A Hope and Dreams

The apologies crept up on us, first gently lapping around our ankles like waves, before subtly creeping up our legs, and the next thing we knew we were forced to retreat or risk being entirely soaked. By now, our house is nearly flooding. Before we met, we know it was always one of us who cried out for forgiveness, while the other traversed the minefield of comforting nothings. We can’t remember which one of us it was back then, so now together we rename the sensitive one “you”.

Whenever I sit on mother’s porch, I think of your ghost. Your shadow sits beside mine, as the stars race by. Our hands reach over the rotten wood between us, sweaty summer palms clutched together.

My father and I only speak at sunset, and although his eyes are drawn to the models in his hands, I know his attention is solely on me. Every day, he asks me if I have anything I want to tell him, as if expecting some cloying emotional anecdote to immediately flow forth. I try to force the words forward, my eyes locked on the back of his head, mouth forming soundless syllables. When the sun finally dips beneath the horizon, he turns to me, with nothing but a smile to offer, and I am content to give him the same.

Every afternoon, I find myself drawn from my storybooks by the exuberant cries of the long-haired child across the street. Every day, the child plays the same games, wind whipping their hair into their face, forcing them to spit it out between laps of the turf yard, stray strands only temporarily muffling their joyful screams. The noise is sometimes overwhelming, to the point that I consider walking out to confront the child myself, finally putting a face to the inarticulate yells that haunt my afternoon. But my hair chokes the words before they can escape from my mouth, and instead I listen to the child call out for the both of us.

Obituary of John J. Johnson, Draft 1 Some time late last night, between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am, entrepreneur John J. Johnson passed away, at the age of 69. Mr. Johnson was best known for his generous financial contributions to the biology departments of the majority of middle and high schools in the county. However, while Mr. Johnson was highly philanthropic during the early part of his life, his donations dwindled over the years, in favor of amassing a large collection of modern art which now decorates the extravagant family home. This transition roughly aligns with his controversial marriage to well known political activist Minerva Johnson née von Vaughan, after breaking off a very public engagement to a fellow member of the idle elite. It is not known what will happen to Mr. Johnson’s vast collection of modern sculpture and paintings, or the Johnson family estate, which is situated just outside of town. Mr. Johnson never made any details of his will public, and so how these phy...

Unsure of what may lay ahead, she moves forward. As a different person than her childhood peer expected her to become, in a hometown that has grown with her —yet she can barely see the changes for the nostalgia that blankets it—she moves forward. She grasps for the aspects of herself that she has set in stone, has decided must stay the same even when the foundations rock around her, using them as a guide rail as she moves forward. Even when she cannot stop herself from glancing back, from remembering and missing the things that she has left behind, she moves forward. As she lays in bed, worrying over nothing but future what ifs, past events that won’t leave her cycling through her mind. As she lays there, unable to stabilize her breathing, to get a wink of sleep, she moves forward in her imagined dreams.

She’s an atheist who thinks she’s agnostic, or an agnostic who wishes she were an atheist, depending on the day. The days that she thinks she can hope that there might be something, but she just needs proof, she simultaneously wishes for the simplicity of simply deciding that there’s nothing to be found. But the days that she almost knows that there’s nothing there at all, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she believes in something more, if it was presented to her, if only to give her the hint of something beyond nothingness.  She'll never realize her own contradictions.

The halation of the image fading away from brightness at the end. Or maybe the brightness just fades in our eyes What would we think, if the excitement we felt back then when we found it Was able to reach just a hint of the melancholy that now envelops us.

The inspiration, spark of passion, or maybe just panic that nothing will ever get done if it isn’t started now, ebbs and flows, fluttering down to rest Delicately before you. Yet it melts away before you can recognize it for what it is and stop yourself from just poking it and it melts.

Even the fragile sound of the leaves falling to the ground proves too much for her fracturing patience, and she slams her hands over her ears, trying to block the world out. Her eyes snap shut, almost of their own accord. How long has it been, since the world was allowed to be this empty? A few minutes later, she unfurls, and continues on her way, forced into a retreat from comfort to reality.

