The Avatar - 2024

The Harvey School The Harvey School

~The Avatar~ ~The Avatar~

Faculty Advisor: Ms. Bean

Faculty Advisor: Ms. Bean

Editor and Layout Design: Editor and Layout Design: Olivia Barsky Olivia Barsky

Cover Art: Lena Boyce

Cover Art: Lena Boyce

Stocks 001 Stocks 001

by Grace Alpern by Grace Alpern

Sohpia Beldotti Sohpia Beldotti

“Valentino”

“Vilomah”

A Cute Black Dress by A Cute Black Dress by

Lena Boyce Lena Boyce

a cute black dress of silk and baby’s-breath oh but the price tag is not quite as cute and just like that my dreams are put to death in an ever present theme of my youth again and again “NO, money is tight” again and again “maybe for Christmas” fine then I’ll just ignore their taunting slights who likes a girl always making a fuss but there’s a spark, a flame under my ass there’s a voice telling me I can make it I need to make it so my kids don’t ask “ can we afford this mom, I r’ly need it” though at this time I can’t afford those things one day I’ll certainly dine among kings

Ryan Byrne Ryan Byrne

“Victory Through The Eyes of Andrew Bernstein”

“The Suga Show”

“Working Hard of Hardly Working”

Pieces of a Broken Sun by Pieces of a Broken Sun by Benji Cutler Benji Cutler

I used to think that having the entire sun at the palm of my hand was all that I needed, but now, having just a piece of it is even better.

Growing up in Westchester, it was always just me, my older brother Alex, and my parents, the ideal American family.

We all lived in a picture-perfect red brick house with a perfect golden retriever, and countless perfect memories. Mom was a doctor making six figures, and Dad worked a desk job as a banker. They were married for twenty years, deeply in love, had my brother and I, and we were all happy. The sun shined down on us for so long, but all of a sudden, we were blinded from the light

In my second week of college, Mom came down with Leukemia. I will always remember exactly where I was when I got the call from Dad

At this point, it was just Mom and Dad at home. Alex was long gone, working at a law firm in Florida But on that dreaded call, in a hurting yet surprisingly calm voice, Dad asked me to come home. “B-but why can’t you take care of her yourself?” I asked, trying to contain myself. “Look, Mark, the best way I can support your mother is by going to work as normal and making sure that a roof stays above her head. I need you to stay with her, we just can’t afford a nurse right now. ”

I called Mom next to see if she really needed me to stay with her, and the first thing I hear, in a broken, aching voice, is “Your father is cheating on me. I’ve already filed the papers. ”

My shaking heart dropped to the ground, and the perfect picture frame of my family had shattered and fell onto the floor. My father, the pure-hearted man I had looked up to for my entire life, had been seeing another woman for a year, even before Mom’s diagnosis came in My mother was on her last limbs, without a shoulder to lean on. I didn’t know who my father was anymore Alex was doing great and nobody wanted him to cut that short, so I was packing my bags once again to stay with Mom.

Whatever it took to bring the light back into the Butler family, I would do it. Yet, deep down, I knew things would never go back to normal again, though I really wished I didn’t know that. For the next two years, Mom and I lived in a two bed apartment with gray walls, a kitchen that was the width of five footsteps, a dusty TV, and the haunting odor of coughs and red Kleenex tissues. I worked as a bartender nearby, but the lights in the apartment just kept growing dimmer and dimmer as the days went by.

I didn’t know if or when Mom would ever smile again, and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold my smile for her.

Suddenly, a ray of sunlight beamed upon our foggy apartment building on a bright, orange day in November. My mother had slowly gotten out of bed with a devastating sigh to look at the results from her latest medical test, and as she ripped open the letter, there was only one word standing out at the top of the page.

“Negative. Mark, it’s negative!” The windows pulled open, the birds started singing, and Mom’s face glowed for the first time in two years, as a golden tear drop streamed down her face. With Thanksgiving around the corner, and the world telling us that change was upon us, I made a decision myself. I bought a steaming turkey, creamy sweet potatoes, savory macaroni and cheese, and everything in between. Before I could even think twice about what I just did, three roaring knocks arrived at the door, wiping off a layer of dust It was time

As I approached the door, the floor shaking beneath me with every step, I trembled with every breath I reached my hand out to the doorknob with a tight, unstable grip, and the hinges slowly creaked and groaned as the sun slowly exited the apartment out the door. Standing there was a young, tan woman with bright cherry lipstick and shining golden locks Next to her was a new man, his hands twitching but his posture standing tall like a soldier ready for war, wearing a tight black suit to match his slick-backed hair and shiny dress shoes.

“No, Mark, what did you do?” Mom stood ten feet behind me, her voice throbbing just how it did when she was sick.

“Thanks for setting this up, son. ” He gently tilted his head up to look behind me, as he hinted at a slight grin. “It’s good to see you, Jen. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bull! Why are you here?” Her fiery voice strengthened with every word as she stormed up to the door.

I stretched my arms out to get between these two unfamiliar, haunting figures that were my parents.

“Let’s all just sit down and talk for a little while. We just got this great news, so can’t we just set the past aside for a night and celebrate Thanksgiving, as a family?” A roaring silence echoed around us as my feet pushed deep into the quaking floor.

As I approached the door, the floor shaking beneath me with every step, I trembled with every breath. I reached my hand out to the doorknob with a tight, unstable grip, and the hinges slowly creaked and groaned as the sun slowly exited the apartment out the door. Standing there was a young, tan woman with bright cherry lipstick and shining golden locks. Next to her was a new man, his hands twitching but his posture standing tall like a soldier ready for war, wearing a tight black suit to match his slick-backed hair and shiny dress shoes.

“No, Mark, what did you do?” Mom stood ten feet behind me, her voice throbbing just how it did when she was sick.

“Thanks for setting this up, son ” He gently tilted his head up to look behind me, as he hinted at a slight grin. “It’s good to see you, Jen. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bull! Why are you here?” Her fiery voice strengthened with every word as she stormed up to the door.

I stretched my arms out to get between these two unfamiliar, haunting figures that were my parents.

“Well, I don’t remember this paramour ever being a part of this so-called family,” Mom shouted, looking down at Dad’s partner as if she was a child.

“Mom!” I cried, looking at her with begging eyes.

“It’s ok, son. This is my wife, Jane.”

“It’s nice to meet you, ” Jane chipped in, her voice cracking.

We all stood there for a few seconds, and all we could hear was the rumbling air conditioner and the drip-drip coming from the sink.

“C-come on in, I bet you guys are hungry,” I declared, trying to move us away from the darkness by the door.

As everyone took a seat at the wooden, creaking kitchen table, I brought all the food over while trying my best to distract everyone. I kept asking questions like, “How was the drive over?” and “Does anyone want anything to drink?”, and all I got was “Good” or “I’m ok ” I felt like I was the adult trying to make conversation with teenagers.

As I finished my last trip from the kitchen and back to the table in five quick steps, I took a heavy deep breath and put on a smile like a mask.

As time passed, the roar of the air conditioner grew louder, the tick tick of the clock stood hauntingly over us, and every time I glanced at someone, the look ended in a heartbeat. I looked down at my plate, took a bite of the cold, dry turkey, and the stringy meat tasted sour.

I got very familiar with the decorations staring us down in the middle of the table and the repeating pattern of drips from the sink that tore on my eardrums. I looked outside, and the rain was falling, falling, and growing louder and louder as the sun hid behind a clump of gray clouds.

Dad fixed his oily hair back every two seconds, as his tight posture was in total contrast with his tapping foot and jumpy hands, moving around like flies. Jane’s innocent and warm smile slowly faded as the minutes passed, and Mom’s eyes darkened until I was looking at two black holes with a tint of water at the gates

“So, Dad, how’s work?”

“Why’d you do it?” Mom cut me off before I could finish speaking The lights turned off for a second, then back on.

“Sorry?” Dad responded with a guilty look on his face Jane let go of Dad’s hand and sped to the bathroom, as they gave each other a nod like they had this all planned.

“You know what I’m talking about. Answer the question,” Mom replied, tapping her foot loudly on the unstable ground.

“Guys, do we really have to get into ”

“No it’s ok, Mark! Just let him answer the question.”

I looked down at my plate, my legs twitching, put my hand across my face, and just waited as the inevitable time bomb ticked away.

“Look, I wasn’t in a good place then, and I was drinking too much, a-and I, I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. ”

“No, you see, that’s not gonna cut it.” Mom’s voice grew louder and louder as her face got red and she rose up with a commanding posture, almost getting out of her seat

“That doesn’t, no, that can’t be your excuse for leaving me while I was sick in bed, all alone!” The lights began to flicker, and the rain thundered down on the gray apartment

“And don’t even get me started with you sleeping with another woman when I was two seconds away from dy-”

“I wasn’t happy!” Dad slammed his hands on the table, his voice growing unstable, his loose strands of hair falling down to his forehead, and his posture loosening down into a fragile ball.

“I wasn’t happy, for twenty years. I couldn’t take it anymore! Every day feeling just like the one before it, a-an endless cycle living in a boring house with a boring job, with a boring, a-a boring ” “Oh, you selfish ass! I hate you!” One of the lightbulbs above the table was dying down, and thunder rumbled outside.

“W-why did you-you do this ”” Mom’s voice broke into pieces like a fallen vase with dying flowers

She sat back down and laid her head on the table, endless tear drops falling down with her. The lights stopped flickering as the rain slowed down

“I-I-I, I loved you, ” she cried, as if it were her dying words.

“I did too, and I always will,” Dad responded, letting out a tender smile as his grief-stricken eyes grew.

“It’s my fault, and it will haunt me until the day that I die.”

Mom looked up at him with the rising sun reflecting into the corners of her eyes. She shook her head, letting out her last few tears, as her face gradually gained its color again.

The three of us just sat there for a moment, and a lifetime of memories entered my mind. The trips to the playground, the big bowls of ice cream, the warm hugs like two suns wrapping around me, the laughs at the kitchen table when we played board games. That indescribable feeling beamed onto me in that moment.

