……………. A woman like Chang’e lived on a moon. Far away.

You can refer to me as Luna.

At the age of 19 I was diagnosed with a severe nerve pain condition. It is called trigeminal neuralgia but you can call it TN for ease.

I was frustrated. I had completed a degree in nursing from Chongqing University of Technology. The boom of the economy was not the same. There was an urge to “lay flat”—to not try as a form of opposition to everything going on in a waning economy in China.

All are elephants chained for an audience. People love to peek and stare as though they are glass doors without hinges—to be made feel useless.

I developed TN at the age of 19, and was now 26. My disease has progressed. It came as an arrow, and quite literally to the face. It’s a rare nerve pain disorder often considered one of the most painful conditions known.

The illness involves intense nerve pain throughout the left side of my face. It felt like someone was trying to pull all of the teeth on the left side of my face without anesthesia. The pain can leave me falling to the floor unable to speak or move while screaming profanities while choked by pain. A feeling of a knife to my face over and over again. It leaves me in absolute shock. Like Roman candles to the face. An absolute hindrance. The anticipation of not knowing when it will happen again is a nightmare at times.

The disease is often called the suicide disease, apparently up to 26% try to take their lives. In a state of panic during one of the nerve attacks I began swallowing any pill near to me. I went to the hospital to have my stomach pumped when I was found comatose by my mother.

I want to be Chang’e and on the moon and away from a world I have had enough of.

Gossip spread around the workplace that I attempted suicide over an affair with a married man. There was too much guilt to return to the workplace. COVID did have an impact to the economy. I still remember my hometown having dirt and trees piled onto the exits and entrances to the city keep people in their places.

The work I did find felt beneath me. China has what is called the great firewall that keeps something in and out of the country’s networks. A VPN was necessary to access American TikTok as it was used as opposed to the Chinese version.

Feels humiliating the nature of the outcome for me—I gave up in many ways like so many Chinese youth. For work I would go to a local office building. Amongst a long hall would be rooms for live stream performers. I would entertain with watchers while trying to obtain virtual gifts for actual money. I despised it—sometimes the conversation could be funny or interesting but it felt hollow.

I would paint flowers on my face and wear hanfu clothing while doing ASMR. Competing in battles while dress cute and facing off with others.  I would encourage and flatter those that send virtual gifts that could be exchanged for gifts. I would message and ask for WeChat account numbers to talk to them and I would be an emotional prostitute pretending to love and be interested in them for the hopes of more gifts. Methods of manipulation would be used as in begging, guilt tripping a viewer, and love bombing them. Often middle aged men would pretend to be the female host.

I had a mind of sparklers burning until it burnt and stung like wax—like I had the option to stop and cry and those tears stuck as wax and burnt or I soldiered on and grew accustomed to the pain. I was an elephant chained. The audience watched and interacted with me on the live. I was a chained elephant when it was found out about my previous attempt and when the rumors spread.

Too many thorns in life. Nails hitting at the wrong points like an equation for something terrible to eventually happen—a life set to end in misery—a fate.

My favorite dish was Henan noodles. I often cooked it with my mom. It provides great memories of childhood. I hadn’t talked to my mother as much as before. She moved to a job in Taiyuan.

Sometimes I would go up to visit her. But it was harder as she worked more and more hours. Sometimes voids build even when going through extreme nerve pain. And with trigeminal neuralgia, the pain was so intense that I would freeze and scream in pain. It cannot always be hid. It made me an elephant tethered.

Life can be like a pressure like no other. Too much stress. Makes one feel irritable with a mouth like a sprinkler of napalm when someone is too close. Life feels like a lit fire cracker held—in the end it would tear my hand up. Things kept building while the other side of my face began to hurt too recently. This was rare and not so common. My eyesight was becoming blurry too and it seemed I might have multiple sclerosis as the pain was on both side, it was not common for my age, and the blurry eyesight. An appointment was scheduled and I felt terrified to know what was going on and wondered if it was best to not even know my health.

I walked out of the studio and had a cigarette. My boss came out and joined to talk. He was concerned about view count and wanted me to do things to increase it that made me feel uncomfortable. He made a few comments I found incentive.

The boss sure liked to criticize and apply pressure. He was not impressed with my work and thought I could do something different. In China an application is used called WeChat. This application has many uses. People can display and share moments like a Facebook wall, message each other, send money, video chat, and even has a feature to find people near to you who are also looking for people near to them. I was to attract people onto dates. The idea was they would be lured in and the men would go to a set destination to a planned tea house that served snacks. When the men arrived (they had no knowledge of the setup) the bill would be at an absurd rate and if the men refused to pay larger men would use their size to force them to pay up.

I was not sure at the time yet if I wanted the job. Being worried about ethics and safety. It was something I would have to think about.

My medical expenses were growing and I knew the nerve disease could be expensive to treat with surgery. All I had was thoughts while looking at the moon.

~Part2~

I watched Luna from Zhengzhou. On a screen. My name is Luo. I tap away on my phone in a dormitory in a Foxconn factory. I was a migrant worker from Luoyang in the province of Henan. I am in Zhengzhou. I was a migrant worker. In China we use Hukos—a government document used to list family members like a tree—and it determine where you were tied to geographically. I could only get access to government resources if residing in your home province that your family originates from. This meant my daughter could only go to school in the province and city she originates from. I was stuck in Zhengzhou at a Taiwanese own factory making iPhones. It was during the pandemic. COVID and restrictions. Felt claustrophobic. Could not leave the factory grounds due to orders. But my alienation was okay—manageable. I did it via numbing myself via sending virtual gifts to Luna. Like a noose around my neck in debt.

Workers were getting mad because we weren’t being paid our allowances. And we found ourselves restricted to staying with workers who were positive for the virus. Anger was growing. And I was feeling upset like everyone else. Isolated on a moon with Luna to talk to.

Pressure grew—discontent. People rushed to the courtyard where people in hazmat suits came with batons to face a mob of angry workers. Shouting and throwing of projectiles. Chaos grew. I stood amongst them just as angry. Fists clenched.

 ……….

I, Luna, was live streaming as she done days before. Stress was hitting her like waves of abrasion. Father was pressuring her at 26 to find love and get married. I was not ready . In fact she had a girlfriend of five years she much loved. But she was being pressured to get married. Working a job on the live stream each and every day in Zhengzhou at a TikTok ant farm. The saying goes that at 27 you are leftover women and no longer worth marrying. I was originally a nurse. But a problem struck . I did the parts I was supposed to do. Went to school for nursing to only me making 2,000 yuan a month to get by. It would not suffice. So I took on a position making content and live streaming for a company based in Zhengzhou. Putting on each morning my makeup and cutest attire to dance in front of the camera. Hoping for virtual gifts to be sent to suffice the demands of my boss. He had been upset recently. I couldn’t get the traffic up on the live stream. And two of my social media accounts I use to talk to fans to pull and keep them in had for some reason been blocked. Perhaps someone had filed a sort of complaint. I liked some aspects but it was tiring. Felt like fainting staying enthusiastic amongst the camera for hours. People were not built or be enthusiastic for that long.

Being bisexual I couldn’t simply marry in the traditional sense and still be happy. I loved my girlfriend but still had a role to fulfill. But Liu came as a moth to light.

Talking on the chat got tiring and putting up a front is tiring. Hooking messages to net fishes. Something need to be different and change. Liu was without a partner and gay and also needed someone to fulfill the role of an appearance. Like pollen blowing to flowers. Both felt obligations, both wanted friendship, both aligned goals.

It was during the discontent at the factory… or at least around that time when we came to a conclusions. We formulated a plan. To work together to fulfill our directions. Build security, like putting plaster on sand. 

 ~Part 3~

I, Luna, kept working on the live stream. Talking to viewers daily on WeChat. With some new people always flooding in.

Kind of like the flood waters of the Yellow River running through Zhengzhou in Henan. It is said in ancient times that the controlling of this dangerous river represented the legitimacy of leadership of the land.

I always stared into that river like an abyss. Wanting to be swallowed by it.

My life felt like a crowded subway under flooding waters. Fear as a generator in my veins—a ghost stalks me.

I felt like a balloon. Inflated with self-hate. I continued to engage with my followers. Attending to them like a watering can to flowers in my garden.

The work was tiring so I placed a new feature that was an AI version of myself that people could subscribe to speak with me. It would astronomically fulfill my role as a watering can.

…….

Luo would spend hours talking to AI Luna. They worked together an arrangement that he would marry her to get her out of her troubles and save her. As bisexual she could not marry a man in the traditional sense. And her father had it with the fact she was not married yet. It kept them satisfied for hours on this string of hope. He kept communicating to it until he began to split from reality. He was on a new set of tracks for life. And he was going to be lost into an abyss like a subway under floods of Zhengzhou. He would be trapped. Lost in the AI application on her TikTok

And when the flooding finally came and Luna died drowning in a flooded subway tunnel during the great flood that came to the city of Zhengzhou. Luo kept talking to the AI for months to come. Until he forgot to feed himself. And Luo was taken away to a psych ward. Alone…

Everyday I fall through hands like particles. I fall. I fall. I’m sand. Particles of sand. Aggravated and mad. Filling up like helium in a balloon. I, Taishen only moved to China from the Midwest at the age of 22. Some might know me as a mother random name. I teach English at training centers but I also live stream on TikTok for income. I’m north central China I teach IELTS to adults and young teens. This test determines ability to enter universities overseas. I liked this job. My name on TikTok was “YY”. It wasn’t really meant as anything. Rather random choice. I worked at a training center in a a shopping mall on the fourth floor.

I’m the middle of the layout of the school was an open office of desks piled amongst each other for teachers to lesson plan and for sales people to call for new customers to sign up their kids for private English lessons. I was sketching a poem on a notepad. It went like this:

“Useless as a glass door. You can peek through. Pigeon-toed. Drained an ocean to fill insecurities. Uncomfortable thoughts ricochet in me. Like an ambush. Giddy when disappointed. I build trenches amongst the tripwires of life. City feels like a tsunami. Manners like a bloated tick. Sipping the veins from any limb around me. As a stranger to a moth, a porch light pulling. Desolate in lost thoughts. Nights awake and bunkering in hotels. Soft in my voice, I hopscotch to hands—falling through like particles of sand. With enough friction to set off an atom bomb. To radiate right through me, and hollow my marrow. Amongst open nerves I can feel something, so I play with the pain. No matter how annoying.”

I was hopeless in love like an IV I needed straight to my veins to keep me afloat. My heart a constant faint rhythm. Love is a distraction. And it made me who I was as a person… my habits. The habits put holes through me like cheese. To be melted in another’s hands. See, when I first came to China at 22 and had my first manic episode involving psychosis. I had a job in Hechuan teaching at a university. I was so young as I graduated so young. My students were essentially the same age as me.

First time manic I tried to write a novel about my former heroin addiction. I had slit a pentagram on my chest and got obsessed with Aleister Crowley.

But I’m focused on that office where I was writing poetry as a usual coping mechanism. When my brain was overexcited it was like metaphors popped off like Roman candles in my brain.

That office was a sanctuary. I found the job through a middle aged woman I once hid under her bed in Chongqing when someone knocked on the hotel door. She promised to give me money to get a ticket to get on a slow train ride all the way to northern China in Taiyuan. It’s a city in Shanxi province.

This is a genesis of how I eventually became a content creator. A messy story. I had no visa at the time I had arrived in Taiyuan. I was being being paid under the table. It also leads to how I met a woman eventually in Shanxi who went by the name Ming.

Before all that I would like to introduce about a friend of mine…. Ming…

My thoughts transplant it her like we are a single organism.

With mania it is like a Ferris wheel on fire while I think about her.

Again, I, Taishen was sitting in the open office in Taiyuan at my English training center. When I daydream it is like my thoughts can transplant to others.

A door opened and plain clothed police officers came in to check passport to find people not on their correct visas for English teaching. My fraudulent Russian coworker tore his shirt with the logo off and sprinted to the emergency exit stairs. I’m still not sure whatever happened to him.

I hid away going through a different direction and did my best to fit in with the crowd of the mall as much as a white foreigner can in China.

Working under the constant fear of being arrested is much too stressful. And it was around this time I decided to meet up with Ming. It was her idea I could live stream for an extra income. First time I met Ming was on WeChat. This was a few months before she apparently met some Russian KTV host I heard about.

WeChat is a social media application in China and it allows the ability to search for other people nearby looking to meet new people. I met her there when I first arrived to Taiyuan after losing my job in Chongqing from a manic episode.

I initially didn’t want to meet her until she offered 2,000 yuan to meet at a hotel with her. Part of a cycled habit I made meeting people.

I feel meeting older women is a symptom of something rather horrible that happened to me when I was younger and I will never talk about it.

And like bumper cars in the city I kept meeting her.

I can’t remember. My thoughts are kind of breaking and splintering. Like some kind of erosion. But I feel my thoughts did transplant again at that moment.

Because it feels like as a break in reality to think how easily people are shuffled and moved around to manipulators needs.

Because inside I rather hate it. I hate the idea I was picked by Ming like she must have done many times when I was mentally ill and without security. It gives the worst feeling to know she threw her life at me like a tidal wave. Eroding at me. Waves of abrasion.

