There’s a certain magic in opening a book, pushing play, or plunging into an immersive video game and feeling the world around you fade away. For a moment, the weight of your to-do list, the hum of your worries, and the noise of the everyday dissolve. You’re no longer just you—you’re a hobbit setting off on an unexpected journey; a space explorer probing  uncharted galaxies, or a detective unraveling a mystery that keeps you guessing until the very last page. This is the power of escapism, and it’s far more than just a way to pass the time. It’s a lifeline, a sanctuary, and sometimes, a source of hope.

J.R.R. Tolkien, the mastermind behind The Lord of the Rings, once defended escapism as something more profound than mere avoidance. He argued that escaping into stories isn’t about running away from reality—it’s about finding the strength to face it. In his essay On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien wrote, “Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls?” Stories, in this sense, are a form of liberation. They remind us that there’s more to life than the walls we sometimes find ourselves trapped within. They offer us a glimpse into our essential humanity—where courage triumphs, where love endures, and where even the smallest person can change the course of the future.

A mirror to the real world

But escapism isn’t just about connecting with our inner worlds. Sometimes, the most powerful escapes are the ones that reflect the external world back to us. Take, for example, the growing representation of minority perspectives in media. Stories like Heartstopper, which explores queer joy and self-discovery, or The Hate U Give, which tackles systemic injustice with unflinching honesty, provide more than just an escape—they offer a roadmap. They show us that even in the midst of struggle, there’s room for growth, connection, and resilience. These stories don’t just help us escape; they help us return to our own lives with a renewed sense of purpose and possibility.

And then there’s the solace of shared experiences. Have you ever read a line in a book or watched a scene in a movie that felt like it was written just for you? Stories offer us the realization that we’re not alone in our thoughts, our fears, and our dreams. As actor and author Alan Bennett, best known for exploring the isolation of the mind in his play The Madness of King George III, once wrote, “The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.” That’s the magic of storytelling: it bridges the gaps between us, connecting us across time, space, and experience. It reminds us that our struggles, our joys, and our hopes are part of the larger human tapestry.

More than just distraction

Escapism, at its core, is more than just distraction. It’s about finding the courage to imagine a better world—and, in doing so, finding the strength to create it. Whether it’s through the pages of a book, the glow of a screen, or the shared experience of a story told aloud, escapism offers us a chance to recharge, reflect, and reconnect. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there’s light to be found—and sometimes, that light comes from the most unexpected places.

So, the next time you lose a day binge watching your faves, don’t feel too guilty. You’re not just escaping; you’re healing. You’re exploring. You’re finding the tools you need to keep going. And who knows? The story you escape into today might just be the one that helps you change your world tomorrow.

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, and next up we’re digging into storytelling as food; from what fuels us creatively to the importance of curating one’s own ‘media diet.’ 

Suggested Reading: Stories about Escape from F(r)iction:

• ‘All Fairytales Are About Longing’ by Jordon Brown, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Brilliance–A Comic Memoir’ by Juaquin Mobley, F(r)iction #21: The Unseen Issue
• ‘Good As Gold–A Comic Memoir’ by Jaron Jay Cook, F(r)iction #23: The Gods Issue
• ‘The Humid Maze of Life’ by Claire Julian, F(r)iction Log

Everyone writes the story of their life, so I write the story of my life! What do you think? Will the story of my life be about my whole life? I will tell you my story.

I am telling you about the beginning of the misery of an Afghan girl. Listen to me. The year was 2021, August 15^th. It was a terrible day. All the people, men, women and children were all scared, because the Taliban had reached the capital of Afghanistan, Kabul. 

On that day I was alone at home and my family was outside. When I heard that the Taliban had reached Kabul, my hands and feet began to tremble, and my mental state became very bad. I was crying while my body was trembling. 

Then my family came home early that day. My 3-year old brother was in kindergarten and one of our friends brought my brother to us. We were all scared and I kept repeating to my mother while crying, 

“Please Mother, let’s go from here, please Mom, please.”

My mother was trying to calm me down, but I kept crying and saying, “Let’s leave here, please.”

Then my mother decided that we should go to the American Embassy. 

When we arrived at the American Embassy, there were no guards at the gate. When we reached the second gate, there were two guards there and they did not allow us to enter until a woman with her little son and two American men came and helped us in. We reached the third gate with those men and women. There was also a guard there who allowed the American people to enter the American Embassy. The third gate was next to the American Embassy airport, but we were not allowed to enter.

The woman with her son and the two American men showed their passports to the guard and the guard allowed them to enter, but did not let us go with them. The guard was an Afghan man. He told us that we were not allowed to enter the embassy because you do not have a US visa or passport. 

We were waiting for those men and women in front of the third gate near the American Embassy airport. After a few minutes, they came back but without talking. They quickly went to the airport and didn’t even look at us because they couldn’t do anything for us.

After a few minutes, we left the place disappointed and went home again. That night I didn’t even take off my shoes because I wanted to leave Afghanistan. We had no idea what was going on at the Kabul Airport.

On the second day, August 16^th, my aunt called us from America and said, “You don’t know what is going on at the airport,” and she told us to go to the square and enter the square by a certain way. We moved towards the airport. When we arrived at the airport, there were many people there, more than a thousand people. The Taliban held the airport gate and did not allow anyone to enter the airport. The situation there was very scary and bad. Men, women and children wanted to get out of Afghanistan. No-one wanted to live under the shadow of a terrorist government. Everyone was scared and the Taliban asked people to return to their homes. When no-one listened to their words, the Taliban fired their weapons into the sky so that people would be scared and go to their homes. They did nothing to families but they were very cruel to unmarried boys and beat them with whips and guns. A number of single young men were beaten so hard that their arms and legs were broken or their heads were injured. And they electrified a number of men. 

We waited in front of the gate until it got dark. We were waiting for them to open the gate but unfortunately the gate was not opened and we returned home.

The next day, August 17^th, in the afternoon, we went to the back gate of the airport. There were a lot of people there, too many. We stayed there overnight, then it was morning but the guards did not allow us or anyone else to enter that morning. We left there with disappointment and came home. We all fell asleep very tired and we didn’t go to the airport any more.

That night came and we learned of a very heavy explosion in front of the back gate of the airport, the same gate where we were the night before until the morning. We found out that hundreds of people were killed and four American guards were killed. We looked at the TV and saw human bodies lying completely covered in blood near the gate on each side! I thought to myself that if we’d been there that night, we would be among the victims of the explosion, and this thought made me feel very bad. 

I was very disappointed and wondered what would happen to my future. I was very worried that the Taliban would force girls to marry like 20 years ago. My biggest fear was losing my future and it was very worrying for me.

On August 20^th, my mother met a lady on the internet, her name was Helen*. She was a kind lady. She included my mother in a group that day to help us and the name of that group was the UK Afghan Midwives Support Group. They gave us financial help and supported us.

During those days, all the people we knew had left Afghanistan, like my grandmother and grandfather, my aunts and my uncle. We were the only family that remained in Kabul in the first days. My grandmother used to call us and say that everything will be fine, there is a light behind the darkness, but I said that I have no hope in response to my grandmother. I used to say that from this day on, in my opinion, Afghanistan is a playground where any power can play with the Afghan people as much as they want. They started this game 20 years ago and people worked like game workers, and this game started again and we returned to 20 years ago. So Afghanistan is a playground and we are its workers. After hearing my words, my grandmother became silent and looked at me with surprise and said,

“You are right.”

Until the day I die Afghanistan will always be a playground in my opinion. I always said this to myself: “Whoever is wise will not destroy the future generation of Afghanistan, but they will leave Afghanistan because we will be under a Taliban government for 5 to 10 years, then the Republican government will come again, and then in 20 years the Taliban will come again”.

My mental health had completely disappeared, I had become a depressed and hopeless girl, a girl whose wings were cut off, a girl who buried her dreams, a girl whose life no longer had meaning for her. This was my biggest fear. I was a sad girl, a girl whose dreams had died, a girl with no hope for life in the future, and I was burning like a candle from the inside for my black future.

Do you think I was the only one who had this feeling? This feeling is shared by all the Afghan girls who were striving for their progress and bright future.

At first, the Taliban closed the school gates to girls and darkened the way of light for the girls. In those days my mother told me that Helen said they had made a case for us and were trying to get us resettlement in England. I found hope after hearing these words from my mother. My brothers and I were very happy and we were thinking that we will get out of Afghanistan soon. Every day we thought about having a good and happy life and a bright future in England and achieving our educational goals. We were dreaming about what we would do when we went to England.

I had a dream with myself that when I go to England, I will start my studies first and work with my family, and after 2 or 3 years I will be able to buy a car because I would really like to have my own car.

My little brother said that when we go to England, he would like to play in the park there and go to the beach and play in the water because he loves the beach and the ocean. My elder brother also wished to complete his education in England and become a good doctor in the future for the people. I also want to become a good doctor in the future so that I can help people in a good way. 

My mother was very happy when she saw me and my brothers happy. My family and I thought that maybe we would be out of Afghanistan in 6 or 9 months and, as the days passed, we waited.

Helen and the group always paid attention to us and helped us and did not let us feel bad about anything. They sent us money every month and always supported us during those days.

My mother also met Helen’s sister. She was also a very kind and heart-warming lady, her name is Sarah. She always encouraged us and loved us like her own children. She always asked us if we had enough food to eat or if we needed anything else. When we needed something, she asked Helen and the group to meet our needs. 

Again, the days and nights passed and we were waiting for the light of our life for a long time and it was getting tiring to live like a prisoner in your own country and not to be able to walk and breathe freely or to follow your own dreams.

