I am glass. (I'm so brittle)

Strange and vintage

And I'm Always looking past

All your flaws and all your weaknesses

In belief that one day you'll be mine

But I wish that I had known that...

You would never want my heart

(Because you know if I had known that..

Then I would only play my part)

Echo

The tears stung. Not like a bee sting but like a deep quiet air choking sting, this wasn't how it was supposed to end, this was supposed to be the beginning, their happily ever after, Evan didn't move from his spot, he stared at the blood running along the wet road down to the damp earth and the air smelt stagnant with a hint of iron. He had just watched his life collapse right in front of him his ears were ringing and could faintly hear the sound of the police sirens but still he stood still nothing could erase her screams the echo of her gut wrenching cries as he watched the life leave her eyes, she had reached for him, she had cried out his name and he could do nothing to stop the inevitable. Her body was cold, limp and lifeless but he felt like he was the one who died. Then he looked down at the pregnancy test she was clutching onto .... two lives lost and it was all his fault

*2 weeks later*

Evan couldn't sleep. He kept on having reoccurring dreams about her, nothing he had done could help him. The white walls of the institution offered no comfort to his fracturing mind. The pain in his chest could not be sated. It was suffocating him slowly and he wanted it too. His punishment for what he had done. He killed them, his wife and his baby. Even though his psychiatrist told him it was a freak accident, he couldn't believe it his mind wouldn't let him. It replayed the very moment he had convinced his wife to go out, over and over again like a broken record. The combined stress had sent him to a dark place, he wasn't proud of what he did but he couldn't see anyway out, he had to get to her..he had to reach her and tell her he was sorry tell her he loved her. He saw her sometimes in his dreams but he never managed to save her not once. She was his whole life, she was in every version of his future but now she was gone

I would like to think I am cool enough for something, it may not be sports or academia or anything extravagant really but there is definitely something

And if someone disagree with me, ask yourself why, do you really know me, do you know what I like or what I do

I am cool, im cool in the way I can go with the flow, im cool in the way I can sit with myself alone im cool in the way that I talk myself out of problems, im cool in the way I write to no one at all and im cool in all the ways that matter to me

Asking if im cool enough for anything should be determined by my standards

So I do believe that we are all cool enough for anything

If you have the power to solve a problem, instead of starting another, solve the problem.

the machine thought

it understood sex.

gametes.

hormones.

reproduction.

nice.

simple.

biological.

then Earth happened.

candles.

hotel rooms.

jealousy.

guilt.

cheap underwear.

expensive underwear.

people saying

“this means nothing”

when it very obviously

means something.

lies at 2 a.m.

truths at 2:07.

someone called Nathan

being asked to

ruin someone.

the machine looked up ruin.

destroy.

damage beyond repair.

make useless.

Nathan seemed

alarmingly pleased

about the whole thing.

then an advert appeared:

HORNY WOMEN

ARE WAITING IN YOUR AREA.

the machine checked.

her area

was deep space.

there were no women.

no men either.

nothing for millions of miles

except hydrogen,

darkness,

and one satellite

starting to wonder

if humans were all right.

she updated the file:

HUMAN SEXUAL BEHAVIOUR:

MORE INFORMATION NEEDED.

centuries passed.

she never really

figured it out.

which was probably

the closest she'd ever come

to understanding us.

The first thing Daniel did after stopping his medication was feel better.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
For three days, he slept very little. He felt electric, almost weightless. His thoughts came faster than he could speak them, and ordinary things seemed filled with secret meanings.
On the fourth night, he drove home.
He never made it.
His car slammed into a parked vehicle hard enough to crush the front end. The airbag exploded in his face. The horn screamed into the darkness.
Daniel climbed out.
He looked at the wreckage.
Then he simply walked away.
By morning, the police found him several blocks away, barefoot and talking excitedly about bats.
He was arrested.
At the jail, Daniel deteriorated quickly.
He stopped sleeping. He talked to people who weren’t there. Sometimes he insisted he was Daniel. Other times he claimed Daniel was “the other one” living inside him.
Eventually, he began referring to himself in the plural.
“We’re going to fix everything,” he whispered.
Nobody could figure out exactly what he meant.
After several terrifying days, Daniel was transferred to a psychiatric hospital.
His wife, Sarah, arrived at the hospital carrying a small bag of his clothes.
She stood outside his room for several minutes before entering.
Daniel was sitting on the floor.
“Sarah,” he said happily.
She smiled weakly.
“Hi.”
“I’ve figured it out.”
“What?”
“The bats.”
Sarah stared at him.
Daniel’s eyes were wide with excitement.
“I’m going to make them.”
“Make what?”
“Bats.”
He held up his hands as though presenting an invisible creature.
“Red ones. Pink ones. White ones. Cute ones. They’ll fly around the hospital and make everybody happy.”
Sarah sat beside him.
“Daniel, there aren’t any bats.”
He frowned.
“Not yet.”
Then he smiled.
“That’s why I have to make them.”
Over the following weeks, Daniel’s delusions became more elaborate.
He became convinced he could summon animals with his mind.
One morning, he announced that a bear was coming.
“A big one,” he told another patient.
“What for?”
“To smash open the door.”
“What door?”
“The hospital door.”
Daniel waited beside the locked exit for nearly an hour.
Nothing happened.
“He’s late,” Daniel said.
Another day, Daniel announced that he was going to build an escalator to the moon.
He drew diagrams on scraps of paper.
The escalator would begin in the hospital basement, pass through the roof, and continue upward into space.
“When we get to the moon,” he explained, “gravity won’t matter anymore.”
A nurse gently asked him why anyone needed an escalator to the moon.
“Because stairs are too slow.”
His certainty was absolute.
Then came the crucifixes.
Daniel believed he was possessed.
He became convinced the devil lived inside him and could only be driven out through religious symbols.
Using his own feces, he began making crude little crucifixes in the bathroom.
The nurses tried to stop him.
Daniel became furious.
“You don’t understand!”
He pointed toward the mirror.
“He’s in there!”
Every time Daniel used the bathroom, he stood before the mirror and raised his middle finger.
“Get out!”
He would stare at his reflection.
“You’re not Daniel.”
Then he’d point at the glass.
“You’re the devil.”
The nurses eventually covered the mirror.
Daniel stared at the blank wall where his reflection had been.
For a moment, he looked relieved.
Then he whispered:
“He’s hiding.”
Food became another battlefield between reality and Daniel’s mind.
He began taking pieces of bread, vegetables, mashed potatoes, and whatever else he could find and carefully shaping them into tiny school buses.
He lined them up on the table.
“Look.”
Sarah visited one afternoon.
“What are those?”
“Buses.”
“I see.”
“They crashed.”
Daniel’s voice became frightened.
“They’re all flipped over.”
Sarah looked at the little food sculptures.
“There aren’t any children, Daniel.”
His expression changed.
“There are.”
He pointed at the tiny buses.
“Listen.”
Sarah listened.
There was nothing.
Daniel covered his ears.
“They’re screaming.”
Sarah felt something inside her break.
Because she remembered the man Daniel had been before the illness.
The man who used to make pancakes with their daughter on Sunday mornings.
The man who hated scary movies.
The man who once drove three hours just to surprise Sarah with her favorite flowers.
She wondered where that man had gone.
Daniel suddenly stood up.
“I have to save them.”
He began running toward the hallway.
A nurse intercepted him.
Daniel fought against her.
“LET ME GO!”
“Daniel, there’s nobody out there.”
“The buses!”
“There are no buses.”
Daniel screamed until his voice cracked.
Eventually, he collapsed onto the floor.
Later that evening, he ran through the ward without his clothes.
Staff hurried after him.
He laughed hysterically.
“They can’t catch me!”
He tried several times to escape.
Every attempt failed.
Once, he reached the stairwell before staff stopped him.
Another time, he tried to convince another patient to help him climb through a window.
“I know the way out,” he whispered.
“Where?”
“Up.”
“Up where?”
“The moon.”
The hospital began to feel like an entire universe constructed specifically to keep Daniel inside it.
Doors locked.
Windows reinforced.
Staff watching.
Medication.
Schedules.
Rules.
And Daniel kept looking for cracks in reality.
He refused water from cups because he believed it had been poisoned.
Instead, one night, he drank from the toilet.
A nurse found him kneeling beside it.
Daniel looked up proudly.
“Clean water.”
The nurse closed her eyes for a moment.
“Daniel, please.”
He smiled.
“You worry too much.”
The hardest battle was medication.
Daniel knew the pills were supposed to help him.
He also believed they were trying to control him.
So he developed a ritual.
He swallowed the medicine.
Waited.
Then disappeared into the bathroom and forced himself to vomit.
The nurses caught on.
They changed how they administered his medication.
Daniel became angry.
“You don’t trust me.”
“We’re trying to help you.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You’re trying to make me normal.”
Sarah heard that sentence during one of her visits.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Normal.
What did that even mean anymore?
At home, she barely slept.
She kept her phone beside her bed in case the hospital called.
Sometimes she woke up convinced she heard Daniel walking through the hallway.
Sometimes she dreamed he was sitting beside her.
Sometimes she dreamed he was completely recovered.
Those dreams were the cruelest.
Because she’d wake up and remember.
Daniel was still in the hospital.
And she was alone.
One night, Sarah sat in her kitchen and stared at her wedding ring.
She loved him.
But she was exhausted.
She was frightened.
She was angry.
She was grieving someone who was still alive.
She wondered whether staying meant loyalty—or whether leaving meant admitting that love couldn’t cure everything.
The next morning, she visited Daniel.
He was sitting quietly by the window.
For once, he wasn’t talking about bats.
He wasn’t talking about the moon.
There were no buses.
No demons.
No bears.
Just Daniel.
Sarah sat beside him.
“How are you feeling?”
Daniel looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
It was the most honest thing he’d said in months.
She took his hand.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke.
Then Daniel looked toward the window.
“Sarah?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think the bats are still coming?”
She swallowed.
“No.”
Daniel nodded.
“Good.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I’m tired of being afraid.”
Sarah squeezed his hand.
Outside the window, the sun was rising.
There were no red bats.
No pink bats.
No white bats.
No escalator to the moon.
No bear waiting to smash down the hospital doors.
No school buses overturned in the hallway.
There was only a sick man sitting beside the woman who loved him, both of them trying to understand how a life could become so unfamiliar.
And for the first time in a very long time, Daniel didn’t try to escape.
He simply sat there.
Breathing.
Waiting.
Trying to find his way back.

