I live in the Swiss alps, its a beautiful place to live, each and every night I get to look down my mountain and see these orange lights keeping the snow illuminated. The stars only seem to shine on the best of nights, and even then the sight of a clear star filled sky, was rare. Someones always having a party, wether its the old people down the street kicking everyone out at 10, or the new married couple who enjoy margaritas and adult sleepovers. Im for whatever events happen in the neighborhood but nothing really gravitated me like the new girls party, we all have a group chat for parties and functions so we can plan accordingly, and one day our community leader Krista adds a new number.. She says to the group chat *this is my friend Laila, she just moved into the carters new place and she will be joining us at Jordans house for games* I read the text then tossed the phone to my side not thinking much of it, and then I thought for a moment, im the only person in the neighborhood named Jordan, I never have functions at my house, she didn't specify a date either. My phone began dinging over and over as everyone greeted Laila and welcomed her, and then there was a knock at my door. I put my phone In my pocket and walked over to see Krista, her husband, and a small framed woman in a red coat with platinum blonde hair and a nose stud standing behind them. Krista handed me a bottle of wine and walked through my door, her husband right behind her patted my shoulder and headed for my kitchen presumably to find the beer I would buy in case he came over as I don't drink. I turned around for a moment to asses the situation as Krista began shuffling my papers and moving my various books and such to my upstairs loft, and then I noticed Laila had not walked in yet, I turned back towards her. *may I come in?* I smiled at her and stepped out of the way, gesturing for her to enter my home *of course you may, make yourself at home and thank you for asking.* I thought it was peculiar she asked but quite refreshing, I ran to the kitchen to open the wine and fiddled through my silverware drawer as Kristas husband Craig began talking about the IPA I had bought *this is a real solid choice Jordan, you must really be getting good at the beer knowledge, are you going to have one tonight?* I looked up from my project at hand as I finally found the cork screw *probably not Craig but Isla and her husband will be here later im sure and I know you love drinking with them.* I turned the screw into the cork at the top and began pulling it out, it came out with a satisfying POP! and I began pouring the wine into two glasses I had set on the counter. Craig stopped me before I could get to the second glass *Laila doesn't drink* I nodded and stowed the second glass, I grabbed the wine to bring it out to Krista but Craig stopped me before I could *you know I think you'll really like Laila, she seems your type.* I stopped trying to walk forward and hung back a moment, peering Around the corner to see Laila sitting still close to the front door having a conversation with Krista as she cleaned. *what do you mean Craig, how is she my type?* he laughed and smacked my back *she's weird buddy* I was taken aback for a moment until I began flipping through my memories with my neighborhood friends. Over the years id lived here they had seen me creating makeshift model rockets and shooting them down the mountain, putting chairs on skis and seeing if id survive the plummet, sledding with a table, building igloos to write inside of, covering my house in white paint for a winter to see if they'd have trouble finding me. Craig was right, I was weird *how weird is she Craig?* He laughed at me and then gripped my shoulder as he began telling me the tale of Laila In the red coat. *Laila comes from America just like you, she's fluent in over 7 languages, we helped her move boxes today and she had at least 6 large 2x2x2 cardboard boxes filled with books, some of which im sure are as old as your own judging by the glass cases she keeps them in. We came to get her on our way here and she was dancing with a chemistry skeleton like for a high school, she was pretty good too.* His accent annunciated the Two O's in too and Made me snicker as he finished the sentence, she sounded like a lovely girl but how do you start a conversation with someone like that? I nudged Craig *how do you start a conversation with someone like that?* he shrugs *how do I start a conversation with you?* I scratched my head *Craig you don't really start conversations with me you just grab a beer, mention a fact and then go from there.* He laughed at what I said then went digging in my fridge, he handed me 2 cans of Cola *same principal just with less hops.* I shook my head at him as I walked out of the kitchen with the wine and the cokes, I handed Krista the glass as I passed her and she thanked me before returning to browsing my board game collection in the closet. I walked over to Laila and handed her the cola *Craig tells me you don't drink and im right there with you, is that alright or would you like some water?* she smiled at me and took the cola *this is wonderful, I love the soda you guys have over here* as she spoke I couldn't help but stare at her shiny nose stud, as she spoke and caught my glance she covered it and began to take it out *sorry I wasn't sure if this looked good or not.* I gently outstretched my hand to indicate different *no no, its quite lovely, it accentuates your nose well.* she moved her hand back to her side and took a sip from her soda as she smiled. I laughed to myself and carried on the conversation, More and more people came and my house filled with guests, Krista ended up having us play charades and put me and Laila on a team. We went for many rounds, talking amongst ourselves or with the group and as the night got older and more and more people departed, it came down to just me, Craig, Krista and Laila. The score was 23 to 24 giving you a pretty good idea of how long it lasted. I had started a fire in my chimney earlier on in the night so the logs were crackling as the snow gently fell down our quiet mountain. Craig was in the middle of hopping on one leg and swinging his arm as if it held a long sword while I sat with Laila, she had since moved from one side of the couch to the other and was right next to me. As Craig finished up his turn we all laughed and Laila once again moved closer, their turn had ended without them scoring a point declaring me and Laila the winners. We all laughed as Craig told us a joke about Blackbeard and how they we were being elitist against his pirate ways, I was looking at Lailas eyes while we all laughed and noticed a peculiar spot on her left iris, a small white dot surrounded by emerald green. She turned to me as I was looking at her and laughed as we turned back towards the two, Craig stood up and looked at his watch *well Jordan I guess well have to leave you be for the night, but thank you for having us, Krista are you ready to go?* Krista nodded through a smile and stood up *oh Jordan ive had a lot tonight and so has Craig here so we called a car, its a bit of a straight shot though, would you mind bringing Laila back?* it was an odd request especially since the party was held at my house but it only took a few moments for it to dawn on me as Craig nodded his head with a smile. Laila began to protest *I don't want to be a burden you had us over and fed us I can just walk its no big deal.* I smiled at her *it would be my pleasure to bring you home, the drive over that way is beautiful anyway.* We all departed my house as Craig and Krista gave us hugs and kissed Laila on the cheek, I locked my door and followed Laila down the steps towards my car as Craig and Krista got into their Taxi laughing like maniacs. I turned the car on with my remote and walked to the other side to get her door she smiled at me as she stepped into the car *what a gentleman.* I had to bite my lips to hide my smirk as I went around the other side and opened my door, a gust of wind came down the mountain and hit me hard forcing my eyes shut, when I opened them I noticed that the sky was crystal clear showing me millions of beautiful stars amongst the pitch black sky. I stepped into the drivers seat and pulled out of the driveway, Laila turned towards me as we got out of the gravel and onto the pavement *thank you, im sorry Krista dumped me with you* I laughed for a moment *don't apologize for a second, im quite happy to get an extra moment or two with you.* she looked off but I saw in the reflection she was smiling *im pretty happy to get an extra moment too.* I pulled up to her house and got out, rushing around the side so I could open the door for her, almost missing the handle with my leather gloved hands and nearly falling on my face, as I got the door open and recovered from my stumble she stepped out and I closed the door behind her. *thank you for driving me home, I had a really nice night* I smiled and nodded *I did as well, thank you for coming.* she stood there for a moment as if she wanted me to hold her hand or hug her, I put my hand up and walked back to my drivers said *goodnight.* She smiled weakly and mumbled *goodnight.* I thought for a moment why id done what I just did and decided to try to reverse it, I stepped back around my car and before she could turn around I wrapped my arms around her, *thank you for coming tonight, would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow.* she wrapped her arms around my torso and pressed her cheek against my chest *yes please, can you pick me up at 7?* I nodded, grazing her head with my chin *absolutely.* I let go of her and she unwrapped her arms, turning to walk up towards her door *your eyes are beautiful* I said, getting the last word in for the night, she smiled and spoke softly *thank you* before walking into her house, I turned towards my car to enter but I felt compelled to turn back around before I did. her lights went on and she walked into the living room, I could see her silhouette begin To do a little dance, I smiled and stepped into my car to drive home. I rounded the corner towards my house and parked the car, turning it off and stepping out, before I went inside I stared up at the sky, it had gotten cloudy and dim, with only a few stars showing. I wasn't surprised the sky wasn't clear anymore, I knew that only on the best of nights, was the sky fully clear, and that those nights...were rare.


On a sunny afternoon in the former Portuguese colonial town of Ilha de Sombria, Senor Bruno rides his old Fiat to fetch the new visitor of the town, Don Miguel. While waiting the weather of Ilha de Sombria being reliably unreliable as usual takes a gloomy turn and the clouds shroud the sun beneath them. Just as this bright afternoon turns gloomy Don Miguel steps out of his heritage home Casa de Joy. "Don Miguel, your umbrella?" says Bruno. "Shall not be necessary." Don crudely replies. "Sim Senhor Miguel, where are we headed?" " To cemitério de poetas." Bruno revs the engine of his old Fiat and starts racing towards the old cemetery of the noble-born. "Don Miguel whose grave are you visiting today?" asks Bruno eager to strike a conversation Adjusting his black hat and unbuttoning his tailcoat Don Miguel says "A lover's... a poet's perhaps." Hearing a faint clap of thunder from afar predicting the onset of a storm Bruno is eager to make the trip as quick as possible. As they pass by an abandoned lighthouse. Bruno starts reciting local lore, "You see Don Miguel that abandoned lighthouse over there. It is believed that two centuries ago a poet while waiting for his lover was murdered by the lover's father and to this day the lighthouse stands haunted and one can hear echoes of poetry every night resonating from within the walls of the lighthouse." Don Miguel clearing his throat asks, "Do you want to hear poetry?" Bruno eagerly replies "Si senhor why not?" Don Miguel, as slender as he was, his voice carried a lot of weight starts to sing. "One night, I hold on you. With a red rose, a burning candle, the Lighthouse still awaits." "A lover who promised the world, The blue lips, the burning heart, the Lighthouse still awaits." "Pardon me, lover, for death is more beautiful, Flinging the self and embracing the ocean. You don't take the blame. For the lighthouse that spreads darkness The Lighthouse still Awaits." "Bravo! senhor bravo. Your poem speaks beautifully about the poet's wait at the lighthouse. Although pardon me, but it was a murder, not suicide. Or rather a mystery that we might not unfold" says Bruno. "Ah, or will we?" Just then the old Fiat comes to a halt at the gates of the cemetery. The clouds now darker than before have started thundering even louder. Don Miguel thanks Bruno. And steps out of his car. "Don you may borrow my umbrella" Bruno offers. "Shall not be necessary" Don replies. Bruno revs the engine of his car and rumbles down the road. A bolt of lightning strikes the lighthouse. Fearing for the wellbeing of Don, Bruno looks back through his rearview mirror. But the mirror does not cast a reflection. He stops the car and bends his neck to call out for Don. Don not hearing him. Takes out a solitary red rose from the pocket of his tailcoat. Just then the packs of raven start cawing in the cemetery. Thunder strikes again. And this time Don vanishes in thin air leaving behind a solitary red rose. On a tomb that reads ‘Here lay Don Miguel Gonzales. A poet. A lover.


