SANSA Rio Tomlinson

A handsome little finch rests on the ledge of a dirt-crusted window, pane ajar to let the breeze blow inside. Its yellow plumage with black dipped wings rustles lightly with the wind. In its beak, the sole sunflower seed is held onto by the tip.

A goldfinch visited my grandmother before she passed. She would tell me how lovely its song was, or how her hands had fed it biscuit crumbs. She named him Sansa, short for Sansa Rimba. His coos like a thumb piano, giving him his name. I grew to love goldfinches after her stories. Sansa would speak to me through my grandmother, tales of the past. Tales of golden, champagne stars, dripping from the sky like bowls of butter. Japanese cherry blossoms linger in the winds, swirling in memory and delight. The scents of midsummer dreams and sounds of crickets, clicking their wings and echoing into the open air. Sansa. A handsome little finch.

Through my grandmother, Sansa speaks. Stories of pirates racing the shores, voyaging the Caribbean for gold. Memories of fetching a chicken for dinner in Africa. Passports enveloped in stamps from her travels. The tales tinkering from my grandmother’s tongue like fingers, agile, plucking at the finger-piano keys.

On my ninth birthday, I was gifted a finger piano of my own. It had been carved out of a coconut shell. Little turtles had been delicately edged into the wood with a small carver knife. I had once used a carver knife with my grandmother. She wanted to teach me to carve from wood. With my shaky, anxiety-riddled fingers I had missed the wood and sliced open the pale flesh of my hand. Blood had gushed out and my face flushed with fear and disgust. She had wrapped my hand with a terry cloth soaked in some antibacterial. The injury left no scar, only a stained memory.

Sansa would bring his friends to visit my grandmother. Two goldfinches turned into five, and from five finches to eight. Each day they would bring her gifts; Auburn leaves dripping with glossy dew, acorn caps fit for the heads of fairies, twigs wrapped in silky spider webs, or stray flower petals. My grandmother kept a box filled with these treasures. In return, she would lay pine nuts and sunflower seeds on her windowsill. On a special occasion, she would spoil them with a drusy honeycomb or leftover yarn from her finger knitting. She treated me like a little finch on occasions. When I was small, upon every visit she would give me a unique old-fashioned candy. Some days it would be decadent ribbon candies, other days it would be candy buttons embellished with licorice spots. When I was younger, I hated those candies. She had always let them get stale or kept them in a suitcase buried in her doll collection. I currently find myself ordering these same candies, reliving the memory.

On a cool July evening, the 19th to be exact, and expected, yet an unusual sense of whim and angel hair floated in the air. My grandmother was sitting in her satin-sheeted bed, dressed in her favorite purple button-up and clay-colored pants. She sat, toying with her wedding band, breathing the oxygen from her medical tank. She looked to the sky, to the stars. Smiling, she spoke four words, “What a lovely night”. The goldfinches had flown to my grandmother’s window, carrying a chorus of heavenly voices on their tails.

The Risks Of Flying Too Close To The Sun

Haley Moody

“How could you even show your face after what happened last night? No doubt word has gotten to the king,” Philippe de Lorraine whispered harshly. “All the evidence is pinned against you. The only way out of your situation is through death.”

I leaned in closer to him and whispered, “I don’t believe I had much of a choice. It would have looked more suspicious if I didn’t come.”

“You should have just left Versailles like I told you to,” he snapped.

Before I could even think of a response, I heard loud footsteps approach me from behind, so I bit my tongue.

“Mademoiselle de Dumont,” a firm, low voice spoke. Just a moment before, all the aristocrats were participating in idle chatter, but at the sound of my name, the room grew eerily quiet. All I could hear was the pounding within my chest, and my cheeks felt warm, no doubt a bright shade of red visible to the many eyes that burned into my skin.

I looked to Philippe, someone who I considered a good friend, for strength, but he merely adverted his gaze from mine and hung his head low. I tried my best to compose myself, taking in a deep breath before turning around to see Alexandre Bontemps, the respected and feared valet of the king. He was looking at me with a pained expression as two guards stood behind him.

