my life's too easy

to feel so listless

i'm always asking the page to tell me something new:

the next words,

the next step,

the next thing to believe

is that what i am, just empty-headed?

a monster of society's making, pinched into

shape by the people standing nearby to me?

glass towers never looked so empty,

even when they shimmer like crystal

take my words, spin them like silk into scarves

lay them at eye-level and tell me something

i don't know

bare my chest

my neck, my shoulders, my thighs

touch this skin

but you're incapable of seeing

what's just inside

i'm afraid of being seen but you

don't see it

you may force these words

from my lips or from the page

and still

they drop meaninglessly into your palms,

my lifeblood, my pain and love and sorrow -

my entire reality, in pieces, at your

fingertips and it all means nothing to you

you, who have not the keys to unlock them

you, who has not the courage to ask what it is

you, who has taken what i do not give

you, who still does not understand the power words hold

the power that i wield

and forget

for it and many other things have been used against me

and you are too blind

and i am too cowardly

and words rise and fall between us like the beating heart

dec 2 24

Do You Know Who I Am?

December 02, 2024

Who am I?

Between the eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara,

I am not who you think I am.

Add the concealer, the foundation, and the lipstick

And you are not even close.

I am wearing a pushup bra, compression tights, and heels.

I have perfume, hairspray, and hair dye.

My lashes are false.

My tan is also.

My breasts are not real either.

So who am I?

I ask you not if you know,

But only if you could tell me since I no longer do.

Sport

mirror

light

sand

bag

Eliza's love for owls had always been intertwined with memories of her mother, whose passion for these majestic creatures was tender and profound. Before she was taken from this world, her mother had been an artist of exceptional talent, devoting her life to capturing the essence of owls in various forms. Their home had been adorned with her creations. Intricate drawings and delicate wood carvings, each piece brimming with the same reverence and wonder she felt for these nocturnal beings. Eliza remembered the warmth of her mother’s hands as they traced the delicate lines of an owl’s feathers on paper or carved out their elegant forms from wood blocks. Each creation was a labour of love, a tribute to her fascination with these enigmatic birds. The walls of their home were a gallery of her mother’s work—drawings of owls perched in moonlit forests, their eyes wise and knowing, and wooden sculptures that seemed almost alive, each with its own story and spirit. But the tranquillity of their lives was shattered in an instant. Eliza’s mother was murdered, a brutal act that left an irreplaceable void in their lives. The once vibrant and artistic home was now a place of silence and sorrow. The walls that had once celebrated the beauty of owls now seemed to mourn their creator. Eliza found herself clinging to the memories of her mother’s work, trying to find solace in the art that had once filled their home with love and light.

Every evening, just as the moon began its ascent, Eliza would draw back her curtains and peer out of her bedroom window to look at the night sky. The night sky was a breathtaking expanse of deep velvet, sprinkled generously with a dazzling array of stars. Each one twinkled with an ethereal light, creating a shimmering tapestry that stretched endlessly above. The moon, full and luminous, cast a gentle silvery sheen over the landscape, bathing everything in its soft glow. Its light danced across the treetops and flickered off the surface of a nearby pond, where it created ripples of shimmering light. The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the faintest whispers of the night breeze, rustling the leaves and adding a sense of serene movement to the otherwise still night.

Perched high on a gnarled old oak tree that stood sentinel in her backyard was a majestic owl. The owl was a vision of nocturnal majesty, with its commanding presence. Its feathers were a rich velvety brown, giving it an almost otherworldly camouflage against the night.

The owl’s eyes were round, and luminous, with a deep amber glow. They held a profound stillness, their gaze serene. When it turned its head, it did so with a slow, deliberate grace, as if contemplating the mysteries of the night. Its beak was sharp and curved, a dark and polished contrast against the softness of its feathers. The owl's talons were formidable, strong yet delicate in their precision, gripping the branch with an effortless strength. Despite its powerful physique, there was a certain elegance to its movements—a smooth, silent flight. The owl's overall demeanour was one of pride and calm, its posture regal as it perched high on its chosen branch. It seemed to embody the very essence of the night, a solitary guardian watching over the world from its lofty perch. With feathers as soft as midnight and eyes gleaming like twin pools of starlight, the owl seemed to be both a guardian and a silent companion.

