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La Sociedad de la Luz -y la búsqueda hacia la verdadera iluminación-
light
En la tierra donde hace tiempo la oscuridad no existe y la sociedad de la luz asciende, las torres se elevan buscando rasgar las grisáceas nubes que recubren con su manto las calles rotosas y mojadas, como si de una sábana de seda se tratasen. En esta tierra donde la luz siempre se encuentra present
Two Women in Colonial New England
snekcoatl
Wickedness engulfed the old country. Poisonous words dripped from the mouths of deluders disguised as moral teachers. Indeed wickedness had been taught in the children’s schools. Darkness shrouded the minds of the people until they could not be penetrated by the light of learning, and the Devil hid
Eternal Love haunts the past
adnan_me
"You smell like lavender." "And you smell like me." A hard knock on the front door, followed by few soft knocks. The interruption erases the smirk on Josh. Lily bursts out and consoles him. Josh quickly gets out of the bed and walks down the stairs. The knock continues. He carefully opens the door
Caterpillars and Butterflies
newlore
I was crawling across the floor of my decrepit studio flat. Like a caterpillar, I tucked my legs beneath me, lifted my ass into the air, and dragged myself forward. A no-good thirty-year-old, high out of his mind. I lay there studying the wood grain of the floorboards with scientific devotion. The l
[The Prince of Magic] - 1. A Basic Grimoire
corejanjan
Ceres knocked once, then gently pushed the wooden door open. As the soft bell chime rang out, he was met with large shelves of grimoires stacked together in a neatly arranged area. Various trinkets were encased in glass storages, and vials of potions, as well as other magical items were also on disp
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My thoughts on Hills like White Elephants
truongthanh3005
Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway is about an American man and a girl, Jig, who meet at a Spanish train station waiting for a train to Madrid. They are drinking beer and conversing in a very awkward and tense way . Although they didn't mention it, they are discussing an "operation." This operation is most certainly an abortion. The man attempts to persuade Jig that the operation is very simple and will solve all of their problems. However, Jig appears overwhelmed by the conversation and simply wants the man to stop. I didn't really like the American man in this story. Throughout the conversation he states terms such as, "I don't want you to do it if you don't want to." However, this man is manipulative , putting intense pressure on Jig. On the contrary , I sympathized with Jig because she appears trapped. She looks at the hills and realizes that, regardless of her decision, nothing can ever truly return to the way things were. This story relates to instances in which people fail to address the actual issue and instead appear to say that everything is fine. In addition, this story demonstrates the failure of communication between two people who have different goals in life and are too afraid to express those goals directly.
A Home Made of Absence
eiaceae
For thirteen years, Helios believed the apartment was haunted. Every dawn, a cup appeared on the windowsill with a ring of fresh tea staining the porcelain. His mother's favorite cup. Every winter, the hallway filled with the scent of jasmine, though the plant had died before she did. Sometimes, while passing the mirror, he caught her reflection a heartbeat after his own had already moved away. He never spoke to the ghost. He spoke around it. "I'm trying," he would whisper to the empty kitchen. The jasmine answered. --- People told him grief played tricks. So he boxed her clothes. The ghost lingered. He burned her letters. The ghost lingered. He sold the apartment. The ghost followed. Every place he loved eventually smelled like jasmine. He stopped believing in coincidence. He started believing his mother had never left. --- An old hospice nurse found him years later after a lecture on bereavement. "You've seen them," she said. He didn't ask how she knew. She merely placed a thin notebook in his hands. "No one publishes this anymore." The first page contained only one sentence. The dead are not haunting you. You are haunting them. He laughed. By the final page, he was shaking. According to the notebook, consciousness did not end at death. It unraveled. The dead drifted toward a silence so complete that memory itself dissolved. It was not oblivion. It was peace. Except memory worked both ways. Every living remembrance struck that silence like a bell. A name spoken aloud. A photograph touched. A birthday celebrated. A favorite song replayed. Each act tore the dead from their rest and dragged them, fully aware, into the exact memory that summoned them. Not for seconds. For however long they were remembered. Then silence reclaimed them. Until the next time. And the next. And the next. Love had mistaken resurrection for devotion. --- That night Helios dreamed of his mother. Not as she had been. As she was. She sat alone in a white room with no walls, eyes closed, breathing in a peace deeper than sleep. Then somewhere far away, a child laughed at an old family video. Her eyes opened. The room vanished. She was suddenly standing in a kitchen that no longer existed, watching her younger son cry over burnt toast. She reached for him. Her hand passed through. He couldn't hear her. She screamed. Another memory seized her. A wedding photograph. Then a birthday. Then the smell of jasmine. Each remembrance yanked her into another fragment of a life she could never change. She did not haunt the memories. The memories imprisoned her. She saw Helios watching. For the first time in thirteen years, she spoke. "Please..." The dream shattered before she finished. --- Helios spent weeks testing the impossible. He hid every photograph. The jasmine stopped. He deleted every voicemail. The whispers ceased. He forced himself not to say her name. The apartment became terrifyingly quiet. For the first time since the funeral... she was gone. He should have felt relief. Instead he felt guilt. If forgetting granted peace... what kind of son chose peace over remembrance? --- Months passed. Then, on a rainy afternoon, a stranger stopped him outside a bookstore. "You look just like your mother," the woman smiled. "She once helped me when I had nothing." She spoke her name. At once the wind carried jasmine through the street. Helios looked up. Across the road stood his mother. Not smiling. Not glowing. Only exhausted. She looked at the stranger with unbearable tenderness. Then at Helios. Tears streamed down her face. She mouthed two words. Not again. She disappeared before he could move. --- Years later, when Helios himself lay dying, nurses noticed he refused photographs. He left no journal. No recordings. He asked for no funeral. Only a single envelope addressed to whoever loved him enough to mourn. After his heart stopped, they opened it. Inside was one page. No signature. No explanation. Just these words: If you love me, let me become someone who once existed instead of someone who must keep existing. Do not build shrines. Do not celebrate anniversaries. Do not search for me in songs, in dreams, or in old messages. The dead do not fear being forgotten. They fear never being allowed to disappear. Every time you summon me with love, I must wake. Every time you say my name, I must lose eternity. Grief feels like holding on. Sometimes it is only refusing to let someone finish dying. So if there is one final kindness left between us— let silence remember me better than you do. When his daughter reached the final line, she collapsed into tears. Without thinking, she whispered, "I'll never forget you." Far beyond the reach of the living, where a vast and gentle silence had almost claimed him, Helios opened his eyes.
