Issue 4 Winter 2022 - The Charles Carter
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Issue 4 Winter 2022
The Charles Carter
Literary Arts Magazine
Issue no. 4
Published January 2022
Cover art by Claire Audilet
Editors
Readers
Claire Audilet Niko Laws
Lysander Champion Reese Thompson
JessieAnne D’Amico Kayal Udaiyar
Chris Kennedy Charles Vanderford
Olivia Kersten Elisabeth Vohwinkel
Emma Nelson Ruth Wu
Annie L.
Design
Claire Audilet
Lysander Champion
Niko Laws
Dear Reader, Welcome back to another crazy year! Care to join us by a crackling fireplace? If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure how this semester, or quite frankly, this new year, was going to turn out. I was waiting with bated breath to receive the news that schools were going to go back into lockdown, hospitals were going to be filled, or a new variant was going to surge. And while some of those things came true, a plethora of joy and hope came true as well. This issue of The Charles Carter is one of those beautiful things. It is full of commentary on the human condition, and while it may not always be cheerful, it is always honest, and let’s be real, we can all use that in our lives. It is an anthology of reflection. Breathe that in. I have had the absolute privilege of working with some of my favorite people to edit this latest issue. I can promise every reader that we have given our all to curating this selection of literature. We sincerely hope you enjoy reading it as much as we have. Here’s to another great year, and many, many more. Cheers, Elisabeth Vohwinkel President
Table of Contents Train Landscape Eric Ravilious. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 9 Big Bang Ian C. Webb. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 10 Journal Allie Rowe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 12 7 + 1 Lost Wonders of the Library of Alexandria Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 13 2019_03 Jeremy Szuder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 20 Hot War, Cold War Patrick Theron Erickson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 21 Concrete Ice Cream Mario Loprete . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 26 Little Deaths on Cherry Street Nickolas Duarte. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 27 Past Selves Claire Audilet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 28 Matryoshka Marion Peters Denard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 29 Afternoon Myrthe Biesheuvel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 42 Maybe Time Is Bolin Creek Eli Parker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 43
Quiet Fog Claire Audilet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 46 Where Did You Go Last Night? What? No, That Can’t Be Right Niko Laws . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 47 My Daughter Weights Fourteen Thousand Grams Nicholas Duarte. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 59 Angel, Concrete Sculpture Mario Loprete . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 60 Yoga Teacher Barbara Strauss. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 61 Nature Poems Matthew Hunt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pg 71
Train Landscape, 1939
By Eric Ravilious
9Big Bang
By Ian C. Webb
Train Landscape 1939, Eric Ravillious. Pencil and watercolour on paper with collage.
Set out on a path through a field of ripened, sun-drenched wheat;
see the hawk’s ascent above the equine head overlooking
the Vale at the edge of the Plain; see the hawk’s descent
towards a high-speed train at the edge of a tiny
railway town — here traditional, English, domestic
murders have reached the peak of the national chart.
The route is steep: each requirement for breath, the
lack of which, within nine minutes, would see
you dead, the universe will supply its demands —
knowledge of which sees fit to impart in grey
and pink layers of watery fat — where billions
of signals in routes, and connections, spark in valleys
and hills, in hemispheres, regions — imparting
every need to know: a word is formed with a jab
of the tongue; how not to hurt the touch of a nerve.
Or hear pistons and whistle, on the track through the Vale —
in England in nineteen thirty-nine. First and Second
and Third Class thoughts carry towards a paper-thin edge
in space and time. See mapped-out footholds, for
a Blitzkrieg’s squads, enclosed between hedgerows:
vale as soft as a Fallschirmjäger’s sheet of silk.
10The universe prior to detonation was less
than the size of the part of an atom. The universe shrinks
to the ball of a fist.
The artist gets killed on active service.
Follow the lines of the Iron Age fortress towards
the Danger Unexploded signs, see hovering
gunships X-Box their targets, here where the sound
of thunder is rarely thunder. Untilled plain
replete with rare species of flora and fauna.
11Journal 12 by Alli Rowe
7 + 1 Wonders of the
Library of Alexandria
By TKTKTKTKTK1. The First Wheel
Alexandria is old, but not that old. There are many wheels in the city. Functional
wheels. Aesthetic. Wheels-in-use, but they are not this one. This is the first. A hunk
of limestone hewn by water into a squat cylinder that predates the library by several
thousand years, it has revolved not even a thousand miles in its long, long, long
lifetime.
What else is there to say about mankind’s inaugural wheel? Like all first drafts,
much to be said is critique. The wheel was hardly efficient in construction and was
of no real use. Eight millennia back, a Mesopotamian man spent an entire year
offering a chunk of limestone to the sluicing Euphrates just so, until its jagged edges
rounded into curves. He was a weird guy.
Eventually, raiders killed him. Raiders found his cool rock and enshrined it. Then
the cool rock moved from shrine to shrine to its final location: a library that burns
down.
Feel hot wind on the hot night. You stand in horror and whisper to the ones beside
you, who stand in horror and whisper back.
2. The Codex of Heavens
Here is a story writ in stars. Thirty-five hundred, ten, and six years before
the Common Era, a woman named Eden mapped the whole of the sky. She gave
narrative depth to dots of light and physical form in a series of scrolls. These maps
are a story the distant future will misinterpret, having lost the Codex that might
translate surviving fragments into the complete story that is renamed Constellations.
“Look!” will be said. “There! Do you see the shape of Cancer?”
“Yes! I think...” in answer. “I think I see it. It looks like a crab, right?”
14No. Wrong. That aimless string of stars is the broken shard of a single frame of a
comic written and burnt long before these speakers will be dreamed.
Eden’s work will persist in pieces that romantics, storytellers, and sailors will sew
together with imperfect patchwork, our myths and oldest stories just spin-offs of one
person’s lost work.
The buckets arrive too late, and the names of the heroes arriving with them to fight
the flame will not be recorded in the great library because the flame has already won.
3. A Lot of Really Good Fucking Smut
The median lifespan at the time of the library’s ruin was twenty-four and a
quarter years, which significantly improved over the eons previous through which
generations of authors stocked the library’s shelves with pages and pages and
sculptures of erotica. But what relation bears lifespan to smut?
