Letter From The Editor

Dear Readers,

I am so excited to announce this year’s edition of the Written Voice literary blog. I would like to apologize for how late this issue is, but I was crippled by procrastination and senior anxieties. I would like to thank all of the creative contributors that made this year’s revival of the Written Voice possible. I would like to welcome all the readers, new and old. I would also like to thank Rachel Dynkin, the previous editor for giving me this chance to read all these amazing pieces. I hope you enjoy this expressive collection. Thank you for reading these works and bringing them to life. If you are a writer, please don't be afraid to send me an email of your latest piece.

Keep on reading and writing!!! Thank you everyone!!!

Sincerely,

Kira Heisler

Editor-In-Chief

Senior Year, in Snapshots and Similes

By Rami Teeter

We were ugly then. Like shoddy, half-hearted grotesques, like fever dreams. The smiles we wore were tattered and dull, worn by the four-year-long gaze of the hallway walls.

The gum we chewed crawled up our teeth, kissing gums, clinging to the roofs of mouths and folds of our lips. Our hair exploded from us, cleaved and hacked into some sort of weary semi-surrender. It had submitted, and that was enough.

Our legs slithered out of our seats. Hanging onto the backs of chairs and the edges of desks, fidgeting through space like a vibration. Where are we to put these? we thought. Where do they go?

It welled behind our eyes. The late nights, the moonlight bending through our windows and splashing across our faces, the exhaustion. The desperation and the childish angst. It all settled there, and our eyes became waterlogged with it.

Our backs curved like question marks. Our faces were carved up by blankness, by vast expanses of acne and weedy stubble. Our bodies bent and twisted, searching for some semblance of comfort, and we became gnarled in our seats. The clothes we wore were never enough to cover the entirety of us, so that ankles and wrists and lower backs were left to the elements. Every inch of exposed skin was just so many more chinks in our armor.

We were a peasant army. Poorly trained, scared shitless, compelled by some lord, some unseen higher power, to fight in a war that we did not ask for. Here were our spears, sharpened rocks lashed to sticks by mechanical pencil springs, rubber bands, and paper clips; and here were our shields, hewn out binder covers and notebook spines; and here was our armor, the tattered farm clothes, the beat up converse sneakers, the thrift store flannel that we pulled over ourselves, praying, may this protect us out here, oh God please may this protect us. We were ill-equipped for everything except failure, and, venturing onto the battlegrounds, we met the enemy, and failed bravely.

We were the enemy, of course. All of us. That was our war.

And we were caged then. The metal and plastic and faux wood of our desks knotted around us where we sat. They pressed hard palms into our backs, our sides, our crossed legs, trapping us there. Our desks were like a magician, holding his cards the way only a magician can, fingers all latticework and basket woven and moving faster than your eyes can follow, manipulating the cards like puppets, making them dance, holding them still, keeping them quiet and subdued as they whisper around the bends of his hand and the crooks of his fingers and then, poof, are gone. We were the butt end of some cruel sleight-of-hand trick.

Our thoughts sunk like embattled ships swallowed by the sea, disappearing into the hollows of the brain where all forgotten thoughts go. We were left to confront the world without them.

Our words hung between us like thick morning fog. They dribbled off our tongues as we passed one another, pooling in milky puddles at our feet. Sentences were not spoken so much as discarded. There was nothing to say, so we talked about nothing.

Pens rained from our desks, and we watched them. It wasn’t the clatter of it that killed us. It wasn’t the lost battle with gravity, the downward seduction of open air. It was the force that the pen exerted on us. That the student must forever hold fast to his pen was another law of nature, another unbreakable rule. And so we pried ourselves from our cast-iron positions, and heaved our bodies over our desks, and reached our arms out far to the floor, and caressed the pen with our fingertips, and stretched our arms farther, and found it, found that damn pen, and pulled it into our hands.

That was our gravity. That was the only gravity we truly knew.

And that was what we were, in those years. We were the bearers of it all.

All of it - all of it - was tattooed onto us then. The tattoos grayed as we aged, but they never faded.

And that was it.

Hushed Contemplations

By Danielle Solomon

My prayers are like poems

Silent words whisper in my head

Holy sounds, unsaid

Symbolizing piety and worship

Bringing me solace and remedy


Grant me might and vigor

To resist the fruit of knowledge

And its various forms

Let me fall not to temptation

And exonerate me if I do


Where has the sun gone?

