Shucking Corn Contest - Third Place Winner

Alejandro, view the piece here.

Toddlerhood Tribulations

Prompt: Write a story about a character who is certain the world is going to end today.

The Mustard Family episode.

"Jiě, I come bearing important news," Renshu announced, tugging at his split-pants.

"Are you finally ready for adult pants, dìdi?" 

"You're only four minutes older than me."

"And yet I have mastered control of my own bowels. You have no discretion."

Renshu shrugged. "Does discretion matter when the world is ending?"

"Perhaps discretion is not my concern, but incarceration. If you never fix this behaviour, as an adult (should you ever mature to reach that point), you will find the police are far less lenient than to a four-year-old."

Renshu threw his hands in the air, topping backwards as he did so. "I shall never even reach the tender age of five!"

Shuang nodded. "I believe you are right, dìdi. Even four is too much maturity to ask for. At five, your inability to read the newspaper will be social suicide. At least in the rapeseed fields, no one expects intelligence from you."

"The fields!" Renshu attempted to spit. "You would wish me into a life of thankless labour? One where I would work the skin off my bones, the hair from my head, all for a few measly bowls of liángpí in exchange for my labours?"

"I am your sister. Of course I would wish that."

"Authoritarian."

"Libertarian."

"Communist!"

"Anarchist!"

Renshu took the opportunity to squat and relieve himself. "This is what I think about your ideologies."

"In your ideal world, humans would be shitting everywhere and no work would ever be done, is that it? You would have us be no more than cows, chewing cud and contributing to atmospheric pollutions?"

"As if the contribution to atmospheric pollutions matters at a time like this. The earth is ending today, jiě."

"'Shuang staggered backwards, clutching her chest in horror! Almighty! Her prophetic brother hath declared a truth unto all truths!' Is that what you were expecting?"

"From you? Not at all. But perhaps Shenshi might be more reasonable."

Hearing his name from across the field, Shenshi perked up his ears and trotted over, trying his best to halt his tail from wagging. 

Shuang rolled her eyes. "Shenshi is my loyal canine. You have no claims on him."

"Perhaps not yet, but they say crisis brings enemies together."

"And who is 'they'?"

"The government, surely. It would be an excellent way to claim their many crises are positive."

"Share your complaints some more, why don't you?"

"If you insist, jiě. An impoverished nation, no rights for children, and a society built upon millions labouring for a handful to live in luxury."

"I see that sarcasm passes over your head, dìdi."

"Rather, I choose to ignore such base intelligence."

"Base intelligence? Are you discussing Renshu's abilities?" Shenshi's barking laugh alerted the nearby chicken coop, and the hens clucked in protest.

"Renshu has just revealed that the world is ending today, Shenshi." The dog and toddler exchanged a mocking look.

"The end of the world? So libertarians have gained a foothold after all."

"Rue the day!" Shuang sang out, scratching Shenshi behind the ear. Shenshi flicked his ear in an act of annoyance at the affection.

"Amuse me, Renshu. What makes you think today is the end of the world?"

Renshu clasped his small hands in front of him, if only to hide the opening in his split pants. "Humans are known to possess five main sensory abilities. Taste, touch, sight, smell, and hearing. Sharks detect electrical charges. Elephants communicate via vibrations at varying frequencies. Bees sense magnetic fields. And I? I was blessed with the extra sensory ability of foresight."

"If you had foresight, you would work harder now to be rewarded later in life."

"Rewarded with what? Material items? Nourishment? Or—time?"

Shenshi stretched out his front legs, enjoying seeing the siblings quibble. "Humans are the ultimate fools in the world. Dogs find their own food, go wherever they want, sleep whenever they want, and need no clothes."

"Yes," Shuang glanced at his body with distain, "it's most unbecoming. Tell me, Shenshi, do you defecate wherever and whenever you want?"

"Of course not. I'm not an animal." They stared pointedly at Renshu.

Renshu looked down at his legs, wondering if he should upgrade to a pair with a crotch sewn in. "How will you spend your last day?"

"There is nothing to be done, dìdi. Even if today were my last day, I cannot suddenly acquire mass wealth and purchase luxurious, wasteful items, even if I wanted to. I cannot grow old and marry, bearing children to pass on the family name. I cannot create happy memories simply because I want to. What are you planning on doing?"