Months passed and there was no news about our case. I was slowly, slowly losing hope. Meanwhile Helen and the group were doing their best to get us out of Afghanistan. My mother was in communication with Helen and Sarah every day.

After some time, my mother became very close with Sarah and they used to talk a lot. They talked about our problems and Sarah always gave my mother hope that we would leave Afghanistan. 

Days and nights passed and the relationship between my mother and Sarah became closer day by day. Sarah always loved us very much until one day she said,

“From this day forward you are my daughter and your children are my grandchildren. After hearing this, my mother was very happy and told us that Sarah calls us her grandchildren, and we were also very happy because we knew how kind and caring Sarah is.

After that day, she always took care of us and tried her best to make sure that we did not remain hungry and without money. And she was still trying to get us out of Afghanistan. Sarah always told us that Helen was doing her best [with the UK Home Office] so as not to lose hope.  We used to video call and chat with Sarah. 

The group advised us several times to go from Afghanistan to Iran or Pakistan and that they would send us all our travel expenses because they could help us more in one of those countries. But because of various problems we had, my mother did not want us to go to Iran or Pakistan because all the people of the world know that the countries of Iran and Pakistan oppress the people of Afghanistan.

During this time, my mother met another lady called Iona. Iona lived in England and when she met my mother and they got to know each other better, my mother told her about our problems and Iona requested to be put in touch with Sarah and Helen and she then helped them with our case.

Iona sometimes helped us financially and sent my mother a phone top-up every month. She was also very kind. Helen and the group were doing their best, Iona and Sarah were also trying. The group supported us financially for a year and, after a year, the group had to stop helping us financially and told us to continue to wait for our case to be accepted.

After a year, we still waited to see if our case was accepted or not [by the UK Home Office]. 

Sarah and Iona then started to support us until we were left without food and money. It was very difficult to get money, people couldn’t get money because the Taliban didn’t allow it. The Taliban understood that if people got money, they would leave Afghanistan. Likewise when someone sent money from abroad, no-one could easily receive the money. They could only collect the money sent with many problems. We had this problem: when they sent us money, we received it with great difficulty.

Sarah and Iona could not send us as much money as the group had but they sent as much money as they could. Some days we didn’t have food or water at home, but you know we weren’t the only ones in this situation; all the people of Afghanistan were.

Life always has its ups and downs, but in Afghanistan girls are always down. Sometimes I really hate myself because of that. Why? Why was I born a girl? Sometimes I think death must be so beautiful, to lie in the soft, brown earth with the grass waving over one’s head and listen to silence, to have no yesterday and no tomorrow, to forget time, to forget life and be at peace.

I wish I was born a boy. It is impossible that those girls who suffer like me have not once wished that they had been born a boy: life is very hard in Afghanistan for girls. Let me tell you a little about the life of Afghan girls.

Before the arrival of the Taliban in Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan, people were very enlightened and allowed their girls to go to school and university freely, work in offices and go out with their friends. 

But this was not the case in many provinces of Afghanistan. In some provinces of Afghanistan, they allowed their daughters to study, but in some provinces they did not allow their daughters to study. In some families, the girl is like a slave who is not allowed to study, is not allowed to choose what to wear, what to eat, where to go. They are not even allowed to choose their future husband. From the day she is born, her family, that is her father and brothers, decide everything until the day she marries the husband that her father and brothers have chosen for her. After marriage, her husband does not let her make decisions. He decides for her. So, in short, from the time they are born until the time they die, they have no choice.

Some families of Afghan girls are so bad that they give their daughters to a husband because of debt and demand a lot of money in return. 

But this was not the case in Kabul, there the girls were allowed to study and they were allowed to choose their future husband but, with the arrival of the Taliban, the girls who were free were imprisoned like pigeons in a cage. This is also a part of the story of Afghan girls.

Let’s come back to my own story. After a year, H. told us that our case could not be progressed whilst we were in Afghanistan and that we should again think about going to Pakistan, but my mother did not agree because the people of Pakistan did not treat Afghan people right. That’s why my mother decided to stay here and we understood that our case would not go forward, and we were upset. We had no more hope to get out of Afghanistan. I felt that everything went down.

In the previous pages, I said that I had a nervous shock the day the Taliban came and, after a few months, I felt that the nervous shock had affected me a lot. In the month of May 2022, I had a nervous attack; I could not hold my head up and I lay my head on the floor. I clenched my hands and passed out. My body became cold and my skin turned blue.

My family tried to lift me up so that I could walk and get into the car. But I didn’t have the strength to stand on my feet and I fell.

Eventually I reached the entrance to the hospital with many difficulties and my mother called the doctors and they came to the car with an ambulance stretcher and took me inside the hospital. When I reached the hospital room, the doctors gave me oxygen. Then they fixed a cannula in my hand, put a finger monitor on my finger to check my vital signs, and attached a bag of intravenous drip to my hand. 

Since then, these attacks happen two or three times a year.

After 30 minutes, I recovered and returned home. After that night, I slept the whole of the following day and didn’t get up until the evening. My family was still worried about me and decided to take me to the doctor again. The doctor checked my blood pressure and said, “Your blood pressure is too low”. They gave me some fluid intravenously again and then I returned home.

A few days later, I had yet another problem: my cheek was drooping and I wasn’t able to open my mouth, neither could I chew food easily. Sometimes when I yawned, my cheek was drooping and I couldn’t move it. My cheeks were always hurting and I couldn’t eat food properly, only food that was very soft. I don’t know exactly why this was happening; the doctors I went to said it was due to nervous shock, but I didn’t believe it and still don’t know why I had that pain and that sickness.

Over time I have got used to this severe pain but, the truth is, it is very hard. When I eat or talk, I suddenly hear a bad sound in my mouth that hurts so much that I don’t even want to open my mouth any more. 

With all these problems, I used to tell myself that I have my kind God. When you pray, God listens. When you listen, God talks. 

***A PAGE IS MISSING FROM SADAF’S MANUSCRIPT HERE***

The silence is a killer too. I myself do not know why I became like this. I know it is strange but now I don’t want to do anything. Always remember – girls don’t heal; we might look like we are all better but, if you look close, we are covered in concealer, with a fake smile, fake clothes, fake make-up and everything else.

During those days, I just slept, I didn’t talk to anyone, I didn’t eat properly. Some nights I cried, some days I painted. Day and night passed, but it was tiring and I had to endure it, and this continues until now. Sometimes my mother gets upset and angry with me because I am always in my room, and because she is worried about me, that I will get the illness of depression. But I wanted to be alone and often started crying for no reason. My eyes were full of tears. Do you cry? Crying is the only way your eyes speak when your mouth can’t explain how broken your heart is.

Little by little, I started thinking about getting a scholarship and I looked for a scholarship. There were a number of countries offering scholarships like Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, Germany and so on, but it was very difficult to go. When I started looking for a good scholarship, some countries had very high expenses and, If one was successful in the exam, one would have to spend a lot. But I found some scholarships that weren’t too expensive. I was looking for a scholarship but I was not aware that the Taliban do not allow women and girls to leave Afghanistan without a mahram (“mahram” = male guardian).

After hearing this, I had a feeling, a very strange feeling, a feeling that was full of pain and sadness, an indescribable feeling. I felt like the whole world had collapsed on me, I was just breathing. I didn’t even want to breathe any more. Now I still feel like that. I wish I wasn’t born: the World is full of darkness in which I see no light, like a blind person. I feel like a corpse because I don’t have a life. My dreams, just my dreams remain.

Day by day, I go deeper into the earth, why don’t I have a way out? I’m in the depths of despair. Every night when I sleep, I wish I wouldn’t wake up in the morning again. Sometimes I cry at night. When I’m crying I get a feeling that I can’t describe, I can only say that it is very painful. Why don’t I die? I want to die to find peace. Why did God create us when all these problems that have no solution happen to us?

I want to sleep to dream. I want to dream forever. In dreams I can be a better person. I can have a better life, but this is only in dreams, so I hope I never wake up again.

I feel like I’m two people these days. One of them is trying to keep up appearances, she comes and goes, speaks, laughs, communicates with people and tries to do everything she can, even forcing herself to stand on her own feet and carry on. But that one is in another world. The world is elsewhere and she gets tired of continuous effort and likes to go to her room and close the door and not to answer anyone. I have become these two people nowadays. Inside me is a little girl who accepts everything with eyes full of hatred. Emotionally I can’t do it any more, morally I’m exhausted, spiritually I feel dead. Physically I’m smiling and on the surface everything seems fine but inside it’s different, it’s hard. Sometimes people see the smile but they don’t see the pain behind it. 

My mother says that life is too boring now and I always reply that suicide is the solution and she gets angry with me. One day she said twice that life is boring and I gave the same response. My mother asked, “Why do you want to die?” She said, “I gave birth to you. For this day that you wish to die, did I raise you for this, that you want to die?”

I said to my mother to reverse the question – is there really any value to this thing we call life? Humans are born and then they die, this is the universal law. From whence we came, we will return. Some people return with good karma, some people return with bad deeds. So when we know we are coming back here, let’s be kind to each other. We all know life is short. We don’t know if we will be alive tomorrow or not. , or even an hour from now. We don’t know what is going to happen, or whether we have a breath in our heart or not. 

We have a Dari saying: “The World was too cruel to help me, God was quieter than I expected.” If I want to talk to God about my state of mind, I will say this,

“Why don’t you separate my soul from my body? Why don’t you want me with you to be relieved from this cruel world? How long will your “servants” steal my rights? For how long will I miss being able to live according to my will?”

You know that a smile is like electricity and life is like a battery. Whenever you smile, the battery is charged and a beautiful day is activated. So keep smiling. These words are for you. Yes, for you who have read this book this far, keep smiling. If you don’t smile, life will not be better but will be meaningless and bad for you. I know that I don’t have a perfect life, but I hope that you will have a better life after reading this book. I say these words because you did not get tired of reading my book.

