Marty dashed through the dusty room, his machine jogging on his back. He had gotten in through a window. The space was quite cramped, even for a storage area, with paint cans and tools piled everywhere, but to get where he wanted without being accosted it had seemed the best way. Even actors, begrimed with sweat and half-way through a performance, would instantly recognize a man not of the troop. From directly overhead Marty could make out Old Marley’s chains dragging over the stage, bewailing his lot as he admonished his ex-partner, the cowering man presumably at stage right, to heed his ghostly admonition. Through the layers of wood, plaster and deadening bric-a-brac, Marty could catch the occasional line, not too surprising from people whose life's work it was to project, to emote , and the words, “Have sat beside you many and many a day,” Came clear to his ear. The intervening clutter robbed the line of its higher notes, delivering Marley’s eerie statement in a Jovian boom which caused Marty almost as much pause as it had been supposed to do the stricken Scrooge. Moving into the workroom proper he cleared his throat and whipped a hand over his hair. This room was deserted also, as he had known, or rather hoped, that it would be. Half of an oversized peach house lay propped behind raw pine boards. The balloon face of Monty Python's god, jaw akimbo, hung from the rafters and a strong smell of resin pervaded the air; glue and paint and something which might have been raw clay. Marty did not know if the Shakes possessed its own kiln for firing biscuit pottery or not. Through this room and across the hall, through another door and the sound of the performance overhead became a continuous, unearthly voiceover. He was beneath the thrust stage now and here... there were people. A slender man in striped pantaloons bounded in, the glow still on. He was snatching at his cravat as a girl, a drop dead gorgeous woman in flowing purple, twisted his collar. “Mark’s given’ ‘em the business tonight,” enthused the man, the low, directional lights shining on his black skin. “Shut the fuck up, John,” snapped the woman, her strong fingers running the lines of his costume like a plow correcting errant furrows. “Easy on, Val,” admonished the lift operator. “I’m about to bring it down.” He glanced automatically around, nudging an apple box further out of the taped zone, and spied Marty. “Oi, who the fuck are you?” he hissed, and the attention of all three was, for the moment, directed at him. “Press,” Marty whispered back, ratcheting the slide on his ancient camera. The two actors instantly averted their eyes, but there wasn’t time for anything else; the trap door had slid open and the lift was descending. A miniature bed sank into their midst. As rapidly as a pit crew, John and the man in black slid it to one side, into a space exactly the size. John flashed a silent eye at the other man as the trap slid closed over their heads and the operator stabbed his finger towards a Victorian style desk. Wordlessly, the two whisked it into the vacated place on the lift. “Val, did you hear?” hissed a girl, carefully swathed in beggar’s rags. She had whooshed in like a snow storm, the black makeup lines of her poverty ghoulishly terrifying in the intensely subdued light. “Come on Ava, you shouldn’t be down here now; yes, yes you were wonderful,” said Val, snatching up the wet eyed girl's gloved hand and propelling her from the room. “Break a leg,” hissed John, sotto voce. “You get the fuck outta’ here too,” the lift operator snarled at Marty. “Follow them if you wanna’, take yer pics, but stay the fuck outta their way! You shouldn’t be here at all, not now! God-damn ridiculous....” Maneuvering between the tightly placed set pieces, Marty ascended the narrow stairs and entered... into a madhouse. “Here, you; get out the way,” hissed a man in a black t-shirt and headset, grabbing Marty’s arm and literally throwing him across the back of the stage. Tripping over an outlandishly oversized white ghost he stumbled into a man swathed about in a maroon greatcoat, vents riffling the sides. “Gosh and begofrah mate,” chuckled the man, setting him upright then immediately pushing his head down as a, ‘Scrooge & Cratchit,’ sign whisked through the air. “Tim, leave that idiot alone,” breathed Val, rustling by, her sweaty body giving off a strong scent of soap and heavy fabric. “Scene change,” hissed a different t-shirted man, snapping his fingers. Tim pulled Marty out of the way as the man mashed a button and a massive lazy susan, fifteen feet across, twirled two walls of the set away from them. Around the black curtain at the side Marty glimpsed tiers of dimmed faces, stretching away into the dark. “Chorus; up! ” snapped a third t-shirted man, this one holding a clipboard. “Val, go ; Tim, left ; Lizzy, Jan, Lani, on the right , and-” Over Marty’s head a clear, beautiful voice began harking the herald angels. “And who the hell are you?” “Press,” said Marty, rather breathless, shrugging his camera back into view and ratcheting the slide one more time. “Press? Press! Get the fuck off my set m-” began the man, but he was interrupted as a tall, mustachioed fellow whisked past, rubbing grease paint from his face with one hand as he shifted aside the great chains and cashboxes with which he was begirt with the other. “Give us a hand,” he said quickly, turning inexplicably to Marty and bearing his encumbered chest. Marty, with no time to think- the chorus had swelled by an order of magnitude and the back of the stage was filled with sound- slung his mechanism around behind and began fumbling at the props. With a deft movement the man pulled a hidden pin and twirled away, leaving Marty holding not only the chains but the grave vestments as well. “Who the hell's this guy, Jacob?” the now unencumbered man demanded of a young fellow, struggling into knickerbockers. He kicked a box open and began rummaging through it. The child had no opinion and shrugged without turning up his head. “Who knows Mark; press?” spat the man with the clipboard. “Notoriety at last...” chortled a short black woman, sweeping in from the wings. She wore a dress so large that she had to hold it in on both sides to maneuver between the props and sets and rushing actors. “Roberta, my darling, you’ve always been notorious,” growled Mark, heaving free a pair of suspenders as Val charged down the stairs. Somehow she had switched outfits and now looked stunning in a pale yellow. “Out the way, out the way!” she hissed, and was gone below. The trap door slid open and a boy the size of a pepperoni stick, who could only be Tiny Tim, insinuated himself between Marty’s legs. “Hot crowd tonight,” whispered John, spinning into the space from some hidden alcove and now looking at least as beggarly as the little girl below stairs had done, fingerless gloves, holes in his sleeves and shoes from another age. A snap, a hiss and the man pressed the button again. The floor rotated and another scene spun away from Marty. He remembered to pick up his machine and push the shutter button two or three times, backing as far into a corner as he could. “Past coming up... now,” said t-shirt number two. “You; zip,” snapped Roberta, thrusting her muscular back into Marty’s corner. He zipped and she was gone. The light around the curtain changed to purple and Marty heard the elevator hum. “Your reclamation, then. Take heed!” an invisible voice declaimed, a moment later. Marty scuttled and scooched, he clicked his camera and shifted props, was kicked up and down and swore at as scene followed scene. Costumes were snatched off- new ones just as rapidly thrown back on- carol succeeded carol, ghost replaced ghost and the lazy susan spun and spun and spun; props being unearthed and moved into location from the most unlikely places. The great white ghost, over which Marty had stumbled, was tipped upright and strapped to the man who, a dozen personas ago, had been wearing the much vented great coat. “Got this, Tim?” said Val, holding an outlandishly long arm as a by now familiar stagehand ratcheted the frame to the man’s person. “Just a walk-on,” replied the now invisibly shrouded actor. “Keep an eye on that break,” panted a sweating young man, his long glistening hair restrained in a band, now that his character of young Scrooge had passed middle age. “No worries, Carlos,” chuckled the invisible Tim, trying out the controlling rods which actuated his ghostly arms. “Five seconds,” hissed a man in black, and all three hustled Tim backwards to the center of the lazy susan, holding him silently until the button was pushed and he rotated away from them, the head of his apparition rising well above the set walls. A great gasp rose from the audience and Marty shared a quick grin with John, once more in the striped pantaloons, before the man dashed away, skipping nimbly over Ebeneezer's headstone, lying now to hand, ducking beneath an oversized, crystal topped staff and weaving around a robust man in purple toga who was fixedly removing a grey beard. “Good on ya, E.” he hissed, and was gone. “John, John, John,” chuckled E. bemusedly, dropping the toga to the floor and skipping nimbly free as it was whisked away. Everyone ducked, including Marty, as the ‘Scrooge & Crachit sign’ came sailing back the other way. Val and Roberta popped up as if by magic and each grabbed a side. “Out the way, my darling,” sang Mark, as loud as he pleased- which was still not very- as the cello boomed over their heads and Scrooge, in a fine, ringing voice, carried on both sides of his final sepulchral conversation. Taking her end away from Roberta he hoisted it a clear foot over her upraised arms. “My hero,” she whispered, knocking him with a well padded, Victorian hip. “Fuck over here,” hissed Val, and Marty, perceiving that she meant him, wove his way to her side. Their hands touched as he took her end and, together, he and Mark held it for the first man in black to affix. Suddenly, it was a new scene, and, “We won’t go until we get some, we won’t go until we get some we won’t...” cried the cast, all on stage now, the house lights up, and Marty stood, shoulder to shoulder with the sweating hoard of black t-shirted men, his camera hanging forgotten at his back, eyes glistening. He had made it. He had done it. Then quickly down the stairs, past laughing actors rushing back left and right, through the room and into the other room and through the door and out and across and through the window and Marvin was free, in the night air, running across the parking lot to the cement sculptures before even the forerunners of the evenings crowd had left the Shakes by the front doors. And then they came. In a rush. Masks torn off, shrugging into rustling coats, digging from pants pockets a jingle jangle of shining keys, faces alive and voices high, an air of drunken hilarity spilling along with them, a rolling, cresting gush of life and excitement, of color and noise and the joy of redemption shared, a common wonder like electricity crackling from head to strangers head, with a turning and a nodding and eyes touching which would never meet again; blue, brown, green and indigo violet, a shared and an infectious wonder. “I loved the scene where-” “Did you get the-” “And the ghost yet to come, how-” “I didn’t remember any words except-” “I didn’t remember-” “How did-” “Can you imagine the sets-” “Forgot hasty pudding until-” “That dress, my god-” “I know, right-” “Want that coat so much-” “Amazing voice-” “Amazing show-” ‘Amazing time!” And Marty sat, the empty, antique camera useless at his side, as the crackle of magic fizzled slowly from his soul. Soon, the Shakes building was black and empty, the parking lot a deserted sea. The night stretched out, cold and beautiful. And. Overhead. Like tiny, miniature spotlights. The stars glistened.


