On Monday we spoke French.
Tuesday we spoke Spanish.
Wenesday we spoke Mandarin Chinese
Thursday we spoke High Arabic
Friday we spoke German
And on the weekends we spoke English.

So it took them all longer to learn to speak than it did most children. But by the age of five, they were all fluent in six languages.

Everyday we were arisen at 7am to the music of some classical composer.
Over breakfast we would learn about that composer, the period during which he composed, and about the particular piece of pieces we were hearing. We also learned about the instuments being played and how to pick them out. We were shown pictures on cards.
For breakfast, we would have something of one of the cultures under the umbrella of the language we spoke that day.
Sunday Swimming lessons. Monday Piano lessons. Tuesday Ice skating lessons. Wednesday Skiing lessons. Thursday Karate lessons. Friday Dance lessons. Saturday Etiquette lessons.
Over lunch, we learned about philoshophy. Sometimes it was just a single posed question and the ensuing discussion. Sometimes it was the life story of an ancient philosopher.
For lunch we always had something simple and healthy. A sandwhich, a salad, a soup.
Afternoons could be anything. Museums, parks, sights. Car rides, afternoons in the living room. Drawing, playing games (chess).
Over dinner we discussed politics. Sometimes it was a single issue and or thoughts. Other times it was the story of an ancient regime... or a current one. Never told what to think, always asked.
For dinner we tried all sorts of different meals. All foreign. Not all delicious. The deal was we had to try. And if we really didn't like it, we were given the option of making ourselves spaghetti. Spaghetti wasn't our favourite food, but it was okay.
After dinner, we watched the news. Always in the language of the day. Six different perspectives of often the same stories. We also knew that a story was important if we heard it at least three languages. Also, one week we watched the Quebec news, while another week news from Madagascar. One week we watched Spanish news, and the next we watched Colombian news.
After the news, we read. The books were organized on the shelves in order of difficulty with the Grimm tales at the beginning and Ezra Pound and William Faulkner at the end. The first were read to us. And the rest we read ourselves.
While we took our baths, we discussed what we had read. The bath was a pool. All four of us fit.
After our baths, we were given a cup of juice of milk and were allowed to watch half an hour of so of a movie.

No wonder they shocked their teachers, and were bored by their classmates.

The eldest was grateful for the way she was raised, the languages she knew, the awereness she had, and the rationality she carried. But she never loved knowledge, loved language. She saw the practical aspect and used it to the fullest. She became the senior manager of a large private Chinese company. She ran the show, eveyone on her staff depended on her. Her eyes were piercing, they saw through everything. And the staff believed that their eyes would never see as far. So they never tried. But they worked hard, at her command.
The second oldest may have been grateful for everything he knew and understood, but he never showed it to anyone. He was absolutely brilliant, but it seemed that that brilliance never wanted to leave his head. He went through school without taking any language courses or advanced course. But the courses he took, he aced, to the teachers' dismay who knew he could do so much more. He went to university. Accidentally attracted the attention of all his professors and graduated at the top of his class. But he went on to be a stock brocker. A damn good one, a millionaire. But he never made show that he was any more than the people around him.
The third one was passionate about everything she learned. She took it all in with endless gratefulness and went in search of more. She spoke the languages and knew the linguistic technicalities behind them. She read every book on those shelves and every book in the public library. She was extraordinarily friendly with her teachers and was heavily involved in student government and volunteer operations. But she never had many friends. She worked hard and travelled much. Culture fascinated her. She studied it and language extensively and went to become an interpreter for the UN. Then subsequently had to maintain two names to keep working for the UN since she was so heavily involved in radical volunteer efforts. She became world famous as a political activist.
The youngest was taciturn. He was particularly fascinated by philosophy. He went to school, but spent his time with his nose in some foreign philosphy book, looking up only long enough to accomplish assigned tasks. He sailed through math, language, and science course at a normal level. But he chose to excel in English and Philosophy classes. He never volunteered his opinion in high school, but when his teachers asked it of him, he often left them (and the entire class) dumbfounded. He went on to get a BA in English, and a masters and Ph.D. in philosophy. He became a professor at an Ivy league school in the US. He kept a journal and wrote in it extensively in a secret code. He was also largely published. And though his literature was earth-shattering, it wasn't particularly inviting. He never expected much from the world.

One would never have though they were brothers and sisters. They went on to such different things. They looked so different, and acted so differently.
The eldest was tall and stunning. Her hair was dark and straight. She often wore tailored suits and was always immaculate.
Her older brother always dressed stylishly. He wasn't exceptionally tall, but he was well built. He had certain gait.
The third has flowing light brown curls that seemed to look beautiful no matter how little care she took of them. She was well shaped, and had a round, rosy, and smiling face. It was odd to see her in a suit and seemed more right to see her with mud smeered across her face and her clothes worn and torn.
The youngest was short, scrawny. He hid his eyes being his glasses and he always dressed simply. His hair was light and short.

But they had their similarities. None of them spoke much. They never engaged in idle chatter. They all had piercing eyes that at times made others nervous. Even when they were children, adults thought twice before being condescending. They never took vacations. They easily stayed up several nights in a row to finish a project. They often seemed cold to their peers, yet they never witheld when asked a question. They never had girlfriends or boyfriends. They were open to advances, but their bodies simply did not respond.

Scenes

Mercury is my roommate. A woman.
Helios is my secret lover. A man.
Nyx and I are "seeing" each other. A man.

The door started to unlock. I jumped down from the bed, wrapping my sheets around my naked body. I stopped the door as Mercury started to open it. As soon as she felt the door stop, I began to speak.
" 'Cury, two hours." My words were flat and final, the held no question. It took Mercury a moment to understand, but when she did, she smiled and narrowed her eyes, teasing. My face, however, seemed to be made of stone. It showed nothing. She was disconcerted. "Do you need anything?" I asked her. Her smile faded, and she felt the need to fill the silence, she wanted to leave. She hesitated, answered no, and then filled space with empty and meaningless words. As soon as she had said no, I nodded, and began to shut the door, telling her I would see her later.
Once the door was shut, I turned to Helios. He was sitting, with his legs dangling off the side of the bed, looking at me with sharp and perceiving eyes. With unspoken understanding, we began to dress and replacing any object we had displaced. We both plainly started to head towards the door. And just before I reached for the doorknob, Helios hugged me from behind, and placed one last kiss on my cheek. He promptly let me go, and I turned around and looked into his eyes. They were almost fierce, and his mouth was set, but it looked like it could relax into a smile with hardly any change. My face mirrored his. We both smiled.
Helios took off in the opposite direction in which Mercury had gone.

I stayed in the room a little while longer, reading. After about an hour, I stepped out of the room and went to the common room where I expected Mercury to be waiting, surrounded by an audience: her friends and followers.
She barely looked at me when I walked in, plainly indicating that she wished to discuss the matter in private before making it public. It made no difference to me. I sat in the room casually, as if nothing, and joined the conversation as seldom as I normally did.
After about fifteen minuted, Mercury made an excuse for us to go to the room. Once we were there, she searched my face for any remnants of gargoyle ancestry which she had seen earlier in the crack of the door. But my face was back to how she normally saw it, and she was reassured. So she smiled teasingly.
"Myriam!" she taunted.
"I won't tell you who it was." I said plainly and seriously, responding to her unspoken question. Her smile faded, and she became serious, too. "But I will tell you two things." I said and she nodded. "It isn't anyone who would lower me in your eyes. And, it's not Nyx.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Honos is my younger brother.