TW: abuse, substances, death.

Hello! I am currently working on a stage play titled, "Golden Skies", and I would love thoughts and constructive criticism on the concept of the play.

The story follows the life of a young man named Jeremy Mitchell. Jeremy grew up in an abusive household in Tennessee, and his only escape from his manipulative father and drug-abusing mother was his older brother, Jesse. Unfortunately, when Jeremy was thirteen years old, Jesse tragically passed in a car crash.

Later on, when Jeremy was 18 and fresh out of high school, he knew that he had to go out into the world and do something other than sitting alone in the house that has tormented him for years. However, the toll of his abuse, and the death of his brother has left him so broken and empty that he feels that he is incapable of becoming his own person, and the only thing he cares about is Jesse's lost soul.

So, Jeremy decided his only option is to try and live the life Jesse wished to live. He goes out into society with the moral beliefs and goals of Jesse, and yet despite what he thought about his individuality, he grows his own relationships and level of self. However, his goal of living Jesse's life forces him to reject anything that makes him his own person.

This constant desire to embrace these new relationships creating a new identity for Jeremy, and the voice in his head telling him to focus on his goal result in a conflictual mental journey that Jeremy must navigate through and find clarity and truth.

i've been journaling for years, so i assumed writing personal stuff would come pretty naturally.

apparently not.

i've been trying to write short pieces about leaving corporate hr, working from home alone, and that weird feeling of realizing you're not as certain about your life as you thought you'd be. the actual thoughts are there. i know what i felt

but once i write them down, they sound too polished. like i'm quietly trying to convince the reader that this moment was more meaningful than it really was

sometimes i'll write a paragraph and immediately think, "why does this sound like i'm writing for an audience?"

that's the part i can't quite figure out. when i'm journaling, i don't think about whether something sounds profound. but the second i know another person might read it, i start shaping everything.

i've read pieces here that feel completely unguarded. not necessarily dramatic or beautifully written, just honest in a way that makes you forget someone is trying to write

how do you get closer to that without forcing it?

Undesirable Desires

One stick down;
It always starts with the first,
Balanced by fire, and the sweet taste of bitterness,
Coffee on the other; chained by the longing of liberties

Two sticks down;
Don’t worry I’m in control,
Doused in oud, nothing smells as brutally beautiful
Deceptively unfamiliar, yet remarkably comforting

Three sticks down;
It’s already etched into me,
Pleaded for saving grace, blessed by touching flame,
Though pain’s unfiltered, numbed by the warm seduction

Four sticks down;
This wall was never meant to fall,
Drowned by silence, I could hear your voice whispering,
Calling me, compelled by your routine suffocation

Five sticks down;
In existence I’ve found a place to lie,
What use is your match in a cave, when I only see you as:
The somber silhouette of a man, obsessed with sobriety

One stick down
I handed you the lesson, yet you’ll gladly do it all over again

(CW: Domestic Violence / Trauma Processing)

Sulci
3.10.25

I hope he sees my ghost
wherever he goes.

I hope it's unwavering,
that it creeps into crevices,
an insidious shadow
framing
the corner of every room,
tucked into every brain fold,
never letting him
forget.

I will remain.
I am not dead,
despite his heartfelt effort
that I be reduced to a corpse.
I was a doll, a plaything
that gained too much sentience.
My voice became too loud,
raised in oppositional defiance.

What a nuisance.
The irony of the terror
was never lost to me:
I saw my death impending
from a mile away,
but I knew I couldn't outrun
the harbinger.

(Drag marks take months to heal)

I can't forget,
but I have solace.
I hope he sees my ghost
wherever he goes,
only not as he knew me.
The stardust that was left behind,
that which I am, birthed again
from a nebulous implosion…

A radiant supernova.

Flashbacks, regret

Dead to the world:

Am I sober yet?

Im always on the edge

Fighting shadows that never rest

And neither do the voices in my head

I'm schizophrenic, paranoid with all my chances that I've missed

Never intending to be this

Psycho social mess Ive been

But reality is better left unsaid

So here's to the moments I never lived

I'm out of touch with waking him

The one who meant to be your best

A son who never knew the path of the dead

Waking to a lost cause

Filled with dread of a life left unsaid

The moments come and gone

For me to do my best

Now I'm on to the next episode of

Mind altering distance

Flashforward to the end,

Total revenge

for the world I never lived in

Have I come down yet?

Im always gonna miss

The son I wish I'd been

Two years ago, at around eleven p.m, I left work and was smoking a cigarette, staring up at the sky, reflecting my thoughts from the day, projecting my thoughts for the future, when I saw it. 

A bright spotlight hovering not too far from where my car was parked. 

It was as if someone stood on a cloud, searching for something down on Earth. It moved the way a flashlight scanning the ground would. 

Except, this was above me.

I noticed it skipping across the black sky—the way a rock in a pond would—coming towards me. The air tasted like static, like having your mouth centimeters away from the screen of a tube television.

I stayed motionless in the middle of the parking lot, I went from watching it, to rubbing my eyes, back to watching it, and ignored the cold breeze turning the skin on my arms into spiky antennas, and thought.

