Her bare feet pounded the ground with urgency. Vicious barks and shouts sounded off behind her, an orchestra of voices and boots reminding her of her demise. Tears clouded her vision as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The woods were once her playground, a place of wonder and imagination. None of that mattered now, though, as they were only an inescapable labyrinth of looming giants and winding paths.

 

“Stop running!” A member of the vexed mob shouted.

 

Thorns, acorns, stones, insects, all greeted the soles of her feet with pain, but she did not notice. Prayers— the lord is my shepherd— green pastures— body, blood, witchcraft— Words planted in her mind since birth played over and over in sync with her troubled breaths.

 

“Clarity! Come and repent!” implored a voice, which she couldn’t quite place. She imagined it was her mother that was running after her, begging her to come home and pretend as if none of this had happened. But what had even happened? Pious as she was, Clarity knew her mother wouldn’t have her hanged. That didn’t stop her from running, though.

 

Faint wafts of smoke watered her eyes as she came upon a grassy clearing. Fire? She pondered, her mind still swirling in distress. The pummels of footsteps and dogs had scattered and lessened, easing her worries greatly. Darkness resumed around her as the mob’s torches moved further away, with the only light being the full moon against a starless sky. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Clarity pushed onward at a brisk walking pace.

 

She did not know where it was she was walking to, but the smoky smell seemed to guide her in some semblance of a direction. Through the tall halls of trees and thick fog, a faint glimmer of yellow light shone through what she perceived as windows. A house!

 

Clarity did not remember the lesson her mother once taught her of being meek and weary of strangers, as she immediately ran to the small outpost. In the faint light of the moon and windows, she could scarcely make out the features: aged, dark oak planks lined the outer walls, with crude splotches of mud cementing them in place. She didn’t dare peer through one of the windows: what if someone was there, looking right back at her?

 

Running her hand along the grooves of the wood, she felt around for a door to knock on.

At last, her hand landed on a rudimentary handle. Her instincts immediately told her to just open the door—she was exhausted and tired— but she then remembered that human decency existed. Moisture clung to her, making her hair stick to her face. Clarity realized how much of a mess she must seem. Composing herself and brushing various twigs and leaves from her person, she prepared to knock on the mysterious door.

 

Tap-tap-tap.

 

Her small, clammy fist made three meek knocks. This is my only choice. May God have mercy on my soul. She felt herself cower as thundering, beast-like footsteps of boots made their way towards the door. Pulling her arms around her torso, hugging herself, for some semblance of comfort, she took shaky breaths and squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps I could become a squirrel for the night and rest in a tree?

 

A suave voice interrupted her shuddering, “How do you do?”

 

Clarity’s eyes shot open in either surprise or relief, as the voice she heard had not matched her mental painting of this man at all. His appearance, however, fit it perfectly: face like tanned leather, heavy woolen clothes, large, intimidating boots, and a scraggly, brown beard and mop of hair. Clarity could not place his expression, which filled her with unease. Looking at the hermit before her, she nevertheless nodded her head graciously for his kind question.

 

“I’m good this evening sir. I—I got lost on my way home from my Aunt Patience’s house and need lodging for the night. Would you do me this kindness?” She lied shyly, fumbling with the hem of her exposed stays. He let out a low rumble of thunderous yet quiet chuckling, which Clarity could not understand. “I apologize if I’ve offended you. I promise to leave by morning, I only want to wait till it’s light so I may find my way home.”

 

“Come in, child.”

 

The house in question was surprisingly neat and tidy, but it wasn’t home. As inviting as the stranger’s house at that moment felt, with his kitchen’s soft orange glow and various furs spread across the floors, she longed to be home with her family and without allegations of sin. The man did not lead her inside, but immediately walked to his kitchen to tend to a bubbling stew.

 

“Sit where you’d like, grab a pelt if you’d like. You must be frigid.” He ladled some of the viscous stew into a small bowl, which Clarity assumed was venison by the amount of deer pelts and antlers scattered around his house.

 

“Or stand if you’d like, doesn’t matter to me,” he grumbled. Clarity blinked. She didn’t realize she’d been staring. Immediately sitting down at his small dining table, she wrapped her arms around her torso.

 

“Thank you for your hospitality, sir,” she almost whispered. Clarity felt his eyes burning through her, but she avoided his gaze at all costs. She tried not to think about what her village would say if they knew what she’d done tonight: sleeping in a strange man’s house, after running

 

from the court? What was I thinking? Her name would surely be a curse on people’s tongues for centuries to come.

 

“Just being a good Samaritan.” He gently set the bowl down on the table with a small

clink.

 

Clarity finally decided that she couldn’t keep ignoring his prying stares. After taking a sip of the hearty stew, which she thought was surprisingly tasty, she looked up at him. The man stared inquisitively. Taking a few more shaky sips of soup, Clarity thought of an escape plan in case things went awry:

 

If I should run, the door is only about ten feet away. But where will I go once I escape? I cannot possibly go back to the village, as much as I’d like to. I wonder how far the next settlement is? Perhaps I should follow the rising sun once morning comes-

 

“Why did you run?” Clarity’s racing mind was interrupted by the soft, monotone voice in front of her. Her spoon clattered on the table with droplets of soup spilling over.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Why did you run?” “I wasn’t running.”

“Yes you were,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an ever so slightly upturned smile. It wasn’t a cruel smile, but rather an amused one. Clarity could practically feel his stare piercing through her. He knows I lied.

 

“I wasn’t running.”

 

“You broke a sweat. Why would someone taking a nightly stroll break a sweat? It’s Autumn, not summer.” Clarity thought a moment before countering him.

 

“I was nervous. I thought I wouldn’t find my way home.”

 

He merely nodded his head, but she knew he wasn’t content with that answer.

 

“Why do you want to go home?” He asked. Clarity did not understand this question, or any of his questions for that matter. What a strange person. Nobody has ever asked me this many questions.

 

“What sort of question is that? It’s my home,” she spoke with irritation this time, “and I would like to be there right now.”

 

“Then walk home.” “It’s dark-”

“I’ll light the way.” He gestured to the lantern placed at the center of his table. He was right; the lantern lit the whole room, so surely it would be enough to light her way home.

Clarity chose to ignore this and feigned a yawn.

 

“I wouldn’t want to frighten my family in the middle of the night, could you show me where I’ll be sleeping?” she responded, in an attempt to change the subject.

 

As soon as she spoke, the lantern flickered. The ghastly light illuminated the man’s face intermittently, casting an ominous expression on his face. The shadows carved his face into something utterly wicked as he stared back into her. Lightning flashed outside, making Clarity jump in her seat.

 

Shivers ran down Clarity’s spine as the room became much dimmer. The lantern was now only an ember. Sheer fright also struck her as she realised the door was no longer visible; the room became the woods she was previously running through, a swirling labyrinth.

 

“Sir, you’re frightening me.” Clarity nearly whispered, her voice quivering.

 

He simply sighed. “Why are you frightened of me? We’re merely in a dark room. Are you more scared now than when you were running from your village?” His fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the table top as he awaited a response.

 

“How—” Clarity pushed her chair to stand and run, but something stopped her. It doesn’t matter how this man knows- she decided- I just need to convince him I’m innocent.

 

He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Have no fear. You are safe here.” The light was now completely out, “Safe from that crazy lot you call your village.” He spat the last word out. Even in the complete darkness, Clarity felt his sneer at the thought of her hometown. Anger boiled inside of her.