“I believe you know why we are here,” Bontemps said before the two guards rushed toward me, grabbing each of my arms. I thrashed and screamed, but their grips only tightened.

“I didn’t do it! I was framed!” I cried. “You have to believe me!”

As they dragged me away, my eyes set on Madame de Montespan who was sitting at one of the tables. I gave her a pleading look, but she turned her head towards the group of girls she was playing cards with.

“By the way she’s screaming you would think she was innocent,” Montespan said, a giggle escaping her lips.

Inside the dark dungeon of Versailles, I was left to wonder why I ever trusted her?

Every woman in the palace of Versailles had hoped to win over the affection of Louis XIV, as did I, and could anyone blame me? He was the sun that shone through the palace, and I would have done anything to stand next to the sun, no matter how bright it was.

I had been at court for years, living a life like many did where I simply spent all my money on clothing and fine jewelry, so I could gain it all back through gambling, only to spend it all over again. Philippe taught me how to do this best, and even without a single glance from the king— or any man for that matter— I was perfectly content with my life. At least, that was until I encountered Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart, Marquise de Montespan.

I often prayed in the chapel at night when everyone was sleeping, because I preferred to do things in private. I never spent much time there, but one night as I was leaving the chapel, I came in contact with two men.

One of which was Louis XIV and the other Alexandre Bontemps. The king wore a long, cream-colored nightgown, and Bontemps seemed to be in his sleepwear as well. To see Louis dressed in this way came as a shock to me, for I had never seen him in anything but glamorous fashions, usually in the color blue.

“Sire,” I said, bowing.

“You will go to your rooms and not speak of this to anyone. Is that understood?” Bontemps spoke in an unyielding tone.

I nodded immediately and quickly walked past them, but when I was only a few steps away, a voice spoke up from behind me.

“Wait,” it said.

As I turned around slowly, Bontemps whispered, “Your Majesty…”

“What are you doing at the chapel so late at night?” Louis inquired.

“I came to pray, sire.”

“What do you pray for?”

“For me, for my friends, for you… and for the glory of France”

Louis paused for a few seconds, and in that moment, I felt like I had been standing there for what seemed like an eternity.

“Will you come to pray with me?” he finally asked.

“Your majesty that would not be wise,” Bontemps objected.

“I see no issue with it,” Louis replied before directing his attention toward me. “Will you accept my offer?”

“I cannot refuse, sire.”

Once we were in the chapel, I could see the dark circles under Louis’s bloodshot eyes.

“What do you wish to pray for, sire?” I asked.

“I haven’t slept in days,” he said, clearly distraught. “Prominent people are being murdered, poisoned within my court. I believe that someone wants me dead, and they are killing those who are closest to me. I wish to pray that Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie will find whoever is doing this so that not only I, but everyone within my court can live peacefully once again.”

I had never anticipated that I would one day pray by His Majesty’s side. Maybe I was a bit selfish, but the thought that I could somehow ease Louis’s mind filled me with light. Afterward, I went straight to my room, not uttering a word to anyone— not even Philippe— but someone must have seen us together that night because Madame de Montespan approached me the next morning. Why would she want to speak with someone she had never been interested in before? I knew, surely, it was only because that very someone had tried to take something she believed to be hers.

“Magdelaine de Dumont,” she said as if it were a demand.

I curtseyed, keeping eye contact with the lady before me.

“I do believe that we have not yet properly introduced ourselves. As I am sure you are aware, I am the Marquise de Montespan.”

I gave her no response.

“I wish for the two of us to become friends,” she said, forcing a smile.

I had not expected such a request to come from the mistress of the king, but I bowed my head nonetheless. “I am honored, madame,” I said. “But why with me?”

“I heard good things about you from the Chevalier de Lorraine tonight while I was at the same table as him,” she replied. “He even said that you have exceptional skill at playing cards, that he taught you everything you know, and if I may be so bold, perhaps we could play together sometime.” “I would very much like that,” I said.

“Ah, good to hear. Come to me next time you wish to play, and we’ll see just how good you really are.”

She walked away, and I rolled my eyes.

