by Kari Bentley-Quinn

I had never known what it was to experience something truly transformational, irreversible, something that forces you to molt, to leave your empty shell behind like a cicada. I saw your face through the door when I was on my knees, carefully cleaning the glass as so not to leave streaks, and you materialized in front of me (I never saw you walk up, I assumed you just appeared like a vision). Your freckled nose familiar and yet not, your eyes familiar and yet not, everything about you familiar and yet not. A voice on the other end of the phone, a comfort in my darkest hour, now made into glorious, breathing life as if by magic. I can only imagine what the look on my face was. I imagine it was somewhere between elation and terror, suspended in a moment - a face etched with the knowledge that this was, at long last, the beginning.


Kari Bentley-Quinn is a playwright who lives in Astoria, Queens. She's happily married with two beautiful cats, and her hobbies include self-deprecation, YouTube, trying different flavors of gelato, and singing to said cats. She holds a BA in Starvation (aka Theater Arts) from Pace University. Her last play, The Permanent Night, debuted to sold out audiences at the 2008 New York International Fringe Festival.