It was not there when I woke

It took to bed early

Now only scorched in my mind

Still, my prayers remain unsaid

Recurring Dream

By Ophir Sabah

I vividly remember the first time my mother finished a full bottle of alcohol.  I was confused, she became tipsy and her breath smelled unrecognizable. I remember thinking I was meeting a women, which whom I had never encountered. My mother was beautiful; she had long brown hair with perfect curls hanging down the sides of her face. She had eyes the color of Hawaiian waters. She was the mother nobody would ever ask for. Father made her so happy. I remember after church, mother and father would dance, and  sing, then mother would laugh at father’s corny joke. He seemed to enjoy making her laugh. Mother had the prettiest smile. Dad told me that back in High School every boy had a crush on her. It made me happy  thinking that mother chose father. They were the happiest couple and I was the happiest son…

It was 1:36am. Dad was working on a late shift. He is a doctor at St. Paul Hospital.

I woke up to the screaming of my mother. I ran down the stairs only to see mother with tears  running down her face. I couldn’t help but notice the house phone beside her. I stood there until we made eye contact, she looked at me as if I should have looked away, but I didn’t. I stared. Stared into her eyes. She grabbed my arm with force and proceeded to scream. It hurt. I called for dad but there was no reply. I was wondering why my dad didn’t arrive home from work. It seemed to have made my mom scream louder and grip my arm stronger every time I called for dad to come. She let go of my arm and shoved me against the front door. I was soon stumbling around  barefoot in the  snow, falling as she pushed me to Mr. And Mrs. Benson’s home next door. I was too young to understand what was really happening but I remember that day, I almost wish I didn’t.

I soon regretted going downstairs to check where the screaming was coming from, for I had blamed myself for moms crying. Mr. Benson set me up a place to sleep on the couch with a warm blanket and a fluffy pillow. Mrs. Benson tried calming my mom down. It took a while but she managed to get mother to actually speak.  Mom embraced me before driving away. I asked her where she was going. She just looked at me and shut the door as if I had said something wrong, this infuriated me. Everybody seemed upset at me yet nobody told me why.

My mom picked me up the following day. Dad still didn’t return from work. Mom and I had toast and freshly cut fruit for breakfast. It was the first breakfast that I was able to remember without dad and the last good memory I had with mom. I gave up on asking mom where dad was because I knew she wouldn’t respond. I didn’t think about it too much. I was sure he was working extra hard.

Mom told me I wasn’t going to school. I know I should have been happy but something didn’t feel right. She told me to go clean my room and not to return until I finished. I went up to my room mute. When I finished, mom told me to make my own dinner. So being the 9 year old that I was I Instinctively went to the snack drawer then went straight to bed.

I didn’t go to school the following day either and dad still hadn’t arrived home. It was Sunday, Mom didn’t go to church. It was a week after the incident when father’s body was introduced to me. Mom wore a long dark dress and told me to change into my suit. We changed and went to church. It was a Monday and I hesitated to ask mom why we were going to church on a Monday. My mom told me to stand by the front door and greet everyone who came. Familiar and unfamiliar faces each hugged me while telling me they’re sorry. I didn’t know why but I felt a small nod would be most appropriate. It seemed as if Grandpa was doing the same.

Each walked one by one towards a long open chest on the other side of the Church. Many of them stopped and looked inside the chest then shed some tears. I had an urge to follow a black suit. So I did. I walked behind Walter after greeting him and receiving an “I’m sorry for your loss”, he was father’s best friend. The closer I got to the chest the faster my heart was beating. I saw a body. It was father. He was blue and cold. Father lost all the color in his face. His eyes were closed and his arms were folded onto his stomach. A scar ran down the side of his neck. I stared at father. I was too sad to cry. My eyes were a desert. It seemed like I had stood there for hours. My heart was slowly sinking. My mind kept reminding myself what I was looking at. The image scarred me forever.

Mom wasn’t the same. She kept drinking alcohol. The amount of alcohol she consumed was gradually increasing. I kept thinking about my sister. Wondering how she was going to feel growing up never having met her father. I vowed to be a father figure to her thus being the only male figure in her life.

