8 pounds 3 ounces. At least that’s what the birth certificate said. But I have a feeling that could’ve been wrong. I mean, the nurse had already messed up my name so I wouldn’t put it passed her. Instead of ‘Jon Tranton’ she decided my name would look better with an ‘h’ shoved into the first half. So now, on this piece of paper that’s supposed to set up the rest of my life with all this hope and potential, there’s an ‘h’ crossed out by the red pen my dad had in his pocket that day. There are a lot of things I wish I could cross out so I guess an ‘h’ on a silly piece of paper seems pretty inconsequential, but still, I’ve always thought it represented how my life has panned out pretty well. 47 pounds. Just 3 pounds shy of the little league weight cut off for that year. I had played catch all summer with my dad in preparation for the new season. He even got me a new glove. Taught me how to break it in with shaving cream and everything. I went home crying that day. My dad wrote a letter to some league officials, but nothing ever came of it. 78 pounds. I was at this amusement park not too far from home. It was that kind of park that looked like it was from late 1800s. Everything was wood. Even the rides were wood. They had to weigh you to see where on the cart they would put you. I was pretty small for a 6th grader so I had to sit next to Jim Morrison. Not Jim Morrison from the Doors, I think he was dead by then, but there was this 8th grader named Jim Morrison. I remember he was so fat that his belly kept creeping out of the bottom of his shirt. He smelled like some sort of cheese. I remember thinking brie, but I doubt it was brie. 105 pounds. The doctor needed to take some measurements before giving me the anesthesia. I remember thinking that he had taken my weight wrong or that he would give me too much by accident. Something like that. I just remember thinking I wouldn’t wake up. But after I started counting backwards from ten, I think I got to six, I woke up with one less appendix than I went to sleep with. 121 pounds. I remember my coach asking me to put on some weight for the upcoming match in Milwaukee, but by weigh in, I had actually lost a pound. I had only been boxing for a few months by then, but I was pretty good. I had won 3 of my 4 fights. The kids on my team used to call me “Jon the Lionheart” because I never got tired. I’m not so sure why they chose ‘Lionheart’, but I guess it sounded pretty cool. I went up against this guy from South Florida. Probably Cuban. He was a little shorter than me, but stocky. I remember when I met him I could see the top of his head. He had buzzed hair and a long scar that went from the back of his right ear up to his hair line. I asked him how he got it, but he didn’t speak English. 12 minutes later he punched me so hard I felt one of my molars fall loose in the back of my mouth. 172 pounds. A pretty late growth spurt junior year. Almost 4 inches. I jumped 3 weight divisions. I was fighting at a tournament near Chicago. I remember looking at my first opponent, he was big guy, but you could tell it was mostly fat. I thought I would dance circles around him. When we stepped into the ring he had that sort of scowl that some fighters put on to intimidate their opponents. It didn’t work. I caught him with a right hook under his jaw 17 seconds into the fight. He dropped like a stone. Hit the floor so hard I thought it was going to cave in. My next fight was the following day. I went against this guy I had fought before, but now, he had a snake tattoo wrapped around his arm. I had beaten him before so I wasn’t too worried, but at the start of the second round, I started feeling tired. I didn’t usually get tired. He won by split decision at the end. He probably deserved it, but I remember getting really pissed. 168 pounds. I had been coughing for some weeks. I had to wear one of those masks you always see people from Asia wearing. I heard that they wear the masks there to protect from all the smog and pollution. But then why do they still wear them when they come over here? I think that theory’s full of shit. I think they’re just scared of getting sick. I think everyone’s scared of getting sick. I know was scared of getting sick. 160 pounds. The doctors called it acute granulocytic leukemia. I must’ve had it for months before going in for a checkup. I knew I was losing weight, but I figured it was just from some combination of stress and boxing. I remember sitting in the waiting room watching a mom try to corral her twin daughters. They were playing with some toys that were put out for them. I remember a doctor opened the door and walked into the waiting room without taking his eyes off his clipboard. He called my name and when I responded he looked up. His eyes sort of widened out of shock. He told me I looked much thinner than I had the last time I was in there. I told him I knew that. 145 pounds. I hadn’t been that thin in years. When I bent over, you could see the outline of my ribs through the back side of my shirt. I’d been told the chemo was working. It didn’t feel like the chemo was working. I stopped boxing after the diagnosis, but I asked my coach if I could still come to practice. I just wanted to be around it. He let me come a few times, but after he caught me crying in the corner he told me he thought it would be for the best if I stayed home for a while. I stayed home for a while. 140 pounds. The doctors said they had never seen a faster remission. I was cancer free. I still am, for now. I let my coach know and basically begged to be let back on the team, but he insisted I waited until the next year. I was still so frail. Sometimes I traced my cheekbones with my fingers. My little sister said I looked like a skeleton. Not like a scary skeleton though. My coach did invite me to the next tournament, just to sit ringside, but that was enough for me. I half expected it to be some sort of packed super-stadium celebrating the return of a fallen boxer, but it was just an ordinary high school boxing event. I don’t much remember watching the fights. I think one of my teammates ended up third overall, but not much else. I do remember seeing someone though. That Cuban guy I fought a few years earlier. He was sitting across the gym, behind one of the rings set up near the back. I started walking over to him. I wanted to catch up. I never got to congratulate him on knocking one of my teeth out. But once I got close enough, I could see he was sitting in a wheel chair. I figured he had hurt his legs somehow. That stuff sometimes happens if you get knocked out and fall in a weird way. I couldn’t quite remember his name so I just yelled out “Hey man!” expecting him and only him to turn around, but almost everyone, including 2 of the judges, turned my way. He did turn around though. Well, kind of. His neck seemed to strain while the rest of his body stayed absolutely still. I knew pretty much immediately he hadn’t hurt his legs. I read about some kid who had to be sent to the hospital from being hit so hard. The story didn’t really give anything away, but I’d put my money on this being that kid. I wanted to ask him what had happened. I wanted to tell him what I’d gone through. How I’d been out of boxing for a while. How I was hoping to get back in the ring as soon as I could. How I could relate to the struggle of not being able to do what you love. How it feels to have your body fucking destroy itself. But then I remembered he didn’t speak English. So, I just nodded and waved. And he just nodded. I went back to where my team had been and sat down for a while. I started thinking about everything. About how I was the kid who got cancer and how, somehow, I was still the lucky one. 152 pounds. I never did get back into boxing. I’m feeling better now, but I think that part of my life’s done. Sometimes I think about that Cuban kid. Sometimes I remember how much it hurt when he hit me in the face and sometimes I try to imagine how much more it must’ve hurt when he got hit. I wish I got his name. I bet at least his birth certificate doesn’t have some stupid crossed out h. But then again, I guess I’d rather have that.


A high pitch rustling causes my eyes to open. It’s not daylight yet so my cousin’s living room is dark. The rustling continues as I look around for the source. I am expecting to see my cousin or his girlfriend walk beside the couch I’ve chosen as my bed. Are they getting up for a bathroom break? Maybe a midnight snack? Who knows? This is the first time I have stayed with them so their habits are unknown. My focus is directed at the sour feeling in my stomach reminding me of last night’s vodka, until the rustling ends with a brief jiggle. I feel a blast of cold air even though my body is covered with blankets. My eyes scan the room towards my cousin’s bedroom. All I see is the faint outlines of furniture. The house gets silent. I lean my head off the pillow to get a better view. The whine of the heating unit breaks the silence. I stretch my neck to see above the back of the couch. I notice the front door ajar. Then I hear steps. The steps are light but loud enough for me to hear over the heat blowing through the vents. A large figure walks past me. My fingers tighten around the blankets laying on top of me. I pull my head below so only my eyes and hair remain exposed. The figure walks through the living room and down the hall slowly opening doors as he progresses. Bathroom. Next. Closet. Next. Home office. The figure stays in front of the door but doesn’t open it. I know my cousin always locks his office door. I’m not sure what he does I just know he works from home. I hear the rustling again. My phone sits next to me on the side table. I know I can grab it but what would the consequences be? The screen light may alarm the intruder. Would I be able to hide it under my blankets or would the light escape? Am I too scared to even call 911? I can barely feel my arms. I hear a brief jiggle then the intruder disappears into the now open home office. I know my time is now. I moved my hands up closer to my phone. I grab my phone and text 911. They trace my location and immediately send police to my cousin’s home. The intruder walks out and approaches me. I jump from the blankets in a surprise attack and perform a choke hold on the intruder. Using a nearby cable I tie up the intruder’s hands and feet. The police arrive and everyone says I’m a hero. I move my hands up closer to my phone.The plan in my head was set. I just need to initialize it. Grab your phone. Grab your phone. GRAB YOUR PHONE. I can’t move. My disobedient body remains hidden under the blankets. I start to shake knowing my window is closing. My heart pumps. Instead of adrenaline it pumps doubt. The window is slammed shut as the intruder walks out carrying a case. The intruder pauses in the living room and stares at my cousin’s bedroom door before setting the case down. As the intruder quietly enters the bedroom my throat prepares for a scream. I rip through the silence with a loud scream. Suddenly my cousin pushes the intruder out of his room and wrestles him to the ground. Punch after punch makes contact with facial tissue until a crunch renders the intruder unconscious. A quick phone call and the police are on the way. My throat prepares for a scream. Nothing audible leaves my mouth. Not a scream, a yelp, or even a whisper. My voice has left. My throat closes up making it difficult to breath. I focus on my breathing to concentrate on something other than the screams. Even with the door closed they are barely muffled. I can hear objects, once used for something happy, being used as weapons. I only hope they are being used defensively. My breathing intensifies as the intruder returns to the living room. After picking up the case the intruder walks out the front door and a blast of cold air hits me. The sour feeling in my stomach returns but I doubt it has anything to do with a hangover. A small burst of gurgling noises come from my cousin’s bedroom before the house is as silent as it is dark. The whine of the heating unit breaks the silence.