I spent two years in my early twenties obsessing over a single story, one that I must have written countless times and hundreds of pages for, only to throw away each attempt once completed. With each attempt, the story changed length. Sometimes it was several pages long, other times hundreds; nevertheless, the story which I wanted to capture elusively remained the same. I left the story unfinished as a failure, and had nothing to show for two years of work until now: this story is what I ended up with instead. It was originally about a boy; I imagined him between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one; a quiet type, maybe an intellectual had it not been for his grades in school. An uncertain type, maybe even bland to those who didn’t know him well enough. He was the single feature of my story that remained constant. I wanted my story to capture what it felt like to fight depression, and the boy was my outlet to do so, and yet I was so ill-equipped to write the story I wanted. I never even managed to give him a name. The desire to capture a story I knew too well was life-consuming. I was so caught up with writing that with each iteration, story and reality began to mesh together. The boy’s thoughts became indistinguishable from my own. The writing became too personal. I inadvertently ended up laying out my insides on paper. And I realized: I never gave him a name because to do so would be to give up my own. With that realization, I forced myself to stop, and I wrote what I thought would be my last line two years ago. And it was as if by turning away from my story, my life began to move again. I stopped writing for some time, and rediscovered the friends and family who had always been there for me. I started to grow again. The story came back to haunt me though, on a winter morning, years later. I was looking at the desk that I had spent so many hours at, and I remembered. There was a story about a boy—about myself—that I had tried to write. I was no longer that same person, and while a part of me was relieved to have forgotten the worst of it, in giving up on his story, I had suggested an end. It wasn’t the end that he deserved: only because of him could I write the sentence: *I am still alive*. I had forgotten about him. I decided I would give him an ending, one that would celebrate the past, that would celebrate growth, celebrate the continuity of life, so I sat down at my desk. I drew a blank page. He drifted down the sidewalk back to his apartment in a haze. The frost collected on his boots and chilled his toes. Nothing had happened that day, just like nothing happened the day before, and the day before that. He had been left behind, and there was nothing left to feel. Maybe if he hadn’t been so lonely, he’d feel something other than tiredness. Except he felt nothing except tiredness. He hadn’t slept in weeks. What was it like to not be tired? The boy couldn’t remember. His vision swayed as he reached the front of his apartment building. The blood rushed to his head and he felt as if he were going to pass out. He sat down on the steps and a thought interrupted his mind. It took over and filled him with fear and disgust and also longing. It was a thought that hung from the ceiling, and he tried to look away. He got up from the steps and moved on towards his front door. As I continued to write at my desk, I heard the thud of my own front door closing. My chance to finish the story was suddenly threatened by some unknown housemate, who could burst in at any moment. I wanted to yell out, “Please don’t disturb me! I’m writing,” but I knew it would be futile: someone who should not be in my story would find his way in. I began to write faster, and my handwriting became sloppy and illegible--all the while spilling words onto the page--and somewhere in the rush, I ripped the page I was writing on. Ripping a page feels like spilling a drink. The medium is violated. The unbroken page is a barrier that protects a story, unadulterated, from the outside. To rip a page, then, reminds a story of its physical nature: it brings the story into physical being. When I ripped my writing, I panicked. The story rushed to an end, and I tried to patch together a conclusion from the confusion of broken pages and memories and stories. I heard the seal burst with the squeak of my bedroom door knob. I swiveled around in my chair prepared to confront whichever intruding housemate stood in the door, frustrated and confused, only to be taken aback. The boy stood in the doorway. He had a surprised look on his face, but he was without a doubt my own creation. He didn’t look like me; I had imagined him as looking better than me; being better than me. He was beautiful but he didn’t know it. “Oh, I… I must’ve walked into the wrong apartment without thinking... mine must be the one next door... I’m sorry.” He stammered. I wanted him to stay, so I said, “No, no, please stay for a moment. I could use someone to talk to for a few minutes.” “Oh... okay.” He said. I sat there shivering in my boxers, my body twisted in an awkward fashion towards him. The chair squeaked when I shifted my bodyweight. Across the room, he stood, expecting me to speak, then he made an uncomfortable shuffle as if he were afraid of what I had to say, and at that moment, all I wanted to do was hold him and stroke his head. I wanted him to know how much I loved him--to know how much he was loved--so much so that I let my emotions overwhelm me, and blustered out what I knew he needed to hear: “You’re not a waste to anybody.” He looked confused but thanked me nonetheless. Too embarrassed to make eye contact, I looked down at my feet, frustrated at myself for making such a strained and bumbling attempt to comfort him. He did not know who I was. I tried to calm myself, and repositioned my chair to face him fully. He must have seen the writing materials because after a moment, he gestured to the space behind me and asked tentatively: “What are you writing about?” “It’s a story about a boy, and his attempts to deal with the life he has. I’m in the middle of my story, but I haven’t really thought of an ending to it yet,” I replied. “How long have you been writing it?” “I started years ago, but I destroyed most of what I had written for it, so I’m starting again.” “You weren’t satisfied with your work?” “No, I wasn’t, but the more important thing to me is that I keep writing.” “That’s good. I recently picked up writing myself, but every time I try to write, I also end up unhappy with my work. I must have written a hundred pages by now.” “What do you write about?” I asked. “I keep trying to write about my own life. Trying to get these feelings I have onto paper. I’ve been having these thoughts, and I’ve made some mistakes, so I guess I’ve been having kind of a tough time and I’d like to put it into words.” “I tried writing about myself for some time, but I didn’t realize how harmful it would be to my own health.” “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “It treated it as a way out of the worst part of my life, but eventually, it was what kept me from moving on. I kept coming back to it because it was what defined me. Writing about it felt like I was reliving it.” “I’m sure it hurt.” I smiled sadly. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” “It helped you though, right? When you needed it most?” “Writing saved me. The boy in my story saved my life. I’m trying to move on though. My work reminded me of *that* period of my life, but I want to feel whole again. I’m finally about to finish what I started years ago.” I said. Then I pointed to the story on my desk. “This story is going to be the end.” “I see. I’m hoping that writing might save me too.” He paused for a moment, afflicted with a feeling I knew too well: the fragile hope of someone nearly resigned. On the verge of tears, I leaned forward and tried to study his face, to commit it to memory. I knew this encounter would be the last time I would ever see him: it felt as if the space between us, the space between my desk and the door, the space between the lines of writing, was expanding. Traversing the space of memory with words and sentences seemed to take an increasing amount of energy. Eventually, we would pass a critical moment when our words would never reach the other side, and the story would come to an end. It took me a few more moments to say the line I had been waiting to say to him: “It’ll be alright.” When he spoke, his voice came from a distance: “Thank you.” He paused again and shifted his weight a little bit before he spoke again. ”Listen, I’ve got to get back to my apartment. Thanks for talking to me for a bit, and thanks for the advice; if that’s what you would call it.” I sat up straight again. “No problem, and… could you close the door when you leave, would you?” “Sure. And thanks, again.” I watched my door shut and heard the latch click and lock. Struck with shock, I turned around to face my desk again. Looking down at the page I had been writing, I recognized that my story, the one that I began writing both years ago and earlier that morning, was nearly complete, except it needed a final line; one to acknowledge the end to all those years I spent so long ago too afraid to move. It had to be a line I could shout from rooftops. So I sat very still for another moment, thinking, and afflicted by the bittersweet swells that seem to accompany the endless growing pains of my life, it came to me. Suddenly, I whirled around. “This is the last story I will ever write about you!” I yelled through the closed door, but he was already gone.