It was 7:45 a.m. and I was almost done getting ready for school. I went downstairs expecting a toast already made for me, like mom did every morning. I found

myself sitting at an empty table, confused for about five minutes. Within those five minutes I realized that mother was changing. I didn’t think about it much. How much Father’s death affected Mother. Before making myself breakfast I silently crept around the house searching for Mother. After searching the first floor my first instinct was to go to her room. The only thing that was present was mom’s unmade bed. It was the first time I had seen her bed sheets. I cautiously continued searching the house for any signs of mother. I realized mom was nowhere to be found and I had a bus to catch. I quickly grabbed my bag and an apple and headed off to my bus stop. What I saw instead of an empty front yard enraged me. The back of mom’s blue coat dad bought her for her birthday faced me. The smoke coming from Mom’s hand caught my eye. 

I was a ten year old talking to a wall. I asked my mother what she was doing. She looked at me and proceeded to smoke. I walked off to my bus stop and heard “Tyler!,” I turned. “Have a good day at school.” I nodded and got on my bus. Everyone at school stared at me as if I was hiding something.

About a month later I noticed my mom getting more aggressive. I received a slap across the face when I didn’t clean the dishes as good as father used to. When I would cry from the sting, then she would lock me in my room for the rest of the day without food or water.

One morning mother left for 2 hours and told me while she’s gone I should   clean the house. I was still in the process of cleaning the house when she returned. She came home with a smile. I felt proud to make my mom happy after everything. I soon noticed the scent of alcohol surrounded me. My mom tripped many times. She grabbed me each time when she attempted to get up.

I felt more and more nervous for her. She immediately headed to the kitchen looking through the drawers as if she was looking for something. She grabbed a knife. I screamed. I remember her looking at me. I knew she was going to ram at me as soon as I met her eyes. I slowly tried calming my mom down.

She started towards me. I ran up the stairs towards the bathroom, since it was the only room besides Mother’s that had a lock on it. It was also one of the rooms that I didn’t clean. While hearing my mom’s heavy breathing behind me, I opened the door and saw blood, pills, a wire hanger, and these things that looked like little feet and hands were floating in a puddle of red. Staining almost the whole white tiled floor. I stared in horror, for I knew my mother was responsible.

It wasn’t long until her nails met my shoulders, digging and digging into my skin. Mom’s arm then wrapped around my neck. I was desperate for air I managed to loosen her grip, by pushing against her arms. She started tearing my shirt with the knife. The knife in her left hand found its way near my stomach. She started pushing the blade harder into my skin. I screamed, “help” the loudest I could. My mom then covered my mouth and dragged the knife up until she reached my chest. I began to become dizzy. I looked down and noticed the blood that was running down my body. She pushed me into the bathroom where I could barely breathe because the smell was so nauseating. I looked down only to see my socks soaked with blood. I thought that day would be my last. I couldn’t recall what happened after because I immediately fell unconscious.

I woke up in a white room with stitches running down my stomach. I was greeted by a young woman with silky red hair placed in a high ponytail, she had  freckles. She told me that I was hospitalized but everything will be okay. I asked her what happened. She told me that my neighbor, Mrs. Benson, heard me yelling for help so she called the police. The police arrived, took my mom and the ambulance came to take me to the hospital. It felt surreal. I asked them what they were going to do with mother and what they were going to do with me. She said she didn’t know but I would find out soon.

I spent the night at the hospital. My eyes were forced open. I was tense. The image of my mom with a knife in her hand was crawling through my mind. I couldn’t talk or stand up. I was held against the bed unable to move. I shook while staring at the ceiling. I’ve never been scared of anybody until that night, for all my life I’ve been surrounded with loving, caring people. I tried convincing myself that my mom didn’t mean to do what she did to me. It was only her stress my mom held from father’s death. I kept repeating this to myself. I needed my mother and it would be the only way to not feel hatred towards her.

I didn’t talk for weeks after this tragedy. Even when I tried I failed. I was sent to rehab, where they took care of me and helped me recover physically and mentally. It took me about a month until I started talking again.

In the meantime, Social Services were searching for foster parents for me. At the time, I didn’t know what foster parents were, so I didn’t expect to not be able to see my mother for a long period of time. They came across Mr. and Mrs. Amor. A couple in their 40’s who adopted an eight-year-old girl named Mica. They lived three hours away from my hometown. I was 11 years old when I moved in with them.

