Categories
Resist

I Love My Team

Yesterday the Milwaukee Bucks decided as a team to boycott their playoff game in response to the shooting and subsequent paralysis of Jacob Blake, a black father, by Wisconsin police. This protest has been widely covered and admired, as it very well should be. Indeed, many athletes have started speaking out in protest of Blake’s shooting, including ones from the MLB, NHL, and other NBA players. However, there are some athletes who took a stand yesterday that have a very special place in my heart—this post is dedicated to them. 

Yesterday the entire WNBA also sat out from their games. Every team and athlete refused to play, and many gave empowering statements on why they chose to boycott. They also kneeled at center court arm-in-arm. The incredible Washington Mystics players wore t-shirts that spelled out “Jacob Blake,” each of which had seven bullet holes painted on the back. I love my team.

I also love the WNBA. These strong, intelligent women took the microphone, instead of taking the court, and they reminded us that black lives matter. It’s a simple statement of fact. As Ariel Atkins of the Mystics said, “If you have a problem with us saying black lives matter, you need to check your privilege. Yes, all lives matter, including the black lives we’re talking about.”

Another female athlete speaking out against police brutality and racism in America is Naomi Osaka, a Japanese tennis player who considers herself first and foremost a black woman. Osaka sat out from her semifinals match today in order to “get a conversation started in a majority white sport.” 

I’m incredibly proud that these women have joined in protests to ignite discussions about how to fix America’s broken systems. I wish they all got more publicity and admiration from the public, I truly do. Nevertheless, I’m grateful to them for the example they have set. I’m grateful to them for the hard conversations they’ve started. Most of all, I’m grateful that I too am a female athlete who believes black lives matter.

My thoughts are with Jacob Blake.  Now, let’s go make this country a better, safer, and fairer place for his children.

Categories
Prompts

Yellow

Prompt: Write about a person obsessed with the color yellow.

My goldenrod-colored ceiling stares back at me in my spread-eagle position on the floor. In fact, every inch of my room is some shade of yellow. The curtains, pushed to the side to let in the California sun, are lemon. The bedspread displays a hundred sunflowers, matching the bouquet perched on my nightstand. My fan spins around in circles directly above my head, and the blades cast shadows across the pale yellow walls. A Tweety Bird key chain dangles from the fan’s center.

“Tweety, you look dead inside.” I mutter as her plastic blue eyes stare, unseeing, at my enormous smily face poster across the room. I dig my neon yellow nails into the pineapple-shaped carpet and sigh. Tears drip from my eyes, rolling sideways down my cheeks. Tweety continues to stare as the sunshine and bright room shroud her in a brilliant golden light.

They told me yellow was a happy color.

Categories
Kiley's Stories

The Road to Golderia—Chapter 1 Pt. 1

Author’s Note: This is a new fantasy story/book I’m writing, and I thought I’d share part of the first chapter with you all. Though this post is not about the Black Lives Matter movement, I encourage everyone to continuing educating themselves and supporting the cause. I personally just purchased two books about understanding and combating racism in America. The fight’s not over yet!!!

I stared meekly down at the scrap of paper in my hand, the faded yellow paper emblazoned with my signature. Aurora Wendel. The inky black scrawl bled slightly as I wrote it, so the little “a” in my first name nearly collided with the “W” in my last.

“Good enough,” I sighed. With that, I reached forward and threw the paper into the Elders’ Cauldron. As I turned away from the enormous black pot, the surrounding crowd swarmed to fill my spot. Snaking past countless villagers, I managed to escape by the bakery. There, with trace amounts of dirt smeared across his face, stood my brother Leo.

“Took you long enough,” he called with a smirk as I drew nearer.

“Shut up and let’s get out of here. If I see one more piece of paper I might vomit.”

Leo and I strolled side by side around the corner, soon out of sight from the enormous crowd in the town square.

“So, what are the odds of you actually getting elected to the council?” Leo asked, his strawberry blonde hair flopping annoyingly in front of his eyes.

I glanced over at him, blowing away a strand of my own crimson hair in the process. “Slim to none, I’m sure. It looks like every person in Rimps over seventeen wants to be chosen.”

“True, I guess, but aren’t girls historically more likely to have their names drawn?” he asked eagerly. “I think I heard that at school once.”

I scoffed at this statement, especially since Leo hadn’t attended school in almost a year. “No, that’s just a myth. The selection process is completely random.”

“That’s not true,” Leo argued. His freckled face swam in my peripheral vision as we left the main part of town and started down the snake-like path to our cottage. “You know as well as I do that the palace performs background checks before announcing which name the Elders drew. So, for all we know, everyone else will fail the background checks and you’ll win by default.”

I could sense the excitement in his voice, and I did my best not to damper it as I replied, “I suppose that’s true.”

“I knew it,” he proclaimed with triumph. “You’ve got a good shot of getting elected. And then you’ll go to Golderia and live in the palace and become famous.”

“Ugh, Leo,” I groaned, stopping in my tracks and turning to face him. It still amazed me that Leo and I were nearly the same height, despite him only being fifteen.

“Why do you want so badly for me to be chosen? All that would mean is I have to move away, and you’d transport all my goods for me. We’d never even get to see each other, and you’d be all alone taking care of Mother.” My throat closed a little at the thought of Leo, tending to Mother at her sick bed while I gallivanted around the palace.

“You’re thinking about this all wrong,” Leo insisted before starting to walk once more. “If you’re elected to the council, you could actually do some good. You could improve life for not just people in Rimps, but all across the kingdom. Arcus would be lucky to have someone like you on the council because you know exactly what the people need.”

As he spoke, we kept pace with one another, our sandy-colored cottage growing ever nearer. I watched his face flush—with pride, perhaps?—as he argued. The sight of him, so certain about my ability to make change, made my heart swell.

“As for Mother,” Leo continued, “We’ve already discussed that. Aunt Elizabeth can be there whenever I’m out on deliveries, and we’ve got the Becketts and Mr. Middleton just over the hill if I need more help.”

I shuddered. “Don’t go to Mr. Middleton, Leo. The man gives me the creeps.”

Leo rolled his eyes and waved her off with his hand. “You only say that because he likes me more than you.”

I opened my mouth to retaliate, but thought better of it. The kid had a point.

“Aurora,” Leo started, his tone more serious now than excited. “If you get elected—”

“That’s a big if,” I interrupt.

Leo sighed and plowed on. “If you get elected, I think you’ll make Arcus a better place. That means helping me, mom, our village, our province, everyone. That’s not something we should be afraid of.”

With these last words, we arrived on our front step. I looked around at the tall grass and cobblestone path as I avoided Leo’s gaze. I knew he was right. I knew he was sincere. Worst of all, I knew I would get emotional if I stared into those big brown eyes.

“I suppose you’re right,” I muttered, still looking down at the ground.

“Of course I am,” Leo said with a devilish grin. Then, he opened the front door, and the two of us were home.