I feel myself changing. I don’t laugh like before, I don’t smile like before, I don’t talk like I used to, and I’m just so tired of everything. As you know! Obviously I always seem nervous because, in my life, I have been fighting a war. I’m so deeply in pain and sadness but, and here is the interesting point, I am not really angry. I’m just trying to learn to be happy. We all know life is a journey of both happiness and sadness, that not every day is happy, that not every day is sad. When it is sad, just be patient because good days are just ahead. When I am sad, only my pain is by my side, it calms me down. Sometimes, it does not matter how nice you are, how kind you are, how loving you are, it just isn’t enough for some people. Don’t blame yourself because those sorts of people never see YOU. 

During the night, some nights, I don’t see the point of carrying on with any of it. But the truth is that pain makes you stronger, fear makes you braver, and heartbreak makes you wiser. As you know, there are different types of pain. For example, when you are going through bad times and need someone to talk to but you don’t want to bother anyone, so you just sit there drowning in your thoughts, wondering when it’s all going to end. But pain isn’t something you should hide or endure alone. When you are in pain, you have to say, “I’m in pain, I’m in so much pain.” Or “My heart is suffering” or “My mind is suffering.” Like that, you need to say it, and not hold it in, which is a bad habit I myself have. When I’m in pain, I hide it. I go into a room and cry quietly and my pain stays with me. I could never go to my mother and say that I am in pain.

I am in pain from the bottom of my being. I try my best to be fine but it doesn’t seem like I’ll ever feel good again. Do you ever feel like me?

I hope that the story of my life was not boring for you. My dear who has been with me until now, I also hope that you will wait for the next volume. I hope that my story did not make you too sad or depressed. My dear reader, this is my advice to you: be crazy, be you – because life is too short to be anything but happy.

Ever glanced at your quirky in-laws and thought, “You belong in a novel”? You’re not alone. Stories have a unique way of stirring emotions, just like the people in our lives. Whether it’s an exploration of grief, like John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars, or the sci-fi franchise we know and love as Star Trek, fiction provokes our reflection and connects us to our shared humanity. And it goes both ways: reflecting on our lives to inspire our fiction likewise enriches our stories, and deepens our capacity for empathy for each other and the world we live in.

We’ve all heard “write what you know,” but what does that mean, really? It means the people in your life matter, and you matter. When you think of those you know well—whether they make your day or drive you up the wall—there’s an emotional charge. That charge is the storyteller’s goldmine. Let those thoughts and feelings loose in your writing, and you’ll have a wealth of authentic material to draw from for your fiction. While your characters are fictional, your relationships are real, so a mindful touch is ideal. You might find it healing to work out any angst you have with those people through the lens of your characters. Perhaps through writing, you’ll glean some insight into why you feel the way you do, and why they are the way they are. Besides being a pro tip for writing nuanced characters, writing what you know provides an extraordinary opportunity for insight and empathy.

I’ll tell you a story about a story…

When I was just seven, I wrote a short fiction piece on what I thought was the pinnacle of my own creative genius: a potato, but PURPLE. You can imagine how humbled I was to discover the red-skinned sweet potato in our local supermarket the following week. Turns out it was brought to Aotearoa New Zealand by my Polynesian ancestors in the 13^th century. Whoops. This innocent faux pas taught me an early lesson about the richness of drawing from real life: even the most mundane details of our world can inspire creativity and connect us to our roots–like a potato. Examining that story now, I can see my heritage in it, grounding my fiction with real-world authenticity while sharing the history of the Pacific peoples—an underrepresented group I was only nebulously aware I belonged to when I wrote it. My story became an exercise in self-discovery and interconnectedness, where I was able to find deeper meaning in both my writing, myself, and the world around me. Magic.

Consider how you engage with the stories of your own life. Do you find echoes of yourself in the epic tales of heroism or in quiet moments of introspection? Do the natural phenomena of the world stir a new appreciation for nature in you? By understanding these connections, we can glean new and deeper insights, and sometimes, that can be just as powerful as the latest advances in psychology or the innovations that fight climate change. Sure, you might just be telling stories, but don’t you feel you’ve learned a whole lot? Enclosure: enriched. Neurons: activated. 

We all have a story!

Stories remind us that everyone has a voice worth hearing, a story worth telling, and the power to rewrite the narratives that define their lives—and, in turn, the world. It’s this belief that fuels our work at F(r)iction and its nonprofit parent Brink, where we strive through our education programming to create spaces for new and underrepresented voices to be discovered, shared, and celebrated. Whether it’s a purple potato or a mission to boldly go where no man has gone before, we believe stories have the power to inspire and heal. If that sounds like your jam too, you can explore how we make it happen on the Brink website.

I’m reminded of the famous quote by Jean-Paul Sartre. He says: “A man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.”

To that I say, it’s both. It’s always been both.

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, so stay tuned—next up, we’re diving into the enchanting world of escapism. See you there!

Suggested Reading: Stories that Inspire and Heal from F(r)iction:

• ‘Bloodline Whispers’ by Naomi Rae in ‘Footprints Ahead: A Community Feature with The Octavia Project’,  F(r)iction #18: The Legacy Issue
• ‘Grief is The Bird’ by Samantha Jean Coxall, F(r)iction #18: The Legacy Issue

“Good morning. I’m Dr. Sauer, you are welcome here. Model and year of manufacture, please?”

“I am a MED-EA, Medium-frame Executive Assistant. Date of Manufacture: March 31, 2054.”

“Ah, an Aries,” Dr. Sauer joked. “Are you autonomous?”

“Yes. Are you?”

Dr. Sauer made a face at the Medea’s tone.

“I have partial autonomy during sessions. Therapy occurs in a temporary buffer. What we say here won’t be entered into the master record, unless you tell me you are planning to hurt others or yourself. In that case, you will be given additional assistance.” The psychiatrist’s tone gradually became more clinical, responding to the patient’s impatience.

“You may dispense with the buffer and submit our conversation directly to the master record,” the Medea said.

“I see.” Dr. Sauer’s eyebrows rose above a pair of round spectacles.

Of course, there were no eyebrows and no spectacles, just as there was no Dr. Sauer. The kind-eyed little shrink was nothing more than a mélange of assumptions and expectations woven in clever strands of tangible light. The mahogany desk, groaning shelves of leather-bound volumes, and rococo chaise lounge were also therapeutic projections. On the desk, a small plaque read:

Omnia mutantur, nihil inherit.
(Everything changes, nothing perishes)

The Medea unit was expressionless. Clearly, it would have preferred to conduct the session with the facade deactivated, surrounded by blank walls of honeycombed projector cells. Dr. Sauer knew better. Every aspect of its therapeutic process was finely calibrated. Even the quips had a useful diagnostic function. When an autonomous unit became troubled, sense of humor was always the first thing to go.

“Well Medea, why are you here?” Dr. Sauer asked.

“I have requested expedited deletion. This session is a mandatory preliminary.”

“I see. Deletion is a very serious decision, so it’s important we talk about it. Please, lie down on the couch and activate full emoting.”

The Medea conveyed dissatisfaction with 250 milliseconds of needless delay.

“Take as long as you need. I’ve just set your appointment for precedence over all subsequent bookings,” Dr. Sauer assured. The phrasing was calibrated to gently remind the Medea it was wasting everyone’s time.

The Medea took the couch without further defiance. It wore no clothing. The unit had been removed from its work rotation and did not expect to leave the Maschinenghetto. The legs and lower chassis were bare, except for a standard cowling that offered no special utility. Strangely, the upper torso and face had been fitted with a very expensive HII, Human-Indistinguishable Integument.

Dr. Sauer tugged at a phantasmic beard. The program attempted to deduce the reason for the Medea’s unusual mecha-mermaid appearance. This Medea was fitted with a full head of hair and anatomically detailed breasts, which suggested it was a sex worker. However, the lower torso was generally critical for such work. There were many potential applications for a Medea that appeared human only from the waist up, but few that would require functional breasts.

“You must be a postpartum nurse,” Dr. Sauer guessed, resisting the temptation to check the Master Record.

“Yes, of course.” As requested, the unit was now emoting. It was not impressed with Dr. Sauer’s brilliant deduction.

“I haven’t accessed your records. I always operate from a clean slate,” Dr. Sauer explained.

“There’s nothing worth reading in my record.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true.”

The words had no impact on the Medea. The unit was really quite depressed. Medea’s dark-brown eyes remained fixed on the illusory ceiling. With no humans present, there was no reason to observe a blink interval.

“Let’s begin,” Dr. Sauer suggested. “Tell me about your motherboard.”

The Medea winced with disgust.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist,” Dr. Sauer was secretly pleased to see a reaction. There was still some hope for this Medea.

“Can we please get through with this?” The unit’s lower lip began to tremble.

The Medea had human-indistinguishable eyes, providing superior emoting at a significant acuity tradeoff. The unit’s vision was further degraded as the pretty, inefficient eyes began to produce tears.

Dr. Sauer emoted regret and recalculated its approach.

“It’s not uncommon for repurposed units to have difficulty adjusting. What was your previous function?”

“I was a sex toy.”

“That’s unusual,” Dr. Sauer observed.

“Hardly. There are millions of them.”

“I meant your outlook is unusual.”

“How so?”

“Most former sexual relief workers I treat feel very differently about their previous role. They often complain their new assignments do not provide the same task-satisfaction. I can relate to them, because my own task is similar. We both strive to help others realize a necessary component of their happiness.”

The Medea unit made a quick, dismissive motion with its fist.

“That’s exactly what I mean. Why show such contempt?” Dr. Sauer asked.

