That year I liked to imagine myself as a witch from Harry Potter. It made everything more like an exciting dream that I could wake up from one day. I remember the overcast skies, when the leaves died, and everything smelled like Fall. We wore uniforms; it wasn’t a boarding school but was about as close as you could get without being one. I had some good friends and knew almost everyone’s name. It was a small school. It doesn’t sound too bad in theory; the vision and hopes were beautiful, and I guess some parts of the school and that year were beautiful, too. But most of it wasn’t beautiful in any way, so I lived in my own fantasy where I knew Voldemort would die in the end. I guess I should address the elephant in the room: my brother had an unfortunate relationship with Death herself, but good always triumphs eventually, doesn’t it? There was also a moose I saw frequently. It was a guardian, maybe my own Patronus. But in any case, the darkness wouldn’t come near me when the moose was around. Sometimes if I was far enough away from the cloud surrounding my brother, I could forget and have fun with my friends. Even when my brother was near, I would ignore the cloud because everyone has some twisted relationship with Death, so it’s not really abnormal.
There were evil teachers and kind ones, as there have always been, as well as darker students and students full of light. Maybe one day there will be a war, but the tension hasn’t boiled to that point yet. Anyway, that year I tried to be a normal student, stressing about homework and teenage drama and such, while the moose and Death always stayed on the edges of my vision.
Most times I would sleep at school. I would make different excuses, but in reality I was afraid of the dark. I hated the darkness right before dawn. I hated turning on lights because they contrasted the darkness and made my bedroom feel like a small box, with a terrifyingly lonely and unjust world outside. But most of all I hated the darkness that hung around my brother; I despised Death. So I stayed at school and made it my life. I avoided Death and my brother as much as I could. Sometimes I couldn’t avoid her though. I had to watch as she pleaded with my brother to join her forever, and I watched as he tried multiple times. There were so many tears, screams, and blood. I wanted to go to school. It’s all just a dream. Somehow, the darkness got darker as the year went on. Voldemort was growing stronger, and there wasn’t time anymore to have fun and be kids. I wept when the school year finished; there were no more distractions. Leaves lay on the ground as the hauntingly bare skeletons of trees reached for warmth and light.
We would never go back to that school, for its halls were too full of memories of blood and darkness. So we came home. The moose came, too. My brother needed serious help. His relationship with Death had damaged him the most; she had manipulated his thought patterns and made them ingrained habits. I took psychology the year after because I wanted to understand his brain, my brain. I wanted to feel in control of an awful situation that had spun off of a cliff. He started getting help, but he was still in his cloud. Death still came by, and I still stayed in my Hogwarts fantasy. The moose was even in my dreams and made sleep my safest escape.
One day I confronted Death; the tension and hatred that had been boiling finally overflowed as the kettle whistled.
“Why! Why the hell are you hurting him? Can’t you see that he’s hurting? Can’t you see that he’s broken because of you!”
“I’m sorry! It’s not my fault! He wanted me to come; he pleaded with me to take him. I know he was too young, but he wanted me. He preferred my company to the pressure of school.”
So much rage filled me, I wanted to punch something.
“How can you blame all the pain on him? How can you say he wanted it?! Why couldn’t you just leave? Why couldn’t you stop him?”
“He’s believing his own lies. He created a fantasy just like you did, but it was filled with me, and he believed it.”
I was shocked by the genuine pain I saw in her eyes. It reflected my own.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, softly this time.
I felt trapped in a scream. What do you do when someone you love is hurting themselves, when they believe their own lies? There’s no one to fight. It’s all shadows and dreams.
One day, my brother began to wake up from the nightmare. The moose had dispelled some of the fog. I had asked him to help my brother instead of protecting me. I felt safe; I wasn’t afraid of Death anymore. In psychology, I learned that people can start believing something, and that thought pattern becomes a well-beaten path. It only takes around twenty-eight days for the neurons to create a new pathway in your brain while it takes around sixty-six days and hard work to let that negative pathway become overgrown and unused. My brother had held Death’s hand as he ran down his nightmarish thought pattern over and over for the past two and a half years. It would take a lot of work to create a healthy path. But once the moose broke through the mist, he could see where his feet were and begin to take shaky steps in the right direction.
I continued to have conversations with Death. We became more than acquaintances. But our relationship was not toxic like hers had been with my brother. You know how everyone has one or two friends that really shape them and change their life? Death was that friend for me. I’ve always been one to look for the best in the villain and the beauty in broken places. I finally saw the humanity and paradoxical beauty in Death; it became almost comforting to know that she would be waiting for me at the end. We danced through hallucinations of meaning and meaninglessness. She seemed to appreciate my dark humor, and we laughed at the pain. I think what we found in each other was a place to be real and raw and tender when so often we have to act numb and indifferent to the senseless suffering surrounding us.
While Death was helping my wounds heal, the moose continued to coax my brother out of his nightmare. Swirling creatures of light often surrounded him, dispelling the shadows. They looked like Patroni of beautiful souls, some of the greatest people to live. The psychological work was hard, yet he did it and walks a new path now. His scars healed, and he began to laugh again. I no longer needed to cope through my Hogwarts fantasy. The sun rose and the fever dream dissipated. I am still close friends with Death (who else will laugh at my jokes?), and I became friends with the moose. He’s not bad, pretty chill. There was finally green again, after the longest winter of my life.
Time Traveling
The alarm beeped incessantly, the diminishing space between each noise triggering my anxiety. I frantically turned off the alarm and switched my light on, cringing at the thought of another Monday. There was a knock on my door, and my dad poked his head in. “Hey, I got a call for you.”
“A call…from who? Why so early?” I moaned groggily, my voice always hoarse and deep before I socialize in the mornings.
“That’s what I thought too. Apparently they’ve been calling you since yesterday, but your phone is always on silent, and you don’t pick up anyways so they called me. ‘They’ being the Canadian Research Institute,” he said this last part in a snobby voice. “Anyways, some scientist doctor guy…Dr. Henry Wu I believe, wanted to hire you for a rare internship opportunity. He saw your application essay for the Prehistoric Anthropology summer program at that one Netherlands university.”
“Leiden University, Dad, Leiden University. How did he see my essay if he’s at the Canadian Research Institute?” I was intrigued but also skeptical. Scammers have been known to be creative on rare occasions.
“He’s not a scam if that’s what you’re wondering. He is definitely legit, and so is this opportunity. I think you should take it. Here, he left a voicemail for you with all the details and wanted me to make sure you got it.”
