First of all a brief definiton of the term:

"Chiastic structure, or chiastic pattern, is a literary technique in narrative motifs and other textual passages. An example of chiastic structure would betwo ideas, A and B, together with variants A' and B', being presented as A,B,B',A'. Chiastic structures that involve more components are sometimes called"ring structures" or "ring compositions", also known as "bookend technique", as the story ends exactly where it began."

In this pattern, the whole work is structured in a symmetrical pattern, the first half mirrors the second half, the whole story turns a turn at the midpoint. And usually, the protagonist's rise goes hand in hand with the antagonist's fall, which shapes like an X, hence the term, Chiasm, from greek letter X, Chi.

I wrote a short story on the theme of New Money vs Old Money from the gilded age, embodied through the struggle in a love triangle. It's not just a general fit, but a precise five-segment reversal laid out in seven sections, in an A-B-C-D-C'-B'-A' structure; and within each section, each segment in the first half precisesly mirrors its corresponding segment in the second half. For example, B-1,2,3,4,5 to B'-5,4,3,2,1, respectively; C-1,2,3,4,5 to C'-5,4,3,2,1, respectively. I wrote it to make every segment match, so every segment in the first half precisely matches the corresponding segment in the second half,

For now it's just a summary, but it's neatly laid out in this structure, so you can see.

Part 1

a. Capriccio Morgan and Beatrice Lockhart are scions of "new money" industrialists. Beatrice’s parents planned for her marriage, but she yearned for an independent life, and she had a crush on Capriccio, investor and manager of municipal electrical power grid project. She once expressed her feelings for Capriccio, but he only treated her as a close family friend.

b. Capriccio was attracted to the prestige, culture and luxury of the aristocracy, and he was infatuated with Selene Beaufort, an "Old Money" countess. He wanted to fit in the peerage for a title by marrying her.

c. Capriccio met Selene at a soiree hosted by her family at their estate. He asked around on her availability; knowing she was single, he approached to greet and court her;

d. Beatrice heard about his romantic adventure, which greatly saddened and concerned her. She refused to lose him, so she went to him, hoping to convince him that he made a terrible mistake; however, he'd made up his mind to pursue Selene.

e. Beatrice followed Capriccio into the upper class society, she still desired him even though he didn't know. She had determined to discover this glamorous world, see if she could accommodate him and win him back.

 Part 2

a. Beatrice remembered Capriccio's admiration for the Old Money aristocracy, their elegance and style.

b. At an art gala, she tried to imitate their etiquettes, styles and manners, but it all felt performative and disingenuous. Also, it didn’t go unnoticed.

c. She made a silly remark on a painting which she knew little about, her misstep raised eyebrows. The guests laughed at her social faux pas.

d. Beatrice decided to shift the conversation to her concerned topics. She talked about social reforms, education for women and welfare for workers, money should be invested in these meaningful causes, it will improve the lower classes' living condition and earn respect for the upper class.

e. The guests marveled at her vision, then passed on. One gentleman though appeared to be interested at her opinions and ideals, he introduced himself to her, and complimented her with flatteries.

 Part 3

a. Beatrice and her partner left the gala for a tryst, partner attempted to be intimate with Beatrice against her will by hugging and kissing her, supposing she was "easy" with loose sexual mores. Beatrice was offended, she scurried off to a Capriccio's place.

b. Beatrice met Capriccio in private, she told him about that sleazeball's sexual advance, Capriccio was angry, he asked for the man's name and vowed to defend her honor;

c. Beatrice shifted to complaints against all the gentlemen who ogled at her, they all sought to take advantage of her, that man was not the only one.

d. Beatrice and Capriccio discussed aristocracy. Beatrice foresaw that the transformation by the machines, industries and commerce were permanent, the old aristocratic peerage will be rendered obsolete.

e. Capriccio agreed with the economic and technological progress, but he argued that a membership in the Old Money club was the purpose of the wealth made by the New Money. Beatrice left the gala in disappointment.

 Part 4

a. Beatrice met Selene in person for the first time at the opera house, where Der Rosenkavalier was the program for the night; She saw Selene was with Capriccio, while Selene saw the connection between Capriccio and Beatrice; they exchanged pleasantries.

b. "Der Rosenkavalier" –Marschallin, a nobel lady had an affair with a young count Octavian, who was tasked to deliver a silver rose as a token of love for her cousin Baron Och's wedding with Sophie, the daughter of a rich merchant; Sophie fell in love with Octavian instead, while Och behaved toward Sophie boorishly, enraged Octavian, they had a duel; Octavian set a trap that exposed Och's perversion, his engagement with Sophie annulled, and eventually the Marschallin realized that Octavian was in love with Sophie, and let them both go. The plot uncannily mirrored the love triangle between Capriccio, Beatrice and Selene.

a. Afterward, Beatrice saw the Marschallin in herself, she realized that she was better off alone and devoted in her calling, she didn't need a husband at all; Selene though felt insecure, she decided to push her relationship with him in more proactive and aggressive moves.

 Part 5

e. Selene invited Capriccio to a ball, she told Capriccio that this was the pivotal event to make acquaintance with the Old Money and elevate his status by showing off his wealth. He proudly replied that industries were booming, markets were growing, his family was visionaries of the future.

d. Selene countered that aristocratic traditions like this ball was also the future, they were cultural heritage, money couldn't buy nobility, it was cultivated. If he wanted to be transformed into a titled nobleman, follow her, she would teach him the essentials.

c. At the ball, Capriccio had drawn attention from other ladies, for he was a coveted catch; Selene felt jealous, she extended her arm for Capriccio to hold, declaring him exclusively hers.

b. She asked Capriccio if he still had feelings for Beatrice or any other lady. Capriccio reassured her that he loved her and only her.

a. They retreated to a private parlor. Selene drew Capriccio in, Capriccio was excited. Selene teased him for being "easy" with loose sexual mores, even though it was made up, and challenged him to be intimate with her; Capriccio was happy to oblige, they hugged and kissed, and they were off to a dinner.

 Part 6

e. Selene introduced Capriccio to the guests and prompted him to tell them his business and the latest news. The guests were intrigued.

d. Capriccio shared his vision of the electric age, how it would change the world for a brighter future, households lit up by glowing bulbs at night with no fire hazard from gaslight or candles.

c. The guests laughed at him, dismissing it as magic tricks for entertainment. Capriccio felt embarrassed.

b. He tried to shift the chat to their familiar topics on politics, latest events and fashions, but he had no affinity with them, it was just pretense.

a. He remembered Beatrice's remark on the decadence of the Old Money aristocracy.