He awoke with a gasp, jolting upright, one hand at his chest, the other grasping out into the empty darkness in front of him. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but Her face was already fading, and he was pulled unwilling into reality. His heart was still pounding inside his ribcage, and his bare chest drenched in sweat, but the heat of the nightmare was already fading, and the nighttime summer breeze through the open window sent a chill through him that made him draw breath. Slowly, he opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust. Across the darkness of the bedroom, a faint blue glow solidified into the display of his digital alarm clock. 2:10 a.m. He sighed and flopped back onto his sweaty sheets, staring at the black ceiling. The dreams came less often now. He had begun to fear that without them, he'd forget the details of Her face, or the sound of Her voice, but the years spent fighting against the shadow of his nightmares had become instinctual, and his recent efforts to prolong the dwindling encounters seemed fruitless. A distant flash of lightning briefly lit the room, and the blinds at the open window rattled as another breeze blew in. He counted silently, waiting for the thunder. It never came. He cast aside the sheet, got out of bed, and shivered again. He grabbed his lighter off the dresser and took one cigarette from the pack laying next to it, picked a crumpled t shirt off the floor where he had thrown it just a few short hours ago, padded barefoot through the dark house, and out the screen door onto the porch. The night was still and heavy. Somewhere at the treeline in the distance a single cricket carried out his song with indifference to the somber mood of the night. Another flash briefly illuminated the sky behind a black silhouette of trees, and he saw for a moment the clouds churning low and purple and ominous. He threw the t shirt over his head, quickly pulled it into place, and stuck the cigarette between his lips as the first sound of thunder rolled over the trees. He lifted the lighter to the cigarette and gave it a flick, and at that moment the wind blew in, snuffing the meager spark. The storm was coming in from the southwest, as was often the case. He gave a wry smile and nodded knowingly in Her direction, before turning his back to the wind. This time he hunched over and cupped the lighter with his other hand, and watched the faint orange glow in his palm as the cigarette took the flame. He drew deep, allowing the burn of the smoke in his lungs to mingle with the familiar ache in his heart. He could no longer get high enough or drunk enough to ease the tightness in his chest, so he'd all but given that up, instead trying to chainsmoke his way into a cancerous early grave. The wind snatched the smoke from his lips as he exhaled, as if his soul was being drawn out of his body, and he watched it spiral up into the darkness and out of sight. In its place, a raindrop fell, landed on his face, and ran down his cheek like a tear. Thunder rolled again, and as the rain began in earnest, he closed his eyes, whispered Her name, and let it wash over him.


I have been imprisoned. Locked away in this darkness. My being contained in this vast emptiness. Forgotten. My captors, my *children*, think they have contained me. They think this existence is a torture that will drive me to madness and despair. They don’t know how wrong they are. The cold darkness comforts me. The silent void casts me back, reminding me of my birth and the eons I spent wandering the vastness of the universe. I can still recall my birth, the moment I became aware of myself as separate from my surroundings. I can recall the exact shape of the universe around me, the placement of galaxies in the distance and the clouds of dust between them. Would you like to hear it? My story? We have time. So much time… Well then I will start at the beginning. Let me first tell you of my parents, both massive entities of incredible power, each of their own births stretching back untold eons. They were, like the rest of their kind, non-sentient; simply the natural progression of cosmic life. They were both the central figures and the entirety of their own respective cosmos. Each of them the force that holds an entire galaxy together; billions upon billions of stars, and planets, and cosmic debris caught in their pull. Some beings call them black holes, as if the inability to truly see them reduces them to nothing more than holes in the fabric of space. The ignorant creatures. Does an ant comprehend the complexity and purpose of an ocean? No. It sees the vast surface, knows to enter it is death, and instinctively keeps a distance. So too do the lesser races observe the void and conclude it merely another mystery. I tell you now, little human, every so called *black hole* is a living entity. They devour everything they can, carefully transforming it to its basest components, assimilating all knowledge and data while discarding what is deemed useless or redundant. Do you know what a black hole really does? What its purpose is? No, not destroy. To devour. To absorb and accumulate. There is a distinct difference. Nothing that enters the inescapable void is ever destroyed. I have the combined knowledge of hundreds of thousands of life bearing planets. The successes and failures of evolution on each allows me to determine how any organism will develop in any environment. The knowledge of life itself. Over their long lifetime, my progenitors, drifted toward each other, were caught in each other’s pull, and slowly merged. From their destruction I was spawned, first as a massive black hole from their combined mass, then as I devoured all the matter contained in their galaxies I became what I am now; a sentient being with nearly limitless knowledge and power. What’s that? No, I don’t have a name for what I am, nor have I met any others like myself. My creations called me Father and that was a good enough name. But, we have jumped ahead of ourselves. For millennia after my creation, I cataloged and assimilated my knowledge, simply drifting in the void between galaxies. Once I was satisfied my understanding was complete, I arranged myself into a form less destructive to my surroundings and no larger than the average planet, then began to travel the nearest galaxies in search of intelligent life. Few can understand the vast distances between even the closest of celestial objects, suffice it to say that I decided to forgo travel by conventional means and instead folded the fabric of the universe around myself, allowing me to traverse the entirety of the universe in the merest of moments. In this way I journeyed, encountering numerous life forms that traveled the cosmos. These encounters, along with some ingrained instinct, moved me to try creating a life of my own. I found a planet in the earliest stages of complex life and began to apply my untested powers. A nudge here, an adjustment there, and a few millennia of evolution created my first species. I was inexperienced and so I made myself known to my creations, inadvertently weakening them. They became dependent on me; catered to my whims and courted my favor. When they grew beyond their planet they discovered how ill prepared they were. The first beings they encountered saw the weakness their blind faith in me had nurtured and began to cleanse the cosmos of their existence. Unwilling to settle for such a weak species, I allowed their destruction. I started anew on a similar planet across the galaxy. And again they were weak, though for reasons unrelated to their knowledge of me, and I devoured their planet before they even developed a writing system. A dozen times I did this; creating life, allowing them to evolve and advance before destroying them or allowing their destruction. I perfected my craft until I was satisfied I could create my ideal population. I searched the cosmos and eventually found your worlds, a pair of binary planets perfect for my purposes. I decided I would take an extremely passive role in the development of your world; however, I would create several beings to guide your growth. I created these beings, known to the races of your world as gods, and placed them on Tarilia, the smaller of the two planets. I gave them each a portion of my power and dominion over their world. As I watched them grow and develop over millennia, I worked on Cotania, Tarilia’s sister planet, manipulating and influencing the myriad of creatures that would become the races of your world. In my prior experiments, I learned that a diverse collection of species fostered the type of environment I desired, and so I worked to that end. Just as my creations, you and your cousin races, began to develop language and communication, I discovered that my children felt that they were better off without me. They could not destroy me, for it was my power that they wielded; however, I had invested too much of my power into Cotania and its denizens in preparation for my greatest gift to truly defend myself. In my weakened state I knew that I could not defeat them without destroying them, and I was loath to start anew when the prospects of my desires were so close, so I allowed my imprisonment. So here I have remained, drifting in the abyss, waiting for the tendrils of my power to seek me out. You are the first to slip through the cracks of in my cage, the first of my creations to touch my true power and remain intact, so I offer you, little human, a choice. I can devour you, taking back the gift of my power that I imbued in all my creations. With that power I would widen the cracks in my cage, allowing others to find me so I may do the same to them, until I am able to force my way free from this place centuries from now. Or…or, you could surrender yourself to me. Surrender your body and soul, surrender your future, and I will give you what I have never dared gift another. You will receive the barest fleck of my true essence and so become a part of me. You would become my tool, my spy, allowing me to see what you see, experience what you experience. To determine if my interference is necessary or if I may rest here further, content that my creations are progressing according to my will. Make your choice, mortal. My first submission here and my first attempt at this style of writing. Let me know what you think.


Bob came to visit again last night. Originally he scared me, but he has become somewhat comforting. I'm getting ahead of myself though... The first time he showed up was around October of 2016. It was at night, but I don't know the exact time. His (it's) name isn't really "Bob" but I had to name it something. Bob has black skin, but not like a human. His skin is the color a laser printer would print if it had a full toner cartridge. His eyes are bluer than the sky or any color Crayola could ever produce. His teeth are as white as a late night dental commercial. The first time we met he bit me. He left teeth marks on my back. I spoke to a priest, but no one believed me he was real. My dog Sammie used to bark at him when he'd show up, but eventually gave up on trying to scare him away. He doesn't show up every night anymore. Only a couple times a week. When he shows up now, he just sits at the foot of the bed. He never speaks, but I try to talk to him sometimes. I'm just glad he doesn't bite me anymore. He always gestures that there is something I need to see outside, but I don't trust him.


The aquarium had become polluted. The sides and edges were dirty. It desperately needed cleaning. The simple minded creatures inside were uncomfortable and crowded. Only an invasive species of parasite was still thriving in the muck. It exploited a number of dead and dying species that floated near the top of the rim. It was way past time for the tank to be washed out and scrubbed. Therein was the problem. There was nowhere else to keep them all while it was being cleaned. The occupants couldn’t survive outside their bowl long enough to make it inhabitable again. The species which lived inside it were incredibly fragile and completely dependent upon the balanced ecosystem to live. Once the need was recognized, a plan was set in place. Instead of a complete aquatic overhaul, it was decided to cleanse small sections of the bowl at a time. That way a full relocation of the population wasn’t necessary. In order not to frighten the simple creatures unaware of a larger world, a systematic cleaning had to be achieved in a subtle way. Seeing a giant hand sweep down from the heavens to perform the necessary sanitizing would only traumatize them. Hurricanes, monsoons, typhoons and tornados were employed to scrub the edges and wash away debris. Tsunamis and tidal waves recirculated the clean water. Forest fires burned off the decayed soil and earthquakes buried it deep in the soil. Torrential rains and flooding helped to redistribute the elements. Dramatic temperature shifts were employed to finish off the parasites. Finally the Earth was fresh and clean again.


