Micah Sees the World

By Jill Szoo Wilson

“My superpower is not flying,” Mr. Bird squawked as he wondered where this lady hailed from. “Flying is just my thing. It’s what I do. If I had a superpower, it would be something no other bird could muster. The dogs don’t refer to their barking as super, nor do the mice think themselves superior for eating cheese.”

“Mussster?” hissed Miss Snake. “That is a big word for a bird. Got any more in there? Or was that the only big one you know?”

“Let’s get back to business,” said Dr. Chipmunk, who had a milk mustache and probably should have used a straw. “We are gathered together today to discuss the topic of young Micah’s new glasses. You see, he cannot see . . . wait a moment. I said something funny just then. Did you hear? I said, ‘You see, he cannot see!’ Ha! I don’t usually crack hilarious jokes but . . .”

“You didn’t crack one this time either, Dr. Chipmunk,” said Mr. Bird.

“Come now. Be nice,” hissed Miss Snake. “Go on, Dr. Chipmunk.”

“I will say it in a different way so we don’t all get caught up in giggles and forget the importance of the day,” Dr. Chipmunk once again overestimated his comic genius. “Young Micah was having a hard time reading his books at school and, as I overheard his brother saying to a friend, he was even beginning to have difficulty seeing the games on his XBox. So, Micah’s father had a wonderful idea, as Micah’s father is wont to do. He has decided that young Micah will get glasses.”

“Glasses?” asked Mr. Bird.

“Glasses?” asked Miss Snake.

“Yes, glasses,” answered Dr. Chipmunk.

Miss Snake rolled onto her back and looked toward the sky. “Oh my! Glasses! What a lucky boy he is! I have always wished I could wear glasses but, as you can see, my face is too small and my eyes sit too far apart. But, oh my! Glasses look so handsome on our human friends.”

Mr. Bird, reluctant to agree with Miss Snake, chimed in, “I must say, Miss Snake, you and I have something in common. Perhaps only this one thing: I, too, find the human folk look rather charming when they don glasses atop their noses. Especially the little ones. Why, glasses make the young ones look debonair, charming, and, dare I say, dashing.”

“Oh, please,” cried Miss Snake, “ssstop with the big words! And for the love of all that is good, please come to your point much quicker!”

Mr. Bird lifted his beak into the air and flapped his wings twice, too quickly to fly. “Miss Bird! I will thank you not to critique my every word! I am simply saying that glasses are quite pleasing to the eye.”

The milky-faced Chipmunk giggled. “Glasses? Pleasing to the eye? Oh, now you’ve made a joke, Mr. Bird!” Dr. Chipmunk continued giggling while Miss Snake rolled her wide-set eyes in his direction and Mr. Bird stood staring at the sky, wondering, “Why?”

Realizing he had begun to lose control of the meeting, Dr. Chipmunk cleared his throat and began again. “The problem, friends, is this: Micah feels, well, a little embarrassed about wearing his new glasses to school. He isn’t sure the other children will like them, so he is refusing to wear them.”

“Well, that is preposterous, Dr. Chipmunk!” squawked Mr. Bird. “Glasses not only look dashing, but they are also quite helpful. In fact, they offer superpowers to all who wear them. That is really quite amazing!”

Miss Snake raised the top half of her body. “Now I must agree with Mr. Bird for the second time in one day, which is certainly a record. Sure, glasses look great but they are also . . .” Miss Snake’s voice trailed off and then she whispered, “powerful.”

Dr. Chipmunk shuddered at the word itself and answered, “Both of you are right. Contained within the lenses of young Micah’s glasses is a special potion, concocted by our Greek friend, Mikanos the Mouse.” Now it was Dr. Chipmunk’s turn to whisper. “Within the potion are elements that dance together, as the Lords and Ladies once did in the great halls of the most prestigious castles, and then the dancing elements tiptoe into young Micah’s eyes, giving him the superpower of . . . seeing as far as the birds can see.”

Miss Snake rolled around on the ground while Mr. Bird flapped his wings so hard he flew straight to the tops of the trees. “Amazing!” said Mr. Bird from his leafy perch. “So, you are telling us that young Micah will be able to see far and wide? He will be able to discern all the bright colors in the world, pinpoint every detail from miles away, and see his prey in ultraviolet hues?”

