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.

I listen to the silence that echoes

I hear a leaf rustle in the wind

walking a path I know not where it goes.

On silent wings a bird flies quick then slows

red feathers to the sky ascend

I listen to the silence that echoes.

Green-leafed branches entwine to form windows

brief glimpses of blue that does not end

Walking a path I know not where it goes.

Around me everywhere I see shadows

Fauna who with the dark will to blend

I listen to the silence that echoes.

Of nature’s beauty poems I compose

Wishing I could share them with a friend

Walking a path I know not where it goes.

I find brief respite from the constant throes

of suffering life towards me does send

I listen to the silence that echoes

Walking a path I know not where it goes.

Dear Mariah,

I will contact you as soon as my account is remedied.

Hopefully ere long.

I haven't been able to comment,

or reply to messages,

or to notifications,

for a long time.

That's why you haven't heard from me.

TheProse is working on it.

And God bless them.

I have missed you.

With love,

formerly @schatz; now @Petunia

There's a lot of baggage behind the idea of forgiveness. If you're to believe the many Oprahisms, forgiveness is universally healing. Well, that's a mile high pile of horse shit. Let the punishment fit the crime.

Granting forgiveness should only be done when the person in question is truly sorry, the wrong was done without malice, and lastly, when the offender is going to prove themselves worthy of forgiveness by striving to never commit the offense again. Truly evil acts don't deserve forgiveness. Instead of offering undeserved forgiveness, the wronged party should strive to understand what happened, mourn the loss, and commit themselves to making sure that others don't suffer from the same wrong inflicted on them.

I'm sure many of the Nazis at the Nuremberg Trials begged for forgiveness as they faced justice. Of course, many would argue that they were following orders. However, participating in the systematic murdering of 7 million plus innocent men, women, and children doesn't deserve forgiveness. It deserves a noose. Forgiveness is born of compassion. Where the FUCK was the Nazis compassion when they turned on the gas chambers, opened fire on unarmed people, and stacked the bodies of human beings like cord wood in the concentration camp ovens? True compassion is saying, "No" to the command to butcher human beings. I'd rather recognize the innocent humanity of others and take a bullet than turn the knob on the gas that killed innocent people who were promised a shower. This level of evil goes beyond any reasonable expectation for forgiveness. All any victim can do is honor their dead and fight to make sure that this never happens again. One can accept reality and heal without offering forgiveness to those who don't deserve it.

My wife would say that my views on forgiveness were born from my childhood. My parents asked for forgiveness for exposing me to drugs, poverty, physical, emotional, and psychological abuse. The problem is that there's always a, "But" thrown in providing them with a get out of the consequences of irresponsibility free card. Adults have a choice, children don't. My mom suffered as a child from abuse and mental illness. That didn't give her license to have children she would then neglect, fail to take care of, and expose to abuse. There is no excuse for an adult to inflict harm or allow harm to be inflicted on their children. None. So, both of my parents have been told that they're not forgiven. However, I have accepted their fatal flaws and refuse to let their failures as human beings to permanently color my life beyond my childhood. Sorry, not sorry they're not forgiven. You reap what you fucking sow. Needless to say, warm, fuzzy Hallmark moments don't happen for me and my parents.

As a substance abuse counselor I saw a lot of guys who were truly sorry and committed to leaving addiction and all the hurt that goes with it behind them. Many of these guys would achieve solid recovery. However, sometimes the damage done to their family relationships was irreparable. Changed or not, their family was done with them. Ultimately, the recovering addict's attempt to make amends didn't have to be accepted by those the addicts had wronged in their addiction. As hard as it is this was, it was a possibility they had to face. A big part of my job was helping them to see that their loved ones have the right to deal with the wounds the addict's addiction caused the best they can in the way that works for them. If that meant a forever closed door, so be it. The addict could quietly make amends by leading the best life they can in recovery while helping other addicts avoid the permanent loss of their families.

Forgiveness is a precious gift that not everyone deserves to receive. True evil is unforgivable and sometimes no amount of forgiveness can heal wounds. I would argue that we shouldn't strive to forgive everyone, just those whose actions are born of one human mistake. Even the drunk driver whose one mistake kills an innocent might be worthy of forgiveness, but it's not for them to ask for or assume that it'll be granted. All they can do is never repeat the wrong. The consequences of ignored human frailty and irresponsibility when visited on innocents who don't have a say in the matter are just as unforgivable as a cold blooded murder. In short, no one should weigh themselves down with the priestly obligation to blindly offer forgiveness for any and all sins that are confessed to them. In fact, many wrongs don't deserve forgiveness, they deserve Old Testament level wrath. Now, if I could just figure out the whole fire and brimstone thing before the next family reunion.

Sleep comes easily on two feet,

no greetings or formalities,

like a nightwalker in the street;

To many shuteyes counting sheep

...in familiar realities...

Sleep comes easily on two feet.

Tail in hand, Sleep hounds, with entreat

of enlightened brutalities,

on opposite sides of the street;

Understanding we've earned our meet

in shortage, and totality.

Sleep comes easily on two feet:

Slips pistol-like from twilight's sheath.

Sleep aims at our idolatries;

Light and shadow, stalking the street.

Moon rise, a copper, on the beat

---Somnambulists 'cross all cities!

sure, Sleep comes easy, on two feet

like a nightwalker in the street.

My Dear Ex-Manager,

You

fucking

cunt.

I don't know where to begin. Maybe I'll start by saying that my lovely wife first called you a cunt after hearing my stories. And you're the one person she allows me to call a cunt. I can just start talking about "that fucking cunt" and she'll know it's you of whom I speak.

Oh, you fucking cunt. Remember the Employee Appreciation Lunch, when all the executives stood up and said how much they appreciate the hard work we employees do. And then you, a manager, stood up for 30 minutes and talked about YOURSELF and how hard YOU work. Such a cunt!

Or after that first round of layoffs, in your office, telling me and what's-his-name that if you wanted, you could have everyone fired. That that's how powerful you are. Fucking cunt.

Remember how you cut down my idea for your stupid-ass project, and even told coworkers behind my back that I wasn't realistic. Then, two weeks later, you used the same idea and took credit for it. Cunt!

