A perfect freckled face.

Each speckle intricately placed.

A cute structured jaw.

Chiseled to leave me in awe.

A handsome soft grin.

To get lost for hours in.

A nice enchanting voice

Drew me near without a choice.

A witty humor shined.

Causing laughter every time.

But, OH! NO MORE! I cried,

Like the sky the day you died.

I looked to the pictures, sweet,

But, all I did was weep.

In my mind, the memories played,

But I wished your soul had stayed.

You, indeed, were gone too soon.

Before I confessed my love for you.

For just one more hug I wish,

And, if possible, a kiss.

Why’d I watch from off afar?

Now, I wonder where you are.

You, yourself were such a light.

Dancing through my dreams at night.

Since you left this dreary earth,

I have questioned my own worth.

I did not want you to go.

Why you left us, I don’t know.

Just one certain fact I’ve got;

I awakened. You did not.

“Good Morning, Majesty,” a thin, nasally voice sang out loudly above the swooshing sound of heavy velvet curtains being thrown open. There was a wetness behind his voice. Had I been breathing through my own nose, I would have no doubt been choked by the disease that rolled off his festering tongue and filled the chamber air like a poisonous fog. Oh, Gods. My own nose. I wasn’t breathing through my own nose. And what had he called me? Majesty. I told myself to remain calm even as I felt my pulse, his pulse, begin to gallop beneath the suddenly too-thick fabric of my sleeping garments.

Something must have gone hideously wrong. And now I was stuck in this body. A man’s body. I held in the urge to wretch as I listened to the clicking sound of heeled boots swiftly closing in on me.

The solid weight of a metal serving tray being set down at the bed’s end prompted me to open my eyes. The manservant who had spoken before was there as well, bustling around the tray making soft clinks as he opened and closed fanciful little porcelain jars of sugar and milk. His hands trembled slightly as he made my cup of tea, but not out of fear of being in the presence of a King.

At least, some of my senses had remained intact; my initial assessment of him had been correct. He was a squat man of at least forty with a pinched wrinkling face and stringy hair the color of dishwater that had been artfully combed across his prematurely balding head. But, it wasn’t his aging rat-like appearance that told me of his failing health. No, it was the waxy pallor of his yellowing skin and the dark violet smudges beneath his shrewd eyes that told me he would be dead in less than six months’ time. I absentmindedly wondered if I should tell him as he handed me the little cup, keeping his head bowed, still not daring to meet my gaze. The fragrant spiced tea was no doubt made to King Sephiron’s exact liking. My liking now, I supposed.

“Not this morning. I’ll take coffee,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, holding up a palm. Impressively, I’d managed not to wince at the deep booming quality of my new voice.

He looked up then, a confused expression further deepening the lines across his brow.

“Coffee, sire? You never take coffee.”

I pursed my lips, considering if I had already made a grave error that might’ve given me away.

“Do not question your king,” I commanded sternly, willing as much authority into my voice as possible. Though, it wasn’t hard considering the powerful timbre that sharpened this body’s voice like a blade.

The servant dipped his head low again, quickly gathering up the offending tray without another word of protest. He must have known better, then. I hadn’t taken King Sephiron to be a cruel master but… one never knew what happened behind closed doors.

“Milk and sugar, as well,” I called after him with feigned laziness.

I only let myself truly relax back into the luxurious pile of fluffed pillows once he had made his way out of the massive set of golden double doors that led into the hall.

I supposed I could handle being King for another day. Though, I desperately needed to figure out exactly what had gone wrong on my coven’s side of things. I had jumped into King Sephiron’s body yesterday, as a last-ditch effort to defeat the evasive, nomadic coven of witches who had been trying to steal our power. The Elemaeti. But, I was only supposed to stay in this body for a day...just long enough to sign an order for the King’s army to launch an Elemaeti witch hunt, then back into my own body by nightfall.

I’d been chosen because I was the Silverblood coven’s second-in-command. Our High Priestess had volunteered but... I’d known she needed to stay behind to lead our people. It was a sacrifice I’d willingly made, although, considering the position I currently found myself in, it was hard not to wonder if I would’ve chosen differently.

I stared up at the intricate floral weave of the heavily tasseled canopy that hung above my massive bed as I tried to think through my situation. King Sephiron was unwed, which was good. No nagging wife to deal with. I didn’t even want to think about how long I could actually keep up the charade with a woman riding my new white-leopard coattails. A woman would notice a thing like this, any sudden shift in behavior or mannerisms and it would be over for me.

Men, though, courtiers and the sniveling lesser royals only concerned with themselves and their place in the kingdom’s hierarchy? Well, they could be easily deceived. I highly doubted they’d thought about anything other than themselves for some time now, much less deigned to pay attention to the King’s little quirks.

I’d done my research on the King’s closest confidants well enough that I knew all the important names and faces before I’d gone on this godsforsaken mission. Never go in without a back-up plan, I’d learned that over my nine hundred years on this planet. That’s what distinguished the mortals from immortals, and it made sense well enough. Mortals didn’t have much time on this earth and sometimes going into a situation without a way out was the best option simply because it was the quickest.

Witches though, we had time. Time to plot, and plan, and run through scenarios backward and forwards without caring much about the passage of years or even decades if it took that long to ensure that our plan was successful. And this mission had taken that. Decades, I mean. Ever since the Elemaeti coven had discovered how to diminish our true source of power. Once we had discovered that, well the plotting and planning began. It didn’t really matter which King we jumped into, only that the King had to have enough power over the lands at the time that our plot could be enacted. King Sephiron had just happened to be perfect. A tall, fairly handsome man of twenty-seven, beloved by all, and the ruler of the Tri-Continental Arosian Empire with no surviving family to speak of? The Gods couldn’t have given us a better opportunity if we’d crafted it ourselves.

The root of the Elemaeti’s treachery against us could ultimately be boiled down to jealousy. A human emotion to be sure. Witches like myself, the Silverbloods, were born witches. Witches that had inherent power flowing through our veins from birth that increased with our years and only further strengthened by the lingering traces of our buried ancestor’s magick that still flowed through the lands of our holy grounds.

Witches of my kind rarely died though, usually only after many millennia. And, to kill one of our own is considered the highest of offenses. Not to mention the hideous curse that would surely ensue from such a killing. None of my kind had ever attempted such a thing, but we found out the consequences the first time an Elemaeti dared to tempt fate.

