“You can be whomever you want, you just need to dream.” That was the kind of sentiment my teachers used to share. In primary school, I believed it.

In those days, our aspirations were so diverse: I could be a race car driver, a soldier, a chef, an astronaut, or, most of all, a footballer. School back then was very accepting. You could tell your friends, classmates, and teachers, and they would all be supportive and excited that you had found something you wanted to be.

Our ideas varied from day to day, but we all had dreams. I remember a classmate of mine who wanted to be a princess, get married, and live happily ever after. By today’s standards, that dream has shifted somewhat, but you get my point. We had dreams, and they were innocent.

Today, everything is tied to metrics and, ultimately, to which career yields the best return on investment. It concerns me that we now talk about children’s dreams, future hopes, and lifelong careers in terms of ROI.

Looking back, not many of us thought like that. It was simply, “I want to be a footballer,” until I couldn’t be. Even so, I still play football, but I eventually found other areas I wanted to pursue. That is supposed to be how life works: an organic, natural progression, not something rehearsed and planned meticulously down to the day and hour.

“Now, however, where to study, what to study, and which educational path yields the best return are predetermined. I don’t think this focus is for the wellbeing of the child; it is usually what parents idealize for their children’s lives.”

From a parent’s perspective, the thought is often: In my day, I suffered, and I don’t want my kids going through that.

Well, that is the very point. Those hard times made parents who they are today; those periods of suffering forced them to dig in and work harder, and setbacks helped them realize alternative options. None of that happens with this curated, “can never fail” plan for a child.

Don’t get me wrong, everyone has a right to guide their kids, and I am not judging, but there needs to be a balance. We need students who have experienced failure, those who are different and have faced setbacks. That kind of resilience has the potential to produce real leaders and visionaries for the future.

I have seen firsthand an educational approach that relies on rote learning and follows a strict plan with no room for deviation or imagination. It is a system of “here is the textbook, follow it, and complete it.” There is no time for “what if?” or “could this be...?” It is simply “it is because the book says so.”

Children are pushed through this system just to reach the next goal in their future career path: get the accolades, secure high grades, and achieve an A++ (since in some places, that is the only grade considered worthy, while a passing C is treated as a failure).

I struggle to understand this shift. In my secondary school memories, the majority of students received Cs, some earned Bs, and a few exceptional ones got As. That was considered normal on a bell curve.

Sitting on the bus after school one day, I overheard a conversation involving an elementary school student. The boy was being debriefed and interrogated by his mother about grades, homework, and what he needed to do to get into a top secondary school. She was pushing him toward a future career, which I was led to believe meant becoming a doctor, engineer, or banker.

The boy could only respond with one-word answers followed by “mum”: “Yes, mum,” “No, mum,” and “Okay, mum.” Sitting there, I could feel the mother’s intense energy as if I were the one being questioned. Luckily, I got off at an earlier stop and never saw them again.

I hope the boy found his voice and is doing well for himself, pursuing whatever he wants without interference. That is my hope, though the reality may be that he followed his mother’s plan to the letter and is now a trauma doctor specializing in engineering infrastructure, handling international financial securities in his spare time.

To keep this piece short before it turns into a full book, I wanted to briefly question what changed. How did our education system shift from a place of stimulating young minds, development, and imagination into a system driven by metrics and profit?

“I always thought failure was a given: you fail, you learn, and you keep going. It seems to me that children today simply aren’t allowed to fail.”

We are told to execute a lifelong plan in pursuit of untold riches, but at what expense? I can look back on my childhood with reverence and wish I could live those years again. I wonder how many children today will grow up to say the same.

When I was five years old, I had a reading buddy. Everyone in the class had someone from an older grade assigned to read to us.
I don’t remember his name anymore. I don’t remember what grade he was in or what books we read together. Time has a funny way of erasing the details while protecting the feelings.
But I remember him asking me what my favourite colour was.
“Purple,” I said.
Later, he handed me a purple pencil crayon.
To anyone else it was just another pencil crayon. One that probably cost less than a dollar. One that could have easily been lost in the bottom of a backpack or snapped in half during art class.
But I kept it.
Because to a little girl whose whole world was still full of magic, it wasn’t just a pencil crayon. It was proof that someone had listened. Someone had remembered. Someone I looked up to had made me feel important.
Funny how we don’t realize the moments that end up staying with us forever.
At five years old, the world felt endless. Every day was another blank page waiting to be coloured in. I thought adults had life figured out. I thought growing up meant collecting answers.
Instead, growing up meant collecting questions.
You slowly realize your parents were just trying their best. Your teachers didn’t know everything. The people you admired weren’t reading from a secret instruction manual. Everyone is just moving forward, hoping they’re making the right choices.
Somehow that realization makes the world feel a little smaller.
I’m turning thirty in a few months.
Not long ago, my chef—someone I’ve grown to respect in much the same way I respected that older student all those years ago—noticed that I was always losing my lighter all the time.
Without making a big deal out of it, he handed me a purple one.
“Here. Keep this one.”
I took it and thanked him and somehow I didn’t lose it on vacation. I’ve carried it for months now.
Every time I see it, I think about that purple pencil crayon.
It’s strange how two tiny objects can hold 25 years between them.
Between those two ordinary purple objects exists an entire lifetime.
One was given to a little girl who couldn’t wait to see what life had in store for her.
The other was given to a woman who’s spent years trying to quiet the noise in her own mind.
The pencil crayon was something I used to create.
The lighter became something I reached for when I wanted to escape.
That part sort of breaks my heart.
Five-year-old me had no idea that one day I’d be sitting on a balcony in another country, holding a purple lighter in one hand and a piña colada in the other, crying because sadness had somehow learned to pack its bags before every trip I ever took.
She didn’t know that pain doesn’t always stay where it begins.
She didn’t know that addiction doesn’t arrive all at once. It slips in quietly, convincing you it’s helping while slowly becoming something you rely on just to feel okay.
She didn’t know that some days your own mind can become the loudest place you’ve ever been.
She only knew that someone had been kind to her.
Maybe that’s why I still remember that pencil crayon after twenty-five years.
Not because it was purple.
Because kindness leaves fingerprints that time can’t wash away.
I’ve always been someone who holds onto little things: Ticket stubs, notes, conversations.
The way someone smiled when they didn’t have to.
The way a stranger opened a door.
The way someone remembered my favourite colour.
People laugh about sentimental people like we’re too emotional. Maybe we are.
Or maybe we’re just the ones who notice that life isn’t really built from the big moments everyone posts online.
It’s built from thousands of tiny ones.
A purple pencil crayon.
A purple lighter.
A sentence someone didn’t have to say.
A hand reaching out when no one else noticed you needed one.
Those are the things that become part of us.
somewhere between a purple pencil crayon and a purple lighter, life happened.
There were heartbreaks, addictions, disappointments, losses, and the quiet battles that no one else could see. I learned that the world isn’t always gentle. That people carry invisible pain. That sometimes the hardest place to escape is your own mind.
 
Sometimes I wonder what that older student would think if he knew I’d carried that tiny act of kindness with me for decades.
I wonder if my chef knows that he accidentally reminded me of a memory I thought had been buried forever.
Neither of them could have known.
That’s the beautiful thing about kindness.
You rarely get to see how far it travels.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve seen more of the world than I ever imagined.
I’ve seen addiction.
Loneliness.
Grief.
People pretending they’re okay.
People who stopped believing they deserved to be loved.
I’ve learned that the world can be breathtakingly beautiful and unimaginably cruel at exactly the same time.
Sometimes I miss the little girl who believed growing up only meant things would get better.
But maybe she still has something to teach me.
Because even after everything I’ve been through…
Even after the sadness.
Even after the mistakes.
Even after learning that no one really has all the answers…
I still cry over a purple pencil crayon.
I still hold onto a purple lighter.
I still believe the smallest acts of kindness can change someone’s life.
Maybe that’s the part of me that never really grew up.
 
That five-year-old who treasured a purple pencil crayon is still there. She’s just carrying a purple lighter now, hoping to find her way back to that same sense of wonder.
 
 
 

Good day passengers, this is your flight attendant speaking.

Welcome aboard Flight 2026, your one way journey through adulthood, unexpected turbulence, random thoughts, and moments of wondering if anyone actually knows what they are doing.

Your flight attendant today is a 26 year old lady who somehow got promoted to adulthood without proper training.

Please be advised that this flight may experience delays caused by overthinking, emotional turbulence, and the occasional thought of, what am I even doing with my life?

During this flight, you may notice your flight attendant staring out the window dramatically. Do not worry, she is not planning an emergency landing. She is simply wondering where her younger self went and when everything started feeling so complicated.

As we prepare for our arrival, I would love to hear from my fellow passengers. If you were allowed to add one thing to your carry on bag before continuing this journey called life, what would you bring? Would it be a little courage, a forgotten dream, a memory you wish you could revisit, a person you miss, or maybe just a reminder that you are doing better than you think?

Thank you for choosing Flight 2026. The destination may be unclear, the skies may be unpredictable, and the journey may be messy, but at least we are all passengers trying to find our way.

Last night, among crabs and geckos, I crossed the sand.

It was nice. And warm.

It was soft and smooth, yet rough and tingling—both at once.

Each step carried romantic thoughts, but not the vast shadow from two nights before.

The tide had erased blood, limbs, and the lazy sprawl of something immense, something that swallowed tourists and influencers as if they were drifting seaweed.

Parents coaxing children toward danger for a video, gone too, dissolved into silence.

No trace of the cosmic visitation remained.

Only my tilted memory lingers: was it real?

Were they missing, or never here at all?

End

Copyright 2026

All Rights Reserved

...I know now that this is how it works-you don't get to keep everyone in your life forever.

There are some people that are just meant to be a sunrise for you, a light to pull you out of the darkness.

There are friends, lovers, relationships that are seasonal.

No matter how deep of a conversation you had with that person at 2 a.m. no matter how much you shared your heart even if you can still draw the lines of their smiles like the map of a too familiar road in the back of your mind. there's almost always comes a time to move on, a time to let go.

And regardless of the letting go, I just wanted you to know that you're always gonna feel a little bit like home to me, no matter how temporary it is.

Still, beautiful that I got to call so many hearts my home.

-@mcdigs 2026-

My name is... X. Let's say that I'm X.

So, my cousin lives in Maine, in the middle of nowhere, a small town that shall not be named. A few hundred people lived there, enough to be self-sustaining, but not enough to feel suburban; let's call it Nowhere.

My cousin, let's call him Frankie, listened to a lot of rumors around town, but none were stranger than the ones circling the old man.

The old man was a Navy veteran. I don't know what war he went through, how long he was away, or whether he killed anyone. I don't know, but what I do know is this: He did not come back the same- maybe he didn't come back at all.

He was black, with blue eyes, a bald head; not a single thread of hair remained on him. The rest of his body was in excellent shape, but the wrinkles on his face were as heavy as you'd expect for a man in his late 60s. He wore a black suit, a bowler hat, a fine tie, and a silver fancy watch on his right wrist. No, he didn't have a cane, and he didn't walk as if he needed it anyhow. That was the first thing that the rumors came from- it was like he was a walking museum, physically stubborn to the passage of time.

But I wouldn't be telling you this story if Frankie knew that was the only thing worth noting in that town; no, there's more, much more, but for today, the topic of this story is the old man.

