I am surrounded by mountains

but I am unable to peel myself

off this green couch

to clime one and scream

at the top of my lungs

"I made it, I made it, I made it,"

I climbed to get here,

to this couch.

I climbed and walked and I ran

and I crawled.

I have forgiven and grown flowers in the dirt

that the deserving and entitled,

drug on my heart with filthy shoes.

I have moved mountains,

for you

and for us

and for anybody who has shown me

the slightest bit of kindness

on the days I was hot and thirsty

and my cup had run empty.

Oh, how I've laughed,

getting to this green couch;

although I can't remember how it felt,

I remember the sound

and how it felt to fall to the ground

in a way that did not feel

as though the sky was my ceiling

and the walls were caving in.

The mountains make me feel small,

yet today,

I am the elephant in the room.

I am the mountain, the hurdle,

the one in the way.

I am the weight on his shoulders,

he begs to put down so he may continue on.

I feel the heaviness in me,

the too boldness in me,

I feel the strain carrying me costs;

I have felt it in everyone,

my whole life.

I am too much. I feel too much.

I ask for too much

for who I am and what I have to offer.

Who do I think I am?

I shed and bled and lived and lost

so many versions of me,

to get to this green couch.

I prayed for green and here I am,

paralyzed and paranoid,

the sky is my ceiling

and I'll be on the ground soon.

The mountain is crumbling,

victory is his.

Victory belongs to everyone

who has grown tired of my great faith

that everything always works out for me.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe it doesn't.

The mountain is crumbling

and all of my flowers are dying

and all I can do is lay here

on this green couch and watch.

This is my bed.

I made it, I made it,

I made it.

Being dead isn't nearly as boring as you might think.

I discovered this on my third day of non-existence, when I finally stopped trying to open doors and learned to simply pass through them instead. The trick, I found, is to forget you were ever solid to begin with. Forget the weight of bones and blood, the constant pull of gravity, the way air once caught in your lungs. Remember instead that you are now made of the same stuff as moonlight and memory.

My name was – is? – Thomas Webb, and I've been dead for approximately eight months, two weeks, and five days. Not that time means much anymore. When you're dead, moments can stretch like taffy or snap past like rubber bands. Sometimes I watch the sun rise and set so quickly it looks like someone's flicking a light switch. Other times, I spend what feels like hours watching a single dewdrop slide down a blade of grass.

I haunt (though I prefer the term "reside in") a small town in New England called Millbrook. Not because I'm bound here by unfinished business or ancient curses – at least, I don't think so. I simply never felt the pull to go elsewhere. Even when I was alive, I rarely left town. Why start traveling now?

Besides, there's more than enough to keep me occupied here. Take Mrs. Henderson at number forty-two, for instance. She's been stealing her neighbor's newspapers for three years, but only on Wednesdays, and only if it's raining. I spent two months following her around before I figured out why: she lines her parakeet's cage with newspaper, and she's convinced that newspaper stolen in the rain brings good luck to pets. I can't argue with her results – that parakeet is seventeen years old and still singing.

Then there's the teenage boy who sits in the park every Tuesday afternoon, writing poetry in a battered notebook. He thinks no one can see him behind the big oak tree, but I float by sometimes and read over his shoulder. His metaphors need work, but his heart's in the right place. Last week he wrote a sonnet comparing his crush's eyes to "pools of Mountain Dew," which was both terrible and oddly touching.

The living can be endlessly entertaining when they don't know they're being watched. It's not creepy if you're dead – it's anthropology.

But I'm not always a passive observer. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly solid, I can manage small interactions with the physical world. Nothing dramatic like moving furniture or writing messages in blood on the walls (though I'll admit I tried once, out of curiosity – turns out being dead doesn't automatically make you good at horror movie effects).

Instead, I specialize in tiny interventions: nudging dropped keys into view, generating the perfect cool breeze on a sweltering day, ensuring that the last cookie in the box is chocolate chip instead of oatmeal raisin. Small kindnesses, barely noticeable but precisely timed.

My finest work happens at The Dusty Tome, the bookstore where I used to work when I was alive. My former colleague, Sarah, still runs the place. She never knew that I harbored a decade-long crush on her, and now she never will. But I can still help her in my own way.

I've become quite good at guiding customers to exactly the book they need, even if they don't know they need it. A gentle cold spot near the self-help section, a subtle illumination of a particular spine, a barely perceptible whisper that draws their attention to just the right page. Last week, I helped a grieving widower find a cookbook that contained his late wife's secret cookie recipe. He cried right there in the aisle, clutching the book like a life preserver. Sarah gave him a free bookmark and a cup of tea.

The other ghosts (yes, there are others) think I'm too involved with the living. "You need to learn to let go," says Eleanor, who's been dead since 1847 and spends most of her time rearranging flowers in the cemetery. "The living have their world, and we have ours."

But I've never been good at letting go. Even when I was alive, I held onto things too long – old tickets stubs, expired coupons, unrequited feelings. Death hasn't changed that aspect of my personality. If anything, it's given me more time to cultivate my attachments.

Take my cat, for instance. Mr. Whiskers (I didn't name him – he came with that regrettable moniker from the shelter) is still alive and living with my sister. He can see me, as most animals can, but he's remarkably unfazed by my transparent state. Sometimes I lie on the floor next to him while he sleeps, pretending I can feel his warmth. He purrs anyway, the sound vibrating through whatever passes for my soul these days.