A map of the kingdom of Arcus
Categories
Kiley's Stories Prompts

Thanic Syndrome

Author’s Note: While this post is not about the Black Lives Matter movement, I encourage everyone to continuing educating themselves and supporting the cause. In the words of Lin-Manuel Miranda, “This is not a moment, it’s the movement.”

Prompt: Write a story about a character who has always had the ability to change how they looked, and so they hid their true appearance behind attractive façades. Now, their abilities aren’t working, exposing what they truly look like.

An insufferable pinging noise rang out into the darkness, eliciting a furious groan from the figure under the covers. After silencing her alarm for the third time that morning, Amanda finally rolled out of bed with considerable effort. She stumbled into her door frame on her way to the bathroom, but she managed to flip on the lights. With the fluorescent lighting burning the sleep from her eyes, Amanda strode toward the shower in the far corner of the bathroom. When she passed the mirror however, the girl stopped dead in her tracks. 

Amanda turned to face the mirror straight on, leaning in closely to peer at every pore. Her slim, bronze-colored face stared back, an ethereal intensity palpable in her dark brown eyes. 

“I could’ve sworn I saw. . .” Amanda trailed off, not noticing any peculiarities. There were no pimples visible, not even a hair out of place. Bed head was for lesser beings than her. 

After a quick shower and a blow dry, Amanda’s silky brown hair looked even more perfect than before, so she returned to the mirror clutching her makeup bag. An instant later, the bag and all its contents scattered noisily across the floor and Amanda let out a brief scream. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, hoping not to wake the parents in the next room. The scream, it seemed, was a reaction to the fact that half of Amanda’s face was now a slimy, oozing patch of violet-colored flesh. 

Praying that she hadn’t woken anyone, Amanda slipped out the bathroom door and back to her room. This is bad, she thought, panicstricken. This is very, very bad. What is going on? Why have my abilities failed me? How am I supposed to handle this?

Back in the bedroom, Amanda tore apart every bin of junk and dresser drawer in search of the item she so desperately needed. It had been so long since she had needed Instructor Seven’s guidance. Will I even be able to make contact?

Finally, Amanda fished out a small electronic device from behind a row of books. The device looked like a pager, though no one but doctors used pagers anymore. It was small, rectangular, and had only three buttons: a small red circle, a flat purple strip, and a green square. Amanda pushed the red button while checking that the bedroom door was locked.

“Hurry,” she pleaded with the small communicator. It was only a matter of minutes before Amanda’s mother stormed in to get her daughter ready for school. Another agonizing thirty seconds passed, and Amanda was about ready to forget about the device and run for it. 

“Could I make it to New York City on foot?” Amanda whispered to herself. “I forget how much stamina humans have. Of course Physical Traits had to be my worst subject.” Before the girl managed to take action, however, a soft beep interrupted her rambling solo conversation.

“Oh thank Supreme,” Amanda whispered, her eyes fixed upon the device. 

It turned out that Amanda’s communicator was less like a pager and more like a computer screen. Mere seconds after the soft beeping noise began, the small screen that took up most of the device flashed on. There, blurry but still visible, sat Instructor Seven. Instructor Seven’s gooey, navy blue head took up the entire screen. His four eyes analyzed his student intensely, and the mouth on the right side of his face gaped open in shock. Despite his grotesque appearance, seeing the Instructor for the first time in years comforted Amanda. It was this sense of comfort that encouraged her to click the green universal translator button and launch right into her reason for calling. 

“Instructor, look, my true form is starting to show.” She paused and held the device’s camera close to her face. “I have no idea why, it just appeared this morning. I’m afraid my disguising abilities aren’t functioning properly.”

The Instructor analyzed his pupil, who looked less and less human with every passing minute. The fleshy purple skin had overtaken two-thirds of her face, thereby eliminating any possibility of hiding it. After a moment of intense concentration, the Instructor finally spoke.

“Cargatia 702, it looks to me like you have Thanic Syndrome.”

“Thanic Syndrome? Does that have anything to do with Thanic 116?” Cargatia asked warily. “You know, the Mursen who went crazy and thought he could live with humans forever?”

Instructor Seven sighed deeply. “Yes, that’s who the condition was named after. You, like Thanic, have become so attached to your Earth life that your body feels comfortable and at home, so it’s returning to its natural state. It is very hard to fight against.”

Cargatia felt tears welling up in her one human eye. (Her real face revealed two new indigo eyes, both without tear ducts.) She did not want to leave Earth or abandon her mission. After all these years of carefully conducted research!

 “Please, Instructor. Is there anything I can do? I have to complete the mission. I’ve come so far and–”

“Cargatia,” the Instructor interrupted. “We both know that you cannot stay on Earth. You could expose the entire Mursen race and all our covert operations. If our methods of obtaining information are revealed, we will lose all of our buyers from across the planet.”

Cargatia whimpered, lifting her hand to her rapidly deteriorating face. “But,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be ugly again.”

“Get a grip on yourself, Cargatia 702!” the Instructor bellowed. “You sound like a whiny human, desperate to prove that you meet a ridiculous standard. It’s disgraceful.” Cargatia nodded, blushing a slightly darker shade of purple.

“This is about protecting the ongoing operations of Mursen spies across the globe,” the Instructor continued sternly. You’ve done what you can to collect information on the American government over the years–”

“For a really high price, may I remind you.” Cargatia interjected, still sniffling (though she no longer had a human nose).

“Yes, your mission has been extremely successful.” Instructor Seven conceded, rolling one of his outer eyes in the process. “It’s ridiculous how many governments and businesses will pay good money for American FBI secrets.” The Instructor muttered these last words to himself, chuckling slightly as he did so. Then, he refocused his attention on Cargatia.

By now, Cargatia’s entire head had lost its human façade, revealing her true appearance: a slimy and brilliantly purple creature with three eyes, slits for a nose, and two mouths. Instructor Seven sighed, wishing that his pupil could understand how beautiful it was to be different from humans. Why would anyone want to associate themselves with these lowly creatures? the Instructor thought to himself before continuing.

“None of this matters now. You must leave Earth and return home to Murse.”

Cargatia went to wipe away her tears, but she found there were none left. She looked down at her dainty, golden hand; the rest of her disguise hadn’t worn off yet. Maybe she could stay on Earth if only. . .

No, a small voice in Cargatia’s head told her. Getting too attached is what caused this in the first place. Leaving is the only way to rehabilitate your disguise abilities. After one more moment of self-pity, Cargatia looked into Instructor Seven’s eyes and nodded.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

“Firstly,” the Instructor began. “You have to get out of your host’s house without anybody seeing you. Then, make your way into the city. Do you remember where the Teleportation Station is?” 

“Yes, and I remember the code.” Cargatia replied. 

“Good,” Instructor Seven said with a curt nod. “Now, as you leave you must especially avoid the older woman, the one who works for the human government.”

