Fire tore away at the wooden huts. Water dripped down the tin-roofed sheds and onto the scarred, bloody ground. The wind howled and snapped at the remaining survivors. The streets were torn apart. Houses - shredded. Every street, path and road were encrusted with blood and grime. Bodies lay everywhere; human or Spirit, no one could tell. No one cared. Everybody had their own lives to fight for.

Raindrops dotted his eyelashes, dust and grit coated his silvery hair. The wooden stairs shuddered beneath him as he stood up, starting to splinter. Taking care to avoid the broken glass, he stepped out of the doorway and onto the street, although it did not do much difference to change the view.

“Zeichel!”

Zey-shell. The name was sounded unfamiliar to his ears. It had been a long time since he had heard his own name. His parents had been washed away when the floods had come. He had been visiting cousins in the next country. When he returned, there had been nothing left. Then the fire came, the fire that so greedy it took everyone away. Winds followed from storms at sea. They were constantly waiting for the next attack. It could be anytime, or there could be no attack at all. No one knew what was going to happen, and it terrified them.

“Please, help me.”

His neighbour was trapped underneath his concrete wall, his legs pinned underneath his house. Zeichel pitied the human - almost as much as he pitied his own kind. But he remembered the times when they had struggled, and the neighbour had stared out of the window at them without sympathy. And after all, the world was ending. Everyone would die soon anyway. Crouching, he stared at his face. It was unlike theirs in so many ways. The humans were weak. They were stripped of all power the Spirits had.

“Please, just pull me free. I can help you.” He begged, stretching his arms out like a toddler.

Slowly, Zeichel began to smile. “Help? Like what? Money, food? Open your eyes. The world is dying. We don’t need those things anymore. You might as well burn it all if you’ve got anything left. Your race is dying.”

The man gasped in agony, scrabbling to regain his crushed limbs. “Please, I will do whatever you ask-”

Zeichel crouched down and gently traced patterns into the stained ground. Closing his eyes, he let the power burn behind them. When he opened them again, he could feel the fire in them and knew that his eyes had become milky-white jewels. But the humans were afraid of what they couldn't have. They were afraid of what they couldn't claim as their own, and so they tried to take it away with force.

The neighbour gasped and turned away from Zeichel in surprise. He wouldn't accept Zeichel's help anymore, knowing that it was his kind that had done this.

“Monster,” he choked, blood trickling out of his mouth.

“No,” Zeichel stood. “Spirit.”

                                               *                    *                     *

He kept moving, believing that one day he could find his parents again. Although they had never been close, they were family. Together, they could maybe escape. Everywhere he turned, all he saw was death, destruction, the remains of war.

But war required fighting between two sides. They were just the ones who were dying. All the places he had visited had been broken, empty of life. The only survivors he found were other lost Spirits, like him, who were immune to hunger, thirst, and sleep. None of them wanted to work with him, or anyone else, for that matter. Each Spirit had their own ways to go. The world was crumbling like sand, ridding Earth of the humans but keeping the Spirits alive.

At one of the towns, he stopped to gather provisions. Natural water was polluted, and food was scarce. 

Sighing, he shoved open the door to a department store. It had remarkably more goods than other places. People, like him, had to take whatever they could find. Zeichel tried not to think of it as stealing. Grimacing at the ominous stains on the floor, he reached up to take a black backpack from a shelf. He waited for the alarms to start blaring, but nothing happened. Someone had already deactivated them.

Most of the food had already been taken, but he found an unopened pack of granola bars and two bottles of water. He slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way to the register. Cashiers usually kept radios or TVs for their breaks. Zeichel occasionally used them to listen to the news, if he could get the right signal.

He found a small TV concealed in one of the cupboards. The cable was still attached to the wall, which meant that no one had tried to steal it yet. The screen was dusty but it flickered to life when Zeichel pressed a button. Most of the channels were cut off but a few of the news channels worked. 

“-Recent events at the city centre resulted in the deaths of four brave men, who sacrificed themselves in the fight against the demons.” A news reporter held up four pictures. “Their deaths helped us recapture the demonic individuals, who we have locked away. The location of the prison will not be published.”

Images of faces with gemstone-like eyes showed up. Some of them were contorted in pain, while others were scowling in fury.

“If you see anyone with these eyes, report them immediately. Our telephone number is 4093-8203-0001. Do not engage. We will determine whether they are demon or human. This is a live conversation with Edan Tersi, the man who invented this testing process.”

The news cut to a blurry video of a middle-aged man wearing dark clothes, sweat plastered against his forehead.

“Mr. Tersi, how did you develop this machine?”

The man pulled at his collar nervously. “Recently I discovered that one of my closest childhood friends was a demon. She attacked my family, killed my children. None of these demons are human. We can't trust them. The test determines whether a person is a demon or a human. If they are a demon, they react like they are being burnt-”

An explosion in the building behind him shook the camera to the ground. Flames roared up and touched the smoky sky. Behind Edan Tersi, a door exploded off of its hinges and a group of people - Spirits - came running through. Their faces and hands were covered in dirt and blood. Zeichel watched, horrified, as military troops rushed to the scene. Some of them were blasted away by fire and energy, while others started shooting.

Tersi grabbed at the camera, the veins in his forehead protruding. “Turn it off!”

The screen went blank. Breathing heavily, Zeichel turned to face the cash register. How could anyone treat others like that? Edan Tersi thought that they were demons. Spirits and humans were the same species. One just had magic, and the other didn't. Clenching his fists, Zeichel took a deep breath. Once they were taken by the humans, there was no escaping.

Someone had obviously broken into the cash register before. The drawer was smashed like it had been hit with a hammer. Coins lay scattered on the floor, and there were trails of crumpled paper everywhere. Zeichel left them there. Even if he did take it, there would be no reason to use it. Money was useless, just scraps of paper. Pushing away price lists, he found a drawer with a gun and a pocket knife. He slowly lifted the pocket knife. It seemed like a good weapon, but he didn’t feel like fighting. The war had to stop.

