I feel trapped in a painting, unable to wiggle

even a little.

It happened when I lost my identity two days ago

after never listening to myself and my own desires.

Always bending to others' persuasion

always soaking in everything like a sponge.

Then a stranger entered into my body.

My eyes has no fire, my face is colorless,

my hands remain motionless,

my heart swings to a stop,

and I am always looking

in that direction.

Call me mad if you wish, but life's events ebb in and ebb out,

never affecting me

trapped in that still

pose

and always wearing that expression of boredom

and vacancy.

I long to go to the outside world,

where Mother's homemade apricot pies await me.

Where there's the constant struggle of school, work, and relationships.

Where I can be drunk in the perfume of wisterias and lilies.

Where I can actually appreciate art from an outsider's perspective.

Where I can at least make faces and not stare dumbly into space,

waiting

for others to interpret my feelings.

Clank!

Now I am being shipped off to another place...

A laundry room perhaps?

Or a patio?

Or a bathroom?

Or a dentist's office?

Or another garage?

Or worse...a closet?

Either way, I am still

trapped.

Not being able to look at the mirror and see the same person standing there,

Trying to fix the cracks that are deeper than any crater,

Words you've spoken out in anger,

Tears of mascara becomes the lines that you've drawn around yourself and others,

Nothing but a stranger looking back at you with cold brown eye's,

Bloodshot tears, and separate shards of glass that split your reflection,

Glimpses of who you were cast looks upon you in judgement,

How could this happen?

A question that never really has a simple answer,

The bruises under your eye's are like patina,

A painful reminder of every sleepless night,

As you continue to look for yourself inside of the shards.

Weaving through the darkness

Of the garden

Bumping against the toolshed

Certain memories

Knot odiously around the

Bare lining of my slippers

A doll by the kitchen sink

Hangs

By its thread

Choking a vase of sunflowers

As they feel the wall

Laboriously climbing

Breathing

Walking barefoot through the forest

Pine needles impale the soles of my feet

Stumbling across the field of grass

Where we used to read aloud from mud-stained notebooks

Watching the waves appear as the dancing hem of a white dress

I pour out sand and starfish from my shoes

We let the rain scar our faces

We let the lightning burn our souls

Sitting on the steps overlooking the running track

I use a stone to write to her

Walking in the subway tunnels

I watch the wall's paint peel off like scabs from an old wound

Moth-fed light blinks and closes

At night I lie down in bed

Writing in my notebook

Burning the pages with my tears

Running through the forest

the beach

the grass

the track

the subway tunnels

Finding the other me

across from the tracks

It was a crowded day at the theatre with not an empty seat to be found. The estimated capacity, according to the usher, was about 200; so this was certainly quite the turnout. I don’t know exactly why I bought a ticket. They were reasonably priced and gave the promise of a memorable performance; so perhaps I was simply bored. As I sat in my seat, patiently waiting for the show to begin, a man called out to me. He was sitting in the seat directly behind me.

“Quite the turnout, isn’t it?” The man said to me. As I looked at him, I was surprised to see that he had a striking resemblance to a man from my hometown. I paid it no additional mind. Despite the resemblance, he clearly was a different man. There was something in his eyes, a certain kind of knowing.

“Certainly is. Hopefully the show lives up to the expectations.” I replied. The atmosphere among the crowd was a bit unusual. Sure, there was the typical chatter, but there was a sense of urgency. The theatre-goers came with eagerness, that’s for sure. Perhaps the lighting affected the mood as well. The room was dimly lit, and the lighting within was a deep blue. This shall be an interesting show indeed.

“Oh, no worries there. I’m sure they’ll be quite entertained.” The man said ominously. I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t. I simply waited for the show. After a few minutes, a blue light shined upon the center stage, revealing a lone man.

“I bid you all welcome!” The showman exclaimed. He was very sharply dressed. He had a black and white tunic, though the white appeared rather blue due to the lighting. The showman continued. “In lieu of my master’s arrival, I’d like you all, if you please, shift your attention to the quill and paper sitting in the trays in front of you.” Surely enough, I looked and saw a quill and paper sitting in front of me, though I didn’t remember them being there before.

“I want each of you to write down your heart’s desire. Then fold your notes and place them in the cup to the left of the paper. Our assistants will come and collect the cups shortly.” The showman said. I looked and saw a cup. Something was certainly off; I definitely didn’t see a cup before.

“Choose wisely.” Said the man behind me. I barely had time to think about my answer before a woman, presumably an assistant, came to the end of my aisle. I quickly folded the paper and placed it in the cup. An odd thing happened then. The paper melted into a liquid that sat in the cup. It looked and smelled vile. As I stared at it, baffled, the fellow next to me cleared his throat, subtly reminding me that he was waiting. I handed the cup to him to pass it down. I helped pass down those from the people on my right as well.

