Coven

Snap.

Their bare feet have hardened like leather from seasons of traversing the forest. Another dry twig breaks underneath a carpet of burnt citrus leaves.

“Quiet!”

The muffled crunch of their walk continues, with more attention paid to buried tree limbs. They are unavoidable, almost undetectable. Periodically a snap or crack will elicit the same harsh shushing from their leader.

When she thinks they have gone far enough, the leader signals the other three to stop.

Fingers of moonlight probe the forest floor. Their bouncing shadows stretch, mingling with those of tall, spindly trees. A breeze whispers the promise of dense fog in the morning, and they shiver. The red, chilled tips of their toes peek out from under the robes, thick and dark and warm.

They have arrived.

Each member of the coven takes her seat on her own flat stone. The four of them form a tight diamond against the wide circular fire pit. Burnt metal, almost buried by the detritus of autumn, winks in the luminescence. They clear the pit with care and consideration, piling the leaves and twigs next to them on the stone.

The leader’s hands move with a confident cadence. In the still of the evening, she coaxes a fire to life. Each woman nurtures it with an offering from the pile they gathered: bundles of twigs, or armfuls of crumbling leaves that catch fire and scatter ash and embers.

Throughout the evening, the leader will pull larger branches from behind her stone seat and feed them to the fire. None of the members of the coven will remember seeing the branches before, and will forget to ask her if it was foresight or magic.

When their faces grow warm from the fire, they begin the ritual.

“You got it, right?” The leader turns to the one with dark skin and eyes like glacial ice, blue and cold and piercing. She nods and pulls the worn canvas bag out from underneath her robe. She sets out the ingredients with painstaking precision.

“And you brought the rest?” The leader turns to the one with pale skin and a layer of freckles so thick it could be armor. Her small hand pulls the sticks out from a disproportionately large pocket. She passes them around and they each take one.

“Now?” asks the smallest one, the quiet one, with wide, muddy brown eyes and an upturned nose.

“Now,” the leader agrees. They each hold an object, once soft, that has grown rigid in the cool night air. Above them, a storm of wings erupts, and they cannot tell if they hear bats or owls, or something darker.

“Eye of newt,” the leader says. They pass around the plastic bag and skewer a white, pillowy proxy for their spell ingredient. It transforms in the flames, bubbling and charring.

“Dragon’s scale and willow root!” They chant together as they pass around Hershey bars and demolish them piece by piece. Golden graham crackers snap in half, and their imaginary spell produces something real and wonderful.

The taste is warm and sweet and decadent. It bursts with the first bite, and marshmallow sinew cuts sticky trails against their chins and robes. Mixed with the smoke and ash, they will have to scrub away residue the next morning before dutiful, prim appearances at church.

They continue the process as their supply dwindles. Laughter turns to cackles. Spells become songs. They grow frenzied and mad, consumed by their lust for sweet, dark power. Their energy spills into the night and they dance around the fire, cavorting among friends, sisters, and smoke.

Skewers are abandoned when the ingredients deplete. Offerings made have reaped their reward: euphoria on a dark weekend night, when the forest fulfills its promise as a safe haven for those with the desire to cast incantations and witness the spark of magic.

It leaves as quickly as it came. They slump against the cold stones as the fire becomes a pitiful collection of embers. In the excitement, the leader forgot to feed it more wood. It is cold, achingly so.

“Time to come back inside.”

The man comes to them when they are too exhausted to make note of it. The members of the coven protest in mumbling half-yawns, and he relents. He wraps them in plaid wool blankets and brushes the dust off their terry cloth robes. He places black pointed polyester hats on the stone surfaces. The hats wiggle from a mediocre breeze.

The man stokes the fire. He shivers and stamps his feet, his breath a warm cloud suspended over them. An owl hoots in the distance as he huddles on the stone next his daughters, the leader and the smallest member of the coven. They share pitted dimples, widow’s peaks, and the thickest blanket.

