Is it lame that my biggest fear is death? People here are prolific and poetic talking of how they despise oblivion. They use metaphors to explore their fear of truly living or their fear of forgetting.

In Kindergarten, you point to picture cards to describe your fear of spiders, heights, the darkness.

And of course, I'm afraid of those, too.

But it all comes down to hyperventialitng in bed at two am, knowing that if I let mysef fall into my tiredness I will never wake up. And the world is still stretched before me. I'm not ready yet to say goodbye.

Today is a day that lasts on the skin of my memories,

where the sun doesn't set until past nine and blueberry

popsicles leave stains on our flowery smocks.

Better, though, are days that fly by,

when we're too busy laughing to count the minutes

so in a blink it's bedtime, days gone, years gone.

Soon, though, both long days and short days will be gone,

burned from my mind, buried under memories,

under the hours, the seconds, the minutes.

I'll no longer remember the taste of blueberry

cobbler and vanilla ice cream churned by

my grandmother in her peach-colored smocks.

Faded and moth-eaten, stored away are my pretty smocks.

The girl who once wore them is gone,

faded like the dresses, until she was replaced by

some wrinkled old woman with misplaced memories.

But she did make the meanest blueberry

pie, slices gobled by grandchildren in minutes.

Today is a day that will be gone in minutes,

time fraying like the threads in my worn smocks,

molding like an old, forgotten blueberry,

and soon it will all just be gone.

A vanishing act, even from my memories.

I wish I could remember how these days go by.

Time ticks away and my life goes by.

Hours stay with me but lost are the minutes.

Black splotches like drunken stains on my memories,

like the stains on my old pretty smocks.

Does anyone remember these moments or are they gone?

Gobbled up like the fresh ripe blueberry.

My wrinkled hands are stained with a splotch of blueberry,

angry violet lines on the palm, remnants of a reading by

a fortune-teller. But what can she say when my life is gone?

There are no more days, no more hours, no more minutes.

The pink thread has unraveled from my very best smocks.

There will be no more memories.

I find I am gone, and the discovery tastes like a sour blueberry.

Life has unwound my memories, until all days have gone by.

All hours, seconds, minutes, and all that are left are my pretty smocks.

Two Days Before the Ball

Prince Lorenzo knew the law. It was something he had to memorize since he was a child in preparation for his big future and the inevitable inheritance of the kingdom. The law had been set in place for hundreds of years, a way to keep order within the land and keep not only their ways, but their blood, pure. But just because Lorenzo knew the law, did not mean he agreed with it.

His eighteenth birthday loomed ahead of him like a storm cloud jutting off the horizion. In just two days was his birthday ball and every eligible woman in the country was invited and encouraged to attend. For as the ancient decree announced, every royal must marry a commoner, to keep their blood pure and clean. And yet, Lorenzo was not looking forward to meeting the girls that would come in cotton dresses void of jewels. He wanted those in silks and pearls. No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t care what Princess Justina wore, so long as she was by his side. The Ivivalon royal family were invited to the ball, of course, to enjoy the festivities and delight in the pairing that Lorenzo would choose. Some lucky girl that he would have to court until they would be married at twenty-one. He grimaced at the thought. Lorenzo was unsure of what was worse--not having Justina or her watching him get paired off with another.

He was so lost in his foreboding that he didn’t notice the gentle rasping at the door becoming more hurried with each knock until it swung open without invitation. Lorenza jumped to his feet, startled. The intruders were a nervous servant in his humble powdered wig and burnt orange loose collared shirt. Behind him peered the face of someone dressed more ostentatiously--the seamstress, Madame Damiana Tait. Her plump lips curved into a smile when she saw the prince, making Lorenzo grimace. He could hardly see her smile behind all the powder on her face and her fiery red hair was donned into some sort of aristocratic ponytail. Jewels hung about her neck, given even her own cotton dress a sort of glamor above the other common people. She did dress the king, after all.

“So sorry to intrude, His Royal Highness,” the servant ducked his head and wrung his hands. “But Madame Tait said you had an appointment and she could wait no longer.”

Lorenzo sighed and waved them in. Madame Tait pushed past the servant and immediatley started tousling with his long brown curls. He bit back a smile as he saw the shock on the servant’s face at her impropriety. Lorenzo gave him a nod to dismiss him.

“You really want to keep this length for the ball?” Madame Tait pursed her lips. “We could alter the sides--”

“Please, Madame Tait,” Lorenzo held up a hand. “I do not wish to hear the word altar here.”

