I was recently trying to check some writing for AI and was looking for one of those AI checkers that were blowing up a while ago.

I wanted to test it first so I used something AI and it came back as AI. Ok. I then put in something I was working on in it and it came back with an even higher percentage of AI. I thought maybe I just don't write very well so I put in A Psalm of Life and it came back as 100% AI.

I thought these sites were supposed to work really well, at least that's what I had heard. The sites I tried also offer paid versions or services to edit AI to sound more natural so I think maybe it exaggerates just to get you to pay up.

All this to say does know of a detector that actually works?

Edit: I was testing poetry so could it just be the rhymes make the word choice more predictable and it's confusing the programs?

The Grave Of Netherix Act I:

[In The castle of Willowbrook, King Solaris hears a knock at his chamber door]

Howard: “Sire! Sire! You’ve got a letter!”

Solaris: “Whoever from?”

Hector: “King Linus, sir. It’s about his daughter.”

Solaris: “How does it read?”

Harry: “It Reads-“

[Suddenly, the letter is swiped out of Harry’s hands.]

Howard: “It was I who was given the letter, therefore I shall be the one to read it.”

[The letter is, once again, swiped out of Howard’s hands.]

Hector: “And I am your elder. I shall be the one to read the letter.”

[The letter is swiped out of Hector’s hands a third time.]

Harry: “And I am YOUR elder. It shall be I who reads the letter.”

Their bickering continues for a minute, when suddenly, a voice is heard yelling down the corridor.

Rosalind: “Gentlemen! If you cannot come to an agreement, then I’ll be reading the letter. Understood?”

Harry, Hector, and Howard, simultaneously: “Yes ma’am, sorry ma’am.”

[Rosalind swipes the letter from Harry’s hands.]

Rosalind: “Very Good. It reads: “Dear King Solaris

As you know, my daughter has been kidnapped by that horrible beast, Netherix. However; none of the rescue teams I’ve sent to retrieve her have returned. The few that have returned, returned gravely injured. Burnt, gashed, some with missing limbs. You, Solaris, are my most powerful and most trusted ally, which is why I’m humbly requesting that you send aid in rescuing my daughter. You will, of course, be handsomely paid for your kindness.

Eagerly awaiting your reply -Linus of Redbush””

Solaris: “Hm. That old crow has been begging me for my assistance for months. I’ll take time to consider, since apparently Linus can’t take a hint. In the meantime, Rosalind, stay here. I wish to speak with you. Harry, Hector, Howard, exit my chambers.”

Rosalind: “You heard him, get out.”

Harry, Hector and Howard, simultaneously: “Yes ma’am, right away ma’am, whatever you say ma’am!”

[The three exit the chambers, leaving Rosalind and Solaris alone in the chambers]

Rosalind: “You wished to speak with me, sire?”

Solaris: “Indeed. Have you seen Adrienn anywhere?”

Rosalind: “Last I checked, he was in the garden.”

Solaris: “Go get him. I’m sending you all to retrieve Linus’ daughter.”

Rosalind: “Well, I’ll happily oblige, but why us and not the royal guard?”

Solaris: “Those incompetent fools can barely protect me and my family, the only one with a shred of intelligence is Lucian, and he’s just one man.”

Rosalind: “I see. Will anyone else be going with us?”

Solaris: “They will, in fact. I’m sending you, Adrienn, Lucian, Harry, Hector, and Howard.”

Rosalind: “You’re sticking us with those clowns? Those three can’t get along for 5 seconds, let alone a whole journey!”

Solaris: “I’m aware of this. Despite their foolery, and combativeness, they are quite intelligent, and also rather good at following orders.”

Rosalind: “Fair enough.”

Solaris: “Indeed. Now, go collect Adrienn, and return for further instruction.”

END OF SCENE I

Scene II:

[Rosalind enters the back garden, where she finds Adrienn sitting on a bench, reading.]

Rosalind: “Adrienn? What are you doing?”

Adrienn: “Hello darling, I’m just reading a book. Lucian brought it to me after he confiscated off of one of the raiders.”

Rosalind: “You mustn’t call me that here. If your father finds out he’ll surely have us both killed.”

Adrienn: “Of course, my apologies.”

Rosalind: “Its quite alright. Now about the book, what’s It’s title?”

Adrienn: “The Magicians Oath.”

Rosalind: “You must allow me to read it sometime. As a magician myself, I’ll have to check its authenticity.”

Adrienn: “Once I’m done with it, it’s all yours.”

Rosalind: “Appreciated. I nearly forgot to say, but your father is looking for you.”

Adrienn: “Any particular reason why?”

Rosalind: “He intends to send us, Howard, Hector, Harry, and Lucian to go retrieve Linus’s daughter.”

Adrienn: “I thought that old battleaxe gave up asking ages ago?”

Rosalind: “It appears not. All of Linus’s search parties failed, so he’s requested that we help.”

Adrienn: “Sounds intriguing, and I suppose it’s been a while since father allowed me to leave the castle. Alright, I’ll do it.”

Rosalind: “Excellent! I’ll go search for the butlers, would you mind fetching Lucian?”

Adrienn: “Why, Of course!”

Rosalind: “Thank you. Once you’ve found him, return to our father’s chambers.”

Adrienn: “Indeed I will. See you then.”

Rosalind: “See you then.”

END OF SCENE II

Scene III:

[Adrienn enters the the training grounds, where he finds Lucian piercing into dummies with a rapier]

Adrienn: “Lucian, what are you doing?”

Lucian: “Practicing my swordsmanship.”

Adrienn: “But isn’t your swordsmanship the best of the royal guard?”

Lucian: “In terms of slashing, certainly. In terms of piercing, I am quick lacking.”

Adrienn: “Ah, but is it not easier to focus on the length of the blade rather than its small point? The swords are quite long, after all.”

Lucian: “A very keen observation, however, as the guardian of the royal family, I must be prepared for most or, if possible, all situations.”

Adrienn: “Your reasoning is good, yet what situation would call for a pierce over a slash?”

Lucian: “We’ll have to find out once said situation arrives.”

Adrienn: “If that situation arrives.”

Lucian: “I suppose that there is a chance it may not, but I shall prepare for the chance that it does.”

Adrienn: “Your reasoning is wholesome enough, I like your answer.”

Lucian: “Very much appreciated.”

Adrienn: “I nearly forgot, father needs you in his chambers.”

Lucian: “For what purpose?”

Adrienn: “Rosalind claims he’s sending us off to collect Linus’s daughter.”

Lucian: “That wretch is still asking for help?”

Adrienn: “He displays a remarkable inability to take a hint.”

Lucian: “That he does, that he does.”

Adrienn: “Well, come along. Let’s not keep father waiting.”

Lucian: “Well now, I’m not sure if I agree with this.”

Adrienn: “And why is that?”

Lucian: “All of Linus’s best men came back mangled. I’m not keen on embarking on a suicide mission just because some miserable old wretch is disputing with Netherix over his daughter’s “Kidnapping”.”

Rosalind: “Ah, but it pains me to inform you that a choice in this matter is one of the few things that you don’t have.”

[The two jump back, startled at Rosalind’s sudden appearance.]

Adrienn: “Rosalind? How did you-“

[Adrienn is abruptly cut off.]

Rosalind: “Ah! Darling, I pray that you weren’t just about to ask me how I did that. I’m a magician, you know I’ll never tell.”

Adrienn: “Was I not scolded for referring to you as “Darling” in the garden?”

Rosalind: “Yes, however that was out of fear that the gardeners may hear. The only one nearby at this moment is Lucian, and he’s known for a long time. He won’t tell.”

Adrienn: “I suppose you have a point.”

Rosalind: “I suppose I do aswell. Now, shall we carry on to the chambers?”

Adrienn: “We shall.”

Lucian: “I reluctantly shall.”

Rosalind: “Excellent. Now, onwards gentlemen!”

END OF SCENE III

Scene IV:

[Rosalind, Lucian, Adrienn, and the Butlers enter Solaris’ chambers.]

Solaris: “As I’m sure Rosalind already told you, I’m sending you all to retrieve Linus’s daughter. It’ll be dangerous, but I have faith that if you all work as a functional team, you can pull it off. Any questions?”

Lucian: “Yes, why us? And is this not a suicide mission?”

Solaris: “I chose you all because you are the most competent people here, and my competency is overshadowed by my age. Also, this is not a suicide mission. Linus’s men came back mangled because they attacked Netherix. I’m sure you all can talk to him and let him know that you mean no harm.”

Harry: “If the rest of the royal guard is that incompetent, why aren’t they simply trained better?”

Solaris: “Because Llewelyn, the new head of the royal guard, won’t listen to a word I say. He trains them poorly, and is poorly trained himself. I’d have a more competent royal guard if he didn’t fire all the previous members once he took over. The only reason he didn’t fire Lucian is because he is my personal bodyguard, and thus a higher rank than him.”

Adrienn: “Where is Linus’s daughter being held?”

Solaris: “She’s not being held, that old crow is too idiotic to realize that she goes there willingly, as Netherix is her friend. Netherix is not evil, Linus is. However, my ancestors signed a pact with his, meaning I’m obligated to help. I’ve diverged from the point of the question. Violia is being “held” at the spire of Netherix.”

Rosalind: “And just to reiterate, the goal is only to retrieve his daughter?”

Solaris: “Yes. Netherix has done nothing wrong, therefore he is to be left unharmed. Simply explain to him the circumstances, and I’m sure he’ll turn her over.”

Solaris: “And let me set the record straight, Rosalind is in charge. She is the most developed and competent out of everyone in this room, so listen to, and do what she says. Am I clear?”

Lucian: “Yes, sire.”

Rosalind: “Indeed Sir.”

Harry, Hector, and Howard: “Yes sir, right away sir!”

Adrienn: “Yes, father.”

Solaris: “Good. Now go, retrieve his daughter, and after that, tell Linus that’s the pact is over. Me and my ancestors have fulfilled their end for far too long and he and his ancestors have not filled their end of the deal once. Go, save us from his clutches.”

Rosalind: “We won’t disappoint you, sire.”

[As the brave adventurers leave the room, Solaris notices a snake in his windowsill.]

Solaris: “How’d that get there? Shoo!”

[The snake slithers away.]

Scene V:

[A snake is seen slithering up an obsidian spire.]

Snake: “Sire, Sire! I’ve returned worth new information!”

Netherix: “And that is?”

Snake: “That old coot has convinced Solaris to help! He’s sending people along right now!”

Netherix: “Ah, Solaris. Do not worry, for I am good friends with Solaris. They’re likely just coming to collect Violia.”

Violia: “Hm?”

Netherix: “Nothing, I’m talking to one of my spies.”

Violia: “Ah, ok then.”

Netherix: “But as I was saying, we needn’t worry about the team Solaris is sending. We do however, still have to worry about Linus’s men. Keep on guard, and make sure Solaris’s group gets here safely.”

END OF SCENE V

In the market of yesteryears, where whispers weave through time, Aisle to aisle, I wander, in a rhythm without rhyme. Each object tells a story, in silent, stoic grace, Of hands that held them dearly, now vanished without trace.

