Seasons without reason change,

And we are thrown astray...

A kindly word, not thought as huge,

Becomes a heavy weight...

I'll have a friend who slips into

The open picture frame...

While another's tossed

Off my back dock...

Come and go,

They'll run like paint...

New and old, they'll thread

An even knot...

Showing skin and bone

To express their lot...

Releasing and ensnaring me...

I will see each magic dance...

Leave an imprint; I'm

So forever changed...

Like the fire on

Dewdrops catch...

Golden sunshine is my

Covenant...

A bouquet of flowers

Wilting with regret...

Will you be my friend?...

My forever friend,

I have seen you show

Your old face again...

Will you be the friend?...

The friend in the door?...

Found your coat tail there

Caught within the war

Of the here and now,

And when you bent down

To retrieve it's shape

And continue on

You'll become my light tonight!...x2

I wonder, as you dissolve right now

What you'll look like

At the next

Passage or backstreet in

The swirling fog;

Will your life be more complex?...

What new found glow

Hangs your welcome face?...

What hunger cries

From an empty place?...

To you I'll bow,

I'll bend an ear

Of corn

Along your path of gold...

Whether all roads are

Made short or long

I'll find your eyes

In the rearview

Of my

Lucky mind...

Bunny Villaire

6/22/23

Edit #3

I'm fairly certain

I could be some ghastly hallucination,

a figment of my own imagination

― Derek Landy

Soft 80's music plays in the background, accompanied by some football game put on low volume that no one pays much attention to as a few members of the staff busy themselves around the bar, the tables, and in the back, making sure everything is in order before the much more dynamic evening shift. Everyone is concentrated on their tasks, yet the atmosphere is still relaxed - the waitresses and the help doing things on autopilot, used to their usual routine, the place currently occupied only by some of the regular clientele, and a small stream of men loosening up their work ties and rolling up sleeves of already creased shirts in an attempt of seeming more relaxed and free from the corporate world than they actually were; their frowned stares still eyeing their smartphones while checking up e-mails and new deadlines coming their way.

She takes it all in, glancing at the customers absentmindedly while her thoughts sink into the welcoming commotion of things she needs to do tonight, her energy vibrating more than usual. But this time it's not the voices or mayhem moving around in her, not even the memories of the turbulent events of last night - they resurface, of course, more than she would like, but at the same time, what fills her up the most is the newfound energy that seems to spread in her bones without rest. She feels unusually hyped - the only difference now is that it's not caused by pain or her private devils. Instead, she feels like a robot with countless energy hitting her in waves. After Charlie left last night, she was torn by many feelings and sensations, a flow of never-ending thoughts falling over her head like bricks, making it hard to focus on anything other than the inner turmoil under her skull - and yet, as soon as her head hit the pillow she was gone, drifting into some strange stream of consciousness, that had more to do with unclear visions and colors than actual dreams.

And there were no nightmares.

She inhales deeper, still in awe at the new revelation. She even slept through the morning and early afternoon, spending almost a full 20 hours in bed, then woke up charged up like never before. So much that she decided to take a shift at the bar and work some extra hours on top of it - the thought of being cooped up in the flat for even few more unnecessary minutes with just her own thoughts and feelings made her even more wired, the idea too overwhelming and suffocating handle or process in any way. Plus, she was in desperate need of some fresh cash. She took a quick shower, tied her hair into a high ponytail, and speeded off to the bar, ravaging an impressive size cheeseburger with bacon and two portions of fries from a nearby food truck while waiting for the bus - her hunger felt insatiable, and consuming. Thankfully Phil was more than eager to take her in, always seeming a little understaffed at nights, especially at the weekends. He took her with wider open arms than the government embracing the income at the beginning of tax season.