Damiana was the one person Lorenzo trusted with his secrets. Sure, she dealt in gossip but he knew she’d take his truth to the grave. In fact, it was his very seamstress who had found seculded places for Lorenzo and Justina to mingle in past royal obligations, though it had always come at a price in gold. Gold Lorenzo could easily afford. Heartbreak, though, was an entirely new and costly thing.

Madame Tait frowned, crease lines struggling to crack through her caked-on make-up. “Perhaps his highness will find a respectable lady at the ball. Perhaps she will whisk you away with her beauty.”

Lorenzo looked away, towards the window. He was ever so prone to melancholy these days. “No one is as beautiful as her,” he said bitterly. It was true. Many courtiers had already scripted songs of Justina’s beauty. Golden hair that fell in ringlets below her shoulders, hazel eyes that looked like gems, cheeks that blushed as red as an apple, and curves that put Lorenzo to shame when he thought of them. Some had begun whispering conspiracies on why someone so beautiful had not caught a suitor yet. Some had already begun to suspect them. Lorenzo knew it was better to get this ball over with and cast his affair aside so as not to cause either of their kingdoms disgrace. But the thought of never seeing her--never holding her again--well, that seemed worse than his own kingdom crumpling to the ground.

Damiana had kept talking but Lorenzo didn’t hear her, too busy thinking of Justina’s smile. He looked at his seamstress now as she was pulling powder blue fabrics from her bag.

”...a nice suit will do and you’ll charm the ladies, I am sure of it,” the woman crowed. “I just need to measure you so I can alt--er, adjust the fabrics.”

Lorenzo nodded and bit the inside of his cheek as she stabbed him with her needles.

One Day Before the Ball

The Friday night before Lorenzo's birthay, they were hosting a dinner at the palace. Because the ball was meant for the commoners, the dinner was something the nobles could enjoy. Which meant it was the last night Lorenzo might be able to steal kisses with his beloved princess.

As the host country, Lorenzo and his family, the rulers of the Ophilian Kingdom were seated first at their long glass dining table. Because the ball was in his honor, Lorenzo was seated at the head chair usually meant for the king, where intricate designs of gold swirled across the backrest and velvet cusions padded the seat. It seemed fitting with the outfit Damiana dressed him in: a royal blue fur cloak that made the room too warm, a matching tunic that fell just below his waist, and dark tights that left little to the imagination. Lorenzo tugged at the tunic a bit self-consciously as he joined the seat of honor. He faced the long expanse of table, in between his parents, and braced himself for her entrance.

The king and queen of Ivivalon were the first to be seated of the guests, their lips pursed in sophisticated frowns though their eyes twinkled. They had been the friends of Lorenzo's parents for decades, ever since the two countries made an alliance. As such he knew Justina since they were children, but in recent years, that friendship had bloomed into something deeper.

Lorenzo sucked in a deep breath as Justina entered. Her tight but full dress swept around her, gold lines accentuating her curves against the mauve colors of her house. A matching veil fell from the top of her blonde curls and settled against her soft, pale neck. To complete her attire, Justina tucked an ermine cloak around her, one she would discard once seated. Lorenzo could hardly remember to exhale; she was so beautiful, and even after all these years she could still surprise him with her shy smile and sparkling lapis eyes.

Lorenzo could hardly make it through dinner, trying to make eye contact with Justina while she tactifully avoided his gaze. He knew during the rounds between dinner and dessert when they usually exchanged bawdy humor for entertainment, he'd be able to get her alone in the corrider, where there is a tiny alcove underneath the grand staircase. But, there were seven courses until then. First came the pottage made with leeks and onions, then the wild boar which he had the honor to carve with the gilded knife upon the silver platter. Followed by the salmon and the stuffed peacock and the buttered bread, Lorenzo watched as their parents dabbed their mouths with handkerchiefs and sipped up their stew. He, however, could hardly eat a bite. He fought a stab of guilt for the chefs who prepared his meals as he swirled his spoon through the food but the guilt did little to increase his appetite.

Finally, just when Lorenzo thought he might scream over the pleasentries and politics being exchanged at the table, they decided to break to the parlor before dessert. Justina excused herself first, claiming she had to use the powder room. Lorenzo was not long after her.

