COROLLA'S LOOKING GLASS
Flash Fiction / Vignettes
ISSUE ONE: (1) Kore, (2) Ourselves Alone
ISSUE TWO: (1) Death by Search, (2) The Lantern, (3) Fragile, (4) The Ghosts, (5) Somebody's Watching Me, (6) The Sun
ISSUE THREE: Coming soon!
Kore
BY ELLA TAFT
Flame. Just to the right of the bags, a painting hung from the wilting wall. She wasn’t quite sure what it was. They had made it together, all three sisters, sitting around the breakfast table. The rips of shuffling newspapers were louder than their arguments as they sat there, painting. Ari thought it should be a garden. Core thought it was a seascape. Rye thought it was a sky filled with hot-air balloons. Their parents thought it was Van Gogh. Rye remembered now that she got paint on Core, a young toddler at the time. How she shrieked– thinking, but not quite believing, that it was blood. The canvas, whatever it was, hung valiantly still, while all else chipped away and began to crumble. That wall had seen more of Rye’s childhood than she had.
Gold. A sudden crash shook her seat. The window pane rattled in defiance, revolting against the shutters. Rye got up to push it open again, to feel what she could convince herself was a breeze. The Hudson was a tidal estuary, and the talkative substitution for both of her sisters. The salt and freshwater stirred unwillingly, unsure which way to flow. Rye would crane her neck through this very window to try to glimpse the aircraft boneyard of stars that she knew were there, hoping the glass wouldn’t give up at that moment with her.
Chase. Rye picked up a postcard that had slipped under the AC unit— the script was messy and illegible, save for three words: “Much love, Ari.” An American Flag smudged its mark across the corner.
Flood. AC broke down again, AC broke down again. Ari, call the super. Ari? The whirring wouldn’t stop, and warm air would flame whoever dared to approach the dragon’s mouth. It was too hot for the first day of September, and the AC broke down again. Rye looked around for her parents. They were getting the car from the parking lot to drive Core, who was nowhere to be found. The whirring wouldn’t stop. Ari?
Bronze. Shadows enlivened themselves around the window where the sun glazed Rye’s iris with icing. The soft rattle of a snake sizzled through the room before dying out in the air. With the jazz band having returned to the sidewalk, the grieving graveyard awoke within her. An alto saxophone stepped forward to dance, and how it did! It danced in all shades of crimson, alongside the bass and trumpet. What an excellent partner it made. Rye hadn't tasted the music before. Core had, always, even being young as she was. Even Ari had intimacy with the sunrise.
Havoc. Core’s laugh was that of a small bird. One that wouldn’t sing often, yet would always talk. Rye couldn’t ever get her to laugh or cry. Core’s voice shifted from what it was. She used to chirp about the whole place. Especially as a small child, when she would run up and down the stairs of the apartment— hoping, but not wishing, that someone would tell her to stop. Rye watched her toddler sister laugh and felt envy-filled sadness strangle her. She would change, no doubt. Rye could do nothing to stop it. Core would be different after leaving. Would her face be painted pink after chasing a bee and wrecking the walls? Would her grin be smeared with the brine of caramel candy? Ari had almost drowned after she left last year. But she was older then, 18. What would a 14 year old know about swimming?
Chains. A metallic clang took Rye back to the window sill where she sat. Searching for the cause of the sound, she noticed that her ring slid off of her index finger as she was rolling it. Rye crouched into a fight stance while smoothing her palms across the dust of the wood. The band of iron pyrite left a green stain where it once had been. Air hit the vulnerable area that was newly exposed on her skin. Searching for the loop underneath the AC unit, she found a hair clip, a caramel wrapper, a blackened eraser, and a sewing needle that came near to piercing her vein. Eventually, she gave up. She would find something to replace it at a later time. The stain couldn’t last forever.
