fiction – Wolverine Lily

His House

Author’s Note:
I started this story with no ending in mind… about a woman in a quiet house, and a journal entry…

An ivory house stood at the end of the road. A small, elegant structure with slanted roof. Shrubs fenced it off from the others. Red bushes spilled leaves like heavy drops. The backyard opened into a wide meadow, ending at three large trees at the edge of the woods—the gatekeepers watching for intruders. Morning fog rolled low over the field just enough to swallow the feet of anyone crossing it. The clouds heavy with rain hid the sun.

In this light, the house appeared pale gray.

At the center, an arched window framed beige curtains and a woman seated at a desk. She sat still, like a statue, holding a pen between her fingers. Her face was slim and paler than the house itself. Her blue eyes were fixed on something just out of reach.

Sophia’s Journal

September 27

I have never written a journal, yet I need something to occupy my mind. Staring at walls or out the window amplifies my fears. Journaling should feel like talking to someone, without judgments, especially now, with the strange things that have been happening around the house. I don’t want anyone rolling their eyes at me, telling me I’ve imagined it all, or that I’m crazy.

I can’t remember the last adult conversation. Not counting ‘good mornings’ and ‘thank yous’ at the grocery store—all unreturned.

Benjamin cannot touch peanuts. Once, he nearly died. After that, I studied every label like a forensic scientist. With Emma on the way, quitting my job was inevitable.

Meanwhile, Peter’s work hours stretched longer. His trips to New York became more frequent until he got a place there. It’s been months since his last visit. The kids have already stopped asking about him because they know Daddy isn’t coming back.

Still, I’m blessed with these kids and the house…

I love this house, even though it feels empty and silent. But it’s motherhood, right? I often ache for the meaning my life once had: to pursue my career and shape the life I always wanted—the same way Peter does. But I’m too worried about Ben. Yet I’m writing now, hoping for a change.

“Mommy?” A tiny voice came from the door. Sophia looked up without expression.

“I’m hungry.” Emma stood in the doorway. One hand rubbing her sleepy eyes, the other hugging a stuffed rabbit.

“Of course you are.” Sophia walked to the girl, leaned over to kiss a cheek; a small pillow crease was still printed on it. She brushed it with her fingers, then held Emma’s hand, leading her out. “What would you like for breakfast: pancakes or waffles?”

Sophia’s Journal

September 29

I washed the dishes tonight, and for a while I thought somebody was standing behind me. Watching me.

Had Peter come to surprise us?

I met him in college. My mother adored him. He reflected the qualities of an ideal husband, and she was convinced I should marry him.

Then my dad suffered a heart attack. When Peter proposed, I couldn’t say no. The image of my father, strapped with IV tubes into a hospital bed, that clinical smell and beeping. I only asked, “Why get married?” It didn’t feel like love, and if Peter did love me, then why get married? He said “I love you” with the same blank stare he’d given the brick wall.

I’m guessing he had his own reasons… So we did it.

It’s been twelve years of… evasive eyes and an empty chair at dinners.

I dropped the pen, feeling blood rushing to my head, pulsing frantically. Yet my fingers were numb from the cold.

Peter again. Let’s not reopen healing wounds.

I closed the notebook and left to check on the kids. The doorknob felt warm, like glass after someone had breathed on it. I tiptoed downstairs towards the kitchen. The dishes in the sink greeted me from a doorway.

A breeze outside the windows rustled leaves, a crisp whisper in a silent night. I ran the water through my hands, soaking up its warmth. Autumn slowly arrived, unpacking its long, chilling nights.

I turned the hot water up and let it cascade down the plate.

And then I felt someone behind me—so close to raise a shiver. I paused and looked. I was the only one in the room.

Was it the wind? I inhaled slowly and set the plate onto the drying rack. My hand reached for a teacup and slid it beneath the stream of water.

That’s when an exhale touched my nape; I froze. Then another, closer to my ear. The cup in my hand trembled, betraying my forced steadiness. I stood like a stone until my fingers began to burn.

I jerked my hands from under the stream and turned to face the undisturbed kitchen.

Yet, I wasn’t alone. I wiped my hands and rushed upstairs.

That night, I listened for the tiniest stirs in the quiet, until sleep took me away.

I woke up late. Ben had already been up, reading a book, and Emma was drawing with colored pencils. She is at this stage, where figures still don’t look like people, but begin to have eyes and limbs. Ben likes to build things with blocks. He’s pragmatic, just like his dad.

I brewed a cup of coffee and scanned the kitchen, remembering last night. Has anyone been here? I couldn’t tell.