Dad stood up from the opposite side of the table, and stared into each other’s hearts for the first time in years. Mom’s broken smile and damp cheeks glowed across to Dad’s relaxed posture and despairing eyes as the lights at the table brightened

“I am so sorry, Jen. You deserve someone better than me. ” Dad abruptly headed to the bathroom to get Jane, and I went over to hold Mom like she always held me

I wrapped my arms around her cold, empty back as a rainbow rose up out from the window behind her Her final tear drops fell onto my back as she rested her chin onto my shoulder My heart gained a few beats again as I heard her heartbeat settle down and her body warm up “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Mark.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re the strongest person I have ever met.”

As Jane and Dad walked back into the room, Dad insisted on putting his shoes and jacket back on while wiping his sorrowful tears off his cheeks. Mom met him at the door to see him out.

“I can never forgive you, ” Mom gently whispered, trying for me not to hear her “I know, and neither can I. But it was so good to see you, Jen.”

“It was good to see you, too.” I watched as she slowly closed the door on the other half of my life, my heart slow to get up from the ground. As she turned towards me, she nodded with a torn yet healed smile, and I held my smile for her. A golden tear drop streamed down her face once more, and I could finally say that we were going to be alright

143 by O’Neil Ellis 143 by O’Neil Ellis

whenever i think about the beginning of my adolescence, i am always reminded of you. my first ever love. yes, i have loved many others before, but… you were the first one to acknowledge me for me. not for anything else, but for me.

i remember the day i first found out how flustered and confused i was questioning if this was real and if you really liked me.

it couldn’t have been real. but… it was?

i remember when we would text back and forth and talk about the most random things ever. i remember how awkward it was between us being together; loving the presence of one another. but little did we know: all the pain and endless suffering we would have to endure, all the judgments and assumptions made about us because nobody else was like us

there was only one of us, causing things to be strained between us oftentimes. (it felt like they were more in control of our relationship than we were)

i remember all the times i made you feel safe and made you forget about everybody else. i remember when you trusted me with any and everything, when you would tell me about the things you never told any of the people you loved most because you were scared that nobody would ever understand you, or look at you weirdly. but… i admired you. i was the only person you knew who recognized you, and understood any and everything that you told me you were perfect. and i was perfect to you you were mine. and i was yours. until i wasn’t anymore.

(i loved you and i still do love you)

oh, if only you knew how desperately i wish to go back to those times. where we were just naive little kids, foolish; unaware of all the things we were saying and doing. the things i would do just to show you how much you meant to me: a simple, gentle motion that would’ve shown to you that i truly cared about you. a motion that could have changed the entirety of our narrative, or made me see a completely different side of you.

i loved the way you looked into my eyes and made my stomach turn into knots, causing me to feel lovesick every day. i loved all of the attention you gave me, the attention that made me feel special and different from the rest, causing me to feel like i was the only one you would ever love so deeply. but… the thing that i loved most about you, was that i was the first, and maybe the last ever guy you liked i know what we had is long gone now as this all happened years ago, but… it is truly hard for me to accept the end of us, and what we had in the making. because you were the first one to acknowledge me for me. not for anything else, but for me. i could go on endless tangents and write so fondly about you, and the special relationship we had, and what we could have been, but i know i already sound crazy for idealizing you into a muse. my first ever love. (you made me realize that i am worthy of love)

i wish i could go back in time and make our chapter of the story ongoing, or end it in a way that would’ve given me closure, acceptance; not see you change your ENTIRE personality for the new person, YOU were head over heels for after I was sick of YOU and YOUR insanity. (oh, how truly sadistic you are)

but i will always love you. for what you were to me, and what you still are to me for making me realize that i am not undesirable to others, and that i am desirable to you

i always wonder where you are now and what you are doing are you still the version of yourself that i saw you last as, or are you renewed and healed from all that you have gone through? do you even think about me at all… and all of our history? or do you not even think about me at all, and neglect the side of you, only i truly saw?

Cici Cici Feng Feng

Madi Fleisher Madi Fleisher

Ellie Florin Ellie Florin

“First Birthday Without You”

“Marianne”

Dean Jones Dean Jones

Annissa Khanna Annissa Khanna “Flowers”

Time and Wisdom by Lucy Time and Wisdom by Lucy LaGattuta LaGattuta

The tale I shall tell is a tale of a bard that happens to be telling a tale. So I shall start by giving a brief introduction;

The bard that tells this tale is a fair fellow, solely dressed in green, with bright yellow hair cresting at his shoulders. It's said that when he sings a song of sorrow he ties his hair back, with a piece of red silk. Yet when he sings a ballad of love he lets it wave in the wind. I am told that his free flowing locks are akin to a flock of doves. He also keeps a lute, a fine old thing, burnished brass and oak, well cared for and loved. And when he talks of it, it's with a gentle fondness only found when a lover speaks of another. His only true possessions are a worn evergreen cloak, rich in fabric and most importantly, POCKETS! Those pockets are filled with trinkets, rosin, strings, anything a good bard should keep. But, tucked into his breast pocket is a notebook. A notebook containing all his songs of lovers lost, of dreams met and promises kept. The story he is to tell is one kept in a different pocket, closer to his heart. He travels from town to town sowing the seeds of songs with flowery language that I could only, and will try and emulate And as he was traveling he met a girl that made him pause, and take a thought. Such a girl made him think, so he decided to write a story about her It went like so:

“A girl stands in the middle of an emerald field, in the distance she can see a town. Small, thatched roofs Simple houses for simple people When she breathes in she can smell baking bread, wafting on the wind. She turns around, bathing in the golden sunlight, her steps are sure even on the silty ground. As she spins her eyes land on a forest, lush with foliage. Its trees tower over her and her small stature. She stares at it, not intently, but more questioningly, as if its mere existence confounds her. But instead of turning away from the lush forest, she sets her mouth and dives head first into the underbrush.

A boy stares wistfully into a field, more specifically at a small girl, soft silken hair, cropped close to her head He had never seen the girl before but he thought she was brave Standing out in the open like that But the small cramped houses of his village were his home, warm brick against his back was his comfort. As he stared he heard the deep clanging of a bell and a sure shout for dinner, so he turned and ran back home. And so he missed the girl when she seemed to be called by some unspoken voice, dove boldly into the thick fray of the beautiful forest.

A young woman stared out the window reproachfully. Her eyes seem sunken, with purple bruises underneath them. Her frown lines deepened as a girl dressed in a long flowing skirt spun slowly towards the dark, ugly forest. But, before the woman could see the girl start towards the musty tree-dense forest the woman was rushed off by the clanging of the dinner bell.

The girl ran through the forest, easily dodging the flying branches Some branches were as thick as her head, others the size of her arm. The ground flew out from under her, silt kicked up behind her. She ran in what seemed to be no real direction Turning around, and when she jumped off the large rock outcroppings, her skirt would flare out from behind her. And with the sun breaking through the treetops she seemed angelic Then she would land, softly, then breaking back into her sprint The foliage changed gently. Towering oaks went, and pines came, then the pines left and all that was left was a gorge. It appeared so abruptly that the girl flew right off. And she fell. Simple as that, this dexterous and compact girl tumbled, head over heels through the air. And when she looked down she could not see the bottom of the gorge, she could only see mist. A thick milky mist, impossible to look through, so she tumbled into the fog. The opaque mist surged upwards as if it were a starving beast, and it swallowed her, head to toe.

The boy ate silently in the long room. His table had many people at it most he knew, after all his village was tiny, others he didn’t but he didn't let that bother him. He had other things on his mind. More specifically on the girl in the field He had never seen her before, so as he stepped into the low roofed hall, he swung his head back and forth trying to find her in the crush of hungry farmers, butchers, and smiths yet he did not see her head bobbing through the crowd So he sat disappointed, and tried to puzzle out who this girl was. For there were no other towns near his, no other cities or villages, as far as the boy knew, the town of Derdire was the only other place with people But this girl was new So that was why the boy was sulking, when a hulking man walked up to him and slapped him on the back. The air woooooshed out of him, like air out of bellows. “Why'd ya look so down, Basil? The last time I saw ya look sad was when ya burnt the bread! And I gotta say kid, ya a lot sadder now. Is it about a girl? I know plenty about girls. Is it Avelda?”

The large man pointed to a pretty girl, slightly taller than Basil, thin as a willow switch and a wit to match. She flitted through the dense crowd easily until she reached a group of girls. “N-no I’m not thinking of Avelda, I-I’m just thinking of the food! Yeah, the food is great, it's so great that I’m sad that I might never eat something so wonderful '' “Well I’ll tell the cooks,” said the big man as he lumbered away. Basil sighed into his stew.

For such a long and dramatic fall, the girl landed softly The mist sent her down on a cold rock Her breath misted the air as she got her bearings. She had landed in what looked like a cavern. Above her was the mist which only let slim rays of light through. The walls were smooth quartz with glistening veins of a smaragdine crystal. Behind her was a wall but in front of her was a long tunnel that seemed to slope gently down as far as her eyes could see then turned abruptly. She took a minute to brush the dirt off her skirt, and daintily stepped forward. As she walked down the tunnel her entire demeanor changed. Her slim shoulders shifted back, her seemingly earthy skirt changed to silken, her chin tilted slightly upward and her step became heavier and more commanding. As she walked the veins shifted to gold, and then to a deep blue sapphire. And finally the quiet tunnel was filled with a low din. It became louder and the tunnel became wider and wider until it opened into a massive cavern.

Basil worked and tilled the field slowly, and with such an utter lack of luster that his father made him stop farming and forced him to do more fun things. In the words of his father “little boys shouldn't look so sad, go out and play or I will be forced to- well I’m not sure what I could force you to do, just shoo.” Basil took his leave quickly and without complaint but soon realized that he wouldn't be able to have fun. He needed to find the girl who haunted his dreams and lurked in his periphery. So he walked around Derdire. Slowly, at first, and then faster and with more urgency until no bakery nor smith, no orchard or farm had yet to be searched for the girl. He stumbled out of breath back to his home where his mother was. He smiled as he saw her. He hugged her as she walked in. she smiled kindly and ruffled his hair with flour, leaving his tips frosted. He would miss her. He grabbed his bag and left, no explanation, no nothing. He would've but he knew he might not come back. He would miss father Sage and Thyme. But they would live on. He realized the girl could only have gone one of two ways. She could have gone out of town on the only road. Or she could have delved into the dense forest. He grimaced, the forest wasn’t a place he wanted to go. Stories were told about that forest, no one ventured in and came back out again But he had a feeling that she didn’t take the easy way out.

