TW: >! Allusion to suicidal thoughts, on-screen character death, psychological torture!< "*A scout was told by enemy soldiers that they’d shoot him as soon as he stopped playing the piano ..."* He wasn’t paying attention to anything else; he was too busy trying to figure out just how out of tune the piano was and how much he would have to tighten every loose string to correct the pitch. Which didn’t spoil his enjoyment in the least. It was unfortunate that the first piano he’d seen since the war began was this shabby, but it was a real piano, and all the notes played sharp and clear like tiny daggers in the frosty air, and that was all that mattered. The first indication he had of their presence was a sharp jab in the back. It drew blood, which became a wet trickle that streamed down his shoulders and pooled at the base of his spine. He instantly forgot his place in the song and the music stopped. “Don’t turn around,” said a harshly accented voice. Something cold brushed against his shoulders, and he stiffened. “Keep playing,” the voice continued. “If you stop again, we’ll kill you.” Laughter, innocent and amused, like children at a playground, echoed around the room. *That accent.* He’d heard it once before, but only from prisoners of war - never from anyone he'd known personally. His friends were supposed to be guarding his back, but these voices weren’t theirs - where had they gone? His hands shook as he reached for the pale white keys. Warm orange light, perhaps from a lantern, reflected off the piano in his face and threw sharp shadows over his fingers. His vision blurred. His hands were cold, and he couldn’t reach his coat. These soldiers wouldn’t listen to any pleading. He wouldn't either, if he had been in their shoes. If he wanted to live, he had to impress them, which meant he had to play. On and on, forever. His life would only end with his music. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata came to mind first. The tension in the room dissipated as the first notes rang out, clear and strong and confident. He’d been playing this song since he was a boy, and his mother had played it before him. Just as it had lulled him to sleep in the evenings, he prayed it would lull these soldiers, whoever they were, to let him live. “What’s your name?” a voice asked. He paused and started to turn around. “It’s -“ “Don’t stop!” they warned in unison, jabbing him again with their bayonets. He slammed the next chord a split second off the beat, terrified of dying before he’d even started, and kept right on going as if he hadn’t stopped. The laughter behind him increased - this time, with a touch of malice. “Are you going to tell us your name?” they asked, and the shadows from the lantern light jumped up and down. They were trying to confuse him, or maybe they were simply laughing too hard to hold it still. He kept his mouth pinched firmly shut and shook his head. He didn’t dare get distracted. A wrong note jumped out with glaring dissonance and earned him another sharp jab. “Stop,” he mumbled, without breaking rhythm. “I can’t play if you keep doing that.” But did they really care about his music? A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. They were just teasing him - teasing him to death. Why should it matter if the sound wasn’t perfect? Perhaps all they wanted was an excuse to torment him. There was some mumbled agreement, and the lantern finally stopped moving - hung, he supposed, on a hook he’d noticed near the door when he came inside. His own shadow made it hard for him to see the keys directly in front of him, so he shifted to reach a lower pitch. The soldiers behind him suddenly silenced, probably expecting him to make a run for it, but he still didn’t look their way. His heart was racing so fast that he could feel it in his fingers, burning against the icy keys. But if he lost himself in the music, he could keep going forever. Nearly forever, anyway. *His* forever. “It’s warm in here,” one of the soldiers said. The pianist's touch on the keys grew light as he listened attentively, trying to see if he could understand anything else. But the voice died away in a mumble of gibberish, a language the pianist didn't understand. The soldiers seemed to be getting comfortable. Though he couldn't see them, except in the form of vague shadows reflected on the moldy, once-upon-a-time veneer piano, he could guess what they were doing from the noise they made. They stomped on the wood floor to melt the snow on their boots, exchanged what sounded like jokes in their incomprehensible native language, and laughed like they hadn’t a care in the world. He could tell they were laughing at him from the shiver that crept up his spine. They never took their eyes off him. They wanted to see if he could last as long as they had. Maybe, he thought with a thrill of horror, they considered this payback. Would they have acted any differently if he told them he was drafted, and not a soldier by trade? That he knew nothing about their country, except that it was cold and wet and miserable, and that the dirt was too frozen to dig trenches? That he didn't even know what he was fighting for? His mind wandered. He felt as if he’d trained all his life for this very moment. He could almost hear his piano teacher’s nasally voice: “You never knew just how useful piano would be, did you?” That was what he used to say, when his young student broke down in tears with chilly hands and bleeding fingers. "It makes you stronger," the teacher would say, his voice reeking with smug satisfaction. If he had known how much depended on his music, he would’ve picked a warm concert hall in the middle of a polished, empty stage with an audience cheering for their musical gladiator. Not this lonely, abandoned house in the middle of a minefield. If the soldiers didn’t kill him, something else would. This piano was only buying him time either way. His hands shook, and he missed a note. But, he reminded himself, no one who hadn't heard the song before would know. He waited resignedly for the retaliatory bayonet jab, but it never came. “Want some food?” one of the soldiers asked him, shoving a rough loaf of bread under his nose. It smelled sweet and doughy, and its warmth caressed his face like a blanket, and he could feel his mouth watering. But he couldn’t take it without lifting his fingers from the keys. He pinched his lips shut and shook his head. The final chord of the sonata rang out true and pure and clear. He already knew what was next: *Pathetique.* Appropriate, all things considered. When that was over, he started again. And again. And soon he realized with a slow desperation that he was running out of music. Soon he’d be improvising, and it was hard to think of notes that sounded musical. Could the soldiers tell the difference? He wanted a chance to pray while playing something mindless, something he could rely on his fingers to perform without his conscious assistance. He started to repeat the first sonata, but the soldier on watch duty behind him shouted it down. “No repeats!” *That’s not fair.* But none of this was fair. Neither the game, nor the prize. And he was only buying time, after all. He grasped at the last thing he could remember; a Tchaikovsky piece without a title, written on a few wrinkled sheets of paper before the composer committed suicide. He’d learned it years ago as punishment for not practicing. Some of the chords were too big for his frozen fingers to reach, and the song sounded like a different composition without them. But at least it was music. He could pray for strength now that he didn’t have to think about what he was doing. From here on out, if repeats weren’t allowed, the great musicians couldn’t help him anymore. He was on his own. He wished them goodbye, and his fingers hit a G sharp instead of an F. The soldiers behind him stirred, but didn’t say a word. And once the piece was finished, he kept going. The first tune that came to his mind, oddly enough, was frantically happy. It forced his hands to move so fast that they finally started to warm up. The soldiers behind him grumbled restlessly, seemingly irritated that the music had changed. But still, nobody spoke. He was succeeding at keeping up the illusion that he knew what he was doing. *Must* be succeeding. He couldn’t fail. He’d put in so much effort that if they killed him now - Unconsciously, his rhythm slowed, and he transitioned into a different theme entirely. He stopped thinking for a split second and hit a horribly wrong note. The soldier on guard smacked his shoulders right where he’d been stabbed, and he jolted with the pain that shot through his arms all the way to his fingers. He slowed down even more to give himself more time to think. His music teacher would laugh if he was watching. “Performing poorly under pressure,” he’d cackle. “I always told you to rehearse more, but you wouldn’t. You said you were too busy. Well, look where it got you!" “I’ve been fighting a war,” he muttered desperately, his voice drowned by the piano. And besides, he was practicing now, making up for all the time he'd procrastinated when he was young. How many hours had he been playing already? Three? Six? Twelve? His teacher’s face never lost its mockery. He was standing next to the piano now, his elbow resting on top - something his students would’ve been slapped to high heaven for doing, but as he always said, rules don't apply to masters. He jammed his hand against the upper notes, ruining the melody, and the pianist winced as though his ears had been stabbed. “Try harder!” he screeched. “You’re not giving it your best effort.” “I’m trying!” he cried, just like he’d done a hundred times before when he was a boy. A single drop trickled down his left cheek. It wouldn’t be enough no matter how hard he tried. It never had been. “Trying what?” someone behind him said. “You’re slowing down. Keep up if you want to live!” More wild laughter from all corners of the room. The teacher shot him a smug look of I-told-you-so and disappeared. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but there was nobody at the piano. All he could see were the drearily monotonous keys and his own shadow that seemed to drill a hole in the keyboard. He could hear a distinct rustling behind him. The soldiers were getting up. It was morning. He’d been playing all night. The orange light coming from behind him was the sun, not the lantern. It was about to be over. He’d impressed them enough. They’d leave and let him live. They had to. “Longest two hours of my life,” said a hot voice right into his ear. It was the soldier who had been on watch duty. “Thank God I can sleep through the rest.” He gulped and hit a shaky C major chord. Never had it sounded so hideous. The movement was replaced by silence as a new guard took over the watch. The orange light never changed; if it was the sun, it must have been blocked behind a cloud. He wondered what the world beyond the piano looked like. From his hazy memory the outside was a field and there wasn't even a tree in sight. Not a hill, nowhere he could hide if he suddenly made a bolt for it. Was there really no other option? What if he just gave up? How much more time did he need to commend his soul to the divine, and hope that at least God would have mercy on him? He closed his eyes, resigning himself to a few wrong notes, and tried to imagine what was about to happen. A shot to the head would be quick. He thought of how his body would be frozen here until the end of winter, or until someone from either side came along and found him. They’d say “poor bastard” in their language of choice, wrap him in a blanket, and dump him somewhere outside. And they wouldn’t use the piano because they’d say he was haunting it. But he wouldn’t know about any of that, because he'd be dead. It was getting harder to breathe. The wounds on his back begged for him to lie down, bathe them with warm water, anything to take away the stinging pain of congealed blood, cold air, and open flesh. He wondered if he could take one hand off the piano and reach around to touch them and let heat from his sweaty hands ease the soreness. No, he couldn’t. “Please let me stop,” he sobbed, still playing, resting his exhausted head against his chest. “I’m begging you. Please let me go.” “You can stop whenever you want,” someone said. The whole room exploded in titters, and he heard the familiar click of a bolt-action rifle. Even the littlest sound of the barrel brushing against someone’s canvas jacket sounded louder to him than the piano, which he could barely hear anymore. Something cold touched his ear, and he kept playing, doggedly closing his eyes. So what if the notes he hit were wrong? The worst they could do was kill him. Now, he could swear, the orange light had gotten a little paler. It *was* sunlight, soft and warm on his tender shoulders. The soldiers were starting to move around, yawning audibly and stretching, their joints cracking in the cold. They started a fire, which popped thinly and produced waves of smoke that made his eyes water. He wanted to rub them. He couldn’t take his hands off the piano. He was starving and thirsty. The smoke dried out his mouth, and his lips were stuck together. He couldn’t open them to get a drink, even if there had been anything to drink. Flakes of dry skin were peeling off his knuckles and floating gently down to the keys below, hard to see against the white but glaring and annoying against the black. They broke the pattern he was now so used to. He made a game of trying to brush them off with his fingers while he was playing. Then he smelled it: *food.* Cooking meat in some sort of savory herb he couldn’t quite identify. A soup, probably. *Steam.* It wafted around his nose and made his eyes water more, this time mixed with tears. And for that matter, what was stopping him from giving up, scarfing a last desperate mouthful of soup before the soldiers could kill him? He licked his own tears, but the salt only made his mouth drier. Since he’d become a soldier, he’d been constantly imagining his own death so vividly and so often that he almost felt he couldn’t survive without thinking about it. Whenever he found himself remotely in danger - near an edge, looking down the barrel of an enemy gun, barely missed by a shell - his mind flipped to the worst outcome. He fell, the bullet struck him, the shell landed nearby. In any case, he died. And he made peace with that possibility. The calmer he felt about his own demise, the guiltier he was for not minding death when he had something to live for. He had a family that would welcome him home, which was more than most could say. He had a house and a farm and a cat and a dog and a warm bed with wool coverlets. They’d scratch his hands when he crawled under them, but in a comforting, caressing way, like an old woman’s hand covered in calluses. In the morning, when he woke up, they'd be on the floor, because someone would have started a fire and his room would be swelteringly warm. He'd get up, wrapped in a cozy sense of homeliness, and go downstairs to find a bowl of hot broth waiting for him. He'd cup his hands around the mug and take a deep drink, and thank his mother for making it. She, in turn, would thank his father for building the fire. They'd all smile and laugh, and go about their days as though they hadn't a care in the world. Playing until he couldn't strike another note was his way of proving he’d fought. He had to keep playing until he was so afraid of dying that he couldn’t make peace with it anymore. And then, only then, when he had finally discovered the true value of what he was losing, would he deserve to be released. He played until his hands were raw and bleeding. He played until he couldn’t feel three of his fingers, frostbitten from the cold ivory keys. He played until he couldn’t hear his own music anymore, only the vague sounds of the soldiers behind him. He played until the knowledge of what he would be leaving behind was driven like a nail into his brain. He played until death was the last thing he could imagine, and his thoughts were filled with his home. And then, by accident, he stopped. His hands dropped to his knees, and when he tried to lift them again, they simply wouldn’t move. “Damn!” cried someone from behind him. “Longest concert of my life.” A deep choking misery crept up his throat, and he felt a tear run down his cheek. Another, and another. He smiled because, at last, he was afraid of dying, and still had hope that he wouldn’t. And he cried, burying his face in his hands and sobbing like a child, because his hope was founded on nothing but the mercy of his persecutors, who hadn’t yet shown any remorse. And he cried because his arms were so stiff that his shoulders felt wrenched out of joint, just from the tiny movement he'd made to drop his hands to his lap. No matter what happened, at least he knew he had fought all the way to the elusive end. A hand on his shoulder forced him to turn around and look straight up into a pair of warm brown eyes. The man was grinning on one side, and his grip radiated cheerfulness. “I’m impressed,” he said. The pianist smiled wider through his tears. “Thank you. I’ve been playing since I was a child, but this is the first time I’ve played for anyone else.” “You’re a pianist fit for nobility. If only we didn’t have to kill you,” said the soldier. He really did seem a little regretful, but his hands showed no hesitation as they unbuckled his holster and pulled out his revolver. He loaded it with painstaking slowness. The pianist watched, occasionally lifting his hands to his eyes to wipe away the tears so they didn’t freeze on his cheeks. He felt as if he’d earned a badge of honor. He was terrified, and pure fear had never felt so sweet. For, driven into a corner, he finally realized the magnitude of what he was giving up, and he was proud of himself for the first time since he could remember. He had finally earned the life he'd lived by fighting so bitterly to keep it. Were these soldiers really angels in disguise, sent to drag his downcast mind back into happiness? The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes, letting the moisture pool behind his eyelids, was the soldier's friendly smile, and somebody behind him giving him a thumbs up. He heard their laughter right up to the last minute, and he smiled in response. They weren't mocking him; they were encouraging him. *“... He played for more than twenty-four straight hours before collapsing in tears, at which point the soldiers, somewhat impressed, laughed and promptly shot him point blank.


Little intro: I saw a post with a screenshot of a tweet saying something along the lines of, "the scariest alien invasion scenario would be if they just showed up, talked to something in the ocean for a few days and then left," and Idk, I felt the need to write something using that as my prompt. Here it is. Give feedback please. =) When the Others came to Earth we were unprepared. There were no procedures for first contact, no contingencies in place, no plans whatsoever. They came, and we were simply not ready. The militaries of all the world's major powers scrambled to form some sort of defense, provide some semblance of security to the panicking masses that took to the streets to see the object commonly called the 'mothership'. In truth, the object, whose length was estimated at the time to be roughly fifty miles, or, more exactly, eighty-two thousand meters, was little more than a landing shuttle. The Others' real mothership, a vessel larger than the Earth's moon, remained safely hidden in the darkness of space. Out of sight, out of mind, for most anyway. The Others made no attempt to contact humanity. No little green men demanded to be taken to our leaders. No invaders threatened our cities. No one was abducted, or killed, or experimented on. That was the most frightening part of the experience. The mothership entered our atmosphere silently and settled into perfect stillness over the Atlantic. Then... then it just floated there. People panicked. There was rioting, looting. Many people tried to flee the cities and hide out in the countryside. Others just sat in their homes, their eyes glued to the news, watching as the Others seemed to do nothing at all, day after day. The first communication attempt was made by a joint mission by the United Nations, headed by a science and linguistics staff assembled from the world's best and brightest minds. A ship was launched from New York city and set sail toward the mothership's location. It did not make it. It simply disappeared without any trace a short while after its last transmission, which stated that the Others seemed to be trying to communicate with something below the ocean's surface. The next mission was led by the Americans. A group of helicopters was meant to attempt a landing aboard the Others' vessel and establish contact. This mission too, simply vanished from radar after reporting strange radio signals. There was nothing else that could be done. A military assault seemed futile at best, and self-destructive at worst. The Others were making no threats, no demands, and, from a distance at least, seemed to be doing nothing at all. After three weeks, the mothership moved. A deep rumble emanated from it, or as some speculate, from below it. The sound was so powerful that it was heard around the world and generated tsunami sized waves that traveled to all coasts around the Atlantic. Then, the vessel floated up and out of the Earth's atmosphere as silently as it had come. The true mothership remained in orbit for a few days, but it too vanished shortly after these events. The lost teams were found, some time later, back aboard the ship that had sailed from New York with no memory of ever having left their homes. No recordings or data seem to have ever been collected. To this day, the xeno-scientific community is unsure of what the purpose of the Others' visit was. Some say that they were here to determine whether earth was viable for colonization. Others think that they were simply prospecting for valuable resources. Still others believe that they had taken the vanished mission teams as test subjects for some sick experiments before wiping their minds and returning them. There are a few that have another theory, though. They think that the Others were here to wake something... something that had been lying dormant beneath the sea. The area where the mothership had parked itself has been searched time, and time again, but some are not convinced. Some believe that something is down there. Something big. Watching.


