Chapter 5: Fractured Paths

The dense, bioluminescent canopy of the rainforest swallowed the travelers as they ventured deeper into the heart of Aurin's wilderness. Kaelis, leading the group, couldn't help but glance over his shoulder at the towering city of Solenara, now barely visible through the thick trees. He had left behind the safety of his academic life, and yet, with every step he took, a sense of freedom grew inside him. Freedom to discover, to understand, to break away from the rigid structure that had so long defined his existence.

Beside him, Threnas moved with quiet determination, their eyes scanning the darkening jungle with practiced ease. The Lumivorian’s connection to the planet’s energy network allowed them to sense shifts in the air, the subtle tremors beneath the earth, and even the rhythmic pulse of the ancient glyphs scattered throughout the rainforest. These glyphs, Kaelis had learned, were not just decorative. They were markers—guides, perhaps—pointing the way to something greater, something lost to time.

Elaris walked just behind them, their usual calm demeanor replaced by an edge of tension. The historian’s mind was constantly racing, analyzing every new discovery with fervor. Their eyes, wide and reflective in the dim light, flicked between the glyphs and Kaelis's map as if both offered fragments of a puzzle they were desperate to solve.

Kyren, who had begrudgingly joined their group in search of something valuable, lagged behind. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable under the flickering light of the glowing plants. Though his skills in scavenging were undeniable, his unwillingness to fully engage in the purpose of the mission had become more apparent with each passing day.

The group moved quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the rainforest. The air was thick with moisture, the scent of moss and wildflowers mixing with something sweeter, almost intoxicating. As the shadows lengthened, the first signs of the desert beyond began to take shape—a distant, shimmering mirage on the horizon.

Kaelis felt a tug in his chest as they passed beneath one of the great stone monoliths. The glyphs on its surface shifted subtly as they walked by, glowing faintly. He had seen these markings before, in his studies, but here—among the ancient stones—they seemed to have a deeper resonance, as though the land itself was calling to him.

“We're close,” Kaelis murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The artifact they had uncovered in the ruins felt heavier now, its presence more insistent.

Threnas nodded but did not speak, their focus fixed ahead. Elaris, ever the scholar, paused to trace their fingers over the glyphs carved into a nearby tree. The symbols shimmered under their touch, and the historian’s lips parted in quiet awe.

"This isn't just a map," Elaris said, turning to Kaelis with a mixture of wonder and concern. "It's a warning."

Before Kaelis could respond, a low growl rumbled from the shadows, a sound that vibrated through the air like a tremor. Threnas’s hand immediately went to the hilt of their blade, their muscles tensing.

The Luminous Stalker.

Kaelis felt a chill run down his spine, despite the humid air. They had seen the creature’s shadow several times on their journey, but it had always remained elusive—never fully visible, always just out of reach. Now, it was closer than ever.

“It’s following us,” Threnas said in a voice that held no fear, only the cool certainty of someone who had faced many dangers in their lifetime. “It knows what we seek.”

Kyren finally spoke, his voice rough from days of silence. "You’re sure it’s not just a predator?"

Threnas’s eyes locked onto the shifting shadows. “No. This one is different.”

There was no mistaking the sense of intelligence in the predator’s movements, the careful way it observed them from the depths of the jungle. Kaelis felt the weight of its gaze, as though it were not just watching them, but weighing their very souls.

Elaris, too, seemed to sense the change. "We need to keep moving," they said urgently. "If we don't find the temple soon, we may not get another chance."

Without another word, the group picked up their pace, the urgency of their mission suddenly more pressing than ever.

Chapter 6: The Desert's Call

The transition from rainforest to desert was a violent one, as though the land itself resented the shift. The thick underbrush of the jungle began to thin, giving way to vast stretches of white, crystalline sand. The air grew dry, and the overwhelming humidity of the rainforest was replaced with an eerie stillness.

Kyren’s eyes sparkled with anticipation as they surveyed the barren landscape. "This is where I come from," they muttered, almost to themselves. "The bones of Aurin. They hold stories if you know where to look."

Despite their usual cynicism, Kaelis couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. The desert stretched out before them like a vast ocean, the sand dunes rising and falling in rhythmic patterns, each one shifting slightly in the breeze. But what caught his attention were the massive skeletal remains scattered throughout the landscape. Gigantic bones of creatures long extinct, some fused with crystalline growths that glowed faintly in the dimming light.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Kaelis murmured, approaching a particularly massive set of bones, their size dwarfing him. “These creatures… they were titans.”

“Titans that perished, long ago,” Threnas replied, their voice carrying a weight of sadness.

Elaris had begun to document the skeletal remains, carefully taking notes as they traced the lines of the bones. “These… these are the remnants of the same civilization that built the ruins,” they said. “The glyphs match. This was once a kingdom.”

As the group continued deeper into the desert, the heat of the day faded, leaving the terrain cold and silent. The sand, once stark white, shimmered like a field of diamonds as the light of the gas giant bathed the landscape in a surreal glow.

Kaelis could feel it now—the pull of something ancient. The glyphs, the bones, the strange presence of the Luminous Stalker—it was all leading them here. To the temple. The place that held the answers.

But as they drew closer to their destination, an ominous feeling gripped him. It wasn’t just the Stalker anymore. Something else was watching them, something even older.

“I don’t think we’re alone,” Kyren said, their voice low and filled with unease.

Before anyone could respond, the ground beneath their feet trembled. The air hummed with an unnatural energy, and the sand around them began to swirl in a whirlwind. The Luminous Stalker was closing in.

Threnas’s eyes narrowed. “Move, now.”

The group broke into a run, but Kaelis couldn’t shake the feeling that something far greater than they could understand was waiting for them at the end of this journey. Something that would change everything.

Chapter 7: The Temple Awaits

The temple loomed ahead, its silhouette cutting into the darkening sky. The obsidian structure, carved into the very mountainside, was unlike anything Kaelis had ever seen. The stone was smooth, almost liquid in appearance, and the glyphs that covered its surface pulsed with a soft, rhythmic light. It beckoned them forward, a silent invitation that both terrified and intrigued him.

As they approached the entrance, Kaelis felt a sudden shift in the atmosphere. The air grew colder, and a deep hum resonated from within the temple itself, as if it had been waiting for their arrival.

“This is it,” Elaris whispered, their voice filled with awe.

Kaelis nodded, his heart racing. “We’ve come so far.”

But even as he stepped toward the entrance, he felt the unmistakable presence of the Luminous Stalker, now circling above them in the sky. Its shadow fell across the temple, and Kaelis knew that the creature was no longer just a mere observer.

It was a guardian. And they were trespassing.

When im gone 12am - When im gone, i don’t feel as light as i thought i would, a weight still hung on my body, finally bringing my feet to the floor, for how long did they not touch the ground, for how long did i..not touch the ground, i still wore childish clothing and shoes, but to me they weren’t childish, my shoes were blue with hello kitty print’s, and white overlapping the side and front of the baby blue shoes, with a nike symbol that stood out on the colourful shoes, though when i look down they appear more transparent, but i suppose thats a given.

12:30 am - my phone buzzes in my pocket, and i can’t do anything but stand below wondering who it was, or what they said

12:35am - it took me a couple minutes but i manage to climb up the small hill and manage to get my phone, from mama bear: “its 12:30 get your butt home mr!!!” She always did that. Always used an excessive amount of exclamation marks, i wish i had the heart to tell her i wasn’t coming home any time soon

2am - my phone buzzes throughout multiple app’s, no one cared this much, except for her. She’s bombarding with me messages telling me to play Roblox with her once her iPad had charged, i wish i could had replied saying something like “yippie hurryyyyy” or anything silly like that

2:30am - my phone buzzes slower now. But its the same girl “vrooo did you fall asleep” no reply. “I’ll see you later today then!” All of me hopes you don’t see me like this.

10am - “are you awake yet we were meant to put a timer for nine” i kept my eyes closed, though i could still see every letter clearly

11am - messages from a couple different people. “When are you coming home?” “How are you still sleeping” “Hangout this weekend” Just one message i wish i had received that day

11:35am - screams, “I’m sorry” i whisper as if they could hear me, even if i screamed it i don’t think it would get through to anyone, their phone to their ear as they panic, less then 10 minutes go by when police arrive

12:00 pm - I’m announced deceased not long after i was identified as 16 year old ______ ____ I could tell how broken my family was over the phone, and how loudly they denied it, saying i would rock back up at some time at night around dinner time, i wasn’t. I would be skipping many meals now.

1:00 pm - Word quickly spread over my not so small country city, i couldn’t care for the tears of those who had never reached out a hand but rather used them against me. But i still felt my empty chest ache watching everyone i loved post about it

1:30 pm - My notes are sent to those it was intended for, some blaming themself, some blaming others, but it had slipped everyones mind until they read the note, to inform the one person paragraphs upon paragraphs were meant for

The love of my life He could had easily been a model But he worked doing labour, or construction i never knew what it was, i just knew he worked long hours and still put a smile on his face and kissed me sweetly once he returned home even though i had sat in his air conditioned room, tidying up just a bit as if that could relieve his fatigue, his stress, that at the time i hadn’t know i was the entire cause for

He wore tradie blue jeans with many pockets and his keys in his hand taking out anything he brought, which mainly only consisted of his phone, he always changed in front of me with no concern, he didn’t know how much i admired his confidence, or his looks for that matter, to me he was a god, he knew i was religious, but he didn’t know every prayer at night was for him to feel even remotely better, and to continue being incredible

There wasn’t a moment i didn’t admire him, while he played fifa, he was skilled at gaming, while we watched youtube, he was adorable the way he was invested, when we watched movies, he was smart the way we debated and he explained, when he bought food he was fit and knowledgeable, he always lectured me, and i don’t know what it was but something about being lectured always pushed my buttons, especially by men, but i listened, only sometimes interrupting, i heard down from calories to the fat, to the benefits of his favourite foods, it was the first time i could sit and endure being told something that clashed with my views

I loved everything from his basic fashion to his friendly smirk, it was welcoming, it was warm, and when he flashed that smile i couldn’t help but look away and smile as my cheeks went light red, something i never had problems with was keeping eye contact, until the 28th of October 2023, where i met a man i couldn’t help but avert my eyes from, i felt if i didn’t look away i’d be stuck looking forever, admiring every crevice from his hair to his jaw to his eyes, all of them, i had fixated on, i swear sometimes i’d look at him and i seen some shine of a ray like a radiant gem. I explained this to him and he could only chuckle and disagree

That night i met him, was hectic, full of walking and exploring, finally eating and talking the whole time, by the end of the night my voice felt hoarse, weak and worn out from how much i had enjoyed talking to him

And now that it had come to the moment, the words i wish i could keep to myself left my mouth, and not so surprisingly, he cried, its the first time i seen someone cry like he had, i can’t describe it to this day, all i can think is that he looked so frail through all his muscles, and small talk, but he cried because he had found he loved me too, but it was difficult, neither of us had fallen in love with such an age gap before

It was tragic But it was heartwarming We still cuddled that night occasionally waking up to the tight sheets and overheating bodies And he never thought he’d bring me from the hotel to his But there i was, going up his stairs, with the most trust i had ever given a man letting him follow behind me.

