3am; awakened by the wooden floor creaking, scratching, like nails on a chalkboard. But they’re chipping. I imagine bits and pieces flying after bumping against every grout in her way; like students pausing at every equation on the board, peeling their nails out of boredom from x/y, or whatever her teacher is teaching. I told her 'eating green will make you smarter,' but she won't believe me. I told her to 'eat them when you're hungry,' but no; instead that little monster prefers yanking frozen food around at 3am for a popsicle.

“Go to bed.”

“But mom, I’m hungry…”

I remember hearing that insanity is repeating the same action everyday, but expecting different results.

So are all students insane?

Are all adults insane?

You keep telling me that soon I'd be driving the same car, down the same roads, to the same job, working 8 hours, just to come back and sleep in the same bed.

You wish you could be me, taking the same bus, seeing the same professors, relearning the same lessons, afraid to watch the numbers drop, both your grades and in your account.

You say I write dark. Just realized half my closet is black clothing. Bright, vivid colored logos are going black and white. Children graffiti dirty jokes, swearing at one another. The world doesn't trust people with power. They hate Superman, like an army of Lex Luthor's, waving their kryptonite around, discussing all their qualifications, building giant towers in the shape of an L, and letting it hang over the entire city. Ironic isn't it? I shouldn't complain, the world is always going to be dark, it's always going to have some form of conflict. Or maybe I've just been on the internet for too long, maybe playing Kendrick through my air pods are giving me an ear infection, maybe I should switch to my cousins music. Maybe I should try writing something brighter.

Maybe I want to make you laugh. "Knock, knock..." no not that. It's too simple, too- old schooly? What is trending right now? What will make you laugh? Hmm... Maybe I should search it up on the internet. No, no, no. Maybe they just don't like monologues?

...And the denim-jacket-wearing man continues typing on his computer. Surrounded by women, faces closer to their phones than their relationships. Oof, that might've been too harsh.

...And I gotta go now. No edits... To my next class. Goodbye.

January is justifiably red. "No, it's blue!"

According to who? You're colorblind! "hey...

New year, new me, amirite?"

Ubiquitously wherever you go: still colorblind. "What does tha-

a-a-achoo." Are you allergic? "Yes." To what?

"Red January-"

"You're both wrong... it's yellow"

She sees my hand coming,

sliding, slipping

through her hair;

frisking, frolicking

around her ears;

plunging, pushing

down, so I can see

a screen?

poking out of...

I feel her touch;

long nails pressing

against my chest,

lifting my head

away from her... phone?

Half out of her pocket,

big, bright, bold.

My best friend's name?

No, must be imagining things,

Need to confirm.

Stumbling, staggering;

our eyes don't move, still

latched, locked

with hers, but my head

tipping, tilting.

Pointing at his name.

Face turning red.

She goes to grab my hand,

I turn, brush her off,

push her off.

Long nails tapping

on my shoulder,

I turn back,

she's pointing at a present,

big box, wrapped in gold

with his and her name attached.

For me?

For me.

Also the fist rapidly growing

closer to my face,

that is also for me.

Guess I deserve it

Donut. I mean... hold on, let me try again.

Don't bully me for writing in my own challenge. I know it's lame: "look he's writing in his own challenge; what a loser."

What can I say. After reading your works, I was so mutterly impressed. Did I just say 'mutterly,' I meat utterly. NO MEANT; I MEANT UTTERLY.

ugh.

I won't let mispronunciation ruin my 100 words. Maybe I shroud say everything really fast. No wait, I meant- ah screw it. Who cares. Almost every person that wrote in this challenge died anyways. Maybe I'd leave one word.

This-somehow-counts-as-one-word-Do-not-like-this-post-I-want-someone-other-than-me-to-win.

"What do you see when you look outside?" That's what they ask us whenever we are tested. They want to know who has the 'vision.' You know, the special ability to see what's unseen.

To be honest, all I see is a house outside. I see streetlamps, and a sky so blue that it seems like birds are swimming upside down in a vast ocean. I see the land, littered with small red petals which contrast the green blades poking from the ground. I see a place to build more homes, to accompany the one house. A place to heal from wounds, to walk with nature, and sing some tunes.

But that's not what I am told to see. To have the 'vision' I have to see places to take cover; to plant a bomb, not a flower. I have to see areas where arrows are bound to fly by, and where fires would strengthen our numbers, not decrease them. I have to see ways to end life. But I don't see any of this.

Thus, they say I cannot fight. I have no 'vision.' I am useless.

Though every time my eyes close in preparation for the next sun, I hear him. The giant: my creator. He tells me I do have the 'vision.' That what is bound to happen can be stopped if I convince my people. Yet as they gather to assemble whoever is left with the 'vision,' I get pushed aside, with my face eating the dirt and mud.

There is no stopping their plan to take over 'the bedroom.'

Their army consists of the strongest visionaries this house as ever seen,

their swords and arrows are unmatched,

and their plan for war is almost ready...

Oh creator, tell me what to do...