In their hidden alcove, Lorenzo embraced Justina even as she stiffened under his arms. He retreated, lost. "What is it, my princess?" he whispered before peppering kisses about her neck. Her skin was soft and intoxicating. She was right in front of him and yet he still yearned to be closer. But, when he reached for her plump lips, she turned away.

"You're to find a wife tomorrow," Justina said. He didn't imagine the hurt in her voice.

Lorenzo scoffed. "Hardly, we shan't be married until the ripe age of tewenty-one."

Justina placed a palm on his chest. Lorenzo wondered if she could feel his heart pounding. "Are we to carry on like this? Stolen kisses in the shadows?" Before Lorenzo could respond, Justina shook her head. "I will not scorn some poor woman, no matter how much I want to."

Justina made to retreat her hand but Lorenzo caught it in his grip. Her palm was warm. "You know if I could make you my wife, I would."

"But you can't." Justina's eyes glanced down towards the shape outlined in his tights, and Lorenzo wasn't sure if he should be flustered or flattered. Instead, he only gripped her hand tighter, pleased when her cheeks flushed like the skin of an apple.

"Maybe we could run away together," Lorenzo pleaded. "Forget the kingdoms. Forget the marriage mandate."

"And dishonor our families? We have responsibilities, Lorenzo."

Even though the rejection should have stung, Lorenzo loved the sound of his name in her mouth. He brushed a tear away from her cheek and she leaned into his palm, eyes fluttering closed.

"I want to be with you," he whispered, his lips against hers, before hungrily embracing her. She was intoxicating and tonight was his last night of drunkeness.

The Night of the Ball

Damiana really came through with his ball costume. Hours before the guests would arrive, she draped rich baby blue cloths over his shoulders until he was cloacked in form fitting tights and billowing trousers tucked over his tunic that had intricate designs of his family sigil. The finishing touch was a fur cloak draped over his shoulders and cascading to the floor behind him. Damiana had turned him towards the long looking glass, eager for his opinion.

In response, Lorenzo raised his eyebrow at her. He couldn't deny that he was exquisitely dressed and any woman of the kingdom would adore the lavishness, but Damiana knew her worth. She never asked him what he thought.

She only shurgged. "I thought I'd give you control over something tonight."

Though her words came from kindness, they only bittered Lorenzo's heart, and now he sat on the throne like an imposter, watching as each woman entered, announced from the doorway. Some glided in, hands poised on the sides of their ballgowns as if they practiced their whole lives for this. Other girls stumbled in apologetically, and blushed when he made eye contact. Really, Lorenzo was just trying to avoid looking at one girl, stood in the corner of the honored guests. Justina looked beautiful that night; she always did. Her golden dress billowed out at the hips and threads of jewels fell like waterfalls down each curve. Her bare neck was powdered white so that one could only see the lapis gemstone in the middle. Her family heirloom, and a reminder that she was not for him.

It glinted from the light of the chandeliers, drawing his eyes away from the young woman who were preening for his attention. Justina's matching eyes met his from across the ballroom and he found himself striding towards her. When he paused in front of her, she curtsied.

"Your highness," she said, her voice tight as if there were too many words waiting to get out. "Shouldn't you be dazzling the woman of Ophilia?"

Lorenzo bowed, jaw tensed. He knew everyone was watching him. He knew he couldn't break protocol and kiss Justina there and then, but oh, he wanted to. "I have alread found the most beautiful woman," Lorenzo responded, voice so low that only Justina could hear.

Justina smiled, and Lorenzo was delighted to see a blush crawl up her neck all the way to her blonde curls. But her smile soon turned to a grimace as she shook her head. Lightly, she touched his arm. "People are watching, Lorenzo. Go dance with one of the other beautiful women."

Lorenzo scowled and bowed. "As you wish, my lady."

He wished spite didn't rule him sometimes, flowing through his blood like anger. For it was spite that drove him to another blonde woman with curls like Justina's, but her cotton dress hung limply about her shoulders and her smile did not dazzle him. Lorenzo danced with the commoner all night, barely learning her name, so focused was he on Justina's eyes following their waltz. He didn't hear his own words when he announced the commoner as his betrothed; the rushing in his ears was too loud.

The only thing he could focus on was how Justina's face fell--a tiny expression change that he did not miss, but one that showed him she had had hope after all. And now it was too late. There was a ring on his finger, but it was not lapis.

When he saw the Siren, his first thought was that she was beautiful. His second thought was that she needed help.