“Now, now,” Dr. Chipmunk said in an effort to calm Mr. Bird. “Young Micah will not be able to see ultraviolet hues but . . .” his voice grew with excitement, “He WILL, however, be able to see far and wide! He will be able to discern all the bright colors in the world and pinpoint every detail from miles away!”

Miss Snake composed herself. “That IS a superpower, Dr. Chipmunk! You were right! The dancing elements inside young Micah’s glasses will allow him to read all the books he’s ever wanted to read and to see all the details in the world so he can draw them, or paint them, or even write about them himself!”

Mr. Bird energetically tweeted, “And what if one of our animal friends falls into trouble? Like the time Katherine the Kitten was trapped on top of the slide at the playground. Why, young Micah would be able to see that she was in need and run to help her! That IS a superpower, indeed!”

“Yes,” exclaimed Dr. Chipmunk. “Now you’ve got the idea! Young Micah’s glasses will not only make him look handsome but will also help him become a hero!”

All of the animals cheered together.

“There is only one problem,” said Dr. Chipmunk as he looked toward the ground. “Remember, young Micah doesn’t really want to wear his glasses.”

“Not wear them?” Miss Snake slithered closely to Dr. Chipmunk. “But he must! He can become a hero, and the world desperately needs heroes, Dr. Chipmunk. Don’t you agree? Young Micah has a heart of gold, and I know that if he could see all the details of the world, he would surely help lost kittens, or help his friends at school if their expressions looked sad. He may even create new things and bring more beauty to the world! What can we do to convince him?”

“I am glad you asked,” said Dr. Chipmunk before he took another drink of his milk. “I have written an itinerary for the two of you.” Then Dr. Chipmunk burped and continued, “Here is the plan! Miss Snake, I would like you to retrieve the glasses from our Greek friend, Mikanos the Mouse. He has prepared the potion, placed it into the lenses, put the lenses into the frames, and now they are ready for young Micah to wear. All you need to do is pick them up. Can you do that?”

Miss Snake squinted her eyes as though a great amount of focus had fallen into her mind. “Yes, sir! I will retrieve the glasses at once! Right now!” Miss Snake slithered away as quickly as her slim body could go.

Dr. Chipmunk turned to Mr. Bird. “And you, Mr. Bird. When Miss Snake returns with the glasses, I would like you to deliver them to young Micah as swiftly as you can. The quicker he puts them atop his nose, the quicker the world will become a safer place to live.”

“I will do as you ask!” Mr. Bird felt proud of his assignment.

After receiving his mission from Dr. Chipmunk, Mr. Bird flew straight to his nest, which sat in a tree overlooking a beautiful lake. He retrieved his backpack, a sleeping bag, and his magical Smart Wand, which could work as a GPS to guide him wherever he needed to go. The backpack was large enough to hold young Micah’s glasses, and Mr. Bird figured the sleeping bag might be useful if he grew weary after his flight and needed to rest atop a tall tree.

At about the same time, both Mr. Bird and Miss Snake returned to Dr. Chipmunk, who was blowing bubbles in his milk.

“I got the glasses!” Miss Snake said, a little out of breath. “As you can see, I wrapped the lower half of my body around them and slithered back as quickly as I could.”

Mr. Bird, who did not often compliment Miss Snake, replied, “Good work, Miss Snake.”

Miss Snake blushed. But only a little bit. “Thank you, Mr. Bird.”

“Now we are ready to move forth with the mission!” Dr. Chipmunk jumped up and down, as much as a chipmunk can jump, and said with elation, “Mr. Bird! The mission is in your hands. Miss Snake and I know you will do your best to deliver young Micah’s glasses safely.” Dr. Chipmunk thought for a moment. “I do have one extra request, Mr. Bird. Now, I don’t want to burden you with too much, but if you could take a photograph of young Micah wearing his glasses, I would love to see it. I would like to know what he looks like as a superhero!”

Mr. Bird thought it a reasonable request and thought of his Smart Wand, which could also take photos. “I will do my best,” he replied.

Mr. Bird prepared himself for flight. First, he entered young Micah’s address into his Smart Wand so he would know the way. Second, he shook his tail feathers behind him and flapped his wings slowly to stretch the muscles he would use. Third, he began to tweet into the air. “I am ready to go,” said Mr. Bird with confidence and determination.