 

“We are a holy people. You should watch your tongue, sir.” She was sure she didn’t sound as confident as she tried to seem, being that she couldn’t see a thing in front of her. A creaking chair told her that the mysterious man was leaning forward.

 

“A holy people? Your village just chased you, a young, innocent girl, through a winding forest in the dead of the night. They want to hang you for witchcraft as well, I presume, and you call them holy?” Clarity said nothing. The man’s chair creaked again as he leaned back into it, disappointment shrouding him, no doubt.

 

“They found me guilty,” was all she said after a period of time, “they said I was a

witch.”

 

“And are you?”

 

Clarity said nothing again. A lump formed in her throat as she tried to think of an answer. All her life she’d been told the good word.

 

“It’s not up for me to decide.”

 

The man laughed again. Stop laughing. Please. Clarity felt increasingly distressed at every sound. Rap, rap, rap, rap. His fingers kept tapping the same, constant rhythm.

 

“So the court decides? The blasted, ignorant, village court? They decide that a young girl is a witch?”

 

“Yes.” Rain danced on the rooftop as their “conversation” continued.

 

“So you agree they’re ignorant?” Another flash of lightning unveiled the man’s smile, making Clarity’s blood curdle even more than it had been.

 

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” she folded her arms as she felt tears stinging her eyes, “your words tricked me.”

 

“Your village tricked you, not me.”

 

“How can you say such things? You’re wrong!” Clarity could not believe her ears. She so badly wanted to leave, but she couldn’t move an inch of her body. Her heart yearned to be home with her mother and father, but she couldn’t bring herself to run. She shivered.

 

“You do not know right from wrong. You were told from when you were first born to listen and do nothing more than that. You’re incapable of thinking for yourself, Clarity” He leaned forward so that Clarity could scarcely make out his features; he had a faint look of compassion on his face, surprising her. He did not seem like the rugged man she met at his doorstep. “Why is it that you’re defending a village that wants you dead?”

 

Clarity had had enough. The man’s question defeated her, sending her into a manic sob on the table.

 

“I don’t know!” She bawled into her arms on the tabletop. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know…” She muttered between choked sobs. The man said nothing at her sudden outburst, but she felt the tip of his boot graze her own foot. This sudden act of compassion settled her sobs momentarily, and she gazed up at him.

 

All her life, Clarity listened. She listened to every sermon, every scold, every trial, every confession. She could recite any and all verses of the holy book. Why would they do this to me? Her cries came to a quiet stop as she tried to make out his face against the sporadic flashes of lightning.

 

Silence. Neither of them spoke as Clarity assumed the man was letting her think on her revelation.

 

“Even the oldest, wisest lemming will follow the others off a cliff,” he said, breaking the silence, “even if it knows it’s demise will surely follow.” The rain was coming to a quiet stop as Clarity listened intently.

 

“You’re not that lemming. You ran from the cliff, but you still love the herd.” He reached for her trembling hand, which sent a shockwave through her. Nevertheless, she let herself grasp it.

 

Fewer thoughts were racing through her mind as her internal storm ended in tandem with the one outside. One, however, nagged at her more than anything else,

 

“How do you know my name?” She kept her grasp on his hand steady.

 

“I know many things.” She gazed into his eyes as he spoke, as she could now see the softest glow emanating from them; this didn’t frighten her, though, as nothing could at this point. “I know that you will not leave in the morning.”

 

Clarity felt herself become drowsy, her head nodding every so often into unconsciousness.

 

“I think you would be correct about that, sir.”

Author’s Note: this is an epilogue to classic novel The Catcher in the Rye.  

IF YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW about my life after Bellevue, then we should probably start by my new school, Freud Preparatory School. It’s just another school, it has nothing special, no aerospace program or even a president graduate, a regular school but full of phonies. Wait, I shouldn’t say that. During my time at Bellevue, Dr. Thalia taught me to not focus on the bad things or the phony things because I would drive myself crazy, but it is so goddam hard when there is so much phonery around. Anyways, as I was saying my new school is pretty similar to Pencey and the others, but it is somehow different. The other schools were depressing as hell and this one is not or maybe is the fact that things are not as depressing as before.

I heard about Freud because of Stephan, the other sixteen-year old at Bellevue, who was transferring to that school after his treatment was done. We met on my second day at Bellevue. I was sitting on a bench reading a book and he sat next to me but didn’t say a word. He would stare at me for a moment and then he would go back to his canvas; at first I thought he was painting me, which creeped me out. I decided to ask him if he was painting me, but when I looked at his canvas he was drawing a wolf staring at the moon in the middle of a forest. He then asked me if I liked it and I said yes; after that we talked all day, we even ate dinner together.

My third night at Bellevue was very intense, it was past 2 am when the alarm went off. People were screaming, it was super loud, and it freaked me out. The next morning I was going to talk with Stefan about it since his room was on the same floor as mine, but he wasn’t in the garden that day, or the next day. I saw him again four days after that night. He had a white bandage on his wrist, bangs under his eyes, and as soon as he saw me, a single tear dropped from his left eye. Boy, it shocked me. It really did. I was left with nothing to say, so he was the first to speak. He said that he felt lonely. That was all he said.

I took a seat next to him and we stared at the lake in front of us for two hours. Later when we arrived at the dining room, he proceeded to tell me exactly what happened. He said that he had a relapse, he knew it was coming for a few days but tried to ignore it. But that night he couldn’t ignore it anymore; he destroyed every single painting he had in his room, grabbed a brush and stabbed it on his right arm. I’ve never felt more depressed in my life, I felt almost guilty and all. I mean, I could have done something, right? But I didn’t, and he spent three days at the hospital. That killed me.

Stephan spent 5 weeks remaking every single painting that he had destroyed. I would help him by bringing brushes or mixing colors. I learned that when he painted he was happy. He couldn’t stop staring at the painting once he was done. He likes me to talk with him while he’s painting. I thought he wasn’t listening to half of what I was saying, but then he would make a comment that would reassure me that he was indeed listening to me. That’s the thing about Stephan, he is always listening to me. To everything I say, even if it is nonsense. After that incident I decided to always make sure that Stephan wouldn’t feel lonely. We spent every day together. I introduced him to D.B, Phoebe, and my parents and I met his; he doesn’t have any siblings, but he does have two cousins who grew up together with him. When I was leaving Bellevue, Stephan gave me a painting of my red hunting hat, it killed me. I made sure to hang it in my room as soon as I got home and then in my room at Freud. Stephan stayed at Bellevue for one more week and I didn’t see him again until school started. But his parents and mine made sure that we were roommates and all.

One Tuesday at Bellevue, my mom went to visit me. She seemed strange, she had bags under her eyes and was shaking a little. I was telling her about this new painting that Stephan made for one of the nurses. She’s very tall and skinny and he made her short and fat and about 60 years old. It barely looked like her, that killed me. Anyways, I was telling her that when all of a sudden she started crying. Boy, that took me by surprise. She was rambling about how sorry she was and how all of this was her fault, it knocked me out. I had to hug her and all for her to calm down. She then had a private conversation with Dr. Thalia. When they were done she apologized and told me she was going to get help. She’s seeing a therapist back at home. D.B. decided to spend some time in New York for a while, to check on Phoebe and my mom and all, he also broke up with his British babe. So he wasn’t in the best place either. I promised my mom that I wasn’t flunking any subject this new semester and that I was going to do my best at the new school. I’ve been doing good, surprisingly good, everyone is happy about it. Hell, even my dad said he was proud of me.