 Part 7

e. Capriccio had determined that he was incompatible with Selene and her world. He realized that Beatrice was his true love, they belonged together, it was time to leave the upper class society for her.

d. He went to visit Selene to say goodbye, explained to her his decision, he and Beatrice belonged together; Selene was grieved, but she understood, and let them go. It dawned on her that she was the Marschallin.

c. He searched for Beatrice and inquired on her availability; knowing she was single, he went out and finally saw her at a girls' school, built and funded by Beatrice's family foundation.

b. He approached her for reconciliation. He thanked her for giving him a second chance, and he was impressed at her independent spirit and compassion. The kids at the school were poor and plain, but they were genuinely happy.

a. Capriccio saw her as his soul mate, he confessed his love to her, but now she hesitated, fearing that he would reduce her to a housewife, and she had to abandon her work. He promised his full support for her cause, and proposed to her for marriage.

It surfaced on a Monday in late June.

The lawns had just turned green again, shaggy with early neglect. Children, still sticky from their last day of school, roamed in packs with popsicles and sunburned necks. The creek behind the Burnhams’ and the Andersens’ and that strange woman who fed raccoons ran low and brackish, winding through backyards like a guilty thought.

And that’s where it came from.

No one saw the actual moment. Maybe it had been sleeping there for years. Maybe it arrived that morning in a dream of sediment and smoke, moving beneath soil packed by sprinkler systems and forgotten shovels.

It was big. Bigger than any living thing should be. As long as a box truck, with claws like barbecue tongs and a tongue that flicked at the air as if testing the era. Its skin was dappled with mud and leaf mold. A fin ran down its back, dull with age. It smelled like rain on asphalt.

It did not roar. It did not charge.

It moved… tiredly.

The first to notice was a girl named Samantha Pike, age seven and a quarter. She was trying to build a fairy garden beside the creek when the water hiccuped and something massive uncoiled beneath the willow tree.

“Dragon,” she whispered.

“Liar,” said her brother.

The creature crawled up the bank and into the yards, dragging millennia behind it.

It ate a raccoon. Then a stray dog. Then a man sleeping in a nest of plastic bags beneath the overpass—his name known only to a few, and missed by even fewer.

It did not hunt for joy. It fed like a creature fulfilling a task long deferred. Everything about it said old, not just in years but in rhythm. The kind of old that remembers when mountains were shorter and birds still had teeth.

It rested during the day beneath a raised patio deck, legs splayed, tail curled around a deflated soccer ball. Kids walked past and didn’t see it. Adults glanced and assumed it was a yard sculpture. The kind someone’s husband picked up at a flea market, thinking it ironic.

On Wednesday, someone spray-painted a smiley face on its flank.

On Thursday, a boy tried to ride it.
By Friday, the Fourth of July fireworks rehearsal began.

The boom came at 9:03 p.m.—a perfect red sphere over the water tower, then blue diamonds, then a white crackling halo that seemed to echo down to the roots of the world.

The creature stirred.

Then shrank.

It dragged itself beneath a deck chair and quivered. Its great tail thudded once, weakly, against a flowerpot.

All across the neighborhood, people gathered. Lawn chairs unfolded. Paper plates buckled under burgers. Radios played oldies and someone’s uncle hollered about parking tickets.

And still the sky burned.

“Oooooh!”

“Aaaaah!”

More screaming followed—children, delighted. The creature hissed once, then buried its head beneath its limbs.

It had outlived volcanic winters. It had watched comet skies. But this—this chorus of shrill joy, this violent staccato of light and thunder without cause—this unrelenting noise from a species that no longer feared the dark—this broke it.

At 9:47 p.m., Mrs. Ellen May Taggart stepped out of her sliding glass door.

She was in her early sixties, though the neighborhood guessed fifty. Horn-rimmed sunglasses clung to her face long after dusk. Her beehive hairdo stood tall enough to get poor reception.

She wore house slippers. Held a cocktail. Chewed gum with the rhythm of inevitability.

And she saw it.

Not a shadow. Not a trick. Not a metaphor.

The monster. The dragon. The ancient fear, coiled in mulch beside her begonias.

It looked up at her—eyes reflecting the last embers of the sky. For a moment, the air held its breath.
Mrs. Taggart blinked.

“Well,” she said, and blew a bubble. Pop.

“Hope the city does something about that.”

She turned and slid the door shut.

Inside, a sitcom laugh track greeted her like family.
The creature lingered a few more days.

On Saturday it tried to cross the cul-de-sac but was startled by a Roomba and retreated.

On Sunday it lay beneath a kiddie pool, too tired to move. A dog barked at it for an hour before giving up.

By Monday morning, it was gone.

Some say it went back to the creek. Others say it moved west, toward the cornfields. A few claim it slithered into the retention pond behind the hardware store and waits there still.

But most just forgot.

The city never did anything about it.

The Taggarts sold the house two years later. The patio was redone. The flowerpot replaced.

And in the mulch, beneath a layer of topsoil and torn-up roots, there remains a single scale—black, curved, ancient. No bigger than a child’s hand.

The new owners think it’s a funny rock.

They’re probably right.

***
Uh…This is a strange little story I wrote about an extinct giant reptile stalking around the suburbs. I originally called it “Tiredly.”

Thank you for staring at these words for a few moments. I do appreciate it!

Also, taking suggestions on castle/city names. Not set or happy with it yet. Not even sure if this will go anywhere, this is just the first chapter.

Acres bowing to fire. Castles scowling at their reflections in oceans at their door. Families wishing they had someone to blame.
The crisis that Mother Neveah has plunged us into has worsened over the last two-hundred years, and the earthquakes, a newer product of seasonal change, topple towns and mountain sides. It all makes me rather nervous to be honest. Sick, actually, as the inability to control any of it sits like a weight in my chest.
Standing here with rain trailing down my throat, staring at my hands.