He watches them with tenderness and builds the fire back up to its glory, log by log.

                                                                                                       ***

“It’s sacrilegious,” Sarah stands on the deck, gazing to the edge of the leaf-strewn lawn where the girls still doze on the stone benches. “We shouldn’t have taught them that word. ‘Sleepover’ is one thing, but ‘coven’ entirely another.”

“It’s literally child’s play,” John says.

Sarah glances over at him, her mouth turning up in a smile. He puts his arm around her and gives her a kiss on the head. Her hair is shot with strands of gray that gleam in the soft orange of the sunrise.

“I can make them breakfast,” Sarah says into his chest, “you’ve been up all night.”

“Nonsense,” John argues, “I’ll make them oatmeal pancakes and heat up some of your apple cider. A perfect fall breakfast.”

“They’d rather have hot chocolate with chocolate chip pancakes,” Sarah says, cocking her head in the way he finds irresistible.

“Maybe you should inventory the pantry,” John chuckles, “because I think our daughters and their friends ate their weight in s'mores last night.”

“To be young,” Sarah murmurs.

“Younger,” John corrects, “and metabolically gifted.”

They clink their coffee mugs together and wait for the girls to wake.


Written by: Erin Justice
Photograph by: Angela DeRay

Wind Howl Hold Steady

The road runs beside cliffs that look like someone cut them with a giant celestial butter knife. Down and drop to rocks and waves of death. What possesses you to do it? To take the wheel and jerk, to take the plunge, to wave the white flag? Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away.

When I first told him that I didn’t believe in ghosts, he said, “Well that’s too bad, because they believe in you.” When I replied that I was curious how he knew such things, he came back with: “Because they told me.”

His wisdom lifts up into the warm air and is whisked away, shoo fly don’t bother me, by the wind. He waves goodbye to it and we continue down the road. I ask him to tell me more about the ghosts of Cliff Road. “Well, first off,” he replies, “First off, they are all happy.”

“No hauntings on Cliff Road?” I ask.

“No hauntings on Cliff Road,” he reiterates. “It’s because they all want to be here. They all want to be dead.”

“They all want to be ghosts?” I ask. “Suicide?”

My travelling companion nods his head. “Affirmative,” he mutters. But then he reverses course, back it up, back it up. A little further now.

“Actually, no,” he says, “I guess if you think about it they probably hate being ghosts just as much as they hate being alive. That would make more sense.”

“Maybe they wanted to be ghosts to haunt people,” I say, “And that’s why they kill themselves. The grass is always greener sort of thing.”

My companion has a deep beard that resembles the forest that flanks Cliff Road, and he scratches it constantly. He’s scratching it now: “I grew up here,” he says. “Funny thing about growing up.”

I believe he will continue, but when he doesn’t I’m not surprised. He appears to be that sort of fellow.

“Like, here, here?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “In the region, though. Not far away.”

“Is that why you’re here? To come home?”

“No,” he says. “Have you ever heard of Aokigahara Forest?”

I don’t reply.

“It’s a forest in Japan,” he continues. “People go there to kill themselves.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Well,” he begins, “I guess their life isn’t all that great. They say suicides go up during the holidays, but I read somewhere that was actually an urban legend, and that suicide rates actually stay pretty constant throughout the year.”

There is a beat of silence while I wait for him to catch up.

“Oh,” he says, “Right. Why do they go to the forest?”

His voice trails off gradually, more and more after every sentence, disappearing until he’s nothing but mumbles.

We continue walking in silence, thumbs out. Books in a bag slouched on his shoulders; romance and Dharma Bums and half-smoked cigarettes. You’ve seen it all before.

There is a fog rolling in, not uncommon to the region. The warm, moist air from the land encounters the cool waters of the Pacific and sparks fog – Mr. Gardner taught me that in sixth grade, probably the closest I came to a mentor.