Her stare trails off to the mirror behind the gracious and long row of bottles resting pridefully in front of it. She notices the shining and rounder than normal eyes as if she was on something, indulging in heavy drugs of the highest shelf. But she wasn't, at least not on anything physical. No pill or needle could cause the things that she was experiencing. She felt stronger, faster, and more focused. She wasn't sure how long it would last, but she loved it, deciding for once not to worry ahead of time of the consequences. Her stare shifts higher against the mirror, and she notices Phil gazing at her from his newspaper, a stack of documents lying in wait next to it, with full intention left for later. He seems worried, a deep wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, giving him that forever concerned look she didn't like. She knows what he sees as he scans her slowly. The same unnatural shine in her eyes that she does - she feels tempted to both sigh at his uneasy gaze and smooth out that frown off his face. But she doesn't do either. Instead, she gathers some things to take to the kitchen and swiftly lifts everything with ease. She hears the rustling of papers and waits for the inevitable with a little smile.

So, after all these years working here, you're suddenly respecting a wear code and sanitary rules? What has happened to you? Who did this to you? Who do I need to call?

She rolls her eyes and lifts her knee, shifting a plastic crate higher in her arms, knowing that he means her tied-up hair and a black outfit constructed of a clean cotton T-shirt and decent-looking black jeans that coordinate nicely with the other girls' clothes, a small red apron tied efficiently around her waist.

Phil, it's rather easy. Sometimes even aliens like me have better days, though it's very rare, so be prepared to start a parade in my honor. It's a momentum people will not want to miss.

Mmm.

He grumbles something indistinctive and shifts his glasses, slipping his nose back into the newspaper. She bites her lower lip and heads to the kitchen, shouting over the shoulder.

But nothing purple or flurry; it clashes too much with my filthy, dark soul.

She hears some muffled cussing and grins lazily, her hands already wiping the counters and putting out vegetables from the red plastic crate. She drops them into the sink and washes them under a cold stream of water before starting the peeling and dicing process. Finally, she takes out a knife and chops everything her my reach. It takes her only minutes to get everything done. Then she picks up the empty crate and throws unnecessary stuff into it that's lying around, wanting to create more room and make sure no one trips over it - which wouldn't be a first. Somehow Carl had a unique gift of dropping things, and tripping over them, which was thoughtfully overlooked on most occasions - because other than that, he turned out to be a good employee that you could depend on, an incredibly rare quality these days. She shifts slightly towards the door, her hands still on the plastic sides of the container. She takes a few quick steps and unexpectedly slows down as if her muscles had thickened, legs and arms inserted into something that felt like mud - a slow-motion loop that she sinks more with each second.

The sensation is bizarre, but she doesn't stop, not entirely sure if it was her going insane or the world around her - it almost felt like a bad trip from drugs or a dream in which you're a part of something that makes no logical sense - her mind takes it all in while the body keeps on moving, not actually bothered that much by the situation. She takes another step, and something shifts, flashing red, a strange filtered light over her eyes - its subtle and lasts only a fraction of a second but changes everything around her; without warning, a scene plays out in her head as if she was transported into someone else's eyes, someone else's subconscious. She stumbles slowly into a room that she does not know or has never been to, while at the same time, her mind lets her know she's just passing the kitchen door in Phil's bar, feet taking her to the little storage room hidden next to the back door. She blinks as other, new images fill them and cover up reality. It feels like experiencing everything through the colored glass of a kaleidoscope but without anything in between. But there is no toy to play with it, her eyes becoming the kaleidoscope itself.

In full amazement, she gazes at the big windows taking up almost the entire length of the wall in the back of the elegant room; and stares at the river and the docks behind the glass, marveling at the slowly setting sun in the distance. Then her stare gradually moves to the left until it stops on an old, deep chestnut color desk and the person behind it. She doesn't see his face, but the silhouette is too familiar to her by now to mistake it for anyone else. Jeremiah. She freezes in place, too scared to move in any direction, knowing that her physical body has stopped and is standing next to the back door, leaning against a wall there, the red crate still in her hands, fingers grabbing the plastic until her knuckles become white. Her eyes nervously scan the room and notice a heavy shadow lurking in the corner, making her heart rumble against its ribcage, hitting the bones and begging for an escape from its prison.

