhaled deeply. A gust of wind erupted from her, knocking Alinta, Maren, and Zephyrine to the ground. A band of light bound the three to the ground.  White light and wind swirled around the glade. Terra expanded her awareness from the natural world to the universe above, adding the cosmic energy of expansion to the swirl and harnessing it to her will until it swirled and contracted into a single point in her hand. She walked to the three forms of her sisters on the ground and kneeled in front of them, holding the sparkling energy against her heart. “The problem isn’t that I was guilty of anything. The problem is that we’re just too different. You choose to use energy for the magic to keep this world under your control. I choose to harness the energy to evolve the planet and all of life upon it. I don’t seek to rule this world. I seek to liberate it.” “No, that would be chaos!” Alinta said. “Mortals don’t know what do to with this power!” Maren said. “It must stay hidden with the ancients!” Zephyrine cried. Terra stood and held up her hands. “This was not meant to be under any person’s control. This creative energy is a gift to all.” She opened her hands, releasing the energy to the sky. The ball expanded and spread over the glade, widening as it rose into the sky. The stars overhead sparkled, raining their energy over the earth. “It’s time for this world to break free of your tyranny and rise into the joy of freedom.” “What have you done?” Alinta asked. “You offered up our essence. We’ll die!” Terra took another deep breath, savoring the deep scent of the earth. “I offered only what was already given by the supreme power. Humanity was meant to grow, not stagnate under our power. The energy revealed the ancient knowledge that they were meant to rise while we were meant to blend and sustain the elements. We set this world in motion. After creation, we were destined to maintain it, not rule it. I merely set things right.”  “I will drown your selfish ambition!” Mara cried. “I command the air to suck your energy dry!” Zephrine rasped. “You will burn for this!” Alinta hissed. Terra smiled as she looked at the sky. “All is as it was created to be.” She took a last look at her sisters'. “What this new reality becomes for you is entirely up to you. You can continue to drown, suffocate, and burn the world. Lie there and fade, or rise and embrace the new reality. The choice is yours, as it always was.” Terra inhaled deeply, breathing her strength over the glade. “My choice is made. Yours is upon you. I pray you go in peace, but the same freedom lies before you. Use it as you will. Just remember that it always comes back.” The light holding the sisters down swirled into the sky, releasing them as Terra walked into the trees, the glow of her form blending into the life energy of the woods and rising into the sky as she passed into the world beyond.


“Higgins, you’re going to be on corridor four. Don’t worry, the ones down there aren’t too crazy. Corridor three is the one to watch out for though, so you might hear some screams. Schwartzman, you’re on two. Everybody else, business as usual. Any questions?”

Higgins opened his mouth to ask the first of a dozen questions when Stevens slammed the clipboard back on the counter and said, “Good!” before he turned around and walked back to his office.

“Hey, don’t sweat it, man. Corridor four is an easy one.” Higgins looked over to see Sanders clap him on the back. This wasn’t exactly comforting since Sanders was the regular patrol for corridor three. But he didn't want to be rude on the first day, so he just nodded his head and went to start his rounds.

*** Corridor four may not have been the worst one to be stuck with, but it was still creepy as hell. The whole facility was to be honest, but Higgins hadn’t had any luck finding a better job. And he heard this was better than working in a prison where the inmates got to roam around.

His first order of business was following the orderlies door-to-door while they delivered food to each of the patients. “How long have you been working here…” he searched her uniform for a name tag, “Brenda?” She didn’t say anything. “Okay…” Higgins muttered to himself.

They went to eighteen cells with no issue, and then came room nineteen. He peered through the small window in the center of the door after he unlocked the drawer for Brenda to put the tray on.

All of the other rooms had patients muttering to themselves or just sitting stoically on the bed and staring at the wall. But this one had a girl who was sleeping facing the wall. She turned when she heard the clanging of metal and made eye contact with Higgins. She looked desperately sad as she sat up, not looking away from him. Brenda was already walking to the next cell and waiting for it to be unlocked, but Higgins just felt stuck. He waited there, not realizing until it was too late that he hadn’t locked the drawer again after Brenda closed it, which this patient probably noticed. He started to panic, but she didn’t make a move for the drawer, or even the tray. She just looked at him with tears welling up in the corners of her eyes and mouthed, “Help me!” *** “Hey, have you ever patrolled corridor four?” Higgins asked Sanders.

Sanders quickly finished chewing before answering, “Yeah, why?”

“There’s this girl, in cell nineteen.” Sanders started laughing. “What?”

“Nothing, you’re just not the first new guard to notice her. She’s not hard to look at, and she doesn’t seem totally insane, so there’s that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t think she was cute?” Sanders asked.

“What? No, I don’t know,” Higgins said while trying not to get flustered. “What do you mean that she doesn’t seem crazy?”

Sanders barely looked up from his lunch, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she is, but she’s one of the few you can actually have a normal conversation with when you have to walk her to group therapy. You’ll see this afternoon.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk to the patients, though.” “Geez Higgins, take a chill pill. Actually, the nurses would probably give you one. Don’t worry I’m kidding. You’re not going to get into trouble talking to her. But if we ever get our patrols switched around, don’t talk to any of them.” Sanders started to laugh, but Higgins didn’t exactly think it was funny. He couldn’t quite figure out the rapport here yet. Right now they all seemed insane. “Well, I better get back to it. You shouldn’t mess around in here. You know we only get fifteen minutes for lunch, right?” *** Higgins walked back down corridor four to get patient nineteen to take her to therapy. He didn’t like that they weren’t allowed to know the patients’ names. They were just supposed to refer to them by number. It felt really dehumanizing, even if they weren’t “with it” enough to realize.

He knocked on her door three times and said, “Therapy session, let’s go!” He looked in the window and at first thought she was sleeping but then noticed that her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. He was about to say it again when she slowly sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She cracked her neck and then stood up. She was taller than he thought, but also super thin. He wondered if she had eaten any of the food he dropped off earlier.

He unlocked the door to let her out and gripped her left forearm as they walked down the hall. Even though it was technically against the rules, he had to ask, “What’s your name?”

She looked up at him. She at least had expression in her eyes. Some of the other patients he had seen when he was training looked like they weren’t even there anymore. “Rebecca,” she mumbled. “Nice to meet you, Rebecca,” he said. She gave him a funny look. “I’m new here.”

“Yeah, the old guards never talk to us. They act like we’re wild animals locked up in cages ready to pounce.”

He saw what Sanders meant now, she didn’t seem like she belonged in here. Might have been a bad idea, but he decided to ask, “What are you in here for? You seem okay.”

“I killed both of my parents. Kind of violently, so they put me in here rather than prison,” she said it so deadpan that Higgins nearly stumbled. He felt himself gripping her arm more tightly, so he loosened his hand and picked up his pace.

