It was 1942. We stood before the trains, suitcases packed with the most precious and necessary of possessions. We stood there in ignorance, denial, by the thousands. I held Papa’s hand and watched his face intently, but he stared ahead, at the trains, at the backs of heads before him, and ignored me. My mother held my little brother and told him that we were going to a camp called Zaslaw, with other Jews, more work, and better conditions. Yes, there would be other Jews, and yes, there would be more work. To this day I don’t know if she knew what was in store for us, or if she believed what she said to my brother. Papa knew, though. The stories of camps that had spread through the town were true, and Papa knew all along. But at the time, Sanok was not safe for us. Jews were being taken to the cemetery and shot. We knew with every echoing gunshot that the odds were growing against us, the odds of life and death.

The Germans slid open the wooden doors and shuffled us into the trains. We stepped into the first circle of Hell. The bitter wind of winter was soon forgotten, soon wished for. Hundreds of us filled each cattle car, and, like cattle, we weren’t even left room to sit down or remove our heavy winter coats. We stood, our bodies pressing against one another, and the doors were closed shut, locking us in without air or light. It only took seconds before I felt the fears of claustrophobia begin to sink in. Breath becoming quick and shallow, I closed tight my eyes and tried to remove myself from the car. The air was thick and hot from mixed breathing and sweat of others, it seemed to stick to the back of my throat with every breath I drew. I didn’t want to share the limited air so I tried to inhale as much air as I could before it all soured. It was souring, I could taste it. Gasping, tears trickled down my face, feeling almost cold upon my heated cheeks, my head grew hollow and light, my body went cold. And then, darkness.

It’s hard to say how long I was out. In our wooden boxes, the sun neither rose nor set. Time could only be measured by the lolling movement of the train, and even then, it seemed to lose itself in dark stillness. The support of pressed bodies kept me standing even while I was unconscious, no movement was allowed in such tight space. Had it been minutes? Hours? Ah, it felt like days. My stomach knotted and spasmed in painful hunger, my bladder tight and throbbing. I told myself we would arrive soon. I counted in my head. Upon reaching 2,673, my bladder finally gave and I wet myself, the smell of dehydration mixing with the smell of all other body excretions released by my fellow prisoners. I prayed my parents standing beside me wouldn’t notice. They stood silent as ghosts, staring into nothing, unstirred by nothing, not even the growing cries of my brother. It was if they were already dead, as if they saw something I didn’t and just didn’t have it left in themselves to care. No, they were already gone, and I was thankful at the time that they didn’t see me, smell me. But my modesty and shame were soon to be lost, stripped by the hands of Nazi Germany.

How long had we been traveling? Hours, days, years? Surely, it had been years, I could see how all of our faces had aged. We were animals. I had lost all sense of being human. I was tired, scared, hungry, degraded. When was the last time I had bread or water? I couldn’t remember. But by this time, the pain had subsided into a dull ache rather than sharp pains. I felt hollow, my body lacking any stability, strength. After an extended amount of time being physically restrained by limited room, deprived of circulating air, one begins to go a little crazy. I knew I was only hours, maybe even minutes away from insanity. The weeping of women and children filled the boxcar, the low moans of the discouraged and frightened. Yes, this was the beginning of torture, and we didn’t think it anything could be worse than the conditions on the train, nor the possibility of being shot in Sanok. In a matter of days, I would be praying to be back on the train, or for the mercy of being shot and killed instantly. Yes, I would pray for death.

Stepping out of the car was undoubtedly the best moment of my life, the cold air hitting my face, entering and burning my lungs with splendid freshness. The Germans immediately herded us towards large concrete buildings, yelling at us in foreign tongues, “Bewegung, jüdische Schweine!”

“Papa, what are they saying?” My father knew some German from when he was in University as a young man. He looked at my mother, then to the muddy ground and, without looking up, said, “They are calling us Jewish pigs.” My mother began to weep. And then Osher began to weep, not because he understood that we were being insulted, but because he was only five years old and he was frightened by my mother’s sobs. The Germans wore long coats and carried large guns, but not nearly as large as the words they yelled at us, and I wanted to turn around and get back onto the train. But I had to remain brave, for Osher, for Mother, even for Papa. We stood in endless lines before the concrete buildings and the Germans began to separate us into two lines. Mother and Osher were told to move into line with thousands of other women and children, and I expected it was simply to make the process go faster. But my mother began sobbing hysterically, yelling, “Ari! Ari! Do not let them take us!”

