By Shyamali Perera

Years ago, in a secluded clearing deep within the woods, a man and a woman stumbled upon an abandoned baby lying in the tall grass. Her tiny body was wrapped in a tattered cloth, and nearby, hidden among the bushes, lay a pair of giant, fragile, and feathered wings, as if they had once belonged to something otherworldly. The clearing, bathed in an eerie stillness, seemed untouched by time; the wings were an unsettling reminder of the mystery surrounding the child. 

But the man and the woman would soon raise her like their own. 

The Secret 

The soft clatter of dishes echoed through the kitchen, and the wall clock ticked monotonously. Eliza wiped her hands on a dish towel, glancing nervously toward Scott, who stood by the window, gazing out into the shadowy woods beyond their backyard. 

“We can’t keep up this pretext forever,” Eliza said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers twisted the towel, betraying the tension she tried to suppress. “She’s asking questions, Scott.” 

Scott didn’t move, his back rigid, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. His silence weighed heavier than the words hanging in the air between them. “You don’t think I know that?” he muttered, finally breaking the silence, though his eyes never left the view outside. “But what choice do we have?” 

Eliza bit her lip, her heart pounding. “We could tell her… at least part of the truth. She deserves that, doesn’t she?” 

Scott turned to face her, his expression stern. “Tell her what, exactly? That everything she knows isn’t quite what it seems? That we’ve kept this secret from her all these years. What good would that do, Eliza? It would only make things worse.” 

Eliza lowered her eyes, feeling the familiar ache in her chest. “I’m scared, Scott. She’s changing. She’s not the same little girl she used to be. She’s… different. She’s looking through books and asking questions. It’s only a matter of time before she figures out—” 

The shadowy figure stood tall, cloaked in a flowing, dark robe that seemed to blend with the night. His face was partially obscured, but faint glimmers of light revealed sharp features and eyes that glowed faintly with an otherworldly intensity. His movements were fluid, almost unnaturally graceful, as if he barely touched the ground. A faint aura surrounded him, casting a subtle golden shimmer that hinted at his celestial origin. Despite the shadows, a quiet power in his presence commanded attention without a single word. 

Was Eliza scared of SaraKnyal discovering her identity, or was she afraid of telling Scott what she saw several times near the edge of the woods? It was the ghostly silhouette of a man staring at the house, a scary sight. She rubbed her eyes each time to ensure she was not dreaming; she was not. But then, as quickly as he appeared, the man was gone.  

Eliza shivered thinking about him… 

Scott ran a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “We knew this day would come eventually,” he said, his voice low. Eliza’s throat tightened. She couldn’t deny that a part of her had always dreaded this moment when their carefully constructed life would start to unravel.  

Scott’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. “Then we’ll have to be ready when she does. But for now, we say nothing. We protect her the only way we know how.” 

Then they heard the kitchen door close and footsteps fading up the stairs. 

The Argument 

The evening sun cast long, golden shadows through the kitchen window, bathing the room in an unsettling glow. The air was thick with the smell of simmering stew. But SaraKynal couldn’t bear to taste any stew when her mom, Eliza, poured some into her bowl. She slammed her fork onto the table, the clatter echoing in the quiet kitchen. Eliza looked up nervously at SaraKynal, almost expecting to hear the dreaded question coming out of her mouth. 

“Why won’t you just tell me the truth, Mom?” SaraKynal’s voice quivered, not from fear but from the frustration building in her mind for years.  

She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the hardwood floor. “You know I’m not like 

Rushdie or Mona. I feel it.” 

Yes, she could feel someone watching her from the dark.  

Then she remembered… Her dream! 

SaraKynal was in deep sleep when a cold hand touched her. She opened her eyes and saw a tall, shadowy figure standing by her. His face was hazy. So, she could not see it!  

“SaraKynal, open your eyes,” a voice whispered near her. “I have come to take you home.”   

She screamed as loud as she could, but no sound came out! Was it a dream, or was there really a man standing near her bed?  

Still standing by the stove, Eliza sighed deeply, her hands gripping the counter’s edge as if to steady herself. For the first time, Eliza turned, her face pale, her eyes avoiding the mark. “SaraKynal, please—” 

“No, you’ve avoided talking about it my whole life! My hair—it’s never grown, Mom!” SaraKynal lifted her curls, revealing the same length they had been since she was a child and pointing to her elongated ears peeking out of them.  

“And this—” she stretched out her left palm, displaying the delicate birthmark of angel wings. 

“What is this? Why am I like this?” 

“Why do I have these—powers?” Her hand trembled as she gestured, and a chair across the room shifted, scraping the floor slightly as if nudged by an invisible force. 

Eliza’s eyes widened, but she quickly composed herself. “You have to stop doing that,” she whispered, almost pleading. “People will notice.” 

“Notice what? That I can move things without touching them? That I’m some kind of freak?” SaraKynal got up, her heart pounding in her chest.  

“I’m not normal, Mom, and you know it.” 

Eliza didn’t respond, but the silence spoke louder than any words ever could. Outside, a sudden gust of wind rattled the windows as if the world was responding to the storm that had just broken inside. SaraKynal pushed back her chair and ran out of the kitchen before Eliza could turn around to stop her. 

The Truth 

The woods were almost eerily quiet. SaraKnyal stood at the edge of the trees, staring into the dense underbrush, her heart racing. The wind whispered through the leaves, and for a moment, she could almost hear it calling her name. The feeling was familiar—this urge to go toward the woods—but it felt stronger and urgent tonight. Her hands tightened into fists, and she glanced at the sky. The stars twinkled, distant and cold, as if watching her. 

“I know there’s something here,” she whispered, her voice barely heard over the wind.  

The same dream had haunted her for weeks: the woods, the shadows, and something hidden just out of reach. She knew she had to come here before. Her mind raced with questions she’d never dared ask her parents—questions that had plagued her since she was old enough to realize how different she was. Her fingers absentmindedly touched the birthmark on her palm—the faint outline of wings, a mark she’d spent years hiding. No one knew what it meant. Not even Gia, her closest friend, could help her find answers. She’d searched books, folklore, anything that might explain why she could move objects with just a glance or why her hair never grew, never changed. 

“Why am I like this?” SaraKynal muttered, her voice tight with frustration. 

Though there was no wind, the trees around her rustled as if in response. Her heart skipped a beat, and she froze, eyes scanning the shadows. 

Suddenly, a voice cut through the silence. It was soft, almost melodic, but unsettling. “You’re looking for something, aren’t you?” 

Sara spun around, her pulse quickening. “Who’s there?” 

A shadow emerged from the darkness, but it wasn’t someone she recognized. It was a man, his face obscured by the darkness, but his presence felt heavy, as though he knew more than he was letting on. 

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” the man said, stepping closer. “The pull to these woods. It’s no accident.” 

Sara took a step back, her body tensing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

The man tilted his head, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “You know what I’m talking about. You’re not like them, SaraKynal. You never were.” 

“How do you know my name?” Her voice wavered. A cold dread settled in her stomach, but at the same time, she couldn’t look away. 

“I know many things,” he said softly. “I know that you’ve been searching. I know you’ve wondered why you never fit in.” 

SaraKynal clenched her jaw. “I don’t know who you are, but you must leave.” 

The man smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You were found here. Left as a baby, abandoned.” 

Sara’s breath caught in her throat. “That’s none of your business.” 

He stepped closer, his voice almost a whisper now. “But it is. You need to know.” 

Every instinct told her to run, to leave this strange man behind, and never return to the woods. But something rooted her to the spot. She glanced down at her palm; at the birthmark she had always hidden. “I… I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. 

“You’re not human, SaraKynal,” the man said, his voice cutting through the quiet night like a blade.  SaraKynal’s mind raced. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. She took a shaky breath and shook her head. “No… that’s impossible.” 

The man’s eyes softened, almost pitying. “You were never meant for this human world.” 

Sara’s legs trembled as she took a step back. Her vision blurred, and for a moment, everything felt too sharp, too bright. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but all that came out was a whisper. 

“What am I?”

The man’s voice lingered, “You’re a fallen angel, SaraKynal. And you’ve been lost for far too long.” 

The words hit her like a gust of wind, knocking the air from her lungs. The ground beneath her seemed to shift as if the world she knew had just cracked open. She had spent years searching for answers, but now that they were right before her, they felt too much to bear. 

“I… I don’t believe you,” she stammered, her hands trembling. 

“You will,” the man said, his eyes locked on hers. “Soon, you’ll remember everything. And when you do, you will have to make a choice. A choice to be human or return to heaven and be an angel.” 

Sara’s heart raced as the man’s figure faded into the shadows, leaving her alone with nothing but the echo of his words.  

The Decision 

SaraKynal exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. The air around her grew unnaturally still, as if the forest held its breath. “I choose to stay,” she shouted, her voice echoing in the eerie silence.  

Suddenly, a golden light burst from her chest, blazing like the sun and engulfing her entire body. The ground trembled, and a strong wind whipped through the trees, swirling leaves and bending branches as the light lifted her effortlessly into the air. 

She hovered above the trees, her body suspended in the glowing light, caught between the earth and something far beyond. The world below blurred, but she could make out the terrified faces of her parents, Mona, Rushdie, and Gia. They stood frozen, shielding their eyes against the blinding light, staring at her in disbelief. 

The light pulsed, sending a deep, vibrating hum through the air, and for a brief moment, time seemed to pause. Whispers—otherworldly, unintelligible—filled her ears as if ancient voices were speaking directly to her and pulling her toward something unknown. A strange phenomenon! SaraKynal’s heart raced as she felt the pull of both worlds—the human one below and the mysterious realm above. 

Then, with a sharp crack that sounded like the sky splitting open, the light vanished, plunging her into darkness. She fell, plummeting toward the earth, but just before she hit the ground, invisible hands caught her and gently lowered her onto the soft grass. She lay there for a moment, breathless, her body trembling. 

Slowly, SaraKynal lifted her hand. Her birthmark—the angel wings that had always set her apart— left only smooth skin behind. Her ears, once elongated, were now completely normal. She touched them, disbelief and fear swirling inside her. The strange power she had felt all her life, to move objects, to feel the energy of the world around her, was gone. A deep emptiness settled in her chest, yet a sense of relief beneath it. 

She staggered to her feet and ran toward Eliza and Scott, tears streaming down her face. “I love you and will never leave, not even for Heaven,” she cried, her voice breaking. When she reached them, they wrapped her in their arms, holding her tightly as if they feared she might disappear again. 

For the first time, SaraKynal felt entirely human, bound to the earth and the family she had chosen over the mystery of her powers. The whispers and light had vanished, but she found something more tangible in their place: love and belonging.  

SaraKynal had found Heaven on Earth… 

Author Bio

---

By Ashley Lopez

August 19th, 1678:

My name is Catherine Dowser. I have ginger hair and hazel eyes. I am approximately 160 (cm), 15 years old, and I am muse #1. The “Artist,” that is what he told me to call him. When I first arrived here, he told me that I am his #1 muse, I do not know what that means. All I do know is that he is a very skilled painter. His first painting of me was something unique. He dresses me up, dolls up my hair, and adds these strange colors onto my face. He set me up on this stage of what looks like the ocean and just told me to stay still. Everything was quiet, the only thing that was heard was the fire in the room, the strokes of his brush on the canvas, and oh, of course, our breaths. His gaze lingers on me, the way his eyes are attuned to me as his work of art, his eyes see me as something ethereal. He never fails to captivate me, even if it is long hours sitting. Looking at him; at his black, medium-length hair, his long arms that extend too far out, and his hands that are a bit big for the brushes he has, it was a pleasurable time indeed. Once he was finished, he put it on the wall and marveled at it. I saw it too, I looked beautiful. I liked being painted by him. I like it when he calls me his muse because I am his. He continued to do his work. I quite enjoyed seeing him paint. I hope he keeps painting me. 

September 23rd, 1679: 

My name is Susanah Grace. I have black hair and brown eyes. I am approximately 170 (cm), 14 years of age and I am muse #2. I wonder what happened to Muse #1. The “Artist,” yelled at me when I asked him about his number one. His eyes went dark, he grabbed me by the neck. He asked me for forgiveness. I did. I held no malice. I knew he was kind. Once I finished forgiving him, he seemed to calm down. He then proceeded to tell me that I was his #1. He did not say anything more. If I was his number one, how come he had the paintings of another around his home, and there are even signs of someone else being here, even in this notebook? I did not question it though, he liked me. He dolls me up, puts me in different undergarments, and goes to work. His hands whenever they touched me, he thought I could never tell, since the only light in his home was that of a candle, his hands were cracked and rough. In the beginning, it startled me; he was something new but also something old, tired; like the times had caught up with him, but in a way, he was thrilled. I can not describe it. He likes how I look. I gaze attentively at the canvas in front of me, while the background he puts up behind me seems to strengthen my beauty. Once he is close to finishing, he tells me that my eyes are the final things he paints. The mirrors to his soul, he calls them. It is always quiet. Sounds of horses clopping, people speaking, and a hint of rain were a few of the echoes I heard. Whenever he painted, standing first then sitting, the atmosphere outside would tune itself out, almost like the noises knew he was working. Nothing from the background could be heard during this process but the fire, our breaths, and his brush. Whenever he spoke, his voice when he did speak would never come up above a whisper, but it was something I loved. I was the only one he would converse with. Did he converse with the other girl before me like this? If he did, was his voice also a whisper? Once he was done, that was it, I was a spectacle to behold. While I was done, his work was not. I would often see him looking at his canvas. His mind, from what I took notice of, worked in a weird way. He would just gaze upon the blankness in front of him attentively for hours, never once looking away. I loved watching him become attuned to his art. It was a sight to behold. 

June 13th, 1684

My name is Margaret Hutchinson. I have black hair and blue eyes. I am approximately 164 (cm), 13 years of age, and I am muse #7. His number one. The “Artist,” is a kind person, he knows how to make me feel special. His voice always resonated with me, the adjectives he uses when he describes how I look through his eye was something I enjoyed, so much so that the littlest out of placed black hair, he takes notice of. My arms were his special factor of mine. He always made sure my arms were uncovered or decorated with all kinds of frills. He told me once before we started, my arms reminded him of curtains, ones that would just drape over a bed to signal one slumber, but instead, they would drape over his canvas. Some garments he just had lying about, would often smell weathered and foul. He did not seem to question it, and I never wanted to ask; it never bothered me. They were still perfect clothes to wear. Spending time with him was peaceful and quiet, everything seemed to quiet down for him when he was painting. I did my best to appeal to his likeness, his way of decorating me as his muse. His desire to paint me grew with every stroke he placed. I never knew what I was going to become, it was always going to be a mystery. I could be his duchess one day and a ballerina the next, it was always something he would never spoil. He likes to set me up however he pleases, leading my body in any direction, my arms would be the seal, signaling the final stroke being landed. I just simply followed. I had to be compliant; I wanted him to look at me. His eyes needed to look at me. His gaze needed to burn something within me. In addition, and it is only a minor thing, I do know that there were more before me, six to be exact, and that is all. I am number 7, I do not know what that entails. I am his number one. What I do know is that my time here has been splendid. I am his only inspiration. 

October 28th, 1685: 

My name is Constance Thatcher. I have blonde hair and gray eyes. I am approximately 165 (cm), 17 years of age and I am muse #8. But I am his number one. Spending time with the “Artist” can be interesting at times. On some days, it would be mostly about painting me. On others, he would inform me of his leave. Before he departed, I would hear a church bell echoing out into what I assume was the streets. I was not allowed near the door, if I got near it, he would yell. I never did like that. He would disguise himself as he left, wearing some form of beard, head garment, or dress, rather peculiar garments he would wear. He had said that he never wanted to be bothered outside. Inspiration is what he sought out. He would call me his elegant sculpture. That word always fascinated me, he would treat me like an elegant woman even if I was still an improper lady, but he never saw me as such. He would always sit me down, pose me, paint me, and I would be set for him. No blemishes, not one. No faults, zero. My face was the masterpiece he sought out, cheekbones so pronounced, a nose just the perfect size, with lips so plump and cherry red. He needed me to be his pearl-painted sculpture, and I was going to make sure I was that. I wanted to be needed by him, it did not matter who he had before me or after. I was his sculpture, his artwork at this very moment, who knows how long we will have together. Whenever he was done, the paintings he would create of me always turned out magnificent, just like the others. He was quite masterful with a brush. Being a muse was always peaceful, although there were times he got loud. He would become quiet after that, but I always knew he was upset. He would get mad, but never at me. He forgave me, but he still would not speak to me, no matter how hard I tried, mumbling to himself, an octave so low, it pierced through me. I feared those days, never knowing what to do. I am his number one muse. I just needed to be patient, even if we do not speak, we will talk to one another through his art. As I read the other entries, I wondered if the ones before me enjoyed their time here. I know I do. 

