18:46.

Cries of “trick or treat!” echo through the street, guided by the glow of streetlights and rain-soaked pumpkin lanterns.

You see your painted face in the reflection of your computer screen before everything lights up white, your emails flooding the screen.

Reminder: 5,000 word essay due 31st October, 23:59.

Round like your pumpkin, your word count is 0.

The wash basin was once white, I know it was. I can remember scrubbing it faithfully every Saturday morning along with the toilet and the shower when water was still flowing from every faucet, when my muscles still understood my commands. Once friendly, the hazy mirror over the sink does not answer my sideway glance, so I keep my eyes cast down upon the rust and grime competing with the clustered strands of hair falling one after another from my head. If I were to walk into the kitchen and take a knife from the counter and slice myself open, would I choose a wrist or would I be brave enough to reach for an ear, connecting the dots all the way to its twin? These walls can no longer keep me safe as they once did, from the cold, from the enemy, from intelligence; so I may as well live outside with the remaining feral. Don't tell me the wounded deer does not know when it is time to lay down and die; surely he does, closing his eyes gracefully, so suddenly as if he had just opened them for the first time. So what about me? Why am I still searching for sustenance in the cold darkness of hell when I know damn well there is nothing left for me to pick up with two fingers from the ash; hand to mouth is gone like the wind so is my desperate attempt to lick the murky ground with my tongue down on my knees like a dog, expecting a result that will keep me alive for the next day, the next hour, the next minute, another second; for what?

My father once took me hunting in the dead of winter many years ago before the blast when I was too young to see what I can't unsee. He said, "Humans have to eat. The animals understand about dominion." Do they? Or are they just smarter than us in their understanding of the rhythm of nature in a way that humans will never understand, since if we did, would I still be clinging to life?

they're pearls.

shiny

glass vases

filled

with

ground stars

and

antique jewlery

composed of curves

blinding

reflecting sunlight

crushed inside

a dull

shell

that protects

but disguises

their

beauty

a swift kick to the mouth.

a *crunch*.

now, rubies.

glittering liquid

trickles

streams

down

the

crisp

incisions

on your

chin

slight sparks

strands of

pink

luminous filaments

white dust

that sparkles

now

revealed

nothing can murder your prettiness.

She has rested for almost a thousand years. August in her porcelainity, she was presented in reverence and piety for all to behold. On her altar, she never stirred; she never moved at all. Her immortal body was calm as polished stone and just as unchanging. Exposed to the elements, her body remained incorrupt. Caressed by millions throughout the centuries, she remained unsullied. We knew instinctively that she alone was pure; she alone was whole. So many have kissed her lips in hopes of waking her, so many in hopes of fulfilling their desire. Even in her slumber, she was great, bearing miracles around her every day. What are we to she?

Today she opened her eyes! Life springs forth from the desert surrounding her. The world is transforming around us and transforming us as well. With her first breath, the world cooled and became heavy and still around us. Her second breath warmed the air bringing a storm unlike any have seen in our lifetimes. The parched fields flooded and soaked up the rain. Her very breath commands the weather! No one can approach her now. What are we to she?

Accounts of old speak of her as the mother, a nurturing figure. But her power was so great she was feared she would destroy us all. Now she stands surveying everything around her with eyes no one can understand. All we can do is bend and supplicate to her. Her eyes do not meet ours. She sees through all. She takes another breath and the world grows still again. What are we to she?

We all witness her splendor as she takes her first steps. And as she reaches her pedestal, she parts her lips. And then, she spoke.

1. Religion

It’s okay to include things about religion, but that doesn’t mean you should force your readers to follow your community.

2. Casteism

You can share some interesting information, while over influence is strictly prohibited.

3. Racism

Remember, we are all humans. Our skeletons look similar when we die. So discrimination on the basis of colour can never be tolerated. 

4. Politics

Political discussions are fine, whereas you shall not order whom to vote and whom not to.

5. Gender

Never mock someone with their gender. Live and let live. Being trans isn’t something you should be ashamed of. 

These castle walls

of mine,

stand tall,

smooth,

with no give

to climb.

These castle walls

of mine,

harbor secrets

within.

These castle walls

of mine,

have no doors

to open.

