A Hope and Dreams

She would call it an omen, if she had done anything that was of note, and wasn’t in such a publicly crowded space. As it was, all she could do was assume that the thunder rolling and lava spurting out from the ground was a sign for someone else, and so she kept on walking.

She can always see them spiraling to the worst case scenario and she always ends up tripping on her haste to clarify that it’s not, that it’s better this way. She doesn’t hate her clumsy, rushed words, which never get smoother even as she repeats them endlessly (she can never erase the need to clarify that she worries sounds like a lie), or the original assumption. She hates the fact that she’s never come out of that conversation feeling like her friends believe her. 

When it comes down to it, she’s more of a mirror than a person, at this point. Every few weeks she starts watching a new show, or reading a new book, and some obscure detail will catch her attention. A tick of one of the characters—rolling a weak ankle, sticking their tongue out the corner of their mouth—something obscure, created to just give a hint of a semblance of humanity. Then, a day later, she’ll find herself doing it, mimicking something that was never real in the first place, something that will soon be so engrained in her that she won’t be able to stop it if she tries, that she won’t be able to remember where it came from in the first place, that she won’t be able to recall who she used to be without it.

The reflections of headlights on the dark waters of the highway faded before his exhausted eyes, as he tried to steer his ship away from the horizon

She let him pick out a few dresses, and at checkout told the cashier that they were for his twin sister, who was sick with the flu. She folded them neatly, between the pants and the shirts in his dresser, and told him he could wear them if he wanted to, but only for special occasions: on the weekend, when it was just the two of them, watching cartoons and baking, or anything that included just the two of them staying home. 

It had been a mansion once, before the seaside winds warped the facade. Technically, it still was a mansion, although not one that many people would choose to live in, given the holes in the walls exposing gaps of sea-spray-stained carpeting inside. However, by merit of size alone, I would call it a mansion, and wouldn’t be alone in doing so.  All the kids in the nearby town—which sat at the intersection of the main thoroughfare of the entire state, and an overly optimistically named ‘central street’—called it their mansion, as had their parents and grandparents before them. It was, functionally, theirs, mostly because as far as nearly anyone in the town knew or cared, the mansion had never been occupied. They knew who owned it. Emil Malcom, the old man who lived in a run down condo on the edge of town had inherited it from his father, but as far as anyone could tell he had never set foot in the place.

The symbol exudes a powerful aura, like the air has suddenly become so thick that she struggles to breathe. Every time her hand brushes against it, she startles away. She only comes back to reality when her friends tap her shoulder. They always ask if she’s trying to blind herself by staring at the sun.

John J. Johnson, age 24, was not available for comment. And so, we have instead tonight, as our special guest, his second cousin twice removed, who he met once at a holiday dinner 20 years ago, Mina Smith, who can help us understand the enigmatic Mr Johnson better. So let’s have a round of applause for Miss Mina! Now Mina, we really only have one question for you tonight, what kind of person is John J. Johnson, and does our audience have anything to fear? 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a continuation of the story and universe introduced in Chapter 0 and 1 (Chapter 0 linked here , Chapter 1 here ). Although it can technically be read without that context, I strongly recommend checking those out first. Additionally, I have updated Chapter 1 slightly (as discussed here ), so I would recommend rereading that. - GB She wakes up slowly, awareness creeping in so gently that despite the pulsing pain in her head it takes her a minute to realize that she is, in fact, no longer dreaming. The second she does, however, she snaps upright, eyes springing open and dancing around, cataloging her surroundings. There are two men in front of her, blocking the only door in or out of the small room she finds herself in. They seem relaxed, posture drooping, not glancing back, unaware that she’s watching them.  There’s something to be said for the ability to be unnoticed in a room without doing anything in particular. Rissa had never been particularly skilled in t...

Hi, GB here, just an update to say that, instead of writing something new today, I took the time to make some fairly notable revisions to Chapter 1 . Let me explain. Chapter 1, if you haven't read it, is the second chapter of a story I began over a year ago, and had hoped to continue as a short-ish story (~10 chapters, far longer than most things I write). Many of my notes on it, however, were in a paper notebook that I had to throw out last summer, after I accidentally soaked it in fish juice (long story). So, over the past week, when I went to continue writing the story, I had to reestablish multiple parts of the universe, and as such, when I started writing Chapter 2, I looked back and noticed that I had retroactively created plotholes in Chapter 1. Instead of re-planning Chapter 2 again , I decided to simply edit Chapter 1, as my writing for the day. The upside to me doing this is that it saved me a lot of time, and I will hopefully be able to post Chapter 2 tomorrow, having wo...

