Dear Kid,

I’m running out of ideas.

I’m not sure how much more I can give to this world, seeing as my thoughts are becoming increasingly mundane with every passing day. A window that I once stared out of, concocting characters dancing across the grass below, is now just a window. The glass is dusty. I should probably get around to cleaning it, but all I can do is pace and look at the cleaning solution like it’s a ticking time bomb. But that’s not what matters to you.

I’d be lying if I said that I don’t miss the spark that came with imagination, but I’d also be lying if I said that it wasn’t nice to have a roof over my head. Running water. Food. Most days are back and forth like this. Give and take. No more messy notebooks, but at least I have light. No more inspiration striking my stomach like lightning, but I will live. I am living now, I think, though I keep wasting our time because I’m not sure how much I have left in me but I’m letting myself become distracted by fancy prose and metaphors. Forgive me. This might be my last chance to use them properly. A friend of mine who went through this told me that creating art a month after the procedure feels like using scissors with your non-dominant hand. At least my house won’t be taken away.

Anyway, I’m not sure how much more I can give to this world, but at least I know exactly how much it can give me.

Every idea might be my last, so against my better judgement I’ve been scribbling them down wherever I can - napkins, clothes, a piece of toast at one particularly frantic breakfast. A part of me knows that this will make things harder later, when I have a list of ideas and no means to create them. A few days ago, I came up with the idea that I might pass them on to someone better off to write, someone who hasn’t had to bargain away their creativity for life and who never will. I remembered a kid from a well off family on the other side of town I’d spoken to one or two times; from my memory, she’d seemed friendly, though a bit shy. Most importantly, she’d had that spark of life to her, as every writer should. Or, perhaps more important than most importantly, her family was on scale tilting towards wealthy, meaning she would never have to make a desperate income from selling her thoughts. She would never have to resort to filling out a government form online confirming that she consented to exchanging her creativity for cash, eventually leaving her crying over a letter that would never match up to the books she’d dreamt of as a little girl. I can only hope that they use my imagination well, that they put it towards new concepts of clean energy or solving world hunger rather than dreaming up new weapons. But it’s out of my hands, and what other option do I have, anyway, other than to burn my napkins, clothes, and toast? Then no one would see my almost-creations, and I’d rather you massacre them than they never leave my head.

So I thought to myself, I can’t just give the kid my lists and say “do what you will.” No, I need to write her a letter, delivered with care. Forgive the tear stains on this letter, kid, I know they’re cheesy but I’ve got my favorite soundtrack on, the one that used to send my fingers flying across the keyboard as I got lost in other worlds that I had created. But it’s not making me feel anything anymore. Something feels missing in my brain, like one of those circular, elementary school electrical circuits where if you disconnect one wire, the little lightbulb won’t turn on.

When I was younger and time stretched before me, I’d wondered what my final work of writing would be. I’d assumed it would be my last because I would die soon after its publication in that dramatic tortured artist way. I never thought it would be because I couldn’t afford to go on. Unfortunately, I think I’ve found my final piece, and I still have many years to go. You’re reading it, kid. Aren’t you special?

I took a pen and paper out of a drawer and sat down at the kitchen table, the toast stained with sharpie still molding on a glass plate. I began like this:

Dear Kid.

Boy do I wish I could remember her name. I think it began with an M. Margaret, maybe, or Mackenzie. Hopefully that won’t matter to you, I really am sorry. Ink dove off the tip of the pen clenched in my shaking fist and seeped determinedly into the page, a soldier on its final mission.

Dear Kid,

I’m running out of ideas.

The stench of sweat hung in the air like perfume, laced with undercurrents of blood. The people seated around the colosseum roared, pounding their feet at the stone beneath them like wild animals. The games brought out the bloodlust that everyone tried so hard to hide. Lyra found the whole process morbid, the fact that people would pay to see their fellow men be mutilated in front of them, but she couldn’t complain. Without the games she would have died long ago.

A scream ricocheted through the stone passageways, finding its way to Lyra’s cell. She hardly noticed, instead focusing on fastening her ankle guards, tightening the leather straps until they bit into her skin. She would be rubbed raw tomorrow, but it would be worth it if she was still alive. Lyra heard footsteps as the next contestant rushed to the field, screaming in a rageful delirium.