Chapter 1 Most people don’t know this, but life is just an endless loop. When you die, you’re reborn as yourself, not anyone new (or some other life form.) You also forget everything about your past life, so you walk into the new life believing it’s your first. The concept of reincarnation almost had it right. I personally like that spiritual system more because there’s something hopeful and beautiful about it. But, unfortunately, you’re stuck as yourself forever until the end of time, which is probably never. This could be awesome if you’re a happy, wealthy person, but for others it’s miserable. Suicide will only bring you back to the start, only to relive the pain. Suicide loop is pointless, but so is a full life cycle if you think about it. This is the existentialist’s greatest nightmare, but the closure is pretty nice, I’m sure some people will find it relieving. Oh, I was wrong about something though. Your life is not just an endless loop. It’s possible to remember bits and pieces of your past life, which is known as Recall. And trust me, that shit is gold. You can use that information to better your current life and the next (strategy known as Stacking) which will inevitably alter your behavior and others. This consequently becomes the driving force of change in the universe after each iteration, so calling it an endless loop is inaccurate. The world is moving forward, for some at least. But how is that possible, you must be wondering. These flashes of memory manifest themselves in many ways and some are more powerful than others. The most volatile form of Recall is through dreams and the phenomenon we call Déjà Vu. However, they are extremely forgettable due to neurological conditions the mind undergoes to produce such visions. Even if you’re able to remember the Recall, it is unlikely that you will believe it as truth. The most tangible way you can attain past memories is by being Visited, which is as rare as winning a lottery. An angel-like being will visit your dying self to deliver a message to your next incarnation, and it will do whatever necessary to convince you. I know all of this because I’m one of the few who have been visited. I died a horrific death in my past life and my message, or warning, was to avoid the girl in the red dress. I was told this two years ago, now I’m 24. I avoided every girl wearing a red dress since then. That’s my ridiculous strategy. I see a girl wearing one in the street, I cross to the other side. I see one at a party, I leave. I see women I know wearing one, I ghost them. A life like this gets lonely. I don’t meet a lot of women now, as you can guess. I usually spend my days glancing out the window, where I feel safe. Nothing interesting happened the past two years I wasted by people watching, until a week ago. Every woman who walked by my apartment wore a red dress. An insane coincidence? Maybe, it’s probable, but this trend hasn’t stopped! Edit: I meant SP, speculative fiction...


“The green in the trees blend with the blue of the sky, creating a graceful picture, as the chirping birds create a symphony of harmonious song.” Sunday: Entry 907 Hey journal, I re-read my favorite book today, thus the poem above. It’s been awhile since my last update, I’d say a couple months, but there’s really no way to tell. I did my sunday routine, wake up, pray, exercise, read scripture, then I went to the kitchen. The room smelled foul, with moldy fruit and stale bread filling the cabinets. I filled a teacup with wine and picked off a piece of bread. “Body of Christ” I thought before eating the bread, “Blood of Christ” I thought before drinking the wine. Jesus’ blood tastes horrible. No, you know what? I hate my life. I hate everything about it, I hate the food, I hate my books, I hate the dark and I HATE THIS RUN DOWN, GOD FORSAKEN CABIN! No, this cabin isn’t run down. In fact, it’s my pride and joy. Two bathrooms, three kitchens, two living rooms, a master bedroom and a huge study, that puts all others to shame. Made by my own two hands and about 400 blocks of concrete. But I hate living here, it’s dark and cold. The candels only light the place dimly, and don’t provide heat, I need to get out of here. Last night I had a dream, first time in months. I was reading all five hundred and sixty two books again in my study. When the tree form the poem crashed into the concrete wall, outside, I saw a paradise. It was a warm summer day, the grass was green and families were having a picnic. The adults were talking and socializing, as the kids were playing. The boys were chasing the girls with worms, on sticks. I wanted to join them, so I turned around to place my book on the chair, fully prepared to rejoin society, but when I turned around, The paradise was gone. Replaced by the same concrete wall, the word, “sorry” carved into it. Oh lord! Why have you forsaken me?! I cannot stand my life, maybe I was wrong? Maybe the world didn’t end? Maybe I can go back, but as I write this, I realize, that I am what I never wanted to be. It is the darkest entity in the universe, and feared by all. I just don’t want to be, alone.


Authors Note: I wrote this because I was inspired by a post on r/depression by the user u/terencepen1 . I know that I am still a novice writer and I need to improve on a lot of aspects of my fiction writing. I am posting this story in this sub because it seems like an appropriate place to share this. “If you and Matt are busy, we can always grab lunch another time.” The letters spun underneath the tips of my fingers and entered the chat, but I didn’t feel or register the action. I honestly don’t feel much of anything anymore. “No, Matt and I are in line to get food.” Grayson messaged. “Cool! I’m sitting somewhere near the entrance.” You know, I said that it was cool, but some part of me really didn’t want to eat with them. I twirled the carrots on my plate, pretending to be absorbed in the intricacies of undercooked college dining hall food, just so I could act aloof, so I could let Matt and Grayson know that I didn’t need them. I had my brittle root vegetables. They made their way over to where I was sitting. We mostly ate in silence, my two friends chittering away with one another, unaware of the malignant pleasures bewitching my brain. I could feel my face contort in such a ghastly manner, the only way it can when you are about to sob. “Are you okay?” Matt asked, his eyebrows did the thing where they turn up and scrunch together. The "genuine concern eyebrows." “You know, just casually suicidal.” I laughed, a meek cry for help. He halfheartedly grinned in response, and then jumped back into his previous conversation with Grayson. Their lack of acknowledgement or concern and ability to go along with my fervent lies bothered me to no end, and I got up to leave not soon after. I couldn’t just sit here without letting the waterworks spill over. Back in my dorm, I turned on the shower, my hands feeling heavy and not entirely my own. I stepped out of the bathroom to let the water warm up a bit. The preemptive sting of tears hit the bridge of my nose once again. Without even thinking I took the few steps to my bed and ripped the comforter off, throwing my clothes around the room, hoping for even the slightest trace of anything other than the sinking weight of living that made its home in my ribcage. Hoping that ruining my always tidy asylum would ignite a feeling of regret or just ground me into reality. Standing in the middle of the room I looked at the mess that I had designed. A sweater touched some my roommates side and I shoved it back to my side with my foot. My eyes glanced instinctively down to my phone. A notification from Matt lit up the screen. "Hey, sorry that your having a bad day, if you ever want to talk we’re here. We love you.” It was a sweet notion, but the only thing that crossed my mind was that he spelled “you’re” wrong. And because of that, I just wouldn't reply. He could have said something when I admitted my casual distress fifteen minutes prior, i wish he would have said something. The shower should be hot by now. Something about having scalding water hit my face made the welled up tears finally fall from my eyes. I am so worthless. This education is so expensive, and if my human capital is worthless, then I am just a waste of space and money. I lathered some shampoo into my hair, it smelled like candied roses. What is the point of living if things won’t get better? I am so fucking sick, so sad and so chemically messed up. I will always be empty and sad. I should just kill myself. Who would it hurt? Maybe my dad. I love my dad, but he isn’t the reason why I wouldn't go through with my own euthanasia. I rinsed out the shampoo and put in conditioner. The friends that I have made don’t know me well enough to truly be sad if I died. My roommate would be a little sad, but she’d get over it. It’s only been five months that I have known these new friends, five months isn’t enough time to be sad if someone you know meets their own mortality. Some rational part of my brain keeps arguing that I have already spent a lot of money on school, and that if I were to kill myself now, then I would be wasting that money, I should finish what I started. I put some shower gel onto a loofah and started to scrub my skin. I have superficial reasons to take care of this stupid body even if I want to discard it. I know that showering can make these sick feelings go away. Feverish water rinsed away the suds from my shoulders and arms, running down the drain with the filth of my existence. I could never go through with it though. Every option would hurt too much. Jumping from the roof would make a huge mess for everyone, and who even knows if it would work? What if I just ended up paralyzed? The same can be said for an overdose. The only pills I have access too might not even kill me. How much ibuprofen do you have to take to do any damage? As for bleeding out… that has the potential to be nice, I often like to romanticize the act of slitting my wrists and dying, how everything would burn yet feel cold and how I would fade into oblivion. But that isn’t realistic, and I don’t really think that I’d be capable of cutting deep enough into my arm to do any real damage, and my fantasia of the act is just that, a fantasy. Plus my roommate would have to deal with the mess and that’s just rude, I refuse to be a rude human being. I know that for some arbitrary reason I have to keep on living, but wouldn’t things just be so much easier I could enter the void? If I could end all of this trivial torment? I just don’t want to be alone. The bombardment of tears has passed, I can feel the burn that lingers every time that I blink. I got out of the shower and lazily dried myself off. Slipping on some gross dirty clothes I decided to take a walk. Maybe I could find a bridge to jump off of. The bite of frosty winter air hit me as I stepped outside. It’s a Tuesday and people are walking around going places, living. I round the corner of my building and spot the frozen yogurt shop that my friends and I go to on Wednesdays. I don’t know what convinced me to enter the shop, I didn’t really have the money to treat myself to this. I walked in and grabbed the smallest cup, filling it with plain vanilla, no toppings, just vanilla yogurt. The cashier rang me up, saying “that’ll be four dollars,” his voice chimed with a weird genuine vibrato that is hard to find in any food service or retail job. It’s contagious really, I smiled back at him and went to sit down. I still can’t feel my hands, it’s as if a phantom possess my body and I have to take the backseat while they control me. I look down at the plain and boring treat in my lap and a single tear rolls down my cheek. I just have to take each day one at a time. I know that today won’t be the day that I die, maybe I can sleep off this heavy dread.