Thud. Thud. Thud. Cargatia snapped her head up as someone pounded on the door. 

“Amanda, you better be awake in there,” came a woman’s voice from just outside.

Cargatia turned back to her communicator. “It’s gonna be pretty hard to avoid her when she’s knocking on my door!” Cargatia whispered hysterically. 

“Calm down,” the Instructor urged. “You’re going to have to fight against your body to alter your appearance. It will take a lot out of you, but you should be able to manage it long enough to get out of the house.”

“Okay, okay,” Cargatia nodded as the woman pounded on the door once more.

“Amanda? What’s going on in there?”

As quickly as possible, Cargatia grabbed her school backpack and filled it with all of her notes on the FBI agent known as “Mom.” After zipping up the communicator in an outside pocket, Cargatia faced herself in the mirror above the dresser.

“Amanda if you don’t open this door right now I’m coming in.” The firm sincerity in Mom’s voice would have made Cargatia’s heart race if she had one.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Cargatia called, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. She refocused her attention on the mirror as Mom’s voice continued to thunder through the locked door.

“You need to hurry or you’ll miss this bus. I’m warning you, young lady, you better be out here in less than a minute.”

Cargatia frantically tried to fix her appearance. C’mon, she told herself. Just focus on what you saw in the mirror this morning.

As a creature from the distant planet Murse, Cargatia possessed a natural ability to alter her appearance. The strengthening and perfecting of this ability was just one step in the long, rewarding process of becoming a Mursen spy. Cargatia loved her job, her planet, and of course her commission. Now though, as disguising herself became difficult for the first time in her life, everything seemed completely terrifying.

“Why me?” Cargatia whispered at the purple face in the mirror as she struggled to change her appearance. “Why did I have to get attached to a planet where all they do is kill and lie and pay to know each other’s secrets?”

You know why, said that same little voice in Cargatia’s head. In that moment, Cargatia could smell the coffee Mom had brewed downstairs. She could hear Dad singing some mindless pop song off-key in the shower. She could envision the friends waiting for her at school, all of them wildly fascinating and just as beautiful as her.

Beautiful. Humans invent such strange yet intoxicating concepts.

Suddenly, Cargatia gasped. Her skin had started to change from vibrant violet back to bronze. Perfectly-tanned skin soon replaced her extra eyes, and a cute little nose appeared in place of the slits. Cargatia continued to focus all her energy on altering her appearance, so much so that she barely noticed another knock at the door.

“Amanda, you’re really pushing it. I’m going to get the key.”

“Wait, what?” Cargatia stuttered, turning away from the mirror toward the voice outside the door.

“You heard me, young lady.” Mom replied, moving back down the hall toward her own room.

Cargatia let out a whimper and returned her focus to the mirror, every particle of her being battling against itself for control. The pain felt agonizing, but she could not stop now. Then, a moment later, Cargatia heard the definitive sound of a key sliding into a lock.

“No!” Cargatia shouted, paralyzed with fear. Half of her face still showed that revolting purple goo. The door swung open and, without thinking, Cargatia flung herself on the floor and buried her face in her arms.

“Don’t look at me Mom!” Cargatia cried, her eyes welling up once more. “I’m hideous!”

Mom kneeled down on the floor and pried Cargatia’s arms away from her face. Cargatia inhaled sharply, desperately searching for an explanation that wouldn’t expose her fellow spies.

“Honey,” Mom whispered kindly. “Just because you aren’t wearing makeup today doesn’t mean you’re hideous.”

Cargatia stopped crying, her thoughts bouncing around her head like they were on a trampoline. “What?” 

“You look beautiful, Amanda. Now hurry up, or you’ll be late.” With that, Mom stood up and left the room. 

Cargatia could not believe her ears. Did I manage to finish altering my appearance after all? Cargatia rose to her feet slowly, then pivoted to face the mirror above the dresser once more. There, staring back at her, was a beautiful girl with an enormous chunk of oozing purple flesh where her left cheekbone should be.

“What the–”

A soft beeping noise interrupted Cargatia’s train of thought. She leaned down and pulled the communicator from the outside pocket of the backpack. Instructor Seven looked anxiously up at Cargatia from the tiny screen.

“Well? Did she see you?” he asked.

“She, um,” Cargatia stuttered, at a loss for words. “She saw my face but I guess she didn’t see my true appearance. Even though it’s clearly visible.” Cargatia pointed at the chunk of violet flesh.

To Cargatia’s great surprise, Instructor Seven began to laugh. He laughed so heartily and intensely that Cargatia feared he had been compromised and this man wasn’t her Instructor at all.

“Instructor Seven, what–”

“That damn fool Thanic. I can’t believe he was right.”

“What was he right about?” Cargatia asked, utterly bewildered now.

“Well you see,” Instructor Seven began. “Thanic Syndrome is named after Thanic because he was so attached to his Earth life that he went crazy. However, Thanic wanted to stay on Earth because he had allegedly discovered a way for humans and Mursens to live in harmony without the use of disguises.”

“What do you mean?” Cargatia interrupted, still not following.

“Cargatia, the man theorized that even if we showed our true appearances, the humans would not notice that we are from another planet.”

Cargatia interjected with more questions. “What? How is that possible?” Then, something became abundantly clear to the Mursen girl. “Instructor Seven, is that why Mo– I mean, the woman couldn’t see my violet skin?”

“Exactly, Cargatia,” the Instructor replied, still chuckling slightly. 

Now it was Cargatia’s turn to laugh. “Oh my Supreme, Instructor. Humans only see what they want to see!”

Categories
Resist

Black Lives Matter

“If, going forward, we can channel our justifiable anger into peaceful, sustained, and effective action, then this moment can be a real turning point in our nation’s long journey to live up to our highest ideals. Let’s get to work.” —Barack Obama

Figuring out how to write this took me a long time because I don’t want to overshadow black voices in a time when hearing them is so important. Therefore, I will try to keep my thoughts on this issue succinct. My thoughts consist mainly of questions, essential questions which remind me both of my privilege and how to approach the struggle against systemic racism in this country. 

Why has this country not, until now, given the Black Lives Matter movement the attention and support that it so clearly deserves?
Why have we let the movement fade in and out of the spotlight for so long without any real change?
Why do so many Americans, including the President, continue to justify systemic racism?
Why are some people using looting and burning, the actions of a few, to discredit an entire movement?
How can white Americans acknowledge their privilege and in turn utilize it for the good of the movement?
How do we ensure that black Americans receive the attention and justice they deserve even once the momentum has died down?

I cycle through these questions and the emotions that accompany them over and over again. Throughout this vicious cycle, I know that what I feel can never be compared to what my black counterparts feel on a regular basis. And so, I continue to ask questions. What can I do? How can I make a difference? How can I get to work?