“FOR ROME WE FIGHT! FOR ROME WE DIE!” The phrase was familiar to Lyra as it had become a kind of mantra for the willing contestants before they ascended to the roaring crowds of the colosseum. For the prisoners of war forced into the games, like Lyra, there was no such saying. Only the knowledge that their survival today would bring them no closer to freedom.

“You’re up next,” the guard huffed, motioning impatiently for her to follow.

“Y’know, if the games are so set on death and blood you should give the contestants guns. It’s not like we’re living in 100-something B.C. anymore,” Lyra muttered sarcastically, motioning to the pistol at the guards belt.

“It may be 2084, sweetie, but the games are only interesting because the deaths take time. With guns the fun ends too early. Besides, you can’t say that we haven’t given you decent tech,” he snapped, walking away. Lyra shrugged, looping her electrum whips around her wrists as she made her way to the battlefield. Two left turns, then a right, up a half flight of stairs and around the medical unit and Lyra was there, a few feet from the endless expanse of sand. It had been white the morning before but was already marred with countless brown patches, the newer ones still glistening red.

“Can we welcome to the pit FOXX!” The crowd bellowed as a black-clad man entered the ring, cords of muscle glistening in the harsh sunlight. Lyra grimaced, noticing the silver insignia across his breast. He was a sponsor. She hated sponsors. Sponsors volunteered for the games and had the support of billion dollar companies, the likes of which equipped them with the finest weapons money could buy. If they won even once they were awarded more money than Lyra would see in her entire life.

“FOXX will be facing WIRE this evening...” The announcer drawled on about the stats of each contestant but at the mention of her alias Lyra blocked him out. With a single breath she released every thought tearing at her mind leaving nothing but a sense of emptiness, save for a single word vibrating through every cell in her body. Survive. When she walked onto the field there was no roar of applause but rather the slamming of feet onto cool marble. THUMP. They wanted blood. THUMP. Someone would die. THUMP.

Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, easing the whips from her wrists into her scarred palms. The starting pistol fired and her eyes flicked open, finding her opponents across the field. It struck her as sad that she didn’t know the boys name, only the dramatic title the announcer had slapped over him, but such thoughts quickly faded from her mind. He grinned maniacally, spinning a double bladed sword in front of him fast enough that it became a blur. Lyra didn’t need to see the weapon to know that it was a StunBlade, coated with enough tranquilizer to kill a horse. The second the blade met her skin she would be as good as dead.

Lyra should have been terrified by this realization, but she only felt a cool numbness. One touch and she would die. The solution was easy enough, she supposed. She couldn’t let the blade touch her. With a sudden effort she extended her whips at either side of her body, listening to the buzz of electricity as they illuminated a soft blue. The electricity coursing through them was wild. Unpredictable. She smiled, loving the rush of adrenaline that coursed through her veins.

She struck at Foxx with her whips but he easily batted them aside, spinning his blade faster. She felt its breeze as it passed within inches of her neck and she instinctively ducked, spiraling away before the poison could touch her flesh. She lashed out again, twin whips falling short of their mark before they could make contact. The smallest tendril of fear wrapped around her heart, crushing it in a vice-like grip. He lunged at her, sword poised to strike, but Lyra threw herself desperately at the ground before his blow landed. She rolled to her feet with a practiced motion, shuffling backwards as she folded her shoulders in, the posture of one who knows their death is coming. Foxx’s grin deepened at this and he stepped forwards, within inches of claiming his victory. He didn’t know it yet, but that one step would be his downfall. Lyra struck out with her whips one last time, managing to wrap the metal tip around his blade, ripping it out of his hand. His eyes widened in confusion for a moment and she was upon him, tackling him to the ground before he had the chance to gather his bearings. Tenderly she allowed one of her whips to caress his cheek, spitting sparks onto his exposed skin. His body trembled violently beneath her, his eyes rolling back in his head as he took a last rattling breath.

The crowd was silent, every mouth agape at this stranger who had the nerve to take their champion from them. Lyra turned her whips off with a flick, coiling the metal around her wrists once again. The silence gave way to outcries of rage and distant sobbing. Lyra stepped away from the carcass at her feet, letting the numbness envelop her heart. She felt guilty, of course. It may have been the only option for her own survival, but that didn’t mean this man’s death was justified. None of this was.

