Izumi’s round, chocolatey eyes are wide as water dribbles down the various curves of her chubby cheeks. Her small, plump lips part slightly to reveal two, pearly white buck teeth. The shock of the trip disjoints her from the reality of the cold water dripping from her drenched clothes.

I hook a hand around her elbow and pull her close to soak in some of her much needed warmth.

“This,” her voice is shaky,”—is so awesome!”

The heat from her body disappears as she trails after Hina’s yellow figure in the distance. Before the poor spirit can even begin to predict what might occur next, Izumi has tackled her into a tight hug that is only relieved when Izumi has had her fill.

I follow the commotion with a tentativeness I thought I had forgotten months ago. I watch my friend carefully, and immediately, I’m transported to a different moment in time. Back in Japan, in the school halls, when her supple hands cupped mine. The classroom, at the back, beside the window, the sun pouring in like a spotlight on her round, red lips. The smell of soup on her breath as she blew in frustration about the grade she had received on her test. The way the fat beneath her eyes bunched up when she spoke of the boy who saved her from a ball yesterday. The glint in her eyes when she spoke of love.

The plastic bag wrapped loosely around my wrist slams repeatedly against my calf. My sneakers protect my feet from the rough, rubicund desert plains below, as if I might be walking on air. I keep my eyes trained on Izumi. She cannot see me, though I wish she did. Her thick hair sways in the slight breeze, and her thick, round fingers curl gracefully as she moves. She parts from Hina, and there is nary a stumble in the act. Her feet almost flutter with every step.

Kai is an idiot. A big idiot. He’s so lucky.

My cheeks feel hot. Why are they hot? And my stomach, it twists with such force that I’m sure I could throw up.

“You okay?”

I jolt.

Izumi is close now. I can smell the scent of cherry perfume. The kind she sprays on each page of her diary because she finds the action “romantic.” Her red lips are glossy. They look like they taste like cherry.

I shake myself from the trance and hold up my bag of crinkling cans. I reach in and pull out red crème soda I had bought a couple days ago with Hina’s help. Izumi had always gone on and on about trying American snacks. I jostle the bag. “I brought something.”

With much haste, she takes the soda in her palms. “Great.” The can hisses quietly, then clucks as Izumi opens it up and downs it. She smacks her lips together, eyebrows set low on her face, clearly thinking awfully hard about the flavor of the soda. “Tastes like juice,” she notes. Izumi turns to me and shoves the drink beneath my nose. “You try some.”

I softly push it away and dig into my own bag for my own drink. I tilt the can to her in a silent gesture before cracking it open to take one long sip of the soda.

All the while, I can feel Izumi’s eyes trained on me, mouth frozen over the open, fizzing hole in her can.

I smile, grimace as the soda prickles at my throat on the way down and then raise my eyebrows toward her. “Good. Right?”

Whatever trance had struck her, she shook herself from it and lowered her gaze to her drink. Her fingers tap the sides of the can. A new aura accompanies her. One different from the bursting energy that flaunts in her every step. It’s almost as if the basicness of reality had settled around her, and she welcomed it in.

“Is this about, Ninomiya Kai?”

She shakes her head, a soft smile flickering on her lips. “It’s just…I thought this was it. I had met the love of my life, but it’s kinda silly when you think about it.” She sheepishly rubs the back of her head.

“No. It’s not.” I step closer to her.

Izumi laughs, “I’m kind of delusional.”

“I like that,” I bark back, “-I like that about you. It makes you charming.” God. Why are my cheeks so hot? Why is it hard to look her in the eyes? Why is her warmth suffocating me, but in a good way?

When reality finally returns to me, I notice her gaze had dropped down to the rim of the soda can. Her fingers are fiddling with the metallic knob nearly twisted from place. “What if…I’m not meant for love?”

I grab her by the shoulders, which prompts her eyes to meet mine. Of course, with those giant, golden orbs trained so specially on me it’s hard to focus. Sometimes, my eyes flicker to the ground, and a long stutter tumbles from my lips, “No. That’s not true.” For once, I’m glad she is solely focused on me, because I want her to see me, really see me. “Izumi, you’re the most wonderful, beautiful, and intelligent girl I know. You’re, like, an enigma. Any guy would be lucky to have you, and if you did fall in love…” My eyes fall from her face to the floor to the lips, extra red from the dye in the cream soda. They probably taste sweet. I force my gaze back toward her eyes only to find my sights unmatched. Her stare is captured on my face, but somewhere lower.

“Finish. Finish your sentence,” she whispers lowly.

I heave in. “If you did fall in love…the magic would be you.”

