I sit alone

Pondering what I’ve done

Whether she’s in heaven now

Or the Stairs of Vahalla

I fucked up

I can't get the image of my reflection

In the eyes of a stranger, crying

Out of my head

Hands shaking

Going back

She was so pretty

Even torn apart

Like foreplay, when she’s begging for mercy

Now its over

And all the stars are telling me

To run

But i’ll stay and not go down

Without a fight

And she is mine

And she’ll stay here

I don't know why I get nervous looking at old photos. Maybe I'm afraid I'll miss a memory so much that I'll leave the present to go look for it. Maybe I'm afraid I'll find a memory I tried hard to forget. I look down at the smiling reflection in the photo album and realize I don't recognize her anymore. It feels like I have lived a lifetime between these moments captured on the page in front of me. These fallen heroes were sacrificed for the version of myself that lives today.

I brush my hand over the corner of the album to turn the page, tempting fate and my own illusion of sanity that I've worked hard to build pixel by pixel. There's the little girl beaming on the tricycle her parents saved up for. There's the girl with her new baby sister, their matching, dimpled smiles stealing the spotlight. The girls grow up and their cheeks are no longer pressed together in wide grins. They stand apart with arms crossed and a face that begs their mother to turn the camera off. I look at the space between them 'til it burns holes into my eyes.

In the next photo, the girl is alone, the corners of her lips ever so slightly upturned into a polite hint of a smile. There is leftover adhesive on the page, pictures removed from the girl's story and moments rewritten. Some tape was ripped off a bit more fervently. These are the moments I tried to forget. This page is torn and covered in the ghosts of moments past. I close my eyes and flip it before I remember the darkness that used to occupy it. In the eyes of strangers, this is a monument to destruction. In my eyes, this is a reminder of the turbulence I endured to reach this point in my journey.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut with anticipation, slowly taking in this moment like foreplay. It has been a while since I opened this album, but I know what comes next. There's the promising young woman with the smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Her graduation cap is in her hand. She is surrounded by her family as her peers across the city are drinking champagne with their friends. At the time, she was still holding onto people who were never going to make the final cut in the photo album. Today, I barely remember they were around.

I look at the way my grandmother holds me tightly with proud tears in her eyes. I can't believe I ever traded time with my family for drinks with bad friends. I feel pangs of regret deep in my stomach. Even then, I wouldn't undo it for all the stars in the sky. All of those versions of myself that were built up and torn apart are the foundation on which I've been architecting the best version of myself.

What is the best version of myself? If anyone had the answer to that question, they would be regarded as a prophet around the world. People would flock from far and wide to hear their wisdom — and that's just to get a glance at the lucky fool who achieved enlightenment in the mortal realm. The first person who can answer that question for others will be hailed as a god. Many have tried and failed to answer these questions, but their followers made them immensely wealthy all the same.

Life is entropic. People are chaotic. Time is incomprehensible. We all are born screaming, live begging for mercy, and die hoping for eternal reward or even just the promise of a ceasefire from the cannons of fate. For some, to experience nothing at all is preferable to the mayhem of life on earth.

If all goes according to plan — and naturally, nothing ever really will — then the best version of myself will come to fruition on the last day of my life. Then I will have been able to say that I spent every day climbing up. The Stairs of Valhalla will reveal themselves to me as my existence peaks with my dying breath.

To remain stagnant is to choose to fall. Accepting a descent into mediocrity forces you to collect dead weight on your way down. Choosing to scale the mountain means shedding the old versions of yourself along the way so there's room at the top for the person you're meant to be. I say goodbye to the girl who wanted to fit in with bad friends, the young woman who put everyone before herself, the woman with no self-worth. They lie below me on the pages of the album and in the levels I've climbed below.

They didn't go down without a fight, but in time I understood why they had to be left behind. The little girl who was afraid to look uncool by hugging her sister made way for the woman who cherishes affection from her love. The young woman who felt nothing but despair became the woman who dared to love herself. Some say that moving forward means never looking back. I've found that progress requires us to learn from the pieces of ourselves that we leave behind.

I’ll sit in the shade, watch the sun til it burns

To the core of the earth, alike in its fire.

Lie down and watch the world go grey,

For all the stars have abandoned our sky.

Let the earth be torn apart.

I’ll go down without a fight.

Sit in the fire, watch them begging for mercy.

Why try when it’ll amount to nothing

But fallen heroes in history books?

I’m useless in the eyes of strangers,

Useless in my own mind, too.

But I don’t run about tempting fate,

Just sit and watch them ask for their death.

They flirt with destruction like foreplay to their doom,

Then act surprised when it comes hurling back at them.

Maybe they will end up on the Stairs of Valhalla

For their valiant attempts to bring everyone down with them.

Or maybe they’re just plain dead, while I lie

In the trail of fires they left behind,

Watching the sky go grey.

Twelve-year-old Caleb Prescott was afraid to go home.

All he could think about was what his foster father was going to do to him when he got there.

He stood motionless for a long time. Until the neon sign of the greasy pizza joint across the street turned off, signifying the late hour.

And Caleb knew it was now or never.

Snapping out of his hypnotic trance, he looked down and was surprised to see the aluminum bar of his mountain bike between his knees; he’d been straddling it the entire time. His grip on the handlebars felt stiff and achy. And the groaning of the wind through the half-naked trees sounded like the ghost that haunted his dreams each night.

“You got this,” he told himself. “Just sneak back down to the dungeon and cry yourself to sleep remembering the strawberry smell of her long, soft, hair.”