The cavern curved steeply upward. She couldn't see the top because there seemed to be a low hanging mist punctured solely by long stalactites Below her cave ledge, there lay a staircase leading to a palace. The palace was made of towers with iron spires, reaching towards the matching stalactites Its presence demanded awe, and terror That being said, the girl's expression turned haughty, not in contrast to the palace but rather in compliment. She stepped softly down the stairs, yet her steps seemed to echo through the muffled cacophony.

Two men stood in front of a set of doors. Each one was stout, broad shouldered, and covered head to toe in a thin layer of hair, similar to a kiwi, although they were blonde as the beaches. To that, the girl and the men shared the same thin nose and sharp cheekbones. They held spears, with sharp iron points. As the girl approached the two men crossed their spears preventing passage for the girl. “Let me through, I need to see my father.” The girl’s voice was sharp and piercing. “Apologies madam, but I’m afraid that we can’t let anyone from the outside in” the man ' s voice was smooth with a lilting tone, condescending.

The girl sighed and took a step forward. The men moved closer together, but the girl simply hit them over the head with a ring on her right pointer finger They collapsed on the floor and promptly started snoring. The girl laughed and pushed the large doors open Basil stomped through the forest Constantly trying to free himself from the endless underbrush With the sun setting the trees seemed to close in on him, sneering at him, and his stupidity. But he trudged on because at some point he realized that it was too late to turn back, and he yearned to know who she was. When the sun had fully set and the moon was at his highest point, the forest filled with a celestial glow. Basil broke into a run, jumping from rock to rock. And when he jumped off a large rock outcroppings, his loose flowing cloak would flare out from behind him. And with the moon breaking through the treetops he seemed ethereal. Then he would land, loudly, sticks and leaves crunching under his boot, then he went back into his brisk walk. He walked until the sun started to come up, and when he stumbled over a large root he fell to the ground. There he lay, and there he fell asleep pulling his cloak around him. The inside of the palace felt quaint compared to the outside, though compared to the village it was rather austere Their walls were made of mud brick that seemed to emanate a warm, comforting glow. The floors seemed to be a waxed and polished quartz floor of quartz, so shiny that if the girl took her shoes off she could slide across the floor as if it was ice That being said, that is precisely what she did.

Her deep frown and condescending posture fell away and all that was left was a happy girl, whose face was as happy as it was when it was basking in the sun. She ran, sliding through the halls, laughing gleefully as she slowly slid to a stop. She stopped at a small door just larger than her frame. She pushed it open, her face still glowing and her deep brown eyes still glistening.

The boy had walked for days and days and as he went the trees slowly changed, sure they still leered at him during twilight, and during the day there seemed to be more thorns than there were during the day But the oaks became pines and evergreen, the weather became colder, and the ground rockier and more barren. But he kept walking. His mind wandered off as he walked, thinking of his little sister, Oregano, his hermit of a sister, he hoped she and her fiance Thomas were getting along. He thought of his Father Thyme and Sage, hoping they were relaxing telling stories to the younger kids. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was hoping that he could be there too. Listening to the captivating tales of big cities and people of all shapes and sizes across the ocean. But of course he trudged on, until he hit a gorge. The tree line sharply ended and he found himself on a ledge. Stretching for miles in each direction. No bridge spanned the gorge, no ladder, no zipline. His breathing became difficult and his chest seemed to get heavier and heavier. He slipped to the ground, his heart dragging him down. What was he going to do, where did she go? She couldn’t have gone down into the ravine? Would he climb into the canyon or be forced to turn back? He stood up suddenly, there was only one thing he could do!

The room was filled to the brim with men similar looking to the guards at the door Their hair varied in color, from bleach blonde, to a dark green like so dark it looked black. In the circle of men was a throne, and on that throne looking supremely tired and frustrated was a small bald man with cheekbones so sharp they could kill. His sharp nose dainty supported a set of pince-nez, which only accentuated his cheekbones. The girl clapped three times each one echoing, piercing the hubbub and silencing the men. The bald man looked up and his tired lines were traded in for dimples as he pushed himself up to stand. He rushed to the girl. “My baby, My baby girl is back! Princess Nelka is back!” A loud applause broke the silence, as slowly the men started to clap. The girl hugged the man and whispered in his ear ,“We need to talk.” the man pulled back and yelled to the already distracted crowd, “Court dismissed!” The men filtered out of the room. In the end the room was empty, and the two still arm in arm walked back to the throne

Basil secured his length of rope to a tree, throwing it down. He grabbed it, swinging his body down into the gorge. He planted his feet on the wall and started climbing down. The rope didn’t last too long and soon ran out, but just like his journey through the forest it would take too much energy to climb back up. His calloused fingers grasped the thin crags and ledges, his feet only finding tentative footing Once or twice the ledges crumbled out from under his hand, his heart leaped into his throat as he grasped at air for seconds. His nails broke and his calluses ripped, but he kept going It was only after the sun set that he began to grow achy and tired His eyes started drooping even with the impending drop, and his feet stopped finding the ledges. And so he fell, simple as that. That strong and headstrong boy fell, lying as though in a bed, through the air. And if he could have looked down he would have not been able to see the bottom of the gorge, only mist. A thick milky mist, impossible to look through, he tumbled into the fog. The opaque mist surged upwards as if it were a starving beast, and it swallowed him, head to toe.

Oleus Wormius had ruled the under peoples for almost a half century, his reign had been calm, and secluded from the people who lived on the top. He loved the Under Caverns with all his heart, but when his daughter came to be he knew that his reign would end soon after the girl could talk. As Nelka grew, her words became larger than life and her stories could paint pictures in minds, if people stopped to listen When her stories took a turn to the top he started to worry that she would want to explore. His tentative truce with the top was only held because of their lack of knowledge that the caverns existed She started to badger the Ole, she wanted to leave, she wanted to explore the great outdoors, see something other than the misty ceiling, feel sun, and wind on her face. One day she made a promise to the king, “One day I will run away, not forever but until I learn what it's like. I will go again and again because I believe that there are good people out there, people who would love to learn about us, and would let us learn of them. I will find them, I promise.” And so she left months later, no warning, she walked out the only door leading to the top, with only her ring. Of course the ring was special, it contained a bacteria that knocked a person out when it came in contact with a person. So she chose a direction and walked.

Basil grasped for his thick blanket, but it wasn't there. He tried rolling over and a sudden sharp pain rolled across his chest. His ribs seemed to contract, his breathing becoming shallow and panicked. His eyes snapped open and a dull light flooded his wild emerald eyes. He tried to grasp his bed sheets but his broken and sore nails scraped against the hewn stone. He laid there, fighting for deep breaths. As he sat there he tried to figure out where he was. He wasn’t home in his soft bed, the air above him was like white paint, with shafts of yellow smeared across He was cold, and his breath misted above him, floating up to join the mist. He slowly shifted his body, pushing his body up His ribs creaked, but as far as he could tell nothing was broken The walls were smooth quartz with pretty veins of a grass colored crystal. Behind him was a wall but in front of him was a long tunnel that seemed to slope gently down as far as his eyes could see. He looked desperately around, looking for something to help him back up through the mist. Then a thought hit him, how was he alive? Had he fallen asleep? How long was the fall? Either way there was no ladder and the walls were smoother than a baby's beard. So the only thing he could do was start the long and arduous walk down into the heart of the Earth. Ole Worm and Nelka sat quietly whispering to each other, Ole’s eyes were wide and worried, a contrast to Nelka’s excited. The scene zooms in their outlines fuzz a little as if the scene got out of focus, but when the scene center’s itself again, suddenly the voices are clear, “The last thing we need is people finding us, knowing who we are!” “The last thing we need is people not knowing there are others just like them! I’ve seen those people, they are intelligent and kind! Why shun them!?” Ole sighed, there was no stopping Nelka He knew what would happen if she actually spoke to the men of above, but he also knew that if he didn’t let her he would sow a song inciting some rebellion She could do it easily, not because people didn’t like Ole but because his people got bored easily. No joke, Oleius Wormius’ people got bored of their cavernous life and revolted for fun. In his mind he agreed with Nelka. The curiosity was in the blood so that is why in the end he agreed that she could go back to the surface and learn more of the people there. Then there was a knock.

Basil made his way through the tunnel, the quiet only disturbed by his misty breathing. As time passed his breathing became more labored. He wasn’t sure what made his heart sink, maybe it was the miles of earth above him, maybe it was the impending meeting with some intelligent thing, for what else could carve out such an artistic hallway?

As he walked the veins shifted to gold, and then to a deep blue. And finally the quiet tunnel was filled with a low din It became louder and the tunnel became wider and wider until it opened into a massive cavern. It was an impressive cavern. There seemed to be a low mist hanging in the air, pierced by the even lower hanging stalactites. In front of him stood a building made of towers with iron spires, reaching towards the matching stalactites. Its presence demanded awe, and terror. The boy's expression turned terrified, just complimenting the palace. He did his best to softly step down the stairs, yet his steps echoed through the muffled cacophony. He came to two open double doors. Though lying in his way were two blonde lumps. With some gentle prodding he decided that they were definitely fast asleep, so he took a daring step onto the shiny floor, and promptly joined the men where they lay. Basil stumbled back to his feet slipping and sliding, somehow grabbing the door handle He took another hesitant step, and proceeded to do the splits

A low groan came out from his mouth, whether voluntary or not we cannot know. It didn’t get much better the next few times Various new ways of falling were invented that day But finally, finally! Basil realized it was just like when the pond froze over during the winter. When he took his clunky boots, it became easier to skate His thick socks let him glide effortlessly down the halls. He laughed gleefully, until he reached a door. This sobered him up a little, realizing he was on a mission, he put his boots back on, readjusted his cloak and sack. Then he knocked.

Nelka and Ole exchanged looks, the palace was generally empty, and the sheer fact that the knock had come at such a sensitive time was unnerving. They slid across the floor and each grabbed a handle, pulled it open revealing a…

A boy

A boy of medium height, medium build, blond hair and piercing green eyes. His cloak was ripped and torn and there were bags under his eyes He looked like he'd been to the center of the earth and back. Pun intended. He cried out when he laid eyes on the girl. The girl that he had seen every night when he went to sleep, who wandered through his dreams, who was there when he awoke in the morning, who urged him on to continue forward. Who was this girl now? Was she a dream come true or a nightmare? Why was she so enchanting when he first laid eyes on her? Was it her air of finesse and mystery or was it that her mere existence promised adventure? Now that he had traveled so far would she be worth it? The small boy crumbled into a mass of sobs.