We all died at the same time. It was a combination of two of our friends, Rhett and Sam, and a bit of unfortunate luck. I don't know what you would call it. Not murder, they only put things in motion. But they did mean to do it, so intended Manslaughter? Either way, it ended with the three of us with cracked skulls at the bottom of bleachers. That was my original guess as to why we were chosen for the roles we now play. We found out later that something we had each done changed the world through ripple effect, so the world isn't as random as you would think. They simultaneously cured cancer and started another war. Hannah became the World Angel. Quiet and soft, out of the three of us it was a nobrainer. My bet was she would have become the World Angel eventually even if we hadn't died when we did. She influences all the good I'm the world. The halo I joked about her having back when we were alive I now really there, as well as an extreme wardrobe change to a soft white dress. She wasn't a huge fan at first, being that she always wore a blue hoodie and jeans, but I think its grown on her. Will became the World Demon, which makes him sound a lot worse than he really is. It must have been a toss up between the two of us to be the World Demon at first, but he won out in the end because he has a certain way with words that makes it so you're going to listen to him. Naturally, he's in charge of negative actions. If you look around, our redhead is doing a good job right now. Said redhead was outfitted in a expensive look black suit and a red tie. Again, not particularly his style, but he stopped complaining after a decade or two. I think I've gotten the hardest job out of the three of us. After being done up in a beautiful gray silk dress, I was given the title World Truth, which wouldn't give away my spot without you knowing anything else. I'm in charge on assigning every important person in the world an alignment, so to speak. My predecessor assigned Hitler an evil alignment, for instance. I tell the two of my friends to keep am eye on people who I assign alignments. Which brings me to you. I've had a hard time with you. Watched through your childhood, and I know your future. Run for world leader, see how that goes. Since I know how that turns out, I'm supposed to give you an alignment. But I cant figure you out. You're a perfect neutral. Then it hit me. You'll end up be the next World Truth, a pure one. I'll be picking your World Angel and World Demon, I think I have them locked down. Hold him and her close to you, you might be spending a millenia or two with them.


I come from a town of 6 high towers which scour the skies and protect the honest to good people who live inside. They like to jump from the high rooms, near the tops, and soar down, down, down, like lovely butterflies dancing on a summer's breeze. Their wings are beautiful, clear and shimmering, but most importantly, light. The people that I come from, are born with wings like slivers of silk, but strong enough to carry a fae and her child. Then, there are the exceptions like me. We, too, have our own set, but they are not the same. These are the wings we call, Mirae, because, like the looking glass, they are only meant to be admired and shatter just the same if one does not care for them properly. I can’t fly like the others do, so I run. If I run with the speed of foxes on their hunts back home, I can feel the bending air I rush past. But to fly, they say, is like the weightlessness in a swimming pool, only the water isn’t there so you can feel the air in a plane which others couldn’t. I’d always wanted wings like that, so I finally got them the way I do everything: I stole them. Not that I could actually use them, but I’ve earned the bragging rights at the very least. Glasses doesn’t take from just anybody; we only take from the very best. So if we steal from you, take it as the compliment that it is. “Angel, open the bag,” I do so immediately, loosening the strings of the velvet bag that rests in my gloved hands. I smile at the faint light that glows within and pour the contents onto my palms. The collar may look plain but if you turned it over you would notice the strange incredibly thin needles which are shielded by a thin protective membrane. Once the membrane is removed and the harness is secured on the chest plate and shoulder blades of any human, the needles would pierce through the skin and insert enough structure to lighten the mass of the bones and create a protein film that would feed into the growth of wings like that of my people. “Preciosa,” Glasses is still the honest man who can’t cage a thought from leaving his lips, “They would make a whole world of fae,” he said softly; I smiled at that. “And break the vows of the vestal sisters who sought to protect the secrets of our sacred tower,” he finished slowly. I think I choked on my disbelief. My blood ran cold and my wings clinked together beneath my loose clothes. “What?!” A hysterical laugh began to climb its way up my throat, I flew into a flustered rage, “I did all this to-- to- to- what?! Destroy the only thing that could possibly lead to a cure for my wings? That could give me a chance to fly like I’ve always dreamed of?” Glasses reached for my hand. I snatched it away to run along the crisscross patterns of said wings. I could just barely feel the blood which ran through the veins set in crystal. He said soothingly, “Angel, angel please . It’s okay to feel so distraught about this change in events however, there is no other choice we have but to protect the legacy of our people at all costs. I can NOT-” he stifled a small cough, “ WILL not let the scientologists take what belongs to us alone!” his passionate outburst rang throughout the small empty room along with the great heaves of breath he struggled to inhale. An eerie silence descended on the room and I remembered exactly to whom I was talking to. He wasn’t a man to be trifled with and I wasn’t so keen on getting a few holes blasted into me. That’s the thing about Glasses, it’s too effortless to forget the real danger he poses when he’s always cracking jokes like a friend and taking care of us like a Pop. “It is not easy,” I sucked in another calming breath to steady my shaking voice, “Not always easy to do the right thing,” My fluttering wrath quieted to mimic the glassy surface of still waters. “That’s right, Angel. So while the right thing is the hard thing to do, you must endure for the good of our people and our gift,” Glasses tried to comfort me with his words of assurance, but I knew better than the old man did. His wings might’ve worn away with time, but he’s never had to live a flightless lifetime like mine. Virtue is sparse and rare in a world that rewards the greed that chews away at the good. People are not given the same chance at life despite what others may want to believe so one must make the most of what they are given. Even children are reduced to pawns in this game of life, up in the tops we keep the young exceptions trapped to the only floor where they may serve the higher ones. Or they are lost to the lower level streets and serve the lower lords like I do. In the towers, where fae are blinded by their desire to be perceived as perfect, that they desperately hide at the injustices which sneak through the cracks of order. Like me, and a little like Glasses, we can’t always keep our hands clean to get what we want. And what I want are those wings. “Gente, gente! We got a lot to do here today, prepare the incinerator, if fire does not manage to burn this devilish mechanism, then we try the crusher, the broiler, the casket, the slicer, and- well, you guys get the idea,” he smirked as Jet and Chal rushed to prepare the kindlings. I moved to check the gauges in the other room, and in one motion slipped the necklace into my pocket from within its pouch lying on the table. I quickly turned to exit the room and heard Glasses grunting at the boys to hurry them along while inspecting the incinerator. Adrenaline pulled me to leave quickly, I pulled a bar down over the door’s entrance for a headstart; the motions did not feel like they were coming from me but someone daring enough to shed Glass’s control. Here’s the thing about running away with precious cargo, it’s nothing like in the movies where the spy looks hecka hot while happening to find the perfect tools or hiding spot before delivering the goods. Escaping with stolen goods is like running with your hands tied, sure, it’s not like you can’t keep going, but then why do I feel like at any moment I might just trip up and get caught. I’m not going to lie, it stung when I saw myself listed under the Wanted, I didn’t think you’d turn to them for help, Glasses. But then, I’ve never been wanted so I’ll take what I can get. Today is the day I meet with Marciel about the collar, he wants it for 30 mil but I’m not going any lower than 1 billion and he knows it. I know the funds they have and I know what value I have. Maybe up til now you might’ve figured out the way I like to play the game, but when it comes to the money you better cash up or we got problems. The type of problems that get scumbags who waste my time kicked off a tower and ending with a nighttime nap with the fishies. I’m dressed in a casual gray, tight flexible pants to run if things go north, light formal blouse for business, and loafers that are really more for a fast escape but are cutting it as formalwear. For the scary look I’ve selected a thick ribbon of red tied around my throat, just enough to be menacing but easy to take off should I choose to become less noticeable. I wait in a tidy office space on ground floor, the entrance to the small facility. Marciel strides into the lobby with a steady pace and head held strong; he looks like he’s nearing his 40s, but I’d bet he's only in his late 20s. Guilt and harsh work can take off decades from a man’s life. “Senora Giselle?” he addresses me from his stand near the entrance and I can’t help but grin a happy little grin. Marciel’s got another thing coming for him if he thinks I’m that type of business woman. He’s scared; he stands too close to the door for easy access to me, and his steps were too light for a man prepared for a tousle. Of the two, he’s the kind to pick flight over fight. “Marciel, drop the formalities, I’m here for a quick ordeal so let’s make it quick,” the sooner I get my money, the less I have to worry about keeping the collar safe. He frowns a little before sitting down at the coffee table across from me. I doubt he will recognize me as a Wanted since the picture was simply much too long ago and dark enough to be almost any girl off the streets. I’ve taken care not to let people take advantage of my face with a camera that can spill too many secrets told in a photo of a thousand words. Neither of us move from the spot, I may have chosen the place, but I felt safest near the outdoors and I’m certain Marciel’s partners had not anticipated we would not continue farther into the building. He clears his throat, “Do you have the collar?” “I do.” Absolute silence and if I were not so stressed out a giggle might’ve ensued. He truly expects me to pull it out now when I have not even seen the payment? “Senora Giselle, I am not here for the collar,” he shifts and I quickly slip my knife in hand, “We have heard you are one of the... Exceptions ,” “In practically everything,” I grumbled and regretted putting myself at risk for this stumbling fool. I pull my knife and he stumbles over a syllable after a glance at my blade. “The wings, senora, your wings are...” he searches my body for a glimmer of my glass catastrophe, and I hold myself back from slicing his throat right that moment in order to teach him a hard learned lesson, “perfection,” His eyes alight and I fear the greed in them that runs its course in all men. But I am also frozen in wonder at what he has just said about my disablement, “Pardon?” I am going to do it; I am not afraid. Wings or no wings, I will make whichever choice or sacrifice to soar the skies. I feel my place there unlike any other. Marciel is unlike any streetrat I’ve ever