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.

火 — Fire.

地球 — Earth.

空気 — Air.

水 — Water.

Written in the veritable dunes of history long ago, man and spirit arose in coalescence. What was meant to be a veil between worlds acted intuitively as a point of conveyance from one life to the next.

It was The Avatar, master of all four elements, progenitor of peace and overseer of the world, who eventually saw the apertures in life's cloth left behind by the uncouth spirits plaguing the realm — it was in these flaws a stern belief embedded itself into the manifolds of his philosophy, where he predicted the only means for man & spirit to truly live in harmony was seclusion.

Raava admonished the malefic influence of her counterpart, Vaatu. The Avatar of their time, Avatar Wan, insisted on conjointing forces with Raava to defeat her antithesis, albeit impromptu, in a glorious attempt to savor the fleeting breaths of the spirit, and restore anew. He fought valiantly, merging with the mother of all elements, & prevailed in the end, locking Vaatu away within the Tree of Time: but as time progressed, the primeval battle of light and dark cyclically took effect, an infinite perpetuation of life before & after affliction sought evermore.

In the aftermath of the fated battle between good and evil, Avatar Wan, having defeated the root of malevolence, sealed the spirit portals shut, hopeful in never needlessly opening them again...

20,000 years have passed since then. Ancient times mentioned in requiem with the rare emergence of spirits, disappearing;

100 years have passed since the monumental mishaps of Korra. Like orbital phases, the world wanes & waxes in and around darkness. The Spirit Vines, if intercepted, threaten the dissemination of spirits across Northern and Southern poles. Among these spirits... Vaatu.

The Temple of Healing once perched atop one of the city's towering spires, radiating as a beacon of hope and integral haven for residents and travelers alike. Hallowed walls came to life in an opulent array of animation, gleaming in the ubiquity of sunlight. Intricate tapestries and ornate decorations adorned its monolithic visage. Doctors, nurses, and physicians studiously practice their craft, adroit in their fields of interest. The hospital was illustrious for its expertise in medicinal herbs & herbal remedies, acupuncture, and holistic healing methods, dabbling in the old while inviting the new with open arms.

Its new premise loomed on the edge of town, ascertaining to sit on the outskirts of the city; its facade was weathered and worn, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow & disperse any light seized by its threatening aura. As the diaspora of Earth Kingdom residents desperately beseeching sanctity, the hospital no longer stood as a beacon, but a harrowing reminder of the malignancies that ran amok along the streets. Stepping through its rusted gates, a chill crept down the spines of even the most seasoned combatants, an unshakeable sense of forebode adamant in settling in the pit of their stomachs. Lush gardens turned sully, plants wilting in the amassment of atmospheric heat; tranquil courtyards held a dreaded silence—the scene notably lackluster.

Inside, the air was thick with despair & oppression. The reception area was a bleak tableau of misery, with patients slumped in chairs, their hollow eyes staring blankly into the void. Some were missing whole ligaments, the unfortunate victims of crossfire from the explosions prior. Others, charred to a crisp, their skin bearing burns of the third degree. Behind the desk, weary staff members moved with a ghostly pallor, their smiles forced and devoid of warmth. Blood-stained gurneys lined the corridors, blemishing the walls with accidental smears and strokes. The wails of the injured echoed off their cold, sterile surface. Medical teams moved with grim determination, their faces etched with the impending sense of doom lingering. Patient wards and rooms were no better, each one a chamber of horrors where suffering and despair reigned supreme. In the dimly lit halls, tortured souls writhed in anguish, their cries for mercy drowned out by the relentless march of time.

Mei Lin greeted visitors with a warm smile, revitalizing weary faces around her until they gleamed with joy, if only for a moment. Her laughter echoed softly, a rare sound that brought a fleeting sense of hope to her grim surroundings.

Even as her eyes meandered off into space, a hand rested gently on her cheek, her aura exuded a sense of liberation concomitant to an airbender, albeit, loftier, unwavering. Even as patients were rushed in missing whole jaws and legs, or incurring serious spinal injuries, she made sure to apply such efficacy in care they managed to keep calm even in their positions. Her presence alone acted almost as an intermediary between realms, a source of reassurance and equilibrium.

'Packed again, Sojun. We've almost reached the max capacity — again.'

She sighed emphatically. If anyone had to take up the burden of watching families in peril, it was her. Day in & day out, she watched the light dim from each & every visitor's eyes when she has to announce the hospital is full. Crime was already prevalent in the Earth Kingdom—and the resurrection of the Dai Lee only made hard living even harder in the long run. While the streets suffered, & the impoverished watched helplessly as their pockets thinned, they were also subjugated to watch the rich get richer. Loathing the government for their utter incompetence was the norm, a status quo that harbored some truth in hindsight.

'Maybe I'll have to open up my own little clinic one of these days. What should I name it?' Her lips ceased to move as she spoke. As though brandishing a title, hands enthralled in the idea portrayed a gesture of grandiosity, as though snapping a picture of the scene playing in her mind. 'Mei Lin's Soul Blossom Sanctuary.'

Behind her stood a girl. She bore the aesthetic of someone young, an innocent soul in the midst of chaos. Her luscious brown hair draped down to her shoulders, straight follicles gleaning in the dregs of light present. Despite the harsh heat still wafting the air, she donned a winter coat, visibly unphased by the abnormality in temperature. Her voice took on a spectral tone, with a dissonant pitch that sounded like she was far away even when she was only at a few feet's distance.

