My queer love story Mesh and Lace is now available for free online at Orion's Beau!
Set in a dystopia and Utopia that can't exist simultaneously, it's a story of breaking all the rules of time travel to be with the person you love. And I can't say much more without spoiling it, but it was inspired by the Modern English song "Melt With You" and I'm just very proud of it.
My horror story "Dollface" is now available for free from Max Blood's Mausoleum!
It is a horror story about the loss of ability and autonomy, and the way people treat you when you are disabled, even and perhaps especially if they are the people who love you the most.
My story "The Merchant Of Venus" is now available in Brave New Girls: Chronicles Of Curious Girls Who Create!
These middle grade anthologies feature teenage girls in STEM and the proceeds go to The Society Of Women Engineers Scholarship Fund, so I'm always excited to have a story in one.
My story this time is the culmination of a couple separate notes that have been in my ideas folder for quite a while. The first was the title, a play on the Shakespeare play, although I was never quite sure what I wanted to do with that title. I just liked it.
The second was Saul Goodman from Better Call Saul if he was a robot. Again, more of a concept than an actual idea.
And then there was this joke: what did the salesman say at the Shakespearean camping supply store's year end sales event? Now is the winter of our discount tents!
My story Lovecraft, Actually is now available in Necronomi-romcom!
It is hard to talk about exactly what inspired my story because it involves the twist at the end, but the basic idea is that scene in Love, Actually with Andrew Lincoln at the door with the cards… but he is a queer lady trying to communicate with the cosmic horror creature that is about to sacrifice her girlfriend.
I missed officially announcing this a couple months ago somehow, but my story A Plague On Both Our Houses is available in the shopping mall horror anthology Escalators To Hell!
This queer reimagining of Romeo and Juliet takes place several decades after a zombie apocalypse hit in the 90s, and two separate groups of survivors have rebuilt civilization inside a shopping mall. Technologies have evolved, but still retain that 90s retro aesthetic.
My story "The Huldra" is available in Fraidy Cat Quarterly Volume One!
It's a creepy story about a creature from Scandinavian mythology, growing up, and learning that some monsters are real… but they might not be what you expect.
In 2019, my novel Jack Jetstark's Intergalactic Freakshow was published by World Weaver Press. They were a great home for my novel for five years, and now they are restructuring and publishing only anthologies (this is a good thing, they are amazing at anthologies) so they gave the rights to my novel back to me.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D28QHL67
Over the past few months I've done some small edits, nothing major just word choice for the most part, and I have republished it in digital and paperback with the original cover art designed by Sarena Ullibarri.
And for those of you who know how important the song American pie is to this book and my journey writing it, I went to the mall yesterday. Not the time I was supposed to go to the mall. We left early for some reason. And for some reason I felt the need to go into the Hallmark Channel store. And wouldn't you know, American pie was playing the instant I walked in.
This story was originally published by Luna Station Quarterly. It contains themes of grieving over a child.
One Last Ride on the Horse with Purple Roses
By Jennifer Lee Rossman
Eleanor held the little monster’s paw as they walked through the park, ignoring the stares and laughter from passersby. This was their day, their last day, and she would not let anyone ruin it.
The world did not exist. Not politics, the economy, nor the latest scandal in the entertainment industry. None of it. The entire universe had been shrunk to a tiny, bright bubble around the two of them, and nothing could break its surface.
"Shall we get ice cream?" Eleanor asked.
Gidget nodded emphatically. "Yes, please!"
It was still strange to speak to the green monster directly, rather than having Anne relaying the conversation. He was so much fuzzier than Eleanor had ever imagined.
They walked along cobblestone paths that wound through lush gardens, some carefully tended with statuary and elaborate topiaries, and others where miscellaneous wildflowers had been allowed to grow where they pleased. Ducks and toy boats floated on the pond's glassy surface, and from somewhere far in the distance came the brassy calliope music of the carousel.
"What flavor?" Eleanor asked as they approached the ice cream cart.
Gidget thought for a moment, his fanged mouth twisting this way and that. "Strawberry," he growled finally.
"All right—"
"And chocolate. And rocky road. And I want butterscotch syrup and extra rainbow sprinkles."
Eleanor gave him a look. Perhaps Gidget's famous appetite hadn't been Anne angling for a second dessert after all. "Well, I am going to have mint chocolate chip."
"Ooh. Me too," Gidget said. "With rainbow sprinkles."
"Deal." Eleanor smiled at the ice cream man. "Two mint chocolate chips, please. One with rainbow sprinkles."
He raised his eyebrow in amusement, and his gaze traveled down her arm to the hand that held Gidget's paw. A sad recognition came over his face, and he refused her money with a pitying smile.
"I remember you and your little girl," he said as he offered her the two cones.