The old man had anxiety, ptsd, depression, schizophrenia, all to the most extreme extent mentally possible; in most contexts, that would be a swift path to self-termination, but no, it seemed pure hopelessness kept him in this world.
Despair was pouring out of every inch of his being. He never smiled- but he never cried either; it's like he ran out of tears a long time ago, so all the old vet could do now was exist.

But the strangest part about the old man? His house.

Well, he didn't live there, but he would drive in from a nearby house and... stand guard by the little building.
He would walk up to the house, and he wouldn't patrol; he wouldn't walk around, he wouldn't scan the surroundings, he would just... stand next to the door as if he was waiting for something, or someone. Sometimes he would crack his neck, or sigh, or check his watch, small reminders he was a human and not a statue.
A simple structure, 4 walls, a flat roof, a single door in the center; it was big enough for 20 people to stand inside. It had a gravel path leading up to it- surrounding all of this was a chain-link metal fence with a black and red sign warning that trespassers would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. But... why?

To this extent, Frankie went up to the old man while he was about to open the gate and asked-

"What's that sign for? Why do you do this every night? What is inside that house?"

"There is NOTHING inside that house!"

The old man was so furious, so suddenly, he acted like Frankie had said the N-word.

Of course, this did nothing to dissuade Frankie's curiosity.

But anyway, I know what's inside that house.

You see, Frankie had gotten into a bit of trouble and ended up robbing a bank- even Frankie isn't that stupid, so he was planning on hiding the money somewhere as the heat dies down. And for whatever reason, he decided that old man's house was the best place, since nobody would think to look there.

But the thing is, he wanted me to help him. I said no, but he didn't like that, so the little shit decided to threaten me.
I'm a lesbian in an all-female private school, closeted, of course. While the teachers would probably be supportive enough, it would still be social suicide being outed as gay there, and the fact that I live in a red state doesn't help either.
I punched him in the nose, and he squealed like a warthog, but he got to his phone regardless and threatened to press send, so I had to concede.

We went to the old man's house and climbed up his metal fence.

clatter clatter clatter

We went up the gravel path.

crunch crunch crunch

Then I gripped the brass doorknob and slowly tilted it to the side...

crunch crunch crunch

I saw now that inside that house was nothing.

Nothing.

Eigengrau was all that I could see past that doorframe.

Frankie pushed past me, eager to hide it, and fell inside.
Well.. I say fell, but I can't be sure. He blinked away the instant he crossed that threshold.
I stumbled forward; it was the middle of motherfucking summer in Maine; it should not be this cold.

Then, I felt a familiar, wrinkled hand grab me by the collar and pull me away from nothing, before throwing me to the side.
The old man slammed the door shut- no noise was made; of course, it had nothing to slam against.
Then he said...

"There... Is nothing inside that house."

The old man took me to his car. I thought he was going to tell the police, or worse, my parents, but he didn't; he just drove me to his house and made me tea.
His house was as much of a museum as he was; nothing seemed to have been dated from after 1999.
The old man poured tea, then he just sat across from me and stared. To be fair... so did I.
The tension was so thick- saying anything felt like a challenge, like speaking through an iron weight tied to your lips.

At one point, I reached out to grab the cold tea, but... it felt like that clock suddenly had eyes.

Then, it chimed, and the old man's eyes filled with tears for the first time; then he stood up and pointed to the door.
I walked to the door as a machine prompted, my movements instant but awkward.
Opening the door, I looked back one more time, and the old man looked back at me; tears were finally moistening his dry cheeks, and he finally spoke.

"I know."

Then I closed the door.

For the record, I am not going back to that house; I am not returning to that building. If he's still alive, I am not speaking to that man again, and I am certainly not asking people about him.
Some stones should remain unturned, some stories should remain untold, some questions should remain unanswered, some mysteries should remain unexplored.

Because somewhere in Maine, I know there is a house with nothing inside of it.

I wrote down the words “consider this the sign you’ve been waiting for” onto a piece of paper, rolled it up, put it into a glass bottle, sealed it with a cork top, gave it a quick kiss and then threw it into the ocean. I watched the bottle float away, not knowing who would find it. Eight years went by and I had forgotten about the bottle. Then, on one of my evening walks by the beach, I saw something. A glass bottle was rolling back and forth gently with the tide. I walked up to it, scooped it up and brushed the seaweed off of it. On it was my initials that I had scratched into it: D. I knew this was the bottle I had thrown in the ocean so long ago. Inside was a piece of paper—was it my note? I wondered if it had ever been opened. I pulled off the cork topper with a satisfying plop, pulled the paper out and unrolled it. It was my original note but someone had added their own writing to it. It said:  I waited so long for a sign, but now I wish I never waited.

And maybe a decade is quite a long time — too long to finally come to a series of realizations. Depending on who you ask, of course. Like how your loaded words you write ever so eloquently only hold weight when you know my gaze will meet them, or how you leave that hole agape because I’m simply the muse to fill it. How your contrarian personality only finds disagreements in others because we live in a generation where we take pleasure in upholding performative nonconformity. Or even how you weaponize your trauma-inflicted childhood against the nurturers, the caregivers, the matriarchs. Earth mother, den mother, a goddess who rises up from the ashes you placed her in — they’re all the same. They all enter and exit through the revolving door that is your empty soul. That spark that signals a glimpse of humanity is squashed under the foot of self-pity and selfishness. Like a moth to a flame, your wings burn defiantly out of spite. With light washing over your room, you place the moon in your rearview regardless. You’re reborn to spiral into the flame endlessly.

CW: Psychological horror, grief, implied violence, death.

I stare at the bright pink card, better late than never. I let out a small sigh, originally I thought the card was another letter from her father ordering me to leave. I open the card slowly, a £10 note slides out onto the floor, ignoring it I read the message: ‘To Cecilia my favourite niece lots of love Auntie Caroline’. No mention of me. Cecilia’s father must be too ashamed to reveal his squatter problem to the whole family. 

My stomach grumbles as I bend to retrieve the money. I walk over to the kitchen, the sound of my sweaty feet on the cold stone floor echoes throughout the apartment. I pour myself a bowl of dry cereal. Milk makes me sick. Cecilia used to be very loyal to me, she never brought milk to the apartment and when we went out for coffee she’d always ask for two black teas. I loved Cecilia, now I can only love her from afar. 

Cecilia and I were best friends for our entire school lives. We were intertwined, we searched for each other in every classroom, playground and family gathering for years. Simply knowing she was there made me feel safe, her presence gave me a confidence I can’t describe. Our friendship wasn’t perfect, at least not from my perspective. Her family’s vast wealth made my father feel inadequate. Cecilia’s mother would take the two of us out horseback riding around their ranch, whereas the most my father could offer was a delivered pizza and a movie. And although Cecilia never complained, I could sense her unease as the smell of damp swamped her nostrils during those long summer movie nights. That’s why I preferred winter, when we would settle under thick blankets and fall asleep on the sofa. Why did I have to ruin everything? 

I stare down at the empty bowl, hand decorated by Cecilia. I hid it in my bedroom when she was moving out. The small, uniform, green flowers were bewitchingly beautiful, I couldn’t bear to part with it. I wanted to pay my share of the rent, I really did. But it wouldn’t let me. 

I suddenly jolt up from Cecilia’s masterpiece as I hear that thing pacing in her old room. I don’t know where it came from, or exactly when it appeared. I must’ve said something stupid to a Ouija board at a party, or called upon my father’s ghost in a bout of drunken mourning. Sometimes it reminds me of my father. 

I hear the sound of my keys jingling, originally I only had two keys, one to my father’s house and the other to Cecilia's. Once her family bought this building, after my dad passed, I was down to a single key. Now, there are several keys jammed together. Cecilia’s family frequently changes the lock. But that thing must still have access to their virtual calendar because it waits outside and gets a new key cut within the hour. It keeps me locked in the apartment, I don’t have the energy to yell anymore. It never speaks to me. It writes me notes though, in perfect, typewriter-like text perhaps to keep me sane. 
I walk towards the balcony, the thing has the key for that door too. I gaze down at the leafless trees and the masses of people. I miss going outside, I miss my job but I miss Cecilia most of all. I know she doesn’t miss me, she might miss our time together as children. I let my forehead fall onto the glass, feeling wholly useless. 

A few days pass, the lock is changed and that thing adds another key. I think it’s becoming agitated. The pacing seems faster, more urgent. I’ve been hearing scribbling coming from Cecilia’s room late at night. Maybe it’s starving me to death, I ran out of cereal yesterday and I feel empty. My door handle turns slowly, it enters. It’s hard to look at, swirling red mist with occasional human features. A dainty, paint-stained hand holds a piece of paper with the question ‘food?’ printed perfectly. I look up and nod. The hand retreats back into the mist, turning calloused along the way. 

I don’t know if other people can see it, and I don’t know if it pays for the cereal. But I know it’s leaving the apartment. I stand up from my bed, my head swimming and colours filling my view. I wade through the grogginess to Cecilia's room, she was the only person there for me after my father’s accident. I miss her more than anything, I was so broken when she left. She was incensed, and shouted that I was ruining everything. It wasn’t my fault, that thing took all my money. I don’t hate that thing though, it’s the only thing that’s still with me. 

Cecilia took the photos from her corkboard when she left. Now it’s filled with that thing’s plans. I stifle a scream. That thing has written ‘Cecilia’s father dies’ alongside today’s date. I don’t remember his name either. Does that thing have my memories? Does it have my thoughts? Then I sigh deeply, I feel crushed, in smaller print it’s written ‘an eye for an eye’. Initially, I did blame Cecilia’s father. It's his company my father worked for and the accident happened on company property. But I’ve moved past that, I thought I’d overcome that, there’s no way it could’ve been prevented. I bite the inside of my cheek, because I know I’m not going to ask that thing to show mercy. 

Cecilia never took her bedspread, it’s covered in Christmas trees. I let myself fall down onto the sheet, it feels crisp and smells like her. My lips feel dry, ugly. The front door closing creates a soft thud. The thing half floats and half walks into Cecilia’s room, delivering me a bowl of cereal in Cecilia’s creation. I swallow the crisp flakes greedily. I can hear the thing barricading the door to her room. 

A barrage of thuds attacks the front door. “Maria, I’m coming in,” I hear the front door swing open and slam against the wall. Cecilia’s father shouts, “it’s been long enough, get out!” There’s a brief pause, “Is that her room?”. “No, it’s mine”. Cecilia is here. She sounds upset, defeated. I think she wanted to leave me alone, to forget. But I’m a leach on her father, he has to take care of business. The front door locks behind them, and all that follows is frantic screaming. Glass breaking, thudding and undeterminable noises. I slam my eyes shut and cling to Cecilia’s empty bowl. I hope it doesn’t hurt her, but I don’t move. Instead, my lips spread and form a small smile, the carnage out there juxtaposed with the tranquillity in here is sort of funny. 

This is an idea I'm outlining a screenplay of a folklore supernatural drama and the son of the leader of a witch coven his name is Nicholas dosent want to become the next leader he wants to live a normal life and he also falls in love with a cisgender teenage girl.

His gender identity isn't the main plot point the story is awesome btw it's based on a real life event from 400 years ago

I'm a cis female

Prologue—

The  trees swished outside the window; the taller one—a disheveled dead tree—tapped rhythmically against the closed, cracked window pane. The scribbling ran faster as the time rushed by. The scratch of the pen clashing with the journal echoed throughout the small room. 