The Shrine
lampooner
Michael was settled on his chair,deep in thought.Pinching his temples he was uncharacteristically silent.Matching his red sneakers was a crimsonT shirt paired with navy blue shorts.The window to his room was open letting in the cold breeze.Awaiting the signal to jump off his hand rested on the phone as his heart shook.What could he be waiting for?If one were to look more closely they would realize that his backpack and equipment were hinting towards an adventure. Finally the phone rang.The voice that ringed in his ears was not one he recognized. “Hello,is this Michael speaking?” “Yes.” " Your friend Allan is being rushed to the hospital.He told me to deliver you a message." “Wait ,what?” Michael said perplexed his voice breaking.The loudness of his voice might have startled his parents who were still in bed . Unable to keep up this solemn act he burst out in a shrill voice “What happened to Allan,I thought he was going to call me once he reached the outpost ?" "Calm down sir.” I am calm he said ,a moment after collecting himself “On his way to the outpost,he stopped at the old shrine for and was attacked” “He …..was attacked?" " Yes,it's seems to be some sort of venomous snake.Before he collapsed,he told me to tell you that it's too dangerous to visit th-” Before he could finish his sentence there was a momentary delay and Michael heard another voice. “We’re not calling off our visit to the hill station." Recognizing the sharp but calm voice he realized it was Edward. Before Michael could say anything he felt a hand resting on his shoulders.It was his mother's. "Planning to leave without breakfast” she said smiling ominously. Taking the phone into her hands she talked to Edward."Just what do you boys plan on doing.” " Nothing dangerous. " " Is that why Michaels left wrist is still fractured?" She said looking at his bandaged wrist ,her face still contorted into mocking smile. "Well,you see Allan has been admitted to the hospital,and I called Michael to inform him of that.” " How do I know that your not making this up on the spot?” “Maybe you'll believe me if you hear it from him" Soon ,the authenticity of Edwards claims was proven and it quite worried Ms Kieth not only for the boy but her own son.She was at good terms with both boys mothers and so she was more than willing to let Michael pay a visit. ‘Don't get too high on adrenaline ‘ she would often tell him .There was no telling what he would do to satiate his boredom.She could only hope he wouldn't do anything dangerous. On his way to Allans room, Michael saw a familiar figure.It was Edward.Edward seemed to be pale as if he was unable to understand the words that were uttered by the doctor. Inching closer Michael who was carrying a basket of freshly made bread and some pastries listened in on their conversation. “It's peculiar isn't it, shortly after the boy regained consciousness,all the symptoms of a pain disappeared.” “Yes,i find it dubious that it was a snake that bit him” “The marks on his neck say otherwise” "Maybe it was something else” Edward chimed in " Why don't you investigate it?” “Well? What if it's a new species” Michael entered the room as the doctor and his assistant made their exit. “Does every one in this town believe in that baseless rumor?" “I think its time we see for ourselves" Allan looked at them in a daze , his face contorted with mix of emotions .Most prominent among these was fear , the most primitive emotion of them all.Shaking his head he said “Are you two crazy?!" " Look what happened to me , the doctors say I'm going to be fine but I keep telling them that something is wrong” " Hear me out – “NO,you hear ME out” “ There's something lurking in the forest near the shrine and it's not human!” " You don't believe me?Well look at this ….” Opening his mouth he showed them his tongue which on first sight seemed to be normal.However, on closer inspection a thin outline of grey fluid could be seen enveloping the red mass. “The doctors say that it's just a side effect of whatever bit me and will probably disappear" “But every time I hear ‘it’ my mind goes blank and I –" Before he could say anything the nurse came in demanding the boys to give Allan some space before he had on of his ‘fits’. "Hes in a very excitable state ,any little thing sets him off.Just last afternoon he was found in the basement with a dead rat resting,uneaten ,on his tongue.” The boys were perplexed their entire world upside down.When was last time they experienced such a shock? For Michael,it was the discovery that performing a backflip isn't as easy as a cartwheel.For Edward,it was the fact that he was terrified of cows more than he was of clowns.Shattering the deafening silence between them michael let out a deep sigh and said " Just this once (and let me finish) we shouldn't take the risk” He softly added " Assuming that you also had the same idea” Edward smiled and said “Irrational mike being rational?” “The adults are finally getting to you” “Unfortunately,I might have to be the irrational one .” He paused before adding “Just this once." Michael couldn't protest to this as he had subjected his friends to such risks many a times.As the branches overhead grew thicker the crunching leaves under his shoes became more audible .In front of him was Edward , who held a torch in his left hand and a machete in his right.The