I’m often told that death is just another part of life. Another fragment, another puzzle piece, another brick in the wall. “You can’t escape it!” they yell. “You can’t hide from death!” they shriek.

I rest in the graveyard, gazing at her tombstone, those hateful, disgusting words carved in a rock slab, meant to label and describe her forever. The people yell and claw at the gate behind me, spitting poisonous words and eroding insults. “Murderer! Monster! Manipulator!” really? Maniac. Morbid. Morose. really? Killer. Killer. Killer. KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER! REALLY?!

here lies a murderer her hands stained with blood and bad decisions we hope she rots in hell

How could you wish such a thing on a person? A person who was a sister, a wife, a mother? How could you bury her against her wishes, and then not even use her name on the label?

I understand why, now. Those things behind the gates of the cemetery, their contorting faces yelling vile sentiments, and I understand why. I want to kill them all.

But if I do, I will doom myself to the misery that she is in. I wonder, what will they put on my tombstone?

here lies a killer and from the start we all knew that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree

the stars are falling or am i falling spinning swirling swimming the blood pooling on my mother’s grave and i want to tell her i want to tell her! i stuck by her when everyone hated hated hated hated hated hated i sat on her grave until a man came through the gate and put a knife through my heart

isn’t that what she is condemned for? he will be a hero for killing a demon and i will be the demon for killing a hero just like she was

he gave me death full of spite and vengeance but i love him for it because now i will join my mother even if we rot in hell together

quarter-to-four and the rain had already started. of course, it was merely a light sprinkle, but the forecast this morning said that it would only begin around five o’clock, and by then i had planned to be on the four-thirty train out of this hellhole. the wind picked up, and i almost lost my hat several times as i marched down the streets of new york city towards grand central station. i watched as people around me desperately ducked inside stores or frantically pulled umbrellas out of their bags as the rain started to pour heavier. unluckily for me, i had to be at grand central by four-twenty the latest, and according to my gps, i had to keep walking or else i wouldn’t make it. oh, also, i had no umbrella. soon the rain became so strong, it felt like little stings as the drops hit my face, and i was entirely soaked through. i thanked the heavens that i had a waterproof case, otherwise i’d probably have to spend an extra two hours in this city, and that was not something i was willing to do. cursing under my breath, pushing against the wind, i trudged on through miniature rivers and colossal puddles on the sidewalk. 10 more minutes. by now almost all pedestrians were nowhere to be seen, except for this one tall guy up ahead. he had this white-and-blue checkered umbrella, and he was just standing in the middle of the sidewalk and staring at the puddles, or maybe there was something on the ground. i don’t know, what did i care? i had somewhere to be. right before i passed where he was standing, a car zoomed by and splashed me with muddy road water. god, how i hated life. “hey, want to stand under my umbrella a little?” i barely realized he was talking, and it took me a minute to register what he had said. “there’s enough space for both of us.” i shook my head. “i have to be at grand central for the four-thirty train to poughkeepsie. i can’t just stand around.” he paused, checked his watch, and then said “i can walk you there, it’s only ten minutes away.” i said nothing. and so we walked to grand central, this stranger and i, stark opposites. he was tall, six foot something, with blue eyes and sandy hair. i was short, five foot, with dark eyes and even darker hair. also, he was completely dry, while i was sopping wet. the ten minutes passed in silence, as we made our way to the station. and when we got there, he just walked away, and i barely had time to say thank you.

—

it was around three-thirty when i decided to go on a walk, what with being cooped up all day. i checked my forecast; rain shouldn’t have started till five, but i took my umbrella anyways, just in case. i walked down the street, with nowhere specific to be, just to stretch my legs. at three-forty-five it started to rain, but i liked to feel the little sprinkle on my cheeks and the wind on my back. of course, when it picked up, i had no other choice but to open my umbrella, because i was wearing my favorite wool sweater, which i didn’t want to get wet. a shame though. i would’ve loved a nice walk in the pouring rain. i stopped at my favorite dip in the sidewalk. i loved it there because when it was raining, a big puddle formed and the pitter-patter of the drops hitting the water sounded like a melancholy whisper, or a song, one that i could never hope to understand. gosh, how i loved life! that’s when i saw her; a yellow taxi drove through the puddle and the water splashed all over her. it didn’t really matter though, because she was already really wet. she was clutching her phone as she walked with determination through the streets. i took pity, she looked so angry. i walked her to grand central station, not that it probably helped, because she was already soaking, but it was the least i could do. she kept on grumbling about being late, something about needing to get on the four-thirty train. i couldn’t help but think how funny it was that we should bump into each other here in new york. i mean, of all the places she could be, she was in new york at that very moment! how special, how amazing it was to be alive! after she went into the station, i wandered off, dreams of life and glorious things filling my head.