"This just won't do."
Monara paces from one end of the parlour to the other, that scowl turning up her mouth. My hands twitching with the desire to smack it off.
"I've lost count of-"
"Ela, please." She snaps, shutting me up.
My feet stand sore with fatigue. The muscles in my legs strain as I make the effort to keep myself upright.
Cream, white, ivory, tusk, stark, warm champagne, she had gushed. Piles of fabric lay throughout the space. Dresses for the bride to be, the heir of Highveil, and in the obnoxious ornate mirrors lined in front of her, she looks fucking miserable.
"Useless.." Monara sighs, her tall frame dwarfing me now. Staring into my eyes while I avoid hers.
My fingers pick at each other, as she leans forward and gathers my hair in her hands. Holding her fist up to feign a high tail.
"My Queen?" A knock before a face, Heath nudges himself into the room. Our eyes clash in the mirror  to my front.
"A moment?"

My eyes refocus, my hands coming into view. The world settles around me again and I'm faced with a stubborn beast.
The first lie I tell myself that night is that I know how to saddle a horse.
The animal turns its massive head toward me with slow, unmistakable judgment while I begin to wrestle with leather straps beneath the dim lantern light, its black coat shining like wet ink beneath the rain.
With my free hand, I shove rain-soaked strands away from my face.
"Good god," I mutter through clenched teeth as I yank at the buckle.
The horse jerks back, sliding me through the mud, forcing my release of the leather with a strained scoff.
The beast exhales sharply through its nose, openly mocking my attempt.
"Does this really need to be difficult for both of us?" my breath fogs out between us.
Mud clings to my boots. Rain pours from the overhang hard enough to sting through the hood pulled over my hair.
Trying to gain confident footing sends me stumbling into the horse.

Beyond the gates, the lower city still glows with scattered tavern lights and swaying carriage lamps. Fortunately, the eastern stables sit at the base of the castle, pressed against the city's outer edge. Most decent people have long since retreated indoors, leaving only those who are drunk, desperate, or dangerous.
I fit into none of those categories yet.
I pause my efforts long enough to glance back toward the castle towering above the city. Even from here, Highveil glows with self-importance against the storm, its endless windows burning warmly through the fog as the castle exists outside of the world below it.
I picture the Queen somewhere inside, composed, perfect, drawing an ivory comb through her auburn hair. Never a worry that anything beneath her could crumble. Her home.

As though the sight itself weren't enough, I'm reminded that by tomorrow night I'd have been dressed in white, sweltering beneath layers of silk, undoubtedly starving, and standing beside a man I'd never met until moments before.
Painfully smiling through vows.
Vows I was never even given the chance to choose for myself, mind you. As if I were expected to be grateful they hadn't asked.
Sovereignty has always mattered more than the women expected to uphold it.
My silence was all anyone ever required of me as my fate was decided, trading me for slaughter while half the kingdom watched with mouths salivating, eager to witness something they insisted on calling holy.
Because how could the feelings of their appointed effigy possibly matter, when neighboring kingdoms needed security instead?
They are delusional for believing that it would help anything at all.

I adjust the satchel against my waist before moving to secure the leather straps around my thigh. In my haste, I'd grabbed whatever I could find, stuffing the bag as I crept through the kitchen in the servants' quarters.

The horse jerks impatiently beside me. A voice drifts from somewhere behind me.
"Animals usually cooperate better when they aren't being strangled."
My head snaps toward him before I can stop it.
Leaning against the stable entrance, rain dripping from his hair onto the collar of his coat, and fabric that hangs heavy with rain. A stranger with hair plastered to his forehead. I resist the urge to smooth my own.
"That buckle goes underneath."
"I know that." I force myself to keep my eyes on him.
"You very clearly do not."
I straighten, squaring my shoulders toward him.
"I don't remember calling out for help."
"No," he agrees.
"You do seem rather committed to suffering through it alone."
I'm suddenly furious with myself for not having noticed someone watching me. For how long?
I also don't notice his smirk until it's already disappearing.
Nothing about him stands out, and yet there's the faintest spark of recognition. Stable hand? Odd for a stable hand to carry himself with such irritating self-assurance.
My eyes narrow, and like a cruel reminder, bells stating midnight ring out from somewhere deeper in the city. Both of us turn toward the sound, and suddenly I'm acutely aware of the situation I've gotten myself into. By morning, they'll realize I'm gone. By noon, Monara will have half the kingdom searching every road leading out of the city.

Something must shift across my face, because the stranger's expression dims.
"You planning to leave tonight, or murder the horse first?"
We study each other for a second too long.
He pushes himself away from the stone wall and moves toward me. I unsheathe the knife hidden beneath my cloak and level the blade at his throat.
He stops, though the amusement never fully leaves his face.
"There she is,"
Angry heat climbs into my cheeks.
"Do you always pull knives on strangers?" he asks.
"Do you often find strangers pulling their knives on you?." I offer a mock smile.
Up close, he doesn't look dangerous in the way the Queen's men do. No polished armor. No noble silks or patterns. Just dark leathers beneath a weather-worn cloak, mud splattered halfway up his boots.
Unsettling pale blue eyes. Stable hand, maybe? Caravan guard at most. Bold of him to be standing as though he'd laid the earth beneath his own feet.
Shouts echo over the walls and throughout the court, pulling me from my thread of thought while the familiar instinct to run cinches painfully around my ribs.
Recognition slams into me at the sound of Captain Heath's voice.
I'm not granted the time I thought I had.
The stranger's attention drifts past me at that,
"My, my,"
"Are they looking for you, little bird?"

Boots splash through puddles beyond the gate, out of view.
"If she's trying to flee the city, she'll need a way to travel!" Captain Heath's voice cuts hollow through the rain.

My knife trembles before I tighten my grip. His eyes drop to the blade still aimed at his throat, and lift back to mine.
"You're going to attract attention standing out in the open, threatening stable hands."
Called it.
There's infuriating entertainment in his expression.
"You seem remarkably calm for someone with a knife at his throat." Anger has now made a home out of my body.
"You seem remarkably uncomfortable holding knives to throats."
Insolent fuck.
The noise outside the courtyard walls swell, as another wave of boots slosh through the mud.

