Monday, February 20, 2017


- protection, grounding, healing -

Nephele wakes up. She promptly turns over and picks up her phone, clicking the home button. 9:45, the clock reads. 9:45?? She thinks. She hasn’t slept that late in ages. Nephele tries to recall her nightmare from the night before but she comes up empty. Is it possible that she hadn’t had a nightmare that night?


The light is streaming in through my apartment window, and for the first time in ages I feel hope swelling in my chest like a balloon getting filled with helium. Is it possible that the old man from the park really got rid of my nightmares? Everything feels soft and new again, I feel as if I am walking on eggshells now because I don’t want this feeling to go away.

Nephele pulls her nose out of her journal, and touches her obsidian necklace. A look of determination settles on her face as she decides that she must go and question the old man. Nephele pulls on black jeans and a corduroy jacket before leaving her apartment, a small bounce in the way she walks. The air smells like flowers, the perfume only adding to her feeling of newness and happiness. Nephele notices that the town had been adorned with flowers, she stops and picks one, slipping it into her journal. After entering the park, she searches for the old man and the boy who just yesterday sat under an old oak tree, when she arrives at the tree she finds nothing but a pair of porcelain salt and pepper shakers. She picks them up, the smooth material cold on her skin. She finds that her eyes are swelling with tears, like her happiness depended on finding the pair of men. Dropping the salt and pepper shakers, she heads to St. Cecelia’s.

The feeling of dread has returned to Nephele, and as she sits on a bench underneath a magnolia tree, the light shining through the branches dappling her legs, she begins to cry. It has been a long time since Nephele has allowed herself to cry. She has always seen it as a sign of weakness, and she was supposed to be anything but. But sitting here crying Nephele can’t explain why she was chose now to break,  nothing bad had happened. But the lump of dread in her throat has now grown to be a blanket of dread covering her body. She is lost, completely dumbfounded when it came to what she is supposed to do now. So, Nephele cries, clutching the stone around her neck that is supposed to be protecting, healing her.


- wisdom, balance, peace -

Nephele’s dreams trouble her for a week and she wakes many times, having trouble falling back to sleep each time. Eventually she gives up on trying to find any peace and decides to write instead what she dreamed.

There was a green film that covered everything; it looked as though through a piece of murky cellophane. I remember there was blood, and a man. He was yelling but I couldn’t hear him. It’s gotten louder each night.


Nephele woke up one morning to find the city draped in a thick fog, the kind the tops of buildings like to disappear into. Nephele is the type of person whose mood is affected by the weather, and today she feels like a wet washcloth has been draped over her face. She stands and pads across her apartment, coming to stand in front of the fridge, where she finds a bottle of Sriracha and an apple on the white shelves. That meal doesn’t seem particularly appetizing to her, so she pulls on a pair of jeans, tucks her long shirt into it, and slips her feet into a pair of paint stained black converse. Her steps waver at the door of the apartment building, and she can’t quite figure out the reason why. She pushes her way through the doors anyways, despite the little voice in the back of her head telling her not to. She has grown accustomed to not listening to that voice.

Clutching her worn moleskine journal to her chest, she lowers her head and plunges into the fog. Ignoring her growing dread, she walks on towards the pizza place by St. Cecelia’s, suddenly hearing a voice cut through the fog.

“You there, in the converse.”

Nephele moves towards the voice, her curiosity outweighing the bad feeling manifesting itself as a lump in her throat. Emerging from the fog there is a small man, his wrinkles etching canyons through his face accompanied by a small boy with silver duct tape on his mouth.

“I sense there is something bothering you, I can relieve that for a small price.” The old man utters. Something inside of Nephele possesses her to tell him that she will do anything to stop the dreams that plague her during the night.

“Give me your arm, Nephele.” Her breath catches in her throat yet she extends her arm anyways. The man reaches out and winds his spindly fingers around his wrist, his knuckles pressing into her skin. With his other hand he reaches into his pocket and takes out a small dagger. He drags the blade across her skin and a dark red liquid bubbles up from her skin. The boy produces a slide and takes a drop of her blood. Nephele is too shocked to do anything about this strange ritual. Finally, the man speaks;

“How terrible--to see the truth, when the truth is only pain to him who sees.”