A Hope and Dreams

(Author’s Note: I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do trigger warnings but I feel as though I should note that this story is intentionally written as if the reader is the monster/bad guy in a horror film, so it may be disturbing to some. -JS) They’re in there somewhere, sprinting as quickly to the room that they feel safest in, locking doors behind them. We know that they’re there, and we aren’t particularly concerned. They might know that we’re coming now but we know that they’re scared, and we know where they’re going to hide. We take a few steps forward, through the front door, and start walking slowly, unerringly, towards their room. Along the way we take care to not make any noise, the better to make them more afraid, the better to make them think that it might be all in their head. It’s always so much more fun when they don’t think we exist. We slink forward, but decide to take a quick detour to the breaker room before we go in. We’re not in any sort of rush, after all. ...

It’s a song that you’ve heard before, but the notes seem to be different. The rhythm is something that you can feel thrumming through your bones despite the relatively quiet volume at the moment, but you can’t remember ever having listened to anything just like this quite this loud before. The notes seem to fade away as you wonder if you had heard the song sometime in your childhood, on the radio during the car rides to school. It’s only later when you go to try to listen to it again because it was catchy that you realize it only came out a few days ago and there’s no way you could have listened to it before. Sometimes you’ll come up with an idea for a story, or a drawing, or a fashion statement, and you’ll be so very proud of it. And then you’ll go to tell it to one of your friends, and they’ll smile and say “Oh wow, have you ever seen __? That sounds just like it!” You haven’t seen that movie, or read that book, or viewed that painting, but when you do a little bit of research yo...

Vibrant pastel shades blending together in distinct layers Surrounded by a distinct border edges blurring into something that seems to go on forever A foreground which is so out of focus it seems to be miles away with edges so crisp and clear Inside it seems to convey a tone of longing, endless melancholy undisputed bliss, every figure and movement seeming to glow

There are three playing cards laid out on the table in front of her. The frayed edges blend into the polished white counter, a stark contrast to the dark room lit only by candles. Near the edge of the circle of light, sits her friend. Her deep brown hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, large chunks from either side slipping loose to frame her face. She’s fully engrossed in the playing cards, eyes sparkling with excitement, looking at the small red symbols on them. “Oh this is a good one!” she says, looking up and meeting my eyes. “When you draw these in this order it means that…” There have always been numbers that he likes, whenever he notices that there are once again 6 days until something is due, something happens on the sixth, or he has to get off the freeway in six miles he gets that little feeling like every detail is falling into place. He wonders if everyone else feels the same need to have all these coincidences line up to create a picture, even if that picture is com...

“Why did you do that? His back was to us, he was surrendering!” “He wasn’t going to just give up like that, and you know it. Now he’s not in the picture, and we can continue fighting without his interference.” “It’s not right! It’s not right to just- to just attack someone like that!” “Have you ever seen a movie, just seen the villains leaving the heroes in easily escapable traps, and wanted to reach through the screen and kill the protagonists yourself? Because I might not think that we’re the villains here, and I know that you may think I am, but I just don’t want to lose because I… because I overestimate myself” “It’s not honorable.” “Honor is for those who aren’t used to losing.”

A man stands in front of the crowd, decked out in worn and dusty boots, a scuffed and threadbare pair of pants, and a jacket that has faded so much that the original color is indeterminate at best. He does not seem to notice that all of these factors have led the crowd gathering only for the amusement of seeing the ravings of a madman, not because they care what he has to say. “Gentlemen, ladies, your attention please!” he says, clearly attempting his best impression of others that he has heard capture the attention of large crowds. From what the rest of the gathering can tell, he must have listened to a good many drunkards capturing the attention of entire saloons with a single phrase. “My friend and I,” and here he pauses for a moment, gesturing to his right, and then realizing that his friend has taken a few steps away in an attempt to distance himself from this embarrassment. He grabs him by the arm and drags him closer, looping his arm around his shoulders to prevent further ...

