My pupils are rudely awoken by the sun. Moving is simply not an option at the moment, if I move and break the barrier between me and the outside world everything will come crashing down again. It’s safe here. I inhale crisp oxygen that tingles as it swirls through my lungs, sometimes I forget how good it feels to breathe freely. In through my nostrils, pushing the tiny follicles of hair out of the way. My chest begins to puff up. I hold it in for a second to really appreciate what it means to be alive. 

Above, the lines on the ceiling mark the end of one tile and the birth of the next, the never-ending cycle, tile to tile to tile, until, the wall. On the other side of the thin drywall, the squares continue to multiply through the rest of the house until they have reached the maximum capacity. But they really don’t stop there either, in the next house over the ceilings are filled with the same square tiles that someone else is staring at while they contemplate whether or not it’s worth it to get out of bed today. Further down the street, there’s another house with square tiles holding the roof over the heads of three small children while they poke each other with their toys. Their mother is in the next room under more square tiles trying to prepare breakfast while unraveling the curlers from her hair. The children are too young to notice if there’s a hair or two in their oatmeal. 

Farther away from here, there is another child being rudely awoken, not by the sun but by the sound of distant explosions. They scurry out from under their square tiles and sprint into the already running car. On the highway, the car is met by thousands of other cars full of families and children who have to say goodbye to their square tiles for a while. They flee hoping to find a new source of protection, a new layer of square tiles to keep the elements off of their skin. Where that protection can be found is uncertain right now.

I wish I could let them come sit with me under my square tiles. We could share the armor of this powerful blanket together. This could be their new home, far away from all that threatens them. Here we could put three, or four beds together, enough to fill the room with fluffy comfort. We could giggle at the morning sun and beg it to stay right where it is for a while. Shifting our bodies close to the window, letting the heat from our star friend in the sky warm our skin. We would lie there for hours, taking deep breaths and telling each other about our hopes and dreams. One child would raise their frail voice and say, “I want to be a movie star someday.” “Then a movie star you’ll be,” I’d reply. I ask them to show me their best acting skills. The child would get up and stand next to the air purifier so their hair flopped behind them in the breeze. With both hands stretched out they’d look off into the distance as if looking out into the open ocean. Elegantly, they’d burst out, “Never let go Jack.” The rest of the room would fill with hysterical laughs but as we laughed I would imagine that child fifteen years from now. With their name running along the bottom of the screen as the opening music plays to the latest tv series on HBO. They would be the talk of Hollywood. Their name plastered on billboards from the Pacific to the Atlantic. As they strut down the red carpet their eyes would sparkle as all of the camera flashes bounced off their face. “Look here, look over here,” the paparazzi would yell. They would do anything to catch a glimpse of this marvelous movie star. They chase the child, who isn’t really a child anymore, through the streets of Beverly Hills. They would peer through the windows of every restaurant and coffee shop. Oh but my little movie star wouldn’t mind, this is everything they have hoped and dreamed of. They’d bat their eyelashes, tilt their head slightly to the side, and give the camera a soft smile. The same look that they would flash at me right now, good practice I guess. 

“What is that look for?” I’d ask.

“We want to go play outside,” they’d say in that child-like voice that you just can’t say no. I’d finally let go of the grip this bed has on me and get up. We’d march our way down the street towards the park just around the block. As we walked, some would skip, others would pretend to play hopscotch, and one little angel in the back of the line would sing, “don’t step on a crack or else you’ll break your mother’s back.” I’d wish I had leashes to keep them all in check as they swarm around the streets like newly freed zoo animals. 

Once the bright blue metal contraption was finally in sight they’d bolt off faster than cheetahs. Running towards the biggest slide first. I would catch a spot on the bench off to the left side of the park next to some other parents or babysitters. They would be consumed with their phone on this beautiful day but my attention would be captivated by the sight of pure joy and happiness on all of the children’s faces. After a short while, I’d get too antsy and jump up from the uncomfortable bench. I’d catch that song happy one trying to make their way across the monkey bars. I’d grab onto their legs, to hold them up so they can reach from one bar to the next and make their way across. Once they reach the end they’d jump down and turn around to wrap their sweaty little arms around my legs. “You did it,” I’d say while I placed my hand under their chin so they could look back up at me. 

The oldest one would be off in the back by the sidewalk drawing exceptional works of art with some spare chalk crumbs. They couldn’t be much over the age of twelve but their art skills dance across the pavement as if they’ve studied Art Design for four years at Parsons. Before long, their growing bodies would wear out and they would be in need of some refueling. Luckily, I thought ahead and brought an overflowing picnic basket with me. 