The song, "" by Petit Biscuit basically forced me to write this:  Your wife is on her deathbed and the doctors say she hasn't got much time left. One day, you're sitting next to her. She's asleep, and even though you know she can't feel you there, you can't bear the thought of leaving her... until suddenly a portal opens up in the middle of the hospital room. Through it, you hear your wife's voice. One you never thought you would hear again. She says that if you come through the portal with the thing she treasured most in life she can be with you again. You can hardly believe it. Is this a hallucination? It must be. Still, you gently grab your wife's hand, which has gone frail and thin from months in a hospital bed, and slide off her wedding ring. You go through the portal and end up in a mysterious, lonely land.  Everything in it is foreign to you. The trees have red leaves, lined in gold, and every time you see an animal, it appears as hardly anything but a shadow. You hear whispers and get a general feeling of where to go, and for the first time in almost a year, you feel hope. You believe you'll get to see her again. You journey for days, eating strange fruit that grew off those strange, impossible trees in this endless forest. Your determination never wavers, not even when you get swarmed by shadowy wolves or when you nearly fell into a pit that was so deep you could not see its bottom. You met several other travelers along the way, all of whom were in search of what they most loved. "Someone please help me! I can't find my brother! Please!" Screamed a young man in a wheelchair. He had a dog-tag around his neck and a photo crumpled in his too thin hand. "My daughter," said the woman in white. She clutched a small, pink rabbit in her hand as she spoke. "I haven't seen her in weeks... She's only four years old. I... I heard her here." "I need to find them. I need to find them... they were hurt. Where did they go?" muttered a man in a tattered shirt. Fresh burns crawled up his hands, stopping at his forearms, but he scarcely seemed to notice. He carried a doll, a plastic car, and a delicate teacup in his arms. They were the hardest obstacles to ignore, but the voice urged you on. All those who strayed off the path became lost irrevocably in the woods, and no matter what you did, they would never come back. It took weeks to finally get through the forest, and when you did, you were met with an empty sea and an alter, sitting right in the middle of it. The voice was silent, but you were determined. You... you could see *her*. You rush forward and are shocked to find that your feet do not sink through the water. It springs beneath your feet, but the eerily clear and fishless sea does not give. You reach the alter, and she is as beautiful as the day you married her. Her skin is no longer palid and grey, her body no longer a fragile skeleton under hospital sheets. You slide the ring onto her finger... And then you're back in the hospital. She is awake, only a little, and smiles at you. Did it work? Was it all a dream? Dear god, please... please don't take her away. She weakly moves her hand towards yours, and you clutch onto it like you'll die if you let go. "Sleep," she whispers. "I want you to fall asleep next to me, just like always..." She goes limp, and you notice for the first time that the hand you hold has no warmth. She was gone, and had been for hours... Her ring is gone.


I looked to the emperor as he sat upon his throne in the balcony that encompassed the arena. My opponent standing feet away from me as we awaited the single word that would begin our battle. "Begin," the emperor said with a wave of his hand. Immediately he was upon me, a hulking man with a trident and a net. The first thrust of his weapon was fast, but not quite fast enough. It glanced off of the top of my shoulder carving a gash that would surely scar. Another to add to the collection. I raised my shield and quickly batted the the pole-arm to the side and moved in to close the distance between us. I couldn't allow him to keep me at bay. As i stepped pass the lethal range of his trident I sent my sword jabbing towards his gut. He made a quick step backwards but the point of my Gladius had bit in no more than an inch, just a sting to a man such as this. With a quick twirl of the mans trident I found myself again being pushed back do to my lack of range. I was frustrated, angry that I couldn't pass the Retiarius's guard. I fucking hate those that practice the style of the Retiarius. We circled each other like caged beasts and in essence that's exactly what we were. Animals forced to fight as people paid to come and watch us savage monsters. Give them a show and get rewarded. Don't...and well you die. The sweat pooled at my brow, thankfully not dripping into my eyes as it caught on the inner lip of my helmet. An aggressive thrust again came towards me and I stepped to the side to avoid the three sharp prongs. *Shit.* I saw it but it was too late, I had committed to the side step. With his other hand the Retiarius whipped his net at my moving feet catching my left foot. He grinned as he ripped my feet out from under me sending me sprawling to my back. *Move, Move.* I rolled quickly to my right as the trident slammed down where I was previously positioned. *His leg is over extended, that's my opening.* I quickly, from the ground slashed at his knee as I rolled to my feet still tangled in his damned net, but my aim was true and my Gladius split his knee cap in half. He fell to the floor with a scream that pierced the heavens as he clutched his knee and dropped his weapon. I shambled as quickly as my tangled legs would allow. Moving behind the Retiarius and pulling his head up by his hair, my blade firm against his neck I looked towards the emperor who leaned over the rails with his thumb positioned towards the side. "KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!" The crowd roared deafeningly. The emperor looked around the stands of the coliseum and nodded in agreement and with that he turned his hand to the thumbs down position. I swiftly pulled my blade across the mans throat and as he gargled his own blood the crowd cheered louder. They are the monsters not I. After undoing the net at my feet I walked over to the northern part of the arena, the closest to the balcony where I stood with my sword across my chest in salute. The emperor saluted me in return and nodded his head as he turned and moved to make way to his seat and that is when I saw her. The love of my life who i had thought i would never see again. She was sitting at a seat next to him and i was frozen. Motionlessly staring at her as she smiled and sipped a glass of what I could only guess to be red wine. Her favorite. She turned her head and met my gaze, her eyes narrowed at me, the went wide as the realization struck. She dropped her wine and it spilled on her white dress staining it the same color as the blood that stained the sands. "Gladiator! Move it!" a guard called to me from the gate snapping me from my shock. I made way to the wrought iron gate and found myself at my small cell. I don't really remember walking there. I was a prized fighter in the eyes of the emperor and as thus was allotted my own cell away from the other gladiators when we weren't training. As I doffed the few pieces of armor I wore my brain racked itself of what had just happened. It felt fake, like a dream i would soon wake up from. The last time I had seen Ophelia was years ago, the day i was drug off in chains for a murder i didn't commit. The only reason i was allowed the option to become a gladiator was because of my noble status. My family was a low tier noble house. Often forgotten about and hardly known but Noble none the less. *How is she here? How? How? How?* I thought to myself as I sat on the small bed, tears beginning to well in my eyes. The blood from my wound streamed down my chest and pooled at my feet but still my body felt numb. I must have sat there for hours because when the guard knocked on my cell door sliding open the small slit to look in it was dark. "Dascus, you have a visitor, " he called in to me. The slit was slid closed and the jingle of keys was audible as he unlocked the door and a figure walked in wearing a dark cloak that shaded the wearers face. The cell door was closed and locked again. The figure walked closer and pulled down the hood. There she was before me the one i had though to never see again. Soft curls fell around her face and on her lips was a sad smile and from her beautiful eyes fell a tear that even in the dim light sparkled like a diamond. "I never thought I would see you again, How are you here? Why?" I said to her, my voice breaking and body shaking from the emotion that swelled within me like the black storms that rolled off the coast. With that she rushed towards me and my muscled tensed from reflex but she gently cupped my face in her hands and kissed me lightly, the way the wings of a butterfly get caught on the wind. The wound on my shoulder began to close as I tightly embraced her and that's how we sat for some time. I was lost in her touch, in her smell. Like honey and lemons. "My father wishes me to marry him" she said as i felt her sob in my arms. She sat next to me on the bed and leaned her head on my shoulder my arms still embracing her fully. "Ophelia, he is a monster you cant marry him," I said softly. *You were meant for me.* I thought to myself as I closed my eyes to hold back the flood of tears. **There is another version i have that is longer with an alternate ending.


A young girl has spent her whole life by the sea. It's her escape, her safety. The briny scent of the saltwater on her skin reminds her there *is* a place of serenity, away from her turbulent home life. At home, there is no peace, no goodness anymore. The violent outbursts from her parents only ever ended with her running out of the house and towards the shoreline some few miles out. They never bothered to follow her. Neither of the two whiskey-soaked drunkards cared enough to ensure she wasn't swept away by the midnight currents. Sometimes she prayed the currents would do exactly that. The warm embrace of the water always took her into its arms when she needed release. She would dip her head below the water's surface and swim downward, deep towards the coral closest to the surface. There, through burning eyes, she would watch the tranquil sea life, wishing she could stay there forever. The sea does not take lightly to wishes made by the reefs. As the girl swims upward on one fateful, early dawn, she finds herself unable to break through the surface of the water. *Don't panic,* she tells herself, floating backwards for a moment. *It's just a passing wave.* She reaches a hand towards the surface and seems to break it at first, but soon she realizes she has not actually parted from the water. Though her hand rises above the surface level, the velvety, cool liquid encases each of her digits. She hastily retracts her hand back to herself, eyes widening in bewilderment. "Child," a voice hums from seemingly nowhere and everywhere at once. The girl swerves her head around, twisting her body in the water to search for the source. "Do not be afraid," the low, silken voice croons to her again, "You are safe here now." The maternal voice reverberates through her chest, sending warmth through her cold body. "Take in a breath, young one," the voice gently urges. The girl furrows her brows. She knows she cannot breathe water, that's a promise of death to a delicate human as herself. "You are now as much of the ocean as the sea life flowing around you. Breathe it in, it is now your life as well," the voice echoes, refilling the warmth in the girl's body. With wavering confidence, she finally complies, inhaling the saltwater and letting it fill her lungs. The unfamiliar discomfort dispels quickly, along with the usual burning in her eyes. The girl looks around with a new clarity, and her mouth falls slack in awe at what she sees. The colors are brighter now, and the glint of the rising sun reflects like mirrors off of thousands of flittering scales. The vividness of it all is almost dizzying, and the girl wonders briefly if she has died and crossed into the afterlife. "This is *yours* now, little one. I will keep you safe here for as long as you wish to stay. Should you ever want to go, the many shorelines will wait for your footsteps in the sand," the voice says cautiously, "My waters are always open for your return, and we will welcome you with love for eternity." The girl struggles to wrap her head around how she's crying underwater, but happy sobs do still manage to break free from her small frame. They say home is where your heart is, and her heart certainly belongs to the sea. *She is home.


