The zip of the bag opening was deafening in the spacious, echoey room. I cracked the zipper open and peered into the cavernous interior. A neat row of envelopes of different sizes and colors was tucked snugly into the main compartment. They seemed to be organized into three separate clusters, each held together by thin rubber bands of different colors.

‘This might be it,’ I thought to myself, running a finger along the tops of the envelopes, trying to decide where to begin, which envelope to tear into first.

I decided to move from left to right. That way, I could easily remember how to put everything back so no one would notice anyone had been rummaging through this stash of… well, I was going to find out.

I plucked one white envelope out. It was creased and going a bit limp, as if it had been opened multiple times. Inside was—jackpot—a small bundle of cash. It was foreign currency, but that wasn’t a problem. The nearest forex was a ten minute walk from our place.

Rifling through the rest of the envelopes, I saw that this must have been all the cash leftover from his travels across the globe. Currencies I didn’t even know the names for.

“This could work.” I muttered under my breath despite the empty room.

I couldn’t be greedy, though. Not when I had no idea how often he opened up this bag. It was dusty and covered in lint when I found it, but I couldn’t make assumptions.

I took out a few bills from the envelope with the US dollars—the currency whose exchange rate I was most familiar with. Carefully, I repositioned it in its slot in the bag, making sure it was exactly where I left it—same stack, same rubber band.

Just after closing the zipper, I heard footsteps outside, getting closer. There was no place I could go without being suspicious—I had no real reason to be in there. I spotted the massive gap underneath their enormous bed and slipped under it as the doorknob turned. It was cool yet dusty under there—a familiar place. We hadn’t been allowed to lock our bedroom doors when we were young, so I used to hide here when I wanted to be alone.

I was totally invisible.

🔗

Growing up in our house, we were taught to be invisible.

When we were kids, whenever we accidentally left something—anything—outside our rooms, we would never see it again. My mom would confiscate whatever it was and, once she had it, it was gone forever.

It would always be our fault: we weren't supposed to leave traces of ourselves anywhere except our own rooms. We were taught to clear the dining table after every meal so that it looked as if it had not been used since the beginning of time. As if we had never existed.

The only one allowed to exist was my father. Our house wasn't really our house—it was His house. And He was only one allowed to break these unbreakable rules.

Our family, despite my usage of the word "family," was not in any sense familial except on paper. Hierarchy reigned: children answered to mom; wife answered to Husband. There was no sense of "dad"—he didn't exist. The man residing in his body was two-dimensional: he was either Provider or Master. Even in his absence, his memory haunted the house, covering it like a shroud that provided no warmth.

Consequently, our family never fostered closeness—just the illusion of it. Our house was a house of disconnected strangers sharing a last name. Our living room, always elegantly furnished and decorated, was a hotel lobby: springy pillows, enormous coffee table books, table sculptures, expensive paintings, and crystal chandeliers. No family photographs, no accoutrements of personality or traces of any character other than Wealthy. That was how He preferred it to be: a place of visitation, not residence.

🔗

My father, the rageful lord, scowled the moment he saw a lone toy on the carpet, forgotten or overlooked by one of my siblings. Even if it had been mine, I would never admit to it. Not even decades later. Years of adulthood have passed and yet my physiology still carries remnants of fear carried along from childhood. This paternal fear was a residual organ. It sat coiled in my breast, right beside my heart, like an iron serpent unable to slither away.

As soon as we’d heard my father’s car horn blast outside the house, we had hurriedly tidied up all evidence of our existence. But sometimes we made mistakes. Sometimes, our playful, childlike natures would venture out into our confined little world, daring us to forget the book of rules stamped into our heads. Daring us to be the very things we were—children.

But, as my mom always said, never take dares. And never make mistakes. It was a straightforward rule, but one without much explanation or nuance.

My brother paid a lot for that forgotten toy. Corporal punishment, apparently, was fit for every crime—even the petty misdemeanors. The question was did he really deserve it?

He’d been dumb enough to talk back, to call out our father for his hypocrisy. He mentioned the plates and the double standards. For that, he got smacked. Once, twice, five times with the belt on his bare buttocks. Fake leather, not real—he wasn’t worth ruining a perfectly good Saint Laurent.