Well, the library’s final lesson: a fire burning hottest burns out quickest. The
eroticians of old had no time for slow-burn, and what’s hotter than a single flame?
Two flames in tandem? Three? Four.
Sweat-stuck hair peeled gently from the forehead to look into a lover’s eyes.
Foreskin rolled back at the brush of passing lips. The areola pinched under the pad of a
thumb while the back arches against fingers curled inside.
Procreative, mlm, femslash, and—this is Egypt—some of it done with cat ears and tail.
You watch the great building blossom into great fire until there is more fire than
building. What else can you do? Surely not sleep, though the hour grows late and that’s
what you want. Surely you will witness a great tragedy of human history that is worth
your staying awake for the seeing.
154. The Pristine Corpse
Not without cause, the medieval Christians will expect the bodies of their saints
to never decay. There is a phenomenon, and here is such a body, laying interred in
Alexandria’s library. He’s a spindly man with such long arms and hands. Knobby
joints and bone-swollen knuckles that push at the thin membrane of his skin. Here
is a modern mummy circa 3rd century BCE, and no one knows his name. No one
knows where he came from, besides the Sub-Saharan oasis where his body was
first recovered one thousand years ago. But that was only the time of recovery.
Maybe he floated in the oasis’ gentle waters for another thousand years or more.
Ultimately, his age has gone the same way as his name and origin: away.
Though sequestered in the library he is, the spindly man is not really special.
We have many more like him, only hidden underground, and this will not change
going into the future. We all will agree—what use is a dead thing?
We will hide our bodies, perfect and not, beneath the earth.
You doze between night’s deepest valley and the break of dawn. Warmth
cast from the glowing library is pleasing on your skin, its fire-crackle and pop
soothing in your ears.
5. The Andromeda Archives
Widely panned by the contemporary Alexandrian literati, The Andromeda
Archives—author unknown (presumed male)—told the serialized story of a lone
spaceman who came from alien stars (Eden having laid claim to the stories of our
own long before the Archives’ inception). The spaceman’s many adventures feature
sacred objects, profane implications, secret societies, and meticulously inauthentic
portrayals of the female perspective.
16Chunks of the Archives will survive well into the future and appear with semi-
regularity on The History Channel. They will get no better with age.
Though you sleep with content through the final stages of the library’s collapse,
you will recount every facet of that night 336 times over the course of your life
(Do not worry. It is mostly a good one). Sometimes you add details you only half-
remember, or don’t at all. Bits of your dozing dream mix with memory to create
a new picture of Alexandria’s library, and this is fine, for the library is gone now.
Its existence is as much a dream as your life, so why shouldn’t the two blend into
something even more seminal and no less real?
6. The Unflinching Words of GOD
GOD spoke only once, and ITS words were etched onto papyrus and stored
in the deepest recesses of the library. GOD is a bowl and we are the cereal which
floats in ITS milk of Time until Time soggily undoes us, or we are plucked out
and eaten by Entropy. Outside of Time, Entropy eats at us and also at Time’s body
until no Time is left in GOD’s bowl, and IT will be empty again, as IT then will
have always been.
Here are the words of GOD’s truth, transcribed in that same cold Entropy that
drains the soul to be read. Here are the words that are lost when Julius Caesar
orders his armies to set fire.
“Render unto Caesar that which belongs to Caesar,” GOD’s truth will be retold.
“Give to GOD what is GOD’s.”
17The holyman will be referring to a different emperor, but still. The library
does belong to Caesar, and GOD takes back ITS words as they burn into nothing.
Perhaps out of fear, or perhaps because this is only how the ancient machine
operates, GOD resides in reality less permanent than ITSELF, and in the end (and
it will come), this is the harvest of GOD: Nothing.
We say things because they sound cool, or feel good. We tell stories to amuse. You
tell your story of a library full of burning treasures, though you never saw the inside.
But aren’t the contents sweeter for the speculation?
Speculate, you do.
And you are good at it.
You are a library—yourself, an unfinished catalog of lost wonders that sound so
cool. Your amused audience will dream.
7. A Map that Demarcates the Exact Location and Size of Atlantis
Right there between one continent and the next. You can put your finger on it,
if you want. Right there.
This map is no particular treasure among the Alexandrian hoard of knowledge.
It is, however, one of a set. Here, you can find the topography of Avalon. There,
the cave paths that weave down to old Agartha. Ride, boldly ride one shelf over if
you seek for El Dorado.
All these places found, labelled, categorized, and shelved. Quite efficient—in
storage and as kindling, when the moment comes.
188. The Truth
So what is here but a disappointing listicle of vague oddities? Better that they
are gone. We rejoice in their absence, for their presence crowds out the spaces
that mystery could fill.
A fractured sky gives contemporary fiction a chance for better than The
Andromeda Archives, and again—what use is a perfect corpse? First drafts are not
final drafts; in light of the Formula 1 race car, who needs limestone?
And GOD. A kinder cosmos allows faith by providing no answers.
In burning, the library of Alexandria is destroyed and saved in legacy. We are
saved from certainty and mourn only the loss of the smut.
Fuck.
192019_03
By Jeremy Szuder
20Hot War, Cold War
By Patrick Theron EricksonCat Island
Cats
have taken over
a fishing village
on a remote island
in Japan
and can be seen
lolling among the rocks
the seaweed and kelp
and the fishing boats
grooming themselves
and one another
the way raccoons do
after baptizing their food
and christening their young
personal grooming
is as vital
in the animal kingdom
as it is in the human domain
you wash my back
and I’ll wash yours
though from the looks
of the great unwashed hordes lately
I’d say we human beings
have a ways to go.
22Homage
I would pay homage
to impulse
but tribute
is far too dear
and the predator
taxing enough
to squelch any honor
to whom honor is due
I dare not
drop my guard
or lower
my perked ears
for even one moment
on the fly
lest I become
the loan shark’s snack
as, alas
the hapless hare
becomes the lone hawk’s dinner
and not his dinner guest.
23Daily Catch
If fishnet stockings
catch the eye
of the unwary beholder
is there a keeper
in the catch
when all the little ones
slip through?
