chance
"I want to do this. I swear, I really do."
She is like a wounded animal, unmoving and vulnerable. Streaks of salt on her cheeks, remnants of tears. Her fists are shaking, earthquakes darting through her fingers.
She's been waiting for five years. Ever since that woman on the street, old and faded, had told her about this place, she had searched. Given everything. Coins, lies, dignity. She had torn away little parts of herself, slowly, until the only thing that existed was her desire to get here.
Throughout her journey, a ripped photo had reassembled, a truth. What she was doing was dangerous, it had a high chance of killing her. Still, she had kept her grip on her fleeting optimism. If she succeeded, it would be worth it.
She would save so many people. She would save herself.
The mage nodded, held out his hand.
It burned like fire. Death was so close, she could feel his fingers, bones and ice.
Yet she holds on, plummeting into the unknown.
Something Else Awaits
Today is normal. Someone else has fallen to the virus. A few more birds drop dead from the skys. The fires rage on. The people still yell. The scared still scream. The hurt still cry.
It’s normal now. I just can’t help the feeling...that thing are going to get worse. How? It’s so cold now. Yet so so warm. I can feel it. It is familiar.
This sense has hit me before. Soon, something else is coming. And all I can do is sit, and watch as it slowly destroys us. They won’t listen to me. They don’t see it. They won’t know what hit them.
A warning
If ye go seeking dragons,
Beware their wandering eyes.
For who can quite tell what they mean,
And what in your gaze they'll spy?
They will lead you, begging gold,
Deep into their twisted lairs,
Where secrets lie with countless gems.
But who can tell the meaning of a silent dragon's glare?
Their treasures are beyond whatever you could think,
Deep beneath the sleeping earth
But who can tell what a drake could give,
And with eyes gleaming with mirth?
Beware a dragon's mouth, my boy,
Beware thier soft-edged words.
They will tell you many truths,
But who could mark their lies like birds?
Beware a dragon's eyes, if seeking them you go
Keep the truth within your head,
For while they turn you with their praise,
And their teeth you could be dead.
Winter Mist
a.n.: this is a piece i had beforehand, and am using as an example
On all other days of the year, the mountains are bright and clear, a vivid green from the trees on full display for everyone to see. From mid-November to early March, though, the clouds descend from the sky and their mist shrouds the mountain like a cloak, covering its peak and hiding it behind the vast white, submerging it with the rest of the cloudy-gray sky. The mountain seems to loom over the city it surrounds, more than before, with an aura of undecidedness, mystery, in their air.
The foot of the mountain, if you choose to climb her this cold season, will seem warmer; inviting even. As you ascend higher, however, the air will grow colder and thinner; the ground turning hard and rough. Chunks of snow and ice will mar the rich soil of the earth until it’s no longer the white that’s intruding, but the brown, as the snow overtakes the ground.
If you had not prepared for this, you would have to turn back, head down to where the trees’ green still shows, the crows are still cawing and you can vaguely hear the sound of a car passing in the distance, roughing the gravel road. You did come for this, though; with chain boots and gloves; you’ll have to endure the harsh terrain, because over time it will only grow more so, the farther up you go. Hope that you began on your path early on enough, because at this time of the year, and at the slow, steady pace you take, the sun will dim over the horizon soon and the moon will begin its journey westward. Darkness will fall, blinding you to your surroundings, hiding the hazards and dangers of the path you have chosen to traverse.
You should hurry, ready the peak before sunset to see the city lights turn on, one by one, and watch, mesmerized, as the orange glow of the sky turns red turns to a deep purple. You’ve made it this far, and basking in your victory over the mountain, you miss the shadows closing in and the predatory eyes watching you, watching watching watching, and forget you’ve yet to make the journey down.
The Path
The moon called out to her as she walked deeper into the forest. She could hear the crunch of leaves beneath her feet as she made her way through the grand oak trees. Ominous as they were, she was sure they reached high into the heavens. The towering giants were armed with enormous branches that looked as though they could stretch for miles. There was a threatening calm that lingered in the air almost suffocating. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following her, watching her from all sides. As if the trees themselves were making note of her presence. The darkness grew thicker until she felt it could be peeled from her skin. She continued on, following the path as she had been told, trusting the words of the village elders. She couldn’t help but recall the strange song the woman was singing as she left, “Beware of the terrors that live in the trees. On your soul they like to feed.” Just then she began to see an opening leading to a beautiful green field. Her feet started to run ignoring all thoughts and fears. As soon as she came to the end of the path the lightning struck. There was the unmistakable sound of a loud crash behind her. She looked back to find the deadly branches hurtling themselves to the ground. The path was nowhere in sight. She turned towards the clearing only to find the lush green grass was now brittle and black. The only sound that could be heard was of a child’s scream echoing in the distance.
the last call
though the lights are out
though the dark has won
though we ready ourselves
for the battle to come
though our chests crack
with the force of living
though we must keep
our souls from withering -
let it not be said
that our lives were in vain
let it not be said
that we deserved all our pain
let it ring true
our passion for kindness
let it ring true
that harrowing bell of justice
by tomorrow,
our numbers will be few
by tomorrow,
it may not be just me and you
so let us raise a glass
to all we ever knew
let us raise a glass
to our love burning true
let us toast
to the lives we will save
let us toast
to the children we will name
let us toast to them
and the future they will grow
let us toast to them
and hope that their future
isn’t to be alone.
psychotropic
"Hello, yes. Yes, of course. I'll come there right away. Thank you for telling me this. Yes, yes. Thank you, have a nice day."
The call ends, signaling the time in bold, bright numbers: 10:00. Their flight leaves in a couple of hours, and they still haven't got everything ready.
It's partly their fault for leaving this all at the last second, but she's smart. She knows everything, no matter where they hide things — money in the cupboard? She's found it, and is already pocketing it away. Documents? They can only stare in horror as she burns them to a crisp.
Running, they hasten their steps and pickup their passport and any other documents they need for leaving the country. Their suitcase is at home, wedged in a corner of the storage closet. They haven't been there in ages, there's no way she knows it's there.
Stuffing all their necessary things into their backpack, they sprint the rest of the way home, darting past anybody who knows them — some stop and say hello and all they can do is offer a nervous smile.
Finally arriving home, they quietly unlock the door, twisting the knob, and sneakily creeping inside, tiptoeing across the polished hallway.
It's eerily quiet. She must not be around.
Their suitcase is still in the storage closet, thankfully, and they begin to lug it out, using all their might.
A female voice pierces the silence, her tone deadpan and borderline threatening.
"Trying to leave me, hm?"
They freeze.