Leather. Ari left for college last year, on the first day of September. She grew out of her room. The apartment. The school. The city. She grew out of iced coffee in parks and washing the dishes. She grew out of viola lessons and metro cards. She left the Hudson River to move to Facetime calls and postcards (because their parents were still “old-fashioned”). Rye remembered moving her pillows to Ari’s old room on the second day of September. She wiped down the desk as if everything was forgotten. As if the deck of the desk wouldn’t remember every eraser smudge and exasperated tear that Ari has inscribed into it. As if Ari’s highschool never happened. Rye still hadn’t gotten used to the empty room. It was the most organized she had ever been. She stopped trying to clean up after Core’s mess when they shared. But all of a sudden, Ari left, and she was alone. What would happen now? Rye would begin 11th grade in a few days, with one room for her, one room for her parents, and one room completely empty, save for the ghosts of what used to be. Core’s new campus stole Rye’s sister. Core didn’t want to go to Rye’s highschool in the city. So she chose to drive far, far away from the Hudson. And now here she was, in her room, reluctant to break eye contact with the mirror as her sister paced the entryway.
Three. Rye sat on the suitcase. It took many breaths for a minute to pass. She glanced over to the shelf, where Core had set down her drink from earlier this morning. The ice had melted already. Rye pulled the shipwreck of a cardigan closer to her chest.
West. She watched their car park right by the sidewalk in front of their building. Gold reflected off the windshield. It was almost time for Core to leave for good. Their parents wouldn’t wait forever.
“I can’t find my phone,” an urgent voice announced from her room, “Can you call it?”
Ring.
Ring.
Rye kept staring at the red text on her phone. 12 failed calls to Core.
Cerberus. Rye picked up the mirror again, but still, the only thing she could see were the bags. The mist was hot and sticky. The jazz had dissipated into the bricks.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
Rye’s stomach was sucked into a whirlpool and her mind stormed. She slowly lowered her mirror, and there, standing right in front of her, was her sister, wearing all her frills like armor for boarding school.
Rye moved aside, opening the front door and pushing the luggage into the hallway.
“You’re not gonna say anything?” Core’s eyes seared Rye’s lips.
“Sure I am.”
“Like what?” Core clutched the handle of her red suitcase in her left hand and swung the duffel bag around her shoulder.
“Goodbye?”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Iron embraces her bone.
Twisted into a tornado, the marble protests.
Rye tilted her mirror so she could see her sister’s reflection. What she saw, instead, were two gray trunks, an oddly shaped duffel bag, and a red suitcase, all stacked on top of each other by the door.
Hide. Sitting down, she noticed the loose wool knots sprawled across the floor, entangling the feet of the stool. Core’s red cardigan. Core never liked red, but Ari did, so she inherited the color regardless. Rye was just in between them. By the time Ari stopped fitting into her clothes, they were just right for Core. It seems the cardigan has been outgrown once again, and left to rot on the wood flooring. Rye slipped her hands into one of the knots of the crochet pattern to hoist the web around her shoulders.
PSYCHE REVIVED BY CUPID'S KISS (1793 Canova)
Photo credits: Ella Taft
Ourselves Alone
BY CAROLINE POWERS
The sticks of western Ireland are heartsick, and Achill Island is the apotheosis of mourning. On Tripadvisor, it's best known for its quaintly rustic bars. The island's scattered ruins are sunk into the lush and verdant flora of its arcadian hills (they're hills with a kind of history you would expect, that is, enough to fit in a pamphlet, or a guided hike). A dormant history, one that's told by the sedentary dirt ridges; it's told by the porcelain shards sleeping shallow beneath our feet, but rarely by us. It's called the Deserted Village. It's hard to imagine, when beholding the coastal dawn in Slievemore, how such a place could ever be forsaken. Indifferent, dry stone homes stand eroded and unmoving, inviting in the rain. The sky wears his mourning colors and dampens the land with grief. A shadow is cast over the necropolis by its sole and steadfast resident. Like Vesuvius, it splits the earth and eclipses the sun where it stands. Like a father, unthinking. Like a mother, unrelenting. The foot of any mountain is a cold and damp place, but climbing it is a wetter endeavor. The grass is wild and whips at our shins in protest-but the land has not forgotten that once, there were people here, too. Our imprint is left in every dip of the path that guides our ascent. When the sheep bleat, it's an anguished plea that is drowned by the wind. When we summit the hill, a raw and icy gust puts tears in our eyes. From its crown, the entirety of the coast is visible-and beyond. Past the shoreline, we can barely see the twinkling of lights through the fog on the water. Privately owned property, maybe an Airbnb a town over. The briny vapor comes in waves that coat our skin and fill our lungs, a chill discomfort pervading our bodies. Under threat of windburn we turn our eyes inland, shutting out the sea.