Can we regard our affair
accordingly, as close knit
when the keepers themselves
slip through
and there is
no daily catch
and we are left
fins and gills
flapping in the breeze
heaving, groping
having slipped through
ourselves?
2425
Concrete Ice Cream
By Mario LopreteLittle Deaths on Cherry Street
By Nickolas Duarte
White houses on cherry street
white moms in blouses cherishing
their children’s feet, green lawns,
crow calls, a raspado man
walks by
pushing his little cart
dusty sun beams
light up pockets
a Prius prepares
to turn on
Calle Luna
the turn signal
blinking in and out
of existence
bouncing here and there
like the strings in our skin
pulling out of each other
like a universe bouncing around
a dodecahedron, lopsided
and unsure like you
at junior prom
nervous like your father
particles collecting and dispensing
little deaths bouncing
up and then down
and then up again
27Past Selves
Claire Audilet
28Matryoshka
By Marion Peters Denard
29When Mom died, Rachel started asking questions. What did Mom make for
Christmas morning? Egg casserole. When did Mom go back to school? I was four-
teen, you were eleven. The questions got smaller and bigger, as though by their
specificity they were magnified. What did she smell like? She wore Chanel No. 5.
I know that, Tabbie. But what did she smell like? She smelled like orange honey
and coral lipstick and bright-green breath mints. What did her hugs feel like? They
were nice. Tabbie. Like she was bringing you in and keeping you out at the same
time. Tight, but only so close.
Rachel says I’m the only person who truly loves her because I know everything
about her. Everything she ever did. She is my sister, my friend, and still – I lied to
her.
Mom had a set of matryoshka, Russian nesting dolls, that she kept lined up
on her bookshelf. I can see inside people like the inside of those dolls, each self
tucked inside the others. Much like a mother sees all the ages her child has ever
been: the baby in the toddler, the toddler in the teenager, the teenager in the thir-
ty-year-old. Mom told me once that when I stood in the sunlight she could squint
and see twelve-year-old Tab, five-year-old Tabbie, and Baby Tabitha deep inside.
Matryoshka means “mother” in Russian. Maybe that’s why. You see, I remember
everything. Each moment makes an imprint, its own footprint in the snow, and my
mind is marked with them all. At the end of the day, so I can finally sleep, I write
it all down in a notebook and the snow comes with a clean sheet of white. The
next morning, it starts again, fresh footprints in the snow. By the end of the day,
my mind is crisscrossed with tracks and muddy to the touch.
I remember everything. I can tell you, by the hour, what I was doing on April
15, 1991. It was a Monday. We divided fractions at school. My father went to
Baltimore on June 25, 2003. Nothing of note happened. He didn’t die in a plane
crash on his way there. He didn’t leave us never to return. He went on a business
trip to Baltimore. He came back on Friday, June 27. I remember only because I
remember everything.
30I realized I was different Thursday, January 9, 1992. I was thirteen. I was rid-
ing the bus home from school, staring out the rainy window. Greg Saunders was
sitting nearby and I was thinking about how he pushed me at recess last year. I
fell back and my pink stretch pants got dirty. It was March 7, a Wednesday. I’d had
cottage cheese in my lunch and Sarah T. said that was weird. I told her she was
weird. Then Stephanie started talking about her slumber party and we both shut
up because we wanted to go.
I thought about Stephanie’s slumber party. We ate popcorn and watched The
NeverEnding Story. I wore my pajamas with the dancing toothbrushes and my dad
was twenty minutes early picking me up. I rushed to get my sleeping bag and I
forgot one of my socks. It was Saturday, March 10, 1991.
This is weird, I thought. Does everyone remember like this? I started asking.
I’m fascinated by other people’s memories: What do they keep? What do they
forget? How are those decisions made? My husband, Danny, tells me people don’t
make decisions about what to remember. Just like I don’t choose to remember
every detail, he doesn’t choose to remember only certain events.
But Danny is a person who forgets. After we’d been dating six months, I asked
him what he thought after we had sex the first time. He stammered, searching.
I could picture little men walking up and down his brain, looking for a file that
had been misplaced, mislabeled, or recycled. They wore little overalls and paced
through the long filing shelves like tiny librarians. They muttered to themselves:
sex with Tabitha, first sex with Tabitha.
He said, “Oh, it was nice.”
He didn’t remember.
It makes you feel small, to remember these forgotten things. I want you to un-
derstand this, so you’ll know why I lied. You must understand, these memories are
suffocating. They pile up on me and sometimes I cannot breathe.
The day Mom left us was a Tuesday. December 6, 1990. I was twelve and Ra-
chel was nine. It was a school day, but a heavy snow came through in the night.
31Mom paced the kitchen listening to the DJ read the list of school closures. “Clos-
ing school?” she said. “Ridiculous – it’ll be melted by noon.”
She was showered and dressed when we came downstairs for breakfast. Most
days she was still in her bathrobe, packing our lunches. Mom had a part-time job
at a dentist’s office, doing the books. But she was home when we left and home
again when we got off the bus in the afternoon, so what she did during the day
was invisible. She wore a cream turtleneck sweater, dangly gold earrings, and her
camel church slacks. Her blonde hair was swept up in a twist. Dad had already left
for work, leaving early to shovel out the car, and make his way through the snow
to the office. She made pancakes, a rarity. She made too many at once and they
sat in a cold pile on a plate by the sink.
“Eat up, girls. Then go play. We’ll go out in a little while, when they get the
roads cleared.”
“No school!” We shouted, “Snow day, snow day, snow day!” We jumped up and
down and held onto each other’s hands. At this age I was as likely to trip Rachel
as I was to paint her nails. We were tight in the love-hate hug of sisterhood.
We went outside to play, but after a few snowballs the novelty wore off and
the cold set-in through my wet mittens. Rachel wanted to build a snow fort. I tried
to tell her it was impossible, that the snow didn’t make ice blocks like it did in the
cartoons.
“Fine, Tabbie,” she said. “Whatever, don’t help. I can do it.” She took a handful
of snow which crumbled in her hands. She shook the frozen clumps of snow from
her mittens and set about pushing the snow into a mound. She’d find a way, may-
be, but I was going inside.
