Bethany hated her life.

To be fair, it was pretty easy to hate. Her parents were divorced and hardly on speaking terms. Her older sister never wasted a chance to roll her eyes or scoff loudly. Her house was usually cluttered - the fridge usually bare.

But worst of all were the braces.

Not on her teeth, but her legs.

Because Bethany couldn't walk. From the day she was born the doctors told her parents this would be the case - that they shouldn't get their hopes up.

And Bethany was pretty sure what caused them to split, each blaming the other with sorrowful hearts. She was pretty sure it was what made her sister despise her. She had seen the medical bills - she knew the lack of money was a direct result of the cost of her treatment.

And so Bethany hated her life.

Every once and a while, when she could, she would slip out the back door of her father's apartment, and take the elevator as high as it would go. Then, even though it hurt her brittle, malformed bones, she would climb the last flight of stairs, and open the door onto the roof.

Bethany may have hated her life, but she liked the roof. The apartment building wasn't tall, but it was the tallest building in the neighbourhood. It wasn't pretty, but it gave her the chance to see the world from a distance - far enough away that all the painful and grotesque realities would fade into the distance like car engines and children's laughter.

Sometimes, on windy days, Bethany would close her eyes, and stretch out her arms. She'd imagine wings with glorious turquoise feathers, and strong muscles.

Other days, like today, she would find the bottle of Absolut vodka she stowed behind the fan, and take a swig, the burning liquid making her eyes smart and coughs bubble up from her lungs. If she drank enough of it, she could barely feel the strain on her knees and the stiffness in her muscles. Sometimes she would find herself leaning against the wall, staring down at the street below, wondering if maybe she could fly...

Bethany limped her way to her stash, and unscrewed the cap, not letting herself breathe as she drank - as though that could make the rancid alcohol palatable.

Then, letting the fiery sensation subside, she gazed towards the edge of the roof.

Her old sister was a part of the track team, and specialized in triple jump. The few times she talked at home, she called it a hop, skip, and a jump.

Bethany would never be able to join the track team.

But she may be able to hop.

To skip.

To jump.

To nowhere.

I miss childhood. I miss carefree days spent lounging alongside riverbanks like mangy barn cats. I miss being able to laugh - to let that laughter float as freely as dandelion seeds on a breeze, not having to worry about where it would end up or about any sort of future at all.

Most of all, I miss the deep-seated faith that when it came to an end, everyone would get what they deserved. My brother would be punished if he hurt me. My sister and I each got a sweet treat after our chores. There was a divine justice to even the simplest of tasks. The world was poetry and each verse had an opposing rhyme - each song an answering key.

But life is not like childhood, or poems, or songs, and it's certainly not fair.

It's all I think now, as I kneel there, the rough wood biting into my neck, knees smarting, as the noble man before me, dressed head to toe in fine luxurious fabrics that likely cost more than the money I can bring to my family in a year, spouts off my crimes as well as my not-exactly-unclear judgment. I was caught stealing a loaf of bread - from a wealthy baker who had more bread than a flock of pigeons could eat. This baker had fired me the week before, from the single job that gave me pennies enough to buy his overpriced loaves. This baker beat his wife - scorned her further by creeping into his daughter's bed late at night. This baker gave showering presents to the gods in public, yet at home cussed at how the GAWDDAMN temples just wanted his GAWDDMAMN money. This baker didn't pay taxes. This baker refused to fight for our king.

And yet, it was I, though humble, devout, and desperate, who knelt in the before the ghostly face of death. My family was not here to bid me goodbye. I hadn't seen them since the morning of my arrest - I didn't want them to see me now. The loneliness did not care for courage though, and the fear crept on like tendrils reaching up from the cold, hard cobbles and leeching strength from my body. I just wanted it to be over.

The nobleman finished his speech, stern and self-important. His nose, rather reminiscent of a tin kettles spout, dripped mucus in the chilled autumn air. His thin eyes gazed at the axe man, signaling him - at least that's what I presumed - to approach.