The sound of shattering glass startled him. A gang rushed into the store. One of the older girls clutched the end of a broken bottle. Heart hammering, Zeichel ducked underneath the counter, grabbing the gun from the drawer. He didn’t even know how to use it, but he pulled back part of it, making a distinct snapping noise. He froze.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then, the girl with the broken bottle slammed Zeichel against the drawers. His eyes flashed, and the gun almost slipped out of his hand. None of his muscles wanted to work, but his mind was screaming orders. The girl, seeing the gun, jabbed the broken part of the bottle upwards, aimed perfectly at the artery in his throat.

“Hand over your money,” a guy held his hand out. “Now.”

“There’s some in the cashier,” he said hoarsely, trying to plan out what he was going to do. He knew his magic wasn't close to strong enough to defeat them. As soon as they saw his eyes, they would kill him.

The girl frowned and pulled open the cash register, waving the money at the others. “We need more. If you think we’ll let you go because you let us have some, you’re wrong. Give us the rest.”

“I didn’t take any of it!” Zeichel spat at them. He tightened his grip on the gun, but one of them snatched it away, pressing it against his head. "You’re not going to need it. Money is useless.”

The back of the gun slammed down onto his head, but he didn’t feel the pain. This seemed to infuriate them even more.

“Don’t you know anything? There’s an escape pod. But we gotta pay up. So hand overyour money.”

Zeichel flicked the wrist, throwing them back. Grabbing the gun, he pointed it at them. "Let me go."

Snarling, the girl threw the broken bottle at him. The jagged edges grazed his cheek. Without even flinching, he pulled the trigger. A bullet ricocheted off of a beer can, narrowly missing a gang member’s foot. The scar on his cheek had already begun to heal. Though it was slow, the others noticed.

“You’re one of them,” a girl hissed. “Demon.”

They began advancing towards Zeichel.

“Stay back,” he warned. He aimed at one of their legs and pulled the trigger, but it only made a dull click sound. Cursing, he tossed the gun aside and held both hands out. ”I have nothing on me, I swear. Just let me go, and you can go back to mugging people.”

The others laughed, but it was hollow. “Let one of you go? We’ll be heroes for killing one of your kind.” A boy whipped out a switchblade, while another set fire to an alcohol-drenched newspaper and held it like a detonating bomb. Although Zeichel wasn’t one to back down from a fight, he was outnumbered. He jumped up and over the counter, shoving open the exit doors of the store. There was no time to look back. Beer cans and pieces of garbage rained down on his back. The backpack was weighing him down, but he couldn't stop moving. Jumping over overturned trashcans, he ducked into an alley.

After a while, the footsteps stopped. Zeichel ran to the town centre, panting. Touching his cheek, he felt a scar forming. Furiously, he kicked an empty soda can. It skidded across the ground, clattering out of sight. The humans had never treated them equally. Swinging his fist, he punched a wall, almost breaking his hand. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and he clenched his fists, wanting to scream.

“There’s another one,” a voice called.

Startled, he turned, his hand still throbbing. Two people were behind him. Not people. Spirits. Fire flickered in the woman’s hand, tendrils of it stretching out lazily. Zeichel blinked.

In a second, they were by his side, gripping his arms tightly.

“Hey, what are you-?”

“Be quiet,” the man grumbled, though his voice was soft. “Don’t try to fight us. You’ve seen only a little of what we can do. If they like you, they’ll keep you. And if they don’t, you’ll still be rewarded. You're one of us, aren’t you?” His fingers dug into Zeichel’s arm.

“Of course he is, you idiot,” the woman snapped. “We’ve been taught how to distinguish their Auras. Can’t you tell? We’re wasting time. They’re waiting. Let’s go.”

“What are you talking about?” Zeichel planted his feet. “Let me go.” 

The woman patted him gently on the back as if trying to console him. “Calm down,” she hushed. “We’re like you. We’re fighting back against them.”

“What? But I'm not-”

The man laughed. “You think we’re humans?” He started chuckling, the thought pleasing him. “We know exactly who you are, Zeichel Crea. You’re like us. We’re like you. We’re Spirits.”

                                              *                     *                      *

There were other people - roughly around his age, sixteen, lying around him, looking confused. He didn't know where he was, or why he was there. Where they all Spirits, like him. He had tried asking the man and woman what they had meant, but they had simply dropped him at the clearing and had left.

“What are we doing here?” He turned to the girl next to him, who was glaring menacingly at the others. Her chin-length black hair was wet like she had been swimming. Blinking her brown eyes, she frowned and tilted her chin towards the centre of the clearing, where the man and woman who had ‘escorted’ Zeichel were talking to others. Were they all Spirits?

“They brought us here,” she shrugged. There was something different about her accent. Zeichel wasn’t used to it.

“Yeah, I realise that,” he rolled his eyes. “Where are you from?”

The girl narrowed her eyes as if she wasn’t sure whether he was genuinely curious. For a second, she hesitated. “Japan,” she paused. “But half American, too. I’ve been running for three years. We have to get out of here.” Her eyes flickered, changing to orange sapphires. She was a Spirit.

Shuffling backwards, Zeichel pointed at the others. “Aren’t they Spirits?”

She scowled. “Are you stupid? Humans are always lying. Can you reach my hands?” She twisted her back, and Zeichel realised that her hands and legs had been tied together with metal cuffs. Seeing him staring, she rolled her eyes. “I was trying to get away. Help me. We can escape.”

Zeichel frowned. “Why? I don’t even know you. And besides, I want to hear what these people have to say. If they’re human, I’ll untie you. If they’re not, they might be able to help us.” He motioned at the others around them. “We can fight back.”

The girl opened her mouth, her caramel eyes burning like fire. “But-”

There was a sudden, high-pitched noise, like a metal fork against a ceramic plate. The noise stopped almost immediately, but it had caught everyone’s attention. Nobody made a sound. The girl next to Zeichel stood, but the others flicked their wrists and she fell down. She turned to Zeichel with a murderous rage in her eyes, as if to say, "See?"