The house was dark after the sunshine on the snow and quiet, like no one
was home. I walked into the living room, my snow pants heavy and wet around
my ankles. I stood at the bookshelf and looked at Mom’s matryoshka dolls. The
biggest doll had a red coat with small blue flowers and pink painted cheeks and
a mouth painted in a small red bow. Her black hair peeked out from her red
32kerchief. Her blue eyes glinted with a dot of white at the pupil. I pulled apart the
belly with a satisfying pop. Inside, I found the next doll with a green coat and the
same blue eyes, the same black hair, the same bow mouth. Underneath her, a doll
with the dark blue coat, and then the orange coat, and then the light green coat,
then the light blue coat, then, finally, a baby, wrapped in a painted pink blanket.
Her eyes were closed, little painted half-moon lids, always asleep.
I heard my mother call. It was almost time to go. I put the baby in my pocket
and went to change. I left the dolls open and scattered along the bookshelf like a
series of unanswered questions.
Once in the car, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“The mall,” Mom said.
But when we got close to the mall, we turned left into the parking lot for
Garcia’s, the Mexican restaurant. Mom took us each by the hand, walking in the
middle, linking us together. I kept one hand in my pocket, rolling the small, egg-
shaped baby doll between my fingers and palm. The restaurant was almost empty.
“Girls, I want you to sit right here. I’m going to go over there, at that table by
the window. I’m going to have lunch with a friend. I’ll be able to see you. It will be
your very own special lunch date. Just you two.”
She smiled. Her coral lipstick shined against her white teeth. She bent down
and kissed each of us, hard. She stood up and straightened her sweater, smoothed
her hands over her camel slacks, rubbed her lips together to redistribute the lip-
stick. She walked to a table by the window and she sat down across from a man.
The man wore a dark suit. I saw him only in profile, but I was sure I didn’t
know him. He was losing his sandy-colored hair, but it puffed above his ears hope-
fully. He wore glasses. I had never seen him before. I would never see him again.
Rachel kicked her shoes on the legs of her chair. “What are we doing? Are we
gonna eat?”
I kicked her shin under the table. “Shut up. Stop it with your feet, ok?”
33I was trying to listen to my mother and the man in the dark suit. They were
too far away; I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The waitress stopped at
their table, glanced over her shoulder at us, then took out her pad and pen. She
brought chips and salsa to our table without stopping.
I kept looking over at Mom and the man. “Tab, what are we doing?” Rachel
asked.
“Shut up. I’m trying to hear them.” Mom was talking using her hands. The
man looked serious. He kept nodding. He’d say something – break into Mom’s
talking – and her hands would flurry to a stop. They would fall, like birds shot out
of the sky, into her lap, limp and still.
The waitress brought us two Sprites. She told us our Mom had ordered
lunch for us and it would be here in a few minutes. There was a TV in the bar
somewhere over my shoulder and Rachel kept looking past me and zoning out. I
bobbed the straw in and out of my Sprite, watching the bubbles push it up to the
top. The tiny little bubbles shot the straw up into the air when my finger released
the pressure. Rachel’s eyes looked glassy, her mouth was partway open.
Lunch came. Mom had ordered us each two chicken tacos, with a side of
rice and beans.
“Plates are hot, ok, kids?” The waitress told us. The plates were white ovals
and the rice and beans were gooey, melted together with orange and white
cheese. Rachel asked the waitress for another Sprite. Mine was only half-gone.
Mom and the man weren’t eating, but they drank coffee.
Mom was crying now. She had a Kleenex out of her purse and was dabbing
at her eyes with it. Her nose was red. The man in the suit reached out and cov-
ered Mom’s hand with his. His hand was big and covered with blonde hair. Mom
slipped her hand out from under his to steady her coffee cup to her lips. She
sipped, nodded, then put her hand back on the table like an invitation. His fat
hand covered hers again.
34The waitress came and got our plates. Rachel was still watching TV with that
stupid look on her face.
Mom and the man stood up. They hugged. She turned toward us and smiled.
The smile faltered like it wasn’t sure it could balance on its own.
“Who was that Mom?” Rachel asked.
“A friend,” she said. “Get your coats, ok?”
She took our hands again as we left the restaurant. She walked briskly across
the parking lot toward the movie theatre.
“Let’s see a movie, what do you think? Huh, girls? There’s that new one out.
Alone at Home or something? Want to see that?”
“Home Alone,” I said. “It’s called Home Alone.” And yes, I wanted to see it.
Jenny had seen it last weekend and said it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen
in her life; she laughed so hard she almost peed her pants. But I was vaguely an-
gry. What were we doing? Why was she acting like this was normal?
Rachel jumped up and down, still holding on to Mom’s hand, so her arm
moved like a jump rope in Rachel’s hands. “Yes! Yes! Please?”
Rachel didn’t understand you didn’t have to beg when something had al-
ready been offered.
It was cold and the guy at the ticket booth wore red earmuffs. “Two for
Home Alone,” my mother said. “One for... Dances with Wolves.”
“That one started about ten minutes ago.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said.
“You’re not coming with us?” I asked.
“I’ll just be next door. You two are getting so grown-up, my goodness, we can
do things like this now.”
Rachel asked for popcorn and Mom nodded. Rachel squeezed my hand like
she’d just gotten us something really good. What’s wrong with her, I thought. Why
doesn’t Rachel see how weird this is?
35We got our popcorn and Mom walked us to the door of our theater. “I’ll be
right next door, ok? I’ll be here when you guys get out. I’ll be waiting right here.”
I remember everything about that movie: the bit parts, the jokes that didn’t
quite work. I remember more than just his hands on his cheeks in that mock
scream. I remember him being forgotten as his family rushed out the door. It
didn’t seem funny at all, to be left at home by yourself. To be forgotten.
When the movie ended, I was sick at my stomach from the Sprite and the
popcorn and the wondering. I rolled the baby matryoshka in my sweaty pocket.
We walked out of the darkness of the theater into the lights of the lobby. Mom
was standing right there, just where she said she would be. I could tell she’d been
crying. The man in the suit was walking out the door.
What had they done?
Mom drove us home. Rachel bounded into the house in front of us.
“Who was that man, Mom?” I asked.
“I told you, Tab. A friend.”
“Does Dad know him?”
