For a moment, nobody spoke. The only sound in the room was the whistle of the wind through the cracked window panes. Then the dancer Nahara recognised from the ballet – Masahiko – stepped forwards.

‘Not that I haven’t enjoyed your company, but I rather think Miss Enfield and I ought to be leaving.’

‘Excuse me?’ Nahara spluttered. ‘On what authority—’

‘First come, first served,’ the dancer said simply, ‘I got to Miss Enfield first, ergo, I keep her.’

Nahara felt an unfamiliar emotion bubbling through her veins. Anger.

‘How dare you speak of Nigella like she’s an object to be kept at your beck and call!’

The Snake – Selander – cocked a curious eyebrow. ‘Nigella?’

Nahara shoved him aside, stooping, despite the pain in her side where Masahiko’s knife had grazed her, to where Nigella lay.

‘On my oath,’ she said, kneeling with her fist clenched over her heart, ‘you will not harm Nigella Enfield.’

‘Enfield!’ Selander exclaimed. ‘Of course! Why didn’t I see it before?’ When everyone turned to look at him, he turned rather sheepish. ‘Um, never mind. Carry on.’

‘Your morals are … inconvenient,’ Masahiko sighed, ‘are you sure I can’t persuade you to let me finish kidnapping her?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Nahara said, affronted.

A sudden clap split their argument, as Oswin, the smudge of a boy skulking behind Selander stepped forwards to sign.

Nahara was shocked to see he was speaking to Masahiko and not her. But the dancer was unable to decipher Oswin’s hand motions.

‘What’s he saying?’ he asked Selander. ‘I don’t speak mime.’

Selander’s eyes narrowed. ‘He wants to know what you want with her.’

Masahiko shrugged, the motion unnaturally fluid. ‘Why should I tell you?’

‘Does it have anything to do with the fact that she can, oh, I don’t know, turn into a massive red rage-monster?’ Selander said lightly, but his eyes were dark with suspicion.

‘If you must know, I accidently witnessed her … serum administration a couple of nights ago and thought she might be of some use.’

Nahara blanched. ‘To what end?’

Masahiko folded his arms over his chest. ‘It’s personal.’

‘Alright,’ Selander held up his scaly palms, ‘why don’t we take a moment to calm ourselves? Clearly, Miss Enfield is more popular than we all assumed.’

‘Then I was right,’ Nahara scoffed, ‘you have a stake in her too.’

‘I’m not sure I’d phrase it quite like that,’ Selander winced, ‘but given … recent events, yes. I can see how she could be valuable.’

‘No,’ Nahara snapped, ‘she is not to be bargained over.’

‘Says someone already doing the bargaining,’ Masahiko drawled, pointing his toes in his ballet slippers.

‘That’s lieutenant to you!’ Nahara retorted, as Masahiko stuck out his tongue at her.

Then Nigella groaned, stirring as if waking, and everyone fell silent. When her eyes remained closed, Nahara slipped her army-issued jacket off and draped it over the sleeping girl’s frame.

‘I propose a truce,’ Selander said eventually, ‘Oswin and I take Miss Enfield,’ he raised a hand to cut off their protests, ‘and let you come and visit us tomorrow?’

‘And why the hell would we let you do that?’ Masahiko wondered.

‘Because I’m the only one who knows how to cure her manifestation,’ Selander said.

"How difficult is it to understand 'upscale casual?'"

I looked down at my flip flops. I shrugged. "My $90 blouse isn't upscale enough for you?" I said, "Look. Look! It sparkles." I spun around for the full effect.

Tilda pursed her lips. "Is that blouse upscale enough...for you?"

I deflated. "Touché."

"Quick, help me serve the hors d'oeuvres," said Tilda. "You know Mr. Johnston gets hostile when he's hungry."

Tilda handed me a silver platter. I played along and held my hands out to grab it. The platter went clattering to the floor. What little vocal ambiance existed before, vanished. Fifteen pairs of eyes scanned the mess we'd just created. Tilda cloaked her embarrassment with what she called her "party laugh" and mimed "confidence" to her guests.