Eleanor's hesitation must have looked to an outsider like she didn't want to accept his charity, but it was the prospect of having to let go of Gidget's paw that gave her pause. But let go she did, and she and Gidget went to sit on a bench in the shade of a sprawling, ancient oak. Eleanor had to hold Gidget's cone for him, and all his enthusiastic licking didn't seem to make a dent in the green treat, but they both pretended not to notice.
"Can we ride the carousel after this?" Gidget asked in his grumbly little voice, licking ice cream from his nose.
A jolt of panic went through Eleanor's chest. The carousel was so close to the exit, it always marked the end of the day at the park. She couldn't bear for this day to end.
"Maybe later," she said, letting a chip melt in her mouth, trying to wring another precious few seconds from her ice cream cone. "Let's finish eating and then walk around a bit more."
Gidget nodded his agreement.
The carousel music seemed to grow a little louder.
***
Eleanor and Gidget were almost to the front of the line before Eleanor remembered that an invisible monster couldn't get his face painted. And what a sight she must have been, a middle-aged woman talking to herself and holding nobody's hand. What would people say if they saw?
Nothing they weren't already saying. Whispered pity, criticizing gossip about her mental state. As if any of them would fare better if they lost a child.
The tinkling big band music seemed closer than ever, as if they might see the bobbing carousel horses peering ominously around any tree, their painted roses and ribbons sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
To hell with what people would say. If this was the last day she would ever spend with some remnant of her daughter, Eleanor wasn't about to let sad smiles and gossip stop her from savoring it.
She looked at the sandwich board of designs the artist had propped up beside her wheelchair. "I'll take a butterfly," Eleanor said, sitting primly on the adjacent stool.
The face painter glanced around for a child before realizing Eleanor was alone.
"Yes, it's for me," Eleanor said as Gidget climbed up into her lap. "And then he would like to be a tiger."
Gidget raised his claws. "Grr."
"Okay," the artist said unsurely, dipping her brush into one of the many pools of paint laid out on her palette. With graceful movements she applied cool strokes of color to Eleanor's face, painting swirling purple wings and pink curlicue antennae. Then she looked to Eleanor's lap, where her hands were positioned as if holding an invisible child.
"A tiger, please," Eleanor reminded gently.
"With big stripes," Gidget added, though of course only Eleanor heard him.
With a humoring smile, the artist loaded her brush with paint and leaned forward, making careful brushstrokes in the air. Gidget's green fur turned orange, and though she hadn't run out of paint, the artist washed her brush in her cup of muddy water anyway and used a fresh one to add bold stripes and dainty whiskers to the monster's face.
"Is... that good?"
Gidget nodded and gave a thumbs-up.
"Splendid," Eleanor translated as Gidget scrambled down from her lap and ran off. "Wait for me!" she cried out, all but throwing money at the patient artist as she hurried after the monster.
"I want to play on the swings," Gidget said, pointing across a field to the shiny playground equipment.
"Not without me." She knew it was irrational, that fear that he might disappear if she lost sight of him. She'd kept a careful watch on Anne all through the treatments, and in the end she'd still lost her.
But she knew Gidget couldn't stay forever. What if he just slipped away while she wasn't looking, and she didn't get to say goodbye?
Gidget waited, pleading for permission to go. When she gave a tiny nod, he was off, running on his fuzzy little legs all the way to the swingsets.
"Stay where I can see you!" Eleanor called out, as if that would make any difference.
Still, the carousel grew louder.
***
They flew a kite, they fed the ducks, they picked pansies and tucked them behind their ears. All of Anne's favorite things.
Anything to stall, to keep the day going just a little longer.
But the sun was low in the orange sky and the music surrounded them, coming from every direction at once and so loud that Eleanor could hardly hear herself think.
She tried to avoid it, tried to go anywhere else in the park. But then they turned a corner, and there it was.
The carousel spun, its mirrors and filigree catching the last gasps of sunlight and casting everything in a warm glow as its sculpted horses danced to the calliope.
Eleanor's breath caught in her throat. No, no, it was too soon, but Gidget held her hand and led her to the ride and she realized that maybe it was time.
Eleanor stooped to Gidget's level and hugged him tight. It was the last hug she would ever give him, so it had to be a good one. Then she stood back with all the other parents as the carousel slowed to a stop and let another group of children board.
For one terrible second, she lost sight of Gidget among all the children, but then he popped up, seated on a white horse.
Anne's horse.
The one with the cream mane frozen in place as if in a strong wind, and its front hoof raised in an elegant prance. The one with purple roses on its bridle and saddle.
The carousel began to turn, and a tear slid down Eleanor's face.
"Which one's yours?" asked another mother.
Eleanor held her breath as the horse with the purple roses took Gidget out of sight, but he was still there when it came back around, waving his paw and grinning a big, fangy grin.
"Mine?" Eleanor knew enough not to point to the horse with the imaginary rider. "Mine was a little girl named Anne."
