Red is the color of war, of pain, of cruelty. Since the first violent conflict in human history, when men slept in caves and fire was an incomprehensible, magical thing, and communication was shallow grunts and vague motions, red has been understood. Since before humanity looked at the sky and wondered what force, what being, placed them on the earth. Before we hunted, gathered, built, wrote, sang, played or spoke, we understood red. The Greeks had many gods, gods of dance, of archery, of navigation and wine, but the only god that has ever truly mattered-or existed-is the god of war. No, the god of war is not a being which resides at the top of Mount Olympus, but he does exist. The god of war is a whisper in man’s ear, encouraging man to conquer, to glorify and be glorified, to enslave and plunder and ravage. And this god of war is always cloaked in red. As I stood on the battlefield that day, red was all I saw. I looked at the men who wore uniforms like mine, faces I recognized, contorted into a horror unknown to those who have not seen battle. Their final expression is that of pain and terror, as their bodies were cleaved and butchered like cattle. They too, now wore cloaks of red. I saw red, but I smelled death. When men are terrified, when their hearts are in their throats and in their ears, and their stomachs are in their groins, they lose all control of our bodies. When young men fight their first battle, and walk back to camp with empty eyes and black hearts, you can smell their soil and their waste. Those men who do not come back to camp, mighty warriors and veterans of many campaigns, are reduced to the same shame and embarrassment in the end. It is not dishonorable, as it happens to all men in death. But all the same, the mix of waste and blood reached my nostrils, and I thought to myself that no matter how many men I carved up, I would never get used to that smell. I had become accustomed to the red, and I had become accustomed to the screams of men in pain and in death. I no longer hesitated when my blade passed through flesh and muscle and sinew and bone. My throat no longer tightened from blood flowing down it, as men without swords often throw their knuckles into the mouths and jaws of enemies, as a last ditch attempt at survival. But the smell. The smell is the last laugh of the god of war. For the whisper of the god of war tells men they are different. They are killers, brutal men without mercy or compassion. He tells men that they can kill hundreds, thousands, millions, without regret or trauma. He pushes adrenaline through the brain and heart and arms and swords of these men, invigorating and motivating them to take as many lives as they can. Then, as man stands and admires his own handiwork, the god of war whispers to him again. After the battle, the raging wildfire of brutality, all men face another battle within themselves. The god of war tells them they are killers, and that is all they will ever be. He tells them they have taken fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, leaders, teachers, friends from innocents who will never see those men again. He tells all men that they are not human, they are something lower. The greatest trick that the god of war has ever pulled is convincing men that killing will fill them. Honor, glory, riches, women, land, can be won and lost by the sword, but a man will lose everything else. I understood this, and I think few men do. I was never a man for philosophy, or mathematics or science. I was always a man of war. My compassion, mercy, propensity to love had all been lost after my first battle. For men who live by the sword will die by it, and I knew this from the first time I had put one into my hands. It took me until my first battle to understand it, but once I had felt a man’s life leaving his body, I accepted that I would never love, would never raise children, I would only kill, and then be killed. That day, I defeated a man with a family. He was a killer as well, I know that as well as I know that he was left-handed. I knew he had a unique ability to slash backhand, and flick his sword back in the opposite direction. This meant I had to block once with my shield, and once with my sword on opposite sides of my body, or else be disemboweled by his blade. I knew he was a man of almost unnatural strength, speed, and combat intellect. I also knew he was a man of mercy, perhaps the only killer I had ever known to spare men of the final strike. He was a man of honor, and that is why I won. For he had not given himself to the god of war entirely. He had stood over many lesser men, who would stab him in the back to steal his purse, and he had heard and refused the whisper of the god of war. That is an admirable quality, but that is why he lost. As I approached him that day on the battlefield, our respective comrades all turned and faced us. The other men stood side by side with their enemies, knowing at any moment that enemy could turn and stab him. However, they stopped because they understood that songs would be sang about that which was about to occur. Yes, the battle mattered. The king whom my opponent served wanted a certain piece of fertile land that my king had, but no one much cared about that. Everyone wanted a chance to watch. He was a man of noble blood. He had grown up training for moments such as these. He had fought in and won many tournaments. He had bloodied and notched his sword many times. That sword was a thing of beauty. Truly, his sword could have been traded for all that I owned. It was ten hands long, with a two hand hilt. Not many men had the strength to wield a sword of that size. The blade was etched with the swords name, and his family crest. It had an inlay of gold and silver along the hilt, stretching up the shaft of the blade and finally coming to a graceful end when it met the etchings. It was the sword of a great man, and a great man he was. My sword was also made for a man like myself. It was longer, lighter, and had a serrated edge on the front side. It could not be sheathed, I instead wrapped it in leather to protect it from rust. The blade started straight, and about halfway to the end it curved forward then back. It was truly a brutal weapon. A man had once told me it looked like a question mark, which I had never heard of before. It was plain, other than the design. It had a leather handle and straight hand guard. It was meant for a killer, and that was what I was. The man who stood before me that day was called Lord Peter Talan. He was about my age, and a hand or two taller than me. As the men encircled us, I studied him. His eyes were narrow and focused. I knew he wanted to win, but he didn’t want to kill me. I turned to one of my comrades, and gave him my sword to hold for a moment. I had known what to do in this moment for a long time, for I had watched this man move before. I took my now free hand and loosened the straps on my shield only slightly, allowing my arm just enough freedom to accommodate that which I was going to execute. I took out of my hand a small knife, not much larger than those that nobles use to spread butter on their bread. Lord Peter Talan could not see this, for my back was turned and my shield was parallel to my body. I took my sword back and swung around to face him. Often, lesser men feel the need to threaten their enemies at times like these. I did not, nor did he. Honorable as he was, he did make me an offer. “I know you,” he said. “you are the one they call the son of Micheal, the archangel. Your name is Henry. You have no father, mother, wife or children. They say you are blessed by God to kill.” I said nothing, for I was a quiet man. I knew he had more to say. He said the same thing to all men who he fought, and so far, they all should have accepted. “Henry, son of Micheal, I offer you mercy. I offer you forgiveness, as the Lord commands and the pope preaches that I must offer. I offer you a chance to lay down your sword and walk away with your breath.” I again said nothing. I knew then what all men must know before they fight. They must know that they can kill and kill without hesitation. Lord Peter Talan was a great man, a great fighter, and an artistic killer. But he did not know what I knew. I neither accepted nor declined his offer. I simply pushed my helmet off with my wrist, as my hand was still filled with my sword. I knew he would do the same. Some men would rather have the protection of the helmet. I did not. Some men would rather not see the men they kill. I didn’t mind. He was a man of honor, and would not allow himself any advantage in combat. He took his helmet off for honor, I took mine off to see his face as he died. His visor had not been opened, and as he took his helmet off, I saw his face. A trimmed beard and dark eyes set upon a weathered and experienced face. His neck was thick and muscled, and stiff as his body tightened in anticipation for the fight. As we came almost within a blades reach of one another, I saw that he was even bigger than I thought. For a moment, I felt concern wash over me. Not fear, for I feared nothing. But concern, for a victorious man can still lose a limb to violence, and a killer is nothing without his hands and his feet. The concern was washed away by the whisper of the god of war. When I heard the whisper, I took a step with my left foot, feigning a slash, then attacked. He barely flinched at the feign, and parried my blow, throwing my sword wide to my right. My midsection was exposed for a moment, but I pulled my shield in front of me, blocking his successive jab. I spun around, using the momentum of the swing to power a downward slash. He brought his blade up, and we were locked in a stalemate for a moment. He threw his power behind his blade, and pushed me backwards. I stumbled for a moment, then regained my footing. In this moment, he died. He saw victory much too early. In his mind, he was at home, with his wife and children. They were eating fine food, and drinking fine wine, and his beautiful wife was beaming with pride at the victory he had won. He saw victory because he was stronger than me. He let his shield fall to the ground, and placed both hands on the gold and silver handle of his sword. Then he walked in, smashing my insufficient defense with the totality of his strength. He crumpled my shield with his first strike, and I was throwing up both my sword and my shield in desperation, trying to defend from the next earth-shattering blow. Again, he smashed my shield, and I felt and heard a pop, as my wrist dislocated. Pain shot up my arm, but still, I held on to that small knife. I managed to catch his blade in the corner of my own, where the traditional straight blade met with the curved piece. He pushed hard, and I felt my sword slipping from my grasp. This was my moment. I threw my left arm behind my body, straightening my wrist to allow my shield to slide off of my forearm. Any movement of my wrist sent a torturous message to my brain, but I was way beyond acknowledging it. As the shield came off of my arm, I was also relieved of my sword. He had pushed hard against it, and it had twisted and pulled out of my hand. For a moment, I held nothing, except that small knife. But as he pushed that sword out of my hand, his body betrayed him. Years of training had left him muscle bound and strong as an ox. He had pushed so hard against my inferior strength, that as my resistance left, his arms still pushed. They pushed against a sword that was falling to the ground, and as he extended, his body twisted. A man of Lord Talon’s caliber wore a beautiful suit of armor. Ornate, decorative, and aesthetically pleasing yes, but also, it was fully functional. When he wore his suit of armor, he had no weakness. His feet were covered in sabatons, iron pieces placed over a leather boot. His knees were covered by hinging pieces called a poleyns. Cuisses covered his thighs, where a man could sever an artery and bleed out. He wore a long sleeved chain mail shirt which came down in a tight fit past his buttocks. His midsection was covered by his breastplate, protecting his chest and heart. A blow from the strongest axe wouldn’t leave more than a dent. His arms were covered from forearm to shoulder, the armor overlapping the breastplate and leaving nothing exposed. Couters covered his elbows, a luxury only the richest could afford. There was no place to stab, cut or slash. Truly, when Lord Peter Talon was wearing his full suit of armor, he had no weakness. But he wasn’t wearing his full suit of armor. As he twisted, as my sword fell out of my hand and my shield was laying on the ground, I swung my left arm back around my body, and stabbed him in the neck. The blade pushed through his skin, his muscle, and finally stopped when it met bone. As I felt the resistance, I slashed it sideways, bleeding him like a pig. He was a great man, but he died like all men die. He fell to the ground, lifeless. I felt the pain in my wrist as my adrenaline faded and my body reverted to its normal function. I saw red, and I tasted victory, but I smelled death. And I heard the whisper of the god of war.


