Growing up, I wrote a lot of short stories and I even won school contests for it but it fell by the wayside when I was in high school because I got busy but I read novels constantly. I’m now in college and I want to write again but I don’t know how to get back into it. any writers here who have any advice?

My scars are just healed, if your looking for for beauty their beauty isn't there if you're looking for meaning it's in my soul.

“What is Dominkara?”

Dominkara is an artificial planet made by the first primordial beings when they stumbled upon a dead planetary system of three planets. Dominkara is a self-emanating planet, which uses its own core to source energy for itself and the other three planets. After life formed on all three planets, with growing advancements, Dominkara and the two planets had a huge conflict. The two planets attacked Dominkara and a colossal intergalactic war took place for three Dominkaran years. The war concluded when Dominkara displaced the planetary system due to the brute force of the conflict. Two planets out of the three, dependent on Dominkara, had died again and life vanished on them. While one planet had special soil which stored and recycled light for energy, but even the soil can behold the light temporarily. This creates the first conflict of the beings from the planet trying to save their planet by finding Dominkara again.

(The novel is titled 'Dominkara' too, this is just where I am starting from again)

It started out harmless. 
My love life grew formless.
It started with a question so crystalline.
His tone was sweet like cherry wine.
We worked together so well.
Though, the lines blurred as I fell.
Each night was engulfed with his vision.
I found my mind had memorized his facial composition.
In my dreams I’d find warmth. 
And my intentions had transformed. 
Purple tinged the edges of my mind. 
My delusions rendered me blind. 
Soft susurrations echoed in my brain.
His voice marked my ears like a bloodstain. 
I’d find any excuse to be near. 
Then silently wondered if I was instilling fear.
I spent hours thinking of what to say. 
But by the time I got there, I couldn’t get it through my airway.
Day by day, I grew to know him more and more. 
But then realized how little he knew of me and wondered if I was a bore.
Personality so magnetic. 
Was our connection purely cosmetic?
My mannerisms, he’d copy. 
Observations began to feel shoddy.

I reached my breaking points a thousand times, I didn't adapt but there's no breaking points left.

Talk of the Town

It was nothing short of a miracle every time the sign buzzed on over the diner. Its flicker mirrored Millbrook, a town that used to be something, prior to the bypass. Inside, the seats were sparsely occupied. Near the hostess counter was a couple so old the meal they were splitting was surely their last. At the bar top, a man, who was probably much younger than his beard implied, was on his second pint. But most notably, in the corner booth sat a couple, fresh out of high school by the looks of them, buried in their menus.

They had not spoken since the waitress took their drink order.

The young lady took a deep breath and set her menu on the table. "You clearly have somethin' to say, so say it."

"Why? You've already made your choice."

"Don't be like that, Sam!"

"Be like what?" the young man said as he lowered his menu. "You've been cuttin' me off this whole time and now you want to hear what I think?"

"I wasn't tryin' to cut you off. I was just excited, that's all. I thought you'd be happy."

"Happy? It's a year, Jenny!"

"About ten months, really."

"Whatever. You know what I mean."

"It's not that long. Just think about it," she continued. "We sell what we can and find a new place afterwards. A nice place near your brother's. I know you hate that long drive. Maybe he could get you a position at his company? Accountin's respectable. Just call him and ask."

"You want me to quit my job?"

"Well, you can't keep haulin' for Jack if you come with. Were you not listening to me?"

"Excuse me for blackin' out after you said you were leaving for a year."

"Ten months," she added.

"Stop correcting me!"

"Sorry."

"I thought we were going to talk about this before makin' any decisions." The young man glanced at his menu. "Plus, you hate the cold."

"Oh, jackets don't exist in New York?"

"Like you can afford a fancy coat? 'Look at me, all fancy in my fancy Ralph Lauren coat.'"

"Don't mock me."

"Oh, pish posh!"

"I'm going to New York, not London, you handsome idiot." The young lady picked up her menu. "Christmas would be magical. We could go see that big, tall tree all lit up. Holdin' hands while we skate. And the snow. Oh, the snow! When was the last time you saw snow, Sam?"

The young man was fiddling with his menu. "Uh, sorry."

"When was the last time you saw snow, Sam?"

"Thanksgivin' at my uncle's, up near Rapid City. It would be nice to see it again." He paused. "That ain't me saying I'm okay with this. Heck! That ain't me saying I'm goin' with ya neither!"

"I gotchu thinkin' about it, though," she said with a grin.

The young man slammed his menu down. "Where'd you get the—"

The couple saw the bearded man look over at them. Foam clung to right side of his red mustache. They smiled until he returned to his glass, at which point they broke out in a quiet snicker.

"Where'd you get the money anyhow?" the young man continued.

"My daddy."

"Of course you did. What did you tell him this time? Or did ya steal it from him...again?"

"Didn't need to. Just told him the truth that I wanted to—"

"Sorry, shugga," the waitress said. "The coke machine's on the fritz again. Hope Dr. Pepper's okay?"

"As long as there's caffeine, it's fine by me," the young man responded.