This was the first time Eleanor had said her name aloud, the first time she'd used the past tense. It didn't hurt as much as she thought it would.
"We used to come here," she said. "Every Saturday. She loved mint chocolate chip, and getting her face painted like a tiger. Playing on the swings. She loved the carousel most of all."
The horses went around again, and Gidget wiggled in his seat in time to the music.
"Then she got sick. I told myself I could keep her safe if I kept her at home and never let her out of my sight. I still lost her. She..." The word seemed to stick in Eleanor's mouth, like it didn't want to be spoken. "She died anyway, and she never got to ride the carousel again."
She lost sight of Gidget again, and squeezed her hands into fists. Not yet, not yet. But there he was, coming around the other side.
"I miss her every day, but Saturdays most of all. So today I did something silly. I took Anne's imaginary friend to the park, because I think he must miss her as much as I do."
The carousel began to wind down, the horses hardly bobbing. Gidget kept waving, but somehow it was different. Somehow, this was goodbye.
Eleanor waved back. "Goodbye, Gidget," she whispered. "If you see Anne, tell her I love her."
The horse with the purple roses came around again, this time without a rider. Eleanor took a deep breath to steady herself, then turned and walked away, letting the sound of the carousel fade into silence.
END
This story was originally published by Luna Station Quarterly.
Pocketful Of Souls
Every demon had its own signature look, painstakingly crafted to strike fear into the hearts of mortals.
Anzu took the form of an enormous, firebreathing bird. Moloch went for the classic "horns and an unnerving number of eyes" aesthetic. Tuchulcha, a cthonic demon who terrorized those darn Etruscans, had hair made of snakes, pointed ears, and the sharp beak of a vulture.
And then there was Amy.
Amy was not like the other demons. While they had been fated to serve the Darkness as punishment -- or, to hear the Darkness tell it, reward -- for lives filled with unspeakably heinous acts, Amy was a mere child.
No one was quite sure how her pure soul had been bound to the Darkness. Some called it a clerical error, others claimed she had been the cursed result of the union between a human and a demon. Whatever the cause, she had been touched by the Darkness now and the Light could no longer see her, so in the Darkness she remained. And every one of the Darkness's children had to earn their keep.
Amy's chosen form had none of the drama and terror of the others. She drew upon her appearance in life, giving herself big blue eyes and a mop of strawberry blonde curls. Her dress and pinafore were reminiscent of Alice, her favorite storybook character, and she wore a perfect pink bow, its ribbon matching those on her Easter basket.
"What is the basket for?" the Darkness asked.
Amy grinned, her voice trembling from her barely-contained fit of giggles. "It's where I'm going to put all of the souls!"
***
Amy couldn't read, so another demon had to draw up her contract. Other than that, she worked alone, appearing lost and on the verge of tears before desperate people all across the globe.
"I can't find my mommy," she would say, hooking a finger in her mouth and looking up at them with watery eyes that would shame any anime character. Oh, she wouldn't always say it in English. No, the Darkness translated for her, winding around the language center of her brain and rewiring her neurons so she could speak any language.
She said it tickled.
No one could resist Amy. Even the most devious murderer would find themselves stopping in their tracks, drawn to her. Invariably, they would take her hand when she offered it, and that contact was all she needed.
Time froze around them, bird wings stopped mid-flap and peoples' faces contorted by pausing in the middle of a word. The rest of the world slowly shrank away, leaving only Amy and her prospective victim.
She smiled, wiping away the tears. "You've been naughty, haven't you?"
The victim - sometimes a woman, but more often than not a man - stammered. But she knew what he was thinking.
"How could a little girl know what you've done when even the police haven't?" She shrugged. "People tell me I'm precocious, but I dunno what that means."
And then, while they were stunned by the impossible depths of her dimples, she rolled out the contract, her name already signed at the bottom in pink crayon.
"You have been a very bad man," she told him, shaking her finger in imitation of adults. "Someday, you will die, and your soul will go to H-E-L-L." Amy may have been a demon, but that didn't mean she was allowed to swear. "You don't want your soul to go there, do you?"
He shook his head, eyes wide with fear.
"Well, then maybe you should sell it to me. You'll still go to H-E-L-L when you die, but you'll do chores for us instead of being tortured."
Amy couldn't quite pronounce "corrupt the heathens to help bring about Armageddon," so she called it "chores" instead.
The man signed. They always signed, even the most devout believers in their faith, because they knew they would never be able to earn forgiveness from the Light, even through a lifetime of penance. If only they knew the Light didn't particularly care for penance and that its forgiveness could easily be bought with a good loaf of banana bread, the Darkness would have been very lonely indeed, but that particular revelation had never made it into the holy books, and so Amy's latest victim sold his soul like all the others.
Amy put the soul in her basket and started up time again. She liked to make the souls look like chocolate bunnies; sometimes, when the Darkness wasn't looking, she would nibble on them a bit.