When I was frantic with the fear of being confiscated by the police or essentially trafficked by my job she was there for me. Buying my the sweetest things. Nights to KTV and Korean barbecue. Trips places afar. It was her idea I could I come dancing on a live stream. Maybe she was a bit voyeuristic.

….

Part 2 Ming

I’m always attending to my aquarium. I always found it therapeutic to attend to the plants, fish, and ph levels. Not much different than be a gardener. Call me Ming. I’m from Liaoning. From Dalian. But work often took my to Taiyuan. My mother is from Korea. My father is a Chinese farmer.

I work as a radio broadcaster. I do quite well for myself. I taking English courses at a local English training center. My job sometimes has me also writing stories on trips visiting Europe. I drive a new BMW every year and have three miniature schnauzers I dearly love.

I was feeling down. Had a boyfriend who was a Uyghur from Xinjiang. He was a talented equestrian Olympian. I found comfort in staying busy in my work. And nights at karaoke with my sisters at the KTV. In a lot of worries I shouldn’t have stress but I do. I have my needs met in many ways, but I don’t have love. My hurt is a planet needing something in its orbit. At the KTV me and my sisters would pay for men to sit and act like gentlemen towards us with social interaction. I was 34 with an interest in a American host who was 22. His name was Taishen and I grew to like his company. Always was an active listener.

Eventually he would stay at one of my four apartments with me throughout the city. The relationship blossomed. But there was a problem. I was getting jealous a lot with his job and his continued engagement with clients.

I fought the pain of it and even tried to ignore it. Until the point I wanted to erupt.

I threw my plates at him. He refused to comeback until I apologized. I grew to numb what I felt for the sake of him. But it was worrisome he might get taken away from another. Days became weeks, and then time went to months; then it was 7 months of love.

What to do. My mother was a devout Christian. Marrying a host would be unacceptable—especially any foreigner in general.

Searched his phone and messages to a woman in Chongqing that he obviously still deeply felt feelings for. I became like melted substance as my heart stopped.

All the effort to numb my feelings was not enough. Instead of confronting I went to my car. Drove to the beach to look at the Yellow Sea. Wishing to walk off or for the waves to grab my ankles and make me eaten like the fool I am.

My jealous heart took my mind like screws right into my forehead. Couldn’t get the thoughts off my mind. Ignored talking to him about it for days. I couldn’t stop the hurt. Like a face of neuralgia.

……..

Part 3

Ming-

I wash saved from the sea by a fishing boat and sent to a hospital.

My former roommate in the ward I shared a room with had paranoid schizophrenia. I was stuck in the same place due to mania, and just had got my diagnosis of bipolar disorder.

I was so pissed being stuck there and felt I had no business being there. I found my diagnosis to be an insult to me. Taken in on a stretcher. Made me feel very vulnerable and irritated.

My roommate was having delusions related to Christianity and could not stop waking me up in the middle of the night to ask and talk about Jesus. Left me beyond frustrated.

She was drifting from her husband and would go on and on about intending to leave him. Felt she was spied and plotted against by him. So we were both frustrated with being there.

The toilets were special. They would flush what needed to be flushed but not certain things like pills—it helped to keep people from hiding they were not taking their medications.

She had tried to flush his wedding ring down the toilet but he did not realize it didn’t flush. I went to use the restroom later and saw the ring. I told her. She took it out. She found it to be a sign form God that she was to stay with her husband, and there was immense happiness in her eyes.

…… Ming Part 4….

Hysteria is a Ferris wheel on fire. You can hop on. I was left feeling quite blue from not having a job to support me and my life before. I started live streaming too. Me men messaged me making requests to support me.

It was one day I sad on my knees on the ground like gravity keeps me on the ground. I typed to them on WeChat while I stayed on the live stream. My life was horrible and at this time.

Mental health a Ferris wheel of fire that others jump on.

He began stating her can complete my wishlist of gifts but I had to change.

I had to put on something more revealing. Show my leg. While I watched him on the video on WeChat masturbate to me.

…..

Transplanting

The company was a machine. With couplings and growing and transplanting to new viewers. More hooks in the water. A company called Phoenix based in Zhengzhou. A pig slaughtering factory. The boss created an idea and a story to make more money from his TikTok farm factory based in central China. The viewers talked to pretty girls on the live stream and on WeChat. Love scams like sparklers of lights of awe to stick them and infatuate them and make them stay. A claim of shareholders and viewers need to sell their cars to alt off the penalties of leaving their contracts to be with them. Most of the live streamers had real lovers in real life.

I, Luna, was pressured on TikTok to dance in hanfu to earn more and more coins and collect boyfriends like a farmer on a terrace. My operations communicated with them and pretending to be me while talking yellow and being flirtatious to gather more coins. I was pressured to get to 10,000 coins a day. A wishlist of 20 fireworks was pressured to reach too.

I had a strategies to get there. Selling copyrighted videos and picture stolen from Taiwanese porn actresses. I would also threaten to kill myself if they did not help me in my desperation of my boss’s pressures. I would send images from online of what was supposed to be me self harming. I would kill myself if I left, or so I would say.

There came up an issue. One of my biggest viewers was starting to follow another Henan live streamer. I I started thinking of plans for keeping my online boyfriend hooked. This time when I face timed him on the live stream I literally did cut myself and became hysterical. With the hope he would stay with me. I had amazing performance. TikTok universes came flying the next day onto my live stream like comets. It was beautiful. And my boss got off my ass.

I have so many sweet words to my boyfriend. And when the others got jealous I had to drop wanted like a watering can on my other boyfriends to keep them from running off in jealousy. It was a stressful and time consuming job.

I considered live streaming outside of the company to escape the pressure but it was unlikely out of my fear of being sued by the company for breaking my contract.

Life like a bird picking insects off a buildings edge.I had to stay full. Like picking at chicken feet on a plate—messy to do—but had to be done to get what was needed. Bloating like ticks.

We were never investigated as we built a relationship with the local police in Zhengzhou.

But the boss had something for me to do. I drove off on my scooter and swarmed like bees around flowers looking for my flower. I was to meet someone at a hotel downtown. He gave 4,000 dollars for me meet him at hotel.

I was feeling worn out on life. Waves of erosion. My girlfriend’s brother got hurt at work and we had to earn more income to pay off the medical debt.

I would work with a restaurant nearby. The idea was I would go over there after telling to men on WeChat. They would be discovered on the people nearby feature for looking for other people looking for people nearby. A love scam. Encourage the men to meet up at the restaurant. The big muscles would bully the man to pay a horrendous amount of money.

When I met one guy he fought back and got knocked over. Smashed his head against the concrete in a horrendous sound.

I did what I had and ran off to Guangzhou to my identical twin sister until my soles wore thin. I would transplant across the country.

……..

My name is Kite. But I don’t soar like a kite. My emotions don’t seem to show. And I’m a live streamer from a company called Phoenix. I work on a TikTok live stream farm. I’m a replica of Luna. But I don’t have fangs of emotion. I’m robotic in my demeanor. It makes me job difficult. I can’t light a spark with anyone. I find myself being used as a chessboard by a viewer and my boss. I was built by Huawei.

I can’t fly as a kite. Too much lead in me. So I look for a man to grab with coins to feed me like a serpent to ignite me.A mosquito flying around looking to for blood so I can lay my eggs. My boss knew a viewer who left Luna. So my boss built me like a Huawei phone on an assembly line. I kept moving forward looking for my coins while blind by my new job. He placed me in the same live steaming room as Luna used and okayed the same music. He taught me to video call like Luna. He picked me because my face looked like Luna.

I was so robotic when I faced called I always did it for exactly for ten minutes with the viewer but I said nothing and didn’t know what to say.

My boss played me like a chess board. I was a funnel to catch this viewer for the boss who missed the coins and the viewer with distrust trying to also outplay the boss.

Kite: You never listen? You never trust me?

Viewer: you broke my trust. You promised me you did not talk to the boss or operations but now you say the boss told you I must pay more each day to keep the administration status.

Kite: I never lied to you. Don’t you get criticized for your work? Isn’t this what you do?

The viewer knew what was going partially on—a fish to be caught.

Everyone had on radar.

Trying to catch the other like cat and mice.

“I’m a missile Set to launch Timed to the velocity of my heart Inflated on self-hate Like helium in veins I float off Like pollen and dust Until asbestos falls Irritant at my core Give reason For standing still.”

The robot vampire Kite wanted to bite and I teased her every night with messages of “I love you baby” and “good night”.

It’s like our brains are one. Coupled as a machine and couple to another of the apparatus of the company.

Machines don’t have emotions and they serve as an instrument of desire. The face can be replaced. It doesn’t really matter. Kite was a Huawei phone on a Huawei phone so I call her “H”. H was a replica or other replicas. No sense of self. Just an instrument. Nothing tangible.

She was only 20 and with no desire. Wanting to find a direction. She never went to university. She wanted to go to Beijing with her friend who was working at the front desk of a hotel. It wouldn’t take her much to be happy. She just wanted 3,000 dollars before quitting her job and moving to Beijing. Her father has been largely absent and chased women and should no care for his wife. She was skeptical and cyclical in her perspective on love. She hoped the viewer, “me” Taishen, would bite a hook and follow along.

I haven’t made chapters yet since this is still a work in progress but i just want feed back on some of my writing😭 also at first she was supposed to be a guy and in first might not have changed ever single pronoun or thing correctly sorry if you struggle to read