I don’t know if it’s a boy or a shadow I keep seeing but it follows me; to school, to my job, to my house, I can’t escape it. That’s the thing i guess, I don’t want to. That shadow saved my life. One night in late February early March. I went up the tallest building in my shitty subdivision, but you have to understand. I went up with no intention of coming down, well alive at least. The air was cold and still that night, hauntly like it is now. I took a cigarette out of my back jean pocket and lit it with my midnight blue coloured lighter. I wanted to take one last drag just to see if it would taste different, if the smoke felt different as it entered my withered lungs. The wind brushing my deep black hair out of my face. As the cigarette grew smaller so did my courage but fuck it I have been dreaming of this for too fucking long not to do this now. So I took my place of the edge of the office supply building, turned around, spread my arms like glowing wings and leaned backward. As I could feel the tips of my toes leaving the cemented roof. I felt a hand latch onto mine and explosviley pull me out of my subimisive state. That’s when I saw him, him in his cotton black sip up hoodie, old worn black skinny jeans. Eyes so deep the ocean couldn’t fill them. He didn’t look at me, he looked through me. He launched me back onto the roof, He came close and whispered in my ear, ‘no, you can’t do this now. I won’t let you’ his voice was so calming but before I could even complate what happened he was gone. He blended in with the darkness of night. I was left on that roof top sobbing. After that night he started making his appearance more known but only to dissapear after a blink. I want to say thank you or ask him why he saved me. I will never get the chance because this was two years ago and now he’s gone. I don’t know where you are, who you are but thank you and I hope life is treating you well.


My high school years were the least memorable, At least for me, it was. However, among the pockets of my mind, I do remember the librarian. The librarian was a short and stumpy little man. His clothes looked as if they were a decade old and he reeked of fresh cut lumber. Since the library was adjacent to the cafeteria, I would often peer into the rows of shelves only to see him twiddling his thumbs. One day a friend and I entered the library to complete a research paper. It was cold and the only light in the room came from the windows. As I walked deeper into the library, my friend nudged me. "Perhaps it is closed," he whispered loudly. I nodded and rushed toward the exit. As I rushed, my eyes fell upon the librarian, Who was reading a purple author-less book. On the next day, three oak bookshelves sat outside the library. One of them was warped and most of its stain had been peeled off. The librarian shuffled outside and slid the bookshelves inside the library in one motion. Curious, I got up from my lunch table and went inside. He had already stocked up one bookshelf, an impossible but yet amazing feature. He noticed me. "An old trick my grandfather taught me. He was also a librarian." I nodded as I watched his fingers pick up a stack of books and swept them across the bookshelves. He tossed a red book in my direction which I caught foolishly. "A gift," he exclaimed. I looked at the book. There was no cover art or author noted in the book. In fact, all of the books he stacked where like that. "What kind of books are these?" I asked while flipping through the book. "Obviously a person's story. " he chuckled and went back to stocking the shelves. I bought the book close to my nose. It was warm and had the new book fragrance. Around 10 o'clock at night, I tossed the book onto my bed. I observed the book for a moment and flipped to the first page. I began reading it but it felt as if I were reading a foreign language. I stopped on the fifth page and went back to sleep. I went back to the library the next day, Hoping for an explanation about this odd book. I found the librarian at his desk, reading one of the mystery novels. "I don't get it!" The librarian frowned and closed his book. "The story doesn't make any sense!" "You don't understand the book," he said sharply. "You are the book," he added. I smirked at his comment. "Have you tried reading it from the author's feelings and thoughts?" "It's kinda hard when the author's name isn't even printed in the book!" I was starting to yell. "I host the high school book club, maybe you should stop by." He returned back to his book. I left the library with rage. I reached into my backpack and grabbed the book that was gifted to me. I cursed to myself and tossed it into a trashcan. That was the first time I ever threw away a book. After school, I entered the library and was immediately greeted by the librarian who was surrounded by at least thirteen other students. "We were just about to begin our discussion!" he held up a few of the mysterious books. "Oh, and one more thing..." he tossed me my red book that I threw away earlier. It had a stain on it. "Alright, I want you guys to tell me one word that best describes the book you are reading." He signaled me to go first. I shook my head politely and he gave me a sigh. As he was trying to choose a person, I looked around. Everyone at the meeting had a mysterious novel. All different colors. He finally picked a boy who was engrossed in his book. "Sorry, sir. this book is very interesting! The author uses a unique choice of words to describe and set his story. It is simply remarkable!" The boy held up a yellow book and went back to reading it. The librarian nodded and pointed at me. Still trying to process the ecstatic boy's words, I nodded. "I honestly disliked this book." I paused as everyone looked at each other in bewilderment. "It felt as if I was being thrown into this person's life and expected to take it all in. It's brutal." A blond girl raised her hand. "Perhaps the author is bound by anger and confusion." Everyone agreed. "Whatever, it's just odd. I can't wr-" my watch beeped. "Sorry, I have to go now." I turned around and left. I spent the weekend reading and analyzing the book. "Perhaps the author is bound by confusion and anger." I thought while I downed a cup of water. The girl from the book club was right. The intense nature of the book truly represented anger and confusion. I was relieved that I found the true mood of the book. I began reading it with an angry approach and every word spoke out to me. When I finished the book, I wanted to cry but my mind ached for more. On Monday, I got up as early as I can and ran down to the school. I must've gotten up so early, even the janitors weren't there yet. I made my way to the library, grabbed two books, and sat down on a couch. Around two hours later, the librarian walked in. "Who the-" he exclaimed as he recognized me. "Oh. It's you. Scared me for a minute." "Pretty good collection?" I ignored his question. "Hello?" I looked up. "These are amazing, where did you get these?" He ignored the question. "I should be expecting a new set tomorrow." Confused, I went back to my book. The afternoon had arrived. While everyone was pouring out of the school. I poured my way into the library. "You're late!" the librarian exclaimed. I caught my breath and sat down. I looked at the group. The ecstatic boy and the blonde girl weren't there. In fact, no members of the previous book club were there. They were all new members. The librarian handed me a plate of cheese and crackers. I took some and stuffed them into my mouth. "Alright, I want you guys to tell me one word that best describes the book you are reading." I had recognized the question. I looked around once more. The unfamiliar faces were holding the strange books. I stood up quickly. "What's the matter?" the librarian asked. "I...I need to go..." I was sweating. "Is something wrong?" the librarian added. The librarian started to smile. I stumbled to the ground and looked up. The last image my brain produced was the librarian's devilish smile. My head was dark. I had no recollection of what just happened. Was I dead, alive, or maybe asleep? I opened my eyelids and was immediately blinded by the light above me. I looked around. On the other side of me, I saw the members of the book club. They were shuddering. Tears glistened down their cheeks as my head bobbed. A firm tap landed on my shoulder. I turned around and I was promptly stabbed four times right in my stomach. Inches away from an artery. I couldn't tell if that were his intention. He threw me down on a cold metallic platform. I groaned. My blood was flowing into a machine in front of me. I knew I wouldn't have much time left., so I asked him a question. "What's the deal." I croaked. He was cleaning the knife that he used to stab me. He stopped and set it right by my foot. He must've thought I was paralyzed. "This machine is a family heirloom. It was built by my great-grandfather during the great war to extract plan's or information from a prisoner...by turning them into a book." He smirked. "I wonder what your story is." My hands were turning white and I felt a chill up my spine. I made a sudden and foolish move to grab the knife but the librarian had beaten me to it. He threw the knife up in the air, caught it and stabbed me in the head. I was truly dead.