A strange energy pulls us closer to each other until our lips meet. The water dripping from our skin mixes and swells as my lips move in perfect sync with hers. Just as I had imagined, she tastes like red crème soda. My hands snake around her shoulders and pull her closer. Red crème soda is my favorite. And I’m not sure when, but my breath runs dry, and we have to pull away for air, and despite the cold water cloaking me so dutifully, my whole body is flushed with heat. I want to throw up. Because what if she hated it. But she’s smiling, slight blush strewn across her cheeks.

My heart stops, making me realize it was racing earlier.

I bend my neck to press my forehead against hers.

She laughs.

It makes me laugh. Then, I press my lips to hers again.

My nail tech

Her hands were rough; nails cracked and shaved down to small, rounded nubs that belonged to her knobby fingers. Small rivers existed beneath her thin skin, infusing a certain meekness to her that didn’t exist. Her grip was strong but soft enough that it didn’t crush my bones. Meticulousness lived inside each motor skill she performed as the wand of the polish swayed back and forth to pain my nails. She had a thin face, cheeks that sagged, and glasses drooping down her nose. The brown of her eyes wandered from my hands every now and then to listen to the conversation occurring a couple inches beside the both of us. She hated to be still. My tech was a kind woman, and you would not have had to ask. She was attentive to the concerns of those around her, breaking from her task to fly about the salon and aid her coworkers in their own work.

She was the kind of woman who fiercely scrubbed dirt stains from her pots and succeeded. Hand soaked the clothes of her grandchildren in gentle soaps and air dryed each garment to ensure no fabric would become too altered. Her smile was kind and genuine; a mystery behind her focused gaze. Had I garnered the courage to ask, I wonder if I might have unlocked each secret and wonder crossing my mind. As the woman painted my nails, I knew that I was just a character in her vast universe. Some background to a life that belonged to her and only her, and when I left, she thought not much and continued on her day with those cryptic calloused hands.

She was a glittering star in the sea of blackness, if a star could ever compare to her shining visage. Before I knew to call her name, I had not known the soft warmth gently thudding against my heart and only imagined it. Yet, the imagination could not commence to detail the collision of atoms synthesizing but demolishing all at once from a single brush of her fingertips through the silky sleeve of my dress. Her alluring, brown eyes often flickered from me to the floor when a gaping, but brimming, silence befell us, noses only inches apart as the air pulled us closer to each other. Her gaze was ever more tentative, and her limbs stiff until the repelling and attracting forces were all too overwhelming for me to take any longer. In a stolen moment of silence, I closed the distance, and our lips brushed.

The sudden action left her inert against the wall with only the keen intent of my lips to progress the moment, until her fingers twitched, and her eyes fluttered shut. She leaned forward, a small breath brushing my lips as she pressed closer to me. Her hands groped for a holding along my body until they found refuge among the mounds of my shoulders.

I sunk deeper into her kiss, imagining if I were a man. Then perhaps my palms wouldn’t be so balmy at the idea of my father or brother walking in on us. What could happen if I’m caught, my heart bursting so affluently for a woman. A woman! How preposterous and fantastical! But nothing had ever felt so proper. Could I truly die for something so sacrilegious? Was this not the strong desire to sin I’ve been taught to quell?

The red light from the stain glass pane, depicting god in his human form gazing upon humanity with a steely gaze burns through my vision. Fire licks at the bare bottoms of his pale feet, his fingers pointing squarely at the hungry flames. His fire will consume all sinners, and only the pure of heart shall survive the scorching holocaust. I’m doused in his righteousness, fazing my father and brother and the liturgy from my brain. I clasp my hands together, my heart raging with memories of her. Her. Please. My clammy palms sting prodigiously as my fingernails dig into my knuckles, falling upon my trembling knees with tears watering the corners of my eyes. Cleanse me of my sinful desires, Lord. Make me worthy.

“When you take this book and also this medal, you are signing these words, not only on paper, but across your heart,” The strong, rigid voice of my father rings in my ears.

“I believe,” I whisper softly, hardly able to squeeze the words out from my tightening throat. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks, but I manage to fight them back.

“Repeat after me,” He starts, “Like the man who killed his son on the mount, I shall show tireless faith in the word of the lord, and in turn, lead my nation through his good will so that we may all pursue the pearl gates beyond this life and the next.”

The words slide off my tongue flawlessly as if they were kindred to my soul, and the ideas were wrapping the middle of my finger in a thin band. No other life is worth pursuing than the one in front of me.

“Through honesty…”

I echo the words.

“…fidelity…”

This is what I’m meant to do.