She glanced up at him and smiled, “You don’t need to be scared of me. The other patients have done way worse. It’s not like my parents didn’t deserve it.”

“What did they do?” He had a feeling she was messing with him.

“I don’t really want to get into it. It’s already all in my file for everyone to see.” She was totally lying. Higgins bet they didn’t do anything.

“Alright, well, I hope you have a good therapy session.” “Oh yeah, these are the highlight of my time here,” she said with an overexaggerated eye roll.

He let her go, but before she could get very far he whisper-shouted to her, “Hey, Rebecca.” She turned expectantly. “What did you mean earlier today, when you asked me for help?”

She walked back over to him, close enough that he felt like she was staring into his soul. “Because I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered back. “I didn’t do anything wrong, and now-” she looked down at the floor and seemed like she was about to cry. When she lifted her head again she had reigned it back in and just said, “All I’m saying is, the guards aren’t exactly the nicest to the patients here. And I shouldn’t be in here for self-defense.”

Before he could say anything else to her, she was already halfway to the chairs set up in a circle. He didn’t have to stay for the therapy session, they had separate guards for that, so he walked down the maze of hallways to see if he could find his way to the file room again. It took him a few tries, but he eventually got there.

Surprisingly, it was unlocked. The patients wouldn’t be down here, so the only people who would go in there would be the staff. He walked in and quietly shut the door behind him. Then he realized he didn’t even know her last name and would have no chance in hell of finding her file, but after checking the first drawer he realized it was organized based on corridor and room number. He found corridor four, rooms sixteen through nineteen and saw her file. “Rebecca Livingston.” He opened it up and instantly shut it again. He slowly opened to the first page again and saw what he could only assume were pictures from the crime scene where she killed her parents.

He scanned the rest of the file as quickly as he could, he had to escort Rebecca back to her room in 30 minutes, and saw a lot of police reports and testimonies about the murders. Then he came across something he didn’t expect. She wasn’t lying. There were dozens of pictures of injuries all over her body with “clear signs of domestic abuse” written along the bottom. The thing was, that a lot of the pictures were dated after she was placed in the mental hospital.

He checked the clock on the wall. He still had ten minutes, but knew it would take him a while to find his way back, so he carefully replaced the file and headed to the room he left Rebecca in.

When he got there no one was talking. They seemed to be meditating or something. He waited a few more minutes and tried to figure out what he was going to say to her. By the time she was walking over to him, he still didn’t have a clue.

He held onto her right forearm like he was supposed to and started walking back to her room. More slowly this time. He just blurted it out, “I read your file.”

All she did was nod her head and look down at the floor. He took a deep breath and said, “Was it really self-defense?”

“Of course it was. I’m not a total psycho.”

“Say that again and look at me.” He had been trained to tell when someone was lying, so he stopped in the hallway and turned to face her.

“Yes, it was self-defense. I swear on my life.” She was looking him straight in the eye. She wasn’t fidgeting or looking to the left or doing any of the other tell-tale signs of lying. He was the first to break eye contact.

He didn’t know what else to say, he just turned back around and walked her back to her room. He locked her in, and she didn’t say anything. He almost expected her to, but she just looked resigned as she went back to bed.

His shift was done for the day, so he went to the break room to grab his stuff and go home for the night.

*** Rebecca never slept. She must have, otherwise she would probably actually go insane, but she never remembered falling asleep. She figured she just drowsed off when she got exhausted enough everyday.

So she wasn’t woken up with a start when she heard the soft knocking on her door. It was that new guard, Higgins. She always made sure to check the badges. She never knew when it would be useful information.

He kept looking from side to side, so she went over to the door. “What?” she asked him quietly.

He seemed to be making some decision in his head right there on the spot. She tried not to get her hopes up, but she watched him carefully. He stared at the floor for seventeen seconds before she saw his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, and then he unlocked her door.

She hid her grin as best she could and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m helping you escape. We have to hurry. The sun will be all the way up soon, come on.” He didn’t grab onto her arm this time, so she just followed quickly after him.

“Why are you doing this?” She tried to get a good look at his face, but he was walking so fast she couldn’t get at the right angle.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think you should be in here. Your file seemed really shady with how you ended up in here and the whole case just felt off.” He said it all in a rush.

“Well, thank you.” Then he gave her a quick glance and just curtly nodded his head.

“Almost there.” She had never been to this area of the facility before. Then she saw it, the exit sign, all lit up in bright red letters. She tried to stay calm and not run straight for the door. He stopped a few feet short and turned to her. “There aren’t any guards at the gate or anything, so just walk alongside the highway, but don’t hitchhike or anything.”

“Yep, got it. I plan on getting as far away from here as possible.” He gave her an odd look, and she swallowed. But then he opened the door, and he let her go.

She smiled at him and touched his arm, “Thank you,” she said genuinely.

“No problem. Just hurry up, my shift starts in an hour, so I gotta get back.” She nodded and gave him a final smile before walking out the door and hearing him let it close behind her.

As she stepped out into the early morning sunshine she took a huge breath of fresh hair. She hadn’t been outside in over three years. It felt even better than she imagined.

The new guards are always so gullible , she thought.