Everyone in the theatre that wants to see the movie has already arrived, but it hasn’t started yet. Instead the trailers for other films are playing, and the entire crowd is looking, only moderately engaged, at the images flashing across the screen. A few people stand up, remembering that they wanted to use the bathroom or buy some popcorn before the film starts, but they quickly make their way back once their tasks are done. Everyone is waiting. No one came here just to see this, but they are united in their impatience, no matter how well they mask it. Then another trailer starts to play, this one quite clearly for a horror film, unlike the action trailers that have previously graced the screen. Throughout the theatre the different patrons react differently. The film they’re here to see isn’t a horror one, so a good few of them close their eyes and cover their ears, telling their companions to tap them when the trailer is over. Some of them lean in, more intrigued by this trailer t...

When she looks through the list of students that she can expect to find in her next class along with her she keeps an eye out for any that she recognizes as friends. She spots a few names that stand out as people she knows more than in passing, and moves on, not putting any more thought into it. When she ends up attending that class, half a day later, many new teachers, syllabi and classmates later, the names that she had pulled out of that list aren’t at the front of her mind. She slips into a seat from which she can see the teacher well but isn’t too close to the front of the room. As she sits down, and other students start filing in she keeps an eye out for anyone that she might need to pass a message or greeting to. Finding no one, she turns her attention to pulling out her laptop and preparing a document for note taking. When she looks back up, she sees one of the people who she recognized from the list seated next to her. It’s not that big a surprise to see someone choosing ...

The other day, I was trying to find an idea for what to write about. I was searching my mind for an idea that I had at some point in the day, and my pockets to see if I had written anything down. I couldn’t find anything, so I decided to look through old notebooks, hoping to find something that would spark my interest. I eventually found a notebook, and although I didn’t recognize it I figured that no one but myself had been in my bedroom for so long that it was unlikely it wasn’t mine. So I opened this small, clearly loved and used, notebook. Inside it was filled with ideas, with random trains of thought or anecdotes from life that I instantly knew could provide the perfect inspiration for nights of writing, or just sitting up thinking up ideas for stories so long and complex that I know I’ll never get along to writing them. I look at this notebook, at the slightly faded pages, and I realize that there’s one story that I came up with that I could write now. Was this my notebook? I ...

When you look at where a forest once was You don’t always see the tree stumps In fact, if the forest is truly not wanted, you’ll instead see Nothing but a field of grass Nothing but whatever we chose to place on top of it I don’t believe in ghosts But it has always struck me as terrifying That if you visit a battlefield, besides the signage You wouldn’t even know that people had died there Assuming that the battle happened long enough ago, you may not Know even where you are Image coming across a field of grass A park A place of sanctuary But you can’t look down, because who knows what once lay Under your feet So we can assume it was trees, and replant them And if we were wrong?

He had seen her sitting there nearly every day since he had started coming to the shop himself. She would give her name as Marina, order the special, and take a seat in the corner. Every day she would eat the food that she had bought, making notes in a binder full of notes until she had finished her eating or her writing. It wasn’t always one or the other, but the second she deemed that one had ended she would pick up her notebook, throw away her trash, and walk right back out the door. On day she came in with a man (he thought that it was probably a brother or a cousin, although he could have been a particularly young uncle or some other relation). They sat down, and while she ate and wrote he pulled out a map of a city a thousand miles away and drew out routes to some destination that he could not discern. They didn’t say a word to each other, until she muttered something to him and they left. The next day he came in with a book, and she met him there. Neither of them ordered food...

It’s not a particularly large city, and neither is this intersection. But it goes four ways, and there are always cars queuing up behind the lights waiting to go, creating an atmosphere of light bustle. It’s not an abnormally loud intersection either, the cars generally not honking and going about their business with polite intent. But, when a train goes by a few blocks away all the patterns that the lights usually follow shift, restricting traffic, and overwhelming everyone around with a shared annoyance for the sudden noise. There are probably intersections like it in every city that has a train running through it. There’s a girl sitting by the intersection, not on a bench as one would expect but instead on the small stone ledge surrounding a planter. There are no benches at the corner that she sits at. She’s looking at the intersection, but the people walking by the intersection are looking at her. She’s of the age between that of a child and that of a woman, and no one would nor...

