The Night Garden: A Collection of Poetry and Short Stories

Wake up at 4:00 am, thinking it’s much later than it really is.

Rub your eyes in a lazy attempt to keep them open.

Drag yourself up into a sitting position, grabbing your phone from its resting place.

Push the on button, preparing yourself to be blinded by an inferno of blue light.

But alas, you can never be fully prepared and your eyes are scorched. 

Check the time, trying to prove to yourself that you still have plenty of time to sleep.

Two hours left.

But now you’ve gone and woken yourself up, and any further attempts to fall asleep will only exhaust you more.

Haul yourself onto your feet, feeling the warm carpet beneath your toes.

It offers brief and unlasting comfort on this cold winter morning. 

Open the creaky door to your bedroom, hoping you won’t wake anyone up.

Trudge over to the bathroom.

Turn to the mirror.

And look at the face of a strange creature.

Having just emerged from your room, you haven’t seen your reflection in over twelve hours.

And it’s a lot to take in.

Your hair is perched messily at the top of your head, in what looks like a Neanderthal's first attempt at a manbun.

Your arms are limp, weighing down your shoulders.

And your eyes.

Surrounded by pools of black, proving even further you haven’t slept properly in weeks.

As if.

You didn’t have the energy to cry

So all of your thoughts.

All of your depression.

All of your tears.

Poured into the pools beneath your eyes.

Ziggy stood in front of his closet, assessing the possibilities for the day’s outfit. It didn’t really matter anyways; he always chose pretty much the same thing: a plain shirt, pants or jeans, and white or black socks (The color varied depending on the weather) Nevertheless, Ziggy insisted that assessing was necessary. It’s what brains are for, after all. One day, he might want to wear something different, and if he missed that day just because of being lazy, he would never know about it. 

After looking over a few things, Ziggy decided that it would be one of the days he would just wear something plain. A blue T-shirt, jeans, white socks, and sneakers. Ziggy changed and ran a brush through his brown hair before feeding Sir Pancakes, the family hamster. Sir Pancakes was a soft, plump blonde hamster that could, in fact, turn into a pool of fur with a shape similar to a pancake. Ziggy’s little sister, Lizzy had named him. 

Sir Pancakes slouched lazily on his hamster wheel, tiny paws peeking out underneath his fur. Ziggy opened Sir Pancakes’ cage and rubbed his nose. The hamster squeaked affectionately. 

Just then, Lizzy bolted out of her bedroom, blond curls in two fluffy pigtails. Her green eyes gleamed with excitement. Sir Pancakes retreated into his toy castle. Lizzy made her way over to Ziggy in exaggerated hops. Ziggy looked down at his four-year-old sister and sighed.

“Food.” Lizzy said simply, with no further explanation.

“Food?” Ziggy asked.

“FOOD.” She repeated affirmatively. 

Ziggy then understood. After a while, he had become accustomed to Lizzy’s strange way of asking for things.

By the time that Ziggy had convinced Lizzy that No animals are harmed in the making of waffles, both parents had come out into the kitchen and were helping make breakfast.             

This was definitely Ziggy’s favorite foster home by far.       

Sam gazed at himself in the mirror.  It wasn’t him he was staring at. It was his terrible, unloyal body. It felt as if his reflection was mocking him. His long hair went down to his waist. His fake smile was coated in lipstick. He could still feel his mother pulling him in by the chin and spreading that stupid pink lipstick over his lips. His tears had stained his cheeks and smudged the pink solution. His mind flashed with memories of his mother tugging him into his room and forcing him into that horrid dress. His throat was still sore from screaming, screaming at her to stop, screaming for help, screaming because he didn’t know what else he could do. 

" SWITCH" 

Imagine.

Imagine if before we are born, our souls float needlessly in another side of

this realm, patiently waiting to be fit into our shells.

Imagine our souls are destined to be contained by a certain body.

Maybe, my soul just had a little trouble on the way there. Maybe he just got a

bit lost.

Perhaps the wind whisked my soul astray and forced it into the wrong shell.

Perhaps my soul fought, weeping and yelling. Maybe it plead to the universe,

crying out a last apology to its future self, who would have to fight twice as

hard to earn its body back.

If my soul was lost, caged in a body that was not its own, then whose was it?

What poor girl found herself stranded in a shell that was supposed to belong

to me?

What if she, like me, found her journey to be a stormy sea and was tossed off

the ship?

Trapped. Captive. Imprisoned. 

If only the universe would grant us the ability to return to our proper bodies.

If only I could take it back now, give her the shell that grew to represent

someone so different from me. 

If only we could switch.