“Keep an eye on your cup. Don’t lose sight of it.” The man behind me said. I planned on keeping track of it anyway. I watched as the woman set down the cup on a table. It was on the front-right corner, so it was easy enough to remember.

“Excellent!” The showman said with a clap of his hands. “Now, my dear patrons, your greatly-appreciated patience is about to pay off! My master, Lord Niu, has finally arrived!” As the showman finished speaking, a large, blue apparition appeared behind him. It was humanoid with large, bulging white eyes. Though it appeared quite resplendent with its dull blue glow, those eyes betrayed a hungry animal lying within.

“Now!” The showman started. “It’s time to begin the main event! I shall announce the name of an animal. You are to imitate that animal as best you can. The one in the crowd who does the best impersonation shall have their cup drunk by Lord Niu, and their wish shall be fulfilled!” The showman walked up to the front of the stage with the light moving with him. “The first animal is...parrot!” He announced.

I watched as the crowd lukewarmly started imitating the colorful bird. They didn’t seem too convinced of what the man was saying. There were a few arm flaps here and a squawk there. I myself didn’t care to participate, so I stood there, content with observing. One man eventually perched upon the top of his chair and squawked a mighty squawk while aggressively flapping his arms. Then he screamed. “SQUAAAAAAWK! THE FIRST ANIMAL IS PARROT! ANIMAL IS PARROT!” The showman laughed at the enthusiastic display and applauded. He turned to Niu, who nodded.

“Wonderful!” The showman exclaimed. “Indeed, the parrot is known for repeating that which it hears. Well done!” I watched as Niu approached a cup and drank from it. Apparently, he already knew which cup was the right one. I looked over at the parrot impersonator and saw that he was now attended to by many beautiful women. The crowd saw this and many had the look of envy in their eyes. I looked back to Niu and he seemed to be glowing a bit brighter than earlier.

“Alright! Well done for our first victor! Now, the next animal is…dog!” After he announced the animal, I noticed people were much more enthusiastic this time around, including those on either side of me. I watched this show for over an hour as people tried their best to get their wishes granted. I noticed that each round went a bit longer than the last. It eventually got to the point where people never stopped acting like animals, even in between rounds. Also, even the people who received their wishes continued to act like animals, perhaps seeking even more of Niu’s favor. As this was going on, Niu appeared brighter and brighter while the light around the crowd became darker and darker. This has clearly gotten out of hand.

“My friend, come with me.” The man behind me said. I’d forgotten about him, though it seemed he retained his humanity as well. After growing disturbed by what I saw, I decided to follow him. We stepped around the others across the aisle. They didn’t seem to even notice us, being too busy trying to imitate a horse. The man took me up to the stage, right in front of Niu and the showman.

“Leaving so soon? Wouldn’t you like to see the ending?” The showman said. I had no clue what he meant by leaving. We walked onto the stage, after all.

“No, thank you. I’ve seen this act enough times to know it never ends.” My acquaintance said. I had no idea that he had been here before. What was even more baffling is that he returned to such a place. The showman gave him a knowing smile and nodded. “Ah, well, losing one won’t hurt us anyway. Be on your way now.” He said.

My acquaintance looked at me. “Get your cup and drink it.” He said sternly. I quickly located my cup, but hesitated to drink it. After all, it was still repulsive to my senses. “Hurry!” He said as he drank his. I held my nose and drank it. To my surprise, it was sweet to the taste. In fact, it was absolutely delightful.

All of the sudden, I was no longer at the theatre. I was instead standing in a grassy field. My acquaintance was also there, standing near a tree. “Where are we?” I asked as I approached him.

“Outside the city, where that theatre was.” He replied. “If you hadn’t drunk from that cup, you would’ve been trapped in that show for the rest of your life.”

I took a deep breath, buried my face into my hands, then let go and exhaled. That was certainly going to be the last time I buy tickets for anything. “What made you help me of all people?” I asked

“It’s my joy to go to the show and rescue anyone there who can be rescued.” He said cryptically.

“And what made you believe you could rescue me?” I asked.

“I saw your answer. That’s how I knew.” He responded, then walked away.

I laughed. Who would’ve guessed that submitting a blank paper was enough to pass the test?

Once upon a time there was a little cottage that had a garden. The garden was large and beautiful. Flowers waved gently in the breeze all spring and summer long. Tulips, lilacs, daisies, sunflowers, bleeding hearts, crocuses, buttercups, violets and many more grew there. Cobblestone paths wound about the garden, with benches under shady trees. A pond with goldfish swimming in it sparkled in the sunlight.