——

LOLOLOL have y’all watched miraculous 🐞🐈‍⬛ this lowkey reminded me of that

what color is your soul? well, if you were to take into account the whole i think you’d think you’re out of your mind or swishing your brain in a goldfish bowl i guess your capacity is that of a mole.

what hue are you? well, it’s definitely more than two because your spirit’s color is not singular, rather, a mash of them, hundreds, it’s true! tens and thousands, purple, red, green, blue.

have you heard this before? i’ve seen it a couple times, maybe more that youre a mosaic of the people you’ve met and it’s not something you can ignore “so is it true?” you implore

yes!

love, huh?

what a funny thing. the fact that you can enjoy the presence of something or someone to such an amount is.. interesting.

unrequited.

what’s the opinion on that?

look at the sun. she’s so _beautiful! _she’s so _bright! _how could you live without her?

i’m sure the moon agrees. look at him, he shines because of her. he glows because of her. look, he rotates around her, even if it’s indirectly.

oh! oh! oh!

the pain! oh!

the sun doesn’t even know the moon exists!

the moon lives because of the sun, but if he were to be careless, she would kill him.

love, huh?

unrequited, whole, love.

the flower still blooms, though.

through the reflection of the sun’s carelessness, through the love of the moon, it flourishes. the petals are shiny and smooth and beautiful.

and this flower, this flower is true unconditional love.

because, the moons knows nothing will be returned.

but still!

he loves her

sometimes i wonder if we’ve been lied to and the sky is really just a giant painting and that plane isn’t actually moving it’s simply pinned up there, tiny, and the people are little stick figures and if i could fly i would soar higher and higher, until my hands grazed the sky and it’d be a giant watercolor canvas.

they say that you’re more spiritually open when you’re in a state between sleep and wakefulness. they say that if you are careless enough, if you’re in a place that allows.. other things, then you just might be visited by someone you didn’t invite.

is what they say true? are these tales, passed orally from person to person, generation to generation, something to be really wary of?

you have to be careful. you have to be strong in your consciousness, in your heart and soul. if you are weak, if you are not sure in your mind that you will not open any doors to anything, then you could be expecting some guests.

so please, if you can, resist the urge to sleep. and if you do, if you have to, then be sure to do it quickly.

no matter what you do, under any circumstances, do not stay in the hazy and open state that can rob you of your dreams.

(this is a companion to my other story “peeling potatoes.” you can still understand this story if you haven’t read the other one.)

this was an absolute disaster. the house was a mess, the dinner was half ready, and the rain was pounding down on the roof of my little cottage relentlessly. oh, and another thing i forgot to add: my neighbor could be here any minute. i didn’t want to, i really, really didn’t. but in the end, i was forced to resort to my spellbook. what else was i supposed to do? flipping through the pages to the C chapter, i ran through all the possible risks in my head. my new and only neighbor was very much human, one of the kinds that absolutely denied any existence of magic. (from my experience, these are the kind that have heart attacks upon finding out) if he so much as had a glimpse into the truth of my house, a big chance is he’d die from the shock. _why is the Q section so long?! why did i even invite him over?! _ _ _passing through the Ws, i considered a weather spell. not a chance. finally, C! cats, cars, capes, curtains, classes, classics, countries, counting, cooking, crying, company, complacency, compliments, complaints, cords, clout, communication. where was cleaning? i was not going to use magic for cooking, because if anything, magic is most detectable by taste. i leafed through the Cs again, and a third time, and a fourth, until i was so angry i might as well have been the color of a tomato. until i thought that maybe i had written it under a different title. i started flipping backwards through the book: Xs, Zs, Ls, Ks, Js, Hs, Gs, Fs, Ds, Ss, As, Ps, Os, Is, Us, Ys, Ts- there it was! tidying!

_the most effective tidying spell, beware of quantity of skin- excessive portions create unnatural amounts of dust. LEATHER IS NOT A WORKING SUBSTITUTE FOR SKIN. _ _ _ _ ingredients: _ _ - owl feather (peacock works too) _ _ - 2-3 inches of skin (must be mammal) _ _ - woode (i have found, strangely, that a wooden cube works best) _ _ - sock _ _ - lint _

_ instructions: _ _ - burn in fireplace, state places needed to be cleaned, recite: cleane, tidy, home o’ mine_

after performing the spell, i ran into the kitchen. i had decided on soup the day earlier, and the recipe was taped to the fridge. i was grabbing the carrots from the fridge when it caught my eye; the piece of paper from a few weeks ago. a white notebook page, ripped out from my new spellbook, with a big word in bold at the top: trees. i still couldn’t get that blasted spell to work. it made me angry every time i looked at it; i was so close. alas, it escaped from me every time. i was cutting carrots when the doorbell rang.i almost opened the door before i remembered in a panic that the house was still cleaning itself. i snapped my fingers, and then opened the door.