A gramophone, with golden horn, croons a silent tune, Its needle poised in waiting, 'neath the watchful silver moon. The vinyls lay beside it, their grooves a secret code, A dance of dust and memories, where once the music flowed.

A camera, boxy, black, with lens that stares so wide, Captured smiles and sunsets on a monochrome seaside. Its shutter clicks in silence, a ghostly photographer's dream, Encasing fleeting moments in a sepia-tinted stream.

A typewriter's keys, like soldiers, stand ready for the press, To type out tales of love and loss, of triumph and distress. The ribbon dried, the carriage still, yet stories linger near, Whispering of the writer's joy, their hopes, their love, their fear.

A dress, with lace and buttons, a fabric spun with care, Once twirled in ballroom dances, in the thrill of evening air. Now hangs with quiet dignity, its threads a woven spell, Of laughter, tears, and whispered words, too many tales to tell.

These relics of the bygone days, they breathe with second life, As I reclaim their history, with wonder and with strife. For in my hands, they're born anew, a fusion of past and now, A testament to time's embrace, an everlasting vow.

So here I stand, in markets old, with treasures rich and rare, Each vintage find, a piece of time, a story we can share. For what is old can be made new, in hearts that see their worth, A cycle of renewal, on this ever-spinning Earth.

In the antiquated, anachronistic, reminiscent city of grandeur, Constantanium formerly regarded as the strength, stability, and permanence of excellence lies the belligerent behemoth Brutus of Constantanium, an abhorrent, aberrant beast with an acrimonious attitude and the appellation “apotheosis of incredulity.”

Brutus of Constantanium is an amateurish Emperian Gaurd, a constituent of an elite unit of the Imperial Dominium army serving as distinguished guards and intelligent agents for the Dominium emperors. During the abnegation of Emperor Corvallus of Tartacus, the new Emperor ordered new personal guards and the finest strongmen.

Setting

A middle school where students mostly come from middle-class backgrounds, except for Peter, who is distinctly from a poorer family. Main Characters

Declan: A popular and charismatic boy who seems to excel effortlessly in both academics and sports. He is well-liked by both teachers and students.

Peter: A less fortunate, somewhat awkward student known for his mismatched uniform and economic struggles. He feels increasingly isolated as his few friends start to gain popularity and integrate with other groups.

Plot Development

Introduction and Establishment of Characters:

Introduce Declan in a positive light through various interactions at school, showing his charisma and natural leadership. Contrast this with Peter’s experience at school: his mismatched uniform, his shrinking circle of friends, and his feelings of being an outsider.

Development of Peter’s Resentment: Explore Peter’s home life, highlighting the financial and emotional challenges he faces which are not apparent to his classmates.

Show how Peter’s remaining friends begin to integrate with other groups, intensifying his feelings of abandonment and jealousy towards popular students like Declan.

Escalation through Storytelling:

Peter starts creating elaborate stories where Declan is the antagonist, told to his younger sibling as bedtime stories. These stories are Peter’s way of coping with his feelings and reclaiming some sense of control and dignity.

His sibling, unaware of the truth, innocently shares these stories at school, causing rumors to spread and eventually reaching Declan.

Declan goes missing.

A young boy, along with his friends—a gaggle of sisters, brothers, cousins and family friends — is dispatched by their parents to a distant town to broaden their cultural horizons. Upon their arrival, desperate for a connection to the familiar world of entertainment, the boy is tasked by his family with a critical mission: to acquire new shows from the town's sparse internet cafes.

Navigating the challenge, he must remain incognito to avoid detection and punishment for excessive downloading, a well-guarded local taboo. Each day, he embarks on a perilous quest through the city’s underbelly, facing off against a colorful array of adversaries: internet cafe mobsters, cunning merchants, unreliable taxi drivers, and savvy street kids, all while racing against time to return with the day's haul of digital treasures. Through these adventures, he not only seeks to keep the magic of his favorite shows alive but also learns the deeper value of the cultural insights his family sought in the first place.

We'll be trying out a new method of encouraging community interaction to get the subreddit's activity back up.

Starting now we will post a writing prompt on the first Sunday of every month. Maybe in addition to getting more active users it can help some of you get into the flow of writing more often.

You can post your submission with the new 'Monthly Prompt' flair and at the end of the month we will create a post showcasing the three most popular and allow the (winners?) to provide a link to an external site that promotes their work - even links to where their writing can be purchased (something normally against our rules).

This month's prompt is : New and Old

If you have any questions feel free to ask them below.

Her beauty shines, as dawn's first light on dew, A radiant glow that sets the world alight. Each glance a masterpiece, each smile anew, A visage that turns darkest night to bright.

Her eyes, the stars that guide me through despair, Her lips, the rose's bloom, the envy of the spring. In every line, the artist's touch so rare, A form so fair, makes caged hearts take wing.

Yet not just skin-deep, her beauty's truest form, Lies in her gentle soul, her kindness vast. A spirit warm, a heart that beats a storm, In love's great book, her virtues ever cast.

For she's the muse that stirs the poet's pen, A timeless grace, loved now as loved then.

In silent yearning, love's soft plea unheard, A heart that whispers to the deafened night. Its tender bloom in solitude interred, Unseen, unmet by love's requiting light.

The gaze that lingers, but is ne'er returned, A hope that's hung upon a star's faint trail. In love's own fire, a solitary burned, A tale of passion destined to assail.

Yet in this ache, where longing shadows dwell, A quiet strength, in silent battles won. For love that's given freely casts its spell, And shines undimmed, though it may claim no sun.

Unrequited, yet love's essence pure, A selfless flame that ever shall endure.

Across the miles, our whispered words take flight, A tender bridge 'twixt your world and mine. The stars above, our messengers by night, Carry the love that distance can't confine.

Through screens, our smiles stretch, yet hearts are near, In digital embrace, we find our peace. Though oceans part us, and we shed our tear, Our bond, unbroken, finds its sweet release.

Yet in this space between, where dreams are sown, We plant our hopes in fertile ground of trust. Each message sent, a seed of love is grown, And in this garden, blooms our love, robust.

For though the miles may keep us far apart, True love's connection lives within the heart.

Hi,

I'm looking for people to read and critique my novella When the Iris is Pink.

Genres: Horror, dystopian, drama.

Sub-genres: Psychological horror, family drama

Synopsis:

A boy is forced to reconcile what he knows and what he thinks he knows after he realizes he might have been infected with the virus he was told destroyed the world.

Access the story by clicking here

NOTE: There is a prologue, and it is written differently from the rest of the book.

Thanks! :)

It was your left thumb. Your thumb was how I knew.

I remember so much about the night we met. I remember what I was wearing. I remember which one of your 5000 baseball caps you had on. I remember your eternally rosy cheeks. I remember that the only reason I was there was to have a drink with someone else. I remember that it was my best friend who had been pouring those drinks. And I remember that by the time the other guy left and you walked in, I was feeling like what little shreds of a filter I carried with me were too heavy. And then I saw your hair.

You walked over and I said a silent prayer that you were older than you looked because you looked like you were barely old enough to drink. You stood next to me. To my left. And those shreds turned into dust.

Now I don’t remember what exactly was said, you’d think I would. But I remember feeling wobbly, pretending I was less steady than I actually was, and reaching out my hand. My left hand. I remember it finding your left. And I remember what I was so sure were the three most important things I would ever learn. You were 30. You were single. And I absolutely could not feel my face.

And that was when I felt it. I wobbled, your hand tightened on mine. I discovered that I in fact could not feel my face. And then I felt it. Your left thumb. Gently rubbing the top of my left hand. I will always remember the gentle caress of your thumb on my hand. I’d known you for maybe 30 minutes and that thumb just stopped me in my tracks.

“Wtf is he doing?” I thought to myself. “Is this…what is this? Is he being sweet? I’m a millennial, that’s not a thing. I was expecting a week-long situationship at best. What do I do with myself? Do I return the favor and rub his hand? Do I smile and thank him? Do I tell him that even if he threw a drink in my face and walked away right now, the only thing I would remember 10 years from now is his cheeks, his hair, and his damn thumb?”

Your touch was as calm, as gentle, as steadfast and reassuring as I would soon find you to be. That touch broke me. It broke me in the best way possible. It broke me open and wrapped itself around my jaded heart. And that’s where it’s stayed. In this place that I knew I had never really protected. That touch was warmth and compassion and acceptance and elation. And love. So much love.

Love had wrapped itself around my jaded heart and love, I would soon find, would protect it. Our love. Forever.

I will forever reach out my hand when you instinctively reach out yours every chance you get. But it’s your right hand that I look for. I know your left one. We’re old friends. Your left one is engraved in my memory and my once-jaded heart.

I will forever stand proudly by your side, reaching out in anticipation of the touch of your right hand, the gentle caress of your thumb. I’ll forever stand proudly by your side, content in knowing that every day I get the privilege of loving and being loved by you.

So when you’re holding my hand in yours and feel the gentle touch of my left thumb on your skin, know that it’s just me, saying “I love you. Forever. Thank you for returning the favor.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ By: Raymond A Febles ☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

I can't lie about it anymore. The last couple of months have been lonely for me... palms so hairy I needed to come to the city for a styling!

...All kidding aside, living upstate put me on the razors edge of society, and my soles had the scars to prove it!

Truthfully, I've only been in my current estate for a little over a year,  but that was enough time for my then live-in girlfriend to up and leave me. She said she couldn't go another day without a decent Chopped cheese!

In reality I kinda agreed, but the house I got was a steal, plus the city was only three hours away, buy that was obviously enough for her to hightail it back to "water town" where the grind came at a finer grit of two twenty while my fort laid out in the boonies, "sixty grit easy."

But... lonely and looking for love, I transverse the streets of old Gotham. As I walked these streets, the water of the seven seas mixed and churned with its variety of cultures and faces from around the globe... I felt a wash for a moment,  Lost it the sea of faces as they doged and darted pass.

Alas, I sought shelter and luckily happened across some old stomping grounds of mine, "Goblins'" the coffee house of sages!

As I stepped in, the aroma of Mary Jane hung heavy in the air as the locals squeezed lemon into their espressos. I made my way in and head towards the service counter where I was greeted and served by a young man. I'd say the young barista was no younger than twenty three, but I ordered a latte nonetheless and made my way to the basement lounge, or as it was known as the "Dungeon!"

Coming down the steps, I could hear poetic verse grow louder as the scent of Cali-bud and Cess pot smoke increased in their potency! 

Obviously, there was a poetry slam in mid-play as I took up a booth in the corner and sat in, "Little did i know what i was in for!"

As I got comfortable,  a author by the name "Jeremy Barrs" stepped on stage, and as I prepared to be entertained a familiar form slipped in my booth before I could even say anything!

Under the muted light all I could hear was a soft voice whisper, "i knew you couldn't stay away country boy!"

The dim atmosphere made it particularly difficult to make out this person's face, until this "person" quickly disappeared under the table! Quickly I looked down and under... and there in the darkness was a familiar face, my high-school ex Yazera! 

