the prompt | issue two chinese international school
hangzhou 2015
#"'% ('r%& Kate Bradley: Secretary, Writer The prompt has been an exciting experience. You can imagine that through writing, painting, drawing and participating in this literary magazine that it is way to unleash creativity and imagination. But in my mind, we are a cult of people who just keep getting inspired by what we read, what others have written. Through being challenged both creatively by the most crazy writing prompts, and technically by the magazine’s editors, we come out not only stronger, but innovated. For this reason, thank you to everyone!
Isabella Boyne: General Manager, Layout, Writer It's been an absolute pleasure being part of the most amazing magazine team that is the prompt. Despite my constant nagging for everyone to get work done, and intense stressing over last minute layout, the work that we've done together is something I couldn't even image doing before coming to Hangzhou. The editorial and layout team are so hardworking and the writing is far beyond what I would have thought possible from a group of people our age. Thank you to everyone for being part of this magazine so that we get to leave our legacy in Hang zhou in the best way we know how!
Katie Eu: Head of Layout, Photographer, Writer It’s been an incredible experience working on this magazine with some of the most talented and hardworking peers I could have ever asked for. Working as the head of layout, I’ve learned valuable life skills, such as the different beween serif and sans-serif fonts.I’m really glad I got to work on this edition with my co-head of layout, Enrique, as this will be one of the last memories we can create here in the CIS community. I hope you enjoy the second issue of the Prompt!
Enrique Chuidian: Head of Layout, Writer This is my second edition of the prompt, and I have loved every second of working with this group of amazing writers, editors, layout designers and organizers. The amount of literary and artistic talent in our school still astounds me. I love how this magazine culminates a wide range of styles and themes that are apparent in our community, and I love reading everyone's pieces and watch their writing and art evolve. I am incredibly appreciative of everyone who has worked to make this magazine work, and for all the effort they put (people they deserve a lot of recognition for their work). To all the organizers, and to everyevery one who had to constantly chase me to do my job - I'M REALLY SORRY YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING
Tristan Wong: Layout I eneded up on the Layout team of The Prompt issue two, because at the time the first issue was due to come out, all my good friends were freaking out over it. I decided that I could use my skills to help them for the next issue, so here I am. Over the course of working with the layout team, I’ve learned new photoshop skills, as well as making new friends and memories!
Mia Kriegel: Layout, Writer This has been such a new and amazing experience for me. Being able to work with so many talented writers, layouters and of course the whole editing team has been such a honour. I have thoroughly enjoyed the past few months that I have experienced as being a part of a student run magazine and hope that the next year of HZ students get to enjoy the same experience. I hope that everyone enjoys the second edition of The Prompt! Tiffany Ng: Layout, Artist Hey. So I somehow ended up on the prompt. Over these past few weeks I've been visualising the various texts provided by our amazing authors, as part of the layout team. Its kinda hard. Considering their extremely explicit and detailed descriptions of everything its hard to find a decent picture of a masculine man with long hair and green/gold eyes. I try. Sometimes I'm given freedom to interpret the text which puts me into an even more difficult position, but I love what I do here and I won't change a thing! Florence Wu (FloW): Chinese Editor, Artist I work as an illustrator and a Chinese editor for the Prompt and I joined this workshop mainly because of my love for reading and creative writing, and I enjoy doing artworks for these pieces. It's a really fun experience to work together to create something that is a representation of our creativity and thoughts!
Tippy Pei: Chinese Editor, Writer Writing for the prompt is like being an adventurer, who always has an idea of where to plant his next step but never knows where would he end up in the world filled with mysteries and infinite possibilities. If I would have to use 3 words to describe our work in the Prompt, I would use coherent, courageous, and nuts.
Georgina Savage: English Editor, Writer I decided to join the Prompt in semester one, and also decided to take up the job of an editor. I'd say that I didn't become an editor on a whim, but I'd be lying. So in truth, I'm not sure how I ended up with this particular role. Luckily however, I enjoy it (most of the time), which means I try and do a good job of it. Hopefully however the errors in this particular issue is less obvious than the previous one. Karis Tao: English Editor, Writer To be honest, I don't even remember how I got to join the Prompt, or even how I became an editor. As an editor, my job requires me to read pieces written by my friends, then go all Grammar Police on their pieces and hope for the best. (Dear writers, I'm sorry if I sound harsh. I love you.) It's been a hectic but great experience being an editor. I've always wanted to dabble in the literary arts, and here I am, living the dream. No matter where I'll be in the future, I will always remember that I once was an editor of my school's literary magazine and yelled at people to correct their tense. I love you all. Jasmine Savage: English Editor, Writer I started the prompt because I had a lot of interest in doing a literary magazine, and there also seemed to be a lot of interest in creative writing. I also helped to found the magazine in semester one by organizing the first meeting. My experience working with my peers in the club has been great all the way up til now!
Stephanie Wu: Writer I joined the Prompt team in Semester two, and have mostly been contributing to the Chinese stories. Vivian Gu: Writer This is my first time working with the Prompt - I read the last issue and was so impressed by the quality of work that I had to join! It's been a very fulfilling experiexperi ence to write in this community of Prompt staff.
Rachel Li: Writer I quite enjoy writing and reading, so this is something I had a lot of fun with. This is the first time I’ve actually done something that is actually in a compilation, so I’m happy that I get to do it. Victoria Ngai: Writer I was lucky enough to be the Chinese editor last issue, and I feel honoured to be passing on the job this time to talented Florence and Tippy. Watching the team grow just makes me feel so glad that I can be a part of all this magic!
Ciara Liu: Writer I have liked writing stories ever since I was little and I really wanted to contribute to the school magazine so I joined after Isabella asked me to write a Chinese piece. Chloe Lee: Writer I like writing about the moon and the stars and things that don't happen to me in real life because this is the only way I'm able to experience it. The Prompt has been absolutely fantastic and I'll never forget this experience.
Sabrina Chan: Writer I'm a writer in the prompt, and no matter how many times the editors and heads thunder about deadlines and work, writing pieces for me is never a burden, but an exciting journey. Constance Lam: Writer I joined the prompt because I enjoy writing poetry and felt that it would only be fitting if I submitted some of my work.
Emily Duncan: Writer I joined the prompt because it's the perfect opportunity to have my writing published anonymously Fenton Garvie: Writer It has been a pleasure working with this phenomenal group of people on a daily basis who love each other and care for each others feelings as I watch them grow and develop every day from day 1. It truly has been, an experience of a lifetime
KATE
ISABELLA
ENRIQUE
KATIE
TRISTAN
MIA
“Sometimes I see a new piece to edit in the folder but I pretend that I don't so I don't have to edit it” “The first time I layouted a piece, I spent one hour writing out the title and the piece, cutting them both out, and rearranging them on a piece of paper. I ended up changing the design” “I do the best layouts at 1am. It’s a bad habit.” “Sometimes I just want to punch everyone in this club” “Sometimes even when I know a piece is terrible I still upload it and wait for the person to tell me that they don't like it”
#frqihvvlrqv by the core team “I used to export my files in JPEG and use an online converter to convert the files into PDF. The finished layouts were all blurry.” “I always try to make titles as big as possible to take up blank space” “I think this phrase would be appropriate for this, lets suggest it... *Ends up putting the same phrase in every single piece” “THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I'VE EVER READ *reflects on own life* why must it be not real” “Am I allowed to edit my own piece???” *Goes on photoshop for the first time* “ummm... how do you make this page A4” TIFFANY
FLORENCE
TIPPY
KARIS
JASMINE
GEORGINA
WORKS WATER Could It Be That I’m Strange Ships in Winter Do You Know Music On A Frosty Morning It Hurts Señora Goodbye My Dear Wednesday Hello My Dear Thursday She Said 多重人格障礙 EARTH Flower Child Falling Season A Promise of Adventure Falling Petals Lark and the Nightingale Him The Brothers Existing Make Up Lessons 來到你身邊 Episode Six
AIR Untitled World 536 Revival 1096 Steps 來瑟的隆冬 Dear Esther For A Smile Letters Deer Like Eyes Insecurities FIRE Today I Will A For Arlo Pretty Boys I Know You I Am The Darkness The Devil and His Saviour For Honour Dead Bodies The Leap 對你說 Beefy Haikus
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Could it be that I’m strange? Could it be that I’m strange? I don’t think I should change to think I would care about what you think you have to choose whether to sink or to swim and I, I who chose to swim sunk instead beginning my slow flailing descent into conformity weighed down by expectations deconstructed by social constructs some call me quirky others call me bizarre but if I conform con I won’t go very far. when you talk to me the words go over my head like flying drones in a languid summer sky did I have to listen did I really have to this poem was supposed to rhyme it had a structure like the hierarchal structure that defines our lives so many times I’ve written free verse but every time I try it gets worse and worse now I’m going off on a tangent nothing rhymes with tangent which is strange what’s stranger is the fact that I keep trying to rhyme putting the pieces of a model together after I put the manual in a paper shredder if you think I’m strange I don’t don think I should change because I am who I am and I’ll be anything I can so let me be
xmnux ns |nsyjw There was a dream that Sailor had every night, he woke with crazy eyes, red rimmed and watery. He saw his wife being thrown overboard in a series of fits and screams as his crewmates cheered the captain on. Sailor had thought many a time of jumping overboard and joining his wife at the bottom of the sea. But in his heart he knew, he knew that he was selfish and that everyday would be a constant taunting of his own black heart. This night was the same as every other, the same as every day. He awoke with sweat and clothes tangled, bile creeping up his throat for the sea that matched his lover’s eyes. Sailor could no longer breathe in the hammock of his, with the peeling walls and moldy ceilings, damp with salty waves that may have managed to reach them. Sailor stepped out of his hammock quietly, trying not to disturb the others. He pushed his way through the narrow door, walking up step by step to deck where the cool air could brush his face. On the deck was when he heard it. Sailor recognised the voice, it sounded like his wife, the one that he had lost so many months ago, when his captain had thrown her in the sea. She had always had a voice that could pierce the sea air and would have the rest of the crew infatuated with her for hours. It was different now, guttural, like her voice had been scratched by the rough waves, or the salty ocean. Sailor must have been hearing things, for his wife had died a lifetime ago. Sailor looked out onto the ocean, its waves were suddenly rougher than they had been before. They splashed up onto the deck of the boat, tinting the brown of the deck’s floor so that it became even darker, the wood quickly absorbing the water. Only speckles of salt were left on top as the boat rocked with the elements that were fighting beneath it. Sailor walked to the edge of the boat, his face in the wind, pushing his hair back. The voice emerged again from the ocean, an ocean that was suddenly painted grey. “Darling, the ships in the winter are sailing the sky. My love, come down to me, in the ocean where we lie”. Sailor saw a figure, one that looked so much like his own wife, that he had to look, if only to satisfy his own insane curiosity. Closer he leaned, to see the figure looming in the water below. She was not swimming, but she wasn’t quite floating either. She was simply there, her blonde hair in the water beside her, as she drew Sailor in. Sailor was suddenly in the water, he was not quite sure how he got there, but he hit the water with a splash so sudden, that for a moment he had lost all of his senses. When Sailor reoriented himself he was acutely aware of the lack of oxygen that was in his lungs, his clothes weighing him down whilst the salt made his eyes sting. A brightness flashed before him and suddenly he saw her there, his wife in all her glory. And yet, she was not there at all for he could not feel comfort in her hands, or warmth in her eyes. Sailor could only see the sky and the ship above him sailing further and further away.
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do you know that one time where sweat drips down your back like an uncomfortable caress like some distant relative that just happened to drop by do you know that one time where your mum describes the water soaking through your shirt as a shimmer and glow and leaves you to cook in the bright summer light do you know that one time where just three steps outsides makes you feel like you've run a mile without the gratification of actually going for one oh, the woe of the warm wet heat that the summer keeps shining down on us.
PROMPT: DESCRIBE SWEAT
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whenever i put my earphones in on a frosty winter morning breath misting in the air i close my eyes and imagine the little symphonies taking place between my ears
PROMPT: “little symphonies in your ears�
IT HURTS
It hurts to see him like this Writhing in pain As he deepens his scars With endless shame and guilt.
It hurts to see him like this Writhing in pain As he burns all the brightness that is him, His head hung low; a wall slowly building.
My heart cries When he buries himself And waits for hell to begin.
Make it stop. Please.
I attempt in vain to stop his tears, Which fall softly against his cheek; The scent of sea salt etched In my mind. Hopelessly, I try to speak soothing words That may lessen the suffering, But like droplets on the ocean, They pass, with no purpose or meaning Like they were never there.
His body tenses As a forced smile appears. He tells me to ignore his cries, And that he is fine. The bellow of the wind Pushes the knife in my heart Deeper and deeper into me. My hands tremble; I am close to pieces. Do not push me away, Because I can break from your touch. Do not let me go, Though I am useless for you.
I can feel his heart beat A synchronized march of dread, Waiting for the story to end.
In veiled tears I whisper, I love you, repeatedly Till my voice grows hoarse And that I am no more.
Yet there I sit, in a frigid fear, Hoping, but not acting, For a light to wrap him In their arms.
It hurts to see him like this Writhing in pain As he runs in ire and agony, From the world, himself and me.
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Señora libertad Pinta el cielo con oro y sangre Y sus hijos ven con alegría. El sol caido Refleja en el mar dorado Y sus hijos favoritas Nadan felizmente Pero los dema Ven por el fondo. Y los hijos de la tierra Que rompieron sus cadenas hace todos aquellos años Son atan una vez mas Señora de la gente Vuela por el cielo Y sus hijos marchan en su sombra. Los nubes lluvia oro y plata Y su hijos alegran. Pero el secreto que se esconde El secreto que todos saben que ella no puede admitir No puede decir No puedo pensar Que la ideología que construía su gloria Se cae Y un nuevo ideología sube La seducción de riquezas Y los hijos fortunados Celebran en sus casas grandes y carros barros. Pero los dema Viven en las sombras Come las sobras que los afortunados tiran. Debajo de su máscara Su máscara roja de estrellas doradas Ella disfruta sus riquezas Cuando la hoz y el martillo Los olvidá debajo del dinero.
PROMPT: WRITE ABOUT A LANDMARK
Goodbye, My Dear Wednesday
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Hello, My Dear Thursday
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SHE SAID
{
i will destroy you she said staring us straight in the eyes i will destroy you in the most majestic way possible and then and only then you’ll realise why storms are named after people because it’s such a cruel thing to feel everything so very deeply
}
PROMPT: “IF PEOPLE WERE STORMS”
dPıÀğííàįØôÀıĥ surpsw lqvrpqldf wkrxjkwv lq d vwuhdp ri frqflrxvqhvv late nights of tick-tock. when the bathroom glow, is shining on my eyes and ii then wonder if those tears are from squinted eyes and the small hand on tick-tock. two. or if they’re just dropped there, by the monsters under my bed or in my head. then come the chants of what if? what then? why couldn’t you betick-tock. good enough. tick-tock. my eyes roll back to the quiet snores of fullfar away beds and empty tick-tock. hearts. my eyes then droop and fantasies of a tomorrowtomorrow fills my head. tick-tock. i rise then. i turn off. tick-tock. the bathroom. tick-tock. lights.