The flames licking up, tongues swiping at the marble surrounding the fireplace The shells of different colors, different tones through which you glimpse the stone Concentric layers, like a memory of tears without reason They’re sharp, pointed, but the way they move so quickly makes it fluid in a way And yet the warmth pushes all thoughts of the ice cold waters far from my mind I recently watched a movie, with people who nearly froze And some of them did I can’t feel the way they did, in fact I feel too warm. I started the fire, because my feet felt like the sharp, sneaking ice I had seen But it isn’t my feet that feel like they’re burning

The first thing that draws her attention when she walks into the room isn’t the mirror. The thing that stands out to her first is actually how large the room seems to be, with towering shelves of books along two of the walls, and windows on the one across from her that keeps the room from feeling dark or crowded. She steps towards the windows, feet leaving slight indents behind in the thick carpet that quickly fade away. After quickly glancing at the view she turns back to look at the books. Then she spots the mirror. It was a bit to the left of the door that she had entered through, level with the floor, and framed in silver. She wouldn’t really have been able to describe the decoration on the frame as anything but not ostentatious, but still eye catching. She didn’t really have an eye for art. She briefly looks at her own reflection, but then her eyes instead travel towards a book, slightly out of alignment with the others on the shelf, that she only noticed in the mirror. She wal...

It’s absolutely terrifying to think that if some of my friends had been born a dozen or so centuries ago they might have died, or not even have been born. To think that if the luck of the draw regarding when they had been born was even slightly different no one would have been able to meet these incredible quirky people. I wonder if I would have survived back then. I like to think that if I was born, I would have been able to adapt to what the world would have been back then. But then again, there’s nothing to say that I would have had to adapt, that my entire self would have been shaped to be completely different before I was old enough to decide for myself who to be. I guess it also says something very clear about me, that I am of the belief that it would be possible for me to have been born in a different time. That despite my belief in science, I don’t find it odd to think of myself, in a completely different culture, but still holding the same personality and character that I...

Do you ever find yourself walking through a muddy field, pressing your boots into the mud even heavier than you normally would, not trying to trample the grass but instead trying to leave an impression? Who do you expect will see this footprint? No one is going to be walking through this park, watching the mud specifically for footprints left by others passing by.  Whenever you see a patch of drying cement, do you too feel the urge to touch it? You may not be sure what you would do to it, but do you also feel that desire to somehow mark that you were there? Do you think that people who would see that mark left behind would see any meaning in it beyond vandalism? What do you think when you see a place on a park bench or a tree where someone has carved their initials? Do you think of it as disrespectful to the public nature of the bench, or harmful to the tree? What would happen if we were to write down those initials, to try to remember each other? What would happen if we were ...

I think I’m good with technology. When something’s not working, others in the room usually turn to me and ask me to try to get the computer to do what they need it to do. But put me in front of code that’s not basic HTML and I’m useless without a guide.  I think I’m an artist. I may not sing to anyone but myself, I may not paint or draw beyond rough sketches to design characters, but I try to create something that shows my own perspective of the world that I like to think is art. I think I’m flamboyant, and not ashamed to be myself. I know I’m not afraid to make an impression on people, and am more than willing to be myself even when in front of people that I don’t know very well. But I also sometimes have to adapt the kind of person I am when I’m interacting with certain kinds of people that I need to make a certain kind of impression on. I think I’m not a bad person. I may be rude, I may be blunt, but I don’t do so out of hatred. I do so because I would prefer others to te...

The hummingbird flits from one moment to another, a blur of vibrant color. It always seems to be vibrating, as if so much purpose and energy fill its nearly impossibly small frame that it cannot contain itself. One might know that this is because it needs to do so in order to stay in the air, but the effect is still mesmerizing. The hummingbird is able to fly backwards, or stay in place, suspended in the air as though held aloft by some invisible thread. Even with its exceptional speed when going forward, it is able to take a step away from situations it finds itself in, bringing an unexpected uncertainty, willingness to take a step away and recognize mistakes. One might know that this is so that they can remove their long beaks from the long flowers that they collect nectar from, as well as being able to minimize landing, but the effect is still breathtaking. The hummingbird eats an incredible amount of calories for its size, flitting from flower to flower, even to the fountains ...

They actually worked together, although sometimes they would forget that. Every day they would head in together, then head their separate ways to check in with their respective bosses and coworkers. They would usually end up somewhere physically close together. She would be checking documents, asking quick questions about travel and return plans to tourists coming in, while he would greet the exhausted returning travelers, checking documents and asking how long they were gone. Each day, after their hours had run out they would meet back again and slowly, almost as slowly as the lines they had spent all day managing, make their way back to the car that they had driven there in that morning. As they rode back, they would turn off the radio and instead tell each other stories. Stories of people that they had seen throughout the day and the stories that those people held. They would of course change the names of the people, and any “pertinent yet confidential travel details” but they wo...

