I killed my love today, with words

Rashly cast and keenly scored;

Rage succeeded self-control,

Spitting barbs of vitriol

And whetted edge its mark re-found,

Remembering a former wound

Though pen triumphs the biting sword,

Sharper still’s the daggered word;

And fury of the tongue could be

Murder of a first degree.

Much winning,

Needed feeling.

And this freeing,

From this being.

When it is yet,

Is when I fret.

When it is ready,

Can't hold steady.

Yearning for the loss,

While making the toss.

Willing for the real win,

Delivery from the sin bin.

Ought I not consider all the risks?

The ramifications or ratifications?

I have the nerve, for I am of love,

They all turn to look, we don't run.

They talk, we walk.

While behind their hands, they whisper,

Within our hearts our true love glimmers.

Or could they be lost?

It is us, are they cost?

They say; there's another way,

I say; but you are my better day.

Give me your hand and show them we will soar,

In envy see how they land, till their butts are sore.

Kiss me dear and have no fear,

They'll steer clear and won't come near.

Hug me honey, and don't ever let go,

The looks, funny, envy has taken hold.

Let's make love, for we have the nerve,

Such lot, looking daft it will properly serve.

Listen to that! That I will die,

What do I say? That they lie.

I love you, I want you.

Marry me and be true.

I’d better start by explaining that I haven’t been in the best of health lately and made the mistake of mentioning this to my doctor a few months ago which, in hindsight may not have been the best course of action. Since then, I have been tested for everything a human being can suffer from since time immemorial and that includes the great plague. Alarm bells rang for me when the doctor, after spotting what she described as a “ring of roses” on my palm proceeded to check my pockets for “posies”! The long and short of it is, and indeed the last in a long line of ailments means a consultant wants to poke around down my throat with a camera to find out why I can’t sing anymore. Some oik, whom I believe to be a neighbour, apparently sent a pleading letter containing £50 asking him not to perform the op! Before I agreed to the investigative operation, I sought assurance from the consultant that I would at least be able to play the piano after the op. He assured me I would which pleased me no end because I’ve been trying to master the flippin thing since childhood and had about given up having only managing a few bars of chopsticks.

To cut a long story into two volumes and a best seller, I received a letter four months after his consultation with an appointment for three months hence, which was much longer than the "month at most" he quoted it would be at the time!

The day of the pre-op arrived, and I prepared everything I needed for work so that as soon as I returned home, I could pick up my briefcase and drive to work as quickly as the speed limit allowed, thus minimizing the lunches I would have to work to make up the time I had lost due to this appointment. My working contract excluded payment for sickness!

I left the house in plenty of time, but I’m sure I am not the only person in the world who put’s oneself under pressure to get to an appointment because waiting around the corner could be the biggest tailback of traffic which will inevitably make you late! It was all of about 100 yards before I started driving like a lunatic, the side window wound down in preparation for any finger gestures, wrist flexing and general swearing that may be required to be aimed at anyone that was going to hold up my journey. Having previously been a calm and relaxed type of bloke, especially when driving, I have had to change with the times or risk getting bullied on the roads!

The journey was fairly uneventful so to ensure I remained in peak practice, let a group of middle-aged ramblers have the full complement of hand gestures as I passed them standing by a bus stop. My luck must have been in because even I did not spot the pool of water in the road which unfortunately as I drove through it, soaked the group entirely. Viewing the scene in my rear-view mirror, I could see them returning the very same gestures I had previously shared with them only a few seconds earlier! The group were clearly only concentrating on the gestures and not on what was going on around them because they were soaked a second time by the car that was following behind me! Kismet came to mind as I drove on.

I reached the hospital car park bolstered by the knowledge that my no claims bonus has remained intact and joined the merry go round of cars searching for a space to park. I saw patients peering through the windows looking down at the farce playing out below them. It must have resembled a scene from Custer’s Last Stand as the cars followed each other boot to bonnet in a circle around the car park. I must have toured all four car parks at least three times without finding a crevice big enough to squeeze my bonnet into and claim it as a valid space.

Feeling nauseous, I broke out the convoy and headed back to the far car park ahead of the crowd where I managed to utilize one wrist flexing gesture and a two fingered gesture all within twenty yards at a particularly over cautious nun who had forgotten to apply the hand brake to her godmobile which was rolling out of the space she had obviously found with god’s help! I skimmed past her vehicle offering my emergency range of gestures and as I passed. As I looked in the rear-view mirror, the cheeky wotsit was making the sign of the cross back at me! I’m not a religious man by any means but now I’m not so sure as right in front of me was a car park space, albeit illegal, but a space none the less. It wasn’t actually a marked out legitimate space, in fact, to be honest it was once a flower bed circled with curbstones and was now full of weeds, devoured of any former blooms, possibly by forgetful or frugal visitors to the inhabitants of the hospital. I positioned two wheels inside the flower bed, being careful not to damage the underside of the car. I rummaged in the boot and found the correct sign for the occasion and positioned the sign on the dashboard so it could clearly be seen stating “Doctor on Call”! I was going to pay for a car park ticket as I’d noticed a sign on the way round the first tour of the car parks stating that staff should also buy a car park ticket! The “Doctor on Call” sign was to assure the clamping company that in my vehicles particular case was possibly left there in an emergency.