Anger dissolved the numb wall that Lyra had tried so hard to build around herself and for the first time in far too long rage blossomed inside of her. Lyra glanced upwards at the camera broadcasting her image to the crowd and smirked. There was fire behind her eyes and she would not stop until the world around her lay in ashes.

She returned to the same cell she had spent every night for the past five years in, a pawn of the games returned to her place. But even the weakest pawn can end the game if they reach the other side of the board. The games would end. Not today. Not for awhile, she supposed, but when they did, she would be the one that ripped them apart.

The Devil came dressed as a Saint,

“Be a good Christian,” He professed to the faint.

“Do the right thing, be kind to your mother,

“Deny idols, be good to one another.”

“Shower me with gifts, lie in my name,

Hide my secrets, expose no shame.

Build me a church, tall and proud,

The gothic sculpture must reach the clouds.”

And the people decided they had to listen,

All in the name of becoming good Christians.

They built a great structure, beautiful and strong,

But with an evil foundation, it couldn’t last long.

As the years went by, the little children suffered,

But as they grew up, they began to tell one another.

They told of their pain, and all of the shame,

They spoke of the Devil and who was to blame.

They spoke to their elders and tried to expose,

The Church and the Priests and the lies that were told.

“That can’t be true, don’t speak of such things,”

Was all the validation the elders could bring.

So time went on and more children were hurt,

But no man could stop the power of the Church.

And visitors would marvel with glorious wonder,

At the magnificent Church and the stained glass they sat under,

“Of course, this building was made for God!”

Exclaimed all the people, with their values at odds.

So on that day, a new chapter was written,

Much like the day, the apple was bitten.

God came down, and set the Church aflame,

And told the people, they had themselves to blame.

“Think for yourselves! This is not right!

You don’t need this book. It only causes fights.”

“Listen to the children. They do not lie.

Their pain is real. Hear them cry.

Do not sacrifice the truth for your pride,

Salvation only comes to those that don’t hide.”

Can you relate to someone that looks different than you?

Or do you stick to your own, cause that’s easy to do?

Do you listen to the pain of those not in power?

Or to money, greed and envy do you cower?

Perhaps the true test of God is not religion.

Maybe it’s not even your financial position.

It’s most definitely not your gender or creed,

But whether you can show love to a soul in need.

You’d think the smaller the hand that holds me, the more pleasant my journey in life would be.

Not so.

I live in a kindergarten classroom, which makes me a #2 right out of the pack. The sharpening process, which involves a death grip around my mid-section and a series of violent plunges into the meat grinder of the lead species, does little to boost my self esteem.

And the scribbling... bless it! It’s neverending around these parts! Those little illiterate, color-outside-the-lines miscreants will see your panic attack in the meat grinder and raise you a heapin’ helping of cardiac arrest as they choke you and make you sprint back and forth across the page.

Sigh... at least it’s the weekend...

"The moon looked at me with despondency,

I asked him why,

He explained me of how the Sun betrayed him,

To rule the skies.

I questioned the Sun,

Who raged with fury,

As she complained about how,

The moon bereft her,

To enjoy the company of the stars.”

Ig @aksthetix

Sighing at my worn down pen,

Its empty cartilage, its dried out nib.

I thought about casting it away,

In the trash, among the waste.

“Stop!" Cried my pen out loud.

"All these years I served,

Only to gain such a miserable end?

I've served when all abandoned you,

With all my ink and strength,

I kept your secrets and your pain.

I loved you much, that I turned every tear,

Into words that people would listen and hear!

Ungrateful human you certainly are,

I helped you overcome your fears,

I chained your demons and poisoned them with ink.

Truly unrequited are the feelings of the pen,

When first brought home, treated with utmost care.

Like a new bride or a porcelain doll.

Once all used up and all worn out,

'Throw it away!' You say, 'Throw it away!'

Is this what I get for my faithfulness?”

I stared at my old pen, and wept.

-complains of my pen.

There are souls

Made of poems

That paper can't handle.

Then there are writers,

That are made of poetry itself.

Their blood infused with ink,

And words stitched on their souls

In fancy cursive letters

Like a beautiful tapestry to behold.