Papa stepped towards her to take her hand, saying, “Do not worry, Raisa. We will be reunited soon. Trust me. We will all be together and safe as soon as everything is sorted out.” A soldier saw my father step out of his line and bludgeoned him in the stomach with the butt of his gun and my father fell helplessly to his knees, sinking into the mud, holding his stomach and gasping for air. This made Osher cry again and my mother grabbed hold of the soldier’s arm, pleading for mercy for my father. He jerked his arm away for her and motioned for her to get back in line. She did as she was told and helplessly watched my father struggle to get back onto his feet, shamed.

The gardener, the planter of seeds,
Attempted to plant a seed, his seed,
In the fertile soil of a young mother.
He pulled at her arms, her legs
Like unwelcome weeds,
And her child, a small child, cried.
She cried while sitting helplessly upon
The living room floor,
A budding life in the midst of a storm.
The gardner, the planter of seeds,
Fucked the mother of a child of three,
Then washed his hands of the fertile soil,
As indifferent as the snake writhing
Among the bush.

We lay on our backs, pillows
From the couch beneath our
Heavy heads, carpet sinking beneath the
Dead weight
Of our bodies, encasing us like
Plaster casts.

The music enters our
Ear canals and
Vibrates the ear drums,
Soft melodies tapping rhythm
Against tightly pulled tissue.
Acoustics only.

The trains begins to inch forward,
Departure ever near.
Whole rests between
Whole notes.
Tension builds as the snare fades in.
The train gathers speed,

Pulling out of the station onto
Open tracks.
Quarter, eighth, eighth.
Pace quickens, strings being
Strummed with calloused fingertips.
Our bodies are in

Motion, green scenery
Speeding past the window in an
Instrumental blur.
Full speed now.
Several minutes bring us to
Our destination, then the

Sudden stop. Only the
Sharp sound of sticks
Slapping the snare softly.
The train waits for the new
Passengers, and finally begins to creep
Forward. The snare builds.

Faster. Louder. And finally,
The acoustic notes break the
Repetition, resonating.
The journey begins again,
The new destination, the new crowd, a
Climax of musical travel.

We feel the rickety tracks below
Our bodies
As they sway side to side,
Keeping tempo. Closer to the end,
Approaching the final station.
The violin breaks in, strings pulled for the

Slowing conclusion. And then, it fades,
A decrescendo of sound and
Movement, and we lay as ghosts,
Eyes closed,
Experiencing the song.
We are nothing more than souls in a station.

I sat upon a hilltop's crest, an extending grassy pallet beneath me, long blades engulfing only my legs at first. I watched the flaming sun lower slowly to the horizon's surface, melting, orange and red bursting silently then flowing onto the distant earth, rays of light stretching in all directions. The birds, singing tones of yellow and gold, fell silent as the sun descended below view, sinking into the vast ocean of burning green. I fell upon my back, arms outstretched, palms like plains, flat, feeling the pointed tips of blades that finally folded beneath their fleshy weight.

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
-Macbeth
William Shakespeare



They sat together in her car, in the employee parking lot behind the cafe downtown. Street lamps hummed and clicked, moths dancing through the light as it spilled into the night sky. They both smoked cigarettes, smoke hanging in the thin air, filling the car, the cracked windows just enough for them to stick out their cigarettes and ash with the flick of the thumb on the yellowing filter. The girl in the driver's seat spoke.

"Sometimes I see people and when I look at them, I feel their sorrow, their misery. I can tell they are unhappy, and I wish I could trade them my happiness, what little bit I have, so they might not suffer. Sometimes. I feel such overwhelming grief for complete strangers that I almost cry. Maybe it's pity. I like to not think of it as that, but rather as the deepest degree of understanding.

So many times I have seen the pained expression of someone running with all determination through neighborhoods, and I wish to run alongside of them and tell them to keep going, to push through the physical pain. I see aging women dining alone, a ring absent from their finger, a look of defeat in their eyes, and I wish to say to them that someone is looking for them in return, that love will find its way. I wish to kiss the scars upon the wrists of young girls who try to cut away the feelings of worthlessness and insecurity, and to the girls with the hollowed out eyes who spend hours before their bathroom mirror, I wish to kiss their hands and tell them how truly beautiful they are.

To old men who have seen the troubles of the world and whose worries show in the wrinkles of their skin, I want to give them my smile and nod in appreciation, I want them to see what a life they have lived! The poor beggar on the street corner, to him I would give my respect and compassion. Oh, and the children of our time. To them I would give them the greatest of all gifts if I could, the gift of innocence, protection from all things cruel.