Mr. Bird lifted himself into the air, following his wand. He soared high above the trees, above buildings and cars, people and trains. His focus was fierce, and his wings rested on the currents of the wind, which carried him higher and higher. Mr. Bird sang hello to the other birds he passed along the way (though he had to sing out of the corner of his beak so as not to drop his Smart Wand), and when his mouth became dry, he lowered himself to the puddles and streams below—but not for long. He continued on until, finally, he arrived at young Micah’s house.

Mr. Bird looked for a soft spot to land and chose a patch of fluffy grass in Micah’s backyard. He peeked through the windows of the house to see if he could spot young Micah. He looked through the basement windows, then the main floor—the kitchen, the living room, the dining room. When he did not see Micah there, he flew higher, to the second floor. “There he is!” Mr. Bird squawked to himself.

Micah was sitting at his desk, drawing a picture with both markers and colored pencils.

Mr. Bird landed softly on the windowsill just above Micah’s head. He put his Smart Wand in his backpack and lifted the glasses with his beak. He tapped on the windowsill, and Micah looked up.

“What a silly bird,” said Micah as he exchanged his red marker for a blue one. “Go away, you silly bird!”

Mr. Bird would not be deterred. He flapped his wings hard and tapped again.

Micah ignored him at first, but as the tapping grew louder, he looked again. “This bird is the rudest bird I have ever met!” he said to himself. Then he spoke to Mr. Bird, “Excuse me, you rude bird. I am trying to draw a picture, and I cannot concentrate because you are making too much noise! Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

Mr. Bird shook his head and opened his beak. The glasses fell onto the windowsill.

“What the?” Micah noticed the glasses for the first time. He squinted and leaned in close to the window. Then he opened it. “How did you get these, you silly, rude bird? These look like human glasses. In fact, they look like the pair my father wants me to wear. But . . . how did you get them?” Micah was puzzled and a little amazed.

Mr. Bird tweeted a song to Micah. The melody was slow and calm, and it filled the room with a light-hearted mood.

“Hm,” thought Micah. Then he said, “Though our meeting was strange, and you did distract me from my drawing, I like you, little bird. You have a nice voice, and your colors are pure. Black and blue, like a raven. I can see that you want me to wear these glasses, but I just . . . well, I just don’t want to.”

Mr. Bird continued to sing. First it was a beautiful aria, filled with melodies so graceful that Micah almost fell asleep. When Mr. Bird saw Micah’s eyes begin to close, he changed the song completely. The second song was loud and energetic, filled with rhythms that caused Micah’s toes to start tapping. Soon, Micah was dancing around his room and jumping on his bed.

“Okay, okay, you little bird. I can see you are not going to leave me alone until I do as you wish. I will put the glasses on my face. But I assure you, I will not like them!”

Micah stepped to the windowsill, reached for the glasses, and placed them atop his nose.

Suddenly, Micah’s lips turned into a broad smile. He looked around his room and saw details he had never seen before. Then he ran back to the window and looked out into the world.

“I can see far and wide! I can discern all the bright colors in the world! I can pinpoint every detail from miles away!” Micah looked here and there, up and down, side to side. “It is all more beautiful than I had ever realized!”

Mr. Bird tweeted and hopped along the windowsill. He was proud of Micah and happy for him, too.

As Micah ran around his room looking at everything as if for the first time, Mr. Bird tweeted his good-bye and began to fly away. Micah saw that the bird was about to leave and stopped him.

“Wait, little bird!” Micah picked up the drawing he had been working on when Mr. Bird first interrupted him. “Please take this drawing. I would like you to have it, as a thank-you gift.” Mr. Bird was touched. He felt one teardrop well in the corner of his eye and fall onto the windowsill beneath his feet.

Mr. Bird tweeted, “Thank you, young Micah,” and then lifted his wings and flew away with the drawing in his beak.

Micah ran to the kitchen where his father stood cooking.

“Dad,” said Micah. “Look!”

Micah’s father turned and smiled a big, beautiful smile. “My boy! You are wearing your glasses! I am so proud of you!” Micah felt proud, too.

“May I go outside to play now, Dad?”

“Of course you can, son. Have fun.”

Micah stepped through the front door and into the sunshine. He could see the edges of the clouds above and the silhouette of each blade of grass below. He giggled as he walked down the sidewalk and noticed the bricks in the houses and the spokes on the hubcaps of the cars that drove by. Micah could see the whole world, and he was amazed by it.

Suddenly, Micah heard something crying. The cry was high and loud.

“What the?” said Micah to himself.

