Jamieson Wolf
Number-one bestselling author
A Magnet of Hope
I had submitted this to the Reboot Your Life anthology for Chicken Soup for the Soul. It wasn’t chosen, unfortunately.
However, now I get to share it with you! I’ve been sitting on this since January of this year and now you all get to read it. I’ll be posting it to this blog and my MS/CP blog Two Steps at a Time.
Awesome.
I was lost inside of myself. I didn’t know who I was anymore.
I had recently been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis after months of trying to figure out what was wrong with me. For months I had been unwell, but it was a magnet that my mother had given me that brought me back to myself.
In January, I was misdiagnosed with Labyrinthitis. I had fallen down the back steps of my apartment building the week before. The fall was jarring and I was bruised. The doctor thought the Labyrinthitis was caused by this; its a fracture that affects the inner ear. It can be caused by head trauma. It causes dizziness, vertigo, nausea. He was wrong, though. It was much more than that.
I just woke up with it. I went to sleep on December 31st 2012 and I was fine, I woke up on January 1st 2013 and it was as if I was in someone else’s body. I could barely stand and the whole world was spinning around me. After sleeping again for a few hours, I woke and I was still the same. I knew that something was wrong.
I got myself to the doctors and could barely hear him when he told me that it would last anywhere from two to four weeks. Then the Labyrinthitis would go away on it’s own.
I couldn’t go to work and I wasn’t able to watch television or read. I couldn’t write and there were days I could barely walk or stand. Other days where I could hardly see. I listened to audio books when I wasn’t asleep. I was essentially bed ridden.
Somehow, I pulled myself up. I got better enough to go back to work, to get back in the world. It had been three weeks. Three weeks of being barely able to walk, of sleeping all the time, of not being able to do simple things. Three weeks of being lost in my own body.
When I went back out into the world, I did so with the aid of a cane. The left my face was frozen, even my taste buds and I was deaf in my left ear. I thought I’d had a stroke and just didn’t know it. I fought and willed myself to get better; or better than I was. It wasn’t an easy process.
When I stated getting better, I tried to prove that I was okay, that I was fine-but I knew I wasn’t the same person, I wasn’t the same anymore. My face unfroze little by little and I waited for the four weeks to be up, for this temporary sentence to be over. Then four weeks stretched into five weeks, then two months.
I wasn’t any better though. Now it had been almost three months. Each day was a struggle, Then I lost the ability to write. I’ve written all my life and that was taking away my hands. Then I lost the ability to speak properly. I could hear the words in my head, but I could only say three of five of them to get my point across.
That’s when my mother stepped in. I left work and went to the emergency room. She stayed with me for the whole six hour stay. I was seen by a neurologist and booked for a battery of tests. It was April when I found out what had been wrong with me all year.
When the doctors told me I had Multiple Sclerosis, I thought: Thank goodness, it has a name; now I knew what it was and I thought I was okay with everything at first. I was holding up-but eventually, I got too lost in thoughts of: what would happens now? What is my life going to be like from now on?
By the beginning of May, I’d withdrawn from everything and everyone I knew. I went to work, but I couldn’t do what I used to be perfectly capable of doing every day. I came home to my cat and held her while I went further and deeper into myself. I was consumed by what my life had become. My mother would call it brooding-apparently I’ve been a champion brooder ever since I was a small child. It wasn’t brooding, though. I was lost. I thought long and hard about taking my own life.
In June, I was making a passable attempt at cleaning when I saw it. A few years ago, my mother had given me a magnet. It was a small circular piece of glass and someone had put a saying inside of it. It had a bright yellow background and six simple words: my life is up to me.
Just six simple words and they were like an epiphany. It seemed so simple: I could sit and wallow and wonder what my life would be like now, or I could get busy living it. I could bemoan the fact that I got Multiple Sclerosis or I could accept it and what was to come, no matter what it was.
I knew that’s what had to be done and that I was strong enough to do it. That yellow magnet from my mother was like a beacon in the darkness of the Labyrinth and into the light.