The hardest part about being dead isn't the lack of physical sensation or the inability to enjoy coffee (though I do miss that). It's watching the people you love cope with your absence. My sister still sets an extra place at Christmas dinner. My mother keeps "forgetting" to delete my number from her phone. My father pretends he's okay but visits my grave every Sunday with fresh flowers and updates about the Patriots' latest games, as if I might be keeping score in the afterlife.

I want to tell them I'm still here, that death isn't an ending but a change in perspective. I want to tell my sister that I saw her ace her dissertation defense, that I was there in the back of the room, cheering silently as she fielded every question with brilliant precision. I want to tell my mother that yes, I did get her messages, all of them, and that the cardinal that visits her bird feeder every morning is not me, but I appreciate the thought.

But the rules of death are strict about direct communication. The best I can do is send signs they probably don't recognize: a favorite song on the radio at just the right moment, a unexpected whiff of my cologne in an empty room, the feeling of being hugged when they're alone at night.

Sometimes I wonder if this is hell – not fire and brimstone, but the eternal frustration of being able to observe but never truly connect. Other times, usually when I'm watching Sarah shelve books or listening to my father's one-sided conversations at my grave, I think this might be heaven. The ability to witness life without the messy complications of living it, to love without the fear of loss, to exist in the spaces between moments.

I've developed hobbies, as one does when faced with eternal existence. I collect overheard conversations, storing them like precious gems in whatever serves as my memory now. I've become an expert in the secret lives of squirrels (far more dramatic than you'd expect). I've learned to read upside-down books over people's shoulders on park benches, and I've mastered the art of predicting rain by watching the way cats clean their whiskers.

But my favorite pastime is what I call "emotion painting." I've discovered that strong feelings leave traces in the air, visible only to the dead – streaks of color and light that linger like aurora borealis. Love is usually gold or deep rose, anger burns red with black edges, and sadness flows in shades of blue and silver. I spend hours watching these colors swirl and blend, especially in places where emotions run high: the hospital waiting room, the high school during prom, the small chapel where weddings and funerals alike are held.

Today, I'm following a new pattern of colors I've never seen before – a strange mixture of green and purple that sparkles like static electricity. It's emanating from a young woman sitting alone in The Dusty Tome, reading a worn copy of "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." She has dark circles under her eyes and a hospital bracelet on her wrist. The colors around her pulse and swirl with an intensity that draws me closer.

As I hover near her table, I realize she's not actually reading. She's crying silently, tears falling onto the open pages. But there's something else – she keeps looking up, scanning the bookstore as if searching for something. Or someone.

Then she speaks, so softly even I almost miss it: "Thomas? Are you here?"

I freeze (metaphorically speaking – I'm always technically frozen now). It's Lisa Chen, a regular customer from my living days. We used to chat about books, particularly ghost stories. She once told me she could sense spirits, but I had dismissed it as whimsy. Now, as I watch the colors dance around her, I wonder if perhaps she was telling the truth.

"I know you're probably here somewhere," she continues, still speaking barely above a whisper. "Sarah told me you used to help people find the right books. I could use some help now."

I drift closer, fascinated by the way the green and purple lights seem to reach out toward me.

"I'm dying," she says matter-of-factly. "Cancer. Stage four. The doctors say I have maybe three months." She laughs softly. "I'm not afraid of being dead, exactly. I just want to know... is it lonely?"

For the first time since my death, I wish desperately that I could speak. I want to tell her about the beauty of emotion paintings, about the secret lives of cats and squirrels, about the way love looks like golden light and how sadness can be as beautiful as stained glass.

Instead, I do what I do best. I create a gentle breeze that ruffles through the nearby shelves until a small, leather-bound book falls onto her table. It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, opened to "When Death Comes."

Lisa picks up the book with trembling hands and reads aloud: "When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn... when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut... I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?"

The colors around her shift, the purple fading as the green grows brighter, more peaceful. She smiles, touching the page gently.

"Thank you, Thomas," she whispers.

I stay with her until she leaves, watching the colors trail behind her like a comet's tail. Then I do something I've never done before – I follow her. Not to her home or to the hospital, but to all the places in town that still hold beauty: the park where the teenage poet writes his awful, wonderful verses, the bench where the widower sits feeding pigeons, the small garden behind the library where Sarah takes her lunch breaks.

At each stop, I paint the air with every beautiful thing I've seen since dying, every moment of joy and wonder and connection I've witnessed. I don't know if she can see the colors, but I paint them anyway – gold for love, silver for hope, and a new color I've never used before, one that looks like sunlight through leaves, that means "you are not alone."

Being dead isn't what I expected. It's not an ending or a beginning, but a different way of being. A way of loving the world without being able to hold it. A way of touching lives without leaving fingerprints. A way of existing in the spaces between heartbeats, in the pause between words, in the moment before tears become laughter.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, it's a way of showing someone else that the cottage of darkness isn't dark at all. It's full of colors only the dead can see, but the living can feel.

I think I'll stay in Millbrook a while longer. After all, there are still books to be found, cats to be comforted, and stories to be witnessed. Besides, I've heard there's a new ghost in town – a teacher who's been rearranging the letters on the high school announcement board to spell out poetry at midnight. I should probably introduce myself.