I walked to the pay station with a pocket full of change. I thought two hours would be sufficient for the pre-op, so started feeding in one-pound coins which were immediately rejected. You know what it’s like with these machines; previous users of the machine desperate to retrieve rejected coins without success had used various instruments to try to retrieve the said coins from the reject flap and in doing so had broken the flap off. My coins fell to the floor. I tried another coin and again they were rejected onto the floor. Luckily, I had fifteen 20 pence coins and seven ten pence coins in my pocket which just bought me two hours parking with no reduction for parking in a flower bed. I passed the nun as she was pushing her car back into its space and gave her a cheery good morning, she did not reply. Her strained expression portrayed her necessity to preserve her strength! I popped the ticket on the dash next to the “Doctor on Call” sign, locked the car and walked towards the Hospital entrance.

You know when you have a little mental bet with yourself and you win, the feeling you get that you had got one over on yourself, but it didn’t really matter because you’d won the bet anyway? Well, it must have either been divine intervention or it really was my lucky day because as I reached the nun’s car, I saw her leaning at a forty-five degree angle backwards, legs straight and heels digging hard into the tarmac and gripping the open driver’s door handle in a veined attempt to stop the car from rolling down the incline of the car park. Manners prevented me from continuing, so I stopped and allowed her to skid past, the heels on her court shoes now fifty per cent worn at a forty-five-degree angle! There was a chorus of “J-e-s-u-s Ch-r-i-s-t....” in C# minor if my ears were attuned correctly which seemed to diminish in volume the further the car dragged her down the car park! Dancing on ice immediately came to mind and I found myself humming the theme tune as I walked to the entrance. The smell of frying bacon hit me as I neared the entrance door.

Now I don’t know about you, and I won’t labour the point but, why do hospitals serve the unhealthiest food options when you are ill in hospital, and why are there so many people with drips attached to their bodies encircled by nurses without drips attached huddled around the entrance smoking cigarettes? I must have inhaled at least 20 cigarettes as I squeezed my way past and in through the door. Funnily enough I found I had acquired a drip myself from someone I must have brushed past at the entrance. Luckily it was unattached to a vein so wheeled it to a security guard who surveyed the incoming herd of potential customers and those future customers who headed into the cafe!

I passed a large poster informing anyone who bothered to read it to “Look after your heart, eat healthily” mounted right next to the cafés open entrance which served bacon sausage and eggs, the smell of which filled the whole hospital with its rather mouth-watering aroma.

I reported to the reception desk where a little old lady behind the desk growled “YES”! She resembled someone who had just swallowed a wasp without chewing it. I passed my paperwork to her and she growled “up the stairs, turn left and its area four”! I climbed the forty-two steps to the top, turned left and between wheezes, scanned the walls for a sign indicating area four. I managed to spot it right at the end of the mezzanine. As I approached, I thought there was a “Climate Rebellion” demonstration in progress as the walls were covered with placards telling victims requiring their services what to and what not to do. I started at the top left reading each instruction before moving on to the next. None of it was relevant to me until I got to the last placard. “If you are here for a blood test, take a number and sit down. Now I could have been pedantic here and blocked the entrance to the blood test department as the instructions did not mention to sit on a seat in the waiting area. I heard a voice behind me saying loudly enough that everyone heard, “I bet they are all dinking bleeding tea in there, having a good old laugh at us lot waiting out here”. Not wishing to get on the wrong side of this lady, and stirring the pot figuratively speaking, I replied that I could actually see them eating cream cakes as well. Ten minutes I’ve been bleeding waiting, I want to get home to me kids and all they can do is sit drinking tea. And eating cakes I added!

I took a seat away from the lady and scanned the area, looking at each of the poor souls before me. A flock of nurses appeared and called number one, number two, number three! I was number four. Oh well I thought not long. As I waited, I heard a scream come from one of the side rooms, I recognised the voice to be that of the woman who had been moaning earlier. In her inimitable tone she shouted, “what the bleeding hell are you doing, sharp scratch, my arse”. I chuckled and a young nurse called number four. I walked over to her outstretched hand and quickly informed her that I’d had an extensive blood test three weeks earlier in the vain hope that I could forgo the process. She took the hospital letter from me and said I’ll just print off the details from our system and disappeared into an office. Just as she returned, another nurse shouted Mr. Race. I said I’m afraid I’m already spoken for. The first young nurse asked, “Are you here for a blood test?” Gaud knows I replied, I was told to come to area four and assumed my pre op included Dracula’s cave for a blood test. The second nurse said no Mr. Race, come with me I have to take your blood pressure. I gave the first nurse a cheery shrug of my shoulders and followed the second nurse to a discreet corner of the corridor. She sat me down in a chair and put what looked like a clothes peg on my finger and wrapped the inflatable band around my right arm. She pressed a few buttons on the machine. Now I’m sorry, but in these situations, I always try and bring a little sense of humour into proceedings if only to take my mind off whatever the medical team were going to do to me and can never resist testing the sense of humour of the person carrying out the test. So, when the arm band inflated, I gave out a loud Pssssssssssss. Thinking the arm band had punctured, the nurse aborted the test and changed the band. I didn’t have the heart to own up! With the new band firmly in place and blood pressure taken, I noticed that she was looking a bit puzzled at the machine and said I had better test the other arm. Why I asked, is this arm dead? No, she said, it’s a bit high. I looked at both arms and politely informed her they looked the same height to me. No, your blood pressure’s a bit high, so I’ll take another reading on the other arm. I was tempted to ask if this one failed, would I have to lower my trousers and go for the best of three but thought it might be a bit forward of me and besides they don’t take blood pressure from the leg, do they? It wouldn’t be anything to do with the stress of finding a car park space and the forty-two steps that needed to be mounted to get up to this floor would it? Ohh I never thought of that she said. She took the other reading which was just as high as the first one. I might need to take another she said. Blimey I thought, have I got clean pants on? She confirmed the third reading was not necessary and I breathed a sigh of relief. She informed me that I was off to see Susan next and that Helen will want to see me after that.