They are both here.

This can't be true.

Please, don't let it be true.

She wants to run away, but something holds her in place as Jeremiah grows into the main focus again, an invisible gravity she cannot seem to fight against. But this time, it is not dread but a deep-rooted curiosity and a magnetic pull to find out what's on that desk. This strange man she has always feared, and that made the blood in her veins freeze was right there in front of her, so close that it felt surreal. Yet, now she sees him with new eyes. He's concentrated, so inspired, and passionate about what he's doing that it draws her in; something in her own passion for art and photography resonates with what she's witnessing. And even though she should be terrified by it all, she feels this calm part inside of her, shimmering somewhere under the skin and telling her to have no fear, no ego, no doubts - the only thing it asks is that she keeps an open mind. She inhales deeper and comes a little closer to the desk, leaning over it, her mind shifting and bending into something new, thoughts not feeling entirely her own, as if she was not speaking them. Instead, she was being told a story, fingers gliding over invisible pages of a book.

She sinks into it, letting it guide her.

The lamps in the spacious, elegant room had already been turned on, even though outside, the sun still lays low over the horizon, barely inviting the shades of twilight into the space.

A man sits in the middle of this space, focused solely on his doings, his impressive tall and wide form hunched over a canvas that covers his desk; he seems to be lost in it completely, each brush stroke like a note played on a luxurious piano. You can almost feel the music coming from his actions, opening like a sonata, cascading in waves from the ceiling, and dripping to the wooden floors in a vibrating crescendo; each glide of the brush a whisper of a violin, each push into the canvas like that of a drum centered in the middle of a grand symphonic orchestra. The paints that cover the artwork are thick and rich, both in color and texture - they are so magnificent to the eye that one wishes to dip their fingers into it, pushing their hands into it with eager roughness, only to later touch it with unspeakable softness that only the kindest of souls could understand.

The man smiles lazily at his creation and continues with his actions, deliberately and with care. A flash of silver reflects from a small knife that slowly scrapes against the material of the canvas, creating sharp lines between the edges of the crimson paint, bright oranges around it flaring like bleeding sunsets ready to bursts.

"And what are you doing there?"

The man does not look up, the presence of another not in any way, disturbing his focus.

"Painting life. The ache and tormented notions. Passion. Hunger. The blood and soil of this earth."

"Ah, yes. Of course. How laughable of me to even ask. Perhaps one of your best creations yet, brother?"

"No, it's barely a prelude to something much grander."

"Well, I feel it won't be much longer until that piece will join the others on your gallery wall."

The man smiles unhurriedly and stands up from his work, the wet paints still gleaming against the light of the lamps above them. Something in the composition catches his eye, and his eyebrows lift in amused surprise. There is faint light that seems to be almost fluctuating from the edges of the lines and shapes, drying without a rush. It doesn't affect the painting too much, instead gleaming restlessly for a long while.

"Brother?"

The man doesn't respond, his eyes fixed on the canvas. Finally, the delicate blue, silver light disappears, leaving the raggedy lines in the canvas smaller, the holes barely visible now. The man tilts his head in both amusement and irritation. He did not like someone interfering with his work. But the thought of being challenged for the first time in decades pleased him somehow as if a new toy that he wanted to play with - when you live for far too long, things can become rather dull, therefor each novelty is a much-appreciated distraction that brings a nearly long-forgotten curiosity to it. Finally, the man looks up and gazes at his brother for a while, not truly seeing him. After a moment, he waves his hand, brushing away any concern lingering in the air.

Just a slight modification. Nothing more...

The sudden pain in her hands shoots out with such power that it rips her out of the vision altogether without any warning. Her fingers burst open as if electrocuted, the plastic crate crashing against the floor, causing the trash to fall out in all directions in the small, already crowded space.

Shit!