I drifted to the sink and closed my eyes. Last night was windy, so there is a chance that… No! Who am I kidding? It wasn’t the wind. It was a breath; a man’s breath, on my neck, warm, and… I actually liked it. Oh my god! What am I saying!? I was terrified! But at the same time, it was… delicate and intimate.

Stop it! Feed your children! I shook my head and moved towards the refrigerator.

“I’m going to make eggs today,” I distracted myself. “After breakfast, we can go out.”

Sophia’s Journal.

October 1.

Today we went on a hike around the lake, talking about brave adventurers. The kids climbed rocks, searching for secret paths and treasure. Emma was so exhausted, and I carried her for a couple of miles until she fell asleep in my arms. It was a good day.

The thought of cleaning dishes after dinner iced my bones. But also thrilled me. As if a mysterious admirer might come to see me. I inched toward the sink and faced just a few plates in it. I didn’t have to do it today, but… I wanted to. I twisted the knob and let the water run. What am I doing?

Waiting. For his presence. Feel that warmth again. That’s insane! But it’s true. I felt like I was going on a date. God, how do I look?! I panicked. I wore a long beige dress. A simple, casual outfit.

I let my hair fall free and noticed an old candle on the window. I lit it, allowing the golden glow to spill across the countertop. I fantasized about a man coming back home after a long day at work and greeting me in the kitchen, while I wrapped my arms around him.

I thought I heard a quiet click, and I smiled to myself at how realistic my imagination had grown.

But then I felt a gentle touch on my lower back. A slow stroke that gave me goose bumps. I dropped my shoulders and let my lips curl up. Who is he? I worried that if I opened my eyes, I would see no one. I just tilted my head.

A sudden thud ripped through the bushes, followed by a harsh snap of branches. I jerked. A beam of light flickered in the kitchen. Outside, two figures with flashlights skimmed the windows, circling my backyard.

Burglars! I raced upstairs. Ben was asleep. I latched his window, tracing the trespassers, who now ventured towards the driveway. I ran to lock Emma’s window. I leaned over her bed when her arm slipped around my neck, pulling me close with surprising strength. I curled into her, kissed her cheek, and stayed. Emma held on tight as if she sensed my fear.

“Shhhhh,” I whispered.

Outside, an engine started. Gravel crunched, and all the noise faded.

I stayed there, listening for any sign of disturbance, until quiet lulled me to sleep.

The rain’s tapping at the pane woke me. Emma’s arm was still around me. I freed myself and tiptoed to the window. No trespassers. I checked on Ben. He smiled through his sleep.

Downstairs was just as quiet as any other day. The patio door and the front door were locked, with no signs of forced entry. Then a post emerged in the front lawn, holding a black sign with orange letters: “For Sale.” What?! If it hadn’t poured outside, I would have knocked it right over. I gritted my teeth and shut the curtains.

“Are we still going to the concert today?” Ben’s words cut into my thoughts. I flinched.

“Good morning,” I turned and kissed him on his forehead. “What concert, honey?” I looked at his face, trying to read him.

“Oh, right, we have the theater tickets,” I remembered. “It’s not a concert, Ben. It’s a musical, just like ‘The Lion King’ we saw a few months back, remember? And it’s tomorrow, not today.”

“Will we go if it rains?” Ben continued.

“Of course we’ll go. It won’t rain inside the theater, right?” Ben’s face beamed with a smile.

“Okay, I’ll get ready.” He sprinted into his room.

“It’s tomorrow,” I yelled after him. Kids’ excitement has no sense of timing.

It rained the entire day. The children played board games while I vacuumed and cooked dinner. My mind kept circling back to the hand gliding along my back, the heat blooming under his palm, and my knees refusing to stay locked.

Who is he? He wasn’t imagined: his touch was real, his breath was real, and the smell of soap was real. A ghost? I paused, contemplating this.

After dinner, I showered while the kids bathed. I flipped through my dresses in the closet, choosing the outfit for my kitchen date. The thought made me shake my head: ridiculous! I felt like an older version of a schoolgirl dressing for a crush.

I chose a black pencil skirt and a brown buttoned shirt with delicate bows on the sleeves, put on makeup, and styled my hair. I didn’t remember the last time I looked this good.

When the kids’ light went out, I slipped into the kitchen, poured red wine into crystal glasses, and turned on the water.

Peter came to mind. Should I feel guilty? He’d disappeared long ago and had surely been with other women. That’s why he left, even if he never said it.

