A slender hand reaches through the darkness, grasping for something more. The brain which controls it, my brain--I think--knows the darkness well. For, it has never known anything but.

On earth, the brain and the hand were always partners in crime, a crime of the worst possible degree I might add: the sin of seeking the unknown.

You see, I have always felt chilled by the ever-present embrace of the knowledge I have obtained--which can be summed up by the statement, “all I know is that I don’t know.” That statement was the thesis of my Harvard graduation speech. But you mustn't know that yet. For my sanity, you must forgive me for holding back information. Most days, information is being held back from me. But not today; today, I will be the one holding back information… from you.

Everything I know, or, more accurately, everything I don’t, has been bothering me ever since I first tried stargazing at age seven. My dad sat there with me in the midst of a meadow buzzing with peaceful little fireflies that danced around the poppies, illuminating their translucent petals. I was bundled tight in a fleece blanket, sitting next to my father. He was squinting into a telescope, angling it just right so I could observe the stars, mystified as a mortal in a faery forest. My uncovered knees dug into the coarse ground as I kneeled to get the right angle on a constellation. I swallowed up the night sky at a disorienting speed, a diver returning to the surface, frantically gasping for air. Finally, my dad showed me one particular cluster of stars a bit dimmer than the rest. He said to me, “that cluster is special.”

“Why?” I timidly ventured.

He paused for a moment, the sound of the crickets chirping replacing our meak voices. “Because that’s where those like us are from.” He added something, his voice was so small I almost missed it. “And that’s where your mother is.”

“What does it all mean, Papa?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but a gurgling sound came out instead and he collapsed. The fireflies dimmed, and the crickets quieted. A farmer hobbled towards us, wild-eyed with a musket in hand. “Hands up! I know it’s you, neighbor. Out to cut out crop circles in my corn fields for publicity again, are ye? Well I won’t have none of that no more,” the farmer bellowed. He ran closer. I ran farther. His legs were long, mine short. He caught up to me and spun me around. His grimy fingernails dug into my shoulders. The bright white beam of a flashlight left me seeing stars in the backs of my eyelids. And for a second, it was like nothing had changed. Then the flashlight was gone and the darkness returned. The farmer released me and muttered, “oh god, what have I done.”

He did more than he realised, that’s for sure.

Because I asked a question, and for the first time ever, the universe did not immediately give me an answer.

This tragic gap in my knowledge is what caused me to feel as cold as a tombstone lost to the arctic, even atop scorching sand dunes on a trip to Africa when I was 22. It was in this moment of extreme chills, that I gave up on trying to self-remedy my self-diagnosed, doctor-disbelieved “chronic coldness”, took the next flight to Harvard, and continued my studies with renewed urgency.

Now, here I am, dancing with stardust in outer space in temperatures cold enough to kill me in less than I minute if I didn’t have this spacesuit on, feeling warm and tingly for the first time since I was a naive child basking in lack of knowledge--swimming in it gleefully, mockingly, tauntingly. But that purity is not the sort of thing that can be kept for oneself. Children, I believe, are born splashing in invisible swimming pools of naiveness. Some pools evaporate sooner than others, but all do so eventually. And these evaporated pools are then dispersed amongst those older in the form of rain. And suddenly with their reservoir dry, the newcomers to dry land must run out of their houses when the rain comes, just like everyone else, in hopes of catching even the slightest little raindrop on their tongues.

Here in the expanse of space it doesn’t rain. If it did, the water would just freeze.

For the first time, the endless emptiness--above me, below me, to my right to my left, and to the directions everywhere in between--doesn’t bother me. Instead, the emptiness here makes me feel full by comparison. I used to like the desert and the arctic because they were so empty and truthful. But looking back, they were like raisins of loneliness in comparison to space, an ice-cream sundae of solitude, cultivated to its finest.

Now, If you recall, I mentioned that I was as cold as a tombstone in the arctic earlier. Well, that peculiar simile comes into play right about… now!: being the first human space explorer is like being the first adventurer in the arctic because it results in the same incomprehensible bafflement over a number of things such as the quasi emptiness of the new region, if you are not believable enough or happen to die in sed region you will not be credited for your efforts, and both are really, really cold. Not, freezing cold, as the saying goes. But colder than freezing cold. And colder than that, even.

I take a deep breath and ease the space helmet from my head. Cold, I think. My life flashes before my eyes. I see myself at age five sneaking up to my foster dad to steal the beer bottle from his beefy hand as he slept because I thought it would make a good body for a U.F.O at age 9. I see myself at age 11 playing in the junkyard, using some rocket blaster instructions I bought from a man in an overcoat that I met in an alleyway to make myself a jetpack. I see myself at age 15 joining the robotics club at my high school to find people willing to help me make an unmanned rocket we could shoot above the clouds. I see myself at age 20 nearly getting caught sneaking into NASA to steal some parts. I see myself putting the finishing touches on my one-man spaceship at age 25. And I can see myself now, age 26, risking everything to answer yet another question: can I breathe in space if I’m an alien?

The answer, as it turns out, is yes.

That being settled, I return to my spaceship and pull out a map. A map to my mother, to my home. A map made by me, for me, so that I can find out who “me” really is.

No one has seen the King for twenty-one days.

All is normal, seems normal; the subjects seek common courtesy, criminals seek to sink their own morality. The knights still roam castle grounds, the chambermaids still take out what little wash is left of the royal household—the Queen and her four children. Horses nicker proudly as they parade the town in groups of threes with jesters and dancers in tow, displaying the white and green banners of the still very-much-sovereign Majesty.

But at night in her bedroom chamber, wearing nothing but her scandalous nightgown and surging fear, the Queen asks her senior advisor what they must do. Not one of her subjects can know the secrets about the unstable grounds of the kingdom, for their lies will spread in the streets like a deadly disease, and then what? Anarchy? Chaos? She buries her face in her hands.

The advisor tries to reassure her, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “They will not know. We will make sure of it.”

And so it seemed, even for the children of the royal family.

“Where’s Father?” asks the youngest of the four, a five-year-old girl with pigtails and an inflated ego.

“Does it matter right now, princess?” the governess hushes her, straightening the girl’s petticoats and guiding her back to her studies. “Besides, if he’s gone, does that mean that your focus shall suffer, too?”

And that was that.

The Queen glances out the window of her study’s tower, her curls quivering nervously in the crisp Autumn morning. To her advisor, she whispers, “any news?”

“Only that the King’s disappeared for twenty-one days now, Highness.”

Her slow exhale rumbles the stones of the gloomy castle. “Shall we send out more troops.”

“Highness, we’ve sent nearly half our soldiers...”

“That was not a question, Thomas.”

In the forest, troops indeed have been sent by the thousands upon the Queen’s request. A commander bolsters himself to his horse, distributing frantic words to his subordinates.

“The future of the kingdom rests in ye grubby paws!”

So they all searched frantically, without a single idea of what they might be looking for.

All in vain, really. For no one truly knows what happened to him, the King. Just one day, his horse had been absent from the stables, and with it three thousand golden coins from his underground chamber. Such a shame, too, for he had won over everyone’s heart, a beacon of kindness and strength for all those who knew him—the aristocracy and ordinary folk alike.

Would you die to know where your Father went, little girl? Had your eyes not been glued to your musty princess textbooks, perhaps you might be able to put some of your skills to use. And what about you, Queen? Has your desperation blinded you so much that you forgot to look in the one place you’d never expect? Knights, commanders, chambermaids, civilians, would you understand that your king was neither murdered nor kidnapped nor bribed nor bored?

Would any of you believe that he was trying to run away?

Once a month, the aristocracy of the kingdom gather in the ballroom of the luxurious castle, transported in their chariots of varying shades of gold and silver. Princesses and duchesses dance in gowns sewn from the materials for what’s ‘in season’. Men gawk at the beautiful women, laughing aimlessly at the same retold stories. Servants bustle with steaming platters and bubbling champagne, clad simply in black to appear ‘inferior’ amongst such extravagant guests. In a corner, musicians weave music through the delightful air of the party, caressing the guests with comfort. The only thing the aristocrats must worry about is themselves and the innate pleasures of the life they’ve been born into.

And atop it all, sitting on a pedestal in a throne of the purest gold, the King always sipped his wine as the illusions of perfection sing like wraiths to his guests, succumbing them to a subconscious slumber. Grimacing at the pure insanity of it all.

There were eight more days before the monthly party. Eight more days before everyone would know about the vanishing King.

Nearing upon the end of the twenty-first moon, still, no one has seen him. Among the few servants who knew, the speculations of his disappearance border on absurdity: seduced by a gypsy, haunted by the ghost of his dead father, consumed with the desire for adventure.

The answer might then disappoint you. For on the town’s outskirts, a mid-thirties man watches the sun set over the looming castle. Rubbing the thick stubble on his chin, he shades his sun-worn eyes with the palm of a newly blistered hand. In the distance, a woman calls him to dinner.

“Coming,” he says.

He sticks the ax head into a stump, where it will wait obediently for him until his return. With a smile of unbridled happiness, wiping his filthy hands on the well-worn lapel of his tunic, he turns towards the sound.

Rowan Greyson just wanted a cup of coffee. It was nearly half past noon on the one hundredth eve of his twenty third birthday, and instead of sitting down in one of the many cafés lining the street across from his five-story apartment building, tucking into a corner with a warm pecan croissant and medium cup of flat white, he found himself at the front of a bar, two streets down, nursing a tall glass of bourbon and staring daggers at the inhumanly beautiful woman sitting casually on the other end.

Why she was here again, he didn’t know. But the fact that trouble always followed her, cat to a mouse, with something he had found repeatedly uncanny and, he had to admit, slightly intriguing. So when she had shown up, glancing furtively at him with no explanation just as he was about to order his coffee, he had no choice but to wave goodbye to his caffeine-filled dreams and follow her discreetly to the empty bar that two of them now occupied.