I saw him again when I graduated-Gardner; his son was in my grade. He was awful. Three months out from a divorce he surely knew was coming. Drunk on scotch and self-pity.

“We are all atoms,” he slurred at me. “Buncha’ protons and electrons circlin’ like a hurricane the eye of our nucleus. Carbon pullin’ us all together, fusin’ us with one another and the world we inhabit at large. Until the sky and stars are made of us and vice versa.”

“Goddamn fog, man,” says my companion. “Gives me the creeps.”

“It should,” I say and finally, finally, finally he looks at me like he really sees me. Finally, he seems to know.

What happens next will take some time, but I’ll savor the moments as his face contorts slightly, before the naturalistic display of toughness. No fear, his chin will try to say – but it shakes. I want to pat his head and whisper the truth. You can’t escape fear.

“They go because they’re called there,” I say.

“What?”

“The forest…In Japan,” I whisper. I know he can hear me, I don’t have to raise my voice. “I asked why they went there to kill themselves. Of all the places, why there?”

“I mean,” he stutters, “Nobody really knows. It’s probably because it’s like the cool thing to do now, you know? Like if you’re going to do it, might as well do it here?”

He looks like they all look about this time; like he wants to run away but can’t. His body is even angled away from me, down the road toward the bend, into the fog.

“No, you’re wrong,” I smile at him. “They’re called there, just like they are to other places. Golden Gate Bridge…Beachy Head…Mount Mihara….Aokigahara Forest.”

I pause for dramatic effect.

“Here…” I finish, “Cliff Road.”

The young man looks around. He is on the verge of weak, puny tears.

“Who?” he asks, “Who calls them?”

“All of us,” I reply. “All of us that came before. The more the merrier.”

I laugh and he begins to cry. Poor boy. He looks through the fog and sniffs and wipes tears because he knows what’s out there. That’s what so beautiful about it; he can’t see it but he knows it’s there.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

They all apologize. I apologized. There’s no shame in the fear you find at the end of the road.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I was sick. I was so tired and there’s just…there’s just everything…”

He trails off again. It strikes me that, really, he’s just a child. The beard made him look older, but the sadness and the designation and the pity show his true age.

“You’re not here to stop me,” he says.

I shake my head and say, “On the contrary…”

“Why?” he asks.

He cries deep, hard tears and his body convulses. All like the rest, all the same.

I shrug. I am void of this pity. I am tired of this show.

“Are you going to finish this?” I ask. “Or am I?”


Written by: Logan Theissen
Photograph by: Angela DeRay

Drive

"Just start the car and drive," she said to herself. Her hands were trembling. She fumbled with the key, nearly dropping it before she managed to jam it into the ignition. "Just start the car," she chanted. "Just start the car... just start the car... just start the car."

A twist of her wrist and the car shuddered to life. The throaty rumbling of the engine momentarily startled her. She hadn't expected it to start; it was old and she was used to things not working. She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles burning white.

"OK. Now," she instructed, "just drive the car. Just drive the car. Just. Drive. The. Car."

She stepped on the accelerator. The engine roared, but the car remained stationary. First, panic - "No. No… No… NO!" - then, relieved realization; she hadn't put the car in DRIVE. She cursed her own stupidity and shifted the gear stick. It settled into place with a clunk. The car lurched forward, churning up a thick, brown cloud of dust. At the same time, she felt the weight of doubt, like a ball and chain, holding her back. But, no. It was now or never. She had to go. She had to go or she would be stuck here forever. She had to go or she would die here, without ever having lived. She couldn't look back. She mustn't look back.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror.

"No… No… NO!" She yelled, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. She scolded herself for being weak. She must never look back. It was over. Over. From now on, this place was dead to her. It was no longer home. For the time being, she was homeless. She thought of all the trite sayings she'd heard over the years: ‘Home is Where the Heart is.’ ‘Home Sweet Home.’ ‘There's No Place Like Home.’ She considered the meaning of the word 'home' - A place where one lives? A place where one feels safe? Yes, she had lived here, but no, she’d never felt safe.