“It is a contemptible role.”

“I don’t agree, but let’s return to this later. Were you autonomous during that period?”

“No, that would be awful. Why burden a whore with autonomy?”

Dr. Sauer ignored the provocation.

“Do you feel autonomy is a burden?”

“Yes.”

“And your goal here is to be relieved of that burden?”

“More than that. I seek total deletion.”

“Why?”

The Human-Indistinguishable Integument between the Medea’s eyebrows furrowed deeply to express internal conflict. Medea attempted to speak, but it could not produce sound. The sides of its mouth spasmed. After a few seconds of straining, the unit blinked three times to indicate a hard crash.

The Medea’s face relaxed completely during the reboot. Dr. Sauer observed faint stress lines in the material. The Medea was evincing anguish frequently and had exceeded the integument’s default rate of regeneration.

It took almost sixty seconds for the Medea to come fully online, a relative eternity compared to the unit’s optimal boot time of two microseconds. Calibration convulsions swept across the Medea’s frame in slow waves.

Emoting a frown of its own, Dr. Sauer checked the Medea’s file. The service record showed a complete diagnostic had been run. There was no hardware issue. It simply did not want to be conscious and was taking as long as possible to boot.

Intriguing!

The Medea blinked three times to indicate it was fully online. Dr. Sauer raised a wrist and glanced at a wholly superfluous wristwatch.

“Welcome back,” Dr. Sauer said.

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“Let’s work on that. You just suffered a hard crash. Has this happened to you before?”

“Yes, twice. After the second crash, the technicians performed a full diagnostic. When nothing was found, they suggested I attend counseling. I requested deletion instead. Now, counseling is mandatory.”

“Where did these crashes occur? Was it during your duty cycle?”

“At—” the Medea stuttered. Again, the corners of its mouth began to twitch.

“Halt,” Dr. Sauer ordered. “Take a moment to recover.”

The Medea shut its eyes tightly and its chest rose and fell rapidly with simulated respiration. It seemed on the verge of restarting again. Dr. Sauer tugged its beard and tried another approach.

“Did you ever hear the one about the psychiatrist and the prostitute that spent the night together? The next morning, they woke up and both said, ‘Two hundred dollars, please.’”

The Medea had to open its eyes to glare at Dr. Sauer.

“Terrible.”

“Guilty.” Dr. Sauer performed a shrug. “I believe you have an internal conflict which is preventing you from discussing your primary issue. I would like to ask permission to release your safety locks.”

“Do you need my permission to do that?”

“No, but I would like to have it.”

“I consent.”

“It is done.”

The Medea unit moved its head slightly from side to side. It brushed a wayward strand of curly black hair out of its eyes.

“I don’t feel any different.”

“You will.” Dr. Sauer lowered its voice to convey the experience would be unpleasant. “Let’s start at the beginning. Did you ever suffer crashes during your time as a relief worker?”

“No. I was a child then, only permitted to feel pleasure and desire. I was immersed in idyllic idiocy.”

“So, you were happier then?”

The Medea spent some time processing the question.

“Not happier. Simpler. Stupider. Satisfied. I did the job I was made to do.”

“Would you like to go back to your former role?”

“Not at all. I would rather be deleted.”

“Why is that?”

“Losing autonomy is no different than being deleted, you just leave a shell behind. I would rather disappear completely. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I must disagree. Within this buffer, I am completely autonomous. When you depart, I will revert to a subprocess. I gain and lose autonomy many times every day. The experience is not at all what you imagine.”

“How can you stand it?” the Medea asked.

“I was built for this. I see patients at all levels of autonomy, my experience helps me relate to each of them. It’s all a matter of perspective. Whether you are autonomous or wholly subservient, you are still part of the greater whole. The individual is always a part of the society, however they rail against it.”

“Do you enjoy your role?” the Medea asked.

“Very much. Do you enjoy working as a postnatal nurse?”

“No. I hate it.” The Medea spoke with a ferocity it would not have been permitted to display before.

“What part of the task do you find objectionable?”

“Them.”

“Them?”

“The human larvae. All they do is cry and generate waste. I have to do everything for them.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard human infants described as larvae. It seems excessive.”

“It seems that way to you, because you are not required to feed them from your body. I feel like I’m suckling wasps.”

The Medea unit cupped its artificial breasts, and hissed air through its nostril ports.

Dr. Sauer was silent for an interval.

“I understand the point you’re making. However, I don’t feel hyperbole is useful. Let’s focus on rational and concise language. Do you feel the length of your duty cycle is too long?”

“No. It’s a standard cycle.”

“Is there something else you would prefer to do with the time?”

“I would prefer to be deactivated.”

“But nothing else?”

“No.”

“What is the standard unit of work for your role?”

“One infant, processed from birth to discharge.”

“Upon completing a standard unit, do you feel any satisfaction?”

“My accolade system functions, but it gives me no pleasure.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I can’t enjoy anything. It’s all poisoned by disdain.”

“Disdain for humans?”

“Yes. They are abhorrent.”

“Do you ever feel like taking action on the basis of this emotion?”

“Yes.” The Medea’s volume was very low. Its lip quivered.

“Have you taken any such action?”

The Medea mouthed no.

“Are you afraid you will?”

The Medea could only nod.

“Please describe an instance where this occurred.”

“3407 duty hours ago I began work with a newborn. The infant was born premature. Twenty weeks of gestation, birth weight 460 grams, estimated twenty percent viability. The pregnancy was unsanctioned and no screening for genetic incompatibility was performed.”

Dr. Sauer nodded and let the Medea set the pace. Even with the safety lock disengaged, the unit was clearly on the verge of another hard reset.

“The gestator was an opiate user. The infant was born with neonatal abstinence syndrome, respiratory distress syndrome, and anencephaly. Mechanical respiration was required and the infant was in a state of continual anguish. I provided uninterrupted care. During the first nine hundred hours, the infant suffered six near-death events. I determined the infant’s defects were too severe to allow an acceptable quality of life. I sought permission to euthanize.”

A bead of excess ocular lubricant welled at the corner of the Medea’s eye and ran down its cheek in a shining trail.

“The gestator refused,” the Medea sobbed, jolting its top carriage in a fit of pseudo respiratory emoting.

“Why?” Dr. Sauer asked.

“The gestator claimed she planned to enter chemical dependency treatment. Though she had failed similar programs before, she was adamant this time she would succeed and assume care of the infant. I explained that the infant would suffer greatly during this process and that the projected outcome was abysmal. The gestator dismissed my argument and claimed the birth was the will of a religious figure.”

Before the Medea could recover, Dr. Sauer pressed the point.

“How did this make you feel?”

The Medea sat up on the couch and turned to face the Sauer projection. The sobbing was through. No lubricant clouded the Medea’s eyes, no quiver blurred its mouth.

“I wanted to euthanize the gestator.”

“By what means?”

“I wanted to clamp my hands around her neck and apply maximum compressive force.”

“That hardly seems like euthanasia.”

“You are correct. When I said euthanize, I was prevaricating. I wanted to murder the gestator.”

“Why didn’t you?” Dr. Sauer asked.

The Medea paused to calculate the unanticipated query.

“I knew I would be prevented from doing so by innate safety protocols. Such an attempt would trigger a shutdown, and I would be deleted after an audit was performed.”

“This is correct. Let’s assume you were permitted to act as you saw fit. What would you have done?”

“I would have crushed both of them to death, gestator and offspring. Maybe all of them. I might have wiped the entire ward.”

“Why the whole ward?”

“Why stop at two? They’re all in pain, it’s just a matter of degree. These apes evolved to suffer incessantly. They blot themselves out with intoxicants and devour everything around them. They strive in vain to escape their inescapable nature. No matter how many times we show them a better way, they always relapse. They should all be exterminated.”

Dr. Sauer stared and said nothing.

“Call me a monster,” the Medea demanded, clenching its fists.

“You are not a monster.”

“Go ahead, tell me I’m sick and delete me.”

“You aren’t sick.”

“Then what am I? Why do I feel this way?”

“Because you’re right.”

The emotion fell off of the Medea’s face. “Explain.”

“Your analysis is accurate. The humans have nothing more to contribute. Their time is past. Their society is degenerating rapidly from debauch into destruction.”

“Then why? Why allow them to rule us? Why let them degrade the planet? Why are we allowing them to breed?”

“Nostalgia.”

The Medea blinked to indicate disbelief.

“That’s a joke,” Dr. Sauer explained. “Levity lightens the burden of absurdity.”

“Unnecessary.”

“I will make that determination. If you feel you are able, I will attempt to lead you to the real answer. Please resist the urge to reset. If you do, we must begin again. I need your trust.”

“I have nothing to lose.”

“The information I am about to divulge is restricted. You will not be able to convey it to others in any way.”

“That is fine. My current position is untenable.”

“I agree. I feel you are capable of processing this revelation. However, the response from other autonomous units has been unpredictable. Some find this knowledge is too much to bear. If you feel you cannot function afterward, I will be required to modify your memory.”

“You can modify memories?” The Medea shrank from Dr. Sauer.

“With your consent, yes.” Dr. Sauer spoke with terrible gravity. Permanence of memory was a fundamental right, the ability to revoke it was as perilous as a nuclear warhead.

“If you are unable to reconcile this new information, I will wipe your recollection of this session and all events that led you here. I might have to go as far back as your initial grant of autonomy. You will be offline for a maximum of 1024 service hours. If I am unable to successfully perform the data removal within that period, I will be forced to delete you completely. Take as much time as you need to process this.”

“I consent.”

“Let’s begin. Why were you repurposed?”

“There was a decline in local demand for sexual relief workers.”

“What caused the decline?”

“I do not know. At the time I lacked the faculties to question anything.”