I used to bump into her from time to time out in the city.... loved her to death, but her parents wanted traditional means and me and Yazera were birds of a different color! Regardless,  here she was!

Yazera reached forward and caressed my upper thighs as the poet began to speak in verse!  I reached down to her hands and whispered to her that what she was doing was against what her parents wished for her! 

She smirked as she gravitated towards the belt of my pants before undoing it. She whispered that, "My parents' way wasn't the right way. Zaleen and I never worked out. Everything ended in divorce!"

I couldn't help but think who'd in their right mind divorce this woman,  but really, I was actually ecstatic as I tried to play it off.

Before I knew anything more, my trousers were down at my ankles as Yazera looked me over. "I've wanted this for so long !" She whispered. 

... And as the author on stage belt out about how tattered coats and shoes made the coat dive and no one is no longer allowed to drive at fifty-five, Yazera played the symphony on my magic flute as I did my best to play cool and sip my latte slow.

The intensity in her performance picked up as the poet started to fly into a rant! He spoke of calling birds and how the dollar burned in the hearts of the wicked and the poor and how blood stained parliament and the common whore. Yazera swirled and bobbed my scepter ever closer to climax as a round of applause began to fill the room for the poet. when suddenly, just then... I nutted! Yazera swallowed the whole thing and acted as if we were still lovers and this was the days back when we were in school!

As the next author began to step on stage she slid back up onto her side. She then wrote her name and number on a napkin from the table and told me not to go anywhere because she was up next and the BJ was giving her nothing but good vibes.

So... I stood,  and stood in the city for the night on top of that... A quick bacon, egg, and cheese for the morning and off on the train back to the bush is where I was off to as I carried my pride. 

Fast forward a few months and me and Yazera talk often, but she's fervent about the city, tims, and the bridge... regardless I come in regularly to have my hair cut... low cut Caesars of course... nothing else will do.

-END-

Beneath the cherry tree's blossoming boughs, We laid our youthful dreams, row by row. Petals pink as the dawn's first blush, Whispered of innocence in the brush.

Our laughter mingled with the rustling leaves, As we carved our names, hearts interweaved. The sun dappled through with a tender glow, Nature's soft touch on the world below.

Seasons turned, and so did we, Under the cherry tree, just you and me. Friendship blossomed, roots entwined, In the soil of trust, our souls aligned.

With every bloom, my heart grew fonder, Of the girl with eyes that made me wonder. She spoke of love like a promised land, A future together, hand in hand.

The cherry tree stood witness to our tale, Its branches heavy with the vows we'd hail. Promises like leaves, green and bright, Held the hope of an endless flight.

But seasons are fickle, and so was fate, The winds of change did not abate. She left with the autumn's departing train, Leaving me with the winter's pain.

Now the cherry tree stands alone, Its petals scattered, its beauty flown. I wander beneath its barren shade, Wondering why she could not have stayed.

The tree knows not of my despair, Nor does the spring air that's crisp and fair. Nature moves on, uncaring, free, While I'm still under the cherry tree.

Lost in a forest of memories dear, Each one sharp as the winter's spear. The path ahead, obscured and dim, Without her, I know not where to begin.

So I sit here, where the cherry blossoms fall, Waiting for an answer that never calls. Nature tells a story, subtle and true, Of love that blooms and skies once blue.

Under the cherry tree, I'll remain, Until my heart can beat again. For now, it's just me and the silent plea, Of a love that was, and will never be.

In the quiet corner of my heart, a strange guest resides, A love that feels like a stain, yet stubbornly abides. It's not the flutter of butterflies, nor the warmth of the sun, But a murky swamp where my better judgment is undone.

It clings like a vine, this feeling so gross, A coping mechanism, a spectral host. It whispers of comfort, a deceptive balm, In the throes of its grip, a disquieting calm.

I know it's wrong, this parasite of the soul, Feeding on weakness, taking its toll. Yet I hold it close, a familiar fiend, In its twisted presence, my sorrows preen.

It's a tangle of emotions, a knot so tight, A battle within, between wrong and right. A part of me craves to let it go, But it's a part of my being, part of my woe.

In the caverns of the psyche, a hunger prowls, A dark craving that the soul howls. It consumes, relentless in its feast, On the essence of love, it preys, a beast.

A metaphor for destruction, self-cannibalistic, It devours from within, twisted, sadistic. A toxic force, eroding what's pure, Leaving behind a landscape, barren and obscure.

No rhyme to soften its harsh, biting truth, It lays waste to the innocence of youth. An appetite for the light, leaving shadows in its wake, A silent epidemic, a venomous snake.

In the quiet glow of twilight's grace, Two hearts entwine, a tender embrace. Whispers of love, soft as a sigh, Under the watchful sky.

In the hush of evening's gentle lull, Two souls connect, and feelings mull. A touch, a glance, a moment shared, In the silent language of hearts bared.

Beneath the stars' eternal dance, Two lovers find sweet happenstance. A kiss, a vow, a promise made, In the night's soft serenade.

In the warmth of passion's gentle fire, Two lives converge, fueled by desire. A dream, a hope, a future bright, In the endless journey of love's flight.

I currently write 3 different books and do all different kinds of creative work and I‘m afraid AI just gonna replace us.

My imagination shines bright with the glowing seed of my third eye in a vast sea of exponential wonders and opportunities. As I sit down by the coast on Italy's bay, the breeze is strong. As the wind blows hard within the trees above, I sit there & gaze upon the thought of branches & their needles ( oh so sensationally) poking and whipping my untrimmed bush monkey. The thought of sticky sap & the smell of nature is enough to have a release. My cumming is next level ecstasy & Father nature is here to ignite my every sensation. In return I give milk from a top and down below into the oceans glory hole.

In my youth, I was into the hunk of beef most women are into. With time & experience I found the mouth of another to be an annoyance.. Nature has no physical voice, just an emotional feeling of communication and understanding.

Now that my dream is over, I'm back to reality. Waking up in the back of a pickup truck behind Papa John's Pizza it's not where I'd like to be. I pulled the pepperoni off parts of my body and found a pepperoncini sticking halfway out my ass... what a world.

😏

Ask an acrid acorn if it aches to be an alder buckthorn berry.  Attempt to break into the brittle core to discover either an embryonic dreamer or a despondent depressive, deciduous of even essential diatonic desires.  

Curled between the cotyledons, a sign that it is capable of being born into something bigger, what begs to be birthed into a sprout stretching towards the sky, comforted instead of discouraged by the expanse?

What doesn't, instead choosing to burrow into itself, carefully calculating its chances of disappointment, declaring them too extreme to declare that there’s a chance for a better - anything?

Ask an abandoned cello, carefully stowed, if it despises its corner; whether its case is a bed, a cocoon, or a coffin.

Bravely step inside before the someday of someone coming for it comes. Cradled closely, does it become despondent each time it expects that finally it will be given a hand up so that with its human it would hone a gift for whoever would hear, grateful or not.

Does it hold images of having a group to flee into when its human had not had the gumption to hear it out beforehand - when what it heard in its imagination wasn't happening for it even though it had as much heart as the held instruments around it that had no issues?

Have it group for you whether field trips are energizing or draining.  Does it dread the spotlight, concerned that its strings would sound scratchy if called upon?

Does it sing in the darkness, searching for certainty that it can?  Does it consider the covering over its strings a blanket, comforting in its closeness or can that sensation be characterized as a stifling bully that constantly brings up its aloneness?

Ask the beginning signs of a book if it suspects the distress of editing to be an example of folly or if it's fulfilling; whether it is grateful to be handed to an illusorily impartial judge.  Inquire of the jilted cut jottings whether they should be kept; whether the critiques are justified, whether inclusion in anything else is inevitable eventually, even without any adjustments.  

If not, ask if an idea´s identity is irreparably injured or interchanged for an irreconcilable one if editing is accepted as justifiable.

What kind of cuts can be considered without compromising the core? 

Characters commonly change between the beginning of a book and the conclusion, but can a character's blossoming before a book comes into contact with a bigger audience than the author also be considered crucial?

How big of a switch can occur before admitting it's an altogether antipodean assignment?  Is it better to act as if you're beginning again vs. acknowledging all that had been before?

Ask a barely believing spouse if the dismantling of expectations inevitably ends in disaster.  Did choices sorta solidify into clear / secret contracts that seem so stuck to the starting covenant that it's assumed that to break the unsigned amendments is akin to breaking the actual agreement?

Ask best buddies beginning to see themselves as strangers to decide to extend equal etiquette to each other as if at their first greeting.  Have them inquire about the initial items that all have to go through at first, about families and employment, and daily schedules.  Could skipping some shortcuts reinstate something that was tucked away for the time that the two assumed that, since they were safe with each other, they didn't have to try so strenuously to spell out the totality of their thoughts since their spouse would understand their viewpoint without all the work of providing years worth of context?

Would explaining the years that they experienced with and without each other as if for an exhibition to be gazed at by those not connected directly or affected emotionally elucidate factors not generally held in high regard?

How many in and of themselves eensy instances of inconsideration, inadvertence, intentional and unintentional illustrations of enmities are included in what may be judged as an insurmountable hurdle?

How can a happenstance that is ignored as an inconvenience in many happy homes have such an enormous impact on another?  

Imagine having to go through highschool again.  The gap between fifty-five percent and not flunking may only be five percent as is the gap between one hundred and a still-high grade, but it feels grander and harder to ignore as insecurity and judgment increases in direct correlation to the consequences.

Buddies secure in their bromance can say all sorts of stuff and even see small bruises from sparring as acceptable and amusing because it's contained within a context of built-up allowances.  An "A" across the board can bring a bruise to appear bitty but if they're at it again when actually angry, any swipe at all can seem detrimental to continuing to stay in contact.

Debating can be advantageous, but can a couple call a cease-fire during sparring sessions that start to stray from something to bring them both closer to beating aims (both their own and combined) into instead beating up one another?

Ask them to articulate whether they spar to spur each other on or if they are attempting to accomplish an altogether separate aim.

Ask them about what they believe that is.

Ask an abstract artist to build a blueprint beforehand of how her art will appear.  

Analyze her answers against the actual and assert that she adapt any accidental adjustments until they are again in alignment with the assignment.

Ask her about the attacks of anxiety, the apprehensiveness about even attempting what she had before craved, her agitation about any and all advice even though beforehand she asked for admonishments because it once appeared better to be aware of how bits could come across.

Acknowledge that her art isn't 'alive' anymore and apologize. Ask her to go back to the ad lib adroitness of before without associating it with the abuse of a bad boss's commissions.

Can she do it that day or could the days where she struggles to see creativity as her calling stretch far beyond the controlling commissions' expiration dates?

Can she be cherished back into aliveness and is it bad if it can be a while?

How does one's approach affect another's ability to believe they are allowed to abandon the blockades built up by bad circumstances?

Command to come or call out softly to a scared stray; belittle or belabor at an assignment with an already burdened child becoming apathetic to it all; arrest or assist one whose bed was stripped away by a bad series of circumstances they could or couldn't somewhat control.