moonlight barely illuminated the narrow path in front of them.Suddenly, Michael whose nose was separated from Edwards backpack only by a few centimeters collided with it.For a moment the clouds above them stood still.If not for the occasional breeze that rattled the trees the silence would be deathly. Edward turned his head to Michael and with his legs shaking"I think I need to pee.” Michael didn't reply, only sarcastically rolled his eyes. Well,that was anticlimactic.I for one wouldn't pee in the woods. Edward had similar thoughts.The shrine was near and maybe it had a rest room or something.In any case it was the place they had decided to stay the night.The shrine had an unnatural air about it ,the moonlight light surrounding the shrine always seemed to be flickering .As Michael made his way into the shrine he couldn't help but feel uneasy.The floorboards creaking under his feet.The inner room seemed completely abandoned with no furniture in sight.His eyes darted towards the walls and all he saw was crumbled cement.Edward came in what was assumed to be the restroom his nose pinched. Shaking his head he said” “There is no bathroom" his legs trembling uncontrollably. " Also don't go in there,it's like something is rotting on the walls and it's disguisting" Michael nodded his head and asked " So what are you going to do?Pee on the floor.Don't worry I won't tell any one" " Well I was thinking about peeing in the wishing well." " Wait dont –" Before he could say anything Edward rushed outside and the deed was already done.Micahel chased after him and soon saw his face reflected on a large bronze bell.It was engraved with symbols that looked ancient.Despote the years of aging the bell seemed to be in pristine condition.Edward jokingly made fun of these symbols and started spouting what he claimed to be incantations. Reentering the woods they made their way to the same spot but as they were about to go further they heard a bell chiming.Micahels heart froze . Edward seemed unfazed as he calmly said" It must be the wind or something” until he heard it ring again.The only sound that echoed through the forest was the Ravens claws scratching against wood.The only thought that echoed through their mind was ‘run’ .Before he knew it Micheals legs had helped him sprint a large distance ,the path around him curved as the torch in his hand was shaking.As the bells rang the light in his hand grew dimmer and dimmer until it was no brighter than the crimson blue light filtered through the ancient trees hovering above him.A shiver ran down his spine as his pupils constricted .At some point Edward had disappeared from his line of sight and from the thoughts for he was too afraid to look back .Too afraid to look back and face the abyss that was slowly creeping it's way towards him.Soon he entered a clearing and felt that he was somewhat relived of his troubles.His abdomen felt constricted as he let out sharp breaths of air.He was jolted back to his senses when the bell rang,each time with an unnatural tune.He looked around him only to see no shrine in sight . There were no signs of Edward either. This…whatever creature was chasing us might have gotten to him. This road seems familiar,it's awfully close to the hospital where Allan is. I should make a run for it. Micheal soon found himself surrounded by the hospital staff as he told this story.They ushered no reply but their disappointment was visible from their stone cold gazes.Some told him similar stories of people who were cursed by the shrine and ultimately met gruesome deaths.Despite all the gravity of the situation Micheal remained convinced that Edward was still alive. His only solace was an old staff member that agreed with him . “Those who are subjected to it's wrath are often left alive or killed torturously slow" So there's a chance that Edward is alive. " Most likely,however the events that have unfolded will leave him devoid of any vigor.” Is there no way for the curse to be exorcised Since it's related to the gods that watch over the shrine,your only hope is to please them. " And if they forgive me, I will no longer be cursed?” " Forgiveness doesn't mean that it will be removed. Just that it might be, it's only a whim to ‘Them’ ." Micheal headed for Allans room as he felt that he needed to apologize for doubting The bell sounded once more in his ears as he could feel his legs become numb.The lights above him grew brighter and brighter until one such filament burst from inside the glass. Feeling the cold night breeze caressing his face ,he moved towards the door. I should hide somewhere safe . He entered the room where Allan was admitted . Closing the door behind him he felt the waves of gear spreading through his heart subside.He let out a sigh and tried to reach out for the bed to see how Allan was doing.His hands were met with silky smooth sheets.Its warm ,I guess he might have left for the bathroom.I don't know why but my legs are growing weak.It must have been due to all the running around I have done. – Creak – scratch ….creak scratch Pa! Something invisible fell from overhead as it shattered into fragments of glass.The screeching noise became faint as a dark figure outlined itself before him.This mass was screened by the curtains and it wasn't clear whether it was an animal or something else entirely.Whatever it was it seemed glued to the wall