Later that day, I was looking for Philippe, planning to tell him about the weird encounter I had with the Marquise. He was at one of the tables, gambling as he usually was, so I walked toward him.

It wasn’t until I heard a voice say, “Care to join us in a game of cards?” that I realized Montespan was at the same table. I sat down before her and joined their game. That’s when the strangest thing happened: I enjoyed it— no, not the game, but rather her presence. I found myself smiling at her witty remarks toward Philippe, and I found her confidence admirable; I was starting to understand why Louis had taken such a liking to her.

From that point on, I guess you could say we had seemingly grown close. We often played cards and walked around the gardens together. I continued to pray with Louis in the chapel, but she chose to ignore it because that was the extent of our relationship; the king seemed to have little interest in me romantically, as he was still attentive as ever to Montespan.

Considering how close we had gotten, it was no surprise that the king took notice. One day, Louis approached our table and asked if he and I could speak for a moment alone. Of course, I could not refuse the king; however, this left Montespan feeling bitter, and— I had not realized it at the time— our relationship had turned sour.

Louis asked me to help him make preparations for Montespan’s upcoming birthday. I did as the king had asked, and on the day, everything seemed to have gone smoothly until dinner time.

Everyone was provided drinks and before Montespan took a sip, one of her ladies stopped her.

“Perhaps I should taste it first,” the lady whispered to Montespan.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary this time.”

“Madame, I insist. With everything that’s been happening lately, I don’t think we should risk it.”

The lady took a sip and there was a brief pause before the cup fell from her hand, the glass shattering to pieces as both the cup and the lady’s body hit the floor. Gasps and screams were heard throughout the room before Bontemps yelled at one of the guards, “Somebody get the doctor!”

Bontemps then directed his attention to everyone in the room, “Everyone go to your rooms. No one is permitted to leave the premises.”

I, like everyone else, did as I was told, but I knew I would be one of the suspects.

Not many hours after I had been held in my cell, I was visited by Louis. I had been sitting with my back against the wall, but at the sight of him, I ran to the bars that separated us and fell to my knees.

“Get up,” his voice boomed over me. I did as I was told and stood up.

“Why did you do it?” he continued.

“Sire, I had no part in—”

“You are a murderer!” he interrupted. “You attempted to poison your friend, the Marquise de Montespan, at her own birthday party.”

“I was framed,” I said in a strained voice. “Your Majesty, you have to believe me.”

With that, Louis looked me in the eyes for the last time, and his expression seemed to have softened— or maybe, I just saw what I wanted to see— and he left without another word.

I wasn’t sure how long I had been sitting in that cell, but it felt like it had been weeks before I heard word from one of the guards that I would be executed within the following days. I had come to terms with the fact that there was nothing I could do, and I would have done anything to forget my last encounter with Louis.

I had been told that Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie would be the one who would escort me to my public execution, so when he finally opened my cell door, I knew my fate had been sealed.

“Mademoiselle de Dumont, under the king’s order, you are free to go,” he said. He must have thought that I deserved further explanation, so he continued, “I found the woman who was behind all of the poisonings. Her name is Catherine Deshayes Monvoisin. She kept a record of all the people who used her… services. Your name was not on her lists while Madame de Montespan’s was, so the king confronted her. She confessed to using dark magic to keep his favor and confessed to framing you for the murder of her lady.”

“Did she say why she did this to me?” I asked.

“She did not.”

“What is to happen to Madame?”

“She was already stripped of her title as Marquise, but she will remain within the palace.”

“His Majesty is too kind,” I said before quickly making my way toward my room, ignoring everyone who tried to talk to me. I packed my necessities and headed out the door. I ran into Philippe who exclaimed, “Magdelaine, I am so excited to see that you’re alive! Wait, where are you going?”

“As far away from Versailles as possible.”

Testimony

Julianne McGee

No one ever imagines or thinks that they will lose their person, their best friend, at a young age. It just isn’t thought about in normal friendships. I never thought about it heavily, until it happened to me. I would like to take this piece to reminisce about the times I did have with my friend. The good days, the long days, and the ugly days. No matter what those days were like, I’ll always be grateful they were spent with her.