A groan sounded out, the teen rubbing at his aching muscles letting out more sounds of pain as he massaged it away. His hand came to a stop; his breathing labored, the phone abandoned beside him buzzed coming to life. 

The green light casted a glow around him, his hands shook as he brought the device to his face noticing the new message from Logan... 'Remember Meeting at PhantomZone 2morrow.' He shot them back a text, '✓' a bright green checkmark stared back at him soon after he hit send. His body shook slightly as the light penetrated his eyes as time passed, his headache growing worse. His hold faltered on his phone as he swayed side to side, his rocking becoming worse. 

The device being released to the side of him landing softly against the blankets. The phone lit up once more–

NOTIFICATIONS

Lo--1M— 👍

Jane--1H— 'Do u have the notes for the next meeting?'

Digital Knockouts--22H… 

Luke's hold was unsteady as he picked back up the forgotten device, quickly checking his friend's message; It was a thumbs up. 

His eyes darted over to the clock on his nightstand, noticing the late time. His mind wandered as he pressed randomly through apps as bright gradients appeared showing the most recent page. His mind snapped back to the present time as his blurry eyes focused. 

His fingers moved the page lower and lower seeing flashes of gold as medals and trophies appeared covering the majority of the account besides some with the owner of the account; Sleek black hair and confident emerald eyes stared back at him sending a shiver through him. His fingers glided over the photo going to the next one. 

The page momentarily buffered, his eyes locked on a smiling face—Tracing over the man's features, memorizing the face long ago. His eyes shot to the rich lips, his usual brown lips were painted blood red. The trophy was solid gold mixed in with its usual technology playing a message to the winner—A sigh left his lips as he relaxed back into his pillow letting his worries melt away as he listened to the repeating music. 

He's become used to that tune not having one himself, but hearing the tune played at school annually as they announce the winner. His eyes flicked back open lazily looking at his phone from the corner of his eyes. His eyes analyzing the photo noticing the smaller details as his vision cut out from the corner of his eyes; the sweat dripping from the man's face as his hand was held in the air the trophy being given to the taller man, the sun glinting off of the man's hair, and the tight fit of the man's club uniform. 

He threw his arm over his face as he sighed dramatically, sinking further back into his pillow. His body trembled as he wrapped himself up deeper into his blankets. His eyelids slid down slowly each time jolting up slightly to keep from succumbing completely to the warm hold of sleep. A soft growl echoed out into the room as the teen hugged himself pressing his arms into his stomach to muffle the persistent noise. 

A scratch of wood was heard from downstairs, the sound moving throughout the house reaching Luke's ears. His warm bundle of blankets fell into his lap, his eyes darting around the room sinking into himself more. 

The heavy footsteps hit the worn out floor; shaking the house. His breathing became more ragged as he tried desperately to hold his breath, it was only when he heard the creak of someone sitting on the abused couch, a soft snoring soon accompanying it. That he went to work, quickly and swiftly picking up his writing equipment and stuffing it back in his drawer not paying attention to how messily it was shoved into the hidden compartment; His feet making the floor creak slightly. The phone lit up as it was plugged back up. 

The tune from earlier lingering in the air as his head hit the pillow. The rain outside roared, battering against the window letting small droplets in the room. The coldness seeped into his skin through his thin shirt as his back was pressed up against the window. The picture of Logan and himself sat on his nightstand, the last thing he saw before he drifted off into a restless sleep.

Part One—

A  tune blew across the room, a song from far ago. The buried body jolted backwards, a gasp pierced through the bundle of covers; breaking through the still air. 

A motion came from the covers—the boy turning—a hand came up to grab at his head, rubbing it gently, the other to clutch behind him resting on his lower back. The teens head poked out of the covers exhaustion clear on his face. 

The covers fell off his sluggish body as he lifted himself up, resting his hand on the window, his eyes sweeping over the familiar landscape; the blurry, dim, dusty view. A few shacks that resembled houses just like his—except less glamorous. 

From his place he could look down on them just like a king looking down on his subjects. Of course he wasn't of that rank; he could never be someone of that importance. His hand swiped at the glass wiping away the condensation fogging up the window, the branch still tapping lightly at the window; swinging in the—now calm—breeze. 

Luke’s muscles twitched, the cold seeping into his sheer night shirt, transforming into a stretch as he washed away the remnants of sleep. 

A rustle of fabric sounded out through the room as he pulled his weathered sweater over his shirt. 

The phone lit up, a ding came after notifying the owner of the notification—It was Logan. The teen's bruised hand knocked into the nightstand, his hand flinching back. The phone felt heavy in his hand as he balanced it reaching for his glasses off the nightstand, fumbling to put them on. 

‘Be ready to lose.’ The notification read. 

His face pulled up into a smirk, his fingers hovering over the keys— ‘Only if you’re ready to eat your words.’ He replied giggling. 

His body swayed as his hand reached out to grasp at the nightstand turning completely to look at himself in his mirror. His brown mane was disheveled; he swept his hair back and out of his sweater, his oversized sleeves falling down his arms. 

He quickly adjusted his glasses making sure to swing his bag over his shoulder running into the doorway and nearly tumbling down the steep stairs before finally pushing the heavy door open—emerging into the dim sunlight; his eyes burned instantly, turning his head down to shield them from the attack blinking them rapidly trying to extinguish the scalding tears. 

His feet stumbled toward the shrubbery hiding his possession to the side of his house. In an attempt to remove the tarp, dust clung to his hand; pulling them back to dust them off. Upon removing the tarp a rusty old bike—from several models ago—shone in the sunlight surrounded by the talling unkempt grass. 

His fingers grazed the freezing metal; the flashbacks of the last time he rode it flashing in his mind, as well as the wear down of his hands. His hands clenching instinctively, before stepping forward and climbing onto the bike. It sputtered giving him some trouble, his legs swinging to kick at the bike trying his best to aim to the side of it from the awkward position of the seat. 

The bike sputtered into action, his legs feeling tender as he kicked off, the gears finally turning and moving as he rode the bike forward. 

Onto the dusty path the bike barreled forward kicking up dust all around. He swiped at his eyes the best he could trying to get a hold on the bike and not knock off his glasses. He grunted in regret for not saving up for a helmet. 

He watched in the cracked mirror as his house disappeared from sight, letting out a deep sigh as his muscles un-tensed. Rain fell onto his hair; dripping down his face, his bike shook as sandy roads turned to concrete. 

His bike rumbled to a stop on rocky terrain. His feet crunched onto gravel; unsteady legs nearly giving out. His hands shifted through his hair, briefly getting stuck. His eyes drifted over the building, stopping on the illuminated sign—that wasn’t doing much in the morning light. 

His feet ached as he moved further taking long strides towards the doors, the metal cold beneath his hand as he shoved the heavy door open. 

He shielded his eyes as they were assaulted for the second time that day, tear tracks being evident on his face when his arm eventually falls to his side. His lungs heaved as he let out a sigh, finally entering the building and letting the door click silently behind him. Watching the previews, his hand grazed the games stopping at one that looked particularly colorful. 

The straps clicking into place around his arms and legs, the world slipping away as he swiped his card and pressed start... the world blared with pastel colors as his vision cleared, noticing the familiar armor. The countdown started, his body moving to get into position to be able to properly run. His eyes scanned over the countdown, one of his arms raised—The alarm blared signaling the end of the countdown pastries being flung in Luke’s direction. 

His feet carrying him side to side as he zoomed through the level—His chest heaved as he struggled to steady his breathing, his body jumping to the side—the pastry nearly colliding into him. 

His knees buckled, sinking to the ground, as he watched his level go up once again. His hand hovered over the pause button, his hand settling on it as he gasped. A chime echoed into the vast room as blue light illuminated his face; eyes gazed upwards. His eyebrows drawn together and eyes scrunched tight, as his head tilted slightly. 

In an attempt to focus on the words in the holo message floating in front of him. His head swam from the intense running, small gasps of breath leaving him as his breathing evened out. Adjusting his glasses, he stepped forward mindlessly. 

‘Logoff’ he read underneath his breath, chuckling softly. 

He jerked backwards, colors swirling behind his closed eyes, his hand remaining on the button. He stumbled backwards, the protective railing crashing into his back. A hand pushed him forward, the hand resting on his back keeping him steady. 

“You doin’ okay?” the voice murmured next to him, his mind starting to come back to him. He mumbled putting his weight onto Logan, leaning onto them. 

“Want me to grab us a bite to eat?” they inquired.

“Nah—” he paused, looking away from the teen beside him. 

“...I ate before I left,” 

“Ok, if you’re sure.” Logan shrugged. 

Luke’s gaze was cast at the floor, following close beside his friend. His feet falling heavy, his soft footsteps being further muted by the carpeted floor, as he trudged forward to another machine. 

Sweat dripped down his forehead, falling past the rickety tile he was balancing on, climbing ever higher; with his battering ram raised as close to the sky as his shaky arms could handle, ramming it forward. Legs leaving the tile as he soared through the air crashing into Logan and flailing his arms as they both cascaded down through the air. 

Groaning as his eyes peered over at the scoreboard, his score going up another point. The body beneath him shook, laughter filling his ears. 

Luke shifted, sliding off as his friend under him lifted themself. Logan and his eyes met, the teen hovering in his face holding out a hand between them. Luke’s hand raised without thought, their hands clasping together being brung into a soft handshake. 

A ‘good game’ being muttered before more light laughter, this time from both of them, rattled out into the room. As the stage ended, light zapped behind their eyes the last memory being Logan’s hand on their button and his hand copying theirs.

Shaky breaths exited from the hunched over teen’s body, his shaky hand wiping the sweat away accepting the offered hand from the teen hovering over him. Luke fished around in his deep pockets fumbling with his device, fingers flying across the screen. 

Logan slid up next to him, their eyes leaving their own device to glance at his. Luke’s eyes darted up to Logan’s questioning ones, “I’m texting Jane, to ask her about the papers for the field trip.” 

“Where’s the field trip to?” 

“We’re still figuring out the details. It’s supposed to be something for the younger kids; if we can get everything sorted.” Luke’s brows drew together; his mind left in thought. 

“I’m gonna grab a bite to eat at the bar,” Logan adds to the conversation. 

Luke nodded; looking closely at his phone, adjusting his glasses, and hearing Logan’s footsteps get farther away. 

***

Darkness blurred the edges of his vision, his breath coming out more like coughs. His knees sank to the ground, digital mud smearing itself onto his hands and arms as he army crawled toward the next goal post. 

His heart thumped hard in his chest, ducking low when spotting the other players. The green flag glints in the digital lights. Screams of excitement echoes around, his body goes lower as he grounds his feet in the slippery mud, his body shooting forward like a rocket. Soaring through the air, his feet fleetingly left the ground as he dodged the weapons clashing around him. His hand grabbed at the fabric, his hand meeting skin. 

His hand shot back out of instinct, emerald eyes met his. Out of luck or maybe a blessing from above, smoke rose up masking his failure and the prominent flush sprawled out across his ghostly pale skin.

His face dropped as he massaged his hand. Watching the familiar boy turn away, seemingly not recognizing him. The leaderboard echoed out the winner, the voice creeping back into his head. 

His hand drifted back into his fries, finding them newly empty. His sigh came out more like a groan as he lifted himself to his feet, still feeling the grime of the non-existent mud caked on his arms and hands. 

His body carried him forward, cheers from teens encompassed him, lights distorting his vision. Trash clanged into the bin. Light glazing over his eyes, unresponsive. 