Of all the people at the table, I was the only one holding my glass in such a way that generated clear prints of all my fingers. I remembered thinking at the time that, in the case that someone at the table comitted a crime, and the glasses of the entire ruble had to be dusted, I would immediately be way more or less suspicious. Of course, nothing like that actually happened, but it was a fun thought.

“So,” I asked, rage clearly visible behind a smile. “What will it take to make you change sides again? I’d really rather not escalate this further, so what’s your price on killing your new boss?” “I am a spy, sir, not an assassin, not a terrorist. I acquire information, and I may pass it along to whoever pays me the most, but I don’t kill, and I don’t destroy things that I don’t need to,” she nearly growled at me, before taking a breath and continuing again. “At least, I don’t do that myself. You may say that’s a line in the sand, but I etched it there myself. If I let it slip even an inch, then… well I don’t particularly want to have that happen.” I couldn’t get it, not personally, and when I turned to my partner I could see the same lack of recognition in her eyes, but even as I opened my mouth to continue the argument, the tinny voice in my ear spoke up. “Let me talk to her. I get where she’s coming from, we can work with this.” I handed over the earpiece, and tuned out of the only ...

Well the forest you're going to is very close to a forest I visit quite often, that's actually where I saw the massive butterfly that I mentioned not liking. It... I find it a bit frightening, because it's nothing like home, but it doesn't really do anything, except once in a while—I can't say how frequently, but it seems consistent—it will come and land on the tree, bending the trunk so much that it's nearly parallel with the waterfall. [...] I don't remember him that well, we were both quite young when I saw him last. He was generally quiet and withdrawn, but that meant he always had the best stories, because people would forget he was in the room or not realize he was listening when they said things they didn't want us to know. - - - A story about me I guess… you seem very intrigued by the idea of me having a brother, although I guess that’s not that strange, given how much you care for yours. So umm… I mentioned before that he was never the most soci...

Something about standing in front of an old, grimy sink, flickering fluorescent lights overhead, made everyone look sickly. She was no exception, as she met her own tired eyes in the mirror. A ripe tomato sat at the edge of the basin.

Chivalry isn’t dead, it’s offering to give someone a hand with a bag and then dropping it on your own foot because you’re physically weak, probably weaker than them. It’s seeing a spider on the shoe of the person next to you in class, and telling them you’re going to flick it off, but accidentally landing it right next to your own foot, triggering a panic to stomp on it. It’s becoming an incoherent mess when someone asks if they can switch seats, because you don’t know how to say ‘yes, you don’t care’ without sounding dismissive.

 Imagine a tree, so exhausted that its leaves started growing the color of the sky. 

The weeds sprouted up from every crack and chip in the tiling, a misshapen, imperfect patchwork. Nobody looked twice at it, but then a tourist came and snapped some pictures, and suddenly everyone wanted to talk about nothing but how beautifully imperfect the sidewalk outside their house was. Of course, when a kid from down the street tripped over the weeds and nearly sprained his ankle, they trimmed them back and patched the cracks. The tourists never stopped finding the image beautiful.

She had never seen herself as being great with crafts. Although she could put together makeshift contraptions to help when she didn’t have any other options, she certainly never understood the draw of simply creating physical things with no purpose. But that rote feeling of boredom refused to blossom, as she fell into the rhythmic pattern that the sewing allowed, even as some part of her mind screamed that it wasn’t something she should enjoy. For the first dozen years of her life at least, she never washed her hands with warm water, both because the weather never got cold enough to justify it, and out of some twisted sense of toughness that she later called masculinity. Maybe the idea was that if she ever gave in, accepted that her fingers were growing numb, she wouldn’t be as capable.