I took a seat back in the waiting room which was exclusively reserved for Dracula’s Cave. I checked the time on my phone; I had one hour, and twenty minutes left on the car park ticket. Mr. Race, I heard from behind me. Yes, I said. Follow me replied the nurse, so obediently I followed her down the corridor to another treatment room. Now I was always told that a man can be recognised as a man by an Adams apple protrusion in the throat. Susan, I noticed had an Adam’s apple! A little confused by the figure in front of me, I discreetly scanned Susan from head to toe. The vision confirmed that Susan was a man when viewed from a frontal prospective complete with whiskers and the tell-tale Adams apple! But Susan is a female name I argued with myself. My thoughts were disturbed by Susan saying I’m going to take your height and weight, stand on here and face the bar. I resisted asking for a gin & tonic. Right what does it say said Susan looking at the digital weight screen? Get off you fat git more than likely I said. No Susan replied you aren’t too bad. Gaud I’ve pulled I thought! 1.75 meters she read off the height scale. Ok, pop your trousers off. My shocked expression led Susan to reveal she was only joking, and that Helen was waiting for me.

There was a discussion going on between Susan and Helen as I took a seat in the corridor outside Helen’s office. How are you feeling Susan asked Helen? Just having a few hot flushes answered Susan. That’s the menopause for you replied Helen. Helen’s as nuts as Susan is; it’s a bloke for gauds sake I screamed inside my head.

Mr. Race called a voice from inside the office; I entered and sat down next to Helen. She turned and jumped out of her seat. She said Christ, I wasn’t expecting you to be sat there, it usually takes my pre-op people a few minutes just to stand up, never mind be sat next to me. Would you like me to go out and come back in with a limp I asked? No said Helen. Anyway, I said, Susan has put somewhat of a spring in my step, I couldn’t get away quick enough! Thinking I’d overstepped the formality, apologised. Not at all said Helen and revealed that since Susan had gone into menopause, she had grown facial hair, but we just ignore it the poor love. Anyway Mr. Race, you have been keeping us pretty busy haven’t you with all your ailments. I started to reveal everything that had happened to me recently and after about an hour describing the different diagnoses, I checked the time on my phone. I said you are going to have to hurry Helen; I only have forty-five minutes left on my car park ticket. We started on the questionnaire. I won’t bore readers with the details; suffice to say I had to nudge her twice to wake her up so we could carry on with question number two!

We eventually got to the end and she said you have to have an ECG, right, out of this door to the end of the corridor, turn right, through the doors, turn right and you will see a brown desk, give the woman this card and thrust a printed card into my hand and she will see to you. When you’ve had it done bring it back to me.

So off I went and it’s at times like these you wish you had a reel of cotton handy so you could tie one end to Helen’s door knob and the other to my trouser belt in order to be able to trace the route back afterwards! I eventually reached my destination and arrived at the brown desk. The room was heaving with people suffering from all the ailments I had previously been diagnosed with and had received the “all clear” for. I informed the receptionist sat at the desk that I only had thirty minutes left on the car park ticket. Don’t worry she said, they unclamp you very quickly these days! We won’t keep you long, take a seat pointing behind me to where there wasn’t a seat to be had. A nurse came to the desk and said to the receptionist “not more walk ins”! She was looking at what looked like the card I had earlier passed to the receptionist. Mr. Race she shouted. I was in quicker than a rat up a trouser leg before the mob behind me realised I had, in their eyes, jumped the queue.

I was led to a small room with a single bed in it.” Off with your shirt and lie on the bed”! Without a mention of bedside manner, I was on the bed, shirtless. Visions of Mr. Clampervan entered my head and thoughts of him going through the process of clamping my car despite my “Doctor on Call sign” quite visible through the windscreen. Meanwhile, the nurse was yanking out clumps of chest hair to enable the adhesive connections to be attached. I asked if she worked part time in the local waxing emporium as she had quite a knack for removing just the right amount of body hair with one tug. No, she smiled as she slowly ripped the final clump of hairs from my chest. I used to work in the Black Country Pork Scratching Factory removing the hairs from the pig skins before they were fried. The jobs not much different than here then I said! She told me to relax as she could not get a clear reading. What, with the free car park tour, the forty-two steps, meeting Susan and now having a free chest and leg wax all while some clamper clamps my car, I’m about as relaxed as I’m going to be. That’s it she said, whatever you did, it worked. She ripped off the adhesive strips as gently as a slitter in an abattoir and I was free to go back to Helen.