By the time I got my official diagnosis in August, I was ready, come what may. I knew that my life as it was had changed. It would now be a life filled with difficulties and hardships, but it was my life to live.
All I had to do was get out there and live it.
I am a Bisexual Moose – A Poem
When I first
knew what I
was, the secret
inside of me,
I was at
university, a world
away from home.
We were in
the unicentre cafeteria,
a whole group
of us. We all
rotated around one
girl, Sheenagh. She
was our light.
I sat next
to her and
she could tell
that something was
bothering me. Artists,
whether into literature,
music or theatre
can always sense
discontent. She
gave me one
of her patented
Sheenagh looks, where
you wondered what
she would say.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you on your man rag?”
She gave me
a Sheenagh smile,
and her brightness
increased. I wanted
to shine just
as brightly as
she did, but
for now, I
was content to
be in her
orbit. I struggled
with the words
I had to
say, words that
I had been
holding in for
as long as
I could remember.
I was nearly
shaking. Sheenagh
saw this and
put a hand
on my arm.
“What is it, honey? Don’t be afraid of what you need to say.”
I swallowed thickly.
“I think I’m gay.”
The world did
not stop and
no one ran
screaming from the
building. She laughed.
“Oh honey, I don’t think you’re gay. I know you are. Say it again. Own those words and be proud of who you are.”
I nodded and
gathered my voice.
“I’m gay.”
She laughed again,
the sound like
a tinkle of
bells being caressed
by water. Sheenagh
touched my cheek.
“You’re so serious. It’s not a serious thing, it’s a glorious thing, becoming yourself. Am I the first person you’ve told?”
I nodded again.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m honoured. What’s your favourite animal?”
I though about
it for a
moment. It had
been cows up
until recently, but
lately, Wolves had
been entering my
dreams at night.
“Wolves.”
I said, smiling.
“There now. We have to celebrate your freedom!”
“My freedom?”
“Yes! You’re free from your past and your life begins now!”
She stood up
on her chair
and then got
onto the table.
She raised her
arms up in
the air and
spoke in a
loud voice that
carried through the
whole unicentre cafeteria.
“I am a bisexual moose!”
I expected the
others to laugh,
for the crowd
around us to
tell us to
shut up, for
someone to complain.
Instead, one of
the other people
who orbited around
Sheenagh, another artist
named Jackie, stood
up, and proclaimed:
“I am a lesbian porpoise!”
Others were getting
into the spirit
of things, climbing
onto their tables
and proclaiming what
they were for
everyone to hear.
“I am a gay lion”
“I am a lesbian tiger!”
“I am a bisexual bear!”
“I am a straight fish!”
“I am a lesbian gorilla!”
“I am a gay tortoise!”
“I am an asexual dog!”
“I am a straight cat!”
“I am a gay chinchilla!”
“I am a lesbian cougar!”
I was the
last one, the
only one who
hadn’t stood up
on the table
and proclaimed to
the world who
and what I
was. Sheenagh held
out her hand
to me, smiling.
“It’s your turn honey. Shine bright and do not be afraid of who you are.”
I stood and
climbed up onto
my chair, I
took her hand
and got up
onto the table.
“I am a gay Wolf.”
I said quietly.
“Oh, no, honey. You have to yell it. Wolves aren’t quiet like mice, they howl at the moon! You have to howl it honey, howl!”
“I AM A GAY WOLF!”
I screamed. Tears
were sliding down
my cheeks and
I felt a
moment of release,
of weightlessness. I
looked at Sheenagh
and she was
shining bright like
the sun she
was. She looked
at me with
eyes that were
so incredibly wise.
“There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it? I’m proud of you, my little Wolf.”
Everyone around us
began clapping and
cheering. In that
moment, I was
free. After university,
I never saw
Sheenagh again, but
I’ve followed her
example and have
continued shining brightly.