like a spider awaiting it's next meal Is this the creature that was trying to chase us. It didn't attack Michael but he could sense the air around him was insidious.The moonlight was once again diluted with colors unatural– a shade of green and white.Before he could make his move and run he felt his ears vibrate as he heard what could only be described as a primitive howl followed by the sounds of crackling bone.The bell chimed in so as to give it an ancient tune.Micheals knees were glued to the floor. I - I can't feel my legs.Is this the bells doing, something similar might have happened to Edward preventing him from running His eyes were met by the hollow white eyes of something that seemed human .It inched closer moving it's body with great difficulty across the wall.Every movement was accompanied by the sound of joints crackling.White liquid sprayed from its skin as it let out “Michael?Is that y-you?” Michaels heart regained it's pulse as he recognized this voice.It was Allan! He must be afflicted by the curse too.He replied with a slight smile “Yes.” “Oh boy ,I'm so glad to see you” Allan said his voice vibrating as he scratched his hair. “Are you alright? You need to get of the wall,it's hurting you.” No-no I'm fine ,this is just my daily exercise” He said as he pulled out hair from his scalp and threw them in the air as if celebrating.Micheal gulped as he felt the urge to leave the room immediately. He instinctively gripped his watch. No, he's my friend he won't hurt me .Besides we're going through the same thing ,maybe I can help him and in turn he can help me. “Hey, do you know that the people here don't believe me when I tell them something is wrong with me?” He turned to Michael and started sniffing Ignoring this remark Michael looked at Michael and said " I hear these bells and with each ring things seem to get progressively worse” " You too?!” Michael almost jumped of the wall in surprise,his hands still shaking as his broken fingers gripped the wall, red from pain. “Yeah ,and get this every time the bell rings things get worse.” Allan smiled, his facial muscles contorting as his teeth reflected Micheals uncomfortable shape.His lips trembled , muscles tearing under the tension and smarting his gums with a melancholy Michael shiveed at this sight his ribs frozen and shaking in fear.Involuntarily ,he gulped and and said with an uncomfortable smile. " Get off the wall,let's try to solve this problem” You know about the shrine Uh huh we've never visited it but have always seen it on the way to the hill outpost Well get this it's watched over by the gods Oh ,yeah those japeneese shinto gods Yeah yeah And we'll you know our curse also stems from that place So let's do something about it What What if we performed a ritual at the altar of said shrine and offered our blood.Of course not all of it but some . Mm hmm- ah, and the gods will forgive us! Exactly! For old times sake get off the wall Allan refused politely,his pupils less eyes growing bloodshot every growing minute.Micheal dragged himself along the halls and got to the hospitals inventory to look for a wheel chair He opened the door with great difficulty as something heavy seemed to be holding it down.Something isn't right .This room is small but very neatly organized .I can't imagine nurse Susie ever having it so congested. As he opened the door and found everything neatly arranged.Thats weird,I guess I'm tired and my legs aren't working either. He got himself on a wheel chair and just as he was about to leave he heard a sound . Drip - drip ,it was the sound of something leaking,he felt it spill over his face.He examined this liquid and thought it was water , suddenly the clouds parted momentarily as the faint moonlight illuminated his surroundings.His hand was dyed crimson! This is blood! He looked up and saw a disfigured body hanging,it was the nurse Susie.Her limbs her head hung separatly on threads of interwoven white.Bite marks were present on here face .This is Allans nurse ,could it be that that the curse influenced him to kill her.No -this seems intentional Micheal shuddered involuntarily and quickly got on the wheelchair.He then flew across the halls at terrifying speeds for a wheelchair.Behing him he could hear screeching and crackling sounds . “I thought you were different from the others.” “I thought you believed me, but you're no different from the rest of them” “Just like them you must think I'm crazy.” “Like nurse Susie you must be making fun of me I front of others I won't forgive you!You were my friend and my childhood friend.” “If you value our friendship them stop Or else or else I'll kill your mother!” Good luck getting out of the hospital,wall crawler. Micheal rushed outside the hospital and headed straight for the heart of the problem.The shrine ,his only hope was to somehow complete the ritual but just as he was about to enter it's vicinity his vision grew dark as the bell sounded in his ears. This….. He blanked out and once he awoke ,it was inside the restroom of the shrine. He shook his head for he didn't recognize his surroundings.Where am I ?Memories came flooding back as blood rushed to his brain He offered his blood as he cut open a wound on his wrist.Noot deep enough to kill him but deep enough for the pain to radiate throughout his body.But just as he'd did this he once again lost concioussness.