I’m trying to educate myself. I’m donating. I’m protesting safely (though this is not possible for everyone). I’m trying to amplify black voices. I’m sharing things. I’m signing things. I’m working to propel this movement without taking away from the black communities with stories I can’t ever understand. I encourage everyone reading this to do the same.

Helpful links and posts:
~blacklivesmatter.com/
~medium.com/@BarackObama/how-to-make-this-moment-the-turning-point-for-real-change-9fa209806067
~www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4amCfVbA_c
~www.instagram.com/p/CA8y_hUhUJl/?igshid=d2ld00bsp2ly
~www.instagram.com/p/CA04VKDAyjb/?igshid=qb5p492vk0mk
~www.instagram.com/p/CAvbZyVh1xc/?igshid=nmrq62fhvu7e

Categories
Kiley's Stories Prompts

The Statue of Rosalia

Prompt: Write an insane fantasy backstory about a piece of furniture or knickknack in the room you’re in (like the magic mirror from Snow White, Cinderella’s glass slipper, Aladdin’s lamp or carpet, or the cupboard from The Indian in the Cupboard, for example).

Princess Rosalia of the island kingdom Stultus had always been completely invisible. Not physically of course, for her malicious parents of course chastised and punished her every time they laid eyes on her. Indeed, the King’s favorite punishment was to lock his only daughter in a tower, located in a distant corner of the castle. No, Rosalia felt invisible to the staff of the castle. Anything she did and anywhere she went, nobody seemed to notice. If she weren’t seated at the dinner table alongside her royal parents, Rosalia thought the castle staff might just assume she was one of them.

Rosalia’s invisibility and endless hours in the lonesome tower soon collided in a perfect storm. One day, during a particularly horrible stint in isolation, Rosalia sat on the dusty floor, staring at the enormous oak door and waiting for something to happen.

Bang. Something did, indeed, happen. The door burst open and a handsome young man entered holding a tray of food. Rosalia gazed up at him, her eyes the size of a dragon’s egg.

“I’m so sorry about the door, Your Highness.” The boy declared while sinking to a low bow. “I didn’t realize it would open so violently,” he muttered, still looking at his shoes.  

“That’s quite all right,” Rosalia replied with a smirk. The servant set down her tray and backed away toward the door, which still stood ajar. Then, with a swift hand, he reached back and swung the door shut.

Almost immediately, Rosalia jumped to her feet and rushed into the boy’s arms. “Oh, Taigon, where have you been? It’s so lonely and tiresome up here.”

“I’m sorry my love, I had a few things to attend to.” Taigon leaned back and cupped Rosalia’s face in his hands. “I’m here now though, if only for a minute.” The pair gazed into each other’s way in that lovestruck, sickening way that makes a storyteller like myself quite nauseated. Nevertheless, their rapid heartbeats and flushed faces exemplified the wondrous qualities of forbidden love. 

“Are you still ready for tonight?” Rosalia breathed excitedly.

“Of course I am,” her lover replied with a slight grin.

“Good.” the princess whispered. “Then I’ll see you at midnight under my balcony.”

“I shall see you then, Your Highness.” Taigon uttered, still gazing into Rosalia’s wide brown eyes. The two shared a kiss, short but sweet, before Taigon headed for the door. Before he left, though, he produced for his princess a single red rose.

“Don’t lose it,” Taigon uttered with a wink. Rosalia’s heart swelled.

As he exited, the princess turned back to her tray of food, but she felt too excited to eat. After sixteen agonizing years, she would at last be leaving the kingdom of Stultus forever, alongside a good man who loved her dearly.

The next few hours in the tower passed quite painlessly, as Rosalia admired her rose and fantasized about her life on the run with Taigon. The two had made several arrangements in order to escape underneath the noses of the guards. Rosalia’s invisibility would help in this matter, for none of the handmaidens or staff members would bother to notice she was missing. Over and over again the princess ran through their plan in her mind.

Grab the packed bag stashed in the basement storage closet. Meet Taigon underneath my balcony. Creep along the castle walls to the stables. Take a horse along the back route just as the guards are switching rotations. Stow away on the boat headed for the mainland. Pay a Crosser to take us to a parallel world.

When a King’s guard finally let Rosalia leave the tower that night, her escape route had been etched perfectly into her mind. She didn’t bother going to dinner or even her bedroom—it was too late for that. Instead, she hid in the palace garden and waited for the hour of freedom to arrive. An hour before midnight, Rosalia heard a pair of voices coming from the other side of the garden. She quickly hid behind a large square hedge and listened closely to the speakers as they drew nearer.

“How long did you keep Rosalia locked up today, Anton?”

“Most of the day. That brat needs to realize that frolicking around the grounds on horseback is unsuitable for a princess.”

Rosalia felt heat rise to her face. The speakers were her parents, the king and queen of Stultus, the ruiners of childhoods.

“She’s just a girl.” The queen reminded her husband. “A troublesome girl, yes, but a girl nevertheless.”

The king snorted. “She’s not just a girl, Esmerelda. She’s a young woman. And a young woman should be courting princes to make new alliances, not galavanting around like an imbecile.”

At these words, Rosalia had to bite down on her fist to prevent herself from screaming out. Rosalia had never been part of a council, held a meeting with foreign dignitaries, or even attended a ball where she could meet a prince. Whose fault was it that Rosalia had no princess experience? 

His, Rosalia thought bitterly, trying to send her odium through the hedge and across the garden to her father. It doesn’t matter though, she reminded herself, because I have all the love I need from someone else.

At half past eleven the king and queen left the garden, and shortly thereafter Rosalia snuck down to the basement with her single rose clutched in her hand. She came across no one, not even a guard.

“This really is my lucky night,” Rosalia whispered excitedly to herself. After snatching her getaway bag from its hiding spot, Rosalia made her way outside. 

The chilly night air hit her in the face, and she breathed in joyfully. The night felt a bit cold, but the air tasted like freedom. By five to midnight, Rosalia had crept along the base of the castle all the way to her own bedroom window. There, underneath her balcony, Rosalia stood and waited for Taigon. She felt the breeze against her face, smelled the bittersweet scent that only rebelliousness could bring, and she waited. She waited and waited and waited some more.

The witching hour, the darkest time of night, came and went and still Rosalia waited. The pleasant midnight breeze had mutated into a bitter, stinging wind. Rosalia shivered in her thin night dress, but she did not move. Her lips turned a nasty shade of blue and her fingertips felt numb; nevertheless, Rosalia stood unwaveringly under that balcony. The stars looked down upon her in pity. They had never seen a soul so sad, a soul so determined to prove the unprovable. 

A more optimistic storyteller might not be so quick to judge Taigon. Perhaps he got lost, injured, or even captured by castle guards. A smart storyteller, however, knows the truth; as Rosalia stood, the single rose clutched tightly in her frozen hands, Taigon boarded the ship on which he would escape Stultus forever (with several of the princess’s finest possessions stowed in his knapsack).