Shadow Sands was deserted by this time of night when the moon cast its pale luminescence across the black sand. Theo was walking barefoot in the shallow of the waves, knowing he was sure to be alone in his thoughts. The water was cold, the tide starting to come in high, sweeping far past his ankles, scattering seashells in its wake. Theo couldn't help but pity the waves for they could never escape their lunar pull. People always spoke of the ocean as strong but the moon controlled the tides. He gritted his teeth. He didn't want to fall into the same trap; better to be the one pulling the strings rather than the puppet.

Perhaps his anger was getting the best of him. Theo knew he'd show them all someday, all the bullies who didn't believe in him. He just had to believe in himself. Idly, Theo washed his hand through the shallow water, grasping a tulip shell in his grip. It was too light in his hand for him to believe it was once a creature's sole protection. "Guess it didn't work out," he laughed bitterly to himself.

That's when he heard her screams. Scream may be too crass a word for the falsetto that pierced his ears. It was a beautiful melody, but it also hurt, like music played too loud too close. Theo covered his ear with his free hand; when he withdrew it, his palm was wet. Blood.

Another wave crashed towards him, violent and ceaseless. Theo shielded his eyes as the salt water sprayed across his whole body. When he opened them, the girl was there, half on the beach, half still in the water. When her tail flipped up, splashing him between her wails, he had to blink again. But it was no hallucination. The tail was the same coral color as the forgotton seashell in his palm.

Her wet blonde hair shielded half her face, but she still looked up at him with amber eyes. "Please," she whispered, voice raw from her high-pitched notes. "Help me."

For a moment, Theo didn't register her words--he was too struck by her beauty. Well, not her beauty exactly. But the grotesque wounds she carried. Whoever had created the beautiful carvings upon her, though was an artist. Half her head was matted with blood, and the mixture of red and yellow created the illusion of rusted cold. Some bit of shrapnel pierced her bare side, but it looked like it was always meant to be there. Like a statue calling a warning to the world.

And her tail. Oh, lord, her tail. When she flapped it up, she shrieked. A combination of art and music that Theo couldn't help but love. The siren's coral tail was split nearly in two, creating a symmetry so perfect.

Theo could hardly breathe. Was this how an artist got his calling? Finally, he crouched in damp sands, no longer caring if his shorts got wet. "I'll help you," he said lowly, in tune with the girl's whimpers. "But I need your voice."

"What?" The girl blubbered, but Theo knew she was in too much pain to question further. Without waiting for a response, she gripped his arm, the nails like talons digging into his flesh. Even his own blood that dewed seemed like a masterpiece. He was nearly euphoric.

"Your voice," Theo repeated and opened his palm to reveal the shell. The siren's eyes widened as he pointed the sharp end towards her chest. Oh, how he could paint portraits of that fear.

As he pierced her heart, the scream that followed was a song that would never end. Not for Theo.

With a tune in his head and a shell in his hand, Theo walked off the beach, intent to pull some strings.

Ugh.

I get that this is an iconic Star Wars quote. Everyone loves Yoda.

But...

People--especially high school science and math teachers--use this quote to justify bullying people into perfection. This quote was on a poster in my physics class and it made me feel like shit when I didn't understand anything. I recalled my honors geometry teacher quoting this and despite all my trying, hiring a tutor and getting extra help during my free period, I still could not do. So with this quote, I learned not to try. I dropped physics three weeks in.

I love Star Wars as much as the average person, but is that really what we want? For people to just give up?

If not, let people say they are trying. Let them try. Let them fail and try again. And all without feeding them this bullshit.

"I remember kissing you. Your lips were chapped, and they felt rough against mine. Not like how I thought a girl's lips should feel. But I liked it. I liked the feeling of you close to me, the heat radiating off us. I remember how you blushed when our lips parted; I want to say it was like roses, but it looked more like a tomato. I laughed which made you blush harder. I remember kissing you, and for your birthday, I'd like to gift a kiss again. ~ Simon."

Sheila ran her thumb over the blue ink lettering of the card that came in the mail. She could almost believe it was for someone else but her name was on the top, clear and unmistakable. Her stomach lurched as she read it again. And again. Sheila was certain she never met a Simon. More haunting, though, was the abscence of feeling against her own lips, as if the ghost of this kiss danced before her, just out of reach.

A knock startled Sheila out of her thoughts and she quickly folded the card and shoved it under her pillow. A second later, her mom pushed through the door without invitation.