After a three hour car ride I was greeted by three smiles. Mr. Amor introduced the little Mica and Mrs. Amor, they smiled and waved at me when Mr. Amor introduced them.  I felt a wave of comfort and smiled back. They showed me around the house, which seemed more like a mansion. The house never ended. I was used to living in a small house with two bedrooms, a single bathroom, a small kitchen, a living room which was quite small but cozy. When Mr. Amor told me I would be getting my own room and bathroom I was surprised. We started to get to know each other. We ate dinner at a long table while exchanging open conversations.

I soon learned that Mr. Amor was a surgeon; he took care of people like father did. Mrs. Amor was a stay at home Mom, like mother. Mica, she was a shy girl. At least, that was Mr. and Mrs. Amor’s excuse for why she didn’t talk much. She showed me where my room was without a sound. She nodded when I asked her if that was my room. My bed was made of wood and my bed sheets were electric blue. Above the bed was a big sign that said welcome with many little drawings Mica drew.

After about a week of Mr. Amor telling Mica and I stories before we went off to bed, I started having moments where I would break down crying.  I was mourning my father. My heart was a glass cup that fell off  of a counter and shattered on the floor. I didn’t realize how screwed up my life was. It was hard to acknowledge that I lost my trust to the person I trusted the most. The woman who gave me life. I was stabbed in the back from the woman I loved and respected. I was willing to do whatever just so I wouldn’t have to remember the day.

I stood in the shower letting the lines on my inner thighs wash down my leg. The pain increased more and more but I enjoyed it. Nobody but I knew what was going on. I didn’t either. It was an unfamiliar feeling. The thought of death was often in my mind. I wanted to be with my father and as far away from mother as possible.

I remembered the pills I found on the floor of the bathroom in my old house. I told Mrs. Amor I was feeling sick, so she told me I didn’t have to go to school. I walked next door to Mrs. Amor’s bathroom cabinet, grabbed the first pack of pills I saw, and swallowed all 35 of them. I went to my room and just waited. I started sweating and screaming. My mom was the only thing I was able to see walking slowly towards me laughing. Before she was able to reach me I was in this dark room. My father’s voice spoke to me calmly. “This isn’t your time. I love you son, never forget that.” He said. And an image appeared. He was holding a beautiful baby. The name Sarah was called out by a young girl. It got louder and louder. I then started to hear beeping. My eyes slowly started to open. I saw a bright light. A doctor  wearing a medical mask was injecting me with shots. I felt no pain. But that didn’t last long.

Mrs. Amor’s face broke my heart. She stood there with streams flooding her face. She gave me a little smile. I held her hand with all the power I had. She held my hand tight. Mrs. Amor didn’t want to let go. Then it happened. I felt loved. My heart began to mend. Uncontrollably the words, “I’m sorry mother” escaped my mouth. After that day my life started getting better and better.

Presently, I’m a 25-year-old dad with loving parents. Mica and I created an unbreakable relationship, and she’s been my best friend for a long time. We both have beautiful families. I have a beautiful wife, Linda. She has brown wavy hair, green eyes, and a smile that never seems to fade. My 2 boys are best friends. They remind me of Mica and I when we were young.  My beautiful baby daughter “Sarah” always smiles like her mother. I knew I had to call her Sarah when I saw her pure and innocent eyes.

The women I used to call mom was now in an insane asylum. After being sent to jail and found guilty of child abuse and murder, she became dependent and crazy. I never forgave that woman for the things she had scarred me with. She abandoned me when she was the only one I had left. She killed my sister. Although pure evil roamed her I decided to visit her. I almost regretted it. Her face was all wrinkly complimenting her gray hairs. The heavy bags under her eyes as the result of her sleep deprivation accented her cold and dark eyes. As soon as she noticed me, she started rocking back and forth repeating the name “Sarah”.

There were so many obstacles I had to overcome. So much pain. So much suffering. But I survived, and I came out of it a stronger person. Life since then turned around, almost as if it were ideal. Almost impossibly ideal…

Recently, there’s been one part of that day that won’t escape me: how the doctors told me they were mesmerized that I survived. I was cut open from the stomach up; if the injury didn’t kill me, blood loss certainly would have, and far quicker than it would have taken for the paramedics or the police to respond. Despite their amazement, they didn’t really question it, and neither did I. It may have been a huge miracle, but I didn’t really care, I was just grateful to be alive. I’ve also been having recurring nightmares for the past couple of days. It’s been about that day, my cleaning up the house, the chase to the bathroom, the image of my sister’s lifeless body, the knife...all things I wish I could forget.