She turned her head so fast a piece of hair slipped from the pins and slapped
her on the cheek. “No,” she said. “No, your father doesn’t know him.” She walked
into the house and left me standing on the steps.
Later that afternoon, I stood at my bedroom window and watched Rachel
make snow angels in the front yard. She stood on the bank of the driveway and
fell back, a trust-fall to no one. She was chubby in her snow pants, awkward as
she tried to get up without ruining her angel. She waved at me in the window, but
I just crossed my arms.
Mom walked out to the driveway and pulled a blue suitcase from the trunk
of the car. She carried it to one side with both hands and the weight of it bounced
up and down on her thigh. Rachel paused and looked up at our mother, carrying
the suitcase. Rachel must have seen her, but she didn’t speak. The late-afternoon
light was thin, the shadows dark and cold. Again, Rachel fell back into the white
drift, so sure the soft snow would catch her.
36I listened as the suitcase thumped up the stairs and then the dull drag down
the hallway carpet. It must have been heavy. I heard my mother close her bed-
room door. I walked the short hallway to my parents’ room and knocked once. I
opened the door before she could answer.
She stood over the bed pulling out her green sweater from the suitcase. She
had changed out of her camel slacks, back into jeans and a sweatshirt. She held
the sweater by the shoulders like she was trying to decide whether to try it on.
“Tabbie, you’re supposed to wait for come in.”
“I know.”
“Want to help me?”
She handed me sweaters and I put them back into her bureau. She didn’t ex-
plain. I didn’t ask. Maybe she thought I wasn’t old enough to understand or I was
too young to remember.
Maybe she was trying to show me that she had decided to stay. I helped her
put away sweaters, jeans, her fancy black dress. She put her mother’s pearls back
into her jewelry box. When we were done, I walked downstairs to the abandoned
matryoshka dolls. I took the baby from my pocket and carefully recreated the
shells of the dolls that held her. When they were complete, I took the mother doll
with the red coat and kissed her little bow mouth. I put her back, safely, at her
place on the shelf.
Over pizza that night, Rachel told Dad about going to the movies. Dad asked
Mom, “What did you see, honey?”
“Dances with Wolves. The one with the guy and the Indians.”
“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “I wanted to see that.”
“Well, you should. You should go. I’m sorry – I just couldn’t do a kid movie
today.”
“No biggie,” he smiled.
Years pass that way: being polite and passing the breadsticks. I read once
that there are years that ask questions and years that answer. But some questions
are never answered, and the years pass anyway.
37I never discussed that day with anyone, until the night I lied.
Rachel was over and Danny was making paella. We were already on our
second bottle of wine. Rachel sat on the counter next to Danny as he chopped
green beans. They were talking about Spain. Rachel told him about a little hotel
in Ronda she visited in college that had a theater room that plays old movies. She
watched Casablanca there, her favorite.
Rachel turned to me. “What was Mom’s favorite movie, Tab?”
“Out of Africa.”
“No. No – it was that other one. Kevin Costner. The one where he’s out on the
prairie and there’s that Indian woman. What’s it called?”
“Dances with Wolves.”
“Right. Dances with Wolves.”
“That wasn’t her favorite movie, Rach.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“She never even saw that movie.”
“What do you mean? Of course, she did. I remember her talking about it.”
“No. Dad loved that movie. That’s Dad’s favorite movie. He went to see it by
himself. On Saturday, January 12, 1991.”
“No. Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Really. God, Rachel. You know I remember these things. Why would I be
making this up? He went to go see it by himself after my basketball game. I scored
eight points and Megan Parker twisted her ankle. And then Dad went to go see
that stupid movie. By himself.”
My heart was racing. My cheeks were slapped red from the wine and I could
hear my voice getting higher, like bubbles fighting their way to the top of a straw.
“Sorry. God, you’re touchy.”
“No. No, I’m really not, Rachel. It’s just you don’t remember these things
and then you ask me and you expect me to remember everything but you don’t
even believe me when I tell you. It’s annoying.”
“God. Sorry. I won’t ask you about anything. Ever.”
38“Good. Because I could tell you things you couldn’t even believe.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Shit, Rachel. You have no idea, do you?”
That’s when I lied.
I told her about the snow day and going to Garcia’s and eating the chips
and the man in the suit and Mom in her camel slacks and her with her stupid
mouth open watching TV and not seeing anything. I told her about seeing Home
Alone just the two of us and coming out of that theater and how Mom wasn’t
there. How she wasn’t there waiting for us like she said she would be. How we
waited and waited and waited and she never came back. How we finally walked
through the snow-drifted parking lot and into the mall where we held hands
and walked the long mall, looking into each of the stores hoping for a glimpse of
her twisted blonde hair, her cream sweater, but nothing. We found nothing. She
wasn’t there. As it was getting dark, we walked back to the movie theater and sat
huddled together on the floor next to the popcorn machine. The teenage clerk
asked us if everything was ok and when we said yes he shrugged and walked
back to rip tickets. How Mom finally walked into the theater, her blonde hair now
down around her shoulders and covered with a fine blanket of new white snow.
How she took us by the hands and told us to never, never, never tell our father
that she was gone all day while we wandered around the mall.
I told her everything that mattered. I told her about the blue suitcase
thumping up the stairs. I told her how I helped Mom unpack and put away
Grandma’s pearls.
“Where did she go?” Rachel asked.
“She was gone, Rach. She was gone with him. And I would see him, all
the time, growing up. He would come to my basketball games and wave to Mom.
God, we had him and his wife over for dinner.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Tillman, her boss.”
“Tabbie,” Danny said, loo king at Rachel who had started to cry.
39“She has to grow up – she has to grow up sometime! I know this. Why
should I be the only one who knows this? Why should I be the only one who has
to carry all this around? All she and Dad do is talk about how perfect Mom was.
All Dad can say is how much he loved her. Well, I remember. I remember the fight-
ing, them screaming at each other. She never came back, Rachel. She never really
came back. She left us. Just like she left us at that movie theater.”
Danny shook his head, “Tab...”