July 18th, 1695:

My name is Eleanor Hooper. I have brown hair and greenish-blue eyes. I am approximately 172 (cm), 18 years of age and I am muse #18. The first thing I noticed was the number of paintings The “Artist,” had, of young girls before me. He showed me when I was… I do not remember when… it was a while, I suppose. He had a lot of them, but he told me I was his number one, I believe his words. He says it with sincere eyes and a loving voice. It does not faze me; all it makes me want to do is try harder for him than any other muse he has had. There is something about him that feels wise, he would just sit down, take one look at me, and then his hands would move on his own in unison with his eye, as if he has done this multiple times before, and then I was made into a masterpiece. True beauty is what he calls me. He says my skin is that of porcelain, that nothing will ruin it, not even by his own hands. My hair is the prominent thing in his pieces, with the one glance I get, my hair looks like nothing more than a pile of horse manure, at least that is what I think it reminds me of. He tells me it reminds him of something he has seen before but does not remember when. He tells me it reminds him of something he has seen before but does not remember when. It reminds him of a bundle of brown leaves falling on my face, ones that accentuate it, that is what my hair means to him. I found it quite amusing. His compliments hold so much power to them, grasping at my heartstrings, never wanting to let go. Were the other girls taken by them? It never matters how long he spends painting me, all that matters is the time we share. Not one complaint will come out of mouth, he can paint me however long he pleases to. I will be the best muse for him, the “Artist’s,” number one. The final muse he will ever desire, I hope I can make that wish come true. 

November 29th, 1696: 

My name is Judith Bridges. I have black hair and red eyes. I am approximately 154 (cm), 12 years of age and I am muse #19. From what I gathered from reading the other entries, every girl before me was older than I am, and that will not stop me. I will do whatever it is he has in store for me to win his affection. Unique, that is the word he uses when he speaks to me. I am his unique innocent muse, that is the reason he chose me. His dragon-borne princess, he speaks so highly of me. I want him to see me as the dragon he paints me as. The dragon with black scales and red fiery eyes, he sees me in a way that makes me giggle. He cares for me, is that how much he loved the other girls? There were more, but I am his number one little dragon. Everyone in this book speaks of him with kindness. He is a kind man. He shows me his version of love like a father would his daughter. I entertain him through his art, and he lets me entertain myself, on occasion, I am allowed to explore the space we are in. A space not that big on the inside, a room for him, for me, his space for his paintings and fun colors in the middle, and on occasion when I am left alone, I hear the sound of pittering rain coming from outside, although I can not see it. Even if the ground in my room below me is cold and it smells funny, even if I do get scared without him here with me. He will come back, that I am sure of. I will remain by his side. This is our home; the place he and I spend our time together. His art will truly make me happy, his affections for me will be captured on an empty, unfinished canvas. I will be his dragon muse. Oh, to be loved by him is such a wonderful thing. He calls me his one and only. No matter if he had others before me, I will be the one he can not forget, the one with more paintings than anyone else. The few candlelights we have illuminated his warm gaze. The fireplace will be burning. His breathing is slow and calm like a sleeping father dragon, my father dragon. His hands are rough from the brushes he uses, but he is still going strong. Everything about him is striking, but he cares and looks at me with admiration. 

January 2nd, 1721: 

My name is Hannah Mitchell. I have chestnut-brown hair and amber eyes. I am approximately 173 (cm), 16 years of age, and I am muse #44. As I read the many tales in this book of all those who came before me, I wonder if they had as much fun as I am having here with the “Artist,”. Was this home of his their home as well, and if so, where are they now, and did they feel this fondness towards him as I do? His home is a dimly lit space, with no sunlight pouring in. There is a window but I consider it too small, it can be cold but warm at the same time, it is hard to describe; I could be shivering, but whenever he looks at me with those dark eyes of his, all that coldness I felt before was replaced with this fiery heat. This place has this mysterious ambiance to it; almost like there is an added layer of anxiousness coming from The “Artist,” like he is in a hurry to perfect me as his masterpiece. He always calls me his #1 muse and says I am special, more than I could ever imagine. I am the muse that grows his artistic side, the one who allows him to paint such fantastic creations. He knows I have a baby-like innocence, that also has a mature essence about herself, an added bit of sultriness, he says; when he says that it brings a smile to my face like you can not imagine. He allows me to put on these beautiful dresses. Granted, some are a bit small, and some fit me just right. They were a bit worn out like they were being eaten from the inside by some creature. He does not care what I wear, he just tells me to sit down and look like royalty. He calls me his queen and says that no one can compare to my beauty, and why would anyone compare? I am his Queen, the one with sunset hair and honey-colored eyes; a striking look that combines my voluptuous legs that are adorned with nothing but the finest silk. As someone who has always been with him, I know that as an artist, he grows tired, yet he still calls me his “Queen Muse.” He has this maturity about him, it must just be his height; he is quite tall, towers over me a bit, or can it be the way he carries himself? He has this tiredness about him but, his inspiration for me never wanes, painting me in colors that are fit for his Queen, and I find that just awe-inspiring. He always has ideas for me. It is silly to me just how much that head of his can conjure up, any form of queen I shall be for him. Our time together is one full of mellowness, nothing happens when he paints, and nothing needs to happen. I am content with him just painting me, and he is content with being the only one who can look at me, who gets the chance to see me every day and every night, it boggles my mind just how much I can mean to him. Being together with him is all I can ask for, and it does not matter if He gets angry with me, that anger of his will never bother me, even if he lays his hands on me. He says it is not my fault. He is the frustrated one, but never at me. The fire stays on. His breath shortens with each brush stroke he makes, pulling through until all of his brushes are filled to the brim with color. His eyes will always be glued to me, the artistic muse he is enraptured in, looking intensely only at me. It is something that I could get acclimated to. I hope I can stay here for a long while. I hope we will stay like this for the days to come. 

February 14th, 1747: 

Finally, you discovered me. I hope these findings were worth the wait. I was hoping this would be a much greater escapade. From the looks of these entries, you might think I am somewhat of a psychopath, but I am not. I took care of my muses when they were in my care. They were given a home. A place where their duties or names do not matter. I fed them. I painted them. I loved them. I even made them into my beautiful models. They were my precious dolls. They were my porcelain treasures. I would never get angry with them. My failures were never their fault. They had no reason to fear me. They were in good hands. At least, that is what I told myself. If you found these entries my time as the “Artist,” on this Earth is up. I am no longer able to fulfill my duties, my mind can no longer create my masterpieces, my body feels so heavy, and my hands are so brittle they can no longer hold the brushes I used. All these girls served their purpose. They gave me the inspiration I needed until I was DONE with them. Until they no longer served their purpose for me. I gave these girls everything. Their stories did not matter to me, all that mattered to me was what I could paint them into. All of them were my little Muses. I cherished every one of them. What I know, and what you should know too, is that I LOVED my muses till their very end, till the inspiration I got from them was all dried up. I used them until they were of no use to me. I hope you enjoyed their tales; I know I enjoyed making them happen. 

Sincerely, 

The “Artist” 

Author Bio

---

By Veronika Kremennaya

WARNING: this piece contains scenes that readers may find disturbing!

A sudden bout of snow rendered the cloudy Sunday morning of the town Peuga more than happy to stay at home for the day. Denizens took to their residential comforts, while fishermen who couldn’t quite stand their wives that day took to the icy shell of Lake Peuga, named after the town situated just along its coast. They chuckled among themselves at the locals, thinking them too weak to handle the worst of the Hriebet region’s weather.

One such fisherman tugged on what was his catch of the day, a Kellrin, a rare and fierce spawn to find in these winter months. The adults, often reaching the size of grown men, often took their winter rest in the deepest recesses of the lake. Few saw them, and fewer brought them to shore- yes, there was no doubt in his mind that this was the catch of the winter. His fishing partner dropped his rod for the net and helped pull the beast from its slumber. His enthusiasm got dashed only when the child-sized fish that lay on the boat deck could only be described as having a complete and utter disinterest in basic survival. It did not flail, it did not gasp for breath.

“Maybe it wants to be salted?” the fisherman holding the net joked.

“Is it long dead?” the other asked, alluding to all manner of disease and parasites. Despite the lack of life, there was little chance their hook could cement itself so deeply without a fight, and he could have sworn he felt one. They vowed to take extra care in checking the fish at home before eating, but such a catch couldn’t be left to waste in the half-frozen waters. They settled the oars over either side of the boat but as they set a course back toward the dim lights of Peuga, the massive fish flailed with such ferocity that neither man could prevent its reentry into the icey deep. They reached out in a panic, their only reward being their faces splashed with dirty brown water, murky and sticky like fat, reeking of rotting greenery, a color so unlike how deep blue the waters appear from the surface.

They wordlessly looked toward Peuga. The dock’s fog lights beckoned them home. The two men felt sick to their stomachs. 

A familiar doorbell stirs Talia out of an old dream. Despite living here her whole life, it only just occurred to her just how many years have passed since she’s heard it last. Maybe her guest is late, maybe he’s being punctual, but she doesn’t bother checking. Instead she opens the door to apartment 418 and greets the man clad in full hazmat gear like an old friend. She leads him through the warm living room, seating herself back in the couch she just awoke from and inviting the man to take a seat in the adjacent couch. The identical couches are no doubt at least twice as old as either of them. A wooden table with a slightly concave surface carved by ceramic mug bottoms stands between the two couches. An old television stands in the corner before them. 

The reporter takes his seat and makes idle talk as he pulls out a simple notebook and pen from his canvas bag. The usual things. Her name. He goes by Badram. How she’s doing. How old she is. Formalities, things he can compare with earlier reports to make sure he’s receiving an honest story.

“Have you lived here long, Miss Talia?” The young reporter clicks his pen, looking at the woman sitting to his right. Talia’s relaxed hands bring a hot mug of tea to her lips with no particular hurry as her tired eyes remain fixed on the reporter’s glasses behind his suit’s plastic visor.

“Born in that very bedroom. Or so my parents told me.” she says, pointing to a door.

“Does anyone else live here?”

“I don’t keep company.”

“In the other apartments, maybe?”

“I wouldn’t know. But I’ve yet to see anyone arrive who wasn’t gone by the end of the day. Hooligans, tourists, reporters.”

“Right. So, may I ask what happened here, Miss Talia?” he asks while still recording her previous answers.

“I’m sorry? I couldn’t understand you.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Must be the lack of human contact.

“Please forgive me! I’ll speak louder.”

“You’ll be clearer without that suit covering your face. I’ll make you some tea. Do you have tea back where you came from?” She brings her empty mug to the kitchen.

“Tea isn’t that common in territories north of Bellohn so no. Miss Talia, I’m already liable to lose my job, at best, by meeting you here like this. Getting this suit was trouble enough, I’d rather not dig my grave any deeper…”

She splits the remaining boiled water from her kettle between two mismatched mugs and reenters the living room before continuing, “If you’d like, we can talk on the balcony. It’s nice out. Feel the frigid Peuga sunlight on your skin. You know what the authorities say, the air’s probably fine.”

“Probably? Hah!” He relents, following her to the modest corner balcony, with the left separated from the neighbors via a balcony divider, from which the smooth plaster railing wraps all the way back around to the door. Here stand two chairs draped in woven blankets with a small glass folding table between them. He squeezes past the table and railing to reach the far chair nestled in the corner between the apartment wall and the divider. Taking a seat, he looks out at the lake and surrounding town.

Peuga sunlight must mean the calm before and after every storm, because seeing it paint the blue landscape with soft gold is like nothing a southerner has ever seen. Two of the three other gray housing blocks can be seen from where they sit, pillars of concrete and plaster standing amidst a field of snow stretching for miles over the bumpy hillside like a soft mattress. In the center of town stand the docks, shaded by those far hills. It’s all enough to forget about the chill, if only for a few moments. He drapes the blanket on the chair over himself and removes his hazmat hood and sets it on his lap before graciously accepting the mug she prepared for him. Mug in gloved hands, he looks out at the landscape once more. Yep, still gorgeous. 

Talia sets her own mug down on the table between them. He eyes the unfamiliar drink in his hands: a warm brown tinge complimented by the inviting smell of herbs he doesn’t recognize. The steam rises in rare leisure, untouched by any stray breeze. He downs the drink before he can stop himself.

“Thank you, that was quite nice. And such an unusual aftertaste! You’re also correct, this is all quite beautiful.” he says. He throws a confused glance at his phone and sets it on the glass table.

“It is.” Talia says.

“Is this something you… still enjoy looking at? After everything?”

“Yes. There will never be anything more beautiful.” She glances over the landscape, but her gaze freezes over something at the docks.

“Is it alright if we continue?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Right. So, can you tell me more about what happened here? Am I right to assume you have something new to share, seeing as you called out to us and not the other way around?”

“Of course. Here? Nothing, I merely live here.” A brick wall of a response, sarcasm falling flat from years of not speaking to others. Or maybe the reporter’s a bit dull. Regardless, she hoped for more than a few minutes of small talk and tea-sharing. She sets her mug down, and the reporter picks his pen and paper up.

She recalled the dreary Sunday afternoon back when she was 15 years old, of the snowstorm that blotted out the sun so quickly that the afternoon left many nursing colds. Her younger brothers were two such victims. They ran home after getting caught out along with the rest of their classmates as they ran laps around the four major housing blocks for physical education, ran home before their mama and papa ever got word that school was canceled soon after. Mama sure was furious, but their sniffling, shivering faces compelled her to pull down the family’s thickest comforters from the closet and sit the boys down in front of the television in the living room as mama made tea.

No live television could penetrate the white winds, so tapes had to do. One film turned to two and soon three, and the entire family found themselves hovering around the living room, making tea and bringing more napkins to clean the boogers from each brother’s nose.

As her papa washed dishes and looked over the sink counter at the boys on the couch, his wife watched television with them from a safe distance. Talia worked on homework at the dining room table. In reality, she snuck peeks at the television.

“Oh? Where do you want to go?” papa asked.

“What? We aren’t going anywhere in this weather.” mama said.

“But you just said you wanted to go somewhere!” Talia shut out the rest of the petty argument. No doubt about their earlier dinner plans, which Talia assumed were canceled thanks to the weather and her brothers.

A crash. Quiet, no doubt a part of the film’s background, as one usually finds new things with each rewatch. Another. A wail. A scream. Banging on the walls. The air around them soon erupted in a cacophony of distress that drowned out the television. Furniture screeched against the wooden flooring above, the walls quaked with what felt like the end of the world. Surely, they all believed, every wall would come down around them.

When Talia looked to her papa, he was no longer standing over the sink and was unresponsive every time mama called his name. His legs convulsed on the ground littered with broken dishes. Talia couldn’t hear him. Did he even make a sound?

“Talia! My little sheep, can you hear me? Take your brothers to your room!” Shaking hands held Talia’s face. Mama’s wavering cries broke her out of her thousand yard trance, but failed to motivate the strength to fight through this paralysis. Talia’s inaction led her mama to drag her up by her shirt and shove her away from the kitchen, at which point she grabbed her crying brothers by the hand, desperately trying to ignore the awful retching behind her. Her brothers cried out for mama and papa.

When Talia looked over her shoulder, her mama’s hand gripped her throat while the other frantically reached and knocked over every knick-knack they owned as she tried the apartment’s front door but seemed unable to open it. A trail of coffee-brown liquid poured without end from her mouth and nose. It stained the well-walked carpet and smelled of rotting lake water. Talia locked the bedroom door.

A hand on her shoulder startled her- her brothers stopped sniffling, their hands instead wrapped around their throats not unlike their mama moments ago.

“Collem, please let me go, please–” she begged. The youngest of the two brothers pulled at her shirt and arm, begging her to help them in some way, to comfort them, but she blanked. Every fiber of her being screamed when instead of words, the same rot frothed and spilled from Collem’s mouth onto his socks. He pulled his hand back, covering his mouth in an effort to stop the torrent. Talia bolted into the bathroom, locking the door behind her and made herself small in the corner under the sink.