encountered. He knows the dark and dirty corners hidden at the tops of the towers and he pulls the strings like Glasses does with his thugs. Even if I am one of those strings, it doesn’t matter if I can have what I’ve dreamed of. My back sores are still bleeding, even though the cuts are clean and bandages are holding my flesh together. Regrets are beyond my conviction to get the wings I’ve always wanted, be it the price to let them take my wings. Marciel plays nice when he is about to get what he wants; I got the ‘best’ care and by that I mean the rich lunatic put me in the hands of his skilled spare parts collector. “Why do you even want them? Any Exception in the towers would work,” I growled from under the straps that held my glass wings in place. It was getting a little difficult to talk, but I had made sure the anesthetic wasn’t enough to stop me from ripping the holdings. “They don’t grow as old as you,” he sighed, “the wings never reach the right maturity,” Anger and grief dripped into my puddle of desperation; I didn’t like to think of how ‘lucky’ I was compared to the youngers despite my harsh upbringing. When my glass came off, I sensed a deep loss within me. They had been a large part of my life and stuck with me through thick and thin. That sense of loss however did not fully register with my physicality, my burden was lighter, but I did not actually feel cutting pain since the nerves nearest to the glass were weakest. Marciel must’ve been paying the man very well since he did not eye anything else on me and finished every laceration with expert precision. I ran from the facility after a last glance at my past and before the parts collector changed his mind to take something else. I doubt that Marciel would’ve stopped his lackey if he tried, however, he feared my reputation in the criminal world. He may have been the leading crook at the top of the towers, but those almighty towers rested on the black market of lethal delinquents like me. I am not afraid. My mind is set on my sole purpose after sacrifice and running for years and years in ragtag hoards, I have finally found my way here. I close my fists around the collar and wrap it around my throat. As the needles set into place, I close my eyes and a strange feeling of clarity in shrouded hazes enters my system. I did not realize the collar had automatic painkillers installed in its injections however, it manages to calm my nerves. It’s in that clarity that I find memories I wanted to forget. Being an Exception is like accepting a death sentence. All my life, I’ve had to work 10x harder than any fae to keep on surviving. I am at the age where most Exceptions would have been worked to death already, whether it be serving the higher ones or homeless. I hate the fae who pretend their ignorance is any excuse to how we are treated. We are just as deserving of futures and lives, granted our wings don’t work but our minds do! And now that Marciel has his hands on my glass pair, they will be making a collar that actually works. Wings will be worthless when anyone can have them! “Are you certain you want it?” he eyed it nervously, “We tried it on others and it did not work the way we expected. If anything, they could come out worse than before... ” he shivered. I held in retches, testing on others would mean they had to have cut off other fae’s wings; the collar does not work on those with wings already. Only those from other realms would ever be able to use the next collar, but that will not be for a few decades. Marciel has assured me that though my wings will greatly speed up the creation of the new collar, there is much time before it will be safe to use. But I don’t care anymore for what’s safe. When I wake up from my induced sleep, I feel the weight on my back has returned but slightly heavier than before. I reach back and spread my hand over a leathery flap, I inhale sharply. I rise to look in the mirror, and am surprised to see batlike wings the span of my entire body on both sides of me. My muscles are well connected to the control over these new wings and for the first time, I feel soreness at my shoulder blades, it is the strain of keeping these wings straight. The blood flows strong within veins that are barely perceptible under my skin, it is the complete opposite of the glass there before, like a dam broken and rivers of life flowing. There is a new labor to breathing and I raise my gaze to the ceiling of my keeping to try to keep down the chaos of emotions. But the tears come anyway because I have real wings. They may not look like what one might expect but they are everything and more to me. I mourn my lost wings, I howl, but I cry out of exhaustion because I did it! But I am the only one. I remember the clarity I had in the induced state of the collar which still rests on my chest. I am the only one of many exceptions who will never be given this chance for a gift of flight. Far away from this place and these towers which loom over anything that threatens its delusionally fictional haven. I will persevere, I will not waste my dark blessing. I feel the need of those little ones which feel as delicate as the glass which is encased on their backs, and I refuse to ignore it. My wings are stronger than any faes’ and my will is stronger.


I woke up in a room, an ugly room. The walls were black , and there were no windows to allow light. Then it hit me, an iron grip. I looked down at myself and found that a strait jacket was restraining me, it was also restraining my thoughts. All at once it struck, fear, terror, shock . I quickly scanned the room, looking for features. Something to gaze at, something to leverage my escape, something to stop the tug of my heart from drowning in fear. Something to keep out the fear. I was unnerved, there was something wrong here, a deep primordial fear had been triggered inside me. As my eyes scanned the room, I found nothing remarkable. There was nothing mundane. There was nothing bad. There was nothing, at all. And that, that, threw me off balance. I tried to get up but found myself bound to the ground, I couldn't even shift my weight. I was scared, and uncomfortable on top of it. As my legs began to ache, as my mind turned to anarchy, I tried to calm myself down. A thousand thoughts at once in my mind. Running around like little kids *One second, I am in a land constructed with sugary candies. I behold a massive gingerbread man, massive swathes of white cream and red buttons the size of tanks are adorned by him.* *Next, I smell the salty sea as it wafts into my itchy nose. I am a pirate looking for booty on the seven seas. I keep my wits about me as I slice my foes into neat little meat steaks.* *The doooooodle man is big and hasd a big hanf to protect mnnnjbj hus all fren the malh evil penciiil man oh yeesssss,ossssssssssssssssssssssssdwcw* *wdcefvbefvnrhuvocmebhu,cthub,chubmhuicmgh4uiogmc4uig74mgui4thmgo4ihugf,4oxugm4rghxxomgrhxu4cgmh4ouigm4thuxciogmh4xcoiug74moiuhgmoxc4uitomg4icxgt4umhgoxc,rhxfu.zpfoefoeiry318yr8123u9pxfpeq,ipfh,x;i3rhgio3rmhulgu4tklguklcewgukbvgsueilf* ...................................................................................................................................................................................        ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; "Hello." I heard something. A single echo, a distant voice. I tried to think, my mind was blank. All I had learned was gone. I felt like nothing, an insignificant speck of dust in an endless sand pit. Nothing unique, nothing great, just another speck of dust. "Hello, can you hear me?' The same voice, it was nice and tender. It was like the first spring of life. A mother's milk, I went to it. I rose up and found that I was free to move. I was suddenly standing on a green meadow, the grass reached up to my hands. And then I saw another person standing in front of me. A beautiful man, wearing a simple white shirt and black pants. He spoke to me," Hello, we are in a place where time cannot affect us. We are in a place where we can be safe. We are in a land of infinite good, we are in paradise." Somehow, the words he spoke to me made sense. My blank mind was beginning to come alive. He came to my side and beckoned me to turn. He put his hands on my shoulder and I felt his warmth. In front of us was a beautiful village. Houses of mud, people of sweat and an air of good. This was beautiful! The happiness on people's faces, the warmth of their friendship, the simplicity of the life they led. Dark clouds began to gather in the distance, a creeping presence was felt. Soon The look of happiness and warmth faded away from the villagers faces, a horrible din was approaching. Soon the village was been mowed down by monstrous bulldozers made of heartless metal. Next came the concrete trucks who dumped cement on the ground and blemished it's beauty. Soon a heartless structure of iron and steel was created on top of the cement and it released a smell most foul into the air. People came only to fight with each other and good had gone away. The grass began to yellow, the air became dark and the happiness faded away. In one swift moment, paradise was replaced with a heartless world of dust and hate. I felt anger bubble up in myself. I clenched my fist. The kind man patted me on the back, he spoke with a voice saddened by the happenings, "I will show you the man responsible for this, just wait". The next moment we were in a bathroom, a man stood in front of us. "Behold my friend, the man who ruined paradise." The man turned around, he had a face scarred by acne. There was an untended beard as well, as if he had had no time to shave. He walked away and left the bathroom. I was only stopped from hitting him by the kind man. "First look at your face my friend, before you strike at the heart of evil." He handed me a mirror, which I stared at. The face I saw, my face was the face of the evil man. Then, it hit me. I was him all along. When I joined the company as a rookie, I was eager to prove my mettle. So, when I discovered a deposit of oil in a grassland I pounced at it. I had the villagers who were standing in the way of my promotion evicted and had a refinery built there. I soon fought my way to the top and became the CEO. The kind man stepped aside from me, he was suddenly bathed in fire. A flaming sword manifested in his hands," Every day, you end lives with a stroke of your pen. You shatter dreams and break wings. You commit sins by the millions. You had the chance to make the world better with your wealth and power. But instead you gathered material wealth and consumed it. You could have been good, but you weren't. I saw you everyday and hoped you would change. But your heart is too dark to see the light. I was your good conscience Paul, but now I shall be your evil conscience and destroy you. I shall.." *Shunk* A dagger slid through his heart, his fiery voice had been subdued. I was an evil person after all, he should never have given me the chance to recover and prepare an attack. I had enough time to take the ancient dagger hidden in my bathroom wall and stab my evil conscience. He staggered back, his grip on his sword weakened. As it fell down and broke, so did he. I saw his lifeless body, leaking blood on the bathroom floor. I shrugged, if a retarded robin hood comes to me and expects to kill me by first wasting time on a monologue then it was my evil conscience. The world went white I woke up and found my view blocked by my hands, I took them away to find himself sitting in an office desk. On my table was a photo of a gorgeous lady*. I will give everything I have to fuck her, oh wait she IS my wife! I don't need to give a penny to fuck her!* I felt the leather chair I was sitting on and the smooth orgasms it was giving to my back. I also saw the closed laptop I had on my table, I opened it to start work. Clearly in the stupid world of my evil conscience, the value of time is not understood. I would have lost many millions because of some stupid brain impulse. I opened the laptop and found a note inside. It had been scribbled on a post-it. Dear Paul You have won, for now.