Alia Robinson. Damn, he hadn’t seen her in what, ten years? Fifteen?

It was true that he had a thing for her once, and it was easy to see why. Sharp cheekbones, huge, piercing green eyes, and long, tumbling auburn hair made for quite the ensemble. It didn’t hurt that she always looked like she had just stepped straight off the runway. But that was back in their glory days, back before this. Back before two elves falling in love was normal, was easy, and didn’t get them thrown into all of this madness.

“Curse the day I ever met her,” he thought silently to himself, ruefully sipping the fiery scotch. “I mean, she wasn’t even that pre—”

He didn’t realize he had been speaking out loud until her hand was wrapped around his throat and his feet were hanging two feet off the ground, jaw still working to finish his sentence.

No, up close she was even more beautiful.

Those eyes.

She was outright glaring at him now. “What was that you said, Ro?”

He closed his eyes, managed to unclench his jaw. He was not going to croak for her to put him down, especially not in this stupid world, where dignity was something that mattered. No, he would wait and keep his intact.

Her chest was heaving, face set in an expression of such fury that he almost expected smoke to unfurl out of her ears, like in those ridiculous cartoons. It would’ve been funny, really, if she wasn’t slowly cutting off his air supply and keeping him from his drink.

And she wasn’t letting go.

He sighed in the silence of his own head. “Damn… it… woman…” he coughed, managing to fit the words around the fingers she squeezed tighter. “Put… me… down…”

She smiled, but it was nothing short of terrifying. She leaned in, close as a lover, and, breath tickling his ear, whispered, “Please?”

He scowled. Heavens above, he hated her. “Please,” he choked out. She laughed silently and pushed harder, just to show she could, before releasing him. He let out a foul string of expletives, massaging his throat.

She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve certainly expanded your vocabulary.”

He looked up at her, temper sparking. “Yes, well, when you’re trapped on another planet for a hundred years, you do tend to pick up their language.” He was proud of his near flawless French and English, and extensive knowledge of human curses. It had taken him years to learn and years more to master, and it was certainly hard enough to keep both up to date. But he was getting tired of their blocky languages and childish manners. He missed the gentle rhythms of Elfish speak, and longed to return back to his home.

He glared up at her, shaking himself out of his reverie. “No thanks to you,” he spit out.

Her eyes softened imperceptibly. “We both know this isn’t my fault,” she began. “I’m trapped here just as much as you are--”

He held up a hand, cutting her off, and sat back down in his chair, picking up his drink and taking another sip. He was going to need it if he was going to make it through this conversation with his temper intact.

“I’m not playing games with you, love,” he said, tired, suddenly, to his bones. “You’re here for a reason, otherwise you wouldn’t have wasted your time following me across a street to make strange faces so I’d stop ordering my coffee and follow you. So what do you want?” He just wanted to go home and pull up his covers and hide his face from the world. Maybe that sounded childish but he was so sick, and so tired, of this stupid dance they were always partnered in.

She nodded, something like hurt flashing in her brilliant eyes. Once, it would’ve tugged on his snapped heartstrings, but now? Now he felt nothing at all. “So you did notice!” she clapped her hands together in mock excitement, all semblance of pain vanished from her face. “Still observant as ever, I see.” She smiled darkly. “Some things never change.”

Rowan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Alia, love, I really don’t have time for this, please, really, it’s been a long week and I need to get home--”

She cut him off, placing her hands on either side of his shoulders and leaning in so that their lips were only a hairsbreadth apart.

He would be lying, really, if he said that his breath didn’t catch. If he said his heart didn’t stumble, just a little, inside the stone walls of his chest.

He waited, frozen, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and a touch terrified.

She smiled slowly, eyes on his mouth, cruel and cunning as ever. “So tell me, Rowan,” she lilted huskily. “It’s been so long.” Her lips brushed against the hard line of his jaw and he couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped him. “Don’t you still,” her nose brushed up the column of his throat, “have a heart?” Her mouth replaced where her nose had been and it was everything he could do to keep his hands clenched at his sides, everything he could do to not touch her, taste her--

She was speaking again, in low, smoky tones that did something to him, turned the gears in his rusted heart, and for a moment, he heard it beat again.

“Don’t you still,” her hands sliding up his chest to entwine themselves in his hair, her lips at his cheek, his temple, his ear, “love me?”

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, only wondered if perhaps the bartender thought it strange that two seemingly cold strangers were suddenly so wrapped up in each other, discussing other worlds and curses and being trapped in time--

Her hands wrapped around his hips, pulled him flush against her, and whispered on his lips, somehow reading his thoughts, “Don’t worry, I took care of him.”

And before he could even begin to think what that meant, she was kissing him.

She was all soft lips and small sighs, her sweetness drugging, intoxicating--

Hell, he couldn’t think.

She was… she was…

She was magnificent.

Her lips parted and she sighed into his mouth and he closed his eyes and opened his hands and--

Pushed her right off of him.

He knew it was coming before he heard the telltale whistle of air singing in his ear.

Her slap nearly threw his head off his shoulders.

He opened his eyes, just barely. “Alia, love. Please. It’s not my fault things didn’t work out between us; I didn’t walk away because I didn’t want you.” His jaw clenched, he looked away. “I have always… there was no one else for me.” He nodded, mouth tight. “But I couldn’t trust someone who wouldn’t even tell me that the Crown had made an attempt on her life--” at this, Alia huffed and spun away from him-- “and would be holding her execution trial three days after I told her I loved her!” He grabbed her arm and turned her to face him, breathing hard, drink forgotten. “Don’t you think,” he nearly shouted, all thoughts of keeping his temper gone, run straight out of his head, “that I deserved to know that my own family was going to kill the woman I had fallen for? That it, cold hearted bastard that I am, that it would destroy me?” He looked away, unable to bear the sight of her any longer. “So I stepped in,” he breathed, soft as stone. “I risked my damn neck for you and was banished for it. To here, to this miserable wasteland until the end of time.” He shook his head and laughed, the sound harsh and dry. “And I would have been fine with it! I loved you and could have bore my punishment with you by my side. But you pushed me away. Blamed it on me. Said you had wanted to die, had been ready for it, waiting for it.” His jaw was so tight his teeth were beginning to ache. “But I didn’t want you to die!” he yelled. “I wasn’t ready for it! I couldn’t just stand there and watch while they… while they…” he paused, reining himself back in, spooling those shattered pieces of his heart back into his chest, and erected the stone wall again, brick by brick, until the cold numbness returned. “So forgive me, Alia, if I cannot return your affections after nearly twenty years of silence. Forgive me if I cannot love someone who ripped my heart out and handed it to me on a silver platter. So please, love, say what you want and let me live in peace. I can’t…” he added another brick to his wall, and another, until it was a shining wall of adamant. “I can’t do this anymore.” His last words were nothing but a whisper, a silent plea just slipping past his ruined lips. “I just… can’t.”

Alia’s face had gone hard. A nod. All emotion had fled her features, locked behind an icy mask. “I’m sorry.”

Rowan sighed, tipped his head back, closed his eyes in relief.

“But I think I’ve found a way to get us back home.”

Two years in the past

Being called a broken umbrella may sound like a petty insult to some, but to me it feels like an ice pick straight to the temple. Trotsky style. The person delivering this ground shattering insult? My brother, Atticus James Temple. He carries the tide on his back with his strength, and always smells like pineapple and fresh dirt, no matter what.

“You’re such a child!” His voice echoes around my brain like a chamber. “Mom’s not coming back!”

When he shouts at me like that, I feel like the world is a fist, squashing all of the color out of me. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I shove my hands into the pockets of my dress, which are stuffed with teeth, among other knick knacks that jingle when I walk. Atticus notices, and looks down.

“God, You’re so foolish, thinking your teeth will help you. They won’t bring her back.” In his I Know How Much that Hurt smirk, our dad’s face replaces his. “Seriously, Cecelia, don’t you have anything else to say?”

At that moment, lightning cracks across the sky and it lights up the smooth skin of his face. Atticus was always the most beautiful one of us. Despite me being two hours older, he always called the shots, from which door was safe to enter and which of Dad’s “experimental foods” was okay to eat- if you didn’t want to be sick. I paused. There was so so much I could say to him.

“You’re being dramatic” I spit at him. But he’s right, I really am a child. Metaphorically, of course.

“No. You’re just being stupid and if you really think she’s coming back, you’ve lost your mind.” He snaps back. Atticus. I know. I lost my mind a long time ago.

“I’m leaving. For real this time.” His words hang in the air like smoke. The smoke engulfs me. He picks up his bag and swings it over his shoulder with the force of the world and steps off the porch.

“Atticus. I need you.” I squeak out after him, pleadingly.

He doesn’t hear, and leaves, his pineapple dirt scent trailing behind. Almost immediately the forest swallows him, no doubt he’s heading to the train station. In my anger, I pull one of my knick knacks at random out of my pocket and throw it after him. I don’t even pay attention to what it is. I don’t stop to look if he saw it. I storm back into the Little Cottage and slam the door. My whole world rattles, or maybe just my window panes.

-------

Now, but in a dream

There is a woman sitting on a rock. Just like always. She’s holding an envelope in her hand. That’s new. Usually she’s writing the letter. I step towards her, but my voice doesn’t work. I raise my hand up, palm towards her in my signature greeting. The woman never talks, or lets me get close enough to see her face, but that’s ok. She waves back with the envelope hand and adjusts the hat over her hair. I attempt to call out to her but she turns and walks back into the mist.

--------

Ok now, actually now.