Ted zipped his red suit up and looked in the mirror. If only the guys from high-school could see him now. Thankfully, though, the only people seeing him wouldn't even recognize him like this... not even Diane, who had no idea Ted was dressing as Santa for her holiday work party. He had just gotten the text the night before from his buddy at the company asking if he'd be willing to volunteer and of course he agreed. Almost immediately he'd made up his mind to keep the secret and surprise Diane with a reveal later on in the night. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he'd pull down his beard mid-photo to reveal he'd come to celebrate all of her year's hard work with her. She'd already left an hour and a half prior, so the party was wrapping up and it was almost time for Ted's cue. He took one last look at the final product and laughed to himself lightly. 'Well, I guess you either die believing in Santa Claus, or live long enough to see yourself become him.' And with that, he was out the door and making his way down the limestone driveway out front. His Dodge Ram would have to be a sufficient sleigh tonight. All down the highway the radio blared festive tunes and Ted whistled and hummed along, bringing himself into the holiday spirit any good Santa Claus should have. The drive to Diane's firm seemed like mere minutes but as soon as Ted stepped through the foyer and saw Diane, time slowed to a stop. Not just because he had seen her, but because of how he had seen her. Cuddled up under the arm of Drew Sphinx. Her boss. Ted's heart couldn't help but drop to his stomach. Every ounce of excitement to surprise his wife was instantly replaced with so many feelings he couldn't quite place which was strongest. Rage... confusion... maybe even jealousy? But Ted was able to definitively identify one of his emotions: embarrassment. There he was, dressed as St. Nick in the presence of his wife's evident affair; there he'd been, actually, just standing in a shocked stare for about four minutes trying to gather any kind of composure to continue into the main event. Luckily for him, after those four agonizing minutes the buddy who'd invited him here in the first place tapped his shoulder from behind, startling him and breaking him out of his miserable trance. "Justin.", was all he said but it's all he needed to say. "Yeah, bud. Why do you think I asked you of all people to volunteer tonight? Di's been getting real cozy with him lately, and I couldn't let it go on behind your back any longer." Ted nodded, "Yeah, well, I think I kind of preferred it behind my back. Right in front of my face is too painful." Justin shrugged lightly and then attempted at cracking a joke. "I mean, technically, it's in front of Santa's face... not yours." Unfortunately, Ted's face spoke the words 'not now' for him, but Justin understood. Ted really didn't understand, though. He didn't understand why or how Diane could do this to him. Had he not given her enough? Had he not made her happy? Did she actually want the head of her law-firm instead of him? Was she even telling the truth all those times she told him his career in extermination was more than good enough to provide for them? He didn't have much time to go over all of the questions swirling about his mind because as soon as the others had noticed Justin wasn't back from the bathroom yet their eyes all turned to the room's entryway, gazing straight upon the two of them still standing in the foyer. A moment of awkward silence attempted to break out, but Justin swiftly saved it with a quick "Look who I found!" and pat on the back to Ted, prompting the most forced "Ho, ho, ho' the room had ever heard. Diane shrilled with joy as she faced Drew and exclaimed, "Oh, I love Santa!" How ironic. "Well, why don't you go ask him what he's bringing you this year, baby?", Drew flirted back. Baby? Ted's stomach twisted into a tight knot and he grew nauseous. The room was spinning and he just couldn't believe what was happening. The woman he loved had been leading him on in a life full of lies. The woman he laid in bed with every night, was somehow finding the time and indecency to also lay in bed with another man. The betrayal stung deep and the disgust ran rampant within him. How many times had he touched a body that had already been serviced behind his back? How many days did she spend under Drew's arm while also keeping Ted under her thumb? How many cakes had she had and eaten too? There were so many questions, but this was also not an appropriate place for those questions to be asked. The next fifty-three minutes of conversation with random members of the firm were a blurry haze, but one thing that Ted could diagnose as happening was the growth of his rage by the second. Every glimpse of his wife and her boss that he caught destroyed him, and he knew he wouldn't be taking her back after tonight no matter what she had to say. He didn't want to hear it. It was 10:00 pm and he'd come here to surprise her, yet instead he'd gotten the biggest and worst surprise he could have upon walking through that breezeway. And now, Diane was the one doing the walking. Walking up to him, that is, still completely unaware that he was indeed her heartbroken husband. It was her turn for the $3 photo-op with Santa and he grew more and more nauseous the closer to him she got. Her energy didn't feel like anything familiar anymore. Ted had to accept that he didn't know her how he'd thought he did and that things would never be the same, though now he was questioning everything they'd ever been through together anyway. Suddenly nothing about Diane felt genuine and it crushed Ted to feel himself dread her nearing him. They'd slept together just last night, and now they'd never be going to the same home together again. Diane was now standing with only a few inches between them, and she closed the gap further by pulling his red velvet suit into a hug. "Hi, Santa!", she smiled a toothy grin and though an hour ago he'd loved to see her smile he now couldn't help but think there was something grimy about it. Ted didn't even recognize the woman she was presenting herself as in front of him and immediately felt anxiety about how she'd always presumably acted when he wasn't around. He just tried to smile back. "Sooooo...", she trailed off to turn around and look at Drew, who was still sat across the room at the table they'd chosen to enjoy their appetizers, "what are you bringing me this year?" There was a slight smirk on her face, like she halfway expected this Santa to retort back with a naughty answer. Instead, Ted completely stepped out of his comfort zone and shocked himself, as well as the rest of the room, Drew, and most certainly Diane. Ted gathered every ounce of confidence still left inside him, pulled down the itchy white beard, removed his Santa hat, then announced in a boisterous and jolly voice: "Divorce papers."


This is from a WP that got removed by the mods. Any and all feedback/criticism welcomed: “My, my. Now this piece, this is exquisite,” said Nalgoth the Destroyer. His eyes lit up with a disturbing joy. They were literally on fire. Had it not been for the demonic face which held those eyes, an onlooker might have been concerned. “Lord Nalgoth, you are fond of this?” I was unsure what to say. When I had created this painting, its purpose was to embarrass an emperor. The painting exaggerated Nalgoth’s features in the extreme. It was a twisted thing that did not remotely resemble the pseudo-deity before me. I had taken exceptional care when crafting this piece. Each stroke had required my utmost concentration. The fumes from carefully selected artificer shades still burned my nostrils. Life had burdened me with a painter’s purpose. Art was my vitality. Today, my art would mean the difference between living and dying. With my paintbrush, I had intended to choose death. But sometimes art speaks different words than its creator. “This depiction is precise and reflects a part of me that I had long forgotten, but desire to remember. Do mortals feel this sense of nostalgia when they peer into a mirror?” Nalgoth spoke with an unnatural weight. Each word hammered into the ears of the listener with an oppressive malaise. One of the other patrons visibly shuddered, but quickly tried to hide it. Nalgoth’s words baffled me. I had chosen to paint his portrait as an act of defiance. The painting was farce, not facsimile. Its forced perspective and unfinished tones were meant as a crude but effective insult. Instead, the being before me acted as if I had fashioned his likeness with magnificence in mind. “Did you know that every death weighs on me? I remember the faces of every life that I have taken. Even those that were not at my own hand. But I know what the alternative would have been. You do not. Yet, in this depiction, you have not shown me as monstrosity. There is humor here. And I am not deceived. I know of your intent. Think you, that I could not feel your animosity?” Nalgoth smiled. I paled. He had seen through me. To him--to it--I was transparent. I could feel those burning eyes upon my face. I could only look at one eye at a given moment. Yet each time I gazed into one of those eyes, my thoughts began to turn to dark places. Blood. Blood. Blood. Everywhere. There were droplets on my hands. A smell of iron in the air. When I licked my lips to parch their dryness, it tasted coppery. I forced my attention back to the moment. My eyes fell on the painting. It depicted something that I could only describe as a creature. It was parody. The creature in the painting had eyes that burned, like the thing that stood before me. Twisted horns emerged from various parts of its face. Nalgoth had no horns. My depiction was of a devil. The person before me, if he could be called a person, was more of a devil than even that which I had managed to put to canvas. I realized my mistake too late. What I saw as parody, Nalgoth’s twisted mind turned to truth. To him, the horns were a symbol of something that I did not comprehend. He was beyond my understanding. “Power is a curse. My power, especially. I love each of you as though you were my own children. I see the mistakes that you make, and I want to guide you. I cannot. You cannot be guided. Children is the perfect word for you.” As he said the world children, he made something like a finger quote gestures. “In my life’s terms, you are mere babes. I hate myself. For the things that I had to do. You needed guidance. You needed a father. I am the only one who could be the parental figure that you needed.” Nalgoth looked past me. He was looking somewhere that I could not see. Again, he defied my comprehension. I decided that I had to speak. I would either live in misery, or die trying to convince a monster that he was a monster. “You are nothing but a tyrant. Everything that you have touched has turned to ash.” I quivered as I spoke. Each word would likely take years from my life. That was fine. There was no one left to live for. For the second time today, I was shocked by Nalgoth’s response “Yes. You are right.” He said the words with certainty. Again, the dreadful weight in his voice threatened to take me under. And again, I was unsure of what to say, what to do, or how to feel. “You say that you love us, but you also admit that everything you have done has caused nothing but misery. Why do you continue?” If I was going to die, I might as well get answers. “Ah, but I merely admitted that I am, in fact, a tyrant. And, that you are correct. Everything that I have touched has turned to ash. Do you know what ash is good for? It contains potassium, phosphorus, magnesium. Ash is a fertilizer. The forest must be burned to make room for saplings. I have split the tall oaks so that homes may be built in the future. Where the forest is burnt, new trees shall grow. Do not mistake my words, child. I need not convince you of my sincerity or the fervor of my belief. You too, have value to me. Your painting shows everything that I have loved about your people,” said Nalgoth. A part of me was sickened by his words. For a third time, I found myself unable to respond adequately. Nalgoth straightened, his head brushing against the ceiling. He somehow felt larger than the room. “We will speak again someday, child. I know that you wish to end your life but stay steadfast. I am sorry for the pain that I have brought you. One day, this will all be worth it. One day, we will live in harmony.” The fire in his eyes seemed to die down a little. He smiled, but it was not threatening. He seemed almost fatherly as he walked out the door.