I want to quit; I just want out; I want to quit! I whisper it softly to myself, over and over. I want out, I want out. It was just an hour into my shift. I was a fellow soldier behind the monitor, feeling the sting of the customers as they sent their bombs over into our narrow trench. Bags and prizes were everywhere, Winnie the Pooh dolls rolling around in the dust, candy being mixed into a grisly, sugary rendition of a rainbow. I made my way up to the counter, already feeling that subconsciousness knocking inside my brain, throwing up the warning signs that this would be no different from the other slogs. “Hey, hey, are you paying attention? We’re right here.” I hasten to reply, tripping over the plastic bags spread over the floor, “Right, sorry, what can I do for you?” He snaps, “I want a good deal, considering you were wasting our time.” I put my hands around the counter, flicking my eyes over the screen, “Look, I’m sorry, that isn’t how it works.” It doesn’t change his tune, in fact it makes it worse, “Okay, then how about you call your manager down? Surely, they’ve got to be more competent than you.” Is this how life always must go, where people like to make themselves more difficult? Isn’t there already enough trouble in the world without adding ice-cream and chocolate sprinkles to it? “I’ll be a moment,” holding up the radio to my lips, softly muttering. “Can I please have a manager at the Vault?” “What is it now?” “Look, I’ve got a gentleman here that has an issue of sorts that he wants to discuss with you.” “Great, alright, I’ll be right down.” A second later, the door to the staff room swings open, “Okay, sir, what’s the problem?” After a barrage of comments and razor-sharp criticism, there are tears staining her cheeks, “Listen, we’re packed to the rafters here, you do realize that there’s only five of us on sight. It’s hard enough as it is. Do you want free games on the arcade or a round of laser tag?’ He shakes his head stubbornly, “That doesn’t help me at all.” I could see it brewing, that anger, “Well, if that’s the case, why don’t you have some fun?” “I mean, if there’s nothing that we can do for you.” He cuts her off, flicking his hand into her face before walking off. Trying to say something, the words get caught in my throat. Within seconds, the moment passes, and she tries to gather her courage, “Okay, guys, keep going.” Another wave of customers hit the counter, kids in prams and students in trollies. I can see the subtleties of my fellow veterans, urging me onwards to take care of the unruly youth, to send their drawn trolly out of the warzone. They just laugh at me, “Come on, man, we’re just having fun.” “Isn’t that the point of this venue, that you make everyone happy?” “This is a space for everyone,” I respond drily, “, so please, could you kindly take the trolly outside?” “We don’t need to; this is our day out.” “I can see that it is, if you want to have fun driving, we’ve got a Sega Relay Racing game just around the corner, it’s only $2.00 a head. What could be more fun than that?” Ignoring my words, they take off in the trolly, knocking over bins along the way, causing candy and plastic bottles to sweep onto the floor. I try in vain to chase them, but the trolly rattles outside to crash into the bins outside. They’ve gotten rid of the evidence as soon trouble came knocking, I catch their eyes and they arrogantly walk past. The next few minutes involve mopping the floor, soaking in the soda and coda. That voice returns, I want to quit. The same group eventually makes a return, this time with a round of drinks in hand, ignoring all the signs on purpose that restrict their area of movement. Not that it matters, they want a go at laser tag and are jumping in despite my warnings. Even I, a very reluctant partygoer can tell that they’d had too many drinks at the bar, probably refilling their bottles and getting more buckets of ice to add to their earlier stash. They want the night to finish off with a bang, a fond memory for them and a nightmare for me. Not for the first time this shift, I wish I was them and I didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of their wild escapades. Their flights of fancy, their joyous moments of unrepentant immaturity. I want to join them, why do I have to be in the trenches, working from morning to night? I gave ground, promising left and right to the kids that I would keep an eye on events, to make sure they didn’t cheat. Believe me, they did. After getting the round going, I went inside, hearing the loud screams and cries of the blue and green team. The boys were gathering around the lowest sections of the obstacles, a thin wooden with a window that looks out into the nuclear plant set-up, with the flashing buttons and whirring gears. The kids were like lit up like lanterns, and they were pointing their guns up towards the ceiling. It took me a moment to locate what they were shooting at. One of the wild bunches, was jumping and swinging like a sugar-high monkey, crashing into the wall with a sudden bang! His friends hoot and laugh, trying to partake in this deadly game. “Get down from there, now!” “Or what?” This isn’t worth the money I’m getting paid, why am I even here, having to deal with this nonsense? “I can call down the manager if you like, she won’t be too happy if you keep this up and you cause damages.” Finally, the bell rings for the end of the game, the kids are busy, pointing their fingers at their competitors, “They were cheating, climbing and jumping.” “How about this, you guys, you get another round?” The birthday boy turns around to address his mum and dad, “It’s fine, mate, don’t worry. Those guys have been causing problems all day.” I anxiously return to the monitors, watching the final minutes tick by. As I head into the staff changing room, I can feel the uncertainty wash away, I’ve made my decision already, “Hey, Allison, I just want to have a chat with you.”


Fan Fiction “Can you believe this shit?!?”, Stan says to his friend Ryan who's standing awkwardly behind him, looking for any place to sit that isn't covered with dirty laundry, books or potato chip wrappers. “I mean, what idiot wrote this crap! Did they even read the books?” “Why are you bothering to read it, then, Stan? If it's so stupid, why are you even getting worked up over it?” Ryan taps on the glass of the terrarium, trying to no avail to get the corn snake to move. “Have you decided what you're going to do with Marceau?” The snake, originally named Fang, was purchased by Stan in the hope that he was a parseltongue. Much to his disappointment, though, the snake never said anything Stan could understand. Actually, as far as he could tell, he never really said anything at all - hence the name change. “I figure I'll give him to Johnny but I haven't told him yet. He's been such a dick lately.” Ryan cracks open a shade to let some light into the room, squinting from the flash of sunlight splashing across the room. “Hey, shut that. I can't read the screen.” Stan shifts his heavy torso around to position himself between the window and the computer. “Until Rowling gets off her ass, FF is all there is. Some of it isn't half bad, but then there's this butthead trying to make a 'ship out of Harry and Myrtle.” “Moaning Myrtle? The ghost?” Ryan edges past the foot of the bed to get a better view of the screen. “Exactly. I mean, a poltergeist could at least push a pillow against his junk or something, but ghosts can't interact with the physical world at all. Everyone knows that. Except obviously for this butthole.” 'Myrtle hovers over Harry's bed, slowly untying her bodice. Though there's not a breath of wind in the room, her shirt billows open as she loosens the laces...' “Give me a fucking break. THEY CAN'T TAKE OFF THE CLOTHES THEY DIED IN! ” Stan turns toward Ryan and waves his hands at the screen. “This is the shit I have to deal with.” “Do they actually have sex? Move over.” Ryan squeezes his lean frame onto the edge of the chair and reaches for the mouse, his hand brushing Stan's out of the way as he tries to find his place in the story. 'Her blouse slowly dissolves as it wafts to the floor, exposing her tight bosom. Harry's breath catches as the bed sheet he's clutching to his throat peels back against his will. His lean, alabaster frame is glistening in sweat as Myrtle starts to moan.' “I swear to God I'm going to flag this as a TOS violation” Stan's mumbles as he watches Ryan's eyes softly shifting back and forth across the text. He's holding still, lest he break the spell and Ryan realizes their legs are pressed against each other. “Oh shit. Is that clock right?” Ryan jumps out of the chair and rummages around the room looking for his jacket. “Amy's going to kill me.” “Dude, you are so whipped!” “At least I'm getting some. You should try it, nerd...with an actual muggle.” He pats Stan's shoulder once and checks his reflection in the computer screen, running his hand through his dark hair. “Gotta run. See you later.” Stan gets up and walks to the window, watching until he sees Ryan leaving the house and jogging down the street. He starts to pull the shade down but stops. The light has softened, bathing the room in a warm, shadowy glow. He and looks around, wondering how much of this he can take with him when he goes off to college next fall. He walks over and opens the small drawer of his bedside table. Inside is one of his most cherished possessions - an 'authentic' Harry Potter wand made of exotic hard wood and reputed to have an actual feather inside, though he'd never cut it open to check. He doesn't think he'll take that with him, though. He was so excited when he got it for his 15 th birthday, but then was instantly ashamed when he saw on the packaging that it said for ages 7 and up. He knows it's a child's toy, but he still takes it out when no one's around and points at things, willing them to move. Past the bed is his book case, the one tidy space in the whole room. On the top shelves are his well-worn paperbacks arranged by author with each series in chronological order - Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia. On the lower shelves are mostly hard-backed versions of the same books, with a few random titles thrown in. On the very bottom, pressed into the corner are four books wrapped in heavily doodled brown paper. He and Ryan were embarrassed at first to be reading the Twilight series so they papered over the covers and added drawings of robots and race cars and swords as they traded them back and forth. Stan's not so embarrassed about having read them anymore, especially after the movies came out, but he likes the covers too much to take off. He bends down and picks one up, turning it over. He's looking for the drawing Ryan made of a pick up truck, with eyeballs for headlights and fangs hanging from the bumper. MONSTER TRUCK is written underneath in Ryan's familiar block lettering. He runs his thumb over it gently, then puts it back on the shelf. He doesn't think he'll have room to take those either. He goes back to his computer, plops down and Alt Escs through his apps until he gets to Word. He starts to type: 'Crabbe is clearly nervous having Harry in his room. If any of the other Slytherin walked in he'd be dead meat but he can't back down now. Not after dreaming about this moment since their first year. The painting propped on Crabbe's desk is of two shirtless wizards grappling in a glade. Crabbe points his wand at the picture and the characters start to move, their laughter carrying dimly off the canvas. Harry says “Move over” as he squeezes into the chair next to him. He reaches for Crabbe's wand and their hands touch.'