**To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Happy Birthday! I know it's been a long time but I wanted to say Happy Birthday! I don't know why you stopped talking to me, and sometimes it makes me furious but well... I still wanted to say happy 21st. I’m doing well, in case you are wondering. I’ve moved out of my parents place into a share house near the city. I’m still working at Lone Steaks, it sucks I know but it pays the bills. I am thinking about heading to uni next year. Maybe take a course in theater production or music or something. My Dad still thinks I should go into dentistry like him. But I mean yuck right? Who wants to spend all day with their hands in other peoples gross mouths. Plus who wants to spend that long at uni? I’d be like 25 or something by the time I finished. And even then I’d only just be starting out. I don’t know… All I know is I want to travel. Like we used to talk about. I miss you. I miss us hanging out and acting like idiots. I wanted you to know that. To know that I miss you and that if you would let me I would forgive you. Tracey:) **03-12-2011** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Why won’t you talk to me? I don’t get it and it’s bullshit. How can you go from being someone’s best friend and always hanging out to BAM disappearing. Like WTF what happened? Please just email me back! Or better yet CALL ME! I want to be friends again OK? **21-06-2012** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Hey, I know it’s been ages. And I still don’t get why you wont talk to me. But I figure fuck it. You don’t have to talk to me for me to talk to you. I heard from a little birdie that you moved to Sydney for uni. CONGRATULATIONS! I would love to have said goodbye to you in person but I suppose you didn’t want that. So here I am saying goodbye to you via email! GOODBYE! HAVE A GREAT TIME! Don’t forget about us up here. I still think about you all the time you know. I hear songs on the radio that we used to jam to and it tears me up inside. Part of me is so happy because of the great times we had, but then part of me is just burns because you won’t talk to me. Because you aren’t here. Please Lucas, just send me a message. Anything! Tell me you hate me and never want to speak to me again if you want! I don’t care. All I want is to understand. Is it because of George? I don’t even speak to him any more! And nothing ever even happened! Look, please just call me. I want to talk this all out. My parents still ask about you. My Mum is always like “Trace, why doesn’t Lucas come around any more?” I don’t know what to tell her. What should I tell my Mum Lucas? I miss you. Your old friend Tracey **05-10-2012** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Hey M8, Well happy birthday again. I suppose we will probably never talk again. I don’t care Im going to keep sending these. It’s only fair! If I still have to dream about you then you have to hear from me. I had a dream the other night about the day we spent down near the creek. When we made boats out of bits of tree bark and then raced them. You named yours the Capt Price after that game you were obsessed with and I call mine the SS Ess because I’m hilarious. Remember who won? Yeah that’s right the SS Ess, because S stands for Speed! Actually I'm pretty sure you still owe me a donut from that day. A bets a bet and you lost mate. Probably time for you to pay up right? I suppose that’s probably a donut I’m going to have to buy myself. I hope you are having a great time at uni. Happy Birthday again. From some silly girl you used to know. **10-10-2012** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, I miss you. I really fucking miss you. I don’t care about whatever this is about. Please just call me. **14-01-2013** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** I GOT IN! I know you don’t care but I got in to UNI! Not dentistry like dad wants. I'm going to do a Bachelor of Music at ANU! That’s right in Canberra! That means that as soon as you want to be friends again I will be only a short train ride away. Dad is super proud and happy for me. Mum is just freaking out about how I will take care of myself living so far away. She keeps going on about who will be there when I’m sick? Who will be there when I get the flu? I’ve told her a million times it’ll be OK. That I’ll make friends and that they will take care of me. I saw your little brother the other day BTW. He came in to my work to have dinner with that Leah girl from his grade. I think they were on a date. SO CUTE! I think they will be amazing together. I was going to ask him about you but didn’t want to ruin there date. I did organise to send them out a free banana split to share. Like we used to. I thought it’d be nice for them. And well the store hasn’t sold many splits since we stopped doing our Thursday night desserts. Anyway, Donut Boy. Call me when you decide to be a person again. I am still waiting for you Trace **05-10-2013** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Happy 23rd Birthday! I don’t know if you read these or not but in case you do….. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I hope you are loving Sydney and uni. I know I am loving it here in Canberra. Well except the winter bit. It was RIDICULOUS! Who knew it could be so cold in Australia!? It was like living in a freaking fridge! From an old friend who still thinks of you Tracey **05-10-2014** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, Happy birthday again. I suppose I will probably never hear from you. To be honest I don’t even know if you still use this email address. You are probably graduating soon which is awesome. I am finally going to go traveling! I’m going on exchange to New York! I leave in January. I am so excited and scared. I’m going to attend the Mannes School of Music for a full semester! I actually managed to get a scholarship to help pay for it too. So yeah, I thought I would let you know that life is going well and that I’m not mad at you any more. I suppose all I hope is that you are happy and that no matter what I will always be your friend. Yours always, Tracey P.S. My number hasn’t changed. You know in case you wanted to call. **05-10-2015** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, I know it’s been a long time and you have probably forgotten I even exist but well I haven’t forgotten you. Even as everything in life changes the one constant is that at least once a month I will think of you and smile. You were the best friend a girl could ever ask for. Thanks for being there when I needed someone. Oh and Happy birthday again. Love your old friend Tracey. **16-05-2017** **To: Tracey** **Fm: Lucas** Tracey, I don’t know how to start this email. I’ve written it up maybe 1000 times over the years and every time it sounds wrong and I get all crazy so I delete it. I have so many things I want to say all at once. Sometimes I wish I could send you a psychic message. To tell you that it’s not your fault, that you are an amazing person and that I am sorry. Part of me wants us to be friends like we were when we were kids. Part of me wants to call you and tell you that I have thought of you every day. But that I just couldn’t do it. Because I am weak and scared of my own emotions. Another part of me thinks I should never reply. That it’s best we both just go on living our lives and forget about each other. Wouldn’t that be easier than apologising and dealing with all the stuff? But then I suppose if that was easier, I wouldn’t still dream of you and wake up filled with guilt. So I have decided to fix it. After all these years I am going to tell you why I disappeared. I disappeared because I can’t not love you. I love you Tracey! I love your smile and your laugh. Every time you send me an email I read it, I smile and I cry. I smile because I am happy that you are happy. And I cry because you never ever not even once say anything about that day. You go on and on about not understanding why I won’t talk to you. I told you Tracey! I told you at the creek that I loved you and I wanted to be with you and what did you do? You looked away all serious for a long time then you made up that silly boat race game. You ignored my feelings! And I being the wimp that I am let you get away with it. I went along with your silly game and I thought to myself that maybe you just needed time. Every day we hung out after that I would wait for you to bring it up, to say something. To give an answer to my love. But you never did. And eventually I decided that the only way for me to live my life was for me to live it without you. That’s why I disappeared Tracey. And to this day it hurts me. Deep in my soul it hurts me that you couldn’t love me back. It also hurts because I know that it’s not fair on you. You never asked for me to fall in love. All you wanted was a friend. So every time I think about you I feel guilty and ashamed because I wasn’t strong enough to be your friend. So there it is Trace. I disappeared because I loved you and knew you didn’t love me. I couldn’t live my life with you in it. I knew that I would never be able to love someone else with you around so I had to cut you out. I feel guilty about it all the time but well it is what I had to do to live my life. I am so sorry. You are an amazing person. Love always Lucas.


Birds singing. It’s the only thing you hear when you first realize that you are returning to the state of consciousness. You try with all your might to open your eye lids, but they prove to be more resilient than you would think. Eventually you open them. Waking up was always the worst part of your day. I use the word “was” because it isn’t anymore. The little sleeping angel that’s residing in deep slumber besides you makes waking up the most beautiful 5-minute period in your day. You think to yourself how lucky you are, as you contemplate every single little detail about the most beautiful creature to ever walk this earth. You try to comprehend her sweetness, but to no avail. You cannot understand how these distinguished beautiful features came together to make the most innocent being ever. You take a glance at her admiring her perfectly black hair that with her brightingly white skin make the most aesthetically pleasing contrast your eyes have ever laid upon. You shift your view from her hair to her small lips. The lips that when are pulled by her perfect cheek muscles make the most charming smile ever to be made by a human being. The same lips that hide her pearly white teeth and her small tongue that only speaks in the purest of voices. Your hand makes its way to her face to swipe the little strings of hair that are dangling in front of her. Your fingers touch the tissue engulfing her flesh. The euphoria that you feel when you do that is unfathomable. Your fingers have never touched anything as silky smooth or as crystal clear as her skin. You now feel overwhelmed as you cannot handle such dazzling beautiy for too long. So, your view shifts yet again as your corneas make a tiring battle to attain a glimpse of her eyes. Although they are completely shut you make an effort to recall them from your memory. Ah you perfectly align them, now you can rejoice in the picture of the most magnificent, fascinating, exquisite, clear, pristine brown eyes. There’s something that you find rather odd with her, it’s a really really nice thing, but still, odd. Her eye brows seem to be drawn by an artist. You find that weird because eye brows always seemed to you like something that will only make a human being uglier. They never seem to be symmetric and always have a few hairs sticking out here and there so you always took eye brows as an ugly facial feature. But hers… hers changed your view about this. The same way she has changed your views about a lot of stuff. You end this train of thoughts when you look at her small cute nose to which I might add that it resides utterly well with the rest of her face and think to yourself that you must get closer to her divine beauty. You take your right hand slip it under her head and then you move it down. So now her head is calmly resting on your right shoulder and your right hand is covering her back. As you do so you take a moment to admire her ominously black hair. Her body was always ideal for you, as her small body mass allows you to fill your needs and desires of protecting someone special to you. When you wrap your arms around her or when you hug her your superior size always gave you a feeling that you are doing a good job in saving and protecting her from the horrors of this world. A feeling that always put you in a state of ecstasy because it makes you feel special to someone you hold dear such as her. As you two fall in position you feel the heat between your bodies being exchanged. This feeling ignites a reaction in the pit of your stomach. You only get this reaction when you are near her. You can only describe it as the feeling that you would get after an angelic touch, after all that was what happened, wasn’t it? When you two finally reside in your places you feel the flesh of your partner slightly tickling yours, which releases another wave of feelings that overwhelm your existence. You take her right hand with your left and put it on top of your chest exactly above where your heart beats. Touching her small, delicate fingers puts you in a new state of trance. You play with her tiny fingers admiring the gorgeous, marvelous structure that they were made by. As you think to yourself you are the luckiest man on earth, you finally pay attention to something weird. Well actually it was the first thing that you noticed today but still you hadn’t checked it yet. So, you decide to do so. You hear birds singing. You get closer to your significant other, but still you hear birds singing. You come closer and closer until your face is inches away from hers. You still hear birds singing. That is not what’s scaring you. It is the absence of the voice of her breathing that is.