I wake up to rain pounding at the window, along with Peppermint clawing at the front door. I sigh and go to let him in. When he comes he always brings the rain. It’s the second Tuesday of the month, which means Peppermint has his voice. Peppermint can only speak every other Tuesday. As random as it seems, that’s how he is, and I’ve learnt to live with it. Atticus once told me Peppermint is my soul in animal form, but I don’t think that’s true- I’ve had Peppermint for my whole life, or maybe he’s had me. WIth all of his arrogance and rudeness, he’s still my best friend. Maybe it’s because he’s my only friend. He jumps up onto my kitchen table to rub against me. I let his jet black tail, wet from rain, curl around my shoulders as I scratch between his ears. He understands me.

“Good morning! Did you ship the package you were supposed to send?” He looks up at me with his green eyes. My package!! My eyes go to the big cardboard box, due to ship today, that’s open on the table behind Peppermint.

“No, I still need to pack that and ship it! It totally slipped my mind.” I tell him and sigh, running my hands through my short and thick unwashed hair. When Atticus left, so did the long red hair he used to tug out from under my hat. Peppermint huffed behind me. He always says I’d be dead, poor or homeless without him- it’s probably true. I go to one of the white cabinets above my sink and pull out a jar of my homemade apricot jam, and my largest container of teeth. Teeth are kind of my thing. Like how some people find money on the street, I find teeth. Everywhere. Big ones, small ones, animal, human. I don’t know where they come from and I don’t question it. I sell them as wish granters; if you hold a tooth in your palm and make a wish, the tooth will disappear and your wish will come true! But only the teeth I find have this magic. I don’t know why my teeth are magic, I don’t know life without them. I put them in my packages for my customers to wish. Only small wishes though, like blemish removals, to make their life just a little bit better. I scoop some teeth from the jar into a small pouch and put the pouch in the box with a jar full of jam to the brim. The forest is a perfect environment to grow berries, and plants like lavender and rosemary, so I sell jam too. My business does alright, enough to keep me and Peppermint kicking. I have another job too, writing letters creatively challenged people can give to their lovers. I write the letters in an attempt to be like the woman in my dreams, I feel a connection to her that I just can’t put my finger on. I finish wrapping the box, tying it with a bow.

“To the post office it goes,” I smile at Peppermint, who rolls his eyes at me. I grab my rain jacket and umbrella and shoulder open my door into the forest slick with rain, Peppermint at my feet. The dirt crunches as we walk the forest path. Peppermint can never walk in a straight line, or run fast enough to keep up with me, and his squeaky voice keeps up a steady stream of bullshit. The forest trail curves to the left, exposing a washed out yellow truck driving towards me that looks out of place against the green. The truck slows down, and it’s driver gets out. A lanky, tall girl with short straw colored hair sweeping across her forehead, cropped close to the back and sides of her head. The girl smiles, and I watch her soul slide up into her eyes. I physically feel the warmth of her soul flow out of her, warm, and inviting and perfect. Then the inevitable happens. My heart might be in my throat? Who knew just a small smile from a stranger would tilt my world on its axis. She holds up both of her hands in a friendly greeting, flashing thick black eye tattoos on her palms. A soul catcher. I knew it! No. Soul catchers aren’t real. I mentally smack myself, no need for love interests. I smile back, carefully, as not to let my soul escape like she so carelessly had done, show her my (eyeless) palms in a mirrored gesture, and then keep walking. I think the girl says something but I don’t hear her. I can’t afford to let someone ruin my Tuesday. As I hurry away, Peppermint scoffs under his breath. “Did you SEE her tattoos? She isn’t someone for us to be acquainted with. I can’t believe you even waved back!”

“I know, Pep, but it’s nice to be civil sometimes.” I retorted. He did have a point though, why did I copy her gesture?

I come to the edge of the clearing and head into town to the post office. Our small town is empty, maybe it’s because the train has been down for months, due to repairs. Or maybe because the ever-present rain has picked up. The door swings open in my face and a tall, big, Santa Claus-esque man in a bright red fishing jacket slides past me. He smiles at me and glares at Peppermint, who has climbed onto my shoulder because he doesn’t feel safe outside of the forest and the Cottage. The fishermen of our town tend to stick to age-old suspicions, continuing to hold grudges against black cats, the number seven, and hold fist fights over wishbones. I personally think it’s all hogwash, and tend to avoid turkey all together. Better for the environment. Atticus used to drag me to the wharf after the school bus dropped us off at the stop. He loved talking to the fishermen, writing down their “advice” in a spiral bound notebook. They were the ones who told us about the soul catchers, people with eyes on their palms, that grow darker with every soul they capture. Once again, hogwash. But I can’t help but think about the fishermen now and think, maybe they might be onto something. Now I don’t go down to the wharf at all, unless it’s after hours. The post office smells how it always does, like cardboard and scented candles. I put the package to my lips, kiss it goodbye, and send it down the chute, where it spirals into the darkness. I wave my regards to old Mrs. Sharp at the front desk, who grunts and mutters something about no animals past the forest’s lines. I ignore her. Everyone does. At the edge of the forest, a familiar looking yellow truck sits idle. I stop dead in my tracks. Not her again. The girl is standing in her truck bed, throwing boxes onto the ground with loud thumps. She has her denim jacket open across her chest and her black long sleeves are rolled up. She stops and looks down at me, recognition flashes across her face. She holds up her palms again, but this time with an apprehensive look on her face, and I realize how ridiculous I must look, standing at four feet eleven wearing a pink plastic raincoat with a cat as black as night on my shoulder, my hair damp from the rain. I step back and try to look as calm as possible. The girl laughs and jumps down to extend her palm. Can you believe it? A soul catcher? Extending her palm to me?

“Hi! I believe we saw each other a little bit ago! I just moved here for work, my name is Durga.” Her voice is clear as a crystal, and sharper than a knife.

I try my best not to grimace as her giant palm swallows mine. My soul might as well be saying adios! “Yes we did meet! My name is Cecelia Temple.” Peppermint digs his claws into my shoulders “And this is Peppermint.”

The girl, Durga, smiles and bows at Peppermint. “It is very nice to meet both of you.”

Before I can stop him, Peppermint blurts out what was on both our minds.

“ARE YOU ACTUALLY A SOUL CATCHER?” My face immediately flushes in secondhand embarrassment.

“Don’t listen to him!” I clap a hand over his mouth.

Durga is silent, and then bursts out laughing, doubling over at the waist. “God no, you two fools don’t seriously believe those old myths we were told as kids?”

If my face could turn any more red, I think I would turn into a tomato. “Uh, no, or at least I don’t” I say as nonchalantly as possible.

“Well good.” Durga says, literally wiping tears of laughter from her face. “I just really like palm tattoos, and my late mother drew these eyes for me, she was an artist, so I had them tattooed on my palms.”

GOD I’M AN IDIOT.

I shift uncomfortably on my feet, desperate to change the subject. To anything. “Uh, so what brings you to town?” I can tell my voice is shaky, but I can’t control myself.

“Work.” Durga extends a paper white palm towards the crates sitting on the mud.

“Nice” I say, mentally punching myself for being so stupid.

“Yeah” She laughs. “Well, Cecelia was it?” I nod, “It was very nice to meet you officially for the first time, but I’m sure you must be on your way.” I nod again, disgruntled.” I hope I can see more of you.” Durga flashes her heart stopping smile again.

I smile at her as Peppermint and I say goodbyes, and walk away from her, into the forest with my heart practically jumping out of my mouth. Maybe soul catchers aren’t always as bad as they say?

If everything they told me growing up is true, you already know everything I want to tell you. I’m not the center of your universe, but you’re supposed to be the center of mine.

When I was five years old and I went to Sunday school for the first time, they told me “God created the universe in six days, and on the seventh day he rested. That’s why we rest on Shabbat.”

I was born on a Saturday, so I guess it was my mother who brought me into the world, not you. She didn’t have the choice of whether or not she could rest that day. I used to think you were a selfish bastard for taking every Saturday off when so many people needed you.

I was sixteen years old on that Shabbat when Leah and I crept out of her side doorway while her mother busied herself with clearing the table. We stood under the awning, where brittle gray vines slithered up the side of the house. Leah shivered as the slush beneath our feet dampened her boots.

She produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from inside her coat. She handed me a cigarette and tented her hand around it, holding the flame to it and staring intently as she waited for it to catch fire. I exhaled a silent apology to you with the first cloud of smoke that blackened its path in the crisp air. I hoped you would forgive me for compromising my lungs, one of the few attributes you hadn’t already screwed up for me.

The lighter flame glowed in the gray surface of Leah’s eye, glassy from the sudden sting of the cold. She stared blankly into the barren trees while she took a long drag from her cigarette, tilting her head back to blow a geyser of smoke upward, her lips parted as if she was blowing a kiss to the bleached-white sky.

“Aliya, I need to talk to you. I need somebody right now. I don’t know who it could be but you.” She turned towards me, and I realized her eyes hadn’t been damp from the sharp cold of the air.

“What’s going on?” I frowned and brought the cigarette to my lips, blowing smoke to the clouds.

“I don’t know how to say it.” A tear rolled down her cheek. She buried her face in her hand for a moment to take a deep breath.

“It’s okay,” I told her. I placed a hand on her shoulder and felt nothing but the layers of down stuffed into her coat. I made an effort to meet her eyes, though she couldn’t look at me.

Silence settled into the air for a minute. Our cigarettes were left untouched between our fingers, wisps of smoke dying in the cold.

“I’m gay.”

The words tumbled out without her control, as they did every time I said “amen” in synagogue, every time I said your name in vain after years of being told it was a sin. They did somersaults in the air and rang in my ears long after she said them. I wonder if you heard them as loudly as I did.