The summer after I left Bellevue, Jane appeared out of nowhere at my front door. Just the sight of her knocked me out. But sadly as I predicted, that sonuvabitch of Stradlater never gave her my regards, so she was super sore with me. I had to explain to her five goddam times that I did send her my regards and I didn’t just ignored her. She was still sore over the fact that I was at Bellevue and never told her, and that she was the one who had to come looking for me. I couldn’t really say anything, I was never in the mood. She told me what was going on in her life, during the whole conversation I couldn’t take my eyes off of her一 very corny, I know. Anyways, she told me that her mom and her stepfather had a lot of issues, and he was arrested. Sexual harassment, who would have thought. After that her mom got a divorce and boy, I was glad to hear that. Jane says that her mom hasn’t been good since then, she cries a lot and drinks every day. Jane’s grandparents decided to come and live with them after the divorce and after they talked with her about her relationship with her stepfather, a conversation they kept in secret from her mom. Jane seems fine, she’s a little sad for her mom but she seems happier. We spent the rest of summer together until the day that we both needed to leave for school, we would play checkers and all. We are not horsing around or anything like that, we are not there yet. But we spent a lot of time together. We talked at least thrice a day after we left for school. We are planning on skating at the Rockefeller Center for winter break with Phoebe.

I still feel a little depressed sometimes, not nearly as depressed as I felt before though. Most of the time I’m depressed because I haven’t talked with Jane, Phobe, or Stephan. They have been too busy with schoolwork and we don’t have time to hang out. Dr. Thalia told me that every time I felt depressed, I should write in a diary any thoughts that came to my mind, even stupidities. I wasn’t planning on doing it but Stephan got me one as a late Christmas present, he even put my name on it and all. Before I left for school; Phoebe, D.B, his new girlfriend Marie, and I went to Allie’s grave together. We had a picnic and spent all day at the cemetery. We would tell Marie stories of Allie or we would simply talk to him, he was listening. I asked Marie if Allie would get wet when it rains, and she told me that it was very improbable but if I was concerned about it we could build a tent on top of Allie’s grave to avoid it. I asked her if the poles of the tent wouldn’t hurt him and she said that he was too far down to even notice it. So, we are building it with Phoebe and Stephan next summer. My mom thought it was a terrific idea. Lately I go to Allie’s grave a lot. I only read my diaries to him, it feels good as hell to read them to someone. Reading my diaries to Allie makes me think that sometimes, only sometimes, there are people worth knowing, even if you lose them eventually.

Near the end of August, when the hours stretch on longer than they should, the world enters a melancholy state. Inhabitants of sleepy American towns are unsure how to spend the hours, so the time is passed in contented confusion. The world feels exhausted, tired from upholding its clear blue skies, yielding instead to vibrant oranges, pinks, and reds in preparation to put the day to its final rest.

On days like these, you figured it would have been better to stay home and enjoy the day there than wait on the still-hot sidewalk for friends that wouldn’t be coming.

You pace in your checkered shoes, looking more upset with every minute that passes. You figured this might happen. They’d never invited you to do anything before, so the invitation had been unexpected in the first place, especially considering it was the middle of summer, of all times. No excuse to bring you along, no club nor obligation… of course it was a ruse.

It stings a little more considering how excited you’d been. How far your hopes had fallen. Just last night, you had prepared yourself for talking to the people you’d always longed to befriend.

There’s Danny, who always has the coolest new songs to show his friends. You remember one time he mentioned an album in class that has now become one of your favorites. Ravi is beyond cool, a talented gymnast who’s won many trophies for the school. You’ve always admired his drive. Or Zoey, who smiles beneath her dark eyeshadow in a way that you’d never expect. She’s shy too, always sticking to Janna’s side like they are attached at the hip. Janna herself is a social butterfly, and her welcoming voice filled you with joy when she called you last night.

Distressed and on the verge of tears, you slump down on a nearby bench and bury your face in your too-warm hands. How could they forget? They’d only made the plans yesterday. Had you said something wrong? Maybe you were too enthusiastic. You were supposed to watch a movie together. You were supposed to become friends.

Now it’ll never happen. Sniffing all your feelings back inside, you try to cheer yourself up by looking around. Maybe there’s someplace around here where you can eat your feelings instead of wallowing in them. In the middle of your search however, something different catches your eye.

It’s a peculiar looking shop, so strange that you’re surprised you hadn’t noticed it before. The sign over the door is carved from wood that looks ancient and weathered. Inside, bright colors and unusual shapes catch your eye and shine even in the dim lighting of the store. You could even say that they glow despite the dim light. Compared to the tacky stores around it, the old shop looks authentic… welcoming, even.

Before you know it, you find yourself entranced. One last sniffle and you’re on your feet, moving incautiously towards your intrigue.

The store is still open, even though it’s past 8:00 at night. Your heart leaps in anticipation. This little adventure might distract you from that horrible prank those kids pulled on you. Anything to pull you from your pathetic loneliness.

The door chimes as you edge it open slowly. The noise rings out in an echo that you don’t expect from the crowded-looking store.

“New here, aren’t you?” The voice hits your ears suddenly, causing you to gasp and then slap a hand over your mouth in humiliation. The owner of the voice sits in shadow. No wonder he shocked you.

“I suppose.” You shrug, trying to regain some composure in faux casualties. “Is there anything I should know?” you ask without thinking. You know it’s a strange question, but it’s already out of your mouth by this point.

The man straightens in his seat–you can see that much. “Don’t touch the merchandise that doesn’t want to be touched,” he says cooly, a smile sounding in his voice. You fight a shiver and wonder what in the world it means and then if it’s not too late to leave. Instead, you turn to a shelf and begin to browse like everything is as it should be.

It isn’t, obviously, and half of you begs your impulsive side to give up on the stupid adventure. But you ignore logic. Something else has caught your attention.

A radio sits on the top shelf, and it is turned on. It’s speakers squeak out a tune that your ears recognize, but your mind can’t put a name to. You’re so near to revelation that it irks you. Perhaps if you could only hear the static-heavy sound closer…

You reach your hand up cautiously, fingers hovering above the small device. Does it want to be picked up? You almost ask the question out loud, and then shake your head, feeling foolish. He was probably just messing with you.

You retrieve the radio, and pull it down to inspect it. At once, the song you were hearing stops. Did you incidentally toggle the volume? But you hold the radio to your ear and still, nothing emanates.

“Hm, I could’ve sworn–” you stop, because the whisper doesn’t come from your mouth; it comes from the radio. Your hands shake, you feel violated, and you shove the radio back to where it was as fast as possible. You don’t know how and you don’t know why, and you don’t want to know. You touch your throat and breath out, intensely relieved to hear that the sound comes out right where you expect it to.

What a… funny audio illusion. That’s what the store must be, right? An illusions shop. Right? Well, you aren’t very amused, but you can’t… bring yourself to leave just yet.

Maybe it’s the social pressure of the man at the counter, where you can feel a gaze on your back. Maybe because you still need to forget your recent rejection. Or maybe it’s the way that the radio made you feel, for just a moment, like you were changed.

Either way, you shake off your goosebumps, and wander, more cautiously, down the aisles. The store is unique in its disorganization. You don’t think you’d be able to find a pattern if you walked around for hours. Still, the items are not scattered, and they are not haphazard. Each item appears perfectly in its place, with a little placard by each piece. Some, you notice, are even hidden from direct view, and something inside you whispers that it is deliberate, that those ones are the untouchable kind.