I managed to disguise myself enough to pass the mob in the waiting room although I did receive rather a sour look from one lady sat by the exit door and by some stroke of luck found myself outside Helen’s office. Come in she said, sit down. I passed her the ECG and she stared at it. After a period of contemplation, she said it was nothing that she did not expect. I asked if it was her ECG, would she be pleased. Not really, she replied but it is what we expected. Ok she said if the operation goes ahead it will be on the date we have indicated. You have to be here at seven am. Nothing to eat or drink and if I click this button on the computer, we will see what time the op is planned for. Right, 16.45 you should be out by 20.00hrs if all goes well!

Mindful that it may take at least fifteen minutes to reach my car, time was against me. Is that it, can I go now? Yes, said Helen. I was already at the door. Barring any requests for drug tests I must have beaten all the current hospital speed records and I got back to the car with ten minutes to spare despite having to negotiate the ever increasing crowd of smokers at the entry/exit door and the extra weight of a plaster cast that somehow had found its way under my right arm. I noticed the nun had managed to push her car back into her space and apply the handbrake. She was catching her breath, bent over the bonnet as I passed. I put the plaster cast in the boot along with the “Doctor on Call” sign, set the Sat Nav, gently eased the two wheels out of the flower bed and I was free to go home!

©Julian Race 16/07/2020

After the picture was taken, Mr. Krass printed the picture out, put it in a frame, and hung it next to the others. Then, he made sure that he played the part of a perfect host. He provided humble, but sufficient accommodations for his guests tonight. Krass reminded everyone of their early start for tomorrow morning. The five guests would need a good night’s rest.

The next morning, Mr. Krass awakened before the crack of dawn, prepared a meager breakfast, and gathered all the tools that a digger would need.

This group was made up of a variety of personalities. There was a grotesque figure who was built to work long hours, a couple taking an adventure before their marriage, a barber and a bartender. All were excited and bright-eyed and ready for their hands-on field trip.

Mr. Krass always had but one intention when he purchased his plot of land in the middle of nowhere. It had been his dream to mine the cave on his property to prospect for gold. He decided to play hosts to five guests at a time and during their stay, he would provide the entertainment. Krass arranged trips for his guests to go “gem-panning.” No one would know that his true intentions were to use his guests as miners who would dig until their last breath. They would never again be seen-from the weakest to the strongest, one by one, they’d give out.

Dismayed, Mr. Krass, was not; for, after the demise of each guest, he would act as host until....his endeavor was realized.

On yet another “gem-panning” adventure, things changed. Before leaving out for the adventure, one guest, Manual replaced the picture taken with another that excluded him. During his digging, Manual recognized a sparkle in the mine. He was convinced that it was gold and determined, he would not give out. He would find his way back to the cottage with bags full of gold and no sign of Mr. Krass.

I am proudly an optomistic nihilist, meaning that I believe that life has no meaning or value. I am kind to others, and I do what I please with my time, because I know that it all means nothing. I simply make the choices I make because I want to make them.

That said, I have no idea what I am doing on “Prose.” besides the reason that I enjoy writing, and sharing my writing. Is that not enough? Why would one desire to “take to the streets” when it makes no difference in the end? No matter what choice I make, it has no lasting legacy, so I simply choose to do what I please, so long as it is not hurting others. I do with my time what I want, as time forgets all.

Speaking as a published author, writing is probably the least-practical job in the world, and yet, it is my second favorite thing (the first being tea). Why would I trade this for city streets if I do not want to? Besides, there is a pandemic plaguing the world, so what better have I to do than live in those creative worlds crafted by others?

Physical decisions are made by mental thought, and, by reading and writing, I am partaking in mental thought, the essence of both philosophical and physical life. So, I ask one more time: why do anything? There is no reason for anyone to do anything, in the end, so we simply choose to do things out of the influencers of life. I have chosen to write and read the works of others. Others may choose otherwise, but in the end, all choices lead to the same ending. This medium of writing is simply how I choose to get there.

From the small blade of grass to the perfect lives reflected in water, that are easily

broken from the smallest movement.

Everything has beauty, but not everyone can see.

Seeing the lives walk past me as I walk forward through the crowd, I wonder if their

lives are as complex and dull as mine. Their wandering eyes revealing the hidden

depths of their souls. I would never get to know any life completely, but beneath

their well kept facade, a tired and battle worn face pulls the strings. The streets

are lined with garbage and desperate people whose desperate eyes search the crowd for

anyone to spare a second of their life for chance to hear theirs.

Everything has beauty, but not everyone can see.

I walked into a waiting room where a pervading sense of doom awaits. Hope took many

forms this room, however no one could see her. I sat down and took out my notebook.

I glance over the years scribed onto these pages, all the memories, all the lives I’ve

seen pass and the lives still to arrive. Flipping through the pages, I see the

millions of names crossed until I glimpse the first uncrossed name.

Everything has beauty, but not everyone can see.

I glance around the waiting room observing the busy receptionists at their desks and

the impatient people entranced by the digital realm in their hands. Both milling away

their lives by missing the beauty of waiting. The beauty of calmness and remaining

still, breathing in your surroundings. Breathing out to realize that this is life. You

are alive. And this is life.

This is life. And Life is ephemeral. And many people are wasting it living somewhere

else. From the receptionists buried in their work, too busy to notice the gentle

blessing of the air conditioning on their face to the people drowning in their fantasy

digital world blind to its real counterpart.

Everything has beauty, but not everyone can see.