The Ghost or the Cat
landtoseas
Caring for a cat was not a simple thing. I had always known this, yet experiencing it was something else entirely. I had always had the opinion that once you had adopted a cat, it was now a part of your family forever. There was no giving it away, no changing your mind, no backing out. It was not a small commitment. You took care of it from life to death. Which made finding your sweet, precious kitty dead overnight, one of the most difficult things I had ever gone through. It had been six months after I had adopted a young, brainless furball. A purring machine with nothing to fear except for when her food bowl was empty. Nothing was afraid of her, either, by her lame attempts at play with the dried spaghetti sticks that had fallen to the floor. She had always seemed a little strange to me. A little off. And now, I’m watching the live example as I see her eyes track the ceiling. But there was nothing there. “Slipper, are you okay, kitty?” I ask, seeing her blue eyes jump back and forth. I tried my best to look, but I could not find a bug. “Stop that.” I wave my hand in front of her. “You’re creeping me out.” She held still, stiff as a board for a solid second before dashing away. I frown. “Weirdo.” My foot hits something on the floor. I look down, seeing a gross, overused, torn-apart mouse toy. Immediate pain washes over me. I hit it back under the couch, where it had previously been missing for months. I wouldn’t mind not seeing it again for years. Even the smallest things seemed to tip me over. Every time I thought I’d moved on. Slipper never plays with normal cat toys. The thought seems to linger with me for the rest of the day. Next week, it was something new. As I opened the door returning from work, on a normal day Slipper would stretch from her bed, a slow yawn, and wait for me to come to her. This time she ran. “Slipper!” I say astonished, as she scrambles across the apartment. I follow her freakish movement quickly and then hesitate as I enter the bedroom, afraid to startle her again. She wasn’t there. “Kitty. What has gotten into you?” I ask, concerned as I crawl across the floor, checking underneath the bed. Her face is turned away from me. Her white figure obscured in the dark. “Kitty kitty kitty.” She turns. She’s drooling. Eyes glowing. I gasp. I hit my head on the bed, scrambling out. Heart racing. “What the-” A low growl came from underneath the bed. It was as if something possessed her. Like a ghost. Fear washes over me. My face pales. That was not my cat. Fear turns to outrage. Something, was in my cat. Using my cat. I couldn’t believe it. I was not going to let any ghost touch my cat. Me? Sure. My cat? That was something else entirely. I rise to my feet, chin raised, and leave the house. Ghosts were not unheard of. The library had plenty on them, and I learn about all sorts of cases as I flip through different books’ pages. The pictures unnerve me. They pass through people’s houses, through their yards and through their streets. Glowing eyes, thin fingers. Spectral forms and clouded figures. When they stayed instead of wandered is when the evidence turned gruesome. I learn that ghosts are vengeful, angry creatures. Blood drawn. Throats strangled. They don’t remember anything about why they are there. Small fragments of memory come and go. Full of emotion, they're driven by it. I turn each page when I want to stop. They kill. They possess. I read all about what makes them mad. What makes them react. Candles, taunting, but the most powerful thing, the thing that really made them mad, was their name. This is what gives you power over them. It brings their attention to you. It startles them. Scares them. Outrages them. It gives them all their memories back. Like how they died. That is how you get a ghost out of a body. You make it remember who it really is. Why it’s really upset. And you pray it doesn’t catch you. I rub my temples, a headache beginning to form. There was nothing on animals. It seemed it was not usual for a ghost to possess an animal. I sigh. Maybe I was in for more than I bargained for. Professional help would be more reliable, more efficient. Money was a problem, but the worse problem was that I would have to find help out of town. That wasn’t an option. I have been able to do anything with my own two hands. This just had to be one of them. A quick stop at one of the only stores in town and I had all the tools I needed. My paper bag was filled with candles, matchsticks, a blank notebook, and whatever else had seemed important. By the time I had reached home, it was dark. I inserted the keys into the knob, clicking it open as they jingled together. I had left the lights on in the house, I notice, as I quietly creak the door open. All I needed to do was locate Slipper and- She was right there. Sitting on the floor ahead of me. A loud hiss and spat arose from her, her back arched as my breathing stopped. She darts off in a blink of an eye. Okay. I think to myself. That was fine. That was better. The less the ghost wants to do with me, the better. I carefully close the door and tiptoe to the kitchen, feeling like any movement I make might set the thing off. I array the items on the counter. Candle. Matchsticks. Notebook- I freeze. Crap. The ghost couldn’t write with cat paws. I leave it on the counter for when I banish it from my cat’s body. I light a matchstick, and forget to bring the candle. “Ghostly spirit,” I call out as I slowly make my way through the apartment. “Tell me your name!” Slipper growls from the other room, a dangerous tone in her voice. A lump forms in my throat. It was even using my damn cat’s voice. The room is dark. The bed still unmade. Curtains drawn, blocking out the street’s light. I see a faint silhouette on top of the mountainous pile of blankets. It speaks. “Mowmowmowmowmow,” it said in a deep voice. Threatening me off. “Tell me your name!” I shout, thrusting the matchstick forward. Slipper’s eyes glowed back. Her white fluffy fur and orange-tipped ears, the perfect picture of a ghost. She hisses at me. Confusion wells up inside me; I bite my lip. To see my cat act so differently than she would, was concerning. Unnerving. Yet this ghost, on the other hand, was way more boring than I thought it'd be. It had to have been living here for weeks now, and