The owner of the cottage was a gardener; he was old and gray-haired but his shaky hands were gentle when they touched the satiny petals of the flowers. The flowers all adored him greatly and were rivals for the most attention. The kind gardener distributed his praise evenly between them all.

In the early morning hours you could hear his voice saying, “Ah, daisies dear, how much you have grown! And how fresh you look, violets…” as he went down the paths and greeted them all by name.

The flowers all knew each other well. The violets were quiet and unassuming; The daisies were cheerful and happy; The lilacs were somewhat more sophisticated and tended to stay apart; The crocuses were happiest in colder weather and complained of the heat on warm days; The buttercups spent their time in the sunlight laughing and singing; The bleeding hearts whispered sadly together; The tulips gossiped all day long; The sunflowers were bold and somewhat impolite. But they all knew what the characters of the others were, so they lived in contentment together.

On a usual day all the flowers were awake and over the garden was a hum of voices. They were always talking, unless the gardener was in the far corner of the garden, for there, beneath a little white gravestone, lay the gardener’s little girl, Rosalynn, who had just changed from a gentle child to a delicate young lady when she fell ill.

All events in the followed the same pattern year after year. Or they did until the day the gardener came in with a scraggly little plant. He carried it over to the corner and, using a trowel, carefully planted it. He watered it and tended it attentively. The other flowers grew envious; for the new plant was receiving more attention than any of them. They watched her grow day by day, and mocked her ugliness.

“Look at her!” scoffed one of the tulips, “See her thorns on her stem?”

“She never says a word!” declared one of the daisies “Is she too ‘distinguished’ to have anything to do with us?”

“Maybe she thinks that she is a princess.” a buttercup said scornfully.

“Perhaps she is shy, and that is why she is so quiet.” suggested a gentle violet.

The others laughed and said that was ridiculous. They spent their days taunting the poor little unattractive plant. She never said a word, but sat there silently and cringed slightly when their laughter grew loud enough to reach her.

The poor little plant was shy and dared not say anything in her own defense. She treasured the moments when she received gentle words from the gardener. But she wondered why she was so hideous. It was true that the little plant had thorns, but she did not choose to have those! The plant fought back tears as she whiled away her time alone in the corner. Slowly she crept closer to the little white gravestone next to her. She was very lonely, and there seemed a kind of companionship in the little gravestone. She felt, somewhere deep down in her roots, a connection with it. The little plant tried her best to shade the gravestone from the burning sun, and sheltered it from the pounding rain. She protected it carefully, and began to feel that perhaps it wasn't too lonely in the corner of the garden.

Days went by and the little, brave plant slowly struggled and grew. She began to grow over the gravestone and she got bigger and stronger. Yes, she had the thorns still, but no longer was she scraggly and weak. Buds began to form on her. They were at first a soft pink and then they began to darken to a lovely crimson. The other flowers still mocked her though. They were not close enough to see the buds. Though perhaps even if they were they would not have seen them, for they had blinded themselves to any beauty in the unwanted plant. They could not see a use her since she did not compare in loveliness with them.

All continued until one dawn, when in the early morning light, the buds unfolded. Deep crimson flowers lay bright against the white gravestone and contrasted against the green grass. The little plant gazed down at herself in amazement! The gardener stepped down the path, and leaned over. His gnarly fingers gently brushed the petals of the flowers. And his eyes filled with tears.

Softly he whispered, “Ah, now my little Rosalynn has roses to keep her company. You know,” addressing the little plant, “You have a very important job: keeping my little girl company. She was your namesake, so you are very fit for the job.”

The little plant raised her head high and thought proudly, “I am not just an ugly thorny bush! I am a rosebush!”

Thereafter, the little rosebush was very happy. The other flowers apologized for their rudeness, and of course, being the sweet little plant that she was, the rosebush forgave them. They all grew to be great friends, and everyone confided their deepest secrets to the lovely, sweet and caring plant. And on soft summer days, she leaned close to the little white gravestone. So captivated and absorbed did she look, one would swear that wonderful secrets were being whispered to her. And who knows; maybe they were!

In the Tinder Forest there lived a marvelous bunny rabbit. What marked him as marvelous was his fantastic set of ears. They were grey and fluffy and had a marvelous sheen to them, like little flecks of silver had been distributed throughout by a particularly tasteful hand. And as the marvelous bunny hopped through the forest the other animals whispered to each other, “Such fantastic ears.”

The marvelous bunny didn’t particularly love his fantastic ears, he thought they were a tad ostentatious, but rather than spend his time arguing about why he wasn’t marvelous, the marvelous bunny accepted the perks they granted and went about his days. It was these marvelous ears, after all, that afforded the bunny his lackadaisical and romantic lifestyle. The marvelous bunny’s fantastic ears wrapped him in the warm blanket of having something that the other bunnies in the forest, undeniably, did not have.