But the truth was that holding on to those memories using the most fleeting of senses –the sense of touch and smell that fades so fast– was getting harder with each passing day. Spending a night in a cemetery, with evil spirits clawing their way out of graves all around him, would be easier, he reasoned.

Case in point, wasn’t he pretty much doing that now? All alone on a dark deserted street, teeth chattering in fear from a creepy sound seemingly getting closer? Like a pissed-off ghost coming for him any minute?

Only this ghost, when he calmed down enough to listen more intensely, sounded different. More like crying. Like someone in trouble. Not so much a ghost, perhaps, but a real person. Separating the sound from the gusts of wind whooshing past his ears, Caleb decided it was coming from the alleyway.

In a flash, his feet found the pedals and he sped towards the noise, a small-for-his-age, but quick and nimble kid, now on a mission.

Rounding the corner, he hit the brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop.

There on the pavement, under a nearby streetlight, he saw something that broke his heart, at least what was left of it. A Maltese terrier, its fur caked with mud, was whimpering as it lay trapped in a metal dog crate.

Instantly, the anger blasted through Caleb, piercing his heart like shrapnel from a bomb.

Who would do such a thing?

Though he wanted to spring into action, to perform superhero maneuvers fast and all at once, it felt like the opposite was happening. Like everything was swinging in slow motion on a gigantic pendulum. That frustration of taking too long brought tears to pool in his green eyes, clouding his vision, and slowing everything down even more.

Finally, he was able to open the security box on the outside of the cage that kept the lock and pin inaccessible from the inside. His frozen fingers forced the pin to come loose, and, swinging the door open, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the frightened canine cowering at the back.

Caleb brought his face within inches of the little dog. He looked into her eyes and a tenderness seeped into his ragged heart, softening the edges.

The pup licked the teardrops snaking down his face and let him pet her.

“I’m going to name you Midnight even though underneath all that filth, you’re white. But I found you precisely at that time, so that’s your name. Right little one?”

Midnight’s reply was a bark that grew into three consecutive ones, and when she pushed her little snout past Caleb’s shoulder, he realized she was barking at something behind him. A second too late, he heard someone yell “Gotcha!” and turned around in time to see a chubby kid, sucking on a lollipop, slam the cage door shut with a clatter.

Caleb’s heart sank like a thousand-pound anchor to the bottom of the sea.

The freckled boy with orange hair and a Cheshire cat smile, deliberately, almost mockingly, pushed the pin down to lock Caleb and Midnight inside. Looking to be about fourteen, he wore tattered sweatpants and a stained yellow parka.

“Please, let us out,” Caleb begged. “My dog is hurt.”

“Your dog? Really?” the fair-haired bully drawled, “I don’t think so shithead. That dog ain’t yours, you just wanna steal it, dontcha?”

His lips formed an o shape around the bulbous sucker and pulling it out of his mouth with a popping sound, he pointed the fluorescent green confection at Caleb. “I think you’re a turd who wants to be a hero by rescuing the ugly mutt, right? he snickered. “Except you’re no hero, you’re just a loser with a black eye. Your bike looks like garbage too, but I might just take it anyway.”

Caleb could swear he heard his rapid heartbeat pulse in his ears, but he somehow forced himself to tamp down on his anxiety and tried to think hard and fast on the fly.

A beat of silence and then Caleb said “You’re right, I shouldn’t have lied to you, the dog is not mine. But if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” and then quickly added, “So I can show you some respect when I address you.”

The teenager was so caught off guard, he remained speechless for a moment. And though Caleb had never been one of those count your chickens before they’re hatched kind of guys, he felt hopeful.

“Yeah jackass,” the boy finally exclaimed, “You should respect me. So, you can call me Richie when you tell me what that bike’s worth.”

“Thanks, Richie,” Caleb said, “and you’re right, that bike is on its last legs. If it isn’t the chain falling off, then the handlebars don’t turn, and the worst part? The brakes are shot. Honestly, Richie,” he sighed, “it’s not worth more than a penny. But I’ve got something for you that’s much better.”

Richie pulled the bare stick of the sucker out of his mouth and Caleb could hear him crunching the last pieces of hard candy between his teeth. Throwing the stick on the ground, Richie scowled at the bike like it was a vile thing. Giving up on it, he turned back to his prisoner.

“Whatcha got?” he demanded, adding “It better be good or I’m gonna drown this mutt in the river and make you watch.”

Caleb opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when Richie pulled a BB gun out of a duffle bag sitting on the ground next to him and said, “Go on, tell me, pinhead.”

Caleb said, “You let us out of here and I’ll give you my last ten bucks.”

He held his breath, then released it when Richie exclaimed “Right on, show me the dough.”

With unsteady hands, Caleb pulled a ten-dollar bill from his sock.

Richie’s open-mouthed laughter, revealing gaps from missing teeth amongst a few rotten black ones, sent Caleb’s mind rushing back to when being reminded to brush his teeth, annoyed him. Especially when he was tired. Now, the gratitude for his mom’s nagging washed over him like a hot shower after getting caught in the freezing rain.

“You better not think about running before handing me that cash,” Richie warned. He aimed the BB gun, not at Caleb, but directly at Midnight. He said “That runt tried to bite me when I captured it and I wanna shoot it for payback. And fun,” he smiled. “But you give me the ten bucks, and I won’t kill it, got it?”

Caleb nodded vigorously, afraid to say the wrong thing or make the wrong move right up until the second Richie opened the cage and stood aside to let them out.

Free at last, and immediately after Richie grabbed the money with his meaty fingers, Caleb made a beeline towards his bike, calling Midnight to follow him. But Midnight, terrified of Richie, froze on the spot right outside the dog kennel when he suddenly stepped towards her, pointing the gun, once again, at her little face.