“But what about God? What about everything we spent our whole childhood learning?” I spat out questions, my eyes stinging. I wish I had known then that I couldn’t speak for you. I couldn’t dictate our entire lives based on the few words you gave us.

Tears poured down her face in buckets, and her cheeks had turned red. The cigarette was a long-dead ghost in her hand.

“I thought if anyone could understand, it would be you,” she said, her eyes pleading, though she had already resigned herself to failure. She dropped her cigarette and I ached as it fell, my cheeks hot, the distress in her face blurred. She kicked watery snow over it and walked inside.

I didn’t understand why I couldn’t read the Torah at my Bat Mitzvah. You said that my hips and my breasts made me unholy. The men wore yarmulkes to shield their heads from your light, and my hair tumbled freely down my shoulders. They wore tallis during prayer to cover themselves before you. My mom told me to wear a shawl to cover the inches of exposed skin on my back. She threw one over her shoulders to hide the ink she had etched into her skin in the years she distanced herself from you. You weren’t watching us in our home, but when we stepped into the synagogue we were subject to your scrutiny—every little bit of judgment you set forth in that holy text.

I stood at the bimah to give a speech, mimicking the men in their tallis with my shawl wrapped around my arms, shielding my back from you. I focused on Leah as I made my best attempt at projecting my voice. She gazed back at me and smiled, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Before she said the words that neither of us could face, she was my everything. I always thought you were smiling down on us.

The rabbi spoke after me. His thickly accented voice lilted through the synagogue, curling up at the edges of his words. He scanned the room with admiration and spoke to each and every soul in the room as a brother or sister. You were the father whose every will we still bent to, even as adults.

“To everyone in this room today, standing before Hashem, we are all family,” the rabbi said. “As we grow old and our children become adults in the blink of an eye, we will always be there for one another. Through loss and triumph, we are all united under God. We must all love each other unconditionally and treat one another as our brothers and sisters, our children and grandchildren, until the day we die. I would like to thank all of you for coming today and taking the time to worship and to celebrate this joyous day. Our dearest Aliya is a woman today. May she be forever blessed by the light of God and surrounded by the love of our beautiful Jewish community for the rest of her life.”

I beamed out at the congregation, women on one side and men on the other, filled with faces I had spent my childhood looking up to—the grandmothers that pinched my cheeks and the children who scuttled around my feet and grabbed at the hem of my dress. They watched me become a woman, despite the fact that I both looked and felt like a girl. I let my eyes settle on each and every one of them, hearing their silent vows to continue watching as I grew up, to see me married to a nice Jewish man, to squeal in delight at my newborns’ chubby faces, to pinch their cheeks every Shabbat, never stopping until their Bar Mitzvahs, to wipe away my tears as my children walked down the aisle, to hold my hand as my hair thinned and my skin wore paper-thin, and to see me lowered into the Earth had they outlived me.

I told myself I would do the same for them, though I knew I would always be most devout for Leah. I would follow her through every step of our lives. I knew you brought us together and could never see us split apart. Though, when we finally drifted, I blamed you rather than myself, for it was you who asked me to leave her behind thousands of years ago when you told us who was worthy of your blessing.

A few days ago I reached the conclusion that the College Board and the Catholic Church are basically the same institution. I discovered this while brushing my teeth one evening, long after everyone else in the house had gone to bed. My first reaction was probably similar to the one you’re having right now. “That doesn’t make any sense”, “I wouldn’t go there”, and “I should really stop talking and thinking about this altogether”. But I didn’t take my own advice, because, what do I know? And instead pondered this peculiar epiphany some more. Where did this thought even come from? I wondered. What kind of person comes up with this stuff? At this, I paused and stared at myself in the mirror. Toothbrush dangling from the corner of my mouth. I guess I am. I often have thoughts that trouble me, as most humans do. But this one just confused me. In an attempt to decipher this idea, I’ll go back to the beginning. My beginning, to be precise. (No, not my birth. That’d be weird).

When I was a wee elementary schooler, I attended a private, Catholic school a few neighborhoods away from mine. My family and I lived in Washington, DC, whose reputation in the public school department was...sketchy...to say the least. My parents looked for a school wherein I could learn to read without getting disrupted by bouts of gang violence. They settled on the nearest, safest school they could find. My mother was concerned for my safety, but her concern didn’t stretch as far as DC traffic did. And so Sacred Heart Catholic School became my future. Every morning, for eight years of my life, we biked down to the old, grey building that housed the 150 students, ranging from Pre-k to 8th grade. It was a sad stack of concrete, which says something when it comes from a city context. The definition of architecture extended about as far as “six year old with Lego bricks and no instruction booklet”. Rectangle, window, window, window, door, gate. Surrounding the place was a parking lot that housed the staff’s vehicles. The only greenery to be found grew from a crack in the pavement near the side gate. A single, spindly tree that clung to life by sucking the meager nutrients out of the tar from the asphalt. That was it. It wasn’t until I was in second grade that a small play structure was constructed. Before then we would be released for recess for a game of “run amongst the cars.” Oh, to return to that simpler time! I’d like to say I enjoyed that age, but I didn’t. None of the 20 kids in my class wanted to be friends with me. I don’t mean that in a sad way. I didn’t want to be their friend, either. It wasn’t like I was dying to join in on “Let’s push Jesús down the asphalt hill in the abandoned shopping cart and see what happens when he hits the wall.” These results would come back after the bell every day. (It never went well for Jesús).

Catholicism was threaded throughout the entire curriculum. A fact that wasn’t so big an obstacle when it came to English and Math, but certainly proved more difficult when it came to science. I can’t tell you the number of times we had the “Plants” lesson. Observe, children, as we put this stem in this cup of water, and the water supply gradually depletes! Our teacher, Ms. Carpio, an older, Peruvian woman, would turn to us and ask: “Ahora, ¿Por qué no hay agua en la taza? Now, WHY is there no longer water in the cup?”

“God!” someone would exclaim, and she could do nothing but give a slight, slow nod. For what kind of teacher, or Catholic, would she be to dismiss a child’s belief in the divine spirit? Clearly, religion and school go hand in hand. Though I must confess I never understood how this seamless union came about. It doesn’t really make sense when you think about it.

“We need to get our kids more religious!”

“And how should we do that?”

“Let’s combine their two favorite things! Homework, and a dedication to rigorous traditions!”

“Perfect!”

I can’t speak for all kids, but this combination certainly affected my perception of religion. I approached Catholicism the same way I approached school. It was something I did because I had to. Adults told me it would be good for me in the long run, and though I didn’t really see it, I decided to play along. I went to church twice a week, I prayed before meals, I even had a crucifix above my bed that I prayed to every evening– though I never took any of it very seriously. By the time our first Communion rolled around, I was hitting the ‘senioritis’ stage of my faith. When Ms. Carpio rounded us all up to walk down to the church that was two blocks from school, the only one who seemed enthusiastic was her.

“Ahora, ¿Quién está listo para confesar sus pecados?! Okay kids! Who’s ready to go confess their sins?!” She grinned at us but we stared blankly back. Do I even have sins to confess? This was an issue that plagued me all the way there. I ran down the Commandments in my head, but nothing helped. I hadn’t coveted my neighbor’s goods— or his wife, for that matter. I hadn't killed. I had actually stolen, but I’d stolen from school and I didn’t want to disclose that to the church. I figured there was some line of communication between the two places. It’s supposed to be kept between you and the priest, but there was always an uptick in office visits after confession so I was wary. When I got to the church, I was pretty disappointed. I’d always wanted to use the old confessionals, the wooden boxes with the velvet curtains. We weren’t treated to such luxuries. One folding chair for the priest, another folding chair for you. That known, is it any shock that I decided to lie in confession? Was I really going to have been moved to tell the truth while sitting down on a cold piece of metal? The priest asked me what I wanted to confess, and I just mumbled something about not being very nice to my siblings. Even though we got along fantastically and had literally never fought. As I left, I didn't actually feel too bad about the fib. I’d eliminate the stress for next time. I had a confession lined up: I’d lied. The location or circumstance wasn’t necessary to reveal, and I figured I could milk several confession sessions out of one lie if I withheld some information. All of this never amounted to much substance in my mind. Prayer and belief were just assignments to me. I did my math homework because I needed to pass math. And I prayed because I needed to pass Religion class. And save my soul, I suppose.

Sometime in May last year, I took the SAT. It probably goes without saying that I loathed the notion of sitting in a room taking a test for four hours. But I’d survived Mass on Palm Sunday, so I figured that was preparation enough. Armed with a water bottle and a ziploc bag of my belongings, I trekked across the Torrey Pines campus. I looked around at my fellow SAT compatriots. We were a sorry sight. Eyes sullen, the shuffling sound of sneaker rubber on concrete, a result of being too tired to pick our feet up. I found my testing room with the help of a middle aged woman who pointed me in the right direction. This was after she’d looked at me exasperatedly when I’d asked where room 54 was. As if I was an idiot for not instantly knowing the layout of a campus I’d never driven by, much less set foot on. But I thanked her anyway because I’ve been trained well, and went on my way.

A line of about seven or so teenagers were already waiting outside the door when I arrived. I have forgotten all of them by now with the exception of one girl, who wore a blue, oversized sweater and resembled my mother when she was younger. The proctor, a shorter, younger woman, showed up a few minutes later. We were checked in with our IDs, turned our phones off and set them face down on a desk in the back, and spread out around the room as we’d been told.