"Don't mind me!” Tilda squawked. “LOL right? Chaos IRL, right? Right?!" Beads of sweat cropped up on her forehead. No party laughter returned to Tilda. She pulled at her collar and cleared her throat. "Jk...l m n o p..."

Still silence.

"Yeah um..." Tilda coughed, "The food will be ready soon."

The party guests returned to their conversations.

Tilda pressed her hands to her cheeks in hopes of pacifying her mortification. "Yeesh," she whispered in my direction. "I keep forgetting you're imaginary."

"Aren't you in your late thirties?"

Tilda's lour was sharp enough to cut through my schadenfreude. "And?" she asked.

I grit my teeth. "And... that's...that's a fun age."

"Uh huh. Now, make yourself useful, HM. Get this party going while I finish cleaning up."

It was my turn to purse my lips. "Sure," I said, after a long silence. "That sounds like the kind of thing I'd be good at."

With eyes glued to the carpet, Tilda waved a vague acknowledgement in my direction. She cursed under her breath as she picked cream cheese from both the carpet and her fingernails.

"Socialize, socialize," I thought, pacing. "I'm just an imaginary friend, chatting up not-so-imaginary authors. It's fine, I'm fine. This is normal. I am a-ok."

After fifteen minutes of holding up bunny ears behind a highly-esteemed science fiction author, boredom consumed me. I glanced at my maker. Where were those freakin hors d'oeuvres?

Tilda was twirling a lock hair and guffawing at, what I assumed to be a dull joke.

"Huh, NBD," I said.

"What's that, Carey?" asked Mr. Johnston.

"What, what?" said Carey. "I didn't say anything."

"Yes. Yes you did."

"No. No I did not."

"Ridiculous much?" I snorted before cringing at my own obnoxiousness.

Mr. Johnston reared back his head. He resembled a spooked marmot. "Did you just call me ridiculous?"

The one known as Carey gasped, choking on their pinot noir. I patted them on the back. They seemed not to notice. In between labored breaths, Carey said, "I wasn't before, bub, but I certainly am NOW!"

According to Tilda, I am not a skilled enough writer to capture what happened next. I'll put it this way - Mr. Johnston's going to need an experienced dentist.

Tilda ended the party earlier than planned. My chronic introversion breathed a sigh of relief.

Once the last guest was gone, Tilda took a seat next to me on the couch.

"Whatcha writin'?"

"Tonight's events," I said. "See?"

And then I typed this sentence so that Tilda could see. Tilda saw.

"You haven't started another story with a quote, have you?" she yawned. "I'm really not in the mood to argue with you tonight."

"Then don't."

"I won't."

Tilda and I exchanged smug glances.

"Any idea what got Mr. Johnston to argue with Carey? I mean, Carey's such a sweetheart."

"Sweetheart? Carey decked that chump."

"Yeah, out of self-defense. Seriously, HM," Tilda pushed. "What started the fight?"

"Idk irl," I said. I stuck out my tongue.

When Tilda left, a sinister grin enveloped my features. I continued typing on my keyboard.

"Tonight I've learned that authors can hear imaginary people," I wrote. "I shall now dedicate myself to being a more...'communal' inciting action."

He glances at me from across the coffee shop. He is sitting alone with his laptop with an iced americano on his left side. At first I think that I’m seeing things. But then he does it again. I look away quickly.

Minutes later he gets up from the table and my heart begins to slam in my chest. He grabs his coffee and closes his laptop. As he gathers his things I can’t help but trail my eyes down his figure. He is wearing charcoal jeans and white Nike shoes.

His white t-shirt hugs his body, flattering his figure. Before I can thoroughly study his face, he begins to walk in my direction. The blood drains from my face. Is he walking towards me? I instantly begin to come up with a list excuses in order to avoid speaking with such a perfect human being.

I don’t want a boyfriend. The lump in my throat grows bigger as he approaches my table. My palms begin to sweat. I look down at my laptop and type out whatever comes to mind on my empty word document. ‘Look busy’ I think to myself.

“akdjcudkgmgldk” I study my handiwork.

Nice.