He will come for me, Rosalia told herself repeatedly. He will come and show me that there are still good men in the universe.

As the pitch black sea above her lightened, Rosalia’s stature grew more and more rigid. The princess closed her eyes in an attempt to stop them from watering in the wind. Her shivers ceased, and her frail fingers hardened as they wrapped even tighter around the rose. 

The sun was about to kiss the horizon when Rosalia first spoke. All night she had thought and prayed fervently, but she had yet to use her voice. 

“I shall not move until he comes for me. I shall not move until I am certain there is still good.” Rosalia uttered these words into the early morning mist, her eyes still clamped shut and the rest of her body unmoving. The princess spoke these words, which seem to be full of love and passion, in a flat tone that revealed the truth; her heart had hardened past the point of no return.

For this reason, just as the stars twinkled one last goodbye and the sun peeked its eyes over the horizon, Princess Rosalia of Stultus turned to clay. The sun’s own warmth proved that Rosalia had none left within herself, and it hardened her cold, fragile body and spirit. The rose in her hand froze as well, leaving a life size statue where an innocent girl once stood.

Even more heartbreaking than the girl made of clay was the living girl’s last thought. Before her body froze forever and heartbreak killed her soul, Rosalia asked herself a terrifying question.

Why didn’t I just escape without him?

The answer, though Rosalia will never know it, was quite simple. With every minute she waited, a little part of Rosalia’s soul died. Had she tried to venture into the world alone, she would not have made it very far. The girl, who had spent a lifetime being hated or ignored, was weak. She could not handle the pain of almost having something so good, then being robbed of it so unexpectedly.

As the sun continued to rise, something peculiar happened. For every minute that nobody bothered to look for the missing princess, the statue shrunk. It grew smaller and smaller the longer it went unseen. Soon enough, the statue became so small that it would fit in a person’s hand. Had a guard or groundskeeper looked over at the grass beneath the princess’s balcony, the shrunken statue would have been invisible.

The statue finally stopped shrinking when a young handmaiden discovered the princess was not in bed and alerted the guards. They searched the whole castle and the whole kingdom, but no one ever discovered where she had gone. Their only clue was that several of the princess’s plainest clothes were missing alongside some of her most expensive possessions.

Years passed, and the legend of the missing princess spread across the kingdom in a slow, agonizing burn. Those who rode ships to the mainland spread the story of Rosalia’s mysterious disappearance, and after a while the whole universe knew her name. Poor Rosalia. Only in a frozen cage of clay could she escape invisibility.

Ten years had passed since Rosalia’s disappearance when something terrible happened to her island kingdom. A young boy arrived on the castle doorstep atop an enormous dragon, and he demanded to know where the princess was. Long ago, though the King had forgotten it, he had promised the poor boy his daughter’s hand in marriage on a trip through a peasant village.

“I must know where the princess has gone!” The boy shouted, his face set and his eyes alight with fury. “It is my right and my duty to marry her!” He yelled over the grunts and growls of his terrifying pet.

The king, who stood on the castle steps surrounded by guards, looked perplexed. “My boy, I was merely joking when I promised you my daughter’s hand.” The dragon roared and the king backstepped. “But, of course, I would marry the two of you right now if only I knew where she was.” The king smiled in what he hoped looked like a sincere, apologetic manner. It did not.

The boy stared down at the king, his face unreadable. Then, without flinching, he uttered a single word that would destroy them all.

“Burn.”

Chaos ensued. No castle, house, town, or farm was spared as the dragon unleashed its full potential. The smoking island could be seen from miles around, but no ship tried to help the kingdom. The people of Stultus, especially their royals, had always been a pompous and callous folk. One band of pirates watched gleefully as citizens jumped into the ocean to escape the dragon’s flames.

“Bet they’re regretting that trade ban now, aye?” one captain shouted to thunderous guffaws.

By the time the boy and his dragon abandoned Stultus, the entire island was a smoking pile of rubble and death. The boy fled atop his magnificent beast, still in search of something which he so desperately needed . . . though that is another story entirely. 

Legend has it that only one thing survived the dragon prince’s wrath: a minuscule statue of a beautifully sad young woman. 

Long after the smoke cleared and kind souls buried the bodies, the pile of ash that was once Stultus attracted visitors. Travelers came from far and wide to see the ruins, including one particularly observant mage. This cloaked man spotted the statue, swiftly bent down, and pocketed it. From his hands it passed to a gang of goblins, then to a young maiden, then on to a prince. The small statue, beloved by many but understood by none, passed through hands and survived across generations. Millenia passed, and the Crossers—those who walked between universes—ended up bringing Rosalia to my universe, known to the enlightened travelers as Caer. 

By the time Rosalia wound up in a Boston pawn shop, the ashes of Stultus had traveled with the wind and spread so far and wide that nobody remembered the island’s name.

Rosalia stayed in Boston for a while, but her journey eventually brought her to Washington, D.C. The statue appeared to have no value to most of Caer’s consumers. In fact, Rosalia’s permanent residence was one dusty shelf or another, from one forgotten box in the attic to the next. Nevertheless, one day a woman shopping at the self-proclaimed “best antique store in the nation’s capital” purchased the statue as a gift for her daughter. That woman was my grandmother. 

Now, Rosalia sits on yet another dusty shelf in my sunroom. Her cracked lines and unseeing eyes look exhausted from the weight of her story. Nevertheless, it is a weight she must bear, for nobody else in any universe has bothered to remember her story or the story of her home. With their names nothing more than long-ignored whispers in the wind, it’s up to the clay statue of a broken girl to tell their story. 

Well, it’s up to the statue and me. 

Sometimes, when I walk by that dusty shelf, I trick myself into believing that the small figurine has moved. Late at night, if I’m incredibly quiet, I even wonder if I can hear the statue cracking. As if the long forgotten girl inside wanted to break free. 

But then, of course, I remind myself of the truth. Rosalia will only revive herself when Taigon comes back to her. Only then could this insignificant statue become the strong and beautiful creature she once was. Only if she believed in goodness once more. 

Taigon will never return. Rosalia will never escape. Stultus will never be remembered. And me? Well, I’ll never stop telling damn good stories.

Categories
Poems

Don’t Forget

Don’t forget
how much we love you
even when our words seem cruel.
Don’t forget
how much we like you
even when we act too cool.

Don’t forget
how much you mean to us
even when you feel alone.
Don’t forget
no matter where we go
your arms will always be home.

Don’t forget
that time
space
anger
fear
NOTHING could break this bond. This promise. This love.

Categories
Kiley's Stories

A Puzzling Prank

“Welcome, Ms. Hwang. Can I get you something to drink?” Principal Miller’s soft voice sounds kind as Jessica takes her seat in the principal’s office.

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of water,” Jessica admits, slouching back in her chair.

Miller gestures to her secretary, who bustles out of the room toward the main part of the front office. Miller then turns back to Jessica, her face slightly harder than before.

