There was a slight thud against the rooftop as footsteps tapped across the empty concrete-- a ghost of a whisper upon the night--coming to a halt just by the building’s rim. 

Ryusei leaned over the ledge, eyes studying a silver playing card nestled in his palm. It was an elegant piece, silver tendrils interwoven across the back and a half moon upon the center in gold leaf. He let his gloved fingers run over the finish.  The emblem—and its target—pressed against his palm.

The Ace of Spades—The King’s Alexandrite.

The gem’s original theft had been legendary, its execution flawless. Every clue led, infallibly, to dead ends, until the statute of limitations had at last run out.

It was then that the web began to quiver, the murmur of loosened lips and wandering eyes revealing a trail that laid the jewel to rest just 15 stories below.

Ryusei slipped the card into his pocket and stepped onto the ledge, the heft of his equipment drawing him back slightly. The roar of the city below was faint, echoing at his feet as if underwater. He listened, heartbeat racing to the tempo of his thoughts, and stepped off the ledge.

The forest is nearly perfect. Nearly.

A knowing smile crosses Cora’s face as she watches the leaves fall in a meticulously-patterned dance from the canopy, landing in synchronized spirals over lush green grass. The coding is too rigid, with no room left for the unpredictability that comes with wind currents. It’s a small detail, something only professionals can think to point out. She cringes at the thought of that. A year and a half studying computer science and she’s considered a professional.

“Any luck?” A voice asks from a radio on her hip. Cora bends down to pick up a leaf, feeling what should be the velvety tissue of something living. But it’s stiff and tough like plastic.

“User 20394 made some rookie mistakes. But I digress, they did a decent job.” 

“Is it close enough?”

She takes a last look at the green expanse of arching trees, of wind blowing down the hillside. It almost feels like home. Almost.

“Close enough for Terra V-2? Never in a million years.”

               We dance across the ballroom floor, bodies swaying to the thrum of the song. The room is alight in revelry. We laugh and smile at each other through our paper faces, with our eyes which curve and crinkle. We are very good at curving and crinkling our eyes. We are very good at smiling.

               The midnight masquerade is beautiful this year; a night alight with the glitter and dazzle of our faces, our paper faces. Sparkling and gleaming with reflected artificial light. We are beautiful to all who watch.

               And they are always watching. Carefully, but unable to see pass the bedazzlement of our faces. We smile at them with our eyes. We sparkle. And then they shine the spotlight on one and raise him up for all to see; it’s the one with the alluring dance who smiles the best, who sparkles the brightest. They pick that one.

               That one is damned.

               We pretend he is different – an exception, an anomaly – as slowly, the pretty paper face crumbles away to reveal the rotting heart within.

I stare down at the old black lab tables. Their surfaces are scratched, decorated with poorly drawn pictures from previous years of bored students. The history teacher, Mr. Meyer, is going on about something but I’m not paying attention. To be fair, no one is. No offense to Mr. M but we just don’t care. I look at the peeling walls, covered in faded posters of our town, like the one depicting the Gourd Festival from eight years ago. I look at the lumpy gourds, sitting on hay bales. I think, I am the human equivalent of a gourd. I know, I’ll sit and sit and never move from the hay bale. I’ll get older and live in the same house I grew up in, I’ll go work a minimum wage job in the tiny world I know. My world, where living is like filling in a coloring book page; every day predictable, where I live inside the lines, inside the chalk barriers of a singular school, small plots of farmland and fast food restaurants. I am a gourd, misshapen and immobile. I am a girl who knows she will never go farther than her own backyard.

Giggles filled the air.

He and she stumbled indoors,

skin cold and cheeks pink.

His scarf came undone

in her fingers, and her face

was heated from his kiss.

Soon, their laughter was

replaced by tender silence.

Their hands held and loved.

She woke up first, around ten o’clock. Sighing, she covered her eyes with the back of her hand. They had fallen asleep late last night, and now, sunlight stretched across the room the way she now stretched on the bed. The engagement and wedding rings on her finger glinted in the light. A sigh escaped her as she turned over on her side. He was there, like always, and still sleeping soundly.

She sat up, considering making breakfast and getting ready for the day. But as if he had read her mind, he yawned loudly, almost obnoxiously, and pressed her hand over his heart.

He mumbled something about it being a Saturday. Something else about staying in bed. She smiled at his adorable affection. And when his other hand cradled her face, when he beckoned, she happily obliged.