“…resilience against sin…”

I hesitate as if my tongue might be groping for the right words, which were said moments before. Surely my memory could not be so poor. No. What’s stopping me is her face. Her tear-filled gaze that night, but I chose morality over vice…right? Can I take it back? Could I ever rescind every bursting emotion and dewy word fallen from my lips? Could I forget her own trade of sweet nothings and desolate affection? For only a second, would his fiery light pare the pain of incinerating her face from my mind.

“You are god.”

She stopped in whatever she was doing. If I close my eyes and concentrate for long enough, I recall her pen had been wagging vigorously to deeply impress the ink of her pen upon her page, the sonorous scribbling halting for a moment. A small smile flickered across her face. Her eyes shone as she leaned closer to me, “Isn’t that sacrilegious?” Her proximity was intoxicating as her hot breath brushed my lips. Would she close the distance? When I said that, I was certain, and glimpsing her, with our lips practically touching, I’m sure it’s true. The ecstasy I’d been expecting to feel, the deep satisfaction, had come, and it stayed when I thought of her face and remembered her kiss.

She wrapped her dark fingers in my pale ones and pressed the back of my hands to her lips.

“No being is holier,” I whispered lowly, closing the distance as our lips brushed, “-than you.”

“Resilience against sin,” I reiterate. The words slide from the mouth of a stranger, even if the tongue speaking the words is my own.

A moment in time had come as fleetingly as it left, when love was as simple as the feeling, and the world and her repercussions were white noise in the splendor of it all. If only that moment could last forever, then perhaps my heart wouldn’t ache as it does.

“…fear of he who is greater than us all...”

“You are ashamed of me.” She announced, barricading me from her soul through the downcast expression on her face.

I moved to reach her, but she backed away as if my touch might be the sun itself reaching out to obliterate the atoms in her body, “Am I wrong?”

“I won’t hide,” she says with a tight voice.

For once, her brown eyes meet mine, and they shine with an unsung vigor alighting in her gaze. She had cut her fine, black hair, and it was so short that it curled tightly against her skull. At that moment, I wasn’t sure she was the same woman I met over a year ago.

“-and I won’t accept your shame.”

Everything was perfect as it was. We found our space. We found our corner in our own pocket of the universe that we could keep secret from the rest of the world. But she wants more, and I cannot give that to her. I am the daughter of the official of god in the Free Republic. The scandal would be enough to have me disowned and then killed. Aside from death, what would come of me after? As I would stand before my lord to await judgement, he’d gaze upon me with his merciless stare, declaring me too arrogant and sinful to enter the heavens. What is there not to be ashamed of? I wish to grasp this ecstasy and keep it pure for as long as I can. Leave the prying eyes to rest, and we’ll have all that we require.

Noticing the questions written across my face, she sighed, “There is no future for us here. So let’s just end it.”

Her voice wobbled, and I imagined it had an awfully painful aspect to it as well. Her pupils glittered as she struggled to relegate the tears behind red eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“You never do.” She wiped the sleeve of her shirt against her eyes.

I thought everything we had was perfect as it was. I never thought that whatever obscure word for what we had could have been as fragmented as shattered glass. She left, fire blazing at her heels as if she was going to tear this society to shreds if it were the last act she’d ever commit.

Her words were astringent and scorching as she reframed the lens of society in new ideas. Ideas that purged the very foundations of god’s name. Ideas that poured egg yolk, mixing with the blood from her nose, down her face. She always looked pallid after the first issue of her pamphlet was released, but the flames in her eyes had not died. Even when her cheeks were plump from random attacks, and her ribs shown through her thin skin because drinking and eating meant imbibing potential poison, nothing quenched her hunger.

Blessed are those who seek justice, for their worries shall be quelled.

Never have I seen a woman with such a sickly and abused countenance, look as if she’d taken a breath for the first time since her birth. I was convinced…I am convinced that she is god, and the person rushing with such fervor towards death is not her, but me.

“…fear of she who is greater than us all…”

My father heaves in to speak again, but he stops, a guttural sound emitting from his throat, “She?” He raises a brow, staring at me with that stern gaze that screams, ‘Embarrass me and you will be punished severely.’

“Yes,” I respond, standing to my feet. The man in that stained glass, revered as holier than all existence is not the visage of the god I know. He must be the devil himself, “-she,” I punctuate.

My father’s finger twitches beneath the leather cover of the bible in his hand. I’m sure, that he wishes to strike me, but he must keep the image of a benevolent man in front of his congregation. So, he will not raise a hand against me…for now.