And another thing– from the first look, each item is so… normal. You hadn’t expected this. From the outside window, you had seen things that glowed, strange shapes that you couldn’t identify. Here, the shelves are lined with things that you’d find at a yard sale. A vacuum here, a hairbrush there, and each bears its own ornate placard.

You highly doubt that any of those things are as normal as they seem.

Curiosity steers you onward, and that insatiable feeling is what makes you pick up your next item, a fork colored a deep reflective red. You pick it up too fast though, and it slips from your grip right back on the shelf. You squint your eyes and try again, barely grasping the handle right before the smooth metal practically backbends out of your hand. You try a couple more times just for the intrigue, watching the contortionist utensil work its strange magic. But as you’re playing with the fork, the back of your hand brushes against something that sticks fast. You rip your hand back suddenly but a scaly black glove is already encasing your palm and your fingers and– oh! Is it fusing to your skin? You want to panic and hurl the glove across the room, but the man is still watching, and you are unable to throw something that is swiftly becoming a part of you.

You flick your hand frantically yet silently, desperate to keep the rest of yourself together. The two sides of the glove have just merged together in the center of your hand and you think, hopelessly, that this will be what your hand looks like forever.

But then the glove changes again. The oppressive tightness of the morphing glove suddenly releases, and you flex your hand involuntarily. Your left hand reaches shakily for the hem of the right glove and, seeing that it is now possible, you rip it off and set it back on the shelf. Convinced that you barely made it away with your hand intact, you scurry away from the shelf like a frightened animal, making a beeline for the exit. Curiosity killed the cat after all, and you rather like your felines alive.

Before you can reach freedom however, his voice stops you in your tracks.

“So you’re going to leave without purchasing anything? Why, that’s rather rude, don’t you think?”

You turn around slowly, a grin plastered on your face. Your mouth opens, intending to say something apologetic as an excuse, but his disapproving look stops the words before they come. Sometimes you really wish you weren’t such a people pleaser. There has to be something in the store that isn’t incredibly cursed, right? Maybe if you buy some gum, he’ll let you leave.

“I assure you, any purchase you make will be satisfactory.” Those words don’t make you feel any better, because you seriously doubt his claim. A few shuffling steps forward, and you are as close to the man as you ever want to be. You notice his sallow, almost lifeless skin and his pudgy noise that is incredibly ill-fit to the rest of his thin face. His eyes are sharp, an icy detached blue. Or maybe it isn’t his eyes, but the way he uses them to communicate that he’d be eager to swallow you whole. He gives you an awful feeling in the pit of your stomach, and proximity only magnifies that discomfort.

On top of the counter there are various knick knacks that seem mass-produced enough to be harmless. A butterfly hair clip, for example. The one in the basket there looks tacky, and you are relieved to pick it up and find that it feels just as commonplace.

“I’ll take this,” you say hastily, reaching in your pocket for a ten dollar bill and sliding it forwards by the corner so as not to touch him accidentally. He nods, and attempts to make a transaction, but you stop him with, “Oh, there’s no need, you can keep the change.” You don’t want his likely cursed money, no thank you.

He nods, and you turn on your heel before he can say anything else, gripping the hair clip in one hand and trying not to think too hard about it. Finally, you pull the heavy door open and escape into the evening. Your first steps out of the strange shop are hasty, but they slow as you make your way across the street to the familiar sidewalk towards your home.

The further you get away from the place, the more ridiculous you feel about the whole trip. Why did you even think those kids would show in the first place? When you could’ve just played games at home with your sister or something instead of ending up in a tricked out shop with weird creepy men and weird creepy things that–

You stop your stride and your tangent when you reach a park trash can on the sidewalk. Why can’t you just chuck the dumb hairclip in the garbage right now? Just to take it out on all the awful people that you had (or, technically, hadn’t) encountered today.

You unclench your fingers, staring down at the indents in your hand left by the butterfly clip.

You want to, but then again… you don’t. Maybe it’s an inkling of pride or lingering curiosity that was not quite satiated. You reach up and clip the pin into your hair, the action hasty and angry and impatient. Who cares anyway? You want to yell it to the wind. Not you. You couldn’t care in the slightest. You bought it, and you aren’t afraid of what is surely just plastic.

You stomp away from the trash can, feeling foolish again, and then being angry that you feel foolish, and the cycle goes on. Wind rushes past your ears loudly as you march. It seems as if the wind is coming primarily from your left side, because that’s where most of the whisper is coming from.

Wait– whisper? No, it’s the wind. It’s the wind.

But the wind or the whisper keeps growing, and after a while you can no longer dismiss it as nothing. You stop walking and simply listen to what you presume is the hair clip, impatience boiling in your blood.

It takes a minute to hear it clearly, but there it is.

“Wait…”

Your body shivers on its own, and a hand flies up to the clip to throw it onto the ground.

But you don’t make it far before,

“Don’t be afraid of us…”

Your hand stops. Of its own accord. You… you aren’t afraid. Not anymore. You almost want to be afraid, just so the hole in your perception can be mended. You know that you probably should be but… it’s almost as if, by command, all your fear vanished at once leaving you with… absence.

You await your next order, hand still hovering above the clip.

“Relax,” the voices hiss, and you drop your hand with a sigh. You can’t really explain it but the submission is nice. It’s simple… easy…

That voice though. One of them is so familiar. It pulls you from the mindless peace to feel a twinge of annoyance. It’s like a song, that voice. It’s the same feeling from earlier, and it’s as if there’s a cloud of fog keeping information from your memory.

“Give in to the–”
You gasp, and all of your senses return at once. Fright pierces your heart; panic floods in. You are free to be overwhelmed because you finally recognized her voice. Hers. Janna’s. Janna is stuck in the butterfly clip, and if you can only reach and free her– it just seems to be so easy but– your hand. It is still only partially in your control.

“Stop.” The voices command, but you can only hear Janna’s tortured voice now. You aren’t fighting just for yourself now, but for her, too. You forgive her, to fight harder, hand shaking at the midpoint between your hip and ear. You yelp and fall to your knees on the sidewalk. Trying so hard to regain control. The voices keep urging you to stop, the cadence a steady tick of hypnotism squirming into your brain.

But you are stronger now. Your finger grazes the clip and hope rises in your chest as you near freedom. This close to unclipping it, and then you can–

A boot flies in out of nowhere and kicks you in the side, hard, knocking you to the pavement. Pain distracts you from the mental struggle, and the “Stop. Stop. Stop.” grows in volume and power.

You feel something else. Different from pain. You are… draining. You don’t know how else to describe the feeling of your soul being taken from your body other than that. Feeling is vacating your limbs faster than you can fight to feel again.

In your last act, you crack open your squinted eyes to see the man standing above you, still smiling a sinister smile.

He is holding your soul in one hand, and a friendship bracelet in another.

You surrender.

You hope your placard will be pretty.

Beyond the stormy sea, I drifted helplessly with nothing but a drenched backpack and my dignity.

“How did this happen?” I wondered as I clung to a rogue plank of wood. That was all that remained of my little sailboat. I wanted to sail to Ireland, but my luck ran out after my boat was destroyed in a terrible storm. The Irish coast seemed to taunt me as I was carried away by the same storm that kept me from reaching my destination. Despite the current situation I was in, I was thankful to be alive. Out of all the people in the world, why did Mother Nature spare me? I shivered as I felt the burning sensation of saltwater flooding into my nostrils. I began to panic as I wondered how long it would take me to suffer from hypothermia in seas as cold as the one I was in, or if sharks ever came so far north.