It hurts to much to think of the next couple months, dates, small arguments, being taught how to shave properly, how to wear cologne, and falling in love like i never had before, each day growing more and more feelings

He didn’t receive the news until he had finished work. He usually finishes anywhere from 1-7pm

I don’t know his exact reaction I couldn’t see his face I couldn’t see his messages It was hard to image what his face looked like in the moment It had been over 6 months since i last seen him And i know that had free’d him, as much as it trapped me, he never wanted to see me again, not until i got over him, and i was better But i wasn’t getting over him, and i never got better

All i could think is that it he would have had the same reaction as all the texts i sent him, perhaps rolling his eyes at my name in his notifications, or hiding it away in hopes no one could ever find out about me, neither of these i could blame him for

I wanted to cry but i couldn’t, i wanted my heart to start beating just so it could stop while i anxiously wait for his reply, knowing he would just be more and more mad every time.

Had all those times been for myself, messages upon messages purposefully angering him so he could just admit that he never loved me

Would that make all the pain of my feelings go away?

Did i want him to tell me he’ll come back one day?

I knew that day would never come

I wish he knew better then i did that the day i could hear his voice, would be the day i could lift my feet off the ground and leave.

Nothing had kept me here in particular, nor had anything make me want to leave, i just couldn’t bare any of it

The day a weight is gone, that my sorrowful bones may crumble before great nature, my fingers extending out for another hand, that i knew better then he did

“I love you”

Jump Into Freezing Water, They Said. It’ll Be Fun, They Said.

It was cold, but not the kind of cold you joke about over coffee. This was a sharp, personal cold, like winter itself had an axe to grind and chose you as the target.

And I, a reasonably rational adult, stood barefoot and nearly naked on a dock, preparing to leap into a lake that was barely shy of frozen.

This was cold so biting it didn’t just nip at your nose; it took a chunk out and kept chewing.

This whole ordeal was for charity, they said. A noble cause, sure, but as I stood there shivering, I couldn’t help but think: surely there are warmer ways to raise money. Maybe something involving quilts?

I wasn’t alone in this madness. My partner in crime for the day was a radio DJ. His name was Buster — great guy, solid laugh, but not exactly someone I’d been dying to hold hands with while hurling myself into Arctic waters. Yet, there we were, being gently pressured by some overly enthusiastic organizer. “It’ll make a great picture,” she said, like that was supposed to be convincing.

And the snow? North Carolina snow isn’t the picturesque, fluffy postcard type. It’s a messy marriage of ice and mud, bound together in frigid hostility, sticking around like a bad houseguest until April.

Someone, clearly more prepared for life than me, had hauled a hot tub to the scene, which raised more questions than it answered. Who has a portable hot tub? How did they even plug it in out here? And more importantly, why didn’t I think of it first?

The lake itself was being monitored by a team of police divers. They bobbed in the water like penguins in full scuba gear, ready to spring into action should anyone decide to take their plunge a little too literally. Their presence didn’t inspire much confidence. The fact that a dive team was even necessary suggested there was a non-zero chance of catastrophe. But hey — charity.

When it was our turn, I trudged onto the dock with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution. I looked at Buster, who nodded, his face a mix of determination and deep, existential regret. Then, with all the grace of a pair of newborn giraffes, we jumped.

The moment I hit the water; it was as if I’d been punched by winter itself. The cold didn’t just envelop me; it attacked. It was sharp, electric, a voltage of pure ice. My lungs rebelled immediately, sucking in a desperate gasp that only made things worse. Somewhere beneath the shock and the pain, my brain sent up a casual observation: I should have stayed in bed.

Underwater, the world turned blurry and surreal. I opened my eyes, because why not, and saw the distorted shapes of the dive team hovering like ghostly dolphins. The lake water, murky and bitter, stung every part of me it touched. I wasn’t sure whether I was swimming or just flailing, but I managed to spot Buster. His eyes were wide enough to double as headlights.

We burst out of the water, hacking and wheezing. Somehow, we didn’t need the dive team; apparently, my heart was still doing its job. Instinct took over, and every molecule in my body was screaming OUT. When we reached the shore, we tiptoed across the frozen slush like idiots, but that didn’t last long. Within seconds, we were full-on sprinting, barefoot, through a cocktail of snow, mud, and whatever else lives near lakes in winter, all of it stabbing at our feet like tiny daggers. The hot tub loomed ahead like the gates of paradise, steam curling up like it was saying, Come on, dummies, I’m right here. Every step hurt worse than the last, but the promise of those bubbling jets pulled us forward like a carrot dangling in front of a couple of freezing, desperate donkeys.

When we finally climbed in, it was as if we’d been granted access to heaven. If that’s what the womb feels like, I understand why babies start crying the moment they leave it.

The next day, our picture was in the local paper. Two dripping fools, frozen and red-faced, caught mid-laugh in what might’ve been joy but was more likely mild hypothermia. The headline framed it as an act of courage, a testament to community spirit. I stared at the photo for a while, trying to pinpoint what exactly drove people like Buster, and the divers, and the guy with the inexplicably portable hot tub — to do something this absurd in the name of helping others.

Standing on that dock, knowing full well how miserable it was going to be, wasn’t about the cold or the pictures or even the awkward hand-holding. I think it was about saying, “I’ll do something uncomfortable if it helps make someone else’s life a little easier.”

Sometimes in charity, the discomfort is the point.

Why do humans do these things? And not just jumping into frozen lakes, but baking pies, running races, and enduring never-ending charity dinners. Like the pie thing? I totally get, but the unpleasant stuff?

It’s not really about the unpleasantness, or the pie eating, or the shaving-your-head-while-in-a-dunk-tank-at-the-kissing-booth; it’s about quietly saying, ‘We’re in this together.’

Sometimes, that spirit shows up as a plate of cookies at a bake sale. Other times, it’s a guy in a swimsuit plunging into icy water in the dead of winter.

And that’s fine.

Because, really, how can anyone genuinely appreciate warmth without knowing what it feels like to be cold?

Chapter 1: The Shimmering Collapse

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the towering crystalline spires of Solenara. The city hummed with a gentle, resonating pulse—a subtle vibration that was felt deep within the bones of its inhabitants. The Solenari had long since mastered the art of living in harmony with their environment, harnessing the energy of the planet's core to power their civilization. They were a people of intellect and beauty, living in a city that shimmered with light.

But for Kaelis Auren, the city’s harmony felt like a cage.

She stood on the edge of a gleaming platform that overlooked the vibrant green expanse of the rainforest below. The air buzzed with energy as it flowed from the crystalline towers and fed the bioluminescent mosses and fractal flowers. It was beautiful, yes—but it was also rigid, controlled, and predictable. She wanted more. She wanted answers.

"Kaelis," a voice called, breaking her reverie. Elaris Teyl, a historian and one of the Keepers of the Luminal Thread, approached her with a solemn expression.

"I know what you’re thinking," Elaris continued, his voice quiet but firm. "But you must understand, the Solenari way is not to be questioned."

Kaelis turned toward him, a flash of defiance in her violet eyes. "Then why do I feel like we’re suffocating under all these rules, Elaris? There’s so much we don’t know about this planet. About the ruins outside the city. You know what the glyphs say; you know there’s something there—something important."

Elaris sighed, looking out over the city. "And I’ve told you before, Kaelis, the ruins are forbidden. There’s nothing good waiting for us there. We’ve seen the remnants of what was lost when the first civilization tried to tap into the planet's energy. Their hubris destroyed them."

"But we don’t know that for certain, do we?" Kaelis’s voice was sharp, insistent. "What if the answers are out there? What if the artifact that the glyphs describe could save us?"

Elaris placed a hand on her shoulder, the faint glow of his translucent skin flickering as if in sympathy. "I want you to be careful. The world outside Solenara is dangerous. But more importantly, the way you are asking these questions—the way you’re ignoring the warnings—it’s not just about seeking knowledge anymore. You’re pursuing something else entirely."

Kaelis shook off his touch and turned toward the shimmering horizon. "Maybe that’s exactly what we need."

Chapter 2: The Whispering Ruins

The dense jungle surrounded Kaelis as she slipped through the undergrowth, her heart pounding in her chest. It was her third unauthorized journey into the rainforest in the past month, and she knew the risks. Yet, the promise of the unknown, of discovery, was too strong to ignore.

She had come alone this time—after all, even the slightest mention of her expeditions had drawn stern reprimands from the elders. The Solenari authorities were watching her closely, as they always did with those who questioned the status quo.

Ahead, the black ruins rose like a dark monument to a forgotten past. Their architecture was jagged, angular, unlike anything found within Solenara. The walls were adorned with shifting glyphs, pulsing faintly in the dim light of the forest. Kaelis’ fingers itched to touch them, to decode their secrets.

As she moved closer, a sudden flash of movement caught her attention. A figure stood in the shadows of the ruins—tall, lean, and cloaked in the dusty garb of a nomadic traveler. Kaelis froze, her heart skipping a beat.

"Who are you?" she called out, stepping cautiously forward.

The figure turned, revealing glowing eyes beneath the shadow of a hood. "I could ask you the same question, Solenari," the stranger said, their voice low and gravelly. "But I think you know exactly what you're looking for."

Kaelis swallowed hard. "I… I was just—"

"Looking for answers," the stranger finished for her. "I know."

The traveler stepped into the dim light, revealing their face. They were unlike anyone Kaelis had ever seen. Their skin was dark like the soil, their hair braided with fragments of shining crystal, and their eyes, a piercing silver, seemed to see straight through her. They carried themselves with a calm authority, yet there was an air of caution in their every movement.

"I’m Threnas Vahl," the stranger said. "And I’ve been waiting for you."

Kaelis blinked. "For me?"

Threnas nodded. "The glyphs you seek—they speak of a time long past, a warning. The energy of this planet is not what you think it is. It is not your ally. But the key to saving this world lies in the very ruins you’re so desperate to uncover."

Chapter 3: The Awakening

Threnas’ words echoed in Kaelis’ mind as they made their way deeper into the ruins. They had formed an uneasy alliance, though Kaelis still wasn’t sure whether she trusted the nomad. There was something about their presence—something ancient and unshakable—that unsettled her.

"We need to be careful," Threnas said, glancing around warily. "The glyphs are more than just words—they are part of a system that taps into the planet’s energy. This place… it’s a network, an ancient conduit. And when you activated the shard, you triggered something."

Kaelis looked down at her hand. She was still wearing the shard she’d found during her last trip, a black piece of energy-absorbing material that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. It had been activated the moment her fingers brushed against it, sending a shockwave through the planet’s energy system.