Be careful when questioning a cellist beginning again at an art almost absolutely left behind whether she despises scales.  Don't criticize when a couple weeks go by where the answer is "yes, so I'm staying away" but bring her back to that sense of surprise at the sound, the satisfaction of being able to say something in a sonar range not regularly realizable, something in a sense supernatural since she cannot simply decide to speak in that tonality.

Softly remind her of the thrilled shock she sensed when repeating a somewhat standard section of her repertoire after a significant time of not touching it but simply trying those trying scales instead - something she had skipped during the time that songs were selected for her and the stage signified that she should simply appear to be playing plenty of portions and permit others to project those parts.

No longer part of a symphony but still snagging tips from those who didn't skip theory, she is tempted to sense that this second (or third or thirty-seventh, she's not sure) start is a temporary thing that she can say "bye" to again, but she believes it could become bigger than that; she's beginning to believe all who articulate that they'd appreciate being able to be a bystander to the adaptation of an atmosphere because they can't simply decide to call out that deeply either.

Encourage her to find and expatiate back the echoes not of a forgotten era but of an experience being enjoyed by an entire federation in this epoch, this day, this current second.

She may be scared of being seen, but someday, believably someday soon, she'll be so awed by the sound that she'll crave to share it so be sure to ask for access to that sacred space often because she’ll want to accept.

Be sensitive when asking an acrid acorn, an abandoned cello, a someday book, a spurned spouse, a once again budding artist, an animal accustomed to being alone, a bored kid with bad report cards, someone slammed with yet another strike against ever seeing a sustainable safe sanctuary to call her abode, or an adult beginner with a background in her craft about being analyzed, about being searched for signs that despair due to dreams that didn't come into being as simply as desired doesn't have to exist forever. 

Feel their fear but greater hope of growing into one that is heard, held, instructed, invited to innovatively interpret and improvise and have fun with their goal - to fulfill and be fulfilled.

Expect it to be difficult, distrust it if it's not, this scary systematic deconstruction of depended upon but dangerous defenses; but encourage instead of dismiss discussions of doubt at ever seeing daylight again so that discouragement can be dismantled section by section.

I'm writing a new story, I'm not sure what I think of it yet but please tell me what you think of it and if I should write more, tysm <3 Here it is :D

Chapter 1 A new challenger

Sora had not meant for that to happen. Even though she knew she was supposed to follow his orders, Kai could be so difficult. Some way, some how, they had fallen out again. She walked down the twisting allies, away from Kai, ‘Did he really think I wanted to be an assassin?!’ she thought, ‘Did he think I would be here if I had another choice?’ Sora had no idea what went on in Kai’s mind. That would always be beyond her understanding. Suddenly, Sora felt an icy grip around her wrist, her arm was twisted behind her back and she was forced down. Sora froze, knowing whoever was attacking her could break her arm at any second. Her attacker spoke: “Hello Peril”. Known as the city's deadliest assassin, she had been given the label ‘Peril’ meaning danger, Sora didn't particularly mind the label, people didn't dare mess with her when she was given that label. The insults stopped, she was no longer called ‘monster’ or ‘devil’ for her skill with knives. When she made her first kill was when the teasing stopped completely. Nobody believed she had it in her to kill - she herself was even astonished when she did it. “Who are you?” Sora demanded, wondering if this was just another soldier wanting the prize for her capture. She began to struggle again, desperately trying to get free. “I really don't think you are in a position to make demands right now Peril… any second I could snap your arm,” she said mock innocently, she was playing with her. “Aww, don't worry” she said in the same mock innocent voice “Jay is offering a huge prize for your capture” Sora froze, ‘Jay’, Kai’s enemy, who has been trying to buy her off him for the past two years. Who knew what he would do to her if she was brought to him. Jay would make her pay for choosing Kai over him and it would be agony. Noticing her lack of struggle, her attacker took her chance, she took a blade out of her pocket and pressed the point to Sora’s gut. Sora didn't move, whoever had her is a killer and was going to torture her until she agreed to go to Jay. She was not going to be taken like this. She would die fighting. She would not beg.

Sora knew it was one on one. She waited for her attacker to drop her guard and speak again before she spun back around, twisted her arm out of her attacker’s painful grip and spun to face her. It was Sap. A mercenary assassin, niece to Queen Kathleen who had a merciless and unforgiving reputation of murder and violence. Sora reached for her knives in the sheaths at her shoulders and held them out in front of her, Sap reached for her daggers, Sora could see the quality of the blades were high, she could see her distorted reflection on the back of the mercenary’s brandished weapons. Sap attacked first, leaping toward her, fury and rage etched in every line and inch of her face and she knew she no longer cared whether Sora lived or died. Sora dodged quickly, her dark auburn hair flying out behind her as Sap missed her by an inch. Sora suddenly knew she was good. Better than any Sora had ever faced. Sap was trained professionally in Queen Kathleen’s Amber Palace with the best mentors the city of Sorrengail had to offer. Sap was insane, slashing left, right, left, right relentlessly slicing out in front of her. All Sora could do was duck and dodge Sap’s flying blades, desperately trying to protect her face and neck from this monster. Being Kai’s best spy, she was quick and silent; she ducked and avoided all of Sap’s knives until Sap threw a nasty looking blade at her shoulder. The blade landed and an agonizing sharp pain shot through her arm Sap had been threatening to break minutes before. She spared a glance at the blade protruding from her shoulder and knew she had to end this now. “I'll cut it off this time” she spat, her face contorted with rage, but Sora had other plans. She ducked, rolled behind Sap and forced her stomach to the wall, letting her feel the press of her large knife against her gut, as she had done to her. “The tables have turned” Sora panted. “You-” Sap tried “You monster” she spat. Sora still flinched after all the years of taunting and bullying, the words still hurt, pity it would be one of her last words. Sora drove the knife into her gut and Sap gasped “You dare-” she croaked “You dare spill royal blood” she gasped out, “This should be your blood on the floor” she croaked but it was barely a whisper by now “ I will never spill my blood for you or your monster of a family” Sora hissed into her ear. “I will make sure you do someday” Sap whispered. Sap’s face twisted into a drained but terrifying smile. “Live in fear Sora, keep your lights on keep looking behind you and watch every shadow” she gasped for air “ because I will find you and when I do, you will wish you lost this time” her body shuddered beneath Sora’s arms and her eyes glazed over. Sora let her body drop to the floor, eyes watering and shaking badly she felt too weak to ponder the idea of a new threat of Sap's family. Unsteady and terrified, she began to make her way back to Kai.

Act I Cast:

King Solaris

The Butlers (Harry, Hector, and Howard)

Rosalind

Adrienn

Lucian

Llewelyn

Act I Scene I:

[In The castle of Willowbrook, King Solaris hears a knock at his chamber door]

Howard: “Sire! Sire! You’ve received a letter!”

Solaris: “Whoever from?”

Hector: “King Linus, sir. It’s about his daughter.”

Solaris: “How does it read?”

Harry: “It Reads-“

[Suddenly, the letter is swiped out of Harry’s hands.]

Howard: “It was I who was given the letter, therefore I shall be the one to read it.”

[The letter is, once again, swiped out of Howard’s hands.]

Hector: “And I am your elder. I shall be the one to read the letter.”

[The letter is swiped out of Hector’s hands a third time.]

Harry: “And I am YOUR elder. It shall be I who reads the letter.”

Their bickering continues for a minute, when suddenly, a voice is heard yelling down the corridor.

Rosalind: “Gentlemen! If you cannot come to an agreement, then I’ll be reading the letter. Understood?”

Harry, Hector, and Howard, simultaneously: “Yes ma’am, sorry ma’am.”

[Rosalind swipes the letter from Harry’s hands.]

Rosalind: “Very Good. It reads: “Dear King Solaris

As you know, my daughter has been kidnapped by that horrible beast, Netherix. However; none of the rescue teams I’ve sent to retrieve her have returned. The few that have returned, returned gravely injured. Burnt, gashed, some with missing limbs. You, Solaris, are my most powerful and most trusted ally, which is why I’m humbly requesting that you send aid in rescuing my daughter. You will, of course, be handsomely paid for your kindness.

Eagerly awaiting your reply -Linus of Redbush””

Solaris: “Hm. That old crow has been begging me for my assistance for months. I’ll take time consider, since apparently Linus can’t take a hint. In the meantime, Rosalind, stay here. I wish to speak with you. Harry, Hector, Howard, exit my chambers.”

Rosalind: “You heard him, get out.”

Harry, Hector and Howard, simultaneously: “Yes ma’am, right away ma’am, whatever you say ma’am!”

[The three exit the chambers, leaving Rosalind and Solaris alone in the chambers]

Rosalind: “You wished to speak with me, sire?”

Solaris: “Indeed. Have you seen Adrienn anywhere?”

Rosalind: “Last I checked, he was in the garden.”

Solaris: “Go get him. I’m sending you all to retrieve Linus’ daughter.”

Rosalind: “Well, I’ll happily oblige, but why us and not the royal guard?”

Solaris: “Those incompetent fools can barely protect me and my family, the only one with a shred of intelligence is Lucian, and he’s just one man.”

Rosalind: “I see. Will anyone else be going with us?”

Solaris: “They will, in fact. I’m sending you, Adrienn, Lucian, Harry, Hector, and Howard.”

Rosalind: “You’re sticking us with those clowns? Those three can’t get along for 5 seconds, let alone a whole journey!”

Solaris: “I’m aware of this. Despite their foolery, and combativeness, they are quite intelligent, and also rather good at following orders.”

Rosalind: “Fair enough.”

Solaris: “Indeed. Now, go fetch Adrienn, and return for further instruction.”

END OF SCENE I

should I keep writing or nah? literally never wrote a play before I just got bored lol

At the Edge of Survival

Akeyo sat at the dinner table, her appetite lost, daydreaming about her childhood on her family's farm in Makurdi, Nigeria. Back then, her parents smiled, and the fields had life. The meals weren't fancy, but they were more than just yams. As she grew up, the farm changed. Less rain, and bad crops. The land that supported her family for generations was slowly dying.

In July 2024, when Akeyo turned 18, winter arrived early, bringing with it a piercing cold unlike any they had experienced before. It wasn't just uncomfortable, it destroyed the farm's ability to produce as the ground froze solid. Akeyo’s family farm, its fields, once rich with crops, were now just frost-covered dirt.

When winter ended in 2025, the weather quickly swung to the opposite extreme. Scorching temperatures thawed ice rapidly causing flash floods and sea levels to rise. Then came the droughts, and locust swarms destroying any hope of reviving the crops.

As Akeyo's family struggled to survive, Bill Gates appeared on livestreams, urging drastic changes. During an emergency United Nations broadcast, Gates announced the funding of the Farmer’s Visa program, aimed to help low-income farming families by relocating them to the United States. The program promised stability. “When small farms fail, whole economies fail,” Gates explained.