As the fog lifted, the moon sank as the morning sun took its place, its orange and purple beams breaking through the dark blue sky. The waves reflected the sun, creating a picture I longed to draw. But what caught my eye was something far more hopeful than daybreak. The fog continued to lift, parting like a curtain, and revealing a land mass that I was unfamiliar with. Far too small for Ireland.

What happened next is beyond me. I felt a sudden urge to swim closer and closer to the island. I faced the direction of the sunrise, gazing at the storm clouds that moved farther and farther away. The storm left behind a rough tide that pulled me closer and closer to land, my sanctuary. But something inside me told me that the tide wasn’t the only thing urging me to swim toward the land. It was as if the land mass was a titanic magnet, and I was attracted to it. I drew nearer to the shore, and the faint sounds of machinery, boats, and steam rang in my ears. I listened closely, concentrating on the dry land beyond me. Out of the blue, my ears picked up a voice. It was a low gruff voice. Gruff, but kind. The voice called out to me “Oi, what’re yeh doin’ so far out from the sea, my boy?”

I looked to my right, and a kind man with graying hair held his large hand out for me to take. “Yer ginnae freeze out here, lad.”

“That’s it, watch yer step, boy. Richards, get the wee lad a cloth, he’ll catch his death for sure if he’s not warm!” the man shouted at a younger man, possibly a fisherman.

Richards quickly scuttled inside the small fishing boat that I was rescued in, emerging moments later with a large blanket. “Well, now. I don’t know what you were doing out in the middle of the harbor. But I can assume you aren’t from around here,” Richards said to me as the blanket that enveloped me filled me with warmth. “I don’t know either, but the sailboat I was in got caught in a fierce storm. I was headed for Ireland from Prince Edward Island…” I paused for a moment, trying to jog my memory. “Where exactly am I?” I asked the gruff man.

“Norramby Harbour,” he replied bluntly, his eyes trained on gray clouds of smoke enveloping from above the outline of ships docked in the marina. “And where would that be?” I tried again, confused.

“The Isle,” the man smirked with admiration.

“Ye see, the maps call it Sudrah Isle, but we know it as ‘The Land of Dreams’,” the man explained as the fishing boat docked on the quayside.

“How come?” I asked curiously.

“Legend says that anyone who sets foot on the Isle can see things that the rest of the world cannot see with their own eyes. The things that inhabit this island are truly a gift from those above.”

“Of course, they’re things that people normally see, but there’s something about them that make them unlike anything else,” he finished, scratching his beard in the mid morning sunlight. I pondered for a moment. What about the Isle made it unlike anything in the world? Richards took me back inside of the fishing boat, where he handed me a bundle of clothing. “It’s lucky that you and I have a similar figure,” he told me “This should last you until you can find some better clothing.

He handed me the bundle, which consisted of a pair of black utility overalls, a white t-shirt, and red flannel shirt. After I changed into dry clothes, Richards smiled. “Better than wet clothes, that’s for sure and certain.” As the fisherman and Richards helped me out of the trawler, I could hear the faint sound of steam hissing. “Best get a move on, youngin’. Wouldn’t want yeh to miss the train,” the fisherman said as I shook his hand and Richards’. “Thank you for helping me,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Think nothing of it.” Richards smiled. “Safe travels.”

As I walked along the wooden docks below the concrete wall, I continued to hear steam wheeshing, chains clanging, boxes clunking, and doors sliding shut. I made my way up the concrete steps to the surface of the wall, the harbour town overlooking me as I reached the top step. I looked back at the coastal sea from which I came from. As I turned back around, I saw the train. My eyes focused on the large clouds of steam and exhaust that billowed from the steam engine, a time capsule of an age that was long gone. As it idled happily on the steel rails, as if it were waiting for me to join it. As I stepped into the guard’s van, I could almost hear a soothing voice from the loud whistle of the departing train.

I watched the coastal town get smaller and smaller. Maybe it was because I was travelling farther away from it. I heard the gulls squawking above me as the engine barreled away from the coast and into the countryside, as if they mocked my inability to soar like they could. My emotions became as vibrant as the morning sun that shone high in the sky. I gazed lovingly at the grassy fields and the other steam engines that passed by. Each whistle sounded like a quick conversation between these iron horses. I contemplated the fisherman’s words about this unique island and began to appreciate the life changing experience brought before me. Anything was possible, and even that wouldn’t happen anywhere else but on this very island.

I’m running through a forest. Dense cypress trees, so close together it’s impossible to tell whether it’s day or night, line the path. I don’t know what I’m running toward, or from. My feet hit the rock-solid ground in an abnormal rhythm. There is a heavy thickness in the air, almost as if time is slowing down, and all my motions are blurring together. I look behind me. All I see are the trees reaching an ever-skyward height, an eerie darkness, and the footprints I left behind. But there is something else too. Little pieces of something shiny, but I can’t tell what. The eerie black mass continues towards me, regardless of the curves in the path, it continues to follow, spitting shards of poison crystal, becoming more lethal by the second. The wind is howling, lashing my hair across my face. The dark vortex swirls closer with the velocity of a raging storm. But I hear none of it. Just the sensation of air passing my ears as I’m running, and my heart pounding wildly inside my chest, keeping abstract tempo with my feet as they hit the ground. It vibrates me to the core. Suddenly, time speeds up again. Turning my head back around, looking to make sure it’s a straight shot in front of me, I shut my eyes. I lean forward, and keep running against the wind. And as suddenly as it had started, I stopped.

I come to an instant halt at the edge of a lake, almost losing my balance and about to fall in. Regaining my footing, and catching my breath, I take a closer look at the water. Vapor rises out of it, like dry ice. I reach my hand out to touch it, and it’s frigid. Winter cold. Below zero. I pull my hand back. It’s fractured. But there’s something else to the water. It has pieces of shiny in it too. And glass bottles. Glass bottles with the corks screwed on tight. Glass bottles with hundreds of thousands of millions of broken pieces. Glass bottles, all floating in the middle of a lake. But it isn’t just a lake. It has a river flowing into it, and in the distance I can see that that’s where the bottles came from. I look around. Everything, the cypress trees, the lake, the bottles, the sky, the ground, everything, is a shade of grey, only with a slight tint of what I thought its color was supposed to be. I look at myself. I’m immediately taken aback.

All over my skin. No, it IS my skin. Little pieces of shiny glass, in hundreds of thousands of millions of colors. It makes a mosaic, a kaleidoscope, with little rays and beams of colorful light coming from the cracks, just visible in between the glass. But my shiny pieces are different from the ones that were in the forest, which isn’t that far away, only a few meters. The shiny pieces on the ground are grey, and only reflect the light from the sun, which is the same dull shade. My pieces are luminescent, the light comes from them, brighter than the reflections of the sun.

I look back at the glass bottles, too far away to reach. But there is one, a small bottle, no bigger than my hand, floating just close enough to take. The bottle is cold from the water, but I unscrew the cork and empty the contents onto the grass. I’m unsure what impulse washes  over me or what it suggests, but I start putting the pieces together. It’s a little painful, since the pieces are shards of glass, but in a few short seconds I’m done. The object before me looks similar to that of a human, but relatively small. It doesn’t have features, just the shape of a person. I get up and walk around it a few times, inspecting my work. I notice the object has just a little color left, a few shades of muted blue and green. It’s odd, especially since when it was still in pieces, I was sure that it was grey… I also notice a piece missing, an empty space, right where its eye would be.