多 重 人 格 障 礙
我坐在實驗室裡，一聲不響，多麼希望能夠成為面前那位穿白大褂的科學家， 但可惜我這一生永遠只能做試驗對象。一個個冰冷的鐵考圍繞著我的身軀、雙 手、雙 、脖子，連在頭上的一根根電線連接著一 笨重的機器上，這一切我 早已習慣了。今天他們要對我進行第267次試驗，試圖用一些機器來研究我大 腦裡的另五個我。 這就是多重人格障礙所帶來的命運。 一聲巨響表示機器已啟動了，一陣陣電波沖入我的大腦，機器上的屏幕出現了 一聲巨響表示機器已 一堆奇怪的符號和數字。第一個我現身了，那是一個內心枯燥、不善於表達、 與世無爭的人，一直到死去了還沒多少人留意他的存在。這一個我願意每天去 實驗室接受試驗，任那些科學家擺 ，反正人生中也沒有什麼樂趣。 突然，機器發出了嘀的一聲，屏幕上的數字變了，隨著第一個我的隱退，第二 突然，機器發出了 個我出現了。這是一個守紀律、誠實又勤奮的人，這一個我認為每天去受試驗 能夠給社會帶來貢獻，所以無論怎麼樣都是應該的。這一個我把受試驗當作了 工作，所以堅持每天準時到實驗室，離開時也沒有任何遺憾。 又嘀的一聲，第三個我出現了，那是一個心神不定、優柔寡斷的我，每天都會 對一些小小的異常起疑心，面對這些科學家又會懷疑他們是否想害我，但最終 還是接受試驗。這個我永遠都在問問題，好像一直在找一個找不到的答案一樣 ... 隨著數字的變動第四個我出現了，一個熱情、外向、勇敢的人。這一個我願意 面對各種挑戰，包括接受試驗。這是在五個我中最受歡迎，最討人喜歡的我。 機器上的數字顯得比之前的幾次都高了許多，滴滴聲也更高音了。我的臉上露 出了一絲微笑，真希望能夠永遠保持這個我，讓其他的都消失。 這時，滴滴聲突然停下了，機器屏幕上的數字變成了從未有过的負數，實驗室 這時，滴滴聲突然停下了，機器屏幕上的數字變成了從未有 裡一片肅靜。突然，我的雙手產生了一股怪力，不由自主地把身上的鐵考全部 摧毀，把頭上地電線一下全部拔了下來。那 笨重的機器發出了急促的警報聲 ，所有的科學家正在尖叫著，慌亂地逃出實驗室。第五個我終於現身了，那是 一只怪獸，受盡了人生中的患難與煩惱，怨恨這些所謂的科學家和這 討厭的 機器。為甚麼我要做試驗對象，而你們能為所欲為？我只想把所有的一切給破 壞掉。之前的四個我都是虛幻的，這一個我才是真的。 其實，我身上所患的不是多重人格障礙，而是精神分裂症。
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we say we love flowers. the vibrant colors that greet us yet we pluck them from their roots without a second thought. we also say we love trees the fresh air they bring to us yet we murder them daily without a second thought. why are people still questioning why some are afraid when they hear the words: i love you.
Falling Seasons "Mom! Mom, look! My arms are so long already! I'm growing up so fast, aren't I?" The young child exclaimed. When the mother heard her child speak and saw that he had indeed grown quite large, she realized that she was growing old as well. She needed to explain the horror he would face when he is older and became big enough for the fate that all of their kin experienced before she was gone. "Child, you are so old already. I am afraid you have become old enough to hear about the dreadful thing known as falling season." "Falling season? What is that?" The young one questioned. "You see, when you become older and falling season comes, they will come to us. They will look at us, one by one, and pick whomever looks the best, cutting us from our roots and throwing us all in a large box. Then, they bring you to a large land where all of the others they caught are also being kept. More of them will come, look at you, and choose which one they think is best. Tying you up like a hostage, they will bring you to their dwelling, and put you in a sad corner. Sparkles and lights will be hung upon you, and they will place a star upon your head. They leave you there, for a month or even more, and you will slowly die. You will shed, dry up, and when the they have finished gazing at you from afar, they will put you outside, where your final death awaits. I am sorry child, but it is what is going to happen." The mother finished solemnly. "Mom, is that what happened to dad?" The child whispered. "It is also what is going to happen to me," The mother replied quietly. As they swayed gently in the forest air, mother and child enjoying each others company, each thinking about what had happened, they heard a noise. The mother knew it was time.
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adventure Prompt: As a child, you and your best friend made a pact to go on an real fantasy adventure. After growing up, starting your separate lives and families, and losing touch, one day he/she bursts into your office, throwing you a sword and insists you accompany them. All stories must have a beginning, and this one begins with two cribs lying side by side. The first child, born in the morning, was like the sun itself: optimistic, energetic, happy. The other was born late into the night, and was as quick-witted and cunning as the shadows of the dark. Growing up together, it was no surprise the two children were close. Like all young children, they had their fair share of promises, one of which, perhaps, marks the true beginning of this tale: “We’ll go on an adventure together.” As the years passed and the two children grew to become adults, they locked their childish selves deep within their hearts, and learnt to keep their dreams and views of the world to themselves, as they were taught that they were children no longer, and had to follow the rules set by the world they lived in. Separated by their growing interests and different responsibilities, they were no longer joined at the hip. Delayed meetings and irregular phone calls slowly faded into nothings. As the petals of a flower wilt and fall during winter, their relationship shriveled up and was tossed aside. And so, the promise was all but forgotten. Then, on one peculiar day, when the sun was shining much brighter than usual, and the shadows were shirking from the light, the plain white doors of a large corporate office were thrown open, and the boy of the morning stepped forward, beaming. “We’re going on an adventure together,” the boy said, eyes flashing, shining as bright as the sun. Those words were like a smooth, silver key. One that knocked down the walls a person’s heart builds as they grow older; one that undid the knots of heartbreak and heartache; one that unlocked the child the girl of the night had buried within herself so long ago. He winked and tossed her a sword,which she caught and gripped with her palm. She took his hand, and together, they ran out of the office, ignoring the judgmental murmurs and blooming rumors that echoed behind them.
He led her to the woods they used to visit frequently when they were young, and, sideby-side, they battled hideous goblins, flamebreathing dragons, cackling witches. They crossed fraying rope bridges and entered deep, dark caverns. And, finally, with the sun setting behind them, they sat back to back on the fallen leaves of bare trees, wooden toy swords in their hands, the empty clearing of the woods quiet apart from their steady breathing. The girl of the night straightened her pencil skirt and adjusted her blazer, the golden magic that had transformed the trees into monsters and their clothes into armor already fading. “Today was just like the old times,” the boy announced. “Perhaps, one day, children will read about this adventure of ours.” As he turned to leave without another word, the children that had been able to shine just moments earlier were locked up within their hearts once more. A few days later, when the sun was nowhere to be seen in the grey sky, the girl picked up a newspaper in the corporate office, and was stunned into silence. The boy of the morning, sunny and joyful, had been found dead in his home, a sword buried deep within his heart. And it was then that the girl realized that the world was very cruel, and the boy, with his heart as large and as soft as a child’s could not cope with its harsh brutality. That, unlike her, quiet and creeping like the night, the boy had not managed to shut the child in himself away, and, as a result, had chosen to die, rather than to struggle to live in a world where people were selfish and sneaky. The girl was left behind, feeling lost and angry, for she had just regained her other half, only to have him been torn away from her ruthlessly. Suddenly, the girl recalled what the boy had used to tell her with a smile: “to die would be an awfully grand adventure”. And the girl screamed and cursed the heavens, for she knew that, deep in his heart, there was a cowering child, who feared death just as everyone else did, but could not find another escape from the looming, snatching hands of society.
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There is an old legend that has been around for as long as I can remember. In this legend, there is a young couple who fall madly in love. One day, hoping to impress and please his lover, the male climbed over to a sorcerer's garden, and harvested the smooth diamonds that grew in the center of his magical sakura tree. When the sorcerer (as he inevitably would) found out, he turned the man into a sakura tree, his limbs and torso growing and twisting into sturdy branches, fragile blossoms sprouting all over his branches. Horrified and filled with sorrow, his lover rushed to the sorcerer and begged for forgiveness and to revert her lover back to his original form, but the sorcerer refused. The woman returned to the tree, where she wept until she had no tears left to fall from her eyes. From her tears, the tree grew big and strong, but the woman died soon after -- her broken heart had filled her with a despair and distress that could not be fixed, and she had succumbed to the peaceful rest that death offered. In her memory, the villagers planted a sakura tree beside her lover. The two sakura trees' branches grew to intertwine and loop in an endless complicated maze, and whenever their petals scatter across the hill, the villagers claim that they could hear echoes of their tragedy, and whispers of their newborn love. What we are supposed to take from this legend is that there is always life after death, though perhaps not quite in the form we imagine. It is what they told me after Sora died. They tell me, "Kanae, I understand Sora was very dear to you, but she is not suffering any longer, she is in a better place." Which makes me think a multitude of things: ‘Are we all suffering right now?’, ‘I had not thought Sora nor I were unhappy, but was I just oblivious?’, ‘Is death an escape?’, and ‘If death always takes you to a ‘better place’, why is everyone afraid of it?’. In the legend, the villagers are able to hear the stories of the lovers through the sakura trees. Coincidentally, just by Sora's grave, there is an old sakura tree, whose branches twist and delicately spread themselves over Sora’s grave, shielding it from the harshness of the sun, or the erosion of the rain. Sometimes, when I sit on the petal-littered ground and close my eyes, I think I can hear Sora’s lilting laugh and smell the sharp ginger and lavender cream Sora's skin always smelt of. Sometimes, I can hear her tell me, "Kanae, you should move on. It is no use to keep thinking of a dead person." And I will reply, "Maybe I don’t want to move on. And maybe I can’t. I can’t move on this path I have strayed from; without you, the sky is darkened and stormy, and I cannot see." Usually, she falls quiet, apart from a slight hum or a soft sigh you can hear from the wind and falling petals if you strain your ears, but today, the petals fall in clumps, being buffeted by the sharp wind, and I can hear Sora's voice loud and clear, "Just part those stormy clouds, Kanae, and you will find a starry sky that will be bright enough to show you back to the path you have lost your way from." And I think I can feel her warm, lithe arms wrap around me, and I can feel her soft lips on my forehead, and then, I cannot hear her anymore. The last petal on the sakura tree has fallen. When I leave, I pick up a fallen, but intact blossom from the ground and place it on Sora's grave before turning my back on the graveyard and the sakura tree. “Thank you. I love you. Goodbye.”
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urpsw gudjrq d sulqfhvv dqg d sulqfh A long, long time ago, in a world altogether different from ours, a royal baby girl was born. Because of her angelic cries and sweet cooes, the King and the Queen named their newborn daughter Lark. Lark lived up to her namesake, her voice sweet and strong and comforting, which led to the story of the musically-gifted princess to spread across the kingdom. Lark, being the precious only heir of the King and Queen, was not allowed outside the tall castle walls, for fear she would be hurt. Instead, she had tutors and governesses who taught her history, mathematics, English, and proper etiquette. Being doting parents, the King and the Queen allowed Lark whatever she wanted, but as plentiful and rich her life was, Lark was not satisfied. She craved something she could not have, something unattainable, and that something, she knew, lay outside the castle walls. The King and Queen, however, mistook her shackled curiosity as loneliness, and had the neighbourhood kingdoms searched for a prince fit for their precious daughter. It was so that Prince Colin of the Kingdom of Einrin was brought over. He was the ideal prince -- tall, strong, handsome, skilled with a sword. Einrin was also a kingdom rich in gold mines and precious jewels, which the King and Queen believed was a benefit to the kingdom. Colin often attended important meetings and hunts which Lark was forbidden to join, so she had taken his arrival as a blessing. That is, until she asked him to join on a hunt for a dragon who apparently had been maliciously putting neighbouring towns to sleep before pillaging and burning. “Colin, dear,” Lark began. “I’d heard news of a dragon, or something of the like?” Colin nodded, flashing Lark a pearly-white smile. “Dangerous business,” he answered. “But nothing I can’t handle,” he said, brandishing his sword before slipping it back into it’s polished scabbard. “Well, Colin, do you think you could bring me along?” Coling stared at Lark for a moment before barking out a laugh. “Oh, Lark,” he said, tucking a finger under her chin. “Oh, my, dear, sweet, beautiful song-bird, my Lark, of course I can’t do that! You see, dragon slaying required intelligence and strength, and you’re just, well, a girl.” Lark scowled, her hopeful expression turning into one of distaste. “So, what?” “So,” Colin said, adjusting his armor. “Girls aren’t like boys. You’re not as strong or as smart, and a girl absolutely, positively can not slay a dragon.” “Well,” Lark huffed, “that just doesn’t sound right.” Colin clucked sympathetically. “Lark, my sweet, it’s not me who’s telling you this, it’s just a proven fact, my dear Lark.” And with that, Colin mounted his horse swiftly and whistled for his small troop of men, and departed. Later that night, Lark glumly stared outside her window, wishing more than anything that she could walk past the castle gates and explore what was outside. It was then that she heard a beautiful song from outside the window. Though wordless, the tune was fresh as the first drops of morning dew, calming as the frothy waves lapping on the edges of a sandy beach, while holding a haunting undertone that could make the strongest person in the world shiver and burst into tears. Lark was almost sure it was a lullaby, and if she had not been immune to lullabies since childhood, she would surely be asleep. The song suddenly stopped, and Lark threw open her windows and sang back. To her surprise, the singer replied to her, harmonizing with Lark’s very own lullaby, turning the solo into a glorious duet.
Curiosity overwhelmed her, and Lark rushed out of her room. She stopped abruptly when she saw two maids and a manservant crumpled in a heap on the floor. Worriedly, Lark leaned in to see what was wrong, only to realize that the were only in a deep slumber. As Lark walked out of the castle, she noticed that everyone had fallen very much asleep. Outside, the lullaby continued. Excitedly, Lark rushed passed the gates and into the forest, following the voice, singing in reply. The long grass tickled the sides of her feet that were not covered in the delicate satin of her slippers. The trees cast twisting shadows, changing as the moon pleased. Breathing in deeply, Lark could almost taste that the air was somewhat different to what she breathed in the castle. It wasn’t long before she reached a small clearing, where Colin and his men lay, snoring, on the ground. Smiling a little, Lark left the soldiers and the prince, and walked deeper into the forest. Finally, Lark reached a lake by the edge of the forest, and what she saw made her stop singing. A magnificent dragon stood regally by the lake, scales glittering and flashing in the bright moonlight. It’s tail was curled around three trees, and, from it’s mouth, came the song. Getting over the initial shock, Lark wandered closer, the breathtaking song all but pulling her towards the dragon. The dragon, finally noticing Lark, stopped singing, and shirked backwards warily. “A human,” it voiced. “What does your kind want now? Another scale from my body? Another claw from my feet?” Lark stopped. “And why would I want any of those things?” The dragon sneered. “Humans are cruel, are they not? Though I do nothing but imitate the song of a nightingale, they take from me to make jewelry and weapons that they use against me. Yes, humans are very cruel.” Lark shook her head vigorously. “Nightingale! I was drawn here by your song -- never have I heard something as beautiful. I could not help but try and sing with you.” The dragon peered at Lark with interest, now, iridescent pupils shimmering with every bat of the eyelid. “So it was you who was replying to my song. I must say, I was surprised. No one has been able to hear my song and stay awake before.” Lark curtsied politely. “My name is Lark,” she announced. “I have never been prone to lullabies, but, if you may, might you allow me to sing with you? I have not had a companion in a long time.” The dragon exhaled, nostrils flaring. “So you are Lark, and I am Nightingale -- two songbirds, one of the morning, one of the night. Lark, I, too, have not been graced by the presence of a partner in a while. I would be happy to sing with you.” Not before Lark or Nightingale had opened their mouths, however, a voice interrupted them. “Stop, you fiend! Unhand my princess and return her to me, or you be slain in the most horrible way imaginable.” Lark swivelled around quickly, eyes widening. “Colin! What are you doing here?” Colin beamed at Lark. “When the dragon stopped singing, I was the first to rise. Wasting no time, I came to save you, my dear!” Lark frowned. “Colin, this dragon is of no harm. I am not in need of saving.” “No harm? No harm!” Colin exclaimed. “This dragon put villages to sleep, before stealing and burning them down -- and you call this harmless?” Nightingale growled. “Stealing? Burning? This was not of my work. I cannot breathe fire -- if villages burned down, it was because a careless man or woman had knocked over their pot in a fireplace. If something was stolen, it was due to intelligent thieves, who had long since figured out to block my song with wax. I have never done anything of this sort!” Colin extended his hand towards Lark. “Lark! Come to me! I will save you from this lying dragon.” “This dragon,” Lark replied coldly, “has treated me as an equal, and even if just for a second, it is more than you have ever done. I do not need you to save me.” Colin laughed. “Lark, this dragon is playing mind games with you. I have never done anything but love you. This dragon is dangerous, it will put you to sleep at any second.”