Being dead, I've learned, is just another way of being alive.

Being dead isn't nearly as boring as you might think.

I discovered this on my third day of non-existence, when I finally stopped trying to open doors and learned to simply pass through them instead. The trick, I found, is to forget you were ever solid to begin with. Forget the weight of bones and blood, the constant pull of gravity, the way air once caught in your lungs. Remember instead that you are now made of the same stuff as moonlight and memory.

My name was – is? – Thomas Webb, and I've been dead for approximately eight months, two weeks, and five days. Not that time means much anymore. When you're dead, moments can stretch like taffy or snap past like rubber bands. Sometimes I watch the sun rise and set so quickly it looks like someone's flicking a light switch. Other times, I spend what feels like hours watching a single dewdrop slide down a blade of grass.

I haunt (though I prefer the term "reside in") a small town in New England called Millbrook. Not because I'm bound here by unfinished business or ancient curses – at least, I don't think so. I simply never felt the pull to go elsewhere. Even when I was alive, I rarely left town. Why start traveling now?

Besides, there's more than enough to keep me occupied here. Take Mrs. Henderson at number forty-two, for instance. She's been stealing her neighbor's newspapers for three years, but only on Wednesdays, and only if it's raining. I spent two months following her around before I figured out why: she lines her parakeet's cage with newspaper, and she's convinced that newspaper stolen in the rain brings good luck to pets. I can't argue with her results – that parakeet is seventeen years old and still singing.

Then there's the teenage boy who sits in the park every Tuesday afternoon, writing poetry in a battered notebook. He thinks no one can see him behind the big oak tree, but I float by sometimes and read over his shoulder. His metaphors need work, but his heart's in the right place. Last week he wrote a sonnet comparing his crush's eyes to "pools of Mountain Dew," which was both terrible and oddly touching.

The living can be endlessly entertaining when they don't know they're being watched. It's not creepy if you're dead – it's anthropology.

But I'm not always a passive observer. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly solid, I can manage small interactions with the physical world. Nothing dramatic like moving furniture or writing messages in blood on the walls (though I'll admit I tried once, out of curiosity – turns out being dead doesn't automatically make you good at horror movie effects).

Instead, I specialize in tiny interventions: nudging dropped keys into view, generating the perfect cool breeze on a sweltering day, ensuring that the last cookie in the box is chocolate chip instead of oatmeal raisin. Small kindnesses, barely noticeable but precisely timed.

My finest work happens at The Dusty Tome, the bookstore where I used to work when I was alive. My former colleague, Sarah, still runs the place. She never knew that I harbored a decade-long crush on her, and now she never will. But I can still help her in my own way.

I've become quite good at guiding customers to exactly the book they need, even if they don't know they need it. A gentle cold spot near the self-help section, a subtle illumination of a particular spine, a barely perceptible whisper that draws their attention to just the right page. Last week, I helped a grieving widower find a cookbook that contained his late wife's secret cookie recipe. He cried right there in the aisle, clutching the book like a life preserver. Sarah gave him a free bookmark and a cup of tea.

The other ghosts (yes, there are others) think I'm too involved with the living. "You need to learn to let go," says Eleanor, who's been dead since 1847 and spends most of her time rearranging flowers in the cemetery. "The living have their world, and we have ours."

But I've never been good at letting go. Even when I was alive, I held onto things too long – old tickets stubs, expired coupons, unrequited feelings. Death hasn't changed that aspect of my personality. If anything, it's given me more time to cultivate my attachments.

Take my cat, for instance. Mr. Whiskers (I didn't name him – he came with that regrettable moniker from the shelter) is still alive and living with my sister. He can see me, as most animals can, but he's remarkably unfazed by my transparent state. Sometimes I lie on the floor next to him while he sleeps, pretending I can feel his warmth. He purrs anyway, the sound vibrating through whatever passes for my soul these days.

The hardest part about being dead isn't the lack of physical sensation or the inability to enjoy coffee (though I do miss that). It's watching the people you love cope with your absence. My sister still sets an extra place at Christmas dinner. My mother keeps "forgetting" to delete my number from her phone. My father pretends he's okay but visits my grave every Sunday with fresh flowers and updates about the Patriots' latest games, as if I might be keeping score in the afterlife.

I want to tell them I'm still here, that death isn't an ending but a change in perspective. I want to tell my sister that I saw her ace her dissertation defense, that I was there in the back of the room, cheering silently as she fielded every question with brilliant precision. I want to tell my mother that yes, I did get her messages, all of them, and that the cardinal that visits her bird feeder every morning is not me, but I appreciate the thought.

But the rules of death are strict about direct communication. The best I can do is send signs they probably don't recognize: a favorite song on the radio at just the right moment, a unexpected whiff of my cologne in an empty room, the feeling of being hugged when they're alone at night.

Sometimes I wonder if this is hell – not fire and brimstone, but the eternal frustration of being able to observe but never truly connect. Other times, usually when I'm watching Sarah shelve books or listening to my father's one-sided conversations at my grave, I think this might be heaven. The ability to witness life without the messy complications of living it, to love without the fear of loss, to exist in the spaces between moments.