***
The Darkness had too many souls. It knew this for a fact, because it counted them every day. Couldn't have the Light accusing it of stealing any, not after that incident with the unbaptized babies. (The Darkness couldn't help if one of its demons had misread her own holy book and taken it upon herself to start a heathen nursery.)
And the numbers were definitely off. Not by one or two, which could be explained by the same processing error that made the odd soul go missing, but by hundreds.
The extraneous souls were hardly perfect. If the Light came looking for them, it could be argued that all of their little transgressions added up and that they truly belonged down there. The Darkness certainly had enough lawyers to argue that case. But the Darkness generally favored the deeply evil humans, having no real need for litterbugs and people who recorded Yankees games without the express written permission of Major League Baseball.
A quick check of the Darkness's computer -- which, being in Hell, naturally ran Windows Vista -- revealed that all of the wayward souls had been purchased by one demon.
The Darkness looked over the top of the monitor. If it had possessed eyes, it would have narrowed them.
Amy sat on a blackened island amid the lava that made up the floor, humming to herself and playing with dolls.
Dolls which the Darkness did not remember giving her.
Perhaps this Amy child belonged with the Darkness after all, if she was so devious as to turn souls into playthings.
***
Amy approached the man as she always did, doing her best to play the part of a lost little girl. She'd even rubbed some dirt on her dress to really sell the illusion.
"Mister?" she said quietly. English this time; she didn't want the Darkness tagging along on this trip.
The man turned around, stopping in his tracks when his gaze fell upon the little girl. "Oh. Hello."
"I can't find my mommy," Amy said, extending her hand. But he didn't reach for it, choosing instead to swivel on the spot, searching the busy streets of London.
"Oh dear. What does she look like, sweetheart?"
Amy couldn't touch him. He had to initiate; that was the rule. "She's tall," she said, making her voice sound even younger than she looked. "Real tall, with pointy shoes and yellow hair. Please, Mister. I'm afwaid."
No adult could resist the cutesy "W instead of R" trick. That was how she'd nabbed Jack the Wipper's soul.
The man bent to her level, his face all soft and sad. She let a single tear fall down her cheek, and saw the exact moment his heart broke.
"Oh, you poor thing!" The instant his hand touched hers, the bustling pedestrian traffic halted, and the man gasped at the utter lack of movement and sound. "What is this?" he whispered.
Amy dropped the cute act in favor of a more business-like attitude. She was still a five-year-old girl with enormous eyes and dimples for days, of course, so the effect was negligible. But she pronounced all of her Rs.
"I know what happened," she said, breaking from her usual script. "With your husband."
Grief replaced the man's terror, and he put his hand to his heart. "It was an accident. I got angry when he told me, but I didn't mean to--"
"I know," she assured him. "And more importantly, the Darkness knows."
"The... Darkness?"
"Some people call it Hades, or Lucifer... I call it Dar-Dar when we're being silly." Amy shrugged. "But that's not important. Someday, you're going to die, and the Light is going to take you to Heaven unless you give me your soul."
The urgency of her voice confused the man. "Why would I want to give you my soul, if I'm supposed to go to Heaven?"
Her answer was simple. "Because he isn't there."
Amy rolled out the contract. It was messy and misspelled, not to mention written on the back of an envelope, but she hadn't dare let another demon help her with this one.
The man signed it without a second thought, and time started up again as Amy took the man's soul. She turned it not into a chocolate but rather a little doll, and tucked it into her pocket.
***
Later that night, when all the other demons were asleep or doing chores, Amy crawled out of bed and took out the box she hid behind a pile of brimstone. Hundreds of teeny dolls smiled up at her blankly, each one holding another doll's hand. Some were enveloped in a great group hug.
Only one lacked companionship. Amy took him out, and pulled the newest one from her pocket. Their painted-on smiles never changed, but she could feel them see each other for the first time.
Under her breath so the Darkness couldn't hear, Amy gave them voices.
"I missed you so much!"
"Me too. What are you doing here? I hope you didn't sell your soul."
"I did, but I won't have to do evil things. I sold it to Amy, not the Darkness."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't want to go to Heaven if you aren't there. I don't care about the bad stuff you've done. I love you."
"I love you too."
And then she made them kiss before tucking them back into the box. Their hands were already locked together, and nothing would be ever able to separate them.
This story was originally published by Luna Station Quarterly; it is no longer available online so I am reprinting it here.
It includes themes of depression and the stigmatization of anti-depressants, so keep that in mind as you enjoy
Depth and Meaning
By Jennifer Lee Rossman
I wipe the sweat from my face, leaving a streak of robin's egg blue across my forehead, and step back on my platform. If I squint, the brushstrokes almost resolve into the highlights and shading of a cumulonimbus summer evening, but I can't see the sunlight dancing on my skin yet, can't hear the thunder grumbling ominously in the distance with the promise of rain.