Chapter 7 Science “So, what should I call you?” I thought out loud as the shadow began to uncrumple and mend the six dead wasps that I had collected over the past two days back together. “How about Sebastian? No, How about Bainu? No still doesn’t sound right how about-” I continued listing off names to myself until the wasps were ready for a test run. I looked at my tattoo and saw around a third of it was no longer glowing an assure blue, which meant a third of my spiritual currency that I had put in it was already gone. I gritted my teeth in frustration at seeing just how weak I truly was and then focused my attention on my life energy to see how much of it had recovered. My life energy was recovering faster than when I first took a chunk out of it. It made me wonder if the energy was recovering faster because I took less of it out this time causing a mild case of light headiness compared to the passing out incident at the playground. I noticed something else about my life energy that made my eyes widen at the discovery. It had grown bigger than it was a few days ago. It was not an enormous difference but, it was noticeable not only that, but it was still had not fully recovered. I commanded the wasps to fly around my room in a circle expending their energy as I thought of what this could possibly mean. I went to call for my supernatural friend remembering that I still did not have a name for it and got annoyed again. “Victor, what does it mean that my life energy is stronger than it was a few days ago?” The shadow scarlet red eyes turned to me and its shapeless form rippled, and a humanoid head began to take shape. After only a few seconds of the shadow twisting and turning it took on the shape of a young man no older than his early twenties. Its shadowy hair blew in the nonexistent wind and it smiled at me with its shadowy teeth. “Is this my new name master?” It asked in a boyish voice. “Yes, I think it shall be your new name. Do you like it?” The shadows humanoid face smiled even wider its smile threatened to meet the back of its head causing even me to be slightly disturbed. “It is a fitting name since we will be victorious and stomp on our enemy’s bones and make them cower before us.” It said in a menacing voice. Gods damn it, I thought as I remembered how squeaky and high pitched my voice was. I wish I had my dark menacing voice back. The shadow frowned for a second and looked thoughtfully and it melted back into its shapeless form and then continued to speak. “I, unfortunately, do not have an answer for you on this question. I have never been to this world before and it seems spiritual currency is made differently here by your kind then it was back in the other world.” My frustration began to flare up again annoyed at the thought of another mystery I had to solve. I looked at the barely glowing tattoo on my right palm, opened a jar, and commanded the wasps to fly back into it each one of them landing in the jar and the energy leaving their bodies. They began to crumple back up almost immediately, and I slid the jar back under my bed and decided to take a break. “Look you were bonded to me Friday night after school. Today is Sunday which means tomorrow I have to go back to school. So when we go I need you to stay out of sight, I don’t need the mortals here to react violently.” “Why, do we fear them? You are a warlock after all should we not be able to have the power to slay any mortal that dares defy us?” “In my original world mortals that had no magic, they only had steel swords, shields, and arrows they were only a nuisance to me. The mortals in this world however seem to have science as their weapon.” I started to hold an imaginary object called and pretended to point it at the door closing one eye. “They have weapons in a verity of shapes and sizes called guns that need no magic, they just point at the target a loud bang is audible and the target falls over dead.” I stopped holding the imaginary gun and went to stroke my beard out of habit and for the umpteenth time got annoyed that I no longer had one. I growled as I tried to think of a way to acquire one of the weapons for myself. The problem was I didn’t have the foggiest idea on how to even find one not only that but, I wasn’t able to go to many places without an adult to supervise me. An idea popped into my head and I grinned and turned to Victor. “Victor, do you have any contacts in the other dimensions that would allow me to speak with a mind-spirit that would be relatively safe to talk to?” Victor form twisted and turned for a few moments until he took on the shadowy appearance of an older man that looked to be in his mid-fifties. He wore spectacles and had a bushy beard with a warlock’s robe on holding a book flipping through the pages slowly. He spoke with an educated voice that had an accent that I was not familiar with and talked to me like I was his apprentice and he was my master. “There are no such spirits that are relatively safe to deal with when they are not under contract.” He said closing the book it abruptly vanishing into a puff of shadowy smoke. “But, I gather you mean to ask me if there is a way for us to summon one under the right conditions that make it less likely that you will be harmed.” “Don’t speak to me like I am a child!” I said hotly. “But you are a child,” Victor said in a jesting voice. Victor's form went back to being shapeless his red eyes meeting mine. “Yes, I can think of a couple of ways to contact a few mind-spirits that I know in a relatively safe manner. Why what are thinking about master?” I grinned at Victor as excitement began to fill my veins. “I have a plan for us to acquire a gun.


I saw this girl. She was having a hard time getting a garbage bag in the dumpster so I gave her a hand. She seemed scared at first; it *was* pretty dark but I just asked if she wanted some help. She said, Sure." "Man that bag smelled sooo fucking bad. I couldn't put my finger on it but it definitely smelled like something rotting." "What happened after you helped her?" "She said thanks, and told me her name was Chelsea. I said my name was Mike and started to walk off." "Thats when she asked you to help her with something else?" "Yeah man, she was pretty hot so I kinda just said fuck it and went to help her." "Did she take you into the house or did you go around back?" "We went around back at first. She had this weird hole she had dug, said she had removed a dead tree earlier that day. Asked if I would help her fill it in. She had some blisters from all the digging she had done earlier and didn't want them to pop so I said I would help." "Did she show you the blisters?" "Yeah man, they were pretty gnarly. She had two big ones on her palm right under her fingers and another one in between her thumb and index finger. Shit was pretty nasty." "Alright well what happened after you finished filling in the hole." "She told me she wanted to thank me for all my help by making me dinner. I was pretty hungry by then so I said okay and went in the house." "You just walked into a strangers house that you just met?" "Yeah, like I said, I was pretty hungry." "Okay, well what happened when you went inside?" "Well, she asked if I was okay with steak and I said hell yeah I'm okay with steak. She laughed a bit and got some steaks out of the fridge. She asked if I would light the grill on the patio for her and she would do the rest." "This grill was on the back patio, the one you had just used to get into the house?" "Yeah, that's the one. Anyway, I turned that sucker on and she came out with the steaks. She opened the grill and let out a scream. I was like, what the fuck is going on? and she said, "Uh, nothing, there's just a dead squirrel in the grill. I'm gonna turn it off and do the steaks inside. You can just leave it in there and I'll take care of it tomorrow." "I was definitely okay with leaving that squirrel in there. I hate touching dead animals, they give me the creeps. I always think they're gonna come back to life right before I touch em." "So you never looked inside the grill?" "Nah, I didn't want to see that poor squirrel." "Okay well did you go back inside at this point or stay outside?" "I was gettin bit by bugs pretty bad so I went in. I asked if she had any itch cream for the bug bites cuz they were startin to itch real bad and I hate that feeling. She said she had some but it was in the upstairs bathroom. She told me to go up the stairs and it was the second door on the left." "So what happened when you went upstairs?" "Well, I got to the top and went towards the second door on the left, but got distracted by this rad painting she had along the back wall. It was this badass dragon lighting a town on fire." "Is that when you first smelled it?" "Yeah dude, it was horrible. The same shit that we had taken to the trash for sure. My nose never forgets." "Did you follow the smell?" "Yeah, I was gonna take out the trash bag for her since she had been so nice and all but when I went into the room there was nothing there but the smell." "There was nothing in the room?" "I mean, there was a bed and some old books and shit, but other than that I couldn't see anything. It was dark as hell in there and the light switch wasn't working. I tried feelin my way around the other side of the bed and that's when I tripped over something and fell on my face. I thought I was lucky cuz my face hit something kinda soft but when I felt what I landed on I was like what the fuck man, *not* cool. There was a fucking dude just layin on the ground sleepin, or at least, I thought he was sleepin." "You tried to wake him up?" "Yeah man, I just nearly made out with the guy, I figured the least I could do was invite him down for steak. I was being real nice about it but my man wasn't moving. I tried shakin him and kickin him a little but he was out." "You didn't notice the smell coming off of him?" "Not at first, I hit my nose pretty hard and it was bleeding a little so I just smelled that. After a few second though, that shit hit me hard." "Is that when she came up?" "Yeah dude, this chick wasn't right. She asked me what I was doing in this room and I told her I was just looking for the trash bag to take out." She said, "Oh don't worry about it, it's probably just a rat that died under the floorboards." "I started thinkin that makes sense but then I asked if her friend was okay. Should we see if he wants a steak too?" "Is that when she pulled out the knife." "Yeah bro, she went full psycho. She started running around the bed towards me with the knife in her hands. I was like what the fuck are you doing? She just kept running." "How did you get out?" "My mom was a crazy bitch too, she used to go off on meth binges and think I was a CIA agent trying to take her to the aliens so they could fuck with her. Anyway, she usually had a knife too so I just did what I used to do with her." "Which is?" "I drop kicked that bitch right in the chest. She dropped pretty fast and I got the fuck outta there." "Well son, I don't know whether to thank you or send you somewhere to get some help. This woman was the one that was responsible for all those college kids going missing. Apparently she had been luring em in, same as you, then killing em and cuttin em into pieces. We found 6 bodies so far on the property and I think we may find more." "Jeez man, I can't believe she was gonna cook me a steak. What if it was part of one of those dudes who went missing. Fucking sick man." "Yeah, well, I guess that's all we need from you for now. You might need to testify before a judge about what happened but other than that, I don't think we should be contacting you too much." "Alright man, well I guess I'll see you around." "Alright then, have a good night. And try to stay out of trouble." "Sure thing officer. I've had enough weird shit happen tonight already.