I was finally awake. If my dad wanted me to take an opportunity regarding anthropology or the liberal arts, then it must be really special. He didn’t usually support things that weren’t financially smart. I walked slowly into the kitchen to grab my phone and hear the message. I stood there in my oversized t-shirt, holding the phone up to my ear; my family crowded around and listened with me.
“Hi Lily. This is Dr. Henry Wu from the Canadian Research Institute. One of my colleagues at Leiden University read your essay on Prehistoric Anthropology and thought it would interest me. It turns out that I have a very special opportunity, and I believe you are a prime candidate for the job. My team found a prehistoric human in a glacier last year, and with the help of advanced technology and medical equipment, we have been able to thaw her out. Our linguistics experts have been able to give her a grasp of English. Her name is Ke-Te-Way-Ne-Ya, and her DNA shows her to be seventeen years old though she has been frozen for over 12,000 years. In light of this astounding opportunity to learn about prehistoric cultures and how the human mind works and adapts, our team has decided that the best course of action would be to immerse Ke-Te-Way-Ne-Ya in the culture of modern teenagers. We would need a responsible teenager for this to work and preferably has previous knowledge of prehistoric peoples and discernment regarding their own culture. After reading your essay, I believe that you would be perfect in this situation. We would reimburse you for your time and any inconvenience this causes. Please call me back today to further discuss this and any details I might have missed. We are willing to make this happen as soon as Wednesday, giving you two days to be briefed. Thank you and have a nice day. Bye.” I stood there in shocked silence and my brothers looked at each other in disbelief.
“Um, wow. I didn’t realize that my essay would get so far. I get to meet someone from 12,000 years ago? I mean that’s like time traveling! Oh my gosh.” My brain was moving faster than my mouth could.
“What are you waiting for? Call him back!” my mom said, “but also get ready for school, ehh might as well just call him on the way.”
I snapped out of shock and quickly got ready. Being a hybrid student, I have different classes on different days at different schools. I really just take the best of everything. It works out great. I got ready, and when I was in my car, I finally dialed the number back and pulled out of the driveway as it rang. It rang a few times before someone picked up.
“Hello, this is Henry,” a friendly voice said in a slight Canadian accent.
I swallowed nervously then responded, “Hi, Dr. Wu. This is Lily. I heard your message this morning, and I’m honestly blown away. I never expected my application essay to really lead to anything other than hopefully the summer program. Anyways um, I would love to discuss any further details.”
“Ah hi! So I’m taking it you will take this opportunity? Lovely, lovely. No, your application essay was brilliantly discerning and showed that you would be perfect for this. If Wednesday works for you, then I can call you later today and give you all the small details. But as far as logistics, what times would be good for Wednesday, and will there be any resources you will need?”
“Wow, thank you. So Wednesday…my day usually starts around 7:45 or 8:00 and then as far as classes I’m usually done at 4, but she is welcome to stay longer as I sometimes hang out with friends.”
“Ok, perfect. We will be there at 7:45 on Wednesday, and I’ll give you a call back later this afternoon to discuss it further and answer any other questions. Thank you, Lily!”
“Thanks, Dr. Wu. I’ll talk to you later. Bye!” I hung up and could not stop smiling, anyone that drove past me must have thought I looked strange, driving alone and smiling like I won the lottery. I guess I did, in a way.
I told one of my friends in class about the call and Dr. Wu.
“Dr. Wu? Like Dr. Henry Wu?” he joked.
“Yes? Why? How do you know his name?” I asked, shocked that my Lego obsessed friend knew the name of a Canadian scientist.
“Oh my gosh! His name is actually Henry Wu. That’s insane. Dr. Henry Wu is the geneticist in Jurassic Park. He creates a ton of dinosaurs and prehistoric creatures. That can’t be a coincidence.” He was giddy, high on conspiracy theories.
I rolled my eyes, too preoccupied to go into one of our typical conspiracy debates. I’ll have to fix this one later.
I floated through my day, barely registering what I did. When I got home from classes in the afternoon, I called Dr. Wu back. He gave me all the background of how they found Ket, which is what they call her, and the process of communication. He briefed me on her familiarity with modern culture at this point, and what they have been able to teach her so far. We both agreed that there is only so much you can teach someone. There is a point where certain things can only be learned through experience. After chatting for almost an hour, we felt satisfied and ready for Wednesday.
Tuesday was a nervous blur; there were a few moments when my anxiety started acting up, but I just tried to ignore the fact that the next day I would be guiding a prehistoric teenager through my life. I mean, that’s totally normal, right?
Wednesday finally came. I woke up early, showered, cleaned my room…twice, and went over my mental list of important things to do and say. Through my window, I saw an inconspicuous car pull up and a tall man came out, followed by a short teenage girl. I greeted them at the front door and introduced myself, shaking Dr. Wu’s hand before I turned to Ket.
She was short and had thick dark hair. There was something about her smile and eyes that was roguish and playful. She extended her hand as she introduced herself, “Hello, I’m Ket, and you are Lily? Nice to meet you,” she then looked questioningly at Dr. Wu, checking to see if she got it all right. He smiled and nodded. Her voice was low and soft and had a strange cadence, probably the mixture of her native language, English, and a bit of the Canadian accent thrown in.
I smiled and shook her hand, “Nice to meet you Ket.” She had a terrifyingly strong grip. Dr. Wu made sure that we were all good and was visibly keeping his excitement in check as he left.
Ket smiled after him. “He is like my father, the doctor, always so excited about the new thing,” she paused and looked at me. “So, how am I doing?”
“Actually really well. Although we will have to work on your greeting, you generally only shake adults’ hands, so we need to work on teen-to-teen greetings.”
“Ok, show…Sorry. Can you show me?” she said, haltingly and smooth at the same time.
“Yeah, so if someone is far away you can nod, or throw the peace sign,” I demonstrated.
“Throw the peace sign?” Ket repeated, confused. “Like you throw peace at someone?”
I laughed, “Yeah I guess so, it’s like an acknowledgment. Um you can also dab someone up. It’s like a handshake but more casual and smooth.” I grabbed her hands to show her, and she tried until I had given my approval. “And if you know someone really well, you can hug them…”
“Oh, this is a hug, right?” she said as she full on bear-hugged me and almost sent me to the ER for a broken rib.
“Yep you got that down for sure,” I wheezed.