A Bright, Sunny Morning

I was sitting in a third-floor classroom of Carnegie Hall on McKendree University’s campus, tired and ready for coffee. It was a bright morning. A truly beautiful spring day, just two short days after my birthday. In the 60s, the sun was shining, and the birds were chirping fondly. I was in a good mood. I was planning on having a good day.

My best friend’s mom calls me. I ignored the call, thinking she just wanted to chat about my best friend’s kids. My friend had twin boys who were just over six months old at the time. She texted me right after. “[She] died!!!! You need to get here.” My heart hit the floor. The rest was a blur. I remember yelling, crying, and Dr. Trask helping me make my way down the stairs. The stairs felt like they took years to get down. My head was throbbing.

My mom picked me up from campus. By the time she arrived, the tears were slow, and I became silent. The numbness set in.

My best friend was struck by a vehicle as she walked down a dark highway on a cold night. She was pronounced dead at 3:30 a.m... The question that most ask is, “Why was she walking down the highway at that time of night?” I cannot answer this question without a long trip down memory lane. If the events in the past six months hadn’t happened, she would not have ended up on that lonely, dark highway in the early hours of the morning.

The Road to that Night on a Dark Highway

To put it simply, my best friend was an addict. She was chained by an almost unbeatable addiction to hard drugs. When she was sober, and when she wasn’t, she was consumed by a lifestyle that even her sober mind hated. She told me so many times, “Nobody wants to stay addicted, but no one knows how to stop.”

Through this memorial, I want to bear light on those who struggle. Addicts aren’t always what they are perceived to be by the media. In my own personal experience, I have seen addicts portrayed as dirty, uneducated, and living bad lifestyles altogether. My best friend was a hard worker, kept a clean house, had her bills paid on time… But she also just happened to be addicted to methamphetamine and fentanyl. Towards the end, heroin was her vice. Heroin was her killer. She was a caring mother, who would have given the world to her sons. She was an incredible friend, who was there whenever I needed her, no matter what was going on in her own life. She was strong-minded; she beat addiction multiple times before her life was taken from her. She truly was a light in the world, who kept fighting for her sobriety until the day she died. Her life was taken too soon because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

In the Beginning

I met my girl at a new job I was working right out of high school. She was my boss. As two young girls who didn’t have many friends and were out in the world on their own for the first time, we decided within a week of meeting each other that we would be each other’s person. She openly told me she was an addict but was going on two years clean. She talked about her scary experiences in the dark of night going to buy drugs, and how she never wanted to live that lifestyle again. The first time she told me these stories, we were having a sleepover, making pizza, and watching our favorite television shows. We enjoyed each other’s company so much that we never lost contact after that first sleepover.

We worked long nights together and I crashed on her couch many times. Six months went by that were full of nights that ended too soon. She quit her job where we worked together. She began not returning my phone calls. Her actions were erratic, and although I refused to believe what was happening right in front of my eyes, she had lost her sobriety for the first time since becoming clean.

I did my best to stay in touch, to just know she was alive. I knew that she was ashamed of what she was doing. I always told her I’d be here when she was ready to come back, and I was. Six more months passed, and I received a Snapchat that changed my entire world.

Our Boys

The image my friend sent me had no context, just an image of a positive pregnancy test. I told her I was still here if she was ready to begin her journey to sobriety. We met up the next day for the first time in months. She was horribly skinny and looked so tired. My friend was not “fat” but she had never been this small. I asked her about her new boyfriend and what the plan was for the baby, and she decided to keep the baby and drop the drugs. I will always be proud of her for making that call.

She did not have a vehicle, so I drove her to most of her doctor’s appointments throughout the course of her pregnancy. These days were filled with lots of food from Bread Company because that is all the pregnant girl wanted. Oh, did I mention the biggest part of this whole ordeal? TWINS!

My best friend was pregnant with not just one, but two little bouncing boys. We knew we were going to have our hands VERY full.

I could go on for days and days about how the babies’ father was just a garbage boyfriend to my girl, but I want to focus on her. She blew up like a balloon within the first six months of her pregnancy. She was sober and absolutely glowing. She was a kind-hearted human.