A sleek black car pulled up into the clearing. The engine was so quiet, none of them noticed it at first. Others stepped up to open the doors.

Two young men around the age of seventeen got out of the car. Their startlingly white hair contrasted against their dark attire, and their white-iris eyes flashed menacingly. Twins. If they hadn’t been wearing different coloured hoodies - blue and black - nobody would have been able to tell them apart. They were beautiful, like marble statues. Both of them wore star-sapphire rings. Zeichel stared at them, eyebrows furrowed. He had a feeling that he had seen them somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember.

“Sorry for the trouble,” one of the brothers, the one in the blue hoodie, grinned devilishly. “You can call me Romar Braus. Br-a-oo-s. My brother is Broo-a. Romar is our sort of . . . honorary name. You may have heard of us.” He opened his hand, and flames rose out of his palm. Zeichel crossed his arms, unimpressed. Many of them could do it, and it wasn't that hard. But Romar Braus splayed his fingers, and the fire grew larger.

“We are descendants of one of the first Spirits that ever existed, and our power is stronger than most. We’ve grown up surrounded by magic, while you have not. You have witnessed what the humans have done - what they are still doing - to us Spirits. We’re fighting against it. This is our world, too, and we deserve our lives.” With each word, the fire in his hand got larger and larger. Flicking his wrist, the fire shot across the clearing and the nearest house went up in flames with a loud bang!

People began muttering. None of them had grown up with the luxury of living with magic; that was something nobody could achieve. Zeichel turned to the girl next to him.

“No human could do that,” he whispered. She scowled in response.

Romar Brua waved his hand, and a small glass screen appeared. “In case you are wondering,” he projected his voice. “We are looking for recruits. Anyone can join us if you are strong enough. Those that are not will be free if you wish.”

The brothers stepped towards them, who were being hustled into rows by the older Spirits. Zeichel needed time to plot out what he had to do. Would he join them? Would he stay away? They claimed to be fighting against the humans, but Zeichel had never fought before. 

While Braus scanned the teenagers by touching the screen with their hands, Brua kept talking.

“The humans have realised what we are. They’ve tried stopping us more than once, and this is only one fight of the war. As usual, we’ll just fight back harder. This,” he gestured to the screen. “Can scan your abilities and strengths. If we think you’re strong enough, you can join us. You’ll be able to fight for what we stand for and reclaim this world as ours. And those of you that don’t feel strong enough, don't worry. Stay out of sight, where you won't be hurt.”

Braus helped the first Spirit up to his feet, whispering something to him. Nodding, the guy shuffled forward to join the other Spirits, who were waiting for the brothers. There was no cheer or hearty welcome; only a small pat on the back, a pitiful smile. Zeichel watched curiously as they went down the row of Spirits. Some chose to leave, looking nervously at them as they left. One by one, each of them made their decision.

The girl next to Zeichel paused when they came to her, her eyes landing on the crystalline daggers sheathed at their waists.

“Hold your hand out,” Braus said, a soft warmth in his eyes. “We won't hurt you.”

Narrowing her eyes, she gingerly held out her hand. Braus grabbed her wrist and pressed the glass against her fingertips. Zeichel saw it light up with information. He wondered what kind of magic it used; he had never seen anything like it before. 

“Kaoru Takahara, will you be joining us?”

Kaoru blinked. “I can choose?”

Brua nodded. “You will be welcomed by us,” he motioned to the others. “We can teach you how to defend yourself and how to use your magic. Or you can stay out here, in the remains of civilisation, and find your own ways to survive. If you leave, we can't protect you. You can't change your mind.”

Zeichel had to admit, they did have the skill of persuasion. They knew exactly who to target and how to influence them. If they had been human, this war would have finished centuries ago.

Kaoru glanced at the others, then back down at her feet. She shook her head slightly. “I-I’m sorry. I just can’t fight. Can I go?” Shakily, she stood, her eyes lowered, shoulders drooping.

The brothers nodded, looking disappointed. “Stay safe.” They watched as she turned, trembling, and ran back into the shadows. Zeichel respected her decision, though he thought it was a foolish one. The only way to increase their chance of survival was to keep fighting. 

Without being instructed Zeichel held up his hand. The glass felt cold, and a jolt of electricity went down his spine as he touched it. Aware of the fact that the brothers were staring at him, he lowered his hand tentatively.

“Zeichel,” Braus sounded interested. “You are strong for your age, and your soul has potential. Will you join us? We can teach you things-”

“I don't need the speech,” Zeichel muttered tiredly. “How does my soul have potential?”

Romar Braus tapped the screen. “It means that your powers are excellent if used correctly. Your soul is what improves your magic. Without it, you will still retain your powers, but they won't progress. Each soul can contain a specific amount of power. So, will you be joining us or not?”

Dark drops of rain started to splatter the ground. Slowly, Zeichel rose to his feet. The sky rumbled in a hushed warning. If he made the right choice, he would survive the war. And if he didn’t, he would be persecuted. Taking a step forward, he slowly made his way to where the other recruits had joined.

Looking back, he saw the brothers nod simultaneously, their jewelled eyes flickering.

                                          *                        *                        *

Over time, the Romar brothers became like family, as promised. They taught the new recruits how to strengthen their magic and how to fight with weapons. They were more like family to Zeichel than his parents had been. He felt safer fighting by the brothers’ side. Over the course of a few months, they managed to destroy many of the human testing areas. Zeichel never saw Edan Tersi again. He hoped he was dead, but he had the feeling that he was just hiding, waiting for the chance to get them.

It was one of those days when the brothers came up with an idea. They were very secretive about it, but they asked to talk to Zeichel. They tried not to favour some Spirits over others, but Zeichel had the feeling that they were about to tell him something they wouldn’t tell anyone else.

“When we recruited you,” Brua began cautiously. “We said your soul had potential.”

“Yeah,” Zeichel nodded, wondering where this was going. “And my magical power cannot grow without it.”