no matter what I've done, it had not attacked me once. Anytime I noticed something, it would run off and hide as fast as it could. I scoff, irritation crossing my face. I really wasted time worrying about this? Why had I been so afraid? It was just a big, fat, scaredy- I feel my body freeze. Cat. My eyes widen. Cat. My eyes travel back to the lump of fur, hissing at me in its bed of pillows. Now hidden under a blanket. It was just like- “No.” I say, stern. So sure. I’m not sure if it’s pain or shock that fills my voice. “It’s not possible. There is no way. It can’t-” I instinctively turn away, and as I do, I see the couch. I remember the ruined toy Slipper had found underneath… Except it wasn’t Slipper that found it. She’s never touched those toys. No. They were the favorite of- “Mitzy.” I say. The words sounding like an echo in my ears as I turn around to the figure in the bedroom. Slipper stared back at me. “Mah.” She said in her food voice, staring at me as if nothing had happened. I feel a cold chill leave the room. “Mitzy.” I say again, entering the room, I search around. “Mitzy. Are you there? Please.” I don’t know how I feel anymore. To have my cat, my dead cat, in my house after so long. After so much longing. After I had finally accepted she was gone, and would never come back. “Please.” I say. “I love you. Please.” My voice turns rough. Yet there is no response. Did she leave? Not yet! She can't. Not. Yet. Please. My mind races. Angry, desperate thoughts fill my head. There was nothing in the book on how to keep a ghost! I race to the couch, desperate, I land on the floor and thrust my arm underneath. My fingers clasp onto a disgusting, hair-covered toy. I toss it across the floor. It sits still. I wait. And nothing happens. I don’t think I can bear it. Did I get rid of my own cat? I feel like I’ve been ripped apart all over again, the wounds deep and new, seeping out of me. My face contorts as I hunch over. I feel my shoulders shake. Everything I've blamed on myself before, I blame myself again now. That was when I noticed the toy had moved. I forget to breathe. I see the mouse flip around and jolt to the left. “Mitzy!” My poor girl. She was here. My eyes fill with tears, a broken smile on my face. What had kept her here? As a ghost? She couldn't be searching for vengeance. Or, at least, I hoped not. She was just confused. Scared. The same as if she were in an unfamiliar place. I wipe my eyes at the thought of how alone she must have felt. “Want some num-nums, girl?” I ask the invisible cat. “Mah.” Slipper responds from her spot, but I barely notice. I stand to my feet, desperate to fill my late cat with happy memories in hopes of making her feel safe and welcome. In the kitchen cabinet, I reach to the back for the cans that Slipper had never eaten. The ones that had been sitting there gathering dust for months. As I turn, I see that the paper bag and the items around it still on the counter. I take the now-opened can of food and the newly lit candle to the room as I turn off the lights. My breath catches. I can see a small, ghostly, cat-like figure look from her mouse to me. Her face just as small. Her eyes just as wide. Her whiskers long, her ears pointed… She looked as precious as the day I’d lost her. Except, for the fact that my used-to-be black cat, was now a glow-in-the-dark cat. She gave me a small squeaky meow as her tail curled, approaching me. She sniffed the food, and somehow ate it. Hesitantly, I reach for her back, like I always had. It’s cold to the touch. And yes, I can touch her. Vaguely soft, somehow between this world and another. It was wonderful, yet sad, at the very same time. Slipper hopped off the bed to lie in my lap. Purring once again. Although difficult it was to care for a cat, for this life, and, even the next. In my opinion, it was absolutely, very much, well worth it.
The Kiskadee
brandon
“Listen, can you hear that?” My eyes shot open, and I saw an older man standing in front of me. Worn cargo pants, a scruffy white beard. A hanging yellow tooth pressed into his lower lip and there was redness in the corners of his eyes like he’d been crying. Incidentally, my eyes were red too—but that was because I was high, having made my smoke spot at the base of a silk cotton tree in the woods where I assumed I’d be able to space out by my lonesome. “Sorry, I had my headphones in,” I said politely as I could. I knew better than to make enemies with strangers in the Trinidadian woods. “Listen,” he said, motioning for me to take my headphones out. I obliged and pricked my ears up. And then I heard it: Meh-ree. Meh-ree. A bird call. “Amazing isn’t it?” he said as he hobbled closer, one hand on his cane, the other tracing the ridge of the silk cotton’s giant roots. I’d made my smoke spot out of what felt like a throne built out of those roots. The earth between them was oddly clear of vegetation, almost like the place had been waiting for me. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about birds,” I said, “What’s so amazing about it?” “That’s a kiskadee. You know kiskadees, don’t you?” I did. As did every other Trinidadian. They were bright yellow birds that got their name from their distinctive call. Kis-ka-DEE. Decidedly not whatever they were warbling now. “Doesn’t sound like any Kiskadee I’ve ever heard,” I said. My roll-on was still pinched between my fingers. I wondered if my new friend was the sort of older Trinidadian who was prudish about marijuana. Thankfully, he barely seemed to notice. He only cared about the birds. “Well that’s just it. Only here,” he said ,”Throughout this entire island, only in this very spot do they sound like that.” He contorted his face, pouting his lips and squinching his eyes as he copied the call, gurgling up the sound from deep in his throat: Meh-ree! Meh-ree? “Not a bad impression for an old man, ey?” “Spot on,” I said. “I bet you’re wondering why they sound that way. When all your life you’ve only heard them say their own name. Kis-ka-DEE. Kis-ka-DEE. Well, I can tell you.” It seemed obvious to me that I was going to hear the story whether I wanted to or not, but the old man, who had come uncomfortably close by then, seemed to be waiting for me to give the OK before he continued. “Sure. Why don't you tell me,” I said, “Why do they sound different here?” He