Two days ago… yeah, I remember what happened two days ago. What would you do if I said I didn’t, huh? Well luckily you don’t have to worry about that, because two days ago I... So what time do you want me to focus on? Mid to late afternoon, okay. Well I got out of classes around four, and then went right to my room to drop off my stuff and everything. I was literally either in classes or walking between them from eleven thirty to four, you can ask my teachers, now stop interrupting and let me explain everything that happened. After I dropped off my stuff, I thought about getting some work done, but instead decided to go on a quick walk before the sun went down. I don’t have a damn clue what time I decided that, I don’t own a watch, and I didn’t bring a clock with me. I… might’ve slightly misjudged the time until sunset, because I was only about a third of the way through my hike when the sun started to go down, the shadows of the trees elongating around me. Luckily, I keep a multitool ...

You walk around, searching for anyone here who will still listen to your complaints, explaining your own life and all the troubles you’ve had to face. Not a moment to wonder if the rest of us have other things that we’re wondering about, things that we’re worrying about, if there’s any reason at all that we’d rather not hear whatever you have to say. There may be times that you have something worth hearing to say, or times that we’re willing to talk with you, but if you can’t find those times, our patience will run out, and those times will dwindle to nothing.

The same phrases and stories that you’re obsessed with Keep repeating on and on You know you want something new But it’s hard to step away and search.

She trudged through the pouring rain, increasingly soaked mud sucking her boots into the ground with such force that they nearly popped off her feet with each step. Her toe brushed against a branch, the harsh snapping sound standing out against the droning monotony of the downpour, causing her to cast her eyes about in a near panic. But then, instead of any sign of her pursuer, she saw instead a warm light, quite close by, but just off enough from her path that her tunnel vision had caused her to not notice it before now. So she slowly, but with suddenly regained energy, trudged her way there. She again lost track of time, until the suddenly unyielding feel of the ground beneath her feet pulled her out of her trance, and she realized that she had reached the wooden planks upon which a single lamp had been set. Or perhaps lamp would not be the best word to describe it, as it towered over the woman, yet the light it emitted only seemed to illuminate the small circle of wood that it sat b...

They said they were calling in an expert of some kind, something about this being our chance to move. I’ve barely known them for a month, I don’t know what about me makes them so willing to take what seems to be such a massive risk, but I’m certainly not complaining. When I asked, they first tried to demure, saying that I had grown into an important part of the family, but when I made it clear that I didn’t believe them, they changed their story to tell me that they had a personal connection of some sort with the person they plan to write to. I nearly asked if it was someone I may have heard of, but the expression on their face stopped me before I could. Never before have I seen such a breathtaking mix of wistful joy and carefully concealed worry. And then, the second they noticed me about to speak, a whisper of fear seemed to flit across their face. I shudder to think of what story they were reminded of, but all of that pales in the face of the glee I feel, knowing I will soon be out ...

It’s not the first time that you’ve returned, but it’s the first time that anyone has been here to greet you when you do. “Something always draws you back to this place, there’s something here, so alluring. And the memories are just so beautiful. You know, I don’t know how I ever could have brought myself to leave,” a light voice whispers, somewhere just to the left of your peripheral vision. You turn and find yourself facing a young boy. He looks similar to pictures of you as a child, but his eyes are just the slightest bit too far apart and not quite the right size, his chin ends in too sharp a point, his hair seems to knot in on itself more than yours was ever allowed to, countless other details that a stranger might struggle to notice or articulate but that you can’t imagine him without. You haven’t seen him since you last saw him here, since before you had to make a journey to return. You slowly reach a hand out, delicately placing it on his thin shoulder, and stare at the crumbli...

why do we insist on only dreaming as we sleep, sometimes when these same dreams seem so much into the carefully constructed and contained lives we lead, the borders start to shift, drifting and growing as everything around us takes on a fantastical tint, until the mundane items seem to be the most fantastical, or maybe they just fade from view entirely, until the words that we would try to use to describe everything—everything that has become so key to our lives, to self, to living in this world, something that if stripped from the world would leave it near empty—simply seem to vanish into the breeze we never noticed until it carried all the things we’ve now allowed ourselves to forget away, or maybe we’re the ones drifting and everything around us is stationary, just as it always has been But if we dreamed as we stayed awake, our sleep would come crashing back down to earth.