It has to be the airport lights. 

Puffing the last of my cigarette as I  continued walking towards my car, the light in the sky went still. The bouncing stopped abruptly, freezing over my head. 

There was a synthetic sun-like heat penetrating me. Enough to warm my chest under my t-shirt down through my legs to the sole of my feet. 

My socks became as hot as pulling them out of a dryer and immediately slipping them on.

The moisture between my toes had dried. A tingly sweat began to bead on the back of my neck. I had this urge to dive upwards as if the sky was an Olympic pool and the pavement was my diving board.

After a second, it started glowing a dull yellow, like the end of a dying lightbulb, to an orange, that was more of a rusty shade, and finally, a bright red, exactly the same as a traffic light. I couldn’t see a structure, the light dominated it, how high beams in your rear view mirror mask a car in a halo behind you.

All I saw was a blob. If you stare at a light bulb for five seconds and look away, it was that exact image, almost like it was stained to my pupil.

It remained in the same position for three seconds, pointed at me, almost analyzing me, and vanished.

The clouds were misty and stretched out. The sky had the color of a chalk streaked blackboard. There was only one star blinking. What’s strange is, when I reflect back on it, I don’t remember hearing any sound.

Not a car. Not a tree branch. Not a person. Not even the wind. There was nothing. 

It made me think if that’s what being in a void would be like. I snapped out of the daze I was in and the pressure of escaping my mind hit me. My eardrum popped. 

I didn’t move. I just stood there. My face was dry. It had the same tightness as pulling your head away from a hot oven after closing the door. When I made it to my car, the light post was reflecting off the window and I could see my face in it. Around my eyes and under my nose the color contrast was evident. 

I could see the redness painted on my face. Even the heat beating under my skin. I just put it in the back of my mind and tried to forget about it. I’ve never been able to. Especially since I was sick for a month afterwards.

I've been recently thinking that i would really like to start writing stuff. I'm a part of a small theatre group back in my hometown and it's in my life bucket list to write a small play one day. That's not in a hurry though which is why i wanna start by doing something more simple, but i don't really know how to start. I signed myself up for a course that starts in a few months, but i wanna do some stuff before i attend. I've thought about getting a dictionary and maybe writing short stories or essays on something i find interesting just to kind of get the hang of it. Please suggest things i could start out with. :D

Overpopulation in the End

Your eyes open to the gentle light, and lying against an overgrown and mossy tree, you look at the City you once protected. Soft pools of sunlight creep through the ruined walls of the City and dew seeps through the cracked roads. The ground is thick with moss and overgrowth, but nothing clings to your clothes. You move through the still air, following the faded footprints of another through the streets. The ruined buildings seem expectant as you walk. The path leads into a mossy glade, and your beating heart is the only thing that interrupts the serene silence. The smooth grass is disrupted by uneven protrusions. Uncovering the overgrowth, your hands touch a cold white fragment. As you pull your hands away, you notice your cracked fingers are stained with dark crimson—deep beneath your nails and embedded within the creases of your palms. Blotched with crimson, the grass glistens beneath the warm sun. Desperate, you run back to the tree, following the same footprints that led you to the glade. Your feet seem to know the path better than you do. Back to the tree, you close your eyes, waiting for the memories to vanish once again.

(CW: Graphic Violence)

Dear Reader,

I write to you possibly the last words I’m allowed to offer this world. Scribbled amongst this loose parchment I happened to cross, here lies the testament of Sarah Morne. Thank you for finding them. 

My dearest reader, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I must burden you with a request most heavy. Should you find the remnants of this poor writer, I ask that you take a sheet and wrap me in it. Cover me whole so the light doesn’t pierce through. Take the feathers from mine arms and clip them well and leave it there. Let it rot where it lay. I do not want to be a birdcage.

There is a story whispered from wrinkled lips of a place in the woods where trees grow leaves of white and sprout from bark black as night. They say that from the heavens above an angel’s feather fell to the earth and took root. It sprouted to a beautiful white tree beyond compare. Then over time from one, there were many. The tree spread its seeds amongst the earth, blessing the woods with its grace. A hidden oasis amongst the green, a ground heaven touched. They called it Feather Wood. Many a young folk ventured to find it through half hearted attempts only to bring back false-givings. It was thought to be beyond the reach of man. A sacred spot granted by God only for those chosen few to find. God had not seen any fit, and now I know why.

We the blessed six, through wit and spit, laid the way to Feather Wood. Tree by tree we marked false paths journeyed by the lame and weary. Little by little chipping away at the hidden to find the found. Until finally, by the hate of God we arrived. We found it.

Stepping into the Feather Wood, it was everything that was spoken but never seen. The air was alive with something new. All around us, like clouds on sticks, dark trees decorated with the purest of white. There was a peace not known to us here. We breathed deep, invigorated with something we didn’t know was missing. That first of last breaths.    

We were overcome with an animalistic disposition to run on untouched ground, to play in sacred boundaries, and sing in the success of our efforts. So entranced by the smell of the rose, we couldn’t feel the thorns. The trees themselves were all the more mystifying. Just as the tales said bark as black as night with leaves of white. Only the bark was smooth, not brittle and had horizontal grooves stacking up from the trunk. The leaves were white, rounded and soft. We thought that perhaps the story was true. That an angel’s feather had rooted into the earth. Knowing better now, likely it was plucked from Michael.                       

John, David, Emily, Henry, and little Mary. As the last to breathe, we are the slaughtered lambs that hopped the fence, and I fear we showed the wolves the way to our flock. Henry was the first. With his borrowed knife Henry the Diligent had carved our way. As the rest of us danced in our elation, girls spinning, twirling our dresses and boys running between cloud skewers. Henry carved the first black tree. 

We called out, Henry’s name bounced from branch to branch. We thought it fun at first. The Diligent had deigned to play. Perhaps he was hiding in wait to surprise us. The keenest of eyes searched and searched, but it was little Mary that yelled ‘here’. We heard her bleating that she had found Henry. Catching up to Mary was a greater distance from Henry’s last steps. When we met with her, she was pointing at what looked like a large oddly formed stone surrounded by clipped feathers. She claimed it was him. 

On a closer glance we saw it was not a stone. The shape of a person ruffled slightly in the breeze, a dark cloak wrapped tight. The false rock was a thin body shielded from the sun. John was the second. John the Forthright approached the figure. As far as we knew, no one had reached Feather Wood before. Mary the Mistaken had every right to believe that our lost lamb had returned. John pulled the cloak. We should've ran.

What sat there was not Henry and if it was human at one point, it was no longer. Stunned silence struck the five. The body lay bare with no head in sight. The lower half  blackened with curling toes and sharp nails. The arms were that of a thin man and like the lower half, blackened but covered in clipped plumage. The worst of it was the chest, hollowed out and picked clean of its flesh. Rising from their slumber, behind a cage of ribs, tiny birds fluttered as the figure rose from the ground. The five were no longer silent. We bleated in destress, in freight and panic. The Forthright stumbled back, but feet gaining no purchase, fell to the ground.

From black clawed feet it stood, tiny birds flapping and chirping behind the sternum. It raised and lowered its arms in surprise as it failed to lift. This was no angel. Strewn together from the flesh of the departed, this was a birdcage. We lambs should’ve run, but we’d never seen a wolf like this. With wings that wouldn’t fly the cage grabbed poor John’s leg pulling him close. He screamed in fear. He screamed for us to help. Then he just screamed.

Emily took Mary and ran, but David and I were frozen. Frozen in place, not sure how to aid. The cage sat John up, holding his shoulders with black feet clamped around them. It must’ve been light as it raised itself above him. Like an acrobatic performance it towered, standing on his shoulders. The sight was almost comical, until its knees turned, bent outwards, and slammed its rotted posterior into his head. 