smiled, ground his cane into the earth and rested both hands atop it. “Because I taught them. Not on purpose, mind you. But because that’s all I could say. The name of my sweetheart. Beautiful like a goddess carved out of marble. I loved her more than anything in the whole world. But she was Indian and I was African. It was a different time. We couldn’t meet out in the open. But out here where only the birds could hear us, could we be together. Until…” He paused, bit down with that lone tooth looking like it might puncture a paper-thin lip. “Until?” I asked. “Until she disappeared. One night when we were meant to meet, she disappeared. So I called her name. Over and over again. And again and again every night since, hoping that one day she’d hear me and come back.” He slipped down his cane and sat on the ground next to me. I suppose he must have felt like we were friends now, having bared his soul to me and all. “But she never did,” he said eventually, “And the birds have made her name lose all meaning. To tell you the truth, they drive me a bit crazy. As much as I love hearing my darling’s name.” Meh-ree. Meh-ree. “I think a fellow wrote a poem about something like that once.” The old man made a hollow smile with his lips, fished around in his pocket and pulled out a joint. I guess he wasn’t one of those old conservative types. He passed it over to me and said: “Sorry I interrupted you. Thanks for listening to my ghost story.” I flicked my lighter at the joint, but couldn’t get it to catch. “Ghost story?” I asked. The old man pulled out a matchbook and lit me up. “Is that what I said? My mistake. It just feels that way sometimes. I meant the other kind of story. Not a haunting. The one where every trace of them disappears. Never to be seen again.” I took a drag of the joint and meant to pass it to my new friend, but suddenly the calls of the birds became terribly loud—in fact, it felt like they were closing in around us, screeching louder and louder. Meh-ree. Meh-REE. MARY! And I must have passed out, or else that joint was something stronger than weed, because when I came to the old man was gone. I shuffled in my silk cotton throne and felt my leg bump against something. Someone’s leg, hanging off one of the roots. I was getting a lot of guests at my smoke spot that day. A kiskadee way high up called out: Meh-ree. I looked up at my new guest. She was younger than me, but her eyes were dull, like those of the old folks in the nursing home. She was rubbing her neck softly, looking up into the canopy. “They say this is the only place in Trinidad the kiskadee calls like that,” I said. The girl nodded. She seemed to have heard the story. “A lover calling out to his runaway girlfriend?” she asked with a voice like the wind. “Yeah. That’s what I heard.” “I’ve heard a different story,” she said. Meh-ree. “I heard that one day, the young couple who used to come here got great news. That they discovered that they were going to become parents. And the girl—the mother to be—was so excited to tell her beau. She thought they could start to think of names together.” Meh-ree. “But the boy wasn't excited. He didn’t want to think of names. In fact, for no reason the girl could understand, he was furious. And in a flash of rage, he put his hands on her. Dug his fingers into her throat and squeezed the life out of her and the child in her belly. And only when she stopped screaming, stopped squirming did he realize what he’d done. And he shook her, tried to wake her up by calling her name.” Mary. Mary? “Over and over. Until the birds remembered. That’s the story I heard,” the woman said. She looked down at me and let her hand fall from her throat. Her skin was raw underneath and I suddenly notiecd that there was blood pooled in the corner of her eyes. I jumped back in my silk cotton throne and my hand bumped over something hard on the forest floor. Something I hadn’t noticed before. A little button of white poking out, like marble rising from the earth.
Still Warm
edibletwin
The first time Maia finds the window cracked open, she blames the spare key. It’s a trivial matter, all things considered. The kitchen window, which jams and needs a specific upward jiggle to open, is propped two inches with the fork that she and Cheryl used on warm afternoons. Maia hadn’t touched that window since March, and it’s now the middle of September. The cool breeze brings the smell of wet concrete and a cigarette from three floors down. Still, it feels nice to have the breeze. Maia stands in the middle of the room with her arms crossed, doing the math on who still has a key. Cheryl, obviously. She moved out six months ago, taking with her a few boxes, the good blender, and a rehearsed line: “I think we both know this isn't working.” Maybe she practiced in front of a mirror or had a friend play Maia's part. She had left in the kind of hurry that leaves things behind—like a phone charger, a book, and her favorite hoodie. She never asked for any of it back because that would mean a conversation, and by then, neither wanted to talk. So, Cheryl comes by while Maia's at work and cracks a window out of some muscle-memory tenderness and a touch of guilt. It's a reminder of a life Maia otherwise walked away from. Almost sweet, if you squint. Maia squints. She leaves the window as she found it and doesn't mention it to anyone. After all, mentioning it would show she's still thinking about Cheryl in September, and she has told everyone, over and over, that she has moved on. Then, a few weeks later, there’s the plant. The pothos on the kitchen counter isn’t dead. It should be. Maia hasn't given it a clean look lately. She's watched it turn crisp and yellow at the edges anyway, from the corner of her eye. It’s a strange feeling, knowing what it needs but not being able to provide it. The soil is dark and damp. A few brown leaves sit pinched cleanly at the stem. Not fallen; specifically pinched, like Cheryl used to do. She’d roll the dead leaves between her fingers before dropping them in the compost bin. Maia always rolled her eyes at that. She texts Cheryl that night, deletes it. After texting a shorter version, she deletes that too. Finally, she sends: did you come by the apartment today The reply takes six hours, which by their old metrics means Cheryl debated it: no? why no reason, Maia writes back, just wondered if you left something. She hates herself a little for the lie. But she hates even more that some old reflex in her still checks, twice, to see if Cheryl's typing. # By October, she can't call it coincidence anymore. It's the dishes that finally make her stop pretending otherwise. She comes home from a long closing shift at the office to a clean sink. Not simply rinsed. Done, the way Cheryl used to do it. Big pots washed by hand and left tilted to dry. Everything else ran through, even if it was just Maia's mug and bowl. Cheryl had always said running it half-empty was wasteful, and Maia would say fine, whatever, and did it anyway when it was her turn. Maia touches the mug. Still warm. She checks the clock. 