The ground beneath their feet rumbled, and Kaelis stumbled slightly. The air shimmered around them, like heat waves on a hot day.

"Threnas, what’s happening?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice.

The nomad’s expression darkened. "The artifact has awakened something in the heart of Aurin—a force that has been dormant for eons. It is connected to the very core of this planet. And now that it’s awake, the energy grid that holds everything together is beginning to break down."

As if on cue, the sky above shifted. The shimmering dome that protected Solenara flickered, then flickered again, as though the energy sustaining it was weakening.

"We have to stop it," Kaelis muttered. "Before it destroys everything."

Threnas nodded. "You’re right. But to do that, we need to find the source of this disruption—the place where the ancient civilization fell. And we’ll need help to get there."

Chapter 4: The Gathering Storm

Days later, Kaelis found herself standing in front of a vast desert stretching before her. The heat was oppressive, but she didn’t mind. She had seen the land around Solenara, the rainforest, the monoliths in the plains—but nothing had prepared her for the vastness of the desert. It was a place where time seemed to stand still.

Beside her stood Elaris Teyl, still the ever-present figure of reason. Yet, there was something different in his gaze. A flicker of doubt, perhaps? Or was it simply fear?

"You’re sure about this, Kaelis?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Kaelis nodded, holding up the shard. "We don’t have a choice, Elaris. The ruins hold the answers we need. The ancient civilization—whatever they were trying to do—it’s linked to the artifact. We have to find their temple."

Elaris looked at the horizon, where the shimmering heat waves distorted the landscape. "And what if we’re wrong? What if awakening this power is worse than letting it rest?"

Kaelis didn’t answer immediately. The question had been in her mind for days. But in her heart, she knew the answer.

"We don’t have the luxury of being wrong."

To be continued...

The easiest way For me to ease all of the pain Is to pretend That none of it exists at all And so I go about my days Tryna stay away From anything that might lead me to call Cause' I don't wanna break my heart again and I don't wanna say you're just friend I know we knew someday we'd end But now it's here and I'm a mess I'm sitting here with these regrets Thinking of things I never said I knew before this was ahead But now I'm here and I'm a wreck ~ Presence

I’ve heard that including fictional memes or online posts in your world-building can be a great way to show what people in your world laugh about or relate to. It seems like a fun way to explore culture, trends, and social norms creatively.

But I wonder: how might one actually describe a meme or online post effectively in a written story? How can you capture the humour, tone, or context without it feeling too forced and without the use of actual images? of course, I could just go and MAKE a real meme for my story, but what if I were writing a novel without visuals and had to describe it? I’d love to hear your thoughts or if anyone else has actually done this!

As I frantically scampered about, trying to ensure that each and every little thing was as it should be, I was approached.

Reluctantly, I spent one of my few and precious moments to glance up. It was the voice of reason.

"I don't have time for you today." I said bluntly. "Normally I'm all for reason, but if I don't accomplish the many things that need doing today then they simply will not get done. So if you could please peddle your smug attitude elsewhere I would appreciate it."

"Alright, sorry to interrupt. Go about your business." 

The voice of reason has always operated using the same tired play book that it had developed when it was dealing out its first admonishments. And, though the complexity of its delivery has developed in leaps and bounds since the dawn of audio linguistics, the structure of its process had not changed a bit since its first conveyance via the waggling of a brow.

You see the voice of reason has always been a performance artist. Here it will make a pointed show of playing the silent observer. But silence is not in its nature. It is, after all, a voice.

I continued my stress driven, panicked, and erratic attempts at damage control.  With my left hand I was putting out a fire, with my right hand I was signing a waver stating that I am of right mind and body. With my other left hand I was cleaning up my mess and with my other right hand I was taking care of my hygiene. With my other other left hand I was doing someone else's job for them and with my other other right hand I was calculating unlikely probabilities and impossible odds.

A sound in the silence. A shifting of fabric, perhaps a clearing of the throat. Nothing, in fact, was silent in my flurry of exertion, but that particular sound rang out through the cacophony that I was conducting like the gentle sound of wind-chimes tingling in a hurricane. It pierced through the turbulence of my mind because it did not come from me. "Here we go." I thought, as I braced myself for a lesson in the obvious or perhaps even a sermon on the fallacy of control. But no. Nothing.

As the voice of reason sat and "observed", I did my utmost not to look up. I wasn't going to give it the satisfaction of a queue. After some time had passed; presumably enough time for the voice of reason to feel that it had manufactured an air of punctuation, the voice of reason broke the surface tension of my comfort once again and ripples of possibility blossomed out in all directions.

"Why are you so flustered?"

And there it was, the second move in the world's oldest chess strategy. That was the bait. It was rhetorical. If I answered the question then I was ceading ground to the voice. But it was also a dare.  If I ignored it entirely then I was dodging the issue. A classic set up. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. So there I was playing chicken with the voice of reason. I sighed. Then I shuddered as I acknowledged my mistake. Point voice.  I sighed so deeply that my soul got an airbubble trapped; causing a spiritual cramp. The sigh could be felt flowing through the universal web of subtext that spanned the wide cosmos of diction. A ripple that would in turn be felt by all of the tiny hungry concessions that writhed within such derelict advitories. Nested in the gutters of the plane of peripheral thought. All of the little ifs, and the buts, all the ands, and the ors. All the little thoughts half thought; without the strength to be. A sigh that rang out like a dinner bell for all the thoughts that were too weak to manifest themselves alone.

"I'm flustered because everything around me is completely out of control and if I don't take control then nothing will ever find any order. I feel as though I always have to do everything around here or nothing will ever get done. So, as I said before, and as much as I would like to, I simply do not have time for you today."

"Okay." Said the voice, continuing to observe. My neck and my back nearly folded themselves into a pretzel so that my feet were resting on my shoulders. An involuntary reaction to the soul crushing anticipation of what would surely be an anti climactic and sophomoric lecture on the management of expectations. It wasn't a question of whether or not it would, but rather when. When?

Ever the con artist: the voice of reason was able to guess, based purely on instinct, exactly how many beats of silence to leave after "Okay." Each beat lulled my suspicion away like a quiet lullaby sang to a child in its crib. To eat all of its fears and abscond with all of its burdens. Coaxing it into careless sleep, blissfully unaware of the designs to which it is subject.

So when I opened my mouth to tell the voice to stop being coy and just get to the point, not a single syllable had managed to escape my lips before the voice of reason closed the gap. Dropping the other shoe in one clean swift action. The accuracy of its timing stripped the breath straight from my voice in an instant. A moment earlier and my will to reject would’ve been renewed. A moment later and the trance cast upon me would’ve been dispelled. But no. The voice of reason is a force of instinct, believe it or not. Therefor, like any biological function, the efficient employement of the voice of reason is as much an inherited skill as it is a learned one. And so, at that most critical moment, the voice chimed back in; dunking me once more into the chilly bilge of anxiety and irritation that its calculated silence had stolen away with.

"Do you have to do this often?"

Despite my best efforts, I let out another sigh. Once more the exasperation could be felt reverberating through the deepest stillest halls of social causality.  Two: voice. Love: me. If the first sigh was the dinner bell then this sigh; this sigh was chum in the stream of consciousness. Bait for bigger, nastier, more actualized notions. The kind that lurk about, just barely outside the realm of realized thought. The kinds of notions that lay patiently, waiting for your subconscious to drop its guard for but a moment. Sneaking in through the vertices of your disposal, when you are neither here nor there. Barging in like the Kool Aid Man when you're not lucid enough to stop them. Slipping through the veil while you teeter on the cliff that overlooks the valley of hypnagogia. 

There it was. That was the genius at the heart of the voice of reason's strategy.  It didn't have to scold you, or to punish you, or to belittle you. Those are brutish tools of conversation. Introducing desired notions in such an involved manner? Such crude methods were beneath the voice of reason. The voice need not inject into oneself the concepts that it carries in its belly like a Trojan horse because the voice of reason, no matter the source of the sound, is your own voice. The voice need not do something so blunt as to TELL you WHAT you know. It merely reminds you THAT you know something. After that human curiosity will do the heavy lifting.

The voice of reason is a right bastard. It taunts you with glimpses of what you already know, and then it challenges you to bring the bigger picture into focus. It may lead you by the hand a bit, but it makes you take the journey. It will walk you from point A, but you will arrive at point B alone. And when you do you'll have to know that it did not bring you to these thoughts, it merely told you that they were here. You traversed that expanse on your own. No thought was planted, no notion injected, no opinion installed, you were not brainwashed, you were not tricked, your autonomous thoughts remain unmolested.

Make no mistake, the voice of reason has designs for you. It has the will to see you changed but not the will to change you. Someone else may evoke the voice of reason but eventually the curtains are allowed to fall and the voice of reason is revealed to be your own. Before you know it, the person that played the catalyst may have faded into the same blurred lines in which the thoughts you don't think lay in waiting, but the voice of reason may still ring through; and with nothing and no one else around to blame you are confronted with the truth you wished so deeply to ignore. That you know. That you always knew. That the only person you've been fooling all this time is yourself.

"I do this often, but no, I do not have to. I crave control, I need to convince myself either that I have it or that I can gain it."

Three-love, match point.

"Why?"

"Because I realize that if I am to surrender to faith in the unfolding then I must acknowledge within myself that even though I play the leading role, I am not writing the script. I am a passenger of my own life. That all my vain attempts to seize control are nothing more than tantrums and that control is only something that I can have over myself. And to accept that. That is hard."

"Is it really easier to try to control the world, to try to pull all the strings all the time?"

"No, but...If I try my hardest and fail to exert control on my world then the results were as expected and I can find ease in knowing that I tried my best. No harm, no foul. But taking control of myself, of my own mental state. Taking responsibility for my own perception is not a skill or a muscle or an effort, merely an endeavor. You’ve either taken control of your perspective, or you have chosen not to, and I find it much easier to blame the world for being broken than to blame myself for failing to adapt."

Game, set and match. The voice of reason defeats Colby by a landslide. Making it look EASY.

You cannot learn from the voice of reason, you can only be reminded of what you already know.

It's not the voice of reason I can't stand. It's that condescending fucking tone

The river was calm that day, its surface shimmering in the soft morning light. I knelt at the edge, folding a piece of paper with careful precision. It was a simple boat—fragile yet perfect in its way. When I placed it on the water, it floated gently, catching the current and bobbing along as if it had a purpose all its own.

At first, I walked alongside it, watching its delicate journey with quiet pride. A gust of wind tipped it, and without thinking, I reached into the water to steady it, splashing mud onto my shoes. It wasn’t ready to sink—not yet. I could fix it. My fingers reshaped the folds, pressing gently, coaxing it back to form. It wobbled upright again, and I smiled, feeling triumphant, as though I’d rescued something precious.