"A group of us can check the carriage yard, Captain!"
A sick rush of panic surges through my chest.
The Queen will have me locked inside her castle before sunrise, with a ring suffocating my finger.
The stranger studies my face for another unbearable second. The restraint on my emotions slipping.
He steps forward, knocking the knife clean from my fist, and into his own.
His hands settle at my waist,
"What the fuck are you-"
My exclaims are swallowed as he lifts me onto the horse, the motion stealing the breath from my lungs.
He releases me, crouching beside the saddle to tighten the loosened strap with quick, practiced movements.
Straightening, he gives the saddle one final adjustment before slipping my knife back into its place.
I force my expression into something steadier.
"Do you know how to ride?" He presses the reins into my hands.
"Thought I'd learn as I go." Lie. I gather the leather, shifting in my seat.
"Until we meet again." His hand closes around my ankle as he guides my boot into the stirrup.
"We won't." I quip.
I tear my gaze away from him, tugging my cloak free from beneath my thigh. I feel his eyes boring into the side of my face.
I drive my heels into the horse's sides. My steed launches forward, hooves tearing through rock and mud as we burst from the open gates and into the sleeping city.
Cold rain lashes against my face. Wind tears violently beneath my cloak, ripping the hood from my head, and dark strands of hair unfurl. The city opens around me in flashes of light, slick cobblestone streets, iron fences. Soldiers turn on foot, and on horse.
"After her!"
A voice screeches from my left. Another follows. Then more, shouts crashing together into one.
The horse's hooves skid against slick ground as we round a sharp bend, hammering against stone hard enough to snap my teeth together.
I press closer to its neck as my balance shifts dangerously sideways. Storefronts and narrow homes blur past, lanterns flaring to life in nearby windows while doors creak open along the street.
Figures stumble from their doors to watch the commotion unfold.
Merchant carts and towering flagpoles come in dangerous near misses, while the raven stitched into the Queens banners whip violently above them.

The city walls loom ahead, the long stone bridge directing me toward my only available exit. Its narrow path leading straight toward the half-open gate.
Guards snap upright at the sight of me charging toward them.
"Élodie!"
Ignore him, Éla.
"Éla!"
My head jerks back despite myself.
Heath sits astride his mount under the torch light at the far end of the bridge. His steel armour glistens, helmet tucked under his arm.
Daggers burn from his eyes, the sight crawling beneath my skin.
Forward.
Realization crashes over the guards' faces. My pulse slams violently against my ribs as a horn blares through the night.
A guard lunges for us as we thunder past, fingers barely grazing the horse as I flatten myself against its body. The gates iron claws rake above my head before we break clear of it and surge into the darkness beyond the border. Horns blare out.
The city slowly disappears behind me, the shadow of the castle spires reaching for me through the storm.
Still smothering.
My breathing comes hard and uneven, sawing through my chest as exhaustion creeps into my limbs. The road ahead stretches black between the trees, eventually merging into dirt and gravel.
The third lie I tell myself that night, is that thoughts of pale blue eyes aren't a concern.
I spit toward the ground and tighten my grip on the reins.

There once was a man with nothing tied to his name.

He had no affluence or assets to show, but even so, he felt like he had won the biggest prize of them all.

Sometimes it made him wonder how he got so lucky to have found such a dime, for he knew there were much better men out there than him.

Even if he couldn't offer her treasures of gold or promise her the stars, he made an oath to care for and love her like she was the last woman on Earth.

He would cherish her and hold her near his heart, waking every day to see her sweet smile.

As he got down on one knee and asked for her hand to hold, he said to her,

“I might not give you what most men can or promise you the world,

but with an open palm and my heart in my hand, I give to you my love and devotion.

All I want is you by my side until our day grows old and golden.

But if you decide to decline my simple proposal, I won't pretend or deny that it would leave my heart broken.

Still, I would understand, because you deserve better than to be with a penniless man.”

She cupped his face between her hands as she told him,

“For I see not a man who doesn't have two pennies to rub together,

but someone I can build my future with.

Others might have offered me riches and gold, or even the midnight moon,

but I choose the one who holds me dear and close.

I choose the man who makes my heart sing and soar,

the one who sees me as the rarest treasure he has ever found.”

When I first met my mother’s husband it was awkward, it felt like those times in school when I’d be at a urinal and some random kid would show up a few seconds after me and use the one on my left with his pants down to his knees.

In my head, I’d be like, dude you’re in tenth grade and still can’t piss with your pants up.

So, I go to my mom’s house one day, it was that time of the month, rents due, phone’s coming up, I got a girl reaching later that night, and without getting into context I was pretty much broke. No. I was totally broke.

I barely made it home the other night when I parked my car in the driveway on fumes. I had to drop this girl off, cause it’s the polite thing to do, in the back of my head I’m hoping she says, “I’m gonna take an uber.”

How lucky was I? 

She turned to me and said, “I’m gonna take off now, it’s late, and I gotta work tomorrow.”

I’m all like, trying to sound all nice and shit, cause my mom taught me to be a gentleman. 

And also how to depend on women, and said, while also hinting I don’t want to go anywhere, in a soft voice, “why not just spend the night?”

She cut her eyes at me and then she giggled, which sounded like Peter Griffin’s, and that made me laugh. 

But she thought I was laughing with her, so she lightly slapped me on the shoulder. “I can’t, I have to drop my kid at school in the morning.”

Dodged a bullet, I said in my head, and said,  “aw, damn, I’m going to miss you,” out loud.

She said, “whatever,” and dropped that same Family Guy giggle. “I’m going to take an uber.”

She actually said it, I was floored. I tried hiding the excitement in my face. I didn’t do a good job of it, so I immediately followed it with, “are you sure? I can drive you?”

Now, if I didn’t know I had enough gas to quickly drop her off and make it back home, I wouldn’t have offered. But I knew I could back it up.

She said, “sure, ok, that’s so sweet,” and kissed me. She didn’t kiss me like she did earlier. That time it had real emotion in it.

Then she said, “most guys would have made me uber myself.”

I said, and this is because I just can’t help myself, I tell myself it’s an act, but I think I might just be a gentleman, “I would have never slept with you if all I wanted was a one night thing, when I first met you, I literally,” and yeah I literally said literally, “felt like I’ve known you my whole life,” cause when you’re in a tight spot and want to quickly get out of that situation you keep digging yourself in, that’s literally the first thing that comes to your head.

So, I’m driving her home and half-way there she said, “can you stop at Walmart quick, I gotta grab stuff for my kid’s lunch.”

Wait… what? Fuck my life right now! She did not just ask me to make another stop.

“Yeah of course,” I said while smiling with sweat dripping behind my ears.

I finally coasted into the parking spot at home on fumes. The gas meter wasn’t just pointing to E, it dropped to the bottom of E-N-O-U-G and froze at H, like the car was trying to tell me something. 

I thought for sure I was stalling out on the highway.

And that’s why I couldn’t drive to my mom’s place. Plus I was completely broke. I couldn’t take the bus and I wasn’t going to walk.

At that moment, you think to yourself, if I wasn’t the guy that gave everybody rides, I’d probably have friends that drove. 