My sister and I were huddled under the covers in the master bedroom, witnesses to the brutality. She was sobbing, but I was smirking. Thinking. ‘Better him than me.’

In a small coastal town, nestled between towering cliffs and the crashing waves of the sea, there lived an old fisherman named Samuel. Samuel was known for his captivating storytelling, and every evening, the locals would gather around him, eager to hear his tales of the sea and its mysteries.

One stormy night, as the rain poured down and the wind howled outside, the villagers sought refuge in the warmth of Samuel’s humble cottage. Sensing their anticipation, Samuel decided to share a particularly enchanting story, one that had been passed down through generations.

He began with a twinkle in his eye, setting the stage for the tale that was about to unfold. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a young sailor named Thomas who embarked on a perilous journey across the vast ocean.”

As Samuel spoke, the villagers were transported to a different time and place, as if they were sailing alongside Thomas on his treacherous voyage. They listened intently as Samuel described the fierce storms, the towering waves, and the moments of despair that Thomas faced.

But within this inner story, there was another layer, a frame story that provided context and depth to Thomas’ journey. Samuel paused, looking around at the captivated audience, before continuing, “You see, my friends, Thomas’ journey was not just a physical one. It was a metaphor for the challenges we all face in life.”

Intrigued, the villagers leaned in closer, eager to unravel the layers of meaning within Samuel’s tale. He wove together the threads of the outer and inner story, drawing parallels between Thomas’ voyage and the struggles and triumphs of their own lives.

As Samuel’s story reached its climax, the villagers felt a profound connection to the characters and their journeys. They saw themselves reflected in the challenges, the moments of doubt, and the eventual triumphs. The frame story had provided a context that enriched their understanding and allowed them to find personal meaning within the narrative.

As the story came to an end, the villagers sat in silence, their hearts filled with a newfound sense of inspiration and reflection. Samuel’s storytelling had transported them on a journey of self-discovery, reminding them of the resilience and courage that lay within.

With gratitude, the villagers bid Samuel farewell, their minds buzzing with the echoes of his tale. They carried the lessons of the frame story with them, finding solace and strength in the knowledge that their own journeys were part of a larger narrative, one that intertwined with the stories of those around them.

And so, Samuel’s storytelling continued to weave its magic, connecting the villagers through the power of narrative. Through the frame story, he had not only entertained but also touched their souls, leaving an indelible mark on their lives and reminding them of the timeless power of storytelling.

walking through the hall, my eyes fell on a piece of art, a piece of art trapped by a frame, a frame keeping it away from the cruel world, and then i noticed that the art my eyes saw was not that of any kind, it was one showing more than just meaning, it was one that made me feel something, feel the hollowness the grief the sadness the mischief and the damage was already done, the damage was already there, and the soul was already gone, yet no body was aware, and now there was no going back,

my eyes fell on a lifeless corpse, my eyes refused to look not once but twice, because every look sent thoughts of vice, ones of which i do not want a slice,

my eyes fell on the frame again what could possibly answer their question why? what could possibly be a good reason to lie? what could possible defy the reason of being? what could possible change what those eyes are seeing?

those eyes sought anguish of which no words can explain, anguish lying in the restlessness of being alive but in pain, alive in a matter that is just yphysical existence yet you remain, you remain in a world that is not thankful for you

and the frame was not one of a canvas board, it was one of those reflectors of our outer selves, it was a mirror reflecting a piece of art,

Shovel in my hand Diggin up this land to put you in Thought you got away with it But you definitely didn’t I saw the pictures I saw the texts You’re fucking around with the Blair witch But she don’t know….I’m that bitch Malice in your head Not one care, you just wanna take her to bed All this is a parasocial relationship I thought you were loyal but that was a lie Hogtied in the ground That’s where you’ll be bound til the day you wither away and die

“I was listening.” I lie, although it’s obvious I didn’t hear a word she said. How could I? The thoughts of everyone around us are flickering through my mind. It’s like turning a page in a book except the book is a different one every second and you have no clue what’s happening because you never get past the first page.

“What did I say?” She asks.

Ha, got me. “Okay, I’m sorry. Tell me again.”

She rolls her eyes and starts to talk again. “So, the cashier at that store we just left was looking at me weird, so I said “What?” and he said ——“

I stop listening to her, not by choice, but because of the thoughts of someone else’s’. Almost like they’re speaking to directly. It’s never happened this way before.