There seemed to be a pause - a breath - a moment of hope. Perhaps the axe man would stand up for me? Maybe there was justice in the world after all?

But the heavy boot crunched on gravel, and the hulking mass of his body cast my future into deeper shadow.

The worst part was I didn't even know if my family was still alive - I'd never gotten that loaf of bread to them - for all I knew, they had starved and were waiting for me on the other side.

The rustling was from the bushes.

My first instinct, from home, would be to ignore it. It would probably be a rabbit or a mouse. Maybe a snake.

But I wasn't home anymore.

And things here weren't as harmless as a bunny.

I stepped back, but as I did, my heel caught the gnarled root of one of the many ancient trees, and my stomach swooped as I fell to the ground.

The bushes rustled again, distracting me from the pain in my butt, and making my heart leap in my throat.

Was I going to die today?

I probably would have screamed, had the sound not died before leaving my throat - the thing that emerged from the bushes a more gruesome creature than any my imagination could conjure. Its sallow grey skin hung in folds from a bony frame, black eyes endless tunnels as they gazed at me. A lipless maw hung open, needle teeth glistening, and a rancid odour growing stronger with each pant as it moved forward. Perhaps that was the most horrifying of all. With each step, the monster whimpered in pain, and its limbs were as unsteady as a newborn foal. It quaked as though it would collapse at any moment, the pain being too much, and yet it kept coming forward - an agonizingly slow, pitiful creature, with sharp, obsidian claws that could probably tear my throat out.

I swallowed. I couldn't move. Fear paralyzed my limbs, turning them into blocks of cinder. I would be mauled by a monster I could easily outrun if I could just bring myself to stand.

But I couldn't.

I was going to die.

Broken. Bruised.

Alone.

Gracie in all her years had never thought that dark smudges would adorn her arms like a makeup palette, their deep aches threading all through her body and into her heart.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Even now, if she clenched her eyes tight enough, she could picture her wedding day - the white and yellow streamers, the smiles, the joyous dancing - it had been the happiest day of her life.

She hadn't thought the happiness would end there.

But how many months - no weeks - had it taken for that first sledge-hammer fist to fall upon her body? How many times had the door been slammed as he left, his breath rancid with alcoholic perfume, his boots heavy on the wooden porch?

And each time she heard the pickup truck engine roar to life, and those wheels spin on the gravel driveway, she found herself hoping - wishing - that this was where it ended. That maybe, just maybe, he would return - he would apologize - he would change.

He never did.

Although her rear ached from sitting on the hard floor - although she knew that she should move before he came back - she couldn't bring herself to stand. What was the point? Either way she'd be unable to dodge the next hurricane of fury. Either way she'd become a punching bag - an outlet for anger she didn't even understand.

She knew a wife's job was to be tender. She hadn't thought it meant being tenderized like a piece of meat.

It was a long time before she heard wheels on the driveway again, and she tensed - a marble statue in the liquid silver rays pouring through the bedroom window.

Heavy boots clomped up the porch.

A heavy hand knocked on the door.

Gracie slowly unthawed. If he was home, he wouldn't be knocking. That meant some other angel - of death or otherwise - had come to pay her a visit.

She pulled a silken housecoat over her night dress, covering the welts on her arms - signatures of a decidedly brutal man. There was nothing she could do for her face. She prayed the shadows would obscure the worst of the damage.

Opening the door revealed a police officer, her dark hair pulled into a bun, her face solemn and closed.

"Gracie Haggert? We have some unfortunate news. Your husband's truck was found crashed into a tree on highway five. He was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late. We regret to inform you that he is dead."

Maybe the officer expected Gracie to cry. Maybe she thought she'd delivered terrible news.

She didn't seem to expect the slow smile unfurling at the corners of Gracie's mouth, and the sudden light in her blue eyes.

"Ye know officer," Gracie said, giddiness bubbling inside her like a prairie spring, "On the day of my weddin', they called in happily ever after. Well I'll tell ye a secret. They lied."

They suggest a neat trick,

To dodge and ditch the writer's block,

To slip away, to keep your fingers,

Swift, and nimble, and running slick.