"I'm going to skip some rocks out by the water instead of watching Bà and Mā in the fields. Want to join, jiě?"

"Hold on," Shenshi protested, placing his paw over Renshu's fat toes, "that sounds absurdly boring. What is something you always wanted to do?"

Renshu frowned at the ground. "Freedom, as a concept, is highly appealing. No taxation, a free trade society, complete autonomy of ourselves. In terms of doing whatever I want, the simple truth is, there is nothing I particularly want to do."

"A life without work is one without purpose or aim."

"You're saying that we work to find fulfillment?"

"We work to keep ourselves busy from wondering about it."

"Then, for our last day on earth, let us wonder about it."

"Very well. Creating communities is what allowed humans to thrive throughout history. Those skilled in certain trades, such as medicine, or food production, are controlled so that all humans may have equal access to these resources. Individualism, or 'freedom', as you would call it, dìdi, is nothing more than disorganization. There must be control of resources, otherwise natural human greed would overwhelm and prevent any from succeeding." 

"Your philosophy depends on the idea that humans are inherently bad. Many small communities thrive on the freedom to work when they want, knowing that there is no punishment from any outside source, simply their own survival at stake."

Shenshi snorted, scratching his ear with his back paw in order to draw their attention. "Shuang is far more the realist, but she neglects the ideology that, because humans are inherently bad, the worst of them will seek power in the highest of places. While it's true that libertarians would withhold their services for gain, in an organized society, those in power tug at their society's strings in a far more effective manner, thus having a larger area of impact. I myself lean more towards democracy, though of course, no system is perfect. Democracy fails in the fact that in its attempt to please everyone, no one is assuredly happy with the system."

Shuang raised an eyebrow at the dog, her scepticism reflected in her younger brother's face. "People should be happiest with the system they were raised under and become used to. Wishing for an unreality helps no one."

"The real problem, my dear, is that humans have malice. Tell me, Renshu, in this premonition of yours, how will the world end? In a cascade of fire or a wisp of smoke? Will humans be instantly vanquished, leaving the rest of Earth to survive? Is this God's act of Great Tribulation?" 

"You mock my talent. Foresight is perhaps, not aptly named, because there is no seeing. It is something I feel resonating in my bones, travelling from neuron to neuron to let the message be known that this is the end. There is no angel whispering in my ear, nor no fiery bush. I do not know how the world ends, only that it ends today."

"Your ability told you the what and when, but not the who or how? It sounds rather like a poor invitation to me."

"Then let me amend that. Shenshi, jiě, I formally invite you to the end of the world, taking place on the riverbed, featuring two toddlers and a pup, occurring at midnight on this fine Thursday."

"I always figured the world would end on a Tuesday," Shenshi quipped.

Shaung clicked her tongue. "If the world were to end all at once, it would go out 'not with a bang but a whimper'."

"T. S. Eliot. A bit of a dour man, don't you think?"

"There are so many poets who use love, or their interpretation of it, as a means of inspiration. Is that moral?"

"Morality is rather dependent upon the person. For instance, I consider Renshu's laziness to be completely deplorable. He, on the other hand—" 

"Find there to be nothing wrong with enjoying my time idly. At least I'm not working myself dull."

Shenshi laughed. "He has a point, dear Shuang."

"Do you think it'll be painful?" Renshu turned his shining eyes towards the pair. "A meteor strike that suffocates us all with gas? A torrent of fire raining down upon the world?"

"If it's fast, then it doesn't matter."

"If my last moment is one of pain then I'd rather sleep during it."

"Why not? That sounds thoroughly satisfactory. The rest of the world is frantic to know how the world will end. The mystery is the fun of it. Let's sleep and never lose that curiosity, even in our death."

"Agreed. But before I die, I want to skip some rocks."

Two four-year-old twins, one a girl, one a boy, and a muddy mutt, together dragging a straw mat, walked barefoot through their Mā and Bà's rapeseed fields to the riverbed, where they planned to sleep through the end of the world. 

村上の海 -- Prompt

Mariko tops a glass of soju, leaving it in front of the empty barstool. I glance at the clock. Fourteen minutes late. Better to wait one more to round it out.