I can hear his footsteps thundering in my ears. Panic sets in. I’m not ready for marriage. I’m not even sure I want kids. I can’t do the roommate thing again.

I need to get it together. I should at least say hi. Then I can explain to him that I am not ready to date. Yeah, that’s perfect. I take a deep breath and slowly raise my head. We make eye contact, very brief eye contact. As I smile at him and begin to open my mouth to speak, he moves his eyes from mine and looks past me. His smile grows.

“Hey Hannah” he says. Behind me I hear a girl respond with a small ‘hey’. I sit there glued to my seat, my cheeks red from embarrassment. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Hannah. Of course he was.

I hang my head as my hands float over my keyboard. My shoulder begins to shake with silent laughter. I release a quick sigh and lift my head. I begin to type.

“Fml” it read.

Fml indeed.

“NO!!!” The scream tore from his throat before he could stop himself. Those steady hands in front of him froze, still holding the wires that could be their death… or worse… expulsion.

“What?” Ayla whispered, her eyes startled, annoyed and confused all at once. One eyebrow raised in a gesture he knew to be her equivalent of any actual facial expression.

“Red crosses blue…” He trailed off. She simply stared at him rather than finishing the memorization technique. “…makes it go boom!” He finished. In the training room, standing behind plastic shields, he felt sure that because the practice bomb couldn’t kill him, his partner would.

“Red crosses blue…” She spoke as though lecturing a child. “…makes a friend for you.” She began to move the wires once more and once more he yelled.

“NO! I–uh… I mean…” Her glare could rival Medusa’s but he felt sure about this. “Are you sure? I can clearly remember Mr.Howard saying it was dangerous to cross the two.”

“And I clearly remember him saying it was the proper way to defuse the device.”

“We are remembering this very differently.”

“Yes, we are.” She gave a wicked grin as she crossed the wires of the plastic explosive.

Your mother and I sat in plastic, neon green chairs in the empty preschool room as your speech therapist shuffled through chart-filled printouts. A rainbow of plastic beads hung from her neck, matching her tap-tap-tapping fingernails. She sighed, and looked up at us, throwing on a bright smile.

“Well, there is good news. Azel has indeed shown some improvement,” she said in a chirpy tone. “She is starting to improve with sight words, especially when it comes to animals.”

“That is great,” your mother said.

“However,” your speech therapist said. “She is still showing signs of severe speech disorders. When combining this with your teacher’s reports of her extremely short attention span, I think it may be a good idea to have her tested.”

“Tested for what?” I said in a tone more defensive than was needed.

Your speech therapist sighed, all the perkiness and positivity in her voice dissipating in a flash.

“A number of things. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Dyslexia. Possibly autism. Mr. Dawson, the truth is that no one in Azel’s class can understand her, and she can’t understand them. There’s a disconnect we are struggling to understand,” she said.

I stood up and walked to the window. I heard your mother and speech therapist talk behind me, but it all melted into a din I had no tolerance for. I walked to the paint station, where portraits of dinosaurs and dolls and doggies dried on clothespins. In the middle of them was a painting that was a crude, smudged painting of a figure with bright blue wings, an angel, hovering over many green triangles, a mountain range. You know the painting. You paint it every chance you get. It has gotten better with age. When you first started painting it, it was merely scribbles. Now, it’s as if I could feel the mountain air, hear the flapping of your wings.

I walked over to the window, where I could see the children play on the playground. They played on the wings, the slide, the monkey bars. I tried to hide so you couldn’t see me, but you wouldn’t anyway. You were, as I predicted, at the edge of the recess yard, looking up at the swaying pine trees with your arms stretched. Above, imposing rose and charcoal clouds hung, blending both beauty and storm into the world. They swirled and rose and fell. They danced while being still.

No children were near you, but that wouldn’t be a surprise to you. Your fingers fidgeted as if you were typing something or playing some foreign musical instrument. Your mark, a snow-white spiral covering the entirety of your left leg, popped before your olive-shaded skin and went back and forth as you swayed. You smiled as you were in your own world, as if you were immersed in a serenade. As if this world’s bared teeth of procedure and process wasn’t chomping at the bits to get you. As if this world deserved you.