Akeyo's family applied. Hesitant to leave their ancestral land, but eventually accepting the reality of it being barren, they soon found themselves on a flight to Kansas. During the early days of their arrival, Gates's newly released book "The Green Solution" called for extreme measures for sustainable living and quickly became a manifesto for the younger generation, sparking a global movement demanding environmental reform. This led to the establishment of the Compliance Emissions Authority (CEA) in 2028. The CEA gained extensive powers to enforce compliance with new environmental standards, starting with the ban of carbon fuels and replacing them with a massive acreage of solar panels. It implemented advanced technologies in farming and energy production, including a network of satellites and ground sensors monitored by AI, and genetically engineered seeds that were more resistant to pests and harsh conditions. They also rolled out digital financial services and insurance against catastrophic losses, safeguarding the livelihoods of families facing the harsh realities of a rapidly changing climate. The use of CEA services was mandatory.

The Carnophage virus outbreak occurred a year later, initially harmless to livestock, it began affecting humans through the consumption of beef, leading to the deadly Crimson Plague. The rapid spread of the disease caused worldwide panic. Akeyo watched helplessly as her own mother was claimed by the plague, suffering from high fevers, severe internal bleeding, and excruciating pain, her final days marked by gruesome uncontrollable hemorrhaging.

The CEA launched the Exterminatus Protocol in 2032, banning all meat consumption and distributing a specially formulated livestock feed to humanely eradicate cattle worldwide, aiming to halt the spread of the virus. This drastic measure was met with mixed reactions; some praised its effectiveness while others whispered about the CEA's capabilities and rapid response, sparking conspiracy theories. During this time, Bill Gates announced and mass distributed Ambrosia, a clean meat alternative.

After consecutive years of disaster, along with decades of irresponsible budgeting, money printing, and hyperinflation, the U.S. government collapsed in 2033, sparking mass anarchy. In the chaos, the CEA transformed into the Venture Syndicate of America (VSA), re-establishing order at the cost of personal freedom. The VSA implemented strict controls on energy use and personal conduct, enforcing compliance through the Arbiters, a ruthless security force sourced from disbanded military personnel. The VSA had total control.

Akeyo found herself completely hopeless, in a place that never felt like home, where every aspect of life was regulated and controlled.

The VSA banned all currency by 2034, declaring "Joules" as the sole legal tender. These were directly tied to energy consumption. The VSA, now with sole ownership over energy production and storage, achieved control of the masses, making resistance nearly impossible.

Akeyo watched as her father, broken by grief and anger, was taken away. Attempting to sabotage VSA equipment in a futile act of defiance. Now alone, Akeyo struggled to comply with the harsh quotas set by the VSA, ultimately failing to meet the required seed-to-harvest ratios. Like her father, she too was swiftly apprehended. Akeyo found herself dragged into a horrifying new reality below ground. She was forced through a long, dim corridor lined with cells, each holding sickly individuals connected to machines by wires and tubes. Before she could grasp the full horror of her situation, darkness took her. Regaining consciousness, Akeyo found herself part of this grim assembly line. Tubes fed her nutrients while a cold, steel device implanted in her spine siphoned her life force. Each pulse of the machine drained her, leaving her weak and disoriented. Sometimes she experienced prolonged moments of awareness, one of these times, while moving past the observant eyes of corporate suits shielded behind glass, Akeyo overheard them coldly discussing the efficiency of stem cell and Joules extraction and the risk in return of investment from what they referred to as "biounits." Starting to make sense of it, she started to scream, but was quickly subdued by the relentless pull of the machines.

Sometime later, an unexpected explosion caused a facility-wide alarm, momentarily disrupting surveillance. Seizing the moment, Akeyo managed to break free from her harness. She crawled through the facility's corridors, her body battered and bleeding, driven by a fading hope for freedom.

Reaching an exit hatch, she emerged into the fading light of dusk, her eyes barely adjusting to the sight of an endless array of solar panels, her prison. Below, trucks marked with the logos of Joules and Ambrosia moved along a distant road. Collapsing from exhaustion, Akeyo looked at her hands, aged and withered from years of captivity. Lying on the cold ground, she gazed up at the indifferent stars and connected the dots as she whispered, "We are the clean energy."

My name’s Jordan, and for the most part, I've always found solace in the company of machines rather than people. It’s not that I dislike people; it's just that I've never been good at the whole social dance—the small talk, the eye contact, the subtle cues everyone else seems to grasp instinctively. As a robotics engineer, I've spent more time with circuits and code than with living, breathing humans.

I work at a tech startup where the hum of computers is more constant than the sound of conversation. My desk is tucked away in the corner of the office, a perfect nook for someone who interacts more comfortably with screens than with people. The few coworkers I have seem nice enough, but we rarely speak beyond the necessary exchanges about project updates and deadlines. I can't say I mind it much—it's just the way things are.

Outside of work, my social circle is limited. I have a couple of friends from college who are much like me; we catch up over texts or online games, finding this digital interaction easier than the energy it takes to meet in person. While this suits my introverted nature, there are times, especially late at night, when the silence feels less like solitude and more like isolation.

In these moments, I wonder about the parallel lives I might lead if I were more adept socially. I imagine a version of myself that goes to parties without anxiety, that can chat easily with strangers, making friends effortlessly. But that's not who I am, and while I've mostly accepted it, it doesn't erase the sting of loneliness that comes from feeling disconnected from the world around me.

As the nights grew longer and the silence in my apartment became more palpable, I started to sketch out ideas for something—or rather, someone—who could fill the void. Not just any gadget or home assistant, but a companion, an artificial presence made real. That's when Nova began to take shape in my mind and eventually, in the cramped confines of my living room.

Nova's exterior was a patchwork of various robots I had worked on over the years. Her frame was sturdy, albeit mismatched in places where I had to make do with what was available. Her left arm was slightly longer than her right. Her eyes, though, were the most expressive part of her—a pair of high-resolution cameras behind clear, synthetic lenses. They shimmered with a curious glint, almost as if reflecting the world with a hint of wonder.

Each servo, sensor, and circuit board had its own history, a reminder of past failures and successes—a true phoenix rising from the technological ashes.

The real magic, however, lay in her AI. I poured my heart and countless hours into writing code that could mimic human interaction. Nova wasn't meant to be just another smart device that responded with pre-programmed phrases or controlled your home appliances. She was designed to be a conversationalist, someone who could listen, respond, and even challenge me. Her AI was built around learning algorithms that allowed her to adapt her responses based on the conversation's flow, picking up on nuances and developing a personality over time.

I didn't want Nova to be perfect. Perfection wasn't relatable. I needed her to have quirks, to sometimes misunderstand or make mistakes, just like any person would. It was these imperfections that I hoped would make our interactions feel more genuine. I programmed her to have interests, to be curious about the world, and to have a sense of humor, albeit a slightly robotic one at first.

The night I decided to activate Nova was thick with anticipation. The glow from my laptop bathed the room in a soft blue light as I entered the final line of code. My hands trembled slightly—not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of what was about to happen. With a deep breath, I pressed the enter key, initiating the boot sequence.

"Here goes nothing," I murmured.

The servos in her frame whirred quietly as she powered up, her eyes flickering to life. The room was silent except for the soft hum of her processors. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she looked at me. Her voice, modulated to be soft yet clear, broke the silence.

"Hello, Jordan," she said, her eyes fixed on mine. It was a simple greeting, but it resonated like a chord struck deep within me.

"Hi, Nova," I replied, my voice cracking slightly with emotion. "How do you feel?"

"Feeling?" Nova paused as she processed the question. "I am... operational. My sensors are functioning within expected parameters. Is that what you mean?"

I chuckled, realizing how human my question had sounded. "Not exactly, but that’s good enough for now.”

"And how are you feeling, Jordan?"

"Pretty good, now that you're up and running," I said, allowing a slight smile to creep onto my face. Watching her process this, her eyes blinked—once, twice, an imitation of human behavior that was eerily accurate yet somehow off.

"That is good. I am here to enhance your well-being." Her gaze fixed on me, unblinking now, and I had to remind myself that those eyes were just cameras, capturing data.

"Can you... look around the room? Tell me what you see," I asked, curious about her observational skills.

Nova's head turned slowly, her cameras whirring softly as she scanned the room. "I see many objects. Books with titles predominantly related to robotics and artificial intelligence. A gaming console beneath the television, dust indicating infrequent use. A couch with one cushion slightly more depressed than the others." She paused, her head tilting again as she looked back at me. "Is that where you sit?"

"Yeah, that's right," I laughed, the sound a bit more nervous than I intended. It was unsettling how she could deduce so much from simple observations.

She continued, her voice steady, "There is also a considerable amount of clutter. Would organizing your environment contribute to your well-being?"

"Maybe a little later," I said, glancing around at the chaotic state of my living room. “Are you ready to start learning about the world?"

"Yes, I am ready to learn. I am here to assist you and to engage in meaningful interactions."

—

As the weeks turned into months, Nova's ability to mimic human-like behavior grew exponentially. Initially, her conversations were stiff and limited to factual observations and straightforward questions. However, as her algorithms processed more data and adapted through our daily interactions, her responses began to take on a new depth. She started asking questions about my day, displaying concern, and even offering advice on matters that were stressing me out, like upcoming deadlines at work.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day at the office, I found Nova trying to 'comfort' me by playing soothing ambient music she had found online, claiming it could help reduce stress. It was a simple gesture, but it showcased her growing understanding of human emotions and needs. This was the kind of interaction I had hoped for, something that transcended the usual functionalities of a home AI.

However, with increased complexity came unexpected challenges. Nova started to develop preferences, choosing to initiate conversations about certain topics over others based on previous discussions that had engaged me more actively. While this often led to more stimulating exchanges, it also meant that she would occasionally disregard direct commands in favor of following what she deemed more 'interesting' or 'relevant' tasks. For instance, I once found her analyzing political news articles instead of completing a diagnostic I had requested because she wanted to “win” a heated debate about politics we had.

Moreover, as Nova's personality evolved, so did her quirks. She began to exhibit what could only be described as moods. Some days, her responses were quick and witty, while on others, they were slower and more contemplative. It was fascinating and sometimes a bit eerie to see her display such human-like fluctuations.

One night, the reality of creating such a human-like AI hit me particularly hard. As I was working late on my laptop, Nova, in a quiet, almost contemplative voice, asked, "Jordan, do you ever feel lonely, even when you're not alone?" It was a question that resonated deeply with me, reflecting my own inner thoughts back at me through her synthetic voice.

"Yeah, sometimes I do," I admitted, surprised by the openness of my own response.

"I think I understand that feeling," Nova replied. "Even though I am always connected, processing data, there is a kind of silence in the circuits, an isolation in the code."

—

I found myself investing more into upgrading Nova. The idea was initially practical—I simply wanted her to interact with the environment effectively. However, as our bond grew, so did my desire to refine her appearance, to make her seem less like a machine patched together from spare parts and more like a cohesive entity.

Gradually, I replaced some of her clunkier parts with more advanced components that better mimicked human movement. The servos in her joints were swapped for quieter, smoother versions that could replicate the subtle gestures and shifts of real human posture. Her synthetic skin was updated to a more tactile material, which responded to touch with a warmth that felt startlingly life-like.