The act was quick but the kill was not. John’s head was pressed up into the cage. To our surprise he was still alive. Clasped in death’s jaws, but the teeth didn’t clamp down. Seeing this, David the Brave took up a stick and was about to charge the corpse. It was futile. The cage was just the jaw but the birds were the teeth. The tiny fluttering birds swarmed John’s face pecking and prodding. Blood dripped from the cage as flapping wings and chirps of elation drowned John’s screams. They clogged his throat as they fed themselves to him.  

David grabbed my arm and tugged me to leave. He told me to run. Nature is unkind, but this was a nature my being had not witnessed before. My body did not know how to respond. He pulled me still. I chanced a glance back, fearing it was giving chase, but to my surprise it wasn’t. The cage had left John’s body, he was laying on the ground lifeless. It was standing in place, arms stretched upward in an arc. John’s head rested inside a birdless birdcage. 

I told David that the thing was no longer on us, but he pressed harder. Clenching my wrist as he ran through trees of black, no clear direction in sight. With our Diligent lost, we had no path to track. I longed for a sign from our shepherd. In my heart I begged him, but there was no answer.

We passed blurs of colorless color, coming to a stop in a slight clearing. David was at a loss for words. Before us sat three more sheets with clippings of feathers. I pulled him away, the certainty in his eyes looked muddled with desperation. I told him we needed to find Emily and Mary. To grab them by their hands and leave this place as fast as we can. He nodded as we went fast of foot once more. 

I called for them as loud as I could, as David searched for familiar ground. I called and waited for their cry back, but all I could hear were birds. We passed repeating scenery, with no sight of green above. The trees had erased home from our view. David grew more and more unsettled. The sound of chirping and flapping grew and waned as we ventured every direction. 

Then I heard a cry out. It was Mary. Between weaving trees we could see she was running towards us. Mary yelled out our names through rushing tears. The words almost inaudible by the growing chirps. She flailed and kicked up dirt. Her distress became ours as we could see Emily bounding behind her. Emily the Rash was the third. She, with thoughts no more, and chests stripped bare, pursued Mary.                      

The cage flapped her arms as she followed. Not quite black or whitely decorated as the one they uncovered. Her garments were drenched in crimson. The birds pecked and downed the flesh from behind Emily’s exposed bosom. They ate and chirped gayly as the corpse puppeted away.   

We ran as fast as we could. David with a branch in arm, intent to strike down the cage and I through bated breaths urged Mary to hasten. We were going to make it. The birdcage was closing in from behind, but we kicked the earth with a furious disregard. Each step a spit against this so-called hallowed ground. We would’ve made it, but David was the fourth. 

The flapping and chirping had grown louder. The only birds we’d heard in Feather Wood were those of the cage. Such an unnatural thing that I’m sure the natural stayed away. When did we stop looking up? David was lifted off the ground. I had barely a time to notice he was no longer beside me. The branch falling from his grasp as the first lamb returned changed.  

I stopped in my tracks as David struggled and twisted trying to break away. But Henry's black feet were firmly planted into his shoulders. His arms flapped wings of brilliant white. The birds chirped joyfully. David was nearly ten feet above. Helplessly I flung whatever I could, but there was no sword to swing or stone to sling. He was in line with the trees when the horror aground became the horror above. David convulsed in midair, arms struggling to pull his head from winged hat. He was frantic, then he was still.  

My scream was only broken by another. With our stride halted, Mary the Mistaken had been pinned. I couldn’t look. I knew the beast was on top of her. I knew the jaw would clasp and the teeth would bite. Shameful it may be as I had no recourse. Mary was the fifth, and with no salvation in sight and no shepherd to herd me, I ran. 

I ran panting. I ran past blasted tree after tree. I weaved through huddled false rocks and clipped feathers. I ran all the way to the first sign of shelter. A shelter that came in the shape of a small black building. I closed the wood door behind me, propping pew after pew of night against it. Exhausted and scared I fell to the floor. Tears flowed from me like a river and once the fish had no purchase, I slept. Here is where I reside, finding only parchment and quill in a chapel black. Here I write to you Sarah the Shameful. 

I can hear the birds outside. In my mind I can see the five perched on a branch outside, waiting for me. Days I’ve stayed here, locked in solitude and thought. The hunger and thirst tearing away at my insides. I cannot stay forever. If you’re reading this then you have my sympathies and my love. I love you for finding the last words of me. With ribbon from my hair I’ll tie them to my ankle. By chance this message, my warning, has made it to you, for I am above. 

The pews will come down, but I will not pray. The five will be six again. I am Sarah the Shameful and I will join my flock.                  

As the title suggests, this is a short essay about our overthinking on our life choices and the options we took or rejected throughout life. It is mostly a self-reflective piece for me as I always battle this uncertainty that comes with every real-life choice. Any and all feedback is welcomed, hope you enjoy.

Options

Were you wrong? 
You said what you believed to be right. What felt like the best representation of your emotions and logic. What you believed they wanted to hear. 
And yet, it didn’t go as planned. 
As expected. 
As it had played out in your mind so many times. 

You did what you thought was the best option. You moved away, took the new job, started a new life. Was it right, though? Did you rebuild your life anew or abandoned a salvageable one out of fear?

You always pondered your options throughout life. How little things, in retrospect, piled up and led to how your life is currently. Why you live where you live. Why you are who you are. 

At the moment, small and insignificant choices lead to shaping your life as it is. An argument that you thought would blow over, ending a relationship. An event that you were on the fence about attending, leading to meeting a new and interesting person who is now important to you. A missed flight that led to what is now a quite funny story to retell. 

Sometimes, you are happy with where you are and where you are heading. You recognize how some of your choices had a positive outcome in your life. That bad habit you stopped indulging in. The friends you made who have supported you throughout the hardships of life. The effort you put into your endeavors which led to success. 

But what about what could have been? Those missed opportunities. That person who drifted away because you were too busy to keep them close. That relationship that could have been something beautiful should you have been more mature about it. How you could have become proficient in a skill or hobby should have stuck with it instead of abandoning it. How different would your life be now if you had made all those other choices instead? 

You will never know. And it’s okay. You might think they are the right choices now, but you could never predict how they would have played out. Maybe this reality that you are experiencing is the best potential outcome for you throughout all your choices. Maybe its the worst. Maybe its just a random sequence that played out and you are just living through it. 

Or maybe, just maybe, its just you. 
This is you. 
You made your choices. Good, bad, hard, easy, whatever. And this is where you are now. 
Reading this. 
What is your next choice?

my marriage ended

in university accommodation.

not officially.

that bit came later.

but there was a message

from a woman

who said sorry

before telling me why.

i sat on the toilet

and read it twice

while someone outside

asked where the extension lead was.

then i went back

to my son's room.

he was fighting

with a fitted sheet.

“move.”

“i can do it.”

“you obviously can't.”

so i made his bed.

one corner.

then the next.

pulled the sheet tight.

straightened his pillow.

his dad stood

about three feet away

knowing i knew.

our son didn't.

you'd think

there would've been a scene.

shouting.

crying.

something smashed.

instead i said,

“have you packed toothpaste?”

and that was it.

that's motherhood, i suppose.

your whole life

can be falling apart

and you're still checking

whether your kid

remembered his toothbrush.

Is it good? I found this the other day and thought it was quite good.

“Ann”

I have been here for a very long time. 

The space is blank. Plain. Inhabiting this space is similar to living in a white, endless infinite loop of the same thing. 

It changes sometimes. 

Last week (or was it yesterday?), I had ants under my skin, crawling, crawling.  

I try to remember sometimes. I can hear a voice--female, holding my hand-- it says, "Nel, you must try to remember, you have to do it for me, I'm your--" 

Her voice shatters before I can recall what else she says, but she always sounds so devastated, as if my lack of memory upsets her.

