The Catalyst

A Hypothetical World as Seen Through Invisible Eyes

Izzy Taylor, Fiction Writer

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invisibleJo Wilson lived in an invisible house, on an invisible street, in an invisible universe. All of her friends and family were invisible, and when they passed each other on the street they would whisper ‘hello’ so as not to disturb the silence. Jo picked out her clothes based on how the fabrics felt against her skin. She picked lovers by the softness of their voices and picked lipsticks because of their creamy, rose-like textures.

She loved to read, and she chose books by closing her eyes and breathing in between the yellowed pages, smelling the stories within them. She sat on a wooden bench every weekday, reading through translucent irises, next to her invisible friends with their individual textures and scents. Then, on weekends, they would go to the communal farms and press their lips to watermelon slices, strawberry halves, and laugh quietly to each other among the gardens. Sometimes they would go to the beach, and bring bread to throw to the birds, who were silent and free.

No one worked, because no one needed to work, because no one was any less than anybody else. No one cried or screamed, even tomato cheeked babies, because there was nothing to cry or scream about. When her mother died, no one called. Jo just knew that she was gone, like a breath of wind, a comforting presence dissipating into the horizon. Her friends were a little bit softer that day, a little more reserved, but no one said anything because no one ever did. Jo was happy to sit on the bench and let it ground her, to read her books about princesses and castles and adventure and things she had never known and let them fill her to the brim.
It is enough, sometimes, to be invisible.

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A Hypothetical World as Seen Through Invisible Eyes