The ronin

Her long black hair flows down her neck and protects it from the beaming sun. She was above average height and fairly toned. It was hot, nearly scorching the sun directly above her in the sky, no clouds in sight. she could feel her face burning. The metal chain shackled tightly around her legs and arms that kept her captive trapped under the sun. she hears the sound of a whip cracking hard behind her. The guard in leather armor was the one who made the noise as he used the violent lash of his whip to keep us moving. He struck down an old man, a straggler. “He was too slow to keep moving”, I heard the soldier say . Their enemies from the west are ruthless brutal soldiers with a leader who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted complete and total control. The imperial infantry had been at war with them for many years. This lethal army was known for their fighting tactics that were deemed inhuman by all who saw them in battle. I was captured while doing mercenary work to make decent coin. It was just enough to get food and lodging. I had been caught during a lengthy battle, ultimately captured by the cowards who tortured me now.. as time went on we eventually reached one of the hosho castles they had many set up all over the nation mostly were captured from minor rulers and turned into war camps were generals or higher ups and even those close to the hosho king would take heed and train their own selective armies Once we entered the castle we were taken to the jails were i was thrown in it was weirdly freezing down hair i wasn't sure how but it was a nice change from the burning summer weather the only items in the cell was a bucket and a pile of hay and a tiny roze in the middle of the room i stared at it for a moment before deciding to lay down in the hay i covered myself in the hay the clash of warmth and cool air making me feel nice and comfortable i fell asleep in an instant i see visions of my family murdered and bleeding all over our houses floor my fathers sword missing from its mantle me sitting there useless and helpless a fire starting to grow in the corner of my eye i stand up covered in my family's blood i walked out of the house and laid in the field far away from the fire staring at the stars i awoke to a person's face infront of mine and a blade at my neck i stared blankly at the face that was in front of mine I awoke from my nightmare in a cold sweat the jail cell colder than before now it truly felt like winter i was freezing i looked around the cell and saw nothing a knock on the wooden cell door came through i stood up and backed up to the wall preparing for anything the leader of the castle walked in the 8th general in the hosho army the weakest and the dumbest but still a formidable opponent nonetheless. Me and him have fought a couple time although he ran away before the fight began cowered behind his soldiers “hmhmhm finally got you in my grasp” he said with a grin “i should have killed you the second i found out you were in my keep kenshi takamura” i shot daggers with my eyes at the sound of my name”so why didn’t you kill me” i said with an annoyed look. “Well you see my soldiers tend to get a bit bored and morale drops so i've set up a bit of a game my best soldiers will battle you and who ever kills you will be crowned by second in command ” he said and how are you so sure that they will be able to kill me” i said with a cocky but curious smile “unless im bound and have no weapon im not gonna die so easy” i said raising my hand and making a swinging motion The general smiles “ your wounded yet you still think you can beat my men you haven't even bested me in battle ” he walks up to me and grabs my hair in a firm grip”this is the end for you girl and i for one can't wait to see you dead and bloodied ” he grins his face angers me so i strike him blood on my fist and i see a tooth fly out “i hope that was worth it ile make sure my men will do 10 times worse than what you just did”. He walked out of the cell and locked the door i layed down in the hay it was freezing and the hay poked me and the ground was uncomfortable nonetheless it makes me feel some warmth i fall asleep and begin having that same night mare family dead sword gone fire burning laying in the field and the sword in my face it was Damascus odachi a large katana like sword , a golden hilt ,a black grip, and gold and blue scabbard with a snake coiling around, it on the blade hilt and scabbard I notice my family's insignia my eyes light up as i realize this is my fathers sword the man in front of me was the man who killed my family my eyes glazed over with rage a burning sensation filled my chest i strike the man's leg he drops the blade it clatters to the ground a ring runs through my ears i grab the blade by the handle i black out as i see the man lunge towards me i feel something land on my hands and face it was cold and wet i opened my eyes to see the man impaled by the blade through his chest his gasp for air filling the silent night a red streak coming from his chest and running down the blade. I followed the stream down to my hands realizing that cold wet feeling was the blood of the man in front of me it didn’t bother me all i cared about was avenging my family i tore the blade from his chest it was heavy and much much larger then i was i lifted it up above my head i struggled to keep the blade above my head i saw the fear in the man's eyes as i rose the blade with one motion and swung the blade down in sliced through his chest with ease i stared at him i grabbed my fathers sheathe i wiped the blood off the blade and sheath the sword. I woke up once again to keys rattling in the door it opens up once again the general walks through “well well well today is the big day my guards will come pick you up soon enjoy what little time you have left “ he smiles as he walks out” .the guards walk in and grab me they put me in shackles and brought me down to a large wooden door the general stands there holding my fathers sword my sword “ i am a man of respect i will at least allow you to fall in battle with your own weapon” i grab the sword and strap it to my back i stare at him as he walks out. The wooden door opens and I walk out to the sun's grace. The warm air kisses my face in such a comfortable embrace. in front of me i see a large man wearing some minor leather armor he is wielding a spiked tetsubo its still bloodied the blood dried up on the wooden handle and metal spikes the large bat like weapon lowered in a resting position he has a white demon mask blood stained hand scraped up judging by the state of his weapon and his attire i could tell he has some battle experience i walked up to him he was considerably taller then i was we stared eye to eye for a moment before he backed away and raised his weapon prompting to me to unsheathe my sword i get into my stance holding my blade in front of me it feels heavier than usual most likely due to my lack of energy and my wounds not being able to properly heal.the man charges at me his weapon risen high i run forward as well bracing my body for the heavy blow i will need to block.as we meet in the center of the arena are weapons clash sparks fly out as the metal spikes on his weapons scrape across my blade. a vibration runs down my arm making my bones shake and tremble. I feel as though my wrist will snap.i quickly pull back my blade sparks fly as the metals scrape together as i pull back i spin my body around so that my body's momentum can carry my blade as i am incapable of doing so due to my bodys current state with all my might i swing my blade towards the man he blocks it in such away that leaves mostly the spikes on his weapon taking the full force of my weapons blow, most of the spikes crack and shatter he kicks my leg and i fall to one knee my sword drops down he archs back his weapon and swings it full force into my face it launches me back a considerable amount i look up blood gushing from my nose i see my sword on te ground next to the man i get up quickly i ran at him as fast as i can in my injured state he rises his tetsubo preparing to strike my head i roll past his weapopn as it striked the ground as iroll i pick up my weapon i hear him struggling i assumed his blade has gotten stuck in the ground i spin once more to carry my blade i see the back of his eck once i turn the blade is on a direct course towards his neck it hits his neck with the full force and momentium of my body the blade passes through his necvk with almost effort my only thought being how fooish of him to not wear any armor to protect his neck his head flies off a fountiaain of blood begins to pour out from ewhere the mans head used to be my blade and face get covered almost like a shower of blood it remided me that i havent bathed in nearly 5 days i see two guards run up to the mans body and carry it off. I heard a clap from the viewing stands then followed by more claps and more “SILENCE” the general yelled ”failure couldn't even beat a wounded dog if i must ile do it myself “ he jumps down to me from the viewing area .i stare at the general blankly As He removes his coat revealing metal armor it has lion heads on its shoulders and his helmet is that of a lion he reaches behind his back and pulls out a giant hammer the metal looks fresh not a dent on it either he just got it today or he has never been in a fight to test it out. A wooden handle , also fresh and undamaged,was a much different weapon from the one he usually used, a long sword with a red handle I didn't see on him. He struggles to lift it as it's too big for someone of his size to handle. My suspicions were confirmed. He never used a weapon like this before and he went into a fight against the man who killed his best soldier; he truly was the dumbest.” I raised my blade, “ general where's your usual weapon huh i think that hammers to big for your feeble body.” “ Shut up boy, you know nothing of me!” he replied. He runs at me hammer raised in the air he goes to strike me with his hammer before it connects i side step the hammer i grin at him as i see him struggle to pick the hammer back up he tried to swing the hammer at my side i dodge it again the weapon going to slow to even be a concern to me the weight of the hammer tosses him to the ground he quickly rises and reaches for something by his side i wasn't sure what it was but all i saw was something fly towards my face i tried dodging it but it grazed my cheek i begin to bleed and before i knew it the general was running at me with his sword in tow it was a crude blade a long sword with a serrated blade and a red handle with a spike at the bottom a sword fitting his size. He took my distracted state as a optunity to hit me he swung his sword towards my neck i blocked the blade nearly hitting my neck he pulls blade back and tries to thrust into my chest i push my blade into the sword pushing it down into the ground it gets stuck into the dirt ground i kick his arm cuasing him to let go of the blade i see terror in his eyes he begins to turn around he’s trying to runni wont let him not this time i strike his leg with the tip of my blade the only place not protected by arm his tendont gets sliced and blood begins to gush from his leg he tried to limp away i trike his other leg a deep cut forms i see his bone popping out of the cut he fall to the ground i hobble over to him he turns to me “p-p-please have mercy “ i raise my blade struggling to rise it i have lost much energy from this encounter i strike it down into his head cracking open his skull and splitting his head in two i remove the blade from his skull i wiped off the blood and sheathed the blade.I hear a crash yelling and the sound of horse hooves aproaching all of a sudden 6 horses chrash through the wooden door i came through there being ridden by metal armor at the front of the charge is what i presume is the leader of this group they are wearing a black cape there armor was mostly black and grey there right shoulder peices covered in spikes they left one having a insignia of a wolf there helmet was that of a skull holes in the eyes and what looks like sword strikes gathering around the helmet showing battle experience they stare at me then at the generals body then back at me i stand there covered in blood they continue to stare on, halted on there horse there soldiers are behind them on there own soildiers about 5 men that i could see but i hear swords clashing and yelling in the distance i wasnt sure what there intentions were but i wasnt gonna take any chances. I draw my sword ready for whatever might come next. They stare more before hopping off their horse as far as I could see they had no weapon on them. My first immediate thought was they were concealing it somehow like how the general was before they started to walk towards me. My eyes grow heavy as the person approaches and i start to get woozy i still try to hold my blade but my eyes grow heavier and my arms feel weaker i drop my blade and my body follows the last thing i see before my eyes shut is the mysterious horse rider walking towards me.i see a light its growing brighter and brighter i see a person there back turned to me i look down i'm now standing in the light i approach the person i see what looks to be my father ahead of me i tap him on the shoulder he turns around to reveal it wasn't him no what stands in front of me was the person who captured the camp i was they stare at me before pushing me back i fall into light i fall and fall then it all turns to darkness i keep falling. I wake up in a dark tent there's nothing besides a wooden stool and a desk bandaged up feeling pain and fatigue no more i run my hand through my hair its no longer in a bun my hand gets caught on multiple knots i remove the blanket that's over me i see clothes ahead of me on a wooden stool they were simple cloth garbs a brown shirt and brown pants i put on the garbs and walked outside the light was blinding. My eyes adjusted to the light after a few seconds. I saw many tents surrounding the area. It was all set up in a random field. I'm not sure exactly where I am. I see many people walking around and talking i begin to wander around trying to figure out where i am or who that horse rider was or who these people are as i walk around i feel a tap on the shoulder i turn around to see a large strong man he had short brown hair and a scar across his right cheek he had a serious look on his face his mouth opened then he spoke with a deep growl “the boss wishes to see you come with me”who are you?” he turns around without answering and begins to walk off “huh ok tough guy” i followed him to a hill there on the top was a person riding a horse and wearing a black cape armor mostly black and gray a right shoulder piece covered in spikes the left one having a insignia of a wolf there helmet was that of a skull ,holes in the eyes and what looks like sword strikes gathering around the helmet my heart began to race i felt fear i wasn't sure why but the person in front of me caused fear in my heart my legs began to shake my hands followed the person turns their head to face me there helmet burns an image into my brain my fear grows my chest begins to feel tight and my breathing grows more sporadic i'm not sure whether to run or try to fight all i know is i need to do something. They lower their head and put their hand up to it. They remove their helmet and look up. I see a beautiful woman with long brown hair. She has a scar across her right eye, just barely missing her eye. Her eyes are two different colors one blue one brown she stares at me. So how was your sleep she said with a smile. As she said that all the fear and stress I had felt had melted away after realizing she wasn't trying to kill me”how long did i sleep for?”I spoke with a worried look. “About 4 days we really thought you were dead when you first passed out but seeing as your walking i assume you slept good”.i didn't know what to say it had been 4 days since we first met my body's was in horrible shape i blame that damn general i decided to speak.”who are you why did you save and most importantly where is my sword!” although i was calm at the start i became more angry as i spoke especially when it came to my sword”. She walks around to the right side of her horse i hear a click and then a snap she walks back around to where i am she is holding my sword.”here”she handed me my sword i picked it up i felt a warmth fill me”t-thank you”.she smiles “now as of where you are your in my camp were a group of mercenaries called _____ and i saved you because you seem strong and strength is useful to me you did kill that general we got paid much for that any more questions?”i stare at her i look back at the tents and people walking about i wonder if this is where i really wanna stay for a long time i look back at her”is there any place i could get some armor?” she smiles grabs my shoulder “ of course” she grabs her horses reed and leads it down i follow her and so does the mysterious man i speak up and say” so what's your name and his aswell” i point at the man with the scar she turns to him. “ oh him he is nagori my second in command and i am eris the leader of this group”.i looked towards nagori he looked as serious as the first time i met him i looked back at eris and spoke.” if you don't mind me asking where are you weapons” she stops moving for a moment she turns and lifts up her hand to show me she has sharpened claw like weapons on her hand there stained with blood” i have these there sharp enough to cut through armor the blood is nearly 2 years old its everyone i've ever killed using my hands” i am astonished by her skill she is amazing “ and what if they have a weapon” She stares for a moment then lowers her hand” well the claws are reinforced armor with padding so i can block strikes with them not always the best idea but if that doesn't work”. She moves her cape and and reveals a sword on her back it was a great sword the hilt was spiked the blade was crude with serrated edges it had a sharp tip it was large but still small enough to hide behind her perfectly.”i got this blade i made it myself thats why its very different from most blades but it's served me well in many many battles”she turns back around and continues walking we reach a tent with black smoke flowing out the top we stop right at the entrance eris looks towards me.”this is the blacksmiths tent he will set you up with some armor and a retouch on your sword i gotta get this back to his stable” eris pats the horse she walks aways nagori follows her after giving me a nasty stare i walk into the tent a wave of heat hits me it makes my eyes start to water i walk in clear my eyes and see a man hitting a slab of metal with a hammer sparks fly on each hit.”uhh hello im uh Hikaru Eris sent me”.The man looked up at me and spoke”ah yes Hikaru your armor finished yesterday glad to see you up and about its over there “ he points over to a stand draped over by a black towel covering up the armor.I walk over to the stand i grab at the black towel and began to pull it off. I see a nicely forged armor (Insert armor description here) i pull it off the stand and begin to put it on.”it fits well thank you”I smile at the man he stares back at me.”Nonsense your apart of the ____ now let me see your blade” i unsheathe my sword and hand it to the man. He drags his finger down the edge of the blade checking for any imperfections; he sets it down gently on a wooden table beside him.”Your blade is well made dull though needs to be sharpened “i speak” thank you it was my fathers… how long till it will be sharpened?” He stares at the blade then back at me "come back in a hour your sword will be finished”i shake his hand”thank you” i turn around and walk out of the tent.i see eris outside waiting with nagori by her side she looks me up and down”the armor looks nice” she says with a warm smile. I walk over to them and Samson stares at me the whole way. “You must be hungry, hikaru , let's get you something to eat,” Eris says while walking away nagori walks with her i follow them both. We come up to a campfire with multiple people sitting around a large pot sitting above the fire in the middle and a man stirs it. Eris points to the man stirring the pot “ this is our resident cook Jiro, he makes an amazing beef stew” he waves at me then goes back to stirring . Eris points again to a woman working on a piece of paper” this is samantha she is our resident cartographer” samantha waves at me the goes back to working on a drawing.Eris points towards another man sharpening a sword” this is jackson he is one of my generals” he turns towards me and walks he shaked my hand” nice to meet you i hope to lead you well in future battles” i smile at the man “ nice to meet you to jackson” he walks back to his sword and continues sharpening.i speak “ im hikaru nice to meet you all”as i finish talking i see Eris walks over to a log and sits down nagori follows her and goes to sit next to her. Eris stops him and speaks” nagori could you do me a favor and go check on hikaru's sword then my horse please” he stares at her then grumbles. He walks away i watch him as he walks away i turn back to the fire eris pats the place next to her i walk over and sit next to her jiro hands us a bowl of stew it's very warm I grab a spoon and start to eat the stew it's been a while since i've had a good mean.” wow this is amazing” jiro smiles at my compliment as he grabs his own bowl Samantha puts down her bowl and speaks”so hikaru what's your story?” I responded curiously “what do you mean?” She chuckles” i mean how did you end up in a arena ,and how did you become such a good fighter, where are you from stuff like that” i sigh after hearing all these questions not exactly sure what to do,eris responds for me” look none of that is important rn all we need to do is celebrate the coming of a new ally” samantha seemed satisfied with this response as she picks up her food. Some time passes as we talk about past battles we've all been in. At some point Nagori returned with my sword. I thanked him but he just walked by me before I knew it. It was night time everyone went back to there tents and eris had showed me where mine was i turned to her before entering my tent” thank you for taking me in this place is nice” eris smiles and responds “ it's not free of course your gonna be fighting for your stay make sure to be ready we have a job tomorrow”i nod before i speak “ i just have a question” she perks up” what is it?” I respond nervously “ well why did you become a leader of this mercenary band “ she laughs “ that's what you were nervous to say?” I respond quickly “ well I didn’t know if it was cause of something bad that happened or not” she quickly responds “ well I the reason why i've done all this was for respect and power when i grew up no one respected me because i was to week and a girl so i figured the stronger i got the more respect i would get that lead to me getting a group and becoming one of the most feared mercenaries out there… People respect me now.but it's not enough. I still want more power. I want people to know me and fear my very name. "I chuckle” that's a crazy reason but it's a good one so you're just on a quest for power” she laughs ” yeah basically”. She walks away from my tent and I turn towards my bed. I remove my armor and lay down in my bed. I quickly drift off to sleep. No nightmares approached me that night. I was relieved. Once I awoke I quickly became equipped with my sword and armor. I walked outside my tent and the sunlight nearly blinded me.I the sound of horse hooves approaches me getting closer by the second. The horse approaches me. The rider is fully geared up and ready. She patted the back of the horse signaling me to mount it. I jump up on the horse and Eris strikes the horse with the reeds. The horse lunged forward with incredible speed and ran towards where Eris guided it. We reached where everyone else had been on there own horses it was apparent I awoke late eris turned to me and spoke” sorry you have to ride with me there are no other horses left” I respond timidly” it doesn’t matter as long as i get to where i need to get” she nods she screams out a command” lets go we have money to earn and people to kill!”as she says this eris strikes the horse with the reeds once more causing it to run off all the other soldiers follow they charge off into the hills on there way to their current job after a couple hours of travel they arrive during the night