Now Nelka’s face wrinkled in concern. Who was this boy, why was he here? He wasn’t hairy like the mole people, but rather skinny, frail. She crouched down beside him and stroked his white tipped hair The tears had left streaks down his dirt covered cheeks And so they sat a crying boy, a gently smiling girl, and a king.

Years went by and the two towns finally met It was rocky at first, mostly because people kept throwing rocks at each other. But the girl and the boy worked it out. The girl wove beautiful stories of agreement and love between the groups. There was only one final destination. The girl and the boy started to spend time in the field. And as they grew the Queen and King would dangle their feet in the stream like they were young. They told stories, and passed on knowledge just like boys' grandfathers would, Sage, and Thyme ”

Christina Phipps Christina Phipps

Gabi Schneider

A Thank You Note to Grace A Thank You Note to Grace by Gabi Schneider by

I put down the tattered magazine I’m reading as the spring wind hits my face I love this time of year, when the winter chill starts to thaw and the birds begin to sing again. When I was little my Gramps would always take me into the woods around this time, and we’d watch the birds as they emerged from the trees. He would always bring his camera, and that’s where I first learned how to capture life in a photograph.

“You want to focus on the eyes, doesn't matter what the birds are doing, long as you get the eyes, ” he would say.

So I took a lot of photos, most torturously scrutinized by him, until one day I had produced my first “acceptable” picture: an owl with its head turned part way around its body, eyes staring off into the distance, but in piercing focus of the camera. After that, my Gramps bought me my own camera, a small light blue matte digital, which I used through middle school. That’s where my passion started, I guess, because it took off from there

Frantic flickers of light surround my peripheral as I focus my eyesight and shoot I have no time to check my accuracy as I go in for the next shot, steadying my finger on the trigger that sets the machine in my hands in motion. There is no room for error and no stopping; this is one of the most coveted jobs in my line of work. I get ready for my next shot, focusing out this time, lining my sight of vision with the royal blue jewels shimmering from the bodice, the silk flowers pouring down into a full skirt, the hem rustled on the ground in a monstrous heap that resembles an angelic cloud.

Photography at the Met Gala is no easy job.

“Madi! Grace is coming in from the left!” Jake, standing tightly to my left in the huddle of paparazzi, nudges me to focus my attention on one of the starlets of the night: Beatrice Grace. As one of the biggest names in the modeling industry, Grace’s looks are always elegant yet intriguinga photographer’s dream.

“Well, she doesn’t usually go dark,” I remark as she steps closer, hand purposefully on her hip to evoke her usual powerful appearance Her rich black dress ends just below her knees in the front, with the dark silk fabric billowing down to her ankles in the back. The silver lining is what makes the dress though; glittering teardrops overlapping from the bodice to the skirt, connecting to the similar lining of the deep v-neck, emblazoned with intricate silver beading that gives off the illusion of a puzzle. Once I get my shots of the dress, I focus on her face, just as elegantly prepared for the event. Her eyeshadow forms a dark chrome base for the thick black eyeliner and silver mascara that match the shimmer on her cheeks and deep tones of her lips. Her usually strawberry hair is a sharp black, styled into a slick round bob, just as striking as the rest of her look.

“That’s a Jeanne Lanvin, fashion icon of the period I swear, Grace always dresses directly on theme.” Jake’s fashion knowledge is par to none - I only know what has been forced down my throat by Vanity or Vogue for the last three years, plus the occasional midnight Wiki search This is both our first Met Gala, and Jake promised to give me the rundown on who is dressed well for the “Fashion of the Roaring 20 ’ s ” theme

“You know I have no idea who that is, Jake,” I counter as I shoot some candids of Grace interacting with her newly announced fiance, Brent Withers, who is dressed in a simple yet well fitted black tuxedo, his silver cufflinks pointing a brief nod to her outfit.

As more guests enter the carpet, a mixture of colors and fabrics paint the room. Some are dressed in vibrant red or pink feathered flappers, each more elaborate than the last; some gowned in breathtaking jewels and overlapping layers; and even Ana Van Spiegel, known for her exaggerated fashion, took no liberties, decked from head to toe in (according to Jake) real gold tassels, lined in neverending rows that culminate in a massive ball gown, including a matching headpiece and pointed heels of the same exquisite detailings

Once the three hours of the red carpet commence, and my hands develop carpal tunnel, me, Jake, and the other photographers are guided into the museum for the party

“I don’t know how much more my hands can function for tonight,” I jokingly whisper to Jake as we hurry in the group through a dimly lit hallway

“I don’t care if my hands fall off, it will be worth it if I get a photo of James Leo pretending to eat dinner.” Though Jake is sweating like a maniac, probably out of both nerves and hard work, there is no shielding his excitement.

“I feel like this is your dream come true on steroids.”

“You think?! How can you have this job and it not be yours?” As he says this we emerge into the main room, where the rest of the event is held. While I have seen pictures of what the Temple of Dendur exhibit normally looks like, this is another scene entirely. The walls are covered with glistening gold and silver streams, a combination of wall pieces and moving light, creating a labyrinth-like enclosure in the room. The tables are set upon black and white tiled flooring, so smooth and ornate that none of the high-heels can pierce it, yet, if you look closely at the tiles you can see details of what appears to be seashell and crescent patterns. The people filling the room are just as extravagant.

All of this spectacle feels like a dream, but my mind can’t focus on any of it because I can’t shake what Jake has just said

There is a memory in college that comes to mind I had entered university with the plan of double majoring in Photography and Environmental Science, essentially my passion and a fall back. I had made a group of friends who were also into photography and they had urged me to go all in if that's what I wanted. I had always been a follower, so that's what I did. I dropped my science major and added a minor in Film Camera Studies.

But I guess that’s what a photographer is, right? A follower. Well, that’s what I thought.

My mind becomes fuzzy as I try to focus my camera on my assigned section, tables 2-4, where a mix of newly famous influencers and actors sit. I’m usually good at blocking out the conversations so I can do my job, but I have rarely been this close to the celebrities, and their words swarm through me like bricks hitting my face:

“I love your outfit, my stylist always puts me in the wrong shade!”

“That caviar looks scandalous, I would have some if this dress weren’t made of glass.”

“Of course I got custody! The lawyer was so cheap anyways ”

“We’re not listening to the no-selfie rule, are we? My followers are relying on me!”

All their conversations turn into a muffle of cacophonies as the room starts spinning in a cluster of gold and silver, and suddenly I’m on the ground and Jake’s frantically whispering something along the lines of “I can’t leave…spot…take her to…pour some water on her face..” to a waitress who is now helping me walk through the kitchen to a bathroom in the back. She guides me to the bathroom, confirms I’m okay, then scurries back to the other frantic waiters.

The bathroom looks so different from what I’ve seen all night that I almost instantly feel relieved, like the pressure and falsity in the main room doesn’t exist here I look around at the old white and blue tiles that line the walls, the white floor covered with toilet paper and water, the rusty metal sink that creaks when I turn the nozzle. As I pat the cold water onto my face, I feel this calmness that I haven’t felt in ages. Not since I was little.

“Crap!”

I’m suddenly aware that I’m not the only one in this restroom as someone rams into the toilet paper dispenser and steps out of the stall, muffling curses as the toilet paper rolls past the stall door.

“Damn it, this stupid dress!” I turn to this person, wishing they would leave so I could be alone for another minute, and realize who I’m sharing this bathroom with: Beatrice Grace She doesn’t look as she did on the red carpet though; her hair is rustled, her dress is wrinkled as she holds it off the sordid floor, and, as she lifts her face from the lost toilet paper roll to look up, I see that her eyes are swollen.

“I am so sorry, I assumed no one would be in here!” She exclaims as she makes her way to the mirror. “And now I can’t go back out there looking like this. Fabulous!”

I just stand there, gawking and motionless, as I take in her presence. She notices my clear shock and turns toward me.

“I heard a commotion a second ago, was that you?” She chuckles and adds, “I hope I didn’t disturb you, I was trying to stay quiet. Unfortunately, I’m a massive klutz!”

I harness a little chuckle. She is not what I expected.

“It’s okay, I was just getting a little overwhelmed in the main room, that’s all.”

“Well, clearly I was too. And this is my third Gala.”

“I really didn’t think people like you got overwhelmed by these events,” as the words tumble out, I realize how rude they are , “I didn’t mean that badly, I just meant-”

“Don’t worry, I get it,” She responds gently, waiting a second, then adding, “You know, I used to like these events, but not anymore. ”

“What happened?”

“Well, to be honest, I kind of just followed the crowd my whole life - starting modeling, gigs, striving for attention-” she looks over to me, serious, “but I’ve never done what I’ve wanted. Parties like this are fun, but they’re not reality. I want a real life.”

I stare at her in awe for a few seconds, which I think she takes the wrong way because her pondering eyes suddenly turn to alarm as she realizes what she’s just said “Oh my god, I am so sorry, I sometimes rant when I’m a bit tipsy, and I always need something in me at these parties-”

“You’re good,” I stifle in, “I just…I agree with you. ” Wow. I can’t believe I am getting deep with the Beatrice Grace; I’ve never been able to talk about this with anyone.

“I mean, this is my first time photographing the Gala, and it’s supposed to be this dream, the pinnacle of my career, but I don’t even care. Like, nothing about this glitz and glam interests me. ”

“What interests you then?”

“Well,” I realize I’ve never asked myself that “I don’t know, just photography, I guess ” “Okay,” Grace responds, an eagerness in her eyes, “then what made you like photography?”

“It was my Gramps. I remember we would go out in the forest and take pictures of our surroundings That’s when I fell in love with it ”

“There you have it!” She exclaims as she walks to the door. “I’ve also just had a revelation, and if you want to ditch this thing with me, I’m going to call my driver.”

I look at her in disbelief, feeling an urge to follow her though.

“Hey, you don’t have to come. But I can be very manipulative when I know something’s not right, and this life doesn’t seem right, for you or me. ”

Before I know it I’m walking out the bathroom door with Beatrice Grace and getting into her private limousine.