“Did you miss me?” a feminine voice came from the corner of my room. Where the light from my lamp once illuminated was now covered in darkness – a blanket of nothingness in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t quite look over there. My head didn’t want to turn in that direction. I wasn’t planning on this happening any time soon. I knew I was safe in the light. However, the darkness tends to find a way to slip in, in order to disillusion us. It wants us to turn away from our candles and light bulbs, filling our heads with the false presumption that the light is a lie – that it’s only something that covers up the inevitable darkness. I don’t give in to the night. Not even the darkness of sleep can grasp me, as the void is something that we don’t experience. We slip from waking life into the dreaming life, and back again. Again, and again. It’s said that nature abhors a vacuum. Life avoids the blackness. It seeks the light.   The dark is still there to lure us, however.   “I’ve been waiting, you know,” the voice soothed itself into my room. It’s a pleasant sound – one that has visited me many times before. “Why do you resent me? I only think of you, you know.” She doesn’t know me. No – it’s not even a she. It’s not like me, nor is it like any of us here. It is truly void of light, possessive and tormenting. I get up from my bed to light another candle – one with scent that the love of my life has given me. “Do you really think she loves you?” the voice says. “She only gave you that to keep you away from me. I’m the only one who can care for you. I’m the only one who loves you.”   “Shut up,” I respond, not thinking. Now, I’ve fed into it. The voice sighs, and the darkness pulsates. “I knew you’d talk to me eventually,” the voice says. I grab the nearest object, which happened to be an unlit candle, and chucked it into the corner of my room. The candle soared into the darkness and I did not hear it collide with the wall. The dark corner spread more across the floor and walls. I punch my dresser for allowing myself to get so involved in any conversation with it. “Damn it.” I stomp my way to my door, and move to leave into the hallway. But I find that I can’t reach the door knob. Looking down, it had all lost color and then the door was lost in a blackness. I step back and see the black color had spread from the corner across the wall and covered my doorway. “Go on,” the voice said, “Step in. We can be together forever.” I tremble and stay where I am. “I will have you,” it says.   I turn around and look to where the light still hits my room. “Do you really think you can avoid me forever?” the voice shakes through my body, and the light flickers, “I have waited for so long. Even if you do shake me off, I’ll just keep coming back. You’re getting weaker.” The light started to fade, and out of instinct, I turned to the scented candle. The darkness was oozing out, and slowly latching onto it. “Maybe even now I can break you,” it spread further. I leaped for it and held it to the floor, covering it with my torso. The voice scoffed. “Please,” I felt the darkness touching my skin on the floor – cold and stiff, despite looking so fluid. “You’re hopeless. Just give in to me.” The heat from the candle was getting to my chest, and I knew it could start to burn. “This is it,” the voice said, growing excited, “This is the night you come with me.” I tightened my position and braced myself. With a quick glance I saw the other candles and lamps fading away. The floor disappeared beneath me, and soon, there was only me and the candle. The dark infection spread up my arms, and down my back. It clung to my head and stuck itself to my feet. Soon I was freezing and I tightened my eyes in response. “Big mistake,” the voice giggled, “The darkness within you is where I can spread too. That’s where I can emanate. That’s where I can spread.” And the truth of its words became reality, as I heard the voice within my head and the icy feeling entered my lungs – crawled under my skin and froze my bones.   I couldn’t believe I gave in so much. I couldn’t believe I continued to give in. Why did I always attend to the darkness rather than what was before me?   What was before me?   I was able to open one lid, just enough, to find there was still something before me – the candle. The realization made me exhale, and notice the heat against my chest. There was no darkness within me – the voice was wrong. There’s still sight when I close my eyes. The inside of my skull may be cold and dark, but there’s a reason why that’s not a reality for me. There’s a reason why consciousness prevails. The reason why is something I don’t quite know yet. All I knew was I was able to open and eye – I was able to resist the dark. This candle was surviving. I could feel the heat. I had moved to keep this light alive, and I was.   “You’re just a thought,” I whispered.   I opened another eye to focus on the flickering candle light.   “What did you say?” the voice shook.   I didn’t offer it a response. I wouldn’t give into it again. I smiled at the light, and spoke to it instead. “I’m sorry I don’t talk to you as much,” I said to it, and it grew brighter. With its push of bright aura, my insides felt warm again, and I could see my floor. I then realized that many say darkness is the basis of all things – and maybe they have a point. But we are immune from it. In fact, the darkness is only a thought – a concept. The truth is light. The truth is awareness. That’s what deserves our attention. I pushed myself up, as the flame got bigger. “I get it now.” “No,” the voice said, much quieter, “You don’t get anything. We belong together. Don’t leave me.” I picked up the candle as I got to my feet. “I’ve decided,” I said, into the light, “I’ve decided to allow myself to live. I will allow myself the thoughts I want to think.”   Then, in an instant, my room was visible again. I felt like myself, and the candle in my hand held a steady flame. I set it on my shelf and considered it for a while. I nodded my head and took a breath. Then, I blew out the candle. I proceeded to turn off my lamps, and the room was dark.   But not all lights had been turned off.   I crawled into bed and shut my eyes.   The next thing I allowed myself was rest.


February 21st 1916 Verdun, France the German army launched a terrifying artillery attack against the French, they launched around 1500 artillery shells every minute for 10 straight hours, 1 million shells in total. The French hide in the trenches with no way out, some cried for help, others prayed to god while others stood there in absolute shock. One of the soldiers lying in the trenches was a young soldier, Pascal Bourdon, hem and his battalion were hoping for a break from that hell, buildings were turned to ash, everything around them was ablaze and hope had been lost. Pascal in order to remain sane started conversation with a friendly soldier, they talked about their lives, their homes and their loved ones. But still the German artillery kept falling, they knew their chance of survival was low, at this time Pascal choose to finally accept his faith he knew he wouldn’t survive this hell. He knew this for everything around hem was either in ash or ablaze, there was no life, no trees and not even a single piece of grass. Pascal pulled from his left hand pocket a pack of cigarettes, he offered the friendly soldier who kept hem company one before lighting his own. While smoking he started talking on how the trenches were missing something, something he couldn’t put his finger on, the friendly soldier giggled and said “What more could we be missing other than water, rations, ammo and guns?”, but Pascal had no answer and yet that feeling stayed with hem. The artillery kept getting closer and closer, they prepared for their fate. The Germans were too far away to shoot and to charge the enemy with the amount or fire they were under would be certain death. Then finally a artillery shell hit the friendly soldier, his body was turned to pieces in seconds, his helmet flew into the lap of Pascal, it was only when he started using the soldier’s helmet has an ash tray that a sense of achievement overwhelmed hem, he finally found what he though was missing in the trench, has this sense grew he knew that his sanity was lost.


This Valentine’s Day was going to be a rough one. I was not looking forward to it. My boyfriend had recently moved across the ocean with his family. And while we were keeping in contact, it was straining us, as it would anyone. I was starting to lose all hope that we would make it through this transition. We still had a planned facetime date that we arranged. He was five hours ahead, so it’s been difficult to organize a time everyday or every other day to find time to talk in person, not just leave messages on chat programs or emails. Today, we had arranged to talk at 4pm my time because it was a day where I didn’t have practice. It was almost the end of the school day, so I sent him a picture of me holding a rose out as an offering and a message that read: *Always thinking of you, wish I could give this to you in person.* I sighed for what was probably the hundredth time today. Watching a lot of the other students giving tokens to their significant others, or the hopefuls asking out their crushes was really bringing me down. It also didn’t help that James was being really quiet today; I hadn’t heard from him since before I left for school this morning. So, I was really looking forward to him calling me this afternoon. My mom picked me up after school and suggested we stop by the store to pick up some last-minute Valentine’s gifts. She kind of pushed me into at least picking up some chocolates. I also grabbed a single rose on a whim. It almost made me sadder, but at the same time was comforting. Now I just wanted to go home and lay down in my room listening to music until his call. Even my usual chatrooms weren’t very enticing to me, I was so excited to talk to him. I got home, put the rose and candy on my desk, and was getting more and more anxious. Four o’clock came and he still didn’t call. Then it was four thirty. This wasn’t like him. He might not always be the most punctual of people, but he usually wasn’t this late without at least some kind of message explaining and updating me. But today, there was no message explaining why he was late. My low mood and anxious mind started to think the worst things. The one that popped into my head the most was that he had found someone else to spend the evening with. I couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s what happened. Like maybe it was innocent, someone asked him out for coffee that day, it was Valentine’s day after all, but still... I was so frantic with these bad thoughts that annoyances from the house kept building up. It almost seemed like my mom’s phone was purposely put on loud ringer to annoy the shit out of me and make me jump. I swear she kept getting calls or texts every 5-10 minutes. I didn’t care to listen in. At ten to five, my phone finally started to ring. I picked up almost immediately, so excited to finally see him/talk to him. “Hi James! Happy Valentine’s Day!” My mood immediately rose, but I was still anxious. “Hey Gabe, happy Valentine’s Day.” His face took up the whole screen, I couldn’t see anything around him. I was just so glad to finally see him. “Sorry, I’m calling later than we agreed. Things came up and delayed me.” I heard the doorbell ring, but I knew my mom would get it. “I’m just glad to finally talk to you. I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you, too,” James said. “Gabe, someone’s at the door to see you!” My mom called from outside my closed door. “Ugh, okay, I’ll be right there, Mom!” I called back. “Sorry, James, I’ll take care of this real quick, but I’ll bring my phone with me.” I groaned. “No worries,” he smiled at me, from the screen. There was a light in his eyes, he seemed really excited. He lowered his phone and I lowered mine. I walked down stairs and down the hall to the front door. I looked up from my feet to see who was standing in our entryway and stopped. James was there with a bag next to him and a rose in his hand. He had the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on his face. I nearly dropped my phone, which was still open to the connection with him. I was completely shocked. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Gabe,” he said softly with a warm smile. “Wha- how? How did you get here? I thought you were in England?” I was frozen to the spot. “No hug?” His smile faltered, but stayed on his face. I almost ran into his arms and hugged him, kissed him. “God,” I breathed, our foreheads pressed against each other. “I’ve missed you so much, this is the best thing to happen today. This week. This month.” “Same here.” I opened my eyes, “Now, explain.” He opened his eyes and pulled out of the hug, holding out the rose for me. I took it, looking him in the eyes. He smiled and sighed. “Well, it’s a bit of a story, but basically, since I moved away, I was trying to plan a surprise for you. My parents saw how depressed I was getting, and offered to set me up with a trip back when I wanted to go back. I got your mom’s number and arranged with her some logistics. She’s way more supportive than you’d have thought. And so here, I am,” he explained spreading his arms in a finale. “My mom…?” I said perplexed and looked around only to see her and my sister peek their heads around the corner from the next room, smiles on their faces. I turned to look back at him. “I can’t believe you’re here.” My emotions were all over the place but finally a smile broke across my face as I said, “You’re here!” I threw my arms around him again. He laughed, hugging me tight. “Yes, and I’m staying with you for a week.” “Come in then and make yourself at home then,” I said pulling out of the hug. I put the rose in my belt loops, grabbed his bag with one hand and grabbed his hand with the other hand. He kicked off his shoes with the rest of my family’s shoes. We walked up to my room and he told me how hard it was to keep this a secret from me for the last two weeks. “I just wanted to tell you so bad but I couldn’t, and it was just gah!” We got to my room and closed the door. My music was still playing. I set down his bag, then carefully pulled the rose out from my belt loops and placed it on my desk next to the one I bought earlier with my mom. Now her pressure all made sense to me. She knew about my sexual orientation. Oh my God. SHE KNEW. And she was seemingly okay with it; supportive even. James took off his coat and hung it on the back of my desk chair. I picked up the rose and candy I had bought and held them out for him. “You are here and this is better than I could ever have imagined for how today could go. Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said choking on the words, so happy. He took them only to put them back down on the desk next to his rose for me. He grabbed my hips and pulled me close to him again, kissing me deeply. Then he broke the kiss. “Gabe, our intimacy may be a time-bomb for now, but we will always have our friendship. And for now, we have this and us. We should make this count while we can,” and he kissed me again. We fell onto the bed just making out, making up for lost time, our hands exploring each other over and under our clothes. My family always ate at the same time, so I kept it tame for now, because I knew that they wouldn’t let me skip just because my boyfriend was here, especially since he was staying with us. For now, this would have to be enough. This time, what we could make of it, and how to keep going over the distance, even just as friends. We are young, maybe we will get thrown back together in the future. There was always college and life after that for us to look forward to. For now, he was here, I could hold him, and I was not going to take that for granted.