"Projected top 5 pick in the NBA draft." All my life I have strived for this. My dream, and it was all coming to fruition. Teams salivated over my skillset. A 38-inch vertical, an elite three-point stroke, and quick feet laterally, I was something of a dream prospect. All those years I spent playing basketball with my father. Waking up early for practice. Standing around waiting for a game on the local courts, well, at least I used to. Now when I show up, everybody clears the court. This isn't football, nobody is wearing a helmet on the court, so when you can hoop, everyone knows your face. That makes it even funnier when you win the game, and they want to fight you. Brother, what did you expect to happen? I was just that good. When people knew I was around, they would come from all over the city just to watch me play, or take a crack at kicking me off my court. All day I would take on any and all challengers, and I can't remember the last time I failed. What I can remember, is when my body failed me. The NCAA Finals. 76-61 game with 4 minutes remaining in the last period. I hadn't sat a minute of the game, against Coaches wishes. 33 points under my belt, it was only fitting an unceremonious career ending injury akin to Larry Bird before me would strike while his jersey number adorned the jumbotron below my face. In the biggest game of the season, the biggest game of my life, I went down. I had skied into the air for a huge dunk. I exploded from the ground and glided through the air gracefully, straight into the 7'0, 275 pound center. I could have easily gone for a simple layup, or hell, I could have just dribbled the clock out and saved some time at this point. But that wasn't who I was. I had always been a ruthless competitor. I didn't want to beat you, I wanted to embarrass you. A character trait I picked up studying the greatness of players like Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, and Allen Iverson. That killer mentality made me many enemies in all of my time playing basketball, but it won me more games than it burned bridges. I didn't just want to win the NCAA Championship, that wasn't enough for me. I wanted to put their starting center on my highlight reel and give the sports media something to talk about for days. The behemoth took an ill-fated swipe at the ball. His arm, the size of a tree trunk, whipped my shoulder down with such great force that it dislocated instantly. At the same time, I had turned completely horizontal to the ground. When I landed, I landed directly onto a point of my spine. Immediately I felt the bone smash and cave in, as a sudden jolt of energy overcame and jerked my entire body, and then, nothing. I wanted to turn to call out the giant for the hard foul, but I found I could not feel at all from my waist down, and had great trouble moving anything beyond my mouth and fingers. Live on TV with hundreds of thousands watching, I lie on the ground, sobbing in pain, unable to move, completely humiliated. It turns out that night, I was the one embarrassed. As they carted me off the field, and I heard the eruption of applause that typically accompanies a career-ending injury when the stretcher rolls safely off the court, I knew that there was a possibility things would never be the same. I didn't cry in the ambulance, I was far too hopped up on adrenaline for that. In my delirium with all the chemicals coursing through my body to ease my pain, I thought just maybe this was all a dream. But when I awoke the next day and realized this was no dream, I cried for days. It didn't take long for my draft stock to plummet. That very same night every talking head in the nation was talking about the end of my career. I guess in a way I did give them something to talk about for days. They never even gave me a chance of coming back. The sad part is, they were right not to. I never was the same. The NBA draft was out of the question. Shooting a basketball ever again was out of the question in fact. I retained most of my motor skills above the waist, but from the waist down, I am lucky to experience even the fleeting moments of feeling, or perceived feeling, that strike me on occasion. I was paralyzed completely from the waist down. The first few weeks were really hard. All of the "friends" I had made on my ascent to the top, one by one all began to grow distant if not disappear completely. All the deals I had lined up to feed me and my family, gone in the snap of a finger. All the women I thought I could trust? Well, they disappeared faster than the friends did. The very thing I had worked my whole life for, built the entire essence of my being around, all gone. The very content of my character had been ripped from me, and I had to build anew. The worst part was seeing the pain on the faces of those who did care about me. In a way, it was almost easier on me to be abandoned than to face the reality of my situation with those who loved and depended on me. When my mother came to my room, tears in her eyes, and told me everything was going to be okay and that I will always be her All-Star, there was nothing I could do but weep. So selfless as always, she wasn't worried about the loss of the future I promised her, she was only worried about the future I lost for myself. For so long, I didn't know who to blame, so I blamed everybody. I blamed the center for his hard foul, his unnecessary bone-crushing contact that ruined the very trajectory of my life and confined me helplessly to a steel prison on wheels. Then I blamed the coach, the man who didn't rest me for a single minute that game. Perhaps with just a minute of rest things would have gone differently, my body would have taken the shot better. But I have come to realize, there is nobody to blame if not myself. I went for an aggressive showboat move in the biggest game of my life, and I paid the ultimate price. Coach didn't demand I stay in the game, I did. I had something to prove even though my future was laid out for me on a silver platter. I just had to be the hero, the best player on the court, I had to be the man. I used to regret all of the time I dedicated to the game, but I don't anymore. The game taught me many things. It taught me humility, the dangers of hubris. It instilled in me the values of hard work and dedication that made me the man I am today. It taught me to never take anything for granted, and that in a moment's notice, everything can change before you. I'm doing alright now. The very team I got injured on graciously offered me a position on the roster as an assistant coach. Was it a pity job offer? Perhaps. But all that matters to me is that I can still be involved in the game I love, and I can inspire the next generation of players, and teach them not to fall victim to the hubris that put me where I am today. I see the twinkle in their eyes, their love of the game. I see myself in them, all of them. They show me a level of respect as if I had made the NBA. They listen to my word as if it is gospel. The most important thing I tell them? One on the court is better than two in the mock draft. Play the game the right way, and prioritize your health over climbing any draft rankings or making any highlight reel.


Ana Perelli watched Mother over her breakfast bowl of CheeriOats and wondered when the deep creases etched above her forehead began to stick. At ten years old, she knew better than to ask her about them, so as to not hurt her feelings, but she couldn’t help but stare anyways. She would look down at her soggy cereal bowl if Mother glanced her way, but since she had been gaping down at her plate of greens plucked from her victory garden for the last fifteen minutes, Ana figured it was safe to keep staring.            Her younger brother Daniel Perelli hummed with his mouth full, milk dribbling down the corners of his lips and swinging his feet cheerily as if the war had ended yesterday.            She decided Daniel was too naïve to understand that the war had just begun for us. It’s been over two months since Pearl Harbor was attacked. It was amazing how something that happened on a tiny island so far away could affect their life here in Cedar Mills, Minnesota. Nobody in their house felt the rumbles or heard the cries from the attacks on December 7, but it snatched up Father from the flour mill where he worked and sent him to fight somewhere overseas anyways.            Was that it? Was that what etched Mother’s creases into her face? It must be. Ana thought the letter her father sent would have smoothed those wrinkles away. He had made it all the way to Northern Ireland! He mentioned how beautiful and green the world was over there, and that Mr. Henke, who worked at a café in Hutchinson until he was also scooped up into the war, was the first American soldier to land on British soil!            For a brief moment, the three of us huddled around the mailbox, Mother ripping open the letter with shaking hands and reading it aloud, excited about his adventure. That is, until Daniel ruined it.            “Daddy is soooo far away! How will he find his way back?!”            The brief smile on Mother’s face turned back into a grimace, the wrinkles that had almost smoothed themselves out now set deeper.            Naïve Daniel didn’t get an answer. ---            Margaret stared unseeingly at her plate of flimsy cabbage leaves and onions. All she could think about was Leonardo.            She knew she wasn’t the only wife who had to see their husband off, most even travelling all the way to Brooklyn, New York to spend their last precious moments together before the Army whisked them away on a boat. She knew they missed their loved ones just as much as she did, but they didn’t have the burden of guilt on their shoulders. A weight so heavy, it’s a wonder she could wake up in the mornings and survive every day without him.            They listened to President Roosevelt from the small television set in their living room, the grainy footage of him standing grimly at the podium telling the world of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Margaret saw from the corner of her eye how Leonardo rested a palm on the top of Ana’s head and turned to look at his wife. She didn’t dare meet his eye, afraid of the look that would greet her.

No, she had hissed to him later that night. She hated how he wrapped his arms around her, trying to will her to see reason. You are not leaving me here alone to fight some war that doesn’t concern us!            He kissed her cheek. She took a hand and wiped it away, not caring that it was childish.            She knew nothing she could say would stop him from doing what he thought was the right thing. Regardless, she remained cold to him for the rest of the month.