"Happy birthday darling!" her mother lilted for the third time that morning. Sheila rolled her eyes. Her mom liked to make birthdays a big deal. When she was a kid, it was nice to be the one that had the best birthday parties with ice cream cake and pinatas. Now that she was sixteen (officially!), all she wanted was a little privacy.

"I know you didn't want a party this year, but I did invite a few of your friends over."

Sheila paled. A 'few' to her mom could mean the school. All she wanted was her best friend Grace to help her decipher the letter hiding beneath her pillow. As if on cue, Grace burst through the open bedroom door, arms wide open for a hug. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY BESTIE!"

Sheila wrapped her arms around Grace. They were like sisters. Grace never even knocked on their front door anymore and Sheila's mom always joked she should have her own key.

"I'll leave you two to get read for the par-er, get-together." Sheila's mom winked and strode out of the room, leaving her door wide open, a habit Sheila always detested.

"What's up?" Grace asked, tilting her head to the side. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Or kissed a ghost," Sheila muttered. She added to Grace's furrowed brows, "close the door."

Once the room was secure, Sheila pulled the now crinkled card from its hiding spot. Grace read it, scowling at first. As her eyes roamed the page though, her brows shot up and to Sheila's surprise, she started laughing.

Sheila crossed her arms. "What?"

"He's such a dork," Grace snorted. "I can't believe he wrote it like this."

Sheila's heart skipped a beat. "You know about this? But I didn't...I've never kissed anyone, Grace. And I don't know a Simon."

Grace smirked. "I think he'll be at your party. And you do know him. Simon's his middle name."

Sheila shook her head in confusion. Middle names were a well-guarded secret at school, though no one quite knew why. It was a tradition that stretched back to the third-grade when people took turns guessing if their middle names were Marie, Nicole, or Lee.

The doorbell went off, chimes reverberating through the walls of the house. Grace pursed her lips. "That might be him."

Sheila gulped as she made her way to the stairs. Grace watched from the bedroom door. Her heart pounded in tune with her feet on the steps. She felt sweat dot her palms as she reached for the front door handle. Her sigh of relief was almost audible when she saw who it was.

"It's just Brent," Sheila called up to Grace, but Grace was no longer lingerng at the top of the stairs. Sheila frowned.

Brenton was Sheila and Grace's dorky counterpart; he made up their trio. The three of them had been best friends since kindergarten. Sometimes, though, Sheila did feel bad when they left Brent out to do more girly stuff.

"We're trying to figure out something very important," Sheila confided to Brent, who was still standing on the porch, trembling. She wondered what was wrong but decided not to bring it up. "Want to come on up?"

"Uh, actually," Brent took one shaky hand and ran it through his spiky blond hair. "Well, first of all, happy birthday."

"Thanks, but why are you acting so weird?"

Brent sucked in a sharp breath. "Did you get my card?"

"Your card? I-" Sheila froze as realization dawned on her. "Brent, what's your middle name?"

He smirked and stuck a hand in his jean pocket. "Simon."

Sheila's mouth fell agape and a rush went through her. She could feel her face prickling and for a minute she thought that Brent even looked kind of cute. "But I--I mean...we never--"

"In my dreams," Brent amended. "I remember kissing you in my dreams."

Sheila tried to reply but the words were stuck in her throat. She felt stupid for standing there, staring, but she was paralyzed. With fear or desire, she didn't know.

Brent cleared his throat. "And I, er, was wondering if you wanted that gift?"

For your birthday, I'd like to gift a kiss again. That's what the card had said. For a moment, Sheila stood there, analyzing Brent. His spiky blond hair made him seem older than he was. His electric blue eyes were open and friendly, and now they were so wide she could see his dilated irises. And his lips...well they did look quite soft.

Brent's shoulders sagged in the awkward silence. "I'm sorry, I should..."

"Wait," Sheila called as he turned away. "Don't leave without giving me that gift."

I gripped the vial tightly around my fist, hoping the sweat on my palms didn't make it slide out of my fingers. "You sure this will work?"

I didn't trust the man's maniacal smile or the glint in his malicious brown eyes. But he was my only hope. "Yes. It'll end the heartache, the pining, those thorny fantasies of yours. All of it will be gone with one sip. Poof!" He popped opened his fist to a magical empty hand. He was waiting and watching me.

I should take it, I thought, looking at the cure before me. My heart felt like it was going to run out of my chest. The potion would fix that, and it would steady my breathing, and take away all thoughts of her. Still, I hesitated. I looked out the window beside me, up into the sky where the full moon cast it's glowing shadow upon us. There were lots of stars out tonight. She once told me her favorite constellation was Andromeda.