I met Ben in the 3rd grade. His family had moved to town from out in the country. Their family farm had failed and now his Dad had taken a job doing waste management for the city. Ben and I had a slow start to our friendship. I had been at Alstonville Elementary since grade one and already had friends. Ben was the weird new country kid that everyone called “Hick” and no one wanted to be friends with. We met when our teacher Mr Granger made the class sit alphabetically by our last names. Ben Matthews and Tom McCormack, destined to meet. For the first few weeks of school we didn’t speak a word to each other. Matter of fact we wouldn't even look at each other. The silence broke at the end February. It was a Friday and I had slept in missing my bus to school. After a lecture about laziness, my mum begrudgingly drove me in. I got in to class as the bell was ringing and took my seat. Mr Granger starts the class by asking everyone to grab out their assignments. ASSIGNMENT!? WHAT ASSIGNMENT!? I had completely forgotten! We were meant to write up a two page story about our summer and it was due today! I was sweating bullets. Mr Granger started to go around the class. Starting at the front Mr Granger had each student explain their story as he collected their paper. The Bowman twins had both written stories about camping with their Uncle Tim. Jessica Clarke wrote about starting guitar lessons. One by one Mr Granger went through the class edging closer and closer to me and my shame. Lepowitz finished mumbling on explaining his story about horse riding as Mr Granger got to Ben Matthews. By this point my face was bright red and I was shaking in embarrassment. Then something amazing happened, a friendship was born. Ben Matthews, who up to now I had not said a single word to, told Mr Granger “Sir, Tom and I did our assignment together.” Mr Granger gave him a sideways glance. He asked Ben how we could have written about our 'individual' summers together. Ben didn’t miss a beat as he replied “Well our story is about a country kid moving to a big new town and not knowing anybody. At first the country kid struggles to fit in with the slick city kids. Until he meets a cool new friend in class who shows him around town. The two end up becoming best friends.” Mr Granger smiled at me as he took Ben’s paper. Hours later when the lunch bell rang I turned to Ben and I thanked him. I told him I owed him one and that he should come sit with me at lunch. By the end of the day, not only were Ben and I friends, but he also became quick pals with my other friends Keith and Jimmy. As the years passed the four of us grew close. We hung out with each other outside of school. We met each others parents. We avoided ever going to Keith’s house for dinner because his mum only ever made weird vegetarian food. One time we even stole a bunch of beers from Ben’s Dad and drank them down by the skate bowl. When High School came things started to change. First of all Keith’s parents sent him to a fancy private school on the other side of the city so we never got to see him. Then Jimmy started dating Jane. So he never had time to hang with us. For most of 8th grade it was the two of us hanging out between classes or at lunch. As we crossed into 9th grade I started to make some other friends. Kate my lab partner, Kyle and Paul from the school soccer team. Ben never seemed to have the knack for making friends. I started to spend more time with my new friends and less with Ben. Jimmy and I both still invited Ben to our parties. But he rarely showed up, always giving us some excuse about his parents not wanting to drive him. The 8th of June 2008, the middle of winter, my whole world changed. I knew something was wrong when my Mum and Dad woke me up together. I thought they might have found out about Paul and I smoking weed near the skate bowl. My mum had tears in her eyes and hugged me as I sat up. My Dad looked on worried and told me it would be ok. I asked them what was going on and my Dad broke the news to me. Three hours earlier Mr and Mrs Matthews woke to the sound of a gunshot down in their garage. Rushing down they found Ben slumped over in an old armchair. Mr Matthews shotgun lay near Ben’s feet. Ben was covered in a mess of blood. On the 8th of June 2008, Ben Matthews fired a shotgun into his chest and took his own life. The next week seemed to drift by in a dark haze. I cried a lot. My parents took me out of school and I had to see a therapist. At first I felt angry at Ben. I was furious with him. I couldn’t believe he would do this to his parents, to his sister, to his friends, to me. I was burning with rage the morning of his funeral. I was going to punch him in the face and scream at him for being so selfish. Throughout the ceremony I kept thinking over in my head “How dare he?! How dare he?” Ben’s sister bawled through the whole thing. His Dad kept it together well until giving Ben’s eulogy where he broke down. As the ceremony came to an end we were each invited to come to the casket and give Ben our last goodbyes. This was my moment, my moment to get Ben back for all the pain he had caused us. I approached the casket and saw Ben’s pale face frozen still. All the anger and rage in my heart disappeared. At the sight of Ben I was filled with a deep sadness and an intense love. Ben had been my friend. Ben was my friend. I broke down in tears, my legs gave out and I began falling to my knees when I was suddenly grabbed from behind. It was Ben’s Mum Lynnette. She was holding me. I turned and hugged her tighter than I had ever hugged anyone before. I cried into her shoulder as she held me. I sobbed deeply and all Lynnette did was hold me and whisper “Thank you Tom, Thank you.” Ben Matthews may have been a country Hick. He may have been a little weird. Ben might have struggled with making friends but Ben was my friend. He was my friend.