I lean on the cool metal railing and look down the length of the wall where a dozen other pictomancers are hard at work on their sections of the mural. My sister Dex's hair ripples gently in a breeze that comes from nowhere as she expertly sets down layer after layer of paint just so, and a small puddle shimmers on the stone floor as another artist perfects the rivulet in his dry river bed.
Even the children, with their heavy hands and uncertain brushwork, elicit a chirp of birdsong now and then as they fill in the forest at the edge of town.
What am I doing wrong?
I wave a hand over the control panel, and my cherry picker lowers with a tired groan. It runs just as well on magic as it does on electricity, but that doesn't mean it has to like it. Tech doesn't always appreciate reminders that it isn't in charge anymore, or that it never really was.
Stepping off the platform and walking across the old church, taking care to avoid overturning any of the many paint cans scattered about, gives me the perspective to see the mural as a whole.
It's a landscape, at least it will be when it's done, a sleepy farming town plagued by the drought of a century and bordered by an endless forest and hazy blue mountains. The town is a metropolis now, the forest a single tree in a micropark, but the mountains are still there, hiding somewhere beyond the smog.
Each section of the mural, which stretches from floor to vaulted ceiling and takes up an entire wall, comes alive with the unique style of the artist. Dex's clouds spiral like a Van Gogh fever dream, their wisps reaching out to make friends with Elara's brighter, almost Fauvist shapes. The road tracing through the town winds around Matthias's delicate fences and Carly's bold cubist buildings, trees made of single brushstrokes and trees so detailed that you can see the texture of their bark.
The blank swaths of wall show the sketched-in pencil marks of the elders, waiting for us to paint-by-numbers the magic in. I colored inside the lines, I did everything the others have done.
So why aren't my clouds fluffy? Why don't they take on fanciful shapes? Why are they just flat, cloud-shaped clouds?
The dried paint on my knuckles cracks as I flex my hands, jagged lines of brown skin cutting through the spatters of blues and grays, and I feel the magic course through my joints. I just can't transfer it to the canvas the way I used to.
My head throbs. Too many hours of straining both my eyes and my magic. I go down the aisle between the pews, tracing the footsteps of countless brides and babies and caskets, stopping at what used to be the altar but has become something of craft services for us painters.
Ronaldo, resting on an old plastic lawn chair in the kaleidoscopic light of a stained glass window, smiles from beneath their elder hood. "It's coming along nicely, isn't it?"
I make a noncommittal gesture as I look through the food for something with caffeine. "Not my section. I should be better at this by now, shouldn't I? People used to tell me I'd be an elder by the time I was twenty."
"Elder" is a bit of a misnomer, as most of them are no older than myself. Maybe Circe in in xyr thirties. In the old days, when our kind were still persecuted as witches, you got to be an elder by being, well, elderly, but sometime around the industrial revolution, the term evolved to mean the people who were most connected to the magic inherent in the universe.
Most of them end up being outside the gender binary, like me, people who just didn't feel comfortable being forced into a male or female box. I identify on the feminine end of the spectrum and am comfortable with she/her pronouns, but parts of my body will never feel like they truly belong and the idea of people seeing me as soft and nurturing is just abhorrent to me.
That combined with my once-prodigious skills with magic made people think I was destined for elderhood, but something hasn't felt right lately and I can't identify it. Just a nameless emptiness, like a black hole in my chest, slowly expanding and consuming everything in its path.
Not only the good emotions, either. The bad ones, the neutral ones, the get up and go
But we don't talk about those things.
Society only accepted us witches once we convinced them we were pure, unsullied by negative feelings that could lead to us turning people into toads and cursing their land. Which aren't even things we're capable of, but that was beside the point. Those not touched by magic had it in their heads that we can do evil, so we have to be perfect.
Always calm, always smiling, don't let them see that you're human because humans are scared, angry things who let their fear and anger destroy the things they love most. They'll blame this drought on us first chance they get, even though we're the ones exhausting ourselves to bring rain.
"Your clouds are lovely," Ronaldo says, though I don't think I'm imagining the slight disappointment in their eyes.
None of the food looks good, and only decaf coffee is left. "My head is killing me. Do we have any aspirin?"
They look at me, mouth a tight line.
"I know," I say, "but it's interfering with my work."
Reluctantly, they hand me a bottle from a first-aid kit stowed beneath their chair. I smile my gratitude and down a pill with a glass of water. I feel the spirits dissolving almost instantly in my stomach, breaking free from the capsule and flowing into my body.
Ronaldo gives me a look of mild disapproval.
Most people don't think it's right to let spirits in so freely. I get it. I mean, it's technically a minor demonic possession, and yeah, that sounds unnatural, but there are literally spirits all around us. A hundred billion humans have lived and died on this little blue marble, and that figure doesn't take into account all the animals.