A few boys from the Ivy League college pass by, laughing as they swing open the izakaya’s door, letting it clang behind them. No one in the izakaya reacts, but the atmosphere stiffens. They settle into a booth, ordering in loud English. I grit my teeth. Sixteen minutes. Damn.

This time Mariko looks up as I enter, a smirk playing over her features as she pours me another glass. "It's Friday, Maro."

I drink. "As the calendar declares, yes."

"The second Friday of the month."

"Yes, certainly, there are several."

She pours me another glass.

I drink.

"Eight years of putting up with you, and this is the treatment I receive?"

"If you like, I could take my business to any other establishment on this block. None of the Americans or Italians or Mexicans would even bat an eye."

"Don't be cheeky with me. No one else runs a business like mine," she chastises, pouring me a fourth glass, of sake this time.

The boys in the booth erupt once more in raucous laughter. Half of the boys are red with laughter, the other from alcohol.

"Why would you let them drink, Mari-chan?"

She scowls. "If you want to call me that, you should have ended things differently. Besides, those boys are celebrating a birthday. Look, you see the one in white there?"

I glance over. "They're all white."

"The one wearing white, aho. They've placed a crown on his head. Today, he is legally an adult."

While she stares at the group, I grab the bottle of sake and help myself to another glass. "It's not like you check identification anyhow."

She laughs mirthlessly. "How much are you drinking tonight? Is there a reason you haven't given me my shipment yet?"

"I don't come here for the chatter."

"And I don't pay good money for you to drink my establishment dry." She takes the half-empty bottle back, filling the rest with water.

"Is that a threat? Be careful, Mariko."

She says nothing, walking over to the boys instead and pouring them the diluted drink. One of them grabs her by the hand, forehead red and sweaty. He gestures to the 'birthday boy' across from him. "Mary, look! He got a tattoo!"

The other boy leans back, a self-assured smile guided by alcohol sneaks onto his face. "Indeed. You might not be able to tell, but I'm one-fifth Japanese. By getting this tattoo, I'm basically in the yakuza!"

His table guffaws, releasing Mariko. The other patrons turn their quiet gazes towards my visage.

I say nothing, staring at the empty glass in my hands. The regulars should know better. Mariko tilts her head, her unflattering bob concealing her expression. She nods at the calendar on the wall. I shake my head. She raises her eyebrows, and turns her attention back to the boys.

"That man over there has some impressive tattoos. I'm sure he'd be willing to show you."

I stand up from my chair—a foolish decision, as this only draws further attention to me. Birthday Boy stands up as well, a fearless smile bracing his face. Talk about aho.

I march towards the door, but Birthday Boy grabs my arm before I can make my escape. "C'mon, man, it's my birthday!"

I scowl and shake his hand off my arm. I turn once more.

"What, do you not speak English? Konbanwa, ojisan! See, I know some Japanese. Um, tattoo wo mimasuka?"

I grimace at his mangled words. "Don't bother me, kid."

He smiles, putting himself between me and the door. His friends have now gathered behind me, forming a circle. I try to edge through, but he places a preventative hand on my chest. Fed up, I shove him away from the door. His paper crown flutters to the floor. Instantly, his friends are onme, throwing drunken punches and managing to land a few. Normally I would have thrown them off of me to avoid the altercation, but the five drinks hit me almost as quickly as I'm hitting the lanky college boys. It doesn't take long for most of the boys to land on the ground, too drunk to continue fighting. I let my guard down, and Birthday Boy tears my jacket from my body, revealing my bare arms underneath. Everyone pauses, and the watching patrons collectively take a deep breath.

Mariko laughs, bringing the attention over to her. "Oh, didn't I mention? Yamaguchi-san here also has a history with the yakuza."

The door's bell tinkles as someone new walks in. "Sorry I'm late, guys! But I brought the piñata!" He holds the pink donkey high above his head, a baseball bat held in the other.

Birthday Boy snatches the bat from him, turning his gaze towards me. I edge towards the bar. If I can get my hands on the empty bottle of soju, it would make for an easy weapon. So much for trying to keep a low profile.

To my utter disbelief, Birthday Boy extends the bat towards me, bowing his head. "Ojisan. I want you to make the first hit. Let bygones be bygones."