As he ran toward the sound, the elements in the special potion concocted by Mikanos the Mouse began to tiptoe from Micah’s lenses into his eyes. He could see that a puppy was trapped under a bush near the entrance to the park. Micah ran to the puppy and saw, quite clearly, that its paw was wrapped around one of the branches. Micah lay on the ground, unwrapped the paw, and pulled the puppy to safety.

Mr. Bird, who had not yet flown far, stopped to watch Micah’s heroism from atop a nearby chimney. He snapped a photo with his wand, as Dr. Chipmunk had asked. Then Mr. Bird said to himself, “Micah’s first act of heroism. The first of many, I am sure.”

With that, Mr. Bird turned toward the sky and began his flight home, as Micah sat on the grass, comforting the puppy and giggling as it licked his neck and cheeks.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026

The Wait

I couldn’t find an artist for this piece. I’d be happy to attribute it upon discovery.

He arrived early.

He always arrived early. It gave him time to rehearse the version of himself he planned to be. The diner sat off the highway with wood paneling darkened by decades of smoke and winter. A Budweiser mirror hung behind the counter. The jukebox near the bathrooms blinked in patient pinks and greens, waiting for quarters.

He chose the booth against the window. The vinyl was cracked in two places and repaired with strips of clear tape that had yellowed over time. He slid in, set his keys on the table, and checked his watch. The red numbers glowed briefly against his wrist before fading back to black.

7:42.

He trusted the red glow. It felt decisive.

The waitress, whose hair was sprayed into a shape that both defied and paid tribute to gravity, poured coffee into a thick white mug without asking. “You waiting on someone?” she said, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” he replied, with a smile he practiced in rearview mirrors.

He adjusted the sleeve of his Members Only jacket. He pressed the edge of the paper placemat flat with his palm. The placemat advertised a local car dealership and smelled faintly of ink and grease. Outside the window, the parking lot held his car and one pickup truck that had been there since he arrived.

He imagined her walking in.

He imagined the bell over the door ringing once. He imagined not looking up immediately. He imagined letting her cross the room before lifting his eyes, as if her arrival were incidental and not the center of his evening.

He lifted the mug. The coffee was hot enough to require patience. Steam rose and vanished.

The door did not open.

7:58.

Maybe she was late.

Traffic collects where it pleases. A woman might linger at her kitchen counter, turning a ring around her finger. She might rehearse the first sentence and discard it. The evening could still be intact, only delayed.

The door did not open.

The first flicker of heat came when the clock above the counter clicked to 8:00, and the jukebox changed its lights. He felt it low in his chest, the way a swallowed word lingers. He realized he was counting the seconds between passing headlights in the parking lot. One. Two. Three. The gap stretched longer each time, like the space between lightning and thunder when the storm is blowing away.

He folded his hands on the table. He pressed his thumb against the rim of the mug to steady a tremor he refused to acknowledge.

The booth across from him remained empty.

The fire began quietly.

It gathered itself first, narrow and deliberate, like a man straightening his tie before stepping into a room. The flame rose from the center of him in a single, disciplined line, bright without frenzy. It kept its posture. It traced the length of his body with precision, as though even humiliation preferred form. The vinyl held. The napkin lay flat. The sugar caddy caught the light and gave nothing away. The fire belonged to him and to no other surface.

He did not look around.

He knew what it meant.

It was the heat of being visible without being chosen. It was the temperature of a man seated in plain sight while the woman he waited for occupied some other evening entirely.

He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and felt the soft crush of a Marlboro pack. He considered lighting one. He imagined the smoke blending with whatever rose from him. He left the pack where it was. It might smell more like nicotine and less like Stetson.

8:17.

He could leave.

He could stand, slide a five-dollar bill beneath the saucer, and nod at the waitress as though something had come up. He could step into the night before anyone calculated how long he had been there. He could revise the story later. He could say he changed his mind first.

Instead, he stayed.

He let the fire narrow him.

It burned through the scene he had rehearsed on the drive over. The way she would tuck her hair behind her ear. The way she would say his name as if it surprised her. The way the first silence between them would feel charged instead of awkward. Each imagined moment flared and collapsed, bright and brief.

The waitress wiped down the counter with a cloth that smelled faintly of bleach and Ranch dressing. A man in a trucker cap fed a quarter into the jukebox and selected a song that crackled before finding its melody.

The booth across from him held its vacancy with composure.