A Waking Dream – A Poem
I hadn’t slept
in days. I
would lay awake
at night, waiting
for sleep to
come, but it
wouldn’t. I would
take warm baths,
drink herbal tea,
but sleep still
eluded me. It
had been seven
days since I
had known sleeps
embrace and I
was starting to
lose it, even
though I didn’t
know what “it”
was. I started
to see things,
objects and people
that couldn’t possibly
be there, while
I was awake.
The shadows of
the waking dreams
moved along my
bedroom walls, along
the sidewalks,
showed their reflections
upon store windows.
The mirror people
would glare at
me as I
passed by, watching
me, almost as
if they were
measuring my worth.
The mannequins would
move closer to
the windows, hoping
to catch a
glimpse of me
though the reflections
that shouldn’t be
there but were.
Then the unthinkable
happened. In bed
one night, waiting
hoping, praying for
sleep, I watched
as the shadows
moved and slithered.
They whispered as
they moved along
the walls. I
watched them as
they shaped themselves
into an arch
of branches. There
were thorns running
along them. Even
though they were
merely shadows, I
knew they would
draw blood. In
front of the
arch was a
sign that merely
said three words:
Sleep, This Way.
I knew I
would have to
walk through the
arch. I gathered
up my courage
and walked through
the thorns. Breathing
deeply, I did
so, feeling the
bite and caress
of the thorns
and brambles. There
was darkness for
a moment, just
for a second and
the smell of
sweat and age,
rot and filth.
When my eyes
cleared, I found
myself in an
alley. There was
but one light
that hung high
up on one
wall, flickering like
a candle flame.
I could see
shadows along the
ground, shapes that
I knew were
other people. I
wondered if any
of them were
the reflections, the
dream people that
had watched me.
I walked down
the alley, the
arch of thorns
having disappeared. Several
of these shapes
called out to
to me in
gruff, angry voices,
men and women,
the lost people.
“I didn’t do what they said. You gotta believe me. I didn’t.”
“I need a drink real bad, just one drink. Any drink.”
“I used to be so pretty, so pretty. I could have my pick of men.”
“I didn’t mean to kill her, but she was asking for it. So was he.”
“You gotta wear a foil hat, man. Otherwise they can hear your thoughts. “
“I’m so hungry. Spare a bite to eat?”
I walked on,
faster, faster, faster.
The alley and
the forgotten went
on forever and
my footsteps were
loud in the
darkness, each step
a crunch of
gravel, glass or
stone, each grab
of their arms
like the thorns
on the arch
I had walked
though to get
here. I pulled
myself away and
broke into a
run, trying to
find the end
of the alley.
The light was
flickering madly off
of the brick
walls and there
was no ending
in sight that
I could see.
Then, in front
of me, a
shadow person stood,
detaching himself from
the mass of moving
thorn people. He
held out his
hands, telling me
to stop without
words. I tried
to run past
him, but he
grabbed hold of
me, held tight
until I stopped
struggling. The entire
time it took
me to calm
down he was
talking to me:
“It’s okay man, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”
I stopped and
looked at him.
He was grimy
and covered in
filth like the
rest of them
but there was
clarity in his
face. He smiled
at me and,
despite my fear,
I smiled back.
“You’re going about this all wrong, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
My voice echoed
off the walls.
“You can keep running forever, if you want to. Makes no difference to me.”
“What else can I do?”
“Well, you can focus on the person who’s dreaming of you for starters.”
“But I’m not sleeping.”
“I know. Legend says that when you can’t sleep, someone else is dreaming about you and you’re awake in that person’s dream.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Does any of this?”
He motioned around
us at the
walls and the
flickering light, at
the mass of
shadows that were
people. He gave
me another grin.
“This is where your nightmares come from. Dreams don’t make any sense. They are pieces of our life we’ve already lived.”
I found myself
nodding, knowing he
was speaking truth.
“So what do I do? How do I leave this place?”
“Well now, that’s simple. You have to focus on the person who’s dreaming of you and go to them.”
