Ironically, I'm at my keyboard when they find me. I hear the door to my trailer give way and the first thought to go through my head is a completely unoriginal but understandable "What the fuck?", followed quickly by the second thought.

Nobody would fucking dare.

I step out of my room, ignoring the part of me that says to just wait and ambush whoever it is as they come down the hall, and step into the living room.

I'd like to say that I'm surprised at what I see. But, to be honest, I figured this day was coming.

They just sit there and stare at me for a moment as if simultaneously disappointed and angry at discovering the mundane existence of their creator. I look at the bent and broken door and the holes in the doorframe where the hinges were ripped out completely.

"The door didn't do anything wrong. It's a bit much, don't you think?"

Sentinel is the first to step forward. I wince because I know that he has the most room to be upset about how I chose to bring him into being. And I know that I deserve whatever he says and does.

The unnamed werewolf is there too, the only surviving member of a trio of brothers fallen victim to a werewolf in the first horror story that I ever wrote in first grade.

He was both the only survivor and the killer after he was bitten. I guess I ALWAYS had issues.

The last one is a bit more obscure.

Back when my father was homeschooling me after he believed that my mental health coupled with my apathetic middle school teachers was slowly turning me into a potential school shooter, he realized that I had some talent in creative writing. So, he tasked me with writing a story. Just a story. Whatever I wanted. I was actually excited that I got to do something fun that day.

Of course I quickly grew bored with the assignment when my brain decided that HAVING to do it was synonymous with torture. So the knockoff Legend of Zelda protagonist with adopted parents, amnesia and a prophecy to his name was born. I don't even remember his name actually, and he doesn't volunteer it.

Not my best work, for sure.

"Why?" They all ask in unison. Fuck if that isn't the question, huh.

"I don't know." is all I can find to answer with.

"Not good enough." Sentinel says.

Right. So I guess I get to explain him now.

Adrian Cross, AKA Sentinel. My first real attempt at creating a superhero. Akin to Superman in that he is damn near unbreakable and that even if someone finds a way to kill him, he just comes back. Whether he wants to or not. He was struck by some mysterious red lightning after having a screaming match with a lightning storm he chose to see as God. Then he threatened to pull the trigger on the gun aimed at his temple. That was when it happened.

I know. Says a lot about me, doesn't it. A person with suicidal depression saved by God or whatever before he can go through with it, and being given immense power. Delusional for sure.

Except that I didn't stop there. I kept writing, because of course I did.

Adrian was already in a bad place in life. Being given powers akin to Superman but with a bit of a theme around the red lightning that created him did nothing to erase that. But when he died fighting a man with powers similar to his that had chosen a much darker path, but managed to take the evil bastard with him, he was content. He was truly ready to go. He could die a hero.

But guess what? I kept writing. So, he came back. Again. That kind of shattered him for a while, I think. To make things even worse. It was then that I got back into therapy. I stopped writing for him, because he was a character born of the most depressing aspects of my mind, and that's all I could see in him anymore.

Until recently. But that doesn't really matter right now.

"I'm sorry." I say. Judging by the looks on their faces, that definitely isn't good enough either. I sigh.

"I created you to help me understand." I start, giving each of them a sympathetic look in turn. They don't interrupt me so I continue.

"I'm very flawed, this I'm sure you know by now. When I created each of you, I gave you a piece of myself. Something that I couldn't reconcile on my own. In the hopes that you could help me find a way to do just that. And, in a way, you did. I grew, and I learned and I need you to know that I never forgot about any of you. I use the lessons you taught me every single day. For myself and those that I love. I'm only sorry that I never returned the favor. But you know what? I will."

Something in them relaxes. Sentinel especially seems taken aback. I knew he would understand, even if it still hurt him. He's a much better person then I am. They all are. That was the point.

Slowly the other two come around. I don't think they're okay with the why of it, so much as they know that nothing can change it. One by one, they fade, as if they were never there.

Let this be a lesson. Never abandon those that you've created. They deserve more than that, just like you.

Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain had been friends since their days in the bread factory. Now, as seasoned croutons, they yearned for adventure beyond the confines of their salad bowl. One particularly crisp autumn evening, as they lounged on a bed of romaine, Rye proposed an audacious plan: a camping trip in the wilds of the kitchen counter.

"Are you out of your mind?" Sourdough exclaimed, his golden-brown edges crinkling with concern. "We'd be sitting ducks for any hungry human or curious pet!"

Multigrain, ever the voice of reason, pondered the idea. "It could be dangerous, but think of the stories we'd have to tell. When was the last time any of us did something truly exciting?"

Rye's enthusiasm was contagious. "Exactly! We've spent our whole lives being tossed around in salads. It's time we tossed ourselves into an adventure!"

After much debate and careful planning, the trio decided to embark on their journey the following night. They packed their crumbs into tiny knapsacks and waited for the kitchen lights to go out.

As darkness fell, they made their daring escape from the salad bowl, using a wayward fork as a bridge to the countertop. The kitchen, usually a bustling hive of activity, was now an eerie landscape of looming appliances and shadowy corners.

"First things first," Rye whispered, taking charge. "We need to find a suitable campsite."

They trekked across the vast expanse of granite, marveling at the kitchen from this new perspective. The refrigerator hummed in the distance like some great mechanical beast, while the sink dripped with the steady rhythm of a far-off stream.

After what felt like hours of travel, they discovered the perfect spot: a small nook between the toaster and the wall. It offered protection on three sides and a clear view of any approaching danger.

"This is perfect!" Multigrain exclaimed, already unpacking his crumbs. "We can use these bread bag ties as tent poles."

As Sourdough helped set up their makeshift shelter, he couldn't shake a feeling of unease. "Do you hear that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The others paused, straining to listen. A faint scratching sound echoed through the kitchen, growing louder with each passing moment.

"Quick, douse the lights!" Rye hissed, referring to the small LED keychain they'd brought for illumination.

In the darkness, the scratching intensified. Suddenly, a enormous shape loomed over their campsite. The croutons huddled together, trembling, as they came face to face with their worst nightmare: a mouse.

The creature's whiskers twitched as it sniffed the air, clearly catching the scent of the terrified croutons. Its beady eyes gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the kitchen window.

"Don't move a crumb," Multigrain breathed, barely audible.

For a heart-stopping moment, the mouse stared directly at their hiding spot. Then, miraculously, it turned away, distracted by the promise of easier pickings in the nearby fruit bowl.

As the sound of tiny paws faded into the distance, the croutons collectively exhaled in relief.

"That was too close," Sourdough muttered, his earlier misgivings seemingly justified. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."

Rye, however, was undeterred. "Are you kidding? This is exactly the kind of excitement we came for! Just think – we've already survived an encounter with a ferocious beast!"

Despite Rye's enthusiasm, sleep did not come easily that night. Every creak and groan of the old house had them on edge, imagining threats lurking in every shadow.

As dawn broke, painting the kitchen in hues of pink and gold, the croutons emerged from their shelter, bleary-eyed but exhilarated. They had survived their first night in the wild.

"What's the plan for today?" Multigrain asked, stretching his seeds and grains.

Rye grinned, a glint of mischief in his eye. "I say we explore. There's a whole kitchen out there waiting to be discovered!"

And so, after a breakfast of their own crumbs (which felt somewhat cannibalistic, but they tried not to dwell on it), the intrepid trio set off to explore their surroundings.

Their first stop was the windowsill, which offered a breathtaking view of the world beyond the kitchen. They marveled at the swaying trees and the birds soaring through the sky, sights they'd only dreamed of from their salad bowl prison.

"It's beautiful," Sourdough whispered, his cynicism momentarily forgotten in the face of such wonder.

As they continued their expedition, they encountered all manner of kitchen denizens. A colony of ants shared tales of their adventures in the garden, while a wise old sponge regaled them with stories of the many messes it had seen in its lifetime.

But it was their encounter with the Spice Rack Sages that truly changed the course of their journey. These ancient, aromatic beings possessed knowledge passed down through countless meals and generations.

"Ah, young croutons," Paprika wheezed, her voice raspy with age. "What brings you so far from your salad bowl?"