To kill my kind meant death, but not one’s own death. No, it meant the death of everyone and everything around you that was ever unlucky enough to receive your touch. Eventually, the witches who had tried died of starvation, but not before half of the Elemaeti coven had been wiped out. Funny, to think we had believed that might be the end of their persecution of us. Alas, their all too human nature took hold of them and jealousy once again prevailed.

The Elemaeti couldn’t stand that we natural-borns held so much power over them, so they eventually discovered another route of attack. Straight through our ancestors, actually. The Elemaeti are technically siphoners, not at all like real Silverblooded witches. Lecherous, parasitic little humans who have found out how to skim power from the lands through our ancestor’s magick mixed with a little bit of their basic elemental spellcasting.

Pathetic really, and no match for the depth and breadth of our powers. That is until they’d figured out how to diminish our magick without getting that nasty little curse laid upon them. As it turns out, even with our natural-born powers, we still owed a lot more to our ancestors than we had originally thought and digging up and destroying their bodies was just the trick to cutting our powers right to the quick. Which then made them hard to attack, and even harder to kill.

Being a relatively new coven, by comparison, they had no lands to call home, meaning no set place we could strike as they do us. Elemaeti are nomadic, always on the move, always slithering about in the shadows. We had tried to stop them, to ward the holy grounds of our ancestral burial sites, but... by the time we had figured out what they were doing, they had already stolen enough of our magick to break through every barrier we’d tried to put in place. Some rumors have claimed the Elemaeti even eat the ashes of our kind to grow their magick.

Sickening. But, as much as I didn’t want to believe it, even I, of nine hundred years, could feel the power fleeing from my blood as the days slipped past. Subtly, at first, yes, but over the years it became difficult to even perform the most basic of spells, such as human possession. A spell that I could once perform alone with a few candles and the right words had taken what was left our entire coven’s magick pooled together.

Despicable. Still, we did have the advantage of long lives. Though, I didn’t see how that mattered much now if we couldn’t even pull off a simple plan such as this. Another body must have been stolen from our lands. It was the only thing I could think of that would diminish our magick to the point that my soul couldn’t have even been retrieved by my coven. Damn them. And now, Gods save me, I was stuck in a man’s body. In my lifetime, I’d never had much interest in interacting with any human, let alone human men. Dealing with them was mainly considered to be a necessary evil. Usually only done to produce witchling’s but...I’d left that burden for the others in my coven to shoulder. Witchling’s were always female, so, to further the bloodline and keep our numbers strong, human men were sometimes needed. I’d always considered them weak, though. Stupid and self-serving, they were easy prey even for human women, who I consider only to be an infinitesimal step above.

A creak of the door alerted me to the servant’s presence again. The bitter nutty aroma of coffee wafted through the room and I sat up a bit straighter as I waited for the clattering tray to arrive. Once more, the man ascended the dais my bed stood on and began preparing the coffee. I desperately needed time alone to think though, so I stopped him short.

“Leave it,” I commanded with a wave of my burly fingers.

He stopped and straightened his shiny blue waistcoat before sketching a low bow. To my endless frustration though, he apparently hadn’t gotten the hint. He just continued to stand there at the foot of my bed, eyes downcast, twisting his fat meaty hands around in tight nervous circles before him.

I bent forward a bit to grasp one of the thick silver handles of the tray and slid it beside me.

“What is it?”

A bead of sweat rolled down his face, “Th- the war council would like to meet at once t-th-this morning, sire,” he said sheepishly.

I wondered again if King Sephiron was fond of corporal punishment. By the looks of his sweaty bumbling manservant, I would have to assume so.

“After I take my coffee, I will meet with them,” I said dismissively as I glanced around the tray, not bothering to watch as he quickly scurried from the room.

It was absolutely loaded with artfully arranged piles of glistening fruit tarts, sweet biscuits covered in powdered sugar, salted meats, cheeses, and thick hunks of bread already coated with butter and various jams. I put a palm on my belly. It was no wonder the King was carrying around a few extra pounds if he was eating like this every day. I pushed past the rich foods and found the steaming pot of coffee, pouring it into a delicately painted cup before adding two sugars and a splash of milk. I closed my eyes, allowing the rich smell to fill my nostrils before pressing my lips to the golden rim of the porcelain mug. Delicious.

Magick was not the only thing my coven had needed to pool together for our plan. It had also taken an exorbitant amount of money. Mainly to hire round-the-clock guards to protect our burial grounds but... I could see that clearly hadn’t worked out either. Never let a human do a witch’s job.

I hadn’t been treated to anything this luxurious in the countless years it had taken for this plan to finally commence. So, I decided to live a little and let myself enjoy the sweet coffee and warmth of the extravagant feather-topped mattress a little while longer before finally swinging my legs out of the heavy layers of blankets piled atop me.

I wriggled my toes on the plush Persian rug beneath me before stepping down from the bed’s platform to survey the room. I hadn’t taken particular notice of this body yesterday as it was meant to be temporary, but... Gods, my feet were enormous!

I’d jumped into the King during one of his frequent late-afternoon catnaps in the sprawling parlor room, so I hadn’t had the chance to see his bedchamber either. It had only been lit by a few beams of soft flickering candlelight when I’d finally gone to sleep last night.

Red and gold seemed to be the prevailing theme of his chambers. Blood red, I noted with nothing short of sheer delight. The color of Elemaeti blood, human blood. I supposed King Sephiron and I may have more in common than I’d thought.

The walls were set with elaborate gold-trimmed inlay panels that held swirling labyrinths of lacy flowers that wrapped around the central royal crest in a delicate embrace. Art was also dotted sporadically around the room, mostly arrangements of oil paintings depicting the many generations of King Sephiron’s royal predecessors either locked in battle on killing fields or perched atop grand bejeweled thrones. The artist who had painted them had made them look so realistic, so lifelike, I had to take a step closer and blink a bit to ensure they hadn’t blinked back.

Despite the painstaking attention to detail that had been paid on the walls, the bed seemed to be meant as the obvious focal point of the immaculate room. I had to do a double-take to confirm that it was actually, in fact, the only piece of furniture on this side of the chamber. How odd, there wasn’t even a nightstand. I supposed the bed, was enough though. It was a mahogany-stained monstrosity set atop a two-step platform, complete with intricate carvings of vicious-looking beasts, some real and some imagined, decorating its headboard and four rotund posts. The thing could’ve fit five bodies across it easily.

Though the chamber was clearly palatial, it also felt overwhelmingly... bare and impersonal somehow. There was a distinct lack of personality to the space; there were no trinkets or books, or stray boots cast aside anywhere. It almost seemed as if this were a guest room in the castle and not the King’s private quarters, despite the imperial bed.