A primordial sorrow drowned my heart as I watched you in your joy.

We drove the long way home so you can see the pond. The two fake sawn that swayed in the center never failed to make you chuckle.

“Dey reeree dending beh birdasa,” you said, laughing.

“What’s that, honey?” your mother asked.

“Dey predned to beh birdasas,” you said.

There was silence in the car as we both tried to translate what you were trying to say.

“Honey, try to say it slower,” I said.

You growled in frustration. Your eyes creased with anger. I saw in the rear-view mirror your hands morphed into fists.

“I said,” you said, so much louder now. Nearly a screech. “Dey prepend to beh birdasas.”

“They’re pretending to be birds,” your mother said, as if she solved a puzzle, a puzzle of which the excitement of solving has long passed.

“Yes,” I said. “They’re pretending.”

“No,” you said, now in an angry fit. “Birdasas! Birdasas!”

Your mother and I were quiet, both more worry-stricken than angry at the outburst. We were petrified. Not because of any diagnoses, not because of anything any teacher could say or do. But we both knew the life that was ahead for you. Well, the life that we thought was ahead for you.

I watched the traffic lines on the road zip by like far-off comets, from celestial heaven that no one here bothered to consider. And I thought back to that night that will forever burn in my memory.

One moment I was watching the low-spinning ceiling fan blades cast shadows on the bedroom ceiling, watching my eyelids sink, and in another moment, I was a world away. I stood upon a tall, jagged mountain top, where bare, twisted jade trees spiraled toward an eggshell sky. The air was warm, despite puffs of cold breeze dancing in the endless, open air, as if they were isolated orbs of winter breeze in a spring evening. I looked over to see your mother was with me, and I smiled. My best dreams are ones with her in it. And that’s all it was, a dream, obviously. Yet something inside, right from the start, told me it wasn’t just a dream. It felt as real as everyday life, real as my own memories.

Your mother looked confused, almost frightened. I felt almost at peace. We reached for each other and I squeezed her hand.

We realized, then, that we weren’t alone. Looking out at an endless sea of green, mountainous peaks, stood a tall man, robes in flowing emerald silk. He had cerulean wings larger than any wings of any bird. His skin was the shade of yours. He turned to face us, and a white spiral was over his face.

“You two are about to find a little girl,” he said in a deep, serene voice. “Her name will be Azelreigh, and she will not be of your world, yet be raised in it. Instead, she is from here, from Yaladan. Do your best to help her retain her identity. Do your best to raise her. Now, go find her amongst the grass.”

Then, we woke up simultaneously, jolting out of bed at the sound of thunder, and we sprinted down the stairs. I couldn’t help but thinking, “Did we really just share a dream? Are we really running for the same reason?”

Yet, sure enough, in the middle of a thunderstorm, we heard your wails from the back yard. You were laid bare, not even a blanket to cover you. I took off my worn band shirt and swaddled you. Yet, still, understandably, you screamed.

Your name never left our heads, Azelreigh. Welcome to the world. Welcome to our world, at least. We did our best to help you make it yours too. How good of a job we did, only you could say.

As an infant, you cried and laughed and stared at the luminescence of the nursery’s warm lamp in wonder. Your eyes were the colors of the cosmos, and we wondered at the spiral on your leg. We both agreed at it was the mark of a Yaladanian god, perhaps their god of thunder, who used a majestic wrench, not a hammer. It couldn’t be just a birthmark. Your quickly blossoming temper was the fire of the Yaladanian god of war, whose eyes burned with the coals of battle when he didn’t get his own way. Your babbling quickly evolved into your own language, obviously Yaladanish. When you were sick, it was because your body didn’t like the food or the germs or the air of this place. When you fell and chipped your front tooth, sending wails into the air for hours, it was because the gravity of our world is different than yours. You were a product of your own world.

Despite all this, it was us three, and we were as happy as could be. Stressed, tired, irritated, and overwhelmed. But, happy.