There was no relief from how quickly Collem stopped banging on the bathroom door. Before long, the apartment fell quiet enough to call out from her dark corner.

“Collem? Jeof? Mama? Papa?” She could barely hear herself.

“Collem? Jeof? Mama? Papa?” She repeated. Name by name she called, ignoring her tears, but all she heard was mayhem through the small window above the shower reverberating on tile and wood. She placed a small stool that mama saved from her brothers’ inability to reach the toilet in their younger years below the window. Her eyes just barely peered over the frozen windowsill. Orange lights burned through the milky air that swirled around the fourth story. A gust of wind lifted the white curtain and revealed a scene out of hell. 

Choking townsfolk stumbled over a trail of bodies in the snow, either adding to the road of flesh or collapsing in a pile of limbs and brown gunk raised at the docks, like the largest fishing boats in the ocean let loose their most impressive mountains of rotting fish upon the shore. Standing upon that mountain, side by side, were two fishermen she didn’t recognize. Their heads snapped to her and she nearly tripped when she jumped off the stool.

She shut the window and stuffed every towel grandmama ever gave them in and around every door crack and waited for the inevitable, for each towel to stain brown, for her bare feet to feel soaked grout between each square white tile. 

The tile is cold, not wet. She thought of her mama and papa.

The tile isn’t wet, it’s cold. Jeof and Collem sniffling.

The tile is cold, not wet. How long did she have?

The tile isn’t wet, it’s cold. Please. Please let me live. 

Talia curled up into a cold little ball on the floor and before she could realize, she was no longer repeating the mantra in her mind.

A headache was all that plagued her as she peeled her sleepy self off the cold, and thankfully not wet, tile. Her shivering fingertips burned as she pried open the frozen window, just a crack, enough for immediate relief as fresh air filled her lungs… and recollection. She turned to the sink mirror, seeing nothing but unsoiled disheveledness on her school uniform. The same thing her brothers were wearing when they–

No. It was just a dream. She fell asleep in the bathroom, like an idiot, instead of doing the rest of her homework. She searched every rack in the bathroom, refusing to look at the towels stuffed into every crevice between wall, door, and floor. But she didn’t need to. Her panting echoed off the barren walls. Wait. She put her ear against the other door that led to the living room.

“Hello?” she called against the wood grain.

… Nothing but the fresh rush of wind and a dripping sink faucet.

She stared at her two fingers that gripped the door lock. She should go. Maybe they were still alive. Maybe she could still leave, and find Auntie Marla. She would know what to do. The image of her family standing outside the door, of stiff corpses waiting to drown her, flashed in her mind. Her fingers slid off the lock. No. Auntie would find her. How she wished of waking up to Auntie Marla’s singsongs, then her head wouldn’t have ached so much when she woke up.

A thirst boiled up from within her. There was no telling how many hours or days passed since then. The day seemed just as light despite feeling like an eternity passing by was the only way for the hell to end. Things were over, for worse, but auntie would find her, there was no doubt. She has to. She only needed to wait things out, wait for her name to be called. Just… wait. Her tongue rolled over chapped lips at the thought of auntie’s plum juice, from the few plums uncle Han always brought back from work in the south. Was he getting plums down south when everything happened, or was he home? Was he… still at home?

Plip. There it was again. The sad drips of their leaky faucet. She pulled the hot water handle and lapped at the stream like from a water fountain, and left it on full blast to warm up the small space. The mist, while cold, felt oddly pleasant on her face and hands. She drank more, a dog trapped in the desert, before her stuffy nose left her unable to breathe comfortably while drinking. 

The water turned to sewage-colored muck in a flash, spraying her face and hands at the last second as she shut off the water. A voice called out as she frantically wiped her hands and face down with her uniform.

“Talia?”

She stopped. That sounded like auntie. Ear against the door, hand on the door lock.

“Talia, my sweet little sheep, I’m here. Come out.”

“Auntie!”

As soon as the word escaped her mouth, an overwhelming sickness forced her to bend forward and slam her forehead into the door as both her arms wrapped around her torso. Her cries were cut short by gurgling and a flooded windpipe. Her eyes trailed down as the coffee-colored fluid flowed out of her mouth without stop, onto her uniform and onto a growing puddle on the floor. Muddy tears forced their way down her cheek and the more she blinked, the more the dark doorknob blended with the wooden door. Her sweaty fingers fumbled at the door’s lock.

I can’t breathe!

Her fists banged on the door in a panic, any thought of opening it lost to her as coherent thought hid in some fearful recess of her mind, out of sight and out of reach. The walls turned dark as she keeled over.

“You’ll see them once more, sweet Talia.”

“It was after this point that you woke up at the Allen Containment Center set up a few miles southwest for victims of the event, correct?” Badram asks.

“…Yes.” Talia says.

“Right.” He flexes his writing hand a few times in a circle before setting the pen down on the glass table with a clink. He checks his phone again. “Well, Miss Talia, your story seems to line up with much of what you’ve already told other news publishers. Were there maybe some things you forgot about?”

“No, I’m quite certain that’s all. Forgive me, I wasn’t intending to mislead you…” Her tone shifts naturally between conversation and apology as if she were talking directly to his face, but Badram hasn’t missed the fact that her gaze remained locked onto the dusk-blanketed docks.

“It’s quite alright, please don’t apologize! It’s difficult remembering such events after nearly two decades have passed, and…” his voice trails off as he looks at his phone again.

“Your boss has been calling you, hasn’t he?” 

“That’s what I thought, but my phone’s…” He looks up to see Talia’s eyes staring directly into his, “… been dead before I ever got here.”

“Lonely places make us think up company. Especially someone young like you, who’s practically married to his phone because of work and life. Perhaps it’s a sign you miss home. You should answer the call, once you’re able to.” She offers a smile.

“Sure. I’ll call him once I’m home.” He looks off at the horizon. The sun isn’t even grasping at rooftops now. “Perhaps I’ve overstayed. Thank you, truly, for inviting me and um… I’ll bring my notes back to my boss and see what we can do about maybe writing about you again?”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She takes both of their mugs and heads inside. Badram follows behind, hazmat hood and bag in hand. As she washes the mugs in the kitchen, Badram waits in the living room, sifting through his notes for anything he might have missed in this once-in-a-lifetime interview.

“Out of curiosity, who cleaned the apartment after… everything?” he asks her as soon as she exits the kitchen.

“Cleaners employed by the Allen company. Part of containment procedures, in order to provide a safe place for me to live here.”

“Are they forcing you to stay here?”

“No, I wanted to. The Allen folks were surprisingly easy to convince. Everything I knew lived and died in this town, and I want to be with them when my work here is done. That being said, you best be careful with how you look on your way out of here.” Talia nods to the hood in his hand.

“Oh! Of course. Thank you.” He attaches his hazmat hood, securing it just the same way as it was when he first arrived. “I’ll take my leave, then. For the record, I really am sorry for your loss. And that I’m a few decades too late to offer you anything more meaningful.”

Before exiting through the front door, he reaches out a gloved yellow hand, and she shakes it with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Thank you for your concern but believe me, you’ve helped me more than you know.”

Talia leans over her balcony, listening to the sputtering of the reporter’s car between sips of hot tea. He’s working on it right below her, but it doesn’t seem to want to start. He drove hundreds of kilometers to get here, in some southern-built car that’s woefully unprepared for Hriebet snow, and then he just leaves it just outside the parking garage of her building? Tourists never change. She chuckles at the thought but ultimately, the sputtering is a nice distraction from the usual dead silence of Peuga and one she hasn’t heard in oh, so long.

He eventually figures out a way to get the car moving again and Talia thanks the Gods for that- she was about ready to head down there out of pity. The engine struggled but worked, and Badram followed the one road in and out of town that he took to answer her call. Her eyes trailed after the car up until it disappeared behind the neighboring apartment block.

She lets out a deep sigh and smiles to herself, honestly for once in these last few decades, and looks over at the docks where the two fishermen stand side by side, still watching her just like back then.

That’s it. Her work is done.

Author Bio

---

By Lillian Beatrice Dunn

“Keep the ice machine shut, Juliette!” 

I heard the heavy silver door slam shut with a hollow, passive-aggressive bwap and flinched but didn’t turn around. I pulled a new drink ticket. Combined muddled mint, lemon juice, honey syrup, and two shots of gin, shaking the ingredients together, marrying them until the metal shaker grew condensation and burned the tips of my fingers. Straining the concoction into a purple-tinted Nick and Nora glass, I spilled some of the sticky liquid down my wrist, down my arm to my elbow. 

“Juliette!” 

“Heard!” I snapped back across the bar before topping the drink with a perky mint sprig. I slid it toward the customer, looking at her for the first time. A masculine woman in a white tank top with patchwork tattoo sleeves, hair cut short-short in a wavy brunette shag. She handed me a twenty and a five as I wiped my arm clean with a sanitizer rag. 

“Keep the change, angel.” 

I forced a quick smile with teeth, dear and stuffed the tip into my bra. The woman winked and turned away, quickly becoming engulfed by the welcoming, undulating crowd. I huffed a sigh before snatching the next two tickets off of the printer. 

Lipstick Lou’s sat on a bustling corner off Hammon and McLamb, and yet it remained the slowest bar on the block, more than likely due to the crowd it attracted: mostly older gays, drag queens, groups of goths, you get the picture. It had been nearly four months since I got a job as a bartender from Lou’s granddaughter, Maya. 

Lou had died just two years prior. Maya told me when I got the job, and I said, oh, I’m sorry to have missed her, to which she nodded solemnly and agreed, yes, it was very sad, she was such an inspiration. Maya really must have taken pity on me because I was horrifically underqualified to begin with and sorely below par even after two weeks of intensive behind-the-bar training. I needed the money, though. Seven months post undergraduate degree in poetry, the bills weren’t paying themselves. 

“You’re practically begging to be poor,” my mother would accuse me as I sent my work to magazines people outside of the local art community would never see.

“I’d rather be starving and making art than stuck here with you,” I’d told her the last night I saw her before moving to Los Angeles on a whim just six months earlier. I left with only one duffel bag, stuffed with anything I could carry — clothes, books, sentimental art and photographs, my clunky old laptop — to move in with my girlfriend Phoebe. We’d been together for five years, through college and after; I’d moved out to LA for her; we’d talked about marriage, for Christ’s sake. Seemingly out of the blue, she broke up with me and moved out. It was ugly and cruel and devastating. 

“It’s neither of our faults,” she said. “Things just aren’t working,” she said. 

The breakup dragged on conversation after painstaking conversation while I begged her to tell me what I’d done wrong, but no answer came. I’d barely been able to eat in the days following, the skin around my collarbones tightening as I could hardly stomach a slice of unbuttered sourdough in the mornings. I felt like I’d been rubbed raw. My eyes were dry and ached from lack of sleep. TV was pointless, and I hated the music I was supposed to like. Phoebe took three days to move out, which meant three nights sleeping in our bed while her belongings slowly disappeared, and our walls slowly became blank. 

In my state of grief, I’d gotten a little sloppy at Lou’s. Just that night, I’d dropped an ice scoop, shattered a half-full bottle of SKYY, and knocked a glass of Pinot Grigio over toward a gay couple, staining one of their crisp, white button-downs. 

“Juliette, my darling!” I heard a familiarly raspy voice call in a sing-songy drawl.
I scanned the sea of bodies, skin flashing pink, purple, blue, red, with the lighting, before spotting Celeste, tall and lanky, in a tan peacoat with matted faux fur around the collar and cuffs, her platinum blonde hair spilling down her back. Her eyes were smothered in pink sparkles, her lips a shade of deep purple-red. The peacoat was half-covering a slinky black slip dress she often wore in between performances at the Lusty Pearl, her boots skin-tight and thigh-high. Celeste was a burlesque dancer next door and my only remaining roommate. She treated life like a performance. 

Leaning over the bar, setting her forearms on the perpetually sticky countertop dotted with shiny rings from long-discarded drinks, she wiggled her manicured fingers at me.  

“You got a gig tonight?” she yelled over the bass-heavy music, a fading southern accent tinting her voice. She leaned into it when she spoke to customers at the Lusty Pearl — southern belles get fatter tips, Jules. 

I sometimes found myself at open mic events after a shift, but I hadn’t had the will since my breakup. I had no work to present these days. I shook my head. I could feel my supervisor Helene watching me, her eyes burning holes in the back of my head, but I continued to pull tickets and pretend as though she wasn’t there.

“I don’t have anything new; I’ll be home when I’m off!”

“How’re you holding up, muffin?” She tilted her head and jutted her glossy bottom lip out, pouting. 

Even though she was shouting, no one was listening. There was something about the deafening cacophony of Lou’s that created a sort of intimacy in speaking aloud between friends. There was so much jumbled noise that every pair could speak safely, cocooned in their own bubble of drunken secrets. 

I just shrugged. 

“I was gonna sit and chat, but it’s hella busy tonight. I barely have room to breathe! Do you need me to stop for anything on the way back to the apartment?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks, Cel.” 

She blew me a kiss as she departed. 

Helene sent me to visit Maya’s office at the end of my shift. I wiped down my workspace and tossed my dirty rag into a blue bin of previously discarded towels, a pit forming in my stomach. Heat spread across my ears and cheeks. Helene had it out for me — I knew it pissed her off that I’d been talking to Celeste over the bar. She’d come to despise Celeste’s frequent visits and snarky tone over the past few months, and the number of mistakes I’d made that day alone was more than enough justification for a write-up, or at least a warning. I’d been too sloppy — all over a girl who decided I wasn’t enough for her. 

It was as if the bar had grown three times its length as I made my way to Maya’s office. I felt like I’d been walking for miles when I finally pushed through the doors to the kitchen, the sickening fluorescence forcing me to quicken my pace. My palms were sweating as I crossed through the stockroom where we kept our personal effects, down one more dimly lit hallway to Maya’s door. She looked up when she saw me through the glass window and gestured for me to come inside. 

On her desk, covered in scattered, marked-up papers, stained, overflowing manilla envelopes, and three half-empty coffee cups with brown rings around the inside, there was a list, handwritten on a sheet of yellow legal paper. She placed it before me and waved a hand that implied sit down. Before me was a collection of everything I’d ever stolen from the bar since I’d started working there —  toilet paper, bread from the kitchen and oat milk, free drinks for Celeste and Phoebe, three sets of silverware, and so on. 

“Do you know what this is?” she asked, connecting her finger to the paper as though pointing would jog my memory faster. 

I nodded dumbly, shrugged, picked at my cuticles. 

“I knew you were stealing food, Juliette. I knew about the toilet paper and the bread and the drinks, but there’s only so much I can overlook. Ninety-five dollars were missing from the register last night. Tell me — why should I not assume this was also you?” 

“Are you firing me?” I asked. A wave of serenity washed over me suddenly as I realized she had already made up her mind. There was no use fighting. She’d never believe me if I said I hadn’t stolen it. 

“I just don’t see another choice, Juliette,” she sighed. Her hair was untamed and frizzy, her eyes bloodshot. “I’m losing money keeping you here.”

I stood abruptly, the chair skidding backward loudly across the floor, pushed by the backs of my knees. “Thanks. For the opportunity.” I spun on my heel stiffly, turning the knob to her office, shutting the door behind me without turning to face Maya again. 

Retracing my steps, everything seemed so much louder — the mechanical whirring of the air conditioning in the stock room, the clustered clatter leaking through the kitchen. I was alone as I put my arms through my thick black sweater and slung my purse on my shoulder. 

My mother’s face flashed across my mind, and I almost winced at the thought of what she might say. I hadn’t spoken to her in months, but I’d been thinking about her since my breakup. I’d left my family for Phoebe. I’d left everything I’d ever known. But the thought of going back felt suffocating. I dreaded the thought of my bedroom at home with old posters taped to the walls, the halls filled with picture frames of a smiling family I couldn’t say was mine, the dinner table where I was nearly always silent, the strict rigidity of the home my mother ran. I couldn’t face her. And if I did go home, she’d never allow me to live under her roof and continue writing. She’d make me get “a real job,” whatever the fuck that meant. 