The air is absolutely lousy with spirits. They enter our bodies with every breath; all the necromancers do is concentrate them in capsules and give them a purpose. Once they serve that purpose--in this case, relieving the pounding in my head--they leave the body and go on with their afterlives.
It's not worth having that argument again, so I just smile and go back to work.
***
I wash my hands at the end of the day, watching the water strip the clouds and sky from my skin as they swirl down the sink. All the colors that promise a heavy downpour, washed away by water we can hardly afford to waste.
The drought isn't dire yet, and the city gets its water from a few different sources, so we'll be okay for a bit even if they start drying up. But the supermarkets are down to pre-packaged foods and we're reaching a breaking point. The seers at every paper are predicting another dust bowl.
My apartment is dark, save for the fairy lights glowing dimly along the tops of the walls. I don't dare turn them up; the little creatures inside need massive amounts of water to generate their electricity. Their sleepy ambient light is sufficient for me to walk without tripping over my cat.
I should rest, but I drift over to my easel instead. Its half-finished sketch taunts me, the charcoal rose exuding a faint sweet scent from the canvas. Every time I try to finish it, the smell fades, little by little. A few more lines and it won't smell like anything but failure.
On the walls, other pieces of art come to life. Grasses sway in their own personal breeze, stars twinkle, crickets sing out.
My early work, from before this happened, this thing we don't talk about because naming it gives it power. I've hardly touched my supplies in months; if not for the mural project, I might have given up completely.
That's a terrifying thought, that something can so easily sap anything resembling joy from your life without you even realizing. That I could just put down my brush one day and never pick it up again,
This used to be my purpose. How did I lose it?
Cassidy, my fat calico, leaps onto a stool and mrowls at me.
"Volunteering to be my model?" I ask with a tired smile.
The charcoal and paper are right there, waiting, but I don't reach for them. As long as I don't try, I can't fail. Can't feel the frustration of going through the motions and having nothing come of it.
That all-too-familiar void forms in my chest, sucking at the framework of my soul and threatening an implosion. What if this is all there is? What if I can't find that spark ever again? What am I if not an artist, and does it even matter anymore if the world is going to hell and we're all screwed?
I bite my knuckle hard enough to leave red marks that will last for hours, just to bring myself back to the present. I can't let myself get caught in that spiral, like colors washing down the drain, because it won't stop. I get trapped, one tear turned to a night of sobbing into my pillow, my life turned completely hopeless.
I can't do that again, so I force myself to pick up the charcoal and put it to paper.
Cassidy sits for me as I scratch out her form in quick strokes, but my hand moves without any real input from me. Just going through the motions.
The drawing comes together with little effort--I have the talent, I know I do. I can break down an image into its basic lines, get the proportions right and add all the little highlights and shadows just so.
It looks like a cat. Looks just like Cassidy. But the paper doesn't purr, doesn't feel like warm fur under my hand.
There's no life on the page.
***
The next day is Sunday, but the drought doesn't take a day off so neither do we, filing into the old church and opening cans of paint.
My sister and I share a platform today, and enjoy good-natured ribbing as we steal each other's brushes and see how much paint we can get in the other's hair without being noticed. It feels good to laugh, but it does nothing for my magic, and Dex has to point this out.
"Your clouds aren't as soft as mine." She says it like she's bragging, and I know she means no offense but it still hurts. "Am I finally the better artist?"
If there's anyone in the world I can confide in, it's Dexter. She's the first person to know all my secrets. When I kissed a girl in middle school, when my magic accidentally caused that blackout, when I thought I was a man, when I knew I wasn't a man but still not quite a woman.
If I can't tell her, safe way up here in the painted sky, I don't think I can tell anyone.
"There's something wrong with me, Dex."
She swirls her blues and grays into the color of falling barometric pressure. "There's something wrong with all of us."
"Not like this," I say quietly, and check to make sure everyone else is too preoccupied by their own work to eavesdrop. "I'm..." The word sticks in my mouth. "I'm depressed."
The way she turns sharply and looks at me, she reminds me of our mother. Dex's skin and hair is lighter--from the Caucasian half of her sperm donor's family--but those are Mama's eyes, critical and hard, and just like that I'm a child again and I don't understand why I'm in trouble.
"Say something, Dex."
"What do you have to be depressed about?"
It isn't an accusation. More of a plea. Please have a reason because we can fix that, because we can help if there's a reason.
I've tried to find a reason. Searched my life for anything that could cause this feeling of impending doom, but there isn't one. I'm at a happy place with my gender, don't want a romantic relationship. I'm not rich but I don't have to worry about money, my health is good, I love my family...
Yes, the drought seems endless and there are always political extremists trying to outlaw magic, but plenty of people have to deal with this and they can still follow their joy.
Or maybe they just hide it better.
Part of me expects Dex to react badly, to hush me and say that we don't talk about those things, but she's just like our mother. Maybe too much.
