Humility means nothing in the face of power.

It makes one wonder. Words are void when handed the ability of ultimate monarchy, the reign of which a King can decide the fate of thousands upon thousands of lives. A promise that's broken before pinky fingers are even entwined.

A single sweep of an arm, and the slums at the edge of the capital are angry flames. Purging the filth of the Kingdom is the task of a leader that must be taken seriously with the utmost care. The nuisance of such flies, now homeless, buzz with fear as they scatter to the sparse corners of the realm.

As she lounges in her gold encrusted throne, the King smiles. How tiring.

There's a person you don't know sitting across from you on the train -- not that this is terribly surprising, you often aren't acquainted with your fellow passengers. It's impolite to stare, but you've never been what people call "courteous." When your curiosity is piqued, it's all but impossible to avert your gaze from your object of interest. 

In this case, they sit prim and proper, but they slouch all the same. Their eyes are fixed on their smartphone before them like most others surrounding you, although they seem to sense your childlike wonder as they glance up, modestly.

Instead of turning your head down like the rest of the universe would have done, you proudly meet their questioning green eyes. They're the shade that olives are, and they're framed beautifully by such dark powdered skin. Faint traces of makeup leave a rose tint upon their cheeks, and they quirk a perfectly imperfect eyebrow as if to ask, "Can I help you?"

You shake your head no, just the slightest. The stranger -- no longer so strange now, once their eyes have met -- offers a peculiar smile. You like the shape of their ears, you think idly. They return their attention to their lap. 

That's one less stranger in the city.

All of those TV shows and movies had been right. The entire time people laughed and cried during all of the pop media featuring the holy undead, and yet, here we are. 

Day one of the zombie apocalypse. 

You think after everything Hollywood had done to show us how to prepare for this, we'd be able to immediately figure out where the first zombies had originated from. Some toxic waste gas that had been been carelessly left alone in some unknown area in the middle of the United States was all it took for the contanimation to spread to its first host, and soon, it claimed many more. Why had this happened?

I don't have much time. As I write, another person falls victim to the grip of the never dying. There are screams of terror filling the streets of this small New Hampshire town as everyone frantically hurries to fetch as many supplies as possible, to lock themselves in their hastily constructed safe houses, to do whatever they can to be with their loved ones.

Weapons are handed out like candy on Halloween, even to the smallest of children. The air reeks of fear, as death begins to encircle where we tremble in our boots.

I consider the possibilities. What do I do? One way or another, there will be bodies everywhere. The thought sickens me to my stomach, and as I write now, I can't help but glance over at the shotgun my aunt had graciously bestowed my family with. I stare at the trigger, thinking about how easily I could click the safety off, aim it at my own head, and be done with it all.

Would that be fair to those who are fighting for their lives? Would it be cowardly of me? God, I don't know. 

I'm scared.

It curls in the deepest pit of your stomach, nipping bitterly at your core. Rapidly it shifts from creeping to engulfing your self-confidence, your pride, your very being until you cannot hold on any longer and everything is lost to the utter nothingness.

Your terror is manifested into a physical form, staining your cheek as it rolls towards the Earth with gravity’s coaxing. Your breathing becomes labored as it hitches in your throat, caught like you’re unsuspectedly choking on a too large bit of food. It used to be so easy, it used to be something you did without even thinking. Now, it’s all you can concentrate on as you succumb to the panic, and it clutches you in its relentless grip.

It has you now. You want to hiccup. You can’t. You are gasping, hyperventilating, drowning, drowning, you’re drowning, you’ve forgotten how to swim in a torrent ravaged by the gale.

Death is there, keeping you company. You’re alone, absolutely alone (“you’re fine, get over it, hurry up”) -- except for Death. Death rubs your back reassuringly, welcoming you in a tender embrace when no one else will accept you, and you’re defeated, you don’t care anymore, the lack of oxygen is gratifying now, you want to pass out, you want it to be over in any way possible.

The sense of doom you feel is unnerving, you’re going to die, you can’t continue, you’re going to die, you want everything to end now, you’re going to die, a harrowing impulse to end this all seems like the only viable solution, you’re going to die, you’re going to die, you’re going to die.

After all, you’re bothering these other people who stiffly watch you have your episode, not knowing what to do. They’re annoyed, irritated; they think you just want attention and that you can control this. You need to be fixed, you can be fixed, and you can fix yourself.

I’m sorry, you whisper over and over again with what little air you have, sorry (I’m being a bother) sorry (I’m wasting your time) sorry (I’m making your own life harder) sorry (you have to watch this) sorry (I can’t get over this) sorry (I’m apologizing) sorry (I messed up) sorry (I have anxiety) sorry (I’m alive) sorry (I’m hurting you) sorry (I want to do bad things to myself) sorry (I’m making everything worse).

It’s okay, they say with an awkward smile, but you can tell what they’re thinking: I’m sorry too.

But it’s for entirely different reasons, and you know it.

Slowly, you blink your eyes. They feel heavy, the exhaustion of the never-ending days weighing down on them. I sit on your lids like royalty; this is my Kingdom.

Looking around, you struggle against me to remain observant, conscious of your surroundings. The colors begin to blur to an iridescent haze. This is what happens when you ignore me -- when you attempt to defy me.

Everything’s futile, of course. However, I am necessary. You cannot avoid me. I am what comes to you late in the night. I knock on your window, and sometimes you may choose not to let me in.

Even though you might not think it, I am here for you. I wrap my arms around you in a tender embrace to keep you safe. I give you reprieves from the world every now and then; I am what you use to escape stress for hours at times.

Pleasurable desires or intimate fears -- I can bring along either during my visits. I come and go as I please, and I bestow upon you energy for when the next day comes.

What am I?

Luck or fortune, which to believe? They are both deemed the envious title of ladies, and yet -- they are scarce, a rare guest to the extravagant party we call hope, faith, and will power. Their exquisite taste in fashion is no excuse for their inopportune visits. 

Lady Luck and Lady Fortune can kiss you on both cheeks and you will still lose the rigged game we call life.

Here is a personalized invitation addressed to you; we invite you to explore an alternate reality where instead of technology developing as it did, dreams became the scrutinized fascination of humanity. 

Dreams are unique. Strange happenings occur in them, things that you could never imagine in the waking world. There is a ranking for the dreams based on the type of people's colorblindness as well -- with the blind's being the most desired rarity. 

There are dream walkers who explore the slumbering people's minds in order to extract the most entertaining, exciting, and exquisite dreams that some are willing to purchase. In response, a revolution to stop this infuriating intrusion has sprung to life, teeming to the brim with those who refuse to share their dreams. They are personal, able to reveal the most well-kept secrets, and this does not sit well with the discontented. 

To combat the dreaded dream walkers, the rebels have discovered a way to fend them off: dream catchers. Lulu, as he is known, is an expert in this much needed skill -- able to weave an array of iridescent colors and awe-inspiring patterns, he's exactly the kind of person that the rebellion cherishes as a glimmer of hope.

If you wish to RSVP to this event, please respond accordingly. We await you with open arms and clandestine smiles.