It’s my duty to protect you and our little ones, he would plead with her.

Then why are you leaving? A real man would stay, I don’t care what the posters in town say!            Even Milburn, Carl and Louise Henke’s boy, is going.            I don’t care about the Henke’s.            No matter how hard Margaret pushed or squirmed out of Leonardo’s embrace, he always tried. She turned away from his touch at night, turning her cheek when he tried to kiss her. When he walked into a room she walked out. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it.            January second came, and Leonardo got down on his knees and hugged his children, promising to send letters and goodies if he could while he was gone. Ana nodded her head, her brow knitted in concern. Daniel’s big brown eyes glittered with excitement at the idea of presents.            He stood up slowly, looking at his wife with wide and hopeful eyes.

Don’t make foolish promises to the children that you can’t keep, she had snapped before walking off into the kitchen to do the dishes. The first words she had said to him in two weeks.            With his shoulders slumped, he grabbed his hat and walked out the door, the screen door banging behind him.            The guilt and horror of her words immediately settled over her like a heavy blanket at the sharp snap of the door. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks seeing her children dance in the plumes of dust his rolling black Model T left behind.            What she meant to say was, I love you. ---            The “Red Bull” Division landed in Belfast on January 26. The men who were seasick were beyond thankful to reach land again, embracing the chilly forty-degree weather with rosy cheeks and bright smiles. Leonardo spent the last week nauseated not by the sea, but by the looming fear of running into German U-boats.            Like the seasick men, his fear and nausea diminished when his boots hit land, realizing they made it across the Atlantic unscathed. They were greeted with cheers of joy from the locals of Northern Ireland, the song Marching Through Georgia blasting from somewhere among them.            Many women smiled and batted their eyelashes at them while they marched through, but Leonardo had only one woman on his mind.            Margaret’s fierceness gave him butterflies, even after twelve years of marriage. She was a woman like no other. Boarding the boat in Brooklyn, he watched the other soldiers around them kiss their wives and children goodbye, eyes brimming with tears. He scanned the crowd for the black hair neatly pinned and a pair of scowling, electric blue eyes. Not seeing them, he boarded the ship alongside Milburn.            “Why’d Margaret and the kids not come along? They’ve missed out on seeing a real city!” Milburn chimed.            Leonardo shrugged. Not many men would be able to understand Margaret’s love like him. He knew her coldness came from a place of hurt. A hurt that can only be reached by the deepest kind of love. In her own way, she had convinced him to win the war and come home so that he would be allowed to feel her tender embrace once more. Is there any love deeper than that? ---            The letters grew more and more scarce, but as long as they came, they could breathe easy again, if only for a few minutes. The last they heard from him, he had been in France.            Cedar Mills hadn’t changed in the three years since Father left, but Ana looked in the mirror and saw her brown curly hair had grown longer, and her stockings and shoes were far outgrown. Her cheekbones were more defined, partly because of rationing and partly because she was a teenager now. Can you believe it, Mother? I’m practically a little woman. Mother didn’t answer, her eyes having been glued to the window. Daniel grew like a weed, stretched thin despite his desire to eat everything he could get his hands on. He asked about Father sometimes, but Ana had to pull him aside and answer his questions as best she could. The last time he had asked Mother about him, it was because he was trying to draw a picture of him for school. I can’t remember what color his eyes are, he had said, looking to Mother for an answer. She snapped out of her thoughts, eyes spilling over with tears. Instead of answering him, she stood up from the kitchen table, walked to her bedroom, and shut the door quietly behind her. Ana could hear her sobbing softly all day and night. Mother had changed the most. Her hair, which was usually neatly coiled and curled against her head, was wilder than Ana’s on a bad day. Ana even counted at least a dozen gray hairs. The creases on her forehead seemed to have spread across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes and the sides of her seemingly permanent frown. Even though she spent so much time in her room curled up in bed, the deep purple bags and bloodshot eyes she had told Ana she was barely sleeping. “Momma! Momma!” Daniel ran into the house, his feet muddy from playing at the edge of Cedar Mill’s Lake. “Daniel, Mother is going to get mad. You know she can’t stand the slam of that door!” Daniel ignored her, his awkward lanky body taking three big steps across the room to her bedroom door where he burst through. “Daddy’s car! He’s coming home!” ---

           At first, Margaret thought it was a dream. A cruel trick of the mind. Daniel’s words took a moment to register, but what made her leap out of bed was the sound of tires on gravel.            The last letter they had received from Leonardo was eight months ago. She wished that letter never came. France had been heavy with German troops, and for the last eight months she tortured herself with the worst possibilities of where he could be. Lying in a trench? Captured and tortured? Suffering of hunger and disease? Frozen to death?            Sure enough, the same Model T car that left her with her guilt over three years ago had rolled up to the house. She gasped…was it really him?            Ana and Daniel raced outside, flailing and cheering around the car. Margaret glided out the door, afraid of the hopes that were rising inside her. She clutched her chest and dropped to her knees seeing the man who stepped out the car. The children stopped their cheering, looking up at the shell of a man and wondering what was off about him. ---            One month after Leonardo’s return, President Truman announced the end of the war. Margaret never thought the war would touch the sleepy farmland of Minnesota, so Truman’s words didn’t make her jump for joy like the rest of the world. Everything they had seen on the television talked of the destruction across Europe and of misplaced families. Mounds of rubble and disease and chaos stretching from Europe to Asia to Africa. Almost like a terrible fairytale. Not one blade of grass in Minnesota felt the crumbling soil of countries thousands of miles away.            Truman’s words didn’t soothe her because to her, a new war was beginning, and the chaos spanned across the tiny Perelli home.            Margaret had rushed across the yard and wrapped her arms around her husband that day in August, weeping and sputtering how sorry she was and how she had missed him. When she looked up, she saw a smile so small on his sallow face she wondered if she imagined it. The smile, if what she thinks she saw was true, never reached his eyes. His stared unblinkingly back at her, without seeing her. She hugged him tighter, willing him to see how sorry she was. Was he not happy to see her? Was she too cruel to him three years ago, that it shattered his heart beyond repair?            She never stopped trying to say how sorry she was, but sometimes she thought he didn’t hear her. He barely ate the favorite meals she cooked for him. When she turned on the television and sat next to him on the couch, he’d get up to leave and sit on the porch. He yelled out every night and flailed to the point where she had to sleep on the floor in the children’s room so she wouldn’t get hit in one of his nightmare fits.            The burden of guilt buried itself deep into her heart. If only she could have been a good wife to this good man…. How could she ever forgive herself?            No matter how many times she said I love you now , she missed it the one time it mattered most. ---            Ana noticed a similar gaze in Father’s eyes that she had witnessed in Mother’s while he was away. Father stared at the walls without blinking, and Ana would watch him, knowing he couldn’t see her. One time, she even stood directly in front of him, lining her eyes up with his and he still was unfazed.            At thirteen years old, she had heard stories in the schoolyard from other classmates whose brothers or fathers or uncles had come home. Words like shellshock and trauma and war neurosis had her wondering what he had seen.            “The guy next to my brother had his arms blown off,” said Davie Brody, the boy next to her in class.            “My uncle has to sleep with a radio on beside him every night. He can’t even sleep on the bed, he has to sleep on the floor,” answered Louise Beckinsale.            “My father left his soul in France, I think,” Ana whispered to her, “His body is here in Minnesota, but not him.” Louise shook her head with pity, her blonde curls jostling. “He must have seen something awful like Davie’s brother did.”            Ana was hoping with his return, she would get Mother back too. She tried to be thankful that she wasn’t an orphan in Europe somewhere, starving to death. Or that she didn’t have to endure a painful death in a concentration camp. At the least, she tried to be grateful that her father even came back when so many didn’t.            But every day Ana came home and saw Father on the porch staring out at the old flour mill or Mother pacing in the living room, gnawing on her nails, she couldn’t help but curse the war, Hitler, Roosevelt, Truman and the Army for taking away her family.            No matter how many times Ana looked them square in the blank, unseeing eyes and said I love you, she couldn’t bring them back. The ripples of war had claimed them.