“Oh, my dear, sweet, Colin, oh, my handsome prince, I did not fall asleep when I heard Nightingale’s song, but you did, my sweet, and you will yet. Perhaps it is you that needs saving.” Colin faltered. “Now, Lark, you know that that cannot happen. A princess cannot save a prince.” Lark shrugged. “Then maybe, my dear Colin, today I will be the prince, and you will be the princess.” And with that, Lark began to sing softly, Nightingale enhancing and adding to her sweet song. Colin collapsed immediately, curled up on the green grass, entering a deep sleep. Lark turned back to Nightingale, a smile stretched wide across her gentle face, continuing to sing. Nightingale gave a knowing nod, her eyes twinkling in glittering shades of purple, blue, and green. When Colin finally woke, he was sent back to Einrin. After detailed explanation, the King and Queen had understood that they had been mistaken. Lark had a small house commissioned by the lake, where she stayed with Nightingale, and sang the kingdom to a comfortable rest every night. With the help of Nightingale, and the permission of her parents, Lark was able to explore the world and learn many things outside the world of tutors and governesses. And in the years to come, fathers and mothers would tell to their children the story of two inseparable companions, a princess and a dragon, a lark and a nightingale.
make up
lessons prompt: blue is for boys
Create the foundation, Of a girl who sits down, And shuts up. Conceal my identity, lipstick my mouth shut Paint my nails so that I keep my hands to myself, Like a real girl, gentle and calm. Line my lips so they cannot move, Then I will not be bossy, So that the boys can be assertive. Line my eyes closed, blush my embarrassment, For daring to contradict. Shadow my eyes so that I don’t look At anywhere but the ground. Make up my face, make up my mind, Make me up into that girl, And tell me that it’s fine.
HIM It was so strange to see him like that. Athletic body bent over a book, unruly hair tied back in a neat ponytail, his always laughing eyes so focused, a wrinkle between his brows, and a pout of his lips. Balanced on one knee was a closely written book of notes, on the other a textbook covered in small Chinese characters.
His eyes were like rich soil, and russet earth, framed with a curl of whiskey, rich and golden in the soft morning light. It was quiet that morning, our soft breathing was the only sound, dust swirling in the shafts of light that cut through the blinds. His hand lay gently on the soft skin of my bare hip, tracing aimless circles with the pad of his thumb. Blinking lazily, he smiled, a slow curl of his full lips, secretive and small, just for me. His eyes, crinkling slightly at the edges, were full of quiet mirth and maybe just a little bit of love.
How it scares me to see him so fragile. Him with his quick wit and blinding smile, and eyes that seem to grow bigger each time he laughed. I hold him tightly with my fingers at his nape and press his damp eyes to my breastbone, hoping that somehow I can hold the pieces of him together with my tired arms and weeping heart.
He felt more alive standing on the roof of the ratty apartment building than he ever remembered. One hand was resting lightly on the door of the fire escape, the other thrown out to his side. He breathed in the city air and admired the lights of the landscape below him that flickered like an inferno. He rocked forward onto his toes, head tilting back to expose a slender throat, and delicate ear as his hair fell backwards brushing the wall behind him. He was young, but the look in his eyes age old and weary, they spoke of memories that wanted to be forgotten and a feeling of defeat.
TheBrothers Dear A, You never admitted I was there. We were nearly strangers. The only thing that held us together was our blood. Sometimes I wondered whether you, or I, truly existed to the other. Standing next to each other in family portraits, we both gave the camera toothy grins and pretended to know each other. Did anybody know the truth? I never told anyone and I would have hoped that you didn’t either. It was our secret, and our secret only. At night I would lay in my bed and wonder what life would have been like if we hadn’t been forced to fit together. Torn at birth, and then clumsily glued together like two broken parts that were meant to fit, but just didn’t. We were forced to fit and so we did, not wishing to displease the cold eyes that seemed to not belong to any particular body, whom we called They. Would we ever have just randomly met on the street and realised that we had someone else in the world who was a part of us? I wonder if that truly did happen, then what that would have meant and whether we would still end up in the same place that we are in right now. Maybe the blood itself isn’t enough, there needs to be more for us to truly fit. You never seemed unhappy. When we were sleeping across from each other and I was laying down with my thoughts, you seemed to sleep soundly without any difficulty. That made me jealous of how you could cope. How could you manage to live in a lie that constantly surrounded you. To protect ourselves from the always dangerous truth, we had to tell more lies, more tales that were far from the truth. Of course I was the target. I was like a sitting duck just waiting to be pulled closer and closer by the string. The weakest against the pull of that string that everyone knew about and feared. Maybe thats the reason why They forced us to fit, to make me stronger. We were the last of our kind. Identical in all ways except for one. You were the one that was always doted on due to your success, while I was the one that was shunned for my thoughts that weren’t meant to be. I remember the day that I was tired and that it showed on my face. You noticed and that surprised me, but not enough to shake me out of my stupor. They noticed too, that didn’t surprise me though-They were always watching. I was so tired, the eyes forever staring at me, They seemed to be staring harder than normal. It must have been obvious to They. I wondered how I could be so tired, yet I could feel the blood pumping through each and every vein in my body, the sound of my frantic heartbeat echoing in my ears.
It must have been the string that in the end got me. The enticing whispers at night that echoed through our room, that you never heard because of your sound sleep that would always pull you under. My dreams would do the opposite, They would pull me closer as though They were on the same side as the string. The string offered me a true life. True where there would be no lies and that even though I carry them on my back, They would let me go freely. I don’t want you to worry. Our lie wasn’t the only lie that was holding me down. There was one last lie, shrouded in my memory of years and years of trying to forget. The darkness of that night that They came to my room while you were asleep, and I truly saw the body that They’s eyes belonged to. I saw more of that body than I should have. Of course They tried to make me forget. I lied to you, to our family and to the Higher They. This was the only thing that I was strong enough to fight against, their struggles to try to make me forget. Of course They only did these things because They knew what I was, and I knew what I was, They tried to change me. They know everything about us, yet we knew nothing about them. Isn’t that just ironic? I can’t tell you what They did, and I can’t decide whether you would want to know or whether you would even care. If I were in your larger than life shoes, I can’t decide whether I would care or not. I would like to pretend that you would care, and that you would be now be thinking of me and what my secret might be. In that way I could be compared to those authors you love to read, who leave the great big secret unanswered. You knew that the authors did this because they just wanted you to stay hooked to the book, and when there would be a sequel you would devour it and then wait for the next. There is not going to be a sequel to me or this letter, so don’t hold your breath. I never quite understood why you loved those books, I mean I always want things to be answered. These books with the great big secret that were left unanswered were what you liked to call a cliff hanger. I remember this because this was one of the only conversations that we had over the 7 years that we shared together. You said that you liked them because one day you wanted to become a detective and I remember that you would try to figure out the answer to the secret, mumbling to yourself while noting down important elements to your ‘case’. As the author of my story I plead with you to not try and figure out my secret, its best that it is left unanswered. Maybe I am just another one of your cliffhangers. Love (I assume this is what brothers say), Z
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urpsw “lq d ghvhuw zlwk qrwklqj exw |rx” In a desert with nothing but you, it was always something I’d wanted - just knowing we were alone with no one else, just us against the world… I was what they would call a princess, a queen. Royalty. The world I used to taste on my lips is so different from now. Perhaps I looked down on you, yet there was a pull that you had, an allure to you like no other. It never failed to bring me back to you. Exchanging glances and smiles in the hallways, your smile was small, reserved, so unsure that I was never quite certain if it was me you looked at, or some other person. Despite the fact that you were worlds away from me, you and I are thrown together, here and now. Perhaps forever. I hate having to shake away these unnecessary thoughts about you, because sometimes I see you and all of me - insides, heart, butterflies - leaps, with contentment, dread, delight, and I never know which. -Malandre turns to me, a half smile on her face. I study her as I wait for her to speak. She is a girl that knows where she belongs and I am someone who will never belong. She is a girl that is confident in every word that comes from her lips and as for myself, I cannot speak like a flowing waterfall if it were to help save my life. All the talking in the world could easily be done by her and I would be bewitched, listening to her voice like an addict wanting his next high. “Devan, what should we do now?” Her voice alone weaves a spell greater than that of the sweltering heat and the thirst for home. Those are the first words that she has spoken to me in a while, and all I can do is shrug and croak out that we have to find shelter, to survive, to find somewhere, safety. “Safety,” She repeats after me, almost hazily. I wonder if the possibility of us getting out of this alive is bigger than the possibility of me falling in love with her. -Time stopped the moment we realised that there was nothing else around us. Time had always slowed when I was around you, Devan. But it has never stopped.
I think you can read my mind sometimes - every possibility for survival that I know of has ran through my mind; but you flick your eyes to mine when something particularly perilous appears in my forest of imagination, as though you’re telling me you won’t be able to follow me where I go. But where I can go isn’t very far, Devan. You look at me as if I’m your whole world, all galaxies and swirling stars and planets. As if I can save you from your own demons. I don’t want to be harsh with you, Devan. Even before we were thrown here together I found you on my mind constantly, your messy hair that always seemed to flop right over your eyes and slightly hunched shoulders, almost like you wanted to shield yourself from the world. I’ve always wondered what happened to you to make you act this way. I see myself loving you just as easily as never speaking to you again. Devan, if I were you, even I would not want to love someone like me. -Funny how that Malandre and I are thrown together, here in all places. Was it what everyone else called fate? Despite all odds, it just had to be her. And all I can think about is her - survival is not even important to me anymore, if that’s what it takes for her to get out of here alive. Is this how I am now? Only worrying for her, caring for her. The night carries on all around us, dryness cracking our lips and sand in our shoes, shadows from the rocks caressing her face and carving out a sculpture that is without any flaw. She has been silent for hours now, our last conversation still lingering in the air between us like a waft of smoke that simply refuses to go away. In my head possibilities spin here and there, conversations left unfinished and words unspoken. It hangs heavy on me, the fact that I am too cowardly and witless to speak to her. I am playing with Death on my doorstep. -You stay silent, almost like stone. I pick at the sand under my nails, my empty stomach gnawing at me constantly, reminding me that we’ve almost been here for a day. I ask you to check your watch, and you stare at me as though I am a ghost. “You haven’t spoken to me since we got here,” You whisper, voice broken and unused, rusty like an old nail hanging on the side of a broken picture frame. Sometimes, just like that, you confuse me. Perhaps I can laugh with you, spend a day with you, spend years with you, but I don’t think I will ever get used to the words that come out of your lips. It’s unpredictable and sudden, exciting almost, because I can never guess what comes next. But I’m scared, Devan. Scared of what will happen to us. Scared of the unpredictability. What is left of tomorrow? All of a sudden you’re pulling me into a hug and murmuring sweet nothings and how you’re scared too and I revel in the feeling of your arms around me and how warm and nice they are in spite of the coolness of the night and I am falling, falling, falling…I had spoken the words aloud. I wish to do naught but fall asleep in your arms, but perhaps it will also be where we both perish. Existing in this world where there is nothing but you and I and not even the slightest glimpse of tomorrow All I need is you.
來到你身邊 Prompt: 死亡前的瞬
一束束冰冷的百合花 牽你進入睡夢的永恆 一朵朵潔白的馬蹄蓮 送走所有煩惱的缠绵 我不停地哽咽，啼哭，吶喊 再也沒有了以往的反駁，或者贊同和擁抱 我好冷，因為一切已失去了 卻已經太晚 我哀求道 不要把我丟下 你卻冷冷地答 一切都會過去 菊花的素白 給我的靈魂帶來了寧靜 康乃馨的淡雅 帶領我找到了最後的終點 當我下定了決心 開始不停向著終焉往上攀爬 此刻我已到達了 這個世界的頂端 天上的浮雲無情地游過 我即將融入那片一望無際的天空 變成一朵無憂無慮的白雲 我吸一口氣，吸得如此深情 邁出那一步 來到你的身邊 以9.8的速度前往 我們在一起的世界。
EPISODE SIX
surpsw zulwh dq hslvrgh iru ' 0v p| vwudqjh dgglfwlrq Camera focuses, shifts to Jake JAKE: Hi, my name’s Jake Ye. I’m twenty three years old, born and raised in Kentucky. Pause. Camera zooms in to Jake’s face JAKE: And I’m addicted to bod mod. Background music Cuts to shots of Jake’s various bod mods JAKE (VOICEOVER): When I was thirteen, my sister got a nose job. She cut it all off. Cuts to interview with Jake’s sister L ower face only shot of Milena MILENA: I was fifteen when I got my nose job. My friend Suzie had it done and she said it was the best decision of her life. After getting my nose removed, Pause. Camera zooms out. Face revealed. MILENA (CONT’D): I got my eyes removed too. Milena blinks, blink sockets empty Cuts back to Jake JAKE: Bod modders, we’re a family. The hate is real, but at the end of the day, I love my body.