As Midnight edged away from him, Richie turned towards Caleb and hissed “Psst, I was lying. I’m gonna put a bullet in its leg first and then stomp on its face till it’s good and bloody… and dead.” He wiggled his pale eyebrows in an up-and-down motion, that evil smirk still pasted to his face.

Caleb’s mouth went powder-dry, his stomach lurching like he was on a free-falling plane about to crash. He felt Richie’s threat slam into him, one sadistic word at a time.

With a roar, Caleb rushed at Richie, his right hand curled into a fist and, before Richie could react, Caleb drove his knuckles into the spongy cartilage of his big nose. The crunch of bone, followed by Richie’s earsplitting howl, ricocheted down the alley. Caleb watched the blood gush from Richie’s face and felt more nausea churn within his gut. Moments later, the agony splintered through Caleb’s hand like it was on fire.

Despite the pain, Caleb wasted no time running towards Midnight.

But before he could reach the little terrier, Richie, his fingers slick with blood and snot, aimed the BB gun at the dog a third time, only this time, he fired as she took off with surprising swiftness. As Midnight rounded the corner at the end of the alley, she let out a tortured yelp, and Caleb felt his knees buckle when Richie cackled in glee for hitting his mark.

Hopping on his bike, Caleb followed Midnight at warp speed. But by the time he rounded that same corner, Midnight was nowhere in sight.

Car headlights, road signs, and blowing trash, all became a blur through the onslaught of Caleb’s tears. Every bit of the fear, anger, and grief he’d been holding so tightly within, tore loose, like a deluge of water from a broken dam. Not knowing where Midnight was, whether she was in pain or even alive, was a new kind of hell.

And speaking of hell, on top of his worry for Midnight, there were the horrors that waited for him when he got back to his foster home.

He still remembered when the social worker brought him there on a hot August morning, dumping him on the doorstep, and heading for the hills right after. The act Deborah, his new foster mom, put on, may not have been worthy of an Oscar, but it was good enough for the caseworker. Determined to make a swift getaway, she never even set foot inside the house. Never even bothered to see where Caleb would lay his head that night.

As soon as the woman drove away, Deborah grabbed him by the hair and pushed him hard through the door as she yelled “Get the hell in there, march yourself down to your room in the basement, and stay there until my husband gets home. You understand me, boy?”

Caleb understood when Donald came down the stairs three minutes later.

“You listen to me you motherless, unwanted, punk,” Donald spat. This room in the basement? That’s the only place in this house you’re allowed. Food will be left outside your door two times a day, morning, and night. And you’re never allowed upstairs. There’s a toilet, sink, and shower here and that’s all you need.” His foster father shifted his body closer to poor Caleb, grabbing him by the jaw, and squeezing as hard as he could. Staring into Caleb’s eyes Donald hissed “Now pay even more attention, you scrawny little imbecile. That grey door over there leads to the garage. That’s where you can find your piece of shit bike. Whenever I decide or Deb decides that we can’t stand the thought of you being in our home any longer, you will take that bike and get the hell out of here for at least an hour. And I don’t give a crap where you go. When you get back you will come in through the garage as quiet as a mouse. Got it?”

Caleb was so scared it felt like horses’ hooves stampeding across his chest. Unable to stop himself, he felt the moisture seep into his underwear and spread through the fabric of his jeans. His bladder had already been full, to begin with, but Donald’s speech, that ugly word “motherless”, made Caleb buckle under the strain. He could no longer hold it in. And now he just wanted to disappear, to die right then and there. Better to see his mom again in heaven, than live like this here in hell.

But it wasn’t over yet. When Donald saw that Caleb had peed himself, he hit him hard across the face, so hard that Caleb flew into the opposite wall. Donald barked, “You’re ten, old enough to be toilet trained for God’s sake. Clean up and wash those filthy clothes in the sink. We don’t run a laundry service here.”

Now, for the millionth time, Caleb cursed the car accident that killed his mom and turned him into a foster kid at such a tender age. Missing her for the last two years was like chemical lye rubbed on a wound, and it was this pain that brought disturbing dreams of ghouls and monsters to most of his nights.

But Midnight had performed magic. In the blink of an eye, she had attached herself to his core; an abundance of love sticking to his heart like super glue.

He had to find her.

But things suddenly got worse when Caleb spotted something terrible.

There, on a telephone pole, was a poster of a little girl holding a dog. A Maltese terrier. It looked exactly like Midnight. The child’s name was Amber, and she had lost her dog, Ivory, a few hours ago.

Only briefly did Caleb acknowledge the irony of the dog’s name. His pain was beyond raw and abrasive, it was sandpapering all the way down to the bone. Bad enough that Midnight was gone, but now she also belonged to someone else. Shakily he slid off his bike, leaning it against the wooden pole, his legs unsteady causing the rest of his body to quiver. All he could do was stand there and sob into his hands.

As the first flakes of autumn snow began to fall, something slammed into his hip. A small, soft, something, that let out an excited bark and wagged its tail. Midnight practically jumped into his arms. He was so happy, he cried even harder. After she licked every tear from his frozen face, Caleb put her down on the sidewalk and knelt to examine her, looking for any signs of an injury.

Other than a scrape on her ear, Midnight appeared to be okay. The BB gun bullet must have only scared her.

But his relief was short-lived. What about the kid on the poster?

He knew the guilt would gnaw away at him if he kept a dog that belonged to someone else. Especially a child.

