My sister is in love with a bear. He comes every night to our house, through the snow which he tracks in, big muddy footprints on the rug. We sit by the fireside, Maman and Snow and the Bear and I. The light flickers in her eyes and turns her cheeks sweet pink. Maman says we must be nice to the bear, and I try to see beyond his ivory teeth.
The nights are cold, and we huddle together in the one small bed, as always. Whispering secrets, telling tales, my sister and I. Now she only speaks of the bear, “Do you think he’ll come again?” she asks. I roll over and shut my eyes tight.
In the summer he will be gone, I’m sure, and we will return to the woods to pick acorns and apples and hunt for mushrooms in the loam. Just the two of us. We will find the deer grazing in the meadow and the hare, to feed him cabbage leaves. At night we will lay down on the moss and the star child will watch over us, as always.
My sister is in love with the bear, but he always looks hungry to me.

The little girl grew a bit taller and they sent her to a new school. It was then she realised that being invisible was something that was hard to stop. Each day she faded a little more in to the wallpaper until her hands became transparent, her feet translucent, and even she could no longer see herself. Once, when she looked in the mirror she saw nothing at all, just the bare green wall behind her. Now as girls are wont to do, when they grow a bit taller, she fell in love. The problem was that by now she was so invisible she could not get his attention. She tried everything, she wrote letters, drew pictures, sang songs, and he could see all of these but he could not see her, she was too good at being invisible and she didn’t know how to stop.

Eventually, she lost him, and her little heart hurt so bad that she ran away. She ran away from everyone and everything and she cut off her long long hair. She learned to write stories, her story, a thousand times over, recorded on paper, in print, that it might never be forgotten or fade away. She threw out her clothes and changed her name and carved herself a new identity and after a while, bit by bit, she began to be seen again. Not just seen, but noticed. They told her she was interesting, they told her she was clever, they told her she was beautiful and she didn’t believe them for a moment but she was so happy to be visible again that it didn’t matter what she looked like.

From then on she wore different clothes and said different things and played her own games and ate her own lunch and sometimes she got told off and bullied, but even that was worth it. One day, years later, she met him again. He called out her name, her new name, from the other side of a crowded room. She did not see him, or hear him at first and when she did she simply smiled and walked away.

I am building a tower, stone by stone, a tower in the woods as high as it can be. I am building a tower without a door, to hide away and run away and never be found. I will fill it with everything beautiful, soft cushions, velvet gowns, books and paints and embroidery silk. It will be my tower with only one window that looks out to the sunrise and the birds. Away from the town with its ugly people and their bitter, sneering faces. The Men with their beady, wanting eyes, the Women with their jealous, pouting lips, the Children with whom I can no longer dance.

I am safe in my tower, it lets me forget. The smooth cold stone is my friend, it is peace and silence and strength. The birds are my friends also, I feed them crumbs of bread and seeds so they visit me at my window. Mother brings me fruits in a little basket, ties it to a golden rope so I may draw it up. Plums and pears and blueberries wild. I love sweet things, she knows this. Dear Mother who can not understand why I am here, but who brings me everything I need.

Here I belong to no one and nothing. I can lose myself in the pages of books, in the threads of tapestry and be whoever I dream of. My dreams are long, often they last all day. I imagine I see a Prince on a white horse beneath the tower. This pleases me, as he is only a dream. I forget many things, I forget what is real and what is not. I have friends that I can not see. They dance in a circle about my tower and play honey sweet music that lulls me to sleep. In the morning they have disappeared beneath the hill.

There are monsters too. They come in the night, when there are no stars and no moon to laugh with me. I cover my face with the blankets and sing little songs to block out their howls and their cries and in the morning they are gone and again there is Mother with the fruit and the birdsong.

Now there is a Man in the forest of my Tower. He is dark and bearded and real, not like the shining knight of my dream. Come down he calls, and sings of love, strumming poorly on a wooden instrument. I take a pair of scissors, bright, and cut the golden rope. I want only to be free, it is all I want and yet they do not understand that I can only be free here, locked in my tower. My mouth tastes bitter, like parsley.

I walk past the Gingerbread House every day on the way home from school. I have to go the long way around, take Watercress Road instead of Hayne Street with all the other girls. I like that though, walking on my own, and besides I can’t help it, I am in love.

The Gingerbread House is one hundred years old, or so Papa tells me. I wonder if the willow tree has been there since it was built, or even before. I love it’s lonely windows with veils of grey curtain and it’s big red chimney that the turtledoves roost in. Most of all I love it’s gate, curled iron and overgrown with creepers that burst tiny violet flowers. I want to swing on that gate.

Maybe it’s strange to be in love with a house, to walk shyly past it each day and lie in bed at night dreaming and wondering what it looks like inside. Maybe it’s silly to wish wish wish that it were my own, that little front room would be mine and I would fill it with pictures and books and flowers-in-teacups. In summer I would lie on the grass and watch the bees feast on the honeysuckle and chamomile garden or climb the willow tree and tie ribbons to it’s branches.

It’s empty though, My Gingerbread House, it has been for ever and always which means as long as I can remember. I think it must be lonely, missing it’s families and dreaming of the children, ghosts in the hallways. I know it is sleeping and waiting, waiting, for someone to love it and awaken it with just the right kiss.

note: this is a fictional story.

I’m afraid of heights, and nobody knew. They took me in, when I came to the door, scared and cold and hungry as the pack of wolves which had been following me since noon. A little figure carved of ice, I must have looked, but they took me in and let me sit by the fire.

A bed was more than I expected, a feather bed at that. I would have been pleased with a shelf in the kitchen, as close to the oven as I could get. Instead they led me up, all the way up, the spiraling stairs of the tower. The stone was as cold as I and did not welcome me. They shut me in a room, with a single candle and a bed. Oh, but what a bed!

One and twenty mattresses. I counted them twice, Peter had taught me how, practicing with stones or my fingers and toes. A tower of a bed in a tower of stone. There was a ladder, like the one to get to the loft in the barn, only this one was thin and spindly, not sturdy and well worn by countless boots.

The bed sagged, it reminded me of the old woman who sells us eggs, corners rounded and soft in the middle. I reached out carefully to touch the first, the lowest of them, nearly flat beneath the weight of twenty others. For just a moment I considered sleeping on the floor, but that would be rude, so I reached for the ladder and shut my eyes tight. I began to climb, one, two, three, four rungs. Hand over hand, heel before toe, five, six, and then I slipped. The floor was hard as stone tends to be and by the light of the candle I counted the bruises.

I did not sleep that night. Perched high on one and twenty mattresses. I was too afraid, too afraid that if I rolled a little to this side or that I’d find myself back on the floor, with broken bones to join my bruises. In the morning I couldn’t even bring myself to look over the edge.

There was a knock, they were calling me, I barely know how I got back down that ladder except maybe the idea of solid ground beneath my feet was more appealing than breakfast.

They led me down, down the tower. Up in the evening, down in the morning, wasn’t that the opposite of what was meant to be? I found myself standing before a fine woman, in velvet and fur and a young man with straw coloured hair. I wiped my hands on my apron. What a sight I must look, dark wells beneath red eyes and bruised black and blue. The woman asked how I slept, I considered lying, to be polite of course, but I gave myself away, I hadn’t slept a wink. The lady beamed at me and pulled three dried peas from her pocket. The straw-haired man had a smile like a wolf.

I’m afraid of heights, and nobody knew.