A gentle touch landed on my back. The familiar feeling—not Peter’s. This one was tender, warm, and welcoming.

“Hi,” I whispered, wondering what to call him. A firm arm slid onto my stomach. I leaned back into him, and his body pressed against mine. Delicate kisses showered my neck, firing all the nerves in my body. I sighed. I turned into his warmth. My hands touched his chest, then glided towards his neck and face, studying details. I lifted my chin and found his lips. My heart was racing. His arms slid down to my hips. I pulled him close, realizing how much I wanted him. Right now.

A phone rang.

Sophia ignored it. But he jumped back.

Shit!

“Don’t go!” She screamed, trying to catch her breath.

A doorbell cut through the hallway. A key twisted in the lock. Peter!?

Sophia rushed towards the door. A woman in a business suit had already entered, and a middle-aged couple trailed behind.

“How did you get a key to my house?” Sophia asked firmly, blocking their way. They passed her without the slightest attention. “Hey, I live here. You can’t come in…” Sophia raised her voice, but nobody seemed to hear.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” the lady in a suit said to the couple. “Please, feel free to look around.” She acted as if she owned the house.

“No! Please leave.” Sophia objected. The couple pushed into the kitchen.

“This is a beautiful house,” the woman said, glancing around. “Much nicer than in the pictures.”

“Yes, the owners really took exceptional care of it,” the realtor agreed.

“Not they!” Sophia said sharply. “I did!”

“They didn’t die in the house, did they?” the woman continued.

“No,” the realtor said. “A car accident. It’s tragic.”

“All of them?” the man asked, wandering into the kitchen.

Sophia’s fingers tightened around a chair. The sound of rain outside drifted in. Heavy drops bounced against the roof of her car. Bright, scattered lights. A truck in front. The crash. Emma’s screams. The rolling. Sophia tried to reach the back seat, but her hand got trapped. Then a sharp pain in her chest. The screaming stopped. Yes, there’s been an accident. How had she forgotten? But we survived. Didn’t we?

“No,” the realtor shook her head. “Just the wife and the kids. The husband lives in New York. He wants to sell the house as soon as possible.”

Sophia looked at her pale hands. Their color faded each day, now almost like milk. White and cold. And the band-aid on her little finger… the same one!

Every day, Emma wakes up in the same shirt, not her PJs. So does Ben. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier?

Tears rolled down her face. Her hand reached up to wipe them, but her fingers didn’t get wet. She felt the tears that weren’t there.

“So, how old did you say this house is?” the man asked. The realtor raised her clipboard and flipped through pages.

“About eight years,” she responded confidently. “I knew the previous owner.” She looked at the couple. “It’s a small town. He was the sweetest man.”

Sophia felt the room spin. The strangers’ voices were muffled by her pounding heart.

“He built this house,” the realtor went on, “and lived here alone until he sold it to the current owner three years ago.” Then she squinted her eyes. “Sadly, he passed away. His truck collided with another car.” She frowned, tapping her pen against the clipboard.

“Same road. That might’ve been the same accident.”

“Aren’t we celebrating prematurely?” asked the man, lifting one of the wine glasses from the counter.

“Make yourself at home.” The realtor smiled. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, but this is a beautiful house, and it will fly off the market in days.” She strode out, high heels tapping toward the front door.

The couple giggled and whispered their way through the hallway, then slipped outside, leaving empty glasses behind.

Sophia held her eyes on them until they got into their cars and faded into the trees. She stepped behind the door and rested her hand against it.

An arm wrapped around her waist.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she whispered. “You built this house.” The arm pulled her in. She turned slowly and finally saw him—exactly as she had imagined. His brown eyes held hers, patient and full. She leaned against his shoulder, and his hand brushed her cheek.

No reflection formed in the window.
Outside, the wind moved through the shrubs, bending the trees.

The pale house stood at the end of the road.

The Racehorse

They dragged him into a stable,
rope rasped against the post.
The door clattered shut.

Hay tossed into the trough,
water sloshed into a bucket.
“Fine animal,” they said.

Their hands slid on his coat
like black oil on glass.
They yoked him, snapped the reins.
He lowered his head
and pulled.

But inside him—
a track unfurled.
Shotguns cracked the sky,
the gate slammed open,
hooves hammered harrowed dirt.

Dust drilled his lungs.
Crowds roared beyond the blur.
Nothing mattered;
only the finish line.

So he plowed—
dusk to dawn,
straps slicing his shoulders,
dreams steaming in his heart
flaring against the dark.