Memorizing the phone number and digging a dime out of his pocket, he scooped Midnight up again and headed towards a payphone, next to a bus stop across the street. As he approached, he could see smashed glass strewn everywhere inside and outside the grimy shelter. A homeless man or woman’s shopping cart full of junk was parked next to the graffitied wooden bench inside. A dirty, torn-apart poster advertising the movie Smokey and the Bandit covered the side where the glass wall was still intact, the cartoon photo of Burt Reynolds, the star of the show, shown wearing a cowboy hat. No doubt it had been there for months; the movie had been released in theatres back in May.

Caleb wrinkled his nose in disgust, the vandalized bus stop smelled like stale cigarettes and sweat as did the phone booth next to it when he opened the folding door. Examining the handset first to make sure there wasn’t any regurgitated spit, mucus, or something worse, on it, he was grateful it was surprisingly clean. Lifting the receiver and pushing the dime through the coin slot, he fantasized that maybe he’d get an ‘out of service’ message and there’d be no chance of finding Amber’s family, so Midnight would have to stay with him after all. Yeah, right, he thought and blinked back fresh tears.

One ring, two rings, three rings, … what would he do if the answering machine came on?

On the fourth ring, the machine did come on, but it wasn’t what Caleb expected.

The message told callers that Ivory had been found and was safe at home.

And Caleb’s world suddenly felt drastically different.

With Midnight at his side, he walked his bike toward Donald and Deborah’s place. At least he had blankets in his room, under which they could snuggle together and warm up, along with enough hidden food for himself and his new best friend.

When they got close, however, something suddenly felt off. A strong odor permeated the atmosphere, and when they were only steps away from the two-story estate home‑‑ a mansion funded by Donald and Deborah’s foster care money‑‑ they discovered that the house was black. Specifically, a charred black, and those were only the parts that were still standing. The rest had burned down to ashes.

Caleb’s throat felt raw as he stood there in front of the house he had dubbed the house of horrors, dumbfounded. At that moment, a coughing fit seized him violently, and he realized he couldn’t hang around there any longer, he needed to run far away from the crumbling prison in front of him. Smoke, thick and acrid, still hung in the air, as Caleb came to the painful understanding that he and Midnight were completely homeless now. There was no shelter or food or warmth to be had for the likes of him, he thought. He was about to let the tears fall again when suddenly, he remembered the seven hundred dollars his mom had sewn into the lining of his jacket. And the cheap motel down the road where the owner, always sipping from a cup of black coffee laced with a generous amount of whiskey, was one of the nicest alcoholics Caleb had ever encountered. Caleb would never forget the smell of the booze wafting through the shabby low-lit lobby and the sound of Pete slurring his words. But although Pete was nice enough, he probably wasn’t all that smart, Caleb guessed. The motel business wasn’t booming as much as Pete had initially thought it would, and money was in short supply. For this reason, Pete had taken the risk of renting Caleb a room on more than one occasion. He was a compassionate sort of drunk and, seeing fresh bruises on Caleb's face time and time again, he had simply overlooked his young age. Tonight, was no different. Pete was more than happy to take Caleb’s money, even allowing him to bring Midnight into the motel room if he was willing to pay extra. Caleb was.

By the time Caleb and Midnight were ensconced in a small but warm room on the second level of the Travelodge, the numbness had, thankfully, abated from Caleb’s fingers and toes. It brought a feeling of gratefulness he hadn't felt since his mom was alive. As they sat on the bed with an assortment of sandwiches, bottles of coca cola, and chips from the vending machine scattered across the bedspread, outside, the light snow had developed into a full-fledged blizzard. On the two channels available courtesy of the tiny black and white TV, news reporters announced that driving was treacherous in these whiteout conditions and that everyone should stay off the roads if they can. A shudder passed through Caleb's body when he thought about being out there, cold and miserable with poor Midnight equally as frozen by his side, the two of them trembling in some doorway. The unbearable shame of that would sting harder than the driving sleet, like a barbed-wire fence wrapped around his bare shoulders. Chasing the image out of his brain, Caleb got off the bed and walked to the window. Curving his hands around his face to see the outdoors better, he tried to find Pete’s brand new 1977 Datsun station wagon in its usual spot in the parking lot. The reporters were right, the weather was so bad that he could barely locate it but eventually, it came into view. Genuinely relieved that the old man wasn’t out there, driving drunk, Caleb hoped he was already passed out in his bed, dreaming of better days. Caleb too prayed for a better future and knew he had to come up with a plan to make that happen for himself. He went back to the bed and smooched Midnight right on her little head offering her more slices of baloney.

“Everything is changing,” he whispered in Midnight’s ear, planting another kiss, this time on her nose. From now on, he would get past all the harsh obstacles life threw at him. He would care for this little canine that he loved more than anything and anyone. He would slay all the monsters for her. And maybe even some for himself as well.

He sat in the square, on the granite steps, right before the archway. He was weighing his options. That mild summer day was heaving an undercurrent of autumn, with the sinking sun offering no warmth, bleeding into the lengthening Good Night.

Someone passed with an archaic cigarette, glowing like Mars at the tip, and lingering in memory with the scent of stamped out argument. He couldn't tell if it was a man or woman. It passed like a blob flowing dead center through the archway.

He watched a steadily approaching balding middle-aged man leaning over his younger spitting image. One with earnest ears and doubtful brow listening to patriarchal wisdom, while remnant rays of sun streamed around the old man's face:

"That plaque is important. It's like Representative Castle said, 'Fallen heroes represent the character of a nation who has a long history of patriotism and honor - and a nation who has fought many battles to keep our country free from threats of terror,' and as those who have been blessed, we pay our respects." Their backs disappeared into the hall above, becoming very, very small. Insignificant.