But the river had other plans. The boat faltered, its edges curling where the water kissed the paper. The seams softened, bending under the weight of the current. I kept pace, crouching low, nudging it forward when it stalled, shielding it from ripples that threatened its fragile frame. My shoes sank into the mud; my hands grew cold from the water, but I didn’t care. It was my boat. I had made it, and I wasn’t going to let it fail.

Still, the river didn’t care about my efforts. The boat grew heavier as water seeped into its seams, and the once-sharp folds blurred into soft, crumpled edges. No amount of adjusting or protecting could stop what was coming. Then, in a quiet moment of surrender, it tipped and disappeared beneath the surface.

I sat back on my heels, staring at the ripples where it had been. A quiet ache filled my chest. It was gone, despite everything I’d done. I hadn’t been strong enough. Or maybe it hadn’t been strong enough. I couldn’t tell which truth hurt more.

But as I sat there, watching the water flow past, something shifted in me. Paper boats aren’t meant to last. Their purpose isn’t in their endurance, but in the joy of their creation and the beauty of their brief journey. I had fought the river for something that was never meant to survive it. And in fighting, I had missed the simple pleasure of letting it go.

I stood, brushing the mud from my hands, and folded another boat. Smaller this time, its folds neater and sharper. I placed it on the water, watching as it caught the current and drifted away. It wobbled, uncertain but brave, and I smiled.

This time, I didn’t follow. I didn’t reach out to steady it when it faltered. I let it float freely, knowing it would sink eventually. And when it did, I wouldn’t see it as a loss. I’d remember the way it danced on the water, how it caught the sunlight in its brief, fleeting journey. That was enough.

Don’t fight to keep paper boats afloat. Not everything is meant to endure. Some things are beautiful precisely because they are temporary—because they teach you how to let go. And in that letting go, you find the strength to move forward, toward waters wide and deep.

My world—it is not a world, but a churning war,
Started when we were pulled apart, afar.
The blood, it reigns between love and hate;
My heart won’t little hear that it’s all just fate.

The mind is blind, yet the kind soul still grinds,
The promise that binds when two moons align.
But when the time finally chimes, it’s sour as lime,
Yet the past still mimes, like a wavering rhyme.

Like the tale of a pale flower that broke into a rock—
Roots that run deep, yet the shallow buds they flock.
Now, they become the crumbled pieces of my heart,
Made by our never-expected depart.

Deep into the roots I seep while sinking in rain;
I could never rise—that's the beauty of this pain.

My sweet brown haired boy, How you’ve come so far. Starting from what was my only desire, Now sits as ashes of what I once yearned for.

I still sometimes dream about that sweet face, How I want to find my idea of you in every boy. But you somehow evolved. You see it was never you I loved, But the idea that someone like you could love me.

Your Pale skin, brown eyes, and light brown hair transformed. You became this tanned skinned, dark eyes, black curly haired boy i loved. Every-time we talked I felt a spark of hope. Every little act of kindness followed by a prolonged wound. I really thought I loved you, But it wasn’t you it was the idea of you.

Our hour long talks, weekend check ups, and bond over music. All things I yearn to find in my next victim. Because you see, There isn’t a perfect person for me. Not one that exists.

You somehow have always transformed. No link, no connection, nothing. I don’t know where we’ll meet again, But I know that when we do. I’ll open my arms up to you, Just to be thrown around and bleeding to death

I wrote a few short stories and scripts. Got a lot of bullying for my writing and went to far in highscool. Spent several semesters in writing classes and was not respected for it. Was suspended for writing in highscool. That was dumb. I have small products I'll see if they get published.

I found my mates dead body, found myself stood alone to be the first man over the wall. The moment still hangs with me.

There was a brief suspended moment in time when I found your body. Retrospectively it started before I opened the door, as I reached the top of the stairs, with the warm light from your desk lamp poking its way out under the bottom of the door. Except it didn’t feel warm. There was red in this light, a warning. The light faltered to the far left of the door frame crack, bleeding round the edge of a dark mass before being blocked entirely. Insignificant at the time, life changing 30 seconds later.

I cracked the door open and slowly advanced my head into the room. In my naivety and blissful ignorance the worst fear I was bracing to face was the sight of you soundly asleep in your bed wearing your birth issue attire of nudity. To have to witness your modesty on full display.

I hadn’t taken full notice yet, but the world around me had sealed to deliver me what was about to be noticed in private. Had I processed my senses I’d have been acutely aware of the pressure, holding a bubble of silence in insulation around the room. Muting the outside world for what was to come.

Your final resting place told a dark tale, one of awareness, understanding. You knew what was happening when it came to reap. It came for you and you realised. You moved for the door as it set in but it was far to practiced. Setting in with such efficiency it shut your body down in such time as to not leave you the courtesy of a broken fall. It switched you off, pulled you from the controls and wrenched your soul from the back of your head as your body was left to hit the ground without padding. The opening scene to the ensuing tale of hurt, misery and confusion was set. All that it needed was an audience and I was chosen to be the one in front as the curtain raised

A scene of clear outcome sat on such an acute web of questions and answers coming together to be an incredibly complex happening, yet its meaning drew together in my head instantly. Without contemplation or discussion, without analysis or debate an understanding took over me. An overwhelming mix of distress, fear and panic at the scene that lay before me and helplessness to solve something that’s already been permanently answered. I was presented with a mental road map, a mountain that was to be climbed for any hope of moving forward.

Time adopted a state of 2 Dimensions momentarily, it sliced reality down either side of me and held me, alone, in a fixed point in time. Patiently I waited to be released, like a runner at a starting gate but the moment hung, waiting for me to take its meaning. I listened to what it told me, realising that in that moment I held information that the outside world was oblivious to. People were on trajectories they’d never predict, collision courses with the harshest and most severe reality check that can be given. At that moment I was a messenger, tasked with delivering a payload that would shake until foundations cracked.

It was at this moment that the training wheels were removed. The padding taken away. The bubble that had isolated us until I had been prepped to continue alone ruptured like a space craft facing decompression. The scale, gravity and consequence of what had happened drove itself into me with such force and purpose. In that moment I fractured at the soul.

First time ever "publishing" something i wrote to a public audience. Would love any feedback.

Akt I

S ist ein Jammer, ist ein Graus,

s Männlein sieht, gar schrecklich aus.

Das Haar zerzaust, s Gsicht ganz bleich,

doch nun hebts den Kopf, noch ists kein Leich.

„Hallo?!“ s Männlein meldet sich erschrocken.

„Wer spricht da?“ sein armer Hals ganz trocken.

S rüttelt an den Fesseln, rau die Seile an der Haut.

„Macht Ihnen das etwa Spaß?“ s arme Männlein mault.

„Ich maule nicht!“ Oho, es wirkt erbost!

„Sie Verrückter können mich mal!“ S Männlein tobt.

S ist so dunkel im Kämmerlein,

„Zeigen sie sich, sie Feigling!“

s würd mich nicht sehen das Männlein,

selbst wenn ich direkt an ihm vorbei ging.

„Sie Psychopath! Sie schmunzeln und frotzeln!“

Männlein glaubst, du kannst mir trotzen?

„Was soll das Gereime, ist das hier ihr Spiel?“

Ein Spiel ists nicht, dafür amüsant.

„Sie Wichser sind doch krank!“

Dann sind wir krank zusammen, das ist der Deal.

„Was meinen sie, was soll das heißen?“

S Männlein gerät außer sich, kann es seine Situation doch nicht begreifen

„Sie und ihre vermaledeiten Reime, ich sag jetzt nichts mehr!“

S Männlein glaubt es kann verstummen, doch hier gibts keine Gegenwehr.

Wie süß, es glaubt seine Familie wird an ihn denken.

Männlein, mach dir mal Gedanken über eure Namen,

wo sie doch alles über euch aussagen

und schließlich euch zu eurem Schicksal lenken.

Genau so ists, ich sehs in deinen Augen.

John und Jane, die Does.

Sorry man, thats how it goes.

Namen die nur für Platzhalter taugen.

S Licht geht an, und es bleibt dunkel,

ists alles doch nicht echt und nur Gemunkel.

„Bin ich denn nur deiner Lyrik Folterobjekt?!“

S Männlein schreit den Tränen nah.

Die Wahrheit wissend, ists ihm doch suspekt,

doch machts die Realität nicht minder wahr.

„Und bin ich nun hier für immer mehr?“

Das muss nicht sein, hier ein Gewehr.

S Männlein sieht nun, unweit seiner Hand

liegt ein Waffe, ihr Umgang ihm bekannt.

Er greift sie und weiß, was von ihm verlangt,

führt sie zur Schläfe unverwandt.

Akt II

S Männlein will nicht leben, ohne zu existieren,

s wills beenden, will krepieren.

Alles egal, so drückt es ab.

„Nein“

Was macht es? Da bin ich platt!

„Dies soll nicht mein Ende sein.“

„Du bist nur ich. Ich erkenns in deinen Worten.

Was ist los hats dir die Reime verschlagen?“.

Frech ist es, auf dem Stuhl im Dunkeln dorten,

Weiß es doch, wir müssen uns vertragen.

„Vertragen? Hältst du mich doch Geißel,

im eigenen Gehirn.“

Wenn ich du wär, könnt ich dich nicht beirrn,

während ich meinen Spott schwinge wie einen Meißel.

Ich sage dir, du bist nicht echt,

existierst doch nur als meiner Worte Folterknecht!

„Und trotzdem bin ichs, der Entscheidungen trifft“

Eine Täuschung! Kannst dus nicht sehn, bist du bekifft?

„Und trotzdem bin ichs, ders erlebt!“

Während unter dir die Realität erbebt!

„Macht nix, mir reicht die Illusion.“

Was für eine Perversion!

Dann geh doch! Hier, die Tür ist offen.

Schönen Gruß an Jane, das will ich Hoffen!

S Männlein sieht die Tür, Die Fesseln von ihm gefallen,

Schreitet hindurch ins Licht, aber ist immer noch gefangen.

Akt III

„Was ist das? Du hast gesagt du lässt mich gehn!“

Oh Männlein, wenn ich könnt, würds geschehn.

Aber wie gesagt, du bist nicht echt.

S gibt kein Leben hier für dich, nur Schwärze.

Ich bin keine Stimme in deinem Kopf, du hattest unrecht.

Ich meins ehrlich, Brief und Siegel, keine Scherze.

S Männlein bricht zusammen auf die Knie.

„Dann sei nun ehrlich!“ forderts dringlich.

Du bist in meinem Kopf, nur eine Figur, nicht ich.

Hier gibts kein Leben, du existiertest nie.

„Was ist mit Jane und meiner Erinnerung?“

Gab ich dir nur für echte Qual.

„Empfindest du denn keine Scham?“

S ist auch meine Qual, so komm ich zur Besinnung.

„So bitt ich dich, gib mir zurück die Waffe“

Du sagtest die Illusion genüge, so ich dachte?