So I saw this prompt on writing prompts and thought it would be a fun challenge to write such a story, but keep it SFW and wholesome. The original post was apparently removed, but I felt like sharing the story somewhere else. Tim looked in the mirror one more time. "You knew you'd have to go out to the store sometime... but like this?" He reached for his jacket, but the empty coat hook reminded him what had happened. Like be could forget considering how he was "dressed" Tim instead grabbed his keys off the counter and headed for his front door. He stopped again at the hallway mirror. "This really is crazy." He said aloud. "But you can't ear cereal forever." - The first few steps to the sidewalk didn't feel particularly strange, then the realization of what he was doing hit all at once. "You're walking down your street like this. Heading to the supermarket 'dressed' like this. This surely isn't legal." It technically wasn't. However, since the event one week ago had effected everyone, even the town's police department, there wasn't much that could be done about it. You can't really go and arrest everyone for so something even the police were doing. Mr. Stevens gave a wave from his garden, which Tim returned. Everyone seemed to be living in a state of perpetual denial. Not that they didn't believe that the event had occurred, only that it was easier to act like nothing was out of the ordinary, than to make a scene every second of the day. The streets were less crowded than usual, but there was still foot traffic. Tim stood waiting for the signal to change along with Mrs. Nichols and her daughter Sarah. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and how lucky it was they had such a nice week of warm weather. Sarah said she was happy school was canceled for the week, but her mother assured her it would be starting again tomorrow as the announcement had said on the news. As the light changed, the crowd continued on their way as they normally would. The sound of bare feet padding on the pavement as everyone went on their way. - Tim reached the supermarket, shivering from the sudden blast of air conditioning as the automatic doors slid open. Mrs. Nichols was placing her daughter into a cart and making her way into the pharmacy aisles while other patrons milled about collecting their weekly supplies. Alex was mopping a spill in a nearby aisle, but was missing his usual "junior sales associate" apron, but that was to be expected considering the circumstances. Tim made his way through the maze of aisles, tossing in whatever he thought he needed. His trip to the freezer section was much less crowded than he was used to and another blast of cold air gave him an idea as to why. "Ah Tim! I haven't seen you since ah... a week ago." John rolled his cart alongside Tim's. They hadn't seen eachother since last week at work, when the workday was cut short and everyone was given the option to work from home. "Crazy isn't it? Everyone's just..." he gestured vaguely at the air around him. Tim scanned the aisles again. "Yeah its definitely different. Only took a week for everyone to just go back to living huh?," John chuckled "well, the only options are hide in your house or try to keep some semblance of normalcy." "This isn't exactly normal John." John shrugged bashfully, "well no. It's not, but what else can we do?" He had a point. To be fair Tim was proving his point right now by having left his house for the market. "I know, I know. Just never imagined I'd be standing in Mary's like, well, like this." Tim said, vaguely gesturing as John had. "Yeah yeah... well, listen, Erica sent out that email about how we could go back in to work if we were, uh up to it. You can work from home if you want still, but I was thinking of, well going in and was wondering if you were..." Tim suddenly felt like he was running complex math equations in his head. "I... I could come in tomorrow. Getting a pit stir crazy I guess just working in my house." John smiled, "ah, well then I'll see you tomorrow!" And with that he rolled his squeaky cart toward the checkout. Tim made a few more laps of the aisles collecting the last of his groceries and joined the queue for the checkout. Mary sat behind the register, scanning each item as it came, making polite conversation all the while. Her usual store apron hung on a rung behind the counter. "Haven't seen you in for awhile Tim." "Ah yeah, well, you know." She let out a quick laugh, "No need to explain dear. I think its obvious why." Tim laughed as well, "yeah. Guess you're seeing that a lot this week." "We're all seeing things differently these days dear" she said, typing away at the register. "Alright, there's your total dear" she said, turning the display. Tim reached for his back pocket to grab his wallet, but froze. "Erm... Mary. You won't believe this, but-" "Forgot it in your pair at home?" She said, with a wry smile. "Uh, something like that." He said, embarrassed. "I can leave this all with you and run home and get-" "You're not the first one today dear, and probably not the last. Just bring the receipt back tomorrow and we'll get it taken care of" "You're the best Mary!" Tim said, as he collected his bags. "I know dear. It's why I'm still working at my age." - Tim took a longer route home. He passed through the park, where the usual activities were taking place, despite the changes. A frisbee flew by with a dog in fast pursuit. He heard laughter from the playground's direction and a few people were lounging in the grass enjoying the summer weather. He could almost feel himself being disappointed if the change suddenly stopped tomorrow. It is definitely that, a change, but it's something he could see himself getting used to this.