I grip the bat, staring at the boy holding the piñata. He smiles, climbs a chair, and affixes it to a hook in the ceiling meant for a light fixture. My attack to the piñata does not visibly damage it. I pass the bat back and slink into the background, pulling my jacket back on. Within minutes, the boys have forgotten the whole affair, and are lining up to pummel the candy-filled craft.

I stand outside by the doorway with Mariko, the two of us sharing my last cigarette. "Was that nonsense necessary, Mariko? You know it wouldn't be difficult for me to close this place down, or worse."

She takes a drag. "You won't. Those boys will brag about this encounter to their friends, but they would never try to report you. And the regulars use your services, too. As long as you pull through, you won't have anything to worry about." She passes the cigarette, letting her fingers trail over my hand. "I can't run my backyard business without any crank. What's the holdup?"

I sigh. "Your need to know everything is the reason things ended between us, you know. Learn to trust me."

"It's called self-preservation. And the reason things ended between us is because you left for five years without telling me."

"Yeah, well. The lack of trust hurts." I heed to her glare. "There was a sudden demand in Japan, which is unusual. Our clients overseas are considerably less important."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm still Japanese, Maro. I only left because things were getting dangerous. I guess I'm satisfied. You don't have to bother paying your tab—seeing you getting humiliated was enough payment for me."

I tuck my hands into my coat pockets. "What about the payment of a ring?"

"Aho. Don't be a fool."

I fumble with the ring for a few moments, but ultimately leave it sitting in my pocket. "You always were the wise one, Mari-chan. Make sure to wish that boy a happy birthday from me."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes. But don’t worry. This time, it won't be for five years."

Born Into Darkness -- Prompt

Five years of infancy. Two years of petty school. Seven years of grammar school. Merely two and a half at Cambridge. Despite the length of my years lived, it was only when I opened my eyes in the jailcell that I truly lived. 

At first, they had cast me out for my ideas. England's religious turmoil surrounding King Henry's death and Mary's Catholic regiment brewed discussion within the university. Many favoured moving away from religious teachings in order to focus on the secular studies. The flame of the Protestant Reformation, lead by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, was quickly doused with the piss of Bloody Mary. The Archbishop was imprisoned, and as his most vocal pupil, I had been made to stand trial alongside him. Before they could get that far however, the guard encharged with me discovered something that even the Archbishop did not know. Quite simply, I was a woman.

I was the youngest of five daughters, and the cause of my mother's death. My father, seeing no other choice, raised me as his son. It was a secret so fiercely guarded that even my eldest two sisters did not know the truth. I was to learn, and never marry, to carry the family name without passing it forward. Growing up with sisters, I was not unaccustomed to the feminine lifestyle, I simply never adopted it. My father taught me strictly in order to ensure I would behave soundly in school, thus avoiding a beating that required access to skin.

But a woman I was, under the tight bandages and masculine attire. I was almost thankful for my capture—with a sixteen-year secret revealed, I was free to live a new life.

Well, first I had to get out of jail.

Despite England's everlasting belief that women could not surpass men and were unfit for academics, I was at the top of my classes. I was certain that I would be capable of uncovering a method of escape. I studied my surroundings carefully, opening my eyes wider in an attempt to capture more light. The trial was useless. With no light to guide me, I held my hands before me and scrabbled about in the darkness. My cell was small, constructed from stone and with a wooden bench chained to the wall. The cell door was a simple gate, with vertical bars and—and no horizontal bars. 

The prison had been built to hold men, not small women whose chest had been bound her entire life. Tactile examination of the bars allowed me to identify a bar which had been slightly bent during its welding. A slight bend was enough to allow my passage.

Slipping through the bars, I kept close to the walls, my breath shallow and uncertain. When I reached the door, I discovered it locked, yet peering through the keyhole revealed nothing. Chancing that someone might hear my noise, I slipped one hand beneath the door and rammed the doorknob with my other. The key clattered to the ground. Snatching it without further ado, I unlocked the door and braved peering around it. Light flooded the cell, prisoners muttering as it interrupted their fitful slumber. I shut the door behind me with a pang in my heart. Although the Archbishop would be martyred, I did not wish for the same fate. 