But who am I to save mankind? I am only one person, one who will be forgotten in time. Even the echoing of my footsteps will fade away. If I could, I would take the pain and fears of all onto myself. I am no better than them, and it is not likely that I am a single degree happier than they, for I suffer greatly too. But I have experienced moments of great contentment and calm, moments I would give up so readily. Am I self-righteous? I myself think not, for my skin bears scars born from self-hatred. I think myself not worth what happiness I have been given. I am not. Not worth such blessings and opportunities. I may not even be worthy of my scars, which bleed such crimson passion.

But who am I? Not God, not anyone great. Not even the ripple of change. What have I given those whom I feel so deeply for? I have given them not enough, but undoubtedly I have given them a miniscule piece of myself. Have we lost all ability to feel? I know not when, nor how, our cheeks turned from each other, our eyes, unconsciously, shielded themselves of shades and hues we would rather not envision. We are, we are, the flame of compassion. And we will surely burn out."

The car was silent. The girl searched the lines and shadows of her face, then pushed closed the mirror upon her visor. And alone she sat for several minutes.

“Others live on in a careless and lukewarm state - not appearing to fill Longfellow's measure: 'Into each life, some rain must fall.'”
-Mary Todd Lincoln


The woman sat outside on the back porch. The mountains were covered in a thick fog, a cool air engulfing it all. She listened to the rain gathering in the gutters attached to the roof, the sound of soft clanks against the tin, and the sound of the water being released on the side of the house. Out of the ashtray that lay on the table beside her, the woman took a half smoked cigarette and lit it with a match, the smell of burning chemicals released from the flame, and, as she inhaled with the cigarette to her lips, she tasted the sulfuric sweetness. Gleaming raindrops clang to the leaves of nearby brush, until finally, they stretched and fell to the damp ground.

And what of this thing we call love? It is nothing but a storm that consumes, silent inside the eye, always moving quickly past, until we reach the outer boundaries, the edge, and then it is gone. What are we but the ground soaked by falling raindrops? But the moisture never remains, it seeps deeper into the soil, absorbed by the need of it, the lack of it all. The woman was as damaging as raging winds, destroying all that enters her path, bringing down trees whose roots do not grow deep enough. She was as temporary as the drops holding firmly to leaves, molecules sticking together to form something bigger, something whose weight would pull it down eventually.

Her interest, her desire, was like that of addiction to cancerous habits, lit in exasperation, that first drag that is above all the rest. It burns faster than wanted. Oh, make it last, enjoy the quickly receding line of where ash takes over with forced slowness. It burns, it burns, leaving nothing but ash that disintegrates to a fine gray powder. Finally, all is gone and put out with a blunt push into the ground, leaving her with the want of another, a new start, a new match lit to begin the burning anew. How temporary it all was, how temporary her feelings for others were. She was aware of her carelessness, how reckless she was with the human heart. However, each time she expected something different, a new feeling that would last, and how shameful it was that each time, she fell back into her pattern, her repetitive actions that leave the deepest wreckage.

When will she find permanence? When will her metaphoric reciprocal of heartbreak end? Oh, the misery of it all, the self pity she felt! She was the master seductress, but now, finally seduced by something with a characteristic she so desired- absoluteness. The woman sat patiently waiting, watching. Then, a flash of lightening struck across the clouded sky. Off of the table beside her, she picked up the pistol and placed it firmly to her temple. The barrel was cold, biting against her skin. Her finger against the trigger was steady, steadier than it ever was. Inhale. Exhale. The thunder boomed conclusively.

"Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies."
-Oscar Wilde
The Picture of Dorian Gray


The two girls lay on the floor in a finished garage with cheap blue carpet laid on concrete. There was a worn out couch, too short for them to lay on, so they had made a bed out of blankets piled on top of each other to cushion their bodies against the thinly carpeted floor. It was cool in the garage, a fan humming quietly as it birthed a cool breeze.

The two girls lay naked, without contact, without speaking, only listening to the music as it played from the stereo. One of the girls was a realist, and the other, a romantic. The setting they were held in played into both their ideals of the situation. The realist wanted nothing more than unattached nights, as she had told the romantic, but the girl with the hopeful thoughts found herself wanting to change the other girl's mind. She was falling in love and was sure the other girl would too. But love has a way of distorting perception, poisoning the mind like a hallucinogen.