And why would you talk bad about one of my coworkers and tell me she's having marital problems? Were you trying to out-cunt yourself?

I could go on and on. Remember when you told a coworker, "mishmash doesn't believe in anything!" Didn't you know that would get back to me? You fucking cunt. I actually took it as a compliment. That I was one of the few to stand up to your bullshit.

Of course it all came back to bite me in another one of those many layoffs, when it was my time. I've got to admit I appreciated that you threw a few perks my way at the end, and even expressed regret that you had to let me go. So thanks for that. I guess even you can't be a perfect cunt all the time.

Sincerely,

mishmash

the most scary things

are usually the most ordinary

being left behind

is one of my most treasured monsters

- Eleonore

I stand there for a longer while, my body so stiff and tight that it resembles a bizarre granite sculpture, my eyes staring at the setting sun until the sky outside the window turns completely dark, heavy clouds bringing rain that falls down to the hectic, busy streets, while my mind wanders around two unexpected conversations I had. My eyebrows furrow tightly together at the fact that I could still be stunned by the things happening in my life. It seemed I had seen it all, stepping on the shaky grounds of grief and supernatural elements blending so deeply into my existence. And yet the ordinary events tended to still catch me off guard. I think as Charlie's voice still echoes in my head, his gentle stare on me as he shared the news with me just the day before. I have been so occupied with all the craziness that the mundane facts and situations started to acquire a magical ability to blur out from my mind. I gaze at the street below, my eyes following the reckless people who decided to engage the chill of the evening that has become way too eager to earn the Winter title before the calendar could - and groan slightly as my brain replays the conversations I had never planned to have.

With everything going on, I forgot to tell you before. You will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Wilson is doing better, and her doctor officially signed her out yesterday. With her age and physical state, she will still need help getting around, but I also know the daughter already made arrangements for a part-time home nurse who will be checking up on her, assisting her with anything she needs, and making sure she regularly eats and gets stronger.

I remember blinking several times before I could utter any reasonable response, watching his hands gesture with enthusiasm by the cafeteria table as he reported the hospital newsletter to me.

She left?

My question seemed a bit hollow as something tightened in my chest, invisible weights making me sink deeper into the red plastic chair I was sitting on.

She was signed out because she's doing better.

Charlie corrected me - slowly, patiently, and then frowned, hearing the tones in my voice.

I thought you would be happy for her.

I felt bad for my reaction. I felt bad for still having traces of abandoned issues even after all these years; feeling as if once again I was somehow left behind. It didn't make any sense to react like that, but it was stronger than me. I got so used to Clair being around, safely in the same room and the same bed that her sudden absence caused a small gap in my body, locating itself like several sharp splinters between my ribs, and causing me to shift uncomfortably in the chair. Once again, you got attached, silly girl. I sighed and trambled a bit, frustrated, feeling like a spoiled child - a child who was over-sensitive to the world around her in so, so many ways. I swallowed nervously but managed to put myself together, my embarrassment perspiring through my skin like unwanted sweat.

No, I am happy. Trust me, I am.

Your face seems to contradict your words.

I grimaced slightly, hoping he didn't notice.

Charlie, I'm a complicated paradox, no point in looking too deeply into that pit of despair.

Nora.

Just one word and I heard all the questions he had in his head, and it had nothing to do with my random abilities that appeared whenever they wanted to - besides, my questionable "powers" didn't seem to penetrate his serious-minded, thick skull. Not that it actually worked on command at any time, it was more a case of someone wanting to share thoughts or feelings with me. Well, I didn't think anyone really realized that they left an open door for me; it usually just felt like tuning into a piracy radio station when my antenna hit the right wavelength, most times by pure accident. I remember getting lost in all those speculations until being abruptly brought back when I finally noticed Charlie's stare losing its tolerance for the extended silence.

You just caught me off guard. I expected her to still be in her room, in her bed.

He looked at me as if scanning me from top to bottom, his expression turning surprised at first, and then softening a bit.

It's because she didn't say goodbye.

It wasn't really a question, more of a statement, and my face very quickly turned into unflattering shades of crimson. I didn't say anything in response. What was there really to say?

It's okay to miss someone. But the important thing is that she's doing better and that Connie and Clair's granddaughter could take her home.

I nodded, knowing that he was right.

She left you something before they left.

He said unexpectedly and pulled something from the front pocket of his beige scrubs. He put a small, yellowed envelope with my name elegantly handwritten on it on the table between us. I thought of Clair's shaky hands and felt that her daughter must have written it for her. With some hesitation, I reached for the envelope, sliding it slowly towards me, feeling a certain weight to it that I was not expecting. I eyed Charlie suspiciously for a moment and then sighed, opening the little rectangle, feeling it was time to finally act like an adult. My eyes grew wider as I fished out a delicate round shape; it was gold and marked with tiny vines and roses on the outside, while the inside held a miniature sign on its surface that took up the entire space of the ring. I narrowed my eyebrows and brought the ring closer to my face until the words came into focus. "May we always bloom for each other under the Autumn sun.". I stared in disbelief at the object in my hand, as if it could burn a hole in my skin.

Her wedding ring??

Even though my voice was barely a croaked whisper, it seemed to bounce off all the walls as if I had screamed the question. Charlie pursed his lips as if holding back a grin and then pointed to the envelope. I watched him without understanding what he meant, until he made a circle gesture, prompting me to turn it around. I did what I was told and gazed at an old-fashioned, more messy, and slightly uneven handwriting.

"Too wide now for my bony fingers anyhow. It will have better use on your hand."

I played around with the ring, shifting it in every direction and watching as the light cascaded beautifully against its surface, staring at it with growing disbelief.

I don't understand. Why would she give this to me, Charlie? Even if the ring was too loose for her fingers, and for some bizarre reason she no longer felt the need to wear it it was her daughter that should be wearing it. Or her grandaughter, or anyone from the family... anyone but me.

He looked at me as if searching for something.

But it's you that she wanted to gifted to.

I shook my head repeatedly gazing at the ring. And then my stare shifted to my name on the envelope making me even more confused as a realization hit me over the head.

And Conne accepted the idea. They both did.

Slowly, I looked up at Charlie, and he nodded calmly.