Braus grinned. “Precisely. Let us tell you something, something the others do not know. Souls have magical value.”

Closing his eyes, Zeichel felt the familiar surge of power at his fingertips. He could almost tell where this was going. “I understand. And you want me to give up mine for our cause.”

The Romar brothers glanced at each other. “The humans have started to understand our genetics. They are learning how to manipulate us, how to limit our powers. We need to introduce new threats.”

“How would my soul help?”

Braus twisted the silver ring on his hand. “Stronger souls have stronger power. Humans have next to no power, but ours can grow. When a soul is separated from its owner and converted into pure magic, it releases a massive amount of energy. This energy can be used to jump-start potent spells.”

Zeichel tried to wrap his head around it. He didn't mind giving his soul if it meant he would be helping the Spirits. The only thing he worried about was what being soul-less felt like. “Won’t I lose all of my emotions?” He asked. “I’ll just be a shell. Human.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Brua briefly touched the crystalline dagger at his waist. “Think of it this way. You have a family.” His expression softened. “And one day, you lose them. But you don’t lose the experiences you’ve had with them, right? You still remember everything that happened, the memories are intact. Losing them only stops you from growing those memories and experiences further, from making more. Do you understand?”

“You’re saying that if I give up my soul, I won’t be able to grow my magic, and I won’t be able to grow new emotions?” Zeichel wondered why they had chosen him, of all people. There were plenty of other Spirits that were probably waiting right outside of the door, ready to give their lives for the Romar twins. “So if I’ve never fallen in love with someone-”

“Then you never will,” Braus said stiffly. “This is your choice. You'll keep all of your magical talents and emotions, like anger, sadness, happiness, family. You just won’t be able to grow them. Soulless people also tend to experience stronger emotions than normal, because your soul isn’t there to control it.” He hesitated, and gently placed his hand on Zeichel’s shoulder.

Zeichel sighed. “I understand that our situation is getting worse. I can do it. I am strong enough to survive without it.”

The Romar twins grinned in unison. “Thank you. You will be remembered a hero.” They patted him on the back, smiling. 

Taking a deep breath, Zeichel nodded. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

                                            *                         *                         *

A week passed.

Then two more.

And before they knew it, it had been a month.

The brothers had not returned.

It took them a while to realise it. Maybe because they were hoping to hear from them again. Maybe they didn’t really believe it. For a while, they waited, but most of the newer recruits started to drift away. Soon, most of them had disappeared. Almost nothing was left of their army.

Using Zeichel’s soul, the twins had released the seal that had been placed on the gates of Hell. Demons had crawled out and had destroyed what remained of Earth. The humans were not heard from again. After everyone else had left, Zeichel had gone outside to look for the twins. The only thing he had found was their rings, half-buried in the dirt. Grief consumed him. Nothing mattered anymore. For a few days, he sat there, the rings clasped between his fingers. The war was over. Demons roamed the Earth, but none of them bothered him. They didn’t see the fight in him. Maybe they pitied him. Maybe they knew his life was as good as over.

The only reason why he had gotten back up and kept walking was so he wouldn't forget what they had fought for. Once returning to their base, he gathered the information they had and read them over and over. Even though the brothers had said that he would not be able to grow his magical strength without his soul, he realised that they had taught him just enough to learn what they had. None of the others cared that he had taken it - they were either dead or close to it. 

Zeichel had bumped into Spirits who were relocating the humans while wandering around. They had taken one look at him, written his name down, and had told him that Spirits who had worked with the Romar brothers wouldn't be allowed to leave. Zeichel didn’t care. The Spirits and the humans, allies. Most of the humans being teleported away looked dazed and confused. They had had their memories wiped. They had the luxury of forgetting their pain, forgetting the carnage they were leaving behind. 

Almost everyone who had survived the war had left or were dead. Earth was abandoned. The only people who were left were Spirits, like him, who had worked with the Romar brothers. The ones that had been cast away. No one dared bother Zeichel - they knew how much they had meant to him and the anger that was consuming him.

Zeichel swore to himself, no matter what obstacles stood in his way, he would finish what the brothers had started. He would destroy humankind and create an entirely new world for them, the Spirits, the pure. He would let only the strong ones survive, the ones who were fully Spirit. The humans would perish.

                                                *                     *                    *

Title:  Stone Souls

Genre: Fantasy fiction 

Age Range/Target Audience: 13 - 16

Word count of excerpt: 4702

Author name: Amy Phelps

Why is this a good fit? This is an excellent choice for those who enjoy reading fantasy and magic novels. It is set in a completely different world where humans and Spirits live in peace. The plot follows a Spirit named Lira with the help of her newly-made friends tries to stop those blinded by hatred destroying the human race.

The hook: The message of this book is that all living things should live in harmony, no matter their race or differences. Although the humans and Spirits are essentially the same species, they fear one another because they are different. This hatred of one another creates wars between the two, leading them to believe that only the better race will emerge unscathed.

Synopsis: When Earth was destroyed in the battle between humankind and Spiritkind, the Spirits relocated them to their new planet, Ziaro. Those with the intention of getting revenge on humankind were left on Ruined Earth. All is peaceful until a Spirit blinded by hatred invades Ziaro, determined to wipe out humankind. Lira Schyros is a Spirit, who, like others, will protect what she believes in. Growing up without support from her family, she must find a way to protect the world she loves and show her true colours. 

Bio Platform: I was born in Hongkong, but I live in Tokyo, Japan. I love writing and have started many stories on www.storybird.com, where I am known as starrywriter10. I've loved writing since the third grade and have always tried to take part in writing stories in any way I can. However, I have never published a book, only shared them online. For the past four years I went to an international school in China, but now I am going to one in Tokyo. Whenever I have the time, I study vocabulary on my own and try to keep improving my writing skills. My hobbies are reading, knitting, playing badminton, writing, cooking, and making crafts. 