I tried to step as softly as I could manage across the creaky parquet floor as I rounded the bed to get a glimpse of what lay on the other side of the chamber. Although I knew I was alone in this room, I also knew that a King was never truly alone either. The servants, or whomever else liked spying on the King, would no doubt be listening even now. King Sephiron must have known it as well as I. Which would explain the lack of, well...everything.

Lesser royals were always vying for the throne in the shadows, any bit of personal information could potentially be used as leverage or blackmail. Best not to have any at all, then. Still, I wasn’t quite finished with my snooping yet. He may have the cunning to outsmart his enemies, but his enemies weren’t witches. If there was something to find here, I would find it. Any extra facts I could gather about the King would help make this act believable. Though I still highly doubted anyone would ever suspect the King was currently being possessed, I didn’t like taking chances.

Outside, beyond the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the far wall, the creeping orange fingers of sunrise were just breaking across the shedding hedges that lined the perimeter of the palace’s lush gardens. Several servants were already moving about, pushing wide long-handled brooms across the cobblestones of the many weaving pathways, diligently clearing away the dead foliage even as it continued to fall to the earth in steady waves. It seemed a futile act, but I mentally tucked the observation away. The King was a perfectionist, got it.

I turned my attention back to the right side of the chamber. Along the windows, in one corner of the room, sat an imposing desk with another menagerie of beasts carefully carved into the front and sides, a perfect match to the bed. In the opposite corner sat a grand piano of a pretty pearly-white hue, gleaming faintly in the morning light. No visible dust across the keys... a lover of the arts then, too. Another set of tall golden double doors stood proudly between the two… a dressing or bathing room perhaps. Feeling uncomfortable beneath the male gaze of my servants, I’d undressed myself last night. So, I hadn’t gotten the chance to see the King’s other private rooms. Still not wanting to alert any prying ears to my movements, I ignored the temptation of finding out what was behind them and crept towards the desk.

An unused quill sat beside a little clay pot of black ink and a fresh sheath of thick creamy parchment. I flicked through the stack quickly. Nothing, every page was blank. I rounded the desk and perched atop the squat leather stool that sat beneath it as I rifled around the drawers. Replacement quills, a hefty velvet-lined box of pricey cigars from the Southern continent, extra nibs, four sealed pots of ink, more blank paper, the royal stamp seal, an ancient-looking cigar cutter, a full box of matches, and a bundle of blood-red wax held together by a thin piece of twine.

When I tried the third drawer, however, it wouldn’t budge. I pulled on the curved edge of the cupped handle as hard as I could, to no avail. Locked, then. I doubted a desk as splendid as this would have warped drawers. What are you hiding Sephiron? I stooped down to face the drawer at eye-level, looking for any signs of a keyhole when… yes, there.

Barely visible beneath the handle was a small notch in the wood. I grasped it with the tip of my fingernail and pried. A small circle of wood popped off easily, clicking softly as it hit the floor.

The lock looked far too intricate to attempt to pick and… Damn this body! I wished more than anything I’d had my magick back. Now I would actually have to find the blasted key. I focused on channeling my frustration into a deadly calm. Think, think, think.

I thought of all the places I would hide a thing like that. Close. A witch would keep it close. Most likely on her at all times. Hidden, of course, but always on her. A human woman might put it in the floorboards or in some hidden compartment beneath the bed or piano. He may be cunning, but...he was still a man. Yes, he was still a man, and men don’t like to waste time looking for things. A man would keep it close as well, but... not in the same way a witch would. No, he would keep it here, close to the drawer. Hidden in plain sight.

I immediately thought of the cigar cutter, made of rusting iron and old chipped wood. Far too simple an object to belong to a King. Unless it had some sentimental value, which, by the cold minimalist style of the decor in his chamber, I doubted. No, he was not a sentimental man and it was the one thing that was out of place here. It had to contain the key. I fished it back out of the drawer and held it up to my ear as I gave it a little shake. A sly smile leeched across my mouth as I heard the dull rattle of metal hitting against hollow wood. I looked at the thing again, a bit closer this time, feeling for any tale-tell niche in the handle and pulled until I felt wood separate from metal and a delicate key dropped into my hungry palm.

The drawer was stuffed to the brim with folded-up letters and boring royal decrees. I sorted through them quickly looking for any pertinent information. A stained letter with a crumpled black seal near the bottom caught my eye… The Elemaeti seal, I would’ve known it anywhere. They’d sent our coven many, mostly threatening, letters over the years, taunting us about our inevitable defeat. I couldn’t wait to get my hands around that Elemaeti bitch of a High Priestess’s neck. A chill of pleasure from the thought ran down my spine, but I quickly brushed it away, remembering the task at hand and began to read.

“To His Honorable Majesty The Reigning King Sephiron of The Tri-Continental Arosian Empire,

The Elemaeti Coven of the Capital Continent, Lillistad, implore his Majesty to provide aid in fighting the Silverblood scourge that threatens to poach from us our magick that is widely used across this Great Continent for healing purposes and crop growth. If our magick were to be stolen from us, it is our great fear that many of your Empire would suffer immensely. The Silverblood coven is selfish and has never wished to bestow gifts on humankind as we have. In fact, as it is our coven’s primary mission to help others, our destruction would surely mean certain death for many helpless citizens across your Empire. As a hunted coven, we are forced to live in exile as a nomadic people. We do not stay in one place for long out of fear of persecution by the Silverbloods. We beg of your Majesty to respond posthaste to help us prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring. We can be reached at the Felbian Farm along the outskirts of the Madrian Capital City in Lillistad two weeks from this letter’s postdate.

Your ever-loyal servants,

The Elemaeti Coven”

Bitches. Lying bitches! Even as the never-ending stream of foul words and curses formed on my lips, I found myself clutching the letter with nervous shaking palms to flip it over. Gods be with me.

Eleven days. The letter had been sent eleven days ago. I let loose a primal, ear-splitting roar of victory. Prying ears be damned. I wanted everyone to hear my triumph, to feel my triumph, somewhere deep within their bones as I felt it now.

Surely enough both sets of golden doors in the room flung open, followed by panicked streams of red-faced servants all rushing towards me like a tidal wave of silky blue waistcoats. Sneaky bastards. They had been here all along. I brushed off the flurry of worried hands and questioning mouths, commanding I be dressed right away. I had a war council meeting to attend to.