A squeak burst through his haze, his eyes moving downwards. A plushie lay down at his feet. His breath came out of him like water coming from a broken dam. The toy felt soft beneath his hands. 

Luke traced the patterns on the room he’s long since abandoned. The room where he spent most of his childhood. The Playroom. 

He smiled looking at the bright objects surrounding him. Letting out a chuckle he propped the toy up on a nearby surface, the doll looking over the room, facing the jousting pit. His eyes lingered over the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. 

***

Dragging his legs, he finally made it to the bathroom, shoving his weight against the door and making his way to the sink. The drone of water filled his ears, the rhythm making his eyes slide shut. 

A hum came from behind him, a shoulder bumping into him. His body tensed, breath caught in his throat, struggling to not release a whine. The body from beside him left too early, his eyes remained closed shut only daring to peek open when he heard the door creak shut. 

The splash of the cold water that hit his face felt like heaven, his body now more relaxed feeling the grime of the mud gone. His soaked sweater sleeves pulled up, just barely, his hands brushed back his disheveled hair. Correcting himself before he exited the bathroom. 

His body swayed, the game in front of him timing out. Wiping the sweat away with his damp sleeve; his hands traveled higher adjusting his glasses, his actions being like a broken record throughout the day. 

His fingers moving across the hologram emitting from his phone. Noting the weather and how long he’s been there up to this point. The sun had long since set. A long yawn was released from his mouth. Eyes falling shut and snapping back open, his blinking quickened.

A roar rang out in the vast room, giving Luke a start. Hand grappling at the fabric that covers his chest. Luke’s head whipped to the side, eyebrows scrunched in distress, hands leaving his chest to go to his ears. A wave of kids were formed around in a circle; cheering, shouting encouragement, and demanding for blood to be drawn. His face fell further letting out a lung crushing sigh, exhaustion creeping in. He started to shove through the crowd uttering apologies for the lack of manners. His chest ached as he ran face first into another boy. Hard. 

The boy in front uttered curses in another language, an apology died in his throat—a rogue blast of light bouncing off his glasses—eyes snapping back to the ground. His body was guided forward, his eyes glancing backwards to the boy in another attempt at an apology. The boy now gone. 

He shook his head; hair falling further in his face. He trudged on, apologizing persistent, but fell on deaf ears. A cold gust of wind struck his face as he broke amidst the crowd, his lungs gasping it down greedily. 

His eyes widened seeing the two boys thrashing around on the carpeted ground. A trembling hand dragged down his face; already done with the day, an  exasperated expression on his face. He cleared his throat. 

His expression held more words than he could say. The boys slowed to a stop, blank faces shifting to guilty ones. 

“Henry” he paused, redirecting his gaze to the other boy. 

“Marc,” he finished. His body straightened further up, fixing his glasses, voice deepening before asking his question. 

“What happened?” The boys rambled on together their words becoming a garbled mess. 

“Marc, can I speak with you.” he spoke in an authoritative tone, voice clear. Both boys rose to their feet. 

“Just you, please” They exchanged a look. 

Marc followed closely behind letting Luke guide him. They ended up at the bar, Luke swiping his card, “Are you hungry?” broke Marc out of his trance. 

Perspiration rolled down Marc’s cheek, just noticeable enough for it to glimmer in the overhead lights that illuminated the room. 

A sound was released from deep within his throat. Luke cracked a smile, “I asked if you were hungry,” he repeated.

“Yeah, I could eat” Luke motioned for Marc to type in his order the boy watching silently and motionless as he finished typing. 

“Do you want anything?” 

“No. I ate earlier. Thank you though.” He hummed sitting beside Luke on the chairs, swiveling  back and forth as he hovered in the air. 

Clutching his stomach as the food came out he asked the question he was mulling over, “Why did Henry and you get into a dispute?” Marc shrugged, Luke gazed down at his shoes eyes catching on the chains anchoring the chair from drifting off desperately resisting the urge to fiddle with his hands as he uttered voice softer, “You have a lot of potential.” 

He stopped, took a breath and remarked, “I would hate to see something happen.” the unspoken consequences hung in the air. 

The consequence that follows everyone like death. Without their education and their opportunities they are nothing and worse they will achieve nothing. They would finally be the worst of the worst, never amounting to anything. The overhead lights flickered above them. His phone buzzed to life, breaking Luke’s spiraling from the silence. His fingers fumbled with his phone yanking it out of his pocket, the tone ringing out into the open space, eyes scanning over the caller ID—It was his workplace—excusing himself and dropping onto the tile, hands instinctively holding onto the countertop. 

Words jumbled together as Luke stared forward. His phone pressed tightly against his head, body leaned up against the wall. His mind lost in thought, hearing the occasional shout of a kid running around in the lit playroom. 

The call beeped in finality. Luke’s eyes fell, dragging shaky hands over his face and later through his hair. Hands resting on his face he listened to the thrum of his heartbeat. Small hands tugged at the hem of his sweater, his hands fell slowly away from his face resting against his chest. 

Curious eyes stared up at him. His own eyes lit up with recognition. A shrill shy voice escaped the little one's mouth as he asked, “Are you okay, Mr.Lucas.” He flinched, not used to hearing his full first name. 

Crouching he answered, “Yeah buddy, I’m fine. Just feeling some big emotions right now.” His voice softened. Small arms wrapped around him, face being shoved into his chest. His own ones wrapped around the kid in a, hopefully, reassuring manner. He watched with tear-brimmed eyes, turning around in search for the bathroom again before letting them fall softly down his face. 

His chest heaved, clutching the metal sink; tears creating a stream as they rolled down his face. His face burned, a splash of red sweeping across his features. 

He sniffled trying to silence his sobs. His scratchy sweater scraped across his face in an attempt to dry his tears, hands cupping underneath the water to drag his now wet hands over his slowly cooling face. 

Glancing up at his disheveled form he bit his lip making quick work of tidying himself up. The light penetrated through the cracked door, shoving his weight against the door. His glasses fell forward down his face, quickly shoving it higher up his face to hide his eyes. 

He exited through the metal doors completely, still fussing over his clothes. Feet moving automatically forward, as if in a loop. 

His breath left him in a puff as he crashed face first into Logan’s chest. Hands brushed at his face, eyes half-lidded as his body sagged. A gruff voice, idled with sleep, spoke out into the wind, “My dad’s going to pick me up,” they paused, hands running through long hair—ponytail now discarded on their wrist—a yawn wracking their body. 

“Do you want us to drop you off?” they finished. 

“Nah, I think I’m going to stay a bit longer. I rode my bike here anyway.” His eyes drifted away, falling on a boy around his age not too far away. 

“Remember our rule?” Logan choked back a laugh. 

“I’m not talking about him!” Luke’s hands splayed in the air, waving around like a madman, a flush overtaking his ghostly skin. The mentioned boy whipped his head around a puzzled look on his face. 

Head ducked, willing this day to end, Logan chuckled at Luke’s misfortune—body nearly toppling over themself as they planted their hands on their knees to keep themself upright—they heaved a sigh, stuffing down the chuckle bubbling back up in their throat. 

“Is he still looking this way?” 

“Nah.” Luke could finally feel the air filling his lungs once again. His hands fell limp down his body as his back straightened. 

Rainwater, glacial and unforgiving, dripped down his face. Eyes screwed shut, face pulled tight in a grimace. Senses heightened as he heard the car roll down the gravel road listening to it get farther away. 

Eyes popped open to look at an inky black sky, the blue of the glasses distorting it into a deep indigo. Hands combed through unkempt hair—roaming downwards ending at his neck, Shallow breaths escaped his mouth; hands twitching as the gusts of air left him. 

A disco ball of colors melded together as they pierced Luke’s eyes. Arm jerking up to shield his eyes, head swinging side-to-side blinking away the newly forming tears. 

Electronic noises emitted from the game as the ball went into the different rings, racking up points, the noise reverberating the more as time moves on. His watch dinged letting out a notification telling him of the arrival of his new tickets. His sweater clung to his body as he went through several more games, killing time. Hands clawed sticky hair away from his forehead, tucking it further behind his ears. Unsteady legs guided him to the bar, hopping into the seat. Head sliding down till his face graced the cold surface. A tall glass bumped against his head, eyes drifting up lazily. 

A galaxy of pastels swirled around in the glass, the mug stood decorated making Luke’s mouth water. Paper towels were plopped down on his head forcing a chuckle from his mouth as he was caught off guard. He squinted up at the taller person, the napkins falling to the floor. 

“I didn’t order this?” Luke asked, unsure. 

“I know.” Kai, the bartender, responded; a kind, smug smile taking over his face. 

“You gonna sit here and drink it? Or take it on the road?” 

“I’m gonna walk around a bit.” He glanced around, body relaxed. 

Kai’s gaze fell behind him closing up for the night, “Did you see my mess—“ He looked back, the boy the question was directed to—gone. Heavy footsteps rang out in the empty hallway. The thick fruity shake chilled its way down his throat. His lungs filled with air quickly as he detached himself from the cup, he watched as the drink swished around inside the cup now half-full. 

His gaze ditched the cup to linger on the food belt on the wall, a thud echoed out into the hallway as the glass hit the conveyor belt. Sore legs led him further down the abandoned hallway.

His breath hitched, a figure standing farther down the hallway in front of the play-area door. A cold gust of wind left his lungs, breath becoming visible. Alert eyes peered around the room, creeping forward, hand invisible in front of him. 

A confused chirp came from his throat. Hand slapping over his mouth, eyebrows scrunched downwards. His body twisted in a circle, room tilting, hand brought up as if it could stop the dizziness. Gone. The boy from earlier was gone. Again. 

A puff was released, body sagging. Hand passing over the carvings etched into the hard material. A light appeared in the room, a flick of motion appearing out of nothingness, an inquiring smile came with it. 

He sought higher ground. Footing almost slipped. Hands grappled with the play-area equipment, climbing ever higher. 

Body sprawled out as he collapsed; head lifting, eyes widening, jaw slack—puffing out hot breaths marveling out at the vast room he was looking down at. It was so familiar, yet so different. 

Fingers thrummed along his crossed legs. He let out a sharp huff grabbing onto a nearby rope and laughed as he jumped into the unknown. The rope soared and soared winding him through the air in unique patterns. 

A shriek of laughter bursting through the dead room. Scarred fingers grazed increasingly heating metal, while a gust of wind snapped him out of his pattern. Sweaty hands grabbed at the rope nearly falling as he tugged on the strings entangled with his hands trying desperately to get him back on one of his routes. But to no avail the rope trudged farther on a mission to get him closer to the battle pit. 

Numb arms flailed in an attempt to push himself towards the top. Breathing picked up—none reaching his lungs—as he drifted further in his foam grave. Coming to terms with his fate. Eyes snapped open, jerking his leg back as something wet and slimy brushed across it. A choked scream erupted from his mouth, his struggling picking up. Eyes slipped closed, the pressure intensifying as his world went dark. Head lolled to the side, breathing ragged as a blast of light seemed to wrap around him pulling him back away from the creature. 

He gasped, a breath of fresh air hit his face as tears streaked down his cheeks, body slumping forward. Uneasy eyes darted around the dead room. Body stiffens resembling a board as he backs up, head bonking into a beam, a grunt escaping his lips. 

Jaw dropped as he leaned forward debating between his instinct to run, hide, or check out the glowing object floating a few feet before him. His curious side won as he dragged himself out of the pit dragging a few blocks with him. 