But you stand

outside them,

digging your keys

into your palms,

circling

and beating against

their severity,

hoping

for a lock

to unlock

and

the walls

to crumble.

Darling, they will not.

Quinn groaned as she was forced to roll onto her side, chest aching.

Sleeping on their stomach was never a problem as a boy, but they didn't expect this Shift on a Friday.

Everyone knows that girl is a Tuesday and Thursday gender! She thought. Today supposed to be a boy day, for crying out loud! I even planned out the suit I was going to wear!!

The phone on Quinn's nightstand buzzed, the fanfare of a ringtone that sounded from it forcing her to pick it up. This was a work phone calling.

"Metamorph, we need you in Sector 12, ASAP. Mantis is sending in his Hench-Mutants on the streets again!"

"Coming," she muttered, scrambling to find her Female suit.

Infa-Red, the Telepathic Hero on the other side of the phone, immediately picked up what was going on. "Are you going to be okay fighting today? We can move you to Sector 6 guard if--"

"I'm fine!" Metamorph aggressively zipped up her bodysuit. "In fact, you know that this is better than usual, since most animals have larger females than males."

"Well, yes, I just--"

"Was underestimating me? Was being slightly sexist?" Quinn had only half of her anger on Red, as she remembered that, for a reason everyone knew but didn't say aloud, the women's bodysuit only zipped up so far in the front.

She was going to have to fix that later. The Shapeshifter knew that she had bigger problems to deal with at the moment.

"Metamorph, out onto the field." While the suit was also illogically revealing in the back, she admitted that it was perfect for wings.

Quinn was an Animalia-Shapeshifter, but one of those odd quirks that came with the ability was the occasional gender-swapping, that was found to have a weekly pattern. While they could, theoretically turn into any known animal, it had to be of that certain sex. Metamorph learned a long time ago that, if they attempted to break this unwritten rule, the consequences would be them Shifting from a healthy person into a person in agonizing pain.

Once, even a dead person. Necro-Dancer, the Reanimator of the team, had been a literal lifesaver on that one.

Quinn shook her head of the memory, trying to focus on the threat of the day. Mantis was Poly-Powered, with abilities ranging from Invisibility to Super-Strength and Speed to Enhanced Vision. Technically speaking, all of the capabilities that come with being part mantis shrimp. (Don't be fooled, he's more overpowered than many would think.)

That being said, he was able to pick out a flying Hero from a mile away.

Metamorph was met with one of the Hench-Mutants: Pilot, the Avian-Shifting, Fire Elemental. His partner, the Levitating, Alien-Shifter known as the Bandit, joined him.

"Nope, not today." As quickly as she had taken to the skies, Quinn retracted her wings and dropped down to the streets below.

At the last second, she Shifted into a dull-colored butterfly, floating safely the rest of the way to the ground. Right to where Mantis was throwing his usual hissy-fit.

Pilot crashed to the ground with his Area 51 boyfriend. "There's a hero somewhere around here, trying to stop us!"

Mantis looked around, only noting his henchmen and a bug landing on his suit. Just as he was about to fire his two most distracting cronies, he felt a weight that definitely wasn't as light as a butterfly on his shoulder.

"What's up, Shrimp?" He met the gaze of a grinning boy in a women's bodysuit.

Naturally, yelling from both sides commenced, Mantis realizing he was in the presence of a Hero and Quinn realizing that he was in the wrong body (and in the presence of the city's most notorious Villain).

Morph was promptly pushed to the ground. It then occurred to the Hench-Mutants that their enemy was already writhing in pain, so they simply stood back and let their boss have the last hit.

"Wait... time-out," Quinn croaked, attempting to switch back into his morning self.

In the process of Shifting into a human, they had imagined themselves as their Friday self (ie. male), and in response, every cell in his body wanted to pack up and quit for the year.

Mantis scowled. "I have no time for a Hero who can't control themselves."

Just as he turned his back on the young Shifter, the Villain heard Pilot and Bandit let out a strangled yelp. Sighing, he swiveled back around, meeting the gaze of a murderous, female Metamorph. Her hands had extended into the tentacles of a giant squid(?), simultaneously ruining those two perfectly-good, throwaway servants of his.