When they finally got up, it was past noon.

I laugh with my friends. They told a funny joke. We talk about nonsense. It’s a good way to pass time in class. They’re going downtown. I have homework. I don’t care anymore.

I get home. My parents are angry. It’s the middle of the night. They say. I ignore them. That's what my friends do. I check my phone. My grades are dropping. I look at my hands. My nails are covered in acrylic.

Where are the caring hands that comforted where are the committed hands that met deadlines where are the expressive hands that communicated love and are considerate of her parents where are the innocent hands with the stubby unpolished nails? 

A tear splashes onto my hand.

     The ultramarine sky, a radiant yellow sun, branches with lush leaves looming outside the classroom window; I couldn't see any of it. My eyes could only visualize monotone colors, but it wasn't always like that. Years ago in elementary school, my parents divorced and my father left our family. Soon after, home-life became unstable as my mother tried her best to take care of me, tiring herself to the brink of exhaustion. Seeing my mom’s pitch black void of depression overtake her seeped it’s way into my own mood, making me nearly unapproachable. The drabness of going through little human interaction each day resulted in my unusual situation. Today would change it all.

     Our class was receiving a transfer student and everyone chattered about it. I didn't care of course, being sure that the new kid would just avoid me like everyone else. Finally, the teacher entered the classroom with the new student. When he stopped in the front of the room, the mystery kid began to introduce himself. Lazily, I looked up to check him out and nearly fell out of my seat in shock. The blonde turned towards me, his piercing blue eyes stabbing the monochrome room.

On snowy nights like this, I see her. I look beyond faded frost, practically skin on winter windows; she stands facing the house. She’s shivering, even tucked in her massive coat, which falls past her knees. The red one--her favorite. 

She hated winter. Sidewalks dressed with people, filthy slush, and festivity made her shudder and grumble. I wasn’t fond of the cold either, but her silly complaining kept me laughing and cozy. 

I never laugh anymore.

Worn thoughts, souvenirs of time kept thoroughly frozen, begin thawing. Pecan pie in an enamel dish. Warm rain, tulips. Sunlight. 

I can hear her giggling. We were happy.

Then the car crash happened, on a night like this. 

Bloodied pavement, crimson and stark against harsh white. 

Snow sharp as steel. 

The world grew frigid.

I peer out the window again. She’s already gone. Disappointment claws at my empty heart. She’ll come back tomorrow. She always does. But I won’t call out to her. Words die on my tongue. I can barely leave my chair. I’m just a living memory, as is she. Not real; lost to the snow.

Only one of us died the night of the accident. But I don’t know who.

The rhythmic banging of the drums left a deep, resonating vibration in my chest. The subtle yet crisp notes of the Qeej rang in my ears. The movement of the musician captivated my attention as he rose and fell while singing the instrument’s sweet notes. A man with a strong voice spoke in his native tongue over the microphone to an audience filled with people of all ages.

The front of the room is decorated with special paper in the shape of a heart. There is a large photo of their grandmother plastered in the middle. I watch as they stand some distance from the casket and get on their knees. They bow, stand, and repeat this process multiple times. Everything they are doing is unfamiliar to me. My family has long abandoned their traditional ways with Christianity being all I’ve ever known. Looking at my culture is like observing a deer within a forest. It is something so enticing, yet untouchable to those outside. With their grandmother’s death, there was an even greater loss of cultural knowledge. I watched for a few seconds longer before turning away with car keys jingling in hand.

The white snow softly fell out of the few clouds in the sky and onto the hard grey concrete. The blue sky idly hung in the sky, the light sparing a few of its yellow rays for the wall. Peter was dragged out into the courtyard by two men in grey uniforms. They tightly gripped his arms and pulled him towards the wall. The snow was red around the six foot tall concrete slab. Peter was shoved against the cold rough wall, his hands scuffed where he was pushed. A canvas bag was shoved over his black haired head. His eyes were surrounded by the utter serenity of total blackness.

“Peter Parsons, you are convicted of treason against the Supreme Chancellor Arlinghaus,” a brisk voice of an officer of the Prot. Squad bellowed, “The penalty for that is well known.

“We must carry this out in the name of my leader. You shall burn in eternal punishment Mr. Parsons.”

“Ready,” a gravelly voice groaned, “Aim, FIRE.”