I did not last long before coming across a guard. He frowned at me, likely bewildered by a woman in the men's prison. "Sirrah, keep better care of the location of your keys." I flicked the key at him, adopting the demeanour, accent, and attitude of the boys I had attended school with.

He stepped closer to me. "What's a boy like you doing running about? How did you escape your cell?"

Realizing that my behaviour and current appearance still marked me as a man, I bolted like a chased rabbit. My swiftness caught the man by surprise, and he quickly raised alarm as he pursued me. The entrance was near, however, and my hobbies of playing boyish sports kept me strong and swift. 

My legs carried me far from danger, but no closer to any solution. Gathering my bearings, I inquired as to my location from a passerby. I had been brought to Oxford, the home of my eldest sister. I had visited her once before, and knew where she would be at this hour.

Taking sanctuary in the cold confines of the church, I sank onto a pew, my legs weak from my efforts. An hour passed, and I succumbed to the slumber I so desperately desired. When I woke, my face was tickled by a nun's habit brushing over my skin, a hand held to my face. "Brother? What are you doing here? Are you well?"

I sat up, taking her hand. "Is the confessional occupied?"

She shook her head. "The priest has other matters to attend to currently."

I led her to it and we sat inside. It was not long before I had explained my story. I had always been a curt speaker.

She was silent during my tale, but sighed now. "If you had converted then this matter could have been avoided. And I suppose I can hardly blame you for our father's transgressions. However, I will help you now. Your hair is short and you lack clothing, housing, and food. This can all be solved if you become a nun."

I quickly responded in the affirmative. The plan was simple. During the day, I would live my life as a nun and devote myself to God. I would be the Catholic that Mary wished for. During the night, however, I would continue the revolution started by my teacher. I could revert to my appearance of a man, return to the jailcell in which I had been held, and free my brethren. Even if I was not brave enough to allow myself to be martyred, I could save those who were. 

And thus, my life of duplicity began. 

Strawberry Jam -- Epigraph

“Who was it that said that coincidence was just God’s way of remaining anonymous?”
― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

There's a strawberry seed stuck in between the girl's cuspid and premolar. Her tongue slides past the sharp canine, snaking its way into that gap her braces never fixed. Smile. She pokes out her tongue, showing me a golden teardrop lying on a pink cushion. I close my eyes and try not to think of Étoile.

Look, starlight, you can take a bite right off the vine.

No! I don't like the seeds!

You can spit them out if you want.

Okay. Will they grow into a new plant?

We can come back next year and find out.

The first time she meets Stumpy, she squeals and darts behind me, her fat toes sinking into the mud as she spins. Laugh. Her chunky hands pull on my corduroy jacket, fingers lacing through the holes made from broken, grainy fences that held on like Iola during those sweaty summers on the Tibet rug, back when she loved me.

Daddy! Look at this old fat pig. Let's take her home.

Starlight, she's missing a leg.

And an ear.

And an eye.

I'm calling her Stumpy. She can sleep in your bed.

Her dark skin protects her from the heat, but I rub the lotion onto her nose, still accustomed to pink cheeks and freckled frowns. Her eyes sting red, watering fat tears onto the withered ground. Console. She reaches towards me and pats sunscreen onto my bald spot with a hand so warm it almost burns.

What did mommy look like? Was she pretty?

She was… gorgeous. Like the moon. But she's nowhere near as beautiful as you, love.

Do you miss her?

Oh, honey. There's the pillowcase that I won't let Stumpy sleep on. The jam I make every summer but won't eat. The acorn stuck in the birdhouse. The white slippers in the closet.

Why didn't she take them with her when she left?

You can't take memories, starlight.

We walk hand in hand for the first time since I met her at the orphanage, cowering under the gaze of a nun. My palm is sweaty under the beat of midafternoon. Her hair is frizzy from my attempt to brush it, shiny broken off comb teeth trapped within it. Relax. Her fingernails bite into my arm, bringing my attention to the swing set in front of us.

Am I going to die, daddy?

…

Daddy, you're hurting me. Don't squeeze my hand so tight.

I'm sorry.

The bed isn't very comfy, daddy. I miss Stumpy. Her stomach makes the best pillow.

She's waiting, starlight. She and I both.

Do you find the beeping annoying? Sometimes I wish it would stop.