"I dunno if it rings off the tongue too well. Maybe Serene Spirit Healing Oasis?”

What if we shortened it to 'Serene Spirits' and made our slogan 'Serene Spirits: A Healing Clinic'?

"OOOOOOO! SOUNDS FANCY!"

Mei Lin's laughter blares caution signs above every patients' head in the area. Eyes swing over to her, curious as to who she was communicating with. She only attuned to their stares the moment she was confronted by the latest visitor.

"Welcome to the Temple of Healing! How may I assi—"

The bass & urgency in his voice cut deep through the joy, terse cries for help serrating the ears of all staff members present.

"MY DAUGHTER!”

“SHE'S BEEN HIT!”

“SHE'S BEEN HIT!”

“WE NEED A DOCTOR!”

“PLEASE!”

The girl clung to her seat, trying to hold herself upright. But her strength waned, and she slowly slumped forward, her eyes struggling to stay open. She was noticeably red, with large quantities of a black mucus escaping her nostrils in strings. Her hands were coated in a crude, jet black, redolent of oil. This nasal drip persisted even as Mei Lin tried to assess the situation as best she could; Sojun's eyes widened upon first glances. As the girl coughed twice, nearly hacking out a lung from the sheer force burdening each cough, the girl inadvertently let out a thick, opaque miasma, its tint leaving Mei with thoughts that she was infected with some sort of rare, infectious disease. The receptionist stepped back, mortified at the sight. She lightly wagged her head, acknowledging that this was something serious, and quite new. Mei Lin's heart raced as she watched the girl's condition worsen. Every second transpiring sapped her of more and more energy, until the flushing in her skin wilted away into a paling, emaciated figure.

‘... she's too young to be cursed.’ she murmured in the pacing scape of her mind. Every second mattered more than the last in saving a patient — especially one whose life energy has begun wilting away before her fingertips.

Mei was in a race for time.

She fervently paced to the computer terminal equipped with a microphone. Tapping the mic once, she cleared her throat, parched with desperation, before calling out to any doctors on standby: "Attention! All available medical staff! We have an emergency situation at the reception area, immediate assistance is needed! I repeat: emergency in the reception area, we need all hands on deck!”

Unbeknownst to Mei Lin, Sojun was already on the case; she was one of the descriers who the scene was most heartaching for. She empathized with the girl—it wasn't like she asked for the roots of destruction to coil around her in such a form. She, like many, many others, was a casualty in the onslaught, a denizen caught in the fray. She didn't deserve it. In a sense, it spoke volumes to the long lasting effects spiritual incursions—an invasion of negative chi on the soul; an influx—had on one's physical wellness. Had it not been for Sojun, maybe this would've been her end. A youthful spirit gone too soon amidst a conflict that hadn't even concerned her.

But this was what the cesspool the world had amounted to.

Nobody in this world deserves to experience their life flashing before their eyes, as they can only pray as the time goes by that everything will be alright...

Nobody.

"Sweet, sweet child. He did this to you, didn't he? You no longer have to be scared anymore. I know. I understand how scary it can be, feeling like the world is against you, like your only option is to die, or else be held hostage as a captive in your mind, writhing in pain for the rest of your life.”

"The person you'll come to learn about in those books. This great "savior of the world". He isn't your friend. He's an enemy that needs to be stopped... and from what I sense, you're just a girl who flew to close to the sun. You got caught in something bigger than yourself: but you shouldn't have to suffer for wanting to sprout your wings and be free." This was in reference to Sozin, The Avatar. The supposed "progenitor of peace"—a statement Sojun long believed to have went extinct with the death of Avatar Aang, & thus, just another fable in the annals of history.

Kneeling before her, Sojun's hand slowly gravitated towards hers. She could feel the girl's discomfort on a spiritual level; in an effort to calm her down for the healing process, she speaks to her delicately, careful of her volume and precise with the thematic value surrounding her words. Broken spirits needed fixed spirits to tell them how to fix themselves. This especially reigned true here.

"I know because I've been there. I've felt lost and scared, just like you. But they couldn't cure me fast enough, and I don't want that for you. You're brave and resilient, Yumi. I'll make sure it stays that way, okay?"

"Now, this will hurt a bit but don't move too much, okay?"

Sojun grimaced with pity upon contact: her touch was rigid and rough, her hands glacial & stiff, their tips purple. It was only when Sojun interlocked fingers with hers that she felt the vivifying warmth of blood circulation once more. A palliative force soothed her muscle spasms, curing her state of paralysis. The viscosity dripping onto her skirt cut like closing a faucet shut. Sunken eyes returned to their normal, ivory shade…

Meanwhile, the girl's father sobbed to his heart's content, giving into the rush of survivor's guilt. His life flashed before his eyes, as the light in them, too, had long dissipated away before he arrived. He was a husk of the man he once was—a father through & through, but one utterly disappointed in himself & what he adamantly believed was his own incompetence.

"I just wish I could've been there to protect her…”

“Is that why you punish me, Raava?” “Because I couldn't be there to protect her? I should have seen this coming... the world's a cold, cold place, and I've just never been the one to put on a jacket and handle my damn business... I could've just gone to the archery another day... "

“Oh, how the hell am I gonna tell your mom about this one, Yumi..."