“No, Danny, it’s ok,” Rachel said. She was crying, but she looked up at
me, her blonde hair falling across her face. “I know I’m the little sister and there’s
a lot I don’t know. I know I don’t have your perfect, photographic memory – or
whatever it is. But I know Mom loved us. I know she wasn’t perfect. I know I only
talk about the good stuff. I choose to remember the good stuff – the best stuff –
because it was there too. Maybe she left us at that movie theater all day. But she
came back. She was there when we came home from school and she was there
when I started my period and she was there to watch you play basketball. She
loved us. It doesn’t go away.”
That was the moment I should have told Rachel I lied. That was the mo-
ment I could have told her the truth. I knew Mom never really came back that
day. She was always just steps from the door. But Rachel knew the truth, too. She
stayed. We traded truths; we combined them. We uncapped the matryoshka doll
and looked inside at the women inside our mother, the mother inside the women
we became. Rachel’s tears touched my cheek before anything else. I wrapped my
arms around her. I felt her shoulder blades fold, like frail wings, under her shirt.
I saw her, a little girl again, making snow angels, falling back, trusting the soft
snow to catch her. I held my little sister like a snowflake on my tongue.
4041
Afternoon Myrthe Biesheuvel
Maybe Time Is Bolin Creek
By Eli Parker
Maybe time is Bolin Creek
tumbling constantly down
towards it lowest state of agitation.
But on its way, I get to hear it
babbling and bubbling in the rougher parts.
It is as glossy as a watch face
in the calmer parts.
Maybe all my sins and imperfections,
all my unsuccessful aspirations,
are just ripples fighting to lose
up and against its current.
Even the biggest ones,
the ones I most often drown in,
will be inevitably invisible soon.
Maybe time is Bolin Creek
tumbling lower day by day.
It is fed by rainfall and snowmelt
dripping like the ticking of a clock.
Bolin runs so long,
runs so glamorous and clear
that I cannot help but see it
as it runs through and around me.
43Maybe every roaring uncertainty,
every twisted nerve and heartburn,
was nothing but a bank of dirt
sliding into Bolin, just some silt
stacked up on one side,
a shimmering oxbow in the making.
Maybe time is Bolin Creek.
You can’t know its end, its beginning,
or really even its middle where you stand.
Every molecule patch is so fast and so unified
as to be untranslatable alone.
So then we can’t read time.
But we know it flows towards peace and quiet.
And with this I have found my calling
in watching for the silt and the sand,
fishing in my oxbows, and sliding downhill quietly.
4445
Quiet Fog
By Claire Audilet
46Where Did You Go Last
Night? What? No, That
Can’t Be Right
By Niko LawsA whisper makes its way between orange leaves. My child, aren’t we content
together? A bird chirps into the air before taking flight. My child, we could be
content forever. A light breeze dances through the trees, taking the whisper away
with it.
Daphne wakes up in the woods again. The air’s a bit chillier than she’d like
and there’s a crick in her neck, but the pile of leaves she’s lying in is surprisingly
soft. She picks herself up from the ground and dirt rains off her body like cheap
confetti. Taking in a deep breath of cold air, she thinks of the hot chocolate pack-
ages inside the pantry. As she breathes out her own personal cloud, she spots a
pile of broken bottles sitting at the bottom of a tree. Scrunching her nose, she’s re-
minded of the neighborhood teens who get a kick out of coming out here and pre-
tending like it isn’t extremely obvious that they are drinking and leaving behind
garbage. It’s hard to understand how people can just trash the woods like that.
Watching out for glass, she starts heading for her house. It’s even colder than
she had realized, but the light filtering through the tree branches offer her some
consolation—feeling a little bit warmer where the faint sunlight hits her skin. She
often liked to come out here and wander around, listening to music and watching
birds hop between trees, but not having a sweater made it a bit harder to appreci-
ate the crunch of leaves and scuttling of full-cheeked chipmunks.
Once she makes it across the tree line, she gets eyes on the backdoor of her
house and quickly shuffles towards it in a way that would make onlookers assume
her teeth are probably chattering. As she grabs the handle, she suddenly feels
watched. The hair on her neck stands at attention. Turning around, she sees a
woman in a white dress standing at the tree line. She’s facing into the woods, her
back turned towards Daphne. Dropping her hand from the door handle, she blinks
at the figure in the woods. One blink and the woman is no longer there. No hint
of white or snap of wood to indicate that she ever was.
48“Oh my god, what the fuck?” Daphne whispers, eyes wide. She turns around,
shoving her key into the door, and rushes inside. She barely notices the rumble of
thunder as she slams the door behind her.
Daphne sways her spoon in a suggestion of stirring the pot of milk on the
stove while she stares out the kitchen window, watching as a downpour begins.
She has yet to spot the woman again, but the last thing anybody needs is some
creep wandering around the neighborhood when all the kids are out tonight. Who
even wanders around the woods in a dress like that? Probably some local hooli-
gans trying to freak people out for shits and giggles. Last week, a group of them
got caught dressed as clowns and chasing after kids in the neighborhood park.
Community watch had a field day on Facebook with that one.
“Hot chocolate for breakfast? Ugh, I love your mind. I’ll grab our mugs,”
Maisie starts as soon as she walks into the kitchen, her slippers patting against the
wood floor.
“Who said any of this is for you?” Daphne side-eyes her sister before looking
down at the milk and giving it a firm stir, fending off any film.
“Fine, I see how it is,” Maisie says as she appears at her side, dumping hot
chocolate mix into each of their mugs. When she’s done, she faces Daphne before
dramatically dropping to her knees and clasping her hands together. “Oh, mag-
nanimous sister of mine, may a lowly creature such as myself please have a por-
tion of that divine nectar you call milk? Even a drop will suffice—”
“Maisie, it is nine o’clock in the morning. Get off the floor.”
“Dear sister, what is this sudden sensation I feel? Betrayal? My own blood re-
fusing to care for her hapless younger sister?” She clutches at her chest, eyes wide
as if she’s been stabbed.
Rolling her eyes, Daphne turns off the stove and dumps milk into the mugs
sitting on the counter. Maisie smiles before hopping up, grabbing her own mug,
and making her way to the kitchen table. Following behind her, Daphne stirs her
49drink and takes a seat. They both take a sip from their mugs and, for the first time
that morning, Daphne feels warm from head to toe.