“I can do that?”
“Sure. It’s your dream, isn’t it?”
I turned around
in a circle,
looking at the
shadows. I turned
back to the
man, his eyes
bright and his
smile warm, comforting.
“How do I find the other person? I don’t know how to get back the way I came.”
“You wouldn’t want to. No, your way to him is simple. See that light?”
He pointed to
the light, the
only source of
brightness in amongst
all the shadows.
“That’s him. He’s been watching over you all this time, you know. Even in the darkest of times, he’s there.”
“How do I go to him?”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet? Close your eyes, think on the light. Don’t think about anything else. Go towards the light.”
“Is that like dying?”
He shook his
head back and
forth, laughing and
smiling at me.
“Well, they do call sleep the little death.”
He said, thoughtfully.
“This is a dream, not some horror movie. Some dreams end and some dreams become a reality. That’s the great thing. So just focus on the light, nothing else.”
I did as
he said and
closed my eyes.
I thought of
the light, pictured
it growing brighter.
I could see
the brightness
of the light
growing, even with
my eyes closed,
could even begin
to feel the
heat of it
on my face.
Soon, the fetid
air disappeared and
was replaced with
the smell of
a spicy cologne
and the scent
of honeysuckle. I
heard movement as
someone moved towards
me. I would
not be afraid.
A voice said:
“Open your eyes.”
I did and
saw him and
the feeling of
the light upon
my face flowed
through my whole
body. The light
came from him.
“I dreamt of you.”
He said. I
smiled at him.
“I know.”
I said softly.
Then words weren’t
necessary. There was
only me, only
him, only us
and the gorgeous
possibility of dream.
The Unknown Language of the Heart – A Poem
My heart was
unable to speak.
It would look
at other people
in love and
wonder what they
were saying to
each other without
speaking. What kind
of unknown language
passed between them?
I despaired of
ever finding someone
who loved me
deeply enough to
speak without speaking,
to touch my
heart with a
simple caress. That
changed when I
met you. The
love between us
grew slowly, starting
as a seed
that was planted
in my heart
the moment we
first kissed. It
was nurtured with
every endearment and
each caress. When
the flower bloomed,
filling me completely,
I heard a
soft buzzing, felt
a throb of
vibration as my
heart began to
respond to yours.
Now, when you
touched me, it
was like you
touched my heart.
Now when you
spoke to me,
it was as
if you spoke
to my soul.
At first, I
was terrified. What
was this unknown
language? What did
it all mean?
You took my
face in your
hands and looked
right into me.
“Don’t be afraid.”
You said to
me. At those
words, my fear
fell away and
a series of
words I had
not known began
to show themselves
appearing as if
something was rubbed
away and the
words were there
the entire time.
All they needed
was someone to
help me see
them. Now when
you look at
me, the words
from the unknown
language become known
all over again.
All it took
was your love
to set the
words, and myself,
free.
Dead Letters – A Short Story
Everything dies in the end. Even words. Poppy knew this better than anyone. She saw dead words every day. She was their mistress.
Even when she was sleeping, she would hear the words. Words that would never reach their intended, never be read. As she read the words, she mourned them. She tried to pace herself, one letter a day, one dead letter that got lost along the way.
Anything more than one letter and she would lose herself in the words, in the ink that stained her fingers. The ink tasted of dreams. She would open the letters, unsure of what was to come. Was it a letter, a bill for some unknown object? A postcard promising redemption?
Today, she wondered what she would find. She was supposed to dispose of them, that was her job. But she saved one each day instead. If she saved at least one dead letter a day, the words would find some way to live on. She pictured them living inside of her, thriving.
She entered the dead letter room, the light dim and glowing. She could hear the letters whispering to her when she entered. The whispering was like a music to her and Poppy wondered, not for the first time, if she was the only one who could hear it.
She turned up the lights so that it was brighter, more vibrant. Dead things should always have more light, not darkness and shadows. Darkness was for nightmares and things best left forgotten. Dead words, dead letters, needed light, not darkness, to be remembered.