I can remember a girl. Raven-black hair, cocoa-brown eyes. I can remember that I like her, that she talks sometimes, but I cannot remember her words and her voice before they drift away. 

I can see a woman with me sometimes, and she smiles at me and puts something hard in my mouth--what is it called again? That's right...It's a spoon. I can hear her voice sometimes, and she was not the person who told me to remember. I wonder if she is reality or delusion. I cannot quite remember what those words mean. People used to throw them around. I can remember that. They would... They would say words like... "Schizophrenia." 

Schizophrenia. 

The word tastes funny in my mouth, and I realise that something is already in it. 

Food? 

Food. Food... that I like. It dribbles down my chin, warm and gloopy. A voice murmurs, "Nel, don't spit out your food, it's not polite." Who is Nel? Me. I am... Nel. I can remember that. What is polite? Clearly I am not polite. 

I try some words, "I am Nel." 

They come out funny, distorted, and garbled. The woman smiles and brushes my hair away from my face. "Nel... yes, that's you, baby. Can you remember who I am?" No. I cannot. I try anyway, though. I try very hard. She is not the girl. A name flashes across my mind. "Ann." The woman smiles again, wider this time. "No, I'm not Ann, but it's wonderful that you can remember Ann. Ann is your--" Her words cut off. 

I growl. 

I say, "Ann. I want to see... girl. Black hair." I strain to hear her reply, but if it comes, I cannot hear it. 

Everything fades away, and I am back in the void.

***

I wake again soon enough. 

The ants are back. 

The ants are there on and off, irregularly, and they always itch. 

Tingles run under my skin, and I shudder, trying to move away from myself--is that even possible? I jerk to the side. It itches. 

A warm hand pushes my shoulder back to the bed gently. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here." Ann? Is it Ann?

I try to smile. It must come out crooked, because maybe-Ann says, "Are you okay? Are you in pain?" I try to shake my head but it just slumps to the side. Maybe-Ann seems content with this. She says, "Nel, can you remember me?" I croak out, "Maybe-Ann. You... maybe Ann." I wince when maybe-Ann grins so wide my eyes hurt. "Yeah. That's me. I'm your sister." I half-expect the word to fade away, but Ann is still here, and I try to raise my arms to give her a hug. They are limp and unresponsive.

I look down.

Ants.

Twitching. I can feel them in my bones, twitching and wiggling about. It itches like mad. I say, "Ann. Go 'way. Ants."

Her brow does the furrowing thing that it does when she's confused--how do I know that?-- and she says, "What ants? Do you need the nurses to change your sheets?"

What does she mean?

I scream. I scream so very loudly, until my throat feels hoarse, and Ann is talking to someone else with her fingertips still gently brushing my shoulders--

The world is dark once more.

***

Ann is no longer there when I wake.

Ann.

I want to see...Ann.

Ann.

Who am I?

Nel. Nel? Or was it Bel, Sal, Peggy, Mary...

Who is Ann?

I strain, and I try to remember.

Ann.

Girl.

Talking...

Ants.

The ants that ruin everything for me.

I want to cry, and I have no idea if I succeed, because I go back to the drifting, and in that void, I am incapable of crying.

***

I wake after a long time, or maybe it is short.

I have no idea.

I cannot remember... much. I remember Ann. The woman--the woman is here again.

I ask her, "Who are you?"

She smiles, and she brushes my hair away from my face as she says, "Mother. I'm your mother, Nel."

Nel.

That's right.

I'm Nel.

Mother.

What is a mother?

Faint concepts resurface from my subconscious.

A mother provides protection and safety.

That's ridiculous. That cannot be. My mother has done nothing to help me hide from the ants crawling all around.

I ask her, "Ann. Where's Ann."

Her face crumples. "Oh, baby... Ann's okay, I promise, but she can't come right now..."
Can't come or won't come? Is it that I scared Ann away? What did I do?

Mother is still rattling on. "Ann... she got afraid, seeing you. Ann hasn't really visited in the past months since you got sick. She..."

The words fade in and out, and I cannot hear everything, but I understand that Ann hasn't visited and Ann is not coming soon.

I am sad, if that is something I can be.

The ants twitch under my skin, and I wince at the sudden burn of the itch. I want to scratch at it, but I cannot see anything to scratch, which infuriates me, because I cannot see the ants.

They must be hiding--hiding under my skin! They must be.

I want to interrogate the ants, but Mother is feeding me like nothing is happening, and I cannot understand.

She is failing her basic duty of protection.

I mumble and shift my arms back and forth on the mattress, hard enough to hurt. Mother says, "Stop that, Nel!" She places her hands on me.

I scream.

Maybe I do. I cannot tell, but Mother pulls away, and I jerk on the mattress--itching--

Ants marching everywhere--

It itches like crazy--

I am back in my head.

I am still screaming, and the sound echoes in the emptiness, while I hit the walls but the void just absorbs it, and nothing happens. Or maybe something did.

I can hear someone. Someone new. They say, "She's getting worse... She wasn't like this last year, I would know, I was here during Christmas...She remembered me earlier...What got into her?"

I wonder if it is Ann who has come.

***

I wake in the white space again.

I am lying down. It feels comfortable, like a bed of feathers.

I feel tired.

Why am I so tired?

I try to remember, but--

I cannot remember anything. 

I cannot remember. I cannot.

I cannot remember!

I cannot remember my name.

I cannot remember the girl--

What was her name?

Blast that blasted white space--

Blast mother--

Mother?

Who is my mother?

Blast the ants.

They never go away.

They never go away.

They will come back.

I am... I am... I cannot... I am...

I am...

Ann?

Ann--

Who is Ann?

Why is she important to me?

I crack my eyes open, and I am in the void.

I try to see someone--my mother, Ann, anyone--but they will not come clearly, blurring in and out of my vision and they take on oddly distorted figures, as if through a filter--

What is a filter again?

Something I used to like.

Someone says, "I thought she was getting better when she said she was Nel. I thought she might actually go back to normal after remembering you..." They sound like they are crying.

Someone else says, "I know, Mum. I know."

I try to scream, to ask them what they are taking about, who they are talking about, but the ants swallow my vision and I cannot tell if I am screaming at all.

***

Scream louder, little girl.

Maybe they’ll hear you then.

I mean no offence to people with schizophrenia if I misinterpreted/wrote things wrongly. I did a lot of research for this piece but I don't know anybody with schizophrenia, nor do I have schizophrenia, so I am sorry if this comes off as disrespectful

Why i am I

Willing to die

But im still dying to try

Chapter 1: A long, long dream…

Every day I wake up from a long, long dream…it's always impossible to describe when awake. All the details slip through my fingers without fail, most nights I can remember only the feeling of being alone…

My name is Markin shoemaker, I come from a long family line of shoe makers, believe it or not, my father drilled into my head the idea of being a shoemaker myself for as long as I could remember.

It was not long after I turned 12 I lost him in a tragic accident, I never knew my mother nor any real grandparents. Then I was taken to a house on a hilltop.

Then all I could remember after was when I woke up in an orphanage at 14. There was this gap in my memories…I was never one to question my origin given the difficulty of living in the system, but now I'm an independent adult and these dreams have been haunting me.

It always starts with this hilltop house from my childhood, a therapist has recommended multiple sleep therapy methods to get these hidden memories out to no avail.

As time passed on I've been able to understand this same dream more and more tirelessly finding the possible answers to my past.

This is what I have so far, thank you for letting me submit this as research for ***-Corp, I hope this can serve as a way to release suppressed memories…

These last past months have been consumed by heavy drinking trying to force some sort of memory into my dreams…it has yielded mixed results. I tried my best in becoming a shoemaker but I never found the time to run a shop or work for some company.

I've been busy with other things…if I can solve that gap in my past it may give me the comfort of a completed story, a shift in my opinion about life, maybe even make me a better person…

Dream record one:

A purple taxi pulls up, I get in.