Before another word is spoken, loud clamoring sounds from beyond the church walls, stealing the moment and the words from us all. Not a single being moves, only listening to the colluded shouting that fails to trail into comprehendible words, until my feet break the air. Beneath the edges of the door, shadows blot the light, and yet the shine prevails, glittering against the marble floor. The doors are outlined in the faint glow of the sun from beyond the church, and it calls me as powerfully as the first time I saw her face.

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, and I hold my breath. Had anyone spoken a word to me, I could never know. I burst through the church doors and stumble into the throng of factory workers and brown faces, spilling from all sides of the street. Where have they come from? Where are they going?

Shoulders push me forward and back, and should I fall, their holey shoes would trample me to pieces. A small girl, staggering over her untied laces, trips as another man steps on the ragged strings. She disappears underneath the legs and the feet of the angry protestors, crying out for a second before struggling to her feet to continue on her march.

“She didn’t do anything wrong!” A man calls from beside me. I turn to him. His ears are tinged red, and his hands shake as he holds up his picket sign. Only three fingers number the digits attached to his hand, a nasty scar trailing down from the length of his wrist to the tip of his elbow.

“Who?” I ask, trying to keep pace with the angered crowd.

“Aaliyah Justice,” The man responds, “Y’know, the one writing all those articles for us.”

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. That eerie feeling from earlier must have been correct, and yet, I must see for myself. I must see with my own eyes. It can’t be true.

I find it hard to speak after the epiphany, struggling to keep my vision clear of the stinging tears threatening to spill down my face, and the rolling ball dragging through my throat. For a while, the protest carries on, and I’m unsure of how far we’ve walked, for all I can image is her face. But when we finally come to a stop at the city hall, I’m sure we’ve trekked a long distance from the ache radiating out the bottoms of my feet.

I wish I could be wrong. I wish I could live in denial for much longer, because the woman I loved, the woman who is god, the woman with the last light of truth is tied to a long wooden pole with stakes laid at her feet. She will be executed for speaking the truth.

A young woman of a golden complexion and brown eyes like Aaliyah’s cries out, “Aaliyah!” She repeats the name, staggering to the front of the crowd. She tries to edge closer, but the guards shove her back. She collapses against the ground, and peers at the woman through a teary-eyed gaze. I recognize her. She’s Alopay. Aaliyah’s ultimatum. Aaliyah’s reason for breath. The person whose existence drives her to be the woman burning at the stake. Alopay Justice.

Aaliyah meets her adopted younger-sister’s gaze, not with despair, but with fire. A smile etches its way onto her lips, almost as if she’s saying, ‘Your turn.’ Were we watching a woman die? Or were we watching the birth of a new era? Aaliyah didn’t make any of us feel that this was a moment of loss. No. In some twisted, radical way, she won, and now that she’s won, she’s beckoning us to follow the path she laid out.

The executioner lights the pyre, but a woman didn’t burn to death right then. We watched a phoenix rise into the sky, and yet, the tears poured down my face as the scent of burning flesh wafted the air. I turned, not caring whose shoes I ruined, and vomited against the ground with the salty water pouring down my face. For once, I didn’t feel like the foolish one of us two. It was her.

Why did she go so far? Why didn’t she try to live? Perhaps, because her existence was a protest of itself. So, how could she live in a state like that, but no matter how hard I try to understand, I still wonder why what she had wasn’t enough. A guttural scream raises from my lips, and the crowd surged forward. I sat there, buried under the throng’s anger and pain. She didn’t say a word, but I knew her last testament, and by god, I would understand why it wasn’t enough…even if it takes me to the stake.

My late-step-father didn’t have many up sides to him. He was a drunk, an abusive fuck, and the murderer of my late-mother, Margaret. Of course, he’d never admit it, and her death would be labeled as a disappearance, but I’ve always known the truth. It wasn’t until I figured I might be his next target that I pushed him down the stairs. I was only hoping to break his spine, but of course he had to up and die and I had to put in extra work to make sure I wasn’t caught.

Of course, I decided that rather than allowing him to cause me anymore trouble, I could use his death to my advantage. So that’s how I wound up in the attic, rummaging through my step-father’s things.

I’d found a bunch of useless toys like basbeball bobble heads and sports cards and a harvard degree in forensics. He had an old record player, a couple stuffed animals, old comics, and a total of 3 psychology workbooks in the few boxes pushed against the far end of the attic, past all of my precious mother’s things. At best, the junk would get me 30 dollars. It certainly wasn’t worth cleaning the cobwebs out of the attic.