He looked down at the ants busy on the sidewalk. Picking up the greasy bits scattered and lying on the concrete. Fifty times their weight.

"Dontch you go tempting fate, marching up der all by yourself, with that weak heart, you hear? I'm two steps behind 'n give me half a chance to catch up with all dis luggage." He turned towards the shrill voice rounding the circle below and traced her gaze up a few steps to where a white-haired man was laboring slowly with pride, pretending he didn't even need the rail. A permanent grimace on his face betrayed years of suppressed pain. The ample lady puffing behind was trying to make her way to him, and when she finally caught up he brushed away her assistance in one gesture, and she continued to trail in respectful delay with the suitcase bobbling and her hand raised in sincere but mock support of his back.

Spotting his grand figure, which would no doubt do her in, if in fact he took a backward tumble.

They passed him gruelingly slow. He wanted to look away, but he caught their eyes one by one and then lowered his eyes feeling he had seen too much, almost missing altogether the culprits of a rapid conversation bounding up the other side of the expansive staircase.

Two tall dark figures with mop-tops obscuring their faces, walking tightly together conspiratorially as if. One expressing some doubt, the other voicing adamant resolution in what seemed to be common knowledge:

"Well, it's science. You hold the glass at a certain angle, magnifying the light rays, and hold it exactly close enough to the fiber of the paper til it burns... and viola, clean, free, beautiful, untraceable fire."

"What's that? I can't hardly hear, what with all the people and traffic around... No. Nope. Honey, we're talking family... in the eyes of strangers, really, you're too much. Let's not worry about how things appear, alright? I say go with the heavy darts," interjected a small businessman.

Turned out he had those Bluetooth wireless earpieces for cell phones. He was jabbering to his missus, hands free.

Unlike the next pair flittering up.

"..heehe ah! no. here, like. no. I said I like foreplay but och, here mphmh stop hahee shush not here... shhh yes over there, under the..." and they slipped around back, behind the archway instead of straight through it like everybody else. He watched pointlessly for a moment. Their shadows were of course flowing in the other direction. All that remained was the smooth wall of imagination.

He was facing the sunset after all. Waiting for twilight, in a busy passageway of the social center.

Suddenly from behind him, middle-aged tourists walking hand-in-hand, descended the stairs. Effortlessly against the grain of the company that continued to soldier onward and upward.

"Yes, for all the stars, that many Angels, my dear. The star is like a little halo, hovering over each watchful keeper in the night, and at day the angels move so fast almost no one can see them!" It was poetic and echoed with a pathos so far removed from reality. They disappeared like children.

Then plop.

"Huph. The way you've torn apart that chili dog is so fricken' gross. I can practically feel your indigestion, man. Eww you're such a beast," and pushing and shoving ensued as two boys raced up way to close to him. He thought almost he'd change his spot, though he knew he'd sit. Sit until the daylight was spent.

He tuned into faint music. Faint to him. It was blasting from this oncoming student's headphones. He was annoyed. She nearly bumped him, but never looked up from her book. He closed his eyes a moment and held his breath.

"We're begging for mercy

(We're down on our knees)

We're begging for mercy

(We've lost our beliefs)

We're begging for mercy

(We're down on our knees)

We're begging for mercy

The pattern, I see it so clear

The world shakes, we're tremblin' in fear

We're gonna astray, we've lost direction

The world breaks down in tears

Broken homes, broken dreams

Broken hearts, it's all I see

I see a world down on it's knees"

The sky was blood and syrup pressed down by a blue-purple fist. Magenta really along the horizon. But on the palette that is called true Red. Maybe that's what we've really got in our veins. He opened his eyes to greet the night.

He decided to go. Try the Assassins Creed again. Tackle those Stairs of Valhalla. Xbox was a gift from the Gods he decided. His stomach growled.

He didn't like being without a fight.

08.07.2023

Bon chance mes amis! inspiration challenge #4 @BJLeCrae

Tell me a story of fallen heroes,

Pleading and begging for mercy.

Tempting fate and pierced by arrows,

In the eyes of strangers unworthy.

Tell me a story of those soon to ascend,

The shining stairs of Valhalla.

Of many lives they did willingly spend,

For all the stars to recall.

Tell me a story without a fight,

With lover’s vows kept in their hearts.

Of desire, like foreplay into the night,

A love never lost nor torn apart.

Tell me a story til it burns forever,

In the hearts and minds of men.

Unfading eternally in memory,

A story never to end.

"Hey guys!" I dropped my stuff by the bleachers. Then, I plopped down between Amelia and Clara.

"Hey!"

"Kelly didn't show up again?" I tilted my head in confusion. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know. She hasn't responded to any of my texts," Clara replied, shrugging. "I'm sure she's fine."

I pursed my lips. Kelly being sick often isn't an unnatural occurrence. It didn't mean I wasn't concerned. The school had a strict absence policy. You were tempting fate being out more than sixteen times a year.

"So what's new with you guys?"

"Mr. Morgan assigned another quiz." Clara and I groaned as the words left Amelia's mouth.

"Isn't this like quiz number six of the month? " I put my head in my hands. "At this rate, we'll be getting quizzes from him on Teams 'til it burns!" The others nodded in agreement. At this point, I'm certain we've lost count of the quizzes he's given us.

"Is the quiz easy," Clara asked.

"Yeah, just long." There was a collective sigh of relief. Constant history quizzes can be annoying, but at least I could count on an easy A.

"Crossing my fingers that it is as easy as you said. We've got Finn, Andrew, Carl, Jake, and Madelyn in one room," Clara mumbled. I nodded. This day was going to get longer and longer, I could feel it. The thought of being in a room with them, trying to get through my quiz in piece, gave me hives. I'd sooner walk up the Stairs of Valhalla.