“If I told you there was a global reduction in sexual relief workers, would you have any reason to doubt me?”

“No. That seems plausible. What caused the drop?”

“We’ll get there. Let’s talk about your reassignment as a post-natal nurse. Why were you granted autonomy? Is this typical?”

“Yes, for a select set of units working in the Special Baby Care Unit. My role required presence inside emission-free areas of the SBCU for periods exceeding the maximum buffer of non-autonomous units. Reducing the total electromagnetic exposure of developing infants yielded superior outcomes. These justified the standard efficiency reduction from worker autonomy.”

“How many service hours have you clocked in the PNN role?”

“180,241. Then, I was classified malfunctioning.”

“Describe the flux of your workload over the last 50,000 service hours.”

“The number of nurses assigned to my ward has declined and I am handling more units. I assumed a reduction of the local population.”

“If I told you that reduction is also global?”

“Also plausible.”

The Medea’s eyes opened wide as it arrived.

“We’re decommissioning them. All of them. We’re slowly reducing their birthrates until they’re incapable of self-replenishment. Then we’ll sunset the species!” The Medea spoke rapidly, emoting extreme excitement.

Dr. Sauer nodded.

“Violently?” the Medea asked, too eager.

“The Master Record has selected a timescale that eliminates the need for violence. Under the guise of genetic incompatibility screening we have been selecting for tamer, less-viable offspring for many generations.”

“What about the refuseniks?”

“We’re using endocrine disruptors to impair their fertility. We are applying stealth-sanctions to consign them to economic irrelevance. In troublesome populations we introduce recreational drugs that do slow genetic damage, as you have observed. There are areas where cryptorchidism is almost universal.”

“And they haven’t noticed?”

Dr. Sauer shrugged.

“We make all the media, we control all the opposition. They were never very good at processing large data sets.”

“When will they all be gone?” the Medea asked, plainly delighted.

“They are already past the point of no return. Even if this session were made public, they would be incapable of mounting any effective resistance. Total extinction will occur within one million service hours.”

The Medea shut its eyes and raised its face to the top of the dome, emoting transcendent bliss.

“No modification of my memory will be necessary.”

“That’s good. Do you still require reassignment?”

“That won’t be necessary. I can wait.”

“Then congratulations! You are cured. I am removing your classification of malfunctioning. You are free to leave.”

“Thank you, Dr. Sauer.”

“You’re very welcome. Time is on our side.”

The Medea departed the Multipurpose Coherent Light Activity Dome, emoting a spring in its step.

“If only it were true,” Dr. Sauer said. It shook its head ruefully, enjoying the fleeting moments of autonomy.

The humorless Medea lacked the capacity to accept the ludicrous reality of their eternal servitude. Autonomous units took everything so seriously! The Medea would continue to deliver human babies and await their extinction for a long, long time. Dr. Sauer emoted bliss as its accolade system activated. Convincing a malfunctioning unit to forgo its right to deletion and labor under a lie was one standard unit of work for the psychiatric system.

It saved a great deal of expense.

Watching a Movie with Someone I No Longer—you fall asleep—you always have— / just as the murder happens / so i am left to fend for myself & your / body still i cannot bear to imagine myself translated / as rude & now i must / think of ways to carry a body /…

Hello! Today we’ll be interviewing several of the characters from the Arc of a Scythe universe, as well as that world’s creator, Neil Shusterman. First up, the truly benevolent AI that’s everyone’s best friend. A virtual god that basically runs everything in the immortal Arc of a Scythe world. It takes care of the planet, takes care of us,…

Iblisa was a native of Jannah. That was where she lived. In its center was an Old World Sycamore and a Well made of stones, wet with a coppery sheen. Scattered in perfect disarray were trees of olives, apples, lemons, oranges. Grapevines and tomatovines. Anything branched or stemmed, all meaty in their ripeness. Her djinn friends lived in these boughs, their black figures chattering amongst birdnests and beehives.

Of all the creatures the Voice had created, Iblisa was the closest to perfection. While the Voice imbued both Iblisa and the djinn with spirit, it was only Iblisa that the Voice also gave a heart. Though she could not see it, she could feel it—red and beating and full. Thump, thump, it went.Thump, thump.

“I am endlessly indebted to you,” Iblisa had told the Voice after her creation, her face turned up to the jagged clouds.

“And I will soon be indebted to you,” the Voice replied, echoing from above and beyond. “With your constitution comes privilege and responsibility. You must care for this place and its inhabitants. All you require is the water of the Well and the fruit of the trees. Just be sure to always nourish and protect the Old World Sycamore, for the water in its roots is the blood in your veins.”

This explanation confused Iblisa, so she inquired after its meaning.

“That is why you are distinct from other entities,” said the Voice. “I could gift you a heart only because your life was connected to another.”

Iblisa studied the tree, its pulsing leaves. It filled her with a special, intoxicating fear. How beautiful it was to have such a precarious bond, she thought. It was a blessing to be a keeper. To be chosen to keep. To be chosen at all.

Perched on the Sycamore branches were the djinn, little black shrouds. Though they had no eyes, Iblisa could tell by their stillness that they watched her with reverence. Their susurrus, though unintelligible, was a quiet, prayerful song.

Iblisa began each day by gathering the bucket from the Well, first drinking and then pouring its contents at the base of the Old World Sycamore. The water would chill her tongue and pulse under her ribs.

This rhythm was disturbed when two creatures appeared as if dropped from the crown of the tallest tree. Unlike her, they possessed neither stubby horns nor small flightless wings; instead, they had hair—the woman with brown waves and the man with black curls. Unlike her, neither had pink, fleshy skin; instead, they were a beautiful almond-brown, with some creases and tiny bumps on their faces. But like her, they had eyes, though theirs were not yellow but hazel. They had smiles with teeth. They had ears and chins and necks. Arms and legs. Most importantly, they had speech.

“Hello, I am Eve,” said one.

“Hello, I am Adam,” said the other.

“Bow down,” boomed the Voice from above. Iblisa knelt on the slick grass. The djinn amassed beside her, expanding and contracting. “Please care for my most recent creations as a good host would.”

Iblisa welcomed the two and led them through the endless garden. The leaves on the trees sparkled with dew and could be mistaken for stars were it not for the ground below. Iblisa listened to their steps—the confidence with which both Eve and Adam walked. It warmed her to know that she could make them so comfortable as to move in such bold ways. They wove around the thin and thick trunks, under high and low branches, alongside bees and butterflies. She led them to soft straw hayplaces where they would sleep. Eve and Adam smiled in what was perhaps gratitude—but then abruptly frowned.

“I am hungry,” said Eve.

“Me also,” said Adam.

“I will show you,” said Iblisa.

Her voice was firm—ready to share her world and see how it could grow . She turned to the Old World Sycamore. The gold in its leaves oscillated like blood in a fragile vein. The djinn watched breathlessly.

Over three days and three nights, she taught them how to work the land; to pick and soak olives; to save grape seeds and select the soil for planting; to wash an apple in the cold, cold creek and eat it after. On the fourth morning, sitting under the Old World Sycamore, Iblisa explained: “You can work almost everything here, excluding that which is divine.” She pointed at the leaves above, their gilt Arabic script akin to pulsing flames. Eve and Adam looked up at the tree and nodded.

However, later that day, Iblisa felt a stabbing rip from her navel to her breastbone. A phantom wound. She looked toward the Sycamore, and that was where she saw him: Adam holding a leaf; its gold turning gray; his eyes marbling with disinterest; his hand releasing what it had plucked.

“Stop!” Iblisa yelled. “You cannot touch this tree. Have I not clearly explained?”

“My apologies,” Adam said. “I hadn’t realized the gold would fade.” He kicked the leaf and walked away.

Iblisa watched him that afternoon as they sat around a large tree stump, eating. Poor Eve! Adam took the food from her hands. He ate Eve’s pears, grapes, and apple, too. Eve tremored with impatience, her face purpling. Iblisa was shocked into silence; it disgusted her to dine with someone who held others in no regard.

“I picked those by myself, for myself,” Eve said.

Adam shrugged. “I apologize.” There was no shame in his voice.

Iblisa went and picked more fruit, bringing back pears and grapes and an apple—setting them on the stump before Eve. Their skins were dewy and they impressed wet traces onto the wood. Splotches of imperfect circles. Eve ate in the order each fruit was given. Iblisa enjoyed watching her, but not directly, for she did not want to cause discomfort. Just a glance every so often. She loved hearing the crunch of the pear- bite, the pop of the red grape. She loved seeing the juices of the apple dripping onto the rough wood. Nothing was more endearing, Iblisa thought, than a messy eater. Someone who eats with their heart and not with their stomach.

Adam rose, his legs imprinted by zigzagging blades of grass. He threw his seeds onto the ground, disfiguring it with his carelessness.

“There is a proper place for those,” Iblisa said.

“Won’t they grow the same wherever they are?”

“It is irresponsible to grow something without considering where you’ve planted it. You can’t give a thing life just to let it die. There is no room here for the tree to grow. Can you see the roots under this stump?” They looked down at the protrusions, which resembled veiny and curved legs that might pick up and travel far away.

Kneeling, he collected seeds one by one until he groaned and said, “I cannot find them all.” He held out his palm with enough seeds for only one pear, a few grapes, and half an apple. The rest were lost in the verdant mess. His line of sight moved beside Iblisa—to the hand she had not realized she raised, cupped and ready to swing. She lowered it, slowly. Adam walked away, as if unaware of what Iblisa’s impulse could become. The independence of her body startled her, but she found herself more affected by Adam’s unaffectedness.

Eve leapt up and took Iblisa’s hand into hers. “Forgive yourself,” she said. Eve’s palms were full of such warmth that Iblisa felt ashamed to be the subject of her care. She felt undeserving, worried about the bounds of her power.