It's what they decided, and that's that. "No returns, I'm afraid." Connie's words, not mine.

He smiled at me gently, and I caved in, slouching against the chair and feeling that there was no more reason to fight against the current. I opened my hand carefully and slid it on the second finger of the left hand; it fitted perfectly. I inhaled deeper, knowing exactly and painfully what the golden band represented, and quickly moved it to my other hand.

Why would she do it, though?

My eyes met Charlie, and he shrugged.

Sometimes, there is no reason to dig too deeply, Nora. Just like you said before.

His eyes stayed on me for a while, and then he reached for my hand and took it, his thumb sliding against the ring.

You opened your heart to her, and so did she. And this is her stating it.

I felt emotions well up in me, feelings like slushing waves moving against my stormy core, my gaze fogging up as tears quickly filled my eyes. I took away my hand from his and stared at the golden band as if it held all the answers I was searching for.

You really think so?

I don't think it. I know it. And because they predicted your responses, Connie left their home phone number. Would you like it?

He unblocked his phone and after a few seconds, showed me the number on the screen. I grabbed his phone without asking and quickly stood up.

I need a moment.

He nodded, not surprised, and returned to his meal, leaving me to my own doings. I walked away to the big windows that occupied the entire south wall of the cafeteria and stared outside at nature's grey, ugly weather manifest while the ringing sounds filled my ears - tapping my foot as the waiting time seemed to outstretch mercilessly.

The current Wilson and O'Reley residence. How can I help?

An amused, young voice answered, and even though I never met her personally, I knew exactly who it was.

Ah yes... yes. Is Connie around? I mean, Mrs. O'Reley. Sorry.

May I ask who this is?

Eleonore. She knows me from the hospital.

Oh, so you're the tribute volunteer who brought my grandmother back to the land of living, huh?

It seems so. Yes.

I said in my standard awkward way, a tone that usually appeared when I didn't have an actual idea what my game plan was. Cheers to being hot-headed and irrational.

Well, in that case, she just might be around for you. We give miracle workers extra points in this family.

She stated in a still amused tone, but I could tell there were additional emotions and unconcealed gratitude in her voice. I could almost feel the warm energy flowing from her and into my body. It was both a comforting and a surreal feeling to experience. After a moment of silence on the line, I heard a muffled cacophony of shouted questions and answers that led to a low clicking sound.

Eleonore, dear. It's good to hear from you.

Connie sounded slightly out of breath as if she was rushing through many flights of stairs and it made me wonder how big their house actually was.

Same here.

I might not have time today for pleasantries as I'm busy in the kitchen, so let's cut to the chase.

A smile formed on my lips as I heard her tones, making me realize how she and her daughter were more alike than they cared to admit.

Yes, ma'am.

I answered shortly with a smile, saluting her in my mind.

I'm guessing it's about the ring and possible arguments about where it belongs. No need, it's right where it's supposed to be. On your surprisingly pale yet very pretty hand. End of discussion.

I figured as much. But Connie... are you sure? I mean, it's an important family heirloom. Wouldn't it be better for one of you?

First of all, I already have my father's ring.

She started, and suddenly, out of nowhere a memory of her in the hospital struck me, an image of her playing around with a delicate golden necklace with a round, thick band and a tiny cross filling my mind.

But...

And eventually, it will be my daughter's as well. There, problem solved. Am I making myself clear enough?

Her tone was strict and not to be disputed with. I took a deeper breath and said with a resigned tone, knowing I would be beaten and disarmed whatever argument I would use.

Crystal.

Good, perfection. Now, I'm guessing that the other reason for your call is that you missed my mother, the terrorist. A retired one, but still active in her position.

Yes, that as well.

Well, I'm happy to report that for a woman her age she is doing a bit better every single day. We still have our ups and downs but she is definitely more vocal about her needs and demands. I think it's what keeps her going: her well-equipped military qualities. Thankfully, you were never fooled by her delicate exterior and know that our family has their personal general to our display. Not that we have any choice in the matter.

Connie's gentle chuckles carried to my ears, and I was stunned at how much she had changed since I met her, never before being a witness to such a flow of words from her.

But she's a good general to be around.

I could feel softness fill me up as the words left my mouth, love, and care moving around under my skin and reaching the deepest part of my being. And I knew that Connie heard it too.

She loves you, Eleonore. I do not doubt it.

I could hear her taking a bigger breath, her strong emotions mixing with mine into one combined organism, making me lean my forehead against the cafeteria window for some support, my fingertips leaving prints on the glass, my hand trembling as the cool surface seemed to penetrate my skin right to the bone.

And you have saved her in more ways than one. You saved our family when we needed it the most.

I didn't do much. I just read to her and... listened to the silent grief when she couldn't find words.

I couldn't tell her that I listened to her mother's memories as if they were scenes in a movie. I couldn't tell her that I took her pain in the best way that I could and cradled it until its weight was smaller, and the edges of her sorrow less sharp before I placed it delicately back into her frail arms, repeating it every time I set by her bedside or held her hand. I didn't even realize I was doing it until the ache I felt from her became less heavy, less suffocating. I think that cradling her sorrow and pain helped me deal a bit with my own, healing things in me that I never dared to touch myself. We helped each other in more ways than I could count. And I knew deep down that she brought me strength too. It never ceased to amaze me how two bruised and broken souls could bring light into each other's lives that they lacked on their own.

That was enough. That was enough for her to come back and let us in again after being closed off for so long. We finally got her back.

Connie said in a hushed, slightly muffled voice, and I felt all the unspoken words and feelings that hid underneath, random tiny flashes of visions filling my mind as if delicate butterflies with golden fluttering wings. Memories. Most of them appeared and quickly vanished before I could even fully register them but one lingered long enough for me to hold it gently in my hands. A little girl with fair hair holding her mother's hand as a tall man came back home from work - the soft light of the golden hour surrounding him in amber hues of the setting sun as he walked towards them... I only saw the outlines of his silhouette but I knew him. I knew them all. At that moment waves of love cascaded down my entire body, circulating in my bloodstream and nestled in my chest, filling it with a kind of warmth that every one of us yearns for. I wrapped my free arm around my waist getting lost in the comfort of the memory, and feeling teardrops fall down my cheeks and mark the cool glass.