I unclipped my hair from its updo and shook it out, combing my fingers through it with my eyes closed. I brushed past Helene without saying goodbye and made a beeline for the door, shoving my way through the hazy conglomerate of makeup and wigs and leather and boots. 

The door closed behind me with a soft thump, stifling the bumping music and lively conversation like a pillow tossed over a speaker. I faced the biting cold of the February midnight air, practically gasping. My lungs burned, and my breath appeared before me when I exhaled. I tried to mentally sever myself from the lingering savory smell of sweat and laughter as I ducked into my car and started home. Automatically, my Tidal CD began playing, and the beginning notes of “Sleep to Dream” seeped from the stereo and into my car. I slapped the eject button and snapped the white disk into the case. Fiona’s eyes stared back at me, wide and unwavering. 

My black 1995 Toyota Camry was one of the last shreds of home I clung to — more by necessity than nostalgia’s sake. But now, when I thought of my bank account — 13 dollars in my checking and nothing in my savings — I felt a lump form in my throat and a tug in my chest to call my mother. I acted without thinking, and she picked up on the third ring. 

“Juliette?”

“Hi, mom.” I hesitated over the word mom. When things were ugly after I first moved out, I’d taken to calling her Pam, adamant about detaching myself from her if she couldn’t find it within her to support me. We’d never officially reconciled things, both of us too stubborn to extend any attempt at an olive branch. The issue just sort of fizzled out. Which meant no fighting, and no talking either. I hadn’t seen her face since I’d left. 

“What is this about?” 

I hesitated and then chickened out. “Nothing.”

“Do not tell me you called me at 2:00 in the morning over some nothing, Juliette.” 

I’d completely forgotten about the time. “I— I’m so sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. Goodnight.” I hung up before she could say anything else. 

I don’t remember the rest of the trip home except for the way the road stretched out in front of me, sprawling and taunting, the painted lines swallowed by the bottom of my windshield until I was suddenly in front of my apartment, turning off the engine.

“Well, I just got canned, so.” I slammed the door behind me and dropped my purse to the chair by the door and my keys into a glass bowl. 

Celeste’s eyes slowly panned away from the television screen toward me. She was slumped over on our pink velvet couch so completely that her chin was resting on her chest, her green glass beaker bong on the coffee table in front of her, a lighter, grinder, and rolling tray beside it. She was watching Sex and the City reruns.

“Join the party, dear,” she offered, lifting her hand toward her spread. 

“Can’t. I have to write.” I started off toward my room.

“Jules, come on, you have to write?” 

“Yes, Cel — I haven’t written anything decent in weeks.” I was trying not to get defensive, but something about her tone struck me as judgmental. 

“You just lost your job — don’t you think that’s a more pressing concern?”

“What are you saying?” 

She sat up, crossing her legs underneath her. “Nothing, it’s just — we have to focus on what pays. We can’t just survive off open mic nights.”

Before I could respond, I began to feel like I was choking. My face grew hot, and my body felt slack except for my chest, which was tight, and my hands, which were shaking. “My writing matters,” was all I could manage. 

“Of course it matters, Jules!” Celeste sat up. “But… what about me? What about how I feel? What about my day? How are we going to make rent this month, Jules? Next month? What’s the fucking plan because I — I am tired!” 

“I’m going to figure it out. I just need some time to—” 

“We don’t have the luxury of time, Jules, we can barely afford groceries.” She sounded exasperated. “You have been a mess, and I have been there for you, but I have been the one holding us together. Me! You have no agency in your life, and writing a poem about Phoebe is not going to fix that.” 

I spun around quickly and slammed the door to my room behind me.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” she called after me. “But you have to stop thinking about her.”  

I turned on the lamp beside my desk with two short clicks, allowing a soft yellow light to spill across the floor and walls, creating long shadows across my desk. Tears had begun to spill down my cheeks, but I wiped them away quickly, ashamed. I had recently been obsessing over the idea of writing a novel, but nothing was sticking, nothing felt right. I put on my purple-framed cat-eye glasses and sank onto my backless, green stool to type and retype, painstakingly revise and meticulously edit until the sun came up, and yet somehow, I was always left with nothing new to show for it. Maybe Celeste was right. Maybe my mother was. Maybe Phoebe. Nights like these were long and grueling; it seemed as though the light at the end of the tunnel would never come. 

“We’ve been together for so long, baby, I have no idea who I am apart from you,” Phoebe had told me. 

We’d just had sex for the last time, and not too long after, she began to speak in a way that felt foreign to me. Like she was reading from a script. I knew what was coming but couldn’t fathom how to stop it. A burning, foaming pit formed in my stomach. 

“How is that my fault?”

“It’s not your fault, it just is. I need to find out who I am. I need to know myself. Alone.” She was standing now, pacing, her tone sharp and exasperated. 

“I moved here for you.” 

“Yeah, and you have nothing to show for it, do you? Do you even know who you are? I love you so much, but this will be the best thing for both of us — you just can’t see it yet.”

“Is there someone else?” I asked, desperate to find someone to blame. 

Phoebe paused, stunned, and scoffed at me. Almost laughing, she tilted her head. “No.” 

The document before me was a jumble of scenes I couldn’t weave together. Fragments of life with no real characters, no real plotline. I thought briefly about deleting the whole thing and starting over. I spun around in my chair and stared at Phoebe’s blank side of the room, her nightstand cleaned out and hollow, her alarm clock gone from the place where it had once rested beside her bowl of various chapsticks and a picture frame. She’d returned her key neatly on her way out. I hadn’t moved it from the table. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because I thought — 

I stood abruptly, slamming my laptop shut, and left my room with my tail between my legs. I peeked around the corner. Celeste was watching me with her eyebrows raised. 

“Pack me a bowl?” I asked innocently. 

Celeste rolled her eyes and beckoned me over as she emptied the contents of her apple-shaped grinder onto the rolling tray. I flopped down on the couch beside her while she packed my bowl in the “special” way she insisted only she knew how. 

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “You’re right.” 

“I know I am,” she said without looking at me. “But I shouldn’t have said some of those things. You know I think you’re an amazing writer.”

“I’ll get a job.” 

“I know you will. You’re like a cockroach, dear. Here, come here.” 

She lit the flower for me while I took a long inhale, watching the water bubble while thick, white smoke built up in the tinted glass. I removed the bowl and took a deep breath into my lungs, holding it there for a moment before releasing it back into the room. The smoke spiraled out of my mouth in swirling earthy clouds, obscuring the television screen slightly as Carrie’s heels clicked down the bustling city streets. Celeste was smiling at me. 

“Again,” she hummed, holding out the bong for me, and I obliged once, twice, three more times before getting up to grab two Razz-Cranberry LaCroixs from the fridge. I cracked mine and took a careful sip. 

I lifted my hand to my face to push up my glasses through molasses, and the back of my neck tingled deliciously. My mind became clean and blank, my thoughts bouncing around like the DVD logo screensaver that appears when you’ve paused a movie for too long. 

“Alright, so where are we gonna find you a job next?” Celeste asked. “The Lusty Pearl?”

“Cel, no. Be serious.” 

“Oh, honey, we’d love to have you.” 

“Don’t insult me — you know I can’t dance for shit.” 

“So you must be worthless, then!”

I rolled my eyes. 

“How picky can we really afford to be, Jules?” 

“I was thinking something more like a receptionist gig. You know, less movement.”

“Perfect for your clumsy ass. Now we just have to work on your attitude.”  

Carrie Bradshaw’s raspy, smoker’s voice interrupted us as she monologued her newest column: “They say nothing lasts forever; dreams change, trends come and go, but friendships never go out of style.” 

“Girl, whatever,” Celeste giggled and then whisper-mouthed toward me. “How’d she know?”

We settled into the couch to pretend like we didn’t love to escape to the messy ridiculousness of Manhattan’s most posh friend group. After two or three episodes in moderate silence, a buzzing warmth and quiet intimacy passing between us, Celeste sat up slowly. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks were pink. She said she had to go to bed, but she loved me. 

“You’ll find something,” she assured me. “And write something too. Oh—” 

She reached into her purse beside the couch and handed me a makeup wipe. 

“You’re gonna want this.” 

“Goodnight,” I said, taking the wipe from her. 

As I wiped my face clean, something began to bloom in my chest until I was naked, my skin sticky and cool as the warm orange and purple lighting of our cozy apartment lulled me to sleep under a hand-knitted blanket, the room still hazy and warm.

Author Bio

---

By Citlali Meritxell Diaz

It was only one room. One small wooden room with a thatched roof and holes in the planking. Naran had to house her four children plus herself in that room.

She sighed and tried to remind herself that it wouldn’t be forever. Zenzontla was only an hour or so from where they had lived in her old family house; Iulius, her husband, had family in town and he worked relatively nearby. Naran would have to live off the charity of her husband’s sisters until she and Iulius saved enough to buy their own house, or at least a dwelling that was bigger than just one room.

It didn’t help that Iulius would only be home every fortnight. She hated the ache in her heart that wanted to miss him, but love would have to be put aside for now. There were more important manners at hand, like the financial situation her family was in, and the damn room she had to live in. It pressed in on her and she had barely stepped past the threshold.

She already hated it, but it would have to do.

Iulius’ family were kind enough in their greetings, though it wasn’t like they would be blatant about not wanting them there. Perhaps their annoyance at her indefinite stay was demonstrated in only giving her family of six one room, but then again it was trying times, and they had promised to renovate it for them.

Naran pushed those thoughts out of her mind. All would be revealed eventually, she told herself, though it didn’t do much to comfort her.

Her hosts had included them in their dinner after they had arrived earlier that evening. It was a fulfilling meal; it even had meat, something which was a luxury these days, but Ikal, her youngest, was a hungry child, always wanting more food, always asking too many questions. Naran hoped he wouldn’t ask for anything else to eat because for the first time in her life, she had nothing to give him, and hunger couldn’t be satiated like half-hearted answers to curious questions. Considering their supplies had dwindled to rags of clothing in mostly empty packs, they would all have to wait until breakfast for more food.

That thought shot a pang through her heart. She had to rely on the kindness of others for her survival. For her children’s survival. Something which she had vowed never to do, but what other choice did she have?

Naran steeled herself. This was simply taking any advantage she could get. She would get herself situated, not needing to worry about housing. She would tend to the livestock and find a way to get extra money on the side.

The school here was smaller, only two classrooms divided by older and younger grades, but it was still an education her children would get. Donovan, Yul, and Amaite would all be together. Amaite didn’t worry her. Her only daughter, thoughtful yet tough, knew how to take care of herself and how to persevere. Donovan and Yul, her two oldest, were always getting into foolish trouble but she would keep her foot down and find a way to keep them out of trouble, just like she always did.

Ikal did worry her, though. He was scared easily, a picky eater, and easy to take advantage of. Even then, in the small room, her main concern was if he would be too unsettled to sleep, which would make her lose valuable hours of rest.

Naran relaxed her face that she had contorted in worry with her brown brow creased and her firm jaw set. She rubbed her eyelids with her calloused fingers, trying to ease the tension that seemed to pass from her mind into tight wrinkles.

“What’s wrong?” Amaite asked, observing the look on her mother’s face. She looked around the room as if to figure out what was the problem.

“Nothing,” Naran quickly responded. The last thing she wanted was to panic her children.

It wasn’t like they could change anything anyways. “Help me unpack.”

Amaite was quick to take up the light packs from her mother’s shoulders, but Naran had to snap at Yul and Donovan to quit their playful wrestling to help. Ikal got more in the way than helped and it wasn’t long before he frustrated Naran enough that she placed him on the small creaky bed to keep him out of the way.

In a matter of a few minutes, they had arranged themselves in the room, placing their thin blankets on the floor where the eldest kids would sleep; Ikal and Naran would barely have enough room to fit on the bed.

They had arrived in Zenzontla quite late, so through the holes and gaps in the planking, full dark engulfed the world.

To her surprise, Ikal fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Naran only needed to fiercely whisper at Donovan and Yul two times to get them to stop talking.

At long last, the peaceful breathing and quiet snores of her children filled the room. She finally let herself relax. With a deep sigh, Naran loosened her tense muscles and let herself feel the aches that came with age and traveling. The body pains hardly registered in her tired mind. She felt her brain shutting down and let her eyes close to the peaceful sleeping darkness that pulled her into unconsciousness.

Someone was watching her.

With a start, she sat up. Her eyes narrowed through the dark to see which one of her children was awake, but they were all fast asleep. She shifted her gaze to the door. Nothing. It was shut tight.

Naran shook her head slightly. It had felt that someone was watching her, that sixth sense one gets when a pair of eyes land on you. Slowly, she laid back down and turned on her side, trying to get more comfortable on the old mattress. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was, but if her mind was playing tricks on her, then she truly needed to get some rest.

She managed to take in two deep breaths before her shoulders shriveled up. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. For a second, she held in her breath and laid completely still.

Something was watching her; she was sure of it.

In a flurry of movement, she sat up and spun around to the wall behind her.

Nothing. No one was there.

Her racing heartbeat slowed down as she laid back down.

It’s been a long day, she told herself, trying to assure herself that she was simply tired.

Naran turned on her side, this time facing the outer wall where she had felt that creeping feeling.

Her eyes roamed the wooden plank wall as they flickered closed. With a deep intake of breath, she closed her eyes for a third time, hoping that this time it was for good.

Not a second later, her gasp filled the silent room, and her eyes opened wide. She was too frightened to move. No breath went into her lungs. Her body trembled under the light blanket and her eyes didn’t stray from the two holes in the center wall, where a pair of eyes watched her back.

Naran didn’t even dare risk reaching for her cross necklace hanging at her throat. She simply laid there, not moving, and praying that her kids wouldn’t move either.

The pair of eyes didn’t leave.

It felt like an eternity of laying there, though it might have been just a few minutes. The fear was paralyzing, until it turned into anger. Naran had enough challenges to deal with already, she would not have a stalker added to that list.

In a burst of adrenaline, Naran shot up from her bed and practically hopped over her children to the door. She grabbed hold of the splintered broom leaning against the wall as she yanked open the door and ran out into the warm night air.

Earlier, she might have complained about the fact that their room hadn’t been part of the original house’s design. It was connected to the house only by a wall, leaving their room door to lead straight outdoors. But as she turned the corner in a sprinted second to confront whoever was watching her, she thanked her fortune.

With her brow furrowed in anger, she lifted the broom in her arms, ready to attack.

She skidded to a halt. There was no one there.

Frantically, she turned her head, trying to see if she could spot anyone running away or a spot where they might have hidden. But the space around the house was empty of people or probably hiding places.

She looked around again, this time feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment at the thought of someone having seen her foolish run with a laughable weapon.

She headed back inside in a hurry, praying to God that her family-in-law hadn’t seen her. Her teeth grinded together as she tried not to think of that humiliation. She hadn’t even realized she had laid back down until her head subconsciously turned to look at the wall.

There it was again.

This time she didn’t hesitate. Again, she leapt out of bed, grabbed the broom, and ran around the corner. Again, there was no one there.

It took her longer to go back inside. She looked around the outside of the house first and checked around the corner multiple times before she found it useless to stay out in the humid night.

Amaite was awake when Naran went back inside. She was sitting up and looking around wildly. Her eyes were black in the dark and wide open when she snapped her head to look at her mother.

“What’s going on? Why were you outside?” She asked in quick succession.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” Naran ignored the fact that her daughter waited for more.

There was no point in both of them worrying.

To prove that everything was fine, Naran laid back down beside Ikal who had sprawled himself over the small bed. She tried to stop herself from glancing at the holes in the wall, where the two eyes still peaked in. Naran knew no one was there, but that only worried her more. Why was she seeing two eyes? She tried to put her back to them as if to put her back to the question, but it only made her wonder why she had such a vivid feeling of being watched.

The following day was dreadful. Her limbs ached with exhaustion and her eyelids hung heavy like stones. Every time she had managed to fall asleep during the night she woke up with a start, automatically glancing at a wall speckled with holes and gaps.

Her daily tasks felt like a nightmare of a performance. Her usual confidence and seeming grace at simple chores were replaced with a clumsiness and slowness that left her apologizing for the messes she made. She wanted nothing more than to get away from these people she didn’t know but was supposed to be kind to, but she dreaded nighttime and that unsettling room.