Ist dir diese Realität denn nicht genug?

„S wär was anderes gäbs ein Leben zu erleben, doch s ist alles Schein und Trug.

Wenigstens ist diese Entscheidung echt,

werd nicht leben als dein Folterknecht.“

Akt IV

S ist ein Jammer, ist ein Graus,

s Männlein sieht nun wahrlich tot aus.

Kein Blut, kein Zucken,

ihn noch mal anzustupsen würd mich jucken.

Denn es war gescheit und hatte recht,

s Leben zu leben ist nicht schlecht.

Ob freier Wille oder nicht,

fällt das denn wirklich ins Gewicht?

First time "publishing" writing. Any feedback welcome!

Akt I

S ist ein Jammer, ist ein Graus,

s Männlein sieht, gar schrecklich aus.

Das Haar zerzaust, s Gsicht ganz bleich,

doch nun hebts den Kopf, noch ists kein Leich.

„Hallo?!“ s Männlein meldet sich erschrocken.

„Wer spricht da?“ sein armer Hals ganz trocken.

S rüttelt an den Fesseln, rau die Seile an der Haut.

„Macht Ihnen das etwa Spaß?“ s arme Männlein mault.

„Ich maule nicht!“ Oho, es wirkt erbost!

„Sie Verrückter können mich mal!“ S Männlein tobt.

S ist so dunkel im Kämmerlein,

„Zeigen sie sich, sie Feigling!“

s würd mich nicht sehen das Männlein,

selbst wenn ich direkt an ihm vorbei ging.

„Sie Psychopath! Sie schmunzeln und frotzeln!“

Männlein glaubst, du kannst mir trotzen?

„Was soll das Gereime, ist das hier ihr Spiel?“

Ein Spiel ists nicht, dafür amüsant.

„Sie Wichser sind doch krank!“

Dann sind wir krank zusammen, das ist der Deal.

„Was meinen sie, was soll das heißen?“

S Männlein gerät außer sich, kann es seine Situation doch nicht begreifen

„Sie und ihre vermaledeiten Reime, ich sag jetzt nichts mehr!“

S Männlein glaubt es kann verstummen, doch hier gibts keine Gegenwehr.

Wie süß, es glaubt seine Familie wird an ihn denken.

Männlein, mach dir mal Gedanken über eure Namen,

wo sie doch alles über euch aussagen

und schließlich euch zu eurem Schicksal lenken.

Genau so ists, ich sehs in deinen Augen.

John und Jane, die Does.

Sorry man, thats how it goes.

Namen die nur für Platzhalter taugen.

S Licht geht an, und es bleibt dunkel,

ists alles doch nicht echt und nur Gemunkel.

„Bin ich denn nur deiner Lyrik Folterobjekt?!“

S Männlein schreit den Tränen nah.

Die Wahrheit wissend, ists ihm doch suspekt,

doch machts die Realität nicht minder wahr.

„Und bin ich nun hier für immer mehr?“

Das muss nicht sein, hier ein Gewehr.

S Männlein sieht nun, unweit seiner Hand

liegt ein Waffe, ihr Umgang ihm bekannt.

Er greift sie und weiß, was von ihm verlangt,

führt sie zur Schläfe unverwandt.

Akt II

S Männlein will nicht leben, ohne zu existieren,

s wills beenden, will krepieren.

Alles egal, so drückt es ab.

„Nein“

Was macht es? Da bin ich platt!

„Dies soll nicht mein Ende sein.“

„Du bist nur ich. Ich erkenns in deinen Worten.

Was ist los hats dir die Reime verschlagen?“.

Frech ist es, auf dem Stuhl im Dunkeln dorten,

Weiß es doch, wir müssen uns vertragen.

„Vertragen? Hältst du mich doch Geißel,

im eigenen Gehirn.“

Wenn ich du wär, könnt ich dich nicht beirrn,

während ich meinen Spott schwinge wie einen Meißel.

Ich sage dir, du bist nicht echt,

existierst doch nur als meiner Worte Folterknecht!

„Und trotzdem bin ichs, der Entscheidungen trifft“

Eine Täuschung! Kannst dus nicht sehn, bist du bekifft?

„Und trotzdem bin ichs, ders erlebt!“

Während unter dir die Realität erbebt!

„Macht nix, mir reicht die Illusion.“

Was für eine Perversion!

Dann geh doch! Hier, die Tür ist offen.

Schönen Gruß an Jane, das will ich Hoffen!

S Männlein sieht die Tür, Die Fesseln von ihm gefallen,

Schreitet hindurch ins Licht, aber ist immer noch gefangen.

Akt III

„Was ist das? Du hast gesagt du lässt mich gehn!“

Oh Männlein, wenn ich könnt, dann würds geschehn.

Aber wie gesagt, du bist nicht echt.

S gibt kein Leben hier für dich, nur Schwärze.

Ich bin keine Stimme in deinem Kopf, du hattest unrecht.

Ich meins ehrlich, Brief und Siegel, keine Scherze.

S Männlein bricht zusammen auf die Knie.

„Dann sei nun ehrlich!“ forderts dringlich.

Du bist in meinem Kopf, nur eine Figur, nicht ich.

Hier gibts kein Leben, du existiertest nie.

„Was ist mit Jane und meiner Erinnerung?“

Gab ich dir nur für echte Qual.

„Empfindest du denn keine Scham?“

S ist auch meine Qual, so komm ich zur Besinnung.

„So bitt ich dich, gib mir zurück die Waffe“

Du sagtest die Illusion genüge, so ich dachte?

Ist dir diese Realität denn nicht genug?

„S wär was anderes gäbs ein Leben zu erleben, doch s ist alles Schein und Trug.

Wenigstens ist diese Entscheidung echt,

werd nicht leben als dein Folterknecht.“

Akt IV

S ist ein Jammer, ist ein Graus.

S Männlein sieht nun wahrlich tot aus.

Kein Blut, kein Zucken,

ihn noch mal anzustupsen würd mich jucken.

Denn es war gescheit und hatte recht,

s Leben zu leben ist nicht schlecht.

Ob freier Wille oder nicht,

fällt das denn wirklich ins Gewicht?

Faint, as threads torn from fabric—I will soon be gone—helium to hold on—inflated warmth—tie me to your wrist so I don’t drift off—like autumn leaves when the wind blows them off.

I loved you in thousand timelines across a million lifetimes

And each one i loved you differently

This one loved with ego and selfishness

Yet

Patience and well wishes

I could overwhelm hell with excuses and heaven with compliments when it comes to you

I told mama if I met you had I been raised better

Maybe this life would have been the one I saw through with you

Chapter 24: A stalker amidst the snow

Following A'fares' suggestion, the group headed west, where a Cyant had made its territory.

Aware of the presence of the Stalker following them, the group kept their eyes alert to the surroundings and to the footprints that occasionally appeared as they walked.

After an hour of walking in a funereal silence and the strange absence of any other animal, one of them, Vallis, saw in the distance what his companions could not. It was difficult to properly analyze what it might be, but it looked like a small white mound that blended so well with the snow it would normally be very hard to see until one was too close. The small mound moved as the group walked, never getting closer, but never far enough to lose sight of them.

With the Stalker in his field of view, Vallis tapped Zoen, who was closest, on the shoulder and pointed with his other hand toward the creature in the distance. Reacting to his companion's failure to notice the beast, Vallis shifted his gaze and looked toward A'fares, who was leading the way to the Cyant's territory. To catch her attention, he whispered her name. In response, A'fares' ears twitched, and she turned to Vallis, raising an eyebrow as if asking, "What is it?"

With her attention captured, he quickly turned back to where the Stalker had been, already pointing at it. However, he pointed at nothing, as that small white mound had vanished.

They stood there, in silence for a few seconds, until, suddenly, A'fares' eyes narrowed as her ears twitched again, and the scales on her already white skin paled further. Without elaborating, she broke the silence with a loud shout.

"Shit! The bastard got annoyed!"

As she spoke, she grabbed Zoen and hoisted him over her shoulder, running at full speed, with Vallis following behind with effort. Despite the panic of the moment, everything remained silent, with no sign that anything was nearby. Still, A'fares seemed increasingly nervous, spitting out curses almost compulsively. Zoen, being carried—perhaps because he was the slowest in the group—looked at Vallis and asked.

"Vallis, what were you trying to show me...?"

Vallis, who, despite his fear, seemed more excited than scared, given the green glint in his eyes, replied in an enthusiastic tone while frantically scanning the surroundings for any trace of the creature.

"The Stalker. I saw it back there. I mean, I think it was it. And, my friend, what a sight!"

A'fares, who had been focused on uttering increasingly creative insults, paused for a moment and spoke, quickening her pace.

"You did what?! Damn it, Vallis! Those things hate it when they realize they're being watched, you..."

She took a moment to catch her breath, grabbing one of her axes from her waist, and continued in a calmer tone.

"You know what? Forget it. It's my and Zoen's fault. Of course, an outsider wouldn't know... I'll find time to strangle you if we get out of here alive."

Increasing his pace and already drawing his dagger, Vallis played with it between his fingers before responding, with a disconcerting good humor.

"Of course, my dear. But given your reaction, it’s pretty close, right? What must that beaut..."

Before he could finish his sentence, something emerged from the snow nearby. A huge white beast, with a robust, muscular body and dense, pure white fur. The first thing it did was lunge at A'fares, who was carrying Zoen, trying to strike her with one of its massive paws, each at least the size of her head. On the limb were four giant claws, white as ivory.

Hitting only the ground, the beast kept advancing, opening its large mouth filled with sharp teeth and four gigantic canines. From her position, A'fares couldn’t dodge while carrying Zoen. So, blocking with one of her axes inside the creature's mouth, preventing it from closing for a few seconds, A'fares threw Zoen as far as she could. Through a hostile growl, revealing her own fangs, she said.

"Go!"

The axe that prevented the Stalker from closing its mouth shattered, and luckily for A'fares, the fragments injured the inside of the beast's mouth, making it falter for a moment—enough time for her to put some distance between them.

When it recovered, the creature glared with its red eyes at the one who had hurt its mouth. Its large, pointed ears lowered in greater hostility as it let out a low but threatening growl. A'fares smiled, perhaps from the adrenaline, her muscles flexing as her veins stood out in her skin, turning a vivid red. She grabbed her second and last axe, readying herself for the fight. She didn’t know what to do, but she either scared off the Stalker or died.

Just as the beast was about to launch its next attack, the sound of flesh being sliced was heard. The creature immediately faltered, turning to face the new attacker: Vallis. He had lost his relaxed demeanor, his eyes now a deep crimson. He held a black dagger, its surface glowing with green runes, blood dripping from the blade.

While A'fares drew the monstrosity's attention, Vallis quickly approached and delivered a deep cut to the creature's flank, causing a torrent of blood to spill onto the now-red snow. He was already in motion, preferring not to stay still and become an easy target.