“Hey, you really helped me tonight,” I tell her as we climb into the back seat.

“Good,” she says, “I’ve always wanted to be a psychologist ” * * *

I gaze at the green tangled wilderness that lies below my terrace, supplemented with pops of lilac geraniums and white spring beauties. I pick up my camera from my lap - a new blue matte digital I recently splurged on for my birthday - and get mementos of the scene I take one shot in particular, of a hummingbird drinking nectar from a trumpet honeysuckle, that I note would be perfect for my upcoming book.

After a while I place the camera back down and pick up the old magazine I had been reading earlier. I turn the page to the one article I look at every morning, a reminder to myself of why I’m where I am:

From Starlet to Scholar: Beatrice Grace Quits Modeling and Goes to College

I look at the photo directly beneath the headline, a candid of Grace on the Met Gala red carpet in her Jeanne Lenvin dress. Unlike all the other pictures of her on that night, this one catches her in a different light, as she stares off in the distance with a small smile on her face. Her fierce facade is broken for a second, and her humanity and kindness - from that night - shine through.

I don’t remember taking the photo, but there are small letters underneath the print, spelling out my name, proof of the only shot I’m proud of from my career in media. I occasionally keep up with Grace in the news, enough to know she has a bachelors in Psychology now. I wonder if she still thinks about that night, and wonders if I, too, changed my course. I strayed from the path that was set up for me, and I wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t stumbled into her in the bathroom that night.

So, thank you, Beatrice Grace.

The Blood is the Life by The Blood is the Life by Addie Silva Addie Silva

The mystery of my birth is not nearly as fascinating as the mystery of what happened that humid night in late July. In fact, it’s hardly a mystery at all. But I believe it will be relevant knowledge to share before telling of the events that took place that evening. As much as she wanted a child, my mother wanted a legacy She was an artist A tortured soul, searching for the beauty painted beneath the brush strokes of life. And she wasn’t into that performance nonsense. Not an actress, activist disguising herself as an artist No, she was a bridge between humanity and the invisible allure of the natural world. I guess one could say I am my mother’s daughter, for even my birth was a work of art As my mother was giving birth, my father, the writer, collected the maroon paint bleeding from his wife. Our first family portrait was a piece by my mother. Her medium? Blood. I like to think the blood represents the poetic quality that runs through my family’s veins. “The blood is the life”, Stoker wrote. Art is my life.

As for my upbringing, my childhood was incomparable to any other I’ve heard or read about. I inherited both my parents' crafts, my father’s writing and my mother’s painting. I was a regular William Blake. My talents served as both a strength and weakness throughout grade school. Sure I always excelled in the humanities, but the teachers thought I was demented. In fourth grade I wrote a short story detailing the pain of watching life as a ghost after experiencing a brutal murder. My parents tried to explain the philosophy on which I was raised Art triumphs over all I was swiftly released to find another source of education. Hence forth, I was homeschooled. An untraditional education, but an effective one nonetheless When it finally came time for college, I opted not to go. I wanted to create. I still want that. My life’s purpose was to discover the ultimate form of art and expression I was just as certain of that fact as I was that I would be successful in this mission.

So I got to work. My first step was to move away. I wanted to be around people. I thought I might benefit from observing their habits and behavior. So, I moved into a city. Boston, to be specific. If it was good enough for Plath, it’s good enough for me. Except it really isn’t. The cluttered buildings and token historical landmarks scattered across the city didn’t prove to be a sustainable living environment for me. I tried, I really did. For four years I stayed there, experimenting with all different jobs and social scenes. City life just hadn’t been as helpful in my artistic journey as I had hoped.

That’s how I ended up in New Hampshire. Boston wasn’t my place, but I didn’t so much mind New England I found a quaint cottage upstate The surrounding space was made up of vast, open ranges with a fence of thick woods and a church smacked down right in the middle of it all. The population of the town was made up of farmers, elderly, and a large group of devout children of God. Christians, they call themselves. Having grown up in a vaguely paganistic, but mostly atheist household, I probably should have been a bit unnerved to be joining such a “Footloose”-type community, but I didn’t quite mind. I understood them, on some level. The way they worship God is the same way my parents and I worship art. We live, breathe, bleed art. Our heaven and hell are the ones painted across the ceiling of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. It was these depictions of the Christian afterlife I imagined as I gazed up at the stained glass windows above the altar in the central church of Knaptonville, New Hampshire At the time, I wasn’t sure why I was there. But it had been two years since I moved to Knaptonville and I was still nowhere I had created some art, but never the kind that fulfilled the hunger for greatness that was flowing through my veins. I needed guidance. It was a typical summer evening, the kind you’d see in a high school coming of age movie Grass dewy, sky starry, lightning bugs flashing through the hot, sweaty air. I’d like to say there was a light breeze swaying my body as I stood before the mahogany door to Father Andrew’s office, but to be honest, the air was as still and motionless as my current state of creativity.

What am I waiting for? I thought to myself, utterly confused about my blatant hesitation. I guess I thought he might judge me. The priest, I mean, not Jesus. Jesus is dead, he died for our sins. That’s about the full extent of my knowledge on Christianity, which I think was part of my internal conflict. But there was no point in wasting any more time. It was already getting dark, and even priests have to eat dinner at some point, so better not to waste his time. So, I dragged myself to the face of the door, a golden cross hanging just above the center, and I knocked.

Knocked, and knocked, and knocked Father Andrew moved swiftly and quietly to the door, so quietly I couldn’t even tell that he was about to open it. I thought maybe he wasn’t there. But he was He definitely was So as the door opened with a creak, I moved my eyes to look up past the robes and to his face.

“Hello, my child,” he said. He was a tall man, yet still had the effect of being short and stocky Bald, but still with some bunches of hair around the sides of his head And the energy he gave off, well, I suppose it was exactly what you would want from a priest. Being in his presence made me feel warm. I almost don’t know how to describe it. Warm and comfortable, like a father’s embrace, or a mug of hot tea and a warm puppy by a fire at the end of a rainy day. Changing from wet socks back to dry ones. That’s it.

“Not your child, actually,” I responded with hesitance, “I’m not a christian.” There was a moment of silence as he bore a not quite pitiful smile. I felt the need to add a quick, “If that’s ok.”

“That’s ok.” A simple response for a simple man. This may be easier than I thought. “Would you like to come in?” I nodded and walked into the office after his gesture of welcoming.

The office was precisely what I had imagined A cozy wooden space with an atrociously patterned armchair in the corner. A wood burning fireplace to the left of the desk, and yet another cross hanging above it This one was different though A little, porcelain figure was crucified upon it, blood dripping down the sides, so shiny it almost looked real.

Jesus Christ, I thought. Father Andrew sat in his chair on the far side of the desk. I sat across from him.

“So,” he started, drawing me out of my pious daydream, “what brings you to the church today?” For a moment I made eye contact with him. Dreadful, uncomfortable, guilty eye contact. Maybe that was the moment I knew. Subconsciously, of course. But we ’ re not there yet.

“I just-” I hadn’t thought about how to phrase my dilemma, “I’m an artist. A poet, and a painter ” His eyes brightened in exactly the way a child dreams their absent fathers would “An artist! Oh that’s spectacular. Did you want to share some of your work in our lobby?”

“No, that’s not quite it,” I could hardly figure out how to explain it to myself, “I need help ” Father Andrew’s eyebrows now furrowed.

“Help? Well ” he made an expectant face to which I replied, “My name is Betty.”

“Well, Betty, I would love to help you,and I will in any way I can but I must admit, I’m not a particularly artistic person. God blessed me with many gifts, but that wasn’t one of them.”

“It’s not that I can’t make art. I can. I have. But it’s not…It’s just…I don’t know,” The longer I sat here, the more ridiculous I knew I sounded, “It’s not enough ” There was a pause Father Andrew looked at me with contemplation, maybe trying to figure out what this had to do with him. The flood gates were down now, and the water was about to pour through. “Since I was a kid, I’ve been searching for art. Not just art though, the most pure, ultimate, most beautiful expression of art and life and love. I guess that’s a strange thing for a kid to think about, but I grew up a strange kid, with a strange family. I’ve moved from place to place in search of this, this… secret. I need to uncover it and share it. I need to live and breathe art. It’s been years since my hunt began. I feel purposeless and stupid and-” I broke for a moment, unsure of where my thoughts were taking me, like a kid following a robin through the forest, “I don’t know if this is a spiritual thing or what, but I need guidance I need strength I need help, Father ” My splatter paint production of words must have surprised Father Andrew as much as myself, because he didn’t respond for a full, torturous minute “My child,” his quiet, soft spoken, angel voice said at last, “to figure out what you want, you must figure out what it is you ' re looking for Our savior Jesus Christ,” he gestured a cross across his body as he said the name, “made the ultimate sacrifice. He knew what he needed to do, in order to protect his people. He cleansed the population of their sins. I found my purpose through him. I am here to help people the same way he did and continue to rid people of their sins.” I looked around the room and focused my gaze to the porcelain Jesus above the fireplace. It looked almost as if he was burning. As if Jesus himself was falling into the pits of hell, blood and all. I thought about my mother, her blood soaked hands painting the ultimate picture of family. I thought about the art, the beauty running through my blood. I thought about Father Andrew, a second coming of Jesus, sitting before me. I thought about Jesus’s blood spilling out of his hands on the cross. I thought about the knife in my pocket I gripped my hand around the handle Father Andrew smiled

Perfume by Tinsley Valenti Perfume by Tinsley Valenti

My memories are stored in glass bottles, swimming beneath tassels and ribbons

Memories that smell like cherries and petals with notes of turmoil

To spray these memories is a costly task, for I risk watching myself die for entertainment in the name of sugary nostalgia

This sweet cloud forms mountains that are disguised as ball gowns

Stars that are really tears

And a blanket that is truly sewn with regret

But I love this scent

The smell of failed chances and forcefully broken locks

I miss the violets that bred my body into a garden

The garden you kissed into nothing but a handful of seeds

All for a taste of cupcakes wrapped in plastic

I miss how your hatred forced me to hate myself

The comfort of a time of sickness and uncertainty

The scent of a wide forest with no end

Flowery trees collapsing to the ground, crushing my line of sight

Frosting suffocating my true feelings

Time flies backward with maple-winged butterflies

I watch the forest decay into a garden, my memories growing under a different sunshine

One that is tinted by roses and stained beginnings

I love this scent

If only the last time I wore it, I could untangle from time’s ticking fingers

Scream over your words and ignore the signs

I could’ve worn a different dress

Or left my birthplace

I could’ve chosen differently

So the next time I spray my wrists, I don’t see the warning written in cherries and turmoil

But I love this scent

I would not add a dove’s wing for the chance at a different cloud

The Sapphire Plaza by The Sapphire Plaza by Tinsley Valenti Tinsley Valenti

Hidden between tiers of silk and feathers, lies the thick drops of my husband’s blood

This blood has since dried under the fingers of someone ’ s french manicure, taunting the diamond ring below it. Me and two other glittering women parade up the bejeweled steps to the Sapphire Plaza where the will of Lance Dupont will be read. Lance Dupont, a mine owner, and the husband to three lucky women. Three of those lucky women prayed every night for the silence of his heart so they could bathe in the noise of his wealth. Lance’s murder was written off as a suicide shot himself in the head, but one of those two women killed Lance I know it, and they know it too.