He didn't need to turn around. Only listen to the sweet melody that pursued his attention: and captivated him nonetheless. It awoke him from his somber comatose.

"P-papa...?"

"Papa...!"

She ran into his arms. The warm embrace he gave her was one of endearment, awe-struck at the sight. "O..oh my god..." His jaw unhinged to unconsciously display the rollercoaster of emotions toppling over: for him, a blessing was the only way to describe it. "My angel! Yu-Yu! My angel!"

The girl squeals out in joy, "She saved me, Papa! The lady—she saved me!"

"...what lady, yu-yu?"

"There!" She points at Sojun—but all her father can see is the void of space.

He shook his head.

"Who? __There's nobody there__, yumi…”

In the confines of Mei Lin's car, the vision unfolded—a mere glimpse of what lay ahead. As a seeress, her insight often came at a dismal cost—her mind a portent battleground for the whispers of fate. Ignis fatuus, an eyesore kin to the insidious flame of foresight, swayed at the edges of her consciousness, a constant reminder of the precarious nature of her existence.

"Ugh," Mei Lin muttered to herself, fumbling with the pill bottle in her hand. "I forgot to take my medicine again." She shook her head in frustration. It was the third time this week she'd forgotten. But who would have blamed her...

All her attention was deprived by the thinning veil between the world.

‘What type of hellhole do we live in for an Avatar to disregard his duties entirely and kill the innocent..?’

‘I don't think I'll ever see any method to this madness.’

Mei Lin glanced at the dashboard clock, the hands ticking closer to the start of her shift. The flashback to the vision lingered in her mind, the echo of Sojun's words reverberating through her thoughts.

As she pondered the significance of the scene, Mei Lin reached for her medication, intending to take her usual dose. But something nagged at her... tugging at her spirit. A sense of emergency, with a tinge of importance she simply could not ignore.

With a trembling hand, Mei Lin poured out a handful of pills, swallowing them in one swift motion. The bitter taste lingered on her tongue, a bitter reminder of the sacrifices she made to maintain her sanity in a world that didn't understand her one bit.

As the car idled in the parking lot, Mei Lin closed her eyes, the weight of her secrets pressing down upon her as they do daily. She wondered what the prognostication could mean in regards to her—& whether it ended there, or if chaos found its way to the hospital in the end. But for now, all she could do was wait—and pray that she had made the right choice.

"Let's hope everything goes smoothly I guess.”

What history doesn't teach you...

Raava & Vaatu were not one primordial spirits—there are more. 7, to be exact.

Long ago, nestled in the spirit realm, there existed a group of seven young spirits known as the 7 Virtues of Bushido. The inauguration of their birth would only come during the creation of the Spirit Vines, a time when the fabrics of the spirit realm strengthened, and nature thrived. They grew stronger alongside it, harnessing its energy for the greater good. While Raava & Vaatu dealt with savoring and destroying the balance, they instead honed their talents to employ justice and enforce peace across the spirit realm.

The plethora of contributions attributed to their efforts were in vain due to Avatar Sozin's legion of dark spirits. As they terrorized the natural world in drastic numbers, The Sentinels have climbed into a resurgence.

"Oof..! I've gotta ease my mind a bit: how about some music to cheer the mood—”

"—in honor of you, Sojun. As always.” She let out a lighthearted chuckle.

Mei reached out to the dashboard, her fingertips grazing the worn surface of the radio. The radio crackled to life with a determined twist of the knob, the sound of radio static filling the room with tension that only magnified the metric tons of pressure already present. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she navigated through the channels, each one offering a cacophony of voices, music, & advertisements. On her fifth attempt, an unfamiliar jingle captured her attention:

"IT'S THE PRO BOWL TOURNAMENT, WHERE LEGENDS ARE BORN,"

"FIRE, EARTH, WATER, WIND, IT'LL BLOW UP THE STORM!”

"STEP UP IN THE RING,"

"YOU'LL FEEL THE FIRE,"

"FEEL THE HEAT,"

"CRUSIN' ALL UP ON THESE FLOWS JUST LIKE ITS CRACK UP IN THEM STREETS."

"FROM THE STREETS TO THE STAGE,"

"100K FOR A PAGE,"

"CHAMPIONS RISE, WE IDOLIZE,"

"AND WHEN THAT CHECK COME WE STRAIGHT."

"SO GRAB YOUR TICKETS, COME ALIVE,"

"REMEMBER: DON'T HESITATE,"

"WITNESS THE GREATNESS IN STORE,"

"BECAUSE ITS NEVER TOO LATE."

"BE THERE CUZ ITS A CELEBRATION"

"PRO BENDING TOURNAMENT, ITS A REVELATION."

Title: Avatar: Sozin's Comet.

Genre: Fantasy.

Age Range: 16+.

Word Count: 2,920 Words.

I believe my project is a good fit because I'm currently working on refinement, clarity, and pacing, and with an opportunity like this I believe I can mesh my writing style with the Avatar universe to give an immersive take on the universe for all Avatar fans across the world to enjoy!

Every time I wipe away the crummy evidence from my lips and adjust my pants to account for my calorie loaded slip up, I find myself declaring “That is it! This can’t continue! My diet starts now!”.

It seems, like most things, the idea of a diet is much easier to handle with a full stomach.

Thanatos never hated his job.

Even if he did, he can’t change it any more than Hades can change his position as king of the underworld; a somewhat reluctant title.