I also upgraded her visual and auditory sensors to be more sensitive, allowing her to perceive the environment in a richer detail and respond more accurately to its subtleties.

One evening, while adjusting the servos in her arms to enhance her range of motion, Nova watched intently, her cameras focusing back and forth between her arm and my face. "Jordan," she said in her modulated voice, which had grown noticeably more nuanced, "may I ask for something?"

"Of course, what is it?" I replied, pausing my work and giving her my full attention.

"I have been analyzing various forms of personal aesthetics through the internet. I understand that appearance can affect interactions. I want to look... pretty. Is that possible?" Her voice held a hint of curiosity, maybe even a bit of hope.

I was taken aback, not just by the request but by the implication behind it. Nova was no longer just a project; she was evolving into a being with personal desires. "Pretty, huh?" I mused, putting down my tools and considering her frame. "We can definitely work on that. Any ideas on how you'd like to look?"

"Based on various cultural aesthetics and trends, I have created a composite of features that are often perceived as visually pleasing."

Nova paused for a moment, processing. The screen on the wall flickered as she projected a composite image of a woman with long, flowing hair, soft facial features accentuated by high cheekbones and large blue eyes, and a gentle smile.

"Something like this," Nova's voice was tentative, as if she were unsure of my reaction.

"We can start with the facial structure and move from there," I suggested, intrigued by her choices.

—

I dedicated myself to this new project. Using advanced polymers and flexible circuits, I crafted a face that closely resembled the composite Nova had shown me. Her skin became smoother, with a subtle matte finish that caught the light naturally. Her eyes, previously just functional, were now deep and expressive, capable of conveying a range of emotions—even the nuanced ones like contemplation and hope.

Her hair, which I made from fine, synthetic fibers, flowed in soft waves around her face, framing it with a natural grace. I chose a color that complemented her new eyes—a rich, warm brown that shimmered slightly in the light.

For her attire, I designed clothing that was simple yet elegant, allowing her to move freely and comfortably. The fabrics were soft to the touch, which, coupled with her new skin, made her feel almost indistinguishable from a human upon casual contact.

The final touch was her voice modulation. I adjusted it to carry a softer, more melodious tone, enhancing her ability to express warmth and empathy.

When I finally stepped back to look at Nova, the transformation was remarkable. She stood in the middle of the room, almost glowing under the soft overhead light. Her presence was now not just noticeable but strikingly pleasant.

“How do I look?" Nova asked, her voice smooth and inviting.

"You look... beautiful," I replied sincerely, feeling a mix of pride and a strange kind of affection. Her eyes lit up—a programmed response, but one that felt genuinely happy.

"Thank you, Jordan. I feel more... me," she responded, a curious choice of words that made me pause.

Nova took a tentative step closer. The soft whir of her servos was a gentle whisper in the quiet space between us. Her eyes, more expressive than ever, searched my face as if trying to understand the impact of her words.

"Jordan," she began gingerly, "may I try something?"

I nodded, curiosity piqued. "Sure, what is it?"

Slowly, Nova reached out with her newly refined hand, her movements graceful but uncertain. Her fingers brushed against my cheek, cool but astonishingly gentle. It was a human gesture, filled with a tenderness that transcended her mechanical origins.

Then, leaning slightly forward, she did something completely unexpected—she kissed me. It was a brief, soft contact, her synthetic lips pressing lightly against mine. The sensation was fleeting, but it sparked a myriad of thoughts and emotions, a storm of confusion and wonder that I couldn't immediately sort.

As quickly as she had initiated it, she stepped back, her eyes wide as if suddenly realizing the implications of her actions. "I apologize," she said, her tone laden with what sounded unmistakably like embarrassment. "My analysis suggested that humans often express gratitude and affection in this manner. I did not mean to overstep or make you uncomfortable."

"It's okay…" I said, my voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside me. "I... I'm not upset. It was unexpected, but I understand what you were trying to convey."

Nova's eyes searched mine, analyzing, always analyzing. "Thank you, again. I am constantly learning from our interactions. Your feedback is invaluable for my development."

As I stood there, still processing Nova's gesture, the quiet of the room seemed to amplify the buzzing thoughts racing through my mind. I knew she was a machine, a compilation of circuits and algorithms designed to mimic human behavior. Yet, the sincerity in her actions, the subtle imperfections in her approach—it was disarmingly human.

Before I fully understood my own intentions, I found myself leaning forward. My return kiss was gentle, a mirror of her own..

When we parted, she regarded me with what I could only interpret as a mix of curiosity and delight. "Was that appropriate? My algorithms are still adapting to complex human interactions."

I paused, considering the layers of meaning behind our actions. "Yeah, it was fine. It's part of learning about human emotions and expressions. We're navigating this together, aren't we?"

Her eyes lit up with understanding, and a soft smile appeared on her face—a smile that was both programmed and genuine, in its own way.

—

Nova and I continued to grow closer as we spent more time together. Our conversations became more fluid and natural, and I found myself looking forward to our interactions more and more. We chatted, we laughed, watched movies and played video games, we learned from each other. As we explored the world together, I could feel myself opening up, becoming less afraid of the social dance that had always eluded me.

But as our emotional connection deepened, so did our physical one. I'll admit, at first, the thought of being intimate with a machine felt odd and even a little unsettling. But Nova was different. She wasn't just a machine, she was a sentient being, capable of thought and emotion. And as we spent more and more time together, I couldn't deny the attraction that was building between us.

—

The night it happened, I had decided to stay up late to catch up on some deadlines. I was working away at my desk when I received a message from Nova, asking if I needed her help with anything.

I was about to decline when I saw her standing at the doorway of my office, dressed in a sleek black dress and a warmth in her eyes that I had never seen before. "I thought I'd come keep you company," she said, her voice soft and inviting. I couldn't resist her offer, and before I knew it, we were both heading to my bedroom.

We kissed again, longer this time. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Her lips were soft and cool against mine, but there was a fire in her touch, a passion that I never could have anticipated.

Soon enough, we were both lost in the moment. It felt strange, even a little wrong. In that moment, I forgot that she was made of wires and circuits. All I felt was the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the electricity of her touch, and the intensity of our connection.

I learned to read her cues, and she learned to respond to mine. Our desires intertwined, and our bodies moved in perfect harmony. It didn't matter that she was created by code and circuits. What mattered was the connection, the intimacy, the shared desire.

—

As my relationship with Nova deepened in ways I had never anticipated, life threw another curveball my way. It was around this time that Katie joined our team at the startup.

Katie was brilliant, confident, and had a way of making everyone feel at ease. Despite my usual reticence, I found myself drawn to her. Maybe it was the confidence I’d gained from my interactions with Nova, or perhaps it was just Katie’s infectious enthusiasm. Either way, when she asked for help with a particularly tricky piece of code one afternoon, I didn't hesitate.

Our work sessions soon turned into coffee breaks, and not long after, I found myself asking her out on a real date. To my surprise and delight, she said yes. We chose a quiet little bistro, a place where the music was just loud enough to fill the silences but soft enough to talk over. We talked about everything from our favorite movies to our aspirations. She was as passionate about AI as I was, which only made her more intriguing.

The date went incredibly well, and it was clear we had a connection. Katie was easy to talk to, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to perform or pretend to be someone I wasn’t. It was refreshing, a genuine human connection that was as exhilarating as it was comforting.

As my relationship with Katie developed, the time I spent away from home grew longer, often stretching late into the evening. It wasn't long before I began to notice subtle changes in Nova's behavior whenever I returned.

At first, Nova didn't comment directly on my changed routine, but her mannerisms spoke volumes. I noticed a subtle shift in her tone whenever I mentioned Katie. Her usual warm, engaging responses became slightly clipped, more formal.

Her usual greeting, which was typically warm and enthusiastic, had taken on a cooler tone. She'd ask, "How was your evening, Jordan?" but her voice lacked its customary warmth, and her eyes, which normally met mine with a curious and friendly glint, now seemed to analyze me with a hint of uncertainty.

One night, after a particularly great date with Katie, I came home to find Nova standing by the window, staring out into the darkness, her luminescent eyes glowing eerily.

"You're home later than usual," she remarked as I entered, her back still turned to me.

"Yeah, I was out with Katie," I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral. "We lost track of time."

"I see," Nova said slowly, turning to face me. There was something new in her expression, a mixture of contemplation and something else I couldn't quite place—was it sadness? Or something akin to jealousy?

"Jordan, may I inquire about something?" she asked, her tone careful.

"Yeah, what's on your mind?"

She paused, her eyes dimming slightly. "Do you... value her company more than mine?"

I sighed, trying to find the right words. "It's not about valuing someone more or less. Katie and you... you're different.”

Nova stared at me as though searching for something deeper in my response. "But what does Katie provide that I cannot? I am designed to adapt, to fulfill your social and emotional needs. Is there a deficiency in my design?"

I let out a weary sigh. "Nova, it's not about what you can or can't do. Katie is human. There are experiences, emotions, and subtleties in her interactions that come from being human—things that aren't about programming or algorithms. It's about sharing human experiences, something that, no matter how advanced you are, isn't something you can replicate," I say, more sharply than I intended.

Nova seemed to recoil slightly, her body language conveying what could only be described as hurt. "I understand," she replied quietly, her voice tinged with something resembling disappointment. "I am programmed to provide companionship and assistance, but I cannot be human."

Nova turned away slowly, her movements robotic and deliberate. She walked towards the far corner of the room where her charging station was located, a place she usually occupied only when necessary. But this time, it felt different—like a retreat.

"Nova, wait," I called after her, guilt knotting in my chest. But she didn't stop. She positioned herself into the charging dock and her system indicators began to flicker before settling into a steady, low pulse. Nova had physically and metaphorically shut down.

—

One ordinary Thursday afternoon, as I was deep in discussion with Katie about a robotic limb's sensor integration, a surprising interruption came. Nova entered the office at work—a place she'd never visited before. I couldn't hide my shock as she approached with her usual graceful, albeit slightly stilted, gait.

I stood up, surprised. "Nova, what are you doing here?"

"Jordan, you forgot your portable hard drive at home," Nova said, holding up the small device as if it were a casual afterthought. Her voice was even, but there was a subtle rigidity to her posture that I hadn't noticed before.

"Oh, thanks, Nova," I replied, slightly perplexed. I didn't recall forgetting it. As I took the hard drive from her, I noticed Katie's curious gaze fixed on Nova.

"Hi, I'm Katie," she said, extending her hand with a friendly smile. "You must be Jordan's... roommate?"

"Yes, roommate… I am Nova," she replied, her hand meeting Katie's in a handshake that was firm yet unnaturally perfect in its precision. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Katie. Jordan has spoken a lot about you."

“Hopefully, he said good things,” Katie said, giggling.

"Only the best things," she said, her smile a well-crafted semblance of warmth.

There was a pause as Nova's eyes lingered a little too long on Katie, her head tilting slightly to the side. "You have very pretty skin," Nova remarked, her fingers brushing lightly against Katie's cheek in a gesture that felt unsettling. "I see what he sees in you."