I am, without a doubt, the most appropriately dressed here, free of color and greed, simply full of sorrow Adorned in the black gown, black gloves, and black hat I know Lance would have wanted me to wear, I lead the line of wives. The grief of my gown is so long that it covers several steps behind me, creating a generous space between me and the culprits

Second in line, coated in blood and tears is Adelina Dupont. She is the youngest of the grieving wives, married Lance shortly before me, and desperate for both love and gold Delicate, innocent features bear her face, but do little to shield the murderous gleam in her eyes. When she stepped out of her limo, I remember that look as she pretended to sob in the obnoxious fur boa grasped tightly in her gloved hands. Those snowy satin gloves were made to grasp a gun. Behind Adelina, struts Pari Dupont, tall and confident, skin kissed by sundrops. Her long figure sports a strategic violet gown. The fabric seems to say, “I’ll only be grieving if I don’t get that damn money!” As Lance’s first wife, she assumes his money is already in her pocket. She’s had that arrogant thought written across her pointed face since the second she arrived.

The three of us were all well aware that we were married to the same man since Lance had no shame in hiding his beloved wives after he’d paid away the law None of us were bothered by the circumstances since we were looking for either money or a husband, making Lance the full package; it gave us something to bond over on nights when Lance worked late Even still, as we journey up the stairs, envy can be heard in the ring of every high-heeled step. Finally, the sapphire gates come into reach, welcoming us with its beauty

“Elvie Dupont,” I say to the guards in front of the sparkling doors. One of them holds a thin blue rod up to my forehead that scans my features I dodge out of the way.

“What is that?” I snap in an effort to disguise the hesitance in my voice.

“Just a precaution,” says the guard.

I take a step back. “But what is it? What does it do?”

The guard sighs, irritated. “It tells us your identity. Now stop backing away. ” I hadn’t realized that I’d made my way back down several steps, almost bumping into Adelina.

“Stop being so paranoid,” Adelina scolds. “Maybe if you suck it up for once we’ll be out of here before the sun falls ”

I roll my eyes and shakily walk back up the steps. The guard brings the rod back up to my forehead and a bright blue light scans my face The light tingles my skin and it takes everything in me not to step away. My breaths mimic the light as it quickly travels up and down my face. When the identification is complete, a neon green check appears in front of my burning eyes I let out a breath.

“Elvie Dupont.” A smooth female voice radiates from the scanner.

The guards nod and open the doors with an armored hand. The vain tones of the two other wives announcing their names fill my ears as I take in the vastness of the Plaza. A small maid runs up to me with a tray of varied drinks in hand. Her eyes beg me to take something as she thrusts the tray closer to my face. She must be eager to serve since the Plaza is clear of any and all luxurious guests, per Lance’s request for the place to be cleared on the day of his will reading, leaving only staff and security to remain. I take a crystal glass of cucumber water and a hot towel out of respect. Maybe I’ll need the towel later in the event that anything spills

I take small sips to settle the knots in my stomach and tell myself to focus on the details of the lobby as I wait for the others I’ve been here only once, back when Lance took me on a tour of all his properties as a way to impress me (not that it required much effort). But that was when my mind was preoccupied with acting the right way around him, so I had little time to enjoy the beauty around me. Besides, I need a distraction right now. I can only keep calm for so long.

Even though the sounds of chatter and clicking stilettos and rolling suitcases have ceased, the Plaza feels alive The entire lobby looks like the inside of my engagement ring, so of course, everything is mostly sapphire with the few exceptions of diamond, gold, and varied crystals. Tables, coffee stands, fountains, walls, chandeliers, even the pillows and sofas are embedded in jewels. The dangling gems clink together, creating a melody of wealth.

A silver haired man, who I recognize as Jalen Emerson, Lance’s Head Financial Advisor, emerges from the depths of a sapphire hallway, startling me. I stumble backwards and bump into a group of maids, sending Adelina into a fit of laughter. I notice that Jalen grips a crisp envelope with a bright gold seal, which he tucks into his suit jacket.

“Where’d you come from?” I ask.

“Follow me, please,” he says, ignoring me

“Where are we going?” I ask, more urgently this time.

Ignored again Jalen trails closely behind a guard that takes us to a set of diamond doors and punches in a long passcode before the doors swing open to a dim room.

“What’s this room for?” I ask

“This was Lance’s office back when he visited the Plaza more often,” Jalen says. “For work?” I ask.

“My, you ask a lot of questions,” Jalen laughs.

“Just wondering,” I mutter.

As we file in, the maids light a fire and the wives sit around a circular sapphire table. Between the wisps of flames, I can almost see a gun burning the gun that killed Lance. I try to blink it away, but the shiny black metal stays melting in the fire.

“What are you looking at?” Adelina asks.

“Mind your own business,” I say, shooting her a look.

The only sound filling the room is the crackling of the fire and the murmur of maids asking if anyone wants something to eat. But the piercing eyes of the suspicious wives creates the loudest commotion of all Adelina glares at Pari Pari glares at me I glare at Adelina Then, Pari’s eyes dart around the table, shoving despiteful looks down each of our throats.

Your fault

Your fault. Your fault.

“I think we all know who did it,” Adelina whispers, side eyeing Pari. “Everyone knows you need his money the most, otherwise you’ll go right back to the streets.”

Hatred flashes in Pari’s eyes. “It very well could have been you. He probably died in agony from your horrendous attitude.”

“Then tell me, Pari, what’s your alibi?” I ask boldly.

“What’s yours?” Pari fires back.

“I was at the mall,” I say simply. “I remember you were there too, but then unexpectedly left Were you on your way to Lance’s, perhaps?”

Pari sucks her thickly glossed lips into her teeth, squinting her eyes.

“Who’s to say it was even one of us?” Adelina asks meekly “It could have been anyone ”

“Not just anyone has access to his house in Venice,” I say.

“Someone could have broken in,” Adelina continues.

“Not with the amount of security he had.” Pari shakes her head.

“We were all in Venice when...it happened, yet no one was found with his body,”

Adelina agrees.

“I still think a conjoint vacation was a stupid idea,” Pari interjects.

“Maybe it really was a suicide,” Adelina says, ignoring Pari. “Maybe he was just unhappy.” She sounds distraught by the idea.

Pari and I glance at each other, agreeing for maybe the first time ever.

“It was murder,” we say in unison.

“Ladies, please,” Jalen says I had completely forgotten he was here

“The death of Mr. Dupont was tragic and if it calms you to think that his death was a product of murder, then so be it, but we should begin ”

“Who even are you?” Adelina scoffs.

“Jalen Emerson,” Pari says in a contemptuous tone “The Executor of Lance’s will,” she pauses “How do you not know this?”

“She was too busy spending all of his money, ” I say with a roll of my eyes. Jalen sighs. “Ladies! That is enough.”

The room returns to its hushed state as Jalen slices open the envelope. But instead of Lance’s will, he fishes out three scraps of paper.

Pari shrieks. Adelina begins to sob again.

“That can’t possibly be it!” I cry. “Someone tampered with it!”

However, Jalen shushes us all and holds up the scraps.

“Just read,” he says, his voice already fading from its authoritative sound

Find my will Have fun!

-Lance

“Are you kidding me!” Adelina screeches.

“That Lance always was one for games, ” I say.

“Whoever finds the will first inherits Lance’s fortune,” Jalen says. “It is hidden somewhere in this room. ”

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. I had assumed the woman he loved most would obtain his riches, as did everyone else, so naturally, each wife was sure she’d already pocketed Lance’s money the minute the ring was on her finger.

“When do we start?” I ask

“When the sapphire lights up, ” Jalen says. A guard places smooth, rectangular sapphire on the table

“What do you mean when the sapphire lights up?” I ask.

“You’ll see, ” Jalen says with a tired sigh

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Pari mumbles.

I’m surprised to find that she doesn’t appear angry at all, but filled with sadness. Adelina is seething, and I myself, am rather annoyed. This should have been a simple process we find out who inherits everything then leave. A scavenger hunt is just too much. My heart is too heavy. But still, a part of me wants to win. I was the only wife for Lance. Out of the three, he only saw me. He only cared about me. He was mine, I was his. I deserve that inheritance. The sapphire seems to hear my thoughts and glows, painting the room in blue.

“You may begin,” Jalen says “Happy hunting!”

A Broken No by A Broken No by Skye Watson Skye Watson

A day. A day that changes your whole life around by just saying the word. No. I always had a hard time just saying no to people. It's like taking candy away from a baby. Feels like you are disappointing someone Picture you playing a sport for your whole life like basketball All you did was watch basketball, play basketball, and live basketball. But you are not doing it for yourself but for someone else Basketball was the cherry on top of my cake and if you take that cherry off, your life will flip. And I just did that by just saying no to a simple question. All the question was “Pammie do you want to play basketball?” The one question. That one question changed everything. When that person that affected me to play basketball asked me that question. My face turns red like a cherry. Something burning inside of me. Sizzling like I'm the sun. Heart beats faster. Anxiety. But I have to make a choice. Something has my tongue. I don't know how to speak. Hearing something in my head saying breathe, this is your time to speak up. Take a deep breath. No, the word slips out my mouth. A tear goes down my face. But not a sad one, freedom. Finally the weight is off of me. But then all the weight comes back because I realized that I didn't just choose to stop playing, I also broke a relationship with a person I care for. And the dribbling started to stop.