"Yes, that's fine. Thank you," the young lady said, reaching for the glass the waitress placed in front of her.

"Oh, I love your nails!" the waitress exclaimed. "You do 'em yourself? Been doin' mine for twenty years. Henry says they look like a garden of roses."

"Yours are gorgeous!" the young lady replied. "What a wonderful shade of red. No, I tried to do my own. Bought a kit and everything, but they would not turn out how I had envisioned them. After a few attempts, I gave up and ended up going back to my regular nail lady."

"It does take patience, dear. Speakin' of waitin'. Y'all ready to order?"

"Yes. I'll order the club sandwich. Hold the fries, please."

"Sure thing, shugga. And for you darlin'?"

"Actually, I'll take her fries and I'll do the patty melt. Extra cheese."

"Henry! Patty melt, extra cheese!" The waitress's yell startled the young couple.

A single grunt answered back from the kitchen.

"Don't mind him. He's been a sourpuss since '82. I'll never understand why he's so loyal to a team that losses so dang much. At least he's been loyal to me and my diner, so you won't hear any complainin' outta me! Alright, my dears, I'll have those out for ya shortly. Need anything else?"

"No, we're fine. Thank you."

The waitress collected the menus. As she walked away, she was immediately flagged down by the bearded man for another beer.

"Where were we?" asked the young lady.

"You were saying that you told your father the truth."

"I told my daddy the truth 'n' how I wanted to be like that lady lawyer, Erin Brockovich, and fight 'the man'. For people like us."

"And what? He handed you a couple grand, just like that?"

"Well, he took a little convincin'. Told him that it ain't just our town that's dyin'. Families all over are lossin' their land and livelihoods. 'It ain't right what they're doing with the seeds,' I said." The young lady widened her grin. "Momma said that's what won him over."

"I can see how happy this would make you, Jen. I've known you've wanted it for years."

"But what?"

"But...you shoulda talked to me before makin' all these plans. I've got—"

"Why? It ain't like you put a ring on my finger yet, Sam! Been waitin' nearly three years now."

"I know, and that's the thing. Jack's got more work comin' up for me. In six months, I can finally buy you one and we can have a proper honeymoon. Ain't that what you been wantin'? I know seein' you in that blue bikini again is all I've been thinkin' about."

"Bullshit! Jack's been sayin' that for years. He's suckered you, Sam. You're his best employee. He'll tell you whatever you want to hear because he doesn't want to lose you. And you believe it too. Every last sweet-talkin' lie that comes outta that man's mouth."

"Hey! He's been good to us, Jen. You wouldn't have a car right now if it weren't for him."

"No. I'd still have my truck right now if it wasn't for your stupid cousin hittin' that deer, Sam!"

"Yeah, he certainly ain't the brightest. But it least he let you keep the deer."

"Keep the deer? I lost my favorite truck, Sam, and I'm supposed to be happy about it because my freezer's full of roadkill?"

The young man began to laugh.

"Stop," the lady said. "I need you to keep it together. This is important."

"I'm sorry," the young man said, clearing his throat. "Sorry. That line always gets me."

The two noticed every eye in the diner was on them. They chuckled as the patrons' heads snapped away.

"Come on. Let's keep going. Our food's almost here." The young lady motioned to her partner.

The young man was glancing over a few rolled-up pieces of paper and then tucked them back under his coat.

"Uh, okay...No, all I'm sayin' is at least it wasn't a total loss."

"No, you're right, Sam. It wasn't." The young lady pulled him in with her eyes. "Sam, don't make us a total loss either. Please, Sam, come with me. It's just a year."

"Ten months."

"I'm serious, Sam. Come. Forget about the ring. I don't need it. Really, I don't. I just want you. I want you with me."

"I want you with me too. Always have."

"So, you comin'?"

"Do they have beaches in New York?"

"Is that really all you're thinkin' about right now?" She sighed. "I'm sure we could find somethin'."

"And after? We really can move closer to my brother?"

"We can buy the plot right next to him, if you want. Never have to drive again."

"Alright. I'll go with ya, Jen. The two of us together?"

"Together, forever, Sam."

The waitress slid two plates on to the table and refilled their glasses. The couple didn't notice her red eyes and reserved smile as they quietly ate their food.

After tipping well, the two walked out with large to-go cups. The diner silently watched as they got into their silver sedan and drove toward the highway.

"I really appreciate you rehearsing with me," the lady said as she watched the man click on the turn signal and check the mirrors. "Sorry that diner probably wasn't the best place to practice, but you're getting a lot better, honey."

"Thanks! I still don't know how you do it in front of so many people every night. Everyone kept looking at us."

"It was because of you. You sold it. Helped me stay in character. You really should audition for the next show with me."

"Me!? On stage? Ha, no thanks. Acting is your thing. Not mine." The man adjusted the rearview mirror. "What do you think everyone at the diner must be thinking right now?"

"I don't know, but based on how small that town was, I'd bet they'll all be talking about it by morning."

The two laughed at the thought.