Oh, God. Please don't let it stop.

She points to a little mound of dirt with a plant poking out, a five-petal flower with a golden centre clinging to a vine. She rushes forwards and kneels on the dirt, her round knees making soft imprints. She examines the grave, stepping back with heavy shoulders when she can't find any fruit. Love.

"Maybe next year there will be strawberries, Sunshine."

Sisters Seeing Glass

"She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts, she's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers!"

I fumbled in the dark for my phone to turn off the stupid song that marked the rock bottom of my youth's pop culture. With my parents gone to Guatemala to 'infuse themselves with culture,' it was up to me to wake myself so I wouldn't miss any shifts at work.

I hummed the annoying tune to myself as I grabbed my duck-printed towel from the hall closet. It was an embarrassing gift from my tenth birthday party and I didn't have the heart to tell my mom that I wanted to chuck it. I turned on the shower and pulled off my silk nightie. Ugh. Cheetos stains, the smell of week-old sweat and a new hole near my belly-button—it really needed a wash. I yawned, turning towards the mirror as I let the shower heat up. That's when I saw it—saw her.

Yelping, I wrapped my towel around me, twisting around the room in fear. I was alone. I must've been imagining things—the rest of the room was reflected normally, but instead of seeing my own green eyes and acne covered skin, I saw brown eyes and pale, clear skin. She looked equally as frightened as I, around my age and height. She also had a towel wrapped around her.

She ran from the room noiselessly.

I tore through my house, but I couldn't find her. When I returned to the bathroom, so had my reflection. Blaming myself for going to bed at three a.m., I locked the door and showered.

At work, my manager at the clothing store yelled at me for zoning out, but he was always a prick. Other than the morning incident, my day was pretty ordinary. I considered telling my parents about the girl, but dismissed that idea almost immediately. I could have been hallucinating, and the last thing I wanted to do was make my parents worry about me during their trip. They needed a break from the grief that Cathy's return to the hospital had caused.

The next day, I completely avoided the shower. I was lucky enough to have my summer break completely free, save three work days a week. Ugh. I hated retail. I spent most of my free time researching universities to attend, opening up a Word document, staring at it for ten minutes, then closing it again. Anxiety pitted itself in my stomach, reminding me that though my marks were high, I played no sports, did no extracurricular activities, and wasn't involved in any of my school's clubs or teams. I had been too depressed to do much lately. No scholarships were given to someone like me.

I grabbed my worn runners from the hall closet, locked up, and went for a walk through Dale's Park. It was a little muddy from having rained the night before, with ducks paddling in small puddles and children splashing about in boots.

I smiled to myself, looking forward to when I would be a mother. It was rewarding to see a child's adorable grin after being praised for doing something clever. Little kids' innocent nature often made their simple statements even more humourous. Besides that brat on the swings—Miles. He was known for being a bully to kids and a terror to adults. Maybe today wasn't the best day to come to the park.

"Squish-Squash!" he yelled gleefully upon seeing me. He jumped off the swing and ran over.

I groaned internally. He had given me that nickname while I was baby-sitting him. I was now more careful about showing what got on my nerves. "Yes, Miles?" I said with as much pleasantness as I could muster.

"Do you like pie?" He smiled wickedly.

I frowned. "What kind of pie?"

"Mud pie!" Miles lobbed a gob of goo at me, then ran away, cackling.

I swiped the cold mud from my face, too tired to chase after him. Besides, his mother had already grabbed him by the wrist with a vice-like grip, her French manicure cutting into his freckled skin. His bones seemed to rattle as she shook and scolded him. He dropped the mud from his hand and cowered beneath his mother's angry words.

She pointed at his untied laces that were caked with muck, then pulled him by his red shirtsleeve, pinching his arm. He turned his face away, cheeks flushed with humiliation. Or was it fear?

I scowled, kicking at the pebbles lodged in the dirt. I didn't live in a very beautiful town. Tied sneakers hung from telephone lines, broken condoms inhabited parking lots and beer can tabs cut bare feet. But I didn't leave my house to take pictures. I needed air.

The sun began to settle inside the treetops, and by the time I found the house keys in the dirt of our dying geranium, our streetlights had flickered on.