“Would grief make their minds work like mine,” they wonder sometimes. Try to listen closely especially when someone is too frightened to speak. Wishing for something waiting and praying never realizing that it came long ago.

The pendulum is frozen in mid swing, hovering like her call half uttered before being swiftly cut off. The man’s hand grips the rod just above the weight, an awkward angle forcing him to hold harder, veins bulging through his skin. Even with the strain, he does not release slightly to regrip more comfortably, because at this moment, even the slightest change might start it ticking again. He seems to be trying to hold his breath as well, and a slight giggle escapes me. He tightens his grip, but doesn’t turn around. Of course, he’s just an old man, so eventually, be it minutes, hours, or even weeks later, his strength will fail him and the pendulum will resume its path. Oh, there it is! I heard a tick. And there’s another, starting a steady rhythm once more. Why, he grew lonely much quicker than I expected.

More of a story idea than an actual narrative here for a change. Imagine a traditional fantasy adventure. Trying to rescue the princess or save the kingdom or whatever cliche plot catches your fancy. Now as our magnetic yet jaded by the world protagonist with a hidden hope of a better future (a soft side that they keep secret) is adventuring, they’re gonna encounter signs of our villain’s… villainy. Things that they’ve done beyond just whatever directly caused our protagonist to start their quest that continue to propel our narrative forward. This is all just cliches so far, nothing very interesting. But imagine if one of the people that it seemed as though was going to join our protagonist (they’re fairly heroic, they have a grudge against a despotic ruler, etc.) ends up not joining, because they’re actually in the middle of another narrative of their own, one that follows all the same structures, all the same problems are being faced. But the bad guy at the end? Yeah they’re not afte...

Home smells like laundry left in the drawer too long the air tastes of food or time when I pull on a shirt that I haven’t thought of in months. Standing on a crumbling wooden pier, looking across an ocean that I dread crossing but I don’t dare stay here. When I return home I will wish I had stayed home. ‘Home is where the heart is’ but my heart is spread too thin over too many homes, too many things to cherish.

This is an ending, and I’m not going to pretend that while writing this speech I didn’t nearly drive myself to an emotional breakdown half a dozen times because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I guess there’s no rest of the speech, the rest was presented or discarded. When I started writing the speech, I think I expected it all to be discarded, like so much of my writing, snippets of a whole that nothing greater will ever come from. To get a bit meta, I’m working on more larger stories right now, so I don’t have time for interesting bits at the moment. So here’s another neglected clipping, something that was discarded and will probably never be expanded on. “Of all the things I could have found at the end of this journey, I did not expect the first of them to be a child. And yet, having fallen so far, and traveled so long, that’s who I found waiting there. It wasn’t my child, I realize now the” I don’t know what ‘I’ realized.

All flowers look more beautiful when they’re slightly wilted, browning around the edges, we decided. Maybe it’s the reminder of their impermanence, or the reminder that the flowers aren’t artificial (as many do look in the store windows, sometimes I want to bite down on those fake plastic foods because I’m not sure if they’re real or not) but I think that’s more the cliche answer than what actually immediately grabs people’s attention. I think it’s the contrast in colors, the shades, the purely aesthetic beauty that draws us in, before we’re able to make the poetic connections. The poetry comes later, for all that we claim it’s imprinted on our souls.

At some point, when she was young, it was probably acceptable to just scream and flail wildly at anyone that annoyed her. She can’t remember that time, but she assumes it must’ve been the case. Then she grew old and strong enough that barely justified violence was no longer an acceptable answer, and instead she learned words that she could use for the same purpose. Of course, as people learn and grow, so did she, and she learned not only more words but how to make words hurt, how to find the places that even the most benign of phrases would haunt the recipient long after she left. But dulling such a blade, such that it can be used in anything less than the most extreme cases, is not easily done. And so, she had no more way to vent the smaller frustrations, even as they piled onto each other, accumulating to push a limit that she never before stressed. The pot just keeps on boiling, the lid barely staying in place, with no solution in sight. I mean, I assume she could just throw it at s...