He understood then that absence makes an entrance of its own. It sits across from you and asks nothing. It leaves you to supply every explanation.

The heat climbed higher.

He felt it behind his eyes, where pride waits. He felt it in his throat, where apologies gather. He felt it in the small, involuntary tightening of his jaw.

He closed his eyes.

Behind his eyelids, color pressed and thinned, as if light were searching for a seam. The closed door no longer mattered. The parking lot no longer held narrative weight. What remained was the outline of himself, suspended in brightness, and the steady recognition that nothing outside him required explanation.

The fire thinned slowly, like steam from cooling coffee.

He opened his eyes.

He lifted the mug and drank what remained. The coffee had cooled into the color of old pennies. A bill lay beneath the saucer like a quiet offering. He stood and drew his palms down the front of his jacket, smoothing it as though pressing the last ember flat.

The bell above the door rang when he pushed it open. Just once.
“Yes,” he murmured. “That’s right.”

The night received him in its thin winter air. Gasoline, frost, distant highway. His breath moved cleanly now.

Inside the diner, nothing smoldered. The booth remained intact. The coffee cup cooled into porcelain silence.

The ash had settled elsewhere.

It lined his lungs. It sifted softly behind his ribs. It marked the place where waiting once stood.

He crossed the parking lot lighter by one imagined future.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026

A Fable: The Temple of the Red Crystal

By Jill Szoo Wilson

There was a cavernous room where shadows flickered in the glow and not-glow of a hundred candles. Deep in a forest where the trees had names and whispered among themselves, shedding their leaves sometimes in boredom, sometimes in spite, in the center of an island surrounded by a frigid ocean that looked like clouds and made the whole place seem to float in outer space.

The room belonged to a magician named Heichus, whose hands were arthritic with disappointment, false starts, and spells whose power never left the tips of his fingers.

Year after year, Heichus bent over a heavy wooden table, wiping dust and spider eggs away from the steaming liquids and vials that had become his companions. The dust he swept aside collected at the edges of the wood and fell to the floor on all sides, creating a pile so deep that, if it were snow, it could be shaped into an army of snowmen. Instead, the dust sat dormant yet lively with mites and burrowing mice and spiders hatching from the very eggs he brushed away. His table rose from the drifts like an iceberg from beneath salty seas, its tip the only part he ever really saw.

Among the vials and beakers that bubbled and hissed sat two crystals that glowed with a light almost imperceptible. Against the candlelight, their weak illumination looked like the last pulses of a dying firefly.

Both crystals were clear in their main element, but one shone with a faint blue, the other faint red. These small hues painted themselves across Heichus’ cheeks, thin and uneven, like paint that had already begun to dry. The candles and crystals, and the occasional pop of an ill-conceived mixture, were the only difference between utter forest darkness and sight for Heichus. He kept them on his table as if they were pets that needed his attention to live.

One night, while Heichus was reading from a brittle book of potions, schemes, and chemical riddles, he saw a spark out of the corner of his eye. He turned, and the red crystal began to shine more brightly.

Heichus widened his dark eyes and leaned toward it.

“Could it be?” he asked the stale air.

It had been years since he had seen the warm glow of the red crystal. He carefully moved the powders and liquids out of reach, picked up the crystal, and laid it on a cracked mirror that sat on his table. He set his hands on either side of the glass, lowered his head, narrowed his eyelids, and studied the glowing red stone from every angle. He was like David squinting at Bathsheba, unable to look away.

Heichus had never known the origin of the red crystal, but he had never forgotten its power. As he watched its glow creep into the lines of his face, he remembered himself as a younger man. He peered into the mirror beneath it and saw the beauty of his own youth. The red crystal had the ability to erase the marks of time, pain, and weakness, revealing the vibrancy and strength of any man who stood in its light.

Tears slipped out of Heichus’ narrowed eyes.

“It is,” he whispered to the air.

From aloneness to companionship, he travelled into his own reflection. His mind moved from remembering to feeling to believing the young man in the mirror. He walked around the room holding the red crystal to his face in one hand and the mirror like a fixture in the other. The longer he held the crystal, the brighter it glowed. The brighter it glowed, the clearer and happier and alive the eyes staring back at him.

Heichus danced with his own face. He laughed and coughed with delight. He asked the mirror, “Do you love me?” and the mirror answered with a silent yes as Heichus heard music in his heart. The mice at his feet rolled their black eyes. The spiders sat in rows with their two front legs crossed and watched the human spectacle.