All day she peered at Iulius’ family, wondering if any of them were the type to spy on her and her kids. It was no use. As much as she wanted a suspect or a reason to leave the place, they were all patient with her, especially Tizoc, Iulius’ younger brother, who went as far as to welcome her kids with games and sweets. Naran tried to hide her surprise at that.

Apparently, Tizoc was off to university in a few months. He somehow looked both younger and older than his true age; he couldn’t be any older than 18. There was a sweet innocence in the soft curves of his face as well as something darker in the shadows of his eyes. All Naran knew about him was the little Iulius had mentioned which was that Tizoc might as well become a priest with how much time he spent at the church. Iulius had said it as an insulting joke, but after the warm, kind smile he offered her, she could see some truth in it. She’d get to know him better with time anyway.

When dark finally settled over the land, Naran went about her nightly routine with a knotted stomach. With every arrangement of a blanket and tidying of a strewn clothing item, she had to focus on breathing in fully. The air never quite seemed to reach her lungs.

Naran told herself that leaving the small lantern on wasn’t a lack of courage, it was simply a way to make things easier, like her living arrangements. The engulfing fatigue from lack of sleep and overwhelming fear agreed with her.

It was earlier than the night before and despite Donovan and Yul fighting and Amaite playing with Ikal, Naran fell asleep as soon as she settled onto her pillow.

When she woke up deep into the night, after her kids had been long asleep, chills ran over her. Her arms were covered in goosebumps which she absentmindedly rubbed as she pulled the blanket over herself. She shouldn’t even have needed the blanket on such a warm night.

Naran pushed away the thought and stretched out her arm to the lantern sitting on the small bedside table. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the notch. Steeling up her courage, she turned it off.

She wasn’t surprised when the eyes were still there. Without a second thought, she turned on the lantern, letting the yellow light permeate the dark, and rushed outside.

She also wasn’t surprised when no one was there, but the frustration bubbled inside of her and tightened her hands into fists.

There was no sound of anyone hiding. No sign of any intruder or night stalker as she lapped the building. Everything was quiet and serene. Even the livestock and bugs were silent.

The only thing that seemed alive were the blinking stars.

The stars.

No. It couldn’t be, she thought. With rapid steps she went back to the wall of her room and looked at the sky that stretched above the towering mountains. The house was set upon a hill; nothing would block the view of the stars from inside the room.

Looking back at the planks of wood, she realized for the first time that the ground around the wall dipped downward. Standing right next to it, she furrowed her brows and tried to find the pair of holes where she thought she was being watched from. It took running her hands along the wall to finally locate them. They were located over her head, far above what any human would be able to look into without a boost.

With a dizzying sense of relief, she hurried back inside, desperate to prove her theory right.

No trepidation filled her when she turned off the lantern and laid down facing the wall. The eyes peered through the holes. She sat up in her bed and squinted into the dark, straining her vision as she peered at the wall. No matter how long she stared at the holes in a sitting position, she couldn’t see anything.

A small smile crept onto her face. She couldn’t see anything. No eyes. Nothing.

She laid back down and the eyes returned. She sat up and the eyes were gone.

Naran couldn’t count how many times she sat up and down on that rickety bed. At last she laid back down with a great sigh of relief. Small spouts of laughter spilled from her lips. She didn’t want to wake her kids, but she couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that the “person” watching her was truly the stars all along. If she had only realized earlier that the eyes were only visible through the holes from the exact position of laying down on the bed, or that the holes were too high for any human to reach, then she would be in deep sleep by now.

She wasn’t even angry at the fact that she had disturbed her own sleep or that by the hand of fortune, a pair of stairs aligned perfectly to be mistaken as eyes. She was just glad that she could now rest in peace.

Naran smiled to herself as she fell asleep. She found it funny that her fear of the past two nights still made it feel as though she were being watched.

It was surprising how much a good night’s rest and relief could affect someone. That was what Naran marveled at as she chatted with Iulius’ family and started to accustom herself to her new home the following day. It was nice to only have to worry about getting used to the town with its humongous church and quiet residents instead of fretting about the night like a small child. Naran guessed that it would be challenging to make this new town her home. It felt unsettling and wrong to be there, but she had never lived away from her hometown, so she hoped that with time those feelings would fade.

Waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t unusual for Naran, especially with Ikal still being quite young, but her hairs usually weren’t on end when she came back into consciousness. Without thinking, she sat up and smoothed the blanket around her and Ikal, taking time to tuck him into the white sheet.

A chill ran over her, causing her to furrow her eyebrows; she shouldn’t be this cold on a late spring night. Her shoulders twitched upwards as another chill ran over her spine and up her neck. Instinctively, she glanced over to where the perfectly placed stars had haunted her. She almost laughed to herself for her foolish fear. Almost.

From her sitting position, she could see the stars through the holes, appearing like eyes.

That was strange. Last night, the stars could only be seen through the holes in the wood when she was laying down. Maybe they were visible because it was far later in the night, she thought.

With her eyes on the holes, she inched herself back into a lying position. The eyes followed her movement all the way down.

She froze. That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Again, she sat back up and again the eyes followed her.

Her breath was caught in her throat as she slowly set her feet onto the cold floor. The feeling of being watched that she ignored since she had arrived, it was overwhelming. It tingled her neck, making her want to shrink in on herself but dropping her stomach with such fear that she could not look away. She didn’t know what would happen if she looked away.

Naran’s trembling breaths were the only sound in the deadly silent room. The world around her had gone still. The dark around her felt thick and dangerous all at once. She was blind in it but still susceptible to things that gazed at her through the black.

She pushed through the darkness, shaking with a raw panic and terror that should have been paralyzing, moving forward to the wall. The racing of her heartbeat in her ears drowned out her painfully slow footsteps. She inched closer to the wall, until finally her own eyes lined up with the holes in the planking.

Through the gaps, the eyes blinked.

Author Bio

---

By Citlali Meritxell Diaz

Jes,

I write to you in candlelight. It is my last one. The flame flickers and sputters endlessly. The wax burns horribly fast, faster than should be possible.

When the lights went out, I staggered to where I kept my matches. With trembling fingers, I’ll admit, I fumbled for a match. I listened to its unsettling scratch against the box and watched the birth of that fluid flame. Quickly, I brought the match to the candle, for it seemed that the flame licked at the wooden stick. I could almost feel the heat reaching my fingers. I didn’t even have to set the match against the candle for long, the candle wick ate hungrily for the flame. With that I moved to the rest of the candles, but when I turned back it was already half gone. Keep in mind that these were no scrawny candles, Jes, but I could see them dwindle before my very eyes.

And now the rest of my candles are gone, nothing but pools of shadow where I had left them.

Now the darkness pushes in, thick and choking around me. This is not what darkness has been. This is not what darkness is supposed to be. This is not simply the absence of light. No. It is a heavy pulsing beat of pure black. It entraps the shrinking golden halo of my last flickering candle, of my last drying hope, and it leaves no shadow on the wall behind where I move.

I don’t think darkness is the absence of light. No, not anymore. Simply light is the absence of dark. And that is not even entirely true because have you ever been in a place where there is no lurking dark? Where there are no tendrils of shadows? In the corners? In the crooks of those buildings? Behind you? No. No, there is no such place.

The dark is a thing in it of itself. It is a greedy, hungry thing. We are lucky that we have never experienced the truth of it. The true dark would snuff the light out of mortals in a flutter of a flame. We think that if we turn off the lights in a basement, if we close our eyes under the covers of a dark room, that we are experiencing it. If we knew what true darkness was, we would tremble at the thought of sleep. Because when it finds you, there is no way to escape its smothering grasp.

I think it’s found me, Jes. I lie to myself pretending I am not certain, but I know that when the lights come back again, if they ever do, I will never be within those rays of light again.

And so, I write this to you, as my final candle begins to drown in its own wax, so that someone may know my story, and so that you will always have my gentle goodbye. I hope the dark leaves my letter. I know that it hungers for everything that contains me. If you get this, know that I love you, and I entrust my story to you.

Even if none of this had happened, I think I would have remembered this day. I’ve lived in Southern California most of my life, so I am not unaccustomed to the surging Santa Ana winds that reign in October. But by mid January, strong winds such as those are gone. Whatever driving wind we see comes with the yearly rains. But it hadn’t rained at all this winter. In fact, just a week ago it was 80 degrees. In the span of seven days, the temperature dropped dramatically and the winds that tore through our dismal coastal town only made it worse. The winds were not hot or acrid, but cold and brisk. It menaced the streets, tearing through the trees, whistling a frightening scream and shaking the apartment to its core. The windows themselves rattled in their foundation. Without exaggeration, I confess that I actually worried that the poor old building would collapse.

So, you would think that when the power gave out it would be nothing more than tangled cable lines. That’s what I thought too. I was wrong. I will admit that I screamed when the lights went out. I’m not used to being cast into total darkness, neither are you, I’m sure. I had been reading on our bed with the door to the living room wide open. And then darkness. Nothing. Nothing.

I should have been able to see the glow-in-the dark stars on the ceiling which we had put up when we first moved in. Or the windows behind the curtains should have eased the darkness because of all the light pollution. But I couldn’t see anything. There was nothing. It was pure, pure black. A darkness so thick, so opaque that I had to be at the bottom of the deepest cave or at the depths of the ocean’s miles and miles of lightless water because this darkness. . . it shouldn’t have been possible.

I should have known. How could I not have known that the lights flicked on a few seconds later, that wouldn’t be the end of it? God, I wish it had been. If there even is a God. I don’t think there is light bright enough to combat this wretched darkness, and no God could surely survive it.

I blinked, adjusting my eyes to the room and all of the contents within it that had disappeared seconds ago. Hesitantly, I sat back down at the edge of my bed, having realized that I had startled to my feet.

When I was little, I was scared of the dark. What kid isn’t? For years I had to sleep with night lights, or else suffer through vivid figures that I always saw moving through the night’s cover. A figment of my child imagination. I’m sure of that now, for there are no figures in the dark. There is nothing in that true darkness except the dark itself.

How can I describe this to you? How can I make you believe that darkness is a thing? A vile and cruel thing, heartless and strangling. I’ve never understood black holes, always questioning how something so powerful as to destroy everything it swallows and leave nothing but a black void. But now I understand. Except that this darkness is not sucking, as black holes are. You are not pulled into it; it comes for you. It engulfs you whole and suddenly there is no more of anything. Not even you.

I don’t think I was “lucky” to reach my matches fast enough, to light one just in time. I think it let me. It wants to toy with me, to play with me. It wants me to feel its choking approach as I know that there is no place to escape.

I felt it when the lights went out again, how the world became empty and dreadfully silent. There isn’t even a ringing silence, it’s just. . . silent.

One by one, all of my candles died out and suddenly all I could see were these pages and a pen, sitting perfectly in order on my desk. I don’t think I’m in my room anymore. I’m too afraid to sit down on the chair that is supposed to be there, lest I stumble and fall within its reac—

The candle is giving out. It is at the end of its wick. All the wax is gone. I was lucky to get this far. It presses against me. The darkness. I can feel it pushing on me. I’m scared. Please God I’m scared. I don’t want to be taken by the darkness. It’s too heavy. Please let the light linger. Don’t let me be forsaken to this darkness. Do not let.

Author Bio

---

By Hailey L. Parkinson

“Fuck!” I shout as my palms slam onto the steering wheel. This roadtrip is not going as expected. Definitely not as I had planned.

The engine light is flashing red on my dashboard, blinking as fast as my heart is racing, mocking me for my own stupidity. I’m stopped off the side of the freeway in the middle of nowhere with smoke rising from the hood of my car. A sweat is broken out across my forehead despite having my AC on. Death Valley is so hot that even the air conditioning cannot fight off its terrible blaze. Past the full blast of the barely cooled air, I was still warmed by its overbearing, unwelcome embrace. I ignored the signs on the road telling me to turn off the air, and now here I am, in this very predicament. Surely that had been the cause. 

If only I had heeded the warnings, maybe I wouldn’t be stuck off the freeway on the hottest day of the year. 

Stepping out of my car to inspect the damage, I immediately regret all of my decisions leading up to now. The outside air is sweltering, immediately burning me and pestering my blue eyes. They weren’t designed to see well in bright places. It’s the middle of the day, brightest time of the day as well as the hottest. I groan over the fact I still haven’t bought new sunglasses from when they broke last week. They could have come in handy right about now to protect my eyes from the light. I could have at least picked up some cheap ones to at least use for the drive, then discarded once I got a better pair, but I was too picky when I looked through the selection at the gas station. With disappointment, I shake my head at myself. 

When will I ever learn?

This trip was meant to be with my brother to visit family out of state, but he ended up getting sick and my people-pleasing heart couldn’t cancel on my loved ones. Even though my brother insisted on me being smart and postponing our plans, I simply didn’t want to wait until that unknown date. 

Now I am wishing I had listened. Wishing I had done a lot of things differently.

Popping the hood, smoke wafts upward into my lungs. I cough up every particle that invades my body while my hands swat at the smokey cloud. It’s so thick and black that I can’t see the engine, and it appears it won’t dissipate soon. I huff out an irritated sigh, tears now brimming in my eyes at my frustration and from the smoke. There won’t be much I can do to fix this problem, as I am not the type of girl who knows how to maintain a car even though I have tools in the trunk. My father taught me to always be well-prepared for situations such as this, but I can’t remember how to even check my oil for the life of me. My dad and brother have shown me time and time again, yet it doesn’t stick in my brain.

Realizing that I am useless in this field, I rely on the thought of someone else aiding me. Though chances are slim, maybe I can order myself an Uber or call a tow truck. Probably the latter. 

I unplug my phone from the cheap charging cord to dial for help. The battery percentage is at five percent. This call will have to be quick or else I’ll be utterly doomed. My thumb selects the internet app. It loads and loads and loads in circles, making me grow more impatient by the second as my skin grows sticky from the heat. Then it finally confirms my suspicions of not having enough service bars to search anything up.

Another irritated sigh over my terrible luck escapes me.

Father always told me to be well-prepared for long car trips. To make a list and never forget the most important things. Those things being snacks and water, a reliable phone charger, and a map. None of which I brought for myself. If my brother had come with me, maybe I wouldn’t have forgotten. Or simply would have planned better. He’s the far more responsible one out of the two of us. I wish he was here with me. He’d know how to fix this problem.

This problem wouldn’t have even happened if he had been with me. His luck never runs out. Or maybe it’s because he’s so organized and ready for any possibilities. His phone would be fully charged, already calling for a tow truck, because the number is saved in his phone. 

I, on the other hand, can only hope I can now find information to call for a lift.

Looking around, squinting at the nearby road signs, I pray that the closest one I spot holds something valuable for my situation. Walking towards it is a chore on the rocky ground beneath my feet. Only strappy sandals cover them, giving me no support. Rocks and dirt wiggle their way between my toes. No breeze cools my skin even with the movement. Only the piercing sunlight high in the sky slows me and eats away at me, leaving tears behind from my flesh’s weeping. The sweat is the only thing to somewhat cool me, though it doesn’t do much to truly keep me that way. The heat wins the battle.

When the writing upon the sign finally comes into my blurry vision, an overwhelming feeling of relief washes over me. In fat, black numbers is printed the phone number I had hoped to find. 

My fingers scramble quickly to dial them into my phone, but when I press the turn-on button, the only thing that shows up on the black screen is a low battery signal. The brick of now hopeless technology has grown burning hot in my palm. Damn the janky charger I bought at the gas station before I officially hit the road. If only I hadn’t forgotten my own at home, I wouldn’t be having this problem. A dead car and a dead phone will get me nowhere.

The panic starts seeping in. I should have listened to my brother; should have postponed our travel plans. I could have so easily told my family that this weekend would have been too much on my shoulders alone to drive. I should have at least turned off my AC and braved the heat no matter my dislike for it.

But all I can do with the choices I have made leading me here is by taking a deep breath of the uncomfortably warmed air to attempt to ease the nerves. It does little to calm me, though it’s a start.

All that is left for me to do is stick my thumb up with my arm outward as I stand on the side of the freeway underneath Death Valley’s deadly sun.