Every time we’re in the same room, she stares at it as if it were a lone, lame gazelle and she, the lioness, starving, desperate, salivating, ready to attack. To say it’s unnerving is a gross understatement considering I can quite literally see her licking her lips, anticipating the devour. Years of staving off her acquisition attempts, both polite and nefarious, left me exhausted in her company. Oh, Auntie will you ever concede?

Ten years of playing this game and still she persisted, always claiming to be the rightful heir to the, wait; what did she call it; the amulet? Yes, that was the exact word, amulet. Her mother, my grandmother referred to it as her talisman; the third owner of the pendant; a burnished gold locket which held not a photo but a single amethyst crystal, aubergine in color and perfectly fitted in the frame. It hung from a matching chain, although not its original; that was lost years ago, before Grams gifted the talisman to me. I always suspected the original chain’s vulnerability occurred from a jolt of magical juice likely wielded by her own daughter.

 I remember the day as if it were yesterday, my twelfth birthday, the day I became official. There was a party, of course, complete with friends, balloons, presents and a cake with buttercream roses, pink and lavender. We played games and talked about clothes and boys, shared lip gloss, much to my mother's disgust, but we did it anyway. My friends graced me with cute t-shirts, teen idol posters, glitter nail polish and of course, more lip gloss. We watched scary movies and consumed more popcorn and nacho chips than an entire stadium filled with adrenaline fueled football fans. The day couldn’t have been more perfect; until it was.

“What did you wish for?” My Auntie hissed in my ear, leaning over my shoulder as I blew out the candles on my cake. She was my favorite person, only eight years my senior, it was more like having a big sister than an aunt. She was beautiful and cool, with her own unique sense of style, somewhere between runway model and gypsy. I wanted to be her, or at least just like her; confident, aloof and magnetic. She promised to teach me how to apply mascara, so it didn’t appear I was wearing any, as I did not yet have permission for such grown-up vices. I remember thinking, what magic that would be, to deceive without ill-intent. I never answered her question; for if you reveal a birthday wish, it wouldn’t come true, and I could not take that risk.

Minutes before midnight, still technically my birthday, Grams came into the living room and sat near me on the couch. She tugged at the corner of my blanket and covered her own lap, snuggling in closer. Oh, how I loved her, from the stories of our ancestors to the subtle life lessons she bestowed at the exact time I needed them; she was the ultimate teacher, the absolute role model, fascinating and enchanting. Grams reached into the pocket of her faded yellow chenille housecoat and presented me with a tiny purple leather box with a silver clasp. “Happy Birthday Alora.” It was mine, the family talisman, amulet, the Dresden draiocht. “I am entrusting our family power to you, Alora. I implore you to never, under any circumstance give this to either of my daughters, especially your Aunt Amelia.” Grams opened the chain, draping it around my neck and refastening the clasp. “She will come for it, promise me you will not relinquish the talisman, no matter how persuasive she becomes. Power this intense can be detrimental in the wrong hands, and Alora, make no mistake, her hands are not worthy, nor deserving.” I promised and never went back on my word, protecting the family magic, the Dresden draiocht, with my life.

Consumed with jealousy, she came for it every year on my birthday, eyeing it suspended from my neck, plotting her heist, only to have her efforts to separate the crystal from me, the bearer, be thwarted time and time again. Her eyes, wild, almost feral as she concocted spells to sway my convictions. Chanting, lighting, burning, writing, and rhyming her way into my thoughts, my inner sanctum, my magical core, but the talisman denied her, each and every time, driving her a little more into madness with every futile pursuit. She cursed me, placing priority for power over the love and loyalty of family. “Mianach”  she sneered with contempt.

My twenty second birthday bore little resemblance to my twelfth. There were no balloons, no popcorn, and no lip gloss, just a few friends and my loving family. My mother hesitated to invite her sister, but I insisted. She meant me no harm, however vengeful and vexed, it was not personal, it simply couldn’t be. I held no antipathy, only love and admittedly a touch of pity. I entertained the notion of surrendering the Dresden draiocht to her, alleviating her agony, and giving her the power she craved, once and for all. The promise I made to Grams plagued my thoughts; I was never to resign to Amelia’s iniquitous enterprise. I swore I would forever protect our power until a time when I can undoubtedly identify the next guardian.

Ten years; I watched as inflamed jealousy gave way to absurdity. I mourned my favorite person, as she could no longer sustain under the pressure, the sheer agony of want. I knew what I would wish for this year as I ritually extinguished the birthday candles set upon my cake. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner? With great anticipation, I welcomed my Auntie into my home, and for the first time in ten years, I did not dread her.

Immediately, her wild eyes fixated on my chest, reassuring herself that the draiocht was real and within her grasp. She smiled wickedly, awkwardly shoving a gift-wrapped box into my hands. “Just for you.” she sang eerily as she pushed past me on her way into the kitchen. Instinctively, I knew what the gift box contained, and I had to admire her continual efforts. However, the fairly expensive and very sparkly replacement bauble inside would not suffice; not enough for me to relinquish my pendant, her amulet, Gram’s talisman, our power.