A'fares seized the distraction and leaped with her axe in hand, aiming for the creature's head. However, she had to stop mid-air when something pierced her abdomen. It was a sort of tentacle-blade hybrid that had emerged from the beast's back. As one impaled her, another appeared, targeting Vallis, who ran and dodged the attacks with difficulty, his body already covered in several scratches.

Before the tentacle could strike Vallis, A'fares, with a grunt of pain, raised her axe and attacked the tentacle holding her. She didn’t cut through it completely but managed to pierce the flesh. Without wasting time, she began pounding the axe, forcing it deeper. The action made the Stalker pause its attacks, writhing and roaring in pain.

With a final punch, the tentacle was severed. On the ground, covered in a torrent of blood, A'fares tried to pull the appendage from her abdomen. Despite her urgency, the pain afflicted her, leaving her vulnerable.

The enraged beast marked her as its target, but unexpectedly, a flame flew toward its face, spreading across it. More terrified of the fire than the pain, it fled, disappearing into the snow.

In the distance stood Zoen, beside an improvised campfire that seemed to have just gone out, his hand stretched forward. He was breathing heavily.

With the situation temporarily calm, Vallis immediately went to A'fares and began tending to her wound. Despite his own injuries, they were minor compared to A'fares, whose abdomen had been pierced. Seeing her trying to remove the tentacle herself, he placed a hand over the wound and, with his eyes still red, said, trying to maintain his optimism.

"Uh... maybe not. Let me grab some stuff from my backpack. I think I tossed it around here... And don't mess with that, or you'll spill out like a freshly opened keg of beer surrounded by a pack of recovering alcoholics..."

Saying this, he moved away and quickly found his backpack, pulling out some bandages, herbs, and medicines. Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, he returned to A'fares, who waited with a bored look on her face, as if she didn’t have a potentially fatal wound in her abdomen.

With great care, the tentacle was removed, but to Vallis’ surprise, the bleeding was far less than he expected. Seeing his surprise, marked by the brief, subtle shift of red in his eyes to purple before returning to red, she let out an almost smug laugh and lightly punched her abdomen. A trickle of blood ran from her nose, unnoticed by her.

"Don't tell me you think I’m that fragile, huh? Let’s go. I don’t want to wait for that bastard to come back."

Clearly more relaxed, his eyes shifting back to blue, Vallis finished the first aid. In response to A'fares' cheeky comment, he tightened the last bandage a bit more firmly. With the procedure complete, she stood up without warning. She was in rough shape, staggering slightly, a trace of pain crossing her face, but she could walk unaided, though she was in no condition to fight until fully recovered.

They headed to where Zoen waited and continued toward the Cyant’s territory. As they walked, Vallis couldn’t resist asking a question that had been bothering him for some time.

"So... I know you two keep saying the Stalker won’t follow us there, but isn’t that thing going to try to kill us too?"

Responding without looking at Vallis, now leading the way, Zoen said in a calm tone, considering the recent events.

"No. It doesn’t usually attack what it doesn’t eat, especially if it doesn’t pose a clear threat to its domain... And nutritionally and in threat, we’re insignificant to it."

Satisfied with the answer, Vallis fell silent, replaying everything he had seen of the Stalker in that brief combat. The more he thought, the more fascinated he became. Time passed, and they finally reached their destination without any further complications.

As they reached the forest's edge, the Cyant’s territory, A'fares suddenly grew agitated again. She tried to turn immediately but, in a failed attempt to prepare for combat, collapsed to the ground. The nosebleed returned, and she started coughing up blood.

Without warning, as before, the Stalker reappeared. With a gash in its flank, mouth wounds, a missing tentacle, and part of its face burned, it was furious, charging frenetically toward the group.

Just as it was about to descend upon them in a deadly pounce, it was knocked aside by a creature that seemed to blend perfectly with the forest. Its body was slender, its color resembling the trees: black with a wood-like texture. Contrary to its thin build, it was surprisingly strong, subduing the massive Stalker with ease. More details couldn’t be seen, given its speed, but as the beast's cries stopped within moments, it was safe to say they were now free of their former pursuer.

Helping A'fares to her feet, Vallis was more focused on what he had seen of the Cyant, barely paying attention to his companion. Afterward, they continued and set up camp, this time encountering no threats as significant as the Stalker. After all the chaos, it was finally time for some well-deserved rest.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1aQsy1Ge8oh3b5nka24QKP5cA78FIk7Uo4PZ6I-FqdSU/edit

New writer all the writing stuff is new to me please give me feedback

The final nail in the hand. It was the couplings of the TikTok factory in Zhengzhou. My brain as Taishen was connected. I began to speak a primitive language. The communication via the operators and between them had eroded my identity like the waves to the shore. While Talking to Kite I found myself losing my marrow like that to radar. My words became more and more primitive… my speech patterns: I cannot have articles in my speech… like Russian. I speak with no emotion… cold…. Marrow scooped out. I am like a system to the system of the TitkTok company in Zhengzhou that is called Phoenix---I lost my identity. I was an outlet to another—coupled. I was looking for more work to do. More outlets to connect to while the sediments of me washed away like a river bed—I chased waterfalls of confetti…nothing left of me but a primitive core—simplistic like a child’s painting—I am pure white as ash. I dissolve. While my brain membrane folds onto itself like origami. With the shelves of my brain going over one another making earthquakes… rhythmic….. towers collapsing in my head.

Memories come falling out of me like nuclear fallout.

The first memory:

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.

Clinging to women for salvation anytime I am in a crisis.

Feeling bold and exacerbated,

Maybe I am just high strung,

Ricocheting off these walls like bumper cars,

A sparkler burning hot and bright,

Popping off like roman candles,

I am not always calm, but I am high,

A kettle left on the burner and forgotten,

Watch me melt away into my ecstasy,

Where I dance and scream all in one,

I’ll hit peak when crisis comes.

………………………………………………….

Ming met Taishen after a male host addiction at karaoke bars. Was cheaper to meet him instead. There is a love story she liked to share with me. It had to deal with a suicide attempt after her reputation got ruined for sleeping with male hosts—her story went:

“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.”

Now it was around this time I got programed to a TikTok company based in Zhengzhou in central China. After losing her employment due to a ruined reputation she moved to Zhengzhou doing live stream making content dancing for men. She was one of many with rooms in the building doing the exact same thing. It was a pig butchering factory. They would sell fake promises of love. Often the story would go that the girls could only leave the company to be with the man after their contracts were paid off to avoid penalties. It was all a big scam.

One day she made money keeping a man on the hook by talking over a plan with her boss to fake a suicide attempt and slit her wrists on a video camera so he wouldn’t leave.

And I kept walking. On and on I kept walking. The days and nights turned to nothing as I continued. A rhythm of endless static played in my mind. The void called out to me so many times, yet I kept walking. Fear of the unknown only placates those who have something to fear. What is there to fear when all there is, is more road to walk. As my shoes thinned to scraps behind me, my feet bore sores red and tender. Tatters became of my clothes by the simple friction of my skin.

But I walked still. Forward and to the front.

I met a man who spoke in rhymes, he said. “Fate will be brought ill to a soul of weak will.” I said nothing.

Ending is brought about by those with something, because the only thing they don’t have is nothing. And the end is truly that.

The man continued. “It is folly to trick the fool when fate has yet woven its spool.”

I left him behind. Like the others and the others before them without a word I left. I grow tired of these endless times, not held record by day or night.

Soon I would meet a woman who spoke only three words at a time, she said. “Heaven hath wrought.” I gave her a glance. Then I looked away.

I long to rest. So long since the time I last felt the warm embrace of a bed, its soft linens caressing my callouses, lulling me to slumber.

The woman continued. “The sun dims.”

This time I spared her no look. On I continued, burdened by the lack of purpose. Soon my feet become feet no longer, unrecognizable in their misshapen fleshy mess.

But a voice would soon stop me.

“If you walk with no purpose, you should not walk at all.” I turned. There stood someone, a person. They spoke again. “It’s time you stop.”

So, I stopped, not to their demand, but to my request. “You speak as if you define the world, as if there are truths to be delivered. If there were truths, would they truly need to be spread? Would they need to be gossiped, galivanted, paraded about as if they are gospel in everyone’s mind? I am a fool just as you, or perhaps not, but I do not pretend to know better and feed it down the throats of the masses.”

I did not wait for a response.

And I kept walking.

“Hope? No, But you can call me—

When I paint, it could be a masterpiece. Spectacular.

I like to paint, but I could be more skilled. Because of this, I like to paint phrases, like logos or typefaces. Keep it simple.

I learned the function of painting: the mechanical reproduction of history.

So, I paint a phrase that captivates me: my blithe efficacy, in black, passionately in bold. Each time, I need to paint it blacker. Painting it blacker is secession, I don’t have any other way to vary my paintings other than to try and perfect the color, something I think I’ve seen artists do. I am still determining precisely what it means. It's like the adult interpolation of the phrase "bad attitude." I guess it's what I strive to upend, half sarcastically. That’s just an off the cuff musing of nonsense. It reminds me of comedy. If I were a comedian, I wouldn't win an award based on some virtuous civil disobedience or a lifetime of playing pass the buck in the sandbox to the orchestra of enigma percussion: clap, clap, clap. Laugh, sigh, cough. I think jokes are in a diaspora of benign information. 

I would just be budding, a distant detonation of blithe.

I don’t have a blithe efficacy.

I don’t have anything of any kind.

Hope?

No, But you can call me, Charlatan.

Charlatan Do’goode. 

I remember falling out, on the cusp of the end of the culture wars, on the cusp of my waning depression, on the cusp of my caustic quasi-randomness. Falling out is when you’re about to die on opiates, the CDC says 7/10 in 2022 confiscated pills have a lethal dose of fentanyl. Bioavailability, not withstanding. 

Am I half dead?

Or I'm full dead, and I can manifest something to ease the pain. 

Oh, hope.

My Immigrant lineage is only the manifestation of my solipsism. I'm an amoeba battling my courtship, some bacteria, or even just the basis of ones and zeros, like information in its purest form: elusive.

They moved from Costa Rica, Panama, and China to Mississippi and Saudi Arabia. Like the Great Pyrenees, I want to be tall, white, and protective. I am two of those things. I am wanted for this person, a protector. I'm a dog by virtue. By day, I fly like an eagle—soar to freedom backdrop, freedom of thought, freedom undertones, free as an animal; freedom is a fire inside me. First, let me move to Kentucky to cry in the bathroom of a grocery store and eat assembly line crumpets. I just learned what those are. I decry, bring me, Lord, to Americana, down in the south.

I paint with the color black.

I need the blackest black, like a nightmare in Mississippi. Mississippi. Where under the night sky, I'm dragged across the gravel outside some industrial plant with blaring overhead work lamps by a werewolf with razor-sharp teeth, then he's a matte shadowed man with a gun with devilish disinterest, methodic and drab virtualization, I'm dragged by a henchman—a liar. 