"O Dark Lord, we present to you this man as an offering!" The hooded figure's voice echoed in the darkness, bouncing off the cave walls before fading into an eerie, ambient drone. A heavy silence followed. The cultists exchanged nervous glances, holding their breath in anticipation, yet the man bound to the alter lay still and expressionless. The hiss of a faint whisper resonated briefly from the back of the crowd before a deafening crack split the silence. Hooded men and women toppled to the ground and uttered helpless cries as the cave trembled violently, causing rubble to rain down from every angle. A rift tore through the solid rock floor of the cave amid the chaos, and from it a jet of red steam burst skyward, emanating intense heat and the stench of burning flesh. A massive, imposing figure began to materialize through the steam. Now grinning, eyes wide and bulging with a mix of pure awe and terror, the cult leader scrambled to his feet with arms outstretched. At last, The Dark Lord appeared in all his horrendous glory, his eyes glowing red, with menacing horns wreathed in flames. Through the pointed teeth of his mighty jaws came a mildly irritated voice. "What do you want?" When the stunned cultists offered no immediate response, the demon continued. "Listen, you just woke me from my thousand-year slumber, so this better be good. Speak up now." "Your great and omnipotent majesty!" The cult leader exclaimed before gesturing to the prisoner bound to the alter. "We offer you this man as a sacrifice to symbolize our worship, so that you might favour us and accept us into your service as disciples!" "*F a v o u r u s !*" The enraptured gathering of cultists echoed his words. The Dark Lord turned his head, aiming his fiery gaze at the prisoner. For the first time since he was captured and bound to the stone alter, the man spoke, his voice firm and unwavering: "O Dark Lord, I present to you these cultists as an offering." A second silence befell the cave. "Well..." The Dark Lord spoke with a hint of amusement, fixing his gaze on the cult leader. "...What do you say to that?" The hooded man's eyes were wide with disbelief. "M-my lord Balthegor—" "*B a l t h e g o r !*" Droned the crowd. "Please, enough with the formalities," Balthegor waved a clawed hand dismissively and rolled his glowing eyes. "It's Jeff Balthegor. Call me Jeff." "Forgive me... Jeff..." the cult leader apologized incredulously. "*J e f f !*" He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his racing thoughts. "...But the prisoner's claim is preposterous! He has not recited the Infernal Creed, and accepted your will as his omnipotent overlord!" He raised an ancient, unsavoury-looking tome, bound in the skin of some unidentifiable creature. "*I n f e r n a l C r e e d !*" Jeff approached the prisoner, rattling the cave walls with each thunderous step. He leaned over, until his gaunt, dead face hovered inches above that of the man. "So, prisoner... do you accept my will?" "Sure," he deadpanned. The cult leader huffed in frustration as Jeff glanced back at him, raising his scaled brow matter-of-factly. "But Jeff, he doesn't even bear The Mark!" "*T h e M a r k !*" With a yank at the sleeve of his robe, the leader revealed the charred mark of a brand on his forearm, which depicted a crude likeness of the demons visage. The crowd of cultists did the same. "No, that looks stupid," said the prisoner. "Yeah what the *hell* guys?!" Jeff hissed indignantly, his anger causing his flaming horns to flare with greater intensity. "Is that supposed to be *me*? I'll have you know, my horns are *not* that comically small! And brands are overdone anyway... jeez, disciples this millennium are *so* unoriginal." "You can't be serious!" Now visibly angered, the cult leader's wide eyes darted about the crowd of hooded men and women, desperate for support. "This man has no say in the matter! He is a prisoner of the cult!" "*P r i s o n—*" "Oh shut *up*, will you?!" The leader shouted in exasperation. The demon let out a low, growling sigh. Pinching his eyes shut, he rested the tips of his claws on his furrowed brow in vexation. "Look guys, I run a tight ship here. All *you've* done so far is wake me up a few hundred years early to summon me here—for what? *One* measly sacrifice? But *this* guy," he pointed a long, tapered claw at the prisoner, "he's got initiative. I like that. I mean, you have no idea how many souls I need to devour before returning to my slumber! This guy delivers results, and that's exactly the kind of strength I need in a disciple. Not any of this '*Infernal Creed*' baloney. I mean, how long did it take you guys to set all this up? Honestly." "About three weeks or so," a voice called out from the back of the cultist gathering. "Maybe four," another chimed. "*ENOUGH!*" The leader shrieked, and gestured wildly at his following. "Take the lot of them then, I don't care! They're worthless to me. Just leave me to teach others of your power and glory, O mighty Jeff!" "Hey, that's not right!" One cultist objected, sparking a chorus of mumbling protest from the crowd. Jeff clicked his forked tongue scornfully, shaking his fiery head. "What a shame. Well, I can't be bothered to listen to your whining anymore, so I think it's about time you learned your lesson." With the snap of his finger, Jeff set the leader up in flames. Screams of agony echoed through the cave, soon morphing into a horrific, inhuman wail of torment. In a matter of seconds, the man was reduced to a sizzling pile of bone. A cheer erupted from the crowd in celebration of Jeff's demonstration of power. "Ah, you like that do you?" He grinned. "You're in luck, I've got plenty more where that came from!" Hoots of joy turned to howls of pain as the hooded figures burst into flames, running into each other and rolling on the damp cave floor to no avail, before swiftly disintegrating. Finally, the chaos subsided and Jeff let out a weary sigh. He ambled over to a puddle on the cave floor, only to notice his flaming horns. "Wha—? You're telling me these things have been on fire this *whole time*? And no one thought to let me know?" He swatted at his head, distinguishing the flames. "Ugh so *embarrassing*!" And with that, Jeff snapped his clawed fingers once more and evaporated into the darkness.


This is the story of Old Ben, who had 5 days left to stay alive. Now old bens got himself a secret that he has just recently discovered. Ben can’t tell you now but don’t worry, I got it covered. Old Ben doesn’t want to say goodbye, he hangs his old head and cries, in five days he’s gonna die. Say goodbye goodbye. Upon learning this Ben goes straight to his hometown bar, his home not terribly far. Sherry that’s his girl, hears wind of the rough mental place that he’s in. Sees old Ben sitting from afar, streaking sad tears fall onto the bar. Next to him she has a seat, “what’s wrong Ben”, she asks as he pours a drink. Old Ben doesn’t want to say goodbye, he hangs his old head and cries, “in five days Sherry I’m gonna die, I’ll have to say goodbye, I don’t want to say goodbye. If only you had me for a little longer. We could be married, have a daughter.” Sherry, though teary eyed began to grin. She whispers into his ear with a sad smile, I’m in. Day One Sherry and Old Ben go to the courthouse not leaving for themselves a minute too waste. I do, I do as well, they say. Ben kisses his beautiful bride. He cant fathom ever being able to say goodbye. Day Two, Though I don’t have to say, what it is the bride and groom did yesterday, Sherry feels it anyways. The daughter inside, inside. She’ll raise it wishing Ben would be by her side. Ben cries. But look, it’s not tears of sadness, it’s joyous tears Ben has for his wife and daughter. Even though he doesn’t have very much longer, Ben is thankful for the gift of a family. “Thank you Sherry.” Day Three Ben and Sherry go to the beaches, they wander and walk for a while. Sherry smiles. Ben laughs, and they gaze into one another’s eyes. Love for the other fills them and they continue to walk on by. Hand in hand they look to the golden sky, it’s almost night. Ben holds Sherry in his arms, for a moment he forgets his terrible secret inside. The one he confided in sherry not too long before. Day Four Ben and Sherry just stay at home. No talking no walking, just holding each other in their arms. Wishing Ben wouldn’t come to any harm. Cherry holds bens hand, tells him to stand and together they look at the setting sun. All is almost done. The tears begin to flow from sherry’s eyes, a few days prior her family had just begun. Now it’s Almost time to say goodbye to her best friend, say goodbye to her now husband, say goodbye to Old Ben. Ben walks to the bed. Lies down quietly and in his head, He’s thankful for the world Sherry let him have. For a few days of love, of hope. And even though the next day he would no longer be. Old Ben was Thankful for the fact that he could have someone to say goodbye to. He takes her by the hand once more as he says goodbye to his wife, his love, his Sherry. And after all’s said and done, Ben closes his eyes. Day Five Sherry lies on the floor, crying in the other room, she is unable to look upon her groom. Her daughter, even yet to be born, along with her mother, they love and mourn. Blessed to have the short time with him that they did. With old Ben. They say one more time goodbye. So hold your loved ones close. Make every day with them count, remember to Cherish the ones you have, love the highs and lows. Like old Ben with only a total amount of five, you too may only have that long before you say goodbye. Goodbye.