One day, the barn swung open.
A donkey was hitched
beside the horse.

He ate the same hay,
drank the same water,
plowed the same field.

The donkey was happy.

Rusty Adventure

Drudges and thralls
caged in clocks,
welding days into years.
Wages unlock gates
for … a holiday.

They fly across the world
to stand on borrowed ground,
marvel at the same sky,
bronze in the same sun,
convinced it’s better.

Yet back home,
the same Earth is
dimmed, diluted,
dull.

Why?

Is it receipts they admire,
or the story they post?

Conforming to filtered joy,
oblivious to their own.

Why reach for foreign rust,
when gold gleams beneath their feet?

Author’s Note:
A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?

Ghost in the Valley

Atop my heart,
where its two hills bend inward,
lies the valley.

You sit astride—
a stubborn knight,
neither advancing,
nor dismounting.

Why do you remain?

I never invited you,
fearing your sword,
its blade honed on our silence.
I left the wicket ajar—
a slit to watch you—
watching me.

But three kin torches at my gate—
scorched your sight,
ignited your fear.
You fled like a coward,
left my depths unclaimed.
Your halberd scraped my hollow;
its echo—a cathedral bell,
tolling the coarse-silk wound.

Or is it me—
my longing—a magnet
latching your armor,
stabbing me?

It’s me.
I refused to let you go.
I stranded your ghost
in this valley.
Its shroud blinds me.

Author’s Note:
I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.

Unveiled

If I revealed my raw self to you,
peeled the makeup,
stripped the cloth from my body,
Bare—
unfolding every crease
carved in silence by time—
the eternal butcher,
dragging a dull blade across my skin.

Would you meet my eyes,
lock them in yours,
and embrace all I surrender?
Or would your gaze slip,
chasing youth in someone else?

Would your fingers trace the map
my face has become,
my eyes—Sirius at midnight—
guiding you into the gorge
where I’ve buried all my love?

If you leaned closer,
beyond the façade of scars,
you’d hear the crackle.
Would you let its warmth
burn through your defenses?

Yet, if you falter and turn away,
my heart—a resilient pendulum,
will endure stabs of every sway.
With or without your love,
in all that I am,
I will remain.

Author’s Note:
This piece took nearly a year to complete. It demanded brutal honesty, many attempts and revisions. It’s about aging, the courage to face it, and the fire of love that refuses to die—even when love itself has long been buried. For anyone who’s felt this way: this is for you. Only a few will understand.

I’ll probably tweak it again someday, but for now, this is it.

Misdialed Date

Chicago 2005.

It was a mid-summer day. The sky was as gray as a billionaire’s suit, and the sun refused to show its smile.

A pounding echoed through Amy’s apartment.
“One second,” Amy called, barely cracking open the door. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, she juggled the door knob and battled her rebel hair with her free hand.

“What are you doing here so early?” she squinted at the familiar face.
“Early? It’s almost eleven,” Dan replied, nudging the door open and striding in as if he owned the place. Clearly, he was no stranger to Amy’s apartment or her couch.

“Yeah, but do you remember how late you dropped me off last night? I went to bed at ‘this morning o’clock’.” Amy yawned, trailing Dan to the living room.

She peeked outside, noticing the sky screaming an overcast mess.
“This isn’t beach weather, is it?” Amy observed the trees bending in the wind like a morning yoga pose gone wrong.
“Nope. Looks like we’re not the only ones hungover. But we can do something else,” Dan suggested, already commandeering the remote.

“Coffee first. I need to wake up,” Amy declared, holding her index finger and heading to the kitchen.
“And maybe a bagel?” Dan called, settling into the couch like it was his living room.

“How’s George? He ended up driving Rita home, right?” Amy’s voice floated over the sound of brewing coffee.
“Did he? Man, he was smashed.” Dan flicked through channels.
“I hate when he drives like that,” Amy muttered. “The party was nuts, and George got totally wrecked.”
“Good for him. First big night since his breakup,” Dan replied.
“I know. After everything with his ex…” She paused, considering a thought.

“Do you think he hit it off with Rita?”
“What?” Dan’s eyes were glued to the TV.
“Maybe he’s still at Rita’s?” Amy teased, walking back with two steaming cups of coffee.
“You think they… no way. They just met,” Dan scoffed, accepting his cup.
“I don’t know, I got a vibe,” Amy smirked, pulling out her Motorola flip-phone. “Let’s see.”

She dialed, putting on her best ‘Rita’ voice.
“Hi George, did I wake you? Just wanted to thank you for last night…” Dan’s eyebrow arched in surprise as he listened to Amy’s voice, a perfect imitation of Rita’s, turning more flirtatious with every word.