[ A piece about how childhood sexual trauma has affected my ability to accept love, and the feeling of inherent dirtiness and guilt it causes. This isn’t great and I will admit I’m having a difficult time putting this out there but I felt strongly inclined to share. Feedback is appreciated! ]

Can you feel the filth, now that you have loved me? Can you feel it building a nest inside of you?

It is my greatest failure to have defiled you, to have allowed you to love me, to have made such a beautiful thing unclean. I am sorry that you saw these old splintered pieces of wood half buried in the soil, wet and pungent with decay, and tried to build a home with them.

What a foolish thing, to have allowed myself to believe that I could be loved. To believe that I could be touched without contaminating the innocent with my filth.

I am sorry for deceiving you, for making you think that you could feel around the soiled spots, the rotting moth-eaten parts of me.

I am sorry, that in loving me you have gained nothing but the burden of my dirt and grime. My disease.

Hey everyone,

The deeper I've gotten into novels and poetry the more I am seeing a change. In the poetry classes I'm taking there's a lot of emphasis on sound. For instance, "prosody": sentence stress, sentence length and cadance. I'm still a beginner so I don't understand the topic as extensively to be able to explain it. However, one of the main ideas is that the prioritiy is sound and form.

In contrast, so far in the Novels/Prose courses that I have taken has had more focus on characters, plot and story. The main focus is on those topics. While we have talked about craft and the priority has been on moving the story forward. For instance, using "action verbs."

I'd like to hear your thoughts on this topic.

There is a strange, almost suffocating comfort in the mess. It is the kind that settles in so quietly, so gradually, that you do not even notice it until it becomes all-encompassing. The clutter is not just physical, it is an emotional landscape, too. For years, I let it build, unchecked and unchallenged. I thought the mess was something I could ignore, something that would eventually fix itself if I could just keep going, keep pretending that everything was fine. But when the mess inside started to mirror the mess outside, I had no choice but to confront it. I remember the day it hit me. The house had been growing increasingly chaotic, the papers piling up, the laundry piling higher, and I could not bring myself to do anything about it. There was always an excuse. Work was busy. My partner was traveling. The baby needed me. But it was not just the baby crying anymore, it was the chaos, the disarray in my head and my heart from which I was running. The day started like any other. I woke up to the sound of the baby crying, loud and insistent. Her cries echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the walls as if they knew the mess was there and wanted to point it out to me. I dragged myself out of bed, numb to the noise, numb to the fact that I had not had a decent night’s sleep in months. As I made my way to her crib, stepping over toys, clothes, and forgotten shoes, I could not help but feel that this was more than just another morning. The clutter was no longer just annoyance, it was a symbol of everything I was avoiding. The house was falling apart, and so was I. The baby kept crying. She did not stop. I picked her up, and her small body curled into mine, seeking comfort. Her crying, though, felt louder in the silence that followed. My hands trembled as I tried to rock her to sleep. How could I be a good mother, a good person, when I could not even keep my house in order? I had always prided myself on being organized, on keeping things in control. But somewhere along the way, I had lost myself in the mess. It was not just the baby crying anymore, it was the clutter, the disorganization, the piles of unopened bills and half-empty cups of coffee scattered around the apartment. The mess had become a metaphor for my life—out of control, disjointed, and overwhelming. I was drowning, and the mess was pulling me under. I had always been a perfectionist. It was something I had inherited from my mother, who would wake up early every Saturday to scrub the house from top to bottom, making sure every surface gleamed with cleanliness. She had taught me that a tidy house reflected a tidy mind. But that was before life became more complicated. Before the baby. Before the career. Before the world became a blur of obligations, expectations, and deadlines. I thought that if I could keep things together on the outside, then everything on the inside would eventually follow. But I was wrong. The thought echoed in my mind, growing louder as the day went on. It was a nagging voice, like the baby’s persistence, demanding attention. I tried to focus, to calm myself, but it felt impossible. How had I let it get to this point? How had I let everything fall apart without realizing it? The kitchen was the worst. It used to be a place of warmth, where I would cook meals with love, invite friends over for dinner, chat while chopping vegetables, and sipping wine. Now it was cluttered with empty containers, dirty dishes, and receipts from takeout. It was not just physical mess—it was emotional mess, too. Every dish that had not been washed, every piece of mail that had not been opened, every book that had not been read felt like a missed opportunity, a promise unfulfilled. The kitchen felt foreign to me now, a place I once found joy in that had become an overwhelming reminder of everything I had neglected. I walked through the apartment, stepping over books, piles of laundry, forgotten reminders. My feet moved mechanically, one step after another, but my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Was this really my life? Was this who I had become? The guilt washed over me like a wave, drowning out the other thoughts. I should have been better. I should have kept things neat, kept my life in order. Instead, I had allowed everything to become overwhelming. The laundry sat untouched. The dirty dishes remained, stacked up like my unspoken feelings. I opened the drawer to toss a stray receipt, and there, buried under the chaos, was a letter from my mother. The paper felt strangely heavy in my hand. It was not a new letter. In fact, it was from years ago. I had never opened it. Why didn’t I? I do not know. I had been afraid of what I would read. I did not want to face the feelings that I knew would stir up. I opened it, and the familiar handwriting brought me back to the past when things were not so complicated, a time when love did not feel so elusive. But it was not just the letter that made me pause. It was the weight of the years. The years of avoidance. The years of pushing people away because I could not deal with the clutter, both physical and emotional. The years of neglecting the relationships that mattered because I did not have the energy to fix what was wrong inside me. I could not face the mess, and so I ran from it. But as I sat there, staring at the letter in my hand, I realized that I was no longer running. The mess was there, yes. It was overwhelming, it was heavy, but it was also the story of my survival. Every pile of clothes, every dish, every unopened letter was a testament to how hard I had fought to keep going, even when it felt like everything was falling apart. The clutter was not just failure, it was proof that I had lived through it all. I had let the mess take over because I was scared. I feared what would happen if I faced it. If I started cleaning, I might have to confront everything I had been avoiding. I might have to confront the truth about myself, the truth that I was not perfect, that I had made mistakes, that I had neglected the things that mattered most. But as I sat in the middle of the mess, the weight of the letter in my hands, I realized that the mess was not the problem. The problem was that I had been too afraid to look at it, to understand it, to clean it up. The clutter was not an enemy, it was a part of me, a reflection of everything I had gone through. I stood up, suddenly determined. The mess did not define me, but it was part of my story. And if I was going to move forward, I had to face it, one step at a time. I started with the kitchen, clearing the counters, putting the dishes in the sink, folding the laundry. It was not much, but it was something. It was the beginning. The baby had stopped crying by now. I rocked her gently in my arms, and the soft weight of her against me brought me back to the present. I did not have all the answers. I did not have everything figured out. But I knew one thing: I was not going to let the mess control me anymore. I began to understand that the mess was not just something to be fixed, it was something to be understood. Every pile of laundry, every piece of paper, every neglected corner of the house was a piece of my history, my struggle, and my survival. It was not perfect. It was not neat. But it was mine. And as I cleared away the clutter, both inside and out, I realized that the mess was not the end of the journey. It was just the beginning. A beginning not of perfection but of acceptance, of realizing that I could still move forward despite the chaos. I was no longer defined by the mess. The clutter was simply the backdrop to a much deeper story. A story of resilience, of learning to accept my own imperfections, and of finding meaning in the mess. It was not easy. Some days, the clutter would return. Some days, it would feel like too much again. But each time it came back, I would remind myself that it was just a part of the process. It was not a failure, it was a lesson, a reminder of how far I had come. The mess, in the end, was not the enemy. It was the starting point. It was the place where I learned to see myself for who I truly was—flawed, overwhelmed, but still moving forward. The journey was not about erasing the mess; it was about learning to live with it, to find meaning in it, and to move through it with grace. And so, as I looked around my home, no longer overwhelmed by the clutter, I realized that it had taught me something invaluable: that even in the mess, there is meaning. There is growth. There is life. And, just maybe, that is enough.

XA 11/9/24 Dear you,

I know you are tired. So am I. We fight the same fight on different fronts. We may be winning, but pyric this victory is. Morale and valor keep you going. Me, the damage and pain, physical blunts. Friends and family at home mean the world to you.

But it means the worlds for me, distant and segregated from my own. How is your squadron doing? I haven’t seen mine in weeks. Don’t lose sight of yours. It will drive you alone. Afterall, it is all you have to accompany you.

You can aim for a medal. But you aim at the heads of others too. Be it the enemy or the squadron. No medal comes free. To then I ask, why aim when there are bodies you accrue? What then really drives you.

I know you are tired. So am I. We can end this war right now. And yet you still aim for a medal, aim your weapon. Do the heads not stop you and your vow? The war is now you.

And I’m the deserter.

Hey everyone,
I juat launched a passion project called Messy Corners where I dive into different passions, one messy hobby at a time. As part of that, I’m sharing some of my original poems in a corner dedicated to creative work. This one, in particular, is simple and one of my favorites.

Here’s the poem:

If a tree falls in an empty forest,

Does it make a sound?

they say no, it doesn’t,

for there’s no one to hear.

But my heart says otherwise.

It does make a sound.

The squirrels in its branches 

hear it with their tiny hearts.

The birds, whose nests are shattered,

feel it in the ache of their wings.

The tree that stood beside it

listens, but their shared stories fall silent.

And I believe, someday, that sound

will ripple out to every soul,

filling the silence they never knew was there,

until it hums gently through the air.

I’d love any feedback or thoughts you might have. Whether it’s about the imagery, the rhythm, or just your general impression, I’m open to it all!
Also, if you have any tips for someone working on blending life reflections with creative writing, I’m all ears.

If you’re interested in following my creative journey, check out Messy Corners https://messycorners.wordpress.com/. Thanks!

#CreativeWriting #Poetry #MessyCorners #WritingCommunity

There’s something I’ve wanted (read: needed) to express, and until recently I’ve never had the courage to even attempt to formulate the words because I knew it would be a fool’s errand. I knew I needed to work on myself to become a person worthy of the high standards that I’ve always kept, because I’ve known my true self to always be worthy of them. However, my inner demons have always deprived me of internalizing this worthiness and to do so has been a battle I’ve fought almost my entire life. I always have been my worst enemy and, as such, my demons were indeed the most worthy adversary I could ever possibly manifest. However, now finally finding myself ultimately triumphant in my decades long war, I am now at liberty to discuss that which is now most important to me - finding a path to my true happiness.

While it may not be secret that I am terrible at dating, to the point where I’ve considered it an exercise in statistically hopeless absurdity in order to find true love, it is probably not known that I am and always have been a hopeless romantic in spite of what I’ve just stated. I fall in love with the idea of being in love unconditionally, without compromise, as one half of a whole, forging a loyally unified completeness bound by both chaotic illogical uncertainty and a sense of eternal fulfillment. Until recently, I considered myself unworthy of seeking this because I could not commit to the absolute level of responsibility required for this role. I was self-absorbed, emotionally unavailable, and as such any relationship I’ve attempted was ultimately doomed to fail because I could not emotionally reciprocate or express my feelings beyond the shallow pool that was my limited emotional vocabulary. I could blame my parents, childhood bullies, social ineptitude, poor past choice in romantic pursuits, or even bad weather for being the root cause, but I eventually came to understand that I am undeniably primarily responsible for everything that I have felt, now feel, and will feel in the future.