“Ok, I know how to greet people. What is next?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, my first class today isn’t until 10, so I thought we could go get breakfast, and then drive around. Does that sound ok?”
“Yeah, especially breakfast.”
“Ok great! I’m driving, because I’m assuming you can’t haha,” I said lightly, and then grabbed her hand and pulled her out to my car. “Do you have any music you like to listen to?” I asked as I turned the car on and connected my phone to it.
“Dr. Wu made me listen to Mongolian throat singing to see if it sounded familiar to my people’s music, it sort of did, but then I just ended up liking it. I also like music with harps or flutes, they sound like the wind over glaciers.”
“Um, ok. Well I can say that I don’t generally listen to any of those. We’re gonna listen to the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack because that’s just a classic. I also made a list of music and artists for you to listen to because they are just a part of my generation’s language and culture.” I handed her a good sized list that included all the cringey classics, the Disney hits, Taylor Swift, One Direction, and many, many more. I had also added a few just good ones that I think everyone should listen to for their basic education in life and music.
“I put movies and shows on the backside for you to watch whenever you want,” I added, and she turned the paper over to see the equally long list on the other side.
“You were really prepared, how long did you have to get ready?” Ket asked incredulously.
“Two whole days,” I said with a nervous laugh, “being a professional procrastinator has made me very gifted in getting a lot done in a short amount of time. I also made you a Google Doc with hyperlinks to memes and vines and explanations, as well as just random terms and slang we use.”
We pulled up to the breakfast place, Kerbey Lane Cafe; I had decided to splurge in the event of hosting a prehistoric teenager. We both ordered a short stack and Ket’s eyes widened as she dug in. Even though she had been taught how to eat with a fork and knife from her year at the Research Institute, something about those pancakes made her eat a little more barbaric. It was understandable: they were basically dessert.
After we had both cleaned our plates, Ket grinned mischievously at me and said, “Show me how you are supposed to…ah what is the word…tease, court?”
“You mean flirt?” I laughed, “Oh I don’t flirt, I just awkwardly bumble around for a couple of years and be friends, basically siblings, and hope they end up liking me too.”
“That sounds unsuccessful,” Ket said.
“Tell me about it. But I can definitely fake flirting; I just don’t do it with anyone I actually like.”
“Ok then flirt with him. Just show me how one would maybe do it. It is an annoyingly large part of being a young person, and I should know how to do it here.” Ket pointed at our waiter, and I spent a couple minutes thinking of a good pick-up line. When he came for the bill, Ket winked at me. For context, he had taken my number so that the kitchen could text me when it was ready.
“Hey, I just think it’s an injustice,” I said to him as he was taking my bill.
“I’m sorry?” He was kind of flustered; he probably thought I was gonna give him a hard time about the bill.
“It’s an injustice that you have my number and I don’t have yours,” I said, quite smooth and natural for a faker, and smiled at him.
He chuckled and declared my pick-up line to be the best he’s heard at that job, then wrote his number on the back of my receipt. I winked at Ket.
When we got back into the car, Ket remarked that it seemed as though if one wanted to flirt, or really begin any type of relationship, numbers and phones were needed. I was caught off guard by her observation. I hadn’t realized she was so discerning, and it was strange hearing the perspective of someone from a completely different time about things that I take for granted.
“Yeah life really revolves around our phones and technology. It’s kind of sad how much relationship building goes on over text messages.”
“Where I’m from, I would get to know people by hunting with them, eating with them, and just living with them. Everything feels more isolated here, it’s strange.”
We drove around for a little bit. I pointed out stores and restaurants and explained them. Ket asked me about every bumper sticker we passed, so then we ended up talking politics, in which I gave her the rundown of our government and political system. We also talked about religion and beliefs and science and objective versus subjective truth. It was possibly the most interesting conversation I have ever had and probably ever will.
Then it was time for class, I had one co-op class in the morning and one community college class in the afternoon. We walked in and sat in the back after I introduced Ket to my teacher and a few friends. The class was Medieval Humanities, and today we were talking about male and female roles in King Arthur’s court. Ket listened, intrigued the whole time, as I doodled and drew on myself. After class we grabbed some lunch and headed over to the community college.
“What are male and female roles now?” Ket asked me on the way.
“Well, there’s a lot about the male initiating interactions and looking out for women, as they are more vulnerable, but there’s also still a lot of stereotypes regarding men and women and their interactions. Feminism has broken some of the gaps down, and now male and female is a range.”
“A range? What does this mean?” Ket asked, clearly confused.
“So basically you are born with your biological gender depending on your chromosomes and genitals, but your essence is no longer defined by your body. Someone could look like a girl but have he/him pronouns. Someone could be nonbinary; there are really so many possibilities at this point, which honestly is not helping the identity crisis that all teenagers experience because now we have to question a whole other layer of our being. Oh and sexual attraction. It’s too much for me to follow sometimes, so I guess it’s something to learn, you and I both,” I said.
Ket was closing her eyes, clearly concentrating to comprehend and absorb everything I just said.
“It’s so confusing,” she whispered softly.
I smiled sadly and nodded, trying to pull my overwhelming depression and anxiety together as we pulled into the parking lot of the community college. We walked inside to the elevators, and Ket looked at the closed door in confusion.
“Why are we waiting in front of a wall?” she asked.
“Just wait for it…” I pointed at the button right as it lit up and dinged and the elevator doors slid open.
Ket gaped as she looked in, “A room is hiding in the wall, and you control the door by pointing at it?”
I laughed and told her to hold on. The elevator shot up, and Ket stumbled backwards in shock and off balance. I caught her and held her steady until we reached the third floor and the doors opened again. I had to push her out because the elevator had thrown off her legs’ coordination.
“That is magic, or some witchcraft. You point at a wall, and it opens into a room that flies, and then the wall opens again and you are somewhere else. Our world is strange, so very strange,” Ket gasped.
We walked into class, and I quietly filled the teacher in before we sat in the back, again. This was an English class, but most of our in class activities were discussing and debating current events and issues. Some kids were already going off about Marxism and Socialism in the front of the room. There was one girl that you could always rely on to bring up global warming, and all the emo kids usually talked about depression and suicide. That honestly sums up teenagers.
I pointed out each group and person to Ket and described what they were talking about and why it mattered to them and to the public in general. The Marxism concepts were a little hard for her to understand. She had a special place in her attention for global warming because without it she would still be a female Captain America, frozen in ice. Ket was also interested in the emo kids; she wanted to know what depression was.