She sat at the table as she did every year, waiting for what; I was never certain. That look, that hunger in her stare, and desperation in her voice rendered my Aunt Amelia nearly unrecognizable. Intentionally, I sat directly across from her, allowing for a perfect view, my pendant in her direct line of sight, taunting her, encouraging her to reach out. Her hands twitched as they rested on the table in front of her. Her lips and eyelids ticked involuntarily as she subconsciously hummed and rocked slightly from side to side in her seat. “Mianach” , she whispered to herself as she hummed, as if the Celtic word for “mine" was the only lyric to her witless ditty.

“What will you wish for?” she hissed between her clenched teeth, never taking her eyes off of the pendant. My cake set before me and the candles all alight, I smiled genuinely at her and blew softly, effectively eradicating each of the twenty-two tiny flames. Reaching up, I clutched the pendant in my right hand, hoping to draw from its power; trusting the ancient magic of the Dresden family to quell her obsession, calm her mind and restore her sanity. A radiant heat emanated from within, penetrating my hand, warming it and setting it aglow. She gasped, “brigrad.”

They spoke to me from beyond our concept of time, not in the present, but from the past and future simultaneously. The chant was a lullaby, one I had heard before, one my Gram would sing when I was too young to remember, yet I could. I listened to their melodious message from beyond as I watched her squirm, reach out, beg for its power, bargain with her life for just a taste. Laugh and cry, as if her hysterics would waver my position. I stood, faced her and silently called our ancestral power into service, relying on my connection with the draiocht for assistance.

“From this day until the end of days, I ask that Amelia be rid of her haze. Free her from the allure of power, begin her healing upon the strike of the witching hour. Take from her ill will and obsession and replace it with a natural progression; from dark to light, from blind to sight, dear spirits of Dresden, help me set her right.

The draiocht is meant to be revered, to be respected, not fought over or feared. Restore the bond once we shared, before the allure compelled Amelia impaired.

Sever the hold, dissolve the desires, by granting my wish as I extinguished the fires. Our familial power comes from our hearts and our heritance, true magic leaves no space for greed and arrogance.

Amelia, my aunt, my blood, my connection, I implore you to allow my assistance and protection. Come back to us as you once were, free of obsession from your saboteur.” Slowly, the light returned to her eyes, still she stared. I could not speak, nor take a breath, fearing my magic had failed. Finally, she spoke. “My weakness is exactly the reason she did not bestow the privilege of the draiocht upon me. You, dear niece, are the rightful guardian, and I pray my obsession has not done such permanent corruption to our relationship, that we cannot overcome.”

I assured her it had not, but I could not deny her fixated eyes and the not so subtle twitch of her hands as I cautiously embraced her for the first time in ten years.


*********************************************** Hey all, this has been a crazy week and I couldn't write until Friday, so this was a quick one. There isn't a lot of action, it is just a simple idea, but my goal with these prompts is to hit the deadline, much like the real world. :) Thank you to the Reedsy community for all the support we all get here every week! *********************************************** The thing about flowers is, they are blissful exuberance, even if it is only for a moment. They remind you to enjoy the small things because life is a fragile thread. My grandmother was the green thumb of our family. She filled her gardens with lilies, orchids, roses and so much more. Every summer it was a beautiful array of chaos. As a child, I remember thinking, everything is out of order. It’s like she just threw the seeds and let nature decide. If I planted a garden, I thought, I would organize it into seasons, color, and set boundaries accordingly.

I guess I still approach everything that way. After years of study and research in Botany, they granted me my Ph.D. I suppose it came naturally to me. I still can’t remember to water my own plants, but the science of life just fascinates me. It had been 20 years since I spent summers with my grandmother; I was too busy to keep in touch. My job was demanding. My team was working to solve hunger in the most affected areas. We needed hearty plants that could grow in unique environments.

Then the news came in a message; my grandmother had passed at home, on a Wednesday. It seemed too black and white for a person whose life brought so much vibrant color. The emotions hit me harder than I expected. “I need a couple days to take care of some family matters,” I announced to my team. “But Abbie, we are about to conduct field tests.” a technician named William says, wringing his hands, looking exhausted, like we all do. “This is our ony chance to get this right, our raw materials have run out." “I know Will, I’ll take tomorrow morning, and be back in the afternoon. I promise” I reply. That seems to ease the tension. -------------------------------------- I wake to the usual breakfast, oatmeal, or something close to that. We are substituting a lot these days. An hour passes. Why am I dragging my feet? I just need to get in the car and get this done. I doubt Gram had anything of actual value, but the authorities will only guarantee security for several more days, then her home will be fair game for looters. I slide into my car and stare at the words on the screen ‘Where would you like to go?’ it flashes. “Another planet,” I mumble. “Auto-drive?” I say, “Take me to 386 Mulberry Rd., in Easton.” I fasten my seatbelt, darken the windows and close my eyes as the car begins its descent out of the parking garage. “Call mom,” I say. My connection barely rings before she appears on the screen. “Abbie, thank God you are ok, I’ve been trying to call you. Where have you been?”

“Mom, I’ve been working night and day, we have been taking shifts, I barely have time to eat and sleep these days. Don’t worry, I'm going to Grandma’s now. I’ll get anything that has value to us.” “Are you sure that is a good idea, honey?” she responds, “with the rampant drought people are getting crazy, they are telling us to stay in our homes” “I’ll be quick, the escalation hasn’t reached here yet,” I reply. The conversation continues about her friend’s son or something; I tune it out until Auto-drive announces I am approaching the destination. “Ok, mom I need to go. I'm here.” I say. “Be safe,” she says as I end the call. -------------------------------------- I remove the window darkening and the sunlight floods the compartment, I can feel the heat even inside the car, it’s bad today. Stepping outside, looking over my Grandmother's home, it is a stark contrast to my memories. The front yard used to be overflowing with life, it is now a snarl of plant stocks, dried and bent. It reminds me of a makeshift graveyard from some old movie. The dust blows and swirls in the yard. Nature definitely gave up the ghost here. The front door passcode is still the same after all these years. Entering the house, everything is dark; it was never dark when I was a child. She loved the sunlight, but she drew the shades and curtains to keep the heat out. The lovely smell of lavender is familiar, her essence still lingers in the air. I thumb through papers, look over a few pictures, and smile at photos of me in pigtails. That seems like a hundred lifetimes ago. “I better get this done,” I mutter. I look through closets and in her bedroom; taking handwritten letters and notes. She had drawn so many of her flowers; the details are stunning. I didn’t even know she was an artist; I was just too self-absorbed as a kid to care. Finally, I have a collection of belongings and mementos, now I just need a box. The basement, maybe? I try the handle, but it is locked. That’s odd. Grabbing a key I found in her nightstand, I slide it into the lock and turn, and the bolt releases. The door opens hard; it had been shut for a while. Stepping down the stairs, the cool air is welcoming. I search in the dark for a light switch, finding it, hoping the power is on, then a single bulb illuminates the basement. The basement is a series of stacked boxes with labels on each one. She meticulously organized this area, for a woman who seemed to have no rhyme or reason to how she planted things this is quite coordinated. I look in each box; and find they are full of vacuum-sealed plants and seeds, categorized and labeled.