When I was a kid, I was torn between becoming an astronaut and becoming a pirate. Secretly, I hoped I could be a space pirate. Of course, sometimes dreams die. Mine didn’t die quietly. My doctor looked like a malnourished Santa Claus, and he was the only man I’ve ever wanted dead. His response to my breaking my arm in three places was,“Her bones are very brittle. She’ll need to be careful.” I thought about Mars and my fragile bones crunching like soda cans under the atmospheric pressure. Space exploration suddenly became impossible. My mother, sensing my mood shift, hurriedly shuffled me out of the room before I throttled the man. Mom knelt in front of me on the sidewalk, her hands soft on my face. Some of the other parents were giving us judgmental looks, but my mother looked at me like I was the only person on Earth. “Honey,” she said, that crease on her forehead miles deep, “sometimes the cat wins.” I must have looked confused, because she pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and continued her gentle explanation. “Sometimes life is like a game of tic-tac-toe, and that means sometimes the cat wins. Don’t let today keep you from finding happiness.” It was a difficult to understand, and not just because I was a dumb kid. I tucked the expression away, wondering when I’d understand her words. When I was sixteen, I found myself in a vehicle wrapped around a tree, my leg shattered like glass, and the only coherent thought in my panicked head was, “Sometimes the cat wins!” The paramedics were not impressed with my wisdom, and promptly shut me up with an oxygen mask. Positivity is a difficult thing to come by when you’re a kid getting destroyed by your pediatrician, and I learned then that it was equally elusive when you were a teenager with a permanent limp. No more high heels; no more jogging. I quit the softball team with all the sullenness I could muster. At twenty-six, I found myself forced to stand there demurely as my boss told me he was sorry, but he had to let me go. That’s fine, I told him, sometimes the cat wins. His lunch dinged in the microwave, and he waved me away without any comment. I fit all my possessions into a cardboard box and left the office feeling like an idiot. I spent the next three months desperately searching for any job, just trying to make ends meet. The cat was winning while I had sleep for dinner, and it was winning when I cracked and moved back in with my mom, unable to make rent. I was twenty-nine when I got married and realized that the cat didn’t *always* win. It was a nice feeling, almost as nice as hitting a cousin I hated in the face with my bouquet. “Sometimes the cat wins,” I muttered to myself at the reception, and the words didn’t fall as heavily as they usually did. I allowed myself to feel a bit hopeful, for once. The cat only won sometimes, not always. I squeezed my wife’s hand and tried to cement the moment in my mind. At thirty, I sat next to my mother on her back porch, contemplative. The sky was clear and full of stars. I thought back to the days when I used to list off all the constellations with a belligerent sort of efficiency, like the knowledge would strengthen my bones. I squinted, realizing I couldn’t find Polaris. “What did you mean when you told me that thing about the cat winning?” I asked my mother, turning to look at her. She was a bit more wrinkled, but she still looked at me like I was the only person on Earth. “I have no idea,” she said, calmly, like this wasn’t advice I’d been using for my entire life. “I remember feeling a bit silly after I said it.” I turned back to the night sky. “I think it means that sometimes no one wins.” “How sad,” my mother murmured. “No,” I disagreed. I thought about my family, about how the life I had wasn't the one I had originally set out for, but was filled with precious moments all the same. “I think there’s something a bit hopeful in it. Sometimes there are things even better than our dreams waiting on us.” My mother was silent, but I could see the smile on her face. I sat with her a little longer, losing my thoughts in unfamiliar stars.


March 4th, 2042 - Detroit, MI The city is in ruins. The sheer sight of the gloomy, grey dust-filled skies strikes a feeling of hopelessness in my heart. One of the worlds greatest cities, bombed to debris. Most of my squad died in the initial bombings. Austin and David were the only other two to survive. We are currently held up in a barely-standing grocery store. We have a good supply of ammo for our guns, but that wont do us much good against the hoards of hostile troops. We don't know what to do now, our radios are on, but no higher-ups have even addressed the situation, let alone gave us orders. We're waiting in the grocery store for what seemed like hours, but was realistically only about 30 minutes. Every now and then, a big patrol would come past, usually a few tanks surrounded by dozens of troops. They never noticed us, or even bothered to check in the store. There we sit, in complete silence, with no clue what to do, when suddenly we hear it; radio static followed by a familiar female voice from my radio: "Message to any surviving US military: rendezvous point at the church on Jefferson Avenue, take caution while moving, extremely heavy hostile presence on the streets". "Did she say the church on Jefferson Avenue?" Austin blurted out loudly. "Oi quiet down, idiot, do you want us to get killed?" David says in a quiet, but angry tone. "Yes the church on Jefferson Avenue, now be quiet, lets get ready to start moving," I inform him. "I know where that is, its only a few miles down the road" Austin says, being useful for once. "Well lets get moving then, no time to waste" I order. We get our guns loaded, and make sure we've got our supplies, then we check the street. Clear. We start moving. The walk wasn't a long one, but seeing a once glorious city now be nothing but a pile of bricks and dust, except for a few buildings was really depressing. Humbling in a way. After not too long, we could see the church. "There it is" Austin says as he points towards a half collapsed, big, white building. We entire the building and shut the door behind us, only one other squad in here with us. I talk to their leader, and discuss what to do next. "I think we should just wait for orders fro-" i was cut off by a loud explosion. We all turn to the source of the explosion, and see a tank on the road, smoking barrel pointing towards us. David screams "TAKE COVE-", before he can finish his sentence, we hear gunfire and David groaning. "David's hit!" Austin screams, trembling with fear. We all take cover behind Seats, stands and anything else we can. Troop after troop runs in. Austin dies, David is still bleeding out. Only four of us remain viable to fight, me and a few members of the other squad. Troop after troop runs in, and gets gunned down. We manage to hold them off for a while, but one by one, everyone but me dies. I need to run, no way i can fight this many people, I sprint out the back of the church, and start running. Then everything seems to go slow. I hear a bang and feel a sharp burning sensation in my thigh. Ive been hit. This is the end. I watch hopelessly as i drop to the ground, dropping my gun on my way down. I go to reach for my gun, but then hear another bang, I got shot again, this time in the chest. I cant move. I give up. I lay down and accept my fate I see a hostile run up above my body, utter something in a language that I don't understand, and pulls out a knife. He digs it in my neck, and everything fades to black... "CUT" yells the director. "Well done men, you can leave the studio for the night. You did really well today. Everyone memorised all their lines today perfectly.


“Take it dear. You look like you could use it.” I turned my head away from surveying the calm sea and looked down at the little old lady. She must have sidled noiselessly up alongside me while I was lost in thought, staring out at the monstrous vessel sliding ponderously along the calm waters of the Solent, imagining that it was off on a glorious voyage - more likely it was delivering a load of cargo, cars probably, to the Far East. Her outstretched arm hung horizontally before her, trembling with the weight of the small round pebble grasped within her upturned varicose fingers. Unsure how to react, but not wanted to insult her, I quickly reached out and took it from her. Relieved of its burden, her arm dropped to her side, fingers wrapping now around the handle of her shopping cart, one of those little cloth-covered ones on two wheels that all the elderly people in the supermarkets seem to have. She turned and hobbled off along the promenade towards The Green, cart clattering loudly on the uneven pavers. “Um, excuse me.” She’d gone a few metres before my mind caught up, but I caught up to her in a couple of strides. “Why did you give me this?” I asked. “Looks to me like you need it,” she answered, staring ahead and maintaining her rackety pace. Slowing to match her, I looked down at the stone in my hand, rubbing my thumb over its surface. “I look like a need a rock?” It was a question as much to myself as it was to her, which was good because she seemed not to hear or chose not to answer. We walked silently together past the Squadron, each squinting against the sunset glare shooting off the golden cannons guarding the battlements of the ancient, if diminutive, castle. I continued to stroke the surface of the stone, half expecting understanding to wash over me at any moment, occasionally glancing down at the tiny woman for a clue of some kind. She seemed to have forgotten about me entirely. “Is it a special rock?” I asked, as the high-end sea-front apartments alongside us gave way suddenly to the open expanse of The Green, a hundred-metre stretch of grassy park, pockmarked with concrete benches, and pebbly beach; pebbles that looked to my eye like very close relatives of the one still clutched in my hand. “They’re all special,” she said matter-of-factly, stopping and surveying the expanse of pebbles, white curls of her hair rustling in the breeze blowing softly off the water. “But that one’s the one for you.” She stepped off the path and onto the stones, dragging her cart behind her, barely managing to keep its ricocheting frame the right way up. About halfway to the gently crashing waves she stopped. Leaving the trolley standing alone, she picked her way nimbly in a wide circle across the pebbles, back bent deeply. Her eyes never left the ground and every now and then she would stop, stoop down further and peer intensely at one of the pebbles, picking the occasional one up before discarding it with a clatter amongst its equally unsuitable peers. Standing there watching her work, circle slowly expanding as the light grew more and more golden, I realised that I’d seen her before; right here doing exactly this as I passed by on my way home from the office. Not every evening, but occasionally. Of course, I’d never in my three years walking this commute stopped to watch her; never stood statuesque for ten minutes in the setting sun as the crazy old lady picked up stones on the beach. Why would I? I shook my head and turned away from her; turned for my little flat at the end of the promenade; turned for home. I rolled the pebble over in my hand before slipping it into my pocket. “Make sure you look after it,” her shrill voice called to my back as I walked away. “That one’s been my favourite for longer than I can remember.” \*\*\* “And?” My mom asked. “How are you doing?” She’d called me on FaceTime just a few minutes after I’d walked through the door. We spoke about once a week, sometimes less. I sat on the small couch in the corner of the kitchen slash living room. The wifi was playing up as it sometimes did so we’d turned the video off and were making do with a voice chat. “I don’t know,” I said, “sometimes I just wonder what I’m doing.” “What do you mean?” she asked, concern in her voice. “Just that…I don’t know…just what the point of it all is. Work for instance. It’s not like I enjoy it, or that I’m any good at what I do. I’m surprised they haven’t fired me yet actually.” She clucked at that. She always clucked when I made comments like that. “Oh come on,” she said, “you don’t mean that. Why would they fire you?” I fixed my attention on the pebble in my hand, turning it over and over, inspecting the variations of its grey-blue-brown colouring. It felt coarse against my skin; the etchings of centuries of erosion all over its surface giving it the texture of fine-grained sandpaper. “You’re just having a tough time