I've developed hobbies, as one does when faced with eternal existence. I collect overheard conversations, storing them like precious gems in whatever serves as my memory now. I've become an expert in the secret lives of squirrels (far more dramatic than you'd expect). I've learned to read upside-down books over people's shoulders on park benches, and I've mastered the art of predicting rain by watching the way cats clean their whiskers.

But my favorite pastime is what I call "emotion painting." I've discovered that strong feelings leave traces in the air, visible only to the dead – streaks of color and light that linger like aurora borealis. Love is usually gold or deep rose, anger burns red with black edges, and sadness flows in shades of blue and silver. I spend hours watching these colors swirl and blend, especially in places where emotions run high: the hospital waiting room, the high school during prom, the small chapel where weddings and funerals alike are held.

Today, I'm following a new pattern of colors I've never seen before – a strange mixture of green and purple that sparkles like static electricity. It's emanating from a young woman sitting alone in The Dusty Tome, reading a worn copy of "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." She has dark circles under her eyes and a hospital bracelet on her wrist. The colors around her pulse and swirl with an intensity that draws me closer.

As I hover near her table, I realize she's not actually reading. She's crying silently, tears falling onto the open pages. But there's something else – she keeps looking up, scanning the bookstore as if searching for something. Or someone.

Then she speaks, so softly even I almost miss it: "Thomas? Are you here?"

I freeze (metaphorically speaking – I'm always technically frozen now). It's Lisa Chen, a regular customer from my living days. We used to chat about books, particularly ghost stories. She once told me she could sense spirits, but I had dismissed it as whimsy. Now, as I watch the colors dance around her, I wonder if perhaps she was telling the truth.

"I know you're probably here somewhere," she continues, still speaking barely above a whisper. "Sarah told me you used to help people find the right books. I could use some help now."

I drift closer, fascinated by the way the green and purple lights seem to reach out toward me.

"I'm dying," she says matter-of-factly. "Cancer. Stage four. The doctors say I have maybe three months." She laughs softly. "I'm not afraid of being dead, exactly. I just want to know... is it lonely?"

For the first time since my death, I wish desperately that I could speak. I want to tell her about the beauty of emotion paintings, about the secret lives of cats and squirrels, about the way love looks like golden light and how sadness can be as beautiful as stained glass.

Instead, I do what I do best. I create a gentle breeze that ruffles through the nearby shelves until a small, leather-bound book falls onto her table. It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, opened to "When Death Comes."

Lisa picks up the book with trembling hands and reads aloud: "When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn... when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut... I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?"

The colors around her shift, the purple fading as the green grows brighter, more peaceful. She smiles, touching the page gently.

"Thank you, Thomas," she whispers.

I stay with her until she leaves, watching the colors trail behind her like a comet's tail. Then I do something I've never done before – I follow her. Not to her home or to the hospital, but to all the places in town that still hold beauty: the park where the teenage poet writes his awful, wonderful verses, the bench where the widower sits feeding pigeons, the small garden behind the library where Sarah takes her lunch breaks.

At each stop, I paint the air with every beautiful thing I've seen since dying, every moment of joy and wonder and connection I've witnessed. I don't know if she can see the colors, but I paint them anyway – gold for love, silver for hope, and a new color I've never used before, one that looks like sunlight through leaves, that means "you are not alone."

Being dead isn't what I expected. It's not an ending or a beginning, but a different way of being. A way of loving the world without being able to hold it. A way of touching lives without leaving fingerprints. A way of existing in the spaces between heartbeats, in the pause between words, in the moment before tears become laughter.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, it's a way of showing someone else that the cottage of darkness isn't dark at all. It's full of colors only the dead can see, but the living can feel.

I think I'll stay in Millbrook a while longer. After all, there are still books to be found, cats to be comforted, and stories to be witnessed. Besides, I've heard there's a new ghost in town – a teacher who's been rearranging the letters on the high school announcement board to spell out poetry at midnight. I should probably introduce myself.

Being dead, I've learned, is just another way of being alive.

The bruised muse

Hissed soul steamed escape

Before tree finger marauders

Pierced his dried up dreams’s reedy spine

And noosed charity’s crystal cracked neck

Into a violent pearled burst

Dividing glum gold spoils

To black dog troughs

Second rate ingrates

And the hoodwinked anarchist parade

Marching through strangled forests

The bruised muse

Watches the lead hearted raiders

Clap freewheeling heels

The kinetic chaos

A ludicrous marvel of steel willed vanity

Pushing prostituted trust’s bladed menace

Through sunken wildflower weed valleys

Ousting in fist hammered defiance

The bruised muse’s spectating specter

While vampiric Judas Iscariots

Drain stained glass blood

From the muse’s broken swan neck palace

The turncoat fellowship

Gloating cloven dagger flame

Through sacred parchment

The tarry blizzard

Set to burn and forget

His bliss kissed sweet nothings

Swallowed through tongue torched surrender

To the betraying void

The frayed and dethroned king of fantasia

Exiting breathlessly

Holding onto the disintegrating wing

Of his flailing butterfly queen

As the scorching house of cards

Carries ash scarred tragedy

And lung blistered chokehold

Across a psalmist anchorage

Blackened and razed

The once harmonized sanctum

Poisoned by pride’s weighed scales

Tipped towards self anointed demigods

And so the thorn clipped muse weeps thunder

And her nailed feet mete out lightning stabs

Across night’s everlasting funeral

Though their ears are plugged tunnels

And their eyes stitched bound and blind.