Death By Search
BY EVELYN YANG
Jeez. They’re red again. She looks down at her feet, surrounded by a shallow pool of water. The shower’s clogged too. Hot water beats down into the basin as steam fills the air, billowing into her face. Glancing down again, the color of her feet slowly starts to appear unnatural. The shade of red is darker than scratched mosquito bites and aggressive pimples, seemingly seeking immediate attention and intervention. What if something’s seriously wrong with me? She reaches for the shampoo bottle. Nah. It’s probably nothing. After a grueling day at school, the last thing she needs is to have a crisis about her health.
Foaming shampoo between her hands, she remembers the small splotches of red and purple she once had under her skin. “Splotches underneath the skin” she searched up on her phone, retyping typos in frustration. “Burst blood cells,” or “petechiae,” and as always, “underlying medical conditions,” appeared as she quickly scrolled through the results. Google said it was caused by minor injury. Don’t really think that playing volleyball counts as a minor injury, but it makes sense. I bruise pretty easily too. Whatever. The cause was dumb, so it means that this is nothing too. She scrubs at her hair, staring at the white patterned wall in front of her. Her feet throb with phantom pains, as if encouraging her irrational thoughts. I hate this. Is it really normal to worry this much about something so inconsequential?
By the time she’s finished with her shower, the mirrors are fogged up, and she’s itching to grab her phone. Before she opens a search engine though, she puts on some music, letting the upbeat tune resound between the bathroom tiles. It’s a jarring contrast to the dread seeping through her body, but she’s never enjoyed silence. Subconsciously, she knows it’s the effect of the internet– her generation grew up with screens and constant stimulation, filled with bright colors and attention seeking graphics. From video games and shows to digital homework assignments, it’s impossible to get away from. She thinks of it as a noose, where every tap and hour lost to the digital world loosens the desperation for a distraction.
But social media claims there’s a way to get used to silence again; “Quitting everything” and “regulating your screen time” are the solution, and she tries to believe it. Even though she always ignores the screen time limit she sets for herself, guilt bleeding through every extra tap. Sometimes, the world captured within a rectangle is much easier to navigate than her bleak reality, filled with school and depressing news.
No longer unsettled by silence, she opens a search engine, typing up “Feet red shower” quickly. No, I don’t like that. I want to know why. “Why do feet turn red in the shower.” The results load speedily, and she’s not surprised when the general results are harmless: the effects of heat, skin irritation, and underlying medical conditions. A Reddit post catches her attention; a commenter claims it’s from the body trying to eliminate extra heat from the shower by raising blood vessels closer to the skin. Sighing, she closes the tab and shuts off her phone. I don’t really trust that reasoning––it’s from Reddit––but at least I know it’s just from showering. Nothing bad. Not gonna die.
But as she exits the bathroom, obsessive thoughts continue to wrack her mind, and it’s as if the mirage of safety is left behind in the steamy room. Horror posts and videos of people speaking to the camera with tired expressions start to flood through her mind: “––ruined my life,” “I’ll never be the same again,” and “Doctors found nothing.” The urge to search more tugs at her thread of sanity, begging to rampage the sensibility of her mind. But she knows that as much as the internet is a hub of knowledge, not all of it is correct. If she clicks every link, takes every fact to heart, the black hole of information will suck her into chaos. By the end of it, she’ll have five different self-diagnosed diseases and plenty of solutions, as if that’s how it works in real life.