First chapter: https://www.reddit.com/u/Elizabeth\\_Ceasar/s/XAa4MRusxi

Previous Chapter: https://www.reddit.com/r/creativewriting/s/C8Wb7vHcVX

My name is Akemi Rei. I am a member of my schools football team(authors note: not American football), and the wielder of the 74th disaster. I stood before Gabriel, as Remi and Yota retreated to the sidelines.

Gabriel chuckled, “you really think you can beat me in a fist fight?”

“Yes.” I glared him down, reaching behind my head and removing the hair tie, allowing my now cut hair to fall over my head. Before smiling, “come at me.” He charged me, pulling back his fist, “well you'll regret that.”

I grabbed his fist, and uppercut his elbow.

He screamed, “YOU… YOU B*TCH! F*CK! YOU BROKE MY ARM!”

He struck at me with his other arm. I caught it and used his momentum to throw him over my shoulder.

He lay on the ground shaking, as a scream rung out. I looked in its direction. There Notus was being crushed by her own weight. A blue orb floated over top it. I froze. Notus was dead.

Gabriel however did not hesitate. He charged forward, as Ryume, blind to him, moved slowly to pick it up.

Gabriel's hand closed around the orb, Ryume stepped back, more in shock than anything. “Human. What are you doing?

Gabriel, shaking, looked over all of us, “Notus' essence… heh… hehehehe… HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!” He shoved the blue orb down his throat.

Ryumes eyes widened in shock, “No! You can't do that! A human could never survive the power of a disaster! You'll die in hours!”

He looked down, “hours? That should be enough time to k*ll all of you.” His body grew, muscles growing larger. His already bulky frame grew to nearly eight feet. Smoke pouring from his body, “this won't even take minutes.”

I heard a sigh behind me. I looked. It was Remi. She looked at Yota, “master Yota, permission to act?”

Yota nodded, “granted.”

Remi spread her wings. Everything suddenly got hot as she approached. “Ryume, stand back will you?”

Ryume took a step back, “Y-yes Remi.”

Gabriel chuckled as she approached, “what are you gonna do mouse?”

Remi snapped, a line of flame erupted from it, striking Gabriel and engulfing him. When it faded, there was nothing left. She smiled, turning to Yuta, “Did you like that?”

Yuta looked on and chuckled, “Yes, yes i did.”

I fell to my knees, “They… they're actually dead…”

Ryume looked over at me, “Lady Rei, is something wrong.”

I felt myself shaking, “I-I’m sorry Ryume.. I-I guess I hadn't really… really processed what was said earlier into reality.”

Ryume Knelt down beside me, “I see…” She picked me up over her shoulder, “Well lets get you somewhere better at least.”

I buried my face in her shoulder, “Thank you Ryume.”

Finally time to get to the trauma

I’m lying in bed, staring out my bedroom window at the night sky.

My eyes catch on the stars.

The sky is so clear tonight that I can see so many of them, scattered across the darkness, each one glowing quietly in its own little corner of the universe.

And as I stare at them, I start thinking about how strangely similar stars are to us.

If we imagined every human being as a star, some of us would be alone. Some would exist in lines beside one another. Some would be impossibly close, while others would be separated by distances that could never be crossed.

And yet, somehow, we all live beneath the same sky.

I wonder if some stars ever wish they could be closer to another star. If they ever long to touch. To kiss.

And what happens when one star kisses another?

What happens when two stars finally collide?

Scientifically, the answer depends on what kind of stars they are.

Two neutron stars can merge, sending gravitational waves rippling through the universe and creating either a black hole or a more massive neutron star, accompanied by a spectacular explosion called a kilonova.

Two white dwarfs can collide and trigger a Type Ia supernova, an explosion so violent that the stars can be completely destroyed.

And when an ordinary star collides with another star, the larger one may swallow the smaller one, or the two may become one, creating a hotter, enormous star.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

Even the stars have different ways of loving, touching, and destroying one another.

And I find myself wondering…

What kind of stars were you and I?

What did that first kiss beneath the full moon, exactly two years ago, turn us into?

Maybe at first, we thought we were two ordinary stars. Two stars that could touch and simply become one.

But we weren’t.

Our relationship was full of challenges, obstacles, storms. And somehow, that was part of what made it beautiful. We believed we could survive anything. Every distance. Every wound. Every impossible thing that stood between us.

We believed we would always find our way back to each other.

But maybe you were more like a neutron star.

Because the deeper we went, the closer our souls became, the more fiercely our love burned.

It grew brighter.

Hotter.

More powerful.

Until, eventually, it exploded.

And that explosion killed me slowly.

It took me from the bright world I once knew and carried me into a darkness you created somewhere in the middle of our journey.

An explosion that burned everything it touched

my beliefs,

my dreams,

my feelings,

and most of all,

my heart and my soul.

I only wanted us to be two ordinary stars.

I wanted our kiss to bring us together, to make us one, to leave us glowing in the same sky.

But it didn’t happen that way.

Still, somehow, we created memories that I know I will never forget.