In a caliginous haze, soft as winter mist,

the cry of a thylacine rises through the trees—

a ghostly wail, long gone but still stirring,

echoing over hills that know her no longer.

The forest is still, save for whispers,

believers' murmurs hanging in the air,

of a world slipping away, of shadows departing.

The quiet is a sign, some say, of separation itself:

this undoing of old things into echoes and winds.

Along the damp riverbanks, bones rest cold

beneath the weight of time,

silent underfoot in the pulse of dark soil,

their shapes blurred but long-staring,

waiting for the day when nothing remains.

A flash in the woods, a pang of memory—

there’s no farewell, only the sense of wiedersehen,

a half-formed thought, that one day we will

meet again in some untouched dusk,

where silence and song are all that’s left.

There's a large paper mâché head

On a wide concrete platform...

In the middle of the park at night...

I'm a nervous wreck!...I'm an awful fright!...

As I'm not sure what he will say next...

I'm filled with fear...And I'm filled with dread...

There's a large paper mâché head

On a wide concrete platform...

He's drawling off his block again!...

He says his brother thinks he's nuts...

And he wonders if his wife and small group of friends

Have conspired against him ...

Like a long lost mutt

The worm inside his head's returned...

It burrows in his hollowed cheeks...

Someone left the stove...and a pan got burned...

That stink inside his head

Will reside for weeks...

There's a large paper mâché head

On a wide concrete platform...

In the middle of the park at night...

I'm a nervous wreck!...I'm an awful fright!...

As I'm not sure what he will say next...

I'm filled with fear...And I'm filled with dread...

There's a large paper mâché head

On a wide concrete platform...

When asleep they came, and played their games...

The raccoon, and the mouse...

Every sacred inch of him has been befouled!...

Like a sinner in the house of God...

...There's a singer on the veranda now...

She has lured him back from gloom...

Such a beauty with a voice so light...

Her bright lantern fills each room

With a brilliance that he's long forgot...

...He was painted in a tenacious spot!...

There's a large paper mâché head

On a wide concrete platform...

In the middle of the park at night...

I'm a nervous wreck!...I'm an awful fright!...

As I'm not sure what he will say next...

I'm filled with fear...And I'm filled with dread...

There's a large paper mâché head

On a wide concrete platform...

10/19/24

Bunny Villaire

(This is an updated version I revised some parts, please read my bio/enjoy!)

(This was meant to have more of a childish/fairytale tone.)

There once was a little highness.

The little highness lived in a little castle. A castle that was in the center of a village.

This village atmosphere was always so alive and cheerful.

But the little highness was always scared of being around their people.

This time, the little highness wanted to change. The little highness wanted to understand and feel the same way the village felt, so the little highness went to seek out and make some friends.

The little highness during their walk in a little park found a kid, standing there, lonely.

“Do you want to be friends?” The little highness asked the boy.

“Um.. ok.” Says the boy.

The little highness then went on, day after day trying arduously to play with, humor, and keep the boy around.

But the boy for some reason always seemed distant from the little highness.

The little highness typically was the one who asked the boy if they wanted to play.

The little highness typically was the one who tried to induce conversations with

the boy.

But the boy still seemed to stay distant, never making their presence aware for the little highness anytime the little highness tried or couldn’t find them, and sometimes even ignored the little highness.

At last, the little highness thought that maybe the boy just didn’t like them.

The little highness then became very sad.

But, the little highness also felt annoyed.

Then came the shout of the big highness, who lived in the little highness's head.

“YOU'RE JUST BORING!” Big highness shouted.

“OTHER PEOPLE CAN DO THIS BETTER THAN YOU.”

“Please stop! That can’t be true! I can’t be boring!” The little highness shouted back.

The big highness retaliated. “FINE. GO TRY TO MAKE MORE FRIENDS. I WILL PROVE YOU WRONG.”

The little highness, reluctant to agree with the big highness, decided to try again.

The little highness took a walk in the park again, and this time, found a little girl, standing there, lonely.

“Do you want to be friends?” The little highness asked.

“Well, ok.” Says the girl.

The little highness then went on for the entire afternoon, trying arduously to play with, humor, and keep the girl around.

But the next day, the girl seemed distant.

She seemed to be looking for someone else to keep her company. She seemed to be uninterested with the little highness, as she swayed her head from the left to the right.

And then, the little highness saw a prince walk up to her. The girl then smiled brightly, laughing, chatting, and walking away with the prince.

The little highness then became very sad.

But, the little highness also felt confused.

“Why can’t I make friends?” The little highness wondered in perplexity.

Then came the shout of the big highness who lived in the little highness’s head.

“YOU'RE JUST BORING!” the big highness shouted.

“OTHER PEOPLE CAN DO THIS BETTER THAN YOU!”

“No! That can’t be true!” The little highness yelled back, but this time with an uncertainty that made their voice tremble.

The big highness again, retaliated. “FINE. TRY ONE MORE TIME, AND YOU’LL SEE I'M RIGHT!”

The little highness, this time quietly replied “Okay. I will try again.”

The little highness wandered into the park one more time, and for this time, found a group of people.

“Come! Join us!” The group of people told the little highness.

The little highness delightedly joined the group of people.