Without hesitation, but a pricking tug, I pick a piece off of my hand. The piece is still a soft yellow, but the space from where I took it turned black. I figure it is so small a hole compared to the rest of me, I can live with it. I kneel down, unsure of what’s going to happen. As soon as I touch the yellow piece to the figure, color starts spreading from its eye to the rest of its little body. Have I given it color..? I’m highly surprised as the tiny figure, only a foot tall, is now moving, satisfactorily examining itself, just like I had done before. It has no facial features, but it seems to look up at me, almost expectantly. I look back at the lake. Another small bottle has been making its way closer. I reach out for the bottle, and in another few minutes I have another grey figure built.

The colorful one turns its head from the grey figure, to me, back to the figure, and back at me. It steps closer as I hold out my other hand. It hesitates with its hand on mine. I don’t move. It pulls off a neon orange piece. Again, the piece keeps its color, but the space on my hand turns black. I’m okay with it. The first little figure shuffles over to the second one, and attempts to put the orange piece in the hole on its eye.

Not being able to get it to fit, the figure teeters back over to me and gives me the piece, looking over its shoulder and pointing back at the hole. As soon as I touch the orange piece to the grey figure’s face, colors start to spread again. I now have two little mosaics staring at each other, marveling at their colors. They hug my ankles, and then run to go explore. They touch the leaves on the ground that had fallen from the trees. The leaves start turning into greens and reds and golds. The figures leave green tracks in the grass. It’s amazing to watch.

I grab another bottle from the lake. As I build the figure, I notice how much bigger he is, about as tall as me. When I’m done, the figure has muted yellows and oranges. I pull a fluorescent gradient piece from my wrist and add it to the hole in the figure’s eye. It comes to life as the colors return to their full brightness, spreading from its eye down to the rest of its body. It studies itself too, holding its arms out to watch the sun shine through the pieces and make colored rays on the ground. The figure sees me and gives me a hug, grateful that I have taken the time to put it back together. It then takes my hand and guides me away from the edge of the lake. We run after the other little figures. We touch the bases of the cypress trees, and the trees turn brown and tan. We run our fingers over some flowers, and the petals turn purple and pink. We brush our hands over the soft grass, and the blades turn bright green. I feel pure joy, seeing unimaginable brilliance flow from our touch.

Still holding hands, the tall figure and I run back to the lake and reach for more bottles. I have excited bursts of thoughts about how much color the figures and I could bring to the world if I make more of them. I give away a violet purple piece, a cherry red piece. An emerald green, a flamingo pink, and a sunny yellow piece. I’m so happy to be bringing colors and figures to life, the few inches of skin turning black doesn’t bother me. Soon, all the land around the lake overflows with color. It’s such a thrill, an adrenaline rush, the feeling you get when an ecstatic shiver runs up your back, to see a world, a small part of it at least, alive and thrumming with something that hasn’t been seen in a very long time. I look around and see all the figures I have built, and the one sitting next to me, apparently smiling and helping me reach for more bottles. A realization dawns on me. I don’t need to run anymore. I’ve found where I’m supposed to be. There, dozens of unique, human-shaped mosaics playing and running around.

It is pleasant, but something feels a little off. I glance back towards the opening that shows the trail down the forest. I can see the cloud of darkness coming back, making its way towards the lake. I can’t believe it. It was supposed to be gone. Left behind and forgotten. No longer a reason to run and worry. Now it’s nearing again, just as vile as ever. I try to get the figures to run from the cloud, along the river and out of sight. I don’t know if they understand me, they seem confused. I make a wild gesture at the black mass, not too far away now, and snarl at the figures, trying to make them see that what’s coming is horrid. They seem scared, but of me, not what I was running from. Some of the figures run away, but most of them stay, too scared and confused to move or to know what to do. It’s exasperating and hopeless.

I back up to the edge of the lake, thinking the poisonous whirlwind will dissipate instead of touching the water. The mosaics and I only watch in horror as the vortex lurches into the clearing. But as soon as it does, the sound of a tree snapping and falling resonates in translucent waves, strong enough to almost knock me over again. Shaking my head, I look back at where the giant, dark cloud is supposed to be. It isn’t there. Instead, there are hundreds of figures, but they are black and grey, of all shapes and sizes. The grey mosaics are down on all fours, crawling through the glass pieces scattered on the ground. They’re missing pieces too, but they don’t have a single hole just where their eye should be, they have holes all over.

One of the grey figures approaches a colorful one, and puts its hand on its head. The colors start draining from the colored figure, melting down its body and pooling around its feet. The color absorbed into the ground, never to be seen again. As soon as the last drop is gone, the piece I had given the figure to cover its eye falls off. Time slows down again. I watch as the piece falls to the ground. I try to scream. No sound comes out. I try to run towards the figure before it falls apart again. It’s too late. Not a second after the first piece hits the floor, the rest of the glass pieces fall, starting from where the taller grey figure has its hand on its head, and they come off in a wave, a ripple all the way down, until there’s just a pile of hundreds of thousands of millions of colorless pieces on the ground.

The figure still standing drops its hand, falls to its knees, and starts sifting through the pile, trying to find pieces that will fill its empty spaces. When I reach the grey mosaic, I whisper.

“Why?”

It ignores me.

I manage to yell.

“WHY?!”

It looks up at me. Its face crinkles as if it blinked. A tear slides down its face. It resumes its task of sorting through the pile. I take a piece from my arm. I hand the bright crimson speck to the figure. It takes the piece from my hand, and attempts to fit it into a black space. When it doesn’t fit, the grey figure throws the piece away, and before I can pick it up again, the crimson soaks into the ground.

I disregard the useless mosaic in front of me and turn around. A cry escapes my throat as I watch the other grey figures demolish the remaining colorful mosaics. They don’t just peacefully place their hands on their heads. They throw them onto the floor. They step on them. They beat them against the cypress trees. All around I see the colors draining into the ground, and the rest of the glass pieces fall, and they come off in a wave, a ripple all the way down, and piles of hundreds of thousands of millions of pieces raining onto the floor. All the colors in the flowers, in the trees, in the grass, are quickly fading as well. The mosaic who had held my hand, I see it stretch out its arm towards me as an even bigger figure places its hand on its head. The fluorescent piece from its eye falls off as its face contorts with pain. He tries to reach for me as his colors melt off, and the pieces ripple apart. I feel my heart drop. I look at the lake.

There’s only one colorful figure left. The little one, the first one I had built. It’s trying to reach for another bottle. I run over before the grey ones have the chance to get to it. I gather the last bit of color into my hands. We glance around at the destruction. It looks like I had never been there. Everything, the cypress trees, the lake, the bottles, the sky, the ground, everything, returned to its shade of grey, only with a slight tint of what its color had been. The little one looks up at my face. It pulls the soft yellow piece from its eye, and places it in my hand. I try to put it back, but the little one won’t let me, he covers his eyes with his hands. When I stop trying, it uncovers its face. I’m so confused and lost as to why it is giving its yellow piece back to me. I whisper to it, almost crying.

“Why?”

It just blinks, and smiles a sad smile. It closes its eyes as their colors start dripping onto my hands, between my fingers, and down to the ground. I can’t believe I held a glowing, radiant, almost-person in my hands, and now all that’s left is a pile of grey glass on the floor, and the single yellow piece still in my grasp. I put the yellow back into the space on my hand. Black tears start streaming down my face.