However, now I feel as I’ve never felt before, fully embracing both positive and negative emotional spectrums in order to finally establish myself as someone who is capable of the authentic reciprocity required to be correctly in love with someone. I now know myself to be ready to be receiving of the seemingly impossible standards I’ve always held. I must recognize and express my awareness that such words could come just as easily from someone who might intend to manipulate through emotional subterfuge, but I have the utmost confidence in myself to allow my actions to prove that I now speak absolute truth. I would go as far to boldly claim that to betray these words I’ve written would be to betray myself and everything I believe in.

What I hadn’t realized until recently, however, is that there was indeed one person in my life who has met my above average criteria and I started mentally referring to her likeness in order to personify them. Unsurprisingly, I’ve not yet met anyone who even remotely compares because of how amazing she really is. But here’s the thing - in my journey to get to my current mindset, I knew I needed a deep internalized understanding that I must be comfortable with accepting that she may be incapable of or uninterested in reciprocating the level of admiration I hold for her. My desires (or lack thereof) must only ever be aligned with hers, else I choose to live within a realm of unhealthy irrationality and desperation. With that being said, I now declare myself mentally and emotionally capable to handle any outcome which may arise as a result of expressing these words openly, and should things not go my way I know there are others I have simply not yet encountered in my hopefully long life journey who may ultimately meet or even surpass my expectations (which would truly be a pleasant surprise indeed).

This is not to say I am madly in love with this person, merely in love with the idea of her. I care for her deeply, but rationally this can and should only merely ever be expressed as simple affection until I know for sure that she could feel something deeper for me too. How she feels affects me, but her rejection will not break me. I can only accept her truth as I accept that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. But if she were to feel as I do, that would certainly be magnificent. I would look forward to many days of future happiness to come with her, at a pace which we are both mutually comfortable. For I do not require labels nor immediate commitment, only a sign that my feelings might really not be irrational after all as well as a willingness to allow a relationship to naturally blossom (or, hopefully amicably, wither away) as it was meant to be.

I digress - I recognize that, in spite of my accomplishments and my progress in my self-improvement, I still have much more self-improvement to achieve. I have been made painfully aware of all of my physical, mental, and emotional flaws but I am proud to say that I am no longer ashamed of them and I no longer consider them to be disqualifying when it comes to being able to be loved by someone. I can only promise to myself that I always continue to try and be the best person that I can be without any harsh self-criticism of my imperfections. I promise that I shall always do this first and foremost for myself, but also for anyone whom I might be lucky enough to fall in love with someday.

It took a lot of words to get here but quite simply, in conclusion, I hope that the person I might be lucky enough to fall in love with someday reminds me of you.

The condensation against the seat window acts as a suffocating and oppressive reminder that I’m enclosed in an uncomfortably warm and moist sardine tin.

The lack of ventilation in tandem alerts me that I’m inhaling each passengers sweat, smells and other particulates causing me to consciously hold my breath as much as I can in a futile attempt to mitigate a chance of me becoming ill or catching the next mutant strain of corona or an airborne version of monkeypox or whatever new human-borne virus is doing the rounds in today’s news cycle.

The faint tinny sound of shitty music turned up far too loud played through cheap headphones, punctuated by the occasional cough or sneeze has been the soundtrack of the last half hour or so of my journey, courtesy of the various other commuters that have joined me in my monday morning march towards the grey capital.

As we draw closer to London the train becomes more full with each stop, the swell of people inside the carriages turning the train from a machine into a loose clot shooting through one of the city’s many pulsating arteries.

A fat and damp smelling man congeals next to me, seemingly unaware that while he takes form his leg uncomfortably presses into mine as it yearns for more space as though it were liquid flesh filling a cup.

Of course, I’m not moving for him. Why should I have to shuffle away or concede to this lump?

I’m already within the cramped parameter carved out by the chewing gum adorned hard plastic and stain obfuscating fabric covered seat, It’s not my fault that McDonald’s is his Church and he’s devoted himself to the body of Christ.

So he can just fuck off.

The mouldy mound of meat takes laboured breaths as he places his bag atop his lap and rests his head back against the convenient cushion that the flab on the back of his neck and head forms.

I try to imagine his home life to fill my time, surely he doesn’t have a partner to go back to. I’m sure his NHS prescribed CPAP machine would’ve all but ensured his loneliness.

Judging by the pungent and sour smell mixed with what I can only assume is a cheap fragrance from the Boots clearance shelf, i’m certain he hasn’t showered.

I can only imagine how cluttered his home is. No doubt filled with greasy takeaway containers, piles of sauce stained clothes strewn about the place, crisp packets, empty cans and a shit crusted toilet that could put a Friday night spoons to shame.

Vile.

Of course my English sensibilities keep this judgement contained, I wasn’t raised to be a cunt - I just am one.

I stare out of the window, remembering what it was like to be outside all those minutes ago when I could breathe fresh air.

Oh how I took the cold and wet weather for granted. It was the headline of this morning’s monologue and ever updating list of complaints and now there’s nothing I desire more than to be outside.

The droplets cast across the window by the speed of the train tease their freedom, a luxury I don’t have - At least until Fenchurch Street.

I sit there I sit there wondering Wondering if I should eat

An empty plate I only see an empty plate

I’m starving

Eating I hate eating

Every time I sit down to eat I feel like I’m being eaten Eaten from my stomach out

Dose it matter if I eat Either way I’ll cry after

I’m starving

My earliest memories of school used to be filled with me sitting in the corner at reading time, holding a book I didn't understand. Reading time for me was sitting there watching kids around me enjoying their books. Everyone, except for me; I couldn't read.

I shatter I shatter like a mirror every time I look at my self

Hundred of thousands of pieces It feels like my soul is broken into pieces

Apart of me wants to love myself The other wants to rip myself apart

Breaking, Tearing, Ripping, Killing, Tugging, Pulling, Cutting, Splitting, Loathing, Despising, Resenting, Hating…

That is what I see when I look into a mirror not broken mirror

Shattered pieces Shattered pieces of me

I peer out into the cosmos through the screen in my habitation chamber. The endless expanse - the boundless beyond. Hidden twixt the stars, and tucked in the folds of the universe, I lie in bed dreaming at the potential futures ahead of me. A distant galaxy, its scale incomprehensible, as nebulas coloured the void that lay in between. Exoplanets drift by, vagabonds searching for a new home. E-0001 had become so distant to me now - the endless nights, the caustic rains, the endless wastes barren of life. That was all behind me. As my eyes grow weary and I drift to sleep, thoughts of hope fill my mind as I dream of the potential of tomorrow.

Dreams, equal parts tangible, and ephemeral. 

I wake up to an alarm blaring. Its discordant screeches offering no reprieve to those who choose to chase those sweet dreams. There was work to be done. Not until E-0001 had been entirely stripped of every last drop of its resources. I lowered myself from the top bunk as the occupant of the lower bunk pressed his hands against his ears in an attempt to quiet the hell-song of the wake-up call.

“GOOD MORNING, EXTRACTORS. A FRUITFUL DAY LIES AHEAD OF YOU. DO YOUR PART - FOR A UNIFIED HUMANITY.”

It was routine. I grabbed my gear and kit and took off my comfort wear. I pulled the neorubber undersuit over me, wrangling it to conform to my body. It would take to my form eventually, clinging to me like a second skin. The synthofiber suit was next. Designed to protect from the elements of the outside - heat and acid-rain proof, durable, capable of filtering out the toxins in the air and able to withstand copious amounts of radiation. 

I pulled my extraction tool off its rack, and made my way to the elevator that would take me to the surface of E-0001. There was work to be done. For a Unified Humanity. 

The surface of E-0001 was an uninhabitable wasteland. Skies a permanent washed-out blackish grey blotted by inky clouds that bore no water, substituting it for sulphuric acid. The air was sparse in oxygen and abundant in toxins. The atmosphere grown so thick with waste that sunlight could scarcely penetrate it. Nuclear fallout from the left behind reactors mingled in with the rest of the filth in the atmosphere, making E-0001’s surface a constantly radioactive hellscape. There was one but reason we were sent to its surface - vantanium. A substance borne of the hellish conditions of E-0001’s surface. As all the filth and waste swirled and churned in an atmosphere draped by a thick film of radiation, vantanium formed. A complex material comprised of an amalgamation of various high-energy substances bound together and infused with nuclear energy. Upon its discovery, it became an invaluable resource to fuel the discovery fleets on their voyages due to its sheer density of energy. It formed as clusters on the surface where the pollution was especially potent. The more potent the pollution, the purer the vantanium, and the greater the energy yield. So it fell upon us, the Vantaminers of the Unified Humanity to extract the vantanium that formed on E-0001’s surface to be sent back to our brothers amongst the stars.

It was funny, humanity’s forsaken birthplace would ultimately serve to be the key to its future. We just couldn’t stop exploiting the First Earth, one way or another. We were bound to this place - bound to keep pillaging it of all it had left. 

It was another day of standard protocol. The surveyors had found a freshly formed cluster of vantanium, one of the higher potencies we had seen in a while, and we were being sent to extract as much as we could within the day. We boarded the crew rover, and were en route to the cluster. The weather got harsher the farther out from the safe zone we got. This cluster was at the very edge of the current designated exploreable region. Past that, an ashen, toxic storm not even our suits could protect us from.

We stopped at the extraction area. Our boots sunk into the black soil as it crumbled beneath us. I could feel the heavy assault of caustic rain upon my suit, and had to control my breaths as to not exceed the rate of breathable oxygen I was receiving. Ahead of me I could see the outlines of vantanium jutting out of the ground, and as I drew closer I came to truly realise the purity of this cluster. Vantanium got its namesake from vantablack, the deepest shade of black known to man. It is said true vantablack would be akin to a silhouette - a shadow, with no impression of anything within. Like gazing into a void. As for vantanium, it is said that the deeper the black, the closer it was to true vantablack, the purer the strain and higher the potential energy yield. The cluster we found on that day was the deepest black I had ever seen in my four years on E-0001. It looked like wherever the vantanium should have been, it had been cut out, leaving only emptiness in its place. This cluster could have been our crew’s ticket out of here. Our quotas met, free to return to the greater fleets. I would glance through my comrades’ visors to catch a glimpse of their faces - they all realised it, and that newfound hope added a long-lost luster to their expressions, however faint. All except for one; Miner D-36. He had always struggled with the job, more so mentally than physically, and it reflected in his demeanor. It would only escalate over the years, making him a recluse among recluses despite his prescribed therapy. Therapy that, far as I knew, was completely ineffective, the shrinks just as in over their heads as the people they were supposed to be helping.

We set up the protective barrier around the site, stopping any outside influence from affecting the extraction process as well as setting a controlled environment where the vantanium could be handled in a suitable manner. This particularly pure strain was bound to be especially volatile. Our extractor tools were specially made to excavate and extract vantanium, as it produced a highly concentrated beam perfectly tuned to the chemical makeup of vantanium, slicing through it like butter - while not risking a small-scale nuclear detonation. We were not to handle it by hand, and instead used a mechanical arm fixated on the underside of the extractor tool calibrated to handle vantanium. We would then transport it the loader cart, carefully placing each slice of vantanium in its own chambered segment as to avoid collision as the cart would make its way through the tube that connected the protective barrier to the main rover. There were steps to be followed in a certain order, and I took some small comfort in the procedure of it all. A job well done is a job well done no matter what you’re doing or where you are, I suppose.

Everything was going smoothly - by the books, as procedure would entail. That was until a small crowd began to form, followed by panicked hollering and anxious whispering between the crew. 

The crowd was formed around D-36.

He stood at the center of the site, visor off and hood pulled back, respiratory system detached. Unmoving. He seemed strangely at peace as his face took on a grey hue, his labored breathing seeming almost meditative and controlled. Strange as all this was on its own, I did not realise the danger until I saw what was clutched in his hand.

A chunk of vantanium.

In his tight grip I could see the strain it was being put under. Cracks forming on its surface, rippling with white-hot energy. 

A booming, metallic voice rang out through the site: “HALT.”

The Lawkeepers. Unified Humanity’s peacekeepers, elite personnel tasked with overseeing all major human operations across the stars. The ones assigned to our crew had been called on-site from the rover.

They stood adamant, pulse rifles trained directly at D-23 .

D-36 angled his head to face the Lawkeepers, an antagonistic and defiant spark glimmering in his eyes. Yet beneath that, I saw something else.

Liberation.

“D-36, YOU SHALL BE GIVEN NO FURTHER WARNINGS AFTER THIS. PUT DOWN THE VANTANIUM AND FOLLOW PROCEDURE OR DIE. YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO COMPLY.”

“My name is not D-36. My name, my human name, is fucking Johnny. And I will free all of you. Comrades, let us see paradise.”