I don’t think there was a single moment one could pinpoint as to when I stopped caring. It was a slow erosion, the idealism of youthful independence giving way to a realization that it weren’t no different with Madame Lalonde than it had been with my daddy. Except my clothes were a lot fancier, hand me downs from nameless girls I was too scared to ask about, wonderin’ who would go off and leave such pretty things behind. I used to pretend they had saved up enough and moved on, the way I would someday.

Madame told me, with that sweet note in her voice she used on the customers she was serving watered down whiskey to, that she was putting all my money away for me, and one day when I had enough, I could buy a train ticket east and go find my mama’s family, see if they’d take me in.

If I had to tell it straight, I would admit that I was probably treated better at Madame Lalonde’s. After all, daddy never had any doctor take a look at me once a month to make sure none of those men had tore me up too bad. All in all, it wasn’t a bad life, even if the parson crossed himself when he saw us leaning on the railing of the upstairs porch. Some of the girls teased him, showing him their lady parts, but my mama taught me to read from the bible before she went off and died. I tried to share with them, especially the part from Ephesians about ’let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving,' but they only laughed harder and called me a sweet and silly girl. I know what we were doin’ weren’t right in the eyes of God, but that didn’t mean we had to be unconscionable sinners.

I consoled myself with the knowledge that sweet baby jesus was kind to whores and let them wash his feet with their hair. Not that I had enough hair to wash anyone’s feet with, Madame made us keep it short, for fear that we’d attract louses from some of those dirty prospectors we entertained. That’s what she calls what we do, entertaining. Some of the other girls have different names for it, but they’re all what Pastor Ridgeley calls euphemisms. I think that means a lie, because of how he says that word.

He used to preach to me, back when I first showed up in town, on a wagon with that nice Mr. Armistead, who brought me to Madame after daddy was killed by claim jumpers. He was very kind and whispered to Mrs. Armistead that they should take me in, that I didn’t have no family here and that I was a victim of circum-ferences beyond my control, what with my daddy trading on my pretty face, bein’ that he was a no good snake and a terrible father. Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t, but Mrs. Armistead didn’t want another mouth to feed, and she had given me up as a fallen woman. That preacher still had hope that I could be saved, even if Mrs. Armistead didn’t. But eventually he gave up too, seeing the set of my jaw harden over time and the shadows gathering in my eyes.

No, I couldn’t tell you when I stopped caring, but I remember exactly the moment I discovered I could still be surprised.

It was the 18th day in May, 1863. I know because I had been practicing reading with the newspaper as Madame thought it was helpful to have a girl who could read and converse about the current events of the day. It gave her house an edge over La Belle Riviere down the street. In more generous moments, she talked about bringing in a tutor to help the rest of the girls learn how to read and write, but then pointed out, “they’re not paying you to use your mouths for talking!” with a coarse laugh that made the smoke from her ever present cheroot tangle in the feathers that dipped over her forehead.

I sat on the threadbare sofa, like every other night, a tawdry display of violet, black lace and taffeta with the shine worn away. Madame said I looked best in violet, it set off my dark hair and made my blue eyes sparkle like stars.

It used to be glamourous, to sit half-reclined on what might have once been a dusty rose coloured velvet sofa lounge, waiting for someone to sweep through the door and lock eyes with my innocence. “What’s left of it!” Prissy used to tease before Lina or one of the kinder girls swatted her on the behind and told her to leave me be. Madame told me that my piety worked in my favour, keeping the light in my eyes from dimming. I figured that was those drops of belladonna she made us all use.

She said it was something that Italian countesses did, to make themselves look as innocent as a baby kittens. I must admit, I sometimes liked the fuzzy vision it gave me. Sometimes I could squint and pretend that the man I was leadin’ upstairs was a real genteel sort, rather than a dirty miner who’d got lucky. Though I didn’t figure on a real gentleman smelling like hard scrabbled dirt layered on top of desperate hope and sour mash rotgut.

I’d been sitting and waiting, trying to look innocent and frail, as Madame said men liked women who made them feel strong and needed protecting, when a soldier walked in.

He was wearing the blue, which I knew would make Madame happy. She was a staunch supporter of the northern side, though she never spoke of her allegiance in mixed company. She said a lady did better by being agreeable to whatever opinion her paramour might state, even if that opinion was a disagreeable one.

I had just been reading about the next state over, Nevada, having recently raised a battalion of calvary to aid the union, and wondered if I would have a chance to speak of such things with him. My eyes lit up when he glanced at me, there was something in his eyes I couldn’t read and he made a beeline toward me, before Madame intercepted gracefully. They did some negotiations quietly, him glancin’ over frequently as though worried I was going to slip away. I don’t know where I could have gone in any kind of hurry, being so busy trying to look demure yet seductive. Some of the girls were real practiced at it, but I always felt kind of awkward.

Madame gestured to Francis, the boy she kept on for menial labour and I almost clapped my hands with joy. If Francis was being summoned, that meant he’d asked for a bath!

He stepped to the small bar in the room to his left, opting to take a drink while the bath was being filled. I moved to join him and Madame caught my arm.

“The gentleman has a *special* request.” She emphasized special in such a way that suggested I might want to rethink my enthusiasm for the handsome young soldier. I drooped inwardly, allowing the emotion to touch my eyes only briefly, though Madame noticed.

“It’s nothing terrible. Not like Lacey and her Mr. Hughes.” I shuddered to think of the incident last March and Madame shook her head at the horror in my eyes. “Nothing like that, ma petite. No, our young soldier would like you scrubbed clean of makeup and wearing a night gown. I know, it’s odd, but he’s paying.” I nodded my understanding and turned away. He didn’t want to have drinks with a woman of easy virtue, he wanted the illusion of innocence as intact as possible. 
I walked up the stairs and turned right, there was only one room that had a bathtub. It was the fanciest in the house. Normally everyone bathed in the wooden tubs on the main floor, next to the kitchen, but on our birthdays, Madame let us have one decadent hour in the ivory coloured enamel. I didn’t remember when my birthday was, but Madame had decided my eyes were as blue as September sapphires and so I must have been born then. 