“You can put your stuff under your seat.” she told us. Most of the kids had already done so, except the one boy who didn’t bring so much as a pencil. I have yet to enter any class, or take any test, in which there is a 100% writing utensil rate. It seems like it would be a common sense sort of thing, but I don’t live these people’s lives. Maybe the kid assumed that in a world run by technology, there would be no physical marks made as SAT answers anymore. Just the tap of a finger would suffice. I looked at my things under the plastic chair. My entire being, reduced to four items. A couple Office Depot HB #2 pencils that, albeit well-sharpened, were not anything to be proud of. A calculator that, at $20, had better math skills than I did, a water bottle, and a candy bar (the SAT snack of champions). I suppose now would be the time to talk about the actual test, but I’m pretty sure I signed an agreement with the College Board where I acknowledge that if I am to disclose any information about the test, I recognize that I will be “tracked down, found, and permanently silenced”. I’ll just skip to the end. Not much happened during the session, anyway. Except at “snack time”, when that girl in the blue sweater pulled out a whole hamburger wrapped in tin foil. I’d like to remind everyone that this occurred before ten o’clock in the morning. What kind of a snack is that? I judged silently as I unwrapped the Milky Way bar. People put too much crap into their bodies these days.

The five minute break was over in five seconds, and we all turned back to our desks to stare at a booklet of questions. When I left the classroom at around midday, I was in no mood to celebrate. Leave it to the College Board to ruin freedom. I trudged back into the parking lot equally as dejected, but twice as exhausted. Again, I’d been subject to something that I couldn’t see the merit of. Another “necessary nuisance” —essentially how it was sold to me by adults. “Sold” is a generous term in this case. Yeah I’d bought the test, and therefore the idea of it, but I hadn’t bought into it. I still haven’t. But I need to go to college, so I took the SAT.

This is what led to my epiphany over the foaming mint in my mouth. The last time I thought about Catholicism was the last time I was in school. The last time I thought about the College Board was when I took the SAT. Things I “needed” to do, according to elders around me. That’s when it struck me. The College Board and the Catholic Church are very similar institutions. One deals out four-hour tests, the other deals out four-hour Masses (tests of patience). Both have acted questionably towards young people. The College Board siphons money out of impressionable people who are concerned about their future. So did the Catholic Church back in the day. I’m not saying I’ve stumbled upon something that’s going to completely transform the world. But it certainly transformed my life for about five seconds that night.

Damien woke up on the wrong side of the desk.

He removed his head from the bony pillow of his hands and looked down groggily at his math homework. His stupid, pointless math homework. How the hell was this supposed to help him in the future, a future that he dreaded more and more every day? There was nothing for him out there. Nothing that brought him joy. All his work, all his problems—it was all for nothing. What was the point? How did people go on like this for their entire lives?

He groaned and wiped the sleep from his eyes—he was just being melodramatic.

Suddenly he heard another loud groan, except this time it wasn’t coming from him. He took his head out of his hands and swiveled around to see his off-white door partially ajar, his mother’s slim frame visible through the opening. “Sweetie, it’s time for Evening Reflection” she said, with a smile plastered onto her face. She’d been giving him a lot of those lately; apparently he was more difficult than the average sixteen-year-old.

“Okay, I’ll be down in a minute,” he replied, swiveling back toward his small wooden desk. The desk supported both his cursed math homework and his iPhone, currently open to a game of Knockout, the sixth in a string of victories over his friend Andre. Maybe that’s why you screwed up your math homework, genius, said a voice in the back of his head.

Damien heard the door close behind him; he quickly made his next move, knowing Andre well enough to know that he would shoot his penguin toward the left, where there were less situations that would result in his penguin sliding off the edge.

Damien made sure to create one of those situations.

He walked down the stairs, bracing himself for Evening Reflection. It was his family’s way of getting everyone to be together in the same room and talk about their day, but it seemed like every day was just as boring as the last.

The rest of the family was waiting for him on their polished perches, specifically arranged so that they would all be facing each other. In the chair farthest from him sat his mother, May—dark brown eyes, straight black hair, high cheekbones, and an expressionless mouth. Next to her sat his broad-shouldered, blue-eyed father, Randall, and his older sister Laura, who was currently staring admiringly at her mother. Damien took his place in the nearest chair and sunk into the worn leather, waiting for his mother to begin the Reflection as she always did.

“Another day, another opportunity for the mind to flourish. Laura, let’s start with you—any thoughts from the day that you wanted to share with us?”

“Well,” said Laura, obedient as always. “I did think a little bit about the upcoming Ceremony; I wonder what it’s going to be like.” Every year, the city held a Ceremony to congratulate all young men and women who had turned eighteen in the past year. No one but the inductees was allowed to go to the Ceremony, not even their siblings. Laura’s birthday fell on the same day as the Ceremony, so as her present she got to spend three hours in a crowded auditorium listening to her mother, who was the speaker of the city, ramble on about who-knows-what. All he knew was that everyone who walked out of that auditorium came out a changed person, but he’d never been able to pinpoint exactly what had changed. He got the distinct feeling that they knew something he didn’t, like they had learned some big secret in those three hours.

“I thought about that today as well; I think you are incredibly deserving of the Ceremony and have a very good chance of winning the Citizenship Award.”

“Thank you Mother,” said Laura. “I really hope I win the Citizenship Award; it would be the biggest award I’ve ever received.” How easily her attention was diverted; Mother hadn’t mentioned a single thing about what the Ceremony would be like, and yet all of Laura’s questions had just disappeared when provided with the pot of gold known as the Citizenship Award. Quite boring, really; the name said just about all there was to know. An award granted once a year at the Ceremony to the inductee who had best served society as a minor and showed the most potential to contribute to society on a “larger scale” as an adult.

“Randall, what about you? Anything out of the ordinary today?” inquired his mother.

“Just another day at work. I shipped 3,627 boxes today, a little bit over the daily quota.”

“Well, good for you, Randall. Keeping your gear well polished in the great machine of society. If one person doesn’t do their job, the whole system falls apart, as you know.” She cast a meaningful look at Damien and Laura. A thought suddenly passed through Damien’s mind, leaving just as quickly as it had appeared. How can Father be content with his mundane life, with being such a small part of a big system? And it’s not just him; it seems like it’s all the adults.

“And Damien, last but not least. How was your day?” May implored, searching his face for some indication of dishonesty.

“It was all right, I guess. We learned about Karl Marx and the origins of communism in History today, it was a very informative class period.” I experienced something I didn’t understand, said the voice in the back of his mind. I worked with Holly during Statistics today and we started talking about what we were going to do over the weekend, and Holly’s face looked so bright because she was going to meet her father’s co worker for the first time who she had always wanted to meet, and then I realized that I was smiling too, and then the bell rang and we dispersed and I found that I wanted to keep talking to Holly for no reason, I just really wanted to hear her voice and see her smile again.

Unsettled, Damien brought himself back to reality, where his mother was going on about the pros and cons of communism, and how their society was first to have created a successful political and economic structure that infused the positive aspects of both communism and capitalism. “... and when Gerrald Thompson founded the United States of America, he built it on equality, community, and hard work. Values you should never forget to take with you wherever you go.”

“Well,” said May, glancing at the analog clock mounted upon the plastered living room wall. “Wonderful Reflection everyone, now it’s time to get some sleep and recharge your batteries for whatever tomorrow may bring.” And with that, everyone lifted themselves off the soft leather cushions with near synchronization. Right as he was about to turn toward the stairs, something caught his eye. By his mother’s chair there stood a small table where May loved to place her tea as she reclined on the seat and read a book. Sitting on the burnished wooden stand next to the reading light was a very official-looking file folder emblazoned with the crest of the United States government, a folder Damien had caught glimpses of on his mother’s desk or in her work bag or tucked under her arm. She had kept it near her for nearly a month, and Damien was unbearably curious to find what was in that folder.

Tonight was the first night that Mother had left the folder unattended; she had lapsed in her vigilance. The folder rested on the stand innocuously, like a chocolate bar that belonged to someone else but would be so easy to reach over and grab. It seemed to be calling to him. “I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right up,” he said.

“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” replied his mother, nearly at the base of the stairs. Damien walked past the shoe closet to the downstairs bathroom, closing the door and relieving himself to make the act more convincing. When he was sure that everyone had gone upstairs, he slowly opened the door and silently padded over to the living room, sitting in his mother’s chair and turning on the reading light that gave off a soft glow, one that wouldn’t be visible upstairs.

He glanced at the folder. It was probably just some official paperwork involving government logistics, something he could get in trouble for reading that wasn’t very interesting to read anyway. But then why would she carry it with her everywhere rather than just keep it at work? The folder seemed very mysterious to Damien; it could be holding any number of things. The instructions for a special mission from an undercover organization that his mom secretly worked with. Or a secret file on Area 51 detailing the latest experiments on captive aliens. Now that would be a jackpot.

His pulse quickened, as it always did when he realized he was seriously considering doing something very much not allowed, and it was happening right here, right now. His muscles tensed to the point where he was almost shaking. His mind began going down all the paths that involved him getting in huge trouble, and he almost decided it wasn’t worth it.

His body came to a decision before his mind did. He watched his hands reach out, pick up the folder, and open it to reveal one pristine piece of paper, size twelve Times New Roman font forming neat lines across the front and back. It seemed to be a speech. His eyes made their way down the page, confusion setting in, then disbelief.

This could not be true.

For the rest of his life, he would remember that night, remember what he had read on that singular sheet of paper.

To the future generation, read the speech.

[I DO NOT ENDORSE THE POSITIONS IN THIS DOCUMENT. THEY ARE SATIRICAL. ]

“Have you read that New Yorker article?” The question is all too familiar. If you grew up in a city, your pulse is probably quickening, your blood pressure rising rapidly, and a small bead of sweat is forming at your temple. Oh crap. Have I? You start to run through the last issue in your head, but your companion has already started to open their mouth again. “You know, the one about (insert topic you should be an expert on here).” Your panic only rises, but you shouldn’t fear. You are a pretentious genius. You know the latest issue inside and out. The hours spent poring over it by the yellow light of your bedside table were worth it. You’re ready.