She breathes out shakily and blinks for a moment. Surprisingly, she's not confused and panicked. Instead, she just stands there, slowly taking everything in. It's a strange sensation because a part of her that she has been operating with until this day wants fear to take over, suffocating her into a pattern that feels like something permanent in her life by now. But this part of her resists it, spreading calm energy into her system. As if her fear and emotions could only reach a certain level before an invisible hand would hold them in check. It felt odd but also freeing, as if some of her old chains had been cut off without her realizing it, quietly leaving her side. There were still so many chains holding her back, but it felt good to have more room to move her hands and legs. Not wanting to dwell on it for too long, she bends down and swiftly picks up all the trash, throwing it out in the big container outside seconds later. She lets the cold wind calm down the heat on her face and gazes into the sky as if searching for answers. What did all this mean? Would there be more visions like that? Would they affect here in any way? It didn't feel like it. At least from what she could tell. Weirdly enough, she was perfectly aware that neither Jeremiah nor Alister saw her. The vision she experienced was not a live streaming, instead, it seemed to be a fresh memory. How she knew that she wasn't sure. She just did.

She inhales deeper and heads back inside, gliding over to the bar and smiling at Phil as he gives her a questioning look. She shrugs it off lightly, letting him know all is well, and then dives in behind the counter, picking up her worn-out bag and slipping out the phone. She checks the screen and looks at a message he wrote many hours ago, not ready back then to respond. Its words echo in her head as if he was saying them out loud. Stay in my life as long as you like, somehow the world feels much better with you in it. Something warm and soft spreads slowly in her chest, causing her to blink faster as she replies - knowing it was the first time in her messed up life, anyone had ever said that to her. The world feels much better with you in it. Her thumbs glide over the screen as if in a trance, feeling way too many things to even explain.

[ it's only better because you're there too ]

Another inhale.

[ I will take you on your offer ]

She puts the phone away and gazes up at Phil. His eyebrows lift in response.

Thanks for giving me another chance when others didn't. When I was nothing more than a bundle of ripped-out cords and lost hope, it means a lot to me.

She watches his eyes go wide, almost panicked, his shoulders curling inside, his entire form becoming uncomfortable. He never liked any display of affection, neither at work nor anywhere else. He clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck as the skin there flashes first pink and then neon red - literally stained by a live display of public feelings directed at him. He blinks a few times and then clears his throat in a way that only men can.

Is this your attempt at getting a higher hourly rate? Because if so, don't count on it. I'm already adding to the business with Carl around.

He states with a rush. She knows he's trying to say anything just to drown out the outstretching silence. He fidgets a little and then returns to his papers. I nod, letting him off the hook.

You got me, boss. Once a scammer, always a scammer.

She busies herself with helping the only waitress currently moving around the tables, her pretty face flushed, energy annoyed, but the stare still managing to stay professional. She quickly scoops up dirty glasses and dishes left behind and smiles at Tracy and the short, blond hair masterfully arranged into something straight from a hair salon. Tracy mouths a thank you and continues, then disappears into the kitchen with everything, just seconds later returning with food and drinks on her tray. She smiles at the sight and then quickly disappears into the kitchen as well. She knew help would be needed there too. It doesn't bother her though. Somehow even though the time was reaching midnight, she still felt full of energy, small electric currents bouncing off her skin. She had no idea how to explain tonight but it didn't scare her, instead, filled her with something completely new. As if something in her was constantly changing and shifting, but for the first time in a while it felt like a good shift. It was hard to explain, but it felt like she was connected to something that gave her more strength, and more faith in her future actions. She closes her eyes and stretches her muscles, shoulders rolling inside and outside as a lazy grin lifts the corners of her eyes. Such energy, it felt delicious. Her mind relaxes even more. So much that it lets other things in as well that she made sure to keep out; the memories of the last night circulating in her bloodstream, in her opened mind. But this time it's different. In all the places where the vacant spaces were before now something else would come into focus. So much of last night was a blur to her, most of it concentrating on the before and after. The middle, being visible but slightly blurry, the passion and mayhem clouding some part of their time together. But not it lets loose, free from its shackles. It explodes in her and bounces off her walls, heating the skin and expanding with a big bang like the matter of the cosmos itself. She catches her breath and hits the wall behind her from the impact of the energy that danced within her. She feels mesmerized and dazed by something she has never experienced before.