She used to press me, surely my mama had said something about the special day I was born, but I didn’t have any memory of much before that year she decided I was to learn how to read, because knowing the words of the lord might keep me safe from the evil that exists in the world.

I guess she didn’t know about the evil that was residing in her husband’s heart because he didn’t have much use for my reading after she died. I didn’t consider it so strange that I had no nice memories of being a little one, no birthdays and the like.

Sometimes, when I thought really hard, there was the memory of a sound, a strange whistle or shriek that made my skin crawl so I tried not to think about it too much. Instead I smiled at myself in the mirror, looking at the pink cheeks scrubbed clean of rouge, my naturally almond shaped eyes bereft of the burnt cork I used to outline them. Hair brushed to a sheen and covered from chin to ankle in a soft cotton nightdress, I gawped at myself, for I looked the part of the innocent virgin pretty convincingly.

I sat on the edge of the brass bed, my fingers idly finding the pattern in the white coverlet atop it and waited, though I didn’t expect he would delay overlong. Men never did when it came to gettin’ their needs sought to.

Sure enough, pretty quick the door opened and he stepped through, glancing about the room before his eyes settled on me. The expression on his face was...sad? I couldn’t figure what he was thinking, so I waited in silence, like Madame had taught me. If he was one of those who liked to unburden himself before he unburdened himself, I just had to be patient.

He paced a moment, like he was gathering his thoughts and went to the table where there was a bottle. Sometimes they poured themselves a glass and sometimes they poured me one too. I didn’t like it much, the way it burned, but it did make everything fuzzy when I squinted, just like the belladonna.

He opened the bottle and then stopped, came over and sat next to me on the bed. I kept my eyes down, thinking he’d tell me where he wanted me to look. He cleared his throat, once, then once again and stood up quickly. He walked back to the table and, after pouring a drink, threw it back and cleared his throat once more.

“What is your name?” he asked me, something tangled in his voice. I looked up at him and he was staring intently at me.

“I am called La Petite.” He shook his head.

“No, not the name that woman downstairs gave you. What is the name your mother gave you?” I was confused, no one ever wanted to know my name. Sometimes men had a preference, something they wanted to call me because I reminded them of someone, but no one ever asked what my name had been before I came here. I thought back to the time before. Daddy always just called me girl. But mama, she called me...

“You can’t remember, can you?” He was there, on his knees beside the bed, as though he was about to pray, my hands in his. “You can’t remember because they never called you anything. Because they weren’t your parents. They lied to you, they used you. I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you but I have. And I’ve come to take you home.”

I never thought anything could make me feel as dizzy as the liquor did, but the room started spinning and my head started to hurt. The memory of that shrieking sound getting louder and louder until I couldn’t hear him anymore, his lips moving in a pale face with eyes as blue as september sapphires. And then darkness reached for me, and I fell gratefully into its quiet.

Arrows ground into her heart

And sand sank into her eyes

Blinding her and deafening her

Like a heavy wind

Thrashing her from side to side,

An odd and rhythmless

Dance

But she knew the Wind

And the Sand

And even the Arrows transformed into

Snakes

And twinned with her hair

Becoming a part of her

And she stapled the Sky with

Stone and plated it in

Bronze

And called it Her’s

And the Wind called only

Her name

And She named it back

Calling it

A name so potent

That now

It only speaks to Her dance

And Her skin

And the throb of blood through Her

Temples

And the men can’t understand that

The arrows they shot

And the sand they threw

Were less potent than the

Whiskey they use to

Dream at Night

Purple pools pale in comparison to

Purple skies silhouetting a

Blue and black mountain face

Broadside brushstroked with a

Shadow.

We only know Her through the

Smudges She sheds on a stream, a

Reflection of a

Mirror seen out of the corner of our

Eyes.

Don’t look too close,

Too long,

Or you will see the lie

She is telling.

Breath in too quick,

Blink too slowly,

And she’ll

Disappear

In the last, whispered light of

Dusk.

She never liked the darkness, the way it played with her mind, her eyes, her hands wiping the sweat from her brow. That’s why she lived in the perpetual, effulgent neon of the city and that’s why she didn’t like the sunset. She didn’t care about the colors cascading from the horizon or the way poetry and watercolor paintings bled from pen and brush in order to capture its beauty. Sunset pulled the curtain of night, of darkness, of fear over her head. But, she couldn’t know (and, perhaps, didn’t want to know) that somewhere far in the desert away from the dome of light shielding her from shadow, in the wide expanses of dust and sage and wild horses and unknown horrors, was the delicate touch of light that came from ten billion stars spilt from the Milky Way. She couldn’t see them past the mask she created with her hands. 

A long leg sun stretch left him momentarily blinded by her high waist shirt ride arms akimbo and somehow tangled in her own hair, which seemed to perpetually threaten to mess itself up if he wouldn't.

So he did.

And lay there while she drifted, twisting those titian tresses between fingers that he considered hard and rough, yet somehow made her soft skin sigh with delight. The sun teased with a trajectory that should have inspired him to do all the things that daylight demanded of him, but the way her legs wrapped his suggested he stay.

So he did. 

I woke up hungry and I called for you,

But there was no answer because you were gone.

I lay there and I tried not to think

tried not to focus

on the empty space inside me where you used to be.

I rolled over and I closed my eyes tight,

Whispered ’no, I’m not crying

These tears are a parting gift,

compensation for the prizes I didn’t win,

but thanks for coming out and being on the show.’

I wrapped my arms around myself,

I tried not to pretend they were yours,

But just between you and me...

Wait, the only thing between you and me

is the heavyweight quiet of a house where you don’t live anymore.

I didn’t realize how much room you took up

Until you took all that life with you.

What you left behind? It isn’t death

Death is not empty.

But at this moment,

I am.

It broke my heart that you didn’t say goodbye.

Just pushed me away in increments,

the silence pressing against my skin,

A surface tension stretched tight with unmet need.

I saw the fire dying, though I was still feeding it,

and you didn’t have the strength to tell me it had already gone out.