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[untitled] 1. Rhys woke in the dark. He got out of the sleeping bag and rolled it up tightly, stuffing it into his backpack. His watch read 3:32AM. Rhys strode over to the airport window – now just a huge, vacant frame like an empty eye socket – and paused at the edge. The sky was still very dark, so dark that the pinpricks of distant stars could be seen, as well as the nearer, brighter glints of space rubble. All those bits of rock drifting around the Earth like dust motes caught in the sun. And over there was the poor misshapen moon, still circling faithfully despite the chunks missing from its face. Feeling a stab of discomfort, Rhys looked away. He climbed out of the window and down a rope, landing nimbly on the concrete ground. Soon he was walking out over the great, quiet expanse of the airfield. Over there, at the end of the runway, the little red-and-white jet Marc had set out for him was waiting. Rhys prepped the plane, inspecting the gas tank, warming up the engine, triple-checking the maps. Now that the radar and GPS systems were down, the airport and its workers were down to old-school navigational techniques. Rhys looked over the papers quickly, rereading his flight plan, and then glanced out at the still-dark horizon. He felt another bit of sadness. In an hour or so the airport would be stirring, yawning, rubbing bleary eyes and mumbling ‘morning’ over mugs of instant coffee. But that was another world, one that would only come with the sunrise, and he wouldn’t be part of it. Not today. Rhys got into the little jet and glided down the runway, feeling the familiar sense of expectation as he lifted off into the air. ai It was time to fly. 2. “Someone’s put graffiti all over the airfield again,” Carrie said, taking a sip of coffee. It was barely five in the morning and the sun was rising. A line of clouds lying low on the horizon glowed a pinkish color. Marc groaned into his mug. “Oh come on. And we’d just gotten all the squatters’ tents off the grass. Who let the civilians airside? We ought to lock up the airport hotels at night.” “I don’t think potential passengers would take kindly to being locked up,” Carrie pointed out with a small grin. “But maybe the paint job is fixable. We can get Ty and his crew down there. Assess the damage.” “Good idea,” Marc said, skimming over today’s air schedules. “But all ground staff must be off the field at quarter to seven, remember.” “Yessir.” Carrie did remember. “Where is Tyrone?” Marc looked around the staffroom through a haze of coffee steam. The room was a converted smoker’s lounge, chosen for its handy location near the boarding gates, and in spite of the stuffiness and the glittery blue tabletops. Most of these tabletops were obscured by masses of paper, with mugs of caffeinated beverages scattered throughout. The seats were occupied by yawning members of the airport staff, bent over their flight plans and talking amongst themselves. “Has the weather forecast come in yet?” Marc heard one girl ask. “They’re predicting a slight southeasterly wind for most of the morning,” her friend responded. “Maybe it’ll blow all those clouds away.” “Tyrone’s gone down past Terminal 3 with a bunch of staff,” Carrie told Marc when he finished scanning the room. “Oh right, the crater,” Marc remembered. “How are repairs going?” “We’ve fenced it off,” Carrie checked her clipboard for affirmation, “but the concrete shipment doesn’t come till Tuesday at least. You wouldn’t believe how much it cost…” As Carrie bemoaned the prices of shady sha black-market concrete, Marc shuffled through his papers, most of which were now splotched with coffee. “…we’re going to have to raise the prices for some flights. Maybe the ones going on that popular route that Bree’s handling, you know, the one into Frankfurt?” Carrie’s voice filtered in again. “Mm. Take it up with the business department. Oh, and I forgot – which destination did we put down for the 7o’clock fleet? JFK or Heathrow?”
“Heathrow. There are seventeen aircraft scheduled for that time slot,” Carrie answered. “Right.” Marc consulted his papers again, and then his watch. “Prep Ed, will you? He’s flying this one.” There was a little silence. “Eddie’s twelve.” “He’s not that much younger than Bree.” Or you. Or me. “And he’s trained. He flies well.” “Are you sure he’s ready?” Marc looked Carrie in the eye. “Heathrow’s our safest route. And Eddie knows the way, as do most of the pilots flying those seventeen aircraft. There’s safety in numbers. He’ll be fine.” After another silence, Carrie said reluctantly, “Yes, sir. I’ll go tell him.” “And remember to schedule Ty and his crew for the graffiti cleanup,” was Marc’s only answer. 3. Over the past year or so that the airport had been running, most of its planes had been scribbled on. There was a lot of messy spray-paint writing and cool graphic design in a flamboyance of neon colors. It was all quite a spectacle, especially Bree’s favorite plane, a massive Airbus A380 that was sprayed all along the sides with paint that glowed in the dark. On one wing it also bore the mysterious motto ‘MUTUAL RESPECT SENDS ITS REGARDS’ in wobbly foot-tall letters. Bree loved it, and she loved roaring around the airport in it, especially in the dead of night when most people were trying to sleep. Marc was contemplating this when there came a shout from behind him. He turned around to see Bree striding over, curly dark hair streaming out behind her like a flag. “Where’s Rhys?” She demanded. “Flew out this morning. Tokyo.” “What? Why?” Bree said in a tone of much reproach. “We’ve got to open up East Asia. The Tokyo, Beijing and Hong Kong airports are our current priorities.” “Is this about those maps you bought off those guys the other day?” Bree said, hands on hips. “Yeah,” Marc admitted grudgingly. “We’re desperate. If you haven’t noticed.” “I had a look at those maps. They weren’t promising. Why not just take the guys themselves along?” “Skyjackers are why. Remember Gertrude?” Bree whined, remembering Gertrude. “But I wanna talk to Rhys.” “You can talk to him when he comes back.” “He might not come back,” Bree said seriously. This statement was a kind of airport tradition by now. Everyone was so aware of the ridiculous state of current affairs that this small truth was the only thing, the only real thing, that grounded them. “He might not come back,” Marc agreed, giving up. “Go find Carrie, you can talk to her.” “Oh, she’s here?” “Why wouldn’t she be?” “Dunno.” Bree looked at him. “She might have flown to Timbuktu.” Ugh. “I’ll find her,” Marc offered, switching on his headset. “Carrie, where are you?” After Bree was safely dispatched, Marc went to catch Eddie before he took off and reminded him to be careful. The kid looked excited, and not in the least daunted as Marc rattled on nervously about fuel and headsets. After Eddie and his fleet had gone, Marc stayed on the airfield and supervised the next few sets. Then, he went down past Terminal 3 to sit in the crater and... mope, probably. The crater was the only big problem with the airport when Marc and his staff took over. The fire damage and broken windows could be dealt with, but this was an enormous hole fifty feet wide and ten feet deep that sat on the corner of the runway and sulked. It had been fenced off and partially filled in with loose dirt and gravel, so that it was only three or four feet deep, but that was as far as repairs had gotten. Marc hopped the fence and crunched through the gravel into the center of the pit. Leaning back in the rubble, Marc watched the latest fleet of supply planes lift into the air in a glittering flock.
Mentally tracing their paths across the sky, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If he closed his eyes, he could see all of today’s planes flying away into the distant horizon, brave and bright and wavering like the rise of some pale sun. They might not come back. “They might not come back,” agreed someone, and Marc sat up. He hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud. Carrie’s head popped over the edge of the crater. “Hello sir. Lunch?” “Thank you,” Marc muttered as Carrie joined him in the crater and handed him a sandwich. She also gave him an apple, which Marc turned over and over in his hand and stared at. “Is it Thursday?” “Nah. The trucks are coming in twice a week now, because it’s harvest time.” “We won’t get any more in the winter.” “I’m sending out for provisions that will keep,” Carrie said calmly. “In the meantime, eat your apple. There are plenty more.” Marc took a bite, and couldn’t resist looking up again. The sky was empty – the planes were gone. “It’s all right,” Carrie said quietly. She was looking up at the sky as well. “You’re doing fine.” Marc didn’t think she was talking about the apple. He took another bite of it, and then another, eating quickly. After a couple of minutes he finished and stood up, dangling the core from his hand. “We should catch Bree’s fleet before they leave.” He climbed back out of the crater and strode off. “Sir,” Carrie called, falling into step behind Marc. “Someone asked why we didn’t have any flights going out to JFK today.” “What did you tell them?” “That we’re critically understaffed by a bunch of underage upstarts and that we’re very sorry indeed for the inconvenience,” Carrie said. “I’m not underage,” said Marc, insulted. “Neither am I, but Bree is. Several years under in fact. There are a lot of teenagers in the staff, as you might have noticed. And Eddie-“ “Ed is going to be fine,” Marc said with vehemence. “He’s just flying to Heathrow for goodness’ sake, Caroline-” “I also told them we don’t have any flights to New York for the rest of this week,” Carrie plowed on. “They seemed irritated.” “Well, tell them that if they can’t wait till next Tuesday for a flight then they can swim to Queens. Sea’s right over there.” Marc pointed. Carrie ignored this, and they argued all the way through Terminal 2. Carrie and Marc climbed out of the window and down to the airfield. Most of the airport’s windows had shattered and Ty’s ground crew had been busy for months, carting away debris. But there were just so many windows to deal with that many frames still had jagged glass stuck in them, some pieces as long as Carrie’s arm. Thankfully, the more frequented windows, such as the one she and Marc just exited from, were cleared. “Look,” she told Marc, checking the time. “The Frankfurt fleet’s taking off. We’ve got here just in time.” “Oh, no.” Marc looked at the groups of civilians milling around the runway, perpetually unun derfoot, and then looked at Bree’s huge jet revving up like some glow-in-the-dark angel of death. He switched on his headset. “Bree!” “Departure time twelve noon on the dot,” He heard Bree shout over a great whirring of engines. “Taking off now.” “No you’re not,” Marc told his headset. “There are civilians on the runway!” “That’s not my business sir,” came Bree’s innocent voice. “I’m only trying to keep with schedule.” “Those people don’t deserve to be run over. They haven’t done anything wrong,” Marc said, striding quickly now, so Carrie had to hurry to keep up. “They have to walk on the runway to get into the planes, as you very well know. We don’t have certain luxuries anymore-”
“If by ‘certain luxuries’ you mean everyone walking out of here with all their limbs, then we certainly don’t,” Bree shouted cheerfully into the static, and Marc groaned. He thought he could hear screaming. Maybe that was his imagination? Or the crapped-out technology? “Caroline!” He yelled over his shoulder. “Marcus sir?” Carrie said brightly. “Can you stop Bree from killing everyone on that airfield? Can anyone?” Carrie laughed. “Calm down, Marc. Nobody’s dying.” Marc turned properly to look her in the face. “We fly planes! Too much fun gets people killed!” “Actually,” Carrie said, raising her voice over the rumble of engines, “too much fun-” “Please just have a word with her,” said Marc, who was at the end of his tether. There came a great roar from the other end of the runway, and Carrie’s hair whipped around her face as Bree’s jet whizzed past. “Please?” Marc squeaked, watching the plane careen merrily down the airfield in a great blur of pink and orange and neon yellow, like a rampaging box of highlighters. “Have a word?” “It seems I’ll have to,” Carrie mused. “She certainly doesn’t listen to you.” The rest of the fleet shot down the runway after Bree, scattering civilians left and right, and soon the sky was full. Marc had just enough time to hear Bree shout “FRANKFUUURT” piercingly into his ear before her plane rose out of range and the line went dead. “Gah!” Marc yanked the headset off and whirled to Carrie. “That girl is going to get all of us killed. These aren’t responsible safety procedures- I can’t allow-” “Bree can fly,” Carrie said reassuringly. “Rather well, in fact. And- er- I’m sure her passengers are having fun.” Marc groaned again. “You can’t raise the prices of those flights. There’ll be a riot!” Carrie laughed again, and gave Marc a brief one-armed hug. “It’s all right, sir. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” They stood there for a moment and watched the planes soar over the shimmering sea, piercing through the clouds to reach the sun. “Actually,” Carrie said, raising her voice over the rumble of engines, “too much fun-” “Please just have a word with her,” said Marc, who was at the end of his tether. There came a great roar from the other end of the runway, and Carrie’s hair whipped around her face as Bree’s jet whizzed past. “Please?” Marc squeaked, watching the plane careen merrily down the airfield in a great blur of pink and orange and neon yellow, like a rampaging box of highlighters. “Have a word?” “It seems I’ll have to,” Carrie mused. “She certainly doesn’t listen to you.” The rest of the fleet shot down the runway after Bree, scattering civilians left and right, and soon the sky was full. Marc had just enough time to hear Bree shout “FRANKFUUURT” piercingly into his ear before her plane rose out of range and the line went dead. “Gah!” Marc yanked the headset off and whirled to Carrie. “That girl is going to get all of us killed. These aren’t responsible safety procedures- I can’t allow-” “Bree can fly,” Carrie said reassuringly. “Rather well, in fact. And- er- I’m sure her passengers are having fun.” Marc groaned again. “You can’t raise the prices of those flights. There’ll be a riot!” Carrie laughed again, and gave Marc a brief one-armed hug. “It’s all right, sir. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” They stood there for a moment and watched the planes soar over the shimmering sea, piercing through the clouds to reach the sun.
World five-three-six Penny knew that this was right, for once in her life she was going to be good. There had been far too many times in her life when she had been selfish, so she held herself back, even though all she wanted right now was to be selfish. Weddings were supposed to be a happy time, her mother used to say that weddings were a celcel ebration only truly understood by the two people celebrating. Penny knew that here she was only a colleague, a teacher that Marcel had met a mere week ago. But in every other universe where they had met, they were supposed to have their happily ever after, perhaps in this one too. Except this time Penny wasn’t going to be selfish, she was going to be good and not have her fairytale ending. She was going to make sure that this would be the universe where Marcel didn’t die. She could feel her blood boil, sweat raining down from her forehead as she dried in vain to keep her emotions in check. Her cheeks were getting hotter by the minute and her brain barely registered her own nails digging into her arms as they folded over one another. There was a sudden tightness in her dress and she wasn’t quite sure how to breathe anymore. All she knew was that this hurt, a lot more than she thought it would.
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In World 223, on that beach, there was no curse or inevitable heartbreak. There was only Marcel and Penny. Marcel had died two days later in a car crash and Penny had sworn he would not fall in love with her again. It had taken her another 313 to get it right.
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Her favourite world was 223, that had been the one where she had been most in love with Marcel and thought that she could save him. That was the first time that he lived long enough for them to get married. They had been married on a beach and sand had been flying everywhere, but it had been the happiest day in her life. Because for the first time, she could marry the man she loved. It had seemed to Penny that they were the only two people in the world and that nothing could tear them apart.
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Penny had counted, as she was the only one who would ever remember, there had best be some tallying to go with it; this world would be the 536th time she had fallen in love with Marcel, the 536th time he had fallen in love with her and the 536th time he died. But this time Penny wouldn’t let him fall in love with her, because this time Marcel was going to stay alive and have the ending that he deserved.
Marcel’s bride was beautiful, as expected. She had golden hair with a gentle curl, raining down the backof her dress in waves. Her veil covered her face but Penny could see the bright smile hidden behind it. She walked down the aisle with her arm locked in her father’s and Penny couldn’t help imagining herself in her place. Penny didn’t even know the girl and yet the selfish desire to wish her away was creeping up on her as it had done time and time again. Penny looked at Marcel and saw his familiar smile plastered along his face, his front tooth chipped and crooked, just as she remembered. Her heart rate was rising and she knew that the beat it was going was no longer healthy, the room was hot, too hot and her hands were shaking whilst everyone else stayed perfectly still. The trouble with love, is that people do crazy things for it. Perhaps the one world where Penny and Marcel did not fall in love with one another, was the world in which Penny loved him the hardest, maybe more than in World 223. This was the world where she was willing and was going to die for him. She had died many times before, in many other worlds. In some, it was because Marcel’s death was too much and her own had swiftly followed. In others, she had died in her sleep, old age had finally taken her. But never had she truly died of heartbreak. In the quiet church as Marcel proclaimed his love for another woman did Penny take her final breath. Times had changed, and she had lived far too many lifetimes, many more than she deserved. But changes in time would always require a constant body count, the universe was a funny little dictator and it needed yet another soul back into the Earth to keep going on its path. This time it would be her turn, in this world Penny would be better, she would be good. “You may kiss the bride”.