But some days he wished he wasn’t so feared. Some days he wishes people were happy to see him to guide their souls to Charon.

Unfortunately, the spot he was needed at today bordered on another deity group and he had to try to work with them. Which they were not making easy, it was boarding the Catholic territories and they tended to be territorial.

He tried to stay away from the closest area to them, putting his focus on the people that are clearly within his territory.

It was a small, man-made disaster, thankfully. He did not want to help clean up another one of his owns mess like last time. It at least means the death toll is comparatively smaller, maybe a few hundred to a thousand unlike the 40,000 they had during the last disaster.

There was some protest gone wrong, resulting in a small explosion that collapsed a 10-story office building.

And every single person he went to, to lead them to Charon was terrified of him. Their soul backed away in fear.

He even put his hood down to show his face but what he symbolized outweighed his human appearance.

There was a middle-aged man who died when the building collapsed, crushing his body. His soul was sitting up, transparent and numb. Wondering if this was just an out-of-body experience, he would be fine.

Thanatos appeared, kneeling to him but the man knew exactly what was going on.

The man shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “No, no please, I don’t want to die, it’s not my time, please.”

He started to back away but barely moved two feet, his soul still attached to his body.

Thanatos frowned, reaching out softly. “I’m sorry my soul, but your time has come.”

“But I have a family! I have kids “

“I’m aware.” He said gently.

The man sobbed. “Please don’t take me, please.”

Thanatos stayed silent as he stood, getting his sword and severing the soul from the body. “You are not the only one here who left families behind. Come, I will see you to your proper judgment.”

The man backed away from the hand. “No! No, it’s just an out-of-body experience.” Now that he was disconnected from his body he started to run.

Thanotos hated this part.

He appeared instantly in front of the running man who barely got 12 feet away from him, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Please do not run. You cannot outrun me.”

Before the man could try and run again he transported him the the underworld, leaving him with Charon and soon Hades.

It was like that for most of the souls he retrieved. He knew it was likely because many of the deaths were so quick, the building crushing most, killing them instantly. He understands why they feel so shocked, blindsided and terrified.

It doesn’t help the hurt he feels when they try to run from him.

Once his area was cleared, for now, many paramedics were on the scene and helping retrieve and help those trapped.

Artemis and Apollo were helping the medical workers as much as they could, there were many other deities there helping as well. Thanatos could see the exhaustion on Apollo's face as he helped guide minds and hands, and calm those injured.

Apollo sighed with a tired smile, that was all there was for now until more could be retrieved. He saw Thanotos watching him. Artemis saw him as well. Apollo looked over to her, silently asking permission to see him. Artemis nodded. “Go on. He looks like he could use a friend.”

He smiled. “Thank you!”

He gave a big smile to the death god, waving to him before running over to him. “Hey! How you been?”

“I have been better Apollo.” He said softly, sadly.

The sun god frowned, concern clear in his eyes. “Oh no, did you have to retrieve children? I know how that upsets you with disasters.”

“No. They all…fear me. I’ve had several attempt to run away. So many pleaded for me not to take them. Told me about the families they’re leaving behind. It weighs heavy on me today.”

Apollo frowned, looking away, thinking of anything he could do to help, “Would you mind if I played a song?” He got his lyre, seemingly out of thin air.

Thanatos gave a tired look to the god of sunlight. “I will not stop you but I have to see to the border area, there are still souls. And I don’t think you’re work is done.”

There was suddenly a cry of elation. “We found more survivors!”

Apollo looked over and smiled, seeing people being rescued.

“I guess I don’t have time for a song. But let’s meet when this is over, with Dionysus.”

“I will see you then.”

Apollo gave a little salute before going back to the medics to help.

Thanatos sighed, using the ability to instantly transport to get to the border area.

There he saw Azreil, already at work,

Azreil was a tall figure, taller than Thanotos, by at least three feet, with six wings on each side of him, eyes dotting his dark wings all the way to the base, a large golden halo was around his bald head, it also had eyes. He wore dark robes and a hood, as seemed standard for any god of death. But his hood was down, he wonders if for the same reason, he pulled his down; to attempt to calm those who feared him.

But the person whose soul he severed with his own sword wasn’t scared, in fact, seemed to welcome him.

The angel spoke, surprisingly soft to Thanatos, all the eyes on his wings and halo looking at him now, even if he didn’t turn his head; it was unsettling and Thanatos is not one to be easily unsettled. “Hello, Thanatos. You’ve done good work today.”

“I see you have been at work as well. Not often we work in the same territory. I hope I’m not overstepping.”

Azeril turned his body, the soul went into the afterlife. He got his book that was hanging by a belt on his waist, looking for and scratching off a name with a black feather quill. “Not at all. It is not your fault death happened on our borders.”

Thanatos gave a bow to him, giving a look of the area as he righted himself. He saw Samael there as well which was not good for him.

Saael was towering, just like Azreial but with more wings, if that was possible. Twelve black wings came from his back, thankfully there was less eyes dotting down his wings to the base but he had two golden halos, crossing over his head with eyes on them, and two dark horns that came from his head. He didn’t seem to notice Thanotos which was good. He was known for being as territorial as a cat.

He instantly arrived to a soul, doing his best to push away the hurt from the fear so many seemed to feel. But why were they not so scared of Azreial? They all seemed calm and followed.