Day after day the marvelous bunny hopped from one grove of the forest to the next, meeting female bunnies and spending the night with them. Then awakening the next morning to the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” And our marvelous bunny happily obliged those voices, hopping to the next grove or clearing, and repeating the charming and wooing all over, and then waking up the next morning to the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?”

The marvelous bunny and his fantastic grey ears continued on like this, never questioning or regretting his wanton ways; awakening each morning and hopping away. His epic love and curiosity sated him. Exploring the great Tinder Forest was his true love, and each nook and cranny he uncovered made him feel full.

It was not until he came across a small clearing with a beautiful pool of still water that the marvelous bunny took pause. In the middle of the reflecting pool his image stared back at him. Good gracious, he mused, how beautiful these ears have become. And it was true; the midday sun shone down and caused his grey -with silver flecks- ears to shimmer relentlessly into the pool. They were coruscated on a wavelength hitherto unknown to him. Just then, he heard a rustling in front of him, and, almost as if by fate, a gorgeous brown bunny hopped out of a bush into the clearing. They spent the afternoon admiring themselves and each other in the pool. Then they bounced happily around the clearing and surrounding trees throughout the evening. By the time the moon had reached its peak in the serene night sky, the two rabbits were curled up together in a little burrow just past the clearing, behind a little bush, and around an oak tree.

The marvelous bunny awoke and stared lovingly at his gorgeous burrow-mate curled up so gently against him. But soon his happiness turned to anguish, he remembered that, as it did every day before and would every day after, the morning would arrive soon and with it the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking, “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” The thought terrified him; he didn’t want to bounce on. This gorgeous bunny was the singular rabbit that he wanted to be satisfied by, to love and to snuggle, for the rest of his days. How could he prevent those terrible morning calls?

Unable to sleep, the marvelous bunny hopped over to the peaceful pond. He gazed at himself, even more beautiful in the silvery moonlight than earlier, and began sobbing. It wasn’t long before he heard behind him, in a startling baritone, “Hoo, Hoo. Young rabbit, hold your tears. Hold your tears. How could something so beautiful be so sad?’ The marvelous bunny, quite shook, could see from the reflection in the pool that behind him was a tremendous grey owl. The tremendous owl, perched in a tree at the edge of the clearing, continued, “Pray now, young rabbit, tell me what it is that has brought out this melancholy. What is it that troubles you?”

“You see,” replied the marvelous bunny through tears. “You see, I am afraid of the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking, ‘Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?’ Tomorrow morning. I am sure that it will break me away from my beloved, just as it has every morning prior and just as it will every morning for the rest of my life.”

“I see,” she said after a long pause, ”I see what you fear, but it is easily solved. For what you fear is just a sound, and if you cannot hear the sound you shall not be tempted.”

“But how can I ignore such a racket?” snapped the marvelous bunny.

“All you must do,” replied the tremendous owl, “is give me your fantastic ears, and you will be troubled no more.”

The marvelous bunny, taken aback at the suggestion, peered at himself again in the moonlit pool. His ears shimmered; they were as calmly perfect and peacefully elegant as ever. But, he thought, the tremendous owl is right. Until I get rid of them, the grotesquely beautiful things, I will never be at peace. I will hear the call every morning and bounce on, away from my beloved. Our marvelous bunny had made up his mind.

“Yes owl, I accept, I will give you my ears. But how…” He turned around to face the owl, expecting her to be on her perch. Instead she was towering over him, having silently glided down to the pool while the marvelous bunny had been thinking to himself, and extended a massive talon, pining our marvelous bunny to the ground.

“And may you never hear such a racket again,” said the tremendous owl, as she reached out two talons and clamped them onto the marvelous bunny’s fantastic left ear. Then, pinching and puncturing, she tore the ear from the marvelous bunny’s head. The bunny was shocked, too quickly rent to make a noise, as the tremendous owl began the process again with the other ear.

After finishing, the tremendous, marvelous owl lifted herself into the air with the bunny in one foot and his fantastic silvery ears in the other. She eclipsed the moon with her tremendous, marvelous silhouette, dropped the bunny into the pool, and flew away. The bunny, weightlessly drifting down into the water, was still for a moment before all of his functions came cautiously back to him. He paddled to the edge of the pool, lifted himself onto the bank, and shook himself dry. He gingerly felt the now smooth spots where his ears had been. He peered back into the pool, still rippling, and saw something like himself, but not quite the same. The bunny hopped away in a thick mist of questions, not sure what to make of himself and the events of the night.

The next morning the bunny awoke cuddling his beloved. He looked around with trepidation, expecting the worst, expecting the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking, “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” But he heard nothing, and his beloved, gorgeous bunny turned over to face him and they smiled together and spent the day hopping, and jumping, and bouncing to and fro- together and happy.