Do you have far too much free time? Have you ever fantasized about shaming someone for not caring enough? Do completely useless, niche articles on very specific issues interest you? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you may qualify for a New Yorker subscription. Most of you know The New Yorker from that magazine that all your smart friends read. But I’m here to tell you that the New Yorker isn’t picked up by people who are already intelligent. It’s picked up by people who want to appear intelligent. If you’re thinking to yourself right now: Aw, gee, I dunno if I’m smarter enough to read that magamazine, do not fear. With minimal training, you too can be the smart-presenting friend of the group. That’s where our three step program comes in. We will teach you how to read through the main areas of the magazine, and raise your boredom tolerance to unprecedented heights.

The national news: Just like the news from every other source, but at the end you’ll be more confused and unsure if you actually learned anything.

The international goings-on: It may seem daunting at first, but in a few short weeks you’ll get an article titled “The History of Soap Operas in Kazakhstan and What They Tell Us About Political Imprisonment” and not even blink.

The Arts: Learn how to read about a woman who paints the texture of tree bark on 60 foot canvas without falling asleep. She doesn’t paint trees, she paints bark. How exciting is that?!

Before you know it, you’ll be ready to assert your dominance as the intellectual. Others will try to outdo you, but you’ll be able to parry each pathetic attempt at stumping you. “Did you see that article in the Washington Post?” Oh please, the front page of the Post is like 60% pictures. A baby could read the Post. That’s for amateurs. It’s three columns of single-spaced, nine-point font or NOTHING! With this newfound skill, you’ll find yourself swinging your tote bag with more confidence than ever before. A look in your eyes that says: Fight me, I am more boring than you. Walk into any party with knowledge sure to make anyone feel insignificant and uncultured. Your opinions on Basquiat? Please. You’re into that Slovenian rap artist that has only four songs out. Yeah, that's right. N’toko’s Wikipedia page is only two paragraphs. Try that on for size.

So why read The New Yorker? For its plethora of interesting and thought provoking articles that expand one’s worldview through the lenses of art, politics, and fiction?

Not exactly.

That’s what you’ll say, though.

Why does one actually read The New Yorker?

So they can say they do.

[I DO NOT ENDORSE THE POSITIONS IN THIS DOCUMENT. THEY ARE SATIRICAL. ]

Hello my 13 to 18 year olds! I’ve been asked here to talk with you all about the dangers of drugs and alcohol on your young minds. Yes, that’s right. I said young. You might be thinking: Oh, I’m not young anymore. I’m all grown up. But you’re wrong. Dead wrong. You are still incredibly susceptible to the negative impacts that drugs and alcohol can have on your growing minds and bodies. Now folks, I’ve always lived by a simple belief, and it’s gotten me all the way here. To a high school gymnasium where I lecture middle and high school students…… Anyways! I’ve made it far, okay? And I came all this way because I’ve lived life by a simple motto. And I’m going to be here to share that with you. Sound good? No response? Okay we’re a quiet group here. Let’s just get into it shall we?

Folks, drugs aren’t for me. That’s why I sell them to other people. Sure, they might make you feel good, but you know what feels the best? Money. Money is the most fantastic feeling in the world. And that’s what I really want you to take away from this talk today. Being drunk sounds fun at first, but you know what else sounds fun? Buying three different beachfront properties because it was too hard to decide on one. The thing about drugs and alcohol is that they’re never gonna fill that empty hole inside you. As soon as you start, you’re just going to become more and more addicted. And pretty soon, you’ll be out on the streets, or living in a van down by the river, with nothing else on your mind except where you can get your next fix. That doesn’t sound good at all, does it? Money, on the other hand? Money doesn’t do that at all. Money is fully satisfying. Materialism is fully satisfying. People just don’t do it right. Is buying a new TV set going to fix your broken connection with your father? No. But guess what? It is going to fix the broken connection between your Wifi router and television! No more buffering on instant Netflix! Also you and your father don’t speak. BUT! NETFLIX! What I’m trying to get at here is that balance isn’t really necessary. It’s good to strive for an inordinate amount of cash. Just go all in. On investments. Start buying up those stocks and bonds now. I want to see a huge spike in the Dow tomorrow from all of you trading. Okay?

Now I can tell that a lot of you are seeing some flaws in my argument here. Namely, but my friends aren’t doing money! I want to be cool! Look, I understand that peer pressure is a really big issue for all of you. But you have to fight it. In the event that someone offers you a drink or a smoke, just hold up your hand, politely shake your head and say: No thanks. I’m trying to stick with capitalism at the moment. If they’re really your friends, they’ll understand you. And even if they don’t, when you show up to school the next day driving a luxury SUV, all of a sudden they’re going to want to be your friends anyway. Won’t it feel good not to have your friendships based on shallow attempts to pander to the populars? Exactly. So teens, put down the marijuana and reach for that money. Throw away the alcohol and embrace those assets! Forget the heroin and go for the hard cash! Dispose of the cocaine and grab those coins!

Thank you so much for having me! Good luck out there, kids!

The Allan family had always been a little strange. At least, to the small town of Eleanor, North Carolina, the Allans were a riddle waiting to be solved. Some people called them “witches” but especially the younger people in town didn’t believe that. Witches were for Halloween — and just because somebody’s grandmother claimed she’d seen Laramie Allan point at two cars just before they got in an accident didn’t mean that the Allans were witches. She’d probably just noticed the Aston Martin driving a little too fast just before impact — a telltale sign of a Hughes School kid.

Some people swore the Allans had lived in Eleanor before anyone else. Others said they’d moved in from Maryland. Some, mysteriously, said it was both. In any case, the whole clan lived all together at 49 Thomson Lane and had been there for as long as anyone could remember. To anyone’s knowledge, no Allans had ever moved in or out.

Which was why it was so odd that one September morning, a huge moving truck lumbered through Eleanor’s small streets, heading straight towards the Allans’ driveway.

Every single student at The Hughes School was glued to the windows of their classrooms during second period that day, at least the ones whose classrooms faced south, out onto Main Street. It could have been just any moving truck… but it was following the Allan family’s telltale station wagon — from the 60’s, beat up, with a large dent in the left fender from when Jeremiah Allan had tried to teach Prairie Allan how to drive.

The only student in Calculus III who had not run to the third-floor window that day was Bronwyn Lane. Although she couldn’t care any less about her math class (she’d already taught herself everything the class had to offer), it was required to enter into the accelerated premed program at the private college she’d been eyeing since she was nine. She sat at her desk, twirling her pencil and waiting for the rest of the students to stop oohing and ahhing about a station wagon — they were high school seniors, for crying out loud. You could have thought they were kindergartners by the way they were acting.

The actual kindergartners at The Hughes School were three floors below Bronwyn, but they weren’t on the south-facing side of the building, and so they were blissfully munching away on crackers and apple slices, unaware of the thousands of conspiracy theories being contrived directly above their heads. Just one girl sat in the corner, crying.

“I want to go home,” sobbed Polly Merritt, shaking uncontrollably. Her older brother Jesse, who’d been called out of tenth-grade English (he’d failed the class the year before and was now the only junior in the class), pulled her into his lap.

“I know you do, Polls,” he said. “I just need you to wait until lunchtime. Then Carla can come and pick you up.”

“I don’t want Carla to come and pick me up. I want to go home.”

“Yes, but — “

“No!” The adamant five-year-old tried to squirm her way out of Jesse’s arms. “I’m gonna walk home!”

Jesse groaned. “Have some apple juice,” he suggested, snatching a cup from the snack table. “I really have to get back to class.”

Polly said nothing. She knew he wouldn’t go back to class until she was okay. He cradled her in silence for a bit as her shaking ultimately stopped.

“You’re okay now, Polls. I’m gonna leave you with Miss Susie now, okay? She’ll take care of you.” He threw the teacher an apologetic glance.

Polly’s lower lip jutted out in a pout that told Jesse he wasn’t going to be able to leave anytime soon. “What if,” he tried, “you came to class with me, just for a little bit? But you would have to be really quiet?”

“Can I play a game on your phone?”

Jesse let out another groan. The kid was a manipulative brat. “Fine.”

The Hughes teachers had already been informed of Polly’s special mental needs (source unknown, the doctors said, but Jesse knew differently), and so Jesse was able to sign her out of kindergarten and into tenth grade English relatively easily.

When they walked into class, everybody was talking. But not about Jesse (a favorite rumor of the tenth grade was that Polly was actually Jesse’s daughter, and that he’d gotten a senior girl pregnant his freshman year. This was, obviously, not true, but tenth-grade boys were stubborn and perverted and there was nothing Jesse could do about it.) Instead, all the “did you see”s and “do you think”s were directed at the station wagon and the moving truck — the sign of a new Allan freak.