Apparently though, being King still didn’t mean you got everything you wanted. At least, not right away. After two hours of arguing and deliberating and wasting precious time I could’ve spent removing the heads of Elemaeti witches, my councilmen finally agreed to side with me on the matter. It was a good thing too because I was never going to back down on the issue, no matter how long it took.

The attack would be launched immediately. I was assured that four hundred of my best commanders and soldiers would be conducting the mission, though, I still wanted to be there to participate in the bloodshed myself. However, I’d also learned King Sephiron, apparently, didn’t have much of a taste for carnage. He had never ridden out with his men to battle before. Not even once.

Many on the council had insisted it would be too dangerous for a King. “A King’s place is in his castle”, or some nonsense like that. Obviously, I then had to reference the many paintings of my ancestors depicted on killing fields hanging proudly in my chamber and produced a heartfelt speech about how I needed to be a King of my people, a strong fierce King that stood alongside his army. The hateful little men on my war council, lesser-royals that were in line for the throne, had been oh-so inspired by my theatrically impassioned appeal and overturned the decision that I was not permitted to go. Just as I’d predicted the self-serving bastards would.

I was dressed in the finest fighting leathers I’d ever seen within the hour, armed to the teeth, and astride the kingdom’s most prized stallion. He was an enormous beast of silky midnight with rippling muscles and cunning eyes called Maelstrom. I could only hope he lived up to his name. I was practically salivating for a taste of that red Elemaeti blood on my tongue by the time we neared the dead and barren-looking fields of the rundown Felbian Farm. So much for the Elemaeti’s “crop growth” magick.

The council and I had agreed that a meeting with the coven at night would seem suspicious. Though, since the coven had written to me and told me of their whereabouts, it wouldn’t seem too unlikely that the King himself might drop in for a little afternoon visit, especially when discussing a matter as delicate as this.

A messenger had been sent ahead, notifying them of the imminent rendezvous, along with the promise of four hundred of my best men to help aid them in their cause. And with the King by their side, who never went to war, they would never be suspecting of an attack. Genius, really. I’d even had the brief thought that perhaps mortal men weren’t as daft as I once believed.

Like clockwork, the royal trumpeters flanking me announced our arrival on the putrid little rat-hole they’d decided to call home this week, and the whole Elemaeti coven flooded out of their decrepit, rotting barn to greet us, shouting cheers of victory, arms all piled high with gifts for their King and his men.

A plump, elderly woman dressed in a tattered red cape with a cruel face and long black hair pulled into braid announced herself as the Elemaeti’s High Priestess and gave us her fervent thanks. I’d already made sure to tell my men to save her for me. I'd been waiting far too long not to have the pleasure of feeling her insignificant life slip away from her weak human body.

Her coven was vastly outnumbered, but I continued the charade, smiling the soft benevolent smile of a beloved gentle King as I watched them all weave between our ranks, approaching my soldiers with their pathetic little offerings. As I approached the High Priestess, heart thudding wildly, nearly about to burst from my chest with excitement, I finally let every single one of my nine-hundred years leech into my still-smiling face like ink through water.

Her sharp weathered face dropped about ten feet as she suddenly realized who I was, or I suppose, who I wasn’t. All too late, though. Before she could even form the words to warn her people, I swiftly thrust two fingers up into the air, signaling my men, then slashed my wickedly sharp blade down hard in a fierce arc, too fast for the old human to have ever seen coming. All of my men dutifully followed suit. The dull roar of bodies thudding to the earth simultaneously rippled across the field. Stragglers who, somehow, still lived, threw out terrified and uncontrolled bursts of green Elemaeti magick. Amateurs. It did more harm to them than it did us, in the end. The horses began bucking and thrashing wildly, trampling the last of their surviving coven into the mucky blood-soaked dirt.

The battle was surprisingly quick and deathly silent. I would’ve preferred a bit more resistance, maybe some screams of terror, and definitely a lot more carnage myself, but… I was relieved my people could finally be free of these lascivious, thieving humans who had ever dared to call themselves witches in the first place.

As I rode home, completely drenched from head-to-toe in that sweet dried-up Elemaeti blood, I couldn’t help reaching down to pat the still-silently screaming severed head of The High Priestess I’d tucked into my freshly red-stained satchel. A smile of pure, unabashed satisfaction seemed to be permanently plastered across my face even as the sprawling palace finally came into view over the rolling autumn-kissed hills of my Empire. I could already feel the comforting familiar burn of magick returning in my veins, coming back to me. I would be in my own body by the morning, but…

Man, it feels good to be King.

I don't get why people like to inflate

Things that should lay flat

Why they grab a butterfly out of the wind

And tell people that it scarred them

When they crushed it in their fingers in zest

They blame the fallen

With words that can not be undone

They take the bright

And infuse them with the darkness

They carry in their own heart

This is obviously personal

This is obviously scars in my own heart

I hope you don't get angry

That I am forcing you to listen

Once upon a time, there lived a strong and handsome knight; Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio. He roamed the land slaying dragons, rescuing damsels in distress, reaping of their ravishing beauty, and collecting their fathers’ grateful rewards. Over the years, he only grew finer, richer, and more daring. He had no intention of retiring any time soon. The idea of settling down to a quiet, ‘one-woman’ life, and spending his days doing peasant jobs mortified his twenty-nine-year-old heart. He decided in his mind to continue in his chosen line of work until the day he died. Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.

One fine day, Sir Rhodomonte happened upon the Kingdom of Chestwood. He heard word that the King was offering a humongous award, so he traveled to the castle himself. The moment King Landon laid his eyes upon the knight, he knew that he would be the one for the job. “I am providing an exceptional offer to any strong and handsome man who can accomplish the daunting task of taking my eighteen-year-old daughter’s hand in marriage,” the King smiled proudly, “You, my son, are the perfect fit. You’re everything I’d ever wished for in a blood child of my own, and your genes are surely strong enough to produce a grandson with at least half as much charm and stature as you.” I’m sorry, Your Highness, but, I mustn’t settle down at this moment,” Sir Rhodomonte protested, “While your offer is enticing, I feel that I would be-- rather-- tied down. My life is the thrill of adventure, facing terrible dangers and meeting different women of different lands. And, while your daughter is quite pretty, I must admit, I get-- bored-- very quickly.” “Living here at the castle with all the riches in the world wouldn’t be enough for you?” The King scoffed. “I’m afraid not, My Lord,” Sir Rhodomonte said firmly. “Well then, we’ll have it arranged that you may roam as you please,” King Landon sighed, “All I really need is a grandson. After you two marry and consummate, you may leave. But, if the child she bears is not a male, we will send out for you and you shall return for another try, alright?” The knight nodded. “Once a healthy baby boy is born, I’d like for him to survive unto a good stable age, and then we can pretend that you fell off the face of the earth,” The King laughed. The knight was shocked that he was still being provided most of the reward under these new conditions. His charm worked on women and men alike, he thought. Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.