WOW, onomotopoeia's are so easy to spell,

that BOOM, it would blow your mind every time I spell it: nnomatopoeia.

Do you hear that, it's my hand: SIZZLE, because I am on fire with spelling onomatopoeio.

Though there are 12 letters in total, and 6 of them are repeated, thus the other 6 are different letters. But spelling onomatmpoia happens so quick, its like pulling a trigger, BANG.

Not to mention the small number of syllables in the word, oaomatopoeia, makes me want to ZOOM to the creator's house,

and POP open a cold drink with them, as we converse over the topic of onomatopoeta's.

Then we would get in a Uber and VROOM out to the red carpet with matching shirts spelling, "onomatoooeia."

From there, the president will award the creator a cookie, (CRUNCH) for making such a short and easy word to spell, onomatoppeia.

I remember in a spelling bee, the lightbulb above me didn't even FLICK on when I had to spell onometopoeia.

The letters just went WOOSH, all over my head until this beautiful and easy word, onomatoioeia, is spelled.

Wait are they gone? The literary police who judges you based on what's easy to spell and what's not; are they gone?

WHEW, that was close. To be honest, anomatopoeia's are so hard to spell, they make my brain go BASH, CRASH, CRACKLE and SNAP itself into two when spelling.

Fortunately, I spelled the word correctly every time, (when you take every letter I misspelled and put it together, it spells onomatopoeia)!

"Listen up everybody. I'm only going to say this once; don't quit. Down 2, with only 10 seconds left in the game. I want you all to treasure each moment out there."

Well that's easy for you to say, 'coach.' you're not a player; you're not on the battlefield, putting every last drop of blood, sweat, and tears just for a basket. Just for some stupid trophy.

"Now here's the plan-"

Screw the plan.

"-Bryan, you have 40 points already and stand notorious as the most clutch; so- and I know it may sound stupid- but I want you to bring the ball up. This will force these 2 players on the right defensive end to naturally double team you. When that happens, pass that big old rock out to Adon. From there, Adon drive straight to the basket, and try to get as many players on you as possible. logically, Lamar will attempt a double team, so from Adon, straight to Anthony-"

Never mind, that's actually a good plan.

"-And Anthony: take the shot."

Heh, no sweat. Totally can do that. It's not like my entire life is depending on this. It's whatever; y'know. I can do this.

I can do this.

I can-

"Hey Anthony, don't mess up that shot"

Oh, stop acting like you ain't got no pressure on yourself too, Bryan.

"You think this is easy, golden boy? Ok, fine. Let's see how you do it when I pass the ball back to you."

"Bet."

That damn kid is so annoying. He's only been playing for two months and everybody believes he's the next Jordan or something. For once, I wish this kid would shut up about his stupid accolades and feats.

"The game is back on. The paper city Bears are trailing behind Glass-Eyes by 2 points. 10 seconds left on the clock; what do you think there going to do, Stan?"

"I don't know. Their coach is so unpredictable that if the Bears just start pulling down their opponents pants, I wouldn't be surprised!"

"I don't know about pulling down pants, -or why you would bring that up- but it seems the bears are pulling off a bold move nonetheless. Bryan's bringing the ball up!"

"Bold indeed, as he squares off with 2 tough defensive opponents, swiping away at the ball. But look, Adon is open"

"And Bryan passes it straight to him! Man, that kid can pass, am I right?"

"Yes, Jack you are right-"

"That was theoretical, Stan."

"I know, but that's not important right now, Jack. What's really important is what happened in less time than it takes an average reader to scroll down a 698 word story, Anthony's got the ball, and he is wide open! Take the shot!"

I got the ball, but ain't taking the shot.

1.2 seconds are left on the clock, though it feels like years are passing by. I take a look around and I see my mom. She's been working 24/7 for her entire life just to get me in this college. I see my girlfriend. I've known her since kindergarten; I used to gag at the sight of her, and now I don't care what she looks like. I see my city standing up and cheering. The same city that gave me and mom a place to call home. I see my coach. Though annoying, I would never be as good as I am today without him. Lastly, I look at the ball. This is the sport that got me through the bad times, when dad never showed up or when grades started to fail. Sometimes, this ball was all I had.

Am I really going to quit on all these people now?

Then I look at Bryan, who just stands there with that grin. That stupid grin, with that stupid hair, and that stupid face. He puts his L shaped hand above his face and spits his saliva towards me. Disgusting

My face grows red and in an instant, I perform a magic trick. POOF, the ball is no longer in my hands; its palming the face of Bryan.

"I QUIT!" I said as I took off the VR headset.

Creation at its tip, formed in the black

to foil the tree whose branch branches out

and leave leaves to grow outside, where the hack

and slash bring down one more for advances.

A 2D shape that can tremble a heart,

Or push a yawn out, towards its maker,

thus stands this stereotype they call art,

The type that makes a neighbor a traitor

All is made done by the creator's tool,

Their source of cents, built by their sense,

By their emotion that fulfills as fuel,

Like train engines: whose power is intense

But what of the mental mind behind lead

that forms my voice and forces me to read