Usually, when you wake up after a dream, the memory of it starts to fade until you’ve forgotten about it as you go on with your day. But nightmares don’t really do that. You wake up filled with a rush of adrenaline, your heart racing, your mind panicking, working like mad, Scanning around the room in search of a threat. Your nightmare is clear, burned into your memory, not absolutely vivid, but enough so that you remember the general details.

This dream was different, though. It may have been recurring, but all my actions stayed the same. I always thought about what I could do differently, and even came up with several scenarios in my head, but each and every time, they stayed the same. Exactly the same. Enough so that I could see intricate details I didn’t notice the first time. I’d think all this would be normal. The event was so traumatic that it probably burned into my subconscious. And the dream would end with me blacking out.

Yesterday, I dreamt the scene again, like I had for the past couple of days. It started with me cleaning the house, vacuuming the carpets, sweeping the tiles, mopping the floor, leaving most of the house spotless…except for the bathroom. Then came my mother intoxicated, stumbling as she walked about the house. She reached for the knife, her loathing and despair reflected in her eyes as she leered at me. I tried to reassure her, calm her down, but with each word, her emotions intensified, her eyes turning darker until it felt like looking into an abyss. Finally a fire sparked, and she started charging at me. I made my way to the bathroom, bursting through the door to see my sister’s body lying in a pool of innocence. Stunned by the sight and the smell, I couldn’t react fast enough to avoid my mother’s grasp. I tried to struggle but was easily overpowered. She ran the knife from my stomach up to my chest. Looking down at the cut, I began to feel lightheaded. My body began to numb, and the light from my eyes slowly dimmed. My eyes closed, and everything faded to black.

“And that’s how it happened…” I heard a young girl say. My eyes shot open. I found

myself standing in middle of the scene frozen in time, my mom holding the knife in her

hand and my body lying helpless on the floor. I glanced towards my sister’s remains. I

found the pool of blood, but instead of a fetus stood a girl of about 7 or 8 years old. She

wore a long white blouse, had her brownish blond hair, her face lightly dotted by

freckles. She seemed like the perfect picture of innocence, save for the seriousness upon

her face. And her blue eyes had a kind of maturity to them, as if they’ve seen a lot, maybe

too much. Looking at her felt…familiar. “The world around you wasn’t very kind to you

then, was it?” she would ask, cutting of my train of thought. “Fate took away

many things close to you… your dad, your sister, your mother as you knew her, and your

childhood.” “It wasn’t.” I agreed, “That day is something I won’t be able to forget no matter

how much I try. It’s left with scars that haunted me for years. The scars that would remind

me day in and day out how hard I had it.” I went to feel the scar on my stomach only to find

it was no longer there. I was shocked, but I shook the feeling off and continued. “It took me

many years to overcome, but I did. And when I did, I realized that I was surrounded by love.

My friends and family would always be there for me during my hardships, and I am grateful

for that. Life’s given me a chance to be happy again, and I couldn’t ask for anything better.

Life has taken, but now, it’s giving back.”

The girl began to look at me sympathetically. “Your foster parents, your closest

friends, your children,” she said, “they’re what you’ve always wanted, right?” I nodded.

“Aren’t they everything you’ve ever hoped, your mom, and your dad would be like?” I

stopped and thought for a second. “Of course!” I replied, “That’s what everyone would hope

for in their families. Haven’t you ever wished for the same?” The girl’s expression started to

darken. “I didn’t even have the chance,” she murmured. “What do you mean?” I asked her.

She brushed the question off. “It’s not important right now.” “Who are you, and what are

you doing in this dream? It’s been recurring for several nights on end, but this is the first

time you’ve showed up. Why?!” She turned her head away from me. “What do you know

about the human mind?” She asked. “Don’t change the subject.” I demanded. “It can either

be one of the cruelest things in the world, or one of the kindest,” she continued. “In your

times of pain, it can either intensify it and make you suffer more, or relieve it and spare you

the harm. Most people only notice the pain, though,” she went on. “Are you even listening to

me?” “It’s a tool that can hurt you or harm you. It can remember and it can forget what goes

around you, whether you’re awake or asleep. Conscious or unconscious.” “Who are you?!” I

started to yell. “I’m nobody,” she responded. I asked her again, with more fire in my voice,

“Who are you?!” “I’m nobody.” She repeated. “I’m nobody!” she replied with an agitated tone. I don’t know what came over me then, and I didn’t have a good reason to either, but

I stormed over to her, turned her around, gripped her by the shoulders, and shook her.“DON’T YOU DARE MOCK ME! EVERYTHING I’VE HAD TO PUT UP WITH, ALL THE PAIN

I’VE HAD TO OVERCOME, ALL THE NIGHTMARES I WENT THROUGH AND YOU HAVE THE

NERVE TO ACT LIKE I’M NOT EVEN WORTHY OF KNOWING?! WHO ARE YOU?!”