There is a little island by the train tracks that Foster and Elgton find themselves on course to. At night time you can see the lights of eleven bridges, each seemingly having their own preferred pattern of colored lights hung where the girders met. In the minds of Foster and Elgton, an acquaintance was synonymous with an unpaid employee. Now, friends, they would both tell you, work for each other, an outlet to trust in a little what goes around comes around. Foster and Elgton were friends. They were going to meet an acquaintance. Magnus. Their mission objective this bridge-lit evening was to suck on cigarettes like Tyler Durden or how they do in the Billy Wilder movies. They caught Magnus smoking cigarettes behind the dumpsters between the third and fourth period and they made as they cared about the kid for long enough to matter. Magnus said he could get the two smokes, when Foster had asked he used the term “Bogies” and said there was a cool little spot down by the train station where you can see the lights of all the bridges at night. Now in years end New York a stone's throw from Christ’s “birthday” it can go from diurnal to dystopian dark during the time it takes the private-school seasoned boys to catch their end of the day relief. Foster and Elgton’s patience department was scant and threatened the restless ticks of foot-bobbing and arm movements performed above the waistline. Today they wanted the cigarettes and Magnus had them. Magnus wanted friends and Foster and Elgton had them. The destination approaches, marked by an abandoned magazine publisher’s office that for some reason, most likely due to the resemblance of spirit-tortured psychiatric hospital clad with the usual moss and mold. Rumors had circulated around the school that the thing was now infested with rats and homeless crack-heads, a paradise for cops meeting quota. There was a reason such an obvious spot was never utilized as a weed smokers Valhalla. The pot-addled mind isn’t *that* stupid. Tonight isn’t about pot. The train station demarcates a sort of spiritual end of this trip. The boys know that just over the crest of the hilled parking lot is a little patch of white sand and a couple of benches, known as the island, though in no way having the geological qualifiers for being an actual island. For some reason, every stage for illicit activity is termed after some natural formation. The one about a half-mile up the road from the school, and a short hike through the woods is the River. There is no river at the River. There are the plains at the town's other train station, hidden behind overgrowth and an “electric” fence. Along with a couple esoterically known destinations like the Canyon, the Wall and the Pillars were mythically heard in passing. To get across the train tracks you can go via tunnel or bridge, and the entrances to both are paradoxically located right next to each other. They split up, Elgton taking the overpass, Foster opting to go subterranean. The brief ablation is suggested jocularly by Foster teasing the absurdity of the structure's design. It seemed like a lot of unnecessary work for an inconsequential preference. They emerge on the other side greeted with an extra coronad figure next to the meaty, precociously mustached, scoliosically slouched, garbed in a wool trench coat which obscured his pants. He wore camel-colored Timberlands with a black leather half-crescent on the back. In fact, they all were, causing the convocation to occur two inches above their genetically disposed heights. The figure next to him is wearing only a t-shirt, plain-white but speckled with artifacts of former excursions with greasy food. Included in the outfit are mesh basketball shorts, and of course, Timberlands. The cold wind seems to disagree with Magnus’s large ears and nose both screaming a vibrant red, though the other figure looks unfazed, as if Winter doesn't exist because he doesn’t believe in it. When the faces of each party are no longer obscured by distance, Magnus and the other figure begin to approach to expedite initial contact. Foster nods his head with downturned eyebrows toward the direction of the uninvited guest. “Well it’s about time you guys showed,” Magnus says with a hint of jest, trying either to impress the boys with his nonchalance, or his brother for actually having friends close enough where he can say corny cliches like that. Foster takes his hands out of his pockets which immediately recoil and become harder to maneuver. “We’re here,” Foster says it sarcastically wide-eyed. “This is my brother, he brought us the cigarettes,” Magnus said motioning. “I’m his brother, I bought you the cigarettes.” The chemical stricken throat makes noises resembling a wheeze. Like if the crack of lightning had a novelty computer-generated text-to-speak. Foster again flashes two wide eyes sarcastically with a flat smirk, manipulating his uncertainty into irony, it’s a defensive move but he’s too immature to see it as anything but being cooler than thau. Elgton doesn’t seem to pay any mind to the redundancy. He is known amongst his friends, Foster included as disorientingly aloof. “So... are we going to smoke ‘em?” Foster asks skeptically. “Yeah, we’ll smoke ‘em, if you still want them, since you guys are young and all I’ll give you some first-hand experience from someone who made the exact mistake you guys are about to make.” “Jesus Christ I get enough PSA’s from school and my parents,” replies Foster. “Nah, yo I’m certain you haven’t heard anything like this, I’d bet my life on it.” Foster sighs, he thinks he’s heard it all before. “Whatever you say older-Magnus.” “Story starts a little while back, call it four or five years ago. I had this buddy Big Man, met him he was sitting on a hammock in a little part of the woods the older guys used to smoke at across town. This lard ass was sleeping in the hammock, with two full packs of smokes underneath. So I figure, the snoring’d indicate he’s incapacitated so I reach down for a smoke--” “What are you doing there by yourself?” Elgton asks. His way of conveying attentiveness is to interject with insubstantial questions. “I was supposed to meet a friend there to smoke a doob.” “You say doob?” Elgton asks. “An Indian buddy of mine called joints doobs, I guess I picked it up.” He took off his shoe to empty a pebble. Pebbles seem to teleport inside of Timberlands. “I swear I gestured for the cigarettes and he wakes up and looks at me with these bug eyes, bloodshot with fatigue, and mumbled something like, ‘did you touch my arm,’ I told him of course I didn’t. He turned over and I figured let me try this again, that was weird, he’s turned over and I reach for them again, I swear once I crossed into his personal radius he turns over again and goes, ‘Now you’re just fucking with me you definitely touched my arm.’ That was like the first indicator that this guy had like this connection with cigarettes like they weren’t just cigarettes to him. “Anyway, I fessed up, told him I reached for the cigarettes, he said it was weird and whatnot, he asks if I want one, I do of course, I had already been smoking for a year or two at the time, so I take one, and I shit you not, he just grabs five of ‘em and sticks ‘em in there. Couldn’t hold it between his index and middle fingers like anyone who wants to look like they been there done that. He has to make a circle with his thumb and stick ‘em all in there. "So he tells me to come meet him there, he doesn’t really have anyone to smoke with, he’s a cool guy, he’s got a hammock so I say fuck it, and I end up meeting him there ever once or twice a week. The man was a fiend occupying every orifice of the word, I mean, he had one of those ammo belts that slings over both shoulders, with packs of cigarettes from top to bottom, must’ve had twenty packs with him at all times.” As he says the number his hand slices through the air. “And he would just chain-smoke with me, no less than three at a time, but I’ve seen him go as high as twenty, a whole pack, at one time. Hold on it gets crazier.” He says in response to a glint in Elgton’s eye of reluctant belief. Foster remains cross-armed. “Didn’t he know he would get cancer?” Elgton asks. “There don’t exist a smoker who doesn’t. He used to always throw these phrases at me like, ‘I’m banking on them curing lung cancer before I get it,’ and ‘what slowly kills you makes you harder.’ Sometimes he’d even say ‘cancer schmancer’ and his eyes tell you that it’s like a subconscious response like the idea just bounces off him. What the man was truly scared of was emphysema having to carry around a tank of oxygen all the time. He developed a phobia of sorts to reliant breathing, used to go scuba diving with his dad every now and then in the Caribbean he couldn’t even do that anymore.” At this point Foster is getting impatient, he starts bobbing his heel. “Does this story have an end?” Foster asks. With both hands up in a downward swiping motion, Magnus’s brother responds, “Put a leash on your alleycat big guy, the balls in my court remember?” He jiggles the pack of blue American Spirits like dangling cheese over a mouse. “Now this is back during years of mine that I’m glad to have put behind me, and I may or may not have fed into this psychotic vice of Big Man’s. I’d film him doing smoke tricks, personal challenges, all the while his eyes develop this vapidness but I’m none the wiser. It’s only in retrospect you see how stupid you were you know? But...” He sighs, “I kept egging him on and the videos got more or more absurd.” “Can we see them?” Foster asks showcasing a curiosity fueled excitement that maturity teaches you to conceal, it’s the first time during the story he shows an ounce of enthusiasm. “Haven’t had them in a long time. Even if I did I wouldn’t show you.” He thinks the comment despicable and recoils. “This is when things get ridiculous. We, or he rather, went through this phase of trying to conquer any cigarette pertained world record. I