That night they cuddled comfortably. Their burrow was now more complete and inviting. Our bunny could not imagine a more perfect moment. The moon rose over the pool and lowered back to the earth, as they passed the night curled up as one. The next morning, once again, he did not hear the sound of the crickets chirping, the little birds singing, and the jealous frogs croaking “Bounce on bunny, bounce on bunny. How can you be satisfied with just her?” and smiled. He turned over, excited to see his beloved, gorgeous bunny next to him and begin another perfect day. But she had left. Gone, just like his fantastic ears.

It was a brisk winter morning by the lake the last time I met the demon.

He appeared as he always did: unexpected but with the subtle, foreboding twinge of cold twisting my stomach. Shivering, I pulled the heavy uwagi coat tighter over my kimono--the demon offered his Montbell down jacket. I declined.

Following the creaking bamboo grove on my left and keeping the demon between myself and the reflections of the orange sunrise over the lake to my right, we shuffled along the marked trail, our breath misting the air and mingling between us. With falling snow coating our tracks behind us, we walked a good hour in silence before his graveled voice carved through it.

"Do you still hate Japan, Naomi?"

Fear didn't grip me. Instead, my chest tightened with nervousness, my throat with shyness. I kept moving forward, one foot in this world and the other in the next. Snow danced in a breeze, powdering the slumbering pines, barren cherry and plum trees, and my wrinkled face, which began to match the paleness of the demon's own.

Folding his arms, he again broke our silence. "Japan has insulated coats, you know." He frowned. "You'll freeze out here in a kimono."

"I'm fine." I rubbed my hands together. Paper-thin and dappled with dark liver spots contrasting with my slightly lighter brown skin, they were numb to the cold. "I brought something to warm me up."

The demon sniffed; a sly smile parted his lips just enough to see one scraggly fang. "That's why I came."

"That's why you always come."

"Tell me again why you let me."

"You help me understand things."

"Is something troubling you?"

In a sense. But I wasn't ready to let him know that. Instead, I unwrapped a red furoshiki cloth and handed him something I had kept out of my world for so long: a piece of cornbread.

He snatched it and scarfed it down. "I haven't had this in years."

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?"

"I wish they sold these here."

"I'm baking it again because I finally understand what I am."

"Took you long enough."

"Do you remember how many times you tried to tell me?"

"I can't quite recall." His quiet smile said differently.

I bowed my head, clutching the furoshiki to my chest like armor. "Three times."

"Do tell."

As snow gathered upon his hair of matted snakes, he listened to my memories float in the breath connecting us, the lake's rolling waves lapping away my words.

First meeting:

In the schoolyard

"Hey, Naomi. Hey! Wait up," the demon said, his high-pitched nasally voice needling into my ears. He sidled up to me, sniffing the hardened leather randoseru on my back like a stray dog.

"Got any left? Gimme some."

The demon liked cornbread. Throwing him a piece usually got rid of him. Rummaging through the cloth pouch hanging off my side to pick through the lunch I wasn't planning on eating anyway, I averted my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at the wriggling mass of worms piled atop his head and his inward-turning fangs. But mostly, to avoid looking into his fiery eyes or seeing his dark skin.

"Give it over, Naomi."

I fumbled out the entire cut of bread and handed it to him. Our hands brushed as he took it; the two tones of our skin briefly matched shades: chocolate-brown against a light bronze. The sun had shaded his, unlike mine, which had been dark since I was born. He could be as pale as a lily if he wanted to, but spending so much time out of the world he should have stayed in had tanned it.

My teeth ground together at the thought.

"Where do you get this bread anyway?"

"My mom makes it." I bowed my head and swiftly jogged toward the iron gate of the school.

Catching my sleeve, he forced me to face him. Crumbs dappled his shirt as he gobbled down the last of the bread. "Why're you leaving?"

Frustration pierced my throat hard enough to shove an answer through my clenched jaw: "Because I hate Japan."

"But you've never lived anywhere else."

"That's exactly it!" I bolted.

Reaching the front gate, I jerked it open just enough to slip through. Now I was free of stares, sniggers, classmates' nagging to stroke my curly hair, their giggles when I struggled with words and insistence that I wasn't one of them. Even though I was--sort of. My father is Japanese.

Well, they wouldn't "other" me anymore. Especially not Yui and her horrible group. For the rest of today at least.

Though the demon shouldn't have been able to leave the school grounds, he wiggled his way through the gate, grinning. Cornbread mash filled the gaps in his teeth. "Yui again?"

"Leave me alone."

Skipping ahead of me, he delighted in getting in my way and making my steps falter. "They get to you 'cause you let 'em, you know."

"I don't let them. They attack me."