There was a knock on the door. A light knock, made precisely three times. Mutely, he put down his book, throwing off the blanket he was curled under, and padded to the door. With a click, he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then, seeing who stood on the other side of the door, he promptly slammed it shut. “Charles-” A rich baritone begun to speak from the other side of the door. “No, Jack, you don’t get to do that.” he said, proud when his voice didn’t waver. He leaned heavily, with his back against the door, a tightly fisted hand coming to press to his lips. “You don’t get to do this to me.” his voice hissing out between his teeth, his fist moving to press against his thigh instead. “Charles, please.” The man said again quietly, pressing his forehead to the door and letting out a shuddering breath. Charles bit down on his lip, heel tapping quickly on the ground. Then, like pulling off a plaster, he whipped around and yanked the door open. Tipping his chin up defiantly at the taller man, he spat without humour “So where’ve you been these past three years? While we were all mourning your death.” “Charles, please don’t be angry, I had to- “ “Who wouldn’t be angry, Jack? You ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three bloody years!” He paced back into the middle of his living room, running a frustrated hand through his blond hair. “And then you come back like this!” He said, pointing a frenzied finger in his direction. “With a tattoo and that scruff, and for godsakes you even cut your goddamn hair!” He all but falls into the sofa, his lips wobbling precariously, and his eyes dangerously red. “What happened to you Jack? Where- Why-” he cut his sentence off with a frustrated growl, tipping his head back and blinking furiously. “I need a drink.” he pushes himself of the tattered sofa, gesturing with a hand, “and sit down for Christ’s sake. Stop floundering about.” Stomping to the small kitchenette, he yanks out a bottle of a honey coloured liquid. “You want some? I know you like this stuff... or, at least you did.” he pauses slightly, hand on the cap of the bottle, but quickly shakes his head and continues, pouring the liquid into two shallow glasses, passing one to the other man while he goes to sit down of the armchair opposite him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t mean to cause anyone any grief. Hell! I even thought it might make everyone’s life easier if I was gone. And you know I couldn’t have stayed right? After that night. I had to go.” The man said, turning his bottle green gaze to him for just a second before glancing away, his graceful fingers fiddling with the glass held between them. “Look, I came here tonight because I thought that maybe, after all this time-” He looks up again, his intelligent green eyes thoughtful, and a little bit hopeful, “you might still want me.” There’s a slight quiver to his voice, the only thing that gives away his fear. There’s a slight pause, and a quick inhalation of breath. Then he looks down, his bright eyes hard and sorrowful. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve made yourself clear that you don’t want me here. I’ll just show myself out.” Smiling self deprecatingly, he tapped his finger on the side of the glass a few times before firmly putting it down the small coffee table that occupied the middle of the room. Standing up sharply he walked stiffly to the door, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Jack wait!” Suddenly he was there, all warm skin and pliant lips, one hand curled tightly around the taller man’s waist, the other curled in his newly cut hair. After a brief press of his warm lips, Charles tilted his head away and i nhaled a shuddering breath. Jack lifted a hand and brushed the pad of his thumb over the younger man’s damp cheek. “I missed you.” “I know.” “Will you stay this time?” “Forever.”
1096 Steps You were the bird that helped me soar through the sky. With your wings flapping by my side I felt free. I thought that I could only fly with you holding me up. When you left me stranded, I felt grounded, chained to the floor like a prisoner. But after the 1096 steps that I have taken, I now feel free. ‘No note, just a disappearing act, You were something out of a mystery novel, Except there was no one trying to find you. No wild goose chase, The crumbs you left were message enough, You didn’t want to be found. No morsel left for me, You being selfish as always, Taking the boxes that were my treasure. No burial or ceremony, Just a race to forget, But never to forgive. No way to fly, Grounded for what seemed like an eternity, Yet here I was about to take off. No room for breath, The race nearly at the end, Crossing the threshold to my freedom.’ As I stumbled to the finish line, my legs came out from underneath me. The sensation is much longer than most believe it to be. I felt like a piece of prey being swooped up into the sky by a bird. Unfortunately, this bird unlike most was a spineless stick withering in the breeze. The bird wasn’t unfamiliar or the Prince Charming that I was expecting. As soon as I saw the face of this bird, I knew the name that belonged to it. 1096 steps, and just like that I was sucked back to the starting line.
PROMPT: “who wouldn’t be angry , you ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years”
一九八四年的冬天，年末的飄雪使得人更加傷 感。艾華 德靜靜地坐在陽台上，靠在那棵四年前查斯從 客戶家裡 的雜物堆里撿回來的聖誕樹，默默地哼著他父 親去年在 他六歲時教他唱的那首「萧瑟的隆冬」 我可以给他什麼？我是如此的貧窮。 如果我是一个牧羊人，我会給他一只羊羔; 如果我是一个聪明的人，我会尽我的責任; 然而，这是我能我给他：我的心。 「九，十，十一...」莉莉絲靠在火爐旁邊，一邊靠著那 小小的火苗散發出的溫暖支撐著自己疲倦的身 軀，一邊 小心翼翼地數著今天收到的那封信裏附帶的那 幾枚硬幣 ，畢竟這些都是她丈夫約翰在外面辛辛苦苦工 作賺回來 的血汗錢。「 這個禮拜，有十六鎊嗎...」莉莉絲默默地 嘀咕了一下。 地跑， 這孩子的老爸是個攝影師。整天都要往全國個 地跑，偶 爾一個月有空才回家一次看一下小孩和妻子， 現在回想 起來，從這男人上一次回來開始算，已經過了 一個半月 了吧？真是的，那男人腦子裡就只懂得埋頭工 作養家， 我明明也可以在城裡找一份工作，幫補一下家 計，那他 就不用什麼亂七八糟的委託都接了吧？還說什 麼女的就 應該留在家裡看著小孩跟他煮飯，把家裡每天 打掃好迎 ，上一 接他回來就好了。整天就只知道在死撐。對了 ，上一次 他回來的時候，左側的白髮好像又多了一撮吧 ，下次他 一回來開門時就要好好教訓他一下，順便跟他 燉鍋好湯 ！ 莉莉絲的臉上浮現出一絲溫暖的微笑，她靠着 火爐旁嘎 吱作響的木椅，靜靜地注視著丈夫跟家裡寫的 信。在一 旁的艾華德看見了母親手上的那張發黃的紙， 便急忙跑 到她的身旁坐下，靠著木椅興奮的喊道：「不 知道爸爸 這次又經歷了什麼樣的冒險呢？」 「對呀，天知道呢？」莉莉絲笑著感嘆了一句。 武的爸 那天晚上，艾華德聽了一個又一個他那英勇神 武的爸爸 的冒險故事，從在深山裡大戰野猴，到在河邊 與水怪搏 鬥，到在山洞裏找到寶藏。這孩子這下子應該 又被他爸 爸編出來的事蹟給洗腦，又要跟附近的鄰居炫 耀一番了 吧？莉莉絲看著熟睡的艾華德，一邊用她那白 暫纖細的 手輕輕的撫摸著兒子白裏透紅、水嫩的臉頰， 一邊苦笑 著。不過，這其實是這兩夫妻用來溝通的特殊 語言，莉 故事， 莉絲早就知道丈夫喜歡把他的經歷比喻成冒險 故事，好 讓兒子可以好好幻想一番。這次他估計是遇上 了哪個頑 固的顧客，最終還跟人家大吵了一頓吧，好消 息就是他 賺到了一小筆。莉莉絲時常也對自己對丈夫心 思的了解 感到十分的自豪和驚訝。「艾華德乖，你的超 人爸爸很 快就會回來了。」她輕輕的用手指梳著艾華德 柔軟順滑 的金髮，安慰著自己那份淡淡的寂寞。
她胡亂的用手臂在臉上用力地擦了兩下，總算是看清了兒子的臉。「 艾華德，你看爸爸送了一部照相機回來給你！」她嘗試用那薄弱的聲 線模仿平時說話的語氣，但其實也無補於事。「太好了！」艾華德忍 不住撲入媽媽的懷抱裏，天真的喊著。 「對呀，太好了。」莉莉絲硬著嘴皮擠出這三個字。 「對了，爸爸什麼時候回來呀？」艾華德隨意地加上了一句。莉莉絲 「對了，爸爸什麼時候回來呀？」艾華德隨意地加上了一句。莉莉 再也忍不住了，熱淚從她的眼眶中湧了出來，她緊緊地摟著艾華德， 用沙哑的声音在他耳邊吐了几个字「天知道呢？艾華德。天知道呢？ 」 在那之後，一切的生活就好像回到之前一樣平靜，只不過不同的是 在那之後，一切的生活就好像回到之前一樣平靜，只不過不同的是， 莉莉絲每天晚上在艾華德熟睡後，都會一個人對著那部遺留下來的照 相機在心裡悲哀地嚎哭。可是，莉莉絲深深地明白，現在該擔心的， 並不是如何減輕自己心裡沈重的負擔，而是想辦法掙錢好繼續把艾華 德養大成人。約翰死後，家裡失去了唯一的金錢支柱，現在母子倆只 剩下那一點點的積儲供兩餐餬口。莉莉絲曾經一度想過把丈夫留下來 的照相機變賣出去，這樣至少能讓他們熬過這個漫長的冬天，不過想 到這就會把丈夫在這個家留下的最後一點痕跡也給抹殺掉，她始終還 到這就會把丈夫在這個家留下的最後一點痕跡也給抹殺掉，她始終 是下不了手。 漫長的冬天一天一天地過去，但是天氣還是越來越冷，莉莉絲眼看著 家裡每天的飯菜一盤一盤地減少，最後也只能給艾華德吃上半碗白飯 和一小碟菜，孩子紅撲撲的臉現在也慢慢地變得瘦削起來。更別說莉 莉絲她自己了，本來那閉月羞花的臉孔現在已因整天不停工作養家而 變得面無血色，佈滿皺紋，白暫纖細的雙手已經因為在工廠過量工作 長出了厚厚的繭。但是多虧了莉莉絲，家裡總算暫時不用喝西北風； 暫時不用。 一九八五年的一月，一場離奇的大暴雪襲擊了不列顛群島，有些人 一九八五年的一月，一場離奇的大暴雪襲擊了不列顛群島，有些人甚 至因為氣溫過低而死亡，工廠也相繼停業，莉莉絲的那一間就算在她 的懇求下也無奈要面臨同樣的結果。這個時候，唯一一份可以找到的 工作就是在大雪中為別人遞送物資的人員了吧。雖然要面臨著隨時有 生命的威脅，但是莉莉絲卻毅然地接下了這份工作，因為她很明白， 如果不做的話，母子倆在這場大雪終結前便會餓死。 於是莉莉絲在大雪降臨後的那兩個月內仍然不停地在城內四處奔波 於是莉莉絲在大雪降臨後的那兩個月內仍然不停地在城內四處奔波， 不過因為這份工作並不特別受歡迎，每天得到的報酬都比之前在工廠 工作時高出三倍。莉莉絲一個人每天默默地走在空無一人、雪白的大 道上，寒風無情地正面打到她臉上來，穿過厚厚的外衣，刺進皮肉； 雪霜兇暴地從天而降，重重地壓在她身軀上，折磨靈魂。不過對於莉 莉絲來說，這些外來的痛楚與寒冷怎麼也比不上她內心的傷痛可怕吧 ？失去了至愛，還要一手撐起家，這些悲傷和痛苦是沒有感情的寒霜 沒辦法比較的。現在莉莉絲的內心應該比外面的雪霜冷上幾十倍吧？ 沒辦法比較的。現在莉莉絲的內心應該比外面的雪霜冷上幾十倍吧 而唯一支持著她，讓她踏出下一步的，就是每天都會在家門口笑著迎 接媽媽的艾華德。 漫長的一月不知不覺地畫上了句號，但是迎來的二月，才是暴風雪最 凶狠的時候。莉莉絲卻仍舊每天冒著大雪在城市的大街小巷中穿插送 貨，現在看她的臉，簡直無法想像這是一個還沒踏入三十歲的女性。 而這位什麼事都只會扛上身的媽媽，終於在二月尾聲時遇上了點問題 。
約會 翰有 ，辦 好法 吧的 。， 我因 會為 把我 照身 相邊 機還 賣有 掉艾 ，華 總德 。
DEAR ESTHER, I know you will never get this. I would imagine it would be difficult to mail a letter to the castle on a cloud. But please bear with me. I miss you, to the edge of the universe and beyond. When your cage door opened, and you found your wings and flew away, you ripped away a part of me, leaving a vacuum in my chest that threatens to suck the rest of my being away. I have tried, immeasurably so, to stitch it back together. But every time I try, it rips back open, deeper and wider than before. But what I didn’t realize was that all you had done was pass on your pain to me. As I lay in bed, intoxicated on my tears and the fumes of my grief, I was suffering from what you suffered. When you flew out of the cage that bound you, I was dragged in. And it is there where I currently lay, waiting, in search of my own feathers. And this is a chain. The shroud of my sorrow may have clouded my reality, but it was in drunken surreality that I found my answer. When you escaped the tentacles of depression, it seized those closest to you. Me. And its vice grip is suffocating. It hurts. It really does. I don’t blame you. For any of it. I’m not angry or resentful. It wasn’t your fault. But I damn well wish that none of this would have ever happened; that you and I could just go back to the days when we would lie in the fields of poppies and stare at that one star in the sky that would always be out, no matter where we were, and how cloudy it was. I still look up at that star, that scintillating pinprick in the immense black mantle that is the night sky, and think that through that tiny hole, somewhere on the other side, you are looking at me. That the blinking of the star is a morse code message saying, “I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t give up.” But what goescomes up must come down, and from the heights of drunken dreams do I fall, crashing back down to reality. The blinking star is nothing but a ball of fire, suspended in a dark, empty void. The poppies have withered and died, victims of the changing seasons, reduced to barren stalks and lonely leaves. That you are gone, and you will never come back. And I have come to accept this. Everyone has a finite time in this realm, yours was just more finite than others. I woke up in a hospital bed, after overdoseding on sleeping pills. They had to pump my stomach to get them out of my system. I was unconscious for three days. When I woke up, my mother cried, clutching my head, praising the stars for bringing back a son to her grieving mother. She wasn’t angry that I tried to kill head myself. She never even brought it up. She just held me, glad that I was there. It made me think of you, and how I would feel if you woke up that night,when I found you in the bathtub, water marbled with your blood. Oh, how I wished you would have opened your eyes and breathed another breath, and I could have held you in my arms and told you to hold on, and that everything was going to be okay, and that I loved you and couldn’t bear to live without you. And that’s what my mother felt. She got that second chance. I realized that sadness had overwhelmed me, that I had been blind to all of the sadness of those around me. If I left like you did, I would pass on my pain to them. But I don’t want people to feel the pain that I felt.