Fall Into by Skye Watson Fall Into by Skye Watson

What everyone cherishes the most in life, love.

Love is many different things. Which is true.

Love is vulnerability.

Truth. Loyalty. Selfless. Forgiveness. And unconditional. Love ends.

Love can build but die.

Love is bad.

Love is taken advantage of.

Loving someone can be hating someone

Can give love, love not always given back.

Can protect from not loving but the hearts do what it wants

Must have mercy to love.

People do not realize when you love someone.

Hearts can get bigger but slip up. You will

into the darkness.

Williams

Bazaar by Alexa Williams Bazaar by Alexa

Abigale Duvall lived in this town where little happened because of its residents, instead things happened to them, whether they liked it or not. She, and by which she means her family, was not religious or conservative, but more just cautious, a family made of weak wills and unsettled temperaments. If they had been in the Revolution, the family would not have been patriotic Bostonians or loyal Britain They would have been the debtors in Georgia, gored so badly by one mistake that they never wanted to stir up the dusty particles of trouble again. And so she was still in Georgia to this very day, in a house that caused her to think about debtors' prisons more than Martha Stewart would approve of.

Josh was never a fan of Martha Stewart, he probably would be insulted if you asked him anything about that “frilly house crap ” . “ A house is just a house, don’t gotta give it a trust fund worth of bullshit”. He’d look at you the way he did at those perfume-spiriting ladies in Macy’s, or the radio when another young girl insisted on singing another endless track. A grace to Abigale was that most days he did not look at her like he did those girls, his grimace gone and replaced with a pedestrian smile She’d looked at his eyes over their dinners some nights, and she could nearly see the words “Gone Fishing“ slapped across his eyes as he asked their son to pass the rolls. Zach had added another coat of glaze to his eyes, red and watery She had asked him oh so many times to please think of his health from the other side of his closed door, he told her to eat shit and live It may not have been her though, maybe just one of his videogame friends he was playing with. She may have been wrong. At least he was doing it at home. At least they liked dinner. Her pot pies were always a favorite she guessed, based on the portions she’d seen them eat. Nearly always had to microwave some mac and cheese for herself after dinner because the boys liked the pie so much they had eaten it all up. They needed the energy. Zach was still growing.

You remember the way Josh had that look for some girls, that awful look? Well, Abigale only really had to worry about it on Saturdays, when he left for the afternoons to go see his hunting buddies and she was free for the time He’d only taken up the sport recently Abigale wondered sometimes, since she’d never seen him leave with a gun, if she should get him one from the Walmart as a present the next time she went Really, she just liked to shop for others, but guns were not her specialty. It would maybe be the wrong kind, and then she would really get the look. Worse than when she normally got it early on Sunday midmornings, when Josh managed to find the receipts, or the new vase she had gotten for their room after the last one smashed, or the plaid slippers from the sales rack she had gotten for the guest room, or the trace of any money steadily trickling from her account.

She didn’t shop as much as he thought, not really.

They were just little trips for little things, a sprinkling of excitement to her day, like a snacktime. She never spent more money than she had, she didn’t have a problem, no more than the casual smokers or the “wine-o-clock” moms she used to be friendly with from Zach’s middle school Really, she just liked shops, the nice kind especially, ones with clean shelves and soft, featherlight lighting and the cleaner kind of chemical fragrance that the archaic part of her, deep, deep down, would remember from centuries past of green meadows and untainted fog. Never would she set a foot into a Payless or Dollartree, they were for other people, not her, not anymore Her true weakness, though, was the endless stream of home decor shops that were first introduced to the town in about in the early mid lateish 2000 ’ s, the bigger the better. She had gotten lost in an IKEA for 3 hours once, about age 5. Didn’t listen to her mom when she told her that if she was ever in danger that she should stay in one place, wait for help. She kept moving around the labyrinth of rooms, seeing all the display kitchens and patios and little hersized playrooms to pretend in. Tiny shoes on plush carpet and smoothed wood and finally, in a mountainous pile of stuffed animals she fell asleep in (all of which, in about two weeks, would be sold to children in the tax bracket ever so slightly higher than hers). That's where her parents and a flock of thoroughly pissed staff found her at closing time. Her mother was raving, her father yawning as the flock shot them passive-aggressive daggers. Abigale wished she could go back to that, to soft textures with no expectation of ever keeping them But now, her mind couldn't stop to ask “should I” when “why not” was such a flashy prospect. So in went another lamp, carving of a rabbit, or half-priced rose gold coffee press even though she was on a caffeine restriction, all into her cart of dreams, piece by piece.

No one could exactly pinpoint when the Bazaar came to town, and I know that sounds like a line, but everyone would all mean it too if you asked You’d know it too, because it couldn’t be new, everyone would have seen the construction crews and the dirt rubble piles and the plastic banner flopping about in the wind outside the husk, “COMING SOON” for months before None of this was seen, yet there was the squatting thing, between the Marshalls and the years-dead Pier One that the Spirit Halloween would Body Snatch in September. People drove past it on the way to the interstate, and they swore they couldn’t remember it. Old folks complained to each other that the town was becoming too Big Box to cover up the fact that maybe, just maybe, this slip in memory was the first of the rest. The wives descended upon it first, the mothers came a while later, and the girlfriends stopped in when they finally could after a few Saturdays slipped past them. The others all came in drips and drops, lost in the throng and mostly leaving with bags small enough for only a few too early for the season decorations or a tower of Tupperware to replace their mother's old stuff. (The women though, they had discovered it first, laid their claim to the land seen before them.) They were very proud of their new land, of how nicely the carts swish through the tidy aisle. The dark blue tile was a nice touch, they all agreed, very cozy for a blue, Molly and Trixy may have the living room repainted in it. The mothers liked that their babies sometimes fell asleep so effortlessly while they browsed, soothed in the way only long nighttime care rides were known for The music was quiet, in fact, everything was a nice, soft quiet in that place, the occasional crack shatter of dropped crockery could not even be heard the next section over. The girlfriends liked it because it had the good snacks and the non-expensive version of everything tucked together.

They all chatted about it at Beth's house after most had been to church. Abigale felt sometimes as if she were back in her tween body, seeing other girls getting invited to the secret after-birthday party sleepover, acting coyly smug the day of the party with hidden overnight bags. Except the sleepover was hosted by God, and Abigale knew God was an utter skank and would not be invited to her party anymore. Abigale stood at the edge of a circle of eight, waiting for a partition that would never come in the convocation, or the circle.

“It’s just so fabulous, so practical, it had the right clothes and toilet paper and real Rolexes all in one building. And all these darling little room displays, it felt like I never left my house.”

“And that's a high compliment from you Beth ”

“So true, I felt like a kid in a candy store!”

“Actually, I think there was a candy store in the right wing, two aisles down from the kid's section, those sly dogs. They knew my darling Kendra can’t have sugar, and she had a total fit the last time we went.”

Crystalline laughs all round.

“How did you like it, Abigale?”

The heads parted like the Red Sea then.

“Oh Haven't gone yet ”

“You’re kidding right, you?”

“Josh tol- asked me not to go shopping last week. He’s been a bit tired lately, makes him worse when he knows that I-”

“Oh, that's no good. Didn’t Tom say they were going fishing together this weekend?”

“Yeah, I think.” Abigale knew, she had gotten him new boots two weeks ago.

“Well, why not go then? Check it out, maybe, just…umm.”

“Don’t buy anything?” Abigale monotoned.

“Yeah, try at least, though-”

“We’d all understand if you can’t help yourself.”

Crystal, and it was cracking.

The rest of the party was uneventful The boys’ weekend was starting early tomorrow, Abigale could maybe just take a bit more time here, wait till Josh’d be asleep, nap in the guestroom. She did need to make him sandwiches and get beers for the trip, hoping that would constitute a “goodbye and have a fun time.” She had a few more drinks, bubbles tickling her mouth till it went numb. After a while, she snuck off into the bathroom to take her pills that, of course, she had forgotten to actually take on time despite it being in her purse because she could be such an idiot sometimes…

Josh’s voice could be so clear in her head, so much clearer than it was across the living room, or in bed, or in words.

She felt like she was walking out of the bathroom an off version of herself, nothing her friends should see.

People sometimes forget that when a pill bottle warns “Do not operate heavy machinery,” they do not mean cranes, or tanks, or atomic submersibles. They mean cars.

It was getting late by then, she was there for longer than anyone wanted. The pills and finger food and rosé and worries in her belly remained relatively calm till turning onto the highway uneasily, the one leading onto the small strip of stores that tested her each ride back home, trolls and sphinxes couldn’t do worse Then she saw it, this behemoth of a store that had planted itself between two old faithfuls that sagged out of its way. It was not exactly noticeable in a pretty way. It felt more like that shard of popcorn kernel shell you noticed wedged between your back teeth, not feeling it till you ’ re brushing and not remembering the last time you’d even had popcorn. Abigale felt this fiddly feeling in her, the need to pick at that foreign object.

Poke her head in at least.

The boys needed snacks and beers.

Only a second.

The food waited past the heavy glass doors that flapped back and forth till they stuck back into place with a click. Abigale was never as fond of grocery stores, they were always too cold and cramped, and ironically, she thought they were too expensive Why spend all that money on things that will rot, decompose, turn into bricks in a matter of weeks? This was a little better though The first few rows had been set up the way children sit for their school photographs. The tiniest bags of peanuts and the itty-bitty bars of overpriced chocolate sat in small rows along the door. Little rows, like children, or teeth. She could see farther back to where larger walls of shelves were mounted 40 yards away, fully stocked and anticipating. Abigale had gotten a basket, but she would be good this time, only beer, the blue bottle kind with the twist-off caps because they may not think to bring the bottle opener, and snacks in smaller bags so they aren’t left open to go stale in the likely muggy fishing hole air. Salt and vinegar would go nicely if they decided to cook up any of the fish, but the packets she picked were nowhere near the beer so…

The music turned on in the store, echoing from the speaker at least a league deeper in. Or, no, maybe the new song was just a bit louder than the last, she wouldn’t have noticed. She couldn't make out the lyrics, Zach would know, tell her like it was obvious that the lyrics she’d been humming were astronomically wrong. She couldn’t know the song, but she could smell her father's shampoo, see shadows of yellow portholes and green apples in the back of her eyes.