Blaring upon my pale skin, making me sweat and groan, I curse the giant ball of gas in the sky. Outside spaces have never been my favorite, so I do not have that summer tan as everyone else back home has by now. Nor the tolerance to remain out in the heat for long periods of time. I’m nervous about how long I’ll have to stay standing out here for in hopes someone will come to my rescue. The rays are becoming unbearable, singeing my skin, turning it to pink then red. This will be the worst burn of my life if I don’t get help soon. It most likely already is by now.

I should have packed sunscreen, though I hadn’t expected for this to happen. Didn’t expect it to be a necessity. The plan was to buy any necessities such as that once I arrived to my destination. Packing soaps and lotions, including sunscreen, would have taken up too much space in my suitcase. Lugging around so much stuff would have been a nuisance for me, so I opted out of bringing it along even though it could have been easily placed in my car.

Once again, I regret another choice of mine.

Looking up at the white, blazing sun, I squint and hold my hand above my eyes. It is the only bit of shade I can get in this moment. With the sun directly above head, like a looming knife tied to thread, the shadow from my car is directly beneath it. Hiding underneath would be impossible with how low it sits. Even if it were a possibility, seeking refuge beneath it would make me invisible to any passing cars that may come my way. I could always sit in my car as I wait, but it is a furnace inside; somehow hotter inside it than outside of it. 

I decide to slump against the side of my car and sit on the ground instead. It is hot and uncomfortable, but it is better than standing. My body has grown tired anyway, and my mind is about to crash out. I am drained and wrung out.

My skin has already dried out from standing outside my car for only a few minutes. Surely no more than fifteen. Though that short period of time has already felt like hours. Sweat soaks the back of my shirt, underneath my breasts, and my scalp. My poor family will have an absolute mess on their doorstep once I manage to get there. Except now I have no clue how I will.

My other hand that isn’t blocking the sunlight remains outward, rested on my bended knee, praying a car will pass by me and the driver will be kind enough to give me aid. I wait and wait and wait, impatiently. Though I stay put as I lean my back against my vehicle. The heat has become overwhelming at this point, and I am worried about fainting despite sitting down. My water is already all gone, as I drank it all while driving. With my tongue dried, it sticks to the roof of my mouth. I should have bought two bottles instead of the one. Should have sipped on it instead of gulped. I hadn’t realized Death Valley was so vast, otherwise I would have prepared better for this section of the drive. Would have bought more snacks that I scarfed down and more water that has already been drunk up. 

As I direct my squinted stare away from the sky, a blurry, lanky man dressed in all black appears across the road. He stands there ominously tucked underneath a hood, staring me down, though I cannot see his face. Blinking rapidly, to fix my vision, he has dispersed from my line of sight once it adjusts. 

Odd. I could have sworn there was someone out in front of me. Except now there is only the long endless valley of dust and tumbleweeds. No sign of another person standing there seconds ago. 

Perhaps it was my thoughts of missing my brother. This road trip was meant to be bonding time with him. Life has been hard lately on our relationship. With Father’s passing last month, we have grown distant. When our aunt and uncle reached out to us, inviting us to spend the week with them, we were more than pleased to agree to come. At first, we thought of flying. But quickly it had changed into a road trip so that we could have more time to spend together. 

I could have chosen to stay home instead. Could have used this time off to take care of my sick brother. 

But Nevada was so tempting. The idea of being independent for once, driving all by myself, to visit family, made me feel grown. Being the younger sister, I haven’t felt very grown up. My maturity still feels very out of reach. But now Father is gone, now returned to our mother who died when we were very little. I had been babied my whole life yet was taught vital life lessons. They simply flew right over my head. Mother’s death didn’t affect me like it affected my brother, for he knew her far better than I. So, I suppose I always assumed Father would be around forever to care for me. Same as my brother. Which has always been a nice thought, but a ridiculous thought. The harshness of reality slapped me in the face when Father died of a heart attack last month. In that time as I readjusted to a new life by moving in with my brother, who has always been the strong, independent, responsible child, I learned that I knew nothing of importance. Giving up the idea of going alone, doing something all by myself for once, was impossible to say no to. 

I reassured my brother I would be okay, and I could do it on my own. Insisted that everything would be fine with a wish to prove to myself that I could do it.

What a pathetic lie. 

Look at me now. Stranded on the side of the freeway — in Death Valley of all places — overheated, thirsty, and all alone.

My impaired vision refocuses on the road as I fall into a pit of despair when I finally notice a semi-truck racing straight toward me. It is impossible to miss as the noise also alerts me of its nearing presence. This is not a mirage like that man dressed in black had been. 

The smoke that still flies out from the hood is enough of an indicator that I need help, the hitchhiker signal is only to request it. The prayer I say beneath my breath is a silent plea that the truck driver will care enough to give me a lift. 

The brake lights come on, then the merging signal.

Thankfully, my prayer is heard. The semi slows down as it pulls over to the shoulder ahead of me. Grabbing my suitcase and running for the truck, a wild smile breaks out across my sore, burnt face. If I had stayed outside any longer, this heat would have been the death of me. Blisters may already be forming along the back of my neck where the sun beats down the harshest. The part in my hair stings, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find blisters there either. I don’t dare check.

When I approach the massive vehicle, I step up the offered steps and open the unlocked door. The trucker in the driver’s seat is looking down at me with a frown, though his bushy beard hides most of it away. He wears a black flannel, black jeans, and even a black hat. “Unfortunate situation you’re in, miss. Get in, I’ll drop you off at the next stop,” he tells me in a deep gravelly voice as if he has been smoking for years. I climb into the passenger seat and do up the buckle as I profusely thank him for rescuing me. A deep sense of relief washes over me once the door is closed. The heat has stopped altogether now being seated in the truck. It is far cooler in here than outside.

“Shame what happened to you,” the trucker says as he begins to navigate the vehicle back onto the empty road. The next exit isn’t for another twenty miles, unfortunately, but at least I’ll be safe from the sun and on my way to get help. As soon as this kind man drops me off, I’ll have to find somewhere I can charge my phone so that I can get in touch with my family about my situation. Considering the condition my car is in, I may have to book a flight. Or maybe my aunt or uncle can meet me out here to pick me up. My poor brother won’t be able to drive out to save me with his illness. Either way, I will have to make arrangements for my car to get towed and how to get back home or transported the rest of the way to Nevada. 

I sigh as I look out the window. “Yeah, I wasn’t as well equipped for this trip as I hoped I’d be,” I admit to the stranger.

He chuffs at my confession. “What brought you out to these parts?” 

“Family.” I respond quickly, because that’s all there is to it. I simply wanted to see my family and my stubbornness wouldn’t allow me to back out despite the initial plans all falling apart. 

“Do you happen to have a phone charger? My phone is dead.” I ask. Surely this man would have a charger in this truck to keep his own alive during the long hauls. If I can get my phone charged, then I can call someone to help me out. Or at least for a tow truck to take my car to the closest shop to repair it. But my heart sinks when he says nope while popping the p. “Do you have a phone I could borrow by chance, then? I need to make a call.” I ask, getting my hopes up again. He has to have a phone on him. 

If I can get a hold of my brother, then he can contact our family in Nevada while I wait for my phone to turn back on.

Except he shakes his head as if he’s shooing away a pesky fly. “No phone on me, ma’am. Sorry.” 

Sinking into the seat, I look back out the window, and my eyes catch sight of a black figure with a reflective light blinding me, which leaves me unsettled. Sitting straight back up to eye it better as we fly past, I could have sworn I saw a tall black figure in a ripped-up cloak and a staff in its bony hand. The same as I saw before. Except all that’s out to the right of us is a dead plain of yellowed ground and branchy bushes. 

I could have sworn…

I must have heat stroke; I think to myself as I shake my weary head. I press my fore finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose to ease away the headache from these delusions. No one would be dumb enough to trek this valley in all black.

Suddenly, my ringtone sounds from my lap. A squeak slips past my lips. My phone was dead merely minutes ago, useless to me. Now it is ringing even though I always keep the ringer off. It’s loud and vibrating as the caller ID says an incoming call from Death Valley is lit up on the screen. I decline the call, not wanting to waste the already dead battery for a random caller. 

The truck driver does not make a comment about how my phone is supposed to be dead. He only stares straight ahead at the unending road ahead of us with a singular raised eyebrow. The one with no other cars in front or passing us, no signs in sight, and only the cracked sanded grounds next to us.

My phone begins ringing again, which I once again decline, though all the quicker this time. It hangs up and pauses for a moment, leaving us once again in silence. But it quickly starts up again, taunting me to answer, seeming louder than before. My stomach drops even though there are no bumps in the road.

“You should answer that, Janie,” the truck driver says to me.

My face turns to him slowly, eyes open wide. My stomach now up in my throat. “I never told you my name.” It comes out as a barely feasible whisper. 

The trucker looks directly back at me, not even his peripheral vision on the road. “Answer the phone, Janie.” He says seriously. A fire is burning in his once honeyed eyes and my heart stalls in my chest as how my car stalled on this tiresome freeway.

I slide the answer button to the side, doing as he says, because now I am terrified of what will happen if I don’t. None of this makes sense to me anymore. 

My brother would be so disappointed to know I got into a stranger’s vehicle even in this situation. Especially now that I feel in danger. I had thought this man to be my hero, but he may very well be the opposite. 

“Hello?” I ask as I bring the phone to my ear. My voice still barely a whisper. So small, so tiny, so weak. My innards are tangled in knots, my skin is still in pain, and now my heart is pounding out of control. What did I get myself into? Whose truck did I climb inside?

“Hello Janie,” a male’s voice says from the other line. “We have been awaiting your arrival.”

My hands grow clammy as I press the phone into my ear. “Who is this?” My voice shakes as I ask, nervous about the situation I have wound up in. I side eye the trucker whose knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel. There is no one that I know who lives within Death Valley. The only people expecting me are my family all the way in Nevada.

“It’s the collector of your soul, Janie.” He says with a darkness that creeps down my spine and tickles my senses. I shiver, the truck suddenly way too cold for the beating heat from outside that should be slithering in and tormenting us. Not even my own car could fight against it, how can this truck?

My gaze darts to the AC. It’s turned off.

Looking back at the trucker, there is no sweat coating his forehead like how it coated mine when I had been driving.

My voice is shaky when I ask the man on the line, “What do you want from me?”

Even though I cannot see this person’s face, I can feel his wicked smile. Every nerve inside my body is now as hot as the sun was when singeing my flesh on the side of the road. “To reunite you with your late father, Janie. He waits for you past the gates.”

A sob rakes its way out of me as my heart clenches within my chest. A tear streams down my face from all the emotions I have been feeling since my car started stalling. Panic, frustration, irritation, worry, and now fear. “Why?” My terrified voice gives away all that I am failing to conceal. How does this man know of my father’s death? Why does he wish me to join him in death?

“Because you’re dead, Janie.” The truck driver chimes in from beside me. I look over at him with widened eyes, spooked out of my body that he could hear the entire conversation. “You died on the side of the road due to dehydration and heat exhaustion.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe what is being said. “No. No, that’s impossible.” It is a desperate plea I cannot hold back. I would give anything for it to be untrue.

As much as I miss my father, my brother is still very well alive. Back home with a cold. Worried sick out of his mind that I chose to take off without him. 

My poor, poor brother who will have to mourn his only sibling while he still grieves his father. 

The trucker looks at me again, with that same hellfire in his eyes, nodding despite my rejection. “If you don’t believe us, look at your arms.” Looking down at my hand that doesn’t clutch my phone, I finally notice the welts. My skin is splotched with red blisters, some have already burst with puss now leaking out, other spots are practically blackened. “The sun poisoned and killed you, Janie. You were out there for a whole hour before you died.”

Still, I shake my head, pleading with anything, anyone, that may be able to hear my thoughts to wake me from this dreadful dream. “This can’t be happening,” I deny even though no one pinches me awake. It hadn’t been more than twenty minutes, surely, even though it felt like forever. The sun could not have been that harmful. Yes, I could feel the sunburn blooming, but it could not have been enough to kill me.

“Oh, but it is, Janie,” the voice on the phone says, sultry and mischievous. As if he is pleased with my death. He chuckles to himself over a joke I do not understand. I imagine him licking his all-too thinned lips afterwards. 

“Your stop is approaching,” the truck driver says. He pulls up to tall black metal gates that have appeared out of nowhere, opened wide like arms preparing for embrace. Except there is nothing friendly about this gothic entrance. In the middle of the gates stands the same black figure I mistakenly saw in my impaired vision in the valley as we were driving down the road. A figure dressed in a ripped cloak, black as sin, with a bony hand wiggling his fingers at me, as if to say hello. Welcoming me to whatever lies behind those darkened doors. And in his other hand, a scythe, glinting under the merciless light of the sun.

The passenger door creaks open to let me out despite me not touching it. The seatbelt unclicks and unravels from around me, earning a startled squeak out of me. Slowly and hesitantly, I step down from the giant truck. Looking back at the truck driver who drove me all the way here, I am surprised to see he is now replaced with another reaper, identical to the one that waits for me to join him. “Rest in peace, Janie.”

The door slams in front of my face, and the truck pulls back out onto the empty highway. I watch it drive away, leaving me alone in the middle of nowhere. Facing back around, the grim reaper waits for me at the black gates. Except now, standing next to him, is my handsome father. His arms are opened wide with a saddened smile spread across his wrinkled face. 

But what shocks me most is the other two figures beside him. A woman, almost identical to me, though far older in age. Possessing the same blue eyes that I have.

My mother.

And next to her, my strong, independent, responsible big brother. 

Author Bio

---

By Citlali Meritxell Diaz

To: Father Enrique, Head of the Zenzontla Church, Jalisco
From: Father Tizoc, former Head of the Zenzontla Church, Jalisco
Sent from: Puente Grande Prison, Jalisco

I do not know why I am writing you this letter, Father Enrique, you likely will not even read it, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try to warn you. No doubt you are alarmed to receive correspondence from me given everything that has transpired, as well as my promise to keep the church out of my “immoral and ungodly mouth.” I vow by our gracious Lord that I shall uphold my promise, after I have given you warning. One that you must guarantee to heed.

Have you ever wondered why a meager village in the middle of nowhere Jalisco has such a magnificent church? A church comprised of breathtaking stone walls, each with intricate carved patterns too complicated for the eye to follow. A church grandeur enough to merit tourists from all over the globe yet scarcely has a pathetic number of churchgoers from its own town. Why is that?

There is certainly enough room. The pews stretch endlessly from the immense wooden doors to where the sun shines through colossal stained-glass windows behind the altar table which holds the sacred blood. The wine always seems a deeper red than it should be. Isn’t that right Father? Oozing thicker than it should be, with a hint of something foul and putrid permeating from it.

No doubt you will think I’m mad as you begin to read this. “The guilt and repent has finally gotten to him,” you presume. I assure you that my mind has never been clearer. The towering stone columns would trap me in their climb. They would hold me in their arches that snaked up to the curving ceiling, miles and miles above my stretching fingertips. But here, the stone walls that cage me are less entrapping. At times, they simply seem like stone walls, and I can convince myself that I am truly alone.

However cruel of a man you think me, I am not. I know that those stone walls, that tainted church of God, still hold you, and as the new Head of the Zenzontla Church, they will be wanting you. So, I have sent you this warning and soon enough you will see that I am not mad. But you will think that you are, that what you are seeing is from a rotting brain. Believe me, that is not so. The only thing that is rotten is what you will be trying to keep from reaching us.

As you know, before the incident which occurred, I had served our Lord and Savior as the Father in charge for over half a decade. Initially, I was naive, believing that all churches were pure and blessed by His holy name. I had no idea what I was getting into. I can’t be certain if other churches are this way because as unorthodox as it is, I had never been moved from this location. So, there I stayed and slowly, slowly, I learned. I will share with you what I painstakingly learned, so that you may not suffer as I did. So that you may protect yourself and those who seek foolish refuge in that church. And so that those God forsaken creatures never see God’s light of day.

These are my warnings:

1. Do not intertwine your hands when praying.
   
   No matter where, or with who, keep your palms flat against one another. And make sure that they are always facing upwards. During long prayers it will be tiring to keep your hands stiff against your chest and your fingers tight against each other. But if you do not do so, believe me that you will begin to catch your fingers loosening. Before you know it, the pads of your fingers will no longer be against each other. Without your notice or your thoughts, your fingers will begin to bend downwards to sit lightly against your knuckles. You will continue to mutter your prayers, unaware, while your fingers tighten in blotchy redness, bruising your bones. When you’ve reached this position, still without your knowledge, you are no longer praying to God.
   