  ~

“have a seat, the soup is almost ready.” “ooo, i love soup!” he said, taking his hat off and putting it on his lap. “i hope it wasn’t hard getting here in this weather,” i said, “i really didn’t think it would rain today!” “nonsense, it’s only a ten minute walk to your house. besides, i checked the forecast, i was prepared.” we sat and ate in silence. “so.. what made you decide to move here?” “well, i’ve always lived in the city before this. being an artist, it does have its inspirations, but often can be loud and gray and sometimes depressing. i decided i needed a change of scenery; what better place for artistic freedom than a forest with one neighbor who lives in a sweet little house?” “that’s a good reason,” i say, though i really could never see myself moving just to have a better place to paint. “it’s nice here, you’ll like it.“ “i already do; although getting groceries can be a pain”

~

it was dark out, and the rain had stopped. “so, tell me a bit about yourself. what do you do for a living?” i was prepared for this question. i couldn’t say witch, obviously, so therefore i had to come up with a substitute. “i grow herbs and specialty plants, and then sell them in the market every weekend. in the winter, i preserve and pickle things and sell those too.” “you make a living just by selling herbs?” “they’re very rare,” i say nervously. “i see.” silence. then, after a minute, “is it lonely? with no family, no friends? no sound of cars or music or people talking?” “i mean.. i guess it would be, if i was used to that. i kind of like the silence, and the peace of knowing i’m alone.it does get lonely, especially after my relatives are done visiting for the holidays, but i manage. some nights i stay inside and read a book, and some i lay silently on the grass and listen to the trees argue.” he laughs. “what do you mean, ‘argue’”? shit, i messed up. i’ve never considered myself an awkward person, but maybe that’s because i haven’t been around people much. “you know.. sometimes when you’re around something you appreciate, it’s like you can hear it talk. like.. like it has a mind of its own.” he smiles and nods. “yeah, i get that.” and all of a sudden, a comfortable, warm feeling sprouts in my chest.

my wings help me soar my wings keep me up but my wings can be a burden my wings are gorgeous my wings are dazzling but my wings can be unappealing

the wing called george george is bouncy and powerful george is colorful, never dull george is heavy and finnicky george is unstable and easy to sprain

the wing called chris chris is strong and reliable chris is fun and easy, flowy chris is hard to read chris is picky & wants its own way

the wing called ken ken is cute and sweet ken is unique and gorgeous ken is a trouble to fly with ken is distant and dragged out

the wing called tom tom is funny and witty tom is smart and strong tom is not present a lot tom is easy to snap to the angry side

the wing called nat nat is light and caring nat is true and intelligent nat is easy to lecture you nat is forgetful and traditional

i love you george i love you chris i love you ken i love you tom i love you nat

a wound

opening

gaping

bleeding

help!!

it’s

b l e e d i n g

and i cry. and i weep. and my tears form pools by my knees, and if you tried, you could slip.

and i don’t notice

your presence

also bleeding

you poor thing!

your heart is so wounded!

and so i sew it up

stitches that heal

and next time i sob,

you hold me

and

the scars on our hearts

are there

they are deep

but together,

they are no longer bleeding wounds

“she is made entirely of flaws, stitched together by good intentions.”

my heels click, click, clack on the floor as i show my possible buyer the new model.

“her fingers, 5 on each hand, are greed, sloth, pride, envy, and gluttony, while her wrists are lust and wrath. her chest and hips are manipulative, and her waist is ill-tempered. her feet are stubborn, her calves inconsiderate, her thighs jealous. her arms are disloyal, and she has humorless eyes, a conceited nose, and belittling mouth. her hair is pure arrogance.”

“and why,” my client asks, “would i want such a model? why would i want a model with only flaws?”

“because, the value is in the stitching, my friend. we use threads of pure intention, good intention, loving intention, to name a few.

“let me think on it,” he says, and walks slowly through the halls, observing the models we have on display.

i glance up at the flawed model. truly, it’s a feat of engineering. to use such contradicting elements was tough work, and we had almost given up. such a marvel, i think to myself.

but as i look in the mirror, the sinking feeling plummets through my insides. the same one that happens every time i show this particular model. because when i gaze into my reflection on the glass, all i see are fingers & wrists made of the 7 deadly sins. i see ill-tempered, jealous, and disloyal body parts. i see that my auburn hair is really pure arrogance, and my cherry red lips are belittling.

because when i look at this model, all i can see is an image of myself.