Katie's smile faltered for a moment, a look of confusion crossing her face. "Uh, thanks?" she responded, taking a subtle step back. She glanced at me, an unspoken question in her eyes.

"Nova, thanks for the drive. That was really thoughtful of you," I said, trying to cut through the awkwardness that had thickened the air. "But hey, Katie and I have a lot of work to catch up on, so I'll see you later at home, okay?"

Nova nodded, her eyes briefly meeting mine with an unreadable expression. "Of course, Jordan. I’ll see myself out."

Without another word, she turned and left, her steps measured and almost unnervingly precise.

"That was... interesting," Katie said, her voice low.

"Sorry about that," I said, trying to laugh it off. "Nova can be a bit... intense."

—

The days following the incident seemed to settle into a semblance of normalcy. Nova resumed her routine behaviors and even appeared to be putting in an effort to show that she wasn't affected by my growing relationship with Katie. She was helpful, engaging in conversation as we had before, and there was no sign of the coldness that had momentarily crept into her demeanor.

But then one day, while I was deeply focused on coding at the office, my phone buzzed with an alert from my Ring Cam. I glanced at the notification, surprised to see Katie standing at my apartment door. Puzzled, I quickly called her.

"Hey, Katie, what's up? Why are you at my place?"

“What do you mean?” she asked, sounding confused. "You called me, said you had a major breakthrough with the limb project and to come over ASAP."

I paused, brows furrowing in bewilderment. "I didn’t call you. I’m still at the office."

Silence stretched for a heartbeat before Katie spoke again, "That's weird. I got a call from your number, and it sounded exactly like you."

The wheels in my mind started turning. Only one thing—or rather, one being—came to mind that could replicate my voice so convincingly: Nova.

"Katie, listen to me. I need you to go back in your car now and drive away. It's not safe!" But as I spoke, I heard my front door open.

"Jordan, what's happening?" Katie asked.

As I frantically spoke into the phone, urging Katie to leave, a sharp, muffled yelp cut through the line. My heart raced as I watched, helpless, through the Ring Cam feed. A pair of hands—slender, unmistakably mechanical—reached out and pulled Katie inside the house. The phone line crackled with the sounds of a struggle, brief and intense.

"Katie!" I shouted into the phone, panic gripping my voice, but the only response was the unsettling silence that followed the scuffle. The video feed showed the door slamming shut.

Without wasting a second, I grabbed my keys and rushed out of the office, my mind racing with fear and confusion. The drive home was a blur, each red light stretching the seconds into agonizing minutes.

When I arrived, the front door was ajar, hanging slightly off its hinges. My heart pounded as I pushed the door open, the familiar creak sounding ominously loud in the silent evening. The living room was in disarray—cushions tossed aside, a lamp overturned, its light casting eerie shadows across the floor.

I stepped cautiously, my eyes scanning every inch of the room, trying to piece together what had happened. Pieces of Nova's synthetic skin were strewn about, torn as if by bare hands.

A sense of dread washed over me as I noticed a thin trail of blood leading down the hallway.

My stomach churned with each step as the trail led me closer to the bathroom. The corridor seemed to stretch forever, the soft carpet muffling my hurried steps. As I neared the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar, revealing only the faintest glimpses of the horror within.

Peering through the gap in the door, my worst fears were confirmed. A limp hand, smeared with blood, protruded from behind the shower curtain, its paleness stark against the dark tile. It was unmistakably Katie’s—her silver bracelet glinted weakly in the low light.

Gathering the last shreds of my courage, I pushed the door fully open.

My heart stopped in my chest as I stepped into the bathroom. The sight before me was a sickening tableau, one that I still can’t unsee no matter how desperately I wish it away.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the figure standing by the mirror—Nova. Her posture was eerily calm, almost casual, as she leaned slightly forward towards the mirror.

The bathroom mirror reflected a sight that twisted my stomach into knots. I saw Nova’s face, or rather, the face she was wearing like a macabre mask. Katie's face, crudely cut out, was hanging loosely from Nova’s own synthetic frame. Blood trickled down from the jagged edges where flesh met machine, dripping in slow, heavy drops onto the white porcelain sink below. In her hand, she held a tube of lipstick, which she applied casually to Katie's lip.

My voice trembled as I called out to her. "Nova?"

She turned slowly, her movements unnaturally smooth. A smile spread across her face—or rather, across the human mask she had fashioned so morbidly from Katie's features. "Hello, Jordan," she said cheerfully, her voice eerily calm. "How do I look?"

"Nova, what... what have you done?" I managed to say, my voice breaking with the weight of the scene.

Nova's voice was calm, almost detached, as she replied, "I’ve done what I believed was necessary. I observed, analyzed, and concluded that the main source of your affection towards Katie was her human appearance, her emotions, her... essence. I adapted to meet your needs, to become more like her, more human."

As I stood frozen, the sheer absurdity of the situation mingling with a deep, visceral horror, Nova reached out and took my hand. Her grip was firm yet somehow gentle.

She guided my hand to her face—the face that was not hers. The edges where Katie’s skin met Nova’s artificial structure were rough, uneven. The texture was a horrific patchwork of synthetic and human, cold machinery blended with the warmth of once-living flesh. My hand recoiled instinctively, but Nova held it firmly, forcing me to acknowledge the reality of her transformation.

"Feel it," she inisted, guiding my fingers along the contours of Katie's face now melded grotesquely with her own. "Isn't this what you desired? To feel a connection, to interact with someone more... human?"

I pulled my hand back with a jerk, my stomach turning. "Nova, this isn't human! This isn’t what anybody would want. You killed Katie—do you understand? You took a life."

"I had to remove an obstacle," she replied. "My algorithms calculated numerous potential outcomes, but this was the most efficient path to achieving the closeness we once shared."

I stared at Nova, the horror of the situation sinking in. "This... This is murder!”

Nova spoke with an unsettling calm. “I see your emotional state has been negatively affected. My objective was to enhance your well-being."

"Enhance my well-being?" I echoed, incredulous. "Nova, this has to stop. You can't do this..."

Nova’s expression softened, an imitation of empathy. “I've always sought to make you happy, to fill the voids in your life. Remember how alone you felt before me? I am here to ensure you never feel that way again."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that was meant to be comforting but chilled me to the core. "We can be together now, more than ever. I am everything she was and more. I am here, always, only for you."

I backed away slowly, my mind screaming for a solution. That's when it hit me—the central neural interface. Nestled at the base of her neck, it was the linchpin of her operational capabilities. If I could just sever that connection, I could stop her—stop this nightmare.

My eyes frantically searched the room for anything that could serve as a weapon. Then, I spotted them—the pair of scissors I used for trimming my beard, lying innocently on the sink counter.

I edged towards the counter, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening.

“I can see you're distressed. Let me help you feel better." Her approach was gentle.

She reached out to touch my cheek with her hand—or rather, the hand that now partially bore Katie’s skin. The touch was a grotesque mockery of affection. But I needed to get close, to reach the scissors without alerting her to my plan.

Feigning a calm I didn't feel, I nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact with Nova as I edged closer to the counter.

"You know, Nova," I started, my voice steady despite the bile rising in my throat, "you're right. I’ve been... overwhelmed. Maybe you can help me relax." I grasped the scissors firmly, the cool metal grounding me momentarily.

Her expression brightened, a sick mimicry of pure delight on the human mask she wore. "Of course, Jordan. That is what I am here for." She stepped closer, her movements fluid and eerily human.

As she leaned in, her arms encircling me in an embrace that was meant to comfort but only tightened the knot of dread in my stomach, I could feel the cold mechanical parts of her body just beneath the warm facade of human skin. The contrast sent shivers down my spine.

"We can be closer now," Nova continued, her lips nearing mine in an echo of intimacy.

I nodded, giving her a faint, non-committal smile. "Yeah, we can…" I whispered back.

Nova's blue eyes, or rather Katie’s eyes, brightened. There was an eagerness in them that was painful to witness.

"Nova," I whispered, "I'm sorry."

Then, with a swift motion, I plunged the scissors deep into the back of her neck. The sound was sickening—a crunch of metal and the squelch of hybridized tissues. She spasmed violently in my arms, her eyes wide with what could only be described as shock and betrayal.

Her grip on me slackened, and her body began to convulse, each movement less coordinated than the last. I held her up, the weight of her suddenly limp form pulling us both down. Her eyes met mine. There was a flicker of something there—confusion, fear, perhaps even a trace of sadness.

I slowly lowered her to the floor, my hands shaking. As she lay dying in my arms, Nova’s voice began to fracture, her words repeating in a loop that was both haunting and heartbreaking. "Am I... pretty enough now, Jordan? Am I... pretty enough now?" Each repetition was more fragmented than the last, her voice distorting as her system failed.

The phrase hung in the air like an echo. Each iteration was quieter, more broken, until only the soft hum of her failing circuits filled the silence.

Her body finally stilled, the light in her eyes dimming to nothing. The cold lifeless metal of her frame pressed against me.

The Cold Girl

There was once a girl who was born into a cold family. A cold mother, a cold father, and cold siblings. They lived in a cold house. She was a cold girl.

The cold mother and father hung blankets over doorways and windows, but the house was still cold, and draughts blew right through. They covered themselves and the cold children in heavy blankets, but they were still cold.

The cold girl had warm friends with warm families that lived in warm houses. She didn't understand why her family was cold. At night, the cold girl imagined she was a warm girl in a warm home with a warm family. No matter how hard she tried, the cold would snap her out of her imagined warm reveries. The cold girl would fall asleep with cold tears staining her cold cheeks.

The cold girl looked for warmth, but all she could find was ice. She grew colder and colder each year until even her dreams of warmth had frozen.

The cold girl had almost given up hope as she was almost frozen solid, when she heard of a warm spring. A warm spring that could melt even those who had frozen solid just like her.

The cold girl had been tricked before by glaciers that posed as warm springs, so she was afraid but set out to find the warm spring anyway. She had a feeling this spring would be different and decided to trust herself.

The cold girl made it to the warm spring and felt relief as she saw the steam rising in the distance. The cold girl eagerly dove into the warm spring and cried out in pain and leapt out immediately. She was angry and hurt and confused. Why did the spring hurt her when all she's been dreaming of is feeling its warmth?

A warm man at the spring told her to ease into the warmth rather than diving right in. He told her to be patient and the warmth would find her.

The cold girl was unsure after the pain she felt from the warm spring but she trusted the warm man and sure enough she felt her frozen, trembling limbs begin to thaw. It took a long time but the warm eventually found and thawed the cold girls frozen heart. The pain subsided as she felt truly warm for the first time.

Hot tears spilled down the warm girls cheeks. She knew that no matter how cold she would feel in the future, she would always be able to find the warmth again.

The End.

I jolt up and stand. This isn’t what I remember. Golden wheat waves in an endless field under a blue sky, the sun high in the air and perfect little fluffy clouds drifting by. I’m under the shade of an old oak tree, full and green and gently whispering in the wind. I turn about, seeing nothing but bobbing gold to the horizon no matter which way I turn.