"Don't fall in love with me, you'll only end up getting hurt," said the first.

"I think your warning is rather late," replied the second.

"We had an agreement. You know how it goes."

"I do, but I figured it was worth a try."

"I guess I'm just a lost cause."

"If I were Catholic, I would pray to St. Jude."

"I don't believe in God."

"What is it that you do believe in?"

For the first time that night, the first girl looked the second in the eye.
"I used to believe in a lot. In love, in loyalty. But those things, created by man, are too often destroyed. I guess you could say I've lost all faith in mankind. All I believe now is that each man is out to get his own."

"Not everyone you meet in your life will hurt you, you know."

"Maybe you're right," she said with a sigh. "I'm not a bad person."

"I know. Will you hold me until I fall asleep?"

The first girl took the second in her arms and they fell asleep, the second with a smile on her face. However, when she woke up in the morning, the other girl was gone. A note left on the pillow read, "Don't become like me..."

For my mother, who's childhood inspired this story.



It was always bad news when Daddy came home drunk. He would become mean, usually calling us names or beating on us. But tonight was different. Tonight was worse.

It was nearly two in the morning when I heard him come in through the front door. The yelling woke me up. At first, I thought it was just another nightmare, but then it continued on and became louder until I was fully awake. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but the anger in his voice was evident. I slowly crawled out of bed and tiptoed across the cold wooden floor. Wrapping my hand around the door knob, I pulled it open as quietly as possible, the light pouring in from the hall, hurting my eyes. My stomach was in knots but I wanted to know what was going on, so I forced myself to continue on, my favorite stuffed animal tucked under my arm.

I stopped for a moment to look at the painting that hung upon the wall in the hallway. Mommy said it was called the Return of the Prodigal Son, based on a story from the Bible, she said, about a boy who goes away and spends all of his inheritance from his father on sinful things, then returns to his father asking to be a servant in his household, but his father had been searching for him and forgives him. I liked the story but it seemed so out of place here, so desolate, so deceiving about the truth of my family. The sound of something shattering on the kitchen floor pulled me out of my thoughts. I walked carefully to the stairs and sat down on the top step, my legs pulled tightly to my chest, the arm of my stuffed rabbit clenched firmly in my fist.

Daddy's words were slurred as he yelled at Mommy but his hatred was clear. "You fucking bitch, I come home and the house looks like shit. Maybe if you weren't so busy taking care of those stupid fucking kids you could do something useful. Look at you. You don't even make yourself up anymore or do anything with that hair of yours. I married a slob, a fucking slob..."

I couldn't see what was happening so I scooted down the stairs soundlessly until I could see past the wall that enclosed part of the staircase. I could see my parents across the living room, in the kitchen. There was a broken cup on the linoleum floor, coffee spilled. Mommy stared at him without emotion showing on her face. She was used to his harassment and wasn't going to let him see that it was getting to her anymore, so she just stared. Seconds passed. She finally pulled her eyes from his, looking down as she said, "I'm taking the kids and we're going to St. Louis, to stay with my sister for a while. I don't want to be around you when you've been drinking, it's not good for me or for the kids. I already have clothes packed."

Daddy snapped. He took Mommy's throat in his fat hand and slammed her against the wall.

"You think you can leave? Even if you did, I would find you and I would fucking kill you, you ungrateful whore!"

She spit in his face and pulled out of his grasp, running towards the stairs. But she didn't get far as he grabbed her by her hair and began beating her in the head and face. I jumped up and ran across the living room, screaming, "Mommy!"

"Get upstairs! Go, go upstairs!"

Daddy pushed Mommy down, she fell to the floor, crying, pleading for him to leave me alone. As he walked towards me, I felt the warmth between my legs, running down my thighs, for I had wet myself in fear. I tried to run away but he grabbed my arm and threw me to the ground, pinning me with his weight. He was on top of me and I looked into his blue eyes, absent of a soul. I tried to squirm out from underneath him, the carpet burning my elbows, as he reached down with one hand and began to undo his pants. I was trembling, whimpering, begging him not to do it. Not again. But he wasn't phased by my cries. I looked away, seeing my rabbit lying at the foot of the stairs, its eyes as blank as Daddy's, and I felt him enter me, the sharp pain of force. And then everything went black...