"You're putting a target on yourself." He pointed to the woven Shinto omamori--talisman--hanging off my randoseru and then to the golden cross around my neck. "Two targets, really."

"Three if you count my skin." I buttoned up my top button to hide my mother's birthday gift.

"If you hide that you'll get teased more."

"It doesn't matter. I can't hide my skin."

The demon snort-laughed. "You could, you know, like a mummy."

"How do you ignore them? The stares and the name-calling, I mean."

The demon shrugged, his pointed shoulders bending skyward like two orange traffic cones. "I guess they don't bother me as much as they do you. The others don't see me as I am because I don't let them. That's all."

"Maybe they're blind," I said. "Or you are."

"I am, now!" He shut his eyes tight and stuck his arms straight out, shifting from foot to foot as he shuffled around me. Pointed nails on the end of his fingers swiped playfully at the air.

I turned and ran. He gave chase. Then I chased him. Then we chased dragonflies until we both collapsed from exhaustion beneath a huge stone torii gate leading to a shrine to Omi Hachiman--whoever that was.

Sweating, he sucked on my thermos while I caught my breath. Above me, a thick twisting rope--shimenawa--dangled between the gate's stone columns, and hanging off it, four strings of zig-zagging folded paper--shide--swayed in a breeze. Made of a strip of paper folded into several uniform rectangles that looked stuck together at the corners, the shide had a curious quadruple Z-shape. The rectangles seemed to fight against each other as the wind lifted the paper at the angles, but they didn't tear away.

"Praise and lies may be snakes and spies so find the clear path between them."

I cocked my head at the demon. "What?"

"You asked how I ignore bullies. That's what my Dad tells me to do."

Advice from Enma, the King of Hell, himself. "Does it help?"

"Sometimes." He handed my thermos back. "But it's easier if I just focus on me, you know?"

I didn't know, and his smirk told me he knew I didn't.

"Nao, you're so hung up on what you are, you can't see who you are. But we're sixth-graders now. Almost adults. We can't hide what we are, not to ourselves or others, so just be what you are and find who you are."

"I know what I am!"

"Tell me."

"Yamamura Naomi."

"Keep going."

"I dunno. I like butterflies and the color orange."

The demon laughed. "You're not saying it. It was hard for me to say 'it,' too. We're different, you and me. You gotta see that. My Dad told me I had a truth I couldn't embrace, and everything got better when I could. I mean, when I could embrace my truth, the difference between me and them, then people saw me for me."

"What does that mean?"

"Embrace? It's like a hug. You gotta give the thing you hate the most a big ol' hug. Or you know, you'll always be sad or angry or something."

What kind of demon was he, anyway? Hug the things you hate?

"Who do you hate right now," he asked.

"Yui." And there was no way I was going to give her a hug.

"Why?"

"She makes fun of me. Calls me 'burnt girl' and 'dirty.'"

"Because of your skin."

I nodded.

"Do you hate your skin?"

I nodded harder. "If I had skin color like everyone else--"

"You don't. And who gave you your skin?"

"My mother. She's not Japanese."

"Do you hate her?"

I folded my arms. It was her fault I was who I was.

But hate? Hate? Bunching the fabric of my collar, I clutched the golden cross I had hidden.

Mother knew me as well as she knew the color of her own skin--black, and two shades darker than mine. Her skin drew her away from America. She wanted to live in a world where she would have a clearly defined reason to be an outsider, not just because of her skin. She chose Japan and struggled with its language, culture, and ideals. But her struggles made her stronger. She said it would make me stronger, too.

I doubted that.

The demon frowned. "Do you, Nao? Do you hate her? You gotta say it if you do."

I toed the gravel underneath my feet. Whenever I had a problem, her smile was a warm tea on a cold morning, and her hugs tight. "I can't hate my mother." She gave three gifts to me, after all. Life. A cross, though Father didn't believe. And her skin. "I don't."

"Then you can't hate yourself. Because that would be like hating your mom."

"Did your father say that, too?"

The demon's grin became fire. "Yup. If you can't hug your skin, go hug your mother. I do. I give my dad loads of hugs."

I smirked at his casual admission of affection, but he just grinned harder.

"Embrace your truth, Nao."

"They'll still make fun of me."

"They still make fun of me. Because being different in Japan is like being a wolf in a flock of sheep. Except the sheep eat you." He gnashed his teeth and growled. Cornbread bits spotted the torii gate. "We are strong wolves, though, right? We can't let the sheep see that, or they'll get scared off. I don't want to be scary. There's nothing wrong with wolves living with sheep, you know."

"What if I want to be a sheep?"

"You can wear their wool if you want, but you'll look silly."

"Are you saying, 'just be myself?'" I wrinkled my nose at him. "Being yourself" didn't work here. Japan wasn't an American after-school special.