My mind raced. I didn't know how this antidote worked. Would it take away all of my memories? Would I no longer remember her glorious smile the first day we met and my heart stopped? Would I no longer recall the night on the roof we shared secrets and sipped champagne? The time I literally took a bullet for her, the metal burrying into my shin, and through the unbearable pain, it was fine because she was okay? And then the other day. When I kissed her and she told me she had someone else. As she said it, there were tears in her eyes. That hurt worse than the bullet.

I gripped the vial tighter, so tight my knuckles turned white. I thought I would do anything to take that pain away. But, I didn't want to lose the connection I had with her. Even when the spark inevitably fizzles to an ember.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, more to myself than the man in front of me. I dropped the vial to the ground, the glass shattering into a hundred pieces, pink liquid oozing from its core.

The mysterious man frowned. "You're a fool," he hissed, and vanished beneath his cloak.

I shrugged into the empty air. "I know. But I love her. I will always love her."

Leyla had a rose garden behind her manor. Every day, after lunch, she would pace the garden, taking in what she considered her babies. Though Leyla had hired gardeners to tend the flowers, it was her who planted and weeded. She was the one who pleaded the buds to grow, and grow they did. The roses grew so big they created a maze, hiding the people who walk the stone path between them. Today, Leyla was tiptoeing through, giving her blessing to each rose. In her mind, she was their flower queen, their rose goddess. She reached out and pricked her finger on their thorns as she stroked them, admiring how powerful her babies had become, to produce the red beads on her white flesh. She did this so there was a prick on each finger, and promised to pet the others when she healed. As she bent to examine the soil, Leyla spotted something peculiar. There was a rose, but it was not like the rest. No, it was different in so many ways. This rose was small, even for a normal flower, leaning towards the ground. Leyla herself wilted as she saw it. But there was something else strange. This flower was not the same shade of red as the blood the thorns produced. This rose was black, a deep coffin black.

"No," Leyla muttered, dropping to her knees, not caring if her gown was spoiled. In the years since she was crowned among the roses, she never once had a flower die on her. Not once. They kept growing, reaching for the clouds, opening up to the sun, and she fed them little drops of her blood to keep them strong. But this baby of hers never had the chance. What was this? A curse? An omen?

Shaking, Leyla reached out to cradle the petals. They were smooth against her skin. There were no thorns on the vine, nothing open up her food source. She gripped tightly onto the stem and pulled until the flower came up from its roots. The minute it broke free, a scream erupted from the manor, and all the red roses turned to rot, falling onto Leyla, cradling her forevermore.

#flashfiction #fiction #shortstory

Every droplet of blood stings on my tounge,

but it tastes sweet. I relish the lick against my teeth

before I even take my sword from its sheath.

Is my blade cold as I thrust it forward? a thrust you're not familiar with

You puke as I twist the silver

Then the last groan, the last sliver

of existence.

You took what was mine.

My whole world in two shallow graves.

You loved me, betrayed me, rumbled in and out like thunder.

But I will be the lightening that puts you six feet under.

While your soul drips from your mouth, I press mine to yours.

Goodbye, to the last thing I loved.

While I am not a teenager, I'm closer to the younger side of the population (I'm 23) and I agree that certain worldviews need to change. Some beliefs of the older generation drives me crazy. I want a world where people are more accepting of each other, even if that sounds cliche and unattainable. I want people to love each other regardless of sex, gender, race, sexuality, ethnicity, age, ability, religion, etc. I want the world to be more open minded in regards to things like sex and alcohol. I want men and women to be ablw to be friends without people assuming sexual overtones. I want a more economically secure world for everyone--meaning everyone has access to food, shelter, and healthcare--even if that raises taxes, even if that means I'm a socialist. I want women to have freedom. I want immigrants to have freedom. I want mental illness to be taken seriously. I want art to be appreciated. I want violence to decrease, even if that means weapon control. I want the environment, and especially cute animals (they all are cute), to be treasured. I want people to know how to read an article--the date, the publisher, the journal, the author--so they know they are getting the best information and not sharing something that causes widespread fear and falsity.

All of my points stems from a place of acceptance, empathy, and open-mindedness. When we can momentarily put our biases aside to listen to the other, I think we can truly understand each other and enact legislations that are best for everyone.

But who knows what will happen, right?