I realized that my sadness was driven from my love for you, that my longing for your presence fuelled my anguish. I realized that my love still existed. I realized that I needed to stop feeding my sorrow, and start channeling that love into something else. After I was released from my hospital bed, I took the first flight to Nicaragua. I worked in a school, building classrooms. I flew to Yemen, where I worked to rehabilitate refugees. I’m on my way to Yunnan, China, to work with minority children. My mother sent me a letter. The poppies are back in bloom. The star still shines bright in the sky. I still live with this sadness, I doubt I will ever forget it. But now I know you’re gone, and that you won’t come back. But in my work, I find you. As long as I follow that star, I will find you there. I’m writing this from the Hong Kong airport. It’s busy and loud, and I look like an idiot for crying in the middle of the terminal. If you were here, you’d probably laugh at me. I’d shove you, and you would shove me back. I love you to the end of the universe and back. Yours, A wistful stargazer
surpsw
hwwhuv wr wkh ghdg
FOR A SMILE Happiness for her was a fickle thing. It was transient and ephemeral, just as quick to arrive as it was to flee. You would rarely see her smiling, and when she did it was so fleeting that you were never sure that it was there in the first place. Her pale lips would quirk, her wide eyes would crinkle in the corner, just slightly, and then the mask would return, blank eyed and exhausted as usual. Oh, but what you would do for those smiles. You would run to the moon and come back with a piece if only she would smile. It wasn’t that you loved her, or that you fancied her in love with you, but just because she looked so tired. That tiredness you understood, had felt it creep into your bones, had felt it become so encompassing, that you didn't know what it was like before it was there You led her by the hand one day, and ran past where civilisation lay peacefully asleep, to where all the wild things lived, and you said to her "This is how we learn to live." She replied, her voice confused, "Do we not live every day?” “That is not living.” livin You said, eyes wild and grin fierce. “That is surviving. There is no measure of life involved.” She saw your eyes and your wolf like grin and her brows furrowed. “Then tell me- how do you live?” You tilted your head back and breathed in the smell of life and decay, of leaves, earth and wilderness, your eyesfluttering shut, and murmured “You let be.” -You would always remember that night. Her muddy toes pressing lightly into the soil, her green eyes wide, and her teeth bared in a savage smile as she ran through the maze of trees. Her fingers grasping the knots in the tree as you both scrambled up its trunk, and that vicious feeling of adrenalin as it swayed uneasily underneath the weight. When she kissed you, there, underneath the stars, and the way her hands felt in your hair, her warm chest pressed to yours,and the way she smelled of dust after a rainstorm and a seabreeze. It was never that you thought loved her, or that she loved you, but the way that she smiled that night.
Prompt: How wild it was, to let be. -Cheryl Strayed
1- December 3rd, 2013
LETTERS
Dear Aiden, I think this has got to be the last time I'll write to you, never mind the fact that I've neverwritten to you in the first place. How's it over in Australia? I wonder how you're doing a lot and it's becoming a little silly of me, because you've always been the one who's got everything together. Love, Allegra.
3- January 18th, 2014
Love, Allegra 2- December 30th, 2013 Dear Aiden, I’m sorry that this is just another envelope in your mailbox. It must be a bother to you, I suppose, you busy with University and all. Mawmaw passed away yesterday, and I still haven’t stopped crying. I think I’ve forgotten how to. Stop the tears, I mean. Love, Allegra.
dear aiden, father got drunk afte r work today and he hit me again. i don’t know what i’m going to do without mawmaw...please come back to me, aiden. i think i’m going to d ie. after all you’re the only one who can save me. allegry 4- January 19th, 2014 Dear Aiden, Please tell me you didn’t read the last letter. I’m fine. Anyway, Miss Ellis came back today. Do you remember her? You admired her so much I think I got a little jealous. But that was stupid. You liking a teacher, I mean. You were always such a stickler for doing the right thing. Love, Allegra. 5- February 28th, 2014 Dear Aiden, Funny that you’re almost a day ahead of me; you’ll be getting into March earlier than I do. You’re literally in my future. I wonder what it’s like to be in your place sometimes. Being ahead of everyone. Skipping the last year of school to go to university. I wonder what it’s like to be as smart as you are. As perfect as you are. Love, Allegra. 6- March 24th, 2014 Dear Aiden, Sometimes I wonder if you’ve found someone else over there. I hear Australia has a lot of blondes. I’ve never been, so how would I know? That’s just something I overheard from Joey. They talk about you on and off, you know. All good things, so don’t worry. Don’t worry about me. Allegra. Allegra
7- May 24th, 2014 Dear Aiden, It’s been quite a while since I wrote to you, so why not write it the day before sixth form ends for us poor English students? The excitement and rush I feel don’t quite reach me without you, because you’re not here to experience it. You never did. I think I’m going to cry again. Love, Allegra. 8- June 12th, 2014 Dear Aiden, Remember when you said you loved how my hips were perfectly rounded? I don’t know what happened,but after Mawmaw died I’ve been getting smaller and smaller. I can see my hipbones; I can see my ribs without taking in a breath; I can see so many bruises, Aiden. So many. Love, Allegra.
10- July 5th, 2014 Dear Aiden, Do you ever regret who you are? Was there ever a moment you doubted yourself? It’s strange imagining you doing that; I remember your parents, prim and proper, your house in Dorchester, with that cozy home and perfect colour scheme. I remember your house reminded me of you, the poster boy for all that was perfect in the eyes of everyone. Do you remember me? The quiet one, always caught in the wrong place and wrong time, so I was a delinquent, the misfit with the on drunk father, and I thought you were crazy for believing in me. I didn’t believe I was in the right despite the fact that I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. Thank you for everything, Aiden. Love, Allegory. 11- December 24th, 2014 Dear Aiden, I think you’d be better off without me, you know? Without my constant nagging you over these letters, without you worrying over how I’m doing. Everything’s just a blur to me and it doesn’t even matter that it’s almost Christmas again, red and green fairy lights twinkling above my head. Daddy braided my hair for Aunt Bree’s Christmas dinner. I didn’t know he could do that. Love, Allegra.
12- December 25th, 2014 Dear Aiden, Why haven’t you come home for Christmas? Love, Allegra.
Dear Allegra, I can almost hear you asking why I haven’t come home for Christmas. And now I’m laughing, remembering you, the girl who was so easily swayed she believed she’d had a part in killing her mother although she knew she wasn’t involved at all, just a passerby, someone at the wrong place at the wrong time. Allegra, I love your name; I love the way you make me laugh just by remembering you; I love you.I took up a habit of reading your letters, by the way. You scared me to death when your letters suddenly stopped after July, I swear it was a bigger shock than getting your first letter in your scrawly handwriting last December, back when I’d just left for Australia. But that’s not the point. Australia’s great, thank you for asking, it’s all sunny and bright and beautiful all the time, blue skies, puffy clouds and rolling waves. I can see all of them as I’m writing this, Allegra, and I really wish that you’re with me so you can see all that I can. There’s just so much beauty that gives you reason to live. I don’t really know what to say after all that, but no, Allegra, I haven’t found someone else. Right now, I mean. For a while there was this girl. Tall and willowy, chestnut coloured hair, pale lashes and quick words. She was a something. (As you would’ve put it: ‘She was a something, I suppose.’) She was an almost. I think I very nearly forgot about you, and I’m sorry for that, because it’s not what you deserve, Allegra. What happened between myself and that girl was so quick I barely had time to recollect my emotions. That girl, she was a hurricane. I like rain, I do, but she tore through all I was and left me with nothing. You were the soft drizzle I needed. You’re probably sighing at how perfect I am. (I’m kidding). No one’s perfect, Allegra. I know you looked up to me a lot, but I have my faults, and you need to take me off that pedestal. Hopefully that answers your question of me doubting myself and regretting who I am. Allegra, please don’t regret who you are. It’s not your fault that your father drinks. It’s not your fault that your mother was killed that night. (They don’t decide who you are, either.) The reason why I wrote this letter is because I owe you for writing me twelve letters-- none that I replied to, so I’m obligated. You’ve always had this thing against social networks and such, so I obviously couldn’t just Facebook message you. Or something. So here goes. When I graduate from University, I’ll immediately start on work-- here in Australia-- so I don’t think I’ll be coming back for quite a while. You don’t have to wait for me. I believe in you. don Go and be you, Allegra.I swear I’ll come home when I can; I miss you heaps and heaps. Wishing you love and many more days to come, Aiden
Letters to a past love
Deer
eyes
Prompt: A love that was not acknowledged or realised until the pain of the parting or separation was felt with a cup of tea, a watch and a chocolate cupcake. My sister sat facing me, her dark hazel eyes casted downwards towards the already cold cup of tea on the coffee table in between us. The chocolate cupcake I ordered for her sat untouched next to the cup of tea. I let the time pass, and listened to the quiet conversations around the coffeehouse. There was the soothing sound of the coffee machine; a few customers were chatting softly away. I tried to check my phone discreetly, but being the more observant sister, Julie’s eyes flickered at my hands. She looked back up and gave me a bleak smile. “Sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts. I keep forgetting that I’m with you. You’re too quiet, Rosie,” Julie said with a lightness that did not reflect the sullenness her eyes were portraying. Julie was the prettier and more social one of the two of us. Her platinum blonde hair got her more a ttention, in contrast to my brunette hair. She had a much bolder personality; always willing to say what was on her mind. Her red lipstick was her signature trademark, and the smile that came along with it always left a mark on those who’ve met her - they never forget that dazzling bright red smile. It’s been ten years since she’d first put the crimson lipstick on in 7th grade, ten years since she told me she hated being bland and average. “We’re meeting for the first time in months, and yet here I am, stalling and wasting both of our time,” Julie continued as she let her gaze wander around the coffeehouse. Winter was drawing nigh, and the coffeehouse felt warmer than ever. “Take your time,” I insisted. My sister defeatedly looked back at me. Another pause. Suddenly, Julie smiled again. “Where to begin?” ~~~ I don’t know what it was that drew me to him. He was so average, so... seemingly unimportant. Was it his eyes that did it? They’re so curious and inquisitive, yet so easily amazed. I sometimes wonder if he ever gets tired of looking at the world. I know I do. For him, however... everything’s so different. We met at an office gathering. I was still relatively new, but he was newer, and worked at the supply chain part of the company. I was all the way in management. It was my colleague that introduced us. He was wearing a gray sweater, I remember. I came to really like that gray sweater. Such a pity, that I won’t be able to see it anymore. Our conversation quickly got... interesting. We were discussing on the new supply policy and even though we both were new workers there, we easily got passionate about our arguments. It got to the point in which other people came involved, to the point in which it was no longer me and him debating, but me and other people. He stopped, slipping out of the conversation without so much as an excuse. Afterwards, when the gathering ended, I walked a few steps down the road and I saw him lingering around the corner. Being the straightforward person that I am, I asked him why he stopped debating. He looked at me curiously, like I had something on my face. “I wanted to listen how others interpreted the argument,” he stated quite simply. I then asked him what conclusions he drew, and he laughed. “That by the end of the discussion, the argument was miles away from what we originally started from.”
We kept bumping into each other in the office after that. Casually, we would exchange a few words, but not enough to make a conversation. He seemed to be always wearing the same few outfits. It drove me slightly mad. I pointed it out to him once, and he just shrugged and told me he only owned a few shirts. I was so in awe he laughed at my reaction. It was around a month later did he offer to take me out for dinner sometime. To be honest, I still don’t know what it was that made me say yes to his offer. I had no reason whatsoever to agree to have dinner with a man that seems the opposite of all the men I’ve ever taken an interest in - you know me, Rosie, my dating history consists of many obnoxious bastards, and little else. But when he asked me, there was something about the look in those deer-like eyes of his, something about the way he spoke. I said yes. Julie hooked her fingers around the handle of her cup and brought it up to her lips. She took a cautious sip, and then gently placed the cup back down. A bright red lipstick mark shone from the rim of the cup. “So everything was going well?” I asked as Julie glanced outside the window. “Some would say it was, but for me...” Julie’s eyes locked with mine. “I didn’t see it that way.” ~~~ Don’t get me wrong, the dates went well. He acted kindly, and he was a gentleman, walking me home and all. I would’ve been swept off my feet if it wasn’t for the more cynical part of my personality. I didn’t like the way he looked at things. There was always a naivety in his words, making him seem like a puppy cuddling up to the thought of there being goodness and hope everywhere in the world. Yet, he always knew what he was talking about. He was so certain of the things he spoke of, he would’ve made any university professor proud. Sometimes, he would even be able to convince me that genuine benevo- lence existed. One night, he was walking me home after we had a wonderful dinner at a small Italian restaurant. We paused in front of my door, and he took out a small black box from his pocket. It was an antique bronze pocket watch. I didn’t even know they sold those anymore, but he told me he came across it the other day and thought of me. He wanted me to have it. It’s such a strange gift to give, don’t you think? For someone like me, I wasn’t used to being given things like those. It was the same night he kissed me. He just... took my face in his hands and kissed me. Just like that. After what seemed like ages, he let go of He just... took my face in his hands and kissed me. Just like that. me, his eyes glittering in the dark, and then turned around and left. I’ve never been so dazed before. In my past, I’ve kissed boys and men so many times I’ve lost count, and each of them seem so insignificant compared to this one. For once, a kiss was... memorable. But I don’t remember my heart pounding like I expected it to. My heart didn’t clench like it does now, when I think of it. I don’t even understand why I find the kiss so memorable. Days seemed to pass by so quick. It was like trying to hold water in your hands. It wouldn’t let you, and it just slipped through your fingers like they were never there. Each day revealed something more. Another just slipped through your fingers like they were never there. Each day revealed something more. smile, another childhood story, another fact about him. I remember him telling me about how he loved anything chocolate, and how he would become a five year old kid at the sight of it. I remember laughing often. I think he saw parts of me even you’ve never seen The thing is, Rosie, I was never truly happy. I was never satisfied with what he gave me. Like all those debates we’ve had before, his stories seemed so full of light they seemed fake. My eyes didn’t see the glimmer that he saw in his. I remember studying the pocket watch he gave me at night. I would watch the hands tick by as I tried to understand everything the way he saw them. For instance, what did he see in me? He told me the other day that he liked how I stated things for the way they were, and how I was honest because I thought it was more beautiful that way..
But that’s not true. ~~~ A pause followed. Then, Julie reached into her bag and brought out an old bronze colored pocket watch and placed it softly on the table, in front of her cup of tea. The pocket watch wasn’t ticking or moving; its hands were stuck on a certain point of the clock, as if it was waiting for something. I looked back up at Julie , whose eyes seemed to be taking in every detail of the antique pocket watch. Julie continued looking down at the watch. “He thought he knew me, he thought that I saw what he saw everyday. But that was a lie, a made-up truth. Following that revelation, it was finding another lie after another. Another charming made-up truth after another.” Slowly, Julie’s fingers wrapped around her cup of cold tea as she continued, her nails painted with black colored nail polish contrasting the cup’s white. “I wanted to be what he wanted me to be, I really did. To be the wonderful woman who saw the world in beautiful colors, and not in shades and tints of gray. But... I simply wasn’t.” In that moment, I wanted to reach over and take her hands in mine. Noticing my expression, Julie smiled softly, as if the imagined act was enough. ~~~ Dusk was falling, and we were watching it when I asked him how he felt about me. He looked at me with the same curious gaze, and I remember his fingers hooking through mine. “I think I love you,” he had said. Taken back, I didn’t expect those words to reach my ears. I really didn’t. But once again, his voice and the way he mouthed those words told me that he was certain of it. I knew what was to happen; I could feel a certain part of me curl up and cry. “You?” he had murmured as he continued to look at me. I haven’t been loved in so long, Rosie, so long that I forgot what it felt like. Amidst all the confusion, I couldn’t bring myself to say it, as it seemed like a lie. He just waited for me to say it - he just stood there. He left me the night after that. It was quick, like ripping off a bandaid that was always there. I don’t think there could’ve been a better way it could’ve happened. For him, I think, it was like waking up from a dream. He came to realize the expectations he had set and that I had never reached. We agreed that we couldn’t continue creating a likable fairytale. It was a mutual understanding, I think. But it hurt so much. I don’t know why, but the days after were so painful. I missed his pretty stories and theories - I missed seeing the wisps of color in my life. I laid in my bed every night and let reality slap across my face as I replayed the fragments of moments I spent with him. I felt like a joke. Everything I thought I was so certain of - from the fact that I thought I didn’t want him with me anymore to the fact that I was tired of pretending to an imagined self - couldn’t explain why my heart felt like a small hill of shattered pieces. Heartbreak was such a long lost friend, I almost forgot what it felt like. Funny how things can turn out, isn’t it? ~~~ A barista came over and offered to take the half empty cup of tea away. Smiling, Julie shook my head and told her it was fine. The barista left without another word. “Are you feeling better nowadays?” I asked lightly.