Nyx came to visit that summer. I had spoken about him often with my parents, but I had only told them what we had done, or what we would talk about. I deliberately failed to state my opinions and thoughts of Nyx. I simply let my parents assume what they wished from the manner in which I spoke of him and from the nature of the stories I told (what we did and where we went in those stories).

Nyx arrived one sunny afternoon. He was driving a beat-up, old, blue van. I hated that van. It was olf and exhausted yet unfulfilled. And it was nearing the end of its life, hopeless.
Inside, I had been waiting for Nyx, but not overtly. I had been working on one of my summer projects at the kitchen table. I was working in a manner that expected interruption, but I was enjoying the work, and I had forgotten about Nyx.
My brother, Honos, on the other hand, had been waiting impatiently by the window. When he announced Nyx's arrival, I passively put down my pencil, and expressionlessly walked to the door. Not a drop of happiness, not a bit of dread. It was simple and impersonal expectancy. My mother noticed, but said nothing.
When I opened the door, my face transformed itself behind my transitioning lenses. I beamed, a grin that almost hurt my cheeks and brought tears to my eyes. When we met, halfway across the lawn, Nyx caught me in a bear-ish embrace, lifting me off my feet, and spinning on the spot a few times. We both laughed and said sweet little nothings to each other. When he put me down, we looked into each other's eyes, both smiling. He bent down and we touched lips, a kiss, if you wish. This superfluous ceremony concluded, we walked arm-in-arm back into the house.
Once inside, I introduced Nyx to my parents, and my parents to Nyx. Then I promised Nyx that Honos would be there to help him with anything he needed, including luggage and indepth conversations about video games. I had to work that afternoon. It had been essential that I be there. I had neither fought nor been glad of this, and Nyx had accepted it equally.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Helios also came to visit that summer. He arrived in an airport taxi on a cool, calm, cloudy day. He stepped out of it, barely glanced at his surroundings (just the number on the front door to make sure he was in the right place), and went to take his luggage out of the taxi trunk. The set expression on his face never wavered, but his hands betrayed him; they shook slightly as he moved his bags.
I had been pacing silently behind the door, awaiting his arrival, forcing myself to read the book I held in my hand. There was no expression on my face, and my body was straight, but I was agitated. My gaze seemed to be on something that wasn't directly in front of me, for once. My mother noticed, but said nothing.
When Helios arrived, I put down my book and walked out the front door unceremoniously, but gracefully still. When he saw me, his face showed nothing by a small smile, a smile in the corner of his eyes, and in the way he stood. I extended my hand to him and he shook it firmly. Then I took one of his bags and we walked to the house. We weren't walking next to each other, nor was I leading him anywhere. We were both simply walking towards the door.
I introduced Helios to my parent. And this introduction was rather grave. I showed Helios around the house, and also introduced him to Honos. Then I suggested we take a walk outside, which we did.

To an Empty Stage

To an empty stage,
In an old abandoned theater,
The stage is creaky and dimly lit,
And the curtains are a dusty and faded red.
There's a single spotlight working and it's fixed on the center of the stage.

The room is filled with old, run down seats,
And they're all cast into a darkness.
There's no one sitting in them, but there's a memory of a grand audience.
It’s not an opera stage,
The room is much smaller,
And there are no balconies.
The stage is much smaller, and much quainter.
The members of the audience were a people that cared about the show and the actors,
Not money and ethics...
The walls of the room have a dark blue faded and peeling paint,
And random spots show the wooden boards in the wall.
There are bouts of graffti here and there, too.
But it seems faded...

Above the stage, is a well lit platform,
Its boards well worn,
Both the boards and the ladder that leads up to it have been used quite frequently.
This is a puppeteer's stage.

There is a single puppet on the stage,
It seems oddly stiff.
As if someone had just taken it out of an old box,
And had not taken the time to straighten it's limbs before putting it on stage.
Its small red pointy hat is dusty,
And its eyes are closed.
Its arms hand out perpendicular to the ground, and its hands are dangling.
Its knees are slightly bent,
And it is clear that the marionette is held up by the countless strings.
Countless strings leading back up to the platform.

I don't recall seeing anyone on the platform,
So I look back to see who's there,
But the platform is plunged into darkness as a light bulb gives up.
The puppeteer is plunged into gloom,
But I can still see his outline as he begins to gracefully tug at the marionette’s strings.

In the spotlight, the marionette's head perks up, and its eyes open.
It smiles vividly.
A forced smile, but good natured all the same…
It looks at out at the missing audience and at the gloom.
And sees something that we cannot.

One of its elbows loosens, and the arm bends.
The hand moves too, and now the full arm.
The puppet turns to look at its arm, fascinated by this newly found freedom.
It moves its arms in all possible directions, exploring.

The other arm is still stuck.
But slowly it comes undone.
And now both of the arms are moving.
And its head is swiveling from one to the other utterly delighted.

After a full exploration of the use of its arms,
The puppet casts a glance at its deadened legs..
And as if the use of them had been returned to it,
Both the legs collapse, and the puppet crashes to the ground.
It lands on its back, its knees still slightly bent.

Undeterred, the puppet sits up and looks at its lethargic legs.
It reaches out and pulls at one of them, lifting the foot off the ground, and bending the knee further.
The puppet takes its hands away and the leg stays in this new position.
The situation is rather comical, and the silent audience laughs.
Spurred on, the puppet smiles at them, a twinkle in its eyes (or in the puppeteer's?),
Then he moves the other leg.
The other leg stays itself too,
But the puppet barely pauses as it goes to push down on the knee to straighten out its legs.
Then he bends the knees again and straightens, bends and straightens, as if he was breaking in new joints.

Finally, the puppet tries to sit up,
He pushes himself up with his hands and balances on both legs for a minute, swaying alarmingly.
Then he falls forward,
And stays on his hands and feet for a moment,
Then he stands up straight again, and stays standing.

The missing audience smiles condescendingly,
And applauses the childlike puppet.
The puppet smiles back,
But this time his eyes don't smile.

The puppet now looks down at his feet and raises an eyebrow.
He looks back up at the audience and winks.
The audience leans forward a little.

The puppet lifts one of its legs,
This time with only the aid of a string,
And places it down a little bit in front of him;
He’s taken a step!
The audience is delighted.
And the puppet feels lowly,
This was a small task and it amazed them…

But the puppet's smile does not fade,
He lifts his shoulders, and daringly takes another step…
…And another…
…And another…
…Until he reaches the edge of the spot light.

The puppet takes one more step forward,
And trips on a protruding board.
The audience laughs wholeheartedly...

And the dusty curtain falls,
The memory of grand satin curtain falling with it.

Meanwhile, behind the curtain,
The puppet has sat back up and has brought his knees up to his face.
He sighs deeply,
And falls back into dusty dis-animation.

The light that had illuminated the platform flickers back on,
But the puppeteer is gone.
So I look back at the stage, at the puppet,
But it’s gone too.