Brought to consciousness by the piercing chill of a mountain wind, a man wearily creaks open his eyes to see snow crumbling from his face and clenched between the grasp of his closing fists. Confused and groggy, he begins turning over to see the sun struggling to breach through the cloud that seems to surround him, and also finds himself coming face to face with a young woman; a woman whose long obsidian hair lightly brushes some of what is left of the snow from the man’s face, during its somehow gentle whipping in the midst of this forceful and brisk mountain air. Her complexion almost entirely opposed that of her hair color, and her carried expression was at a crossroads of longing and optimism. He met her gaze of acknowledgement with one of confusion. As he attempts to take in his surroundings and perhaps gain a clue as to what is going on and who this woman is, she places her hand on his cheek to softly run her thumb across it. The man turns back at this new development and begins to open his mouth to speak but is cut off when the woman voices herself in a demanding and caring tone instead. “You will remember, Ronin.” With that, the gentle, warm, and welcome touch of this mystery woman is replaced by a stiffer texture and a much dryer cold as the mountain top on which Ronin had seemed to be atop had now changed. Instead of the choked sun breaching through a cloud, the light is almost nonexistent except for some ambiguous glow that had no clear point of origin, shedding itself no-farther than arm’s length before tapering back into the darkness that seems to be so prominent in this chamber. The snow-covered craggy rocks are being traded for a much flatter and questionably worked stone, but it’s too dark to clearly tell if the ground has been cut. Once again having to gather himself, Ronin begins to shift up from the position he was lying in, atop the peak, all the while every movement made is echoing throughout this perfectly still chamber. The possible expanse of the darkness, growing each passing moment, as any semblance of walls grow farther away; the more fearful thoughts are put in. Ronin, finally getting to his feet, feels the blood begin to rush to his head for the first time in what feels like ages. Ronin exhales a short sigh through dry lips while brushing off what looks to be either dust or dirt, or perhaps even both from his coat buckled over with leather fittings. The clothes he’s wearing appear to fit perfectly and the leathers look to bare nicks from what could possibly be a blade. The slim cuts are too clean to be from the rocks of a mountain top, but he cannot recall being in any confrontation. In fact, reaching into the farthest depths of his memory seemed to show it as empty as this hollow atrium. Inspecting himself further revealed a mundane broadsword sheathed in a metal scabbard riddled with scrapes and pockmarks. Neither the sword nor the scabbard showed anything that would allow them to be identified with any person or place. Just as he’s taking this in, Ronin begins to hear a shuffle along with a murmur. His head begins to quickly spin around in an attempt to locate where these scattered muffled noises are coming from, but pinning a spot of emergence proves itself a hard task with the sounds reverberating off of whatever far-reaching walls are holding them in. Before Ronin has a chance to draw his weapon, a face emerges. And then a body draped in what looks to be, at one point, a beautiful set of ornate robes, now tattered by altercations or time itself. This entity was exuding its own light as it shown a pale green human like form that began to pace through what was still a mass of black. Ronin remained still, waiting for this creature to act. But it continued its seemingly pointless path, stepping back and forth while mumbling some incoherent phrases that trailed off into new thoughts. This moment is taken to more closely inspect what at first sight has the look of some incorporeal specter floating through the space only fifteen feet away, but now is proving itself to have some footing in the material world with each of its barefooted feet finding purchase on this now clearly cut stone. Filling the immediate space of this chamber with the pattering of skin and the sound of bone, it becomes clearer that what would be the skin of this hairless creature is not fully intact. Pieces of flesh missing on spots of the decayed cheek where the teeth are visibly clenched; the moving mandible jostling a chunk that batters against the throat which is vibrating with the indecisive speech of a man who has all but lost his mind. However, the most prominent feature this being possesses are the larger feathered wings that sprawl and twitch with every other step of the pacing. The wings themselves were missing patches and seemingly lacking an air about them, which must have once been a beautiful sight. Ronin then spoke out to this remain of what is now a miserable and wretched version of an angel. He managed to utter words through an extremely dry pair of vocal cords that produced a husky and worn sounding, “Hello?” Followed by his own cough and the completely still animation and noise of the angel. The head quickly turned to the space next to Ronin and then snapping to look him directly in the eyes, the sound of the neck turning being a mixture of dry bones and stringy sinew squishing out of a large gash in the neck, but no signs of blood or any other lubricant that would give it moisture. In this stare, it was now clear both the harrowing gaze this being possessed and also the intimidating size of the angel. The height reaching what could be guessed to be around thirteen feet and the wings, furling out in an uneven and curious manor, making themselves between five to six feet on their own. This towering stature mixed with its horrifying visage created an aura that infected Ronin’s own courage and began to turn it into a rot that he could feel eating away at any thought of fighting this fiend. Shakily the angel took its bony finger with its over-extended fingernails and rubbed its sickly jade colored scalp in almost a nervous fashion before bringing back down to interlock with its other spindly match. It was then that it seemed the angel began to notice Ronin’s physical presence as opposed to the dead stare that seemingly peered into his own doubt. The angel’s single step forward was met with two steps back from Ronin. There’s a pause and then the ghoulish being spoke. “Those like you should never walk among us. You should not be walking this HALL!” The angel shouted with an intensity and strength which heavily conflicted with its appearance but, nevertheless, reached whatever far lying walls escaped to the edges of this now named hall. “What are you?” Ronin manages to force out without showing too much shakiness in his voice. “He’s here you know…” The angel snaps his head back with a creak and a gasp as he stares back into the abyss-like void of no light that surrounds them both just long enough for Ronin to begin to look in that direction as well before whipping back around as the lobe of its left ear falls away onto the stone below. Now leaning in intently to Ronin as if guarding a secret. Strangely the stench of decay doesn’t permeate the angel, but rather, the smell of old stored away leathers left for years at a time. The cold, but still full of emotion, eyes looking into Ronin’s; two rings of white surrounding entirely dilated deep black pupils darting back and forth almost as if trying to figure out which of Ronin’s to speak into. “He…” The angel starts again but chokes out his own words by beginning to chew on the skin of the tip of his fingers beneath the nail. This making whatever apparent warning impossible to hear over his masochistic devouring of his index and middle fingers simultaneously, but still mumbling through them, nonetheless. “Come now Ithreaus, your revolting habits are no way to welcome guests, now are they?” A voice billows out of the dark that is much stronger and sure of itself than that of the angel’s, but still disembodied. “Yes, my lord.” Ithreaus says fearfully as he places his hands back into their interlocking positions resting on his chest as his gaze has now shot to the floor. “How was your slumber Ronin?” The faceless voice turning its attention to the, seemingly, only living being in this exchange. “My slumber?” Ronin scratchily works out. “How did you sleep?” Ronin now able to watch the unnaturally deep words ease themselves out of the smirking lipless mouth of a lion shaped face without a mane for contrast, made of what would appear to be burning coals or embers, emerging itself into the lurid pale green light emanating from Ithreaus “I find it hard to imagine lying underground for years, covered in dirt can be a pleasant and forgiving experience.” Now the entity has all but fully emerged from the shadow and showing its body wrapped in some form of dark toned tapestry. It is clear there is a scene embroidered upon it but being wrapped around this, perhaps, demon in a dark chamber makes it impossible to surmise. “I was asleep?” Ronin asks almost instinctually as to keep the conversation going while processing what it is he is seeing. “No, actually you were dead; for many years in fact.” The answer from this manipulated form of a feline creature grasping Ronin’s full attention. “If you’re saying I was dead? Then why am I standing here now? What are you? What is he? And what am I doing here?” Ronin, beginning to grow more comfortable with his place in the conversation, lets out a flood of questions that have been building since he woke here just a moment ago. “Careful.” The unnamed creature sternly warns with a snarl; all playfulness and welcoming spirit suddenly gone from its voice. This outburst is taken back immediately by Ronin who has had the tiniest bit of conversational leverage he perceived himself to have ripped away, and now feeling smaller on the standing on the cold floor than he had before. “You are a guest after all…do not overstep. You are alive now because I have willed it Ronin. Your resurrection was manifested by my hands. Not only does your life belong to me but so do your memories. I’ve found that if not withheld, memories cause the thralls to run back home and join in reunions, and I find that quite boring. I will say that I do enjoy watching their faces when they realize what trepidation they brought upon their families when I splay their beloveds on the ceilings of their homes or burn them all inside, screaming, while the one belonging to me feels no heat at all.” The devilish monster lets out an at ease sigh as it seems to be momentarily relaxing in a tranquil thought somewhere deep in a recess of his undoubtably horrific mind. “I digress; you’re the first of a new kind. You see I’m going to use you Ronin. You will be a vessel for me when I need it and when I don’t, you’ll be free to wander or do as you please. Doesn’t that sound much better than feeding the crawling worms beneath the ground?” Ronin takes a moment to consider. “If I were to refuse, what then?” While still extremely petrified by the towering figure that is more or less giving him an order, Ronin finds that no matter how frightened he has become there seems to be a bit of mettle that protects his own bravery from sinking too low in this darkness. The lion-like features on the face glow with a subtle light, almost emerging from some interior flame. This flickering glow extends to the hollow sockets where eyes would normally situate themselves. After hearing this question, a large grin begins to widen underneath the snout of the fiend. “Then you take his place.” He then gestures his smoldering paw towards Ithreaus who now has taken to his knees and appears to be rubbing the stone in careful detailed circles while one side of his face looks to be crying and the other seems to be in a dead stare into the distance past Ronin. “I’ll let you have a little taste of what it was to walk on the earthen soil instead of filling it; then you can make your decision.” Just as the demon finishes his sentence, the crushing sound of stone scrapping on stone fills the space just before a small light in the distance shines a natural light in the hall from behind Ronin. With this little bit of light now breaching through the pitch black that had become normalcy, Ronin is now able to see that the wide body of the dominating figure was human like but only in its shape and stance. Two muscular arms slipped out from underneath the black and silver tapestry; sprawling out below was what might have been its most terrifying feature. The body continued down unto two cat-like legs but where the body would naturally taper into a tail, the torso continued into a snake like design that looked to be moved by several more pairs of resting legs. The extent of the length disappeared back into the shadow. “Go on now.” The demon said with a smugness and a suggestive smile before extending a paw towards the opening in the room. Before turning around, Ronin took one last look behind the creatures and noticed a shrine along with what looked to be the shape of pillars leading out of view into the shadow of the darkness. He looked to be standing in some ancient place of worship lost for some reason likely only known by this malicious monstrosity. Slowly and suspiciously, Ronin began to turn to leave and as he did the nightmare now looming over Ronin moved with his eyes until he faced away entirely. The first sight to Ronin’s eyes is a staircase of twenty or so large stone steps descending into what shows itself to be a field of statues leading to the opening of light. Taking slow steps down these large stairs and occasionally looking back to be aware of any movements from the two stationary beings he’s leaving behind. The ember-glowing lion still smiling and Itheaus still on his knees but peering out past Ronin into the field of statues with a contortion of almost guilt animating his face, making his way down the staircase and now entering the long expanse of these statues all shaped into different stances. Walking through them now, he is able to see that they hold a strong likeness to Ithreaus if he were what he was before whatever fate happened upon him. Some of them stuck in mid-stride wielding great claymores or shields and others depict angels leaning down and perhaps caring for a fallen ally. All seem to be faced towards the staircase and toward the shrine. A few of the works closer to the shrine have faces twisted with fear or pain and others seem to be bracing for something. Walking through this underground field, it is clear there are hundreds of these, and the light continues to show more the wider his gaze expands. Eventually Ronin comes to find his way to the light, and he begins to feel the warmth of the sun melt its way through the chillness of the chamber. Slowly he climbs the last set of stairs, as the sunlight blinds his unadjusted eyes, leading back into a world completely new to him and holding a destiny that may or may not be his to decide.