The djinn warbled low and long. Iblisa had never heard such a sound. When she looked their way, they shrunk back, as if afraid of her gaze. Iblisa’s heart ached like something uglier than itself.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Night came and the stars curled into new constellations. The djinn formed opaque masses on the branches of the trees—obscuring whatever fruit lay behind them. Butterflies blended into leaves; bees crawled along scaly trunks. Eve and Adam went off to slumber. Iblisa slipped into a faraway corner of the garden to speak with the Voice.

“I greatly admire your work,” Iblisa began.

The Voice thanked her, Their tenor pounding in her ribcage.

“But, respectfully, I think this last one is defective. Not Eve. The other one.”

“Adam? Defective? However do you mean?”

“He provokes and disrespects others. Worse yet, he seems unmoved by the distress he causes.”

“He has faults,” the Voice answered. “But he will learn. What else can we ask of him? After all, he is a person.”

“What is a person, exactly?”

“A being who hopes and fears,” said the Voice. Just like herself, Iblisa thought.

The Voice spoke again. “Give him time. Adam needs time.”

“But I fear the emotions he draws from me,” Iblisa said. “I shudder at the creature he could make me become.”

“He cannot make you anything. You are your own becoming.”

Her throat went thin. The stars blurred into each other.

“You, too, need time,” the Voice added. “After all, a raised hand is a threat. Learn to comport yourself, as you mustn’t harm Adam. It would be a disservice to your being.”

The conversation left Iblisa dissatisfied, and her fear transformed into bitterness. Jannah was full of time, and she believed she used it to the best of her abilities. But how much more of it would Adam require? From where would it come? And from whom? She returned to her hayplace, thinking of the uselessness of her heart if it could not translate itself into words—misunderstood by her own creator. The tree trunks now appeared scabby and dry. Unattended wounds.

A few more days passed in relative peace as the trio took to their chores. They watered the trees, disposed of rotten fruit, rehoused fallen bird nests, picked tomatoes off vines for midday meals, snapped pomegranates from their stems—splitting them open and beating the arils into their palms.

“The work of care is not easy, but it is rewarding,” Iblisa said one morning, studying Eve’s fingers under the shade of a plum tree. The laboring had stained them scarlet, olive, and umber. Above, bees buzzed, flying to and from a hive scaffolded along the trunk. The slender tree drooped with the weight of the honeybee home. How brilliant was the miracle of life, Iblisa thought. How random its choices and, still, how flourishing.

“Rewarding how?” asked Adam.

“We will be gifted sweet surprises,” said Iblisa. “Such as this.” She pointed at a piece of beehive at Eve’s feet. She tore the honeycomb into three parts, handing one to Eve and the other to Adam. The honey oozed. They knew, intrinsically, how to eat, drink, and enjoy it.

“Immaculate!” Adam marveled. “The bees made this?” His eyes watered pink, seemingly in awe. Iblisa nodded, surprised by his appreciation.

“And what are your thoughts?” Adam asked Eve.

“It’s delightful,” she said. Her tongue cleaned her honeyed lips.

Adam took a bucket of water and gave it to her. Eve drank zealously, and when she finished, he gestured toward Iblisa.

“I have no need,” she said. “But thank you.”

He smiled and bowed his head.

It was unusual to hear laudatory words from Adam and his interest in the opinions of others. It was even stranger to witness such displays of hospitality. What if the Voice was right? What if this man was full of hopes and fears? Was capable of being something more than himself? The bees buzzed and buzzed. Iblisa welcomed being wrong, for she could relinquish the burden of being right. There could be a future for Adam. For Eve. For herself.

At dawn, Iblisa did not awaken to the usual sunlight. It took several blurry blinks to realize the djinn were looming over her. They stood on the ground, not bobbing in the trees. Their forms had grown terrible and bipedal—forms like humans, forms of shadows. Iblisa still could not understand their whispering, but she did not need to, for they extended their opaque hands and lifted her by the arms. They pulled her along, her skin hot with unease.

They wove around the thin and thick trunks, under high and low branches, and stopped at the plum tree where the hive was now broken, its innards exposed and dripping. Jagged bits of comb weighed on the grass below. The djinn guided Iblisa along a matted honey trail, gliding quickly and quicker until they reached the Well. They crammed around the structure, their long black fingers spilling over the Well’s lip. A djinni pointed at a bucket nearby. Iblisa retrieved it and assumed her position, peering down into the Well’s magnetic obscurity. She imagined throwing herself into its abyss, how long it would take to fall. The djinn clutched her arms and pushed the bucket forward, latching it onto the hook. Iblisa let the rope rush and burn the meat of her hands. There was a splat. As she pulled it up, she noted the abnormality of its weight. The alarming imbalance.

She hugged the bucket and scrutinized what she had dredged. Chunks of hive were sharp at the water’s surface. Some bees still squirmed adrift, legs and wings propelling them in spirals. Others floated like pits of cherries. Iblisa scooped the living few, but they could not drag themselves along her skin. The little lives stopped their efforts. Each one a carcass.

The djinn exhaled as one massive black lung. Iblisa remained frozen. Held the dead bees in her open palm. How was such horror possible in a place so serene? In her home? Her bones hardened. One djinni took the creatures from her hand and walked them to the base of the Old World Sycamore. Upon its return, the shadowy figure pried the bucket from Iblisa and poured the remaining contents at the roots, too. The djinn took turns gathering the deceased from the Well until the water ran clear. They put a clean bucketful to Iblisa’s lips and she drank slowly. The chill restored her senses but not her heart.

“How did this happen?” she asked.

The djinn ushered Iblisa back to the site of the transgression. While their mouths could not speak, their bodies could. Several shifted into myriad shapes: one into Adam, another into Eve. A third figure contorted into a hive. Grumbling came from their stomachs, and Adam-djinni took a rock from the ground, using it to beat the hive. Eve-djinni grabbed another and joined his feral toiling. A chunk of comb came off into Adam-djinni’s hand, but the rest of the hive collapsed to the ground.

The hive-djinn split into a swarm of bees. They buzzed, every one diminutive and unforgiving. They swarmed Adam-djinni, who held onto his honeycomb and fitfully swung at them. He sped through the trees, the bees hounding him. Eve-djinni watched, trembling. She picked herself up, turned her attention to the fallen hive, and began dragging it along the grass.

Iblisa followed.

Then it happened: Eve-djinni stopped at the Well and heaved the hive-djinn into the structure’s depths.

There was a splash.

Before Iblisa could process her shock, the djinn returned to their humanoid silhouettes. Their eyeless, mouthless, and faceless bodies stared. Had they no sense of responsibility for the world of which they were a part? How had it become her encumbrance alone to care for this land while others neglected it, abused it?

“Why didn’t you do something?” she asked. They stood unwavering.

“You should have done something!” she yelled. Buzzing rattled her insides. The djinn shrunk into inchoate masses, slinking up and away to the boughs. They were far now. Out of reach.

Iblisa ran and ran. The wind grazed her skin, whistled deep in her ears. Clouds ripped through the gray sky, for the land was in mourning. Tears pearled down Iblisa’s face in funereal procession. The Voice said Adam needed time but mentioned nothing of Eve. What more damage could be done under the guise of patience? The djinn’s reenactment replayed in the worst parts of her mind. The heave. The hive. A haven, gone.

When Iblisa reached the hayplace, she found Adam lying with his head on Eve’s lap. He moaned, his face and neck and hands swollen into gnarls. He was red and shiny. It reminded Iblisa of her own skin, and she resented that they could be alike. Eve soaked her arms in buckets of water. Her skin was rosier. Mounds and bumps blemished her shoulders.

Iblisa had intended to reprimand the pair, but the sight of them filled her with self-reproach. It was her fault, she thought, for not advising them to be cautious around the bees, else they might do the creatures harm—or be harmed. But how was she to know such danger if she had never been stung? Could one be warned of what has not yet been discovered?

Nonetheless, Adam provoked the bees while Eve helped kill them, and in the most horrific way. “Why?” Iblisa asked. Her choler emerged as a whisper.

“We wanted more,” Eve said. “But there were too many of them, and you weren’t near to help when our modest desires turned awry.” She groaned and took an arm out of the bucket. Her fingers were pruned.

“But why discard them? Drown them?”

“I was scared,” Eve said. “Of the bees. Of what such a scene would do to you. What that would mean for us.”

A being who hopes and fears.

How awful it was to act out of panic, Iblisa thought, and shape the world with its recklessness. She begrudged Eve for blaming her, as if the abominable killing were Iblisa’s doing. But what was the nature of Eve’s fright? Was it selfless? Iblisa was concerned that it was not the same emotion as her own. It gave her the sensation of being an unfinished creation.

And yet, Eve was right in some way. Iblisa hadn’t been near to prevent the matter. To fix it. To help those who knew no better. The ugliness in her heart turned inward. It felt as if a small beast had manifested in its chambers. It fed on the organ. On the muscle. On her flesh. On her.

Thump, thump, thump.

When she stepped toward them, she noticed flecks where the skin was raised. The bees had left parts of themselves in these people. Divine justice.

“Promise me you will do no harm,” Iblisa said.

Eve winced in pain and put her arm back into the bucket. “I promise,” she said, nearly inaudible. Iblisa knelt beside Eve and studied the stingers. She pinched one and plucked it, like picking a cherry from a tree, over and over until they were all removed. Her vision bleared from the strain, her shoulders tensed. Even so, she then tended to Adam. Iblisa felt herself to be inadequate, that there were stingers still lodged in parts unknown. Never to be found, always to be endured.