Poppy looked at the letters waiting to be destroyed, waiting to have their life taken from them. She wondered which one to save. Today, the letter chose her. She reached out to pluck one out of the pile with her eyes closed. She liked to leave things to chance.
She was about to pull a letter out of the pile and heard a loud slap. One letter had fallen from the pile to land on the concrete floor. Opening her eyes, she saw that the envelope was newer; the envelope didn’t have many creases or marks on it. She bent to pick it up.
The envelope was heavy with words. She looked at the address. It read: To Cissy DeMile, The City of Abraham. There was no return address. Poppy held the envelope in her hands, ran her fingers over the words printed on the front. Who sent this to Cissy? Would the words live?
She turned the envelope over and opened it slowly. She liked to draw out the suspense, liked to draw out the revealing. It soothed her. She flicked back the flap and drew out a single printed page. Studying the paper, she saw a series of dark scratches of pen and ink.
The note was written on what looked to be an old invoice. The invoice was dated 1999 and it was from a Chinese food restaurant. The paper smelled of old grease and it was crumpled, as if someone had shoved the bill in their pocket. She turned the note over and began to read.
What she read chilled her. The words were written in fast block letters, as if it had been written quickly. As if time were scarce.The note said:
I AM INNOCENT. I DID NOT DO WHAT THEY SAID I DID. LET CISSY KNOW THAT. LET HER KNOW THAT I LOVE HER. I AM ABOUT TO DIE. THEY HAVE MOVED ME TO DEATH ROW. MY TIME IS ALMOST AT AN END. LET CISSY KNOW I LOVE HER AND THAT I AM INNOCENT. WHO EVER FINDS THIS. LET HER KNOW. WHO EVER FINDS THIS, PLEASE LET HER KNOW. CONTACT MY LAWYER AND TRY TO END THIS BEFORE THEY END ME. CECIL
The note scared her. Poppy had never read anything like it. Though the words were few, they frightened her. There was truth in them. There was pain in the words; desperation. They were dead words from a soon to be dead man. Poppy closed her eyes to calm her breathing.
Normally, words would move her. Never before had they frightened her. The truth is always frightening, she thought. The truth sees. Before she had a chance to think about what she was doing, she flicked on her computer and pulled up the white pages online.
She typed in the words “Cissy DeMile, City of Abraham” and pressed enter. She fully expected to get no hits on the name. She expected it. What she didn’t expect was to get a hit, just one hit. It read: CISSY DEMILE, 666 ELYSIAN WAY, CITY OF ABRAHAM, 333-3330. Poppy shivered.
She knew that she should just close the screen, pick another letter and start over, forget Cissy and her father. But she couldn’t. The truth in the words held her, pulled her in. Instead, she hit print and stared at the words in blank ink on the page.
The words, a woman’s name and address, seemed so threatening yet so innocent. She ran her fingers over the words, words no longer dead. Poppy was unable to concentrate. Work sped by in a blur. She kept seeing the woman’s name everywhere she looked. A name full of promise.
When she got home, she pulled off her shoes and grabbed a beer from her fridge. Her cat, mewed at her for attention. Poppy sighed. She knew that she would be unable to concentrate until she called Cissy. Until she passed on the dead words. She sighed again, tired.
How did you contact a stranger you didn’t know? She took the paper out of her pocket and looked at the number. Numbers had power too. Dialing the number, she held her breath. She hoped no one would answer so she could get on with her evening. It was not to be.
A woman answered with a soft voice. “Hello?” Her voice was like velvet. Poppy wondered how to continue. She was silent for a moment.
Poppy cleared her throat, tried to think of words to say. Words should be respected, chosen with care. Instead, she blurted them out. “Ms DeMille?” Her voice sounded shy, hesitant. “You don’t know me but I received a letter from your father.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone and for a moment, Poppy didn’t think Cissy had heard her. She spoke again: “Ms DeMille?”
