My soul would like me to say we but I am just of flesh with touches of my souls embrace. I, of flesh, can do but so much outside of what our Earth will let us. I, of electric matter, can think only as far as our star has stretched. But my soul, my soul knows and feels everything as it was birthed.

I, of flesh, know of my soul only because she is so close. But my soul anguishes over how I can forget. How I can forget myself. But I’ve only just been here once what am I forgetting?

I know my dear soul, she had so much hope for me. And now she sits small and dwindling and I cannot shake her awake. Dear Soul, I know I dishonored what we promised when we first balanced on our feet.

Please dear Soul, you can‘t leave me. But she says she must try again and soon we’ll meet.

It took an entire desert to contain his shame.

So he went there to wander, dark-hearted and despairing because he had just abandoned himself.

Not 2 days ago in a noisy saloon hotel room, he and his boy sat together, ignoring the sin surrounding them. Of course, he never intended to avoid it, they stayed at this particular establishment on their way, specifically because of the reputation it gained among the men for the nightly activities which took place in one of the rooms for a fee, which he had prepared a day or so earlier through the sale of a couple of items of clothing that no longer fit the child. Maturity pays.

So they sat on the edge of the bed, and he read him passages from the Bible. A continuation of a new nightly ritual he had developed in the hope to teach the boy to read and fill his head with some sense, both of which he had not prioritized himself growing up. And he asked him:

"Why doesn't being good make me happy?"

It never failed that a stumper would come out of that boys mouth just before bedtime. He never had an answer for the kid, his mother always did.

He hung his head and kissed him, left him alone in while he went to partake in earned company, and he fell asleep in a strange woman's bed while the place was robbed by a violent man,

and his son was left for dead.

Flat, an endless steppe; a wasteland. Nothing but white powder piled on every side. Siberia; a prison. No bars; still trapped. Open air; still suffocating. Cold, bitter, piercing. My breath; my life bleeding out, solidifying around me in puffs of steam. 10 years wasted; my identity stolen. Beaten, coerced, animalized. Condemned for Polish blood; my nationality. I used to be beautiful. I used to sing. I used to hold my head high. Now my eyes endlessly look at the ground. Defeated. My neck is tied by an invisible rope. My back is bent by a lie. My hands have condemned me. A forced ink signature. My name admitting to things I never did. I've become who you said I was, a criminal. Not in action but in spirit. Guilt consumes me for nothing. Remorse barks in my ear. You've won. You took my home, my family, my friends. I thought there was nothing else. But you knew and now you have my honor.

I race to my room and shut the door, backpack jingling like an untimely bell, beckoning parental suspicion. How could I face them? After what I'd done? I couldn't talk to my mom, or I'd give it away. I doubt my dad would look me in the eye if he knew.

You see, my dad is a professor. My mom is a doctor. And I'll be neither. Two power-housed brainiacs are supposed to produce some sort of Einstein, but with unrealistic expectations about anything, from an untucked bed to hanging all your coat hangers in one direction, my parents expect 110 percent, forgetting there's no such thing (as if 100 percent isn't already hard enough). Thus, my life is a dirty stain of failed potential, and today it's bleeding through. I'm just hoping they won't notice.

Knock, Knock.

I scramble to clean my desk space.

"Haoyu?"

I sit on my bed, straight as a plank.

Door knob turns.

I start biting my nails.

Door creeks open.

I stop biting my nails. It draws too much suspicion. And scolding.

"How was school?" My mom says, standing at the door.

"Good."

"Great. Well make sure to get started on your homework. Dinner will be ready in 3 hours."

She leaves, and I breathe a sigh of success. She didn't know...

"Haoyu!"

Oh no. It's father.

Door slams open.

"You failed out of math class???"

"Yes," I say, and start packing my things. It'll be a long night.

He’s laying in a field. There’s a night sky around him and a circular clearance where they laid his body. He looks older, though only approaching middle age. There’s wrinkles on his skin, particularly common on his face, one that looks ailed and tormented. There are wounds on his arms and legs that look like burns, and he’s missing his shoes. His shirt is lifted up, and etched into his stomach is the only word that can attempt to explain this horrid sight: DISHONORED.

His pockets are empty, his mouth is open. If he could speak, he would call for his sons who are off from the scene. He would call for his ex-wife who lives many counties over and ask her to help him out. He would not call the authorities. His nose itches with the smell of recently cut grass, or it would had he survived. Presently, a dozen bugs have claimed his mortal body as a jungle gym, and they curiously inch their way to his stomach.

His sons, twins, are long gone, and unlike their deceased father, their pockets are full. In one of their pockets is a wallet that does not belong to them, along with a credit card that is not in their name. They are heading south, traveling quickly by car, a car that is not theirs. They will board a plane and they will leave, passports at the ready. And they will never, ever see their father again.

DISHONORED

He waited. He was still as a great willow: his limbs gently swaying as branches in the faint suggestion of wind. So he wasn't really still, but he tried to be. That was all he had done in this life, tried. Tried to be a better son. Tried to be a better god. And now, he tried to be still, but even that he couldn't muster.