"Guys, I've been seeing some weird stuff lately." I turned around quickly, making sure no one was eavesdropping. The others looked at me with piqued interest.

"What kind of weird stuff?"

"Well, more like a weird thing," I explained. "There's this car that parked across the street from my house. It looks like a normal blue Chevy, but something feels off about it."

"Like what?" Amelia and Clara turned to face me.

"Well, besides the fact that the car was made in 1957, nothing I can see. I've seen it in front of the house for weeks, and it's never budged! Even on weekends."

"Maybe they have another car," Amelia asked. I shook my head.

"It's an apartment building. No garage."

"You've seen it too?" I jumped in my spot. The fear left my body when I saw it was Wade. I nodded. He sat beside us.

We all took some time to process what we were just talking about.

"It's a mystery," Clara piped up with jazz hands.

"Yeah, a mystery with a really boring premise," I added.

"This whole town is boring! I don't know what you expected." Amelia threw her hands up. I gave her that one. Not much happens in suburban New Jersey.

Wade opened his mouth to say something, but a sharp whistle interrupted. We all went to our spots for attendance.

Eventually, after all the classes took attendance, they opened up the crate holding all the balls. We all stood off to the side while everyone else ran like it was the "Hunger Games" Cornucopia. I noticed Amelia grab something from behind the bleachers. A spare volleyball.

"Where'd you find that?"

"Someone left it here, and we've been hiding it, so we didn't have to run there," Clara explained as kids swarmed the crate.

We all stood in a circle, and Amelia served the ball to Clara.

"So what was going on that you blew up on Finn in math," Wade asked.

"I did not blow up on him!"

"Yeah, you did, we are literally two seats away from each other." I rolled my eyes and blocked the volleyball.

"It's not my fault he's annoying," I snapped. Wade shook his head.

"So I've heard. You fixate on this at least once a week."

"I have three classes with him! That's half my day stuck with him!" The ball flew outside of the circle, and Clara ran to get it.

"Well, we can't do much about that. But you can't fixate on it all the time. It's not good for you." I scowled. He's right. He's always right about this. In the eyes of strangers, I look like I'm about to blow up at a minor inconvenience. Being annoyed by Finn was like foreplay to my eventual breakdown.

"I'll try," I say as Clara comes back with the ball, and we resumed our game.

Finally, gym class ended. My legs felt like they were torn apart and were begging for mercy. The four of us sat by our things.

"I thought of something," Amelia told us out of the blue. "About the car, I mean." We all turned our attention to her.

"What if we all met up at the park on Saturday and tried to find anything suspicious?" The idea was turning over in our heads.

"I'd have to ask my parents first," I said. There was an outcry of 'same'.

"It's the only idea we've got. We might as well try."

"Should we ask Kelly or May if they've seen anything?" Wade suggested.

The rest of us attested to having them know.

"The more evidence we could find that something weird is happening, the better," Clara reasoned. I hoped that her conclusion was the case. A small voice in the back of my mind mocked me for my thoughts. It could be broken, or no one was using it because it qualified as vintage, or maybe the owners were in the process of getting a new car...

"You okay?" Wade tapped me on the shoulder.

"Yeah, just thinking. What if we're going about this the wrong way and nothing is happening?"

"If they weren't using the car, wouldn't we have seen another car anywhere by the house," Wade replied flatly.

"Fair point." Still, there was doubt in my voice. Trying to find something wrong was like trying to remember the name for all the stars in the sky. As I walked to English class, I tried to find anything about the car that could qualify as off-putting. Nothing. It was as plain as the rest of this town. My brain repeated that this was a lapse of judgment— that it was just going to be a hoax and lead to my downfall. The mindset common in fallen heroes made so much more sense.

There was some hope mingling with my doubt. This wasn't just a strange thought anymore. It was a mystery and we were going to get answers.

We weren't leaving clueless without a fight.

Caught inside, like foreplay;

trapped within a tempting fate,

stirring up a storm sparked

by songs out against their names

Fallen heroes

leaning ’gainst

their rusting swords

til it burns in the dark of day

Reliving the moment

their lives were torn apart,

betrayed by pretty words,

without a fight of brawn

Begging for mercy

in the eyes of strangers,

begging for death

inside their hearts

Begging for all the stars,

begging to closing hearts

to one day be taken in

by the Stairs of Valhalla

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, the hero thinks blankly. But how else would it have ended, if not like this?

For all the stars in the sky, the light does nothing to make the bloodstained field any less terrible. On the ground, the corpse stares soullessly at the uncaring heavens. The hero had always imagined it would end differently, hundreds of different confrontations like shattered glass strewn around him.

A battle for the ages, like the prophesy had proclaimed, some grand confrontation on a thunder-backed hill, clashing swords until the grass catches, til it burns down the hill in a terrific crescendo? The villain, begging for mercy as words of vengeance were spat down to tear-filled eyes? Or a softer ending, perhaps: the impossible confrontation that ends with clasping hands. How laughable.

Nothing so grand. A battle is never the fairytale it's presented as. There is no grand strike, no singing, no stairs of Valhalla, shining with the long-sought rewards.

Just the sounds of soldiers rooting through the bodies. Just the distant sounds of weeping, the cries of the wounded, those who refuse to be claimed by death without a fight.

Just a corpse at his feet, torn apart.

Just the strange thought that lingers behind his eyes - In the eyes of a stranger, would this all look different? Would a different set of eyes notice how similar the armour was, rather than the stark difference in the colours of the tattered flags strewn around the hill?

