Entry #1

You may not know me, but I’ve known you for a long time, longer than you realize. I’ve been watching, observing, and documenting every detail that matters. This journal—every page—is meant for your eyes only. You’ll understand in time why I know so much, but for now, all you need to do is keep reading.

Entry #2

Today you hesitated outside your favorite coffee shop before heading in, didn’t you? I know that hesitation well. That brief pause where you almost wonder if you should go somewhere else. You didn’t, though, and ended up ordering your usual—black coffee with a hint of cinnamon. Strange how comforting rituals can be, even for someone as restless as you.

Entry #3

I remember the photo you keep in the top drawer of your desk, the one of you as a child by the sea. You haven’t looked at it in a while, have you? But it’s there, a little reminder of what was lost. I know you wonder sometimes what happened on that trip. It wasn’t your fault.

Entry #4

Are you starting to feel it yet, that faint, creeping sensation of being watched? It’s only natural—when a person’s secrets are laid out for them, it’s hard not to feel exposed. But trust me, this is only the beginning. Every answer you seek lies within these pages. Just keep reading, and don’t look behind you.

Entry #5

There’s a reason I’m reaching out now, and it’s not because I want to scare you. You need to understand that there’s something out there, something connected to you in ways you’ve never suspected. Look to the people closest to you—the answers are closer than you think.

Entry #6

Last night, you stayed up late, staring at your computer screen, lost in thought. You were considering a decision, one that could change things for you. You worry about the outcome, don’t you? The “what if” that keeps nagging at the back of your mind. Just know, I’ve seen it happen before—I’ve seen you make choices, some right and some terribly wrong. I wonder which this will be.

Entry #7

Do you remember the old bookstore on Birch Street? The one that closed down years ago? You spent hours there as a teenager, combing through dusty shelves for hidden gems. I wonder if you ever realized someone was watching you from the other aisle, someone who’d slip notes into the books you’d later pick up. Yes, that was me. I was leaving you messages, trying to connect. Did you ever notice?

Entry #8

Today, you’ll get a phone call that will take you by surprise. Don’t let your guard down—it’s not what it seems. Not everyone is as they appear, and sometimes even the familiar can mask danger. Just remember, you’re not alone. I’ve been guiding you this far, haven’t I?

Entry #9

I can sense your frustration as you read this. You want answers, but they’re not so simple. The truth is, there’s something deeper connecting us, something that goes beyond coincidence or chance. I’m here because I know what’s coming, and I can help you prepare. But you have to trust me—or at least, trust the journal.

Entry #10

By now, you must be wondering who I am. Maybe you’ve guessed, or maybe you’re no closer to the truth than you were before. But here’s a hint: you’ve met me, though you might not remember. I’m closer than you think, and soon, you’ll understand why I’ve been watching you all along.

The entries send chills down your spine. This unknown person, this "Watcher," is weaving themselves into memories you thought were yours alone. You begin to realize that the mystery of their identity isn’t just about who they are—it’s about why they’re so invested in you.

It is older than old

this Paleo soul

which drank whole deserts dry

Then rested on mountain crests

pondering stars

which have burned but the blink of it’s eye

Father to daughter and mother to son

one solitary soul

older than old, bolder than bold

A bridge to the question of why

In a gathering of souls who recognized and sang to mine

I heard echoes of ages long past and words supremely divine.

Whispers of shared secrets ’til then remained undivulged

But in a glimpse of perceived awareness were firmly nudged

Toward a well-honed life able to shed its own sustaining light

Amidst wiser old souls glimmering far brighter in the night.

Picture Courtesy of Jenikmichal, Pixabay

Cynthia Calder, 11.02.24

I don't know, what is it makes me dwell on November

Almost all the year a different kind of new, to us

10 months gulped, and this 11th emits a long cold yawn

A mist or fog that sits, pneumatically upon the lung

of Mother Nature, for those not perpetually on vacay

I look at the calendar, ah yes... it's All Souls Day.

In a quiet little town named Meadowbrook, where the sun dipped below the horizon in a palette of lavender and gold, lived a young girl named Elara. With her wild curls dancing in the breeze and a notebook clutched tightly to her chest, she spent her days exploring the meadows, enchanted by the whispers of nature.

One afternoon, while lying in a field of daisies, Elara noticed a peculiar sight. A small, shimmering butterfly fluttered nearby, its wings glistening with hues she had never seen before—iridescent shades of blue and green that seemed to change with every movement. She watched in awe as it danced from flower to flower, and an adventurous thought sprouted in her mind.

“What if this butterfly holds a secret?” Elara whispered to herself, her curiosity ablaze. With a determined yet gentle approach, she reached for her notebook, where she often penned her observations about the world around her. Today, she would document something extraordinary—a question.

“What is it like to be a butterfly?” she wrote, her pencil scratching softly against the page. “Do you feel the wind as I do? Do you dream of the flowers you visit?”

With her heart racing, Elara closed her eyes and whispered into the summer air, “Oh, butterfly, if you can hear me, tell me your secret!”