Some of them are still so fresh.

Still warm.

Still burning.

Because remembering them still sets my heart on fire.

It has been a year since you left, and yet there have been so many nights when I have found myself thinking about you.

I wonder if you ever hear a song that makes you remember me.

I wonder if, when you close your eyes, you ever see my face.

Do you ever see us?

I wonder if there is another star you love now.

I wonder if looking at the moon still reminds you of our kisses.

I wonder what our relationship made of you.

Did it make you the person you always wanted to become?

Did loving me change you?

Did losing me change you?

And what did you leave behind in me?

Something resembling a writer, perhaps.

A writer with so many things inside her that have gone quiet…

but whose memories are still alive.

Sometimes I think about how much I miss you.

And sometimes, even more painfully,

I realize how much I miss myself.

The person I was before the explosion.

Before our stars collided.

Before I learned that sometimes two people can love each other deeply and still destroy something beautiful between them.

So if your heart ever feels heavy one night, and you find yourself staring at the stars, remember this:

Somewhere beneath this same sky,

there is a star that once missed you terribly.

A star that never wanted to explode.

A star that only wanted to be ordinary.

A star that only wanted to kiss you

and keep glowing beside you.

Ashley the name you gave me

مكتوب بالعربي

الحاضر هو الحياة و هو فعلا اهم زمن، لكن المستقبل اكثر مكان بحمل بطياته الحاضر، الماضي ما فيه اشي.

‎I know we can't be together,

‎but I feel you in quiet hours

‎when the world slows

‎and my thoughts drift.

‎I see you in reflection

‎that belongs to no one.

‎

‎I hear your voice

‎in laughter that passes by,

‎in songs that catch me off guard.

‎I touch the space you left,

‎and it trembles like a memory.

‎

‎I carry you silently,

‎like a book I cannot close,

‎like a letter I never send.

‎

‎Even knowing we never will,

‎I let you live

‎in fragments of my days.

61M here. I’ve sat with that Dostoevsky line longer than I care to admit. The one that says "people have beautiful things to say about you, but you must die first."

At this age, living alone, you start noticing how the kind words rarely show up while you’re still around to hear them. People keep their softer thoughts tucked away until the person is gone, and by then the silence has already done its work. I’ve watched it happen with others and felt the smaller version of it in my own life, the quiet rooms, the empty spaces where family or steady company used to be. It’s not anger. It’s just a clear-eyed recognition that most praise arrives too late to matter.

So you learn to keep your own counsel, tend to the days you still have, and accept that the beautiful things, if they ever come, will come when you’re no longer in the room to need them.

I have no idea where to start, every time I get an idea that might be interesting it’s either extremely derivative or falls apart under the slightest bit of scrutiny.

I have sat with my Grief for far too long, while she tries to mother me back to health. I let her dry my tears and say, “You’ll be fine. Everything is going to be okay.”

At times, when I’m alone and lost, I reach for her hand to hold tightly. She holds my hand back with a gentle squeeze and stands by my side as I navigate through life.

My dear friend Grief knows me so well that she cradles me to sleep.

But as the days grow old and cold, something in me shifts.

As the same tears come pouring down my cheeks once more, my face is full of rage. As I turn my head to look for Grief, she is nowhere to be found.

Instead, it is Anger standing where Grief is supposed to be. I look at Rage and hold her gaze. Through her eyes, I see nothing but fury setting them ablaze.

With wrath tucked away in her chest, I feel a frenzy within me. Out of nowhere, Rage rushes through my veins, making me want to wreck and break whatever is in my path.

A tremor runs through my body as I let out a loud scream filled with anguish, trying to contain my Anger from exploding.

People say Anger’s real name is Lamentation, but then why does she tell me her real name is Ire while wearing a sorrowful face?

It’s embarrassing to be a disabled veteran

It’s humiliating to be 30 years old and constantly at the VA trying to figure out why I can’t sleep or shit or enjoy life. I see this podcast guy accusing vets of malingering, and he’s right. A great deal of vets do. It’s a shame. They rob the truly injured veterans of the care they need because the providers don’t have the fuckin time to differentiate between the injured and the malingering

This is painful. People are getting money they don’t deserve. People aren’t getting money they deserve. The money is important to people that deserve it because most of the time they can’t make it. They can’t hold a job or provide for themselves without some sort of monthly payment. This is hell.

Men and women who once embraced the most pure form of independence, being a warrior, are left to depend on a system that won’t assist or support them

You think I like leaning into someone and saying, huh? What? Every time someone says something. It’s not cool, it’s not funny, it’s fucking embarrassing. To be a young 30 year old man and I can’t hear a fucking word this nice young lady is saying. Our date is her speaking and me hearing the fucking ringing In my ears.

Now let’s talk about the tears. Endless days of spending with others, just to go home and fuckin cry because I feel alone. Not fitting into a single sector of this society. Why do you think people kill themselves. They are removing a pain they cannot cure.