“Jessica, we’re here to discuss something very serious,” she begins sternly.

“What’s that?” Jessica asks, nonplussed.

“Well, last week during the attendance assembly you may have noticed a certain . . . disruption.”

“Do you mean when Mrs. Scott fell flat on her face as she walked up to the stage?”

Miller sighed, then conceded, “Yes, that’s what I’m referring to.”

“That was so–” Jessica starts to giggle, then immediately sobers up. “Tragic. I felt so bad for her.”

Miller raises a skeptical eyebrow and begins to retort, but her secretary interrupts by returning with Jessica’s water.

“Thank you so much!” Jessica says to the secretary, who nods and slips back out the office door.

“Ms. Hwang,” Miller moves on, “A brief investigation concluded that someone had placed a tripwire exactly where Mrs. Scott ascended the stairs to the stage. Do you know anything about that?”

Jessica pauses for a moment, apparently thinking hard. Then, she shakes her head. “Nope. Although, I could probably figure out who did it.”

“Oh, could you?” Miller asks, once again skeptical. Her conferences with Mrs. Scott and several other third grade teachers point to Jessica’s guilt in the matter, especially considering the girl’s pranking history. Miller shudders, remembering the Kindergarten bathroom incident of ‘17.

“Oh yeah, I’ve got a list of suspects already in mind.”

“Do you now?”

“Number one, Sally Mayfield. She’s the Kindergartener who sat right next to the spot where Mrs. Scott tripped.” Jessica explains. “Our moms are friends, and let’s just say that girl has an attitude problem, if you know what I mean.” Ignoring the confusion on Miller’s face, Jessica continues.

“Number two is Mr. Thomas. He was up on stage at the time, meaning he had to arrive at the auditorium earlier than everyone else. Believe it or not, the second grade-third grade teacher rivalry is boiling over right now, so he would have the perfect motive and opportunity.”

“Okay,” Miller replies slowly, making a mental note to look into the so-called rivalry.

“Number three would be Alexander Hayden. He has a terrible track record when it comes to Mrs. Scott, and just the other day he confessed to the class that she’s his least favorite teacher.”

“This is all true, Ms. Hwang. However, it doesn’t explain why Mrs. Scott named you as the class’s designated prankster.” Miller replies, analyzing the suspect’s reaction to her statement.

Jessica doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been known to joke around, yes. However, I didn’t have the opportunity or means to plant the tripwire. I came into the auditorium with everybody else. Just check the security cameras.”

Miller shifts uncomfortably. “Um, well, we tried to do that, but . . .”

“What’s wrong with the cameras?”

“Nothing’s wrong per say,” Miller continues. “Nevertheless, the camera shows an inconsistent narrative.”

“What does that mean?” Jessica asks, taking up her own skeptical tone.

Miller sighs and relents. “In the footage we have, the tripwire isn’t there one second and it’s there the next. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Jessica’s face shrivels up in confusion. “That’s very strange.” She sits for a minute, pondering the new layer to the mystery. “Is it possible that a group of kindergarteners worked together to lift the tripwire right as Mrs. Scott walked up there?”

“That seems highly unlikely.” Miller deadpans, unamused by Jessica’s speculations.

“Well if it wasn’t them it was probably a malfunctioning camera. Or,” Jessica adds suddenly, “Someone in the main office edited the security footage to cover up their crime!”

Miller sighs again. “You know what, I think we’ve got it covered. If you say you didn’t do it, I believe you. Thank you for coming in, Ms. Hwang.”

“No problem,” Jessica replies with a charming smile. She stands and exits the office without a backwards glance. 

Principal Miller watches the young girl leave, then closes her office door. The video footage seems so bewildering that she almost believes someone did edit it. Could one of Jessica’s wild speculations actually be close to the truth?

Out in the hallway, Jessica heads toward the front doors. Since her parents both work, she usually walks home with her older brother James. However, the school day ended half an hour ago, so James is nowhere in sight. In fact, Jessica can’t see anyone lingering about. She gets off the school grounds, then pulls out her phone to call her brother.

“Hey, Jess. What’s up?” 

“James, can you go out to the porch?”

“Sure. Are you gonna race home?” he asks.

“Yeah, there’s no one around.” Jessica explains. “Get your timer ready.”

“Okay, it’s ready. Three, two, one, go!”

With her backpack bouncing wildly behind her, Jessica takes off. Her legs propel her faster than a motor boat, and soon enough she arrives on the front step. Panting slightly, Jessica drops her bag and looks up at her older brother.

“What was my time?”

“Half a mile in 2.3 seconds. Way to go, Jess, that’s a personal best!”

Jessica grins. “Thanks, dude. Hey, did you ever perfect that fireball you’ve been practicing?” she asks as they make their way inside.

“Yeah, I did. Although I burned a hand towel in the process, so Mom’s gonna be pissed.” The two siblings laugh for a minute, then James suddenly stops.

“I almost forgot! Did you get away with it?” he asks.

Jessica smirks up at him with mischief alight in her eyes. “Don’t be stupid, James. Of course I did.”

Categories
Poems Think

How could you have . . . ?

How could you have known you played your last game?
How could you have seen that was your last dance?
How could you have guessed nothing stays the same?
How could you have recognized your last chance?

How could you have said goodbye so cruelly?
How could you have forgotten that last word?
How could you have looked at them so cooly?
How could you have predicted or inferred?

How could that sweet goodnight kiss be your last?
How could that have been your last hot shower?
How could that go from bad to worse that fast?
How could that life change in just an hour?

How could you have known everything you’d miss?
How could you have foreseen apocalypse?

The answer seems so simple when addressed;
nobody could have ever known or guessed.

Poet’s Note:
I took the trash out tonight before bed. That’s when I realized I hadn’t been outside in five days. Obviously, I’ve been distracted and could’ve gone out for a walk or jog if I wanted to; nevertheless, the realization inspired me to write about the spiraling thoughts we’re all probably having. Stay safe and take care of yourselves, everyone. See you on the other side.


Categories
Kiley's Stories

The Babysitter

Police sirens fill the cold evening air with their spine-tingling wail. Men and women clad in blue mill about the prim front lawn framed by a white picket fence. As heavy footsteps mingle with a child’s cries, a body bag emerges from the picturesque little cottage . . .

Six hours earlier

Beep! Kai’s ancient car honks noisily as she checks that it is locked. After pulling three times on the handle, she finally moves up the gravel driveway toward the house.

It appears to be an adorable little thing, almost like a scene from a movie. The picket fence and square green lawn invite Kai into their midst. She smiles, admiring the colorful array of flowers in the garden; it has to be Mr. Marshall’s handiwork, seeing as he works at a garden center. Kai knocks on the sky blue door three times, then stands back in wait. Soon enough, a familiar bearded face appears in the doorway. Behind Mr. Marshall’s unshaven but kind countenance, Mrs. Marshall’s face swims in shadows. 