The croutons explained their quest for adventure and meaning beyond their prescribed role in the culinary world.

Oregano, green flakes quivering with excitement, chimed in. "How wonderful! It's been ages since we've had visitors with such spirit!"

"But be warned," Cumin added gravely. "The kitchen can be a dangerous place for those who don't belong. You must be prepared for the challenges ahead."

The spices spent the afternoon imparting their wisdom to the eager croutons. They learned of secret passages through the drawers, the best hiding spots from the housecat, and even a few tricks for enhancing their own flavors.

As the day wore on, the croutons bid farewell to their new friends and made their way back to their campsite, heads spinning with all they had learned. But their adventures were far from over.

That night, as they huddled around their LED "campfire," a terrible commotion erupted from the sink. Pots and pans clashed like cymbals, and the roar of rushing water filled the air.

"What's happening?" Multigrain shouted over the din.

Rye, ever the leader, was already on his feet. "I don't know, but we have to help!"

They raced towards the chaos, their tiny legs carrying them as fast as they could go. At the sink's edge, they found a group of dishes in distress. The faucet had come loose, spraying water everywhere and threatening to flood the entire kitchen.

"We need to shut off the water!" a plate cried out, its floral pattern distorted by the spray.

Sourdough, surprising even himself with his bravery, called out, "The shut-off valve! It's under the sink!"

The croutons formed a plan quickly. Using their rock-climbing skills honed on the granite cliffs of the countertop, they descended into the cabinet below. Navigating the treacherous pipes and avoiding poison pools of long-forgotten cleaning supplies, they finally reached the valve.

With their combined strength, they managed to turn the valve, shutting off the water flow. The kitchen fell silent, save for the dripping of residual water.

As they climbed back up, they were met with cheers and applause from the grateful dishes. Word of their heroism spread quickly through the kitchen.

Exhausted but proud, the croutons made their way back to their campsite. As they settled in for the night, Multigrain voiced what they were all thinking: "You know, I think we've found something here. Something more than just an adventure."

Rye nodded thoughtfully. "We've made a difference. We've shown that even small, often overlooked things like us can have a big impact."

Sourdough, who had undergone perhaps the biggest transformation of all, added, "And we've learned that there's so much more to life than just waiting to be eaten in a salad. We have value beyond our intended purpose."

As they drifted off to sleep, each crouton felt a profound sense of accomplishment and belonging. They had set out seeking adventure, but had found something far greater: purpose.

The next morning, they packed up their campsite with mixed emotions. Their journey had changed them in ways they were only beginning to understand.

"So, what now?" Multigrain asked as they stood at the edge of the countertop, looking out over the kitchen that now felt more like home than ever.

Rye smiled, a plan already forming in his mind. "I say we stay. Not here on the counter, but out in the kitchen. We could be like... kitchen rangers! Helping out where we can, sharing what we've learned."

Sourdough, once the skeptic of the group, found himself nodding in agreement. "You know, that doesn't sound half bad. We could set up a permanent base, maybe by the spice rack. I'm sure our new friends wouldn't mind."

And so, the three croutons – Rye, Sourdough, and Multigrain – found their true calling. They became the unofficial guardians of the kitchen, always ready with a helping hand (or crumb) and a piece of wisdom gleaned from their adventures.

Their camping trip, which had started as a simple quest for excitement, had led them to discover the best parts of themselves. They had learned the value of friendship, courage, and thinking beyond the boundaries others set for them.

From that day forward, whenever a new dish or utensil entered the kitchen, they would soon hear the tale of the brave croutons who dared to dream of a life beyond the salad bowl. And in the quiet hours of the night, if you listened closely, you might just hear the sound of tiny laughter and the sharing of grand adventures, proving that even the smallest among us can rise to great heights when given the chance to shine.

03/11/23 (11:03-11:29pm)

What’s up Doc,

Listen, this is an odd one. I know both of us seem to struggle with a lot of the same things for different reasons. I thought this might be a good skill since I shut down when talking about emotions. If I can write them, then we can skip that part. So I thought I’d start this series and see what happens. Maybe it’ll work, maybe not, but either way maybe it’ll help one of us. I’ll give you some of my old writings, if that’ll help; this will definitely be the most casual I’ve ever written. I think you’d like my Science & Scripture piece a lot. Remind me to text it to you. Maybe this will help me fall asleep. All I know is my heart hurts and it’s not even a full panic attack.