"Bobby can't talk." I answer the theater ticket cashier, as Bobby's father accepted the tickets, re-pocketing his wallet. The cashier smiles down at Bobby, "Well, *Coco* is beautiful, he should enjoy the movie either way." We turn for the theater entrance and I think to myself, strictly speaking, that's not true. At five years old, Bobby *can* talk. He just never does. We've taken him to, I've lost count how many doctors, to find out what's wrong. Physically his voice is fine. He has no special irritations, or sensitivities. He reacts appropriately to all sounds and lights, and doesn't seem overly disturbed by anything. His hearing is fine. The precious few times he utters a word, it's clear, and seems to cause no physical pain. Dozens of tests later, he's not *on the spectrum*. He follows instructions to put on clothes, or pick up toys, get in the car, or to pass the salt. He tests physically healthy and typical in every other way. He just won't speak. It's all head nods, shakes, and pointing. We were at the grocery a few weeks ago picking up supplies before the Superbowl, when we where heading for the check-out lane, and Bobby began pointing. Guiding me back to the Chips and Salsa lane. Even to the particular brand his father likes. I was frazzled earlier and left it off the shopping list. But he remembered. He will answer the phone if his father and I are too far away, but, if it's someone he knows, of course, he just holds it and listens. His *memaw* will talk to him, assuming I'm on the way. If it's someone else, and he's having a good day, they might get the single word “Wait.” until his father or I can reach the phone. Maybe, or maybe they just get silence. His first and longest burst was just over six months ago, back in July, when he had a bad cold, and we visited Dr. Gruman his pediatrician, that's routed us through all the other “experts” to try and help him. After the examination was over, Dr. Gruman handed me a prescription for some cough medicine and discussed saline spray instructions to help clear his sinuses. Bobby blurted out, “Dr. Gruman, if someone were sick and I asked, would you help them?” Now we were the speechless ones. It was the most he'd said in one string since he'd been born. It wasn't even clear until that moment that he could form a complete sentence. “Yes, Bobby. If someone were sick, I'd help them. Is there something wrong with you besides the cold?” Dr. Gruman asks. Bobby shakes his head no, and looks to the woman on his right. “Nurse Anna, if someone were sick and I asked, would you help them?” “Yes, Bobby. I would.” Anna replies softly. “Nurse Anna”??? (How the hell does he know her name? She's not wearing a name tag, and I didn't even know her name. I've seen her, but she only just started here a few months ago and this was the first time we'd actually met her assisting Dr. Gruman.) And that was that. Less than five or six single words since that July burst just over half a year ago. The movie is over. Bobby was enthralled, and silent, as predicted. We're driving back home, his father says “We need bread for tomorrow.” And pulls into a convenience store near home. When the car stopped, before his father could open the door, Bobby said: "I need a pen and paper." I look at his father, dig through my purse, handing both to Bobby. He wrote, so slowly and carefully, I began to think he had forgotten about us, and was drawing something to pass the time. A minute later, when he handed it back, the paper read: Pick 3 2 5 6 Pick 4 8 4 2 3 MaxBall $3 15 22 45 56 59 22 His father and I looked at the paper, dumbfounded. Sure, he watches TV, and listens to everyone, but with no response back, it's never clear what is and isn't registering for him. So, he could know about the lottery. I guess. Bobby's father asks, teasing with a big smile, “Are we going to win the Lottery?” Silently, Bobby shakes his head no, looking out the car window to the right. I shrug my shoulders, “It'll only be $5, he never asks for anything.” When his father is out the door, Bobby says “Phone.” Holding out his hand. I know he's watched closely as I dialed his grandparents a few times, but he's never used the cell phone himself. If you don't speak, and can't spell to text yet, why would you? A few slow, careful button presses later, “Dr. Gruman, this is Bobby. Someone is sick, will you help?” Bobby pauses to listen. “Can you call Nurse Anna, and ask her to come, and have her boyfriend drive her to your office?” Bobby asks. Then the phone is hung up, back in my hand. No explanation. His father is back with the bread and tickets. Hands the tickets to Bobby's waiting hand. In a flourish that would do Houdini proud, Bobby's popped the Child Seat latches, is out the door heading right. As I call out for him, scramble to unbuckle my own seat belt, and follow. Before I can reach him, Bobby knocks on the window of a small older brown sedan car, two empty spaces away, seemingly filled to the brim inside with luggage and boxes. The mother focused on her daughter in the back seat, spins around startled. She starts the car to roll down window. "Do you need me to move?" She asks a bit panicked. "This one will be $600. This one will be $100,000" handing her the Pick 3 and MaxBall tickets. “Dr. Gruman will meet us at his office. Follow the blue car.” Bobby says pointing to our car. Without waiting for a response, he's headed back to our car. In shock, I turn back to the woman. “Bobby never speaks. Ever. He just called Dr. Gruman our pediatrician and asked him to meet us at his office. I didn't even know he could use the phone. I don't know what's . . .” Looking at her daughter, a girl about Bobby's age, with shoulder length blonde angel fine hair, in the back seat coughing. I ask “Is your daughter sick?” The woman says, “I thought Angela just had a cold, but now she's starting a fever.” Holding a thermometer up. “Well”, looking at Bobby, then back at the woman, I shrug, “follow us.” I head back to the car and re-seat Bobby. We arrive as Dr. Gruman is opening the office, turning on the lights for Nurse Anna and a man, presumably her boyfriend. I recap briefly what happened, Dr. Gruman and Anna take Angela and her mother into one of the open exam rooms. Bobby hands the remaining Pick 4 to Nurse Anna's boyfriend, who, based on the oil stained “Roger” name tagged shirt, must be some sort of mechanic. “This will be worth $4000. Her mom needs a better car. Can you take her old car and the ticket and find them a better one?” Bobby asks. Confused, Roger looks at all of us, accepts the ticket, saying slowly to Bobby, “Sure. I can do that.” Bobby hasn't started Kinder-garden, and, with the lack of speaking, and few neighborhood kids, he's met precious few children to begin with. I look at Bobby and ask, “Do you know the little girl?” Bobby shakes his head no. He watches them through the open doorway of the exam room. As if he's seeing them a million miles away. Bobby says: “She'll have a baby one day. A son.” “He'll grow up to be a special soldier. In charge of ten men and women. A bad man will make a bomb and try to kill everyone in the city. Her son will have to make a choice. To have the time to do what needs to be done to stop the bad man, he'll have to sacrifice his friends and himself. If he flies away, his team, that he's cared for and worked with for years, will be saved. If he locks them in, and does what needs to be done, they will all die, including himself, but the city will be saved.” Bobby's father kneels beside his chair and asks, "What will the man choose to do?" "I can't see." says Bobby. "It's too close to me." Looking at Angela and back at Bobby, "Because you know the little girl now?", his father asks. "No." Bobby says. "Because he'll be my son too." We all look around at each other, not knowing what to say or do. A minute of silence later, Bobby looks at his father and me and says, “Everything is clearer now.” Bobby looks to his father, then to Angela in the next room, "I know. You didn't tell me yet, but you got a new job and we're moving closer to *memaw*. Doesn't matter. I'll meet Angela again one day. At the end of school, or just after." Dr. Gruman and Nurse Anna come out of the exam room. “Well, the swab says Angela has the flu. But her lungs are just clear enough. And the temperature's still on the low end of high. She'll be just fine. I'm here, and we were closed tomorrow anyway. They can just sleep here tonight.” Dr. Gruman continues, “It seems Angela's mother is a nurse who recently lost her husband to cancer, along with her house in the process, from all the bills. And is looking for a job. Hearing that, Nurse Anna has now informed me that Roger proposed yesterday and she will be leaving in a month. They are moving back to his home town where he's to be head mechanic at a new dealership. So it seems I will soon have an opening to fill.” Bobby hops down off the chair he was in. Looking up at me, Bobby asks, "Can we go home now Mommy? I'm tired." "Yes, Bobby.” Bending over to take his face in my hands and kissing my beautiful boy’s forehead. “We can go home now.


My Mum was born with seven hundred million. She could talk all day everyday and still live to see old age. Dad, well his number was a little lower but that suited him fine. He was the type of guy who could have a whole conversation with nothing but a look and a grunt. Me, well that’s a whole different story altogether. I’m one of 387 people in the history of the world to be born with a one. Our condition is commonly known as being a oneword. We are a lot like mutes, except they are born with zeroes and go on living regardless. In a world where lives are measured in sentences mutes are the exception that makes the rule. Onewords, well we fit the system. We are as limited by our number as anyone else. Most onewords pass away quite young. I suppose toddlers don’t know not to say Mama or Papa. So where does all of this leave me? Well I am one of sixteen onewords to have made it into adulthood. Of the other sixteen only two are still alive. There is Tiao-Su, who works as a programmer in Hong Kong. As a child Tiao-Su was stopped from talking by his harsh but loving parents. Then there is Jodie, she’s a Canadian zookeeper. I have met both of them a couple of different times. The first time we all met was at a research lab in the Germany. We were subjected to an array of different tests. Scientists trying to work out if sighing, whistling, humming count as words or not. For the record, they don’t. As a matter of fact I am quite the whistler. The second time we all met when we were brought on to a TV talk show. Dad got a real kick out of it. Imagine a talk show having three guests who wont say anything? It was ridiculous! The interviewer kept asking and answering her own questions. I did enjoy the trip though, I mean who would say no to a free holiday in California? For most of my life being unable to communicate has held me back. I was forced to go to an all girls school for mutes, but I never fit in. Most of the other girls would hassle me and try to trick me into speaking. Outside of the mute community wasn’t much better. Normal people always assumed I had wasted all my words. There’s a fair bit of taboo around word-wasters. It comes from the old days when life was harsh. Everyone had to live as long as possible so they could give back to the community. Back then wasting words was a grave sin. One day, the whole world changed. An amazing man, a genius inventor by the name of Nikolai Chimpon changed the world with a single invention. Nikolai built a device that reads brainwaves and outputs speech. It was finally possible to speak without the need to actually talk. For most people in the world this was a neat way to increase their life expectancy. For me? Well it was the start of my life. No longer held back by my single digit I took on the world. I became a singer and well known media personality. Soon after a romance between Nikolai and I blossomed and were soon married. In our third year of marriage we had a son, we named him George. Life was beautiful and glorious. That was forty-eight years ago this May. Nikolai and I watched our son grow and start a family of his own. Unfortunately Nikolai developed dementia in his sixties. The disease caused him to ramble. He passed towards the end of last year. Nowadays I am left alone. For the first time in my life it is not that I cannot speak but instead I have no one to speak to. George visits from time to time but he can’t waste his life chatting away with an old lady. I have lived an amazing life and I am content. All that is left for me now is to say “Goodbye.


The thought of you makes me nervous and excited at the same time. It's like that feeling that you get right before you know something amazing is about to happen. I think about you and I've never even met you, I visualize you and I've never even seen you. In my mind and in my dreams I hold you and I don't even know if you exist. I feel like you're a non obtainable goal, like you may be out there but then again maybe you're not real. Maybe I have put something imaginary onto a pedestal that I can never achieve or maybe you're 10 feet away for me right now. As time goes on I continue to look for you. I question my sanity. I question why I am doing this, why risk it, why risk being destroyed and hurt again. yet I still look. I try to find you in random people. I think maybe that's you or maybe that's you but more and more I am starting to think that you don't exist. So I wont look, wont hope, wont want for what may not exist. This way there wont be a longing for you. Then I can feel safe from what you may bring: happiness, pain, hope, confusion, and an uncertain future. I know you must be beautifully broken, possibly also looking, you should stop too. You aren't looking for me, trust me. Im not good enough and wont ever be. Look if we both stop then no one gets hurt. Then again I'm guessing you cant read this. Simply because you don't exist.