1
NOT EVEN ME
CORA
Ikeep my memories in jars. Not all of them, of course. Just the bad ones, the unhelpful ones, the ones that take up space and time and energy. Those, I store in jars on the walls of my bedroom, organized by year and neatly labeled with black ink. At night, they glow with desperation. Blues and oranges, yellows and pinks. Vibrant colors, all fighting to escape their glass prisons.
I rarely release them.
Today, the suffering is necessary. I trail my finger across a row of silver-lidded jars, lips moving silently as I read the labels. I’m looking for any mention of Ochre Village, one of the largest witch communities in the Day Realm. I skip any that mention Hayver, the small and dismal place I was born. Where I was first labeled aDark One, where they kept me isolated in a dreary orphanage and told the other children to stay away.
For tonight, I need to see Ochre Village specifically. The buildings, the people, and most importantly, the roadways. I swear I’ve got a jar here somewhere that mentions a festival. I move to the next row, then the next, until finally…
“Yes,” I whisper.
I pluck the jar from its place on my wall, scanning the label as I move to my four-poster bed. I collapse into the black comforter, slouching against the wooden headboard and crossing my legs. The label reads:
Cora Reed
age 12
Autumnal Festival - Harrison*
I wish it said more, like whether I’ll actually see the festival or the village, or whether I’ll be stuck looking at Harrison the whole time. I absently touch the star on the second line. It won’tjustbe Harrison. That star is my shorthand warning for Elliot. As in,proceed with caution, Cora! This memory contains an Elliot sighting and will likely send you into a depressive episode.
If I weren’t dragging three others into this mission, I’d probably put the jar right back on its shelf. Memories with both Harrison and Elliot are of the worst variety, and I’d prefer to go in blind than see them together. Amelia, Beatrice, and Milas deserve better though. I owe it to them to check.
With a huffed sigh, I grab the memory stone off my nightstand. It looks like an ordinary rock from the Flight Realm, but it’s not. It’s a brick-sized cut of Initia Stone. Black and glossy, yet far lighter than one would guess. The edges are smoothed and the top is coated with a thin white film. It’s worn from years of use, but it will work for many years to come—likely long after I’m dead.
Once the stone is balanced on my lap, I take the remaining ingredients from a tiny velvet pouch. A vial of freshwater from Lake Astoria. Three dried mermaid scales. One infant dragon claw. A strand of auburn hair, stolen directly from the head of the fae king.
I line the items over the stone. Residual magic hums againstmy skin, and I close my eyes, savoring the feel. The memory stone, by itself, is cool to the touch. With each added ingredient, it grows warmer. Though the bottom of the stone remains cool on my thighs, the top is starting to smoke. And when I remove the memory from its jar, the smoke builds and stretches, yearning to claim the frantic magic.
I pinch the memory between my fingers. This one is green, vibrant as a spring leaf but far more restless. It thrashes like a wild animal and sends nasty shocks through my fingers. I can feel the sting all the way to my shoulders.
Memories don’t like being kept in jars. They crave the soft, malleable give of brain matter, and they despise me for stealing them away.
“If you didn’t want to be kept in a jar, you should have chosen a better memory,” I tell it, tossing the glass to the side.
The memory shocks me again. I grit my teeth and hold the memory to the Initia Stone, careful to watch my fingers. The memory and the stone call to each other. Within seconds, the memory lays parallel to the stone and magic surrounds me in an explosion of shocking green smoke.
It’s all I can see. The stone walls of my bedroom are gone, replaced by thick green smoke and the stark smell of burning flesh.
“Give me something good,” I whisper into the mist.
Make the suffering worth it, I add silently.
The smoke grows impossibly thicker until I’m breathing it deep into my lungs with each inhalation. My head swims, my vision blurs, and the steady beat of my heart becomes frantic.
Gone is my bed and the shelves of memories and the weight of stale, trapped air.
The next time I blink, I am outside in an open market. The me of today doesn’t recognize it. There are booths with yellow awnings and witches clothed in every shade of orange andwhite. A few wear blue. Fewer still wear green or violet. They all move in masses, breaking apart to stop at one stall or another. Some booths sell seasonal berries. Others dried meat. Others still, silken scarves and handmade trinkets and woven baskets.
I might not recognize this place, this market, but the me of the past does. She is timid and scrawny and clumsy, moving with hesitant thrill. Her eyes are on a small booth, tucked between a bookseller and a palm reader.
“Look,” I whisper. It’s not my voice, not really. It’s twelve-year-old me. Her voice is higher, squeakier. Her attention is locked on a collection of lizards and snakes, of turtles with painted shells and colorful fish, separated into bowls.
Twenty-seven-year-old me wants to move away, to shrink from the buggy-eyed creatures and find the safety of shadows.