Narrator: The world is a cruel place. Most people do not know how to survive, more people are just winging it, and some people can't handle it. There is not one person on earth, that understands life, as life. The world has a mild taste, bittersweet, is what you could say. Sep.23 (2023) Narrator: The story you are about to read is about just one life. See, most people think life in the future will be filled with daylight, perfection, and fantasy! But if we are talking about reality, I would say the world will be a disgusting place. Filled with blurry faces and closed eyes, and a young woman feels, in my opinion, the same way. The sun hit her cheek, as she stood in the window of her small cottage in midday. The world was peaceful and quiet. Usually, people would enjoy this time. It was one of the only times you had where there was nothing happening at the moment. But she did not stand there with a smile on her face. She stood there, thinking, ̈Where did it all go wrong? ̈ Everything became blurry as a tear ran down Lila’s cheek. As one tear came down, another followed, and another, and sooner than later, Lila stood there crying. She had so many thoughts, but could not speak, as loneliness took her away. Either way, she had no one to speak to. She was alone....... Lila ́s mother died in a car crash on her way to work, no one crashed into her though. Her father was a firefighter and died when trying to save a family from a random fire. Lila ́s brother, Jenny, was a professional swimmer, he drowned on his 24th birthday. No one knows how he drowned, but there are rumors. Lila ́s sister, Rebbeca, was seen before each death of the family members. After they all died, no one ever found her and assumed she had died too. Lila ́s cousin, and best friend, Keisha, ran away, never to be seen. For some reason, Lila stayed alive through all of the pain. She did not know why she was alive, but she never second guest it because she considered it as a second chance to live. On this particular Monday, there was something different. Lila could not fall asleep, it was as if something was telling her not to. Every time Lila tried to close her eyes, they opened. She couldn't think, hear, or see. Something told her, get up, and stay up, and it gave her the chills. After a while, she fell asleep. In the early morning, she awoke. When she had finally finished her breakfast, she decided to go for a morning run. She got some clothes on and started towards the door. It was early in the morning, so the sun was not all the way out yet. It was damp and dark outside. Then Lila got that chill, that she got when she was trying to go to sleep, only it was stronger. The feeling was like something was there. ̈Anyone there. ̈ Lila looked around curiously. ̈ ̈ ̈ ̈ ̈ ̈I know, that you know. ̈ A voice said aloud. ̈Who are you? ̈ Lila ran towards the voice, but tripped on a rock, and all she could see was a black shadow ran from behind a bush. The shadow gracefully ran next to a train track, near the edge of Lila ́s cottage. ̈This is illegal! ̈ Lila said, panting with fear of the black shadow. ̈ The shadow took one big step and was on the train tracks. To Lila, this shadow was so familiar. ̈I never got to you. ̈ Said the shadow. As Lila stood, watching and confused, the train horn roared. She knew that whoever this was, was a female. ̈Move, the train is coming! ̈ Lila tried to run and push the girl out of the way, but it was too late. The train lights were pointing at the familiar shadow, and the train passed. Instead of seeing a girl’s body, Lila saw nothing. It was like the shadow person vanished. Not a trace of her was leftover. Kinda like the shadow did not want anything to do with it? Lila stood there, wondering what just happened. ̈Am I going crazy? ̈ She walked up to the train tracks, to see if there were any trace of what happened. Then the train honked again, Lila jumped onto the grass next to her as the train came rushing over. Lila had felt that her life just flashed before her eyes. One of the fastest trains in the world almost killed her. She thought if that was what the shadow wanted to happen. Just then, her thoughts got blocked. ̈ That is not the last time! ̈ Lila heard someone’s voice in her head and whispered to herself. ̈That is not the last time for what. Me almost getting killed from a train going one hundred miles per hour? ̈ Then, Lila noticed her arm was bleeding. It looked broken, and it hurt really badly. She knew that the arm did not look like that a few seconds ago. She silently screamed, with pain, confusion, and worry. Lila went to the hospital and got a check up on her right arm. ̈This is like an unfixable fracture. How did this happen? ̈ Said the nurse, as Lila sat on the emergency bed. ̈Way to keep the positivity up, and I do not know how this happened. ̈ Lila told the nurse the whole story. About the shadow, and the train, and the blood. Even about the small voice in her head. ̈Maybe the side effects of the medicine I gave you are kicking in? ̈ The nurse looked at Lila worriedly. ̈I am fine. It is all true! All of it . ̈ Lila swore it was true, but the nurse ignored it and thought it was the laughing gas. A day later, Lila woke up, it was midnight. She went to the police station and stated what happened. No one believed her. Then, she came to her cottage and saw something. ̈What's this? ̈ Lila asked herself in worry. There was a piece of paper on her cottage door. The words on it were, ̈Evicted ̈ in big red letters across the paper. ̈No, no no no no no, not today. Please no! ̈ Lila started to cry, as she wondered what she was going to do with her life. ̈Hello again. ̈ Said a voice. ̈Hello, shadow girl? ̈ Lila got the chills, again. ̈I promised I would finish you. I plan on keeping that promise. ̈ There she stood, the shadow girl. This time she came with a clue. She grabbed scissors, and cut her hair. You could not see her do it though, because she had a black hood and a mask. Then, the shadow grabbed a piece of hair from under the hood. It was golden brown. ̈Can I ask a question? ̈ Lila said voice cracked. ̈Yes, but I do not know if I will answer! ̈ The girl replied. ̈Are you related to me. ̈ The shadow nodded, and if the girl was telling the truth, there were only two relatives to Lila that had that colored hair. Keisha, and Rebbecca. ̈How, could you be.... ̈ Then Lila remembered. Rebbeca was seen before each death of the family members Lila had. The police concluded Rebbeca was dead, but never found the body. Rebbeca was not the best person. She was ruthless and hated everyone and everything. Even still, it hurt Lila so badly when the police gave up while trying to find Rebbeca ́s body. Lila was still trying to take in her idea. If this shadow is Rebbeca, then she could be who killed all of Lila ́s family. If this was true, Rebbeca would be the reason for all of Lila ́s pain, hurt, and distress over life. And what is worst, is that it would be all because of Lila ́s sister. Then, the shadow girl came closer, there was something in her hand. It was sharp and clean. It looked like a knife. The girls was coming closer, knife in hand. Lila was scared, she ran the other way and when she did, the shadow was that way too. Anywhere she tried to run, the shadow was there. The shadow came closer. ̈Just let me put your misery to an end! ̈ Lila took this opportunity to take the hood off the girls head, but instead of seeing a girl, she saw nothing. She couldn't see what was there, because she did not want to believe that the person under that hood, was under that hood. Then before Lila could even think, everything around became hopeless. This might have been the end. Lila did not even care. Loneliness seemed to have taken her away again. Lila could not see, but she could hear. ̈Wanna see who I am. ̈ The voice shouted. Then, when Lila could see, she could not believe it. No, it was not Rebbeca, it was Lila ́s very own best friend. Keisha...... ̈What, why, why a......... ̈ Lila could not even finish her sentence. She was all of a sudden in a room, it was dark and dingy. ̈But why not, is the real question? ̈ Keisha shouted, in Lila ́s ear. ̈What do you mean, my family gave you everything? They bathed you, loved you, I loved you. ̈ Lila said, tears running down her face. Keisha had a knife in her hand and was now crying too. ̈My only goal is to kill you and your family. ̈ Said Keisha. ̈But you did not reach the goal of killing my family did y.... ̈ Lila realized, that all of those times the family members had died, it was random and unknown how each death happened. ̈YOU KILLED THEM! ̈ Said Lila, angry and confused. ̈And all I want is to finish the family off. ̈ Keisha grabbed the knife. ̈I have promised me that I will be the last person you see when you die. And that I would be the reason you die in the first place. ̈ Keisha could barely speak, but part of her did not care. ̈And I will not let you keep that promise. ̈ Lila grabbed the knife as fast as she could. ̈Noo! ̈ Keisha tried to reach for it, but it was to late. Lila had stabbed herself. Not because of her misery, but because God does not like ugly. Narrator: Now you see what I mean. In the end, there was no happy ending. Life is no fairy tale.


This is a story that I haven't told many people yet. In fact, I find as much mystery as I do solace in the story to this day. This is the story of Giselle. My aunt once told me a story about the boutique fashion store she worked at in the 70s. As a stylist, she frequently dressed the store mannequins for the window displays. On a cold summer afternoon, she recalled dressing up Giselle, a mannequin that many customers complemented. Giselle was not like other mannequins. She had a beautifully sculpted face with eyes that peered deep into your soul. Deep, deep into your soul like the vastness of the blue ocean. Apparently, Giselle was a relic of bygone days before the store changed ownership. No one knew of her origins. She had no tags or labels anywhere on her, but everyone who worked there agreed that she was too beautiful to give away and loved seeing her in the store window. Some nights when my aunt closes up the store, she could almost swear that Giselle was a real girl- watching and listening to her amidst the tranquility of the after hours. My aunt had told me more, a lot more. Oh yes. My aunt had told about a soft clicking noise behind the wig one time while cradling Giselle to another display window late in the evening. She said that you would not normally be able to hear this, but it was perfectly quiet with no one around. When she studied the wig further, she discovered a small glass window at the back of her head through which a beautiful mechanical watch movement was in perfect view, with the initials P.v.L. inscribed. Apparently, to her amazement, the watch was still ticking away. One customer was the wife of a passionate watch collector, who gladly asked his husband Vlad about the mechanical movement. The husband was in complete awe and explained that the person she wanted to talk to was James the watchmaker, the son of Pierre. Two weeks later, my aunt got hold of James the watchmaker (son of Pierre) and showed him the photos of the mechanical movement. “I have never known my father. In fact, everything I knew about him was from my older sister Stephanie, with whom he was around until she was 6 years old. My sister vanished one day 2 years ago, and I have never heard from her since.” “The only thing I can tell you is that the watch movement was made by my father. He was a talented watchmaker known within some niche circles of collectors during the 50s and those were his initials - P.v.L.” Legend has it that his watches kept precise time that was accurate to 30 seconds after 25 years. That was his ultimate achievement and there were photos of him with the prominent figures wearing his watches. It was the most accurate wrist-worn timepiece at that time, but many thought it was just a story designed to drive attention. One thing is for sure though -for whatever reason the timepiece was installed in Giselle, it had great significance. Much greater than a simple memento left by a passionate watchmaker. One day, my aunt invited James to the store to take a look at Giselle, and what they discovered changed her world. Nothing was the same after that. \[to be continued.\] Part 2 continues .