When I regained consciousness, I was in the kitchen, Mommy holding me in her arms. She was crying and when I looked up at her, her face was bruised and one of her eyes swollen shut. The phone was hanging off the hook by its spiraling cord, swinging slightly back and forth, the dial tone humming. I looked down and saw the blood splattered across my nightgown. Mommy was crying harder now, and I crawled out of her arms, walking cautiously into the living room. My brother was kneeling on the ground at Daddy's feet, one hand still clenching the baseball bat. His face lacked all trace of feeling, as he stared at the pool of blood. The front door was still open from when he came home. I could hear the blaring sirens grow louder as they approached our house.

"Death could not scarce be more bitter than that place!
But since it came to good, I will recount
all that I found revealed there by God's grace."
-Dante's Inferno


The minutes melt away slowly as I lie, without feeling, in my bedroom. The house sleeps, but I wait to drift off into darkness. My mind is stimulated by anxious thoughts, though my eyes burn with exhaustion. The curtains close around me, shutting out light, as I finally fade away.

I wake up after minutes, perhaps seconds. However, I am not in my room, but lying on cold, damp concrete. I am naked, exposed and vulnerable. Sharp shivers run down my spine. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see cockroaches skuttle quickly across the floor. The room that contains me is bare, only fours walls of concrete. I begin searching the room, examining it, learning it. In a shadowed corner, I find a small tunnel. Hesitation and fear take over my body. This could be my way out, or only lead me closer to emptiness.

Beginning my descent into the tunnel, I can feel my whole body shake. The walls are closing in around me, becoming tighter upon my body. My heart pounds with despair and I feel the constriction in my chest as I begin to hyperventilate. I am suffocating. This tunnel will surely become my tomb. Violently, I struggle to make my way out, panicking and beginning to whimper in distress. Then I see it. A faint light grows as I pull my trembling body in hope. Stale air, filled with dust, cuts my throat and lungs but I do not give up, I do not falter.

After several timeless seconds I reach the opening of the tunnel. When I throw myself out of its grasp, there is nothing there and I freefall several feet, then plunge into water. For an instant my mind goes blank as my body sinks, then instinct returns and I kick and swim upwards. My head surfaces, my mouth opened wide, sucking in air, gasping and choking.

The stench that surrounds me in overbearing, a rotting smell with a strong iron-like tint. I swim to the edge of what I realize to be a pool, pulling myself out. The smell is overpowering to my senses, my stomach tightening and jerking. It spills itself out against my will, my body heaving, burning acid spewing from my lips. My hair matted and my skin painted with blood, I pick myself up from my knees and stumble towards a door. I leave the pool house and enter the frigid air outside.

Shadows cast from trees cover crisp grass. The faint sound of crying floats through the distant darkness. As I walk towards the noise, I see the silhouette of someone sitting on a swing. Slowly, I make my way towards the figure. The light of a full moon falls on a little girl, sitting on a plank of wood hanging from a twisted oak. My heart races as I look at the crying girl’s familiar face. She is the exact reflection of me as a child.

“Why are you out here alone?” I ask her.

“…They left me. They’re gone. Gone. Help me…” she whispers, rocking back and forth, strained fear and pain in her face. Then she looks up at me, eyes transfixed to mine, and says, “She will kill you with her words. She cuts deep like razorblades, poison to the soul, leaving only scars behind.”

“Who? Who will kill me?”

“She disguises herself as the bearer of life. She is the one closest to your heart and soul. But her words are lies, foolish and cruel.”

The girl stands up, grabbing my hand, and leads me to the house behind the oak. As we reach the door she drops my hand and, beckoning me to come closer, kisses my cheek, then whispers into my ear, “Hallelujah.” Before I have time to reply, she walks off into the shadows. I am unsure what awaits me inside the house, but I recognize it as the house I grew up in.

Cautiously, I push open the door and walk into the home of my childhood. Everything is dark. Dust and cobwebs have gathered from abandonment. The steps of habit guide me to where the living room once was. Emptiness. Then I hear it. I hear someone shrieking in the garage. I creep towards the garage door, my mouth dry, hands shaking. Opening the door, I see her. My mother is pacing around, a pistol in hand. When she sees me standing in the doorway, I see the darkness in her eyes that surfaces when she is angry.