I know how much you missed her when she closed up on everyone. And I know that for a while it felt like you lost them both. But you didn't.

I said softly, barely stopping myself from speaking the words that filled my heart, blooming like rich luscious vines between my ribs. She loves you, and so does he, I see it in the way he looked at you when he saw your face every time he came back home. That kind of love, it swells up in you, the kind of love that makes you feel safe, so safe that nothing could ever harm you. I felt the words waiting to flow out of me like a rushing river but I held it all in. Almost.

I feel how much Clair loved your father, and there were times when I felt it so strongly that I could nearly touch the love that came from him even though I never had the privilege to meet him in person. But that love... I feel it around you too as if it never left. As if he's still keeping you safe.

A heavy silence fell down between us and instantly I felt angry with myself for not shutting up in time.

I'm sorry, Connie. I shouldn't have said that. Sometimes I just seem to sense more than I should. I can't explain it. Just ignore me and blame it on temporary insanity.

No...

Connie choked out and I shrunk a bit inside of myself feeling all of her emotions ran over me like stampeding wild horses, dust settling everywhere, covering my hair, my clothes, my lungs. Digging me deep into the ground beneath me.

No... no. Thank you. I don't know how you could have possibly known all of that, FELT all of that but... But thank you, Eleonore. Just... thank you.

She broke off and I could hear her cry, sobbing softly into the receiver, holding back the sound of it as much as she could as if not wanting to worry her daughter or anyone else in the house. I felt the blend of pain and relief cascade out of her, washing over the wounds that were left there after her father was gone. It felt almost as if my words brought him closer to her again, as if at that moment he had joined her for one more warm embrace. And I saw it in my mind. I saw her surrendering into that embrace, I watched her come back home after a very long time. And it wasn't until I felt Charlie's gentle and supporting hand on my shoulder and gazed at my own reflection in the window that I realized it wasn't just Connie's sobs on the other side of the line that I was hearing. No, they were mine as well, streaking down my face in a rushing, overwhelmed way. I didn't turn back to him, just watched his eyes in the glass, as he listened patiently to both my cries and Connie's in my ear, letting us both decompress whatever it was that we had to go through. And we did. Eventually, we said our gentle goodbyes, smiling at the incredible relief that we both felt afterward.

I leaned into Charlie and he let myself sink into him until I found my footing again, until I was once again made of one body and one beating heart, and not two.

_ _ _ _ _

Suddenly, something catches my attention, causing me to return to the present. I stir a bit as the noises of the rain mix with new sounds; a faint vibration of a child's soft snores. I look back at Emily's little body bundled up in a few blankets on a big, comfy sofa, a ridiculous amount of stuffed animals guarding her safety as she sleeps; the blue lights of the TV coloring her delicate, relaxed features. Mmm, babysitting duties while her mother is at a local art gallery, showcasing her newest paintings - rich and wild in color, luscious as one was touching and sinking into a rain forest. Hypnotizing in its power. I was never too aware of how to pursue and take in art in the "right way" but her's spoke to me, it always has and that hasn't changed. My admiration for my best friend and her talents has only grown over the years that I've known her.

I smile and sit down on the sofa next to Emily's petit form, my fingers moving gently through her blond, messy locks that remind me so much of Cara's hair, and gaze at her with wonder. If only I was allowed such rest, such peace - I think and yawn loudly, rubbing my eyes and trying to remember when was the last time I slept more than two hours in a row. The answer doesn't come, too difficult to drag out of the exhausted, dark corners of my mind. Slowly, I shift and roll into a ball next to the little warm body that seemed to always have a soothing effect on me. My own dosage of morphine that did not require stealing or lies. Pure, not yet stained energy that promised to hold back the demons, to restrict the monsters from under the bed even if just for now.

___________________________

This story has proven to be a much longer journey than I have ever anticipated but I still love it every step of the way. Even if often the ride is bumpy and frustrating, it is also extremely rewarding and has let me grow alongside with it. Every time one of my characters evolves and heals, so do I, and I am very grateful for that - even when those characters don't listen to me the way I would like, instead just leave me to follow them and write down their many hilarious, deeply moving and often very bizarre conversations.

So for everyone who still sticks around and checks up on Nora and Charlie, from time to time, THANK YOU, it drives me forward and guides me closer to the finish line, making sure that everything they have to say will be put on paper, and one day will physically earn a place on bookshelves in your homes *the power of manifestation intensifies* :)

i heard we should stop writing our dreams

but i dream we’re all safe wrapped in arms

all safe behind plastic curtain

all mint condition

i dreamt the way a nose crinkles

the way the night was always shorter

when

you looked from the angle of the day

we say the word snug in a whisper

i become tachycardia

watch the oxygen leak

your eyes glint white in moonlight

i dreamt the taste of your teeth

dreamt your mouth tripping over

the word goodnight to settle on

goddamn we’re running out of time

i dreamt the exit with a sigh

woke to sunday on high

woke to midnight at the table outside

dreamt the way your tongue slipped in and out

of hazy goodbyes

*excerpt from my forthcoming book lamb/&/slaughter (Fifth Wheel Press 2024)

[Author's note: Due to the nature of this story, there are many instances of stylized font types, SFX, special symbols, formats, speech bubbles, and images that appear all throughout the novel so I included some examples of what they might look like as footnotes that can be referred to at the bottom of the page. Hope you enjoy >:D]

Track 01

I stood still and watched the movie play out. There was no sound but I heard it, no colours but my mind painted them—between the lines, like a colour-by-number film, except the frameworks were built off imagination and the numbers were composed by distraction.

The theatre had no seats, or popcorn, or friends to laugh with, but it was there, and I was a participant, snared to the spot with awe on my face, blind to the shadows that surrounded the screen.

The movie took place in a city, kinda like Ezveria—my city—except cooler, less real and less mean, with better graphics and kinder actors. Their script was made up of an algorithm of movie-memories jig-sawed together in one awesome concoction. The genre: a kickass, action-packed, flying-car adventure, with robots and superheroes and epic fight scenes in the sky.