“Are you busy tonight?” There was a long pause. George talked while Amy was nodding.
“We should totally go rollerblading later.” Amy winked at Dan, who was watching her with his jaw wide open. “Great. Pick me up at 5.” A short pause. “Okay, see you then.”

Dan nearly spit his coffee.
“He can’t think you’re actually Rita, can he?” Amy hung up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “He’s got a rollerblading date with ‘Rita’ at 5 tonight.”
“No way. He fell for it?” Dan laughed loud and hard, disbelief coloring his tone. “This is gold!”

George parked his Altima outside a modest single-story house, the smallest on the block, with a well-tended lawn surrounding it. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror and headed for the door.

It was exactly 5 o’clock. He rang the bell and waited with anticipation.
“Hi,” Rita greeted him, not stepping aside to let him in.
“Hi, ready for rollerblading?” George asked, his body shifting nervously from one foot to another.
“Rollerblading?” Rita looked puzzled. “No, I can’t. I’ve got other plans. You should have called earlier…”

George’s face fell as he stood awkwardly at her doorstep, mixed feelings swirling within him.

Both stared at each other in silence for a moment. Something was off.
“But you called me about it this morning…”
“I didn’t call you today at all,” Rita frowned.
Flustered, George apologized and retreated to his car. What else could he do? His anticipation dissolved into a confusing blend of disappointment and embarrassment.

He was about to start his car when his phone rang.
“Rollerblading, huh?” Amy teased.

George groaned.
“It was you? I thought Emily set me up.”
“Nope, all me. Sorry, George, I got carried away. I owe you a big apology—I’ve gone too far.” Amy’s voice softened, yet she struggled to stop laughing. “I can’t believe you fell for this!”

George shook his head, even though Amy couldn’t see him.

“Come over, I’m ordering pizza,” Amy added.
George sighed. He couldn’t decide whether he should scream with anger or laugh. He put the key in the ignition and drove off.

Amy and Dan couldn’t stop cracking up as they awaited George’s arrival to clear the air and get a full story.

“You two watch out; just wait for my comeback,” George grumbled as he walked in. “I’m warning you. You have no idea what is coming at you,” he announced, unable to suppress a smile at the absurdity of it all. “I mean it.”

“Good to see you without your rollerblades,” quipped Amy, extending her arms to hug George. “Please, don’t be mad at me.”

“You ordered pizza; I brought beer,” said George with a smile, closing the door behind.

Author’s Note:
Meet the real Amy and George—they are actual people. In fact, I’m Amy, and George is my friend Matt. This is the only picture I could find of us from many years ago. We are standing in water, awaiting alligators (at least that’s what the tour guide told us). What you don’t see is the boat on the other side, filled with a bunch of ‘chickens’ too scared to step out, including Dan, who took this picture. And finally, yes, I really did set up that rollerblading prank date. 🙂

Meant to Bloom

I was meant to bloom—
unfurl, sing, and shine, not
be tended or trimmed, not
molded for duty and possession.

I was meant to bloom, not
decorate an entropic cave, not
drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness
with the sweetness of my effervescent petals—
infusing their spoiled, sour strands.

Even in the drought,
I drank rainbows through my veins.
My tendrils breathed warmth into soil,
while the sky hid behind clumped clouds.
I stretched toward muffled sunlight.

I was meant to bloom.

And then it rained, not
to nourish or cleanse.
Poured.
Unstoppable—
the ground swelled,
my petals sagged,
roots dislodged,
my garden drenched to swamp.

Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow.
They nest in my shade,
leech my youth,
and — call it love.

Slowly,
quietly,
I sink.

Still—

Dreaming of butterflies,
even a wilt can reach the sun.
Single ray ignites its desire.

Butterflies will come
And I will bloom…
as I was always meant to.

Author’s Note:
Not everyone who stands tall is thriving.
Not every flower is there for you to pick.
For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken…
This one is personal. 🌸

The Kingdom of Sepharis

The fire was dying—just a few driftwood sticks crackling low on the sand, surrounded by scattered rocks and shells. Embers exhaled their pulsing glow as the sun sank beyond the horizon, spilling its fading citrus warmth across the beach.
Kalia sat before it. Her legs crossed at the ankles, knees pulled tight in, and chin resting atop them. The small urn cradled in her hands felt heavier than it should have. It held grief and years of unanswered questions. Too many. She asked, but her father always found a way to evade her, slipping into silence like a wisp of smoke. And now he was gone. The truth was cremated with him inside this urn.
Tears burnt her eyes, blurring the darkening clouds reflected in distant waters. The dusky sky quietly mirrored the inevitable present.