Salvation was a small town, the kind of town outsiders often saw through the rose-tinted glasses of romanticized nostalgia; a town forgotten by time, with white picket fences, unlocked doors and friendly locals. But the reality was far less idyllic. The white picket fences needed painting and repair. The unlocked doors and the so-called friendly locals – residents who felt it was their business to know everybody’s business – made Salvation a gossipy, judgmental community, one completely devoid of privacy and personal space. In her opinion, there’d been far more suitable names – Stagnation, Suffocation, Strangulation – but she’d always kept those to herself, until this afternoon.

“This place, it’s killing me. I have to get out. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe with all these hands around my throat.”

The memory replayed. It clouded her mind - a stubborn storm of thought, a tempest she couldn’t shake.

“What did you say?” he slurred, grabbing another beer from the refrigerator - his fifth of the hour. He popped the metal cap from the bottle and flung it at her face. She flinched and turned away. The cap bounced off her head and clattered to the floor. He scoffed. “Pick that up,” he said.

But she didn’t move.

“You hear me? I told you to pick it up.”

She felt the burning heat of his glare and thought, ‘If you do this, life will never be the same. If you do this, there’ll be no going back.’

She returned his glare. “I heard you,” she said.

His eyes narrowed and he stepped close. “Then. Pick. It. Up,” he hissed. Spit flew from his lips with each punctuated syllable. His speech was slow, shaky, angry.

‘If you do this…’

But she already knew.

‘Life will never…’

She was going to do it.

‘No going back…’

She straightened up, looked him firmly in the eye and said, “No.”

The pain from the blow was momentarily blinding and she crumpled to the floor. When her vision cleared, she saw him standing over her with clenched fists. She reached up and fumbled for the edge of the countertop, finding it with the pads of her fingers. Using the wooden surface as support, she pulled herself to her feet. She was dazed, but determined, and when the second blow came, she was ready.

She ducked and grabbed the kettle – heavy and full of water – and swung it at him. The rounded metal connected with the side of his head, making a musical, watery gong sound. To her surprise, he fell straight to the floor. She hadn’t expected it to work; he was strong and she was used to things not working. But he was sprawled on the floor, out cold. She knew she had to act fast. She grabbed some money, a change of clothes and the key to the car.

Now she was on a long, empty road - tires crunching over the gritty surface of the tarmac below, sky stretching, blue and wide, above. She rolled down the window, letting the wind play with her hair, and she thought, ‘This must be what freedom feels like’. She breathed in, deep, and briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she caught sight of something in the rear-view mirror. In the distance, in the middle of the road, stood a girl - a vision of herself – a girl with the same face, clothes and hair. The girl looked panicked and distraught.

Her heart lurched and she gasped, slamming on the brakes. The car stopped. She considered turning around and going back. But then she thought, ‘You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. You can only save yourself.’

She took her foot off the brake and pressed it down on the accelerator. As the car picked up speed, she glanced in the rear-view mirror. The girl was gone.

She fixed her eyes on the road ahead and never looked back again.

Written by: Angela DeRay

Photograph by: Emily Blincoe

1:1 - Angela DeRay

interviewed by Dot Dannenberg

Welcome back to 1:1, a series of interviews in which 1:1000 sits down with 1 writer or photographer, and forces them to spill their creative secrets. 

Angela DeRay, the photographer behind “Rx” and “A Woman’s Desire,” is truly an artist of sincerity. Her photos, which she calls “the moments of my choosing,” often capture the world in its most unassuming state. She joins us today to talk inspiration, success, and the human side of Instagram.

1:1000: How did you get into photography?