“Kai!” Mr. Marshall exclaims. “Thank you so much for babysitting. Come in, come in, please.” Mr. Marshall opens the door all the way, beckoning the young lady inside.

“Yes, thank you Kai.” Mrs. Marshall echoes in a hushed tone. Kai enters and smiles graciously, steering clear of the petite but intimidating woman.

“I’m happy to help. Where is your daughter?”

“Oh she’s in her playroom.” Mr. Marshall replies with a wave of his hand. “Here, let’s give you a tour and a rundown before you meet her.”

As the couple guides Kai through the small house, they explain all their expectations.

“We’ll be home around 10:00, so you’ll have about two hours alone after she’s asleep.”

“She’s already had lunch so you’ll just have to feed her some snacks and dinner around 6:00.”

“Also, don’t forget to feed the cat. Ally usually does it, but just be sure to remind her.”

“She’s not allergic to anything—well, I mean Ally isn’t but I guess the cat isn’t either—so don’t worry about that.”

“Oh, Ally’s had a bit of cold lately so we’d prefer it if you keep her inside.”

“Most of her toys are in the playroom, but here’s all the art supplies; she’s a very good artist.”

“Oh yes, wait until you see those drawings she did.”

“They’re hung up on the fridge so you can glance over them at snack time.”

Mr. Marshall’s cheerful voice bounces back and forth with Mrs. Marshall’s solemn one to sing the strangest duet Kai has ever heard. Nevertheless, she listens carefully as the couple describes their rules and recommendations. After several minutes of strolling around the quaint house, the tour arrives at its final destination: the playroom.

Inside, the pastel yellow walls display a variety of mini portraits, including a rainbow with its pot of gold, an enormous cloud, and a palm tree holding several coconuts. Kai’s eyes flit about the room, admiring the art and wincing at the messy shelves. Her eyes eventually land on the drawing table in the center of the room, where Mr. Marshall crouches close to the floor, speaking softly to the girl of the hour.

Despite the cringeworthy messiness of her playroom, Kai immediately falls in love with Ally. Her frizzy blonde hair and big blue eyes yield an intelligence deeper than most adults display. Kai grins as she watches Ally, whose eyes remain attached to the coloring page in front of her.

“Ally, why don’t you pause your coloring for a second and say hello to our friend Kai?” Mr. Marshall’s coaxing voice entices the young girl to look up for the first time since the party entered the room.

Kai makes eye contact with the girl and smiles broadly, raising her hand in a little wave.

Ally pauses, inspecting every detail of the newcomer with the blatantly judgemental eyes only found on a child and an extremely old woman. Then the little girl sets down her magenta crayon and speaks.

“What kind of a name is Kai?”

“Ally, don’t be rude.” Mrs. Marshall chastises. However, Kai understands that no rudeness lies behind the child’s question. The babysitter kneels down, moving a little closer to the drawing table so she can converse with Ally.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.” Ally adds under the heat of her mother’s glare.

“It’s okay, Ally. I don’t mind.” Kai flashes the girl another small smile before continuing. “My name has been passed on to women in my family and my tribe for as long as we can remember. It means ‘willow tree.’” Seeing confusion flashing across Ally’s face, Kai adds, “Those are the pretty trees with long green leaves that hang down.”

“Oh, yeah!” Ally exclaims. “The trees with the green braids!”

“Yes, exactly!” Kai replies with a laugh.

“Okay, I get it now. Kai is a cool name. You can stay.”

Mr. Marshall, Mrs. Marshall, and Kai all laugh—much to Ally’s confusion—at the child’s verdict. Kai stands up and turns to the couple, who both appear satisfied with the interaction.

“I think we’ll be just fine, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall.”

“I agree.” Mrs. Marshall replies.

After saying goodbye to their daughter, the couple leads Kai toward the front door. 

“Thank you again for coming over so last minute, Kai. We really appreciate it.” Mr. Marshall grins as he grabs his jacket from the coat hanger and throws it over his arm.

“Call us if you need anything at all.”

“We’ll see you in about six hours.”

“Try to remember about the cat.”

“And if Ally misbehaves just tell her she’ll lose bedtime story privileges.”

“She reads at a pretty high level, just so you know.”

“Okay, we’re leaving now, thanks again Kai!”

The strange duo hurries out the door and down the driveway. They pass Kai’s rusty old truck and wave as they hop into their Tesla. Kai chuckles slightly; the expensive car doesn’t exactly fit the cottage’s simplistic atmosphere. Nevertheless, Kai waves back, closes and locks the door, and returns to the playroom where her young charge awaits.

. . .

“So you just spread the jelly across the bread nice and even,” Kai explains, demonstrating with the knife in her hands. “Then you put the two slices together and you have your sandwich.”

“Oh, that’s much easier than I expected.” Ally says cheerfully

“That’s usually what happens when you try new things.”

Ally takes the plate in front of her—complete with pretzels, carrots, and, of course, her sandwich—and quickly begins her feast. As Ally eats, Kai feeds the cat and washes up the few dishes perched next to the sink. When the little girl finishes devouring her dinner, the pair starts the trek back to the playroom. When they pass the art cabinet, however, Kai stops. 

“Is there anything in the art cabinet that we could play with?” the babysitter asks, opening the large oak doors.

“No, most of my coloring supplies are in my playroom.”

“What if we make some bracelets? Or make a card for your parents? Or make something out of Play-Doh?”

Ally shakes her head furiously until she hears the word “Play-Doh.” Intrigue seeps across her face as she follows Kai’s gaze to the ten containers of Play Doh on the top shelf. After a moment, Ally gives in.

“Okay, Play-Doh sounds fun.”

Kai collects the containers and carries them down the hall to the playroom. She sets the Play-Doh onto the table, organizing it by color. 

“Which color do you want to use first?” Kai asks as Ally analyzes all her Play-Doh options.

“How about . . . all of them!” Ally hurriedly rips the caps off the containers and dumps out every tub of Play-Doh. Kai watches anxiously as Ally begins to smush the colorful cylinders together.

Three deep breaths. It’s okay. She’s just a kid, Kai reminds herself, practicing her favorite breathing exercise. After relaxing her brain and body, Kai joins Ally by selecting a cylinder of teal Play-Doh. She pushes the Play-Doh into the table so she can begin to mold it into some fantastic shape.

Thunk. Something hard inside the glob of Play-Doh hits the table, nearly breaking Kai’s finger in the process. As she shakes her right hand, trying to move past the pain, she pulls apart the Play-Doh to see what rock-hard item hides inside. Please don’t be a tooth, Kai thinks.

It’s not a tooth. Instead, the teal mass of Play-Doh yields a shimmery, sparkling, 400-karat diamond.