She pauses at the sight of a painting hung up on the wall as she enters her room. Her grandma painted it, her frail fingers gracing the canvas with the stalks of bamboo and Chinese characters. Longevity, that’s what bamboo symbolizes. How old was her grandma now? It feels like she’s been eighty-three for so long. Probably because she’s actually ninety-four. That's…old. Scary. What if––
Maybe she searches everything up because the reality is that she's scared of how sudden everything can end, of dying in a way she can’t control. Her great-aunt had breast cancer twice. It runs in her family, it chases after her, saying, “You’re next.” The last time she saw her great-aunt, the frailness of her body, the sagging of skin and juts of bones, all of it spoke to the fragility of her humanity. Her great-grandmother was bedridden for the last ten years of her life; her neck tightening itself like a noose, causing her brain fog. Sometimes she forgot her own daughter, her grand-daughter, and her great-grand-daughter.
It happened to them, so what would stop it from happening to her? Some illnesses are genetic. Some life changing, life destroying, things hurtle into people’s lives without regard. At least she’ll know, if she searches it up. If her future is derailed by the threat of death and of illness, at least she’ll catch it before the worst hits. The power of the internet is that it has information, even if the downside is that it has information.
Still, despite the reassurance that a semblance of control remains, it terrifies her that her life could be conquered in such a way. To be reduced to a single search.
For even if it is the illness that kills, it is the search that determines it first.
The Lantern
BY HANA CARLSON
There was once a beautiful young woman.
Once.
There are no walls.
Well, perhaps there are. She just never reached them.
Perhaps every time she wandered too far and turned back, the next step would have been when she realized that she was confined.
Perhaps.
But she never saw them.
She never saw… anything.
She could only feel. The rustling of her clothes, her soft, long hair brushing against her arms. The pain in her feet, from walking so long, to nowhere.
Not to nowhere.
That was where she was.
The void.
Where there are no walls.
She had never known the light, just the eternity of blankness surrounding her.
Blankness is not the right word, for she could always feel something. Something in front of her, behind her, up, down. That something just happened to be nothing.
Nothing can be anything.
There are no directions.
Well, perhaps there are. She just never realized them.
Perhaps she was merely in an elaborate maze, though every step she took felt like falling, though everywhere she went she was always on solid ground. Perhaps that was simply the layout of the place.
Perhaps.
But she never felt stable.
She never felt… safe.
She could only continue walking. Hoping to understand the space around her.
The lack of space around her.
How she was being suffocated, even though she had all the freedom in the world.
All the freedom in the world, to wander blindly. Feeling her heart freeze every step she took, because she had no idea if it would be the one that inevitably sent her to her doom. She had to learn to live with it. The constant lackingness. Of her knowledge, her eyes. She lacked everything she needed, and everything was lacking.
Everything was lacking because everything was nothing, in this… space. Not a destination, for that meant finality. Not a place, for that meant definition. No, it was a space. Free, unoccupied.
Empty.
The void.
Where there are no directions.
She could feel the time passing.
She could feel herself growing tired.
Still, she continued.
Walking, running. Tripping, falling, standing.
But never stopping.
The void would swallow her if she stopped even for a second.
And still, she continued.
She continued, and she could not tell the days passing, for there was no sun, no moonlit sky, no stars guiding her way. She could only feel the time. It’s essence, slowly but surely slipping through her fingers.
Oh, how she longed to grasp it!
Still, she continued.
Until, one day… something caught her eye for the first time.
Nothing had ever been able to do that before.
It was all dark.
But… something was glimmering.
The sun? The stars?
And she ran as fast as she could.
She ran and ran and ran because finally, finally she was going somewhere that wasn’t nowhere.
She ran and ran and ran and finally, finally, found what she was looking for.
A light.
A lantern.