I heard my name reverberating from the hallways and arriving into the waiting room. No

one acknowledges my name, but they feel my presence. Gently holding my notebook and

pen in my hand, I walked toward the origin of my name.

The hallway was empty but you felt the people in each room from their mechanical

lifelines constantly beeping. I faintly heard my name from behind a door.

I went through the door and heard the artificial beeping of a heart. People, what I

assumed was family, were surrounding an old man lying on the hospital bed.

The old man lain on his bed with tubes growing from his body as if they had been

inside him his entire life. Each breath painful. Each breath leading him closer to his

end.

The family took no notice of me. As I walked closer to the bed, I noticed the chart

with the patient’s info.

“Average life expectancy” I whispered to myself. The old man’s eyes followed me as I

walked closer to his bed. Still his family took no notice.

In his eyes, I saw everything. His entire life spanned before me. Each decision, each

regret, each mistake. I felt the despair in his eyes as he felt his breath slipping

away. He didn’t look away from me. I sat in the chair in the corner of the room just

within sight of the old man, so he would not have to turn his head.

“Another one”, I thought.

In his eyes, I saw the outcomes of his choices, the ones he made and didn’t make. All

choices lead him to dying in this hospital bed at this moment, but he lived very

different lives before this moment. I saw the pain and struggle he went through for

his family. I began to open my notebook.

Using his eye, the old man ushered to his family. I followed his gaze to his family

and saw vivacious lives full of potential. The man was showing me what he had

accomplished though his life was painful.

I nodded. Not in agreement, but in understand. I knew what the old man wanted to tell

me before he thought it.

“They have hope yet.”, I thought.

Everything has beauty, but not everyone can see.

The old man’s eyes changed into hope and nostalgia. He did not regret his choices that

lead him and his family to this moment as they stand solemnly with him as he went into

a deep and dreamless slumber. He understood at the end of his life what many people

never understand.

The old man smiled slightly. And I smiled with him. In his final moments, with his

family clutching his hands, the old man was swept away, never to return. In his final

moments, the old man saw the beauty. And in that beauty, he found hope.

As the sound of the flatline filled the room, I opened my notebook and crossed his

name. I stood and left the room.

I did nothing to the old man, yet I will be blamed for ending him. I have no choice

over my role. Yet I am blamed for causing the end of everything. I am no mercenary. I

am no messenger. I am a witness to the causality of events. A powerless being unjustly

punished to bare witness to the doom of reality and be convicted as its impetus.

There are many stories about my being. Each story suggests that I enjoy watching the

end of everything. And perhaps that’s how they’ll remember me. As a being lurking in

the darkness to whisk them away to a land from which no traveler returns.

Despite my futile attempts to change their fate, I remain hopeful. Not for me, but for

the people that walk past me everyday. People like the old man give me hope that one

day they will find beauty before the end.

In the pain and joy of life, the birth and death, the beginning and end.

There is beauty. But not everyone can see.

#fiction

“I know nothing of the world. I’m a dumb kid from Iowa and I’m tripping on LSD, what do I know of the world?”

- Bryce, 16 or 27

“If I could say something to the world … huh … let me finish my cigarette real quick so I can give you a real answer.

Okay, so like, I think if I could say something to the world it’d be an apology for how much we suck – not like me specifically but like the country in general – and I guess me too. I once donated to one of those adopt a child in Africa programs where you pay like $20 a month and you feed a child and she like sends you crayon drawn pictures. And, you know, I did it because I’m a sucker for those panderers on the street corners – I also have a weird, overpriced hair straightener from one of those mall kiosk women – and anyway, I had this child for a couple months. And I’d brag about it. Use it as a defense that I’m a good a person but then I had to cancel my credit card – the same one that was supporting this child. I got several calls from the foundation asking me to renew. I never did. And I was secretly relieved because I felt too guilty to cancel the $20 donations, but I also didn’t really want to spend those $20 a month. And I almost renewed.

Hold on … I’m going to light another cigarette.

…

Like I said, I almost renewed it. About a month and a half after I canceled the card I got one of those drawings. It said thank you. It was all in yellow and green crayon and she drew a stick figure version of herself and I was like wow I am shit.

…

I hung it over my desk to remind myself that I was once a good person. But like that’s how we are here. We pretend for two seconds to give a shit and for like three days you learn about Yemen and you tweet about the worst humanitarian disaster but then it falls out of fashion so you start posting your sad single girl posts again without a hint of irony or shame. So yeah … I’d say I’m sorry that our care for the world is mostly just a social media virtue signal.

Is that too cynical?

…

I don’t know – it’s hard, I’m broke and I’ve got my own problems.”

- Jasmine, 19

“Can’t we just all love each other? It’s like the Beatles say, All You Need Is Love.”

- Mateo, 27

“The environmental crisis – that’s what we need to talk about. It should be on everyone’s conscience. I mean, everyone knows we’re in one but like there’s this huge gap between the monumental magnitude of these problems and the real awareness that we have. I truly think that this can be the topic or like the unifying issue that brings the world together – it’s like the one thing that affects all of us. And like, the main thing I hear when I talk to friends about this is that they can’t make a difference.

Well, let me tell you world.