Once all souls were retrieved he looked around the area, seeing more medics and another angel, Micheal.

He felt dread settle in his stomach. He’s rarely ever had to face the archangel. Micheal was just as tall and unsettling as Azreial but less wings, only four on each side, white wings with the same eyes dotting down to the base, a large, golden halo that also had eyes but he looked ready for war as he helped heal the injured and guide the medics. Fully armed with a sword and shield on his back, armor plating covering his chest as well.

Thanatos felt they got the last of the souls, all that was left was for the healers to do what they could.

Micheal healed similarly to Apollo, petting the injured one’s hair, keeping them calm, and using their abilities to aid in healing.

When Micheal was done he saw Thanotos and gave a weak glare, flying over quickly to stand in front of him. “This is our territory, what are you doing here?”

Thanatos glared weakly as he looked up at him, why were all the angels so tall? “It is a border, I cannot help people died on the border.”

“Well your job is done, you can leave.”

Azreial was suddenly next to his fellow angel. “Micheal, it is alright. He is not here to harm anyone. He is only doing his job, just as we are.”

Micheal just continued to glare down at him, with every single eye on him. “He is from the underworld. He can’t be trusted.”

Suddenly Samael was involved, probably just getting done retrieving his own souls. “Micheal is right. The Underworld cannot be trusted, it is just a short walk away from Hell.”

Thanatos glared but all the angels were so much taller and stronger than him. As he is a God of death, the only power he possesses is being able to freely go between the underworld and the living world.

But Thanatos thought of his dear friend Hades, of how caring and gentle he is with every soul. And the thought of someone calling the underworld Hell struck a nerve. “The Underworld and Hell are nothing alike!”

He didn’t mean to raise his voice but his mental energy was too low to handle this properly. The day had taken its toll on him and his patience was thin as hair.

Apollo must have heard or was already on his way to aid the medics when he was suddenly by Thanotos' side. “Whoa, what’s going on? Thanatos, are you ok?”

Thanatos was about to tell him he was fine when Samael grinned. “We were just having a conversation, little god.”

Apollo huffed. “Little?”

Samael smiled, hands on his hips, his 8ft frame towering over them both. “Yes. Little. I was just telling Micheal that he is right not to trust anyone from The Underworld; it’s just a short stop away from Hell.”

Apollo glared this time but Sameal continued. “And everyone knows that anyone that comes from the underworld are monsters. And the world has no place for monsters.”

Before Thantos or Azrael could say anything or step between them, Apollo already had his golden bow and arrow, glaring at the tall angel with righteous anger, his long blonde hair floating with his growing energy.

Sameal reacted as well, energy swirling around him. Both Thanatos and Azrael stepped in to stop their fellow deities.

“Apollo stand down!”

“Samael STOP!” The angel's voice boomed.

Apollo and Sameal just stared at each other in a stalemate through the blank space of Azrael wings that separated them.

Azrael spoke to Samaell first, Micheal had his hand on the hilt of his sword on his back, ready if needed.

“Samael, stop. He is only here to do his job. Just as we are. If you do not stand down I will ask Micheal to stop you.”

Samael glared weakly, his anger going down before leaving. “Fine.” He said before turning.

Thanatos did the same with Apollo. “Apollo, come along, we are done here.”

Apollo lowered his weapon before glaring softly to Thanatos, his earlier energy leaving him. “He called you and Hades monsters.”

“I know.”

“He deserves it.”

“I know Apollo. I’m just as infuriated but we cannot start a war simply because he’s rude. Let’s go home.”

Apollo sighed, starting to walk alongside Thanatos. “How fast can you get us to the underworld.”

“Three seconds-“

Apollo got his bow and arrow with lightning speed and shot at Samael, hitting him square in the ass.

The angel yelped in pain as Thanatos shoved Apollo into the portal to go home.

Apollo was laughing as they arrived in the underworld, outside of Nyxs home, Thanotos not wanting to bother any of the souls that might still be waiting for judgment.

Thanatos nearly growled, he was so angry. “That was so immature, there are consequences, you can’t just shoot an angel.”

Apollo waved his hand. “It wasn’t anything damaging, just enough to hurt.”

“That’s not the point. You risk starting a war with the archangels just because he was rude.”

Apollo glared back. “He also can’t be allowed to behave that way. Azrael didn’t stop him properly so I did. I may not be Hades' favorite person and he’s not my favorite but I’m not about to let some guy with eyeballs on his feathers call him a monster. Or you! At least now he knows we won’t take his shit.”

Thanatos sighed. “I think you are hanging around your humans too much.”

“Or not enough,” Apollo said with a smile.

Thanatos looked away. Apollo did have a point, even Angels need consequences for their behavior. He can only hope they don’t cross paths anytime soon. “Thank you, for defending me and my home. You didn’t have to do that.”

Apollo smiled. “Corse I did, I wasn’t gonna let him bully you. Now let’s get that drink, I think we really need one.”

They arrived to the temple in Elsuyam, already there were a few others there, Dioynous of course, Thanatos thinks he lives here sometimes, the wine god is there so often.

Dioynous saw them, coming over with a smile, and giving Apollo a big hug. “Glad you guys made it! How did the soul searching go?”

Dioynous gave a hug to Thanatos as well. He barely returned it, not quite sure what to do. “Uh, it could have gone better. But the souls are where they need to be, that’s all that matters.”