mean speed smoking, number smoking, chain-smoking, anything, I think the craziest shit I saw that man do was smoke 161 cigarettes at once breaking the previous record of 155, then some Chinese lunatic counters with 170 cigarettes, and Big Man, well, he didn’t want to leave the opportunity for anyone to flirt with even the chance, smoking 277 cigarettes at once, and don’t even ask me how he fit them all into his mouth.” He hooks two fingers of each hand around each cheek and pulls, harder than would seem comfortable. “Yeah.” He pauses for longer than necessary if it were just to catch his breath or organize his thoughts. Foster asks thinking the end has been reached, “If you’re so scarred by the whole thing why haven’t you kicked the habit?” “You say it like it’s easy kid. You’re trying to apply logic to an illogical vice. The answer you’re looking for is a whole nother story entirely, and I wouldn’t want to encroach on your patience. Let’s just say it takes a female to quit, and a female to suck you back in.” Magnus’s brother was encouraged by Foster’s reactionary stare, unadulterated by eyes or human figures, blankly pointed at the impressionistic tide-strewn reflection of the myriad bridges in eyeshot. “Now if I could finish. A day or so after this behemoth record of his, notarized by myself, we caught up in the woods we met in, for the traditional chain smoke. He called me up early sometime before noon, I remember because I had a 12:30 blood draw, had to be out of there when the hands overlapped XII, never liked keeping time with electronics so I had an analog watch with the roman numerals. He told me he hadn’t slept the night before, looked like death per usual, wanted to social smoke to drain some energy. Even though he looked like death he kept complaining about not being able to smell, and ‘don’t get me started on what’s coming out of my asshole’ and I didn’t. At the time nothing seemed particularly off, with his type most physical ailments bypass the mental alarm. After that I didn’t hear from him for a while.” Magnus’s brother didn’t have so much as a nanosecond to even send the signal to inhale before Elgton asks, “What happened?” Foster still looks off into the distance, flickers of mental churning in the twitches of his eyes and facial muscles. Magnus draws circles in the sand with his Timberlands, they end up looking like flattened doughnuts. “I texted him--nothing, call him--nothing. Finally went by his house and his mom, not that she encouraged the return, sent me packing said he hadn’t been around since I last saw him. I’m no detective, and Big Man was no type to make finding him easy--if he wanted to escape that is. At this point I’m figuring fuck it that’s life right, might as well hop over to the OG smoking spot and reminisce for a bit. When I get there guess what I see?” “Big Man” Foster and Elgton reply at the same time though their tones out of two different area codes. “Not exactly, I see his pack of cigarettes under the hammock, which by the way I never found out if it was his or just permanently there.” Magnus’s brother cleared his throat and moved his leg as if releasing a fart although unclear even to Magnus who had the knowledge to teach a class on his brother's mannerisms. “I reach down to get me a free pack, and I see the hammock rustle. Up to this point there was no evidence there was anything in it, it just looked full of fallen leaves. All curled up and wet. I look inside and...” He holds a hand up to his face, the “and” before he trailed off had the weakened sound that words do when combined with a gag. “And I swear he was a goddamn cigarette!” “What?” Elgton asks in harmony with a what from Foster, the latter however ended with a “the fuck are you talking about.” Magnus cranes his head at the two eyes threatening to jump out of his head. “I’d show a picture of it too if I hadn’t thrown up on my phone, requiring a new one, after a second glance. It wasn’t pretty, I’m not talking cylindrical paper-wrapped tobacco. Think more mummy, though not wrapped, just paper, it was wet from the rain, the paper had ripped in more than a few locations, long cut tobacco sticking out like cotton from a torn stuffed animal--” There was evidence of a second gag. “And... bits and pieces of vital organs that were somehow hybridized to look like a wet tobacco leaf, still veiny, and fleshy, but strangely... fragrant. And mind you, leaking through these tears with the tobacco. At first, I just thought it was an attempt to create a life-sized cigarette to break a record or something, classic big man. But then squeaks out this voice, it sounded more like a wind gust shifting in speed, but I could make out, ‘cigarette... cigarette...’ So I reached into my pack to give him one, and he didn’t have eyes anymore, and ears that were in the process of transition, so I don’t know how he knew what I was doing but he said, ‘no... me.’ It took me a second to process what he was asking but I could let him sit there like that it was the most... I don’t really want to think about the image anymore. I, well, lit his backside, and stood there as he went up in smoke, slowly, methodically, from bottom to top, and he didn’t have a filter so at the end... that was it. I’ll never forget that burnt caramel smell” He looked like he would take a sip from a glass of whiskey if he had one. “Mom always said Big Man would smoke himself to death but... that wasn’t the way I interpreted it.” Magnus is still drawing circles in the sand, clearly having heard the story before and wishing to distance from it. Elgton looks like he just witnessed an extraterrestrial landing. Foster now focused on Magnus’s brother askance. A couple of moments go by and nobody has any idea what to do with their hands or tongues. Finally Foster breaks the silence, “That’s the stupidest story I’ve ever heard.” When the next train passes, four static figures puff the yellow-gray burnt caramel smoke of a freshly opened pack.


[Fantasy] Fear. I wanted to share with something I thought through earlier this evening. I want to preface this by saying that America is a terrifying place right now. While I cannot relate to the experiences of those fighting right now, I can sympathize with fear. I fully, 100% stand with #blacklivesmatter. Please enjoy, this is not meant to spark debate or politics, it is meant to simply be a good read and to bring those who can find it a little peace of mind. - I sat on the ground in front of their rocky edge. I looked up at the great white wolf lounging on it and it stared back with pupiless eyes that looked like the cosmos with stars shooting back and forth. Their eyes were always just a little unsettling but mesmerizing nonetheless. "I am afraid and I don't know why." The wolf tilted its head and spoke with a voice that was overlapped with different tones. Feminine, masculine, musical and menacing. "What do you have to fear?" I looked down. "Nothing. None of what is happening right now could harm me, I am ashamed of this fact but it doesn't make it any less true." "Others choices and decisions are not inherently your fault. Neither are factors out of your control." They replied easily. "Are you doing your part to help those in danger?" I squeezed my eyes shut. "No. I have made my ideals and views clear that I stand with those who have been wronged for countless generations but I have not actively done anything." "Why?" "Because I can barely keep my own head above water right now, resources are stretched thin, old habits threaten to overtake me again and it takes all my energy just to maintain my mental stability." "Then you have done all you can." They said in a matter of fact way. I jerked my head up to look at them. I felt grief, shame, self loathing and anguish threaten to consume me. "But I could do more!! If I just push myself that much more I could be a real presence and fight to make a difference!" "Do not succumb to the sadness you are feeling right now, it is familiar and cathartic but it will not bring you peace." They said firmly with a low snarl at the start of their words. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes in effort to calm myself. They Relaxed and spoke again. "Your presence will not do anyone good if it is only self-loathing that drives you. Even if you sacrificed your life it would do more harm than good. You would become exhausted and stretched too thin, then your loved ones and those closest to you would loose you to pain and sadness." I sighed. "But... They need me." "They are strong, they need people who can fight with a clear mind. You are doing your best for yourself. Your moral standing is correct and your beliefs are pure. You value the lives of the down trodden, the beaten, the abused and those subjected to torment for their innocence above all else. If all you can do for now is be okay then that is what you must do. You're not wrong for focusing on your own happiness and you matter because you love and believe in all things synonymous with peace, equality, and equity. You deserve time to be okay and find stability because neither do you seek out or spread hatred, nor do you condone it. You have done nothing wrong." I looked up with tears in my eyes. "But I could do so much more if I was stronger." "You are as strong as you can be right now- and that is enough. The change will come and you will have stood on the just side. Be proud of your efforts, be angry for not being able to do more will not bring you peace." - A/N: the moral of this story is that if you cannot do more to help the ongoing battle than just continuing about your life while calling out prejudice, cruelty, arrogance or anything like that, you're not wrong or not doing enough. Those who can fight are fighting and if all you can do right now is be okay, that's okay. Be good to yourself and stay safe so you may live to fight another day and spread the message of acceptance and intolerance for any kind of bigotry or exclusion of innocent people.