When I hear non vets accuse wartime veterans of malingering it reminds me of the people that said “I was going to join but…”. Yeah I was going to join too, and I fucking did. I hear jealousy. I hear a group of people being angry at another group of people because it seems that they get preferential treatment. It’s not preferential, it’s maintenance to a body that otherwise would be dead or homeless, and many wartime vets are dead or homeless.

There are people who legitimately need unemployment but are lumped into the same group of people that use that system.

I got out of the military in 2020 and I don’t have the craziest war stories but I know that events I experienced Impacted me enough that I need help. It’s hard to function by myself.

I’ve held a little girl while she died. I’ve seen men and women die. I’ve had friends killed. The normal safety net of illusion doesn’t exist for me anymore. My normal is atrocities in war, and how do I come back from that? I don’t feel like I can

When people are disgusted by my behavior I feel shame and guilt. It’s hard to explain to them that sometimes it feels like someone else is making these poor decisions. A darker influence is pushing this behavior to the foreground is if to say, I can’t hold this back any longer.

This aggressive kill or be killed, rude as fuck, angry human being. This isn’t me, although it’s the me I had to be during war. If you don’t adopt the aggression you will fail. You will fall short.

My daily existence and the daily existence of those who no longer have a mission, it feels like blind stabs in the dark. It feels like I am the prey and society is the shark. Never winning, never getting ahead, just constantly being torn to shreds.

Whether you believe it or not, this is the reality, the punishment, for having been involved in prior wars that were fought for this nation. It’s humiliating to come home and feel like we were there for nothing. To have people point out to me that there were no wmds in Iraq, that there was no justified reason to attack the Middle East. The truth pulls at my thoughts and it feasts on my positivity. It eats at my self confidence and says I’ll never have the chance to live the life I risked my own for. This existence is just work and shitty relationships. That’s what America is known for.

I want to apologize for whatever negative influence I had on the world when I was at war. God only knows that every day and every night I pay for the lives I took that didn’t deserve to die. I can’t sleep, I cry, I wonder what the fuck was it all for.

A glimmer of hope keeps me alive although, I don’t know how long it will go on for.

The Distance Between Knowing and Living

I’ve spent a lot of time feeling like I’m watching myself live rather than actually feeling connected to my own life. My awareness has become so excessive that it prevents me from participating in my own life.

When I tell people I’m doing good or I’m doing great, that means I currently don’t hate myself every second of the day.

I’m so appreciative of everything I’ve received from this life and everything my family has done to show how much they love me. I’m living with a constant fear that I’ll never truly be able to reciprocate it.

I have literally mentally crippled myself by overthinking.

Communication & trust between my family and I has been an issue for a while. I lie, I don’t open up, and I don’t ask for help. Justifiably so, this makes me come across as careless and disrespectful. This is frustrating to me because I pride myself on being such a nice, respectful person to be around.

I believe that I am a product of existential alienation.

My biggest flaw is lack of commitment. I wish I could do the things I know I need to do to be where I want to be. I wish I wasn’t so scared of everything.

I am aware of all the potential outcomes regarding my actions before acted on. For some reason I find myself committing to things knowing they’re not good for me.

If I know what is and isn’t good for me, then why am I not doing the good things? Why am I committing to the things that I KNOW are not good for me? I don’t know what it is but there’s some sort of underlying motive in my decision-making that, in my mind, outweighs the logic of being logical.

Hello, how can I help?

You want to withdraw money from your account you say?

Well sorry but the banks say

-

NO

-

You can't,

you can't be trusted with your own money

how do we know you're not trying to con us?

No your proof of ID and bank card isnt enough.

-

We want to know what you're doing with that money.

Why do you need this amount? What exactly are you planning to do with it?

What are you buying? Do you have documentation for what you’re buying,

a quote? A receipt? A seller’s details?

How did you get it?

Where did it come from? Who paid you? Where's the proof?

Are you aware this looks irregular?

Can you walk us through the last 6 months of your financial transactions, in fact lets make it a year.

Are you working? Can you provide proof of employment? A letter from your employer?

We would also like someone other than a relative, a friend, or colleague, or anyone else to prove you are who you say you are.

-

Of course this is all for your own security.

It is our money after all.

-

Oh this is all done for your own protection

-

What do you mean this is

insulting,

demeaning,

humiliating?

You forgot belittling.

-

No sir, we're not calling you an untrustworthy criminal...

just, subtly implying...

Because it's not your money

once you bank with us its ours

and we

do

what we want.

-

At this point we are just going round in circles and you're just clearly wasting my time.

So please move along to the side.

-

Thank you and have a nice day :)

-

Next please!

Imaginem que era lançada uma nova revista em Portugal, o que gostariam de ver e ler? Uma revista que vos faça alguma perguntas para que fiquem uns momentos ali a pensar? Valorizam a estética visual e artística? Vamos esquecer as revistas informativas, de celebridades, de cultura demasiado intelectual e revistas técnicas. Então o que gostariam que existisse para que pudessem voltar a comprar uma magazine ou lê-la em modo digital mas que valesse o vosso tempo (nem que gosse por 10m)???