All that’s left are grey figures, searching through the hundreds of thousands of millions of pieces on the ground, in a world of grey, in the clearing surrounding the lake, where it has started raining. Everything is blurry. I had been thinking that I still have color left. I look down. All I can see is grey. Barely audible, I breathe, “No.” Time slows down again. My hands are shaking violently. Slowly, they start crumbling into pieces. I can’t take it. I stumble and fall backwards into the lake with a rigid splash. It’s cold. Icy cold. I look above me, rain pelting the surface of the lake, as hundreds of thousands of millions of my glass pieces float to the surface, blocking out the sun. A crystalline solstice. Forever.

Kya

I glared at the pencil I had thrown onto my bedroom floor a few seconds ago. The lilting, sweet notes of my sister’s flute drifted in through my shut door, followed by a loud clunk and a “drat!”.

Ren was practicing some sort of levitation spell. It didn’t appear to be going well.

I sighed and ducked to pick up the mistreated writing implement. For a myriad of reasons, I had to master this spell.

One was that I had a quiz tomorrow I needed to not fail, to maintain my precarious B, to maintain my increasingly imperiled honor roll designation, to maintain my life and future as I knew it.

Drama queen? Nah.

And, I knew for a fact this was actual important life knowledge. No math magician had ever gotten a decent, rewarding job without knowing how to take the integral of a function.

So I had been told.

And they definitely didn’t get to be a policy expert without knowing how to deconstruct complex international problems—much less an alarm clock—down to their basic parts and concepts. If I was going to follow in my parents’ footsteps like I’d always wanted, I had to figure this out.

Ren

I glared at my penciled in notes on the stand in front of me. This wasn’t working. Why wasn’t this working?

This was the most complex spell I’d ever written. Last night, I’d levitated my stuffed animal with a few bars, and now I wanted more. I wanted to make the flimsy giraffe fly. I’d called in Pepper for help because our magic together would be easier.

Pepper was my best friend. He was currently perched on my desk with his bassoon, craned over to read the notes I kept changing every five seconds, and watching me warily. It seemed like a remarkably uncomfortable position to play in.

My piece didn’t violate the rules, did it? I didn’t see how, but the rules were always violated when I least expected them to be. Magic had rules and ethics. Neither were to be broken—rules couldn’t be, and ethics shouldn’t be. The ethics were easy: don’t hurt people with magic. The rules were harder: magic can’t violate the laws of physics. The problem was the laws of physics.

I had a C in physics. I knew I couldn’t make something out of nothing, but the laws seemed to me to change depending on what was being done and it was difficult to keep track. I couldn’t see how the spell I had in front of me was attempting to break any rules. There must be a different problem stopping Lulu the giraffe from sailing through the air.

I crossed out the three notes at the end of the fourth measure and changed them. “Again,” I told Pepper.

Kya

I redirected my gaze to the notebook paper and rewrote the equation for the thousandth time, hoping starting again would finally work. I underlined each part, granting myself that this was no basic anti-derivative, no simple deconstruction. The alarm clock faced me menacingly. I pictured the sweater I’d successfully unwound with the power rule, and the pen I’d taken apart with the quotient rule. I scrawled these rules in the margin and willed them to work on this function.

The third attempt had promise, the alarm clock top falling off and the numbers blinking into oblivion, but by the end it just beeped annoyingly.

I sighed. My sister could do this with a sweet sonata, quick and pretty; I’d seen it. My dad could take this same pencil and the clock would appear on the paper in seconds, deconstructed on my desk in moments. My mom could achieve the same with a few colorful brushstrokes.

I’d wanted their magic. It was technically inherited, after all (so I was saved from having cooking magic, it never having appeared in our family tree), but forgotten magics often reappeared after generations. I adored my parents’ art magic, but I’d suspected early I didn’t have it; my 2^nd grade teacher had called my kitty cat illustration a beautiful banana. Next, I’d hoped for music like my sister; I adored my violin after all, and this was when she was having such fun learning beginner spells.

But on my decision day, when I met with my counselor and she “suggested” my magic was math, I agreed instantly. We both knew: I could do my times tables faster than anyone in my class and my paper turning colors when I was doing sums was becoming a common occurrence. The week before, my paper mâché flower art project had burst into flames when I tried to divide fractions.

I’d cried on my decision day. Everyone else celebrated: Mom made a blueberry cake and framed the spell, calming purple and blue swirls. Ren had made (a small amount of) confetti fall with a stilted etude. They clapped for me, let me light the candles with fractions, gifted me a calculator, and Aunt Lily, the only living math magician in the family, called with her congratulations and support.

I supposed I could call Aunt Lily now. That would probably get me past this quicker, but though she was fun to play board games with, when it came to math explanations, she talked too fast and was always impatient with my problem solving.

Ren

The giraffe flopped off the bureau but fell to Pepper’s feet. He poked her tentatively and gave me a guilty look.
“I missed the flat”.

I smiled, relieved it was an execution problem and not a writing problem. “No problem! Let’s do it again.” I replaced Lulu.

It was not an execution problem.

I put the flute down and sat on my bed, dejected. I needed to be able to make up spells. I was going to travel the world to learn people’s magic, to share it, to analyze it. I needed to know how I did it to know how they did. I needed to know how to create.

I flexed my fingers, considering, and my eyes drifted to the ocean painting on my wall.

My room was decorated with my parent’s art and Pepper’s. He was one of the few that had two (or more) magics. Music was his primary one, so he was in my classes, but he could do amazing things with both music and art. I dreamed of writing spells that could unite multiple magics, but multiple magicians was about all I could handle at the moment.

I took the sheet music and tapped out the rhythm on my thigh. Pepper occupied himself reorganizing my bookshelf. Aha! This measure was wrong, the counting was impossible. I fixed it, hoping to get Lulu a bit further.

Next, I added a repeat and a coda in hopes I could land the stuffed animal too. The notes sounded awkward when I tested them, chiding me for not spending enough time in my textbook. Pepper tossed the tome to me and I flipped through for guidance to smooth the piece out.

“Ok,” I announced, “Let’s play it again.”

Kya

My violin stared at me, tempting me. I gave in, not at all reluctant to forget the spell for a few moments, but got only a few wistful strokes of the bow before Ren was banging on my door.

“Kya, I’m playing!”

I groaned and put it away. It was frustrating that Ren and I couldn’t get spell help from our parents or each other. Frustrating, but common.

The best magicians were born to parents with the same magic who were born to parents with the same magic and so on. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule, but it was more often true. Skill and talent at magic wasn’t genetic, but complex magic was hard. Knowledgeable families helped.

Like my friend Becki. Both her parents were math magicians, and she was brilliant at it.

Becki! I grabbed the pencil and scribbled out the quadratic equation I knew by heart to call her, factoring with ease.

Her face popped up in a window over my desk and relief flooded me.

“Hi Kya,, she said, looking up.

“Hello,” I told her. “Can you please, please help me with this antiderivative spell? I have a very stubborn alarm clock to dismantle.”

“Yeah, of course, what do you have?”

More relief.

Becki walked me through the magic and after fifteen minutes, a few concerning puffs of air, and some exciting sizzles, my alarm clock had been forced into cords, batteries, and mysterious metal parts lying in neat rows on my desk.

I shouted with joy and Becki laughed at this overreaction to math gone right. My outburst mixed with the music and another loud CLUNK came from across the hall, followed by a “drat!”.

 

Ren

Lulu fell to the ground again, but it was Kya’s fault this time. I picked the giraffe up with a sigh but laughed when I met Pepper’s amused eyes. I guess she’d finally figured out her spell. Or something could be on fire, but the ensuing giggles reassured me an accident was not the case. It had been known to happen; my sister’s magic was stronger than she knew.