Eliza was enchanted by the owl's proud demeanor and mysterious presence. She began to leave small treats by her window—crumbs of bread, slices of apple, and bits of cheese. Each night, she would watch with growing delight as the owl drew nearer, its movements deliberate and measured as it approached the treats. Eventually, the owl became accustomed to this nightly offering, fluttering closer each time, until it would land on the edge of the windowsill, its gaze never wavering from Eliza. Their nightly interactions grew into a quiet ritual of friendship. The owl, once aloof and distant, seemed to appreciate the company, its once-imposing stature now a symbol of trust. But one night, the atmosphere changed.

It was a particularly dim evening, the clouds shrouding the sky and making the night seem unnatural still. Eliza had left her usual assortment of treats by the window but noticed, with a sense of unease, that the owl was absent from its usual perch. She turned away, her heart sinking slightly. After a few moments, she returned to the window, hoping to catch sight of her friend. There, to her horror, was the owl's head, eerily peering over the bottom of the window frame. Its eyes glowed unnaturally bright, but something about them seemed wrong. A chilling silence enveloped the scene as Eliza approached the window slowly. The rustling of the leaves ceased abruptly, and the usual night sounds seemed to hold their breath. As Eliza drew closer, the owl's eyes transformed—what had once been celestial orbs now appeared unsettlingly human, small and piercing. The owl’s skin began to shift, revealing an unsettling texture beneath the feathers.

The window creaked open, and as it did, the figure began to rise. The entity slowly emerged. The entity that loomed over Eliza was a grotesque and unsettling sight. Its body, unnervingly human in shape, was entirely devoid of clothing. The skin was an unnervingly smooth, pale gray, stretched over its skeletal frame. The humanoid form was emaciated, with limbs that seemed too long and too thin. Its head was unmistakably owl-like, with large, glowing amber eyes that seemed to bore into the soul. The feathers around its head were ruffled and dishevelled, their dark and light patterns creating a haunting contrast against the pallor of the humanoid skin beneath. As Eliza watched in terror, the entity's mouth began to open slowly, almost impossibly wide. The opening stretched far beyond the natural limits of any human or owl, revealing a cavernous maw lined with sharp, irregular teeth. These teeth were uneven and jagged which made them appear even more menacing. The mouth gaped open wider and wider as if it were a sinister portal to an abyss of darkness, its unsettling, primal hunger palpable.

The creature's presence was the embodiment of a nightmare.

As the creature loomed closer, a heartbreaking scene unfolded. From the corner of her eye, Eliza glimpsed the true owl, its eyes reflecting sorrow and a single tear tracing down its feathery cheek. The majestic owl, once her nightly companion, seemed to mourn the abomination that had taken its place. In that final, terrifying moment, the owl's gaze conveyed a silent apology, as if it had tried to protect her from this dreadful fate.

“Mom”? Eliza whispered.

The night was silent, save for the rhythmic pounding of Eliza’s frightened heart. The last thing she saw was the owl, still perched on its tree, the tear glistening as a final symbol of its silent sorrow before everything was engulfed by the darkness.

Preface:

Imagine that the word "Love" comes to life, transforming into a character that embodies love in all its forms. Its appearance is soft, like the first ray of sunlight at dawn, and its movements are smooth and enveloping, like a warm embrace. Its clothes are adorned with hundreds of tiny hearts that shimmer and glow, reflecting its emotions. The character's eyes are deep, filled with wisdom and infinite kindness, capable of soothing any pain.

Love is always surrounded by an aura of warmth, tenderness, and harmony. It can hear even the unspoken words and notice in people what is hidden from others. Its voice sounds like a melody familiar to everyone, evoking a smile and a sense of peace.

However, Love is not just tenderness. In its heart lies a strength capable of overcoming any obstacle, healing wounds, and offering hope. Its presence inspires people to be the best versions of themselves. Sometimes, it can be unpredictable, playful, and even a little chaotic because love comes in many forms: quiet, passionate, burning, and caring.

This character reminds us that love is not only a feeling but also an action that can change the world around us. Through its stories, we can see how important it is to love — others, life, ourselves, and even the small things that make our day better.

"Love and the Magical Flower"

One day, Love, our magical hero, was strolling through the forest, enjoying the gentle breeze that tousled his hair. He always loved walking among the trees, for they, like old friends, silently listened to him, while they themselves shared amazing stories.

On that day, as the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in pink and golden hues, Love noticed something special — a tiny flower hiding among the bushes. It was so small that one might easily miss it, but that was exactly what caught Love's attention. The flower was white, with a faint glow around its petals. It was so delicate and invisible, as if its creation had been inspired by love itself.