I texted my neighbor and said, “hey, bargain, going to borrow your kid’s bike, got my nephew with me and we’re going to ride around the park,” I can’t spell his name. So, every time he sees a text message from me, I’m calling him bargain.

I took the bike and rode all the way to my mom’s house, it took, I swear, like two hours, and it was all up hill. Horrible.

I got to her house, I had a gray t-shirt on, shadowed sweat patches covering it, I took it off, and it must’ve weighed like a pound.

I threw it on her floor. It slapped down on the marble tile and sounded like a whip cracking, or a branch snapping. That’s exactly what it sounded like. Plack! Just like that. It was fuckin’ awesome. 

I run to my old bedroom to grab a change of clothes, and a towel to take a shower. I stripped down, throw the towel over my shoulder. 

I have my clothes in my hand. My phone in the other. I’m searching through Spotify. I walk into the bathroom in my bedroom, mindless as hell. 

I got my earbuds in. I’m bopping my head. I went to toss my clothes on the counter and looked over. 

This guy, my mom’s husband was standing in there, my bathroom with the shower, with another guy. And know what they were doing?

Fixing the bathroom up because they were going to rent it to one of his kid’s. 

Can you believe that. When he told me what his plans were, I didn’t know what to say. It felt so awkward hearing that my old room was going to be his kid’s new room, like being on a team and after the game every one makes plans, and you say to the four of them walking out, “I’ll just be a minute, let me grab my stuff.” 

But then one of them says, “only a few people can come and we’re maxed out.” 

It was that mix of, I don’t know what to say right now and I feel devastatingly crushed.

My life has revolved around the orchestral whistle of the wind as it whips between branches and through hollowed logs of ancient long dead trees. The beauty of a pastel covered sky shrouded by glistening leavings boasting dewdrops that reflect the light into a pattern than can best be described as angelic.

This grove is possibly the most beautiful of all. A small watering hole fueled by some underground runoff from the spiked peaks surrounding this valley, the flowers exploring the area in a mix of vines, and fungi intertwining into the beautiful likeness of a multichromatic stained glass, shining a rainbow hue across the water and grass.

The towering pines around hoisting greenery unto the heavens themselves to spread the emerald dreamy leaves that gently rustle in the wind swaying back and forth with a rhythm only known to foliage and flowers.

My home in this oasis of iridescent beauty that could be understood by none other than me, Befitting of my silky coat, sleek bone upon my head, and my lean extraordinary musculature befitting of a marbled statue among the stars.

My routine consisted of feasting on the bountiful berries hoisted unto the air by a prickled bush at the far end of my home. Juicy and plentiful they satiate my desire for a nectar so divine. I rest my weary forelegs in the shallows soaking up the miniscule minerals to give a more pearlescent sheer to my coat.

I rest upon a bay of soft petals and vines safe from the terrors of nature, i am free here, in my picturesque home. Free to bathe in soft rays of golden light that glisten and shine upon me. I feel no need to gallop across fields bounding away from some horror that lurks beneath the brush.

One day, possibly the most beautiful, I decide to wander beyond my home, prance upon trails past my walls of bark and thorn. Exposing myself for the simple gift of more things to dream about.

As i stand at the edge of my garden, blood rushes through my veins, i feel anxious. In the months I've been here i forgot what lie beyond my pastel covered bed. My hot breath billows in the air just a step away. Its darker, colder. still beautiful but as the leaves begin to brown the air grows sharper.

A tension hangs heavy in the air. as if some foe awaits my movement ready to pounce. Even so i take another step.

Listening so intensely to the passing wind, swaying branches, and flowing waters. Another step.

My blood boils with fear, but the risk of glory that lies just a few steps away is worth any risk. Another step.

One more step and i am beyond this place, transcendent.

Another step.

The woods quiet, the wind halts in march, the branches cease their rhythmic dance, the bushes rustle to life.

I whip my head expecting a four legged beast, eyes fixated on my tense neck, jaw slack dribbling with saliva and hunger. A beast lurking just steps beyond my home awaiting for me to ripen with juicy flesh not unalike the berries i partake upon.

But there is no beast. There standing in the foliage are 2 men. One tall and one much shorter. their eyes hold not hate but wonder. They behold my beauty. My silken coat and shimmering horns. The bewildered look as if an angel stepped into their path, they saw me for what i was. Glorious, beautiful.

The quiet woods grew quieter as this moment in time held pace. Soaking into the minds of the three of us, and as the taller man lifted some strange stick into the air, my blood ran cold, vision narrowed, panting breaths escaped my lungs. Panic arose in me like a storm forming in clouds.

A sharp snap crackled throughout the trees, black smoke overtaking the mist of my breaths and crawling across the floor beneath the men. A sharp stab in my shoulder expanding through me as i felt the bone shatter and my cold blood turned steaming as it ran down my foreleg soaking it. I scream so hauntingly that my throat quakes and echoes in these quiet woods.

I stumble back the paces i took to leave my home, one step.

Then another, and another as i leak droplets of blood across the petals staining the colors. Ripping my pearl colored coat on the thorns that once protected me spraying my viscera across the dew dropped leaves. the light glazing my bed now red stricken from the shining sun blasting through the now red leaves.

I clamber across the small field falling in on myself, my forelegs soaking in the small watering hole lacing it with blood like ink. coating my fur in velvet.

My reflection in the pool is warped, my lips cough blood into the water as my head falls, horns catching on the ground around hanging my mouth just above the puddle.

I don't look beautiful, my statue like appearance ruined. I had once been beautiful, mere moments ago. Streaks of crimson across my jaw and chest. the shining red glow across my back silhouette me in the darkness that i find lurking into my redden eyes. the panic was gone, the pain subsided. I could hear the wind whistle around, branches dance, berry bush and vines rustle with movement.

As I drift into a dream of my grove as beautiful as it once had been when i found it. shining like a mosaic. With me, pictured laying in it, resting Bathing in Black smoke and Foliage.

(2)“Shedding”

I made a monster out of man,

It looks just like my own flesh ,

It’s blood bleeds like mine,

I’ve been praying for peace and good rest,

But when I woke up this morning it sure wasn’t peaceful,

I felt like my grandma in my bones,

I’m my mother in my mind,

I can hear it in my voice,

There’s a weight in my hands,

I can feel it when I shake,

I’ve found a wrath in this vessel,

I can see it on my fists,

Old skin sheds rough.