But something was wrong.

The little highness then went on, still trying arduously to play with, humor, and keep the group, wanting to continue being friends with them.

The little highness struggled to find interesting things to say.

The little highness struggled to find funny things to say.

The little highness struggled to seem relevant.

Then, the little highness seemed distant to the group, as the little highness avoided them in fear of the group not liking them already.

Then, the little highness started trying to seem uninterested when alone, which confused themself on why they were doing that.

The little highness then became very sad.

But, the little highness just sighed.

“What am I lacking?” The little highness wondered, in disconcertment.

Then came the shout of the big highness who lived in the little highness’s head.

“YOU ARE JUST BORING!” The big highness shouted.

“YOU AREN'T INTERESTING!”

“YOU AREN’T RELEVANT!”

“YOU’RE JUST UNFUNNY!”

“NO ONE ADMIRES YOUR MUNDANE PRESENCE!”

“WALLOW IN YOUR OWN SOLITUDE!”

“...BECAUSE OTHER PEOPLE CAN DO THIS BETTER THAN YOU!”

“Please stop! No more! I don’t want to hear it anymore! I want to be funny!” The little highness yelled, finally having enough.

“I want to be important! I want to be charismatic! I want to be relevant! I want to be interesting! I want to be good at this too! Why can’t I fit in with these people?”

The little highness, in frustration of themself, decided to go back into their castle, and sat there, pondering.

Day and nights have gone by, and the little highness still sat there,

Desperately trying to perceive what they're doing wrong.

Desperately trying to understand how to eradicate what they believe is their awfully irritating impairment.

And over and over, the little highness can hear big highness’s shouts, no matter how closely they press their hands against their ears,

desperately trying to not let big highness’s seeds of doubt grow any further.

As the little highness had lie down, they realized something. It felt as if this particular sorrow was familiar, a very nostalgic feeling. Why did the little highness rarely leave the castle in the first place? It was hard for them to remember.

One night, the little highness is found continuing to lay on their bed, mulling over the same things they have for the previous days.

“Why am I different from those people? Was I born like this?”

The same questions resurfacing again and again,

Until the little highness hears a voice.

This time, it wasn’t internal shouting. It sounded different, comforting almost.

“How sad… don’t take this as such a big deal. Stop complaining over this nonsense, you’re a highness, dear.” Says the voice.

“Who are you?” The little highness’s head shoots up, and asks.

“I am here. Look behind you.” The voice replied.

The little highness turned around and saw a ghost who looked just like the little highness.

“I am the ghost of this castle. You’ve been ruminating over and over about the same things for such a while. Aren’t you tired, little one??” The ghost questioned, as the translucent being floated in front of the little highness.

“I am.. but,” Says the little highness as they sigh, rising up onto their feet. “I won’t leave the castle until I figure out the remedy to this… ailment. I refuse!”

The ghost grimaces at the little highness in pity.

Then flows towards them, and suddenly the little highness feels warmth around them, as the ghost embraces the little highness in a consoling gesture, a nurturing hug.

The little highness eyes widened in confusion feeling as though their heart stopped.

Then, the little highness feels their shoulder ease.

And then the little highness cries.

The little highness sobs, still captured within the ghosts consoling arms. Everything they’ve felt within the previous days worth of tears surging out of the little highness, akin to a heartfelt tsunami.

“There, there.” The ghost says in a calm tone, letting go of the little highness and wiping their tears.

“There, there. Don’t worry, I’m here for you, dear highness.”

“I don’t know what to do. It feels as though I’m always alone no matter how hard I try.” Mumbles the little highness, staring at the wooden ground.

“This is why I’m here, child. I can help you if you trust in me.” The ghost says. “All you have to do is follow me.”

“You can? Really?” Asks the little highness looking up at the ghost. The gaze of desperation.

“Only if you want me to. Seeing you in such a despairful state is pitiful. I can help you redeem your worth, and give you the purpose you're chasing.”

The little highness fixated on the ghost. It's true, they didn’t want to stay here in the castle, lonely and contemplating on why they are. Big highness had asked them before…: what if they were always bound to be alone, no matter how much they thought, trying to find a solution? No matter how hard they tried to think of ways to keep people around. No, not even if all the stars far above the castle roofs aligned and formed an illuminating celestial symphony, would they ever fit in?

“Okay.” Says the royalty.

“I’ll trust you so please… help me.”

“Very well, dear. Please follow me.”

So the little highness finally decided to follow the ghost, hoping for their answer to be in reach. The ghost led the little highness up the castle’s long spiral of stairs, and finally halted at the top balcony.

“Look down at the village.” The ghost says.

“This village is beautiful isn’t it? Look at the very peaceful people of the village sleeping soundly.”

The little highness looks out over the village under the dark sky, breathing in the chilly air, and taking in the calmness of the night.

“Do you like your village, little highness?” Asked the ghost, turning their head.

“...I love my village. Even if I feel like this. My village is all I’ve ever known. I look down from my window everyday. I see the people laughing.. selling fruits… trading goods… just being a community.”

“I see. So you love your village a lot… but look, over there.” Says the ghost, pointing towards a cottage down below in the distance.

Then, a bright light shined, and suddenly booms, throwing the cottage into a chaos of flames.

The little highness’s expression turns into one of dismay as they oversee the fire quickly spreading.