Gleaming specks levitated in the air, exposing beams of golden sunlight peeking out through the pines. Earthy smells of damp dirt and fern dust wafted through the atmosphere. Dark green vines crept up the sides of trees forming a spiral. Birds serenaded the afternoon wanderers and fluttered from branch to branch. Distant noises of a rushing, gurgling creek grew louder as two girls progressed down an unfamiliar dirt path. One was taller than the other. Her hair was black as night, with a streak of gray piercing through the left side of her middle part. She wore all black clothing that hugged her skin tight, everywhere but her ankles, where her black washed jeans formed bell bottoms. The other, shorter girl had dirty blonde locks that sat just above her shoulders. She wore a purple dress and heeled boots that packed in the dirt below her. She looked up to the sky just as rain started to seep out of the peach tinted clouds above them. The trees in this part of the forest were special--they could withstand any sort of weather condition that the vast ever changing sky could impose. So the two, protected by the lush green canopy, welcomed the July rain without any thought. When the girls reached the end of the dirt path, a break in the trees revealed the rushing creek they were searching for. The natural roof above them no longer protected them from the downpour. But again, they weren't concerned until a droplet of what she assumed to be water fell on the taller girl’s arm. She cried out with pain. A soft hissing noise followed a split second after. Acid rain tore through the girl’s skin before she had any intent on stepping back into the forest behind her. Instead she lost her balance, lodging her foot into a rock, and tumbled into the creek. Her soon lifeless, tissue-exposed body floated on the surface of the water, following the direction of the current. The blonde girl stood paralyzed on the edge of the barrier, just centimeters away from the break in the trees. She too cried out with pain. And then something weird happened. The girl saw--

Luna shot upright, awaking from a deep sleep. Her glossy skin stuck to the silk sheets in her bed. She felt a drop of sweat trickle down her forehead and wiped it clean with the back of her hand, letting out a deep breath of relief. “Just a dream,” she exhaled. Her familiar was already trying to comfort her by licking the salty perspiration off her arm. “Stop George, that's gross.” She picked up her scaley companion and placed him back onto her nightstand. “Another bad dream, I presume.” said the lizard. “Yeah. I think Thea gave me the wrong drink again. I specifically told her to double check before pouring my glass, but her stubborn ass didn’t and I ended up drinking night terror tea instead of normal dream juice. I swear, who even drinks that stuff willingly?” Luna scoffed as she pulled her blankets back up over her shoulders.

“All witchcraft has a purpose.” said George in his usual, all-knowing tone. Luna rolled her eyes before closing them and burrowing back into her bed. “I seriously doubt that.” she said in her usual, testifying tone.

Luna couldn’t seem to get a grip on life recently. Her eighteenth birthday was only two weeks away, and all she could think about were the obstacles constantly being thrown at her. Adulthood was no longer something she looked forward to. She thought if life was hard enough now, she can’t imagine what the real world will be like. The accidental night terrors were barely half of it.

Luna flopped out of bed at eight thirty sharp. She tapped George on his head to wake him and then began her morning regime. Well--considered it at least. Everytime she thought about doing even the least bit of self care, she would glance out the window at the colorless sky and sink into an inevitable state of depression and incompetence. This happened every winter morning. So without a second thought, Luna changed out of the sweatpants she wore to bed, and picked out a different, but mostly identical pair to wear to her classes. Same routine followed with the t-shirt she picked out. Then she laced her boots, grabbed her bag, and headed to her first class; mixology.

“Take your seats!” Professor Narcisse commanded as her black stilettos clacked on the dark wood floors of the classroom. This was the oldest building on campus, doubling as Luna’s favorite spot to let her mind drift off into an abyss, until her Professor snaps her out of some made up scenario she was fixating on. The detail of the decaying tables and dim, occasionally flickering lamps didn’t help her bored mind from wandering into a full blown REM getaway. But this wasn’t just due to Luna’s lack of sleep. She had a rare power that allows her to feel every room she’s in. If a certain space can be personified based on its physical characteristics, Luna will feel the emotions as if someone transferred theirs to her the second she walks in. So when Luna shows up to mixology at 9am every morning, she’s greeted with the intense feeling of a gloomy, half-lit, century old room filled with her sleep deprived peers and a mean old professor. That’s what makes her doze off, not because she’s necessarily all that tired. “Miss Cameli!” Shouted the bone chilling voice from the front of the room. Luna picked up her head from the table and rested it on her arm. “I’m here” she raised her other arm without even making eye contact with her teacher. “That’s not what I was asking Luna. I’m well aware that you’re present. But mentally, you’re in another realm, as usual. Show some respect and stay focused!” Luna looked around at her classmates. The Everton twins were the only ones who seemed to be amused. Luna couldn’t go one year of her life without being put into at least one class with the academy’s most notorious tryhards. They giggled while glancing over at Luna, then back at each other. Luna rolled her eyes and then began to pretend to be involved in whatever potion Narcisse had the class examining this time. Soon, the clock reached for 10:30, and the class was released. Luna stormed out of the room and headed to the green square in the middle of campus to catch up with her friends before her next class; European witch history. Not everyone’s favorite course, but Luna liked the way the classroom made her feel—it was bright and colorful, much more mood-lifting than her last class.

On her way to her group’s usual spot, the bell tower, Luna ran into Thea, the same witch that gave her the wrong dream potion the night prior. “Thea! Dude! What the hell?” Luna exclaimed, just as Thea was mid sentence, talking to a warlock friend. “Oh hey girl! You good?” “I mean I’m fine now but last night was kinda rough. I had a night terror.” “Ah that sucks, sorry man.” Thea gave her a half smile and then turned back to her friend to finish her previous conversation. “Look I hate to interrupt again but I’m pretty sure that was your fault. I asked for normal dream juice because you know, I’ve been having trouble dreaming recently which didn’t suck at first but now I just feel depressed every time I wake up and it doesn’t help that the sun is never out and I really thought you would help me out with all that but you gave me night terror tea instead which is like the second time that’s happened and I was just super—” Luna took a deep breath and stopped rambling for a second. “Sorry. Wow. I didn’t mean to go off like that I just, well I don’t know last night was really, you know, weird.” Thea’s eyes were wide and she couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle. “Gosh I’m so sorry Luna! Seriously I do that all the time I’m really such a klutz. Next time you come by my room I’ll give you a bottle of normal dream juice for free. You can even watch me make it just in case.” Luna read her guilty expression and started to feel guilty herself. “No worries. I’m just stressed, that's all. I need to give my therapist a call. Thanks for being cool about it.” Embarrassed for the second time of the day already, Luna pulled away from the conversation and frantically tried to find her friends. But the bell rang before she could spot them, so she just headed to her second period.

The bright energy and spontaneity that the classroom embodied filled Luna with joy as she waltzed through the doorway. “Good morning Professor Vietro!” She glided to her desk by the window and immediately flopped her notebook onto the table. Once class began, she listened attentively to the lecture her professor was performing and soaked up the knowledge into her brain and poured it onto her notebook pages in front of her. She never dozed off or chatted with a friend in that class, it was one of the only times of her day when she was truly happy and excited to learn. Each semester she, along with her fellow classmates, are handed a new schedule of classes, which for Luna, was almost like a new set of emotions assigned at different times of the day. No matter how much she tried to fight these feelings, her mind just wouldn’t let her. Often, Luna couldn’t bare to think that this would be the power she’d be stuck with. Every young witch and warlock is born with a specific power that develops overtime. When they turn 18, however, the power(s) they will possess for the rest of their lives are randomly decided. Either you are stuck with whatever power you were born with, or you gain new ones and are selected after graduation to serve as highly ranked scholars, leaders or protectors. When the 18th birthday of any young wizard nears, the anxiety that cripples their mind is unavoidable. Especially for Luna, who never grew a custom to her power. She always thought the system was unfair. “Some people get to do the important stuff while the rest of us either get to live amongst mortals or do common work. Who even decides that?!” George always chimes in with some enlightened comment that’s supposed to calm Luna down, but never does. Or her friend Bea will give her hot take on the power sorting system with an optimistic perspective. Usually along the lines of, “all wizards are important. Everyone just has different positions but none is better than another.” Luna will think to herself, “Easy for her to say, her parents are both part of the counsel, there’s no way she won’t be handed four new powers on her birthday. The system is definitely rigged!” But as usual, these thoughts cease to plague her mind when she’s sitting in second period. Of course—until the bell rings at 12pm.

Luna normally goes to the dorm of one her friends for lunch. Her’s is too messy for guests and George has a licking problem. Today she ate in Carmen’s room. Carmen was who Luna considered to be her best friend. She had a way of seeing things that complied with Luna’s way almost exactly. They agreed on things always, and never failed to support one another when needed. But Luna couldn’t help but feel afraid when she thought about the possibility of Carmen gaining more powers and leaving Luna behind, or vise versa. But she rarely brought it up. Instead the two sat on Carmen’s window sill, eating lunch and delving into the usual gossip. Then it was third period; spells with Professor Desplat, an awkward middle aged warlock who mostly had no clue how to teach, so Luna just absorbs the chaotically decorated classroom and tries her best to focus. Then, finally, fourth period. This was Luna’s number one favorite class; harvesting. After completing her mathematics and writing courses last semester, she had room to request a leisure class that rarely gave homework or exams. Her favorite part of this period was the fact that she didn’t have to be confined to some sad classroom that contributed to her daily mood swings. She got to be outside in the woods, learning the basics of gardening in the world of magic. Even when she got back to her room at the end of the day with dirt stains crawling up her sweat pants, she wished every moment of the day would be like harvesting class with Professor Nable.

After her classes were done for the day, Luna headed back to her dorm, stopping down the hall at Thea’s to retrieve her promised bottle of dream juice. Thea whipped up the potion while Luna paid close attention, and then she thanked her friend for sharing her mixing power and fled to her room. Happier than before, Luna leaped towards her desk, flew through her homework and pampered herself for bed. She took a gulp of dream juice, noticed the obvious flavor difference from the night terror tea, and smiled. She turned the lamp off, gave George a goodnight pat, and fell into a dream filled sleep. Another day awaits the young witch.

Dear COVID-19,

Welcome to the United States. It seems that you have been making yourself at home here, as well as other countries as well. Thanks to you, we can no longer travel, hang out with our friends, and go to school anymore. Now we have no choice but to stay quarantined in our homes, practice social distancing, and we can only leave the house if it is only “necessary”. “Necessary” as in, getting groceries, going to work, or getting gas.