"You are so beautiful," Love whispered, leaning closer to the flower. "Why are you hiding?"

The flower answered in a soft voice, one that only Love could hear.

"I'm afraid I won't be noticed. I'm too small. Maybe I'm not as important as the other flowers. Everyone looks at the big, bright ones, and I... I'm just tiny."

Love smiled, and his eyes sparkled with warmth. He sat down next to the flower and gently embraced it, his soft energy filling the air.

"You know, little flower," Love said, "love is not always visible at first glance. It often hides in the most unremarkable things. But anyone who can see it will feel how it can change the world. You are important, and your beauty is unique."

The flower felt its petals begin to bloom even brighter, and soft glowing sparks appeared around its tiny stem. Love placed his hand on the delicate stem, and immediately hundreds of other small flowers began to glow, as if they too had awakened, feeling the power of love.

"You were right," said the flower. "Love really can change everything."

From that day on, the tiny flower became one of the most beautiful in the forest, and everyone who passed by couldn't help but notice its special glow. And Love, content, continued on his way, knowing that his magic had filled the world with one more miracle.

And so, through this encounter, Love taught us all: love is not always something huge and loud. It can be small, warm, and quiet, but it is these moments that create magic in our world.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.

Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.

“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.

They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.

He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.

Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”

“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”

“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”

Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”

Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.

“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”

“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”

Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.

“One of Mitch’s boys has the door covered, and he looks nasty.”

“How nasty?” Tristan asked.

“Somewhere between a mangy dog and a freight train,” said John

“Right. There has to be another way in. Aren’t there any windows?”

“They’re all barred and look like they are hooked up to battery packs.” answered John.

“Probably fry anyone that tries.”

“Is this a nightclub or a fort?”

“Knowing Mitch, both.”

Taren spoke, “I could try to-“

“It’s not like there are other options. Let’s just force our way in. It’s just one dude,” said Tristan.

The others shared a glance.

“We’re goin’ in,” Tristan commanded.

“You ain’t on the list.”

“And I told you we’re going in.”

“Get lost.”

“Maybe this will help?” Taren rubbed her forefinger and thumb together.

“Don’t be stupid, Taren,” said Tristan.

After an uncomfortably long pause under a stoic gaze, someone whispered, “He looks mad.”

“He can look how he wants. I’ll smash his face in,” said Tristan dryly.

“Did you actually just say that?” John asked.

“Yeah.” Tristan answered.

John shook his head. “Okay guys, roll initiative.” The table exploded in an uproar with papers shuffling and dice rolling. The players readying their character sheets for combat.

“Do we have to fight?”

“Who’s asking, Taren or Corrinne?”

“Oh, I am,” Her lips tightened, “No actually, Corrinne is. Do we have to fight? The guys just doing his job. Corrinne turns to the bouncer, ‘You’re doing a great job by the way.’”

“He nods to you, but it feels more like a roll of the eyes,” said John.

“I position Corrinne between the bouncer and our party. Can I do that before the initiative roll or do we need to do that first?” Taren asked.

“It’s fine as long as you’re talking, but if anybody takes anything that could be seen as an action, then we’ll use the rolls.” Said John.

“Okay, cool, I stand between the party and the bouncer,” said Taren

“Does the movement not count as an action?”

“Dude?! Helping or hurting?”

“I think it’s more interesting to let it slide for now. Remember your initiative rolls and let’s try and keep in character for the moment. I like the tension,” said John.

“I hate it.”

“In character now.”

“Okay, so. It’s been a long night, I get that, and you are just doing as ordered, we totally understand that. Right guys?” Taren looked around the table.

“Totally.”

“Yep.”

“No.” Everyone turned sharply toward Tristan. “What?”

Pointedly ignoring his comment, Taren continued, “I get it. This is just a job, and you seem like a good guy, so let me run this by you.”

“He crosses his arms, tucking his hands into the folds of his unnaturally thick arms,” said John.

“How unnatural?”

“Extremely.”

“Stim-pack unnatural?”

“Could be.” He added.

“I want to check that out. Can I do a medicine check and use streetwise as my secondary?”

“Sure, go for it” the dice clatter.

“14. ”

“What were you rolling under?” John asked.

“17.”

“Oh, nice. You spot a faint puncture mark part way up the right side of his neck and his veins are a slightly bluer shade than they should be.” John said.

“Bluer?” A nod confirmed the answer, “I silently gesture towards his neck and mouth the word Ice towards the rest of you.” The players nod in acknowledgement.