ANGELA DERAY: For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved cameras and photos--they stop time; I find that astonishingly magical--but it wasn’t until a few Christmases ago, when my husband surprised me with a "proper" camera (a not-so-subtle hint on his part), that I finally shifted from procrastination--“One day, I’d love to learn photography…”--to implementation. I enrolled in a couple of photography classes. I read a ridiculous amount of photography material. Before long, I bought an iPhone and a friend introduced me to the Instagram app. Gleefully I fell, further and further, down the rabbit hole…

1:1000: Your photography is very connected with the natural world, and often of the simpler moments in life. What draws you to these subjects?

AD: I am drawn to subjects that create emotional responses in me; ones that make me feel something. When I pull out my camera and snap a photo, it’s more about trying to capture a feeling than producing a perfect image. I am drawn to nature because it makes me feel small (in a good way!) and makes me feel connected to something more infinite than myself. I am drawn to the "simpler moments in life" because they make me feel big, in an abundantly blessed way.

1:1000: Henry James, in The Art of Fiction, advised writers to be a person "on whom nothing is lost"--do you think this applies to your artistic process with photography?

AD: Oh gosh, Mr. James, that’s a lot of pressure! And, with all due respect, I’d have to say my artistic process disagrees. I’m easily overwhelmed by the enormity and complexity of life; it can be too much for me to take in as a whole. But, I find, when I focus on the smaller details, I’m more easily able to absorb, process and appreciate the bigger picture. My process is more to do with finding and honing in on the things that really speak to me rather than aiming to make sure that “nothing is lost.” Instead, I seek to "lose" the bits that don’t speak to me and capture the ones that do.

1:1000: You're an ex-pat--an American in the UK. Do you think there's a difference in sensibilities when it comes to British vs. American photography?

AD: It’s difficult to generalize in terms of British vs. American, because individual photographers differ so much from each other, in both style and content, regardless of where they live. But as an American expat living in the UK, I’ve definitely developed an appreciation for the individuality and quirks of each country. I’m in the unique position of being able to see each place through the eyes of a foreigner and a native, respectively. And perhaps that mixture of wonder and affection is evident in my photography.

1:1000: What do you think Instagram has done for photography?

AD: Instagram has made photography more accessible and less intimidating. It enables anyone with a camera(phone) and the app to experiment, play and get creative. Joining Instagram was one of the first, vital steps in my creative journey. It helped remove a lot of the "fear barriers" that were holding me back.

1:1000: You've built quite a following there--how did that come about?

AD: One of the things I enjoy about Instagram is the sense of community; there are lots of talented, friendly, supportive people (from all around the world!) interacting with one another. I consider myself fortunate to be part of those interactions and I think my following has grown as a result of the connections I’ve made there.

1:1000: Who are some photographers you admire?

AD: I like different photographers for different reasons – not necessarily because I think one is better than the other. On Instagram, I’m partial to galleries that combine photos with writing, and I adore posts that give me that "warm, fuzzy feeling." I’m always hesitant to pick favorites, but since you’ve twisted my arm, see @biancaelizalde, @caitlindskoog, @candacecatherinee, @celerinapie, @elliequent, @sendiong, and @robinmay for a few (of the many!) galleries that have captured my heart.

1:1000: You mentioned on your blog that you first used Instagram as a platform for your writing. What was that experience like?

AD: Scary! Exhilarating! Liberating! It was a bit like "Goldilocks and the Three Bears"-–when the idea of trying to start a book or a blog was "too big" and the thought of confining my writing to a private journal was "too small," Instagram was "just right." It allowed me to ease back into writing, with small(ish) captions, and get myself into the habit of writing something on a daily basis.

1:1000: What writing projects are you working on now?

AD: I started my blog, Little Tiny Scribbles, in January, and that has taken up a lot of my recent time and focus, but I hope to expand further over the course of the year. I have a book idea I’d like to develop and I’d be interested in exploring the world of magazine writing.

1:1000: You write in your blog about what you call "The Big Lie"--that notion, in part supported by society, that a person needs to be very good at something in order to do it. This is a stifling fear for so many artists--the little voice demanding success. How were you able to reject this lie to get on with your work?