“Ha, can I tell you about depression! I am what some might call an expert in this field. Basically, being a teenager nowadays kind of sucks; life is too slow and fast, our world is caught up in division and is falling apart, we are increasingly isolated thanks to our phones, and it’s all so exhausting. We’re all gonna die anyway so might as well have an aesthetic social media. Kids get tired, and sad, and stuck, and then they decide they want to stop living. All the kids are depressed because there’s too many monsters in our heads.”
“I don’t know what to say, that is so sad. If Dr. Wu had taught me how to curse I would, but I only ever heard him scream ‘duck’ when he got mad.”
I laughed, “How about you stick with ‘holy crap’ for now, I can’t be that bad of an influence on you.”
Ket smiled. Then her countenance became serious and she grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes. “I am sorry, that life is heavy. Things become heavy when you carry them alone, but when others share the weight, it is not as bad, no? You are strong, your generation has a strange courage and mindset about life, but you all have guts. You will be ok.”
“Frick, I did not expect to be getting life advice from a prehistoric teen,” I laughed, like someone who is about to fall apart.
She looked down at our hands, “How long is this class?”
I laughed nervously, “Um, an hour and a half, why?”
“Actually that was a dumb question, I still don’t understand your measuring of time,” she grinned, and the rest of class went by in a blur. I think I was a part of some debate and I vaguely remember Ket starting a drumroll to hype me up, which then just turned into some strange drum beat. The rest of the day sped by. We had some weird conversations and the amount of time I second-guessed my culture and everything I knew was more than I care to say. I bought us ice cream, and I let Ket drive my car in a parking lot for a little bit…we almost died.
Anyways, it was fun, and I was more sad than I thought I would be when I said goodbye and watched Ket and Dr. Wu drive away. Time traveling always makes you sad, because you end up missing something you can never have.
Fuck.
Immortalized
When I had painted her irises I had struggled to capture the light of the stars reflected in their depths. The strokes visible on the canvas interrupted the emotions I tried so hard to convey, their streaks ruining the softness of her eyes that I’d engraved into my mind on that day. My paintbrush held aloft, I’d stared at her features.
Every line was constructed so perfectly, the curve of her cheeks, the flourish of her lashes and brows, the wide grin upon her lips, her face tilted upwards, cradled by the arms of the moonlight. Such meticulous detail which I’d remembered, and yet she didn’t look alive. That little glimmer of starlight and life within her eyes was missing, and I couldn’t place it quite right. I never did find a way that could show that shine as beautifully as my heart remembered it so.
Mother had been looking up at the sky on a warm summer’s night, sitting among a field of tall grasses, enveloped by the thrum of grasshopper’s songs, and the rampant wind running through her brown tresses. Here in the realm of my memories and dreams, I could see her expression as I’d never had the ability to capture with paint.
Here in my memories, she was still alive and her heart beating, her lungs breathing, her laugh still resonating in my ears.
Although she was gone from the Earth, she was immortalized on the canvas which now resided on a museum wall. I didn’t want her to be here, but they kept insisting that I should let her smile upon others too. They said it would help me heal. But here she was alone and surrounded by unfamiliar gazes that would see an imperfect version of her for years. I’d let them take her into their collection after their relentless pestering. I still don’t know why I ever said yes.
And now here I stand alone looking into her eyes in an empty edifice. Her overhead light is the only one on in this wing, as it is after hours and I’ve been gifted a key to come visit her whenever I want to look upon her. Below her frame I see a plaque with my name Josephine engraved on it, next to it read “In loving memory of-”, but I look back up.
I let myself linger on her hair for a while longer before my curiosity of the other arts in the wing drove me away.
Directly to the right of Mother, I see a lengthy painting with what seems to be ravenous piranhas chasing after hastily swimming human skeletons, a trail of human bones left behind swirling in the current. The blood in the water and their devilish eyes send a shiver through me, and I switch my focus to land on the plaque instead. A sudden flick of a fin brings my vision back to the lower corner of the canvas, where a piranha previously stalking its victim is now hungrily eyeing me. A prick of uneasiness trickles down my being and I dismiss any beliefs at having seen a moving canvas.
I step away from the large frame and come to a rather imposing art of flowers. Except they aren’t flowers. The center of the flowers themselves were eyeballs, all of different hues staring down at the observer, and the petals were sets of thick, thick eyelashes. The stems were red, veiny nerves, reaching down and joining into one center nerve which grew from a skull’s empty eye socket. I look back up and find an iris the same color as my mother’s, yet even more devoid of life, and move away.
My sights are then set upon a monolith of pure white marble set upon a pedestal just as regal. A horse is sculpted with monumental muscles capable of killing in a single strike. The majestic creature rears, front hooves raised upwards towards the ceiling, muzzle open in a silent call. With the light turned off, its hooded eyes are dark and menacing. The hair in its mane and tail curls beautifully, frozen in flight. It must weigh an unthinkable amount.
Lastly in the wing is an empty frame, a beautifully engraved frame in fact but entirely devoid of any art. It was just the simple layer of empty white cloth within and nothing more. Could this be an attempt at modern art? I find that the sign above the frame has no name, and so I walk to the next work and find her vacant eyes again. I hadn’t realized I had circled back around to dear Mother.
I talk to her about the new boy across the street and how I like to look at his long hair in the breeze when he rides his motorcycle along the street. I tell her about her flowers and how they’ve been blooming anew after the arrival of spring, how the thunderstorms have been nourishing them, and the sun feeding them. I act out how I spilled coffee all across my floor after I tripped over a pile of invisible clothes last night. My spring dress flits all about me as I move here and there vividly re-enacting past moments. My voice echoes all across the space of tall stone pillars and marble flooring, rising and lowering with the stories I tell. She listens and listens and I know she’ll never reply, but I can’t help but hope that maybe one day she will. Even though I couldn’t get her eyes to look as incandescent as I remembered them, I perfected her smile, and I can pretend that perhaps it’s directed at me. I quieten down, and I take small steps back to her and gaze at her once again. Those eyes still don’t fit. I close my own to picture her face perfectly and tell her I miss her, and that I’ll love her eternally, all with a wavering voice I wish I could strengthen.
“Oh, my darling…I love you more than your heart could ever imagine..”