“Here’s what I am proposing,” Taren picked up where she had left off, “I may have had one or two too many shots. You, being such an astoundingly caring fellow, are duty bound to take me to the first aid station.”

“He stares blankly,” John said.

“She continues. ‘One of my friends comes with. Two wait here and keep an eye on the door for you. Stop any of the riff raff getting ideas.’”

“’Money ain’t good enough.’ He looks over your head at a newly forming queue of patrons.”

“It ain’t bad money either, but here’s the other thing. You could easily take on little ol’ me and with those kinds of muscles, probably even my loud-mouthed friend, too.”

Tristan shot daggers across the table.

“Me?”

“Obviously.”

“'Probably even him, but all of us? I pause for dramatic effect. Maybe, big man, but is it worth it? I certainly don’t wanna fight such an upstanding gentleman as yourself.' I touch his arm carefully.” The table briefly laughed and clapped in reverie as she mirrored her character’s action with mime.

Tristan glared.

“Okay, let me ask for clarity. Are you trying to flirt with or threaten the guy?” asked John.

“Yes.” Four fifths of the table laughed again.

“I say we just kill him.” Tristan interrupted the reverie.

“Dude seriously?”

“What’s your problem?”

Tristan stood up from the table, his chair rumbled a shrill shriek, and his papers and dice flew in a mess across the table. Taren darted from her seat and stood between Tristan and the rest of the table.

“Give me the keys. We’re going.” He said flatly.

“Tris, ho-“

“KEYS!” His shout cut off all other noise in the room.

The players sat around the table looking down at their papers. Taren holding a fragile fortress between Tristan and the group.

Calmly, the heavyset John at the head of the table rose. “Taren,” he spoke quietly, “you are welcome to stay for a while.”

“Who th-“

John didn’t break his gait. “If you need a place to stay the night, you are welcome here, or we can call someone. If you prefer.” He folded his arms, “Tris, you aren’t welcome here. Doors over there,” he gestured.

The table all stood as one.

“Stay Taren.”

“Please, stay.”

Tristan looked at Taren, who flinched at the initial intensity of the gaze. She looked at the group, then back to Tristan. Silently she handed him the keys and stepped away with heat infused cheeks and swollen eyes as she held his gaze.

Tristan locked with her for a beat and then looked at the others before breaking contact and looking down at his seat. “You coming?” Taren barely shook her head, but he saw it. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and left without another word.

So I was taking the bus home from school today. There was a homeless man on the bus, seated across from where I was standing. He was pale and had brown hair and a beard. He was 31, according to what he said. The bus had maybe forty people in it. Not crowded but not empty either.

This homeless man, he was speaking out loud. Not to anyone in particular. He was just speaking out loud, in a volume that was just a little bit loud, so that a decent amount of people could hear but no one would be bothered.

He talked about how the federal government was not doing enough to combat climate change and protect the environment. He talked about how climate change was getting worse and the government wasn’t doing enough to stop it because they cared about the fossil fuel industry more than peoples’ lives. He mentioned how scary it was that there still wasn’t snow in November.

He also voiced that public transit (buses, LRT, etc) should be free. Because that would help the environment and because it would give homeless people a space to stay out of the cold. Also because it would help poor people get to where they needed to go without becoming broke. He expressed that it gets really cold in the winter. And especially recently, since climate change is causing the Arctic vortex to get looser so all the cold winds from the Arctic are coming into the south. And if homeless people had somewhere warmer to go in the winter, like a bus for example, that would really help a lot of people.

He discussed how most homeless people don’t act rowdy or unruly on the bus, and how a lot of middle class people do act rowdy and unruly on the bus. Which tracks well with what I’ve seen, the only rowdy people I’ve seen have all been middle class, and I’ve ridden the bus a whole lot. And he discussed how homeless people have a human right to be somewhere warm.

He talked about anti homeless architecture on the buses. The new seats on the buses, the plastic seats, they make it harder for people to lie down and sleep. (There are three places on each bus that each have three seats in a row together and one place that has five seats.) He explained how if there are enough seats for everyone, which there often is, then homeless people sleeping on the bus aren’t bothering or hurting anyone.