When people find out how much time I spend alone, they’re always a bit surprised. But that initial shock quickly fades away, into worry and concern. They seem to think that something is inherently wrong with me spending a few nights a week home alone, finishing homework and then just filling my time with mindless hobbies.  It’s a strange feeling, to have people pity you for something you don’t see anything wrong with. Because it makes you start to wonder if there is something wrong with what you’re doing, if your sense of normal has been so skewed that you just can’t realize what’s wrong with what you’re doing. Or maybe part of the reason that I’m fixating on this so much is that I do spend too much time alone, in my own head, with random ideas floating around. I don’t think I really mind.

They pulled us aside as a group, to tell us what had happened. They told us that if we needed anything, we would talk to them, that they would be willing to support us. Everyone was shocked, and a meeting that had been initially mocked became much more serious, as well all tried to be as silent and still as possible, to not disturb the atmosphere of our own creation. “I’m sorry, I have to tell you that…” The second the words have been said, she feels as though she can’t breathe. The world seems to fade into the background, her eyes no longer focusing on the room around her. She could feel herself fading away, everything around her becoming a buzz, something so removed, so separate from herself, that if she could move she would have pinched herself. The second the words have been said, everything seemed to become much too sharp. The edges of the couch beneath him, of the small piece of metal he had been fidgeting with, all seemed too overwhelming. It was as though everything was...

The things that happen to use, the experiences, the actions, and the choices, all help form our perspectives, and those perspectives help us see the world in our own unique way. And as our version of the world forms, these tiny things change what we do, what we see, what we choose next. Sometimes we remember these things, remember them so we can write vaguely about them, mention them in college essays, and so on. But sometimes we forget, and those forgotten memories are the largest part of us, because we don’t regret them, can’t warp the memories to our changing whims. They’re the parts of ourselves that we’re still able to rely on when we feel as though our who world has been knocked off its axis because they’re the things that have become such deeply ingrained parts of ourselves that they are the only thing we can be sure of at that point. Of course, all this sounds nice and poetic, but because these are the moments we aren’t remembering, we’re never really going to be sure.

In her head, she knew that she had never met the person before. Usually she isn’t great at pinpointing faces or names, but she could tell that she had never seen this one before. Or maybe she had but they weren’t anyone that she would have known well, or taken care to remember in any particular way. Even though the stranger wasn’t facing her, she could see enough of his profile to be sure that they had never met. In addition, the odds of her running into someone she knew at this place, and this time were so astronomically high that she was able to easily run through a list of the most likely possibilities that would not approach her first and dismiss them. She was standing in a coffee shop, waiting for her drink to be made while behind her a man was chatting to his companion. Nothing about him sparked her interest in any way, but as soon as he started talking she had to stop herself from spinning around to look at him right then. He may not have looked familiar, but something about ...

Imagine a tree, draping under the weight of not the leaves that one would expect, but instead chains. A willow of some kind, trunk flecked with vibrant moss, near a still pond that while clearly beautiful, most would hesitate to touch. Nature for so many is a blessing, an escape, a way to take a step away from the stresses of life, from expectations, from the things they seek to avoid. But it also has to be all of these things. Whenever one finds themselves outside, but not enjoying themselves, if they ever want to go back to their own life, they are seen as someone who is chained to these material needs that we need to have an inbuilt revulsion to.  Normally, with this kind of tree, the leaves would cover the entire thing, creating a solid curtain to the ground. But this tree isn’t covered. It’s slightly barren, and it looks tired. Author's Note: One of my friends did a drawing inspired by the idea for this piece and I absolutely love it! Because the work itself ended...