Heichus moved with the speed of a young man. When his bones creaked or his back spasmed, he looked at his face in the mirror, splashed with red, and forgot the pain of his present.

After a night and day and night and day of sleepless frenzy, Heichus began his rituals. He blew out the flames of his candles, covered the powders and liquids, capped the vials and beakers, cleaned his teeth, drank his milk, and sank into the lumps of his old mattress. He placed the red crystal on the nightstand near his bed and propped the mirror behind it. He lay in the dark, seeing and then not seeing the young man staring back at him as sleep pulled at his eyelids. Exhaustion joined hands with inevitability, and Heichus was unconscious to the world.

His snores rose like crows looking for a darkened branch. The stale air was stirred by their wings and by a thin winter draft that found its way across the dust. The red crystal glowed and pulsed. The blue crystal wheezed and sighed its meager attempts.

As the earth turned toward midnight, the trees outside his room began to whisper.

“Years ago, when the red crystal shone with power, Heichus cut many of us down,” said one.

The older trees told the younger ones the story.

“Heichus grew large in his mind and proud in his hands,” they said. “He wanted to build a temple for the red crystal. His hands did the work of a thousand men while his eyes stayed fixed on his face in the mirror. The mirror even cracked under the weight of his gaze. He found his eyes again, one on each side of the crack, and kept chopping. He felled a thousand trees.”

A young tree asked, “Did he finish the temple?”

An old tree with branches bent toward the earth replied, “No. As he began to build the foundation, a great storm gathered over the forest and fell with terrifying fury. Lightning struck the foundation. It struck the bodies of our fallen brothers and sisters. It struck the red and blue crystals and stripped them of their light.”

The young one asked one more question, as young ones often do before sleep.

“Why did he want to build a temple for the red crystal and not the blue?”

“The blue crystal shows Heichus who he truly is,” the old tree said. “The red crystal shows him what he wants to see.”

With that, the old tree drew in a long breath, let it out, and fell quiet.

The forest, the magician, the mice, and the spiders hummed with peace, the way wind hums as it crosses the face of the sea. The world was still. Their memories slept inside their dreams.

Just before the sun lifted its fingers to begin the morning, something rattled on Heichus’ table.

Heichus opened one eyelid, then the other. He looked into the mirror at his bedside and smiled at himself. The red crystal rolled its light across his face like a cat rolling in a sprawl of sunlight. Heichus beamed and groaned and laughed and began speaking poetry to his reflection.

His rhyme was interrupted.

The blue crystal trembled again. This time, its motion took on another kind of life. The light at its center began to glow. At first, it was slow, almost imperceptible. Then its hue gathered strength and lifted into the air, disturbing the stale particles of the room with small touches of blue.

Heichus bellowed a low, wordless shriek. The blue crystal had pulled his gaze away from his face in the mirror, and that filled him with rage.

He leapt from his bed, the red crystal clenched in one hand, the mirror clutched in the other, and ran to the table. He began to mix and stir. His powders and liquids bubbled, hissed, and burst. For years, he had stood at this table for one secret purpose. He wanted to create a potion that would break, smash, or incinerate the blue crystal into a trillion useless pieces he could bury deep beneath the earth.

His hands moved from vial to vial, not carefully but feverishly. His alchemy turned into reckless combinations. His old objective rose inside him again, strong and cold as the temple walls he had once tried to build. He worked and panted. Saliva gathered at the sides of his mouth.

He watched only his hands and the elements on his table. He did not dare lift his eyes to the mirror, did not dare see his face in the light of the blue crystal as it climbed into the air. He knew that if he did, the blue light would strip him of the beauty he clung to in the red.

He felt the arthritis in his hands flare. He felt his lungs fill with the weight of tears and phlegm and regret, all pressing upward into his throat. The stale air began to shine with purple as red and blue stretched outward into wisps and smoke. Heichus closed his eyes and slammed his vials together, causing bursts of fire, both hot and cold, that licked his skin and stole his breath. Pain and relief chased each other through his body. Tears came. Heichus tumbled to the floor.

Through many summers and winters, he had sat and stood and slept in this room, trying to find a way for the red light to swallow him into its reflection. Now he faced his failure and wept into the stale air.

“I am no magician at all,” he said.

The red and blue crystals vibrated. They shook and rolled across the tabletop while Heichus cried on the floor.

“Come what may,” he whispered.