The End

A Book

She walked through the abandoned rows of an old library. The library was filled with thousands upon thousands of books. All the books looked so similar in the dark, but she knew that no two were alike.
She slowed her steps and finally came to a stop in a nondescript row filled with nondescript books. She spun slowly in a circle and finally came to a stop facing the shelves to her left. She picked a random book from the few dozen directly in front of her.
This book was bound in an earthly brown leather. Its pages looked old and yellowed, but still untouched. There were no words written on the front or back cover. The spine, however, was adorned with strange symbols. These were old and faint, as if thousands of people had run their fingers over them. The glifs were not in any language that she understood, though, so she shrugged at them. She opened the book to one of the pages in the middle. The page was blank. It looked new. Intrigued, she flipped through the entire book and found that all the pages were blank. Puzzled, she brought the book to the center of the library where there were tall mohogany tables and a little more light. There she examined the book more closely. The pages were indeed all blank, except for the first one. There, in an earthly and imperfect script, was written a simple single word: "Hello".
She placed the book on the table before her, open to the first page and after a moment of consideration, she pulled a quill and a bottle of ink out of her pack. She sat before the book and stared at it for a long time. Then she opened the bottle of ink and dipped the tip of her quill in the ink.
She moved as if she were going to write in the book, but she paused a few inches above the page and hesitated. After a few moments, a drop of ink fell from the tip of her quill and onto the page. Alarmed, she put the quill down on the table and picked up the book. Then she went to wipe away the ink, but as she did, it was absorbed by the page and all traces of it disappeared.
She put the book back down on the table and looked at it, this time questioningly. Then bodly, she picked up her quill again and brought it to the page. Just below the unchanged word "Hello," she wrote in her own imperfect hand, "Hello, my name is Anyone."
After a moment, the words dried, and this time the ink stayed on the page. Then, more words appeared below hers. The words were written in the same hand as the first word. They said, "And I am Anybook."
And a great conversation was started. Each would speak silently in their turn. Anyone would tell Anybook of her world, and Anybook of his. And though it was the same world, they viewed it so differently that it was hard to believe that it was indeed the same world.
Their conversations were not complete, but they were both happy at this exchange.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elle marchait à travers des rangées abandonées d’une vieille bibliothèque. La bibliothèque était remplie de milliers de livres. Tous les livres étaient semblabes dans le noir mais elle savait que aucun des livres étaient pareils aux autres.
Elle ralentit ses pas et arrêta au hasard dans une rangée remplie de livres. Elle tourna sur place et arrêta à nouveau face au côté gauche. Elle choisi un des nombreux livres directement devant elle.
Le livre était couvert de cuivre brun terre. Ses pages avaient l’air vieux et jaune, mais pas encore touchés. Il n’y avait rien d’ecrit sur les deux pages couvertures. La tranche, cependant, était décorée avec des symboles étranges. Ils avaient l’air vieux et fade, comme si des millier de personnes avaient passé leurs doigts dessus. Mais les symboles étaient dans aucune langue qu’elle connaissait alors elle se haussa les épaules. Elle ouvrit le livre à une des pages du centre. La page était blanche. La page avait l’air nouveau. Intriguée, elle regarda tous les pages et vu que les pages étaient tout blanches. Confuse, elle amena le livre au centre de la bibliothèque où il y avait un petit peu plus de lumière. Là, elle examina le livre plus délicatement. Les pages étaient vraiement toutes blanches, sauf la première. Là, dans une écriture imparfaite, était marqué un seul et simple mot: “Salut”.
Elle plaça le livre sur la table devant elle, ouvert à la première page. Après un moment de considération, elle sortit une bouteille d’encre et une plume de son sac. Elle s’assit devant le livre et le regarda longtemps. Enfin, elle ouvrit la bouteille d’encre et y trempa le bout de sa plume.
Elle plaça sa main comme elle allait écrire quelque chose dans le livre, mais à quelques centimeter du livre, elle hésita. Malheureusement, une goutte d’encre tomba du bout de sa plume sur la page. Alarmée, elle posa la plume sur la table et ramassa le livre. Elle allait essuyer la goutte d’encre, mais la goute avait été absorbée par la page. Tout les traces de la goutte avaient disparues.
Elle remit le livre sur la table et le regarda. Sure d’elle, elle leva sa plume et l’amena à la page. Et juste au dessous du mot, “Salut”, elle écrit, dans sa proper main imparfaite: “Salut, je m’appelle N’importe-qui.”
Après un moment, l’encre sécha, et ce coup-ci, les mots étaient resté sur la page. Des nouveaux mots sont apparus en dessous des siens. Ils disaient, “Et je m’appelle N’importe-quel Livre.”
Et une grande conversation commença. Tous les deux parlaient silencieusement à leur tour. Elle lui parlait de son monde et il lui parlait de son monde. Et même si c’était le même monde, ils le voyaient tellement différemment, que c’était dificile de croire que c’était vraiment le même monde.
Leurs conversations n’étaient pas complètes mais ils étaient tous les deux contents de cet échange.

Kitten and the Mockingbird

It takes place in an enchanted forest where its people are animals. Animals of all species… dogs, cats, birds, bears, hamsters, you name it. They all live together in this forest in some degree of harmony. They tolerate each species’ existence and teach themselves to get along with each other. This diplomacy is successful for the most part, but as expected, has it’s common failings… some are large and problematic… while others are just accepted… some people just don’t get along… and as far as the public is concerned… that is their loss.
Most parents bring up their children with the firm lesson that just because someone is not the same species as you, you should not stop yourself from being friends with them. And this policy is followed well. In fact, the main character of this story, a little kitten, has a very diversified group of close friends.
Her best friend is a puppy, a gentle and easygoing Scottish terrier. The two love each other to death and have played all the games known to their feline and canine minds. Her brother is a grizzly bear cub, ferocious in his words, but gentle in all other manners. She loves to jump on his back and ride around for hours talking about the most whimsical things. She is also close friends with a raven, a mockingbird, a raccoon, an eagle, and a leopard. She loved a golden retriever puppy for a very long time, and her favourite teachers tended to be dogs. She rarely met other cats, her father and grandmother being the only other ones she actually knew. And this being the case, she welcomed friends of all other species with open arms.
As life was, she stayed closest to the terrier, the grizzly, and the raven. And she had a love affair with the puppy. This was unrare and widely unnoticed.

One problem with this forest, however, is that while friendship with all other species is encouraged far and wide, love affairs are not to be so diversified. See, in this society love is a permanent thing, it must last, therefore all hints from the very beginning should point towards a good outcome. Some specie mixes are just accepted as not leading to good outcomes, while others just are. For example, a cat and a dog are a common mix as they have much in common and are on level plain considering the food chain. Also bears and cats, leopards and dogs. As for a particular relationship that simply did not make sense was one between a cat and a bird. It isn’t that one species had a problem with the other, or that people wish to discriminate against this particular relationship. It was just unnatural, just as making toast in the microwave is unnatural, or watching TV standing on your head. This information was not consciously considered either, it was simply just so. Our little kitten was friends with many birds of many different species, and she loved them all very much as her close friends. The though of falling in love with one of them, however, simply never occurred to her.

