(The following is a prose piece)
By Allie Marie
The portal is made of glass. Its twisted entrance glares at me disassembling my appearance. My image portrays myself backwards and takes pictures of my every move. I can’t pass through the portal; it keeps me frozen in time. There is only one way to pass through the portal or so they say. If you assemble the perfect image, the portal will let you pass. But, can you break through the portal? Shatter it into shards of glass and let them further distort your image into mere fragments. You, however, walk on through. You become the reflection, but you are still the catalyst. Is it possible? Or, maybe, there is no portal. I made it all up.