“REMEMBAH KIDDIES! YOU WON’T GET YO PUDDIN’ IF YOU DON’T EAT YO MEAT!” she blared once again through that pie-hole that she called a mouth. Mrs Wizzlemuck, or as the children knew her (the kids were not very creative): Fucking Idiot. Fucking Idiot walked through the benches, lightly tapping the shoulders of all the children as she went by. Little Monty too was among the newest batch of burnt out children that were now to be crushed with overwhelming unnecessary pressures and shat down the poophole that is known as Education. He chowed down his disgusting food like a glutton with an appetite for the fattest horse in a rundown race track. His partner ate and continued to tell Monty about his older classes in a better school, with a proud, shit-eating grin. Monty remembered all the times that he had spent in his earlier classes. Fifth grade! Wow! That’s real big, lil’ dude! They had said to him two years before. This year too, his parents had told him Sixth grade! That’s real big, lil’ dude! Frankly, little Monty found this annoying. He was told every year would be more important, and yet he felt the same. When will it really happen? When will I feel more important? Or even better, when will I ever feel as important as they tell me I am? Little did Monty know that that would happen sixty years later when he would die from a stroke, choking on his own vomit and slowly setting his ass onto the nearest commode, defecating violently, and he wouldn’t even have the time to realise that it had happened. Moving on, as Monty shifted in his bench, moving his tiffin-box aside and looking towards his partner, he set his books in front of him. He took out the first textbook. ABSOLUTE SHIT THAT YOU WILL NEVER USE the title read, he looked a little lower on the front page: BY – SOME TIT WITH TOO MUCH TIME ON HIS HANDS. He smirked. He thought it was a math textbook. Apparently it wasn’t. He brought out the rest of the wonderful books he would be staring blankly at for the next year. BULLSHIT FACTS THAT DON’T HOLD TRUE ANYMORE and TEACHING KIDS SEX IS BAD SINCE 1978 were among them. Average, school-ey stuff. “WHY DIDN’T YOU EAT YER DAM MEAT YOU GOOD FER NOTHIN LIL’ BRAT”, a certain Fucking Idiot said, peering close into Monty’s little face. Her pimples, wrinkles and ugliness converged into the hideousness that is her face, which angrily looked at him. “AREN’T YOU SCARED OF ME KID? WHY WON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME YA?” “WON’T YOU LISTEN TO YER TEACHERS? YOU WANT A LIL’ SMACK ON YOUR NOGGIN DO YA?” And then, it hit him. Something happened to Monty. Whether it was a ray of light that fucked with his head or a sudden epiphany that would lead to a change in society forever, something hit him. But he thought of something. Little Monty thought: Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What AM I afraid of? What the FUCK am I afraid of? And then, it happened. Little Monty looked his teacher straight in the eye, got up, off his desk, and uttered words that were never uttered before in any school: “You fucking tit. Yes. YOU, you fucking tit. YES! I want a smack on my noggin. Come on. Smack my noggin. You BITCH.” Obviously, the very bounds of space-time stopped expanding. Every moment in time looked at Little Monty and thought, that’s a fuckin’ spectacle, that is. Time stopped, students stared, and the child next to Tommy very, very slowly moved to the nearest empty bench. Fucking Idiot stood there. She couldn’t have reacted. The very laws of physics would not allow it. She stood there, her pie-hole gaping, her eyes ripping out of their ugly, dark sockets, and her anger slowly pulsating into fear. “Come here, you Fucking Idiot.” Monty said, as he started to take his blazer off. He didn’t blink, nor did his gaze move an inch from Idiot’s crusty, shallow eyes. “HEY! Uhh, you’re uhh, kiddies go call the principal. Quick…please…” “WHY?” Monty spoke, really loudly. Every syllable echoed through the class. It might as well have been just him, and that Fucking Idiot. He began to unzip his pants. The teacher watched in horror, and reminisced the time she was abused as a child. Maybe that’s why she was a tit now. He unzipped his pants, and his face inched forward. Monty decided to use the only weapons he had. He lowered them, and they dropped to his knees. For that one split second, Fucking Idiot looked down at his naked knees, and then quickly back at him, with a horror that she didn’t know she could experience. Monty stood up, onto the desk. He dropped his underwear too. He then began to piss all over the desk. Everyone in the class could not control it anymore. They looked at him, his wiener, and the piss it produced. They looked back at Idiot, staring at the whole thing, as though it was an exhibit at a Piss Museum in Langley Lane. “WHAT! CAN’T A BOY HAVE A PISS IN PEACE!?” he said, as he strafed left and right on his spot, sprinkling a fine amount of his fluids over all the other benches, as the other students turned away in fear and awe. Fucking Idiot seemed almost philosophically struck. It looked as though Little Monty had touched some buttons, for she stood more in awe than anything else. She looked at him with wide, but pondering eyes, seemingly wondering something. She barely seemed angry anymore. “Oye, woman. Lookit here. Look. I’m pissing on the bench. I AM PISSING ON THE FUCKING BENCH.” Monty whispered in a frequency akin to most serial killers, as his now flashing red eyes looked at Idiot. Fucking Idiot didn’t make a sound. Neither did she make a face. “You look at me woman. Look here” Monty stopped pissing. Maybe he was done, maybe he was saving for later. He looked at her, and grabbed her hair with his left hand, and looked her in the eye. “Look. I have a lot of fucking stress in my life, okay? I don’t want to fucking EAT my MEAT.” “I don’t want it. I don’t want my meat. I don’t want the pudding. You can keep it, that’s fucking FINE.” The anger now started to quell up his throat. You could hear a very childish sort of, angry frustration in him. Monty got down from his desk, let go of Mrs Wizzlemuck’s hair, and sat down again. He looked at everyone, looking at him. He let out a loud scream, and started to cry. He looked at his nemesis once again, tears now streaming as fast as his piss did moments ago. He put his head down on his desk, forgetting about the puddle he had left there just a minute ago, and remained silent for three full minutes. “Leave him alone, kiddies.” Mrs Wizzlemuck said. “The kid's just tired.


I stare into the bottom of the glass and contemplate the last swallow. Absentmindedly, I swirl the wet tumbler in lazy circles over the bar. If I drain the glass, the question will be whether to order another or leave. And go where? Yes, unlike some, I do have a home with a roof, a bed, hot and cold running water. And echoes. Echoes of someone to come home to, of cold feet to warm, of comfort food to eat, of secrets, jokes, hugs and laughs shared. Of medication and nausea, of pain and helplessness, of fake smiles and false bravery, of promises that could not be kept, of plans that were never made, of time that ran out. With a sigh, I reach into my pocket and place a twenty on the bar. "G'night." Jake barely looks up from his track sheet, just a nod in acknowledgement. I shrug into my coat and huddle against the biting cold wind that comes up the avenue. About an hour later I call my sister. "Hey. Yeah, I'm good. No, really. I'm okay. Didn't wake you, did I? Good. Thanks for lying. No, I just got in a little while ago. Right, Jakes'. Nah, it was quiet. Just about as quiet as here. So, ... Yeah, I know... Actually. How can you tell when a dog goes into labor?" I hold the phone away from my ear and grin. When was the last time I grinned? "Sh. I think the neighbors heard you. Well, you know that alley behind Jakes?... Yes, the one off Race. Anyway, I thought I heard something... I know. But it sounded like a dog. You know that high-pitched nasal sound?... Exactly! Well, it was. I guess you could call it a small Benji -type. You know, scruffy... Well, sort of brown, dirty. Mostly. No. I think it's bigger than one of those Mexican things. It has one ear that stands up and one that flops over. I guess you could say it's cute. Someone had tied it to the dumpster. Can you believe that? Yeah, of course, I thought about her. God! In the middle of one of her coughing attacks she'd say she wanted one. Shit! Would make me so mad! As if she wasn't dying fast enough.  You know what she'd say, right? Living went too fast and dying took too long... ... Sorry." I cough and swallow. " ... Sorry... Yes, of course, I untied it. I'm still human, sis. Geez! Sorry, you're right. You're right. Sure, it walked right with me. You know that all-night place on the corner here, right? With that old Vietnamese woman? ... Yeah, the grandma. I asked her about flea shampoo. She said, and I quote: "no fleas, babies." I don't know. I guess she saw the belly. Anyway, she sold me two cans of... wait a sec." I walk to the counter and give my sister the name of the dog food. "So, that's okay then? The old lady said, "Good stuff, good stuff." ... Ha. I know, right? Like that time, we tried to buy some dope, remember? We probably paid for oregano or sage, or something... So, the little thing ate half a can... No, no. A spoonful at a time... Right. And I gave it a bath... No, in the dishpan. Mostly just warm water. There isn't much to her, you know. Once all the dirt was gone. Just a big belly. How big? Well, she couldn't get up the stairs. She kept getting stuck... Well, yeah, her legs are short. But it seemed to hurt when she'd hit it. Yes, sis. I carried it upstairs. Wait! ... Oh, man! ... This is awesome! ...." Why am I whispering? I guess she doesn't need any help ... No, it's half out ... Kinda dark and slimy. Sort of like a wet blood sausage. Oof! There it is. Wait! She's eating it! ... Oh. Really? ... Why? Oh. How do they know to do that? And why don't people know that? No, I mean why do women have to have classes and go in hospital and get shots and all that? Sure, right ... Yeah. Hurrah for evolution. No. She's licking it now ... Go little fellow ... Go! Go! ... Go! ... Come on! ... There. He found a nipple. Will she have milk? You think she'll have more? Wait. There's someone at my door. Who would ...? Oh, Hi, sis. Where is she? Under the table. Why did you set her up there? She was still a little damp. Figured she needed the warmth from the radiator. Hey sweetheart ... Right, absolutely. My bad ... You better check, bro. Check what? Reach in there and see if there are any more pups. You want me to ... No way! Okay, we'll just sit here and wait, then. Alright. You want a drink? No, I don't want a drink. I want you to check. You want me to fist a little thing like that? Oh man! One finger would do it. Is that an eye roll? Let me ask you, sis. When you were having Maryanne, did you want someone to stick a finger up your ... Hm? -----. Right. You want that drink now? Yeah, sure. Something bumps my leg . Hey, little one. What can I get you? ... Oh ... Okay Some minutes later. I'm thinking of moving. Ground floor, walk-out. Wadda ya think? Sure. Good idea. Then you can get a Stairmaster. One of those things you hang clothes on? No, thank you. Can you train a dog to use a litter box? No. Bummer. What's she doing? Having babies. Cool. You guys want a puppy? We'll see. Yeah, that's parent talk for no, right? Hm mm. In that case, when are you bringing Maryanne over, huh? Not until you've found homes for these. Coward. Bully! .... How are you, really? I was at Jakes'. What does that tell you, hm? Even he didn't want to talk to me anymore. So, ... So, the Universe put her out there for you. Yeah, right. The Univers has nothing better to do. It saw me sitting on a barstool and said that guy looks like he could use a pup or three. ... It's just ... What? It's just a year too late, you know? Yeah. Maya would have been all over it, I know. She would have dressed it up in cute outfits. Yeah, I can see that. Right ... hm. I cough. Damn! I miss her. Yeah, I know. And you always will. Helpful, sis! And so optimistic. No. Realistic. You know you'll never forget her, and you shouldn't. So, just live with the hole in my life? Hm mm. That hole will be there anyway, right? Don't be afraid to look at it. Plant flowers around it. Make it more palatable. Flowers? Why am I fighting this? Figurative flowers, brother, dear." Another eye roll. " Like this dog. Plant the dog in the hole? Grr! Don't be dense! Think about it. Maybe she didn't come a year too late. Maybe she's here right on time. Maybe you are ready to think about, care about something again. The dog in place of Maya? Could I? Hm, maybe. Sure. Just do me one favor. What? Don't call it Maya. Right. Point taken. How about Mini? Mini? You know, Mini Benji? Cute! Yes. Now she's yours. What do you mean, she's mine? Mild panic. Only mild? Interesting. You named her. Mini is now your pet. You're her human. It's okay to keep on living, brother. Bring the lot to the clinic next week, I'll make sure they get checked over, okay? Now I'm going home and let Marc warm up my toes. Happy New Year. Happy New Year, sis. I stare into the bottom of my glass. Thoughtfully, I swirl the wet tumbler over the tabletop. Under the table, Mini and her two pups are huddled together on Maya's old afghan, snoozing near the radiator. Can I move on? Is that what people do? Wouldn't that be disloyal? Maya would have loved Mini, coughing and gasping for every breath, while hugging it. Do I have anything left to give or did I bury myself along with her? Am I ready to take care of something again? What if I fail? This little dog has been failed enough. Can I give her what she needs? Do I even know what she needs? How will I know? I guess I'll be googling tomorrow. "What is it Mini? Are you a proud mamma? You did a really good job, little girl. Oh, you want another bite? Sure. Here you go. Tomorrow we'll see if we can find a winter coat for you, okay?" Happy new year, Mini. And yeah, maybe happy new year me, too.