We’d find a nice spot in the open grass, far away from all of the commotion. I’d hand them the red and white checkered blanket to stretch out. One child per corner as they would tug with all of their mite to get the blanket as flat as possible. I’d pull out juice boxes and sandwiches and bags of chips and homemade chocolate chip cookies. There would be grapes

and strawberries, a platter of vegetables with ranch for dipping, and a bunch of freshly baked cheese danishes. Enough food to stuff our faces until the buttons on our pants blow off. Once we were all full we would lay down on the soft blanket, feeling the lumps and curves of the earth beneath us. Little bugs would crawl up the blades of grass onto the blanket to lay alongside us. We’d stare up into the cerulean sky, speckled with clouds. I’d point to one and say, “that one looks like a dinosaur.” Someone would reply, “no, it looks like a pineapple.” Then we’d start a game of pointing at every cloud that passes over us and debating what we thought it looked like. Whoever got the most people to agree with their perception would win a piece of candy from the basket. Before long, it would turn into an intense battle. “Well that one has a fluffy top and a long skinny part coming out of the bottom, what else is long and skinny with fluffy things coming out of the top other than a tree?” one would holler. I would laugh silently to myself while listening to them bicker in the background. 

My eyes would begin to wander over toward the tree towering over us. A lone bird would be perching itself, all alone on one of the branches. Her blue wing would pop out in contrast to her black and white body. She wouldn’t be singing any kind of sweet song. Just standing there, looking into the distance. Occasionally her head would twitch to one side and 

then back to the other as if she was monitoring something. She’d ruffle her feathers a little as if she were trying to shake off some dust or dirt. The quietest child would come and lay beside me. “I haven’t seen a bird like that here at all yet, I used to have one at home.” “You had a pet bird at home?” I’d ask. “Well I didn’t exactly have one, I mean she wasn’t really mine at all, she was a wild bird. Every morning when I woke up she would be there, right outside my window in the branch that always looked like a monster at night. My father told me she was protecting me, he told me to think of her late at night when I would see the monster tapping on my window. When I would get scared some nights and think that the branch was a monster trying to creep in I would remember how sweet she always looked.

How could something so kind and beautiful be living on a monster? It was silly of me to ever think there was a monster out there in the first place. She was there each morning, I guess maybe she enjoyed seeing me as much as I enjoyed seeing her. We became friends after a little while but I never gave her a name. I would wave to her and say thank you for showing me that I don’t have to be scared anymore. I knew she would always protect me but she didn’t show up one day. It was the day that all the bad things started. I got scared that she got taken by the monster but my father told me she just flew away to fight a bigger monster. He said I didn’t need to see her every day to know that she was still protecting me. I guess now that she’s here again it must mean that the big monster is gone. I’m just happy that I know I’m safe here.” 

I’d turn my head to a soft smile spread across their cheeks as their gaze was stuck on the bird. Sometimes it’s the small ones, the ones who are so fresh in this world that really bring the hope back into your heart. But I wouldn’t know how to respond, how do I tell this innocent creature that the big monster is still out there, still back at home, rummaging through their towns. 

At that moment, as the thoughts are still trying to complete themselves in my mind my phone would ding. The notification would read, “Breaking News: After Thousands of Lives Lost The War Has Met its End.” My hands shaking, barely able to catch my breath I would grab the child and hug them as tightly as possible. “You were right, the big monster really is gone!” We would all join in a group hug that would collapse under the weight of our joy and excitement. As we would gallop through the field, all holding hands and singing, “ding dong the witch is gone, the Wicked Witch of the West is gone, ding dong.” We would run and run through the until we were met by all of the parents. Everyone would embrace with laughter, tears, and everything in between. The children would tell their parents stories of the things we did here, the mornings spent goofing off and making heart-shaped chocolate

chip pancakes. The afternoons spent playing games under the sun. All the nights spent whispering secrets in the dark and sneaking sweets. I’d reassure them that there was always a fruit paired with the pancakes and I made sure they were in bed at a decent hour so they would be well-rested. As if that really mattered. We’d spend all afternoon in that field just appreciating the feeling of being safely together again. As the sun found its way down to the horizon we’d head back home to make one last supper, big enough to feed an army. I would have been amazed at the size of the table, never having seen one as full of beautiful bodies, just happy to be there. After all was said and done, I’d close my eyes firmly, taking in a deep breath. 

When I opened them I was staring up at the square tiles. I looked around my room and saw there were no extra beds, no stuffed animals, and toys. No small feet peeking out from under any blankets, or little mouths snoring. No one to bask in the warm sunlight with me. My heart begins to break as a tear falls down my cheek. Oh, how I miss my little friends, how goofy and sweet they were. The tears just keep falling. I wish I could bring them back, engulf their small bodies with my long arms. I reach over the side of my bed for a tissue. I begin to blow the snot out of my nose and wipe away my tears with my sleeve. With most of the tears gone I open my eyes to see a Magpie perched on the tree outside my window. A Magpie, keeping me safe, and I know she’s trying her absolute best to keep them safe too. So today, I think of my Magpie and hope she’s doing everything she can to keep an eye on all of the innocent children caught in the middle of a battle between a monster and a knight.

The Branch and the Magpie

by Tatum Koster

My name is Tatum Koster, I am a Junior here at UAlbany majoring in English with minors in Creative Writing and Journalism. I drew my inspiration for my piece "The Branch and the Magpie" from several different factors, the first being an upcoming due date for a midterm assignment in a writing workshop class. After the recent outbreak of war in Ukraine my mind was consumed by the thought of helpless families caught in the middle of a nightmare. With Virginia Woolf's "The Mark on the Wall" as a guide I created a place where the mind could wander and dream about a reality far from our own.