Geezes... fuck. What is this? What... is... this?

She breathes with difficulty, her chest rising and falling with speed. Her head spins, and she shifts her fingers to the wall, nails digging into the wall.

Elle? What's wrong? Do you need water?

Tracy's voice breaks through the haze, and she looks up at her as the energy slowly calms down outside, while still doing its silent dance under her muscles. She nods a few times, gradually regaining her peace.

Yes, I'm fine. Just a head rush.

You're overworking yourself, girl. I keep telling you. The pace you're having tonight, I have never seen anything like it in my life. We all need cash, sugar, but don't overdo it.

I won't.

She says calmly now and nods with a smile.

You better, because I'm way too tired myself to pick you up from the floor if you collapse.

Tracy winks at her and returns to the bar area.

I will keep that in mind.

She inhales once more and gazes down at her hands. So that's how it looked with him, that's how it was. Geezes. All of that passion, the hunger, the beast inside. Was that always inside of her or only because of the pain? She asks herself while standing there in the corridor almost motionless. And what if it wasn't just the pain? What if they both caused it? The thought makes her head spin again, but she calms it down, returning to work. All those questions would have to wait for now.

This world is a much better place with you in it.

She whispers gently, disappearing behind the kitchen door.

_______________________

Previous chapters

54. https://theprose.com/post/706199/the-motion-and-interaction-of-erratic-things

(part 1)

55. https://theprose.com/post/706205/the-motion-and-interaction-of-erratic-things (part 2)

56. https://theprose.com/post/743987/uncharted-territory

Human limbs/fingers all splayed

About the small dark cave

Loud buzzing heard coming from

Lit up spaces in the walls

Oho here come the fireflies

Watch out for their deathly lucibufagins

Everyone in the village knows

Especially the children that

Never smile when fireflies glow!

#HALLOWEEN.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psuRGfAaju4

When I’m far enough away from the châteaus and the council house, I stop and discard my cape. I could wear it into the city, but capes mark you as a council member, or in my case, an up-and-coming one. Technically anyone from the city can be appointed council member, but the tests are based on skill. So those of us with parents as council members are raised to ace the tests. I won’t even have to try.

Naturally, this creates a division between councilors and city folk, and I prefer not to be identified as the prior. I’ve set up hiding spots around the city, places to stash my finer clothing and exchange it for the thicker, more practical attire popular in the city.

I jump down to street level into an alleyway, where a few large crates are sitting, rotting and forgotten. With a broken scrap of wood, I pry one of them open. The inside is half-full with dried-out corn kernels, and a mouse whips it’s head around to look at me, its ear changing between white, pink, and brown in a the blink of an eye. Its tiny hands flash into bigger paws, and its tail temporarily flicks into a bushy squirrel’s.

It’s always amusing when animals are scared; unlike humans they have no control over their alterations, and they really only ever alter when they sense danger. I watch the mouse regain control of itself and scrabble over the corn and out the top of the box.

Reaching a hand down, I find the pants and poet shirt I’d left here last week. I’m always aware that the clothes might not be here when I come back, but I’m in no position to care. I can always find more. I take off my cape and the embroidered dress that my parents had insisted I wear to the council dinner and put them in the crate, almost hoping that these do get stolen. I don’t hate the clothes, but it is frustrating to be a grown adult and still be told what I can and cannot wear. Mother claims to know what’s appropriate, as if I haven’t spent all twenty-one years of my life in the council house at her side.

I slip into the billowy pants and loose shirt, letting the breeze cut through me. I know I should’ve left a coat of some kind in the crate as well, but I can always purchase one. I use a strip of black cloth to tie my hair back at the back of my head--it’s just long enough to stay. Then, as the finishing touch, I pull my signet ring off my pinky and add it to the chain around my neck, tucking it under my clothes. If the cape wouldn’t give me away as a council member, my family crest would.