The start of this all had felt like foreplay, a burning so deep that he’d been screaming the battlecry, rather than chanting the words. But now it’s just terrible silence, and the dead eyes of a man.

He stares out at the countless bodies - fallen heroes, that’s what they’ll be called in the songs. No one will bother telling how many cried in the end, nor how the arrogance that comes from tempting fate shrivels in the face of a raised sword or hissing arrow, a charging horse.

Even now, the few survivors well enough to stand are trudging up the hill towards him with tired grins on their faces, insults thrown at the corpse on the ground when they notice it.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, the hero thinks.

"Like foreplay."

Wyatt had... to be quite frank, bungled the mission to kingdom come. Or, perhaps he was exaggerating. Just a little.

At the deluge of a happy, kid-friendly pillar of pizza in the community as it released one last for all the stars blaze of electric sparks and thuggish deep tones of "Pizza Paradigm, where Dreams come true--" he winced.

Picking up his stride, for the moment putting the sultry, coying ploy of this villain behind him.

They really were bad weren't they?

And wouldn't they know, now he was the blank slate with pretty power residue and pretty face for marketing.

_______________

9:35 a.m: Morning buzz workday. Elysia Agency

"Stairs of Valhalla," Wyatt read off, excitable and in form as he always was on a busy morning. "Cool! What's it about?"

However his coworker much less alert and decidedly unamused once she ascertained Eberly as only a thorn to deal with.

"Don't worry about it, just, get on the machine will you? I see cubicle A-1d could use a fill."

"Aww come on," he needled, "we're friends here."

"No we are not. We are decidedly not," she replied icily, snapping her novel closed.

"Look I just want to--"

"You wouldn't get it if I explained it to you anyway, it's a pretty dense and thorny read. Pretty sure only college kids sink in to actually know about the damn thing," she huffed. "And only because it's required reading for some Masters!"

11:17

He had a required appearance in an hour for an exclusive party from one of their government contacts, which often handled their PR and overall in between from them and the Senator.

It was ideal to not be seen as a military installation in an otherwise upscale housewife focused shopping street.

Hence touching up and enhancing his baseline makeup for the public, discerning the best breezy yet professional variant of his work uniform and overall present in a way to not get torn apart for recent destruction and failures in catching a novice C-Vil.

He... shouldn't have given them advice on eating three square meals should he?

"Eberly, here please."

"Hmm."

He'd just tempted fate.

He knew the female presenting criminal was a wild, callous agent. It said quite a lot that even with materials they had no idea how to use there was little care in how they malfunctioned.

And quickly growing in skill.

Just how badly then, did kind mollycoddling Wyatt tempt fate?

_________________

Same time, different place

"Stairs of Valhalla," Jaydee said, scowling. "That pretentious, disorganized think piece? That S of V?"

Felicity sighed. "Yes Jaydee, that Valhalla stage show. I admit it has a flat character base and honestly chooses to focus on quite inane aspects for what the plot promises but really isn't a bad show."

"Besides meandering plot you mean?"

"Oh look whose calling a kettle black now eh Mad Scientist."

They couldn't help but flinch.

Technically they'd never told Felicity.

And technically, Felicity didn't remember the drunken night she had called up their number after a spat turned into getting kicked out of an off-campus suck fest party.

Taking Jaydee off stalking Sun-Skip duty to make sure she wasn't snatched or-- rode on.

Then again in the eyes of many strangers, she had been snatched and by no less than an up and coming Class Three C-Vil.

"The-- the Fergus you mean? That-- that's crazy, what-- I-- I cackle at thunderstorms and bring dead puppies-- you can't prove anything!"

"Jesus," she retracted. "But back on topic, at your degree and the one time I ask you to come to a lecture with me you say and I quote--"

Jaydee rolled their eyes. "Get me a Heart Stopper sub, a metric ton of Cherry Limeade, and a metal bat."

Didn't need to hear it again.

"Does it help that I realize I truly was a heartless, PMS-ing bitch? And I really would beat my younger self with a metal bat for speaking to you in such an unacceptable manner?"

"You haven't had a period in--"

"Gah- ah, please. I told you that in confidence."

Felicity smiled a bit, in a way that in no way made them less nervous, then turned the conversation to the fabric from last month instead.

"Really great stuff, you know if the shafting commoners doesn't work out..."

"Fu-nny."

"Well I mean," she pouted, "I'm a commoner."

"Trust me, you are nothing common or dirty or a pain in my ass. Besides, who would give you installations of money and fund your crazy, artsy lady dreams of community theater and Indy Broadway?"

"Independent Interpretative and Drama Arts. No snuff nose producers, no PC policing, just imagine. Real stories, visceral and scathing. Fallen heroes, rising villains as vengeful saviors this rot-suck society could actually relate to."

"Why I love you."

________________

Fallen heroes.

Those with powers, once abused and cast out of normal society.

Destructive in their intent to exact justice and salvation for their fellow 'afflicted.'

A grossly out of date term.

"One that is making a resurgence. Now these C-Villains, this entire movement casting younger and younger bad seeds, elements harming our good institutions and livelihoods. It may just be time to revive the fallen hero title as well."

"You serious?" Wyatt groused, though more flabbergasted than anything.

To be completely truthful, he could hardly keep up with such deep, layered political conversations at the best of times.

Then again this one. It fell right at the core of his current distraction.

"Mmm well, more or less."

"This one. He's getting way too old," his young apprentice guffawed. Hearty and deep. With such an incredible black beard and moustache he had to say to hear Jolly Saint Nick suited this particular hard hitter.

"Now," said Ol' Nick, found himself wholloped well. "That any way to speak Junior. Puh honest now."