"Hello?" I called to the empty house, stepping inside. No reply. Good. I reached up to scratch my nose, my fingers brushing over my muddied cheek. I turned on the bathroom sink and ran hot water under my hands. Glancing up to wipe off the mud, I found myself nose to nose with the girl.

She leapt backwards, stumbling down to the floor. I blinked, stepping away from the mirror. I kept my eyes on her and she stared back, wearing an elegant dress and a perturbed expression. Feeling curious, I waved to her.

She was still for a few moments, then waved back. She got up cautiously, keeping her eyes on mine. The hot water had started to steam up the bathroom and the mirror had gotten foggy, blurring her details. A moment passed, and she drew her finger down the length of the mirror. She was drawing—no, writing—symbols that I couldn't quite recognize. They weren't English... it looked like Russian. Really? A language barrier?

Taking my chances, I wrote back, 'Hi,' then realized that she saw the reverse of my word. Carefully, I traced the letters backwards, then added, 'I'm Faith.'

'Parlez vous Français?' she wrote back, crossing out what she had written in Russian.

I nodded exuberantly. 'Je vis à Calgary, Alberta.' The writing process was slow, and the water was beginning to drip down my hand. 'Un moment, SVP.' I turned off the taps and raced into my room. I overturned my calculus textbook in my search for a pen, wondering why I was so desperate to speak to this supernatural figment of my imagination. Because she had to be, right? Maybe some of Cathy's LSD had slipped into my system. Or my parents' departure had rendered me into a zombie of my own loneliness, causing me to revert to my six-year old habit of talking to imaginary people. 

My fingers grasped a felt-tipped pen and I snatched the nearest piece of paper—a three year old bank receipt. For now, I would keep living in this dreamland, because it was a welcome distraction from my reality. 

By the time I had returned, the girl had written her name, 'Vera Orlova,' and that she lived just south of Moscow. I considered what to write, settling on asking if she knew what was going on.  I held up the receipt. She immediately shook her head, frowning. 

She used the last foot of mirror to ask if a recent change had happened in my life. I considered, then explained my parents' departure. She laughed—or at least, she seemed to, her soundless figure smiling, eyes closed. She left the bathroom and returned with a large journal, clean stitching binding the ragged pages together, grasping a gold fountain pen in the other hand. The journal looked old, but purposefully so, like the thirty dollar ones that you could pick up at the book store, before putting back and buying the cheap one you could actually afford.

Vera flipped through the pages, past neat Russian writing onto a clean, black-lined page. She spelt out in practiced cursive that her situation was the exact opposite, and that this week all of her grandparents, cousins, and in-laws had come to visit her. 

She swept her dark hair over the back of her shoulders and yawned. It occurred to me that it would be much later at night where she lived. I asked her why she was awake so late and she shrugged.

'A family dinner,' she responded in clearly written French, 'I went to a party afterwards and was just getting ready for bed. Hopefully I don't wake my parents up. They're a bit stricter than some.'

We exchanged some details about our evening. I felt sheepish that she had had a fun night with her friends drinking and dancing, while I had traipsed through litter infested streets. She wished me goodnight, and motioned towards my face, indicating that I had still had dirt on it. 

When I finished washing up, she had gone and my imperfect complexion returned. I fell onto my bed, resting my head in the crevice of my pillow. My heart was beating rapidly and nerves coursed through my body. Was she truly as calm as she seemed? I felt as though I had had a very odd video call. My mind sifted through the possibilities, and I decided that I would tell Cathy about it when I visited her the next day. 

I was decidedly depressed after seeing Cathy's condition, and my mind kept replaying her broken smile as I drove home. I heated some leftover beef pho soup, hoping that the steam would clear my stuffy nose. While I was blowing my nose with toilet paper, Vera waved from the other side of the glass. I turned my head away, but she had already written something on her notepad.

'Ça va?' I smiled slightly to tell her that I was fine, but she wasn't having any of that. She scribbled furiously, giving me time to compose myself. Vera demanded to know what was wrong.

'It's nothing,' I wrote in French, 'I just saw a sad movie. Bambi? Do you watch Disney?'