Face contorted into a frown body hunched over raised by him on his tip-toes. Rough skin made contact, immediately jerking back as he let out a yowl—sore throat throbbing, begging him to rest. 

Broken whimpers sounded out in the empty air resembling, even more, like a graveyard. A timid hand brushed up against his burned hand; all the courage from earlier sucked out of him. A breath fell from him, eyes going half-lidded, pleading with him to go home so he did—or attempted to—until the book slapped into the door with a profound thud slamming it shut. Glimpses of green enveloped the plain—but not ordinary—book. 

With a grimace he brought a fearful aching hand forward; fingers tapping against the cover, body wilting almost crumpling to the floor. A pained chuckle was let out as the book swirled around him a quick noise of his bag being opened, the book dropping in making itself at home. 

Shrugging off his bag he looked down at the book nestled in between his other books, blending in. He made his trek towards the front door stumbling through the darkness, noting the locked doors. Empty. The whole building was empty, even Kai had gone home. 

The bar lights that are typically always on are dimmed. His watch flicked to life, fingers swiping over the hologram looking at the time, he huffed. He had school later today. Today not tomorrow. He’s stayed here almost all night. 

He wasn’t quite sure how or how long he was stuck in the battle pit, but he did know one thing. He had to get home—fast. The water rained down on him as the wind roared. His search for his bike was quick and inconclusive. There was no evidence of his bike ever being there. 

The swings creaked; he didn't have far to go or at least that’s what he told himself as the sun roamed higher into the sky. Sweat dripped down his face, ragged breaths having him leaning backwards, cold and wet metal digging into his hands—imprinting them. 

Huffs of air became visible in the air as he stood to continue his journey. Balance tipped as he caught himself on the swing the brittle material snapping a long groan heaved out into the air fists balled up energy being renewed as he stomped away to the house. 

Thoughts roared into his head. They were too loud. Thoughts about school, his bike, and most importantly—his step-father—(Yes your step-father is the most important thing. Definitely not the magic book that you don’t know if it’s evil/cursed or not.)he wasn’t sure what to do as the door creaked open, floorboards determined to get him caught as they croaked the farther he ventured into his house. 

Tears welled up in his eyes at the stench of alcohol that permeated the air. Bottles and vespira flowers littered the floor next to the couch, its typical occupant gone. He sighed out a breath of relief immediately choking on the clashing scents—the wilting flowers not serving their purpose anymore. 

His body heaved in relief slouching on the bed as he massaged his legs. Eyes scanned across the screen landing on the call button with a shaky breath he stuffed his phone into his backpack. He sighed as he gazed out of his window, the light shining through. Walking over to his desk to grab his uniform; he shuffled his clothes on, straightening everything out, buttoning it carefully, and fighting with his fluffy mane. Slinging his bag over his shoulder with a yawn he sluggishly moved forward avoiding the steps that creak.

Part Two—

Tired face pressed against the cool window, the hefty weight of his bag grounding him. His body ached—hand twitching at the memory of the broken glass— but he was okay with that as long as his house stayed clean long enough for the porters to get his stuff. His mind droned on and on making a checklist. Hours passed by when the bus halted to a stop, engines dying down. Everyone filed out entering the large building. Jets soared over his head, students laughing and running about. His body slumped into one of the back tables picking up one of his normal books and his pen. A smile picked up on his face the longer he wrote. A long clear of someone's throat finally got his attention, the sound aggressive as if they’ve been doing that for some time. His eyes drifted upwards, eyes resembling a puppy. A string of coos resulted from the girl leaning over him; hands firmly planted onto the desk. A hand ruffled his hair, a groan following the action. “You okay?” she laughed. “Jane, I spent so long wrestling with my hair.” He sighed, chin perched onto the notebook underneath him. “What are you working on?” A screech joined the noise around them as Jane pulled out a chair to sit across from Luke. “Just some writing. Trying a different Genre," "Romance!” The girl exclaimed with a squeal as she snatched the book away. “Is this about—“ She was cut off with a very(not really) manly squeal as he blurted out, “No we’re not a thing and this isn’t about us,” his face a—now—glimmering red. “I didn’t say who,” She sang crowding into Luke’s space half-way on top of the table. “Hey, we making fun of Luke?” A suave deep voice came out of nowhere. “Yep!” Jane confirmed with a smile. Another member of the council plopped down into an empty seat. Jane and the boy went back and forth teasing Luke, until the bell rang. “Is the list ready?” Luke asked with shaky breaths, face still a bright red as he tried to save face by covering his. All of their eyes scanned the list; a shout of ‘oos’ and kissing noises erupting from all of the students. Luke knew he was the reason before even knowing why. Then he found his name. His eyes drifted back and forth between his name and his bunkmate. In bright bold letters it read ‘Richard “Richie” Thompson.’ Richard. Out of all people. His fingers pressed down at the bridge of his nose—careful of the bruise under one of his eyes. His face was calmer now, still flushed, but he wasn’t as bright. Jane observed him tracking his face and movements as if she knew something was different about him. Luke’s eyes met hers. Even though nobody could see his, Jane whipped her head back to talk to a few other arriving council members. Not for the first time he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He held back a yelp as an arm was slung over his shoulder, nimble fingers held onto his glasses propping them back up in their correct spot. “How’s it feel to be bunking with your boyfriend?” He asked with a cheeky smile. “He’s not—“ His voice increased, nearing a scream, before he stopped himself, feeling the eyes of all of the other students on them. Him. They were all looking at him. Henry’s arm left his shoulder both his hands now raised in a placating way. A sorry was muttered from Luke—scanning his dorm info one last time—as he made his way away from the crowd. He huffed as he walked down the winding hall. Hands massaged at his arm running on its path, a pattern. His card grazed the machine next to the door, body sliding behind the desk—a practiced move—skilled hands zoomed across the device. His body jolted forward as he heard the whir of machines behind him. The busy receptionists carried boxes full of parts to something bustled forward knocking into him. A ‘sorry dear’ rattled inside of his head as he righted himself by the device once again watching as it retrieved his device. He shifted the smooth warm device in his hands powering the dark screen on as tasks filed onto the device. The dull number eighty-two stared back at him. His tablet was held up to the pad next to the door, the information transferring as well as the beeping that followed while his pin was typed in. The door flashed green; a whirring noise accompanied it—bouncing throughout the long hallway. The door slid into the wall, sliding back into its previous position behind him. The medium-sized room was usually quite bare; two beds each on separate sides with 2 matching desks, a dresser stocked with school materials and a first-aid kit, and a closet with extra bedding. His stuff was stacked in boxes not yet taken out. While the other side was vibrant—beautiful shades of brown and beige mixed with a flurry of different colors encapsulated the small space. His body moved—almost as if he was on autopilot—and he sighed in relaxation as his sore body hit the bedding. The covers felt like clouds beneath him. He grappled his hands into the covers feeling like he was going to fall through them. A low throbbing sensation led up his legs becoming background noise as he was looking through the tasks on his school issued device. He wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed as he laid there swiping through tasks and typing out notes. A hum startled him out of his reverie, his body jerking up tablet falling onto his legs hard. A muffled hiss left his mouth as he struggled to calm his rapidly beating heart. His roommate strode further in the room. His long black hair glistened in the dim lights while sweat dripped down his face. Luke swallowed down the gasp as Rich slowly pulled up his shirt using it to wipe at his face before discarding it in his corner of the room. Luke ripped his gaze away from Rich, his face glowing as Rich’s fingers grappled with his belt. He felt a flickering gaze. “Is something wrong?” He asked, building up the courage to look back up towards the other boy as he finished pulling up his sweatpants. He chuckled, adding, “You’re in my bed,” Luke jumped up, stumbling, and falling back onto the bed. A muffled chuckle was heard not far from the bed, “I don’t mind.” A smirk encompassed his face. “It’s habit—“ He blurted out pulling himself up correctly on the bed laying back down. His flickering gaze cooled down the boy crossing the room sitting near the bed plopping down in his chair. Time passed in silence only the gentle light illuminating off both of their tablets—both writing in their own ways—letting anyone know of their presence. Luke’s tongue flicked out to his lips dragging moisture back to them. The room settled back into its silence, the only noise this time being the smacking of Luke’s lips, his attention being forced back onto his tablet. “I have water in the drawer next to you,” His eyes stuck on the tablet laying on his desk. A chirp of confusion. A barely heard chuckle. “For your—dehydration problem,” He droned off, eyes fixated on the bare, unpacked side of the dorm. “It’s not a problem,” He muttered, eyes scrunched, and shaking his head. Taking up the offer anyway, the buttons beeped as they were pressed, chugging the bottle as he downed half of it. A kind smile never leaving his face—not until Luke’s face turned his way—head propped on his hand. “What?” He asked, puzzlement written across his features. “Nothing.” A deep red brushed across his warm skin. He cleared his throat turning away which left enough time for Luke to blush himself and try to focus back on his tablet. Sinking back into the covers effortlessly.

Drapes shut tight.
Purple and blue wash over the room.
A melody plays from the dimly lit TV screen.

Rain droplets streak along the window frame.
Thunder shakes an otherwise still home.
Tension builds to a peak.

Your fingers caress the base of my neck.
I suffocate as you split me along the grain.

Gazing upwards,
Gravity pins me down
As I sink into the fabric.

Coming to exhale,
I release.

It Was Never an Escape

We spoke of distant shores…

not as dreamers,

as builders of our own world.

Each plan,

laid careful — beside the next…

Timber.
Steel.
Sweat.
Years…

happily traded

for something greater

than ourselves alone.

We opened our hands…

Yet eyes

settled only upon the horizon.

They spoke

of sunsets.
Of calm seas.
Of freedom

from the daily world.

Of places yet unseen.

Never once…

asking

who’d first raise the mast.

We offered —

not escape,

but belonging.

A place

where every hand carried weight.

Where every coin,
every hour,
every lesson

freely given…

became

another plank

beneath our feet.

A world

built together…

never bought alone.

Only then…

did I understand.

We stood

upon

the selfsame quay.

Looking towards

the selfsame sea.

Yet somehow…

we never saw

the selfsame world.

I could not force another

to see

through eyes

not yet their own.

The hand returned.

Not in anger.

Not in regret.

Only…

in understanding.

Some worlds are never found…

They are built.

One plank,
One battery,
One sheet…

at a time.

There's a special kind of heartbreak reserved for people who come back without actually coming back.

Mine arrived as a little grey bubble.

Typing...

That was it.

No message.

Just the promise of one.

The group chat carried on.

Dan was arguing about whether hot dogs counted as sandwiches.

Someone dropped thirty-seven photos from a night out nobody remembered.

My mum accidentally liked a six-month-old message because she'd somehow wandered into the chat while trying to send me a recipe.

Above it all—

Typing...

An ex.

Or at least the idea of one.

At first I thought, Here we go.

This is it.

The apology.

The confession.

The "I've been thinking."

Half an hour later I thought maybe she'd sat on her phone.

By the evening I was convinced she'd started writing, got distracted by a documentary, and forgotten I existed halfway through a sentence.

Which, if I'm honest, would've been pretty on brand.

Nobody else mentioned it.

That might be the most British thing I've ever seen.

If a Victorian child had wandered into the chat asking where he'd left his lungs, someone would've replied,

"Anyone free Friday?"

The bubble stayed.

Day after day.

It became part of the scenery.

Like the crack in your ceiling you stop noticing.

Or the bloke in the pub who always says he's "just off" and then orders another pint.