AD: "The Big Lie" is a powerful lie, one that kept me silent for an awfully long time. But ultimately, I decided I didn’t want to reach the end of my life filled with The Regret of Never Trying; I decided I wanted to be able to look back with The Pride of Knowing I Tried, instead.

1:1000: What would you say to writers and artists who are nervous to put their work out there into this over-saturated market?

AD: If you enjoy creating, then create. Do it for you. Do it for the joy or the peace or the fulfillment it brings you. Take your creativity seriously. Give yourself credit. Let the fact that you’re creating be your ultimate measure of success. In the words of George Bernard Shaw, “The only real failure in life is the failure to try.” So try. And know that by trying, you've already succeeded.


You can find more of Angela’s photography and writing at Little Tiny Scribbles and on Instagram @shutterdoodles.

Rx

The way the light reflects on the water makes me think of my old life. The world looks doubled over. There are two treelines in the distance, one on the horizon, one seemingly subterranean. In my old life, I‘d stand beside the water and take a photo of my feet kissing the edge of the reflection. I’d text the photo to Joshua, saying, It’s so beautiful. Wish you were here.

That all seems so ridiculous now. I’m disconnected. My pulse pounds an urgent rhythm where once it was smooth.

I had to get away. I’ve been hiding out in this tunnel since I made a run for it yesterday evening, but in the daylight, I’m exposed.

It’s still early. Nobody in sight. I gather up the wrappers from the energy bars I stole when I left and shove them in my purse. Gotta cover my tracks. It’s time to move.

                                                                                                     ***

Officer Harkless slides his sunglasses into the pocket of his uniform shirt. It’s a new idiot every week—desperate and demanding, and with no comprehension of the system.

“Like I told you,” Harkless says to the man, “it’s too soon. We can’t do anything till she’s been missing for over twenty-four hours. I’ll take your information, and you can call again if she’s not back by tonight.”

“But—she’s gone!” the man stammers. “Isn’t this your job? Finding missing people? She’s never taken things this far before.”

“So she’s done things like this before?” Harkless asks.

“No! I mean—no,” the man barks. Short-tempered and idiotic.

“Just give me your information, sir.”

“Joshua,” the man says. “Joshua Brenner.”
                                                                                                     ***

Save the date!

Joshua & Julie

17 May 2014

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all. –Helen Keller.

It was Julie’s idea to add the fucking Helen Keller quote. She said she saw it on Pinterest and thought it was so inspiring, so representative of marriage. The great adventure! Two people wandering into the unknown with nothing but the stars to guide them! I told her if she found one more thing on that goddamned website I was going to take back the ring and call the whole thing off. No more handmade boutonnières or cutesy place cards constructed of Scrabble letters and burlap. And no. No to Mason jars. Forever.

Now the save-the-date card taunts me from its shrine on the fridge. Julie smiles her radiant, fake grin, the one she gave to the clerk at the Kum & Go just before I watched her shoplift a handful of shit and go around the corner of the building to “find the ladies’ room,” never to re-emerge. I remind myself I love her. I love her.

                                                                                                     ***

Maybe I was born for life in the wild. I’ve been taking what I needed from this world for as long as I can remember. But I should’ve taken more food from the Kum & Go.

I look around for edible plants. This area’s a treasure trove—mint leaves, honeysuckle, mushrooms of various degrees of risk. I fill my pockets with them all.

In my old life, honeysuckle was the color I’d chosen for bridesmaids’ dresses. Honeysuckle yellow satin. I can’t remember why that would have been so important.

My mind rushes. For once, it’s not my legs that tingle, but my brain. A mantra, chanting between my temples. I can’t be caught. I can’t be caught.

                                                                                                     ***

He’s back. Harkless sighs and flips to a new page in his notepad.