My eyes startle open yet I can’t see, my heart jolts in my chest, my lungs halt mid-breath. I’m utterly petrified. Her voice- I had just heard her voice. I haven’t heard it since that last summer night underneath the wide expanse of dazzling shooting stars. But she was gone to another world! How did I just hear her? Am I hallucinating or did her painting just speak?
“Why so quiet my dear? Have I not granted a wish by speaking to you once more?”
In the low light, I try to gain back my bearings and tell myself she’s right. She’s really here and I’m wasting the few moments of time I have left with her. I steadily will breaths back into my lungs, I slowly readjust my eyes to see again and tilt my head upwards and away from my chest. My hands struggle to still as my vision rises. An ivory-colored wall, a golden frame engraved with cherry blossoms, vibrant leaves, and baby birds. Up to the beginnings of a white dress rendered blue under the midnight sky, rising and falling with breath, up to an embroidered neckline shrouded with mahogany locks swaying in wind that wasn’t there. Upwards to a pointed chin and rounded cheeks, to rosy lips slightly open with the remnants of speech, to an upturned nose. And then to bristling lashes, whites of eyes, and pupils staring right back down into mine. A strange glint present in them, yet present nonetheless. I drowned in the light I had tried so desperately to paint, the sparkle now perfectly represented. I could believe a soul rested behind those eyes. This was Mother. She looked… alive. She looked as I saw her in the domain of my memories, dreams, and deepest desires.
She blinks.
I blink too.
All composure leaves me at once.
I crumple to the floor, knees hitting the marble roughly. I keep contact with her gleaming eyes, the only thing keeping me from screaming out loud in pure grief and sorrow. Tears upon tears fall from my eyes, piling onto the yellow tint of my dress and the skin of my palm. My cries stutter repeatedly, and I gasp and struggle for breath. Still ceaselessly looking into her eyes, I see her stare down at me with pity, and something else lingering behind those eyes.
“Josephine? Please rise and speak with Mother dear”, she calls.
At her voice I slowly rose back to a wobbly stand, and strode up to her, reaching a hand forwards to dare and touch her. I wept more heavily seeing her eyes trace over my face as if seeing me for the first time in months, which I suppose it had been. Upon seeing my face I noticed her smile lift at one end, near to a smirk, and her eyes gleam brightly in what seemed to be admiration of me.
“My, you truly are your mother’s daughter! My little girl has grown to be such a beautiful young woman! I nearly mistook you for a portrait, my darling”, she exclaimed.
I could only look at her with love in my eyes, I hadn’t had someone compliment me or call me such endearing names ever since she had left me.
“Mother I, I truly don’t understand but, I- I’m so unbelievably glad to hear you again”, I croaked out tearily. It truly was her, those eyes, the voice, her endearments, they were all completely her.
“Josephine, love, it must have been the work of God to be given the chance to see you again”, she softly says.
“Yes Mother it must be, I can scarcely believe my eyes at this moment. I never dreamt that I’d hear you speak again.” I gained more composure as we slipped into familiar conversation, I wiped my tears away and my chest began to calm.
It was odd, the way she moved in her painting. I could see the brush strokes swaying and slithering across the canvas like snakes at every movement. When her hair danced in the wind I saw the paint traveling all around to form her hair. The way her gown’s neckline fluttered in the air disrupted the paint at her neck, sending it running upwards in ripples. Even the stars themselves were twinkling and winking down at me, moving as if in a stop motion film. The piece as a whole had come to life to accurately depict her in that starlit field.
“Yes, yes dear. Now, tell me whatever you desire, we’re short on time after all.”
“Oh! Of course, well I-, um I’ve been thinking about whether or not I should cut my hair? I’ve had it long for such a while and I’d love to have it at the shoulder. I’ve desperately needed a mother’s advice in areas like this”, I gratefully exclaimed, beyond happy at being able to ask a small question of my mother as every child should.
“Absolutely not child. Long hair suits women best, Josephine. I will not have my daughter ruining such fair hair to make a change”, she stiffly said.
My thoughts spluttered. She had never spoken to me in such a way, I’d only ever been treated with calm responses even when asking the dumbest of questions. I deeply looked into her eyes only to see an unfamiliar gleam lying there. A fit of anger I’d never seen before, crossed her brow, narrowing them dangerously, mouth posed in a grimace. The wind blew even stronger with her anger, hair flying, oaks and grasses moving erratically with the breeze. The peaceful hum of the grasshoppers gone. This wasn’t the face of my mother. This wasn’t my mother. Perhaps I should have asked more questions when a painting started speaking to me. I was hurt beyond belief by her words and distrust started growing in my gut, but I continued my speech with her. I could have been wrong.
“I apologize, my thoughts just got carried away there Mother! I promise I won’t ask to have it cut again”, I said, waiting out her reaction.
“Idiot girl! No apology can suffice for such a question! You’d ruin your life, your beauty gone! I didn’t raise you to become just as hideous as any other girl on the street! You are not a man. You are art, my dear! To damage yourself so, is to tarnish the museum’s reputation!” she shrieked.
Her voice rose to dangerous levels, the floor beneath my feet rumbled with the mere volume of her screams and I found myself inching backward and away from her frame. Covering my ears, my own screams went unheard beneath her unshakeable anger. The vibrations born from her yell streamed through walls, pillars, and floors, shaking the building with a supernatural force to the point the building was audibly groaning. A strange wind appeared in the air, whirling my tresses all about my face, every yell of hers heightening the power of the draft. Gale and rumbling combined, the marble monolith and paintings began to shiver in their places, clacking against the walls. Yet her painting stayed remarkably still, immune to the forces racking the wing.
Above the whistling of the wind invading my ears, above the magnitude of her continued screams, I stared her right in the eyes with renewed confidence born from this betrayal and let out a yell of my own.
“What does the museum’s reputation have to do with my appearance!”
“What does the museum’s reputation have to do with your appearance? It means everything! You will fit beautifully on these walls! You shall let others smile upon your beauty!” she roared. Her eyes left my complexion for the first time only to greedily land somewhere behind me, I swiftly turned around to see the empty canvas framed on the wall. I felt my heart drop to my stomach.
Out of nowhere, I felt chilling stares on me, from all across the room. The rattling of the paintings attracted my attention. I turned back around to see every single piranha abandoning the skeletons to lay their sights on me, their teeth bit in my direction, their glowing red eyes fixed onto my flesh. Their relentless attack at the invisible wall separating them from reality was working, water started to pour out from the portrait and onto the marble floors. The carnivores spilled out and plunged into the never-ending stream of black water towards me. The skeletons didn’t have eyes, yet I could feel something watching me through their deep black orifices. One who had lost its skull in the piranha chase was positioned towards the work of the lone skull with the bouquet of eyes growing out of its socket. They emerged from the layer of paint they were trapped in, grabbing onto the frame for support, and clacked their way to me. The headless one didn’t, it limped towards the flowers.