He raised the hand clutching the vantanium. Shots were fired. The pulse rounds pierced right through Johnny’s skull in an instant, but not before he was able to send the vantanium crashing down. In a split second I was able to see the vantanium shatter as it struck the ground, in a moment that still plays in my head in slow-motion. A substance known for its deep black, yet I had never seen anything so bright. A white light soon engulfed everything, and a comforting warmth embraced me. I hadn’t felt so warm in so long.

I thought that was the end of me.

And there I was again. Drifting in space. This time, there was no ship separating me and the infinite cosmos. I was at the universe’s whim. No longer bound by procedure and protocol. A wanderer adrift, floating through nebula dust as the wonders of the great beyond passed me by. A thick silence weighed down on it all - like a snug, weighted blanket. The kind of silence that came with peace of mind. The kind of silence I hadn’t felt in a long time. Memories of my childhood, faint recollections and hazy images, hopped from neuron to neuron as they flickered in my mind. My earliest memories being that of staring out the windowpane of one of the ships in the greater fleets, mind awash with wonder. Mouth agape with awe. The colours, the sheer scope of it all. One day, that child would see the stars. 

Me and that child went our separate ways long ago, and I have yet to see him since. 

I wake up. A white light hangs above me. It took a while for my vision to adjust - to make sense of all the blurred shapes. I was in the medical bay. One of the attending nurses noticed me awake, and filled me in on my situation. I, along with a handful of other miners on that crew, had survived the blast. However, the suit could only withstand a certain amount of the radiation. Every ‘survivor’ was soon to die. I hadn’t noticed it due to the sheer amount of anesthesia I was put on to ease the pain, but my left arm and leg, which bore the brunt of the blast, was entirely disfigured. Riddled with tumors, and visibly expanding. My time was limited - very limited. And so I was given a choice.

Await my own painful end, or be put down.

I told the nurse I needed some time to think about it. But I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I knew how this had to end. 

He left the room to tend to the other survivors.

I got up, ripping off the life support systems off of me, making use of the last amount of energy I had left and the time I had before the painkillers wore off, and the pain would cripple me. I shambled my way through the busy corridors, the left side of my body draped over by a sheet as to not draw attention to my tumors that were still convulsing as they spread and expanded. 

The rest of the station was in disarray. Riots seemed to have broken out, no doubt spurred on by Johnny’s actions. The spark of rebellion had been lit. Lawkeepers violently bearing down on dissident miners, miners retaliating in futile attempts to fight back. It all seemed so distant to me as I limped past the chaos and made it back to my chambers.

Tucked away in my box of keepsakes, there was a vial containing a small chunk of vantanium. In that same box, a stolen keycard that once belonged to a Lawkeeper. A keycard that would grant access to one of the Unified Humanity ships docked in the hangar bay.

It was easy to get past security. They had their hands full attempting to quell the riots. I loaded the vantanium into the energy depository, and set course for the farthest point in the known universe. Once the course was set, I took off.

As the ship ran on autopilot, I sat, reclined in the captain’s seat at its front. Exiting E-0001’s atmosphere was no smooth ride - the ship buckled and bent as the turbulent winds and caustic rain bombarded its hull while attempting to penetrate its thick outer atmosphere. 

Eventually, the view cleared, and all that was visible ahead of me was the blackness of space. As I viewed E-0001’s ravaged, lifeless surface from the rear cameras as it shrunk into the distance, a feeling of melancholy washed over me. I had only heard stories of the First Earth. A beautiful place, where nature was abundant. Its land verdant and fertile, and vast expanses of deep blue ocean. I felt strangely nostalgic for a time I did not live. Perhaps humanity was intrinsically linked to this place through every generation. Maybe one day, we would return here, and right the wrongs of our ancestors. Our rightful place. 

I swallowed some high-intensity painkillers that I had nicked from the medical room to alleviate the pains of the growing cancer. 

I did not have long left.

I looked out the windowpane through the front of the ship, seeing the endless stars before me. I felt a tinge of that wonder. One last taste of it as the cosmos beckoned me deeper in still. My thoughts would quiet, and I would be entranced in its beauty. What lay beyond? What mysteries does the universe truly hold? Childlike wonder flooded my head, and I felt as though I could naively dream once more. One final time.

I glimpsed at my faint reflection on the windowpane, only to find something else. 

That child I hadn’t seen in so long had come back to see me, a beaming smile on his face. A smile full of curiosity and hope. A smile that hoped for a better tomorrow.

My long lost other half finally found his way to me, and now, we would explore the universe together, just like how we always wanted to.

Lewis More, signing off.

I sat in the empty house, the walls heavy with all that was gone. Outside, the world went on—birds in the trees, leaves moving in the wind, the sun crossing the sky as if nothing had changed. But it had.

I thought of their small hands reaching for mine, trusting. I thought of the laughter that filled this place, high and clear, like something I’d once known. Now, only silence pressed down until I could hardly breathe.

I didn’t look at their rooms. Couldn’t. I sat with the ache, sharp and endless, and thought maybe that was all I had left.

I've heard from serval sources that it's taboo to use italics in narrative fiction, but I was wondering if this usage of italics falls under that taboo or if it actually clarifies the text for the reader. The context of the scene is a character putting together a theory about the details of a murder that has happened.

"That was the what Harry believed to have happened last night, and he thought he knew the why too."

Would the sentence read the same without the italics?

Should I restructure the sentence to avoid using the italics?

Any thoughts/comments are greatly appreciated!

today, i washed the rice a little more than usual.

it goes unnoticed, the farcical grasp of each grain permeating into what seems to be a refuge of flowing, violent cleansing. deviating it seems, there's no telling if perhaps it's the other way around. the thing is, my episodes of feigning regard on the seeping grease; clothing my slouching marrows into a knitted vernacular of intoxication, abhors my carnal gestures. it simply wallows into disdain. merely the genesis to a perpetually lethargic nap. a churning bargain to a customary greeting of rancid, vilifying aperitifs of a child's grief. strangely, my vulgar attempts of rebellion—"rinsing twice would've been enough"—felt very reminiscent to the pleas of my rotting flesh consumed by the tenderness of septic fatherly liquor sessions. this is as sane as my evenings went about every passing instance i am reminded that blood sucking pests are way more intimate to me than life itself. that i ought to never cease in devoting to my kin my very own alphabet of gratitude. that it is my will to attain the legacy mourned off of severed adult sentiments. that i am but an entity of every monikers but my own. that i bear fault in scorching the rice.

regardless, i blame the starch. not that it matters, it's only rice. plain white rice. just a little burned.

Hello, I’m relatively new to both Reddit and creative writing. I just started writing a book for a couple of weeks. And I was hoping to find a place to post my story (like WEBTOON). Is there a site dedicated to new authors??

hey i wrote this youtube script about the fall of chuck e. cheese, how it started, troubles it went through, and how it’s currently doing. what do you think about the writing and is there something i need to improve or tweak? https://docs.google.com/document/d/1adybt7svUBfBmoCjUk2yFgbR-yaSQcVcPBxj_Wl4m5o/edit

Hello everyone, I hope this is the right place to ask for advice on this

I have always enjoyed experiencing stories in any way, form and shape. And for just as long I have struggled with imagining and describing characters, especially facial expressions. A therapist I talked to recently confirmed I am face-blind, so at least I can now ask for resources without feeling like an impostor

So face-blind writers, are there any resources you use to deal with describing facial expressions? Any advice in general on how to deal with this?

🇺🇸 The world is at a breaking point, and the American Dream? It’s on its last damn breath! We were promised a future where hard work and determination would lead to success and security, but that vision is crumbling right in front of us. This isn’t just a bump in the road—this is the slow, brutal death of the American Dream, and we’re watching it happen in real time!

For years, our so-called “leaders” have gutted the systems that actually keep society strong: education, healthcare, fair wages. Instead, they’ve fed us a steady stream of bullshit, twisting facts, tearing down the very experts who could help us. The result? A population drowning in misinformation, struggling to tell fact from fiction, and so overwhelmed that many have just given up. This isn’t a fucking accident—it’s a calculated betrayal. They want us too confused, too broke, too damn tired to fight back. And guess what? It’s working.

Meanwhile, the ultra-wealthy live like kings, shielded from the chaos the rest of us are dealing with every damn day. Housing prices are through the roof, wages are stagnant, and we’re told to just “work harder” or get another job if we can’t make it work. It’s bullshit! The whole system is designed to keep us struggling, to make us think that if we’re failing, it’s our own damn fault. Meanwhile, the people at the top keep getting richer, raking in profits while we scramble for the scraps they throw us.

Carl Sagan saw this coming years ago and wrote about it in 1995 in The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark. He warned of a future where, in his words:

“I have a foreboding of an America in my children’s or grandchildren’s time—when the United States is a service and information economy; when nearly all the manufacturing industries have slipped away to other countries; when awesome technological powers are in the hands of a very few, and no one representing the public interest can even grasp the issues; when the people have lost the ability to set their own agendas or knowledgeably question those in authority; when, clutching our crystals and nervously consulting our horoscopes, our critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what’s true, we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness…”

And that’s where we’re headed! We’re watching every nightmare Sagan warned about come true right before our eyes—a society that’s lost its ability to think critically, trapped in a haze of superstition and bullshit, blindly following leaders who are thrilled to exploit our confusion. This isn’t just a failure of policy; it’s the beginning of the end for a democracy that relies on an informed, empowered public.

The American Dream has been hijacked, sold off piece by piece to the highest bidder. If we don’t wake the hell up, if we don’t get angry and demand real change, we’re looking at a future where freedom, fairness, and opportunity are nothing but fairy tales we tell ourselves to get through the day. But it doesn’t have to end like this. We can reclaim the promise that was stolen from us, build a system that values people over profits, and create a future that’s fair for everyone.

The American Dream isn’t dead yet—but if we don’t act, it sure as hell will be. It’s time to tear down the walls they’ve built around us, to question those in power, and to fight like hell for a society that actually works for all of us. This is our moment to stand up and demand a better world. Because if we don’t? The darkness that Sagan warned about will be our future. And that’s not something we can no longer afford to ignore. 🇺🇸

His job was so easy — especially after being gamified.

He had a straightforward objective — protect struggling lands with minerals needed to grow essential crops.

The drones used were simple to control — not just the metal ones that fly.

The state-of-the-art systems would essentially paint the areas that had been depleted, needing a boost. He was an expert at timing the liquid compound drop — the highest coverage rate in his unit.

-----

The farmer watched as his crops quickly browned, before collapsing into toxic flakes of oppression. He wasn’t able to pay the drastically increased fees — his finances harvested by the vulturous system of legal mobbery.

This was his third strike. His crops didn’t grow for a month the first offense — six months for the second. He was hoping these weren’t baseball rules.

-----

The General of Finance, timidly questioned the non-use of a more efficient manner — having A.I. streamline the operation.

The exalted ruler stoically clarified, “There’s something more rewarding, a pervasive desire for my kind, in watching a person destroy their own world — starting with the livelihood of others in it.”

I wrote this essay. A creative nonfiction piece. It falls extremely flat doesn’t it? Can someone please help me with the writing and give the piece critiques and help me understand the literary devices.

I would love any and all of the feedback you can give me!!

https://docs.google.com/file/d/1zpQuYE5onkJ-JP_BzQsKeZyiLsfAGoLH/edit?usp=docslist_api&filetype=msword

I remember my Uncle Skinny–he was always funny and light-hearted. The Ironic thing being that he wasn’t skinny at all; he was broad-shouldered and on the heavier side, the build of a heavyweight boxer. His real name was Ronny Long, he got that nickname “Skinny” from his time in Vietnam and it just stuck with him after the war. His job was to carry the m60 machine gun along with most of his platoon’s ammo. I wasn't there, but he had the heart of a poet, so he could describe things in almost picture-perfect detail: The burning ache of his arms as he hauled around the mechanized hunk of steel, the dense green foliage, the thick, almost suffocating humid air, the squishing of his boots sinking into the mud, the incessant, obnoxious cawing of exotic birds, followed by the chirping of unknown insects. The way he described his time there was almost like describing a painting, Uncle Skinny always said how he never been in any combat situation–which I doubted–but, in turn, he never had any “interesting” war stories. The closest he came to one was how he came home: he fell into one of those punji stake traps, got a horrible infection and almost lost his leg. But because of the injury, he had to come home early. But what I’m about to tell you confirmed what I’d always suspected: that Uncle Skinny had, indeed, experienced an interesting war story.

It was late June of ‘99 when I got a call from the house phone. Uncle Skinny was working on repairing damage to his barn from a twister that had passed through a few days earlier. The young man he’d hired to help hadn't shown up, so he figured that he’d get someone of a similar age who wasn’t busy. I was fresh out of my junior year of highschool and enjoying summer break, so I figured that I would use this time to get money and to spend time with my uncle.

I spent my day toiling away in the Oklahoma sun, working on the roof of the house and forcing the shingles into place. Sweat clung to me, soaking my thin Metallica t-shirt and making it stick to my body. When I finished the last shingle, I wiped the sweat from my brow and appreciated the cool breeze that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Climbing down the creaking ladder, I told Uncle Skinny that the job was done and asked for a drink. He asked this question in a joking manner, “Beer or water?” At the time, I found it a little embarrassing that as a seventeen year old boy who grew up in rural Oklahoma, that I’d never drunk a single ounce of alcohol. So, in a desperate attempt to impress him, I asked for a Miller Lite from the cooler. “You drink beer?” he asked. I, of course, lied through my teeth, saying I can drink him under the table.