at the moment,” she continued, oblivious to my inattention. “Just keep your head down and push through, it’ll all be alright soon.” I nodded my head then remembered she couldn’t see me and verbalised my affirmation, even though I didn’t agree with her. It’s not like she’d understand anyway. I’d tried telling her before in different ways, but it was always the same. Just get through it and things would get better. It’s just a bad patch that I’m going through. I wasn’t so sure though. If it was just a bad patch then it was a very long one and the end was nowhere in sight, not to my eyes at least. I was bored and unmotivated; had been for as long as I could remember. It’s not like things are terrible and I can hardly claim great misfortune or hardship, but I also can’t just perk myself up as some people seem to be able to do; just pretend like everything is hunky-dory and get on with things when they brought me no joy. I have a job sure, even if I can’t remember why I took it. I have the flat. It’s small - compact according to the proud agent - but the view out over the water, full with the comings and goings of maritime vessels, is mesmerising. I’m healthy and have a family who loves me. And yet, I feel like something is missing, or that I’m missing out on something. We spoke about nothing for another ten or so minutes before saying our goodbyes and hanging up. I stood up from the couch and set about making something to eat, slipping the stone back into my pocket, feeling the weight settle against my thigh. It’s not like I was going to change anything right now. After dinner and a few episodes of mindless TV, I left the dishes unwashed in the sink and got ready to go to bed. On the way out of the room, I passed the peace lily that my mom had sent me a few months back, no doubt hoping that having another living entity dependent on me for survival would have some sort of magical effect on my outlook. Instead, I’d ended up with a near-dead houseplant. “Come on little guy,” I said as I walked past, sounding like I was talking to a puppy or a three-week-old baby, “don’t die on me.” I stroked a forlorn leaf and continued on through to the bedroom. Undressing, I put my hand into my pocket to retrieve the pebble. It was warm. Not body-heat warm, but sitting-in-the-sunshine-all-day warm. I held it against my cheek, feeling the heat transfer into my skin. It was comforting. Peculiar, but comforting for some reason. I set it down on the bedside table, telling myself that it was probably some unusually conductive material. Maybe some rocks are just like that. What did I know about rocks? I climbed into bed and fell asleep. \*\*\* In the morning, I went through my regular routine. Alarm rings at seven, hit snooze a couple of times and then roll out of bed and get dressed: jeans, T-shirt and a black zip-up sweater from Patagonia that I’d had for at least the last ten years. Quick breakfast of whatever cereal had caught my eye in Sainsbury’s on the weekend, sitting on the couch and eating while looking through various apps on my phone, always in the same order: e-mail, BBC News, Instagram and then Reddit. By the time I’ve got through all of that, it’s usually eight and time to brush my teeth and start the walk to work. As I opened the front door to leave this morning, I felt a pull in the pit of my stomach, like I’d forgotten something but didn’t know what. I pulled open my bag to check I had my laptop and then patted my pockets to make sure my phone and wallet were there. I had all three. It was as I tapped my right pocket though that I thought of the pebble, which had occupied that space alongside my phone yesterday evening after I left that strange old lady on the beach. I backtracked into my bedroom, picked up the little grey rock off the table beside my bed and dropped it into my pocket. The feeling disappeared. Exiting the bedroom once again, I noticed the lily; the near-dead lily that I had whispered meaningless words of encouragement to last night as if the sound of my voice could somehow bring it back to life. Only it seemed to have worked. Instead of looking dreary and withered, it was lush and verdant, broad green leaves standing tall and and even a couple of white kayak-shaped flowers spearing proudly upwards. I stopped to examine it, running my hands over the smooth leaves. Surely this can’t be the same plant? Time was ticking past though and I needed to get to work. I shook my head, turned away from the miraculous houseplant and shut the door behind me. I was halfway along the promenade when I put my hand into my pocket and felt the pebble, recalling suddenly how strangely warm it had been before I went to sleep yesterday evening. \*\*\* The email arrived in my inbox with a chime at exactly 10:00 AM. I reckon it must have been typed sometime earlier, days earlier perhaps, and then scheduled to go out at this precise time. It was from the head of HR - although the title here was Chief People Officer - and it informed me that my role was, “no longer feasible to maintain given the current commercial environment” and that they were, “sorry to have to let me go.” It went on to tell me that as per my contract I was being given the standard one-month’s notice and was thus expected to perform my duties diligently until May 31st. My first thought was that I’d get to tell my mom I told her so. My second was that I should just go crazy and create a scene worthy of a TV sitcom, throw my laptop against the wall, stride purposefully across the room and hook the manager a sharp one in the jaw. I actually grinned behind my monitor as that played across my mind’s eye. My third was that I shouldn’t be surprised; that this was the email I’d been expecting from the moment Henk, the head of IT, had issued me my laptop on my first day, it had just arrived three years late now that they’d finally realised I had no idea what I was doing and never had. I closed Outlook and double-clicked the Powerpoint icon. Growing up, once I’d matured beyond the childish fascination of becoming Spiderman or the white Power-Ranger I’d still had dreams, albeit more realistic ones. I’d marvelled at the colossal mega-structures on Discovery Channel documentaries and discovered that they were built by civil engineers. At some point I’d moved on to wanting to be a doctor, a surgeon even, saving lives amongst the beeps and whooshes of the operating theatre. Then I’d dreamed of designing Formula One cars. Instead, I’d ended up here, spending most of my time playing Tetris with the shared calendar and craning my neck closer to the screen so that I could be sure the corners of the text boxes in my one-thousandth Powerpoint slide deck lined up perfectly. Really important work. Stuff to be proud of. “We’re off to the Anchor for a drink, you coming?” A voice called from across the open-plan office. Just like that the day had disappeared and I had nothing to show for it except a headache blooming at the base of my neck and seven new, perfectly aligned slides. “Nah,” I shrugged back, slamming my laptop closed. “I’ve got plans tonight I’m afraid.” I didn’t, but this was a recurrent ritual we went through whenever a gang of the team was heading for an after-work drink at one of the local pubs. They’d ask me, knowing that I would decline with a made-up excuse, and I’d turn down the offer, knowing that they didn’t really want me there but felt obliged to ask anyway. I held back a few minutes, giving them enough time to draw a safe distance away from the building, and then headed out for home. And so passed the remaining four weeks of my employment. Looking back I can’t really tell one day apart from another. There was a meeting with Joy, the Chief People Officer, who wanted to conduct an exit interview where she managed to tell me at least five more times how sorry they were that I was leaving as if at some point it had transitioned from their decision to mine. I actually joined the guys at the pub one evening, but swiftly regretted that choice when someone asked me what I was going to get up to now that I was free of this place. I probably said something along the lines of, “oh you know, probably just take a break and see what opportunities come up,” doubting all the while that anything would. Then it was my last day. The only thing that gave it away as anything other than an ordinary day was the cringeworthy farewell party that was half-heartedly thrown in the kitchen at lunchtime. There was a small cake and about one-third of the office decided it was worth leaving their critically time-sensitive work for ten minutes to join in and wish me well for the future. At five o’clock on the dot, having handed my laptop back to Henk from IT, I gave a feeble wave to those few colleagues looking up from their computers and walked out of the door for the last time. The fingers of my right hand ran reassuringly over the surface of the pebble within my pocket. \*\*\* I didn’t see it, I heard it. You wouldn’t think that an object falling out of a tree onto grass makes a noise loud enough to hear from fifty metres away, but it does. It makes a solid thud as it hits the ground, muted slightly depending on the thickness of the grass and dampness of the ground onto which it falls. If it’s a person, you’d expect them to scream as they fall, but she didn’t. There was just the thud. I was walking home past The Green again, just as I’d done every evening since meeting the old lady over a month ago. Just as I’d done nearly every evening for the past three years and every morning in the opposite direction. Now, I was walking it for the final time, backpack full of the few personal knick-knacks I’d collected on my desk in my time in the office: Rubik’s cube, a couple of books, the computer mouse I’d brought in from home, those sorts of things. I hadn’t seen the pebble-picker again, though I’d looked for her, my eyes automatically dancing across the rocky beach as I emerged from the promenade walkway into the open space. She must have gotten a good haul that night she gave her favourite pebble away to me. Behind the grassy embankment that lines the beach, at the far end from where I emerged, there is an ablutions block, bricks coloured green and grey by decades of sea air. You have to cross the road along which I walked to get to it from the beach. The stench of stale urine emanated from within on a warm night like tonight. Behind it, stood an enormous oak tree. Easily two metres across at the base and who knows how high. It was probably older than the Squadron castle and definitely older than the toilet block. I saw her as I walked past the decrepit building, holding my breath against the smell, like we used to do when the school bus drove alongside a graveyard, gasping when the rows of headstones ended suddenly. She must have been ten or twelve years old - I’m terrible at guessing ages - and she was high, high up amongst the limbs climbing fearlessly. It set my heart racing just watching her. I wondered briefly where her parents were and whether they knew that their daughter was so dangerously high in the upper echelons of a monumental tree, but I didn’t stop walking. I did little more than glance at her really. I was just reaching the end of The Green, where the grass ends at the ice-cream hut and the seafront houses pick up their guardianship of the coastline when I heard the thump behind me. I turned reflexively and saw a shape at the base of the tree, a lumpy mound. I looked up into the branches and didn’t see the girl. Two-and-two clicked and I dashed madly over the road, heedless to whether there were any approaching vehicles, sprinted across the grass and collapsed hard on my knees beside her body. I took in all of her in that split-second of arrival, my knees lightly touching the warm cotton of her top at the side of her chest. She was a little thing. Delicate like the finches and sparrows that dart and dive amongst the tight-knit branches of the box hedge and the pink-plumed hydrangea outside my kitchen window. Her blonde hair splayed out in a crown above her head, weaving in and out through the blades of grass. I watched her eyes flutter beneath closed eyelids. Had I not just seen her twenty metres up in the sky amongst the leaves and branches, I would have believed her to be sleeping. Perhaps she’d come down to play a game of solo imagination amongst the bees and squirrels as young children are wont to do and, growing weary in the warmth of the afternoon had nestled into the fragrant grass for a nap. I could have convinced myself of that were it not for the trickle of scarlet blood dripping down her pale cheek