It was not particularly ornate. Some might call it rickety, or dingy, or dirty. It was altogether quite broken. The metal handle was rusty, the glass cracked. Still, it managed to contain fireflies inside, and their light made her want to smile.
Smile like the sun.
For she had seen it! She had seen the sun! This capsule of good! Light!
Yet as she picked it up and cradled it to her chest, she started to notice things.
Light illuminates, after all.
And she finally basked in the presence of the light, she realized that the nothing had been something after all.
When she had felt nothing, there had been something there.
Watching her.
And as she could now see, she noticed it take shape.
Shadowed, inhuman figures, surrounding her. Everywhere. Below her, above her. To her sides. In front, behind. Everywhere. She had never been conscious of their presence before, but now that she knew, she shied away from them. Terrified.
Now that she could see, she noticed the walls.
They were so close.
They boxed her in.
Trapped her, along with the monsters.
Now that she could see, she noticed the direction of the place.
And
she
started
to
fall.
Somehow she hadn’t been standing at all, the whole time.
She’d been falling, and she was again.
Feeling herself fall and fall and fall.
All she could do was hold the lantern close and pray that the little lights wouldn’t escape.
Stuck, in the in between of reality and fantasy, awake and asleep, forever.
Forever falling.
Until finally she hit the ground.
It… hurt.
But she got up.
Dusted herself off.
And made sure the lantern was all right.
It was.
And somehow, even though the monsters were now gathered around her, so close she could feel hot breath against her cheeks, the light seemed to hold them at bay. Just barely.
She could see them watching her every move. Every twitch of her fingers.
But she would not allow them to take away her lantern!
No more.
No more wandering blindly.
No more endless falling.
No more.
She would see!
And see she did.
She looked up from the light and the monsters, up to the sky.
Or rather, where the sky should have been.
This time it was different.
Instead of the usual lack, there was… something else.
Another light! It glowed with the same tenacity as her original lantern, but she decided that she needed both. It would mean more sight.
More light.
And so she continued onward.
Upward.
She found footholds. Stairs. Leading her up and up and up.
And so it went.
Each step she took, she saw the light in the sky grow brighter.
Brighter.
Brighter.
She ignored the growing monsters surrounding her.
She focused only on the light.
And finally, she reached the sky!
But as her hand moved up, to grasp the lantern she now saw, instead of finding the handle, she found a hard surface.
She tried again.
Something was wrong.
And she realized why the light had grown, why it had been so similar to hers.
It was hers.
Well, in a sense.
As she peered closer, she realized that it was a mirror.
And as she did so, she noticed something else.
Her reflection.
She, who was once a beautiful young woman.
Once.
And as she saw her reflection, her hand trembled.
And down flew the lantern! Down the trail she had carved upwards herself! Down, down, down, until it finally reached the bottom!
And smashed, the fireflies free once more.
Her reflection…
She didn’t have one.
She was nothing, just like everything else in this space.
And as the light drifted away, she lost sight of the walls,
She lost sight of up and down,
She lost all sight of anything.
Of everything.
Until it was only nothing. Nothing, once more.
This time, though, the monsters did not leave her alone.
The monsters, whose face she wore.
Fragile
BY F. EL IDRISSI
“I…”
BREATHE… Breathe-
“Out.. I want out, please.. I beg you.”
The door to my mind slides itself open to the most unwelcomed without my consent.
I wonder why the curious thing does that sometimes.
The reason why it engulfs me with such hatred in retaliation to my search for a decent spot in society still remains the question I ask myself the most… Yet, I still haven't got an answer.
Why so much venom in this intoxicating heavenly drink of mine?
I look down, foam fizzing out of my mouth- drowning out my pleads for help. Muffling out the sounds of pain I’m supposed to make… The noise I’m unbothered to make..
Because who am I, if not my sole saviour?
Who am I, if not the sole survivor of the apocalypse I created?
“I know- I know I'm nothing just please… PLEASE”
What elSe Can I do otheR than plEase those who try their hArdest to judge Me?