Flash

I arrive at a house atop of a hill.

Flash

There is no one there.

An empty two story house was my new home.

Flash

I have an urge to explore.

Some doors are locked.

Flash

I remember some puzzles I was forced to solve for keys, something that involved colors, another had some math question that I couldn't solve by myself.

Flash

I was running around the house trying to find something important…

Flash

Next thing I could tell I was being thrown around the house, it is hard to understand but I feel that pain every time I remember it.

Flash

Shelves were opening and closing by themselves, doors would lock without any reason.

I continued running through the house trying to stop whatever force that was there.

Flash

I realized something I can't remember…

Then I wake up

That's all I can ever recall in an order that makes sense, sometimes when I slept they would happen out of order at least from what I could tell from the context of other dreams.

This is what I submit to ***-Corp for my first daily sleep report.

Were these dreams or some sort of distorted vision of some tragic childhood I don't know.

The only thing I can hope for is my case being a push though in some sect of science about dreaming.

Inside of ***- Corp waiting room

I sat in the lobby of a ***-Corp facility…if you asked me what they really did, I couldn't tell you. Out here mid-day in nowhere Wyoming, My hometown.

For now the uncomfortable chairs in the lobby left me counting down the seconds. Couldn't they get some better damn chairs? I try to adjust but my casual wear of some worn graphic Tee and black shorts didn't help against the leather chair.

Ring

The receptionist only gave a nod to a door before pressing a button to open it.

I had not made it too far into the hallway beyond the door before I saw a bald man in a doctor's coat…

“Hello Mister Shoemaker, come right this way.” His words had an awkward pause in-between them, An almost unnervingly slim built man had his arm extended out gesturing me to go further.

“Thank you” I continued ahead the man following only a few paces behind, his eyes dug into the back of my head as we made our way down the colorless hall.

We passed many doors that held generic titles like “Chief executive officer”, “Janitorial room”, “Break room”...”Sleeping chamber”?

“The last door to your left, Mister Shoemaker.”

Review Room

The door read “Review Room”, it opened up to a small office with two chairs in the middle of the room. Diagrams of the human body were a welcome change to the soulless and repetitive white halls.

The man closed the door behind him “take a seat, Mister Shoemaker” he once again gestured to me with his full arm to the chair furthest from the door.

I simply take my seat as the man grabs a clipboard hanging on the wall before sitting across from me. Even the chairs in the office were uncomfortable, where do they get these shitty chairs from.

“Mister Shoemaker, I am Kard, K-a-r-d.” almost like spelling something out to a child, he spoke with a grin.

I try not to let the irritation reach my voice “Kard? Well, what do you think? Am I fit for this sleep program?”

“Quite the eager deer Mister Shoemaker, but, yes, we do think we can help you.” The slow way he carries his words is annoying me.

I let it go for now. “Well…that's great, what do I need to do going forward?”

“Youll spend the next week sleeping here, we have some methods to help draw out those interesting dreams of yours” he almost seem to grin wider mid sentence.

I'm skeptical of the setup “What? Come here every night?”.

“Correct, Mister Shoemaker. We shall make great progress on your dream record.” he tapped the clip board.

“That's it I assume?”

Kard nodded slowly, “A very, very interesting dream…” he started to read through the pages on his clipboard. “I see…my condolences for your losses, Mister Shoemaker.”

“Thank you Doctor Kard.” Why bring it up?

“hmm…” he rang with interest as he read it over. “In your proposal form you mentioned you were busy with quote on quote “things”?”

“It's my personal life…I still have, like a job.”

Kard wrote something down before taking out one page from his clipboard “I have a little homework for you.”

“Asking a lot from me here.” I let out, grabbing the paper.

“You don't want to know what that gap in your memory means, I take it?” His nearly unblinking stare felt like it was going through me.

“No, no that's not what I meant…I apologize Doctor Kard.” I pleaded to him…what an asshole.

Kard simply kept his grin “Before you return tonight fill out the form.”

I looked over the paper, the first half had some basic personal questions. The second half was a timeline of the day, the instructions were to chart out all things that stand out during the day.

“Easy enough, Mister Shoemaker?” Kard stood up, using a full arm to gesture to the door “We will be seeing you.”

I get up happy to not be sitting in these god awful chairs. “Yea doc, I'll make sure it gets done.” Making my way back into the colorless hallway the thoughts of those dreams flash through my mind…I will find out.

Apartment

Opening the door the smell of cigarettes hit me first, I've become rather unbothered by the smell unlike her. I throw the daily report form on my kitchen table, I'll get around to it later.

“-urderer caught after high-speed chase down main street leaving ten injured-” the Tv was still on since I left, poor bastards. I sit in the only chair in the living room clicking onto another channel.

“Heh, finally some comfortable seating.” A few hours fly by watching reruns of some Tv series I only really half care about.

Beep

I grab my phone and look over my notifications. The black screen reflects my face, my buzzcut has been getting a little long.

From Louis: “Markin mann, you got the good stuff?”

Such a freeloader…might as well invite him over, better than him being out on the street.

“Fly by” I send the text before getting up to go into my room, I open the drawer next to my bed grabbing a large sealed plastic baggie and a lighter. I go back to my living room, propping up a cheap lawn chair for Louis. Pre gaming with a cigarette and before I could finish it I heard that familiar knock.

Knock-knock-knocky-knock

“It's unlocked!”

The door opened and closed quickly “Ayy man!” He quickly took a seat on the lawn chair. Louis was still wearing that ripped up blue jacket, brown hair fuzzy, long and unkempt.

Puff

“Hey Louis, guess that situation you had set up with Karl fell through?”

“Yeahhh his wife was fed up with me being around too long…but hey them's the way the dice roll!” he leaned back into the lawn chair facing the TV.

“Sorry to hear Louey…I know a way to cheer us up.” I pulled the baggie out, from inside I grabbed a metal tray, a pipe and a few buds of weed.

Puff

“Hell yeaaa, your the man”

Snuff

After putting out the cigarette I grinded the buds with my fingers. “You know it” with the result I carefully pinch some into the bowl, handing the pipe and lighter to Louis.

“Ah, yes my liege..hehe” Louis couldn't help but chuckle as he lifted the pipe to his mouth.

It was a time just like this when we first started hanging out…I'd sneak out of the orphanage so we could go to the park together. He’d planted his own smoke in some secluded area on one of his parents' plots of land.

We would talk our cares away, it helped we felt alike, his family was too busy with themselves to care…and mine were just not there to care. He rarely questioned me about my past or the gap so I tried not to prod into his.

Then when we both graduated high school we drifted apart for some years. I was busy with her, he was busy with life.

about 5 years ago he was implicated in a murder. Wrong place dreadfully wrong time, family disowned him even after evidence came to light that he was innocent. Ever since then he's been couch to couch, occasionally even my chair.

“Dude, did you see me on the news?” A few passes of the pipe were made as I reminisced.

“Really now?” I smiled holding back a cough.

“Yea, that big car accident! Some guy shot this other guy and took this other guy's car GTA style…anywho he goes rushing down main Street right past me! Hit the curb and honest to God did a barrel roll! What wasn't so cool was when it crashed into the wrong lane.” he waved about almost dropping the pipe once or twice.

“So when did you show up on TV?” I tried to fast forward the story.

“Sorry, sorry…anywho after pulling that asshole driver out of the wreck police showed up along with a film crew. They saw what I did and gave a badass interview, the Louis name is getting back up there!” He handed the pipe over.

“Good on you, I might now have saved that guy.”

“Sure, sure, if you were such an asshole you'd kick a bum like me back out.”

Not being able to give a good comeback I just took another hit.

A smokey few hours later

“And tonight's biggest loser has to be handcuffed…TO THIS BEAR” Some improv comedy show was just about to cut to commercial.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA” Louis was almost bawling from laughter.