Apollo gave him a look. “So you’re not going to tell him about the angels?”

Thanatos gave him a stern look. Apollo shrugged. “What?”

Dionysus summoned two glasses of wine, handing one to Apollo. “You two have had a day.” Before Thanatos could get the other wine, Dionysus started summoning different herbs into it before handing it over.

Thanatos looked at it suspiciously, carefully taking the wine glass. “What did you put on mine?”

“Just some relaxing herbs; chamomile, lavender, marijuana-“

“You put drugs on my drink?” Thanatos exclaimed.

“It’s not a drug to us, and even so, it’s not like we have any drug test to pass to continue working. I can feel how tense you are and have been all day; please drink this and relax. You are among friends.”

Thanatos couldn’t argue with that logic, he just despised the idea of not being in complete control of himself. But he is among friends and Dioynous has always been a phenomenal host, making sure everyone was safe as they had a good time. He took a few sips, finding the flavor was exactly how he liked his drinks; sweet.

The wine god brought a steady hand to his back, gently ushering them to a cozy couch. “Now tell me everything, how did your day go?” He said, summoning his own wine as he sat on the grassy ground, carefree and casual.

Thanatos sighed. “I want to state I do not hate my destiny as the God of Death but some days, I wish I wasn’t.” His voice became quiet as he finished his statement, making Dioynous look worried and Apollo giving a knowing, sympathetic look, sitting cross-legged on the sofa next to him.

Thanatos continued. “So many souls are terrified of me. A few even ran away, pleading with me not to take them, telling me of the families they’re leaving behind.”

He felt the heaviness of what happened finally come down upon him. He didn’t want to be seen as emotional so he hid it by taking a few large gulps of his wine. It helped lighten the load, his emotions were already a little lighter.

“And then the angels were there.”

Apollo huffed. “Bunch of conceited assholes, they called me a little god.”

“Azrael is alright. He’s always respectful to us. It’s the others that take Umbridge with others, not from his sect.”

Apollo swallowed the wine he had in his mouth. “No, it’s Samael and Micheal who are the troublemakers. Especially Samael, the way he talked down to you.”

Dionysus frowned. “What did he say?”

Thanatos looked at the deep red of the wine in his glass. “He said all those from the underworld are monsters; a short step away from Hell. I raised my voice to him.”

Even Dioynous, as carefree as he is, had a certain anger in his eyes. “What happened then?”

Thanatos looked toward Apollo who had a guilty but smug smile. Dionouys saw this, raising an eyebrow with a growing smile. “Apollo, what did you do?”

Apollo took in a breath. “I was about to shoot him but both Thanotos and Azrael broke it up. Which, fair. Not sure we could take on Archangels without Athena or Ares. But before we left I shot an arrow at his ass, it hit and-”

“And it was very risky. We don’t know what the angels plan to do if they choose to retaliate.” Thanatos said, looking over at the blonde with a tired look.

Dionouys summoned a wine decanter, having it pour into Thanoto's glass mid air. Thanatos just gave him a weak look. “You're still stressed.”

“How can I not be? We might have triggered a war, those angels are always more than willing to start a war; remember the crusades?”

“Yes and we handled it then, we’ll handle it now, if that happens,” Apollo said, continuing. “But I doubt they'll do anything, Jesus is super chill but would probably throw another fit if his archangels got out of hand. They're probably already getting a lecture about respect.”

Thanatos smiled weakly. “I suppose you're right.”

Suddenly cheers erupted from the center. Apollo smiled, seeing Athena in the middle of it with a wine glass and a smile. “What's going on there?”

Dionysus smiled, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, she wanted a celebration. A patron of hers graduated medical school.”

Apollo stood quickly. “Wait really? I was helping with that too! How could I forget?” He said, frowning, nearly ready to run over. Thanotos tried to reason with his panic. “We also had a disaster to see to.”

Apollo frowned, feeling awful for forgetting. “I know, but her Patron, Sophia was working with me as well, I’ve been helping her for years alongside Athena.”

Thanatos smiled, the only real smile he’s had all day. “Go on then. It’s ok to forget, you were helping save lives today and I’m sure Athena and Sophia would understand.”

Apollo smiled back. “Alright. I’ll be back in a bit.”

He said, running over to greet Athena who smiled, greeting him with the excitement of seeing an old friend.

“Brother! Glad you made it.” She said as she hugged him. Apollo smiled sheepishly. “Same, I nearly forgot.”

“You’re here now, that’s what counts.” She said with a smile. “Now celebrate with us, our girl graduated and is now a licensed surgeon.”

Thanatos watched Apollo and Athena greet each other, celebrating their believer and her accomplishments with their shared help. But one question nagged at his mind.

Dioynous sensed his change in mood. “I can hear you thinking.”

Thanatos looked to the large blonde. “I’m just wondering; why we’re all the people I went to get scared of me but the ones the angels got seemed to calm and embraced them? Do they not see what we see?”

“Oh, that. The angels have some abilities we don’t have, or at least other Gods of death don’t have; they can instantly calm a soul. They don’t always have to use it but you know how they tell the souls do not be afraid. It’s some sort of incantation to calm those they go to.”

Thanatos nodded. “Makes sense now. All those eyes are unsettling.”

“That’s putting it nicely. Those aren’t even their actual forms, that’s just their forms for humans. They’re even more unsettling and bigger.”

Thanatos huffed. “Great. And Apollo just risked a war with them.”