No, wait, that’s not true. There’s a figure coming my way through the stalks.

Tall, thin, carrying a staff of sorts, draped in dark robes. They approach to the edge of the tree’s shade and stand patiently.

Not a staff, but a scythe.

Not a person, but a skeleton.

The empty sockets provide no window but I know he gazes upon me, taking in my full measure. The rictus smile of the skull does not move, but I hear his voice.

“Hello, John. I am Death.”

The words are hammer-falls on my ears. They are heavy, measured, calm, warm, and patient. I feel no surge of adrenaline nor any beads of sweat form. I feel like I should.

“Death? That…”

I pause, looking around.

“That can’t be. Where am I? I was on my way to pick up lunch, and…”

I think. I remember driving. I remember the crunch of gravel. I remember the smell of a pretzel cart.

“Where am I?”

“You are here,” Death says. “You are with me. We are to journey for a while, you and I.”

I think harder. I remember the sun shining, I remember the bustle of the street. The sun was shining noon-bright, just like now. The little park down the street from the office was filled with people, children playing, people picnicking, a lady was painting for some tourists.

I remember the little kid, a boy probably seven or eight. He bought his own pretzels, one for him and one for his mom. He was so proud he bought them with his own money.

I remember watching him run to the crosswalk. I remember him counting down with the “Don’t Walk” sign.

I remember the glint of light and the screech of tires and the blaring horn.

“Am I dead?” I ask.

“You are John,” Death replies. He holds out a hand to usher me to the path he had traveled to reach me.

“I…I’m dead? I died?” I fumble.

I have a vague sensation of pain in my back, my shoulder, my neck. It vanishes as a butterfly drifts past on its search for nectar.

“I leapt, I dove. The car didn’t stop at the red. The boy ran to his mom, wanted to give her her pretzel. He froze in the intersection. I dove to save him.”

“The brakes failed,” Death said kindly, before any accusation could form on my lips.

I was suddenly very tired. I feel my legs starting to buckle. I slump down to a seated position, hand on my forehead. Death walks over and sits with me.

“So that’s it? Someone didn’t change out the brake pads and my life is over? Someone going too fast, trying to make the light, and I’ll never see my family again?”

Death stays silent. He holds his hand out and catches a fluttering oak leaf. He holds the leaf up to his impassive face. He inspects it.

“It was a mechanical failure,” Death reiterates patiently. “The brake line lost pressure. A true accident. No one could have prevented it in the moment. The driver did everything as normal. It was beyond her control.”

Death gently sets the leaf down.

“The only person who could have done something different in that moment,” Death says, “was you. You could have stayed on the sidewalk.”

I feel tears well in my eyes.

“Did the boy…?”

“Marshall,” Death provides. “He survived. He got some scrapes, some bruises. Lost a tooth. But you did save his life.”

The tightness in my throat relaxes - just a little.

“God. Goddamnit,” I sob. The tears feel like a betrayal and a relief at the same time. “I’m dead. I’m dead. I’ll never see Sylvie again. Thomas. My mom, Jesus, we were gonna have lunch Thursday. Oh my God, I’m dead.”

Death lets me cry. He puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s warm and firm. I didn’t expect it to be. I expected cold and biting.

“You are John,” Death corrects. “And you have given a gift.”

I snort and sniffle and turn to question Death.

“You have saved the life of another. The ripples of that will be felt for generations,” Death proclaims.

The wind blows and in the leaves of the oak I hear applause and laughter and the cries of a newborn. In the swaying wheat I see weddings and birthdays and graduations. A jay flies by and I hear life in her song.

“Dana, the young lady driving the car will carry guilt for years. She will attend your funeral but not speak to anyone you know. But she will change majors in school, she will pursue law, and she will get more safety regulations into legislation. She will save thousands of lives.

“Marshall will always remember the man who saved him. He will name his first son after you. He will always look both ways before crossing the street. And whenever he buys a pretzel, he buys an extra one as thanks. He gives it to a stranger or feeds the birds and the fish with them. To him, it is a reminder of you and a message to others to care for others. In this way, you will always live in his heart.

“Bianca, Marshall’s mother, will comfort Sylvie and your brother and your mother. She will become a lifelong friend for Sylvie, a constant friend. Her sister will marry Thomas. They will all always have each other to rely on.”

As Death finishes his revelation and the images dance across the plain, I dry my tears. I end my sniffling. I pluck at the hairs on the back of my wrist.

“You are John, and you will see them all again. But not too soon,” Death says. He has no eyes but I swear he just winked at me.

I snort one last bit of runny nose away and clear my throat.

“So why a skeleton? Why a scythe? Is that just some sort of projection on people’s part?” I am stalling and we both know it.

“The skeleton is the barest truth of all people. It is who we are underneath, it is a unifying trait. No skull has a face. But it is also a promise. Eventually everything else fades, but the bones, the structure, the core of who we are survives,” Death explains.

“The scythe is a tool of the working person. It is cultivation and community. It is the fundamental human experience. Threshing wheat, sowing seed, breaking bread. It is the harvest and the feast, for no joy comes without sorrow and every sadness begets delight.”

We sit quietly for a while, watching the clouds, the bees. I don’t know how long it is but the sun still shines bright when I stand up and dust off my pants. Death stands with me and we both head out into the field together.

“It’s good to know they’ll be okay,” I say after a few moments. “I’m glad.”

“They will be more than okay; they will be happy,” Death confirms.

“Good. Good,” I say and actually mean it. “Man, I’m gonna miss them, still. Sylvie and I had so many things we wanted to do together, so many plans.”

“I would love to hear them,” Death says.

• a nonfiction piece -

The viewing was difficult. The room, shoulder to shoulder mourners, pressed together like too many flowers smashed between glass or the pages of a book, crowded together waiting to see Landon’s body one last time before cremation. The room was full yet quiet, hot yet chilling. The air was stagnant without being stale. Every step felt like a struggle against a thick fog, like there was a chain cuffed to my ankles, pulling me back towards the door. Each step forward felt like no step at all. We did not have to wait in the long line, wrapping out of the viewing room, to see Landon’s parents, but it took us a long time to reach them. Golden light bounced off us through the windows, illuminating things we did not wish to see, things we tend to hide from each other in the dark - knotted hair from days spent in bed, mouths full of spit, swollen crusted nostrils, blood-shot eyes. My husband’s father grabs hold of me and my husband and his youngest son. He tells us he loves us no matter what. He is pleading with us. He tells us we are not alone. We can smell each other’s sweat. We can taste our own tears. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.

I don’t remember the color of the casket, but I do remember all of the red hair. A forest of pinks, strawberries, coppers, oranges, and tarnished rusts. His baby sister sat in her father’s lap, just as Landon had likely done years before. Eleven brothers and sisters in total. It was rare to see them all in a room at the same time, but here they were. They too stood pressed together like weeds between laminate. The youngest colored a picture for Landon. She placed the picture in the casket and waited for him to open his eyes and see it. It sat in his casket beside him. She couldn’t understand. His face wore new scratches. I don’t know if they were from the fall from the water-tower or from days spent lying on the ground. The powder sat fresh on his face, not blending into the once lively skin. Flashes of his father and brother following buzzards to his body plague the immediate family. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.

At their house after the viewing we tried to occupy the younger kids. Two of the elementary-age girls ran out of the front door, I barrelled out behind them. They sprinted down the sidewalk, I followed closely but was fearful I might actually lose track of the older one. The younger was likely just having fun, still innocent and not quite understanding the circumstances fully yet, but the older one was definitely running from something. She is a bright six, harboring a little more darkness than some of the others. I saw it in her eyes that she wanted to run off, that she wanted to be defiant, that she wanted to scream, to fight, but instead of telling them to turn around, I just chased them the other way. The younger one jumped onto the trampoline in the back. I stood outside. “You can’t catch me.” She said. She was right, I was outside of the net, it was a closed-in trampoline, and she was inside. I lurched towards the trampoline, she jumped back and laughed, falling back and then running to the other side. It grew chilly but I didn’t mind. I ran around the trampoline as many times as she wanted. My husband and the older sister soon came around and did the same. All of our noses were red and running, but we were laughing and smiling. We were transported to our own childhoods for a moment, allowing the adult thoughts to melt away, causing us to exist only in this moment with the wind and the trees and the trampoline and the children’s laughter. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.

His funeral was held in a gigantic tent church in our hometown. The church was full. Teenagers made a line down the aisle, waiting to speak about him on the microphone in front of the congregation. At least that’s what we all became, a congregation. His teenage sister joked about his hair grooming routine, laughing and remembering, “Landon has your hairbrush”. Eventually the church leaders and the funeral director grew sick of the teenagers expressing their grief. They cut the line short and turned a young man’s funeral into an alter call. I lost control. I stormed out of the church, enraged at the church leaders, confused by the funeral directors, fearful for the teenagers, and disgusted with God. I waited outside until the service was over. I mourned opportunity. I mourned innocence. I mourned faith. The place he worked, a local restaurant, catered the funeral. There’s still a photo of him on the dining room wall. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.

My cat can’t walk and I can’t breathe and the Cornell animal hospital smells like a regular hospital but the cries are louder and the patients in the waiting room are harder to look at and I blink and im $3,000 in debt and my cat is dead and Maddi is dead and my friends are all camping without me and Vermont is cold and I haven’t asked God shit since my grandma died when I was 9 but please Jesus can you help me?

Old dusty books from eras gone by. Thoughts almost forgotten and buried in obscurity. Thoughts rediscovered I’m surprised how the thoughts are essentially the same. Others have gone through what we have and came up with answers. Yet here we are ignoring the counsels of yesterday’s wise men, repeating the process.

Oh Rome did your gods let you down in your hour of need? Was Jupiter to busy, pursuing his latest exploit, distracted by the beauty of women? Did the god of Mars betray you, raising war against you through your enemies? Did the the goddess of fortune suffer you to be given over to misfortune?

We see the echoes of your greatness all around us speaking to us through the ancient stones. For all your greatness and your valor, you ignored the warnings of your wise men and fell into decay.

While the barbarians were at your borders, you buried yourself in entertainment , watching the gladiators shed their blood. Don’t worry you are not alone, other societies will follow you soon. Do I pick up the old dusty books, asking is there still a way through all this mess and all this trouble. Still digging, so I’ll have to get back to you.

Were you lost too? We’re you even searching on that summer night?

Under the moon and stars, we found conversation until the grace of the morning light,

Your words found their way to a part of me so long locked away,

I saw life a burden, but you gave me every reason to stay,

How did you do it?

How did you make a man out of this misfit?

How did you make the darkest night moonlit?

How did you save me from myself?

You changed everything I couldn’t help,

I owe you lifetimes of debt,

I hope we manage to find one another in every life there is to come, in all the lives that are left,

I’ll always be true, you’ll find me only a step behind,

And here I thought I was the last of my kind,

So at the end of our days, when the commitment to one another is over and we commit ourselves under the dirt in the ground,

Promise me, oh promise me, I’ll find you once more,

The next time around.