There is something very particular about our cat character: her fur changes color. This does not happen at her will, and sometimes it happens unexplained, but most of the time the change is provoked by her mood. At most times, her fur is a pure white, all white except her pink nose and tongue and her black eyes. At other times, her fur is orange, a flaming color, demonstrating intelligence, life and spirit in every manner. And sometimes, her fur is pure black, where everything about her is black except her pink tongue. The two rarest colors she shows are yellow and gray, both representatives of very negative moods.
Her white mood was the most popular with the other inhabitants of the forest. This is when she is awake and open to learning and living. This is when she is simple and loving. And while she knew that others mostly enjoyed this color, after long bits of flaunting her white fur, there usually followed periods where her fur seemed to take no hue but black. These are the periods where her mind is at utmost creativity and magic seems to flow from her mind. At least magic is what it seemed to be to her. Most of the animals in the forest did not believe in magic, and simply found this mood odd, they even went as far as to avoid her when her fur turned black.
One animal that particularly hated it when her fur was black was her golden retriever puppy lover. His fur was always the color of the sun, and he did not believe in dawdling on the idea of magic when facts were already discovered. And he was particularly annoyed when her fur turned black because he believed that she controlled the changings of her furs. He believed that if she tried, she could keep her white fur about her at all times.
Maybe she believed a little this idea that she could control this change, but did not dwell, as black was her favourite mood. She loved the magic that she felt, she loved the extra beauty that everything seemed to take on, and she loved the escape that she found in this mood. As if all the negatives of reality did not have to apply to her. But she loved the pup and all the inhabitants of the forest so she kept the black mood mostly to herself.
…Or so she tried. But this mood was so wonderful to her that she encouraged herself, played with it, and tried to get as much out of it as she could. Sometimes, she got so excited about the things that she discovered that she felt that she must share them with someone.
The first person that she went to was always her golden retriever lover. And he hated it. She always regretted bringing this mood to him, and hoping that he might at least understand a little. So she drew back and they both grew annoyed with it.
But this creativity kept coming to her, and she had to find an escape for it. The terrier encouraged it with all her heart, but understood it so little. Our little kitty never actually felt that she could share it with the terrier. As for the raven, well the raven always had black feathers, but her magic was much stronger than out little kitty’s and very different. Kitten left this mood open for the raven to see, but never really expected the raven to be impressed by it. As for the grizzly, well he was just like the golden retriever, the only difference being that he wanted to go and discover more facts instead of settling for the ones already discovered. He simply ignored the black fur and convinced himself that the kitten was always the same color.
Time passed and Kitten’s black moods visited more and more often. Then came the day when the mockingbird reached the same educational level as Kitten. Being a cat with a very feline mind, Kitten seldom learned the same things as her friends and much less from the same teachers. So, one morning just as she was settling with the fact that once again she would not be learning with any of her friends, Mockingbird walked into the clearing and joined her group. Finally seeing someone she knew enter the clearing made her heart start beating excitedly. And she called the mockingbird over to sit next to her.
Every day, in that clearing, no matter what lesson the teacher had for them, she and the mockingbird spoke of many things. And one day, on one of her black fur days, the topic of magic came about. They shared it, and wove it without truly naming it what it was. Finally, Kitten had found a person with which she could share her dark side. And they shared it, every single day. Kitten and Mockingbird had become very close friends now, seeing as they had this object to share. They almost became like brother and sister. Kitten felt relieved that finally someone could understand her mood.
But instead of helping her reduce the amount of time during which her fur was black, this sharing encouraged her black fur and seemed to recall it more often. Golden Pup was appalled by this development and begged Kitten to try to keep her white fur about her. And for a little while she did, but always did it come back, encouraged by the mockingbird’s call.
And slowly, ever slowly, she and the pup came apart. She decided that she needed him to accept that dark part of her and he decided that he was fed up with that part of her. They longer loved each other, and finally they broke apart.

This change did quite a bit of damage to Kitten’s spirit and suddenly her fur never turned orange. But there were many other things happening everywhere else in the forest that she never took notice. Also, this change seemed to push forward her black fur. Everything around her seemed to be dark, rich, and meaningful. She fell in love with shadow then, and in love with the night. In the darkness, she felt most comfortable. She herself was the shadow of night, broken only by the moon.
After a while, she was happy again, surrounded by friends, family and their stories. Kitten and Mockingbird shared their magic still. And Kitten was alive and happy all through the fall, all through the winter, all through the spring, and suddenly summer was upon her.
Kitten’s circle of friends was changing. Suddenly, she was staying closest to Terrier, Grizzly, Mockingbird, and a new friend: a little rabbit. These five spent many days under the sun and under the moon. They laughed and played and learned new things. They reminisced, but lived for the day. Everything was back to normal.
Then a cloud passed over their forest; a dark and ominous cloud, threatening to dampen the fiery spirit of the forest. Mockingbird had been in love with a bear cub for more than a year now. They had been so happy together, and everyone had believed they would be together forever. Everyone had loved their love and encouraged it to the end of time. So when the news spread through the forest that their love had ended, all the animals in the forest were shocked. Mockingbird was shocked most of all. He carved the tale of his grief on a tree that all the animals pass. He wrote of the event as it was and how it saddened him.
The next day, Raven came by this tree and read the words upon it. She was shocked by what she read, and reprimanded Mockingbird for it. Meanwhile, the rest of the animals had read the words on the tree and heard of the raven’s answer. Two animals in particular were appalled by the raven’s answer. It was Mockingbird’s day to be sad, and Raven’s attack was simply cruel… And these two animals, Kitten and Grizzly told the raven their belief.
Feeling betrayed by her old friends Kitten and Grizzly, Raven got very angry. But she did not just get angry with only the two; she got angry at Terrier and Mockingbird, too. Mockingbird rightly chose not to listen to the raven’s lament and fared well. Grizzly got angry in return and followed through with his idea that Raven was at fault. Terrier did not want Raven to be angry with her and asked for forgiveness. Kitten did not understand and chose to challenge the raven.
The two met just outside the tree Mockingbird had written his lament upon. The two wrestled for days, and neither came to a victory. After a week, Kitten stopped fighting back, emotionally eroded and at a loss. It had been a stalemate and Kitten refused to fight any longer, and Raven refused to back down.
Kitten’s fur was now an unhealthy grayish-blue. Her closest friend, terrier, had gone hunting farther away in the forest and would not be back for many more days. Kitten was lost and confused. So now both Mockingbird and Kitten were sad. Mockingbird because he had lost his lover and Kitten because she had lost her friend.
So, together they sat in the darkness, on one of the branches in Mockingbird’s tree. They talked about their sadness, and using their much-explored magic, banished each other’s grief. They just wanted to be happy again so that they could weave more spells. And as they worked together, slowly Kitten’s fur was lightening, heading back to white. And slowly Mockingbird’s world was regaining color. He called his former love the sun; he felt that there was no more sun in his life. And as time passed, Kitten understood that Mockingbird was the moon, the sun’s equal and the beacon that broke the pure dark shadow of her nights. And with this realization, her fur took on a brilliant white shade, “Who knew the moon could have a shadow?” she thought breathlessly, and this had many meanings.
She was falling in love with Mockingbird, she realized. But this wasn’t possible, he was a bird, and she was a cat. This couldn’t happen… How had this happened? So she carried this thought with her, but said nothing of it. Not to Mockingbird, not to Terrier, and not to Grizzly.
So in the sunlight, Mockingbird, Grizzly, Rabbit, and Kitten played and laughed together. And in the night, Mockingbird and Kitten sat in the darkness and told each other tales.
Then, one night, in the silent moonlight, Mockingbird and Kitten had no more to say to each other. They sat, wordless. And one thought kept coming back to Kitten, “The moon has a shadow…” And under that moonlight, a mockingbird and a kitten kissed for the first time.
They told no one of the event of that night, they only felt it’s magic. That night, they finally named the magic that they shared and felt it more strongly now than ever. That night, neither Kitten nor Mockingbird slept. But Kitten heard his song from her bed:

“All the world shook and trembled,
and emotions such distilled were shot to the sky again,
into elevation we fell,
and the trembling seemed to remain.”

This song made Kitten shake all over and cry a little. She felt danger in this, but she also felt something more powerful. She was so unsure, so lost, and so afraid that she clung to silence for a while. And Mockingbird kept singing from his tree:

“I'm falling, falling, falling,
across the grass, a summers night of heat.
I'm falling, falling, falling,
into days of laughter,
and seconds of joy,
falling and yet held back, a moment that shall never last,
and falling into you.”