Stacking up all of my ideas, my dreams, my self, yet it’s all so precarious And when it topples, we can realize that the life I built was really your dream My entire being, thus far, vicarious All the aspects of you that I wanted to see in myself, the ability to be even somewhat mellow Now it’s all fallen away, left with a self that I can only recognize As a faded photograph, tinted with melancholy Ephemeral record of reality, forever imprinted in my mind

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a continuation of the story and universe introduced in Chapter 0 ( linked here ). Although this can be read without the context within, I recommend checking it out first. Hope you enjoy! - GB One of my earliest childhood memories is of my siblings begging for stories. They always loved hearing them, taking any excuse to harass any familiar faces into regaling them with tales. That isn’t to say that I disliked stories, but at the time I was too young to follow along, and always found myself wandering the halls or gardens on my own instead, finding more active ways to fill the hours. However, my perspective changed when the task fell to my uncle Jay, and the experience shifted to one that I could never draw my eyes away from. At first he was drafted for storytelling simply due to his willingness to try, the age gap between him and my father being over double that between him and my oldest sister. Although it started reluctantly, he eventually started to enjoy the r...

The picture frame sits empty on the wall. There was never anything in it, no memory redacted by time, or imaged removed to either slight or make a statement. It sits empty on the wall so that the frame itself can tell a story, lined up among hundreds of similar displays. They’ve laid there for years, and likely will for many more, telling a story without any need to look beyond the engravings that adorn them, no need to look within. No, it’s not a frame shop.

Without conviction, allowing her to effortlessly stand by her point forever, confidence is illusive. Every time she brings herself to speak up without being entirely sure of her point, she feels the need to clarify her uncertainty, terrified of being judged. As such, it’s not a secret that drives her to pull her friend aside, whispering a slight preference for a change in the next day’s plans into his ear. But it must seem like one, because all the eyes in the room seem to be drawn to her, the furtive nature of the gesture making it all the more intriguing to the inadvertent audience. As she pulls away, the eyes she sees reinforce her anxiety, renewing her voice. “I was saying that I’m a bit hesitant about cutting it that close, but I think we should stick to the original plan actually,” she says, trailing into lies as the wave of fearful confidence rises to its crest and begins to break.

As the faint light trickling in through the distantly cracked doorway is slowly swallowed by my increasingly towering shadow, the flashlight in my left hand is a growingly reassuring presence. Perhaps it’s the idea that if something jumped out of the gaping, formidable darkness, I might be able to fend it off with light, or even with the weight of the flashlight itself. Or maybe it’s just that—as soon as my eyes adjust—I am once again able to identify the objects on the towering shelves that surround me. The cool metal settles reassuringly in my grip, as I tilt the beam back and forth, allowing it to illuminate the rows of dusty items surrounding me. The light catches on something, a bright spike flashing back at me, and I flinch, bringing my hands back to my face. In doing so, the flashlight’s beam jerks away, and the reflection is again engulfed by the dark. I slowly pull my hands back, allowing my eyes to once again find the single uncovered corner of the mirror that had caused my d...

The foolish boy had locked himself in his room. So. Consider. It’s hard to think in the moment of what would make this better, so instead what should I avoid doing? What will make the situation clearly worse? Charging in without a plan, doing nothing. Well, check those ideas right off, I’m quite clearly not planning on doing either of those, judging by the increasingly frenzied pacing outside the closed (probably locked?) door. Is the door locked? Should I try the handle? No, no, I should come up with a plan before even attempting to enter the room. Maybe I should– are those footsteps coming down the hall mine echoing, or is someone else here? I stop for a moment, allowing my pacing and thoughts to slow. Yes, someone’s coming. Is he still in there? that someone gestures out, largely enough that I can clearly see from a distance. I glance back at the door, as if expecting it to fly open the second it is mentioned. It doesn’t, and I look back to the approaching figure, who I can now iden...