He also explained that homeless people deserve to be able to sleep on the bus, because they deserve somewhere to sleep that isn’t cold. See the thing is, and most people in my city don’t know this, the homeless shelters are overflowing and they don’t have enough space for everyone. Anyways, as the homeless man was explaining, a lot of homeless people have no choice but to sleep outside. And when you sleep outside on a day or night when it’s really cold (which is happening more frequently due to the polar vortex becoming looser and coming south due to climate change), you may not wake up at all. Or you will wake up with frost bite and lose body parts. This really disturbed me, the reality of people going to sleep in the horrific cold and not waking up at all.

He discussed the inflation that is happening recently due to corporate price gouging. How food is more expensive, and homeless people can’t afford to buy the food they need. He discussed how it’s hard for homeless people to buy food to begin with since they can’t cook anything due to not having kitchens.

And he expressed how so many of the people he met on the streets were the kindest people ever. How they had so much kindness for him. How they gave up what little they had in order to help him out. How they were so generous, how they helped him and each other even at great personal sacrifice. He talked about how someone even gave him their shoes once.

I told him that I was listening to what he was saying, that I agreed and that I was glad he was saying this. He shook my hand, and then we sat down to talk together. He told me that he wasn’t lazy, that he had to walk around all day. I told him that that must be exhausting. And truly it is very exhausting having to walk around all day, I know that from personal experience. And homeless people do have to do that because if they stay in one place then the cops come to beat them and steal their possessions. He talked about how he made sure to properly put out his cigarettes so that he didn’t cause fires, and about how he didn’t litter.

I told him that I wished I had something I could give him. (At the time I didn’t have any money or food on me and I didn’t even have a hat on me.) He said it was okay since he had some raw chicken hot dogs and some wonder bread and some cheap ketchup. I had to get off the bus at that point because it was my stop. But I believe that it’s very important that his story is told and shared.

Old Soul?

Do you even know what the fuck that means? It means I don't have any fucking friends. It means I buried my wants and needs so far don't I can't see them anymore. It means I put others in front if myself. It means I do what I'm fucking told, not because I'm ok with not being in control, but because I have to. It means my hands are tied and at the same time, I'm the one who feeds the dogs, drives the car, makes the meals, gets you up, brushes your teeth, puts you to sleep and does it over again. I'm only ten. I'm only ten and I'm already an adult. I can count the amount of times I cried but I've lost count of how many times I comforted you. And guess what? It earned me a complement, a fucking complement.

I tried, you know I did.

I tried to do everything. I was there, even when you weren't. I was hungry when the dinner was burnt. I was restless, when you were half asleep and you don't remember any of these things.

And you're not gone, I just got away. You're not gone, but my dad still asks me why I'm not ok.

You're not gone, but you're still not here, or anywhere.

My dad just asked me why I'm upset.

It used to me my brother who I spoke up for instead.

And now when I need him his will has flown away.

My voice has shut up inside.

I can't handle this anyway.

It's not ok.

It's not ok

It's not ok

It's not ok

You asked me why I'm different now,

why I'm not ok.

I could name a million reasons but that doesn't make it change.

And, I know you want to help me but that doesn't make me sane.

I'm not ok

I'm not ok

I'm not ok

You want to know me then forget me half the time.

You say you want me happy but that doesn't mean you try.

I told you the problem is but you just said I lied

And I try

And again I try

I try to be hopeful

I try to be good

I try to be different

because you think I should

But I'm not so different

and I'm not alright

I still have satan whispering by my side

I wish to hope

I wish to try

but that old soul says it's time to die

Do you know what it holds?

Do you know what it means?

Do you think you owe me an apology?

Do you think that someday I'll be alright?

Do you think I'll make it through the night?

Do you know what's holy?

Do you know what's true?

Did you know I've always been afraid of you?

Afraid you're broken, afraid you'd cry, no matter how hard it is I try

my old soul

is dead inside

yet I'll always be by your side

by your side

I have mastered the art

of not seeing my reflection

in storefront windows,

of deleting emails

before the subject line

can pick my locks.

I have earned my PhD

in changing channels

when the news threatens

to make me responsible

for knowing better.

I am fluent in small talk,

that ancient language of

looking the other way.

Each "fine" and "busy"

a masterclass in building walls

from cotton candy.

My browser history reads:

"how to pretend

everything is okay"

"ways to stay positive

while the house burns"

"best noise-canceling headphones

for drowning out conscience"

I have practiced daily

the Olympic sport

of mental gymnastics,

gold medalist in

the hundred-meter dodge.

But these unread letters

keep piling up under my door,

and my mirrors refuse

to honor my right

to diplomatic immunity

from my own eyes.