from the corner of her mouth and the rasping of her breath. I tore my eyes from her and searched desperately around me for rescue; for somebody to rescue me from the ultimate responsibility for this little human being, this young soul whose life, whose dreams now depended solely on me. Me who had given up on my own dreams and settled for something less. There was nobody else. I felt her breath stop. “Don’t you fucking die on me,” I pleaded. I drove my hand into my pocket in search of my phone. I needed to call an ambulance; should have called one the second I saw her lying there. Closing my fingers around the cool titanium device, the back of my hand brushed against the pebble, it was scorching. I pulled my hand back sharply, keeping a grip on my phone. The back of my hand stung like I’d laid it against a hot pan without noticing. Pushing aside the pain and questions about how the pebble got so hot, I dialled nine-nine-nine and held the phone to my ear. Expecting an immediate answer all I got was a series of monotone beeps stretching infinitely in those couple of seconds. No signal. There never was around here. I dashed the phone to the ground and turned back to her, fraught with the realisation that she had only me. And I had only her. “Please, please, just breathe!” I ignored the heat that flared suddenly against my thigh and tried to remember the first aid course I’d attended in high school - it must have been ten years ago now - and whispered myself through the steps of CPR as I recalled them. “Hands on the sternum.” I placed my right hand over my left at the centre of her chest. Someone would surely walk by any second now and rescue us both. “Come on, you can remember this.” Deep breath. “Fifteen compressions followed by thr-“ Her body leapt as she drew in a breath, back lifting off the flattened grass. Her eyes shot open and stared at me, through me. Fragile chest heaving, she gasped time and time again, never turning her wide unblinking eyes from mine. An eternity passed in the moments it took for her to calm; for both of us to calm. I wrapped my fingers tenderly around her small hand. I felt everything and nothing at the same time, overcome with shock and numb. “Thank you,” she whispered then, her eyes talking as much as her voice. And then she was gone, darting off past the monolithic tree trunk, disappearing behind the toilet block and off up the road. \*\*\* I don’t remember walking home. As I closed the front door behind me I went straight to the toilet and threw up, the terror of brushing so closely up alongside death overcoming me. When I was done, I splashed cold water on my face and brushed my teeth, spearmint not quite erasing the bile in the back of my throat. The sun was just setting now and the still evening air felt stifling inside my tiny living room so I opened the sliding glass door and sat down on the step at the edge of the small deck that fronted my flat, staring out over the small garden at a behemoth drifting up the Solent, container load bound to Southampton. The breeze off the sea was fresh and I soaked it in, closing my eyes and giving myself up into its care, trying not to focus on my adrenalin thoughts. When my heart had quieted marginally, I opened them again and a brown hydrangea at the bottom of the garden, part of the barrier separating the border of the property from the sidewalk alongside the seafront road, caught my eye. I thought suddenly of the lily inside my hallway. The lily that had been teetering on the edge of death that night four weeks ago and was then so vividly alive the next morning; was still alive now. My mind skipped from the lily to the pebble, still cradled in my right pocket, and I lifted my hand in front of my face. On the backside there was a deep red mark, like I’d brushed it up against a boiling pan and removed it too late. It looked like it would blister. I knew that my thigh would be sporting an identical mark. An idea blinked into existence. A ridiculous idea. I reached my scorched hand into my pocket and closed my fingers around the cool stone, withdrawing it and regarding it in front of me, balancing it precariously on the tips of my fingers. It was just an ordinary beach pebble. There were at least a million of them on the short stretch of rocky beach before me. But what if it wasn’t ordinary? I stood and walked to the end of the garden, gripping the rock tightly now and holding it slightly ahead of me as if I might need to let go of it suddenly and needed to be able to spring backwards away from it lest it strike out at me. When I reached the hydrangea, I could see the full extent of its situation. Like my peace lily a month ago, it seemed to be on its last legs, brittle brown leaves crumbling in the gusting wind. I crouched down, putting my face alongside one of the large dry flower heads. “Come on,” I whispered, wondering what my neighbours would think if they saw me murmuring to a dying plant. “You don’t need to die.” I’m not sure what I expected to happen, but the plant gave no indication that it had heard me at all, simply fluttering in the energetic breeze. The rock for its part sat unchanged and unchanging within my grasp, as cool and rough as any sane person would expect it to be. I let out a rush of held breath and chuckled, chastising myself for thinking anything so absurd. I grasped one of the hydrangea’s brown leaves and began to crinkle it, feeling the crisp crackle as it shattered between my fingers. I remembered then that I had touched my dying lily that night a month ago, not to destroy it, but to encourage it, to stroke it reassuringly. My chest felt empty then as I dropped the disintegrated leaf onto the grass below and reached out for another. The leaf I chose was brown like all the others, but there were a few remaining flecks of green, bastions of chlorophyll standing resolute against the onslaught of decay. I held the delicate leaf between my fingertips like I might hold a child’s hand; like I’d held her little hand as she lay on the grass. “You can do it,” I whispered. “Don’t give up.” Heat bloomed in my right hand, nearly enough to for me to drop the pebble inside, but I kept my grip, feeling the heat as it developed a pulse in tune with my own. It was intense, but bearable, not the searing heat I had felt earlier when I told the girl to breathe. I remained unmoving, isolated from the world around me as the stone slowly cooled, its uncanny warmth dissipating into my fingers and up my arm until it was cool once again and I was calm once again. I released the leaf then and stood to make my way back inside. There was not a doubt in my mind that when I looked out at the sea across the garden tomorrow morning, I would find the hydrangea in perfect health. \*\*\* “Was I right? Was it the one for you?” She didn’t look at me as she asked, but stayed stooped over, keenly inspecting a particularly large, grey-blue pebble; turning it over with clack to examine the underside. I didn’t think she’d heard me approach. “It was,” I answered, bending to pick up the stone when she nodded her satisfaction that it met her criteria, wobbling a crooked finger instructively at it before stepping carefully away to examine a new one. It was far heavier than the one she’d given me that day on the promenade. I picked my way across the short distance to her cart, opened the cover and peered inside at the contents. She’d been busy for a while before I’d arrived, it was almost three-quarters full of pebbles. Large ones, tiny ones, perfectly round ones and oddly shaped ones. And each one perfect. “Things will be different now you know,” she said to me. I looked at her and smiled and said, “I hope so.” And not only did I hope, I believed.


Your flesh. The thing that holds us together. It is the story of yourself. It is the lines of your finger, you hold their stories. The words that you have, I seek. The courage you put out, I crave. It is how you thrive with others, I desire. But the layers of my flesh have grown thick, making it unimaginable to reach others. It is the matte tone of my shadowed skin that has letters within its wrinkles. The thousands of words throughout my body, hope to arise in the air. Your words defy gravity, while mine sprout and dissolve. These little buds are dying in stacks. The other flowers I have seen, have magnificent detail, all within its colors. The luminous, pristine petals that radiate light, offer beauty to others. While I am a drying bud, just waiting for the water to set me alive. The cool touch of something so light. The water is the life that purifies us. As others absorb these streams, I sit there and watch as it crashes against me. I would rather stay in the shadows of the great oceans. These waves are made by the fields of wildflowers. These are the unique voices that help the buds bloom. The sea of thoughts provide all the others with their growth. I, the dehydrated, am stuck within the white stained desert. A single flower stranded. I try my best to survive but rays of light dry me out. And I start to crumble within the heat. As I cannot hold on to my shape any longer, I turn to a little brown pile of ash. I have lots of these piles all over my flesh. They are the little doubts of myself that trail my body. My nose holds them dear as they shield my eyes. But I have evolved to use them as guidance. With the bits of my nature, I was able to grow these dots into my own creation. It does not power with water like the rest, but able to live on its own. It functions off of my power, my belief. It is built on my motivations. I can construct huge mountains. Through little bumps that line my skin, nature is able to leak throughout the hills. All the tiny pieces of glazed string come together to create crowds of people. I now have all these voice screaming. They all want to be heard. All their own thoughts. All their imperfections. They're human. I herd these populations, preparing them for the wild. The growing groups fill me. They build until I can barely contain myself. The pushing pressure is grinding trenches into me. The cracks of my desert are now huge valleys. My extending growth is peeling me open. As my layers slowly break away. My flesh stretches out, trying to keep my words in. As my thinner layer sticks to me, tiny holes break open, and few amounts of words fall out. These words surprise me. They surprise others. They soak up the air becoming balloons. The idea pops and my words linger above our heads. My letters are drizzling into peoples minds. I impacted them, I created a reaction. The mist of my words is joined by the rivers of the others. Condensation coats everyone as we stir waves, exchanging thoughts. A waterfall of words splash up upon my mind and my body shivers with a numbness. I know I created this new sea. A new map of unsearched territory. A question that expands the people's understanding of their own thoughts. The drops of words sink into my flesh. I absorb the knowledge. My flesh is hydrated. My body thirsts for more information. Bruises are being healed. These words give me strength. Cuts in my skin are being pulled back together, by the stories that created them. I am healing. The scars they leave within my flesh, hold the most letters. If only I could get my flesh to form the right words. The stories could have the power to sway minds. I can hit people with my own words. As I grow, so do my words. I let them go purposely now. I can create clouds without fear. I have grown to water others. Let the other dried blossoms take in some of the moisture. My skins punctures leak, becoming the spout of water for the others. Whenever I spill, I get the overwhelming feeling of peace. I create my own ideas. I have the ability to share them with others. I let my flesh peel open and bring emotion to others. I am hit with the fact that I affect others. I have a part in this world. The greatness my words can achieve, lift me. I am the creator of storms. The trickle of rain is taken over by the tsunami on its way. I can make things fall from the sky. I can water tons of flowers. As our flowers lay there, soaking, you question my scars. What has happened? Why are you like this? Are you okay? My water inside is shaken, for I have so much to say. My flesh has the potential to become great weights of art, but I don't want to be a burden to you. But you say it's fine. Through your words, I can feel the stillness of your sea, of your safe presence. I sense your shadow warming me. My blanket of coldness is melting. I drip away, until I have no barrier. I pour myself out. And my skin falls off. My voice. My words are free. This is my poem.