The Ghost Child There once was a child named Wren, an eerie looking boy of 8. He had long raven black hair and grey eyes, giving him the appearance of a shade or a dark villain. He was thin as a stick and pale as a corpse. He lived in a house at the far edge of the town, a miserable part of the neighbourhood. He had no family nor friends. His parents died when he was young and no relative was willing to take care of him. He tried making friends but made none. Anyone who saw him would always run away because he looked scary. Every time he tried to be friends with kids his age, they would be pulled away by their frightened parents or guardians. They were so afraid, they thought they looked at the Devil straight in the face. They would always warn their children not to get near him and tell stories of the "Ghost Child". As the story became popular throughout the town, the more people would turn away and scorn him. He could never go outside during the day but only at night, for fear that he would be killed by them. He could only see the outside world through the boards on the barred windows and watch the other children play. By nightfall, it was safe to leave his refuge. He begged on the streets for food. Never cared for money because he never learned how to use it. In lonesome nights, he would visit old shops or rummage through garbage to beg or look for something to eat. Most of the time, he would be met with a stone to the face or a stick on the arm but there are others that took pity on him and gave him scraps. However, that wasn't the only reason why he would wander around. He would sometimes search for toys and dolls, thrown away by others. Broken and abandoned. Just like himself. He would take them home and fix them up. It was the only thing he felt comfort with. There were plenty of toys on the old shelves around his room. Stuffed animals, meticulously mended, as if they look like it came from the shop. Dolls, excellently repaired, like it was created by its maker. It continued like this for about four years. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* On the night of his twelfth birthday , he finally snapped. The weight of infamy is too heavy to handle. In bitter despair, he wailed in agony. He had a toy in his hand, still unfinished. He threw it across the room. It broke when it made contact with the wall. He threw a tantrum and his screams can be heard outside. It continued for a whole minute. Then he stopped. The walls, already dilapidated, was riddled with holes. The bed was attacked with the tools he used for repairs and several pieces of wool flew from it. His eyes stared emptily on the ceiling then down to his worktable. A pair of silver scissors, gleaming in the moonlight, shone in his eyes like a star. He took it and examined it closely. Simple in design and sharp to the touch. These were the scissors that he mended the toys with care. And the ones that will end his misery. He pointed it to his chest, right on his heart. But before he could do it, he heard a voice. "Stop!" it cried. A girl's voice. He froze and dropped the scissors. He turned around and glanced at the doorway. A little girl wearing a blue ballerina's attire was by the door. She had short hair, white as snow, and golden eyes, the color of honey. She was not alone. A couple also stood behind her. A blonde woman in red with grey eyes and a tan skinned man with raven black hair. Wren had not used his voice when his parents died. It sounded coarse and gravelly yet retaining the child who owned it. "Mom?". She nodded. "Dad?". He nodded. He slowly approached them but hesitated to touch them. *They were dead.* He knows this. He saw them die. But it felt so real. He touched their hands. They are there. He couldn't hold back the tears and neither did they. The parents bent down to hug their son tightly, and Wren did in return. "That's not all, Wren," said the mom, in between tears. "There other people waiting for you outside," said the dad. "And they want to be friends with you." He could not believe it. *Friends?* He abandoned that hope long ago. Who would be friends with the Ghost Child. The girl led them outside the room and he could see the inside of the house. It's not the old gray walls and empty halls that he was familiar of, it was the complete opposite of it. The halls were colorful and everything looked new. The house feels warm and comfortable. But that's not all. There are also people there. A lot of unfamiliar and strange faces, and they are all smiling at him. It seems they are glad to meet him. Wren was baffled by their reactions. *Why would they be glad to see a child of a specter?* They went to the dining room. He could smell the wonderful food prepared in it. And it was a feast. Roasts, soups, sweets and garnishes galore. The table could barely stand due to the weight. He was seated at the middle of the table with his parents at his side. From the kitchen on the left, a cake was brought in. It was lit with a candle and it was placed in front of him. He looked at his parents to ask what is it for. "It's your birthday, Wren," said Mom. "It's for you." She held his cheeks. "Our little friend." He blew the candle and they all cheered. It was the best night that he could ever wish for. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* It was morning outside and the light brightened up the gloom. The people outside, woke up and readied themselves for the day. The children went to school and the adults go to work. However, a handful of people stood outside an old house. They heard a scream the night before and they decided to find the source. Others speculated that it was a demon or a ghost but others knew it was the fabled "Ghost Child". They quietly entered, lanterns and axes at the ready. Searching the halls and rooms for the phantom. A man stumbled upon a room with the door slightly open. He motioned for the others that he found it. They opened it. And saw the "Ghost Child". Or what remains of him. The child was slumped over a pool of blood and a pair of scissors, pierced in his heart. Surrounded by dolls and toys. He had a smile in his face. And it was proof that he was only a kind child, deserted by a cruel world. (First time posting here.


It was pitch black. It came so quickly, and the sheer horror of the fall along with it. Who knew that once it came to that time, you would freeze. The thing that you had always prepared for, the moment that you were so sure that when you were thrown into it, you would make the right decision. I looked up into the ineffably blue sky; the sun gleaming hard and unsettlingly into my eyes. I laid quietly, absolutely still as the thoughts of what just transpired seeped into my mind. How did I get here? What did I do to deserve this? How is it that only seconds before, I felt as if I were flying, and now? My eyes rolled back into my head as I replayed the moment over and over, trying to soak up each second of it before my memory went. “No,” I said. “I will not go today. I do not care how disappointed she will be. I will not go today.” “Tell that to her then,” Kristen replied. “I just can’t miss going to the barn today; she will have to understand, right?” “I’m sure she will. Just tell her.” “Okay, okay. Fine. I will just go over there and just speak. I’ll let the words flow. I will tell her that I cannot go today.” “That’s the spirit.” I gather myself briefly and march painfully and hesitantly over to where she was standing, my coach, leaning up against the rough brick wall that separates the atrium from the hallway, chatting in an animated, yet inaudible way with a fellow teammate of mine.