October 18th, 2021 Not sure how to start this. Should I go Dear Diary? It sounds silly but that is exactly what this is going to be. My very own diary, my journal, my thoughts, my life...maybe someday, my memoir. I want to remember this day forever. The day I decided to teach myself to write. Again. Writing makes me feel alive. Just read an article where the author says ...Writers write. Doesn't matter what they write. Just put the pen on paper and keep it moving. Or just keep typing away on a computer or your phone. So, if I can't write a story yet, I can start my journal. Type my thoughts and talk about my day. So many things I want to do but there is so little time. Before I know it ...the day is over. I have to be up again with the same routine. Cook, clean, exercise ..but now I'm adding something to it. Learn to write for kids, and then start writing. Research, study writer's market. I won't have time to breathe. I can feel the excitement building again. Like I have found myself one more time. The quick memo is going to be my favorite companion. Here's the fun part. I carry my phone with me everywhere. I can just open it up and start writing. Life ...here I come. Look at how much I have written already. Shweta and Amber have entered my head again. Maybe Gaurav and Shekhar will start whispering too. Four of my favorite characters. The product of my very active imagination. They are always there at the back of my mind. They keep revisiting over and over again. A story or two, refusing to leave me alone. Who knows ...that day might be coming soon. Meanwhile ...it is exciting to be excited about something ...again!! October 19th, 2021 Dear Diary, I have often wondered what makes a story an awesome, relatable story. This morning while watching a TV show, I realized the role that a character plays in a story. I found myself almost switching off the TV because something bad was going to happen to the character that I follow. I realized that it was not the story I liked so much. In fact, it was to the character in the story that I felt an attachment. The thought of something bad happening to her was too much for me to take. For those few seconds, I became her and something bad was about to happen to me. Such is the power that a writer can have over the reader. Such is the kind of power I would like to give my characters. The reader should be able to identify themselves with the characters of a story. When they read something, their mind should go, "Oh yeah! This is exactly how I would feel!" I have come across so many interesting characters over the years that I have read books or watched shows and movies. More than the story, the characters stayed with me. Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice is one such example. She is everything that I ever want to be as a human being and as a woman. Everything she says and does makes me smile and think...I want to be her. And so does Arundhati ...from the TV show that I watched today. The two female characters are polar opposites and yet I identify with them both. That is the power of a writer. And as Arundhati moves forward to becoming an Elizabeth, I am with her every step of the way ...cheering for each and every step that she takes. Secretly, someday, I hope to be an Elizabeth too. October 27th, 2020 Dear Diary, Writers write. A little something that I need to keep reminding myself. It is hard to remember it when your day is so full of other non-writing activities. Cooking, clearing the sink full of dishes, laundry, picking up and dropping off kids from one activity to another. Every time I sit down to write, there is some other activity that seems more pressing and more important than this. Like, right this minute, even as I am tapping away at my cell phone, my mind is showing me pictures of my full sink. Before I begin clearing that, the dishwasher gives me the stink eye. How will you load me when I'm not empty yet? And then there's the matter of that pesky treadmill, all the way down in the basement, but sitting at the top of my head. Isn't it time for exercise ...it whispers into my ears? Do you see what I'm doing right now, dear diary? I'm writing ...even as I complain about not having time to write. Sometimes it is as simple as that. Just take out the quick memo on your phone and start tapping at it. Some other times, it is a whole other story. Life is filled with so many of these little and big obstacles. And the irony is that these very obstacles to writing can become an inspiration to write someday. Ask any writer to talk about the various responsibilities that come in the way of their writing ...they can easily write a whole book on it. There's an idea ...a book on a writer's life. The inside story. Many people have asked me what goes on in my head when I write something. Sometimes it feels like there is someone sitting in there dictating the whole thing. The words, phrases, and sentences popped out one after the other. The process is so smooth and so much fun that I end up feeling guilty. Work should not be fun. Work can not be fun. You certainly should not be paid for something that is so much fun. Not that I'm getting paid millions for this. But I hope to ...someday ...in the not-so-distant future. Writing about the process of writing can be fun too, right? And who knows ...this could one day be on the best seller's list. A journey into the writer's mind, a book to be read by all those upcoming writers. Not a teaching book. Just a book that goes through the ups and downs of a writer's life. It is lonely being a writer sometimes. Especially when you are doing the actual writing. It would be nice to get a glimpse into the triumphs and struggles of a co-writer. It might even give you a sense of community. I could just keep writing ...on and on. After all, writers write. November 5th, 2020 Dear Diary, It has finally happened! It has been the most productive week of my life! I have been writing like a crazy person. Have no clue if it is really worth anything. But just the act of typing words on my computer has been so worth it. My characters are speaking to me, and letting me get a glimpse into their world. These are the times I fall in love with my life! What is it about these characters that make me feel so alive? I know they got created so recently in my imagination. And yet, I feel like I have known them forever. I laugh when I make them laugh. I cry when I make them cry. I go through every twist and turn of their life as if they were my own. Is it just me or does every writer/creator feel this way? Is it even possible not to be attached to your creations? After all, they are pretty much like your baby, aren’t they? Crazy or not, this is the truth for me. I got so involved in their lives that I needed to take a break from their story. They were beginning to take over my life. I needed to come back to the reality of my life. Maybe that’s why some writers have more than one project going on at a time. I’m so glad I have my faithful diary waiting patiently for me to scribble on its pages. I don’t know what I would do without you. December 5th, 2020 Dear Diary, Have you been missing me? I sure have missed you like crazy. Between my personal life challenges and the challenges faced by the characters in my book, (of late it has become hard to distinguish between the two) it has been the craziest month of my life! This was a month of sickness for me and my family. My son came home with a virus and very kindly shared it with his whole family. He has taken this sharing lecture that I gave him a bit too seriously. I probably forgot to mention that it was okay not to share germs. I have to keep in mind to be more specific when I decide to give him any advice in the future. But the good news is that I decided to share this challenge with the characters in my book. They are not very happy with me at this moment. Between the sniffles and sneezes, one of my characters threw in some not-so-nice words at me. Words that I can’t really share with anyone. I have got to say this, I really am in love with this girl that I helped create. She is everything that I couldn’t be as a child. I was a scaredy-cat and so obviously this girl has to be the bravest kid on earth. It makes me feel powerful that I can mold my characters any way that I want. Writing is such a powerful tool. If you are feeling miserable, just put in some happy scenes in your work. If you are a bit too happy, add in a few sad scenes to balance out the feelings. Uhmmmm ...maybe it is supposed to be the other way? December 25th, 2020 Dear Diary, I can’t breathe. I feel like the words are stuck in my throat. They tell me that it is a terrible case of writer’s block. I have had this before, but nothing of this magnitude. And the story had been flowing so well. I was getting dreams of my characters doing and saying things. I would wake up in the middle of the night and start typing as if my life depended on it. I started getting weird looks from my family and even my friends thought I was behaving oddly. But, I didn’t have a care in the world. As long as the words kept flowing, all was well with my life. And then the dreaded event happened. I slept through the night! Not a single dream. The characters just stopped whispering. It’s like they just disappeared off the face of this earth. I woke up the next morning, feeling fresh and miserable! Now they tell me that I should go for a walk or something. It is supposed to help with unblocking the block. All I want to do is find a corner on my couch, get a giant bowl of chocolate ice cream and sob away my day. I extremely dislike writer’s block!!!! December 30th, 2020 Dear Diary, The chocolate ice cream helped! It helped me gain 5 pounds in one week. I checked my weight this morning and almost fell off the scale. But it also cheered me up a bit. I spent the next two days visiting parks, zoos, and museums with my son. He was so shocked at the quality time he was getting with his dear old mom. It is quite possible he thought that this was going to be a forever thing. The poor kid had no clue that after two days of non-stop activities with me, his dream would come to an abrupt end. It all started at the museum. I was staring at this painting apparently drawn by some kid, and a fleeting thought crossed my mind. As my son chattered on about what he was seeing, I was desperately tuning him out so I could hold on to that idea that could move my story forward. Here is a funny thing about inspiration ...it always seems to hit when you are least prepared for it. I had left my notepad in the car, and I was standing empty-handed in the middle of a nice museum. I almost screamed out loud that day. And then I remembered, my trusted phone was in my bag and it came with a quick memo. As I furiously jotted down my thoughts, my son gave me this sad look. He knew the days of mommy and me were over as quickly as they started. January 15th, 2020 Dear Diary, I did it! I started a story and actually managed to finish it. There is a beginning, middle, and end to the story. I fell in love with my characters as I created them. I felt happy when they achieved something and mourned their losses with them. It has been an amazing journey from start to finish. No human has yet set their eyes on it, and I feel like I have achieved something great. Is this how it feels when a writing project gets completed? Does every writer feel this way? To see those words on your computer screen ...THE END. I don’t think there are any words that look and sound as awesome as those words. I never thought this day would come so quickly. I remember those horrible few days when the words had stopped being my friends. I never ever want to go through that again! But those days will come again. New storylines will develop and new characters will take birth. I will make new friends and there will be days when they stop communicating. But the real magical part is how things always seem to work out in the end. And you have been my friend, my companion through it all, my darling diary. I wouldn’t have made it through this if I didn’t have your support. Now editing beckons me. But I will be back before you know it. I will be back to laugh, cry, celebrate and vent. I will be back to bicker and complain. I will always keep coming back to my loyal companion ...