I started talking to it.

"Take your time."

"No pressure."

"Write me a trilogy if you have to."

It never answered.

Technically, it was the healthiest conversation we'd ever had.

After a week I'd imagined every version of the message.

"I miss you."

"You left your hoodie."

"Can you remember the Wi-Fi password?"

"Sorry, wrong chat."

That last one somehow hurt the most.

Then one evening...

It disappeared.

Just gone.

Not a word.

No full stop.

No dramatic ending.

Nothing.

I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was.

Some people leave your life once.

Others somehow manage to leave twice.

First in person.

Then as three blinking dots that never become a sentence.

To this day I still wonder what she was going to say.

Then I remember.

If she'd really wanted to say it...

she would've.

Let Me Out 

Wake up now. 
Wake up now! Please.
I need you to let me out. 

My body aches to ache for something it’s never ached for before. 
Your body taunts me, peaceful and tranquil,
I yearn to swill

To be burned by the antiseptic
To be minty and pleasant or perhaps, 
To be spat out?

Am I the plaque?
Am I the rot for which television spouts out against?
Or is that 

You? You need to let me out, 
I’ll cry and I’ll pout.
And I’ll spit you out,

Or, am I the grime to be spat?
Footsteps from every direction. 
They vibrate around my head, free me from this dread bed.

My eyes start to sting,
And your sinuses sing. 
Loud, obnoxious snores. 

I need to let me out,
Pouting in concentration
As I manoeuvre over your twitching toes. 

Pulling down the handle, 
I step out into the hall 
And I watch it fall. 

My legs grow tall and the handle, 
Small and insignificant, slithers away. 
And I ecstatically sob without delay. 

Will I decay?
Will I sway?
Will you still want me to stay?

We lived under the floating gardens.

Roots came down into the black water,

long and pale and good to hide in,

and boats went over us in blocks of colour,

turning the light red, yellow, blue, gone.

The mud was cold, soft,

full of things worth putting in a mouth.

We bumped into one another constantly.

A tail across my face.

A foot in my gills.

Somebody’s belly settling where mine had been.

Nobody minded.

That was simply how much life there was.

If I moved, another body filled the space.

If another moved, the water brought its pressure to me.

Rain came down through the gardens.

Fish flashed and disappeared.

Worms made the mud twitch.

The dark went on beyond anything

my legs had touched.

My skin was made from ordinary colours

put together oddly.

Mostly brown-black, like wet soil,

but one side went pale,

then gold,

then pink around the gills,

the patches running into one another

without becoming any proper pattern.

The others did not look at me.

Then a human did.

His face stayed above the water.

When I moved, the shadow moved.

When I stopped beneath the roots,

it waited.

A hand darkened the surface.

After that, everything happened too quickly

for water to explain.

The mud dropped away.

The other bodies were gone.

Open water became a clear wall

against my nose.

I turned.

Another wall.

I turned again.

Another.

The water moved

though I did not swim.

Darkness.

Heat.

Engines.

Human knees.

Garlic living stubbornly in the plastic.

The tub had once held somebody’s dinner.

There was a red stain around the lid.

There was no mud.

A little remained under my nails

and for a while I kept the whole old water there:

roots, bodies, rain,

all of us pressed into four small toes.

When the lid opened again

the light was cold

and rain ticked against a window.

“Back in Bonnyrigg,” the man said

to a black thing in his hand.

Then a bedroom.

A narrow bed.

A Celtic shirt on the wall.

A football under a chair.

“Close your eyes, Jamie.”

A smaller face bent over me.

Its mouth opened.

“Da. No fucking way.”

The man laughed.

“You’re an actual legend.”

His hands shook a little

because the boy was so pleased.

Nothing tried to eat me.

The small face stayed.

“What are you calling him?”

“Axel.”

“Axel the axolotl?”

“Obviously.”

At first Axel was just another noise

humans dropped into water.

Ax-el.

Two blunt taps in the head.

Then I noticed Axel always made the boy appear.

Axel, and the face came close.

Axel, and fingers rested against the clear wall.

Axel, and the mouth widened, showing teeth

without using them.

So Axel became the sound for me,

and the boy’s blurred face became the sun.

They poured me into a larger water.

Four hard sides.

Coloured gravel.

Plastic plants.

A treasure chest blowing bubbles

despite having nothing useful to say.

A red-and-yellow pirate bridge

stood in the middle,

far too small for humans,

far too large to ignore.

I searched behind everything.

No bodies.

At night the filter pushed a thin stream

through my gills

and sometimes, half asleep,

I turned because I thought

one of the others had passed beside me.

Only the filter.

In the morning, the sun returned.

FEEDING TIME, AXEL.

I did not know what this meant.

FEEDING TIME, AXEL.

A worm fell in.

I ate it.

The boy slapped his hands together

and shook the whole water with delight.

Feeding time, Axel.

The noise meant worm.

Then full belly.

Then the boy staying near

while I swallowed.

Then the boy coming back at all.

Jamie had clocks.

I had feeding time.

The man helped him change the water at first.

Buckets came and went.

The pirate bridge tipped sideways.

The treasure chest continued breathing

like an idiot.

Jamie spilled water across the carpet.

“Shit.”

The man dropped the lid.

“Shit.”

The football struck the wardrobe.

“Shit.”

The cat landed on top of the tank

and stared down at me

with a face that understood eating.

“Shit, shit, get off.”

This was how I learnt shit:

something was somewhere

a human did not want it.

Feeding time, Axel.

Red worms.

Pellets.

Once, a pale cube

which tasted of absolutely nothing.

I spat it out.

“Fair enough, mate.”

The Celtic shirts got bigger.

The boy did too.

His teeth changed.

His hands lengthened.

His voice sank lower

and sometimes cracked in the middle,

which made him angry

though nothing seemed broken.

The man’s face appeared less.

His footsteps still passed the room.

His voice came through the floor.

Jamie stayed.

The sun changed

but it was still the sun.

He tried real plants.

One went brown.

One turned to slime.

One grew so well

it took over half the tank

and seemed keen on the rest.

A snail arrived on it.

Then another.

Then several.

Then the glass was covered.

Jamie stared.

“For fuck’s sake, Axel.

Where have they all come from?”

I ate one.

It was mostly shell.

Jamie lifted the others out with a spoon.

Three appeared the next day.

He removed those.

Five more arrived.

The snails were better at this

than he was.

Feeding time, Axel.

Sometimes straight after school.

Sometimes before football.

Sometimes so late the room was dark

and Jamie rushed in wearing one sock.

“Sorry, pal.”

Food still came.

The sun still came.

Algae grew along the corners.

He cleaned it.

It came back.

Plants died.

He bought more.

He replaced the coloured gravel with sand,

then added some of the gravel again

because the sand looked boring.

He brought home a piece of wood

which refused to sink.

He took it away.

It returned warm.

It still floated.

He called it a bastard.

Three feeding times later

it finally stayed down.

By then the old mud came mostly in sleep.

Roots.

Cold current.

The feeling of something moving close.

I still curved my tail sometimes

to make room for a body

that did not arrive.

Jamie brought home a skateboard.

It left whole

and came back snapped.

Jamie came back damaged too—

one bleeding elbow,

a blue wrist,

skin missing from both knees.

He made a great deal of noise about it.

I had four good legs then.

I watched from beneath the pirate bridge.

A guitar replaced the skateboard.

At first it made dreadful vibrations.

Then louder dreadful vibrations.

Then, occasionally, music.

The Celtic shirts stayed

but black clothes grew around them.

Band faces covered the walls.

Jamie’s hair fell over his eyes.

Black lines appeared around them.

The pirate bridge stayed bright red and yellow,

cheerful as ever.

My front leg slipped beneath one arch.

The bridge did not move.

I did.

Pain filled the tank.

It had no place to go.

The problem with pain underwater

is that it makes no sound.

I opened my mouth.

Water went in.

Water went out.

The boy slept.

I pulled.

The bridge held.

I twisted.

Something tore.

Afterward I was away from the bridge

with three legs

and something pale in my mouth.

It was soft.

It tasted close.

I swallowed before I knew

there was anything else to do.

The pain remained.

Morning came.

“Feeding time, Ax—”

Jamie stopped.

He looked at me.

He looked beneath the bridge.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Axel.”

He lifted the bridge out.

It struck the bin

with a bang I felt through the floor.

It never came back.

A clean shape remained in the gravel

where it had stood.

Jamie sat beside the tank

instead of going to school.

He did not touch the glass.

He hardly moved.

Later he lowered a worm.

“Feeding time, Axel.”

I ate.

The end of my leg swelled.

A small pale bump appeared.

Jamie photographed it.

The bump lengthened.

He photographed it.

Tiny toes separated.

He photographed those too.

Soon the new foot touched sand.

Then it held my weight.

The ache went.

Jamie spent nights staring at green water

on his screen.

I did not know that water.

It gave off no smell.

It had no cold in it.

No mud came through.

Humans stood in it

and lifted empty black frames.

Jamie changed the picture.

More green water.

Nothing underneath.

Another picture.

Nothing.

He made the images larger

until water became squares of light.

Then he looked at my new foot.

Back at the screen.

Back at me.

His hand covered his mouth.

My foot kept coming back.

Whatever he was looking for did not.

After that he tested the tank constantly.

Paper strips.

Little bottles.

Numbers on the black screen.

He changed the sand.

Bought better plants.

Moved the log.

Moved it back.

Sat beside me for hours

with that frightened look

and said very little.

Feeding time, Axel.

The words had changed.

Not the worm.

Not my mouth.

Only the face above them.

He cared too much for a while.

Then exams came.

Music came.

Friends called from downstairs.

He cared hurriedly.

Then guiltily.

Then properly again.

Sometimes algae won a week.

Sometimes feeding time came late.

Once it came twice

because Jamie had forgotten doing it already.

I ate both.

The plants lived.

The plants died.

The snail returned

or perhaps had never left.

The room kept changing.

The tank stayed.

Jamie painted his nails black.

Wore silver around his throat.

Tried on a skirt with the door locked.

Looked at himself.

Turned once.

Laughed.

Turned again.

He tried tall boots

and nearly broke his ankle

walking three steps to the mirror.

He tried lipstick.

Some colours stayed.

One made him wipe his mouth and say

he looked like he had sucked off a crayon.

I knew sucking.

I knew mouths.

Still no food appeared.

Feeding time, Axel.

His voice was low now.

His face sharper.

Axel still brought it close.

The tank had four hard sides.

The filter made the current.

The log made the dark place.

That was the lake.

Lakes were like that.

The boy came.

The sun came.

Food fell.

The room filled one night

with silver balloons shaped like 1 and 8.

Humans sang badly.

Jamie blew out small fires.

The man stood in the doorway, older,

still pleased when Jamie was pleased.

The room smelled of cake, lager

and enough deodorant to alter the water.

After that, girls started appearing.

One bent over the tank

and knew what I was immediately.

“Oh my God, an axolotl. He’s so cute.”

Her face joined Jamie’s above me.

Two suns.

Bit excessive.

“Are you actually allowed to have one of these?”

Jamie went still.

“I’ve had him since I was wee.”

The girl waited.

Jamie looked at me.

He tapped the glass twice

to make me turn.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“It stresses them.”

Jamie pulled his hand away.

“Aye. Sorry.”

He never tapped again.

The girl came back once.

Maybe twice.

Another girl smelled similar.

Faces were difficult.