   I pray that you realize it before it is too late, for the longer you pray with intertwined hands, the more powerful your summons of a creature that is certainly not God.
2. If you close your eyes at any point during a prayer, keep them closed.
   
   Keep them tightly shut. Squeeze your eyes if you must. Do not open them for even a flutter. I assure you that if you do, you will see figures in the room during that quick opening of an eyelid. All it takes is for you to falter in your words for a fraction of a second. And those demonic creatures will appear wretchedly in front of you. No prayer can help you then.
   
   Even if you do manage to maintain steady in your prayer, if you try to close your eyes again, you will see them behind your eyelids. They will be a darker black than you ever thought possible with closed eyes. You will open and shut your eyes in quick succession, seeing them stand with their impossible sharp fingers and arms and legs that are simply too long. At one flutter they will be in your mind and in the other right in front of you, like a dance between the light and dark of your blinks.
   
   They are waiting for a slip of a word, an unheeded pause, for an indrawn breath at their smile that is so wide it cuts into their cheeks, reaching to their malformed ears. It is a smile that will haunt you, one that you will see every time you close your eyes once you’ve seen it.
   
   If you wish to avoid it, pray with your eyes open. And if you have caught yourself having closed your eyes, keep them shut.
3. If you begin your prayers by saying them out loud, continue to do so until you are done. Until the final amen.
   
   It does not matter if you are enunciating your words loudly to the echoing rooms or merely whispering to yourself, continue to do so. Do not suddenly shift to praying inside your mind, as some are accustomed to do when they are alone, because the murmurs coming from around you will not stop. When you pray out loud you will hear muttering, murmurs, and raspy throat scratching whispers that are not coming from the people around you and will vibrate loudly when you are alone.
   
   Do not pay them any mind. Do not try to hear what they are saying. Focus on your holy words until you are done. Quitting your prayer will not stop those impious murmurs coming from a throat that is certainly not human. In fact, if you fail to complete a vocal prayer, their muttering will not cease. You will continue to hear them. Soon after that comes being able to see them.
4. When you kneel to pray, always make sure you are doing so in front of something.
   
   A pew. A bed. A desk. A tree. Anything. Let there not be an empty space in front of you, whether it is the space of your room or God forbid, the outdoors. Rest your elbows firmly against the hardwood of a pew or against the soft mattress of where you rest. Plant your knees right at the base of a tree, even if the knobby roots dig in and leave bruises on your sore bones. If you pray under a grand cross, always be in its center and in its shadow if you can, close enough to reach out a hand to touch it if necessary. Always be close enough to touch what you are kneeling in front of.
   
   If you do not have something to tether you during your prayers, you will not be kneeling and praying for God. And what is listening will not let you back up.
5. Always stay within the candles’ light.
   
   he church has not been modernized much. In many rooms and within its surroundings, candles are still the main source of light. This is true most especially in the grand space where mass is held, in which a myriad of candles will always be found on every stone wall leading up to the altar. Always stay within the light of at least one candle.
   
   I advise you to always keep a candle and matches on you, for candles will be blown out as the time to sleep approaches. Carry the candle with you, never set it down. Perhaps you will set it down and think to yourself, “Ah, the book or clothing I seek is only but a few feet away, leaving the candle on the table will offer enough light.” That is how it will appear, until suddenly the halo of visibility from the candle is much smaller than expected.
   
   Suddenly you will find yourself in a pure suffocating dark and the candle you left on a table but a few steps away is now the smallest blink of light impossibly far away. You will begin a brisk walk to it. Then a trot. Then a run as the footsteps begin to close in on you and there is warm breathing down your neck, smelling putrid and sweet. You will run and run, and the candle will only seem to get further away. You will run and run, feeling your lungs heaving and your sweat dripping down your back. Your heart will cramp in your chest and sharp fingers will begin to brush your clothing in their reaches to grasp onto you as you slow down.
   
   Stay within a candle’s light because dawn may not come quick enough to save you.
6. Never stand under the grand dome even if it is compelling you to do so.
   
   Over the altar of the church there is an enormous dome that stretches upwards. It has windows of stained glass that cover its base all the way to its heavenly point. There are patterns in the stone between the windowpanes, catching the viewer’s eyes straight up.
   
   If ever that grandeur dome compels you, calls to you, to stand right under it, do not listen. At the first inkling of that pull towards that center, turn around and walk away. Shut the heavy oak doors tight behind you and walk until the desire to return to the dome has completely disappeared. You may believe that it is your own volition, your own wish to simply admire its beauty and detail. It is not. Do not let them fool you into thinking so.
   
   If you give in, it does not stop there. You will be compelled to shed your blood for God, to slit your wrist under the center center dome that feels meant to hold the space of your blood. The blood will drip down your wrist to your fingers, silently falling onto the holy tile. You will kneel in that loving blood, wiping it over your face, dipping your rosary in it, and finally praying in its pool. You will feel the oneness in that prayer, feel the understanding that fills that final offering to God with euphoria. You will believe that you will meet God in the spill of your blood, that there is God in the shedding of blood – in your crimson shining blood, given solely to Him.

7. Do not go under the evening light of the stained-glass windows.
   
   Those windows always fascinated me, and I’m sure the scenery they are meant to depict has also caught your attention more than once. They stretch along the wall behind the altar all the way up to the far ceiling. Hours at a time I would sit on one of the smooth wooden pews that were soft and cool to the touch. Sometimes I would even kneel on one of the kneelers that always seemed to make such a loud clang no matter how softly you set it down on the stone floor. I would sink into that deep burgundy velvet and watch the day’s light move across the windows.
   
   The stained glass finds its beauty in its many colors, all vibrant with the sun’s rays behind them. With the stained-glass windows facing west, the setting sun should have littered the colors across the floor. But when the sun touches the horizon, it does not matter the hues of blue, yellow, and green that make up the church windows, the light that hits the altar is always tinted red.
   
   Once I ran my hands under that strange evening light. I watched my skin turn a bright blood red. Incredulous, I stared at it, slowly moving my fingers, playing with that tint. Until it started dripping. Red droplets hit the floor, splattering with an echo that bounced off the cold walls. I ran.
   
   I have never dared to touch that red stained light again. There is nothing as nauseating as feeling your own blood drip out of you, with no cuts to spill it, but still draining from inside you and leaving your skin and empty sack. It is better to simply watch the light from afar.

8. Do not look too closely at the statues that line the edges of the stone walls.They are of a beautiful bright white stone, contrasting sharply with the dark gray of the walls. They are intricately carved with thin veins appearing delicate in the knuckles or the streaks of tears shining on the face of Mary. So incredibly life like. It’s not uncommon to see visitors running their hands along the smooth white stone, if only to remind themselves that they are just statues.
   
   They are of a beautiful bright white stone, contrasting sharply with the dark gray of the walls. They are intricately carved with thin veins appearing delicate in the knuckles or the streaks of tears shining on the face of Mary. So incredibly life like. It’s not uncommon to see visitors running their hands along the smooth white stone, if only to remind themselves that they are just statues.
   
   The artist of the statues is unknown, but their beauty is enough that you never forget about them, even after a decade of working in that church. Certainly, you never miss them. Even if you are keeping your head straight ahead, they will always be bright in your peripheral vision. Keep them there, only at the edges of your vision. It is only when you look directly at them then turn away that they are no longer statues.
   
   If you try to take in the details too closely, gaze at the statues for too long, when you finally revert your gaze, they will have been awakened. A small movement will catch your eye, but you will tell yourself that it is just your vision, no longer what it once was.
   
   Huh, but did the statue always look like that? Were the fingers always in that position? And since when did the fingertips become so pointed?
   
   After staring at it, trying to answer your own questions, you will turn away, perhaps even walk away. But there it is again. You turn back. “No,” you will tell yourself, “The statue couldn’t have moved, it’s just a statue.” But you know that its position has altered. You know that the smile is suddenly wider. Too wide.
   
   You will turn to the other statues, now paranoid, looking at each of them for too long. When you turn to the next, the previous one will move and the one your eyes just left will twitch in place. Suddenly you spin circles around yourself trying to keep an eye on each because when your gaze leaves the one with the arms that are far too long to watch the one with a chin that is just too sharp, the statues behind you will take another step.
   
   You will turn to the other statues, now paranoid, looking at each of them for too long. When you turn to the next, the previous one will move and the one your eyes just left will twitch in place. Suddenly you spin circles around yourself trying to keep an eye on each because when your gaze leaves the one with the arms that are far too long to watch the one with a chin that is just too sharp, the statues behind you will take another step.
   
   Look down at the floor and pray that when you next look up, they are back where they are supposed to be. Next time, keep your eyes on the altar.

9. Do not touch the leather-bound antique Bible from 3 am to 5 am.
   
   It is not unusual to find visiting Fathers wandering the church or the gardens around it at odd hours of the night. God calls at untimely hours and we must heed that call. But if it is the Bible on the altar table that is calling you, make your way as far from it as you can.
   
   From 3 am to 5 am is when the mutterings will be loudest, when the figures and statues are starkest, and when you are compelled with the strongest pull. Only recently did I learn that it is also when that old Bible that never leaves its spot on the altar will seem to whisper to you. I had been wary about everything else and not knowing what those pages held inside that leather cover between those hours of the night, I assumed I was simply curious with my own will.
   
   The dark leather, being so old, was soft to my touch. The golden words in its center gleamed with my candlelight. I opened it randomly, and began to read aloud, thinking I simply read a lucky scripture I had landed on. The words blended into each other. The ink bled from each letter and onto my fingers locked into their grip. I read on. I don’t think the sounds coming from my throat were my own. I don’t think they were human. And the words were definitely not from any scripture.
   
   I think we are all lucky that countless years of training myself from those godless creatures awakened me. They appeared at the corners of my vision as I read and read from that morphed Bible. I could not stop, and the need to pull my head back, to expose my throat and utter those words to the heavens rolled my eyes into their sockets. In a fleeting second of free will, I swiveled my gaze to the creatures that were now abominably close. That broke me out of it. The years of learned instinct to repulse from them.
   
   I sank to the floor, vomit spilling from my corrupted throat, my muscles spasming and twitching as I grasped for the rosary that had begun to tighten around my throat. I heaved and gasped, filling the silence that longed for those infernal chants.

10. Kill any creature that has become solid.
    
    If you do not take these cautions, you are bringing something despicable into our world. Those things, those creatures, or devils or demons or whatever you would like to call them, they skirt the edges of our world, toying with us, compelling us to bring them forth. Sometimes, for moments at a time, we do. Though usually it is enough to step away, to keep our eyes closed, our palms pressed, to send them back. However, we are but human after all, and we are not always so lucky.
    
    If given enough power, those creatures will become solid. No longer dark and blurred at the edges. No longer waiting for you to glance away or step into the dark. They will be in your domain, and it will be your responsibility to get rid of them, for didn’t you let them in, after all. Besides, sometimes, no matter how inhuman they appear to you, others will mistake them as just another churchgoer, as just another Father perhaps new with eyes a tad too pale.
    
    But they are attached to you, waiting to get you. I have never let them.
    
    You must plan it out carefully, marking your time with precision. Wait until the time is right, then begin to pray. Slowly, begin to intertwine your fingers, it needn’t be a lot. Those creatures are always hungry. It will not take a lot to call them directly to you.
    
    When the thing is finally upon you, spring on it, with a sharp weapon in hand. I know what you are thinking, and no, no chant or scripture in Latin will send them back. Believe me, I have tried more than once.
    
    Blood will stream from where you puncture it, much more than seems possible, but do not stop. Go far past the point where it feels ridiculous to continue to stab a motionless thing.
    
    Now, for the dismembering. Do not think it dead simply because it has ceased moving. It will return. There is only one thing you can do to prevent this: cut the creature to pieces. Cut until the pieces fit in your hand. Slice the rotting meat from the gray bones and thin it into slivers. Then take every piece and burn it until not even the bones remain. Collect what you can of the ashes and bury it deep under a great cross. If the dirt begins to crack over where you buried the ashes. Pour more dirt atop. Ignore any of the murmurs this graveyard echoes with.

This seems a cruel thing Father Enrique, until you are forced to do it. You will know that those creatures suddenly wandering your church are not human, even if to police investigators the hacked body pieces seem convincingly mortal.

Based on the details I have provided, it must be obvious that I have had experience with killing one of them. The severed body I stood over in the backroom was not my first, and it would not have been my last if we had not had the unexpected visit from the neighboring covenant.

I was still dealing with my encounter with the leather Bible, more specifically, with the creature I had given enough power to become solid. A nun had become lost, from what I’ve heard, and somehow in her confusion, she made her way to me. Though I wonder if certain murmurs did not compel her to where I worked.

Her terrified shrieks did not go unheard. Other nuns and Fathers were quick to leap out of bed and follow her screams. She had run down the corridor before I could do anything, and she was kind enough to point everyone to me.

You can share this letter with the police if you wish, as evidence that there has been more than one “murder.” But that will not do you any good, nor do me any more harm. The murmurs can still find me here if I am not careful. From those whispers, I am beginning to think that I may be missed back at home.

But that will not stop me from praying every night, to our heavenly Father, that you will listen to my advisor. I hope I am not indulging in pride when I say that I have done a good job in keeping the Zenzontla Church a house of God, so I cannot say what will occur if hell is unleashed. I say that metaphorically, though I fear that it might be literal as well. I have no doubt that harm will not only come to you but to others as well. And I cannot say how far it can spread.

May God bless you Father Enrique, and may you heed His warnings.

Author Bio

---

By Gaby Lopez

When I tell people of her, I do not tell them of all the good, of all the love, of all the sentimental; instead, I tell them of how it ended, of how she was left splintered and lifeless, of how I was left with blood on my hands. 

Ten years ago, I met a girl with unruly fire in her hair and stars as freckles underneath the big oak tree only a block away from my house. That day, she asked me what book I was reading, and I responded, “Nothing exciting.” 

“It must be exciting,” she said accusingly, “you’re reading so closely.” 

I took in the girl’s bright skin and dull clothing; her shirt barely clinging to her shoulders and her pants saggy in the way a boys should be. But there she stood, staring down at me. All I could think to say was, “Who are you?” 

She then introduced herself proudly as Daisy. I don’t recall ever telling her my name or her ever asking, but over time she learned it and over time her saying it became my favorite sound; when she said it, it felt important. But that day, without even knowing my name, Daisy sat down right there next to me. From then on, we would spend our days there. My books grew in size and her’s slowly turned into pencils and sketches. She became my best friend, easily and simply. 

“You’re so easy to draw,” she had said to me once, when we were twelve and everything was gangly and awkward. I remember that as the year I finally got my braces off – I loved smiling at her. I raised an eyebrow at her, slightly offended. “Are you saying that I am simple looking?” “No, Eleanor,” she smiled so fully that her canines peeked beneath her lips, “I am saying that I enjoy drawing you.” 

She giggled, the cadence much like church bells. I’ve always hated the sound because it meant it was Sunday and Sundays reminded me of my mother’s insistent sharp stare, my father’s raspy singing of hymns and a preacher who’d stare directly at me with personal, infernal hatred. But her laugh was contagious in the way religion is and so I giggled with her. She was quite the opposite of simple, the type of person that the more you stared at her, the more difficult it was to understand her features in relation to each other. Every feature was simple and average on its own but placed together in a kind of lovely Frankenstein. I wondered then how she would draw herself; if she could capture the cupid bow of her lips or perhaps the tiny mole that poked out from her hairline. 

Daisy never let me see her drawings, especially the ones that I starred in. It’s one of the few things she kept from me. But that was okay, because the thought of bearing witness to her perspective of me was oddly terrifying. So, I let her shuffle into a corner and sketch. 

That is how our friendship continued throughout the years. Though slowly our favorite spot would shift from the big oak tree to the high school football field to the cliff at the edge of town. Each place brought with it a new experience. In such a small town, there wasn’t much to do or many places to be so we’d find ways to entertain ourselves. The kids in our grade began drinking, so we drank in the football field after hours; the kids in our grade began smoking, so we would turn to the cliff and roll a joint. It was easier to stay outside, fuzzied by whatever, than going home to our families. And slowly, in between it all, she became my person. 