To a killer soundtrack, and a killer shot worthy of a best picture award, the main hero makes their entrance, skidding their car vertically along the side of a skyscraper. The camera captures an exhilarating angle of the actor’s boot—only the boot—as they step out of the vehicle and stand sideways against gravity upon the building’s glassy face. The shot crawls slowly upwards, rotating around the girl wearing the space-goddess equivalent of a leather jacket. She poses for a moment and then rips off her sunglasses to reveal:

Zetta; Defender of the Cosmos

The words appear in bold comic book font beside her. The kind of typestyle that can only be read by one of those narrator voices made for movie trailers.

In a world—yeah, like that—of slayers and sonatas, one lone warrior embarks on yet another quest to conquer the omniverse. Zetta the indomitable and her gravity-defying Corvetta take the stage.

She flips her scarlet scarf over her galactic-armored shoulders and it whips in the wind with her equally long brown hair.

-Swip- [*1]

She closes her car door as gracefully as closing a book, then stares the city down. The spirits of her enemies rise and collect into a wonky cloud of purple smog with a diabolical face fit for a ghost-type Bokémon. She locks eyes with the creature and, in the quiet of the elevated air, like the moment of tranquility before a showdown between outlaws, she gathers her power and utters her best one-liner:

“Ack! Sorry!” I’d accidentally bumped into some guy who looked like he really could’ve been an outlaw. His persona reeked of intimidation. I thought I’d been standing still but it turned out I’d been walking, probably to avoid the service counter, my head hundreds of stories in the clouds.

[Enter here the SFX for embarrassment]

I dodged eye-contact as I passed him, but felt the man’s glare anyway. There were too many people here, too many things to look at and listen to… like this nice vinyl flooring for example. I kicked at it, as if I were kicking a pebble.

Pretty sure I was the pebble in this picture.

I pinched the Rezu-chip in my hoodie pocket and bit the inside of my lip, watching everyone’s footsteps rain by.

I approached stairs I hadn’t seen until they reached my feet and took them down, its steps were shallow and wide enough to pass as a ramp and its surface had the colourfully reflective gleam of a bubble. There were too many colours, too many swirls of silhouettes and wonky motions, and my head spun with them as my feet led me to the main foyer; a huge circular space with many foyer-like things I couldn’t look at for long. Stuff like holo signs and modern art displays, and people. Courage slowly drained from my shoulders as if each shoe that passed were stepping over me.

A moment of respite appeared in the form of an empty chair facing a window.

I slumped into it. Took some breaths. Calmed some downs. Crowd sounds rose behind, but I pinned my attention to the window in front, which looked out on a cute, humanless, indoor-outdoor courtyard. A pretend path led to a circle of rocks, but there was no door to get in—or out?—there. Sprouting from the rocks was the giant four-leaf clover that umbrellaed over the entire community centre. Klover Community Centre, to name names. The clover looked like it was made out of the stuff used by 3D-printers, and I think it lit up at night too.

A message blocked my view of the clover for a moment. I frowned. Of course its ad-glass, of course. I stretched out my legs, reaching out to the two-story tall glass wall that angled back a third story, and swiped my sneaker across the headline about yesterday’s blackout. Once: and the news display slid to propaganda from the chief of police, and twice: into oblivion, leaving me to judge my reflection.

Not much of a Zetta, am I?My hair was waaay shorter than hers, kinking out at my jawline. I wasn’t as tall or stylish, and I could barely ever make eye contact with anyone, much less my enemies. I didn’t even have a license.

The only similarity was our scarves. Both red, both long. One fluttered in the wind; the other flopped over my lap whenever I threw it upwards.

The scarf slumped to my lap for a third time before I slapped my cheeks.

“Get it together, Rei. You’re strong. You’re strong.” I held the little black square labeled ‘Reizetta Zykophona’s Rezu #2’ in front of my nose with both hands. The ‘2’ represented my second chance at nailing a job. Even though, technically, this was my 6th Rezu-chip—I’d lost numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5, but then found #2 in my sock drawer last night. And technically, this was more like my umpteenth attempt than my second chance, but, I mean, whatever. Details.

I slipped the chip back into my front pocket and stood up. Here’s how this was gonna go: I was going to hand them my Rezu, they’d scan me into the server, then judge my character, rate me as averagely employable, interview me, I’d answer the questions all professional-like, then obtain the job, and work the job, and live monetarily ever after.

“You got this!” I held my fists by my sides, clenching triumph in each palm before turning around. It was almost a 180 turn, until it was a 360.

Okay, maybe if I closed my eyes for that first step, I could trick my brain into thinking I was somewhere else and it wouldn’t seem so scary.

Boof [*2]

“Ack, sorry!” My shut-eye tactic hadn’t gotten me very far. I bumped into some other guy wearing the exact same black shirt the first man had been wearing. I held my nose and squinted, and my gaze fell to the object on the stranger’s waist. Confusion struck me as I peeked up at his face. He had blond-brown hair braided back into a dual-coloured ponytail, and—even though he didn’t look like a police officer—there was a sword strapped to his hip.

He retracted his hand from a Silvertooth earpiece and stared down at me.

~ ~ ~ [*3]

So, uh… remember when I was going about my day with a Rezu-chip in hand, and hopes and dreams and all that fun stuff?

Well, yeah, that wasn’t the case anymore.

The man with the different shades of braids now stood with a drawn sword and a snarl over the many frightened civilians of Klover Community Centre. His bluish-grey blade weaved threateningly beside his march, like the serpentine hand of a nurse before an injection. Beyond him, a ring of lackeys stood two metres apart in matching black shirts and fancy utility belts, trapping us in a tight huddle with our backs to Klover’s encased clover. They wore blank expressions behind bandana masks, and had steel bows planked across their thighs.

Radicals.

I knelt smack-dab in the front row, forced into submission by the shouts of fellow marks and swordsmen before I knew what was going on. Sprawled out behind were the other helpless individuals who’d been going about their morning.

Job hunting. Yep, that’s how I’d started this day. I must have been the only person in all of Ezveria who could screw up the task bad enough to become the hunted.

Whimpers and muffled sobs harmonized from behind. I’d ignored their sounds before but not anymore. Their fear was infectious. Whether or not that fear had seeped into my gaze, I didn’t know. The only sure feeling I felt was a blaze of hatred bubbling inside me, directed at the man who’d coordinated the attack. The man who was pacing in a U-shaped path that passed my place in the huddle more than any other.