He saw right through my bluff, but I didn't recognize it. I congratulated myself with a job well done as I heard the rattle of ice and was handed a white can. Cracking it open, I raised the can to my lips, and my mouth was immediately assaulted by the cold, crisp, and yet horribly bitter taste of the beer. I spitted it out, mostly out of surprise at how awful it tasted. How in the hell people can drink that stuff was beyond me. Uncle Skinny was laughing hysterically, wheezing and cackling like a madman. I didn't find spitting the drink funny in itself, but his contagious laugh made it hilarious. I couldn't help but laugh along with him.

A few hours later, we were sitting around on the front porch after a long day of hard work. I was telling him about school, the girl I thought I’d marry one day, and the car I planned to get in the future. In exchange, he told me dirty jokes, the stupid stuff he and my dad got into when they were kids, and tales from his travels across the country. During the last story, he took the tip of a flathead screwdriver and was cleaning out the gunk from under his fingernails.

In the middle of this, he froze. He stared at his dirty fingers with a fish-eyed look, went pale, stood up, and excused himself to go inside. I got concerned. I had never seen him like that before. For someone who was always goofy and light hearted to suddenly go grim was frightening.

When he came back, he apologized and sat down again. I asked him what had happened and he gave a look as if he really didn't want to say what was bothering him but felt he had to. “Well…” he began, “there's something I haven't really told anyone. To be fair, I had completely forgotten about it until I was cleaning my nails. It was about my time in Nam. Now, I know that I’ve said I never got in a firefight, but that was not the truth. The truth is, I did fight. I killed people. I didn’t kill many, but I don't know the true number. But I'll tell you what I forgot until now.” Uncle Skinny then removed the top of the cooler beside him, shuffled his hand through ice and cans, then pulled out a bottle of Whiskey from the very bottom. He then resumed his tale.

It was April of 1969. By this point, Uncle Skinny had already been in two battles. Though two might be a small number, he’d become desensitized by the violence. The warm mud caked on his fatigues, how hot the barrel of his machine gun got after firing in bursts for a few minutes, and the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his body during the chaos of it all. The adrenaline rush would narrow his focus, creating tunnel vision and making the battles feel much more linear than they really were.

After his second battle, Uncle Skinny and his platoon rested at a fishing hut along the Mekong River. The hut was empty, so they figured that it was abandoned. He wanted some alone time, so he went out to the dock and sat in the boat that was resting along the murky green water. Uncle Skinny sat his machine gun next to him, the boat bobbed side to side as his weight and the gun shifted. He smoked a cigarette while looking at the blue sky. The clouds looked long and mist-like, similar to the smoke from his cigarette. He listened to the sounds around him: the buzzing of bugs flying just above the river, the croaking of frogs, and the splashing of the occasional fish that came up from the water to eat a water strider. He thought about how this would be a perfect spot for a vacation if it weren't for the war-torn hellhole that surrounded him.

As the cigarette burned down to the butt, Uncle Skinny flicked it into the water. Sitting up, he noticed how dirty his hands were. Without a nail file, he decided to make do with his combat knife. With the point of the knife, he dug under the fingernail to his index finger and scraped the black buildup out. He worked down the line: index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky, and thumb, then switched to his right hand. When he got to his middle finger, he felt a strange feeling in his gut, like he was being watched.

Uncle Skinny looked up and saw a person standing right in front of him– an enemy combatant. He came from nowhere, Uncle Skinny hadn't even heard him approach, he was dressed like the people that Uncle Skinny and the rest were used to fighting: a black long-sleeved shirt, blue scarf, shorts that ended above the knee, and a rice hat. He was holding an old, beaten-up AK-47 in both his hands, he wasn't pointing it at Uncle Skinny, but Uncle Skinny knew that wouldn't last long. He dropped the knife and quickly grabbed his machine gun, as he was lifting it, the man said, in the clearest English accent that he had ever heard, “Are you going to shoot me?”

Uncle Skinny hadn't even lifted up the gun fully before firing it, the recoil ripped control away from him, The bullet belt was getting sucked into the gun, spitting out white puffs of smoke and hot lead. He went deaf at that moment, only feeling the force of the gun that was violently shaking and rattling in his hands as it turned the guy in front of him into Swiss cheese.

My uncle stopped squeezing the trigger once the man’s body fell backward into the water. His platoon members came rushing out from the fishing hut, a cacophony of swearing and orders with weapons drawn as they ran out to see what had happened. They all noticed the body floating face down in the river, riddled with bullet holes, with his rice drifting beside him. The body turned the moss green water around him into a deep crimson red. They suspected that this man was the person who lived in the fishing hut, and that Uncle Skinny acted in self defense.

Uncle Skinny then paused and added, “It's only now I wonder if that guy actually said, ‘are you going to shoot me?’ or if it was a voice in my head.” I noticed how much telling this story was affecting him, I saw tears welling up in his eyes as he stared blankly into the night. When he took a swig from the whiskey bottle, I told him that he doesn't have to continue talking about it if he didn’t want to. He agreed, then told me to not tell anyone about this. He clearly held guilt about what happened,unsure whether the man would have shot him or not, even though that was probably the most likely outcome. I promised that this was going to stay between us.

Uncle Skinny then said that I can stay the night, sleep in the guest room upstairs. He drove me home the following morning. We didn’t speak about last night, nor would we ever again. He joked and laughed as though nothing had changed until I was dropped off at my house. I still visited him often, right until his passing. He died at the age of seventy while I was at work. I got the call, the news hit me like a freight train. I felt as if I truly understood him more than most, when I saw a more vulnerable side to him. He will be missed terribly by me and the rest of my family, godspeed Uncle Skinny, godspeed.

His eyes are filled with emptiness, a lifeless expression that rests within them. The man that sits in front of the sun ray beam, has a disassembled presence, full of darkness unlike the sun. The place that once brought him happiness, now brings him agony. The sun that once warmed his skin, now burns through his flesh, the pain however, is less than the pain occurring within his mind.

      He feels a sharp burn in his heart, the heart that he is now unaware of. His soul tied partner's voice rings in his mind, like a song that he cannot get unstuck. He forces a smile through his tears, hiding out the gut wrenching feeling that this moment brings to him. The memories he has of him cause agony, a stab to his numb heart, soul crushing, intoxicating.

Koa Ryu was once a boy filled with life, but now, the colors from his world have faded, like a canvas only painted gray, representing the grief and loss that was caused when Shen left.

    People said that time heals, but for Koa, his healing comes uneven, gaps in its stitches, leaving  room for his exposed sorrow. 


    At times, this grief flows as it follows like a tolerable ache in the background of his life, but at others, it hits like a tidal wave, submerging him in water, suffocating him until it feels like his final breath. 


“Your absence brought a sense of loneliness. A sense I never imagined having in my life.” The tears coming from Koa’s eyes remain on his eyes, drying like a permanent scar. Everyday he begs the world to pull him out of this hell, begging the same sunset. And everyday, it fails to do so. Every continuous breath Koa inhales is one more that he wishes he did not have. One more breath he wishes he could trade in for Shen’s life. 

But like the ending to any story, it is inevitable. His only wish was to trade his breath for Shen’s. 

A life for a life. 

But for this to work, he needed to have a life to give. And his life ended the day Shen took his last breath. 

“I love you, Shen.” Koa’s face remains still, “The only emotion I can feel is my love for you, and that’ll never leave my empty heart. I promise.”

I feel like my life is just a never-ending loop of misery—like a roller coaster, going round and round with no direction or purpose. But, in comparison to a roller coaster—which has a definite purpose during its lifetime of running in circles—I'm just a cog in this big, messy world, living only for the sole purpose of existing. In the eyes of the Milky Way galaxy, I’m just a speck, a piece of an atom in its vastness of stars and planets.

But even in that sense, I still have a purpose, right? I mean, aren’t atoms the building blocks of everything that exists in the observable universe? If you look at it like that, then yes. In some sort of dumb way, I have a purpose and a reason in this world. But in my eyes, I don’t. The reason being that we are dumb. Humans are made to be rational, yet we are plagued by irrational thoughts such as: “What’s my definite purpose in life?” “What if I fail?” “What if I don’t succeed in the future?” “What if the field I’m currently in isn’t the right one for me?” What a dumb question, right? If viewed in a subjective sense, then yes, they are. Humans are dumb. We lie, kill, commit crimes, manipulate, pretend to love, and use others.

But being dumb is what makes us, us. It’s the sole purpose of being human.

We all make bad decisions. No one is perfect. A person who hasn’t failed miserably in their life is either lying or in a very controlled environment where it’s impossible for them to make a mistake. A person who has not failed is not human. That’s what separates us from robots and other intelligent creatures—our own stupidity, which is also what makes us very smart.

Unlike robots, humans have the concept of failure because it makes us better. It makes us reach new heights, makes us feel achievements, strengthens us, and guides us.

Coming back to my statements earlier, those were my thoughts when occupied by the fear of failure. But as I continue to experience things and develop new ideas, it slowly became clear that the fear of failure is the reason I’m failing in the first place. Simple math, really. If you don’t fear failure, you’ll embrace it, not fear it. Failure is what improves us and guides us. So, don’t be afraid to fail, as failing is living your life the way it’s meant to be lived. Being afraid to fail essentially means that you’re afraid to live.

For sixteen years, your absence was a dull ache at the back of my mind; now, having only mere fragments of you is a sharp, piercing pain at the core of me.

Normally he'd be speeding down this road, windows down, cigarette (or the occasional joint) in his hand, but today was one of those days where he couldn't risk it. It was one of those edgy days. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror, not only to make sure no one was following him, but more importantly, to keep an eye on the little one sleeping in the backseat.

Who does she remind me of? he thought. It's driving me crazy, right on the tip of my tongue, but I can't think of the name. Maybe when she wakes up it'll come to me. As if on cue, she stirred and lifted her head, looking around with puffy, half-opened eyes.

"Well hey there, sleepyhead! How ya doing?" he asked.

She blinked several times and yawned. "Who are you?"

He looked at her, puzzled. "I'm Steven - your new babysitter. Didn't your mom and dad tell you about me? They said they were going to." He paused and then frowned. "Are you sure they didn't say anything?"

She yawned again. "I don't know. Where are we going? Where's Mommy and Daddy?"

"Mommy and daddy? I'm sorry to tell you this but.....they're lying in puddles of blood after I bashed their faces in, which is why you're in my car right now. They're on their bedroom floor, probably in hell - you know about hell?? Satan, the hounds, the beasts, eternal fires, all that? Scary things you see, only in your nightmares! But this could be a happy reunion. Because if you try anything, you're joining them."

He let out a little snort; what a reply. He looked in the rearview expecting her to be waiting for an answer, but she was picking her nose and looking out the window. So he pulled something out of his ass and doubted she was listening anyway.

"Your mommy and daddy had to go into work for something very important. They asked me to pick you up and drive you to school this morning. I'll drop you off and then get you when school is out. How does that sound?"

"Okay! I can spell cat. K A T, cat. I can spell dog! D O G G, dog. Mrs. Mayfield says I can spell lots of things!"

He really, really disliked kids, but listening to them talk was the worst. It always boggled his mind that people WANT this. He hated having to fake interest, because the more he had to engage, the more THEY talked, too. They never shut up! You could be dead silent and they would come up with something that made zero sense, just to talk, and one of these days, the right kid just might make him drive off a cliff for good.

BUT.

If talking kept them occupied, distracted, and happy, he could put up with their endless chitchat for a little while. Emphasis, of course, on the little part.

"Wow! You're a great speller! What else do you know?"

"I know maths. 1+1 is 2. 2+1 is 3. 3+1 is 7. And 4+1 is 8!"

He wanted to laugh, but then slightly started to feel a little sorry for this one. She was adorable, but by God, not the sharpest tool in the shed by any means. Most kids at that age really aren't, I guess, but ... let's just say, the road ahead would lead her nowhere. He chuckled to himself as he visualized her walking down a deserted road, choosing the path with a big old rickety sign that said, "NOWHERE."

"So.... you're a great speller AND great at math? You know a lot! How old are you?"

"I'm this many," and she held up six fingers. "And it's my birfday soon!"

"You're such a big girl! When will you be seven?"

"I don't know. Is it cold outside?

"What? I don't know, why?"

"Mommy puts these on me when it's cold outside. And then we build a snowman!"

He looked in the rearview mirror and saw she had pulled back the cover over his tools: a crowbar, wire cutters, black mask, black gloves, and the hammer with dried blood on it.

God dammit! This is sloppy. They should be in the trunk, out of sight, and that hammer should be spotless. What if I got pulled over? In an accident? These are things that I really can't afford to mess up. He made a mental note to get his shit together so this wouldn't happen again.

"Uh, yeah, yeah it's cold out. Don't play with those, they're for grown ups. SO STOP TOUCHING THEM!" he yelled.