“Mr. Brenner, can you describe your fiancée’s recent behavior? Is there any reason we should believe she’s in any sort of danger?”

“Danger? No! I have no idea. She’s probably mad about something—some passive aggressive shit.”

“No disrespect, Mr. Brenner, but this case is taking time and resources we could be spending elsewhere. So if this is all some sort of domestic dispute—“

“No, I’m sorry. Sorry,” Joshua says. “This is different.”

“Again, I don’t mean any accusation, sir, but have you noticed anything different about your fiancée lately? Spending time with new people? Any alcohol or drug abuse?”

                                                                                                     ***

Along with joining Pinterest and adopting a frenzied skincare regime, Jules stopped eating meat the millisecond we got engaged. She always bitched about the idiocy of her friends who did juice diets, but figured going vegetarian would help her with the whole bridal beauty vision. It’s all a giant racket, women getting too worked up over all that crap. Something’s always wrong with them. Things that aren’t even real. I have fat under my ass. My stretch marks have stretch marks. My legs feel like they’re crawling all the time. Julie went into full combatant mode for all of these imaginary ailments.

“I’m going to teach you the most important two words of your married life,” my father-in-law told me after Julie came back from two days of doctors’ appointments with a prescription for curing restless leg syndrome and a pamphlet about liposuction.

“What’s that?” I asked him.

“Yes, dear.”

                                                                                                     ***

“Hello?” I hear from behind me.

I freeze. I shouldn’t have left the tunnel. I should have stayed until it was dark.

“Ma’am, are you lost?”

“Stay back! Stay away from me!”

“I’m not going to hurt you. But this is my land.”

“I won’t be here long—I’m passing through. I’m gone!”

“Hey, wait—aren’t you the woman from the news? The one who went missing from that Kum & Go?”

                                                                                                     ***

“Harkless, they found your girl.” Rhodes stretches the phone in his direction. Harkless waves it away.

“Get the address. I’m on my way.”

                                                                                                     ***

Mirapex. I squeeze the bottle in my fist as I watch the cop escort Julie up the driveway toward the house. She looks confused, as she should—the drugs are probably still in her system. In my other hand I’m clenching the packet of fine print. Mirapex may cause trouble breathing, tremors, changes in vision…and in rare cases, compulsive behaviors such as gambling, excessive drinking, or shoplifting.

Of course I wouldn’t have noticed. Planning a wedding breeds compulsion. I’m not sure what I can blame on the wedding and what on the drugs. What is Julie and what is some phantom.

“They caught me,” Julie says, freeing herself from the cop’s grasp. “I guess I’m back.”

“Why did you leave?” I say. I’m trying to slow my breathing, reminding myself I shouldn’t expect a coherent response.

She doesn’t answer me. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a flower—a honeysuckle blossom?—and offers it to me.

“I’m back,” she says again.

My muscles, tensed for two days, loosen. Then she reaches into her purse and retrieves a pair of shiny aviators.

“I got these for you,” Jules whispers.

                                                                                                     ***

Harkless pats his empty pocket.

“Rhodes,” he says. “You seen my shades?”

Written by: Dot Dannenberg

Photograph by: Angela DeRay

A Woman's Desire

Leila opened her eyes for the first time.

Tiny beads of humidity blanketed her naked skin, catching light from the faintest rays of sunshine peeking through the canopy. She was in fetal position upon the damp earth, arms threaded between her thighs and knees pressed against her breasts. She blinked a few times before tilting back her head, peering up at the arms of the tree she rested beneath. Then she heard something, a high pitched sound that had a rhythm and melody, and she realized it was coming from a small bird with a red forehead and bright yellow chest sitting on a branch above.

She smiled before her mouth open in wonder.

Leila rolled over onto her back and stretched her arms and legs, easily six feet tall if she ever decided to stand up. She interlaced her fingers beneath her head, gazing up at the leaves, and digging her heels into the dirt. Another bird called out from the distance and she tried to replicate the sound, bracing the back of her throat and pressing the tip of her tongue behind her bottom row of teeth. The attempt delighted her, evoking a ringing laughter from somewhere behind her eyes and nose.