"You're so lucky," she says with a small smile. "It might not seem like it now, but your suffering will give your art depth and meaning."
That's what Mama used to say, but she didn't live long enough to reach meaning.
Her depression killed her first. Maybe Dex was too young to know that, maybe she still thinks it was the spirits in the pills that killed her, not how many Mama took, how many she washed down with another kind of spirit.
Well, that settles that, I guess. No way I can talk to Dex about taking anything for this. She might be the most loving and open-minded person I know, but she'll never let me take pills.
Suddenly the world feels like it's going to collapse in on me. I have to get off this platform, away from Dex and her smiling insistence that I'm lucky to have this thing inside me, eating away at my hope and whispering little lies in the quiet moments about how much better everything will be when I'm gone.
"I need more paint," I mutter, though the platform is full of every color I could possibly need. I duck under the safety railing and climb down the cherry picker, not sure where I'm going. Just away.
Out of the church, onto the busy street. I find an empty plaza that should be a bustling market, but no farms have enough crops to make the trip worth the fuel, and I sit on a bench and try not to fall apart.
I don't know if talking about the demons really gives them power or if I only feel infinitely worse because I just lost the support of the one person who truly matters. I just know it all feels so hopeless and those lying whispers in the back of my head are screaming now, and they don't all sound like lies anymore.
Of course they don't need me to paint the mural. I'm not doing any good there, anyway.
Yes, there are people who love me. Cassidy. But I've lost people, and I got through it. So would they.
And what if I never find something that makes me happy again? Is it fair to force myself to slug through a life of pain?
"Oh, child," comes a soft whisper.
I look up to see Ronaldo standing above me, their robes traded in for a tank top that puts all their living tattoos on display and doesn't risk heatstroke in this oppressive sun.
"You're not supposed to read people's minds without their permission," I mutter halfheartedly, scooting over to give them room to sit beside me.
"That would be like telling you not to read a neon sign flashing everywhere you look," they say as they sit. "Your emotions are flashing, Emi. Big hazard lights all around you. I can't help but read it." They talk with the easygoing concern of a grandparent, and I almost forget that we went to school together. "Tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing. That's the problem. There's nothing to fix, so this is just the way I am, and now I've talked about it with Dex and given it power."
"That isn't true."
I frown. "Which part?"
"All of it, Emi."
Those words seem to skip my ears and brain entirely, going instead straight to my heart. I grasp desperately to the miniscule bit of hope they create there.
"This isn't the way you are," Ronaldo says earnestly. "It can't be, because I know you and you're not miserable and hopeless. That's the depression."
I stiffen at the word.
"Depression," they say again. "Depression. Words have a lot of power, you're right. Maybe as much as art. But talking about mental illness doesn't give it power." They point to my chest. "It gives you power."
For a second I don't recognize the emotion that jolts through my body and causes me to let out an ugly sob, but I think it might be relief.
"I don't know who first said we're not to talk about these things," Ronaldo says, "and I don't know why we all let the power of their words seep into our minds, but I do know they've never had a mental illness because if they did, they would know the best thing you can do is talk about it."
They put their hand on mine, their grinning pin-up girl tattoo waving to me from their forearm. Petunia, as they call her, exudes confidence and happiness, a testament to the artist's skill with magic.
Ronaldo sees me looking at her and says, "She's not real. Nothing but ink and intention, but she gives me strength because I chose to let her be part of me. We can choose what beliefs we let in, too, and it's important that we don't let in the harmful ones in. Talking will make it better, and the people who lie to you about that don't want you to be powerful."
"But what if talking isn't enough?" I whisper, as if speaking to loudly will extinguish the flickering hope in my heart. It isn't that I want medication. I don't. I'd much rather be able to do it with willpower and support, but I need it to be an option.
And... I hate to even think this way, but what if I don't have time for talking? Mama probably thought she had time.
Is it okay not to want pills but know you might need them while you work on more internal methods of healing?
Ronaldo nods slowly, absorbing the desperation of my thoughts. "It's dangerous to put anything in your body," they say finally. "Food and old world medication included. You can never guarantee the safety of any substance, nor the way your body will react to it." They stare, unfocused, at the passing traffic, introspective. "Spirit pills... are an advancement that will be invaluable when the process is perfected."
I slump back against the hard bench. One time. One documented time, a malevolent spirit got past the screening process, was put into a cough suppressant, and possessed a child until she drew sigils on the wall in blood.
It happened one time, and now everyone is afraid to take pills that could really help them.
"And of course," Ronaldo says, "the pills for mental illnesses are designed to last longer than a simple allergy pill. I cannot in good faith condone anyone letting themselves be possessed for an indefinite period of time, but that's a decision you're going to have to make for yourself."
They say it without judgment or bias, but it still feels like there's a right answer and I'm never going to choose it.
***
When the drought got really bad, the Elders devised a grand plan.