"Come on!" Mantis shook his claws in frustration. "Fifth time this week!"

"Make that the sixth," Metamorph said. "Only, this time it will be you... I guess that would be the, what, seventeenth then... for that case?"

Infa-Red found Sector 12 lined with tentacles, Quinn in the center of it all. Some of Mantis's accomplices were being constricted or thrown around, but him and couple of other ones had managed to run off.

"Finally," she said. "I was running out of tentacles! Go get the ones that got away and Shrimp, then help me with these ones."

"Good work, Morph," Quinn knew that Red was hiding his shock by using his authority-voice. "you really outdid yourself today."

She smiled, going into her own scientist-mode. "See, I told you the females are generally larger than males. And they are also less colorful, making better disguises."

Shrimp didn't even see me coming! She added mentally. Friday should be a girl day more often. My body better be taking notes on this.

Fridges are cold. They're supposed to be cold. They're supposed to hold lunch meat and leftovers. People decorate them with maganets and pictures, but after everything they are still cold.

I can still remember how warm my throat felt with the pressure of his hand gripped from side to side. Oddly, his strength was what attracted me. Funny enough - no matter how cold you are, the moment you can't breathe your lungs burn and your throat sears. My back chilled as he pushed me harder against the fridge. His eyes as cold as the fridge that held me. Everything begins to fade. The only thing I know for certain; the fridge is cold.

Toby never hurt me before - sure we argued - but every couple argues. We had begun arguing more often. I didn't know at the time that he had relapsed. He told me in his past that meth was his escape. He needed it. Forgetting his drug-abusing mother, forgetting his dead father, forgetting prison, forgetting being raped (for years) - forgetting the cold that was left behind. There's no excuse, but as far as excuses went it seemed like a good one.

I suppose I should've seen it coming. The anger I had seen before. Scars in the walls, doors, and even the dent in the fridge served as reminders. Red flags I chose to ignore. I knew he had the rage lurking underneath his icy blue eyes, but I told myself lies. "My love is enough. I'm enough to change him. I can change him." How wrong was I?

The argument was benign. Words we had forgotten as soon as they esacaped, but his grip was firm. Seething cold fingertips that wretched around my throat. The last puff of air from my lungs escaped as I felt my back collid with the cold, unmoving fridge. I lost the light. I lost reality. No white lights. No dead realatives reaching for me on the other side. Cold. Dark.

I was lost but for a moment. My eyes peeled open; the light too harsh compared to the darkness they escaped. I fled that day taking the few things I had moved to his house. My throat didn't hurt - not as bad as the cold from the fridge. I was hoping against my best instincts that the fridge might move. Might break the burning in my lungs.

The fridge never moved.

But it's okay, becuase fridges are cold.

I didn’t know that my grandfather passed away until after I checked my Facebook feed on that early November morning. We had just moved into a new house, and I was getting ready to unpack my room, thrilled for a fresh start before my senior year of high school. Grandpa Hefty was my best friend. We’d sneak to the kitchen during family parties to make root beer floats, and if we were especially sneaky, we’d escape the droning parties altogether and walk to the movie theater a few blocks away. Memories like these gripped me as I went to find my dad, tears overwhelming my being as I choked on the realization that I wouldn’t be able to see these memories the same way.

In his own grief, it was obvious how much my dad regretted not telling me sooner. He didn’t know how to tell me. Dad was still coming to terms with it himself.

Grandpa didn’t have time to rope a decent will together. My dad didn’t get the rolltop desk he wanted for years and years. My brother missed out on the infinite James Bond DVD collection. I lost the only thing I wanted, the only thing I felt as if would maintain a real connection between myself and my late best friend.

When I was seven, I determined to make my grandfather an incredible Christmas present, since I just recently found out that twenty-five cents wasn’t enough to buy him a new collectible car. I thought it was ridiculous, but, I knew I could make something much nicer. So I pulled out a paint set and set to work on a small jewelry box. I painted it yellow, purple, and pink - which to a seven year old, looks like Picasso himself was a patron to my art. Once that was finished, I found an older bottle cap I’d been saving (you know, the ones with a code for a free drink!) and put it in the box. What a present, indeed.