“What.. oh my… what happened! Where did that come from? I must do something!” The little highness shouts frantically.

But before the little highness could think to dash out, the ghost stretched their hand out before the little highness, as the little highness turned around facing the ghost, back against the railing of the balcony.

“What are you doing?” The little highness asks, confuzzled as their heart pounds in urgency.

“Not so fast dear.” The ghost spoke, looking into the little highnesses eyes, the gaze of soulless life. “This, is what you wanted.” The ghost answers.

“What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re… what are you trying to do?” The little highness asks the ghost, as their eyes flicker between the ghost’s eyes and the ghost’s hand.

“You don’t understand? Let me explain darling.” Mutters the ghost.

“You want to be interesting. You want to be important. You want to be liked. You want people to be swarming around you. You want to be amusing.” The ghost says slowly.

“You want company and recognition, am I wrong? The way you were eager to make friends.. You want people to feel the same eagerness with you.”

“Please.. What is going on!” The little highness shouts in terror as the people of the village awaken and begin to holler.

“Little highness. Dear, little highness.” The ghost starts, staring calmly at the little highness, almost as if in reassurance.

“I will push you from this balcony and you will fall. After your body hits the ground, your soul will turn into a cloud. A rain cloud. A rain cloud that will disperse all the fire and save your people. You wanted to be admired, recognized, liked, and you will be remembered. You will be all those things, people will praise you for saving them. People will marvel at the sight of your graceful rain drops, companying you with sounds of rejoice. And people will bury your body, remembering your bravery.”

The little highness stood there in silence but trembling, as the little highness stared at the ghost, listening to their words carefully.

Then, the little highness finally speaks.

“I’ll be liked.. I'll be admired..? Really?” The little highness says as their voice shakes, and with an expression of uncertainty.

“Yes.” The ghost replied, slowly enclosing the gap between its hands and the little highness’s head.

“Be the rain. The beautiful, glistening rain, and their savior. Rain on the people and the people’s admiration and gratefulness will be shown, it will blossom so brightly it will illuminate even the darkest of skies. Even brighter than that fire. You are no longer irrelevant as you are their savior. You are no longer unamusing as they will gleefully smile and laugh when they see the sight of your cloud and inevitable gift. You are no longer boring, as your rain will give birth to the beautifulest of floras across the village and disperse their current life threatening issue. Rain down your water and their love shower you. And no one will do that, better than you.”

“...I, Wait! Why do-” Says the little highness.

But before the little highness could finish, the ghost pushed them off the balcony.

“You must save them quickly. The fire spreads fast. And now… I have fulfilled my promise!” Says the ghost.

“Now, you aren’t little. Or big. you can be simply, just right.”

The ghost says, as their words fade.

But just as the little highness took their last glance at the ghost. But there was no one there glancing at them right back.

Now, the little highness nonetheless was falling.

And falling.

It seemed like the little highness would fall forever.

But before the little highness hit the ground, they thought again.

“Why… Do I have to sacrifice my body, a part of me, to be liked? To finally be.. appreciated?”

“To finally be important to people? To have company? To be just right? No, I don’t want to… I just want to be liked for the little highness… I am.”

The little highness body hits the ground below with a thud, the horrid noise shattering in the background of the flame’s crackles and the hollering in the night.

As the little highness’s body lies below, a faint, wispy cloud begins to rise from it. The cloud grows bigger and bigger darkening as it blocks out the light of the moon. Thunder rumbles in the distance,

and the first drops of rain begin to fall.

There, up in the dark sky, you’ll find the “just right” highness. Their highness in the sky, serving as a rain cloud as dignified as the relief it produces, and as dark as its embodiment.

(Ty for reading even if you found it a bit cringy haha!)

The rain fell in heavy sheets, pounding the cobblestone streets with a relentless fury. I stood at the edge of the city square, hidden in the shadows cast by the towering buildings. My eyes locked onto the figure standing in the centre—the so-called hero of this tale, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight. His armour gleamed with the promise of justice, and his sword hung at his side, waiting for the moment he would draw it against me. He didn’t know it yet, but this was the endgame.

For both of us.

People always speak of heroes and villains as if they are roles assigned at birth, as if some are born with the light inside them while others are forever consumed by the dark. But that’s not the truth. It never has been. You see, I was once the hero of this story, too. I fought for what was right, stood for justice, saved lives. But somewhere along the way, I made a choice. I chose to become the villain.

And I did so willingly.

I stepped forward into the light, my boots splashing in the puddles below, each step echoing in the silence of the night. The hero's gaze snapped toward me, his hand hovering near his sword, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

“Why?” His voice was steady, but I could hear the confusion, the disbelief. He still couldn’t understand why I had turned my back on everything we once stood for.

I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I had to.”

He frowned, taking a step toward me. “Had to? You didn’t have to do anything! You chose this! You betrayed us!”

Ah, betrayal. It always comes down to betrayal in stories like this, doesn’t it? But there was no betrayal. Not really.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I did choose this. But not for the reasons you think.”

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword now, but still he hesitated, as if waiting for an explanation that would make sense of it all. I suppose I owed him that much.

“I was once like you,” I began, my voice low and measured. “I believed in justice, in fighting for the greater good. I believed that we were saving the world. But then I saw it—what we were really doing. We weren’t saving anyone. We were keeping the balance, yes, but only by making sure the cycle of suffering never ended.”