It felt almost like he was drowning, the whole world muddled and faded, so far away from the stark contrasts that it usually relied on. The next thing he knew, his eyes were closed. His legs weren’t supporting him, he could tell that he was leaning on another person, but had no memory of getting there. He could hear her asking him something, and he tried to respond. He couldn’t remember what she said, but they began to walk out of the room. It was only then that he realized again where he was. The room hadn’t changed, the bright lights, scattered desks, controlled mayhem of people attempting to be careful as they quickly finish precise work before going to an activity they much prefer. The same room he had been in before, and he remembered seconds ago being one of the bustling masses. But now he was leaning on his teacher, and she was helping him out of the room. This isn’t real , he realized, and so he leaned in, and allowed the teacher to take most of his weight as they stumbled out ...

My record of ‘Items I found on the beach in the past few weeks’ flutters away, caught by the wind. I hadn’t gotten around to writing anything on it yet, so it’s just a single slip of paper, optimistically labeled. It was crumpled at the top, where my anxiety led to me holding it slightly too tight, an excuse for my trespassing and something to do with my hands at the same time. I don’t really miss it too much, claiming that I had it is just as good an excuse—a very bad one—as having it physically present. But I’m not terribly worried about being caught anymore. A long abandoned lighthouse, cracked and faded paint labeling it as a retrofitted lifeguard’s tower, now sitting empty, has caught my attention. I remember seeing a kid man the station there a few weeks ago, looking as if he thought he was auditioning for a reality show. He clearly wouldn’t have been up for it, if that was his job, but nobody had the heart to tell him that. I don’t enter the tower right away, and I try not to th...

“The summer is over” the posters say, in clear block print, the handwriting slightly wobbly with haste, as if the scribe struggled to quickly spread the word. They’re haphazardly pasted on every wall around, or at least every clear surface that the woman can see. She bends down, and, indeed, the paper under her boot reads the same words, in the same distinct hand, ms running together in their haste to trail off into the er, distinction only returning with the sharp angle of the v. The entire town is decorated with them, crookedly hanging off walls, slumping towards the ground, adhesive exhausted by time alone. She can just barely see the bike she rode in on in the distance, propped up in a grassy ditch by the side of the sole paved road on the edge of town, and she resists the urge to run back to it, to either leave the ghost town or to ensure that no signs had made their way onto the—certainly not pristine, but non-seasonal—frame. Instead, she continues to wander down the winding stre...

Brienne didn’t snap awake as much as she slowly shifted from nearly-asleep to nearly-awake. The calming monotony of the game on the television and her parents murmuring to each other in the living room room was muffled and hadn’t paused in its droning. But the loud, staccato beeping sound followed by the bang of someone’s leg against the bed frame startled her enough to open her eyes. As soon as she did, Brienne could see the source of the bang, her sister’s silhouette standing at the foot of the bed, rubbing at her recently bruised shin. “Are you alright?” she whispered, words so quiet that she worried for a moment they couldn’t be heard, but Clara still whipped around to face her. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could a muffled voice called out from the living room, drawing Clara’s attention. “Did you really heat up the chicken in the microwave instead of pulling out a pan?” The voice was clearly Clara and Brienne’s father. “We can’t all be master chefs! If it upsets yo...

“The summer is over.” I repeat it back to her slowly, haltingly, as if taking longer to say the words will give them more time to sink in. It doesn’t quite work, but she seems to realize that, taking the coat resting over her shoulders and draping it over mine. More than the comforting weight, it’s the warmth that helps her message sink in. Despite the way that Caroline had been using it as little more than an accessory, the coat is heavily insulating, and I can feel her residual body heat clinging to the soft lining. But instead of nearly boiling, the warmth that the coat brings is comforting, and as I stand there longer I can feel myself returning to the moment. The summer is over, so now coats should be worn because they bring warmth. I had nearly forgotten, so used to only seeing Caroline wearing one, as she insisted on wearing it over a tank top, for reasons that she refused to articulate. I raise my arms slowly, careful to not let the coat slip off, and rest my hands on Caroline’...