His eyes darkened as though insulted, but he just laughed. "No. That's stupid." He squinted his eyes up at the crooked paper shide above us. "If those paper things there were straight, they'd be boring, huh? But they're not. They're cool. They know they have to zig and zag, or people wouldn't think they're cool. And what if they were straight?"

"But they can't be straight. Shide aren't made that way."

"Right. And if they were, people would yell and scream to change them back. So why try changing what they are?" He stood and stretched. "Being crooked is cool. And if you try to fix yourself, people will see right through it. Got it? My dad says, 'Don't worry about being yourself.' You will be, even if you try not to be. People make fun of you if you try not to be you, right? But if you be what you are, that won't matter. First, you gotta know what you are."

"Your dad is pretty smart."

"He sure is. So you gotta know who you are. So who are you?"

"Naomi."

"And what are you?"

I wrung my hands. "Half. Half-Japanese. Hāfu." I slurred out the English loanword with the thickest accent I could muster.

The demon's brows furrowed. "No, you're not. You're not half of anything because your mother wasn't born here. You are Japanese. Like me."

"But--"

"The shide is Japanese because of the way it's folded. But it's still just paper." He shoved a pointed finger into my chest, striking my cross and making it dig into my skin. "You. Are. Japanese. A bit crooked, but that makes you cool, Nao."

He ran off, leaving me under the torii, embarrassment prickling my cheeks.

Second meeting:

My wedding day

Cheeks stained black with running mascara, I stood in my street clothes between two chairs, glaring at the cursed garments I had to wear: an ivory white wedding dress with satin fixings and lace and an equally white kimono embroidered with nigh-invisible bleached cranes. They draped over the backs of each chair like the dead and gutted hides of a pure animal.

A heavy hand settled on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Furiously sniffling and rubbing my eyes, I turned, expecting my husband--only to be confronted by the demon, his lizardlike hands cradling a half-eaten cut of cornbread.

"You're not supposed to be here," I said.

"Relax." Then, as though sensing my disdain at his crime, he crammed another mouthful of bread into his gob. "Stole it off the catering cart. Want some?"

"No. Get out."

"I can't just leave a bride crying in her dressing room, Nao." He adjusted his bow-tie, adorning it with a smattering of crumbs. "Why aren't you dressed?"

Because seeing both dresses laid out before me reminded me of my split culture? Because I can't disappear into the white fabric of the dress nor wear the pasty white makeup the kimono requires without accenting my darker features? Because it feels like I have to choose one culture over the other? What would a demon know, anyway?

"You okay?"

"I don't know." I sat on the floor, refusing to look at his pallid complexion and brows furrowing in infuriating confusion. "I guess it feels like I'm being forced to choose between two things that don't fully make sense and one thing I thought I was so sure of."

"It's tradition to wear multiple dresses."

"But why this dress?" An accusing finger directed at the western-style wedding dress pointed my ire.

"It's still a tradition, even between Japanese people who don't have the culture behind it. Didn't you pick it out yourself? Your husband is excited to see you in it, too, you know."

My eyes dropped to the floor where a twisting pattern of grey and red in the carpet seemed to suck my soul right into them. I could be there, between the patterns, pounding at teardrop bars, screaming, and nobody would hear me. Maybe it would be safer to lock myself away.

"Do you just want to wear the kimono?"

I shook my head. "It's not about the dresses. Am I doing right by myself, marrying a..." My eyes began to wet again. "A..."

The demon smiled. His teeth glistened as though drinking in my misery. "Another hāfu?" He laughed. "Uma wa umadzure--horses prefer the company of horses, Nao."

"Birds of a feather flock together," I translated into English, heat tipping my tongue. "That doesn't mean I can't think about everyone who would expect something like that from... someone like me. And be ashamed by it. Does that make me a horrible person?"

"No. Those thoughts really define you. A zigzagging paper shide, Japanese, in all respects."

I glanced at both dresses again; the demon cradled his head in one hand, sucking in a slow breath between the gap in his fangs.

"You're torn between two things," he said, "but not entirely. You speak your mother's language, but you know less of her country than your own. That makes you Japanese with a few perks."

"Does it?" I narrowed my eyes.

"Teenage mutant ninja what?"

I shrugged. "Kōga?"

"Turtles, Nao. Your mother would say that without a beat. But could she name all the ninja clans of Japan?"

"Probably not."

"Japanese with a few perks." The demon winked at me then indicated the dresses. "Your husband wouldn't appreciate you doubting your marriage, you know."

"I wish I could walk confidently between two cultures as he does."

"So do it. You eat curry and rice, but you aren't Indian. You drive a Mercedes, but you aren't German. Cultures merge and cultures change. There's no shame in being a part of two different cultures. Nor choosing the best parts of several others to make them your own."