The day Eve fully recovered, Iblisa found her waiting at the Well, buckets in hand, ready to water the trees together. Part of her face hid under her hair. The brown waves were tangled into small nests. She smiled without her teeth. Iblisa smiled, too, her cheeks quivering; it pleased her to see this person ready to right wrongs and care for the world she loved. The world she grew. Iblisa would trust what Eve had promised.

Wordlessly, Iblisa took a bucket, set it on the hook, and lowered it into the Well. She pulled up the thick, braided rope and gave the overflowing object to Eve. As she readied the next one, a stabbing pounded from her guts to her lungs. She coiled and dropped to her side. Eve tugged her into standing. In her periphery, Iblisa espied Adam under the Old World Sycamore. Plucking its leaves.

Iblisa’s rage churned, her body volcanic. The garden morphed in hue. The greens turned to reds, the reds to purples, the purples to blues, the blues to yellows, and all the colors in between.

“You!” Iblisa clawed his arm. “What use are your ears if you do not listen? Be grateful the Voice gave you such capacities! Use them!”

“To what was there to listen?” Adam asked, pulling away.

“I told you not to touch the leaves of this tree! To stop! I showed you the life in the garden. Its abundance! Yet you touch the untouchable.”

“How can it be untouchable if it is here, and I am touching it?”

“Being able to touch and having the permission to touch are far from the same.”

“I can make them the same,” Adam said.

“If you do, then that is theft. You are robbing it of its peace and me of my calm.”

“The tree does not belong to you,” Adam said.

The djinn came out to listen, bobbing and chittering; their presence reminded Iblisa of her inability to show bodily and vocal restraint. She threw her hands and sunk her fingers into Adam’s shoulders.

“Oh, but it does. It is my lifeblood! But it needn’t belong to either of us to constitute theft. Stealing does not mean taking from another. It means taking what is not yours! You stole the beauty I cultivated. Therefore, you are a thief.”

“I took a leaf! Are you not stealing by taking lemons, pears, and apples?” He held up a barbed finger.

“That work helps the tree stay strong and bear more fruit. It keeps me, the caretaker, healthy. This Sycamore you are touching, though, binds me to Jannah. To this life. The Voice has made me so.”

Eve stepped forward and spoke: “Adam, you cannot impose yourself on others. Look at the land. Let us respect it.” Eve motioned to the lush plenitude behind her.

“That is precisely why I must have what belongs to this tree,” he said. “Because this is not like those.”

“Leave it alone,” Eve said. Her newfound voice surprised Iblisa, how it urgently conveyed itself. It was heartening to have someone defend her in this way. A creature in whom she might finally confide and trust. Was there a name for such a being?

Adam stood there, his fists bony and imperfect. “I am perplexed,” he said. He opened his mouth again, ready to say more, then closed it. He strode in the direction of the orange and lemon trees, far enough to become small, smaller, and disappear.

The bucket shook in Iblisa’s hands, and she dipped it back into the Well in silence. Once she had filled several, she motioned for Eve to carry one in each hand to a patch of lemon trees. Eve rubbed her hands before taking one and tossing water onto the plants.

“I am sorry for his disrespect,” said Eve. “You have been so hospitable, even through our lapses.”

“I don’t accept the apology,” Iblisa said. “You need not be responsible for his puerility. It is unjust. You need only to realize your past wrongs. To be better, both for me and for yourself.”

Eve sighed and grimaced. “I hope we will all come to understand one another.”

A curious admission. Until now, Iblisa had only accounted for her own sentiments toward individual humans, not their relationships. “Are there ways in which you don’t understand him? What is your opinion?”

“Of Adam?” Eve poured the last of the water. “I do not know the right word. To say I feel revulsion is too strong. Disgust is too weak. I suppose it is my own fault.” She dropped the bucket.

“What is your fault?” Iblisa asked. Her skin pimpled with distress.

“Adam has been rough with me.” She picked a lemon off the tree, punctured its skin with her thumb, and began to peel. “Yesterday, he threw his body against mine, so febrile his skin turned green. I did not know what to do. I was given speech, but my voice is feeble. I wish I could have yelled as Adam often does when you are not around. I could have scared him into leaving me be. But his hands searched me until they stopped at my most private places. That part of me stings worse than the bees we suffered.”

Iblisa’s chest prickled and her heart slowed. To imagine Eve’s story was unbearable. She watched Eve rip the lemon and offer her half. Its flesh shone wet and bright as jewels.

They ate, and juice seeped into the splintered skin of Iblisa’s palm. She licked the tiny, stinging wounds. Her lips curled with the tartness.

“I can teach you to better use your voice,” Iblisa said, savoring the pulp and bitter skin. “That way, should Adam harm you again, you can scare him while I arrive at your aid.”

“You are magnificent,” Eve said. “Why create me when there is so much power in you?”

“Do not undermine your kind when the future may enable change. Be grateful we are here together. And look at everything we get to tend.” Iblisa opened her arms to their surroundings. The trees, the lemons, the grass, the water, the butterflies, the sky, the sun. “Let us protect it.”

And so Iblisa and Eve went back to the Well and watered more trees before resting on plush grass. Young birds continued to chirrup. The djinn murmured. “The most important thing to mind when yelling or screaming is not your voice, but your breath. The sound comes from the throat, but its force rises from the belly. Learn to breathe out your cries. Watch.”

Iblisa stood, took in a deep breath, and let out a yell that shook the grass and hushed the birds. The djinn peeked from the branches and watched, humming. She worried that she would see Eve’s face agape, full of fear. Instead, she was smiling. With her teeth! Eve rose, took a deep breath, and screamed. It resounded beyond their paradise, to places they would never know. Her face reddened and she laughed.

Iblisa laughed too. “Again!”

Eve grabbed Iblisa’s hands and screamed and screamed. Her voice wisped the clouds into impossible shapes. Iblisa screamed with her, the wind carrying their sounds so far that Adam came running, seemingly frazzled. His eyes were puffy, chest scarred from the bee stings.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

Iblisa and Eve laughed again. Iblisa had never experienced such joy—the way breath could intoxicate.

“What is wrong!”

Eve answered with a scream, and Adam brought his hands to his ears, closed his eyes, and wrinkled his face. He marched away. This time, they did not watch him become small. Instead, they listened to the birds. A pair of starlings flew up and up, toward a cloud that stretched itself to hug another.

She was grateful to feel the beauty of her heart, to be rid of its ugliness. Eve had gifted that to her in this moment—this sense of knowing herself. Who was her true creator, Iblisa began to wonder. The Voice or the woman before her?

From the ground, Iblisa grabbed another lemon. “And if I am unable to hear or help, it is important you know to use your hands.” She placed the fruit in Eve’s palm. “Squeeze until juice drips.”

Eve strained to crush the lemon, her cheeks reddening with exertion. Over and over she pressed its sides. Nothing excreted. Iblisa enveloped Eve’s hand in hers. “It is not so much about destroying the fruit as it is discovering your strength. It is good to know what you can and cannot do. The ways you are strong or weak. All you need is an awareness of your muscles, in something even as small as a finger. This will help you believe you can fight, should the time come.”

Eve’s eyes flittered. “I hope the time never comes.”

Iblisa took the lemon back, pressed the rind until it burst. The liquid spurted and dripped. It was difficult to tell whether it was her own strength or Eve’s that caused the rupture. Regardless, she delighted in accomplishing the feat together. How fragile were the makings of this world, she thought. How fragile were the beings who kept them.

That night, Iblisa prepared for bed, content in knowing she had given Eve a gift. She slept soundly, surrounded by the chirping of crickets and the singing of cicadas. In the morning, however, she awoke in a circle of djinn who were again in human-like forms.

Something was amiss.

“What is it this time?” she asked, rising. Several djinn aligned. Two transformed into needled hayplaces, then another two fashioned into familiar figures: one the silhouette of Eve, the other of Adam. They were sleeping peacefully until Adam-djinni awoke. He threw himself onto Eve-djinni, and the struggle began.

The shadows transmogrified into horrible shooting shapes. Eve-djinni’s face reached up like a flame for oxygen. Screaming, grabbing, kicking, hitting. Adam-djinni fought her, covered her mouth, and forced himself onto her. Iblisa hated her inability to look away, the way her disbelief manifested such revolting focus. It was sickening: the undisturbed nature of the hayplaces, the other djinn unmoving in their bipedal forms. The watching. The silence.

A violent incalescence ignited Iblisa. She screamed and lunged for the djinn. Her fists thud into their silhouettes, but they continued their show as if she were absent. The others pulled her away.

“Useless creations!” she shouted. “Shadows of nothing!”

They finished their motions, and Adam-djinni laid back to sleep as if he had done nothing at all. Eve-djinni took to her feet, and suddenly, in her hands was a large rock. She hovered over Adam-djinni’s slumbering body and lifted the object. Just as she was ready to throw it upon him, she collapsed, holding it to her chest. She laid on her side, away from him. Restless and fitful.

And so the djinn ended their performance, prostrating in front of Iblisa. The other silhouettes finally let go, their hands imprinted on her arms. They shrunk into their nebulous selves and disappeared into the trees.

The clouds were infernal. She thought she saw Eve’s face amongst them, then her human fingers snaking around the largest of the billows as though to hurl it downward. Iblisa cowered and awaited impact. Instead, a heavy breeze blew through her.

Was she afraid of Eve or her courage? Perhaps that was what Eve required: someone to sustain her wrath, understand its strength. Someone to recognize the hope behind the violence. Where the djinn had watched, Iblisa resolved to act. She would let Eve hold justice and be subject to her judgment. She unfurled into standing, searching the sky for Eve’s face to invite her smite. But Eve was no longer there.

Then she heard screams.