Meanwhile, up in her quarters, Princess Polonolia was forlorn. Infuriated by what her father had advertised to the world, she prayed for a way out. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry. Oh, she DID ever so want to marry. The problem was WHO. She was appalled at her father’s audacity to offer riches and gifts alongside her hand. These men definitely didn’t love her. They wanted money, fame, and fortune. As she sulked upon her silken sheets, she dreamed of Marcos. He was a young boy around her age whom she met in the village one day. It was love at first sight for them both, but forbidden love at that. Never was a Princess to court a peasant. Still, they found ways to sneak around; to talk, hold hands, and gaze up at the sky together. Though just a common folk, Marcos had enchanted ways. His mother had taught him all about the Book of Miracles long ago, and he kept her words hidden deep within his heart. They sent notes and magic flowers back and forth with the help of his enchanted birds, and he even took her for a ride through the clouds once upon his enchanted dragon. One night, he used the magic to concoct a costume for himself so that he could dance with her in disguise at a masquerade ball. There, she remembered seeing another fellow who danced with all the women. He was haughty and rude, yet everyone somehow found him charming. She was disgusted, only dancing with him for a moment out of obligation. As soon as it was over, she immediately retreated into Marcos’ loving arms. “I could never imagine marrying someone like him,” she murmured. Marcos sighed, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.”

The next day, word spread that Sir Rhodomonte and the Princess were soon to be betrothed. Polonolia was the last to know. As she sat by her window, she pondered and prayed that her father would find no worthy man. Just then, an enchanted bird landed upon the sill. Within its talons was a magic red rose, and a note that called her to the distant pond where she and Marcos often met. She rushed to the meeting spot as fast as her feet could carry her. “Marcos?” she called by the pond’s edge. “Polonolia!” he gasped, emerging from the blue. The Princess helped the peasant boy up onto the land. Her smile beamed uncontrollably, but, searching the eyes of her love, she could tell something was wrong. “Marcos?” she whispered, “What is the matter?” “I’m going to miss you,” he exhaled. “Miss me?” she panted, still catching her breath from the run, “Whatever do you mean?” “You don’t know yet?” he asked, wiping water from his brow. The Princess shook her head. “You are to be married to Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio,” he stated. Polonolia nearly fainted. “Tell me it isn’t true!” she cried. Marcos placed his drenched arm around his friend’s shoulder as she wept. “I WOULD be happy for you,” he muttered, “He’s stronger and handsomer than me. He’s richer, and he’s rescued many a maiden-- but, I know that you detest him.” “I don’t care about riches. You’re handsome enough and strong enough for me, Marcos,” Polonolia wailed, “I love you so much.” “I love you too, Polonolia,” Marco exclaimed, “I wish that WE could marry.” Staring into each other’s eyes, they leaned into a passionate kiss. Suddenly, the couple heard more footsteps through the forest. They stopped abruptly, both managing to slip beneath the ripples just before a messenger appeared from the brush. “Hear ye! Hear Ye! Princess Polonolia ’s royal wedding to the land’s greatest knight is on the morrow!” he yelled in passing, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio!”

Forced to part, Marcos woefully returned to the village, and Polonolia frightfully returned to her castle. “There you are, my daughter!” King Landon exclaimed, “It is time for your dress fitting.” “Dress fitting?” she spat. “Haven’t you heard? You’re getting married, my dear!” the King smiled. “Shant I meet my bridegroom first?” she huffed. “Not until the wedding, darling,” he smirked, “But, I will tell you, he is a fine man of high esteem. He owns riches beyond measure, and all the lands are fond of him. He is strong and mighty, and he will bring me a handsome grandson who can take the throne after my demise.” “But, I don’t want him!” she snorted, “I would rather marry a peasant!” “You shall marry this man, and that is final,” the King scolded, “I’ve already told everyone, paid Rhodomonte, and made all the arrangements. Marrying a peasant is ridiculous! It would be more acceptable for me to lock you away in a dungeon for all eternity.” Shocked and dismayed, Polonolia stormed away to her quarters. Meanwhile, all the finest tailors used all the finest linens to dress Sir Rhodomonte up for the occasion. After their work, they all stood in awe and admiration. Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.

The next morning, the entire kingdom was abuzz in anticipation and excitement about the royal celebration of the Princess’ betrothal, except Polonolia herself. She stood on her high tower’s windowsill with a final wish. “I will never marry Sir Rhodomonte! I love you, Marcos!” she screamed as she let herself fall. All of a sudden, an enchanted dragon swept down from the clouds, catching the princess and heading off into the distance. In the castle, Sir Rhodomonte gleefully pranced through the halls, where he was met with unexpected news. “The Princess has been abducted! Witnesses saw her leap into the arms of an enchanted dragon and fly away!” a messenger informed him, “King Landon desires to see you immediately!” Rushing to the throne room, he found the Ruler distraught. “We must find her posthaste!” the King stammered, “I am sending out all of my finest horses and men. I’ve issued great rewards--” “Allow me to find her, Your Majesty,” Sir Rhodomonte smiled. (He was never one to turn down an opportunity to make more riches.) “I fear for your safety, my lad.” the King winced, “If the dragon were to harm you, I would never forgive myself.” “Worry not, O King. I have never failed a mission yet.” Sir Rhodomonte bragged. “Alright,” the King sighed, “When you find her, bring her back to me, and she is to be locked away in a dungeon to keep such foolery from happening again. I must keep her safe until my successor is born and past nursing age.” “Sounds like just what she deserves,” The knight nodded and turned away. “I pray he returns,” the king cried solemnly, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.”