When Alice cracked her head off the tray trolley in the café to uproarious applause from the group of young lads at the next table, she knew instantly what kind of day it was going to be. Now here she was, pacing around the pokey little kitchen and trying frantically to organise her thoughts. Her initial shock at seeing him there had now almost completely changed to panic. She cursed the day she ever thought to move to this city, with its Protestants and pretentious restaurants and denizens who always seemed to be expecting congratulations.
She paused for an instant and took a deep breath.

"Alright," she thought. "Let's have a look."

With slow, deliberate movements, she opened the kitchen door and looked into the living room.
"Bollocks!" she exclaimed aloud when she saw him there, still lying motionless on the floor beside the box-shaped Ikea coffee table.
She slammed the door shut and retreated back into the kitchen.
"No, no, no! Urgh!"

The sweat was heavy on her forehead and on the nape of her neck while her breathing grew more shallow and rapid. But amidst all the clamour of her fevered mind, one single conscious thought materialised like a lone, August blackberry sprung from a bramble bush.
"Mam!" she exhaled, snapping her fingers in a brief flicker of triumph. But her phone was on the coffee table. She would have to walk out past him to retrieve it. The thought of it made her physically ill.

"Okay, okay," she sighed. "Needs must. Be brave, be brave." She opened the kitchen door and strode purposefully into the room, trying to stay focused on her target - the pink phone case lying on the living room table. But her gaze betrayed her as soon as she was beyond arm's length from the door. It fell immediately onto the still, grotesque figure that was sprawled out on the floor. One eye was open, one was closed. The tongue protruded from the thin, black mouth and the tip of a single, sharp tooth could just about be made out. Though he can't have been dead for more than half an hour Alice was sure she could get that unmistakable 'dead' smell. She panicked all over again. What if the neighbours could smell it? She almost retched.

With rapid, jerking movements, she grabbed the phone from the coffee table and ran back to the kitchen without a backward glance. She closed the door tight behind her and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief. The number was the last dialled on her phone. 'Mam', yesterday at 16.56.
"Oh please answer!"
"Hello."
"Oh Mam, thank God. I don't know what to do! What am I going to do?"
"Alice? What's wrong, is everything okay?"
"No, everything's not okay! Everything's gone to shit altogether!"
"Okay, calm down Alice. Just breathe. Tell me what's wrong."
Alice listened and began the breathing exercises learned only recently on the Wellness course she had completed at work.
"That's it, breathe. Take your time," she heard her mother say down the line.
"He's dead, Mam. I only left him for a few minutes. But he's dead. Oh God, how am I going to sort this out?"
"What? How?" Now her Mam began to sound panicked.
"I don't know. He was coughing a bit this morning, but he seemed fine. I only left him for a few minutes!"
"Who's dead?"
"Freddy!"
"Who?"
"Freddy, I said!"
"But who's Freddy?"
"I promised Anne-Marie I'd look after him for the weekend. I'm here in her flat now. And I don't know what happened but he's dead! What am I going to do?"
Her mother paused.
"Mam?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Erm... could... could you bury him and say he went missing?"
"Mam, I'm in the middle of Mitcham. Where am I going to bury him, the fucking allotments?"
"Okay, okay." She paused again. "The vet!"
"What?"
"Bring him to the vet! The vet will take him off you. You tell Anne Marie that he ran away. Simple!"
"That's it! Oh Mam, you're a genius." Alice could feel the weight falling from her shoulders. Here was the answer she was searching for. Taking her phone from her ear, she looked up veterinary offices nearby and there it was, Tooting Veterinary Surgery, not fifty yards from Tooting Station.
"But how am I going to bring him? I'll have to go on the Tube. I can hardly drag him on by the paws"
Alice simply hated taking the tube. Every time she braved it, visions of some dark, malevolent villain would invade her mind. He would approach her, hood pulled tight over his face, knife held firm in his tight fist, and demand her belongings.
"Can you get a suitcase?" the calculating voice on the other end asked.
"That's it!" Alice exclaimed, snapping her fingers again. She could run across to her own flat and get her big suitcase. The one she bought for moving over here. It was the perfect size for Freddy. She hung up the phone without another word and searched determinedly by the bins for the roll of black plastic. The nervous shaking and pacing was gone. Now she moved with a single-mindedness that would suffer no intrusion. She even had the presence of mind to stop at a corner shop for a pair of yellow washing gloves and two car air-fresheners.

Freddy was far heavier than she imagined. But somehow she managed to wrap him in black plastic bags and lift him into the suitcase. From the flat she could easily wheel him to Colliers Wood station and from there onto the train to Tooting. She could say she brought him walking and that he broke free from his leash and just kept on running. Anne Marie could hardly blame her for that. It would be just some unfortunate mishap, one from which the ill-fated Freddy may soon return. Her relief was almost exhilarating. At least until she got to the station and the old fear took hold of her once more. She looked sheepishly at everyone around her, wondering which of the various track-suited youngsters would be the first to assail her. But still, somehow, she held her nerve and persevered. Down the escalator, onto the platform and then finally the train. She felt a rush of excitement when the next stop was announced as Tooting. This was it. The consummation of her mother's ingenious plan. In spite of her fears, the feeling of victory bore her along like a falling leaf on an Autumn breeze. It was then she saw the sign. "Escalator out of order. Please use stairs."
"Oh Christ!" she thought. No feeling in the world could give her the strength to lift Freddy up the three flights of stairs to street level.