Mine was not. Almost everything I had ever made happen with my flute was planned, all though I’d also planned for plenty of things to happen that didn’t. We played my piece again and the stuffed animal got further, but ‘flying’ was still a stretch to describe the movement.

“Can I?” Pepper asked, gesturing to the music. He asked now before critiquing or suggesting, scarred from the many times I couldn’t handle criticism or just wanted to figure it out myself. I was embarrassed about it, but still stubborn. I nodded. “It sounds like we’re from two different worlds,” Pepper said. “In the third line and the coda. And I think we’re in time, so maybe you could change one of the parts there.”

“The flute is supposed to be flying too far,” I explained. “And the bassoon is supposed to be grounding, but it just sounds like they’re arguing.”

He nodded but kept quiet. I picked up my pencil and reworked the grounding part, adding more echoes, a different chord. Then I let the flute swoop a little closer to the ground, a little farther into the sky, at different times.

“Again?” Pepper asked. I nodded and lifted the flute to my lips.

I focused on the image in my head to guide the sounds I was making. The notes went just a little too far up, buoyed by the bassoon part. I let the instrument sing, swooping up and down.

Lulu the stuffed giraffe sailed across my room and landed softly on my nightstand. I grinned.

 

 

“Vanity, are you ready? We’re going to be late!”

“Hold on, I wanna check my hair,” I say, walking to the bathroom. The mirror in this bathroom has a dim light above it because it needs a new bulb, which I was supposed to fix but haven’t yet. It isn’t ideal because it makes me look a little yellow. The upstairs bathroom, the one painted blue, has a cooler, much brighter light, since there are three hanging above the mirror. But that one makes me look paler. My favorite mirror in the house is the tall one that’s placed in the corner of my bedroom. It shows off my figure nicely. The lamp placed next to it gives off a nice glow, and its light bounces off my eyes and makes them sparkly when I look at myself.

But since I’m only checking my hair, I stay in the downstairs bathroom. Cara, my roommate, did my hair for tonight’s party. She’s waved it and put product in it to make it bounce. As I look at myself, I notice how the front frames my face perfectly. I shake my head to see it bounce and then smile, showing off my perfect teeth and my deep dimples that Cara told me are very pretty. I marvel at my reflection for a moment before I hear my name.

“Vanity! I swear to God I’m going to leave you.”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” I yell back and make my way to the front door of our apartment. Cara’s waiting for me with a bored expression.

 

The taxi halts, after coming out, I wait for Cara, who pays the driver. Though the house was on the sixth floor of the apartment building, music streamed through open windows and was heard from below. I look up and my eyes catch sight of the setting sun reflecting off the Empire State Building far away. Cara often says how beautiful it looks during this time of day, which angers me, because how can a building be beautiful? Walking up to the doors, I stop to check my makeup in the sideview mirror of a car parked in front.

“Are you kidding me?” Cara exclaimed as I finish and walk back to her. “You’re insane.”

Shrugging, I say, “I just want to look good.”

Cara shakes her head in exasperation.

 

It takes us five minutes to reach the apartment, and the entire time I was aching to see what I looked like. The humidity outside could have ruined my makeup and the burst of air conditioner while walking into the apartment building might have made my hair frizz up. The elevator ride was awful. My reflection contorted on the closing doors as if I was standing in front of a funhouse mirror, making me more nervous than I already am.

We reach the apartment and enter, the door left unlocked. Cara sees our friend, the birthday girl, in a crowd of dancing people. Making our way there, I spot a group of boys and lock eyes with one of them, but I feel like he’s looking at me strangely. I couldn’t be imagining this, there’s definitely something wrong with the way I look. We reach our friends and the first thing I ask for is the bathroom, not caring for formalities.

 

The loud music muffles as I shut the door. I look at the mirror and notice that the lighting in my bathroom is awful. It makes my under eyes look darker and my skin looks a little strange. I lean in closer to get a better look. My fingers pinch my cheekbones to let a little color in. They rub the dark circles to try and even out the concealer I applied earlier. I pinch and pull and pick at every little imperfection my eyes find. Until I accidentally poke myself in the eyes. My head jerks from the impact, rubbing my eyes and warily opening them again, black and white dots appear in my vision, but as it clears I notice I’m no longer in the bathroom. I’m in a dark room, facing the bathroom, across from where I just stood. Hands outstretched, I reach into the bathroom, but my palms are hit with the feeling of glass. I hear a knock, presumably from the door in the bathroom, but it sounded far away, and echoed around me. As the door opens, I see Cara walk in with a confused expression, but then turn to the mirror.

“Cara! Oh thank goodness!” Though she’s looking in my direction, I feel as though she’s looking past me. She reaches into her purse for a hair clip, tying her blonde locks back. I knock on the glass, “Cara! Cara, help! Please! Cara!” My heart drops. There’s no way this is possible. Am I in the mirror? I slam my hands again and again, soon turning into fists, until one final blow shatters the glass. The shards shatter on the ground as I drop to my knees, tears streaming. My reflection is seen in the broken pieces, crooked and twisted into a horrific image.

5 o’clock. The moment the hallways of my office overflow with people. The time the sun begins to set and the streets of this city are lit up by towers and dreams. The time I am regretful of letting the ones I looked up to the most decide who I am. The first face I saw was not my own, but my parent’s. Now when I look in the mirror, I realize my reflection was never my own, but an image of all the things my parents wanted to see.

My parents were pretty average people, and they did not have any interests or talents. My dad worked as an accountant and my mom was a clerk. Their only goal was to get through life, and they did not concern themselves with anything that would be too much work. When I was a kid, I wanted to become a famous painter. As a kid, I would sketch little doodles of cartoons I would see on television. When I would show my teachers, they would be shocked that instead of scribbling on the paper like the other 6-year-olds, I was drawing people and animals. When I showed my parents my art, they would frown and take my paint and pencils away from me saying, “they were too distracting.” Regardless of the drawing I would show them, they were never impressed and continued to discourage me. I never understood what they meant.

The one thing my parents wanted was success. They thought success was defined as getting a job in an office and making money. As I grew older, I realized that I feared their version of success more than failing at something I wanted to do. When I explained to them about how I wanted to go to be an arts major, they told me that they would only pay for college if I went into business. I was steered in a direction from which I could not escape.

Now I’m in an office just like they wanted. Was this success? Was this what I was born to do? I thought success was supposed to be a nice thing. I thought I was supposed to be happy now. I feel tricked. Is it too late for me now? I need hope.

As I typed on my computer, I prepared for my next interview. I then heard a knock on my door. “Mr. Smith? May I come in? I am here for my interview.” In walked a young lady with blonde hair and a big smile. She smiled like I have never seen in my whole life. “Hello, I’m Fia, I’m here for the volunteering opportunity.”

“Good, could you tell me about yourself?” I said in a surprised tone.

“Sure! I am aspiring to become a singer when I grow up,” she said in a happy voice.

I looked down, confused by her response because her resume said she had straight A’s and took extra business classes. “What do your parents think about you wanting to be a singer?” I said.

“My parents put me in a private school in kindergarten that taught me leadership and communication skills. They told me to follow my heart and chase my dreams. They supported me and got me to where I am today,” she said with bright eyes.

I was astonished. This is what it is supposed to be like. This was happiness. Right in front of me, was everything that I wanted to become as a kid and everything I wanted my parents to see in me. All I wanted was my parents to believe in me. As she walked out of my office, I looked at my painting on the wall with a night sky and stars and said, “I hope that you reach for the stars.”