“The summer is over,” or at least that’s what all the forecasts say. But as he looks overhead, the blank expanse of the night sky remains as it has been for all that he can remember. As he looks carefully to the sky, battered red handheld radio clutched to his side as he curls up in his mother’s rocking chair on the porch, he lets out a sigh, and cranks the volume down. “You’d best not wake the neighbors with that racket” had been the only rule he was given when his uncle had presented him with the small device a year ago, his mother distracted in the kitchen at the time. “Back when your mom and I were kids, this was hers. She might’ve stopped listening but that doesn’t mean we’ve gotta let go of it entirely. Still, don’t rub it in her face, keep it quiet” He hasn’t really been obeying that rule tonight, but he hardly thinks it matters, as the disappointed tone in his head is echoed in the faint voices from the box he still clutches tight, so close that he can almost feel the cheap alu...

She still can’t get her mind to let go of the feeling of your hand in hers. The memory has mutated, shriveled and desiccated by time alone. Your hand though, is still vivid in her mind, not wet in a way that made her want to yank away from everyone else, just warm enough that it only barely drew her away from the room itself. She can’t remember your face, although she vaguely recalls you were wearing blue, and combined with the feeling of your hand, she feels herself dragged back to that moment sometimes, even years later.

All Relevant Staff, Our product launch is right around the corner! Although we have not held formal events for the past few years due to safety and security concerns, this year we have been given the go ahead from Jordan and will be doing so. Additionally, I’m happy to announce that founder of the company and majority shareholder John Johnson will be present at the event! More specific instructions will be coming from your department heads, and we ask that you make sure to check your email for formal communication frequently, so everyone stays on the same page. Morgan --- Morgan, i can’t send confidential messages as replies to the entire thread, and i’ve been officially blocked from using the sec. department master list. can I send you a message to pass along? or, better yet, get access to the master list again, so we don’t have to make a security risk from a game of email chains? i’ve copied adrian here, in case you want to have them do it instead. Jordan --- Why’re you telling Jacob...

I don’t recognize the details until they begin to shift, the sweet scent of my grandparent’s garage, overlaid with the feel of the carpet under my feet, as the door downstairs clicks shut. I can’t tell you what changed, but something is different. All my clothes smell wrong, even after I wash them, but especially after I wash them back home. As far back into my wanderings as I can remember, when the stars were still clear in the sky, I would look down at the knees of my threadbare pants, instead of up at anyone else I passed. I can’t remember how I used to make eye contact with them, or if I used to avoid it entirely.

The glow of the neon lights is obscured by the orange tint that the haze of smoke layers over the city. Most people have their blinds drawn, the promise of an early sunrise causing them to block any gap to the outside world. A young woman walks down the street, as an older woman watches. The older woman lives above her shop, and only happened to glance out her window as she sipped her morning cup of tea. Bright purple lettering in the shop’s windows advertises card readings and fortune tellings, and as she looks out kitchen’s window she can see the other woman slow down to inspect the text. Usually, it glows in the early morning light, a faint, nearly imperceptible purple aura surrounding the shop, making it stand out from all the garish neons in every direction. This morning, however, the light blends horribly with the already tinted air, making the area around the shop appear nearly gray. She has no idea why the young woman might’ve stopped, the shop is clearly closed, and the nearl...

“I’m going to try to tell a story, to fill the air. Feel free to stop or adjust me, if it isn’t what you’re interested in today. I’m not doing this because I love the sound of my own voice or anything, but so that we can create something, together.” Evelyn sighed, careful to not let her exasperation show where her father could see it. He always started the evening like this, talking in a way that would feel more at home as swelling narration in the trailer for an exciting new film than as something he was saying to his only daughter. But still, he didn’t just tell her the same stories day after day, instead letting her control the path they followed together.

It wasn’t all over the news, but she knew it in her heart anyway: the world would end in three hours. The radio was blaring static-saturated jazz, she could hear water rushing through the pipes in the thin walls to her neighbor’s apartment. Her fridge began again to buzz loudly, as it did every so often. She’d never bothered to figure out the exact time interval, but now the idea of never knowing terrified her. She scrambled to her phone, and started a stopwatch. She cleaned her apartment, pausing only to mark the time and restart the stopwatch when the fridge stopped groaning after twenty minutes. She had wondered what her grandparent’s house had been like when her parents were children. Through her childhood, it had stayed perfectly preserved, the details that shifted between each visit far too subtle for her to notice. In contrast, her parents seemed to move bi-weekly, and even if the location seemed the same, all the contents seemed to shift. She considered calling them to ask, but...