Is it normal that chunks of my hair are tangled between the lengths of my fingers? That my nails are brittle and bloody–
Does that blood come from the shreds of skin I scraped off my own body? Or is it the blood that oozed out when I unpurposefully bit the skin around my nails too hard? Anyways, obviously this isn’t about me, Isn’t iT?… IS it?
What are you saying?
…
Hm? Yes, you—the girl on the mirror that has eyes which find no depth? The one who looks terrified of… Me?
…
I’m just ‘paranoid’, you say?
Yeah, that’s what you tell me every single time.
‘Why are you so paranoid?...’
Who are you calling paranoid? I know for sure that I’m NOT paranoid-
ImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnotImnot—
“I AM NOT!! I'M NOT PARANOID, OKAY?? STOP THINKING ABOUT ME JUST STOP…STOP THINKING… STOP LOOKING…”
“Stop staring at me… GET OUT OF MY HEAD.”
My throat’s got a shard of glass stuck right through it and I can’t seem to swallow it? It hurts… I’m- I’m cornered by my own being— weak, useless… Victim of my own emotions and hallucinations.
“Stop.. You aren’t real…”
BREATHE.
PLEASE.
The Ghosts
BY ANA GOYLE
I see the ghosts sometimes. The ones from the dark, dank subway station when I was 6. When the 6 train sign stood on a pedestal smiling at me from above and my grubby little hands clutched my father’s, as we walked down the endless stairs closing us in. The familiar sights of barricades and peeling paint and the smell of musty odor greeted me. My father grabbed the blue chipped metro-card from his pocket; the one with faded letters Easy Express Pay on it and turned to swipe and then
Help, a man croaked. Please.
And I turned.
Turned to see his cane and his bent back. His agonizing face, full of haunting memories, leaning against the subway tile. And I know. I know he is seeing the ghosts. The ghosts. The ones from the past. The ones of what if. The ones with tart tongues that cluck their mouths with the tut tut and raise their eyebrows at you. The ones that rip, and tear, and tug, and stop at nothing.
My father didn't turn though. He just swiped his card and motioned for me to follow. And I reluctantly followed. Under the barricades. Under the barricades. And just watched. Just watched, as the man went and sat on the staircase in defeat. And crumpled. He crumpled like a candy wrapper. He was a broken record coughing out the notes. But we were on the other side. We had already passed through. It was too late. And as we waited for the 6 train with its glowing eyes and metallic body to come into the station and take us away, far away, I just watched. Just watched as a single wet tear, somehow more painful and haunting than a stream of one thousand waterfalls, fell down his single cheek. And then I began to see the ghosts, too.
Somebody's Watching Me
BY ANONYMOUS
My door creaked open. It was slightly ajar - odd since I had closed it. I stepped out from the steaming shower, soaking wet and a towel oddly wrapped around my body.
The soap suds spread across the corners of the shower, the mirror fogged up. It smelled a lot like the new shampoo I had used - a mixture of wet dog smell and floral. I cleaned up the puddles of water, the stray hairs in the bathroom sink and floor and stepped out, finally ready to watch a good movie, eat some dessert and have a good night alone.
The light flickered on and off, threatening to put itself out completely - my landlord had promised to fix it but it had been two months already. Everything about this tiny apartment gave me bad vibes mixed with the almost ‘routinely’ malfunctions of all the appliances.
My stuffed animals and dolls glared at me from my bed, almost as if to say ‘Why did you leave us alone again today?’ I turned off the light, the wall plate dangling and I closed the door.
I was waiting for the cake to heat up when the phone rang. The shrill noise pierced my ears and I ran to grab it. I lunged for the phone and as I pressed it to my ear it stopped, the line on the other side was dead.
I closed the windows and drew the curtains - why weren’t they already drawn? - before heading back to the kitchen and watching the microwave go around in circles.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I had turned off the shower. My tap wasn’t leaking. I froze. Maybe it was my cat playing with the tap again. But something about this, this time, felt off.