I came out of my rage a few seconds after my ranting, only to find the girl on the

verge of tears. I felt immediate regret. She pushed herself away from me. “I said I was

nobody,” she spoke from her light sobbing, “Any chance of being someone…died many

years ago. Any hope of making friends, or falling in love is gone. I’ll never know what wind

and water feel like on my skin. I can never be able to feel small when I look up into the sky

and see the universe stretch out in front of my eyes.” She began to tear up, “I’ll never know

the feeling of being so mesmerized by music to the point of tears! I’ll never know what it’s

like to have the support of my friends and family in my times of need! I’ll never know that

kind of warmth and pleasure…because it was…taken from me!” She started weeping.

“Because it was stolen from me…because all I’ve ever known is pain! I never did anything to deserve that! The world is cruel!” She dropped to her knees with her hands to her face and sobbed over the puddle of blood.

Suddenly, an image flashed before my eyes. The fetus….no….it couldn’t be! “You do

have a name,” I said trembling, “Sarah” She looked up. “Your Sarah,” I told her, “And

you…died here on that day.” I fell to my knees in shock. She ran and wrapped her

arms around me. I did the same. After a couple of minutes, I heard her whisper. “The

mind…can remember things, forget things, invent things, up until it’s final moments.” “What are you talking about?” I asked her. “Your mind remembers what happened after you blacked out, even though you didn’t see it.” I felt a sinking feeling, as I saw what happened. I turned around, Sarah still wrapping her arms around me and watching as well.

Mom stood over my body, knife in hand, with a disturbingly expressionless face.

“You left me,” she murmured to herself. “You left me all by myself. Why did you leave me? Why?” She moved closer to my body with each emotionless repetition. “Why?”Suddenly, she started screaming at my face. Wailing hysterically. “You overworked yourself. You wore yourself out. What for?” Was it for the children? You got distracted because of the children? What about me!?” She started yelling again. “It’s all your fault YOU AND THAT THING!” She held up the knife. “YOU TOOK HIM FROM ME!” She began stabbing the knife at my body’s neck, screaming hysterically as she did, not stopping until my head was severed from my body.

“I…died?” I asked myself. Sarah overheard me, “You died with me that day.” she said

softly. “This can’t be real, this can’t be happening. It’s all a dream!” “When someone’s about to die, their mind invents something for them to take away, the pain of being dead. The mind works at a superhuman speed, stretching time to make seconds seem like years. That’s what happened to you.” “So Mr. and Mrs. Amor, Mica, My wife and children…” “Were a part of your imagination,” she replied. “The thing you wanted most out of life was an ideal family. It started off badly, but as it went on, it was exactly what you wanted out of life, right?” “What about you, didn’t your mind do that for you too?” I asked her. She shook her head. “My brain was not fully developed by that time. I couldn’t experience any of that.” Our conversation was interrupted by policemen knocking on the door. Sarah and I watched as Mother decided to take the knife and kill herself with it before the officers could get to her.

The scene turned completely black. All that was left was Sarah and I, floating in a sea of black. Suddenly, I looked down, to find out that my body was slowly starting to fade from the feet up. I glanced at Sarah’s only to find that the same  was happening to her. “What’s going on?!” I ask hysterically. “Your time is up. Your mind has exhausted itself and is nearing death.” “What’s going to happen to me?” I ask, fearing the worst. My body has

faded up to the waist at this point. “I can’t tell you, but all you need to know is that I’ve

come here to get you.” Her body has faded up to her neck. She turned to me and said, “Don’t

worry, you’ll see me again” and smiled before she faded herself, leaving me to my own. I

faded up to my ribs, and reached out to whatever was above. As soon as I looked, I saw my

father reach out for my hand. And then I was gone.