You have put the world in an immense amount of panic. I will never forget that day it was announced that we were no longer going to school because of you. The date was Friday, March 13, 2020. It was around 9:00. I was in my homeroom, hanging one of my costumes for my school musical with two of my friends talking to me in the girls dressing room. Once I came out, I heard a delightful scream from across the hall, screaming “School is cancelled!”. I was immediately in disbelief, until I saw the email, stating “In alignment with Los Angeles Unified School District, San Diego Unified School District, and local districts from around San Diego County, the San Dieguito Union School District is providing preliminary notice of school closure for the entire district beginning Monday, March 16.”

Going into my second period that day, everyone was on an edge, including me. I couldn’t think straight as I stared down at my math task, as I wondered what was going to be the future of our school musical, and how we were going to do class from home. Thankfully, my teacher allowed us to talk to our classmates about how we were feeling for about 5 minutes. I immediately expressed my fear and panic, while everyone else around me managed to be overjoyed that we no longer had to attend school for however long. Even after releasing our energy, I still managed to be incapable of focusing on the task at hand, which was doing a few simple math problems in my module.

That day, I said my final goodbyes to my group of girlfriends at lunch. At the time, we were all in much disbelief about the fact that we weren’t going to be in school for an indefinite period of time. To distract us from our uncertainty, we joked around about the virus, shouting “Coronavirus!” at the top of our lungs and singing “It’s corona time!” from Tiktok. Little did we all know that this was going to be longer than we imagined, and that it was no longer a joke.

As of now, I don’t know when I am going to ever see them again. It could be a few weeks, maybe even a few months. I also said my goodbyes to my final two teachers, making sure to tell them to say safe and ask questions about what learning will be like, in which they were unsure about at the time.

As of me writing this to you, I have been stuck in self-quarantine for exactly one month. However, thanks to you, you have inspired me to want to do more to improve both my mental and physical health. I could be lying in bed all day, wasting away my hours watching Tik Toks and scrolling through social media. And, sure, I have wasted a good 20 to 30 minutes doing that, but I’ve managed to get so much done in the time that I have been home. Let me tell you just a few examples.

I have done a LOT of deep cleaning. Probably more than I’ve done in my entire life. I cleaned out and organized my dresser, closet, desk, and bathroom. Let’s just say it took quite a while, and listening to music and podcasts kept me going as the hours went by. It made me feel so much better, and I am able to navigate my closet, bathroom, dresser, and my room with much more ease. I even started making my bed everyday, which I haven't done since I was probably in middle school.

I also have done at least 30 minutes of reading every single day, just so I can have a break from the hustle and bustle of social media, as it manages to get boring after a while. I am currently reading Becoming by Michelle Obama. It is quite an insightful book, I must say. She talks about growing up on the South side of Chicago, feelings of being an outcast as black woman at Princeton (as Princeton maintains a large white population) and how she met her husband, former president Barack Obama. You know, the man that our current president is blaming for your visit to the US. Yeah, that man.

I also have been staying close with my family, making sure to check in on them each and every day and spending time with them as much as I can. Just yesterday, I talked with my grandma for over an hour, mainly about how our lives have changed because of you. But you have done both of us a favor. We both have been able to get more things done, and we both have been seeing the world much differently, such as being able to look at what we need to be grateful for, as there are many people across the world who are suffering from this outbreak more than us. We also are looking at what we have taken for granted, such as being able to just sit down in a restaurant or go to the beach. We have promised one another that we are going to look at those activities differently and cherish them when we get the chance to do them again.

Even though things have been good for the most part, there have been moments where fear has taken over my mindset. On a Sunday night, as I was peacefully sleeping in my bed, I started to notice that my throat began to hurt. I started to panic, debating whether or not to go downstairs and get medicine or to suffer in silence and attempt to fall back asleep. After a few seconds of thinking, I decided I would go downstairs, but very quietly. I opened my door, turned on the hallway light, and creeped downstairs, the stairs creaking as my feet went from one step to the next. I reached the kitchen, went to the medicine cabinet, and took out a packet of Theraflu, a mixture that is able to sooth a sore throat and other various flu symptoms. I then proceeded to my coffee maker, made some hot water, and stirred the Theraflu mixture. I creeped back upstairs with my tea in both hands, slipped into bed, and took out my IPad, browsing Pinterest in an attempt to distract myself as I sipped my tea. After about an hour of staying awake, I managed to fall back asleep, but something else felt wrong too.

I had a nightmare for the first time in a long time. The nightmare started with me going to the doctor with my mom, as we were going to have me get tested for coronavirus. The doctor soon entered the room, and proceeded to tell me that I had tested positive for the virus. I buried my face in my mom’s chest and began to sob, begging the doctor not to separate me from her. The scene soon switched from the office to a hospital, where it was dark, quiet, and as a whole, scary. No one was there, not even one of my parents, and doctors and nurses in large hazmat suits stared down at me, attempting to try and give me vaccines. I screamed at the top of my lungs for my parents and my brother, begging the doctors and nurses to let me out of the hospital. That’s where it ended, and I woke up with the sound of my mother opening the door to wake me up.

Before I went to sleep that night, my mother told me that out of the four of us (referring to my mom, dad, and brother), that I am the most vulnerable to you taking over my immune system due to it being weak. Fun fact, I was born 3 months before my set due date, which allowed for my immune system to be extremely weak, and still is to this day. Now, I don’t get as sick as much as I used to when I was a baby, but I get sick the most out of my family. Those thoughts managed to get to my head and allow for this nightmare to take place. Luckily, that sore throat is just due to changes in the weather, not because of you, thank god.

COVID-19, you have been both a blessing and a curse. The good thing about you is that you have inspired not just me, but many others to want to be productive. You have given us the time and energy to want to do these things, and it will ultimately allow us to improve our mental and physical health. With us being stuck at home everyday, it has allowed us to think about what we are grateful for, and what we have taken for granted all these years. Coming out of this, I hope to no longer take the time with my friends granted, considering that I haven’t been able to see them for an entire month, and with your visit getting longer and longer, it’s gonna be a while until I see them again.

However, you have also put the world in a large state of panic. States have been going on lockdown, parents can no longer go to work, grocery stores are practically empty, and the government doesn’t know what to do, considering that we have a certain somebody in office, and he manages to be blaming other people for the problem, including the Democratic Party. You have put many lives at risk, and you manage to keep spreading day by day. Numbers will keep climbing as you visit more states and more countries, which isn’t helping our population.

Because of you, everybody has lost something, whether it be a trip, a graduation, or even a family member. People have been devastated by what they have lost, including myself. Thanks to you, I can no longer celebrate my birthday in Los Angeles, watch my mom graduate from graduate school at USC, and perform in my first school musical. I will say that I do have the right to be sad, and everybody has the right to be sad, but I know that there are others who have lost more than what myself and others have. My heart hurts for those people, as they may not be able to have a high school graduation or see a certain family member ever again, which is much worse than losing one musical and the rest of your second year of high school.

Hopefully your stay won’t last much longer. If it does last longer, and we can no longer go back to school, that’s okay. I have accepted it, and I am not going to waste my time thinking about what could’ve been. Instead, I am going to think about the present, and the future that lies ahead, which I believe is bright. I’ve had my good days and my bad days, and that’s okay. You’ll eventually pack your bags and leave, and the world will get through what you have caused.

Sincerely,

A High School Sophomore

There is a certain tranquility that comes with arriving in the desert.

It’s an eerie quietude, an almost alien serenity. The car’s engine stills, and the door opens with a muffled click that seems to echo for miles, finally letting in that first draft of arid air. You breathe in, and it feels like home.

What first catches your attention is the sudden absence of sound. If it weren’t for the distant chatter of birds and the faint whistle of wind past your ears, you’d feel as if you were the last living creature on Earth.

The notion doesn’t scare you, although you think it ought to. After all, you’ve come here to disappear.

You finish setting up camp just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. The sight is obscured by towering boulders that conceal the skyline, but nonetheless, you enjoy watching the gradual cascade of blue to pink and gold. With the strike of a match, you bring the campfire to life, watching wisps of smoke dissipate against the canvas of muted indigo.

Once again, you turn your gaze to the vast desert expanse, allowing yourself this moment of peace. Although the world has gone dark, you can still see the silhouettes of scraggly trees dotting the landscape, standing like sentries over a sacred land. The longer you stare, the more the silence seems to beckon you. With a steady exhale, you settle down to wait. The moon waits with you.

You can feel it now, the silence, an almost tangible presence in the air. You feel many new things, you suddenly notice, every heartbeat from every creature inhabiting the desert reverberating through your ribcage like your own. Owls cut through the darkness on silent wings, mice burrow into the parched sands, snakes curl up against the fading warmth of the dusty earth. The moon watches.

Your life, the one you have driven away from, seems so distant now, a fading memory.

Where did you come from again?

Who are you?

The moon is nearly blinding now. No matter where you look, you can see it, twinkling in the corner of your eye. It is watching you, still, but now there is a gentle insistency behind it, a silent beckon.

You stand with a sudden conviction. Your head is spinning, yet any shadow of doubt, any whisper of hesitation is gone from your mind. Your motives are unclear, least of all to yourself, yet you face the landscape before you with an absolute certainty residing in your heart.

You tread towards the desert, leaving your campsite unattended, the fire still burning. You head to the outskirts of the illuminated area, allowing yourself to be swallowed by the darkness.

The moon descends.

A beam cascades from the sky, illuminating the ground at your feet in a perfect circle. A whisper of a smile lingers on your features as you tip your head up towards the light, reveling in its glow. And then you’re

gone

leaving only footprints in the sand, the only indication that you ever were here at all.

And those too, soon fade.