It was time.

She stood. A quiet breeze swept from behind, pushing her forward. Kalia stepped into the silver arc of wave. Her trembling hands opened the urn and tipped it. For a moment, the ashes swirled on the wind, but then a sudden gust lifted them again. In an instant, like a mini-tornado, the ashes twisted into a spiraling column of light, churning with a brilliant glow.

Kalia’s lungs locked. This contradicted her belief about scattering ashes. Perhaps the wind was playing tricks on her—in its own way, saying goodbye.
But the ashes began to gather. A face formed in the air, then a body. Her father. He stood before her, just as she remembered—whole.

Kalia froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said at last, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. The voice was his, but—it wasn’t.
“What took you so long? I told you to release my ashes during the full moon, but I didn’t mean next year!” He chuckled, but there was something urgent in his tone.
“I—” She couldn’t finish.
“Did you think I’d died?” His grin widened, flashing familiar teeth.
“Didn’t you?” she finally whispered, her eyes wide.
“Well, not exactly. But I can’t explain everything right now.” His expression turned serious.
“I am a Sepharine, Kalia. I couldn’t tell you during my time as a human, but now—I must leave you the key.” He gestured around them. “Take care of our kingdom.”

The tide stilled. The air didn’t move. Even the wind seemed to hold.
“Let the low tide guide you, and the full moon illuminate your way.”
“What?” she finally mumbled, even though she wasn’t sure if this was real. “What key?”
His face flickered and began to fade, scattering to ashes once more.
“Wait—what kingdom? Dad—”
“Don’t waste your time,” his voice echoed as the ocean roared back to life. A wave crashed against the rocks, its spray catching the remnants of ashes and pulling them into the sea.

Kalia stood motionless. Had she really seen her father? Heard his voice? Or was it just another dream—like the ones that haunted her since the funeral?
She lifted her gaze. A full moon stared back—rising. This was real.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the salty air, searching for clarity.

A low, intermittent clicking interrupted her concentration. A gentle but distinct tik-tik-tik intruded into the sound of waves. Kalia scanned the beach and spotted an emerald frog with iridescent wings. It leaped energetically along the shore, leaving soft prints on wet sand.

Kalia watched the hops with surging anticipation. The frog stopped in front of her, locking its amber eyes with hers. For a moment, none of them moved. The frog’s throat pulsed gently and its delicate wings shimmered softly in orange. Suddenly, the amphibian’s slick tongue shot forward—not to snatch prey, but to deliver something. Kalia flinched, noticing the silvery gleaming at her feet. The frog swiftly pulled its tongue back in. Then it blinked once and hopped toward the sea.

Kalia knelt and reached for the object. It was an oversized key. This must be the key her father mentioned, she thought. It felt much heavier than she expected. And it was unusually warm—almost hot.
She stepped into water, trailing the frog’s leaps.

Let the full moon illuminate the gate, she recalled.
Without thinking twice, Kalia dipped her foot in the moonlight’s reflection in water—a stretched silvery triangle shimmering like a floating lunar shawl.
She immersed the other foot and touched something. A stair. Then another.

Suddenly, the water began to part. The waves split in halves, rising up into walls on both sides. Breathless, Kalia descended until she saw a massive anemone swaying gently. The purple tentacles, as long as Kalia’s arms, pulsed—waving to her, inviting her closer.
The anemone’s mouth opened, revealing a crystal-blue hallway. Kalia stood rooted, yet she couldn’t resist leaning closer. She peeked inside the grand foyer, where the sapphire walls and ceiling bathed in luminous tranquility.

A gigantic jellyfish emerged, uncurling gracefully into a woman from the waist up.
“Welcome home, Kalia.” She spoke melodically with a smile, showing pearl-bright teeth. Her jelly-skirt pulsed with divine elegance, mirroring her brown hair, floating with delicate grace.
Kalia was captivated. This place felt like a familiar fairy tale.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” the jelly girl added, stretching her arms.

Kalia remembered her father telling her stories about a magical underwater world with mystical creatures and luminescent corals. This was what he had described. In her childhood mind, it was only a bedtime story. But now it was real.
She slipped in.

The air was moist, radiating with crystal blues—the living heart of the sea itself. Towering coral spires extended upward like guarded cathedrals, emitting gentle light. A school of electric blue fish passed by, leaving behind trails of silver stardust. Starfish and anemones pulsed with color.