The knight, in fine linen, mounted his horse and headed out into the forest, bringing only his sword and shield with him. As he traveled deeper into the wood, he could see the shadow of an enchanted dragon looming overhead. “Come down here, you dastardly beast, and unhand my princess!” he yelled. The dragon hovered in midair, flapping its wings in a slow descent. “Let’s go, now! Get down here!” he taunted, standing on the saddle of his steady horse. As the beast came lower, he drew his sword. “I’ve killed dragons before. Don’t waste my time,” he slurred. The dragon heaved back and breathed a terrible flame that engulfed the unsuspecting knight. Without his armor, his attire was instantly singed. With a loud cry, he fell to the ground, stripping himself of the burning clothes. Spooked by the fire, his horse ran away in a tizzy. Sir Rhodomonte struggled to crawl away in his underwear, but the dragon’s infernos persisted. Finally coming upon a small stream, Sir Rhodomonte went under until the dragon’s breathing could be heard no more. Meanwhile, on the dragon’s back, Polonolia held tightly onto Marcos. “I’m so glad you saved me!” she sighed, “We must fly far away from here and elope!” “I’m sorry, Polonolia, but, after using so much power, the enchanted dragon won’t last much longer,” Marco cried, just as the dragon began to shrink. Nearing the ground, the lovers leapt into a soft bed of grass. “He will surely recover and find us,” Polonolia feared, “What shall we do?” “Don’t worry. I have a plan,” Marcos smiled. Back near the stream, Sir Rhodomonte was crossed. “How dare that dragon think he got the best of me!” he scoffed, limping towards his sword and shield, ”I’ll fix him yet.” The knight was badly bruised, but he was determined to rescue the princess and claim his reward. “Hello, my peasant child,” he heard a gravelly voice call. “I am no peasant!” Sir Rhodomonte screamed, “I am THE Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio! And, who darest you be?” “THE Ophelswin; Wizard of the West,” a tall, dark figure bellowed, stepping out of the shadows. The Wizard was clothed from head to toe in sparkling apparel. His beard reached the forest floor and was white as the snow. “Young boy, you must be absurd. A knight with no armor-- let alone clothing-- is a sight to behold.” he laughed. “Twas my wedding day, and a vile beast made off with my bride,” Sir Rhodomonte retorted, “If it weren’t for my bridegroom dress, I would have been wearing my trusty, impenetrable armor.” “I see,” the Wizard sung, stroking his hairy chin, “I have just the potion for you, lad.” “A healing potion?” Sir Rhodomonte grunted in pain, “I’ve been severely burned, and my leg aches from the fall.” “Much better than only healing,” the Wizard grinned, “You’ll have a completely new body.” Sir Rhodomonte’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “You’ll have the body of someone who is faster, nimbler, quicker, and much smarter,” the Wizard boasted. “Yes,” Sir Rhodomonte smiled in deep thought. “Best of all, the body will be much MUCH younger.” “YES!” the knight exclaimed, “WHERE IS THE POTION?!” “Patience, peasant,” The Wizard smirked, retrieving a vial from his inner right coat pocket, “Drink it all, sleep tonight, become new in the morning light.” Sir Rhodomonte nodded and repeated the Wizard’s words over and over as his shaky hands brought the elixir to his mouth. “That’s it, my son,” the Wizard cheered as the knight fell to his knees in deep slumber, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio!”

When Sir Rhodomonte awakened, his body felt lighter. He was slimmer. He felt more limber and flexible. He jumped to his feet and spun around. He loved his new body…. at least he thought he did until he went near the pond where he had left his sword and shield. Standing by the water, he caught sight of a beautiful young girl. “Hello, milady,” He charmed, turning on his heels expecting to see the woman behind him. Instead, he found that he was all alone, and his charming voice came out more like a sweet song. “Who’s there?” he squeaked in a voice more feminine than he remembered. He peered into the water once more and realized that he himself had become his own bride. Marcos and Polonolia laughed quietly from behind the trees as many of the King’s knights rushed to his side. “There she is! The princess! Take her!” they shouted. Despite his feeble protests, he was dragged back to the castle to face the King. On the way, they happened upon Sir Rhodomontade’s spooked horse and singed clothing. They assumed the worst, leaving Marcos and Polonolia to live freely ever after. When the men had returned to King Landon, he went into a shock of mourning, then a fit of rage at his ‘daughter’. “If it weren’t for you, Polonolia, Sir Rhodomontade would still be alive, and he would bare my grandson!” he shouted in anger. “But, King!--” “You are unfit to be my successor! You will enter the dungeon never again to see the light of day.” “That is a bit harsh, My Lord, please hear me out--” “If another fair man comes along, he will be brought in to you so that you may bare my grandson. My future king. After that, I frankly don’t care what happens to you.” “But, sire! I AM SIR-” His pleas went unheard as the King’s men ushered him away to the dungeon without another word. “My, my, my stars,” the King wept, “Surely, there never was and never will be another man in the likes of Sir Rhodomonte of Braggadocio.”

I did not want to wake up. This is how every morning began; with my first glimpses of consciousness filled with regret, then mourning the brief escape I had, and finally accepting that I had no choice but to rise out of bed and start the day.

The abnormality with this morning was that in addition to the heaviness of my chest, I felt heaviness from down below. I reached down curiously to feel if some object had fallen onto my lap over night. And that’s when my fingers wrapped around the new snakelike projection there. It took me a few moments before I realized what I held in my hand.

I sat up, screaming; but this scream was deeper than the one I know.

I quickly got up and stole to the mirror. And there I was; but not me. It was some man staring back at me. He had my blue eyes and my nervous smile. But my long dark brown hair was now short, my breasts were now flat and I was about six inches taller.

I stood there, paused in time for a moment before I decided to move with my new body. And even these movements were new, my arms swinging wider and my footsteps louder.

“Hey Doris, I’m going to take the day off.”

“Sorry who is this?”

“Oh, I, sorry I’m calling for Lucy.”

A gasp on the other end. “And who may I ask is calling?”

“I’m...well, I guess Lucy’s boyfriend.”

“O-okay.” She hung up the phone.

I suspect that Doris is probably now depositing this information - quiet, reclusive Lucy now impossibly had a boyfriend - throughout our boring cubicle office.

An hour later, I’m wearing an oversized sweater that my mother used to scold me for - too manly she would say. Now with my new shoulders and chest the sweater fits very well. A little burst of excitement as I walk out the door and down the stairs onto the street.

Creepy homeless Larry today does not leer and call me dirty nicknames. Instead, he pays me no attention. I make my way to the diner across the street where the waitress, Genevieve, who normally pretends not to notice me until

I have been sitting at the bar for fifteen minutes immediately rushes over.

“Good morning, sir. What I can get for you today?”

“A milkshake and the sausage omelet,” I say.

“Sure thing,” she says, scribbling down my order obediently. Normally she just stares at me blankly and interrupts me to yell the order back to the chef.