“Why is there dirt all over here?” Maisie is looking down at the ground
beside her seat, the back door just inches away from her. She had meant to clean
that after she took her shower, ideally before Maisie woke up.
All she can do now is shrug at her sister as she takes a big sip of her drink,
scalding her tongue in the process.
“Are you sleepwalking again?” Maisie furrows her brow.
Daphne sighs and rubs a hand across her forehead. “Yeah, I am. It’s no big
deal, honestly. It’s probably just stress from the college classes.” This was her first
fall at community college.
Her dad wanted her to go somewhere further, but it felt too weird. Like she
might miss something.
“When did you start sleepwalking again? Was tonight the first night?”
“Uh, no. Today’s been, like, the third day now that I’ve woken up in the
woods.” Daphne knew her sister hadn’t inherited her own love for the outdoors,
or at least their own little woods, and often claimed that they were creepy. She
knew this would only support her sister’s beliefs, but the only thing she dislikes
more than people trashing the woods is keeping things from her sister.
She also couldn’t lie to save her life, but the last thing sounds better.
“Oh my god, seriously? Daphne, last time you were sleepwalking like this—”
“Maisie, listen to me. This is nothing like last time, okay? I’m basically wak-
ing up in the backyard.” Daphne isn’t actually confident that this is different, but
she wants to believe it is. She had sleepwalked a few times when she was younger,
usually just to the living room. Occasionally she made it out to the backyard.
When Daphne was 13, their mom got in a car crash and somebody found her
crunched into the base of a tree. When their dad suggested moving, she started
waking up at the edge of the woods closest to the highway — a tree with what she
hoped was red paint always in sight. The result was lots of therapy, moping in the
50woods, and their dad putting aside the thought of moving. The sleepwalking fad-
ed with time, like a scab healing over.
“Okay,” Maisie taps her finger against her mug, “but we have to tell Dad
tonight, when he’s off work. Get him to pick up those door alarm things so we can
get you back inside if you try to leave.”
“Sure,” she agrees, but Maisie still looks concerned. Maisie is 16, but she has
a way of getting underfoot when she’s worried. Daphne doesn’t want her sticking
around all day, waiting for her to magically nap her way into oncoming traffic.
“Okay, well that’s enough of this. We’ve got a plan, so cheer up. Aren’t you
hanging out with some friends tonight?”
“Joseph and I were planning to meet up with some other people and do the
haunted trail the neighborhood is hosting. But maybe I should cancel?”
“Don’t do that, seriously. Emma’s having a costume party tonight, so I’m sure
by the time that’s over, you’ll already be snug at the house. Maybe stick with the
group and watch out for that Joseph guy, though. I think he has a thing for you
and rumor has it he runs over animals for fun.”
“He does not! He’s really sweet. Definitely a bit awkward, but he just needs
more friends.” With that, Maisie is finally up from the table and walking out of
the room. Daphne smiles at her sister but, out of the corner of her eye, she notices
something white moving at the kitchen window. She turns her head to look but
there’s nothing there now except for the swaying of far-off trees in the rain. As
water streaks down the window, the trees look like they’re crying.
“Just, uh, be careful tonight, Maisie.” Daphne calls after her sister, who is
already stomping up the stairs.
“You too, sleeping beauty!”
Daphne was the first of the two to leave the house. She had to be at Emma’s
by six-thirty to help set up the party. With a pointy black hat on and broom in
hand, she reminds Maisie to text her when she leaves for the haunted trail and
51then rushes out the front door. Emma lives fifteen minutes away, on the other side
of their development. It’s closer to five if she cuts through the woods, but they’re
running the haunted trail by now.
She takes to the sidewalk with the first stage of trick-or-treaters: elementa-
ry schoolers who aren’t allowed out after dark. Some families are setting up fire
pits in their driveways, aiming to keep warm once the sun finally sets. A cloud of
smoke rises behind a zombie mom who’s chatting away at the end of her drive-
way, handing milk duds to a very demanding ninja.
Once she makes it to Emma’s, she is quickly dragged into decorating. Emma
already has everything set out in preparation for being hung up or filled to the
brim with junk food, so she just has to help with the final touches. They’re nearly
done in under twenty minutes, the TV speakers crooning along to Monster Mash.
All they have left to do is grab the fog machine Emma’s parents keep in the shed.
This morning’s storm did the shed no favors. The inside of it normally
smelled musty, but now everything was damp to the touch. After seeing an en-
tire army of spiders crawling along on the floor of the shed, Daphne decides she
would be better off waiting outside as Emma looks through everything. Besides,
there wasn’t enough space for her to really help with the search.
Her phone buzzes, distracting her from the sound of Emma’s muttering.
Little Hag – jo is here, heading to the trail now!
Daphne likes the message and pockets her phone. When she looks up, she
sees the ends of a white dress disappear into the woods. The haunted trail is in
full force now, the sounds of terrified shrieks and menacing chainsaws emitting
from the same direction the woman disappeared into. Daphne hurries into the
shed where Emma is now waist-deep in various seasonal decorations.
“Hey Emma, crazy question. Have you seen anybody in a floor length white
dress wandering around recently?”
“Ugh, yes, and it’s legit tacky. It’s a character costume from some movie or
whatever. It’s been, like, the bane of my existence recently,” Emma says as she
52finally lifts the fog machine from a plastic tub shoved into the back corner of the
shed. “Target sold out of the damn things like two weeks ago because it’s a limit-
ed-edition costume. I had at least five people every shift asking me when we were
planning on restocking. Like, hello? We’re not restocking! There was a sign and
everything.”
“But have you seen anybody in the neighborhood wearing it?” Daphne
stands in place by the door as Emma starts making her way out of the shed, arms
full of the fog machine.
“Oh, for sure. I know the girl next door has one. Yesterday, I saw somebody
working the haunted trail wearing it too. Don’t know what they were going for
there, but I totally felt haunted by those Target customers.” Emma stops a few
steps outside of the shed and turns around to face her. “Oh, almost forgot! Can
you grab the fog juice from that container really quick?”
Daphne nods before running over to a faded green container and pulling out
two jugs. One seems a bit lighter than the other, probably from previous use. They
barely fit in her arms, which are straining to keep the bottles from slipping as she
walks out of the shed.