A barista came over and offered to take the half empty cup of tea away. Smiling, Julie shook my head and told her it was fine. The barista left without another word. “Are you feeling better nowadays?” I asked lightly. A faint bell rang from the door as another customer walked in. Julie watched as the customer began flipping through the black menu leaflet, her brown eyes wavered underneath her long eyelashes. “I miss him,” Julie began; her eyes continued gazing at the customer, but they had a faraway look in them. “It’s been two months/ weeks already. You’d think I’d be over it by now.” Julie laughed, but her laugh didn’t sound mirthful to me. “Counting the days... I think it only lasted around half a year,” Julie began. “He doesn’t work in supply chain anymore - he got relocated to another branch. I haven’t heard from him since he left, and I hate to admit it, but I miss him.” Again, Julie laughed emptily. “I miss a person, for once! This is insane!” When Julie looked down at her cup of tea, her eyes seemed glassy. But like a lot of her expressions, it seemed to disappear the next instant. I ached to see her like this. “It all happened so fast... I thought it was just a daydream,” Julie murmured after a moment of silence. Then, she looked at me, a desperate and bewildered look in her eyes. “What is this?” she asked me. Before I could reply, her phone buzzed from her tote bag. After quickly mumbling an apology, she fumbled through her bag for her phone, only to scan it quickly and sigh. “Work?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. Julie gave me a sad look and nodded. “Maybe we can meet again sometime soon?” I offered. We exchanged dates we were possibly free on, and before I knew it, she was already rising from her seat. Her dark brown eyes and her bright red lips has almost convinced everyone that she was a confident woman in her twenties who could charm anyone she wanted to. But I knew her. They didn’t see the empty expression or the darting eyes; the lost girl who wore red lipstick. “I’m glad I got to see you, Rosie. I’ll see you around.” Our eyes locked, and right then, right there, I wanted to say so many things. Julie smiled. She understood. Then, she turned around and walked to the exit. The faint sound of the bell rang again and soon, she was already out of my sight. I leaned against my chair and stared at the untouched chocolate cupcake, the antique pocket watch that stopped working, and the cup of tea with a red lipstick stain. Curious, I picked up the bronze pocket watch and placed it against my palm. It had a delicate design, and its face was filled with intricate lines and curves that glimmered underneath the light. I lost track of time as I studied the pocket watch, in awe of its appearance and the story that it carried with it. “May I see that?” Suddenly, I found myself looking at a pair of deer-like eyes that seemed enthralled by the pocket watch. The young man, who wore a gray sweater, smiled as if remembering an old memory. His bright eyes carried a hint of sadness and as they looked at mine, an understanding passed between us. “A beauty, that one, don’t you think?” I found myself smiling back. “She is.”
Prompt: His hands were tangled all over me, but all I felt was... ...emptiness. I had always known we would not last, from the very beginning, even when I perhaps felt a tiny spark. His eyes glittered with beautiful shrewdness, but somehow, deep inside me, I knew it wasn’t enough. I did my best to fall in love with him, I swear I did. His way with words, the way he smiled, and how he was always there for me. Waiting on me. Waiting for me. If I were any other girl perhaps by then I’d have pulled his lips to mine and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. Yes, I was kissing him now, and he was kissing me back, his hands curled comfortably around me, but I couldn’t feel anything. I thought I’d fooled myself into loving him and his stupid ways, the fact that he never seemed to be able to hold his life together, and how easily we fit around each other, little moments that rendered me giddy and stir-crazy like a schoolgirl with her first crush. And on good days, I loved him fully, every smile I sent his way saying, declaring to the world: I love you, I love you and I love you. Those days when I was flying so much higher than what they called cloud nine, every touch between us setting off sparks that could’ve easily been mistaken for fireworks, every word that went past our lips filled with hope and joy and laughter. And yet I continued to doubt myself. I was a wanderer, I had traveled the world countless times I was never one who would stay. Relationships I once had were always short, no matter it be friendships, romances and flings, some lasting not even two weeks. An ingrained habit, I would say when I inexplicably had to leave them. That way they knew it was routine, that way they knew it wasn’t their fault, and that way I wouldn’t regret when I looked back. He stops and looks at me, deep brown eyes dazed and confused. “Hey,” he whispers, eyebrows furrowed a little. I itch to smooth out that line, my fingers that were currently dancing across his back. “You okay?”
Sometimes, he was so sweet it hurt. I rip my gaze away from his, ignoring the stab of pain that tears through me, almost as if his eyes were able to see right through me and all my darkest secrets. There were always people like this, of whom loved humanity so much they believed in me to find it in myself to stick around. Those were the ones that deserved more than me, so that was what I said when I left them. Perhaps he would be one of them. No, he already was one of them. I regretted the fact that I would break his heart. “Eli…” “Janie?” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t leave me, Jane...please.” “I can’t be with you forever.” “Could I just keep trying to keep you with me? Maybe, if you tried - if I tried -” “No.” “Give me a chance.” The struggle to get out of his warm embrace was so much harder than I’d thought. Perhaps the feeling wasn’t emptiness, perhaps it was loneliness...and I thought I had gotten used to wandering so much I didn’t need anyone else next to me, but right now all I could think about was meander around the lost corners of all sanity with him and no one else. Could I? Perhaps. “One chance, Eli.” “That’s all I need.”
Puh
'rgd| *loo Today, I will bake a pie. I wonder what kind of pie it will be. It could be a French silk pie, Or it could be a simple apple pie. Of course, it doesn't have to be a sweet pie. I could make a savoury pie. I could fill my pie with spinach and cheese, With bell peppers and mushrooms and ham. Lots and lots of ham. And when I have made that pie, I will eat it. I will savor each bite of that pie, And when I finish, I will get about to doing my work. Except I probably won't. I will probably get out everything I have to do, And just as I try to start working, I will end up thinking about that pie. My mouth will start to water, My stomach will start to grumble, And my feet will start moving towards the pie again. And this time, I will have a slightly larger slice. My brother will come down and ask, "May I have a slice?" My eyes will flicker to the pie, Then to my brother, Then to the pie again, Before cutting him a slice, Slightly smaller than my own.
But he will not know, Because my hand will have moved very quickly, Avoiding his gaze. He will walk back out of the kitchen with his pie, And I will sit there with my pie, Thinking about all the work I am not doing And all the pie I am eating. My friend will text me, And I will look at it while I have another forkful of Pie. I will type out a very shallow answer, then turn my attention back to the pie. Looking at the pie carefully, I will realize there is very little pie left. At this thought, I will say to myself, "Go do work. Now." And I will walk back into the room Where I left my work. I will try to do it, And I will get five minutes in, And my cat will catch my gaze. I will look at her, and we will look at each other IUntil she stalks out, straight to the kitchen. Where there is pie. My legs move on their own, While my mind shout at me to stop, Go back, do work, And my only thought will be pie.
LO
AF
OR
AR
A! You murmured as everyone went around screaming O, I knew who you were from the start. A is what started everything, Not just the stupid alphabet. A magician at changing your appearance, Have I ever seen the truth? A good person right to the core, cor You were the angel who sat on my shoulder. A clock on the wall never stops, I wonder if time will ever freeze for us. A coincidence that you were there right at that moment, Not that I was a coward. A leap like a gazelle prancing through the Sahara, You caught the shot and fell. A darkness has covered your eyes, I think it’s time to say goodbye. A meek “I’m sorry” escapes these blue lips of mine, But you were already gone. That’s why I give this A to you, Arlo. So that even in death, people won’t think you are Oslow.
%#! ' &kh vdlg “ p vruu|” exw kh zdv douhdg| g|lqj
Pretty Boys Dirty little secret
He was so beautiful, golden hair curling just over his brow and eyes so clear on a good day they were blue, on a bad day a turbulent stormy grey, I could never tell what colour it really was. He had a nose like a Greek god, and cheekbones so chiseled he could’ve used them to cut through stone. But that didn’t matter. He was a pretty boy, and he was perfect for me. ... I first saw him that summer day, just after Terrence had gone, and he looked so gorgeous I had thought that maybe he was it for me. He was alone on the swings, humming something I’d never heard of, but it was enough to hook me in. “Hi,” I said, flashing him a smile as I sat down in the swing next to him. “You just moved in?” He turns to me, confusion crinkling his cute brow. The tips of his hair caught the sunlight, turning his flaxen locks to fire, and I almost swooned. Focus. “How did you know?” I gave him wry smile. “I’ve been in this town for my whole life. I think I’d know if something were different. Anyways, I’m Talia. Talia Everly. It’s nice to meet you!” He looked at me, albeit reluctantly. “I’m Finn.” From then on, there was nothing that Finn and I didn’t talk about, and we were inseparable through the first weeks of school, the girls shooting me jealous looks as I walked past them in the hallways with Finn on my arm. I was the only girl he spoke to. Lucy and Reese asked how I knew him before he had moved here, but I only shrugged, and said I didn’t, it was pure chemistry that had brought us together. “Why do you get all the best looking guys?” Reese nagged, tugging on my arm. “I don’t know.” I do my best to grin at her, trying to stop the urge to tear her hair out and scream at her that Finn was mine, mine, mine. The urge was ripped away when Finn smiled at me from the end of the hallway, my feet carrying me to him in an instant. “I hear Joey’s throwing a party tonight,” Finn said, his lips curling into a little sideways smile that I adored. This is it, I thought, He’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend. “and I was wondering. Do you want to go with me?” His smile quavered a bit, and I deemed him nervous, so of course I said yes. On one condition: I was to arrive at the party by myself. That night, I did up my makeup, my lips a dark bloody red, and I admired the way my eyeliner almost reached knifelike, against the edge of my face.The wine-red skirt Reese had bought me for my birthday flattered my red lips, something I’d thought very fitting for tonight. For your average feminine partygoer, it was the basic armor, but for me, it was everything The moment I stepped onto the brakes, the party was already in full swing, the house practically pumping with a life of its own along to the music; strobe lights streaking from the inside, occasionally hitting my car. Letting the car idle for a while, I felt along the floor of the shotgun seat, my heels making a tap, tap-tap-tap sound in my car, my heart pumping almost as fast as the taps were.
And with a click, the car door opened, and I stepped out. My purse caught a little on the edge of the door, but I yanked it through, locked my car and went to the front door. I gasped a little as the door was suddenly pulled open, revealing a boy with deep, furrowed brows and a tipsy curl to his lips. “S-summers?” He slurred, eyes like blind hands and desperate fingers searching for an anchor to stay. And they locked on my face, screaming and crying for more. I saw anger in him, the way his body held that slight tremor, his eyes trying to find something that didn’t exist anymore, and beneath all that, the dead, dead look in his dull blue eyes. “I’m not your Summers,” I growled, heading off to find my Finn. Somehow, through the pulse of the crowd I found him, standing next to one of his other friend, Dean. “Hey,” I shouted over the noise. Finn laughed, a sound I memorized: it always was so nice and boyish, a distinct bark of unadulterated laughter, starting low in his chest and rising up a bubble of glee into the air. “Hey yourself!” He replies, his beautiful smile painted on his face, and all of a sudden I’m having second thoughts about him that I dare not have. “I want to show you something.” He took my hand and led me away from the crowds, his other hand going to help me with my purse. “No, no, I’ll take that, I don’t need your help.” I whispered in his ear, clutching my purse tight. He led me to the back of the house, through the screen door into the backyard that led into the woods. The smile on my face unwittingly grew just a bit wider. We stopped just at the edge of the woods, Finn's steps getting staggeringly slow toward the end, his hand had let go of mine moments before, they were now twisting and untwisting with the other, showing his nervousness. I could almost hear his heartbeat, an erratic thump-thump thumping its way into oblivion. This was it. "Talia, I think we should-" Suddenly I realized my mistake in reading Finn. Not allowing him to say another word, I immediately fused my mouth to his, throwing my arms around his neck in a frenzy. He stood there, shocked by my actions, mouth sealed tight and stubborn against mine. After a few moments, he pushed me away. "N-no, Talia, you don't understand-"
And I kissed him again, demanding and forceful and powerful, not letting him get away from me. After all, I was all every boy wanted, right? I was what every boy asked for. Finn was a pretty boy, and girls who were wanted like that belonged with pretty boys with perfect, blond hair and sky-coloured blue eyes and a tilt to their soft lips. I belonged with Finn, and Finn belonged to me. "Talia, we can't do this." I was surprised he'd gotten away. "Why aren't you kissing me?" "Talia. I don't like you like that." "But I do. We're supposed to be meant for each other." "Talia, I told you. I don't like you like that." "Then what do you like, Finn?" I screamed, glad that we were away from the house, glad for the bass still shaking the ground and muffling the world away from us. "Someone that's not you." He said firmly. I'm not going to let him go. "Just give me one last kiss, please," I whine. He turned to me, once clear blue eyes a stormy grey, reluctant and almost angry, a good look on him, the darkness casting hollows in his cheeks and once more showing how handsome he was. He had to be mine, and no one else’s. I had to make it happen. Finn’s eyes were wary and I could see the doubt in his eyes. “Come over here.” I lowered my voice to a whisper, keeping myself the vulnerable one, the one whose love was leaving them. He relented, and walked over to me. “I’m sorry, Talia. I hope you find someone else to make you happy, because I’m not who you want.” I nodded slowly, opening my arms to hug him. Finn wrapped his arms around me, and I shifted around to stick my hand in my purse, and I brought out the gun. He was gasping with one shot to the stomach and I knew he wasn’t going to live. A single bullet wouldn’t be enough to kill him, but as long as no one found him and didn’t help, he was going to die anyway. “I love you, Finn,” I whispered, kissing him on the cheek. Now you can be mine forever.