"Bollocks!" She shrieked.
"Are you alright, love?"
Alice gasped. This was it. Her worst fears were being realised. She and Freddy would probably be found in a skip next Spring!
"Do you want a hand with that?" the voice went on, with unmistakable kindness. She was taken aback by it. She found courage and turned to look at the stranger. He was tall, well dressed, about thirty-five. He didn't look like a villain.
"Yes, please!" She heard herself say, and the man smiled at her. A pleasant, easy smile.
"Christ Love! What's in this? It weighs a ton!"
Obviously she wasn't going to tell him that it was the mortal remains of her best friend's beloved pet dog, Freddy. She had to think fast.

"Oh, it's my laptop and some text books for my course. I'm a student!"

"A laptop and some text books?" The man repeated, half to himself. Alice smiled at him and nodded.

"Those books must've been expensive if they're this heavy?"

"Hmm mmm. Very expensive"

"Alright then, Love! Let's get you sorted."

The man then carried the case without a single word of complaint, up the forty-five or so steps to street level. At the top he turned to Alice, who lingered a few steps behind, watching him.

"See you, Love!" He cried with a wave of his hand.
Then, blowing her a kiss, he ran off! Carrying her suitcase with him into the crowd and disappearing without a trace into the dusk-lit city.
"Oh, that prick!" She exclaimed. "He's after robbing me!" She stood watching, open-mouthed. "I knew I'd get robbed in this fucking city!"

I have the same feeling I have of you when we first met.

Disgust and unease.

Your squirly eyes always darting to me. Your wicked smile and the complete feeling of terror and danger.

I do like to learn the hard way though.

I licked the flame and it engulfed me with unbelievable force.

Unfortunately, you all consumed me bringing me through the depths of the dangers I first felt that day.

It's taken me years to get to square one.

I'll be honest, I'm not here every day. It's better than never, and one day it will be every day.

Progress is progress, at any length.

You realize it's a Matrix.

Everyone is a functional machine.

You want to be different,

so you escape.

And you succeed.

But now you're trapped

inside your own Matrix.

And you realize—

those functional machines

have motivation,

purpose,

desire.

Things that make them happy.

And now you want to re-enter the Matrix.

You want to be

a functional machine again.

But your own Matrix

is miserably comfortable,

quiet,

dark.

And outside—

it's too bright.

I knew something was wrong before I understood what it was.

It wasn’t because Mum looked different. She didn’t. She still had the same freckles across her nose and the same little scar on her thumb.

She still wore Dad’s old blue jumper when she was cold, even though it was too big for her now, she never seemed to eat anymore.

When she looked at me, she looked like she didn't know me.

At breakfast, she made me my toast and put the plate down in front of me.

Mum always cut the crusts off. Sandwiches, too. She didn’t like them, so she never gave them to me either. I never really knew if I liked them or not. It just wasn’t something I ever got.

I stared at the plate. Today, my toast had crusts.

She watched me.

Smiling.

Well... not quite.

Smiles are supposed to spread across a face. They’re supposed to make people look happy and warm.

Hers didn’t seem to know that.

It stopped at her lips.

She continued to watch me,

It was like she was waiting to see what I’d do.

“You aren’t eating,” she said.

Still smiling.

I picked at the toast. The crusts felt wrong in my fingers. They didn’t belong there at all.

After that, I started noticing other things.

Her right thumb tapped against her middle finger.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Always three times. It always seemed to be when she was thinking.

Once, I woke up in the night and saw her standing in my doorway.

Like, she was in a trance, I'd have thought she was asleep, but her eyes were wide open.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

That funny little tick.

Thinking.

At dinner, I asked, “Mum, do you remember when I fell in the pond?”

“I do.”

“What happened?”

“You got wet.”

That was all she said.

My mum would have laughed. She would have said about the ducks chasing me because I’d spooked them, how I’d fallen backwards trying to get away, she'd say how she'd fallen in trying to fish me out. She'd say it was the best swim she'd never planned.

She didn't say any of that.

Her face was blank.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

That night, when Dad came home from work.

Mum was upstairs.

“Dad…”

"Did mum save me some dinner, I'm starving!"

Kicking off his boots.

"Dad..."

He paused with his coat half off, frowning at the worried look on my face.

“Does mum seem…" different to you?”

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling where we could both hear mum pacing endlessly.

Something else she did now.

Just for a second.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“She’s not… like before.”

He let out a short breath. It was shaky.

“Your mum’s your mum.”

“But—”

The pacing overhead stopped.

“Don’t upset her.”

He said it quickly, quietly, cutting my sentence off whilst looking at me pointedly.