One day, I looked at her, really inspected her, and I couldn’t believe how much she had grown. I never understood that, how I could be three inches taller than her and still feel as though I am the little girl with ill fitting clothing reading under the big oak tree. Still, though, my mother saw me growing into a lady and she expected for me to act as such, and slowly the judgmental eyeing shifted to long arguments about anything she could nitpick at. 

When I was fifteen, my mother stopped me as I shrugged my jacket on at the door. I was on my way to see Daisy, as I always was. 

“Eleanor,” she began, eyeing my oversized t-shirt, “where are you going?” 

“I’m going to see Daisy,” I tell her, though she knows.

She sighs, patting her perfectly slicked dark hair, “I know you two hang around that cliff.” I nod and once more reach for the door in an attempt to escape the room as the walls begin to feel as though they will close me in. My mother hated the cliff at the edge of my neighborhood; it was dangerous, parents cautious of it due to the multitude of stupid, drunk kids falling down it and into their demise. Yet, I felt more at home among those jagged rocks than here, in the corridor of my white walled house. 

“I don’t want you near there, Eleanor,” she spits out before the door can even open. “It’s bad enough you hang out with that girl.” 

My mother’s eyes burn a massive hole into my back as I say, “Daisy’s fine, mom.” “Did you know her mother hasn’t attended church in months?” 

“I didn’t.” Even without looking at her, I can see the way her arms cross over themselves and the way her eyes stare at me up and down as though I am an unfamiliar ghost haunting her perfect home. “Did you know her father is a drunk?” She asks. 

“I didn’t,” I lied. 

“Eleanor,” she says, and I finally turn my head to her, “I love you and I want you to be safe and I’m not sure she’s good for-” 

I nod, dragging the sleeve of my jacket down to my thumb. “Yeah, I know mom.” “Please, be safe.” 

“I always am.” 

I open the door fully and I wait for her to say something, for her to physically stop me, for her to do anything else; but she doesn’t. She never does, and yet I expect it every time. She brushes down her long-striped skirt, makes an awkward coughing sound, and retreats to the kitchen as I escape the foreboding white walls.

Conversations with my mother always seem to follow that script, a back and forth of judgment spoken and unspoken. Other than our shared dark eyebrows and broad shoulders, my mother and I are quite distinct. She is someone who is so sure of everything, so sure there is a God, so sure she will make it to Heaven, and so sure that whatever she sees in me is simply a mistake and one day I will realize it too and marry a nice Southern man. I, to juxtapose, am so unsure of everything I do. I know very little for certain and I find a horrendous comfort in that. I find comfort in knowing that despite our absolute familiarity, I will never become my mother with her white wall house and her off-putting husband and a child who’d rather dance at the edge of death than suffocate in her house. 

These thoughts corrupt my brain when I finally make it to the cliff. The cliff was known as the best secluded area in town; the trees shielding it from the road that led to it and if you slowly trailed it down, you’d be met with multiple rocky edges where you could sit with your feet dangling. There, at our normal ledge, sits Daisy. She seems blissfully unaware of my presence, eyes closed, and mouth pressed into a humming smile. I disrupt by settling my hand on her shoulder, but she does not jump, instead turns her face up at me slowly like she has all the time in the world. 

“Hey,” she says, her grin lopsided and overwhelmingly joyous. 

“Hi.” I make a seat beside her, gently resting my hand over her’s. 

She talks as I roll the blunt and the night goes on as we giggle and talk – we have a universe of things to discuss. 

When the high is weaning, we begin to trail our way back to the top. Daisy grabs my hand, laces our fingers together and tugs me upward. Even now, I can imagine how her hand felt, softly calloused, and how her eyes gleamed at just the sight of me following after her. 

“One day, we’re going to make it out of here,” Daisy tells me. 

“How about New York?” I joke, my eyes stuck on the ground, watching my footsteps carefully. “Yes, New York!” She exclaimed like I’m a genius. “That’s where we’ll live, Eleanor.”

We get to the top of the cliff, far from the impending hell at the bottom. Daisy turns to me, our hands still interlocked, and she leans in and touches my cheek gently with her free hand. When she pulls back, there sits my dark eyelash on the tip of her finger. 

“Make a wish,” she tells me. 

“You’re such a little kid,” I tease, and she sticks out her tongue. 

And still, no matter how childish, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and blow the eyelash away. When I open my eyes, I am blessed with the sight of Daisy’s round eyes staring at me like she knows exactly what I wished for, like she could pick out a piece of my mind and sculpt it perfectly. It’s my favorite memory of her and I wish I had a picture or a painting of her as she looked there, blushed and angelic. 

“Did you wish for our apartment in New York?” She asks. 

Grinning, I squeeze her hand. “Of course I did.” 

As we walk back to our small neighborhood, we discuss the colors and wallpaper and decorations of our New York penthouse; and, in that moment, it became everything I’ve ever wanted because she wanted it. And when I come home that night, eyes drooping and heavy, my mother is fast asleep on the couch, the T.V blasting. I pull a blanket over her and her snores follow me up the stairs and to my bed. A year later, my mother stopped bothering to ask where I go or who I go with. 

I can tell she’s tired of the unchanging answer, tired of me and my father and her imperfect life. Even so, it isn’t until my senior year of high school when my mother stops pestering me to attend church in my powder blue dress. So, on Sundays like today, I get the entire house to myself. 

“Who is it this year?” I asked Daisy sometime during our first week of senior year as I carefully braided her hair on the floor of my cluttered bedroom. 

Every year she’d focus on a random boy in our small town and every year I’d jokingly gag and loudly tease her until we’d dissolve into laughter. Luckily, no one was home tonight, my parents preferring to attend a baptism, so our door stayed propped open and all our secrets spilled into the hallway. 

“No one,” she hummed content. “All the boys are stupid this year.” 

“They’ve always been stupid,” I say as I wrapped the bottom of the braid with my favorite ribbon, white stitching on yellow fabric. 

She laughed, turning around to face me. The flyaway hairs of her braid felt something like a halo. I loved that she never questioned my disdain towards boys, I felt that she understood, somewhere deep down that I’ll never be infatuated with a boy in the way she always seemed to be. “You’re right, Eleanor,” she answered, giggling all the while, “you’re right.” 

“I always am,” I said, “I’m glad you’ve finally caught on.” 

It was dark outside, the stars winking mischievously, but both of us knew not to lay our heads to rest. There was a deep understanding of our routine, of what came next as I pulled out a small Ziploc bag of greenery. 

“Now, shall we go for a walk?” I ask, winking. 

The obvious response follows, “Absolutely!” 

We meandered to our beloved spot, the cliff a couple of blocks away at the very edge of my neighborhood, the night swallowing our footsteps. 

It was understandable that so many parents warned against it, but to us, this was our youth. It was our small rebellion to sit on one of those rocky edges and roll a blunt, letting the smoke pollute the sky. Some nights we talk until our voices scratch like an over-played record, other nights, nights like tonight, we sit in silence and ponder. 

Suddenly, after what felt like centuries of kicking my feet and inhaling, she turns away from the sky and smiles at me. Her eyes blazed just as hot as her hair, the smoke around us painting her into what I hope hell looks like – fiery, dangerous, wildly lovely.

I could say that I don’t know what it was about that exact moment that made me lean in, but that would be a lie. It was scary to want to kiss someone who felt like they’d burn you alive. But I wanted to, right then, because she looked lovely, because her sketchbook was filled with my crooked nose and almond eyes, because she always looked at me with so much adoration, but mostly because I felt I’d never get another chance. 

But before I could touch her, she pulled away. Her eyes, the size of my mother’s favorite coasters and her mouth, pressed into a paper-thin line. My skin bubbled over like boiling water, the embarrassment and hurt creeping through my veins quickly as she shifted her body farther from me, closer to the edge. “Eleanor,” she said. “That’s not – what are you doing?” 

For a moment, I thought she was disgusted. But for the second I sat there; I realized she was so very scared. I knew fear almost as well as I knew Daisy; the way it shaped itself around me, clinging to my body like a sickly second skin. I knew fear, personally. She had leaned in, I was sure of it, but that didn’t make my heart hurt any less. 

“I thought-,” I began. 

I had never seen her move with such quickness as when she stood up to leave. I tried to move with her, to explain myself to her betrayed look. I reached for her shoulder only for her to shove it off, as if just my touch was torching her. 

“I can’t,” she said as I stumbled from the strength of her shove, “I’m not-.” 

She stops herself. Like you, I fill in the blank. I can tell she hates that she thought it, her large eyes glistening with tears and I see the fear begin to grip her. Because she is like me, she has to be_,she leaned in too. Even though my heart pinched, I reached once more for her shoulder praying that I could explain myself. She jolted backwards, her body toppling slightly at the loose rocks below her feet. I went to steady her only to yet again be denied. 

“Daisy, c’mon,” I tried to reason. “I thought, maybe-”

“No, Eleanor-,” she said, once again taking a step back. 

I reached one more time, but she was too fast, and too high, and the cliff too unsteady. I shouldn’t have pushed it; I shouldn’t have kept going. I should’ve let her live in fear. 

“Daisy, please, let me explain.“ 

There are moments when time seems to move at an immaculate speed; this was one of those moments. You never imagine losing someone, not when everything is still new and the sky is so full of undiscovered secrets, not when that someone is your best friend, not when it was all your fault. 

I’ve never been so patient as when I waited for her lungs to fill and her blood to flow from above her like God waiting for the dust to turn human. But, unlike God, I was left gutted because she was just that, dust, and no longer a living, breathing Daisy. In an instant, she was lifeless beneath me. Those moments with immaculate speed are preceded by an eternal silence as everything, all the wind and all the blood-curdling screaming sets in. 

When I came home, later than usual, my mother sat on the couch waiting for me. “Eleanor,” she said, worried, “where have you been?” 

I think she could see the turmoil in my eyes because she didn’t wait for a response and simply opened her arms. It was the only time I ever collapsed into my mother, the only time I let her fingers massage my scalp as she quietly prayed over me; it was the only time prayer didn’t feel like guilt. “What happened?” She asked, finally, when my sobbing died down. 

“Daisy – she,” I hiccuped, “the cliff-“ 

My mother flinched at the mention of the cliff, “Did she fall?” 

I sob again, clinging to her cardigan like a lifeline. 

“It’s my fault,” I attempted to explain, “I tried to-.” 

“She jumped,” my mother stated, as if simply putting it into the universe will alleviate the guilt that weighs me down. “Oh honey, that poor girl.”

My mother doesn’t ask any more questions, and I don’t correct her. If she knew the truth, all of it, the entire moment, I don’t think she would ever forgive me. I think she knows it too. And so, the sickly skin takes hold of my words, and so I nod. 

People never ask for a story of her life, of her drawings, of her church bell giggles. They – the court, the town, my mother – ask me what happened that night at the cliff, and I let Daisy’s fear and my mother’s disappointment run through my lips when I tell people she jumped in a bout of influenced stupidity. All these people, who did not know her, believed me – Daisy jumped because her mother hates God and because Her father is a drunk and because she could never, truly make any other friends. When I tell people about her, I do not say she was my first love. They don’t care, they would never understand. Instead, I describe the way her body looked splintered at the very bottom of the cliff, the only recognizable aspect of her from the top being the flames of her hair sprawled around her. 

But I remember her – I put my entire being into remembering her. Weeks after the funeral, against my mother’s wishes, I helped Daisy’s mother, Beatrice, gather her things. She lets me take a couple of necklaces and Daisy’s beloved sketchbook. Beatrice wouldn’t give me Daisy’s pink sticker-polluted diary, even though it had all the answers, and I couldn’t find it in me to hate her for it. I wasn’t destined to know; Daisy’s sin ended with death and mine continued by outliving her. 

A year later, I spent my time in the local community college, picturing how I could be in a cramped New York apartment, making sickly sweet waffles to bring to Daisy as she woke up for another day of work. She would giggle and I would kiss her and it’d be normal. 

And when I finally did get my first girlfriend, a tall brunette with too-perfect teeth who sat behind me in my college freshman English class, I pictured Daisy smiling down at me. At the end of the year, I finally opened up Daisy’s sketchbook, I hadn’t had the heart to do it before. No matter how vain it sounds, I thought I’d find portraits of myself at every age, perfectly rendered, but instead, I found only parts of myself sketched to the side of the pages – my nose, one of my eyes, my lips. But never me as a full, human portrait. I sobbed into my then girlfriend’s arms, and I felt no comfort. 

I wish I had ended when she did like two parallel lines eventually destined to cross, but I didn’t. My line continues, inevitably and irreversibly bent by Daisy.

Author Bio

---

By Abigail Dunbar

Why is she so afraid to die? It’s not like she hasn’t been dead before. And as a general rule of her existence, if an experience is not particularly painful or scary the first time around, there is no sense in believing it will be particularly painful or scary the second time. 

In her first death, there might have been nothing. She thinks it was like a dreamless night: taking up no time and no real space. Or maybe like staring at a peaceful black sky. 

In her first death, she layed calmly in a warm, pink tomb. Around her, thin, blue rivers thrummed to a beat. A lovely female voice sang to her, and a male voice told her about her future: what the world would look like, what sport she was going to play, and how so many people were already so excited to meet her. She realized that both the singer and the talker loved her already. They had already given her a name. 

In her life, she slipped out as a blood-soaked mass into the gloved hands of a tired woman. The smell of antiseptics and sweat punched through her small nostrils. Fluorescent lights did not hesitate before searing her young flesh. The people that loved their new baby swaddled her in a linen blanket and took her on her first elevator ride. Outside, falling drops of cold water slid down her new face and swam into her open mouth. “Babies are born clean,” the doctor had said. 

In her life, she began in a beautiful little corner home, sleeping on a futon between those two people that loved her. She watched orange sunsets from the front porch. At night, she stretched her smooth arms and short legs to touch the warm bodies next to her. She felt their faces in the mornings and their damp shirts at night. She touched them with love—and to make sure they were still there. 

In her life, she liked to sit with the grass touching her legs, back against the broad yellow stomach of her best friend. The dog sat with the small girl for hours at a time, always obliging her when she offered up frayed dandelions as treats. The dog’s name was Nike. And Nike sniffed each flower methodically before she huffed out a satisfied sigh, and closed her black jowls around a meager blossom. The little girl did not understand why the sniffing routine was necessary–her best friend ate the flower every time without fail. 

In her life, in the back corner of a sacristy, her kindergarten teacher pulled a white, faux velvet dress over her head. It fit her well. Adult hands tightened the accompanying gold sash around her waist. She rehearsed her lines with the other angels, halo bobbing as she spoke. They all held the same script: white pages and worn edges. The girls (angels) were up next on stage. 

In her life, every Tuesday and Thursday at eight a.m., she sat on a long pew–thigh-to-thigh with other children–and pulled at Irish pennants along the sleeves of an itchy red sweater. The sweater was a fresh-blood red. At ten a.m. on weekends, the sweater followed her to another set of pews—this time filled with perfumed adults. The singer then watched as her growing girl trudged down an old, carpeted aisle, chewed on a pale wafer, and pretended to politely sip from a golden chalice.

In her life, the girl grew taller and ran faster. Other people began to yell at her to run even faster. Faster than her feet could ever strike the ground, and faster than her lungs could ever swallow air and spit it back out. They wanted her to run impossibly fast, she later realized. But the yellers loved her—so much so that they could scream absolutely anything at her and she would know they still loved her. 

In her life, she has many kinds of yellers now. Some yells sound distant and hollow like the occasional train blaring in the night, others are uncomfortably close by, and still more seem to have found a way to claw through her eardrums and sit in the back of her skull. Usually, her own voice is mad at her too–but it’s a front. Because she is not really mad, she is just scared. And she was not raised to act scared. But luckily, at certain moments when they think no one is listening, the occasional yeller whispers “Godspeed,” straight to her heart. 

In her second death, she might realize that being afraid was pointless, or that the feeling was ultimately inevitable. She will be okay. Her second death might be like her first. If that’s so, she hopes it will include the addition of a smooth black sea, and a collection of stars for that nice black sky. Or maybe it will be different: an immense wave of light and bliss and epiphany. Whatever the case, I hope she will get to remember all of the fervent yellers she met, and all of the silent dogs, and every other lovely, banal thing. But mostly I hope she will be able to recognize that everything was perfect–including herself.

Author Bio

---