Then, the neighbor kids would try to play with you and you didn’t understand their games, and they didn’t understand your unique way of talking. It would cause fights, and we would try to be as objective as possible. After all, we could hardly understand you too.

The rolling of your “r’s,” the extra syllables. The long streams of babababa and renarenarenarena and tutututu. We would be pushed to tears trying to understand you sometimes.

I could only imagine how you felt. It would push anybody to frustration, to anger, to hitting. And that’s what it did to you. I remember carrying you back to the house, your skin cherry-red in pure rage. The neighbor girl was screaming in her father’s arms. A shard of stick lay in the middle of the cul-de-sac. We didn’t like that neighborhood, anyway.

Yet you did find some solaces. Some that most of these people wouldn’t be able to find. You found the quiet that was left in the world amongst the trees. Animals didn’t seem afraid of you. Frogs and squirrels and even deer wouldn’t run, but they would simply coincide, co-exist with you.

You were a painter. You absolutely loved to paint. It was beyond those of Yaladan, too. You painted foxes and cats and cacti, and your parents. You baked cookies with your mom. You watched old sci-fi movies with your dad. We would rip off the covers from the beds and we would chase each other like ghosts, wailing down the hall of our different homes we found ourselves in for various reasons. You liked rainbows and clouds. Everything has to be rainbows and clouds. You didn’t have a single monochrome item in your wardrobe. By five had had your hair dyed a spectrum of colors. You screeched with joy at the sight of it.

Talking just didn’t work well for us. We didn’t know your language yet, despite our trying. It all seems to change, like it was a living, breathing, evolving language. You didn’t like ours, I feel. I sense it was too lumpy, crude for you. But we didn’t really need words.

You were happiest in thunderstorms, when the clouds were closest to the world.

I remember the day when you came home and said you hated your name. I told you Azelreigh was a beautiful name. You said you only wanted to be called Azel. You said maybe the kids would stop laughing and teasing you. So, Azel it was.

And that was the first of the compromises. We lost “reigh” and didn’t look back. But it didn’t work. The kids still made fun of you every chance they had. They would call you “A-a-Azel.” They would call you an alien. They would call you a freak.

You wanted to dye your hair brown then.

Then you changed your outfit to simple, yet accepted clothes.

You became obsessed with fixing your speech. You became fixated with it. And it worked. Soon enough, you were speaking in clear, almost eloquent, sentences. The speech therapist did her damn job.

But something, it seemed, was starting to fade, the more you became like them. A harsh, raw, wild light in your eye was fading into something found in school yearbook photos. It was still beautiful, but they were taking something from you, and we both saw it.

So, we watched the forecast. We saw a doozy of a storm was coming. We pulled you out of school, and we went up to the nearby Mount Weld, not high by Yaladan standards, but high for suburban Midwest Americana. And we all stood there as the rain covered us, and the thunder and the lightning danced with us. You closed your eyes, and you smiled, but you were also crying. You tried to pretend you weren’t, but you were.

We took a step back to watch you, we could see the rain beading off your invisible wings, that you were even hiding from yourself, and we had our own mourning, because we knew that they, those down there amongst the cul-de-sacs and bake sales, would never see the winged, spectral beauty, that was my daughter. They would only see an “other,” but for what we had, and what we could do, all our energy would be to fight their compromising ultimatums and find where you could fly.

he said she looked pretty today she just thought he was making fun of her

he was staring at her in awe but she just thought he was judging her

he tried to talk to her but she just thought he was trying to use her

he tried texting her she just thought it was a prank

she ignored him

but one day she decided to not ignore him

but he just thought she was making fun of him

Obviously he had never been in her position before; there was no need to be. He had obviously not gone through the challenges that she had, otherwise he would be more empathetic.

Yet he had gone through those challenges, urged to bury his feelings like a man and told to never cry in front of anyone. He became more hostile as he grew, not only to others, but to himself.

She was depressed; diagnosed. It wasn’t like he suffered the same way she did. He couldn’t possibly understand, so why was he so angry about this?