It was when I reached the last box that I was slightly grateful for all the tedious work. It sat inconspicuously beneath the window in the center of the room. The sun barely grazed the edges of the tiny cardboard box. Cobwebs wrapped around it like a shield. I swatted them away, picked it up, and opened it up and what I found inside was a pair of those classic comic book glasses. They were ginormous. Two, round lenses intensely peered at me. It sat neatly on a velvet pillow inside the box. A namecard labeled it, ‘Dimension Hopping Glasses’.

Usually, I wouldn’t believe in such frivolous stuff, but the concept itself was so intriguing I found myself snatching the box up to study further. Perhaps they actually worked. I leaped down the attic steps and raced into my room.

My desk sat undisturbed in front of my window. The sun shone its light down on the desk surface. It was practically calling me. I plopped down in my trusty chair. I’ve owned it since 4th grade. Pieces of foam peek out from between the seams and the leather is frayed away.

I tenderly set the glasses to the side and search the box. I eventually find instructions. The instructions themselves directed you on reality shifting. The methods sounded like ones on tik tok except they incorporated the glasses and claimed to be the real deal.

So, of course, thinking, even if it doesn’t work, if I sell it right, I can cheat someone out of a hundred bucks, if it does work, maybe even millions, I gathered the rest of my late-step-father’s materials. Tomorrow was garage sale day, so I had to be sure these glasses weren’t cheap cereal toys.

By the time I finished with moving the boxes from the attic, night fell and my body had grown tired. So when I lied in bed with those glasses on, I immediately passed out.

“And ta-da...I’m here!” I gesture proudly.

Charles Dickens is certainly a character I never expected to find upon my first dimension hopping experience. But I guess, in these particular circumstances, it is always best to expect the unexpected. His face is long in shape. A beard extends like drapes from his round chin, and his thin lips are practically covered by his bushy stash. His eyes droop, syncopated with the bags beneath his eyes. His hair splits down the middle and loosely curls around his flat cheeks. He screams depressed artist.

He strokes his beard and contemplates what I’ve said for a mere second. Of course, because an artist can only be prideful, he opens his mouth to counter me instead, “More like I arrived here.”

I place my hands on my hips and raise a brow, “How so?”

A knowing smirk spreads across his face. He digs his hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a rock.

I lean in close to examine it. Sure, it’s shiny, but it’s nothing to write home about. It lacks glint and glamor and looks more like a crystal you’d buy at a gas station.

“This?” I question.

He doesn’t appear satisfied with my reaction. A wry expression falls upon his face. He clenches his fist and stuffs it back into his large, coat pocket, “It’s magic.” He protests.

“My glasses story makes more sense than yours,” I point out.

“They make about the same amount of sense!” Charles responds.

I glare, leaning back against my headboard. I cross my arms, “Charles-Can I call you Charles?”

He glowers.

Charles it is.

“You know, I’ve never read a single one of your books, but from what I hear, they’re deemed the worst piece of literature in the world by all english students. Honestly, people are demanding your unintelligent slop be taken out of the education system.”

That’s not true, but he doesn’t know that.

Charles goes red in the face. He stands, “Well,” He points, but his anger seems to cloud his thoughts as he searches for an insult, “You’re an orphan AND a murderer!”

I glare, “I was a potential murderee not a murderer.”

I push my glasses up my face, “This dimension sucks,” I grumble, crossing my arms. Maybe I should sell these glasses for free. No one should have to deal with an impudent character like Charles Dickens.

“First time you’ve been right all night,” Dickens says, crossing the room to my window. He leans against my desk,

I stare at him as he examines the scenery before him. The flickering streetlight. The damp pavement. The houses across the street. The faint sound of cicada chirping. All of it. He soaks it in and pushes away from the window.

“Do you know why I’ve come here, of all places?” Charles asks.

Pretending I’ve conceded to his point about him being the dimension hopper instead of the hoppee, I respond, “I met you today.”

Charles snickers at the comment. He turns back to look outside, “I need help looking for something...something precious...my next big book if you will.”

“What?” I question.

“Can you get me a copy of a Tale of Two Cities by yours truly?” He waits at the edge of my bed for my answer.

I mean....I can, but, “What’s in it for me?”

Then he smiles, “You can have my rock and actually travel dimensions.”

“How will you travel dimensions and get more of your books then?”

“I have my methods.”

I raise an eyebrow. I’m not a good people reader but I’m actually just hoping my intense stare will make him crack and confess any lies. I’m not usually so hasty....that’s a lie I am, but if a copy of a tale of two cities is easy to come by. I could get one at the thrift store for 3 bucks.

I nod, and hold out my hand, “Well, if you don’t keep to your promises I’ll track you down.”

“It’s a deal,” Dickens responds.