To start, they weren’t really listening. Everything just seemed to fade out, their eyes were still open, but they weren’t really looking or seeing anything. They’re probably sitting down, but at this point they can barely tell. No one is talking to them, or if they are, they can’t hear them. The world was slightly hazy, like a city covered in a thin layer of early morning fog, with rainclouds on the horizon. Of course they realize what’s happening, and try to open their eyes again, only to find them already open. The world snaps back into focus in an instant, and they need to shut something off again. Anything off again. No one is talking, everyone around them gazing but not truly looking at their computer screens. Typing away, a pattern without rhythm, rhyme, or reason. Keys clicking so loudly, as everyone follows this invisible force, something guiding them through these motions that have become unconscious for them, but hundreds of years ago would have been alien. These clicks pu...

From a very young age, we’re all conditioned to want to be special. We want to stand out from the crowd in some small way. Yes, some people are shy, introverted, don’t feel a need—or a want—to be noticed at all. But really, we all seek out something in ourselves, or in the world, that will make us distinct, even if we don’t want anyone else to notice it. She used to love it when she had headaches. She would focus on the pounding in her head and try to feel something more. Every coincidence that worked for or against her would be carefully noted down in her memory, proof of being special. Luck did not exist in her world, and if it did she had caused it. Really though, her head never hurt too badly, and if it did, she probably would have taken it as proof that she was even more powerful than she could control. But where could she draw the line of luck. Because, really, she knew that she was slightly delusional. She held no delusions regarding that. She knew that if she were to do s...

Everyone gets aches and pains every once in a while, but this train of thought is probably why it took them so long to figure it out in the first place. Because, if a friend comes in on crutches, mentioning a busted knee, when their knee would start hurting the most obvious answer is of course empathy. Or maybe, thinking so hard about the injuries that befall others, to the point that they accidentally overcompensate themselves, leading to a minor strain of their own.   Of course, it got a little bit harder to justify as time went on. The day would start, and everything would be perfectly normal until out of nowhere a headache set in. And only later would they hear someone complaining about the crippling migraine that they’d had all day. But that could easily be explained away as coincidence. Really, most people don’t find themselves in areas of acute danger or harm in their lives. The vast majority of the human population may suffer a papercut here or a broken bone there...

In poetry I’ve always been defined By an unwillingness to rhyme On a dime One can’t help but think that it feels forced As though one were writing in Morse Code. Because that’s logical, of course. And when you have something you feel a need to say I could talk about what it does to rhythm all day Until my train of thought is derailed by something “this way” And of course one’s attention is drawn to the word that’s going to Stand at the end of the line Grand, and towering over all that came before This may just be me But the imagery Is the first thing to fall, and be lost, with the majority of writers of course

How many times have I been told “We’re going outside, to take a walk and appreciate nature”? “Focus. Focus on your surroundings,  note down the details.” I’ve walked this path a thousand times, and now am I noticing anything new? The mud squelches under my feet, sticking to my shoes. I glance about, and there are people but none of them are watching. I close my eyes. The wind is barely blowing, the cars are louder than the birds, and I still know where I am, even as I  keep walking. I’ve walked this path a thousand times, and am I now noticing anything new?

I remember right before my family moved, my mom a new cover for my bed. They were a vibrant light blue, and I was worried, because of the timing, that when we moved I would have to leave them behind. I remember, years later, I got a new bed. That now lighter, slightly faded, cover was still there, draped over the old mattress. And within a few days, it had moved to the new bed, now slightly too small, no longer draping over the edges. Now it sat, covering the mattress and making it seem more used, more lived. I remember playing hide and seek with my cousins when they came over. My bedroom was always off limits. And whenever I had a sleepover with my friends, we never slept in my bedroom. I remember when my mother told me that she was getting a new blanket for my bed, one that looked nicer and actually was the right size. She asked if I had a preference as to the color.

She knocks on my door on a humid summer Sunday. Something about the way she speaks - I later realize it wasn’t the tone but the cadence - made me think she was selling something. She wasn’t. But in a way, she was. She was selling something no one wanted to admit they needed, or had ever even thought about wanting. Something we’ve all wished for, a wish heard by another unthinking - or maybe thinking, but without the painful perspective of life - child. Because she was a child, or at least young enough that some would call her such. She came holding a wish carried, continued, lost but then one day returned, She comes to my door to sell this.  She knocks three times in quick succession, and then pauses for a moment before knocking again. I swing the door open, but before I have a chance to turn her away she begins to speak. “Sorry I’m late, but there’s been such a backlog, you must understand, with your profession?” She pauses, waits for me to nod, and continues. “Well, you’ve j...