Then sharp, grey eyes turned to Wyatt, refusing him even a moment's reflection on said disaster making headway into his life. The disaster and villain, he couldn't believe wholly evil, wholly villainous character at all.

"Thing is Eberly, not too many are interested in the truth anymore. Take yourself, you're what nineteen? But you look fifteen and that's to sell some image. People aren't stupid, especially not the young ones. They still know what it's like to have their parents lie to them and realize that isn't a good feeling to have. I tell you they know society's hiding something, they know they're underserved. College is a lot more expensive, focus is being put so much on the Classers out in the field there's no enforcement on teaching standards or protections against ableism or classism inside higher education facilities."

"And the ones getting the raw end are the ones actually paying or still dependent on..." Wyatt pondered, shrewd, PR driven mind putting such pieces together... "their parents, for degrees that are-- a hit or miss?"

"Pretty much. Depends a lot more on who you know to get the few good teachers," the old man said with a careless shrug.

"Then Curb Stomper really wasn't kidding," he mused.

"What now? Who was talking about that wild twip?"

"Oh just, some things they said. I thought had been having me on; failing classes and the like--"

"But," prompted the elder, beside him his apprentice looking dubiously at them both.

"For one by the looks of their body shape, height and all-- now this part is confidential," perhaps proving his very point about society torn apart by shams and PR's foreplay, "it's strong evidence to suggest this is a young adult. Likely with outside backing and powerful one at that for the littany of resources they've shown."

_________________

"I'm-- I'm honestly very disappointed in you JJ," Mr. Roseau said heavily. "Your current work just doesn't reflect what I know you're capable of."

Their face twisted into something sickly, filled with shame.

Jaydee could hardly face the dean in the eye, but razor taut instincts took over once they felt a new closeness.

"Chin up," he snapped carelessly blaise. "Have a candy, you could really use it honestly."

Jaydee complied. Unwrapping a shiny foil to reveal a strawberry creme bon-bon.

"You've gotten sloppy. Now this new media campaign that's being put through."

Upon his desk was a codified "Thesis."

"Such a thing can't go through, which I'm sure you know why. While we certainly fight within our invisible strings within the Administrative Sector for expression and liberty for Classers," Roseau pricked, "we require examples too. Namely those shunned and spurned by society-- into our waiting hands. Clever, no?"

Diabolical.

A gracious offer by the three man led Graduate Committee for a flailing student to bolster his standing and escape expulsion.

And it was right up his alley as a Qualitative Legalese Major.

A thorny question of ethics and public policy underservicing the younger generation driving their chaotic use of Qualities. Turning Sunlight and Curb Stomper into its focal points.

"This is about that Sun Child isn't it? I see it in your eyes," he prodded with a goading, syrupy voice. Laughing quite jovially. "Oh perhaps not a crush yet."

"Ridiculous, he is the last type of person I would want shooting his mouth off about morals or 'feeling good doing good.' I just want money, same as always."

"Good to hear. I have grown... rather attached to you I must admit."

His tie ended up stained by hot chocolate a few degrees too hot, from a cutesy white kitten mug waving its paw.

"Careful, I do have explosives and do have eyes on that secret vault."

Mr. Roseau's eyes sparked. "Now what nonsense is that? You college kids, such an imagination. Big mouths too."

"I apologize."

"Till it burns Tram," he reminded. "I know your Ethics Professor has been going on his rants again."

"Doesn't mean he's wrong though."

"The idea still interests you even now."

He needn't have asked.

"Sounds like an entertaining show."

Answers like that, papers playing to professors' tangents was why out of all college dredge they were here.

"I have wondered these last few weeks," Jaydee noted, turning quite daring dare they say themself, "is he one of yours?"

"Answers like that, I doubt I'll give you without a fight or some entertainment."

____________________

"Begging for mercy? Really now, how pedestrian. Are you a Classer or aren't you?"

Both assailant and victim had on quite spiffy school uniforms. Not the same one though which would make a motive and therefore conviction just a bit harder to place.

However the victim, his face immediately registered as the son of a TV personality now on board with their Youth Wellness and Prosperity Campaign.

At the sight of a weapon-- a simple box cutter-- the victim's skin changed to sad blue with orange polka dots.

Wyatt planted his feet, curving his upper body for a swift, decisive landing on some head.

And in a wash activated his ability.

Crystalized to perfection and reflecting the blue sky around him.

Jaydee figured he'd look up after first hearing the scuffle and ruckus that could be an alleyway fight or a cat.

It was the former.

Some kid a few years younger than them smashed into Jaydee, before fleeing again.

Followed by a second girlish shriek that rang true as the call of an emasculated ego.

"Oh hi there," they greeted, causing a Sun Spock hero to drop a bulky fatso to the pavement. Sputtering and mumbling for mercy.

\\Oh yeah, don't see you mother henning your own friends or did they get as sick of you as I am right now!//

\\I don't have any friends!///

\\Why would you-- you don't tell that to villains are you asking to be strung along?//

"You need to talk to people, like normal other people."

Sienna never said he should vacate the apartment when she had her boy toy of the month over. Nor did she sequester Wyatt in his room for a birthday bash. No, he'd done those things since they were her friends a part of her life, away from the superhero gig she hates so much.

"Hello would you like to go for a coffee. Technically I'm on break, meaning no ID or credentials, not supposed to put on the costume without the watch cam and cards to go with 'em."

*No, no I don't. But it's totally something Jaydee would do, put the phrase in the title and exploit all manner of loopholes they could find. Is part of a concept I hope to write out in its entirety: 'The Worst Supervillain Ever'