You would have thought I gifted my grandfather the key to the city, the way he boasted over his new “treasure chest,” as he called it. I was never prouder. Despite the horrific coloring of the box, grandpa told me that anything I made with my heart and hands was beautiful, and to never stop creating.

For a long time, I mourned over the fact that this jewelry box was nowhere to be found. I felt as if I lost my last connection to him. I never did find it again, and all of his things have either been given to family or donated. My grief wasn’t relieved until my grandmother invited me over for lunch one day, and she laughed about the box, exclaiming that she “wouldn’t be surprised if he took it to Heaven with him.”

And I’ve always loved that idea. So, I may not have that box, but every time I set a pen on paper, I recall his wish for me to create beautiful things for the rest of my life, and I set out on a mission to make him proud.

On my first day of work in the city, I got off my train at King and 4th street 51 minutes before I was supposed to. That accounts for a fifteen minute walk from the train station to the office, which is more time than it would’ve actually taken me, but it was my first day, so I calculated for spare. I was so scared something would go wrong that I didn’t even think about what I would do with the 51 minutes I had to myself, and took a breath of relief when I realized I had packed Slaughterhouse-Five in my backpack. It’s a book I have to read for school, but I think I would’ve eventually read it anyway even if it wasn’t. I don’t know why though, because it hasn’t gotten good yet and I’m worried that it won’t ever get good and then I’ll feel guilty for not admiring a book that so many people say is life-changing. I don’t even know why I picked a war story. They sort of anger me. But I’d like to think they anger me in a Mary O’Hare kind of way, so I decided I’d let Kurt Vonnegut go and just read the fucking book.

So anyway, I remembered there was a Philz nearby. I never really go to Philz, but it feels like I’m supposed to like it because everyone does, and I didn’t know where else to go, and I needed a place to sit down to read Slaughterhouse-Five. For some reason I also thought I could handle my coffee without milk that day, which was clearly false, and this is all to say that the whole thing was pretty much unplanned. So I sat down in this deserted corner of the coffee shop, not drinking my coffee, and I opened Slaughterhouse-Five. I took out a pink pen, I think. I’m really particular about my pens, and I’m almost certain it was pink. I think it would be unsettling if the pen was actually purple, or blue, because I characterized that whole morning by a pink pen and I’m not really sure how I would feel if I was wrong about the color. It probably wouldn’t change anything. I feel like it would.

I wasn’t really focusing on the book, because it wasn’t that interesting at that point, and also I was still distracted by my black coffee because I didn’t even think about the fact that it was black when I ordered it, I just sort of didn’t think, so I was sitting in this corner and completely not thinking about anything but thinking about a lot of unnecessary things at the same time. Then this super old disheveled black guy comes in and sits a few feet away from me and he had a walker that was right beside him that I guess he was using before. By the way, I didn’t know it was called a walker. I had to look up “what are the things that old people wheel around” on Google images to figure that out. Well now I know.

So he’s sitting there, and then he just starts mumbling a lot of words I can’t really make out. And he was also facing me, so I thought maybe he was trying to talk to me but I didn’t want to have a conversation with a person I couldn’t understand because it was 7:35am and I didn’t want to do something difficult or be a respectful fucking human being, I guess, so I just kept staring down at this page of Slaugherhouse-Five that I wasn’t retaining. Actually, I wasn’t even reading it. I was just looking at it so that I didn’t have to figure out if this guy was talking to me. I kept thinking, Should I ask him if he’s trying to say something to me? But then I realized that then I would have to talk to him, so I just stayed there, fiddling with what I think was a pink pen, and flipping a page every now and then so that it wouldn’t look suspicious. Not that he probably even noticed.

Then this barista comes up to him, and she tells him that she threw his coffee away because he didn’t come to collect it and it had been so long so it was cold. I thought this was really odd, because it hadn’t been that long at all. And then I realized that if he wasn’t in Philz when I got there, which he wasn’t, he must’ve ordered a coffee much earlier and then went on a walk or something… a walk. There I was, in the city an hour early because I was so worried about being late to work, and this guy who I couldn’t understand wasn’t even worried about picking up his coffee on time. I think the barista was kind of annoyed, but the guy did some more mumbling so she told him she’d make it again for him, and she did, and he thanked her, I think, and that was sort of the end of that.