"Because--"

"Because struggling with the choice is what makes you, you, isn't it?"

"It gives me the chance to still be unsure. To still choose the path that's right for me."

"Nao, you don't have to choose anything. Just be you."

"What about your choice to live in your world or ours?"

"To hell with choosing in which world. I chose to live. You did, too, Nao."

I hugged myself, pulling on my sleeve to hide a ragged scar on one wrist.

The demon knelt by me and placed a soft hand over mine. "By forgiving our wrong choices and extending love to all will rid our mind of evil and thoughts of separation. It's not you against yourself, Nao. Or us against them."

"It feels like it is."

"It does, sometimes. Let them think their thoughts and live in their world. But shine your love upon them, anyway. Isn't that what your little man on the cross tells you to do? Shine into the darkness so that you may wake from dreaming a nightmare of life."

My cheeks again prickled with tears.

"I can stop this marriage if you desire. Right now, with a snap of my fingers." He held up his saw-toothed index finger. "If you need more time--"

"No," I shook my head, then stood and snatched up the wedding dress. "Getting married is the only thing I truly feel sure about. This one?"

The demon laughed, then picked up the kimono and draped it over my empty forearm. "The duality of life is in your arms, Nao. If you focus too hard, you will only see a single point."

Third meeting:

Now

The demon cleared his throat, his muffled footsteps in the snow slowing. "And the third meeting?"

"Right here. Right now. You, the cold, and the lake."

He glanced out toward the island in the center of the lake, where a spindly cherry tree craned upward, stretching its crooked trunk toward the sky, catching snowflakes. "So, you need me to help you understand one more thing."

"No. I need you to understand."

The demon cocked his head; snow crystals fluttered to his shoulder.

"I've had a hard time understanding what I am. It's given me great pain."

"A pain we both share, as you know."

I nodded. "Pain is like kintsugi, filling in the cracks of a broken bowl with gold, creating something altogether whole, but shattered on the inside."

"But more beautiful than before the bowl was broken in the first place. And stronger, too, Nao."

I smiled. "I guess you already understand."

"I might, but I'm not in your head, you know. All I know is that pain hurts, but how we deal with it becomes our inner strength. And we all deal with it differently. Because we're all different, no matter the color of our skin or where we were born and raised."

"We are against a world that holds hopelessness and hope, ignorance and knowledge, happiness and sorrow. Love and hate."

"Darkness and light." His gaze centered again on the cherry tree.

I stopped and tilted my head up, letting the falling snow melt on my face. "If I focus too much on one thing, like whether I am Japanese or American, or something else entirely, the pressure of all my other choices becomes too much to bear." I took the demon's hand in mine.

He squeezed tight. "Nao, you know I've always said--"

"Be both. But I can't. The choice of one or the other makes me, me. I understand, now. And I want you to as well. I don't have to be Japanese. I don't have to be American. Or both. Or neither. I can be Japanese. Or American. Or both. Or neither. I can always choose whenever I want, anytime I want. I don't have to be defined by what I am, because I can always change what that is."

"Are you avoiding choosing?"

"No. My choice is that I don't have one, and that makes me strong."

A grin gnarled up the demon's face.

"I hated Japan for so many years. Until I saw it as part of me, not as something to strive for. Or an adversary. That's why you and I are different. I am not bound by trying to live in two cultures or worlds at the same time. If I want fish for breakfast, I'm having fish. If someone chides me in English, I'll give them snark right back. If someone calls me foreign in my own land, I can just smile. Because I know what I can be. And that's ever-changing."

The demon's hand slipped out of mine, and his features melted from sharp and ragged, returning to the soft, confident tones of my husband. "Figuring this thing out they call hāfu is so difficult. I'm glad I could spend so many years with you working through what it means. But I must ask, what spurred your sudden answer, Nao?"

"Cornbread. For our grandchildren. I want them to know what they are before they start to question who they are. Because, ultimately, knowing who they are takes a lifetime. Knowing what they are shouldn't."

"And what will you tell them?"

"That they're beautiful. And that even if the blood flowing in them is different, they are Japanese." I winked at my husband. "With a few perks."

"I'll take those perks, too." He held out his hand for another piece of bread, which I gladly offered.

He paused, the cornbread halfway to his mouth, glancing at his white skin peeking out from underneath his down jacket sleeve. He pushed his sleeve back to reveal his skin and the faded, almost invisible scars crisscrossing his wrist, then scarfed down the bread.

"You'll catch a cold."

"Maybe. But I'm choosing not to hide anymore, either." He laughed. "It feels good to get rid of that demon, doesn't it?"

I laughed with him. "It'll be back when doubts creep up on me. Besides, everyone is married to their demons. Only ours can smile back."