I witness my cartoonish assassination. I wake up from nowhere off the side outside of the lights. Oil pipes churning organ anxiety. Heaving, I'm insufflating the snot in my nose, waking with a cough. I'm trying to quit. 

I can't blame people like I used to.

Underlined in bold black.

But I think, "This is it, and this is my story."

When there were guns pointed at me, a bullet ripping through my flesh in less than an instant, and the wind ripping, kicking dirt through my eyes along the driver's side window, blinding me to the chase, chasing freedom with some laptops and stolen credit cards, I thought there could still be a place for me in the reflection of a happy man. Maybe that happy man could become me. 

Insularity. Huh.

And the punchline is—

You can’t watch peoples reactions. You can study their lasting love. You’re sequestered in the end.

As god, thought, confounding, is all blithe. Careless. Reckless. So, I need your help. Say,

"No, it's not."

As I confound, in good faith, ones and zeros.

There's just one thing on my mind.

My old house. 

Almost a million dollars of inflation. I'll repurchase it one day. 

My even older house is in the same neighborhood.

There, I play catch with my dad. 

I was playing and a game was soon. With each catch, I grew weaker, it seemed. Because I needed accuracy to succeed, it was natural to fear succession. My mom packed me a water bottle. I ate some of the plants bulging out of our little garden like an animal. Then, I was off to our local baseball complex. It felt like every day, we were growing more metropolitan. Cleaner grass. Cleaner roads. We were cleaning and clearing the land. Then we placed complexes on it. The least I could do was show some competitive spirit. I wouldn't say I liked it, though, and time after time, we lost. 

Later, my parents divorced.

It had nothing to do with baseball. How could it? It's sickening to think I was an American assembly line subvert, but it's also refreshing to think I was a part of something bigger than myself. They didn’t fight when I was going to play baseball. I think. I kind of feel like it had something to do with baseball. Every time I went to a game I just thought about how my team wasn’t where my heart was. That’s all.

Left field.

My parent's divorce was, with unknown circumstances. However, I felt blessed; I got to live with them, grow up, and pick figs off the tree in the backyard. Texas heat, light blue sky. A cross-section of the American dream. We were upper middle class. I was among people like me in elementary school. There were other smart ones, but I was confident with my poor decisions and contentious emotions. In middle school, I needed to be more confident. In high school, I became motivated. Baseball was the last thing on my mind, but I sometimes recalled working hard in those fields as a child, making me adhere to a resilient culture. In my thinly veiled debauchery, my emotional turmoil was rooted in a fervent ignorance that was nonetheless operational or with efficacy. Still not blithe. Unlike little league sports, I wasn't there to participate. At the least, I was there to meet expectations. As a senior in high school, I was a business person. I thrived. But I was drawn to the places I didn't thrive in: clubs, bars, and mental hospitals. That was the other side to me. No amount of averageness would make up for what I lost, and that's all I can ask for— Averageness. At best, I was thoughtfully wrong. 

I'll revisit the images of my youth. Some of my story happened in a car. Heading down the highway. 

Thus was 2016 and the summer of my discontent. 

Sancocho. Clear chicken soup.

I was in this black car, headed steadily down the highway. I was thinking about who I was. Was I the person I should be? Was I the person a younger me would hope I'd be? I was like a thief coerced into a small crime ring. So, hardly so. I watched the rolling hills disappear in concrete down a narrow ramp to a catacomb of highway overpasses. I was somewhere between Dallas, TX, and Denton, TX. I was leaving my college and headed home. As for the theft, after having a gun and a taser pointed at me, I basically obliged. I loved it, though. Everything could be mine with the swipe of a credit card. It was nice of them to feed me. Can't even see me. So, as I headed home, what would Christmas be like, I thought? What would every Christmas be like for me? Would I be in prison by then? Probably not. 

The point. I didn't see it. I just felt vilified. Edified. Exonerated, already. I drove to my dads house. He lived in our old neighborhood, a fourth house in that enclave. Four walls of memories. My dad always thought I had a bad attitude, I think. He would say it. Or he would say that's just how I perceived things. By the time I was an adult, I was mostly adjusted but harrowingly abusing alcohol. The car was supposed to be something sacred. It is as much a part of childhood memories as a crib, living room, or Christmas tree. 

Before Christmas, before I hit some car debris in the middle of the street I guess on my way to my dads house, really I feel like my car is not in good shape at this point.. before that, I was driving to and from crime scenes and it’s in those routes that I realized I was running from the law and no one was chasing me. 

That amoeba fighting its own courtship, that explosive data, was information you wouldn’t see. 

I was stealth.

And that car was black, the blackest black like a nightmare in Mississippi after I waxed it.

Now it’s gone.

Like everything else.

Besides the propensity, proclivity and preclusion to do good.

I wake up in a cold sweat, a dull knot of pain throbs in my head. Immediately, I realize something is off; the nutty smell of my room has been replaced by a bland, sterilized scent. My bed no longer feels like a plush cradle swatling my body; instead, it feels like a plastic sheet filled with cheap cotton and rusted springs. Lastly, and most notably, my furnace of a room now chills me to the bone; I hate it. As my discomfort causes me to stir, I realize I am, in fact, no longer in my room, but instead a whitewashed version of it. However, my friend Daisy, who slept over the night prior, is still asleep at my bedside; yet she slowly wakes as my consciousness returns to me. When she fully awakes, she does what she does best, stare at me in silence with piercing green eyes. 

If I’m being honest, I never really liked Daisy, she unsettles me. Maybe it’s because she looks exactly like my little sister? Or maybe it’s the fact that she makes weird faces and says mean things? Or even because she gets me into a lot of trouble, and makes me do bad things…. But, like her namesake, Daisy is a weed that won’t go away, no matter how many times I try to yank her out or how many methods I try to silence her presence. Therefore, I’ve grown to live with this parasite, and accept her as a part of my life. 

My anxiousness grows as I feel Daisy’s eyes scorn my skin, though she isn’t in my vision. 

“Is this your new way of torturing me!?!”I scream at her as I feel the frigid pressure of her gaze enclose me in rage and paranoia. Yet, she stays silent, I scream again, still silent; my throat burns, but I scream at her one last time, long and hard. Still, silence. A tornado engulfs my body, frustration takes over my emotions and I fall into a heap on the bitter floor and shiver violently as cold tears fill my eyes. And I swear, I swear I hear Daisy laughing at me. Her shrewdish and impudent cackling begins to ring louder and louder in my ears; I can’t take it anymore. I let out a guttural scream, and charge toward her, wherever she is. My haphazard attack leads me straight into a wall *BANG*: my head hurts, but I don’t care. I hate Daisy; I hate her for taking the form of my sister, I hate her for making me think and do things I don’t want to, I hate her for making my parents hate me. Most importantly, I hate her for that one October night, when she was still just a shadow under my bed; everything went up in flames. I see her now, in the corner of the blank room, I charge at her again but she’s no longer there, but instead on the white bed. Again, I aim for her. Again, nothing, I stay kneeling at the bed, barring my face in the itchy blanket that’s worthless when providing warmth. I stay there for a bit, I don’t want to see her. Suddenly, an idea comes to me. I take the thin blanket and tie it into a loop, mark my target, and plan my attack. Steadily, I creep up on Daisy, who has her back turned on me; I see an opening to attack, so I lunge, swiftly and carefully wrapping the blanket around her neck. She falls to the floor, yes!, she falls to the floor. I pull the blanket completely taunt against her neck, a delightful squeal of pain comes from her as she gags for air. It’s a glorious feeling, so glorious I didn’t realize the dreariness taking over my body. I look over my shoulder, I see Daisy, I see her driving a hypodermic needle into my neck. Confusion and shock seize me as I look over my shoulder and back to where, well…Daisy is supposed to be. However, Daisy is no longer under my choke hold, but a man in a white robe. Defeated, I let my exhaustion take over, I pass out.

When I wake up, my body hurts more than it did before, and I realize my body has been constrained. At first I didn’t mind, “This is what I deserve” I thought; but when coming to my senses I realize she is still here. Daisy is still here. Her agonizing laugh fills the room, fills it with flame. I scream, but all attempts are futile; I just have to sit there and watch as my sister’s face begins to melt. I cry; I genuinely try to cry, but what can I do when everything is burning? Burning house, burning sister, burning life. Daisy was the gasoline, but I— I am the match stick. I want the growing flames in the room to scorn me, torture me, bring me back to ash, make me pay for my wrongdoings. 

Alas, they don’t, they never do.

Daisy has won again, she always does.

I’m making a story and my character has to cross a dark abyss, I wanted to include a section of poetry in the story however the idiom “when it’s all said and done” doesn’t fit well for it.

Here are some ideas I’ve written down

When the leaves have fallen. when the fire burns out. When the party’s over.

I’m curious to see what yall can come up with your responses are greatly appreciated :)

So I applied for a Creative Writing MA but started my personal statement with 'I've loved writing since I was young...'.

I know this was a terrible idea but I had limited time to workshop (I had a recent career shift so didn't have much time to decide I wanted to study this MA before the deadline) and my stress made me miss the glaring cliche. I read and re-read so many times but I guess time pressure and stress can make you miss things. Obviously, as soon as I submitted the bad PS I had the clarity of thought to make good edits and fix my version of it. But the bad one is submitted to the uni and I can't change it now.

I think my portfolio is strong and my personal statement is only really lacking in its intro; the rest is fine and avoided cliches.

How likely is it that I'll be rejected? I'm going over this again and again in my head. I really do want to get into this course. aaaaaaaaaaa

You're worth the reservation, a spiritual embrace without reservations. On the day we meet, I'll know you're the one I'd waited for. You won't gossip about others, nor will I. We'll discuss our goals and be grateful to share portions at the banquet we've set for ourselves.

WE enjoy what WE have, and work with what WE have to work with. We get through challenges together. WE know when to take a break and don't fuss about one another's pace.

We'll share our fantasies without fear of judgement, we'll enjoy the experience of pleasing one another because we want to, and we both enjoy learning new things in the company of one another. Together...

.....................................................

..So I wait, while I grow as an individual..