Then Terrier returned to the forest, and everything seemed better. Kitten was not so worried about Raven’s anger, and suddenly she could laugh broadly at all the new tales Terrier brought with her. But despite her returned joy, Kitten did not tell Terrier that she had kissed Mockingbird. That night, the five of them played together again, and were so happy. But amidst the newfound joy, Mockingbird and Kitten found their way to the darkness again and again were at a loss for words. Kitten had fled to the darkness and sought its comfort; Mockingbird had followed, wondering why Kitten had so fled. They kissed again. And for a moment, Kitten’s fur took on its black hue again and all she could say was:

In the silence,
No words seem powerful enough,
To describe the beauty...

of a dying sunset,
of a single star,
of grass,
of warm water,
and of a gentle breeze.

Shivering, Shaking:
Power unbeholden.

Kitten’s fur turned white once again the next day and everything in the forest was normal and happy except for Mockingbird and Kitten’s little secret. One fine sunny day, Grizzly and Kitten went for a walk deep into the forest. They went to see one of the first trees that had grown here in this forest and that had given birth to most of the trees that were in the forest then. As they walked, they were surrounded by people, all of them talking and enraptured in the sights around them. And hidden behind the conversational buzz, Grizzly and Kitten started talking in their secret language, a language that only they knew. And that day, under the beating sun, in the blistering heat, next to the oldest tree in the forest, Kitten told Grizzly her secret.
And the next morning, back in their forest, Kitten, Mockingbird and Grizzly told Terrier the secret. And a few days later, Raccoon was told about it. Kitten soon came to realize that all these people were at peace with the idea that she and Mockingbird could love each other. The only person left not at peace with the idea was herself. She was still frightened, she did not trust herself, and still somehow believed that it was impossible. She did not feel safe with the idea. Safe… she needed to feel safe.
One day after all these animals were told, Kitten once again found herself in the darkness with Mockingbird. And once again they were enveloped in silence. As they kissed this time, they fell from a branch, and she landed softly on the ground below. Mockingbird had guided her fall flawlessly with his wings. He had saved her and protected her. She was overwhelmed with an emotion so unfamiliar to her right then, and also, her fur had turned a flaming orange… Something it hadn’t done in years now… Absolutely terrified, she ran away from Mockingbird and hid. She paced and thought and paced and thought… but came to no conclusion but that her emotions terrified her.
Finally, Mockingbird came and perched just outside her home and sang to her:

“Kitten, I’ll protect you.”

Suddenly everything made sense to Kitten. Nothing mattered but the magic that Mockingbird and Kitten shared. Nothing mattered but their love. She came out of her hiding place and embraced Mockingbird’s love forever and they lived happily ever after.

A Wandering Spirit

To the World (whether you’re listening or not):

When I leave, which I will do soon,
I won’t go too far.

I believe many do this;
I will not be the first.

I am dying, and I am pining.
There is so much to see,
And so little have I seen.


And He granted me this wish, as I willingly passed through the barrier that separates physical and memory. Though, to all I had passed on, I was lent a spirit. I was lent the chance to pass through the world unseen, unperceived and to see what I had not seen before.
The Decider told what could be and what could not, and fair it seemed to me:
“You will fly, you will walk, and you will swim,” He said, “But you will not breathe, and you will not be real.”
“Oh,” was my only passing thought.
“You will feel, but you will not touch. You will have memories of emotion, and these you may lend. You will fall in love, you will cry, and you will beg for escape, but none will hear. You are free to travel as you wish, but none will see you, and you will see none.” He peered down at me, then with and omnipotent eye, “In how much time shall we revisit this case?” A simple question.
Fit for a simple answer, “In one hundred years.”
“So it shall be.” And as if a gavel had come thundering onto its table, all was called to order, and I was once again on the planet we call Earth.

The port of Kirkwall is quite heartwarming sight. As I floated above the gentle waters, I noticed that I felt very cold, being tossed around by the breeze. I floated to land, and at once felt it’s welcoming warmth. I saw the majestic Kirkwall Hotel, and remembered where I was.
This is not where He took me…I thought silently…Why leave me here?
Then I remembered that this was where this idea had been born, this was where I had decided that I wanted to relive Earth, silently. I laughed, and what else could I have done? My wish had come true. My laughter ended short, though, for another thought penetrated my reverie. Those who I might miss most were far from here. I swallowed one more look of Kirkwall, and turned right around. I wanted to see my family, to see how they were dealing. They had all outlived me, they had grown old, and I had died young.
From Kirkwall, I headed west, past Ireland, and into the Atlantic. I flew steadily, noticing that I did not grow tired, I felt the cold however, and shivered slightly. With a constant goal in mind, I picked up speed I never thought possible. It took me four days to cross the Atlantic, four days of endless sea, four days of cold nothingness, but I was not tired. When I finally saw land, I did not recognize the port. I decided that I must have flown directly across the Atlantic, arriving in Labrador, Canada. So, pausing briefly in the town I later learned was named, Lain, I continued to the south. I followed the coast, knowing that I would recognize Hampton Beach.
It took me one day to arrive at Hampton beach. There, I turned west, following the highway. Once I reached my hometown, I flew straight to my old home, where He had taken me. There, I found all three of my family members, my father, my mother, and my brother. My brother was setting the table for lunch as he might have done in olden days. My mother was bustling about the kitchen stove, nothing out of the ordinary, not even the silence. I hardly wondered where my father was; I knew he was in his basement office, working endlessly. He would answer summons when lunch was pronounced ready, and he would join the silent procession that we called, eating lunch.
There was nothing out of the ordinary here, and this thought calmed me greatly. Soon my mother would be returning to work, teaching at the local high school, my father would begin going on his week-long business trips, my brother would return to his small family, and the event of my passing on, would be pushed to the back of their memory. The funeral and their days of mourning were over, and life must continue.
Reassured, I now knew it was time to proceed with my planned afterlife. I found it difficult to let go however, knowing that the peace I saw before me, would not stay here long.

I spent the next hundred years wandering the Earth, silently passing, silently learning. I found that the land had memory in itself and that I could easily share it. When I had seen all that that I thought the world had to show me, I decide to settle down for a little while. I remembered where He had left me, and returned to Kirkwall. There, I settled in an abandoned building. This building was fairly recent, probably from the early 2010s. It had most likely been abandoned due to it use of ancient technology, and the impossibility of converting it into a modern building. It had formerly been a “fish and chips” restaurant, and had not been torn down because it had plans to be turned into a museum. These plans where delayed however because of someone’s budget deficit, and then further delayed because it was thought to be haunted, and no one particularly wanted to work there, or tear it down.
The idea that the building was haunted was not my idea, the legend had been there before I had arrived, I simply played with it, and made it work to my advantage. I first learned of the legend when a tour guide was leading a group through the streets, pointing out the typical 21st century architecture. He stopped his group briefly in front of my chosen place of rest and began to tell them the myth.
“Come closer ladies and gentlemen, come in close so I don’t shout and wake the ghost.” He said as he gestured for them to gather. A few of them gave sarcastic gasps at the mention of a ghost, but no more response was to be taken from this particular group.


(The room, and the secret compartments, the challenge, and my love.)