Her words were stopped mid sentence. “I heard you.” Cissy said roughly. “I heard you loud and clear.” She sounded angry, upset. “You have five seconds to tell me who you are and why you’re calling me.” Cissy said. Poppy heard something that sounded like crying.
Even though she didn’t know her, Poppys heart went out to Cissy. “Ms. DeMille? I know that I have no business calling you, I know that-”
“Then why are you calling me?” Cissy sobbed openly now. “You have no right to call me about…my father.”
Poppy felt her heart break a little. A break that could not be healed with words. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe if we could meet?” She knew that she was being foward, but Poppy felt this was important. She could feel it. “Maybe for coffee or something?” Poppy held her breath, waited.
“Coffee would be fine.” Cissy said eventually. “Meet me at Calebs Coffee at 3pm. Is that all right?”
Poppy nodded even though Cissy could not see her. “Yes, that’s fine. How will I know who you are?”
“I’ll find you.” Cissy said. She hung up leaving Poppy listening to silence. Shaking, she hung up the phone trying to calm herself.
She wondered why this was so important. She just knew it was. Words and numbers had power, she thought. Even dead words have power. Knowing that she couldn’t concentrate on work, Poppy grabbed her coat and headed into the sunshine. It was cold and the wind whispered.
She walked across the street towards the park, the sunshine inviting her to daydream. Poppy listened to the music of the cars rushing by. She was blinded momentarily by the sun. She turned her head away and blinked. When she opened her eyes, a man was standing before her. He hadn’t been there before. Poppy was sure of that. But people don’t appear out of thin air, do they?
“Sorry” she said. “I didn’t see you.” She held a hand to her beating heart. “You startled me.” She looked at his face, saw ice blue eyes.
The man smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You see more than you think.” His voice was deep and rumbled out of him.
Poppy feared this man. There was something in his eyes that said he had seen things she hadn’t. She moved back a step, wanting to keep space between them. He had dark hair and scruff on his chin. He was still smiling at her.
“Is there something you want?” Poppy asked. She wanted to be away from him. She wanted to think of what she would say to Cissy.
The man shook his head. “I only wanted to speak to you.” His voice was deep and it rumbled. “I wanted to warn you.” He smiled again.
Poppy was even more afraid. Her heart beat quickly inside of her chest and she wondered if he could hear it. “Warn me? Against what?”
“Ignore the letter.” the man said. “Do not get involved. You will put yourself at risk.” He pointed to her purse where the letter hid. “Burn the letter, dispose of it. Do not get involved. You seem nicer than the rest, then the others.” Each word came out like a slap in the face. Poppy took a further step back.
Poppy could barely speak, fear closing her throat. “Who are you?” She shielded her eyes from the sun which had grown brighter.
The man smiled again, the smile not reaching his eyes. “I am no one to be trifled with.” he said. Then, slowly, he bowed to her.
Poppy blinked, the sun blinding her. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. She felt a chill fill her skin and her heart beat quickly. She wondered, vaguely, whether words could cause harm. She wondered if the words she read could bring about the end of her own story.
Not wanting to be late, Poppy headed to Caleb’s Coffee to meet Cissy. She shook off the feeling of doom that covered her from head to toe. While she walked, she looked over her shoulder, wanting to make sure she wasn’t followed. The man had filled her with subtle unease.
“Ignore the letter…” she said this out loud if only to reassure herself that she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. What did that mean? She had little time to ponder this. When Caleb’s came into view, she saw a woman with blond hair standing by the entrance.
As Poppy approached, the nervousness increased. The woman turned and faced her. “Poppy?” she said. “Poppy Stone?”
Poppy nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, Cissy. I wish we could meet under more normal circumstances.”
Cissy laughed, her dark eyes flashing wildly in the sunlight like sapphires. “There is nothing normal about this. Nothing normal at all.” She rummaged in her purse. “Do you mind if I have a smoke?” Not waiting for an answer she lit a cigarette breathed deeply.