Each clacking step left me simmering. A few more seconds or a few more paces might have made me commit to an idea stupid enough to threaten the life of every hostage in this room. But sitting here, doing nothing? I couldn’t handle that. My timidness came with the kind of flaw that would get you fired umpteen-too-many times: provoke me, and I’d forget who I was.

The ringleader clicked a button on his belt and spoke into his earpiece in a hard, cold voice. “Is this some kind of joke? What have I asked of you, officers? The release of my comrades, right? And I told you I’d know if you were screwing me over, right?”

Garbage. This man is a waste of a human being.

His chuckle lasted a beat. “That’s not what my associate said. From what I heard, only a few holo projections of our troops were set free. Were you trying to dupe us, officer? Hmm? Because, if you didn’t care so much about the differences between a real person and a figmentation, then I could start sending out a few ghosts of our own.”

Someone screamed. I flinched. The ringleader made a hand gesture and an arrow zipped over our heads. A wave of cries followed it. I remained in place, silent, stunned maybe, or mentally gone.

“Quiet!” he shouted.

I couldn’t turn around. My body refused to find out where the arrow had lodged.

His tone changed when he spoke back into his earpiece. It was darker, more sinister. Those with better seating wouldn’t have heard it: “If you want even one of these hostages to survive, you’ll do as I say. I’ve done crueler things for your government than cause 50 casualties, give or take.”

He clicked his belt again and swung his blade up to rest on his shoulder.

“Listen up, dimwits. Your corrupted cops don’t seem to care about you enough to follow simple instructions, so some of you might have to start dying in a few minutes. Take your picks.”

My hand coiled around my scarf, but I remained otherwise motionless. These scum didn’t deserve my tears, or the sight of my fear. Monsters like these didn’t need any more feelings of triumph.

There wasn’t a single hero from a single film who would have allowed this kind of injustice, and (as a fan) I didn’t want to either.

“You have a fierce look in your eye there, little lady.”

If it were Zetta here, instead of me, she would have saved everyone by now. She would’ve whipped out her compact mirror, chucked it in the air like a ninja star, had it shapeshifted into its vehicular state and run over all her foes using her telekinetic power. All her enemies would’ve KAPOWed or FWUMPed out of the way and humanity would have been safe once again.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about doing something heroic?”

But I wasn’t Zetta. I didn’t own a weapon, and this was my first hostage-taking scene ever. Crazy as it was, those weren’t uncommon in Ezverian society. Radical demonstrations of every kind were becoming the norm, these days. Every other month it seemed like a mall or a school or some business company was being attacked or ransacked in the name of justice, or as a call to freedom, or a noisy request for minimum wage.

Kindred Spritz, Poison Donation, Adeptus Thread, Vanditization; there were a number of groups tagged all over the city via graffiti or sticky holo projections or 3D printed sculptures that were taken down within a day, but none, in any given form, were ever this close.

The leader crouched in front of me and pressed one gloved hand against my cheeks. “Listen to people when they talk to you.” I pressed my lips into a tight line, or as tight as they could go with his fingers smushing together the sides. The bluish-silver tint of his blade gleamed in my eye from beside my neck. It pierced my hair to punctuate his threat.

I was frozen.

“Maybe you’d like to be next.” The blade slid through my hair as he considered this.

I’m supposed to be afraid. Some distant area of my brain understood that, but the stillness I was trapped in was not infused with fear. Knowing there was someone behind me who’d been… wounded, at best, because of a flick of this man’s hand, had already driven me to a level of disgust and rage I hadn’t known I possessed.

“If you knew anything at all about the government you enslave yourself to, you wouldn’t look at me like that. None of you would.” His sword swooshed over my head as he stood, an incomprehensible, dark amusement spreading over his face.

If I knew, my butt!I wasn’t even part of the slaving class yet. He’d ruined my chances of that by causing this mess. If anyone needed educating, it was him.

A scene played out; another movie in my head: I yank his weapon from his arms and twirl the blade around with the finesse of a DJ, leveling the tip to its true target. Swip. Just like that, a simple, elegant cadence with blood oozing out of his chest and a finale to my fury. Cue level-up music. The credits roll.

. . . And then the arrows from his minions would probably skewer me.

I twitched.

The smile left his face. Whatever expression my imagination had led me to make didn’t sit well with him. He angled the tip of his blade down towards my chest. The end met my scarf. My eyes widened.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. [*4]

“Dex.”

I was close enough to hear the voice inside his headset.

‘Dex’ stopped taunting me and peered over his shoulder mere seconds before the end of my life. I followed his gaze.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

A boy strolled out of a hallway and into the ring of archers, his eyes locked on the phone in his palm. He wore a short-sleeved black jacket with wrist-warmers on both wrists, one longer than the other. His hair was a messy clump of black tufts held down by a pair of vibrantly coloured headphones—which were clearly deafening him to the presence of danger.

What kind of music could distract a person so thoroughly? His eyes weren’t even closed like mine had been.

“Hey!” shouted Dex.

Thumb scrolling, expression oblivious, the boy continued his blind march towards the huddle of hostages.

I flicked my eyes between him and our designated villain and briefly wondered which of them was the bigger stupidface.

“Hey!” Dex yelled again. He swung his blade back to his shoulder and strode towards the boy.

Using the sixth sense headphone wearers always seemed to have, the boy started making a detour around him without so much as a glance up. Dex’s blade swooped down and brushed the red cord to the boy’s headphones with cutthroat precision. He finally looked up—lazily. Carelessly.

“Today ain’t your lucky day, kid,” said Dex, devilish grin returning. “You shoulda stayed in the washroom to piss your pants where it was socially acceptable.”

It didn’t seem like Dex fully understood how headphones worked. The boy tilted his head in confusion. He must not have heard a single word.

Dex cocked his head to the ceiling and let out a humourless puff of laughter.

The boy pushed one earmuff off his ear, unaffected by the glistening death-threat pointed his way, then waited for who knows what.