The sugar elves are an elven subspecies with a very interesting history. As their name indicates, they adore anything sugary, and unlike other beings, not only is it not harmful, it’s actually very good for them. Mint is a close second in levels of species-wide adoration. They widely cultivated mint and sugar cane, along with a number of other crops, such as wheat and various berries. You may wonder what for, and the answer is pastries. Not only do sugar elves love raw cane, they also love making the sugar into other things. This also helped trade greatly, and the society was flourishing. It also helped that they were entirely egalitarian, even farming and military(though they didn’t really need the military until much later). Part of this is because male and female elves, like the fairies, are much more biologically similar than male and female humans. But things took a turn for the worse when a trade dispute between the sugar elves and a nearby tribe of gnomes escalated *very* quickly. It got bloody, and when the relatively small military was crushed, the Sugar Elves had no choice but to evacuate. They were run far up north, until the gnomes were sure they’d perish from the cold, and about a third of them did. The whole species might’ve gone extinct if it wasn’t for a powerful but luckily good-hearted sorcerer who found the remaining elves out in the cold. You might’ve heard of him. He took them with him quickly with magic, and though his home was even farther up north, it was much better. He’s fluent in the main two elven languages and was more than willing to teach the elves English. This sorcerers name is Nicholas “Santa” Claus. The inside of his workshop and the surrounding area is warm with magic and he has a surplus of sugary things. The elves were so grateful to Claus and his wife that they decided to stay there and work for them by making toys, tending to their reindeer, and keeping the old couple company. The sugar elves soon gained the same love and appreciation of humans, especially children, that Mr and Mrs Claus had, though the elves are much less tolerant of humans badmouthing the Clauses than the family themselves are. Though human media typically portrays the elves as weak, they are actually quite burly from doing manual labor throughout the year(minus January, half of February, and most of July, when they are celebrating a successful Christmas), which more than makes up for their small stature. The elves sometimes (outside of winter, when they’re working overtime) visit human civilization, and it’s important that you are never seen badmouthing Santa, or as the elves sometimes call him, “Big Red” or “Mr C”, in front of a Sugar Elf, because they know who is responsible for their continued survival as a species, and they are *not* afraid to hurt you in defense of the Claus family. They generally keep their non-humanness under wraps for obvious reasons, so it’s better to not badmouth Santa at all.


The stars were always so beautiful to me, and as I look up at them now, I’m still pulled by them. My dad could look at them and point out the different shapes and names of the constellations. I’ve never been into the shapes of stars or the names of planets though, I’ve always been attracted to the points connecting them. I’ve always been drawn to the darkness and the vastness within the space between the stars. As I lay down about to drift off into unconscious sleep, I looked up at the unknown number of stars that night time in Alaska offered through the hotel window. It made me think about the wall of darkness that the city night sky suspended. I fell into deep sleep staring up at the sky, my heart beat syncing up with the rhythm of motor boats as they returned home. It was a cold morning in the city of Dutch Harbor when I first arrived at the lighthouse where I’d be spending the summer working at alone. The small, lone tower was located on a man-made island about a half mile off the coast of the city. It seemed like an easy enough job to me, all I needed to do was sit there and give daily reports saying that all was well. Every other part of the lighthouse job had been computerized years ago. Alfred was showing me around the living quarters when I set my duffel bag full of clothes and books down on the old, weathered sofa. The whole room was situated directly beneath the main staircase to the top of the small lighthouse. The place smelled of old oak, and the white-painted brick walls felt cool beneath my outreached hand. The room was decorated solely by brass nautical equipment. She’s old , Alfred said. But she’s true. And soon she’ll feel like home. He was in his late sixties and, from what he’s told me, he’s spent the past thirty of those years manning the lighthouse with his family. He was getting older however, and he decided to hire people to work two out of the four seasons while he lived on the mainland with his wife. He was a nice guy, and with a wave of a hand he had me follow him towards a dark oak door. Now I know you’re going to school to be a writer at the moment. So my wife and I decided to do a little something to make the stay a bit more comfortable. He opened the door to a small home office, a dark hardwood desk and bookshelf holding various paperbacks and manuals being the staples. I approached the desk and saw an old manual Royal typewriter sitting on top of it. I felt the keys beneath my fingertips and smiled. The desk chair faced a circular window that looked out over the water. Thank you so much Alfred, I said. This is literally the nicest office I’ve ever been in. Don’t thank me yet. Working out here can be lonely, and my wife thought we should add something to help the transition a bit. Don’t worry. I don’t feel lonely too often, I said. Well you’re also not going to like that there’s no wifi out here, that’s why I brought out the typewriter. I usually prefer not to use the internet anyways, I said. Well! Aren’t you the old soul, Alfred laughed. It was all true, every adult called me an old soul and I never really cared much about being on my own. It was hard for me to relate with a lot of people at school, they only seemed interested in things that scratched the surface. I’ve always been the one left to think on deeper questions and issues. That’s always been the difference between me and people my own age. While everyone seems so sure on where they’re going in life, I’ve always wondered if there was anywhere else to go. That was one of the reasons I decided to take this job for the summer, the other being that my dad couldn’t afford to pay for my school and I didn’t have enough financial aid to cover all the costs. Well, that seems to be all, Alfred said, breaking me from my thoughts. I’ll be by every other week with food and other supplies. Just make sure to make a list of anything you may want that I can get ya. He turned and walked out the front door. I waved to him as he got in his small boat and started heading out. Thank you Alfred! I’ll see you soon! I yelled to him. Closing the door I realized that for the first time in my life, I was truly alone and with my own thoughts. Free to read and write from sun-up till sun-down. It felt simultaneously liberating and terrifying, I was just hoping I wouldn’t burn myself out. I decided to sit down to write for a bit and see how I felt in my new environment. The paper for the typewriter was sitting to the left of it. I loaded a page and felt my fingertips slide perfectly into position. I couldn’t write though, I just could find the inspiration. The next day, after my daily call in, I sipped my morning coffee at the top of the tower. My wool sweater was doing poorly against the breeze being blown from the Arctic. I hadn’t seen any boats for about an hour but, as I looked out over the empty water, I saw a white sailboat gliding across the sea. It was a classic, wood sailboat with the name Diane written across its side with its large sails catching the breeze on its solitary voyage across the ocean. A single white dot in the vastness of the blue sea. It was magnificent, and as I watched it I saw more boats follow. Soon they were spread out, covering the water, like stars in the sky. Seeing Diane made me think of the boat my dad had bought down in San Diego when I was thirteen. We’re going to get her all fixed up, my dad had said. In front of us was the most beat up sailboat I had ever laid eyes on. He had bought it for less than five hundred dollars. For five years the boat sat untouched in the San Diego Bay. Every year my dad promised that together we’d fix it up and sail up to Santa Barbara, or down to Mexico. And every year the promises fell short and the boat sat alone un-repaired and un-sailable. The damages of the past just too cemented in to fix. Every morning became the same. I’d have my daily call in and then enjoy my coffee at the top of the lighthouse waiting for Diane. And every morning I’d see her, the solitary white star in the outer space of open ocean, leading a herd of vessels out to sea. Soon I started to think of who Diane was and how she related to the sailor. Then I started to write down the story of Diane on that old typewriter in the office. I wrote about her endless adventures and potential, her relationships and unlimited knowledge. I came to see myself in Diane, all the places either of us could go became clear. We were both living in the midst of the immortality that comes with youth. This morning Alfred came to drop off supplies right after my daily call in. I helped him unload the boxes up from the boat and gave him the list with some things I wanted him to pick up in town, one being a warmer jacket for when the morning winds came. After everything was unloaded Alfred got back into his boat and was getting ready to head back to the mainland. Just then I saw Diane head out with the boats all following her. Who is she? I asked. Who’s who? Alfred asked, looking at me. Diane, I said. Alfred’s expression became solemn, and he let out a long sigh before he answered. Diane was a local girl. She was smart and real sweet too, he said. Was a local? What do you mean Alfred? I asked. When she was eighteen she went to Anchorage for University. One night, about twenty years ago, she was just driving home from the library and a drunk driver T-boned her. She passed almost instantly. Anyways, that’s her father. And every morning he sails that boat, that he and his daughter fixed up together by the way, out on the water. He’s always the first one out, and the only day that changed was when his wife passed too about five years ago. I could feel my eyes sting, but I refused to cry in front of this man. This man who I did not know, who did not understand my connection to Diane. He said goodbye and all I did was wave. I couldn’t speak a word in fear that I might break, might let slip why I was so damaged by the loss of someone I didn’t even know. I just walked into the lighthouse and, closing the door behind me, I collapsed onto the floor and sobbed for Diane. The sun set and I had not moved. I thought of how empty the promise of who Diane was. And I thought of all the empty promises my father had told me over the years. You and I are going to fix this boat up together. Don’t worry, I’ll get another job and we’ll all be back on our feet. You won’t have to work this summer, I’ll be able to cover the cost of school. Then there was the empty promise my dad told me five years ago, right before he bought that boat. And right after my just mom walked out of our lives. Don’t worry son, I’m sure your mother will come back. She just needs some time alone. I got up then and shuffled over to the typewriter. I didn’t know what I could write about anymore. My inspiration was dead, all the possibilities of who she could be gone. Was there any future for me, or was I destined to have all my potential possibilities end? Was there even a future? Maybe there’s only the present and the damaging past? When my mother left I just retracted into myself. My pain, isolation, and trauma boiled down to just two lonely words by everyone around me: old soul. That’s all I was anymore. So I loaded up another page in the typewriter, just needing some way to release my thoughts. As I got ready to write though I looked through the circular window and saw the stars. There I saw Diane. I saw my mother. I saw my father finally keeping a promise. Lastly, I saw myself living a life that I craved. A life absent of isolation and pain. I saw where new light could shine, and new planets could form. I saw the endless possibility, the unlimited potential. All there, in the space between the stars. And it was all so beautiful.