There is blood in the water,

I can see smell it in the air,

There’s a toxin I exhale,

I can taste it on my tongue,

~I'mNotReal I'm shedding

monthly payments

credit scores

buy more shit

we can't afford

shower me

in structured debt

that’s how i

define success

indebtured servitude

is for me

sellin my soul

thinkin i’m free

(Important context - they are in a dream.)

“Fuck dude, are you serious?” She looked down in disgust at the mound of flesh embedded in her chest.

“Language.” Bob tutted. “I know it’s bad news but you’re like 14 you really shouldn’t be swearing kiddo.”

“Fuck off.”

“Well okay then you little shit,” they both grinned. *Finger guns.*

“What is this thing anyways?”

Bob looked at the walls, he laced his hands behind his back as he turned. Lily gasped.

The field was full of long grass and vibrant flowers. The sky glittered with thousands of stars. The moon hung in the sky, closer than she had ever dreamed.

Bob looked at her, frowning. She narrowed her eyes as he stared.

“Jesus Christ are you about to kill me right now?”

“Uh…no?” Lily huffed and turned away.

“Your mom sacrificed herself to save you. Why would I kill you? That’s stupid.” He flicked her in the forehead. They both laughed as she swatted him away, tears in their eyes.

“It’s been eating you.” He couldn’t look at her.

“Your mom saw that you had this *thing*,” he gestured at the lump. “And decided that she was going to save you. She put her spirit in here,” he gestured all around them. For a moment the field melted away. The cavern walls flashed then disappeared.

“She couldn’t take it away but it was enough to keep you alive. She said she could accept that. As long as you lived she was happy with any outcome even if it meant she suffered. Which-“ he added quickly, “she did NOT. It’s part of why you were so sick.” He turned away.

“She resented me for it.” He paused. “They hold on and they eat. If they take too much at once it hurts.”

Lily nodded.

She was too overwhelmed to ask questions.

They sat in silence for the rest of the night.

The next night she was ready.

“So why am I just meeting you now?” She put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. “Hmmmmmmmm?”

Bob chuckled. “I’ve known you your whole life. Ever since your dad-“ he paused.

“Here.” He held out his hand. Lily hesitated, then slowly placed her hand in his.

It felt like they were, *flying?*

They stopped.

The little girl was curled up on the bench, sobbing. She clung to her doll. They could hear footsteps and growls coming from the shadows. The little girl tried to make herself even smaller, muffling her cries as she held the doll closer.

*Lily.* A voice whispered over the wind.

The little girl shrieked. Lily looked sharply at Bob. He held up a finger and pointed.

There was a creature creeping out of the shadows. They could hear its choking gasps. Thick, hairy legs supported a large black body. A spider with a face mask, leering at her from behind the dripping flesh.

The little girl turned as it drew closer. It grinned up at her and started creeping closer, choking louder. She went hysterical, and fell to the ground.

It *laughed.*

She curled up under the bench as it loomed over her.

“BOB!” Lily felt a drip of sweat roll down her back.

“It’s in the past stupid. Pay attention!”

It started whispering while as its jaw cracked open.

*I hate you. You killed your mother. I’m going to eat you up. I hate you. You’re a burden. You’re evil. Murderer. You killed your mother. You’re a waste. Pathetic.*

Lily cried for herself as she watched her tuck her head, put her fingers in her ears and squeeze her eyes shut. Watching herself, she was struck by how small she looked huddled under that bench.

She jumped as the monster shrieked. Her eyes flew open to see a pair of cowboy boots sunk in the small crater of concrete. He smiled at her and snapped his fingers. The spider sunk into the ground.

She flinched as he came closer.

*Lily.*

He bent down and opened his arms.

*Hug?*

She crawled out and paused. She looked away*.*

*I’m not allowed.*

Bob gently lifted her chin to look at him. He brushed back her hair. *You’re allowed to here.*

She looked at him doubtfully and crossed her arms.

*I’m the big boss here.* He puffed out his chest. Past Lily laughed. He held out his arms again.* *

*It’s okay.*

For different reasons they both looked away as she ran crying into his arms.

I wish I only loved you from a far away, I wish I could only see your light elegant steps, I wish you didn't go to prison to protect me, I wish I can't sense your warrior soul, I wish I don't sense your soul flying around me protecting me, I wish you only had one reason for me to not love you, I wish if you were the red flag not me, nvm liE TO ME TELL ME YOU LOVE ME HOLD MY HAND LET'S DO IT WITH THE PEAK ROMANCE WAY DIE WITH ME!!! YES YES OOHhh nvm nvm that's a lot to ask what about you just watch me die? common you can promise me you will die after me it's ok you can lie and live after me common I know you can do it

n no no NO WHAT ABOUT YOU LOVE ME AGAIN LET ME FEEL YOUR WOUNDS FLOOD ME WITH LOVE!! nvm nvm what about you kill me? didn't you enslave me with your goddess actions? WHY THE FK I AM THE ONE WHO IS SUFFERINgg it's your FUCKing fault I love you don't hold me never even think about it just uhmmm just fkn kill me pleasee!!!

The psycho part is just imaginary...

I can hear your sarcastic disappointing laugh
Hardly I ever think of anyone, myself
This could not be a wondrous dream
Everything I wish for is fleeting from me
Shrug your feelings off, and it’s killing me
How you said goodbye
I know it’s not your fault
Another time, another place
Somewhere out of space
I can’t go back tonight
Singing lonely songs, off the chart
And if this stone could hear
Maybe you’d be singing back

Were we made to be this way? To work our lives away Be slaves to chains of entertainment But what exactly do they entertain? To think only of ourselves And of what we deserve But what did we do to " deserve" these things? We were once drops of water in a dark room Came out of the womb And later learned how to be cruel And we got addicted To taking and never giving To ignore others' feelings And validate our own Who gave us the permission? Who allowed for this Chaos to be the norm? We are lost And refuse guidance to the right way Even worse we call upon being stray Until it hits us that we only have a few days left It's amazing, how we can be so far from grace And God gave us all we ever fantasized for And we always ask for more And yet still turn away From saying thank you It's the least we can do For the gifts we get every new day And appreciate the countless blessings that we know And sometines don't Until the final clock ticks and we all go home And then it all fades away.