Poppy nodded, though it was not required. “I’m sorry about this. I shouldn’t have called you, I shouldn’t have-”
Cissy barked out a laugh. “No, what you should do is tell me how you got a letter from my dead father.”
Taking a deep breath, Poppy let it out. “I work in a dead letter room. Where unfound mail goes to die if no one claims it or it doesn’t reach the intended address.”
There was a sharp look in Cissy’s eyes. “Do you routinely open the letters?”
“We have to determine that there’s nothing of value in them. It’s procedure.”
“And do you normally contact the people who the letters were sent to?”
“If there’s an address, yes. Sometimes they have moved or can’t be found. Yours was odd though. There was no address.”
“So you looked me up on the web.” Cissy smiled. “Resourceful. I can respect that.”
Their waiter came and they both ordered tea. Poppy excused herself to go to the washroom. There was something odd about Cissy, something Poppy couldn’t put her finger on. She seemed unnecessarily angry, not quite the grieving daughter she had on the phone.
Slipping into the washroom, Poppy stood at the sink and rinsed her face with cold water. When she looked up at her face in the mirror, she stifled a scream. The man from earlier was standing behind her.
“How did you get in here?” Poppy said. “This is a woman’s washroom!”
“It’s too late for you, she has your scent now. She won’t let you go. She’s been quiet for so long, but people like her are always hungry for more.”
“What are you talking about?” Poppy whispered.
“My daughter.” He replied. “I’m talking about my daughter. ”
“The one you wrote the letter to? Cissy?”
He gave her a sad look, his eyes drooping for a moment before snapping back to look at he again. “I did not write that letter.”
“But you did, I’ve got it here-” She rummaged in her purse but he stopped her by speaking again.
“It doesn’t matter. They all look the same. That’s how she gets them, people like you, drawn to the mystery of it all. They always find a person willing to die. They always find her next victim.”
The words sent a shiver running down her spine and she looked at him in the mirror. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re almost out of time. She’ll come looking for you in a moment. Take the letter and get out of here. Destroy it, get rid of it, otherwise, she’ll find you.”
“How can she find me with a letter?”
“It’s not written with ink. It’s written in blood. She can smell it’s scent.”
Poppy pulled it out of her purse. She removed the envelope and examined the letters again. She saw they were a dark red instead of the black ink she had taken it to be. Shivering, Poppy looked back at the man in the mirror. “Can I destroy it here? Will she know?”
He nodded. “But she will not be able to find you.”
He took a lighter out of his pocket and held it out to her. Poppy turned but saw there was no one behind her. Turning back to the mirror, she saw that he still held out the lighter with its flame flickering brightly.
“What are you?” Poppy whispered.
“I am already dead. I was her first. She wrote the first batch of letters with my blood.” He looked behind him at the bathroom door. “Hurry now, you’re running out of time.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because you see more than you think you do. People like you are rare. Hold the letter up to the mirror, quickly now. Take your hands away as soon as it touches the glass.”
Poppy did as she was told. She touched the paper to mirror and took her hands away quickly as a flame licked across the paper. Soon, the paper was gone, but she could still see the words shining brightly on the mirror.
“Now run. Don’t look back and run.”
She didn’t need to be told twice As she ran out of the coffee shop, the screaming started. Poppy looked into the restaurant and saw Cissy, screaming with her skin on fire, burning as the letter had done.
Poppy ran out of Caleb’s Coffee, the sounds of Cissy’s screams and the sight of her burning skin following close behind her.
As she ran, she decided that she would call in sick tomorrow. She’d had enough of dead words and dead letters to last a lifetime.
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Jamieson Wolf has written a compelling story about navigating multiple sclerosis and cerebral palsy. His story will touch your heart, make you cry, then laugh, and inspire you. A touching memoir with a bit of magic…and tarot! ~ Theresa Reed, author of The Tarot Coloring Book
Jamieson Wolf 