My food arrives quickly, piping hot and for once Genevieve hangs around, asking me if there’s anything she can do for me

Once I am full, I give her my always tip of two dollars but today she giggles and says thank you, letting her hand linger where our skin touches as I deposit the extra bills into her open hand.

I decide I’m going to the subway to take the train out to the park I love to run in. Today is a sweater and bench kind of day, where I will people watch. It will be interesting to see how people look at me. How the men will look at my eyes and the women perhaps like Genevieve may show me more attention. I am lost in thought, the casual enjoyment of this abnormal occurrence, when I hear a woman clearing her throat. I look up and see some of the people standing next to her staring at me expectantly. It takes me a moment to realize I should stand and let the woman sit down. Her leg taps in her heels impatiently and her hand is sassily placed on her hip.

When I stand, an odd looking man with a long stretch of white beard appears next to me. I didn’t notice him before.

“Lucy,” he whispers, “what an abnormal day you are having.”

I gasp and take a closer look. He is in strange robes and when I look around, no one else has noticed his presence.

“You’ve been very sad for a while now. Why is that, do you think?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh you do, Lucy. You know. My question is does this make you feel better?”

I look away. How could he know? How could he possibly know? It was a sadness so deeply rooted that the origin of it had long been burrowed in the depths of my subconscious. But here and now, all of a sudden in this new day and body, the burrowed truth seems on the tip of my tongue. I turn to the man to tell this truth but he has disappeared.

The park is particularly beautiful today; the leaves that had fallen to the ground were a crispy orange - tanned by the long summer sun. I walk over to my favorite bench and watch the geese floating by on the radiant pond. After a few minutes, an old lady hobbles over, huffing and casting her cane to the side as her quivering hand reaches out to help her lower herself onto the bench.

She sits next to me, catching her breath, before she turns and appraises her company.

“Hello, how are you today?” she croaks.

“Very well,” I reply. I really mean it.

“I’m Beth,” she states.

“Hi Beth, I’m Lu-Luther.”

“Nice to meet you, Luther. And what is it you do?”

“I work in finance.”

“Well Luther, I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but I have a lovely granddaughter. Would you like to see her picture?”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer and pulls out a small photo of a very young, pretty woman.

“How old is she?”

“She just turned twenty-five.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“I don’t think she’ll mind.”

“Don’t you think she has things she wants to do other than get married?”

“Oh, dear, you wouldn’t understand. Us women have to get married before we start to get old and decrepit. Men can wait. And there’s the matter of children, too.”

I find myself growing angry at the old bat. She’s not unlike my own grandmother, not unlike my mother. Not unlike my aunts and all the other older women in my life that raised me with this worry that my life should center around finding a man and starting a family.

Beth is pushing a piece of paper with a number on it.

“Call her,” she says.

It is very dark as I walk back to my apartment. I watch the stray girls who have found themselves out at night alone cast anxious glances back at me as I approach from behind. People have looked at me with an array of things throughout my life; happiness, anger, sadness, dismissal, condescension, lust; but never fear. No one has ever thought enough of my presence to be afraid of me.

When I open the front door of my apartment, there is the old man standing there. “You enjoyed your day, Lucy.”

I nodded, closing the door behind me. I felt very calm.

“Well I’m glad. We can all use a change now and again. When we find we are in a rut. Now when you wake up, Lucy, you will find you are back in your own body.” He turned to walk away and I saw his legs begin to disappear.

“No, wait,” I called after him. “Please. I don’t want to be Lucy again.”

He smiled. “I know. But if you don’t go back to Lucy now, you will never be able to change back.”

I stood there, looking at him, retracing my choice over and over again. But I felt no doubt. I knew what I was giving up.

“You’re sure,” he said, looking at me firmly. And then he disappeared. I remain a man.

I had always believed that if I’d only been a man, I would have been strong enough to face this cruel and savage world that cost me everything. Surely, if it had been my husband who had survived that horrific night down at the marina, things would have been different. Maur always knew what to do. He was powerful, capable, and filled with a calm reassurance I would have killed for. If only I’d been born a man, he might have not felt the need to protect me when the kidnappers came for our boy. He wouldn’t have fallen to their brutal blows, his ocean eyes warped with fear for me. I would have been at his side until the end, not running with our child for the last boat out of a city in flames at his urgent command.

Even if I had fled and left my husband’s side, if I had been a soldier like my love, I would have been faster on my feet. The twisted, hawk-nosed wraith of a man that wrestled my son from my arms would have met greater resistance. Tabe wouldn’t have slipped from my grasp, his whimper of half-conscious terror the last sound I heard before I was knocked from my feet and left to die beneath the stinking docks. No, I would have been able to keep them both safe. We would still be together, if I had been half the man Maur was...at least that was the thought that carried me through these last few months.

It was this belief that led me to the marsh, seeking the wisdom of things more ancient and terrible than the feud which stole my family, my country, and my soul. For more than a year, I searched and plotted, trying to track the mercenaries who had destroyed my world. I did things I would never have dreamed, suffered in ways that a year ago I never could have imagined, and still I found myself no closer to the truth. Too many doors refuse to open for a noblewoman in rags. And those that did open...oh, how I wish they could be shut again.

Last night, with nothing left to lose and only the whispered warnings of villagers to guide me, I’d found my way to this weathered, mildewy shack in the center of this foetid swamp. The eyeless, three-toothed crone that took my last bit of secreted gold had promised to fulfil my one remaining desire. So I’d taken her bitter, foul brew, and laid beneath the murky sky with only my once-sumptuous rags and the knowledge that I would rise more powerful to warm me.

But when I woke up this morning in unfamiliar skin, and heard my voice foreign and gravely in my ears, I didn’t feel any stronger. This masculine heart that races with adrenaline in my chest is not the stalwart organ I’d been led to believe. Fear still ices my veins at the memory of losing everything. The pain is still too palpable, and any confidence I hoped would come to me as natural as breathing seems to still be missing. There’s still a hole in the deepest part of this new me where Maur was. The memory of my trials still reduces me to trembling.

In the end, nothing has changed. For all the strength in this body, I’m still me, a second daughter of a withered line. I’m still too weak to save my son. And in the end, I’m still too weak to save myself.

My mother runs. Every morning, she wakes up at five, clothes herself, finds her phone and earphones, and goes for a run. One mile every day. One mile before work. I get tired just thinking of running like she does. But every morning, my mother runs.

My mother runs. Every time I ask about my father. Everytime I asked about my birthday. Everytime I look at the pictures. She’s afraid I’d notice. Notice the picture of my brown eyed father and his brown eyed mother. Notice the photo of my brown eyed mother and her blue eyed sister. My mother runs every time. My mother runs from the truths she hides from me.