To keep the words as smooth as satin,

Or quick and rutted like a gravel road,

They suggest quite vehemently,

A prompt to give the story a starting spin.

The prompt can be a word,

Or a picture, or a sound,

It can be a line most realistic,

Or a plot beyond absurd.

Yet then comes a time,

Where all other prompts have run their course,

And even the most vivid,

Most catching, most sublime,

Are shooting blanks,

Are empty,

And all you are left with,

Is a prompt.

It hung in the sky, a heavy, silver galleon on a sea of inky, black velvet. Or maybe it was a mother of pearl pendant, resting on the dark, silk bosom of a beautiful lady. Or a watchful eye - Odin, staring out into the world, gaining knowledge of all things known and unknown.

It was an egg. It was a stone smoothed by the rivers of time. It was ancient within endless moments, and yet new and young in the sky.

It's gentle light illuminated what should have been an infinite dark, heralding a coming dawn that, in that moment, seemed an eternity away.

So near yet so far, I longed to reach out a hand, but I knew that doing so would shatter the illusion I was under.

"See what I meant?" I felt the warm presence of his body behind me, "It really is beautiful up here."

There are certain smells that trigger memories. Sometimes, a single wafting scent can take you from the here and now and drop you into a long ago past - a forgotten birthday party - a Sunday morning breakfast.

For me it was the odour of gasoline - a greasy tang that immediately reminded me of a dimly lit garage. It reminded me of tools, and grubby clothes. It reminded me of playing in the dirt as my father worked diligently - the rusty automobiles he restored with a Cinderella twist. My own father was the fairy godmother of rusty, metal beasts and loud, humming motors.

Even now, I could be walking downtown, and one of those vehicles could rumble past - never as loud and never as nice. Metal was replaced with alloys, and reliable motors with hybrids and more fuel efficient models.

Yet, always there was the smell. The smell of gasoline.

The smell of home.

Here I sit,

Poetry? On my lips?

A pen - poised midair,

And I find myself wondering,

How have I gotten here?

Did it start with your lips?

How they move when you talk,

Their softness as they caress,

My lips, my body, my mind?

Or was it your eyes?

The way they caught the sun,

The way they crinkled when you laughed,

The way they took my breath away,

As you faced me - barely three inches between us,

Is that what this is? Lust?

And I know, it is not that,

Sure they helped fan the flames,

Of desire that spark between us,

But your body does not cause,

These words to flow,

A river from my mind to paper,

It was your words,

Your smiles,

The dreams I've not dreamed,

In quite the while,

It was those mornings,

I woke in your arms,

That feeling I get,

No fear nor alarm,

As I write now I can feel myself fall,

Down down that slippery slope,

You've given me quite the adventure,

You've quite simply given me hope.

Submerged,

Warm,

Safe,

The bathwater laps at my body as I shift,

Tiny ripples echo from my slightest moves,

Heat,

Calm,

Exhaustion,

My eyes slid shut,

Slowly the water lulls me to sleep,

Darkness.

Silence.

Cold.

I awake a shadow,

The colours all faded,

Grey.

By the time she was let out of class that night, it was snowing, and the sun had already sunk behind the horizon, like a child going to bed early.

She walked swiftly, the air biting her exposed face, and snowflakes chilling her neck and the exposed skin of her chest. Her cheeks reddened and she shivered, but she didn't zip up her jacket. There was something exhilarating about being exposed to the softest of harsh edges of the elements.

As she passed a street light, she looked up at the flurries illuminated by the rays - a rainbow halo of light surrounding the lamp - almost like magic.

She smiled, her shoes making that squeaky crunch that always accompanies a snowy sidewalk.

Behind, her footprints - already filling with whiteness - showed just how far she had come. Soon they too would disappear, and just like that, her progress would be gone.

But not gone. She would always know how far she had come in her life. Just last year, she had never thought she would be where she was - at university, obtaining a degree. Others may not see her struggles, but that did not mean they were any less real to her.

Even if they were gone, like a set of footprints in the snow.