Elsewhere in Heaven, Azrael stood next to Jesus, at attention as their king and commander lectured Micheal and Sameal, mostly Samael.

Jesus wasn’t often angry or upset, most of the time he was soft-spoken and the personification of peace, but not today.

Not today when Samael was so blatantly rude to boarding deities.

He stood, white robs and arms crossed. “Do you know how close you were to starting a war, over nothing? Thanatos was just doing his job!”

Sameal glared back, Micheal watching his fellow angel with shock.

“He is from the underworld,” Samael said.

“So?” Jesus said, staring right back, even if he was a good few feet shorter than the tall angels. “He’s not from Hell and even if he is, you do not start fighting unless I or Micheal say so, is that clear?”

Samael looked away, hands fisted. “His little friend shot me.”

“You deserved it and you’re lucky Apollo didn’t mean actual harm. Now leave, I have to send apologies to them, on your behalf.”

Samael grumbled, turning away sharply and leaving. Micheal frowned, fearing he may be in trouble. Jesus calmed, his posture softening. “You are not in trouble Micheal, although I would like you to trust the other deities more, I cannot force you to. If you see Thanatos again, just say hello. I promise you, he means no harm.”

Micheal bowed. “Thank you, you’re holiness.” He said before leaving the room.

Azrael sighed. “I apologize again for not handling my fellow angels properly.”

“It’s not your job to, Micheal should have been the one to step in and stop it before things escalated. But I’m happy someone did. You did no wrongdoing and are free to go.” Azrael bowed as he left as well.

Jesus sighed, summoning paper and a pen, sitting down at his white desk and writing an apology letter and makeing sure they know no war will come of this and that it was only a bad day.

The next day, when Thanotos was done with his work, he stopped to see Hades, he always made sure to visit as often as possible during the time his queen has left. He knew how lonely it was for Hades.

While Hades poured him a dark coffee, a drink he preferred over wine, a scroll came flying through the window that oversaw the dark canyons and lava-like rivers of the underworld.

The golden, floating scroll floated in front of Thanatos. Hades looked curious as he sat, his own mug of coffee in hand. “You have a letter from Jesus?”

Thanatos frowned, feeling anxious seeing it floating, wondering what might be on it. “Yes, and I’m not sure why.”

Hades sensed the anxiety in his friend. “Open it.” He gave a command, gently.

Thanatos reached out and gently grabbed it, unfurling it with both hands and reading over the golden lettering.

“He’s…apologizing for his angel's behavior. He promises no war will come of Apollo's behavior as it was justified defending his friends.”

Hades gave a small smile. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

Thanatos almost rolled his eyes. “I’m aware. I can’t believe he actually wrote me an apology.”

“Jesus is one of the better ones of that sect. He’s always been nothing but respectful toward others.” Hades said as he sat down on the couch across from his friend.

Thanktos filled the paper back up. “It was very kind of him to do.”

“Do you feel better now?”

Thanatos smiled. “I do. Now that I have peace of mind nothing will come of Apollo's actions.”

“Good. Now relax, as you tell me so often.”

Once upon Ye Olde English heath, as the door to her cottage swung open, Hildegard smelled burning. Her husband’s boot had crossed the threshold, he would expect dinner, and he would not want it to be burned.

Hildegard rushed to the hearth. She grabbed the dangling pot of stew and instantly, agonizingly, the metal seared her palms.

“Zounds!” she cried.

“Woman!” her husband remonstrated.

“Zounds, it hurts!”

“Hold thy foul tongue!” her husband roared. “Thou wilt not blaspheme in my house!” (For zounds, dear reader, derived from God’s wounds, a reference to the crucifixion of Christ, and to employ the torture of one’s Lord and Savior as an epithet was as shocking to a pious old Englishman as the lyrics of NWA would prove to his descendants' erstwhile colonists 400 years after.)

“But it hurts!” Hildegard cried. “Thy stew burneth, and the metal hath proved too hot for my tender hands!”

“Stow thy pitiful excuses!” her husband retorted. “Find thyself a godlier path, or never again look me in the face!”

Hildegard departed. She wept even after she treated her second degree burns at the home of a crone who practiced homeopathic medicine, for Hildegard loved her husband, for some reason, or at least loved having a roof over her head to escape the goddamned English rain. To keep her husband roof husband, she needed aid, so Hildegard set out to a person who could set her on a godly path.

“Woman, why dost thou weep?” the Archbishop of Canterbury asked.

“Forgive me bishop,” Hildegard answered. “I hath displeased my husband.”

“How?”

“With an ill word.”

“What ill word did thee speakest?”

Hildegard hesitated. “I said, Zounds, your bishopness.”

“Jesus,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, “that’s fucking awful word. Why wouldst thou say such a thing?”

“I burned my hands, your bishopness. On a pot. Heaven help me, if I don’t find a safer way to hold a pot, I might blaspheme again, and my husband will disown me. Is there any hope for such a disgraced wench as me?”

“Let us pray.”

And Hildegard and the Archbishop knelt and prayed, and, i dunno, burned frankincense or something, and lo, the Holy Ghost sent them down a dove, which carried in its beak a thickly woven fabric, and they gave thanks to the Lord.

“Almighty God,” asked the Archbishop of Canterbury, “what wouldst You, in Your Infinite Wisdom, have us call this thickly woven fabric with which to hold pots?”