Get all the art mages together, they proclaimed. Everyone who can turn paint or ink into something more. Bring them together, and we'll pool their magic to create the most powerful spell the world has ever seen.
With enough people painting their magic with a singular goal, they promised, the mural will do more than stir the air into a warm breeze. More than turn the smell of turpentine into bright floral scents.
The mural will summon a rainstorm. Torrential downpours to quench the thirsty land, to bring life back to the soil.
For a while, as we laid down the first coats, our spirits lifted. We could see the storm clouds on the horizon, hear the patter of rain on the sidewalks.
But that initial surge of hope faded, for me at least. I can't speak for the rest of them. It started to feel like a chore, and the shadow of despair that had been lingering in the back of my mind for years slowly crept its way to the front until it was everywhere and in everything I did.
The pills creep slowly, too. Little by little, each spirit breaking down the walls my brain put up to protect its faulty wiring.
The pills don't play well with my body. Headaches, nausea, dizziness. Painting is impossible, and every cell in my body screams at me to stop, that I'm only making it worse. That I'm being possessed.
But those are lies.
Pills or no, I can't paint, and maybe the physical discomfort is worse, but there's no way to make me feel worse than I already did.
As for the possession... Yeah, it's terrifying to let a spirit play around in my skull. What if it's changing me, replacing my personality piece by piece? Would I even notice if I stopped being me?
But here's the thing: I'm already being possessed by something that's changing who I am. Depression is an evil little thing that has taken root inside me, and its only goal is to break me down and build me up in its image.
I am not quiet. Withdrawn. Miserable.
I am not directionless. Without passion.
I am not what depression has made me.
***
The pills have the unfortunate effect of making sleep elusive while simultaneously exhausting me. The days run together in a foggy soup, and I sit awake at night, idly doodling and listening to the sirens of a desperate city.
Riots have begun springing up every night. The thirsty and the water hoarders are at war; it isn't just a farm problem anymore. I gave as much as I could afford to, but I had a cat to keep in addition to myself.
As if on cue, Cassidy mrows beside me.
"I know, baby," I murmur. "But you don't have to worry; I'll go thirsty before you do. Promise."
Cassidy pokes her head in the window, gives me an inquisitive look as if to ask who I'm talking to.
I sit up straighter. Has she been on the patio this whole time? But then who just mrowed?
I look at the paper I've been doodling on. Just a mess of inky scribbles, for the most part, but there, in the corner... A cat. A crude, half-smudged interpretation of a cat, but a cat all the same.
And as I stare, it blinks.
Goosebumps prickle at my skin, but I don't dare hope. I'm tired. Hallucinating. That's it, just another adverse side-effect of having a spirit take up residence in my body.
I get a clean sheet of paper, put my shaking pen to it.
The lines are imprecise, the shading and highlights lacking in depth, but I feel it. That tingle of magic in my hand.
I nudge the paper, and the image ripples, sloshing at the edges and turning the paper soggy. When I touch my finger to the page, it comes up wet.
But that isn't ink.
With a laugh of joyous disbelief, I leave Cassidy lapping at the water I've drawn and I run. Out of the apartment, down the street, and straight to the church.
The mural looms in the shadows, sporadic shards of light breaking through the holes in the ancient roof. On the surface, it looks finished, but I can see it now. The gaps in the way my clouds were painted, where the magic doesn't shine through.
I grab some paints and ride the cherry picker up to the sky. In my giddy haste, I realize I've forgotten brushes.
I dip my fingers in the paint, letting the silky blues and whites and grays blend in my hands, my skin giving their colors dark streaks where the paint is thinner. It's a stormcloud in the palms of my hands.
The magic flows from my soul to the mural, every fingerprint bringing the paint to life.
I don't have to force it, I don't even have to think about it. It's as easy and natural as breathing. I can do it with my eyes closed, feeling where each color should blend into the next.
Thunder whispers in the distance. I paint faster, with more vigor. It must look haphazard, like I'm slapping colors without regard for how they look, like I'm just trying to make a mess. But the wall is speaking to me, guiding my hands as they slide through the thick paint.
I'm too close to see the mural as a whole, and yet I can see the entire picture. The trees dancing in the wind, the sky growing dark, the first streak of lighting--
A flash briefly casts my shadow on the wall in stained glass light. The resulting rumble rattles the old saints immortalized in the windows.
The wind picks up my hair, twirls it in the wet paint and leaves thin brushstrokes in the cloud.
My heart is beating in my ears, my breath coming in fast gasps.
A single drop of cool rain falls through the holes in the roof, landing on the tip of my nose, and for a second, the world holds its breath.
I press one final handprint to the mural, and the sky erupts in rain that falls like static and applause.
I can't hear my laughter over the downpour, can't tell my tears apart from the raindrops, but I stand there on the cherry picker and welcome it. Let it soak into me, washing the paint from my skin in a swirling river.
END