“…his nowhere plans for nobody.” she tried.

The beers would be in the back of the section, or off in a corner where dumb kids couldn't find them and smart ones would lose interest in finding them. Abigale could see steps, long and thin so they could stretch across the whole of the opening up to the next section. That was one point of contention brought up as the Bazaar was discussed. Why would you have steps and no ramp in a new place like this? What kind of cruelty was that, not to mention the inaccessibility? A few people thought to complain formally the next time they came, a date that was too far away for them to remember what to complain about. And what was with them not having carts?

Abigale remembered hearing about these boutique indoor farmers markets that were happening out in Cali, an attempt to compete with Erewhon that was not working, if the article was to be believed. They didn’t have carts or bags, you had to bring in your own, something about the psychology of ownership in consumers She had read it months ago, only half digesting the words then. But, maybe this was like that. Her hand slipped in a packet of mini peanut butter cups into the basket She couldn’t see the candy aisle the others mentioned, but maybe it was deeper in.

She needed those beers, she would be right back out.

The bigger foods were shelved in four high walls around each other, blocking the view of the inner goods like tiny playhouses, tight walls and little tables filled with goods in the middle, every shelf stacked to the brim. The lights were dimmer here, labels and shopping list hard to read here, clever enough if no one complained. Abigale wasn’t one to complain, just kept moving through, trying not to knock everything over, looking for a sign or a clue as to where she was. The aisles, being as tight and cramped and twisting as they were, who could blame Abigale for going past the backmost shelf for the beers and rushing towards the open, clean shelves of t-shirts and cargo shorts?

She had never been that into clothes shopping, or looking for her own closets at least Loved getting pieces of her wardrobe as gifts, to be sure, adding whole new collections to pile on the old stuff every Christmas and Birthday It was the only thing most could buy for her without worrying about the dreaded. “Oh thanks, I love it- no really I do, the reason my face is doing this is because I loved this so much that I got it during the Black Friday sale.”

But this was a new land of clothes, the realm of collared shirts and flannels in truly unfaltering colors to the right, cool tones and styles that really would look good on anyone, they promise, in the middle. Abigale went down the left, keeping a hand against the left wall of hanged dresses, brushing each as she walked between the dresses and display tables of jewelry and owl-eyed and cat-eyed and any kind of animal you’d like eyed sunglasses. After a walk along the dresses that felt five minutes too long, she thought she had hit the back corner of the store, planning, now that she had gotten her bearings that she would turn back and go find the cash registers and have only spent around $17 but she had forgotten a bag, so maybe more like $19 because she could always use one of those nice reusable totes andThere was a hole in the wall of dresses. It was a person-sized hole, barely a doorway, tucked into the corner with no indication that its existence was intentional other than a small lamp hanging from the top of its entrance. She poked her head around the corner to blink in the dimmer lights that hung in this staircase…hallway? It was a trail of square floors, each only about 10 feet in area, shelves and displays sprinkled as each one led farther down like an oversized wooden staircase The walls were painted black, and Abigale was afraid to touch them, looked so dark it could have not been there, a gaping hole for her to fall over and into.

Definitely not in Target anymore, was she Toto?

Maybe another Swede was put in charge of designing a store. She didn’t mind, it meant she definitely couldn’t have a cart, couldn’t over-exert herself, or the credit card pressing tightly into the insides of her pants. She could almost feel each digit branding itself onto her ass. Josh would hopefully laugh, she could hope.

This would have been the trouble area in any other store, full of trinkets and tchotchkes and those small dishes designed to hold said trinkets and tchotchkes. She would have walked in and then immediately and sheepishly walked back to the register with her arms achingly weighed down by her shameful decisions. But, by some unexpected mercy, she was spared of wanting any of it. The little knick-knacks could have been laid out just for her, but all looked bland and insipid under the nonlight that reached for her. Reminds you of when you ’ re sick, and all of your favorites taste off, all you want is ungodly amounts of Campbell soup

It frightened her, this disinterest Not dislike, but the sheer boredom of what she saw It dragged her down the large steps, for that’s what they were in the end, Big

Steps

Down To

This…

A smaller set of real concrete stairs, cold and stained with darkness so the bottom could have been the end of time for all Abigale knew. Her basket could barely fit down the width, so she left it tucked into one of the bottom shelves, next to a trio of globed lamps. She went down, slowly creeping, following the heartbeat of one foot in front of the other. It didn’t say employees only, she was perfectly entitled to look.

From the last step of the thousands (and she would have loved it if her smartwatch had tracked them if it had ever worked) she could feel the cold air open up around her, the cramped humidity of the stair’s air now flowing with a new chill across her face. The tight walls of the stairs ended as they turned sharply into a room that she could not see Man, was she ever tired The walk down had given her an odd sense of vertigo, that was it. The day was catching up with her, the shift from all the people to this empty place that she had come to. The world was so empty to her, and did that frighten her, make her sicker?

She had to step down or she was going to fall off, she did- she was- she-

She could see again, the black sparking fractals unstuck from the insides of her eyes like stained contacts as she righted herself. She was home, she could smell it. She could feel corners of the fleece and flannel blankets she had draped over the couch bundled under her palms, the indents of the leather couch’s stitching copied onto her flesh as she ran a finger over her warm cheek. It was dark in, well, it must have been the living room, until a voice from the corner creaked out.

“Honey, what ya doing on the couch? Are you ok? Wouldn’t you like to come to bed instead?”

A lamp flicked on, its Tiffany-esque lampshade sending a cool golden light onto Josh’s face.

“Oh, Josh I’m sorry I went to get your things, I swear that was all-” Abigale stood up from the couch, her spine like a bunch of firecrackers under her blouse as she straightened. She took her first step toward the lit corner of the room, but then, she spotted it. Stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Her great embarrassment.

Josh saw it immediately, that slip of paper, perforated like a set of snapping gnashers waiting to snap at her ankles He saw it, and slowly looked at her, just waiting She ripped the receipt off of her shoe, reeling as she tried to roll it, crumpling its absurd lengths up, each charge carved on with a bleeding ink as she collapsed back to the couch. She couldn’t have, she didn’t buy anything, she didn’t, not with no cash register to take her money. She hadn’t seen a single register, hadn’t seen any people there that could have helped her with this. There was no one to help her in there, they would never help her, that was all she had was the need to buy and that's all they wanted from her every last conversation amounting to “ can I help you with anything” they were all there to just hurt her because that is what they needed from her they just wanted to take from her every last shred of dignity and her family's love and this would be the last straw if Josh couldn’t trust her with money how could he trust her not to cheat on him or kill their son through her own stupidity and weakness and the pills weren’t helping her and no one would help her and she was so so sorry that she was like this but she had nowhere to go now may as well have “Oh darling, you ’ re not okay are you?” Josh was soft now, the kind of sympathy that doesn’t leave you feeling even more pathetic was now pouring from him like melted chocolate to coat her heart “N-no-oo-o” Her voice bobbed on the stormy sea of her sobbing. She looked down at the receipt, a snowball in her hand, looking even bigger than it had felt before. She wanted to eat it, or burn it. It didn’t matter which, maybe both, so long as each molecule of it was disintegrated from memory.

“Darlin’, I’m really sorry, I’ve been an asshole of ginormous size. I’ve just been really stressed at work and felt like all my time has been used up with layoffs and Zach’s college bills on the horizon and…ha, as if you aren’t worried about all that too.” He knelt on the floor, his head resting on the edge of the couch cushions, next to her knees. His hand was smooth and smelt like moisturizer, like tiny flower petal fingertips that rose up to brush away her tears She could feel the edges of her shaking smile push into the dimple where Josh laid his thumb. She kissed that thumb and looked into his eyes All was soft and warm and plush

“We should just stay like this forever,” Abigale murmured. “My knees could get a bit worn out, but we can try if you want ” Josh nodded gently “No, actually, you mentioned bed. I like the sounds of that.”

The two of them stood, their eyes never leaving each other, no worries of leaving either. The kiss was called for, no way for the moment to continue without it, not anymore. Soft and clean and newly minted.

Abigale’s hands twined through the short lawn of hair that ran along Josh's neck till she hit a disturbance.

“You’ve got a tag in this shirt I must have forgotten to cut it out Sorry, I know you can’t stand ‘ em ” He just smiled, that smile when you have been really heard.

“I’ll get some scissors.” She smirked at him, how long had it been? “Why don’t you toss me that shirt?”

God did he look nice. He looked good years ago, and some of it was still there. But now, all she wanted was nice, all to herself. She took the shirt she was handed as Josh slipped past her with a wink. She felt young and dumb and the second this tag was gone wild horses couldn't stop her.

There was no tag on the shirt. There wasn't even a frayed remnant of a tag previously cut. Just a shirt, unmarked, practically untouched. So it must be new, but“Babe, do you wanna?”

She turned. He was in front of her, about to walk into the unbelievably dark hallway that should lead to their bedroom. He was shirtless, back relaxed, and a little white tag with tiny pinkish text printed on it was stitched to the base of his neck, held by near invisible red thread which pulsed ever so faintly in the light

Abigale felt like a ghost walking, a puff of air compelled forward, compelled to stroke the white satinsoft tag, the almost tolerable, left in your shirt for a month after buying because it was too soft to remember to cut out She could see close up that the writing said nothing, the letters warped and nonsensical except for those at the very bottom: HANDLE WITH CARE. She gave the tag a gentle tug anyhow. Then, upon seeing the elastic stretch and push back of Josh's skin, felt the mental need to remember how to breathe. And to apologize to Josh, if it had hurt. He turned to her once her hand had left him, holding out his own palm up. It was still dim, she couldn’t see if there were fingerprints in this light.

“Whenever you want.” Josh shrugged, not unkindly, understanding. You know when you think you can still hear the sound of your morning alarm minutes after you ' ve turned it off, or the sound of a haunting voice in a dream as you woke up a second time. That was how the music started in her ears. She still knew the tune and probably not the words, and it still sounded so far away It was so faint, maybe, she could convince herself, maybe it was just Zach playing music quietly in his bedroom. He did that in the night sometimes. It was probably just that. She took Josh's hand and followed him into the dark hallway. She’d check on things in the morning. But for now, soft comforters and new sheets were all she could think about