Pale Skinned Strangers

Omniscient
Lonely Prophet
Anika
Eric
Lacienika
Wisdom

Imagine a young girl’s face. Dirty, innocent, sad. Her long brown hair is tied back roughly into two ponytails and a single brown rag covers her small delicate body. Her big, beautiful brown eyes tell stories of her past. Barely six years old, she has more stories to tell than you or I ever will. Stories of misery and injustice, but also stories of pride and friends. Anika lives in a small isolated village (in the desert) known as Tayle. All of the families of Tayle live in quaint clay houses and are kept alive by a nearby river and a neighboring oasis. The villagers are all friends, they know each other well, but they know nothing else, they have no idea that there is a bigger, better world only a few hundred miles away. They are all so content and unsuspecting, all except Anika.

Anika’s father is a stranger among the villagers of Tayle, his skin is light and he dresses differently. Anika has heard stories of how Eric Cramer came to live in Tayle. He had come here with a group of many men like him. They all wore strange clothing and spoke a strange language. This group of young foreigners had stayed in the village for a few months taking advantage of the women and doing whatever else they felt like doing. Only one man took interest in the people of Tayle. He had fallen in love with one of them. In great desire to speak with her, he learned their language and became great friends with her. When came time for the troop to go back home, Eric had not wanted to leave. He had begged the villagers, whom all loathed the foreigners that had been quartered in their village for so long, and he had begged his fellow soldiers, whom depended on him for his great language skills, to let him stay. Finally, both parties, though discontent, allowed Eric Cramer to stay in the village. The village never really got used to the presence of this pale man, he was always treated like an outsider. Only Eric’s hot love for Lacienika gave him the heart to stay. Everyday, he let himself believe that eventually, they would learn to like him. A year later, Lacienika gave birth to a beautiful girl of pale skin. The people of Tayle narrowed their eyes, in a manner of distrust, the same way for Anika as they did when they thought of Eric. As the years went on, though, Anika proved to be a bright, helpful girl with perfect manners. Though there was always a distinct difference between Eric, Anika and the rest of the village, Anika found friends in the village and fit in as best as she could.

There were many important people in the village of Tayle, and one of them was the Lonely Prophet. He, despite the growing acceptance for the two fair ones, was convinced that they were a bad omen. He told the people tales of things that white people had done to other villages much like Tayle. He had nightmares, and visions about the two white people living in his village. At first everyone had believed his every word and never trusted the fair ones. But as the moon waxed and waned, they began to lose interest in the Lonely Prophet’s stories and saw that neither of the two pale ones meant to harm the little village in any way. This angered the Lonely Prophet greatly and he set it upon himself to bring death to the two fair ones. So, he slowly devised a plan.
---
Anika woke in the middle of the night. She had heard a soft thud. She silently lifted her head slightly and looked about her family’s hut. There was an old skinny man on the other side of the room; he was bent over picking up something reflecting the moon’s light, a knife. Silently still, Anika reached out and started shaking her father’s arm. The old man started advancing Eric Cramer’s bed, a gleam his eye. Anika shook her father more urgently.
---
Eric woke to the sight of a wrinkled face looming above him, knife in hand, wild crazed eyes shining. On impulse and out of pure terror, Eric pulled his gun from under his bed and pulled the trigger. The old man went flying backwards and was dead before he hit the wall. His bony form crumpled against the wall and stained the room with precious blood. Eric panicked; he was not even trying to grasp the situation. Eric jumped out of bed, ran to the old man sprawled on the floor, and ran back to his bed. Then, his eyes rested in Anika’s for a second and he froze, he stared into her eyes, entranced by what he saw: two beautiful, young, innocent, trusting eyes welling with tears.
---
Lacienika woke up suddenly to the sound of a gunshot. She allowed her eyes to get accustomed to the dark for a minute and looked around. Her shriek echoed throughout the entire village, painfully dragging all of its citizens into the conscious world.
---
Every single villager came running to the white man’s hut and crowded in the doorway. Someone lit a torch and illuminated the scene. Lacienika was kneeling in bed, shrieking and crying. Anika was sitting in bed, wide-eyed terror dominating her face. Eric Cramer was standing next their bed, gun in had, babbling about who knows what. And the Lonely Prophet was sprawled on the floor, basking in blood, dead. Time seemed to stop as the villagers tried to comprehend the radical sight. Lacienika finally stopped shrieking and simply passed out. At this sudden change, all the villagers started talking at once. Some of them wanted to know exactly what had happened, some of them were simply devastated by the sudden loss of the Lonely Prophet, but most of them were yelling angry words about pale skinned murderer.
---
Anika snapped out of her petrified stare. She stood, thoughts not connecting with reality. For a while she didn’t move and then suddenly, she broke out running. She pushed through the crowd, out the door, and into the desert. She ran and ran and ran until the sun came up and then, she just kept running. Thoughts were finally starting to flow through her mind; images of the night, reminders of thirst and fatigue were chasing each other menacingly throughout her head. She ran up one dune and down the other, running, always running forward. Eventually she couldn’t see where she was going, tears, sand and fatigue obscured her eyesight. She felt herself leaving her physical form. She tripped and fell face first into the sand and finally lost all touch with the real world.
---
Two gray mild set eyes, framed by wrinkles of age and white hair, walked up to the front of the mob gathered at Eric Cramer’s door. The angry villagers were getting louder and louder. Violent sobs, angry threats, and the silence of gaping mouths created a rather dissonant fugue. Wisdom looked at Eric once and then turned to the crowd. She raised her arm in a gesture of peace, and the dissonance faded into a solo of Eric’s babbling. Then, Wisdom’s hand came down in one clean swipe, paused on Eric’s cheek, clack, and rested at her side. The slapping sound seemed to echo throughout the entire village.
---
Eric’s solo came to an end, and with tears in his eyes, he looked around his tainted hut. First he looked at his wife, his beloved, unconscious on their bed. Then he looked at the Lonely Prophet, leaving his permanent crimson mark. Next he looked at Wisdom and through his running tears saw her hard, merciless, gray eyes. Then he looked at the villagers and shamefully met their silent, angry glares. Last he looked at the floor and sniffled.
“That man killed the Lonely Prophet! He deserves to die!” A speaker yelled choking back tears. There was a murmur of agreement and a chorus of sniffles. Most of the villagers had their dagger-full eyes set on Eric.
---
Wisdom looked at her people and then looked at Eric, “Though it is not our way to seek revenge. I believe that there would be justice in this course of action. From the start our hearts held suspicion of the pale man. The Lonely Prophet had only warned us of his threat. He was the only one who would have been strong enough to act out the message of our hearts. You knew all of this Mr. Cramer!”
“He snuck into our hut and tried to kill me. He stood over me like a madman with his battle-blade and would have killed me!” Eric was now enraged, by his nature, death he did fear.
“Maybe it was your time to die, or maybe it was his…” responded Wisdom the decrescendo in her voice now apparent.
“But think everyone,” piped up a small voice, “without Eric, Anika would not be here. Think of all the things she has done for everyone of us!”
All the villagers, feeling that their opinions were more important that others’, started speaking all at once again. Wisdom was deep in thought. Divided between doing what the villagers would want her to do and doing what her heart was telling her…
---
Eric, though enraged, was starting to take in the scenery. Something was missing. What was missing? Then, in a flash an image of Anika’s encouraging smile came to him mind. Anika! He thought, where is my Anika? Eric was just about to admit his concern when Wisdom once again held up her hand in a gesture of “peace”, as if her hand was a baton directing a cut off. Eric cringed, expecting to be hit again. The villagers stopped talking immediately.
---
Wisdom hesitated in the sudden silence. “The Lonely Prophet’s intentions correct or not, you have killed an honorable man. The penalty…” Wisdom was choking back tears, then angry for having shown weakness, she spoke again with deafening strength, “The penalty is death!”
---
Simultaneously, the villagers started cheering wildly, for them a secret desire expressed, Wisdom breathed a sigh of relief, unseen, and Eric fell to his knees, desperation and hopelessness banishing all thoughts of Anika.
---
Wisdom looked up, a mild smile upon her lips, proud. She started herding the villagers outside. When she was sure they were all going home, she shut the door to Eric Cramer’s hut. She turned to him and ordered him to stand. The look upon his face when he stood, framed by long, brown sweaty hair, was one burned into her memory. Wisdom realized she had just taken the life of one of her people. Troubled, she looked at the corpse on the ground. The loss of a great friend jolted the finality of her decision into place. “In one week, Mr. Cramer, all your alien things will be at the river’s edge along with yourself. Leave no memory of you here. Anika and Lacienika will be safe here.” Here words were firm, but here eyes had avoided Eric purposefully. Wisdom had not noticed that Anika was not there. Wisdom walked over to the bed and picked up Lacienika, looked at Eric briefly, and walked out the door. Once outside, Wisdom closed the door. She heard Eric sobbing uncontrollably. Wisdom hesitated once more. In the distance, she heard laughter from a villager. Resolutely, she turned her back to Eric’s hut and began walking towards her own hut.
Once inside her own hut, Wisdom gently deposited Lacienika on her bed. She looked at Lacienika’s face, calm and unsuspecting. Hardhearted, she walked over to her table, sat down in her chair, picked up a pen, and began recording the night’s events.
---
There were no words to be said. After all his hard work, he was going to be killed. It was what everybody wanted. How could they be so final in their opinion of him? Could they not see that he had been trying? They never even considered the idea that the pale skin was only a mask concealing someone so much like them…They had never given him a chance. Eric had never been a generous person, not in giving a hand but not in dealing out evil either… They just assumed that because he didn’t try to prove himself that he was exactly like the jackasses he came with. Besides, if he had offered help, the recipient would have been so resolutely untrusting… It just wasn’t fair.
These weren’t the thoughts of Eric Cramer they were Anika’s. She had woken to their endless buzzing. All thoughts and actions were hindered by her thirst and hunger, but she still knew that Wisdom would have ordered the death of her father.
The circle Anika was managing to walk in was getting wider and wider. Anika couldn’t see, her throat was parched, her feet and shoulders were burning. She once again felt herself escaping the real world. This time, though, she kept going, putting one foot in front of the other. Later, she liked to imagine that every time she stepped, she was crushing the horrid thoughts hopelessly gathering inside her mind.
Anika thought she was at her end and that all her energy was spent; the tears running down her cheeks wasted whatever had been left. She whimpered as she lifted her leg for what she thought was the last time. But, as she brought her foot down, she realized the ground was not where it should have been, her foot kept going downwards past where the scorching sand should have met it. Then, bam, her foot hit solid dirt. The impact jolted Anika and robbed her of her balance. Anika let everything go, I am dying, she thought. Just then, she heard a curious sound: splash! Anika’s mind snapped back into reality. She felt water embracing her back, her arms, her legs, her fingers… It was the most wonderful sensation in the world. Anika stumbled to her feet and faltered into deeper water. When she felt the water cup her chin, she stopped and started gulping water. Drinking, drinking, until she could see again. Anika let a weak laugh escape her.