No action is too small. I mean just like recycle and start carpooling or I don’t know walk or ride a bike. And like, don’t waste food, because tons of people are starving and people need to stop throwing away food – leftovers are a sign of love – though we should probably eat less in general, but like I’m not body shaming or anything, all shapes are good shapes.

Oh and reusable cups and bags, fuck straws. These are all easy ways to contribute. It’s not hard.”

- Erica, 24

“Wait. What? Who’s this for? The world? I didn’t vote for him, that’s all I have to say.”

- Georgia, 38

“I’ve got something to say, there are still good men out there. I’m one of them. We’re not all privileged, fuckboy assholes. We have our own trouble. I’ve suffered through addiction, my parents kicked me out because they thought I was a fuck up and you know what, they were right. But I’ve worked my way out of that ditch.

That’s what you have to do. That’s what the world needs to do.

We need to dig ourselves out of a ditch, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and help each other up along the way. Like, take me for example. When all that #MeToo stuff was happening, I was marching alongside all the women and same thing with #BLM, I’m an ally. I believe in equal rights for everyone all over the world.

…

Off the record … maybe we could grab coffee some time.”

- Jacob, 32

“Fuck gender and fuck J.K. Rowling.”

- Logan, 28

“Listen, I’ve been silently rooting for the disease since March. Is this anonymous? Fine, yeah, you can include my name.

I’m not trying to be an asshole and it’s not that I don’t care about other people, it’s that the world is going to shit. We thought it was bad 20 years ago. Nothing has changed. We thought it was bad in 2016 and it’s only gotten worse. So, yeah, I’m rooting for Covid and the apocalypse. I think we need something that will just completely erase everything and I’ve secretly always wanted to be in an apocalyptic plot line.

Sure, we’ve got flying snakes and murder hornets and whatever else they’ve thrown out. We’ve had protests and riots, but I want more. I want to walk over to the college campus down the street, dowse it in lighter fluid and set the whole institution ablaze. We’ve been marching for months and now they want to paint over the graffiti – how much are they spending on that while firing people of color? It’s bs. And guess who’s still funded? Minneapolis had it right. We have to burn it all to the ground. Burn our capital buildings, burn the academy, burn the Amazon warehouse outside town – they should march on Disney studios and burn that in the process. Google too. I honestly just don’t feel like there’s any other course of action. The institutions – they’re not listening. They’re sending response letters that don’t raise any course of action and I’m sick of it. They’re letting the incarcerated die and I don’t see how that’s fair. We need to open the gates to every single one of our prisons, everyone needs to stop paying, and we need to destroy everything that’s wrong with this country and the rest of the colonial capitalist world.

I want to watch the world burn because there’s nothing left to preserve.”

- Angelica, 31

“This is a stupid project. It’s just the artsy crap that you think is gonna make a difference and the only people who are gonna watch are mom, dad, and twelve people who thought they were watching a real movie.”

- My brother, 16

“I have an uncompromising faith in people. I think that’s what we need – amidst all the cynicism – we need more faith.

No, I’m not talking about a religious faith per say. Have you ever read “The Offshore Pirate?”

It’s Fitzgerald – one of his short stories – anyway, I think it taught me what faith was in a nonreligious way. There’s this scene where the main character climbs up three different cliffs over the ocean and jumps from each. She’s a resounding faith in herself. Faith to take the leap each time – from higher heights with no assurance that the landing won’t be painful. That’s faith. And even if it’s faith in a beautiful lie, if that faith leads to good then really what harm does it do? I think we’ll get out of this as long as we put our faith in each other – not our leaders or the government – faith in the people. You and me.”

- Sarah, 26

“Why did I start this project? Simple. If I’m to tell the world anything, it can’t just be me. Alone, I’m too small. So I collected the opinions of hundreds of people in the area.

These are just samples, not conclusions. A mix of the grim. The cynical. And the hopeful.

What are my hopes? To archive a moment the best I can.”

- Filmmaker, 27

1. what got you into writing?

i intially only wrote short stories and narratives for school, so definitely mostly prose based. then, i'd write for my school's annual mag and gradually their newspaper and the feedback i'd get was pretty great as someone who's always physically hated the stuff i write, so that definitely pushed me to write more. and then i fell in love with free verse and wtw, of course. :)

2. outside of wtw/prose, who are your biggest writing influences?

honestly, inspiration, for me is everywhere. it's like i'm too inspired lmao. obscure song lyrics, people with weird backstories that were neglected by history, me being chaotically liberal and angry. and the weather? like it's been raining nonstop for the past week or so. and tropes, gotta love overdone tropes that spawn angsty midnight poetry.

3. what’s the significance behind your profile picture(s)?

aight, so my wtw pfp was originally a labradoodle, which i'm glad to say has been approved by our queen of the straights @VinterVejen (which i changed after like a day, classic anoushka indecisiveness: see 2 username changes). then i went through a bunch of others and i came across this one. deadass just googled pretty bi aesthetics and i'm mildly interested in photography, although i haven't travelled enough to pursue it fully.

4. top fifteen favorite books - go. (if you don’t know what exactly are your favorite fifteen, just name twenty you like.)

1) Harry Potter- jkr who? (this is an open plea to talk to me about avpm in my comments bc im desperate)

2) The Secret Life Of Bees- Sue Monk Kidd

3) The Perks Of Being A Wallflower- Stephen Chbosky (the movie is art. btw, he even directed it!)