The shadows chittered. They were small and long whips of inky darkness. Like snakes they coiled around him, welcoming him into their domain. There was a warmth to them. A warmth that Obsidian had never known before. A god was not supposed to like shadows. Obsidian dipped his neck low to the ground, his labored breath the only sound that could be heard in the Void. He fixated on it, focusing his eyes and his mind on the darkness. It was a warped sound, an awful, heavy sound. It was his pain. The pain of an abandoned god. The pain of a rejected god. And the pain of a dishonored son.

The shadows did not reject his pain. They drank up his tears, they coaxed his jarring breath. They gave lift to his wings and showed him his new realm.

A god doesn't indulge in shadows. Obsidian whispered to himself as the Void unraveled beneath him. A god is a being of light. That was his father's grating voice now.

Obsidian slowed. He finally stilled. He supposed he wasn't a god then, not anymore.

What does it mean: dishonored in today's America? Some would say breaking the law and being a criminal brings dishonor but to what degree do you have to break the law to be included in the ranks of dishonored?

Pedophilia would earn you the title of dishonored in most American families. The murder of an innocent or a shooter in a random crowd, these all seem that would definitely list you as a dishonored person. To be truthful it does not seem honor means much in American culture and society. The definition of dishonored is bringing shame or disgrace on: "the community has its own principles it can itself honor or dishonor "fail to observe or respect (an agreement or principle): "the community has its own principles it can itself honor or dishonor”

1. refuse to accept or pay (a check or a promissory note): "Payment was by a check which was later dishonored "Refuse to accept or pay (a check or a promissory note): "Payment was by a check which was later dishonored" to observe or respect (an agreement or principle): "the community has its own principles it can itself honor or dishonor "

This is what the dictionary states is dishonored. It is just depending on the community depends on the infraction and if in fact, someone has dishonored another or himself in some way.

He was a soldier once, a hero of the nation.

He fought for peace and justice, with courage and devotion.

He earned his medals and his scars, he gave his blood and sweat.

He saved his comrades and his foes, he had no fear or regret.

But then the war was over, and he returned to his home.

He found it burned and ravaged, his family dead and gone.

He learned that he was betrayed, by the ones he served so well.

They sold his land and his rights, they left him in a hell.

He felt a rage inside him, a fire that consumed his soul.

He swore to take revenge, he had no other goal.

He gathered all his weapons, he hunted down his foes.

He killed them one by one, he showed them no remorse.

But as he killed the last one, he saw a child in his eyes.

A child who looked like him, a child who feared and cried.

He realized what he had done, he had become a monster.

He had dishonored his own name, he had betrayed his honor.

He dropped his gun and knelt down, he sobbed and prayed for mercy.

But no one heard his cries, no one came to help him.

He was alone and broken, he had no hope or grace.

He took his own life then, he ended his disgrace.

Dad.

Dan Wicket had raised two honest and honorable sons. He'd worked in the cutthroat world of real-estate in one of the more ruthless firms. Those superiors had pretended he just didn't meet their sales standards when he was really fired for not being sly, for not edging his clients towards anything less than their dream home.

Jimmy had done wrong. He had allowed Peck to do wrong.

Now, he may be getting what he deserved.

Rat had threatened him with the knife tonight. The job hadn't gone wrong. Jimmy, Jimmy just couldn't help mouthing off.

So he needed to be set straight and put in his place.

Their most recent photo had been almost two years old.

Nevertheless that photo became Missing Persons posters.

Police officers searched Jimmy's room and his own. They'd presented to Clara what looked like a stash. A hoard of food, in case his was stolen, or not given in the first place.

"They don't deserve what we do."

"What if it were you?"

But Peck deserved it.

He deserved all this and more.

His Dad, deserved to hear the truth.

From somewhere, either where he lay in a hospital or by the mouth of some power above, Peck confessed.

The pressure had really been on to perform and sell.

Ever since his condition had gotten worse.

"Is it my fault your like this now?"

"Will you forgive me?" Jimmy collecting on a furtive, criminal sale.

Corruption of a minor. "Will you forgive me?"

Antonio’s shoulder aches with the weight of the bag. He runs through a mental checklist to make sure he didn’t forget socks or his passport. Antonio’s father stands with his back against the wall and arms folded firmly across his chest. His rage radiates out and through the cold ceramic tile. The disappointment and frustration are etched into the deep lines on his face.

Antonio’s mother tries to maintain her composure as her eyes well up with tears. She is tired of protesting. Her husband can pout and furrow his brow until the end of time, but the fact is that things are only getting more expensive by the day, and there seem to be more mouths to feed in the house every time they blink.

Dishonored. Disowned by his own father for going out into the world to make something of himself.

When Antonio landed in Texas, he was surprised to hear familiar words being spoken by others around him. As time went on, he felt the whiplash from the negative reactions of some of the Americans he would meet. Despite being a nation of immigrants, some act rather territorial and defensive of their evolving culture.

Dishonorable. Disgraceful for his existence, for swimming in their lake. Those people didn’t matter. All Antonio cared about was the small living he was making for himself and the fact that he was able to send money back home for his father’s medicines, even if he still wasn’t ready to return his calls.