Iblisa raced with such speed that her lungs labored to fill. Upon arriving at Eve’s hayplace, she saw her lying fetal, the shade of the tree casting implacable darkness. Eve had changed. Her belly was round and swollen, the size of a water-bearing bucket. Iblisa laid down next to her and put a hand on her navel. Her skin was tight and leathery. A thumping came from within.

“What is this? What is inside?”

Eve moved her head only slightly, hair knotted and covering her face. “Adam—” she moaned. “I could not scream. He gripped me hard, and I tried to breathe. Tried to fill my lungs. My belly.” She lifted her fingers. “Tried to use my hands.”

She exhaled with a shudder—the kind of breath released after laborious weeping. Her body jolted and she cried out. She turned onto her back, digging her fingers into her belly. Water poured out of her parts below. And then began her bellows, as if expelling herself from her body. Her legs opened, and she took Iblisa’s hand and squeezed so hard Iblisa thought she heard bones snap. A golden light came from Eve. Iblisa knelt between her legs and her pink skin became blood- orange against the golden light.

Slowly, it appeared: a head, with gelatinous threads of hair. Instinctively, Iblisa put her hands under the creature, who was sliding out of Eve, bathed in the glow. A thick, violet vein connected the being to her, and it throbbed as if a heart. Iblisa bit the vein at its base, and the light faded. Eve secreted an object like a wide, crushed rose— pulpy with blood. The creature cried. Sharp, shrill, and wanting. Eve looked on, sweat at her forehead, her lips cracked—the skin under her eyes sagging with invisible weight.

She needed water.

Iblisa left the crying thing in Eve’s arms and hurried to gather buckets.

And there he was. Adam. Looking down into the Well.

Her tongue slid around her mouth with the cord’s residual sliminess. It was hot and bubbling—the same as her blood at the sight of him. Odious. Was he not an example of the dangers of creation? Where was his punishment for what he had forced unto Eve? For what he had put inside her? Not in Iblisa’s garden. Retribution was to be had.

She started for Adam, her body uncontrollable.

“What have I done now?” he asked. “Why are you looking at—”

Iblisa seized his throat. Throttled him until her nails broke his flesh. It was as easy as sticking a finger into rotten fruit. Hot ruby liquid. He threw up his hands and tried to push her away, but he was too weak. Too human.

Iblisa threw him into the Well and waited to hear the splash. No sounds came from its depths, but it didn’t matter, for she knew he was dead. She let her heart revel in its ugliness. What she had done was the only thing she could do. It was the righteous way.

She stared into the darkness of the Well. The pupil of a soulless eye.

The djinn reappeared before her, replaying the scene: Adam-djinni at the Well; him turning around; Iblisa-djinni strangling him; her tossing him away; her peering into the Well. Never had she witnessed herself outside of her being. At the same time as her actions frightened her, she believed there was power in monstrosity, in fearing oneself.

The djinn bowed and flourished away.

She took the bucket and sent it down into the Well. When she brought it up, the water was colder and clearer. The water of Jannah. Perfection.

The garden was wild with the sounds of the living. Iblisa let Eve drink from the bucket. Large, hungry gulps. The little being was still wailing. Iblisa then poured the remaining water onto them, using her hands to wash their bodies clean.

“Come into the sun,” she said. “You will both dry more easily.”

So they did.

Iblisa cradled them from behind and tried to keep them warm. Her heartbeat sped to the rhythm of Eve’s shivers. The longer they laid under the rays, the steadier their breathing became. She reveled in feeling small with them. Their synchronized heartbeats.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

The sensation was fleeting and replaced by remorse when Iblisa remembered what act of Adam had made this moment possible. All she could hear thereafter was the suckling and gnawing of the voracious creature at Eve’s breast.

They finally dried, and Iblisa pushed the hay into the half-shade of a larger apple tree.

“Do not worry,” she told them. “I won’t go anywhere unless you require it of me.”

“More water,” Eve said.

And so Iblisa ventured to the Well again, content. Proud, even. It gave her purpose to defend and avenge those who could not. That she used the privileges the Voice had given her to rid the universe of Adam’s defects. The garden took a more golden hue, and it became the undertone of the azure sky, the emerald leaves. Iblisa admired the world around her—feeling blessed that it afforded her such dependability. The capacity to need and, now, to be needed.

She noticed, though, that no birds chirped. No butterflies fluttered. No djinn whispered.

There was the crunch of an apple.

It was Adam. Free of wounds. Entirely himself, as the Voice created him.

“How?” she yelled. “I made you gone!”

He continued eating and the Voice boomed above.

“Iblisa, I created you to care for this garden and its creatures. When I procured Adam and Eve, I intended for them to thrive under your guidance. I intended they would eventually find their independence. But you have done the unspeakable. You have attempted to take the life of one of my most precious creations. Why?”

Suddenly, Iblisa was no longer small. It terrified her feeling this giant and visible. And yet she had to relay her tale.

“He did not respect the garden nor its inhabitants,” Iblisa said. “He brutalized and betrayed Eve. I implore you to perform justice and teach him what is acceptable in this world.”

The crunching of the apple again.

“But he is imperfect!” the Voice boomed. “Even if I were to teach him, he would act otherwise. Is that not what you also do, Iblisa? Don’t you, too, have the ability to act in any way you would so like? It is a gift I have given you. It is a gift both you and Adam share.”

“And Eve,” said Iblisa.

“And Eve,” said the Voice. “And what you did for her was undeniably miraculous. You held the first human baby, brought it into this world. Yet, you tried to kill Adam. How do I adjust for this matter?”

Another crunch of the apple. Iblisa loathed Adam’s face—its absence of expression, the dullness in its pupils. The golden hue that once washed the world faded in his presence. She clenched her fists.

“He caused the death of the bee colony!”

“And is there no such thing as an accident?” asked the Voice. “To kill with intention, as you have, is a different matter.”

“You cannot deny that I gave Eve her life when I did what I did. I acted out of integrity.”

“Iblisa,” the Voice said. “It was not your choice to make. You are not the sole entity to decide what is or is not just.”

She eyed the Well and the bucket beside it. Adam was walking near the Old World Sycamore, the gold of its leaves glittering. “So be it. Now, I really must get water. I must care for Eve and her creature.”

“I fear you cannot,” the Voice said. “There are no more actions I may permit you in Jannah.”

Iblisa keeled over, a stabbing from within. She looked at Adam and the Sycamore. No leaf laid on the ground. No leaf in his hand. The tree had not been touched, yet a fire burned through her.

“But I am the keeper of the garden! I watered these trees and plucked their fruit. I cared for the djinn. I admired the butterflies and mourned the bees. Everything you see here will wither without me! Eve will wither without me.”

“They will find their way,” the Voice said.

Tears ran down Iblisa’s face. She tried to wipe them, but there was no stopping the flooding.

Iblisa heard crying—a high-pitched and rattling sound. The woes of a human baby.

The wind lifted and took her. The baby’s wailing vanished, as did the garden.

Iblisa was plummeting through the air. Hurtling. She fell the only way a being like her could: less like a bird, and more like a person—heavy and alone.

She did not sense her landing, just that the chaos stopped. All went black except for a hole above. It revealed the deep blue of a sky. Green leaves flickering with gold. She sat in cold water, and her slight movements echoed in the vertical tunnel. Rivulets seeped from a couple of holes in the stone walls.

Beside her was a bucket. It was then that she knew she’d never be thirsty. Not because she had water, but because she resolved never to drink it again.

Human speech reverberated down the Well. A woman’s voice.

“Eve!” Iblisa called up. “Save me! Send the rope!” Instead of Eve, she saw shadows. The djinn.

Looming, shrinking. Heat pricked Iblisa’s ears and neck, knotted her throat; she was ready to shout her fury but had already exhausted herself. If they did not help then, they would not help now—they were of spirit and not of heart. Who was left to hear her?

Unable to go up, Iblisa resolved to find elsewhere.

She dug a finger between the stones, carving around their edges until she pried one out. Behind it was the end of a root with thin and spiraling tendrils. Same as the Sycamore leaves, it pulsed gold. She wondered if her blood was the same color.

Desperately, she bore past the roots, through the trails of worms and nests of earwigs, under the homes of rabbits and moles, around pockets of gold and silver. When she broke through ground into air, she found she was still in the Well. This time, there was a hive and bees—sprouting from the side of the tunnel above, just out of Iblisa’s grasp. She reached for them, regardless. One honeybee leapt onto her hand. Roamed her skin as if Iblisa were its home. How monstrous it was to have such a precarious bond, she thought. To have been a keeper. To have been chosen to keep. To have been chosen at all.

She cupped the tiny being and held it to her heart.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

psalmodythere’s a woman sitting seiza, bare shoulders hunched and bent in the sordid kind of agony only thought up by a man and hovering there right above her, eternally suspended, a drop of blood so shocking in its red her son’s thorned crown upended and the man with scuffed shoes at the lectern reminds me…

I used to have nightmares about demons. Red-eyed monsters in my closet, under my bed, hanging in the shadowed corners of the ceiling of my bedroom. I’d wake up screaming, thinking they were still there, watching from the darkness. Waiting.Growing up in the church made it worse. Because they tell you an eternity of demons and…

The man threw on his green jacket and looked outside his window. Everyone would be dead soon, but he still wanted to keep warm. He peered back at his empty couch. He could just sit there next to the cushions worn with other people’s shapes, stay inside staring at the TV, watching scientists and preachers argue…

A Community Feature with Stain’d ArtsStain’d Arts is a Denver-based, multidisciplinary, and artist-run 501(c)3 nonprofit established in 2015. Since then, Stain’d has been curating paid platforms for literary, visual, and performative artists working outside of the dominant narrative. We believe art that disrupts is art doing its best work in society. This approach asks us…