11:18. She has no memory of coming home, no memory of standing at the sink. This has happened three days in a row. She starts avoiding the kitchen. She drifts through the space—bedroom to bathroom to door—like someone avoiding a hidden hole in the floor. Work blazer still on, she stands by the sink. For the first time since the boxes went out the door, she really looks at the place. The candle on the shelf, burned to a different height than she remembers, its wick dark. The blanket on the arm of the couch, folded instead of thrown. The window, again, cracked its two inches, the fork holding it just so. "I think we both know this isn't working," Cheryl had said. Maia had spent seven months furious at the presumption of "we both," as though Cheryl got to decide what Maia knew. She lowers herself onto the kitchen floor. Her blazer wrinkles beneath her. For a while, she listens to the refrigerator hum. She finally lets herself ask the real question. No more excuses or explanations. Not "Is someone coming in here?" Something smaller. More frightening. When did I last see her do these things, versus when did I last do them myself and not remember doing them? Has she watered the pothos this week? She genuinely doesn't know. She's been sleepwalking through evenings the way you sleepwalk through a familiar hallway. Not seeing it, simply trusting your feet. She tries to remember not washing the dishes, but she can't. All she has is a feeling, an assumption. The same kind of assumption that told her the window opened itself. She checks her phone's screen-time log. It shows a forty-minute gap from 11:40 to 12:20 last night. Her phone lay untouched on the nightstand, a stark reminder of her mostly solitary life now. No memory of those forty minutes at all. She went to bed angry after talking to her mother. When she woke up, her socked feet felt cold, as if she’d been standing on tile. She thinks back to the night before. She remembers going into the kitchen in the dark, feeling for the switch, the tile shocking-cold under her bare feet. When the light came on, everything had looked ordinary—tiles just tiles, window shut tight, though she had no memory of closing it. For a moment, she wonders whether she had been standing there last night, barefoot in the dark, doing something she cannot remember. Then she sees the pothos. One of its leaves has been turned toward the window. # She doesn’t mention any of this for another week. It feels impossible to explain without sounding like she’s unraveling. Instead, she starts keeping track of the little things. Not because she expects to catch someone. She just wants proof that her own hands belong to her. On Thursday, she decides to cook. The decision feels disproportionately important. She makes pasta for one, the water hissing over the edge of the pot. She reaches into the cabinet for a plate. Then, her hand keeps going and pulls out a second plate. It’s blue, with a chip in the rim. This is Cheryl's plate, the one she wouldn’t throw away. The cabinet door swings gently behind her. As she holds the second plate, something in her chest cracks open, like the window did in September. It lets the cold air in and shows her the true shape of the room she’s been living in. She looks at the two plates. Then at the two forks. Then at the empty chair opposite hers. It isn't Cheryl coming back to tend an apartment she left. Maia has been setting the table for two. She thinks of all the evenings she has spent eating standing up, or over the sink, or straight from the pot. And yet somehow there has always been enough room for another person. She sets the second plate down on the counter and stares. The fork beside it is already there. # Maia doesn't fix it all at once. The next evening, she takes one plate from the cabinet. She eats at the table. It feels strange enough that she almost laughs. For months, she has been waiting for the apartment to become hers again. She had imagined this would happen through some decisive gesture: throwing things away, repainting the walls, changing the locks. Instead, the first thing she changes is much smaller—she stops reaching for a second plate. Not every time. But often enough to notice. She lets the pothos dry out a bit on purpose. It’s not neglect; she wants to make a choice about watering it. An act dated, hers, not some ambient echo filling gaps she'd left unattended. She waters it every Sunday. Then, she writes the date on a sticky note under the pot. It's a messy little record of a life that, slowly but surely, is becoming hers. The first Sunday, she writes the date in careful block letters. The second Sunday, she forgets and has to check her calendar. The third, she waters it before she remembers why. She doesn't notice the moment it stops being a decision. That's simply how Sunday goes now. The window she leaves cracked, in the end. Not because anyone's still opening it. She enjoys the two inches of fresh air, the smell of wet concrete, and someone else's cigarette. It proves there's a city out there that doesn’t know or care about this arrangement ending. Some nights, she stands by it with her tea. She still checks the fork. It stays where she put it. She tells herself this is what she wanted: the apartment quiet, the window open, no one coming home but her. And yet, some nights, when she wakes without knowing why, she finds her feet on the cold kitchen tiles. She doesn't always remember getting there. She stands by the window until the cold reaches her ankles. Then she goes back to bed.
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