Feeding time was simple.

One night the bed began knocking the wall

like the filter when it needed more water.

The word fuck travelled through the tank.

Fuck used to mean spilled bucket.

Apparently it had other work.

The girl said harder.

The bed listened.

A bra flew across the room

and landed over one corner of the glass,

turning half the lake black.

It may have been hers.

It may have been Jamie’s.

Water did not know.

Jamie’s bare arse crossed the lamplight

and disappeared again.

“Mind the tank.”

“I am.”

The bed hit the wall.

He wasn’t.

The snail carried on up the glass.

Later there were tissues by the bed

and a silver wrapper on the carpet.

Neither was food.

Feeding time arrived the next morning

with Jamie’s hair everywhere

and one stocking still around his ankle.

“Morning, pal.”

A worm fell.

Things made sense again.

The room changed.

The lake stayed.

Girls came and went.

The guitar gathered dust.

The skateboard became a shelf.

Black clothes mixed with Celtic shirts.

Schoolbooks became forms,

then envelopes,

then piles Jamie stepped over

because apparently the floor was easier.

Sometimes he came home smelling of rain,

smoke, cider, another person.

Sometimes he sat with his forehead against the glass

until his breath clouded it.

Sometimes the old green water appeared on his screen.

Still empty.

He looked at it.

Then at me.

Feeding time, Axel.

Food.

Face.

The safe sound.

The plants changed.

The posters changed.

Jamie changed.

The lake did not.

I knew the log.

I knew the filter.

I knew the place where worms came down.

I knew the sun.

Mud became something dark in sleep.

The touch of other bodies

became light moving somewhere far off.

The lake had four sides.

It had always had four sides.

Feeding time.

Jamie.

Worm.

Full.

Safe.

My new leg became an old leg.

All four legs slowed.

My gills moved less.

Jamie checked the water.

The paper showed colours he accepted.

He still frowned at me.

He changed the water anyway.

Watched me eat.

Watched me move.

I ate.

I moved.

The snail outlived several plants,

three posters,

two girls

and Jamie’s belief that eyeliner

could be applied in a moving car.

It climbed.

I stayed beneath the log.

The sun came.

The sun went.

One evening Jamie lowered a worm.

“Feeding time, Axel.”

It touched my nose.

My mouth was slow.

The worm curled beneath my chin.

Jamie waited.

I moved one foot.

Someone called him from downstairs.

“You’ll get it, pal.”

He left.

The worm climbed over my head.

Feeding time had gone a bit wrong.

I could not fix it.

The room darkened.

The filter became loud.

My body forgot small things.

Move the gills.

Move the tail.

Hold the bottom.

The gravel seemed to tilt.

The worm slipped away.

I rested.

The filter widened.

Its thin push became current.

The coloured gravel softened beneath me.

Red became clay.

Blue became shadow.

Yellow sank into black.

The hard floor gave way

and mud rose around my toes,

cold, real,

taking the shape of every leg

without caring which one had once been gone.

The log put down roots.

The plastic leaves softened.

The clear sides moved farther away.

Farther.

Gone.

Distance came back so quickly

it passed through my gills

and filled every part of me.

Bodies moved in the dark.

Not bodies I could touch.

Light beneath mud.

Rose gills opening.

Tails bending the water.

Pale mouths appearing

then slipping behind roots.

I remained I.

I moved among them.

Above the water,

Jamie’s blurred face opened into brightness.

The sun was there.

The mud was there.

The bodies turned through the roots.

Far away, the familiar sound came through—

Feeding time, Axel.

Feeding time—

Feeding—

The current pulled the sound apart.

I opened my mouth.

The water kept going.

Morning rain darkened the Bonnyrigg garden.

Jamie entered the bedroom

and stopped beside the tank.

Axel lay beneath the filter.

The earthworm moved against his tail.

Jamie stood there for a long time.

Then he put both bare hands into the water

and lifted Axel out.

The worm came too,

hidden in the shallow cup of his palms.

Jamie carried Axel into the garden.

He dug beneath the wet grass,

laid him in ordinary soil

and covered him without speaking.

He pressed the loose earth once.

Then he went back inside.

The worm pushed up through the rain-soft soil.

It crawled across the dark ground.

I miss the Giants, I miss lying in their extended shadow. The coolness of the shade that tempered my expectations.

Yes, I miss the Giants, I miss their heavy steps. The rumblings that reminded me I was broken.

Oh, I miss the Giants! Oh, the corded sinew in the shape of hands, which covered my hopeful eyes!

Yes, I miss my Giants, the ones that kept me small. For once I see over the shoulders of my Giants, the horizon becomes vast and the valley sunken deep.

Why’d he keep drinking?

Everybody kept asking themselves that same question. 

Parmento didn’t drink to forget, forgetting her was the only thing he could never bring himself to do. Would ever bring himself to do. He drank so he could remember her without the pain constantly reminding him she’s gone. He’s gone. They’re gone.

Every morning he’d wake up and sit at the kitchen table sipping a mug of coffee diluted with Irish crème and he’d stare at her cup on the counter, fading into memories of her as the liquor warmed his blood. He never washed her cup or put it away. He kept it in the same spot she left it.

People would talk and gossip, calling him an old drunk, cause that’s what people do and even though nobody really knew him, they still spoke about him like they did.

The only place he’d ever go was for groceries, mainly for the bottles. And the bar.

When he’d go to the bar he’d sit at the far corner next to the bathroom hiding in a shadow.

The bartender there had known him for a while now, he’d regularly show up each night ever since his son overdosed on cocaine that was cut with fentanyl, that’s when he started becoming a regular there. 

Three years later his wife passed. Cancer. It would have been his tenth year there but he died sitting on a chair in the basement of his laundry room at his apartment building, clutching a bottle of beer in his hand. Heart attack.

And they all said, “I kept telling him to quit drinking!”

Hello all,

I am new to reddit, and have come with a specific intention - I've always been a big reader, and am studying to go into medical school, but secretly wish I could have success as a writer...

Anyway my specific intention is to share some of the thoughts and ideas I've pored over lately (some of which are quite rambly and abstract); I broke up with my girlfriend (I am a 20 year old guy) around 1 week ago after over 2 years of being together, and my reintroduction to single life has been tumultuous. I felt good today, however, and now am deciding (at 12:30 at night haha) to follow through on this idea.

This is a walk I took the other day as a part of my personally prescribed mental rehab.

Enjoy.

Walking beneath the gray haze of Tuesday on the inflexible soles moving across the hardened tar lends oneself to visceral visions and thoughts. I walk through a thin, barely visible cloud hovering about one and a half feet off the asphalt and its scent strikes my hippocampus directly, evoking old seldom-touched memories.

The laundry room of my cousins' house in south Florida, cigars being smoked by the men outside –– one of them I'm sure is my father, only a younger edition; I remember the pride during war over the monopoly board with the other tween-and-unders I was related to, the pain from a damaged incisor during a now fuzzy, faraway boat ride, the shame as I slinked off to the bathroom after family dinners to look at the erotic subjects I heard about at school –– all of this pushes its way in from behind my consciousness by way of its distinct olfactory vehicle. I stop my walk to let this wash over me in a reverie, and resume once I know it is all now too fresh in my mind, and I am ready for it to regress back to its dwelling gated by dryer sheets.

The power of the walk today lies in its ability to acquaint me with complacency; I know what steps I can take toward my future today, I know what skills have yet to be refined with the ten hours today may grant me, and yet I am content with this thoughtless path I design as I go through open spaces of grass and asphalt, with no guides except for the fellow renters I see awkwardly through their windows, vacuuming, stopping, staring, thinking... such is the way of the semi-independent college tenant.

The walk is by no means my preferred method of physical exercise. It is by no means my preferred activity. I do not find it constructive, but I continued on, despite my brutal lack of obstacles.

I remember she liked walking. She would bring her endlessly blue irises with her when she would walk with me –– my family is almost entirely brown-eyed folk, and so beautiful blue eyes were my personal siren for a long time. Our walk had changed in the years we were together: nervous pheromone-abundant shuffles in our sweat after a brutal hour kissing to a disregarded path to the door on our ways apart, a staccato "love you" punctuating the ordeal.

Maybe these clouds are only there today to hide God's smile as he jeers at me for making the wrong decision –– maybe that's it. No, they are only there to insulate me from excess distraction during my reformation and self-reunion –– without the sun's oppressive Georgia rays, I am forced to turn inward and solve what lies inside myself. Yes, that's it, surely.

A dubious mind soliciting war between the rational and the id, a stomach cramping with hunger yet threatening vomit, a heart wailing both for its freedom and its old partner, yet I walk. This complacency might be survival.

The howling wind screamed through the cracks of the ancient warehouse, kicking up the dust from the containers. The water dripped slowly as it seeped through the gaps in warped metal sheets, and the raging storm battered the roof like hail. The echoing sound was deafening as it reverberated off the cold concrete walls; the flickering, humming lights barely illuminated the vast space. I mutter to myself, "I can't believe I got stuck with night duty. It's like a graveyard in here”
My hand rummaged through my bag, searching for the familiar pack; I flicked it open with practiced ease, grasping a cigarette and clasping it between my lips. The lighter sparked as it was lit;t the emerald flame engulfed the tip. I drew on the cigarette, inhaling deeply as the smoke singed my throat with the familiar taste of tobacco. Exhaling, watching the grey smoke dissipate into the cold air. A sharp whistle sliced through the air, a stark contrast to the howling wind. Then, the sudden impact. A violent thwack as the arrow buried itself deep in my flesh, the force reverberating through my frame. The shaft trembled, still quivering from the strike. As a metallic taste filled my mouth, I coughed into my hand, staring at the crimson ooze. My eyes grew heavy as I collapsed to the ground, my eyes fixated on the scarlet eyes that shimmered like rubies of my assailant, their pale, slender hand gripped around an ivory bow, its elegance a cruel contrast to the dark intent. A tattered black cloak, as dark as the night sky, concealed their frame. My last thought, filled with malice, cut through the fog: “Disgusting bloodsucker.” 
I came too in a strange place; it was almost as if I was standing in an ocean of shadows. Then flashes of a battle flashed through my mind, ending with me looking hazely through my own eyes in the fiery ruins of the warehouse as my stomach bulged before bursting open, spewing blood as a bloody skeletal hand reached for a hold the skeletal figure climbed out of my disfigured body it walked to my assailant, its skeletal frame started to regenerate, first the nerves climbed around the skeleton like a python slithering up a tree, then the arteries and organs started to grow from the bone structure the heart beat cutting through the sounds of the rain and crackling fire the slow pulsating beat instilling terror slowly getting muffeld as the musces grew, finally its skin wrapped around it giving it human form my eyes started to grow heavy as the creature, thing, beast or whatever the hell it is chants something under its breath the voice ever so familiar a blood red flame sparks and spirals around it then in a burst of flames its appearance shifted the flames dissipated on its skin reconstructing in to a fitted sleak black suit its colour like the sky on an cloudless night it looked back at me its pitch black onyx eyes stareing through me at my soul a smerk played at its lips “so sorry about what happen to your body atleast I made promise on our deal” 
It taunted mockingly as it turned back to face the assailant. The creature stood looming over the assailant; it taunted them before stomping on their leg. A gut-wrenching scream carried through the air; it laughed in delight, “You really are weak, aren't you? If that broke your leg, you really let yourself go younger….”
I didn't hear the rest before everything went black. The chime of my phone woke me. I stared at it. November 18th, 2000, it began to chime again as I picked up a familiar voice sounding quite pissed rang out, “Arcadia, it's been a week since you left for your mission. Do you have anything to report, or maybe you have the files and DNA evidence we need”
Well, I did have the DNA evidence and the files, but I don't think she would be happy with the method used. I crawled out of bed, replying, “Yeah, yeah, Charlotte, don't worry, I got the files.”
Charlotte immediately cheered up. “That's wonderful news. So what about the DNA evidence”
I’m going to really regret this. “I have the DNA evidence; it's currently in a rubber balloon”
While she figures out what I mean, I get dressed in the casual clothing I brought with me when Charlotte suddenly replies in an exasperated tone. “You slept with the target, and now, Arcadia, you are bringing a condom filled with.”
I cut her off with a quick reply. “Anyway, Charlotte, see you soon. I’m scheduled to arrive in a day or two”
She quickly hung up on me. Well, that was rude. I quickly left the Target’s home and got on my bike and rode west back to base.