My mother runs. Soon, I follow in her footsteps. She runs in the morning. I run at night. We cannot bear to look at one another. Only appearing when the other one is gone.

My mother runs. Now I run too. I run hard. I run fast. I run like the wind barks at my feet and the sidewalk falls away behind me. My mother runs from the monster at her heels. I run to find it. The monster runs with my mother. Is what my mother says. The monster holds fast, my mother says, and will never let her go.

My mother runs. But today she hasn’t left when I come down. My mother runs. But today she hold a picture. The picture of herself and her blue eyed sister. I sit. She sighs, no more running. Her brown eyes shimmer and my blue eyes already know.

My mother runs from the truth she couldn’t bear. That her blue eyed sister runs. Runs away from everything. Her sister runs from responsibility. Her sister runs from the future. Her sister runs from me. Her blue eyed sister runs away from everything.

My mother runs from her blue eyed sister. Whom she cannot bare to see. Her blues look just like mine and my mother will not let it be. She says her blue eyed sister runs. Runs for the past. Runs for her memories. Runs for a time before me. Her blue eyed sister runs because she blames her daughter. Her blue eyed sister runs because she is a monster.

My mother runs. To shield me. Hoping I would never see this blue eyed sister.

My mother runs after me. I run hard. I run fast. I run like my mother is behind me. I run until I spot her. Until I recognize her. Gym. Treadmill. Outside the glass. Blue eyes to blue eyes.

I freeze.

My mother runs.

#mother #running #family #daughter #familyissues

My face was in sand. Face down; my left cheek covered as the sand stuck softly to my skin. My eyes opened painfully, eyelids almost super-glue sticky.

The beating sun beat down, doing its job to perfection.

I was covered in sweat, as was my blue cotton shirt, under-arm dark as the sweat dripped from me.

I couldn’t raise my head, at first. Neck stiff, skull heavy, senses unwilling. I just wanted to lie. But the heat was stifling. Lying would mean dying.

I pulled my head up with my aching neck muscles. Palms flat, I pushed tenderly down, to raise my torso too.

“Where the fuck am I?”

The voice was rasped and thick.

My words, but not my voice. The voice of a drinker. The voice of a rough-sleeper. The voice of a half-baked corpse.

I blinked,

“Shit!”

The wall. Stood tall right before me, almost in touching distance.

“That fucking wall!”

Memories flickered.

We finished the wall.

That’s what happened!

Last night we finished the damn wall!

Finally.

We had vowed to make those damned Mexicans build it and pay for it, but in the end we had to build it ourselves. Still, I guess this made sure it was better quality, so those bastards couldn’t break it down and sneak in to steal or jobs.

I staggered to my feet. Dehydrated and hungover. We always celebrate big when we finish a job and this had been a big job. To be honest most of us had started celebrating before the last section had been fully secured. Well, it was our last chance to swill some cheap tequila before we locked those Mexican rats out for good.

I guessed I must have got separated from the guys and passed out. They’d be packing up the camp in the afternoon. I needed to get back to help out and pick up my stuff ready for the ride home.

I wondered where I was.

Glancing up, eyes shielded against the sun, I surveyed the wall. We’d done a damn good job there! I couldn’t see how any dirty migrants could get past that thing.

But I still didn’t know where I was. I turned away from the wall. Few hundred yards behind me were a couple of run down bars on the edges of a small town. Well, a village really. I didn’t recognise them.

Between me and the bars was a busy four lane highway. That would be my clue.

I wandered over to the roadside as traffic sped by.

There was a sign fifty metres up the highway. I squinted, but with my sun-blinded sticky eyes I couldn’t make out the words. Cursing I trudged along the sidewalk, trying to get the sign into focus.

Eventually, I was close enough to make out the letters. They confused me.

I had to spell them out one by one:

A v e n u e L u i s D o n a l d o C o l o s i a

I blinked.

Avenue Luis Donaldo Colosia!

That’s not an American highway.

What the…?

Shit!

Fuck!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I was trapped.

I had no money left; no passport; no I.D.

“I’m on the wrong side of the fucking wall!”

And I was.

Trapped!

On the wrong side of the wall…

Dear you,

I wonder what you think of me.

I know that’s absurd—I’ve long stopped caring what people say about me. But I figured, after everything we’ve been through, that I can’t fault myself for curiosity.

Some days, I wake up feeling fine. I put on my favorite shirt (mine, not yours), buy a nice drink before work. Or, if it’s a weekend, I make brunch and hang out at the book club. I thought it’d be different going without you, but everyone’s still as nice as ever. I look fine to them, so they haven’t really brought you up except in passing. I still tense a little, but I suppose that’s to be expected.

Other times, usually when it’s raining—other times, I find myself alone in my apartment—the one you haven’t been to. I find myself thinking. If we still lived together, how would you make this tiny place your own? Would you put your souvenirs on display next to mine? I still have your seashell. If I set it next to my pen holder and squint—and this helps if it’s raining because the sky is darker, which makes everything a little blurrier—so if I put your seashell by the pen holder and tilt my head just so, I can almost imagine it.

And for a moment there, my apartments feels a tiny bit more familiar.

Is that love?

I know that unconditional love is loving someone in spite of their absurdity. I know that some people would prefer to find love in mutual flawlessness. Not me, and certainly not you. But that’s pretty much all I know. In the end, that’s how much anyone really knows how to say in words. They learn the rest through practice, through finding a home in each other.

Well, I can’t really do that anymore. So it’s just me, and my thoughts, and the afternoon rain.

It used to make me happy. Rain, I mean. You know that. Still does, in a way, but only after I’ve ripped my whole heart out. So there’s that.

Again. I wonder what you think of me. Sometimes, I want you to fondly reminisce of me like I do you. Sometimes, I want you to hate me, if only so you have the strength to move on. Romance novels would call that selfless, but to be honest on those days I don't feel anything except sorry for myself.

Other times, I want you to pine for me forever. Then I’ll see you at our bookshop that you don’t go to anymore, or maybe I’ll branch out and go to a few bars (unlikely), and we will fall into each other’s arms as we have before. This is selfish, if fun to think about; I would never want for it to happen in real life, though, because time and again the only thing I truly wish for is your happiness.

Is that love?

I don’t know.

Love,

Me

This is my whole life story in a nutshell.

Born, burned, abandoned.

Found.

Finally loved.