But someone else was laughing, too.

She sat up and pressed her back against the base of the tree, eyes darting left and right before locking eyes with someone emerging from the foliage ahead. He wore a red tunic and brown gloves, carrying a bow in one hand as he stepped forward, smiling at her. Leila had never seen a man before. She was horrified, yet mesmerized at the same time. He must have felt her fear because he knelt down in front of her, about ten feet away, one arm draped over his knee and his other hand resting on the ground.

“Hello, bright eyes,” he said.

Leila swallowed and said, “Lo.”

He laughed again, lowering himself to the ground and wrapping his arms around his knees. She was afraid of him because he was strange to her, but she could not ignore her natural desire to gaze upon his face and lean toward him.

The man placed his hand on his chest and said, “I am Arthur.”

“Thoor,” she said.

Another laugh and, “Yes, that’s right. That will do. And you, what shall I call you?”

Although Leila had never spoken her name before, she seemed to know deep down what it was, a combination of song and sigh that rolled off the tongue with ease. It pleased her to say it, and even more to say it to him.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Arthur said.

Leila crawled forward, her brown hair falling over her shoulders and swaying. Just in front of him, she sat back on her heels and offered her right hand, palm up. Arthur took off his leather glove and held her hand in his, meeting her gaze and wanting nothing more than to hold her against his body and kiss her neck. He wanted to smell the earth on her back and run his thumb over her hip. Leila’s quiet strength buffered his self control, and then he knew what she was.

“Ah, Leila,” he said. “You are a dryad.”

She smiled, pulling his hand to her chest.

He removed a leaf from her hair and looked up at the tree behind her. “And is this your tree, sweet nymph?”

Leila turned to look and she nodded with understanding.

“Extraordinary,” he said as he stood up and approached the tree, still holding Leila’s hand. “She looks old and very wise.”

Arthur turned to Leila and placed his hands on her shoulders, tracing her collar bones with his thumbs. She pressed her palms against his chest, assessing the fabric of his tunic with her fingertips.

“It’s curious that you should appear in my moment of need. For a year now, I’ve been seeking the answer to a question, and it escapes me. Being with you only makes it harder to discern. What do women most desire?”

Leila seemed to ponder his words as Arthur squatted at the base of the tree, leaning back against it and pulling a small knife from his boot. He dug the tip into one of the roots, then dropped it, startled by Leila’s sharp cry. She fell forward, placing her hand over the spot where his knife pierced the bark. Arthur reached for her, but she recoiled. She glared at him as if a wounded woman, ready to retaliate. Her warmth was gone.

“Leila, I’m so sorry. It was thoughtless,” he said.

He reached for her again, but she shrugged him off, avoiding his eyes and staring at the ground. The silence stretched for miles between them and he could feel her spirit harden against him. For a moment, Arthur imagined bringing her home with him. He could make her his wife, his queen. She would bear his children and become the face of the kingdom. She would be a woman, not a spirit. So long as this tree lived, Leila could easily outlive him. His fantasy ended when he felt her hand upon his. Their eyes met and she smiled, but she also shook her head.

“No, Thoor,” she said.

What do women most desire?

They stood together, fingers interlaced. Arthur wanted to wrap his arms around her naked body and press his mouth to hers, but now he knew the answer to the question. His life as a soldier and a king was made up entirely of choices, and sometimes making choices against another’s will. Arthur could not bring himself to overpower her despite the fact that he could. He could not bring himself to seduce her with empty promises, nor threaten the life of the tree. He waited to see what Leila wanted, to see what she would choose, if she would choose him.

Leila’s lips were on his.

Then, she was gone.

“To choose,” he said. “The power to choose.”

Written by: Natasha Akery

Photograph by: Angela DeRay