You found a baby millipede in the garden. When you saw it under the roots of a weed you'd pulled it reminded you of another creature, fast asleep several thousands of miles away. You leaned down, picked it up, and laid it on your palm. It looked even smaller there, a russet spiral in a valley of skin. Perhaps it was dead, but you told yourself that it must simply be sleeping. You thought about the other creature and wondered whether he curls up when he sleeps, the way you and the infant insect do. And when an inevitable sadness crept along you put the millipede back where you'd found it. You allowed yourself one more look at it, a snugly-wound coil nestled in torpor and moist red soil. Then you stood up and went on your way, pulling up weeds just a little more carefully in the bright morning light.
- Miriam Alexander-Kumaradoss
Miriam Alexander-Kumaradoss grew up between three states in South India and now lives in New York. She is completing an MFA at Columbia University. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Molotov Cocktail, Cease, Cows, and Apogee Journal and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She writes about odd people and creatures that may or may not exist. Follow her on Twitter @mir_kattt