But it wasn’t. Because the coffee didn’t shut him up. The guy was still mumbling. And still facing me. And it wasn’t even a big deal, but I kept building it up in my head like it mattered or something. I got mad at myself because I didn’t turn to him and ask him if he was talking to me, and I got mad that I was so annoyed that this guy wasn’t letting me read my book even though I was in a public place that he deserved to be in, and I got mad that I was getting so stressed about not understanding a guy that had taken a walk after ordering coffee. That’s the exact kind of person that I should be able to understand. It’s probably the best type of person.

My head got so loud and it felt like one of those dinners where my dad accidentally scrapes his cutlery on a ceramic plate and then apologizes to me because I always react so badly to that noise. It wasn’t even a big deal. I don’t know why I remember it so well.

I was so uncomfortable that I got up. He was still mumbling and (maybe) talking to me as I packed up my things. I tried to be slow and calm, like a normal person leaving a coffee shop. Maybe he noticed. He probably didn’t. I put the book in my bag and the pink pen back in its place and my fingers shook as they closed the buckle of my backpack and then I looked at him and stopped. He was moving his walker aside so that I could pass by him and walk to the door.

I wanted to cry. I hated that I got so stressed out about everything before then. This was just an old guy who took walks after ordering coffee and who moved his walker for me and I didn’t even try to have a conversation with him earlier when I know I probably should’ve.

Gratefully and ashamed, I said, “Thank you, sir,” and his eyes went big and he looked at me and said, “Sir?,” and I was confused by that.

He was mumbling a lot of things and I think what he was saying was that nobody ever calls him sir or he hadn’t been called that in a long time or something like that. I don’t know. I didn’t say anything, because he was still mumbling. Then he said, “What’s your name?”

I understood that. I told him my name and he sort of looked at me accusingly but in a good way and said, “No, really, what’s your name?” and I understood him again. So I told him that was actually my name, it was just a Hebrew name and when he heard that he said “Well, damn, are you Jewish?”

“Yes, yeah, I am,” I said.

More mumbling.

“Well, god, I would’ve never guessed that. I would’ve never guessed you were Jewish!” and he laughed to himself for a little bit.

I started walking away through the space he cleared up by moving his walker and I told him that I hope he’d have a nice day, and he yelled after me, unrelatedly, “Carl! My name’s Carl,” and then kept mumbling. I don’t remember if I said anything after that. Maybe I said it was nice meeting him. Maybe I just kept walking. Either way, he was still mumbling when I left the coffee shop, and I walked out a little bit confused but somehow a lot more calm than I was before.

I wondered why he was in Philz of all places, because his clothes were sort of torn up and he didn’t look too wealthy and Philz sells the most expensive coffee in the Bay Area. And honestly, it’s not even good if you don’t get milk. So then maybe he just really cared about quality coffee.

I started liking Carl more for that. He probably gets black coffee even if it’s not as good, because he seems like the kind of guy who could take it. Maybe that’s why he was mumbling the entire time, because all he drinks is Philz coffee without milk so his veins are filled with solely caffeine. Brewed blood. Pink ink. Or maybe he’s going crazy from having to use a walker and move it for judgemental teenage girls who shouldn’t be getting black coffee or reading Slaughterhouse-Five or not talking to him.

I don’t know why I think about Carl so often now. I’ve started to think that maybe he was talking to me the entire time, and just didn’t care that I wasn’t saying anything, and I like that about him, too. I always stop talking if I don’t think someone’s listening to what I’m saying, I don’t want to bother them. Maybe they’re concentrated on a line of a Kurt Vonnegut book they’ve read seventy-two times because they’re trying to avoid me, for example. But even if I was ignoring Carl, I couldn’t really ignore him, and somehow I ended up finding out that he doesn’t think I look Jewish and he thinks my name is sort of weird and he doesn’t get called sir a lot. So something came out of it, I guess.

To be honest, I still feel sort of bad about the whole thing, but I’m glad that it happened. Mostly, I’m just glad that I called him sir. I’d do it again.