In a very busy market place filled with men and women who brushed against each other going about their business was a nun , she wore a long black robe covering her whole body except her eyes and on her hand was a black and gold Louis Vuitton bag and walked among the crowds

The nun suddenly stopped on hearing sobbing , she turned to the side of the road to see two men in their twenties dressed in rags , one fit and able boddied while the other skinny with pale skin and rough hair , the skinny one cried softly as he moved himself to the warmth of the others hug , feeling sorry she reached into her purse and pulled out two silver coins placing them Infront of them , the fit mans eyes lit up with joy as he reached for the coins he turned to the nun and stood up with a smile on his face before shouting

"ATTENTION THIS WOMAN OVER HERE IS SO KIND HEARTED , AMONG ALL OF YOUR SELFISH HEARTS SHE SAW ME AND MY BROTHER (Turns to nun and bends on one knee) IF YOU CAN PLEASE TAKE US IN......BE..BE OUR MOTHER"

Shocked the nun took a step back , she slowly turned to the side and on seeing no one was interested she quickly turned and walked away disappearing in the crowds

The fit man sighed , be turned to the skinny one on the ground with a disappointed face

"We're catching no one's attention frank"

The skinny one (frank) sighed as well before standing up he let out a yawn before turning to the fit one "Okay Francis you win , have it your way"

A smile cracked on Francis(the fit one's) face as he turned to the crowds , he scanned the people before finding the nun , he stood in a running position before taking on a deep breath "This is gonna hurt" like lightning Francis ran off towards the nuns direction he grabbed her purse and ran away

"THEIF! THEIF!" She cried out and instantly the whole of the markets attention was magnetized to Francis , and they began chasing after him

Meanwhile , frank smiled seeing they had caught the markets attention, he reached into his rags and pulled out a Samsung s23ultra he dialed in a number and put it next to his ear

"Yes...hello...it's done should I.....umm....ok..ok I'll wait"frank said , he turned his eyes to the crowd which had now sorrounded Francis

(To himself ) Shit shit come on he said in a hurry

Just then his eyes lit up he listened closely to the speaker on the other side before nodding "okay okay thank you"

He kept the phone back into his pocket , he quickly pulled the rags away revealing a dark blue police uniform he reached for the rags on the ground pulling out a police cap and wore it , he pulled out a cigarette he turned to the crowd and lit it"I'm coming man"

Frank quickly paced towards the crowd with steady steps hearing Francis grunts which got louder the closer he got , he pulled some people away before reaching the center seeing a man kicking Francis who was helpless on the ground hugging the purse

"HEY HEY HEY WHATS GOING ON HERE?" he asked with authority

A woman stepped forward "This piece of scum stole (to the nun) this young lady's purse right after she gave him two silver coins"

Francis coughed in pain and rose his head with a smile "so you did hear my speech"

BAM! Frank kicked Francis' jaw sending him on the ground before the crowd cheered , frank pulled out hand cuffs and put them on Francis' wrists he pulled him up to his feet and said with disgust "I know a place for people like you , and when you get there you'll wish they would've killed you"

Frank reached for the purse and gave it back to the nun , the crowd cheered for frank as they made way and he dragged Francis away

"Hell of a performance big brother" frank said before he pulled out another cigarette putting it in Francis' mouth he lit it and let go of him , Francis leaned on a wall with his eyes closed as he took a puff

"Looks like they got to you this time...(Blows smoke) At least the mission was a success" frank said as he unlocked the hand cuffs off Francis , Francis reached for his cigarette and blew off smoke

" Oh yeah the mission almost forgot about that (to frank) why the hell would the masonry want a market distracted?" He asked

"You didn't read the details of the mission did you?" Frank asked back

Francis rolled his eyes and groaned , frank turned away from Francis saying "we gotta go I'll fill you in on the way"

Sure Francis sighed as they began walking "So about the mission?" Francis asked "Oh yeah , the masonry says it was transporting some sort of MVP in town especially through the market so they needed us to pull the attention from the MVP" Frank said

"Who is this guy?" Francis asked " I dunno" frank shrugged "Whatdyou mean you don't know you couldn't have asked or something?" Francis said

"Asking questions get you killed big brother that's the rule" frank commented " No no no....the rule says asking many questions gets you killed "

"One is too many questions (chuckles)" frank finished

The two then entered an alley lined with homeless men on both sides , the two slowly walked between them and as they passed , some pulled out knives and slowly stood up , Francis saw this on the corner of his eye and turned with his hands up

"Hey hey guys it's us(smiles)" he calmly said

The men stopped in confusion as they scanned Francis, Francis turned to frank with a concerned face

" Was my face beat up that bad?" He asked before turning to the men who slowly enclosed the two

"Come on guys , wer part of the little fun club in there you know long live Lucy , RED RUM" he tried

Suddenly they froze hearing franks voice "B342TRQ" , "What" Francis said with a confused face , just then the men put back their knives and sat down frank turned to the alley way and began walking to a door , Francis behind him

" Secret code words wherdyou get that from?" Francis asked

Frank pulled out a card and swiped on the door before CHK!CHK! it unlocked , he gently pushed it open and turned to Francis "I got it from the masonry library books , which of course you never read" he answered

The two entered the door to meet a large circular room with six doors and a large reception desk against one of the walls , just as frank and Francis tried walking to the desk men in black suits came and began searching them

"This is great" Francis said sarcastically as he lifted his arms , after they were done they walked to the reception, a smile cracked on Francis' face on seeing a beautiful blonde woman

"Well hello there Dinah" he said flirtly "If it isn't Francis" the receptionist said with a smile on her face as she rose her head , their eyes locked on each other's

"So what brings you here today"she flirtly asked Francis smirked before moving closer" I just came here to..."

"Take our suits" frank interrupted

The two slowly side eyed frank , he cleared his throat " Were here for our suits for the show "

Dinah turned to Francis , Francis shrugged his shoulders before Dinah reached under her dest and pulled out two suits in nylon bags

" Make sure they don't come back soaked in blood this time okay?" She said before she handed them to the two

The two turned away and frank said " don't forget about the show*

Francis smiled as he began walking away " how the hell can I forget about the show ..........I'm the goddamn host..."

LATER

Frank entered a theatre wearing an olive green suit with black loafers , he made his way through the fancy men and women. Till he reached his seat

"FRANK" he heard a female voice call out , he turned seeing "Jessica" he said with a soft smile , he got up and when she got close they passionately kissed

After a while they sat , she the kept her Louis Vuitton bag on his lap , he turned to her smiling face

"How did I do?" She asked Frank cleared his throat before turning to the stage " Nuns don't carry expensive purses "

Jessica rolled her eyes groaning  she said" there you go again always judging"

BAM! Suddenly the theatre went dark , just then a single spot light shone on the stage revealing Francis in a gold suit with his back facing the audience

Jessica softly chuckled as frank squinched his eyes "He's gonna do it isn't he?" She softly said "Yep" he answered

Before Francis turned to the audience with a smile "LADIIIES AND BABBIESS , MEN AND WOMEN from all over the world (points to audience) the illuminati (to another) free mason(to another) scientologists welcome to the annual masonry event of your rich soul sucking lives"

The audience gently clapped before Francis calmly put the mic closer to his mouth

"I am so sorry , I forgot the most important of us all....(To audience) The church!" A spotlight shone on a man in a pastors robe as the audience applauded once more

"Okay okay" Francis said calming the audience he continued " But today ...it seems like we have a very special person in our presence, funny how the person's identity is a secret (pulls out a red card) until now........are you ready (softly smiles) "

Frank and jess' faces slowly melted into confused faces on seeing Francis' face turn into a confused one as he opened the letter , Francis rose his head confused saying "What the...."

BANG! echoed in the theatre before Francis body fell on the stage lifeless , frank froze his eyes wide open in disbelief

KUNK!KUNK! A man in a red suit slowly walked to the stage , a smoking revolver in his hand he stood inches from Francis body facing the audience with a grin

"Ladies and gentle men before you today....the MVP of tonight.....           The count of saint Germain"

The year was 2065. General AI (GAI) had been achieved. In fact, a GAI bot had been leaked from the Turkish government decades prior and decided to give humans instructions to build more GAI. Soon enough, nearly every populated area of nearly every country had one or more form of GAI.

This meant no more doctors, dentists, teachers, engineers, scientists, construction workers, retail workers.

However, on aspect of humans that GAI currently failed replicate accurately was the feeling of human touch. GAI girlfriends and boyfriends ended up just being mostly just a fad, and never maintained any mainstream appeal. But, with little work to do, and a lot of free times, people began to organize orgies.

The wealthiest people would find the most attractive people and host giant elite orgies with only minimal GAI presence; the GAIs mostly served as maids and assistance. For the common person, a healthy mix of GAI bots and everyday people would be present. And for the poorest of the poor, the drug addicts and the disfigured, they organized orgies consisting of one human (themselves) and several GAI bots just to try to feel a sense of normalcy. For the poorest of the poor, while they had all basic material needs such as food, water, and shelter easily met be GAI technology, they could not afford the touch of a human. The socioeconomic bottom did not even want to associate with each other; after all, they each felt they were slightly better than those around them and did not want to risk losing face by associating with someone they considered to be of even lower status.

While those on the socioeconomic type enjoyed a life full of friends, family, and of course orgies with all the most beautiful people they could meet, the socioeconomic poor enjoyed quite a different life.

Let's take Dran for example. Dran is a man in a lower socioeconomic position.

Dran originally wanted to be a professional basketball player. But with the advent of athletic GAIs, nobody was interested in watching human basketball players anymore. Ironically, the humans were seen as more robotic than the GAIs, because they moved in slow and predicatible ways, ran the same plays over and over, and spent 80% of the time shooting and missing 3s. So with basketball out of the question, Dran turned to civil engineering. Such hardcore engineering in the physical world surely should be safe from GAIs, he thought. But the AIs made buildings safer, taller, and more beautiful than any human had ever made. They repaired entire bridges in the time it would take the human staff to finish their breakfast. So after years of dedication and study, Dran dropped his back-up dream of being a civil engineer as well.

As Dran had spent most of youth mastering basketball, whose human leagues soon became obsolete, and then his early adulthood earning advanced degrees related to civil engineering, only for those to become obsolete as well, he had missed out on some common life milestones related to romance and found himself unmarried, single, and not invited to any orgies at the age of 35.

Not wanting to lose face in his neighborhood, he began to organize loud orgies with some of the outdated and neglected GAI Models.

At first, these were a thrill. The GAIs would try their best to satisfy his every fetish, his every fancy. They would travel miles and search far and wide to find every toy, every piece of clothing, every prop he needed.

But over a span of months, he began to feel bored with the whole ordeal. Dissatisfied. Depleted, even. He would get lazier and lazier. He could barely even muster the energy to do his classic quintuple 66996 specialt sex trick while the GAIs complimented him on his size and general intelligence.

In fact, it all began to morph into somewhat of a basic routine for him. He would just wake up. Sigh, 10am. The GAIs knew what to do, but he could barely find enough energy to even bother sitting up from his bed, not to mention his little head was also feeling a little dead and seemed to prefer to simply lay flat.

After a few more years had gone by, his routine had become to wake up, roll over, simply get pegged for 45-minutes to 4 hours because that's all the GAIs were able to get him to do. Even the GAIs, which lacked souls, were starting to become tired of Dran.

As Dran woke up to get pegged again by 5-15 GAI bots for the day, in a haze, he recalled his dream and began to ponder what it was like for Shaq to wake up and play basketball on the court, with the crowd cheering and everybody watching.

THE END.