“GET OUT! YOU ARE EVIL! GET OUT, GET OUT!!” she screams at me with complete fury and hatred in her escalating voice. She turns from me and continues to curse under her breath. Then, without hesitation, she lifts the gun to her head. She pulls the trigger. I don’t even hear the explosion as it goes off. Silence. Slow motion. I drop to my knees as I watch her body limply fall to the ground, legs twisted underneath her. My numb hands reach up to my temple and feels wet blood…

I jolt up, dizzy, looking around wildly, only to find myself safe in bed. I gasp for air and wipe the sweat from my face. It was just a dream, it was just a dream. After moments of recovering from the vivid images that are left imprinted in my brain, I get up and get my blinking phone off of my dresser. New message. I flip open my cell phone and read a message. It only has one word. Hallelujah. I have seen hell but I escaped its grasp.

"There is more than one good way to drown."
-Sylvia Plath
Juvenilia 'Epitaph in Three Parts.



The young girl lay in the canoe, pulled up along shore, her long legs dangling over the sides. Interlaced behind her head, her fingers made a perfect cradle. The sound of water slapping against the rocky shore was soothing. Unmasked, the sun darkened her bare skin and a warm breeze blew between her toes. The girl dozed beside the shore while the rays of sun kissed her nose and cheeks. She dreamed of pirates kidnapping her and sailing away into the horizon, only the billowing sails visible, until finally, they disappeared.

It was a cliche idea, foolish and silly for a girl of her age in such a stifling time. Yet how sad that a life among uncivilized outcasts seemed more liberating than that of a proper young woman in upper class society. The lake was nothing spectacular, the shores rocky and lined with cattails. But the weekend trip to the lake was a luxury, the idea of it in itself was wonderful in a time of that circumstance. The girl's father stood along the farther side of the shore, casting line onto the surface of the lake, the threaded fly waiting in anticipation to get swallowed up by a fish. Her mother stood at his side, applying sunblock to her fair skin, swatting away mosquitos, and squealing with delight each time her husband cast.

The girl watched her parents with disinterest, lighting a cigarette as she did so. Her father had never caught a fish in his life, but found great pleasure in describing, in believable detail, the time he caught a sixteen inch rainbow trout while fishing along the San Juan River to his fellow businessmen as they sat in the study, smoking only the finest of cigars. She found it pathetic that her father, a successful and prosperous man, found the need to further his ego by pointless, yet highly fabricated, stories.

And then there was her mother. She was happiest when attending fabulous parties thrown by other high class members of the local country club. She was known to be a closet alcoholic, however, she gossiped among the other housewives about everyone else's skeletons. She knew who's husband was having an affair with the housekeeper, which family was on the edge of bankruptcy, and of course, the latest gossip, the strange daughter of the new couple to the neighborhood who was sent away after trying to overdose on painkillers. But she was nothing short of oblivious to the fact that her affair with gin was not only known, but also a common topic of conversation among the bored housewives in her absence.

The young girl drifted deep into thought as the late sun triumphed over the pinnacle of day and began its descent. Her younger brother, who had grown bored of exploring what lay beneath overturned rocks and logs, climbed into the canoe beside the girl and stared at her intently. His eyes were dark green like that of the distant pines, hair the color of their fallen needles. He was quite a beautiful boy, adored by mothers for his handsome features as well as his innocent charm. It was no wonder he was their father's pride and their mother's joy. Her attempt to stare back seriously was broken when the corners of the boy's mouth began to twitch, and against his determined attempts, turned into a smile.

The two laughed, the boy's loud and carefree, the girl's quiet and contained. She was very fond of the boy and his playful nature. Together, they sat in the canoe and looked out across the lake. A large black bird, with a long, pointed bill floated atop the lake then dove down into the water. For the length of a minute they waited for the bird to resurface, but they saw nothing.

"Do you think he drowned?" asked the boy with concern.

"No. You know what I think?" The boy waited curiously. "I think he swam down to the very bottom of the lake, where there are no people, no rules to follow. He can swim and eat all the fish he wants. He's free down there."

Her brother looked back at the water, his eyes searching. "You really think so?"

The girl smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. "Yes, I really do." He smiled back then climbed out of the canoe and went off to continue his exploration. She watched as he ran barefooted along the shore, occasionally stopping to pick up a rock and skip it across the water. She felt guilty for lying to him, but maybe someday he would understand.

Slowly, the girl lifted herself out of the canoe and walked to the edge of the shore. The water was cold on her skin, taking her breath as she waded farther out. It became too deep for her to stand so she began swimming, pulling water past her body with her arms and kicking her feet. Her muscles, not used to the exercise, grew tired and she stopped, turning around to look back at the shore for the last time, and then the girl took a deep breath and dove underwater.