I think a lot of it is because I get too understimulated before I fall asleep or my body is scared to fall asleep for a number of reasons (primitive, spiritual, introspective). There’s a list of reasons for all three of these; maybe the primitive is the easiest to tackle for now since the adrenaline is wearing off.  I was born premature, 24 week, pound and a half baby. They had to do caffeine, blood, and ventilators to the point there’s scarring on my lungs that triggers my bronchial asthma. I was in the hospital for 101 days and came home on a breathing machine because I would forget to breathe. This was seen in small ways throughout my life. I would forget to breathe during dance performances; I don’t breathe going up stairs. It makes me wonder if my body is just concentrating on breathing to the point it doesn’t want to sleep.

But that doesn’t account for a number of things. It’s deductive in the sense that I’ve always disliked. It doesn’t account for the productivity addiction, or the compulsions, or that voice in my head that knows if I could see myself from the outside I would hate myself. It doesn’t account for my accomplishments not being mine, getting lucky in what I do by being at the right place at the right time. Hell, I’m not supposed to be alive in the first place if it weren’t for the time I was born with modern medicine. And then there’s the guilt. How can someone feel so guilty for simply existing? I don’t want to be dead by any means but why…

I know my purpose. I know my potential and I can’t stand that I can’t live up to it. Other people know their purpose and go and do it. I’ve lost my sense of identity once trying to do everything I could; it didn’t work. Those weren’t limits, those were restraints. And if I could get around them, maybe I’d finally reach my potential. I’m stubborn. The only reason I lived is because I’m stubborn. The only reason I am still alive is because I’m stubborn. I’m alive so what do I do now? Maybe hating myself gives me more motivation in a way, to become someone or something I don’t hate. Someone I can look at in a mirror and not have to worry about. I forgot I have a piece on that too. Here:

“Another night of staring at my own reflection. Why do I always come here? What even am I anymore? This mortal shell of mine seems to trap me. These dark bags only emphasize my melancholy eye contact. I try to reach out to myself but only feel the distant chill of this wretched surface; if only I could destroy its mocking gleam that judges me so. My efforts would be futile. When I walk out of this bathroom I could avoid my reflection, but I must face my own existence. These abhorrent conceptualizations must occur from within my own psyche, yet what does it mean to truly be mortal? This cursed mirror offers no clarification. I will nevertheless contemplate on my pitiful state: how can it be true I am no more than a spec much like the abomination of condensed sand I stare into? My heavy sigh only fogs the mirror and my thoughts further. Perhaps reflecting on memories rather than my empty husk will heal these reckless emotions.

As my conscience molds to my comprehension of this world, I am introspecting to discover who I truly am unto this earth while that same conscience no longer dictates my preconceptions miniscule. Among man I am just another cog within their own creations yet what I truly am can be defined by my beliefs. Improvement is what means to be human, and steadfast will I travel among the planes of reflectivity to reconstruct my identity. Though I may be perceived as this outwardly form, I am distinct by design. The miry fog releases its toll on my thoughts as I snap back into my own reality. I no longer feel numb to the stool I am perched on and gaze into the eyes of one I knew long before my melancholy state. I have never forgotten yet how can I begin to rebuild what I have lost?  Lightheaded, I rise from my perch. The fire within rekindles as I turn the worn door handle and step into the land of opportunity before me.”

I’m not afraid of death, never have been. I’m not afraid of life, or nothingness, or myself. I’m afraid of living my life as if it was never mine to live, of wasting it as if I’ve never lived at all. I need something to keep me grounded and believe in who I am. I’ve tried everything I know how and I still feel numb.

I think that joker was from years ago, before I was diagnosed with anything. Have a field day with that one. This might be my solution to express my frustrations for a bit until I can cast them down. Hope you are doing well, man. I’m working on doing better; I promised myself I would and this is so much progress in such a short time. Thanks for always listening.

~TBA