I Know You Prompt:
To To hurt hurt for for someone someone who’s who’s hurt. hurt. please don’t shut me out or tell me it’s okaythat it doesn’t matter that you’re fine that it’s nothing to do with me and that I shouldn’t worry about you because i know kn when you’re hurting and i know what you look like when you’re pushing me away because i’ve seen it too many times to have recognised the signs indicated through the silent stiffness in your hands and the tightness in your neck your face is a language i have long become fluent inthe crease in your brow the rigid set of your jaw are all part of an alphabet that i already know so don’t don insult me with that facade because it hurts that you think that i can’t see through that mask blank and pleasant and so unlike you that i can’t help but think that i was wrong please don’t shut me out because i will hold the broken pieces of you just above ab my heart and feel the jagged pieces slowly more closer and closer and closer still until i am gasping along with you
The devil and his savior
urpsw ehlqj zdqwhg One cold night in a misty village, a child of the devil kills over a thousand men, women, and children. Without hesitation before, or regret after, his dark eyes challenges the rest of the terrified village to fight him, to spill his blood on the already crimson pavements. Nobody dares to meet his eyes, pupils dilated with bloodlust and pride. The next morning, the child is gone. As people do with bad memories, the villagers carefully clean their minds of the child and the incident as they do the same with the corpse-laden streets. The child does not have a name. He believes he may be called “Devil”, as it is the only thing the villagers had ever used to address him. He decides to make a new name for himself. “Devil” is too simple, he thinks to himself. The child has nobody to protect and nobody to protect him. He is alone, as he has always been. His only companion is himself, and when one talks to oneself, there is no need to use a voice. The child soon realizes that there are more ways than one to make a name, and that he has already chosen his path. The child grows into a man. A feared man. He now has a new name. He did not choose it, but it suits him, he thinks to himself. “Aniketos”. “Unconquerable”. He is known for his massacres and his slaughters; he is known for his thirst for blood and murder. It is also the only thing he has ever known as well. Many years later, on a quiet night inof a snowy village, Aniketos discovers a young boy, dressed in mere scraps. Aniketos looks deep into the child’s dull, ghostly eyes, and there is only one thought that rises into his mind. He is just like me, he thinks to himself. And for the first time in many, many years, he feels his voice rise up, and words fall from his lips. “So you have chosen the same path as me,” Aniketos says. His lips curl into a smile, crooked from lack of practice. “Cast away, unwanted, like a dog. How pitiful.” The boy smiles a half-smile, a smile filled with sorrow, and leans forwards. “But you are just like me, aren’t you?” Aniketos studies the child for another second. “Stand up. If you have no place to go, come with me.” The child’s eyes widen. He looks out to the street. The people who catch his glance look away quickly in terror. The child understands what he has done, and he understands that he is now unwanted. He looks back at Aniketos and gives a small, resolute nod. This child has a name. “Keval”. “Pure”. Keval once had people to protect, and people who would protect him. He knows that the days where he is protected and needed are in the past. He knows that he has to forge a new future for himself, so he creates a dream, a goal, a reason for living. It all begins with Aniketos. Aniketos returns to his misty village. He has long since forgotten the faces of the people he had slayed so many moons before. To him, they are just one pile of the many mountains of nameless souls who had been unlucky enough to meet him. Aniketos is unsure of why he has returned to the place he had buried his burdens and sorrows. He sets foot into the village anyways. Aniketos learns of Keval’s past. It is a story that begins peacefully. Keval was born into a happy family. His mother came from a family of wealthy merchants and powerful leaders, but fell in love and discarded her family background, running away with a poor fisherman. At the time, there was a strong prejudice against families of wealthy backgrounds and .
for honour mrxuqdolvw whuurulvw er| I was born in Chelsea, London in August of 1980. Growing up in a strict Christian family and attending a Christian school, one thing that drove my interests was the restrictions I was under. Perhaps that was the reason that, once I got into university, my subject choices were none other than Journalism and English. Father was a marketing banker, and Mother was an accountant. Drogba was my favorite football player, and Posh Spice was my secret crush. There was rugby practice on Mondays, church choir on Thursdays, and church on a Sunday. After university, I got a job writing small editorials for the Economist UK edition; you know, the stuff on the pages that everyone skips to get to the good parts. Life was relatively unremarkable. And in our own little world in Chelsea, we all lived in an unexciting yet respectable harmony. Perhaps, that was why I had to go. It was not until the outbreak of Boko Haram in 2002 that my life changed. Maybe it was my IsIs lamic ancestral roots that drew me to the BBC breaking news stories, or maybe it was just the contrast of it to life here in London. On one frigid and polluted day, a pivotal idea came to me. My life was missing the adventure I longed for. Despite the dangers, well, the violence of a very much operational and savage terrorist group, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging to the mayhem that was making headlines across front pages around the world. Regardless of all the news articles, it always struck me that I never found recordings of Boko Haram soldiers, other than those posted online by their frightful leader. The day I left for Nigeria was truly a mix of emotions. My parents were in tears, genuinely believing this would be the last time they saw me. I was in a whimsical phase, all butterflies fluttering away in my stomach, eyebrows reaching the ceiling, and a toothy grin slapped upon my face. The town of Gwoza’s ambience was bleak. The first few weeks were dull–most of the Boko Haram had moved elsewhere since its occupation. Now the town was used as a refugee camp for its soldiers, as well as a base for its new soldiers. It wasn’t until my third week in Gwoza that I met someone intriguing. Sola was his name and he was 17 years old. A frail teenager; he had eyes too big for his face, and a lower lip disproportionately bigger than the upper. His hair was shaved like the rest of the soldiers. As per usual, I was casually asking questions to the young soldiers of the town. As expected, none of them answered my broken Hausa. Until Sola, who kindly corrected my sentence from “How did you find the bridge” to my intended “How did you arrive at the camp?”. Thankfully and with time, I formed a close bond with Sola. I told him about the world outside of Nigeria, and in return, he answered my questions. He spoke with a certain ignorance, as if he were here without a purpose. When I asked him about his journey here, he told me truthfully that he had been taken from his family in Chibok a month ago and relocated here as a soldier. However, when I asked him about his feelings towards the war he fights for, he would straightforwardly recite words branded into his head by the leaders of Boko Haram. Like many of the soldiers, when I asked him how he felt killing innocent people, including children he replied, “My leader says that when we kill, we are choosing our life over theirs.” I wondered how death could be made so simple.
After living amongst the young soldiers of Gwoza for the duration of two months, I packed my two 70 litre backpacks to return home. During the last week of my stay, Sola had been missing for quite some time. At the canteen, I sat alone, thoroughly pondering the possible reasons for his absence. On my final night, he returned– much to my relief, as my most logical assumption for his leave was that he had been sent on a raid and thus to his death. “Connell, Connell!” he whispered my name in excitement. “Connell, I am going to make a big contribution to the movement!” His eyes were gleaming and proud, so different from the unenlightened Sola I knew. I awaited with anticipation for him to elaborate, “Well, what is it?” “I have been given a task. They trained me. They said my help will make a big difference. Tomorrow afternoon…” he started. Then, lowering his voice, “I will go off with the others to blow up a building in the city. I will be the one to set off the bomb, I will be the one!” I was speechless. Frankly, I couldn’t constellate the thousands of thoughts running through my head. Sola must have read the confusion on my face, “I know my life will end, but my name will never die! I shall be remembered by Boko Haram, by the news reporters, by all the soldiers for my contribution.” “You can’t do that! Don’t you see Sola, they’re using you. They’re playing you like a puppet on a string! Telling you that you will have honour? Telling you that you will be remembered? It’s all their little mind tricks! No one even knows your name in the first place, how are they to remember it?” I was infuriated. But as I looked into Sola’s eyes, I could tell there was no turning back. He was no longer even listening. They had brainwashed him. Sola would do anything they wished now, even at the stake of his own life. My effort was futile. I flew back to London the next day. Arriving at Heathrow airport, I felt odd, empty. My thoughts were so discombobulated; how would I ever put them to paper? As I headed over to baggage claim, I looked up at the television screens. “CNN: Breaking News: Plane QZ8501 is missing after an encounter with a storm halfway through it’s journey to Singapore. The plane has now been missing for three hours. They last point of contact in the cockpit five hours ago.” Surely, the world will be talking about nothing but this in the week to come. As I claimed my baggage, the voice of the new’s anchor caught my attention, “In other news, there has been yet another suicide bombing attack to a police station in Zamfara leaving three dead and 14 injured and hospitalized. Whilst the bomber remains unidentified, the Islamic terrorist group, Boko Haram has gone on the record to claim responsibility for the attack. For now, we have more updates on the AirAsia plane’s search plans. John, over to you…” My eyes welled up as I smirked at the bitter irony of “unidentified.” Poor, poor Sola, the young boy who had corrected my Hausa. The young boy who wanted to be remembered. He was one of the thousands of victims of Boko Haram. Like the rest, his name is only remembered by his family. I stared blankly out of the taxi window. But I’ll tell you Sola, I remember you. I let out a drained, melancholic chortle. How can I forget? Sitting at my desk, I pulled open my laptop and began, For Honour?
I AM THE DARKNESS hollow, that’s what being alone is like, but I’ve come to embrace it, this achingly wide darkness inside of me and I don’t care - if you love me just know that the darkness and I are one: one if you fall for me, you fall for the darkness. you will find nothing in this black heart of mine for i tend to forget the ones i claim to love and part of me doesn’t care if you get hurt: it’s a part of life, they say. if that is true, then so be it.
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½" % The wind-up clock at her bedside reads 3:33 AM. She cracks open her eyes, and shrugs off her duvet. She slips her toes into a pair of fluffy felt slippers, and walks to the bathroom to relieve herself. When she returned to her bedroom, she became aware of a soft dripping sound. She trudged back to the bathroom and examined all of the faucets and pipes, but did not find the sound of the dripping. She went out into the hallway. It was slightly louder from here. She followed her ear and went down the dark staircase. It was much more audible from the base of the staircase. It was coming from the kitchen. The woman sleepily swung her hand against the light switch on the wall. The kitchen light flickered on, casting white light over the mutilated corpse of a woman. Her abdomen was hollow, and blood had dripped onto the white tile floors of the kitchen. Red handprints were littered all over the room, on cabinet doors and countertops. The woman let out an ear splitting screech, “Jack, get up here right this instant!” No response. The woman marched to a door under the staircase and kicked at it ferociously, screaming, “Jack!” A moan came from within the room, and a short, wiry teenager trudged up the stairs. The woman grabbed him by his ear and dragged him into the kitchen. Her husband came racing down, shouting, “Honey, what is it?” before seeing the bloody scene in the room. “Not again,” he muttered. “Jack,” the woman shouted, “I won’t even get started on how disgusting this is, because all those times I tried to tell you that, it didn’t seem to work. Heck, I’m not even surprised anymore. Guilt doesn’t seem to work on you either. So I don’t really care what you do anymore. Just don’t leave dead bodies in my kitchen!” Jack rolled his eyes, and his mother gave him a stern slap. “Do you know how hard it is to clean the blood off of these walls? Pretty damn hard. Especially when you’re trying to leave no traces. Blood stains! For goodness sakes, Jack, do you know how many times your father has repainted everything to cover up the bloodstains? Seven times! That is good money you just wasted there! It’s not fair on us! I am sick and tired of cleaning up your messes. I don’t like dead bodies like you do! It isn’t fun for me! Especially when I had to soak that last one in acetic acid to destroy the body. You honestly have to think things through! I mean, do you understand the repercussions of this? Our neighbors will think we’re some freaks when they see all this! And what were you going to do with the body? Leave me to deal with it again? Because I am putting my foot down. You are going to clean all of this up before the sun rises. Got it?” Jack murmured a grudging “Fine, Mom.” He went down to his room and brought up a tub of acetic acid, and dumped the mangled body into the tub. He then picked up a bottle of acetone and rubbed it against the counter the body was on. His father spoke up, “son, you know your mother and I will support you no matter what you do. But we just want to you to know that even though we’re disappointed, we still love you, and everything we do is because we love you. So next time, when you’re off doing whatever it is you do, just don’t bring it home.” He then pulled Jack and his mother into an embrace. “Jack, you’re getting blood on my nightdress.” “Sorry, Mom.”
the  leap
Under the sable cloak of the moonless night, I stand at the edge of reality and oblivion; my toes dangle over the yawning chasm below. Under the dim starlight, I am a mere silhouette; a shadow; void of color; void of light; void of life. The cool wind whips at my face, stinging my cheeks. I look down at the Stygian gates below, a writhing onyx mass of fervently gushing water, immense and powerful. The mighty rage of the river below is strangely enticing, drawing me closer and closer to the edge. The metal supports of the suspension bridge below creak under the force of the wind, threatening to release me into the jaws of death. To take the leap would be so easy, to simply step off the edge, to be enveloped in the powerful river, to take the plunge into the underworld. To take the leap would be so easy, but why can’t I? What binds me to this corporeal prison? What is left for me here but pain and misery? Why am I still afraid? I clutch my chest, rip out my heart, and toss it into the wind. I watch as it vaporizes, all my anger, all my sorrow, all my grieving; I watch as it dissipates into nothing. I take one last breath, savoring the cool air filling my lungs, and lean forward. I feel gravity seize my body. I fly. I fly through the air, feeling the wind engulf me. My eyes sting with the cold, yet through the tears I see another figure flying towards me. Her white dress billows in the wind, her scarlet hair ablaze, rippling like flames. She flies next to me, illuminated by a ethereal light. Hands entwined, we spiral through the sky together into oblivion. My love and I are together once more. A serenity permeates through my veins, clearing my fear of what happens next. I embrace the water as we meet, accepting my fate. Hello darkness, my old friend.
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我會把我心裡想的一切都告訴你， 但勇氣卻永遠在最後一刻， 不知跑到哪裡去了。 話說不出來， 但你只要輕輕的回頭一望， 而看到了我的眼神， 你就會明白。 如果眼睛能說話， 他們會替代我膽小的嘴巴， 告訴你那杏脸桃腮的臉孔是多麼美麗， 告訴你那像天籟般的笑聲是多麼動聽。 如果眼睛會說話， 他們會替代我懦弱的內心， 在你失落的時候安慰你， 在你傷心的時候逗你開心。 如果眼睛能說話， 在看到她他牽著你手走的時候， 你會看到的， 是我的悲痛、寂寞和嫉妒。
surpsw zkdw whqgv wr lqflwh |rxu dqjhu wkh prvw
ehhi| kdlnxv wkh elj plvvhg vwhdnv once upon a time there were a group of students trying to write things
punches after punch the black eyes are back in black, kill me now - members
then it all happens, it's a sudden crash and burn, drowning confusion.
instigate drama lie, cheat, backstab, ridicule feuds, glorious feuds .
the enticing smells, welcome to your living hell, welcome to the prompt
in our darkest hours of bloodshed and tears, i think how did we get here?
right here with you guys, the beef is real at the prompt, i feed off of it.
how long will it last the temptation of murder is too strong to hold.
the drama is here, every thursday meet at one, the fire is hot.
the hate from inside, will bring us all to our knees, with no prompt to show.
every thursday, a group of individuals watch the world burn
it surrounds us all this mess of conflict and hate is this but our fate?
the prompt - living hell the tortured cries of students just trying to write
amidst the fighting the epiphany occurs we’re prompted forward
as the tensions build the doubt sets like chinese smog is it worth the stress?
we write with no shame for we must learn to let go of the rare tension
between fonts and feuds, of layouts and front covers we destroy it all
in a medium, known as writing for the prompt, learn to belly breathe
kill me says layout shoot my head says editors hang me says authors
let the anger out write some cool haikus with me it’s lots and lots of fun
rib, brisket and shank, the different cuts laid out, which one will they choose?
while eating the beef, take a pencil and paper, write a beef haiku
with hidden conflict comes the transparency of who wants to be here
once marinated, the beef was cooking back home i’d die for cooked beef.
the smell of the beef fills my lungs, i start to choke on impending doom
in our finale, we power through to show that, our beef - is well done.