Dex’s smile remained, but only while his sword flew up. When it went down, his expression transitioned to a killer’s scowl. The boy backed away, but was too late. The sword ripped clothes, skin, and blood from his chest. The impact pushed him backward. He tilted on his heels, and his body went down,

down,

down,

then thud. [*5]

Five seconds. Then time streamed on like normal, ignoring the fact that a life had been lost.

Screams rang through my eardrums, not nearly as deafening as his body hitting the floor, the thump of my heart against my chest, or the vibrations of the two. If I thought the mob had been hysterical before, they were crazed now.

I stood up with the grace of a zombie. My vision was jittering, as if trying to focus on something that wasn’t there. Red lasers dotted my arms and upper body.

“This / This / This is just / just a pre— / pre— / preview of what hap— / happens when people / when people upse— / upset / upset me / me / me.” [*6]

The murderer’s voice sounded like a broken recording of a faraway echo, as if the needle of a record player could find only shards of his voice. This was now also the condition of my better judgement. Broken and far away.

“Your / Your / Your distress / stress / stress / is only a frag— / frag— / fragment / —ment / —ment / of what we / we / felt / felt / felt for our frien— / friends / false / false / false / convictions / —tions”

What did that boy have to do with any of that? Why did he have to die for their dumb cause?

Still infatuated by his own speech, the terrorist was approaching me again. No, wait, I think… I think I was the one approaching him this time.

“Your / Your gov— / government / —ment / is messed up / up / up / No / No / your society—”

Our society doesn’t need the likes of you. A warning arrow shot past my eyes. Dex glanced in my direction, smirking, still speechifying. I continued towards him. Another arrow zoomed by, this time ripping through my hoodie’s sleeve and grazing my arm. I froze. Fear tickled my numb limbs.

He chuckled. “You’ll face death but you’re afraid of a little pain?”

It wasn’t the pain. Not this time.

His chuckle morphed into a bloodcurdling cry as a scarlet sword pierced through his armored side. The air around the sword shuddered as if shaken by an invisible force. Dex the murderer stumbled away—though perhaps he couldn’t be considered a murderer anymore. The boy he’d killed had just slashed him through the waist.

I’d watched him die and now I was watching him kill.

As Dex stumbled off to the side, I got a clear view of the messy-haired boy with the out-of-nowhere sword in his hand. His disinterested gaze was now filled with determination, irises swirling with reds like the red, purple, and blues were on his headphones. His clothes were ripped diagonally where he’d been cut, but his wound was gone. No scratch nor scar; only a bloodstain by the tear’s edge.

The cellphone he’d held was replaced with the hilt of a long single-edged blade. The weapon itself seemed alive, glowing in time with all the colours on the rims of his headphones. The red cord, once plugged into his phone, was now hanging from the hilt.

I put the pieces together.

He’s a sell-soul?

An internet legend; a conspiracy theorist’s dream come to life, but that’s what he is. That’s what he has to be. I’d only seen a handful of memes about them, maybe one or two BlueTubers talking about the ‘lunatics’ who sold half their souls for inhuman capabilities. I’d written them off as staged publicity stunts, things I wished, but didn’t actually believe were real. Magical things were supposed to stop once they reached the screen. Everything outside of that became the artificial; the holo re-enactment of a fantasy; a lie.

He shouldn’t be possible. Nothing in this world should be able to do what he’d just done. But the blood that spilled was real, and the boy standing woundless above was even more so. How else could I have explained the twisting glow in his eyes, the conversion of his weapon, the full self-revival? Normal people didn’t get up after being slashed across the chest by a sword. Normal people didn’t unblinkingly face a mob of radicals.

I watched the bloody scene in a daze. Unable to retreat back to the crowd, I remained standing. A target.

The boy positioned himself in front of me, shielding me from the man he’d just stabbed. All the marksmen in the room aimed their arrows at him. Now that he was close, I realized that, although I’d called him a kid, he was my height. Maybe seventeen. He stood in a lowered stance. His sword ready. Seventeen and ready for the world.

I’d seen him come back to life once already, but I didn’t want to see him die again.

“You’ll pay for that, boy.” The man’s voice was strained by his own pain and weighted by his rage. The sword he’d been using like a toy looked far more frightening being dragged against the floor, with blood from his own wound streaking down its length. He signalled to his fellow goons. I flinched, expecting arrows to pierce our bodies, but his signal must have told them not to interfere. The red laser dots drifted away.

Even hunched over in pain, Dex was larger than the sell-soul who stood unwavering as my shield. Dex lunged towards us for a slash. The boy easily redirected it.

He took a deeper stance and yanked his blade back, causing the red cord to ripple. I could have touched it if I’d wanted to. I watched his thumb swipe upwards along the fabric of the hilt. Beneath its surface, the faint glow of a screen lit up and a triangular bar rose from green to yellow to orange. An instant later, his weapon drove horizontally across Dex’s chest, then swooped upwards at a diagonal. Twice more at different angles, carving an asterisk out of his armor through half-blocked attacks. He toppled back.[TS11]

The crowd screamed louder. Red lasers dotted us from every direction as Dex hit the floor. The boy shot his gaze at me with a speed deadlier than the lasers and next thing I knew, he’d tripped me. As I, too, fell, he tossed the blade with his right hand, caught the cord in his left, and gripped one of the huge earmuffs on the side of his head. Wielding the sword like a long mace, he let out a yell.

My head hit the floor and I shut my eyes against the stars, hugging my headache and curling up in a ball. I heard the clang of metal on floor and the rumbling of many feet.

Despite my splitting head, I fought to open my eyes.

I wished I hadn’t.

At first, I saw only blurry feet tumbling in every direction. They tumbled over benches, knocked down fake plants. Beside me, I noticed a broken arrow, and another, and another, and another. I reached for one to verify if it was real. Someone stepped on my hair. I held that instead, then attempted to sit up so I’d look less like a carpet.

A cough drew my attention. The sell-soul was on all fours nearby. Blood was on the floor in front of him and…and…

“Can you…pull these out for me? …Please?”

My jaw trembled. I gaped at the three arrows sticking out of his back. The animated swirls in his eyes were gone and his irises shook as if they were searching for their former colour. Blood dripped from his mouth to the floor. As I watched, his sword reverted back to a phone.

“I can’t—heal—myself—if they’re still…inside.” His breathing was level, calm, but in a way that was forced. Painful to listen to.