4) The Kite Runner- Khaled Hosseini

5) The Testaments- Margaret Atwood ( sequel to the Handmaid's Tale, but MUCH more gripping and well written imo)

6) Animal Farm- George Orwell (we do not stan misogyny, but we do stan vv. intense commentaries on politics)

7) Dizzy- Cathy Cassidy (yes, yes, i know it's YA and got all that super sad teenage girl has divorced parents and falls in love with mysterious edgy new kid but forgive me okay?)

8) Educated- Tara Westover (needs no explanation)

9) Me and Earl and the Dying Girl- Jesse Andrews (just hilarious)

10) The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society- Mary Ann Shaffers and Annie Barrows (written entirely in letters which gives it this implaceable allure)

11) The Great Gatsby- F. Scott Fitzgerlad (i'll admit it took me a wiki deep-dive to fully understand that ending, but i love it nevertheless)

12) Holes- Louis Sachar

13) Hercule Poirot's Christmas- our lord and saviour, Agatha Christie

14) Summerlost- Allie Condie

15) The Picture Of Dorian Gray- Oscar Wilde (Um has some of the most gently captivating prose i've ever read and that ending was satisfying af)

5. what’s the significance behind your username?

originally anoushka1705, changed it bc oooh too many numbers and all that jazz. then anoushkaa, too unoriginal. then outoftheblue on wtw. the real reason i picked this username is a little controversial, and Wicked! is the only person who knows, so let's just pretend i like the phrase okay?

phantasy is *le olde* spelling of fantasy which i came across in a russian short stories book and im in love. '05 is the year i graced this earth. ;)

6. any particularly stupid quote that you nevertheless love?

huge fan of hopelessly pessimistic ones but a personal favourite is "i'm sick of following my dreams man. i'm just going to ask where they're going and hook up with them later." *shoves aside toxic positivity*

7. how would you define your current writing style?

finding inspiration from the mundanest of things, yeeting my feelings out through word vomit and giving it a gentle push into the creative void in the hopes of someone reading it as they parachute along the way. i guess i tend to overuse commas and try to be too meaningful and stuff, but maybe i'm getting better at free verse? i use existential angst a ton too, but y'all already know that.

do you think this is your set style, or are you still evolving?

definitely still evolving. i do this thing where i reread other wtw pieces and be like "okay, WHY is it that i like this so much, and can i use a bit of this to add to my style or not?" if it wasn't for wtw, i'd still prolly be writing crappy poetry in that one blue notebook i've had since i was 7.

8. favorite song(s)? favorite song(s) to listen to ironically?

i will never stop hyping up jewel by adam melchor, but i also have a soft spot for phoebe bridgers' cover of teenage dirtbag by wheatus- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3BmrWXYif0 that and the wallows on repeat. and women in music, part iii.

a huge thank you to @rainandsonder for introducing me to the lyrical geniuses that are the mountain goats and sena for lucy dacus which led me to boygenius. seriously, wtwers have the best music taste.

songs i listen to ironically are the caramelldansen song (perfect for 3 am cry-laughing when you can't sleep), anything by vennu mallesh and friday by rebecca black, the classic.

9. a common writing error or trend that annoys you?

when...people...write...like...this...all...the...time

10. should pineapple be on pizza?

absolutely not, some things must remain holy.

The universe blows smoke rings that encircle the earth until they blanket the planet in low-lying fog. Rolling through ruins, snaking along streets, drifting down passageways, it permeates nearly every portion of our world.

Our world is not airtight.

The public parks and pubs are closed. A law was enacted forcing us to stay indoors to avoid injuries, as we can’t see past the ends of our fingertips in the haze. We shut ourselves in. Smoke sneaks into our markets and fondles our food and winds through our workplaces, disrupting production. But when it forces its way into our homes, we grow angry.

Our world is not secure.

Where did this fog come from? Who would wish this on us? We speak with our chancellors, dukes, and sultans. Seek counsel from shamans, high priests, and scribes—Arch, Grand, Crestfallen, Holy, Royal, and Divine. Confer with philosophers, teachers, warriors, scouts, and watchmen.

When our queries result in only more questions, we go our separate ways. We hope one of our scientists, researchers, or mathematicians will find a solution.

Our world is confusing

They close our schools. They close our restaurants. We devour books, take online classes, zoom into the homes of family and friends. We work from home. It’s a tedious time, surrounded by silence. Our social life is reduced to screens. Pressured to choose between cooking and starvation, we learn new skills. We put on pounds and work them off. We purchase puppies or kittens and post videos of them doing adorable things. We meditate.

The haze grows thicker. We miss planting and watering and toiling in the soil of our gardens. There are rumors of ‘removal efforts’ taking place in various counties and countries, but we begin to accept that we have no place to go.

Our world is inconsistent

Time ticks slower. Our heartbeats decrease and the digits on our Fitbits follow. We feel less stressed. We take less medication. We are feeling better than we have for a long time. But only in our bubbles. Only in our homes. Our televisions spew actualities and assumptions in equal enough proportions to keep us in constant flux. Relief efforts are bandied about—giant fans or vacuums the most popular. But what if there is no end to the fog? What if we suck and suck or blow and blow and the smoke never clears? How long will we keep trying?