I step back in awe, I just uncovered the holy grail. There are thousands of specimens here, roots and stems, vegetables, fruits and flowers of many kinds, things I haven’t seen in 10 years, preserved in all their airtight glory. I literally hop up and down with excitement. The genetic material alone, stored away in this basement, is more than we have found in years. “I love you, Grammy,” I whisper, “You didn’t just randomly throw the seeds in your garden, you really had a method to everything you did." "You and I are not so different, and you may have just saved us all.”


Today was biggest day of my life. I should have been excited, but I wasn't.. I was dreading what was to come. But today I learned a lesson: Never let anyone live your life for you. Let me tell you what happened: My grandfather, Old Squirrel Johnny, told me that dancing was the cure for sadness--but dancing was in his blood. He was the lead dancer of the Flying Squirrels, twisting and hopping and standing on his front legs. He didn't care about anything else except for his dancing--and me, of course. Although now I'm not so sure about that. Grandpa loved me, there was no question about it. But he didn't care about my dreams and hopes. He didn't care that all I wanted to do was join the nut-farm, harvesting hazelnuts and acorns for the winter stash. Instead he wanted me to become a dancer. Grandpa trained me, nine hours a day and two hours a night. My free time was either used for sleeping, cleaning or eating. I wasn't good enough to be a lead dancer, like Grandpa wanted me to, and so he put me as a backup dancer inside his dancing group. He let me in just the day before he got eaten up by a panther. And so I was stuck. The Flying Squirrels wasn't very popular--true, we danced at inns and hotels, cafes and BBQ parties. But it wasn't until a whole band of hummingbirds wanted us to perform at their giant annual Christmas party that we got our big break. And that day is today. Hooray... The squirrels and I danced away into the night, practicing harder than we ever had before. The hummingbirds that lived in the West side of the meadow were very large in number, and their party was a huge honor to attend, let alone perform. And me? All I wanted to do was have some time to relax. I just wanted to take a break from all this dancing, not go on tour to some big fancy hummingbird field. Our new lead dancer, which had been replaced after Grandpa died, said that we would stay in Hummingbird Meadows for a few weeks after the party, just to see if they had any more gigs for us. My fellow dancers were counting on me. I had to be there for the performance, no matter how much I needed some time to relax. If I didn't show up, our whole routine could be ruined. "Hup! Get in a single V formation! Circle, circle, circle!" We were practicing right before the party, and our choreographer was on his wit's end. He shouted random instructions and chattered his teeth angrily when we didn't get something right. "Rowan! Get. In. FORMATION!!!" He shouted at me. I bowed my head and tried to keep up with the line, but my mind was on other things. "IS THIS WHAT YOU CALL GETTING IN FORMATION?" The choreographer stamped his foot. Startled and angry, I scampered away from the little clearing in which we were practicing. Yes, I was running away from my big break. But if I didn't get out of there and calm myself down... I could hear the hummingbird party in the distance. Crickets in groups sung as loud as they could, and various birds squawked excitedly. As I ran away, deeper into the wood, the sound faded. I climbed the first tree I saw easily, hoping to find a cozy branch to settle on and watch the party. Surely the group wouldn't miss me. I was only a mere backup dancer. Who cared about those? "Why, hello," I heard a deep, comforting grandmotherly voice come from inside the tree. I jumped slightly but didn't lose my seat. Turning around, I saw that there was a hollow in the tree I had climbed on. And inside was an old hummingbird. "Won't you come in?" The bird asked. "It is quite lonely in here. As long as you don't make a racket, that is." I slowly walked inside the hollow. It was large and circular, with a comfortable carpet of dried leaves on the ground. The hummingbird nestled in a corner, smiling. "What is this place?" I asked her. The hummingbird smiled. "This is The Hummingbird's Hollow. I made it myself. Isn't it cozy?" "But..." I turned my head in the direction of where the other hummingbirds were having their party. "Shouldn't you be at the celebrations?" "Shouldn't you ?" The hummingbird pointed out. "I daresay we're both not made for loud Christmas traditions, are we?" "No, ma'am," I said politely. "Why aren't you at the party, anyway?" The bird asked. "Come sit down and explain all about it, my dear." I sat down beside the bird. Her feathers were soft and she felt like the mother I had lost when I was so young, due to a hunter that stalked us through the forest. "Well," I began, "I've just spent my whole life doing so much work. I never have any free time, you know? I just want a moment of special time, just for myself. Nobody ever lets me do what I want. I didn't even get to pick my career!" The hummingbird looked at me with kind eyes. "My dear," she said softly. "You can't let other people choose your life for you. You do what you want, you got it? Don't let anyone stand in your way." "Right," I said. "I should have a choice. I will have a choice." "You can make a choice right now," the hummingbird said, laughing softly. "You can sit here with me for Christmas Eve and enjoy a hot cup of acorn tea, or you can go dance." I didn't question how she knew I was supposed to dance. I just had a feeling that it was best left alone. "That tea sounds good," I said with a smile. The hummingbird laughed. "Put the kettle on, then," she said merrily. "And I'll tell you a story."