It was common knowledge never to remove an arrowhead from a wound without proper medical treatment, but it would probably go against common sense to question a guy who could come back to life. He’d also saved my life without a second thought mere seconds ago—or minutes perhaps; I wasn’t too sure what concussions did to your sense of time.

I swallowed my fear. Put a supporting hand against his chest and wrapped the other, trembling, around one of the cold, metal arrows.

“I-I’m sorry.” My voice cracked. I looked away and pulled as hard as I could.

He cried out and I felt like crying back. I tossed the arrow away and quickly fumbled for the next one, still refusing to look but feeling the—the wetness, the gooey redness—It’s okay: this is probably like ripping off a band-aid to him; it’s okay: you’re strong, you can do this. The second one came out, and this cry was laced with far more pain than the last. I reached the final one, but had to stop. The censored banner over his back was corroding away.

Blood. So much blood. It was so red. So warm. So, all over my hand, soaking his shirt. So real.

Who am I kidding? He wasn’t a machine. He wasn’t even holding himself up anymore. One of his hands was weakly clinging onto my arm. The slightest squeeze from his fingers felt like a desperate plea for me to stop.

“I—” I can’t do this! Tears smeared across half my vision until a bluish light guided my eyes to the gruesome sight of his back, and I forgot about speaking. A blue, then purple, flower made of light was twirling over the first wound. Glowing. The thinnest of petals shaped like wires were looping in and out of his skin in formation of a carnation. Slowly closing up the gash.

The heck!

A second flower began to bud out of the next wound… It’s fine. Don’t question it. It’s fine. He’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

The flowers were saving him. In the clamour of chaos, I watched them weave and mend. The flowers are saving him. I breathed. All I needed to do was save the flowers.

“H-hang in there, okay?” I said to myself. To him too, though he didn’t respond, just kept rasping. “I-it’s just one more, alright?”

He nodded. I took a deep breath, and tugged the last arrow free. He yelled until his voice broke.

“You’ll pay for this.”

I looked up, straight into Dex’s face. Blood was draining from the star-shaped wound on his chest and stomach, dripping into the crumblings of his armored clothing. He was struggling to breathe. Sweat dotted his face. He raised his sword slowly above his head, giving us a look people usually reserve for vermin. “You’ll regret interfering.”

The boy in my arms couldn’t fight—that much was clear. The question was, could I?Holding a bloodied arrow and an injured stranger?

I threw the arrow at Dex’s head. It would have grazed his cheek, had he not tilted his head to the right.

From the corner of my eye I saw the headphoned boy reach for his phone. The terrorist smirked.

I blinked.

Before either could swing their weapons, two sharpened steel boomerangs whizzed over my head and criss-crossed in front of the radical. Both boomerangs carried chains that axled through their centres, and a familiar insignia that was too fast to see, but not enough that I couldn’t guess.

The weapons reeled back as if homing in, and the X of chains hit Dex’s chest with a metallic thwack. He gave a gurgling yell of agony. Jagged, bluish-white lines of light flittered around his chest where the chains had bound him.

His body crumpled and was dragged backward. Brutality that would have been covered by mosaics if caught on the news. Even after he fell, the electricity danced over his body, stopping only when a man in uniform walked over it.

I lifted my gaze to the officer. His all-black uniform with its diagonal strap of kunai marked him as a member of the police force which controlled Ezveria. Others like him were charging into Klover and reeling bad guys in like fish. Their march evoked a different sense of fear; their shouts held a more practised form of aggression; unlike Dex and his flock, this man was licensed to hurt people. The badge on his upper arm like a radioactive symbol of sickles; it gave logo to the word bloodshed.

All my fear, anger, and angst shifted. I couldn’t bring myself to feel grateful. It was like watching a bully get taken down by more bullies.

The officer approached me and flicked an uncaring eye down at the boy. “Drop it.” I was too aware of the boomerang he wasn’t putting back in his holster to understand. “I said drop your weapon.”

I hadn’t noticed I’d picked up another arrow, or how tightly I clung to both it and the sell-soul—not out of an urge to protect him or anything; he just happened to be there.

He squirmed and lifted his head enough to watch the officer. Both of our stares must have been too much for him.

The man snarled and flipped the boomerang to his opposite shoulder. “I told you to drop it!” A half-second later, he slammed his weapon against my temple. The blow rattled my vision. The shadows coloured between the lines. And my world was shut off.

Footnotes:

[*1] - smooth/slick font style

[*2] - poofy font style

[*3] - Image of Rei's fluttering scarf

[*4] - spaced out staccato font style

[*5] - impactful font style

[*6] - Slashes here represent glitchy-looking lines or jagged lines that run through the words and cause them to be retyped

*Also the "In a world...." part might have its own unique Movie title-esque font style

Here's a Youtube Teaser Reading that you can share with your friends:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5jM9acXUys&ab_channel=TaijaSensei

(please, please, please share with your friends >___<)

is yellow

really yellow

blue blue

am I me

are you you

can you trust

what you think

or what you think

you know

have faith in

what you see

be it sun, moon

or snow

is that a dove

at your doorstep

white wing

marred with red

clearly dead

left by the neighbor’s cat

whose backward curiosity

has left you with that

is it really there

can you touch it

do you dare

extend your finger

then tremble

as you watch it

disappear

a figment of

a growing fear

that nothing is

that nothing’s there

a silent scream

can’t pierce the air

your mind unravels

unnatural motives

of inception

a world unseen

full of deception

an alternate truth

that’s quite obscene

where death is life

and life is dream

and nothing

is ever

as it seems

it’s not a gift

it’s simply hell

a time and place

we needs must dwell

till the undertaker’s dream

we do fulfill

but

does such a thing as time

exist

can even place

subsist

beyond

the mind’s

embalming mist

that hides us

from the black

abyss

where night is day

and day is night

the dark is love

and hate is light

and Hate’s last breath

gives blinding sight

of man’s true fate

forever in an instant

there’s no plan

no intention

no blueprint

why carry on

when we’re

nearing the

end of days

oblivion

I think of scales

on butterfly wings

that iridescent hue

or musical ones

of a song you can’t sing

in a world you never knew

is yellow

really yellow

blue, blue?