It was September 1989. I was drowning in my huge new school uniform. I know a lot of parents buy a few sizes up to save money but is a sack appropriate for a first day at school? I exaggerate slightly. I was wearing my XL Navy Blazer with the school crest ‘Veritas’ embroidered on top of my non-existent right breast. My Navy V-neck jumper hung past my waist and my ridiculously long navy skirt was a tripping hazard. I remember standing for assembly in the main hall next to a girl called Denise. She had latched on to me right away, but she seemed nice enough. We looked at each other as if to say, 'What were our parents thinking sending us here?' ‘Good morning, ladies’ began Mr. Murphy, the ruddy-faced headmaster. When I filed into the hall, I heard a brief snippet of conversation between two of the older girls. ‘Have you been in his study? There is a cabinet FULL of whiskey.’ ‘No, I haven’t been in his study Jemima. You have because you keep talking over the teacher in class.’ 'Bitch.' 'Cow.' Mr. Murphy continued. ‘I do hope everyone has had a good weekend. I’m going to start by telling you all a story about a fellow who finds himself in a desperate situation and in need of help. The story is called ‘The drowning man’. I think I heard the Jemima girl say ‘sounds like a laugh’ to which a few of her classmates giggled. A look from Mr. Murphy silenced the sniggering and he began. ‘A fellow was stuck on his rooftop in a flood. He was praying to God for help. Soon a man in a rowboat came by and the fellow shouted to the man on the roof, “Jump in, I can save you.” The stranded fellow shouted back, “No, it’s OK, I’m praying to God, and he is going to save me.” So, the rowboat went on. Then a motorboat came by. “The fellow in the motorboat shouted, “Jump in, I can save you.” To this the stranded man said, “No thanks, I’m praying to God, and he is going to save me. I have faith.” So, the motorboat went on. Then a helicopter came by, and the pilot shouted down, “Grab this rope and I will lift you to safety.” To this the stranded man again replied, “No thanks, I’m praying to God, and he is going to save me. I have faith.” So, the helicopter reluctantly flew away. Soon the water rose above the rooftop and the man drowned. He went to Heaven. He finally got his chance to discuss this whole situation with God, at which point he exclaimed, “I had faith in you, but you didn’t save me, you let me drown. I don’t understand why!” To this God replied, “I sent you a rowboat and a motorboat and a helicopter, what more did you expect?” A few of the teachers smiled and Mr. Murphy continued. ‘a truly valuable story girls about accepting help. I’m sure we can all learn to accept help from time to time. My wife, Mrs. Murphy is always telling me to let go and accept help. It’s sometimes the hardest thing to do. I would like to welcome everyone who has joined us this school year and please don’t be afraid to ask for help from your friends, fellow classmates, and teachers. We are all here to support one another.’ After assembly, we filed into our classroom and focused on our studies. But that was all I had to think about back then: Acing my exams and staying in the top five in my year in each subject so my parents could brag to their friends about it and feel that all the money they had spent on my private school education had been worth it. ****** Every day during our lunch break my husband John and I walk down the road to the beach that runs along the rugged North Cornish coast. How I love this stretch of coast. Full of wonderful memories of running up and down the beach with our young son, throwing or kicking a ball back and forth. A stretch of coast that has so much hope associated with it. ‘One day when we have a dog, we can run up and down with our doggy and train him/her to fetch the ball.’ or ‘ooh mummy can we come back in the summer months and swim in the rock pools.’ ‘Of course, darling, that sounds wonderful.’ But it is now winter and on exceptionally windy days, we feel the force of nature pushing us back, telling us ‘You don’t want to come too close today’ but we always push past it and find a sheltered cove to explore and enjoy being battered by the wind. However, in recent weeks, I haven’t felt so strong. What would happen if I just let go. Would I end up being blown about and spat back on to the beach like the bits of debris I find after a rough storm? Sunday night mood: Calm (rippled), Wind: Light air It is Sunday night and as I must get up early to travel the long journey from North Cornwall to London the next morning I say to my husband ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room, so I don’t disturb you my darling’. My alarm is due to go off at 5am. I have an engrained anxiety about Sunday nights which I know a lot of people have. I forever feel that ‘back to school’ ache where I feel overwhelmed at what the week has in store for me. What others have in store for me. I read my book, Joan Collins latest autobiography for a bit of humour and sensible reason but find myself unable to switch off. I turn off my bedside lamp and then think I can hear my son coughing. Oh no, I hope he’s not coming down with the latest bug from school. I then fall asleep but then roll over and check my phone and I’ve only been in bed for an hour. I go back to sleep and then what feels like only an hour later, I hear movement in Ben’s room. He runs into our room and when he doesn’t find me there, comes bolting into the spare room. ‘Are you ok Benji?’ ‘Yes, mummy but my throat hurts.’ ‘Ok you go back to bed. I’ll get you some milk, water and calpol’ and then I head downstairs, notice by the kitchen clock it’s 3am, look out at the garden thinking have I even slept? And then head up to Ben. ‘You go back to sleep now darling. Mummy needs to get up soon, so I need to sleep.’ ‘Ok mummy will you get me a toy in London?’ ‘Yes, darling I’ll get you anything if you go to sleep now.’ I then head back to the spare room and attempt to sleep, conscious that the remaining hours are passing at the speed of sound and my 5am alarm is about to go off any moment. ‘Brrrriiiinnnngggg’ Oh, there we go. I have this down to a fine art. I throw on my underwear, my navy jumpsuit and pashmina, check I’ve packed my toothbrush and have phone, debit card and train tickets. I make a quick cup of tea and grab a fruit scone and as quietly as I can lock up the house when I leave and walk the 10 minutes to the bus stop feeling slightly concerned that I didn’t call a cab or take that offer of a lift from my husband and dad when it’s pitch dark and I’m a woman on my own. I feel slight relief when I arrive at the bus stop and see several people waiting, mostly young people who look like students heading to college in the next town. Once the bus arrives, I get out my book and read a bit in between dozing. Once at the train station, I check there are no delays and then settle down for a Starbucks cappuccino and a bacon roll. Before I jump on the train to London, I grab another cappuccino as the coffee on the train in the trolley service is usually rank. Once on the train I can settle in and do a few things. Read/ write. It is my time but I do spend a lot of the time wishing I was at home so I could take Benj to school and I hope his cold is ok. I arrive at London Paddington station on time and have done this journey often enough that I know to get my head down, head to the Hammersmith and city line and jump on the tube for 20 minutes to King’s Cross. There is something exciting about being surrounded by so many people and I usually forget where I am and start chatting to total strangers on the tube. My husband who grew up in London always says, ‘don’t make eye contact with anyone on the tube and definitely don’t speak to anyone’. He worries. I guess that’s normal. He’s always telling me that ‘me and Benj are everything’. When I arrive at my premier inn hotel next to my office, I pay for an early check in. Once in my room, I ring John: ‘Hey darling how are you?’ ‘Hello. How was your journey?’ ‘It was fine. I’m going to have a quick shower and then head to the office. I’ll call later.’ ‘Ok speak later.’ I then have a quick wash, apply more foundation than I normally would, eye liner and a subtle lipstick, oh and brush my hair. There is something about heading into the office that makes me feel young and nice to have an occasion to look smart. At the same time, I feel as if I’m about to put on a show, so I practice my work voice as I walk up the three flights of stairs to my colleagues. ‘Helen, hey!’ ‘Hey there Richard, how are you?’ Best to start with the Head of the department. Richard is a lovely guy. He is Australian and looks like he’s enjoyed a fight in his rugby club many years ago. He has that slightly battered look but still has a twinkle in his eye. He enjoys telling me how his children are doing now they’ve flown the nest. ‘The thing is Helen I feel as if my wife and I are having a second life. Our kids have flown and we’re now able to go out for dinner and see plays. It’s great.’ ‘That’s wonderful’ ‘And how are you? How’s the family?’ ‘Oh yes you know all fine. Husband and son always have a breakdown when I’m not there but all fine.’ ‘Oh good. Now I was going to speak to you about work if ok?’ ‘Oh yes of course.’ ‘I’m conscious you do a lot.’ ‘Yes, it keeps me out of mischief.’ ‘Ha. Well, I wanted to say thank you so much for doing the department newsletter and helping with training sessions on top of your regular work. I would like to reorganize our intranet and I’m keen to bring everyone together. If I set up a chat with the other department heads, would you be keen to get involved with that?’ ‘Yes definitely’ ‘Great. Well, it’s great to see you. I’ll let you get on.’ As I returned to my desk, I could hear my husband’s voice ‘they do know you’re part- time don’t they? Just refuse to do all this extra stuff. They’re not compensating you for it and you want to do other things with your time like writing.’ I sat down at my desk trying not to feel disgruntled. I phoned my manager in New York who is an absolute peach and looks like she walked off the set of 90210. ‘We can tweak it Helen so you’re not doing more while Richard needs you. I don’t want you working more than your contractual hours.’ ‘Thanks Samantha.’ And with that I wade through the treacle-like pile on my to do list. Wednesday afternoon mood: Slight to moderate, Moderate breeze I’m back in the car driving the 18 miles to Ben’s school. When we moved over the borders from Devon to Cornwall a couple of years ago, he was so settled at school that we didn’t want to move him and as I am only ‘part- time’ I pick up most of the runs. I call my mum on the drive over. ‘Hello, its only me’ ‘Oh, hello darling. How are you?’ ‘Oh yes fine thanks’ trying to hide the creeping veil of tiredness that wants to take over. ‘How’s our gorgeous boy.’ ‘John’s fine thanks.’ ‘Ha, the other gorgeous boy.’ 'Oh, you mean Ben. Ha! He’s fine. I’m just driving over to watch him thrash Kingsley school. I wasn’t sure if I’d make it but decided to run away from work.’ ‘Is there anything we can do to help? Do you need to work? You know your sister would always help with the school runs.’ ‘No, I’m fine thanks. I don’t need to work but I enjoy it and yes, it’s a bit manic now, but I just need to pace myself.’ ‘Well, I won’t keep you. Hope hockey goes well and Benji bunny enjoys.’ ‘Thanks, I’m sure he will. He loves anything with a ball.’ I was so pleased to have escaped from work and watching Ben do well on the sidelines was so invigorating. This is the stuff he’ll remember. ‘I didn’t think you’d make it’ said one of the mums. You know, Rob said to me the other day, we’ll happily take Ben to school. He gets on so well with our Ella and he’s such a poppet.’ ‘Oh, that’s so kind thank you. I don’t mind. Gets me out of the house.’ Although Helen thought to herself that a lie in occasionally would be amazing or a bit more time back. Wednesday night mood: Violent Storm/Hurricane After putting Benj to bed, I thought I better log on to my emails to check nothing had come up. Big mistake. Meeting requests to discuss new project. Check in on where current department newsletter was. Clients applying red exclamations left/right and centre to emails. The word 'disappointing' in a couple of emails. Urgh. So, I text my friend Zoe. I had met Zoe at prenatal classes when I had Benj and we had formed a strong bond. She saw a bullshitter a mile off. She had also had every single job under the sun which fascinated me: make-up artist/candle maker/ singer/PA/ marketing professional and despite running her entire household/managing her husband's tailoring business, she had also secured herself a book deal for a Children’s Picture book. I sent her a WhatsApp: ‘Hey gorgeous, how are you?’ ‘Hey lovely, how are you? All fine here, just trying to shirk my day job so I can write my next book.’ ‘Amazing, you are an inspiration.’ ‘Aww thanks, you are too. What's up?’ ‘I feel completely snowed under.’ ‘oh, I’m sorry. Do you know what though?’ ‘What?’ ‘Now is the time. Carpe diem.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You and I have been talking about this for yonks. Carve out more YOU TIME. Prioritise YOU. Start tapping again.’ ‘you’re right. I feel completely lost as to where to start.’ ‘a friend of mine recommended said she started using daily writing prompts to get her in the mood for her poems. She sets her alarm 15 mins early to have a go. Do it!’ ‘Ok I will. Speak soon. Thank you, lots of love.’ ‘Lots of love. Just remember the laundry will always be there but it doesn’t have to be your soul purpose.’ ‘you’re so right. Thanks again.’ With that I typed in writing prompts...what is this? Reedsy writing prompts...


This is a real story. The community doorbell rang, I beeped her through the automatic gates and went to the mirror. Sprinkled a little bit of cologne. The hair was in order. The computer was shut down. I didn’t queue to play that next game. I knew she was close and I wanted to be ready. I didn’t want to look like a nerd. It was close to 8 am. I could hear my heartbeat pounding. There was a knock at my apartment door. I placed my hand on the knob, and I turned it. \ She had been one of my first crushes from when I was a kid, she had grown to be a beautiful woman 8 years after I first fell in love with that long black hair of hers. All the way back to elementary I was already a loser for brunettes, raven hair and petites. She happened to fall under all of those categories. I don’t think I’ve ever been that unconditionally in love. She and I have a complicated story. She was cruel. She still is, for all that I know. I only see that after all the mess, before, I thought all girls were like that. She pulled off some pretty shady stuff when we were in the first year of high school. The best example of this: She asked my best friend out. She knew how I felt about her, I hardly ever try to hide my feelings about women. When he said no, she immediately afterwards asked me. I didn’t find out until I told him the good news. I was 11 and I remember how much it hurt. I remember how angry and confused I was. It seems so silly because now, in my mid-twenties, it’s easier for me to rationalise things. Back then it felt like someone was ripping my guts from the inside, pulling them out. She apologised later. I quickly tried to look past that experience. I wanted to forget about that afternoon, and how much I cried. As I said, I thought it was a normal thing. “Teenagers”, both boys and girls can come up with some silly shite. I left the country in the second year of high school, few months after that incident. Nothing ever happened between us two. We left it off as friends. We kept in touch, and we kept our friendship, up until the point that I came back to study my university degree. But more on that later. In the summers between my 13th and 17th birthdays, I would come back home, to see family and friends. We would hang out. It was a joy to see my friends. People that spoke my language and understood my culture. Sometimes, she and I met alone. One of the times we met kind of set the mood for our entire relationship. I had a Jacuzzi at home. People in my school thought that was funny and posh. I grew up in that apartment, for 13 years I saw nothing else, so I thought it was normal. She liked that Jacuzzi. She said it a few times over the two decades that we’ve known each other for. When I was 16, she asked me if she could take a bath there. I was a flirt and I told her that she could, of course, but that I would find it a great privilege if I could join her. It wasn’t a very big Jacuzzi. We both could barely fit it at the same time. She was fully aware of that. She looked at me with those huge dark eyes of her, framed by that pale skin... She laughed and said that she wouldn’t have it any other way. We set a date. I was hosting more people at my place then, I wasn’t just going to say. “Well chaps, we’re off to the Jacuzzi, don’t make too much noise! Would ya?” \ My heavy door swung open, she was there, on her own, gorgeous as ever. It was summer and she was light in clothing. We said hi, hugged, and I invited her in. She liked my perfume. We changed into our swimming suits. I got in the Jacuzzi first, made sure that the water wasn’t too hot. I gave her some space so that she could lay back on the other side of the Jacuzzi. She didn’t. She sat right between my legs. At this point, you might think that I was in some sort of personal heaven. That wasn’t quite the case, believe me. I have a sharp tongue and I make witty, dangerously funny comments. I take pride in starting interesting conversations. I can now confidently say, that part of me evaporates as soon as there is a woman I care about, light in clothing, sitting in between my legs. So... it ended up being rather awkward. We played with the bubbles and talked a bit. There were some uncomfortable silences. I hate those. I decided that I would take a chance. I was going to try to kiss her. I made a move, pretending that I was going for the tap: “Let me try to get some cold water into the tub. It’s getting quite hot in here.” “Yea, it is, and you better keep you cool, Loud.” Ouch. If there’s something my mother and father have taught me well, is to respect women. I would be horribly ashamed to do something to a girl that she wouldn’t want me to do to her. I took this as a clear sign to back off. I didn’t want to risk it at all. Better be boring than pushy. I did pour some cold water into that bath, and I did cool down. Nothing happened, and in all honesty, it puzzled me, but it didn’t bother me. I’ve only wanted as much from a woman as she was willing to give me. Not one caress more. We dressed, hugged goodbye and agreed to do this more often. Funny that. Later, when I was alone in that house. What bothered me was the question. The question that you might be having right now. Why would she join me in a Jacuzzi, with very little clothing if she wasn’t remotely interested in anything else? Maybe she was, and when she got in the Jacuzzi with me she changed her mind. She had her right to. The fact that she got into that Jacuzzi with me didn’t mean that I suddenly had rights to do whatever I wanted. I know that. I just wouldn’t get into a compromised position like that with another woman if I don’t have clear intentions. The question ate at me. It wasn’t like the hand gripping at my guts. It was worse because I didn’t know what to make of it. Did she like me? Did she not? Was she just playing me? That ate at me for a few more years. In the meantime, nothing happened between us. At 18, I moved back home. Started my IT degree. Made more friends. Organised more parties while my parents were out. Had some decent fun. Met more women. Some were good to me, some weren’t. She would come to some of these parties. At one point, she stopped broke up with the bloke she was dating, and we started flirting again. Bad idea Loud. At my 19th summer, she wanted to come over again. She was going to go to this big party and didn’t want to sleep home because her parents would freak out. She said we could meet up and have some fun. It had been too long, she said. It shames me to say that I invited her over again. To me, it made sense, as I was hosting a LAN party that very night. Some of my best friends would be playing all night, having pizza and not sleeping at all. I organised everything so that they would be out before she was there. We would grab breakfast, maybe watch some stand-up comedy and then sleep a bit. That was the plan. \ My heavy door opened, my heart was still pounding. I could still hear it in my ears. The door swung open. There she was. Gorgeous as ever. Accompanied by a dude. She hugged me. Didn’t mention my perfume this time. She said his name. I tried not to look as confused as I was. I was a good host. I let them both in. Told them I was only expecting her. She said that he went with her to the party. He also needed a place to sleep. So, my house was some sort of hotel for her, it seemed. I told the guy he could sleep in my sister’s room, and that she could take the large bedroom in mine. “It’s okay Loud. We’ll share the room.” They went into my room. They closed the door behind. I must have stared at that door, the door to my room, for something like 10 minutes. It was the hand in the guts and the question all over again. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to play some video games to take my mind off the surge of thoughts that it was currently undergoing. I felt alone. Hunter was one of my close friends. He had been at the LAN party that night. He was probably home, trying to get some sleep. He is one loyal man. He and I have gotten into arguments before, and I don’t agree with some of his life choices, but he is one loyal lad and a good friend. I called him. He picked up the phone immediately, even though we both hadn’t slept at all because of all the games we had played. He asked me what I was doing on the phone, I should be with her. I explained to him what happened. He was freaking out. I told him that I didn’t want to be alone. He was at my place 10 minutes later. We gamed until 11 am, which was when my bedroom door opened. They both came out looking okay. Dressed. My room didn’t smell like sex. At least I didn’t think it did. They drank my coffee, they ate my bread. He was interested in the game Hunter and I were playing. I didn’t even bother looking at them. They thanked me and left. Hunter and I kept playing until lunch. I thanked Hunter for coming. Gave him a hug. He left. I immediately went to my room, picked my sheets off the bed, placed them in a bag. A few moments later, I was placing that bag in the donation box. \ She tried to meet up after that. We even had a conversation about that night. Not worth including here I’m afraid. I never hung out with her after that, on a friendly context or otherwise. We ran into each other from time to time, said hi, and then said bye. I will never forget that moment. Not how she played me for the last time, nor how a brother came to me in one of the worst times I’ve ever had. \ If you've reached this far, thank you for taking the time to have a read. I really appreciate any feedback. English isn't my first language, so if I've gotten anything wrong. Do let me know. Once again, thanks.