“So, I rung this girl up and she had an attitude with me. She said “What?” and I was like “What?” Then she rolled her eyes and —“

I can’t listen to the both of them at once. Their words mush together and give me brain fog. It makes it feel like I’ve worked a 24 hour shift and haven’t slept in three days.

“Cassian? Are you not listening?” Mary asks.

“Me?”

“What?”

“Then she had the nerve to throw the money—“

“Sorry, I am.”

“You are what?”

“What?”

Mary groans and crosses her arms. I want to apologize but I just can’t.

“So the guy handed me my change, but purposely dropped it so I had to pick it up. I was furious.”

“Did this girl not learn “treat others how you want to he treated”? Because, personally, I stick by that. And—“

“Just know that I don’t take rude well.”

This is my final straw. I can’t take it anymore. “Okay! Bye!” I shout before running away.

Connie hated museums. So you can imagine her disappointment when she found out her parents had paid for her to go on the museum trip with her school.

The museum was made up of several areas, history was one, science another, and it also housed an art gallery with some of the most intriguing pieces created by unknown artists.

Connie had no interest in art, nobody in her class did, they all wanted to see Rexy and his skeletal friends. Connie didn’t want to follow the crowd, so she decided although it would be boring, she would hang out in the gallery. At least for a while.

Whilst in the gallery Connie found a painting she found rather curious. It was a small girl sitting alone on a rock, with black tears streaming down her face. Connie leaned in closer.

Tægan was six when she was stolen from her parents by the fae. They’d demanded respect from the humans, but nobody listened, nobody cared. So they took their daughter. At first they planned to kill the girl, then they wanted to keep her as a slave. But one thought of a crueller fate.

Using magick torn from the dark ether that surrounds us all, one Fae a Prince named Obsidian cursed Tægan to spend her days trapped within the confines of a painting. As the years went by the girl didn’t age, but the ether continued to leak from her every pore more and more each year.

As Connie looked deeper into the ether, she found herself looking out to the gallery and at Tægan who now possessed her body. And she would continue to do so until her body failed as all bodies of flesh do.

“Did I ever tell you the story of—“ Aunt Theresa said.

My belly tighten. It was the big game day. I was lugging my trays of pretzel bites and sweet mustard to the already crowded dining room table. Rose rolled her eyes at my store bought offering. I gave her a fuck off raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, Auntie Terry, we know, we know. Lil hand me those friggin’ napkins,” Rose said.

I shoved a towering stack of red Silos at Rose and tucked my pretzel trays between the caesar salad and the pigs in a blanket. With her third wine glass, Aunt Theresa circled the table of snacks hungrily. She nudged the foiled covered tray of deviled eggs. Mom materialized from the kitchen with a steaming crockpot of meatballs. Basil and garlic, the dining room steamed and grew spicy. Mom glared at Aunt Theresa who snatched away her fingers from the foil.

“The story of when Nina and I, remember Nina, that time we went to Gimbal’s—“ Aunt Theresa said.

“Terry, God, again with with the story. Rose who left those friggin’ napkins in the middle of the table,” Mom said.

Mom hoisted the crockpot in pride of place over the middle of the crowded table. Cousin Gigi’s ambrosia protested. Rose shifted desserts aside. I grabbed up the napkins and Aunt Evelyn’s crudités.

"Mom, Mom, there’s no room in the middle. Mom, let’s set up a the card table or something in the corner by the plugs, Mom,” I said.

“Went to Gimbal’s to get slips and we’re chatting away, we’re just chatting,” Theresa said flapping her hands around.

"Terry, we know, we know. Somebody move that potato salad. This crockpot is heavy,” Mom said.

Rose dived under the table to plug in the crockpot into one of the Christmas extension cords snaking beneath the dining table. Arms wide balancing Aunt Theresa’s supermarket potato salad on one hand and the crudités on the other. I asked Mom what do I with the food with the shrugging my shoulders.

"We’re just chatting away about the slips, the silks and the satins, when I realized I’m talking to my own reflection.” Aunt Theresa wheezed out laughter. Wiping her moist hands on her apron, Mom sighed and took Aunt Theresa’s potato salad.

"Set that vegetable tray on the coffee table and nobody wants this shit.” Mom headed back to the kitchen to bury the potato salad in the back of the fridge.