To her surprise, the butterfly paused mid-air, hovering just a few inches away from her face. For a moment that felt like eternity, Elara felt a connection—an unspoken bond formed between the girl and the creature. She grinned, believing that perhaps, just perhaps, the butterfly understood her.

Days turned into weeks, and every day Elara returned to that spot, asking her question and jotting down any answers she believed she found in the fluttering of wings or the rustling of petals. She imagined the butterfly’s life, weaving tales of adventure and dreams between the flowers.

One bright morning, as she sat in her familiar patch of daisies, she noticed something new. The butterfly landed lightly on her notebook, its delicate feet dancing across the paper, as if reading the words she had written.

“I see you, friend,” Elara said with a smile, her heart soaring. “Do you have a secret to share?”

In that magical moment, time seemed to slow. Elara could almost hear a soft voice brushing against her thoughts. It was a whisper of freedom and joy, reminding her of the beauty in impermanence and the thrill of seeking understanding.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the butterfly took flight, spiraling upwards into the sky, leaving behind a trail of shimmering dust. Elara watched in wonder, feeling a warmth in her chest. Perhaps learning about the butterfly wasn’t just about the answers she sought. It was about the journey of asking, of yearning for knowledge, and the beauty of connection—a dance that transcended words.

From that day on, Elara understood that questions were not just about seeking answers but about embracing the wonder of inquiry itself. Each day brought with it a new query, and she found joy in every moment of exploration that followed, with her notebook filled with stories not just of what she saw, but of the questions she dared to ask.

In the charming town of Maplewood, nestled among green hills, stood a quaint bookstore called "Whispers of the Past." Its owner, Mr. Finch, was a warm-hearted man with a talent for storytelling that captivated children every Saturday afternoon.

One bright Saturday, Lily, a shy girl with curly brown hair and oversized glasses, ventured into the store for the first time. She settled on a colorful rug, her heart racing with excitement and nerves. Mr. Finch welcomed the children with a smile, announcing, “Today, we’ll explore the power of questions.”

Lily listened as her classmates raised their hands, asking questions like “What’s the biggest animal in the world?” and “Why is the sky blue?” Each inquiry led to a magical tale, drawing laughter and gasps from the group.

But Lily held back, fearing her questions might sound silly. She wondered why stories could evoke such deep emotions, why they could make people laugh, cry, or feel comforted. As Mr. Finch concluded his stories, he looked around, encouraging the children. “Every question is important. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

Gathering her courage, Lily raised her hand. “Mr. Finch, why do stories make us feel so much?” Her voice trembled, but the room fell silent, eyes turned toward her.

Mr. Finch’s eyes sparkled with delight. “That’s a wonderful question, Lily! Stories touch our hearts because they mirror our experiences and emotions. They connect us to one another, teaching us empathy and understanding. When we engage with a story, we embark on a journey alongside the characters.”

Lily felt warmth spread through her as her classmates nodded, a sense of belonging washing over her. Encouraged by Mr. Finch’s response, she decided to embrace her curiosity.

From that day forward, Lily became more confident in asking questions, eager to explore the world around her. Each Saturday, she returned to the bookstore, knowing that every question would lead her to new adventures and discoveries.

As the sun set over Maplewood, casting a golden glow on the town, Lily walked home, her heart brimming with the magic of stories and the endless possibilities that come from simply asking a question.

What is wrong with me? Why do I feel like writing words for challenges has more likelihood of success than applying to actual jobs? Why is selling writing so much easier than filling out resume after resume? Why is writing cover letter so much more boring than writing responses to prompts? Why is asking questions more fun than answering them? Will I really try to write a novel in November? Why am I exhausted? Will I ever actually succeed at finding a way to make money despite the statistics being against me, the system of interviews and networks not meant for autistic minds to navigate through?

Dear God,

Today, I want to thank you. I recently noticed that I have been demotivated lately. I don't know if it's pre-period blues or something else entirely but I want to thank you for dragging me out of it as you always do. When I fall into the depths of my own doubts you pick me up and when I feel like my worth is depreciating, you remind that I'm actually special as a child of God, blessed and worth more than I know. Thank you for being you - the merciful loving forgiving God and thank you for allowing us to share your good news with others, all of humankind which you love.

With love,

Lees345

Double, Double Toil and Trouble

The spoon’s encased in gnarly knuckles

Something's cooking – you ready to eat?

Promise the gamey taste can’t be beat.

The witch cackles and it lingers all around

Shivers run up and down at the sound

Steam rises from the huge, coal black pot

Holy hell – please don't say this is your lot.

“Come hither, dearie,” a crooked finger begs.

Fear invades, there’s no sensation in your legs.

“You’ll not feel a thing,” she says and cackles.

“You’re more plump and juicy than the apples.”

Eyes wide, you shake with fear and stumble back

You don’t want to be this old hag’s midnight snack

Your mouth opens wide to produce a scream -

Then you wake – thank God it’s but a dream.

Staggering, you head to the kitchen for a wee drink

Cause the old hag managed to take you to hell's brink;

The door swings wide - you can’t mask your surprise,

There stands the wicked witch in her insatiable guise.