I saw someone with the same bag as me, but not the same holes and tears Patched and carefully fixed, different memories But the words I would use to describe it The taste of them as they leave my lips I miss them as they depart I swear it’s all linked in some way, All these ideas and rambles Maybe one day I’ll be able to create a continuation, find time to do things punctually Or maybe I just need a break in the beginning of January I wouldn't call this a throwaway, but I can't put the ideas together yet

“I’m sorry, I…” she trails off, allowing uncertainty to drag her words and eyes away from the younger figure in front of her. “What are you apologizing for? How would you have known how to grieve, to navigate this situation without any forewarning? Nobody taught you how you would react to these circumstances. Feel sad, be glad that you know what to expect now, or regret your reaction, but you couldn’t be told how to deal with this in advance, so stop apologizing!” “So now we know what it turns us into: you rage, and I still can’t put it all together so I feel a need to apologize. Quite the pair we make,” she smiles slightly, allowing the warmth of the movement and the hand that has been placed on her shoulder to feel like enough of a fire to compensate for the ashes before them, even just for the moment.

I’ve been advised by my husband to calm down before sending this message, so don’t take this in a professional tone, but I think I just have to come out and say it: what the hell are you thinking with this move? And don’t deflect with that “my boss was the one who came up with this idea, if you have any questions you need answered, ask him” bullshit, we both know you’re the one with the real power in the department, so what are you planning? I want to work with you on this, and I thought I had made clear that I would support you on all endeavors (within reason), so why didn’t you at least clue me in. In confidence that this will stay between us, Alexandre ---- He went over my head. If you don’t believe me, I have attached my version of the plan for yesterday’s meeting. Excuse the brevity of this message, as I suddenly find myself swamped with preparations for this unexpected cease of diplomatic efforts. Anders ---- Mr Astrimery, I reread your message and mine with a clearer head, and f...

The spirit would grant three wishes kindly, to the best of its ability, until one day a man came and for his second wish, as a show of power to his friends, wished for the spirit to rip out their own tongue. They did so, but nevertheless signaled for the final wish. The man asked for the greatest gift the spirit could think to give him, and so it snapped its fingers and the man died. His friends tried to take revenge, but they could not touch the spirit, and it seemed to laugh, with tears in its eyes and blood in its mouth, signaling that they had three wishes if they dared. One day I happened across it, and it silently offered me wishes, blood still on its face. Out of fear, or camaraderie, or perhaps pure loneliness I instead said I wished to not have wishes. I returned the next day, and they told me I had no wishes, and so I asked if they wished to sit and talk. So we did, and when the next group of travelers came, I sat and watched, and did not interfere as they met their ends, or ...

I promise to hold your hand. Not just as we walk down the shimmering streets at night, stolen glances passing between us, hidden smiles that we won’t show elsewhere. But when I’m not even there, if I’m gone or lost or just not present, I’ll hold your hand still. I’ll hold your hand through it. Even if you don’t notice, I will pull your hand away from your wrist, your neck, loosen your grip gently. So gently that you might think that nothing changed at all, but it matches your thoughts. Not that your thoughts soften, or that you can bring yourself to call out, but maybe the ghost of my hand on yours is a comfort, calming the waves of panic that my lack of presence cannot fully part.

The ocean has always been calming to him. When he was younger, everyone seemed to look at him as though they were waiting for something, before quickly glancing away so as to not seem obvious. But when he joined the crew of The ‘Ceptor, it was nothing like that. Sure he had enough self awareness to recognize that he didn’t fully fit in, but his eccentricities were more expected than estranging. Now, he was part of the crew, and the idealized image of the ship had faded into the harsher, but more appreciated, reality. Contrary to what he had always imagined as a child, naval battles weren’t full of cannonballs flying everywhere, smoke and fire, and loud screams. At least, it didn’t if everything went according to plan, which it usually did. In fact, at the moment it was currently almost oppressively silent, as everyone slipped into the positions and roles that had been waiting for them, like the coats and hats that had been hung on hooks by the door in his childhood. There was the murmu...