Cheers erupted from the living room as the game begins. The sounds of my brothers wrestling bounced around the house. Rose emerged from beneath the table. “Mommy!” One of her kids screamed. “Sammy!” Rose shouted back. Rose headed out. Benji ran in grabbing a handful of pretzel bites and stuffed them into his mouth. I paddled his bottom as he giggled away. Aunt Theresa freed a deviled egg from the tin foil. She smiled around that first bite. We shared a smile and I headed into the living room with the baby carrots.

"My own reflection and me talking away. I had the best time,” Aunt Theresa said to the tray of eggs.

It was 8:30pm at sunrise camp for girls and they were at the campfire waiting to be told a story.

The three girls from bayside middle school named Natalie, Rihanna, and Addison were about to whiteness a story no one had heard before

The story started and the girls figured out that it wasn’t a scary story. But a story of adventure. The girls didn’t get why it wasn’t a scary story, the girls were at a campfire. But they started to listen anyway.

In the world of Azalea a girl named Cordelia was at her usual hangout when she saw a sign that said 3000 coins for the winner Cordelia asked Hattie at the front desk what it was

“that’s a competition for one of those around the world of Azalea tours with games and puzzles and the paper said the Winner will get to see something more magical than our own town.” Hattie answered.

"Thanks Hattie see you tomorrow." I yelled as I ran out of the hangout.....

“Tell it again, Grandpa! Please tell us!”

The children gathered at their grandfather’s feet as he sat in his rocking chair. He had just finished telling them the tale of the adventures of his youth. They, in disbelief needed to hear it in its entirety once more to truly understand the magnitude of it.

He heaved a great sigh, but with a twinkle in his eye, scooped his youngest granddaughter on his lap and began to tell his tale once more.

“I was still a young chap, barely twenty one years of age. My father had just passed away and my mother was too distraught to be living on her own. I decided to move back into the home of my childhood. It had been a few years since I had stayed there, and I rediscovered many things about my younger self that I had since forgotten.

The spring after my father passed, my mother decided that she wanted to deep clean the house and get rid of anything that we had no need for. She wouldn’t let me touch her various knick knacks downstairs, but as she was too feeble to climb the steep stairs, she allowed me to sort through our things that had been stored in the attic for many a year.

So one fine Saturday afternoon, as I was not working, I decided to climb up into the attic and see what ancient relics I could dig out and discover. Little did I know, I would be discovering something far beyond the capabilities of my mind to grasp… but it would lead me on an adventure, one of the best kinds.

Danger at ever turn, a beautiful woman to guide me on my way, I even fought a little here and there as I went along.

Anyways, I’m getting ahead of myself…I was cleaning up the attic and you would never believe what I had found. It was a beautiful-“

“Kids! It’s time to go!” Their mother called out to them.

A chorus of groans sounded out from among them.

“But Grandpa was just getting to the good stuff.” Whined the little girl still sitting on his lap, crossing her arms in a pout. She had seen him fingering something in his pocket and he had just been about to draw it out when her mother interrupted them. A brief flash of something shiny was all she saw before it was tucked back into the recesses of his big jacket.

“Well, you’ll just have to come back soon to hear it. It’s almost your bed time young lady, so we need to get going.” Her mother picked her up off of his lap and held her in her arms. “Tell Grandpa bye.”

“Goodbye Grandpa.” Came the chorus once more. One by one they filed out to the car, already asking when they could come back again.

One sided anything’s don’t work Not balance not relationships. Definitely not boxes. Contingency plans, honesty, morals All no gos. The way you raise your children. The way you spend your love. Try and do any of these activities alone You are a scrub a selfish bottom feeder keeping your babies from god knows what. Do them with a partner you are a spineless coward who can’t stand on your own.
I’ve tried these ways and then some. Ground down my very soul to earn my blood family’s love. Gave up every bit of personal happiness for my boys love. Lived with a communist family of hippies for any hint of love Which by the way is not a dirty word Neither communist or love To me it just means loving each other, sharing whatever resources you have. Who wants to live with the vain selfish version of ourselves anyway. And if you push me to a less personal more social answer I’d answer you with only this. Not allowing the already rich to get richer when they are stepping over people quite literally dying on the streets. But then I guess that’s me being one sided.