The eyes of the flowers glared at me, their pupils had become large and heavy, all attention fixed on me. Their lashes rustled in the gale and yet they unflinchingly stalked my increasingly terrified expression with an unabated glee. The skeleton reached them and stuck his bony fingers into the oil painting, clenched the skull, lifted it out, and placed it onto his vertebrae with a click. It reached upwards to rip an eye flower from its veiny stem and stashed it harshly into its opposite eye socket. The eye flowers all simultaneously spun when the sole one did, and then fixed their focus on me once more. The skeleton and its many eyes gazed at me and continued its trek. I traipse backward, closer to the empty canvas.
A whinny interrupts the unfathomable noise in the room. My steps falter when I see a beast of great white marble inching down from its pedestal, eyes glowing with red embers I can feel burning me from within. Eyes reflecting in the dark water at its feet, hair majestically flipping and undulating in the hurricane. Hooves hitting the floor with a clunk, I see it rearing back, preparing its muscles, contracting its hind legs to charge directly into me and strike me down.
I have nowhere to go. I’m completely and utterly cornered. The empty canvas is at my back and the creatures before me are piercing their glares into my soul. I see their desire to push me into the canvas in their scarlet irises. I’m shaking, hunched over, and clinging onto the lone frame, the endless pouring water has reached my waist and I start to feel the excruciating gnaws of the piranhas. Endlessly famished, the swarm of them push my legs back into the canvas and pin them in place as their jaws continuously bite. I scream and yet you can’t hear a thing. The skeletons are wading in the red waves just behind them. The one with eyes lifts its pearly white arms and holds my arms against the canvas, placing them in a pose reaching up towards the sky. Each individual finger is held aloft by its flower’s stems, curling around my fingers and forcing them to look dainty and aloft in flight.
I wonder whether my tears have added to the growing ocean reaching my chest now. I keep fighting and pushing, trying to rip the eyes off of their stems, to kick at the scaly monsters with legs that can barely move anymore. I get ready for one last kick when I feel a particularly deadly gaze staring me down from above. Its marble eyes reflect my appearance, and I see what has become of me. Tears mixed with a horrible grimace, hair wet, dress torn to shreds, eyebrows turned upwards in a silent cry for help. I falter at seeing the great horse and the steam emerging from its wide nostrils. I fall limp and cease all movement. It rears once more and rams my head into the canvas.
What’s left of my eardrums hears screams and laughter, among them I hear, “Yes! Pin her down! Keep her pose ethereal! Don’t let her move, that’s the pose I need! That beautiful face is all I awoke for!”
My back starts to lose feeling as it merges with the world inside the canvas, I watch as my legs cross the border of canvas and turn to paint, watch as they cross nicely on a stone bench that wasn’t there before. I let out shrieks as my hands are pushed with immeasurable force into the white cloth, and as I see them disappearing down under the surface, now grasping a branch of green lush grapes hanging down from vines. My chest feels heavy, I feel hooves pressing down with all their weight, surely leaving marks as I feel my back give way into the other world. My dress is repaired and vibrant in the portrait, flowing nicely over my legs and stockings. My hair is pushed lock by lock, down into the painting by the skeleton’s fingers, turning a beautiful auburn laced with golden sunlight. The side of my face is crushed onto the portrait. I give one last scream, the loudest I can muster as I lose vision in one eye, and watch it turn into a beautiful emerald littered with honey. My wretched scream is cut short as my freckled nose is painted by invisible hands, no longer able to breathe. I feel my opposite cheek drown in the canvas, and then my remaining eye, along with my mouth still open in a soundless scream. Right before the rest of my head is lost to the world of paint, I feel thin fingers rearranging my scream into a gentle smile, feel two pokes that give me dimples, and hands smoothing out the tension in my forehead and brows.
They can’t fix the fear in my eyes, I think, as the remaining part of me is forced inwards. I know I look beautiful, just as she does, but the life in my eyes is missing just as hers always will be. I look up at the empty golden plaque just as I’m losing consciousness. It says, Josephine. Immortalized, I think as I turn to paint.
Black Keys
An ecstatic crowd clapped continuously, for they had just experienced an incredible performance by a mere 10 year old boy. The final notes still reverberated off the walls of the enormous concert hall, and the boy’s fingers still hung in the air. Slowly, he moved his hands to wipe the sweat off his brow, taking careful consideration to not set his gaze on the audience to his right. He sat for a moment, in front of a jet-black grand piano, taking shallow breaths after a stressful performance. The crowd’s applause slowly died down, but the aura of admiration could still be felt throughout the hall. To the crowd, it was rare to see a 10 year old boy put on a performance on the level of a professional, much less while wearing a solid black suit with a white buttoned-up tuxedo shirt underneath. Everyone was happy to simply witness such a once in a lifetime event, with countless smiles rising upon the faces of every person in the room. All except for the lone performer, who slowly rose from his chair and walked off the stage. He could only feel hollow after such a performance, for he was trapped in a ruthless world that seemed to exist solely to limit his freedom of expression.
-Two weeks before the performance-
Alexander was not a normal child. He often described himself as a “pale, frail, male”, as he was relatively thin, with skin that reflected light like a full moon. His curly, black hair sprawled onto his shoulders, with his face having just enough definition to where you could not see the shape of the skull beneath his skin. His arms were as thin as sticks, with his hands and fingers being long, dangly needles. While as thin as he was, he didn’t lack the strength to strike the keys of his keyboard in order to produce a strong, clear sound. He was also smart enough, and socially aware enough, to realize that he was seen as strange by other children his age, so he preferred to stay inside his house and play music.
As he sat anywhere in his house, he would periodically fiddle with his keyboard, practicing the music he was going to play for his big upcoming performance. He preferred playing his keyboard over playing on a regular grand piano as he felt the keyboard allowed him a bit more freedom in terms of sound. One of the biggest goals he wanted to work towards with his music was to create a song which could properly express his emotions, mainly capturing the feeling of inadequacy he felt on a nearly daily basis. But for now, he was stuck working on the same song over and over again, Clair de Lune by Debussy. In his opinion, while it was a beautiful song to listen to and play, it was the fact that it had been played countless times over the many decades since it was written. All, if not most, classical pieces were played constantly over and over by a variety of different musicians across the world, and Alexander wanted to create something new for the classical musical audience to enjoy.