I don’t want to interrupt, but I still feel myself inching closer, my legs unwillingly moving forward as I knew that I had to get it over with. I promised myself at the beginning of the year that I would practice. I cleared my throat and looked her in the eye with such failing confidence that I am pretty sure she knew immediately that I was nervous. “Hey, Larissa... I um.. just wanted to uh…. let you know that I can’t make it to practice today,” I sputtered. “Thanks for letting me know,” she returned. She gave a quick smile and resumed her previous conversation. I nodded awkwardly and walked away, wondering if that twisting knot in the pit of my stomach is a peculiar form of relief or just more anxiety creeping up on me. Is it weird that I don’t feel any better? I bypass Kristen completely and blow out the door, practically running to get to my car. Ah, comfortable and lovable Brad. I have always used my car to escape from troublesome situations, mostly because I can lock the doors and just sit for a while. I begin to drive home to decompress for a couple of minutes while I wait for my mom to get off of her meeting so we can head out to the barn. I grab a snack and munch on it quietly while I wait. I think about my horse, Bailey. She is absolutely gorgeous, with her slender, sculpted face; her eyes, one brown and one blue. She is sturdy and strong, yet lean at the same time. Her shiny, fuzzy, orangey-brown and white coat with her soft, gleaming mane and tail. I adore her. She is confident and sassy and I admire her simple attitude towards life. Maybe that’s because she’s a horse, but who knows? My mom interrupts me deep in thought, “You ready to go?” “Oh, yeah, I’m ready.”

“Okay, let’s get going then!” She laughs and claps her hands excitedly. She enjoys this as much as I do, if not more. We jump in the car and head on our way. I look out the window eagerly as I just can’t wait to arrive. I started to unconsciously bite my nails. Damn. I need to stop that. After a dragging half an hour, we finally pulled into the dirt, currently muddy, driveway that belongs to Kimberly. The familiar sound of her four dogs yapping loudly at our car gives me pleasure and I jump out to meet them. After a couple of minutes of face licking, I get right to work. I go and grab my horse to start tacking her up. I brush her completely in minutes. I finish up and start walking out to the ring up at the top of the hill. Kimberly meets me halfway. “Hello! How are we today?” She said cheerfully. She patted Bailey’s face gently.

I smiled, “I’m great! Bailey seems full of energy today.”

“She should be, she stayed inside all morning.” Kimberly inspected her legs for nicks for a succinct moment and motioned for me to keep going. I tugged on her reins and clicked my tongue to usher her forward, and she followed. I lunged her for a solid ten minutes before deciding that she was calm enough to get on. I guess she isn’t so excited after all. I got on and immediately knew I forgot something. My spurs. My encouraging pokey sticks. I mentally slapped myself in the face because I knew that once she caught on to the fact that I was without them, I was a goner. I would have no power. I banished the thought from my head with a shake and carried on. She noticed immediately. I sighed slightly as her entire demeanor changed from tired and slow to snappy and wicked.

She jerked around and played with speed, with me struggling to keep her under control. I quickly became frustrated at this ten-year-old. She should know better at this point. I had always let her do this. I let her win too easily and now she is taking advantage. That was one of my resolutions. I have to be pushier with her. I suppose I failed in that aspect.

But no, I am determined now. I must get the better of her. I got the better of nothing this year. From the very beginning, I had promised myself a number of things. I promised I would speak up, for one, be confident. That didn’t take me very far. I had also said that I would work out more. Nope. Not even a little bit. The last thing I promised myself is that I would be a better horse owner. I never had enough confidence to make the effort to curb her behavior and in almost every way, she dominated me. I cannot let her win now. I snapped back, put some sass back into her and, guess what, it worked. She stopped. She dropped her head, arched her neck and lifted her back. It was beautiful. I was ecstatic. I had finally done it! I was so proud of myself that I didn’t see it coming. I stood up in the saddle and pumped my fist up in the air. The last thing I heard before it happened was my mom and Kimberly shouting at me to sit up. It was pitch black. It came so quickly, and the sheer horror of the fall along with it. Who knew that once it came to that time, you would freeze. The thing that you had always prepared for, the moment that you were so sure that when you were thrown into it, you would make the right decision. I woke up soon after on my back, everything aching. I couldn’t move. I struggled to keep my eyes open, if they were open at all. All of a sudden, it stopped. The aching, that is. I kind of just started feeling all fuzzy. I looked down at a figure lying in a mangled heap in a muddy ditch. There's no point in it all. Resolutions. They are promises that no one really intends to keep. I guess I still have time to complete at least one. Confidence. I turn around and walk, not looking back. Not ever.


I gritted my teeth and winced as the needle pushed into and pulled out of the skin of my left shoulder. With one final tug, I was done. I looked at my arm in the mirror propped up on the table and smiled. This was my finest piece yet. The tattoo was in a rich black ink; the lines were clean and bold. It depicted a lion, rearing up on its hind legs and roaring. Below the lion was a crest depicting royalty. This was indeed a tattoo worthy of a duke. I stepped back from the mirror so that my whole body was in view and pulled up my pant leg. My eyes traced the tattoos up my leg, across my chest, and came to rest on the new one now on my arm before falling back down and looking at the small markings on my foot. This particular tattoo, though crude and faded, would always be the most important to me. It was my very first. It grounded me, reminded me of my humble beginnings. It was a shipyard slave's tattoo. A mark applied by cruel owners to signify the bearer was nothing more than property, worth less even than the cattle they herded onto and off of the ships. Further up my leg, on my calf, was an eagle. This tattoo belong to a soldier, a man who was still a slave, albeit to a general rather than a cruel shipyard master. A man who had faced the horrors of gory combat and yet had fought bravely to earn his freedom. My second. My forearm bore the image of a whale with two crossed harpoons underneath. The tattoo of a man who had saved to buy his own ship. A man who had clawed his way up in the world and become a successful merchant. My first tattoo that had belonged to a truly free man. On my chest, above my heart was an olive branch. This tattoo had belonged to a politician. A man of the people. A man who had fought bravely against all odds in the parliament to enact laws against cruelty to slaves. A man who truly saw all humans as equals and spread that vision with a passion. Now, I wear the tattoo of a duke. My tattoos tell the story of a man's progress in the world. They tell my story. A story of hope. A story of a small man achieving greatness against all odds. They are my tokens, my reminders. I stared at the body lying on the floor behind me and scoffed. For being a duke, he had gone down without much of a fight at all. His arm glistened bright red in the moonlight where I had peeled the skin containing his tattoo. Looking one final time in the mirror I smiled at my handiwork. My stitches were small, clean... neat. Much neater than my first attempt stitching the slave's tattoo to my foot. As I hopped out the window and ran from the manor I glanced at my bare right shoulder. I heard that the king would be coming into town next month. Yes, this spot deserves the tattoo of a king.