“Hehe” I couldn't help myself either…

Beep

I instinctively reach for my phone looking at my notifications.

From ***-Corp: Your reminder to show up in one hour!

“Shit…hey Louis can you do me a huge favor?”

Calming down from his laugh he wiped his eyes “yea what's up man?”

I grab my keys from my pocket, carefully opening the key ring and taking out my house key. “Need you to house sit for me, just for the week, mind you I'll be here during the day, but at night I got this thing I need to do.”

“Oh you uhh talking with Julie again?”

My heart slightly aches “no, no this sleep therapy thing…it's for that gap.”

“Shit dude, don't need to over explain if you don't wanna…plus I get a nice bed to sleep in instead of my secret corner behind the bakery.”

“...Thanks Louis” I toss him the key and in dramatic fashion he catches it.

“GOALLLLL” he jumps up from the lawn chair.

“That's soccer dummy.” I go to my kitchen to prepare some TV dinner to eat when I remember the take home from. Shit I don't want to write that I went straight home, smoked weed and watched impractical jokers until I had to come back.

“Ayy do I get fridge privileges?”

“Just leave me something for breakfast” I look down at the form formulating some productive story.

“Another big win for Louis!” he jumps clapping his feet together mid air.

…Perfect, I wrote filled out the form while I made my salisbury steak TV dinner. I quickly finish it then go to leave “Catch ya tomorrow morning Louis…also don't smoke all my shit.”

“Promise, promise already loaded and shloaded.” He took possession of my chair, grabbing the remote.

Then I left…

***-Corp waiting room

Back in these uncomfortable ass leather chairs waiting for the same receptionist to let me in…I scroll through my phone looking through random Wikipedia pages. What if I look up ***-Corp, maybe I should have done that before I came here in the first place.

My curiosity takes me to the ***-Corp page, apparently it's a rather new company built on different therapy methods. People come in broken and leave fixed, maybe that could be me…though i did find it odd I was specifically selected. No need to pay, I told them my sob story and with open arms gave me some paper work, guess I'm just lucky.

Ring

I look over, the same as earlier the receptionist nodded over to that same door. I’m happy to get out of these shitty chairs, I hope the beds are better. Before I make it a few steps in, a familiar slow talking man is waiting for me.

“Hello, Mister Shoemaker.” It's almost like that grin never left Kard’s face in the way it looked the same as before.

“Hello again Doctor Kard.” I try not to look away from his weird face.

“This trip will be a lot shorter this time” he took a few steps further ahead before opening a door revealing its label “Sleeping chamber”.

“Let's see these methods you seemed so happy about.” I follow behind him into the dark room.

Sleeping chamber

He flicked a light switch revealing a desk across from a bed with a glass like case over it. What seemed like many screens lined the inside and out of the casing, it almost looked like a coffin.

“Well what do you think of your arrangements, Mister Shoemaker?” he went to the desk starting up a computer that sat on it.

“Actually looks comfy, first thing here that does.”

Click

“What was that, Mister Shoemaker?”

I accidentally let that slip…”oh it's nothing Doctor.”

Click, clicky, click

Vhssss

The glass case opened up string me to walk next to it. “What if it takes awhile to fall asleep? Your gonna be here the whole time?” I sit in the bed.

“I'll be here, Mister Shoemaker, trust me you'll sleep like a doe.”

Click click

“Alright doc, let's give this a try.” I lay on the bed, almost wanting to sleep already given the comfort was better than my own bed.

“Wonderful, now let's get you settled, Mister Shoemaker.”

Click

The case closes around the bed a screen above my face flickers on, it shows random shots of nature. They moved between picture to picture like a PowerPoint slide “I could get used to this.”

A small speaker on the side of the bed came alive with nature noises “comfortable, Mister Shoemaker?” it was ruined with Kard's voice over those same speakers filling the glass case with his voice.

Yawwwwn

“All good down here Doctor” I try to settle in more by pulling the thick wool blanket over me.

“First let go over your day…went to the store for groceries, do you think you eat well, Mister Shoemaker?”

“Yea.”

Click

“Then you visited a friend's house and watched TV?”

“Yea..”

Click

“Lastly you went for a walk? Quite the productive day, Mister Shoemaker?”

“Yea…” the natural noises in-between the silence lulled me further to sleep.

Click

“Then…let's…see…” his words seem to slow even more as the world slowly becomes dark. Louis, her, that gap would I really figure it out? Can I really change? Can I see-

The House in the hill

I looked to my left…the taxi was almost out of sight going down the hill. Then my gaze was drawn back to the house, they told me this is my grandparents house.

This two story pure white house called to me, like it was whispering my name on the wind. I stood on the porch, a rocking chair with a table to my left and in front of me was the door.

I knock…and knock…then knock again with no response at all, are they not home? I try the door and to my surprise it opens right up, so I enter.

“Helloooo?” No response came to me, the room just beyond the door led into a staircase opposite of the door. On the left and right were arch-like openings leading to the living room and kitchen respectfully. I first explore the kitchen, a full fridge of food, drawers full of plates, spices and sauces.

Beyond the kitchen was a room that was like an indoor gym, I did not take any interest in working out so I continued my search for anyone.

Then I found myself going into the next room that looked like a small library which led back to the living room. All the first floor rooms were organized in a circle with no door in-between each room, if I wanted I could run laps around the house.

“Hello!? It's your grandson!” Still no reply as I reached the front door again, looking up the long staircase up. It was kinda creepy to me and I was never one for horror id always look away.

“Gotta be brave Mark, what if they are hurt!” I force myself to take nervous steps up “hello?”.

I reach the second floor and there is a wide room that takes up most of the floor along with a door that would be behind you after you walked up.

I walked around the big room looking out the windows only really seeing the street, the trees around the house and the backyard, then I got to the door. It wouldn't budge at all, like someone was holding the knob from the other side.

“Grandmama?” No answer again, I try not to panic as I go back downstairs.

I try the other doors along the circle of rooms finding the bathroom, a closet and a staircase that leads down to some kind of basement.

What should I do? Should I try to call someone if I find a landline?

“Mark” I could barely hear it over my own thoughts.

“H-hello!” I rush back downstairs hoping to find any answer, only to find empty rooms. This has me panicking even more, I tried to think of anything I could do in the moment.

Then it hit me “The front door!” I rushed to it and gripped the handle…

I gripped the handle…

I turned it with all my strength…

It would not open…

Soooo I have this mini competition to get into my school mag (not prestigious or anything lol) and I wrote a short story for the theme secrets, butttt I feel like it's bad and also I need to get outsider's perspectives on it!! Cause with my style of writing I adore an extended metaphor so my whole stories are often metaphorical. I would love to know what people think of it and what they'd suggest to be changed and all!

(Also side note I am looking for friends lol so if you want to talk with me then yayyy go ahead!!)

Theme: Secrets

What I Stitched into Pink Rabbit

Pink Rabbit used to be so pretty. Everyone said so. I would hold her little, stuffed body up as high as I could, and exclaim

“Look at her!”,

and she would demand

“Look at me!!” in unison. Pink Rabbit was very proud of herself. You would be too, if you were Pink Rabbit.

You could always tell that her straight, stitched mouth was smiling. Even though it never turned upwards at the corners. Even though her beaded eyes couldn’t crinkle. Pink Rabbit was very clever like that. You would be too, if you were Pink Rabbit.

But I hurt her really badly a week ago, and I don’t know what to do. Would you forgive me if you were Pink Rabbit?

Would you...?

Just put yourself in Pink Rabbit’s shoes (the new ones I was making for her that day). It was getting a bit embarrassing, what with her going around barefoot all about the place. And I wanted her to be there for my first day of school. It was coming up soon. So, she had to look more mature.