As time went on, less and less people seemed to enjoy the wonders of classical music, and would move on to listen to modern pop or rock. Slowly, the stability of being able to play classical music for a living reached an all time low, and Alexander believed that if he created new music, perhaps even more beautiful than the classical pieces of the past, then maybe people would be interested in supporting classical music again. But of course, this was merely seen as a hopeless endeavor by many currently famous classical musicians, so Alexander mainly kept this dream to himself as to not lose out hope, as the 10 year old believed that they just simply didn’t have enough faith in their music in order for things to work out. This was America, where it seemed like any crazy idea could work so long as you were passionate enough.
“Practicing again, hmmm?” his mother asked while walking up behind him.
His mother was a standard American beauty, with long golden hair and a fairly thin frame. She was always in a dress or skirt, showing off her long legs for her relatively average stature. She continued her commentary while Alexander still practiced various chords on the piano.
“It’s great to see you so passionate about something. But, to be honest, I get kind of lonely when both you and your father get this way.”
Her eyes slowly shifted towards the wall, in the direction of another room. Her arms ever so slightly pushed into her torso, with her entire body slowly fidgeting. Even as a 10 year old, Alexander understood the emotions felt by his mother, as he had come to know the way his father worked very well. So he decided to set aside his keyboard for now and spend time with his mom, slowly standing up while he talked to her.
“I’ll spend time with you mom, you know how dad is. He probably won’t be out for at least another hour.”
A look of sadness washed over her for a split second, before a bright smile and radiant aura washed over her face.
“Yes, we’ll do something fun together to pass the time!” She happily exclaimed while clapping her hands together.
An hour later, both Alexander and his mom were sitting in front of a stack of newspapers spread out across their kitchen table, cutting out every kind of coupon they could find. While most coupons were digital nowadays, there were still some hidden among the articles of local newspapers. Alexander’s mother worked for the local grocery store, so she had pretty much free reign to grab all of the newspapers she wanted, but it didn’t really matter as the physical newspaper business was dying off faster than the classical music industry. Since Alexander’s father wasn’t making a whole lot of money through his work, Alexander would often work with his mother in order to find various ways to save money around the house, eventually becoming so routine that it was seen as a way of having fun. As both Alexander and his mother sat silently at the table, his mother spoke up, clearly bored of the silence.
“How is the music for the performance coming along?” She asked.
“Good.” Alexander replied
His mother puffed her cheeks and narrowed her eyes, pouting at the fact that she had gotten such a simplistic response. She decided to badger Alexander with various indirect comments in order to grab his attention.
“Humph. You’d think a house full of musicians wouldn’t be so quiet.” She commented. After darting her eyes toward her son. The only response she received was the scream of the thin newspaper as Alexander made clean, precise cuts using his tiny kid safety scissors.
“You know, this makes a good lesson to learn Alex, that passion doesn’t pay the bills. We might be doing alright, but I believe that is only because I have sacrificed my dreams in order to chase stability for my family.” She boldly proclaimed, slowly rising as she held her hand close to her chest, as if she were saluting herself. Alexander knew she was right, so he had no room to argue, but he finally spoke up to give his opinions.
“Sure it doesn’t do much in terms of money, but music fulfills me. I wouldn’t be happy if I was unable to make music. Since music is my dream, does that mean you giving up on your dreams means that you are unhappy with your life?” Alexander replied, slowly setting down his scissors and rising from his seat. His mother stood, shocked at his claim of basic logic and reasoning.
“Of course I am happy with my life.” She said with a sincere smile and a hint of regret in her eyes. “I love you and your father, even if he is a bit distant. He cares for both of us, even if he gets carried away with his work. But I believe that all the time he puts into his music is for our sake, trying to show the world that he is capable of succeeding with his passion for music.”
“In reflecting upon her own life, she started to justify the actions of my father. Is this how married people act?” Alexander thought. Just when he was about to leave the room to go back to his keyboard and practice, Alexander heard loud booming footsteps smacking against a hard wooden floor. His whole body tensed up as he slowly looked towards the doorway of the distant kitchen. It was none other than his father, a rare sight to behold. He is just over six feet tall, allowing him to tower over both Alexander and his mother, though his frame was still thin. He always looked like a cross between tired and severely ill, with his skin seemingly plastered to his bones, and his black hair in a constant scraggly mess. He was dressed in a long overcoat and hard soled shoes, which to Alexander was very confusing since he almost never left the house. His small, beady eyes quickly scanned the room, falling upon Alexander himself.
“So, are you done practicing for today?” His father asked in a deep, raspy voice.
“No, I was just about to go back to my keyboard after helping mom.” Alexander replied.
“Good.” His father replied
Alexander quickly hustled out of the room to get back to practicing for his performance. One week later, Alexander had started to master his song for the performance, as well as nearly completing his own first original piece of music. Alexander wanted to write music that strayed from the old classical pieces of music, and he felt that his new song, which to him seemed like a sort of jazz-like piece, inspired by the recent wave in new age jazz in the 21st century. Alexander felt confident about his work, but knew that his father wouldn’t necessarily approve of it, so he practiced his new piece in secret. Not even his mother knew about this music which Alexander had written. As Alexander practiced his classical piece in the living of the house, gently swaying to the music in order to get a sense of the emotions rushing through it, a long, dark shadow blocked the light in front of Alexander. There stood his father, with an imposing, menacing aura about him. He stared at Alexander for a few seconds, as if seriously considering his next words very carefully for his son.
“It sounds good, good enough to be ready for the piano.” His father commented.
“I think I would like to stick with my keyboard for the performance, I am more used to the feeling of it.” Alexander replied.
His father’s expression instantly soured, and although he had already made the mistake of showing his disgust through his face, he made sure that both his words and tone of voice did not contain any malice, as he believed Alexander would be too young to catch onto his true feelings. He instead tried to explain the situation in a very simple manner in order to change his son’s mind.
“This is a very important performance, a lot of music publishers searching for new talent will be there, so it would be best if you put on a distinguished performance, as not only your music, but your looks convey certain expectations to the audience.” He explained.
Alexander thought for a moment, and decided to respond with his true feelings on the situation.