The hero’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”

I let out a soft laugh, but it was filled with bitterness. “Don’t you see? Every time we saved the day, we only prolonged the suffering of the people we were trying to protect. The enemies we defeated—new ones would always rise in their place. The people we saved—they would suffer again, whether from famine, war, or sickness. And we, the so-called heroes, were nothing but tools to maintain this broken world. We kept the system alive.”

His sword was out now, gleaming in the pale light. “So what? You think you’re better than the system? You think you can change it by becoming a monster?”

“I think I can end it,” I said coldly.

That was the truth of it. I had realized that the only way to truly break the cycle was to destroy everything. To burn it all down and let something new rise from the ashes. Yes, I had made myself the villain—because only a villain could destroy the world. Only a villain could do what needed to be done.

“I didn’t want this,” I continued, taking another step forward. “But you and I both know that heroes can’t change the world. They can only preserve it.”

His face was pale now, the weight of my words sinking in. He didn’t want to believe it. Of course, he didn’t. That was the curse of heroes—they always believed there was a better way, even when the world showed them over and over again that there wasn’t.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “There’s always another way.”

“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”

I moved faster than he expected. My blade was in my hand before he could react, and it was over in seconds. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him. His eyes were wide with shock, staring up at me as if he still couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and for a moment, I meant it. “But this is the only way.”

As he collapsed, the rain washing away the blood, I stood there, alone in the dark, my heart heavy but resolute.

I was the villain.

Because I had made myself one.

And I would end the world, even if it meant damning myself in the process.

Hey thank you all for reading! I want to apologies for not posting more of my writing but I assure you I have a lot more I intend to release, just going to measure it out so I don't run out if my motivation hits a dry spell. But as always, any feedback is more then welcome!

The rain fell in heavy sheets, pounding the cobblestone streets with a relentless fury. I stood at the edge of the city square, hidden in the shadows cast by the towering buildings. My eyes locked onto the figure standing in the centre—the so-called hero of this tale, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight. His armour gleamed with the promise of justice, and his sword hung at his side, waiting for the moment he would draw it against me. He didn’t know it yet, but this was the endgame.

For both of us.

People always speak of heroes and villains as if they are roles assigned at birth, as if some are born with the light inside them while others are forever consumed by the dark. But that’s not the truth. It never has been. You see, I was once the hero of this story, too. I fought for what was right, stood for justice, saved lives. But somewhere along the way, I made a choice. I chose to become the villain.

And I did so willingly.

I stepped forward into the light, my boots splashing in the puddles below, each step echoing in the silence of the night. The hero's gaze snapped toward me, his hand hovering near his sword, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

“Why?” His voice was steady, but I could hear the confusion, the disbelief. He still couldn’t understand why I had turned my back on everything we once stood for.

I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I had to.”

He frowned, taking a step toward me. “Had to? You didn’t have to do anything! You chose this! You betrayed us!”

Ah, betrayal. It always comes down to betrayal in stories like this, doesn’t it? But there was no betrayal. Not really.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I did choose this. But not for the reasons you think.”

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword now, but still he hesitated, as if waiting for an explanation that would make sense of it all. I suppose I owed him that much.

“I was once like you,” I began, my voice low and measured. “I believed in justice, in fighting for the greater good. I believed that we were saving the world. But then I saw it—what we were really doing. We weren’t saving anyone. We were keeping the balance, yes, but only by making sure the cycle of suffering never ended.”

The hero’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”

I let out a soft laugh, but it was filled with bitterness. “Don’t you see? Every time we saved the day, we only prolonged the suffering of the people we were trying to protect. The enemies we defeated—new ones would always rise in their place. The people we saved—they would suffer again, whether from famine, war, or sickness. And we, the so-called heroes, were nothing but tools to maintain this broken world. We kept the system alive.”

His sword was out now, gleaming in the pale light. “So what? You think you’re better than the system? You think you can change it by becoming a monster?”

“I think I can end it,” I said coldly.

That was the truth of it. I had realized that the only way to truly break the cycle was to destroy everything. To burn it all down and let something new rise from the ashes. Yes, I had made myself the villain—because only a villain could destroy the world. Only a villain could do what needed to be done.

“I didn’t want this,” I continued, taking another step forward. “But you and I both know that heroes can’t change the world. They can only preserve it.”

His face was pale now, the weight of my words sinking in. He didn’t want to believe it. Of course, he didn’t. That was the curse of heroes—they always believed there was a better way, even when the world showed them over and over again that there wasn’t.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “There’s always another way.”

“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”

I moved faster than he expected. My blade was in my hand before he could react, and it was over in seconds. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him. His eyes were wide with shock, staring up at me as if he still couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and for a moment, I meant it. “But this is the only way.”

As he collapsed, the rain washing away the blood, I stood there, alone in the dark, my heart heavy but resolute.

I was the villain.

Because I had made myself one.

And I would end the world, even if it meant damning myself in the process.

Hey thank you all for reading! I want to apologies for not posting more of my writing but I assure you I have a lot more I intend to release, just going to measure it out so I don't run out if my motivation hits a dry spell. But as always, any feedback is more then welcome!

For operation:

Place Tab A into Slot B

Shake well; and repeat

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