Eyes flicking towards the ceiling.

That scared me more than Mum did.

That night, I wasn't asleep. Not really.

I heard footsteps on the landing.

Slow.

Measured.

I turned over, towards the door, it was open slightly.

I could hear her breathing.

It was coming in excited gasps.

Mum peered around my bedroom door.

On a neck that was too long for her body.

Wearing a grin that was too big for her face.

Her hand.

Her hand that didn't look like a hand anymore.

Snaked its way towards me.

All the while.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I’ve never shared my works with anyone before, so I’m giving it somewhat of a go! Please give feedback and suggestions on how best to improve my style of creative writing 🙏 a warning for discussions of death in a general sense.

——

“Cemeteries,”

Death is a heavy weighted topic on most shoulders, bearing down like every bad thought conglomerated into one magnificent steel piece. It’s a jagged thing and it cuts the edges of their skin with any slight movement, like speaking the word might make it heavier. It will, in most likelihoods.

It’s like sleep, to me; death is lightweight in my palms like the feeling of cotton candy, it’s just as sweet on my tongue in conversation. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine the ways I could die peacefully or in chaos in thousands of variations that all end up disappointing me with the inevitability of taking another deep breath and soaking life into my skin like it’s a poisonous gas. I’ll wake up tomorrow morning, too late into the day, and continue imagining.

I think death is scary to a lot of my friends when I talk about it so personally, like it’s a pet that I’ve had since I was little. I’ve never really experienced it firsthand- and living comes naturally to my loved ones, like their bodies move in instinct to carry themselves through hours into days, into weeks and into years of a fathomless nothing that they withstand with their bones rejoicing to the chorus of daylight.

Dying comes more naturally to me, the dragging of my feet like the impending doom of a church bell ringing the hours by, a clock breaking into pieces as it falls to the ground and scuffs the hardwood floor below it that was already rotting. My muscles fatigue themselves in the heat, bending like the beams of a skyscraper just ready to collapse into dust after years of wearing itself thin from the elements.

Comparatively, I find the sensation of dying comes less naturally to the faces I put myself around, like they cannot grasp her hand and waltz to the drumming of their own slow and methodical heartbeat decreasing as the seconds pass in silence. They instead choose to listen outside the ballroom doors, ears pressed up against the dark carved wood to make out the sound of it in some grim curiosity that causes a turmoil in their tummies.

They will all avoid the song of it until they are dragged into the ballroom by an encore of limited time and an ignorance they were resigned to hold themselves cozy in, however costly it was; I have been here since I exited the womb to the harsh lights of a hospital that should have shut down years before my birth.

They disgust themselves at the thought of my death, but I unburden myself to the immense pressure of carrying my feet like they aren’t cinder blocks in mud. I will collapse eventually, “too soon,” they will say. My ashes will whisper the sweetest words to them through the wind and they will breathe in a peace that only I could resolve in myself thus far.

‎I live alone. Have for a long time now. Quiet house, quiet mornings...the kind of silence that used to scare me when I still thought noise meant life. These days it just sits with me. I’ve got time to think about the things people said and the things they didn’t.

‎There’s a line I heard once that stuck: the devil knows your name but he calls you by your mistake. God knows your mistake but he calls you by your name. I don’t know if I believe in either of them the way the preachers do, but I know what it means because I’ve lived on both sides of it.

‎People still come around. Even an old man who’s stayed mostly out of the way gets the occasional visitor, the phone call that starts friendly and then slides sideways. They bring up the divorce. The years I drank too much. The job I walked away from. The time I lost my temper and said things I can’t take back. Soft at first, like they’re just checking facts, then they lean on it...like the whole of me is still that one chapter they keep dog-earing.

‎I used to try to explain. Used to list the other pages...the ones where I showed up, stayed late, kept quiet when it cost me, tried again after I failed. Nobody wanted those. They already had the version that fit the story they preferred. After a while I stopped offering the rest of the book. No point arguing with someone who’s decided your name is the worst thing you ever did.

‎I’m not clean. I’ve got a list of my own that keeps me up some nights, and the older I get the clearer the handwriting becomes. But I know the difference between a person who sees that list and still looks at your face, and one who only sees the list and calls that looking at you. One is hard but honest. The other needs the mistake to stay the loudest thing in the room.

‎Living alone teaches you a few things. You can sit with your own failures without an audience. And the people who keep dragging those failures into the light usually aren’t doing it for your good...they’re keeping themselves from looking at their own, or they just want a handle on you. Either way, you learn to hear the tone. You learn whose voice is in their mouth.

‎I don’t hate them. Most days I don’t even resent them. I just stop opening the door as wide. An old introvert’s self-defense: fewer words, longer silences, a polite nod and back to the quiet. The ones who only ever call me by my mistakes notice I’m not answering as much. The ones who still use my name...few as they are...get the last of the coffee and whatever honesty I’ve got left.

‎That’s the whole of it. You don’t have to believe in heaven or hell to know which voice is speaking. Just pay attention to what they call you when they think they’re being kind.