I tiptoed into the bathroom and felt along the wall for the light switch. The wall plate must have finally fallen off, because all I could feel was the paint peeling off the walls.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I turned on my phone torch and panned it across the room. The light lit up the corners of the room, accentuating each shadow and silhouette of my things strewn messily everywhere. I still couldn’t find the source of the dripping sound. That was when a putrid smell stung my eyes and nose and practically hit me in the face.
I looked up.
The light shines directly at a little girl. On the top of my cabinet. Who almost exactly perfected reassembled my childhood doll, which was perched on my bed. Her eyes were glassed over, skin waxy and an abnormal ashy shade of grey. She clutched that doll tightly in her arm, its worn out face soaked almost thoroughly with blood.
I freeze. My heart stops.
The blood pools around her as it slowly seeps into the wooden cabinet and trickles down creating an opaque puddle.
The look of the corpse that stared unblinking into me stayed etched into my memory just like the claw marks on her face, right across her eyes.
The Sun
BY HANA CARLSON
It was always close by.
The sun.
Yes, she could see it over the horizon, could taste its sweetness tingling on her tongue.
Yes, she could feel its radiation beckoning her blood further, could smell its intoxicating scent. She heard its whispered song, drifting through the space in between them to her ears.
She was spellbound by it.
But it was always close.
Never here.
She ran, day and night, through storm and fire.
She never paused to catch her breath or admire the view.
She picked herself up every time she stumbled, never stopping to take care of her wounds.
Yet the distance never changed.
No matter how long she ran.
No matter how fast she was.
The distance never changed.
She could see it! She could taste it! She could feel it! She could smell it! She could hear it!
But it was always close.
Never here.
She started to see everything in a haze. Wherever she went, whatever she saw was blurry. Hard to reach. Hard to understand.
But whenever she stared at the sun, everything was bright. Real. Burning.
So she kept her eyes up, not noticing the ground beneath her or the seasons changing. She did not notice that fewer and fewer people surrounded her until at last she was alone.
She did not notice these things, for the sun had blinded her.
Soon she realized that food had no taste. Not to her, anyway. It merely provided sustenance, nothing more.
But whenever she tasted`` the sun, she tasted its sweetness. She felt as though she had attained enough energy to run for the rest of her life.
So she stopped eating, never noticing the frailness of her body or the brittleness of her bones. She did not notice the pangs that racked her or the feebleness of her legs.
She did not notice these things, for the sun had taken her taste.
She found that she no longer felt tired, no longer needed those brief moments of respite. She no longer felt anything.
But whenever she stared at the sun, she felt the eternal longing within her heart. The desire to finally, finally be happy. To reach the sun. She felt alive.
So she continued running, never feeling the pain of her bloody, bruised feet or the parchedness of her throat. She did not notice the tears streaming down her face, or the searing pain that followed every step.
She did not notice these things, for the sun had numbed her.
Soon she observed that she could not smell the flowers. She could not smell anything.
But whenever she thought of the sun, she could smell the glorious glow that filled up her body and nostrils until everything else was blocked out.
So she continued running, not smelling her clothes, body, and soul. She did not notice the sickly scent that flowed from her or the lack of all things alive.
She did not notice these things, for the sun had taken her smell.
She recognized that everything was suddenly so very quiet. She could not hear the birds or the wind in the trees.
But whenever she listened to the sun, she could hear its music, flooding her with unimaginable sensations, singing to her a siren song of fire, movement, telling her just how close she was!
So she continued running, not hearing the voices calling to her, warning her, berating her, growing in urgency and volume until they were gone, for she had traveled too far. She did not hear the gradually slowing of her heartbeat or the thump of her legs against the ground.
She did not notice these things, for the sun had deafened her.
She did not notice herself fall.
Collapse on the ground, miles from everything she’d known.
She did not notice herself take her last heaving breath.
Her heart slowly stopping.
She only saw and tasted and felt and smelled and heard the sun.
So, so close.