At her very last doctor appointment, they took her in for an emergency C-section. Our boys came into this world three weeks earlier than planned, but as healthy as possible. She was a proud mother and I was honored to be her best friend and self-proclaimed “auntie” to the boys.

Downhill

Two months go by and my girl is back to work. Just like the old times! She had started working with me again but this time around I was her boss. If she worked late, I would head to her house and put the boys to bed. Usually, this was a normal occurrence. Their dad was useless when it came to bedtime. I headed over to the house and started getting the boys changed and ready for a bottle when I noticed bruising. The bruising was abnormal, and I knew something was not right. Why would a two-month-old baby have bruises on his arm? The next morning, after a very long night, my girl and I loaded up the babies and filed a police report. Their dad went to jail. We went to the emergency room, where the boys had a full work-up. Broken bones, bruising, and drugs in their system...

That same night, custody was given to the state. They would now be cared for by their grandmother. This broke my best friend. She felt as though they were the only reason she was sober. When she lost them, she lost her sobriety. But this time, I would not let her lose me too. I spent long nights at her house where we would make plans and goals for her to get her babies back. When their dad was released from jail, he came back into her life. I am not the type to place blame, but if he had left her alone it is likely that my best friend would still be a living soul and not an angel in the sky.

I stuck around and we spent time with the boys when she hadn’t been using. I was approved through the state to care for the babies, therefore my friend could spend time with them when I watched them. She had a rocky relationship with her mother, so seeing the boys when they were with me was her best choice.

Eventually, she stopped coming around as much. Even after the boys’ dad had gone back to jail. He hit my best friend with a car, so that was his one-way ticket back to the slammer, at least for a little while. She was not doing well, weight was dropping off before my eyes and she was horribly depressed. She overdosed. She lived, but she wished she hadn’t. I remember picking her up from the hospital when she was cleared to leave. She said to me, “It was the worst feeling of my life. I was burning, like fire, from the inside out. I feel so bad that I threw up on the paramedic, but I wish he wouldn’t have given me that second round of Narcan.”

Her Last Night

I apologize if this seems scattered, but it is a difficult testimony to tell. Let’s talk about her last night on this planet. She was in a small town about eight miles from her house. She was using heroin with her “friends”. One of these people overdosed. When the paramedics arrived, they recommended that she leave so she would not be in any trouble when the police arrived. She had a vehicle, but she handed off the keys to someone who was on parole because she felt it was more essential that they got out. She walked. And just kept walking. Trying to call people for a ride or for help. She was cold. Her legs were probably tired. She walked four miles, all while calling these “friends” and begging for help. The last message she sent was disorderly, we assume this is when she was struck by the silver truck that ended her life. The operator received the 911 call a short two minutes after my best friend sent her final message. By the next day, I was helping plan her funeral and kissing her earthly body goodbye.

What happens now?

Now my best friend is not a phone call away. She is worlds away, hopefully somewhere beautiful and painless. Her sons are almost eight months old and resemble her in so many ways. The army of people who loved my best friend will now carry her memory while helping to raise her two beautiful boys. It gets hard many days when I want to pick up the phone and call her. I have a lot of questions that she can never answer. The biggest one being why she didn’t call me for a ride on that cold spring night. I would have been there like I always was. But if there is one thing I have learned out of this awful experience, it’s that I am luckier than most. I will always have a piece of her smiling back at me when I care for her children. I will always have some of her personality laughing at me when I make funny faces at the boys. I do have pieces of her left. I feel her hand on my shoulder in the wind sometimes. And I feel comfort because wherever she may be, her addiction is gone.

Through this piece, I hope to possibly connect with a reader who knows the struggles of caring deeply for an addict. It takes a lot to love an addict. But it is well worth the time. Loving an addict taught me compassion, patience, understanding, and how to love deeper than I ever thought I was possible. No matter how many nights of lost sleep I had, or how many tears I’ve cried, I will look back fondly on the good times. And be thankful for what came from this terrible disease. There is light in every situation and sometimes you just have to find it. My light is the twins, where will you find