Endless corridors, elevators, and more corridors; every now and then, there were small empty office kitchens where the company had provided a modest table, a microwave, and a coffee machine. The carpet, with its strange zigzag pattern in a swampy color, was soft and even a little sticky, as if it didn't want to let go of your foot after each step. Or was it just the lingering effects of another sleepless night? Entering her boss's office, Susan slowed her pace near the panoramic window on the 70th floor: snow had long since covered the entire city and continued to fall from the sky. However, in the endless enclosed spaces that flowed into subway stations and electric trains, you barely encountered winter. "You've had an excellent performance this year. You think we don't notice?" her boss said gently, sitting on the couch next to Susan after she had told him she was planning to leave. "I'm just burned out, I want to quit," she replied quietly. "We have several thousand people working here, and among them all, I know you personally. You know, I've been here for twenty years, since the very beginning..." Susan nodded politely, listening to the story of the company, but she already understood she would leave empty-handed. Reflections of the company's logo, which hung just behind the large window of the top management floor, flickered on the glossy furniture in the office, on the marble-covered floor, on the walls with old-fashioned motivational posters, and on the strange mannequins displaying new season clothing samples. In the dim light, it seemed as if the mannequins had holes instead of eyes. "It's like he turned his enemies into stone and imprisoned them here once upon a time." "Where do you see yourself here?" The conversation was becoming uncomfortable. Susan wanted to end it, but she even found it awkward to hang up on scammers when they called her on the phone, let alone in this situation. The boss was polite, but his persistence was suffocating, as sticky as the carpet in the corridors of the top management floor. She remained silent. "Think about it, don't rush. Sleep on this thought, as they say. You can't beat me." "Excuse me?" Susan startled. "You don't need to leave, you're one of us." And so, Susan left the office with no avail. She walked back past the empty kitchens, through an elevator with a transfer on one of the floors, and past small office cubicles where the backs of people's heads were visible behind partitions. Susan sank into her tired, creaking chair and looked at the open spreadsheet on her screen. "I need to get out of here," she muttered to herself when she saw the clock in the corner of the screen. She said goodbye to a couple of remaining workaholics and, in the elevator descending thirty levels down, put on her coat she had bought from Zara a few years back. Susan walked out, skillfully navigating around the flow of people, and continued through the endless subway corridors. Overtaking pedestrians, she hurried to catch the bus: it was already past ten in the evening, and the last bus to the suburbs was at eleven. Time was running out. "Check this file," her phone vibrated. The next minute, Susan was sitting in the subway car with her laptop on her knees, editing a presentation for her team leader's status update the following day. "Ah, damn it," Susan cursed: she had missed two stations. She closed her laptop, grabbed her bag, and rushed through the closing doors. "I can't hear you, I'm in the subway right now!" But the approaching train relentlessly drowned out her attempts to answer the call, "Let's talk tomorrow, okay?" Standing by the door on the return train, Susan looked at her quivering reflection in the doors opposite. Her curls tensely bounced. Susan decided to remove her coat and scarf, remaining in a black sweater from under which a strict white blouse peeked out. She used to feel like she belonged at work, but now she wanted to shed the office style along with all the work devices that lay in her bag and rubbed her neck. The bus was nowhere to be found, but Susan was not used to giving up, especially since she could get home on the commuter train, after traversing seven stations back to the station. "Why do I have to rush even when I'm going home?" She wanted to relax and observe the subway passengers: a couple in their twenties, sharing a pair of headphones. Or a young man who seemed to have just returned from the army and hadn't yet decided what to do with his life now. But her phone vibrated again: this time, her boss was calling. "There's this ambitious task that just came in, and I immediately thought of you... The previous manager couldn't handle it. Tomorrow morning, come see me." When Susan joined this company ten years ago, the idea that her tasks would reach the boss seemed incredible. Even three years ago, a project of this level would have made her head spin. But she needed to leave. "Where are you?" A message from her team leader. After fighting her way through the ticket counter queue, a pointless bag search, and a malfunctioning turnstile, Susan burst into the stuffy commuter train car, unable to make her way past the vestibule. No worries, in half an hour she would be home. "Check out this version," another message came. Twenty minutes into the journey between two stations, the train stopped and showed no signs of life. "Please remain calm; the train will depart shortly," the indifferent voice of the train operator announced. "When will you send it? I need to check it too." The clock showed past midnight. Someone opened the doors, and especially impatient passengers started to climb out directly onto the tracks. Dangerous, but she didn’t care anymore. Susan ran a mile along the rails to her station, then to her home. Leaving the messages unread, she turned on 'Do Not Disturb' mode on her phone and set the alarm for 5:30 am. After another sleepless night, Susan entered the office changing room and sat on the couch to catch her breath. "Alright, time to take off my clothes," she whispered to herself. Susan removed her scarf and felt for the zipper on her boots, took them off, and stretched her legs a bit. Then she reached for the buttons on her coat, but her hand stopped halfway because she looked at her reflection again. Her hand involuntarily rose to the back of her neck, and with difficulty, she found the hidden zipper there. Struggling to grab the clasp, which she hadn't used for a long time, Susan pulled it down. It wasn't very pleasant; the zipper squeaked and dug into her skin. She hadn't taken off this attire for ten years, since joining this company. But now she wanted to get rid of it and take a refreshing shower first thing. She removed her tired face, her curly hair, which she diligently dyed every month, giving it a fresh golden hue. She took off her sad shoulders along with the Zara coat, the white blouse under the black sweater. The suit resisted heavily at the stomach, got stuck at the thighs, but Susan managed to get rid of it, and in the mirror before her stood the girl who had come here ten years ago and then decided to entrust her fate to the company. She carefully folded the suit of thirty-five-year-old Susan, with its hair, face, waist, hips, legs, heels, experience, network, achievements... "What is this?" she heard a voice and flinched. It turned out that a young intern, who had just joined the company a couple of months ago, was standing there. "Want it? Take it, it’s yours," the girl said, handing the suit over to him. She needed to hurry, so she left the changing room and took the elevator away from this glass tower. As she left the premises, she knew in her heart that she would never return. Peter, the intern who had looked up to Susan as a role model, was thrilled with the opportunity to cut a career path. He hesitated for a moment, and after a brief pause, he first put on her legs, which were in slightly tight jeans, hips, Susan's waist with a hint of extra weight, and her sad shoulders. Looking in the mirror at his head, as if attached to Susan's shoulders, Peter nodded decisively, put on her face, hair, and zipped up. Ten minutes later, Susan came out of the changing room and, looking around uncertainly, walked to the elevator to the boss's level, forgetting to take off the Zara coat worn over the white blouse under the black sweater.