An Orange Tabby Named Erik

Then, the listener was surprised for until now, the book had never emitted a sound. Her thoughts could be heard. It was her voice, but it seemed rather distant, and her lips did not move. Her voice was innocent and full of love. It was gentle and musical, enough to show that she had not yet regained memory of her banishment. She told the orange tabby,
“Oh, Erik I’m so glad you came. I was getting lonely. I hope Tom took great care of you. I have something I want to give you.” With that she gently put the cat down and energetically bounded back in the tree. Her face was dominated by a radiant almost mindless smile.
As she climbed, the cat stayed on the ground and watched her with wiser more knowing eyes. He leaned his head to the right a bit to show that he was positively curious about what he saw.
When she returned, she carried with her the remnants of a wild hare, cooked and ready to be eaten. She gave this generous gift (for it was the middle of winter) to the tabby that she had grown so attached to. Erik looked longingly at the incredible offering. But before he began to work at it, he thought, he paused, and looked deep into the eyes of the young girl smiling before him. The listener is again startled by sound as Erik think-says,
“For this magnificent offering, and all the other things you have, before this day, given me, I, too, shall give you a great gift.” Her eyebrows furrowed in curiosity wondering what a house cat could possible have to offer her. But Erik continued, “As you know, you possess a gift that very few humans do. You have the power to communicate with the heart of a feline. And in this way you have brought me, and many others of my race, great things and great joy. Most of all, though, your pure love for us has taught us the power of loyalty. And in return for this, we wish to extend your power to lend a fellow kitten a helping hand. We wish to bring out your inner soul and remind you how to attain our form.”
She was surprised by what she had just heard, for she had never thought much of the deeds she had done for her beloved kittens. And that she, a nameless stranger could attain the form of her greatest and closest friend would be a gift so great, that it hardly seemed conceivable in her mind. But given all that she had accomplished in her (remembered) lifetime and he naivety, she knelt on the ground, in order to be closer to Erik and asked him,
“How are you going to do that? How will you bring out the soul of a person who is soulless? How will you render you perfection onto my imperfect human body and mind?” Erik seemed not the least moved by these questions. He looked deep into her bottomless eyes and said,
“By teaching you what a soul is. And by drawing the imperfection out of you, one drop of blood at a time.” Her eyes widened. The seriousness in Erik’s thought drew her back a bit, and so did his constant stare.
But she could not look away, for Erik had drawn her into a spell. Both were lost in a powerful trance. Neither saw the physical world before them anymore. What passed between them that day has been lost forever, but the motionless ritual came to an end hours later, as a blood-red sun began to overpower the horizon. Suddenly both their essences returned to their bodies and they could see again. Both blinked. Erik’s eyes remained fixed on her waiting for her to be ready to begin again. As for her, she looked around, not too sure of where she was or whether it was real or not. Finally her eyes drifted back to the orange tabby.
“Come closer.” He told her. He seemed to beckon her forth as if he had a secret to tell her. And so, she leaned forward only inches away from Erik’s face. And before she could grow uncertain of what she was doing, he sat up slightly on his hind legs and licked her nose. The sudden movement made her draw back automatically, but she quickly fell forward again and began to cough a horrible deep-chested cough. Soon blood began to flow from her lips and to gather in a small pool in the snow before her. She continued to cough and the blood flowed smoothly. Erik sat patiently, looking as concerned as if he were watching a horse ride past his favorite window.
Finally, her coughing fit ended as the blood flow did. Her lips were stained a pure red hue, and her face was as pale as her robes and the snow around her. She looked up and around and blinked as if the world were spinning out of control.
“Don’t try to get up.” Said Erik, “You are too weak. Listen as I explain. Soon it will all make sense and you will not be so afraid.” She looked squarely at Erik as he said the word, “afraid,” and cursed herself in her heart for her weakness.
“The blood flow is, as you have described it, imperfection. And it will leave you body in little bits. Each day will bring forth one, and soon two and as time passes, they will come more frequently. The day that brings forth five red floods will be the day that all that must leave you will have left. That day, we will visit the cat’s form and mind. Until that day, have patience and remember that God is merciful. He will not let my gift bring your downfall.” She blinked a few time, thinking about perhaps, but not fully realizing the significance of Erik’s words. “After your first transformation, the human world will continue to have an effect on you. So more frequently right after the transformation, and less frequently as time wears on, your body will have to keep ridding itself of building human influences. The floods will never cease. They will always be a reminder of your imperfect nature and of your great gift.” Erik did not believe that she fully understood her duty now given this new gift, but he also knew that her fragile mind could take no more this night.
“Now you will rest, and we will meet again on the morrow.” With those words, she seemed to be released from a mighty grip and fell into a deep sleep. Erik covered her from head to toe with her pure white cloak and cowled her face in order to protect it from the midnight chill. As he turned to leave, he ran his body against her back, as any loyal cat would do to loving master. He walked home solemnly from there, never looking back, never blinking, and hardly daring to let himself reflect on the events of that night.
She slept until in the innocent sun rose, with a tiny smile on her face and a thought of kittens playing, in her dreams.