The ring is engraved with two wings, Mother’s family symbol, surrounding a blank circle. My ring is identical to Mother’s save for the circle, since hers bares the image of a quill in ink to denote her as a council member of the education branch. Even though I don’t have a council engraving--yet--my family’s been in the education branch for generations, so my family crest could still be recognized. The chances are slim, but I prefer them to be nonexistent.

Now the fun part begins.

I try my best not to alter during the day, sufficiently saving all my energy up for the evenings and nights. Everyone knows that we get our alteration energy from the two suns, so it’s also important to spend as much time outside as possible. I asked Father for a sunroof above my bed when I was eight so that I could soak in the morning sun, even when sleeping.

I feel the familiar rush of the alteration, similar to the feeling of goosebumps, as I alter the skin of my face. It’s not an easy skill, and it takes a lot of energy, but it helps hide my identity. Few people train enough with alterations to learn how to keep one on for long, but I’ve spent years practicing this trick.

I smooth over the mole I have one my chin first, and shadow the skin around my eyes, letting crow feathers grow at the outer edges like extra eyelashes. It’s not an uncommon fashion to add animal patterns to the skin, alteration or just painted on. Black feathers form across my hairline as well, blending into my dark hair and giving my face a different shape.

I emerge from the alley a different person. This one is sure-footed, laid-back, and critical. She’s navigating the streets with ease, as if she’s here all the time, and used to the dust in the city.

I hear the figure in the shadows before I see them, and when their hand snaps out and grips my wrist, I instantly morph my arm into a slippery squid texture, and the hand slides off.

"You told me you wouldn’t do this tonight, Julienne."

I roll my head towards the sound, watch as Lise steps out of the darkness. She’s good; I didn’t think she’d find me tonight.

“It would be nice if you didn’t blow my cover,” I whisper, but there’s no one else around to hear.

Lise’s standing ramrod straight, her arms clasped behind her. Some call it loyalty, I call it borderline suffocation.

Louder, I say, “You saw what happened; I couldn’t stay at the dinner.” My eyes accidentally flick down to where her left hand would be, if I could see it, and she notices. She takes a small step backwards.

The silence in this part of the city surrounds us. It's the slums, an area that's too dark for anyone to want to stay. The suns are blocked by the tall city buildings that have cropped up on either side, so no one living here has the energy to alter unless they go further out into the city during the day. Some people don't mind that way of living, prefer it, even, but most like to live in an area with better sunlight access.

“At least wear your mask, then, if you must,” Lise finally advises. She's given in, probably on account that I'm right: I can't go back to that dinner. And no one will expect me to, either.

I sigh and reach into my boot, where I always keep my small eye mask. The feathers shine almost iridescent black-blue. “And tell Mickaël he’s not off the hook either; you both must attend the next--”

“I won’t be telling him anything,” I tell her firmly. We both know this, but I purse my lips at her anyway.

She touches her forefinger to her top lip. “Be safe. Or I will drag you back to the château, costume or not.”

I turn away, fitting the mask on my face and trying not to let her words sting. She thinks this outfit is a costume, that what I do is a game, that one day I’ll grow out of it and realize that sitting in the stuffy council house is a better way to solve problems. Instead of saying anything else, I climb the nearest house, hoisting myself up by the windowsill, and start across the roof. Not running, just walking.

Unlike earlier, I now have the confidence of my second self. Nothing will stop me now, not Lise, or rumors at a council dinner, or the insecurities that run through my head during the day. It’s all gone now. There’s just one goal for the night: meet up with Lightfoot and make a deal.

* *

previous: https://theprose.com/post/525963/on-the-edge-of-a-bell-tower

next: https://theprose.com/post/529000/they-called-me-raven

"Daddy, what if it doesn't work?" Charlotte stood in the teleporter as Derek attached the wire to her head.