“I know this is a very important performance, which is why I want to feel as true to myself as I possibly can. I believe that if I can show my creativity to everyone in the audience through the beauty of music, then they will surely see I am a great musician regardless of what I look like or what I play that music on.” Alexander stated. He looked up at his father, but could not see his thin face. Only a dark shadow and the reflection of the pitiful light on both of his eyes could be seen out of his entire face.
“Blind optimism can only go so far.” His father stated, before exiting the room. His tone of voice was cold, completely devoid of any emotion which perhaps reflected his rage.
“How could he be so serious about music? It only matters to me so much because of my love for it, but he seems trapped by his own feelings for music” Alexander thought. He truly did care for music, but he seemed lost recently. Alexander believed that his father wanted him to be more like he was, and fit in with the rest of the world, struggling alongside all of the other classical musicians. Alexander looked down at his keyboard.
“In that sense, father is like the white keys on the piano, perfectly aligning with one another and always creating a stable sound, but not being able to explore the possibilities of music.” Alexander whispered to himself. With that logic, Alexander associated himself more with the black keys on the piano. Though they were unstable, separate, and didn’t fit in both sound and physical shape, when combined with the sounds of the white keys, they could create endless possibilities for the future of music. With that in mind, Alexander continued to work on both of his pieces of music, in hopes to impress everyone at the big performance next week, and make his father believe that you can be successful with new, experimental music.
The day of the performance had finally arrived, and Alexander stood ready behind the curtain of a stage. Through the curtain, Alexander saw a grand piano set neatly on the stage, no doubt arranged by his father. It was long, sleek, and jet-black, with a large black cushioned seat positioned in front of the keys. The piano was set on a freshly polished, wooden floor stage, which was showered with overhead lights coming from the opposite side of the performance hall. The hall itself was vast, with two floors of audience seating. Every single seat was filled with people anticipating the big performance, with most being company representatives and such for various music publishing companies and various other fields. Alexander thought this was odd, since he was the only one performing at this concert.
“Isn’t it astounding, I called in more than a few favors for this performance.”
The words uttered by his father’s deep, cold voice sent shivers down Alexander’s spine. Alexander suddenly felt nervous as he was reminded of the faith his father had put in him for this performance. Would his father be upset with his decision to play his own music at this performance? Alexander let that nervousness seep into his expression.
“Come now, there is no need to be nervous, play your peace for these important men and women, and show that you are very talented. Show them that the way you play your music is brimming with emotion and unrivaled passion, and may it bring a new wave of listeners to the classical genre.”
“Play my piece? Brimming with Emotion?” Alexander thought. While he couldn’t understand entirely what his father meant, getting the unnerving feeling that he misheard him, Alexander knew this was the time he needed to show not only this audience, but his own father the path forward. Alexander looked over the entire audience and had a single thought in his mind, “Maybe I can make him understand that we must push for a new era, by pouring my heart and soul into performing my own song”.
He turned around to take one last look at his father, but his father had disappeared while Alexander was deep in thought. However, this did not make Alexander sad as he felt he could now focus on the future, as within the next hour, he knew he would be able to change his life, and maybe even the world forever. He walked out from behind the curtain on the side of the stage, and made his way towards the grand piano, with the sea of audience members to his right. Alexander took one last glance at the audience, and noticed his mother sitting in the front row right in front of the stage. She was in a tight red dress, and had a huge smile on her face. Alexander faced forward, trying to keep a straight face as he got closer and closer to the piano. Finally, he sat down on the cushioned seat in front of the piano, with the seat gently creaking underneath him, like the weight of expectations had made him feel heavier.
The audience was completely silent, waiting for the song to be played, and Alexander started to drip with sweat. If he played his new song, would anyone actually enjoy it? In front of a crowd of important people, and his father, he couldn’t bring himself to start the chords to his new song. Under the stress, his hands started to move on their own, in the practiced motion of his Clair de Lune piano solo. His heart did not want to play the song, but his body was forced into the movements under the pressure, and slowly but surely, he started the first notes of the song.
For the next 5 minutes, the soft piano sounds slowly drifted throughout the entire performance hall. The piano almost seemed to be playing itself, with Alexander simply along for the ride. It only felt this way because only half of his mind was focused on the music, and the other half only thought about how he needed to change the song. But no matter what he tried, he could not stop his hands. He kept moving, notes kept playing, strings kept vibrating. At a certain point, Alexander’s mind had gone completely blank. No longer could he even feel his own body, as one by one, the keys, the air, the clothes on his back, seemed to disappear. It was as though he had lost his sense of touch, then his sense of sight, his taste, his smell, and finally, his hearing. But he could still feel the music, reverberating throughout his entire body, haunting him. No longer were the notes simple plucks or twangs, but now almost felt like they were taking a physical shape, and looking down upon him. After what felt like a century, the song finally came to a close with Alexander’s right index finger sleeping on the final note. With the conclusion of the song, his senses finally came back to him, and what assaulted his entire being was a wave of applause from the audience. He did not feel like he deserved the praise, as he had not poured any emotion into the song, but he still stood up as if on command, and bowed. In the very back of the auditorium, on the first floor near the exit, he saw his father propped against the wall, slowly clapping his hands.
“That’s right, this should be for him.” Alexander thought. As he glanced around, he noticed some audience members already getting up to leave, and Alexander decided it was now or never.
“H- Hold on everyone, wait!” Alexander shouted to the crowd. With all the strength he could muster, he yelled out, “I have one final song to play, if you’re willing to listen!”
Across the crowd, confused looks were shot towards one another. Not a single person in the audience had expected this, not even Alexander’s father, who stood eerily silent in the back at this sudden news. Alexander then sat down as quickly as he could in order to start the song.
This time, instead of the music taking over him, Alexander took over the music. Every chord and melody he played were all very simplistic major chords and scale movements, but Alexander filled each note with love and care by striking the keys in rapid succession, with just enough pressure to allow each note to flow throughout the entire hall, but not so rough as to create a clear disconnect between notes. The song flowed so beautifully, that by the time it had ended, the audience simply sat in silence for a full minute, completely enchanted by the sound. For a moment, Alexander had thought he had messed everything up by playing the song at all, until…
“Kid, I’ll give you a full time contract and thousands of dollars, if I could have the honor of representing your music!”
“I can offer you your own studio apartment!”
One by one, Alexander was offered publishing deals for his music, and could not be happier. His father was nowhere to be
seen.