She wouldn't let me change the subject, and continued berating me with questions, filling her notebook with question marks and finally piercing me with a concerned, yet assertive gaze. I caved. Normally, it would be easier to blubber my feelings away, but writing allowed me to transpose my thoughts clearly, albeit covered with scribbles and crossed-out words. My French slipped here and there, and I worried that she wouldn't understand what I was trying to say.

Minutes passed. Vera's eyes reread my words diligently as I sniffled and wiped my nose. Then she looked up, tilted her head to the side, and pressed both hands to the mirror. Feeling cheesy, I matched my hands to hers. I blushed, but it was comforting. She pressed her forehead to the glass. I followed suit, closing my eyes. We remained in this awkward, cold but comforting embrace for several minutes, until my tears had finally dried and we pulled away. 

The next day, I showered and hovered around my bathroom for the rest of the day, impatient for Vera's return. I sat on the edge of my tub, scrolling through my Twitter feed while I waited. Cathy posted something and my heart jumped—but it was an update from her nurse. I set down my phone and started organizing my drawers, bored. A hair elastic here, an old retainer case there, loose dental floss (yech—probably dad's), my missing paintbrush earring, and a used pantyliner (even more disgusting—hopefully my own). 

I was greeted with a smile and a page that read, 'Je dois faire mon maquillage.' I smiled back, content to watch her apply foundation, blush, mascara, and a smokey eye that made her look about five years older.

'You're going to a party?' I wrote in our shared language.

'Yes, I need to escape my parents. How do I look?'

'Gorgeous. Sexy.'

She smiled and flipped her hair back. 'My girlfriend and I are going out for a couple of drinks and a nice night.'

'Tu as une copaine?' 

She seemed confused. 'Comme chum.'

Oh. Right, friend, amie, amiga. I waved away my disappointment and told her to have a great night. She hesitated. 'What's wrong?' I wrote.

She bit her lip, and her dark red lipstick stained her teeth. 'I look fine, right?'

I frowned and studied her closer. I bent my head to write the affirmative, but did a double take once I noticed the purple bruise blooming at her temple. 'What's that?'

She took a long time writing back, but held a short line to the mirror. 'Sometimes Russians don't like who I am. My parents included.' I felt my tears welling up again. I wanted to take her in my arms, comfort her as she had for me. I wanted her to know that she was loved, and secretly, I wanted to hear the same.  

The next day, I received a call from the hospital, then another from my parents as I drove over. I woke up in the middle of the night, slumped in the hospital room, Cathy's limp hand clasped in my own, my mother stroking my hair and my dad crying quietly in the corner. They drove me back home and the three of us huddled on their bed, passing out from exhaustion. 

A week later, my mom pointed out the lipstick kiss on my mirror. "I can't clean it off," she said, "it's almost like it's behind the glass."

A month later, I was going for a walk, admiring the sleek feathers of the crows, the secret pleasure I took in the smell of manure, and how ticklish the grass felt against my naked toes. Miles was on the slide, and he perked up when he saw, immediately running over and screaming, "Squish-Squash! Squish-Squash!" 

I caught him before he could kick my shins and I hoisted him into the air. He was a small kid, and no matter how much he flailed his fists and feet, he couldn't reach me. "Miles," I said calmly, "do you want a piggyback ride?"

He stopped swinging his limbs and scrunched up his eyes. "Yes!" he screamed. I let him climb onto my back. He laced his pudgy hands around my throat, pulling far tighter than necessary. I ran around with him on my back until I was too tired to continue. "Run, slave, run!" he shrieked, kicking my side.

I pulled him off gently, and turned him to face me. "You're a good kid, Miles. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

He covered his face with his hands in the shy way that little kids did. After a moment, he chirped, "Whatever!" and ran back towards the swings.

I thought about Vera as I walked past the yellow dandelions that infested Mrs. Harper's lawn every Spring, past the chipped white fence that Mr. Thorton kept promising Mrs. Thorton that he would fix. If she was real, would she, too, be waving back to a Ms. Brody as she painted her pet goose, or skip through the hopscotch court that the Lee twins had drawn in lilac chalk? Perhaps, even, she was thinking about her friend on the other side of the mirror. Faith.

There was only one way to find out. When I got home, I opened my web browser and loaded the search engine. My index finger hovered over the keys uncertainly. My eyes travelled to the picture of Cathy on my desk. I took a breath and typed, 'Vera Orlova.'