It was about last May when I first suspected my mother was pregnant. I had just woken up, listening to a coughing sound I had barely heard before. It was a few moments later when I realized that it wasn't coughing, it was the sound of someone throwing up. The sound of sickness. I got up out of bed and cautiously peeked into my parents' bathroom, and there my mother was, kneeling over the toilet. My dad was also there, holding my mom's hair back. I left the room before either of them saw me, heading to the kitchen with a sinking feeling in my stomach, knowing my life would never be the same. A couple of weeks later, Mom announced that she was going to have a baby. I tried to act all excited and happy, but I really just wanted to curl up into a little ball and cry. I was an only child. And I liked it- my parents were always there for me, and had plenty of time to spend with me. Birthdays were great- and don't even get me started about Christmas! Occasionally, I did feel lonely. I wanted to hang out with someone other than my parents. The thought of having a sister or brother never occurred to me, because I could simply ask my parents if I could hang out with a friend. But now everything was baby, baby, baby, and no one ever gave me a second glance. When my mom got her gender reveal, I found out that I was getting a baby sister. _Great. Pink._ The one color I hated more than any other. One night, my mother's water broke. We were at the dinner table, struggling to pick up our California sushi rolls up with our chopsticks, when she lurched out of her chair, holding her large stomach, her legs dripping wet. I thought she had peed when I realized: _Oh no. Her water broke._ We rushed her to the hospital. I almost cried, thinking about losing everything I had. You see, this wasn't all about my parents. I was a teenager. At one point in their lives, everyone feels... lost. Alone. Scared. That was how I felt. I needed my parents now more than ever, but now that they were busy with the baby, I felt more lost than ever. And, there was one more reason why I didn't want to get attached to the baby. A few years ago, my mom was pregnant with her second child. She was going to have a baby girl, and name her Lisa. I was so excited, so happy, I couldn't wait for a cute little baby who I could hold and feed and play with. In the hospital, my mother delivered baby Lisa, almost 5 months early. The worst thing imaginable happened to her, and to us. We lost baby Lisa. We lost her. She was... _gone._ My heart broke into a million pieces in that moment. It broke even further after the funeral service, where we let hundreds of pink balloons go in her honor, for the life Lisa never got to live. My parents let go of their strings reluctantly, slow, soft tears streaming down their faces. But I? I wouldn't let go. I _couldn't._ No one could wrench the string out of my stubby fingers. I screamed and cried and threw a fit, until finally my fingers loosened their grip on the life I had to let go, and the balloon flew up into the air, traveling farther and farther, faster and faster, until it was a tiny pink speck, then disappeared. The one life that should have been lived. The one life that should have lived, but didn't get to. I didn't want to get close to the new baby, because, well, I was _afraid._ Afraid to lose her, too. After 8 hours of labor, a new baby was born. This one was... _here._ Happy. Healthy. My mom named her Elizabeth Jade, almost like the Lisa we lost. Almost, but not quite. Because a part of us inside still didn't want to let go of that pink balloon; to watch it disappear into the sky where the stars chose our fate, where the path to love was not easily taken. Not without pain or hard trials or days where we lost the things closest to our hearts. To the long moments of peaceful hurt and the even longer years trailing back into forever. My mother asked me if I wanted to hold her. I nodded and gingerly picked her up. I smiled at her tentatively... and she laughed. _She laughed._ I gave her one of my fingers. Her tiny hands closed over it, and I suddenly felt the warmth of a new life. The miracle of a newborn child who had been through everything to get to me. My heart, heavily guarded, like a fortress of ice and despair, melted. I began to cry, holding my baby sister, real and alive, and I knew I was found. I wasn't lost anymore. I was going to hold onto baby Elizabeth Jade tightly. Never let her go. I would never lose her. I knew we were going to fight eventually, like all sisters do. But I didn't care, because the gift of a new life was worth more than any amount of hurt or hate chained to my chest. I loved baby Elizabeth Jade, the one who gave me hope when all hope was lost. My light. My joy. My heart. My sister. _Forever.


I see you. I see how you stare at me in awe. You all have the same porcelain face, plastered onto your heads, as your mouth is left to hang open like you are all trout, swimming in an ocean of air. Why do you look at me like this? There is an obvious difference in our physical composition, but from what I’ve seen, you all have far more problems out there, than I do in here. I live for survival, and reproduction. Those things are still provided for me here. You bring me everything I could ever imagine. Yet still, you all just sit here gazing into the abyss that is my confinement. If I could leave this place, to come out there and shoo you all away, I would. Go home. Go solve your problems. Your world is exploding. It is obvious that we do not belong to the same species, yet I have food when many of you do not. I have shelter when many of you do not. It is obvious that you have compassion, otherwise I would be the thing being fed to your hungry masses. So again I ask you, why look to me? Do you believe I have some beauty not found otherwise in your world? Do I make you feel content? I derive my contentment from survival. Is survival too little for you? Maybe it’s the same pulse that forces you to provide for me before your own kind. I believe that you feel there is something beyond reality. You are bored with what is real, and so you have created rules. I was not always in this cage you know? I once was free to claim the night sky as my own. I grasped much more than you could ever imagine. I saw your colossal towers that rise up throughout the stratosphere, the bustling tires that caress the roads, the dazzling lights on each and every corner. It truly is impressive how much land you have claimed, and the innovation you have displayed. There were beings before you, and there will be beings after you, but your race will not go unnoticed. You have changed the path of this planet. Most of your kind search for an answer. Well truthfully, you search for many answers. You ask “Are we good or evil?”. Let me answer your question with a different question; what temperature is ‘warm’? This may be hard for you to believe, but all of life is one big grey area. There is no answer to a question such as that. Why is it acceptable for my kind to spend our entire lives killing anything we can get our talons on, and yet you all have determined that not even your own kind can kill another being? You have created weapons of destruction, and yet you tell yourselves they cannot be used. Do you not see that every ‘rule’ you live by, was created by man himself? You have far more empathy than any other being in this galaxy or the next. If I had the ability to wipe the world clean of everything non-essential to my survival, I am informing you that I would. So I sit here, perched on my ledge, and I continue to ruminate over why you look at me. You’re seeking answers I tell myself. I can’t help you. We don’t speak in the same form, and even if we did, I know that you wouldn’t listen. I go back. You’re yearning for a sense of beauty and majesty in your life, I tell myself. This can’t be. Just beyond these walls are miles and miles of forest. The same forest I used to roam. If you had left me there, you could have appreciated me as well as my surroundings. Now you stare at me through slats. I don’t mind it here as I stated before, it makes everything easier for me. Food, water, shelter, all within my reach. I have decided that I am tired of your company. I spread my vast, ghostly white pinions, and they beat through a gust of wind that approaches from the South. I let out an eldritch hoot. Stop gawking at me you fools. You wait a breathless second in reverence, and then you simply begin to clap. You seek my approval? Or worse yet, you assume that I desire your approval? The answer is no. Save your applause for when you discover how to sustain yourselves. At this rate, my kind will live on for billions of years beyond your time, and we cannot even hold a weapon. You have been so sympathetic to our kind, allowing us to live, providing for us; but you had better pray that we never develop hands. You had better kneel down and worship every God you know the name of, and beg of them, “Oh dear God. Please let us remain as the only being with weapons”. Otherwise, we will seek destruction. Do you believe in some self-righteous way, that your good-nature allows your society to exist? Do you believe that my utopia could never exist because it is one based on survival? These are all myths that you tell yourself in order to keep good faith in your misshapen ideals. My Shangri-La functions off of the idea that a cage such as the one I’m in, is pointless. There are two options of existence in my world; survival and death. If you’re not worth being kept alive, you’re not going to be. You all cry for more life. You all plead to your Gods, “Please, just a few more years. I’ve been such a good boy.”, and then you spend half of your lives staring at me. This has not been an attack on your way of life, this has been a call to action. Stop looking at me, and start looking at yourselves. The only reason that you are still alive is because you beat the rest of us into submission. If you go any further down your current path however, you’ll have beaten yourselves into submission. Before you know it, we’ll be back at the top of the food chain, and you’ll only have yourselves to blame. When you look at your reflection, what do you see? I see you all as snivelling shells of the animals you used to be, ready to be ground up into the sidewalk. When you look at your shelter, what do you say? I say, this place is death. You own the entire world, and yet you all force yourselves to squeeze into tiny boxes so that, “the cute little animals can have some room too”. Is this morally abhorrent? No. These are the rules of survival. Your so-called morals are the reason you won’t survive another thousand years. You have entire institutions whose sole purpose is to free me from this cage, but as far as I see it, you are the ones who are trapped. You see me. That’s all you do. I am ‘just an animal’, and yet I comprehend an infinity compared to you. If you stopped looking at me, and turned around once in a while, maybe you would see the storm heading your way. Believe what you will, but as you drown in your own nuclear waste, just know that all of us will look on in laughter.