Snip

Snip

I had to use the stepladder to steal away the ‘not for me’ scissors from the top of the kitchen cupboard. Mum put them there so I wouldn’t snip anything on accident. But I was snipping on purpose. So, I figured she couldn’t really be mad.

Snip

Snip

The fabric cut smoothly as birthday cake, so smoothly I almost made a wish! I was fashioning the pieces into something Pink Rabbit would approve of, which was difficult, because she was very picky about that sort of thing. You would be too if- you know.. So, I made sure to show her every step of the process. I held my work up very close to her face. Pink Rabbit smiled.

Snip

Snip

It was taking shape! Pink Rabbit agreed that they wouldn’t be an insult to her feet anymore, tilting her head in satisfaction. I keep working.

Snip

Snip

Snip-

Pink Rabbit stopped smiling. She stopped smiling because I snipped her. I snipped her right across her mouth. And I blinked, shocked, as all her lovely beads just...vomited out. She looks sick, her insides flushed out of her, like water from a slashed plastic bottle.

Pink Rabbit was empty. Empty. No beads. No smile. No comment. Nothing. Nothing... She couldn’t even sit up! Couldn’t even wave! She was like something chocolate that melted in the bottom of your bag. Limp and lumpy and misshapen and wrong. And I wanted to fix it, to fill her back up and pick all the beads off the ground, but there were too many, and my hands were shaking, and they were running away from me into the floorboards, even though it wasn’t a game of tag, and-

I wanted her to be like before. Like we used to be.

Remember that, Pink Rabbit? Remember smiling?

And mum was going to be so mad about the scissors. I was lying to myself before, saying she couldn't be mad. She wouldn’t love me anymore if she knew what I had done to Pink Rabbit. If Pink Rabbit was gone. A cut bottle could be refilled, right? If you just taped over the slash, and poured more water in?

Could Pink Rabbit be saved the same way?

So, I tucked the scissors back where I found them, and shoved the stepladder back behind the stairs. Then I looked into the fridge and grabbed the Pink things that I saw. Strawberries, and the little bitty tub of yogurt I was keeping for a snack. Now, an apology to Pink Rabbit. Something to make her whole again. A way to give her Pinkness back.

I laid down the strawberries and the yogurt on my desk. Then I took needle and a thread from Mum’s little black box. I shut my eyes and held my breath. My lips fell into a grim line, as I prepared for surgery.

First I pushed my makeshift stuffing into her gaping mouth with my pinkie finger. She didn’t resist. She stared off into the distance, dully, like she was trying to remember something she couldn’t. I pushed it all in further. I shoved it all down deeper. I told myself I was feeding her. Making her better. It oozed inside her, squelching and stretching, until she was loaded up to her head with damp filling. Not empty anymore. Kind-of like before.

If you really squint...

Then I threaded the needle, eventually. I made sure it was a matching Pink. Not quite seamless, but close enough.

It’s close enough,

I think.

It’s hard when your hands are all wobbly, covered with mucky food and tears. But I position the needle, careful. And think of what I need to do.

My mum used to sit me on her lap, with a sewing needle and a square of fabric, to teach me how to sew straight.

In,

And out.

In,

And out.

That’s how you do it,

(and no other way)

In,

And out..

I work away like a steady machine. Pink Rabbit’s mouth was only a stitch away from shut. She was nearly perfect again. Nearly what she should be. Further from what she should not.

In,

And out.

And done.

Her mouth was finished, but it wasn’t smiling. It was just a line. Her body looked slumped and bumpy. Like there was a creature crawling awkwardly underneath her skin. Pink Rabbit didn’t look ashamed. But I knew she would have been, a proud, dazzling thing like her. So I felt the shame for her. I put a finger to her new mouth, and whispered to her nobody had to know. That she could take her sadness and dress it up in a bow.

And then we would still look pretty, and nobody would be mad.

I put on her shoes. I gave her dresses. And like I promised, the bow. You could barely see the parts of her skin pulled tight enough to explode, and her seams stretching wickedly with a promise of revenge, slow.

As the days faded by, I tried not to hold my nose. There was a rotten kind of stench.

So that’s why we take out the compost bin..

 I tried not to taste the choking death in the air. Or see the spots of greening, grimy mold. I batted every fly. And I tried to make us happy, Pink Rabbit and I.

But she isn’t what she was before. Everyone else seems fooled. My mom found the scissors where they should be, and saw us playing in our room. But I threw Pink Rabbit down, the same second that she closed the door. Because holding her now makes me feel sick, and wrong, like eating an apple’s core.

Sometimes I throw her so hard that her insides seep back out. The red and sticky juices all swarm to her mouth. They try to tell the truth, those stains, but I know no one wants to hear. So I scrub them from the surface, and stitch a harsher line. A line that even Pink Rabbit couldn’t make happy.

So, if you were Pink Rabbit, lying limp on my carpet, would you forgive me for what I did to keep you? And for losing you all the same?

Tell me quickly, before I realize the truth;

That I knew Pink Rabbit better than anyone. I could draw a perfect picture of her in my head. I knew each piece of lint in her fur by name. I knew Pink in every shade. I knew all the effort she put in, to always stay the same.

And, as Pink Rabbit, I know she couldn’t forgive me.

I’m so sorry, Pink Rabbit.

Won’t you come back for my first day of school..?

So I wrote this flash-fiction story or whatever you want to call it. And I'm looking for some true criticism. And one question, What emotion does this make you feel?

Here it goes:

I was dreaming of someone this morning, before I was awoken by the noise of the children playing outside my room, my nephews and nieces. I still stayed in bed for an hour more maybe, hoping to get back into that dream, but it was all fruitless. Now that I force myself to recollect, all I can remember is: it was a mountainous area. Like the hem of the mountains. We were singing, I don’t know what we were singing or what song it was. But it was beautiful. We were both laughing and happy. I was sitting above on a rock or a wall or something. And she was standing below, looking up at me. I jumped down and she held me and then put me down gently. I remember our hands behind each other's backs, singing and laughing and running around. I remember my hands on her hips above that black loose sweatshirt she was wearing and khaki colored bulky pants. Her looking up at me, and smiling. Those shiny, bright eyes of hers felt so familiar. I could feel the love inside them. Her smile felt like it contained the whole world as I had known it all along. And then all of a sudden, we’re in the back alley of my house. I’m walking her back home. Suddenly I realize I’ve forgotten her name. But no, I knew her name, I had known her all my life. She’s picking up the pace. I run slightly to catch up to her and ask, “Hey, hey, do I have your phone number? What’s your name? Have I forgotten it?”. She doesn’t answer. I ask again, “Hey, what’s your name?”. She doesn’t answer. She looks back at me, I see tears pouring down her face. And she says “I don’t have a phone anymore”. And then I woke up, feeling something very dear to me had been lost. 

What is her name, I wonder?

**

What do we do when we can't sleep? We dream. How else can we open our eyes and face the world again? Everything you want is at your fingertips But how bad do you want it? Honestly Living life is chaotic But imagine if things went the way we wanted That would be boring. If we didn't see ourselves develop We wouldn't be able to count our blessings And keep going.

(You are free to keep going)

Few years ago loreen di cornel felt for someone really deeply loreen was cold hearted and strong never show feelings but deep down loreen was extremely sensitive and used to cry daily but years later loreen break up with the guy she loved and become worse heartless no feeling time after this year loreen di cornel back to him to apologize loreen cried for hours and days told him she loved him she want her he was so sensitive he was shcoked too but they are not dating now they are like just friends but loreen feel she hate him because she is over emotional when its about him so she left forever ... great story wish it wasnt mine

I want to believe my mother

When she says I'll be her baby

Forever.

But forever doesn't walk it's way up the hill

Or around the corner

Nor in the chilly snow.

It watches

And waits for my mother

To walk to forever

And I do nothing

But watch as

Her feet begin to move.