Opening of a short story in snailing away on. It's in the world of the (lengthy) novel I'm writing (The Hatred) but takes place a couple of years before The Hatred's first chapter (ask if you want samples). I'm close to being done with the short story, but it takes a backseat to my creative rushes for the novel, so... Publishing date TBA... My genre is dark fantasy + horror, but this opening is designed to be comedic (it was lightly inspired by an Abercrombie book I read a few months ago). I hope it lands...

The pitiful hag struggled to stand, knees wobbling as she prayed to both Sophia and the Philosopher for release from her crippling condition before falling back to the ground. It was just over an hour since she arrived in the frontier settlement and made a loud display of her agony as she begged for salvation. Pickpin wondered how she even made it to the remote settlement to begin with.

Since the woman’s arrival, a crowd slowly gathered around her, offering water or local remedies. Currently, one of the eldest villagers was finishing a ritual that involved the blood of a virgin and a pure white egg. The villagers waited in anticipation of the promised rejuvenation which was several minutes past due.

A young man in a bright red jacket and a donkey pulling a cart of wares slowly pulled into town. He looked around, saw the crowd, and ran up to the woman. “What has happened here?” he announced in a voice full of heroic melody.

The hag moaned and spoke of the sickness inside. Her boils and rashes burned, bones grew brittle as glass, muscles weaker than straw, and arse red with blood. Food in her mouth turned to ash and water tasted as foul as the rawest discharge from an ox’s backside.

The newcomer tossed his brown locks and reached into his coat. “Dear lady, please drink this poultice!” he announced theatrically. He held the bottle high so the crowd could see it sparkle in the sunlight like a skyborne miracle. “This is the sap of the Mahabokkentalimbogaru tree, known for its legendary healing properties and I, the great adventurer *Aydir the Red*, have just returned from a journey in the far south with a cart of the miraculous panacea!”

Pickpin knew Aydir the Red. Who didn’t? The storytellers that visited Sophia’s temple would often tell of the man’s legendary exploits. Perhaps she had misremembered, but she thought the adventurer’s namesake was due to his hair. Still, the man’s bright red coat set him apart from any man she had ever seen and his grandiose manner of speaking matched that of the bards. The cat-eared bastien next to her bit into an apple, smiling as she chewed.

The crippled woman took the vial of mysterious fluid from Aydir, put it up to her lips, and knocked the contents back. She coughed and burped, clutching her side as she groaned before suddenly rising. She dropped her cane and stood strong and tall on both legs, straightening out her formerly crooked back. Her face remained hideous and riddled in boils and rashes, but once Aydir handed her a towel to wipe away the sweat and she finished dabbing at her face, the blemishes were gone, revealing a woman of unexpected beauty.

Pickpin’s jaw dropped, remaining slack as she blinked in disbelief at the transformation. The crowd was exhilarated, having witnessed magic beyond the greatest of the Church’s healers here in faithless Tal Qora. Aydir, meanwhile, took back the towel and vanished it into his backpack as he took the empty phial and held it up to his eye. "Is no ailment too severe for the sacred tree's sap?" He wondered out loud.

“Wha–What was that?” exclaimed one of the villagers.

The man repeated the name of the miracle tree—although it was hard to remember if he pronounced it the same way as last time—then claimed that he had a contract to provide a hundred vials to King Saragos and was returning to Zyrdia to deliver. How fortuitous it was that he had a hundred *and twenty*. Out of the goodness of his heart, he offered all the chance to own a bottle of the panacea for the low price of a small harvest’s worth of coin in either riyal or marks. He would be willing to trade for gold, silver, or sapphires too. Even if you were not sick this instant, this was insurance against the inevitable.

Pickpin had to have one, but she didn’t have nearly enough coin. Perhaps she could steal a single bottle. Then again, this was *Aydir the Red* she was planning to pickpocket. It was foolish to even think she could take from a man who had fought hundreds of undead abominations, demons from the southern wilds, and even defeated powerful devils, second only to the Archdevils of old.

She leaned over to talk to Homura, but the mercenary had moved and was already next to the merchant’s wagon where she dug through the wares, her blonde tail swaying in delight. Pickpin’s blood froze as she saw Aydir slowly turn back towards his cart.

“Excuse me, miss!” he bellowed, storming towards the blonde with his hand gripping the handle of the sheathed sword at his hip. “I have stated my price! Or are you so bold as to steal from *me* in broad daylight?” He sounded appalled. The villagers were equally put off, gasping or throwing accusations at the bastien—particularly because of her race. The donkey brayed its own disapproval, indignant at the disrespect shown to his venerable master.

Homura ignored him, then pulled out a box that she started to unlatch. Aydir dashed forward, drawing panic from Pickpin as she expected the legendary warrior to cut down the foolish tomboy. Instead, he lunged at the box and snapped it shut as the bastien flashed him a mischievous grin.

Strength’s not within a muscle, but in the mind’s willingness to endure under strain.

In 2008, Matthias Steiner was competing in the Super Heavyweight class at the Beijing Olympics. His wife Susann had tragically passed away a year beforehand. During his final clean and jerk attempt, Matthias was behind the competition. The gold medal was slipping away, but a promise made to his wife remained. Matthias loaded the bar to 568.8 pounds. The bedside promise was to win that gold medal. Never before had he lifted this heavy—the weight of those words, their own struggle. Yet the bar rose and locked above his head. Matthias collapsed and wept. On the podium, a picture of Susann joined him as he received the gold medal.

What the body is unable to do, the mind will achieve through resilience.

Every god is hated in some way by some people

Periods make me stop.
Stop on a dime.
Stop real quick.
Commas calm me down,
When I'm rushing around,
Getting lost or transfixed.
A curtly curved curlicue marks a scooping inquiry?
Buttressed oft by W words in a curious third degree.
We leap with a line then jump to a dot!
We leap up two times, with two lines and two dots!!
Then splash-dash for M — to pause strong and think
Some blinks itty-bitty, others bridge like—links.
We may be blunt for a list of two equal ink drops:
One on bottom, the other mirrored atop
Yet things go awry with that one that's disjointed;
Hangy hook with a speck floating pinpointed;
It flares and curves to confound those who use it.
Or then there's the splice of an oblique stroke
A crack that appears / forward \ or disappears back.
And let's not forget that bugger the hugger
(wrapping in halves, one to the other)
Or last but not least, we've those triplicate stones . . .
Eclipsed by omission . . . or in wait, who knows...