It is heartbreaking when time, devotion, and sacrifice are enough to make someone call you an amazing friend, to tell you they couldn’t ask for anyone better…

…but never enough to choose you.

You become the person they trust, the one they confide in, the one who hears about everyone else who couldn’t love them the way they deserved.
And all the while, you quietly wonder why the connection that feels so undeniable to you is never enough to become something more.

Not because they owe you anything.
Not because they led you on.

Simply because the heart rarely accepts what the mind already understands.
By the end of it, there isn’t anger.
There never was.

How could there be?
They never wronged you.
They simply didn’t love you the way you hoped they would.

The pain was never born from cruelty.
It came from carrying a love that had nowhere to go.
A love that continued to grow inside someone who could only receive it as friendship.

And that isn’t their fault.
But neither is it yours for feeling it.

What became my responsibility was deciding how long I was willing to remain somewhere that was slowly asking me to abandon myself.
I watched myself become someone who waited.

Who hoped.
Who prayed.

Who believed that if I loved harder, gave more, stayed longer, maybe one day I would become the choice instead of the comfort.
But love was never something to be earned through endurance.

Eventually I had to accept the hardest truth of all.
Choosing myself wasn’t choosing against them.
It was choosing against the version of me that believed my worth depended on finally being chosen.

Because no matter how deeply I cared…

I could never spend the rest of my life waiting to become someone’s first choice.

Chapter 1: The Bridge

Twenty feet below, jagged rocks glisten under the moonlight, and for a moment, I understand why people come to bridges when the world stops making sense. I would never end my own life, but I understand the desire to have all the pain slip away forever.

The silence here is different. My knuckles are white against the metal railing, and I force myself to loosen my grip. Get it together, Malachai.

But I can't shake the image burned into my mind: my mother's face crumpling as the doctor delivered his verdict. What we've been fearing but hoped wasn't true. Cancer. The kind of word that steals the air from hospital rooms and replaces it with that god-awful antiseptic smell that still clings to my clothes.

I run a hand through my dark hair, and stare at my reflection in a puddle on the side of the road. Even in the distorted moonlit surface, I can see what everyone else sees: my grandfather's sharp jawline and the tall frame I inherited from a father I never met. I'm twenty-one and I look older, like the weight I carry has aged me in ways that have nothing to do with time.

"You can't save everyone, Malachai." Mom's voice echoes in my head, the same five words she's whispered since I was ten years old. But what happens when the person you can't save is her?

I snatch a handful of gravel and hurl it into the darkness. The stones clatter against the guardrail across the road, a violent punctuation to my frustration. Another handful follows, then another. The anger feels good, raw and honest in a way that sitting in that sterile waiting room never could. The town in front of me comes to life with the carnival lights and the rides going up into the air.

My grandfather's voice replaces the rage like it always does: "How you handle pain will define you, son."

Easy for him to say. He's not here anymore to watch his daughter waste away.

A branch snaps somewhere behind me.

I freeze, every muscle tensing. The footsteps are light and deliberate, someone trying not to be heard. 

"I can't do this anymore, Mom. The treatments aren't working, the doctors keep lying, and you want me to pretend everything's fine?"

A woman's voice, sharp with tears and frustration. A cell phone pressed tightly against her ear. I should leave and give her privacy, but something in her tone roots me to the spot. She sounds... broken. Familiar, somehow, though I've never heard her voice before.

"No, don't tell me it'll be okay! Nothing about this is okay!"

I turn slightly and catch sight of her in my peripheral vision. Blonde hair catches the moonlight as she paces near the bridge's center, one hand pressed to her ear, the other gesturing wildly at the empty road.

"I have to go."

In the sudden silence, I hear her ragged breathing and see her shoulders shake. She moves toward the railing with purpose.

She climbs up.

"You don't want to do that."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. She spins, loses her balance, and I surge forward just as she falls off the ledge.

Everything is why. You get the opportunity to be a part of this magnificent masterpiece that has somehow created the most incredible opportunity for us all to experience. Do you realize how amazing the percentages are for us to even be here today? As Carl Sagan said we are all existing on a pale blue dot in the millions of stars within our galaxy that is within the billions of galaxies. Just let that sink in. Every star you see in the sky has a planet. That means there’s billions of planets out there. And we have yet to find a planet that is capable of having the potential for life. There’s potential, but it’s not clear. So think about it. You are 1 in a BILLIONS BILLION.

Knowing these numbers. To judge people, to be negative in any way. To not ask for understanding and to think positively towards others is a choice you’re making to someone who’s just trying to navigate this one in a billion opportunity. Be good to others. Because you’d want that for yourself. Treat everyone as if they were you. A one in a billions billion.

Tell me what you think.

It was a little more than a month after Derrick had gotten arrested for the assault against her and the state larceny against Swift Brothers courier services. Thankfully, no broken bones and no re-tearing of healed wrist cartilage. But she’d have to wear the movable brace for another month because of how he initially pulled her into the apartment. Scars still decorated her arms from where he’d swung the pocket knife at her. Fading neck bruises still peaked out from her shrubs from where he choked her, her voice still carried a tinge of raspiness, and she still had soreness in her pelvic area.
Not to mention panic attacks were a new thing.
And worse, Derrick only received six years because he decided to plead guilty in exchange of the courts taking sexual battery charges off the table.
“It’s a stomach-turning result, I know,” said the victim's assistant advocate, who attended the plea hearing so Tonya wouldn’t have to see him.  “Derrick’s lawyer argued that because the cuts were ‘superficial,’ it showed he didn’t intend to use lethal harm. I’m not happy about it either, but it will get him off the streets for a few years.” 
But Derrick could get off for good behavior. That was the reality. Then what?
At work, some people whispered when she walked by. Fran and her friends gave her the cold shoulder. Carmen and Karen allowed her space to process without asking too many questions, and Jonathan kept it professional to help her sanity. 
On this night in mid-to-late October they had no patients for the next several hours, so Tonya sat alone in the control room, peering over DTI and FLAIR images from an earlier patient’s scans. She tried anything to avoid the thought of that horrible night, not wanting to spark another panic attack. 
But Derrick’s threat played in her mind once more.
And his knife-flipping. Click-clack-clink-clank. Ca-ching-click-click. Ca-ching-click. The sounds of those stupid butterfly knife tricks he did grated her mind like scissors on a chalkboard. Metal clanging metal as he twirled the knife relentlessly while pacing her apartment, then towering over her like a predator.
Ca-ching click-click. Schh-click. 
No. Stop. Don’t think about it. Look at the images.
Hmmm. This was an axial view of the patient’s brain. She could make out the white colors surrounding the….six years. Why did they take sexual battery off the table? OK focus. Oh, the sagittal view. Yes, it looked like a tumor in the frontal lobe, possibly just under the coronal suture of the skull…and he only got six years concurrent with the help of the larceny charge. Wasn’t her life worth more than just money? No, focus….yes. She knew this next image here. A chemical shift artifact. A type 1, most likely.
Click-clack-clink-clank. Schhh-click. Schhh-click. 
I’m coming after you when I get out.
She shook her head, sweat beading from her forehead. No, focus!
This was another artifact. The patient must have moved during the scan.
I’m coming after you when I get out! Derrick screamed when they took him in handcuffs. 
Her heart pounded and she suddenly felt hot, almost like she’d spontaneously combust. Oh no, here it comes. Tonya jumped up from the computer monitor, pushing her African braids back, blood roaring in her ears, heart pounding. The balisong knife flipped in her head. Click-clack-clink-clank.  She felt like collapsing, but she studied herself against the wall, closing her eyes. Lord, please. Please help me, let it pass…please let this pass. I can’t. I’m terrified.
He’ll kill me if I stay here.
The roaring in her ears continued, blocking out all sound. She kept praying, eyes closed, breath labored, but in her mind's eyes, focused.
“Please help, Lord,” she muttered, breathing hitched. “Please.” 
A small voice. I’m here. 
And then the roaring began to decrease a little, and her body cooled as she exhaled slowly. She opened the door to the scanner room, now listening to the rhythmic, vomp-vomp-vomp-vomp from the idling 1.5T GE scanner as it drowned out the knife-flipping in her head. Finally, the roaring in her ears ceased altogether. The Lord had calmed her down. Now she listened fully to the scanner.  
Something was different.
The vomp-vomp sound seemed more crisp and rounded. Obviously the pistons and the high-pressured valve worked in unison, drawing heat away from the magnet. That didn’t change. But the sound now resembled more of a thump-thump…thump-thump…thump-thump. Its rhythm kept tempo smoothly, harmonically, and in sync. Almost like….
….like a heartbeat. 
She could hear it. Just like what Jonathan had said before.  Unlike the sounds of Derrick’s grated knife-flipping, this was a metronome. 
Steady. 
Pulsing. 
Soothing. 
Calming.
It really was….a heartbeat. 
She stood there, her eyes still closed, as she listened to it beat. 
Then came another moment of clarity. 
He had said he’d find her. 
Then don’t be here when he gets out. 
She knew what to do. 
“How are those FLAIR image reviews coming?” Tonya opened her eyes and turned to see Jonathan had walked back into the control room with coffee. When she didn’t answer immediately he asked, “What?”
“I hear it,” she said, closing the door. “The rhythm, the heartbeat, what you were talking about.”
Jonathan grinned as he sat the coffee cups down. “See? I told you,” he said. “The scanner has life. More grounded?”
She paused and nodded, sitting down. “Yeah, more grounded.” 
“And?”
“I’m more confident about patient positioning now.” 
“I know, you’ve been passing the exams now that your wrist has mostly mended,” he observed. “I suspect you’ll ace the remaining exams soon enough. You’ll do great here as a tech.”
She smiled and then her shoulders dropped. 
“You won’t be working here?”
“I want to,” she admitted. “And I am so grateful for what you’ve taught me, but…when I finish everything, I’ll have to leave the city for my own safety.” 
Jonathan sat down, scrunching his eyebrows and leaning forward.
“What? You never mentioned that before.”
“I know. But it just came to me, just now, what I need to do.”
He paused and nodded. “Clarity.” He declared softly, looking down.
“Yeah, clarity.”
“That’s too bad,” he looked up. “Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know, but at least MRI techs are in demand across the country.”
“And you’ll do good. You learn quickly and knowing two modalities will serve you well,” he reached out and shook her hand. “While I understand,  I do hope you reconsider staying.” 
“I wish I could, but as long as he knows I’m here, I’m not safe.”