You didn’t want to be the one to hurt me

But that grim line that used to be a smile ripped me in two.

I think this is how a hedgehog must feel

on those days when it forgets

Which way to curl

And all the prickles stab from the inside out.

But hiding only works for so long.

Even with breath held and mind quiet

The dull thump in the centre of my chest

Pushes back against the sticky temptation of inertia

A tick-tock

to-do list

moments count

2..3..4

and 1 more time..

A consistent beat that finds its way

everywhere

To ears

To fingers

To toes

A slow motion woodpecker rat-a-tat

Poking holes in my theory that I can’t go on

Without you. 

Alone at last

My home is vast

No walls for rooms

No room for the past

My thoughts run fast

Once caught, they blast

Plastered in my mind

A bastard with pride

Through faith I will find

And create with my bride

As we come together, my thoughts & I

I learn that time is on my side

My craft will sharpen, to pierce the eye

The ones who see, can no longer hide

The truth I will show

And never stoop below

In hopes of inspiring seeds to grow

What if you could wish for anything in the world?

What if your wishes caused your death?

The sun blinded Alyssa's eyes when she opened them. Where was she?

A boat. She was on her own in a rowboat. How did she get there? She didn’t remember anything about her past, only her name. The years of her life had disappeared in an instant.

She was looking for something. She loved mysteries, unexplainable things. Was that why she was here, to try to trace the origin of a legend? People died because of it. Even though she couldn’t remember a lot, she knew it was important.

She gazed into the endless deep of the dark ocean. The reflection staring back wasn’t hers. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. If she didn’t find land, she would starve or die from dehydration. Taking the oars, she attempted to paddle underneath the scorching sun. Slow and steadily, the boat began listening to the movement of her oars.

Time passed but she didn’t notice. Before she knew it, the moon rose. She curled up in the boat, tired and miserable, and tried to sleep. She didn’t know how long it would take for someone to find her. With her lack of skills, she doubted that she would manage to reach land if there was any.

“The mirror in the lake.”

A nightmare jolted her awake. For a moment she forgot where she was, but it all sunk in. Rain started to pour. I will die, she thought. She tried to remember what she was looking for. The people that had died because of it. How? Why? Their bodies were never found, but their deaths had been confirmed. Alyssa's friend had told her something before. She remembered their face, but not the words that had left their lips. It was important. Something about an island. A mirror. A lake.

An island. The wind whispered her thoughts. If only she could find one now. If only she could find help.

An ominous rumble of thunder cracked in the sky. The sea began to tip. The waves pounded against the sides of the boat. The dull sound of splintering wood alerted her to the presence of a frighteningly large gash at the bottom of the boat. With nothing at her disposal, there was no escape.

A current of water rushed towards her as the sea climbed into the boat. The thought of death didn’t scare her - it was the thought that no one would remember her. Lightning flashed the sky overhead as she stood on the edge of the boat and dived into the sea before it could sink.

Her clothes weighed her down as she struggled to keep her head above the water. The churning sea grabbed her and dragged her into the darkness, filling her lungs, stopping her heart.

The last thing she saw was the outline of an island above the water.

                                          *                       *                        *

The wind caressed her hair. Consciously, she felt the gentle kiss of the waves on her feet. When she moved to stand, the golden sand underneath her shifted.

An island. By some miracle, she had been saved. She didn’t know how or why, but it didn’t matter. As long as she was alive and had access to food and water, she was safe.

“The mirror in the lake.”

The voice from the trees was soft and soothing. Although something at the bottom of her heart reminded her to stop, she wanted to follow it instantly.

“Ask what you wish. Whatever you want, you will get.”

Something about the island is different. She wasn’t the smartest person in the world, but she wasn’t stupid. When she bent to scoop the golden sand, it evaded her fingers. A spark reminded Alyssa of something her friend had told her before the incident.

A lake. A mirror. A tree. An animal. A fruit. A wish.

How could she forget? It was something they repeated over and over. They warned her that she had to remember, she had to be prepared. She hadn't understood what they meant at the time. Frightened, she darted into the forest, not knowing where to go.

Before she knew it, she came across a lake. The glimmering water was mesmerising in the sunlight, but something was wrong with it. She stepped forward and looked into it with vigilance, only to see no bottom.

“Welcome to my lake.”

She spun around, but no one was there.

“I remember you, though your face is different.” The voice chuckled softly. “I wonder how long it will take you to figure this out.”

She wanted to turn around and run, but somewhere deep down told her to stay. A part of her longed to eat the fruits, drink the water, and sink into the sand. “Where are you? Who are you? Can you help me get back home?”

“I am the mirror in the lake. Come closer. Look into the water. I can tell you anything.”

She didn't move.

“A wise choice. That at least, you remember. Everything else should be forgotten.”

One by one, her muscles unfroze and she took a step back. “Remember what?” Curiosity took the better of her.

“I didn’t think you would. If you can pass my tests, you can return to your home, as you wish. Whatever you ask will be granted.”

Something about the mirror’s voice told her that wasn’t true. Something at the back of her mind warned her not to trust it. Still, she had no other choice but to play its game. “What trials?”

Before she heard the reply, she saw a glimmer of metal beneath the lake. When she took a step forward to look in, she saw a large, ornate mirror with intricate details. She wondered why it hadn’t been there before.

“Before you start your trials, I must warn you. Do you want to know what happened to the others before she?”

“Yes.” The word left Alyssa's mouth without her permission. When she blinked, she woke up in the lake next to the mirror. Her body was still up on the ground, but somehow, her conscious mind had moved. How?

“Let me tell you a story . . .”

                                                    *                *               * 

“Everyday, I wait patiently for you. You’ll have different faces, but I always know who you are. You find me when you’re lost. I am the island of hope, I save you from your deaths. You come, begging to be saved, to have water, food, and shelter. Sometimes you find me because they want to. Sometimes you want to be here. Sometimes you want to have your wishes granted.