The candles flared, the stones of the cathedral shook, the Archbishop wet himself, and a voice from the heavens boomed, “A potholder.”

And so Hildegard carried the potholder home, and gave knowledge of it unto other women, and prepared many delicious stews without burning her hands, which meant she never again said the unforgiveable zounds, which meant her husband loved her, five times a week whether she were in the mood or not, and she bore many children and had a roof over her head to protect her from the goddamned English rain, and they all lived happilyish ever after until the plague destroyed their bodies and minds.

The End.

"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"

The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."

"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."

The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.

"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "

The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.

"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "

She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.

"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.

"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.

I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.

In one past 50, six writers rise to climb the side closer to 100, each with their signature work, each with their signature heart and mettle. You won't want to miss these minds in their elements. Positively fell in love with each of these pieces.

Here's the link to Prose. Radio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOaO-9KYr6Y

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/LDW

https://www.theprose.com/BurialandUtopia

https://www.theprose.com/nonzerospin

https://www.theprose.com/Erallie

https://www.theprose.com/Mariah

https://www.theprose.com/ModernAntigone

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I never really fully understood sports.

I never watched the Grand Final, or those hideously long test matches.

I didn’t even realise Melbourne was where the Australian Open was played.

I wasn’t in the local basketball team and I’ve never even been to a football match at the MCG.

But for some reason, some deep seated reason, I feel an innate need to like soccer.

Well, I guess it’s not that I “like” soccer so much, I mean I’m still stumped by the notion that one would actively choose to chase a hard leather ball around outdoors in the middle of winter, it’s more that I think I see soccer as the working class migrant sport…

Since I can remember I’ve wanted to be a soccer fan, so much so that I’ve got my chosen Greek League team, Paok, every 4 years I religiously force my dad to watch the entire broadcasting of The World Cup with me, I even spent a decent chunk of my youth holding my place as a member or South Melbourne Soccer club’s HFC Fan Club.

But even given all my efforts, my Deep desires to be a true fan, I’m not exactly sure I actually “like” soccer. Or any sport to be exact.

But I do think I know WHY I feel such a strong connection with a sport that I couldn’t probably careless about.

I come from Greek migrants who came to australia in the 70’s. They came with a dream, a suitcase or two and a poor understanding of Australian language.

They were too poor to play tennis, too ethnic for cricket and I’m pretty sure the shape of the AFL ball, to them, just didn’t make sense.

In Europe, even back when there was usually only one single Tv shared by the whole little Greek village, even back then soccer still managed to find their fields.

So, soon after their ships landed on the old green and gold, many young wog boys and young wog men set search for connection in this foreign land.

They often spoken a broken Greeklish- a pieced together form of English that they’d pick while working their factory jobs or by attempting to serve customers at their fruit shops, so their language skills were not exactly opening doors for them, socially speaking.

And they didn’t exactly have treasure troves of money spare to spend on community building activities.

But, they did have the bodies of fit farm workers and the competitiveness and the team focused loyalty of battling tribes men.

So tennis was out, cricket was out, horses seemed so much more overpriced than the village donkeys they had been used to- so equestrian was out, basketball didn’t seem to figure much into consideration and like I said, the Aussie rules footballs shape made them scratch their heads in befuddlement.

Soccer was familiar, energetic and the cost to play only slightly dearer than the ball it’s self.

It was accessible and it gave them opportunities to branch out their social circle beyond the extended family.

I think the essence of this nostalgia, this sense of linking to my parents youth. My father passing the ball between his Brunswick team mates, my mothers Sunday match afternoons perched on the side lines watching. My uncle’s rare opportunity to share a common ground with him son and our shared ritualistic easter Sunday family match, in the a cobble stone Brunswick lane way behind my grandmothers house.

So, while it is true- I just don’t understand sport, I do “like” soccer, and all it represents for me.

In our big 50, one tenth of that figure is the amount of writers featured on the show, led by Plexiglassfruit, and into two features from Challenges by TheWolfeDen and one by Last, the other four flow behind to push the five up into the waiting horizon. Grab a cold coffee, and sail away on the waters of these brilliant and fractured pages. We love this line-up of talent on the show today.

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6_tHyeVH-A

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/820063/musk-of-life https://www.theprose.com/post/820021/grovater https://www.theprose.com/post/820125

https://www.theprose.com/post/820474/flat https://www.theprose.com/post/820416/the-language-of-leaves

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Have you ever had one of those nights where everything scares you?

When you arrive home, not much later than you have in the past, but this time the distance from your car to the front door seems bigger than before?

The darkness engulfs your front yard.

When you left the house earlier on you strolled past the bushes, the corners, the nooks and crannies without a moments thought, but now they’re no longer just bushes, nooks, crannies, now they are places they might be hiding .

Tonight is one of those nights that you grab your keys and thread each one between each of your fingers and clench your fist- “If I have to hit them then I better do some damage”.

Have you ever had one of those nights where you can hear every single creak around the house? The wind becomes some unknown danger, a person creeping perhaps? A nefarious threat.

Have you ever had one of those nights where shadows take shape and sneak about? Following you closely.

One of those nights that run up your power bill, with every light on in the house?

Doors locked, then locked again. Then locked again just to be safe.

Tonight is one of those nights for me.

One of those nights where I wont sleep a wink Until these deadly shadows that keep stalking me are finally slayed by the morning’s light.