On the night I met him, I knew he would be something special to me. I didn’t know what, but I knew. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I didn’t love him then, but I knew, at some point, I would love him. That night, we were on the bus back to the hotel we were both staying at and he asked if I wanted to share his headphones. We sat quietly, hands in our laps, afraid to let our elbows touch while our souls became tied together by the wires on his old earbuds that were just a little too short for comfort between us. As one song came to an end and the next began, he looked at me. “Please don’t make fun of me for this song,” he looked so vulnerable. “I love this song!” I said it a little too loud, trying not to make him feel like I was judging him. It was true, I did love that song. I didn’t say it then, but I’d been listening to it practically on repeat for the past few weeks. As we sat, I could see his eyes moving, and I knew where they were looking. Such topics are taboo among strangers, though. Nevertheless, he asked. “What happened to your wrist?” I became defensive, but his eyes weren’t the only ones wandering. “What happened to yours?” he just looked at me. We sat the rest of the bus ride in silence, but we could both sense the other’s anxiety. Just before we pulled in, he got a call, but he quickly turned his phone over. “Was that your girlfriend?” I teased. “Yeah, actually, but we both know it’s pretty much over.” I was quiet after that. We said goodbye and went our separate ways. He texted me almost as soon as I got to my room. “Hey :) what’s up?” I could already feel the butterflies when I saw his name pop up on my screen. I told myself I wouldn’t fall. I was 2,516 miles from home, and I had no idea how far away from me he lived. I pushed my feelings from the bus as far down into the bottom of my stomach as I could as we talked, but I couldn’t hold back the little smiles. He wanted to show me something he’d learned, and he asked me to come meet him in the stairs at 11:45. I was so nervous. I walked to the fire escape, and I could feel my heart trying to choke me before I made it down. I can’t remember what we talked about standing there in the fire escape just before midnight, but I remember walking away so happy. He would tell me later that after he left, he’d come back to the stairs to see if I was still there. He wanted me to go out with him that night, but he’d been too afraid to ask and I’d already gone. I still tease him for it, for being too scared to ask me the first time. We always wonder what would’ve happened if he had. Two days later, we were on different planes headed to different states. He wouldn’t go to bed until I was home safe. I’d never felt more special. Until then, I’d had no romantic endeavors, and the fact that he seemed to be interested in me made my whole world glow. In the back of my mind, though, I remembered the phone call. I could feel a small knot in the bottom of my stomach, but I ignored it. Little did I know this was the first time I would feel something I’d come to know like the back of my hand. About two weeks later, things officially ended with his girlfriend. For the next few months, I was on top of the world. He gave me everything he could, despite the 1,818 miles between us. Oh, how in love I fell. I remember the first time he told me he loved me, the promises he made, the little things he’d say just to make me smile. It seemed that finally, after so long, things were beginning to look up for me. My depression was becoming manageable and I had someone who I could talk to who knew what I was going through. He only let me call him baby once. He told me the distance would make a relationship too hard for both of us, but it was okay for us to love each other. He told me he’d always love me, and when the time was right, we’d make it work. I believed him. Around the fourth month, though, came the beginning of the end of my world. He and his ex, the girl who’d called him on the bus, began getting together again. It started as a way for him to manage his mental issues, but soon they were together again. Everyone knew it wouldn’t last, but I’ll never forget the way my stomach dropped every time I would see pictures of them. I was in a position where I held no power. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want her around, I wasn’t his girlfriend. I couldn’t say I was jealous; I didn’t hold such a position in his life. For those few brief months, I toughed it out. Every night I reminded him that I loved him, and I’d always wait for him. Every day he’d remind me that he still loved me too, and we still talked about all the things we used to. All our dreams, all our hopes, how we couldn’t wait to see each other. Finally, when it ended for the second time, I sat and listened to him on the phone while he cried. In the weeks following, his drinking picked up. I’d wake up to him calling, drunk again, telling me how he was going to hurt himself, and I’d talk until he was sober, and I knew he was safe. It didn’t help that his relationship with his dad fell apart around this time, too. Oh, so many phone calls. So many late nights. But I loved that boy. One day I got a call. Nothing unusual, he called pretty often. I picked up and I could hear that he was upset. “She’s telling me she’s pregnant.” “What?” “I don’t know what to do, she’s telling me she’s pregnant.” She wasn’t pregnant. I had my suspicions from the beginning, but of course I had to be there for him first. He told me over and over he couldn’t do this. When the truth came out and he was in a place to talk about it, I’d ask him what he would’ve done if it’d been true. “Honest to God I would’ve killed myself. Not because I don’t want to be a part of the kid’s life, but because I couldn’t be any good for the kid knowing that I can’t even be good for myself.” I will never forget those words. For the next few months he stayed single. It was perfect between us. Until one day something changed. I still don’t know if my anxiety was just heightened that day or I was picking up on subtleties from him, but something was off. We were having a pretty regular conversation for us, and at the end he told me, “You know I’ll always love you, even when I get gfs.” I knew then. There was another girl, and it wasn’t long until I, again, took second place in his life. I was right, and thus began, again, a pain unmatched. Slowly, I fell apart. The days left on read or open, the fear to say how I felt in case he got upset. As the months passed, I could almost always take it. Almost. As long as he still loved me, right? He did still love me. Slowly, though, it became harder and harder to put the fact that I was still the second choice out of my mind. I’d break down more and more. When I needed him, he was almost always there for me. Almost. I fell into some of the worst times I’ve ever been through, but I couldn’t validate them for myself. “This is just your depression. A boy shouldn’t make you feel this awful.” I told myself, but deep down I knew the truth. All those tears, all that anxiety, it was all because of him. There was a time when he told me about the first girl who broke his heart. “You were the first person who I’d listened to that song with since.” I nearly puked. I knew why he didn’t want to be made fun of now. “She was the root of my depression.” In my lowest, in one of my breakdowns, I told him how funny it was that she had done such a thing and yet he seemed to have ho issues doing the same to me. “Are you saying I’m the root of your depression?” “No, no, no… I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t you see you’re hurting me though? Please don’t get upset that isn’t what I meant.” So many of our fights ended like that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just having a hard time right now.” “It’s ok, kid.” This would be alright for a while; I’d feel bad and apologize again and again until we both forgot about it. But it became harder and harder to ignore the thoughts I knew I shouldn’t be ignoring. Then came the first time he wanted to end it with her. Another late night, up listening to him talk about what was going wrong. By now, I’d become ever so good at not allowing myself to be jealous. It’s something I pride myself on, actually. I’m not jealous of her and I do not hate her. I wish I could have what she has, though. I wish I could be the one making him happy. But right now I’m not and I know that. It became harder and harder to stop the panic attacks and the outbursts, to keep my stomach down when I saw the pictures. “Why do you keep me around? Do you still want me to tell you I love you?” “How many times have I answered that question?” “Too many, I’m sorry. I just get so worried.” But this brings us to now. What am I doing? I know how he treats me isn’t fair. But I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s the first person I’ve loved. Maybe it’s that I just love him too much to walk away. Maybe I’m scared that I’ll never have someone quite like him. Whatever it is, I know I’m not ready to walk away from him yet. I’ve given him my everything, and I intend to continue to. People tell me I love too strongly. I don’t think a person can do that. I still can’t listen to that song, though.


We met in the basement of a house I didn’t recognize; a house belonging to a friend of a friend. I’m not sure who she knew, but I knew that I wanted it to be me. I approached her and tried to strike up a conversation, sloppily albeit successfully. She had no name, or at least none that she wanted me to know, so I came to find that neither did I. She spoke of hobbies that I can’t remember and books that I’ll never read. I spoke of movies and an unhealthy longing to write my own someday. We were selfish conversationalists. I asked questions so that I could answer them when she was done speaking. She batted her eyelids so that she could know she was attractive. We had hours until the ball dropped so we went on a walk. Chilly air stung my face and smoke my lungs. We were the rebellious youth. “You can’t tell me John Stamos isn’t the epitome of cool though.” “I wasn’t arguing that John Stamos isn’t cool, he’s undeniably cool”, she took another drag. “I’m only saying Uncle Jesse isn’t the most fuckable actor in the show.” “Come on. If the mullet man isn’t then who is?” She laughed. “Bob Saget.” “You’re crazy.” “You wanted my opinion I’m just giving you the honest truth. There’s something sexy about the dad role that just jumps my bones.” “Jumps your bones? My goodness I’m talking to an old woman.” “72 years young and counting.” I didn’t know how old she actually was or where we were going. She’d mentioned it was her favorite place on campus. We came to a hill, large enough to warrant admiration but small enough to be mostly unexciting. She started running and I followed. We laid out and watched the stagnant night sky intermittently hide behind veils of clouds. She had switched to cigarettes now. “…and that’s the big old sky snake. They say one day he’ll come and swallow the Earth whole, accidentally. Of course it’ll be our fault for having become much too bastardly. Terribly evil, us humans. I think we’ll get to the point where we don’t see anything wrong with being bad. But the snake will be there to consume us, an unnoticed breath of dust and other cosmic things. Gone and forgotten to time.” “Spooky.” “Yeah. What’s that one?” I was pointing to the sky. “I don’t know constellations.” “Neither do I, but I know how to make things up.” “Oh in that case,” she pointed to a spot where I couldn’t make out any stars. Or maybe I couldn’t figure out where she was pointing. In either case it didn’t much matter. “That’s the big old sky sheep.” “Sky sheep you say?” “Yeah, he’s a lot farther away so you can’t really see him.” “That’s so sad.” “It’s okay though,” she said with a smile. “He’s a lot faster than the snake, he has legs. And one day he’s going to catch up to the snake and stomp on him for what he did to us.” “But who will stomp the sheep?” She looked me in the eyes. “We will.” We returned to the party. A joyous occasion marked with excessive alcohol and loud music. Precisely the type of thing you want to be involved with when you’re young and you’re aging. We played drinking games and she stood by my side, and she started to seep into my heart. Just enough that I knew who I wanted to kiss when the ball dropped. And when it inevitably dropped I made sure it was passionate. Just passionate enough for her to know I was enjoying the night and her company. And she laughed and smiled enough for me to know she was enjoying my company. And as things are wont to do the party became increasingly intense. And we became increasingly sozzled. Falling into and over and through one another like the souls of people who are supposed to meet. We had to lean on one another to stay standing. But we kept drinking because that’s what you do when you want to have a good time. I couldn’t call it love but I could call it happiness which is more than I could call the past few months. “I have to go to the bathroom”, she said. “Do you want me to come with you?” “No, no, it’s fine,” and I hoped she’d come back. I found the guy I came with. He wanted to know if I was having a good time, noted that he noticed I had been gone, was thankful I found my way back. He asked about the girl, said he’d seen her around campus but had never talked to her. I responded she was nice, kept it at that. “You should get her phone number or something.” “Yeah I’ll probably try.” I woke up in my bed back home. A splitting headache in my skull and a terrible feeling in my heart. A sadness that I couldn’t place. That’s the last thing I remember. Making note of attempts. I grabbed my phone from the charger and checked my contacts with hopes of a nameless girl being found in the depths. Alas no nameless woman was to be found. I called my friend to ask what happened. “She didn’t come back” “What do you mean she didn’t come back?” “I mean she went to the bathroom and that’s it. You looked all over but couldn’t find her. Then I lost you for about 20 minutes. Found you face down in the toilet. We called a ride and got out of there. You cried in the Uber.” “Oh. Thanks.” “Yeah no problem.” So I tried to go back to bed, but all I got was a head full of regret and a longing for a name I’d never know. Still dizzy from the poison of the night before I thought of the stars and our tiny place in the universe. How small we all were and how silly decisions make us feel like shit. So all I could do now was wait. Wait for the ghost of a soul to find its way back to me and a giant snake to come swallow me whole. Wait for a sheep that would never come.