But something was off. Random dark patches dimmed the glow. The kingdom was fading.

The jelly girl danced and spun happily, despite dark spots spilled like black ink on her skirt.
“I’m Tessa, your sister. Father told me so much about you.”
Kalia’s lips parted in disbelief. She had always wanted a sibling—but a half-jellyfish wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined.
“Sister?” she whispered.
Tessa laughed softly. “Believe me, I wasn’t thrilled you have legs.” She rolled her skirt and flipped above Kalia’s head. “That’s what makes up a family. It’s never what you expect, but somehow what you need.”
“Dad never told me…” Kalia shook her head, unconvinced.
“He couldn’t tell you everything. But he shared a lot. And there is so much to talk about.”
Tessa positioned herself in front of Kalia—face to face.
“I am truly glad you’re here, Kalia. I’ve waited so long. You’re exactly as I hoped.”

There was honesty and sincerity in Tessa’s eyes.
She lowered her head in silence for a while.
“Sepharis breathes life into the ocean. Through our glow, youth and balance flow into Earth.” Tessa’s voice filled with painful intensity. “But our world is dying. We rely on rainwater from the Sapphire Oak, a rare tree. It contains the substance that gives us our glow and vitality. Even a few drops could restore Sepharis.” She paused, looking Kalia in the eyes. “None of us here can survive in your world for long. It’s been too long since our father’s last delivery.”

Kalia remembered a childhood story about a magical tree growing at the foot of the mountains. But until now, she thought the unique quality of its moisture following rain was just fantasy. Meanwhile, her father had educated her through fascinating tales.
“You need me to get the rainwater from that tree?” Kalia questioned hesitantly.
“Our father’s soul is tormented and will not rest until Sepharis is healed,” Tessa continued. “Only Sepharians can extract the moisture from the tree, and only the one with the key can enter our kingdom… Father chose you.”
“Why? What am I?” Kalia’s breath shortened. She thought she was about to faint.
“You are a Sepharine, just like your father. You can survive underwater longer than others. But you are also partly human.”

Kalia staggered back. She recalled a childhood boat accident. Her mother drowned, yet Kalia survived. Doctors called it a miracle.
It all made sense—she could hold her breath longer than anyone she knew.

A sudden, sharp vibration rushed through the air, sending a shiver through the glowing kingdom.
Tessa began to shrink, curling her human body back into the top bump of a jellyfish. Her glow flickered in neons—a warning sign.
“The tide turns. Kalia, you must leave.”
“No, I have questions—” Kalia didn’t move.
“The gate will seal. We won’t survive another moon cycle. Go now!” Tessa urged.

The kingdom trembled.
The anemone’s door began to shut.
Tessa folded like an umbrella and unfurled with massive power, forcing Kalia outside the gate.
A final whisper: “Please, help us.”
A wave ripped Kalia backward. All lights vanished. The ocean roared around her.
Then fell silent.

Kalia woke on the beach. Sand clung to her clothes and skin. The rising sun peeked through billowing clouds, sending its warm rays across the peaceful water. Her father’s urn rested in the sand beside her.
Memories of last night rushed back in. It was the most bizarre dream, she thought.

Kalia rose to her knees, feeling the discomfort of the cold.
But something was in her hand.
The silver key—bigger and shinier than any other.

The kingdom was real.

She looked at the mountains and thought of her father disappearing during storms. He was a Sepharine with a purpose—whatever it might have been. And now it was hers. She had to save Sepharis and let her father’s soul rest.

She looked up. Gray clouds gathered in the distant sky.
“The rain is coming,” she whispered. “I must find that tree.” She turned sharply and strode off.

Behind the trees, three men with binoculars watched her.
“It’s her,” one whispered. “She has it in her hand.”
“The glowing jelly trace on her leg confirms it. Classification: Lumenflora—AeQ-3,” said the second with distinct precision.
“We can’t lose her,” the third ordered, sliding his binoculars into his uniform pocket.

To be continued… maybe.

Toe-morrow Never Dies: A Battle with the Bone

Don’t judge the book by the cover. And don’t judge people by… their feet!

Let me tell you a story about one bone that invaded many lives (including mine), with one heck of an attitude—almost literally.

A bunion. Not a cute name for not a cute bone. Apparently, it’s very common among women. And, with age, it becomes more pronounced—in medical terms. But in plain English: it’s annoying and ugly.