Our world is divided

We begin losing people in peculiar ways. Some grow paler, more transparent, their skin stretching and thinning until their motives and intentions spill out on the ground and dissipate into the mist. Some disparage the counsel and denounce the fog, demanding their rights. Others find themselves trapped in the web of professed power spun by those who have taken an oath to protect.

Most become faceless figures, a few make international news, but all perish. We imagine we can still see their faces in the millions of minuscule water droplets that cling to our window glass.

Our world is full of grief

We become restless, fearful, unhinged, in said order. Our righteous resentment and sorrow pilot our purpose. We are dedicated, we are resilient, we are unified. We make our voices heard.

We grow careless.

The smoke gains potency and proliferates. Our losses grow, tripling, quadrupling. We double-down our efforts and seal ourselves inside. We aim blow dryers and flap t-shirts and wave our hands until we’ve cleared most of the haze from our kitchens, living rooms, and bedrooms. We cover our vents. We turn off our heaters and air-conditioners and tape over our doorways and windowsills.

Our world is suffocating

We clean out closets and discard our detritus. We build, tear down, and rearrange our lives until they are unrecognizable to our former selves. We are no longer normal.

We begin to fret. We flick our fidget spinners, and ask our magic 8-balls, Is this the new normal? We rave and rant. We pray and supplicate.

We assume our answer comes in the form of precipitation.

We wish we could strip the seals from our doors and windows and run out into the rain, letting the coolness refresh our spirits, certain in our belief it will wash the smoke from our world. But each tiny water droplet screams for retribution, vengeance, blasts our ears with supplications. The faces of the innocent stare back in judgment. We retreat to our bubbles, wondering if it’s only a matter of time before our voices fade to silence and our faces become reflections in the fog.

Our world is broken

“Who was that?” Katy asks me.

“Oh that was nobody.” I tell her.

“Where did she go?” Katy follows up.

“I don’t know.” I say honestly, “but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here.” I say.

“Come on.” Katy says. She takes me by the hand and starts pulling me toward our house. I follow her. People are looking at me kind of strange. I guess they are wondering who I am. Katy runs through the front door when we get home.

“Mom! Mom! Nia is back. Nia is back.” Katy screams at the top of her lungs.

“Now Katy, you know that’s not something you should be teasing about.” Mom scolds as I walk into the kitchen.

“But I’m not. Look! It’s really Nia.” Katy screams again. When mom sees me she drops a cup and it shatters on the floor.

“Nia, is it really you?” She asks me.

“Yes, mother, it’s really me.” I say.

“Where have you been all this time?” She asks, “We thought you were dead. We looked everywhere for you. What have you been doing?”

“I’m sorry Mother.” I say calmly, “I don’t know how to explain where I’ve been.” I don’t know how to tell mother that I’m not really the Nia she thinks I am. That the Nia she wants me to be probably died a horrible death in the woods all those years ago.

“Well, your father will want to know.” She says. She picks up a telephone and dials a number. We didn’t have telephones in the village before. I guess it’s just one of the things that’s different here.

“Your father is on his way home.” Mother says, “Are you hungry? Is there anything I can get you to eat?”

“Yes!” I answer, “Eggs and Waffles and bacon would be great.” Mother starts cooking. Katy grabs me by the hand and leads me into her room. There is only one bed in the room. There is only one dresser. The full length mirror that was a fixture when we shared this room isn’t here. A tear wells up inside me and I fall to my knees and start to cry. Katy puts her arms around me.

“It’s okay Nia.” She says, “Your home now. I can’t wait to share my room with you. I mean our room.” I just hold onto Katy. It was so good to be back in the village. But how was I going to explain where I’ve been all this time. I can’t tell them that I’m not the same Nia and that their Nia has been dead for years.

“It’s just good to be home. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you.” I tell Katy. Mom comes in and tells me my food is done. I sit down at the kitchen table and I savor every bite. It tastes so good. Before I’m done eating Dad comes in. He scoops me up in his arms and starts to cry.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” he says, “We never thought we would ever see you again.” I feel the warmth of his arms around me and I melt into them and the tears start flowing again. I’m really confused. How could Katy just bring me here like it’s nothing? How was she able to travel between futures? There is so much I don’t understand about what has happened to me in the last month. It’s like reality has been all scrambled up. I thought the computer that Lisa built was responsible but now I’m not so sure.

“Where have you been all this time?” He asks, “How were you able to survive?”

“I don’t know how to explain it.” I tell him, “I want to tell you but I just don’t know how to put it into words.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell us now. You will have to talk to the village council though. Once you talk to them you can get back to your life.” He tells me. Village Council? We never had a village council. The preacher always directed life in the village. I wonder what else is different here. I started to wonder if I would like it here after all. It might be too much to get used to. I thought about Jake. I wondered what he was doing now. I was starting to think that Jake was a victim the same way I was.

“Okay, can I talk to the council tomorrow? I’m really tired.” I ask.

“Sure, Katy do you mind sleeping on the sofa and letting Nia sleep in your bed tonight?” He asks Katy.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.” Katy answers. She couldn’t contain her excitement that I was back. I had a feeling that it wouldn’t last though and I wondered how I was going to tell her.

I didn’t sleep well, I tossed and turned all night wondering how I was going to explain where I had been all this time. When morning comes I don’t have an answer. All of a sudden I wish I was back with Jake and Lisa and the preacher. Maybe you shouldn’t always get what you wish for.