Upon sunrise, Erik returned to the tree at which he had left his pupil. He smiled when he reached the tree, for covered in her cloak, she was indiscernible from the snow. Nothing could be seen there but a frozen pool of dried blood. Erik nuzzled his cold nose up to her neck in hopes to wake her. Half awake, she reached out and hugged her best friend, the memory of the past night had not yet returned to her.
“Rise, my love, for it is morning. Rise it is time to learn, it is time to live, it is time to begin anew.”

…Faint and blurry memories pass by of Erik and her studying, living and learning. Memories of other cats, some angry, some delighted. Memories of endless crimson streams. Memories of snow and the unkindness of man. Memories of love and good deeds. Memories of anger and mistakes…

The image came into focus again on the very day of the five red floods. It was the first day of spring. The snow had melted away. The sun felt more confident. And the trees were slowly arousing from an eternal sleep.
Erik had been spending everyday with her lately sensing that the day of five floods was approaching. He walked through the familiar woods with her and tried to keep her mind occupied as he counted her “episodes”. As an orange and purple sun set, Erik counted a fifth flood. She knelt over the shadowed ground and let her imperfections pour out of her without a single objection. She felt faint and weak, though she would not admit to it, for she had lost much blood that day.
When it all ended, her legs felt leadened, she was too weak to get up. She put her hands on the ground before her to keep herself from collapsing forward.
“You can feel it in you heart. Let it be free. Run with the weightless burden of freedom. Be who you are…” Erik continued to whisper encouragements, knowing that nothing he said truly made a difference, the success of his spell was entirely in her hands now.
The last thing that she wanted to do, was let Erik down after all the hard they had put into this endeavor. She looked deep inside her heart and sought the freedom that Erik spoke of. A freedom that she had longed for her entire life. Freedom from the burden of life. The lifting of a weight that allows you to run freely with pure glee.
As her heart found this conclusion, it felt the glee that it sought and ran, ran away to the promise land knowing that there were no regrets and knowing that there was no guilt. As her heart ran from her, her body raced to catch up to it, forming around her the body of a lively kitten. This form allowed her to run even faster, and to feel even more free.
She had no mind, she simply ran to her heart’s desire…
…She was a pure white kitten. Her fur was short and carried, like her cloak, the hue of the snow. Her eyes, like before, were of a pure endless black, only now, they seemed enlightened. If possible, they were more brilliant than ever. Her tail was long, her nose was small and pink, and her ears were slender and graceful…
Finally, her young legs grew weary and her mind told her heart that freedom could not last forever. She returned to Erik and reassumed her human form. She swept Erik up in her arms and collapsed on the ground, weeping. Erik, on his part had a happiness on his face so pure that his feline features could not justly portray it. And at the same time, he breathed a sigh so deep that one would have believed that he had held all the air of this planet in his lungs.
The memory faded away and she closed the book…
Attached
“The youth just now shown to me…is not you…” He looked into her deep and empty eyes. Their eternal sorrow simply could not mirror the innocence in that carefree child.
She looked back silently, thinking of the thousands of years her eyes had witnessed. Any eye would surrender its innocence to the cruelty of man.
She opened the book again, to a further blank page. She began whispering indiscernible words. An image floated by briefly. An image of a miniature grave. Wept by the little snow hued girl. The loss of her greatest friend…
Days swam by of the young girl wandering the woods alone, not a day older. Timed passed on without her. Her love passed on without her. She simply could not go…
The images slowed and came into focus as one was finally chosen. It was an early fall day. The leaves only just finding worldly hues. The lonely girl sat high in her favorite tree, on the thickest bough, shielded by countless leaves.
She seemed absorbed in her own thoughts. Silent and elsewhere, she did not notice.
A child, a young human boy, ran through the woods aimlessly. Heart racing, tears running. Running from something only he could see. Tired to his ends, he tripped and fell in the leaves. Still sobbing, he clumsily got up and climbed the tree whose feet he had fallen at. In his eyes, his savior.
He climbed high enough to far away enough from that which he was fleeing. His sobs were abating. But he still could not see for the tears flooding his eyes. He took a faulty step and the branch below him gave way with an enormous crack. The child screamed as he fell several feet down. He landed on a strong branch and suddenly went limp.
She had awoken to the unearthly cracking and heard the child scream. She moved out a little on her branch and saw that he had climbed a tree but a few steps from hers.
She saw him now, limp on that cruel branch. She climbed his tree to examine him while he could not see her.
She froze, though, as she saw his face. Relaxed and peaceful, lost in a simple dream. Simply depicting the innocence her face and dreams had lost. She watched him as he slept, exhausted from his escape.
She reached out to touch his face, entranced by the beauty of his young human face. As she did, he moved a little in his sleep and began to slip off the branch.
Startled, she could not think of what to do as he fell freely towards the fatal ground. Not totally aware of what she did, she slid automatically from the tree and landed softly on the ground. Silently, she moved below him and caught him before he reached the ground.
He continued to sleep in her arms with his beautiful baby face. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched him, and landed on his nose. And still he slept.
She put him on the ground softly, taking care for his comfort. Then she ran, too, silently from something only she perceived.
The image cleanly faded, but she did not close the book. She looked once into his endless purple eyes, and began flipping a bit further into the book, whispering again.

And what follows is the role play. The boy is the same little boy.

A Child of Concentration

An enraged little mother stood on her doorstep, screaming blindly at her young son to get out of her sight. She held a dusty broom, her hands and apron were dirty, and her face was of a rare shade of red. There was no sense in the words she vociferated, but the little boy knew well that she only wanted him gone.
The little boy, too, was ragged and dirty, and as he tripped down his mother’s stairs, hardened tears rolled down his cheeks. His mother, too, as she yelled, shed tears.

Finally, the boy had fallen face down on the pavement and was making efforts to bring himself away. At the sight, the mother blindly slammed the door shut. She screamed at no one in particular. Cried only because she didn’t know why. And swept very ferociously at an already clean floor.

As the boy picked himself up and tripped a few steps more, his sobs grew more pronounced and an anger seemed to bloom on his cheeks. He stormed down the street, and kicked an empty mailbox as he passed it. There was a certain age about him, a certain hardened look that told that this was not this first misadventure. And though this wise man inhabited a body of one no more than seven or eight, his eyes seemed to tell a tale of someone simply too… seeing… for such a body.

As he walked, the boy recalled all the images and the people that had wreaked havoc on his life just now, and concentrated on them. A certain calm seemed to overcome his features just then, as if a storm was just abating.
He inhaled deeply, as if his trouble might have just passed.

Then, he stopped abruptly on the road and looked up to the sky, with a strikingly childish look, and deplored of nobody in particular,
“Don’t leave me.”