All have the same wishes; food, water, shelter, rescue. I can grant any wish in the world, no matter how big or small. Most ask for the cost, but there isn’t any. I only want for them to pass my tests.

First, I ask them to take me out of the lake. I tell them I want to be free from the water. I can hear and see them clearer above ground. When they jump into the water, I laugh. In my reflection, they witness their every mistake and failure, every consequence they will suffer. They drown, full of misery and regret. The lake of despair.

Some use the vines to pull me up without touching the water. They’re smart, but not clever enough to stop me. I show them their victories, everything they have ever won, everyone they have ever beaten. The doorway of false truth reflects in the water, and they too die thinking they can reach it. The fabricated image of hope.

Those that remain undeterred through all this are congratulated. The next test is to get a fruit from the trees, eat it, and throw the seeds into the lake. And I’m sure you've noticed that the trees cannot be touched or caught. They run around for centuries trying to climb one, but never even get close. Some pick up the rotten fruits on the ground and try to grow a new tree. It’s a rare thing, to have the courage to grow such a tree. It feeds on their blood and attaches itself like a leech around her hand until it bears a fruit. If they haven’t died of blood loss by then, they take the beautiful fruit. What they don’t know is that although it smells sweet, it is poisoned and acidic. Death in an hour. But always, there are those extraordinary people who know what to do. They tame the animals around the island - whether they are squirrels or birds - and feed it to them. The seeds can be taken from their droppings, which are given to me. The animal dies. The human lives. The tree of exertion. The fruit of misconception. The animal of sacrifice.

After all this trouble I grant their wishes. I’m not cruel. I do what they ask me to do. I give them everything they want. They ask for food and water. Working with what I have, I give it to them. Not my fault they’re poisoned. They ask to go home. I drop them off. Not my problem if they’re hit by a car or killed on the way. Some even live for a while, but their sanity is completely destroyed. They ask for wealth. I bury them in it. They ask and ask and ask and never stop. I give them everything, and they don’t understand. Occasionally, I’ll get the request of destroying myself. They’re the ones that know what I really am, what I really do. I shatter in front of their eyes, the shards piercing them. I reconstruct. I cannot be destroyed. I am the mirror of truth. I grant wishes of illusion.”

                                              *                    *                    *

Alyssa sat at the edge of the lake, staring into the water. For a moment, she thought she saw the shadow of a person standing by the mirror, holding it.

“What will you do?”

“Nothing,” she stood and stared into the water. “You told me everything I needed to know. I’m not doing any of your tests.”

The shadow smiled. “The island of false hope. Do you remember anything about your past? The friends you might have had, the ones that died. The words you remember. A lake. A mirror. A tree. An animal. A fruit. A wish. When will you finally get your memories back? How many times have you come here? How many more will it take to realise you will never escape? When you die, where do you go? How many trees have been made from your bones, grown from your blood? The number of trees marks the number of times you have died here. I await for your next visit.” It flickered and disappeared, and somehow she knew that it wouldn’t return.

She had been here forever, and she had never noticed. Time would repeat itself, and she knew what would happen after she died. For the rest of her life, she stayed on the island, which wasn’t as long as she had hoped. The only fresh water on the island was poisoned, and she didn’t trust the fruits, trees, or animals. She died at the edge of the lake, becoming part of the island. Her bones built trees, and fruits were grown out of her organs.

                                               *                   *                  *

The sun blinded Alyssa's eyes when she opened them. She was on her own in a rowboat. She gazed into the endless deep of the dark ocean. The reflection staring back wasn’t hers. Her face has changed. She didn’t remember anything except her own name. She remembered a list of words, something important. A lake. A mirror. A tree. An animal. A fruit. A wish.

She saw an island in the distance. Before it disappeared in the fog, she saw the glint of the mirror in the lake, and the shadow of a person waving at her.

Over a year ago, we both swam and sun-bathed at the dingy community pool in between his apartment and mine. I wore my pink Barbie bikini and he was clad in swim trunks, the make and model I am unsure because, goodness gracious, his body was gold. And when I say that I mean a six-pack and flawless skin: not a freckle, wrinkle or blemish. I was instantly attracted and saying to myself: "He must be my future husband." In addition, he had two little girls with him: his beautiful daughters... so therefore, I then believed that he was off-limits. He must have a bride already. Yikes. Surprisingly, however, he approached me and asked me to "meet," explaining that he had been recently separated from his last partner and that he thought I was the one with the rockin body. Well, I politely declined because at the time I was practicing a "dating sabbatical." I vowed to God that I would. Oh heavens, yes. As a 26-year-old woman. Whether that was foolish or wise, I may never know. So, I told him that I wasn't meeting, dating, or talking to any men romantically for a full year. This decision was made before I met him, and it was a religious commitment to maybe somehow re-purify myself? All that being said... a year passed! Just like time tends to do. And now it was Easter, the month of April, in Texas. The bluebonnets were in full-bloom and it wasn't too hot yet. The winds were blowing and stirring up my spirit of hope and human dignity. I accidentally saw him and his daughters with pastel-colored Easter baskets walking away from me at the front yard. It was then that I felt prompted to ask this man for his forgiveness. I approached him and said, "Tarik, please forgive me for putting you off and ignoring you all year." He said, "No rush, but remind me why?" I came up with the lousy excuse that I was just distracted and that, also, by the way, extra fun information: I was moving to Las Vegas in a month! So, we did the next most logical thing. He took his daughters to stay with their grandmother and he drove me to the local park. We had timid and simultaneously passionate sex in the woods that same day. It was hot, on several levels. Between then and now, we've had many beautiful days. Days driving to get the best fried chicken we could find, days marveling at the horses of local pastures, and days at the local pool. Finally, this past Tuesday, he took me to the airport and now we're four states away from one another. What's a girl to do? I know. She's to write the full account of her love story with a Moroccan transplant online. A tribute, a guide for the future... whatever this may turn out to be. I pray that with all my mistakes, they may be twisted out for good like royal stardust. In the name that all that is noble, coincidental, sacred and carnal.