Jason plopped down on the couch. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. He flicked through the channels and found Thursday night football. He grabbed his bowl of freshly-popped buttery popcorn, set down the remote and began tossing some popcorn into his mouth. "Jason!" His mom called. "Yeah?" Jason called back with a mouth full of popcorn. His mom walked into the room and looked at the TV, then at Jason. "Have you studied for the test tomorrow?" She said. "You mean on Friday?" Jason said back. "Yeah. That's tomorrow." Jason sat up. His mom wouldn't let him go to summer camp if he didn't get an A on the test, because of his recent grades. Jason choked on his popcorn for a moment, then turned off the TV, set down the bowl and dashed upstairs. His mom sighed and shook her head. "Oh, that boy." Jason ran into his room, slammed the door and ran for his rolling chair, practically jumping in it, and rolling a few inches. He grabbed his desk and pulled himself back in front of his books. He intently looked at them for a few seconds, then sighed and lowered his eyelids. He turned the first page of his History book. He let out a loud moan and leaned back in his chair. Even trying to study nearly drained all his energy. He saw his phone laying on his desk. He contemplated checking to see if any of his friends had texted him. Eventually, he picked up his phone and looked at the screen. Looks like one of his friends had texted him. He unlocked his phone to see what Tod wanted to say. "Come 2 my place. Look what I got." There was a picture of a Ouija board. Jason's youth pastor had once told his youth group about how dangerous those things could be. But it's not like Jason had plans to study... Jason threw on a faded gray hoodie and put his phone in his jeans pocket. He also grabbed his backpack and shoved his books in it, so he had an excuse to leave the house. Jason ran downstairs and quickly put on his sneakers and opened the front door. "Where are you going?" Jason's mother called. "Tod's place... to study. Bye!" Jason shut the door. His mother sighed. Where was Tony now when she needed him most? Jason put on his helmet and got on his bike. He rode down the empty, cold, freshly rained-on street. Luckily, Tod's was only a block or so away, so Jason wouldn't have to stay in the cold weather for too long. When Jason arrived, he got off his bike and parked it on the edge of the driveway. He knocked at the door. Tod greeted him with a smile. "Hey dude! Come inside!" Tod stepped back so Jason could enter. When Jason stepped in, he unbuckled his helmet and set it on the coat-rack by the door, set down his backpack and took off his shoes. At least his socks hadn't gotten wet during the ride like his muddy shoes. Tod led him over to the carpeted area, where a Ouija board sat on the ground. Jason suddenly had an uneasy feeling when he looked at the board, like there was some mysterious presence around it. He reluctantly walked towards the board, and sat down with Tod. Jason looked at the thing. He couldn't take his eyes off it. It was out of place, like it was calling to him... "Hey, you in there? You get possessed?" Tom slugged Jason. "Huh?" Jason said. "Well? You wanna try it or not?" "U-um, sure." Jason said. He actually felt uncomfortable with it, but he wasn't gonna go back and study. Tod and Jason put their fingers on the Planchette. "Let's ask them what THEY want." Tod said. "Ever wonder what happens THEN?" "I don't think it's such a good idea..." Jason said. "C'mon, it's a board game! What's the worst that could happen?!" Jason reluctantly shook his head. Then Tod asked, "Spirits, What do you want?" Then the Planchette started to move It moved across the board. The letters whooshed so fast it was hard to keep track of. B-O-D-Y. "Huh?" Tod said. "Body? I think they're bored of being dead or something" Jason suddenly felt cold. Really cold. slammed the board shut and shoved it back in the box, and got up. "Hey! Where you going?" Tod asked Jason gathered his belongings and headed out the door. "I don't feel good. Bye." Jason biked home quickly in a nervous fit. He felt a buzz in his pocket. Then another. Then another. Then another. When he finally arrived home, he pulled out his phone. As he suspected, the four texts were from Tod. "What just happened?" "U good?" "Do we need to call an Exorcist? lol" "Dude. R E S P O N D!" Jason didn't like how Tod spelled "Respond." It reminded him of how the Ouija board spelled out the word Body. one letter at a time. Jason came inside and set down his belongings. He took off his hoodie and threw it on the couch. Then he ran upstairs, into the bathroom and locked the door. He washed his face quickly, dried it, leaned on the sink and looked in the mirror. There was a grown, homeless-looking disheveled man. The man said, "BODY. Give me a BODY!" Jason ran towards the bathroom door and jiggled the handle. Right. He unlocked the door and ran into his room, turning off the light. It was only 8:30, but Jason figured he just needed some sleep. He tossed and turned, and when he finally went to sleep, it wasn't pleasant. The night was filled with nightmares of mirrors, ghosts, voices in his head telling him to do bad things, and worst of all; Regret. Jason woke up to his blaring alarm. He reached for the snooze button, but when he couldn't find it, he just unplugged it and threw it across the room. "Ugh." Jason sighed. He had gotten plenty of extra sleep, but he felt like he stayed up all night running a marathon. Jason got out of bed. He felt lightheaded and sluggish. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and headed to the bathroom. He looked down at his feet as he passed the mirror, in order not to look at his reflection. When he got to the shower door, he undressed and got in and turned on the refreshing hot water. it felt nice, especially after the previous night. Right as he was finishing up his business, he noticed what looked like a tall, slender figure near the mirror in the steam. Jason, with his eyes fixed on the figure, began to reach towards the shower handle, fumbling to turn it off. When his hand finally grasped the handle, the figure began to walk forward. Jason quickly turned it off, but the figure was still there. Desperate, Jason leaped out of the shower and pushed the button on the wall for the vents. The vent above started humming and absorbing the steam. The figure stopped moving for Jason. Once the steam was clear, Jason got dressed. Then it hit him. He'd somehow been sleeping in JEANS the previous night. "Why would I do that?" Jason thought. No wonder he had trouble falling asleep. Then he thought back to Tod's texts. "Do we need to call an Exorcist? lol" Maybe he did. Then Jason quickly left the bathroom before the mirror could un-fog. Jason pedaled hard on his bike towards the church in the pounding rain. What was he thinking? he knew he shouldn't have played with that STUPID Ouija board. Now he was... cursed? Possessed? The spirit said it wanted a body. But didn't TOD ask the question? Why was the spirit coming after HIM? Just as Jason figured out the answer, he was pulled out of his thoughts by a blaring car horn. Jason blinked and realized he'd drifted off the bike lane and into the left car lane somehow. Jason quickly turned right back across the right car lane and then into the bike lane. He let out a sigh of relief. Now the ghost was trying to kill him! When Jason disrespected the ghost by not properly saying goodbye to the Ouija board, the Poltergeist switched targets. and when Jason had just called the board, "Stupid," the ghost got even MORE mad and made Jason go into the left lane without realizing it. Now Jason arrived at the church. He didn't care about the test anymore, he didn't care about summer camp anymore, he just wanted an Exorcist. When Jason walked up to the doors and jiggled the handles. The door was locked. Right. This church only operated on Sundays. As Jason stepped back from the door, he lost all hope and fell to his knees. Just then he heard a sinister voice say; "SLEEP." The voice echoed deep in Jason's mind, as everything began to fade away. "Jason. Hey. Jason. Wake up!" Jason woke up. Tod was shaking his shoulder. "What are you doing here? Me, Jess and Tony have been searching everywhere for you! So? What happened?" Jason tried to speak. He wanted to say, "I came here because of what happened with the Ouija board. I need an Exorcist! Where's the priest?" But instead, Jason heard his own voice say, "I dunno. All I remember is slipping here and hitting my head." Then Jason started going down. He looked up. He saw Tod helping his body up. "No." Jason said. "NO!" But no one could hear him. Not now. His body looked down at him. "Bye." Jason heard a mix of his own voice and the stranger in the mirror's say. Then his body and Tod walked away. "Everyone will be so relieved, man!" Jason heard his best friend say. So the next time YOU want to play with a Ouija board, remember this; Jason wants a body too.