Unlike the onion, you can’t peel off its layers. But it sure can make you cry! Bunion with a B for the Brute—a Brutal Bone! Not a B for “Beautiful.” Rather, a Bitch, relentless and rebellious, that often takes center stage in my life.

When it first peeked years ago, I thought it was a sixth toe about to hatch. Yet, many Easters went by and still no ugly ducklings—just five toes and one fat ‘plumpy’ egg.

So why not cover it with shoes?

But what type of footwear can accommodate this deformation? Thought of that?

Summers are terrible: a season of Toezillas storming in the sun. Forget flip-flops on the beach. It’s like Mount Toeverest on full display. Massive and entirely unapologetic. Unconquerable.

Strappy sandals are even worse because bunions always find a way to poke through the straps. They’re like little rhinoceroses, busting out of cages through the bars, claiming their freedom.

Shoe shopping is a disaster. Nothing fits! It’s not like I’m picky—Ms. Bunion is! She deprives me of stylish choices! Constantly interfering and always getting her way. Flats? If the cut isn’t deep enough, Everest gets sliced by the edge. Pointy shoes? It’s like walking in a funnel. I’d rather stick my foot in a blender.

And don’t get me started on the fancy devices promising miracles. The commercials scream: “correct alignment,” “overnight relief,” and “back to beautiful feet.” Lies! I’ve tried them all. I’ve imprisoned my foot into toe spreaders, medieval-looking separators, nighttime braces that make you stomp like Frankenstein on heels. I even bought something called a “bunion boot” once. It looked like a snow tire attached for punishment.

I remember standing on a beach last summer, when my friend casually glanced at my foot and said, “You’ve got one of those big bones. My mom had that.” I laughed it off saying, “Yup, I do. I can’t do anything about it.”

And that’s when the story flipped.

I have no control over my anatomy, but I have the mind-power to decide how I feel about it.

I’m done feeling embarrassed! I’ve decided to give my bunion the spotlight it demands. I mean, it’s been fighting for attention for years, right?

Why do we try so hard to hide something that clearly wants to stand out? Maybe that bone was never meant to be covered. What if it’s not a deformity—but a declaration?

In ancient Greece, a high forehead was associated with wisdom and intelligence. Large ears were believed to signify wisdom and attentiveness. In some East Asian cultures, elongated earlobes are considered a sign of longevity and good fortune. A prominent nose has been linked to strength of character and leadership, especially in Roman and Greek depictions of emperors and gods. In China, women bound their feet to make them smaller because that was considered beautiful. A long neck symbolized elegance in African cultures. Thick lips indicated sensuality and fertility, especially if you were channeling your inner goddess. And if your second toe was longer than your big toe, congratulations—you were born a leader.

For centuries, people found meaning in every curve, dip, and dimple of the human body. But somehow, the bunion has been left out. No legends… or at least I haven’t found any. Why? Because it was meant for embarrassment and discomfort? No, because nobody had assigned it a magical meaning.

What if the bunion is not a flaw—but a secret sign? A mark of resilience or a fighting spirit? If this bone can endure years of bad shoes, public toe-shaming, and test gadgets from late-night infomercials, it’s clearly not just a bone—it’s a warrior!

I’m calling it the “Woman who can walk through fire.” It’s time the bunion had its myth. Beauty has always been subjective—a performance.

So the next time you notice someone stare, just confidently say, “Yeah, I’ve got a superpower.” Because you do, so own it—with style, sass, and just a hint of bad-ass Toezilla.

Toes crossed!

Incongruous

“This is wrong!” they shout.
“Don’t do it!”

I don’t want to think what’s right—
what’s right anymore?

I’ve been doing all the right things:
behaved right,
got the right degree,
married the right guy…

Still, I ended up in the wrong place—
or the wrong end
of the right place,
at most.

A precise blueprint,
yet wayward—
disarrayed,
veering off the ideal design.

I’m incomplete. Misaligned.

Isn’t that right?
For me—it’s wrong.

Why is it wrong?
I did all the right things?

Why then, amidst all these rights,
do I feel misplaced—
a lucky penny lost in a dry desert,
gleaming in the sun,
yet inconspicuous in the sand—
Blindly chasing paths
marked right or wrong.

Incongruous.

Why is it wrong,
doing what feels right?

I’m tempted to do what’s wrong—
forbidden,
There’s a thrill in rebellion,
a treasure awaiting discovery in the shadows.

But what if it’s not wrong?
And perhaps even right—
right for me.

So, if I do wrong things,
maybe at least
I’ll finally feel right.

Let’s do more wrong,
but do it right!