“What the–”

“Kai, look what I made!” Ally proclaims as she displays her multi-colored Play Doh castle. However, when her small blue eyes fall on the shiny diamond, the little girl’s mouth drops into a comical “O” shape. Kai immediately drops the diamond into the pile of Play-Doh. 

“Oh, that looks great!” Kai exclaims, trying to move past the awkward moment. 

“What was that?” Ally inquires.

“What do you mean?”

“The shiny thing you were holding. What was it?” 

“It’s nothing Ally. Let me see your castle–”

“No, tell me what it is!” Ally roars, her face turning pink.

“Okay, okay.” Kai concedes, fishing the diamond out of the Play-Doh pile. “This is a 400-karat diamond.”
“Ooh. It’s so pretty. Why is it 400 carrots? Is it orange inside?”

“No, karats are how diamonds are measured.” Kai stares intensely at the diamond in her hand. She sighs deeply, lifting her gaze to meet Ally’s. “And unless I’m mistaken, this 400-karat diamond is the one that was stolen from my tribe by jewel thieves.”

“What’s that mean?” Ally asks quizzically, her head tilting like a lost puppy. Speaking more to herself than to her charge, Kai launches into the story.

“Long ago, when white people stole our land, they gave my tribe this diamond as a gift. They wanted to pacify us. About a year ago a band of jewel thieves, who had already been stealing our handmade jewelry, got their hands on this diamond.”

“How do you know it’s the same one?”

“Do you see that little hint of teal on this side?” Kai asks, pointing with her pinky toward the distinctive mark. Ally nods, and Kai continues. “That’s how I know. I only saw the diamond our tribe received once, but I would recognize that mark anywhere.”

“So how did the diamond get here?” Ally’s innocence radiates through her voice as she questions her babysitter’s implications.

“Ally,” a third voice interrupts, “Go to your room right now.” There in the doorway, with flames dancing in her eyes, stands Mrs. Marshall.

Kai’s heart sinks to her stomach and she drops the diamond back into the Play-Doh. 

“Hi Mrs. Marshall, what are you doing home?” Kai asks nervously.

“Yeah mommy, you’re early!” Ally jumps up to greet her mother with arms outstretched.

“Ally, I said go to your room, sweetheart.”

“Okay! Just wait until Kai tells you her diamond story. I got a story and it’s not even bedtime yet!” Ally relays excitedly. Kai winces as the little girl exits the room, skipping. Ally seems blissfully unaware of the showdown about to occur between the two women.

“Mrs. Marshall, now that you’re home, I’d better be on my way.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” The older woman spits at Kai as the babysitter tries to escape.

“Look, I don’t want to do this, but you’re a thief. I’ll call the police right now if I have to.”

“Or maybe I should call the police, Kai. Maybe I should call and inform them that some Indian girl came over to babysit, but when I came home alone because I forgot to buy my opera ticket I found her trying to drown my baby girl in the bathtub.”

“What?” Kai shouts, outraged. “You’re crazy, lady.”

“Maybe I am.” Mrs. Marshall seethes. “But you’ll never make it long enough to tell anyone– hey!” Mrs. Marshall finally notices the cellphone squeezed tightly in Kai’s hand as she tries to dial 9-1-1. Panicstricken, Kai locks eyes with Mrs. Marshall and spots a fury that scares her worse than anything has before. With that, Mrs. Marshall lunges, tackling the babysitter to the ground.

“Give me the phone!”

“Give my people back their diamond!”

The two women wrestle violently across the playroom floor. Play-Doh, markers, and an assortment of toys fly across the room and hit the brightly colored walls. Flailing limbs catch on the drawing table and the rocking chair as the two women battle it out. Soon enough, Mrs. Marshall hovers over Kai, pinning the girl down. The older woman’s hand gets tangled up in one of Kai’s long black braids as the two continue to struggle.

“Why are you doing this? You have a husband! You have a daughter!” Kai gasps for air with her face contorted in anger. She manages to free her hands and push back against Mrs. Marshall’s petite but strong frame.

“And I also have a crew. I need to support and protect them as much as I do Ally and my husband.” Mrs. Marshall pants, trying to force Kai’s hands back on to the ground. “That means I can’t have any nosy Indians interfering in our business.”

Kai cries out in pain as Mrs. Marshall pins her wrists to the fuzzy blue carpet beneath them. From Kai’s peculiar angle, the sun painted on the playroom ceiling looks like a halo around Mrs. Marshall’s head. Distracted for a moment by this unsettling visual, Kai pauses in her resistance. Mrs. Marshall takes the opportunity to clasp her hands around Kai’s throat and start to squeeze. Kai chokes out half a scream and tries to pry away the old woman’s hands; nevertheless, Kai’s attempts are useless. Mrs. Marshall bares her teeth and squeezes increasingly harder.

The older woman watches with bitter satisfaction as Kai kicks, resists, and struggles for breath. Despite the joy Mrs. Marshall feels surging through her powerful hands as Kai’s eyes bulge, she also feels slightly guilty. Somewhere within this girl, this necessary sacrifice, there remains a little girl, much like her Ally. Killing was so satisfying before she gave birth, but nowadays Mrs. Marshall feels a twinge of regret every time a face purples or a bone breaks. Nevertheless, Kai’s lack of resistance alerts Mrs. Marshall that her task is complete, and she relaxes. She gets up and flexes her hands, which are sore from the choking. 

Deciding to wash away the guilt with a glass of wine, Mrs. Marshall heads toward the kitchen. She still has plenty of time to have a drink and bury the body before her drunken husband stumbles inside.

“Mommy, can I come out of my room yet?” A small voice calls from down the hall. 

“Not yet, sweetheart!” Mrs. Marshall replies coolly. “How about you take a quick nap and then you and mommy can watch a movie?” 

“Okay!” the voice answers eagerly.

“A movie sounds great!”

Mrs. Marshall whips around to see Kai, panting heavily, with a wooden stake pointed right at her enemy’s chest. 

“Hold on Kai, let’s talk about–” Mrs. Marshall interrupts her own plea with an agonizing scream as Kai stabs her one . . . two . . . three times. Kai’s wooden stake, made from the playroom rocking chair, now protrudes horribly from Mrs. Marshall’s stomach. Kai watches with mingled horror and relief as Mrs. Marshall collapses, blood gushing from her wound. Gasping for air much like Kai had only minutes ago, Mrs. Marshall glares up at the babysitter.

“I can’t believe you would do this to Ally.” The older woman sputters, with blood now pouring from her lips.

Kai leans down, her eyes brimming with tearful rage.

“No. You did this to Ally.”

Kai rises, moving away from the dying woman and toward the house phone laying on the counter. Mrs. Marshall’s cries fill the kitchen, and Kai dials 9-1-1. As the phone rings, she grabs some hand towels from a linen closet and brings them to her victim. Pressing the towel to the feeble woman’s wounds, Kai wonders whether this one choice will be the end of her. If only Kai had simply left the quaint little house and never looked back . . . 

“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”