“Jesus Christ, why are these so heavy?”
“Daph, we only need one. You can-” Just as she starts, a bottle drops from
Daphne’s hold. As it crashes against the ground, the cap bounces off and unleash-
es a massive splash of fog water all over her dress. The two girls stare at each oth-
er, eyes wide, as the doorbell rings out through the house and into the backyard.
The party has officially begun.
“Okay,” Emma says as she walks out of her closet with a bundle of white and
a plastic sword, “we don’t have any other costumes but you were asking about
that costume, so I figured you were vibing with it or something. I have this dress
53that’s kind of similar, but I don’t have one of those shitty wigs that comes with it.
I just grabbed my brother’s old sword and I figure you can, like, tell people you’re
the lady of the lake, worst case scenario.”
“Thanks, Em.” Daphne takes the dress from Emma, who smiles at her before
heading for the door.
“I gotta get to the party downstairs, but take your time!” Emma shuts the
door behind her, her steps fading into the lyrics of Time Warp. Daphne sighs as
she changes into the dress. She couldn’t get a break today.
Once she’s all changed, her phone buzzes from the pocket of her witch dress.
Little Hag – i think jo told everybody else not to come? he’s acting really
weird, idk. ik u have that party but could u come grab me or sumthin? don’t
want to b rude but he’s skeeving me out :(
“Oh, he is so dead,” Daphne whispers to her phone. Responding that she’ll be
there in a few minutes, she runs over to the window and grabs the pair of sneak-
ers that Emma keeps tossed there. As she’s sliding her foot into the second shoe,
she glances out the window. Glowing against the dark tree line in the backyard,
the woman is standing there. Her arm is lifted, pointing further into the woods.
She blinks but the woman is still there, pointing. For the first time, she recognizes
the woman.
It’s Daphne.
Little Hag – we r starting the trail now. meet me at the end pls?
When she looks back at the woman, the phantom Daphne, it puts its arm
down before walking into the woods. The quickest way to Maisie is through those
woods.
“This is so beyond fucked,” and then Daphne is out of the room. She rushes
out of the house, ignoring the questioning calls of Emma behind her, and heads
into the woods.
54All she has is her phone, which is currently acting as the world’s worst flash-
light. The trees tower above her and every few seconds a scream seems to ema-
nate from another crevice. Bumping into a tree with her shoulder, an owl shrieks
out above her before flying off into the darkness. A branch claws at the bottom
of her dress and she stops to rip it away. When she looks back up at the endless
woods, any possible path forward has been erased by rain and leaves.
Daphne feels disoriented in a way she has never felt in the woods. After her
mom died, she spent a lot of her time wandering around here, discovering every
inch that woods had to offer her. Even when she had first started exploring the
woods, when she didn’t yet know that the trickling creek was to the west or the
little patch of daisies to the east, she had never been this lost. Standing in the
darkness now, she strains to hear any intelligible sound that could give her a sense
of direction. All she receives is a cold wind whipping across her face, throwing the
few remaining leaves on the trees at her. A stick breaks behind her and she turns
around, but her light only catches the end of a bushy tail scampering off into the
pitch black.
Phone held out in front of her, Daphne turns in slow circles and searches for
a clear way forward. Everything looks the same, identical trees peering down at
her with every step she takes. The thin naked tree to her right could be the same
thin naked tree she had passed when she first entered the woods. And then, sudden-
ly, it is standing inches away from Daphne’s face. It’s face—Daphne’s face—is star-
ing at her blankly. She feels cold like she’s standing in front of an open freezer door.
Daphne watches her own head slowly turn to the side and stare off into the woods.
“Joseph, listen, can we please get back onto the trail?” Maisie’s voice seems to
float along with the wind, gently landing in her ear. Daphne watches as her own
face looks back at her and then, as if she was never there, blinks out of existence.
She rushes forward.
55“God, you’re being such a whore. Do you realize that? You’re all over me, just
begging for attention, and then the minute I give it to you, you want out. Who does
that?” Some lanky guy is taking slow measured steps towards Maisie. She’s holding
her hands in front of herself, slowly backing up as he approaches her. Her eyes flit to
the ground before she resumes her pleading, and Daphne realizes there are shat-
tered beer bottles all around Maisie’s feet.
“Joseph,” Daphne starts as she walks towards them, “get the fuck away from
my sister.”
They both look at her and freeze, but when she points her flashlight at Joseph’s
face, he grows a bright red. He looks like a misshapen tomato, ready to burst.
“Are you fucking kidding me? What, you had to go and cry to your bitch sister
because I’m the bad guy? You are so full of shit!” Joseph shoves Maisie.
Maisie’s arms go flying out, winding around in circles like a poor imitation of
a windmill. Dropping her phone, Daphne takes two leaping steps forward before
throwing herself at Maisie. Wrapping her arms around her sister, Maisie’s hair enve-
lopes her face, smelling like the hot chocolate they had for breakfast.
For a second, there is just free fall. She remembers being seven, holding onto
a scared Maisie as they flew into the air on a trampoline. She would tuck her sister
between her arms, turning every which way, saying it’s fun, isn’t it? This time, when
Daphne twists, they hit the ground.
The sharp edge of the bottle glides into Daphne’s neck, easy as butter. She
doesn’t register the clawing branches, the sticky leaves, or the glass scraping bone.
Just that Maisie is safe. She doesn’t mean to, but she lets go of Maisie, her hand slip-
ping down into a pile of leaves.
Maisie starts to scream, and then everything goes fuzzy.
Time feels like it’s rewinding, or maybe it’s skipping. Daphne is staring at her-
self, her still-alive self: in the woods, sleeping on the ground, through windows. She
can hear the woods whispering now. It’s lonely. Constantly chopped at, watching
little families growing all around it.
56A child would be nice, something new to grow. At six years old, Daphne
sleepwalks to the edge of the woods in her backyard.
This child would be nice, something new to own. Sometimes the woods got
scared. A mother talking about a new job in a new town, a father quietly encour-
aging far-off cities to the girl over dinner.
This child is nice, she cannot go. Daphne can’t tell when she got so tired.
Maybe it was seconds ago or maybe it was years ago, but she finally falls into the
wood’s cool embrace.
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