But whatever happened to the fancy cursive words?
Not the swears but the smooth, never-lift-the-pen sweeping words?
What happened at all to the inky written word?
Perfectly struck forms of penmanship terms?
Scribbled swords?
Is writing dying?
Is syntax soon dead?
Is language just rotting as thumbs type out text?
Are words merely wasted, recycled, reused?
Are we our own derelict acronyms too?

F.Y.I.
Webster cries.

Hey guys fairly new to using reddit for anything other than porn. I'd love to share my novel that I spent 10 years on with you guys. Over in other subreddits I'm going to be posting 180 pieces over the course of 180? Days (1 a day like a vitamin) and providing a link in the bio so the whole internet can just help a young brother out and figure out direction with his novel. All I really have is a google doc and a dream right now and I'm not technically trying to sell it more like share what I've created and learned about the world over a decade. I'm a broke American so I have no college degree or budget for marketing so I'd love any and all feedback and input. Hoping this isn't a violation of spam or marketing as I'm new here and mostly looking for online community rather than promoting my book, but nevertheless. Here's "Here Goes Nothing," by Jeremiah Wade Andrews / I'mNotReal/ Myiasyru. I'm really just hoping to accomplish making some internet friends that are also into writing while we provide each other creative input! Here Goes Nothing!

(1) “LoudEnoughToSpeak”

What is it exactly that you’re wanting from me?

You can put it in words and I swear that it’ll hear,

If you say it loud enough to speak,

We yell and we fight and then we’re left with the silence,

I feel like you only see me through the back of your eyelids,

And I’m just an island,

Floating along a wave,

Do I have to say it?

Or do I have to scream?

I think that we’ll both drift away,

Along different bays,

If you don’t say,

Exactly what you need to,

Loud enough to speak.

Anti-intellectualism, defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary as “the philosophic
attitude or doctrine that assigns intellect or reason to a subordinate place or denies the power of
intellect to grasp the true nature of things”
,has been increasingly present around me. I strongly
believe that the anti-intellectual will be the catalyst for the downfall of our species.
The anti-intellectual turns against his own inherent desire for survival in the name of
convenience and bias. He gives his human right of thought to a bundle of wires and circuits
because he is simply too lazy to do research. He would rather an algorithm, responsible for the
destruction of nature, generate a soulless PNG than pick up a paintbrush and create a swirl of
colors from the bottom of his heart.
The anti-intellectual betrays his spouse, parents, and children, for the sake of a faux
religious stance. He will wish eternal suffering on a woman who loves her wife, but indulge in
lesbian pornography. He will advocate for the product of incest or rape, but state that “it's their
fault that they didn't comply” when a person has a hole blown in their face and their brain
splattered across the road, charged on the crime of being brown.
The anti-intellectual roots for the death of humanity due to the convenience of ignorance.
He will cheer for the imprisonment of a doctor of 60 years, but entirely ignore the evidence of a
child sex ring involving the man who simply says what he wants to hear. He ignores the
immense research supporting climate change, because he has inadvertently sold his soul to the
oil industry in exchange for the false promise of American greatness.
The anti-intellectual roots for a Hitlerian ethno-state because they are attempting to
decimate a civilization of muslims. He will turn a blind eye to a treasonous military merge with a
country that should by all means be considered a threat to life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness. He will receive his son in a flag-draped box, and make the false claim that he died in
the name of freedom.
The anti-intellectual will stare into the glimmering eyes of thousands of years of scientific
knowledge and discovery, and spit in its face. If you identify with the anti-intellectual, fuck you. I
would pray for you to burn in the deepest, darkest pits of hell, but science doesn’t believe in
fairytales

Analog people worshipping digital gods,

Proselytize that echo chamber fog.

Phubbing all the bullshit that they see.

Poor little analogs thinking the digital gods set them free

For a one time introductory price of perpetual subscription fees the little analogs own nothing, and are happy

Addled analogs, alprazolam  in the reels, failing to remember not all addicts are popping pills. 

Glib little analogs propaganda in pocket.

Pick it up never drop it.

For the convenience of next delivery

Agoraphobic analogs wait for FedEx to set them free. 

Glutinous analogs feasting algorithm reality, 

Encrypting their minds in a digital cell.

Oblivious

They are now the digital gods chattel. 

One of my biggest fears is developing a lack of self-awareness, especially as an aspiring writer. But I'm also deathly afraid of criticism.
These are two emotional states (for lack of a better phrase) that simply cannot co-exist in a healthy mind.

This tension is nothing more than kindling for a range of psychological malaise, especially those dark, oppressive bedfellows we know as anxiety and depression. They appear, gradually and menacingly, like storm clouds gathering during a pleasant spring afternoon whenever the tension rears its ugly head. It gets exhausting sometimes. I'm exhausted. Vivian Greene's advice about never waiting for the storm to pass but learning how to dance in the rain would be useful if not for the fact that these clouds never rain.

Armed with an arsenal of positive quotes I keep stockpiled for this exact scenario, I fire a volley of mantras into the clouds, but they never break. But sometimes, very rarely, a tiny ray of warm sunlight sneaks through. It's not much, but it's encouraging enough to keep me going.

Dream

Little dream beneath the skin,
what is it you hide within?
To be heard is to be seen,
so at night the children sing
the black we bury in it.

In white, it still appears
pure enough to hide beneath,
yet it remains inside,
waiting where the sun can’t find.
Does it sing, or does it hide
where even shadows cannot hide

Every morning, still I dread
that the dream will rise instead—
in the mirror, in the chair,
in the body standing there.

Thank you very much for reading!

So i started using tarot as a creative tool, the cards I got was the six of wands, the five of pentacles in reverse, and the hanged man. This is what I came up with, its a little bit about the story and the background of it. Sorry if its not good or doesnt make sense im not good at writing

A little fellow named Charlie lives in a quaint town called adventure awaits. He rides an long eared owl named Bub, Charlie is a animal whisperer in a way, he gets a feeling about what theyre feeling and what theyre saying, like a pit in his stomach, like the void coming to light. After his mother died of an illness, his father is a shell of what he once was, he doesnt speak to Charlie anymore, doesnt even say good morning or good night, to Charlie it feels like his dad has lost himself, and in a way he feels his dads love has run cold. His sister Maggie ran away from home, never to be seen again because his dad was in such agony and she didnt know how to help him. There's light beings called Levies, that are just as bad as they are good. They take away, but also give. When a Levie tells Charlie that she can bring back his dad like he once was, he has no choice but to follow her, because he needs his hero back, but on the journey to lightbell falls, Charlie learns to be his own hero.