He wasn’t. He was hurt that the person he loved most would fall this hard. He felt guilty- like he couldn’t have done anything to help. It was all his fault. His rage wasn’t directed at her, it was towards himself. She wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it’s like to bottle your feelings up so hard that you feel numb. She had wealth, a therapist, and a loving family. What could she possibly know?

They were both in the same boat. Who was right? That’s not up to me to decide. I don’t usually get involved in family matters, but here I am. I need to make a decision. That decision determines whether or not they will burn for quite a while. It’s really not a time consuming, or difficult to decide for that matter, but these two are really starting to piss me off. You die and come into MY home, stay in limbo under MY roof and now you expect me to sit here and delay my decision while you two bicker.

At least after thinking it over, my conclusion is easier to choose.

“I gave a bath to my dog wearing a hoodie.”

“That’s crazy. Did you even see her dress?”

“She was undressed.”

“Your dog Rose?”

“No, she stayed where she was. Oh, my mom said on Thursday she would give me my allowance.”

“So will you have it Wednesday, because the fish is ready to eat.”

“Why would I feed a fish?”

“No, the, never mind. We have to see my family.”

“Visiting family can be boring.”

“They sure can be…”

She held on for dear life. Looking at him, as he looked down on her; but not at her. Past her to the crashing waves of the blue sea below. His brown eyes appearing almost Honey, in the light fading from the sun setting beyond us. What should she do? How could this person, who said they loved me, do this to me? The idea of us long gone after I found out what I needed to know.. “Was it ever really Love?” Jayde asked Jeremiah. The look of fright in his eyes was answer enough. She couldn’t even look at him anymore. In disgust she looked away from him and stared at the waves roaring with life below. It didn’t matter anyway.. With that last thought she let go and began her escape into the deep sea. With each finger free from his, she envisioned her heart strings slowly releasing from his; as a whisper would from a shy mouth. His cries echoing above as she fell and was enveloped into the blue waters. A fool for Love. Feeling unloved. Lost adrift an unloving sea..

The man on the mountain was having a peaceful day when a pickaxe stabbed his beard.

“Do you mind! Good sir, I am trying to mediate!” He scolded the climber.

“I am so sorry! I didn’t see you there.” The climber stood before the man on the mountain and bowed slightly. “I come seeking wisdom.”

With a sigh, the man on the mountain stroked his beard like a cat. “Wisdom in what?”

“I fear my wife is cheating on me.”

“Most people cheat because they’re paying more attention to what they’re missing rather than what they have.” Came a wise reply.

The climber frowned through his goggles. “Okay… I’ll see if that works.”

The man of the mountain started, “Wait! That’s not what I meant. Oh. He’s gone.”

Some time and a lot of beard stroking later, the man on the mountain was meditating when a grappling hook caught on his beard and gave it an almighty pull.

“OUCH!” The man on the mountain screamed as the climber from before appeared again.

“Oh, heh. Sorry about that. But your advise from before didn’t work.” The climber said, detangling beard from the hook.

“What advice?” The man of the mountain grunted, consoling his poor tatty beard.

“About buying lots of stuff.”

“I said nothing of the sort.” Came a sniff.

“You did! Make her pay attention to what she has! So I bought a boat, and a car, and a hamster-“ the climber ticked off his fingers.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“But we have too much stuff now. What’s your wisdom?”

The man on the mountain gave a sigh. “Giving is a miracle that can transform the heaviest of hearts.”

The climber frowned again. “Okay.”

The man on the mountain was brushing his beard one tranquil day, when a rope latched onto the handle and yanked it from his hand, taking some beard with it, and sending it right off the cliff.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

“Terribly sorry, sir.” A woman was climbing up the cliff, and she held out the brush to him sheepishly.

The man of the mountain snatched it back, consoling his traumatised beard again.

“I come seeking wisdom.”

“Of course you do.”

“My husband has become a serial killer that donates hearts to hospitals.”

The man on the mountain gave the woman a long look. “Is he about yey high? Wears bronze goggles? Has a grappling hook?”

“How do you know?”

“Wisdom. And horrendous beard nightmares.” He sighed. “I’d better go down this mountain to deal with him.”

“Yes, I think that would be wise.” The woman smiled.