It’s raining outside, but it always rains here. I often wonder what kind of grudge the sun has against my hometown. My days are short and my nights long, and the dark sky matches my somber mood. Every morning when I wake up, I write my day off as another blue one. But I wasn’t always unhappy. At some point in my life, I used to like who I was. What I stood for. But now, whenever I reflect on my past choices, I just feel a sharp pain of regret. My happiness is like the sun, fleeting—and most days, just not there at all. Regret, my regret, is all consuming. It surrounds me. Devours me. From the faint, hidden cries of my Mom every night, to the empty look my father gives me every day. From all the hollow hugs, to the leftover pork roasts distant relatives keep sending over. My soul, my ambitions, my passion—they’re shattered. Completely, entirely, irrevocably shattered. School. School offers me no solace. No distraction. As I walked down the hall, I could hear voices shushing. All laughing stopped, and piercing stares began to follow my feet. An overwhelming fog of pity and polite condolences infected my air supply. It was fatal. I deserved anger. I deserved hate. I didn’t deserve pity. I reached my class room, breathed in deeply, and momentarily hesitated. A minuscule flash of hope appeared, illuminating the deepest crevice of my unconscious. Maybe today will be different. Maybe now things will be how they were. What a naïve desire. Upon my arrival, regular behavior ceased to exist. Mr. B, my teacher, stood up. He apologetically looked at me, sighed, and ushered in a new student. There was liveliness in his step, but his hands were shaking. I could decrypt a fake demeanor all too well. His forehead was covered with curling strands of black hair, and the corner of his ashen eyes crinkled when he smiled and said hi. His name was David, and as he was shuffling to his assigned seat in the back, our eyes locked. For the first time in months, for the first time since the accident, his eyes weren’t filled with sympathy. The gaze was held, and his striking grey eyes creased again as he smiled. He didn’t know. Not yet. My stare drifted towards the window, as my thoughts wandered away… for better or for worse. I was twelve years old, my sister fifteen. We were strapped into the sunken black seats of our family Tahoe. The sun was unmistakably out for that brief car ride, and the warmth was spread across half of my face. My sister was to the right of me, in her sweaty basketball jersey. It was spread across her body like paper clings to water, perspiring. Around her neck was yet another medal. The sunlight was bouncing and gleaming off the polished bronze, almost tauntingly dancing across the patterns on my shirt. Jumping from one stripe to another. My parents were happy, happy like they always were when my sister gave them something to be proud of. Soft smiles and bright eyes were painted across their worn faces. That expression was backhanded—because I liked to see it, but I could never give it. All I had to console me, in that moment, was my tattered journal. The pages were dog-eared, and the binding was falling apart, but it was something that accepted me for exactly what I was. With the warmth on my face, and the journal in my hand, I felt happy. Happy as I knew happy. It was third period. How could it only be third period? Looking at the clock, watching the secondhand tick, was maddening. If I didn’t concentrate on the time passing by, I would concentrate on other things. Other memories I didn’t want to remember. Whoever said time was fleeting was obviously very wrong. Because my second felt exactly like a second, and my minute felt even longer. It has been so long since my presence hasn’t drawn dismal reactions, that I can’t remember what just being a part of the background felt like anymore. As I watched the clock show another minute pass, making my day inevitably closer to the end, I noticed a curious stare peeking my way. David, the new boy, was staring at me. Without shame. My head tilted to the left, reflexively, as he began to speak. Asking about my name, my hobbies, how boring I thought Mr. B was. Small talk. Real, genuine small talk. I hesitantly started responding, and all too quickly he was dragged away by some classmates. It was like a scene from a film on mute. A cluster of people, making frequent glances towards me, with the same face that they always made—furrowed eyebrows, glossy eyes, and the corners of their mouth turned slightly down. That was it. He knew. The one person that could talk to me, without guilt or pity, was now gone. And who to think that my complete isolation was a result from their charity, not my wickedness. And exactly like I feared, memories resurfaced, like a boat pulling up from a crashing wave in the vast ocean. How could she? That was all I could think. How? Why? Did she have to have everything? It wasn’t enough that she had their approval and warm gestures, that she was the one they bragged about to family. That she was the reason I couldn’t thrive in my own talents and passion, because her shadow was always cast over me. It wasn’t enough for me to just be and enjoy, I had to win. Show results. Because if I didn’t, I couldn’t compare. I didn’t meet my expectations. So, I screamed. I screamed like I never had before. I told her everything. Everything years of oppressing emotions didn’t solve. Everything pages of journal entries couldn’t fix. Because why did she have to corner writing now too? Why did she feel the need to enter her writing in a contest to be published, when she was always better at everything else? And why did she have to win? I had this. Only this. And she took it away. My face was red, my eyes wide, and salty tears began falling down my cheeks. She looked at me, with a blank face, told me she didn’t know this was so important to me, and then she just left. Lunch was an okay part of my day. It meant I was halfway done with school. It meant I would soon be home, alone, in my room. Because when I was home alone, I could avoid the short, quick glances and shrugs. I unwrapped a sandwich I made myself this morning from its saran wrap, and smelled the bologna to check that it was still fresh. Shopping at my house has become a rare occurrence over the past few months. Scrounging for food is becoming a habit. As I was opening my mouth to take a bite, David sat across from me. Apparently he doesn’t know many people yet. His attempt at normal conversation was a ruse. I knew it was. He had become more withdrawn, more cautious. His words were thought out, as if he was running every sentence in his head first. I noticed he was careful to not mention his own family. I have had enough of people walking on egg shells around me. Without thinking, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time—I snapped. For the past few months I have had only one emotion. I was too emotionally exhausted to get angry. I was just tired. Gloomy. Sullen. Broken. But not today, not in this moment. Because right now my misery was replaced with rage. Was it not enough for my family to hate me? Did I deserve to be isolated at school as well? And isolated because of what? Kindness? Politeness? My wounds can’t heal, I can’t move on, if nobody else does too. With that, I walked away. I didn’t look back to see his reaction, but I imagine that was the last time I would see David, the new kid. It was about six o’clock on a school night, and my sister wasn’t home yet. My parents were pacing, worried. They had already interrogated me, asking me why we didn’t walk home together. Asking where she could be. My responses weren’t soothing to them, because they made sure to criticize my lack of judgement. Why were they so worried? I thought it would be nice having my parents to myself for a few hours, while she was off pouting, probably winning more awards. But I couldn’t even properly hang out with my parents. Because all they wanted to know was what happened to their other daughter. Despicable. Enough is enough. Because that’s what happens when you force my only therapy out of my hand. When you take away my pen and catharsis. I stared straight at them, and screamed as loud as I could. Would it really be that bad if she never came back? Because maybe then, for once in my life, I could have your attention. Your complete attention. I could make you smile the way she does. You can be proud of me. Proud of what I do, and what I stand for. And before they had any time to react, my Mom received a phone call. She held up her hand, pressed her lips together to ensure that I knew she wasn’t done with this conversation, and answered the phone. We never finished that conversation. Tears began spilling down her face, as she dropped the phone to the ground. Finally. Study hall. Thirty minutes of dreadful silence, and then I could leave. I did it. I will survive this day. I didn’t even have to count the minutes, because I actually had homework to preoccupy my thoughts. As I was working on my tasks, I heard a chair scrape back across the tile floor, and saw the outline of a boy sitting down across from me. I peeked up from my work, and I saw David. He didn’t say anything—not a word. He just smiled. That same, natural smile. And began doing his work across from me. My sister. How? How I could I do this to my sister? I was on the ground, and everything else was hazy. The only thing running through my mind, on repeat, was the last thing I said to her. How dare I get mad at her for taking my hobby, when because of my selfishness I took her life? The police dreadfully explained the whole situation to my now family of three. She went to the convention center featuring her poetry to withdraw her approval to publish it. On her way back, she was hit by a car. Only five thirty in the afternoon and she was hit by a drunk driver. What were the odds? It was as if the universe was punishing me—or rather, her. The worst day of my life. If only I didn’t scream, if only I didn’t give her a reason to leave my side. She would hate me. My parents must hate me. And I unquestionably hate myself. I survived another school day. I survived the melancholy stares. I survived the hushed tones. And now, I was walking home with David by my side. Walking right next to me. Talking about the rest of his homework and dissatisfaction with the school lunch. And then, we reached the stop sign. The point where he must go left, while I go right. He looked at me, smiled for the fourth time that day, and told me he would see me tomorrow morning. And with that, he left. One. Just one person. That’s all I need. Because to David, I wasn’t a victim. I wasn’t the girl who lost a sister. I was me. Just me. I am not okay. I am not fixed. I am not healed. But you know what? I will be. As I took the first step towards my house—not house, but home—I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I looked up to the sky for my sun, and it wasn’t there. But there was rain. And today, it wasn’t just a dark sky and accompanying storm. It was a new start. The rain poured, cleansing my hazy vision. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be different, because there will be one person that can see me for what I am… not a victim, but myself.