She shrunk back in her seat, looking hurt, and just as he thought she would burst into tears, she looked out the window.

"Where are we going?"

"I ALREADY TOLD YOU! I'm taking you to school! If I have to -" but he stopped, and reminded himself to tone it down, cool off, be calm... babysitters don't scream at kids, do they? At least normal ones don't.

"I mean ... we're going to school!" he said cheerfully. "Are you excited?"

"Yay! I can see Mrs. Mayfield! Yay yay yay yay!" But then her expression changed. "Wait. You're silly! We go to school until Fridays. And it's after Fridays. I don't have school today. You're silly! I'm going to call you Silly Steven!" she said, giggling.

Damn. Still definitely not a rocket scientist by any means, but not a complete nitwit.

"Oh, that's right!" He slapped his hand on his forehead in an exaggerated motion. "See, I know it's not Friday. But since your mom and dad will be at work for a while, Mrs. Mayfield said she'd watch you while I went to the store, even though there's no school. But hey! You get TWO babysitters today!"

At this point he didn't even care if what he said made sense; he was almost to his destination anyway. And this kid, cute as she was, was as ADHD as ever. In one ear, out the other. She was probably still thinking about how to incorrectly spell cat, or dog.

"Yay!!! Can we play dollies, Silly Steven?"

"Absolutely, whatever you want!"

He looked at her again and finally realized who she reminded him of. With her short, corkscrew curls, her little dimples, the frilly dress she was wearing, the Mary Jane's with socks pulled up to her ankles... Shirley Temple. The famous little actress who everyone adored. The resemblance was uncanny, actually.

"Do you know who Shirley Temple is?"

"Is that the girl with curly hair? Daddy always sings me this song..."

'Dimples and curls, dimples and curls, The sweetest girl in all the world. Made of rainbows, butterflies, and very special... She's my little Miss Shirley Temple.'

Inwardly he rolled his eyes, but instead he said, "Yup! You look just like her! And your dad is such a great poet. Maybe you'll be an actress one day with how smart you are, too!"

He couldn't believe these words were coming from his mouth, and was honestly ready to bang his head on the steering wheel when, by the grace of God, the school appeared up ahead.

"Oh, hey, look! Looks like we're almost to school!" he said in a singsong voice.

This was the part he hated most, since it was by far the riskiest. Pull up, out, off. As far as he could tell there were no cameras installed outside the building, but any day that could change. He was formulating a backup plan in case it happened, but for now, the school was the best option - kids are familiar with it. It's a normal place for them. So when they hear they're "going to school," no alarms go off. Especially with this little moron, he snickered.

He had barely pulled up to the curb when the door flung open, and a hand unbuckled the little girl's seatbelt and yanked her out.

She looked around and then up into the face of a woman she didn't recognize. "You're not Mrs. Mayfield. Where's Mrs Mayfield?"

"Oh, right!" the woman laughed. "Mrs. Mayfield is sick today. She asked me to come here instead. I'm Mrs. Smith," she said with a smile. "We're going to have so much fun today!"

She quickly and nonchalantly looked around, and then, as fast as the little girl had been removed from the car, "Mrs. Smith" squeezed the little girl's wrists and snarled, "If you try anything funny, you'll never see her, or anybody else, ever again."

The last thing the little girl saw before she was pushed into the van was a smiling Steven waving and yelling, "Have a good day, Miss Shirley Temple!"

The following morning, Mrs. Mayfield was up early, thinking about how happy this day always made her. The cake was cooling off on the countertop, and shortly she would be icing it. She knew teachers weren't supposed to have "favorite students," but this little girl was the exception to the rule. "Little Miss Shirley Temple," she thought with a smile. Because that's exactly who she looked like - short hair, tight corkscrew curls, always wearing a little frilly dress, with her Mary Jane's and socks pulled up. Just as cute as a button and larger than life as well.

Sometimes Mrs. Mayfield felt sad and worried for her; there were definite signs of delays, a lot of attention issues, and she was certainly not at the top of the class, but in the end, would this be what's most important? Because her ability to love anyone, her kindness, friendliness, and that larger than life personality were what made her stick out. And although she was only six, Mrs. Mayfield loved to imagine who she'd become in her adult years: an artist, a nurse, maybe even a teacher! Mrs. Mayfield had special plans to always look after her, encourage her, value her.... especially as she'd get older and, as sad as it was to think about, the bullies would pounce on her. But out of all the students she'd taught, this sweet, simple child deserved a life of happiness.

While the cake was cooling, she opened the newspaper and browsed the front page. She sighed. Another day, another terrifying headline at the top:

"SMALL TOWN TERROR: MAYOR VOWS TO CRACK DOWN ON SEX-TRAFFICKING CRISIS WHILE OFFICIALS SAY THE CLOCK IS TICKING."

She looked up at the cake, ready to be iced, ready to be delivered to a sweet, innocent child, and folded the paper.

"What a cruel, sick world we live in," she murmured.

Normally he'd be speeding down this road, windows down, cigarette (or the occasional joint) in his hand, but today was one of those days where he couldn't risk it. It was one of those edgy days. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror, not only to make sure no one was following him, but more importantly, to keep an eye on the little one sleeping in the backseat.

Who does she remind me of? he thought. It's driving me crazy, right on the tip of my tongue, but I can't think of the name. Maybe when she wakes up it'll come to me. As if on cue, she stirred and lifted her head, looking around with puffy, half-opened eyes.

"Well hey there, sleepyhead! How ya doing?" he asked.

She blinked several times and yawned. "Who are you?"

He looked at her, puzzled. "I'm Steven - your new babysitter. Didn't your mom and dad tell you about me? They said they were going to." He paused and then frowned. "Are you sure they didn't say anything?"

She yawned again. "I don't know. Where are we going? Where's Mommy and Daddy?"

"Mommy and daddy? I'm sorry to tell you this but.....they're lying in puddles of blood after I bashed their faces in, which is why you're in my car right now. They're on their bedroom floor, maybe in hell - you know about hell?? Satan, the hounds, the beasts, eternal fires, all that? Scary things you see, only in your nightmares! But this could be a happy reunion, because if you try anything, you're joining them."

He let out a little snort; what a reply. He looked in the rearview expecting her to be waiting for an answer, but she was picking her nose and looking out the window. So he pulled something out of his ass and doubted she was listening anyway.

"Your mommy and daddy had to go into work for something very important. They asked me to pick you up and drive you to school this morning. I'll drop you off and then get you when school is out. How does that sound?"

"Okay! I can spell cat. K A T, cat. I can spell dog! D O G G, dog. Mrs. Mayfield says I can spell lots of things!"

He really, really disliked kids, but listening to them talk was the worst. It always boggled his mind that people WANT this. He hated having to fake interest, because the more he had to engage, the more THEY talked, too. They never shut up! You could be dead silent and they would come up with something that made zero sense, just to talk, and one of these days, the right kid just might make him drive off a cliff for good.

BUT.

If talking kept them occupied, distracted, and happy, he could put up with their endless chitchat for a little while. Emphasis, of course, on the little part.

"Wow! You're a great speller! What else do you know?"

"I know maths. 1+1 is 2. 2+1 is 3. 3+1 is 7. And 4+1 is 8!"

He wanted to laugh, but then slightly started to feel a little sorry for her. She was adorable, but by God, not the sharpest tool in the shed by any means. Most kids at that age really aren't, I guess, but ... let's just say, the road ahead would lead her nowhere. He chuckled to himself as he visualized her walking down a deserted road, choosing the path with a big old rickety sign that said, "NOWHERE."

"So.... you're a great speller AND great at math? You know a lot! How old are you?"

"I'm this many," and she held up six fingers. "And it's my birfday soon!"

"You're such a big girl! When will you be seven?"

"I don't know. Is it cold outside?

"What? I don't know, why?"

"Mommy puts these on me when it's cold outside. And then we build a snowman!"

He looked in the rearview mirror and saw she had slightly pulled back the cover over his tools: a crowbar, wire cutters, black mask, black gloves, and the hammer with dried blood on it.

God dammit! This is sloppy. They should be in the trunk, out of sight, and that hammer should be spotless. What if I got pulled over? In an accident? What if this little idiot sees blood? I can't afford to mess this stuff up. He made a mental note to get his shit together so this wouldn't happen again.

"Uh, yeah, yeah it's cold out. Don't play with those, they're for grown ups. SO STOP TOUCHING THEM!" he yelled.

She shrunk back in her seat, looking hurt, and just as he thought she would burst into tears, she looked out the window.

"Where are we going?"

"I ALREADY TOLD YOU! I'm taking you to school! If I have to -" but he stopped, and reminded himself to tone it down, cool off, be calm... babysitters don't scream at kids, do they? At least normal ones don't.

"I mean ... we're going to school!" he said cheerfully. "Are you excited?"

"Yay! I can see Mrs. Mayfield! Yay yay yay yay!" But then her expression changed. "Wait. You're silly! We go to school until Fridays. And it's after Fridays. I don't have school today. You're silly! I'm going to call you Silly Steven!" she said, giggling.

Damn. Still definitely not a rocket scientist by any means, but not a complete nitwit.

"Oh, that's right!" He slapped his hand on his forehead in an exaggerated motion. "See, I know it's not Friday. But since your mom and dad will be at work for a while, Mrs. Mayfield said she'd watch you while I went to the store, even though there's no school. But hey! You get TWO babysitters today!"

At this point he didn't even care if what he said made sense; he was almost to his destination anyway. And this kid, cute as she was, was as ADHD as ever. In one ear, out the other. She was probably still thinking about how to incorrectly spell cat, or dog.

"Yay!!! Can we play dollies, Silly Steven?"

"Absolutely, whatever you want!"

He looked at her again and finally realized who she reminded him of. With her short, corkscrew curls, her little dimples, the frilly dress she was wearing, the Mary Jane's with socks pulled up to her ankles... Shirley Temple. The famous little actress who everyone adored. The resemblance was uncanny, actually.

"Do you know who Shirley Temple is?"

"Is that the girl with curly hair? Daddy always sings me this song..."

'Dimples and curls, dimples and curls, The sweetest girl in all the world. Made of rainbows, butterflies, and very special... She's my little Miss Shirley Temple.'

Inwardly he rolled his eyes, but instead he said, "Yup! You look just like her! And your dad is such a great poet. Maybe you'll be an actress one day with how smart you are, too!"

He couldn't believe these words were coming from his mouth, and was honestly ready to bang his head on the steering wheel when, by the grace of God, the school appeared up ahead.

"Oh, hey, look! Looks like we're almost to school!" he said in a singsong voice.

This was the part he hated most, since it was by far the riskiest. Pull up, out, off. As far as he could tell there were no cameras installed outside the building, but any day that could change. He was formulating a backup plan in case it happened, but for now, the school was the best option - kids are familiar with it. It's a normal place for them. So when they hear they're "going to school," no alarms go off. Especially with this little moron, he snickered.

He had barely pulled up to the curb when the door flung open, and a hand unbuckled the little girl's seatbelt and yanked her out.

She looked around and then up into the face of a woman she didn't recognize. "You're not Mrs. Mayfield. Where's Mrs Mayfield?"

"Oh, right!" the woman laughed. "Mrs. Mayfield is sick today. She asked me to come here instead. I'm Mrs. Smith," she said with a smile. "We're going to have so much fun today!"

She quickly and nonchalantly looked around, and then, as fast as the little girl had been removed from the car, "Mrs. Smith" squeezed the little girl's wrists and snarled, "and If you try anything funny, you'll never see her, or anybody else, ever again."

The last thing the little girl saw before she was pushed into the van was a smiling Steven waving and yelling, "Have a good day, Miss Shirley Temple!"

The following morning, Mrs. Mayfield was up early, thinking about how happy this day always made her. The cake was cooling off on the countertop, and shortly she would be icing it. She knew teachers weren't supposed to have "favorite students," but this little girl was the exception to the rule. "Little Miss Shirley Temple," she thought with a smile. Because that's exactly who she looked like - short hair, tight corkscrew curls, always wearing a little frilly dress, with her Mary Jane's and socks pulled up. Just as cute as a button and larger than life as well.

Sometimes Mrs. Mayfield felt sad and worried for her; there were definite signs of delays, a lot of attention issues, and she was certainly not at the top of the class, but in the end, would this be what's most important? Because her ability to love anyone, her kindness, friendliness, and that larger than life personality were what made her stick out. And although she was only six, Mrs. Mayfield loved to imagine who she'd become in her adult years: an artist, a nurse, maybe even a teacher! Mrs. Mayfield had special plans to always look after her, encourage her, value her.... especially as she'd get older and, as sad as it was to think about, the bullies would pounce on her. But out of all the students she'd taught, this sweet, simple child deserved a life of happiness.

While the cake was cooling, she scrolled through the local news on her phone, and sighed. Another day, another terrifying headline at the top:

"SMALL TOWN TERROR: MAYOR VOWS TO CRACK DOWN ON SEX-TRAFFICKING WHILE OFFICIALS SAY THE CRISIS IS ESCALATING."

She looked up at the cooled-down cake, ready to be iced, and cleared the story.

"What a sick, cruel world we live in," she murmured.