"I've been a scientist for decades, honey. I know what I'm doing."

She brushed her blond hair out of her face. "Well, I've chewed food every day for six years, but I still bite my tongue sometimes."

That made him freeze. What if something bad did happen? This had never been done before. Never on a living creature.

Nonsense. He had chased his whole life for this. He had built his whole life on this. All the people the told him he was crazy; all the people who said he was too intense; all the people who said he didn't know when to stop: he would prove them wrong. He wasn't going to chicken out now. Charlotte would be perfectly safe. He had tested with other objects before, too. They had all come back in tact.

Derek flicked the power button and smiled. "You'll be just fine. Get ready to go to this spot, thirty years ago!"

The machine shuddered as the engine turned on. Charlotte's frown turned into a grin. "Okay, Daddy. I trust you, and you wouldn't let anything happen to me."

He pushed the button, and she was gone.

Three...two...one...

Derek pushed the second button, the one to pull her back into the present. For some reason, he was nervous. He had done this countless times with inanimate objects, why should this be any different?

And then she appeared in the teleporter.

For a second, he thought everything was okay. Until she collapsed onto the cold floor.

"Charlotte?" He knelt down and detached the wire. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes were blank.

His heartbeat quickened. "Charlotte?" He felt for her pulse, but there was none. Instantly, he started CPR. But it was no use.

After nearly thirty minutes, Derek gave up. He examined her, but nothing seemed to be wrong. She hadn't been harmed in the slightest. And yet, there she was—dead.

And then it occured to him. The electric shock that sent her through the fourth demensioin and into the past must have stopped her heart. Of course it wouldn't appear to harm an object—it wouldn't have a heart to stop.

Derek stood up. He wouldn't quit now. Not after his entire life's research was for this. He had to achieve time travel, no matter what it wook. He would fix the machine. It should be easy. He would dial down the electricity, and then try again with someone else. Perhaps it was good he tried it with his daughter first—her young, fragile heart was more seceptible to the shock, and trying it on his wife might have made the danger go unnoticed. Mistakes made you learn better, after all.

He grinned. Nothing would stop him from achieving his dream.

You sucked.

I thought you had 5 stars.

5 STARS.

Well...I didn’t make it past page 18!

Don’t criticize me.

I like writing.

I prefer that to reading.

I don’t read very often.

And here I am,

surrounded by writers,

Who love reading.

Well, what would they say?

Would it surprise you if....

If...the last chapter book I read, was about 2 years ago?

1. I need to tell you something look at 5

2. The answer is look at 11

3. Don't get mad look at 15

4. Calm down don't be mad and look at 13

5. First look at 2

6. Don't be angry look at 12

7. All I wanted to say was hi

8. What I wanted to tell you was look at number 14

9. Just be patient look at number 4

10. This is the last time look at 7

11. I hope you're not mad when I say look at 6

12. Sorry look at 8

13. Just have a look at 10

14. I don't really know how to say this but look at 3

15. You really need to look at nine

I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who left a post on my recent challenge and/or shot me a message. I really, truly appreciate you all taking the time to reach out and try to help me.

When I first found Prose, I thought it was just another writing website. But every time I read posts and see people engaging with each other in the comments, I can see how Prose is more than a simple writing website. It's a tight-knit community that cares about all of its members; it's a family.

When I made that challenge, I was really nervous because it was the first time talking to anyone about my problems. I did not expect so many people being willing to help me, to which, again, I am very grateful.

Speaking of the challenge, the general consensus was for me to talk to my parents, or at least someone I trust. So... I'm gonna try and talk to my mom about it. Today I asked her if she would like to go out for breakfast sometime so we could talk. She said that would be nice. So that's my plan for right now. Not exactly sure what I'm gonna say, but I have time to at least make a list of things I should bring up while I have her complete attention.

Thank you all so much for helping me and pushing me closer to a better, happier me. I owe you guys a lot. :)