Beams turned into shafts, which turned into streams of colored fire that filled the room, red and blue and then violet. Completely defeated, sobbing, and cut off from his own heart, Heichus reached his hand through the chaos and grabbed for the mirror. His hands shook with fear, confusion, stubbornness, and hatred, yet he fought against his pride and pulled the mirror to his face.

The storm of violet rattled the room, spilled into the forest, and swept across the cloudy ocean. In its center, Heichus forced himself to look.

To see.

His face was marked by both youth and age, both wishes and realities, both dreams and waking. His breath came hard. His joints stung. His veins throbbed with obsession, desire, and a long habit of wanting. His eyes filled, not with blood this time, but with tears that felt heavier than blood. In one still moment, where fantasy and reality met in the air, his voice found a clear, steady line.

“I see,” he said.

With those words, the storm dropped. The wind and sound and fury crashed to the ground, shook the earth, and stopped, the way a tornado finally lifts and leaves behind both destruction and newness. The red and blue crystals gave a last faint puff of light and fell dark.

Heichus stayed where he was, listening to the quiet settle around him.

Outside, the trees felt the stillness return. They did not cheer. They did not mourn. They simply adjusted their branches, as trees do, and continued to grow.

In the years that followed, when the younger trees asked about the strange magician in the stone room, the oldest among them answered like this:

“Heichus loved the light that showed him what he wanted to see more than the light that showed him who he was. That is why he suffered. Hear this and keep it close. A man may chase illusion all his life, but truth will wait longer, and when it comes, no one can face it for him.”

The Glass Garden

By Jill Szoo Wilson

She wanders through the glass garden,
its delicate beauty responding, finger to mirrored finger’s touch.
Strange, crystalline flowers stretch toward the light,
their petals refracting into soft spectrums
that dance along smooth pathways.

Silence presses in, heavy and expectant,
as if the air itself holds its breath.

At the garden’s center, he waits. He always does.
Shadows cling to him, his form barely tethered to solidity,
a presence stitched together by longing and careful restraint.
A faint smile flickers, never quite full enough to trust,
yet just enough to draw her closer.

“You belong here,” he murmurs,
his voice gliding through the stillness
like wind through hollow reeds in minor tones.

She hesitates.
Once, she believed him.
The garden felt like a sanctuary then,
each shimmering petal a promise,
each whispered word an anchor.
He held her attention gently,
but never her truths.

Now, something has shifted.
A fissure in the glass,
a hairline chime so subtle she almost doubts it.
Light catches differently, harsh, revealing.
What once dazzled now glares too bright, too sharp.

She touches a flower, glass petals cold and rigid.
A faint metallic sigh lifts from the bloom, out of tune with everything lovely.
Smooth. Perfect. Unchanging.
It does not bend or breathe.
It is made to be admired,
not to grow.

A crack splinters outward from her fingertip.

His expression stutters.
His outline wavers,
a reflection fractured,
more silhouette than man.

“Stay,” he says, voice tightening.
“Stay as long as you like.”

But she sees the architecture now,
paths that always loop back to him,
walls that glitter like freedom
while holding her in place.

He offers comfort without courage,
intimacy without vulnerability,
presence without entrance.
He keeps her not with chains,
but with the fear
that beyond these fragile walls
nothing will care for her as he once did.

The glass beneath her feet trembles.

The garden shudders.
Light bursts into chaos,
not radiant but blinding.
Stepping stones split apart.
The sharp sound of rupture
erases memory faster than she can cling to it.

He reaches for her
but his hand halts midair.
He can summon, but not hold.
He exists only within the shimmer,
never in the world where things grow.

“You beckon,” she says,
“yet drift backward from the place you call me to.”

She inhales.
A quiet instinct rises,
not a thought, not a plan,
just the first pulse of something living.

Without another glance,
she moves beyond,
through ruin and release.

Beyond the garden,
the world stretches wild and untamed.
Sifted earth rises to meet her feet,
unsteady but real.
Wind tangles through her hair.
The scent of something alive,
dirt, leaves, wildflowers,
fills her lungs.

Behind her,
a world of tinkling glass
cascades and shatters,
a thousand tiny bells
collapsing at once.

Sharp edges melt into curves.
Memories smolder into ash.

A single birdcall,
bright and unfamiliar,
breaks open the quiet.

She pauses.
Listening.
Unsure.

The wild ahead
waits without promise
and without fear.